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Chapter Text

                                                                                    Rhaenys

“Your grandfather is angry again, sweetling. I’m afraid we shouldn’t bother him now.”

Rhaenys glanced up at her nursemaid. Jeyne had never been fun to be around, but in recent days she had grown even less so. The skin near her eyes had grown darker, and her hair was more frayed than normal. For someone who prided themselves on her appearance, Jeyne looked a mess. She’s not alone in that. Everyone has been that way, since word came from the Trident.

Everyone was acting different, since word came to Ser Willem Darry from his kin in the riverlands. People were crying, men and women, or walking around in a grim silence. The princess wasn't sure why, only that it had something to do with her father and the bad men he went to fight. The king was angrier than normal, which Rhaenys knew was strange. She was always turned away when she wanted to see him. The only ones he seemed to want to talk to were the men in the strange clothes the servants called "pyromancers." Rhaenys didn't know what that was, but she thought it had something to do with fire.

Still, she wanted some help, and the king might if Jeyne would stop trying to make the princess wait. Rhaenys scowled. “I want someone to see to Balerion. You said you’d take care of him, but you didn’t! No one will do anything. Not you, not Ser Jaime, not even Mother! Maybe Grandfather could have someone-”

“Don’t count on it, child,” A silky voice called from down the hall. “His Grace is hard at work, fighting to keep the realm together. Leave him to his work.”

A bald man dressed in silk was walking towards them from the direction of the small council chambers. Jeyne tensed beside Rhaenys and stepped in front of the princess, putting herself between the Spider and the little dragon. Why, though? Lord Varys is kind, and always has sweets for me. Rhaenys knew that people feared the master of whisperers, but she did not. After all, his duty was to sow dissent among and hunt down traitors, and she wasn’t a traitor. Neither were Jeyne or Mother, but they were always warning her about the people at court, especially Varys and the pyromancer Rossart.

Jeyne was addressing Lord Varys now. “My lord, the princess should be abed at this hour. Perhaps you could find someone to escort us back to her chambers.”

“Oh, I think I’m suited for such a task as that.” Varys giggled. “In times like these, one must find things to do, or else they may go mad. May I ask what do you do to stay the madness, princess?”

Rhaenys thought about it. She had never felt mad, except when Aegon cried too loudly in their mother’s chambers. What did she do when he was wailing? “I see to Balerion, and remember that I’m a princess, and being mad is not a thing for a princess to be.”

Varys smiled down at her. “Indeed not. Come, let us head back to your chambers. I'll have a sweet for you and a mouse to help little Balerion feel better.”

Rhaenys beamed up at him and took the hand he had stretched around Jeyne to her. They began walking down the hall, Jeyne making a face as she followed them out and away from Maegor’s Holdfast.

“Varys, what made the king so mad today?” Rhaenys asked as they walked. “And yesterday? And the day before that? Is it what Father did? Was it the stag-?

She trailed off as she saw his face then. It wasn’t the impassive or sly face he usually held in court. No, for once Lord Varys looked sad. That looked remained for a moment and then vanished when he shook his head, as if it had never been. But it had, Rhaenys knew it had.

“I think the prince’s actions may have upset the king, child,” Varys said with a small smile. “But more of his anger is for the lords who he thinks led the prince astray. The northern wolves and the stags and falcons. It is a great crime to trick a prince, and an even greater one to anger the king.”

The Holdfast was behind them now, and they were entering the tower where Rhaenys' family made their home. This tower was one of the closest to the sea, and Rhaenys loved it when the breeze came from across the waters. It chased the bad smells from the city away, and the bad sounds from the courtyard too.

Rhaenys scowled again, this time at the Spider. “No one can trick Father! Everyone says he is the wisest prince that ever was,” She loudly declared, “and the bravest too!”

“Of course he is, princess,” Jeyne cooed. “Why, I think your Father is playing a clever trick on the rebels, leading them into a trap for King Aerys.”

Varys glanced at the nursemaid with a thoughtful look on his face. “You are more right than you know, dear lady. The king does have a surprise in store for the rebels. More than one, if I may be so bold to say.”

Rhaenys stared at Varys. “What’s the surprise? Is it Uncle Oberyn? He always liked surprises, like when I put some eggs under the cushion he was sitting on when he visited Mother-"

“No, child. But I assure you, the surprise will be all the more satisfying if it stays just that- a surprise.” Varys turned to look ahead. “I believe we have reached our quest’s end.”

By now, they had arrived at her chambers. Mother's were next door, but Rhaenys was five, and she couldn’t stand sleeping in the room next to the nursery. Aegon’s sweet in the day, but when the sun goes down he turns into a monster.

“I’m afraid this is where I leave you, little dragon,” Varys gazed at her sadly, “but I think you have earned your sweet, and Balerion’s as well.”

Rhaenys stuck out her hand as Varys reached into his robes. Before he could take anything out, though, a soft voice called from inside her chambers. “Rhaenys has had enough sweets, Lord Varys.”

The door opened, and Mother stepped out. She looked even more tired than Jeyne did, but there was something hard in her gaze as she looked at the Spider “Now please be on your way. There is much to do, even at this hour.”

“Of course, Princess Elia,” Varys said as he bowed deeply, "though I do think the little dragon was asking on behalf of mighty Baler-“

“The kitten is being seen to, though I appreciate your diligence.” Mother smiled at Varys then, though that hardness remained. “Your duties, my lord?”

Varys bowed to Mother, and then turned and bowed to Rhaenys. “Until we meet again, sweet princess.” With that he turned and walked down the hall and around the corner, back towards the Holdfast most like.

“Come along, Rhaenys,” Mother turned to smile at her, any hardness leaving with the Spider. “Your brother and I have been waiting for you.”

Rhaenys walked into her chambers where she saw that Aegon was indeed resting on her bed. The infant prince was swaddled in cloth, obscuring the wispy silver-gold hair on his head. The light purple eyes he had were closed as he slept. Rhaenys didn’t see much else as Mother decided to envelop her in an embrace that threatened to squeeze her breath out of her chest. She gasped out, “Mother, too tight.”

Elia released her then, an adoring look on her face. “I’m sorry, little one. It’s just that I’ve missed you so much since last we spoke.”

“That was this morning,” Rhaenys pointed out, “and Aegon was sleeping then too-"

She gasped as she looked as her brother again. Curled next to his face was a ball of black fur, which grew slightly larger and smaller as it breathed. She walked towards her bed in a huff. “Balerion, I told you that Aegon would get his own kitten if he wanted one.” She picked him up as the pet sleepily blinked up at her. “You are mine and Aegon—“

At that moment, her brother revealed his true colors by opening his eyes and mouth and wailing. Rhaenys dropped Balerion back onto the bed and clapped her hands over her ears. “Argh! I just got here Aegon! Why do you hat me?!”

“He doesn’t hate you, Rhaenys,” Mother chided over Aegon’s wails from her seat a few feet away, “he just misses the warmth. Look, he’s already calming.”

Rhaenys looked back down where to her annoyance Balerion had resumed his place at Aegon’s side. The baby had ceased his crying and was now doing his best to cuddle with the kitten.

“Traitor.” Rhaenys walked over to her Mother and sat on her lap, glaring at her kitten and brother. “Why does everyone love him more?”

“No one loves him more or you less, sweetling,” Jeyne said soothingly from her place near the corner, “it’s just that he’s still a baby, so he needs extra attention and help. You were the same way at his age.”

“I was not! Take that back!”

“Oh you were, sweetling.” Rhaenys glanced backwards, where her mother was smiling down at her. “And if I had my way, you’d go back to being that small and stay that way forever.”

Rhaenys made a face at that. “But then I couldn’t do anything fun. I’d never get to be like the first Rhaenys, with her music and dancing and flying.”

Mother laughed at that. “No one will get to be like that Rhaenys ever again, I’m afraid.” She glanced out the window, where the sun had just finished sinking under the horizon in the west. “Now, it’s time for bed and some sleep.”

“I can’t do that when Aegon has stolen my bed and my kitten.”

Jeyne moved to carefully pick up her brother. He didn’t stir as Balerion was replaced by the nursemaid’s bosom. She bowed to Mother, then slowly walked out of the room. Rhaenys flung her sheets back and crawled into her bed, glancing at Mother as she did. “Can you sleep with me tonight, please?”

“Sorry sweetling, but Aegon still needs me close by.”

Rhaenys pouted as Mother tucked her under the sheets. The pout melted as Elia kissed her warmly on the forehead and smiled down at her. “Good night, my little dragon.”

“Good night, Mother.”

As her mother walked across the chamber and closed the door, Rhaenys felt the need to sleep rise irresistibly within her. In a few moments, sleep had taken her.

She was walking in the woods. It was morning or afternoon, the sunlight golden as it filtered through the trees. There was no wind, but it wasn't quiet. She could hear the cries of other animals, birds and beasts of all kinds. They sounded hungry. It scared her a little, but Rhaenys kept walking. She had to find them. They were here.

Rhaenys couldn't tell how much time passed before she heard the cry. It was like nothing she'd ever heard, but somehow she knew what it was. She began to run, hurrying to reach them.

And there they were, in a clearing ahead of her. The dragons.

The red was in the center, crying out as it stood on its legs, wings spread out in a display of power. Not far the black was growling, smoke rising from its mouth and from the many wounds inflicted upon it. Two others danced above the trees. White and gold, they shrieked and blew flames as they danced, circling and then diving towards each other, crashing with cries of pain and fury. Beneath them, the red roared before flapping its wings. It would join the others fight soon.

Rhaenys was scared. Scared and sad. They weren't supposed to fight. They couldn't. For all the fire and smoke, the air was getting colder, and the light was fading. The cries of the creatures in the woods were vanishing as well. She screamed to draw the dragons gazes, but they paid her no mind. She ran into the clearing, trying to flee the dark and the cold. But if followed her, and the dragons only seemed to grow more distant as she ran towards them.

And then she couldn't see them. It was just cold and dark, and she was alone.

The next thing Rhaenys knew, a hand was tearing her out of sleep, shaking her roughly. “Princess, rise! We need to move, now!”

“Wha-?” Rhaenys sat up and blinked rapidly, shaking herself in an effort to awaken. She peered up at the figure who had roused her. A golden man, save for the skin on his face and the white cloak that hung from his shoulders. “Ser Jaime, what are-?

“Quickly, Rhaenys,” The knight snarled at her, making her gasp at his tone, “We don’t have time for your questions! We must get to your mother and brother and be on our way!”

Rhaenys had never heard him speak like that before. He sounded angry and hurried and scared. But Kingsguard aren’t supposed to ever be scared. They are the bravest men alive, besides the dragons.

She shook herself one last time and threw the sheets back. She scooped up Balerion and got off the bed. Ser Jaime grabbed her hand and began striding towards the door, Rhaenys hurrying to keep pace rather than be dragged along.

They didn’t go far. Ser Jaime walked to the door to her mother’s chambers and pushed it open. “Princess, we need to go now!”

Mother was already up. But she didn’t look normal. She was dressed plainly, with no jewels or orange and red silks that she favored. A simple gown with a scarf wrapped around her head. In her hands she clutched Aegon, who watched them all with wide eyes, but for once did not cry.

“Ser Jaime.” Mother moved to his side. “Has everything been prepared?”

“Far from it,” Jaime growled, “some fuck has either slipped up or sold us to the king- doesn’t matter much either way, they’re coming and we need to be gone when they get here!”

With that he turned and began dragging Rhaenys again. Mother hurried along right behind him.

Ser Jaime was still speaking. “My father’s host arrived outside the walls in the last hour. Rhaegar isn’t far behind. If we can get to the stables and grab horses then we can get to the gates. Even now, no man of the City Watch will refuse a Kingsguard’s order.”

They were down the stairs and heading for the tower entrance when Rhaenys heard shouts coming from outside. Ser Jaime heard them too and stopped, cursing under his breath. “Back up the stairs, now!”

They had just begun the climb when a shout came from behind them. She glanced backwards to see a group of men coming to the foot of the stairs, led by a slim knight in armor with black hair and a thin face. His expression was one of the coldest she'd ever seen. “Ser Jaime, halt! Bring the woman and her children now, or face the king’s justice!”

“Go to hell!” Jaime shoved them behind him and drew his sword, the steel reflecting the torchlight dancing off his armor and hair. “The second level. The storage room, beside the wine casks. Look for the loose stone. Eunuch's orders.”

He didn’t wait for a response, slowly walking towards the entrance, where the slim knight waited with a drawn blade. Alongside him was a goldcloak, and behind them Rhaenys could make out more men with steel in hand.

Rhaenys felt her mother grab her hand and begin pulling her up the steps. She didn’t fight, but her gaze stayed on Ser Jaime, catching the way his sword rose and fell as it met the slim man’s strike. His other hand thrust his torch at the goldcloak’s face, making him curse and back away. Then the stone arch of the stairs blocked her view and Rhaenys could no longer see, only listen as the sound of combat followed them up.

At the second level, Mother pulled her to the hall where Ser Jaime said to go. She was quick to fling open the door and push Rhaenys inside. She followed her in only to put Aegon in her arms and begin searching the ground. Rhaenys just stood there, shivering with cold and fear, listening for the sound of footsteps, praying that they belonged to the Kingsguard they’d left behind.

“Rhaenys, here!” She turned to see Mother had pried a stone loose from the ground. She was motioning towards it. “Quickly, get inside, now!”

Rhaenys came over and peered down. There wasn’t more stone like there was supposed to be, but a dirt hole big enough for a grown-up to squeeze into. For her, it would have been comfortable if it wasn’t so cold and damp. She grimaced as her Mother lowered her into the gap.

Looking around, it became even stranger. There was no stone to her left, under the room- in fact, she could feel a breeze coming from that direction. She stopped gazing down when Mother lowered Aegon into her arms. But as she held her brother, she realized some of his wrappings were gone. Rhaenys glanced up to see Mother holding the missing linen, wrapping it around a bottle of wine that she had taken from one of the stands.

Rhaenys sense of wrong was growing by leaps and bounds. “Mother, what are you doing? Where are-?”

“Rhaenys, listen to me,” Mother interrupted, kneeling down so that she could cup her cheek in her hand, “I want you to go where the wind lives. Take your brother and follow the wind. Don’t stop for anyone, do you understand? No one!”

Tears were glistening under Mother’s lashes. “I love you, my little dragon.”

She released Rhaenys’ cheek, and began returning the stone to its old place in the ground- on top of Rhaenys and Aegon.

Rhaenys cried out as darkness flooded around her. Aegon’s cries joined her, echoing down the passage the breeze was coming from. Above her, Rhaenys thought she could hear weeping, but then the sound came of a door opening and then closing, and there was silence, save for her crying brother’s wails.

Chapter Text

Barristan

The rebels knew how to move.

Barristan Selmy glanced down at his mount. The bay was impatient, pawing at the ground as row upon row of its fellows passed it by. The men astride them were an odd company, southron knights and Dornish riders mixed with Valemen and northern warriors. For all the differences of their homes, their faces shared something- steely determination, focused on their goal.

One could almost forget that these men were prepared to kill each other not long ago, Barristan reflected. That they haven’t is largely thanks to the three men who command this column.

He shook his head to center himself and then wheeled his mount to face south, spurring it forward into a trot, overtaking the men as he made for the head of the army. They were moving at a brisk pace, hoping to reach the capital before any could come to the aid of King Aerys. Even now there were rumors among the men of Lord Tyrell breaking the siege of Storm’s End to march to the defense of King’s Landing.

Barristan had his doubts. The Tyrell’s had styled themselves as royalists but, like many others, were more loyal to the prince than his father. He thought it more likely that Lord Mace would remain in the stormlands, waiting for a decisive victory for one side or the other. A craven strategy, though some might call it prudent.

“Barristan!”, a voice called to him from the front. “What kept you? Finally starting to feel your years?”

He smiled at the speaker as he rode to his side. “You’re one to talk, Martell. When did you take your oaths again?”

“Marcher swine.” Prince Lewyn Martell may have reached his fifties, but he looked at least ten years younger, near Barristan’s age. The Dornishman was dressed in the armor and cloak of a Kingsguard, which clashed well with his dark hair and features. All that marred it was the bandages that were wrapped around his upper-left arm, a memento from a stormlander they had encountered after the Battle of the Bells.

For all that, the prince looked eager as they continued south. The same could not be said for their two companions, the rebels who had made common cause with a prince against a king.

The Lord of the Vale’s expression was hard, but it was directed towards their destination to the south. He had counseled that the horse slow their pace so that the foot could keep up, but Prince Rhaegar had insisted that time was of the essence. “My father will be quick to seek those he can punish in our stead,” he had reminded them at the Trident. “So, we must return to King’s Landing before he or any of his remaining supporters have a chance to act on that wish.”

While Jon Arryn showed no pleasure at their current task, it could at least be said that he didn’t question the prince’s command. The man at his side was another case entirely. Though in fairness, Barristan could not blame him. No man could blame him, not when his family has suffered so for the prince’s actions.

Eddard Stark may have been young, but the northman looked almost as old as Lewyn and Barristan, so grim and cold was his expression. King’s Landing held virtually no interest to him, a distraction on his way to the thing that mattered to him most. It was strange in a way, the idea that a Stark was more eager to reach Dorne than a Martell. Only the intervention of the lords Arryn and Tully had stopped the northman from gathering up his host and marching past the capital. That and the letter handed to Stark by Prince Rhaegar.

Barristan could sense the pain Stark felt as he watched him read. Rage had turned to confusion, confusion to sadness, sadness to hope, before finally settling into grim acceptance. Even now, many wondered what words Lady Lyanna had written to him, but only two men alive knew the answer, and neither would give it up.

Whatever the letter’s contents, it had done what all else had failed to. The Lord of Winterfell was now riding alongside old friends and foes alike, though he clearly hadn’t forgotten who the latter used to be. “Perhaps if you spent less time japing with each other we may have come south more quickly. We are not the only ones heading for the city, remember.”

Barristan hadn’t forgotten. But he did not wish to be reminded of that by the young northman. Neither did Prince Lewyn.

“Said the man who almost marched past it. You forget the kind of men the reach produces. Lord Tyrell won’t bestir himself for the Mad King.”

“Perhaps not. But there are other lords who are as close or more so than Tyrell, and one that could still match us in strength.”

Barristan had heard this before. The former rebels had made their wariness of Casterly Rock clear. Nor were they alone. Every man here knew better than to dismiss Tywin Lannister easily.

All save the one at his side. “The old lion hasn’t stirred himself before now. Why would he come to the defense of Aerys at this time? Does he wish to be defeated so badly?”

“The Reach has spent a good part of its strength already,” Barristan reminded his fellow Kingsguard, “if Lord Tywin declared for the king now, and succeeded in defeating us, he would hold the Seven Kingdoms in the palm of his hand.”

“Pah.” Lewyn flicked a hair out of his face. “I should see to the rearguard, make sure-”

“I’ll see to that, Prince Lewyn. Jon, perhaps you’d join me?” With that, Stark wheeled his horse around and rode back the way they’d come. Lord Arryn gave an apologetic look to the Kingsguard knights, then followed his former ward.

“The Mad King?” Barristan gave Lewyn a sharp look. “Do not forget your oath. Even now, we are sworn to His Grace’s service-”

“Let’s not go down this path again, old friend. I needn’t remind you, Jonothor isn’t here to save your hide this time.”

That wasn’t how Barristan recalled it.

The three Kingsguard had fiercely argued over the matter, even as they awaited word of the prince’s condition after the duel with Robert Baratheon. Lewyn was for the path the prince envisioned, with Ser Jonothor Darry agreeing, albeit more gently. Only Barristan had made any real effort to speak on the king’s behalf.

“We are sworn to serve, to obey and protect,” he had reminded his sworn brothers, “and seeking his deposition with the aid of rebels goes against all of the oaths we swore.”

“Barristan, there is more at stake than a damn crown!” Lewyn had been fiery that day, fueled in part by concern both for the prince and for his niece and her children. “House Targaryen’s very survival is in the balance. Not to mention the welfare of the realm and all the innocents who will suffer if His Grace can continue as he has!!”

“He is right, brother,” Jon Darry had chimed in, an earnest expression on his face and entreaty in his voice. “And besides, we are sworn to protect the king above all else, you said it yourself. That includes protecting the king from himself. If we stand against the prince, it could weaken the support of the rebels. Who do you think will be more likely to support the dragon? One of their own? Or men whose very rebellion was and is founded in the current king’s reign?”

It was Jonothor’s argument that had finally won over Ser Barristan. The future king was asking for his aid, and the survival of the royal family compelled him to give it.

That didn’t change his anger now. “He is still the king, and even after this is done, the father of Rhaegar. He deserves better than to be slandered by members of the Kingsguard.”

Lewyn rolled his but did not argue with Barristan. His focus was on reaching King’s Landing and seeing to the safety of his kin. While Barristan shared that goal, his thoughts lingered longest on the four Kingsguard who weren’t marching with them. Gerold, Arthur, Oswell, Jaime…

It was the last name that caused Barristan the greatest concern. The young Lannister was the only Kingsguard left in King’s Landing, and his father’s relationship with the king and his loyalty to Rhaegar made him a likely target of Aerys’ rage. The lad is arrogant and conceited, but he doesn’t deserve the king’s wrath. Hopefully Pycelle or some other king’s man can keep Aerys from doing anything drastic. Assuming Ser Jaime hasn’t done something foolish…

“Sers! The city is just ahead!”

Barristan was torn form his thoughts as a freerider came galloping up from ahead. His mount was frothing, its flaks bloody, so hard had its master pushed it to fly.

Lewyn looked at the man like he was simple. “Is that so? I never would have guessed, given the little time I’ve spent in King’s Landing and the crownlands!”

The man flushed at that. “Of course, ser. What I meant to say- that is…”

He gasped for breath. Lewyn growled with impatience.

“Spit it out, man!”

“It’s under attack!”

Barristan and Lewyn glanced at each other. Barristan knew they were both asking the same question. Someone beat us here? Who, and why are they attacking?

“Their banners were hard to make out, but I spotted the Crakehall boar, the Brax unicorn, the Clegane hounds, and the-”

“The lion of Casterly Rock.” Lewyn turned and began bellowing orders to the column, spurring his horse down the line as he did. Barristan spurred his mount forward, so that he could see the capital’s plight for himself.

If the scout was right, then Tywin Lannister had finally stirred. He had not marched to King’s Landing as a savior, though.

A Lannister pays his debts. And the Lord of Casterly Rock is paying his now. To the king who hungered for his destruction.

Seven saves us all.

It did not take long- in was only a few minutes before Barristan saw the plumes of smoke rising into the sky to the south. Another few minutes brought him in sight of the walls of Kings Landing. His eyes were still sharp, and he could make out the small encampments before each of the gates he could see. None were large enough to mount an assault, but the knight knew that these forces were well passed that. The smoke and the report from the scout made it clear that these encampments were more a rearguard than anything else. To stop those inside from fleeing, and to guard against any who would try to interfere.

Barristan cursed under his breath before turning his mount, swiftly pushing it into a gallop. He rode past the outriders and the advance guard to the main body of the rebel/royal forces. There, he found many of the leading lords of both the former rebels and the princes' loyalists. And as he rode up, Barristan quickly recognized that they were arguing. They were divided on how to advance, though not on whether they should do so.

Lord Arryn summed it up well. “The prince and the foot are half a day behind us. We can’t wait for them. I wouldn’t trust Tywin Lannister to see to the royal family’s safety if a sane man reigned in the Red Keep, and they have Aerys in that role.”

The question was whether or not the Lannister host could be trusted not to attack them. Barristan and the royalists thought so, while Arryn and Stark argued the opposite. If Tywin would so quickly turn on his king, how could he be trusted not to turn on Rhaegar and his allies?

“Oh, so you’re the only trustworthy rebels in the realm, is that right?” Lewyn eyed the two lords and the vassals who followed them. “You have nerve to call Lannister untrustworthy when you are guilty of the same crime.”

Ser Lyn Corbray spoke out at that. “Mind your tongue, Dornishman. Do not forget that you are speaking to the Lord of the Vale.”

Lewyn sneered at Corbray. Before he could retort, however, Barristan broke in.

“Why don’t we send a party into the city? A few hundred men with some of our leaders. The rest can await outside the walls so that, if a fight breaks out, they can form up outside the walls and fight on from there.”

Most of the rebels didn’t like that idea. To his surprise, Stark spoke up in support of the plan.

“Three hundred men, half our men and half yours. I will lead ours.”

“Lord Stark.” A pale lord with a pink cloak raised his voice. “Perhaps Lord Arryn should be a part of this party. After all, given what happened to your-”

“Thank you, Lord Bolton. Your consideration is appreciated. I will lead the party, however.” Stark turned to look at the Kingsguard. “The sooner this is ended, the sooner I can be on my way south.”

Barristan nodded respectfully, then turned towards the prince of Dorne. “One of us should remain behind.”

“You’re a bigger fool than I thought if you think I will wait out here while you seek out my niece.” Lewyn raised an eyebrow at him. “And we both know that you will not wait while I do the same.”

Barristan yielded with a shrug and sigh. “Let’s be thankful the prince’s injuries forced him to stay with the foot. Otherwise he would have already ridden to the keep, Lannister’s be damned.”

The meeting broke apart quickly after that. Stark sent his men Cassel and Reed to grab one-and-a-half hundred men while Lewyn and Barristan did the same. The two groups met fifty yards away from the rest of the horse. Hopefully this proves a wise decision.

The company rode at a brisk pace towards the Dragon Gate. Normally imposing, with portcullis drawn down, doors closed, and guards on the walls, the gate and doors were both open, and there were no men in sight as they rode through.

They were welcomed into the city by screams and smoke.

The Dragonpit loomed over them as they turned west and began riding along the wall. As they rode, the bodies became more common- not just soldiers and men, but women and children as well. Barristan forced himself to keep his eyes forward as they rode. The Red Keep, we must get to the Red Keep. I cannot let Elia and her children suffer this fate.

“Hold there!” A man in crimson addressed them as they rounded a corner onto the Street of Silk. He was followed by a group of soldiers in similar garb, numbering around twenty or so. “Whose command are you part of? M’lord wants the streets leadi-”

He trailed off at the sight of the white cloaks of the Kingsguard. That, and the number of men who rode behind them. Stark addressed him in the iron tones of one in command. “Where is Lord Tywin? We are here at the prince’s command to see to the royal family’s safety.”

The Lannister man looked up at Stark, glanced again at the Kingsguard, then settled his gaze back on the northman. “His lordship should be just inside the Lion’s Gate, to the west. He told the men to seize the ground around the Red Keep and the Sept of Baelor.”

Stark glanced behind him. “Rodrik, take forty men and go tell the Lord Lannister that we are here and what our purpose is. The rest of you, with me!”

He spurred his horse forward, causing the Lannister men to scramble out of the way. Barristan, Lewyn and the rest followed, save for Ser Rodrik and his party, who turned and began riding swiftly west, following the walls.

The carnage became less pronounced at they came closer to the Red Keep. The men who had come through here had a greater goal besides pillage and rape to focus on. I pray that goal is not what I fear it to be.

The Red Keep hadn’t fallen they arrived. Lannister men crowded about a few feet behind the moat, shields high and archers aiming at the battlements. So far as Barristan could see, there were few men atop the battlements. Looks could be deceiving, however, and it was no surprise that the Lannister commander had chosen to hang back.

As they approached the men near the gates, a group of riders came at them from the other way. They were a strange group to Barristan’s eye, with a giant in steel catching his eye. His helm was decorated with a steel fist, and the three hounds on his breastplate seemed to snarl at him. That must be the young Clegane, the one they call the Mountain.

His attention was torn away as the lead rider spoke up. “Lord Stark, we did not think to see you here.” The unicorn prancing on his surcoat was a similar color to Prince Rhaegar’s eyes, though the man himself clearly was no Valyrian.

“I was thinking much the same, Lord Brax.” Stark glanced up towards the Red Keep. “I’m surprised that they aren’t firing at you. Or us, for that matter.”

“There’s something happening. A fight or attempted coup inside. It started just before we got here and Lord Tywin’s growing tired of waiting to see who wins.”

A struggle inside? Barristan turned his head to gaze at the Red Keep. That can only mean greater danger for all concerned, especially Princess Elia and the children. “We need to get inside, now!”

“Agreed, Selmy.” Stark turned towards the gates. “Perhaps there is a postern gate, or one of those tunne-”

He broke off as Lewyn strode up to the gate. He roared up, “YOU SORRY SON OF WHORES, HEAR ME NOW!”

He paused, waiting as some heads poked up over the battlements to look at him. Barristan expected that those inside the gatehouse were listening as well. Lewyn repeated himself, still loud but less so, “Hear me now, this war is over! This castle will fall! If we’re patient, we will just sit back and wait for you oafs to starve to death or finish killing each other! If we lose patience, we’ll storm the battlements and slaughter the lot of you! Think we can’t? We have Barristan the Bold, The Mountain That Rides, and before long Prince Rhaegar will be here and he and the lords with him won’t stop until they tear that castle apart!"

“SO, SAVE US ALL A LOT OF TROUBLE AND OPEN THE FUCKING GATE!!!”

With that, Prince Lewyn Martell turned around and walked back to the rest of the company. Stark and Brax stared at him as he came to stand by his horse.

“Prince Lewyn-” Stark shook his head. “Are you mad? Aerys has them all-”

Clang.

The gate shuddered, then began to slowly rise, the doors behind it creaking open as it did.

When it finished doing so, men began walking out of the Red Keep. They tossed their swords and maces away from them as they did so, raising their hands as the Lannister archers lowered their bows to turn their arrows towards them.

“Hold your fire!” Stark turned towards Brax. “Unless you have orders to the contrary.”

Brax shook his head. “Take them” he shouted to the Lannister soldiers, “but only kill those who resist!”

Without waiting, Barristan and Lewyn dismounted and began jogging towards the gate. Behind them, they could hear Stark and the rest of the mounted men getting off their horses and following behind. As they exited the gatehouse, Barristan looked towards Maegor’s Holdfast. “We need to get in there, now.”

“This way.” Lewyn turned left and quickly began climbing a set of stairs. “Around the Tower of the Hand, down into the courtyard in front of the Holdfast.”

The two knights quickly reached the top and began turning, left and right, up and down. They moved quickly, along walls and through towers. As they moved closer to the Holdfast, a noise came to Barristan’s ears. He put a hand on Lewyn’s shoulder, willing him to stop.

“Wha-?” Lewyn stopped as the sound reached his ears. They began walking again, slowly this time, trying to make out the sound and where it came from. A moment later Lewyn began jogging, then running, Barristan following right behind. He spoke as he went, more to himself than Barristan. “That’s…it can’t be… please-”

But it was. Barristan could make out the sound as well.

Screaming. Screaming and laughter.

The laughter of a madman.

The two Kingsguard leapt the last few stairs and burst out of the tower. Maegor’s Holdfast loomed just ahead, the doors wide open. The throne room sat just beyond. It was there that the noises were emanating from. There’s another one, Barristan realized, one screaming, one laughing, and one more- I know that voice!!

“Please, enough. Your Grace, she doesn’t know-”

“But you do, and you won’t tell me.” The laughter was gone now. “But perhaps you are right. It is high time that you learned the price of disobeying your king, of waking the dragon.”

Barristan and Lewyn strode through the doors, moving down the throne room. As they did, Barristan’s heart sank as he beheld a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

The first thing to catch his eye was the fire. It burned in front of the Iron Throne, flames of green curling up and flaring out as if it were alive. Wildfyre, a pyre of it that stood as tall as the Clegane knight and just as wide as well.

Princess Elia was also there, held up by two men in armor and cloaks of white. Her face was pale, a cut running from just beneath her left eye down to top of her neck. Her gown was torn, and bruises shown through. For all that, there was a fire in her eyes as she gazed at her tormentor.

The cloaked men didn’t look like much. Were it not for their armor and cloaks, Barristan would have been hard-pressed to see anything distinguishable about them. One had pockmarks on his face. The other had long brown hair that reached his shoulders. The armor and cloaks they wore were familiar to him- they were mirror images of what he and Lewyn were wearing. Kingsguard. He’s taken strangers of no fame and made them Kingsguard. They’re most like hedge knights, if knights at all.

The man speaking was the same who had laughed so gleefully not a few moments before. His clothes bespoke wealth and power, robes deep in color and a crown upon his brow. His hair hung low, his beard reaching his navel. The nails curling from his hand looked more like talons, and they were clasped tightly in front of him. He looked much older than his nine-and-thirty years. Aerys’ expression was of disgust and rage, directed at the woman held in front of him.

There were two others there, both closer than the king or princess to the fire. One was a heavy-set man, with a hooded vest covering his head. Think leather gloves covered his hands- indeed, all but his face was covered in leather and cloth. His face was turned from them, but Barristan knew what it would hold- a crooked nose, crooked teeth, and blue eyes that came alight when gazing at flames. Rossart, Hand of the King and head of the Pyromancer’s Guild. How far the office of Hand has fallen.

The woman Rossart was holding was a horror to see. Whatever clothes she had worn were gone, either torn off or burned away. Her flesh was covered in burns, some still smoldering against the few patches of skin left untouched. Her brown hair was burned short as well, licked away by the bonfire. I know her. She’s the nursemaid, Jeyne, that’s her name.

‘She doesn’t know.’ The children, Aerys want’s the children.

He will not have them.

“What dragon is that?!” Lewyn bellowed as they began advancing. “All I see is a madman playing with fire, threatening innocent women. Care to face a man grown, Aerys?”

The king spun about to face them. “Ah, the Dornishman shows his true colors at last,” he sneered, “though your treason is far from unexpected. Oh yes, scum, I’ve known of your plots for some time. Your victory will not come to pass as you hope.”

“More ravings from a sorry excuse for a king!”

By now, the cloaked knights had dropped Elia and drawn their swords. The princess was on her knees, staring at the Kingsguard as if she expected them to vanish at any moment. Rossart had dropped Jeyne and was backing away, his eyes darting from the two knights to Aerys and back.

“You call me king, yet rebel against me!” Aerys’ smile was gone, terror in his eyes as he turned his gaze towards Barristan. “And you, the knight who did his duty, who saved his king. Now you’ve come to see him dead, is that it?”

“Your Grace, we can still end this without more death.” Barristan glanced at Elia. “Tell those men to lower their swords. Rhaegar has sworn-”

“Rhaegar?!” The king reared up as the name left his lips. “The traitor! The pretender! He and his ilk will not have my realm! It will burn, all of it! Burn, burn, BURN!!!! Aerys screamed that last word and kept screaming after that. “BURN THEM ALL!! BURN THEM IN THEIR BEDS, IN THEIR HOMES, IN THEIR STREETS!! BURN THEM!! BURN-”

“ENOUGH!” Lewyn roared, sword in hand as he charged the king. The royal knights rushed to meet him, blades flashing as the wildfyre flared before the throne. The prince met one strike with his blade, leaning back as the other sword slashed near his face. The man who wielded it raised the blade to strike again, only to turn as Barristan charged into the fray.

The sword of the Kingsguard knight whistled as it slashed at his counterpart. He was strong, but slow. Barristan rained blows on him, forcing him back as Lewyn fought his opponent. The knight stabbed at Barristan, but he slid to the side and brought his blade down on the man’s wrist.

The knight gaped at the stump where his hand used to be. He looked up just in time to see Barristan’s sword coming as it punched through his gorget and out the back of his throat. The man stared into Barristan’s eyes, then fell back as the Kingsguard pulled his blade free.

The sound of running brought Barristan’s gaze up. He turned to see others- Stark, Brax, even Clegane- charging forward from the yard, steel in hand. Then a new cry bade him turn to the throne once more.

Aerys had seized Elia’s hand, and was dragging her towards the flames. “I SAID THEY WOULD BURN!”, the king screeched, “AND THEY W-”

He never finished the sentence.

It was as if time slowed. Barristan surged forward, dropping his blade as he did. With one hand he grasped the princess’s arm and, with the other, put his hand to the king’s chest and pushed.

Aerys lost his grip on Elia and stumbled back. His eyes met Barristan’s for just a moment, fear and pain shining within.

Then he fell into the flames. And the screaming started anew.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar

The sun was beginning to rise when he awoke.

It is as if the days grow longer and I sleep less to meet them. Rhaegar rubbed his eyes and turned to the side, rising to sit up while he roused himself further. As he did he grimaced as pain lanced through his side. He looked down to see that the bandages covering his torso had held, though the reddened linen belied the wounds Baratheon’s warhammer had dealt him. Rhaegar sighed, looking up to the window just beyond his bed.

The light was a dull red, made more so by the smoke and haze that yet lingered over the city. Three days had passed since the last of the fires had been put out, yet their remnants stubbornly remained, casting a pall over the people, common and otherwise. That may have less to do with the smoke than it does the end of an era.

Robert Baratheon had almost seen a new era in a very different way. When Rhaegar and the royal host had come to the Trident, they had nearly crossed the ford there and then. More cautious voices had won out, leading to the army setting up positions just south of the banks. Before long, the rebels had come upon their position with a speed and confidence that spoke to their victories. If Baratheon's forces had come upon them while they were crossing, it may well have ended in catastrophe.

That decision saved more than just royalist lives. Seeing the prepared host waiting for them, the rebels had agreed to a meeting under truce between their leaders and Rhaegar. He could still remember their expressions- calm but firm Jon Arryn, speaking eruditely of the crimes of King Aerys; Eddard Stark, cold and quiet, his rage as icy as the snows of his home; and Robert above all, the fire to Stark's ice, all anger and energy. The stag lord had been eager for a battle in general and against Rhaegar in particular. His surprise and derision had been all the greater when Rhaegar told them of his decision, and of the mistakes that had led them to that point. If not for Lyanna's letter, there would have been a battle that anyone could have won.

But the letter was there, and it had changed everything. Upon reading it, Stark had looked at Rhaegar with all the warmth of a pit viper. His allies were all the more surprised when he declared the North's war with Rhaegar was over, even if that with Aerys was not. Robert refused to believe it, and declared that he would have blood for the crimes committed by House Targaryen. So, to spare their armies from a pitched battle, they had agreed to single combat. Baratheon against Targaryen.

They had been mounted, Rhaegar's sword against Robert's hammer. They met on the banks of the Trident, with both armies looking on, cheering and cursing as the two men had dueled. After a few attempts to charge one another, they had come to close quarters. Baratheon had been a great warrior and proved it, fighting with all the fury his house boasted. But Rhaegar had not allowed that to stop him. All that rage was a weakness as much as a strength, and he had traded blows with the rebel lord while waiting for it to prove as much. As it had when Robert had flung his shield away and used both arms to strike out at Rhaegar. The hammer had shattered his shield and struck his side, but the Targaryen's mount had shied to the side so that its angle was off and the force blunted. Robert had not had the chance to withdraw when Rhaegar's blade came down, stabbing through the gap between helm and cuirass into the flesh of the rebel's chest. The stag lord had fallen, the ford stained red by his blood.

The memories made the king sigh. His wounds still weren't entirely healed. As for the wounds this damned war had cost others, cost the entire realm...he could only grimace. Victory was his, but at such a cost. A cost that could yet grow. 

Rhaegar’s gaze turned then, seeking out the thing that he had dreaded to wear for years. There it sat, not fifteen feet away from the foot of his bed, the seven gemstones gleaming in the new daylight. The crown of Jaehaerys the Wise weighed heavily on his head, though Rhaegar still thought it a better choice than those of his other ancestors.

It had first touched his head not two days past, as he knelt in the Sept of Baelor to be anointed by the High Septon and hailed by the lords and ladies present. The former had been terrified, not of Rhaegar but the people who still lingered about the city with sullen eyes and grim faces. The latter had been few, many departing to complete tasks set to them in the days just before.

There was much to be done. Hoster Tully had been quick to return to the riverlands, to deal with any remaining loyalists and bandits lingering about. Much of the Arryn forces had departed as well, either overland to return via the Bloody Gate, or by ship to Gulltown. Lord Jon himself had remained, having accepted his offer to serve as Hand of the King. He had been quick to write to Highgarden and Storm’s End, hoping to bring the Reach back into the fold without more conflict.

If only the others had stayed, Rhaegar thought grimly. They could have done much to aid me in putting the embers of war out for good and all.

The obligations of family had spoken louder than the wishes of a king, however, and Rhaegar had been in no position to refuse. Stark had been the fiercer of the two, reminding him of his oath to allow him south, to seek out his sister and bring her from Dorne. That was, if she was in a state to travel at all. Her time has grown nigh. Please, Lyanna, do not waver. There is so much we’ve yet to share, we promised each other.

The one concession Rhaegar had won from him was his oath to travel to Storm’s End first. The siege had been a dull affair according to sources, yet Stannis Baratheon needed to be relieved quickly, and Lord Tyrell would need a human messenger to reinforce those reaching him by raven. Even so, Eddard Stark would not linger long in the stormlands, and Rhaegar knew it.

The Lord of Casterly Rock had been another matter entirely. Tywin had been quiet in his determination, yet his will had been as implacable as Eddard Stark’s if not more so. His insistence on seeing to his son came before all else.

Ser Jaime had been found on the second level of the tower where Elia and the children had made their home, just past the stairwell. His face was marred by a cut along his left cheek, though was otherwise untouched. The killing blow had been under his arm, piercing through to his heart. Jaime had died with a snarl on his lips, likely enraged to fall at the hands of a common guard with no glory or wealth to his name. The young Kingsguard had taken the lives of five men before falling, among them a knight of House Thorne.

His father held back in the hope that this wouldn’t happen, yet the son refused to wait for rescue, Rhaegar thought to himself. He was young, but a good man, worthy of the cloak Gerold had given him.

He gave his life to safeguard our future. The very future this war was started for.

Rhaegar shook himself and rose, moving to the clothes he had laid out before retiring. He slowly donned leggings and a tunic. They were simple things for a king to wear. He did not intend to go far, however.

He crossed the room and slowly pushed open the door that led to the queen’s chambers. Inside rested the greatest treasures in his life.

Elia had barely spoken since the night his father had died. She had stared at the smoldering remains of the fire once it had burned out, refusing to move until it had done so. Lewyn told him that afterwards her only words and actions were for the nursemaid who had burned for her defiance, and for the children who emerged from beneath the Red Keep.

Rhaenys had carried her brother through the Maegor the Cruel’s tunnels until they had reached the shore beneath the castle, and then continued all the way to the Lion’s Gate, miraculously without being attacked or losing her way. That Lord Tywin had recognized the royal children was thanks to his time in King’s Landing during his time as Hand. He had immediately placed them under heavy guard, and refused to turn them over to anyone save Rhaegar himself.

Rhaenys’ appearance would likely haunt him for the rest of his days. Her clothes had been replaced by clean silk and linen at Tywin’s command, but the cuts on her feet and arms were still fresh, her face unwashed, and there had been a fierce and wild look in her eye, like a beast cornered and facing death. That expression had left her face when she saw him, replaced by joy, but also pain and confusion. She hadn’t left his side since, save to sleep with her mother at night.

She continued to do so now, curled against Elia’s side as her breath came and went, slow and deep. The young Targaryen’s sleep was often restless, likely haunted by memories of darkness and war. Here, though, she seemed capable of finding some peace.

Aegon was another matter entirely. The infant prince remained untouched by the events of the last few days so far as they could see. Even now, the babe smiled in sleep, nestled in the arms of his mother, his sister by his side.

Rhaegar smiled at the sight, joy at their survival tinged with sadness that they’d come so close to disaster. Would that I could snap my fingers and make their troubles vanish. Alas, the powers of kingship are not so great, when all’s said and done.

He turned and left the way he came, being careful to make as little noise as possible. Once he had returned to his chambers, Rhaegar crossed to the hallway. He opened the door, where he was not surprised to find Ser Barristan, standing guard alongside four royal guards. “Did you get no rest, ser?”

The Kingsguard turned to look at him, bloodshot eyes answering the question without any words. “Prince Lewyn and I are the only Kingsguard here, Your Grace. If one of us guards the queen and the royal children, the other must see to you.”

Rhaegar sighed. “You are of no use to your king if you end up falling over from exhaustion, Selmy.”

“I’ll manage-”

“That wasn’t a question, ser. Go sleep, an hour’s worth or so. Then come to the small council chamber. I wish for someone to represent the Kingsguard and, in the absence of Ser Gerold, you shall serve in that capacity.”

“Prince Lewyn,” Ser Barristan began, but Rhaegar cut him off once more.

“Requests that he stay as close to his niece and her children as possible. I agree, so the Kingsguard must be you.”

The knight hesitated, then came to attention as he met Rhaegar’s stare. “As you command, Your Grace.” With that, Barristan turned and walked down the hall, his back as straight and stiff as a steel rod.

The Bold is owed much, Rhaegar thought as he turned to walk to the hall’s other end. He does not deserve what the Sack cost him.

The tale had spread like a plague; how Barristan the Bold had thrown the Mad King from the princess into a blaze of wildfyre, where Aerys the Second had perished as Rickard Stark and so many others had done so. While most considered it a fitting end, there were still those who wondered whether the knight truly deserved praise for the deed. Even now, Ser Barristan Selmy was becoming known by a new name, one much more sinister than the Bold.

Kingslayer. As if my father was ever truly worthy of his title.

Before long, Rhaegar arrived at the small council chamber. It would be some time before the councilmen joined him, but that was how it should be- a king needed to be more engaged with matters concerning the realm than those that served him. Otherwise what was the point of ruling?

Rhaegar wasn’t alone for long. Not twenty minutes later Jon Arryn arrived, the older man walking as swift and steady as Ser Barristan. “Good morning, Your Grace.” He wasn’t surprised to see Rhaegar- Arryn had been the first to learn of his early risings, and approved of such.

“Lord Hand.” Rhaegar waited until the valeman took his seat next to the king, then addressed him. “Any word from the south?”

“Not that I know of. I did receive word late last night from Lord Tully, however. House Vance and Bracken have both raised their banners in rebellion, declaring for your brother, Prince Viserys. He marches to put them down, as swiftly as possible.”

“They likely won’t be the last.” There were many who might seek to take advantage of the chaos still roiling the Seven Kingdoms. Even among those who wished Aerys’ fall, men whispered of how a rebellious prince was not worthy of rule, while a loyal prince still lived. And I’m sure that his young age and malleable nature have nothing to do with it.

That Viserys wasn’t here could be laid at his father’s feet as well. Both he and their mother, Queen Rhaelle, had been sent to Dragonstone, ostensibly for their protection. Now, however, some saw the prince and his mother as rallying points of discontent, a lie which would endure until Rhaegar’s brother and mother were reunited with the rest of their family.

Rhaegar rubbed his brow. “We cannot allow dissidents to re-fight the Dance of the Dragons. The sooner we have Viserys back in King’s Landing, the sooner the malcontents will lose their pretext.”

“I may have some good news on that score, Your Grace,” a voice called from just beyond the chamber entrance.

Varys walked into the room, a smile on his face. He quickly situated himself in the seat reserved for the master of whisperers. Almost immediately behind him came Barristan Selmy, who looked as if he had not slept at all in the time since Rhaegar had spoken with him. The Kingsguard did not sit, instead coming to stand just behind Rhaegar, hand on his sword’s hilt.

The Spider tittered at that. “Considering becoming the Kingslayer twice-over, ser?”

Barristan did not reply, but the gaze he turned on the eunuch was deafening on its own. That and the visible tightening of his hand’s grip on the sword.

“A poor jest, Varys,” Lord Arryn spoke disapprovingly. “If you cannot show Ser Barristan the respect his actions and position demand, perhaps you should not be on this council.”

“Perhaps. Though that would make for even fewer at this gathering. The small council grows smaller every day, it seems."

He was not wrong on that score. These were the only members of the council present; the Grand Maester was absent, busy tending to Rhaenys’ nursemaid at Rhaegar’s order. Half the seats remained unfilled, with no one yet appointed as master of ships, coin, or laws, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was in Dorne.

Of his father’s appointments, Rhaegar intended to retain Ser Gerold Hightower, Varys and Pycelle. The first he could trust with his life, while the second not at all. Despite that, Varys’ knowledge made him too dangerous to set loose, and Rhaegar had had his fill of killing. Pycelle was fond of House Lannister, perhaps too much so, but he was still qualified for his position, and a sense of continuity would go a long way towards placating the highborn and commons alike.

“Ser Gerold will return to King’s Landing before too long,” Rhaegar found himself saying, “and as for the remaining council seats, they will be filled shortly. Lord Arryn, I want a decree to be issued, letting the realm know that my father’s banishments are hereby voided, and those unlawfully deprived of land and titles are hereby restored to them.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Arryn looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you think any of the exiles would be suited for the small council?”

“Jon Connington is young, but remains loyal to a fault and is capable, his military defeat aside. I have a mind to name him master of laws.” Rhaegar turned to gaze at the other men in the room. “As for the masters of coin and ships, I thought we could turn to the Reach, perhaps House Redwyne or Tyrell.”

“A…wise concept, Your Grace,” Arryn allowed, but an eyebrow was up, a question in his gaze as his eyes me the kings. He didn’t ask it, though, instead turning to Varys. “And this news you claim to have?”

“Ah yes, how negligent of me.” Varys turned to the king. “Speaking of House Redwyne, I have learned that their fleet has left Storm’s End. The bulk of the ships are sailing south, presumably back to the Arbor. A notable number are heading the opposite direction, however.”

“North?” Ser Barristan spoke for the first time, eyes wary. “Headed for Blackwater Bay, most like. Is it possible that Lord Redwyne intends to declare for Prince Viserys?”

“No, if he intended to do so he’d keep his fleet together, to be better prepared for battle.” Rhaegar looked to Varys then. “I take it the lord himself is sailing home?”

“No, Your Grace. My little birds tell me he is with the smaller group.”

“Then he is most likely coming here, to pay homage to the king,” declared Ser Barristan.

“I think that likely, ser,” Jon Arryn agreed, “and I doubt he would do so without his liege lord’s agreement. This is a strong sign that the Reach intends to accept His Grace without a fight.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Lord Arryn,” Rhaegar spoke out. “I’d wait and see what Lord Redwyne actually does before presuming to know his intentions. The same goes for Lord Tyrell.”

The meeting went quickly after that. They spoke of the measures being taken to ease the plight of the capital’s smallfolk, and the reports of reavers striking along the Reach’s western coast. Finally, talk turned to the undoing of Aerys’ final project. Thank the gods that it was never fulfilled.

Rossart had attempted to flee as Barristan and Lewyn made to save Elia. His flight had ended on the blade of Gregor Clegane’s greatsword, which took him in one side and left through the other, cutting him in two. While all agreed his fate just, it had also guaranteed Rossart couldn’t tell them of his king’s plans. They had only learned of it thanks to the gods favor. Though mere chance is just as likely the culprit.

Rodrik Cassel had been on his way to the Red keep from Lord Tywin’s tent at the Lion’s Gate when he noticed the pyromancer leaving the Sept of Baelor. The man had attempted to flee, but was caught by the northman and his men. When dragged back to the Sept, his glances towards the undercroft entrance had been noticed, where Ser Rodrik had been horrified a large catch of wildfyre situated beneath the Sept.

Further questioning proved fruitless; fortunately, the lords Stark and Lannister had been quick to order their men to the notable places of the city- the Dragonpit, Flea Bottom, the Red Keep, and so on- to search for other catches. They had found them, hundreds of jars in each place, awaiting word from Aerys or Rossart to light the catches. Were it not for the surrounding of the Pyromancer Guild by the Lannister forces, they may have succeeded.

“I want the wildfyre destroyed,” Rhaegar stated firmly. “And the Pryomancer’s Guild is forbidden from creating more. They will need to prove their loyalty before they are allowed to do so again.”

The council agreed. With that, the meeting was ended, and the sitting members departed.

All save the Hand. That question needs an answer, no doubt. “What troubles you, Lord Arryn?”

“Your Grace…” Arryn hesitated before beginning again. “Rhaegar, the appointments you are suggesting… they may send a message that is better left unsaid. If House Tyrell and Redwyne were to take positions on the small council, then those that rebelled alongside Robert will be almost completely denied access to the crown.”

“Yourself excepted, of course.”

“I am but one man, Your Grace, and a Hand is only as powerful as a king allows him to be. Perhaps reserving one or two offices for men from the riverlands or a Baratheon vassal-”

“That cannot happen, Lord Arryn,” Rhaegar stopped him there. “If I cut off powerful houses from the council, especially those that fought for my father during the Rebellion, that sends a different message I wish to avoid.” He stood and walked to the window, looking out as he continued speaking. “At this point, the only house who I can say with any confidence is with me is House Martell, and even they have been given reason to doubt me as of late. The Seven Kingdoms are in flux, and how the crown moves as the dust settles will shape the fate of House Targaryen and all of Westeros for centuries to come.”

Lord Arryn looked at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. “As you say, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar sighed and turned back towards him. “Overtures will be made to the others, but not now. I need them to be patient, so I can make sure the royalists accept peace under my reign.”

Arryn sighed. “I will do my best to convince them, Your Grace. But Ned- that is, Lord Stark-”

“Believe me, I know.” Rhaegar’s thoughts began to drift then. “So much of the future depends on news from the south. From Storm’s End, from Highgarden, and from Dorne most of all.”

Lyanna, so much rests on you. Please, stay strong. Your brother is coming.

But I fear that winter follows close behind.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The hall echoed with a woman’s weeping.

There had been much of that as of late. Since word came of the Fall of King’s Landing. More since the return of Tywin Lannister’s host, and the body they had borne with them.

The Hall of Heroes was a large place. The hall was forty feet wide, and stretched on for hundreds more. It still hadn’t reached its final length; there was still room to mine, and whenever new space was required, it was made. Dark, tan-colored stone made up the walls, floor and ceiling. Gold and crimson adorned the various tombs built into the sides.

Tyrion was quiet as he walked along the Hall of Heroes. A boy of ten, he would have been easy to overlook even if he hadn’t been borne as he was. And he had learned to tread with a light foot in the passages of Casterly Rock. One never knows who is about, and here are some who are less nice to run into than others.

The most famed and worthy members of House Lannister were interred here. Some even had their arms and armor displayed, to better keep their memories alive in the minds of those present. Loren the Lion, Gerold the Great, Ser Tion and Ser Jason, Tyrion recalled as he walked down. Yet the greatest hero he knew was the one he sought now, at the end of the Hall.

Jaime’s tomb was a wonder to behold. The effigy on the top was well done, though Tyrion thought that no stone could truly reflect the life that had suffused his brother’s features. Jaime had been buried in the armor and cloak of his station, his blade rested on his chest. The coffin itself had been carved from stone the color of gold, with marble lions prancing along the edges.

To remind all of who lays here. Ser Jaime the White Lion, of House Lannister, Knight of the Kingsguard.

Tyrion was but a few feet away when he found the source of the grief he had heard from down the Hall. She was dressed warmly, as though to ward away the cold that had seeped into Casterly Rock these past days. He couldn’t see her face, though her hair had fallen from beneath her cloak, golden curls that caught the candlelight. I know that hair. Tyrion realized who was here with him, and began to turn when, alerted by instinct or simply to move away, she turned and saw him.

Even in tears she is beautiful, Tyrion thought. Her expression changed as if bewitched, shifting from grief to fear to rage and disgust so quickly it might have been a spell. His sister drew herself up before addressing him.

“What do you think you are doing here?” Cersei’s eyes were narrow, the green flashing in the light the small flames were casting about them. “Why can't you just go away? First Mother, now Jaime- he’s mine, do you understand?”

Her rage came off her in waves, fueled by the grief etched into her heart. Despite that, Tyrion stood firm. “He is my brother as well. And it is only proper that he be remembered as he was, a-"

“Don’t you dare tell me what he was! How could you possibly know? He was my other half, the better part of me, while you just wobbled after him like you were simple!”

“Everyone knows what Jaime was!” Tyrion’s eyes were stinging, his own anger and sorrow coming to the fore. “He was a hero! He saved the new queen and the king’s children! He-"

“HE WASN’T THEIRS! HE WAS THERE BECAUSE A MADMAN WANTED TO HURT US AND HE DID! NO ONE, NOT SER ARTHUR, NOT FATHER, NOT EVEN Rhaegar-"

Cersei’s screams stopped then. The tears were flowing freely now, on her cheeks and Tyrion’s. Her voice was a whisper now, but he could still make out the words.

“Rhaegar. I thought he could do it. He killed that traitorous bastard Baratheon. He was the perfect prince- admired, wise and strong, just and kind. I was supposed to be by his side, not that Dornish wisp. I could have kept him safe. I could have stood alongside Jaime, we would have triumphed, but she…”

Her voice trailed off. Cersei seemed to lose herself for a moment, then shook herself. Her gaze returned to Tyrion’s, taking in his tears for the first time. A sneer came to her face, but before any more venom could fly from her lips, footsteps began echoing from the other end of the hall.

Her gaze rose as Tyrion turned and beheld his father’s last remaining brother. “And what is happening here?” Ser Kevan had aged since King’s Landing, like most in Casterly Rock. Yet he showed no softness now, instead frowning at his niece and nephew. “A servant swore he heard someone screaming bloody murder, yet I see no blood. Is this how you honor your brother? By quarreling beside his tomb?”

Cersei flinched, but quickly resumed her fierce glare, her eyes dry as she faced her uncle. “I have more right to be here than anyone else, even Father. What makes you think Jaime would want this little monster near his place of rest?”

“He wouldn’t mind!” Tyrion declared. Why can’t she give me that much, at least? “Jaime was always kind to me! He knew I was his brother, not like y-”

“Enough, both of you!” Kevan sighed and rubbed his eyes. “As it happens, you cannot remain here, Tyrion. Tywin wants to speak with you, now.”

“What?” Father wants a word? He never speaks to me, except to scold me or warn me that I shall never do the things I wish to. Tyrion could not think of any reason why his father would wish to speak with him now.

Cersei was clearly of the same mind, an unheard-of occurrence. She looked confused and suspicious, but seemed to settle on haughtiness. “Good. Leave us be, you little monster.” And with that, she turned and knelt again before Jaime’s tomb, as if in prayer.

Kevan placed a hand on Tyrion’s shoulder. “Come. The hour grows late.” Tyrion let himself be turned and began walking with his uncle. As he did, he cast one final glance towards the tomb. Even she loved him, a fool can see that. Why? Why would the gods take him, and now of all times?

As they walked through the winding halls of Casterly Rock, Tyrion pondered all the rumors that had been circulating among the servants and guards. Reavers in the Reach. Dragonstone invested by Lord Redwyne. The siege of Storm’s End lifted. The wolf lord heading towards Dorne. And the new king, the new king above all else. This is a time for heroes. We need them now. And the only one House Lannister had is gone.

Some might call Tywin such, but Tyrion didn’t think so. His father was a legend, both here and throughout the Seven Kingdoms. But a hero and a legend were not the same thing, and Tywin himself had appraised his children of the difference. “A hero is a man all women want and all men want to be,” he had declared, “who will only do what is right and honorable, no matter the cost. A legend is a man whose legacy endures for centuries after they are dead, whose actions were guided by a vision of what could be, not by childish notions of virtue. A man of legend may be ignored, even vilified by those who come afterwards, but he will leave behind accomplishments that are tangible. A hero offers nothing but their name.”

“Now tell me, which is the better sort to be?”

Jaime had always rolled his eyes at the speeches their father would give. Cersei, on the other hand, would listen with rapt attention, like a faithful person listening to a septon. Tyrion had listened as well, but always thought that his father could have softened his words some, to better keep Jaime’s attention.

He doubted those were the kind of things his father would tell him now. Those were always meant for Jaime, or maybe Cersei, but never Tyrion. A dwarf son could never build a legacy, not when the golden twins were poised for greatness.

In truth, Tyrion did not begrudge them that. Being a great lord or lady had always seemed like a frightfully hard job to him. Even being a knight, whether a Kingsguard or hedge, had seemed terribly unappealing to him. He had been thinking of becoming a priest, or better yet a cartographer, sailing to all the wonders of the known world, and then to the unknown parts as well. He would name places and people and be remembered for his courage and wit. A legacy all my own. One even Father would acknowledge.

Not that that would ever happen. Lord Tywin had made his views of Tyrion’s notions clear from the start. “If you wish to act a fool,” he had told Tyrion once, “then I will dress you in motley and you can caper about Casterly Rock to your heart’s content.”

He and Kevan had finally reached the door to his father’s chambers, Tyrion realized. The oaken door was closed, as it always was. The lion’s head knocker stared at them challengingly. Kevan grasped it now, making their arrival known. “Enter.” His father’s voice commanded from within. Tyrion and his uncle did as they were bade.

The Lord of Casterly Rock’s chambers were magnificent by any standard. All about them were crimson silk and gold thread. Windows let golden sunlight pour in, illuminating the chambers. Lions roared and ran throughout the tapestries and sheets and curtains. It was behind the latter that the true lion now sat, writing in a quick and precise fashion as Kevan and Tyrion approached.

Tywin Lannister was an impressive man to look upon. His head was shaved, save for the sideburns that resembled the beast that graced his house’s sigil. In his forties, his back was as straight as it had been in his youth, and his broad shoulders belied a strength that was at odds with his slender body. He had a commanding presence which made people unknowingly straighten and more attentive. His face was hard, and the sharp gaze hid gold-flecked, green eyes always sent a jolt down Tyrion’s spine.

They did so again as they caught his mismatched eyes briefly, before looking up at Kevan. “Thank you, Kevan. You may leave us.”

“Of course, Tywin.” Kevan gave a quick, short bow before turning and leaving the chambers.

Now Tyrion was truly confused. Father wants to speak with me, and he wants to do so alone? What is this about?

Tywin sealed the letter he had been writing and placed it to the side, focusing his gaze on Tyrion. “I suppose you wish to know why you’re here.”

When in doubt, best to agree with him. “Yes, Father.”

Tyrion almost kicked himself then. How could he have forgotten? It’s my lord, always my lord, you fool.

If Tywin noticed, he did not mention it. Instead, he slid some parchment across the desk towards Tyrion. “I’m told you are quite a reader. Read that, then tell me what you make of it.”

Slowly, Tyrion reached out and picked up one of the parchments. He glanced down and scanned rapidly. Ships gathered at Lannisport, men ready to sail, coin needed for wages… He put it down and looked at his father. Tywin motioned to the other papers.

Tyrion quickly read them all. One was an account of a reaver attack on the Shields, another the small number of men House Marbrand had sent to join the Lannister host, and a third detailed the wealth mined from Ashemark under the watch of Lord Marbrand’s younger brother. After finishing, he looked at up at Tywin. “What does all of this mean?”

His father looked at him with a frown on his face. “Perhaps Kevan was wrong when he attested to your wit. If you cannot make sense of this, then leave me.”

Tyrion flushed. I will not suffer more insults, not after Cersei. He scanned the messages once more. “There are reavers moving down the coast. They aren’t attacking our shores, but…” His gaze turned towards the first letter. “You think that may still do so. So you’re gathering a fleet in Lannisport.”

Tywin’s expression hadn’t changed, yet his gaze held a renewed interest as he studied Tyrion. “But?”

“But?” Tyrion thought back to what he had read. Coin. Coin, of course. “The men on the ships, the captains, the dockworkers and shipbuilders- they’ll all need coin. So…” He trailed off then. House Marbrand. “You want Lord Marbrand to pay the coin. Rather than use Lannister gold.”

“Yes, though in a sense he will use Lannister gold.”

“What? How-?” Tyrion stopped, remembering the letter about Ashemark. “You think his brother hasn't been paying his share. And they didn’t send enough men to march to King’s Landing. This is punishment for both.”

“Well, well.” Tywin never smiled, but Tyrion could sense satisfaction coming off of him. “It appears Kevan may have been right. Perhaps this notion of his isn’t so fanciful.”

“What notion is that, my lord?” Tyrion asked, pleased to have succeeded yet still confused.

“To name you as heir to Casterly Rock.”

For a moment, all feeling dropped away. As did all thought, save for a single protest echoing in his mind. No, no, that is Jaime’s role, not mine!

“But…but…bu-“Tyrion stammered before he got the words out. “But I’m your younger son! Jaime is sup-”

“Don’t.” The satisfaction was gone, the cold restored with a vengeance. Tywin’s eyes had narrowed, much like Cersei’s, though where in hers he had seen fire, now Tyrion only saw ice. “Do not finish that sentence, or I swear to the gods that I will have you thrown into the sea.”

Tyrion swallowed and then looked down, blinking rapidly. Eventually, he heard his father sigh. “I suppose there is no avoiding the subject. Look at me, Tyrion.”

He used my name? Tyrion did as he was bid, tears once again flowing. Tywin grimaced to see them, but did not scold him. “Are those for you, or for you brother?”

“For Jaime, of course!”

“Good. Self-pity never did anyone any good.” Tywin shifted his gaze, gazing out the window, towards the Sunset Sea. “Jaime was the heir to Casterly Rock, white cloak be damned. It was never his fate to serve as a glorified bodyguard to any king, especially not that one. Yet no matter how many may wish it different, he is gone, forever a hero for maidens to swoon over and men to offer toasts to.”

“Now we must look to the future.” Tywin’s gaze was on him again. “I could try to name Cersei, but the western lords would never accept it, especially when I’m gone. Besides, she is fierce, and more than a little clever, but also reckless, unyielding, and easily enraged. Such traits might be stomached in a man, but in a woman? No, Cersei would only serve as Lady of Casterly Rock if she were wed and content to let herself be controlled, which will never happen.”

“But why me?” The question left Tyrion’s lips before he could think better. “Why not Kevan? Or Tygett? Or even Lancel? Why me?"

“You are my son.” Tywin said it simply, but they still struck Tyrion like an arrow.

He sighed and looked out the window once more. “It will not be easy. You’re condition will make you seem weak. Men will laugh at you in their cups, and some to your face. Lords will think you easily defied, and seek to pillage your lands with impunity. Yet Kevan thinks that you can be made ready to face that and still triumph.” Their eyes met once more. “So Tyrion, you will be my legacy, gods help us all. And when your time comes, you will forge one all your own. For Casterly Rock. For House Lannister.”

“Are you ready to begin?”

That wasn’t what Tyrion was thinking at all. But everything he was thinking, all his protests about Jaime and Cersei, about his uncles and aunt, and about him most of all, they all fell away. As he met his father’s gaze, he knew there was only one way to answer him.

He bowed his head. “Yes Father. I am.”

I may be a little lion, but I am still a lion.

And I will roar.

Chapter Text

Eddard

He was walking down a hill of green, toward a winding river that ran deep and wide. Beyond it was a shining city, ringed in walls, a red fortress nestled within. Fear bade him turn away, but honor commanded he advance.

“Ned!” He turned to see his friend walking at his side, a scowl on his face. Robert Baratheon stood as tall and strong as ever, armor polished, blue eyes gleaming. “Did I not tell you that dragonspawn could not be trusted? Where were you when I made to end him?!”

The words were Lyanna’s. Eddard Stark tried to protest, but it came out a whisper. No one could have known, but they belonged to her. I told you, why didn’t you heed me?

“Please, as if you thought you could sway me! And when words failed, the dragon slew the stag, while the wolves howled and the falcons cried!”

His friend reached to his collar, pulling it down so that Ned could see what lay beneath- a gash, exposing muscle and vein to the open air, blood pouring forth. “You turned your back on the man you once named brother! And for what? To serve a family that would gladly see yours and mine dead?!”

Ned didn’t get a chance to answer. They had reached the waters. Robert stopped, fury etched into his face. Though whether at Ned or whatever bade him remain, he could not say.

Eddard walked through the water. As he did, the riverbed seemed to rise to meet him, never letting the water come higher than his knees. He soon reached the city, though the scene had changed. The city still shined, but flames were the source, fires of green and orange and red. There was screaming, terrible noises torn from the mouths of men, women, and children. Yet it was dull to him, a distant roar that he understood but did not allow to become overwhelming.

Eddard walked through the smoke and flames, blind to all but those who awaited him, those who haunted the hall before the throne of madmen and conquerors. They were there when he arrived. The fire blazed as all the others, green flames snapping and clawing at the air around it. From within Ned could make out a crown, battered and melted yet still recognizable. The head it clung to was devoid of skin and hair, but eyes still sparkled at him from within. They are laughing. Even now, he finds joy in this, in death and flames.

“What made you think that would change?” The speaker was a tall man, strong and handsome. His features resembled Ned’s, though his expression held more humor than Ned thought he held in his whole body. Brandon sighed, glancing at the flames before turning to his brother. “Some fools preach that people change when they’re dead. That whatever ailed them is life is lifted and they become the best version of themselves. Fucking nonsense, all of it. We stay as we are, or is it how we were?”

Why, Brandon? Ned stared at him in anguish. Why couldn’t you wait? This was supposed to be your place, not mine. Winterfell, Catelyn, all of it. If you had-

“Spare me, little brother. You forget our sigil, the lines that we come from. No worthy son of Winterfell would sit idle while his kin were in danger, surely you’ll give me that much! Brandon shook his head and grinned. “The northern way, the old way. That is what we live by, Ned. It has served us well, and it shall still. Find her and bring her home, whatever the dragon might say. Even dragons fear the winter, and winter is coming."

Eddard shivered at that, forgetting the flames and the dead man laughing within. And if I can’t?

“Please. You always acted more a mouse than a direwolf. That was before the war, before you learned the lesson Lyanna and I always tried to teach you."

The pack, Eddard recalled. The pack survives the winter, where the lone wolf perishes. Right, Brandon?

There was no answer. Eddard looked away from the flames, turning to look for a brother who was no longer there. As he did, the flames quit their struggles, succumbing to the darkness around them. Shadows surged forth, seizing Ned even as he kept crying out for the brothers the war had taken from him.

Brandon! Robert!

Brandon!!

*

“Brandon!” Ned kept struggling against the shadows, even as they cursed him and bade him awake.

“Stark, get a hold of yourself! Wake!”

“Ned, please! It’s nigh on dawn, we can move now!”

“Wha-?” Eddard blinked, looking up at the familiar face staring at him, worry creasing his brow. “Howland? What is going on?”

“Oh, spare me.” The speaker rolled his eyes as he released Ned’s arm. “I was ready to leave you behind, Stark. If you’ve managed to tear this cloak, by the Father, you’ll answer to me.” The man grabbed the cloak in question, examining the white fabric under the torches and pale light that preceded sunrise.

Howland rolled his eyes. “Pay Darry no mind, he’s just anxious about what the White Bull will do to him when they meet.”

Ser Jonothor turned to glare at the crannogman. “While you should be anxious over what I will do to you.”

“It is not my day to die, ser.”

The Kingsguard snorted at that. “Every man alive thinks that, every day he rises to do his work. Yet they are wrong a good part of the time, as you well know.”

Eddard rose from his bedroll, putting his hand on Howland’s shoulder as he did. “It is near dawn, you said?” When Reed nodded, Ned turned to Darry. “Then it’s time we were moving.”

“Lord Stark.” Ser Jonothor gave a less-than-convincing bow, then turned, walking to where the horses were waiting. Ned sighed as he turned west, gazing towards the place where the dragon had left his sister for war. It is high time we were reunited, and I do not wish her “guardians” to know that we are so close.

The “tower of joy”, as Rhaegar had called it, was not impressive to look at. It stood forty feet high, with no walls or arrow slits, merely some windows placed at intervals around the tower. Yet Ned knew it to be more formidable than it looked. The mountains made any approach nigh on impossible, save the one path that led to it. Here, thirty men could hinder a force twenty times larger as it attempted to enter the Prince’s Pass. They do not have thirty men, but we do not have an army.

Besides Ned and Howland, they were accompanied by five other men; Mark Ryswell, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, Ethan Glover, and Willam Dustin. Loyal men all, they had been Ned’s friends before he had been sent to foster in the Vale, and all had begged to accompany him to Lyanna’s side. Eddard’s only other companion was there at the new king’s insistence. “If you and your fellows arrive at the tower with no one from my circle,” Rhaegar had warned, “then Arthur and the others may think the worst and challenge your presence. Jonothor will prove your words true.”

The others had grumbled at being minded like this, but Eddard had to acknowledge that Rhaegar had the right of it. Oswell Whent, Gerold Hightower, and Arthur Dayne. Renowned warriors all. A fight could very well go their way.

Ned rolled his bedding up and walked over to his horse. As he did, he grasped his sword and pulled, satisfied that the blade did not stick in the scabbard. He quickly mounted and turned to see the others had already done so or were moving to do so. Without words, he spurred his horse forward, his companions riding to keep up.

As they rode, Ned thought of his dream. He had been having it oft of late, usually experiencing similar events each time. Robert was always there, while Brandon and his father often joined him yet did not always do so. Occasionally the living came to him as well- Catelyn tearfully looking up at him just before he led his host to war, Stannis Baratheon grimly thanking him for lifting the siege after learning of his brother’s death, Jon Arryn sadly pondering the deaths of two of his heirs. So much pain and death, and for what? If Rhaegar is mad enough to have risked everything, what does that make Lyanna? Why?

It was a question that the whole of Westeros was asking. Ned certainly could not answer it, and he did not know if his sister would provide one.

*

They reached the tower as the sun began to break in the east. There were candles in the windows, but no one could be seen in them. But there was noise, echoing through the tower and the mountains around it. Ned shuddered to hear them, recalling the horrors from his dream. Screams, but different from that day. Those came from innocents dying on blades. Those are the screams of a woman.

One struggling in the birthing bed.

Lyanna. No, please no.

Ned reined in fifty feet from the tower, his fellows quickly following suit. He wanted to leap from his horse and dash to the stairs, to seek out his sister and make her safe. But he was stopped from doing so by the presence of three knights standing at the base of those steps.

They were all garbed in the white cloaks and silver armor of their station. To the left stood Whent, the bat of Harrenhal on his shield and wings embracing his helm. In the center stood Ser Gerold, his posture straight and sure as he stared at the approaching company. And last was the man who all knew to be the deadliest. Dawn gleamed in his hand, the blade ringing as the wind rose, caressing the sword and the man who wielded it. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He looks as if Gregor Clegane would not last a minute against him.

A fresh cry tore Ned’s eyes from the Kingsguard and back to the tower. There isn’t time for waiting.

Eddard dismounted and addressed the men before him. “You are a long way from your king, sers.”

“We are sworn to obey and protect.” Ser Gerold’s voice echoed from within his helm. “The king commanded us to protect the lady, and we have obeyed his order.”

“Well, now you have new orders.” Ned nodded towards Ser Jonothor. “Your sworn brother can attest to that. We are to join you in seeing to my lady sister, than see her to Winterfell. Once we reach King’s Landing, the four of you can take your place by the king’s side.”

“It is true, Gerold,” Jonothor quickly broke in, “Rhaegar has sent us for that purpose. There is no need for blood to be shed by any man’s blade today.”

“I fear you mistaken, brother.” Whent spoke now, addressing Darry. “Blood is being shed at this very moment, as you can undoubtedly hear. And I fear that our blades will taste blood before this day is done.”

“What?” Rage stirred within Ned. “You would stand against us? And violate your king’s sworn command?” He could not believe this. These men had followed Rhaegar’s command even as he rebelled against his father. Why would they turn against him now?

“No, Lord Eddard,” The Sword of the Morning addressed him, his tone iron as he held Dawn steady, “but you are not the only souls to come to us, and you will not be the last.”

“What do you mean?” Howland peered at Ser Arthur. “If not us, then who?”

“Those who named themselves loyal to the king, and bade us stand aside so that they could see to the end of that which they blamed for the war and those lost to it. They refused to name the king they served, however, and so turned away.”

“That was two days ago, and not a hint of them since.” Gerold motioned around them. “But in a place of shadow and sand, many things can move without being seen. And we have not lowered our guard.”

“Speaking of which.” Oswell pointed his sword toward their party, “I don’t suppose there are more in your little band who are running late?”

Eddard turned to look where Whent’s sword pointed. From the path that they had just taken, a cloud of dust was rising. And it was getting closer. Horses. Mounted men.

“No, there are not.” He drew his blade, eyes on the curve of the path that came before the final approach to the tower. His companions followed suit, backing towards the tower. Ser Jonothor took his place to Arthur’s right, the Kingsguard arraying themselves before the steps. The northmen put themselves between and alongside the knights, forming a half-circle that blocked all access to the tower from the path.

And all the while, the screams continued.

A lone rider turned the corner and rode towards the tower. He was garbed like a Dornishman, his armor painted in tan and red, mirroring the colors of the mountains around them. His sword was unadorned, though Ned expected the steel to be fine.

The rider halted when he saw the men blocking his way. “Hightower, I will tell you one last time! Stand aside! We are king’s men, same as you! Let us end the threat to His Grace’s trueborn children, and avenge the dead of the war that this whore started!”

“Go fuck yourself!” Willam Dustin yelled from beside Ser Oswell. “Even if there were a hundred of you, we wouldn’t budge. Bugger off before I decide you need shortening by a head!”

The man glanced up as a fresh cry echoed from the tower. Then the rider scanned the arc of men. “If you insist on defending that harlot, then so be it!”

The man gave a sharp whistle. Then noise began echoing from the path From behind him, men began striding from around the path’s curve. Their mounts had been left behind, but they looked well-rested, and were all armored in the Dornish fashion with swords and axes ready in their hands. From behind the first came more, a column of men with the tower and those guarding it fixed in their eyes. Ned quickly scanned the approaching group. Twenty, maybe as many as thirty. They’ve the numbers, but we have the high ground.

Mark Ryswell clearly thought the same. He was muttering to the men around him. “Don’t let them flank us, and hold the line. Otherwise, this should be as simple-”

He suddenly stopped. Ned glanced at his companion. Mark had a puzzled look on his face, the arm holding his blade coming to his side, where fletching suddenly sprouted. Then he gave a shriek and fell to the ground, writhing in agony, hands clawing at the bolt, sword and shield forgotten.

“Bastards have crossbows!” Whent hefted his shield, shaking the others from their shock. They quickly made to do the same. Then the men approaching them broke into a charge, and all hell broke loose.

Eddard quickly found himself trading blows with a man wielding two axes. He had the reach, but the Dornishman was quick and kept coming in close, forcing Ned to back away. The man brought one axe down on his blade, then swung the other at his head. He ducked as the blade missed him by an inch, then shoved his shoulder into the man’s chest, forcing him back. The man stumbled, then tried to bring his axes up as Ned’s sword came at his neck. They only got there after the man’s head had been half-sliced from his body. Eddard did not even stop to watch the man fall.

He turned and saw Ser Arthur fighting three of the men at once, Dawn singing as it sliced the air around the knight. He threw himself at one of the attackers, his blade catching the man in the collar, though the cut was shallow. He yelped and hopped backwards, away from both the northman and the Kingsguard.

One of his fellows turned to see what had happened. That mistake cost him his life. Dawn tore into the man’s chest, sending him sprawling into the dirt between Ned and the man he had struck. The third quickly realized his peril and backed away, coming shoulder to shoulder with his fellow. Dayne quickly advanced, not a hint of fear in his stance. Ned glanced about. He couldn’t tell what was happening, the dust thick and the bodies around him moving too quickly.Then the bolt hit him.

Agony lanced through his arm and upper torso. He staggered back, hand coming to his left shoulder, where the bolt had lodged. He quickly looked down the hill, where four men had crossbows in hand, two reloading, and the other two seeking new targets. Even the Kingsguard’s armor won’t hold against those.

A man rushed past Ned. Ser Arthur had apparently realized the same thing, and charged down the hill towards the crossbowmen. They quickly realized their peril, the two with bolts loaded pointing them at the Sword of the Morning. Eddard started to move when a body slammed into him from the side, shattering his view of Dayne. He pitched forward, landing hard in the dust and rocks.

His arm shrieked in protest as the bolt’s shaft snapped against the ground. He payed it no mind, rolling to the side as a sword planted itself where his neck had been not a moment earlier. He swung his blade up as he came to a knee, catching the man who wielded it along his cheek. The warrior howled, but swung back at Ned, his blade rising just in time to catch the blow. The force of it rattled his teeth, but he quickly slid his blade down and drove it through the man’s gut, grasping the Dornishman’s sword-hand as he did. The man screamed, then shrieked as Ned pulled his blade free and kicked him away.

The air was full of dust and screams. Eddard’s arm and skull were both throbbing. The ground felt like it was shaking. No, the ground was shaking. Why is the ground shaking?

He had barely turned when the horse charged past him. The rider who bid them stand down was now in the thick of the battle, a mace in hand, charging at the one Kingsguard who still stood on the tower steps. The White Bull stood firm, his blade firm in hand as he stepped off them now, running at the horsemen. The man raised his mace, but the Kingsguard was faster, his blade flashing forward. It caught the horse in its skull and lodged there. The mount pitched forward, taking its rider down with it. But it had not lost its momentum, and Ser Gerold Hightower was hit by the horse’s body. The two men and stallion all tumbled to the side of the path- and then off it entirely, their weight and the force of movement taking them off the cliff that marked the path’s side.

Eddard barely had time to process the fall of the Lord Commander when he noticed that the sounds around him had changed. Shouts were echoing around him. He turned to see that the enemy who were still on their feet were running, fleeing down the path that led to the tower. The shouts were coming from his fellows, calling out to one another as the dust began to settle. “How-” Ned struggled to get his tongue to move with his lips. “Howland, where are you?”

“Ned.” He turned to see the crannogman limping up to him. There was a fresh cut on his forehead and blood stained his right leg, but the man did not seem seriously injured. Yet his expression was grim, glancing about at the bodies around them. “They truly wanted to get to the tower.”

“Well, they failed.” Jonothor Darry came up to them. His cloak was filthy, and scratches ran across his armor, but the Kingsguard appeared unhurt. He may be the only one who can say such. “Now, where the hell is Arthur?”

“Here, Jon.” Ned turned and was relieved to see Dayne walking up to them, Dawn in hand. There was a bolt jutting out of his armor, but when Reed moved towards it he waved him away. “It looks worse than it is. The head pierced my side, but failed to hit anything important. They panicked, forgot to aim.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Darry glanced about. “Where is the Lord-Commander?”

The memory hit Ned like a charging destrier. Ser Gerold. He turned and walked to the side of the path. When he reached the cliff’s edge, he looked down.

The cliff stretched down for hundreds of feet. At its base were a many shapes, most rocks, dark read and tan. Wherever the horse and its rider had landed, Ned could not see them. The White Bull, however, was easy to spot against the dark stone that had caught him. He grimaced at the sight, then glance away, his teeth gritted.

“Seven fucking hells.” He turned to see Jonothor had walked to stand by him. He was glaring down at the sight, teeth bared in rage. His eyes were reddened. By the gods, the man is crying, Ned realized.

The Sword of the Morning raise his voice. “One of us will have to see to him. Head down there and build him a cairn.”

Ned turned to survey the other bodies on the path and steps. “Not just him.” He started to walk down the path when Howland grabbed his arm.

“Ned, you’re going the wrong way.”

Eddard looked at him, forgetting for a moment the reason that he had come. Then it came back to him, and as he turned to behold the tower, he was gripped by fear as he realized that it was quiet. The screams coming from the tower had ceased.

Lyanna. 

Ned was out of breath when he reached the last chamber, at the top of the tower. He had taken the stair two at a time, his wounded shoulder forgotten, his sword left at the path. Now, standing outside the door, he recognized a smell coming from the chamber, one that he had left behind with the others. Blood.

Blood and winter roses.

He steeled himself, then pushed the door open.

The chamber was small, though not cramped. There was little in terms of furniture, a few chairs and a table to the side. A woman knelt by it, dressed in plain clothing, her expression stricken, her eyes tearful as she glanced at Ned, and then returned her gaze to the room’s central feature.

The bed was large, and it was there that Eddard found his sister.

Her beauty was still plain to see, but pain and struggle did much to conceal it. Her dark hair was matted to her head by sweat, and her skin was pale, the exception the flush in her cheeks. The sheets and bedding around her were soaked in blood, which also stained the roses that had once been blue. Her body was shivering despite the heat, curled near the headboard. Curled around something. No, someone.

He walked to her side, kneeling so that he could be closer to her. “Lyanna, can you hear me? Sister?”

“Ned..?” Her eyelids fluttered, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Are you here? Truly?”

“Yes, Lyanna. I’m here and I swear, I will never leave your side again,” Ned vowed, his confusion and anger swept away. All that remained was fear, which grew deeper as he glanced at the bloodstained sheets. “Don’t give up. Howland is coming, he knows something of medicine, he can-”

“Brother, please…” Lyanna’s voice was suddenly stronger, resolve lending her aid. “Please, hold him. Tell me what you see.” Her body relaxed, allowing Ned to see that which had cost her so much to bring into the world.

The babe was quiet, enough so that he almost thought it dead, but its arms and legs were moving, and it gave a little cry as it was taken from the heat of Lyanna’s body. He carefully took the babe from Lyanna’s arms, tearing at the sheets to wrap it in. He glanced at the naked babe before he wrapped it in the torn linen. “A boy, Lyanna. You have a son.”

“Is…is he whole?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Ned said in soothing tones. “He is whole, and has a long life to live. With his family in Winterfell, including you.”

“Name…” Lyanna’s voice was growing fainter. Ned turned to yell from the window when her hand caught his arm. “Tell me his name, Ned.”

He glanced at the infant in his arms. He had no idea what to name a child. The only name that came to mind was that of the man who had helped raise him, the same man who had saved him and Robert from the Mad King’s flames, and helped end the war. “Jon.”

He said it quietly, then repeated himself more loudly and firmly. “His name is Jon, Lyanna.”

"Jon." Lyanna's lips were bloody, cut by her own teeth as she struggled with childbirth. But the blood did not mar her smile, which Ned's sister did as she looked at her son. "That's a good name...not silly like...Rhaegar's..." Her voice took a strange note when she uttered the Targaryen's name. Anger? Sadness? Eddard couldn't be sure. But Lyanna's lips were already moving again, and he leaned in closer with Jon to hear her words.

“He…” She was whispering now, so quietly that Ned had to put his ear to her lips to hear. “He cannot be like me, Ned. Me, or his father…Promise me, Ned...”

“Promise me…”

“I promise it, Lyanna, I swear it by the gods, old and new.” He wrapped an arm around his sister and held her close, to him and to her son. Heedless of the heat fading from her, heedless of the babe’s cries, heedless of the maid’s weeping or his own, Eddard Stark held his sister. “I promise, Lyanna, I promise.”

I promise.

Chapter Text

Elia

The breeze from Blackwater Bay was warm today.

Elia Martell sighed as she looked out towards the water. A southern wind, from the stormlands and beyond. I wonder if the gods are sending me a message from home.

It had been years since she had traveled to Dorne. Oberyn and Doran both wrote to her often, as well as to Uncle Lewyn, but letters could hardly compare to the red mountains, the Greenblood, the Water Gardens or the shadow city of Sunspear. The Sept of Baelor was lovely, but other than that King’s Landing held no candle to the southernmost kingdom of Westeros. I once counted the Red Keep a wonder as well, but the Sack changed that. Along with so much else.

Elia turned and looked about the royal chambers. They were far darker than the chambers she and the children had stayed in previously. She kept meaning to replace much of the black and red silk with the oranges and yellows of her home, but there was much else to be done, and she had yet to put anyone to the tsk.

She had insisted that she and the children be moved from their old rooms as soon as possible. The memories of that night, of Elia’s capture and the children’s escape, still hung over them all, including her. Elia thought it best to move them away from where those memories were created.

Now, new ones were being made. And for all her efforts, Elia knew that not all of them were joyful.

She could hear the raised voices through the wall. The queen sighed and stood, walking to the door that separated the adjoined chambers. She guessed at what she would find, and opened the door. Sure enough, her daughter was yelling at the newest arrival to the Red Keep, one whose coming had meant much trouble, for all Rhaegar insisted on displaying unity.

Rhaenys is doing better, thank the gods. Her daughter had been suffering night-terror’s since the Sack, but of late she experiencing them less and less. She remained bold and curious, though she was more suspicious of any man wearing royal colors, more so of those who had served the Mad King and remained at court. Those thoughts were nothing, however, compared to her dislike for the silver prince she was arguing with.

Prince Viserys Targaryen was blood of old Valyria, even a fool could see that. His hair was platinum, with the occasional gold thread weaving through, while his eyes were a haunting purple, like amethysts. He was small for a seven year-old, of a size with Rhaenys, two years younger and a girl besides. In manner, he had remained quiet around most, nervously watching those tasked with looking after his health. Rhaenys was one of the few he addressed freely, as he did now.

“What do you know about the dragon, stupid?!” The boy was yelling at her daughter, anger and spite in his face. “I am pure, mother and father married in the old way, while you are just a halfling, with Dornish blood taint-”

“Mother is Dornish, but I am a dragon, same as you! Besides, she has dragon’s blood also, and did not need her parents to be brother and sister! No one does, least of all-”

“She is my sister, and the Valyrian ways are ours! She and I are supposed to be-”

Elia had heard enough. “Are you trying to wake your nephew, Viserys?”

The children spun around to stare at her. Viserys quickly looked at his feet, his nervous nature returning once again. Rhaenys looked ashamed for just a moment, but defiance returned quickly, as she turned to glare at her uncle. “I told him that they were sleeping, but he-”

“Rhaenys, we both know you were not quiet either. Or do you mean to blame Viserys for the things you did?

Her daughter bit her lip, then also looked at her feet. Elia sighed and walked past them, to the two cribs that sat side by side in the room. Aegon remained asleep, completely oblivious to the conflict raging near him. She smiled to see that, though it left her face as she turned to look at her new good-sister.

Daenerys Targaryen was crying, face red with the effort. The sounds she made echoed about the chamber, dwarfing the noise her brother and niece had been making. She sounds as if a storm would make less noise.

That is what she was being called about the Red Keep. The Stormborn. As the royal fleet had made ready to return to King’s Landing with Viserys and his mother at Rhaegar’s order, a great storm had come upon Blackwater Bay. Most of the fleet had been lost, and the queen-mother had gone into labor. By all accounts the birth had been hard, and the queen had not survived long after. Her daughter had, however, and both she and Viserys had been brought to the capital after the storm passed.

Barely a month old, her eyes were already purple, an even darker shade than Viserys’ or Rheagar’s. She had some silver hair on her head as well, though she was still near bald. Elia put her lips to the infant’s head as she picked her up and held her close. Daenerys quickly calmed, smiling at the dark woman who had taken charge of her care since her arrival.

Elia turned to look again at the children, infant still in her arms. “We cannot have this fighting continue. Don’t we all remember what the king has said?”

Rhaenys spoke first. “The only thing that can kill the dragons is one another.”

“Exactly right. Your family has ruled for a very long time, and has only faced ruin when fighting itself. You cannot allow that to happen. The dragons must rule together?”

“Even the bastard? The one from Dorne?”

Viserys was wide-eyed, perhaps surprised at his own boldness. Elia certainly was, and Rhaenys looked the same, staring at her uncle before glancing at her mother, confusion and anger on her face.

The capital had been abuzz with fresh gossip since the return of Eddard Stark. Him and his nephew. They had been here not even a week, but their arrival had heralded a dark turn for the court. Almost as dark as Viserys’. He had been the symbol that malcontents in the riverlands and Reach had used to try to rebel against the new king. They had been swiftly quelled, thanks in large part to his return to his brother’s custody. For all that, ugly rumors persisted of plots, of planned rebellions or assassinations. It was a large part of the reason that the boy was so fearful, even now. Jon Snow was another matter. A few called him Sand, owing to the place of his birth, but most named him a northern bastard, owing to his mother’s family. Elia herself preferred to do so. It made it easier to remember who he was, and where he came from.

None that Elia knew of would ever consider him a potential figurehead, but his presence was the cause of the sharpest and darkest rumors of all. Even now, only his uncle and the other northmen were even allowed in the same room with him. The sole exception was the boy’s father. The king, her husband, Rhaegar…

Elia quickly shook herself. “That is not for us to decide. The king has many responsibilities, and that is one of them. He-”

“Will he be my brother, Mother?”

Rhaenys still looked angry and confused, but the former was winning out. “He can’t though. The lion, the bat, even the bull died because of him. Even Jeyne-“

“Enough, Rhaenys!”

Her daughter looked shocked at her tone. Elia was also. Why do I snap at the girl for thinking as I do? She doesn’t deserve that.

Viserys chose then to speak up. “She’s right, why doesn’t Rhaegar just make him go away? Give him to the Faith, or the Citadel. He’s no true dragon. Everyone knows it.”

He stopped there, a defiant expression on his face. For a moment Elia did not see a boy of seven, but a crowned man near forty, fire in his eyes and by his side. The price of waking the dragon.

Elia felt the darkness creeping into her mind. She shook her head to clear it. “Enough of this chatter. Both of you, to your bedchambers, now.”

Any protest either of them were readying died at the look in her eyes. Elia Martell may have been frail, but she could be fierce when provoked, though few ever did so. They both turned and walked to the doors opposite where she had entered, heading towards their apartments beyond.

After they were gone, Elia placed Daenerys back in her crib and turned to the chamber window, facing the capital. King’s Landing certainly looks different from the royal chambers. The skies had cleared, though the smell of smoke remained. The harbor was almost empty, as merchants and captains avoided the capital for fear of being caught in the violence.

The Red Keep no longer bore the scars of the attack. The westermen had done little damage to the castle itself. Throughout the city, however, the story was very different. Thousands had died in the fighting, looting and rape had spread like wildfire, and the swift departure of the armies from the city had only made it harder for the City Watch to keep order. Even the aid of the royal household, including the Kingsguard, had failed to completely stem the violence.

It had not helped when word came from the south. The news that two more Kingsguard had perished in the Dornish mountains had led to renewed chaos as groups of men, all professing themselves loyal to the king, had clashed in Flea Bottom and the surrounding areas. The Kingsguard are among the most visible symbols of royal power, and now only four still stand.

Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower. Great knights both, perishing for the likes of a northern woman and her…son.

While both men were sorely missed, their death’s had done little to harm the crown’s relations with the Great Houses. Jaime Lannister, on the other hand, was casting a large shadow, even in death.

Elia had always liked Jaime. They had met when they were children, as her parents hoped for a match between House Martell and House Lannister. He hadn’t been interested in such things, but he was energetic and loud, a true lion cub who had won Elia’s affection even then. He was much the same when he became a Kingsguard, and their rapport had made Rhaegar pay Jaime more mind than he might have otherwise. At least, until the Rebellion.

Jaime had begged Rhaegar to allow him to accompany the prince and his host north. Her husband had been adamant, however, that a good man remain near his wife and children. “Besides, my father desires you to remain close, for fear of your father,” Jaime had recounted Rhaegar’s words. “Be patient, ser. Whatever happens, change is coming, and the royal family must be made safe for when it does.”

No one knew when Rhaegar had decided on his course of action. Not even the men he marched with against the rebels. There were some who whispered that it was made in the moment, gambling on the royalist concerns over Aerys and the rebel fears of the battle and its repercussions. It was whispered that Lyanna Stark had written to her brother, urging him not to fight the man she loved. If so, it had worked.

Whatever the circumstances, the Usurper fell and Rhaegar made his intentions known. He had thought that his forces could move swift enough to reach the capital before word spread, and that even if it did, that no one would harm his wife or children for his father. He was wrong on both counts, and thousands had payed the price.

With Jaime being the first to do so, Elia thought sadly. A friend and protector, slain protecting us. Protecting the children.

The well-being of Aegon and Rhaenys was of paramount importance, her husband had decreed. Rhaegar had doubled the normal number of guards assigned to the royal family, and Lewyn and Ser Barristan had been tasked with guarding them day and night. They had argued against leaving the king with no Kingsguard around him, but he would not be gainsaid. The return of Ser Arthur and Ser Jonothor had ended the debate, as there was now a knight for both children, Elia, and Rhaegar himself.

At that moment, she heard a voice call her name from her bedchambers. Only one man would be allowed in without Lewyn informing her. She turned and reentered her rooms, unsurprised to find her husband and uncle waiting.

The latter acted much the same as before the war. He was gentler with her and the children, curbing his tongue and manner more than before, but Prince Lewyn remained a fierce and good man, and was one of the few that Rhaegar trusted with Elia and her children. Just as well, else what good are the Kingsguard?

Rhaegar’s sad air had only grown in recent days. He had lost many- his mother, members of the Kingsguard, friends and companions from days past. It was enough to overwhelm anyone, yet he seemed to endure it. He looked wan as he sat by the bed, though he smiled as Elia joined him. “Seeing to the children again?”

“Your brother is proud, and your daughter fierce,” Elia reminded him, “they’ve fought before and they will do so again. I only hope they learn to do it away from Aegon and Daenerys, not next to them.”

Her husband sighed. “It’s to be expected. Do not be troubled, they will learn to get along. Give it time.”

Elia nodded. Then she glanced away. If I am to speak on it, it must be now, and I must not mince words. “There is one thing they do seem to agree on. Your son.”

His son. Not hers, not theirs. His. And Rhaegar knew well whom she spoke of.

“Jon was born after the war was already over. He cannot be blamed for what came before him.”

“Perhaps not,” Elia conceded, “but that may not matter. The whispers at court are proof of that. The sooner he is out of sight the better. Some might suggest the Faith, but the Sept of Baelor is too close. Perhaps the Citadel or-”

“No.”

Rhaegar’s voice was rarely hard with anyone, especially with Elia, but it was so now. Lewyn glanced between the two, concern on his face. Her husband continued in the iron tones of a king.

“As I said, the boy bears no blame. And he will not be punished for the actions Lyanna and I took.” He looked her in the eye then, amethyst irises alive with a strange light. I’ve seen such a look before, in a prince barely a boy, and a king who thought himself a dragon.

She must have paled or done something to give herself away, for Lewyn spoke then. “Your Grace, I must ask that you remember the queen’s recent ordeals. Do not let your anger at others spill onto her, as you would seek to prevent happening to the boy.”

Rhaegar turned to glare at the Dornish prince, then sighed and looked down, the hardness draining out of him. He sighed. “Yes, you are right Lewyn. Allow me to apologize, to you and to your niece.” He turned to look at Elia again, fire gone from his eyes. “I am sorry, my queen. That was unwarranted, and unbecoming of a king.”

“You- you are of course forgiven, Your Grace.” Elia bowed her head as she said so. Then she looked at him once more. “Forgive me for asking after it once more, but what do you intend for your son?”

Rhaegar’s face grew stern than, though it was not directed at her. “Jon is my son, and that makes him blood of the dragon, whatever anyone might say. I have ordered the Hand of the King to prepare a royal decree of legitimization, recognizing him as Prince Jon, of House Targaryen.”

Prince? He shall be made a royal child? Elia couldn’t stop the protest leaving from leaving her lips. “But what of our son and daugh-”

“Do not fear, Elia,” Rhaegar said in soothing tones, his words having the opposite effect, “Jon will come after them or any other child we might have in the line of succession.”

Her husband looked to Lewyn then. “By keeping him close, we can help guarantee his safety, and shield him from attacks like that in Dorne. Also, showing such generosity to House Stark will help keep the North in the fold, and soothe the fears of the other rebel houses.”

“That may be, Your Grace,” Lewyn allowed, “but even so, the boy is not a Stark. A bastard-born nephew may not be the shield you hope it to be.”

Rhaegar turned to look at Lewyn, irritation plain on his face. “Yes, which is why Lord Stark and I have been discussing the best way to ensure the safety of the boy and House Stark’s loyalty. We have come to an agreement, one which will ensure that the peace will endure.”

“How?” Elia asked, still shocked at the swift nature of Rhaegar’s decisions.

Rhaegar turned. “I’m afraid I cannot say for now. The nature of these dealings demands that I share them only with those who are necessary for its success. If even a whisper of it comes out, it will threaten everything.”

He is wary of Lewyn, Elia realized, and possibly of me. Is it because of what happened at the tower?

Lewyn had told her what Ser Arthur had said of the battle. The men who’d attacked had been garbed as Dornishman and named themselves loyal to the king. “But they used a direct assault, rather than ambush the men outside the tower,” Lewyn had told her, “and for Dornishmen, there was no dark skin or spear to be seen. Tell me, niece, does that sound like a Dornish party to you?

It had not, and both Ser Arthur and Stark had apparently thought the same. Whoever the men served, they had at the least wished to avoid being detected by any nearby Dornishmen. Lewyn thought it may have been an attempt to exact revenge on Rhaegar in the name of Aerys or Viserys. It was even possible that the one who ordered the attack had sought to drive a wedge between the Iron Throne and Dorne.

And if so, then they have succeeded at least in part.

Her husband was speaking to Lewyn. “You may leave us, ser.”

“Your Grace.” Her uncle bowed, gave her a quick smile, then turned and walked to the hallway door. Once he was gone Rhaegar turned to Elia again.

“Elia, I know this must be hard. But House Targaryen must not be allowed to fracture. That is why the boy must stay.”

Elia began to speak, then hesitated. Viserys and Rhaenys had both made their thoughts on the boy clear. Granted they were both children, but there was no way of saying how they would come to view Rhaegar’s son. How Aegon and Daenerys might come to view their kinsman was even less certain, owing to their age.

It would be so much easier if the boy was sent away, even if Rhaegar still provided for him. Yet he seems determined to take this path. Where does that leave me, and our children?

Elia Martell nodded her head. “I will not pretend I am not confused, Rhaegar, or concerned. But I will support your decision, for the children.”

Rhaegar smiled to hear that. She doubted he heard what she left unsaid.

Targaryen or Stark, Snow or Sand, this boy will mean discord, whatever you might think. But I will always protect our children.

For I am, and will always remain, unbroken.

Chapter Text

Jon

“It’s broken! Father’s going to be so mad!”

“You were the one who said it was strong enough, Egg!”

Jon sighed and looked at the dagger with dismay. The finely carved wood had snapped midway up the blade, making it a mere half-foot long. The blade’s end was in his brother’s left hand, the handle in the other. Egg was more upset than he was, even though it was Jon’s blade he was holding.

“Maybe we could make another,” Egg said plaintively, “then no one will know what hap-“

“I can’t make one, can you?” Jon was still scanning the wood around them to make sure no one was here, that no one had seen. They had snuck from the encampment and guards to play with the dagger. If they were found alone with the broken dagger by anyone from the camp then Ser Arthur would belt them like he always threatened to.

Egg was still talking. He always did that when he was nervous. A king is supposed to talk a lot, this must be good practice.

“I’m not saying we make it, just find someone who can and get them to do it!”

Jon thought about it. “Who? And what will we give them?”

“I’m the prince,” Egg said confidently, “everyone knows a prince always pays his debts.”

“I thought that was a Lannister.”

“If they do it, then princes should too.” Egg held the two dagger pieces out to Jon. When he took them, his brother turned to face the woods, the setting sun lighting the trees around them. “Father said the city is close. We can be back before the sun comes up, no one will know.”

Egg seems excited, even though he was scared a moment ago. Jon still felt nervous as he glanced back towards their father’s camp. Maybe we should just go back. Father might not be so mad. Egg and I could just tell the truth and he would…

Jon’s mind stopped along that trek as Egg turned and faced him. “Well, are you coming or not, Jon?

He’ll go without me if he has to. Jon couldn’t go back and tell Father that he had let Egg wander off alone. Father would be even madder than if they told the truth. And people would only be louder when they whispered cruel things about him.

Jon shook his head, but began walking after his brother.

Egg was always like this- looking for adventure, asking for trouble when there was none close at hand. “The crown prince is bold as a dragon”, courtiers would say with affection, “and fierce besides.” Father would oft agree, saving his praise for when the family came together for meals or journeys.

Aegon was his brother’s proper name, but he insisted that he be called Egg by his family. He fancies he’s the first Egg, wandering into danger with Duncan the Tall. Jon, Egg's sister, and their aunt were the only people who did so. Father and Egg’s mother couldn’t do it, though they tried. Viserys didn’t even try that much, scorning the nickname much as he scorned most things.

The two boys kept walking west. The woods are pretty, Jon thought. The sun makes the trees into gold, and the birds are lovely singers. People often spoke of the beauty of the westerlands, and Jon could see why. Their shoes were covered in dust and mud, so much so Jon wondered if they would make it to Lannisport in one piece.

They had been fine when they first came out here. Egg had convinced Jon to grab the dagger form the saddlebag on his horse, then the two had snuck around the wagon they had been resting in earlier and quietly run into the tree line not ten feet away. No one, not even the Kingsguard, had noticed them leave. Egg had still been laughing when the wooden blade had snapped when he swung it against an oak’s trunk.

Now, here they were, wandering in a western wood, looking for a city near as big as King’s Landing. It seemed nice enough, the warm air making Jon a bit tired, wind blowing into their faces as they walked.

Still, the sun was fading, and the golden light was turning into shadows. “Egg, how are we going to find a city in the dark?”

“The city won’t be dark,” Egg said confidently, “all the people and ships need light even when the sun is down. The city will light the way.”

That made some sense to Jon. Yet that didn’t dispel all of the doubts lingering in his head. “But what if the reavers find us before we get there? Ser Arthur-”

Egg spun around to glare at Jon. “If we act scared of ironmen, then they win! We’re blood of the dragon, we can’t be scared of krakens or their like, especially when they’re causing trouble!”

That was why they were here. Father had told them that he and the men at court had to go west, to stop the ironmen from reaving and pillaging. Egg had Jon had both insisted they come, and their father had agreed. The queen was upset that they were going, while Rhaenys and Daenerys were upset that they were not allowed to come too.

“The ironmen are strong and savage,” Father had told them, “and more cunning then many at court care to admit. You are both too important to risk being taken, so you must always stay close. Understand?”

Jon had not understood. Yes, Egg was certainly important, but most at court did not seem to think that he was. Northern bastard, wolf brat. Those were among the least cruel whispers Jon had heard, and he knew that they had to do with his mother and father. She was dead, though, and father refused to speak of her to him.

He knew better than to ask his father about the whispers. His sister had said as much when he asked her once. “He’s a king, and kings have a great deal to do. Do you really wish to trouble Father with gossip he likely couldn’t care about in the least?”

So the whispers stayed just that. And Jon kept moving.

He was suddenly shaken from his thoughts. More, he was jolted out of them. By Egg’s elbow hitting his stomach.

Jon gasped and clutched at his stomach, bending over as he did. He glanced up to glare at Egg, who was still facing away from him. Did he even notice me walking?

“Egg, why did you stop?” He growled.

“What’s that sound?”

Jon lifted his head and glanced about. All he heard was the wind and the trees it was shaking. He took a breath and turned his head to the side, blocking the breeze from his left ear.

