Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Bran once told Arya to listen to her dreams when she could. That sometimes they had meaning, but she would have to decide the meaningful from the nonsense. But deciphering dreams was Bran’s specialty and he had been locked in a tree for twenty years now, leaving Arya alone to wonder if her nightmares were prophesy or paranoia.

She’d always had more nightmares than most, which she blamed on the many horrors of her past. Watching loved ones die. Narrowly surviving several wars. Being a hostage to more than one family, some more wretched than others. Killing the Night King and tasting death before she was dragged back into her body. Twenty years later, those things still haunted her in the night. It was the past her dreams dwelled on, not the uncertain future. And she dreamed of the dead more often than the living.

She dreamed of Rickon as she remembered him--a wild six year old weaving through the trees of the godswood. The wolves ran all around him and nipped at his heels and it was hard to tell if they were friend or foe. He did not seem to mind. He laughed anyway. Because he was a Stark who did not think to fear the wolves or the winter that took him.

Sometimes she dreamed of Bran sitting at the foot of a great weirwood with limbs that stretched on forever until they disappeared into the black of the night sky. The stars were their leaves and they fell to earth in a glittering shower. The tree… it was withering.

 Sometimes she dreamed of her father, polishing his sword beside a frozen pool, surrounded by an army of bleeding trees, ignorant to the distant echo of voices calling for his head. He looked up at her and spoke in a somber voice.

“Winter is coming, Arya. It always comes again.”

But tonight, she did not dream of the north or the godswood or any Starks who had passed on. She dreamed of Tywin Lannister.

They stood on either side of a great stone slab dotted with stone figures of all sorts. It took Arya a moment to recognize it as a very large Cyvasse board. It was her turn. In the midst of the dream, she did not remember what moves had brought her here, but somehow she knew it was her turn. But it seemed there were no good moves on the board.

“You’re hesitating,” he told her.

“I’m thinking,” she replied.

“You finished thinking some time ago. Now you’re hesitating.”

She glared at him. He was infuriating even in her dreams. Even after twenty years in the grave. Sometimes, she could almost believe it was really him and not a memory she had conjured up.

“The board is set perfectly,” he said. “If you struck now, you would win. So why don’t you?”

“I can’t. The losses will be too great.”

“It doesn’t matter how many pieces you lose. A win is still a win in this game.”

“In this game, yes,” Arya said. “But we’re not talking about a game, are we?”

“You tell me. This is your dream.”

Arya frowned. Even in visions he saw fit to test her. “We have peace right now. The longest peace in living memory. It wouldn’t be wise to act rashly and spoil that.”

“So you will wait for someone else to act rashly and spoil it then?” Tywin asked. “If you let someone else take charge of the future, you will be at a disadvantage when the peace fails.”

“You don’t know it will fail,” Arya said.

“Yes I do,” Tywin said. “And you know it as well. You know the truth.” There was something glowing in the darkness behind him. Two somethings. Two eyes glowing like embers. And beneath them a gaping maw slowly opening, revealing the fire swirling inside.

“What truth?” Arya asked softly.

“There’s always another war,” he told her. And then the flames engulfed him and the board.

They did not engulf Arya. Instead they knocked her back into the waking world, leaving her gasping beneath the covers. Her heart hammered against her ribcage like a warning. Run, it said. Run.

Arya was used to running. She was used to assassination attempts and loss and war and so many other things that a young girl should not have endured. But she was not used to peace. Even after all of these years, she did not know how to face it. It was not peace. It was simply… a time of waiting. Waiting.

Waiting for the next war.

For a while, she tried to go back to sleep. She stared up at the ceiling, listening to Jaime’s steady breathing beside her. She tried to match her breath with his. But her mind would not quiet.

At last, she gave up and slipped out from beneath covers, pulling on a robe over her night gown. Then she drifted toward the door. She grabbed her dagger from the bedside table as she went—almost instinctively. Twenty years ago, she driven that same dagger into the Night King’s heart. Now she was rarely parted from it. It was not wise for the Lady of Casterly Rock to go anywhere unarmed, even in her own home.

The halls of Casterly Rock were cavernous and in the dark of night, they threatened to swallow Arya. Winterfell was not small by any means, but it always felt cozier to Arya. She could walk from one end to the other in good time. She could wander the Rock for hours and still not see every corner. She was sure that even after all of these years, there were still places in its depths that she had not seen.

She lit a lantern to guide her way through the darkness. She did not know where she was going—only that it felt better to be walking than laying uselessly in bed. She listened to her soft footfalls on the stone and breathed in the icy air. Winter was drawing to a close, but the nights were still quite cold. Arya did not mind. Years down south and she had not lost her wolf’s blood.

Eventually, she ended up outside the doors to the library. A book might be preferable company to the silent darkness. She used to read through the nights after the Northern Civil War. It was the easiest way to fight off Ramsay Bolton from her nightmares—simply refusing to sleep at all. Besides, back then, she still had an awful lot to learn about the West and its people.

Memories of Tywin’s lessons rose in the back of her mind and she shook them away. She opened the great doors of the library and slipped through the crack.

Surprisingly, the lanterns on either side of the door inside were already lit, and when she paused just in front of the door, she heard something shuffling in the shadows. Calmly, she grasped the hilt of her knife and moved forward. Just in case the shuffling belonged to an intruder. But when she peeked around the corner, her grip on the knife relaxed and she let out a breath. Of course it wasn’t an intruder. She should have known the culprit behind the lit lanterns.

Tybolt sat at one of the central tables, a small stack of books beside him. He leafed through a rather large volume, completely absorbed in the words. He did not even look up as she slipped around the corner.

Arya’s mouth twitched and she moved quietly toward him, selecting a random book off the shelf as she went. She dropped the tome right in front of him, and the resounding smack jolted him from the words. He blinked a few times before focusing on her face.

“Mother… I didn’t see you come in.”

“Clearly,” she said. “Don’t we have a rule about reading all night?”

“When I was a child,” Tybolt said. “I’m a man grown now.”

“You still need sleep. Even when you’re grown,” Arya replied.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re up, aren’t you?”

Her eyes narrowed. He had her there. “At least I tried to sleep. I know perfectly well you’ve been here since sundown.”

“Not since sundown,” he said, lifting his chin. “A few hours after. I lost track of time.”

“You always do,” she said, tapping her chin. He corrected himself, lowering his head. He had the same tell she did when he was a child and he had carried it into his adult years. It was one of the only ways he resembled her. Any outsider could identify him as a Lannister. Green eyes, golden hair. High cheek bones and a strong jaw. He looked like his father to be sure, but more than that, he looked like his grandfather.

Genna told Arya many times that Tybolt looked like Tywin when he was young with one notable difference—his smile. Tywin rarely smiled even when he was young. Tybolt smiled openly and often.

Their similarities were only physical in truth. Tybolt was sweet natured from early on. Soft spoken. Bookish. He was not shy, but neither did he speak up unless he felt he had something to say. He preferred to watch and listen, and he never drew the focus in a room. In that way, he could not be more different from Tywin. And that was for the best in Arya’s mind.

Arya sat down across from Tybolt, nodding at his book. “What are you reading?”

“ The Aftermath of Robert’s Rebellion ,” he replied. “The maesters at the citadel only finished it a few years ago, but we hadn’t received a copy until a few days ago. There is a lot to talk about. I imagine it took a long time to transcribe.”

“No wonder its such a large book,” Arya said. It was strange that the years in which she had grown up now found their place in a book. It was stranger still knowing her name must be inside of it. She had always admired the heroes of the history books but never thought to join them in the world of paper and ink. “Is it a good read?”

“Its an interesting one,” Tybolt said. “It’s a bit overly complementary of the new Targaryen dynasty for my tastes.”

“We do have a Targaryen queen,” Arya said. “It was bound to be complementary.”

“They paint her as a savior who descended from the heavens,” he said. “You’d think she was the one who killed the Night King.”

“Well, you never know,” Arya said. “Perhaps this book decided she did.”

“No,” he flipped a few pages ahead and turned the book to face her, tapping on one of the lower paragraphs. Arya skimmed the words.

After a long battle on the Isle of Faces, the Night King was defeated by Arya Stark of Winterfell, now Arya Lannister of Casterly Rock, when she drove her Valyrian steel dagger through his heart. And thus the Long Night was ended.

She exhaled. “That is more or less what happened.” Her gaze jumped to the next page and caught on the heading ‘ The trial of Tywin Lannister’. She quickly averted her gaze and turned the book back to face Tybolt. “I suppose I have no real need to read this… since I was there.”

“You should though,” Tybolt said, playing with a corner of one of the pages. “So you can tell me which words are true and which are not.”

“Hmm.” She replied, which was not a definitive ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

“For instance, the way they talk about our family,” he said. “My grandfather. Tywin. I wondered if he was as terrible as the book claims.”

Arya’s mouth twitched into a humorless smile. “Yes, he was very terrible, Tybolt. Very terrible on many occasions.”

“And did you hate him?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “But not as much as I should have.”

Tybolt sighed, clearly frustrated with the answers. “You never talk about him, mother. Can’t you give me more than a few words?”

“It was complicated, Ty,” Arya said. “That’s… all I can say right now. Complicated.”

“That’s still not very many words,” he replied petulantly.

“No, its not, is it?” Arya stood from the table and paced off toward a large cabinet. Inside, she found a Cyvasse board. The same Cyvasse board Tyrion had given her when she was still very young. She returned to the table and set it between them. “You need a break from reading. Play a game with me.”

She was blatantly changing the subject and she knew Tybolt could see it, but he did not protest. He closed the book and pushed it to the side. “Fine. One game. And this time I’ll beat you.”

“You can try,” she said, unfolding the board and scattering the pieces onto the table. “Which color?”

“The white,” he said. “And I want the broken king.”

Arya felt a strange sense of melancholy rise within her. “Oh? And why is that?”

“Because,” he shrugged. “It feels like good luck.”

She smiled softly and passed him the piece. “Perhaps it is, Ty. But it won’t help you win.”

It had been twenty long years since Arya first came to Casterly Rock to stay. Arya had been only eighteen then. Even younger than Tybolt now. And she had faced more trials than most faced in their entire lives.

She stood before lords who doubted her capabilities, armed only with Tywin’s last letters and her own wits. Even Jaime had to prove himself before their new subjects. Tywin was one of the great Lords of Casterly Rock–the one who earned his title. The fear and respect he commanded could not be equalled. Jaime might be a first born son, but he was still looked upon as weak by the lords. A lesser replacement. If a golden haired son of Lannister could be doubted as a proper successor, his young northern wife could be easily set aside if allowed.

But Arya had no intention of allowing it. And neither did Jaime.

Jaime read Tywin’s final letter to the Western lords in the hall that day. The words demanded that each and every house of the West swear their loyalty to Jaime of House Lannister and his wife, Arya. The fact that Arya’s name was included beside that of her husband was a shock to many. 

But they did not protest. Not in the sight of gods and men and the ghost of Tywin Lannister. They knelt and swore their oaths beneath the weight of his final command. And then they withdrew to scheme in the shadows for how they might gain influence over the weaker willed eldest son of Tywin Lannister and his outsider wife.

It was a difficult first year. Many lords tested the waters with questioning Jaime’s authority. With Arya they were even more blatant. They condescended to her at court and some would not even look her in the eye. They were slow to pay debts once called upon, as if searching to see how militant their new leadership would be with collecting the taxes. They whined and whimpered about the Long Night being difficult for everyone. And yet, when Arya road through the countryside and asked questions of the farmers, she found the local lords had gladly drained the populace of their usual coin. Some even more than usual.

Then there was the incident when House Brax. Flement Brax was particularly egregious for his refusal to pay taxes to House Lannister. After Jaime issued summons at court, the man made the mistake of commenting on Jaime and Arya’s lack of fingers.

Not even three hands between you, and you expect us to bow quietly?

Arya rose without a word from her seat and strode down to meet him. She asked him which hand he fought with. And once he declared that he fought with his right, she severed two fingers from his left hand in front of the court. 

There. Now we have enough fingers for three hands. And if you don't pay your debts, my lord, I'll take your good hand. Then my husband and I will have a full set.

Strike fast. Strike hard. That was her father-in-law’s advice. And she had every intention to follow.

Arya took traveling the west personally with a small group of men-at-arms to collect the taxes. She made a point to speak with the smallfolk in each region to get a sense of how much money their ruling lord had drained from them. Then, armed with their testimonies, she entered their keeps, treated with them, and made clear exactly how much they were to pay before she left.

If you wish to pay your debt in other ways, you may of course say so, Arya said. I may accept a payment of blood or flesh. But gold will be much less painful for you.

Most paid the money. After hearing the stories of Lord Brax, none wished to lose their fingers.

Soon, Arya gained a reputation. She had only to play with the hilt of the Cat’s paw dagger to make them nervous when she spoke to them. They began looking her in the eye when she spoke. They stopped complaining about her equal seat beside Jaime Lannister. A few made the mistake of trying to complain directly to Jaime about her involvement. They always found an unsympathetic party.

“I’m afraid my father thought very highly of the Lady Lannister’s abilities at ruling in life,” Jaime said. “I hope you would not ask me to dishonor his memory by excluding her from these matters. I do value her input.”

By the year’s end, the thorns had been ripped from the valley and Arya finally felt able to put down roots. She became pregnant with her first son. And thus her family and her new life in the west truly began.

The past twenty years had not been easy. Each season brought its own challenges. Two more fierce winters which devastated the farmland. A few small rebellions, including that of the Serrets who surrendered all control of their silver mines to keep their lives when their plotting failed.

There were books to balance. People to advise and rule. Lords to bicker with. Dinners and balls to attend. And that was just in the west. Arya and Jaime also made frequent pilgrimages to the Red Keep for Daenerys’ annual council, as well as to the seats of their other major allies. The Stormlands, the Reach, the North. The entire continent was slowly but surely rebuilding from the Long Night and they could not afford to be disconnected.

In the midst of the constant balancing act of ruling, there were children. Tybolt first, a sweet faced, golden haired boy with Lannister looks that could appease the lords that cared about that sort of thing. Elissa a year later, a daughter with deep brown locks with the smallest hints of Tully auburn.

Three years after Elissa came the twins–Nymeria and Marcus–both dark haired and with the severe features of the north, like their mother. And one year after them came the last of Arya’s children. Johanna. She favored Jaime’s side of the family, the first since Tybolt to do so.

Five children, in Arya’s mind, was plenty. Two sons. Three daughters. She bore them into this world, screaming all the way. And once Johanna’s particularly difficult birth was at an end, she vowed never to do it again. She refused to take the risk and Jaime, who had lost his mother to childbirth, did not protest.

Arya had not pictured herself as a mother in her early years, even though it would of course be expected of her. She would not call herself a natural at the task. But she loved her children dearly–each and every one. She would defend them. She would kill for them if it ever came to that. And she supposed that was what parenthood was in the end.

Twenty years. Five children. Arya had born the Lannister name longer than the Stark name.

There were times that Arya Stark seemed far out of reach. That little Stark girl was born and raised in a time of war. She saw the beginning and ending of the War of the Five Kings. The Northern Rebellion. The Western Civil War. She saw four rulers sit the iron throne.

She touched death a handful of times. She defied it when she killed the Night King and ended the Long Night.

Arya Stark lived through so much hardship in her short years. And Arya Lannister, while she had faced many trials, had lived in relative peace.

So yes, there were times when Arya Stark felt very far away. But there were other times when she felt very close indeed. When the girl she once was breached close to the surface of her memory and grasped at her mind with wounded hands.

Do not let your guard down, that girl told her. There are always more enemies to deal with. Always more lurking in the shadows.

This peace will not last. Not forever.

It never does.

“I win,” Arya said as she made her final move.

Tybolt sight, knocking the king with the cracked crown over. “It shouldn’t surprise me. How is it that no matter how many times we play, you always beat me?”

“I know you well, Ty,” Arya said.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Tybolt asked.