At first, nothing. Then a twig snapped, from their left. He glanced that way, then looked at his brother. Egg seemed more alert than scared, hands balled into fists as he looked in the same direction. He turned towards Jon. “What do you think it is?”

“Maybe it’s nothing. Wood snaps without help sometimes.”

“Maybe. Or its men, or wild beasts.” Egg looked as serious as Father, which seemed impossible. Jon looked at him, then glanced back at the wood as another twig snapped.

Egg grabbed his hand. “We turn around and start running. Find a tree to climb, or something to fight with.”

At that a voice called from the woods, from where the snapping had come from. “You will not go far, lads! Best give yourselves up now and spare us the trouble!”

That voice has an accent. Jon knew all the ways southerners talked, and this was not any of them. For all that, it sounded familiar, though he could not place why.

Egg shouted back, “You leave us be! We are princes of the royal blood and on the way to Lannisport!”

“Lannisport?” The voice was amused, the man behind it no doubt smiling. “You are a way off from there. And princes, out here, all alone? Only a fool would believe that.”

“It’s true!” Jon was still peering through the trees, looking for the speaker, but anger bade him speak. “We are the king’s sons! Now tell us who you are!”

“Who I am? What does that matter?” The voice was quieter now, so much so that Jon could barely hear it. “I am not the one you need concern yourself with.”

Jon was opening his mouth to ask why when he was grabbed from behind and yanked backward. He had time to let out a quick yelp of surprise when a hand came over his mouth. It was covered by leather, a glove muffling the sound it would have made. He heard a yell as just before him a man in a dark cloak seized Egg, covering his mouth much as the other did to Jon.

Terror gripped him as he glanced at his brother. Who are they? What do they want? Why did we come out here? What do I do?

The questions vanished as a third man emerged from where the voice had come from. Lanky, pale brown hair framed a face with sharp features. Blue eyes glanced between Egg and Jon, amusement evident in them. He was a thin man, with a lean frame that was covered in fur and leather. He had a silver buckle on his belt, obscured as it was by a large cloak, black as coal.

Egg had managed to get his mouth free from his captor. “What are you doing here?! Jon, did you tell him we were going?”

“No! Why would I?!” Jon glared as the man started chuckling. “Why are you here, uncle?”

“Who better to track little dragons than a direwolf?” Benjen Stark smiled as the princelings struggled in the arms of the other men. “Jory, you and Ed let the lads go.” The men holding Jon and Egg quickly did so. Jon turned to glare at the young Cassel, who was clearly struggling not to laugh at the princes.

“That’s the wrong cloak!” Egg was muttering as he eyed Jon’s uncle. “Kingsguard are supposed to wear white. If you’d been dressed proper, we’d have seen you.”

“Yes. Which is why I did not dress proper.” Benjen spoke slowly, as if talking to a fool. “The king told me to change my cloak for this task. Though I doubt he expected you to wander so far.”

“He knew we were gone?” Of course he did, Jon realized, Father always knows. “When did you-”

“About five minutes after you left. You boys may be small enough to get around unseen, but you left a trail as obvious as an ox in a hurry.” Benjen had stopped laughing but was still smiling at the boys. “Now then, there’s a certain king who’d like a word.”

Egg and Jon glanced at each other, dismay shared between them. Jon looked at the broken dagger in his belt. “Uh, uncle, we wanted t-”

“We heard that thing snap when it hit the oak’s trunk. Don’t worry, I’m sure your father will forgive you if you beg for mercy.” Jory and the other laughed at that, though Jon thought he saw some of his uncle’s humor fade at that.

“Viserys says dragons never beg,” Egg pointed out, “or kneel or cry. Or anything like that.”

“Your uncle still has much to learn, as do you.” The knight turned. “Now let’s go. Don’t make me tell the lads here to pick you up and carry you.”

Jon and Egg glared at the northman before walking after him. The others came after them, Jory fiddling with something in his cloak. Jon heard a scrapping sound, then new light illuminated the wood around them as the wood in Cassel’s hand alit. The other one held out a torch for him to light, adding more warmth to the air around them.

“You two should consider yourselves lucky,” Benjen drawled as they walked through the wood. “We could’ve been ironmen, here to snatch you up and carry you to the sea as prizes. Or bandits, thinking you nothing more than peasants they could sell to slavers.”

Benjen was always saying things like that, trying to scare Jon and whoever was near him at the time. He had been in King’s Landing since Jon was but a babe, a guest of the king. Some at court had frowned at his closeness to the royal family, but Father had paid it no mind. He wanted me to know the Starks, and Uncle Benjen was the only one in the south.

Benjen had won a knighthood while serving the crown, fighting against some stormlords who had tried to rebel against the king. Then, at the age of twenty-and-two, he had become the newest knight to the Kingsguard, the first of House Stark to ever do so. He had been tasked since his arrival at court with protecting Jon, and the white cloak had proven how much Jon’s father trusted his uncle to do so.

He is good to me, and a friend to all. I hope the others are much the same, but I still don’t know any of the others.

There was Lord Eddard, of course, and his wife, the Lady Tully. They had the two children, a boy and a girl. Robb and Sansa, isn’t that their names? Jon asked Benjen if they were, and his uncle assured him that was so.

“And more besides, if the gods are good.” Benjen sighed, his thoughts clearly with family. “Cat was with child last I heard, due any day now if I remember right.” He shook his head and ruffled Jon’s hair. “But those aren’t things you should worry over. Here we are, off to war, and you want to ask after your kinsman. You definitely have your mother’s blood, Jon.”

“Mother said we wouldn’t see any fighting,” Egg broke in, “but I hope she’s wrong. We could help plan the fighting, or squire for some great knights like Ser Arthur or Uncle Lewyn, maybe ev-”

“Hold there, little dragon. I’ll not lie, the king doesn’t want you boys near any fighting either, but one never knows how wars go. Men plan for all sorts of things, but the gods love to smash those plans apart.”

Benjen grimaced as light began shining through the trees in front of them. “Now, enough of that talk. We’re here, and you’d best have your story straight.”

The encampment was much as Jon and Egg had left it. There was an order to it, the tents arrayed in a rough circle, with men patrolling its borders. In the center sat a large pavilion, its read and black pattern made striking by the torchlight around it. Jon gulped as he gazed at that tent. What will he do when he sees the dagger?

Egg’s hand was gripping his, staring up at the tent. “Don’t worry, Jon. We’re dragons too, he will not forget that, and we cannot either.”

Jon smiled nervously at his older brother. “Right, thanks Egg.”

Benjen entered the pavilion before them. After a few minutes a familiar voice called out, “Enter, both of you!” The two brothers glanced at each other once again, then walked in, side-by-side.

A desk was placed in the center of it all, around which several figures were clustered. A bed lay not far beyond, with scrolls and books laid about the place. The ground was covered in furs, grass sticking out where there were none. Braziers filled the room, the silk allowing the smoke to leave but keeping the heat. It feels like a dragon might like it in here.

Standing around the tents interior were four men. Three wore the enameled armor and white cloaks of the Kingsguard, while the fourth had just the latter to mark his station. Benjen had been quick to discard his black cloak, the milk white fabric clashing with his dark hair.

The others were known to Jon by the sigils on their shields. Nearest to them, at the entrance, was a knight with three bronze spearheads on his shield. Pale eyes looked Jon and Egg over as they passed by him Ser Mandon Moore. The man is quiet, but Lord Arryn insisted that he was a worthy knight. Jon’s father had accepted him, but there was no love between this Kingsguard and the king he served.

The case was different with the two men flanking the king’s desk. A star fell over the sword on one man’s shield, while a great blade sat upon his shoulder. Ser Arthur Dayne nodded at the princes, though his face was largely hidden by the helm he wore. Opposite him stood a man with three wheat stalks on his shield. Ser Barristan stared in to space, eyes fixed grimly on something only he could see.

Sitting at a desk amidst it all were two dragons, not one. The one facing them was larger, and much the friendlier. Father looked tired, like he often did, his crown on the desk by his hand. He smiled to see the two princes though, the light in his eyes chasing the darkness away.

The other dragon had no smiles for them, only a sneer. “Well, I see the wolf managed to find you.” Viserys flicked his hair back, glancing at the Kingsguard who wore no armor. “I had my doubts, but I suppose you must be good at something.” He may have been just fourteen, but the prince could act as pompous as a king when the mood struck him.

“Enough, brother.” Father glanced at him briefly before returning his gaze to his sons. “So, I hear you managed to break your only protection while running about in the wood?”

Jon looked at his feet. He reached into his belt and held up the two pieces of dagger for his father to see. Before either of them could speak, though, Viserys snatched them both from his hands.

“Well isn’t this a sorry excuse for a prize?” He glanced at the king. “A pretty thing, but a toy, nothing more. Why call this protection?”

Rhaegar said nothing, but the look he gave the silver prince spoke volumes. “Viserys, against the wishes of everyone else on the matter, you have been allowed to join me and my sons during this journey and the fight that lies beyond it. The least you can do is not speak so in front of your nephews, who are also the children of your king.”

Viserys bristled but then shifted in his chair as he bowed his head. “Yes, brother.” He turned to Jon and Egg and smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. “After all, the dragons must stand together, isn’t that right?”

He stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll find something meaningful to do elsewhere.” With that, the silver prince turned and left the pavilion, haughtiness pouring from him as he did so.

Jon sighed and looked at his father. “Why did he have to come too, Father?”

“Yes, why?” Egg looked angry where Jon was tired. Even after everything, Egg acts like he has just woken. “He’s mean to everyone, especially to Jon. Why is he here, going on an adventure with us?”

“This is no adventure, Aegon, this is war.” Their father sighed as he glanced down at his desk. “Viserys is of an age to become a squire, and one of the lords who will be leading our efforts has agreed to make him one.”

Jon and Egg glanced at each other, astonished. Who would want to take Viserys?

The king wasn’t done. “Nor is that all. I have received news while you were gone, both good and bad. The latter is that the ironmen have attacked the city we are heading towards. They wreaked much havoc, more than the westerlands have seen in many years.”

“There was a battle? Like during the Rebellion?” Egg was practically hopping with excitement. Jon remained quiet, thoughts going to the people in the city. I hope not too many people were hurt. Where were the guards, the armies? He voiced his last thought, which his father nodded at.

“You are wise to ask that, Jon. The men were deliberately sent away, to make Lannisport a more tempting target. To bait the ironmen into an attack.” Rhaegar shifted in his seat. “Once their fleet had entered and began burning the ships and raiding the harbor, the Lord of Casterly Rock’s son ordered a chain that had been prepared at the harbor’s mouth be raised, to prevent them from leaving.

The Imp thought of something like that? Jon wondered. A great chain? It sounds like something Brandon the Builder would make.

“By the time the ironmen knew what was happening,” his father continued, “Lannister ships had taken position on the other side, and siege engines and archers on the walls attacked the Iron Fleet. Some ironmen tried to fight their way to the gates, but the army returned and pushed them back into the water.”

Egg looked puzzled. “But that sounds like goods news, Father. Why is that bad?”

“Because the ironmen had left a part of their fleet on the sea nearby, and they quickly realized something was wrong. They sailed down and destroyed the Lannister ships, and managed to disable the chain when their men reached one side of the harbor and knocked it loose.”

Rhaegar sighed and turned to look out the pavilion entrance. “A city has suffered great harm, most of our ships nearby are now gone, and the ironmen still have a fleet more powerful than we have yet brought to fight them. That is why it is both bad and good news.”

Egg looked like Mother had just scolded him for sneaking a sweet during lessons. His expression sullen, he kicked at the furs under his feet.

Jon decided he needed a hand. “But there’s still less of them now, right?”

His father looked at him, smiling once more. “Yes, Jon, there are fewer of them. But they will be warier now, and careful not to be tricked again. We did manage to catch two krakens here, so that is something to be pleased about.”

The king’s smile was gone, but he continued. “Also, we have had good news from your uncle, Jon. The northern ships gathered at the Stony Shore have launched, so soon the Lord of Winterfell will join us in fighting the ironmen. With the Redwyne fleet on its way north, our forces will soon be able to reach the Iron Islands and seize the rebels.”

Jon was happy to hear that but was still thinking on the part about his other uncle. Uncle Eddard is coming to help? Maybe that means he and Father aren’t angry with each other anymore. Maybe he can visit King’s Landing.

“I think that is enough for today.” Jon left his thoughts as Rhaegar turned his head. “Barristan, Benjen, see them to their tent. We arrive in Lannisport tomorrow, and they’ll need to be properly rested to face what awaits us there.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” Benjen winked at Jon and Egg. “Come along, lads, past time you got to bed and snored a bit.”

“I don’t snore,” Egg muttered as he turned and started walking out of the tent. Barristan followed, his expression still far away.

Jon made to follow alongside Benjen but glanced behind him as he did. His father was staring at the crown on his desk, a haunted look on his face. Stupid ironmen, stupid rebellion. Look at what it does to Father. It must be very hard being a king.

Even harder when so many people aren’t as loyal as your family.

Chapter Text

Barristan

The water was as blue as the sky above, the sun casting shadows to the west as it hung on the other side of the city. Lannisport had recently seen a battle, but one would not know if they just looked at the sea. Some things never change, the seas least of all.

Barristan sighed as he turned and walked from the water’s edge. The wall next to him was intact, though the flames had marred it with soot and ash, while the chain it had held up had since been broken. Still, the walls of Lannisport had held, proving decisive in the battle that had taken place. Were it not for the foresight of some of the ironmen the Lannister plan likely would have succeeded, ending the iron fleet and leaving the way to Pyke open for the Redwyne ships and royal forces.

If only. A game for fools if ever there was one. The lions may have failed in their greatest desire, but the battle still bought us time, and more besides.

That was what Barristan told himself as he walked through streets marred by debris and devastation. Most of the city had seem some fighting, with the areas where the ironmen had fought to get at the harbor chain seeing the fiercest and most devastating of it. Now the only men to be seen were soldiers, most of them in Lannister garb, the laughter and confidence they had once carried nowhere to be found. Battle will do that to a man, especially a man who hasn’t seen one before.

“Ser! Ser, a moment!”

The Kingsguard turned to see one of the Lannister men walking up to him. Man is generous. Beneath the armor this one can’t be older than six-and-ten. Behind him two others were trailing, neither with the first’s enthusiasm.

“Beggin’ your pardon, ser,” the young man spoke quickly, as if the words might escape him if they weren’t used, “but we was wondering why you came on out here, what with the scum cleared out and all.”

Barristan looked the Lannister soldier up and down. He was not short or tall, and from the weigh the armor hung on him was more thin than thick. Brown curls stuck to his head, sweat shining on his brown, while his half-helm kept the rest hidden from view. Brown eyes caught his and held the gaze, eagerness and awe apparent.

He acts as if he is meeting a hero. Half the kingdoms thought Barristan was just that, while the other saw him in a very different light. He, for one, thought the second half were more correct.

He decided to be quick about it. “Lord Tywin advised that someone should inspect the places where the fighting occurred, to see if anything could be learned. The king saw fit to heed that advice and send me here.”

“I told you it was the king’s business, you damn fool.” One of the two men shuffling their feet behind the young one finally spoke up. “Pardon, ser, the lad insisted we know your purpose here. I think Harry here has a mind to kill the kraken king and be made a knight of-”

“Shut the fuck up, Daven!” The young man rounded on his fellow, then turned red as he turned back to Barristan. “Oh, that, uh-”

“I'm as much a man as you, lad, not like to faint at hearing you curse.” Barristan scanned the three. “Did you fight here?”

“I did!” Harry practically bounced as he continued. “I was in the first wave of the army when we got back, Seven strike me if I lie! I fought men and I- I even killed one, some brute with a scythe on his shield-”

“Is that so?” Barristan noticed the lad had faltered a moment while speaking. Harry realized the knight had noticed and hesitated before speaking again. “It weren’t how I thought it’d be, ser. Does- does it get easier?”

Young indeed, no matter what this one’s seen or done. “I have found it does, lad. Whether that is a blessing or a curse, though, I cannot say.” The knight turned to the side. “Now I need to return to the keep. Keep your blades and wits sharp men, and know that the king will hear of you.”

He didn’t wait to see how they reacted, striding forward to resume his path.

Before much longer, he arrived at the keep that House Lannister of Lannisport called home. The wall stood forty feet high, with six round towers standing out at points. It was no Casterly Rock or Red Keep, but the large stone keep was sturdy, formidable, and had only fallen in the past when its garrison had been neglected. Tywin Lannister knew that, which makes his son’s gamble even more surprising.

As he walked under the portcullis he noted the royal men walking along the walls. Most of the Lannister host remained in the city or the Rock, while the troops from the crownlands had joined them in the former. The rivermen that had arrived had elected to remain apart, setting camp beyond the walls and camps, apart from all the others. A foolish choice, most agreed, leaving the Tully’s and their bannermen vulnerable to attack.

They think it wiser to risk the kraken’s vengeance than dwell in the lion’s den. If I were among them, I might think that wisdom.

Barristan found the main hall devoid of lords when he entered. The few that had remained when the army left had since moved to the Rock for shelter, while the king and the prominent lords held their meetings in the privacy of the rooms beyond the hall. The hearths were rarely lit here, save for when a new batch of soldiers arrived, and their commander was welcomed by both dragon and lion.

The knight quickly strode along the hall, his destination in the chambers above. But as he reached the passage leading to them he realized that the hall was not abandoned after all. Whispers were echoing from the far end, where the dais loomed above the main floor.

Barristan stopped for a moment, pondering his options, when a voice raised to address him. “Barristan come talk with us, please!” The speaker rose from behind his father’s seat to look at him, purple eyes meeting the knight’s blue. Not as dark as his father’s, but Valyrian all the same.

As was everything else about him. Prince Aegon Targaryen boasted the traditional looks of his house, silver locks framing a face that any mother would be overjoyed for their child to possess. There was almost always a smile on it, and the words that came from it managed to amuse or charm most it came across. He tunic was set in the black and red of Targaryen, with the three-headed dragon rearing across his torso. He wore no jewelry save for a thin golden chain around his neck and carried a finely carved wooden dagger that he acted as if were made of live steel, and just as dangerous. The king and his retainers knew better, and there was always at least one Kingsguard with the prince. Yet I don’t see one now. Where in the hells is Moore or Stark?

Barristan shook himself. The princeling had addressed him, and no doubt expected a response.

“My prince, His Grace and I have told you a hundred times, you are to address me as ser,” Barristan intoned sternly. He set his face as he did so, hoping to blunt the boy’s confidence and bring him to heed his words.

It had never worked before, and it didn’t work now. “And I keep telling you to call me Egg or Aegon, but you never do. So, Barristan you are.” The silver-haired prince may have been all of seven, but the grin on his face as he uttered those words belonged to a youth twice that age. “There’s too many ser’s always walking around, and ‘the Bold’ sounds too much like the ‘the Bald’ to the ear."

The knight couldn’t help but laugh at that. Aegon always called him by name, no matter how many times he or the king tried to tell him otherwise. If he was being honest with himself, Barristan found that endearing more than frustrating. Like most who met him, Aegon managed to charm and convince him almost too easily. A good trait for a prince and future king, though not the only one required to rule.

“What he won’t say is he hates it when people don’t listen to him. That’s why he doesn’t listen.”

Barristan spun to find the source of those words, hand on hilt. Coming around from the other side of the dais was another lad, dark clothing and hair helping to make him blend with the hall’s shadows. He moves as quietly as a cat. Or a wolf on the hunt.

Prince Jon may have been the king’s son, but any who looked at him would see a Stark, through and through. Dark brown hair that normally hung about his face in locks had seen them cut short before the journey west, while a pale face gave Barristan a cool look. There was wariness in that gaze, though the knight thought he saw a bit of warmth there as well.

It was the eyes that spoke to Jon’s parentage. At first glance they were grey, another Stark trait. But if one looked closely, they’d see they were a much darker shade than any other member of that line. Depending on his mood or the light they could flash violet, becoming like amethysts for a few moments or even longer. Now, though, they remained grey even as Barristan spoke to him.

“Prince’s and kings are supposed to be obeyed, are they not?” The Kingsguard tugged at the cloak that hung from his shoulders. “Any who take on this duty are sworn to obey and we must remember our vows, like all men who wish to be noble and good.”

Jon’s expression became thoughtful, and he nodded at Barristan’s words. His brother may have His Grace’s looks, but this one resembles him in his bearing and quiet nature. Aegon was still grinning, though some of the humor left his face as he glanced over and saw his brother’s sober expression.

Looks aside, the two princes were dressed near identically. The tunics looked the same in color, though Jon was slimmer than his older brother, and the chain around his neck was silver in contrast to Aegon’s gold. The second son also wore a wooden dagger, made of a darker wood than the first’s but otherwise the same. The two blades had been carved in Lannisport upon their arrival, with Aegon insisting that they each get their own rather than just the one like before. “So if one breaks, the other will still be used to keep the two of us safe”, the prince had declared.

The daggers had not been the only things the princes wanted. From meeting the soldiers to seeing where the battle took place to fighting an ironman to speaking with Lord Tywin’s son. The list went on and on. So far their requests had been indulged, the fight being the exception.

Apparently that was still on Aegon’s mind. “Father is talking with one of the Greyjoy’s right now!” The prince’s face had grown darker, a flush creeping into his face as indignation came into his voice. “He wouldn’t let us talk to him or even see him! Barristan, how are we supposed to fight the enemy if we don’t know what they look like? Why can’t we see him or the other one or any of the other prisoners?!”

“My prince, your Father has given strict orders that all must obey, including you,” Barristan said sternly, all humor gone from his voice. No good will come from princes questioning kings, even little princes. “Wars are won as often by subtlety as strength and keeping your presence unknown gives us an advantage.”

Aegon subsided a bit at that, the anger burning within fading into a sullen ember. He was clearly not satisfied with that answer, not that Barristan could truly blame him.

It was a half-truth at best. Most at court had not been overly surprised when the king announced his intent to come to Lannisport and oversee the campaign to put down the ironborn rebellion. They had been astonished, though, when he announced his intent to bring the other three sons of House Targaryen with him. The small council had urged the king to not take all his male kin, and certainly not his heir. The queen had insisted much the same.

Now they were here, though, and Rhaegar wanted the ironborn to know as little of the princes as could be helped. Frankly Barristan doubted much could be done in a city the size of Lannisport, but the king had made his decision, and it was his duty to see it done.

That thought took him to the reason he had returned. “Speaking of which, where is the ser tasked with looking after you? I can’t imagine Ser Arthur will be pleased to hear that he left the two of you hear like this aft-”

“Rest easy, brother. I was never far.”

Barristan turned towards the door he had intended to go through. Benjen Stark was emerging from beyond, tugging on his belt as he did so. Seeing the older man’s frown, he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “I told the lads to try not to get killed while I found a privy. Thought they should at least learn to do that much.”

“A royal order is just that, Benjen. An order.”

The young man shrugged at that. “I certainly won’t tell anyone. What of you lot?”

“I won’t,” Jon quickly spoke up, with Aegon nodding in agreement. The boy’s face had lost all its seriousness, beaming at his uncle, who grinned back at him. The prince turned to look at Barristan. “Ser, please don’t make Ser Arthur get made at Benjen. No one was hurt or anything.”

Barristan frowned at Jon, then glanced at Aegon, who was glaring at him with everything he had. He sighed and turned towards Benjen once more. “Just this once, and only because two princes wish it. Is the king still meeting the prisoner?”

Benjen’s smile left at that. “No, he was taken back to the dungeons. Last I checked, His Grace was conferring with Lannister and the other commanders.”

“Then I will join them.” Barristan turned towards the princes. “Stay close to this one until someone relieves him.” Not waiting for a response, he stepped past Stark and began walking down the passage to the chambers beyond.

After climbing three flights of stairs and a few turns he reached the local lord’s chambers, occupied by the king for the present time. Moore stood outside, greeting Barristan with a nod as he approached. “You missed the kraken.”

“Ser Benjen told me as much. Still, I doubt I missed much.”

“True enough.” Moore rolled his eyes as he spoke. “The man is large and fierce, but reckless. Lacks any wits the Greyjoy’s might have. Hard to believe his brother gave him such a large command. Besides some threats and talk of treason, he wasn't in a talking mood.”

“Hmm,” Barristan nodded as he moved past the knight and opened the door.

The sight that greeted him was in many ways familiar. The king sat at the head of a table, maps and papers strewn about its surface. Rhaegar looked much as he had when he’d first assumed the throne, though sometimes appeared weary from the challenges his reign had faced. He glanced at Barristan as he entered, then turned back towards the table. The Lord-Commander stood behind him, Dawn at his back as always. Arthur nodded at his sworn brother, who returned the gesture. Than Barristan silently took his place behind the king, scanning the men sitting around the table.

The only other small council member present was Lord Connington, his stern face nodding at Barristan as their eyes met. Dressed in the red and white of his house, griffins reared upon his chest while his sword remained by his side. While Barristan was always wary of men carrying steel so near the king, he was not concerned about Connington. He was still young, but the last seven years had taught the Lord of Griffin’s Roost much, and his loyalty to the king was unquestionable.

Lord Tywin was another matter entirely. The Lord of Casterly Rock wore the red and gold of Lannister, lions clasping his cloak to his armor. He did not stay in the city, preferring to stay with the bulk of the Lannister forces in Casterly Rock. Arthur Dayne had not been pleased by that, but the king had allowed it. “To command Lord Tywin to abandon his home would be unwise and unfriendly, especially as the Rock is so close anyway.”

Tywin was speaking now, from a seat at the opposite end of the table from the king. “By the sound of it, the Greyjoy’s strength has clearly been exaggerated. Once the Arbor fleet arrives, the army should be made ready and sail for the Iron Islands as soon as possible.”

“The sooner they come under attack, the sooner the ironmen fall into line and we can have Lord Greyjoy’s head. We need to demonstrate that the Iron Throne won't be defied like this,” spoke the youth sitting to Tywin’s left.

 Tyrion Lannister cut a strange figure, his chest barely reaching the tabletop. His blonde hair hung around his face, from which two mismatched eyes found Barristan. Even now, the young dwarf could make Barristan uneasy. Half the time his expression mirrored his father’s, but it lacked the same hardness. In more pleasant settings the dwarf was always quick to make a jest, a quality that many in the camp had found disarming. The Kingsguard were among the few who were not affected by it, remaining watchful against the heir of Casterly Rock.

 Still, the lad was clearly no fool. His decisions regarding the ironborn had led to a victory that had bought the royal forces time to gather and seen the capture of two of Balon Greyjoy’s brothers. The Iron Fleet was still at large, but less forty warships and without its commander, it was thought unlikely that they would attempt another strike anytime soon.

“That is less likely to deter them and more likely to inspire them to further rebellion,” the king replied, eyes going to the papers strewn across the table. “We need a more lasting solution to the ironborn, not just a bandage that can be ripped away in a generation. This must have a different ending than the wars that have come before.”

I wonder what makes him think that, Barristan thought as he took his place behind the king. Is it concern for the ironborn smallfolk, or our own men? Or something else entirely?

The other two men had arrived from the Reach, coming ahead of the Redwyne fleet to command the Tyrell forces that had arrived two days past. Lord Tarly held that command and had been diligent in finding accommodations for his troops and fortifying the city against another attack. The Lord of Horn Hill was in armor, the archer of Tarly placed over his heart. His hair was thinning, his face twisted into a scowl as he scanned the maps on the table before. He sat to the king’s left, with his future liege lord taking the place to his right.

Willas Tyrell was the youngest person there, a mere six-and-ten years. Lord Tywin had wondered at whether the youth was prepared for such responsibilities, but Tarly had insisted. “We all have to start somewhere, after all. Besides, Lord Tyrell thought this would make up for the leg the lad broke last month.”

Whatever the case, Willas’ status in the Tyrell forces and as heir to Highgarden had been enough to sway the king, much the same as it had with Tyrion. Their age and rank were all the two youths had in common, that and the sharp minds they had both demonstrated.

To look at the two were a study in contrasts, completely different from one another. Where the Imp was stunted and misshapen, Willas was tall and fair, with a face to swoon over and a slim body that was likely girded by muscle. Tyrell still had a limp, owing to the leg he’d broken tilting against Oberyn Martell, but he would be walking normally in a week or so, according to the castle maester.

The lad was speaking now. “The Arbor fleet should arrive by week’s end, if that. If Stark and Tully can arrive here two weeks after that, we can sail for the Iron Islands before the storms off Cape Wrath cross the Reach and turn northwards.”

“If all goes as hoped, which it never does during war.” The king sighed as he leaned back in his chair. “Thank you, my lords. That will be all for now.”

The seated lords stood at the dismissal, bowing before they all headed out towards the main hall. As soon as the door closed, Rhaegar turned to look at Barristan. “Was there anything of value discovered during your search, ser?”

“No, Your Grace.” Barristan shifted uncomfortably, well aware of his failure to give the king his desire. “The battlefield is just that. I’m afraid there was nothing to be learned. That said, the Lannister’s have been told that the walls need reinforcing in the center-west section.”

Rhaegar smiled at that, though weariness was apparent in his features. “Thank you, Barristan.” His face grew lighter as a thought struck him. “And what of the boys, did you see them?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Stark was looking after them in the main hall.” The king’s face dropped a little like that, though most would not have noticed.

It had always been so. Stark’s presence in King’s Landing and his eventual induction into the Kingsguard had been seen by many as an attempt to conciliate the North while gaining a loyal protector for the king’s younger son. While the latter had proven true, the former had not. Indeed, at the time the taking of the only male heir Eddard Stark possessed had generated sullenness and outrage from the northmen.

One man’s guard is another man’s hostage. The thought brought Jaime Lannister to mind, turning his mind to darker places, where a king died and loyalty was shattered.

“Ser?”

Barristan shook himself as he focused on Rhaegar again. The king looked concerned, worry on his face. Damn it, I swore he wouldn’t see me like that again. “Apologies, Your Grace. What did you ask me?”

Rhaegar still looked concerned, but thankfully did not press the issue. “Was Viserys here when you got back?”

“No. I believe he left this morning to visit the Rock again.”

“Good.” The king’s face became serious again. “Once the ironmen are brought to heel, the work of restoring House Targaryen’s ties to the Great Houses begins.”

Barristan shifted at his thoughts turned to the lords who head just left. “Mace Tyrell is not a man to send his heir into a war, no matter what Tarly might say. That begs the question, why is Willas here?”

“Any number of reasons.” Arthur spoke for the first time. “Whatever they might be, the lad is clever enough for one his age, and may be made a friend of the crown.”

“Perhaps.” Rhaegar turned towards Barristan. “Much can change during a war, though. So we must do our best to keep things well in hand.”

The king stood, motioning for the Kingsguard to follow him. They moved through the door and began the trek back to the main hall.

The hall was empty when they arrived. Stark and the princes were gone, and the lords had not lingered, each going on to see to this business or that. The king sighed as he scanned the place. “This place is so quiet now. Remember the tourney, Arthur? How the hall was full to bursting, laughter and celebration all around?”

“It’s not like that now. Joy is one of war’s first casualties.”

“And one of victories first children, Rhaegar.” Arthur tone was soft, speaking to the friend, not the king. “This rebellion will be defeated, and then we can start rebuilding. Remember what you promised the council. And the children, and her.”

Barristan looked sharply at the Lord-Commander. Is he speaking of the queen? Somehow, he doubted it.

Rhaegar shook himself, nodding at Arthur’s words. “I won’t forget, old friend.” He glanced at Barristan. “None of us will. Remember our oath. That the kingdoms may know peace.”

“My sword is yours, Your Grace.” Barristan bowed as he said the words, banishing the dark thoughts from his head.

The Kingsguard has a simple role. Serve, obey, protect, at all costs. I will not fail in any of them.

Not again.

Chapter Text

Eddard

The Lord of Winterfell sighed as the ship pushed through the waters ahead of him. The seas had been calm since they had left Seagard, and the winds had been steady from the northeast, helping to push them towards their destination.

The gods are with us. They helped keep the krakens at bay, and now hasten us toward Lannisport.

Ned turned to look at his companion. “Ten days from Seagard to Lannisport. That must be as fast as any fleet before us.”

“Afraid not, lad,” his father-by-marriage replied, “fastest fleet made the trip in half that time. And the fastest lone ship managed it in just under three days. Damn fools competing for glory or coin, can’t recall which.”

Hoster Tully looked completely at ease on the deck of the ship, almost as though the near constant illnesses he faced had never been. Where Ned still took days to become used to the constant shift o and tug of the sea, the Lord of Riverrun acted as if he were born to sail. I suppose the men of the riverlands are used to being on the water, almost as much as the ironborn.

Hoster was tall, with auburn hair that was streaked with gray. He had lost some weight since the Rebellion, but he still carried himself well. His armor was plain, decorated only by the red and blue of House Tully, with the silver trout leaping across his chest. Unlike most of the men, he had insisted on dressing for battle every day of the voyage, warier of the Iron Fleet than of falling into the sea. So far, that caution had proven unneeded.

Ned had collected thirty longships and three war galleys from the north’s western lords before sailing from Barrowton. He had feared that the ironborn might catch them at sea if they did not move swift enough, but there had been no sign of them until they reached the Cape of Eagles. At least a dozen villages had been raided north of Seagard alone, though the town and castle were untouched, which had surprised Lord Jason. “When they were first sighted, we thought they were here to attack the castle. Why else bring such a large force? But they spread out and ravaged the rest of the coast, burning and killing everything that hadn’t already fled.”

They had still been waiting for the Tully ships and men when word came about the battle in the west. Ned suspected the ironborn had decided to save their strength after their defeat. The lords with him had been disgruntled to a man. Why couldn’t the ironborn be as foolish in fighting a war as they were in starting one?

After the combined northern and riverland forces had set sail, they had not seen any hint of the iron fleet or reavers, save for the occasional charred remains of a coastal village as they sailed towards Lannisport. Cause for relief by most, Ned found their absence disquieting. They must know the royal forces are gathering for an attack. Balon Greyjoy may be an arrogant fool, but he knows how to fight. Why let the enemy come together without trying to stop us?

Ned voiced the thought to Lord Tully, who shrugged. “Considering how their last attempt at an offensive went, I’d be surprised if they tried it again. Besides, we’re not the only fleet on the way. Perhaps they think it best to strike the greater danger first.”

“Aye, there’s wisdom in that,” Ned acknowledged. He turned to look ahead once more, the seat of House Lannister growing larger as they rode the wind south.

Casterly Rock was said to look like a lion when the sun set into the sea. Ned did not know the truth of that, but at midday it looked like no lion that he had ever seen. Truth be told, it hardly looked like a castle to him. The great rock stood thrice as tall as the Wall and measured two leagues from one end to the other. As they grew closer, Ned recognized more familiar constructs on the great hill- towers and walls, turrets and gates. Still, the Rock looked more like the home of giants the smallfolk claimed used to live there than a proper fortress.

Tully watched it with him as they came to its northern tip. “They say Aegon the Conqueror doubted even dragonflame could have burned the Lannister’s out of that thing. Place is a marvel on the inside, no man can deny that.”

Ned shrugged. “I would take Winterfell over it any day.”

“And I Riverrun, but one can still appreciate other castles. Much like admiring a beautiful woman while you’re wed.”

Ned smiled at that, the jape bringing his thoughts to his wife and children, back in the North. I hope she is faring well; the letter said the birthing was more difficult than before.

The letter that awaited him at Seagard had been welcome, anxious as Ned was about reaching Lannisport. Luwin reported that the child was healthy by any measure, though a bit on the small side. Their second daughter had been named Arya, the maester wrote, and favored Ned more than Catelyn, their first child to do so. He was glad to hear it, though he hoped Catelyn would not blame herself for not having a son.

He chided himself for the thought. Don’t be foolish. Cat would never dislike a child, no matter the circumstance. She’s much too kind for that.

“My lords!” A voice called him back from his thoughts. He turned to see the ship’s captain approaching. “We’ll reach the city in an hour. I suggest you get ready for what comes after you get back on land.”

“Good advice.” Hoster glanced at Ned. “After all, this is a reunion as much as a campaign.” He didn’t wait for a reply, striding across the deck and descending to the chambers below. Ned followed, though more slowly than his good-father. Once he reached his cabin he laid on his cot, mind wandering away from the war.

Ned’s thoughts turned towards those he was waiting to see. Benjen had become a man since the Rebellion, claiming a knighthood after serving with distinction against the Small Storm uprising four years past. His astonishment at hearing his brother had been named to the Kingsguard had been great, his anger even more so. For all that, Benjen had seemed content in his letters to Winterfell. Though there’s no knowing whether he was being truthful or just polite.

If he was being honest, Ned doubted the letters were coerced. Benjen could be an ass at first meetings, but he was quick to adapt to new circumstances and to win people over, especially other warriors. And by the sound of it, King’s Landing had given Benjen much of what he had hoped for: a life of duty and service, serving the kingdoms and doing honor to his house. Ned knew he had hoped to become a man of the Watch before he went to the capital, but none could deny that the Kingsguard was as honorable a brotherhood as the black brother’s were, arguably more so. The royal family carries more importance for most of the Seven Kingdoms than the Wall ever could, no matter what history has taught us.

The royal family brought him to his other kin waiting in Lannisport. To Jon. It had been years since the Rebellion, since the Tower of Joy. Ned was torn between joy at seeing his nephew after such a long time and rage that the king would dare bring him so close to the war. Beneath it all was an anxiousness about who he would find, and what Rhaegar would allow to pass between them.

Rhaegar. Ned frowned at the thought of the man. The one he had turned on his best friend for, the one he had helped secure the Iron Throne for. The Targaryen had kept his word and returned the remains of his father and brother to Ned after the Rebellion had ended, and he had also refrained from interfering in matters within the North, like the kings who had come before him. For all that, the king was still widely disliked and mistrusted by the lords sworn to Winterfell, and some questioned the wisdom of answering his call to arms.

Knocking interrupted Ned’s thoughts. The cabin door opened as Rodrik Cassel poked his head in. “We’ve reached the harbor, Lord Stark. Lord Hoster says to get your ass on deck.”

“Thank you, Rodrik.” Ned sat up, stretching as he made to stand. “Tell them I’ll be up in a minute.”

The door closed again. Ned quickly dressed himself. He decided on the leather and light mail that was commonly worn on by soldiers on ships. One never knew what was in store, and it was better to be safe than sorry.

As he emerged onto the deck Ned scanned around him, taking in the sight of Lannisport. It was much larger than Barrowton or even White Harbor, but the scars of battle were still there to see. Ned could make out ships bearing the golden rose of Tyrell and the grapes of the Arbor. The Redwyne fleet had come in force to heed the king’s call. At a glance, Ned estimated at least two hundred ships were in their number, half of those war galleys. There should be more. Where are the rest of them?

As the ships neared one of the docks, Ned spotted a cluster of men waiting besides the men manning waiting with ropes to tie them off. The white cloaks left little doubt as to who was waiting for them. Is Rhaegar here, or did he just send them to collect Hoster and myself?

It took a few minutes for their ship to be tied down and the boarding ramp lowered. Ned quickly jumped onto it, striding onto dry land for the first time in a fortnight. Lord Tully was right behind him, with Ser Rodrik and the two lord’s other guards following close behind. As they did, the party awaiting them moved closer, led by a man Ned was glad to see.

Benjen looked hale and hearty, which was more than Ned had expected. His cloak was white as snow, but elsewise his garb was dark, and much lighter than the enameled armor of the Kingsguard. He was not as thin as when he’d left, though was still more lean and wiry than strong. Behind him a group of men was clustered, among them an armored Kingsguard who Ned could not recognize from that distance.

He greeted his brother with a firm embrace, pleased that it was returned with a strength Benjen had lacked last they met. He released his brother and addressed him. “Benjen, you look fatter than I thought was possible. Gotten lazy in King’s Landing?”

“Please, the way the knights strut and the women swoon, it’s a wonder they ever feed me enough,” Benjen retorted, “But you? I see you’re as thin as last we met. I thought Cat would’ve fed you enough to get some muscle by now. I’ll have to write and tell her she needs to either get you to eat more or stop burning it away in the bedchamber.”

Ned gave his brother a cold look at that, which only got a grin in reply. He turned to the men behind him. “You remember my good-father, Lord Tully. As for the rest, you’d best remember them.”

“My lord.” Benjen nodded respectfully at Hoster, who returned the gesture. He then shot a smile at the other northmen with Ned. “Rodrik, you’re looking well. The rest of you look sick as dogs. What, did the sea take your meals?”

A few of the men chuckled at that. Benjen turned to the side and motioned behind him. “His Grace had business at the Rock and couldn’t come down to greet you. But he told us to stick around and see you greeted and settled proper. Don’t get too comfortable, he wants to set sail and finish this before the storms start turning north.”

“Good idea.” Hoster nodded at that. “The sooner we sail, the sooner we can all go home.”

“Speaking of which,” A familiar voice raised itself to address Ned and the others, “We’d best head towards the keep. Lord Tarly will want to go over the logistics with you as soon as possible.”

“Aye, Ser Barristan.” Ned turned to focus on the other Kingsguard. He hadn’t recognized the man from the deck, but the stalks on his shield were enough, along with the voice that Ned had become familiar with on the march to King’s Landing. He started to walk towards the knight when he realized that there weren’t just men waiting behind him. At the Kingsguard's side was a boy who Ned had not realized was there, even more surprising given his looks.

By god, he could be me or Benjen made young again. The lad was of an age with his son Robb, yet his son took after Catelyn in most ways. Jon, for who else could he be, was clearly one of Stark blood, though his dark grey eyes were a contrast to the light grey that Benjen and Ned shared.

His nephew walked forward as Eddard looked him over. Jon stopped just in front of him and looked up at his uncle. There was curiosity in his gaze, coupled with wariness and what Ned thought might have been warmth. I suppose it’d be too much to hope the lad remembers me. He was just a newborn when we last met.

“Lord Stark.” Jon gave a short bow to him, then repeated the gesture towards Hoster. “Lord Tully. It makes me happy to meet you, and to see you again, lord uncle.” The boy’s feet shifted as he said the last part, and Ned realized that the lad was nervous. What has Rhaegar told him of me?

Benjen nudged Ned hard in the ribs. “Loosen up, Ned. The lad’s wanted to meet you since I arrived in King’s Landing, you could try talking to him.”

“Thank you, Benjen.” Ned shot a glare at his brother before returning his nephew’s bow. “Prince Jon. I see you’ve grown much since I last saw you. You have your mother’s look, any man can see that.”

Jon smiled at that, the wariness dropping from his gaze a bit. Behind him, Barristan watched their exchange, passive expression at odds with the sharp eyes that did the watching. But is he watching for himself? Or for Jon’s father?

“Egg-, excuse me, my brother Aegon is waiting in the keep with Ser Arthur,” Jon addressed both him and the men behind him. “We shouldn’t make them wait.”

“Yes, my prince.” Barristan looked at Ned and Hoster. “Shall we start moving?”

The knight didn’t wait for an answer, instead moving to stand next to Benjen. The royal party began walking towards the keep, save the two Kingsguard, who came to stand closer to the prince. Benjen caught Ned’s frown at them and shrugged. “We are in a city that just saw a battle, Ned.”

Eddard sighed. “True enough.” He looked at Jon, who was apparently waiting for them to start walking. He did so, and the prince fell into next to him, with Benjen taking position two feet behind.

“My lord, is your family well?” Jon asked him.

“Aye, they are all fine. Word came from Winterfell at Seagard, your aunt gave birth to our second daughter barely two weeks ago.”

“That’s good to hear.” Jon’s smile lit his face as he spoke. Eddard suspected the lad did not smile like that as often as he should. “And the others, Robb and Sansa, they are well also?”

“Both of them are well, though Robb caught a chill last month. He was on the mend when I left Winterfell. We Starks are as hardy a bunch as you’ll find, my prince, as I’m sure Benjen has taught you.”

“Jon.” Ned looked at his nephew, who smiled at him. “You’re my uncle, Lord Eddard, so please just call me Jon. It’s the same with Uncle Benjen.”

Ned glanced at Benjen, who nodded at him. He smiled at the lad. “Jon it is, then.”

“Tell me, did you fight any ironmen yet? We heard they were reaving along the riverlands’ coast.”

“They have. But no, none of them have tried to fight us. In fact, besides the villages we didn’t see any ironborn on our way south.”

Jon looked worried at that. “The Arbor lord said the same when they got here. Father is concerned, even though Ser Arthur keeps telling him not to worry.”

So, Greyjoy hasn’t tried to attack either the Redwyne ships or ours since the attack on Lannisport. Either they’re even more weakened than we thought, or they have something in mind we haven’t guessed yet. Eddard hoped it was the former, yet experience told him to prepare for the worst

“My prince,” Hoster spoke up, “would you happen to know if these are all the ships the Reach sent?”

“No, there are more. Lord Tywin thought it a bad idea to cluster them all in the harbor, so some went to the Rock, others to Fair Isle.” The prince looked irritated as he spoke. “Viserys keeps boasting about commanding a ship during the attack, even though Father has forbidden it.”

Eddard suspected that Rhaegar’s brother was no friend of Jon’s, judging from the way his nephew’s eyes darkened at his other uncle’s name. In fact, Ned realized that they now looked violet, making the lad look less a Stark and more a Targaryen. The moment ended, and Jon’s eyes lightened as he glanced at Benjen, who winked at the prince. Whatever passed between them, Ned couldn’t say.

They had reached the keep by now. Barristan moved to go ahead of them and walked through the open doors to the main hall. Eddard glanced at Hoster and Benjen as they waited outside.

A few moments later, Barristan came back. He glanced at Ned before addressing Benjen. “The king’s returned. He waits within.”

“So soon? I thought he would be at the Rock until the evening.”

“Apparently not.” Eddard felt a coldness creep into his bones. Most like he decided he didn’t want Lyanna’s son alone with her brother for too long.

He sighed and glanced at Lord Tully. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

As they entered the hall, Ned scanned the interior. The hall was semi-full, with few servants to be seen. Most present were soldiers or knights, with few men dressed in anything other than mail or leather. He spotted the sigils of westermen, The Reach, and the crownlands among their number. The sigil that he sought, though, was at the end of the hall, where a three headed dragon adorned the ceiling, while a real dragon waited beneath it. Ned walked towards him, his comrades following just behind.

Rhaegar Targaryen looked much the same as when last he and Ned met. There were a few new creases in his eyes, and his face spoke of a weariness that Eddard hadn’t detected even at the end of the Rebellion. He wore no armor, instead dressed in red and black silk, while a crown with seven different jewels rested on his head. The crown of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. Does he think it will help him reconcile the ironborn after they are beaten?

The king wasn’t alone. With him were two other members of House Targaryen, if their looks spoke the truth. One looked about the same age as Jon, though a bit heavier. He had silver hair and light purple eyes. His expression was one of interest, and it became pleased as the lad looked at Jon, who nodded back with a grin on his face.

The other was much older, a youth of fourteen or thereabouts by the look of him. His was a slim build, and like Rhaegar was dressed in the colors of their house. His expression was bored, though his lips curved into a smile without warmth as his eyes fell on Jon. That must be Viserys.

Eddard walked to the base of the dais and knelt. “Your Grace.” Hoster and the others mimicked his words and movement. Jon kept walking until he was standing with his father and the other sons of the dragon, while Benjen and Selmy each took a place to the side.

“Lord Stark.” Rhaegar’s tone was courteous, though it lacked any warmth. “Please, rise.”

Ned did so, glancing at some of the other men near the king’s seat. He recognized Jon Connington and Randyll Tarly, while a youth dressed in the green and gold of Tyrell stood by the latter. Willas, isn’t that his name?  “Lord Tywin isn’t here?”

“He’s still had business to attend to in Casterly Rock,” Rhaegar replied, “he should visit the city tomorrow.”

“How gracious of him,” Hoster said dryly. “We’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Prince Jon, Your Grace. I’m guessing these are the princes Aegon and Viserys?

“That’s right.” The younger one spoke up, stepping forward to give a short bow to the Lord of Riverrun. “I’m Prince Aegon, and this is Viserys.”

“My lords.” Viserys didn’t bow, merely inclined his head toward Hoster and Eddard. “I take it the scum didn’t bother you on your way here.”

“No, the ironborn seem to be avoiding a fight for now,” Hoster noted.

“They think they can hide from the dragons?” Viserys’ face twisted as he sneered. “I think the Iron Islands are due for a reminder of what treason and rebellion bring. Fire and blood.”

“Of course, my prince.” Ned didn’t like the way the youth looked as he said those last words. He looks as if he finds pleasure in the killing of smallfolk, men or otherwise. His nephew’s dislike was already becoming easier to understand.

“Viserys, go find Ser Mandon and bring him here.” Rhaegar turned to look at his younger brother. “Ser Arthur should return soon. I want all of the Kingsguard present for the meeting.”

“If you want a messenger then I suggest you send one, brother. A dragon doesn’t run errands. Besides, Moore should be back before long all on his own. It’s not as if the man has any woman hidden away.”

The prince laughed at his own jape. Aegon rolled his eyes while Jon glared at his uncle. Rhaegar just sighed. “That wasn’t a request, Viserys. Now get moving, now.”

Viserys’ humor vanished at that. He looked ready to argue further, then shrugged. “As you wish, brother.”

The prince stood and practically stalked out of the hall. As he did, he threw another sneer back at Eddard and his company, though he suspected that some of it was directed at the young prince standing behind them. I had heard this one could be troublesome. For once, the gossips were right.

“Lord Eddard.” Rhaegar stood, motioning to a side door. “With me, please. You too, Ser Barristan.”

Ned glanced at his brother, who merely shrugged before smiling at him again. Eddard sighed as he followed the king and his knight out of the hall. As he did, he glanced back towards Jon, who gave him a nod and a smile before Ned turned back towards the king.

They did not go far. An empty hallway after a couple flights of stairs was where the king chose to stop. Rhaegar turned and looked at Eddard. “It’s been a long time, Stark.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”  Ned wondered what Rhaegar could possibly have to talk to him about. Oh please, even a fool could see the answer for that.

“You’ve reacquainted yourself with my son,” Rhaegar noted, confirming Ned’s thoughts even as he was thinking them. “How do you find him?”

Eddard shifted at the question. “Healthy and well cared for, if appearances are correct. He favors his mother, that much is obvious.”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ned began, but the king cut him off, “We’re well past formalities, Stark. Speak your mind, you’re supposedly well-liked for that in the North.”

“As it pleases you.” If the man wanted candor, he’d damn well get it. “He seems quiet, shy, and warier than any lad his age ought to be.”

“Being a prince will do that to a boy, Stark. Especially one in such circumstances as Jon.”

“You’re the king, aren’t you? Why don’t you change them?”

“Now who sounds the fool?” Rhaegar sighed as he rubbed his temple. “I am not a god. I cannot change how people think or feel on command, no matter how much I might wish it.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, instead turning to Barristan. “What do you think? Can it be done?”

“I cannot say with certainty,” the knight stated, “but I believe it can work. Though only time will tell.”

“Good.” Rhaegar turned back to Ned. “While we’re working together, I intend for you and Jon to become much more familiar. Rest assured, Eddard, my son’s well-being is far more important to me than to you.”

Somehow, I believe you. Though I doubt that that is a good thing. “What is it you intend, Rhaegar?”

The man smiled at the question. “I intend to act on your advice and change the circumstances.”

Eddard's confusion grew at the king's words and expression. Whatever this man had in mind, Ned intended to make sure that none of his kin suffered for another Targaryen folly. That included Jon as well as the others.

"Now then." Rhaegar motioned towards Barristan. "Now that this has been addressed, we can see if Viserys managed to find Moore and get the council started. We have ten days, Stark."

"And then, we set sail."

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Tyrion scowled as the scroll’s writing became illegible once again in the fading light. He looked at the stub of candle left to him and glanced around the room, hoping to see another candle in easy reach. There wasn’t as far as he could see. I suppose I should try to find some sleep.

Sleep hadn’t come to Tyrion easily in the past weeks. Since word came of the Greyjoy uprising, he had been reading histories of their rebellions and accounts of the lords and captains leading them in the current one. He had even managed to acquire ledgers by Lannisport merchants about their visits to the Iron Islands, reporting what they had been purchasing and in what quantities. If the accounts he had were right, than Balon Greyjoy had been preparing for this day since his father had died. That was seven years of food, weapons, building materials, and all other sorts of supplies that the ironborn had stored up, as much as they could get their hands on. Clearly they had realized their need to survive a blockade by the fleets that would come against them. 

All told, sleep was a luxury Tyrion could not afford, at least not for now. He stood and walked from his desk to look out the window. His room here in Lannisport faced the east, and the lands his father ruled stretched as far as he could see from his chamber. The sky was still dark, but it still seemed to mock his suffering eyes with the promise of a new dawn. If there is a foreign god who rules the day and night, they certainly don’t like me.

Tyrion sighed as he began shedding the clothes he had worn since yesterday and slid into fresh replacements. Clothes changed, the dwarf walked over to his door and tugged it open, trudging towards the kitchens. Hopefully I can get my hands on some good bacon at this hour, with something to drink it down with.

His thoughts stayed with the war as he walked towards the main hall. The Iron Fleet hadn’t been seen since the attack on the city, and reaving’s had been slowing in the westerlands and Reach, though the riverlands were still feeling the ironmen’s rage. Victarion and Aeron Greyjoy were prisoners, robbing their kin of the Fleet’s commander and two brothers besides. Any sane man would be asking for terms, end the fight and lick their wounds. Any sane man. There’s the problem, simple as it is.

Tyrion’s thoughts were interrupted as he entered the main hall. It was almost deserted, save for the youth reading a book at the table in its center. Brown hair hung about his face while brown eyes scanned the pages rapidly, fixed on his subject like a maester.

“Ser Willas.” The heir of Highgarden raised his head sharply to see who was greeting him. Tyrion gave him a wave. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to tear you from that. I know how a good book refuses to let one go until you are done with it.”

“Lord Tyrion.” Willas smiled as he glanced about the hall. “You’re up early.”

“Up late, you mean. Sleep refuses to visit me these days.”

“Ah, well. I didn’t sleep much either.” The lordling shrugged. “We all cope as best we can, I suppose. Perhaps I could lend you this, see if it gives your mind what it needs to rest. Well written, feels less like history than it does a legend.”

“All legend was history, once.” The dwarf walked over and glanced at the cover of Tyrell’s book. “The Princess and the Queen: A Study of the Dance of the Dragons. What might this story have that grabbed your interest, Tyrell?”

“Much of the fighting during the Dance was on the sea. I thought it might help me form some plan for when the fleet arrives in the Iron Islands. After all, the Red Kraken was a terror in those days much like Balon Greyjoy is now.”

“Lord Balon would no doubt love the comparison. Though I think Dalton might be offended.”

Tyrell laughed. “I just sent a servant to bring me some food. You could have him get you some when he returns.”

“I’m sure I will, though I may have a word with him about serving the Lannister after the Tyrell in Lannisport.”

Willas laughed again, Tyrion joining him this time. They got along well for the most part. They were close in age, Tyrell just a year less than Tyrion’s seven-and-ten. Their love of books and their collaboration when helping the war effort had been effective at forging a bond between the two. Lannister and Tyrell, the Reach and westerlands. Our houses could do great things together, if they don’t find a reason to oppose each other first.

Willas stopped laughing as his mind turned to a subject close to where Tyrion’s mind had gone. “So, how was the king’s brother the last few nights?”

Tyrion shrugged. “He likes the Rock, as most visitors do. A bit conceited but being a prince will do that to a man. Has a bold streak, if his tongue is anything to judge by.”

“My grandmother likes to say words are wind.” Willas glanced down at his book. “If the king brings the princes with us, I suppose we may get the chance to find out.”

So, this one has an interest in the royal family. Him and every other man in the Seven Kingdoms.  “I suppose we will.”

Tyrion stood from his chair. “I think I’ll go track down that servant of yours and take whatever he has for myself.”

“Good luck, I still haven’t managed to find the kitchens yet.”

“I suspect I know this castle a bit better than you, my friend.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked away from the table.

If Tyrell hadn’t found the kitchens yet that meant he was either blind or hadn’t tried at all. They were but a minute’s walk from the hall, as Tyrion was reminded of as he entered them. There was no servant to be seen, though food was another story entirely. Breads and cheeses sat on tables and cupboard levels at all levels, while bottles of mead and wine hung in racks along the wall. In another castle one might fear thieves, but in both Casterly Rock and Lannisport they had long learned the price of trying their luck here. Father is called the Shield of Lannisport. Guardian of the Pantry may have been the title the gods intended for him.

Tyrion smiled as he picked through what he could see and grabbed what he wished. Two wheat loaves, a few slices of goat cheese, and a mug for his wine. He found a half-and-half mix of water and wine was good for a sleepless night. It seemed to warm the blood while chilling the bones. Tyrion indulged in wine or mead or even ale on an almost daily basis, though he very rarely allowed himself to get drunk. His father disapproved but tolerated it so long as his son refused to let the drink go to his head completely.

As he settled onto his seat, Tyrion glanced up at the candle at the small table in front of him. It was alight, with plenty of wax left to burn. Perhaps I’ll take it back with me, if I still can’t sleep after this. He bit into the bread, savoring the taste as he chewed. As he did, he poured the wine into his cup, then reached over to the water pitcher to top it off.

He was picking up the mug to drink when his eyes found the candle again. He stopped, looking at it curiously. Why are you alight? Even now the kitchen had its fair share of light, the fire the cooks used to make stew and cook meat crackling nicely but a few feet away. The servants made sure to keep it lit, that’s why one usually slept in here.

That thought made Tyrion glance about again. He was alone, he was sure of it. No one else was in the kitchens.

Not one servant to be seen. So, what of it? Tyrion knew the servant bedchambers were but a half-minute walk from here, if that. They likely sent someone to tend the fire every hour or so. Even so, his mind was changing pace, and his eyes narrowed as he scanned the room, more slowly this time. Everything seemed as it had when he had first entered.

A man’s instincts can be wrong, but he’d be a fool to doubt them. Elsewise he could never trust himself. Jaime had told him that years ago. Tyrion had found it was solid advice and intended to follow it. He stood, grabbing his platter as he walked out of the kitchens, back towards the main hall.

Willas was still there, pouring over his book. He glanced up as Tyrion entered, smiling at the food and mug he carried. “Did you plan on sharing, or am I still going to have to wait for that man to find the kitchens?”

“He was nowhere to be seen.” Tyrion placed the platter and mug on the table across from Tyrell. “Either he is very new to his work or he didn’t go there at all. Either way, point him out the next you see him. I’ll have the steward remind him of the kitchen’s location.”

“I doubt that will be necessary.” Willas looked uncomfortable. “I’ve found going easy on the smallfolk working in a noble household is more productive. After all, if we don’t look after them, who else will?”

“A noble idea. Though I doubt many lords would agree with you.” Tyrion settled into his seat as he began slicing a loaf he had brought back. “Now, I suppose I could share some of this, but that dep-”

His sentence was abruptly cut off as the door leading to the interior opened. Royal men walked out single-file, each dressed and armed as if going to battle. By the time they were done, forty men-at-arms had entered the main hall only to take positions at the doors that led to the castle bailey.

As they did so, Tyrell closed his book and stood up. “What is happening?”

“The war is, my lord.” As the soldiers tapered off an older man in white enameled armor and a matching cloak followed behind. Ser Mandon Moore glanced at the two young men before turning and walking down the hall. He called over his shoulder, “The king’s done waiting. The orders are going out, we sail today.”

“What?!” Tyrion’s eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into him as his mind’s dark turn grew darker. “We were supposed to have another four days, Moore. Does my father know of this? Or Lord Stark or Tarly?”

The knight stopped and turned, pale eyes fixing on Tyrion’s mismatched ones. “I can’t say, my lord. Not that it would matter. The king has commanded it, and that is all there is to it.”

The knight turned and pointed at one of the men. “Get your ass to the barracks. Have them send riders to the Rock and to the camps. If we’re going to make it out of hereby the end of the day, asses need to get moving.” The man nodded before jogging off, his armor clinking as it did so.

“Ser Mandon.” Willas was walking over, concern on his face. “The king realizes it is still two hours till sunrise? There’s no way we can sail before dawn.”

“No, but if we start preparing now, we can be underway by midday, if not sooner.” Moore shrugged. “The decision’s made, my lord. Nothing to do now but make the most of it.”

With that, the Kingsguard walked off, presumably to give more orders.

Tyrion didn’t intend to wait for someone else to give him orders. He turned towards Willas. “If the king is giving orders, that means he’s awake. I intend to go ask after his reasons for this.”

The youth looked troubled but nodded, standing with a small wince. “I will join you.” The two headed out, Willas' slight limp making it easier for Tyrion to keep up with him.

As they walked deeper into the castle, Tyrion pondered potential motives for this decision. He supposed it could be the king had simply grown impatient. That seemed out of character, though, for a man whose calm and quiet bearing were famous. Another reason could be that he wished to reach the Iron Islands sooner than anyone expected. Perhaps sooner than they expected. Does the king fear that Greyjoy has spies in Lannisport?

It was far from impossible. Even now, many in the kingdoms fostered resentment against Rhaegar for the coup against his father the rebellion had turned into. Although they probably lacked any fondness for the ironmen, there were those who might seek to prolong the rebellion. Playing both sides. The oldest trick in the book. Still, Tyrion wasn’t sure that was the reason either. After all, if there were spies in the city, then they would tell the Greyjoy’s about this move as quickly as possible. And even if they didn’t only a fool would think that Balon would fail to learn that the royal forces had set sail.

Of course, both of those excuses assumed the ironmen were what had driven this decision. With so many plots and intrigues centered on the king at a given moment, there were all kinds of things that might have driven this decision. Tyrion hated the idea of that being the case, as it meant that he was in the dark. “Ignorance is the swiftest path to failure in the games of the court,” his father had warned him and his sister often. “Knowledge is a valuable currency wherever one goes, so be sure to have as much of it as possible.”

“Tyrion.” He was torn from his thoughts by Willas’ voice, calling him back to their path. “Who was there when you went to the kitchens?”

“Not a soul, save for mine.” He was irritated that Tyrell’s mind was still on the damn kitchens. “Why do you ask?”

“I could’ve sworn there were people in it earlier. That’s why I sent the servant to find me some food. I was certain that food was being prepared.” Willas’ face was now alert, eyes alight as he spoke. “What are the odds that, if there was something happening in there, it might not have been cooking?”

Tyrion glanced sharply at the Tyrell. His mind is heading to the same place as mine, though on a different road. “It’s possible, even in the lion’s den.”

By now, they head reached the king’s solar. Selmy and Stark were the guards at present, which undoubtedly meant that Dayne was within. Tyrion addressed the Kingsguard, “We need to speak with His Grace at once. Is he receiving visitors?”

Stark glanced at Selmy. The latter frowned. “A moment, my lord.” He opened the door and poked his head within, letting their presence be known. After hearing the reply, he turned back towards the two young men. “His Grace will see you.” Stark nodded at the words and held the door open, closing it behind them as they entered.

Ser Arthur was there, just as Tyrion had expected. The Sword of the Morning had removed his helm but otherwise was dressed the same as his three sworn brothers. He was standing next to the table in the room’s center, where Rhaegar sat.

Not just Rhaegar, Tyrion realized. Also at the table were the king’s son’s, though neither looked truly awake. The younger of the two was clearly exhausted, though his eyes glanced at the heirs of Casterly Rock and Highgarden as they entered his sight. Prince Jon was seated in a chair just to the left of his father, with Dayne standing right behind. Prince Aegon was all but asleep, head resting back on his father’s shoulder with eyes shut, though he appeared to be murmuring to the king.

The king whispered back and smiled, than turned towards the two intruders. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Tyrion spoke first. “Ser Mandon said you were ordering the army and fleet underway. We came to see if that was so and ask after the reasons why.”

“Yes, it is so, and the reason is simple.” The king looked tired as he often did, though his expression seemed more guarded than usual, if that was possible. “I have received word that the ironmen intended to launch an offensive against the Reach, with plans to go as far as the Arbor and up the Mander to Highgarden if they can manage it. A fool's plan, but we must act now nevertheless. We cannot allow them to do so and force us to divide our forces. We will sail at once and strike them now, while their ships are still gathering in their own lands.”

“A-a decisive action, Your Grace.” Tyrell looked sharp as he considered the implications. “I will need to write to my home, inform them of the need to strengthen the coastal defenses and hasten any new ships or levies they intend to raise.”

“Of course, Ser Willas.” The king inclined his head as Willas bowed and turned, leaving Tyrion alone with Rhaegar.

“An attack on the Reach…bold but foolish, as you said Your Grace.” Tyrion spoke quietly, taking the prince’s presence into account. “Even if such an attack succeeded, it would leave the Iron Islands vulnerable to attack. I wonder how Balon Greyjoy convinced his captains to take this path.”

“I suspect the ledgers you found hold that answer.” The king smiled at Tyrion’s surprised expression. “Yes, I read them as well, Tyrion. They say that Greyjoy has been preparing for a blockade and sieges for years now. I expect his strategy is to inflict enough pain on the lands of my vassals that they pressure me into coming to the peace table and offering him recognition of the crown he desires.”

Does he truly expect me to buy this? What the king said made enough sense to fool the uninformed in this campaign, but Tyrion was anything but. Whatever Greyjoy had in mind, attacking the Reach while abandoning his kingdom to the royal forces was certainly not it. Tyrion knew that, and Rhaegar knew it as well. So, what is the real reason for his sudden rush to the Iron Islands?

The door opened again. Selmy stepped just inside before addressing the king. “Lord Stark and his household are ready, Your Grace.”

“Good. Ser Benjen.” The young Stark walked in as well, customary good cheer gone as his sharp eyes fell on the king. “See Jon to his uncle’s custody, then return here as swiftly as possible.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” Stark’s expression softened as he walked to where his nephew was drowsily watching the scene. “Come along, Jon. Ned’s waiting on us.”

The boy merely nodded, sliding to his feet from the chair he sat on. Tyrion looked him over as he started walking towards his uncle. The boy’s cloths were made for sleep, nothing more, and he clearly wasn’t fully awake. Jon swayed as he took a few steps towards Benjen Stark. As the prince made to pass him, Tyrion reached out and put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Easy there, Prince-”

He never finished the sentence. A hand cloaked in steel grabbed his arm and pulled it away from Jon, only gentle until it left the boy’s shoulder. Tyrion was thrown off-balance by the gesture, stumbling into the table as Selmy released him and put himself between the dwarf and the prince. His eyes were sharp, and the hand that had just left Tyrion’s arm now rested on the hilt of his blade.

The dwarf slowly righted himself, eyeing the knight as he did so. “Apologies, ser. I assure you, I intended no harm.”

“I can see that, as we all should.” The king’s voice rose, all steel. “That was poorly done, Barristan. I expect more from you.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Selmy turned and dipped his head towards Tyrion. “I am sorry, my lord. My nerves have been frayed of late. Please, do not doubt me.”

If there was anything Tyrion doubted, it was the weakness of this man’s nerves. Nothing about him save his words suggested contrition for his actions. And the way he looked at the young dwarf made a shiver crawl up his back. He is more a lion than any man I’ve ever seen with that look in his eye.

He glanced behind the knight. Stark hadn’t waited to watch how this would play out. He and the prince were both gone, leaving Tyrion alone with the king, his heir, and two deadly men who clearly mistrusted his presence.

“Well, Your Grace is wise to confront this threat so swiftly.” Tyrion turned to look at the king, ignoring the gazes of Selmy and Dayne as he bowed. “I’ll be on my way; the men are going to need as much help as they can get preparing for this voyage.”

“Lord Tyrion.” The king nodded once more. Selmy stood aside as the young dwarf walked passed him to the door. His exit, truth be told, had little to say of courage.

As he walked back towards the main hall, Tyrion glanced at his sleeve. The silk had torn, which was a shame. He noticed the dark red spots that stood out from the crimson of his clothing. He ran a finger over it and wasn’t surprised when the red came onto it as he raised it for inspection. Not my wine, it would have dried by now. He didn’t need to taste it to know it would be almost metallic, as blood always was.

Missing servants. A Kingsguard bearing blood. A royal host in a frenzy. A king who kept his sons as close as possible. Even if one could overlook all of that, the unnaturally glazed look in the prince’s eyes had left no doubt in Tyrion’s mind. He also did not doubt the older prince shared the look. I think many things of Rhaegar but sedating his own sons isn’t one of them.

Tyrion sighed as he changed direction, instead looking for the maester’s chambers, where he could find ink, parchment, and a raven to send to the Rock. His father would need to hear of this as soon as possible.

The king doesn’t want to sail to somewhere. He wants to sail from somewhere. Here, to be precise.

It made sense of course. King’s hated cities as often as they liked them, and the former rarely stayed long. Especially when they knew that knives were being drawn and sharpened with them and their kin in mind.

Chapter Text

Rhaenys

“The squires are at it again, princess.”

“Already?” Rhaenys sighed as she turned and looked at her companion. Arianne nodded, a smug grin on her face. “I suppose I owe you a stag, then.”

“A dragon. And a rose to go with it.” The older girl flipped her hair over her shoulder as she walked away from Rhaenys’ seat. “Shall we, then?”

She rolled her eyes as Arianne left her sight. Normally her cousin liked the royal gardens, remarking on how the air didn’t smell at all like the city that lay beneath the castle. Still, Rhaenys knew that the older girl was not content here. Arianne was longing for the Water Gardens that she had been raised in.

I can’t truly blame her. Every time I leave King’s Landing, it doesn’t take long for me to wish for my seat here in the gardens.

Rhaenys stood and started walking after Arianne. Her cousin was always rushing about, especially when excitement beckoned. She wished that Nymeria was here- the bastard girl was one of the few people this side of the Red Mountains that could keep Arianne in line. Alas, Nym was in Volantis, and Arianne near uncontrollable.

The Dornish princess had changed much since she and her kin had arrived a year past. Where once she was a bit pudgy, with no chest to speak of, at fourteen she had shed some weight while growing into her curves. Arianne now looked as lovely as royalty ought to be and she had quickly learned how to use it, wooing men and boys into doing as she asked with hardly more than a flutter of her lashes and a smile.

It didn’t take Rhaenys long to catch up to her cousin. Arianne flashed another grin at her as they left the gardens, the Dornish princess tracing a path towards one of the Red Keep’s inner baileys. Rhaenys could hear fighting long before she saw anything, curses and shouts cutting through the air, along with laughter and cheers. “Please tell me Uncle didn’t spur them on, Ar.”

“He swears he did no such thing.” Arianne sighed as they came to the courtyard entrance. “He may even be telling the truth, Rhae. Boys will be boys, after all.”

Rhaenys’ response died as they saw the source of the noise. A cluster of men had gathered around a pair of bodies struggling in the dirt. As the two princesses approached, members of the circle quieted and started nudging their companions, alerting them. Any laughter died away at the sight of Rhaenys’ expression.

All save for the Viper's laughter, that is. “Ah, Princess. A thousand pardons. We did not hear you approaching.” He gave an extravagant bow to the new arrivals, then looked up and winked at Rhaenys. “I apologize to you as well, niece. It is never wise to stir a dragon from its rest.”

Rhaenys couldn’t help it- she laughed along with her cousin and uncle. Oberyn Martell had long abandoned his sense of formality, if he ever had one to begin with, and nowhere was that more obvious than with Rhaenys, her brother and her mother.

Her attention turned to the brawl still occurring a few feet in front of her. As expected, she knew the fighters at a glance. Monford Velaryon was on top, raining blows on his opponent with one hand while shielding himself from the retaliation with his other. Aurane Waters was stuck under his half-brother’s knees, clearly taking the worst of the fight.

Neither of them seemed to notice the sudden quiet. Rhaenys raised her voice to address them. “Velaryon, I think you’ve mistaken Waters for an ironman.”

Monford’s head shot up as his eyes fixed on Rhaenys. Even at twelve, her beauty was apparent to all, Dornish coloring and slim figure turning heads easily. Every squire in the keep was infatuated with their princess, though few had any chance of that wish coming true. That included the Velaryon who she distracted.

His glance proved a crucial mistake. Waters’ fist caught Monford in the chin and knocked him sprawling, grunting as his head hit the dirt and stone waiting for it. Aurane rose to one knee, bowing his head as he glanced at his half-brother and then at Rhaenys before looking down at the ground.

“Well done, boy,” Her uncle nodded approvingly, “Always remember, when they least expect it is the best time to strike.”

Rhaenys rounded on the Viper. “I'm sure you did everything you could to stop it from coming this far.”

He shrugged. “If they don’t let it out every now and again, it’ll build until their anger puts them or their comrades in danger. Learning how to channel one’s rage is far wiser than suppressing it.”

“It isn’t about anger," A voice called out from the other side of the courtyard. "It’s about loyalty. Loyalty and solidarity.”

Oberyn turned to see a white-cloaked newcomer approaching. “Come now, Oakheart, even you must’ve brawled as a lad. It was only last month, you should remember.”

The Kingsguard didn’t respond. At eighteen, Ser Arys was the youngest of the white cloaks, and went out of his way to try to act as old as his fellows. Oberyn found it amusing and never resisted teasing the man. Rhaenys suspected the men would’ve dueled if not for the cloak Arys wore.

The knight was focused on the squires kneeling in the dirt, who had gone pale at the sight of the Kingsguard. Arys had been tasked with keeping the royal squires in shape, and Rhaenys doubted he would be merciful.

“Brawling in front of the king’s blood? That’s a good way to find yourself on the bad end of a stick, lunks. What was the cause of this, then?” The knight demanded.

“It was Aurane,” Velaryon said immediately, “he said if I met an ironman I’d get stabbed as quick as he could blink. Then I-”

“Liar! The bastard’s lying, I swear! I only-”

“There’s only one bastard here, Waters.” Rhaenys voice was quiet, but its tone was sharp as steel, as was the look in her eye as she stared at the youth. He flushed at her words, but stopped speaking, returning to eyeing the dirt at his feet.

Rhaenys didn’t know what made her say that. But watching the squires’ squabble and trade blame had brought another image to her mind, with two younger boys fighting in a similar fashion, the older of the two on the ground as his brother rained blows on his head.

She shook her head to chase the thought away. He and Egg have never fought, at least not like that. Not yet.

Arianne touched her arm. “It was only a fight, Rhaenys. No lasting harm done. It’s done with, let’s head back.”

“Please heed her, princess,” Arys said, “I’ll sort this out and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Arianne turned to smile at the Kingsguard. “I am sure you have things well in hand, ser.”

The knight blushed at the princess’ smile. For all his stoic appearance, the knight was still young, and Arianne delighted in teasing him as much as her uncle did. Though her teasing was of a very different kind.

Oberyn spoke as well. “As I recall, Lewyn was seeing to your mother in the royal chambers. Perhaps you could help him see to her, nieces.”

“Yes.” Rhaenys nodded at the Dornish prince. “We’ll do just that. Come, Arianne.”

The two walked away from the group, whose numbers had dissipated by the time they had left. The queen had been in Maegor’s Holdfast for most of the past two months. Ever since her husband and son had ridden west.

“Rhae.” Rhaenys didn’t realize Arianne was talking to her until her cousin tugged her arm. “Rhaenys, wait a moment.”

The Dornish girl’s grip tightened until they both came to a stop. Rhaenys turned to glare at her. “What, Ari?”

“Don’t play dumb, you can’t pull it off.” Her cousin looked at her, concern in her eyes. “You thought I wouldn’t notice?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” Arianne squeezed her arm. “Did you forget that Nym is a bastard too, Rhae?”

“That’s not what I meant!” She was angry that Arianne’s mind had gone there. “Nym’s mother is blood of Old Volantis, her birth is noble in all but name. Waters is just some brat whose mother caught the eye of Monford’s father!!”

“We both know that isn’t who you were thinking of, Rhae.”

Rhaenys glared at her cousin. “I think we should keep going. Don’t you?” She started walking without waiting for Arianne to answer.

She kept up with Rhaenys, still on the damn subject. “Look, I know you don’t like him, but Aurane never did anything to you. Or am I wrong?”

Rhaenys sighed. “No, Waters has never done anything to me.”

“Well then here’s a lesson, Rhae- if you punish people near you just because the ones you don’t like aren’t there, you will only have a few people close to you at all.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” Rhaenys’ mind had moved to another place. “It’s just that with Father taking Vissy and Snow with him and Egg-”

Arianne laughed. “Vissy. I like that. Is it out of affection?”

“You know better than that.”

“Yes, I do. Though I still think that the brat’s name is strange to hear alongside your family’s.”

Snow. That is the name for northern bastards, after all. After hearing a servant refer to Jon as Sand, Arianne had protested. “The boy may have been born in Dorne, but neither of his parents were Dornish and he was only there for a few days, a week at most. Waters or Snow will do, but not Sand!”

Her Dornish kin were divided on Jon, truth be told. Oberyn treated him as any other boy his age, courteous only when in her father’s or Ser Benjen’s presence. Rhaenys couldn't tell if it was a ruse or how he truly felt. Arianne disdained him, with Obara as well. For some reason, Nym had treated Jon kindly, though they hadn’t spent much time together before she had left for Volantis.

I hope she isn’t serious about her thoughts on the brat. I wouldn’t want to get in a fight with her while Uncle Oberyn is here.

As for Rhaenys, her father’s presence had forced her to learn quickly to hide her true feelings towards her half-brother. She was as cold as she dared, but never openly rude, save for when their father was away on royal business. The bastard never spoke of their interactions with anyone as far as she knew, even after he learned of what Rhaenys and most of her companions called him.

Jon Snow. A bastard name for a bastard boy, weirwood vows be damned.

They reached her mother’s chambers as her thoughts churned in her head. Standing outside were two men in the armor and cloaks of the Kingsguard. The knight on the left bore a shield that depicted a watchtower made of white stone, red flames crowning its top. Ser Humfrey Hightower was just a year older than Ser Arys but acted much older than his years. Rhaenys’ father had named him to the Kingsguard on the same day as Oakheart as well, on a royal progress through the Reach. His inexperience meant he was rarely far from his sworn brothers, including the one standing at his side.

Prince Lewyn was standing at the door’s right side as they approached. The Dornishman’s hair was mostly silver, with a few black streaks marking how it had once been. He was not as fast as he had been in the past, though his skill was still matched by only a few in all the Seven Kingdoms. These days, the king preferred to have him guard the queen, a duty Lewyn was happy to fulfill.

He smiled as his great-nieces came into view.  “Come to see to your mother, child?”

“Yes, Uncle Lewyn.” Rhaenys smiled at the older man. “Is she accepting visitors?”

“You should know you don’t have to ask. You are her daughter after all, princess.” He nodded at Ser Humfrey. “You aren’t the only one who had such a notion.”

Rhaenys glanced at the young knight, who shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “I suppose it’s easy to keep track of my family, seeing as we each have one of you following us.”

She stepped forward and opened the door. Stepping through, Rhaenys smiled again at her great-uncle while she and Arianne stepped into the queen’s chambers.

The rooms looked as they usually did- bright, the red and yellow’s of Dorne helping to fill the chambers with light, the air was a bit stale, though the breeze coming from the open windows helped some. By the wall at the room’s other end was the bed, large enough to accommodate two though it rarely did so. It was there that Rhaenys found her mother.

Elia Martell had not fared well since the war began. Never hearty to begin with, she had lost weight over the past year, and was prone to chills and bouts of dizziness if she moved too fast and often. Lewyn and Oberyn both tended to stay close to her, leaving only when she slept or insisted that she be given some time alone. For all that her illness hampered her movement, she was still beloved at court and in the city, the people taking to heart the story of her defiance before the Mad King.

Rhaenys walked towards the bed, slowly so as not to wake her mother if she slept. It was only when she was just a few feet away that she found the other guest in the chambers. She was curled up beside Elia, sleeping as soundly as the queen herself. Dany has always treated Mother more like her own mother than a good-sister. She is younger than me and Egg, after all.

Daenerys Targaryen was the youngest of the royal family, born just a month or so after Jon. Like Egg and Viserys, she had the traditional features of House Targaryen- silver hair, pale skin, and deep purple eyes that only the kings could match. Those eyes were closed now, as the princess slept alongside the queen.

Arianne sighed next to Rhaenys. “It’s still hard to believe that the girl is your aunt, Rhae,” she whispered, “with her looks and size considered.”

“It is strange. She thinks it very funny, though.” Rhaenys found it funny herself. In practice, Daenerys was treated as a daughter by Rhaenys’ mother and father, and as a little sister by the other men of House Targaryen and Rhaenys herself. Even Viserys went out of his way to be kind to the child, acting less an arrogant prince and more a considerate brother around her. I suppose even Vissy needs someone to like him.

Daenerys was the only Targaryen who got along well with Viserys. She and Egg were also the ones who treated the northern brat like kin as well, despite Rhaenys’ and Viserys’ coolness in public and contempt in private.

Elia herself was the only member of the royal family whose feelings towards Jon were unknown to Rhaenys. As best she could tell, her mother treated Jon much like a ward, never failing to be polite and helping to keep him out of trouble and seeing to his upbringing. But there was no warmth in her treatment of the boy, which seemed to hurt both him and her father. They’re both fools, thinking Mother could ever accept him. But I thought Father would know better.

Rhaenys’ was pulled back to her surroundings as her aunt stirred on the bed. Alerted by instinct, or perhaps disturbed by a sound the new arrivals had made, Daenerys opened her eyes slowly, blinking the sleep away as she focused on her new company. “Rhae?”

“Shh.” She motioned towards her mother. Dany followed the motion and nodded, very carefully sliding off the bed to stand in front of Rhaenys. She motioned towards the sitting room to the left, then started tiptoeing in that direction. Rhaenys and Arianne followed her lead, never saying a word until Daenerys closed the door behind them.

She turned to look at the older girls once the door closed. “Sorry, she was reading me a story. I fell asleep.” Her voice was quiet, but there was guilt in it as she looked at her feet, which shifted uncomfortably. “If I’d known you wanted to see her…”

“It’s fine, Dany,” Rhaenys said soothingly, “she needs the rest, I don’t blame you for that.”

The younger girl smiled, relief suffusing her features. “She had a letter from Rhaegar, so she sent for me to tell me the news.”

“What?!” Arianne looked annoyed. “Why didn’t she send for Rhae?”

“She did. Prince Oberyn went to get you, but he took too long. So, she read it to me before you got here.”

“Oh.” That was typical. Her uncle probably got distracted by the squire’s brawl in the bailey, or else figured that it would get Rhaenys’ attention quickly. Still, she was irritated that she hadn’t been there to hear her mother read her father’s letter. “So, what did it say?”

“He said that the boys were well, and that the fleet was sailing in a few days. He wrote it four days ago, so they probably left by now.” Dany’s face grew worried as she spoke. “I hope Rhaegar doesn’t take them with him to those islands. They should stay at the Rock, or better yet, come back here!”

“Easy, Dany,” Arianne spoke up, “I doubt the king is going to drag those three into the middle of a battle. That’d be as foolhardy as any man could be.”

“As if he hasn’t been foolhardy before.”

Ari and Dany both looked at Rhaenys as the words left her lips. Her hand came over her mouth, as if to stop them or bring them back. Mother keeps telling me to guard my tongue better. Fool, why can’t you listen?

“Rhae,” Arianne spoke soothingly, “come now, no good will come of that. Let’s go find a minstrel, we can hear him play in the gardens, or maybe the Maidenvault…”

“Yes!” Daenerys practically hopped at the prospect. “Maybe the song will be about the Dragonknight, or the Usurper’s fall!” She was on a roll now. “Do you know any other songs like those? Maybe Egg and Jon will hear some new ones in the west. I bet they’ll have a song about them one day, maybe us too-”

Rhaenys’ tongue loosened itself again. “If Snow ever has a song with him and Aegon in it, it’ll be how he was put in his place by the-”

“Rhaenys!” Daenerys looked shocked at her words. “He’s not a Snow, don’t call him that! He can be quiet and is sad too much, but he’s our family. Our brother." When she wasn't giggling at being called Rhaenys' aunt, Dany typically fell into referring to her, Aegon and Snow as her siblings. "Not to mention nice and brave. We shou-”

“The day I call that bastard brother will be when the seven hel-”

The sitting room door opened. “I trust I’m not interrupting something important?”

The three all spun to watch the queen push the door open. Her face was still tired, but it was hard as it scanned her kinswomen. Behind her the Kingsguard were standing as still as possible, though Lewyn had a look that Rhaenys thought might be pity.

“Your Grace.” Arianne dropped into a kneeling position. Daenerys mimicked her, eyes wide and chin wobbling. But the queen’s gaze had already focused on her daughter. Rhaenys withered under the look, not because of any anger or frustration in it, but the sadness in her eyes. I swore I wouldn’t make things harder for her. So much for my oaths.

“Ser Humfrey.” The knight stepped forward at Elia’s voice. “Please see Arianne to her uncle. I  need to speak with my two dragons, alone.”

“Your Grace.” Humfrey motioned towards Arianne. She was already rising, shooting a look of encouragement at Rhaenys and Daenerys before leaving the room, the Kingsguard following close behind. Lewyn went with them, stopping just outside the chamber doors, resuming his watch. Then the door closed, and Rhaenys was alone again with her mother and aunt.

“I-,” Rhaenys started to speak, stopped, then tried again. “Did I wake you, Mother?”

“No, I woke when my bedmate slipped off.” The queen turned to smile at Daenerys. “It took me a while to stir, that is all. The shouting started just as I was rising.”

“Elia, I’m sorry.” Daenerys hardly ever called her good-sister by name but did so now. Her eyes were glistening, but her voice was steady. “I didn’t mean to shout. I was mad, that's all.”

“You wouldn’t be a dragon if you didn’t breathe at least a little fire.” Elia’s voice had lost its hardness, turning soft as she smiled at the two young girls. “Neither of you would be.”

Her tone and look only made Rhaenys feel guiltier. And Dany didn’t even try to blame me. Seven save me, why did I shout like that?

“Mother, please don’t blame Daenerys,” She said quietly, “I was loud first. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.”

“No, you should not have.” Elia sighed as she looked at her daughter. “Losing your temper in private with only kin present is one thing, Rhaenys. What if you had been in court or the gardens, with people all about you? What would they think of a young princess who became so angry so suddenly?”

“I suppose they might be…disappointed.”

“That’s one word for it, I suppose.” The queen sighed again. “I heard your words, girls. And even if I hadn’t, you don’t need magic to guess the right answer. Daenerys, it is good that you defended your kinsman like that. If you are as loyal to the rest of your House as that, the crown will be well served.”

Dany beamed while Elia turned toward Rhaenys again. “Rhae, I know this is hard for you. But I promise, the gods have a strange way of working. You will be surprised by the things that they choose to give and take from people, even royalty. But for now, Jon and Aegon and Viserys and Rhaegar are all in danger, close as they are to rebels who would gladly try to make them all hurt. It is unwise to wish ill on someone when the gods might answer your prayers and hurt those near them as well.”

Rhaenys was stunned. She had never thought of that. If Egg or Father are hurt because of me, then- “I never meant for that, I swear! I just-”

Rhaenys faltered then, tears coming to her eyes. They were quickly wiped away as her mother wrapped an arm around her and Dany and drew them both close.

“I know, and I am sure the Seven do as well,” Elia whispered. “Daenerys, what was it that Ser Benjen taught Jon about direwolves?”

“In winter, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Dany whispered back.

“Wise words, for the Starks and anyone else with the wit to hear them. Stand with your kin, and you will thrive, even as the world shifts around you.”

Rhaenys clung to them both then, her tears wetting her mother’s clothes. They were of sadness and of fear. Fear for her, and for her father and brother, both far from home.

But only for the one brother, the one whose mother she shared.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar

The drums were still beating.

He did not know who had ordered them to begin, and whether it had been his forces or the foe’s that had begun. All Rhaegar knew was that it had helped obscure the sounds that men and ships had made as battle was joined.

The royal galley gave a sudden jolt, almost throwing him from his feet. He gritted his teeth and shifted with the momentum, careful not to let his black armor and helm unbalance him. Another man was not as fortunate, yelling as he fell to the deck’s floor. The sailor was quick to return to his feet and ran to the mast, grasping at one of the axes at its base, secured in the event they came under attack. Which is more like than not, as we know.

Ser Arthur didn’t have the same trouble as his king did. The Kingsguard wore full plate yet acted as if he were on solid ground. Nothing seemed to shake him, be it wave or man. Rhaegar envied him that. It was another reason he felt confident in the outcome of the war raging around them.

All around the royal galley, ships were crashing through the waves towards or sometimes into one another, screams and battle cries raging as men were felled by their foes or by the sea itself. None of the ironmen had reached the king’s ship yet, but it was bound to happen, given the ferocity of their foe and the sea’s insistence on throwing all the ships out of place.

That was what the royal fleet was counting on.

Arthur turned his head to speak to Rhaegar. “It looks as if the remaining war galleys and ships from the Iron Fleet are all here, Your Grace, or at least most of them.”

“Good. Better here than pursuing the others.”

The strategy was the child of the Lannister and Tyrell heirs, of all people. They had noted that, given the size of the forces bearing down on them, the Greyjoy fleet would be mad to meet them in open battle. “Unless, that is, they don’t have to meet us all at once,” Ser Willas had pointed out.

The fleet had been divided into three groups. The first, made up of the larger part of the Arbor fleet and the Tyrell levies it guarded, had sailed northwest, with orders to cut eastward and land at Great Wyk. The second, a mix of the few Lannister ships remaining, the Tully’s, and the Stark’s, had hugged the coast until reaching Banefort, then swung west to make a beachhead Harlaw. The third group was the remaining Redwyne ships and the royal fleet. The course they had set was straight towards Pyke from Lannisport.

Rhaegar scanned their surroundings. There were few transports on either side, with most of the vessels consisting of war galleys, longships, and the occasional cog. This was a true sea battle, with sailors and marines doing the brunt of the fighting. And from the look of it, each side intended to give as good as it got.

There was no denying nature, however. The waters had become rougher the closer they had come to Pyke, and by now only the clear skies above him convinced Rhaegar of the absence of a storm. Otherwise, it felts as if one had burst upon them. Though it is made of wood, steel, and men.

Still, the ironmen were nearing their objective. While many had fallen into battle with the ships surrounding Rhaegar’s, there was a persistent warship that kept breaking off at any foe’s advance. Circling through sea and debris, its captain was clearly waiting for an opening.

Its king, that is.

“That ship, Arthur.” Rhaegar’s voice was loud, to carry over the chaos around them. He pointed towards the ship in question. “It wants to get to us. I’m surprised it’s waited this long. Balon Greyjoy is more patient than I expected.”

“The man is mad. It does not make him a fool, Your Grace.” Arthur turned to watch the Great Kraken as well. “I expect he waits to see how the battle will turn before making his move.”

“Well, let’s find Nightwaters and tell him-”

“Your Grace!” Rhaegar turned to see the captain jogging up to him. Eryk Nightwaters was lowborn but knew this ship and the sea as well as any man and better than most. His expression was tired but satisfied as he bowed. “We just received a signal from the Dragon’s Fury.”

“And?”

“So far, we’ve lost twelve war galleys, twelve of the normal kind, and four cogs. The ironmen have lost twice the warships as us, along with twenty longships, though they don’t seem to have any cogs or plain galleys.”

“And the crews?” Rhaegar was keen to know about this. If the Lannister’s report on the Battle of Lannisport was accurate, then the foe had likely lost more men than the Iron Fleet could afford.

“As Lord Tywin predicted, Your Grace. Not as well-armed or protected as at Lannisport. The crews are smaller than expected, also.”

“Good to hear.” Ser Arthur nodded. “It sounds like what we hoped, Your Grace. Greyjoy lost the flower of his men in that battle, even if he saved the better part of his ships. A sword is useless without the right man to swing it.”

“We’ll see about that.” Rhaegar turned back towards the knight. “I expect Greyjoy’s own ship is still fully crewed. We should pass word to try and-”

“BRACE!!!”

Rhaegar didn’t see Nightwaters shout that. He listened none the less, grabbing the ships railing and braced against the wood. Arthur did the same, just a few feet to his right, along with some sailors, armed or otherwise.

For a moment Rhaegar could have sworn there was a lull in all the noise. It seemed quiet, almost as if the gods had snapped their fingers and bid the battle to calm and the waters to still.

Then the war galley hit them.

Rhaegar was nearly thrown from place as the ship jolted more swiftly and violently than it had ever done before. He only just managed to keep his grip. On his left, a man was hurtled headlong over the galley’s edge, his cry lost as he stuck the water as if a trebuchet had thrown him. Rhaegar swore he heard Ser Arthur curse as he clutched to the railing as well.

They had barely stopped moving when roars filled the air. Rhaegar Ser Arthur turned to where the foe’s ship had struck theirs. Men were leaping onto the latter, axes and swords drawn as they began charging the king’s men.

“For the king, men!” Dayne yelled as he charged into the fight, Dawn catching the sunlight on its milky white blade.

Rhaegar drew his own sword and charged as well, catching one howling ironman in the mouth with his first swing. He jerked his sword free, turning to find another bearing down on him. He caught his foe’s axe with his blade and lashed out, the punch catching the man in his throat. The man’s face turned black, his hands dropping axe and shield as they tried to reach his neck. Rhaegar knocked him onto his back with a kick, driving his sword into the man’s gut with both hands.

With a grunt the king pulled his sword loose, only for someone to barge into him, knocking him against the ship’s mast. He turned, blade raised, only to find a young sailor already moving away, yelling out as he wielded a broken piece of wood as if it were a mace. He was quickly struck by an ironman, blood flowing from his side from where the foe’s blade had plunged through.

In the confusion, Rhaegar cried out a command. “To me! Rally to me!”

Arthur and some of the marines heard and obeyed, others following their lead. Rhaegar snatched up an ironman’s shield and placed it in front of him. He yelled for the men around him to follow suit. “We’re going to ram them off the deck. All of you, with me, now!!”

As the men around him did so, Rhaegar made out a voice yelling commands from the other ship. He couldn’t make out the words but wagered that the man voicing them was the captain. He refused to lead the charge. Wise or cowardly.

“NOW!!” The king roared.

The royal men charged forward, shields held up as if to make a wooden wall. They crashed into the melee, sending men from both sides flying with the force of their momentum. They back up just a few feet before repeating the motion, before Ser Arthur broke out and swung Dawn, catching two of the foes in a single stroke. The men around him followed, charging the disoriented ironmen with war cries and swinging weapons.

Rhaegar spotted a plank between the ships behind the melee. Without pausing, he charged through the fight, hoping that Ser Arthur would pursue along with the other men on the ship.

As he put his foot on the plank, he felt the sea shift under the two ships. He paused a moment, cursing as the sea threatened to carry the two apart. It held, though, and after a moment he charged up the plank, deaf to the cries that followed him.

As he reached the other ship, an ironman was waiting for him. He seemed surprised to see another man coming the other way. His expressed was even more astonished as Rhaegar’s blade caught him in the shoulder, cutting through hardened leather to meet the flesh beneath. The man as he stumbled back, only to lose his footing and tumble to the deck. Rhaegar hopped over him, feet hitting solid wood as he landed.

The sight that greeted him was less than welcoming. At least twenty ironmen were standing near him, all with weapons drawn and murder in their eyes. Rhaegar didn’t expect them to let him face them one at a time.

“For the king!” A sailor charged past him, axe swinging wildly as he charged the nearest foe. Their blades caught each other as more men followed, running from behind Rhaegar to face the men ahead. Dayne was among them, blood marring his armor and cloak, though he fought as if untouched by any of it.

Among the men, Rhaegar noticed a man with a gold kraken emblazoned on his shield. His surcoat bore the same, the black beneath it making it stand out more clearly. He had no shield, wielding two axes as he swung them about, keeping his foe at bay.

“Damn it, Maron!” One of the ironmen was yelling at the kraken-bearing fighter. “We need to pull back, else they’ll take the-”

“My father will not hear of how the Kraken’s Kiss fell when we had the dragon in our grasp! Fight, fool!” The voice coming from the helm was young. The man brought his axe down on his foe, catching the royal fighter in the elbow. As the sailor howled, the second axe took off his jaw, before being kicked back by his foe.

“You!” Rhaegar roared out. He advanced toward the youth, blade pointed towards him. He spun to face Rhaegar, grinning as he spotted the black armor and ruby dragon of his foe.

“So, this is the dragon king!” Rhaegar would’ve bet all the money in Casterly Rock that the man was smiling under his helm. “When you meet your gods, tell them Maron, son of Balon, sent you to them.”

They charged each other, blade and shield meeting the two axes in the other’s hands. Rhaegar shoved his foe back and swung his sword, but Maron caught the blade with both axes, sliding one off as he pulled the other free. He swung it at Rhaegar’s head, forcing the king to duck to avoid the blow. That cost him. His foe’s foot came up, catching his sword hand while it was still extended. Rhaegar gasped as his grip was knocked open, his sword flying away. He stumbled back as the ironman advanced on him.

Rhaegar regained his footing. He scanned the ground for a blade but was forced to look up as he backed away from his foe’s swinging axes. He growled as he did so, gripping his shield tightly in both hands.

His foe paused to catch his breath, a mistake the king used immediately. Rhaegar swung his shield with both arms, as if it were a greatsword and not a piece of wood and iron. The first swing caught the youth’s axes, the second managed to knock one from his grasp. Rhaegar was still drawing his arms back when Maron spun, axe extending as it did. Rhaegar barely had time to move his shield into place before the axe and all the force behind it made contact.

The blow shattered his shield. Rhaegar was thrown back as it did, grunting as he hit the ship’s deck.

His foe was on him in an instant. Axe and mailed fist came crashing down on his armor, again and again. Rhaegar felt the blows dent his armor and bruise his flesh, the axe blade crunching the black steel it met, leaving cuts and slash marks where it managed to cut through.

“You’re mine, dragon!!” The youth yelled above him.

A hard blow hit his helm, piercing through so that the axe cut a gash into his cheek, making him yell. As it did, Rhaegar lashed out with a fist, aimed nowhere in particular, just UP.

His fist met what felt like the youth’s helm. Maron stumbled back, then cursed as one of his feet hit a patch of blood and water and slipped. The ironman fell hard, landing a few feet away from Rhaegar.

The king scrambled to his feet. Rhaegar’s visor was warped, but he could still see clearly from his left eye. He spotted the axe his foe had dropped near him and lunged at it, scooping it up as he turned to seek the Greyjoy youth.

Maron was still rising when Rhaegar came upon him. The king’s first blow hit his helm solidly, knocking the youth clear onto his back. The second blow dented the helm even more, the third left a crack through which a bloodied eye could be seen. It vanished as Rhaegar brought the axe down a fourth time, burying it in blood and bone.

He released the axe, gasping for breath as his exertions caught up with him.

“Your Grace!”

Someone was yelling his name. Rhaegar could have sworn they sounded far away, but that didn’t make sense, he wouldn’t have heard them over the battle.

Suddenly the heat around him was gone, as cool air surged towards his head, the visor gripping Rhaegar’s face gone. He blinked rapidly at the man standing with him “Arthur? Are you alright?”

“I should be asking you that!” The Kingsguard looked him up and down. “I saw the fight, but four of the bastards came at me at once. Are you alright?”

“I’ll live, old friend.” Rhaegar shook his head. He felt light-headed, as if all the blood had come rushing into it. It was probably all knocked out by that damn axe. Thank the Seven for good steel. He had no idea how his armor had managed to hold up under the blows he had taken.

The sounds of fighting had grown quieter. Rhaegar looked up to see the men around him scrambling to the ships rigging and mast. “The ship’s ours?”

“I expect there are still some ironmen below decks,” Arthur replied, “I gave orders to pull this ship away from the Your Grace’s as quickly as possible.”

Rhaegar looked about him. Beyond the ship they were on, the fighting had died down, though it looked as if the royal ships were still picking through the waters near fallen ships, looking for survivors of their own forces or any highborn prisoners to take from the Greyjoy’s.

He shook his head. “Sorry, Arthur. I think I need to get this armor off.”

With that, the Kingsguard grabbed one of Rhaegar’s arms and put it over his shoulder. “I’m getting you back to the ship, come on. Lean on me.”

Rhaegar would have argued if his head would just stop spinning. He grunted as the knight half-carried him back towards the plank. He did his best to mind his feet, and somehow made it over without sending him or the Kingsguard into the water beneath them.

As soon as they were back on the royal galley, Arthur called out to the men still on deck. “Help me get the king to the royal compartments! And fetch the maester, quickly!!”

A sailor came up to them and took Rhaegar’s other arm. Together, he and Arthur walked him to the stairs to the ship’s interior. They guided him in without too much difficulty, making it down the flight and guiding the king down the hall to the royal compartments.

Rhaegar watched as the Kingsguard pushed the door open. “You know, I have no idea how this armor survived that axe.”

“Call it the god’s favor and leave it at that. Besides, I wouldn’t say it survived, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar laughed and immediately regretted it. His body screamed in protest at the action. He almost voiced the pain but bit his lip until blood welled from it.

As he and Arthur began removing his armor, he glanced at the sailor, who seemed to be trying to move as little as possible. “Go and fetch Captain Nightwaters. I’d like to know if I should be worried about a counterattack or not.”

“Aye, yer Grace.” The man spun around and jogged out of the cabin.

“From the sound of it, they broke the attack off.” Arthur pulled off a gauntlet as he spoke. “They need their ships more than we need our own, and I expect the fight went out of them when Lord Balon’s son fell.”

“So that was Greyjoy’s son? The man who tried so hard to chop my limbs off?”

“His second, if I recall right.” Arthur paused as a knock came from the door. “Who is it?”

“The captain, ser.”

“Enter, then.”

Nightwaters opened the door and limped in. His leg was bandaged, tightly by the look of it, but his face shone with triumph. “Victory is yours, Your Grace.”

“Oh? So Balon Greyjoy is dead or captured?”

The captain’s smile faded. “No, Your Grace.”

“Then we still have a war to win. And victory still eludes us.” My hopes have failed. They may yet see war, even now.

“Your Grace.” Arthur spoke up, giving him an admonishing look. “Whatever strength the ironmen had left was wasted here today, if the gods are good. It’ll make subduing the islands themselves that much easier.”

Rhaegar sighed. “True enough. How many of their ships went down, Captain?”

“Thirty-five or so war galleys, that and half-again as many longships.”

Arthur nodded. “Not enough to stop any of the fleets from making landfall, Your Grace. Even the eastern fleet.”

The man knows where my mind is. “Thank you, Arthur. Captain, send the word out to the other ships. Make a sweep for any men who might still be treading water, then we continue on to Pyke, as swiftly as possible.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

As the door closed, Arthur sighed. “It is a shame we couldn’t end the war here, away from young eyes, royal or otherwise. I suppose it’s a mercy that the princes weren’t here to witness the battle.”

“Aye, for their sakes more than mine.”

Aegon and Jon had been entrusted with the eastern fleet, assigned to Stark and Tully’s care until the royal fleet reached the Iron Islands. Viserys had remained behind in Lord Tywin’s care, to his son’s delight and his brother’s fury. Just thinking about the fit Viserys had thrown made the pain Rhaegar now felt seem mild. Rhaegar had intended for all of them to remain at Casterly Rock when he’d first arrived, but after what happened the night before the fleet departed, that had no longer been an option.

When the boys had been carried into his chambers by Ser Barristan, Rhaegar had not know what to make of it. The blood dripping from the knight’s arm was enough, though, and the word had immediately been sent out to secure the castle and the town. Besides the men that Selmy had dispatched, though, no one had yet been found that was connected to the attempt.

And the list of people who might have ordered it done is longer than I care to think, despite my efforts.

“Arthur.” Rhaegar realized he’d said that quietly, so he raised his voice to say it again. “Arthur. Do you think that this was wise? Bringing them here, instead of leaving them?

“No, Your Grace.” Arthur shook his head firmly. “Whether it was one or both who was the target, bringing them here was the right decision. Sad as it is, this was expected, and planned for. Better near you, and a large host of men with swords, then in a distant castle where people think it safe.”

“I only know a few people who ever considered the Red Keep ‘safe’, and they’re all dead.”

Ser Arthur laughed at that. “True enough, or else I wouldn’t be here.”

The knight glanced away as another knock came from the door. “That’ll be the maester. I suppose I ought…”

Whatever the knight said next was lost to Rhaegar, swallowed by darkness. The last thing he remembered was falling.

Chapter Text

Jon

There was snow on the wind, falling from the sky above. That was odd, considering that summer had begun two years ago and no maester had said it was done. Jon peered up from his pony, curious to see if any clouds had formed above him and his party. Beside him were eight men, northmen and rivermen, as well as Uncle Benjen.But there are no clouds, save the black ones made by the soldiers.

Jon said as much to Benjen, who nodded. “Aye, lad, that is the snow of war. Ash is a common sight near a battlefield, it is so in every part of the world.”

“But there isn’t a battle,” Jon replied, confused. "Uncle Eddard said the ironmen had retreated to Ten Towers or one of their other castles.”

The knight looked uncomfortable atop his destrier. “Yes, most of their warriors have. But the villages and settlements the people fled are still there. Your uncle and the other lords ordered them razed, to deny the ironmen any food or shelter they might use to aid them in their rebellion.”

Jon hadn’t thought about that. Ever since the ships had landed last week, everyone had been so busy it was hard to think. Lord Tyrion was managing the supplies and directing soldiers to this place or that, while Lord Hoster and both of Jon’s uncles had been riding out each day to take part in a raid or aid in the siege at Ten Towers. Even Egg was busy, running about camp to hear from the knights and lords, trying to make the men smile.

It had been different for Jon. Ever since his uncle had been put in charge of him, things had changed. He was tasked with helping to clean both Benjen’s and Lord Eddard’s armor and weapons clean and was also being shown how to use a bow and sword by them as well. Egg was given the same, but Lord Hoster was more indulgent with his charge, which was part of the reason he got to run about and chat with anyone who would pause for a moment.

A new thought crossed his mind. “But did all of the people leave? The women and children? We aren’t hurting them, are we?”

Benjen sighed. “In all honesty, lad, no, they did not all flee. And yes, you can expect that some men are hurting those who are still outside the walls. There are always those who can’t run away, even if they want to. As well as fools who think it wiser to stay than to go. Such is the way of war.”

But they aren’t fighting, Jon thought. Why hurt them? What does that make us?

His thoughts must have shown. Benjen sighed before kicking his heels into his horse’s sides. “Enough brooding Jon, you’re too young for it. Ned wants us at Ten Towers before midday, and I don’t plan on keeping him waiting.”

Neither did Jon. It would have been rude, and he had questions he expected his other uncle would have answers to. He mimicked the Kingsguard and was pleased when his pony picked up its pace, much like Benjen’s horse.

It felt like hours passed as they rode. The ships had landed two leagues south of Ten Towers, and their party had left just before the sun broke over the eastern horizon. Lord Tyrion had questioned the need of landing so far from the castle, but Lord Hoster and Jon’s uncle had insisted for his and Aegon’s safety. The Lannister had not pressed the issue. Still, Egg and Jon both wished that they didn’t have to ride so far to get to the siege.

The siege at Ten Towers, at least. Egg had gone with Lord Hoster to see the siege of Harlaw Hall, just a league south of where they’d set camp. Egg had already seen Ten Towers while Jon had been at lessons with Benjen, so had decided to go see another castle while Jon took his turn.

Not that his brother had kept any details to himself. Egg had been bursting with them, eager to tell Jon all he had seen and learned about the castle. He had spoken with excitement about the towers for which the castle was named, how each was built in a different fashion form the others, like a god had picked up ten different castles and mashed them all together. Aegon expected the siege to end quickly, seeing as they had to meet the others at Pyke to end the rebellion sooner.

Jon was torn from his thoughts when he heard Benjen curse. He glanced at his uncle, who was gazing ahead of their party. His expression was dark, with anger and what Jon thought might have been fear.

“What is it, uncle?” Jon asked.

“Nothing, lad.” Benjen turned his horse to look at the men around them. “There’s a old path a quarter-league back. It tracks further inland, but there shouldn’t be any problem.”

Jon stopped listening as he leaned to the right, gazing through and past the men to where his uncle had been staring. Maybe forty yards in front of them was a thick copse of trees, which was where the Kingsguard was looking. At first, Jon saw nothing but trees and smoke in the sky, same as before. Then he realized that some of the smoke was rising from what he thought was near ahead. And through the trees, he swore that there was orange and red-light casting shadows outward.

“Uncle Benjen, what's happening?”

“I said nothing, Jon.” His uncle’s voice had lost its usual warmth, freezing into ice. “Change of plans, that’s all. We’re turning back for a bit, then changing trails. Let’s go.”

That’s when Jon heard it, coming from ahead. Crying, he was sure, and…is that laughter?

Jon didn’t know what was happening. But he knew what Egg would’ve done if he had been with him.

Jon kicked his pony’s sides as hard as he could. It whinnied and jolted forward into a run, startling the horses of the men around him. Before they realized what was happening, Jon was already fifteen yards ahead of them. He could hear Benjen calling his name, the sound of hoof beats filling his ears as the knight and the other men all spurred their horses after him. They’d catch him, Jon knew, his pony wasn’t nearly as fast as those grown horses.

But I don’t need to be fast. Just small.

He had reached the tree line. The copse of trees wasn’t very long, and didn’t seem all that wide either, judging from the flames on the other side. But the trees that were there were clumped together, the gaps too small for a man to get through. At least, for a man on a warhorse.

Where the trail turned right, Jon kept the pony pointed forward. It whinnied as its hooves felt grass even as Jon heard hooves strike dirt just behind him. But it was already too late.

The pony entered the tree line, managing to fit through. Curses and neighs filled the air as the men behind him tugged their reins hard, forcing their mounts to stop rather than smash the horses and their bodies into the trees. The branches slapped and smacked at Jon’s head, tugged at his cloak, but none of them got a hold. As the sunlight suddenly vanished, Jon kept his eyes forward, towards the flames. Ignoring his uncle’s yells as he looked ahead.

Jon was only riding in the trees for a few minutes. It felt as if no time had passed when the pony broke out of the trees. As soon as it did it stopped, whinnying in fright at the flames in front of it. Jon patted its neck, sliding off as he looked around him.

The flames were coming from a farmhouse, already hollowed out. The roof was gone, though the walls were still standing. Besides ash and smoke there was another smell that Jon didn’t recognize, a stink that made him sick when he breathed in. He bit his lip and swallowed hard, forcing the bile to stay down. There were other buildings on fire, some even further gone than the one in front of him, others less so.

Behind him, he heard calls and the sound of snapping branches. He could also hear hoof beats from where he had come, though they were fading. They’ll take the road, try to trap me between them and the men on foot.

Jon didn’t mind that much. His destination was just ahead of him, and he knew it. He breathed deeply, using his cloak to cover his mouth and nose, and walked around the burning house.

What he found was the village center. The houses were strewn in a rough, circular shape, broken by gaps between houses and a trail that probably led to the road to Ten Towers. In the center was a stone well, though its bucket was nowhere to be seen. All the houses were burning, with not a soul left in them.

That wasn’t the case in the center, by the well. A group of men were gathered there, staring inward at something. There were at least ten, in various styles of armor and states of dress. Beside them a knight was standing, armor reflecting the dancing flames, a great steel fist topping his helm. Another man was also aside clutching a pair of children, a boy and girl no older than Jon, who were staring at the group of men. It was from there that the laughter was coming, as well as the crying.

Jon had long since felt fear creeping into his belly, but there was something else as well, something hot and fiery, like anger but deeper, fiercer.

One of the men was talking. “Think she’s just about used up, Raff.” The speaker was young by the look of him, and his words were somewhat muddled by the chuckles coming from him.

“Fuck off, Joss. She’s done when I’m done, and I ain’t done yet.” The man was on the ground, wearing just a tunic, with his trousers pulled down. He was laughing too, and grunting as well.

That’s when Jon realized that there was someone in the middle of the men. A woman, long brown hair framing her face. He could not see it though, coated as it was in blood. Her clothes were ripped all over, and everywhere they were, Jon could see more blood.

One of the other men spoke up. “If you don’t finish soon, you’ll be fucking a corpse, you damn fool.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Raff sighed. “But I suppose the Imp might take it amiss if we take long. Ain’t that so, ser?”

“Finish.” The words came from the knight. His voice sounded like a great stone was cracking. “If you want to stick your cock somewhere then use the girl, or the boy. Otherwise, finish them too.”

“Right.” Raff sighed again as he stood, pulling up his trousers with one hand and grabbing a spear from the man next to him with the other. He looked down at the whimpering woman. “After all, I guess you can’t come with us. Can’t hardly walk, can you?”

A sound came from the woman. The man chuckled then leaned down, putting a hand to his ear. “Try again.”

The sound came again, louder this time. Jon still couldn’t hear it, but apparently Raff did. He threw back his head and laughed. “You think so?”

It happened in a flash. One moment the man was laughing, the next there was screaming.

The children were crying and screaming as Raff pulled his spear out of the woman, blood dripping from its point. She clutched at her throat, trying to staunch the blood from where the spear had torn her neck open. She thrashed for a few moments before falling still.

And then the knight grew. That’s what Jon thought at first, but then he realized the man had actually been sitting the whole time. Standing, the man was as big as a giant, coated in steel. Three black hounds against yellow graced his surcoat, while a greatsword hung from his waist. On the knight, though, it looked like a normal blade.

Jon's heart was beating so fast it felt like the ground was shaking. He must have made a sound then, because the giant turned to look at him. No, Jon realized. He’s looking past me.

The ground was shaking. Jon noticed just before the horses reached him, coming to a swift halt as the men on them practically leapt from their saddles. Among them was Benjen, white cloak flapping as he put himself between Jon and the steel giant’s party. From the house Jon had circled past two other men came on foot, steel drawn as they came to stand with the other men.

“Clegane.” Benjen’s voice was the same as when Jon had left him: ice, with no hint of give in it. “We did not think to see you here.”

“No? Good.” The giant shrugged. “If you don’t know, they don’t either.” Jon could feel the giant’s gaze as he looked over the Kingsguard’s shoulder. “You protecting the scum now?”

“This is no ironman, Clegane,” Benjen replied, “this is Prince Jon, son of Rhaegar, of House Targaryen.”

“Is he?” The giant looked Jon up and down. “He is dressed nice, too nice for this scum. Far from home, ain’t he?”

“We all are.”

“Hmm.” The giant looked at Benjen. “On your way, wolf.”

“Not without them.” It took Jon a moment to realize that those words had come from him.

The giant took a step forward, which took him a quarter of the way to where Jon and Benjen stood. His gaze was now focused on Jon. “Them?”

“Them.” Jon shoved an arm toward the man to the side, where the two children had gone silent. The girl was staring at the steel giant, while the boy was staring at Jon.

“Spoils of war, boy.” The giant sounded bored. “We can do what we please.” He looked at Benjen. “That is how it is done.”

For a moment Jon’s fear washed over him. Then a familiar voice echoed in his mind. We can’t let him forget that we are dragons too.

“I wasn’t asking.” Jon voice was sharp, and cold, same as Benjen’s or Lord Eddard’s. “I say they come with us, and they will.”

“Jon.” It was barely a whisper, but the warning in Benjen’s voice was clear, even as his hand tightened on his sword’s hilt. The men around him shifted, clearly fearful.

The giant took two steps forward. That brought him to a stop three feet in front of Benjen. His voice was quiet, something Jon hadn’t thought was possible. “Say that again.”

The heat inside Jon had spread, and now reached his head. He ducked under Benjen’s arm and stood in front of the giant.

“I said they come with us!” He yelled the words, throwing them at the giant as if they were arrows.

All were silent for a moment. Then another. A third.

And then the giant started shaking. Jon didn’t know why, not until he threw back his head and let his laughter boom out, echoing into the air. His men followed, all of them laughing, the sound almost like ravens cawing together,

“Brat has balls!” The giant was still laughing as Benjen pulled Jon back behind him. “More balls than you, wolf. And your men too.”

He didn’t wait for an reply. “Alright, boy. The crown does get a share of the spoils.” He threw out an arm, pointing to where the children were being held. “Choose.”

“Clegane!” Benjen’s voice was angry, his calm ruptured by Jon’s actions. “That’s enough of this! Just-”

“SHUT UP!!” The giant roared. His voice silenced everyone and everything, save the crackles and dull roars coming from the burning buildings. He looked again at Jon.

“Didn’t hear me? Choose.” His voice returned to normal, the stone cracking against Jon’s ears. “Choose one, and I’ll give it to you.”

“I said-” Jon started to speak, but the giant stamped his foot, shaking the ground with the force of it.

“I heard you. And you heard me. You get one. Now choose which.”

The heat was gone. Whatever had spurred Jon to speak, to challenge this thing in front of him, it was gone now. And the only thing in its place was fear, fear and uncertainty. He glanced at Benjen, but the Kingsguard wasn’t looking at him, staying completely focused on the steel giant.

He glanced at the two children. They were both staring at him now, eyes wide, faces white, giving them both a haunted look. The boy was crying, while the girl’s teeth had bitten into her lip, blood trickling down from the cut they made.

Jon glanced between the two, fear coursing through his veins. He licked his lips, gulping.

“Seems he can’t decide.” The giant turned towards the children. “I’ll help.”

He walked towards them, drawing the greatsword as he did.

“There’s no need, Ser Gregor. I can make the choice easy.”

The giant stopped as a new voice cut through the air. Benjen head jerked as he turned it to look behind them. Jon spun around, his breath leaving him in a gasp at the sight of a new arrival.

“Seems we missed the fight,” Tyrion Lannister observed, “but the fun isn’t quite done, that’s good to see.” The heir of Casterly Rock rode his horse at a leisurely pace, a contingent of Lannister men riding behind him.

The dwarf glanced at Jon and Benjen briefly before turning back towards the giant. “I trust you haven’t forgotten your liege lord’s share of the spoils either, Ser Gregor?”

“My lord.” The giant motioned back towards the group of men behind him. “We found gold and steel. Lord Tywin will get his share.”

“How thoughtful, Clegane,” said Tyrion dryly, “but my father isn’t who I was speaking of, and even if he were, neither of us care nearly as much about gold as people think. We have enough of it, by all accounts. After all,” Tyrion motioned his arm at the men behind the giant, “your men look weary from the fierce campaign they’ve waged against the ironmen. I’d hate to deprive them of gold and good steel when they’ve clearly earned it.”

The giant was silent, watching as the dwarf rode his horse between him and Jon’s party. Jon didn’t know what was happening. It felt like a god had pulled the world taut, and it would snap at any moment.

“That said, House Lannister still needs its share,” Tyrion said, “but I think I have found an answer that will please everyone.”

He motioned towards the boy. “In lieu of gold or steel, I’ll take the lad off your hands. Wouldn’t want you or your men to go through the trouble of seeing to some thralls when you’re so busy crushing His Grace’s and my father’s enemies.”

The Imp snapped his fingers. One Lannister man dismounted and walked past the giant, no hesitation in his stride. He reached out and grabbed the boy, tugging him away from his captor. Neither the man or the boy resisted, though the girl remained in his grasp, and started struggling to get to her companion.

“My prince.” Tyrion bowed his head towards Jon. “I must apologize, it seems I’ve only left you with one option to choose from.”

Jon didn’t understand why or how, but he didn’t question the Imp’s help. “I forgive you, Lord Tyrion.” Jon motioned towards the girl. “I choose her.”

At that, the giant turned his head to stare at Jon. Jon stared back, the heat in his stomach returning as he did. For a moment he could have sworn he saw the giant’s eyes narrow behind that visor, but it passed as Clegane turned to look at Tyrion, who stared back much like Jon had.

After a moment, the giant grunted and turned, motioning at his men as he started walking. The one holding the girl practically threw her away in his haste to keep up with the giant, while the rest followed suit. The one called Raff stared at Jon for a moment, before spitting and then turning to join his fellows.

The girl had run to her companion and was clutching at him tightly, while he did the same. They were both crying now, their sobs tearing at Jon’s ears.

“Benjen,” he started to speak but the Kingsguard whirled on him.

“Not. Another. Word.”

His voice was low, but it still made Jon jump back, the intensity in that voice overwhelming.

Again, the Lannister came to his aid. “Careful there, Ser Benjen. Don’t forget your vows, and what happens to any who dare to strike one of the royal blood, family or not.”

Benjen rounded on Lord Tyrion. “Don’t even think of trying to tell me my duties, Lannister!”

“A man who denies wisdom because he dislikes they who speak it is doomed to a lifetime of foolishness, ser.” Tyrion gave him a bow from his horse, smiling in a way Jon had seen others do so. A smile without any joy or humor.

“My lord.” Jon spoke up, ignoring the look his uncle shot at him. Tyrion turned to look at him. “Thank you. If you hadn’t helped…”

The Lannister looked at Jon, waiting a few moments before answering. “Yes, lucky for all of us that I decided to come to Ten Towers today after all.” Tyrion sighed. “No thanks are needed, my prince. If things had gone any further, I expect House Stark and Lannister would be at war before the moon’s turn, with your father caught in the middle. Bad for everyone concerned.”

The Imp motioned towards the two children. “Take the boy too. Consider him a gift, from the heir of Casterly Rock to a scion of House Targaryen.”

Lord Tyrion turned and started riding back to his men. He stopped when Jon called out to him.

“Lord Tyrion. They say a Lannister always pays their debts.”

“We do, whatever the debt might be.”

Jon’s head had cleared, and his voice was strong as he spoke. “A good prince always pays his debts as well. I swear, I will not forget.”

Lord Tyrion looked at Jon thoughtfully, his mismatched eyes searching Jon’s as if he were looking for something. Then he smiled.

“Nor will I, Prince Jon.”

Chapter Text

Barristan

The waiting was always the hardest part.

Barristan thoughts were dark as he scanned the men scrambling ahead of him. Most of them were common born, pulled from farms or slums to labor for the soldiers and knights in the campaign. The mud they were in coated their clothes and features. The knights and highborn refrained from entering this section of the camp unless necessary.

Most of them, anyway.

“Come on, pull them up! Break it down, down I say!”

Tarly’s face was red as he bellowed orders to the men around him. They all hastened to obey, though Barristan could not tell if it was for eagerness or fear. Both, more as like.

The catapults were not as obedient, unfortunately. They were large and cumbersome, and the mud made by the squall the day before made moving them all the harder. Some had argued for keeping them on the dryer ground further back, but Tarly had been adamant. He insisted that the catapults would be closer and more destructive, and that the sooner a breach was made, the sooner the men would be out of the filth. Trading filth for battle. Hardly a fair trade for most men.

The other commanders had agreed as well. The ironmen were on the backfoot and they could not be allowed to regain any initiative. That was why the camp had been set so close to Pyke’s gatehouse- to add urgency to their task, and to remind their foes of the Stranger’s approach. Only a fool would think that the ironmen had any chance of victory.

Not that they hadn’t been trying. Arrows continued to fly towards the men, occasionally hitting one. Their shrieks and cries tended to cut off quickly, depending on the severity of their wounds and the patience of the men around the injured. Balon Greyjoy fought on, even when most men in his position would have asked for terms by now.

Many would call that madness, though a few might call it honorable.

“Ser!” Barristan turned to see a man in royal colors jog up to him. He was red in face, but there was an eagerness in his expression. “His Grace wants to know how the siege is coming along.”

“Tell him that it won’t be long now,” Barristan replied. “The engines are all set and have been firing at the gatehouse all day. Pyke is old, its stones worn and cracked. Creating a breach is a matter of when, not if.”

“Aye, ser.” The man turned to go when Barristan spoke again. “How does the king seem?”

“Tired, ser,” the youth’s face darkened at that, “but stubborn. He’d be directing the siege hisself, save for that iron maester Stark brought from Lordsport.”

Thank the Seven for Eddard Stark, then. “Thank you. As you were.”

Barristan stretched as the man jogged back the way he came. Though his eyes had turned back towards Pyke, his thoughts were wandering to the king.

Rhaegar had been unconscious for two days after clashing with the Iron Fleet. Most had thought him at death’s door, though Arthur insisted that had never been the case. In the end, the king had woken just as the ships came in view of Pyke, an omen well received by all present.

The other forces hadn’t been informed of what had happened until they had finished with Great Wyk and Harlaw and joined the king’s command on Pyke proper. Tarly had been furious when he learned what had transpired, while the lord’s Tyrell, Tully, and Lannister had all voiced their concerns about the king’s health. Stark hadn’t said a word on the matter, and still hadn’t so far as Barristan knew.

For now, the king was conscious and aware of his surroundings. Capable of command, yet still too ill to don armor and enter the fray itself. A fact that relieved just as many men as it distressed. Barristan was of the former. One brush with death is enough for a single rebellion.

He had been furious when he’d learned of the duel between Rhaegar and Maron Greyjoy. “This is why we should have kept the children with the king,” he had growled at Ser Arthur, “If I and Ser Benjen had been with you, that scum would never have come close to the king.”

“Perhaps, but what’s done is done, and the king’s will was clear,” Arthur had replied. “It is not our place to question it, then or now.”

A shout brought Barristan back to the present. The men around him were shouting, their activity taking on a new energy as they did. He scanned their faces, then looked at the castle. Dust was starting to rise from the southern wall, and the men at the engines saw it, hastening to shift the catapults pointed elsewhere and reload the ones already doing so.

Tarly saw it too. “There we go! Concentrate there! The team who finishes the job will have first choice of their larders!” The Lord of Horn Hill turned to glance at Barristan. “Tell the sortie groups to prepare themselves. I want men in there before the rubble finishes settling."

“My lord.” Barristan nodded before turning and striding down the line. To his left the catapults continued to reload and fire, while on his other side men were gathering. Sortie groups be damned. Once that wall is down half the fools here will charge the place, to sooner go home or grab plunder, depending on the man.

There was a third sort as well. Barristan noted the banners and shields with the heraldry of knights and lords alongside the common men. The king had promised to knight the first man into the breach, and that whoever brought Balon Greyjoy low would have a hundred acres and a holdfast.

Not the stuff of songs, but it will make heroes of many who would otherwise hang back.

He had reached the sortie groups. The men within had been charged with clearing any breach of defenders for the rest of the host and had been preparing for two days. Hardly enough time by any standard, but the siege had gone swiftly, as many things had over the course of the campaign.

One of the men was just leaving his tent when he saw Barristan walking towards them. “Head’s up, men! A true knight approaches!”

Thoros of Myr’s smile was stained red, wine fresh on his breath as he continued, “Thank you, ser, for honoring us with your presence! How can we be of service?”

The red priest chuckled at that. His armor was piecemeal, though the steel was strong. His red clothes were visible beneath it, while his cloak covered his back. Barristan scanned him quickly before raising his voice to the men before him.

“Listen up! It looks like the gatehouse’s southern wall will fall soon! Tarly wants us advancing before the ironmen have a chance to plug the gap with bodies!”

“We know that, ser.” a voice rose above the men’s chatter. It belonged to a man dressed like a knight, a black bear rearing across his breastplate. “Tarly said as much when he chose us.”

“It bears repeating.” Barristan turned to look at the speaker. “Mormont, you’ve been given charge of a company. Remember that they will pay the price of any complacency on your part.”

The Kingsguard turned before the northman could answer. “Move out! I want you all waiting just behind the southern section’s engines before that wall comes down!”

Yells and cheers rose as the group surged forward, passing Barristan to head for their positions. Thoros remained, however, still smiling at the knight.

“You know,” the priest slurred, “a Kingsguard would be welcome company when we go in. Might be I could show you a few tricks to win a fight, show an old knight some new tricks.”

Old knight? Does he take me for a dotard? “His Grace has commanded me to hold back and await his order to advance. I have no doubt that the men will acquit themselves well.”

“Oh, that we will. The one’s who make it, at least.” Thoros laughed as he walked past Barristan. “Good luck, ser. See you in there, or in hell.”

Barristan rolled his eyes as the red priest walked after the other men. I doubt we’d go to the same hell, damned as we both are.

The Kingsguard turned and walked away from the engines, and from Pyke. It was high time he returned to his charge.

He did not have to go far. The prince’s tents had been placed next to the king, and the king had insisted on being placed as close to the castle without being in danger. The result had been for Rhaegar and his sons much closer to the catapults than all the others had liked, though not close enough for either of the princes.

The royal tents’ black and red cloth were easy enough to spot. They were smaller versions of those the royal family had used on the journey from King’s Landing to Lannisport. War demanded utility, though, and the king hadn’t complained about having to reduce his own quarter’s. Neither had his sons, though that likely stemmed from theirs’ being the same size as before. Two young boys did not need much room, even those with royal blood.

While their accommodations had not changed, the same couldn’t be said of the princes themselves. Aegon was as talkative as ever, but where once he spoke of princes and knights he now talked of battles and conflict. He also seemed more respectful of their foe, his disdain of the ironmen fading as he observed the war around him. Barristan thought that a good thing, for a man who did not underestimate his foes was harder to beat and likely to love longer.

His brother was another matter entirely. He seemed to be learning quickly from his two uncles even now, but that wasn't the issue. Jon had always been quieter than Aegon, and less cheerful in nature, but events had changed him, drastically so. His quiet had become brooding, and his gaze was colder than Barristan had ever seen before. While the prince insisted that he was the same as before, both Lord Stark and the king thought the changes concerning. The Lord Commander had thought the same, though Jon’s father and uncle had not liked the knight’s words. “The prince acts less as he did before because the boy in him has died, at least a little,” Arthur had told the king in private. “Your Grace, the war has done that, and it cannot be undone. All we may do is shield him from more of the same, until it cannot be avoided.”

Rhaegar had looked ready to strike his old friend after hearing that. His rage at what Jon had witnessed had been fierce, directed at all from Benjen Stark to the Mountain to Tyrion Lannister to Lord Tywin to Lord Eddard. In the end, only word that the princes would be reunited with him soon had managed to lift him out of his black mood.

It was as if another man stood before us…one whom the king has sworn never to become.

The Kingsguard shook his head as he walked. His goal was near.

Barristan arrived at the tents not five minutes after leaving the front line. Men stood in front of both, nodding at the Kingsguard’s approach. One of the guards pointed at the kings. Needing no other sign, Barristan ducked into the tent.

He was surprised at the sight that greeted him. The two princes were seated in the middle of the tent, while the king lay on his side next to them. Arthur was on one knee beside Prince Aegon. They were all focusing on something in-between them, which Barristan recognized as a map. A pretty thing, it had illustration of the Iron Islands along with the coasts of the North, riverlands, and westerlands.

But it was none of that which surprised Barristan. It was the other children in the tent. The boy and girl were dressed in well-made but plain clothing, eyes wide as they stared at the map as well. They had a common look, with brown hair and hazel eyes, with some freckles peppering their faces. The two were seated next to Jon, as they had often been over the last few days. It seemed everywhere the prince went, they did as well. This was the first time that Barristan had seen them in the king’s quarters though. What does the king mean by bringing them in here?

“Ser Barristan.” The knight turned his head to find Benjen Stark standing next to him, watching the gathering in front of him. The man’s voice was quiet, so as not to interrupt the king as he addressed the children.

“Ser Benjen,” he whispered, “what are they…?”

“Jon asked if they could meet His Grace, who said he’d gladly speak with them.”

Barristan smiled.  “I still find it incredible that they’ve come this far. I did not think that Lord Stark would have enough interest to bring them from Harlaw.”

“Ned?” Benjen chuckled at that. “Ned would’ve handed them off to someone else back on that damned island. No, Jon’s the one who insists that they stay, and no one has dared tell him otherwise.”

Barristan laughed quietly. Benjen had told him and Arthur about what had happened on the road to Ten Towers. After berating him for letting the prince get ahead of him and challenge a man like Gregor Clegane, the Lord Commander had smiled. “A wise man once told me that there are few things as frightening as the anger of a gentle man. His Grace has proven that true many times. It is the same with Prince Jon, I think.”

If anyone had been frightened, it had been Benjen, not the Mountain, as the northmen ruefully acknowledged himself. And they had all agreed that such actions on the part of a boy who had yet to see his eighth nameday were not to be encouraged.

And yet Barristan could not make himself feel anything besides respect for the prince’s actions. Most agreed that Prince Aegon could be as fierce as a dragon when roused, but few ever said that of his younger brother. Prince Jon had proven them wrong, even if they did not know it yet. And more than courage, his actions had demonstrated compassion, a trait many thought that too few highborn possessed.

“Ser.” Barristan returned from his thoughts as the king’s voice rose to address him. “Excuse us, I was just showing my son’s companions where they’ve been living for the past year. Do you bring word from Tarly?”

“Not directly, Your Grace.” Barristan straightened as he spoke. “It looks like the southern section will fall soon. The men are getting ready.”

“Good.” Rhaegar smiled, though there was more relief than joy in it. “This will be over soon, if the gods are generous.”

“Father, why haven’t the Greyjoy’s yielded yet?” Aegon’s expression was puzzled as he spoke. “Ser Willas said the man was mad, is that why?”

“It may be, although I think it more arrogance than madness.” Rhaegar’s grin was gone, frowning as he addressed his heir. “Ironmen have a tradition of refusing to end their rebellions until their leader is either dead or captured. Balon Greyjoy insists on seeing this through, and is making sure we pay for our efforts to stop him.”

The king gestured towards Barristan. “It was the same way at Duskendale, as Ser Barristan can attest to.”

Barristan was surprised by the path the king’s thoughts had come to. Is it the fate of the town that draws his mind? Or of the lord whose folly brought his house to ruin?

Those were different times. Rhaegar had barely reached manhood when Denys Darklyn seized his father and imprisoned him within the Dun Fort. Tywin Lannister had led the half-year siege as Hand, while the young prince had looked on with sadness and fear. He had been joined by many others, waiting to see the end of the Defiance.

That had been Barristan’s finest moment. His exploits had made him a legend and won him the admiration and respect of every soul in the Seven Kingdoms. Aerys had seemed to always have faith with Barristan, even as he marched with Rhaegar to face the rebel host.

And then the wheel turned. And a hero became a villain.

“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Barristan found himself saying, “though I pray that this does not end as the Defiance did.”

Rhaegar looked at him, a slight frown coming across his features as he looked Barristan in the eye. The king’s gaze held no anger, more confusion and what seemed to be exasperation. Barristan guessed that he did not like having his father’s actions dragged up in these circumstances. He cannot be blamed for that, the Kingsguard thought.

Before the king could respond, a noise broke through the air- a rumbling, like thunder in a still-distant storm. Then the ground began trembling with it. The two commoners grew pale at it, though Rhaegar and his sons both turned to look towards the tent’s entrance. Towards the castle.

Benjen poked his head out of the tent to see clearly. The grin on his face when he returned confirmed what Barristan and the royal’s suspected. “Your Grace, it looks like the gatehouse’s southern wall is coming down. The men are already moving to enter the breach.”

“Good.” Rhaegar grimaced as he shifted to a sitting position, then slowly stood. The princes stood as well, putting themselves at their father’s sides. Barristan caught the glance between them as they did so. They wish to help the king. That is promising, for now and for the future.

The king addressed Benjen. “Remind Tarly to give the first wave as much support as possible. Don’t push inward, secure the area around the gate and open it for the rest of the men.”

“At once, Your Grace.” Stark gave a quick bow before turning to leave the tent. Barristan suspected the man was like as not to find some excuse to charge in himself. Not that he could blame Benjen. The older knight had half a mind to do the same.

“Your Grace, perhaps we should send someone to find Ser Benjen’s older brother,” said Arthur, rising to stand next to the king. “Stark and the other lords will be anxious to see Greyjoy’s surrender or beheading, once the castle is taken. The sooner they can be on their way, the less resentful they will be.”

“We all want to go home, Arthur,” the king replied, “no one more so than I, believe that. The beginning is a delicate time. The peace must be won, or else another war is certain.”

“Father.” Barristan’s gaze went to Aegon as his father looked down at him. “The ironmen have rebelled before, but the peace never stayed. They always tried again. Will this time be different?”

Rhaegar sighed heavily. Moments went by. Finally, the king said, “I don’t know, Aegon. Some think not. Some, like Lord Tywin, would have me order these islands scourged, the people cleared away so that a new beginning can be had. They insist that even the longest and most fruitful of peace’s have been borne out of sorrow and conflict. That it is for the greater good.”

The king spoke those last words as if they were bitter in his mouth. His eyes were fixed on something only he could see, in the back of the tent. His face was a mask, a dark mockery of the prince that brought tears to the eye of those who word his song. In his place, for a moment, a different king stood where Rhaegar did, one whose eyes burned like fire.

And then it passed. In an instant, the shadows seemed to vanish. The king shook himself, before smiling down at his heir. He ruffled his hair affectionately. “But it is up to us to prove them wrong. We cannot let ourselves think that we cannot not do the right thing, even if it seems hard or even impossible. For that is where good ends and evil begins.”

Aegon nodded, smiling up at his father. Jon was smiling as well, a rare sight. The king glanced up to look at Barristan. “Find Lord Tarly. Tell him that any common ironborn who surrenders is to be kept alive. Once that is done, you and Stark have my permission to enter the fray. We must end this, Ser Barristan, so that we may make a new beginning.”

Chapter Text

Elia

Elia rubbed Balerion affectionately, smiling as the black cat stretched under her hands. She had moved her chair to be in the sunlight, and Balerion seemed to appreciate it. She doubted the light orange dress she wore would survive if his mood changed, but for the moment he was content. Of late, Balerion had been visiting her chambers more and more often. She wasn’t sure why, though she suspected that Rhaenys’ growing absences had something to do with it.

Recently, Elia’s daughter had been spending more and more time outside the Red Keep, to ride in the kingswood or visit one of the city market’s or take a pleasure barge onto the Blackwater. All the while she was accompanied by at least one Kingsguard, as well as her cousins and the courtiers who always found an excuse to accompany them.

Elia could only advise her daughter to adapt when she came to complain. “You are the king’s daughter, and for all the blessings that entails, responsibility comes with it. One such is the power you wield, and the way that people will flock to it. Some will seek to serve you and your family, others will wish to use you to advance their own interests, some will try to do both. Knowing who is which and acting accordingly is something you must learn.”

So far, the results had been mixed. Rhaenys had always been accustomed to attention, but of late had been growing more and more irritated as part of the court seemed to make a lifestyle of following her. While she could be patient when she wished, Elia had heard stories of Rhaenys sending flustered ladies and humiliated squires from her sight when the cloyingness had grown too much. Her Dornish kin found it all amusing, while Elia could only do her best to remind Rhaenys to keep her head as often as possible.

Balerion suddenly shifted in her lap. The cat turned onto his belly, his eyes going to the chamber’s door while his ears rose. Elia’s gaze followed his, where sure enough a knock came from. She stood, Balerion meowing in protest as she placed him at her feet, leaping onto the bed as Elia crossed the chamber to open the door.

Oberyn was waiting outside, standing a few feet from the door. Between them was Ser Humfrey, the Kingsguard assigned to her while Lewyn looked after Daenerys and Ser Arys after Rhaenys, respectively. Her brother looked concerned, though it seemed to dissipate as he saw her. “Elia, you look rested. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Not at all, Balerion and I were just enjoying the sunlight.” Elia looked at him, puzzled as his appearance. “Is something the matter?”

His smile faded in part at the question. “The Hand- well, the small council asks that you join them.”

“What?” Lord Arryn and other members of the council had asked after her advice and opinion on some matters, but this was the first they’d invited her to join them in the chamber itself. “What brought this on?”

“A letter from Pyke, Elia.”

Her good mood was gone in an instant. There hadn’t been word from Rhaegar himself since he had departed Lannisport. What word had come to the capital had been from Ser Arthur Dayne, other lords, or simply as gossip. The last news they had received had come three days ago, a raven from Casterly Rock announcing the fall of Pyke and capture of Balon Greyjoy. While the capital had erupted in celebration, many at court had been concerned about what the letter had not said- namely, its lack of words on the king or any of the other royal family in the west.

It was with the latter that Elia’s thoughts were with now. By all accounts, Aegon had been well all the while he had been in the west. Nevertheless, fear for him and for his father had always been present in Elia’s mind.

Though none such for the others, though, a voice in her head whispered.

She brushed the though aside. “Take me there, Oberyn. I doubt the council will appreciate any delay.”

“You’re sure-”

“Yes, Oberyn. Let’s be on our way.”

Her brother nodded before turning and walking down the hall. Elia followed close behind, while Ser Humfrey came right behind her.

“Do you know anything the letter said?”, Elia asked.

“Some of it. Greyjoy has bent the knee and sworn fealty to the Iron Throne. The man had the nerve to say his rebellion was not a rebellion, as he never swore fealty to Rhaegar when he became king. Apparently, his surviving son has been taken hostage as well.”

That part did not surprise Elia. Men who committed treason rarely lived long, and those that did usually yielded their kin to deter them from repeating that mistake. She nodded as Oberyn noted that other ironmen houses would be yielding hostages as well.

Oberyn’s next words caught her off guard. “The king also seems to be recovering well. Good to-”

“What do you mean ‘recovering’?” Elia stopped and rounded on her brother. Oberyn looked unusually abashed at the look on her face, and shame was written across his. “Oberyn, was Rhaegar injured?”

“I don’t know if I-”

“You are not just talking to your sister about her husband, Oberyn, but to a queen of her king. Now, tell me whatever you’ve been hiding from me or I’ll send you back to Sunspear.”

“As if anyone could send me anywhere.” Despite his words, her brother looked resigned. “You know that Rhaegar’s fleet fought a battle before landing on Pyke. Well, during the fighting he dueled with one of Greyjoy’s sons. He killed the man but took some hard hits during the fighting. Then, he collapsed back on his ship. He didn’t wake for two days.”

The last words rang in Elia’s mind. Two days? Two days and no one told me? “Who ordered this be kept secret? And who knew of it?”

“Dayne was the one who ordered it. Only he, Ser Barristan, the ship’s captain, and the maester knew until after Rhaegar had already awoken.”

Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for Oberyn reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “He probably didn’t wish to discourage the soldiers, or worry you or any other family about his condition.”

Elia sighed. “Oberyn, you know there was a time when I never thought Rhaegar would keep something from me, especially something so important. It makes me wonder what could have been.”

Oberyn laughed as they started walking again. “Only fools or maester’s trouble themselves with what could have been, Elia. It happened as it did and there’s no helping that. Don’t you think so, Hightower?”

The young Kingsguard looked caught off-guard by Oberyn’s question. “I suppose so, Prince Oberyn. My lord father always said to learn from the past, to help guide the future.”

“That’s common wisdom,” her brother observed.

The knight flushed. Elia decided to aid him. “Common wisdom is still wisdom, Oberyn.”

“I suppose it is.”

A thought struck Elia. “If it isn’t about him, then what about our son? Has any harm come to Aegon?!”

“No, not at all!” The quickness of his reply helped reassure her. “My nephew is well, along with his brother and uncle.”

Elia frowned at the mentions of the others. If she wished to know of them, she would ask. Oberyn ought to know that by now.

They had reached the throne room by then. Elia’s pace quickened as she turned from the Iron Throne itself to head towards the small council chamber, with Oberyn and Ser Humfrey matching her pace. Even now, Elia preferred to spend as little time as possible in this place, rarely doing so except for events concerning her personally.

As she entered the small council chamber itself, the present members all stood. Half the chairs were empty, making the room appear larger than it normally did. The king was gone, of course, along with Jon Connington, master of laws, and Ser Arthur, the Kingsguard’s Lord-Commander, both accompanying him to the campaign. The master of ships, Lord Redwyne, was also absent, having sailed the royal fleet to the Arbor with the intent of combining with his own and meeting Rhaegar in the west. He had done so but became ill in Lannisport. Elia didn’t know if he had recovered enough to join Rhaegar at Pyke.

She gazed at the remaining members before her. Lord Arryn looked as old as ever, though he could move as fast as Ser Humfrey when he wished.  The Hand smiled at her, one of the few she found to be genuine at court. He kept his mouth closed as he did, disguising the fact that many of his teeth were no longer there. He was still broad of shoulder, and his blue eyes were as sharp as one of the falcons that graced his house’s sigil. Of the small council, Arryn was the member that asked after her thoughts most and was most like to act on them.

Beside him sat the Grand Maester. Pycelle was also old, though the years sat on him well. A great white beard that he cultivated carefully hung almost to his belt, and his expression was kindly as he bowed. Despite that, Elia knew better than to trust him completely. Oberyn believed Pycelle was for House Lannister more than the crown, and his history with Lord Tywin lent credence to that suspicion. For all that, the old maester served ably, and often asked after the health of the royal family.

On the other side of the table were two men she did not trust at all. Opposite Lord Arryn was Varys, the eunuch bowing deeply at the sight of Elia. He had remained master of whisperers against her and Oberyn’s wishes, but Rhaegar had argued that killing him was unnecessary, and that to attempt it and fail would have consequences that were best avoided. Elia had reluctantly conceded the point, and since the king’s coronation Varys had acted as loyally as any other man. Not that it eased anyone’s suspicions of the Spider.

The last man in the chamber was not on the small council at all. Seated next to the master of whisperers was a young man with dark hair and a pointed beard. His smile had always been too clever for Elia to be comfortable with, and the rumors of the man’s ventures had not endeared him to her. Oberyn thought him funny, while Rhaenys thought him smug. Yet all agreed that the man was cunning, if nothing else.

Petyr Baelish had come to the capital just a year passed, brought by Lord Arryn after skillfully overseeing Gulltown’s customs and tolls. The master of coin, Lord Gyles Rosby, had a cough that had been getting much worse over the past year, and the Hand had suggested that Baelish be employed to ease the ill lord’s work. As of late, Baelish was present at more council meetings than Rosby, and was openly whispered to be the man most like to be named master of coin should the current one resign or perish.

“Your Grace,” Lord Arryn spoke, bringing her attention back to him, “thank you for joining us. I hope we did not overstep in asking you here.”

“Not at all, Lord Arryn,” Elia replied as she walked forward to sit, choosing the chair between him and the Grand Maester. “And I hope I did not interrupt, I know that there are a great many things the council must see to in these dark times.”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Pycelle intoned, his voice slow. “In fact, we were just finishing with the details for the upcoming celebration of the fall of Pyke. I am sure Prince Oberyn has informed you of His Grace’s victory over the ironmen, and the end of this ignoble rebellion.”

Elia frowned. “The former yes, but not so the latter.” She turned towards her brother, who was still standing behind her. “I expect you had good reason to do so?”

“Yes,” Oberyn replied, “the reason was the rebellion is not over, not truly. Even now, reavers are still being sighted on the coast, and the ironmen have a habit of forgetting what happens when they rebel every generation or so. I’m tempted to take wagers on when their next rebellion will be, and who will lead it, seeing as Greyjoy failed.”

“Fifty dragons that it takes at least thirty years, my prince.” Baelish’s eyes were sparking, amusement on his face as he spoke. “And fifty again that it won’t be a Greyjoy leading it.”

“You have a bet, Littlefinger.”

Littlefinger? That’s a name I haven’t heard before. Elia glanced back at Oberyn, who winked before shaking his head. He’d tell her more of it later, that much she knew.

“My lords, if we might return to our work,” Varys said airily, “I doubt the queen has come to listen to us wager on peace and war like this. Many would say that we have all seen more than our fair share of conflict in the last several years.”

The eunuch tittered at that. He was the only one. Baelish excepted, all the others in the room were glaring at him, Elia included. Does he truly think that funny? Or does he merely enjoy provoking those around him?

After a moment, Lord Arryn cleared his throat. “Yes, Lord Varys is right. I believe that you have reports from across the Narrow Sea.”

“Yes, my little birds have been singing to me from distant places. Apparently a khalasar is making its way toward Norvos, led by the son of a recently deceased Dothraki warlord. In Pentos, there is talk among its magisters of hiring him to aid them in shaking off the yoke of Braavos, though there are always-”

“If I may, Lord Varys,” Elia interjected. The eunuch pouted but fell silent as she turned towards the Hand. “Apologies, Lord Arryn, but I did not come here to listen to news from Essos. Prince Oberyn informed me that there had been a letter received from my husband the king, and if that is so I wish to know what it said, and why I was not informed of it sooner.”

Lord Arryn looked uncomfortable. There is something that he does not want to tell me, Elia realized. The Hand replied, “Of course, Your Grace, I just thought it best if other business could not be seen to beforehand. I did not wish for the letter to take all of the council’s energies.”

“A sound idea. Yet if the king’s word is concerned, then clearly it takes precedence.” Elia’s voice was polite but cool, and Lord Arryn accepted the subtle rebuke with a bow of his head.

Arryn motioned to Pycelle, who reached into his robe and produced two different parchments. While they both bore the king’s three-headed dragon seal, only one had been opened. That one he put on the table and slid towards Arryn, who reached out to take it. Elia could practically feel Oberyn tense behind her, anger stirring at their implied disrespect. Elia shot him a quick look, warning him not to voice it. Better they condescend then deliberately obstruct me. Then again, they are probably doing so anyway.

“This letter was written to the Hand, who informed the council of it just before you arrived,” Pycelle intoned. His hand held up the other message, presenting it to Elia. “This was written to Your Grace and has not been opened.”

Elia took the letter but made no effort to open it. She turned back towards Arryn. “What does His Grace wish the council to know?”

“First, he made us aware of the ironmen’s surrender, or at least their nobles doing so. As Prince Oberyn mentioned, there are still reavers on the Sunset Sea, though it is expected that they will either return home or flee before too long. Other than a number of soldiers from the westerlands and the Trident, our forces are all preparing to return home.”

Despite her unease, Elia was relieved to hear that. “That is good to hear. King’s Landing has been too long without the king and his heir. It will be good to have them back. Perhaps we could plan a feast or other celebration for their return, to honor His Grace and his kin.”

Arryn gaze went to the table at that, and Elia’s relief went with it. “I am afraid that the king will not be returning with all he took with him, Your Grace.”

Baelish spoke at that. “His Grace has seen fit to assign his brother to the care of the Lord of Casterly Rock. Some might think it wiser to give Prince Viserys to a pit viper, but the king has chosen differently.”

“Lord Tywin has always been an able and loyal servant to the Iron Throne,” Pycelle rebuked the younger man.

“Right up until he marched on this city with an army. And the gates opened for him, strangely. I wonder who might have advised Aerys-”

“Enough, Petyr. Such bickering is of no use to anyone. The prince will be remaining in the westerlands. It is done and cannot be changed without provoking House Lannister, which will not be considered.” Arryn’s eyes went to Elia again. “As for the king’s younger son, he will not be returning with His Grace either. Lord Stark has been granted the wardship of Prince Jon for the foreseeable future and will take him to Winterfell.”

Elia’s breath caught for a moment. Rhaegar, is it truly so?

She realized that the Hand was still looking at her. So were all the others in the room. She drew a breath before addressing them, “If that is His Grace’s command, and Lord Stark had no objection, then it must be so.”

“Yes,” said Arryn, eyes never leaving Elia’s face, “I happen to know that Lord Stark has been hoping to spend more time with his nephew. This decision is undoubtedly a wise one, I’m sure most will agree.”

Elia nodded her head. “Of course, the wisdom of this is plain to see. Though I rather suspect that Aegon will not take it well. He is always insisting that he wishes to go on off on adventures, and hearing that his kin will be going to live with and learn from such great lords will likely irritate him to no end.”

Lord Arryn’s face had remained calm before this. Now it changed, to Elia’s surprise. The Hand looked...sympathetic. “Your Grace, I am afraid the king has decided that Prince Aegon will not be returning for long.”

Elia’s heart skipped a beat. For a few moments, everything ceased, all noise and sight and sensation. And while it did, a single thought raged in her mind, echoing more and more loudly until it felt as if her skull would burst as it raged forth- Rhaegar, what have you done?

Lord Arryn was still speaking, words about the Reach and the noble houses there, of how the king and his heir would return for the capital for a time before the latter departed, of how many details involving Aegon’s wardship had yet to be arranged. But Elia did not hear them, not truly.

She lurched to her feet. “My lords, I must attend to other matters. Please carry on without me.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked towards the door, wrenching her shoulder away when Oberyn tried to place his hand on it, the letter Pycelle had given her crushed in her grasp.

Her body was moving on its own, acting on instinct to take her elsewhere. Her mind was elsewhere, dwelling on a memory that was now playing itself out before her eyes, as if it hadn’t already happened.

It had been the night before he left when she had confronted Rhaegar. He had seemed confused when she’d asked for leave to speak plainly, but puzzlement had given way to shock as she had begun.

“Your son cannot return with you, Rhaegar,” Elia had been quiet but firm, her eyes hard as she stared into his, “I will not have it, no longer.”

“What has come over you?” Disbelief and pain had been apparent in Rhaegar’s voice, as if to undermine her determination. It did not do so, indeed it had only served to steel her further. Her husband had attempted to continue but Elia had cut him off.

“You have insisted that my son and your brother will accompany you, along with him. They cannot return together, not if you wish for me to remain in King’s Landing.”

“Are you-” Rhaegar’s face had grown hard as well, the pain vanishing as if he had pulled a veil over his features. “Jon is as much Targaryen as any of his siblings, or mine, or me.”

“He may be, but he is not my son. You have raised him alongside my children for seven years, Rhaegar, seven more than any mother should have to raise the child of her husband’s lover.”

“I have told you, we said our-”

“I am not speaking of your vows, damn you!!” Elia had shouted those words, forcing Rhaegar to swallow his as her anger burst forth for the first time. “When we first wed, I knew that you did not love me, despite the vows we shared. How could you, when we barely knew each other? I thought that with time love could be forged, especially if children came of it. And when Rhaenys and then Aegon were born, you did grow warmer. But there was never love.”

“But then you found it didn’t you, Rhaegar? Not with me, but with a woman you had never met, had hardly even heard of! And you and she rode off and left while I and your children lingered in the shadow of your father, who was always of half-a-mind to kill at least one of us! All for Lyanna Stark!”

Rhaegar had grown paler as she spoke, but his face flushed then, eyes flashing at her words. Yet he had not spoken, allowing Elia to release her words, to let her rage surge outwards.

“We faced the consequences of your actions, along with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms! And when it was all over, after your daughter and son had been forced to flee through the Sack of King’s Landing and I had nearly been fed to your father’s flames, only then did you see to us. Before sending Eddard Stark to see to his sister, the woman you started a war for!”

Elia’s had stopped shouting then, but her voice had carried on, a whisper that the wind could have obscured. It had been silent though, so her husband heard her.

“And she died. As if the gods were writing a song themselves, the woman who ended the Mad King’s reign died in the birthing bed. But not without giving the new king a son, one whom he then brought back to raise as his own.”

“I am Dornish, some whispered. They are strange about marriage and bastards, they said. Perhaps the king brings him because he knows she does not mind raising his son by another woman alongside her own. Well, I am Dornish, Rhaegar, and do not fault children for their parent’s actions. I would not have said a word had the boy been given to the Faith, or the Citadel, or even sent to live with his mother’s kin, in the gray wastes of the North. But you insisted he be raised here, alongside my children, the ones who nearly died so that he might be born.”

“No longer. Send your other son elsewhere, be it Winterfell, or Oldtown, or Asshai-by-the-Shadow. But do not bring him back to live with our children.”

She had stopped speaking then. She had more words, more she wished to throw at her husband, to make him see what he had done, to her and their children and even to himself. But the rage that had sustained her had burned itself out, leaving her shaking with the force of it.

For what seemed like an eternity, Rhaegar had looked at her, sorrow and anguish in his gaze. Finally, he had spoken, in a voice that broken by pain and sadness. His words had confused and angered her, but he had turned and left their chambers before she could respond.

“I wish that you could understand, Elia.”

That had been the last time Elia and Rhaegar had said a word to each other before he and the others had left for the west. She had not regretted saying them.

And now, she was being heeded. The son of Lyanna Stark would not be returning with Aegon, Rhaegar had given her that. But while he gave with one hand, her husband had taken with the other.

And once more the cry rang in her mind, strong enough that it left her lips, though only as a whisper. “Rhaegar, what have you done?”

Chapter Text

Rhaegar

“The lad hasn’t said a word since we took him, Your Grace.” Benjen didn’t seem worried at that, his voice matter-of-fact as he spoke. “I suppose it makes sense, after your brothers die and your father sells you in return for not losing his head.”

Rhaegar frowned slightly as he surveyed the harbor below him. Most of the royal forces had remained outside of Pyke, preferring the safety of their encampment than the relative comfort of the castle, damaged as it was. Now, more and more of them were leaving, either for the mainland or for the other large isles near Pyke. Yet while his eyes watched them depart, his ears were only for Stark now.

The northman's eyes were on him, Rhaegar knew that. Despite his steady recovery, all knew that head injuries had the impact that were hardest to detect. The Kingsguard present had been largely focused on trailing his sons, but Rhaegar knew that they had been watching him closely, watching for any change in his health. And my behavior, I suspect.

Stark had stopped speaking, awaiting the king’s response. “Time will loosen his tongue,” Rhaegar said tiredly, “time and Prince Aegon. He’s already smiling more. Soon my son will have him speaking.”

More and more, Rhaegar found himself observing his heir’s words and actions, searching for strength and weakness alike. While he had always taken care to shield his children from the worst of the world, this campaign had reminded Rhaegar that he was doomed to failure. As he had told Arthur, the time had come to actively prepare them for their futures.

Theon Greyjoy was proving surprisingly helpful in this regard. The lad was a few years older than Aegon which, coupled with the circumstances, Rhaegar had thought would help to keep his sons from interacting with the new ward. Jon was acting as most had expected, avoiding Theon as much as he could, and acting warily when they were near one another. Aegon, on the other hand, had proved more curious than wary, and by now had warmed to Greyjoy.

While some of the lords were against it, Rhaegar approved of his son’s reaction. If future rebellions by the ironmen were to be avoided, it would mean forging ties with them, however reluctant some on both sides would be to make them. A friendship between the heir of Balon Greyjoy and a prince of the Iron Throne would go a long way towards reconciling the crown and the Iron Islands. While Rhaegar doubted that Aegon was thinking along those lines, it made him think diplomacy would not be hard for his heir to learn.

That reminded Rhaegar of something. He turned towards Benjen. “When and where was Lord Tywin’s son the last you saw him?”

“Lord Tyrion? I think he was overseeing the ships that just came from Lannisport.” The knight pointed towards the shore. “Right around there. Do you want me to go fetch him?”

“No,” said Rhaegar, “we’ll go find him.”

“Your Grace, the maester-”

Rhaegar knew where he was going and didn’t let the knight get there. “The maester says many things, Benjen. Such as that the fish near Pyke have too much iron in them and shouldn’t be eaten. Only we need the food, so we eat anyway. Necessity often trumps wisdom, you know this as well as I.”

“So enough about maester’s, ser. I have been all but ordered to bed by a maester or men acting in one’s name ever since we got here. Even my sons treat me as if I might fall over if I am not sitting or lying somewhere. If I wish to improve, that means I’ll need to make my body do things it might not wish to, like any man wishing to grow stronger.”

The knight looked at the king for a few moments, then nodded. “I’ll take the lead, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar rolled his eyes, but he supposed Stark could be given that much. As they started walking from the cliff’s edge, it made him wonder whether the Kingsguard resented the plans Rhaegar had made. If it had been his to wager, the king would have put all the gold on Casterly Rock on yes.

Thinking of Casterly Rock brought Rhaegar’s thoughts to his brother. From the letters he had received, Viserys did not seem to mind the idea of being a ward to Lord Tywin. That had been an unexpected relief to hear, truth be told. Viserys could be charming when he tried to be and had a fierceness that was worth cultivating. For all that, he lacked the natural charm that Aegon had in spades, and his temper was nigh on impossible to curtail when it was aroused. Rhaegar suspected that Tywin Lannister would have no qualms about disciplining Viserys when he got out of hand and hoped that such discipline would stay with his brother.

By now they had reached the harbor. Some men bowed as the Rhaegar walked by, but many were too busy with their tasks to pay him any mind. Some of noble status may have resented it but the king didn’t mind. Given everything that had happened, Rhaegar expected he and the men shared the same desire- to go home.

True to Benjen’s memory, the young Lannister was directing men and supplies on the waterfront when the king and his companion found him. He was speaking with what looked to be a steward, an older man with a balding head and splotchy skin. Lannister guards standing just a few feet away. One of them noticed Rhaegar’s approach and called his lord’s attention to it. Glancing at Rhaegar, the heir of Casterly Rock bowed quickly, the men around him following suit.

“Your Grace, a pleasure to see you,” Tyrion began. He turned towards the steward. “We’ll pick this up another time, Erryk.” The steward bowed to Rhaegar, then walked away, lips pursed as he did. Lannister smiled as he turned back towards the king. “That man may be a steward, but he knows as much as ships as a blind man knows about sunsets, which is nothing.”

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. “A matter of supplies? Or seaworthiness?”

“Nothing of importance,” the dwarf shrugged. “I doubt you came to speak to me about the state of my father’s ships, valuable as they are. Dare I guess this dragon has flown down to ask after one of his own?”

Rhaegar nodded. “Yes. From what I’ve heard, Viserys is taking well to life at Casterly Rock. Lord Tywin did not voice any concerns about his mood or behavior.”

“Yes, I am sure he hasn’t. The Rock is full of wonders and treasure, enough to sate the curiosity and hunger of any man, even a prince. I am sure he’ll find something to complain about if given enough time.” Tyrion looked at the king carefully as he spoke. “Ser Mandon Moore has been helpful in keeping Your Grace’s brother out of trouble. Will one of his sworn brothers be joining him?”

“No. Including my queen there are seven members of the royal family. There will always be at least one Kingsguard with each of them.”

The dwarf raised an eyebrow at that. “Even in Winterfell?”

Rhaegar frowned. “Yes, though I don’t see how that is your concern, Lord Tyrion.”

“The royal family is all of our concern, Your Grace. And given what happened in Lannisport, I suppose guilt at how our own measures to protect the royal family failed has plagued me for some time.”

Benjen spoke at that. “Guilt at the failure of the guards, or of the men who got past them?”

Rhaegar turned his head towards the knight. “Ser, do not imp-”

“Your Grace, if I may.”

Rhaegar looked towards Tyrion, who had bowed his head as he spoke. The Imp’s eyes were looking at Benjen, who was eyeing the dwarf with all the sweetness of a hungry predator. The king hesitated, then nodded.

“Thank you.” Lannister turned to look at the Kingsguard. “I don’t blame you for your suspicion, Stark. You’d be a fool not to consider my house and I had a part in the plot. But then, you’d be an even bigger fool to go further than that.”

“Your city. Your servants. Your castle.” Stark growled each word. “Seems fairly straightforward to me.”

“Which is why you should distrust that conclusion. If it seems so obvious that House Lannister must have been behind trying to harm or kill the king’s sons, then why would we risk it? Or not at least try to make it look less obvious? Anyone with sense can see it more likely that someone is attempting to use my family as their decoy, or at least trying to drive a wedge between us and the Iron Throne.”

“I don't have a mind for plots nor wish to, my lord.” The knight’s eyes were cold, his hand on his sword hilt. The Lannister guards mirrored the action, eyeing the knight.

Rhaegar had heard enough. “Though you do have a talent for unsettling armed men, ser.” The knight turned but the king refused to let him defend himself. “I have made my desire plain, yet you continue to indulge yourself despite that. I wished to speak of the future, and you instead dwell on the past. Now, close your mouth and do not use it again until I address you.”

Stark subsided, though the man’s eyes continued to eye the young dwarf in front of him. Lannister sighed as he turned towards the king. “A wary man is a better guard than a trusting one, I suppose.”

“We were speaking of Viserys,” Rhaegar said impatiently. “I wish for Lord Tywin to know that my brother should not be indulged in his whims merely because of his station. If he goes too far in his requests, or attempts to make demands of your father, he is free to discipline him. Excepting physical harm, of course.”

“Of course, else Ser Mandon might need to start relieving men of their hands.” Tyrion smiled. “Your Grace need not worry over my father’s household. He is more than capable of handling a cocksure stripling, even if he is a prince.”

Rhaegar didn’t need to be told that. Every man he had spoken to on the subject had told him much the same. Most thought it a reason not to give Tywin Lannister a royal ward. Or a hostage, depending on how one looks at it.

Yet he knew that House Lannister could not be ignored. Rhaegar had grown up with Lord Tywin, when the latter was his father’s Hand of the King. The man could be domineering and cold but was one of the most capable lords in the Seven Kingdoms, as well as one of the most dangerous. Rhaegar knew that better than any man living and could not afford to leave Casterly Rock without any ties to the Iron Throne. To do so would guarantee the making of an enemy who could in time be one of the Iron Throne’s greatest assets.

So, the lions would have to be indulged in some parts. Including the needling that Tyrion Lannister was becoming notorious for. “I am aware, Lord Tyrion. If you’ll excuse me, I need to see to others who are departing this day.”

The Lannister and his men all bowed as Rhaegar walked past them, Benjen close behind. Rhaegar’s pace had a new energy to it, fueled by anger and worry.

When they were far enough away from the Lannister’s, he stopped and turned towards his Kingsguard. “I told you to never let those besides those you trust what you are thinking. Does my word mean so little to you as it seems?”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Stark replied. “It just seemed likely that the Imp already knew where I stood.”

He is right about that. “Perhaps but confirming his suspicions did not help matters.”

The northman frowned as he looked at the sand at his feet. It almost made Rhaegar sorry for his words.

The argument Benjen had given to the young Lannister had been heard before. In Lannisport, just before departing, Rhaegar had summoned him, Ser Arthur, and Ser Barristan to attend him in his ship. They had discussed what happened, and its potential instigators.

The day before, all had seemed well. The preparations were going smoothly, the various lords and their men were getting along well enough, and the king and his kin had all been treated with the respect and courtesy their station demanded. Nothing of note had occurred. At least, not until supper.

Aegon had grown tired as the meal went on. Jon had been much the same While his sons rarely wished to sleep so soon after eating, Rhaegar had sent them to bed early, instructing Ser Barristan to stay with them as they slept. The knight had collected the two drowsy princes and taken them to their chambers, where Rhaegar expected to see them the next morning.

But that had not happened. Just after the hour of the wolf, Rhaegar had been awoken by the doors to his chamber slamming open. Arthur had sprung to action, Dawn in hand to see to the noise, only for Barristan to walk in, carrying Rhaegar’s sons under his arms. He still held his own blade, and both it and his left arm were dripping with blood. The sight had inspired fear in Rhaegar more than anything he’d seen before and he had only resumed breathing after seeing that his children were unhurt. He had then set the royal household to securing the castle. While Jon and Aegon had been separated at his Kingsguard’s insistence, no second attempt had been made on them.

In the cabin, he and the knights had argued over who the culprit was. Benjen had been quick to point at House Lannister, but both Rhaegar and Arthur doubted it, for the very reasons Tyrion Lannister had stated. In truth, the potential conspirators included many of the lords of the realm, great and small, including those at the royal court. In the end it remained easier to guess who did not have a part in it than who did, and even then, there was no way to be certain.

Rhaegar had commanded that all who knew of it not to speak of it to any save himself and his Kingsguard. Still, word had spread, and while Tyrion Lannister had been quick to realize what had happened, it was only a matter of time until the attempt became common knowledge. Which was part of the reason for his anger with the knight standing before him.

“Perhaps he did,” Rhaegar said, “I doubt the men standing just behind him suspected it or knew anything about the matter until you spoke of it. Now there are five Lannister men who have heard of a conspiracy around events in Lannisport, and I do not care what Tyrion Lannister might say, they will speak of what just occurred.”

Stark grimaced at that. He opened his mouth, then closed it, eyes going back down. This time there was no defiance in his stance, just weariness. The king sighed.

“Benjen, you may be right,” Rhaegar acknowledged, “but throwing out accusations like that with no proof rarely has the desired effect. At best, it angers people who are innocent, while at worst it incites the guilty to continue their treachery. Silence may be difficult, but it is the wisest course of action. Let the cowards who attacked the royal family think themselves safe and secure, and they will be more likely to make a mistake.”

Stark sighed and bowed his head. “Of course, Your Grace. When hunting, only a fool runs about the woods, hollering for the prey to come to him.”

Rhaegar smiled at that. “Indeed. Now then, your brother’s ship isn’t that far. Jon will be expecting us to come bid him farewell, so I suggest we start moving.”

The knight nodded. Together they started walking further along the harbor’s waterfront.

As they did, Rhaegar’s gaze went to the water itself. It was dark, reflecting the clouds that hung overhead. They may call it the Blackwater, but the waters near King’s Landing have never looked this dark that I can recall.

King’s Landing brought Rhaegar’s mind to the family who remained there. From what he had heard, Rhaenys was doing even better than he expected, and Daenerys was also well. The court itself had been restless without word of Rhaegar himself, but things seemed to be calming down finally. At least, in public.

Behind the sheen of victory and calls for celebration, the small council had sent word of their respective concerns about Rhaegar’s decision regarding his sons and brother. Given how closely House Targaryen had come to annihilation just a few years ago, they made it clear that having the king’s male heirs sent from the king’s side less than wise. No one on the council has the spine to call me foolish, let alone mad. But then they do not know what I do.

Lannisport had only confirmed what Rhaegar had suspected for some time. If anyone intended harm to the royal family, then keeping the royal family together could be just as dangerous as separating them. For all his objections, Jon Arryn knew that Rhaegar and his family’s safety could not be guaranteed unless all others were sent from court and the Red Keep closed to any who might wish House Targaryen ill. Impossible in practice, and foolhardy even to consider. So, Rhaegar had made up his mind.

Aegon would be named a ward of Lord Tyrell of Highgarden. The man had been a loyalist to the Iron Throne until the Sack of King’s Landing, and had provided men, ships, and even one of his bannermen to sit the small council. There was no reason to question his loyalty to Rhaegar, and the king knew that no Tyrell would never undue harm to come to Aegon, or else face the wrath of both the Iron Throne and the powerful houses in the Reach that still considered themselves better suited to the rules of that kingdom.

Of course, Aegon would be expected to travel elsewhere in the Reach besides Highgarden, visiting other castles and towns and so forth. The movement would prepare Rhaegar’s eldest son for the travel that a king had to be accustomed to, and the visits and exposure to the lords and ladies of the Reach would better train him for life at court. The fact that a moving target was harder to strike had also informed Rhaegar’s decision, and he had shared the thought with Willas Tyrell, who had quickly promised he would make it so.

Aegon had been delighted with the news. The young Tyrell had, like every other lord present, sought to impress the royal children with tales of their families and lands. He had proved more successful than most, and Rhaegar’s eldest had been delighted by the idea of training for knighthood in the cradle of chivalry. Yet for all that, Aegon had still been less than pleased that he and Jon were being sent to different parts of the Seven Kingdoms, as well as saddened that he could not spend more time with his mother and sister before departing.

That brought Rhaegar’s mind to his queen. Elia, I wish you could understand…

Those had been the last words he had spoken to his wife before he had departed for Lannisport. There had been a time when he and Elia had shared more than a bed, but also their children, and their hopes, both for their family and for the future of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet nothing lasted forever.

The Sack had changed everything. Afterwards, Elia’s concern for her children had come to overwhelm all other concerns and remained her priority even now. Rhaegar did not blame her for it, even understood it, yet could not allow himself to lose sight of the future, not when so much hung on the children. All of them.

Elia’s words rang in his mind. But you insisted he be raised here, alongside my children, the ones who nearly died so that he might be born.

She was not wrong, Rhaegar conceded that. But he was certain that keeping his younger son apart from his family would not help anyone heal, as Elia and others seemed to think it would. And regardless of that, he could not forget those words, burned into memory by his kinsman. The dragon must have three heads…

He was jolted from his thoughts by Benjen’s elbow. His eyes left the sea to find the knight pointing. He followed the finger to a large galley just ahead, the grey and white direwolf of House Stark flying from its mast. He nodded at the knight, then began walking forward.

Eddard Stark was with Ser Barristan when Rhaegar came onto the ship’s deck. The two men were arguing, their voices quiet but clearly earnest as they glared at each other. Jon stood just a few feet away, his dark eyes glancing from one to the other with worry etched in his face. It dropped away when noticed Rhaegar’s approach.

“Father!” Jon ran to him, wrapping his arms around Rhaegar’s waist. “Is Aegon with you?”

Rhaegar glanced quickly at Benjen before meeting his son’s hopeful gaze. “I’m sorry, Jon, but Aegon isn’t with me. He and Ser Arthur are on their own right now.”

Jon’s face fell at that. Then it brightened. “He’ll make it. He always does.”

“Let’s hope so.” Lord Stark walked to where Rhaegar and Jon were standing. “The tides will shift before much longer, Your Grace. Either we leave soon, or we are stuck here for at least another day.”

“Somehow I doubt one more day will kill you, Lord Eddard,” Rhaegar said with annoyance.

“Maybe, but I wish to return to Winterfell and my family as quickly as possible. The summer may be young, but the harvest is due.”

Rhaegar doubted the harvest was Stark’s greatest concern, though he conceded that his family was likely driving him to return home as soon as possible.

Then the gods smiled on him. At least, that’s what it felt like as a familiar voice rang out from the waterfront.

“Jon! Father!”

His younger son rarely smiled, but he did so now, more brightly than Rhaegar had ever seen before. He turned just in time for Aegon to barrel into him, one arm hugging him while the other did the same to Jon.

“Arthur said to hurry, so I did!” Aegon was breathless from exertion, but his grin was as bright as his brother’s, perhaps more so. “He swore he’d beat me here, but I made it first!”

“By no more than a yard.” Rhaegar glanced towards the gangplank, where Arthur was walking up. His calm breath confirmed Rhaegar’s suspicion, but he said nothing of it, instead congratulating his son’s successful race against the knight.

“I told Uncle Ned you’d make it, him and Barristan too,” Jon said to his brother.

“Well, he made it,” Stark began, but the look Rhaegar gave him made him pause. The northman sighed before continuing. “We need to sail soon, Jon. Cat and the rest are waiting.”

“I know.” Jon turned to look at Aegon. “You’ll write, right Egg?”

“Write? I’ll be up there before too long!” Aegon laughed. “That, or you can come visit me in Highgarden.”

Jon laughed with his brother. Watching them do so together made Rhaegar smile. But with it came an ache, knowing that their laughter could not slow time.

Nor did it. Ser Barristan cleared his throat. “My princes, Your Grace, time is short. We need to be going.”

Egg threw his arms around Jon, clutching tightly at his brother. Jon did the same, both still smiling as they did. After a few moments, Aegon released his brother, then turned to glare at Lord Stark and Ser Barristan. “If Jon writes about how awful it is up there, send him back or make it better. Or else I’m coming for him!”

Rhaegar laughed. “You won’t be the only one, Aegon.” I’ll bring an army if that’s required.

Rhaegar turned to look at Lord Stark also. “My son is more precious than any treasure made of metal or gems, Eddard. Do not make me regret this.”

Stark looked at him carefully, then nodded. “You have my word. On my honor, I’ll do right by Jon.”

And somehow that was enough. Rhaegar nodded at his good-brother, hoping it conveyed his warning and gratitude at the same time.

Stark’s actual brother walked up and embraced him. “Take care of yourself, Ned,” Benjen said, smiling, “and the lad too. Try not to let him burn Winterfell down.”

“I’ll try to manage,” Stark replied, smiling at his younger brother. Benjen knelt to accept a hug from Jon, clutching his nephew tightly. Then he stood and walked off the ship, crossing back to the waterfront. Arthur bowed once before following Benjen off the ship.

Aegon hugged Jon once more. “This is just farewell for now, not goodbye.”

His younger son smiled again. “Farewell, Egg.”

“And you, Jon.”

Egg smiled before following the Kingsguard. He moved quickly, but Rhaegar saw the tears glistening on his eldest’s lashes. Sighing, he took a knee and put a hand to Jon’s shoulder. There are no tears in that gaze, Rhaegar thought, though there was a sadness there, that seemed all the deeper without tears to accompany it.

“Jon,” he said, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder, “be good to your uncle and his family. The North can be a harsh place, but you are more than strong enough to bear it. You are a son of the dragon, let no man tell you otherwise….”

Rhaegar’s voice wavered a moment, but it continued, “You are Lyanna’s son, and mine, and nothing will change that.”

He hugged his son, who returned the gesture, hugging Rhaegar so tightly he thought a rib might crack. After a few moments, though not nearly enough, they released each other, and he turned and walked onto the gangplank, away from Jon, away, away…

By the time he turned around the gangplank had already been lifted. The ropes were being drawn back, the sails untied. The ship was leaving, but even now Jon stood on the deck with Eddard and Barristan, a hand raised in farewell, a smile on his face. Rhaegar mimicked the gesture, watching as the ship seemed to drift away, the figures on it growing smaller until he could see them no more.

“It’s alright, lad,” Rhaegar heard Benjen speak behind him, “the time will fly, I promise. You’ll see each other again before you know it. And until then, you and I will go on an adventure or two down near Highgarden.”

Rhaegar let out his breath, his chest aching as he did. He turned towards Aegon and the two Kingsguard walking over to be with them. He knelt to grasp his son, hugging Aegon against his chest. His son did the same, before leaning back to meet Rhaegar’s gaze, tears rolling down his cheeks. “It won’t be too long before he comes back? Before we are all together again?”

“No, Aegon,” Rhaegar replied, “after all, he is your brother, one of the dragon’s children, like you and Rhaenys.”

He turned to look at the horizon. “And the dragon must have three heads.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys

“Are you going to admit defeat, or wait until I fall asleep?”

Daenerys sighed as she scanned the cyvasse board. She had been confident of victory earlier, too confident as it turned out. She had let her dragon advance too far without support, and now her opponent was taking her time picking apart Daenerys’ army. And when she’s done, she’ll lecture me on it until winter.

“Is there any point in playing on?”, she asked. “We both know you have the upper hand, and you have more practice at this than I do.”

Nym shrugged. “In real life, just giving up won’t be an option. You could try to negotiate a way out or make your foe bleed for every victory they seek. Make victory so bitter that it’s not worth pursuing.” She flipped her raven hair over a shoulder. “Just remember, keep your dragon close.”

“Fair enough. But friends should be kept closer,” Daenerys responded, grinning.

Nymeria smiled at that. It wasn’t the smile she used in court, the one that never quite reached her eyes. This was the true thing, as rare as snow in the Dornish desert. And I am one of the few who can bring it out these days.

The woman had found little to enjoy in the capital, Daenerys knew that. Nymeria had been raised in Dorne and Essos, traveling between Sunspear and Volantis and everywhere in-between if her claims were true. King’s Landing was the greatest city of Westeros, but she knew that Nym found it wanting. Daenerys could not blame her; after all, Dany herself had found the last few weeks lacking in interest. She thought it might be the heat; people seemed to handle it poorly, common and noble alike. Even Lord Arryn was abed, having caught a fever the night before.

For all that, Daenerys was one of the few who seemed unaffected by the relentless sun that had plagued the city for the past month. Few besides her, Rhaegar, Rhaenys, and their Dornish kin were untouched. Most others avoided the sun, sheltering indoors or else finding shade whenever and wherever possible. It might have been funny if it weren’t making it so difficult for Dany to find people to do things with.

“I was thinking we could take a barge onto the Blackwater,” Nym was saying, “collect Ari and some others and find a breeze on the bay. If it gets too hot, then we can just jump in and cool off.”

“Someone might see us,” Dany pointed out.

“We’d go far enough that no one on shore would see anything. As for any fishermen or spies, they all know that would happen if they were spying on princesses and noblewomen while they swam unclothed.” Nym paused, then smirked at Dany. “Though I suppose, if they manage to do it without being caught, then they may have earned a look or two.”

Daenerys could feel the blood rush to her face. “If my brother knew how you kept trying to corrupt me, he’d like as not have you exiled.”

“I wouldn’t mind that much. Besides, you think he doesn’t already know?”

Daenerys doubted that Rhaegar knew anything of the sort. Her brother was often in court, dealing with highborn and lowborn alike. Their squabbles and problems seemed endless, but Rhaegar seemed to hold up well enough, especially when dealing with the common people. For some reason most of the lords tended to irritate him, a trait that Rhaenys shared with him.

But that time came at a price. The more time Rhaegar had spent working with the small council and others at court to better the realm, the less of it he had to be with his family. And while Rhaegar insisted that the realm’s business needed to be attended to Daenerys couldn’t help but wish that her brother would find more time to spend with his family. And my desire is nothing compared to Rhaenys’.

That brought something else to mind. Daenerys stood up. “Let’s go find my niece.” Just saying it made her want to laugh. Having a niece five years her elder would do that.

“So we can invite her to the barge?” The young woman grinned, but it vanished with Dany’s next words.

“No. But I think Rhaegar will be more likely to see us if we come together.”

Nym frowned then nodded. She stood, her skirt swirling as she turned and walked towards the door. Her movements were so graceful it almost made Daenerys forget the weapons her guardian carried.

In truth, Nymeria was more than a simple minder, as many thought of her. Most believed a bastard daughter of a Dornish prince was unfit company for a member of the royal family, even after years of her and her sisters coming and going at will. Few ever voiced that opinion as that prince was widely regarded among the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms. And his daughter knew how to keep herself and those close to her safe, better than any woman Dany had met.

“Well come along then,” Nym said, “unless you want to wait on those handmaids of yours.”

“You’ll do just fine, Nym. Besides, I told them they had a few hours to go do something on their own.”

Daenerys stood and followed her companion out. As they started walking down the hall, Arys Oakheart fell in behind them, nodding at Daenerys as he did. She smiled and gave him a quick curtsy before continuing.

Nymeria turned to look over her shoulder. “By the way, Dany, Arianne said something about a letter from Winterfell. Did Jon write again?”

Daenerys nodded. “He was answering my questions about the Wall. He went there with Lord Stark a few months ago, to see the Night’s Watch. Apparently, it’s not doing very well in terms of men.” She sighed. “Jon’s doing all kinds of things in the North, Egg’s off in the Reach, even Viserys has probably found things to do at Casterly Rock. Meanwhile, we’re stuck in King’s Landing with hardly anything interesting to do.”

Her nephew’s letter wasn’t the first. Jon wrote to her once every few months, sometimes with gaps as long as half a year. His words were kind, asking after her health and that of their kin. But what they conveyed more than anything else was his experiences in the North.

Jon always spoke of the things he missed in King’s Landing in his letters, but Daenerys knew that he did not mean much of it. She knew that he missed her, along with Egg and their father, but he had never seemed at ease in King’s Landing. Young as they had been when last they were together, it had been obvious to see. From Winterfell, though, Jon had written of warmth and acceptance that Daenerys knew he had never found in the Red Keep. His praise of his cousins and their parents was effusive, almost cloying, but she doubted that he lied. No, for all his musings about his family in the south, Jon sounded far more content in the North than he had ever seemed in King’s Landing.

He was not the only one. Egg wrote almost as often, and even managed to visit the capital several times during his wardship. He too spoke with warmth of the house that had taken on his upbringing, with particular praise for Ser Willas and Garlan and the Lady Margaery. And like Jon, he had grown during the experience, not just in body but in spirit as well. Daenerys knew that Egg would make a great king someday, a belief widely shared by the court.

Viserys didn’t write at all. Most of what she knew came from Rhaegar, who received letters from Tywin Lannister and his son. He had always treated Daenerys kindly before he left, but no one else seemed to miss him, at least not in the way they missed Aegon.

“You’re wrong, Daenerys,” Nymeria said. “There is never nothing happening. You just have to know how and where to look. I’m sure that if you can do that, things will start to pick up. Though I expect it’ll still be hot. In that, Jon has the better of it than all of us.”

Dany giggled. It was nice talking about her family like this, including Jon. Nymeria was the only one she could do so without minding her words, besides Rhaegar and Elia. Anyone else would either lie, praising her for speaking well of her nephew while thinking dark thoughts, or else just say the dark thoughts aloud.

“Besides, I doubt that you’ll still be stuck in King’s Landing for much longer. What’ll you wager that Your brother has already received offers for your hand?”

Daenerys’ grin vanished. “Nothing. I’m sure that Rhaegar would tell me about anything as important as that.”

“Maybe. That is if he thought it worth mentioning. There’s always some fool who should know better than to ask but still manages to find the nerve. Perhaps a Frey.”

The thought made Dany cringe. “Even then, he’d tell me. Besides, I doubt anyone thinks I’m worth so much”

Nymeria stopped and turned, astonishment on her face. “I could have sworn I was speaking to Daenerys Stormborn just now. Yet that can’t be, for she has something between her ears besides a pretty face and silver hair. She would know how stupid what you just said was.”

Ser Arys spoke up at that. “My lady, please, refrain from calling the princess st- anything like that. There’s more correct language for young ladies such as yourself.”

“My tongue knows many languages, ser. And that’s just one of its talents.” Nym winked at the knight, who Dany knew was blushing beneath his helm, just as she did the same. Ser Arys spoke and looked a proper knight, but the man could act as innocent as a maid in some regards.

Dany decided to aid him. “You know not to tease a Kingsguard, Nym. Come on, let’s keep moving.”

She didn’t appreciate the indulgent expression the young woman gave her, but Nym didn’t say anything more as they resumed their approach to the throne room.

Nymeria was right, though. Daenerys knew how foolish her words were. Everyone at court paid her compliments; on her dresses, her harp playing, and especially her looks. But even if they were lying about all that, she was still the king’s sister, and a princess of House Targaryen. Ever since her flowering some months ago, she had been told to start thinking on such things by the women in her family. Even Elia had said so.

But she didn’t want to think about that now. All she wished was to find Rhaenys and go see her brother. Thoughts of marriage and courtship could wait.

The throne room was not empty when they arrived. Several clusters of courtiers and noblemen were scattered throughout the chamber, their words and laughter drifting through the air. The light from the windows cast long shadows throughout the hall, which Dany noticed most of the men were standing in. She did not know if it was secrecy they craved, or merely respite from the heat.

As she and Nym began striding down the chamber’s side, one of the courtiers noticed them. He straightened and then bent at the waist, bowing as she passed. “Princess.”

She smiled and nodded at him as she passed. The sounds from the other groups died away as the others realized Daenerys’ presence and followed the first man’s lead. In truth Dany thought their bows unnecessary, but Rhaenys insisted that she allow it. “Respect for the crown means respect for its family, regardless of their sex or title. Otherwise, they might forget that they are beholden to it,” the older girl had said.

Perhaps she’s right. I just hope they do not resent us for the same reason.

“Princess.” Daenerys was surprised to hear a voice rise from one of the clusters to address her and stopped. The speaker broke from his fellows and walked over with another man just behind. His blue eyes sparkled as he smiled at her. He halted his approach a few feet away before bowing, coal-black hair obscuring his face for a moment.

“My lord Baratheon.” Daenerys smiled as he straightened. “It’s good to see you about. I was worried the heat would have you taking shelter as well.”

“My secret is perspective, princess. As hot as it is here, I know that it is even more so back in Storm’s End or Highgarden. And that still leaves Dorne!” Renly shook his head, grimacing at the thought.

“We don’t mind the sun, my lord,” Nym pointed out, “so constant a visitor it is in Dorne. Otherwise, nothing would ever get done.”

“I don’t doubt it, my lady. The sigil of your father’s house is a sun, after all.”

Her father’s house. Daenerys saw the insult there but did not think it was intended. Nym didn’t act like it, simply nodding at the lord’s words. “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. We mutter it as we trudge along, remembering that it applies to the sun as much as any would-be conqueror. Though even in this heat, some might be tempted to bend just a little.”

Renly laughed. He was a handsome man, and the laughter made him more so. The Lord of Storm’s End had arrived just a fortnight ago, and was already a favorite among the court’s ladies, Daenerys among them. Still, there were those who questioned his presence, wondering whether the younger brother of two rebel lords should be welcomed to the capital.

“Your father is wrongly named, my lady,” Renly was saying, “for no viper could raise as lovely and courteous a woman as you.”

“Oh, you are wrong, Lord Renly. My father is well named, and proud of it. As are all of his daughters, including me. I appreciate your kind words, but anyone with the knowledge will tell you that vipers are lovely, and perfectly courteous so long as they are given courtesy in kind. If not, there are few things as deadly.” Nymeria had an amused expression as she smiled at the young lord. He chuckled and bowed his head, though Dany suspected he did not think he agreed with them.

“Her father’s name is well earned, Renly. Snakes do well in the heat, or so I am told.”

There was no humor in the voice that said those words. Dany glanced sharply at the speaker, the man who stood just behind Renly. Light brown locks framed a handsome face, but the contempt suffusing his features took much from his charm.

Renly’s smile faltered. “Loras, don’t. Forgive him, princess, the heat has put him in a foul mood, along with many others.”

“Hardly an excuse.” Nymeria smile had become a smirk, her eyes narrowing as she looked the young Tyrell up and down. “Especially from one who claims to come from the birthplace of chivalry. Where is that fine Highgarden charm that you’re famous for, Ser Loras? Did you leave it in your bedchamber?”

The young knight flushed. “You have no right to lecture anyone on propriety, my lady. Tell me, why is that someone of your circumstances attends the king’s sister? Did one of the proper ladies at court decide to offer you a favor?”

“The king’s sister is standing right here, and would appreciate it if you remembered that, ser.” Anger gave her words a bite that few knew she could have. Dany’s voice was sharp, so much so that all three of their gazes turned toward her.

She did not look at Renly or Nymeria, instead staring into Loras’ eyes. “Lady Nymeria has been at court for two years now and visited frequently for many years before. She is the queen’s niece, and one of my closest friends. You ask why she is attending me, Ser Loras. If I may ask, why do you think that my household is any business of yours?”

Loras’ face grew redder as she spoke. He did not speak, though, instead frowning before bowing his head to stare at the ground.

Nym chose then to intervene. “Daenerys, please let it be. No one has died from being spoken down to.”

“Not that such speech was appropriate.” Renly frowned at Loras. “That was poorly done, ser. I suggest you offer pardon, or else the princess may think you more ill-mannered then you truly are.”

A little late for that, Daenerys thought, but the knight sighed and bowed at the waist.

“I offer apologies, princess. My words were ill-timed and ill-mannered, there is no denying it. I have no excuse but ask for your pardon all the same.”

Dany might have let it end there, but the omission in his apology spurred her on. “I can forgive your bad manners, ser, but your words to my friend are another matter entirely. It is her pardon that you should seek, if you want mine.”

Loras looked up at her, with what she thought was resentment in his eyes, then turned reluctantly and bowed towards Nymeria. “I apologize, my lady. I was disrespectful of you and your father, Prince Oberyn. I ask your pardon.”

“You have it.” Nymeria nodded her head as the knight straightened. “Martell’s and Tyrell’s have been fighting one another for thousands of years. I wouldn’t be worthy of the name if I couldn’t survive a few words. None of us would.”

“Well said, my lady,” Renly broke in. He smiled again, though there was an anxiousness in his eyes as he spoke. “Princess, the reason I’ve held you up was to ask you something. I have it on good authority that the king is summoning Prince Aegon from Highgarden soon. Meaning no disrespect, but do you happen to know if there is any truth to that?”

If only I did. Still simmering over Loras’ words, Dany turned towards Renly. “I am afraid I must disappoint you, Lord Baratheon. My ladies and I have heard similar rumors, but I have not been able to ask my brother whether there is any truth to them or not. In fact, I was just on my way to find my niece, so that we could seek him out and ask.”

“Princess Rhaenys?” Loras asked. “I spoke with her less than an hour ago. She was already on her way to seek out King Rhaegar. It’s no surprise you had the same idea. The smallfolk say that intelligent minds think alike.”

We are family, after all. “You’re too gracious, Ser Loras. Well, if that’s the case then I shall see if she managed to find His Grace. If you’ll excuse me, my lord, ser.” Daenerys gave a curtsy as they bowed again. She turned and started walking towards the Iron Throne but stopped as she remembered something Jon had told her in his letter.

“Oh, Lord Renly?” He turned as Daenerys addressed him. “Prince Jon wrote to me from Winterfell. He had just returned from Castle Black with Lord Stark after meeting with your brother. The Lord-Commander is in good health and inquires after your own.”

“Stannis?” Renly laughed. “I think it unlikely that he did so, Princess. More likely your nephew was being polite.”

“You think so little of Jon?” Dany asked, her irritation flaring.

“Not at all. I appreciate his courtesy. No, it is my brother who I think little of. The man’s brave, and he knows how to fight, but he’s more stubborn than a castle wall and just as thick. I expect he thinks I should have joined the Night’s Watch with him, though I doubt they would have taken a six-year old lordling from a rebel house.”

Daenerys’ irritation ebbed with his words, sadness rising to replace it. Renly looked amused as he spoke, clearly wishing to convey humor with his words. But it couldn’t hide the spark that came into his eyes as he spoke. Is that sadness? Or is he bitter?

Renly was the last member of House Baratheon left, besides Stannis. After Robert’s death on the Trident, the stormlords and their men had fallen in line for the most part, encouraged by Rhaegar’s offer of clemency to all who bent the knee and aided in ending his father’s rule. Stannis, young as he had been, refused the new king’s offer, and elected to take the black rather than serve the man who had slain his elder brother. He had taken many of the Baratheon men with him, leaving Renly a young boy at the king’s mercy.

Hard feelings would be natural in circumstances like that. Still, Daenerys thought it sad that brothers could harbor such ill will towards one another. How many tales that began with rivalry ended in tragedy?

“I think your brother truly did so, my lord,” she found herself saying. “After all, you’re the only kin he has left. No one is so hard that they can ignore that.”

Renly’s humor and smile left with her words, his expression almost sympathetic as he looked at her. Dany didn’t give him time to respond, though, instead turning and walking past the Iron Throne, towards the inner chambers where the king and queen lived and slept.

As soon as they were clear of the chamber, Nym picked up her pace and came to Dany’s side. “Tyrell and Baratheon are filled with confidence and bravado, without a brain to share between them. You shouldn’t pay them any mind.”

“One’s the Lord of Storm’s End, the other a son of Lord Tyrell. I’d be a fool to ignore them,” Dany replied. “I don’t care how good a jouster Loras is, the only ones who get to talk to you like that are me, Rhae, and your family. Everyone else better keep their thoughts to themselves.”

Nymeria started to speak again but Daenerys held up her hand. “Enough, Nym. I don’t plan on discussing it anymore. Let’s just find Rhae and Rhaegar.”

Her friend subsided, but Daenerys knew that this wouldn’t end the matter. Nymeria had a long memory and wouldn’t forget that this conversation had ended unfinished.

After a few minutes, they reached the king’s chambers. To Dany’s surprise, the other three Kingsguard in King’s Landing were all standing without. Ser Arthur, Ser Balon, and Prince Lewyn all were straight as rods, their eyes focused anywhere but the door that they stood in front of.

The door from which raised voices could be heard.

Daenerys couldn’t make out the words, but she recognized all of them. Forgetting about Nym and Ser Arys, she walked up to the Lord-Commander. “Ser Arthur, is my brother seeing visitors?”

The knight looked at her, then glanced behind her at Arys and Nymeria. “He is not. However, he did not forbid family from disturbing him.”

Daenerys caught his meaning and turned to her companions. “Ser Arys, please see Lady Nymeria back to my chambers. Then return here.”

“Princess, I am tasked with-”

“My safety, yes, we all know that. Do you not see your three Sworn Brother’s standing here? I think you’ll agree that they can take up the task until you return.”

Arys opened his mouth, then closed it as he looked at Ser Arthur. When the older man nodded, Arys gave a short bow and then turned, beginning the journey back. Nymeria glanced at the door, then gave Dany an encouraging smile before following the young Kingsguard out of the hallway.

Dany turned towards the door. She took a breath, then pushed it open and stepped inside.

She was not happy with what she found. All three of them were standing, and all three of them were trying to speak over the others. Rhaegar was dressed in royal raiment, his crown still on his head. It looked as if he had come here directly from the Iron Throne. His face was red as he spoke, his voice booming as if he were commanding knights or lords in the field.

His opponent was just as loud, though her voice was more high-pitched. Rhaenys was dressed in a lovely gown, the red-and-black of House Targaryen complementing her tan features and black hair very nicely. That tan was almost as red as her father, though, as she shouted at him, standing near enough that their chests were nearly touching.

Elia seemed the calmest, but even she had raised her voice. She stood just to the side of her husband and daughter, both hands raised with one hovering over the shoulder of either. She did not look angry, as they did, more concerned and anxious, and that made Daenerys all but certain that she was trying to calm the storm before her. But Elia was failing. The three were so focused on each other that they had not even noticed Dany coming in.

At this rate, a servant will hear them and spread gossip all over King’s Landing, if they haven’t already. Daenerys looked around, her gaze finally settling on a goblet that stood on the small table next to the door. She picked it up, then let it drop to the floor.

The loud clang it made when it struck had the intended effect. As one, her family stopped shouting and turned to find the source of the noise. All they found was Daenerys, her expression angry as their eyes focused on her.

“Would anyone like to tell me why I had to do that in order for you to realize someone had come in?”

“Daenerys.” Elia walked over as Dany picked up the goblet and out it back on the table. “We did not expect you.”

“I saw that. Nym and I went looking for Rhaenys, who we learned had come here, so here I am. Now, what in the seven hells is going on?”

“Don’t use that language,” her good-sister chided, but Daenerys didn’t feel scolded. Elia’s expression was more amused than anything.

Meanwhile, her brother and niece had apparently regained their composure. Rhaegar was breathing deeply as he turned and walked towards the bed, where a flagon was sitting on the window sill. He uncorked it and drank deeply, clear liquid dripping from the corner of his mouth as he did. Water. Well, at least he isn’t angry  and drunk.

Rhaenys’ breath was steady, but she clearly wasn’t done with her anger. “Perfect timing, Dany. I was just telling my father what an utter fool he was acting like. Perhaps you could help me?”

“Enough, Rhaenys.” Rhaegar corked the flagon and set it down, wiping his mouth as he did. “We disagreed over something, that is all, Daenerys.

“A disagreement?” Rhaenys eyebrows nearly reached her hairline as she looked at Rhaegar incredulously. “That would be like calling the Tourney of Harrenhal a ‘small misunderstanding’! Do you really mean not to tell her the truth?”

“I do intend to tell her, Rhaenys. Right now.” Her brother turned to look her in the eye. “Daenerys, Lord Arryn passed in his sleep just an hour ago. The bells should start ringing before long.”

The Hand is dead? Dany’s first reaction was sadness. Lord Arryn was a kind man, respected and admired throughout the Seven Kingdoms. He had always treated her well and offered his aid whenever she had asked it of him. A good man and a loyal Hand, he would be missed.

Her second reaction was to consider the implications. Lord Arryn had been Hand since Rhaegar’s reign had begun. Now that he was gone, every lord in the Seven Kingdoms would be lusting after the position. While most had no chance of even being considered, the few who would be were all formidable, and to choose one would risk insulting all the others.

Daenerys decided to begin with the sadness. “I am sorry to hear that. Lord Jon was a good man, kind and warm. I did not think his fever as bad as that.”

“No one did.” Rhaegar sighed. “But the gods will do as they will. Lord Arryn has passed, and my plans thrown into chaos by it. But time will not stand still, as much as I might wish it, so the crown must adapt.”

Rhaenys laughed, her eyes narrow as she did. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. Better then saying that you’re throwing my brother into the viper’s nest and telling him to try climbing out.”

“Rhaenys, enough,” Elia said, “your father has prepared for this for some time, and Lord Arryn’s death does not change it. You are always among the first singing Aegon’s praises, what has changed?”

“Aegon?” Daenerys spoke before her niece could respond to the queen. Dany was not sure how her nephew came into this for a moment. Then she remembered the whispers Renly had spoken of. “He’s coming back? You’re ending his wardship?”

Rhaegar nodded. “His sixteenth name day is almost here. I had intended to do so anyway; Lord Arryn’s death only means that I must do so sooner. Nor will he come alone. I expect the Lady Margaery and a number of others will join him.”

“Join them, you mean,” Rhaenys interjected. “It is not just Egg, Dany, he is calling all of them back. All at once.”

Daenerys’ did not understand for a moment. And then it clicked. “Jon? Jon and Viserys? They are coming back as well?” Her heart leapt at the thought. The family is coming together. Finally.

“Yes, the ravens will be sent before long, Daenerys.” Rhaegar seemed pleased by the smile on her face. “Though I expect it’ll be some time before they are all hear.”

At that Rhaenys laughed again. “So, you aren’t going to tell her. Just as well, I suppose. Wouldn’t want her to think less of you.”

Elia’s disapproval was etched into her expression. “Rhaenys, enough. I have half a mind to send you to bed early.”

“Like an errant child? I might feel more respected if you did, Mother.” Rhaenys turned and walked towards Daenerys. She stopped next to her before turning and giving Rhaegar a curtsy. “By your leave, Father.”

And with that, she turned, opened the door, and walked out, walking down the hall as if she’d bowl over any who stood in her way. Ser Arthur followed her, expressionless as he did.

“Seven save us.” Rhaegar rubbed his eyes with his hand. “She spends too much time with your brother’s children, Elia. She certainly learned that stubbornness from Oberyn.”

“As if you know nothing of stubbornness.”

Rhaegar surprised Dany by chuckling. “True enough.” He lowered his hand and looked at Daenerys once more. “I will tell you the rest in time, Daenerys. For now, it is enough to know that my sons and brother will be returning soon. And the realm will see how House Targaryen stands together.”

Daenerys was still wondering about the things Rhaegar wasn’t telling her. But she pushed them aside as she smiled at her brother. “It’s been far too long. I would be happy to have them all here.”

“You’ll have your wish, little dragon,” Elia said, smiling as she did. Though for a moment her expression held a trace of sorrow that confused Daenerys even more.

“The sons of the dragon will be united, with one another and the Seven Kingdoms.”

Chapter Text

Barristan

The old holdfast wasn’t much to look at. In truth it was more a tower than a holdfast, a single large turret stretching maybe thirty feet high. Some stairs led to the entrance at its base while a small wall shot off of its side, transitioning into a well-kept stable.

As their party came up to it Barristan scanned the surrounding land. It was flat for the most part, though he could make out hills arching upwards to the east and north and he knew the wolfswood was just a league to the southwest at its nearest. The tower was nothing special, but from its top he expected one could see for miles. Any man can see that it’s served that purpose for a very long time.

The stables had four horses tethered within as they came up. That meant that the men who had sent word were still close. Sure enough, when Barristan glanced up a man was standing on the towers top waving down at them. “Lord Eddard, good to see you. The others are inside with the deserter.”

Stark reined his horse in and dismounted, his large cloak blowing slightly in the breeze as he did. He waved back at the man above him. “What state is he in?”

“He’s seen better days, milord. His clothes are fancy, least they look like they used to be. Don’t think he’s had anything in his belly for days. Hasn’t said anything proper, just keeps muttering some gibberish.”

“I’ll see him myself in a moment.” Lord Eddard turned back towards the group. “Jon, Robb, with me. Rodrik, you and the others should see to the horses.” The knight nodded, motioning to the guards as he dismounted. Eddard’s younger son started to protest, but the northman cut him off with a look. “That means you too, Bran.”

Brandon Stark looked more a Tully to the eye. His auburn hair hung about his face in locks, while deep blue eyes gazed out from a face with a light sprinkling of freckles. The seven-year old looked and acted older than his age, which was part of the reason his father had chosen to bring him from Winterfell alongside the prince and his older brother.

The lad flushed but climbed from his saddle and began leading his pony toward the stable. The ten guards that made up the rest of the group did the same, glancing around as they did. Is it the land that makes them uneasy? Or the task that they’ve come to see finished?

Lord Stark turned and began walking towards the tower. “Robb, Jon, now.”

Stark’s heir vaulted from his saddle, a dull thud coming from his boots as he hit the ground. Robb Stark looked much like his brother, with the same auburn hair and blue eyes, though they were lighter than Bran’s. Already taller than his father, the youth wore leather and fur, which fit well over the strong arms and legs Barristan knew he possessed. His normally cheerful demeanor was now somber, his expression stern as he walked after his father.

“Ser?” Barristan turned to see his charge looking at him curiously. He grunted as he came off his mount, the bay snorting as his body and armor’s weight came off its back.

The prince slid off his mount and landed as lightly as a cat while Barristan dismounted. The knight envied him that. Jon’s build was slim and quick, with more the wiry muscle of stamina than the raw strength that his cousin Robb possessed. He was also shorter than his cousin, standing at the height of Lord Eddard. Jon’s features were more of House Stark than either of his cousins, with dark hair framing a pale face and darker eyes observing the world around him.

Barristan nodded after Lord Eddard. “Go on, Jon.” The youth nodded and walked after his uncle and cousin while the knight followed a few steps behind.

Like Robb, Jon had a serious expression on his face. The difference was that it did not look so odd to Barristan. The prince was a model of courtesy but like his uncle was not one for letting his emotions show easily. His cool demeanor was well-known, though by now most at Winterfell knew the prince could be warm and friendly to those who became close to him. Few had ever gotten that far.

They walked through the door and were greeted by the smell of old hay and piss. The former was strewn all over the ground regardless of the worn-down furniture strewn around the floor. Two northmen were seated with an old table between the two, a pair of dice laying between them. The two Starks were standing to the side, where Eddard was speaking with an older man with grizzled features with a direwolf badge on his surcoat.

Barristan did not focus on them, though. He scanned the room, looking to see if their reason for being here was present. And sure enough, behind the two seated men there was a huddled shape, the shadows helping to obscure it. It did not look much like a man for a moment, but then it shifted as a wane face came out from under the tattered black cloak, a grey eye glancing about to find the new source of noise in the tower. The other eye was milky white and streaked with red, unseeing. Nor was that all he had lost. The man had given an ear to frostbite, and the ear that remained was frostbitten as well. Still, he was young, despite the lines etched into his face, and the dead expression on it changed to recognition as it found the new arrivals.

That eye, and the cloak too. This is no stranger, I know this man.

The prince noticed it as well. “I know you.” Jon walked across the room, paying the seated men no mind as they stood at his approach. He stopped just short of them, his gaze meeting the deserter’s. His expression became graver as he looked him up and down. “It’s been some time, Ser Waymar.”

Ser Waymar. Lord Royce’s youngest. Barristan was shocked at this revelation. The last he had seen the young knight has been at Castle Black, where the man had still acted more a lordling than a brother of the Night’s Watch. While courteous to Lord Stark and his retinue, along with Prince Jon and Barristan himself, Royce had behaved as if he were Lord-Commander rather than a new ranger. The black brother’s the Kingsguard had spoken to had not expected him to last long.

Still, I never took him for a deserter, Barristan thought. What led to this?

“Prince Jon.” The whisper was barely that, so quiet the man’s voice was. Royce’s eyes looked Jon up and down, his expression becoming amused as it did. “What are you doing? This is no place for princes…”

The man broke off, giggling. Jon looked confused now, turning to look at Barristan, who shook his head in response. He had no idea why Royce was acting like this.

“Don’t trouble yourself, milord,” the grizzled soldier said. He looked past Lord Stark and Robb to seek out the prince. “Whatever happened, he’s not entirely there anymore, in his head I mean. Don’t think there’s much we can get from him.”

The man sighed and looked back at Eddard. “What’s come out is bits and pieces, Lord Stark. Best I can tell, he was on a ranging with some others when they were attacked. I think he’s all that’s left, gods be good. One of Mance Rayder’s bands, most like.”

“Did he say so?” Stark asked.

“No, milord.” The soldier hesitated a moment. “It’s just, they were supposed to be tracking wildlings, and now they’re dead and this one fled. What else could it be?”

Stark’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he turned and walked to stand beside Jon. He addressed the deserter. “Royce. Was this wildling’s work? Or some beast’s? Speak.”

The iron tone in the lord’s voice would’ve made any sane man obey without question. But Royce just giggled some more. “The wildlings were dead. Dead, he said. But then I went to look, and the dead men had moved camp.”

The deserter stopped giggling and started laughing outright. Barristan felt a chill go down his back at the sound, so devoid of humor it was. All the others looked as unnerved as he felt. Even Lord Stark grimaced at the sound Royce was making.

And then it stopped. The deserter’s mirth fled all at once, his good eye going wide as his cracked lips parted. “Then they came. No spiders, no dead things, just them. They broke my sword, the one Father had made for me…”

“I’ve heard enough.” Stark turned towards the older soldier. “Is there a block or a log ready?” Receiving a nod in reply, he turned to face the deserter. “Take him outside.”

The two young soldiers hastened to obey, bending at the knee to grasp Royce by his arms. He did not resist, his face dead once more as they half-carried, half-dragged him out of the tower and into the daylight.

Robb spoke up once he was gone. “Seven hells. I think the men who died might have been the lucky ones.”

“I doubt they would agree.” Lord Eddard ran a hand over his face. “Let’s get this over with.”

They walked outside where, over to the side, an old log had been dragged. Royce was standing before, still held by the two Stark men. Eddard’s younger son was staring at him, eyes wide as he beheld what was left of the Valeman. The guards that had accompanied them were standing straight, watching as Barristan and the others came into view.

Jon moved to stand beside Bran, his hand reaching out to squeeze his young cousin’s shoulder. The boy looked back and nodded before looking back at Royce. Barristan stopped just a few feet from them, eyes following Bran’s gaze. Lord Stark had come to stand by him, while Ser Rodrik walked up to him, carrying a sheathed greatsword.

“Do you have any final words?” Lord Stark asked. “For your father? Or anyone else?”

Royce didn’t seem to understand. But then his eye widened again, lighting up as they rose to meet Eddard’s. “I saw them, my lord. The Others, they are coming, gods curse me if I lie. Tell them, please, tell them…”

Stark’s face grew harder at Royce’s words, if that was possible. He reached towards Rodrik and pulled Ice free. The Valyrian steel flashed in the daylight, the blade shimmering as it moved through the air. As it came out, the men forced Royce to his knees and bent him over, his neck head and neck just past where the log ended.

“Do not look away,” Barristan heard Jon whisper to his cousin. “Your father will know if you do.” The lad nodded as Eddard began to speak.

“In the name of Rhaegar of House Targaryen,” Stark intoned, “the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”

The northman raised the greatsword, pausing for just a moment as the blade came over his head, and then brought it down.

Royce’s head came away with the stroke. A spray of blood followed it, quickly becoming a trickle as the flow lost its strength. The cut had been so clean that Ice had hardly any blood on its blade. Barristan saw Bran bite his lip, but the lad did not look away. Jon squeezed his shoulder again, whispering approval as Stark wiped his blade clean and slid it back into its scabbard. The lad is young, but braver than most his age.

“He died well, at least,” Robb allowed, “no tears or begging.”

“He was already gone, lad,” Barristan pointed out, “even if his heart still beat. Ser Waymar was dead the moment his mind broke.”

“He said…” Bran’s voice faltered, but he started again. “He said that he saw the Others. That they killed his men.”

“Pay those words no heed, Bran,” Eddard said, “the Others have been gone for thousands of years.”

“So, he was lying? Trying to make excuses so he might live?”

“I doubt it, Bran,” Jon said quietly. “You didn’t see him up close like I did. He was mad, like Ser Barristan said.”

“And if he wasn’t, there’s no excuse for cowardice,” Ser Rodrik growled. “Whatever happened to him, he should have returned to Castle Black or else the nearest fort the Watch maintains. Instead, he fled south. Cowardice, no matter the cause of it.”

“His loss will still be felt,” Barristan said. He was reluctant to speak, but the circumstances drove him to. “Lord Royce will be wrathful to learn of his son’s end. His name and position lent prestige and honor to the Night’s Watch, when many in the Seven Kingdoms hardly ever think of them anymore.”

There was more truth in that than Barristan wished, though less of it than there used to. The Night’s Watch had been in dire circumstances for years, as he had learned firsthand when Prince Jon had traveled with Lord Stark to Castle Black a few months ago. Most of the lords of the Seven Kingdoms dismissed the Night’s Watch as a haven for criminals and rebels and resisted sending them aid. The lands of the Gift, administered by the Watch, had been largely abandoned and overgrown, decimated by wildling raids and harsh winters. Of the nineteen forts that were built along the Wall’s southern side, only Castle Black, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and the Shadow Tower were occupied.

However, the Watch’s circumstances had improved during King Rhaegar’s reign. Many stormmen and crownlanders had chosen exile over following the new king, and more of the former had come after the Small Storm, the foiled uprising that had occurred a couple years before the Greyjoy rebellion. All told, some three thousand men were counted within the Night’s Watch, though little more than half of them were trained for battle.