“Because,” she said simply. “Knowing your enemy is the key to defeating them.” She sighed. “Now. We should both be getting back to bed.”

“One more game,” he said. “Just one. Then I’ll sleep.”

She regarded him for a long moment before nodding once, returning the king with the cracked crown to his rightful place on the board.

“All right. One more game.”

Chapter Text

To be raised at Casterly Rock meant a natural affection for heights. One couldn’t be afraid of the towering cliffs upon which the keep sat. They became like old friends. Or perhaps steadfast guards, keeping the Lannister seat from all who might be stupid enough to march on its walls.

Very few armies had ever tried to lay siege to the Rock, according to Tybolt’s reading. The keep had to be taken with subterfuge or given freely. Lann the Clever had tricked his way into it, according to legends. Cersei Lannister, Tybolt’s long dead aunt, had done the same by letting Ironborn in the back door. 

Otherwise, the lords of the Rock had bent the knee to Targaryen conquerors. Lorren Lannister to Aegon I after he foolishly took the fight into the field. Tywin Lannister, his grandfather, to Daenerys’ Targaryen in order to secure the Lannister hold on Casterly Rock and prevent further war.

Tybolt had read the stories one thousand times. He enjoyed reading about the great names of history–their successes and failures. He especially made a sport of find differing accounts. History, it seemed, took as much liberty with it’s stories as fairytales. Some books glorified. Some demonized. And some texts gave relatively unbiased accounts of events. But those were very rare finds.

His mother encouraged his reading habit. She saw value in him learning from the past. But she didn’t allow him to waste every hour away in the library, as would be his preference.

“Being well read is important for an heir of House Lannister,” she told him. “But so is knowing how to shoot a bow and wield a sword. Strength of body and mind, Ty. If you let one of those things weaken, they will take advantage.”

It was easy enough for her to say. His mother was the strongest and smartest person Tybolt knew. And while he enjoyed looking to figures of the past, looking to his mother…well she cast a long shadow despite her small stature.

Still, he listened. He made a point to visit the yard at least once a day to train in some weapon. Today he had chosen the bow. He practiced with targets of various distances and sizes in the company of two of his friends–Sebastian Farman and Franklyn Swyft. Both were second sons, sent to squire at the Rock for the honor of their family. And being close to Tybolt’s age, he formed an easy companionship with them. His mother had encouraged that.

“It’s good to have friends in many places. It strengthens your allies as you grow.”

Tybolt would have made friends with them regardless of the strategic purposes. But he guessed his mother knew that.

He loosed a bolt at one of the smaller targets and only scraped along the edge. He exhaled, lowering his bow.

“In case you were wondering,” Sebastian said from his place perched on the fence. “The target is a little to the left.”

“You don’t say?” Tybolt asked. “Where would I be without your insight, Seb?”

“Nowhere,” Sebastian said. “It’s why you should make me one of your generals when you’re older. There’s many more where that came from.”

“I’ll keep a note of it,” Tybolt said. “Sebastian Farman knows his right from his left.”

“Perhaps he knows north from south too,” Franklyn piped up. “Or even east from west.”

“I’m a Farman,” Sebastian said. “I’d bloody well hope so or I’d be terrible at the helm of a navy.”

“Couldn’t be much worse than your brother at any rate,” Franklyn said.

Sebastian sighed, hopping off the fence. “Don’t remind me. With his drinking I’m surprised he hasn’t sailed our ship off the edge of the world.”

“You know most Maesters agree the world is a sphere,” Tybolt said, loosing another arrow. This one missed as well.

“Is that so,” Sebastian said. “Would you have an easier time hitting the target if it were a sphere?”

“I could try with your head,” Tybolt suggested.

“I’ll take that bet,” Sebastian said. “I don’t believe you could do it.”

“He might,” Franklyn said. “Your head is much bigger than the target.”

Tybolt laughed and went to retrieve his arrows. “At any rate. My house isn’t famous for its archery.”

“Are your parents poor archers?” Franklyn asked.

“That would be something,” Sebastian said. “Do the great Lion and she-wolf have a weakness in combat.”

“Well, my father can’t operate a bow easily,” Tybolt pointed out. “And my mother…well she’s actually quite good at archery. It’s just not her specialty.”

“No weakness for her then,” Sebastian said, stepping up to take a few shots of his own. “Tell me. Is your mother terrifying in every area of her life?”

Tybolt laughed. “My mother isn’t terrifying.”

“That is categorically incorrect,” Franklyn said. “We’ve watched her deal with lords at court. You’ve seen it. She gets that smile .”

“Yes, the smile,” Sebastian said. He loosed another arrow. This one struck close to the center. “The one she gives when a lord has taken a step too far. And the air in the room chills. A northern wind.”

“You’re both being dramatic,” Tybolt said. “Though I admit he does have a particular smile when she’s especially angry.”

“Like a wolf barring teeth,” Franklyn said.

“She’d be pleased to know you’re still comparing her to a wolf,” Tybolt said. “She likes when people remember where she comes from.”

“Good. I want your mother to like me. I don’t want to be on her bad side,” Franklyn said. “Is it true that she single handedly killed the Night King? I always have wanted to ask how it happened.”

“She wouldn’t call it single handedly,” Tybolt said. “It was with the help of many others, including my Uncle Bran. He died helping her to kill him. And many others died just to give her that one chance. But yes. She struck the final blow.”

“That is something,” Sebastian said. He stepped back from the target and gestured for Franklyn to take his shots. “Your mother is something.”

Tybolt knew that better than anyone. It was a source of pride, but also a source of constant anxiety.

It would have been difficult enough to live up to his father. Jaime Lannister, one of the best swordsmen Westeros had ever seen even though he had lost a hand. Whatever skill his right hand took from him he had gained back in his left over the past twenty years. He was a skilled general and excelled at court with his golden tongue.

But then there was Arya Lannister. She was just as competent a fighter as his father and excelled with a knife as much as a sword. She was brilliant with strategy and she had a way of knowing people from a first meeting. The smallfolk had a fondness for her and she had even won over many of the reluctant lords in time. And that wasn’t even speaking of her exploits of her youth. The girl that ended the conflict between House Stark and House Lannister. The girl who helped to end two civil wars in the north and the west. The girl who killed the Night King and ended the Long Night.

It was an impossible legacy. His mother was set to become a legend in the history books. And Tybolt could not imagine being anything more than a footnote.

“My father used to talk about the Long Night all of the time when I was a kid,” Sebastian continued. “A bed time story to scare us.”

“I’m sure my father told me the same stories,” Franklyn said, loosing an arrow. His shot squarely hit the center. Franklyn was the most accomplished archer and hunter between the three of them. He grew up near a rich forest after all. “He described seeing the armies of the dead appear in the night.”

“The tower of Harrenhall being ripped asunder by an undead dragon,” Sebastian said. “The sight of the dead climbing the walls. And the cold. He said it was cold unlike any he’d felt before.”

“And if we don’t behave, the Long Night will come again,” Franklyn said wryly.

“I don’t think that’s now the Long Night works,” Tybolt said. “In any case, none of us will ever live to see it. It’s not the sort of thing that happens twice in one lifetime. Or even twice in a millenia.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to suspect that my parents told me the story to manipulate me.” Franklyn stepped away from the target, gesturing for Tybolt to step up. “Your turn again, my lord.”

Tybolt sighed, taking careful aim. He tried to focus on the target. Steady his hand.

A bolt hit the bullseye. But not his bolt. He whipped around to see Elissa standing atop a wide barrel, bow in hand. She grinned, lowering her bow.

“That’s where the center is. If you’re curious,” she said.

Sebastian whistled. “Sure is. Nice shot, Elissa.”

Elissa gave a playful curtsy, hopping off the barrel. “It’s a simple shot when you’re used to shooting from horseback. A still target is comparatively easy.”

“You should join a hunting party with us sometime,” Franklyn said. “I’d like to see you fell a stag.”

“I’m sure you would,” Elissa said with a charming smile. She brushed her dark hair over her shoulder, letting the little bits of auburn catch in the midday light. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, Tybolt.”

The three of them watched her as she continued across the yard, Franklyn and Sebastian with wonder, Tybolt with irritation.

“Seb, Frank?”

“Uh huh?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you considered not admiring my sister so intensely in front of me?”

Franklyn blinked snapping back to look at Tybolt. “Sorry I didn’t catch that; one more time?”

Tybolt lowered his bow. “All right. I’m done shooting for the day.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Sebastian said. “It’s not our fault we have eyes Tybolt.”

“It’s true. We were born with them,” Franklyn said. “And they like to look at beautiful things.”

“All right, I’m leaving. I’m leaving both of you,” Tybolt said, making his way swiftly across the yard. It wasn’t anything new. Everytime Elissa graced them with her presence, Sebastian and Franklyn were immediately in a competition to impress her. It was the same with most boys their age from the stablehands to the soldiers to the young lords. And the old lords too. Everyone turned when Elissa walked by.

It was said that Elissa inherited the best parts of their mother and father. She was tall and had the high cheekbones of their father as well as his bright green eyes. But she had the rich dark hair and auburn tints from their mother. She had also inherited much of their parents’ talents. Everything seemed to come so easy to her. Horseback riding. Archery. Swordplay. People. Politics. The only thing she could not match Tybolt in was academics. In everything else, she excelled well past him.

When he entered the armory to put away his bow, he found Elissa there as well, carefully stowing her own weapons. She cast him a little smirk over her shoulder. The mischievous smirk of a little sister who had succeeded in needling him.

“No more practice for the day?”

“No,” Tybolt said. “What about you? Done showing off or do you think there are a few other opportunities to draw attention today?”

“Mm. Well I have a few hours left until sundown,” Elissa said. “So I’m sure I can find some other way.”

Tybolt sighed, placing his bow on it’s hook. “If you’re going to flirt with my friends, can it be when I’m not around? It’s nauseating.”

“Please. That was barely a flirtation,” Elissa said. “You haven’t seen my true flirtations.”

“Nor do I want to,” Tybolt said.

Elissa laughed. A high and clear sound. “If I choose to court one of your companions, you’ll be the first to know.” She threaded her arms through Tybolt’s, walking with him from the armory. “I’ve considered Sebastian. He’s an attractive option.”

“Of course you’d think so,” Tybolt said. “He’s a show off just like you.”

“And his family is one of our strongest allies and is in control of many ships,” Elissa said. “That’s also attractive. Though his being a second son works to his detriment.”

“How romantic of you,” Tybolt said.

“I’m not a romantic, Ty,” Elissa said. “I’m a realist. I’m of marrying age. I need to start considering viable options. People who won’t make me miserable all my life, for one thing.”

“No interest in a love match then?” Tybolt asked.

“Love matches are for eldest sons and heirs,” Elissa said, looking out over the yard. In the distance, they could spot the twins sparring with their narrow practice swords. Marcus managed to get past Nymeria’s defenses and Nymeria, in response, kicked him. “I’m an eldest daughter. I have other factors to consider.”

Tybolt gave her a look. “You know mother and father wouldn’t force you into a match you don’t want.”

Elissa rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m aware of that, Tybolt. That’s why I’m trying to find options . If I can find love in a place that will be ideal for our house, the more the better. It just depends on whether or not mother prefers to build connections outside of the west or strengthen our bonds with the houses within it. Both have their own benefits.”

Tybolt didn’t know what to say to that. He just continued with her up the hill until she spoke again.

“You know why I show off, don’t you?” she asked. “Because if I’m going to be respected, I have to be exceptional. And not just in one thing. In as many as possible. That’s what mother had to do. Strategy. Fighting. Politics. Everything. It’s how she earned her seat in the west. I have to do the same to earn mine.”

“You do excel at everything,” Tybolt said. “You’re mother’s daughter. Through and through.” He glanced at her. “You know I’d give it to you.”

“Give me what, Ty?”

“The title of heir.”

Elissa laughed. “Don’t be silly Tybolt. If I was the first born, maybe we could have a discussion. But you’re the eldest and a man. Mother and father have no choice but to make you heir.”

“You’d be more suited to it,” Tybolt said. “I’d be better as…an advisor. Or scholar. Not as a leader. I’m not much like mother at all. I don’t know if I even want this.”

“Its not about what we want,” Elissa said. “We’re Lannisters, Ty. We have to think about our place in the world. Our legacy.”

A pragmatic response. But Tybolt could hear the want in her voice. Of course she wanted to be heir to the Rock. She wanted to be just like their mother and had since she was a child. She mimicked their mother in everything. But at the end of the day, she was second born and a woman. And even if there mother wanted to make her heir…

I’m sure she wishes she could, Tybolt thought. I’m sure she thinks Elissa is better for the role.

“Ah…there is a peculiar creature in the bushes,” Elissa said, breaking Tybolt from his thoughts as they passed through the gardens. She pointed. “Look.”

Tybolt did. Sure enough, a girl in a pink dress was on her knees in the grass, head fully swallowed by the brambles. He did not need to see her face to know who it was.

“Johanna! What are you doing.”

Johanna stuck out a single finger. A signal to wait. He heard her cooing gently as he edged closer.

“Yes. Come here. I’m a friend. Good boy. That’s it.”

“Made another friend today, Jo?” Elissa asked.

Johanna withdrew from the bush holding an entire fox in her arms. Her round, flushed face lit up with a grin. “Yes. An orange one.”

“Seven hells,” Elissa said. “You’d think he was a kitten the way he’s laying there.”

“He knows I’m a friend,” Johanna said. “Because I fed him scraps.”

“Still,” Tybolt said. “You’re going to get bitten one of these days.”

“I’ve never been bitten before,” Johanna said. “But I should let him carry on his business.” She gently set him down. “Go on little fox. Enjoy the garden.”

As the fox scampered off, Elissa picked bits of twig and leaf from Johanna’s golden curls. “The septa won’t be pleased to see you’ve dirtied your dress again.”

“It will be fine,” Johanna said. “We have an arrangement. This is my outdoor dress.”

“Your outdoor dress?” Tybolt asked.

“Yes. The dress I put on when I go wandering through the gardens,” Johanna said brightly. “That way I only mess up one dress and the others can stay clean.”

“Fair enough,” Elissa said. “Come. We have to dress for dinner soon. And you know how Septa Lucilla is when she has to come looking for you.”

“Yes, yes.” the thirteen year old took Elissa’s hand and let her guide her inside. Tybolt followed behind them, smiling and shaking his head.

For the moment, their little sister had cleared away any discussion of politics and replaced it with a long rambling about the creatures she had met that day. And Tybolt was content to listen and let his other worries float away on the harsh cliff winds.

After dinner, Tybolt spent much of his evenings in the library. Sometimes he had his mother or Elissa or Marcus for company. Today, his companion was Johanna who had diverted his original reading and demanded instead that he tell her stories from the Dance of Dragons.

The wars and people were of little consequence to her. She had no interest whatsoever in whether or not Rhaenyra or Aegon II had more right to the Iron throne. She simply wanted to hear about the dragons. Vhagar and Caraxas and Syrax and Sheepsteeler. Joanna had a passion for animals and that carried forward into her studies.

“I wish there were more dragons,” Joanna said. “I want to come across a dragon in the woods.”

“You may,” Tybolt said. “There are wild dragons again. Offspring of the ones Daenerys Targaryen woke. But I’m not sure that would be a good encounter. They might see you as a meal.”

“They wouldn’t. They’d see me as a friend.” She smiled brightly. “I’d like to ride one.”

“No one in this family is riding a dragon any time soon.” Their mother’s voice came from amongst the bookshelves. Arya was standing nearby, a smile on her face.

“I could do it,” Joanna insisted. “I know I could.”

“You don’t have any Targaryen blood, Joanna,” Arya said. “You’d have a difficult time of it.”

“Why should I need special blood?” Joanna asked.

“I don’t know the answer to that,” Arya said. “Valyrian magic is beyond many of our understandings. But we’re not going to find the answer tonight.” She pat Joanna on the back. “Come. Septa Lucilla is looking for you. Don’t make her search long.”