“I will write to Lord Royce myself,” Eddard was saying, “explaining what happened. The man deserves that much, at least.” Stark turned and looked at the body, which was being taken away by the two soldiers who had held Royce. “Make sure that the grave is marked. If Lord Royce decides to come, it is best we know where to return to.” The men nodded before resuming their task.

Stark walked to where Jon and Bran stood. “You did well, Bran,” the lord said with an approving nod. “Do you know why I had to do that?”

“Jon said that he was a deserter. From the Night’s Watch.”

“Yes. But do you know why I had to be the one to do it?”

The lad glanced at Jon before answering, “Our way is the old way.”

“Yes. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If he cannot bring himself to do it, then the condemned may not deserve their sentence.”

Bran started to speak but caught himself, and then turned towards Barristan. “That is not how it’s done in the south, is it, ser?”

Why did the lad have to take this road? “No, lad, it is not,” Barristan spoke reluctantly, not out of shame so much as the cold look that Bran’s father was giving him. “The Andals have had different traditions than the First Men since they came to Westeros. They each have their own values and flaws, but they work, after a fashion.”

“Well said, Barristan,” Jon interjected, smiling down at his cousin. “There are few lords south of the Neck who would do as Uncle Ned did, Bran. That makes him more noble for doing it.” The lad smiled at that, beaming up at his older cousin.

He has the lot wrapped around his fingers. Barristan almost laughed at the picture the thought painted. House Stark was undoubtedly fond of its kinsman, no man could deny that. But Lord Stark’s children were especially taken by the prince, treating him more like a sibling than a ward or a cousin. Jon returned the affection in kind, to both them and the lord and lady who had welcomed him into their home.

In truth, Barristan suspected Rhaegar was not sure if that affection was an entirely good thing. The king had wanted to mend ties with House Stark while providing his son with a safe home, and both seemed to have been done. Nevertheless, for some reason in his letters Rhaegar seemed to focus on Jon’s relations with his kin, as if gauging how far those bonds ran.

The king likely dwells on Jon’s loyalties, to both his father and to his mother’s kin. Barristan knew the king’s concerns were groundless- Jon spoke with nothing but courtesy of Rhaegar, and his affection for both his older brother and aunt was undimmed even after seven years away from them both. No, for all the prince’s warmth towards House Stark, House Targaryen remained his true family, and the lad knew it. At least, I think as much.

“You know I don’t approve of flattery, Jon,” Eddard said reprovingly, though Barristan saw the approving spark in his eye. “There’s little honor in striking the head from a man whose mind has broken.”

Jon’s smile faded at that, his expression becoming serious once more. He looked up at the sky. “It’s near midday, uncle. Aunt Catelyn wanted us back before sundown.”

“Well then, best not linger.” Lord Stark turned to the men around him. “Our work is done, let’s be on our way. You three, fall in with us. You’ll spend the night at Winterfell, get a decent meal and beds before heading out in the morning.” The soldiers thanked the northman as he started walking towards his horse. Barristan and Jon did the same, while Robb and Bran came just behind them.

“I still think the man died bravely,” Stark’s heir said as he swung into his saddle.

“Dying while mad isn’t brave, it’s just unfortunate,” Jon countered. “Courage and fear are not considered.”

“Is that so?” Robb asked, eyebrow twitching up. “Do you think that you are mad, Jon?”

The prince’s eyebrows rose. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“That’s a shame, cause if you were you wouldn’t be afraid of me beating you back to Winterfell.” Before Jon could respond, Robb kicked his boots into his mount’s sides. It whinnied and took off, leaving nothing but the youth’s laughter and dust in its place. A moment later Jon’s horse did the same, the prince cursing his cousin with a grin as he raced to catch him.

Barristan did the same, though his legs protested as his horse began to gallop. He was far too seasoned to let it bother him, though. No Kingsguard worth the name let a thing like aches impede his duties. Still, neither of the youths wore armor, while Barristan did. That meant all he could do was frown as he watched the two pull away from him.

The knight sighed, then started to chuckle. He and Jon both knew that they were supposed to stay close to each other, but Barristan could not deny him such things as this. Youth was the time for such things, the singers had that much right. If it was wasted on idle pursuits then the time would slide away until manhood was upon them.

That was when the real work would begin. Jon was still a boy by the law, just passed his fourteenth nameday, but a prince was bound to take on responsibilities sooner than most. Barristan knew that they could not remain at Winterfell forever, that eventually word would come from the king, calling them back to the south. The prince knows that too, or at least senses it. How much of his affection is driven by that, by the fear of leaving his mother's kin behind?

Barristan shook himself, bringing his mind back to the present. It was only then he realized that his mount had slowed to a trot. The knight urged back into a canter, eyes scanning the land and trees around him as he looked for his charge.

After five minutes, Barristan found him, along with his cousin. They had reached the bridge, though their race had been forgotten. Both had left their horses and were standing by something at the path’s side, talking with one another. He could not make it out at first, but as he came closer, he realized that it was a stag. It was a large beast, with an antler that held seven prongs. Just the one, though, for the other had broken off, and was nowhere to be seen. The beast innards were also out of place, having been ripped out and partially devoured.

Barristan reined in his horse and dismounted, white cloak flaring slightly as he did. The Kingsguard walked to the youths’ side, kneeling to examine the dead stag more closely. “Perhaps a bear did this. Or maybe a mountain lion?”

“There’s no lions of any kind in the wolfswood, ser,” Robb said, “and the bears fear Winterfell. They never come this close.”

“Perhaps one was starving, or sick,” Jon guessed. “Even if it knew better, that might have driven it to come closer.”

As they continued debating the manner of beast that did this, Barristan noted that the stag’s blood went away from the path, leading down, towards the stream. “Stay here.”

Before they could reply, he stood up and started following the blood, walking off the path. His hand went to his blade as he did, eyes scanning the trees as well as the ground. If whatever had done this was ill or starving, like Jon had thought, then it might attack. That was even more likely if the stag had managed to wound it.

As it turned out, the stag had wounded its killer, fatally so. Not a minute away from the trail, Barristan saw a large furry shape lying in the trees, immobile, tawny bone protruding from its throat. At first he thought Jon right, that it was a bear, but then realized it was something else entirely. Seven hells, that’s a wolf. The largest I’ve ever seen.

Large was putting it lightly. The beast was at least as big as Bran Stark’s pony, possibly larger. It’s size and the blood on its teeth might have made another man retreat. The knight recognized the antler, though, and the lack of breath coming from the animal.

“Seven hells.”

Barristan cricked his neck, so fast did his head turn. Both Robb and Jon had ignored him and were standing just a few feet away. Both were staring at the beast, eyes wide as they took it in.

“That’s a direwolf,” Robb said, coming closer. “Is it dead?”

“Yes, the stag took it with him,” Barristan observed.

“Her,” Jon said.

Barristan looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“That’s a female.”

“Is that so? What makes you think that?”

“I don’t see any male parts,” the prince pointed out. “Also, male wolves don’t suckle pups and I doubt direwolves are different.”

Pups? Barristan turned to look at the corpse again. Only now he noticed that the direwolf was moving. No, that was wrong, it was being moved.

Jon stepped past him and walked to the female’s side. Barristan’s hand left the sword at his side as he did. He remained uneasy but knew that there was nothing to fear from a dead wolf, however large.

His eyes widened as the prince knelt and then stood, carrying a moving lump of fur that whined as he did. The pup was very young, its eyes open but still cloudy as it attempted to nuzzle at Jon’s leather jerkin. The prince did not appear uneasy, instead smiling as he watched the pup’s actions. He lifted it briefly, then glanced at his cousin. “This one’s a girl.”

“I’ve got a boy here” Robb replied, standing with another pup in his arms. “And there’s three more still down there.”

Jon looked at them, then turned towards Barristan, holding out the pup in his hand. The knight sighed but did as bid, taking the pup while the prince knelt again.

For all its mother’s size, the pup was not freakishly large itself. As big as an elkhound’s perhaps, but no more than that. It made Barristan wonder how these creatures grew so large, and how swiftly they did so.

“I’ve got another two boys here.” Jon rose with two more pups in hand.

“Last one’s a female.” His cousin rose with his first pup in one hand and a second in the other. He turned his head toward the road as a shout came from it.

“That’ll be Lord Stark.” Barristan turned toward the road and shouted, “We’re down here! Over here, by the stream!”

A few moments later, there was the sound of footsteps. Ser Rodrik led the way, with Eddard and Bran just behind. The guards came as well, though most of them stopped at the sight of the dead creature before them.

“It’s a direwolf, uncle,” Jon pointed out. He turned as Bran came up to him and handed him one of the pups. The lad gasped as the pup buried its nose in his shirt, looking for milk. After a moment, though, Bran smiled, and began petting it with his other hand.

“There hasn’t been a direwolf south of the Wall in two hundred years” Rodrik declared.

“Now there are five.” Robb looked at his father as he spoke. “Three males, two females.”

“Like us!” Bran was giggling as the pup in his arms started nuzzling his neck.

The lad’s right. A direwolf for every Stark child, with a matching sex on top of that.

He expected Eddard was thinking along the same lines. Barristan caught the look that Lord Stark and Ser Rodrik shared with each other. The former walked forward, looking at the pups before turning to look at their mother. The lord knelt and pulled the antler free, its blood-soaked prongs sticking for a moment before coming loose. Stark did not look at ease, his face grim as he looked again at Rodrik.

“Uncle Ned.” Jon caught Stark’s gaze. “What should be done with the pups?”

“Can we keep them?” Bran’s face was bright and hopeful as he looked at his father. It quickly turned to disappointment as his father shook his head.

“Father, their mother’s dead,” Robb pointed out. “They won’t survive on their own.”

“No. Better a quick death.” Stark nodded at Rodrik, who nodded as he stepped forward, a hand going to the dagger at the man’s side. Bran pulled away, eyes pleading as he looked at his father.

Seven save me. “Ser Rodrik, hold a moment.”

The northman stopped and looked at Barristan. He sighed and turned to Lord Stark. “I think that would be a mistake, my lord.”

“You would have us keep them alive, Ser Barristan?” Stark’s eyes narrowed as he met Barristan’s gaze. “What do you know of raising direwolves, ser?”

“Nothing,” Barristan answered at once. “But the lads have the right of it. Five pups, two girls and three boys, one for each child of House Stark, whose sigil is a direwolf. I keep to the Seven, but even I am not such a fool as to miss the omen here. Killing the pups is inviting misfortune, my heart and head both say so.”

Stark’s expression was hard, but he did not argue with Barristan. His gaze shifted as his heir spoke again.

“It can be done, Father.” Robb’s voice was confident, his expression more so. “Warm blankets soaked in milk will do until they’re older, I’m sure of it. I’ll do it myself. We can train them, make them less wild. I know we can.”

“Please, Father?” Bran broke in, lip quivering.

The northman glanced between his sons. Then he sighed before turning back towards the road. “You raise them yourselves. And if they die, you’ll bury them yourselves.”

Bran gasped as he hugged the pup tighter. Robb handed one of his to Rodrik, who started following his lord. Stark’s younger son refused to let his go as he walked beside his brother, who was also holding a pup close.

That left Jon and Barristan. The youth held out the remaining pup. “I’ll trade with you, Barristan.”

He looked at Jon curiously. “Like this one more?”

“No, but this one’s a boy, that one a girl. I think Sansa would like it more if I gave her the puppy.”

Oh, she would. Barristan resisted the urge to roll his eyes and exchanged pups with the prince.

The pup felt awkward in Barristan’s grasp. Still, he could not deny that the pup had a certain charm about it. Jon couldn’t hide the wistful expression on his face as he looked at them.

“Don’t get any ideas, Jon.” Barristan turned and started walking. “Can you imagine the conversation you’d have to have with His Grace, asking to keep a direwolf as a pet? Neither of us would hear the end of it. Besides, my argument only won out because there were five pups of the right sex. Even if I thought the king would agree, there’s no spare pup to be had.”

There was no reply. Barristan stopped and turned to look back. The prince had vanished. “Jon? Where are you?”

“Here, ser.” After a moment Jon came striding back into view, a triumphant grin on his face. After a moment Barristan saw why. His free hand now held a ball of white fur, which blinked red eyes at the Kingsguard as the prince came up to him.

Barristan started to speak but stopped at the glare Jon gave him. "Convincing Father to keep him will be my responsibility, not yours Barristan. Now, are we going to have an argument we both know I'll win or shall we start moving?"

The knight sighed. Is that stubbornness from Lord Eddard or Rhaegar?

"Very well, Jon," Barristan said. "But I'll give you fair warning, if that direwolf decides to eat you it's my head the king will have. So, if he so much as growls at either of us, then we'll be leaving him in Winterfell."

Chapter Text

Sansa

Her stitches were crooked again.

Sansa sighed as she glanced at her younger sister’s needlework. Arya’s movements were too rigid and quick, her arm jerking on the thread with a determined look stuck to her face. It looked as if she was trying to will the stitches to right themselves, to become more like Sansa’s. As usual, they refused to obey.

Septa Mordane hadn’t noticed yet. The old governess had just reentered the chamber and was scanning Beth Cassel’s work. Her face was stern, but Sansa thought she saw a twinkle in her eye as the septa advised the girl. “The scarlet and green go well together but the stitches aren’t as straight as yesterdays. Consistency, young lady. Master that and your work will be worthy of the king’s court.”

The young girl nodded. She was pretty enough, with a somewhat plain face that was blessed with curly auburn hair, though it was closer to brown than red unlike Sansa's. Beth was not very bright if Sansa was being honest but she was as sweet as a person could be. Everyone at Winterfell acted protective of her, high and low alike. Her status as the masters-of-arms daughter also encouraged the members of the household to treat her well.

“It’s not so good as all that. Septa Mordane shouldn’t get her hopes up.”

This again? Sansa sighed as she looked at the source of those whispered words. The speaker had dark hair and brown eyes, her skinny form disguised in part by the cloak that was draped over her shoulders. Her expression was calm, though her eyes were narrowed as they looked at the septa.

“Leave it be, Jeyne,” Sansa whispered back. “She’s right about consistency, and Beth’s work is fine. There is nothing wrong with encouraging her.”

“Encouraging her is one thing, lying another entirely.” Jeyne shook her head. “What are the odds of anyone in King’s Landing ever even seeing Beth’s stitching? It is not as if she will ever go to the capital.”

Sansa found those words irritating. Before she could respond there was a cough from the other side of the room. She glanced over to see Mordane looking at them, her gaze sharp. Sansa flushed as she looked back down and continued her work. Jeyne did the same.

Septa Mordane stood and walked away from Beth, likely planning to continue her inspection. Sansa thought that she would come to examine her work next, but instead walked to the fifth girl in the room. The septa knelt as her hands found the girls before her. “Well done, Rose. So straight, and just look at that purple.”

Rose smiled at the praise. Her proper name was Rosey, but ever since she and her brother had come to Winterfell most had taken to using its shorter form. The girl said she didn’t mind and didn’t act like it bothered her. Even Jeyne conceded that Rose was pretty, though she did so reluctantly. The girl’s brown hair was lustrous, her hazel eyes sparkling whenever she laughed or smiled, dimples appearing on her cheeks when she did. Smiles and laughter were never far from Rose. All told she was one of the most cheerful people Sansa had ever met.

That was remarkable considering what had brought her to Winterfell. Rose and her younger brother had been on the ocean road, traveling with their mother form Lannisport to Oldtown, when the reavers had come across them. Rose never spoke of details, her sunny demeanor becoming guarded and cool whenever Sansa or anyone else asked as much. All that she would say was that they had been taken to Harlaw and treated poorly until the royal forces invaded. Their mother had died, and they likely would have too if not for Jon.

Jon. Sansa’s face grew warm as her thoughts came to him. Before she could dwell on them, though, her sister spoke up.

“How in seven hells are mine not straight?” Arya wasn’t shouting but she wasn’t quiet either, glaring down at the crooked stitches beneath her fingers. Her expression gave Sansa the impression that her thoughts were much less polite than her words.

Not that Mordane cared for her words anyway. “Young lady, you should watch your tone, and don’t say such things. Where do you think you are, a great castle or some barracks?”

“I’d rather be in the latter. At least there’d be something actually happening.”

The septa looked scandalized. “Arya Stark! If you’re lord father and lady mother knew how you spoke-”

Arya rolled her eyes. “They already know, septa. You make sure of it.”

“Arya, please,” Rose broke in, a reassuring smile on her face, “the septa is doing her duty, that’s all. Lord and Lady Stark would expect no less.”

Arya looked like she wanted to snap, but she restrained herself. That was another reason Sansa liked Rose- not even Arya in a bad mood scared her, and Arya liked her too much to vent. Still, the look she gave Mordane said that she was far from done. But rather than lash out her younger sister surprised her. She stood up and placed the embroidery on her seat, then gave the septa a curtsy.

“If you don’t mind,” Arya said in a polite tone, “may I go use the privy? I’m afraid this arguing has disagreed with me.”

Disagreed with...? Sansa had to throw a hand over her mouth to top herself from laughing. Rose managed to keep quiet as well, though her smile said her thoughts were the same. Jeyne looked angry but subsided when she saw Sansa’s expression. Beth did not seem to hear the words, so focused was she on her needle.

But the septa, gods pity her, took Arya’s words at face value. “Oh, very well then. But don’t be too long.”

“I won’t.” Arya’s slightly nauseated expression vanished the moment the septa turned back towards Rose. She walked to the chamber door, turning to shoot Sansa a smug look just before she left.

She better not get into any trouble while she’s gone. I swear, she’s wilder than that pup of hers.

A thought struck Sansa like an arrow. She shot to her feet, her needle and embroidery in hand, and held them out to Mordane. “Septa, I’m afraid I need to go too. Lady’s going to need food soon and I’d rather take care of her sooner than later.”

The septa took her material and examined the stitching. Apparently satisfied, the old woman nodded. Sansa curtsied before walking out of the chamber. Rose and Jeyne each shot her encouraging looks before the door closed.

Once it was, Sansa, picked up her skirt and began walking as swiftly as she could, quickly coming to a light run. She did not head toward her chambers, though. Septa Mordane had forgotten that Lady would not be there at this time in the morning. No, she would be with her siblings in the kennels. And any fool could tell that Arya’s thinking the same.

Sure enough, Sansa came upon her sister just inside the Great Hall. Her sister was walking, though her pace was also quick. Arya didn’t notice her until Sansa reached her back and tugged on her braid.

“Ow!” Arya stopped and spun to look at her. “What was that for?”

“You tell me”, Sansa shot back. “I suppose you must have forgotten the privy is the other way from the chamber we were in. And just ten yards away.”

Arya gasped. “You know that? I didn’t realize you could count!”

“Cur.” Sansa doubted her sister noticed the insult as much as the shove she received. Arya stumbled a bit before catching herself, grinning at her older sibling. Sansa sighed as she motioned towards the door. “I told Septa Mordane I was going to feed Lady. I expect she and the others are out with the boys right now.”

Arya blinked. “That’s…that’s actually a good excuse. I’ll remember to use it next time.”

“I expect she’ll get suspicious if we both start feeding Lady.”

“I’d say I’m feeding Nymeria, of course.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “You remembered her name! Honestly, Arya, even now you amaze me!” She laughed at the glare her sister gave her. “Turnabout’s fair play.”

Arya tried to hide it, but after a moment her own laughter broke to the surface. Sansa joined her, the hall echoing with their voices.

It had always been like this between them, or so Sansa preferred to remember. While she had always enjoyed the gentler parts of being a lady best, the songs and dances and courtesies, Arya had always excelled in the livelier parts of their station. Hunting, hawking, riding; Arya enjoyed such things much more. And while they both knew the business of numbers and larders and running a household, Sansa had had to work diligently in order to learn them. Arya picked it up much more easily, though she dismissed such work as tedious and beneath her attention.

While Mother seemed concerned by her behavior, Sansa knew that Arya’s attitude was a source of pride for their father. There had been a time when it had bothered her, the knowledge that her younger sister’s different attitude endeared her to others as much as Sansa’s. It had seemed reason for concern, as if Arya’s success was to her detriment. Mother and others had assured her that was not the case, though, and over time she had outgrown such trivial thoughts. Sansa had just turned three-and-ten, and competing with her sister like that was beneath her, as she constantly reminded herself.

Soon, their laughter died away. Still smiling, Sansa motioned towards the entryway and began walking. Arya walked beside her, her pace quick to meet her older sister’s.

They were greeted by all manners of sound as they entered the courtyard. It was busy, with men and women moving steadily and confidently as they went about their duties. But Sansa did not pay them much attention, instead turning her head as her ears searched for a sound she knew well. And sure enough, after a moment the sound of clashing steel and curses cut through the rest of noise, drawing her gaze to the courtyard’s side, where a small group of men had gathered. Arya noticed as well and walked towards the group, leaving Sansa to follow close behind.

As she came to its perimeter Sansa managed to see the source of the noise and the men’s attention. Two youths were sparring, blunted steel in their hands as they circled one another. Robb suddenly lunged forward with a low cut, but Jon refused to engage, sliding back as the tourney blade sliced the air in front of him. As it withdrew her cousin retaliated, stepping forward to aim a blow at Robb’s arm. Her brother caught it, though barely, and grit his teeth at the force of the strike. Jon didn’t continue the attack, instead drawing away, his hands shifting positions on his sword’s handle.

This was not the first time she had watched the prince or her brother spar. Sansa had observed them several times. It had been Rose's idea- she noticed how important training like this was to them and suggested they watch them on occasion, to learn themselves. If it gave Sansa another reason to spend time with Jon, than so be it. Of late, the latter had become more important than before. Watching Jon spar made her feel strange in a good way, her cheeks growing flushed easily as she watched the prince's form move in the strange dance of combat. A dance that continued now as he ducked and weaved around Sansa's brother.

“Why doesn’t Jon press on?” Sansa whispered to Arya. She did her best, but her younger sister still knew more about swordsmanship and fighting than Sansa.

“Robb’s stronger,” Arya murmured, “so Jon will waste his energy if he tries to best him that way. He is faster, though. I think he’s trying to bait Robb, make him expose himself.”

One of the men watching turned at the sound of their voices. Ser Barristan looked surprised to find the daughters of House Stark standing there, but when Sansa held a finger to her lips the knight nodded and turned back towards the sparring before him.

The other observers were few. Ser Rodrik was watching with a fierce expression, whiskers quivering as he studied the combatants. Also close by were some guardsman, as well as Bran, whose impatience was plastered onto his face. Sansa expected her younger brother wanted to join as well, though he knew that no one would let him on account of his age.

Standing next to Sansa’s brother was Rose’s. Tom shared much with her in looks, though his eyes were brown instead of hazel, and his hair was cut short. While he was of an age with Jon and Robb, one would’ve been forgiven for thinking he was younger. He was only a little taller than Bran, and thin, with none of the muscle that the dueling youths possessed. Tom was not nearly so sunny as Rose was, and his expression was dark and intense as he observed the fight before him.

A shout brought Sansa’s attention back to her brother. Robb stumbled back from Jon, the latter’s blade leaving his shoulder as he did. This time Jon did press forward, thrusting towards Robb’s chest. His blow never connected, as Robb shifted to the side and brought his elbow down on Jon’s wrists. The prince cursed as his grip was lost, and his blade with it. He looked up just in time for Robb to put his sword to his neck. After a moment he shoved it away, a rueful grin on his face. Robb returned it, stepping back as Jon retrieved his steel.

“What are you smiling about, boy?!” Rodrik barked at Robb. “Had this been a real fight you wouldn’t have pulled that off, as the prince relieved you of that elbow and the rest of your arm not a moment ago.”

Robb’s satisfied expression faded a bit at the old knight’s words. Does he always have to be like that? Sansa prepared to intervene on her brother’s behalf.

But Arya beat her to it. “But this isn’t a real fight,” her sister said. “So, does that really matter?”

Rodrik turned to look at Arya. “My lady. I did not realize you had joined us.”

“Septa Mordane gave us leave,” Sansa chimed in, not wanting Arya to be Rodrik’s only focus. “It’s about time that Lady was fed, and she gave us leave to do so.”

Rodrik glanced at her before returning his gaze to Arya. “My lady, the training ground is where one prepares for the battlefield. A good warrior must treat one as seriously as the other in order to be ready. Otherwise, it defeats the purpose.”

Arya cocked her head to the side. “Then shouldn’t they be practicing with actual swords?”

Ser Barristan spoke at that. “Not yet, my lady. They are both still a little young to train with live steel.” Both Robb and Jon glared at the Kingsguard as he spoke, but he paid them no mind. “Besides, if Robb spilled the prince’s blood by accident, I would be bound by duty to take the offending hand.”

Sansa sighed. Barristan should know by now that scaring Arya takes more than that.

Sure enough, Arya smirked. “If that was true, then Robb and I wouldn’t have any hands left. Or Ser Rodrik or Tom or you, for that matter.”

Barristan smiled at that. “True enough. His Grace has allowed for exceptions both during training and if Jon misbehaves. But even so, striking a prince is never wise.”

“Said prince is standing right here, Barristan,” Jon said, drawing their gazes to him. “And if any Stark loses a hand, the offender will answer to me.”

Sansa thought those words harsh, though the grin on Jon’s face seemed to take any sting out of them. Barristan nodded his head, still smiling as well.

Jon turned back towards Robb. “Speaking of Lady, it’s about time for Ghost’s next meal as well. I’ll let you catch your breath while I see to him, Wolf.”

Robb gave their cousin a sarcastic bow. “How gracious, my prince.” Jon laughed at that, joined by Sansa and her siblings a moment later.

Jon walked through the small cluster and slid his sword back into its scabbard. He turned to look at Sansa and Arya. “Seems we’re headed for the same place. Would you mind if I walked with you?”

He was still grinning, dark eyes meeting Sansa’s as he spoke. Sansa fought to keep her face from reddening. “We don’t mind, of course. Do we, Arya?”

Arya shook her head. “Come on, let’s go.”

The three of them walked across the courtyard, heading towards the stables and kennels on the other side. Before they reached it, though, a shrill noise cut through all the rest.

“Arya Stark!”

They all stopped in their tracks. Sansa turned to see Septa Mordane striding from the Great Hall, her face red with outrage. Arya had stopped as well, her normally bold demeanor faltering at the look on the septa’s face. From behind them, the sounds of conversation died away as the others attention came to Mordane as well.

“And just where, pray tell, do you think that you are going?” Mordane stopped just in front of them, glaring down at the young girl. “Did you forget that the privy is not ten strides away from the sowing circle’s chamber? Or did you not plan on returning at all?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. The septa reached out and grabbed Arya’s upper arm, tugging her to her side. “Well, young lady, I hope you’re break was worth it. Now, let’s be on our way. The others are all anxious to see your needlework.”

“Septa,” Jon began, but he cut himself off at the look that Mordane gave him.

“Prince Jon, I will assume that Lady Arya lied about her reasons for being here and that you took her at her word. But rest assured, defending her for doing so will do no one any good, least of all you or her. Am I understood?”

Sansa knew Jon. There were few things in Winterfell that could intimidate him. Father or Mother’s disapproval. A sharp blade too close to his kin. Septa Mordane in a fury. He gave Arya a sympathetic look but bowed his head to the old woman. “Of course, Septa.” Behind them, Sansa heard Robb start to cough violently, trying and failing to mask his amusement at his cousin’s discomfort.

Mordane nodded, then set her gaze on Sansa. “Have you fed your wolf yet?”

“Direwolf, and no, Jon and I were just heading to the kennels,” Sansa replied.

“Well then, you’d best be off, shouldn’t you?” Mordane didn’t wait for an answer, instead turning and practically dragging Arya behind her as she walked back into the Great Hall. Arya’s expression was vengeful, though Sansa couldn’t tell who its target was.

“Bloody hell,” Jon muttered. “I wonder if all septon’s and septa’s are like that.”

“I think Septa Mordane is special,” Sansa observed.

“I guess she’d have to be. The Faith isn’t strong north of the Neck, so the ones who are up here must be hardier stock then the ones in the south.”

Sansa grinned as they resumed their walk to the kennels. It made her happy, seeing him in a good mood, especially knowing how quickly it could change, returning him to a darker place.

It had been worse when he had first arrived in Winterfell. Father and Rodrik had seemed much the same, but Jon hadn’t been the bright and cheerful prince the stories had made her expect. Instead Winterfell had found itself as host to a dark and brooding new inhabitant, whose courtesies were so cold one felt that they would catch frostbite. While he had always seemed warmer towards Sansa and her brother and parents, the only one’s Jon had truly seemed warmed around were Ser Barristan and the two children he had brought from Harlaw.

One night, she and Robb had gone to their parents’ chambers and asked for advice. They had been told that Jon was not just a prince, but family, and that he should be treated as such. But he hadn’t welcomed their invitations to play and converse so much as tolerated them, and they were both losing heart. Mother had offered kind words and encouragement, but it was Father word’s that stuck with them more.

“Do not judge him too harshly,” her father had said. “Jon is your age but has already seen and done far more than any child ought to. He is cold because he is hurting, simple as that. Attempting to batter through his armor will likely make it worse, though you may wish to try. If Jon is to find a home here, then he’ll need to learn to trust you, which will take time and patience on your part. Do you have it in you?”

Sansa and Robb had taken those word’s to heart, and over time their persistence had borne fruit. Jon’s shell had grown less dark, and he left it more now than he ever had before. Still, his shadows were never far, near constant in their threat.

Fortunately, they were nowhere in sight as they entered the kennels. Sansa and Jon’s goal was just inside, in the first stall on the left. There, six direwolf pups were milling about, though they quickly came clamoring as the two entered the kennel itself. Sansa laughed at their pups’ antics, glanced among them until she found the golden eyes and calm demeanor that gave Lady her name.

Both had been what distinguished the pup since Jon and the others had returned from dealing with the deserter. She and Arya had been sharing a meal with Rickon when Bran had run in, shouting for them to follow him. They had done so, only to stop when they saw what he and the party had with them. While Arya and Rickon had both run forward to examine these wonders, she had just stood there until Jon had walked up and placed Lady in her hands, bowing his head slightly as he had. His own pup had been tucked into his jerkin and peered out at her with milky red eyes.

The thought of Ghost made Sansa look for him. The albino was easy to spot- sitting on his haunches next to the stall door, eyes no longer cloudy as Jon came up and sat beside the pup. “He always knows when I’m coming.”

“Of course he does, we always feed them at the same time of day,” Sansa pointed out.

“It’s more than that,” Jon insisted. “Whenever I come here, no matter the time, he’s always sitting like that, waiting for me. Ghost’s smarter than he lets on, I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe,” Sansa allowed. “They are direwolves, after all. Their bound to be smarter than normal wolves or dogs.

Jon’s expression became grim. “I still can’t believe that stag managed to take their mother with it.”

He’s still puzzling over that?  “It makes no difference now. Whatever the case, she’s gone and they’re our responsibility now. Speaking of which, where did they put the ra-OW!”

Sansa was cut off by a sharp pain on her left hand. She wrenched it to her chest and glared down at Lady, who looked back with an eager look in her eye and a wagging tail. “Do you think I’m going to blame Nymeria or Shaggydog? I’m smarter than that, Lady.”

“Did she break the skin?” Jon stood and walked to her side. His expression was concerned as he reached out to take her hand. Before Sansa could react, he had it and was looking it over.

His hands are firm, but not as rough as Father’s. Sansa blinked the thought away, but she felt the blush returning, this time refusing to stay out of sight. Jon didn’t seem to notice as he grunted.

“Well, there’s no blood, that’s good. Lucky for you,” Jon added, frowning down at Lady, who yawned at him.

“She’s just hungry,” Sansa managed, pulling her hand out of Jon’s. “Now, where are the rags?” She turned away, to look for the cloths they had been using to feed the pups and to hide the color in her face.

“They won’t need them much longer,” Jon said from behind her. “Uncle and I think they’ll be eating meat in the next couple weeks.”

“And they’ve only been here for one already!” Sansa shook her head. Ser Barristan had voiced the thoughts of many when he’d asked Luwin how quickly direwolves grew. The maester knew little of the subject but had enough knowledge to say that they’d grow quickly on milk, and once they were old enough for meat, even more quickly than that. Most had been skeptical, but the pups were already growing quickly, and that doubt had died away.

“It’s hard enough to think of space for them here,” Jon sighed, rubbing his temples. “I have no idea where I’ll find any room for him in the south. And that’s assuming Father will let him come with me.”

The heat in Sansa’s cheeks left with those words. If there was anything that she disliked hearing him speak of, it was Jon’s departure. Common sense told her that it would happen eventually, but Sansa despised talking about it. She thought it served to make the day come sooner, and couldn’t abide the thought.

Still, she knew better than to just change the subject. She decided on a different course. “They found room for Prince Viserys’ lion. Surely a direwolf wouldn’t be so much harder than that.”

She had intended it as a joke, but Sansa quickly realized she had chosen the wrong subject. Jon’s face hardened at the mention of his uncle, and she saw one fist clench for a moment before he released it. “Daenerys said the poor thing was kept in a cage the whole time. All it did was eat and sleep, unless someone prodded it enough to make it roar. I’d rather leave Ghost here than do that to him.”

“Oh, we both know you’d never do that,” Sansa said quickly, grasping for a way out of the pitfall she’d come to. “Viserys probably kept it caged for fear it’d eat him, come to think of it. From what I’ve heard, he’s no good with animals.”

That was a stretch and they both knew it. What little Sansa knew of Prince Viserys was all secondhand, either from gossip among the household or from Jon himself. And seeing as he hadn’t seen the man in seven years, Jon’s knowledge was limited, aided only by the letters that came to him from his kin in King’s Landing and Highgarden.

Still, it seemed to do the trick. Jon looked at Sansa for a moment before nodding slowly. “No, he was never good with animals. It makes me wonder how he fares in the lion’s den.”

“Casterly Rock.” Sansa sighed at the thought. Jon had only seen it from afar, but it had left an impression clear as day. He conceded that it was an incredible sight, though he swore that he preferred Winterfell by every measure. Sansa always marveled at the tales of the Rock and wondered if Jon’s uncle had found them as lovely as the singers said.

She was preparing to ask Jon about the Red Keep when he started chuckling. Sansa turned to look at him, meeting his gaze as she did. There must have been concern there, but Jon just smiled wider and shook his head. “We forgot the milk. I just realized that.”

The milk? Sansa was confused for a moment, then remembered where they were and what they were supposed to be doing. Then she started giggling, joining Jon as the dark mood lightened, by milk of all things.

After a few moments, they both stopped, smiles still on their faces. As they did, Sansa couldn’t resist looking Jon over, taking in his dark locks and eyes and youthful features. He was already turning as she did, so Sansa didn’t know if he noticed her do so. She sighed as she felt her blush returning and followed him out of the kennel, the pup’s whines of protest and hunger following them outside.

“The kitchens should have some milk somewhere,” Jon mused aloud. “It should only take a minute or so to heat.”

“Robb already fed Grey Wind,” Sansa recalled. “Maybe he still has the jug he used.”

“No, he drank it before we began exercises this morning.” Jon glanced around the courtyard, then started walking towards the Great Hall, while Sansa followed close behind.

They were just a few feet away when the doors opened outward. Maester Luwin and Mother walked through, speaking quietly as they did. Luwin saw them and stopped. “Sansa, Jon.”

“Maester Luwin,” Sansa gave a quick nod of the head, Jon mimicking her greeting and action. A curtsy was the proper greeting, but Luwin was too familiar for that, and just a maester besides.

“He’ll be in the godswood, Luwin,” Mother said, bringing the maester’s attention back to her. “I’ll see to him. I think Ned will take it better there.”

“Yes, Lady Stark,” the old man bowed. “And the other letters?”

Mother turned and looked at Jon, concern on her face. “Go ahead and tell him. Though you should find Ser Barristan first.”

“Barristan?” Jon turned to the courtyard’s side, where Barristan was helping Rodrik manage a match between Robb and Tom. Jon called out the Kingsguard’s name, who looked at them, said a quick word to Rodrik, and began walking over.

Sansa listened and watched this with confusion. And with growing apprehension.

Her mother didn’t notice her mood’s shift. “Sansa, what are you doing down here?”

“I was about to feed Lady, but I need milk,” Sansa replied.

“I had the servants keep a jug stored in the cupboard next to the kennel entrance. Why don’t I show you?” Before Sansa could refuse, Mother gave her a look that left no room for argument. Sansa sighed as they walked away from Luwin and Jon.

As they did, though, Sansa stole a glance back at them, watching for a moment as the maester began addressing Jon and Ser Barristan, who had just arrived at his side. The older men’s faces were both serious, while Jon’s expression was a mirror of the confusion and apprehension that Sansa felt. And just before her mother tugged her gaze back forward, she watched Luwin hold up two small rolls of parchment marked with blood-red wax.

Wax that Sansa knew bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Chapter Text

Eddard

“Thirty barrels of mead arrived yesterday, my lord,” Luwin said tiredly. “From White Harbor, a courtesy of Lord Manderly. The man who brought them said the lord is on his way as well, though I expect it will take him some time.”

Eddard sighed as she looked at the old maester. The man was far from young and spry but the last two weeks had seemed to age him another decade. Luwin insisted that he was fine, but he had stopped refusing offers of help from Cat or the children. It spoke to his weariness. I hope he recovers some of his strength before our guests arrive. Winterfell is already unprepared, facing a royal party without a maester would be nigh on impossible.

It seemed impossible even now. The winter town was largely empty during the summer, but many had been summoned to aid in preparing Winterfell for playing host to the king and his escort. While there was still room to be had Ned worried over whether the town and castle could handle as many people as they expected.

“Lord Manderly may decide not to accompany him,” Ned found himself saying. “If the king has granted him an audience already then he may simply send one of his sons in his place.” He glanced down at the papers Luwin was holding, noting the numbers as he read them. “If Lord Wyman isn’t accompanying His Grace, then that will save us a notable amount of food and drink and give us more space to work with.”

“Yes, my lord,” the maester replied, nodding to himself. “Now, if the king has kept his schedule he’ll have left White Harbor yesterday. Barring any unforeseen difficulties, it should take him another week or so to arrive. That’s assuming he is moving briskly, though, and we do not know if that is the case.”

“Let’s hope the man gives us more time than we hope for,” Eddard said crossly. “It’s bad enough he sent word of his approach after they were already underway. If the gods are good, his company will slow him down a few extra days.”

While the king was coming to Winterfell, he was not bringing the court with him. Ned hadn’t been surprised to learn the queen had remained in King’s Landing; her frailty was well known, and he doubted she could handle the journey to White Harbor, much less Winterfell itself. Both the king’s sister and daughter were traveling with him, though, along with three of Ser Barristan’s fellow Kingsguard and a host of servants and guards. Aside from that, there were few people of note accompanying the royal excursion to Winterfell.

Eddard had been surprised to learn of the lack of counselors coming with Rhaegar. The entirety of the small council was remaining behind, with Jon Connington presiding and acting as Hand until Rhaegar returned. However, the king had not named an official successor to Jon Arryn.

Ned’s face twisted as the grief flared at the thought. The ache that name brought with it still came to him. By all accounts Lord Arryn had passed quickly, which was a mercy few men received or deserved. Still, the sudden death of the man who had been like a second father to him had struck him hard. Cat and the children had helped Ned to weather the worst of the pain but it still stung whenever his mind came to the late Hand.

“My lord?” Eddard was pulled back by the query. He looked up to see Luwin studying him, concern plain on his face.

“Forgive me, Luwin. My mind wandered.” Eddard cleared his throat before scanning the documents again. “Did Poole confirm the numbers here?”

“Yes, and Lady Stark checked herself to be sure. I believe that we’ll be able to accommodate the royal party and our own household for as long as ten days, and that’s not including any supplies the king is bringing with him or those coming in while he is here.”

“Good.” Eddard looked up and started walking across his study. “Luwin, I’m going to go find my lady wife. Finish the details with Poole, and if there’s any pressing concerns, come find us.”

Ned barely heard the man’s affirmation as he went through the door. He had turned from matters of food and accounts to those of House Stark, and he did not wish to prepare without her input.

Before he knew it, Eddard was out of the Great Keep and walking towards the stables. He knew that Cat had ridden into the winter town to examine how the buildings and people were faring and intended to seek her out. Before he got there, though, Ned noticed a strange presence sitting near him. He paused, then changed course to investigate.

The pup was just sitting there when he got to its side. At first Eddard thought it was Robb’s, but he realized its coat was too light. Too light? I suppose they are growing on me after all.

Ned was still unsure of the pup’s presence in Winterfell and what it signified. If he was being truthful with himself, he had expected them to die in his children’s care, lacking a mother at such a young age. But the direwolves hadn’t died; indeed, the pups had thrived, growing quickly as the weeks went by. They no longer needed milk, instead competing with the castle dogs and hounds for scraps of meat and other food. They lost more often than not, but Eddard expected that would change eventually, and the children all made sure to feed them in the meantime.

That brought a thought to his head. Ned glanced back down at the pup, who had only looked at him once before returning his gaze to the structure above him. Eddard followed his gaze, eyes scanning the gargoyles that lined the First Keep’s walls. At first he saw nothing, but then he caught a flash of auburn in one of the windows.

Eddard sighed before calling up. “You didn’t get up there by taking the stairs, did you, Bran?”

There was no response. Then the auburn returned, along with the red face of his second son. “No.”

“You will take them to get back down.” He was still smiling, but Ned’s voice was firm as he spoke to the boy. Bran face disappeared after a moment. Eddard glanced down at the direwolf pup. “I had hoped you might discourage that sort of thing.”

The pup looked up at him and blinked. The northman shook his head. The pup’s arrival had been strange, but they acted almost like pets. He had to remember that they were still wild, however small they were. And I keep expecting them to act tame, on account of their size. They’ll never be tamed, even if the children befriend them. Wild things can make friends, but surrendering freedom is not in their nature.

As the thought crossed his mind the door to the First Keep opened. He expected Bran to come running out but was surprised to find a white-furred twin to his companion running towards him instead. After a moment, his gaze shot back to the door where, sure enough, his nephew was emerging alongside his son.

Jon’s expression was sheepish as he and Bran came up to Eddard. The latter looked guilty as sin, though Ned could detect the smile still tugging at the goy’s face. He glanced at his son before turning to Jon. “I hope you have a good reason for being here, watching your cousin do exactly what his mother has repeatedly told him not to.”

“That’s not what she said!” Bran spoke quickly, before Jon had a chance. “She said no more climbing, and I didn’t climb up there, Father, I swear!”

“Oh? And how did you get up there, if you didn’t climb or take the stairs?” Is he going to try and convince me that he flew?

“I scaled the wall, Father.” Bran’s expression was serious, his tone even more so. “That’s not the same as climbing it.”

Gods save me. “Scaling and climbing are the same thing, Bran.”

“No, Luwin said it wasn’t,” his son declared proudly. “Climbing is something a child might do, or someone trying to go somewhere. Scaling is what you do when you’re on a quest or fighting a war and people are trying to drop things on you.”

“Is that what you were doing, then?” Eddard looked at Jon, who had the sense to keep his eyes on the ground as his uncle’s gaze found him. “Dropping things on Bran while he scaled that old wall?”

“He wanted me to, Uncle.” The prince’s voice was quiet, his dark eyes coming up to meet Ned’s as he spoke. “But I didn’t, I swear. I just said I would since he wouldn’t stop pestering me.”

So Robb hasn’t beaten the brains out of him completely. That’s a good sign. Eddard looked at Bran before scanning the First Keep’s wall once more. After a few moments, he decided on his course.

“Well Bran, I suppose you might be right about climbing and…scaling. That said, I doubt your mother forbid you from the first just to watch you do the second. So, there’ll be no more of it. Am I understood?”

Bran glanced at his feet for a moment, then brought his eyes up again. “Yes, Father. I promise.”

Ned knew what the downward glance meant but did not press the point. “Good. Now, I was going into the town, but I do have something to speak with Jon about. Go find Luwin and let him see if your courtesies are good enough for a king.”

“They are!” His son’s expression became indignant. “I’ll show Luwin, and the court too!” Bran didn’t wait after that, running at full speed back towards the Great Keep, his pup running after him as he did.

“Gods save me.” Eddard shook his head as he turned to look at Jon. “Has he settled on a name yet?”

“No. Still can’t decide, and he thinks that all of our ideas are no good.”

“Hmm.” Ned frowned at the prince. “I will try to forget that you were helping him ignore Cat’s wishes. Don’t let me catch you doing so again.”

Jon bit his lip, but then he surprised the northman. “I’m afraid I can’t agree, Uncle. Bran will keep climbing no matter what, he likes it too much. If I or someone else doesn’t watch him, he’s more like than not to get hurt.”

“That’s true whether he’s alone or not.”

“Maybe,” his nephew persisted, “But if someone is with him, then it’s less likely. And if something bad happens and he needs help, then I can get it.”

Eddard opened his mouth, then closed it. He wanted to admonish Jon for encouraging his cousin but knew Bran too well to put the blame on him. And though it irritated Ned, his nephew was right- Bran treated climbing almost as seriously as his sword lessons with Ser Barristan and was not likely to let it go. A pair of watchful eyes couldn’t hurt. Still, those eyes shouldn’t be Jon’s.

He wrestled with the thought for a few moments, aware of his nephew’s gaze as he did. Eventually, Ned nodded. “True enough. Still, I want you to find a way to let someone know as soon as you see Bran off the ground.” He glanced down at the albino direwolf. “Maybe you could teach him to find a friendly face.”

Jon chuckled at that. “I’m not sure if he can be taught, Uncle.”

“Course he can. Arya’s already taught hers to fetch gloves, fetching a person comes right after that.”

His nephew laughed at that, while Ned just smiled. His good mood left him, though, as he recalled what he wanted to speak to the youth about. “Jon, I need to speak with you about the king’s visit.”

The humor left Jon’s face quickly. He glanced down, making eye contact with the albino pup at his feet, and then looked up to meet Eddard’s face again. “Father’s planning taking me back with him, isn't he?”

“That’s more likely than not.” Ned started walking, motioning to Jon as he did. His nephew mimicked him, the albino pup trailing them as they headed away from the First Keep. As they did Eddard contemplated how to proceed. I doubt he’d appreciate the soft approach. “We’ve known that this was coming for some time, Jon. You’re nearly a man, and the king must be anxious to have you return.” He paused, then forged ahead. “But what I don’t understand is why he decided to bring so many with him or even…”

He trailed off, but Jon knew where his thoughts were going. “Why he is coming himself.” The youth nodded, eyes staring into space as he walked beside Ned. “Barristan was wondering the same thing. He always thought we would be summoned back, or that the king would send an escort. He doesn’t understand why Father is coming either, and neither do I.” Jon paused as he glanced at Eddard. “Perhaps he wants to pay his respects. To Mother, I mean. And it has been a long time since a king came north of the Neck. Maybe he thought it was time.”

Eddard appreciated his nephew’s honesty and the astute way he seemed to be handling this. Both Luwin and Catelyn had suggested those possibilities to him already, but none of them knew Rhaegar well enough to say what reasons had made him come to Winterfell. Seven years is long enough for any man to change. A king is no different.

As they walked, Eddard looked at the movement around him. For all the tasks being done, every person who passed them by bowed their head or murmured 'my lord' or 'my prince' as he and Jon came by them. The looks he saw were usually of respect and loyalty. His nephew received more warmth, more smiles and friendliness. Jon responded with nods and polite looks, rarely returning the affection many of the people of Winterfell had developed for him. That did not deter them, thought. His Stark blood and, more importantly, his northern attitude had won over most who had seen Jon regularly. That, and knowing how close he is to their lord's children.

“Uncle.” Jon was looking at him again. “If Barristan and I have to return…” His nephew paused, then took a breath and started again. “If Barristan and I have to return to King’s Landing when my father does, will any of the others be allowed to come with us?”

That was a good question, and Jon wasn’t the only one asking it. Eddard had always intended for most of his children to spend some time in the south, to gain experience in southron ways and court life. Still, he and Cat had always expected that they would spend that time in Riverrun or the Eyrie, with their mother’s kin, and he was still ambivalent of doing even that much. King’s Landing had never been considered

“I doubt His Grace would refuse if I asked,” Eddard finally said. Before Jon could press him further, he changed the subject. “One of the courtiers the king is bringing with him is Lord Tywin’s heir. What can you tell me about him, and what we can do to accommodate him?”

Jon’s expression brightened. “Lord Tyrion? He shouldn’t be any trouble at all. We’ll need candles of course, as well as some mead and…”

Eddard stopped focusing as his nephew began listing the ways to make Tyrion Lannister more comfortable. His eyes went to the path before them, heading out towards the winter town. But his mind was still on his children, and what the future held for them both north and south of the Neck.

Robb would have to remain, Eddard knew that with a certainty, and Rickon was still too young. Arya might benefit from time in the south, but her wild ways and attitude gave Ned pause. Another year or so, to see if she calms some. Bran’s fondness for swords and tales of chivalry had always been understood, but of late it had become an obsession. Rodrik Cassel had started joking of how Eddard’s son followed their resident Kingsguard as faithfully as one of the direwolf pups. Ned expected that Bran would have to be sent to foster within two years, though he still was not sure where.

That leaves Sansa. Eddard had little doubt that his eldest daughter would thrive in a southron court. In many ways, she acted more a southern lady then a northern one, though he knew that there was steel beneath it all. While that hardness would serve her well, he did not think she was ready for the capital. She needs real experience in a southron court. That brings us back to Riverrun or the Eyrie.

“Uncle?”

Eddard blinked. He realized that they had reached the gatehouse where the castle ended and the winter town began. Jon had stopped talking and was looking at him with confusion. “I’m sorry, Jon, what was that?”

The youth sighed. “Do you think Father will ask anything of you?”

“Why? Is there something you think he will? Or are you worried about what he might ask?”

Jon shrugged. “Both, I suppose. It’s just, well, he hasn’t named a new Hand yet. Do you think he may ask you to serve?”

Ned blinked. He had not considered that, truth be told. Though I expect Luwin and Cat have. He thought a moment before answering Jon. “I doubt it, lad. I dislike the capital, the games the flatterers and snakes play. And I am still the Lord of Winterfell. My place is here.”

“Those are all reasons for you to say no. That doesn’t mean he won’t ask.”

Eddard was startled by that. He knew Jon was no fool, but that observation suggested the prince knew more about the games Ned decried then he let on. I suppose that’s to be expected.

Jon was still speaking. “You’re dislike of intrigue and honorable reputation are what make you a good choice. Some might call you self-serving, but few would believe it. It would also send a good message to the lords who fought alongside Robert Baratheon, replacing one of his former supporters with another.”

“You know, Jon,” Eddard said slowly, “With a mind like that, perhaps he should make you Hand instead.”

Jon’s face became hard with that. “That place has no appeal for me. I don’t want to go back. And I don’t think you should go either.”

Eddard smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind, come what may. Now then, Cat is out here somewhere, so I should get moving. Are you and your companion joining me?”

Jon shook his head. “I’ll be late for my training with Barristan. Uncle.” He bowed and started walking back the way they had come. Then he stopped and turned back to look at Eddard. “Father shouldn’t ask you. If he does, please say no.”

Ned frowned as the youth resumed his path back towards Winterfell’s heart. He appreciated Jon’s concern, but the tone he had spoken in had been tinged with fear, which was all the more odd considering the subject of his ire. That is what I don’t understand. Why this ambivalence about his father?

Once, Eddard would have been pleased to see such. What Rhaegar’s actions had cost the North and House Stark had stoked a resentment and anger that seemed all-consuming. Only the knowledge that Benjen and Jon were in his power had kept Ned from defying the man. Later, when his nephew had been sent to Winterfell, Eddard had sworn that he would not let Jon become like Rhaegar. And he had been pleased to watch his sister’s son become the prince that he was.

Yet in truth, Ned had been less successful then he had hoped. Jon did not have the constant melancholy his father had possessed and was rumored to still have, but the youth’s mind could go to dark places. Eddard didn’t blame him for that- raised in the snake’s pit that was the capital, experiencing war firsthand before he was seven, it was no wonder that Jon was not the walking sunbeam his brother was purported to be. Still, where once he had nothing but good to say of his father, there had been a change over the last year that Ned found disquieting.  I only hope that Rhaegar’s presence might change it. I have no love for the man, but tension between him and Jon will do no one any good.

“Ned!” He glanced up to see his wife riding towards him, with Rodrik riding just behind. Catelyn dismounted as she came to his side and embraced him. He returned the gesture, smiling as she pulled away with matching expression. “We saw Jon. Where is he?”

“On his way back,” Ned replied. “Barristan’s been driving him hard, and that hasn’t changed.”

“He does like his swords.”

“Him and every other lad his age. Rodrik.” Ned nodded at the old knight, who bowed in reply. “How’s the town?”

“Busier than ever, my lord,” Rodrik replied. “By my tally, three-fourths full. There’ll be more before the king get here, but I doubt it’ll get to more than four-fifths.”

“That should be more than enough,” Cat pointed out. “And if not, we’ll find a way to make room.”

Ned nodded.  He glanced at Rodrik. “The lady and I need to return. Give us some distance, we need to speak. Privately.”

The knight nodded. Eddard turned, waiting until Cat followed suit to begin walking. After a few moments he glanced back to see Rodrik leading the two horses behind them, hanging roughly ten feet back.

“What is it, Ned?” Catelyn asked, her expression concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure, Cat.” He sighed. “Jon and I were just speaking about his father, about the reason that Rhaegar came himself. I swear, the lad knows more about politics than half the lords in the North.”

“Blame Barristan for that,” Cat replied. “He thinks a prince needs to know how court games work, to better avoid them. And I doubt his letters with Tyrion Lannister helped.”

That had been one of the unexpected developments in Winterfell. Jon had only been there for a few months before the letter had arrived from the Imp. To the surprise of most, Jon, all of eight, had replied, and the two had exchanged letters ever since. They came and went every month or so, almost as often as Jon’s letters with his older brother or his aunt. The dwarf even outwrote Jon’s father. I still don’t understand how.

“Well,” Eddard found himself saying, “Jon seems to think that Rhaegar may offer me the office of Hand.”

Cat stared at him. “Do you think his father or someone in his family told him so?”

“No, he’s just suspicious. If he knew, he would have told me so.”

Catelyn nodded. “Well, if the king does offer, you can’t refuse.”

Ned couldn’t stop the breath from leaving him. “The hell I can’t. It’d do no good for me to go to King’s Landing, Hand or not.”

“We can’t offend him by saying no,” his wife insisted. “It would only endanger our relationship with the crown.”

“That relationship isn’t exactly close, Cat.”

“Not now.” She looked sharply at him. “But Rhaegar won’t be king forever. When he passes and Prince Aegon succeeds him, then Jon will stand at his side.”

“And House Stark could benefit. Yes, Luwin said as much.” She sees more opportunity than danger in King’s Landing. Ned couldn’t tell if that made her braver or rasher than him. Likely it made her both.

Still, he was far from convinced. “We do not know if that will be the case. Their letters aside, Aegon and Jon have had no meaningful contact for seven years, Cat. And no one who goes near the throne is safe, even the king’s kin.” Or the king himself.

Catelyn sighed. “Ned, the danger isn’t as great as you think. Rhaegar isn’t Aerys.”

Eddard frowned. “Neither is Tywin Lannister, but I still wouldn’t send any of our children to Casterly Rock.”

“No, just let your nephew correspond with its heir.”

Ned growled, but there was no fierceness in it. Cat rarely teased him, and there was never harm intended when she did. A ploy to make me lower my guard. If Jon and the other haven't learned anything of intrigue from her, I’m Brandon the Builder.

“Nothing is decided, even now,” Eddard said shortly. “A king’s power is not considered lightly. We can only wait and see what the king wants.”

“Of course.” Catelyn nodded as she spoke. “But we cannot forget what he might offer, and what he might accept. My father once said that power is like a sword without a hilt; there’s no safe way to grasp it. But a sword without a hilt is still a sword, Ned, and some are sharper than others.”

“The king’s is sharpest of all, and our family can benefit from it, if wielded properly.”

Chapter Text

Jon

The courtyard was filled with the household of Winterfell. Men and women, young and old- they all waited anxiously as the royal party grew nearer. It was no surprise- kings were rare north of the Neck, and this particular king had history with House Stark that no other had.

 I suppose I’m living proof of that. Jon glanced next to him, where his uncle stood with the grim expression he was known for. Ned returned his glance, his expression softening for a moment as he nodded to Jon. The prince returned the gesture, then turned his head as the first riders came into view.

The party was lead by household guards, dressed in leather and chainmail with the badge of House Targaryen sown to their clothing. Jon hadn’t known any of them very well before leaving King’s Landing and doubted that would change. His uncle knew the names of every man and woman in Winterfell, but his father had a far larger household and domain to manage, making names a luxury.

That was not the case of the men who came riding just behind. Three knights in white armor with cloaks as pale as snow rode behind the guards, the light from the overcast sky turning the steel to silver. On Jon’s right, he could sense Barristan’s stance shifting as he caught sight of his sworn brothers.

“That one is Ser Arys Oakheart,” Jon heard Arya whisper to Bran, “and the one to his right is Ser Humphrey, the Hightower knight. The one behind him-”

Arya’s voice cut off. She must have realized what Jon had already observed. That is not Ser Arthur. He’s not tall enough, and too slim. That means…

Jon’s eyes widened as he glanced towards his uncle. Surprise was etched into the Lord of Winterfell’s gaze as his younger brother removed his helm and nodded. Benjen had more lines on his face than when Jon had last seen him, and was tanner as well, but otherwise the northman looked unchanged. Ned looked as if he meant to address his brother, but Jon watched as his uncle set his expression and turned to watch the king ride into view.

Jon stared as his father reigned in his horse beside the Kingsguard. Unlike Benjen, the king’s face looked as if no time had passed since he and Jon had said farewell on Pyke. He was dressed for travel, wearing riding leathers and gloves, with a black hooded cloak lined with fur. The leather was also dark, near enough to black, and around his neck was a silver necklace with a ruby dragon pendant hanging about it. His father’s crown was nowhere in evidence, though Jon could make out the shape of rings underneath his father’s gloves. It was not what his father wore, but rather the quality of it that screamed wealth and power at those who looked it over.

Behind him, Jon could make out the banners of a few other houses among the many Targaryen flags. The golden lion of Lannister was there, along with the Martell sun and a score of others. While Jon could not find faces to place with most of the banners, he did manage to glimpse the figure who the sigil of Casterly Rock flew for.

Tyrion Lannister looked much the same as the last time they had spoken. The dwarf’s mismatched eyes were sharp as they surveyed the area around him, though Jon thought he saw boredom in the Lannister’s eyes. When their gazes met, Tyrion nodded at him and smiled. That was all they managed, though, before Jon’s father brought everyone’s attention back to him.

The king dismounted as more riders and carriages pulled into view behind him. As his feet touched the ground Jon’s uncle knelt, while his family and all the others in the courtyard followed suit. Jon’s gaze left his father as he looked at the ground.

It only lasted a moment. “Rise, all of you,” the king declared in a loud voice, “I’ve kept you waiting too long as it is."

Jon glanced at Barristan as they rose, who shrugged as they did so. The king looked about before settling his gaze on Jon. Father walked forward until he was standing less than a foot in front of the prince. His amethyst eyes narrowed as he looked Jon up and down. The intensity of the gaze made him straighten, as if seeking to become taller. What is he looking for?

It felt like years passed before his father spoke. “You’ve grown.”

Jon did not know how to respond. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace?” The king’s expression softened as he raised an eyebrow. “I trust you know you need not use such formalities with me, Jon.”

Jon blinked. “Oh course, Your- Father.” He could hear Ser Rodrik’s voice berating him in his mind. Did you leave your wits in the training yard?

The king turned and stepped over to his uncle. “Lord Eddard. You are looking well.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.” Ned bowed his head slightly as he said those words. Jon saw his eyes flicker towards Benjen for a moment before returning to Jon’s father. “I hope your journey was uneventful.”

“It was, save for the snowfall in White Harbor.” Father shook his head in wonder. “I had read that the North experienced snow in late summer, but it is one thing to read of it and another to see it in person. In honesty, I had hoped the snow might find us again here.”

“It may yet, if the winds are steady.”

“Hmm.” Father walked to Ned’s left, bowing his head as Jon’s aunt gave a small curtsy. Unlike her husband, Catelyn smiled as she addressed the king. “Your Grace. I hope you find the hospitality of Winterfell as warm as the snow from your journey was cold.”

The king smiled as he assured her of his confidence of that. He then looked down to where Rickon clutched at his mother's skirt, but the child buried his face in said skirt rather than face Jon's father. The king did not seem troubled, simply smiling before passing to their left.

As he moved on to Robb, Jon took a moment to glance at Benjen, an unspoken question in his gaze. His uncle merely shrugged and jerked his head towards Jon’s father. That did nothing to answer him and made the prince’s curiosity grow.

You’ve been with Aegon since Pyke. How are you here, and why?

“You must be the Lady Sansa.” Jon’s gaze returned to the king as Sansa mimicked her mother and curtsied before him. Rhaegar nodded his head. “My son spoke of his cousins beauty often in his letters. I see he did not exaggerate.”

Beautiful did not do her justice. Sansa’s auburn hair had been brushed out and fell halfway to her waist. She was Jon's height and greeted the king with a polite and kind smile. Her dress was steely blue, a few shades lighter than the darker cloth her mother wore. Its embroidery was silver, with weirwood branches stretching across the skirt and direwolves racing through them up onto her torso. Her figure, willowy and womanly, was complemented by the dress. The dress’ color in turn complemented Sansa’s auburn locks, while her vivid blue eyes completed the picture. Sansa was the picture of a lady, beautiful and graceful and charming. She was...she was everything stories said ladies should be.

Jon had needed an elbow from Barristan to stop staring when Sansa had first entered the courtyard. Thankfully, she had not seemed to notice, though Jon suspected others had.

Sansa blushed as she thanked the king for his compliment. As he passed on towards Bran and Arya, she turned to look at Jon, her expression a mixture of gratitude and fluster. Jon flushed at the look, discomfited by it and the words that had brought it about. Of course he talks about my letters.

His father had come to the youngest of the Stark children. Bran gaped at the king but managed to close his mouth as Rhaegar smiled down before greeting him.

Jon was surprised by what happened next. Father’s expression changed as he found Arya. For a moment the calm and friendliness were gone, replaced by surprise, pain, and longing. But the moment passed, and the king’s expression returned to its kind and friendly look he had used with Bran. “And you are?”

“Arya!” She curtsied, then smiled at the king. “It’s nice to meet you, Your Grace.”

Jon heard his aunt sigh at that, but his father did not seem put off at all. “I am pleased to meet you as well, Lady Arya.” The king turned and walked back to Jon’s uncle. “You have a lovely family, Lord Eddard. The gods have been kind.”

“Your Grace.” Next to Jon, Barristan addressed the king. Father turned as the knight took a knee. “I trust you are well.”

“Of course, Ser Barristan.” Father gestured towards the three Kingsguard standing behind him. “Your sworn brothers have done their duty well during your absence.”

“Our absence, Your Grace.” Benjen grinned at Barristan. “I can’t take much credit. Too busy rescuing His Grace’s eldest from rosebushes.”

“How is the Prince Aegon?” Catelyn interjected, looking curiously at Benjen and Jon’s father. “Did he accompany you here after all, Your Grace?”

“No, he did not.” The king sighed. “My party had just finished preparing to depart when Ser Benjen arrived in King’s Landing. My older son had ordered him there, to accompany me to Winterfell.”

“How thoughtful. I will have to write to him, to say thank you.”

The king smiled. “None are necessary, my lady. It has been too long since this Stark returned to Winterfell. I saw the wisdom of Aegon’s decision, so Ser Benjen is here, while the Lord-Commander remains in the capital with my son and wife.”

His smile faded as he glanced at Jon. The prince thought he saw guilt in his father’s eyes, though he couldn’t say what it was for. Is it for sending me away? Or my being here at all?

But Father's next words quickly changed Jon’s thinking. “Lord Stark, where are the crypts?” The king turned to look at Ned, his expression determined. “I wish to pay my respects.”

“Your Grace,” Catelyn said with a tinge of worry, “Perhaps you and the royal party should be settled in before doing so. It has been a long journey, and I’m sure there are some with you who could benefit from the rest.”

“Why, thank you, Lady Stark!”

The new voice cut through the air and Rhaegar’s response. Jon turned from them to look at the carriage door from where it had come, and the young woman who had just finished descending it.

By the gods, Dany’s grown up. Jon’s aunt was the blood of Old Valyria, anyone who looked at her could see that. Daenerys’ dress was black, with silver embroidery lining its skirt and sleeves. She was more than a full head shorter than Jon, with her silver-gold hair falling past her shoulders almost to her waist. Her figure was more voluptuous than Lady Catelyn or Sansa, the two Starks taller and more graceful than the young Targaryen. Her face was pale, though not unhealthy, and her eyes were an even deeper purple than Jon’s father.

Jon’s gaze moved again as he caught movement behind his aunt. Four young women were emerging from the carriage as well. One of them looked much like Daenerys- silver hair and purple eyes, though these were far lighter than hers or the king's. If he had to guess, he’d say she hailed from Dragonstone or one of its neighboring isles.

Behind her came two Sand Snakes. Jon nodded in greeting as his gaze caught Nymeria’s, who returned the gesture. Behind her came a fair-skinned young woman with blonde hair, whose smile did not come to her eyes. If Jon hadn’t recognized Tyene, he likely never would have guessed at her parentage, or her reputation. Dany had described her often in her letters, though, and Jon knew better than to be taken in by the Dornishwoman’s lovely features.

He only spared Tyene a glance before his eyes found his older sister, who returned the look. Rhaenys was beautiful, no man could question that. Her dress was striking, a mix of Targaryen black with Martell gold embroidery. Her form was slimmer than Daenerys’, and her raven hair shone in the daylight. Her eyes were a dark brown, though Jon knew they could seem purple in the right light. We have that much in common, at least.

 Rhaenys did not smile, unlike the others. Her expression was alert and interested, but there was no warmth in it as she looked at Jon. After a moment, his sister’s gaze left him to scan the courtyard and the people in it. The look on her face never changed, showing nothing of her thoughts as Rhaenys observed Winterfell.

She does not think these walls are safe. Jon couldn’t blame her for that- King’s Landing taught one quickly to mistrust the appearance of safety, regardless of where they were. Still, Jon couldn’t help the resentment that stirred as he watched her take in the surroundings.

He tore his eyes from Rhaenys as Daenerys walked forward, smiling as she did. She came to stand beside the king and curtsied to the lord and lady before her. “Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn. It is so good to meet you at last.”

“My sister, Princess Daenerys,” Father announced.

“Princess.” Ned bowed slightly, doing so again as Jon’s father introduced Rhaenys a moment later. “Your Grace, the rooms and meals have been prepared. I suppose you’ll want to rest some before the feast tonight. May I-”

“Lord Eddard.” The king’s voice was quiet, but the steel in it was apparent to all. “I’ve waited fourteen years. I don’t intend to wait any longer.”

Jon’s uncle stared at Father then, the king returning the look. Gray eyes met purple, with enough animosity that for a moment Jon thought the two might begin to openly quarrel.

Fortunately, Ned appeared to realize that delaying was useless. “Very well, then. If Your Grace insists, then I can take-”

“Lord Eddard.” Jon’s voice rose before he realized it himself. “I can show my father to the crypts myself. There’s no need for you to trouble yourself.” It has been a while. And I don’t think Father and Uncle Ned should be left alone with my mother.

The northman looked at Jon with concern, then turned to look at the king with a raised eyebrow. Father looked back at him, looked at Jon again, then nodded. Eddard sighed before nodding. “As you wish, Jon.”

“Barristan.” The king looked at the old Kingsguard. “Accompany us. Benjen, you and the others see the royal party is settled in, we’ll be back before long.”

“Your Grace.” Benjen motioned to one of the guards, who turned and began calling out to the royal party while the rest of the courtyard burst into activity. Jon saw Rhaenys and Daenerys both start to speak with the Starks gathered in front of them before his attention was called back to his father.

“Lead the way, Jon.”

“Yes, Father.” Jon turned and began walking towards the entrance to the crypts. Behind him, he heard the king and Ser Barristan begin speaking quietly, their words too faint for him to make out.

Do they speak of Winterfell, or me, or both? Questions buzzed in Jon’s mind, but he suppressed them as they came towards the crypt entrance.

The old ironwood door was as heavy as ever. Jon had to grit his teeth as he pushed against it. The door was stubborn but yielded after a few moments.

Jon grabbed the torch just outside the door before entering, while the king and his knight followed. The air was colder than outside, even just past the doorway. Stone statues looked down on them as they passed through, ancient Kings of Winter and Lords of Winterfell. Jon recognized some of them- Theon the Hungry Wolf, Brandon the Shipbuilder, Edrick Snowbeard. But they were not the ones Jon and his father had come to visit.

As they descended, Rhaegar finally addressed him. “Do you come here often?”

“Not as much as I should,” Jon aid reluctantly. “The last was a few weeks ago, just before word of your coming reached here.”

“Ah. Lord Stark can’t have been happy about that.” Father looked regretful. “I must say, the little we’ve seen of the North has been refreshing. Wherever I go south of the Neck, there is always constant noise and movement. The cities are teeming with people, the fields overgrown with crops and food. Here, though, there is quiet, solitude. The people do not seem so much happy as content, and even so, they are still wary of misfortune.”

“Winter is coming,” Jon reminded his father. “The people of the North know that better than anyone south of the Neck. And a long summer often means a longer winter.”

Father raised an eyebrow. “I said as much to Pycelle. He insists that it is simply superstition, that there is no way to know how long or short the coming winter will be. We won’t know for some time, if the gods are good.”

Jon nodded, then stopped. “Just ahead, Father. On the left.” The king nodded, silent as they came to their destination.

Jon’s mother shared her section with two others. The tomb of Rickard Stark dominated the berth, his statue glaring sternly at the new guests. On either side were the statues of his two children, Brandon and Lyanna. The king only had eyes for the latter, though, his expression draining away as he walked to stand in front of her statue.

The moments seemed to stretch into lifetimes. Eventually, Jon’s father spoke. “This stone does not do her justice.” He turned his head to look at the other Starks, and then turned to look past Jon, to the rest of the vault and the shadows that lay within. “I cannot help but think this is not the right place for her.”

“This is where the Starks of Winterfell come after death,” Jon said, irritated by his father’s words. Must he question the customs of others? “House Targaryen’s own are all cremated, it is our way. And this place is theirs.”

Father looked at him, curiosity and sadness in his gaze. He turned to look at the tomb’s surface, where withered flowers were strewn. He picked one up and examined it closely. “Winter roses. Your mother always loved these. Did you leave them here?”

“Not all of them. Uncle- Lord Eddard comes with me sometimes, he brings them as well. Some of the others come every now and then as well, they-”

“Yes, yes. It is good that they honor their fallen kin.” Father sighed as he rubbed his eyes. He missed the look Jon gave him, his irritation flashing into anger. Barristan saw it, though, and gave Jon a disapproving look. Jon flushed and looked at the ground, knowing the chastisement was warranted. The most dangerous swordsmen are the ones who never reveal their thoughts, or their actions.

“Speak truly, Jon.” He looked up to see the king staring at him with a sharp look in his eyes. “Your letters to me and Daenerys say you have been well. How much of that was truth?”

“All of it.” Jon’s irritation took the deference from his voice. “I wouldn’t lie, there’s no reason to.”

“No?” The king raised an eyebrow. “Benjen said much the same. He insisted that Winterfell was safer for you than any other place, even more so than at my side. But I have learned the hard way that appearances can be misleading.”

Jon might have argued against his father once. But he was no longer a child and knew better than to dismiss those concerns himself. While he knew that no Stark would ever consider hurting him, not all the northern lords shared that faith. While they all followed Lord Eddard’s lead in practice, the Greatjon had made no secret of his dislike at Jon’s presence, and Roose Bolton had always eyed him when he visited, the ice in his eyes flashing whenever their eyes had met. They were not alone in their thinking, Jon knew that much.

“They see the son of their enemy,” Jon’s uncle had once told him. “Lyanna’s letter and Rhaegar’s proposal may have brought us to your father’s side, but too many northman lost their lives to the loyalists of House Targaryen. They find it easier to blame Rhaegar for their lost kin. As his son, you make a convenient target, as they cannot touch the man himself.”

Eddard might have been speaking of himself. Jon’s uncle had nothing but goodwill for him, but Jon knew even now that the goodwill was his alone. His uncle and father were still far from reconciled, and he doubted anything would change that.

“Appearances can lie, but that does not mean they always do,” Jon found himself saying. “Winterfell has treated me well, as have its people.”

Father stared at him for a moment before nodding. “Good. Now tell me, your cousins, what do you think of them? The older ones, Robb and Sansa, they seem a good sort.”

“They are.” Jon nodded, his mind lightening as he spoke. “Robb reminds me of Egg, just a little less confident. Strong and quick, with a brain beneath the bluster. He’ll make a great Lord of Winterfell, when the time comes. And Sansa, she’s not only beautiful, she’s charming, well-mannered, and one of the kindest souls I’ve ever met…”

Jon trailed off as his father’s expression became thoughtful. The king glanced past him, sharing a look with Barristan before looking at Jon once more. “It is good to hear you speak so well of your kin. That does much to allay my concerns.”

Before Jon could ask him what those concerns were, his father moved on. “Your brother sends his regards. Aegon regretted that he could not join me on my journey to Winterfell, but it could not be helped.”

“Yes.” Do I ask now or later? Jon bit his lip before deciding the former. “Father, if I may ask, why did you come here yourself? Barristan and I always thought you’d send a raven, but this seems a bit much…”

“You are not the only reason I am here, Jon.” Father glanced at the statue of Jon’s mother before motioning back towards the crypt entrance. The two of them began walking while Barristan hung back, giving them space.

“The North has gone too long without seeing its king,” The king went on, “and I hope that my presence may help earn some goodwill with its lords. Also, Lord-Commander Baratheon has written to me often, urging the crown to provide men and supplies to the Wall, along with reports of this Mance Rayder. I thought it wise to see for myself how the Night’s Watch fares, to better judge what the crown can do to help.”

“I was at Castle Black half a year ago, with Lord Eddard and some others,” Jon pointed out. “The Watch does need aid, and the lords whose lands border it would surely appreciate the crown’s attention.” Visiting the black brothers will help, if goodwill is what Father is after.

Then something else occurred to him. “You mean to visit our kinsman as well, don’t you? Aemon mentioned that you and he used to share letters.”

Jon hadn’t known what to make of the old maester when they had met. Confusion had given way to astonishment as he had learned of the man’s history, and of his kinship with Jon and the other members of House Targaryen. Jon was still confused even now, but he appreciated the wisdom Aemon clearly possessed in spades, and expected his father hoped to benefit from that.

Sure enough, Father nodded. “Indeed, we did and still do. It is high time we spoke in person, though, and this journey will give me that opportunity.”

But then… “Will Rhaenys and Dany accompany you?”

“No, they will return to White Harbor after my time in Winterfell is done, and from there to King’s Landing.” Jon’s father paused as they reached the crypt entrance. “You will accompany them part of the way, when the times comes.”

Jon felt his heart grow heavy with those words. “So, I am returning to the capital.”

“Yes and no. You will sail from White Harbor, it is true, but you will not go to King’s Landing with your sister and aunt. I intend for you to go elsewhere before coming to the capital.”

Jon looked at his father in bafflement, but he continued speaking before Jon could ask anything more. “And when you go, I do not intend for you to travel alone.”

Chapter Text

Catelyn

The Great Hall was busier than it had been in years. The royal party had brought its fair share of servants and mouths to feed, and the king had commanded that his entourage do all in its power to help House Stark manage the chaos that his arrival had brought. But even with their help, it would be a miracle if there was no mishap during the king’s visit.

Catelyn sighed as the servants and household around her scrambled to prepare the hall for the feast that was to come. The king’s arrival the day before had been later than expected, which had proven fortunate for their larders. His daughter had complained of weariness from travel, and so he and Ned had agreed to postpone the welcoming feast until the next night. While the children had been disappointed by the delay, it had saved Winterfell a good amount of food and drink, for which Catelyn was grateful.

“Cat.” She turned towards the dais, where her husband had just finished speaking with Ser Rodrik. Ned walked over to her, concern on his face. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Ned, I’m fine,” she assured him. “It’s one thing to plan for a royal visit, but quite another to actually manage one. I am adjusting, that is all.”

“Good.” Her husband smiled. “Gods know Winterfell is only still standing thanks to you. I don’t think we could manage without those wits of yours.”

Catelyn joined in his laughter. His mood had been more somber than usual as of late, which was worrying though not surprising. She knew that Rhaegar’s presence was one Ned found troubling, and that unease was shared by others in Winterfell.

“Speaking of wits,” he continued, “one of the servants told me that Tyrion Lannister and Jon spent at least an hour speaking with each other in private this morning.”

Catelyn was surprised. She knew that Jon and the dwarf had exchanged letters, but to leap to private, hour-long meetings? “Did the servant know why?”

Ned shook his head as Catelyn mulled this new information. “Lannister is stunted, but it is said his mind is sharper than most men thrice his age. If that’s so, then Jon would do well to befriend him.” She sighed. “I suppose they may have just shared their stories of their travels, or perhaps Lord Tyrion was speaking to Jon of his uncle, Prince Viserys.”

“Perhaps.” Ned looked far from convinced but shrugged. “Well, if it was a matter of importance, I expect Jon will tell us.”

That was more likely than not. Jon was not one for keeping secrets, Cat knew that much. Still, that did not ease her mind entirely. The heir of Casterly Rock was said to be a confidant of the king and if the reason that he and Jon had spoken was royal business, Catelyn didn’t know how much Jon would tell them, if anything at all.

The last evening had suggested as much. After he and the king had returned from the crypts, Jon’s mood had been grim, to say the least. At first Catelyn had thought it had just been the circumstances- visiting his mother’s tomb often made Jon somber. But when she had asked after what had happened while he and Rhaegar were alone, Jon had only told her that his father wanted the conversation to be kept private.

Laughter tore Catelyn from the memory. She and Eddard turned towards one of the Great Hall’s door as the king’s daughter walked through with her attendants. Rhaenys may have pled weariness the day before, but she showed none of it now. It seemed the night’s rest had done its work well. That’s if any work needing to be done in the first place.

“I suppose we should say good morning,” Ned muttered.

Cat noticed the discomfort in his tone and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “Ned, she won’t bite.”

Her husband rolled his eyes but walked with her toward their guests.

The olive-skinned woman with Rhaenys saw them first. She dropped into a curtsy, her paler counterpart following suit next to her. “Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn.”

“Lady Nymeria, Lady Tyene.” Catelyn was uneasy in these women’s company. She had been startled to learn that the two princesses were attended by two of the infamous Sand Snakes. It was one thing to allow them at court, but she had never imagined that the king would allow them such direct access to his kin. Their blood ties aside, that a princess is being attended by bastard-born women is hard to believe.

But Rhaenys was, and Catelyn knew better than to say anything about it. “We heard that you were an early riser, Princess Rhaenys. How do you find Winterfell?”

“A bit grim, if I am being honest.” The princess smiled apologetically at Cat’s husband. “I mean no insult, Lord Eddard. But this is my first time north of the Neck and cannot help but long for the castles and climes of my home.”

“No explanation is needed, princess.” Ned nodded. “I feel the same ache whenever I chance to travel south. One cannot expect to travel to new places and not feel uncomfortable.”

Rhaenys laughed. “I suppose so. Forgive me, the ladies Nymeria and Tyene just accompanied me to my prayers. Your godswood is truly inspiring, Lord Stark. The weirwood is a wonder I have never seen the like of. I do not keep the old gods myself, though, so I found myself using your sept this morning. How long has it been here, if I may ask?”

Catelyn spoke at that. “A little less than fifteen years. Ned had it built for me, so that I could pray to the gods of my father and House Tully.”

“Truly? How thoughtful.” The words came from Tyene, who smiled sweetly at Catelyn. “It is good to hear that you found such a warm welcome in the North, Lady Catelyn. In Dorne, one’s led to believe northmen are more likely to attack outsiders than welcome them.”

Is that a slight? Catelyn wasn’t sure. Nor it appeared was Ned, who frowned and began to speak.

Tyene acted before he could. The woman gasped, her hand coming to her mouth as a shocked and embarrassed expression came onto her face. “Oh, I am sorry, that sounded so much better in my head. Please, my lord, don’t take what I said to heart.”

Ned was off-balance, anyone could see that. Catelyn felt a mixture of amusement at her husband’s expression and irritation at who had caused it.

Rhaenys’ other attendant spoke at that. “In all honesty, the people of Dorne are much the same. Outsiders may come and go, but the people are ever wary, even after years of peace.” Nymeria sighed. “It is strange, is it not? Even a century after Dorne joined the Seven Kingdoms, we do not feel as much a part of it as the rest.”

“No, my lady.” Ned’s face became grim as he spoke. “The people of the North often feel similarly, though it varies from man to man. History and distance can do much to make the rest of Westeros feel very far away.”

The three women nodded at her husband’s words. Rhaenys opened her mouth to speak, but then a voice called out from behind them.

“Lord Eddard?” Cat turned to see Luwin walking towards them. “Forgive me, but Ser Benjen asked me to tell you to seek him out, if you were not already engaged.”

Her husband turned to look at Rhaenys, who quickly nodded her head. “Please, Lord Stark, do go on. Don’t let me keep you.”

“Thank you, princess.” Ned surprised Catelyn by bowing slightly, then turned and walked away with Luwin.

Catelyn turned and smiled at Rhaenys. “I must thank you as well, princess. Ned has been very happy to have his brother back in Winterfell and has been looking for more time to spend with him.”

“Thank Aegon, not me. And please, do call me Rhaenys, my lady. We are in your home, after all.”

“I meant what I said, my lady,” Tyene spoke again, drawing Cat’s attention back to her. “What was it like, adapting to Winterfell and its people?”

Catelyn hesitated for a moment before replying. “It was difficult, I will not lie. Yet much time has passed since then, and now it’s hard to imagine living anywhere else.”

Difficult did not describe the struggles she had done through. Earning the respect of the common people had been challenging enough, but the northern lords had proven as hard to win over as untamed destriers. Even now, Catelyn knew there were some who questioned her place, and the power she held in Winterfell and the North. And there were days when she thought with longing of her father’s seat in Riverrun. But she was not about to admit that, especially not to the smiling young woman in front of her.

In truth, Cat would have been wary even if she hadn’t known these women’s parentage. Jon had occasionally spoke of his sister, and the Dornish kin who she kept so close. While he had only spoken with fondness of Nymeria, he had minced no words in describing her cunning. That had gone doubly so for Tyene, with no fondness to soften the edge in his tone.

“I see.” Rhaenys looked at Catelyn quizzically. “In truth, it felt almost as if I was intruding, in the godswood that is. Have you ever had that feeling, my lady?”

“Yes, I have,” she responded reluctantly. “Though it has felt more alive these past few weeks.”

Nymeria laughed. “I’d wager that your children’s pets have something to do with that.”

She was right about that. While they either slept in the kennels or in the children’s rooms, the direwolves liking for Winterfell’s godswood was apparent to all. They would enter the enclosed forest and manage to disappear for hours, with only her children and Jon being able to summon them back out.

“Your daughters and two older sons are out there right now, with my aunt and brother as well,” Rhaenys explained. “Daenerys is very taken with the direwolves, and they seem to return the favor.” Her words were friendly, but her expression became cool. Catelyn could guess why.

She had already risen when the group had struck out for the godswood. Robb was clearly infatuated with the king’s sister, who had handled her son kindly but firmly. Arya had been doing her best to interrogate Daenerys about King’s Landing and Jon’s years there, while Jon himself had been doing his best not to let his aunt give any of his secrets away. Bran had just been struggling to get a word in, his expression impatient as he attempted to interrupt Arya as often as he could, while Sansa had been doing her best to mediate the talk among all the others.

Sansa’s rapport with the princess had surprised her. In truth, Catelyn had been worried by Sansa’s initial meeting with Daenerys. While her daughter’s courtesies had been perfect, Cat had noticed how she had scanned the young Targaryen from head to toe, taking in everything about her. What had told more than that, though, was the expression of dismay when the princess and Jon had smiled at each other in the courtyard. Sansa had been unusually subdued after Jon and his father left for the crypts and had not seemed to improve for the rest of the day.

This morning, though, Sansa had acted as if she and the princess were already good friends. The latter had been given chambers adjacent to Arya’s and Sansa’s during the king’s stay, and Catelyn had been told by a servant that the three had spent much of the last night speaking with one another, while Nymeria and the Velaryon girl had waited without. I wonder what was said, to make Sansa’s mood improve so much.

Rather than pursue that subject, she decided to change it. “Prin- Rhaenys, if I may ask, what has court been like these past few weeks? Before you traveled here, I mean.”

The young woman’s expression became sad. “The court was in mourning for much of it. The lord Hand was a good man, well-loved by highborn and lowborn alike. Father has kept things well in hand though, and I expect things will be back to normal when we return, especially with Aegon returned to us.”

There was no mistaking the way Rhaenys’ expression warmed as she spoke of her and Jon’s brother. Catelyn had wanted to avoid this subject but saw no way around it now. “I have heard he will not be alone. The Prince Viserys will be returning from Casterly Rock, or so the tales have said.”

The princess’ expression lost its warmth, though it lacked any hostility. “Yes, my uncle will be returning before long. My father has made no secret of it, he intends for House Targaryen to reunite in the coming months.” She paused a moment before adding, “That means Jon will be coming south soon, possibly with us.”

Catelyn knew that much. While few spoke of it openly in Winterfell, the absence of Jon and Ser Barristan would be felt strongly, especially by her children. Ned was unhappy at the prospect himself. As am I, truth be told.

Catelyn pushed the thought away. There was much that had yet to be decided, and she would not sadness find its way into her mind when there was not yet a cause for it.

“Oh, look,” Nymeria said suddenly, her gaze going over Catelyn’s shoulder, “Your lord husband is returned to us.”

Cat turned to look, and sure enough Ned had reentered the hall and was walking towards them. She had expected his mood to be improved after speaking with Benjen, but his expression was serious. I hop nothing has happened.

“Princess.” Her husband bowed slightly before turning to Catelyn. “Benjen wasn’t asking for himself. The king would like to speak with me. I asked him if you could join us, and he said yes. Best not to keep him waiting.”

“Indeed not.” Rhaenys curtsied, her two companions following suit. “If you’ll pardon me, my lord, the ladies and I have to be going. Please give my father my love.”

Ned nodded as the princess and the Sand Snakes walked across the Great Hall. Then he turned back towards her. “Let’s be on our way, then.”

“Into the dragon’s lair,” Catelyn said jokingly.

Ned scowled. “For now, at least.”

Together, they turned and walked out of the Great Hall.

Rhaegar’s chambers weren’t hard to find- Ned and Cat had offered their own, for the duration of the king’s stay. While he had graciously declined, his chambers were still provided the best Winterfell had to offer and were located just down the hall from their own. It took only a few minutes to make the trip, but that was all the time it took for Catelyn to feel her heart’s pace pick up as they got closer. So much hinges on this, may the gods look on Ned and me favorably.

When they reached the king’s door, Benjen was waiting without. He gave them an encouraging look as he turned an opened the door. “Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn are here, Your Grace,” the knight said loudly.

“Enter,” Rhaegar’s voice called back. Eddard returned the Kingsguard’s nod as he and Cat walked past him into the king’s chamber.

There was little of the red-and-black of Targaryen in the furnishings provided, but the king did not seem to mind. He was seated at the table near the bed, while Ser Barristan stood behind him. The old knight gave them a nod before the king spoke.

“Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn.” He inclined his head as Ned bowed and Cat curtsied. “Winterfell is more beautiful than I had ever imagined it to be, as are the lands about it. I regret I did not come here sooner.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Ned began, but the king held up a hand.

“Please, let us dispense with pleasantries. We have much to discuss.” He motioned to the other seats at the table. After glancing at each other, Catelyn and her husband took them.

“Yesterday, my son spoke to me of accompanying you to Castle Black earlier this year. While he has offered to tell me all I wish to know, I intend to travel there myself and see what state the Night’s Watch is in.”

That is no surprise. The surprise had been that he would come North in the first place. Once that had been known, however, Ned and Luwin had both guessed that the Rhaegar would wish to see the Wall while he was here. After all, he was unlikely to be this close to it again. Nevertheless, there was considerable risk in the king going to Castle Black. Besides the threat of wildlings, the vast majority of the men there, including the Lord-Commander, were there because of Rhaegar himself. Grudges died slowly, even if one swore the black brother’s oath.

“Lord Stark,” the king continued, “I had wondered if you would accompany me. If the rumors of this Mance Raydar's approach turn out to be true then the North’s banners may need to be called. If that becomes necessary, then it may be wiser for you and I to both to be at the Wall already.”

Catelyn looked at Ned, who glanced at her before addressing Rhaegar. “I expected as much, Your Grace. If you ask, then I shall ride with you. Though I must be frank, I doubt the wildlings have become so bold or desperate to be that close already.”

“Very well then. If nothing surprising occurs, I expect to be underway in a fortnight, if that.”

A fortnight hosting a king and two princesses. Catelyn’s stomach rolled at the knowledge of what that would cost Winterfell in supplies and coin. She gave nothing away, though.

“Your Grace.” Catelyn drew the king’s attention to her. “There will be a feast tonight, to welcome you and your kin to Winterfell. Does that please you?”

“Of course. I can think of nothing better than joining my hosts for food and drink. Let the North remember, that the direwolf and dragon stand united once more.”

Indeed. Catelyn smiled. “I had wondered if there was anything you wished done for the feast tonight. If your daughter or sister wish, music could be played, and room could be made for dancing.”

Rhaegar nodded. “I think Rhaenys and Daenerys would both enjoy that. A number of camp followers and entertainers attached themselves to our party in White Harbor. I believe there’s at least one minstrel among them, and Daenerys herself plays the harp beautifully.”

“That is a very generous offer, Your Grace,” Catelyn said graciously, “I am sure that my children would be delighted to hear the princess play. If she as half as skilled as her brother, it shall make for a masterful performance.”

 “And tomorrow,” Ned spoke, “If Your Grace wishes it, I would invite you to join me for a hunt, in the wolfswood. The game is plentiful as of late, and I am sure that we would find and take fine quarry.”

“Just the two of us, Lord Stark?” Rhaegar raised an eyebrow.

“Of course not. My household will provide the beaters and hound, and your Kingsguard would accompany us. Jon will want to; he is a skilled tracker and enjoys pitting himself against the wilderness.”

The king looked surprised at that. “Truly? I had not been told that. Has this interest caused an inconvenience? I apologize if it has.”

“Not at all. There is no need, Your Grace,” Ned replied. “Jon is a fine lad, and better than most. He’ll be an even better man, when the time comes.”

The king looked at Eddard. After a moment, Rhaegar motioned to Barristan, who nodded and then walked away. The knight stopped at the door and turned so that all three of them were in his sight. Catelyn glanced at him before returning her attention to the king.

Rhaegar spoke again. “Ser Barristan has told me much of how my son has fared since their arrival. I must admit, there were doubts in the back of my mind when I agreed to his fostering in Winterfell. But now I see those fears were misplaced, for my son and his guardian both attest to the upbringing you provided, Stark. For that I must thank you.”

“I am as proud as you are, Your Grace. I have never made a better decision than request to foster him. We are all proud to call him family, me and my lady wife.”

“And our children,” Catelyn added. “We all think of Jon as if he is family. And…and we hope that we continue to do so not just as a cousin and nephew, but as a goodbrother and son.”

This is what she had been contemplating since word came of the king’s approach. Jon was well loved by her children, and he returned it in full, but the affection ran deeper with Sansa, it had been since she and Robb had first managed to break through his armor when he had first arrived in Winterfell. While she had imagined such a thing for years, she had only begun planning in the last two months.

Ned had needed little convincing, and Luwin had spoken well of the idea as well. Catelyn had even approached Ser Barristan, to win the Kingsguard to her cause. While the knight had gently dismissed her entreaties, he had acknowledged her reasoning and sworn that if asked he would say as much to the king. With such a blessing, she had felt even more confident in the vision her mind held.

Catelyn had no doubt that if not in love already, that it would be easy for the two to fall into it, especially if the circumstances were as she hoped. With Sansa wed to Jon, her daughter would be assured of a good future, with a royal spouse and all the advantages that entailed. House Stark would gain a bond to the Iron Throne, helping to cement its position as one of the Great Houses.

Unfortunately, the king was not indulging her by making his feelings on the matter obvious. Rhaegar’s expression gave nothing away as he looked between Catelyn and Ned. She could not tell what he was thinking, whether he favored the idea or not.

Better to press on rather than wait. “Our daughter Sansa is a fine young woman, Your Grace,” Catelyn continued. “She is well-read, versed in both gentle arts like sewing and dancing. She has also been taught the running of a household. Sanda enjoys riding and hunting, like Jon does, and the two are affectionate enough already, ask anyone in Winterfell-”

Rhaegar raised a hand. “Lady Stark, please. I do not question your daughter’s suitability; I am sure she is.” The king sighed, surprising Catelyn by raising a hand and rubbing his eyes. “Forgive me. When I came to Winterfell, I had also thought to seal the Iron Throne and Winterfell with a marriage, yet it was not a match with Jon that I had in mind…”

Cat heard her husband’s sudden intake of breath, felt his hand tighten in her own. She squeezed hers in reply, reassuring Ned as she addressed the king. “What did you have in mind, Your Grace?”

“I had thought to offer my sister Daenerys to your heir, Robb,” Rhaegar replied. “He is a fine young man, and Daenerys is a sweet girl, intelligent and beautiful. I would not offer her to anyone.”

Rhaegar trailed off, his expression becoming pensive as his eyes found a spot behind their heads. After a few moments, the king seemed to reach a decision. “While I had not considered a match between my son and one of your daughters, neither do I have any reason to oppose it. But of course, if you insist on such a thing, then Daenerys can no longer be promised to your son. The crown has other alliances to consider, and the Seven Kingdoms may look unfavorably on two matches between House Stark and House Targaryen.”

Sansa and Jon or Robb and Daenerys? Are those the roads that we must choose between?

Catelyn knew which she preferred. Daenerys seemed a fine young woman, both from reputation, Jon’s descriptions and her time in Winterfell. But one day was not nearly enough to begin to know someone. Catelyn did know Jon, and knew that he and Sansa would do well together.

There were also the implications for House Stark. Wedding Robb and Daenerys would certainly cement the bond between Winterfell and the Iron Throne. But while a younger sister and aunt would have a strong influence over the crown, a son and younger brother would have even more.

Besides, Catelyn and Ned had already begun considering matches for Robb, most of them hailing from the North, riverlands, or even the Vale. While not a royal match, such an alliance would yield more immediate gains for House Stark than such, which was likely to be needed soon considering the growing rumblings from beyond the Wall.

Ned turned to look at her. Catelyn squeezed his hand, a gesture intended to reassure him of her confidence in his thinking. I cannot be the one to ask this time. It must be him.

“I thank you, Your Grace,” Ned began, “I am honored that you would consider my house, and my son, for such a match. But if the decision is mine…” Her husband took a breath. “Then I would ask again that my daughter and your son wed. I could not hope for a better match, or a better goodson.”

For a moment there was silence. Catelyn held her breath as it stretched. And then it passed.

“Very well.” The king nodded, his voice steely as he spoke. “Your daughter and my son shall wed.”

Catelyn breathed again, “Oh, thank you, Your Grace. I swear, by old gods and new, this is the right decision, I swear it!”

“I know, my lady.” Rhaegar surprised her by smiling. Then he looked at Ned, his expression becoming somber though the smile remained. “I think that she would approve. Don’t you agree, Eddard?”

Her husband eyed the king carefully, then nodded. “Aye, I think she would, Rhaegar.”

“Has your daughter flowered?” Rhaegar looked at Catelyn questioningly.

“Yes, earlier this year, Your Grace,” Cat replied quickly.

The king nodded. “Even so, the wedding cannot take place for some time yet. Better to let them get used to it, as well as for the realm to adjust as well.”

“Perhaps in a year?” Eddard asked. “That should be enough time for all to become accustomed to the idea, both here and elsewhere.” As Rhaegar nodded, Ned continued, “I had a mind to settle some lands on Jon, though I have not decided where…”

“No.” Rhaegar’s voice was cold, as were the purple eyes that suddenly narrowed as they fixed on her husband. Catelyn bit her lip to see that expression, one that seemed incapable of warmth. “I appreciate such generosity, but my son’s future lies in the south. I shall acquire land for him and your daughter, but not in the North.”

After a moment, the king sighed and rubbed his face again. “Forgive my rudeness, there is much that needs considering.” Rhaegar looked past them. “Barristan, bring me the letter.”

The Kingsguard walked forward and handed the king a parchment, who showed the seal to Catelyn and Eddard. “From my elder son, in King’s Landing. It concerns your sister, Lady Catelyn, that is why I wanted you here for this.”

Lysa? Has something happened to her and her son? Rhaegar shook his head when Catelyn voiced the question. “They are both well, as far as we know. I am afraid that is the problem- we do not know. Lady Lysa insisted that she and her son accompany Lord Arryn’s body back to the Eyrie, to see it interred. I consented, with the understanding that she and Lord Robert would return before I did. However, your sister has…” Rhaegar grimaced as he held out the letter to Catelyn.

She opened it and scanned the writing, her eyes widening as she did. Sensing Ned’s impatience next to her, she explained what the note held. “She refuses to return to the capital, claiming that she cannot bear to be so far apart from her lord husband’s grave. As for Lord Robert, she declares that he will stay by her side until he is of age, and they will not be parted.”

“Which cannot be allowed, I am afraid.” Rhaegar looked at the two of them. “Robert Arryn was intended to be fostered with the crown in King’s Landing, per his father’s wishes. Allowing him to remain in the Eyrie under the regency of his mother is something that cannot be condoned, or else others will be encouraged to flout royal prerogatives.”

“The lords of the Vale would never support an incursion, even by the crown,” Ned pointed out, his brow furrowing as he thought. “They would rather revolt than allow it.”

“True, which is why I have sent a raven instructing my council not to resort to anything resembling force. Envoys and entreaties, but no soldiers.” The king frowned. “Still, the Vale, and the widow Arryn, must be made to understand the position they are placing the crown in. So, I have decided to name a royal agent to the problem, to journey to the Vale and sort the whole thing out before violence becomes necessary. One whose authority and relation to the throne will not allow for any dissension, unless they prefer treason.”

“But…” The pieces fell into place in Catelyn’s mind. “You mean to send Jon, don’t you?”

The king’s expression confirmed her suspicions. “You cannot send him! He is still too young, far too young! And even if he was not, he does not know the Vale, its lords or its lands. What is required-”

She cut herself short as the king raised his hand. “You are right. Not about his age, mind you. He must make a beginning, and I am confident that this is a task that he will accomplish. But he will need companions. Not just warriors, but diplomats, people who know the Vale better than Jon and how to deal with its lords and present regent best. So, along with Jon, I intend to name two others. One has already volunteered his services and is likely preparing to travel to the Vale even now. As for the other, well…”

Rhaegar paused, then looked directly at Catelyn. “In hard times, I have found that most people turn to family.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenys

“He doesn’t seem as bad as all that.”

“We’ve known him for less than two days, and Daenerys is family, Tyene. Let’s wait to decide until we can do better than seem.”

Rhaenys kept her eyes on her book while she spoke. She had hoped that the Wonders Made by Man would take her away from the cold land she found herself in now, but it had failed to do so. All it had done was taunt her with visions of the walls of Qarth and the Titan of Braavos.

In fairness, Winterfell was like nothing she had seen before. Rhaenys had seen many great castles, and while it was nothing like the immensity of Casterly Rock or the wonder of the Red Keep, Winterfell felt different- as though it had stood longer than anyone could guess and would stay standing for the same. The lands were cold, yes, but far from inhospitable, and the smallfolk had an honesty and earnestness to them that stood apart from their counterparts in the south.

If only the same could be said of their lords.

White Harbor had been more like King’s Landing then she had expected. Lord Manderly had reminded Rhaenys of Mace Tyrell, considering his girth and his emphasis on propriety and virtue. The man was tiresome, but he and his court had held no surprises.

Winterfell, on the other hand, felt like a world apart. Apart from the Starks, several of their bannermen had gathered to see Rhaenys’ father, and few had demonstrated any warmth towards him.

They acted far more kindly towards her and Daenerys, though. If it was possible, they had come across as more condescending than most lords south of the Neck. I know it is better to be underestimated than the other way around. But still…

While Rhaenys fumed, Tyene looked at her with a curious expression. “I do hope that fire your stoking isn’t for me. Or our hosts, for that matter. It wouldn’t do much good to roast anyone, at least not right now.”

Rhaenys frowned. “Do not say such things, Tyene. Courtesy is well and good, but Lord Stark strikes me as a man who prefers honesty to honeyed words.”

That made him an exception to the rule. Rhaenys had not known whether her open speech about the godswood and her homesickness would do her any favors, but both Lord Stark and his wife had seemed to appreciate it. Truth can be disarming. That appears to be a wisdom that works on either side of the Neck.

Lord Stark had come across as cold when she had first met him. It was common knowledge that that was the northman’s way of treating everyone, but Rhaenys had suspected that his history with her father may be fueling it in part. So far, though, she had yet to be proven right or wrong.

“Well, at least the lady was kind enough to send someone to collect her children. If your aunt was left alone with those children for too long, I daresay those wolves might eat her.”

“The ones with fur or without?”

“You’ll have to be more specific, Rhae.”

She had to laugh at that. “They have strange pets, that does not make them skinchangers. Besides, it seems to me that their lady mother might skin them if such a thing happened.”

Rhaenys had been pleasantly surprised by Lord Stark’s wife. Lady Catelyn had been the soul of courtesy, and while her attempts to ingratiate herself with Rhaenys and Daenerys were a tad clumsy, they were not unexpected. In truth, Rhaenys found Lady Stark far more knowledgeable and engaging then most ladies she knew. It made her wonder if the North had done that to her, or if the Tully woman had always been that way. Perhaps it was both.

As for the Stark children, Rhaenys had not payed most of them much mind. The only one she had given any attention to was the one who had given her cause to come north. The one Father intends to give Dany to.

Robb Stark had his mother’s looks, but Rhaenys had been far more concerned with his manner and mind than his appearance. So far as she could tell, the Stark heir was still green but honest, and stubborn when he had cause. The youth was clearly enamored with Daenerys, who had handled the attention well enough. Still, Rhaenys had done her best to manage the two, and found support both from her and her aunt’s attendants, as well as the elder of Stark’s daughters.

A beauty, that one, far too much so to languish in the North. Rhaenys was considering whether to invite Sansa to attend her in the capital. The younger woman was clearly taken with the idea of journeying south and having her would help to manage any risk of the North turning against the Iron Throne.

Rhaenys was still considering such matters when the door opened. Ser Arys didn’t announce Nym as she entered- the Dornishwoman was always welcome to enter, not that the Kingsguard would refuse her if she wasn’t. A fine name and sword arm are well and good, but the man is little better than a boy, truth be told.

Arianne had once boasted that it would take her no more than a month to break his vows with her. Rhaenys had forbidden any attempt at such, however, leaving her cousin disappointed.

“Rhaenys.” Nym walked over and sat across from her and Tyene. “A servant finally brought me something worthwhile.”

“Which one, and for how much?” Tyene asked, her innocent expression belying the words her mouth uttered.

“One of the maids, and for a purse of silvers.”

“What did she give you?” asked Rhaenys, sitting up. “You know better than to bring me little better than gossip.”

“I’m afraid gossip is what I bring you, along with some whispers and ideas to back it up.”

Nymeria settled into her chair as she began to speak in detail. “The woman was in one of the halls when your father ended his meeting with Lord Stark and his wife. On their way out, she managed to catch a few words, some of which were ‘Lysa’ and ‘Eyrie’.”

Tyene looked bored. “So, the king spoke to the widow Arryn’s sister about the Vale? You value silver too little, sister. I could have told you that for free.”

Nym opened her mouth to retort when Rhaenys intervened. “Enough, Tyene. Nym, were there any details?”

“Apparently, the lord and lady were discussing matters of travel-horses and coin, ships and the like.” Nymeria gave her sister a look. “I think the king had more than a simple conversation in mind.”

Yes, that would make sense. “Asking Lysa Arryn’s sister to help would make sense. Her family would be less threatening then an army.”

Tyene laughed. “That would depend on the family, and the army. The Vale is strong, in lands and men. Besides, I never had the impression that there was much goodwill between Lysa and her older sister. They may not be as close as His Grace believes.”

Rhaenys had to concede that. She had spent as little time with the Hand’s wife as she could manage, but that had still been far too much. Lysa Arryn had always struck her as vain, overbearing, and more than a little foolish. If Catelyn Stark was as different as she seemed to be, then it was hard to imagine two such women getting along.

Rhaenys decided to change subjects. “And what of the Stark’s eldest? Was there anything worth learning there?”

Nymeria shook her head. “I have spoken to least a dozen members of the household about the boy. Either they have all been told to whisper the same lies or they speak true.”

“That told us absolutely nothing,” Tyene pointed out.

“A little patience, sister,” Nym replied, looking annoyed. “That is because there seems little to tell. They all say the lad is good on a horse, and with a lance as well. He does not read much, despite his parent’s urging. He is more inclined to tasking his body than his mind.”

The Dornishwoman shrugged. “Other than that, nothing special. More honest than not, and a sense of honor that only a northman could possess. And lastly, the Stark lad is fiercely protective of his own. They all are, apparently, parents and children alike.”

Nymeria paused before looking at Rhaenys. “That includes Jon, Rhae.”

How did I know she’d find a way to mention him? “Let’s focus on my aunt’s betrothed-to-be, Nym. The rest can wait.”

Her friend didn’t push, but Rhaenys knew the subject wasn’t done with. The question was when she’d bring it up again, not if.

Whether or not she knew it, the Dornishwoman had done much to put Rhaenys at ease. Her initial suspicions aside, the princess doubted that the people Nymeria had talked to were lying. So many people saying the same thing attested to truth, not conspiracy, and if there was one lord in the Seven Kingdoms who did not conspire, then it would be Eddard Stark.

The prospect of Daenerys’ betrothal had been what drove Rhaenys to join her and her father on their journey to Winterfell. While she had told the king that she had wanted to accompany Dany so that she could prepare her aunt for being hosted by a great lord, Rhaenys’ primary urge had been to learn what she could of her aunt’s prospective match. She did not think her father would betroth any member of their family to someone undeserving, but it was better to be sure.

From what she could tell, her concerns had been unfounded. Robb Stark did not seem very impressive, but he had also given her no cause for concern, either for Daenerys’ care or loyalty to the throne.

Remember what Oberyn said. Better to be suspicious without cause than trusting without the same.

Rhaenys had used that wisdom with many people. Of late, she had even used it to understand her father’s actions.

Rhaenys had been furious when she had learned of her father’s plan to bind House Stark to the crown using Daenerys. Once her outrage had faded though, she had seen the sense of it, though grudgingly.

Daenerys was a princess of the royal family- a betrothal to bind one house or another to House Targaryen was always going to be her fate, whatever Rhaenys’ father and mother said. Given the various matches being considered for Aegon and Viserys, there was wisdom in offering House Stark a royal match of their own.

 Rhaenys had spoken with Arianne about the subject just before she and her father had departed the capital. Her cousin had dismissed her concerns with a shrug.

“The Starks are known for many things, abusing women isn’t one of them,” Ari had pointed out. “Besides, if they are bound to the Iron Throne through Daenerys, that gives them less reason to offer support to your…to your father’s youngest child.”

She had not considered that at all, but it had become clear after that. Her father still cared for the lesser son of House Targaryen but was wary enough to keep him from forging a bond with one of the Great Houses. And if the bastard was foolish enough to speak against it, he would both disappoint the king and give the Starks reason to distrust him.

A knock came from the door. Rhaenys turned as Ser Arys opened it to let a girl walk in.

This one’s almost as pretty as the Stark’s older daughter. Hazel eyes glanced at Nym and Tyene before they came to Rhaenys.

The girl dropped into a deep curtsy. “Princess.”

“Rise.” Rhaenys looked at her curiously as she did. “That accent isn’t from Winterfell. Where did you come from?”

“Oh, Lannisport, princess,” the girl said quickly, her eyes dropping as she spoke, “by way of Harlaw.”

“Harlaw? Why would-” Rhaenys stopped herself as she realized who she was speaking to. “You must be Rosey, then.”

“Yes, princess.” The younger woman curtsied again, then glanced at Rhaenys, her expression a mix of curiosity and worry. “If I may ask, how do you know my name?”

Rhaenys paused as she considered her answer. Well, I suppose there’s no harm in the truth.

“My brother, Prince Aegon told me of you. He and our younger brother write often, you see. There is little they do not share.” Despite all my warnings not to do so.

The girl’s face brightened at that. “Oh, is that so? I am honored to know that, princess.”

Rhaenys noted the look in Rosey’s eye as she spoke. Is that for Jon? It must be, she’s never met Aegon.

For all the things he and Jon shared, why the latter had chosen to bring two common children with him to Winterfell was one thing Rhaenys still did not know. She had asked Aegon several times and her father once, but they had each said that the tale was Jon’s to tell, not theirs.

“Is there something you need, my lady?” Tyene asked sweetly, her eyes looking Rosey up and down. “Oh, and may I call you Rosey?”

“I actually prefer Rose, my lady.”

“Very well then. And…?”

“Oh, yes.” Rose motioned towards the door. “The feast is about to start. Lord Eddard bid me come here and remind you.”

She had not needed reminding, but Rhaenys did not say so. Irritated though she was, she knew this girl was not a fair target for her ire.

“Also,” she went on, “your escorts are waiting to see you and Princess Daenerys to the Great Hall.”

“Escorts?” Now Rhaenys let her irritation show. “How…kind of Lord Stark. Well then, please go and tell them we shall soon be there.”

“At once, princess.” Rose curtsied a final time before turning and walking from the chamber.

As soon as she was gone, Nymeria began speaking. “Does Stark really think that you and Daenerys require aid to walk down a hallway?”

“Oh, calm yourself, Nym.” Tyene smiled. “It’s a common practice, after all. Rhaenys, how many times have you had some lordling link his arm with yours and walk you to the king’s table?”

“More often than I care to remember.” Rhaenys frowned. “I never had to do it in King’s Landing, but whenever Father and I visited a lord’s holdings there would be at least one feast where I had to put up with such.”

“Then one more won’t do anyone any harm. Other then your escort’s toes, that is.”

She couldn’t stop herself from laughing. Nymeria and Tyene joined her, though it faded after a few moments.

Rhaenys stood. “Well, I suppose we should put on our finest. I think the black and tan dress will do for tonight, it complements my coloring best.”

Nym and Tyene looked at each other before looking back at her. “And you are telling us this…why?”

Rhaenys smirked at them. “You are my handmaidens, after all. Go and get it for me.”

Tyene laughed as she turned and walked to the closet just across from Rhaenys’ bed. She opened the door and, after a moment’s pause, fished out the dress and tossed it onto the bed.

Nymeria gave Rhaenys a look. “I suppose you’ll want us to brush your hair and feed you berries while we do, right?”

“Don’t forget the feet washing.”

Her cousin looked horrified. “No! That is where my duties end. Wash your own feet!”

Rhaenys laughed as she changed. She rarely saw any of her cousins discomfited; seeing one of them flustered was a treat.

After she finished, Rhaenys shook out her hair. She turned and looked at the Sand Snakes. “How do I look?”

“Like a princess,” Nym replied, while Tyene nodded agreement.

“Good. Now then, let’s see who our gallant host has chosen to escort us.”

Though if I am right, there are only two who can.

When they reached the chamber just before the courtyard, Rhaenys wasn’t surprised to see Daenerys already standing there. Her aunt was always quick to prepare for such things- she enjoyed feasts and the like, much more than Rhaenys did. She didn’t begrudge Dany’s fondness. There were worse things to enjoy, after all. Behind her was her silver-haired attendant, a younger daughter of House Velaryon, if Rhaenys recalled correctly.

And sure enough, the two youths waiting with Daenerys were exactly who Rhaenys expected. Standing next to her aunt was Robb Stark, who dropped into a bow as Rhaenys came into his line of sight. Next to him, her brother nodded, a polite smile on his face as he looked at her and the two women following just behind.

“Sister. Lady Nymeria, Lady Tyene,” Jon added, bowing his head as the two Dornishwomen curtsied. “Father is waiting. Shall we?”

The dark-haired youth turned to the side and offered his arm. Rhaenys looked at him for a moment before taking it, glancing backwards as Daenerys did the same with Robb. After pausing to look back as well, Jon began to walk forward, his paces shortened so Rhaenys would not have to rush.

She appreciated the courtesy, though Rhaenys knew there was no warmth in it.

Rhaenys had sensed that nothing had changed when they had seen each other during the royal party’s arrival. The cool expression and challenging eyes were obvious enough, even if his courtesies were perfect. And when their father had left with Jon to seek out the latter’s mother, the glance he had given her reminded her of the coldness that she had seen in the king, rare though it was.

The memory of her father seeking out the woman who had lured him away from King’s Landing and started a war still made her face flush. It’s been fifteen years, for the Mother’s sake. How can she still have power over him?

“Rhaenys.” She started as her brother spoke. She turned to see him looking at her, curiosity on his face.

“Please say that again, I was somewhere else.” It was hard not to let her anger show, but she did not allow it to. Smile at your foes, make them think you safe.

“I asked if you saw Aegon. Before you left the capital, that is.”

“Yes, he arrived just a few days before we left.” Rhaenys glanced at Jon quickly before looking ahead. “Father commanded he begin attending small council meetings, to better learn the workings of the realm’s governance.”

“Really? That is good to hear.” He sounded surprised and pleased all at once.

He better not expect me to start gushing about my younger brother. “How have you found Winterfell, if I may ask?”

Her brother shrugged. “Lord Stark and his family have been very kind to me. I thank the gods every day that Father chose my uncle to foster me.”

That makes two of us.

They didn’t speak any further as they made their way across the courtyard. Behind them, Rhaenys could hear Daenerys giggled as Stark spoke to her. He makes her laugh. That is a good sign.

They reached the Great Hall shortly thereafter. They paused briefly at the doorway, then entered.

The tables had all been pulled to the side, save for the high table, where the lord’s dais was waiting. Seated at its center was her father, dressed in all the finery his station demanded. Seated a space to his right was the Lord of Winterfell, while is male kin made up the rest of the table on that side. From one seat to the king’s left sat Daenerys, followed by Lady Stark and her daughters, as well as the ladies and companions of them and of the others who had come to Winterfell for this gathering.

Rhaenys caught movement under the tables. She knew that castle dogs and curs often made their way into feasts to fight over the scraps that fell from the meals. But they were rarely allowed at the high table. Her suspicion was quickly confirmed as from near the king’s feet a small white head poked out, the pup’s red eyes finding its master across the hall.

In truth, Rhaenys was not sure what to make of the direwolf pups. They seemed harmless enough, but they were still small, and she knew much would depend on how their masters raised them. And a bad master can make for a terrible beast, dog or direwolf.

Rhaenys and Jon walked down the hall, every eye in the Hall following them as they did. Rhaenys wasn’t much bothered by it- she had become used to being stared at, for better or worse.

Once they reached the high table, they parted arms. Jon turned and bowed while Rhaenys curtsied, then they both turned and walked around the table, each taking the seat at their father’s side.

Rhaenys inwardly seethed that her brother be given pride of place. Do not become used to it. That is Aegon’s proper place, not yours.

But the anger dissipated quickly. Today, her father had finally acted to protect Rhaenys and Aegon from all else, even their younger brother. She would not let a table seat ruin that for her.

As she sat, Rhaenys noticed that no food had been set out yet. All there was were several flagons, holding an assortment of wine, water, and mead. She poured herself a glass of the first before pouring water for Daenerys. Her aunt scowled at her, but Rhaenys just smirked in response.

Across the hall, men and women were following suit. None drank though, as the king stood and raised a hand. The whispers that were echoing in the hall faded as her father spoke.

“My lords, my ladies,” the king began, “and people of Winterfell, I thank you for the welcome that you have given me and my kin. Those who think the North a cold land have clearly never experienced the hospitality of its people, whose hearts and manners stand apart from any others in the Seven Kingdoms.”

A scattering of applause began but quickly faded as her father continued. “That is not to ignore the past. All here know that the Iron Throne and Winterfell have often been at odds, both in old times and the present. And only a fool would claim that House Targaryen deserved no blame for those quarrels.”

“However,” the king noted, “just because something once was does not meant that it must be so, or always shall be. Where once there was discord, now I dare to say that there is harmony, even friendship between the direwolf and the dragon.”

This is going well. As Rhaenys scanned the faces of the people below, their expressions told her much. There was little enthusiasm to be found, but little anger either. What seemed to be prevailing above the all else was a grudging acceptance, with an almost rueful quality to it. Rhaenys took heart from that- she knew this reluctant obedience was more honest and useful than the false sycophantic obedience the crown received so often.

But that will change when they learn of what Father is offering their lord.

Sure enough, the king was getting to that. “As I traveled to Winterfell, a question I constantly pondered was how to demonstrate to the North, to the realm, that House Stark and House Targaryen stand together once more. And finally, I decided that there was only one way to honor your lord and his family as they deserve.”

“So, after speaking with Lord Eddard, he and I have decided to bind our houses not only with the bonds of vassalage, but those of marriage as well.”

Her father raised his goblet high, his face bright, his eyes earnest as he did.

“So let us drink, to the betrothal of my son, the Prince Jon, of House Targaryen, to the eldest daughter of House Stark, the Lady Sansa!”

For a moment there was silence, all quiet as the king’s words echoed through the hall.

And then Benjen Stark roared to life. “You lot claim to be wolves, don’t you? Then howl!!”

That was all it took. Noise erupted as cheers and whistles and yes, howls from both man and beast rang through the hall. The grudging air was gone- in its place was enthusiasm, the coldness burned away by the passionate response to the honor their king had just bestowed on House Stark.

All the while, the only thing Rhaenys felt was shock.

What? No, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be Dany, her and Robb Stark…

“Rhaenys? Rhaenys?!” She spun her head as the voice repeated her name. Daenerys was looking at her, a happy smile on her face as she did. “This is wonderful? Do you think Sansa will come live in King’s Landing?”

Rhaenys didn’t respond. Events were still unfolding around her. There were calls for wine, for food, for music. The last was taken up, a chorus rising to demand dancing and singing.

“Dany…I…I…” She didn’t have any words. Too much was happening, too quickly. She needed to…she needed to go, to move, to-

Rhaenys stood, watching as her cousins followed suit just behind her. “Excuse me, Daenerys, Lady Catelyn.”

Dany just looked confused while Lady Stark nodded, bowing her head as Rhaenys turned away. She did not say anything to her father, did not pay him any mind, even to see if he was paying her any mind.

She stepped back from the table, making sure not to draw any attention to herself. That was easier than it normally was- all the hall’s attention was fixed on the daughter who had just been pledged to a prince, as well as that prince himself.

Rhaenys turned to look at the latter, expecting to see triumph on his face. But Jon’s expression wasn’t triumphant- it was shocked, too much so for it to be feigned. So, he did not know? This wasn’t him?

But his expression shifted as she watched. The shock left and in its place was an acceptance, accompanied by a warmth that Rhaenys didn’t know that Jon could possess. She watched as he turned to send a smile to his newly betrothed, who smiled back with a warmth that matched his.

And when their gazes met, all Rhaenys felt was cold.

Chapter Text

Sansa

“My lady? My lady, please, it’s past time you were up.”

Sansa groaned into her pillow. “Rose, that’s enough. I feel ill, my head is pounding.”

“That isn’t an illness, it’s the wine Robb snuck you and the princess last night. Honestly, I don’t know what that clod was thinking.” Rose followed up by giving Sansa a hard push, moving her from on her side onto her back. Sansa tried to ignore it, but then she felt something start to sniff at her face. Sansa growled before opening her eyes.

The darkness faded slowly, seeming to melt as Sansa blinked up at the ceiling. In its place she found Lady staring at her, the pup’s nose twitching as she started to lick Sansa’s cheek.

“Alright, alright, I’m awake.” Sansa sighed as she pushed Lady away from her face. She yawned before sitting up and shook her head once she was upright. Her head screamed in protest at the action, making Sansa grimace as she pressed her hands against its sides The pressure relieved the pain just a little.

She blinked at the window. The sunlight was shining in, casting light throughout her chambers. It hurt her eyes, forcing her to close them. Sansa knew she had overslept; she just couldn’t tell how much she had done so. She hoped that her mother had not noticed yet. Many may rise late today, given the feast last-

Sansa gasped as the memories of the night before came crashing back. She swung her head to look at Rose, ignoring the pain as she asked, “What happened during the feast last night, Rose?”

Rose smirked at Sansa as she laid out a dress on the table near the bed. “Do you mean to tell me you forgot? I didn’t think you drank that much.”

“No! I just...I thought I might have been dreaming,” Sansa whispered.

Her friend laughed. “It was no dream, Sansa.”

The pain in Sansa’s head vanished as her mind returned her to that moment- the one where the king had raised his glass and announced the decision to wed Sansa and Jon, to bind the dragon and direwolf together. Everything afterward was a blur; she did recall Robb passing her his glass, her brother holding a finger to his lips as he did so. That was after the food was done, when the dancing began…

Sansa’s hand came to her mouth as she remembered her dance. Not the one with her father or brothers or any of the other men who she had allowed to share the floor with her; no, her dance, the one that she and Jon had shared at the beginning of the music. They played Jenny’s song, even though it was a celebration.

Rose shrugged when Sansa said so aloud. “I always liked that song. So do you, if I remember right.”

“It’s not that I dislike it, I just-” Sansa paused as she scanned the room once more. “Where’s Jeyne? Or Beth? Are they awake already?”

“Your lord father wanted someone to show the princess Rhaenys to the hot springs. Jeyne drew the short straw. Beth is getting a late breakfast.” Rose turned and walked to the door. “By the way, the king’s sister wanted to know when you woke up. She wants to talk.”

“Daenerys? Is she still in her chambers?”

“I think she went to the sept, though I don’t know if she’s still there.”

“Go and see if she is, please.” Rose nodded and left her chambers and Sansa stretched before slowly rising from her bed. Lady barked as she did, stirred to action by Sansa and Rose’s movement. The ache in Sansa’s head had returned, but the pain did not seem as great as it had before. She sighed before shrugging off her gown and changing into the dress that her friend had left for her.

Sansa smiled to herself as she examined herself in a mirror. Her hair still needed to be brushed, but whatever she had drunk last night had not affected her appearance so far as she could tell. When I find Robb, he is going to have much to answer for.

A knock came from the door, making Lady bark at it. Before Sansa could answer, it opened and her younger sister came through, a smug grin on her face. “It’s nice to see you up. How is the new princess?”

“I am not a princess,” Sansa protested as Arya laughed, “the king and Father agreed to a betrothal, that’s all.”

“That’s all? Is that really what you are going to tell people?” Arya walked over and peered at Sansa’s face, ignoring Lady as the pup sniffed at her dress. “You might want to practice. I’m your sister and I don’t believe you. If you can’t fool me, you won’t fool anyone else.”

Like she’s one to talk. Arya acted as if she had a subtle streak in her, but she and Sansa both knew that she had little patience for such things. “Well, do you have any advice to give me?”

“Yes, try not to look like you’re melting whenever someone says Jon’s name.”

“Arya!”

“What? You do. Jon must be the only one who hasn’t noticed, and I’m pretty sure that even he is catching on.”

Sansa blush darkened, if that was possible. She knew that her affection for Jon was no secret but being reminded of how open the secret was had embarrassed her.

“Well, I will be sure to do that,” Sansa said shortly. “Mother has always said that courtesy is a lady’s armor. So, courtesy will serve as mine.”

“And you expect to learn more about that in Winterfell?” Arya laughed again, but stopped when Sansa answered, “I expect to learn wherever I can. This isn’t a game anymore, Arya. This betrothal will mean enemies, for me and our family. Jon’s a prince; how many people do you think wished to use him? When the rest of the Seven Kingdoms learns of this, half the lords will be jealous and complain, the other half will do the same and plot.”

Arya’s humor was gone. In its place was a look of uncertainty, but also one of defiance. “Let them. The North is strong, and no southern army has ever managed to take Winterfell. We’d just throw them back.”

“Not all of us will be in Winterfell, Arya. Jon is the king’s son, and he’ll have to return south very soon. Eventually, I will have to join him there. King’s Landing and the king’s court are beautiful, but they are dangerous too. The same as Winterfell.”

Arya looked skeptical. “Aren’t you the one who is always asking Jon about King’s Landing or Casterly Rock? I thought you wanted to go south, to see the rest of the realm.”

“I do. But just because I want to go somewhere does not mean ignoring the things that make those places dangerous. If I went to Dorne but did not study things in Dorne that could kill me, you’d think I was stupid, right?”

“Yes. Not that it would be a shock.” Arya’s smirk remained even after Sansa swatted at her shoulder.

This is just like her- no fear, regardless of circumstance or convention. Sansa admired that most of the time- her sister’s natural courage had taught her much, and endeared Arya to most who met her. Still, there was a fine line between courage and foolhardiness, and the line was even finer when dealing with intrigue.

Their mother knew that as well as anyone Sansa knew. During the celebration last night, she had pulled Sansa aside to speak to her of what was to come. While she had begun by congratulating her and reminding her of her and Jon’s affections and the support of their family, Mother had also warned her of what the engagement would mean. “Jon is still a prince, no matter his origins, and there will be many who will envy your new position. His Grace does what he can, but no man can keep a court entirely free of schemes. You must always be on your guard, or else bad things could happen.”

In a night marked by celebration and good cheer, her mother’s warning stood out, making Sansa remember it all the better. The wine she had drunk had not been enough to wipe that memory away.

Speaking of which… “Did anyone give you something to eat or drink you shouldn’t have?”

“You mean did Robb give me some wine too?” Arya sighed. “No, Father threw me out before he could.” She sounded disappointed, though Sansa could not tell if that was because of the missed wine or being forced to leave the feast.

“Why did Father throw you out?” Sansa asked, curious.

“One of the Sand Snakes called Jon a Snow, so I threw a slice of ham at her. It got grease all over her dress.” Arya shrugged at Sansa’s shocked expression. “Father saw me do it and sent me to bed.”

“Arya, you should not call them-”

“What? Sands? They are though, even they say it. And they both act like snakes, especially the pale one. Even the princess acts cold, like she’s one of them.” Arya’s eyes flashed as she spoke. At their feet, Lady whined, as if she could sense the change in Arya and Sansa’s mood.

“The ‘pale one’ is Lady Tyene, and you should not have thrown anything at her, let alone ham. Her sister is Nymeria, same as your pup.” Sansa shook her head. “Tyene was the one who spoke ill of Jon, wasn’t she?”

Arya nodded. Sansa sighed before turning and sitting before her mirror. She picked up one of the brushes and began stroking her hair, willing her hand to remain steady as she contemplated her sisters’ words. Jon always spoke well of the Red Viper, and his daughter Nym. But what does it mean if she would listen to such talk?

Sansa looked at Arya. “Well, it’s done. Try not to throw anything else at people who travel with the king.”

Her sister pouted but nodded reluctantly. Sansa glanced at her feet, and then around the room. “I don’t see Nymeria here. Is she back in your chambers?”

Arya shook her head. “She was still going after the scraps when I left. I think Robb or Bran took her for the night.”

“Well, I suggest you go and make sure of that. Or else she may end up somewhere she shouldn’t.” Sansa doubted anything would happen to the pup, but it was better to be safe than sorry. And concern for her pup was one of the few things that could make Arya drop her confident demeanor and act cautiously.

Sure enough, Sansa’s sister bit her lip before turning and leaving her chambers. Lady whined as she left, causing Sansa to put down her brush so that she could stroke the pup’s ears.

After a few minutes, Sansa was finished preparing her hair and dress. She glanced over herself in the mirror one last time and, after satisfying her concerns, walked to the door with Lady following at her heels. She intended to go after Rose and see if she had managed to track down Daenerys or not.

Jon’s aunt had not been what Sansa had expected. The princess had struck her and the rest of House Stark with her beauty. And when this scion of Old Valyria had smiled at Jon, who had returned the expression, Sansa could not suppress the fear that her prince had eyes for another. Her unease had only grown after Jon and the king had departed for the crypts, as Daenerys spoke with Sansa’s parents with perfect courtesy and a warm expression.

Mother has said looks can be deceiving, but Daenerys seemed perfect.

That had changed as Sansa and her companions had prepared to sleep that evening. They had almost settled in when Arya had come into the room from the hallway. She often did so; Arya’s rooms were next to Sansa’s after all, and they liked to speak in private. But this time she had not come alone. Following her into Sansa’s chambers was Daenerys, with Lady Nymeria just behind her.

“Lady Sansa,” the princess had begun, smiling at her before nodding at her companions, who all rushed to stand and curtsy to the Targaryen. “Lady Arya said you wouldn’t be asleep yet. It seems we caught you just in time.”

“Princess Daenerys,” Sansa had said cautiously, “what-”

“Please, my friends call me Dany.” The girl had waved a hand. “Your sister walked into my chambers and said that we should talk. She was rather insistent, so here we are.”

“What?! ARYA!!”

Sansa’s horror had been unfounded; Daenerys seemed genuinely interested in talking with the daughters of House Stark. And as she had settled in and begun speaking with Arya and Sansa about their experiences in Winterfell and her own in King’s Landing, Sansa had found herself being charmed by the princess. Daenerys was kind, but she seemed a little naïve, and the way she was openly dismissive of some people in court suggested that the Targaryen was not as impressive as she looked. Sansa was also reassured by the younger girl’s way of speaking about Jon, which struck Sansa more as friendly than anything else.

Sansa had decided then and there to try and befriend Daenerys. Learning about court would be much easier if she could do so from someone who had been raised in it. Sansa also wanted to do the same with Jon’s sister. Rhaenys had acted as charming and graceful as anyone she had ever met, but Jon’s coolness toward her made Sansa wonder if that was a good idea. 

Sansa stepped into the hallway and glanced about her. Finding the place deserted, she turned and began walking towards the Great Hall, With Lady trotting after her. Sansa wondered whether she would have to go all the way to the sept to find Daenerys and Rose. Please, let them be somewhere along the way.

When she got to the Great Hall, Sansa found some royal servants and a few guardsmen, but no one that she knew well was there. Sighing, she turned and walked towards the door, squinting a little as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight shining from outside. When she got there, she was surprised to find that the ground was white, as if salt had been sprinkled across it.

So, the snow did follow the king to Winterfell. Sansa smiled as she looked up where, sure enough, snowflakes were falling from the clouds scattered around the sun. The air was cold, but the sunlight made it feel much warmer than it truly was. Lady stepped out and sniffed at the ground, suspicious of the unfamiliar scent. Sansa hoped it would remain for a while. Or else I’ve chosen the wrong clothing for today.

She turned to walk towards the sept. Fortunately, it was not far from the Great Hall’s entrance- Sansa’s father had wanted to spare her mother a long journey through Winterfell to pray. That line of thinking was again working to Winterfell’s advantage with the royal party, or at least with the royal family and Kingsguard. The rest of the visitors remained in the guesthouse, which was closer to the outer parts of Winterfell than the Great Keep and Great Hall.

As she came to the entrance, Sansa thought she heard singing coming from within the sept. At first, she assumed that whoever was inside was singing a hymn, but as she entered, she realized that it was “the Dornishman’s Wife”. Who is playing a song like that in a sept, of all places?

Inside the sept, Sansa found Lady Nymeria and Lady Tyene sitting on one of the benches provided for worshippers. Both were regarding the source of the music, a man leaning against the wall next to the Mother’s statue. He had a common look, with brown hair streaked with gray and laugh lines near his mouth. His voice was pleasing enough, though Sansa did not think it impressive either. He was smiling as he sang, brown eyes sparkling as he looked at the two Sand Snakes. His hands grasped a lute, the notes lively as he sang,

“…the Dornishman’s taken my life, but what does it matter, for all men must die, and I’ve tasted the-”

Lady whined from behind Sansa. The singer turned his head to find the source of the noise and, finding Sansa, stopped playing, his fingers pausing along the lute in his hands. “Oh, good morning. Are you here to pray?”

“Not at the moment.” Sansa smiled at him and the two Dornishwomen in apology. “I am sorry, it seems I interrupted your playing, ser…?”

“I am no ser, my lady. Just Abel, late of the White Knife.” Abel gave a graceful bow. “Nor is there any need for apology. The song was near enough done, and I suspect these lovely young women have heard it before.”

“Not quite, Abel.” Nymeria smiled at the singer. “I’ve met many a man who knew that song, but you are the first of them to ever sing it in a sept of all places." She paused before adding, "While sober."

Abel laughed. “I know many more than the one, my lady. If I did not I doubt His Grace would have allowed me to join you on the way to Winterfell. It is a pity that we did not hear him play; I had hoped to learn if the king was as good as the tales said.”

"Even better than that, I assure you.” Tyene turned and looked at Sansa. “If not for prayer, then why are you here, Lady Sansa?”

“I was looking for Princess Daenerys,” Sansa explained, “There were a few matters I had hoped to speak with her about.”

“Well, she is not, I fear.” Abel smiled at her. “Perhaps if I sing the right tune, the princess might be drawn to us. I know men whose song draws eagles and other beasts to their side. Perhaps it is the same with dragons.” The man plucked a few chords of what sounded like the “Fair Maids of Summer” for emphasis.

The Sand Snakes laughed. Sansa did not, instead looking at Abel carefully. First a bawdy song in a sept, now he makes jest of the royal family. This man is bold, or foolish.

“My lady?” Sansa turned to find Rose in the sept’s entrance, a puzzled expression on her face as she took in the scene. After a moment, the young woman looked back at Sansa. “Princess Daenerys is in the godswood with Robb and Bran. Your little brother’s climbing up one of the trees.”

“What? Oh, gods help me.” Sansa sighed before turning back to the others in the sept. “I must leave and put a stop to this nonsense. My lord father will be displeased if he hears of this.”

“Of course, my lady.” Abel’s expression became sad. “It is a pity that you must go. I think you may have enjoyed the song I had hoped for you to hear.” The man sighed before looking at Tyene and Nymeria. “I suppose you fair ladies must endure my music a bit longer, I’m afraid.”

“It is no trouble, man. There has been little enough entertainment since we arrived, I could use a few more songs.” Nymeria turned and curtsied at Sansa, Tyene slowly doing the same behind her. Sansa returned the gesture, then turned and left the sept, Rose following her as she did so. As she did, the man’s lute began to strum again, this time peeling out “The Winter Maid”.

As they left the sept, Sansa noticed that she was getting more looks and greetings than normal. The people around her were busy but whenever she was acknowledged they looked happy. She glanced at her companion. "Why is everyone so...pleased?"

Rose raised an eyebrow. "Sansa, you were just engaged to the king's son. A young man who is almost as well-liked as you or the other Stark children. Who wouldn't be pleased?" The handmaid gave her a knowing look. "And it's hardly a secret that you two are smitten. A handsome prince and a beautiful lady falling in love and marrying? It's a tale out of the story books. Enjoyable, but they rarely happen in the real world. We all know that, but everyone wishes such things would happen more often. You and Jon have granted that wish. I expect the two of you will soon be beloved by the whole North if you are not already."

Sansa's face had grown more and more hot with her friends words. If a mirror had been there, her reflection's face would have been close to the same shade as her hair. She took a breath to refute Rose, but after a few moments closed it and looked down.

There was still snow on the ground, but it was no longer falling from above. A shame, that. As they left the sept and headed for the godswood, Sansa shot a questioning look at Rose. “Was the princess encouraging Bran to climb the trees.”

Her friend smiled at the abrupt change of subject but granted Sansa mercy. “Not at all. In fact, I think he’s scaring her more than impressing her. Bran hasn’t seemed to notice, though, and Robb is too busy trying to do the same to get Bran to stop.”

“Not that he could anyway.” Bran and Robb had years between them, but the younger could still act as if he and Robb were supposed to be doing the same things. If Sansa’s older brother tried telling the younger to get out of the tree, Bran may well choose to keep climbing just to be defiant.

They had just reached the godswood’s entrance when Daenerys came from the other direction, her handmaid and Beth Cassel in tow. Lady barked at the princess, greeting the young woman as the pup picked up her pace to approach her.  But Daenerys paid the pup no heed, instead fixing on Sansa. Beth blushed when she saw Sansa, which puzzled her. But before she could address the castellan’s daughter, Daenerys spoke, her face flushed as she did.

“Oh, Sansa, Rose said you would probably come looking for us.” The princess smiled as she did. “I am sorry you had to. I did not expect to take so long in the godswood.”

“Think nothing of it, Daene- Dany,” Sansa corrected herself, noting the red hue in the Targaryen’s cheeks. “Did I miss something?”

“Nothing of importance.” Dany flipped her hair back and glanced at Rose before turning back to Sansa. “If I asked you to tell whoever asked you about your older brother’s face that Bran had kicked him after coming out of the tree, would you say yes?”

“Did he?”

Behind her, Beth giggled. Daenerys shot the girl a look filled with warning, which sent the blood from Beth’s face in a flash. The princess looked at Sansa carefully. “He’ll say so, and so will I. Is that enough?”

Oh, Robb, you poor fool. Sansa knew that if her father or the king heard of this, House Stark’s heir would be in serious trouble. She grimaced before nodding. “Oh course, Dany. And please, let me say sorry for both my brother’s behavior.”

Dany waved a hand. “It’s fine. Bran did get out of the tree, by the way. Almost landed on his pup when he did. Now then, your friend here,” the princess paused to motion towards Beth, “says that you wanted to ask if there was anything I could help you learn about living in the capital, is that right?”

Now it was Sansa’s turn to glare at Beth, whose blood returned to her face as she glanced at her feet. After a moment, Sansa looked back at Dany and nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“Well, I was thinking about it, and I had an idea.” The Targaryen’s amethyst eyes sparked as a sly expression came to her face. “Rhaenys and I spoke of court yesterday, and she said that a guide in the present is far better than words in the past. It has certainly helped us in King’s Landing. So, rather than offer you advice, I decided it would be better to offer you guidance.”

Daenerys smiled, the satisfaction on her face a contrast to the surprise on Sansa’s as she realized what the princess was about to offer. “Sansa, of House Stark, I would like to offer you a place in King’s Landing once I depart Winterfell, as one of my ladies-in-waiting.”

Oh, gods old and new, thank you, thank you so much. Sansa silently praised them as Daenerys continued, her excitement palpable. “Now, I know it is sudden, but my brother won’t refuse me, especially if you say you want to. Your father and mother will likely do the same, and if Jon is coming south as well-”

“Dany, Dany, please!” Sansa interrupted, raising a hand to emphasize her point. “You do not need to convince me! A princess is offering me a chance to come to court with her and learn about how life their works. I would be mad to refuse, and I do not intend to!”

“Oh, wonderful!” Daenerys’ smiled lit the trees around them. “I swear, Sansa you won’t regret this.”

“I know I won’t!” Sansa’s smile mirrored the Targaryen’s as her thoughts turned to another. “And I know that Jon won’t either.”

Chapter Text

Tyrion

“Bread, with two of those little fish, and a mug of dark beer to wash it down. And bacon, burned black.” Tyrion hardly noticed as the servant bowed and scurried off to fetch his breakfast. The dwarf rubbed his face with both hands, grimacing slightly as he felt the scruff on his unshaved jaw. The last few days had been taxing, and this was the last chance he would have to gain any real rest before he departed Winterfell.

If I had known that Eddard Stark could offer such a warm welcome, I would have prepared for a longer visit.

Tyrion doubted that the northern lord had planned on doing so. Any fool could have seen the tension between Stark and the king when the latter had first arrived. Even with all the years that had passed since their last meeting, the gaps between the two had seemed to great to be bridged. Tyrion didn’t begrudge the man his resentment. Lannister’s always pay their debts, but if any family could be expected to do the same, it’s the Starks.

The king’s younger son had said as much when they had spoken the night Rhaegar and his party had arrived. “I know that my uncle wants to try and move past the Rebellion, but I don’t think he ever truly can, Tyrion. I suppose I may have something to do with that.”

“I suppose, if your uncle is a man who prefers to blame those who bore the conflict to those who started it.” When Jon had begun to indignantly defend Lord Stark, Tyrion had pushed on impatiently. “Don’t, boy. I can abide many things, but self-pity is not one of them. I doubt that Ned Stark is such a lord, and I expect you think the same. If the man truly wants to mend fences, then he and your father will find a way. Kings and lords tend to, when it suits them.”

That they did, in a manner that few expected. Least of all the prince, judging from his expression when the king announced it.

Jon had appeared thoughtful as Tyrion finished speaking. Then the prince had thanked him before moving on, asking what Tyrion knew of the Vale, particularly its lords and the widow Arryn. The lad’s come far, I cannot deny that. He has some of his father and his uncle in him, though it’s too soon to say which is the greater influence.

When he had learned of the king’s decision to grant his younger son’s wardship to Winterfell, he had not been surprised. But while his father had focused on the prince that their own house was seeing to, Tyrion hadn’t been able to resist wondering after the fate of the boy who had stood against the Mountain himself.

And then he had the gall to write to me. Tyrion smiled at the memory. The lad had sworn not to forget how he had helped Jon on Harlaw, but the dwarf had known better than to expect an eight-year old to hold to that kind of promise. And yet one of the first things the boy had written was thanks, right before asking after Tyrion’s health.

Tywin Lannister rarely showed any true emotion, but Tyrion had sensed his confusion at learning that the king’s son wished to hear from the heir of Casterly Rock. It had only lasted for a few hours, though, before Tywin had returned the letter to Tyrion and told him to respond.

“By all means, write to this…prince and see if there is anything to be gained.” Tywin Lannister had seemed dismissive, but the spark in his eye was too bright to be ignored. “If nothing else, we may gain some knowledge of House Stark, its strengths and weaknesses. And if we are fortunate, our house may be able to count on more than just the king’s brother to work with.”

If only Father knew how much the lad seemed to trust me. Tyrion had always downplayed the knowledge that he and Jon shared, and why they shared it. He knew better than to trust his father with all that he knew, especially considering the members of House Lannister that had fewer qualms than Tywin and his heir.

And less than half as much wisdom.

A small cough announced the arrival of his breakfast. He sighed as the smell of the bacon hit his nostrils, his mouth watering at the memory and anticipation of the cooked meat’s flavor. Before he tore into it, he sipped the mead, nodding to himself as the rich taste touched his tongue. The North may have no special claim to wine, but I have yet to find any mead better than the ones from above the Neck.

Tyrion was just about to bite into his toast when the sounds of arguing reached his ears. He turned his head to the side and found the door where the noise was coming from. After a few moments it opened to reveal the second son and daughter of House Stark, who remained focused on each other while they walked in, their two wolf pups nipping at their heels.

“Even Rickon managed to think of something, Bran! Why can’t you-”

“Shaggydog’s no proper name and you know it! Besides, Ser Barristan said that a proper name will describe his strength and his nobility, Arya, and-”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Maybe you’d have thought of a name by now if you weren’t so busy pestering Jon’s knight.” Before her younger brother could get farther than a gasp of indignation, Arya spotted Tyrion. “Good morning, my lord!”

The girl walked up and sat across from him, a friendly look on her face. While Tyrion would expect most children her age to avoid his gaze or stare curiously, Arya acted as if she saw people like him all the time. Her direwolf pup acted much the same, though Tyrion expected it did not know better than to follow her master’s lead.

Is she always this bold? Or merely putting on a front for her brother? After spending the past week in Winterfell, Tyrion judged the first more likely, which surprised him. I have met few enough bold ladies, and most of them are either old or jaded. This one is neither.

Arya glanced at his plate. “Is that bacon?”

Tyrion glanced down. “It looks like it. I prefer mine well-cooked, as opposed to that wolf pup of yours.”

The girl shrugged. “Nymeria will eat anything that smells good and doesn’t hurt her mouth. She tried eating one of my gloves yesterday.”

“Nymeria?” Tyrion looked down at the pup, whose was sniffing at his boots. “Do you know who that was, my lady?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “The Queen of the Rhoynar, of course. She led her people to Dorne, to escape the Valyrians.”

She turned her head to look at her brother, who was still standing where she had left him. “Why are you still standing there? Come on.”

Bran looked at his sister, then glanced at Tyrion, a nervous look in his eye.

That’s more like it. Tyrion decided to help the lad with the choice. “Do you think Selmy or your father would fear to sit next to someone as small as me?”

As he expected, Bran immediately protested. “I am not afraid! It’s just, well…”

The boy’s sister sighed. “Boys. They always lie more than they should.”

“I happen to be a boy as well,” Tyrion pointed out.

“And I’m sure that you lie more than you should.” Arya’s eyebrows rose as she looked at him.

Tyrion had to laugh at that. “You have me there. I like to think myself honest, but all men lie, and lords more than most. And ladies, too,” he added, raising an eyebrow as he did. The girl just grinned at him, apparently entertained by their banter.

Tyrion found it amusing himself. Matching wits with someone who wasn’t looking to undermine or displace him was a rare treat, and he appreciated the break from the intrigues of the royal court. He had hoped that such things may have grown less common once the party had reached White Harbor, but that had been a fool’s hope. There, and even here in Winterfell, the games continued, even if the players and their motives had changed.

The table squeaked as Bran came to sit next to his sister and placed his arms on its surface. The nervousness was gone, though Tyrion doubted it would take much to return.

Best to keep his mind elsewhere, then. “So, you haven’t named that pup of yours? That was what the squabbling was about?”

The boy nodded. “Everyone’s thought of one already, so they think I have to as well. But it’s not that easy, you know?”

“I can think of at least a score of names that would suit a direwolf,” Tyrion observed.

“Me too. But he’s not a direwolf, he’s my direwolf.” Bran’s expression was fierce, both proud and angry all at once.

“Fair enough. At least you bother to name them. The lions kept at Casterly Rock do not have any names, or at least none but the ones their keepers use.”

“Are all the lions in cages, my lord?” Arya looked at Tyrion curiously. “Are there none left that are free?”

“There are some, though I am not sure how many.” Tyrion paused for a moment. “The last I saw of any lion outside of the Rock was a kill five years ago, in the forests south of Crakehall. The tracker who was with Lord Crakehall and I thought it a young lion’s work, judging from the size of the prints. He thought it surprising to find any sign of one that far south. Prince Viserys insisted we spend the rest of the hunt trying to find it, though we were wasting our time.”

“Jon’s uncle was with you?” Arya asked. “I thought he wasn’t fond of riding.”

“There are other activities he prefers,” Tyrion conceded. “But when one is visiting a lord and said lord calls for a hunt, it is not wise to refuse him. Besides, Viserys is something of a braggart. He likes to say and do things that wins him admirers.”

Bran looked at Tyrion, confusion on his face. “You sound like you do not like him very much.”

Me and half the lords in the westerlands. “That is not so, boy. The prince has his pride, yes, but so does every lord and lordling in the Seven Kingdoms. Viserys is skilled enough with a lance and sword and is cleverer than most give him credit for.”

“What is it like? Having a prince for a brother, I mean.” Arya’s expression was irritated. “Mother keeps telling me that nothing will change, but I know she’s just trying to be kind.”

“Well, I suppose it depends on the prince.” Tyrion shrugged. “Jon and his uncle are very different, no man who knows them both can deny that. The same goes for your sister and mine, which is more important than most know.”

If one considers the sun and moon different.

Cersei was one of the most beautiful women in Westeros, Tyrion conceded that. But looks were one of the few things his sister had that endeared her to people. She was charming enough on first meetings, and well-versed in both court traditions and intrigue. All that aside, Cersei was arrogant, hot-tempered, and above all else, ambitious.

Her husband shared all those traits, which should have made them perfect for one another, truth be told. And on their good days, Viserys and Cersei could get along very well, and even work together. But they collided as much as they cooperated, leading to some very fiery confrontations in Casterly Rock. Tyrion’s father had been forced to threaten the two more than once in order to stop them.

Best not to share all that. “You should not worry, of course,” Tyrion said shortly. “Your cousin is a good sort, and you know your sister better than me. If she is anything like Prince Jon, then there is nothing to fret over.”

The boy looked relieved at Tyrion’s words. His older sister seemed unconvinced, but simply nodded.

Tyrion had finished with his meal by then. He pushed the tray away from him and stood, shifting his feet so they did not step on any toes or tails as he stood. “Now then, I must go seek out a privy. If you’ll excuse me.” The Stark children nodded, turning to whisper as Tyrion turned and walked away from the table.

Tyrion walked towards the edge of the hall, near the privy entrance, then glanced back at his two companions. Noting their distraction, the dwarf turned slightly and left the hall. The girl’s clever enough, but I have better things to do than entertain children.

Once he was outside, Tyrion changed direction, heading towards the Great Keep. The king had not been very talkative since they had left the capital, but he hoped that Rhaegar would be more willing to chat after the developments of the last several days.

In King’s Landing, since Tyrion had arrived little more than a year before, he and the king had spoken often. While not on the small council, the dwarf’s position as heir to Casterly Rock had lent him weight and influence that few others possessed. And the attention had been welcome, considering the declining interest Rhaegar had seemed to possess in the advice and positions of Tyrion’s father. He still did not know why that was the case. Father is too shrewd to let the king’s attention go for granted, the king’s brother and second son are proof of that. Why turn away from Tywin Lannister now?

The question was even more pressing considering the lack of a Hand. When Tyrion had first learned of the king’s plan to come to visit Winterfell, he had immediately wondered whether Rhaegar planned to offer the position to Eddard Stark. Bad blood aside, the northman had a reputation for stern leadership and fair-mindedness. More importantly, his appointment could reassure the former supporters of Robert Baratheon who feared being pushed out of government following Jon Arryn’s death.

But it seems that was not the king’s intent. The betrothal of Stark’s elder daughter to the king’s son would help tie House Stark and, to a lesser extent, the Houses Arryn and Tully to the crown. That, coupled with the lack of any mention or even whisper of the Hand’s appointment, made Tyrion think that the Lord of Winterfell would not be given the position.

That leaves few men worthy of the position left, Father chief among them. But if the king intended to name him as Hand, he would have done so already. Why wait?

Tyrion returned from his thoughts as he came towards the king’s chambers. Arys Oakheart stood without, the young knight nodding as the dwarf approached. But before either of them could announce his arrival, the door was pulled open from the inside. From the chambers came the king’s daughter, were expression thoughtful as she came into the hallway.

She stopped when she saw Tyrion, her demeanor becoming friendly as she smiled at him. “Good morning, my lord. Are you here to see my father?”

“Indeed.” Tyrion gave Rhaenys a once-over before glancing past her to the door. “Unless he’s otherwise engaged.”

“No, he and I were just finishing our talk.” The princess sighed. “I had hoped that court games might end when we came north, but that was a folly. It never ends, not really.”

“Funny, I found myself thinking much the same not long ago.” Tyrion grinned despite himself. “Is His Grace still planning on seeing the Wall before returning to the capital?”

“Yes. I think he is disappointed that you aren’t joining him.”

Tyrion shrugged. “A part of me wants to see the Wall, I admit. I have always wished to see the intrepid men of the Night’s Watch in action. Still, there are many things that I can do in the same time, and they would be far more useful for both my house and for the crown.”

“And if their interests should ever clash?” A sly looked entered Rhaenys’ eyes as she looked at him quizzically. “What would you do then?"

Tyrion chuckled. “There is only one right answer to that, princess, and we both know what it is.”

“Yes, we do.” Rhaenys smiled at Tyrion again. “Well then, if you’ll excuse me, my lord.”

Tyrion bowed as the princess walked past him, Ser Arys passing by to follow her as she did. Tyrion’s smile faded as they left his field of vision.

Of all the dragons Tyrion had come to know, Rhaenys was one of the most impressive. All who knew of the court’s day-to-day happenings were aware of the princess’s charms and her popularity with commons and nobles alike. Upon arriving in the capital, though, Tyrion had soon learned that her influence ran much deeper than most knew. Her contacts among the royal household and the courtiers in the city, as well as her close relations with the Kingsguard and some members of the small council, made Rhaenys one of the more powerful players in the games of the court.

Some thought the princess little more than a Dornish puppet, owing to the presence of the Sand Snakes and her well-known affection for her mother’s kin. Ignorant fools. The only cause that the girl serves is her own, whatever it might be.

Tyrion knew that Rhaenys was not the only member of the royal family that thought in that way. Rhaegar’s ability to balance between the different Great Houses had been the cornerstone of his reign’s success. Viserys’ boasts of helping to see a new golden era in the Seven Kingdoms were grand, but House Lannister always came behind House Targaryen in his thinking. Tyrion had never managed to glean how the king’s younger son thought of such matters, and he knew the crown prince only by reputation really. Still, it seemed likely that Aegon and Jon thought like their kin: the crown must come first.

Whether that is the case, and how effective they are in seeing it done, that will be the key to the success of the Targaryen dynasty. And the success of those who serve under it.

Tyrion turned and approached the door. As he was raising his hand to knock, it opened again, revealing Barristan Selmy. The old knight nodded down at the dwarf. Before either of them could say anything, though, the king emerged from behind the knight. Rhaegar’s expression was like his daughter’s, thoughtful with a gleam in his eye.

“Your Grace.” Tyrion bowed as the king closed the door behind him.

“Tyrion. Please, walk with me.” Without pausing, the king turned and walked after his daughter, leaving Ser Barristan and Tyrion to follow along.

Tyrion glanced up at the king as they walked. “Where are we headed, Your Grace?”

“The rookery.” Rhaegar’s eyes stayed fixed ahead of him as he replied. “There are crown matters that need to be seen to, and I had best send some ravens before I depart on the morrow. I may not have the chance for some time.”

That’s a good sign. Tyrion decided to avoid veiled speech and use candor instead. Judging from the king’s mood, that was more likely to be well received. “Is one of those matters regarding the running of the capital until you return?”

“The capital is in the council’s hands, as you well know, my lord. I believe what you meant was ‘is one of those matters that of the Hand?’, was it not?”

Tyrion nodded. “Your Grace knows me well. Almost as well as you know my lord father. He is anxious to know who shall see to the court while you are inspecting the Wall, and wanted me to ask after-”

“Who I intend to name,” Rhaegar finished for him. He stopped and looked at the dwarf. “I am afraid that your father and many others will be disappointed, my lord. The Hand has already been chosen, and it is only a matter of time until he takes up the office and all the duties it entails.”

Tyrion stared at the king. “Truly? Do you mean to tell me that Connington is being granted the title in full?”

“No, Lord Connington’s service is temporary, as I have always said.” Rhaegar turned and began walking again, bidding Tyrion follow. “The new Hand shows great promise, though he is largely untested, at least compared to the likes of Lord Tywin and others. Still, I expect that with the council’s aid he will prove more than capable of seeing to the realm while I travel to Castle Black.”

“You trust the council with an untested Hand?” Tyrion grimaced at the idea. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but that seems a folly. Any lord who lacks the proper support and abilities will be a lamb amongst wolves at court.”

“That may be true,” Rhaegar allowed, “but as I said, the Hand-to-be shows great promise. He already commands significant support, and most importantly, is one of the few people in the Seven Kingdoms that the council dare not mislead.”

Tyrion’s mind swiftly ran through all the prospective Hands that he had considered since the death of Jon Arryn. Great promise, significant support, and worthy of fear. Dare not mislead…

Tyrion’s breath suddenly rushed into his lungs as he realized what the king had decided to do. He looked at Rhaegar with a grudging expression, irritated at both the fact that the king had taken this course and that he had dismissed it so easily.

“It is the prince, then.” Tyrion nodded slowly. “Prince Aegon is the future Hand.”

“Yes. My son shall celebrate his sixteenth nameday in little more than two months, and on that day, when he enters manhood, Connington shall relinquish the office of Hand and return to his position as master of laws. Aegon shall have the entire small council to rely on, as well as the other members of House Targaryen.” The king’s voice held an emotion that Tyrion had never heard before, one he thought impossible for Rhaegar to possess- satisfaction.

Not that I can blame him. Tyrion and many others had assumed that the king would turn to the lords of the Seven Kingdoms for his new Hand. Unless he chose someone of insignificance, whatever choice he made risked alienating at least some of the various factions and players in the court. But by naming the crown prince as Hand, Rhaegar had landed on the one choice that none of them could object to, at least in public. In private is another matter entirely, especially with those who are impatient for their turn.

“Well,” Tyrion finally said, “then allow me to offer congratulations, Your Grace. I praise your wisdom in giving the heir the chance to gain experience and knowledge in the art of ruling, and the realm the opportunity to learn more about the man who shall one day sit the Iron Throne.”

By now, they had made the climb to Winterfell’s rookery. The caws of ravens were loud from within as they came to its entrance. Rhaegar turned to look at Ser Barristan. “Go find the Stark’s maester. Tell him not to delay- this needs to be seen to.”

The old knight nodded and turned, striding away with a speed that belied his age.

“Lord Tyrion.” The dwarf looked at the king, who’s expression remained thoughtful as their gazes met. “It is good that you came to me when you did. I have need of your talents.”

Tyrion began to speak, but Rhaegar held up a hand. “Please, I have no wish for niceties or dissembling. As you likely know already, my other son is traveling to the Vale of Arryn, to see that the Lady Lysa comes to her senses and returns her son to the crown’s care. I am arranging for a several others to join him there, to aid in ending this folly.”

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably. “Lysa is not fond of me, Your Grace. My presence may do more harm than good.”

“Oh, I am not asking you to accompany Jon. No, the service I require of you lies at court, on the small council.”

“The council?” Tyrion’s mind shifted to its members. Connington was clearly remaining where he was, as was Arthur Dayne. Tyrion was no maester, and while he had some knowledge of ships and spies, he could not match either Lord Redwyne or the Spider in expertise. That left…

“You wish for me to become master of coin?” Tyrion nodded slowly. “Petyr Baelish is an old friend of Lady Lysa, and she has always been fond of him. He is one of those you are sending to the Eyrie, is he not?”

Rhaegar nodded. “Just so, Tyrion. Now, I am aware that master of coin is not the office your father wishes House Lannister to possess, but it is still of great importance and influence in the court. And now, with the prince Aegon serving as Hand, all the members of the council and their conduct will be even more vital. Do you think you could convince Lord Tywin to accept this amiably?”

Tyrion pretended to think for a moment. “I do not know if it will be amiable, Your Grace, but accept it? Yes, I think he shall.”

“Good. Then I would bid you prepare a letter explaining my decision to him, and to prepare to depart for the capital.”

“I shall tell my attendants at once, Your Grace.” Tyrion bowed and turned, walking down the stairwell that lead to the rookery. On his way down, he passed the old maester, whose face was a little red as he made his way up towards the rookery.

Tyrion’s thoughts stayed with his new appointment, and the implications that it had. He had not lied- his father may accept Tyrion’s position on the small council, but it was not the one he desired, or deserved, if Tyrion was being honest.

The Lord of Casterly Rock’s reputation was mixed at court. None denied Tyrion’s father knew the business of running a kingdom, and his wealth and power ensured no man could ignore him safely. But House Lannister’s delay in coming to Rhaegar’s aid and the brutality King’s Landing had suffered at the western forces hand’s both counted against that. “Tywin Lannister is one of the best men in the Seven Kingdoms for winning a war,” Jon Arryn had once said, “but winning the peace is another matter entirely.”

Tyrion thought that judgement biased, but the man’s point had been valid. His father’s actions had won him no friends among the other Great Houses- indeed, the distrust of both Tywin and Rhaegar had been part of the reason that the latter had enlisted Lord Arryn as Hand in the first place. However, both Tyrion and his father thought it high time that House Lannister be given its proper place at court and in the Seven Kingdoms. And they were prepared to secure it by all the means at their disposal.

Fifteen years have come and gone, and a new day is upon us.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

The godswood is quiet this morning.

Daenerys stared up at the canopy above her, the sun just managing to pierce through the ceiling of branches and leaves to send rays of light onto the ground. While the light filtered down, the smell of moss and earth rose to her nostrils. In the days she had come before, there had always been noise. Birds called one another from tree to tree, while the wind, gentle rustled the leaves both above Daenerys and on the ground. There was no breeze now, though, and the birds were not singing.

I suppose they are still asleep. It is early yet, after all.

She had wanted to wake before any of the others. The royal family would be leaving Winterfell later today, and this was her last chance to experience one of Winterfell’s most well-known features- the pools whose source fed them water as hot as any bath Daenerys had ever felt. She and the other visitors had all experienced the baths that the Stark’s had built within the Guest House and Great Keep, but the godswood’s natural ponds had not been used by any of the royal party that Daenerys knew of.

She sighed as she leaned her head against a stone behind her. The pool she was in was not kept the way the baths inside were, but she had managed to find a spot that worked well enough.

Daenerys smiled as she dipped her head so that she was submerged completely. As she did, what little noise there was vanished. The silence and heat cause all the tension to drain out of her, as if all the troubles and concerns of the world were nothing more than a dream. Dany held her breath so that she could remain longer, but as the tightness began to build in her chest she raised her head, exhaling sharply before breathing in deeply, the earthy smell of the godswood flooding her senses.

“Princess, how much longer do you wish to remain here? I do not know how long we have before others may start to enter the godswood.”

Daenerys wiped the water from her eyes and shook out her hair before she shot the speaker an annoyed look. “The sun has barely risen, Alys. I think we can remain for some time yet. Besides, Nym said she would come and warn us if she saw anyone coming in. She isn’t here, so I assume that we are fine for now.”

The young woman nodded. “As you say, princess. But there is only one of Lady Nymeria, and more than one way into this place. I suspect the Stark’s and their household know where and how to enter when they do not wish to be disturbed.” She flicked some of her hair out of her face as she spoke, an eyebrow arched as she looked at Daenerys pointedly.

She is bold to give a Targaryen that look. There was no heat in the thought, though; Daenerys knew that Alys’ words were born out of concern for her, and there was no reason for loyalty to be the cause of anger or punishment.

At first glance, Alys and Dany looked much alike. Their shared the same height and skin color, had similar figures, and the purple and silver in the former’s eyes belied the Valyrian ancestry Daenerys and she shared. But that was where the similarities ended. While Dany’s hair was silver-gold, and fell smoothly to near her waist, Alys’ was pure silver, and curled as it wound its way to just past her shoulders. Her eyes were far a lighter purple than the Targaryen princess, and her face had a splash of pale freckles across it that stood out when she stood beside Daenerys.

I suppose we have been here long enough. Dany thought for a few more moments before nodding at Alys. “Very well, I have had enough. I am going to get out and change. Make sure there aren’t any men or wolves or anything else that shouldn’t see such a thing while I do.”

Daenerys shifted so that she stood on the pool’s base. She straightened, the water coming to her waist as she waded to the pools edge. As she did, Alys handed her a towel. Dany took it, then inclined her head towards the godswood as she began to dry her hair.

Alys sighed. She turned her head to look through the trees, as if she expected someone to come charging through to do her and Dany harm. While she expected that concern was unwarranted, Daenerys couldn’t help but smile at the other girl scanned the woods before her.

That protectiveness was one of the reasons that she had been chosen to serve Daenerys for this journey. Since she had come to court to join her cousin, the young and newly minted Lord of Driftmark, Monford Velaryon, Alys had made an impression among. She had done so, ironically, by not actively vying for attention or favors from the highborn and powerful in King’s Landing. A lady who was both pretty and reserved always stood out, whether doing so was intended or not.

Alys had first come to Daenerys’ attention in the Maidenvault two years prior, during one of Viserys’ visits from the westerlands. Cersei had accompanied him on this trip, the first since she and Viserys had been wed, and her presence had caused something of a sensation at court. The new princess had wasted no time in acting like one, to the amusement of some and the irritation of others. Rhaenys and her mother’s kin had been decidedly in the latter, though the queen herself had treated Cersei very well. The Lannister had treated the queen and king with perfect courtesy but acted the equal or superior of nearly all besides Elia and Rhaegar.

One day, Daenerys had gone to the Maidenvault to seek out a singer for the royal family’s evening meal when she came across Cersei and Alys, the two speaking in even voices while their eyes glared at each other. Some other ladies had been observing, though none of them interrupted.

“…given his words against His Grace the king, I would have that you would be humble enough to show your face at the royal court,” Cersei had observed dryly.

“My father was a loyal servant of House Targaryen,” Alys had replied, “and he was forgiven his words and actions by King Rhaegar, as were many who once served Aerys. Surely you can understand, Lady Cersei, considering your own father’s long service as Hand of the King.”

The older woman had scowled at that, but before her good-sister could reply, Daenerys had entered the conversation. “You are Lady Alys, of House Velaryon? Ser Lucerys’ daughter?” Receiving a nod to both, she had smiled. “Lucerys was responsible for taking my mother and brother from the capital before the Sack, and guarding Dragonstone from any who would harm us. I never met him but owe him much.”

Alys had looked surprised, but after a moment curtsied and thanked Dany for her words, though of course the princess owed her deceased father anything. At that moment, she had decided that Alys would join her service, a declaration that was met with the shock of the onlookers and the amusement of Cersei, though that humor had faded when Daenerys had insisted that it would be so.

“Daenerys,” Cersei had said, the older woman ignoring the Dany’s irritation at her using the Targaryen’s name, “Lady Alys is quite correct. It is not for a member of the royal family to owe anything to one of their vassals, such is the latter’s place. And if a debt is owed, then surely there are better ways to reward House Velaryon than by honoring the daughter of their lord’s deceased uncle.”

“I am not rewarding her father’s service, I am offering her the chance to prove her own worth while in mine,” Daenerys had said shortly. “If we only looked to those who had never caused us any reason to doubt their loyalties, then this court would be far lonelier than it is today. Wouldn’t you say so, Lady Cersei?

Daenerys had deliberately mimicked Alys’ emphasis on Cersei’s original title and had been rewarded with the same scowl that her good-sister had given the Velaryon, though this time she did not even attempt to voice her displeasure. Daenerys was much the younger, but she was still the sister of the king, and both knew that Rhaegar would not do anything to punish her. With that, Cersei had turned and walked away with retainers in tow, while Daenerys had turned to Alys and repeated her decision to take her on.

Rhaenys had been amused when the tale reached her ears, while Elia and Rhaegar had both gently chided Daenerys for angering the newest addition to the royal family. Viserys, for his part, had acted irritated by his younger sister’s attitude towards his new wife but had approved of Dany’s choice of Alys, speaking of how Velaryon’s were vassals worthy of serving the dragons.

In truth, that decision had caused a stir at court. House Velaryon had been forgiven for its support of Dany’s father, but Lucerys Velaryon had been one of the staunchest and most vocal of his supporters, and the taking of his daughter into the sister of the king’s service struck some as improper. Daenerys had been adamant, though, and neither Rhaegar nor Elia had forbidden it. Since then Alys had rewarded Daenerys with complete loyalty.

Loyalty that she now demonstrated. Alys suddenly turned her head and narrowed her eyes, coming to a set of trees to Daenerys’ right. “If you value your eyes, I suggest you stop before you see something you will regret,” she called out, her expression fierce.

“Relax, young lady,” a voice replied. “I am no spy. In truth, I’d make a poor one, what with my eyes as bad as they are.”

That doesn’t sound like some leering fool. Daenerys had climbed out of the pool and was hurriedly putting on her smallclothes, watching as the trees where Alys were watching rustled.

After a few moments, a figure shuffled into view. For a moment Dany thought it was an old man, so bald and wrinkled their head was. But she quickly realized that it was a woman, one older than any other Daenerys had ever met. Her eyes were milky and pale, explaining her words and easing any concern she or Alys had, even as Dany began to slip back into her dress.

“I am sorry if I caused you a fright, child,” the old woman continued, “it is just that this is the only time that I can have my time with the gods without someone asking for me to do one thing or another. And the babe still sleeps, which is a blessing given these past few weeks.”

“Then I suppose it is I who should apologize,” Daenerys said as she came to stand in front of Alys, her handmaid working at the ties of her dress as the princess addressed the godswood’s latest guest. “May I have your name, please?”

“Nan, though many call me Old Nan in this place.” The crone rolled her eyes. “You would think they would show more respect for one who has had as many years as I have, but no. Ah well, familiarity breeds informality.” She sighed. “Well, I am Nan, and am currently speaking to a young woman who has not felt the need to introduce herself.”

You didn’t give me the chance. “I am Daenerys, of House Targaryen. It is nice to meet you, Nan.”

“Targaryen?” The old woman cocked her head to the side, then surprised Dany by shuffling forward. Alys had just finished with her dress and moved to stand in front of her but the princess held up her hand, seeing no danger in this ancient.

Nan stopped just a pace from Daenerys. The crone was shorter than her by at least a head, and her eyes were even milkier up close. The expression on Nan’s face was sharp, though, as she looked Daenerys from top to bottom, taking in all she could. Very old, but not completely blind just yet.

“Yes, yes, I see.” Nan nodded. “You are one of the dragons, come to visit the direwolves’ lair. I do hope the cold isn’t bothering you. Please forgive me, I am afraid my days of going to kneel are long behind me.”

“Not at all,” Dany replied, sharing a look with Alys. “If I may ask, though, how is it that you cannot kneel and yet walk from the Great Keep to the godswood?”

“I cannot walk from the keep to here, young lady. At least not without help.” The crone shrugged. “One of the lads was kind enough to carry me part of the way. I might be old, but only a fool or a fiend refuses to help an old woman who asks for it. Especially an old woman who helped raise them.”

At that, something occurred to Daenerys as she recalled a conversation she had shared with the Stark daughters. “Oh, so you must be the same woman who was the nurse to Lord Stark’s children.”

“And to Lord Stark and his brother and sister, and the ones that came before them, and the ones before them.” Nan sighed. “I first came to Winterfell as a nurse, for a Brandon Stark, I cannot remember which one though. And in all that time, I did not think that I would ever chance to meet another with the dragon’s blood.”

“Another? I am not the first you have met?”

“You may recall the name of the young man who has called Winterfell home for the last few years or more. What was his name again?”

“Oh, Jon.” Daenerys flushed, feeling a little foolish. For a moment, she thought she saw humor in Nan’s pale eyes, though it was so quick that she could not be sure.

“Yes, that’s the one. Looks and acts a Stark, but not the same, not at all. He and the lord’s eldest do get along so well, it’ll be a shame to see him go. Though they did have a fight the night before.”

“Prince Jon and Robb Stark fought? About what?” Alys finally spoke, looking at the old woman curiously.

“Oh, the guard speaks, finally.” Nan looked Alys up and down the same way she had done with Daenerys. “Are you a dragon too?”

“My family has some of House Targaryen’s blood, but no, I am not.”

“Hmm.” Nan turned back to Dany. “Well, if you must know, I am not sure. The door was closed, and when I came in, they stopped. If I recall correctly, it had something to do with the new bruise that Lord Stark’s eldest acquired yesterday. And the “silver beauty” that gave it to him. Not that you would know anything about that, I’m sure.”

Oh, Mother help me. Daenerys shot a glance at Alys, who grimaced as she saw where the conversation had taken them. Daenerys held her tongue, hoping that the crone in front of her would leave the subject be and move on.

After a few moments of silence, Nan did just that. “Well, princess, thank you for indulging an old woman’s ramblings. I am sorry, the time does seem to slip away so easily at my age. But I dare think that I have enough time to go be with the gods before the babe starts a fuss again.”

“I am sure you do. Good day, Nan.” Daenerys almost curtsied before she remembered who’s the higher station was. She and Lays watched as the ancient woman turned and shuffled out of sight, heading in the direction of the heart tree.

As soon as she was sure that Nan had left, Alys turned to Daenerys. “That was too close. Do you think she told anyone else about what Jon and Robb said?”

“I don’t think so, Alys,” Dany said reassuringly. “If she had, I expect we would be hearing more about it.”

Daenerys did not actually think that. There were things that one could expect to encounter in life, regardless of one’s station, and eager fools of high birth were one of them. If word spread of what had happened in the godswood, she doubted anyone would act to do anything other than laugh.

She and Alys had been exploring the godswood a few days earlier when they had encountered Beth Cassel, standing with Robb Stark as his younger brother climbed. Bran had been scaling one of the tall pines, while his older brother, both their pups, and the handmaid had looked on. After assuring the two of them that Bran had done this kind of thing before and Robb was here to make sure that he did not break something important, they had begun chatting, sharing stories about their upbringings in Winterfell, King’s Landing, and Driftmark, respectively.

Robb had a good way with words, and when he smiled as their eyes met Daenerys could not help but blush. Alys had seemed to like as well, though she kept her eyes on the young boy climbing above them. In that, she had acted for both of them; Dany could not help but worry as she watched the young Stark become smaller and smaller as he climbed.

It had not felt like long when Sansa’s companion had appeared, asking if the princess could come with her as Sansa was looking to speak with Daenerys. Daenerys had said yes and sent her back to tell Sansa. Before she and Alys departed, though, she had called up to Bran to come down, before he went too high and a strong wind blew him away.

“That won’t happen! Besides, I never fall!”, the reply had echoed down.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she had muttered before raising her voice. “That was not a request, Bran Stark! Come out of that tree, now, or I swear both your father and my brother will hear of this!”

For a moment all had been quiet, then the young Stark responded. “Fine!” With obvious reluctance, the boy had begun to haul himself down from the pine, Daenerys relaxing as he came closer to the ground.

“Well done, princess.” Robb had smiled at her. “I haven’t seen anyone get Bran out of a tree so fast since our lady mother.”

“I am a dragon, Robb Stark,” she had reminded him. “All know better than to tempt my fire.”

“Oh, I know that, Daenerys Stormborn.” Robb had taken her hand and bowed, kissing the back of it as he did. “Such beauty can tame any beast, even a direwolf.”

Daenerys’ breath had caught then. It left her in a rush as Robb had raised his face just in time for Alys’ fist to take it on the cheek.

The blow had caught Robb while his stance was unbalanced, and he was sent sprawling as a result. Cassel gasped as Alys came to stand between Dany and Robb, eyes narrow as she looked at the young Stark, his expression amazed as he rubbed his cheek. “You are the heir of this castle, but that does not make you fit to kiss my lady’s shoe, let alone her hand. Do not presume to try that again.”

Before Daenerys could say anything, there had been a crash. They had all turned to watch as Bran had come out of the tree. The fall was not far- the boy had managed to make it to one of the last branches when the sound of his brother’s fall had distracted him. Bran managed to land on his feet, just barely managing to avoid landing on his still unnamed direwolf pup.

Daenerys had looked at the boy, glanced at Robb, then decided that it was time to move. She had motioned to Alys and Beth, both of whom had followed her as she turned and left the two Stark’s to go find their sister.

The embarrassment and confusion she had felt was close to the surface now as Nan’s words echoed in her ears. “I still can’t believe you did that. There was no need for you to-”

“To remind Stark of your position and his?” Alys shook her head. “If we were at court, such a thing may have been no great cause for concern. But this isn’t King’s Landing, princess. What might be innocent if presumptuous there could be another thing entirely here in Winterfell. Better to be safe than sorry.”

“So, rather than let me handle Robb Stark, it is better that he and Jon are fighting because of us?”

“First, Daenerys, I would say it sounds like they were arguing. I think Nan would have mentioned if there was any blood. And if it was just that, then they’ll get over it. Good friends argue all the time, it is rarely the cause of that friendships end. And second, she didn’t say they were fighting because of us. The old woman said the “silver beauty” was what was said. I am the silver, remember?”

It was possible, but that did not reassure Daenerys. “So, you may have earned the enmity of Robb Stark and you simply take it in stride?”

Alys shrugged. “I already have one powerful person who does not like me. I doubt Robb Stark is near as dangerous as Cersei Lannister.”

Fair enough. It is more likely that he will forgive it; no one starts trouble over such a trifle.

Still, Daenerys couldn’t keep her unease at bay. She didn’t want those close to her to quarrel, and the idea of Alys and Robb as enemies was distressing. And that was without considering the implications for House Stark and Targaryen. Giving the heir to the former a reason to dislike the servants of the latter would go against everything the royal progress had accomplished.

Well, no use worrying about it right now. Daenerys sighed, then glanced up as towards the trees. Her eyes widened as she realized how the sunlight had grown, brightening the wood around her and Alys. “At this rate, I suspect others will start to come into the godswood. We better be on our way.”

Dany did not wait for Alys to respond, turning to walk towards the entrance while her companion followed close behind her.

When they reached the entryway to the godswood, Nymeria was nowhere in sight. Alys sighed “I hope whatever drew Lady Nymeria away was important.”

“Please don’t Alys.” Daenerys looked at the surrounding area. People were moving about, calling out to one another and undertaking their tasks or preparing to do so. Winterfell was awake, and before long the royal party would bid it farewell.

“Let’s go make sure our belongings are prepared,” Dany found herself saying. “I don’t want to hear Tyene or Rhae chiding us for holding everyone up. And after that, we can see to them, and Sansa too.”

Alys looked at Daenerys, her expression thoughtful. “I know you offered to teach her about court life, but are you sure that you can? There is so much to learn, after all, and court is always changing.”

“It’s true, I doubt that I can teach her very much too quickly.” Dany grinned at her companion. “But I am sure that we can manage it.”

Alys grimaced. “Alright then. I know better than to argue. But I make no promises about anything. The court can be a twisted place, easy to get lost in.”

“It can be, for most. But don’t forget that I am the king’s sister, Alys.” Daenerys smiled confidently. “Rhaegar’s court is one of the finest in memory, especially considering our father’s. And in such a place, I daresay that the those who are deserving are more likely than most to thrive. Especially with the aid of those who preside over it.”

Alys sighed but smiled. “True enough. Let’s get on with it then, princess. I daresay King’s Landing is anxious for your return, and to meet the newest additions to the court.”

Chapter Text

Sansa

“And you are sure that you packed the green cloak? The one that Lady Catelyn gave you last year?”

“Yes, Tom. For the last time, I have not forgotten it or anything else for that matter.”

Sansa smiled as she watched Rose and her brother go over the former’s belongings. Tom normally had a cold air that could match Jon’s or her father’s. With Rose, though, it fell away and Tom transformed from a guarded youth to a concerned brother, one whose attention and care for his sibling was the envy of most of the young women who encountered them.

The three of them were not alone. Aside from Lady, the chambers had servants flowing in and out, like a stream as they carried Sansa and her companion’s belongings from their rooms to the carts and carriages that the royal party had brought with them. Their number had grown with the addition of Jon and his Stark kin, as well as their own retainers.

“That is what you told me before you went to White Harbor last year with Lady Sansa,” Tom replied with an arched brow, “and as I recall there was a certain brush that was left behind.”

“If I have forgotten something, then I cannot think of it now. That’s why it is called forgetting,” Rose pointed out. “And by the time I remember it, we will be on our way down the kingsroad, so it won’t do me any good to worry over it then.”

“The road.” Tom rolled his eyes at the thought. He turned to Sansa then, his skepticism still colored by concern. “I still do not understand why you and Jon and all the rest are taking the kingsroad to get to the capital.”

“Jon’s sister said that it has been a while since a royal has gone to the riverlands, and that they shouldn’t waste the chance to do so,” Sansa told him. “The king agreed, so they changed their plans. Besides, there are fewer dangers in going overland rather than by sea. A broken wheel or injured horse, outlaws that do not know better, things like that. At sea, if something goes wrong, it is far more dangerous.”

The youth looked confused. “If that’s all true, then why did the king come here by sea if there were risks like that?”

“I imagine,” Rose said mischievously, “King Rhaegar may have been in a hurry to come to Winterfell. It had been some time since he last saw Jon after all. Sailing from King’s Landing to White Harbor is faster than taking the road, at least when you are with a large group and nothing goes wrong.”

But something always can go wrong. Sansa said nothing, though, as Rose and Tom discussed the pros and cons of traveling by land as opposed to by sea. Her mind began to wander, leaving their impending departure to consider the man who had made it possible.

Even after the king’s announcement of her and Jon’s betrothal, Rhaegar had largely remained an aloof figure to her. Most of the time he had was reserved for his kin and some select figures, one of which was Sansa’s father. In fairness, when she had managed to speak with him the king had always struck her as kind, intelligent, and well-intentioned, if a little melancholic.

I knew to expect that. But thank the gods that His Grace hasn’t pulled Jon into the shadow with him.

Jon’s dark moods were rare, but Sansa and Robb had worried that when his kin arrived, all the old pain and memories would push their way to the surface. Bran and Rickon were still too young to understand what that meant, so they had not been included in their conversations. Arya, on the other hand, had openly dismissed their concerns. “Jon is not built like that,” the younger Stark had told them bluntly. “He’ll be even less likely to get angry when the king and the rest get here. He’ll work extra hard to make sure of it.”

Since the king’s arrival, Sansa had to admit that Arya seemed to have been right. She knew that the king had told Jon something about his future plans, and while Jon had become very busy in the meantime, all the work had seemed to chase the shadows away, as the prince focused on preparing for whatever it was his father had in store for him.

And when he isn’t getting ready…

Sansa felt the blood rising to her face as she recalled the last week. Everyone in Winterfell had been busy, but whenever Jon had managed to find time, he had spent much of it with Sansa. The two of them had talked more about King’s Landing and the court then they had ever done before, and gone to the godswood together several times, walking under the think canopy of branches while Lady and Ghost had prowled amongst the trees.

“I know that look.” Sansa left her memories to find both Rose and Tom looking at her, the former with a smirk, the latter with a grin. They glanced at each other before Rose spoke again. “Whatever could you be thinking about, dear Sansa?”

Damn it. Sansa tried to order her cheeks to lose their color, but as usual they refused to obey. Rose was not the only one who teased her over her feelings for Jon, but she was among the most relentless, right along with Arya. 

Which Rose promptly demonstrated. “Is it the wedding we both know you’re already planning? Or perhaps that pleasant walk in the godswood you and your wolf prince took yesterday?”

Sansa gasped, indignation animating her words. “I am not planning anything of the sort, Rose! And you swore you’d tell no one what I’d said about yesterday!”

“I haven’t. How could I, considering you hardly told me anything?” Her friend rolled her eyes. “You know the godswood is no fortress, Sansa. I suppose it’s possible no one would have noticed both you and Jon deciding to go pray at the same time. But did you really think it possible that you, Jon, and Barristan Selmy, a Kingsguard who does not even hold to the old gods, going to the godswood all at once would escape attention?”

“You should’ve had Ser Benjen,” Tom pointed out. “Not that it would’ve helped much.”

Sansa sighed, the sound so haggard it came out more like a growl. “Jon insisted that someone accompany us, so no one would think anything improper happened if they knew about it.”

“Did he?” Tom grunted as he hefted two small chests under either arm. “You ask me, it sounds like he already knew you’d be seen.” He nodded at Sansa and Rose before turning and walking out, joining the bustle of the Stark household and royal servants in the hallway.

“Tom is right,” Rose pointed out, turning back to Sansa. “Did you not think someone would notice?”

“Oh, of course I knew that,” Sansa rolled her eyes, “I just wanted to know no one would interrupt us.”

“Did they?”

Sansa’s expression answered the question without words. “Well, I do hope they didn’t catch you and Jon doing anything…improper.”

Her growl was intentional this time. Jon had asked to hold Sansa’s hand while they walked, which had delighted her. But before either of them had worked up the courage to do more, Beth Cassel had found them, telling Sansa that Lady Stark wished for her aid in choosing which garments to bring with her south. Sansa knew better than to lash out at Ser Rodrik’s daughter, but she had nearly done just that, so great her frustration had been.

Jon had taken it in stride and told Sansa that she ought to go with Beth. “We’ll have more time later, I promise you,” the prince had told her. “On the road, in King’s Landing, and…later.”

Jon’s expression had gone from content to reserved when Beth had arrived, but the mask had slipped for just a moment as he had smiled at Sansa. That may not have been enough to stop Sansa from protesting, but when he had raised her hand and kissed it, all the irritation had left her. She had not objected to any task given to her for the rest of the day.

But Sansa had not felt the need to tell Rose all of that, and she did not intend to now. “No, they did not. Now, shall we get back to it?”

Rose smirked at Sansa again, but left it there. The two of them each picked up a small chest before leaving the chamber and the servants still cleaning it behind, Lady trotting after them.

It still amazed Sansa that so much was happening. The royal party and Winterfell’s household had been preparing for the departure of the former and much of the latter for days, yet there were many tasks that remained to be done, or at least it seemed that way.

Everyone likes to think they are prepared, until the moment arrives.

When they came to the Great Hall, Sansa and Rose found even more servants and retainers working to finish their tasks. Unlike those in their chambers, though, the attendants were working in a focused manner, directed as they were by a figure who strode about while overseeing the hall, answering questions and issuing orders with accompanying gestures, looking as if she were commanding an army rather than a household. Always behind her was a knight with a white cloak and enameled armor, though he did not speak as the Targaryen directed those around her.

The princess was born for this. If I learn to do as she is even half as well, I will be fortunate.

Jon’s sister had proven very helpful with dealing with the various issues facing their departure. Rhaenys had acted cool towards Sansa’s family and Winterfell in general for most of the visit, but the princess had thrown herself into creating order amid the disordered actions of both Targaryen and Stark retainers. And in the process, the Targaryen’s cool demeanor had cracked. Her expression was determined, her dark eyes alight as she looked this way or that, her mouth shifting from frown to smile and back in a matter of moments. When Rhaenys spoke all around her paid heed, and no one questioned her.

The princess noticed Sansa and Rose after a minute and walked towards them. She dismissed the men she was speaking to as she did, her expression curious as she came up to them. Behind her Sansa recognized Ser Arys, who nodded silently while the princess began. “Well, have your belongings been seen to?”

“For the most part,” Sansa replied, “though some of the servants are still seeing to a few things.”

The princess’ eyebrows furrowed. “Do you know them well?”

When Sansa shook her head, Rhaenys sighed impatiently. “Unless you know them well, you should not trust your household with important tasks unsupervised. Anything else is inviting trouble.”

Rose came to Sansa’s defense. “Princess, with respect, you cannot expect Sansa to oversee everything her household does. Unless you are saying that you manage to do so.”

Sansa turned to stare at her companion, shocked that Rose would dare speak to the king’s daughter like that. When she looked back at Rhaenys, though, there was no anger on the young woman’s face. Instead, there was interest and even approval in the Targaryen’s eyes.

“You are right, Lady Rose. No lord or lady can oversee everything their household members do,” Rhaenys allowed. “The answer to that is to find people you trust, ones who you know will see to the details when you cannot do so yourself. It is good to see that Sansa has already managed to find such a person already.”

Sansa blushed at the unexpected praise. Rose did the same, her discomfort a break from the even-keel that she was known for. Rhaenys did not pay it any mind, instead gesturing towards the doors to the courtyard. “We’re just about finished here. You should get out there and make sure that nothing important has been forgotten.”

Without waiting for a reply Rhaenys strode away, striking up a conversation with Jeyne Poole’s father further down the hall.

Rose turned to look at Sansa once the princess had left them. “I cannot tell whether or not I like her.”

“She is the king’s daughter, and Jon’s sister,” Sansa observed. “I doubt not liking her is possible.”

Her friend shrugged. “Jon doesn’t seem to like her very much. And from what I’ve heard, she feels much the same.”

Sansa frowned. “Taking gossip as truth is no way to live, Rose. Now, let’s be on our way.”

In truth, Sansa suspected her friend was right. Regardless of gossip, what she had gleaned from conversations from both Jon and Daenerys told her that Rhaenys and her younger brother were far from close. Still, it did no good to chat about such things, especially when one of the people they were discussing remained just a stone’s throw away and could return at any moment.

When they reached the courtyard, Sansa found a similar scene to that in the Great Hall. There were horses and wagons lined up on one side, while attendants and guards walked this way and that. There were more guards here than within, standing by the wagons and stables to warn away any who thought the tumult a good opportunity to try anything. Sansa glanced about but did not see either the king or her father, which surprised her. Then again, that would explain why Rhaenys is managing the Great Hall, while out here…

Sansa looked toward the center of the courtyard, where Jon stood with Ser Barristan and Tyrion Lannister while Ghost sat on his haunches near his feet. Men and women walked up to Jon, speaking to him while he listened with an interested expression, his eyes focused on the speaker. Occasionally he turned and asked something of Barristan or Tyrion, whose responses were brief. Jon’s words to the people he was speaking with were quiet, but the nods and lack of questions he received after he spoke mirrored the obedience his sister was receiving within the Great Hall.

The two are more alike than either care to admit.

That thought had come to Sansa before. She had even said as much to Jon once, though he had dismissed it quickly, so much so that Sansa had not raised it with him again. But when she had told Daenerys, the Targaryen had sighed.

“I’ve thought as much for awhile now,” Jon’s aunt had admitted. “They are both strong-willed and smart. They hate court games, yet they know how they are played, though I believe Rhaenys is better than Jon at that sort of thing. They can both command respect and earn the loyalty of those who serve them. But most of all, they are more loyal to their family than anyone I have ever met. To be honest, I think that if they were complete strangers and met without knowing anything about each other, they would probably become good friends!”

While the way she had put it seemed naïve to Sansa, Daenerys’ point about their similarities stood with what Sansa had seen of Jon and Rhaenys over the course of the royal visit. Given the praise that both siblings used when speaking of their brother, she suspected that Prince Aegon was cut from similar cloth.   

Dany may have the right idea, trying to make Jon and Rhaenys get along better. There are all sorts of things that they could do if they weren’t at odds.

Sansa watched as Jon sent the Lannister off with a nod, the dwarf chuckling as he walked towards his horse. As he did, Ghost perked his ears up and turned to look at her and Lady, his tail wagging in greeting. Lady barked in reply and ran up to her sibling, nipping at the albino’s tail. The new commotion at his feet caught Jon’s attention, who watched Lady and Ghost play for a few moments before looking up to find Sansa. When he did, his serious expression softened, his eyes lightening as they found hers.

The young Stark smiled in reply, walked to stand beside Jon as Rose followed. “I see you have things well in hand here,” Sansa observed as she looked about. “I thought my father or yours would be here, though.”

Jon’s warmth seemed to lessen. He looked away for a moment before looking back to her. “They went to the crypts. Father wanted to say goodbye.”

Sansa glanced at Rose, unsure of how to respond. “Have you been to see her?”

“This morning. Just after sunrise.” Jon sighed. “I do not know when I will return. It is difficult.”

“I know,” Sansa said, in a tone she hoped was soothing. “I have never been outside of the North. Even after everything you have told me, I can’t help but be worried about what will happen when we are in the south.”

Jon surprised her by chuckling. He paused when he saw her confusion, though the humor remained. “I just thought it was funny, that a Stark who has never seen the south acts less fearful of going there than a Targaryen who was born and raised there in his early years.”

Sansa considered his words, then began to giggle before she joined his laughter, both of their guards dropping as the two let their mirth echo around the courtyard. Were it not for the bustle and noise all around them, it likely would have caused attention and surprise among those around them. As it was, Sansa’s mirth died as she glanced to see Rose smirking at her once again. Beside her, Jon stopped laughing, though he still chuckled.

“A laughing dragon? That’s a good sign.”

Where the hell did he come from? Sansa turned to look at her older brother, glaring as Robb walked up to their cousin, Grey Wind nipping at his heels.

“Did she make you eat or drink something you are not familiar with, Jon? You never know what highborn ladies will do to try and win a man’s heart. Some even resort to sorcery.” Robb’s eyes were full of mischief as he spoke, though Sansa thought his not-so-subtle insinuation less amusing than annoying.

Jon surprised them both with his reply. “Robb, your sister does not need sorcery to gain my affections. She has had that for quite some time, as have her siblings. Lucky for you,” Jon added, looking Robb up and down, “or else you would have faced a very different foe in the practice yard.”

Robb grinned. “Is that a challenge, Dragon?”

“You know it is, Wolf. Although I guess it’ll have to wait.” Jon’s grin faded at the reminder of their respective journeys, the somber expression making Sansa anxious. Come on, Robb, do I have to do everything?

Fortunately, her brother saw it too and acted accordingly. “What do you look like that for, Jon? You know it’ll take more than a trip south to do you in. Think of it this way- the next time we see each other, you’ll have practiced on real foes. The great knights of the south, paragons of chivalry and virtue. After that, knocking you on your ass will be a little harder for me.”

Jon raised a sarcastic eyebrow at the Stark’s eldest. “With a goal like that, how could I possibly fail?”

“Oh, you hurt me, Jon.” Robb’s grin became a genuine smile. “Now, be sure to show the knights of the south how northmen fight. Otherwise House Stark’s pride will be almost as tattered as yours.”

“Keep it up and I’ll start praying that the gods send you a wildling to put you in your place.”

Her brother laughed. “Whatever you gave him, Sansa, get more of it. Jon’s much more fun like this.”

Sansa glared at him. “Robb, dear brother, go away.”

“Alright, alright.” He turned but only took a step before looking back at Jon. “Oh, and about what we discussed…?”

“I haven’t forgotten, Robb.” Jon rolled his eyes. “I’ll pass on your regards.”

“Good.” Sansa noted her brother’s eyes darken as he turned and walked towards one of the wagons, heaving a chest onto it with the help of a servant.

“What is he talking about?” She asked Jon, curious.

"That is what he is talking about,” Jon replied, gesturing behind her. Sansa turned to see Daenerys emerging from the Great Hall, her handmaid and Tyene Sand just behind her. They each carried small bags and were walking towards one of the carriages, near where Robb was packing. She noted how he turned to look at them for a few moments before returning to his work.

“Is this about what Dany did to him in the godswood?” Sansa turned back to Jon. “Robb should have known better than to try and kiss her, he’s lucky she…”

Sansa trailed off as Jon started laughing again. “Is there something I should know, Jon?”

Jon managed to stop long enough to answer her. “Robb did kiss Dany, Sansa. Her hand, that is. That bruise came from Alys right after he did so.”

Sansa spun her head to look at Daenerys’ companion. She had always seemed modest to Sansa, but as she looked again at her brother, she realized that his gaze kept returning to the Velaryon instead of Daenerys like she had thought.

Sansa glanced at Jon. “So, now he holds a grudge against her?”

That made Jon smile again. “Grudge? Damn fool claims he’s in love. ‘Only a real woman would hurt a lord to defend her friend’s honor’, or something like that. Wants me to talk to Daenerys, learn if there’s any way the two of them could speak again.”

Robb, you stupid, pig-headed…

Sansa sighed as she looked at her older sibling. “I don’t suppose he’s spoken to Mother or Father about this?”

“He did not say if he had.”

Rose stirred behind her. “Well, I am going to make sure Jeyne and Beth doesn’t get lost on their way to our carriage.” She nodded at Jon and Sansa before turning and walking back into the Great Hall.

A new commotion caught their attention then. Sansa and Jon both turned to see their father’s emerging from the door that led to the crypts. Both their expressions were somber, though they each lightened as they looked to where Jon and Sansa stood. The lord and king walked across the courtyard, nodding absentmindedly as the men and women around them gave quick bows and curtsies before returning to their tasks. Benjen came behind them, his white cloak stained by the dust of the crypts. No one seemed to notice, and Sansa certainly wasn’t going to point it out.

They stopped in front of Jon and Sansa. The king spoke first, addressing his son first. “Jon. Is everything prepared?”

“Yes, Father. Other than a few odds and ends and some stragglers, all is ready.”

“Good.” Rhaegar stopped a passing man. “Tell my daughter to finish in the hall and come out here. It is high time we were underway.” The servant scrambled to obey. The king turned to look at Sansa. “And what of you, my lady? Are you ready for the journey to the capital?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Sansa didn’t curtsy as she replied. The king had insisted that such formality was unnecessary since he had announced her and Jon’s betrothal, and not even her mother’s insistence had stopped her from obeying. “I pray that your journey to the Wall is uneventful, and Castle Black even less so.”

Jon’s father smiled. “As do I, my lady. If the gods are with us, I shall see you in King’s Landing before too long.” The king turned to look at his son. “Aegon will see to her at court, but on the road Lady Sansa’s well-being is your responsibility, Jon. The same goes for Rhaenys and Daenerys.”

Jon nodded, then turned to look at Sansa’s father. “Uncle, good luck. If Mance Rayder is foolish enough to march south, I know you’ll make short work of him.”

Eddard smiled. “I’ll do my best, if it comes to that.” He glanced at Sansa before addressing Jon in a slightly harder tone. “This goes without saying, but if anything should happen to my daughter or Cat while they are in the south…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but Sansa knew he didn’t need to. Jon bowed his head in reply, all seriousness as he swore without words to see them safe.

“Husband, please, I am more than capable of keeping myself safe.”

They all turned their heads to the source of the new voice. Catelyn was walking up to them, Rickon in her arms. The toddler was crying, his red cheeks tear stained. Beside her, Arya and Bran both walked, while Shaggydog, Nymeria, and Bran’s still unnamed pup all followed. Bran’s eyes were red, though no tears flowed. Arya’s expression was fierce, but Sansa thought she saw a quiver in her lip as she walked.

“My lord, surely you are not troubling your nephew with your unneeded warnings.” Catelyn smiled at him. “As you love to remind me, Starks are a tough bunch. I am sure that Sansa will be fine, especially with as many allies as she has.” Her mother motioned towards the royal carriages where Daenerys and her handmaids were preparing to depart.

“And you?” Eddard asked, earning a scoff in reply.

“If you think that Jon needs to protect me, then you are…are something I cannot call you in front of a king.” Catelyn bowed her head at Rhaegar, who returned the gesture, looking a bit bemused as he did.

Robb returned then, nodding at his mother and siblings before turning to their father. “Father. I wish you well.”

Is he still angry? He certainly looked it, for while there was no heat in his words, they were cold enough that even Sansa could feel it.

Her father simply sighed. “Robb, I have told you why you must remain in Winterfell. I will only say this once more- this will be your first chance to rule Winterfell, to see to it and those who live in it while I and your mother are away. Staying is not a punishment, it is an opportunity.”

Robb said nothing in reply, but after a few moments he sighed and nodded, though Sansa knew her brother was not appeased. Their father seemed to accept the gesture, and placed a hand on the eldest Stark child’s shoulder. “You will do well, Robb. But remember our words.”

“Winter is Coming.” Sansa and Jon said it at the same time as Robb. They looked at each other, smiling as they did.

“Father.” Sansa turned to see that Rhaenys had emerged from the Great Hall. The princess simply nodded before turning and joining Daenerys and the other Targaryen attendants, Nymeria Sand following her lead. Ser Arys walked to his mount tied onto the wagon, undoing the rope before pulling himself into the saddle.

The king sighed before looking at Eddard. “It is time.”

As her father came forward to hold her mother and siblings, Sansa saw Rhaegar put an arm around Jon’s shoulder and lead him a few steps away, murmuring quietly as he did. She did not see Jon’s face, but the tense way he held his shoulders spoke volumes. But as she watched, the tension drained out as the king turned them both so that they were facing one another.

“Do you swear it?” Jon asked, his calm expression at odds with the pain and hope in his eyes.

“I promise,” the king replied, smiling as he did.

“Sansa.” Her spying was interrupted as Sansa turned to look at her father, who pulled her in close to hug her. She returned the gesture, emotion welling up inside her at the familiar comfort of her father’s arms around her. For a moment, everything else seemed to fall away as they became nothing more than parent and child.

But it had to pass and did. As he pulled away, her father looked down at her. One of his arms reached behind his back and after a moment returned, holding something wrapped in cloth. “Do not use it, or even let a stranger see it, unless you must.”

Sansa looked at him, puzzled. She unwrapped it, gasping at what she found. It was a small dagger, its blade a half-foot long. The scabbard was black, and where the blade met the handle the direwolf sigil of House Stark was engraved in steel. She slid it partially out of its sheath, eyes widening as she saw the blade, silvery steel that anyone could see was sharp as winter’s breath.

A voice pipped up next to her. “First rule- stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

Sansa smiled at her sister. “I know which end to use, Arya.”

Arya smirked at Sansa, the expression growing as she looked at Sansa’s gift. “It is just a dagger.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Arya just grinned at her. Before Sansa could ask anything more, the king coughed loudly. He gave them a pointed look before turning and approaching his horse, swinging himself into his saddle. Behind him Benjen did the same, before turning his horse and guiding it to Arys, stopping when he and the other Kingsguard were side-by-side. Ser Humfrey brought his mount to stand behind the king’s, nodding as Rhaegar looked back at him.

Jon walked over. He shook Robb’s hand and gave Arya, Bran, and Rickon each a hug, then waited while Sansa did the same. After she did, they watched as Sansa’s mother did the same before hugging Eddard tightly, whispering something in his ear that made the northman smile.

After a moment Catelyn released her husband and walked to Sansa’s side. “We’d best be off, before the king decides to leave without us.”

The three of them turned and walked towards the wagons. Jon stopped before they did, mounting his horse with the same speed as his father, Ghost coming to stand at the horse’s side, looking eager to start moving. Barristan nudged his mount forward until he was on Jon’s left. Glancing behind, Sansa saw her father tug on his mount’s reins, the lord wheeling his horse around to face the king. As she and her mother climbed into their carriage, Sansa carrying Lady with her, the king shouted an order and there was a rumble as the horses and wagons and carriages all began to move, the tumult somewhat dulled by the walls of their own.

As soon as Sansa opened one of the windows, Arya called out to them, “You better come back, sister! And you, mother! Jon, let anything happen to them and I swear by gods old and new…”

The rest of her words were lost to Sansa as the carriage drew further away from the courtyard. At her feet, Lady surprised her by lifting her head and beginning to howl. From behind them, the howls of her siblings rose in reply, the eerie noise following Sansa’s carriage. Even after they had passed out of the winter town and the king and her father had turned north with their guards while the rest of them had continued south, the direwolves’ howls still echoed, carried by the wind, cold as ice as it came upon them from beyond the North.

Chapter Text

Rhaenys

The great bronze doors of the Red Keep rumbled as they opened inward, greeting Rhaenys with the familiar sight of the castle’s first courtyard. As the carriage passed through the entrance and came into it, her fingers tapped an incoherent rhythm on the red and orange skirt covering her thigh. Rhaenys had maintained her calm demeanor when she and the others had been greeted warmly by the common people of King’s Landing. Now, though, her impatience to be home and finally see her mother and brother again was pushing to the fore.

If her kinswomen noticed, none of them spoke up. Nymeria and Tyene each acted as though they were coming back from a day in the kingswood instead of a months-long journey to Winterfell, while Daenerys’ energy made Rhaenys look bored by comparison. Dany was biting her lip, both of her legs rattling the carriage’s floor as they continued further into the Red Keep. Her hand was holding her lady’s, as Alys Velaryon smiled calmly while looking out the carriage’s window, occasionally glancing at Rhaenys’ aunt with a kind look in her eye.

The carriage abruptly slowed, then stopped altogether. After a few moments, the door opened to show Ser Benjen, the northman’s expression cheery as he held out his hand. “Princess Rhaenys, Princess Daenerys, we are here.”

“Oh, good,” Nymeria answered in a sarcastic tone, “for a moment I thought you had taken us to the wrong castle made of red stone.”

The Kingsguard did not rise to the bait, instead remaining silent as he helped Rhaenys from the carriage. While she had no real need of such, it would have been rude to refuse, and the man’s company had been good for them all on the journey south, especially once their party had split at the inn of the crossroads.

“Princess.” Rhaenys turned to look as the king’s steward approached her. “The lord Hand is holding court at present, and wishes to receive you, Princess Daenerys, Lady Stark, and your companions there. As soon as is convenient, of course.”

“Is my brother there as well?”

“Yes, the prince is present, and eager to welcome you back.” 

“Then it could not happen soon enough,” Rhaenys said with a smile, a genuine one that she rarely shared with those outside her inner circle. She turned to Daenerys, just finishing her own descent from the carriage. “Egg wants to see us, Dany. Are you ready?”

The younger girl nodded eagerly. Their ladies came to stand beside them, the three almost leaping from the carriage to do so in their haste. Both Ser Benjen and Ser Arys stood just behind, the former’s expression still good-humored, while the latter was attempting to look stern, though it looked bored to Rhaenys. She suspected the young Kingsguard wished to emulate his older counterparts. It only makes him look younger than he is.

The royal steward coughed. “Pardon me, Princess, but where is the Lady Stark?”

“Sansa?” Rhaenys turned to look at the carriage behind her own. Sansa was climbing out on her own, waving away a Stark man who came forward to offer aid. Her companions were more accommodating, accepting the help as they came out and stood in a cluster. Sansa’s expression looked calm, though Rhaenys recognized the excitement and wonder in the younger girl’s eyes as she looked about the Red Keep. The Stark’s eyes found hers, and the princess waved for her to come forward. Sansa did so, her two friends following her.

The Stark’s other companion trailed after them. Lady had gone from the size of a pup to that of a large hound and acted the part. Rhaenys had not paid much attention to it in Winterfell; the direwolf had never shown much interest in her, and she had returned the favor. Now she found herself wondering what to do with the beast. She can’t be left to wander the halls, that’s asking for trouble. Perhaps the godswood, the other wolves seemed to enjoy the one in Winterfell…

Rhaenys thoughts came back to her surroundings as the words of Sansa’s companions came to her ears. “A pity Beth did not get to come with us,” she heard Jeyne Poole whisper loudly to the other.

“Lady Catelyn asked, and Beth volunteered,” Rose replied. “She’ll come soon enough.”

The handmaids may have continued, but Rhaenys cleared her throat loudly, bringing their attention to her. The Targaryen looked at them pointedly before turning to their lady. “Sansa, my brother and Lord Connington wish for us to present ourselves to the court. Do you feel up to it?”

Sansa hesitated for a moment, uncertainty and some worry on her face. But the moment passed, and the Stark shook herself, her expression determined. “Of course, princess. I am ready when you are.”

“Good.” Rhaenys approved of the girl’s demeanor. At court, a lady must have armor and blade at the ready, though ours are courtesy and scorn in place of steel.

But as deep as steel cuts, a well-placed word cuts even deeper.

On their journey south, Rhaenys had learned much about the Stark. Sansa had made a good impression when they had first met in Winterfell, and what she had seen on the kingsroad had reinforced that. But the Targaryen knew that the court would be the real test of the Stark’s mettle. Personally, Rhaenys was not sure how to handle Sansa. Do I leave her to fend for herself, or try to tip the scales one way or the other?

Her lord father clearly was not leaving her fate to chance. Along with some servants and companions, ten Stark men had accompanied Sansa to the capital. All were sworn to her service and safety. Most ladies trusted the royal household and City Watch to keep them safe. It wasn't entirely odd- several ladies had their own households, including guards- but it was unusual nevertheless. Rhaenys did not begrudge Eddard Stark his protectiveness, although she wondered if it might provoke suspicion from others.

Sansa let out a quick “ah” and looked at Rhaenys. “Pardon me, Princess, but what of Lady? I do not know if the Hand would like it if she came into the throne room with us.”

Rhaenys pursed her lips as she thought about it. Before she could answer, though, her aunt spoke up. “Oh, there shouldn’t be a problem. I am sure the court would like to see Lady. Well, Egg will, and if he wants it, then it doesn’t matter what the others think.”

Rhaenys frowned at Daenerys, whose demeanor radiated confidence as she smiled at Sansa. What is the point of letting Sansa fend for herself if Dany openly favors her?

But now was not the time to contemplate such things. Besides, the younger Targaryen was right- if the heir to the throne wished to meet Lady, the court would fall in line, like as not. So, when Sansa looked to her for confirmation, Rhaenys nodded, getting a smile in return.

“Should we wait for Lord Tyrion?” Nym asked, searching for the Lannister in the throng behind them. Rhaenys joined her search for a moment, but quickly stopped and shook her head at her cousin. Lannister will have to catch up.

“Well then, let’s be on our way.” She turned towards the royal steward. “Go on and tell the Hand we are on our way.” The man bowed before turning and striding back the way he had come from. After waiting a few moments to give him a lead, Rhaenys motioned towards the others who followed her as they walked towards the throne room.

The bronze-and-oak doors were open, giving them a glimpse of the great hall before they entered. Once they passed through, though, someone could not suppress their gasp as they beheld the seat of House Targaryen. That, as well as they who gave our family its sigil.

Along the walls of the throne room, the skulls of dragons hung. Those closest to the door were small, about the same size as the direwolf’s, if Rhaenys had to guess. But near the Iron Throne, the three skulls were massive, large enough that a knight astride a horse could ride through with room to spare. On either side, the skulls of Meraxes and Vhagar hung, while behind the throne, positioned to look down the hall towards them, Balerion the Black Dread watched, teeth gleaming.

On the ground, the view was less daunting. A number of people stretched along the hall, leaving an open path between Rhaenys and the others and the Iron Throne. She put their number at two hundred or so, at a glance. Their clothes spoke to their station, ranging from servants and men-at-arms to squires and rich townsmen to highborn knights and lords and ladies.

Rhaenys motioned behind her as she began to approach the throne. As the others followed, a voice rang out, announcing their arrival as if they were knights in a tourney, about to break lances.

“The Princess Rhaenys, of the House Targaryen, daughter of His Grace, King Rhaegar!”

“The Princess Daenerys, of the House Targaryen, sister of His Grace, King Rhaegar!”

“The Lady Sansa, of the House Stark, daughter of Eddard, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North!”

As if anyone here does not already know who we are. Rhaenys resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she came closer to the throne. But as she saw the Iron Throne and the table before it she slowed, surprise making her cautious.

The Hand of the King was the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms save for the king himself. He presided over the small council, managed the daily governance of the realm, and when the king was indisposed or absent, even empowered to sit on the Iron Throne itself. But rather than do that, as was expected, Jon Connington sat in front it, near the bottom of the steps that lead to the seat. The man’s hair had gone largely to gray, though his beard was still red for the most part, and his pale blue eyes were narrowed as he watched them come forward.

Just in front of him a table was laid out, long and rectangular, each end pointed at one of the hall’s sides. Seated at it, Rhaenys quickly noted the members of the small council; Varys, the eunuch’s smile wide as his eyes met hers for a moment; Paxter Redwyne, his expression calm as he glanced at Rhaenys before turning to whisper to the man beside him; Pycelle, one hand stroking his beard as he nodded at whatever Redwyne said; and Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard, seated beside Varys, face obscured by the helm that he wore even now.

But Rhaenys’ attention came to the youth sitting at the tables center, obvious to her and any other observer’s gaze. Aegon’s hair was cut short, pressed behind a circlet of ruby-inlaid gold. His skin was tanner than either their father or aunt, though far from the dark complexion Rhaenys had inherited from their mother. His clothes were scarlet and black, with the red dragon of Targaryen emblazoned on his chest. Aegon was taller than their father or Jon, and his figure was more brawny than their lean younger brother.

But what Rhaenys saw more than anything else was Aegon’s eyes, lighter than their fathers in both coloring and in tone, and the smile on his face as she, Dany, Sansa, and all the others stopped a few feet from the table.

“Princess Rhaenys, Princess Daenerys,” Connington spoke, his voice’s hard tone echoing through the hall, “I am happy to see you returned to the capital in good health and good spirits.”

Could the man’s words possible be more at odds with his face? Rhaenys knew not to take it personally, though. Connington took no pleasure in the business of ruling, which was one of the reasons her father had chosen him to do so, for now.

“Thank you, my lord,” Egg spoke then, rising from his seat. “Forgive me, dear sister. I felt it best that the court welcome you right away, rather than leave you and those with you to present yourselves later. I hope it hasn't inconvenienced you.”

Her brother walked around the table as he spoke and stood before Rhaenys when he finished. Aegon bowed to her as he did, so smoothly she almost missed the wink he gave her as he did.

Rhaenys cheerfully entered the conspiracy, curtsying in reply. “Brother, please do not bow. It is no inconvenience, for me or any of us.”

Aegon rose, smiling. “I am glad to hear it. I could only assume that you were weary after such a long journey.”

You cheeky brat. What did I do to deserve that?

Before Rhaenys could retort, Aegon moved passed her to Daenerys. Their aunt did not wait for him, instead leaning forward to hug the prince. He returned the gesture, arms tight around the other Targaryen as the court looked on.

“I think that you have gotten taller since we last saw each other, Aunt Daenerys.” Egg's smile became a smirk as he reminded the younger girl of their relationship. Dany simply smacked his arm in reply, an action that provoked a burst of chuckles from the gallery.

The humor faded as Aegon turned to look at Sansa Stark. His smile remained, though it became less humorous and more kind as he came to stand in front of her. “You must be the Lady Sansa, then.”