“Yes, mother,” Joanna said with a yawn as she wandered from the library. 

“You know there are some scholars that question whether or not only Targaryen’s can ride dragons,” Tybolt said. “During the Dance of Dragons, they summoned dragon seed to claim wild dragons. But Nettles won her dragon by simply feeding it sheep everyday.” He paged through his book. “She did not have any notably Targaryen traits. But the Targaryens claimed her as their blood anyway, because the alternative was admitting that others could tame dragons, which would take away something inherently special about them.”

“Hmm,” Arya raised her eyebrows. “It is a fascinating theory. But please don’t tell that to your sister. She will try to befriend a dragon.”

“If anyone could, its her,” Tybolt said. “She picked up a fox today.”

“Of course she did,” Arya said. “I used to say she’d learn when something bit her…but thirteen years in that hasn’t happened, so I’m not sure.”

Tybolt grinned a little. But his smile faded when he noticed the tension in his mother’s jaw. There was a way she carried herself when something was wrong. An invisible weight that settled on her shoulders. And she was holding a letter in her hand.

“What is it?” he asked. “Who’s that from?”

“Your Uncle Robb,” Arya said. “Your grandmother isn’t well. They’ve asked us to come north and visit just in case she gets worse.”

“She’s dying?” Tybolt asked.

“Maybe not,” Arya said. “But if she is…we can’t wait for her to get worse. Then we may miss her. So…we leave tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll pack my things,” Tybolt said. “And I’ll tell the others. Don’t worry about it, mother.”

“Thank you, Ty.” Arya reached up to cup his face. Once upon a time, she had to reach down, but ever since Tybolt inherited his father’s height and shot up, there had been a shift. She exhaled. “You have gotten tall, haven’t you?”

“I guess so,” Tybolt said.

“Go on,” Arya said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Tybolt nodded and obediently went forth to warn his siblings about the journey tomorrow. He left his mother standing in the library with a candle, looking over the book he had left open.

Arya took the long way back to her bedroom that night. She always did that when she was in a bad way because she hoped Jaime might fall asleep before she got there. He rarely did. And as usual, he was up waiting when she slipped through the door.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” she said.

“Of course I did,” Jaime said. “You were doing that thing you do.”

“What thing?” Arya asked.

“The thing when you take long walks around the castle to avoid talking to me about something troubling,” Jaime said. “We’ve been married for over twenty years, Arya. Do you think I don’t notice these things?”

“Well… stop noticing them,” Arya said.

Jaime gave a soft smile and shook his head. He extended his left hand to her. She grasped it and went willingly into his arms. There was something warm and sure about that embrace–a place where she had learned to seek comfort over the years. It was the only comfort she allowed herself really. Around everyone else, she was iron. She was steel. And even around her children, while she offered them her smiles and her love, she stayed strong.

Only Jaime was allowed her weakness.

“My mother,” she murmured into his shoulder.

“I know. Merwyn told me,” Jaime said. “It’s not a sure thing, right? She may yet live?”

“Maybe,” Arya said. “It could just be a passing illness. But I don’t want to take the chance.”

“We won’t. We’ll go,” Jaime said. “We’ll leave Merwyn in charge. He won’t mind.”

Arya nodded. Merwyn had been their steward since they came to Casterly Rock. After he lost his arm in the Battle of the Long Night, he did not want to return to battle. But he was good with numbers and he was a loyal friend. So they kept him employed in their keep.

“Will we take all the children?” Jaime asked.

“Yes,” Arya said. “It’s been a while since they’ve seen their cousins. I’m sure Robb sent a letter to Sansa as well. She’ll make the journey north too.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Good time to travel while we’re still in the midst of summer.”

“Yes. Maybe you’ll get one of your summer snows,” Jaime said. He pulled back, looking down at her. “Are you all right?”

Arya nodded. Jaime looked unconvinced. He always did.

“It’s just…been a while since I’ve had to do this.”

“This?”

“Face the possibility of losing a parent.” She paused for a little too long before she quickly added something else. “My father passed when I was twelve after all.”

“Mm.” Jaime hummed. “That’s the last time, was it?”

She cast him a glare. He was not phased. He had built up a tolerance to such looks.

“You don’t have to put on a performance for me, Arya,” Jaime said. “One day you’ll finally learn that.”

“Or maybe one day I’ll learn to fool you,” Arya said petulantly.

“Unlikely,” Jaime said.

“You are a thorn in my side,” Arya said. “I only keep you around because I need the Lannister name.”

“I thought it was my good looks,” Jaime said.

“Those won’t last you forever.” Arya reached up, toying with a strand of his hair. More silver crept into the gold every year, but somehow it only made it shine brighter. “As soon as they stop, I’ll do away with you.”

“Good,” Jaime said. “I’d hate to live a single day in this world without my beauty.”

Arya managed a smile then. Jaime had a way of drawing those from her too. She stretched onto her toes and brought his face down to hers, kissing him deeply. He wrapped his arm around her waste and cupped her face with his good hand.

When the kiss broke, she let out a breath and with it the last of her walls. Jaime swept back a few strands of her hair.

“Is there something else?” he asked. “Because you’ve been sleeping poorly before this letter came in.”

“Its…I’m not sure,” Arya said. “Just a sensation of dread. I get this every so often. Whenever things get too peaceful. Too…calm. When everything is still, I find it harder to breathe.” She exhaled. “I don’t think I’m built for peace, Jaime. But I want it for the sake of the children. I don’t want them to know a single war. Not like we did.”

“No,” Jaime said. “You know…Joanna is older than you were now when you knew your first war.”

“I know.”

“That means they’ve all already had more peace than you ever did. That’s something.”

“They have,” Arya said. “But then there’s the other side of it. Will they be ready if that peace slips away?”

Jaime studied her for a long moment. Then his kissed the top of her head. “We will be. That’s enough.”

Arya was not sure that it was. She remembered being a child. She remembered when she and her siblings played in the summer snows with no thoughts at all to the coming winter. She remembered her first journey south to King’s Landing. She thought she would only be away for a short time. She did not know she would never call Winterfell home again. She did not know she would lose her father so violently.

She hadn’t known anything of grief then. Of struggle. Her children were the same. And she was torn between wanting them to be happy and wanting them to be ready.

Ready for the next storm.

Chapter Text

The morning of their departure for the north, Merwyn came to Jaime with yet another letter. This one bore the seal of the Queen–the sigil of House Targaryen backed by a blaze of red flame. Jaime was not surprised to see this letter. It was expected for this time of year.

“A call to the Queen’s annual council, I suppose,” Jaime said.

“I’d imagine so, my lord,” Merwyn said.

Jaime split the seal, unrolling the scroll and reading swiftly. “In two months. Good. It will give us time to spend in the north before going south.”

“Then I should expect to hold the keep for some time then?” Merwyn said.

“No more than a month,” Jaime said. “Some of us will no doubt return instead of heading to the Red Keep. Arya won’t want the entire family to go to King’s Landing.”

“Why not?” Merwyn asked. “All of the children are old enough I think.”

“It’s not their ages,” Jaime said. “Arya is wary of having the entire family away from Casterly Rock. If something were to go wrong in King’s Landing, she’d prefer some of the family be in our territory.”

“Does she expect something to go wrong?” Merwyn asked.

“Arya always expects something to go wrong,” Jaime said. “I can’t blame her. When she was a child, she went south with her father and her sister to King’s Landing. Things went wrong. If her entire family had been present for such an event, who knows what would have happened to House Stark.” He rolled up the letter. “The Starks have this idea–there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I think Arya has brought that idea to the Rock.”

“It’s wise, I suppose,” Merwyn said. “The Rock has been taken before when left undefended.”

“By a Lannister, no less,” Jaime said, letting out a long breath as Cersei passed through his mind. 

All these years later, he sometimes went a great many days without thinking of her. But he knew the memory would never be gone. She was his twin. That was not something that could be washed away by time or treachery. Especially when he had twin children of his own. 

Marcus and Nym. Watching them grow up sometimes dredged up past memories. But at least they did not share the more depraved part of his and Cersei’s connection. He had watched quite closely for that.

Jaime held up the scroll. “I’ll bring this to Arya. Thank you, Merwyn.”

Merwyn inclined his head before he left him. Jaime sighed, then made his way up the stairs of the keep to the wing where his family kept their quarters.

It was strange having a family in the place where he grew up. Once he was a child in this keep. Now his children ran about the same rooms he once did, following in his footsteps. He had not thought to have even one child who he could claim as his own, much less five. His father would be pleased that he came to this. That caused him a mix of pleasure and annoyance.

Father always got his way in the end, didn’t he?

He could not be too angry. He loved all of his children deeply. There had been a part of him that had always wished to claim Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen, but he knew it was not a possibility. But Tybolt. Elissa. Marcus. Nymeria. Johanna. They were all his and no man would dare dispute it.

As he rounded the corner, he could already hear their voices echoing off the walls. Johanna flashed across his path, almost running right under foot as she darted from one room to the other. Elissa followed quickly after.

“Johanna, we need to leave soon.” She stopped, giving the exasperated smile of an older sister. “Sorry, father. I’ll handle her.”

“We have another hour yet. Don’t strain yourself,” he said, squeezing her shoulder.

“No strain. I’m all right,” Elissa said. She was very like her mother in that way. Always insisting that she was fine.

She continued off after Johanna. Jaime passed the twins’ room next. Marcus was carefully laying out knives of his own along his bed, deciding which he should hide on his person. He glanced up at Jaime as he passed, giving a simple nod of acknowledgement. Marcus was not one for words unless he absolutely needed them.

Jaime glanced about the room, noticing another half packed bag. But not it’s owner. He raised an eyebrow. “Your sister?”

“Looking for s-something,” Marcus said quietly.

Jaime let out a sigh. Marcus didn’t have to say where she was looking. He had a feeling. “I’ll find her. Focus on packing.”

Marcus nodded once.

Three of his five children accounted for wasn’t terrible he supposed. And he knew he did not have to worry about the fifth. Tybolt always ended up where he needed to be in the end. He took his responsibilities as the eldest brother very seriously.

Sure enough, he found Tybolt with Arya when he entered their quarters. He was speaking with Arya about the journey and where they would be stopping along the way. He glanced up when Jaime entered the room, letting out a breath.

“I should finish packing.”

“Ready to go north again?” Jaime asked.

“I am,” Tybolt said. “It’s been a few years now. It will be good to see my cousins.”

“Indeed,” Jaime said. “You may have to manage your siblings to keep them and your cousins from making too much trouble.”

“I’ll do my best,” Tybolt said.

“Good man.” Jaime clasped his shoulder and sent him on his way. He was gratified to see Tybolt smile. He didn’t want his children to hold back their smiles in his presence. And he didn’t want them to have to work to earn smiles from him.

“Is that a letter there?” Arya asked.

“It is,” Jaime said. “With the Queen’s seal.”

She let out a long breath. “Ah. It’s that time of year, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jaime said. “I assume you don’t want to bring the entire family to the Red Keep.”

“Under no circumstances,” Arya said.

“Which of us will go south and which west then?” Jaime asked.

“I’d like to go this time,” Arya said. “There are a few matters I wanted to discuss with Queen Daenerys. She listens to me more than you, I think.”

“Understandable. Considering my history with her family,” Jaime said. “And the children? Some of them have never been to the Red Keep.”

“They haven’t,” Arya said. “Though I wonder if they’re ready.”

“They’re older than you were,” Jaime said.

Arya sighed. “True enough.” She nodded once. “I’ll take the twins and Johanna. Tybolt and Elissa will return to the west with you.”

“Elissa won’t be pleased with that,” Jaime said. “She does love to travel.”

“She’s been to the Red Keep more than once,” Arya said. “It’s her younger siblings turn to see the capitol. And I won’t be taking all of the children.”

Jaime’s mouth twitched. As he expected.“There must always be a Lannister at Casterly Rock, right?”

She gave him a look. But she mirrored his smile. “Just a safety precaution.”

“I understand, Arya. Believe me,” Jaime said. “We’ll make it without you for a month I’m sure.”

“I’d hope so,” Arya said. She paced to the mirror, tying up her dark hair. Her fingers struggled with some of the pins and Jaime came up behind her to fix them. He was tall enough that he had perfect access to the top of her head. But even after twenty years of marriage, Arya never asked for help. She wasn’t the type of person who asked for anything. But he’d learn to read the need in her silences and step in to offer a hand.

“I heard you mention the God’s Eye to Tybolt,” Jaime said. “Do you plan to visit Bran?”

“Yes,” Arya said. “I know he hasn’t spoken to me in a while but…I still try.”

“I’m sure time moves strangely for him,” Jaime said. “Maybe he thinks its only been a few days.”

“A few days instead of seven years?” Arya sighed. “Quite a mistake to make.”

Jaime finished with the pin, grasping her shoulder and turning her around. “It will be fine. Even without his guidance…we’ve learned to manage. The dead taught us a lot but we don’t need them to move forward, do we?”

“No,” Arya said. “We do to miss them sometimes though…don’t we?”

Jaime pulled her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. “Yes. I’d say we do.”

Jaime descended the steps, deeper and deeper into the Rock. There was a point where the natural light from the many windows faded away, and torch light became the only solace. Deep in Casterly Rock, it felt as if it was always night.

Jaime did not frequently journey to this level of the keep. Here housed some of the servants quarters. The treasury. Even deeper down, the prisons. But also, the Lannister family crypt.

Theirs was one of the oldest families in the Seven Kingdoms. Like the Starks, they traced their roots back to the age of heroes. Hundreds of Lannisters were buried here in the heart of the mountain. His grandfather and grandmother. His uncles. His aunt.

His mother and father. And his sister as well.

Jaime did not often come here. When he was a child he made frequent visits to speak to his mother, but they always left him feeling empty and lonely so he stopped braving the darkness. He preferred to walk in the light.

But the same could not be said of one of his children.

Nym was there, slipping from the entrance to the crypt and into the light of Jaime’s torch. She froze as if she hadn’t expected to see him there. For a moment they regarded each other in still silence as he waited for her to speak.

“Hello, father,” she said at last. She was clasping something behind her back.

“Hello,” Jaime said. “You’re meant to be packing, Nymeria.”

Nym nodded once. “I plan to right now.”

“That’s good to hear,” Jaime said. He stepped forward, tapping her upper arm with his golden hand. “What are you hiding there?”

Nym blinked up at him with wide, storm grey eyes. It was an expression that reminded him very much of his wife. An attempt at ‘innocent confusion’.

“Nym,” Jaime said, raising an eyebrow.

Nym sighed and unwound her hands from behind her back, producing the object. It was a Cyvasse piece. One from the board that she and Marcus kept in her room. One of ‘The Rabble’.

“I left it down here,” Nym said. “I realized…when I was packing.”

“Why did you leave a Cyvasse piece in the crypt, Nym?” Jaime asked.

Nym didn’t reply.

“You’ve been sleep walking again.”

Nym shrugged. 

Jaime let out a breath. “You should have told us.”

“Mothers’ been worried lately,” Nym said. “Didn’t want to make it worse.”

“She’d be far more worried if you slipped down these stairs in your sleep and broke your neck,” Jaime reminded her.

“I never fall,” Nym said. Which was true enough. But that didn’t make Nym’s night time wanderings to the crypt any less worrisome.

“Even so,” Jaime said. “We ought to put a guard at your door to keep watch if it happens.”

“Marcus went with me,” Nym said. “He looks out for me.”

Of course he had. And Marcus would never dare tell any secret of Nym’s. They were certainly nothing like him and Cersei. But they were still bound to each other in their own way.

“Come,” Jaime gestured for her to follow him up the stairs. “We should get back.”

Nym obediently fell into step beside him.

The twins had always worried Jaime from the moment they were born. Johanna’s birth had been the most difficult for Arya physically. But the twins birth was by far the most harrowing.

Marcus came into the world crying, his cord wrapped around Nym’s neck. She didn’t cry. Or breathe. The maester and the septas spent time trying to revive her. Then, just at the point where they were sure she was lost, Nym’s eyes opened. She took a breath. She let out a cry. And they both lived.

There were worries about Nym’s health in the beginning. She fell prey to more sickness than her brother or any of her siblings. There was more than one time that they were sure she would die, but she weathered every one of them and now she was healthy as any child.

But there was a strangeness to Nymeria that had never faded. A strangeness to both the twins really. Jaime did not have to worry about them being like him ad Cersei at all, but there were many other things to worry about. 

Both of them spoke late and when they did, it was within two days of each other and in full sentences. Marcus battled a persistent stutter. Nym never smiled or laughed. Marcus struggled to speak a few words to strangers and Nym had to be taught that simply staring at people who spoke to her was not proper etiquette. In many ways they seemed constantly solemn. But Arya assured him they weren’t.

“Nym doesn’t smile when she’s happy. But you can tell when she’s content. And they don’t speak much with words but they do with actions. They’re young. They’ll grow out of their strangeness.”

Jaime had learned now to tell when Marcus and Nym were happy and he had learned to read some of their silences and accept them. But Nym’s sleep walking…that would never stop worrying him.

“I’m sorry,” Nym said softly as they ascended the steps. “For keeping it secret.”

“It’s all right,” Jaime said. “It’s good we know now before we travel. We’ll set a guard to watch you and make sure you don’t wander off any cliffs.” He glanced down at her. “Are you packed?”

“Mostly,” Nym said. “How many weapons should I bring.”

“Well, are you planning to go to war?” Jaime asked. “Or visit family.”

“We’re planning to visit family,” Nym said. “But theoretically, war could start at any time.”

Well, she’s certainly like her mother in that way, Jaime thought.

“I don’t think weapons will do you much good in your bags,” Jaime said. “So take your sword and a few knives and hope those will be enough if we find ourselves in battle.”

Nym nodded, satisfied by this answer. They reached the top of the steps near their family quarters where Marcus was waiting, sat on the top. He raised an eyebrow. Nym raised her ‘rabble’ piece. He nodded. There was a quick exchange of glances but no words–a silent conversation Jaime couldn’t hope to understand–before Nym turned to Jaime.

“I’ll finish packing now, father. I’ll be quick.”

Then she and Marcus hurried off.

The Lannister family made good time on the journey east. They dipped south first for their detour. Within a few days, the broken towers of Harrenhal appeared on the horizon. The dark skeleton of a castle sat as a reminder of many fantastic historical events. It’s melted stone told of Aegon’s conquest. The waters of the God’s Eye hid many corpses, including that of dragons and their riders. And still there were scattered remnants of the greatest battle of all–The Long Night.

Jaime did not like this place. It was the site of their ultimate victory, but it was still so full of ghosts. And the Long Night was a dramatic enough event that the lords of Westeros had ceased trying to claim the great keep. It was too cursed. It was best to let it sit abandoned out of respect for the dead.

Even Arya avoided venturing into the keep unless she needed to. She had business across the God’s Eye with her brother, so she usually kept to the waters and left Harrenhal to it’s ghosts.

Jaime, meanwhile, sat at the camp, keeping watch. They traveled with their household guard of course and they had formed a strong perimeter. But Jaime remained watchful on instinct.

Marcus and Nym were sparring with practice knives. They spun about each other, trampling grass underfoot, as they practiced trying to get past each other’s defenses. Meanwhile, Johanna knelt in a patch of wildflowers, gathering her favorites. When she had a fistfull, she rose and brought them to Jaime.

“For you,” she said with a curtsy.

Jaime smiled and accepted the gift. “Thank you, my lady. If you bring this much charm to the Red Keep, you’ll make many friends.”

“I hope so,” Johanna said. “I like making friends.”

“You do very well,” Jaime said. “Why don’t you gather more. We have a bit more time on our hands. Just don’t wander too far.”

“Yes, father,” Johanna said. She kissed him on the cheek and ran off again.

Jaime’s gaze went to where Tybolt was reading in the shade of the tree. Four children. He did not see the fifth.

“Tybolt,” he called out. “Where’s Elissa?”

Tybolt tore himself from his book, looking around. “I saw her near her horse. She may have taken it for a ride.”

“This can be a dangerous place to ride,” Jaime said.

“I can find her and bring her back.” Tybolt rose, shutting his book. “If you’d like.”

“Yes. Take a few guards with you,” Jaime said. “I’m sure Elissa is fine. I just don’t want her wandering too far.”

“I understand,” Tybolt said, swinging up onto his horse. “You stay here. I’ll take care of it, father.” Then he urged his horse forward into a canter, heading off in the direction of the household guard and, beyond that, Harrenhal itself.

Harrenhal was full of ghosts–and Elissa felt honored to walk in its shadows.

She knew the rumors that the keep was cursed of course. She had read accounts of the many lords who had tried and failed to hold it over the years. But it was a staggeringly large structure, even in ruins. And it carried a much more personal family history.

Here, her mother and father fought the battle against the Night King, yes. But this was also where her mother first encountered her grandfather. Elissa had heard the story a million times. Arya Stark posed as Tywin Lannister’s cupbearer until he discovered her identity and made her his ward. If not for that fateful meeting…well, Elissa never would have been born.

It was strange thinking of how so small a meeting could change so many things. She often wondered what small decisions she made would make waves far in the future. She spent late nights agonizing over how to move just right to assure the best future for her and her family.

You’re always looking out to the horizon, her father told her once. Sometimes I don’t think you even see the ocean.

I see the ocean, Elissa had replied. And the shore. And the ships. And the people. I see everything. Or I try.

Elissa wound her way through the courtyard, always keeping her hand on the hilt of her sword. Just in case. She called the stories of this place to mind and used them to guide her indoors. She was searching for the hall where her mother once played cupbearer to Tywin Lannister. The place where so many things began.

It took some searching, but eventually she found a room that matched the description. A long table with many high backed chairs. A crumbling window looking out over the courtyard. A fire place which had not burned for a long while.

Elissa walked slowly across the stone, her boots leaving prints in the dust. She ran her hand over the back of the chair and let out a breath.

How many times had she asked for the stories of when her mother was young. As a kid she wanted to hear them all. Every battle. Every attempted and successful assassination. Her mother gave the stories to her gladly. But she spoke very little of Tywin. She mentioned him of course. Spoke of his accomplishments and actions. But she did not speak of him .

It was her father who told her more about her grandfather. His good and bad points. The way he spoke with her mother and worked with her. The things she learned from him and the things he learned from her.

Elissa wished she had a chance to meet him. She wondered often if he would like her–especially since he was not one who liked people easily.

Footsteps in the hall interrupted her thoughts. Quiet footsteps. More than one set. She turned, wondering if her parents had sent some of the household guard to follow her.

But it wasn’t the household guard that came through the door. It was two men dressed in dark cloaks. One had an arrow nocked in a bow. The other had a knife.

“Well, well,” the man with the bow said. “A lady wandering the ruins all alone. That doesn’t seem wise.”

Elissa’s gaze flicked between the two of them. Two men. One had the advantage of range. He didn’t hold the bow like an expert, but he could still get a shot into her. She had to play this right.

She held her hands up above her head and widened her eyes, letting a bit of fear bleed into her voice.

“Please, sirs. I don’t want any trouble. My horse was spooked and I got lost. I hoped to find help here.”

“Oh, we can give you help,” the man with the knife said. “Come here, pretty girl.”

Elissa diverted all of her anger into clenching her jaw as she kept her expression as open and innocent as possible. She took a step forward.

“She does have weapons,” the man with the bow said.

“She can’t reach that bow before you shoot her,” the man with a knife said.

“Please don’t shoot me,” Elissa said. “I want draw my bow. Or my sword. I promise.”

“Lots of weapons for a lady,” the man with the knife said.

“Protection,” Elissa said.

“Not doing you much good right now, are they?” the man with the knife asked. “Come on. Don’t try anything.”

Elissa kept shifted forward, one step at a time. She made note of where her knife was hidden in her cloak. Imagined the movement she would have to make to get out of this. Her face remained terrified but her heartbeat steady.

She reached the man with the knife. He grasped her shoulders and turned her around so that he could remove her bow and quiver. He set them on the table beside them. A mistake. She drew her knife in a flash and stabbed it down through his wrist pinning it to the table.

The man with the bow let out a curse, preparing to fire. But Elissa was in too close now and the shot went wide as she ducked low and lunged at him. She drew her sword in the same movement, slicing a gash in him from stomach to shoulder. He went down gasping and gurgling.

A scuffling and a cry from behind her. Elissa whirled to see that the man had detached his wrist, still embedded with the knife, from the table he retrieved his own knife and made to lunge at her.

An arrow caught him in the chest and he sunk to his knees. Elissa turned to see Tybolt in the doorway.

“Huh,” Elissa said. “Good shot, Ty. You hit when it counts.”

Tybolt lowered his bow. “Why’d you come here alone?”

“I wanted to explore,” Elissa said. “It’s fine. I had it handled. I could have killed him even if you didn’t come to my rescue.”

“I’m sure you could.” Tybolt walked past her retrieving his arrow from the man. He pulled her knife as well and handed it back to her. “Were you hoping something like that would happen?”

“What do you mean?” Elissa asked.

“I mean that sometimes it seems like you enjoy dangerous situations like that,” Tybolt said. “They could go badly for you, you know. One day.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Elissa said. “Anyway. It was only two. Mother and father trained us to handle more than that. And–”

A shift of movement just past Tybolt’s shoulder in the doorway. A third man, drawing a bow. Elissa shifted her grip on her knife, preparing to hurl it at the man.

An arrow point sprouted from the robber’s eye and he collapsed. Behind him, their mother stood, bow in hand. Her expression was unreadable as stone.

Elissa braced herself, waiting for a lecture about wandering off. But it never came. Her mother simply lowered her bow.

“We have hours yet to travel before dark.” She gestured sharply with her three fingered hand. “Come on. We can’t delay our progress.”

“Yes, mother. Sorry,” Tybolt said. He headed at once to the door. Arya paused there in the entrance. Her gaze flicked about the room for the briefest moment. Settled on the table. The chairs. Then she looked at Elissa standing by the window.

A frozen quiet moment. Elissa did not know what to say. She wanted to ask so many things but could not call them to her tongue. Then Arya tore herself from the room. Elissa listened to her mother’s footsteps moving swiftly down the hall.

Elissa lingered in the great hall–in this place full of ghosts. And she wondered, not for the first time, about her place in it.

Chapter Text

An icy wind greeted Arya when she woke on their final day of travel. They had crossed the border into the North a few days ago. But this was the first morning that felt of home. Even in the dead of summer, she could always count on a breath of ice near Winterfell.

Their party proceeded throughout the morning. Arya rode on horseback, keeping an eye on her children. None of them had strayed since Harrenhal and she still hadn’t spoken to Elissa and Tybolt about what had happened. She hadn’t needed to, it seemed, since Elissa had not gone on a ride alone again.

The moment they crested a familiar hill on the King’s Road, Arya felt her spirits lift. Winterfell stood in the distance, flags flapping in the wind. Somewhere, a few wolf howls traveled across the wind. Dire wolf howls.

Her grip tightened in the reigns and she looked to Jaime. Jaime smiled and gave a sweeping gesture of his hand.

Arya urged her horse into a gallop. The black mare launched forward, flying down the road and toward the castle. Wind caught up in Arya’s hair, releasing some of the dark strands from their pins. She didn’t care.

She galloped until she neared the front gate. Atop the wall, her caught sight of her niece. Lyanna. The young woman waved and Arya gave her a nod in return. Then she turned her horse around and went to rejoin the others as they neared the castle.

The gates creaked open and they entered into the courtyard. Arya hopped off her horse, handing the reigns to the nearest stable boy. Then she turned to face Robb as he stepped forward.

Robb was older now than their father had been when he died. His auburn curls were tinged with bits of silver. One blue grey eye was lined with a dark circle and the other cut through by a vicious scar that he had earned during the Long Night. Though he bore more resemblance to their Tully mother, his face had taken on a certain northern sternness–the kind that came with ruling.

“You made good time,” he said, looking out across the caravan.

“We arranged to travel as soon as I received your letter.” Arya swallowed hard. “I hope I made it in time.”

“You did,” Robb said. “She’s feeling better today actually. She’ll want to see you.”

Arya nodded, her shoulders relaxing.

“Did you stop by Harrenhal?” Robb asked.

“I did,” Arya said.

“And…Bran?” Robb asked. “Did he speak to you?”

“No,” Arya said. “Not in words I can understand.”

“Well…” Robb said. “I suppose you were lucky to speak to him at all after death. That’s more than we’ve gotten with most of our loved ones. Maybe he’s at peace.”

Arya was not sure of that. But it wasn’t a terrible thought.

 For a moment she and her brother regarded each other. Then he opened his arms and she went into them at once.

“It’s good to see you, Arya.”

“You too,” she murmured into his shoulder. “It’s good to be home.”

While Robb and his children helped see everyone else to their chambers, Arya went at once to her mother’s quarters. Catelyn Stark was in bed, sitting up slightly with a bit of needle work in her hand. Her hair had gone mostly grey, with streaks of the original red still remaining. The smile lines on her face had grown deep–which at least meant she had cause to smile over these past two decades. She had peace here in Winterfell. She’d watched many of her grandchildren grow up.

When Arya entered, she was embroidering a fish with blue and green scales onto the cloth. Her old fingers still handled the needle with expert precision.

“I never mastered that skill,” Arya said. “Elissa is better with a needle than I am even now.”

Catelyn smiled at the sound of her voice, her blue eyes brightening. “Well. You mastered many other skills in your time. You wielded a needle of your own.” She tilted her head to the side. “Do you still have it?”

“I gave it to Elissa some time ago,” Arya said. “And she passed it on to Nym. So it has stayed in the family.”

“I’m sure Jon would be pleased to hear.” She set her needlework aside and held out her arms. “It’s good to see you Arya.”

Arya went into her mother’s arms. She hugged her carefully, not wanting to hurt her. She could see it in her mother’s face–she was paler. Thinner. Tired.

She pulled back, looking her mother over. “Robb said you were feeling better today.”

“I am,” Catelyn said. “It comes and goes. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Robb wouldn’t have written to me if that was the case,” Arya said, pulling up a chair to sit down beside her. “I need you to be honest, mother. Please.”

Catelyn sighed, giving her a small smile. “Some days its just a cough and I can walk around as usual. Some days I cannot get out of bed. The maester says I could make a full recovery. But if we have an intense summer snow or winter comes again soon…I may weaken.” She grasped Arya’s hand. “But nothing is assured yet. I promise.”

Arya studied her mother’s face closely, searching for a lie in her eyes. But she gave up that search and simply squeezed her hands. “The maesters say that winter is still a ways off. It’s a long summer. It bodes well.”

“Well…” Catelyn said. “You know what your father would say.”

“Winter is coming,” Arya said. “That used to sound like a warning. I know that’s how he meant it. A vow. A threat.” She pulled at the three fingers of her right hand. “But winter isn’t what frightens me these days.”

“Why is that?” Catelyn asked.

“Because I know winter. And we’ve already survived the worst of our winters,” Arya said. “It’s the other threats. The ones that hide in summer.” She passed a hand over her hair. “Father died in summer.”

“You’ve made it through as many summers as you have winters now, Arya,” Catelyn said. “And you’ve done well for yourself and for your children.”

“You and father did well for us,” Arya said. “Before everything fell apart.”

“I know,” Catelyn said. “I know exactly the fear you’re feeling right now Arya. That fear for your children. It took me many years before I stopped fearing for you and Sansa down south. Before I stopped fearing for Robb even though he is within arm’s reach. Sometimes I still fear for you. But I can’t control every variable. And neither can you. That’s something some people take far too long to learn.”

Tywin came to Arya’s mind–unwillingly as he always did. Tywin Lannister who tried to control every variable his entire life and was only able to release them in death.

“I know I can’t control everything,” Arya said. “But I can’t let my guard down either, can I.”