“Prince Aegon.” Sansa dropped into a deep curtsy, her two companions following her down.

“Please, enough of that. My lady, do rise.” Egg nodded at Sansa as she obeyed. “I appreciate the gesture, but you need not kneel for me. You are not just a new lady of the court, but a daughter of a Great House, and a prince of the blood’s betrothed no less. I know my brother holds deep affection for you and your kin, so I shall do the same.”

Sansa beamed at the prince’s words. Rhaenys was unsure if she noticed the way Aegon raised his voice so that his words were heard by all. With a few words, he makes her feel safe and welcome while letting all here know that to bring her discomfort or harm is to risk his wrath.

Rhaenys was pleased that Aegon knew how to make his wishes known, irritated as she was at both him and Dany choosing to openly support Sansa.

Oh, enough of that, she chided herself. The northern girl had done nothing to earn her enmity, and to do anything but support her would breed whispers at court that none of them needed. Daenerys and Aegon were right to give Sansa their aid, to demonstrate the solidarity of the royal family.

Two dragons defend the direwolf. No one will look twice if a third hangs back.

 “And this,” her brother continued, “must be the direwolf who we were told of.” Aegon went to a knee and held out his hand, smiling when Lady sniffed at it for a moment before giving it a lick. “Not as wild as I expected, truth be told.”

“Lady has always been like that, my prince,” Sansa said, stroking the fur on the direwolf’s head. “She is calmer than the others, except for Ghost.”

“Don’t let them fool you,” Daenerys interjected. “Lady and Ghost brought down a deer, just a day south of the Twins. They are beautiful and dangerous.”

“Then they take after their masters, from what I can tell,” Aegon declared, earning another blush from Sansa. “Ghost, that was the other one’s name? He is Jon’s, yes?”

Please, not now. Not yet.

Before any of them could say anything more, though, the herald sounded again. “The Lord Tyrion, of House Lannister, son of Tywin, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West!”

Rhaenys turned to see Tyrion walking down the hall, a pair of guards at his back. The dwarf did not wait to reach them, calling out as he approached. “Prince Aegon, my lords and ladies, I apologize for taking so long to get here. It is a farther journey for me, as you all know.”

Some of the court laughed, Aegon among them. Rhaenys did not, simply smiling politely as Tyrion walked forward to give her brother a bow.

“Lord Tyrion, I am happy to renew our acquaintance.” Aegon held out a hand, which the dwarf took and shook.

“I do hope we shall be more than acquainted in the coming time, my prince.” Tyrion glanced past them, towards the table where the small council sat. “Apologies, but His Grace has bid me-”

“To take a place on the small council, yes.” Connington spoke now, gesturing towards the empty seat beside Varys’. “His Grace sent a raven to that effect. Please, take your seat, my lord.”

“Thank you, Lord Connington.” Tyrion bowed again to Aegon and nodded politely at the Targaryen women and Stark before walking past them toward the table.

“Now then,” the Hand went on, “as the princesses and lady have been presented to the court, that ends its business for the day. Dismiss the court. The small council will adjourn to the council chambers.”

The herald called out Connington’s commands. As murmuring and conversation began in the galleries on either side of the hall, the griffin lord stood, walking from the base of the Iron Throne to approach where Aegon stood with Rhaenys and the others.

“Prince Aegon, perhaps you could join us?” Connington asked, glancing at Rhaenys before looking at her brother. “If the king’s letter was accurate, then there are royal affairs to be seen to that concerns you.”

“I believe all royal affairs concern me, my lord.” Aegon smiled as he patted the older man’s shoulder. “See to it with the others. I would like to take these paragons of beauty and virtue to see the queen, preferably while the sun is still up.”

Connington did not move, instead looking at the prince with an admonishing look in his eye. “If you go, Ser Arthur will as well, and the council will lose two voices instead of one.”

Aegon sighed, glancing over the Hand’s shoulder towards the council chamber beyond before looking back at him. “Give me one hour. Then Arthur and I will join the council and see to this affair you mentioned.”

The Hand nodded, turning and walking towards the chamber doors. Egg turned and smiled, motioning towards the main doors. “Mother will be happy to see you. And you,” he added, looking at Dany and Sansa. Behind him, the Sword of the Morning stood tall, nodding at his fellow Kingsguard. Stark and Oakheart returned the nod as their charges began the walk to leave the hall.

As they began to walk, Rhaenys punched Aegon’s arm hard. He shot a false glare at her, but Rhaenys simply shrugged. “That was for your quip about long journeys.”

Egg laughed. “I missed you, Rhae. How long has it been, a year and a half?”

“Closer to two by my count. When Father went to Storm’s End to see Lord Renly installed.”

“That was a good day. He’s still here, you know, along with Loras.”

“Why does that not surprise me? They’re practically joined at the hip,” Rhaenys observed.

“They are keen friends”, Aegon replied. “Loras reintroduced us when I arrived. ‘The Iron Throne and Storm’s End should stand together’, and so on.”

“A fine rose to keep in the throne’s garden, though not as fine as the one I expected to see.” Rhaenys glanced back down the hall. “I thought that Lady Margaery would have welcomed the chance to see us presented to the court. For that matter, I did not see Viserys or Cersei either.”

“I am not sure where Viserys went off to. As for his wife or my betrothed, Mother asked that they attend her in the Maidenvault. Margaery was eager to accept her offer. Cersei was less so, but there was no polite way to refuse.”

“Does Her Grace often hold court there?” Sansa inquired.

“I would not call it a court, and neither would she,” Aegon replied. “That said, she goes whenever she wishes to, which is every week or so. My mother is much loved at court, as she is throughout the city and the Seven Kingdoms.”

Rhaenys smiled at her brother’s praise for their mother. But his words were not grandstanding; the tale of the queen’s defiance before the Mad King had earned Elia Martell an affection and support from King’s Landing that eclipsed that of all others, with the possible exception of her children. “The dragon breathed fire,” the people said, “but when he tried to burn the sun, he was burned instead.”

Would that the rest of House Martell was given the same respect. Dornish were often treated more like foreigners than fellows by the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, and King’s Landing was no exception. Despite the personal popularity of the queen and her children, that way of thinking was still the rule. I will need to speak to Aegon about that later. There is so much to be done.

“Now, Lady Sansa,” her brother addressed the Stark, his tone signaling a shift in thought, “how was my brother when last you saw him? And enough with the “prince” nonsense,” Egg added, “Aegon will do just fine.”

“Yes…Aegon,” Sansa replied, her expression showing discomfort for just a moment as she addressed Rhaenys’ brother by name. “Jon was well when he and my lady mother departed for the Vale. Have you had any word of them?”

“No, but that’s not a surprise.” Aegon frowned as he thought to himself. “The high road is not the easiest path in Westeros, and that’s before you consider the wildlings that make their homes in the Mountains of the Moon. Ser Barristan and the men guarding them are more than capable of seeing the wildlings off, but their number will slow them down further. When did they depart from the crossroads?”

“The same time as we did,” Daenerys supplied, “two weeks ago.”

“Seventeen days,” Tyene corrected her.

“Then I expect they’ll be at the Bloody Gate by tomorrow or the next day,” Aegon assured the younger Targaryen. “From there, the Eyrie is a day’s journey, if that.”

“What word has there been from the Eyrie?” Rhaenys asked. “Has Baelish had any luck making the widow Arryn see sense?”

Aegon smiled. “Rhae, there is nothing I would enjoy more than speaking to you about the realm and its troubles. But perhaps we could leave such conversation for another time?”

Rhaenys sighed but nodded. Better to delay and speak later. Dany and the others shouldn’t have to worry about such things, at least not yet.

By now, they had reached the Maidenvault’s entrance. The slate-roofed keep was smaller than that which housed the Iron Throne, but from where they stood the sound of music and conversation echoed from beyond the doors.

“Lady Sansa?” Aegon paused as the northern girl turned towards him before motioning towards Lady. “The main hall had room enough for a direwolf, but I think the Maidenvault may be more crowded than she prefers. And if I am honest, some at court may not wish to be so close to her. Do you think it possible that she be taken to the godswood, to wait until you can return?”

“Oh, of…of course.” Sansa looked put out by the prince’s suggestion. She glanced about. “Forgive me, I do not know the way.”

“I will take you,” Nymeria offered. “It is not so far. The godswood is not so large as the one in Winterfell, but it should serve.”

“I can take her, Sansa.” Rose turned to look at the Stark. “Lady knows Jeyne and I. She’ll follow us if you tell her to.”

Rhaenys caught the annoyed look Poole sent the other girl as she was included in the offer. But Sansa was already nodding, giving her friend a grateful look as she looked at her direwolf. “Lady, go with Rose and Jeyne. Go on, girl.”

Lady did not give any sign she understood the Stark’s words. But as Sansa’s companions and Nymeria walked towards the godswood, the direwolf followed, shooting a glance back at Sansa before they were out of view.

Rhaenys was irritated that she would not have any time to herself with her mother before Sansa was presented to her. But then she chided herself for the thought. Mother is with ladies from half the Great Houses, and all the Seven Kingdoms. Stark or no Stark, I will need to be patient.

It was advice Rhaenys often had to tell herself. It was also advice she often ignored, she reluctantly admitted to herself.

“Rhae.” Aegon was looking at her. “Would you like to go in first?”

“Don’t you want to announce us?” Rhaenys asked questioningly.

“I think Mother may enjoy a surprise, especially with both you and Dany here.”

“Didn’t she know we were arriving today?”

“Yes, of course she does. But it’ll also give me the chance to hang back, if just for a moment.”

Rhaenys smiled. Aegon was used to being paid attention to- even if he weren’t the heir to the throne, his outgoing nature and good looks drew people to him naturally. And as a prince, they were even more so, particularly among the knights and ladies of Westeros. While he handled it well and enjoyed it most of the time, Rhaenys knew it could be tiring for even the best of leaders, and Aegon was no exception.

Still, she couldn’t resist teasing him about it. “Do you miss Highgarden, brother?”

“More than I care to admit, though not as much as I did yesterday.” Her brother smiled at her. “You and Dany have been missed, Rhae. It’s not just me- many of the men at court seemed to lose their nerve once the daughters of the dragon were no longer here to impress.”

“That should help me know which men to like and which to not. Anyone who would only offer bravery when others are watching is not truly brave.”

“Egg.” Daenerys motioned towards the Maidenvault. “Get a move on, I want to see Elia.”

Aegon chuckled. “You dare to command a prince, and a dragon at that? You’ve gotten bolder, Dany.”

“I said move,” their aunt said with a smile, shoving Aegon slightly as she did. He laughed outright then, Rhaenys and Daenerys joining him while Sansa and the Kingsguard looked on.

“Well then, after you,” Aegon said, still chuckling as he turned, holding out an arm to usher them forward.

Chapter Text

Sansa

This is much nicer than the throne room.

It was only a few steps from the entrance of the Maidenvault to its main hall. As soon as the doors to it opened, conversation and music poured out. The latter was not particularly loud, the softer tones of harps and flutes echoing about from three or four singers scattered about the place. Groups of men and women clustered around them or elsewhere, enjoying the music or conversation with one another.

Sansa saw badges with sigils she recognized- Brax’s unicorn, the three castles of House Peake, House Connington’s griffins. It took her a moment, but she found the Martell sun’s banner hanging near the back of the hall, near where the dais stood. On the dais sat a woman dressed in deep tan and red, her black hair in a braid that went down her back. The gap between them was far, but even from that distance the queen’s thin form was plain to see.

Sansa glanced to her side, where Rhaenys stood. The princess had also found her mother, and the smile on her face held greater warmth than Sansa had ever seen since they had departed Winterfell. Dany’s expression was similar, delight and impatience on the girl’s face as she scanned the throng before them, looking for a way through.

An idea struck Sansa. “Rhaenys, Prin- Aegon,” She said, drawing the attention of the king’s children. “Why don’t you and Daenerys go ahead without me? Queen Elia will enjoy a few moments with her kin without needing an introduction to a new guest.”

Aegon looked at her, concern on his face. “Thank you, Sansa, but I think it may be best to introduce you as soon as possible, considering the long journey you’ve had.”

“I have been on the road for weeks,” Sansa reminded him with a look, “a few more minutes will not hurt.”

“Sansa is right,” Rhaenys broke in. “If she does not mind, of course.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” Sansa quickly said, “it will give me a few moments more to prepare.”

And you a few moments to prepare the queen.

While she did not have any reason to fear her, Sansa thought it best to be cautious when facing Jon’s stepmother. Her prince had always insisted that he bore the queen no ill will, but he had also told her that there was no warmth between them either. Sansa was not Jon, but she was his betrothed and a Stark of Winterfell too. So, acting boldly now may not be wise.

Aegon had a slight frown on his face directed at his sister but Rhaenys did not seem to notice. The prince nodded after a moment and turned and began walking towards the dais. Rhaenys turned her head to nod at Sansa, giving the Stark an approving look before following her brother, Tyene Sand just behind.

Daenerys began to walk after them but then stopped and turned towards her handmaid. “Alys, would you mind staying with Sansa? I think someone who knows her should stay by her side.”

The Velaryon nodded. Sansa wanted to object, but the young Targaryen was already moving, in a hurry to catch up to her niece and nephew.

Alys looked at Sansa. “Well, I suppose we just have to wait. Would you like to practice your introduction on me?”

Sansa laughed. “I think it will be fine without your help but thank you. I just wanted-”

“To let Dany and Rhae have some time with their mother,” Alys finished for her. “And maybe win some gratitude from them in return. A bit obvious, but effective nonetheless.”

Sansa blushed. “That's not it. I just thought I should give them some time.” The handmaiden gave her a knowing look, making Sansa sigh. "Well, maybe I hope it will help me make a good impression. Was it that easy to read?"

“Easier than you think.” Alys smiled at Sansa’s frown. “Do not take it as criticism, my lady. The court is full of liars seeking to promote themselves, and the crown disdains them. Those who are honest in their self-interest? They are much more likely to win royal favor. Especially when they are wise enough to obey the crown without question. The only ones whose chances of success are better are those who truly hold the crown’s interests above all, and they are one in ten thousand, if that.”

“And which are you, Lady Alys?” Sansa asked, her voice curious.

“Do you think the princess would trust me with you if I was anything but the last?” Alys laughed. “If you want to know who is as they appear and who is not, you’ll need to learn to read them for yourself. That, or find someone to help you do it. For now, you have me.”

“Is that so?” Sansa glanced about her. She settled on a person- a younger man with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes, the three forts of Peake on his badge. “Who is that, then?”

Alys followed Sansa’s gaze and smiled when she found its subject. “That is Ser Arthur, son of Titus, Lord of Starpike. The Peakes boast of the three castles they once owned, but now they have just the one. The other two belong to the crown now, and House Peake much the poorer for it. Well, Lord Peake sent his son to Highgarden, to ward there with Lord Tyrell. Prince Aegon had just arrived to do the same, and now Arthur there is counted among the prince’s closest companions. Quite a stroke of luck, don’t you think?”

Indeed. Sansa’s father had always said the royal court was like a snake pit, but she had always thought it his dislike of King’s Landing and his own lack of experience at court. Now, she was starting to think she may have been wiser to heed her father’s warnings.

“Aye, but the man has a sense of humor,” a voice said behind Sansa, “you’ll find most knights lose them when they star being called ‘ser’. And Egg says Arthur is the second-best archer he has ever seen, after me.”

Sansa turned to find the new source of gossip. The speaker was another young man, dark and lean. His hair and eyes weren’t the only things that were dark about him- his boots, breaches, and doublet were all black, with a golden chain necklace around his neck. He exuded an air of confidence, like Jon’s older brother. Unlike with Aegon, though, Sansa was not taken in by the newcomer’s bearing, helped by the way he looked at her, brazenly looking at her face before dropping his gaze to examine her body. Sansa resisted the urge to cross her arms in front of her chest, though she could not stop herself from shifting uncomfortably in place.

Alys came to her aid. “Careful there, squid. I doubt the prince will appreciate you trying anything on this fair maid.”

“You may be surprised. I can be very persuasive.” The youth smirked at Alys before turning back towards Sansa.  “This court is filled with lickspittles and cravens, after all. In such company, such a beauty as this should seek out someone strong enough to protect her, to keep her safe and warm against these cold creatures that call themselves nobility.”

Sansa did not appreciate his words or his tone. “I suppose that disqualifies you, does it not?”

“Ah, a little fire in your voice. That’s good, it goes with your hair.” The youth’s grin grew. “I will not take offense this time, but you should have a care for how you speak to me. The prince and I are close as brothers, you know.”

Alys shook her head. “Oh, you should thank the gods Prince Aegon is not here right now, Theon. Otherwise, you would be short a head, though I am not sure which head he would take.”

Sansa may have blushed at that insult, but she was too busy placing the youth in front of her. Theon, is it? The name was northern, after Theon Stark, an old King in the North, but this was clearly no northman. She scanned his clothes again, at first finding nothing, but then realized that his chain was not the only gold on his chest. Beneath it was a darker gold, displaying something that did look something like a squid. No, not a squid. A kraken.

Sansa raised her gaze to meet Theon’s. “I would have thought your time in Highgarden would have taught you manners, Greyjoy. Where I am from, not introducing yourself is considered very rude.”

“Oh, forgive me.” The youth gave an exaggerated bow. “I am Theon, of House Greyjoy, heir to Pyke, future Lord of the Iron Islands, and salt brother of Prince Aegon.”

“'Salt brother'?” Now Sansa smiled. “Reavers took women and girls from the places they pillaged and called them salt wives. So, is that your way of reminding people that the prince’s father defeated yours and took you as a…well, I suppose ward is the polite term, isn’t it?”

Greyjoy’s smile vanished. “Mind your tongue. The only ones-”

“Oh, I have heard enough,” Alys interrupted. She shook her head at Sansa. “The only ones worse than those who are arrogant and powerful are those who are arrogant and powerless. Greyjoy here thinks he’s the first but is really the second, which is the worst of both.”

Theon scowled at that, but Sansa thought it was time to put him in his place. “I must ask your pardon, my lord, for I have not given my name in return.” She did not give him the satisfaction of curtsying, instead merely inclining her head. “I am Sansa of House Stark, daughter of Eddard, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

“And the betrothed of Prince Jon of House Targaryen,” Alys added. “Prince Aegon’s real brother. Sorry, I know how you enjoy pretending he does not exist. I suppose it makes it easier to fool yourself into thinking you’re anything more than a pampered hostage, and heir to a rebel and a failure.”

Sansa might have thought those harsh a few moments earlier, but Greyjoy’s words and actions had destroyed any sympathy she may have had for the ironborn. His confident air and smile were gone, fists clenching at his side while he turned his glare from Alys to Sansa and back. He looked angrier than she had ever seen someone before.

Before he could say anything more, though, a voice rang out from behind them. “Lady Sansa! Lady Alys!”

Sansa turned her head to see her uncle walking towards them. His face held none of its usual warmth, his expression hard as Benjen walked up to them, his gaze fixed on Theon. “On your way, Greyjoy.”

The ironborn expression was still furious, but his confidence speaking to Alys and Sansa did not extend to the Kingsguard. He nodded stiffly at the knight before turning and walking back towards Peake and the other youths around him.

“Sansa, are you alright?” Benjen asked, concern on his face.

“Your niece is fine, ser,” Alys assured him. “The only one who needed rescuing was Greyjoy. He owes you a debt for giving him a chance to withdraw before he lost more than his dignity.”

Sansa nodded. “It is alright, uncle. That one’s all bark and no bite.” She glanced back at him, standing with southron knights and lordlings. “How can Prince Aegon tolerate Greyjoy calling himself the prince’s friend? He even called the prince by name!”

“He got into that habit years ago, in Highgarden. The prince encouraged it.” Benjen shrugged at the appalled look Sansa gave him. “Aegon believes that ensuring no future Greyjoy rebellions means winning them over as friends. The king agrees- its part of the reason Theon was sent to Highgarden with Aegon. That, and his hope that some southron chivalry might rub off on him.” The knight sighed. “Well, suffice to say it didn’t work out like His Grace hoped. Aegon took to him, it’s true, but no one else did. A boy taken from his home by force, thrown into a place that felt a world away from home, full of people who either want you dead or think you are worth less than they are? That can only end in trouble. Greyjoy didn’t become any less ironborn in Highgarden- he took pride in it, wore their ways and customs as badges of honor. It endeared him to no one, save the prince.”

“Aegon liked that? Why?” Sansa had just met Aegon, but she did not think him the type to like those who acted or spoke like Greyjoy had. Maybe I misjudged him…

“The prince had just lost his brother, Sansa. Jon had been with Aegon as long as he could remember, and he felt the absence sharply. Theon Greyjoy reminded him of the brother he missed, and Aegon was the kind of brother that Greyjoy always wanted.” Benjen looked skeptical. “Jon is not Greyjoy, of course. All who have met them both know that. But the prince’s affection runs deep, and nothing Theon has said or done has managed to change that. Nor has he heeded the concerns of those around him on the subject.”

Theon reminds Aegon of Jon? Sansa’s head was spinning. If Aegon thought that, it was possible others did as well. When they think of Jon, do they imagine something resembling that prat?

Alys spoke then. “For now at least, there’s nothing to be done. If we complained to Aegon about what Theon just said, he’d laugh it off as a misunderstanding and forget about it. Not that he’s like to try anything again,” she added, “Greyjoy is a fool, but not that much of one.”

Sansa let out a breath. The idea of Aegon finding anything resembling Jon in Theon Greyjoy was astounding to her- the two were nothing alike. But if what Benjen said was even halfway true, then there was little she could do. The best she could hope for was that Aegon would quickly see the difference once Jon was at court and cleave Greyjoy from royal favor. It sounds like I would not be alone in wanting that.

Before Sansa could think further along that line, Benjen coughed. “Apologies, but we can delay no longer. Her Grace wants to see you.”

“Oh!” The reason Sansa was here had completely abandoned her and came crashing back with her uncle’s words. She bit her lip, suddenly nervous at the prospect.

Her companions read her mood. Alys gave her a nudge. “It will be fine. Queen Elia is a wonderful woman, I’m sure you’ll get along.”

“Lady Alys is right.” Benjen nodded before turning towards the dais. “Follow me.”

He started walking towards the dais, Sansa and Alys following just behind. Those between them and their destination parted quickly enough- the white cloak on Benjen’s shoulders spoke to his position, and none stood between the Kingsguard and the royal family.

While they approached the dais, Sansa examined the Kingsguard standing immediately behind the queen. The knight’s helm was removed, allowing her to see an older man whose dark hair had gone almost completely to white, with only a few streaks of black remaining. His skin was tanned, and not as lined as Ser Barristan’s, but Sansa knew that the man she was looking at was even older than the knight who had guarded Jon since they had come to Winterfell.

Remember, he is the queen’s uncle as well as her guardian. Be sure to compliment him.

As they reached the dais, Sansa noticed that the royals were not alone. Besides them and their white-cloaked knights, two women sat on small chairs to the queen’s left, opposite Aegon, Rhaenys and Daenerys. They were both beautiful, but there the similarities ended.

The maiden seated immediately to the queen’s left had rich, thick brown hair that curled softly and brown eyes that matched. Her figure was like Sansa’s, slim but womanly. The dress she wore was different shades of green, a mix of grass and emerald, with embroidered roses that looked like they were made with golden thread. The lady’s eyes sparkled as she and Sansa’s gaze met, and her smile was sweet, reminding Sansa of Aegon’s when he had first introduced himself in the throne room.

The woman seated next to her was another matter entirely. Her dress was gold and crimson, with a golden necklace with an emerald pendant hung around her neck, complementing fair skin. Even seated, Sansa could tell the woman was graceful. But her form was not what Sansa had imagined, altered as it was by her belly, swollen with child. Her hair was golden as well, curling around her ears as it fell down her back. Her eyes matched her pendant, emerald as a forest. They also sparkled when Sansa’s gaze met hers, but Sansa thought she saw a coolness behind it that was not in her fellow’s, and the smile she gave the Stark did not reach her eyes.

But Sansa quickly turned her gaze from them to the queen herself. Like she had seen earlier, the queen was thin. It was not a surprise- her fragile health was well-known. Nevertheless, Elia’s tan skin had a healthy hue to it, and her raven hair was as lustrous as any Sansa had ever seen, though Sansa spotted some small streaks of gray hidden beneath the black. While her face had lines they were few and far between, and took nothing from her delicate features. The queen’s expression was calm, waiting politely for Sansa to observe custom.

Sansa immediately did just that, dropping into a deep curtsy while Alys did the same. Aegon introduced her from his mother’s right. “Allow me to present Lady Sansa, of House Stark.” He did not go any further, apparently deciding that the queen knew all the rest.

Which the queen proved accurate. “You are Lord Eddard’s eldest, is that correct?” She motioned with her hand as she spoke, urging Sansa to stand.

“His eldest daughter, Your Grace,” Sansa replied as she rose. “Robb is older than me by a year or so.”

“Ah, I see.” The queen looked her up and down. Sansa simply waited, resisting the urge to shift. Greyjoy is a lecher, but this is the queen. Show no weakness or uncertainty, like Mother said.

The queen raised her eyes so that they met Sansa’s. “My daughter and good-sister tell me that you were a good companion on the kingsroad. Tell me, my lady, how do you find King’s Landing after your journey south?”

Sansa paused for a moment, considering her answering. Best to be honest, but polite. “In truth, Your Grace, I find it loud, less than pleasant to smell, and crowded.”

Aegon and Daenerys burst into laughter, Rhaenys and the brown-haired maid joining them. The blonde woman was not as amused. “You are bold, to criticize the king’s court in the company of his kin.”

That gave pause to the Targaryen laughter, but Sansa refused to be silent at that. “I do not criticize the court, my lady,” Sansa pointed out. “The queen asked me of the city, and I thought it only right that I was honest. Of course, if I have given offense, then I am truly sorry.”

“None is taken.” The queen had not laughed, but she was smiling, an honest smile that Sansa knew was worth far more than the blond woman’s pointed expression. “I thought much the same, the first time I came to King’s Landing.”

“So did I.” the young woman sitting next to the queen turned to smile at Elia. “It’s so different from what I am used to in Highgarden. It takes time, but I have found that one learns to like it.”

“Indeed.” Aegon walked behind the queen’s chair to stand beside her. He turned to look at Sansa. “Lady Sansa, allow me to introduce the Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, my betrothed.”

“My lady.” Sansa nodded at Margaery, who returned the gesture. She then turned to look at the blonde woman. “I do not need an introduction to you, my lady. Only a fool would not realize that they are speaking to a daughter of Casterly Rock.”

Cersei gave Sansa a smile at that, though it was the same she had first given the Stark- small, with no real warmth in it. “Indeed not, Lady Sansa. Am I so well-known as that?”

“Of course,” Sansa replied. “Jon has spoken to me on several occasions of your husband, and how can we speak of him without speaking of you?”

Cersei's smile flew from her face. She did not appreciate being considered important only because of who she was wed to, as Sansa's words implied. But before she could retort, Sansa lowered her gaze to the pregnant woman’s belly. “Forgive me, but I did not know that you and Prince Viserys were expecting. If I may ask, how far along are you?”

“A little more than seven months,” Cersei replied. She lowered a hand to place atop her swollen stomach. “My husband and I are both very proud. It is past time that the royal family had some new members.”

“Agreed.” Aegon smiled down at Margaery, who returned the look. “Do not push yourselves too hard though, Cersei. I assure you, I am just as eager to see House Targaryen grow. I expect Jon is as well,” he added, glancing at Sansa with a smile, making both her and Margaery blush.

“Such talk is hardly fitting,” Elia chided her son, “especially considering your sister and aunt are both here as well.”

Arthur Dayne spoke then. “Your Grace, Lord Connington requested that the prince attend to some council affairs as soon as he was able. Perhaps now would be a good time to see to that.”

“I asked for an hour, which he granted me,” Aegon reminded the Lord-Commander, irritation plain on his face.

“Well, I am sure he would be pleased if you made yourself available sooner,” the queen declared.

“Mother, I think that-”

“Watch your tone, Aegon.”

The prince faltered at that, a flush rising in his face. Sansa was reminded of how Robb or Jon looked when her mother scolded either of them. It’s so easy to forget that Aegon is not much older than them or me.

Margaery stepped in then. “My love, please, why not just get it out of the way?” She rose from her chair to take Aegon’s hand. “Once the council is finished, there’ll be no more worry about when to go and deal with them.”

Aegon had flushed at his mother’s harsh tone; now he melted at his intended’s softer one. “Oh, all right then,” the prince said with an exaggerated sigh, “but only because you ask it of me.”

He motioned to Ser Arthur, who walked after the prince as he strode towards the hall’s exit, the others parting quickly as he did so. Sansa was smiling at this display, though her amusement faded some as she saw Aegon nod at Theon Greyjoy, who returned the gesture with a grin.

The queen shook her head. “He’s no tamer than when my husband sent him to Highgarden. I suppose that absolves Lord Tyrell of any blame.”

Margaery shook her head with a smile. “I would not want him if he were any different. A prince is supposed to be fierce. I expect Aegon’s brother is the same.”

The Tyrell looked at Sansa for confirmation. She hesitated before answering. “Jon can be fierce but is not unless it is necessary. Threaten anything or anyone he considers precious, and you’ll have no worse enemy.”

Margaery laughed. “Is that so? May I venture a guess that he is not so…outgoing as Aegon?”

Sansa nodded reluctantly. Margaery nodded her head. “My grandmother says that quiet men are often like that. ‘Some don’t like to talk,’” she intoned, her voice changing to mimic an old woman’s, “‘others are just lunks, but they are all dangerous. The loud ones will warn you before you go too far, but the quiet ones won’t give you that courtesy.’”

Sansa laughed. “Your grandmother sounds like someone I would like to meet.”

“You’ll get your chance sooner than you think, my lady.”

“Please, do call me Sansa. We are to be good-sisters, after all.”

“Very well, but then you must call me Margaery.”

They each nodded in turn. Rhaenys whispered something to Daenerys, who giggled in reply. They both stopped as the queen turned to look at them. She stared for a moment before turning back to Sansa. “Well, Lady Sansa, welcome to King’s Landing. I do hope your time here is one of joy and celebration.”

Elia stood, a movement that brought all else in the Maidenvault to a pause. “Now, I have had enough for one day. Uncle, shall we retire?”

Lewyn nodded in reply. They all stood, quiet as the queen left via a side entrance with her uncle and Kingsguard in tow.

“Well, that went well,” Daenerys stated as the Maidenvault’s activity resumed. “She likes you, Sansa, I can tell.”

“Agreed,” Rhaenys said, “Mother has a good instinct for people. And you made a very good impression.”

Sansa smiled at the Targaryen’s, grateful for their praise.

Cersei coughed. “Your quip about the city was clever, I suppose. Clear as glass, but clever.”

“Come off it, Cersei,” Rhaenys stated, shooting the older woman an irritated look. “You may be with child, but that is hardly an excuse for rudeness.”

The Lannister’s eyes narrowed. “You presume to lecture me about rudeness, girl?”

“That is princess to you, my lady, be careful not to forget that.”

“Hmph.” Cersei smirked at Rhaenys. “All this talk about marriages and families does get one thinking, though, doesn’t it? Tell me, before you came here did the king bring up your own prospects?”

Rhaenys tensed at that. “That is no business of yours.”

“Nor of mine,” Sansa interjected. “Such affairs should not be our focus, at least not now.”

“Our focus?” Cersei laughed at that. “You are presumptuous, Lady Stark. What makes you think that these affairs are any concern of yours?”

Hearing that, Sansa lost her remaining patience. She had spent the day being stared at, judged silently and out loud by others, and verbally tilting with lords and ladies alike. This woman was not the worst of it, but she would be the last, for the rest of the day if nothing else.

“Well, my lady,” Sansa said, pretending to think for a moment, “like you, I am a daughter of a Great House, and if the gods are good, will soon be considered a member of the royal family. Unlike you, apparently, I consider the king’s daughter a friend, and would never presume to speak to her as if she were less than me. And while you are a woman grown and bedded, and I am a maid much younger than you, I appear to understand better when and when not to hold my tongue rather than risk angering the wrong person and lose it.”

Silence greeted Sansa’s words. All the other women with her stared, astonishment plain on their faces. Alys and Tyene Sand's look turned into amusement, Daenerys' look became concerned, while both Rhaenys and Margaery's expressions became approving.

Cersei’s astonishment drained away. Her eyes flashed as the blood rose in her cheeks. Rather than lash out, though, the Lannister did without excuse what Theon Greyjoy had needed a Kingsguard to do. Rising slowly from her chair, the pregnant woman called towards some ladies down the hall who practically flew to Cersei’s side in reply. They helped her down the dais’ stairs and stayed close as she walked away, never looking back.

“Sansa Stark,” Margaery said slowly, “you are either very brave or foolhardy beyond belief. Cersei Lannister is not the kind of person you want as an enemy.”

While she knew the Tyrell girl was right, in that moment, Sansa found she did not care. “I am not the kind of person you want as an enemy.”

Margaery Tyrell grinned, her expression shifting from that of the sweet girl who had bid Aegon go to council to that of a woman who knew far more than she said. “Oh, I think you and I are going to get along famously.”

Chapter Text

Tyrion

“Folly.” Lord Redwyne shook his head as he spoke, as if the men around him did not recognize his displeasure. “We would be fools to become embroiled with any of the conflicts in Essos, let alone in the Disputed Lands.”

Connington looked at Pycelle. “The Archon speaks of advantages in this letter. Does he mention anything specific?”

The old Grand Maester nodded his head ponderously. “There is mention of land and glory, though it is gold that he talks of more than-”

“There’s the Tyroshi in him,” Tyrion interrupted. The dwarf turned to look across the table at the Grand Maester. “The treasury is not overflowing, but we aren’t nearly so poor as to resort to plunder. I can think of no lords who would support a war just for that, save perhaps those on the Iron Islands.”

Tyrion was thankful they had moved into the small council chambers. While the king occasionally held sessions in the throne room, making it easier for petitioners and courtiers to seek a boon, Rhaegar understood that it was much easier to get things done when there wasn’t a pack of self-serving fools observing council sessions.

The table here was situated differently than that before the Iron Throne, with the Hand seated at its head and the various members arranged on its sides. Tyrion had claimed the third seat from the Hand’s right side. Pycelle sat at Connington’s left, while Lord Redwyne and Varys came after him. The two chairs between him and Connington were both empty, reminding them of the absence of two of the council’s most important members. Not counting the king himself.

The king had made a point of having the council meet regularly. According to court gossip, Rhaegar had attended council as often as possible during the early years of his reign, but since the Greyjoy rebellion had attended less and less. It had not impacted the realm’s governance very much, at least on the surface, but it bred whispers the crown could do without. By the sound of it, the king wanted his heir to emulate the consistent presence of his early years. He’ll have to, especially if he intends to succeed when the Hand’s badge falls to him.

“And war swallows gold like a pit in the earth,” Redwyne observed. “Unless we managed to take Myr or Lys themselves, I cannot think of a way that such an endeavor would produce more coin than it costs.”

Lord Connington turned to the only member who had not yet spoken. “What do your pets say, Varys?”

The eunuch giggled. “My little birds sing a song of greed and desperation. Tyrosh has suffered several defeats of late, and the Archon is loath to admit it to his fellows.”

Then this alliance is not for our swords, Tyrion thought. He wants to give his foes at home reason to pause, and perhaps scare Myr and Lys into coming to the bargaining table.

Connington nodded slowly. “We shall wait for the prince and Ser Arthur to join us to decide, but it seems to me that this offer holds very little benefit for the crown. Does the council agree?”

One by one, the other members of the each nodded in accord. The Hand nodded before inking his quill and writing on one of the parchments in front of him. Tyrion could see the wisdom in taking notes, though he was not sure why Connington bothered noting this. Nothing like the excitement of a well-debated council session.

Tyrion smiled. He had only just arrived in King’s Landing, yet he already felt invigorated after the journey south. The court had been his home for the past two years and the games that its members played were amusing to watch, though Tyrion preferred to play much more than observe. It is a pity that Baelish is not here.

The master of coin had left in a hurry from what Tyrion could tell. A man from the capital had reached him two days earlier, carrying notes and summaries of the royal coffers that Baelish had assembled for Tyrion’s use. If Littlefinger’s hope was that the Lannister would just rely on those and not examine the crown’s finances more closely, though, then he was destined for disappointment. Tyrion was not sure what he would find but he doubted that Petyr Baelish was nearly so virtuous as he liked to pretend, which wasn’t saying much. Besides, this is not the post I would prefer but I shall do it as well as I can. To do any less would be unwise and unbecoming.

The council chamber door opened. Tyrion looked over to see Prince Aegon stride into the room, the Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard just behind. The Targaryen walked swiftly to his place at the table, seating himself immediately at Connington’s right while Arthur Dayne sat next to him, between the prince and Tyrion. Dayne nodded at Tyrion as he did, earning a nod in kind.

“Forgive us for the delay, my lords,” Aegon said. “I wanted to see my sister and aunt settled with the queen before anything else.”

None of the men present said anything, merely nodding at the prince’s apology. Aegon did not waste any more time, swiftly changing the subject as he looked at Connington. “So, what is this royal affair you mentioned?”

The Hand nodded to Pycelle, who reached into his robes and produced a parchment, still curling back on itself. “The king sent the council a missive from Winterfell, my prince. In it he informed us of several decisions he has made that shall impact the governance of the realm.”

“From Winterfell?” Aegon looked angry. “And why is this only now being shared with me?”

“His Grace commanded it,” Connington replied. “He did not wish for gossip to consume the court.”

The prince looked far from satisfied with this answer. Seeing that, Tyrion decided to move things along before Aegon decided to spend more time wondering after the king’s thoughts. We spend enough time doing that already. “What does the king command?”

Connington took the letter from Pycelle and unrolled it, scanning it as he summarized for the others present. “The king instructs us to prepare a tournament, in celebration of Prince Aegon’s sixteenth nameday and entry into manhood. He also calls for an accompanying feast and entertainment as well.”

“Can the treasury produce enough funds for such a thing?” Pycelle asked, looking at Tyrion.

The dwarf looked at Connington. “That depends on a number of things. Does His Grace give us any details?”

“Forty thousand golden dragons for the champion, twenty thousand for the runner-up. Another twenty for the victor in the melee, and ten thousand for the winning archer,” the Hand replied, still looking at the letter.

Tyrion drew the collection of notes from his doublet and thumbed through them. Scanning the numbers quickly, he nodded. “That still leaves the food and festivities unaccounted for, but the crown should be able to pay for it. I would not recommend that the king host any more large engagements until we can recoup the coin from this.”

Aegon glanced at Connington. “We should consider making funds available to the City Watch. The Lord-Commander will need to hire more men to handle the people this will draw.” The prince’s expression was thoughtful. “Perhaps it will help if the crown creates an entry fee for those who come to King’s Landing between now and the tournaments end. It may also take some of the cost off the royal coffers.”

Clever. So, he isn’t a complete fool. Tyrion looked at the prince with interest. He had less experience with Aegon than any other member of the royal family, a deficiency he was determined to correct. From what he had heard from Highgarden, the youth was more inclined to challenges of the body then that of the mind. But the prince had a way with people that any lord would envy, and this idea spoke his mind as well.

“That will not be popular,” Arthur Dayne pointed out.

“No,” Connington agreed, “but they will pay anyway, if it is small enough. Three pennies a head should suffice.”

“Would this be extended to all comers?” Redwyne asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Not if they are participating in the tournament,” the prince declared, “or if they are employed by those who are. Those coming only to watch or to profit from the tournament should have to pay for the privilege. Children will not be subject to it, that would be unjust and unkind. Women shall pay one penny, if they are with kinsman. I think two pennies a fair price if they are not.”

Tyrion thought the plan had much to recommend it. The competitors, many of whom would be highborn, and their retinues would hear of this and be grateful that they were not affected. The common folk would be displeased, but the exemption for children and smaller price for women would make it easier to stomach, and the price was small enough that only the poorest would be unable to pay. It may even do what it’s supposed to and make the gold cloaks’ task easier.

The rest of the council shared their thoughts, but no one argued against the prince’s plan. When Connington declared that it would be so they all nodded.

“There is something else that the council should know,” the Hand said. He started to speak but stopped himself. “Before I begin, I must ask- who else here has been told of the king’s plans regarding the position of Hand?”

Aegon and Ser Arthur both raised their hands. Tyrion debated whether revealing that the king had confided in him was wise. After a few seconds, he shrugged and raised his hand for a moment before lowering it.

Connington’s eyes narrowed, but he apparently did not deem it worthwhile to ask. The left side of the table simply sat there, looking at the four other men with confusion and apprehension.

The Hand turned towards them. “As you know, I took the position of Hand at the king’s request. This was to be temporary, while His Grace decided who could succeed the late Lord Arryn in a long-term capacity. And while I served, Prince Aegon has served as master of laws, to better learn how to govern the realm.”

The council members nodded at Connington’s words. They are either liars hiding that they already know or just fools. I think I know which they each are.

“While journeying north, King Rhaegar decided that the best choice to succeed Lord Arryn was clear,” Connington continued. “On his nameday, upon the end of his minority, Prince Aegon shall take my position as Hand of the King and serve in that capacity until the king says otherwise. I shall resume my place as master of laws at the same time.”

Varys gasped. Redwyne looked surprised, but he managed not to say anything. But it was Pycelle who surprised Tyrion. The old man’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing in a manner that resembled a fish. Then after a moment, he stopped and began to speak.

“My lord, I am not sure that I can support such a thing,” the Grand Maester said, his tone worried.

Connington looked at Pycelle angrily. “Are you denying the king’s command must be followed?”

“I did not say that it could not be done, least of all will not. I only mean that I am not sure that it should be,” Pycelle said.

Tyrion glanced at the prince, unsurprised to see that he was glaring at the maester. “Do you have so little faith in me as that, Grand Maester? If so, then perhaps we should write to the Citadel, and ask them to send us a man who has more confidence in the king’s decisions, not to mention his son!”

Pycelle faltered in the face of the prince’s fury. But to Tyrion’s surprise and grudging admiration, the old maester did not leave it there. “My prince, I am not saying that you are unworthy or incapable. But you are young, something that will not change simply because you have reached sixteen years.”

“There is precedent, Pycelle,” Tyrion pointed out. “Baelon the Brave served as Hand to his father, Jaehaerys the Conciliator. Baelor Breakspear did the same for his father Daeron the Good, and Viserys the Second for his brother and both his nephews in turn.” Another case was Maegor the Cruel with his brother Aenys, but Tyrion did not think it wise to bring either of them up.

“That is so,” the Grand Maester conceded reluctantly. “But still-”

“Our thoughts on the matter are irrelevant,” Connington declared firmly. “The king has commanded it, and it shall be done. If any of you wishes to express any other concerns on the matter, now is the time.”

What is the point? All know that it shall happen anyway. Sure enough, no one said another word on the subject.

“Very well then.” Connington nodded once. “Now, that should be the end of the council’s business unless there is anything that one of you wishes to raise before we adjourn.”

There was a pause. Then Varys sighed. “There is one thing I should like to mention, though I am not sure it is worth doing so.”

“Then why do so?” Tyrion asked dryly.

“Because the council may disagree with me,” the eunuch pointed out.

“What is it, Lord Varys?” Aegon inquired.

“Earlier we spoke of the Disputed Lands and the war between Tyrosh and its two sisters. One of the forces engaged in the conflict is the Golden Company. I have heard whispers that there is among their number a man who calls himself Blackfyre, heir to the line of Daemon I Blackfyre.”

“This is what you thought worthy of consideration?” Redwyne’s voice was scornful. “Some random churl starts calling himself Blackfyre and you must inform us of it?”

“I would not be so dismissive, my lord,” Ser Arthur said reprovingly. “The Blackfyre Pretenders were among the greatest and most persistent threats House Targaryen has ever faced.”

“Oh, I agree of course, Ser Arthur- they were,” Redwyne replied, emphasizing the final word. “All know that the Blackfyre line ended with Maelys the Monstrous. At the hands of the Kingslayer no less.”

Oh, you fool. Tyrion’s gaze moved to Arthur Dayne, whose eyes narrowed at the lord’s words.

But the prince beat his guardian to it. Aegon’s anger had been simmering since Pycelle had voiced his concerns. Now it roared back to life.  “My lord, I do not care to hear any man disparage my father’s Kingsguard, least of all the knight who saved your queen, my mother, from the Mad King’s flames.”

Aegon was widely reputed as a friendly and outgoing prince. But was nothing friendly about the glare he now visited on Lord Redwyne, who shrank under the prince’s withering gaze. Did he inherit that look from Aerys?

“Peace, my prince,” the Hand said in iron tones. Aegon turned to look sharply at Connington, but the griffin lord stared back with a hardness that matched the prince’s rage. After a moment, Aegon looked away, his expression still angry.

I suppose now is as good a time as any. “Lord Redwyne is not wrong,” Tyrion pointed out. “Ser Barristan did slay the last Blackfyre, during the War of the Ninepenny Kings.”

Pycelle shook his head ponderously. “That is not entirely accurate, my lord. Maelys’ death ended their male line, but through the female line, the Pretender’s line endured.”

“Maelys the Monstrous had a daughter?” Redwyne asked, looking shocked at the idea.

“No, Maelys died without issue,” the Grand Maester replied. “But his cousin, Daemon Blackfyre, had a daughter or two, if I recall correctly.”

“Another Daemon Blackfyre? I have never heard of this one,” Varys giggled.

“That is because Maelys tore his head off with his bare hands before he claimed the throne,” Tyrion pointed out. Varys’s humor fled at those words. The eunuch gagged slightly at the thought.

The Hand was losing patience. “So it is possible that this pretender, if he even exists, has some Blackfyre blood and may try to claim the throne. Is that what you are saying?”

Varys nodded in reply. Connington thought for a moment. “Is he commanding the Golden Company?”

“No, my lord, my birds say that he is simply among their number.”

“And does he have anything that could prove his words?” Connington’s pale eyes narrowed at the idea. “The blade Blackfyre, for instance?”

“If he does, they have not told me, and they tell me everything,” the eunuch stated.

“Then there is no reason to act,” the Hand declared. “Tell your spies to see if they can learn more, and if they should find something more solid than we may reconsider. But for now, we shall leave it at that.”

Without waiting for confirmation, Connington stood. “My lords, Prince Aegon, thank you. This council session is now finished.”

A small clamor went up as they all pushed their chairs back so they could stand. Connington stayed where he was while Varys and Redwyne walked out, Pycelle slowly following behind. Tyrion glanced after them before turning towards Aegon. “I did not know that the Grand Maester was so bold.”

“So foolish is more accurate.” The prince sighed irritably. “Arthur says that he is not as sharp as he was during my grandfather’s time. I was half-serious when I spoke of writing to the Citadel.”

“Which is not going to happen,” Ser Arthur pointed out. The Sword of the Morning turned towards Tyrion. “Allow me to officially welcome you back to court, my lord. I have missed your wit.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” The Kingsguard’s Lord-Commander was one of the few at court who did not judge Tyrion on his size above all. What mattered far more to Dayne was the dwarf’s way of speaking and thinking, neither of which the knight cared for. He was honest in his dislike, though, and did not allow it to cloud his judgement. In return, Tyrion considered him an unimaginative dolt but respected the knight’s skill with a blade, which remained legendary even now.

Tyrion glanced at Connington. “If you want, I could spread some coin among the sailors and captains in the city, see if anyone has heard anything more of this supposed Blackfyre.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I will decline for now,” the Hand replied. “Besides, if they had such a tale it would be all over the city by now.”

“Unless this Blackfyre is trying not to be discovered,” Aegon pointed out. “Perhaps we should have Varys put out some feelers, see if there are men in the Golden Company who can tell us more. If there is more to this than gossip then they may even prove useful to dealing with him.”

Connington shook his head. “I am not convinced that this is anything more than some fool looking to grow his reputation. And besides, if we look for catspaws among the Blackfyre’s greatest supporters we would risk letting the man know we have learned of him.”

“We could still look for word of his origins, or if he has the sword,” the prince persisted.

“Does the blade mean so much to you?” Tyrion asked, a grin on his face. “Do you want something that you can finally compare to Ser Arthur’s fine sword?” He motioned towards the Lord Commander, who had Dawn slung across his back at that moment.

Aegon did not take offense, simply shrugging in reply. “Blackfyre and Dark Sister are the ancestral blades of House Targaryen, heirlooms of Old Valyria itself. Their fate is of importance to the crown. And if either of them can be regained, then we should try.”

Tyrion chuckled. “Well, I am in no position to judge. House Lannister has been missing its ancestral blade for centuries, and my father still hasn’t forgotten it.”

“Lord Tyrion.” Connington turned to look at him, his face still stern, though his voice had softened some. “Prince Aegon and I must discuss some things in private.”

“Say no more.” Tyrion gave a short bow towards the prince and Hand. “I look forward to the work I will do with you.”

As he left, Tyrion glanced behind him. The griffin lord’s expression had finally relaxed, concern on his face as he began to speak to the prince. So that one can look something besides constipated. Good to know.

If there was any man in King’s Landing without an agenda, it was Jon Connington. The Lord of Griffin’s Roost’s failure during Robert’s Rebellion had earned the loss of his titles and banishment. Rhaegar’s pardon had guaranteed the loyalty of a man who, by all accounts, held the king in the highest regard. Connington was a blunt tool, but the allegiance he offered Rhaegar was the kind that any ruler would covet. And it looked as if that allegiance extended to Rhaegar’s heir as well.

When Tyrion reached the throne room, he was surprised to find Varys waiting. “Ah, Lord Tyrion, there you are.”

“Lord Varys.” Tyrion looked at the Spider curiously. “Did you hang back just to speak with me?”

“Why so surprised, my lord?” The eunuch tittered. “You are a very interesting man, after all. I think your company is certainly worth keeping and have done so since you first came to court.”

“As I recall you did not think it so valuable as that. I can count on both hands the times we spoke before Lord Arryn’s death.”

“Oh, I spent far more time with you than that, Lord Tyrion. You may not have known it, but don’t be amiss- few ever do.”

“Is that so?” Tyrion did not appreciate the warning in those words. For all the liars in King’s Landing, only a very few were great liars. Varys was among them, and a spymaster at that. The Spider held no lands, commanded no armies, possessed no gold that anyone knew of, but he was dangerous, nonetheless.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you, you must be eager to rest after such a long journey and busy day.” The eunuch giggled to himself. “I’m sure we will find the time to speak later. Good day, my lord.”

Varys turned and walked towards the other side of the chamber, passing behind the Iron Throne on the way. Tyrion allowed his gaze to follow him for a moment before he turned and began walking down the hall.

As he did, Tyrion stopped and turned towards the Iron Throne. He looked at it for a moment, then moved his gaze further upward, towards the great dragon skull that loomed above and behind the throne. There is Balerion. He then glanced at the two on the throne’s sides. Meraxes and Vhagar. The mounts of Aegon and his two sister-brides.

Tyrion began stepping backwards, looking at each skull and guessing at its name. Before the war that had made Rhaegar king, the boy Tyrion had been could have named them each on an instant, but those days were gone. Still, he enjoyed the exercise this trifle gave his memory.

There is Meleys, the Red Queen, and that one is Tessarion, her Blue counterpart. And that one…Tyrion paused at the one on his right, struggling to recall which dragon the skull belonged to, and which Targaryen had ridden it.

“That is Caraxes, called the Blood Wyrm in his time,” A voice called out from behind Tyrion. “He was ridden by Daemon Targaryen, son of Baelon the Brave and father of Aegon the Third, who they called Dragonbane.”

Tyrion turned to find a man walking towards him. His attire was black and scarlet silk, save for his doublet. There, a three-headed golden dragon breathed blood red flames. The newcomer’s face exemplified Valyria: pale skin, pale lilac eyes, and silver-blonde hair that fell to his shoulders. He was a thin man, not as tall as the king or his heir, more of a height with the king’s younger son. On his side he wore a sword that was encrusted with rubies, with a silver-steel handle. Tyrion knew that the blade was made of the same kind of steel. He had paid for it, after all.

Viserys moved his gaze from Tyrion to the skull as he came up to the Lannister. “Caraxes was not the largest dragon of his time, but he could hold his own against any challenger. When he died he was fighting Vhagar herself, who did not survive the duel either. Nor did their riders.”

“Prince Daemon and Aemond the Kinslayer.” Tyrion nodded. “That was during the Dance of the Dragons.”

“The Dying of the Dragons would have been more accurate,” the prince said, frowning. “The dragons ended not long after the dance was done.”

“Well, the dragons that mattered still endure. I am biased, but I do believe that counts for something.”

Viserys laughed. “As do I.” He turned and looked down at Tyrion. “I see you didn’t freeze or get eaten by wolves during your travels. How did you find Winterfell?”

“Cold but imposing.” Tyrion looked at Viserys curiously. “I didn’t see you in the gallery when your sister and niece arrived.”

“I had a previous engagement in the city. But that is not what we should be discussing.” The Targaryen’s expression became serious. “I have it on good authority that there may be a Blackfyre skulking about in the Disputed Lands.”

That didn’t take very long at all. Tyrion wondered who had spoken to the king’s brother of council business. He almost discounted Varys, but the eunuch could have sent someone with word to Viserys before Tyrion had returned to the throne room. Redwyne or Pycelle was more likely, but it was hard to be sure. It was even possible that the prince had learned it from some sailor or merchant. In times like these it’s so hard to tell when a thing is treachery and when it is simply a coincidence.

“There have been some rumors,” Tyrion allowed, “but I don’t think it worth any credence. Just yesterday I saw a man claiming to be the Smith himself, in the flesh. People like to call themselves all manner of things, but most of them are liars or fools.”

“Perhaps.” Viserys’ eyes were cold. “Still, I should think that the Iron Throne be prepared to respond quickly and with force if this tale it true. These false dragons have troubled us quite long enough, I say.”

“Hmm.” Tyrion glanced back towards the hall’s entrance. “Is my sister not with you?”

“Cersei was attending my good-sister in the Maidenvault. Well, she was when I left.” Viserys looked at Tyrion, his face twisting into a smile. “Eager to see her again, after such a long absence?”

Not in this lifetime or the next. “Something like that. When we left, she looked two months farther along than she was.”

“She insists that she’s carrying twins. I did not believe her, truth be told, but now I think she may have had the right of it.”

“She and my brother were twins,” Tyrion pointed out. “Perhaps it runs in the family.”

“The dragon’s blood has produced twins every now and then. I wouldn't say it runs in ours, though.” Viserys grinned. “What of your family? Are twins a common sight?”

“Not on my fathers. Nor on my mother’s either,” Tyrion replied.

“I thought they were both Lannister’s by birth.”

“They were. First cousins, through my great-grandfather.”

“Well, I suppose things that run in a family have to start somewhere.” Viserys chuckled to himself. “If I see my wife before you do, then I will give her your love.”

Tyrion smiled. “Thank you. I expect she’ll ask you to return the gesture.”

Viserys smirked at that. He nodded and began walking down the hall, towards the Iron Throne. Tyrion turned and had just reached the doors when Viserys called after him.

“One last thing, Tyrion.” He turned to find all the humor gone from his good-brother’s gaze. “The Baratheon dog’s daughter- she arrived with you, yes?”

“Yes,” Tyrion said reluctantly. “Both Princess Daenerys and Princess Rhaenys are taken with her. I am sure your nephew will be the envy of many a lord.”

“Is that so?” The light in Viserys’ eyes danced like wildfire as they met Tyrion’s. “Well, I guess we will see. I look forward to meeting Lady Sansa.”

Chapter Text

Jon

The road was steeper than it had been that morning. While Jon’s horse handled it well, he could tell by the way its breath grew harsher that the growing slope and higher air was taking a toll. He reached down and patted his mount’s neck. “We are almost there. Not much farther.”

Next to him, his guardian’s stallion let out a whinny. Barristan mimicked Jon’s gesture, though not his words. Scanning the trees around him, the Kingsguard’s face held none of the warmth that he had shown during their early days on the high road. For the past two days all he had done was eye the trees and shadows around them, as if each one hid a clansman from view. Which they may, if they know we are here.

The old knight was certain they did. “Do not underestimate the cunning of the wildlings,” Barristan had told their company the other night. “They know the Mountains of the Moon better than we ever will and any group of our size is bound to draw attention, no matter how quickly we move.”

Personally, Jon thought it was unlikely any would be foolish enough to attack. There were over fifty in their party, thirty-five of whom were armed men, not counting Barristan and Jon. The guards were deployed as if expecting an attack, forming a column that surrounded the remainder of their party. Given their numbers and how close they were to the Bloody Gate, only the very brave or very foolish would risk such a move.

To Jon’s right the snapping of a branch echoed from beyond their line of sight. He turned his head to look towards the trees, his hand slipping to his side until he caught a flash of white. Jon smiled as Ghost emerged from the forest, trotting up to his side and nipping at the prince’s boot while his horse tried to shy away.

The direwolf had grown since leaving Winterfell. Ghost was easily as large as any hound Jon had ever known, even those used for hunting. His snout was longer, and his legs and head were both larger than any common wolf Jon had seen or read of. Given the size of his mother, it looked as if Ghost and the others would grow as large as the ponies being used to carry some of his aunt’s baggage.

Barristan glanced down to see Ghost at Jon’s side. “At this rate I may ask the king to name that wolf to the Kingsguard.”

“He does have the color for it,” Jon said with a grin. He glanced down as Ghost turned and ran back into the forest. It was nice to see the direwolf in good spirits. He had been acting subdued since they had left Winterfell, and even more so since they had turned east while the rest of the royal party had continued south.  He’s never been without at least one of the others. It must be strange, being the only one in a land you’ve never been to before.

Jon knew the feeling. But time had taught him to adapt and look forward, and it seemed that Ghost was doing the same.

Those lessons had served him well at the crossroads. They had spent the night at the inn where the kingsroad, river road, and high road converged. Jon had spent much of the time with Catelyn and Barristan preparing for their departure. He had also spoken with Daenerys and her companions, shared a few last words with Tyrion, and managed to chat with Rhaenys without any notable tension.

The best of that time, though, had been with Sansa. Always a welcome presence at his side, since the king’s announcement in Winterfell she had insisted on spending more and more time with him, to better prepare for the court and to engage with Rhaenys and Dany. They and Jon had appreciated her efforts, and the confidence and joy that Sansa had radiated as they traveled south had been irresistible. Which had made it all the more difficult when the time came to part ways.

But part they had, with courtesy and warmth, and now Jon was looking forward, preparing for the challenges facing him and those with him as they came closer to their destination.

“The Bloody Gate will be in sight soon,” a voice behind him spoke, “so I think it high time that we come out from behind these men.”

“A little patience, Lady Stark,” Barristan replied, the Kingsguard turning to look at the rider just behind him. “As soon as we can see it you may do so. Please wait a little while longer.”

Jon’s aunt was silent, but he could sense her irritation without looking at her. Catelyn may have agreed to help her nephew treat with her sister, but as soon as they were away from the rest of the royal family her mood had darkened. Like Ghost with his siblings, the Lady of Winterfell had never been away from all her children before, and it showed. Jon did not blame her any more than he did Ghost and for the same reason. Catelyn appeared to understand that, making Jon one of the few spared her wrath. Still, she was anxious to meet her kin in the Vale and the pace his aunt had insisted they keep was part of the reason they had not found trouble on the high road.

About twenty minutes later they passed from the trees and into the mountains proper. As soon as they did Catelyn spurred her horse forward, pushing between both Jon’s and Barristan’s to come just behind the men who formed the head of the column. Jon started to speak but faltered as his eyes looked past her and found their destination.

The Bloody Gate was intimidating by both reputation and design. The twin parapets that guarded the mountain pass, as well as the towers that hugged each its sides and the bridge that connected them all, were made of dark stone that Jon knew was too thick to be knocked down by catapults or pierced by scorpions. On the bridge Jon could make out moving forms that he knew were soldiers, tasked with guarding the high road from all comers. As they approached, the men came into focus. Most of those Jon saw were archers, with crossbows and bows slung over their shoulders. But there are others. The Bloody Gate can host an army when it is needed, and they may think it so.

Barristan appeared to be thinking along the same lines. “There are more men guarding the pass then we expected. Is our party so intimidating?”

“Perhaps not in number,” Jon replied, “but we represent the Iron Throne. My father casts a long shadow, ser. We cannot fault the widow Arryn her caution.”

The Kingsguard was unimpressed. “Perhaps she should have considered that before she took the king’s ward from the capital without his leave.”

“Lord Robert is her only son, and besides, he was not yet a royal ward.”

Barristan merely grunted in reply. Jon sighed before turning to look forward, the Bloody Gate growing as they approached.

As their climb ended and they neared the Gate itself, a group of riders came from it to greet them. Four were dressed in the colors of House Arryn. Leading them was a knight in gray armor, whose blue and red cloak rippled as his mount brought him forward. On his chest a fish pinned the cloak to his shoulders, made of obsidian and gold. “Who would pass the Bloody Gate?” The knight called as he neared them.

Jon answered him, like he and his aunt had agreed the day before. “Prince Jon Targaryen, accompanied by Ser Barristan Selmy and Lady Catelyn Stark, and our companions.”

The knight came to a stop immediately in front of their party, his fellows following suit. He lifted his visor to reveal a weathered face, with deep blue eyes and bushy eyebrows above them. The lines around his eyes made Jon think he laughed often, but there was no humor in them as they met Jon’s. “You are a long way from home, my prince.”

“As are you, ser.” Catelyn pushed her horse forward, passing the guards so that she was she came just before the knight. Her expression had lost its impatience, replaced by a warm smile as she brought the man’s attention to her. “It has been a long time, Uncle.”

“That is has, Cat.” Brynden Tully reached forward to offer his arm, which Jon’s aunt took without hesitation. After a moment, he released her to remove his helm. The hair under it had gone to gray, which made his face look older and more weathered then before. But the smile Tully was giving his niece did much to lighten it.

“Ser Brynden.” Jon did not wish to interrupt, but they had a purpose in coming here and Barristan’s shifting told him that it was time they were off the road. “May we enter the Vale?”

The knight’s smile faded a bit, but he did not hesitate to finish the ceremony. “In the name of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, I bid you enter freely, and charge you to keep his peace.” He turned his mount and began to ride back through the Bloody Gate, motioning for them to do the same. The party began to follow, shifting until they formed a narrow column that barely accommodated five men walking abreast. Behind Jon, he heard a quiet curse as a horse neighed. He turned to see that Ghost had emerged from the forest, the direwolf running between the mounts of the royal guards until he came to Jon’s side. If the Blackfish or any of the men guarding the Bloody Gate thought the beast strange company, none voiced the thought.

So far, so good. Catelyn had told Jon that Brynden was unlikely to give them any trouble, and he believed her. Still, the coolness the knight had shown when greeting Jon had been noticed, which made him wonder just how accommodating the Blackfish would be.

After a moment, he kicked his heels into his mount’s sides, urging to a canter until he had come to just behind Ser Brynden and Catelyn with Barristan following behind. The two Tully’s were discussing Riverrun quietly. “Father has written to me often,” Jon’s aunt remarked, “and I know that he thinks of you. Isn’t it time that the two of you set aside this quarrel?”

“I’ll believe my brother has accepted my decisions the day a dragon flies around the Eyrie,” the Blackfish replied. “Besides, I doubt it would help anything if I just rode off now and left things in the Vale as they are.”

Barristan spoke at that. “‘As they are’? Do you mean to say that our coming has caused that much of a stir, Ser Brynden?”

Tully turned to look at the Kingsguard, his expression studiously unreadable. “All in good time, ser. Let us see you and your party settled in before we speak of such things.”

Barristan glanced at Jon, who nodded. When dealing with men or beasts, patience is the key. We will not press, not yet at least.

After they passed under the Gate proper the mountains suddenly parted, revealing the Vale of Arryn in a shock of green and gold. The sun was not setting but it was late in the day, that moment when its light cast a golden sheen on all it touched. The sky was clear, from the valley’s bottom to the sky above the Mountains of the Moon. Even from a distance Jon could make out fields of crops, wheat and barley the most common among them. The valley was narrow, and the great mountain that must have been the Giant’s Lance looked close enough to touch. He observed it closely, going from the base where the Gates of the Moon were visible to its jagged peak where just below it Jon could make out the silvery ribbon that must have been Alyssa’s Tears.

He glanced at Barristan, who was also scanning the incredible sight before them. However, the old knight’s expression held none of the wonder that Jon felt. A few moments later Barristan turned to glance behind them, where the Bloody Gate’s rear faced them. Jon followed his gaze to find a large number of men gazing back down at him from the parapets, bridge, and towers.

If I had to guess there are at least a five hundred men, and those are only the ones I can see. There will be at least twice that many inside the castle itself, if not more.

So far as Jon knew, the only times the fortress that guarded the high road was so strongly garrisoned was when a war was at hand. He had understood that his aunt’s sister was fearful, but the concern she was displaying was far from what Catelyn, Ser Barristan, or even Lord Tyrion had told him to expect.

The Blackfish came to a stop. “We could make it to the Gates of the Moon by nightfall, but the journey up the mountain would take another day.” The knight glanced at Jon. “You are of course welcome to rest here and journey to the Eyrie come morning.”

Is this courtesy, or a test? Jon glanced back at the others in the party. Beth Cassel had poked her head out from the carriage his aunt had brought with them. The girl looked ill after the ascent they had made, but her expression was delighted as Beth beheld the Vale. As for the guards of House Stark and House Targaryen, none of them showed any sign of discomfort, though Jon knew that few of them enjoyed the idea of climbing the Giant’s Lance during the night. “We should continue to the Gates of the Moon,” he decided. “We can wait to climb the mountain at dawn.”

Ser Brynden nodded and urged his mount forward as Jon and his companions did the same, the party leaving the Bloody Gate behind them. The high road was supposed to be where the danger was. But now I feel less safe now than I did traveling on it.

Catelyn murmured something to the Blackfish, who nodded and urged his horse into a trot, taking the knight ahead of them down the trail. Jon’s aunt turned and motioned at him and Barristan before doing the same. They immediately understood and followed the two Tully’s example. The four of them did not stop until they were well ahead of the others, with only the mountain, trees, horses, and a direwolf for company.

Without an audience to entertain, Ser Brynden’s expression lost some of its hardness. He turned to look at Jon. “I apologize for my shortness. The lords of the Vale are not a trusting lot, and men can be quick to talk if they think it will benefit them. If word reached them that I greeted a Targaryen with more warmth or welcome then necessary, it would do you and your mission no good.”

It seems you have little welcome to offer. “There is nothing to forgive, ser.” Jon looked at the older man. “Tell me, is my father so ill-thought of here? We are little more than a band of fifty. Do they expect us to use force to gain what we wish?”

“Lords are more sensitive than that, boy.” Jon saw Barristan bristle at the familiar tone the Blackfish used but they both said nothing as Tully continued, “You may come with few swords around you, but all know that the sigil you wear commands far greater numbers than that. And when leaders are uncertain of victory they often decide to act bolder than they truly are, to try and disguise their weaknesses.”

“Uncle, you keep saying ‘leaders’ as if there is more than one,” Catelyn observed, her expression worried. “Has something happened to Lysa while we were on the road? Or perhaps Lord Robert?”

“It is common knowledge that Robert is a sickly lad and has been since his birth.” The Blackfish sighed. “But nothing has happened to either him or your sister as of yet.”

Jon did not like what Ser Brynden was insinuating. He had been preparing to treat with Lysa directly, with the expectation that the lords of the Vale were united behind their beloved Jon Arryn’s widow. If that was not the case, it made the Vale’s circumstances more volatile, more dangerous. But he did not speak yet, for they had agreed that questions that came from a more familiar face were more likely to be answered.

Sure enough, his aunt was clearly thinking along the same lines. “Lysa’s rule is questioned?” Catelyn looked angered by the idea. “There are no grounds for that. She is Jon Arryn’s widow, and mother of his heir. To rule in his name is her right, as it has been for countless who have come before her.”

“That may be. But it is not so simple, Cat.” Brynden gestured towards the Giant’s Lance. “By slinking away from King’s Landing without the king’s leave Lysa has caused some to question whether she has the…temperament to rule well. None think Robert was in any real danger at court save for Lysa herself, and the attention it has brought from the Iron Throne is unwelcome to say the least. Such whispers might have ended if she took heed of the Vale lord’s counsel but Lysa has not done so. She makes a show of inviting them to the Eyrie and goes through the motions of considering this lord or that as a potential husband and stepfather to Robert, yet it is becoming clear that these are not serious efforts. Her sworn lords are starting to realize that Lysa truly intends to rule in her own right, and few are pleased about it.”

“A woman can rule as well as any man,” Catelyn declared.

“The right woman can,” the Blackfish replied. “Lysa is not the same girl who left Riverrun for the Eyrie.” The Tully knight turned to look at Jon. “She may not be as accommodating as you hope to find her.”

Jon nodded, showing that he understood Ser Brynden. “Thank you for informing me of such rumblings, ser.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “If I may ask, why share all this with me? I expected mistrust from the Vale and its people and you are the widow Arryn’s uncle.”

“Don’t take my words as proof of loyalty. At least not to the Iron Throne.” Brynden motioned towards Jon’s aunt. “And I am no Arryn. Our house’s words are Family, Duty, Honor. Catelyn is family and her letters said that she wants only the best for Lysa and her son. I have no reason to doubt her. Besides, I see no benefit in letting the king and the Vale remain at odds, least of all for my family.”

That was not the answer Jon had hoped for, but it would have to do. “Thank you for your candor, ser.”

Next to Jon, Barristan stirred. “And what of the king’s other envoy? Has Lord Baelish made any progress?”

The Blackfish grimaced. “Lysa knows Petyr Baelish well. But he has changed, same as her. So far, he has not done much to convince her of anything regarding Lord Robert’s future. He wines and dines with this lord or that, yet Petyr seems more concerned with enjoying his status as a royal envoy than actually doing the job.”

That does not bode well. Jon knew little of Littlefinger, as Daenerys had taken to calling him in her letters. What knowledge he did have painted a strange picture; that of a man with intelligence and charm, but who chose to dabble in practices and ventures that made even the poorest lords at court turn up their noses. Even if Baelish was the best choice to treat with Lysa, her vassals are another matter entirely.

Their conversation died slowly, Ser Brynden’s willingness to inform his niece and Jon about the Vale’s affairs fading as they left the Mountains of the Moon. The journey across the valley was only a half-day’s ride, and they were in a hurry. When Jon suggested that they inform the rest of the party of their intent to ride ahead, Barristan turned and rode back to do just that. He had reappeared before too long, and the four of them had increased their pace as the Giant’s Lance grew before them, with Ghost running at Jon’s side, just off the road.

The sun had begun to vanish behind the mountains when they reached the Gates of the Moon. Jon could finally make out the Eyrie, its towers gleaming in the fading daylight. He only spared it a glance before quickly focusing on the group of people waiting for them on the other side of the castle’s moat.

The one standing in front was taller than most men that Jon knew. His frame was also large, and his bald head only added to the strength that the man projected. Standing beside him was an older woman with greying hair and a noble bearing, and a short man with a well-kept beard. All three of them wore finely made clothes, speaking to their status. None, however, wore the plain blue and white colors of the Eyrie. Whoever was waiting to greet them, Lysa Arryn was not among them.

“Prince Jon!” The large, bald man called out to him from the group, smiling as the Targaryen and those with him came through the gatehouse. “It is good to see that your company came through the mountains without trouble.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Jon gave the man a nod, making sure his expression betrayed nothing save calm. He motioned towards the Knight of the Bloody Gate. “Ser Brynden was kind enough to see us here from the Bloody Gate.”

“It is good that he did.” The man beamed at Brynden, in a way that made Jon suspect his enthusiasm was feigned. “How is the gate, ser?”

“Same as it was yesterday, my lord.” The Blackfish dismounted and motioned towards the man. “My prince, allow me to introduce Nestor, of House Royce, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon and High Steward of the Vale.”

“Thank you for your welcome, my lord,” Catelyn said as she and Jon dismounted. “I do hope our late arrival has caused you no trouble.”

“Nonsense, my lady. Lady Lysa’s sister is welcome at any time, as is one of the king’s own.” Royce looked ready to continue but stopped himself and motioned behind him. “These are some other members of the Eyrie’s court. They wished to make your acquaintance as soon as possible, if it pleases you.”

“It does.” Jon nodded at the small group standing behind Royce. “My lord, my lady. Forgive me, I do not know your names.”

“Lady Anya, of House Waynwood,” the grey-haired woman said, curtsying quickly.

“Lord Horton, of House Redfort,” the short man intoned as he bowed.

Jon bowed his head to each of them in turn. A yelp from behind him announced Ghost’s arrival, as the men manning the gate realized he was no hound. The lords and lady in front of Jon each gave the direwolf a curious glance but seemed content with that.

Jon glanced about before turning to Royce. “I had thought we might see my sister or perhaps Lord Baelish. Are they not present?”

Nestor’s good humor seemed to fade as he glanced up towards the Eyrie. “My lady thought it too late in the day to make the climb down from the castle. She insisted that Lord Baelish remain as well, to speak of important matters.”

Jon did not know whether to be insulted over Lysa’s actions or hopeful at the hint that Baelish might have made some headway with her. “We shall wait to make the climb to the Eyrie in the morning. The rest of our party is behind us, and I do not wish for them to do so without a good night’s rest.”

“Of course.” Royce motioned behind him. “We had chambers prepared for you and your company in advance, my prince. Would you like to inspect them?”

“I shall see to that, my lord,” Jon’s aunt interjected walking forward with a kind smile on her face. “Perhaps you could accompany me? I would know of how my sister and nephew fare.”

“What man would I be to refuse?” Royce gave a short bow before turning, letting Catelyn past him before following her. Ser Brynden walked past Jon and Barristan to accompany his niece, nodding at the others as he passed by.

Which left Jon and Barristan alone with Waynwood and Redfort. Jon looked at them curiously. Is his confidence in them, perhaps? Or does he dismiss me?

Waynwood answered his question with her first words. “Lord Royce is High Steward and has been since the end of Robert’s Rebellion. He cannot be seen to speak against her. But then, none can fault him for speaking with Lady Lysa’s sister of personal matters either. Now, if you are not too tired, could we perhaps speak with you? In private?”

Lord Redfort emphasized the lady’s words by motioning towards the castle’s interior. Jon glanced at Barristan before advancing, while the Kingsguard and Ghost walked just behind him. Both the two Vale lords moved to walk at Jon’s side.

They did not speak until they had entered the castle itself. Waynwood glanced towards Barristan. “Can your man be trusted, Prince Jon?”

That did not take long. “Ser Barristan is as true a man as you will ever find, my lady. He has proven that time and time again and has been at my side since I came to Winterfell. To trust me is to trust him.”

The woman nodded. “I suspected your answer would be something like that. Forgive me for asking, ser,” Waynwood added, nodding to the Kingsguard, “But it is hard to know when and who to trust. This is not the royal court, but the Vale is no more free of intrigue than any of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Then she has not been to Winterfell. Jon knew with certainty that his uncle’s domains were an exception to the lady’s words. But he said nothing as Barristan nodded at Waynwood in reply.

“And I suppose we can trust your pet not to gossip either,” Redfort jested, chuckling at his own wit. When no one joined him his laughter died, leaving them to walk in silence.

After a few minutes, they came to a hallway with doors Jon suspected led to personal chambers. He was proven right when Redfort opened a door and urged them enter, nodding at the Arryn guard standing at the hall’s end. Inside, the chambers were comfortable, with well-carved furniture and finely made goblets, pitchers, and bowels. Waynwood and Redfort took chairs at a table at the room’s center. After a moment Jon followed their example, while Ghost came to sit at his feet. Barristan remained standing, near the door where all three of them could remain in his vision.

“Wine?” Waynwood asked Jon quizzically, picking up a pitcher and pouring herself a glass.

“No, thank you,” Jon replied, his expression cool as the lady poured the red liquid into Redfort’s cup as well. He waited patiently as the two nobles looked at him curiously. Let them think what they will, I need my mind unclouded.

“Allow me to speak plainly,” Redfort spoke up, glancing at Waynwood before continuing, “We are of course pleased to receive a member of House Targaryen, but there are those in the Vale who do not see your coming as a thing to be welcomed. Many of our own fell fighting your grandsire, including Lord Arryn’s nephew.”

“And then many of them rode with my father on the Prince’s March,” Jon pointed out, “and Lord Arryn himself stood by his side when he climbed the steps to the Iron Throne and was proclaimed king.”

“That may be,” Waynwood conceded, “but circumstances did not allow for any real dissent to be heard. Jon Arryn was beloved, and few were willing to question him openly, especially in such a hazardous time. Now he is gone, and the Vale’s divisions will not long remain hidden.”

“In the months since Lord Arryn’s death, those who express dissent towards or even wish open conflict with the Iron Throne have grown bolder. However, there are those among the lords and ladies of the Vale that wish to continue Lord Arryn’s legacy of cooperation with the Iron Throne. We are few, but we count some of the oldest and strongest houses in this part of the realm. If we received the king’s blessing and had open support from his emissaries then that may tip the scales far enough that Lady Lysa will see reason and act on our counsel.”

It was a fine speech, one that had likely been thought out and practiced. Most lordlings likely would have been swayed by her words, which Jon suspected Waynwood was counting on. He had been taught well, though, and knew better than to let her words move him.

He glanced at Redfort. “I assume you feel as Lady Waynwood does. Care to name any of the other lords who share your…opinion?”

Redfort eyes flicked towards Waynwood for half a moment before he answered. “Let it suffice to say that we speak with their knowledge and assent. After all-”

“I am afraid it will not suffice, my lord.” The old man looked surprised at Jon’s tone, but he did not hesitate as he looked at each of them, his expression moving from cool to cold. “You greeted me and my aunt, asked to speak with me privately, and then suggested that I should throw my support, and my father’s for good measure, behind an act that would allow you to try and bend your liege lord’s widow to your will. And yet when I ask who among the lords of the Vale supports such an action, you dissemble?"

Both Redfort and Waynwood’s expressions had shifted from curious and cool to shocked and wary. Jon had not raised his voice, but it was the same cold, iron tone he had watched his uncle use time and time again when dealing with the northern lords. It rarely failed Eddard Stark, and he hoped it wouldn’t fail him.

Jon looked them each in the eye before concluding, “I am afraid that what you suggest is out of the question, and I hope you both understand why.”

For a few moments, there was silence. Then Waynwood snorted. Jon looked at the lady as she began to chuckle. “Yohn was right. He said that you would not be as easy to win as we might think. I owe the man ten silvers.”

Redfort looked at his fellow incredulously. “Anya, have you taken leave of your senses? You just told the boy-”

“Oh, come off it, Horton. The prince would have found out soon enough, especially considering Yohn’s actions of late.” Waynwood sipped her wine as she turned to look at Jon. “Forgive his manners. Horton believed you would be little more than a head to nod at whatever Lord Baelish said. I admit I suspected the same, though I see now that was unfounded. Eddard Stark would not raise a lad who would allow himself to be so easily controlled.”

It seems I have passed the Vale’s first test.  Jon staved off the satisfaction he felt by focusing on Redfort’s words. “Yohn. That would be Yohn Royce, of Runestone. He is not the only lord who thinks as you do, but perhaps he’s the strongest among them?”

Waynwood smiled and nodded. “Most would hate to admit it, but I for one prefer practicality to pride. He remembers you well from Winterfell. I believe he traveled there a couple years ago.”

Jon felt his satisfaction vanish as the memory came back. “He did. He was escorting his son to Castle Black.”

Waynwood’s smile left as she and Redfort saw Jon’s expression grow sad. “We were sorry to hear of Waymar. He was an arrogant one, but his end was far from what I expected.”

“He probably felt the same way.” Jon sighed before pushing the memory away. “I try not to lose much sleep over it. It happened, and there is no changing it.”

In truth, Jon’s nights had been more troubled than he cared to admit. Robb and Bran had handled it well enough, but the dead knight’s words had chilled Jon, madness though he knew they must be. Sansa and the other Stark children had kept his mind off the execution for a while, and his father’s visit had done much to keep him busy. But even now Waymar’s eyes, and the certainty they had held, gave Jon pause.

But he had no intention of telling these strangers that. “Tell me, have you shared what you suggested to me with the king’s other envoy?”

Lord Redfort grimaced. “Petyr Baelish may be a Valeman by birth, but no one here is fool enough to trust him with such words. More likely than not, he would have shared them with Lady Lysa or the small council, either of which would invite calamity.”

“Horton, that’s enough,” Waynwood chided. She turned to Jon. “Baelish has tried to win over Lysa, and he’s done a far better job than any other in the Eyrie. Still, he apparently has not managed to win her over to the king’s wishes, and the lords of the Vale grow impatient for some sign of movement, whichever way events go. I suspect the court, and the small council, feel similarly. All are anxious for news, and many employ…well, suffice to say that one never knows when others are listening.”

Jon looked at the lady curiously. “You speak as if there are spies nearby as we speak. If that is so, then isn’t meeting me upon my arrival and speaking in private bound to draw their interest?”

Redfort nodded. “But it is not of great consequence. Lady Lysa does not believe Lady Waynwood or I are…trustworthy. Us coming down to speak to you will not tell her or anyone else something they do not already suspect.”

“About you, perhaps. As for me, though, that may not be so.” Jon let his irritation show. “When Lysa hears of this she may think me predisposed to mistrust and dislike her.” And give her reason to mistrust and dislike me.

“That is a possibility.” Waynwood turned towards Redfort. “Call for a squire. The prince should see his chambers before the meal tonight.”

Redfort nodded. As he turned his head and called towards one of the side doors, Lady Anya smiled at Jon. “By the way, Nestor is anxious to see the king’s son well cared for. And his daughter, Myranda, has been talking the ear off every other lady here of her eagerness to take your…measure.”

Jon felt the heat coming to his face. “I am already promised. Surely the Vale has heard of this by now.”

“Indeed. But a betrothal is not a marriage, and you are a Targaryen, despite looking your uncle’s image.” Waynwood smirked at Jon. “From what I have heard, some of your kin are not as proper as you appear to be. You cannot blame some for wondering.”

Jon did not appreciate what she was insinuating and was confused by the sudden turn in their conversation. Before he could ask why, though, one of the chamber’s side doors opened as one of Redfort’s squires entered. The youth was very pale, almost pasty, and his pale blue eyes were contrasted with his dark hair.

Redfort looked at Jon. “My squire will see you to your chambers. I expect Lady Catelyn and Nestor have finished by now.”

Jon hesitated for a few moments, then slowly rose as the squire gave him a short bow. The youth walked towards the door, and as Jon moved to follow him, Waynwood said to his back, “I am sure we will speak again soon, Prince Jon. I look forward to it.”

Jon was glad they could not see his face; otherwise they likely would have seen the annoyance fighting past his defenses. Ghost sensed his irritation, the direwolf’s tension reflecting Jon’s mood. Barristan caught it as they left, and after they exited the chambers, the Kingsguard nudged him. Jon sighed, willing the heat he felt to settle as he reached down to pat Ghost’s head.

They walked in silence. No one spoke until they reached Jon’s chamber’s, which he saw looked much the same as Redfort’s.

Before the door closed, a cough came from beyond it. Jon and Barristan turned to find the squire still standing there, a sheepish expression on his face. “Excuse me, but...well, please let me apologize for Lord Redfort. I don’t know what was said, but it looked as if he and Lady Waynwood may have stirred your anger. I make no excuses, my prince- just please know that they are not as bad as all that.”

“I know that.” Jon sighed. If they could get to me as easily as that, then I am not so prepared as I thought.

Barristan looked at the youth curiously. “You squire for a Vale lord, but your accent marks you a northman.”

Jon glanced at Barristan in surprise, then looked again at the squire. The youth nodded, his expression cautious. “I am, ser. I have been a squire for Lord Redfort for four years or so. My father wished me home sooner, but I asked leave to remain a while yet, and he agreed.”

Jon smiled. “I was not born there, but Winterfell and the North are very dear to me.” He walked up and offered his hand. The youth looked at it in shock before slowly extending his hand to take Jon's. “May I have your name?”

“Domeric,” the squire replied, “son of Roose of House Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.”

Chapter Text

Eddard

“How many does this make?”

“Eight in the past month, Lord Stark.” The First Ranger sighed roughly, the sound resembling a growl as he turned from Ned to look towards the wilderness to their north. “The last party we sent out were ten strong, to survey the woods from Castle Black to the Nightfort. If we are lucky, they will make it through without any trouble.”

Jeor Mormont had aged since Ned had last seen him. He had lost most of his hair save the man’s great beard, which had largely gone to white. The lines on his face were deeper as well, for all the hardness that it held. Still, Mormont’s shoulders were as broad as they had been in his prime and Ned knew the man was as fierce and daunting in battle as ever. There is little to like about the Stannis Baratheon, but he knows the value of his men, and his choice of Jeor proves that.

 Ned turned to look at the First Ranger. “And if they do encounter wildlings?”

“Then they are closer and more numerous than we thought. Might be they’re under Tormund Giantsbane, or the Weeper.”

“I take it from your tone that neither are to be discounted.”

“Aye.” Mormont glanced at Ned. “I must say again Lord Stark, if the King-Beyond-the-Wall advances on the Wall now the Watch may not be able to stop him. And if they know how few of the castles are manned, then-”

“I know.” Ned turned and walked back from the platform where they stood, crossing the short distance to the other side of the Wall. He glanced downward, where Castle Black looked small enough to resemble a snow castle that one of his children may have built. “Lord Baratheon’s previous dispositions were the right ones. Breaking apart the Watch’s power when you have such a small force and no support would have been madness. With the ravens I sent, we will have more to work with soon.”

“For a time,” Mormont replied, coming to join him. “But if Rayder and his forces decide to bide their time, the other lords may lose patience. They can only be away from hearth and home for so long, as you surely know.”

“The same goes for the wildlings,” Ned insisted. “This summer has been long but it will not last much longer. There have already been snows in the North. If Mance Rayder decides to wait until winter or even the autumn, it could cost him his army.” He turned and looked north once more. “Besides, the North and the Night’s Watch have stood together for thousands of years. None of them will dishonor that legacy, especially if Rayder’s host comes soon.”

Mormont snorted. “You are the only man besides the Lord-Commander who thinks the wilding’s coming south faster would be a good thing.”

“I am not sure whether that is an insult or not.” Ned smiled grimly at the ranger’s laugh. “We have tarried long enough. Let’s get back down there and see if Lord Baratheon and His Grace have made any progress.”

The other northman nodded. They turned and walked to the cage that waited on the Wall’s south side, settling in as the winch began to lower them at Mormont’s command.

The First Ranger glanced at Ned. “I had a letter from my son. He will lead the men from Bear Island himself, while my sister remains to guard our home in his absence.”

“Lord Jorah is a good man,” Ned observed. “If he is half as fierce now as he was during the Greyjoy rebellion, then we are well served.”

“He’s just as fierce, if not quite as foolhardy,” Mormont replied with a grin. “That’s the way with sons, though. We do our best to beat some sense into them, but they always have some folly they must be rid of before they can be men. I find that fighting or ruling does much to cure them, especially the older ones.”

Eddard sighed in reply. He appreciated Jeor’s words, and the approval that lay behind them. Looking south, to the Gift and beyond, the northman thought of those beyond his sight, both close to home and far away.

Ned was thankful that the First Ranger was present at Castle Black. Since Robert’s Rebellion, the numbers of the Night’s Watch had swelled to the largest in his lifetime, possibly in living memory. But most of the men who had joined the black brothers were rebels of one sort or another, and far more of them came from south of the Neck than north. While the fears of a concerted effort to remake the Night’s Watch and disturb the North’s peace had proved overblown, lingering tensions between the leaders and rank-and-file of the Watch and the northern lords they bordered remained. And that was before we came to see them with the man who put them here.

The king’s plan to visit the Wall personally had seemed foolish to Eddard. Granted, he had written to the small council several times calling for more support from the Iron Throne for the Night’s Watch. But for Rhaegar himself to come and inspect a place full of men who had fought against him to the bitter end? No, that had not been what he had in mind, and Ned suspected no one else had either.

The cage shuddered to a halt as it touched the platform that marked the descent’s end. As soon as it did, the doors opened, allowing Ned and Mormont to step out into the courtyard of Castle Black. Beneath them, a group of men were training with blunted swords while a ranger walked among them, barking advice as he observed them. Nearby, a one-armed man hammered at his forge, his eyes focused on the blade that was taking shape on his anvil.

When Ned had come to the Wall with Jon several months ago the mood had been quiet and somber, which had been normal since Eddard’s boyhood. But now, the mood had become cold and grim as the king and his party had settled in.

“Lord Stark.” Ned turned to see Jory Cassel approaching him, the guard’s expression twisted in a slight frown as he gave a short bow. “The Lord-Commander asked that you speak to him when you returned from the Wall. Said it was a matter that couldn’t wait.”

“Is the king with him?”

“No, my lord. He left half an hour ago, to speak with the maester.”

Jeor sighed. “The Lord-Commander can’t be happy about that. The king said he was here to learn all he could of the Watch and its needs but has spent more time with Maester Aemon than anyone else. Even a patient man would take offense, and Stannis is not that.”

Eddard glanced at the First Ranger, the northman’s sense of fairness compelling him to reluctantly speak in Rhaegar’s defense. “If it is knowledge of the Watch that His Grace wishes, then the maester assigned to Castle Black is one of the first men he should speak to. Besides, he is the king’s own blood. Can we honestly blame him for seeking his company?”

"No,” Mormont allowed. “But Stannis Baratheon is not a man for seeing things from another’s point of view. And don’t forget, he lost a brother thanks to the king.”

I lost a brother too, and a father and a sister too. Ned bit back the comment before it could leave his mouth. Instead, he turned towards Jory. “Let’s see to the Lord-Commander, then.”

As they began walking towards the Lord-Commander’s quarters, Eddard found his thoughts drifting to the old man who served as the maester of Castle Black. The blind ancient had always been a mystery to him, but he had never bothered to learn of Aemon’s history. It wasn’t until his and Jon’s visit not long ago that he had even known the maester was a Targaryen. Once he had, though, Ned had gained a new appreciation for the old man, particularly with concern to his treatment of Jon.

After their arrival, Jon and Ned had spent several days in Castle Black, the former spending much of it with his kinsman. The northman still did not know precisely what they spoke of, but from what he could tell it had centered on the history of House Targaryen, and the memories Aemon had of the past century of the Seven Kingdoms. That had meant little enough to Ned, but the maester’s fondness for the prince had done much to dispel the tension and suspicion that the black brothers had harbored towards Jon. For that, the ancient had Eddard’s gratitude.

Now, the father shows the same regard for his elder as the son. Though I am not sure if they speak of the same things.

After a few minutes, Ned, Jory, and Mormont came to the door of the Lord-Commander’s chambers. Mormont’s knock was quickly answered, Stannis’s thin squire opening the door to usher them inside. Once they were, the door was swiftly closed behind them, the wood creaking in protest.

Behind his desk, the Lord-Commander of the Night’s Watch stood, gazing out the window that overlooked the courtyard of Castle Black. Stannis Baratheon was a large man, his broad shoulders and frame unbent by battle and unbroken by exile. Like Jeor, Stannis was balding, and the man’s beard was cropped closely. His eyes were a darker blue than his older brothers, and the hollow cheeks and pale lips on his face were nothing like either of his siblings, but even so Eddard couldn’t help but see flashes of Robert in the figure and face of his old friend’s younger brother.

“Wait outside, Tollett. I will call you if we have need.” As the squire nodded and walked past them, Stannis turned and looked at Ned, his eyes narrowing. “Lord Stark. How did you find the Wall?”

“Cold, as always.” Eddard motioned towards Jeor. “First Ranger Mormont was telling me of the party that just left for the Nightfort. I wish them success.”

“Much good that will do them.” The Baratheon turned and walked to a table set up in the room’s center. “We need good steel, and men who know how to use it. I take it we can expect some aid from you on that score.”

“Yes, as I have said before. It takes time to gather such forces, though, especially considering the size of the North.”

“Hmm.” The Lord-Commander was clearly unsatisfied by the answer. He glanced down at the map on the table, his shifting jaw signaling the grinding of the man’s teeth. He does it so often it’s a wonder that he still has any.

Eddard walked over to look at the map with Stannis. The Gift and the lands up to the valley called Thenn were present. But its central feature was the Wall, and the nineteen castles built along it that the Night’s Watch was responsible for.

But only three of those nineteen were garrisoned- the Shadow Tower, Castle Black, and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Each hosted roughly a thousand men of the Night’s Watch, which accounted for the entirety of their numbers, other than the patrols and parties that examined the abandoned forts between the three or beyond the Wall itself. There had been some who thought it best to spread the black brother’s thinner to better protect the Wall, but Stannis had been adamant in the need to concentrate their numbers to better combat an assault. Ned understood the Lord-Commander’s decision but had been trying to convince him that restoring some of the other castles would be possible with men provided by the North.

Eddard wished to discuss the castles before anything else. “My lord, regarding garrisoning of the Wall, I must ask again-”

“Ask? How magnanimous.” Stannis turned towards the northman, his hard face growing even more so as their gazes met. “As I recall, the last we spoke of them you suggested that you did not need permission to garrison them.”

“Those words were said in anger, and haste,” Ned replied, shifting in discomfort. “Of course, I would not think of doing any such thing without your express approval. To do otherwise would be to violate the honor of the Night’s Watch and betray thousands of years of cooperation between it and House Stark.” He paused before reluctantly adding, “I apologize for suggesting otherwise, and ask that you not judge me for words said in the heat of the moment.”

It was hard to ask for pardon from a man as hard as the Lord-Commander. Stannis’s stubborn insistence on the need for the Wall’s castles to be garrisoned only at his express command had all but halted negotiations between him and Ned. In his anger, the Lord of Winterfell had said more than he should have. Now, he was in a position no lord enjoyed, waiting for a reply from a man whose reputation for understanding was nonexistent.

Stannis glared at Eddard, teeth grinding as the two men regarded each other. After a few moments, the Baratheon grunted and glanced towards the map. “You are not the first man to say something in anger that he did not mean. It would petty for me to hold it against you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Ned managed, barely managing to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

The Lord-Commander glanced at Mormont. “If I am being honest, my own pride led me astray. If the lords of the North come with the numbers you claim they will have, then having them garrison some of the castles is sensible.”

Eddard’s relief at this gruff announcement warred with his astonishment that Stannis admitted as much. Neither lasted, though, as the larger man continued, “However, there remains the question of the disposition of our forces. I can have spare four hundred men from each of our three present garrisons to restore a castle and garrison it. Six castles should prove enough for defending the Wall, if our reports are accurate. With the men of the North fortifying our positions, Mance Raydar’s host should prove easy to beat back.”

Out of the pan and into the fire. “My lord, the North and its people will always come to the defense of the Wall and the aid of its watchers. But if we are being blunt, then I must say that there are few if any lords who would submit themselves to serve under your command.”

Stannis snorted, the noise at odds with his sour expression. “If the Night’s Watch and the North fail to coordinate successfully, then our chances of success become smaller. Are your vassals such fools as to think otherwise?”

“No,” replied Eddard, his voice cold as he met the Lord-Commander’s gaze, “But the fact remains that our contributions of men and resources to the Wall’s defense will outstrip that of the Night’s Watch. The northern lords are proud, and while they may be willing to fight alongside the black brothers, serving under them when they are the bulk of the Wall’s defenders would be too much for some.”

Stannis’ expression became cold as Ned spoke. “And in place of my proposal, I suppose you would suggest that command fall to you instead.”

Eddard did not answer immediately. Besides the question of garrisoning the Wall, that of command had been the primary bone of contention between him and the Lord-Commander. Stannis was even more reluctant to submit to the command of another man than he was to let the North garrison his castles on their own. Ned’s own strategy to win Stannis over on garrisoning more forts with northman favored the Lord-Commander in this. After all, how could the Lord of Winterfell claim to respect the Night’s Watch’s independence and then demand the Watch follow his orders whether they wished it or not?

 On the other hand, he knew that he could not allow the Lord-Commander to have authority over him or his vassals. To do so would risk the ire of the northern lords whose support they would need to defend the Wall. Which left Eddard between the sword and the wall, a position no man enjoyed being in.

Before he could reply, the door opened. Both he and Stannis turned as Ser Humfrey Hightower walked in, stopping to hold the door open as the king came in behind the knight. Rhaegar moved briskly, his expression intense as he nodded at Jeor, who bowed in turn. The king turned towards Eddard and Stannis “Lord Stark, Lord Baratheon. I hope I have not kept you.”

Thanks for joining us, Eddard said silently as he bowed quickly. “No, Your Grace. The Lord-Commander and I were just discussing the garrisons of the additional forts he has agreed to.”

“That is good to hear.” His face held no warmth as he spoke, but Rhaegar’s violet eyes were alight as he nodded at Ned.

“But we still have not settled on our command structure.” Stannis’s tone and expression were even harder than they had been only a few moments before, something Eddard had thought impossible. The Lord-Commander looked at Rhaegar, his steely expression betraying no emotion he may have been feeling.

Of the many men of the Watch whom Ned had been concerned of, Stannis had topped the list. It was his brother who fell to Rhaegar’s blade at the Trident, and it was at Rhaegar’s command that Stannis, barely nineteen, had been removed as Lord of Storm’s End and sent to the Wall, along with all other supporters of Robert’s Rebellion who had refused to swear allegiance to the new king. However, since they had arrived the king had received nothing but courtesy from Stannis Baratheon, hard as iron and cold as ice though it was.

Rhaegar, for his part, seemed to have taken it in stride. “That is a matter I will leave to you, my lords. However, you should know that I have changed my opinion on the matter of royal support. I have asked my kinsman to write a letter to King’s Landing on my behalf, informing them of the needs of the Night’s Watch and my desire to aid them. Beside coin and steel, this will include men to bolster its ranks. Not just criminals, mind you- the Iron Throne will see to it that seasoned men, soldiers and knights alike, will answer our call.”

Eddard stared at the king in shock. He had thought the king would simply use gold and steel to appease the Watch before returning to the capital. To promise men- a significant number of them, no less- was far more than he had expected, and certainly more than Stannis had. Is this false generosity? Or has he learned something while he’s been here?

Stannis’s face had become less hard, but he merely inclined his head at the king’s announcement. “The Watch will make good use of whoever you can provide, Your Grace. This gift will not be squandered, you can be sure of that.”

Rhaegar eyes narrowed at that. “Lord Baratheon, your gratitude is misplaced for this is not a gift. There are conditions that the Watch will have to meet for this support to be offered.”

Ned’s shock vanished. That is the way of kings. They give with one hand and take with the other, often at the same time.

The Lord-Commander’s eyes narrowed in turn as he focused on the king. Then Stannis glanced at Eddard. “Do any of these conditions concern Lord Stark, or the North?”

Both Eddard and the king understood the reason for that question. “Not directly, Lord Stannis”, Rhaegar replied. He looked at Eddard. “Please excuse us, Lord Stark.”

“Your Grace.” Ned bowed, hiding his anger as best he could. If privacy makes Stannis more accommodating, then I can give it to him. So long as his concessions do not hinder the Wall’s defense.

“Mormont, you are dismissed.” Stannis did not bother to look at the First Ranger as the latter bowed and made to follow Ned as they left the king and Lord-Commander to their business.

Once they were out the door and away from the chamber, Jeor spit on the ground, hard. “Gods take Rhaegar Targaryen and his conditions. Who does he think he is, holding the realm’s protection ransom for his own ends?”

“A king, one whose goodwill and aid the Watch can’t afford to lose.” Ned shook his head, trying to control his anger at Rhaegar’s decision. “The king’s unlikely to demand anything too onerous. He’d be mad to ask anything Stannis would be not already be willing to give.”

“Bah.” Jeor stopped as they neared the stairs leading from the tower. “I will wait here for Lord Baratheon.”

“Of course.” Ned nodded at Mormont before continuing forward.

As he came back to the castle’s courtyard, Ned saw that Rhaegar’s twice-great uncle had finished with his letter. The maester now stood near the smithy, speaking with the one-armed smith who manned it. Seeking answers, Eddard descended the stairs quickly, crossing the courtyard even more so.

Aemon Targaryen was blind, and too busy speaking to listen for others. “See to it, Donal,” the maester said, “I am not wrong in this.” As Donal nodded and walked away, the maester smiled. After a few moments, he turned his head towards where Ned had stopped a few feet away. “Is that someone I like?”

“I am not sure,” Ned replied.

“Ah, Lord Stark.” Aemon turned his body to face Ned as well. “From your tone, I take it you have just seen the king.”

“Yes, along with Lord Baratheon.” Eddard managed to keep his voice level, refusing to let his anger at Rhaegar make him lash out at the old Targaryen. “His Grace is seeking conditions before he agrees to aid the Watch, and I think you had a hand in it.”

The maester smiled, which caused Ned’s anger to grow. “I offered some words of advice and His Grace was kind enough to listen. Do not despair though, my lord. Rhaegar knows what he is doing, and if his terms are what I expect, then there will be no cause for anger.”

Ned looked Aemon up and down the same way he would have looked at Mance Rayder. This one may pose no threat with a blade, but he is a Targaryen, and that makes him dangerous. “And what would those terms be?”

“You know better than to ask, Lord Stark.” The maester’s smile vanished in an instant. “I do hope your presence hear helps stem the tide coming from beyond the Wall. It will take much to keep the realm safe, more than the North and the Night’s Watch together, perhaps, may be able to stand against.”

“We have thrown back wildling hosts time and time again, all without the Iron Throne,” Ned said, doing his best to ignore the sudden chilling of his anger.

“That is so. But I cannot help but wonder whether that is all we have to fear.” Aemon made a gesture with his hands, making a circle as if he were holding a ball. “The long summer nears its end, Lord Stark. Your house is always right eventually- Winter is Coming. Well, my lord, it is not yet here, but this winter is heralded by direwolves south of the Wall, rangers gone missing, and whispers across the Gift and even among the wildlings that other forces are stirring.”

“Liars and fools.” Ned’s voice held no conviction as he spoke, his gut at war with his head. “Even if what they speak of did exist, they have been dead for thousands of years.”

The old maester’s expression was a mystery to Ned, a strange look of amusement on the Targaryen’s face. “Of course, Lord Stark. I am a very old man, after all. My bones are much too brittle to tell me anything that can be reliable.”

If not for Aemon’s age, Eddard would have thought the maester was mocking him. But before he could reply, a voice called to him came from the courtyard’s opposite side. Ned turned to find Stannis walking towards him, his jaw working hard as the Lord-Commander approached the smithy. Behind him, Ser Humfrey walked quickly, the young knight’s expression almost embarrassed as he nodded at Ned.

Stannis stopped next to Ned, glancing at Aemon before looking at the northman. “Has he spoken to you of the king’s…requests?”

“No. He only expressed his hope that they would not be unacceptable to you.”

If looks could kill, Aemon and Ned would have both dropped dead from the expression the Lord-Commander gave them both. After a few moments, though, Stannis simply turned and walked through the smithy, calling for Donal. Ned and Aemon did not follow, electing to wait for Stannis to return. Ser Humfrey also stood with them, the knight shifting uncomfortably on his feet as they waited.

A minute or so later, Stannis reemerged from the smithy with Donal in tow. The smith was carrying something in his hand, wrapped in black cloth. From its shape, Ned judged it to be a sword, around three feet long unsheathed, more slender than most of that size. The Lord-Commander motioned sharply towards Ser Humfrey, who stepped forward with one hand outstretched. After a moment of hesitation, Donal placed it in the Kingsguard’s hand, turning quickly to walk back towards his forge.

“It is what the king requested, yes?” Ser Humfrey’s voice was pure courtesy, but the words nevertheless rankled with Stannis Baratheon.

“I do not take our order’s task lightly,” the Lord-Commander spat out. “Do you really think I would endanger what he promised for the sake of an old heirloom?!”

Humfrey did not reply, simply nodding before the knight turned and walked away, the wrapped sword and scabbard in hand.

“Lord Stark.” Ned turned towards Stannis, whose expression had calmed somewhat, though his displeasure was still clear. “We should speak more later. I think there is a solution to our disagreement, one that will work if…managed properly.”

“Of course, my lord.” Did this occur to you while I was gone? Or is it the work of another man?

Stannis nodded before walking away. As he did, Aemon chuckled. “It may be hard to see, but the Lord-Commander is as dedicated to his duty as any man I’ve ever met, possibly even more so. The Wall is well served with him here, my lord.”

“Perhaps.” Ned could not help thinking that there were others better suited for the role. Jeor Mormont came to mind. But he did not say so, simply nodding at the old maester’s words.

Aemon was not finished, though. “The Watch is larger than it has been for years, but it is not as strong as those make it seem. It takes a strong man to keep a divided house standing, one who will not brook dissent or conflict. Donal once told me that Stannis is the iron, compared to his older brother’s steel. He did not mean it as a compliment, but I thought it one, nevertheless. Iron is looked down on, yet where would we be without it? It underpins all we have.”

The old Targaryen smiled. “Why, my own house built a kingdom on it. And if iron is strong enough to earn the respect of dragons, then it is strong indeed.”

Chapter Text

Catelyn

The chambers they were in were far removed from the Eyrie’s High Hall, but Cat was sure that the court could hear her sister clearly as she all but shrieked at Jon.

“The Lord of the Eyrie belongs in the Eyrie, and nowhere else!”

Does she think he did not hear her the first time she said it? Catelyn shifted in her chair as she looked at Lysa. Her sister shared the classic features of House Tully- thick auburn hair and blue eyes, though the latter were pale and watery, and her mouth was more petulant than any other member of Lysa and Catelyn’s family. The former had gone to great lengths to appear hospitable, but in private she had proved more intransigent than Catelyn had thought possible. And now, sitting with her sister and nephew while Ser Barristan and Petyr looked on, the Lady of Winterfell wondered how much longer this could go on.

Catelyn was growing weary of her sister’s stubborn insistence on having her way. Jon had been remarkably patient, but she knew that the prince was tiring of it as well. Which made her even more proud when he resumed his effort to convince Lysa. “My lady, your late husband served as Hand of the King for fifteen years, most of which was in the capital. Surely-”

“Sweetrobin’s father was a man grown,” Lysa interrupted quickly, “and had ruled the Vale for many years. He is only a boy and must still come to know its people and ways. He cannot do that if he is in King’s Landing, now can he?”