“I hope some day you’ll be able to,” Catelyn said. “And that I’ll get to see it.”

“So do I,” Arya said. She swallowed a lump in her throat. “I don’t want to lose you so soon.”

“You learned to live without me a long time ago, Arya,” Catelyn said. “You’ll be fine.”

A shiver went through Arya and a crack of emotion slipped through. Tears welled in her grey eyes, hovering for a moment before she looked to the ceiling and forced them back. “I learned, yes. That doesn’t mean I want to.”

“I know,” Catelyn said. “You don’t have to hide your tears, Arya. I’m your mother. I’ve seen hundreds of them already.”

Arya blinked. She let a few go, streaming down her cheeks. “Well…what’s a few more then.”

Nothing was more soothing to Marcus than a hilt of a knife in the palm of his hand. A blade balanced between his fingers. From a young age, ever since his parents had given him his first knife, he kept it with him always. He played with it whenever he had a moment to himself and he’d gained more than a few scars on his palms and fingers before he mastered his tricks.

Now, the knife was an extension of his fingers. It moved without thought and he did not worry about the blade slicing him.

As he played with the blade, he watched everything. Marcus was always watching, and the goings on of a castle courtyard were never stagnant.

Servants passed back and forth across the yard. Stable boys with horses. A maester with a basket of herbs. A butcher with a blade still bloodied from carving a wild board. A cook. A smith. A stablehand. 

There were horses near the entrance as Elissa and Lyanna prepared to go out for a ride together. Lyanna was three and twenty now, with long auburn hair and olive skin. They said she favored her late mother in everything but the tinges of fire in her hair. And that fire had seeped into her personality as well. She was one of the only women who could match his older sister for stubbornness.

“You’re good at that.”

Marcus’ blade paused in his hand. He glanced up to see his cousin Ben sitting on the steps just behind him. Ben had wild dark hair that hung to his shoulders and a slightly crooked grin. At twenty years, he was taller and broader-shouldered than his siblings. Certainly, he had gotten taller since Marcus had last seen him two years ago.

“The knife,” Ben said. “You’re good at that. Quicker with it than when you were thirteen.”

“Two more years…p-practice,” Marcus managed. He winced with the stutter crept into his voice. That was one thing that hadn’t changed about him in the last two years. But Ben was merciful enough not to mention it.

“The knife is a good weapon,” Ben said. “Versatile. I finished off a wild boar with a knife once. Before it finished off me.”

“That was lucky,” Marcus said.

“It was,” Ben reached over, ruffling Marcus’ dark hair. “You’ve sprouted up.”

Marcus’ cheeks heated. “Not as m-much as you.”

“Give yourself a few more years,” Ben said. “It’s good to have you all back up north. It will be crowded here once Aunt Sansa arrives.”

“Is she bringing all of our cousins?” Marcus asked.

“I’m not sure,” Ben said. “Still. When’s the last time we were all in the same place?”

“Five years ago at l-least,” Marcus said. “I haven’t seen Ned yet.”

“He’s visiting his wife’s family. He’ll be back in a couple of days. I suppose you haven’t met their son yet,” Ben said.

“No, I haven’t,” Marcus said. Ned had wed Alys Umber the last time they came north two years ago. “Has…L-Lyanna–”

Ben laughed. “No. My father hasn’t found her anyone she considers worthy yet. No one who can handle her at least.” He laughed. “And it’s not as if he can argue against her. He married our mother for love and hasn’t married since. She can counter his points before he even says them.”

Marcus gave a small smile. He could imagine that.

“But…you and Nym have a while yet before you have to worry about that.” Ben stood. “I’m sure your parents are already considering matches for Ty and Elissa though.”

“It’s s-strange,” Marcus said.

“What is?” Ben asked.

“Getting older,” Marcus said. “Feels like it happened s-so fast.”

“It did,” Ben said. He stood, clapping Marcus on the shoulder. “We’re men grown now, Marcus. So it’s our job to protect our families.” He gestured to the knife. “Keep that sharp.”

“I will,” Marcus said. He watched his cousin go. When he was gone, he resumed his twirling. He didn’t look up when Nym slid over to him, but he was aware of her presence. She was cleaning needle until the blade shone.

“Has father told mother?” she asked.

“Father tells mother everything,” Marcus said. “So probably.”

“She hasn’t spoken to me yet,” Nym said.

“She will,” Marcus said. “But we’ve been surrounded by allies and friends. She knows we keep you safe.”

“Hmm,” Nym said. She continued carefully polishing Needle.

“Have you seen the wolf pups?”

“Not yet. I want to.” Nym leaned forward. “Have you? Have you seen mother’s wolf?”

“Your namesake?” Marcus asked raised an eyebrow. “No. Heard she disappears in the woods for long stretches.”

“What if she’s dead?” Nym asked. “Wolves don’t live much longer than fifteen years. I read that.”

“Mother’s wolf is different. So is Uncle Robb’s,” Marcus said. “They’re old but…they’ve kept going. They’re…bound in some way.”

“I want to be bound to a wolf.”

“You and Johanna both,” Marcus said. “I think she’s been with the pups all day.”

“She’ll try to sneak one back in her bag.”

Marcus cracked a small smile. His sister mirrored the expression. She sighed, sitting down. “Did you here? We might be going to King’s Landing?”

“I heard,” Marcus said. “It will be…interesting.”

“I’m excited,” Nym said. Her expression did not suggest that, but he believed her none the less. “I love new places.”

Marcus did not. But he also did not want to spoil her fun. He liked things familiar. Safe. He liked life to move as easily and instinctively through his hand as his knife. Otherwise he stumbled over his words and felt the need to go invisible. 

“We’ll have to keep a closer eye on you there,” he said. “If the sleepwalking doesn’t stop.”

Nym frowned, turning her gaze to her sword. Marcus winced.

“It will be fine. I’ll look after you.” He swallowed. “King’s Landing will be…an adventure.”

He forced the words out for her sake. She probably saw through him. She knew how he was better than anyone.

Marcus had always felt a world apart from his siblings when it came to meeting new people. Tybolt conversed easily with others. Elissa charmed everyone she met. Johanna was a shining light in any room she occupied. 

Even Nym with her strange ways of moving and speaking had a sort of confidence when she met new people. She did not fear them though sometimes they feared her.

Marcus was not like them. He would sooner become a shadow than make a noise. Sooner opt for silence than speak with his stumbling tongue. And in King’s Landing he would be stepping into the sun.

But for now, at least, he was happy to be in the cold north with family, where the shadows were friendlier and his blade felt sure against his palm.

Arya sat at Robb’s table in the great hall of Winterfell as he listened to the concerns of his vassals and the small folk. He always allowed her a place at the table when she was in the north–as if to say that she was still a Stark and still welcome to hear the concerns of Winterfell. Arya appreciated the invitation, though she offered her own show of respect by never speaking on behalf of him or the north when she sat there. This was her home, yes, but it was not her job to rule it.

The Northern Lords had learned not to dispute her place at the table. When they did question her presence, Robb had only to remind them that she was still a Stark by birth and that she had played a key roll in helping to restore the North in the aftermath of the Long Night–not to mention her roll in ending the Night King. 

Few protested past that point. Her brother was quite a fearsome ruler, and his people respected him.

There was a part of Arya that envied Robb for the easy way he commanded his bannermen. After the initial struggles of the War of the Five Kinds and the Northern rebellion, Robb never had to prove himself again. He was a first born Stark son and the north trusted him to rule and to retaliate if ever they crossed him. More than that, he grew up here. He knew these halls and this land. This was his birthright. 

Arya had seen as many wars as Robb when she came to the West. But her authority was hard won amongst strangers in a strange land. She grew up playing in winterfell’s halls, running underfoot, listening to every word she could. How she would have loved to rule in this place.

I would not have been accepted here either, Arya thought. I am a woman. And I was tainted by the south.

Arya’s envy was a fleeting thing. She loved her brother and he was a good ruler. Better than their father had been in many ways. She wasn’t envious because she wished for things to change. But sometimes, in weak moments, she imagined a kinder life for herself.

The concerns of the northern bannermen and small folk were numerous. Pleas for assistance with bandits. Requests for help with settling a land dispute. But there were two topics which seemed to crop up the most.

The first was concerns over the more extremist sect of Red Priests encroaching into northern territory. These servants of the Lord of Light called themselves the Flaming Sword and they had a tendency to burn ‘false idols’ and temples of the Old and New gods alike. They also, on occasion, burned people alive.

The Flaming Sword had risen up in the aftermath of the Long Night, drawing terrified refugees into it’s arms with the promise of a god that fought against the cold. Their Lord was of the light. Of warmth. Of fire. And according to them, it was the Lord of Light that had ultimately killed the Night King.

This message found very little purchase in the west or the north. It was Arya and Bran who had ended the Long Night, and Arya knew it was Ancient magic from her brother which guided her final strike. She would not allow his sacrifice to be swept aside in favor of this Lord of Light. And Robb was just as unwilling to allow such a thing.

But even so, the Flaming Sword had grown in number, and with that, so too did their boldness increase. And now they were attacking godswoods and septs alike, burning people who got in their way.

“Anyone who attacks a godswood must be put to the sword,” Robb said. “If they wish to walk northern lands, they must respect its people.”

“We would be happy to put them all to the sword,” said Lord Harlan Reed. As the only surviving child of the late Howland Reed, he’d been ruling Greywater Watch since he was young, and their position closer to the south had made their lands frequent targets. “But they strike without warning and vanish again. When they travel, they disguise themselves as small folk. It makes them difficult to track, even for our people.”

“What would you suggest?” Robb asked.

“More patrols at the borders,” Harlan said. “More soldiers to keep watch on not just the main roads but the forests. And guards at all times around the godswoods along the border. The Old Gods have already lost so much of their foothold in the south. We can’t allow the same in the north.”

“No,” Robb agreed. “We will send some Stark men to the borders and I will encourage the other lords to set up constant watches around their godswoods. Any members of the Flaming Sword discovered will be brought to justice. But if you pause before you take their head, question them sharply. I’d like to know more about their goals.”

“Those of an extreme faith rarely speak for fear of their god,” Harlan said. “But I will keep that in mind.”

Arya exchanged looks with Robb as Harlan Reed stepped back. She made a silent note to increase the watches in the West around godswoods and septs. She wished to sharply question a member of the Flaming Sword as well.

The other common issue brought before Robb was that of marriage. There were, of course, proposals for his eldest daughter Lyanna. But not just her. Others bargained for Little Ben. But most commonly, they bargained for Robb.

Robb had not remarried since Tailisa, and not for lack of offers. With a perceived outsider gone, many northern lords hoped to give their daughter to replace her. To marry into House Stark was a high honor and Arya did not blame the lords for proposing such things.

Robb, however, had refused every proposal. He did so kindly enough and promised to consider the offer in the future. But he never truly did.

This time was no different. The Karstarks debated at length the value of joining their houses. But Robb told them that he was sure their loyalty would remain without a marriage pact with the eighteen year old girl they offered.

Soon after the unsuccessful proposal, Robb ceased to hear appeals and the doors of the great hall were closed. He gave a long, heavy sigh and sat back in his chair as his other councilors rose to go. Arya stayed behind.

“Tired?” she asked.

“Exhausted,” Robb said. “I imagine you’re familiar with the feeling.”

“Yes,” Arya said. “It’s actually nice to sit at court when I don’t have to speak. Relaxing even.”

“Oh, was that relaxing for you?” Robb asked.

Arya’s mouth twitched and she stood from her chair, pacing along the long table. “You handle them well, if that helps.”

“I’d hope so after all these years,” Robb said. “Sometimes I feel as if I’ve mastered it. But…sometimes not.”

Arya traced her thumb along the top of a chair. Yes. She understood that too. “Do you ever plan to say yes to them.”

“What’s that?”

“To one of their proposals,” Arya said. “Do you ever plan to say yes?”

Robb tapped his fingers against the table. “I don’t see the need. I have three strong children. Fully grown. One married. And soon enough I’ll find a match to suit Lyanna and Little Ben. The Stark line is secure.”

“It’s not just about the Stark line,” Arya said. “It’s about making alliances in the event of conflict.”

“Are we expecting a conflict any time soon?” Robb asked.

“No,” Arya said. “But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared, does it? We weren’t expecting conflict before the War of the Five Kings.”

Robb exhaled. “The situation in the north is sure. I plan to marry my children into northern families to strengthen our ties. I have no need to marry a northern lady.”

“Why not marry a southern lady then,” Arya said. “The north is strong, I can see that. But there are our connections elsewhere to think of.”

“The way I see it, the seven kingdoms are already neatly bound up in marriage to our family,” Robb said. “Sansa has the Reach. You have the West. Jon has the stormlands with Margaery. And our mother’s family links us to the Riverlands. Our family is more well connected than perhaps any other.”

Yes, which is by design, Arya thought. “True. But there are still some alliances that could be made. With Dorne, for instance. They remain steadfast Targaryen allies. But it wouldn’t hurt to form our own ties.”

“If you’re eager to form your own ties with Dorne, perhaps you should broker a marriage with one of your children,” Robb said.

“Ties between the Lannisters and the Martells are far more tense,” Arya said. “I think they’d be more likely to accept you.” She grasped the back of a chair. “Arianna Martell is recently widowed. It’s an option.”

“Arya, don’t.”

“I’m asking you to consider–”

“No, you are trying to move me like a piece on your board,” Robb said, standing abruptly. “I am not blind. I’ve watched you rule the west for the past twenty years. And you’re good at it, Arya, no one will deny that. But I’m your older brother, and I won’t be moved to improve your position with the Dornish.”

“This is not just about me,” Arya said. “It’s about keeping our family strong. It always has been.”

“And that’s all your job, is it?” Robb asked. “You think I don’t work just as hard to keep our family strong? You may be the head of the Lannisters but you are not the head of the Starks.” He let out a frustrated breath. “I swear, sometimes it’s like you open your mouth and his words come out.”

Arya fell silent. There was no need for Robb to name who he spoke of. She knew. And he knew as soon as he said the words he had gone too far.

“Arya.”

She held up her three fingered hand between them. Took a step back and kept her bitter replies on her tongue. Then she turned and strode from the room.

Arya went to the crypt. She didn’t intend to go there. Her feet simple carried her in that direction and she followed. She ventured into the darkness beneath Winterfell and took a torch to guide her way. She let her feet carry her to her father’s grave.

The stone mason had made a good likeness of him. A relief. It had been so long now since she’d last seen him that sometimes she struggled to remember his face. She’d only known him twelve years of her life. And now she had lived three times that.

I am as old as he was when he died, she thought, and shivered at the thought.

For a while, she stood in silence, not sure exactly what to say. Then she spoke softly into the darkness.

“Hello, father. It’s been some time.” She licked her lips. “Have the children been to see you yet? Tybolt I suspect. He takes paying respect to his forefathers very seriously. If you haven’t seen Nym you will very soon. She has…an affinity for places like this. I’m not sure about Johanna. She’s frightened sometimes of the dark.”

Silence met her words as it always did. But she imagined what he might say. That her children had grown strong. That she had done well to protect them. She hoped, anyway, that was what he would say. She hoped his spirit had forgiven her by now for joining the Lannister family.

“I understand now,” Arya said. “Why you always insisted winter was coming. Why you were so insistent that Sansa and I put aside our differences in King’s Landing because we were family and we needed to look out for each other.” She rubbed her palms together. “You had…fourteen years of peace after Robert’s Rebellion. A long peace. A long summer with it. But it didn’t sit right with you, did it? You lost so many people in the war and you knew…you knew it could happen again.”

She looked up at her father’s stoic, stern face. A face that always looked to the future and expected the worse.

“I suppose that’s one thing you and Tywin shared,” she said. “An understanding of how tentative peace is.” She exhaled. “And now I’m sitting in this long peace, looking to the future, waiting for it all to go wrong. So…I understand now. I do.” She pulled at the three fingers on her mangled hand. “Sometimes I worry I’m not built for peace.”

Her father’s statue did not reply. But she wondered if he thought the same on even the quietest days, sitting in the godswood, sharpening a sword he would never wield in battle again. A sword that was eventually split in two to be carried forward by his children.

Robb was his heir by right. He bore the sword well and proudly. He was a Stark of Winterfell and he had done well at filling their father’s shoes.

But Arya…Arya knew that while she wielded part of her father’s sword, it was not his shoes she was filling. Not his path she was walking. She followed the path of a western lord. The one who first gave her this blade. The one who’s voice sometimes found its way onto her tongue.

“Sometimes it’s like you open your mouth and his words come out.”

Arya knew he was right, but that made it hurt even worse somehow. She wished that when she spoke, she reminded people of her father.

And other times…she was proud. A pride that was always accompanied by a twist of guilt in her gut.

The shadows to her left shifted. Arya turned, her hand dropping at once to her knife. But it was Nym standing in the flickering torchlight. Silent and still.

“I didn’t see you,” she said, letting her hand fall from the knife.

“I know,” Nym said. “I’m quiet.”

Arya nodded. This was an understatement. Her daughter had a habit of appearing in rooms without even disturbing the shadows.

“You came to pay your respects?” she asked.

“Yes,” Nym said.

Arya let out a breath, remembering what Jaime had told her just before they left Casterly Rock. That the sleep walking had resumed. “Did you mean to come here?”

“This time, yes,” Nym said.

Arya nodded once. “Keep close to Marcus, Nymeria. And tell us if anything at all happens. I’ve ordered guards to keep a close watch at night.”

“Did you tell them to stop me?” Nym asked.

“No,” Arya said. When Nym first started sleepwalking as a child, stopping her had proved an extraordinarily bad idea. She fought like a wild cat in her sleep, biting and clawing, desperate to extract herself, even if it meant hurting herself. It was safer for her and everyone to let her continue her walk until the dream came to a close.

“Good,” Nym said. Then she hurried away, leaving Arya alone.

She had a feeling that it would not be Nym’s last visit to the shadows of the crypt.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Sansa arrived in the north. She had come without her husband, who found it difficult to travel with his injury. But she had brought all four of her children.

Catelyn, who they had once called Little Cat before she became a woman grown, was the eldest at twenty one. She was engaged to marry another lord of the Reach, a young lord of House Hightower. It was a good match which kept the bond between Highgarden and Old Town strong.

Next came Wylla, eighteen. She was a the wild child of the family and when she was a child Sansa put great effort into keeping her from sneaking away to walk amongst the smallfolk. Now that she was grown, Sansa had ceased the struggle. Wylla was Elissa’s favorite cousin along with Lyanna and the three of them were thick as thieves when they were together.

Then there was Brandon, who sported the Tully red hair and bright blue eyes. He was Sansa’s only son and he was a master with horses. Even at sixteen, few could outride him. He had little passion for anything else, least of all books, and no septa could keep him indoors for long. He greeted all of his cousins with a hearty laugh and a hug.

Finally came Margaret. She was fourteen, a year older than Johanna. All of the passion Johanna had for animals, she had for history and books. She was quiet and withdrawn and hesitated to introduce herself to anyone. But Johanna was quick to embrace her and bring her along to the kennels to show her the wolf pups.

Arya bid hello to her nieces and nephews but she welcomed her sister with a hug. Sansa had grown more beautiful over the years. She had the grace of their mother and now the maturity that came with age. The climate of the Reach clearly agreed with her but she had dressed in a style more fitting to the north.

“How was the journey?” Arya asked.

“Pleasant enough,” Sansa said. “The children complained about the cold. They don’t have enough of the north in their blood. Yours seem to do better here.”

“You’re further south than I am,” Arya said. “And you live in valleys instead of cliffs. Mine are used to harsh winds.” She smiled. “I’m glad to see you. I can take you to mother.”

“Yes, please,” Sansa said. “I’m eager to see her.”

Arya walked with Sansa to their mother’s room. She lingered through the initial greetings. The warm hugs and the smiles. But soon after she left them to speak alone.

She busied herself with making her rounds of Winterfell. She walked the battlements, watching the Stark, Lannister and Tyrell cousins greet each other below and wander off into their own, small groups. She went to the kennels where Johanna was keeping careful watch over a fresh littler of wolf pups. They had dire wolf in them, but they would be smaller than their dire wolf parent. That litter had reproduced amongst normal wolves. Regardless, Winterfell had become a known safe haven for Direwolf litters.

Arya went to the Godswood as well to offer a prayer. A prayer of protection from the Old Gods. A prayer for health for her mother. For good measure, she should offer the same prayers at the Sept. Her mother kept the Seven more than the Old Gods.

Arya became aware of heavy breathing as she circled the shallow pool. She followed it until she found a large form resting in the shade of the weirwood, head tucked between two large roots. Nymeria. Her muzzle was full of gray now and age had made her a bit smaller than she was in her prime. But it was incredible that she had lived this long at all. Most wolves did not have the lifespans of Nymeria or Greywind or Ghost. And yet they remained, growing older with them.

Nymeria sniffed the air and raised her great head. She gave a low growl-whine. Arya smiled and knelt down in front of her, letting the wolf settle her head in her lap. “Hello girl.” She stroked her fur gently. “Have you be keeping watch over Winterfell for me? I’m thankful.”

She knew Nymeria never ventured far from the north. Sometimes she reached the edge of the Riverlands. But she always came home. At times, Arya still saw through her eyes in her dreams. It was comforting to have glimpses of home. 

She spent a long while petting Nymeria’s fur when her wolf tensed and bristled. Arya rested a hand at once on her knife. But relaxed when she saw her sister gliding into view.

“Forgive me,” Sansa said with a smile. “Am I interrupting your prayers?”

“No,” Arya said.

“I prayed at the Sept already,” Sansa said. “I thought I should come here as well.”

“I will go to the Sept afterward,” Arya said.

“I see we had the same idea,” Sansa came to sit beside her, stroking Nymeria’s great head. “Mother seems well today. Strong.”

“She’s been having a good series of days,” Arya said.

“She’s happy to see us I think,” Sansa said. “And all of her grandchildren.”

“I hope her health will continue when we have to leave,” Arya said. “How are matters in the Reach?”

“Warm,” Sansa said. “Peaceful.”

“That’s what your birds speak of? Peace?” Arya asked.

“They speak of plentiful food and the longest summer in a our lifetime,” Sansa said. “Which is what keeps the peace.”

“And what about their conversations with Varys’ little birds,” Arya said. “What sort of Red Keep awaits us in a month?”

“A stable one,” Sansa said. “Daenerys plans to address the usual issues. Nothing unexpected.”

Arya let out a breath. Good. She preferred the expected. “Does she plan to address the Flaming Sword?”

“I’m not sure,” Sansa said. “But if she doesn’t, one of her council will bring it up. It is becoming quite a problem.”

“Burnt down Septs in the Reach?” Arya asked.

“Indeed,” Sansa said. “We have captured a few of them alive. But they do not respond to questioning with anything but fanatical rambling. They are loyal to a fault.”

“That does seem to be the case,” Arya said. “I don’t suppose one of your birds could infiltrate them.”

“I’d hesitate to send any of them amongst such a fanatical group,” Sansa said. “I try not to put them in needless danger.”

Arya inclined her head, conceding the point.

“It will be all right,” Sansa said. “Daenerys will have to address the Flaming Sword. She follows the Red God. She cannot allow his followers to give her and her family a bad name.”

True enough. And Arya could not blame Daenerys for following R'hllor. One of his priestesses had given her a child and heir, something she thought she’d never had. It was a miracle. And at least she had not restricted the worship of the old and new gods. 

“How has it been for you the past few days,” Sansa asked. “Has Robb been hospitable?”

“He let me sit in while he held court,” Arya said vaguely.

“Mm,” Sansa said. “And did the two of you quarrel?”

Arya sighed. “How did you guess.”

“You and Robb always have at least one argument when you come back together. It’s a tradition for the both of you,” Sansa said. “What was it this time?”

Arya pulled at the three fingers on her left hand. “I told him he should revisit the idea of remarriage.”

“Ah,” Sansa said. “Yes, that explains it.”

Arya glanced at her. “You know as well as I do that it would be a strong political move.”

“Maybe,” Sansa said. “But when you marry for love, I’m sure a second marriage feels…like a betrayal.”

“Yes. I’m sure,” Arya said. “Sansa…what do you see when you look at me?”

“I see my annoying little sister,” she said with a shrug.

“I’m serious,” Arya said.

“So am I,” Sansa said. “When I look at you…I see you, Arya. Why would I see anyone else?”

“Do you hear anyone else?” Arya asked.

Sansa raised an eyebrow. Arya sighed and told her what Robb had said. No sense in hiding it. She would find out from Robb if she didn’t find out from her.

“I see,” Sansa said. “Well, I’m afraid I didn’t know Lord Tywin well enough to recognize his words on your tongue. It seems like your own words to me.”

“Robb spoke with Tywin more often,” Arya said. “He fought against him and with him. And he usually says what he means.”

Sansa plucked a red leaf from the ground, turning it in her hand. “I learned a lot from people who father did not like. Even people who harmed him. I learned from Cersei Lannister. She was a terrible woman but there were things about the world she did understand.” She sighed. “And I’ve learned from Olenna Tyrell more than anyone. Once I married Willas and moved to Highgarden, she became my teacher up until she died. I know that father would not have liked her much. She was a conniving woman. Dishonest when it suited her. Sometimes terrible. But she taught me how to keep the Reach and my family safe.”

“You’ve done a good job at that,” Arya said.

“And you’ve done a good job in the west,” Sansa said. “When you’re a woman in this world, you can’t be picky about your connections and teachers. You have to take knowledge wherever you can get it. Tywin Lannister gave you knowledge. He gave you power. You would have been a fool not to take advantage of it.”

“Maybe,” Arya said. “I just wonder if Robb is right. If he’s still speaking through me from the grave.”

“He’s dead, Arya,” Sansa said. “And you are not him.”

No. Maybe she wasn’t. But even in death, Tywin cast a long shadow and Arya had a feeling she might stand in it her whole life.

She was not him. She was Arya Stark. Arya Lannister. But she never would have become this version of herself without Tywin Lannister. Most days she had accepted that.

 It was only when she came home that her resolve teetered into guilt and she thought of who she could have been in another life.

Winterfell was bursting with cousins now, and the constant rumble of activity was soothing to Nym’s tired soul. In the daylight, there were many people to watch, constant conversations just within ear shot. Distractions everywhere. She loved to watch the day pass by even though she didn’t always know how to participate in it.

Throughout her life, she had used her powers of observation to identify what was ‘normal’ and what was ‘not’. She wasn’t always good at conforming to said ‘normal’ standards. More than one noble had called her ‘strange’ under their breath at gatherings.

What a strange little creature she is. Always walking in the shadows. Always staring.

So normal people did not stare. And normal people stood in the light. She had learned from her observations and adjusted the way she looked at others and learned to shift her gaze away to make them comfortable. But it was easier when she didn’t have to make those adjustments. When she could just…be.

She was standing in the shadows now as she watched Wylla embrace Elissa. She pulled a new bow from her back and showed it to Elissa who nodded appreciatively. Eventually, Wylla looked toward Nym. Nym looked away.

Staring isn’t normal.

“Nym,” Wylla approached her, a large smile on her face.“You’re so much taller than when I last saw you.”

“Yes. I’m fifteen now,” Nym said. “Fifteen year olds are taller than thirteen year olds.”

Wylla’s eyebrows arched and her mouth quirked. “So I’ve heard. Has it really been that long?”

“It has,” Elissa said. “Long enough that we should have an archery contest. I want to see which of us is better.”

“An archery contest?” Lyanna vaulted over a low wall. “Well, I’ll certainly have to participate in that.”

“Well, what kind of respectable lady would I be if I refused,” Wylla said.

Nym’s gaze flicked to Elissa. “Can I watch?”

“I’m not going to stop you,” Elissa said. Then she and their two cousins hurried off toward the range. Nym followed close behind.

Nym perched herself up on a fence to watch them. Lyanna went first, setting the tone. She loosed three arrows and all three danced right around the center of the target. No direct hits, but no one could deny her precision.

Wylla went next. She put on arrow in the center. Another close. A third off to the right a bit. Her placement was wild and careless, but she still had evident skill with a bow. And then there was Elissa. She strowed up confidently, a smirk on her face. She drew one arrow after the next–and put all three right at the center.

“Show off,” Wylla told her.

“It’s not showing off,” Elissa said. “I shot just as many arrows as you.”

“And hit the center all three times,” Lyanna said.

“Are you suggesting you intentionally missed so as not to show off?” Elissa asked.

“That’s what I did,” Wylla said. “I was more inconsistent because I’m very humble.”

“Oh yes, naturally,” Lyanna said.

“All right.” Wylla took the bow from Elissa. “Nym, its your turn.”

Nym stilled. She had little skill with a bow. Her arms were not as long and graceful as Elissa’s. But they were looking at her and that meant she should perform.

She hopped from her perch, drawing her dagger in a single motion. She hurled it at the target. It sliced one of their arrows in two and stuck deep in the center.

Her cousins clapped for her. Wylla gave a low whistle. Nym gave a stiff bow like she’d seen Elissa do many times.

I am like you. I am one of you.

Soon after her sister and her cousins lapsed into conversation. And Nym found a gap when she could drift away without them noticing. She found a comfortable shadow to sit in near the kennels. There, she turned her dagger in her hand. She looked at her reflexion in the steel. Tired eyes looked back at her.

Of course. I haven’t been sleeping well, have I, she thought. And all at once she found herself thinking of the fast approaching night. Of what dreams might await her.

Johanna emerged from the kennel. She was carrying a large wolf pup in her arms. It’s legs were dangling but it hung there in her arms as if it didn’t have a care in the world.

“Nym,” Johanna said. “Do you think mother will let me keep her?”

Nym shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“She should,” Johanna said. “I’m old enough to take care of a pet now. And I want a wolf.”

“You want every animal as a pet,” Nym said.

“What’s wrong with that?” Johanna asked.

Nym sighed but did not reply.

“Are you all right, Nym?” Johanna tilted her head to the side. “You seem unhappy.”

“I always seem unhappy,” Nym said. “That’s my face.”

“No, no. I can tell the difference,” Johanna said. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to speak about it,” Nym said flatly.

Johanna frowned. She disappeared into the kennel and emerged again empty handed, brushing off her hands on her dress. “One moment. I know something that will cheer you up.”

“I don’t need cheering up,” Nym called out. But Johanna was already out of the kennel. Nym sighed. Knowing Jo, she would find some field mouse or lizard and present it as a cure to all sadness. To be fair, Nym did enjoy a strange lizard. But they weren’t a solution to everything.

Still, Nym waited in the shadows, chin rested upon her knees, waiting for Johanna to come back.

Suddenly, Nym’s hiding spot grew much darker. A hulking shadow blocked the archway. Nym tensed for a moment as she laid eyes upon the threat. A hulking beast with teeth the size of knives.

But then she heard Johanna’s cheerful voice as she appeared beside the wolf.

“It’s Nymeria,” she said. “Your namesake.”

Nym’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Nymeria.” It had been a long while since she’d last seen her mother’s wolf. But it seemed she remembered her scent. When she held out her hand, the wolf came to her, liking her palm. “Hello girl.”

“You know,” Johanna said. “I think it must be an honor to share a name with a dire wolf.”

“Really? An honor?” Nym asked.

“Yes,” Johanna said. “Direwolves are the symbol of mother’s house. And she trusted Nymeria more than anyone.” She smiled. “She must have looked at you when you were born and known at once that you deserved the same name.”

Nym gave a small smile as she ran her fingers through Nymeria’s fur. She looked up at Johanna. “Thank you, Jo.”

Johanna gave a curtsy. “You’re welcome.”

Nym woke staring into bleeding white eyes. For a moment, the fear rose in her, until she recognized them. The Godswood. The tree. Her hand was pressed against flat against the white bark and her breath clouded in the air.