Lysa’s face was triumphant, but her expression soured as Jon persisted. “We all know that Lord Robert is far too young to rule in his own right. The Vale and its rule falls to you, Lady Lysa, and to your sworn lords. Besides, remaining at court are many men and women who come from the Eyrie and its domains, lowborn and highborn alike. Lord Baelish can attest to that.”

The three of them glanced at Petyr, who smiled politely. “He is not wrong, Lysa. Many of the realm’s finest live at court, hailing from all the Seven Kingdoms, and the Vale is no exception. Lord Arryn could gain a great deal of the Vale while he is there.”

“But not near as much as he could here, at the Eyrie.” Lysa spared Petyr a glance before returning her hot gaze across the table towards Catelyn and Jon. “The king’s offer is a kind one, but Sweetrobin is best served by remaining with his family. Besides, his health is not the strongest and a long journey now is unthinkable.”

Why, then, did you spirit him away from King’s Landing as fast as you could, in the middle of the night? Catelyn was far too astute to voice the thought, although she felt one of her eyebrows raise as she looked at her sister.

Petyr stood. “Perhaps we should leave these talks for another time. It is almost midday, and I am sure that we would all be well served by some food and drink.”

Lysa nodded before Jon or Cat could respond. “That is a good idea, Petyr.” She flashed a smile at them that did not reach her eyes. “We will talk some more of this soon.” Without waiting for a reply, Lysa stood and swept out of the room, her skirts flourishing as she did. Petyr gave them a look that Cat thought was meant as encouraging before following her out.

As soon as they were gone, Ser Barristan found his voice. “She speaks as if being chosen as a royal ward is something to be feared instead of welcomed.” Seeing Catelyn’s expression, the knight’s tone softened. “Do not mistake me, Lady Stark. I can understand the reasons one may fear such a thing. But His Grace has proven time and time again that those concerns are unfounded when dealing with him.”

“She is more stubborn than I thought.” Jon looked at her apologetically. “I am sorry Aunt Cat, but your sister is not the kind of person I expected try and reason with.”

“I agree.” Catelyn sighed, pondering their next move. Not that there are many we can make.

They had been in the Eyrie for days and gained little save for Lysa’s suspicions and stubborn refusals. Catelyn and Jon had been given every courtesy in public, and the various members of the Vale’s court had been polite, if not welcoming. But they were no more pleased by the royal party’s presence then Lysa was and she knew it. Petyr and Ser Brynden had helped to mollify her, but Catelyn’s sister had made it clear that parting with her son was out of the question, and that left them at an impasse.

“Perhaps we should seek help from one of her bannermen” Jon mused, his eyes on the ceiling as he leaned back in his chair. “Not one of those who dislike her, but a true friend, one whom she has every reason to trust.”

“There is no such man,” Cat’s uncle replied, his tone gruff. “Lysa has spent too little time in the Vale to trust any of its lords. And with her son as the prize, she wouldn’t trust such a man anyway.”

Jon’s frown deepened. “Then maybe should start to consider other measures. Make it clear that the crown will not allow its dignity to be insulted and that there are many actions that can be made to protect it.”

“Careful there, Jon,” Catelyn warned, her surprise warring with her alarm. “We came here to prevent conflict, not to look for one.”

“I am not speaking of anything involving swords. But there are other tools that could be used- fees and permissions, and honors as well.”

“I do not think that would work,” Catelyn said, shaking her head. “A threat, small or large, should only be made if one is capable of carrying it out. Your father empowered you to act as his emissary and servant, Jon, nothing more. To act as though you had more power than you do could backfire.”

“Or it might intimidate the widow Arryn,” Barristan pointed out, “remind her that the king has taken a personal interest in this matter, and that to refuse his wishes is both unwise and disloyal.”

Brynden bristled at that, but before he could reply the chamber door opened. A serving man poked his head in and glanced about till he found Catelyn. “Excuse me, my lady, but Maester Colemon said that a raven has arrived from Castle Black, from Lord Stark.”

Catelyn quickly so. “See me to him. I will want to read it right away.” She glanced at Jon, who nodded and smiled at her. She smiled back before turning to leave the chamber.

This was the first she had received word from Ned since they had left Winterfell. She and Jon had received one letter from Winterfell on the morning after their arrival at the Gates of the Moon, from Robb detailing the running of the castle and town in both his parent’s absence. While Luwin and Rodrik Cassel were tasked with watching after Robb and the other Stark children, the eldest son of House Stark was clearly taking to the business of ruling. The second letter from him had come four days past, with an accompanying note from Arya and Bran. And just yesterday, two letters had arrived from King’s Landing, one for her and one for Jon, the script written in Sansa’s own hand.

Catelyn’s heart had ached to see her children’s writing, longing to reunite with them. But now she smiled as she followed the servant towards the rookery. When next I see him, I will have to remind Ned that I hate waiting for word from him.

The maester was not alone when she arrived there. Petyr was chatting with Colemon when Catelyn entered, his expression going from clever to warm as she did. “Ah, there you are Cat. I was worried this one might have fallen off the mountain on his way to you.”

Before she spoke, Catelyn glanced at Colemon. “The man said that a letter had arrived for me, from Castle Black.”

The thin maester nodded, his hand coming out to present a rolled-up parchment marked with the direwolf of Stark to her. She took it, then asked for privacy. Colemon nodded quickly before turning to walk out, leaving Catelyn alone with her old childhood friend.

Catelyn looked at him curiously. “Why are you not with Lysa? I thought you shared meals.”

“We often do, but she saw fit to dismiss me early today.” Petyr grimaced. “I thought it a good time to bring up ways she and the crown might both find satisfaction, but she wasn’t of a mind to hear me. When I persisted, she bade me be silent, and then insisted I write a letter to the small council, to make her displeasure known.”

Seven hells. At best, such a letter would shine a light on Catelyn and Jon’s failure to reach an accord with her. At worst, it could invite interference that would only muddle things further. “If she insisted, then you must go ahead and write. But she did not bid you send it, did she?”

Petyr smiled, his sly look returning to his eyes. “No, she hasn’t yet.”

“Then there’s no need to do any more than what she has asked,” Catelyn observed.

Petyr laughed at that. “You are just as clever as I remember, Cat.”

“That is quite a compliment, coming from you,” she replied, smiling at him. After a moment, she turned from him, looking down as she unsealed the letter from her husband. She scanned it quickly, her eyes flying the words dictated by her husband.

Behind her, Petyr coughed. “Is there anything I should know that Lord Eddard wrote to you of?”

Catelyn felt some irritation at her old friend’s asking after her personal business but tamped it down as she replied. “Only a little. He says that by the time this has reached us the king will be on his way to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, to take ship from there to King’s Landing. My husband will travel with him to the castle and see him off.”

“Wise.” Petyr nodded. “To sail from there is much swifter than riding all the way back through the North. And Gulltown is on the way, as well.”

Catelyn had noticed that too but was not sure whether to be concerned or not. She said as much to Petyr, who shrugged. “I doubt the king is expecting your nephew to fail. From what I have heard he is very fond of Prince Jon, and after seeing him after so long, I can see why. No, I think His Grace is simply anxious to return to the capital. It’s not a safe place even when the king is there, and when he is away…”

That is when the daggers start to come out. That had been something Petyr had said when they were young, when they were being taught by the maester of Riverrun on matters that highborn ladies and courtiers were supposed to know. Now, though, Catelyn frowned as she imagined her daughter, in a place she did not know, surrounded by those who may wish her ill or already did so. And before much longer, Jon would be there as well.

After thinking for a few moments, Cat turned towards Petyr. “You said that Lysa dismissed for seeking a way for both she and the crown to save face. Are you saying that she has no interest in seeking a compromise?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Petyr replied, his hand coming up to stroke his pointed beard. “But she is quite insistent that she is not seen to give in first. Lysa thinks it would make her seem weak, which it very well may, and her lords are already a mistrustful lot.”

Catelyn sighed. “I am afraid Jon is in the same position as her. If he is seen to give in, on his first mission as a servant of his father, then it could embolden those who mean him harm.”

“Quite the conundrum,” Petyr mused. “Two people who cannot afford to walk away but cannot afford to offer a compromise, all for the sake of appearances. It makes one wonder how all manner of things may have turned out differently if looks did not matter so.”

After a moment, Catelyn nodded. “I must go and tell Jon of his father’s plans for returning from the Wall.”

“Yes. I should return to Lysa as well.” Petyr gave her a short bow before turning to walk away.

“Petyr.” Her old friend turned to look at Catelyn. “I cannot speak for Jon. But tell Lysa that he does not want to force the issue, not if there is a way to accomplish the king’s wishes that will do serve for all of us.”

Petyr Baelish nodded before turning and continuing out the door. After giving him a few moments, Catelyn followed.

They were eating when she returned to the chamber they had been speaking in. Jon and Ser Barristan ate quickly, while her uncle took his time, savoring the taste of meat and wine. All of them rose as she entered, but she quickly waved, asking without words that they keep their seats. She resumed her place next to the prince before passing him her letter.

Jon scanned its contents quickly, his expression brightening as he neared its end. “The Vale is on Father’s way,” he noted. “If it takes us long enough, then perhaps we could meet him at Gulltown. Then we could travel to the capital together.”

“I am not sure if we still want to be here when the king nears,” Catelyn observed. “Especially if we have not yet resolved the matter of Robert’s wardship.”

Brynden looked at Jon. “Is there anything in there that could help us with that?”

Jon’s expression fell at the Blackfish’s words. “No, there is not.”

“Then we are still stuck,” Barristan stated flatly.

“Not quite, ser,” Catelyn replied. She waited for all three of them to look at her before continuing, “I spoke with Lord Baelish while I was in the rookery-”

Her next words were drowned out by the protests of both her uncle and Ser Barristan. She waited for them to lose steam before resuming. “He is the representative of the small council and is committed to the same task as we are. Why should we hide our thoughts from him?”

“Petyr Baelish is not as trustworthy as you think, Cat,” Brynden declared sternly. “He arrived here weeks ago, yet for all his talents he has not managed to do anything other than gain Lysa’s ear and needled her bannermen.”

“They would be needled regardless,” Catelyn pointed out. “Petyr is far from highborn, and they are not used to treating with someone like him on equal terms.” Though I doubt his tongue helped matters.

“There is more to it than that,” Her uncle persisted. “Baelish may be seeking to fulfill His Grace’s wishes, but his first loyalty is to his own ends, same as most other men I know.”

“Ser Brynden is right,” Barristan agreed. “To trust him and expect trust in return would be unwise, if not foolhardy.”

That was a bridge too far for Catelyn. “I would think, ser, that my own history with Lord Baelish would make me a better judge of his character than you.”

“That history is many years behind us, my lady, and the man I knew before the prince and I came to Winterfell never resembled the boy you claim to have known.”

“Enough.” Jon’s voice was not raised, but is cut like ice through the air, making all three of them turn towards him. “Whatever Littlefinger was or is, he is a part of this, and he is commanded by the council and my father to aid us in ending this amicably. There is no changing that, so we will not waste breath arguing whether we should trust him or not. We have no choice but to do so.”

After a moment’s pause, the prince turned towards Catelyn. “Did he tell you anything that can help us, Aunt Cat?”

Catelyn quickly relayed all she had been told to Jon. As she did, though, she could not help but wonder at their meaning herself. As she remembered for them the details of what Petyr had told her, she questioned whether his words were true, and why he had chosen to say what he had.

Once she finished, Brynden grunted. “Well, that does not paint a good picture.”

“It is a better one than I had expected, though,” Jon replied. “If I have to choose between looking stubborn or accomplishing my father’s wishes, then the choice is easy.”

“It is not stubbornness,” Barristan reminded him gently, “It is determination. Others will hear of this and know that the king’s son will not bend simply because things became difficult.”

“I am a woman,” Catelyn interjected, “and know little of swords and their making, but I have been told that those that do not bend will inevitably break. To be flexible is not to be weak, ser, and to compromise it not to surrender.”

“Wise words,” her uncle allowed, “but the fact is that you cannot simply give in to Lysa’s wishes. And even if she were willing to compromise, I have yet to hear any suggest a way that could be done.”

Jon looked thoughtful, then surprised Catelyn by smiling. “There may yet be a way, ser.” He stood and walked to the door, signaling to a servant passing through the hall. “Go and tell the Lady Arryn that I would like to speak with her again, as soon as possible. That I believe the solution to our differences is now clear to me.”

When Lysa and Petyr returned to the chamber, the former’s expression was wary, while the latter looked amused. Catelyn shared her sister’s wariness, for Jon had refused to say what had occurred to him. Now she had no choice but to wait and see what her nephew had in mind. Whatever it is, please, Father and Crone, let Lysa see the wisdom of it.

“You said that you know the solution,” Lysa said shortly. “Well, let’s hear it then.”

Jon was quiet for a few moments before starting. “Well as I see it, your desire for Lord Robert to remain with you appears to openly contradict my father, King Rhaegar, and his own wishes. On the face of it, there does not seem to be any room for either of us to give. Either one side gives in, or there is no agreement at all.”

Lysa’s face was pinched and drawn, her eyes narrowing as she watched and listened to the young Targaryen. But she had not interrupted Jon yet, which Catelyn thought was a good sign.

“But that is not so,” Jon continued, “for the king’s wishes are for Lord Robert to become a royal ward, as his father Jon Arryn agreed before he passed.” The prince paused. “But to become a royal ward does not mean, however, that the king would concern himself with the day-to-day doings of Lord Arryn. Most likely, a suitable member of the royal household would be chosen to serve as his primary caretaker, looking after him and ensuring that he received the education and training that he is due as Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale.”

Lysa’s expression became indignant. “So, this is your answer? To tell me that, rather than the king himself, some man whom I’ve most likely never even heard of, let alone met, would be given the charge of raising my Sweetrobin?” Lysa began to stand. “You are an even greater fool than I thought, you-”

“Lady Arryn, sit down!” Jon’s voice cracked like a whip, his eyes flashing as they met Lysa’s gaze. They were no longer dark, Cat realized, but purple, a deep shade of violet that reminded her of the king or his sister. Those amethyst eyes stared into Lysa’s watery blue ones, who blinked after a few moments and then slowly settled herself back into her seat.

Catelyn was not sure if that was a good thing. It may be best if things ended now, or else something may be said or done that we all regret.

Jon resumed as if nothing had happened. “I was not going to suggest that a stranger take on the responsibility of raising your son. I was simply going to observe that anyone deemed worthy can be named to the royal household, and then be given the task. And if my lady had any suggestions as to who, and I did so name them, then I am sure the king would decide to accept it as such.”

Lysa looked at Petyr, who smiled at her in reply. After a few moments, she turned back towards Jon, her expression sullen. “Even if I found such a man, there is still the matter of Sweetrobin leaving his home. You cannot change that.”

“No. But it does not have to happen quite yet. As you said, Lord Robert is ill, and I am not such a fool that I would demand that he travel when he is so. So, know that whoever or whatever is chosen or decided, I will not be taking your son anywhere, and will not even consider doing so until he is well.”

Catelyn could see her sister putting things together in her mind. After a few moments, Lysa stood quickly. “I will think on this for now. You have given me much to consider.” She quickly stood and left, her speed almost enough that Catelyn thought she looked as if she were fleeing. Which I suppose she is, in a way.

After a moment, Petyr broke the silence by chuckling. “That was well done, my prince. True, putting the fear of the gods into a newly widowed lady is not considered honorable by most, but well done nevertheless.”

“I do not like what you are implying, my lord,” Jon said coldly.

“Oh, have I offended you? Sorry. But I am completely serious, just so you know.” Baelish stood. “She will need some consoling after that. I suppose I should be the one to do it. She always has been fond of me. She still is.”

“Not too fond, I trust,” Brynden growled. The way he looked at Petyr held more heat than Catelyn had ever seen in her uncle.

“Do not fear, ser. Your niece’s honor remains intact. She and I are very good friends. I am touched by that friendship and hope to find it in our dear prince here, in time.”

With that, Petyr turned and gave a short bow to Jon and Catelyn that seemed slightly mocking. Then he turned and left through the same door that Lysa had.

“My prince, you can never trust that man,” Barristan said, his voice devoid of any humor or irony. Brynden nodded in agreement.

“Like I said before, we have no choice.” Jon turned towards Catelyn. “You know your sister better than I. Do you think she’ll agree to what I suggested?”

“I am not sure,” Catelyn admitted. “Lysa was clearly thrown off guard, but I do not know if that will be enough. What do you think, uncle?”

They both turned toward Brynden, who sighed. “I cannot say either. But I do think that your method was the best, lad. You scared her, and then gave her some hope to go with it. That was well done, Lord Baelish’s quips aside. Tell me true, was this idea your own?”

“Not entirely,” Jon admitted. “A friend and I spoke at length on the subject before your niece and I turned east. He suggested finding a way to push the issue away, to postpone a true reckoning in a way that would let all save face. That was the best I could come up with.”

Well, that explains quite a bit. Catelyn was starting to wonder if she had made a mistake in trying to discourage Jon from exchanging letters with Tyrion Lannister.

The Blackfish frowned. “Still, there is the question of this man. I cannot think of anyone who Lysa might name who would be acceptable to both the lords of the Vale and the crown.”

“Is that so?” Jon asked. “One came to my mind very quickly.” He looked at Brynden pointedly.

For a moment the older man’s expression was confused. Then it was replaced by such a profound horror that Catelyn almost laughed. For a few moments Brynden’s mouth just twisted, constantly shaping itself as if to speak but refusing to let any sound emerge.

“You have balls, you cheeky brat!” Her uncle declared when he regained control of his voice, “Balls, but not nearly as much brains as I thought!”

“Lady Lysa’s concerns are that strangers who may not have her son’s best interests at heart would be given charge of him,” Jon pointed out. “You are her uncle, and the boy’s great-uncle. And on top of that, all know you to be a man of honor and good sense, and dedicated to both your family and the good of the realm. No one could accuse you of having your own agenda, and no one would object to you acting as Lord Robert’s guardian. The lords of the Vale and my father will both consider you a fine choice. Once I suggest you, then Lysa will have no choice but to accept my proposal.”

“Even if she did,” Brynden said, his expression losing its shock while retaining its anger, “given what you said about Robert’s health, then the boy may not see the outside of the Vale for months, perhaps longer.”

“That is not a concern,” Catelyn observed. “Barristan and Jon were considered members of the royal family and household even when we lived in Winterfell, like Prince Aegon and Benjen in Highgarden. Lord Robert can be a royal ward in name, so long as he is fostered with someone who is a member of the royal household.”

“That sounds like neglecting the task the king gave to us,” said Barristan, the Kingsguard’s expression troubled as he contemplated Jon and Catelyn’s words.

“His Grace didn’t ask us to bring Lord Robert to court immediately,” Catelyn reminded him. “He tasked us with resolving the crown’s disagreement with the Eyrie, and to do so without having to resort to force. If Lady Lysa sees wisdom and accepts our proposal, then we will have finished our task, and can be on our way.”

“Not quite, Aunt Cat,” Jon said.

Catelyn looked at her nephew, surprised less by his words than by the mix of sadness and determination that he said it with.

“We have learned that the question of the running of the Vale during Lord Robert’s minority remains unresolved,” Jon explained, “and that its lords are unsettled enough that they were willing to approach a prince of the blood in an attempt to gain royal support for forcing the issue. I intend to write to King’s Landing and Eastwatch, so that both the small council and my father are aware of what is happening.”

The prince frowned. “Once that is done, though, then we will remain in the Vale. For however long it takes to resolve the crown’s disagreement with the widow Arryn and to try and mediate between her and the lords of the Vale.”

Brynden was already shaking his head. “You’d be wasting your breath on that, lad. Whatever comes of Lord Robert, Lysa will not give up any of her own power. And she knows full well that you have no authority to speak on the subject.”

“I am a prince of the blood, the son of her liege, King Rhaegar,” Jon intoned, his voice like iron. “If it concerns the king’s peace, then I may speak on it, and all who I wish to will hear what I have to say.” With that, her nephew stood and left the chamber.

Catelyn could see the resignation on both Barristan and her uncle’s face. They were not fool enough to protest the prince, not when he had taken on a tone that brooked no argument.

She was made of sterner stuff, though, and so persisted. Catelyn quickly stood and walked after her nephew, catching him just as he reached the end of the hallway. “Jon, you may well end up making things worse, be seen as meddling in affairs you ought to leave be.”

“Maybe. But if I am seen to find a place in disarray and then do nothing while it slides towards open conflict, then what will be said of me then?”

Catelyn wanted to say more, to remind Jon of her family’s words- Family, Duty, Honor. They were not his family’s words, but she knew that he knew the value of House Tully’s, the wisdom of their creed. Surely he could see that interfering could make it more dangerous for her sister and nephew, that trying could keep them in the Vale for weeks or even months, time that could be spent in King’s Landing with Sansa or back in Winterfell with Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon.

But she did not get the chance. Jon turned to look at her, his expression kind but firm. “Aunt Cat, that’s enough. I know the risks of trying to do more than what my father asked of me. But I can’t walk away when I have the power to stop things from getting worse. And if I don’t even try, then I am not worthy of the name ‘Targaryen’”.

And to that, Catelyn had no reply.

Chapter Text

Barristan

He dreamt again of old battlefields, and the friends and foes who had joined him there.

The Stepstones were always the first. One moment Barristan was on a deck, watching as around him ships clashed and burned. Then he was fighting, his bellows lost amid the battle as beside him a tall youth in crimson and gold stood at the back of a dragon prince. And then he was on horseback, blade flashing as he cut through ranks of sellswords, racing towards a giant with two heads. The black dragon on his surcoat roared a challenge as Maelys came forward to meet Barristan’s charge. Through it all Barristan felt no fear, the same as it had been in truth.

But that changed as Maelys did, the tall man growing even taller, his hair turning black as coal and his eyes to bright blue. His helm had shed its wings and grown antlers in their place, and the dragon upon his chest had become a stag, dancing on yellow. This new giant roared as he battled his foe, another dragon whose eyes were clearer and sadder than any Barristan had ever known. His heart pounded as Rhaegar and Robert dueled, circling one another while two armies looked on, a king’s shadow hanging over them all. Hammer met sword, and the screeches the metal made as they connected must have resembled the cries of the beast that the prince wore in rubies.

This time there was fear, for Barristan could do nothing as the one he was sworn to protect trusted his and his family’s fate to steel. He fought the fear, both that he had felt for the prince and that he felt as he waited for the dream to change.

He fought against it, but Barristan could do nothing to stop it as the sunset ended and darkness swallowed him and all the rest. But it was not the end, for a light remained, flickering in the shadows. The candle trembled slightly, for the one wielding it was fearful, that much was clear. He stood by a door, fidgeting with the key in its lock while men stood behind him, blades drawn as they waited to reach their prizes, sleeping within. They had just pushed the door open when Barristan made it to them, his sword flashing forward to catch the candle holder in the throat.

The others became shadows, dancing this way and that as Barristan came between them and the door. He fought hard, his foes crying out as his blade caught at them. But nothing could slow the race of the knight’s heart, feeling once again the terror that had seized him when he realized what was happening. And as swift as he was, he could do nothing as he was forced back, as one of their daggers bit into his arm. Barristan roared as one tried to slip around him, arm flashing out to grab the assassin and throw him back.

But the shadows grew around him. Barristan struggled as they grabbed at his arms and legs, slowing his movements. Soon he stopped moving altogether, forced to stillness by grasps as cold as ice as other shadows moved past him. He redoubled his efforts, calling for help from his sworn brothers, from the guards, from anyone, but no one came as darkness enclosed his charges. And as it did, Barristan began to scream until he felt a blade punch into his gut.

He surged forward with a gasp, almost leaving his bed, so great his speed. Barristan panted, glancing around at the chambers the widow Arryn had provided for him at the prince’s request. The only shadows to be found were the ones cast by the sun, already above the mountains to the east.

Barristan took a large gulp of air, struggling for a few moments to bring his breath back under control. Once he had done so he shoved back his sheets, the sweat-soaked linens chilling him now that the nightmare had passed. He sighed roughly before standing to walk towards the wardrobe, where his clothes waited while his enameled white armor hung beside it.

So, Lannisport again. Barristan was oddly thankful that his mind had taken him there. For all the haunting lies and terrible visions that came from that place, they paled in comparison to those he had of the Fall of King’s Landing.

Ever since Rhaegar’s ascent, Barristan had been plagued by nightmare’s, making sleep a luxury. They had been less frequent in Winterfell, the Stark home’s distance from court and relative lack of intrigues doing wonders to put his mind at ease. But since the king had come to Winterfell, the nightmares had returned with a vengeance.

Barristan grimaced as he donned his armor. While his health was much better than most men his age, he was still far from young, and in the cold old wounds ached, reminding him of the battles and sieges that he had seen in his youth. Not that they have ever let me forget them anyway.

As he finished preparing his armor, Barristan shook himself, reciting the truth of Lannisport to better stave off the nightmares. “The shadows were men, and the men died. Not one laid a hand on the princes, and they never will.”

It only helped a little, but it did help, and Barristan needed it. He strapped his scabbard and belt into place before putting on his Kingsguard cloak, then strode from the room, walking down the hall towards the prince’s chambers.

At his insistence, his chambers were almost immediately adjacent to Jon’s, with Lady Stark’s in-between them. Barristan had been irritated that Lysa Arryn had not offered the prince her own, as was custom, but the prince had brushed it aside, so nothing was said.

Barristan nodded at the two royal guards standing outside the room. They both came to attention at the Kingsguard’s approach. He nodded at them before knocking on the door. A moment later a muffled voice called, “Come in.”

Upon opening the door, Barristan found the prince awake and dressed, sitting in a chair as he read a book. Jon’s clothes were black silk, the lacing and stitches done in either black or a pale white. Barristan found the message that choice sent fitting and expected both Lord and Lady Stark thought the same. He honors both his father’s and mother’s houses.

The prince’s face brightened when he saw Barristan enter. “Ah, there you are.” He put down the book and stood, motioning for the knight to come and sit across from him. Barristan did so, though he only sat when Jon insisted.

Barristan noted the dark rings under the prince’s eyes. “I don’t suppose Lady Royce managed to convince you of her…charms?”

Jon flushed. “Lady Myranda is very charming, but I have done naught to dishonor her, nor her to me.”

The prince sounded convincing, but the flush in his face suggested there was more to it. Barristan simply waited, raising an eyebrow as he did. After a few moments, Jon grudgingly spoke again. “Last night she sent me a maid with an invitation. I sent the girl away with a refusal, one that may have been too harsh.”

“From what I’ve heard, that may not deter Lady Myranda Royce.” Barristan motioned towards Jon. “And if she means to wear you down, then you seem to be letting the lady do so.”

“I did not get much sleep last night, true enough,” Jon admitted, his expression rueful. “And you?”

“The same.” Figuring it best to change the subject, Barristan looked down at the book in front of the prince. “Another one, I see.”

“Yes, it is called New Moon: The Vale and the Coming of the Andals.” Jon shrugged. “It seems a bit flowery to me, but it’s supposed to be one of the finest recent histories on the war that made House Arryn the rulers of the Vale.”

“Did Lord Tyrion suggest it?” Barristan asked with a smile, knowing that the prince’s readings were usually due to the suggestions of the heir of Casterly Rock. Indeed, Jon’s liking of books was probably thanks to Tyrion more than anyone else.

“No, Lord Baelish suggested it,” Jon replied. “He thought the maester had a copy lying around, and sure enough he did. Thought it was a good book to read for one dealing with the Lady of the Eyrie.”

“Dowager Lady,” Barristan corrected the prince lightly, his smile leaving at the mention of Petyr Baelish, “do not forget that. If Lysa was an Arryn by birth this business would be much simpler. Why, it would likely be so if she were born to a noble house of the Vale. But she was born a Tully, which makes things even more difficult.”

“I know that,” Jon replied, irritation on his face. “That she is not of this kingdom and refuses to consult its lords is the main reason why there are so many rumblings coming from her bannermen. Have Redfort and Lady Waynwood convinced you of their cause’s virtue, ser?”

“One can acknowledge when others have a point,” Barristan noted.

Jon looked at him before sighing. “True enough. Though it makes arguing against them that much harder.”

As he leaned back in his chair, the prince looked down towards the chairs side. “I wish Ghost was here. I think his presence would make both Lady Lysa and her lords more reasonable.”

Barristan snorted with laughter. “From what I can tell it would do just the opposite, my prince. Given everything we’ve seen, surely Lady Arryn would see him and decide to do the most foolish thing that came into her head.”

They both laughed at that. The white direwolf had come as far as the Gates of the Moon but had chosen not to follow them further. Perhaps Ghost had realized the Eyrie was not the sort of place for him, or just enjoyed the idea of hunting in the lower mountains they had passed on their way across the Vale of Arryn.

Jon stopped laughing as he thumbed through the pages idly. “She keeps putting off saying yes, but Lysa has no other choice then to accept our proposal. There’s no way she can refuse without looking unreasonable at best and outright hostile at worst. But if peace is not made with her lords, then it will hang by a thread. And if the quarrel became a contest of steel, then all would be the poorer for it.”

“The council will not stand idly by,” Barristan declared, “and neither will the king. If they send us more means of support, and the power to do so, then surely Lysa and her bannermen will see sense.”

Barristan’s confidence in the crown’s authority was great, which made it even more surprising when Jon shook his head. “I am afraid it will take more than strong words and royal writs to settle this, Barristan. The lords of the Vale have remained wary of the Iron Throne since the Rebellion, with good reason.”

Barristan made to interrupt but the prince spoke over him. “No, hear me out. Jon Arryn’s appointment went a long way towards reassuring the realm’s lords as a whole and those in the Vale in particular. But with his death the last true link between them and the governing of the Seven Kingdoms is gone."

“Now, suppose that House Targaryen came to blows with the Eyrie. Even if some in the Vale supported us, there are far more who would rally to their lord and his regent against us, regardless of his age. Unless we gained Gulltown or the Bloody Gate before they could muster, then the Vale itself would become a fortress and simply entering it would be costly. And that does not even begin to describe subduing the place once it is entered. Thousands would die, whether fighting or fleeing. How long do you think that would take? How long before others who distrust the crown begin stirring against House Targaryen? How long can my father wage a war against one of his kingdoms and be seen to fail?”

Barristan opened his mouth, then closed it. He sat back, mulling the things his charge had said. It is a neat trick, moving his lips and making Lord Eddard’s voice come out.

Jon’s words spoke to the education that his uncle had given him. Lord Stark had done all he could to instill in the prince the virtues the North held most dear: honor, courage, and loyalty. In that, the northman had certainly succeeded. But Stark had also sought to teach Jon how to rule, and to do it well. While colder and harder than the southern lords that Barristan knew or had known, it was no less effective. Of the many lessons he had taught, Eddard Stark had emphasized one that even Barristan acknowledged as true: for a lord to show weakness of any kind was to invite challenge, and challenge bred calamity.

Jon stood. “Enough of such talk. The day has just begun, and we’ve yet to eat. I’ll send a man to bring us some food.”

“Thank you, my prince, but I shall make do without.” Barristan stood. “Do you require my presence now? I would like to go into the yard and practice, perhaps find some straw men who need beheading.”

Jon smiled. “I think I can survive a few more hours on my own. Go, ser. We shall speak more later.”

Barristan gave a short bow before turning and walking out of the prince’s chambers. It was a short distance from there to the Eyrie’s courtyard, and from there to the barracks, the yard of which lay under a vault of stone carved out of the mountain itself. The household of the Eyrie was awake and active, as serving men rushed from this task to another while armed men wearing the moon-and-falcon sigil of House Arryn looked on.

The barracks yard was already hosting a number of men, all engaging in the exercise’s soldiers were expected to. Some were putting arrows and crossbow bolts into straw targets, while others hefted barrels onto their shoulders and struggled to carry them from place to another. Barristan recognized one of the youths at the first and walked forward to greet him.

Domeric Bolton released his crossbow bolt just before he saw the knight. “Oh, good morning, Ser Barristan. Is there something I can help you with?”

Barristan motioned towards the squire’s crossbow. “I would have picked you for a bowman.”

Bolton shrugged. “I don’t have the muscle to use it for long, and my shots aren’t very strong, I am afraid. The crossbow takes a while to load, but it gives me more power and time than any bow could.”

“Hmm.” Barristan glanced about the yard. “Where can I find the practice blades?”

“Over by the barracks entrance,” Domeric replied. “Ser Vardis is there now. Perhaps you and he could spar?”

“Perhaps. Thank you, Domeric.” The squire nodded with a pleased grin as Barristan turned to walk towards the barracks.

Of all the things Barristan had expected in the Vale, encountering Roose Bolton’s son had not been among them. Lord Stark had always viewed the pale lord with wariness, a view his whole family and Barristan shared. Domeric seemed a good enough sort, though, and Jon had already warmed to him. Perhaps Robb Stark will befriend him just as quickly. That would do all concerned some good.

Barristan had just reached the sword rack, and sure enough Ser Vardis Egen was standing there, perusing its contents. He was not as old as Barristan, but he had lost his hair and his square face was plain. That face was cordial, though, as the Valeman spoke. “Good morning, ser. I trust you slept well?”

“I did, Ser Vardis,” Barristan lied. I don’t need the Eyrie’s captain of guards knowing of my night troubles. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“By all means.” Ser Vardis drew a sword from the rack. It was a shortsword of thick steel, a weapon that could still break bones even without its edge. The knight waited as Barristan came forward to examine his choices. After a few moments he drew a falchion, giving its broad blade a few swings before nodding to himself. While very different from the sharpened longsword at his side, the falchion was a weapon that Barristan was trained to use along with many others, and he refused to let that training rust away.

Barristan glanced at Ser Vardis. “Would you care to go a few rounds with me?”

“By all means, ser.” The knight nodded, his expression taking on some excitement. “I spent most of the last fifteen years in King’s Landing with Lord Arryn, but I never had the honor of training with a knight of the Kingsguard. I thank you for the chance to do so now.”

Barristan nodded at the other man’s thanks. He then unbuckled his sword belt and placed his longsword against the rack. Barristan turned to face the Valeman, who had already taken a stance, forgoing a shield in favor of keeping his left hand open. Barristan did the same, wanting the fight to be on more even terms.

Not that it was very even to begin with. Vardis was experienced and strong, but his skills were not exceptional, and his movements were downright sluggish. Even in full armor, Barristan was able to easily move around the knight, twisting out of the way of blows or else deflecting them off the falchion. After four bouts, Vardis relented, panting heavily as he and the Kingsguard came apart.

Barristan had worked up a sweat but remained far from satisfied. He said nothing, though, as Ser Vardis gave a rough chuckle. “Well fought, ser. I see that your skills are not exaggerated.”

Barristan nodded graciously. The Vale knight had not been much of a challenge, but he had fought honorably, and that was not something he could say of many men he had faced, both on the training field and in battle.

“If that is the best that Lady Lysa’s can deliver, then I fear for her and Lord Robert, old man.”

Barristan turned to view his least favorite of Lysa Arryn’s court. Ser Lyn Corbray was possibly the most hostile knight to the Iron Throne in the Eyrie, and certainly the loudest of such. The younger knight had refrained from insulting the king or the royal family directly, but his thinly veiled insults and threats had been grating on Barristan, whose anger was all the greater for knowing how reluctant Jon was to give offense to the Vale and its leaders.

Corbray approached him and Ser Vardis with a grin, his thin frame disguised in part by the steel he wore. The knight’s expression was openly mocking as he looked at his fellow Valeman, whose expression became stony at the younger man’s tone.

Corbray did not stop there. “Perhaps it is a mercy that Lord Arryn did not live to see you in such straits, Egen. If he had, you might have been replaced by someone truly deserving to serve the Vale.”

Barristan bristled at the knight’s mockery. But its target was openly outraged, and not afraid to say so. “Watch your tone, Corbray. No man can speak so disrespectfully of Lord Arryn and-”

“I am not insulting Lord Arryn, ser, I am insulting you. Are you deaf as well as slow? If so, little wonder Ser Grandfather managed to best you so easily.”

Now Barristan’s irritation became anger, both on Ser Vardis’ behalf and his own. But his sparring partner beat him to it. “How dare you! Do you need to be reminded of who you are speaking of? This is Barristan the Bold, he who slayed Maelys the Monstrous and rescued the king during the Defiance of Duskendale! He is-”

“An old man,” Corbray interrupted, turning to look at “who would be a grandfather if not for those vows of his. Small wonder the king disregarded custom and declined to name him Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard.”

Barristan’s anger took fire at that. “You have a sharp tongue, ser. Is your steel sharp as well, or is posturing all that you are good for?”

The younger knight’s mirth left at that, his eyes narrowing as they met Barristan’s. After a few moments he threw back his cloak, revealing the fine steel blade he wore at his side. “Do you insist on fighting me with squire’s blades, or shall we fight like men?”

“That is enough, Ser Lyn!” Domeric Bolton had run up to them from his station with the crossbow. “Ser Barristan is the prince’s guardian, and a guest of Lady Lysa’s. This violates the laws-”

“Quiet, boy.” Corbray turned to shoot a glare at the squire. “The challenge is Ser Grandfather’s, not mine. I cannot be blamed for rising to it.”

Bolton made to speak further, but Barristan caught his eye and shook his head faintly. To try was hopeless, for Lyn Corbray had no interest in backing down. Neither did Barristan, for that matter, and the squire saw it. Bolton gave Barristan a distressed look before turning to run back to the sergeant he had been working with, who began nodding as the squire began to speak to him.

That was the last Barristan saw before he turned to return the falchion to the rack and then drew his longsword out of its scabbard. “If you insist on sharpened steel, then I will not argue.”

“You haven’t lost your nerve to age, at least.” Corbray drew his blade, well-polished steel that was grey in the shade of the mountain.

By now a small crowd of men had formed around the two of them. Ser Vardis shouted at one of the onlookers, who vanished for a few moments before running forward with two shields of wood, both painted with the blue-and-white sigil of House Arryn. Barristan and Corbray each took one, then walked until they stood ten paces apart.

Barristan brought his shield directly in front of him while drawing his sword arm back. It was a defensive stance, one that declared his intent to wait for his foe to come to him.

Ser Lyn was eager to oblige. He closed the gap quickly, coming within a few feet of Barristan. He swung his sword at the Kingsguard, the blade sliding off his shield. Barristan began his counter strike as soon as the sword met the wood, giving Corbray’s strike enough room that the younger knight leaned forward. His swing never connected, though, as the Valeman twisted, leaving air where his arm had been.

Corbray stepped back, but Barristan came after him, his sword reaching forward to leave a gash in the knight’s shield. The knight was quick to retaliate, though, and soon splinters were flying through the air as they attacked and counterattacked, dodged and countered. Both Barristan’s and Corbray’s movements grew in speed and their blows in strength as they stopped holding back, each putting all their skill into the duel. But neither of their bodies were touched, a fact that seemed to make Corbray even angrier as he failed to land a blow on his older foe.

Barristan was no less angry than his opponent, but it did not show. Anger on the field is useful, he reminded himself, but if it is allowed to run free for even a moment, then it will kill you as quick as fear.

Corbray’s anger was visible, but it was not affecting his fighting, or his talking. “You aren’t half-bad, Selmy,” the knight said breathlessly as they broke apart once more. “You must have been something, that day you killed Maelys Blackfyre.”

“He was more beast than man,” Barristan declared, “but still a better swordsman than you, ser.”

Corbray growled and swiped his blade low, aiming for Barristan’s leg. Barristan brought his own blade to meet it before stepping forward, swinging his shield at Corbray’s chest. The younger knight caught it with his own, but as Barristan put his weight behind his arm and pushed, Corbray was forced back, losing his balance as he stumbled.

Barristan lost his balance as well, but recovered it by stepping quickly forward, pursuing his foe. His blade crashed down on Corbray’s shield, barely missing his foes bare head. The next blow drove Corbray to one knee. Barristan paused and backed away, allowing the Valeman a chance to rise that he immediately took. If there had been anger in Corbray’s face before, his look was now murderous as he eyed Barristan, his blade and shield coming up again.

“ENOUGH!”

The crowd around the two knights parted to let an unarmored man through. Petyr Baelish’s expression was outraged as he came between Corbray and Barristan. “What is this?! Do you sers not recognize the laws of hospitality?! Put up your steel at once, both of you!”

“Hmph.” Corbray spat at Baelish’s feet. “That’s what I have to say to you and your orders, Littlefinger. You do not have any power to command here, and even if you did, my ancestors would roll in their graves if I let an up jumped bean counter tell me to sheath my sword.”

“Then they should have no problem with me.” Jon came through the crowd the same way as Baelish, his expression hard as he walked quickly to Barristan’s side. “Now do as Lord Baelish commanded and put away your steel. Now,” the prince added emphatically with a glance at Barristan.

The Kingsguard paused for a moment before slowly sheathing his blade. His instinct’s screamed in protest, but his prince had given an order, and he would not disobey.

After a few moments, Corbray growled again before shoving his sword back into its scabbard. “This isn’t over, old man.”

“It is,” Baelish declared angrily, “And you should count yourself fortunate, ser, if Prince Jon does not complain to the Lady Arryn of her sworn man’s conduct. Is this the hospitality that guests can expect from the men of the Vale? You shame us all with your conduct, ser, and our Lord Robert as well.”

Corbray sneered at Lord Petyr. “We will see about that, my lord.” He did not wait for a reply, turning quickly to shove his way through the throng of onlookers.

After he was gone, Jon looked around at the crowd of men. “This folly is over. Be on your way.”

Ser Vardis quickly backed up the prince, bellowing for the men to resume their duties. As the group dispersed and went back to their business, Barristan noted the way Jon nodded approvingly at Domeric Bolton, who bowed quickly in reply before returning to his target practice.

“You are not hurt, are you Ser Barristan?” Baelish asked, his expression concerned. Receiving a nod, the man’s face became angry again. “I cannot fathom why Ser Lyn would behave in such a way. The man has a temper, but he is not so foolish as to challenge one of Lady Lysa’s guests to a duel.”

There’s the trouble. “The challenge was not his, my lord,” Barristan admitted. “I was the one who called him out. But I was justified in doing so. Corbray questioned both my skill and my deeds, along with those of Ser Vardis Egen, and even managed to scorn the late Lord Arryn. Ser Vardis will say the same, just ask him.”

Baelish’s expression took on a sardonic look. “So, his tongue was what started things, even if Corbray was not the one who called for steel. Either way, I know that Lysa will not be pleased with this business, not at all.”

“Whatever the case, it is over for now,” Jon observed. “If you do not mind, Lord Baelish, we shall be on our way. I do not want to give any gossip more life by lingering.”

“Of course, my prince, of course.” Baelish stroked his beard, his expression becoming thoughtful. “I know we were interrupted but do keep in mind what we were discussing earlier. It would be a terrible waste.”

What? Barristan gave Jon a questioning look, but the prince ignored him as he assured Lord Baelish that he would not forget. The prince then motioned towards Barristan before walking away from the barracks. Barristan followed close behind, staying with Jon as they returned to the Eyrie proper.

As soon as they were in the Main Hall, Jon looked at Barristan, his expression concerned. “Were you injured, ser?”

“No, though my shield arm will be sore by tomorrow.” Barristan raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, which had flown freely as his duel with Corbray had gone on. “Who told you what was happening?”

“One of the Vale sergeants sent Domeric to tell me. Thank the gods for that, or else Lady Lysa and I might have had a new bone of contention between us. My guardian slaying her bannerman’s younger brother? That would have destroyed any progress we have made.”

“Indeed,” Barristan agreed, amused and pleased at the confirmation that Jon had assumed he would have beaten Lyn Corbray. “And Lord Baelish heard the same from another?”

“Lord Baelish was with Aunt Cat and I. We were speaking in my chambers when Domeric came to us.” Jon’s expression became determined. “We were discussing Lord Robert. He had an idea about solving this matter between Lysa and the Iron Throne in a way that could also end the troubles between her and her lords.”

Barristan’s amusement gave way to worry at those words. Dead or not, Lyn Corbray will cast a shadow.

“I must apologize then, Jon,” Barristan said slowly. “I doubt Lady Arryn or her lords will be in a listening mood once they’ve heard of what happened between me and Corbray.”

“On the contrary, Barristan, I think that will make them even more willing to listen.”

The Kingsguard looked at Jon in surprise as the youth grinned at him, his dark eyes alight as he did. “You do remember the words of House Arryn, ser?”

“Of course. As High as Honor.” Though honor can dress up all manner of follies.

“Just so. That was what Lord Baelish was talking with me about. He reminded me that honor is a code, something that can bind people to or against one another regardless of their feelings. And with the right words, we may find that honor is the key to bringing matters in the Vale to a close.”

Barristan looked at Jon, his approval of the youth’s confidence at war with his concern at Jon’s words. Petyr Baelish is a fine gardener, though he plants his seeds in minds instead of soil.

Barristan could only hope that whatever Jon and Baelish had in mind would get them out of the Vale of Arryn, and quickly. Or else Lyn Corbray could end up being the least of their problems.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

“Here, Lady! Come on, this way!”

The direwolf looked at Daenerys, its head tilted to the side. After a few moments, Lady turned and ran forward, barking as she launched herself down the hill.

Daenerys sighed in irritation. “She never listens to me,” she complained to Sansa.

“Lady isn’t a dog,” the Stark girl explained, her expression a mix of pride and amusement. “She is still a wild thing, though not as wild as the others. If she does something, it is because she wants to do it.”

“And if she decides she wants to see what I taste like?” Alys asked, smiling mischievously.

Sansa laughed. “Oh, she would never do that.”

“Of course she wouldn’t. Lady isn’t like that, she’s good,” Daenerys said confidently, wondering at her companion’s thinking. Why does she always speak as if she wants danger to be near?

Alys shrugged. “Well, she is good company. Her and her master,” she added, raising her cup in a toast to Sansa.

Daenerys raised her own at that. It was only water, but it felt like a real toast as Sansa smiled at them. She and her handmaids raised their cups in turn before they all drank.

After she finished, Dany reached for the skin and poured more water into her cup. As she did, she looked up, taking in the land around them. They were atop a small hill, its slope gentle as it headed down towards the kingsroad. In the distance were hills and small copses of trees, with the occasional farm dotting the landscape. There was even a hold fast, sitting stubbornly on a hill to the northwest, guarding the road as it wound south towards the capital and north towards Harrenhal.

This foray into the country had been Rose’s idea. After spending the past weeks either in court or exploring different areas of King’s Landing, the handmaid had suggested that an excursion into the crownlands would be a welcome change of pace. Sansa had liked the idea, wanting Lady to get a chance to leave the godswood for somewhere that wasn’t cobbled stone. Daenerys had gone to Elia, who had been happy to give her permission. After that it was just a matter of planning.

They had ridden from King’s Landing not long after dawn accompanied by a sizable escort, the ten Stark men and thirty royal men as well as Ser Benjen. Dany thought it a bit much, but Elia had insisted when she’d heard of their plans. Once they’d left the city they had struck north, preferring the gentle lands towards Stokeworth and Rosby to the kingswood or the Blackwater. Rhaenys and Margaery were on the latter, enjoying a river barge with many of the other ladies at court. Cersei had elected to remain at the Red Keep, citing her reluctance to strain herself. None can fault that, considering her condition.

When Daenerys said so aloud, Sansa nodded in agreement. “I would be the same in her place, most like,” the Stark mused. “I can’t imagine any woman would do differently.”

“How generous, my lady,” Alys said, her eyebrow rising as she looked at Sansa. “More generous than I would have expected, consider you and Cersei’s…differences.”

Sansa shook her head. “I would never wish ill fortune on another woman, especially not one who is with child.”

“No,” Rose agreed. “It is enough to simply snipe at one another whenever you are in the same room.”

True enough. Dany had hoped that her good-sister and kinsman’s betrothed would warm to each other with time, but she had been disappointed. After their first meeting, Cersei and Sansa had remained unreconciled, no matter the efforts Daenerys or anyone else had taken. The only consolation was that their enmity consisted solely of veiled and occasionally open insults and acts of pettiness. Over the last few days, though, it had seemed to wind down, as Cersei spent less and less time in public as her time drew near.

Daenerys’s good-sister had been receiving more and more attention from the court as her pregnancy had advanced. The growth of the royal family was a cause for celebration that had not been available since Dany was born near the end of Robert’s Rebellion, and the court was happy to use it. Already there were those who spoke of remaining after Aegon’s tourney was done, to be there when Cersei went into labor. To be at a royal lying-in was an honor, even if all they ended up doing was observing.

“My ladies, princess,” a voice called out to them. Dany looked down the hill to see Benjen walking towards them, his expression apologetic. I know what that means.

So did Jeyne Poole. “Oh, please, Ser Benjen, just a little while longer,” the northern girl said in a pleading tone. “We have not been here that long, and there is still plenty of sunlight left.”

“I am sorry, my lady, but no. The queen was very firm about me seeing you back towards King’s Landing once enough time had passed.” Benjen shrugged helplessly. “I am sworn to see her commands obeyed, so we must be on our way.”

Jeyne pouted, along with Daenerys. Alys looked resentful but said nothing as she stood and began readying herself for departure.

To Dany’s left, she saw Rose lean over and whisper something in Sansa’s ear. The Stark listened, then asked, “Uncle, you said the queen wanted us heading back to the Red Keep after some time had passed. Did she also say precisely when we needed to return?”

“Before the sun touches the Rush, Sansa. And that’s when she wants you back in the Red Keep, not the city.”

“Then may we stop somewhere on the way?” Rose asked.

“Do you have somewhere in mind?"

“The tourney grounds,” Sansa explained. “It won’t be much longer before it begins, and we hoped to see them before all of King’s Landing comes out to watch.”

Ser Benjen thought for a moment before nodding. “We could only stop there for a few minutes, but that shouldn’t be any trouble. I’ll tell the men.”

“Be sure to send a man to the queen,” Daenerys chimed in, “to let her know what we are doing.”

“Of course, princess.” The Stark turned and began shouting at the men, who were quick to start readying themselves and their mounts.

Jeyne Poole sighed. “It is a shame that we can’t stay longer. Riding always wearies me.”

“Don’t complain about it,” Alys scolded, a playful look in her eye. “Imagine how the horses feel, carrying us around all day. My brother thinks people ought to walk more often, especially the highborn.”

Jeyne rolled her eyes. “Once the point of having horses to ride if not to use them?”

“True enough, but my family finds ships makes fine enough steeds in their own right.”

“Not all of us live on an island,” Rose pointed out.

“That’s fair.” Alys nodded as they walked towards their horses. “But no two islands are the same. Driftmark is not Dragonstone, and Tarth is not Estermont. And none of them are like Pyke or Harlaw.”

“Particularly not in people.” Sansa’s expression became cold as her uncle helped life her into her saddle. “House Velaryon and Driftmark have produced some of the finest men and women the realm has ever known, present company included. When you think about the fiends that come from the Iron Islands, it’s a wonder that their lords are welcome at court.”

This again? Daenerys did not want to argue with the Stark, but she felt bound to speak at that. “Theon is not the same as those who came before him. Aegon trusts him, after all. That should be enough.” She paused as a man helped Dany mount her horse.

“Dany, please,” Alys said in a rare rebuke. “You were not there when Sansa met Theon. If you had, you’d know she has good cause to dislike him.”

“I know he can be a little…overbearing,” Daenerys admitted. “But once you get to know him, he is a decent sort. He is perfectly friendly with me, after all.”

That had been the case since Aegon had first brought Theon to court. It had been two years after the Greyjoy rebellion, and Aegon’s first visit to King’s Landing since he had been sent to foster at Highgarden. While the court had celebrated the crown prince’s return, Theon had been treated with indifference by most. It might have been hostility if not for Aegon’s obvious affection for the older boy.

Taking her cues from her nephew, Daenerys had tried to befriend the heir to Pyke. Theon had treated her with courtesy, though little warmth, but Dany had not been dissuaded, seeing in Theon something that resembled her other nephew, something quiet and dark. Her persistence had been rewarded, and over the years since Theon had clearly warmed to the Targaryen. Daenerys, for her part, considered him a friend, though not the confidant that Aegon saw him as.

“Well, of course he treats you well,” Alys said, “considering how kindly you’ve treated him. What’s not to like?”

“Princess, my ladies,” Ser Benjen called their attention to him. “If we want to see the tourney grounds, we need to be moving.”

Daenerys nodded quickly, urging her horse into a walk as their party began riding south. As they did, she glanced about, looking to see if Lady was with them.

Sansa must have seen her. “She won’t lose us, Daenerys. Direwolves are good at many things, finding their family among them.”

Dany smiled, her eyes meeting the Stark’s. I wonder which wolves she speaks of.

Sansa appeared to have adjusted well to court, but Dany knew that she missed Winterfell more than she let on. The letters she shared with her family’s home were regular, especially those with her younger sister. Letters from the Eyrie came often as well, as Lady Catelyn and Jon were eager to hear from Sansa. Daenerys knew the last of which were the ones Sansa enjoyed the most, though Arya’s letters came close.

As they traveled south, Daenerys found herself marveling at the countryside around them. Men who were there spoke of the pain that the capital and the surrounding lands had suffered during Robert’s Rebellion, but the wounds inflicted on the land itself had healed well since. The trees were not as tall as those in the great forests of the realm, nothing like the kingswood or wolfswood. But they were there, and where there had once been dead logs and darkened soil there was now undergrowth and steadings. War takes its toll, but life will not be denied.

Dany had no real memory of the Rebellion herself. She had been born after the battles and sieges, after the fall of her father and accession of Rhaegar. Most at court spoke only of its end, of how King Aerys was slain by Barristan Selmy to save Elia, and Rhaegar’s reconciliation of all the Great Houses to his reign. Few spoke of the battles fought between the forces of Robert and his allies and those who obeyed the Mad King. People hardly ever called him that in her hearing, but it would have done no harm, for that was how Daenerys thought of her father. The tales of the things he did, from before the Defiance of Duskendale to the Sack of King’s Landing, had transformed the man into a dark legend, one whose memory was sustained only by songs and stories, one whose own family all but refused to speak of him.

Robert Baratheon also remained a figure almost of legend, a man denounced as a traitor by most at court yet whose renown as a warrior was acknowledged even by royalists. The elopement of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark was a tale of romance to Daenerys and she never doubted that her older brother was in the right, but even she couldn’t deny it gave Robert an aura of tragedy that, coupled with the cruelties of King Aerys, made his rebellion seem less an act of treason and more an effort to truly help the realm in a time of hardship.

When Daenerys had once said as much to Rhaegar, he had surprised her by nodding. “Robert Baratheon was many things, but he was not the monster some at court claim. He always struck me as a decent man, though never the hero that others believed him to be. I still regret that he and I could not resolve our quarrels, that it ended like it did.”

That had seemed honest to Dany, but Alys had taken a different view when she shared her brother’s words with the Velaryon. “Easy for him to say, considering it was a quarrel the king started.”

Daenerys had scolded her companion for those words, but her heart hadn’t been in it. For all she hated to think of it, Rhaegar and Lyanna’s actions had been as much an insult to Elia as it had been to Robert Baratheon. And if Dany had no qualms about siding with her brother against the fallen rebel, her feelings about the shadow between him and his queen were more muddled.

Dany was still thinking on the Rebellion and its repercussions when Benjen announced that they were near the city. She pushed those thoughts from her head as she urged her horse forward, eager to see the grounds where all manner of men would soon meet with lance and steel.

The site of the tourney was northwest of the city, just outside the walls. It was still over a week away, but already the lists were being prepared, the barriers between them erected, and stands with seats for the lords and ladies of the realm to watch from thrown up. No banners flew yet, but the central stand elevated above the rest marked clear enough where the royal family would observe from.

Jeyne clapped her hands excitedly. “Oh, I cannot wait to see them, the court, and the small folk, and the knights, the knights most of all! Do you think that there will be many?”

“They’ve already begun to arrive,” Alys pointed out. “The ones from more distant part of the realm, like the Vale and the Reach. Why, even Dorne and the North will be represented, if the queen allows the Kingsguard to participate.”

“And who do you think will win?” Jeyne smiled, her eyes gleaming. “It has to be the prince of course.  It is his nameday, after all.”

“Since when does what day it is decide a tourney winner?” Rose asked. “Ser Loras is said to be one of the finest lances in the Seven Kingdoms. I think he could do it.”

“Ser Loras is good,” Daenerys allowed, “but Aegon trained with him, remember? And all the Kingsguard are deadly with any weapon, including a lance. Any of them might win.”

“And what of others?” Sansa’s face was concerned as she spoke. “I heard that the Mountain is coming to compete in the tourney and melee.”

That did much to sober the conversation. Gregor Clegane was rarely seen outside of Clegane Keep, but his reputation for cruelty was well known. The tales of his and his men’s actions during the Sack of King’s Landing and the Greyjoy rebellion were the stuff of nightmares. But the Mountain had not earned that name for nothing.

“Ser Rodrik said the rider is not the key,” Rose said eventually. “He always telling Tom and Robb and Jon that the most important part of jousting is the horses. Knowing them, reading them, and especially riding them. Even the best men with a lance can be beaten by a foe who knows horses. And I doubt Gregor Clegane is much of a horseman.”

Alys nodded. “Rose is right. Why, the Mountain is so big he might crush his mount, especially if he is in armor.”

Daenerys thought that was a stretch, but she didn’t say anything. In truth, the idea of the Mountain and other dark men competing alongside Aegon and his companions was enough to make her worry. But she did not want the others to share her concern.

Sansa looked at Ser Benjen. “Uncle, do you think the queen will let you and the other Kingsguard compete?”

“I can’t say, Sansa. Truth be told, I would rather not.” The northman shrugged. “I’ve never cared much for play fighting, even in the training yard. I’d rather save my strength for when I truly need it.”

“Father says much the same,” Sansa replied, smiling at her uncle. He returned the expression, the two Starks enjoying a memory familiar to them both.

“Speaking of Lord Stark,” Dany said, drawing their attention to her, “have you had any word from your father, Sansa? The last letter I received from Rhaegar was from Castle Black, and that was a week ago.”

“Sorry, Dany, but I have not. But Arya wrote that she had a letter from Father, oh…” Sansa paused, recalling the words before resuming, “four days ago. They were at Long Barrow.”

“Where?”

“Long Barrow. It’s one of the castles between Eastwatch and Castle Black.” Sansa sighed. "My father sent a man with the letter and others to my brothers to Last Hearth, the seat of House Umber. They sent it by raven to Winterfell.”

“And how long did it take to get from the Wall to Last Hearth?” Daenerys asked.

“Three days.”

“So, it’s been a week.” Alys sighed. “No offense, Sansa, but I can’t help wishing the North was a bit smaller. It would make keeping in touch much simpler.”

“I won’t argue with that. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Otherwise it wouldn’t be the North I know.”

A bark came from their right. Daenerys turned to see Lady trotting towards them, panting happily as the direwolf came to Sansa’s side. The Stark smiled as she patted her companion. “It is good to see her like this. She’s been so sad since we came south.”

“I imagine the others are the same way,” Rose said sadly.

“No, most of the others are still together at Winterfell. Only Lady and Ghost are alone, far away from home.”

“It is not so bad,” Daenerys said, trying to sound reassuring. “Ghost will be here before too long, along with Jon and your lady mother. I’m sure Lady will be much happier once they are here.” And you too, I suspect.

Sansa smiled at that. “Thank you, Daenerys. I am sure she will be.”

Lady was still standing by the Stark. Suddenly, she turned her head east, her ears rising as she did. Daenerys knew what that meant, and she and the others turned to look in that direction. Sure enough, a few moments later a horse came into view. Its rider was pushing it hard, galloping towards them with such force that Dany couldn’t help but brace herself.

The rider brought the horse to a halt once he reached Benjen, pulling reins so hard the horse reared slightly, whinnying in protest. The man, wearing the colors of House Targaryen, paid no heed as he spoke in hushed tones to Benjen. The Kingsguard immediately stiffened. He murmured back to the man, who nodded before turning his mount and riding away, even faster than he had arrived.

“Ser Benjen, what is it?” Daenerys asked.

The knight turned towards her. His expression quickly became calm, but she caught the surprise and concern on his face before it changed. “I think it time we returned, princess. We should not tarry any longer.”

“Uncle, is something wrong?” Sansa asked, her worry showing plainly.

“Not wrong, Sansa. But we should be moving, and I don’t want to-”

“Worry us? You’ve already done that.” Daenerys did not want to lash out, but fear lent her voice power, and it was harsh as she addressed the Kingsguard. “If it is nothing to worry about, then there is no reason not to tell us.” When the knight hesitated, she snapped at him, “That is a command from your princess, Ser Benjen. Tell me, now."

After a moment, the knight relented. “It is the Lady Cersei. The man said that her time is here.”

“What?!” Daenerys stared at Benjen before wheeling her horse around. “We need to get to the Red Keep. Elia and Rhaenys-”

“Are there,” the knight assured her. He motioned towards the men, who were following his and Daenerys’ lead as they turned and began riding towards the capital. Sansa and the others followed, all of them spurring their horses into a canter as the urgency of the moment reached all of them.

The sun was just above the city walls when they reached the Red Keep. In the main courtyard, people were standing in clusters, serving men and women talking in hushed tones with excited and fearful expressions while men-at-arms with stern expressions walked among them. Daenerys quickly dismounted, not even bothering to wait for Benjen to help her from the saddle. “Where is she?”

“Her chambers. But I-”

Daenerys did not wait to hear any more. She turned and, picking up her skirt, began running towards the Maidenvault. Lady raced ahead of her, barking excitedly. The direwolf proved an unexpected help, startling men and women into moving out of Dany’s way. Beside her Alys followed suit, while Sansa and her handmaids came behind them.

When they reached the Maidenvault, the door was jammed with people, most of them women, all trying to get closer to the royal apartments, to the birth of the new royals. Daenerys and her companions stopped, staring with dismay at the throng before them. Then Benjen came forward, his voice hoarse as he bellowed, “Make way! For the Princess Daenerys, I said make way!”

The sight of the Targaryen and her white-cloaked guardian was enough and quickly a gap appeared for them. Guards came forward to make a path as Benjen walked ahead of Daenerys, still bellowing for the crowd to move. Behind them, Sansa and Alys walked as closely as possible, while Rose and Jeyne remained behind, the former holding onto Lady while the direwolf kept barking.

Inside, the Maidenvault was crowded with even more people. A group of royal guards stood at the back entrance, keeping them from advancing any farther. Standing in the middle was Prince Lewyn, the Dornishman’s expression hard as he eyed the crowd. At the sight of Benjen, he started barking commands to clear the way for the northman, Daenerys, and her companions. Once they reached him, he quickly opened the door. The four of them were ushered in, the noise falling dramatically as it closed.

Lewyn looked at Benjen, his expression rueful. “Haven't seen anything like this since Prince Aegon.”

“Prince Lewyn,” Daenerys said, drawing his attention. “How is my good-sister?”

The Dornishman sighed. “Stark, take the door. I’ll take the princess to her family.” He glanced at Sansa before looking at Alys. “Apologies, my lady, but the queen has commanded that only the Kingsguard, Pycelle, midwives and royal family may enter her chambers right now. Lady Margaery and Lady Sansa are the only exceptions.”

Alys’ expression was unhappy for a moment, but it turned into resignation as she turned towards Daenerys. She came forward and embraced her, arms wrapping around Daenerys as the Targaryen followed suit. “It will be alright,” Alys said. “Cersei’s no friend of mine, but she’s strong.”

Daenerys giggled nervously before releasing her friend. “I’ll find you as soon as it is done.”

Alys nodded before turning and heading back out the door. Daenerys hesitated for only a moment before letting Lewyn lead her and Sansa towards Cersei’s chambers.

Sansa asked, “Prince Lewyn, do you have any word of Cersei?”

“I’ve been too busy guarding a damn door.” The Dornishman’s anger at that fact was apparent. “The queen insisted I pitch in, instead of hovering over her.”

They were at Cersei’s chambers soon enough. Lewyn knocked on the door, stepping back as Ser Arys opened the door. “I thought you were in the Maidenvault.”

“Stark was kind enough to take my post.” Lewyn motioned towards Daenerys and Sansa. “These two want to be with the others.”

The younger knight nodded and held the door open. As soon as they entered, they were greeted by the smell of sweat and something else, something more metallic. Daenerys realized it must have been blood. Ahead of them, an older woman walked quickly, dropping rags covered in blood onto the ground and picking up clean linen before turning back towards the bedchamber. From within, Dany could make voices, some of which she recognized. But all were drowned out by a sudden cry, one whose owner she knew could only be one person.

Daenerys and Sansa strode in, where the smells that had greeted them before became overpowering. What made them stop, though, was the sight on the bed.

Cersei Lannister was famed as one of the realms greatest beauties, but little of that beauty was to be seen now. Her face was contorted by agony, her teeth visible as she bit into a rag as hard as she could. Her hair was entirely undone, and the shift she wore was soaked through with sweat. She was in a sitting position, her arms clutched at the women at her sides, hands grasping for anything they could. Her legs were in front of her, set against the bed. And between her legs, the sheets and bottom of her shift were red, stained with blood.

“Princess.” Daenerys’ attention was forced away from her good-sister by a familiar voice. She turned to see Pycelle, his expression surprised as the old maester stared at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping.” Daenerys motioned towards Sansa. “We want to help, I mean.”

“Princess, I think it-”

“Dany!” Daenerys whipped her head around to the woman at Cersei’s left. It was Rhaenys, she realized with shock, though her niece looked more disheveled than Dany had ever seen her. “Quick, come over here. Sansa, on her other side.”

They didn’t hesitate to obey the older girl. Daenerys grasped Cersei’s arm, gasping as the Lannister’s hand closed on her shoulder. Cersei’s nails dug into her skin, sending pain shooting through Dany’s arm. She said nothing though, biting her lip to stop herself from making noise.

“Good, that’s good.” Pycelle was crouching near the bottom of the bed, watching as a midwife knelt between Cersei’s legs. “Princess, you are doing well. It won’t be much longer, I promise you.”

“Where’s Margaery?” Daenerys managed to spit out, turning to look at Rhaenys.

“Cersei sent her away, gods know why. I expect she’s with Aegon.”

“And Viserys?”

“Waiting in the throne room.” Rhaenys’ expression became angry. “You’d think he’d want to be with his wife when she is laboring to give him children.”

“Has she been like this long-AH!” Daenerys couldn’t keep her cry down as one of Cersei’s nails dug deeper.

Rhaenys looked at Dany with a regretful expression. “I’m sorry, Dany. But there’s nothing we can do on that score. It’s either you or the sheets, and the only sheets we could spare in here have been used up.”

She might have said more, but Cersei let go of the rag long enough to cry out again. Daenerys and Rhaenys both stopped to focus on the woman beside them, one struggling to bring new life into the world.

“I can see the head!” Their heads whipped around as the midwife between Cersei’s legs cried out in triumph. “The babe is crowning; I can see it!”

“Him!” The word was hissed out, so swiftly Dany thought she might have imagined it. Cersei’s head came forward, her eyes suddenly afire. “He is crowning!”

“Of-of course, princess.” Pycelle looked unruffled as he turned towards the midwife. “I am going to get milk of the poppy, and some essence of nightshade for afterwards.”

“What?!” Daenerys stared at the maester. “You can’t just leave!” Cersei-”

“Is in the best hands.” The Grand Maester nodded his head. “I had them brought to the room just next door. I’ll only be gone a moment.”

“But-”

Pycelle did not wait, turning and moving with uncharacteristic speed towards the door. He was out of the room before Daenerys’ next protest could leave her lips.

“That old coward.” Rhaenys’ lip had curved into a snarl. “Forget him, we won’t see him until he hears crying.” She looked at the midwife kneeling in front of Cersei. “Can you do this without him?”

“I’ve done a hundred before. I think so.” The midwife wiped her hands on her clothes quickly before looking at Daenerys and Rhaenys. “She needs to start pushing, now. Get ready, all of you. And beg the gods to aid her children’s coming.

Daenerys bobbed her head in agreement. Mother Above, bless and keep your daughter, my good-sister…

“Princess, on the count of three!” The midwife reached her hands between Cersei’s thighs. “One, two…!”

Let her children be whole, be healthy, let them come into this world unharmed…

“Three…!”

Please, by all that You hold dear, don’t let them die here, please, please, please-

“PUSH!”

Chapter Text

Rhaenys

King’s Landing stank on most days. Even in the highest towers of the Red Keep, one was hard pressed to find relief from the smell of the city. The only place one could find anything truly resembling relief was in the gardens or on the Blackwater. Otherwise, a person’s only option was to close the windows and try to fill their chambers with fragrance and incense. And even then, the smell could find its way to one’s nose.

Rhaenys did not like the city’s stench any more than anyone else. But at that moment, standing in what had been Cersei’s bedchambers, she found herself longing for it. The servants had cleaned it as best they could, yet the smell of that night remained. And Rhaenys was not pleased by that.  Anything be better than the smell of blood and sweat and a woman’s labor.

Rhaenys was no stranger to blood. She and Daenerys had experienced their share of cuts and bruises, and men were injured all the time while training or playing at tourney. But this was different, for this was the first time the Targaryen had witnessed another woman struggle to bring life into the world. And it had shaken Rhaenys more than she would ever admit.

She sighed before turning to the servant next to her. “Cersei insists that she won’t return until the smell is gone. Is there nothing more you can do?”

The man she addressed had thinning hair and a ruddy complexion, which was exaggerated by the blush in his cheeks. “We have done everything I could think of, Princess. But that is the way of it sometimes, begging your pardon. After something like that, the smell is bound to linger.”

“For how much longer?”

“I cannot rightly say. Suppose another week or so, maybe more.”

She won’t like that one bit. Rhaenys did not voice the thought, though, instead nodding at the servant before turning and leaving the chamber.

She walked down the hall towards the other royal apartments. It was not long before she reached her mother’s. As Rhaenys reached the door, she heard a voice from within, one whose words brought a man’s laughter to her ear as well.

Rhaenys smiled as she entered the queen’s chambers. “Still intent on spoiling my cousin, Mother?”

Elia looked at her with a smile, her bright expression melting the years and hardship from the Martell’s face. She did not answer, though, quickly lowering her head to look at the newborn she held.

Visenya Targaryen had been born angry, as most infants were, but there was little of that in evidence now as she slept in Elia’s arms. The baby Targaryen had arrived with a thick thatch of hair, a startling blend of gold and silver. Visenya’s eyes were all Lannister, pale green with flecks of gold. According to her mother, the same eyes belonged to Cersei’s father, which Rhaenys expected would please the Lord of Casterly Rock.

“Try not to wake her,” Elia told her quietly. “She is nigh on impossible to put back down.”

Behind Rhaenys’ mother, her great-uncle gave a chuckle. “You’ve hardly let the girl alone all day, don’t blame her for being in a mood when she wakes. Honestly, I think the prince might be getting jealous.”

“Which one? My brother or uncle?”

“Both.”

That made Rhaenys laugh as well. “Well, Aegon has Margaery and all the rest, so I think he will get along just fine. As for Viserys, it is hard for me to take his complaints seriously, considering he was not even-”

“That’s enough, Rhaenys.” Elia’s voice was quiet, but her words still brought Rhaenys up short. “Viserys is not the first man I have known who shunned the birthing chamber. Truth be told, it is a common fear among them.”

“Are you saying that makes it right?”

“I am saying that’s the way it is.” Rhaenys’ mother looked back at her. “Besides, he and Cersei need our support now, not our condemnation. It is a great gift they have given the realm, but it came with a price.”

The words themselves were mild, but Rhaenys knew what they meant, and the reminder chilled her. After a moment, she walked forward to sit next to her mother, her hand coming out stroke Visenya’s locks. She is beautiful. So was her sister, may the gods keep her.

As Pycelle had predicted, Cersei had been carrying twins. Visenya’s birth had been hard, but the infant girl was as healthy as any both the midwife and maester had ever seen, if a little undersized. The same could not be said for Cersei’s other child, born a few hours later. Another girl, Visenya’s twin had come out silent as though she were sleeping. The midwife had done everything she could along with the Grand Maester once he returned, but the second child had not stirred. Within an hour she had stopped breathing, and nothing had succeeded in bringing her back.

Viserys had put his fist threw one of the windows in the throne room when had had been told. Elia had commanded that Cersei be left in the dark as long as possible, but the Lannister had insisted on holding her children, and demanded an answer when only Visenya was brought to her. The scream she had loosed when Pycelle told her would haunt Rhaenys for the rest of her days.

Cersei had named her second daughter Joanna, after her own mother. Most had expected her to be cremated, her ashes placed with her father’s kin in the Sept of Baelor. To the court’s surprise, Cersei had insisted that her “golden daughter” rest with her family, and Viserys had supported his wife. With Elia and Aegon’s blessing, Lord Connington had allowed it.

Her mother had been somber and calm during all of it but had insisted that every effort be made to aid Cersei’s recovery and ensure Visenya’s survival. The court had been given its reason to rejoice, but the loss of one of the new royals had blunted the celebration despite the efforts of the royal family.

Rhaenys’ melancholy was reflected in Elia and Lewyn’s faces. After a few moments, her great-uncle shook himself. “It does little good to dwell on the dead. Our first duty is to the living.”

“Agreed.” Elia stood and beckoned to a woman waiting at the edge of the room. The servant came forward and gently took Visenya from the queen’s arms. “Take her back to the nursery. Be careful doing so.” The woman’s face was nervous, but she nodded before turning and slowly left the room.

“Rhaenys.” She turned to see her mother looking at her. “I need to speak with you about something…delicate.”

“Is it Cersei? Or Dany?”

“No, not them. It’s Aegon.” Rhaenys’ relief lasted a moment before her mother added, “and Margaery too.”

Oh, Mother Above. Rhaenys had thought a talk like this was no longer necessary. When she had learned of her brother’s betrothal to the Tyrell, she had been shocked and angry. But she had warmed to the idea with time, helped in no small part by meeting and getting to know Margaery. It was hard to admit, but Rhaenys had found it hard to dislike Aegon’s betrothed. But she had been badly tempered of late, and Margaery had been one of those who had felt its lash, though Rhaenys had apologized soon afterwards.

Such were her thoughts when she began. “I am sorry I’ve been short the past few days, Mother, really I am. I have just been so…stretched by Cersei’s lying in and preparing for Egg’s tourney. I promise, I…”

Rhaenys trailed off as her mother smiled at her, her expression amused. “Is that not what you meant?”

“No, though I am relieved to hear you are thinking of such things.” Elia sighed. “No, I meant to ask whether or not you know how…how far she and your brother may have gone already.”

“How far? I don’t understand.”

Her mother looked at her pointedly, suggesting that Rhaenys was missing something. She quickly ran the words through her head. How far, how far, how…

Rhaenys’ eyes widened, her mouth forming an “o”. Then she closed her mouth quickly as the blood came to her face.

Lewyn laughed at her expression. “Thank you for that, Elia. I can’t remember the last time your daughter looked like that.”

“It must have been when Ser Arys found her kissing Monford Velaryon in that stairwell.”

“Mother!”

“What? Your great-uncle already knew about that, and he’s managed to keep it to himself.”

Rhaenys sat there, furious and mortified as the queen and her Kingsguard smiled at her. She said crossly, “I thought this talk was supposed to be about Aegon and his rose.”

“Oh, it is.” Elia stopped smiling, her expression becoming serious as she looked Rhaenys in the eye. “So, can you tell us anything?”

“Well, I…” Rhaenys hesitated. “I know that they do kiss. Often, truth be told.”

“A serving boy could’ve said as much,” Lewyn pointed out. “Their affection is no secret.”

That is an understatement. Aegon and Margaery were already the inspiration of four different songs Rhaenys had heard, all composed by bards looking to impress and gain favor at court.

She thought on it for a few moments, and then shook her head. “I am sorry, Mother, but I don’t know anything else.”

“Hmm.” Elia turned and looked at Lewyn. After a moment, the Kingsguard nodded. Rhaenys’ mother sighed before looking back at her. “Well, that is the same answer I’ve had from anyone else I’ve asked. Not that I’ve asked many, of course. It wouldn’t do to spread gossip.”

Rhaenys smiled. “So, that means that they have not done anything more.”

“It might. Or it might mean that they are being very discreet, enough so that no one knows what they do in private.” Elia smiled as Rhaenys blushed again. “Either one can serve. I just hope, whatever the case may be, that they keep their wits about them.”

Lewyn chuckled. “I can’t think of any woman in this city who could speak so…pragmatically about her own son.”

“I think you mean bluntly, Uncle,” Elia replied, her smile taking on a sad tone. “I am still Dornish, you know, and my son is fast becoming a man, little though I might like it. To expect any more or less from him would be indulgent and stupid, and we can ill-afford that.”

Rhaenys smiled at her mother’s words.  For all that the gods had given Cersei a mixed blessing, the queen had become more lively since her good-sister’s lying in. But that had not stopped her from acting as the consort of a king, which Rhaenys thought both a pity and an inspiration.

To her left, the door suddenly sprang open. “Wonderful news, Mother!” Aegon declared as he strode in, Arthur Dayne following close behind. “The council just got word from-” Her brother came up short as he saw Rhaenys. “Oh, sorry, Rhae. Did I interrupt?”

“Not at all. We were just talking about you, actually,” Rhaenys said lightly, shooting their mother a mischievous look.

“Oh. Nothing too grim or gossipy, I hope.” Egg walked forward pulling a chair so that he could sit in front of them. Rhaenys noted that he had a parchment in his hand, with a wax seal that boasted the moon and falcon of House Arryn.

Their mother saw it as well. “Word from the Eyrie?” Her tone was curious, but her eyes had shifted from Aegon to Rhaenys, a warning in them. Rhaenys nodded almost imperceptibly, but Elia saw it and appeared satisfied.

Rhaenys had meant that nod, but she couldn’t stop one of her hands from making a fist on her lap as she looked back at her brother.

Aegon either did not notice or chose not to point it out. “Yes. We’ve had a letter from Lysa Arryn, along with one from Petyr Baelish and another from Jon. They both say the same thing- that the disagreement between the Eyrie and the Iron Throne has been resolved.”

“What are the terms?” Rhaenys asked, keeping her voice and tone cool.

“Lady Lysa will give Jon custody of Lord Robert.” Aegon smiled at her and their mother’s shocked expressions. “I know. I thought she would see the seven hells freeze over before letting him go.”

“How did he and Lady Stark manage it?” Elia wondered aloud.

“I suppose it has something to do with what Jon did next.” Aegon’s expression was rueful. “Before she did, Ser Brynden Tully, the Knight of the Bloody Gate, resigned his post and accepted Jon’s offer to become a knight of the royal household. When Lysa Arryn gave Jon custody of her son, he named Ser Brynden to be Lord Robert’s guardian and protector.”

“So, Robert Arryn’s primary caretaker is his own great-uncle.” Rhaenys nodded. “That’s clever.”

Aegon laughed. “More like brilliant! Lysa was all but accusing the Iron Throne of wanting to harm Lord Robert. As if we had anything to gain from ill-treating a sickly boy who the gods named Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East. But no one will believe that the boy’s own kin would allow him to be harmed. There was no way for Lysa to refuse us.”

Rhaenys agreed it was cunning but thought her brother’s excitement to be a little much. “So, when can we expect them to get here?”

Aegon’s face lost some of its enthusiasm. “I expect Jon and his party should be on their way by now. They said they mean to take ship from Gulltown. They might even be able to arrive in time for the tourney, if the winds are with them.”

Rhaenys noticed her brother’s omission. So did her mother. “And how long until Lord Robert arrives?” Elia asked

The prince shifted in his seat, giving away his discomfort. “A year or so.”

“A year?!” Rhaenys was shocked. “Father wanted the boy brought back to King’s Landing!”

“Father wanted the dispute with House Arryn resolved,” Aegon replied, “preferably without bloodshed. Jon’s managed to do that.”

By letting Lysa Arryn swindle him. Rhaenys did not say that though, realizing that such words would not help to win Aegon over.

Elia intervened then. “I assume Lord Robert has sworn to come to King’s Landing.”

“He has,” Aegon assured them, his expression relieved. “And Lysa has sworn before her entire court to send him to foster here within a year. And even once he’s left, Lysa will remain as regent until he’s a man. For now, though, he will remain in the Vale.”

“You mean the Eyrie, under his mother’s care and guidance,” Rhaenys pointed out.

“I mean the Vale.” Aegon’s expression became stern. “Lady Lysa wrote nothing of it, but Baelish and Jon both said that the Vale’s lords are restless. So, they were saddled with trying to keep the peace between them and Lysa on top of what Father wanted.”

“And did they?” Rhaenys asked, letting her skepticism show.

“They did their part. Baelish says that the new Knight of the Bloody Gate will be chosen by Lysa from candidates her lords suggest. There was also some talk of forming a council to help her manage the affairs of the Vale, though I doubt things will get that far.”

Rhaenys was quiet, thinking over everything Aegon had told them so far. “If there was discord between Lysa Arryn and her lords, why did they not use that? Did they think the latter might balk?”

“They did, though they disagreed on the reason. Jon claims the lords of the Vale too proud to side with the Iron Throne against their late lord’s widow. Baelish, on the other hand, thinks that many are still eager to wed Lysa, and were more eager to use her then usurp her.” Aegon shrugged. “Either way it comes down to saving face. Lord Robert is staying within his mother’s power for now, which Lysa Arryn will paint as a victory. The lords of the Vale will get more access to their liege lord and have been promised a greater say in the governance of that kingdom, which will let them claim success.”

“And the Iron Throne gets the sworn word of Lysa and her lords that Lord Robert will be fostering in King’s Landing within a year, while avoiding the need to either try and take him by force or allow the widow Arryn to cheat House Targaryen,” Rhaenys finished. She sighed, her eyes leaving her brothers face to wander the wall behind him. This answer has Baelish’s work all over it. But how much of it is his and how much is Snow's?

Aegon gave Rhaenys a pleased smile. “Exactly. All parties get what they want.”

Rhaenys shook her head. “I fail to see how an agreement that sees Robert Arryn remain in the Vale is a victory, Egg.”

Her brother looked confused. “Are you saying Jon should have tried commanding Lysa to just turn over her son?”

“Of course not, that would have been stupid and dangerous. What he and Baelish should have done was try to forge a pact with the dissenting lords. They could have leveraged that into getting better terms, including perhaps Lord Robert departing for King’s Landing immediately.”

“If they had tried that, just as many would have rallied to Lysa against them,” Aegon argued. “It could have led to open war.”

“With half the Vale against the other half and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms?” Rhaenys shook her head. “Lysa is stupid, but not that stupid. She would have realized what she was facing and given up.”

“And make herself look vulnerable in front of her bannermen? Would that not have emboldened them, encourage more attempts to force concession from her in the future?”

“Perhaps,” Rhaenys conceded, “Or she might have used that to rally them afterwards, to regain their lost lord and independence. Try and united the Vale behind her while we had Lord Robert here. Now, she will try to do so, but we will not have her son in our power when she does.”

Their great-uncle shook his head. “From what I recall, Lysa Arryn is not one for convincing anyone to follow her. More likely she’ll act self-righteous and arrogant and make a mistake.”

Aegon surprised them all by laughing. “Forgive me, Lewyn, but that is what Lord Baelish suggested would happen in his letter.” While their great-uncle scowled at the comparison, Aegon turned to Rhaenys. “And Lord Tyrion was making the same argument you were, along with a good bit of “the crown holding back” and “lords run amok” and so on.”

“Tyrion has as sharp a mind as any man I’ve met,” Rhaenys said, disappointing her brother’s effort to tease her. “We need more men like him at court and on the small council.”

Elia spoke up at that. “What does the small council think of all this?”

“Ser Arthur, Jon Connington, Varys, and Lord Redwyne all agreed with me, that it would serve. Pycelle and Lord Tyrion dissented, which isn’t that surprising.” Aegon sighed. “So, I guess we’ll have to hope you're wrong, Rhae. Unless you wish to publicly scorn this accord.”

“You know I would never do that.” Rhaenys managed to smile at her brother, pushing her feelings of frustration and outrage down. She could hear her father’s voice, echoing the words he had told her again and again. House Targaryen must stand as one.

“I think the council was wise.” Elia paused before adding, “Your brother did well.” Seeing Rhaenys’ surprised expression, her mother smiled. “Lysa Arryn may have been a fool if she started a war she could never win for her child. But in the same position, I probably have done the same.” The queen reached out and took a hand from both Rhaenys and Aegon. “When you have children, you’ll understand.”

“Then I expect I’ll understand soon enough, Mother,” Aegon said, smiling at Elia.

“I do hope that you aren’t about to tell me something that will force me to imprison you, Aegon.”

“You’d throw me into a cell for a crime of passion? Aegon asked, his smile making the prince’s purple eyes shine.

“Without hesitation, especially if an angry father with a sword was involved,” Elia replied, her smile matching her sons. Her words made them all laugh, helping to banish the worries and troubles of the realm for a few moments.

Once they were done, though, Aegon glanced at Rhaenys before looking back at their mother. “Would you mind if I borrowed Rhae for a little while? There’s something I would like to tell her about.”

“Oh, very well. But do not think we’re done, Aegon. I still have a matter of importance to discuss with you.”

“I look forward to it,” Aegon assured Elia, his rueful expression at odds with the words. He then stood, pulling Rhaenys with him as he did. The two quickly left their mother’s chamber.

Aegon did not take her far. They stopped at his chambers, where he waved her in with an exaggerated bow. Once inside, Rhaenys was pleased to find no hint of a woman’s presence, though the number of roses her brother had placed throughout the room was enough to make her cringe. “Is it not enough to have fake roses sown onto Margaery’s clothes, Egg?”

“Funny.” Aegon was standing at the table to the door’s right, and held a large roll of parchment out to her. “Come, take a look at this.”

Rhaenys walked over and took it into her hand. She held it with one hand while she unrolled it with the other. Once it was open, Rhaenys found herself staring at a finely drawn picture of a castle, in black. The walls sloped gracefully, though she expected they were strong enough, and in the background, she could make out mountains. “It is lovely, Egg.”

“That’s just the beginning.” Her brother motioned towards the table, where other rolls were laid out, held open by goblets and stones.

Rhaenys lowered the one in her hand to take it all in. Everywhere she looked, she was struck by the beauty of what was drawn against the parchment. Trees hung their branches over ponds, while those bearing fruit ran in rows down this pathway or that. It was clear that this castle was not a Storm’s End or Casterly Rock in its strength, but it looked strong enough, and had beauty to match the Eyrie or even Highgarden.

She turned and looked at Aegon. “Am I supposed to guess where this is?”

“It’s Summerhall.” Her brother grinned at her expression. “I had a man draw what I’d envisioned for the place. It will not be quite as beautiful as it was when Summerhall was first built, less a place of pleasure and more a proper castle. But it will still be lovely, one of the loveliest in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Aegon turned to look at Rhaenys. “Father loved to go there when he was as young as us, he still does. I always thought that he would love to see it restored. Well, now we have the coin, and soon we’ll have close relations with both Dorne and the Reach. What better circumstances could we have for rebuilding the third seat of House Targaryen?”

So, it is still only a vision. But Rhaenys smiled at the image her brother’s words created. “I think he would be very pleased by that, Egg. But where will you find the time to build it? You are still a prince, and heir to the throne on top of that. Something like this needs persistent attention, and I don’t know if you’ll be able to give it that.”

“It’s funny you say that. You see, I’ve spoken with Mother and her brother Doran about this, and they said much the same. They suggested that I’d be wise to find someone with the brains to see it done, the steel to hold it, and lacking any lands of their own.”

“What a combination,” Rhaenys said dryly. “Where do you expect to find this paragon?”

“Standing in front of me right now.”

Rhaenys stared at her brother. She could tell her mouth was open, but it wasn’t obeying her commands to close. And she couldn’t think of anything to say. Aegon was grinning triumphantly at her, his expression resembling a cat that had gotten into the cream.

“Well?” He asked, holding his hands up.

“I-I don’t know what to say.”

“That must be a first. I hope that’s a good sign.”

“Summerhall?” Rhaenys was no longer sure she was awake. Why is it suddenly so bright? “Me? Princess of Summerhall?”

“Well, to be fair, it wouldn’t be anything more than a title right now. But once we have Father’s approval, work can start straightaway, and with enough coin we can get it done-”

Her brother didn’t finish his sentence, for Rhaenys almost knocked him to the ground as she leapt forward and hugged him, squeezing as tightly as she could. “Thank you, Egg! Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

She repeated that over and over again until Aegon complained that he needed to breathe. Rhaenys released him then, smiling at him as brightly as she knew how. “I can’t believe it, hand to the Father!” After a moment, her suspicion flared, and she gave him a rueful look. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Oh, not that long.” Aegon laughed as her glare continued. “Alright, a little more than a year. I visited Summerhall with Loras and Margaery and some others before I came back. Theon said it seemed a waste to just build a palace where a proper castle ought to be and then just leave it to rot after a fire. After that, it was just a matter of writing some letters, seeing what the required lords thought of such a thing.”

“And why are you telling me this now?” Rhaenys asked, still marveling at the lengths Egg was going to give her this gift. “After all that trouble, I’d have though you’d wait for a more opportune moment, preferably one when we were in public.”

For the first time since they had entered his chambers, the good humor left Aegon’s face. “I had intended to announce it after the tourney, after Lord Connington resigned and I took his place as Hand. But I was expecting us to also be celebrating two new additions to House Targaryen, not one.”

Rhaenys’ joy vanished at that. Oh, how could I be so thoughtless? “Cersei and Viserys, Oh, gods, Egg…”

“I know.” Aegon shook his head sadly. “I was already preparing to hear Viserys complain about the seat being given to anyone besides him, I thought doing so when he was busy celebrating a new son might take the edge off his opposition. To make this public now, though…it won’t do. So, we’ll have to wait a while yet.”

“Viserys?” Rhaenys couldn’t suppress her surprise. “Are you saying you don’t expect any objections from Jon?”

“Jon?” Aegon chuckled. “Jon told me many things in his letters over the years, and one of the more consistent themes was his love of the North. I doubt he’d be content to trade that for a castle in the Dornish Marches.”

“But there is no royal castle north of the crownlands,” Rhaenys pointed out.

“Father said something about negotiating for some lands in the Trident or something like that for Jon. His betrothed is half Tully, remember.” Aegon smiled before putting both his hands on Rhaenys’ shoulders.

“We can’t say it yet, but soon all the realm will know you as Rhaenys, of House Targaryen, Princess of Summerhall. Nothing will stand in the way of that. You have my word, Rhae.”

Chapter Text

Eddard

“How much farther, Lord Stark?”

Eddard stifled a sigh as he turned to the king. “Greenguard is a few hours behind us, so by the afternoon if we keep this pace, Your Grace.” Rhaegar said nothing more, simply nodding with an impatient expression before turning his head back to the road.

He couldn’t blame the Targaryen for his haste- he was just as eager to return to his home and family as well. But unlike Rhaegar, Ned would have to remain at Eastwatch for a while yet, seeing that the northern lords who arrived there were apprised of the developments with Lord-Commander Baratheon. And even once that was done, the Lord of Winterfell would be expected to remain for some time as they waited to see what Mance Rayder decided to do. Few can delegate as freely as a king.

It was also the only way to ensure that Stannis Baratheon’s proposal was implemented successfully. Rather than haggle over who commanded this castle or that, or whom the lords of the North should answer to should battle be joined, Eddard and the Lord-Commander had agreed to share the role of leadership. Commanding jointly could be troublesome, but it settled the matter of having their men and lieutenants answer to a leader they were not sworn to obey. And Stannis had proved that he knew how to fight during his brother’s Rebellion and since he had gained prominence at the Wall, both as a ranger and as Lord-Commander.

Beside him, Ned heard a cough. He turned to find Ser Humfrey regarding him. The young knight had removed his helm for the road, making it easier for Ned to see his bored expression. “Do you think it likely that Silveraxe will send out a party to meet us on the road?”

“Possible, but not likely, no.” Eddard glanced at the king before turning back to the knight. “Silveraxe fought fiercely for Robert. I don’t expect him to offer any warmer a welcome than Castle Black did.”

“It’s not the king’s fault the man turned his cloak.” Humfrey’s face filled with contempt. “Why he would declare for a man who captured him and slew his father I will never understand. Has he no honor at all?”

“The same as some, and more than others,” Ned replied, trying to keep the heat from his voice even as he gave the Kingsguard a cold look. “Robert told me that the Fell’s bond was strong, and if Silveraxe had blamed him, then that would have been the end of it. But the son respected that his father had died in single combat and held no ill will towards Robert for that. It seems he blamed Aerys more than anyone else.”

“Hmpf.” Hightower raised his head, his expression haughty. “A poor excuse that.”

Ned would have replied but the king chose then to intervene. “Ser Humfrey, let us not nurse grievances over old quarrels. It is done, all of it, and Fell is now a sworn man of the Night’s Watch. That makes him an ally if not a friend.”

The knight nodded at Rhaegar, then surprised Ned by doing the same to him, his face apologetic. Ned appreciated both and nodded in return. So, he is not all hot air.

In truth, Ned could not dismiss the knight’s concerns entirely, for he shared them. Stannis Baratheon had made a cold host to Rhaegar, but he had made it clear that the Night’s Watch would not jeopardize the Wall’s security to refight old battles. The Lord-Commander was not at Eastwatch, though, and Ned had not seen the castle or its commander in years. He knew there was little Fell or others could do, but the northman still suspected they would find Silveraxe even less friendly than Stannis, if that was possible.

The king glanced at Ned. “How long do you think it will be before your bannermen arrive at Eastwatch, Lord Stark?”

“Karhold is the closest of the holdings whose lords have been ordered there,” Ned replied, “so I expect they’ll arrive there first. The Hornwoods, Boltons, and Manderlys will all arrive in time, though I can’t say when precisely. But if I had to guess, I doubt the Karstarks are far. I sent the word from Castle Black, and Lord Karstark has always been eager when battle draws near.”

“Will he have the command at Eastwatch?” Ser Humfrey asked.

“I had not decided, but I think not. Lord Karstark is a good man, fierce and honorable, but I expect the wildlings will require cunning as well as fierceness.” Though in battle, I would trust a strong man more than a cunning man.

The Kingsguard looked thoughtful before nodding. “Aye, that makes good sense. If that’s the case, I suppose it is a good thing that you will be in Castle Black. No offense my lord, but Lord Umber has a reputation that…well, he does not sound like a man who is more cunning than strong.”

Ned smiled grimly at that. “True enough.” He gave the young knight an approving nod before turning his head to scan behind him, and then ahead of him, taking in the surroundings as they moved onward.

Their party continued to ride in silence. They made an interesting bunch- the king and his knight, along with fifty men-at-arms, ten of them with crossbows. Along with them, Ned had thirty northmen, though only five of them wore bows and arrows. The only knight among Ned’s guard was Ser Rodrik Cassel, who he had ordered near the rear to make sure the men did not fall behind. Besides them, Stannis had given them two rangers to guide them on their journey, their black attire fitting strangely among the black and red of Targaryen while clashing with the gray and white of Stark. Their guides were quiet, keeping to themselves even as they showed their party the road to Eastwatch. Eddard had not learned their names, instead referring to them as the bald one and the fat one, due to their respective appearances.

While they rode, Ned scanned the land around them. The Wall loomed to their north, about a league away. They were just south of where the Gift changed from green growth and trees into icy tundra. Maester Aemon had advised traveling on top of the Wall, to ensure a safer and faster path, but Rhaegar had insisted on leaving the ice, claiming that he wanted to see for himself what forage could be found on the Gift. “The Watch and the northern hosts will need all the supplies they can. The better I know what to expect from here, the better I can decide what to send while at court.”

Of course, there hadn’t been much to see. The Gift was large, but much of the lands had been retaken by forests and prairie, as wildling raids pressed the smallfolk to leave. If they did not wish to fight, the only choices left to those who called the Gift home were either to retreat south, towards the lands where the northern lords still ruled, or else move closer to the Wall, where the Night’s Watch was closer but the land itself poorer. Most chose the former, save for some rare exceptions, such as the people of Mole’s Town.

Stannis had agreed with the king’s foresight, but Ned thought the elderly Targaryen had been less than pleased with his kinsman’s decision. Ser Rodrik had called it frivolous, while Ned himself was torn between the desire to move swiftly and his hope that the more knowledge Rhaegar had, the less likely he would be to renege on his commitments. Little though we like it, the North’s task is easier so long as we have the aid of the Iron Throne.

That thought made the Lord of Winterfell glance at Ser Humfrey’s saddle. Among the bags and trappings he was used to, the clothed length that the smith at Castle Black had handed over. Ned could not think of why Rhaegar would ask for a weapon of all things from Stannis- the king’s own blade was among the finest he had ever seen, besides Valyrian blades.

As his mind came to blades and steel, Ned found himself reminded of the one he had given to his elder daughter. When it had been decided that Sansa would travel south, the northman had found himself concerned over the things she may encounter, despite all the obvious reasons why that fear was overblown at best. When he had confided his concerns to Ser Rodrik, the old knight had said to let him think on it and produced the dagger the morning they had left Winterfell. Sansa’s expression when she had seen the gift had affirmed Ned and Rodrik’s thinking, as well as his suspicion that some of Arya’s fierceness may have rubbed off onto her sister.

“Is that look for your daughter, Lord Stark? Or perhaps your lady wife?”

Ned’s head came up sharply to look at the king, who was regarding him with a sad smile. Rhaegar shrugged. “I am a husband and father as well. I have learned that men often look a certain way when they think about their family. Sons and brothers usually bring out pride and confidence, sometimes with a bit of envy or contempt. But just now,” the king said pointedly, gesturing towards Ned’s face, “you looked proud, yes, but also warm, with worry mixed in.” Rhaegar thought a moment before nodding to himself. “Your lady wife is among friends and family, in a place where none would dare harm her. So, it must have been your daughter, then.”

Ned cursed himself silently for letting his emotions show before this man. “I was thinking of Sansa, I’ll not deny it.”

He hoped the king would hear the warning in his tone and was rewarded when Rhaegar simply nodded and turned his head. After a few moments, though, the king continued, “Your daughter actually reminds me of my own. Rhaenys has become a fine young woman, beautiful but also intelligent, and a good heart underpins it all. Why, seeing her in Winterfell, speaking with you and others, I do believe I saw a glimpse of her future, whether at court or managing a household all on her own.” Rhaegar smiled at the memory.

If there was a proper reply to that, Ned didn’t know it. Little harm in playing this game, I suppose. “Sansa is a lady in truth, not just by blood. She is smart and can be fierce in the right circumstances. But truth be told hers is a gentle spirit, at least among Starks.” Ned sighed. “Arya is another story entirely. We have to drag her to some of her lessons, not for lack of talent on her part but lack of interest. If I let her, she would spend her days riding and hunting and fighting any who displeased her.”

“The wolfsblood.” Ned started as Rhaegar said that word. “Lyanna told me of it, a lifetime ago. She said it ran strong in her, and your brother Brandon as well.”

Ned battled to keep his anger in check. He grit his teeth as he replied, “So it was. It is the same with Arya.”

“And with Jon, I think.” Rhaegar’s face became sad. “When he was a babe I wondered which would win out in him, Targaryen or Stark. I also asked myself whether or not one should be encouraged, given aid in the struggle.”

“Is that the reason you sent him to Winterfell?” Ned asked, his face twisting in confusion at the king’s words.

“I sent my son to ward with you because I feared for his safety, and knew Winterfell was far safer for Jon than anywhere south of the Neck. At least, it was then.” Rhaegar’s face took on a determined look. “That was a different time though, and I was a different king. His return has been a long time coming, but I am eager to see what Jon can make of himself at court. Along with Aegon and Rhaenys. They are the three heads of the dragon. And to answer your question Lord Stark, yes, I did believe it was right for Jon to learn what he could from his mother’s kin. I still do.”

Ned was silent after this, glancing about at the men around them. For the first time, he realized that most of them had either advanced or fallen behind, far enough away so that Ned and Rhaegar would not be overheard. The only exception was Ser Humfrey, whose face was studiously blank as he rode just behind them.

They rode in silence for several minutes after that. Eventually, Ned spoke up. “I never did thank you, properly I mean. For sending Jon to us.”

“You did not have to, and still do not.”

“Well, thank you anyway.” He felt as if he had swallowed a hot coal, but Eddard’s sense of decency compelled him to keep speaking. “Another man might have simply decided keep his son and do all he could to make his own keep safer. You chose differently, and for that, I thank you.”

Rhaegar looked at Ned with a faintly surprised look, but soon nodded. After that, he and the king spoke no more as they followed the guides and the road.

Before much longer, Ser Humfrey spoke up. “Is that sound what I think it is?”

“Aye, ser.” One of the guides tugged his hood closer to his ears as he called back to them. “That’s the sea. She’s not far, and neither is Eastwatch.”

“Thank the Mother.” The knight shook himself. “I must admit, Your Grace, I love horses but I am fond of ships as well. I look forward to sailing south rather than riding.”

“As do I, Ser Humfrey.” Rhaegar looked eastward. “There’s a…calm in the sea that I have always enjoyed.”

After another hour of riding, their guides stopped. As their party halted behind them, Ned and Rhaegar rode forward to see why they had paused.

Seeing them coming, the bald guide bowed his head in apology. “Apologies, milords, don’t mean to slow things down. But Gar and I don’t think this road’s the fastest way forward.”

The fat one- no, Gar nodded in turn. “See there, milords. Up ahead. The snows have taken the road.”

Eddard looked forward. At first he was confused, but then he saw what Gar was saying. The road they were on was largely snow-free, but ahead of them the track was suddenly white, as if the tundra that surrounded the Wall had decided to take a bite out of the green Gift to its south.

“Summer snows most like, milord.” The bald one gave a low whistle. “Must have passed through last night. Lucky we missed it.”

Ned nodded. “It’s not ideal, but we can push through.” He turned to Rhaegar. “My men are more used to it, so they can lead-”

“Beg your pardon, milord, but there’s a swifter way than that.”

Eddard turned to look at Gar. “What do you mean?”

“See that there?” Ned followed the ranger’s finger south, scanning the ground along the road until he saw what looked like a dirt track, even smaller and less kept than the one they were on. After nodding, Gar continued. “That there’s a deer trail. They use it regular enough that Eastwatch sends men out to get meat every now and then. Some of us rangers even come out when no one knows-”

“What Gar means to say,” his companion interrupted, “is we can take that instead. We’ll have to make ourselves thinner, that is, cause it ain’t wide at all, but we can manage.”

Barely, if we ride one man abreast. Ned frowned, but the king spoke before he could. “This is the faster way?”

“Yes, mi- Your Grace, that is. A little roundabout, but we can take that to the road on the coast, come up to Eastwatch from the south.”

“Your Grace.” Ser Humfrey eyed the snow-covered road to their east. “Our horses aren’t used to drifts like that, not like the northern ones. If I can speak plainly, I think the trail is the safer course.”

Rhaegar frowned slightly before looking at Ned, his eyes asking the question. Ned glanced between the road and the game trail before nodding. “Neither’s perfect. But if these two say this can take us there, I see no reason not to.”

The king nodded in turn. “Very well. Gar, you lead the way. Rob, you and Ser Humfrey ride down the line and explain what’s happening.”

The two rangers nodded and went about it, along with the Kingsguard. Ned looked at Rhaegar with a slightly surprised expression. “You learned their names?”

“Of course I did.” Rhaegar turned his horse around. “They were in King’s Landing during the Sack. I made sure to thank them for their service, to the crown and to the Watch.”

Ned could scarcely hide his amazement. He decided then and there to know the names of every black brother the king did along with those he already knew himself. Otherwise, every Lord Stark before me will roll in their grave.

After a few minutes of hectic activity, the men arranged themselves in a single-file line with Gus at the lead and Rob at the rear. The former began down the track, his horse’s hooves pressing into the dirt as he slowly guided it forward. One by one, their party followed, leaving the road behind them. Not much had truly changed. The greater part of the lands around them were flat plains, rolling this way and that. The other parts were gentle hills with some trees and shrubs scattered all about the area. Still, Ned found himself instinctively scanning as much as he could as he rode just behind the king.

They rode for what felt like hours, the deer track running this way and that as they weaved a trail that turned south before slowly arching east. As they did, the sun rose higher, until it seemed as though it were right above their heads.

Eventually, the sound of waves and gulls grew louder, until Ned recognized that they had come to near the coast. “Not much farther to the road, milords,” Gar called backwards.

Ned heard trotting and turned to find Ser Rodrik had come ridden along the track’s side to reach him. “Lord Stark, the ranger in back had to stop.”

“What? Why?”

“His horse threw a shoe. It is a rough track, maybe a stone got caught in it. Rob said to keep going, he will catch up when he can. Some of the men stopped with Rob, want to give him a hand.”

Ned sighed but then nodded. “Very well.” He turned to Rhaegar, who inclined his head to confirm that he had heard.

And then the king stopped. Or he was stopped, as his horse refused to walk into its halted counterpart in front of it. Ned leaned to the side to look forward and realized that the whole column had halted.

“What the hell?” Ned turned to Ser Rodrik. “Go ahead, see what’s the trouble.”

The old knight nodded and rode forward, more quickly now that the trail’s other riders had stopped moving. Ned and Rhaegar waited patiently until he returned a couple minutes later. “Rotten luck, my lord. Gar’s horse went lame too.”

Ser Humfrey grunted in disdain. “So much for the steady steps of northern mounts.”

Rodrik bristled, but the king spoke before he could. “Enough of that, ser.” Rhaegar surprised Ned by dismounting. “You were just complaining that you tired of riding, Ser Humfrey. Take the chance to stretch your legs.”

The Kingsguard nodded before following Rhaegar’s lead. Ned did the same, silently cursing the rangers for small mishaps that should have been easily managed.

They had come to a stop at the base of one of the hills, where a copse of trees larger than most this close to the Wall endured. Ned appreciated the shade the trees provided, the sun hard on his face despite the cold air. He paced a bit, staying close to his horse as he did so. Ned also kept his eyes on the ground, mindful of the need for solid steps. If two horses can each misstep, then one man can just as easily.