There was a dream right on the edge of her memory. She’d been having a conversion. She could feel it on her tongue. Someone was speaking urgently to her. But when she reached for it…

No. It was gone. It was already gone.

That’s how it always was. She walked in her sleep. She dreamed of something profound. But the moment she opened her eyes it left her with this aching emptiness.

“Nym.”

It wasn’t Marcus’ voice that found her. It was her mothers. Nym turned to see her mother sitting by the pool, watching her patiently. She swallowed.

“Hello mother.” She looked up at the sky. At the moon shining through the leaves of the tree. “It’s late. Did I wake you?”

“Marcus did,” Arya said. “I asked him to wake me the next time you had one of your dreams.”

“Oh,” Nym said. She could not blame Marcus for that. Her brother was loyal to her in everything. But a direct order from mother was an exception. “I’m sorry.”

Arya shook her head. She gestured for Nym to join her beside the pool. She did, perching at her mother’s side. If she had been Elissa or Johanna, she knew her mother would wrap an arm around her shoulders. But Nym had never been comforted by physical touch, so her mother kept a pleasant distance.

“I don’t remember the dreams,” Nym said. “They feel important. But I never remember them.”

“I know,” Arya said. “But given that you walked here…I wonder if your Uncle Bran is trying to speak to you.”

“Uncle Bran?” Nym asked.

“He used to speak to me. Through the trees,” Arya said. “He hasn’t for some time. I don’t know what changed.”

A tiny kernel of hope coiled in Nym’s chest. That perhaps she was not mad. But then… “I don’t always walk to godswood those. Sometimes…I walk to crypts.”

“I know,” Arya said.

Nym looked down at her hands. “You’re taking Marcus and I to King’s Landing.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe something in the libraries will tell me something. Maybe there’s a reason.”

“Maybe,” Arya said. “But you can’t be allowed to wander the Red Keep, Nym. No one outside of our family can know about this. And I do not know where these dreams might take you.”

“You can lock me in my room,” Nym said. “So that I do not cause trouble. And Marcus will look after me.”

Arya nodded. “We will take every precaution. And if anyone does discover it…well you wouldn’t be the first sleep walker in history.”

Silence fell between them. Nym curled her fingers together tight until her knuckles were bone white.

“It may be better that you don’t remember the dreams,” Arya said. “Whether they’re nonsense or something more. History is full of people who looked to dreams and got lost in them.”

“I won’t get lost,” Nym promised quietly.

“No,” Arya said. “And if you do we will find you again.”

For Arya, the time in Winterfell passed too quickly. It was good to be amongst her family again. Her mother. Her siblings. And all of her many nieces and nephews. Watching their sons and daughters fill a long table all on their own, talking enthusiastically with each other all the way…there was something so warm and comforting about that sight.

So many families came to hate each other with time. Distance and politics pushed them apart until only the thinnest ties of blood linked them together. But her family…they were not like that. And they had all worked hard to make it so.

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

Arya could tell Jaime still hadn’t gotten used to the closeness of her family. He grew up with animosity from the start. He’d certainly never sat in a loud great hall with his extended cousins, laughing and enjoying himself.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m dreaming,” he told her. “But if I am, I suppose its a good dream.”

“Sometimes I feel the same,” Arya said. “Just because I grew up close with my siblings doesn’t mean I ever pictured this.”

She spent most of their dinners watching her children and her nieces and nephews. Tybolt talked at length with young Margaret, whose fascination with history and all books made her an even match for him in conversation, even though she was five years younger. He asked her questions about her interests and let her rattle off everything she knew with a smile on his face.

Elissa, Lyanna and Wylla were all fast friends at their side of the table. They spoke loudly, their words piling on top of each other. Each of them were the second child in their family and each had their own beauty and their own wildness about them and they matched each other’s energy well. Nym hovered at the fringes of their conversation, listening intently to every word they said.

Marcus had found a friend in his cousin Ben and in Brandon, Sansa’s only son. Brandon was quite a talker, not especially bright but very charismatic. He and Ben could talk for a while but they still made sure to include Marcus when they could. Arya knew Marcus did not mind simply listening.

And Catelyn Tyrell, Sansa’s oldest, was engaging Johanna in conversation, kindly asking about the many animals she had befriended since arriving here. Johanna was also quite enjoying Ed’s young children. She had a fondness for all young creatures.

They were forging bonds as each of them neared and passed into adulthood. And Arya could only hope that those bonds lasted them as they all spread out into the world.

When dinner on their last night in Winterfell ended, Arya lingered in the hall. She stayed in the space as the servants emptied everything out and cleaned the tables. She tried to remember dinners long past, just to preserve them in her memory for a bit longer.

“Mother?”

Arya turned. Tybolt was hovering the doorway, watching her carefully.

“Is anything wrong?”

“No, Ty. Nothing.” Arya smoothed back her hair. “Your cousins are well?”

“Yes,” Tybolt said. “Margaret was telling me that she wants to be a maester. She’s smart enough to join them.”

“She is,” Arya said. “I’m not sure they would admit a woman to their ranks.”

“I told her it might be difficult,” Tybolt said. “But she told me things in Westeros are changing. We have a queen after all. And she cited you and Aunt Sansa as examples of women with more ruling power.” He smiled. “She has learned every exception to the rule of gender I think.”

Arya smiled. “Well…I certainly hope she can be an exception.”

“So do I,” Tybolt said. “I expect she’d take her case all the way to the queen if she had to.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Arya said. “Any trouble amongst your siblings today? Or your cousins?”

“Nothing beyond the usual,” Tybolt said. “Elissa, Lyanna and Wylla quarrel on occasion, but it doesn’t last long. Usually it dissolves into laughter. Johanna keeps sneaking animals into the castle and scaring the servants. Nym cut a notch in the table showing Wylla a knife trick. Marcus said a collective two sentences, but he looked as if he was enjoying himself. All very normal.”

Arya smiled. “That’s good to know.” She reached out, squeezing his shoulder. “I appreciate how you look after your sibling, Ty. It puts me at ease.”

“I don’t do much,” Tybolt said. “I just…keep a eye out.”

“Never underestimate the value of that skill,” Arya said. “You keep an eye out. You listen and you understand. That’s your real talent.”

Tybolt offered her a small smile. “I’ll look after things back at Casterly Rock while you’re in King’s Landing.”

“Thank you,” Arya said. “At least you’ll only have to look after Elissa.”

“True. And Elissa can take care of herself,” Tybolt said.

“Most days, yes,” Arya said. “But she has a penchant for getting into trouble. She got that from me.”

“Elissa got a lot of things from you,” Tybolt said.

Arya couldn’t deny that. Elissa was head strong and stubborn and gifted with most weapons she picked up. But she had a beauty and easy charm that Arya had lacked in her younger years. That came more from Jaime.

“She did,” Arya said. “So did you.”

Tybolt exhaled and nodded.

“We’ll leave early tomorrow,” Arya said. “You should get some sleep.”

“I will,” Tybolt said. “A game of Cyvasse before I do?”

Arya grinned. “I’m amenable to that.”

Arya rose before dawn to make preparations. She hadn’t slept much the night before, but she was used to going on little sleep. Nym, she heard, had slept through the night, and that was a blessing. Tybolt had already busied himself with readying the others, especially Johanna who had a tendency to sleep late if she was not dragged from her bed. It gave Arya time to bid farewell to her siblings. And, most importantly, her mother.

She apologized for not being able to stay longer and bid her survive until the next time they could meet. Her mother made no such promises, but she said she would try.

“Whatever happens, you will be all right, Arya,” Catelyn said. “You are practiced with losing and grieving loved ones. Just as I am.”

“Being practiced does not make it hurt less,” Arya said.

“No,” Catelyn said. “But it helps you to move forward.”

Arya bid farewell to Sansa for now as well, though she knew she would see her soon in the south. She did not go directly to Robb. Since their argument, she hadn’t known exactly what to say to him so they’d kept their discussions short.

But as they stood in the courtyard, making the last preparations, Robb approached her.

“You will be coming south shortly?” Arya asked. “For the queen’s annual council?”

“Yes,” Robb said. “I’ll ride out in a few days. I won’t be far behind you. Sansa will likely travel with me.”

Arya nodded, turning back to adjust the saddle on her horse.

“Arya,” Robb said.

“Hmm?” Arya did not look at him but she tilted her head to let him know she was listening.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Robb said. “I know we have our disagreements. But when it comes down to it…you know I am with you.”

Arya let out a breath. She finished with the saddle and turned back to face him. “You don’t need to apologize. I understand.” She tucked her hands into her sleeves. “You grew up learning from father. Absorbing every lesson he would give you. It makes you a strong ruler.” She forced a sad smile. “But we both know who I learned from the most. Sometimes I do speak with his voice.”

There was a sadness in Robb’s expression. She remembered the first time she had seen that emotion in him–when she had returned home to Winterfell after years as a Lannister ward. They’d stood up on the wall together as she told him about what had happened and he looked at her in that same way.

“I did learn from father,” Robb said. “But not just his virtues. I also learned from his weaknesses. His mistakes. That’s what has helped me rule in the north. I’m sure it is the same for you with Lord Tywin.”

“Tywin Lannister was not a man to show weakness or make mistakes,” Arya said.

“No,” Robb said. “But he made them anyway, didn’t he?”

Arya smiled a little. “Oh yes, he did.” She hovered in front of Robb. Then shifted to embrace him tightly. He hugged her in return, squeezing tight. 

“You’ll always be my sister,” he said. “And a Stark.”

Arya buried her face in the furs at his shoulder, letting her own weakness show for a few moments. Then she pulled back, giving him a nod. “I’ll see you in King’s Landing.”

“Travel safe,” he said.

She nodded, swinging up onto the back of her horse. She rode up next to Jaime where he was already seated. Her eyes flicked to each of her children, making sure she had them all. Then she looked to her husband.

“Ready to move?” Jaime asked.

“Yes,” Arya said with a decisive nod.

The gates began to open. She looked back once more at Winterfell. Her heart squeezed and lifted when she saw her mother standing on the ramparts, accompanied by a maester. She raised a hand in farewell and Arya echoed her.

Her mother’s smile remained etched in her mind’s eye for a long while after they rode away.

Chapter Text

The road back home was quiet–it left Tybolt a considerable amount of time with his thoughts, for better or for worse.

His mother told him that his ability to watch, listen and understand was his true talent. But it was also, perhaps, the source of all of his anxieties. 

He watched when his siblings, particularly Johanna, wandered too close to the edge of their camp. 

He listened to Nym and Marc talk in low voices about King’s Landing. 

And he understood that when Elissa sent her horse into a gallop to scout ahead, she was doing so because she was upset because her father told her that she had no choice but to return West. There was no persuading their mother otherwise.

He watched. He listened. He understood. Or at least he tried to. But his mother was always the enigma. No matter how much he watched her or listened to her…he felt he could not possibly comprehend her mind. Her reputation. Her name.

He could not comprehend how to live up to any of it. Or how she could possibly be satisfied with him as an heir when he was…so ordinary.

She tells me I inherited things from her. Just like Elissa. But I cannot see what.

“You’ve been quiet since we left the North.”

Apparently while Tybolt was watching everyone else, his father had been watching him. He exhaled twisting the reigns of his horse in his hands.

“Father…who do you see when you look at me?”

“My eldest son,” Jaime said. “With far too many creases in his forehead for his age.” He tilted his head to the side. “Why are you asking?”

“I just wondered if I reminded you of anyone in our family,” Tybolt murmured.

“Many people,” Jaime said. “You have every Lannister trait. I’ve seen your eyes in plenty of family over the years.”

“I don’t mean in look,” Tybolt said. “I know I look like a Lannister. I mean in…who I am.”

His father was quiet for a long while and Tybolt worried that meant he was searching for something kind to say. “You don’t remind me of any singular person. You have pieces from all sorts of people. You remind me of my younger brother some days, with your mind and love of books. Your kindness reminds me of my mother. What little I remember of her. And I see a lot of my uncle in you too.”

“Which one?” Tybolt asked.

“Kevan,” Jaime said. “He died during the Long Night protecting your grandfather. He served him loyally for decades. He was a brilliant, capable man.”

But he served, Tybolt thought. He didn’t lead. What would Uncle Kevan have done if he was the eldest son and my grandfather was his younger brother?

He didn’t say any of that though. He just nodded.

His father reached over, mussing his golden hair with his good hand. “Don’t worry about becoming other people, Tybolt. It’s a fool’s game. I should know. You can’t wear armor that isn’t made for you. You have to forge your own…or it will always seem like a costume.”

“Wise words,” Tybolt said with a small smile. “Did you take them from a book.”

“Your Uncle Tyrion actually,” Jaime said. “Did I sound wise?”

“Very wise, father.”

They reached the cross roads by midmorning the next day and split their company to continue west and south. As he said his goodbyes to his younger siblings, Tybolt watched his mother and father talk from a distance about the final details. His mother spoke rapid fire while his father nodded patiently. Until he clasped both her hands in one of his and kissed her on the forehead.

She calmed beneath the gesture, then pulled him down for a more intimate kiss.

Tybolt turned away at that point, back toward Elissa who was fiddling with the end of her bow. She still looked irritated that she was being sent back to the west but she was old enough to know not to complain about it any longer.

Their parents returned to join them. His mother let out a long breath, looking between him and Elissa. “Take care of things while I’m gone. I expect both of you to help your father when he asks.”

“We’ll help him if he asks or not,” Elissa said.

“Good,” Arya said. 

She hugged Elissa first. Then Tybolt. Once upon a time, when Tybolt was small, he had to bury his face in his mother’s stomach to hug her. But then he had sprouted up. Now she was left to rise on her tip toes to embrace him. It was strange that someone as well known as Arya Stark Lannister would ever have to stand on her toes. But she cast a long shadow despite her stature.

“Keep a close watch for ravens,” she said as she pulled back. “They’ll tell you if there is trouble from the Red Keep.”

“Do you expect trouble?” Tybolt asked.

“It’s best to,” Arya said. She reached up, resting her hand against his cheek. “Everything will be all right. We’ll be home soon, Ty.”

“I know,” Tybolt said.

Tybolt bid Nym and Marc to stay out of trouble and for Johanna to not try to tame any dragons. Then they parted. And Tybolt could only hope that his mother could keep her promise.

Arya felt the absence of her eldest children and of Jaime on the Kingsroad as they made their way south. She could always count on Jaime, Tybolt, and Elissa to keep a look out for the younger ones and thus, she did not to be constantly on guard.

But without them, the watching was left to her.

She supposed that Marc and Nym were old enough that they could be trusted not to wander too far. And even if they did, they were fifteen. They knew how to handle themselves. It was Johanna she still worried about. The girl was distracted by every passing butterfly and especially when they reached the Kingswood, she knew all manner of animals could grasp her attention.

Of course, she had the Lannister household guard with her. Jaime did not let any man into the household guard until they had thoroughly proved their loyalty. Only the very best could be trusted around their children. 

The captain of the household guard, Erik Hill, was rather young for the post–about Arya’s age. And as a bastard, he would not be the first choice of most for leadership. But Jaime judged him an excellent swordsman and an even better shot with a bow. More importantly, he’d judged him a man of loyal character. Arya agreed. She was not one to judge someone for being a bastard.

Captain Erik was a man of few words, but his men listened to each and every one of them. Arya was calmed by the sight of him watching Johanna as she road her horse a little ways of the road.

“What word from our scouts?” she asked him. “Any trouble?”

“No, my lady,” Erik said. “There are Crown’s guard once we reach Brindlewood, waiting to escort us the rest of the way to the Red Keep.”

“I doubt we’ll be the first to arrive,” Arya said. “The Martells will already be there. Possibly the Baratheons.”

It was a formal way to speak about Jon and Margaery. And it never felt right calling them Baratheons, even though they still flew a stag on their banner. The fact was, there was not an ounce of Baratheon blood in that family anymore. 