But even the trail and brush had beauty to appreciate. On the ground, Ned could make out tracks of animals besides the company’s horses- deer, rabbit, wolf. And the color of the seedlings and grass were a welcome break from the great white expanse to their north, the green and brown and black and gray-

Wait, what? Ned stopped and slowly scanned again until the last of those flashed before his eye once more. Still minding his feet, the northman stepped off the trail and began walking forward, into the trees.

“What is it, Lord Stark?” Ned heard Ser Humfrey call from behind him.

“I am not sure,” He replied, continuing into the trees. Ned did not know what he had seen yet, but his body urged him forward, to find what it found strange.

He did not have to go far. Not thirty feet from the trail, Ned encountered blackened wood, charred pieces of tree and timber that had been scattered amid the brush. Near the base of a tree was a dusting of gray, ash that had undoubtedly come from the same source. The northman crouched down, bringing his hand to the ashes and wood as he did. Both were cool, but not the icy cold that would be expected from the air around them. Ned scanned the ground quickly, his eyes looking for something, anything, while his gut roiled within him.

“Lord Stark, Rob fixed his mount’s shoe,” He heard Rhaegar say loudly from the trail.

“No, no, no,” A voice was saying. Ned did not recognize it, so scared and small it seemed, as his hand came up from the ground, holding a feather that had been cut into a piece of fletching.

“Lord Stark?” The king sounded impatient.

This is wrong, a voice in Ned’s mind whispered. The northman shot to his feet and turned, running to the deer track.

From up ahead, one of the king’s men-at-arms called out, “Mount up. The ranger says we’re ready to begin.”

“Begin?” Ser Humfrey’s expression was confused. “We have almost finished.”

But they have not. “We need to move,” Ned shouted as he surged towards his horse. “Get off the trail!”

“Stark, what is-”

“NOW!!!”

Ned’s voice was not alone. The cry echoed from beyond their sight, from the ridge of the hill above them, where Ned saw the shapes of men cresting, dozens of them, clad in black. To a man, they held bows which they loosed as one. With no other choice Ned ducked, putting his horse between him and the archers.

And then the volley hit them.

Horses and men screamed all around Ned. To his side a horse went down screeching, fletching protruding from its neck while its rider yelled as he went down, then shrieked as his mount crashed to the ground, his leg crushed beneath its weight. Behind them, Ned watched as Ser Rodrik threw himself clear as his horse reared backwards, falling onto its back. On his other side a howl of agony tore Ned’s gaze to the track, where Humfrey Hightower fell from his horse with a racket as his armored body hit the ground, a shaft of wood sticking from his right eye. The knight rolled on the ground, continuing to howl while his hands grasped at his face. His stallion reared above him, an arrow caught in its rear thigh. Ned surged forward and grabbed at the knight’s armor, grasping the straps that held it together and pulling as hard as he could, just managing to get the knight clear as the stallion began bucking and lashing out with all of its hooves in an effort to ward off the attackers it thought was close.

But they were not. Above them, Ned watched as the black brothers, for what else could they be, nocked and drew, aiming directly at the trail and the men scattered about it. Ned cursed loudly as he heaved again, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Another effort brought the Kingsguard and himself behind one of the trees as he heard the whistle of arrows rush towards them. None hit Ned or Humfrey, but renewed screams from man and beast alike erupted all around them. A great thud brought Ned’s head around the trunk, confirming that Humfrey’s horse had gone down, two new shafts in its eye and neck.

Questions of how and who and why flew to and from Ned’s mind as he quickly scanned the trail both ways. Men and horses were down, but not all of them. To his left, he saw Rodrik and some others crouched like he was, taking cover from the barrage of arrows the men on the hill had and still could let fly. A quick glance to his right saw the same, as royal men at arms drew swords and axes, their voices calling out to one another as they all sought answers and reassurance, trying to make sense of what was happening. Of the horses still standing most of them no longer had a rider, left to flee forward or back down the track. None ran up the hill but some were going the opposite way, taking their chances galloping into the trees to run directly away from the men above them.

“Lord Stark!” Ned whipped his head to Ser Rodrik, whose face had been cut in his leap to the ground. “They aren’t alone! They are at the rear, in force!”

Ned leaned to look past the old knight. Sure enough, he saw movement among the trees, and the sound of ringing steel as men began to engage one another. They’ll be doing the same at the front, backing up the traitorous bastards who led us into this.

“Rally!” Ned shouted over the gasps and cries of Ser Humfrey. “Rally to me! Group up!”

Some men heard him and began moving. But others did not, confusion and fear paralyzing them. And among those who left their cover, the whistle of arrows began again, no longer a barrage but targeted shots as men either screamed as they were hit or dove back under cover. Ned risked a look at the hill, where he saw that the archers weren’t content to remain on the crest- they were advancing slowly, some dropping their bows to draw axes and swords while others continued to loose towards the men beneath them.

Apparently Rodrik saw the same, as the knight began cursing. “We need to fall back! Into the trees, or else they’ll crush us between them!”

No, that is what they want. This trap had been well-prepared, and any hunter could see what would come next. If the attackers had left the south open to them, then that meant south was where they wanted the party to go. To go where and do what they want is suicide.

Beneath him, Humfrey screeched. Ned looked down to see the knight had grasped the arrow in his eye and yanked it out. Ned knew then the gods must have liked the young man, for the arrow came out whole, and dragged no flesh or eye with it. That did not stop Humfrey from yelling anew, dropping the arrow to cover his eye with one hand as blood began to flow from the wound more freely.

Ned turned to Rodrik. “We need horses! We cannot win this fight, too many are already down! We ride for Karhold!” If the gods were good, Rickard Karstark would already be on the road, much closer than his keep. Assuming we live that long.

“King.” Ned whipped his head down to Ser Humfrey, whose gritted teeth were stained with the blood running down his face. “The king…where…”

“Oh, gods.” Any thought of Rhaegar had been driven from Ned’s mind when he had taken cover behind his horse. Now, though, he glanced about frantically, seeking out the Targaryen, using precious moments he knew they could not afford to use.

And then, towards where the front of the company had been, Ned caught a flash of silver hair. Away from the trail, the king had sought cover in the trees. Fifty feet or more, but close enough that Ned could make it to him. “Rodrik, see to Ser Humfrey!” Ned yelled as he suddenly surged forward, keeping his head low as he passed through a gap between two trees. But no arrows came his way. As Ned paused, he looked up the hill. Some fifty of the attackers were closing with the trail, but a dozen or so more remained behind, bows still in hand. Yet none of them had fired when he had come into view. As reached the tree where he saw the king’s hair Ned saw why, as not thirty feet further on he saw royal guards clashing with more of the assassins.

Ned came round the tree to find the king sitting at his base, clutching his blade. “Your Grace, we need to move. Come on, you have…”

Ned trailed off as he took in the king’s appearance. The cloth Ned could see was ripped and dirtied, probably by hitting the ground like many other of the others. His doublet, a traditional black with the Targaryen dragon roaring red flames upon it, was becoming more of the latter as blood stained the cloth. Its sources were four arrows, all of whom looked like they had managed to pierce the doublet and the leather beneath it to find purchase in flesh. The king coughed as Ned came to stand in front of him.

And as Rhaegar looked up at him, Ned realized something. The king’s expression was not scared or angry- it was relieved, as if someone had lifted a weight off the Targaryen’s shoulders. And as their eyes met, Ned saw a reassurance in the king’s, reassurance that Ned did not feel at all. Damn it, Rhaegar. Damn you.

“Lord Stark.” Rhaegar’s voice sounded winded. “I hoped to see you again. I’d ask a favor-”

“Damn you, not now.” Ned crouched and grabbed the king’s free arm, slinging it about his shoulders before rising, bringing Rhaegar to his feet while the latter hissed I pain. “You cannot do this, not now, not here. You are not going to end here, Rhaegar, if I must drag you all the way back to King’s Landing my-”

An arrow flew by their heads, drawing a startled curse from Ned as he picked up his pace, all but dragging Rhaegar with him. Behind them, battle cries echoed from the hill as the assassins reached the trail, breaking rank to surge forward and attack the guards who still stood. Against all his training, Ned felt panic begin to well within him. We will not make it far, not on foot.

“They want this.” Rhaegar coughed again, blood trickling from his mouth. “South is the killing place. They’ll have men there, you know it.”

“We’ll find a way.” Ned glanced about, looking for something, anything. “East, east and south. We can’t fight them, but we can try and slip the net. Get horses, get to open ground. We can outrun them, find Karstark-”

“I will not make it, you know that too.” Rhaegar suddenly tugged at the arm Ned held, managing to free himself. The Targaryen staggered away from him, found a tree and put his back to it, sliding down to sit once more.

Come on, we cannot stop. Ned wanted to roar that at Rhaegar, but could not, his words stolen by the sight of the king looking directly at him, a smile on his face. There was a light in those purple eyes, one Ned had seen in the eyes of another king.

The king reached into his coat, frowning slightly before smiling again as he drew out a crown, a golden band with seven different gemstones in them. Ned did not know them all, but he knew immediately that this was the crown of Jaehaerys the Wise, the crown of Rhaegar.

Ned also knew what Rhaegar intended to do, and he could not let it happen, would not. “No, no, Your Grace-”

“I am not your king!” Rhaegar’s voice was a hiss, it should not have stopped him, but the heat and steel in those snarled words brought Ned up short. “Not anymore! But you will obey me nevertheless, Eddard, and you will do it now!”

“Lord Stark!”

Ned turned to see Ser Rodrik and Ser Humfrey sharing a horse, riding up while leading another by the reins. Rodrik led the steed while holding an axe in his free hand. Humfrey held the spare horse and the silk-wrapped blade in the other, even now refusing to let Rhaegar’s prize go. His face had been wrapped tightly, staunching the blood from his ruined eye.

 “Lord Eddard, get the king!” Rodrik yelled. “Get the king, we must go! We must go now!”

Ned turned to see Rhaegar hold out his crown. “Give this to my children. Tell them,” the Targaryen hacked loudly, blood flying from his mouth, “tell them it is a heavy thing, that no one can bear it alone…”

The sound of clashing steel and yells was near, too near. And the latter were in concert. “Where is he?” “Where is the Targaryen scum?” “Find him!” “ROBERT! ROBERT AND BARATHEON!” “Kill the dragon! Take his crown and take his head!!”

Ned surged forward, grabbing at the Targaryen's shoulders. “Rhaegar, you cannot-”

With a strength Ned thought beyond him, Rhaegar grabbed him and pulled him close. Shoving the crown into his hands, Rhaegar leaned in and whispered, “He must live, Ned. Her son, our son, he must live…” And as he pulled back, Ned saw that the Targaryen was crying despite his smile, tears escaping the amethyst eyes whose light was already dimming.

There was no time left, but Ned swallowed before whispering in turn, “He will. I promise.”

Rising with the crown in hand, Ned turned swiftly and came to the spare horse, sheathing his sword before mounting it. Ignoring Ser Humfrey and Rodrik’s questions and protests, he yanked the reins clear of them and brought the horse to their side. “Southeast. It is our only chance.”

“And the king?! Your Grace!” Ser Humfrey yelled.

“He’s already gone, ser.” Ned looked at Rodrik. “We ride! Now!”

“What?! NO! YOUR GRACE!”

“There! There he is!” “Him and the wolf lord!” “Stop them!”

Ned kicked his heels into the horse, urging it forward while Rodrik did the same. As the horses surged into a gallop, Ned risked one glance backwards, one last glance at Rhaegar. But the king did not look back. Nor did he look at the men mere feet away, bearing steel and fury. Rhaegar Targaryen’s eyes were fixed, his face smiling as it looked upward to the sun and stars as if, for the first time Ned could remember, he did not have a care in the world.

Chapter Text

Sansa

Oh, why could we not have had a tourney or two in Winterfell? Sansa missed her home for many reasons and knew there were fewer knights in the North than the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. But even so, the Stark could not stop herself from feeling wistful as the crowds cheered and the next tilt began.

The ground and dais shook as the two stallions charged towards one another, their riders steel-clad with lances pointing home. In an instant, both lances shattered as the mounts continued forward. Both knights tried to keep their seats, and Ser Balon Swann managed it, just barely righting himself while he slowed his mount, calling for another lance. But it was not needed, for Lord Renly had failed where the knight had succeeded and fallen near the end of the track. His helm struck the fence separating the two sides as he did, resulting in a crack that brought a chorus of cries from the commons and nobles alike. To the delight of all, the Baratheon stood unaided, holding up a golden antler, snapped from his helm. Renly then walked among the commons and knelt, presenting it to a young maiden who blushed as she stammered thanks. The commons howled at the display of generosity and kindness.

Tyrion Lannister was not as impressed. “He had better hope the girl has kin with her,” the dwarf observed. “Tourneys always draw more than their share of thieves and charlatans, and that is a pretty prize.”

“Do you always have to sour such sweetness, my lord?” Sansa glared at Tyrion. She had been as caught up in the moment as any of the others and did not welcome the images his words summoned. Tyrion nodded at her, his face amused. That made Sansa chide herself silently, acknowledging that his words were true, if harsh.

“I doubt the maid is alone, my lord,” Rose announced to Sansa’s right. “See there, that young man has her look. I think he’s a brother.” And sure enough, the maid with the antler was being led away by a young man who had her fair looks, though his face was stern as he stayed close to her, a warning in his expression and arms, thick and muscled.

“That one has a sound head on his shoulders,” Tyrion announced. “If he’s smart, they’ll go to the city, find a smith or jeweler who will give them a fair price for it.”

“I doubt it’s all gold,” Sansa said. “Most like it’s gold-leaf, covering steel.”

“Indeed but it will be very fine steel, have no doubt of that. And gold-leaf is still gold, or at least that antler’s will be. Lord Renly does take care to wear the best after all.”

That was true enough. Sansa had expected the Lord of Storm’s End to resemble his brother, the antlered giant whose hammer was the stuff of legends. But Renly was not Robert, that had quickly become clear. He looked near a twin to his late brother, all agreed. But he was not the same caliber of warrior. While Sansa may have understood that, Renly seemed more concerned with appearances and courtesies than was expected, even compared to other southern lords. He was also reckless, often off doing something in the city that made one roll their eyes or gasp to hear. Nevertheless his looks, charm, and easy ways made him a favorite of the smallfolk. For all his House had done in the past, there seemed to be little ill-will amongst the royal family or the court towards him as well. Sansa thought him frivolous and impulsive, though his charismatic looks and friendly nature had softened her towards him.

As Renly and Ser Balon left the field, Sansa took the time to observe the grand spectacle around her.. The stands were filled with all manner of lords and ladies, all clad in their best as she was, looking every inch the noble court her mother had told her tales of. The smallfolk were less so, less well-kept and more ragged, but even they seemed cheerful and excited, a far cry from the poor souls who made their homes in Flea Bottom, as Sansa had come to learn to her shock and sadness. Alys believed the City Watch may had something to do with that, helping to keep those who looked to ill-kept or poor from approaching to make the commons appear healthier and happier. Sansa thought it unlikely that Aegon or Elia would countenance such a thing, though she could not speak for the Hand or the goldcloaks Lord-Commander.

After glancing at the commons, Sansa refocused on the dais. She was sitting in a place of honor, to the front of the stands just to the left of the center. The guards and sworn shields of various houses patrolled around it to ensure no mischief or trouble was made. Clustered with her among the rest of the lords and ladies were her companions, along with Margaery and hers. Rhaenys and Daenerys had been seated at the center’s right, the one place besides the center itself that was a higher placement than where Sansa and Margaery sat.

Most of the court was there, with only a few exceptions. While Cersei had finally emerged from her seclusion to attend the tourney, her beauty and smile earning cheers from the smallfolk, Princess Visenya remained at the Red Keep under close watch by Maester Pycelle and a small army of wetnurses, maids, and servants. Queen Elia also remained at the castle, promising to emerge for and preside over the feasting and merriment that would come once the tourney was over. The Spider was also absent, although the rest of the small council was in attendance when they were not in session.

And in the center of the stands where the court watched sat four chairs, three of them empty. Viserys sat in one, his nearest the edge to be seated close to Cersei. Two were for the missing monarchs, the one at the edge of the Seven Kingdoms, the other absent by choice. The third empty seat belonged to the crown prince. But unlike his father and mother, Aegon was not absent from the tourney or jousts. Far from it.

Sure enough, trumpets sounded, announcing the beginning of the next tilt while a herald shouted out, “Aegon of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, challenges Ser Loras of Highgarden!”

Jeyne squealed in excitement behind Sansa. “Oh, the prince and the Knight of Flowers! I cannot decide who I wish to win!”

“I am for Aegon,” Sansa declared. Rose nodded in agreement. Margaery looked torn. “How am I to choose between my intended and my brother?”

“Do not fret, my lady,” Elinor Tyrell assured her cousin, “We will cheer on Loras. You can urge Prince Aegon on, it will balance it all out.”

Margaery’s other cousins nodded behind the older girl. It was common enough for a relation or two to be among a highborn lady’s attendants, but Margaery had elected for all her handmaids to be Tyrell cousins. Well, all save for a couple that Margaery said was traveling back to King's Landing from Highgarden. The Tyrell had not told Sansa anything more save that she expected they would like the Stark, and her them.

Sansa thought Margaery's use of her kin this way both kind and clever. Family is more trustworthy than any other.

As they watched, the two young riders came into view. Aegon rode a bay mare, which snorted and swished her tail as the prince rode forward. He was dressed in jet-black armor, with a red-steel dragon rearing against his chest. His helm was set between a pair of dragon wings. The visor of the helm was lifted, showing a confident smile and excited eyes as Aegon rode down the line while commons and court both filled the air with cheers for their prince. This had already been a momentous occasion for the prince; as a mark of his sixteenth nameday and entry into manhood, Ser Arthur had dubbed him a knight the morning before the jousts had begun, to the delight of all. None questioned the prince’s skill, and many thought it over overdue. And so far, that confidence had been borne out as two hedge knights of no renown, Gregor Clegane’s younger brother Sandor, and Beric Dondarrion had all been felled by Aegon’s lance, with varying degrees of grace.

All can see that he is a worthy prince, Sansa thought to herself. With him and Jon, along with Dany and Rhaenys, we are all well served. For a moment she thought of Viserys, but she quickly pushed the thought of the king’s arrogant younger brother away. Viserys had been a challenger earlier and managed to unhorse both Ser Mandon Moore and Devan Lannister, a cousin of his lady wife. He had been defeated by Ser Arthur the day before, though, and while he had made a show of shaking the knights hand afterwards, all the court knew the king’s brother had been in a foul temper for the rest of the day.

As the only royal in attendance who was not participating, Viserys was officially the one presiding over the tourney, even though all knew Lord Connington was the one who truly saw that all was as it should. Given all that she had learned of her betrothed’s uncle, Sansa expected that did not sit well with the prince either. Married to a great beauty, blood of kings and princes, but that is not enough for him. He wants more.

Behind Sansa, Rose leaned in to whisper, “That is not the horse he rode earlier. The same color, but he had a stallion then. Do you think it is injured?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa replied. “Maybe, or maybe it just got tired.”

“Knights are supposed to use the same horse for the whole of the tourney, though,” Rose protested quietly.

“He is the crown prince. I doubt that rule applies to him. Perhaps it is the same horse and you just don’t recognize it.” That made some sense to Sansa. Rose had been stuck helping with Princess Visenya for most of the tilting. She had only just managed to come down with Sansa, so it was more than possible.

“You think I cannot tell the difference between a stallion and a mare?”

“I know you can, what I meant was-” Sansa cut herself off and held up a hand to Rose as Aegon’s opponent came into view.

Not far behind the prince, Loras Tyrell followed, riding a snow-white mare that seemed to dance as he rode it, making many a lady gasp at the sight. The steel of the youth’s armor was fashioned to resemble a great bed of roses, all manor of colors and sizes. He had a great cloak of roses sown together that his horse wore while he tilted, and made a show of plucking one and presenting it to one of the women in the stands or among the commons whenever he won a match. His enameled helm remained off for the moment as he followed Aegon down the line, presenting himself to the crowds who cheered almost as loudly for him as they did the prince.

While she could not deny the youth’s talent, Sansa found it difficult to like Margaery’s brother. Loras had been nothing but courteous to her and all the other ladies she saw him with, but Sansa had heard that those courtesies rarely extended to those deemed beneath his station save during a tourney. It was not that Loras was violent or cruel, more indifferent from what she had gleaned. Still, it was a far cry from the true generosity and care that Margaery demonstrated towards the smallfolk, which had sharpened Sansa’s opinion of the Knight of Flowers. But he was also a favored son of a Great House and the future queen’s brother, so Sansa never allowed herself to be anything but polite in return. It did help that Loras, while being counted among the prince’s companions, had as little patience for certain others near Aegon as Sansa did.

As they reached the center of the track, both the riders stopped. Aegon lowered his lance until it rested just a couple of feet in front of Margaery, a silent request in the act that the lady was quick to respond to. Standing for all to see, she reached outward to tie her favor about the lance, a white cloth embroidered with red and gold roses in gold thread. To their right, Loras asked the same of Rhaenys, who also offered her favor, an orange piece of silk with a red dragon breathing golden flames upon it. Seeing the two do so brought a vision before Sansa’s eyes, one of Jon lowering his lance so that she might grant him her favor, the court and crowd cheering as she did so. Then she shook herself, refusing to let her imagination run wild as the trumpeters sounded the call once again.

Aegon and Loras both turned and went to their ends of the list. Once their helms were affixed and visors lowered, they each took up a lance. After a few moments, the flag waved and the contest began. The first tilt broke both lances but neither of the young knights lost his seat. It was the same result the second time, and the third. Before Sansa knew it, they had broken nine lances against one another in an impressive display of horsemanship and lance work that had her and all the other spectators shouting themselves hoarse. Cries of “Prince Aegon” and “Highgarden” and “Loras” and “Targaryen” echoed as they all urged their favorite onward.

On the tenth tilt, half those calls turned into curses and gasps as the Knight of Flowers tumbled from his saddle. The fall was hard, but Loras quickly stilled the onlookers by coming to his knees and removing his helm. His expression was dazed yet showed no sign of injury. Aegon rode up to his companion and reached an arm down which the Tyrell took. The prince helped Loras to his feet while Sansa, the court, and the commons all cheered this display of chivalry.

“A fine display,” Tyrion said from his place, a few seats away from Sansa. “I must thank Prince Aegon later. He just won me a hundred dragons from Lord Renly.”

“I thought it forbidden for those tilting to place wagers,” Margaery said, her disapproving tone at odds with her amused expression.

“I will not tell anyone and ask that you do not either.” Tyrion shrugged. “It was an honest bet, after all. No one can think that either of them would throw a match, they are both too proud for that. That’s the only reason the ban was introduced- to discourage cheating of that sort.”

“I will say nothing, Lord Tyrion,” Margaery assured him while Sansa and the others nodded. After that, Sansa looked back toward the track, where she saw men removing the splintered lances from earlier and raking the sand for the next tilt.

The tourney was close to the end. The melee and archery contests had been held before the tilts began, rather than after as was normal. The former had been won by Thoros of Myr, his flaming sword proving more than a match for the rest of the combatants. As for the archery competition, the prize had gone to Arthur Peake, who had out-shot Theon Greyjoy, Balon Swann and a common boy named Anguy at a hundred paces. And after two days of tilting, they had finally come to the semifinals.

With Aegon’s victory, that left four riders to compete in the final tilts. Along with the crown prince, Arthur Dayne, Balon Swann, and Gregor Clegane were in the running. If she had to bet, Sansa expected the Sword of the Morning to win the champion’s purse. The Kingsguard was older than any of the other contenders, but Ser Arthur was also the most renowned by far. Judging from the worry Sansa saw on Margaery’s face, she guessed the Tyrell was concerned that Aegon might end up tilting against the Mountain.

Fortunately, the herald’s next call banished those fears. “Ser Gregor, of House Clegane, challenges Ser Arthur of the Kingsguard!”

“Fight well, Ser Arthur!” Sansa called out. Most of the court joined her, including Margaery and all her companions. Sansa could see Daenerys and Rhaenys doing the same on the other side of the dais. There was not question of who to support in this- the Mountain was a monster of a man who seemed more suited to one of the tales Old Nan used to tell Sansa and her siblings than anything else she had ever seen. Ser Arthur was one of the greatest knights of the Seven Kingdoms, by skill-at-arms and honor alike. This is a joust worthy of a song. The heroic white knight against the Mountain That Rides.

Arthur Dayne did look the perfect white knight. Riding a pale horse with black socks, the knight wore the white cloak and armor of the Kingsguard, and the falling star of House Dayne emblazoned on his shield. His helm had no visor, instead a T-shaped gap that allowed the crowds to see his eyes and face. There were no vainglorious acts from him, no roses or golden antlers to present to the smallfolk. He did not have to resort to such things. All loved him anyway, for they knew him for what he was- a true knight..

Soon after the Mountain emerged. His size was widely known, but Sansa had still been astounded when she had first seen him ride and remained so now. Near eight feet tall, Clegane wore great steel armor that looked more like stone. His stallion, while also great, looked small compared to the giant who rode him, something that Sansa thought should not have been possible. And over his breastplate the Mountain wore the yellow of his House, with the Clegane hounds racing across it.

An odd, strangled noise came from behind Sansa. She turned to find the source, but all Sansa found was Rose, staring at the Mountain. The color in her cheeks that resembled the girl’s namesake had vanished, her face now as pale as death. Rose’s eyes, normally bright and cheerful, had suddenly lost their light, becoming glassy and cold. And as Sansa watched, her hands curled into balls, grasping at her dress.

“Rose?” Sansa forgot about the tourney entirely as she turned her whole body to face her companion. “Rose, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“No, not him,” the other girl whimpered, starting to tremble as she continued staring past Sansa, her gaze fixed on Gregor Clegane.

“What, him? The Mountain? Why-”

Sansa stopped. She whipped her head around to look at Clegane, riding towards his end of the track. As she saw the giant of a man once more, she recalled that he was a Lannister knight, one duty bound to follow Casterly Rock into war. There was no question that Tywin Lannister counted Clegane among his greatest warriors; such a man would be used whenever battle was joined. And the forces of House Lannister had taken part in the defeat of the Greyjoy rebellion, in the westerlands and the Iron Islands. Including Harlaw…

Rose and Tom had been saved by Jon on Harlaw, that was all Sansa knew of how they came to be in Winterfell. She had never questioned that the ironmen were the true source of their misfortune, of the loss of their mother and home. But now, staring at the Mountain, Sansa suddenly realized that the ironmen may not have been the only ones whose path she and her brother had crossed.

“Oh, gods. Jeyne, why don’t you take Rose-”

“What?! Come on, they’re starting now!” Jeyne Poole replied indignantly. Sure enough, the flag dropped mere moments later and, with a roar, Ser Arthur and the Mountain rode forward, their stallions trumpeting as they surged into a gallop.

“Get him, Ser Arthur!” Rose suddenly surged to her feet her hands releasing her dress to clap together sharply. The handmaid had gone from looking deathly afraid to utterly enraged in an instant as she screamed out, “Kill him! KILL THE MOUNTAIN! DO IT!” Her actions and cries were loud enough that several of those around them looked to see who was causing the fuss, Margaery and her ladies among them. And as she glanced about, Sansa saw Viserys turn to look at them as well, his eyes narrowing as he did so.

Sansa doubted Ser Arthur heard Rose or anyone else properly, but the knight quickly proved his skill once again. As they came together there was the telltale sound of a shattering lance, and while the Sword of the Morning rode forward unscathed, the Mountain fell, his armored form so heavy that he dragged his  mount to the ground with him. The sound of their falling and the cheer that followed refocused the attention of the people around them on the track, a distraction that Sansa was quick to seize on. She quickly stood and took one of Rose’s arms.

“Jeyne, help me take Rose away from here.” Jeyne looked ready to protest one more, but Sansa’s expression left no room for argument and so, with a sigh, her other companion also rose to take Rose’s other arm. Rose did not resist them, her form almost limp as she continued to stare at the Mountain, who had managed to come free of his saddle and removed his helm.

With an angry roar, Clegane kicked the barrier that separated the two sides of the track, the force of it cracking the wood and sending shards flying. When his stallion whinnied in fright, the Mountain turned and, with a closed steel fist, struck the horse’s muzzle, causing its head to snap back. Not satisfied just with that, the Mountain closed his other fist and brought it down as well, burying it in the stallion’s neck. Even at a distance, Sansa swore she could hear the crunching of bone as its head slumped to the ground, its eyes glazing over.

The cheers had quickly turned into shouts and cries of horror and anger. The commons looked ready to bolt, the court seemed mute or frozen or both, and the Mountain was not done, instead continuing to bring his fists down on the corpse of his stallion.

“That’s enough,” A voice shouted from behind the Mountain. Clegane turned to find Ser Arthur Dayne just a few feet behind him. The knight had dismounted and held Dawn in his hands. Sansa did not know how or who, but she was suddenly seized by the certainty that the Sword of the Morning would make short work of the Mountain.

However, the steel giant apparently recognized the folly of fighting the Kingsguard when he was unarmed. With an angry glare, Clegane turned and walked away. Some knights and goldcloaks moved to bar his path, but Viserys called for them to stand down, and soon the Mountain vanished from sight, though not soon enough.

“Well, I expect they’ll wait a bit for the last two matches,” Margaery observed. “Elinor, be a dear and help Lady Sansa bring Rose somewhere she can rest. She appears to need it badly.”

The lady’s cousin quickly nodded and stood, taking Sansa’s place at Rose’s side. “There are some tents by the knights where lords and ladies can go to see a healer. That should do.”

As Elinor and Jeyne began leading Rose away, Sansa swore she heard her friend murmur, “They should have killed him.” Before she could follow, though, a cold voice called out to her.

“Lady Sansa, hold there.” Taking a deep breath, Sansa turned to find Viserys had returned to looking at her, his expression cold as beckoned to her with a finger. Knowing she could not refuse, Sansa approached the dais, stopping at its edge. Once she was there, Viserys stood and walked to the edge as well, coming to stand just in front of her. Because the dais was raised he was a couple of feet above her, a distance he closed by crouching, bringing his face within a few inches of Sansa’s.

“What was that commotion during the tilt?” The question sounded innocent but Sansa knew it was anything but. Viserys was a man who enjoyed his amusements, and he did not care for interruptions.

“That was my companion. She was…carried away by the excitement, that is all. It was quite a sight, after all.” Sansa was careful in her phrasing. It was true enough, so hopefully Viserys would be satisfied with that.  Unfortunately, the prince had no intention of dropping the matter so quickly.

"A commotion. Well, that is one word for it.” Viserys glanced at the retreating forms of the ladies before returning it to Sansa. “I could have sworn I heard a lady’s voice calling for the death of Ser Gregor. Am I mistaken?”

“No, my prince. As I said, Rose was just carried away. She will be seen to, I assure you.”

“The assurance of a Stark. How comforting.” Viserys’ mouth twisted into a smirk. His eyes dropped and then rose again, taking in Sansa’s whole form in an instant. She had made sure to dress properly for such an occasion, dressing in the southern style favored by the court that while modest enough showed more of her form than she was used to. Sansa found her eyes narrowing at that but stopped herself from reacting any further.

Behind Sansa, a voice chimed in. “Oh, leave it be, Prince Viserys.” Tyrion had shifted to look at them. “The girl’s not to blame for her handmaid’s words. As for the maid herself, she hardly the first one to wish Ser Gregor ill. It happens all the time, even in Casterly Rock. As we can all plainly see, he is not hurt by them.”

The dwarf’s tone was light and amused, which was in stark contrast to the serious expression he wore, his mismatched eyes filled with warning as he looked past Sansa towards the king’s brother. After a few moments, Viserys scowled and stood upright, stalking back to his chair before motioning towards one of the heralds. Thwarted, it looked as though he was intent on venting his frustration on another.

On his other side, Sansa could see Daenerys and Rhaenys looking towards her and their kinsman. Both looked curious, and she caught some concern in Daenerys' face. Rhaenys' expression was cooler, although Sansa could not tell if it was directed at her or at Viserys.

Sansa turned and walked back towards her seat. Margaery and her cousins all looked concerned, but it was Tyrion Sansa turned towards. “Thank you, my lord. I hope that will not cause you trouble later. I do not wish for Prince Viserys to be angry with you.”

“Viserys has a habit of being vexed by me. Like Gregor, he finds himself untouched.” The dwarf gave a short bow. “Think nothing of it, my lady. Families squabble. It is not the first time my goodbrother and I have done so, and probably won’t be the last.”

Tyrion waddled forward until he was at Jeyne’s now empty seat. Once he was there, he looked at Sansa, who nodded her permission. The Imp sat, settling himself between Sansa and the dais.

“There is not much he could have done, but I still felt a little afraid,” Sansa admitted.

“That is wise of you. True, Viserys is not such a fool as to do anything to his nephew’s betrothed before all the court and commons with swords sworn to her lord father a shout away. But circumstances change, and one can never go wrong watching their words and actions when in the presence of dragons.” Tyrion glanced at her. “But then, it seems you hardly arrived here before you and my sister were quarreling.”

“She is not a dragon, only married to one.”

“True, but a lion is a dangerous beast as well, no matter our size.” The dwarf grinned at his jest, but Sansa was not amused.

“So is a direwolf. Dangerous and proud. And we always protect our own.”

“Oh, I know. One of House Stark’s better features, that loyalty.” Tyrion motioned towards the empty place where Rose had sat. “Your companion is living proof of that. Your betrothed is a Targaryen but the Stark blood runs strong in him, no man can deny that.”

Sansa glanced at the empty seat before looking back at Tyrion. “You know about Rose? How she came to be with Jon?”

“Know of her? I was there when that awful business was done, my dear lady.” Tyrion’s smile had turned grim, but it slowly faded as he searched Sansa’s face. “You do not know what happened, do you? No, of course not. You would not have allowed her here if you had, would not have let her anywhere near Ser Gregor. I thought that was part of the reason she was kept in the Red Keep for the last few days. This must be an unpleasant surprise then.”

“Enough.” Sansa did not like the pity on the dwarf’s face. “Tell me what happened.”

“I am not sure that is wise. If you lord father and betrothed said nothing, and the girl and her brother the same, it may not be my place-”

“Lord Tyrion, drop this pretense.” Margaery’s face had lost all its softness. Her eyes cold and expression determined, the Tyrell stared at the Lannister. “You do not get to say so much without truly saying anything, not this time. You will straighten your tongue and tell Lady Sansa what she asks to know.”

And what you wish to. Sansa had no doubt that Margaery’s curiosity had been peaked as well, but that was not her primary concern right now. Her first concern was her friend, and that meant accepting the lady’s help.

“Very well. I suppose some details are required, though nothing too grisly.” Tyrion shifted in his seat, his expression uncomfortable. “Well, Lady Sansa, I am sure you know that your companion and her brother were found by Prince Jon on Harlaw, that they had been taken there by reavers who caught them on the ocean road. The children were being used as labor most like, both on the ship that took them and in the village they were taken to on Harlaw. As for their mother…well, she was still young and beautiful. I hope I do not have to say what reavers do with such women.”

He did not. Maester Luwin had taught Sansa and Robb and Jon such things just in the past year, having been deemed old enough for such knowledge by her father. The very idea made a shiver go up Sansa’s back while a sick feeling took hold in her stomach.

“You know that the prince found them during the fall of Harlaw and took them in. True enough, but not the whole of it. When he encountered them, they and their mother had already been…found by several of my father’s men, led by Ser Gregor. They…well, I will only say that during a war where they had been ordered to bring fire and sword to the enemy, the distinction between the enemy smallfolk and captives was blurred. Were it not for the prince’s and my own intervention, your friend and her brother would be long dead, most like.”

Horror and dread welled in Sansa as she thought of what might have happened to her friend’s family during the Greyjoy Rebellion. She heard Margaery raise her voice, chiding Tyrion for his words, his reminder that she had commanded him speak, the heralds announcing of Prince Aegon’s tilt against Balon Swann for the chance to challenge Arthur Dayne for the champion’s title and purse. But she did not truly hear any of it. Instead, she dwelt on war, on pain and darkness, and prayed silently and fervently to the old gods and the new that the Seven Kingdoms would not see such horror again while she lived.

Chapter Text

Arya

The ground under her was hard, her feet sore from racing through the trees of the godswood. Arya whipped her head about, looking for any sign of her pursuer but saw nothing to give away their presence. After pausing for a few moments, the young Stark began running once more, clutching at the length of wood in her hand. She practically dove through the old forest around her as she neared her goal.

But the gods were not having it. They made that clear when Arya turned past a tree only to be pounced on by the one hunting her. Arya yelped as she was knocked to the ground, landing on her rear as her protection rolled away from her. The Stark’s opponent stood above her, staring with a look that seemed almost smug. She gave a bark of excitement.

“Oh, shut up!” Arya exclaimed, shoving Nymeria back as she stood back up. She turned to pick up the branch, nodding approvingly when she saw it was unbroken from the fall. Arya then turned back to the direwolf. “Good thing you didn’t break it. Bran would have laughed.” Nymeria just stretched in reply before turning and running towards the entrance of the godswood, the original target of Arya’s run. With a sigh, Arya followed her. I’m going to beat you one day, girl. Just wait and see.

This had become a regular exercise for the two of them. Every day or two Arya would walk with Nymeria to the part of the godswood furthest from its entrance. She would then bid Nymeria wait and start running. Arya whistled sharply to let Nymeria know when to start moving, and the two would race to either get to the entrance first or catch the other. Arya had yet to win. They were usually alone, but sometimes Bran and Summer joined them, with her little brother having no better luck winning the game then Arya.

Summer. Arya shook her head, still disappointed with how ordinary the name was. Not the wolf himself- he was amazing. Not as strong as Grey Wind or fast as Nymeria, not as graceful as Lady or mysterious as Ghost, and certainly not as wild as Shaggydog, but amazing nonetheless. He acted the most human of the litter. Which only made her stupid brother’s name for him annoy Arya even more.

With a wistful look at the godswood, Arya followed her companion back into the open air of Winterfell. Nymeria was waiting at the entryway and ran ahead once Arya reached her. The direwolf was heading towards the Great Keep, and Arya continued to trail her. It was later in the afternoon, but there was still activity all around her.

In the past few days, that activity had grown, as more and more people gathered in Winterfell. Most of them were men, either regular guards and soldiers or else levies, made up of farmers and craftsmen, smiths and laborers. They were all gathered by their lords to defend House Stark and the North. There were also those who supported the warriors, boys who saw to armor and horses and food, laundresses and seamstresses to help with clothes. Apparently, there were some people the soldiers called “whores” wandering around as well. Arya had asked Septa Mordane about them, but the septa had smacked the back of her hands and told her not to pay attention to such things. Maester Luwin had been the same, telling Arya young ladies should not concern themselves with matters like that.

As she and Nymeria entered the Great Keep, Arya saw Tom talking with two older boys. The latter wore the badges of House Glover, a silver fist on scarlet. They had confident looks on their faces, just like the ones she had seen on many of the younger men who came to Winterfell in the last few weeks. It’s like they all have just a few thoughts between them all.

“You wait and see,” The shorter of the two said, nodding. “The wildlings won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Yeah.” His skinny companion nodded along. “I’m gonna kill ten-no, twenty of ’em. Then Lord Tallhart will give me a holdfast and some land, ’cause lords do that for heroes.”

Tom laughed at that. “You kill the King-Beyond-the-Wall and you might get that, I grant you. But no one is getting land for killing wildlings. That is what we’re all heading up there to do.”

“Well, we might get coin,” Skinny said, a flush coming into his cheeks. “I heard the Umber’s pay a bounty for wildings. A silver for every scalp.”

“That’s a silver a head, dolt,” Shorty, nudging him with an elbow. “And Lord Glover’s not givin’ coin for anything like that. We ain’t that luc- bloody ‘ell!” The youth took a few rapid steps back, eyes wide as Nymeria padded forward to sniff at him. Skinny did the same, hands forming fists at his sides.

Arya grinned, walking up to stand next to the direwolf. “Don’t worry. She only bites if I tell her to.” It was not true- Nymeria was smart, but she hadn’t bitten anyone yet. No one Arya knew of, anyway. Still, it had the intended effect as the two boys turned pale.

Tom ruined it, though. “She’s fine. Nymeria won’t bite you.” He looked at Arya. “Robb was looking for you. Something about your needle.” Tom sounded confused, like he did not know why the Stark heir would bother with something silly like that. Arya resisted the urge to smirk at the youth.

Shorty regained some of his courage and tried to pet Nymeria. He reached out his hand to stroke her head, but snatched it back when the direwolf growled at him. He gave Arya a dirty look. “What’s a boy like you doing with a damn wolf for a pet?”

“I’m a girl!” Arya protested. She looked down to see her tunic and pants were filthy, covered in dirt and leaves from the godswood. She did not look anything like a lady was supposed to. A point that was driven home by the skeptical looks of the two youths. “My name’s Arya! Arya Stark!”

“Stark?” Shorty laughed. “You think I’m gonna fall for that? The Starks rule the whole North. They don’t go running around gettin’ dirty like that, especially not the ladies.”

“Well, maybe during a war,” Skinny said thoughtfully. “A real lord ain’t afraid of gettin’ dirty during a battle, right?” The two nodded at each other, heads bobbing in a way that was almost funny. Arya wasn’t laughing though, on account of them calling her a liar.

“I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, and this is my direwolf Nymeria! Tom knows I’m telling the truth,” She gestured towards Tom, who was biting his lip to try to hide his smile, “and if you don’t believe me, ask my brothers Robb or Bran or Rickon!” Skinny and Shorty looked at each other. Arya could tell they were less sure of their earlier words, so she kept pressing. “How about Lord Glover? Do you know him? Because I do, and I doubt he’s going to like that two of his men insulted Lord Stark’s daughter! So, you better say sorry or I will make sure he hears about it! Him and my brother Robb! And that’s after I’m done with you!” Arya brandished her stick as she did, as if it were steel instead of wood.

The two boys still looked unsure. They did not seem very bright. Shorty glanced at Tom. “It true? Is she a lady?”

Tom nodded. “Aye, she is. See the wolf? Robb Stark has one too, him and all the others. Don’t you know what that means? The direwolf’s the symbol of House Stark. They’re gifts from the old gods.”

Shorty and Skinny looked awestruck and frightened. After a few moments, they muttered apologies to Arya that did not sound sincere. She took it though, not wanting to start the fight again. Still, Arya could not resist the smug look her face got when they bowed their heads to her.

“Oi! What are you doing here?!” She turned to see a man walking towards them. He was about her brother Jon’s height but looked strong like Robb. He had shoulder-length dark brown hair and a beard, and blue-green eyes that reminded Arya of her father’s. They had the same stern look in them as he approached them. As he got closer, she saw that his surcoat was black with a white tree on it. The tree had a black sword on its trunk, pointing downwards. She glanced at Skinny and Shorty, both of whom looked even more cowed.

The man glanced at her and Tom before turning his hard gaze to the two boys. “Lord Glover is still waiting on the blankets for the horses. Where are the blankets? And why are you here instead of on the way back from the stores?”

Shorty and Skinny started to stammer apologies but the man cut them off with an abrupt gesture. “Get to it! I’ll let you off this time, but if I find you lollygagging again I’ll beat you so hard your mothers back at Deepwood Motte feel it!”

They did not stick around to hear more, almost running in their haste to leave the hall. As they left, the man turned to look at Tom and Arya again. “Lady Arya. I hope they weren’t causing you any trouble.”

“No, they were just being stupid boys.” Tom gave her an offended look. “What? They were.” Arya looked at the man, whose lips had twitched into an amused grin. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Rodrik. My father is Gregor of House Forrester, Lord of Ironrath.” Rodrik bowed his head to Arya before holding out a hand to Nymeria. The direwolf walked up and sniffed his hand for a few moments, then licked it gently. “We’re bannermen to Lord Glover.”

“I know. Maester Luwin taught me about your family.” Arya looked at Rodrik curiously. “Do you have any ironwood with you? Father only showed us some old pieces and they were chairs.”

The northman laughed. “We make things like chairs and tables, true, but much more than that also. All our men have ironwood shields, and we brought another few hundred to help arm the Glover men. We gave one to your brother too, with a direwolf on it. I expect he will show it to you if you ask.”

Arya grinned. Robb would- he could never resist showing off. She glanced at Tom, who looked a little jealous although he was trying to hide it. She looked at Rodrik. “Could we have a couple? What about my other brothers?”

Rodrik looked taken aback. “Well, they’re a little young. I don’t think we have shields for lads their size. Yours neither, my lady.”

“Don’t call me a lady,” Arya muttered, uncomfortable with the formality. “Sansa’s the lady, not me.” And a princess soon enough.

Arya was happy for Sansa, truly. She and Jon had liked each other for as long as she could remember, and she would make a wonderful princess. But that was not Arya. She wanted nothing to do with that nonsense. She was going to be a great warrior, like the first Nymeria or Queen Visenya. And she did not appreciate this man dismissing her request for a shield.

He seemed to realize that. "But I'm sure your brother could have one made. Ask him- I'm sure he will ask my father to do so." As Arya smiled triumphantly Rodrik turned towards Tom. “We may have one that could fit you, lad. Will you be marching with us?”

Tom nodded, an eager look on his face. “If Lord Stark calls for us to march to Castle Black I’m going.” He looked at Rodrik, his eagerness turning to uncertainty. “Do you think he will? Some of the men talk like he may not.”

“I can’t say. It depends on the wildlings, where they are and how many.” The Forrester looked at Tom and Arya. “It does not truly matter. The wildlings have been trying to take the North for thousands of years. They always fail, and they will this time too.” Rodrik looked certain and grim, a distant look in his eyes. He quickly shook it off and turned to Arya. “Well, my duties need seeing to. Lady Arya.”

She rolled her eyes but nodded as he gave her a slight bow and Tom a nod. Rodrik patted Nymeria on the head once before turning and walking from the hall. Tom’s eyes followed him. “If all the men were like that, no one would ever beat the North.

“No one ever has,” Arya said confidently. “Not for long, anyway. The North endures.” Those were the words her father used, and all the history Luwin taught her said it was true. They had resisted wildlings and ironmen and Andals for thousands of years. Even the dragons had not conquered the North, not truly. Torrhen had bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror, but the North remained strong and House Stark with it.

The thought of Torrhen and Aegon brought another thought to Arya. “And Sansa and Jon can make sure the king helps. That’s probably why he went up to the Wall with Father.”

Tom looked skeptical, but he did not press the point. “I just hope we get back before Rose does.” The youth’s voice became wistful, smiling at the thought. “It’s only proper- she goes south and comes back a lady while I go north and come back a proven warrior.”

“I bet she will,” Arya said with a nod. “Sansa’s letters said she was doing well.” She gave Tom a smirk. “You, on the other hand…”

Tom tried to cuff her, but Arya dodged with a laugh. Nymeria barked, which brought him to a halt fast. He gave her a glare. “If she wasn’t here, I’d smack you like Robb says you need.”

“But she is,” Arya replied with a grin. “Not that you could smack me anyway.” She held up her branch for emphasis.

He rolled his eyes. “Tree branches and shields. I thought ladies were supposed to be busy with things like harps and needles.”

“I do like needles,” Arya agreed. If only he knew. “I was on my way to go play with one, actually. Tell Robb if you see him. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She did not wait, turning and walking off while Nymeria trotted alongside her. Knowing Tom, he was probably making a face or one of those hand gestures that had gotten Robb punished by their mother. His hands had been so bruised he had not been able to use a sword for three days. Jon had thought it funny while Sansa had scolded him and Robb while helping to treat her brother’s bruises. Father just told Robb to never do it again. That a lord kept tighter control of his temper than others.

The thought made Arya think of her family. She and her brothers felt their absence keenly- Father had gone to the Wall before, but Sansa had never been outside the North. Now she and Jon and Mother were all in the south, all in or heading to King’s Landing. Bran and Rickon both got upset more easily than normal. Summer helped Bran, but Shaggydog was getting more and more wild, same as Rickon. Septa Mordane and Luwin did their best, but they could only do so much. It was better when Bran and Arya tried. Still, Rickon had a long way to go.

Robb was another matter entirely. He was the Stark in Winterfell and had been acting like it more and more since Father and Mother had left. At first it had been simple things like seeing to appointments and supplies with Luwin, things that seemed easy enough. Sansa and I could have done that, Jon too. The real changes had been when lords and their men had arrived at Winterfell. When they did, Arya watched as Robb became Lord Robb of Winterfell. He became colder and harder, treating every northern lord and lady he met with the icy courtesy she had seen Father use when they visited him. She knew why he did it. These are tests. They are testing their future lord, seeing if he is strong or not.

It seemed Robb was. The northern lords who had come- Lord Glover, Lady Dustin, Ser Helman, and some lesser lords like Forrester- all acted respectful towards him and Arya and their brothers. They wondered if Robb would come with them to the Wall. Arya did not know. Neither did Robb, which made him angry. He only showed it a couple times, but she and her brothers had seen it.

Arya finally reached her chambers. She opened the door and glanced around. Stepping inside, she closed the door and walked over to her bed. Crouching, she felt around until her fingers found what she was looking for. Arya smiled as she dragged it out and looked down at it. My favorite needle. The only one I need.

The thin blade winked at Arya in the candlelight. It was made in the Braavosi fashion, used with one hand and swifter than any of the “proper” swords Robb and the soldiers in Winterfell used. Arya made sure to practice with it every night, fighting her shadow while Nymeria watched. She knew her mother would not approve, but Arya knew she would eventually. The others do. Robb, Sansa, Father. Jon too.

Her cousin had gotten Needle for her. It had been a parting gift, made for her by the castle smith Mikken. Jon had told her where its design came from, how her size and speed made it a great fit for her. “Practice on your own at first. After you are done with that, practice with Robb or Bran. With branches or broom handles first- don’t want to cut someone. Run, make yourself stronger and faster. And whatever you do…”

“Don’t let Mordane find out,” Arya murmured, grinning at the memory. They had said it together and laughed. It was a good memory, one of the better ones right before he and the others left. It was a favorite, along with the memory of smirking when she saw Sansa’s face with that dagger. Father had it made and given to her after Arya suggested it. Only fair she got her own blade.

Needle surged forward in a stab, the candle’s flame flickering with the wind it made. Arya lifted a foot, balancing on the other carefully as she stretched out her arm. The arm holding Needle began to move, back and forth, up and down, forward and backward.

From her letters, Sansa was doing well. Jeyne Poole and Rose were also, although Rose had taken ill during the tourney. Arya was sorry to hear that, but Rose was strong. She would get better in no time. Arya had been more interested in Prince Aegon’s appointment as Hand of the King. He was the youngest since Prince Valarr, almost a hundred years ago. Sansa was living in interesting times in the south.

Jon and Mother would be with her before much longer. Mother’s last letter said they were leaving the Eyrie and heading to Gulltown, to sail for the capital. Once they were there Mother would stay for a month, maybe a little longer, and then she would return. Arya had to admit she looked forward to it. If anyone could rein in Rickon it was Mother, and Father would be back before much longer. Eventually Jon and Sansa would be back too. Sooner or later, the pack would reunite.

Arya kept at it for another hour. She did not stop until all her limbs were sore. Once she was, she yawned, wincing a bit as she knelt and put Needle back in its sheath and under the bed. Glancing out the window to check the light, Arya figured it was around lunchtime. Time enough for a nap.

Yawning again, Arya walked over and opened the door for Nymeria. “Go on. Bother Summer and Shaggy, and make sure the boys aren’t getting in trouble.” The direwolf blinked at Arya before walking out, glancing back before turning to trot down the hallway. She usually slept when Arya did, but Nymeria had been growing more and more independent as she grew larger. It made Arya a little sad, but she knew it happened like that. Direwolves were not hounds. They had their own way of doing things, and they did not let others dictate that.

The young Stark walked over to her bad and climbed on top, not bothering with a blanket. It was cool but not cold, and Arya was still hot from her training.

She did not stay awake for long. Once her head hit the pillow, the exhaustion from all her running and practice surging over her like the tide. Arya felt warmer, and started to drift away…

She was walking in the courtyard of Winterfell. She felt…different. She was stronger and faster, her limbs more powerful than normal. And all four of them were on the ground. The air was full of smells and noises she would not normally notice, but she did now. Her ears twitched, catching the sound of laughter and cursing and barked commands. If they saw her, they paid her no mind. She raised her head and smelled the air. Sweat and steel and blood were the strongest. The latter made her heart race, her claws digging into the dirt beneath her paws.

And then another smell came to her nose. It was one of the others. The strong brother is out here.

She followed the smell, running through the men and women and entering the trees. This was the best part of this place- here she and the others could run and track and play. She did the second now, following the scent as she moved through the trees, silent as a shadow.

It did not take long. She heard him before she saw him. Him and the others. She slowed down, going from a trot to a slow walk. She was mindful of her steps, lowering herself so her belly was only just above the ground.

Peering ahead through the underbrush, she saw the strong brother. With him were some men and a woman, including one of the two that had found her and the others. Robb, a part of her whispered. Robb and Jon found you.

Everything said he was agitated- his movement, his scent, and above all his voice. It was harsh and hot. Angry. “You expect me to believe the Lord-Commander sent Father into this, this assassination and knew nothing of it?! You have a lot of faith in Stannis Baratheon, Maester Luwin. Too much.”

“Not faith my lord, just past experience and sense.” The man speaking was old, with a chain around his neck and robes that smelled of ravens and strange smells she did not know. “If the whole of the Watch were a part of this, Lord Baratheon would have acted at Castle Black. Waiting to commit this treason in the wilds was foolish- at one of the forts there would have been no chance of escape. Doing it like this left a chance that the net could be slipped. A slim one, but a chance. Lord Stark was fortunate.”

“I doubt Father sees it that way. Where are they now?”

“We received ravens from Last Hearth and Karhold. Ser Rodrik is returning to Winterfell to serve as castellan. Lord Stark and Ser Humfrey have taken a ship from the coast near Karhold to head south. Your lord father’s letter said he should be the one to…inform His Grace’s family of what happened.”

“They’ll hear about it before then.” The old man and young man both glanced at one of the others standing there, an older man whose coverings were marked by trees. “Word of this will spread, my lord. And when word reaches King’s Landing the whole of the south will be calling for blood.”

“Damn Targaryens.” The woman spoke. She was old and short, but she smelled of blood and steel. She was dangerous. “The fool could have sent men to look for him but decides to go himself, to a place full of men with reason to hate him. What madness seized him? Now every lickspittle in King’s Landing who think us traitors will use this as an excuse for war.”

There was silence after this. She shifted behind her cover, watching them. Her brother growled, the tension of the people agitating him. It did the same to her, but she did not let the growl leave her lips. She had to be quiet, like the silent brother.

“Perhaps we should prepare,” the man with trees said slowly. “Many of us have already called our bannermen. We could redirect our men south, fortify the coasts and the Neck…”

“Father is sailing to the south, and my mother and sister are already there.” The young one looked at him, his anger visible. “If we are to do anything, it will have to be smarter than that, Ser Helman.”

The older man flushed, falling silent. The chained man used it to speak. “Lord Stark’s presence may help things, my lord. If the Lord of Winterfell were part of this conspiracy, then why would he send one of his children to court and then go himself not long afterwards? It could convince the new king that the North was not involved in this treason, that we remain loyal.”

The young one was quiet, thoughtful. He stroked the strong brother’s head before speaking. “The men of the North were marching to the Wall. We will continue to do so. To face Mance Raydar and put down the traitors who killed our king.” He glanced towards the chained man. “Send word to White Harbor. Lord Manderly is to repair the walls and keep them well-manned. Ser Helman, Lord Galbart, each of you will provide a hundred archers to fortify Moat Cailin. We will not leave ourselves vulnerable if the worst should happen.”

“My lord.” The others around him nodded.

“Luwin.” The chained man bowed his head. “Prepare a letter for King’s Landing. For Prince…King Aegon and the small council. We will reaffirm our allegiance and swear to see these traitors’ dead. I will write one to Sansa myself. It will say the same and warn her to keep her household close and try to avoid notice as much as possible. If some wish to fight a war with House Stark, they may decide it easier to hurt her than to fight us directly.”

“My lord,” the old woman said quietly, “Even if nothing is actually done to her, your sister will probably go from an honored guest to a hostage. A bargaining chip for the Iron Throne.”

The young man paused, taking a few deep breaths. “All we can do to help her is write these letters. That and see the assassins’ heads removed from their shoulders as fast as possible. My cousin and mother are heading to Gulltown to take ship for King’s Landing. We will write to them as well, tell them what happened and ask them to do what they can.”

The strong brother whined, rubbing his head against the young man’s leg. She whined quietly, stepping into the clearing slowly. The older men and woman looked startled and wary, but the young man smiled before kneeling and holding out a hand to her. She walked forward and rubbed her head against the hand. “Hello, Nymeria. Is Arya sleeping well?”

The strong brother rubbed against them both. It soothed her and the young man both. The latter took another deep breath and looked up at them. “Sansa will have Jon and Mother and Father soon. She will be alright until then. She has to be.”

She whined. The one he spoke of was the gentle sister’s. She was strong but kind, and none of the pack was with her. The voice in the back of her mind spoke again. Be careful, Sansa.

Chapter Text

Rhaenys

A wolf was howling. It echoed through the trees, haunting and sad. Rhaenys could hear others howling but they sounded distant, making the one nearby sound less frightening. She tried not to let it get to her and forged ahead, pushing past the bushes and brambles to get through the trees. Rhaenys had to get to them. She could not let anything stop her.

She knew that she was getting closer. As Rhaenys did, a smell reached her nose. It was one she recognized. It was a smell from when Rhaenys truly felt fear for the first time. It was blood. Blood and smoke. Rhaenys felt a growing sense of dread, but she could not stop. She had to keep going.

Suddenly, the trees parted before her. Rhaenys stumbled into the clearing and fell to her knees. She thrust out her hands and stopped herself from falling flat. Her fingers touched something wet. When she raised her hand, it was covered in blood. She looked up and gasped, shock and horror striking into her heart.

A great dragon lay just a few feet away from her. Its size was amazing- one wing was large enough for ten horses to ride abreast under and still have room for Rhaenys. Its scales were deep black, the sunlight reflected off them brilliantly. The blood came from wounds in its chest, dripping down the scales to hit the grassy meadow underneath it. Rhaenys felt herself begin to cry. She could not understand why the dragon was dead. Nearby the wolf howled again, quickly joined by the rest. A few were close, but the others still sounded distant. There were other beasts as well. The forest was full of noise. It had always been there, quiet compared to the wolves, but now it rose until Rhaenys could hardly bear it. She clutched her hands over her ears and ran past the dead dragon. She had to get away. They were coming for her.

The forest became a blur as she ran. The things Rhaenys saw made no sense- a pack of wolves led by a massive she-wolf ran along a riverbank towards a great lion with a fish in its mouth; A stag roared as foxes circled under its feet, nipping at its hooves and ankles; an egg laid in a bed of roses and thorns, while amidst the roots serpents hissed and water began to well up from the ground.

And above them all the other dragons kept fighting. The white and the gold and red were all in the air, trying to tear at each other, roaring and shrieking amidst the clouds and flames. The black dragon remained on the ground, its calls powerful as it spread its wings in display. Its scars added to the fierceness of its appearance as the other black did the same. The power and rage of its cries were belied by its smaller size, but even as the larger black approached it was defiant.

Rhaenys screamed, begging them to stop. She could feel it, the familiar chill that was the beginning of the end. The sun was fading and the bursts of flame the dragons created were not enough as the cold grew. Snow began to fall around her, and the dragons and the little light remaining was vanishing even more quickly. The darkness took the trees and then the skies. The noise of the forest died away as it took the dragons next. The silence was even more deafening than the noise that had preceded it.

And then the darkness took Rhaenys. The last thing she heard was the silence and the last thing she felt was cold.

With a gasp, Rhaenys at up, chest heaving as she tried to slow her breathing. After managing to do so she laid back on the bed, raising a hand to massage her temple. There was a ringing in her ears. She was trying to make it go away when she realized it was not her ears- the Sept of Baelor’s bells were ringing, them and the bells of every other sept in King’s Landing. Just like they had every morning for the past fortnight. The thought made her chest ache as Rhaenys remembered why they were.

The tears were threatening to start again. She bit her lip, breathing in deeply through her nose to stop them. Rhaenys waited for the feeling to pass before rising. She walked to the wardrobe at the wall of her bedchamber and started to search for something to wear.

She was only alone for a few moments. Rhaenys had not shared a bed with a maid since she turned fourteen but appreciated having her companions as close as possible. Tyene walked in from the side chamber where she and Nymeria slept. The Dornishwoman smiled when she saw the princess had risen. “How did you sleep?”

“Poorly.” Rhaenys sighed, eyeing the clothing angrily. “I really hate dreams sometimes. Especially those I cannot remember entirely.”

“Oh? What was the dream of?” Tyene asked while walking up next to Rhaenys. She glanced about for a few moments before picking one out. It was black silk with golden trim. Rhaenys had not worn it since returning from the North. She supposed it was fitting she wore it now. A dark dress for a dark time.

She sighed. “I cannot remember it all. It…there were dragons. I was in a forest with dragons.” Rhaenys frowned, trying to remember as best as could.

Tyene smiled. “Dragon dreams. A good omen.” Normally her sweet tone was feigned, a tool used to win over those who did not know better. It was always real with Rhaenys though. The Sand Snake sighed. “Nymeria checked on your aunt last night. She has not been sleeping well. Princess Daenerys dreams of dark things, Rhae.”

“I’ll go see her. Help me get this on.” Tyene did so, helping Rhaenys to dress quickly. “Who do I have this morning?”

“Benjen Stark.” The Sand Snake’s voice curled with distaste. “His Grace and Ser Arthur overrode any objections. They do not think him a party to…to what happened.”

“Neither do I.” Rhaenys raised an eyebrow at her cousin’s surprised expression. “He has been a guest and servant of the king since the Small Storm, Tyene. If we are looking for assassins in our midst, Benjen Stark is one of the last people we should suspect.”

Tyene raised an eyebrow. “That is remarkably trusting of you, Rhae. Has your aunt’s way of looking at things finally won you over?”

Rhaenys did not bother to reply. Completing her look with a golden necklace inlaid with black opals, she turned to her handmaiden. “Let us go. Dany will be happy to see us.”

They had not seen each other very much since word came from the North. The two of them and Aegon were at the center of much more intimidating security than any of them could remember. A consequence of that was that they did not have as much time together as normal.

They were far from the only ones. Trips into the city or beyond had been curtailed in the name of security- only those members of court who resided outside the Red Keep were allowed to enter or leave, noble and common alike. Every member of the court who had swords sworn to them were accompanied by the men who wielded them. The presence of so many men wielding swords did not help the tense mood of the court. The rest of the capital was in similar circumstances. King’s Landing was much quieter than normal, the tension of Father’s death bleeding into the smallfolk’s mood. The people were afraid. Rightly so.

As they left her chambers Benjen Stark fell in behind them, walking just behind Rhaenys and Tyene. Rhaenys glanced back at him and received a bowed head in reply. The northman’s demeanor had changed since word of Father’s death had come to them. Normally friendly and outgoing, he was now quiet and withdrawn, reminding Rhaenys even more of his older brother. It was not surprising- most of the court held his family responsible at least in part for the death of their king, and there were those who thought House Stark were traitors who conspired with the Night’s Watch to see it done. Some were not shy about saying so, although Aegon’s command that all keep the peace was obeyed for now.

Rhaenys had no reason to love the North or their liege lord, but she doubted Eddard Stark or any of his family would be a party to killing a man they had welcomed into their home and honored as a guest. That was a position shared by most of the royal family, with the notable exceptions of her uncle and his wife.

She shoved thoughts of Viserys and Cersei aside. Dany is more important than either of them, whatever their own thoughts on the matter.

It did not take long to get there- all members of the royal family had chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast and Rhaenys and Dany’s rooms were near by choice. As they approached, Rhaenys saw her great-uncle Lewyn standing outside the door, eyes scanning the hallway watchfully. He smiled when he saw her, bowing his head when she arrived in front of him. “Good morning, princess. How did you sleep?”

Rhaenys gave a small laugh devoid of humor. “Tyene asked me that too. How do you think, Uncle?”

Lewyn’s smile faded. “Sorry. A foolish question.”

“No, I’m sorry,” She replied, her expression remorseful. Seeing his mood change made her feel guilty. You are not the only one suffering.

The knights of the Kingsguard were responding to the assassination differently. Arys Oakheart had become even more uptight and “proper” than ever, as if to prove to the new king that he was worthy of his place. Mandon Moore acted the same as always, his inscrutable expression and voice unchanged even with the death of a king. Benjen Stark had withdrawn into himself, although that was just as likely due to the suspicions and threats directed at him and his family.

Prince Lewyn had become even more watchful and protective of Rhaenys, Aegon, Dany, and Mother. That he was here meant that he had been ordered away from Mother’s side. It happened more often now than before- Mother was more protective as well. She must think she has to be, now that Father is…

Rhaenys took a deep breath. Her great-uncle saw it and stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Steady, princess. There are times to mourn, but you must be strong now. She needs you now,” Lewyn pointed out, nodding towards the door behind him before looking her in the eyes. “They all do.”

She took another deep breath. “How is Mother?”

“Same as yesterday. She went to the sept and sent me to switch with Ser Arys once we returned.” The Dornish prince sighed. “Lord Connington is getting impatient. Thinks the king needs the Queen Mother to be seen publicly, to reassure the court and the people that all is well.”

“‘All is well’?” Rhaenys could not keep the outrage from her voice. “Has Connington lost his mind? My father, his king, is dead! My brother now sits the Iron Throne, and the realm may erupt into war at any moment! All is not well and he damn well knows it!”

“Easy, Rhae,” Tyene said in soothing tones, putting her hand on the princess’s other shoulder. “We don’t want to wake your aunt.”

“Oh, she’s awake.” Lewyn glanced towards the door again before stepping back, his hands sliding back to his sides. “And she has company.”

Rhaenys blinked, surprise momentarily overriding her anger. “Who is seeing her? Lady Margaery?” Aegon’s betrothed had been trying to spend as much time with the royal family as possible, offering all the support and encouragement she could. She knew there was some calculation in her words and deeds, but Rhaenys also knew the Tyrell’s expressions of sorrow and sympathy were no less genuine for that.

“Aye.” The Dornishman paused, glancing at Benjen Stark before adding, “Lady Sansa as well.”

“Sansa?” Rhaenys glanced down the hall herself. She looked at Tyene, who nodded and turned to walk to the end and around the corner. It was overcautious perhaps, but she could be trusted to warn Lewyn if someone unwelcome was found nearby.

She looked at Lewyn. “The Stark men have been staying so close to her you’d think her father was the one that had been slain by traitors and rebels. How’d you scare them away?”

The older knight gave her a look of false outrage. “I did no such thing. Do I seem the kind of man who would try to do something like that?” His face changed into a smile as Rhaenys grinned. “I don’t know why they aren’t here. You should ask her.”

Trust me, I will. Rhaenys nodded to her uncle. “Well, it was a nice thought. I appreciate it and expect Dany does too.” She motioned towards the door. The Kingsguard nodded and stepped aside, holding the door open as she walked through. Ser Benjen remained outside with his sworn brother. The door closed behind her as she did, slow and quiet but firm.

Dany’s chambers were made for comfort. All of the royal chambers reflected their wealth and power of House Targaryen, but the youngest princess of the royal blood was doted on by all her kin and her chambers showed it. The red dragon of their family reared throughout the room, on tapestries and pillows and handkerchiefs. The pillows and sheets were fine silk and cotton, to ensure her comfort. Everything here reflected the protectiveness the other members of the royal family felt for Dany.

After a few moments, Rhaenys’ ears picked up the sound of quiet sobbing. Her eyes followed her ears, finding the bed on the other side of her aunt’s chambers. Dany was sitting there, her lovely silver-gold hanging loose. It obscured the parts of her face that was not buried in the shoulder of Margaery Tyrell. The older girl did not say anything, her arms wrapped around Dany and a hand stroking the princess’s hair. Her expression was sympathetic and remained so even as Margaery saw Rhaenys and nodded almost imperceptibly at her. Sansa sat on Dany’s other side, the Stark’s hands holding hers. Sansa’s expression was a mirror of Margaery’s. Her eyes were bright, unshed tears lending them light.

Kneeling on the floor nearby or sitting in nearby chairs were the handmaids of all three ladies. Alys Velaryon sat in a chair a few feet away, her expression sorrowful. Nymeria Sand sat next to her, the Dornishwoman’s face inscrutable. Jeyne Poole was openly weeping from her place on the ground. Lady Rose looked sad but gave nothing else away, her hand holding the other northern handmaids in an act of comfort. The Tyrell handmaids finished the circle, Sera Durwell and a young woman Rhaenys did not recognize.

The last saw Margaery look elsewhere and turned. “Princess Rhaenys.” She rose from the ground only to drop into a curtsy immediately. Her words and actions were quickly followed by the other handmaids. Rhaenys shook her head at Sansa and Margaery when they started to shift. Formalities were not important enough to disturb Dany.

“Rise.” The ladies rose as Rhaenys walked forward quickly but quietly. “Give us the room.” Her command was in a low voice but was firm. In a few moments it was obeyed, leaving her and Dany alone with Margaery and Sansa.

Dany looked up from the Tyrell’s shoulder to see Rhaenys. “Rhae.” She took a deep breath, wiping at her face impatiently. “I…I’m sorry. I should not be…”

“Dany, stop.” Rhaenys walked forward and knelt so the two princess’s eyes were near level. “You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone, including me. And everyone has cried. Many still are.”

“They are?” Dany sniffled. She looked at Rhaenys. “Do you, Rhae?” That question would have sounded thoughtless or worse from someone else, but Dany’s voice held nothing but concern.

Rhaenys took a deep breath. “Sometimes. Not as much as I would like, though.” I cannot. Mother and Aegon need me. You need me.

“You’re being strong for us.” Rhaenys blinked, looking at Dany with surprise. The young Targaryen smiled. “I know you. You’re my niece remember?” She giggled, a small grin appearing on her face despite the tears that remained. Rhaenys giggled as well, the laughter making her heart feel lighter.

After a few moments, the laughter subsided. Rhaenys looked towards Margaery and Sansa. “Where is my brother?”

“Aegon is preparing for the small council meeting.” Margaery sighed. “He is trying to be so strong. Like his kin,” She added with a small smile towards Dany and Rhaenys. It turned pensive after a few moments. “But it isn’t easy. How can it be? Everyone is looking to Aegon now, depending on him to know what to do next. To have all the answers. But he…it is hard on him. And I do not blame him for that. It would be hard on anyone.”

Sansa nodded. “To be king is not easy.” She squeezed Dany’s hand reassuringly. “But Aegon is not alone. That is why the small council is there, them and the Kingsguard. He also has you and Margaery and Rhaenys, as well as Queen Elia and Jon.”

Rhaenys felt some of her warmth fade at the mention of the last, but Dany smiled tentatively. “Egg misses him. He wants him to come home. So do I.”

“I miss him too,” Sansa said quietly. Her face had a faraway look on it. She must be in the Vale, looking for him.

Margaery smiled knowingly. “I recognize that look. Have anything to share, Sansa?”

The Stark girl blushed. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

“You are not a good liar.” Sansa’s blush deepened while Margaery gave her a scrutinizing look. “What do you miss most? His words? His smile?” She looked thoughtful for a few moments. “His lips?”

Rhaenys had to bite her lip at the look of mortification on Sansa’s face. “No, not at all! I’ve…we…that is…”

Dany gasped. “You and Jon haven’t kissed yet?! Sansa!”

Sansa buried her face in her hands. Whatever she said next was obscured by them. Dany laughed at the sight. “No wonder you miss him so much.” She laughed again, this time joined by Margaery. Even Rhaenys smiled, glad for the lightening of the mood for even a little while.

Sansa looked up, her face still deeply flushed. “What about you, Margaery? Does you and His Grace ever…”

It was an obvious attempt at deflection, one that Margaery was gracious enough to grant. “Aegon and I have. Just a few times, but that’s all.”

Rhaenys was unsure if that was the case. Margaery Tyrell was well-regarded at court and by the commons. Part of the reason for that was her remarkable ability to adapt to the people around her. It was reassuring in one sense- that skill would undoubtedly serve her well once she and Aegon were wed and crowned. But it also made Margaery harder to read. And Aegon is a good man, but Highgarden does have a reputation. One for romance and intrigue.

Still, there was no proof of anything other than an infatuation between a young man and woman. And even if there was, it would not matter. Aegon was her king and her brother, and Rhaenys would always protect him.

She smiled again as Dany began to interrogate Margaery. She did not ask much about Aegon, instead focusing on gossip and stories from Highgarden and King’s Landing. The older girl went along with it, for which Rhaenys was very grateful. After a few minutes she rose. “I’m afraid I have to go. Perhaps we could go see Mother together later, Dany?”

Her young aunt nodded, her expression pleased. The sorrow that had been etched into her face earlier was long gone. It would return but Rhaenys knew how resilient Dany was. She would overcome this. She had to. We all have to.

As she turned to go, she looked at Sansa. “Could I have a word?” The Stark nodded, giving Dany’s hand another squeeze before rising to follow Rhaenys into the hallway. Waiting outside were the handmaids, who looked to be conversing. They quickly stopped when she and Sansa emerged, curtsying to them. “I wish a word with Lady Sansa. Please, feel free to rejoin Lady Margaery and Princess Daenerys.” They did so, although as the door closed Rhaenys saw Rose remained near the door. Not enough to try eavesdropping, more a demonstration of loyalty.

Once they were outside Rhaenys turned and looked at Sansa. “Thank you.”

She smiled in reply. “Please do not. Daenerys is wonderful. I feel lucky just for knowing her.”

Sweet words, sweet enough that it might have been poison. But Sansa meant them. Rhaenys knew she did, possibly even more than Margaery did. “I was told your men are waiting outside the Holdfast. Why didn’t they come inside with you?”

Sansa’s smile left her face. Her face became a little nervous, although it was determined as well. She glanced at her uncle, who stood there with an impassive face that was belied by the warmth in his eyes as he returned the look. “I did not think I needed them, not here. The royal guard is more than capable. And I…I thought it may not be wise to bring northern swords into the royal apartments. The court...” She trailed off, but her meaning was clear.

It made Rhaenys raise an eyebrow. Sansa is learning fast.

Rhaenys had thought the Stark smarter than most girls her age when they had first met. She had been proven right since Sansa arrived, the tension between her and Cersei aside. Sansa had no experience with intrigue, not like Rhaenys or Margaery. But she was adapting to the court quicker than most. This astute decision was a good example of that. Still, it did not ease Rhaenys’ irritation with the Stark girl. Margaery Tyrell had guards as well, but they did not follow wherever she went.

But then no one has spoken against House Tyrell or Lady Margaery herself, while many now do so against House Stark and Sansa.

Rhaenys kept those thoughts to herself, saying only, “Indeed. That was considerate of you, Sansa.”

Sansa took a deep breath. “Rhae-” She stopped herself and started again. “Princess, I wanted to say again how sorry I am. How sorry we all are.” Rhaenys knew who Sansa meant with that emphasis. “I need…I want to assure you that the men who did this will not get away with it. My father and brother will not let that happen.”

Rhaenys' eyebrow went back up as Sansa bowed her head towards her. Several emotions flashed through her mind, none of them good- surprise, anger, resentment, suspicion. She was well practiced in containing those kinds of feelings though, and she did not let anything show. “Why do you feel the need to tell me this, Sansa?”

“I…Father is the Warden of the North. He…the king…” Sansa bit her lip, her nervousness more visible than before. “I was not there, but I know he had nothing to do with this. He could not have. None of my family could.”

“Do you think I am not already hearing this? That my brother the king and the small council have not?” What are you trying to accomplish?

“I know they are. Father sent me a letter before he took ship. I’ve also had them from my mother and brother, and Jon as well.” Rhaenys already knew this. Aegon had told her when the letters arrived and allowed her to read them after he had. There was nothing incriminating or even suspicious in them, just assurances that Sansa would be alright, and that they would be with her soon. Lord Stark had written she should try to be honest and loyal and avoid trouble.  Harmless enough, so the seals had been repaired and the letters given to Sansa as though they had never been touched. “I know there are those at court who are…they think my family disloyal or…or worse.”

Sansa took another deep breath as she looked Rhaenys in the eye. “We are not. House Stark is loyal. I swear it on my life.”

Some would call that a fool’s oath. Rhaenys looked at Sansa, making sure her expression was inscrutable. For a moment she considered taking a harsh tone with the younger girl but almost immediately dismissed the thought. It would do no good to do so in front of her uncle, Kingsguard or not. Besides, Sansa Stark was no more likely than Dany to conspire against the Iron Throne, even if she was learning the games of the court.

After a few moments she sighed. “I will not lie, Sansa. There are those at court who are…anxious. They want someone to blame and your family is the easiest target for that. But I find it unlikely that a man would commit treason after sending his daughter to be with the people the treason was against, and then bring his wife and himself to those same people when a guilty man would try to stay away. I find it unlikely, and so does the king.”

Sansa let out a sharp breath. Rhaenys realized she had been holding it since she started speaking. After a few moments she bowed her head again, her relieved smile banishing much of her earlier nervousness. “Thank you, princess.”

“Rhaenys,” She reminded Sansa. “Now, why don’t you rejoin the others?”

The Stark’s smile faded a little. “You aren’t coming?”

“I said earlier I have to go.” Rhaenys motioned to the door. “Go on.”

Sansa glanced at her uncle before bowing her head again and then walked to the door. Lewyn opened it for her, giving Rhaenys a knowing look over her head as she entered. Rose quickly came to Sansa’s side, her expression reassuring as the door closed.

Once it was closed Lewyn looked at Rhaenys again. “Very kind of you, princess.” He almost sounded disappointed. Benjen Stark bristled a little but said nothing.

Rhaenys sighed. “Sansa is no traitor. It serves no one for her to be afraid, least of all my family.”

“It may serve her.” The prince gave her a knowing look. “Most of the talk is only that, but there are always some foolish enough to act on it. It is better for her guard to stay up.”

Ser Benjen finally spoke up. "Sansa is stronger than she looks, and wiser. She can manage."

"That's well and good, Stark, but those are rarely very useful without steel to back it up. Your niece has some swords, but they are well outnumbered here." There was no malice in Lewyn's voice, only frankness. Still, the northman looked angered by his words.

Rhaenya decided enough was enough. “They are, but she is under the crown's protection as well. Besides, your niece's guard will remain up, ser. She is not stupid. I expect her men will stay close until Lord Stark and…and my brother arrive. The danger won’t be so great then.”

Benjen's anger drained away, leaving concern. Lewyn did not sound convinced but did not press the point. He looked at Rhaenys. “I believe you have an appointment to keep.”

Rhaenys nodded. “Farewell, Uncle.” She rose onto the tips of her toes and kissed the Kingsguard’s cheek before turning and walking towards the king’s chambers with Ser Benjen trailing her. On the way Tyene fell into step behind Rhaenys as well.

Ser Arthur was guarding the king today, standing outside his chambers stoically. Considering all of his duties, Rhaenys thought it a wonder he could stand. Does he ever sleep?

The Sword of the Morning’s reaction to Father’s death had been subtle but significant. He was intensely focused on protecting the royal family and was responsible for the heightened security surrounding the Red Keep. Rhaenys knew he must be almost as bereft as she and her kin were- Father had been closer to Ser Arthur than anyone, even his own family. But that was buried, held down by strength of will and duty.

He nodded at her as Rhaenys approached. He opened the door. “Princess Rhaenys, Your Grace.”

“Send her in.” Her brother’s voice was firm, decisive. A king’s voice.

Rhaenys walked in. Tyene and Ser Benjen stayed outside as the door closed behind her.

Aegon was sitting at Father’s table. Well, it was his table now. The thought made Rhaenys want to weep but she pushed the feeling down. There was a crown on the wood in front of him, wrought in red gold and topped with iron points. It was the crown of their grandfather Jaehaerys II, and his grandfather Maekar. It was well-chosen, a symbol of power and strength as well as prestige and wealth.

“I decided the small council could wait until the afternoon.” Aegon sighed roughly, eyes leaving the crown to look at Rhaenys. “They aren’t being as helpful as I thought they’d be.”

“They’re doing their best.” She walked forward and put a hand on his shoulder. Rhaenys felt herself relax as she did. Here her guard could come down.

Her words got a laugh out of him. “All I hear from Lord Redwyne is how we should disarm Lady Sansa’s guards and keep them and her confined. Just until we can throw her father in a black cell, of course. Pycelle shares that opinion and Jon Connington is not opposed to the idea.” Rhaenys gave Aegon a concerned look, which got another chuckle. “No, that is not happening, Rhae. It is out of the question and I informed the council of that in no uncertain terms. But…they keep saying I need to appear strong. To demonstrate that this will not go unpunished. As though I plan to let that happen.”

Rhaenys sighed, kneeling so she could wrap her arms around her brother in a hug. “Things will get better, Egg. Especially once you and Margaery have been crowned and wed.”

“That’s a neat trick you do, Rhae. You move your lips and Mother’s voice comes out.” Aegon said it with a smile. “That will help. So will having Jon home. Once House Targaryen is united the realm will be much better served.”

House Targaryen is united, Egg. Rhaenys stopped herself from saying that aloud. “Yes. It will be.” She looked at him. “You plan to move forward with restoring the badge of the Hand to Lord Connington?”

“I do. He is a blunt man but loyal to a fault. That is what we need, at least for now.”

Rhaenys did not entirely disagree. A sense of continuity could go a long way to easing the tension in court, and Jon Connington's loyalty was unquestionable. Still, a new Hand would be needed before long. One better suited to serve a king like Aegon, the youngest Targaryen king in over a century. She had several candidates in mind but that could wait. Her brother needed support right now, not politics. Not from her.

Aegon sighed and stood up, placing the crown upon his head. It looked like it was made for him. With it, he was the vision of a dragon king. “I am going to hold court today. Just a short session, but it will help to keep the court calm.”

Rhaenys nodded again. "I just saw Dany. Margaery and Sansa were visiting with her. She smiled because of them. Even laughed."

"Truly?" Aegon's face lit up with his smile. "That's wonderful. Mother told me she is eating more too." His face fell. "It's good that she is starting to...to come to terms with it."

Rhaenys walked forward and hugged her brother once again. "He would want us to stay strong. And we will. Now is the hardest time, but it will pass. We will be alright, Aegon." 

"I know." Her brother was famed for his confidence, but the way he said that made it sound like he was humoring her. Egg pushed through it though and smiled at her, taking a deep breath before stepping back. "Speaking of hardship, Theon and I had an interesting conversation yesterday."

"Oh?" If it involved Theon Greyjoy, Rhaenys already knew she was not going to like what Aegon said next. He did not disappoint.

"He believes that Lord Redwyne is too...traditional to be an effective Master of Ships. That a younger, more dynamic man whose family has long held mastery over the seas should be given the post instead."

Rhaenys smirked. "Oh, the famed subtlety of House Greyjoy. Breathtaking, truly."

Aegon chuckled. "Indeed. I may consider such a change in the future but it is far too soon. I can't have one of my first acts as king be to name an ironman to my small council. Too much bad blood remains between them and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms for that."

Rhaenys nodded in agreement while silently vowing that Greyjoy would never serve on her brother's council if she had a say in it. The arrogance it took to suggest such a thing made most lordlings seem humble by comparison. Even Snow made a show of humility when he spoke of serving Egg. Living in Highgarden has given Greyjoy delusions of grandeur. 

"And to top that off, he put himself forward as a candidate for a...royal match."

Rhaenys could not stop her jaw from dropping. She stared at her brother in astonishment. "He...is that a jest?"

"No, he was serious." Aegon's humor had vanished, replaced by an uncomfortable look. 

Rhaenys closed her mouth and glared at her brother. "I trust you dismissed that idea completely. So completely that he will not bring it up again."

"I told him no, Rhae. But Theon is...stubborn. He will not be put off by being told no once. Nor will he be the last."

"Egg…" Rhaenys blinked a few times, then took a deep breath. "It is too early to start thinking of such things."

"I wish that were true, Rhae. I do not think it is." Her brother's voice had changed. It was strong and decisive again. His king voice. The one he used when he did not wish to argue. "I plan to be crowned in the next few weeks at the latest and wed to Margaery soon after that. The focus will be on me until then, but afterwards? There are five Targaryens and only two will be...unavailable. Three if we count Jon's betrothal to Sansa Stark. That leaves you and Dany."

Rhaenys stared at her brother. "You still think that the Stark wedding will go forward?"

Aegon frowned. "I see no reason why not. Unless you've changed your mind and think the Starks are traitors, like Viserys."

"I am not so foolish. If the Starks were party to treason, they would have done it when Dany and I were still inside their walls, within their power." Rhaenys took a deep breath. "But perhaps his and Sansa's match isn't the wisest. Father originally intended to betroth Dany to Robb Stark…"

"And then the Starks asked for Jon instead and Father agreed," Aegon pointed out. "It was announced publicly in Winterfell before Lord Stark and most of his bannermen. You know that such things are not easily set aside, Rhae. Besides, Sansa is obviously smitten with him and everyone says Jon feels the same towards her. Why risk angering an entire kingdom for nothing?"

It is not for nothing, Egg. I'm trying to protect us. Protect you. That is what Rhaenys wanted to say, but she could not. Aegon did not see Jon as a threat, he never had.

He was already moving on. "So, that makes three. Only you and Dany will be unwed and unpledged, Rhae. You and I both know that the…pursuits will begin in earnest once I am wed."

"Pursuits." Rhaenys spit the word out like a curse. "What a word for it." She glared at her brother. "You know how I reacted when Father first told me of his plans for Dany. I will not act any differently for you, Egg."

"I am not Father."

The quietness of those words brought Rhaenys up short. She blinked, looking into her brother's eyes. They were a lighter purple than Father’s or Dany's and they were filled with sadness and pain.

"I...Egg, you…" Rhaenys silently cursed herself for adding to his burdens. She could feel the heat of her anger draining away. "I'm sorry. I was out of line."

"You often are. It's one of the many reasons I love you, Rhae- you stand your ground." Aegon gave her a warm smile. "Father is…was a good man and king but he did not always make the best decisions. You were not wrong to disagree with him when that happened. But I am not wrong either, not in this. We both know it, even if neither of us like it."

Rhaenys bit her lip and looked away. Egg was right. She and Dany would be objects of the plans and ambitions of many. They already had been for years, more likely than not. They were princesses of the royal blood and both young, fertile and beautiful as well. 

It is the lot of being born a dragon. All men wish either to possess us or to kill us.

Rhaenys stood silently. Aegon said nothing, watching her with a concerned expression. Does he expect me to start weeping? I do not have that luxury, not now.

She took some moments to collect and order her thoughts. To raise her guard once again. Rhaenys finally broke the silence with, "I will not have a lord I know nothing about foisted on me, Egg. Nor on Dany."

"Of course not." Her brother nodded. "You will know of every offer made and we will discuss them. Mother will as well. Dany is still a child, so any match for her can be delayed.”

“Yes.” Rhaenys’ voice sounded quiet and hollow even to her own ears. Everything was crashing into her, everything that had happened and was happening and would happen. It was too much. I need…I need… “I need to see Mother.”

Aegon blinked. “Of course. She is abed but I do not think she’s sleeping.”

No, she was not. Mother hardly slept these days anyway. I need her. She will understand, will know what to do.

Rhaenys did not wait for her brother to dismiss her. She turned and left his chambers. She did not realize she had started running until she was halfway down the hall as Tyene called out her name behind her. But that did not make Rhaenys stop. She had to get to her. She would not let anyone stop her

Chapter Text

Tyrion

“Thank you, sweet child. You may go.” The serving girl bowed before hurrying away, leaving the Grand Maester to drink his iced milk. He took a generous sip before looking at his guest. “Are you sure I cannot offer you a glass, my lord?”

“No, I am fine.” Tyrion studied the girl as she retreated. She was young and pretty, as many of the female servants in the Red Keep were. It said something of the present royal family that the court was as safe as it was; there was never a shortage of men who thought the companionship and…favors of women they desired was a right they could exercise freely. Unfortunately, the Grand Maester was too renowned and established to be accused easily, although he was too smart to do anything to the girls serving him. Too obvious. Whatever his knowledge, his sense of self-preservation is still intact.

“Very well, then.” The old man blinked. “I am sorry. What were we speaking of?”

The dwarf looked back at Pycelle. “I was asking you why you spoke in favor of Lord Redwyne’s suggestion at yesterday’s council meeting.”

“Oh yes, that. I thought it had some merit, simple as that. Not that ten men could overtake the capital, of course, but all it takes is one in the hands of the wrong man to bring disaster.” Pycelle shook his head regretfully. “And Lady Sansa would be well-treated, of course. Lord Redwyne means her no harm. Nor does the king or any of his kin.”

Tyrion knew Pycelle was correct for the most part. He also knew his sister would not hesitate to hurt the Stark if she could get away with it. If he had to hear her declare she would “put the little wolf bitch in her place” one more time, Tyrion would be sorely tempted to ask his father’s permission to send Cersei back to Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister suffered no threats to House Lannister but would not tolerate his daughter starting a war over simple dislike. Not even if her Targaryen husband is…intrigued by the girl.

That was the point Tyrion knew he had to drive home to the Grand Maester. “Conflict is the last thing the realm needs, Pycelle. No house is served by it, especially not my own. I doubt Redwyne means harm, but that is what we will get if the North is given reason to stir against the Iron Throne.”

“I would never advocate conflict of any kind, Lord Tyrion.” Pycelle did a good job of sounding offended. “But treason cannot be allowed to occur with impunity, especially not the…the travesty that occurred to His Grace’s father. I do not see how acting firmly is out of the question.”

“Of course. His Grace must be firm,” Tyrion agreed, marveling at Pycelle’s ability to ignore the realities of rule. “But let me ask you something, Grand Maester- how do you think confining the daughter of the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North will go over with said lord? Or her aunt, the Lady Regent of the Vale? Or her grandsire, the Lord Paramount of the Trident?”

The elderly man blinked. “The lords and ladies of the realm are loyal servants of His Grace, Lord Tyrion. Those that are not will surely be dealt with appropriately.”

“I see. You would never advocate conflict, just take any actions you deem right, regardless of their consequences. And if those consequences were conflict or even war, then the situation will handle itself with platitudes about loyalty and dealing. Of course, the reality is that the Great Houses who are not in rebellion or taking advantage of the chaos will bear the brunt of the costs to dealing with such a thing. Great Houses like my own.”

Tyrion’s tone was heavy with irony and scorn. Pycelle’s beard trembled as he looked at the dwarf. His eyes were often half closed and sleepy, but they were open and alert as he did so. “I am sure those loyal to the Iron Throne are more than capable of handling such things, dire as they may sound.”

“Oh, I am sure they are. Whether they will be pleased about it is another thing. Do you think my lord father would be, Pycelle?”

The flush in the old man’s cheeks vanished as he turned pale. “Lord Tywin…he is a most capable man, my lord…”

“Yes, very capable. One of the most capable in the realm, without a doubt. He knows war better than any other in my family. But his talents are not just in leading armies. He gave the Seven Kingdoms twenty years of peace and plenty under a madman. You should know, seeing as you were there that whole time. Is Tywin Lannister the kind of man who would enjoy having problems with three of those kingdoms because of the mistreatment of one girl?”

The Grand Maester coughed violently. Tyrion said nothing, letting him gather his breath and thoughts for a little while. When he was done, Pycelle was quick to begin adjusting his views. “I…I may have been a bit hasty, agreeing with Lord Redwyne as quickly as I did. I was greatly saddened- am greatly saddened, that is- by King Rhaegar’s death. He is as well, no doubt.”

“I am sure he is.” Tyrion leaned in. “There are many others who feel that way, as I expect you know. Those who may think it wise to act against those they can reach. Regardless of any actual guilt, unfortunately. It is on men of your caliber to help temper those others, Grand Maester. To soothe their anger and haste so that reason and prudence may win the day.”

Pycelle was recovering quickly from the fear Tywin Lannister’s name provoked. The Grand Maester swelled with importance in his chair at Tyrion’s words. Tyrion thought it resembled a toad but refrained from saying so. “Yes, yes, you are right. Reason and prudence must win out. Any man of sense would agree, especially such men as Lord Tywin.”

The dwarf nodded, smiling. “I am glad you agree, Grand Maester. Your wisdom is still alive and well. My lord father will appreciate your aid in making sure they do. And allowing me to help you in that endeavor.” Gods know you will need it, and that is even if you truly are hearing me.

“Of course, Lord Tyrion. I know well your ability and commitment to keeping the King’s Peace. His Grace is well served by your presence in court and on the small council.”

On that, we agree. “As he is with you, Grand Maester.” Tyrion straightened and got down from his chair. There was only so much sycophancy he could stand, and Pycelle’s platitudes were not helping. “I expect I’ll see you in council later. Try and remember- ‘reason and prudence’.”

He only paused to watch Pycelle nod once before turning and leaving his chambers. He took a deep breath as he came into the corridor, appreciating the cooler air. Not that it helped much- King’s Landing was sweltering in the late summer heat. Other than the Dornish, the whole court was enduring it as best they could. We were lucky the tourney’s days were cooler than this, or else we would not have seen nearly as much coin.

Not that it had resulted in much to begin with. The still Prince Aegon had been wise to set the price as low as he had. Many of the smallfolk could not have afforded it otherwise. The flipside of that had been that the coin from the visitors had only amounted to a little under three thousand gold dragons. Enough to cover the increased security to handle their influx, but not nearly enough to help recoup the coin spent on the tourney itself. No one was complaining, Tyrion included. Tavern owners, brothel keepers, smiths, fletchers, farmers, and singers had all had their pockets filled thanks to the excitement and business brought by the tourney.

And the highborn were pleased as well. Spectacles that allowed them to demonstrate their grace and wealth were a mainstay of ruling. The men were given a chance to compete for glory and coin while the women dressed themselves at their best and walked about to be admired and courted by the former. It was a shame that the greatest prize was denied to the latter. Aegon Targaryen was betrothed to one of the realm’s great beauties and she came from one of the Great Houses of Westeros. The crowd’s cheer when the prince bested Ser Arthur for the championship had been impressive. The one when he had crowned Margaery Tyrell as his queen of love and beauty was said to have been heard all the way in Duskendale.

Tyrion walked towards the throne room as he left the memories of the tourney for more immediate matters. Six Lannister men walked with him, their armor glinting in the light being cast by the sunlit windows. Unlike many who had just discovered the usefulness of always having an armed guard, he had learned the power steel and men behind them had a long time ago. They served two purposes- to protect Tyrion, and to serve as an unspoken message to those he encountered.

A message the dwarf needed when he reached the throne room. As he entered, Tyrion saw many were already here. A small crowd of commoners were standing in the center, a small body of royal men standing between them and the open space where they would stand and beseech the Iron Throne for aid. The galleries on either side for the lords and ladies of the court were on either side of the room, also guarded. These guards were a mix of more royal men and the personal guards of the highborn themselves.

Tyrion was only a few steps into the room when he was waylaid.  “Lord Tyrion. Early as usual, I see.” The simpering voice of Varys sent a chill up the Lannister’s spine as the eunuch came up to him, smiling obsequiously as he bowed his head.

“As are you, Varys.” Tyrion did not bother to call Varys a lord. He may have the right to the title thanks to his place on the small council, but it held no true power. Titles had their place, but the history and resources behind them were the true source of power. Tyrion could hear Tywin Lannister’s terse approval in his mind. Gods, I need a drink.

“It behooves me to be in a place before things of interest occur, my lord. I would not be a master of whisperers otherwise.” Varys giggled. “Although I admit to having pause this morning. So many swords can make one nervous.”

“I suppose they can, especially if one has no swords of their own.”

“Indeed. Spiders do not possess steel, only webs and shadows. Although they can also be dangerous if used properly.”

“Yes.” Tyrion enjoyed banter but he was not in the mood for it now. Dealing with Pycelle had used up much of his patience. “Do you have anything…dangerous that you wish to share, or shall I be on my way?”

“Yes, I do. Apologies, I should not keep you.” Varys smiled as he leaned in, lowering his voice. “My little birds have whispered of a silver prince who gives patronage to an…establishment on the Street of Silk. Of late he has been quite talkative, especially when he has quenched his thirst with wine. He speaks of the fate of his house, and that of the realm. In ways that His Grace may find…troubling.”

That got the dwarf’s attention. He did not have much experience with brothels, although Tyrion did occasionally have a whore brought to him to relieve his urges for a night. His father did not approve of such things, but as long as Tyrion was quiet and discreet about such things Tywin Lannister did not make a fuss about it. Viserys was not as well-trained as him, though, and would go to a brothel if confident that no one would punish him for it. And since word came of the king’s death, Viserys had only grown more confident.

Tyrion turned to glance at the galleries, scanning them quickly. After a few moments he spotted his sister. Cersei was being guarded by both Lannister and royal guards, who surrounded her in a rough circle. The only ones inside it with her were a pair of ladies, both women of noble houses from the westerlands. The imperious way Cersei looked at the people around her spoke to her status, as well as her arrogance. Your ego does not make you a queen, sister.

He did not see her husband. Tyrion looked back at Varys. “Is the prince there now?”

“No, no. He is outside the city again, out hunting with a guard. His tastes have changed of late- where he once sought stags, now it is wolves he is most eager to claim. Though he has not had much luck so far.”

That wasn’t a surprise. Viserys was no great hunter, his tales and boasting aside. Still, the meaning of what he hunted had always seemed ironic. The prince’s views on House Baratheon were well known, and the taking of stags had been a petty but symbolic way of demonstrating that publicly. That confidence was verging on brash with this declaration of the new target of his wrath.

Varys tittered at the look on Tyrion’s face. “He may have better luck soon. Two wolves met at Gulltown a few days past and then took ship for the capital. A young dragon comes with them.”

“So, they’ve set sail.” He nodded thoughtfully. “May the Seven bless their travels. The realm will be well served by their presence.”

“Oh, I do not doubt it. The king is eager for his family to be together after all.” The eunuch glanced back towards the gallery. “Let it not be said that lions and wolves do not know the value of family. As do others, of course. His Grace knows how vital it is for House Targaryen to stay strong. And to grow strong as well.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. All knew Aegon Targaryen was more than fond of his intended. It was a persistent rumor about court that he and the Lady Margaery had already consummated their love. Some even claimed it had happened some time ago in Highgarden and that the betrothal was the only way King Rhaegar could ensure the scandal would be hushed up. There was no proof of either being true, but it was an interesting thought. It helped explain the boldness of House Tyrell, even as their rose remained unwed and uncrowned.

He looked towards the gallery opposite where Cersei sat as though she were holding court. Loras Tyrell stood near the front, a place of prominence he shared with Renly Baratheon. The two of them had no personal guards. It was a declaration of confidence. Or arrogance, depending on how one views things.

The latter was not unfounded. While not as firmly united behind their Lord Paramount as the North or the westerlands, the Reach made a show of unity behind House Tyrell. Not even the assassination of Rhaegar Targaryen had changed that. And the marriage of the new king to a Tyrell would guarantee their position in the Reach for years to come.

Tyrion glanced at Varys. “Every house wishes to grow strong, Varys. The words of the Tyrells are honest that way, much like the Starks.” He glanced about. “I will see you in council. If you’ll excuse me.”

The eunuch bowed slightly as Tyrion walked towards the galleries. The delay of the small council meeting meant the table that often sat near the base of the Iron Throne was absent. His position as Master of Coin entitled him to a front row seat though, to better answer any questions from the king or his Hand.

As he came to that seat and situated himself, Tyrion glanced towards his sister. Cersei looked back at him, her false smile giving way to intense dislike for a moment. It passed and the false smile was back as she nodded at him. We need to speak soon. Viserys is making it necessary.

The number of people in the throne room was growing quickly. Knights and lords and ladies were streaming in to get a seat in the galleries as quickly as possible. Only a small group of seats near the front of either were left open. The ones near Tyrion were for the other members of the small council, while on the opposite side seats were held for the ladies of House Targaryen, as well as the betrothed of their male kin.

Tyrion turned his eyes to the doors as he waited for court to begin. Most who entered only got a glance for one moment before he moved on.

One of the side doors caught his attention. Margaery Tyrell and Sansa Stark had emerged together, along with their handmaids and the Stark’s guards around them. He saw some look askance at the armed northmen, but he knew their only purpose was to protect, not intimidate.

Tyrion frowned as he watched Lady Margaery say something that made Lady Sansa smile. He had learned back at Winterfell that the Starks had given their daughters no real education in intrigue. Sansa Stark had some knowledge thanks to her betrothed, but that was not enough for the royal court. Not nearly enough.

House Lannister had been given a wonderful opportunity to gain more influence at court when Sansa had arrived with the returning princesses. Tyrion already had a cordial relationship with Prince Jon. Winning over his intended as well would have made forging an alliance with House Stark and the North far easier. But the behavior of Viserys and Cersei had completely alienated the girl, who had quickly fallen in with Margaery Tyrell instead.

The two young ladies quickly crossed to their places in the gallery and situated themselves. Tyrion watched as both offered greetings to Cersei. His sister only offered them both a few words before doing her best to pretend they were not there. If you think to please Father by alienating the other daughters of the Great Houses, then you are in for a rude awakening.

“Lord Tyrion.” He turned to find Renly Baratheon had made his way over to the Lannister’s side. The Lord of Storm’s End kept his voice low, making it harder for others to listen to them. “May I have a word?”

“Lord Renly.” He looked at the lordling. The Stormlands were not the richest or most populous of the Seven Kingdoms, but Robert’s Rebellion had proven they were not to be dismissed. And Renly had proven more than capable of gaining the support of others, lowborn and highborn alike. Discounting him because of his older brother’s actions was a mistake Tyrion would not make. “How can I help you?”

“It is nothing urgent.” Renly looked sheepish, as though embarrassed to be asking in the first place. “There has been some gossip about the king’s search for a new master of laws and was wondering if you had heard the same.”

“I’m afraid I have not,” Tyrion said neutrally. “I am sure His Grace is giving the subject plenty of thought and will choose a suitable candidate to fill the role.”

Renly nodded. He glanced around before murmuring, “I only ask because Lady Margaery is growing concerned about his…caution in filling the seat.”

Tyrion felt the urge to laugh but kept it down. Renly is no great wit, but this is stupidity of another kind entirely. “Is that so? I would think that she could simply express those concerns herself. All know that the value the king puts on her presence and counsel.”

“Yes, but she thought it more prudent to express those concerns through a member of the small council, not as his betrothed.”

This pantomime was amusing, so he decided to continue playing. “And Lady Margaery expressed this concern to you personally?”

“Of course. Her family and I are close, as I’m sure you know. Almost as close as they are with King Aegon.”

You are close with the Tyrells. Well, one at any rate. Tyrion glanced down the gallery to where Loras Tyrell remained. His eyes were on Tyrion and Renly, looking right back at the dwarf. There was a confidence the youth did not deserve in his eyes, as well as concern. Tyrion had a guess for why the latter was there.

He turned back to Renly. “A small council member. Yes, that makes sense. But surely others could voice this concern. Closer to His Grace than I, like Ser Arthur or Lord Connington. Or even Lord Redwyne.”

The storm lord’s eyes flickered briefly, but it was enough to confirm Tyrion’s suspicions. “We thought it best to come from someone not of the Reach. It would be rather obvious, might raise suspicions.”

So, that was it. Tyrion did not know Margaery Tyrell very well, but he knew she was perfectly capable of asking her betrothed’s thoughts on matters like this. And she was not close enough to Renly that they could be called a “we”. Her brother was another matter entirely, but he didn’t have the position or influence to make such a request. The question is if Renly knows he is being played by Loras, and if the Knight of Flowers is doing this with his sister’s knowledge.

“I can make no promises,” He said finally, “but if King Aegon is in an amenable mood I will try to bring it up. The small council should be full after all, to better serve the realm.”

“Yes. I am glad you agree, my lord.” Renly straightened. “I hope we can speak more later. There is much we could discuss.”

“Lord Renly.” Tyrion nodded as the Lord of Storm’s End turned and walked away, returning to his place beside Loras Tyrell. I wonder if they go to a brothel as well, or just make do with late nights and discreet servants.

The galleries were getting more and more crowded. Tyrion watched as Lord Redwyne walked over and sat near Tyrion. Pycelle was next, followed by Varys. A few minutes later Jon Connington emerged. As usual, he walked until he stood next to the Iron Throne and stood there, waiting for the king to arrive before taking his seat.

He did not have a long wait. The royal herald was quiet until court began save for one thing, and so he did now. “Hail, Aegon of the House Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, K ng of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!”

All stood as the young king strode into view. He crossed the throne room quickly, expression calm and determined as he approached the Iron Throne. Behind him walked Ser Arthur Dayne, the Lord Commander’s expression mirroring King Aegon’s.

Watching them, Tyrion blinked and looked across the hall once more. Three places were empty near Cersei and her young counterparts. The Queen Mother is still absent. Not surprising, all things considered.

No, Elia Martell had been absent from court since the word of her husband’s death. Her good-sister Daenerys had also been absent, to the dismay of many young men at court. But the king’s sister had not missed a court session yet. Princess Rhaenys was either early or entered court alongside her brother, but she was never late. Tyrion did not know what to make of her absence.

The silence of the throne room was broken by a smattering of giggles and quiet laughs. Tyrion turned to see Lady Margaery and Lady Sansa smiling with their ladies. Near them Cersei fumed, her expression resentful as the daughter of Casterly Rock eyed the two. To Tyrion’s relief she remained silent, contenting herself with just glaring.

Tyrion had done his best to mitigate her and Viserys’ attempts to alienate every potential ally at court, but he could only do so much. His sister had taken their father’s lessons on ruthlessness and fear to heart but not much else and her husband was no better. Raw power was all they understood, and what power they had was wielded with the subtlety of a meat clear. Tyrion appreciated power, but he also understood that power was a very sharp blade and blades often did their best work while they remained sheathed. That was a lesson Tywin Lannister had tried to teach all his children, as well as his royal protégé. It was a pity that only one of them seemed to have heard it and understood. Fortunately, I am more clever than both of them together on my worst day.

He could only hope that their vanity would get in the way of their recklessness. Otherwise, other methods would have to be used. And the last thing Tyrion wanted was to stoop to those in order to keep the peace.