Margaery was a Tyrell and the people called her by that name as often as Baratheon. Jon still went by the name Stark–a name given to him by Robb and Daenerys, which barely covered his Targaryen blood. And Steffon, the only one who truly wore his Baratheon name and gave them cause to fly a stag on their flag, was actually just a mix of flower and lion.

There was no family in all of Westeros who’s blood carried more secrets. 

At least Steffon probably believed truly in his name. Margaery never would have told him otherwise. She knew better than to sow doubt in her eldest son. But with talks of wedding to him to his elder cousin, Shireen Baratheon, it was clear that Margaery wanted to ensure his claim–and hers–to the seat of the Stormlands. Not to mention he still had some claim to the Iron throne, though he had fallen back a bit in the order of succession when Daenerys bore children.

“What of the Flaming Sword,” Arya asked. “Any reports of them?”

“Plenty,” he said. “But none directly on the Kingsroad. They hide their work in the shadows.”

“Ironic for ones who claim to love the light,” Arya said. “If your scouts do encounter any, have them bring one to me alive. I’d like to speak to them about their work.”

“They famously do not speak under interrogation,” Erik said.

“They are not of one mind,” Arya said. “Most may be fanatics who would sooner die. But there are always weak links in a group like that. If we’re lucky, we’ll find that link.”

“Yes, my lady,” Erik said. 

The faster route to King’s Landing would simply be to take the Kingsroad all the way south. But Arya had some business in the Kingswood–business she’d prefer to attend to before they were under the watchful eye of the crown. Her household guard did not question it when they veered off the main road before Brindleton to circle southward. Her children, however, did.

“Aren’t the main roads s-safer?” Marc asked her.

“They are,” Arya said. “But there are also more eyes there. And we need to make a detour.”

“To the Kingswood,” Nym murmured. “To the Brotherhood.”

“To visit my dear friend Gendry, yes” Arya corrected her. “There is no need to mention my dealings with the Brotherhood in mixed company. Remember that. In fact, it’s best not to mention most of our dealings in mixed company.”

“I’m terrible at s-speaking to strangers,” Marc said.

“And I just don’t like speaking to them,” Nym said flatly.

A little smile crossed Arya’s face. Right. She might have to worry about Johanna’s friendlier nature. But her twins preferred silence to speech. A very useful skill in King’s Landing.

It added a few extra days to their trip, but soon enough they circled their way to the western edge of the Kingswood and entered. Arya went to a little farm she knew well there. Mary, the girl whose horse she once saved from terrible soldiers, had grown up into a young woman now and taken over the farm from her ailing parents. More importantly, her house had become a waypoint for the Brotherhood. And ideal place to meet.

She did not have to find Gendry. He found her. The years had seen him grow even taller and broader. He wielded a hammer as easy as some might wield a stick. And while he greeted her with a low bow that would be expected of most small folk, when he rose, she embraced him.

“It is good to see you my lady,” Gendry said. “When we heard tale of the Queen’s Council, we hoped you might pay a visit.”

“Naturally,” Arya said. “You’ve met my younger children?”

“When they were much smaller,” Gendry said. He smiled down at Johanna. “She was barely to my knee last I saw her.”

“I’m still only half your size!” Johanna said.

“That’s true.” Gendry glanced at Marcus and Nym, giving them a nod. He smiled and gestured to the sword at Nym’s hip. “You wear that well.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Your mother must trust your skill with a blade to entrust you with that,” Gendry said. “It slew many foes.”

“It will slay many more,” Nym said with utmost sincerity.

“I believe you,” Gendry said.

Arya glanced up at Gendry. “May I ride with you?”

“Oh, I imagine you may do whatever you like, Lady Lannister,” Gendry said. “What’s a bastard of the Brotherhood to do against you?”

Arya left the children with the household guard at the farm. It was a safe place for them and she knew Erik would keep a sharp eye. She and Gendry rode into the trees, speaking of the changing of the seasons and the business that came with it. She passed off a pouch of gold and he placed it in his pack without bothering to count it.

“I don’t usually tell you what to do with my coin,” Arya said. “But I did hope you might focus your attention in a particular direction.”

“What direction is that?” Gendry asked.

“The Flaming Sword,” Arya said.

“I’m afraid that would involve focus in several directions,” Gendry said. “They seem to be everywhere these days.”

“How are they recruiting so many so quickly?” Arya asked. “They’ve been around since the end of the Long Night. But lately…something has changed. Their faith has gotten stronger.”

“It’s not their faith,” Gendry said. “There’s one thing that allows groups like that to grow. I know because the Brotherhood are the same sort of group.” He pat his pack.

Arya’s brow furrowed. “Coin.”

“Yes,” Gendry said. “I think they have a generous benefactor amongst the nobility. Maybe more than one. Someone who shares their faith and does not mind their methods.”

“There are plenty of nobility who share their faith,” Arya said. “The Queen worships the Lord of Light. Many nobles are happy to follow suit.”

“The question is who isn’t just following the queen,” Gendry said. “Forgive the treasonous question m’lady, but you don’t think Queen Daenerys could be the benefactor?”

“No,” Arya said. “Queen Daenerys is a true believer in the Lord of Light, and with good reason I suppose. But she doesn’t have the bearing of a radical.”

And if that had changed, my contacts in King’s Landing would have told me, she thought.

“Someone else then,” Gendry said. “I’m sure you’ll find them. But the Brotherhood is happy to help. Berric was one of us, but he never would have approved of these tactics. And they’ve killed more than one of us. We’ll try to find out where their coin comes from.”

“Thank you, Gendry,” Arya said.

“Of course, m’lady.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll ever stop calling me that.”

“No.” He grinned. “I’m afraid you only grow to deserve the title more every year, Lady Lannister.”

Arya exhaled. “For your sake, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Generous of you.”

Besides the pleasure of Gendry’s company, Arya did not like anything about this situation. The presence of the radicals in the Crownlands and Riverlands when the queen should be taking more efforts to stamp them out. She could not help but wonder if the Flaming Sword served some purpose for Daenerys. They followed the same god, and while she might deny their methods, maybe there was something useful about their results.

Arya had seen the magic of R’hllor firsthand. R'hllor’s magic had saved her life once when Berric gave his life to bring her back. R’hllor’s magic had helped them survive the Long Night.

But R’hllor was still a god of fire. And fire could burn. Arya did not plan let the flames consume Westeros just because once they had saved it.

The woodland farm was small, but they had a good deal of livestock for their modest means. Marcus sat on the fence watching the young woman, Mary, combing out the mane of her horse. He’d never met her before, but his mother had. Mary claimed that his mother once saved this same horse of hers from thieving soldiers during the Long Night.

Perhaps that was the reason her mother felt comfortable leaving Marcus and his sisters there with their family guard. This family owed them a debt, and would never dare betray them to bandits.

A Lannister always pays their debts. And expects the same of others.

Johanna was happy to help Mary with the livestock. Currently, she was feeding chickens and playing with their little chicks. Nym, meanwhile, skulked near the edge of the trees, circling between trees, keeping a sharp look out.

“I’m done with the feeding!” Johanna called out. “What next?”

“Well, I could use help grooming this old girl here,” Mary said. “Would you like to help with that?”

“Yes, of course,” Johanna said.

Mary laughed. “I never met a lady who so badly wanted to work with creatures who smell.” She looked up at Marcus. “It’s nice to meet Lady Arya’s younger children. I met your older brother and sister a while back.”

Marcus nodded once.

“You and your twin look a lot like your mother,” Mary said. “The northern look?”

Marcus nodded again, shifting uncomfortably on the fence.

“Is something the matter?” Mary asked.

Marcus shook his head. Everyone always assumed that when he was quiet. Why should quiet mean that something was wrong? He never understood that.

“He likes to watch more than talk,” Johanna said, carefully combing through the end of the horse’s tail with no fear of being kicked at all. “It’s all right. I’ll talk to you as much as you’d like.”

Mary smiled and nodded, leaving Marcus be on the fence.

He turned back to look for Nym–but he did not see her at the tree line anymore. Anxiety tugged at his gut and drew him from the fence. He shifted into the tree line where he had last seen Nym. Searching. No sign of her. He moved faster as his heart rate rose.

Nym. Where did you go. Mother said–

He turned and smacked suddenly into her as she came out of the bushes. He opened his mouth to ask where she went, but she quickly raised a finger to her lips. Then bid him to follow her.

As he usually did when it came to his sister, he listened.

She led him to a large oak not far away. A dead oak. No. It was charred. When Marcus looked up he could see that it had been burned, but none of the plantlife around it had caught. That was strange indeed. 

“Here.” Nym pointed to the center of the tree. There, carved deep into the darkened wood, was a sword.

“The Flaming Sword,” Marcus said. He’d listened to enough talk from his parents to know it immediately. The fanatics of R’hllor had made themselves a problem all over Westeros. But he’d never seen signs of them near Casterly Rock. His mother took care to keep them away from the West.

“They must be close,” Nym said. She took a few steps away, from the tree, searching the ground for footprints.

“Well, we’re not going to track them ourselves,” Marcus said. “We should go back to Captain Erik.”

Nym’s brow furrowed and she did not reply.

“Nym,” Marcus said insistently.

At that moment, a scream of pain broke through the woods. Nym’s head snapped up and suddenly she was racing through the trees. Marcus hesitated for only a moment before he bolted after her.

They didn’t have to go far. They slid to a stop in the bushes around a clearing just as the scream came again. It was one of terror and agony, and it did not take Marcus long to see why.

There was a man tied to a stake in the woods. A sword was driven through his feet, pinning him to the pyre. And flames were beginning to spread quickly across the wood.

All around him, members of the Flaming Sword stood watching. They were dressed as mere small folk–plain clothes and disturbingly normal faces. But they all carried swords at their sides. Surprisingly good steel. Marcus wondered if they had stolen it or if it had been given to them.

Only the man in the center had the look of a priest. Blood red robes and a gold and ruby amulet about his neck. He raised his arms to the heavens.

“Lord of Light, take this man into your arms. And let this kindling spread your fire throughout the world.”

The man screamed again, an almost inhuman sound as the flames licked about his legs and caught on his clothes. The smoke was beginning to consume him, but Marcus knew he would scream a while yet before he died.

Nym evidently knew the same. But she did not plan to allow it. She slipped a throwing knife into her hand, and before Marcus could stop her, hurled it at the burning man.

It took him in the chest and he fell silent. At the same instance, Nym flattened herself behind the bushes, and Marcus instinctively followed her lead.

Seven Hells.

Marcus held his breath as the Flaming Sword looked out at the woods, searching for the source of the knife. He admired her for her mercy as much as he cursed her for it in that moment.

Don’t move. You are a shadow. You are nothing. Don’t breathe.

A hand grabbed him and hauled him from the bushes. A member of the Flaming Sword he had not seen coming in from his left. He hissed and grabbed instinctively onto the man’s arm, legs kicking just above the ground.

“Found you,” the man growled, his breath wreaked of something foul and rotting.

Nym burst from the bushes like a hurricane. Needle flashed in sunlight, cutting sharply across the back of the man’s knee. He dropped Marcus as he fell to his knees. The next moment, the point of Nym’s sword broke from his throat.

It was one kill. But there were some seven more of them. And a priest looking at the both of them with hungry eyes.

“Twins cursed by shadow,” he said. “The Lord provides fire and blood.”

Marcus’ grip leapt to one of his daggers as his sister stood resolute in front of him. The disciples of the Flaming Sword shifted forward.

An arrow took the priest in the eye just as their household guard erupted from the trees on all sides, firing arrows of their own into the members of the Flaming Sword. Most were dead before they knew what hit them.

 A set up boots appeared beside him and he looked up to see Captain Erik, notching another arrow in his bow.

“If your god wants blood,” he said. “We will be more than happy to provide.”

Captain Erik escorted Nym and Marcus back to camp, along with a single living member of the Flaming Sword. The rest he had left to his men.

It was not long until their mother returned. Marcus and Nym sat near the fenceline and watched Erik speak to her about what had happened. Marcus watched her gaze flick to them. Then to the man knelt on the ground. Her expression darkened and she walked with deliberate steps toward the prisoner.

“You are bold,” she said. “To make your sacrifices so close to King’s Landing.”

“We serve the same god as the queen,” the man hissed.

“It seems you have very different methods of serving,” Arya said. “What did your chosen sacrifice do to deserve his death. Did he serve different gods than you? Did he say a wrong word? What was his sin?”

“He didn’t die for his sin,” the man said. “He died because it was his time. The Lord of Light placed him in our path. And we sent him to the Lord’s embrace.”

“And who decided that,” Arya said. “Your priest?”

“Yes,” the man said. “I imagine you decide all the time who should live and die, Arya Lannister.”

“I do,” Arya said. “But I do so with reason.”

“Your reasons,” the man said. “And we decide with the reason of the Lord of Light. Which is better?”

“I am not here to debate religion with a fanatic.”

“ Valar Morghulis.”

The man spoke in High Valaryian in a broken accent. But his words were still clear enough. Marcus did not know much of the language. But he knew what that meant.

His mother stilled at the words but did not reply.

“All men must die,” the man said softly.

“I know what it means,” Arya said.

“What does it matter when one man goes to face the Lord…when all will face him some day?”

“It mattered to the man’s family,” Arya said. “And it matters to me.” She drew her sword. “You are right. I decide often who lives and who dies. Since it does not matter to you, I will take your head and be done with it.”

The man did not flinch from his fate. He simply smiled at her and bowed his head.

“The Flaming Sword will carve out and burn away the rot of this world…” he vowed. “And leave it pure and new.”

Arya brought down Winter’s Fury and cleaved the man’s head from his shoulders. Neither Marcus nor Nym looked away. Nor did they flinch. They’d seen enough of death in their fifteen years to know better.

Marcus had flinched the first time he saw an execution. He was ten. It was his father who carried out the deed. Nym had looked on, unblinking, unbothered. But he’d felt the shock of it in his chest. When he walked away, tears stinging at his eyes, his mother found him and pulled him into her arms.

“Do you know why the man had to die?” she asked.

“He attacked a woman in the castle, didn’t he?” he murmured. “A maid.”

“Yes,” Arya said.

“And the law says that he should die.”

“Yes.”

“It seems like there are a lot of laws that people die for.”

“There are,” Arya said. “It’s the way of the world I suppose.”

Marcus looked up at her, brow furrowed. “Death is the way of the world?”

She stared at him for a long moment before she smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead. “Not always. Not for you.”

Chapter Text

Johanna had looked upon many castles in her life. She’d wandered the cliffs of Casterly Rock, the floral courtyards of Highgarden, and the snowy woods of Winterfell. The Red Keep was not as impregnable as her home and not nearly so beautiful as Highgarden. But it was surrounded by the bustling city of King’s Landing which was a wonder to behold.

Johanna had never seen such a city before. There was noise everywhere–bells, chatter of people, the creaking of dozens of carts on every road. There were so many people to look upon that she couldn’t choose who to follow. She simply gazed wide eyed out of the carriage.

The people of King’s Landing parted for their company. That was to be expected. Everywhere they went, the banner of House Lannister heralded their coming and no one was eager to get in their way. Johanna noticed, at times, that people treated her differently when they found out her name. A new stablehand might engage in casual conversation. But he’d always straighten his back the moment he realized she was a daughter of Lannister.

It was the reason Johanna often did not introduce herself by her family name. She liked to speak to people as they were.

As they passed into the courtyard of the Red Keep, the gates closed behind them, muffling the chatter of the city. Ser Erik helped Johanna clamber from the carriage as the great doors open. And out stepped a familiar, small figure, arms spread wide as he approached her mother.

“At last. A proper Cyvasse player has arrived in the capital to challenge me,” her Uncle Tyrion said. “I’ve been waiting with baited breath.”

Arya hopped from her horse, a true smile spreading across her face as she stooped to embrace Tyrion. “I heard you were getting too confident. I came as soon as I could.”

“Thank the gods.” His smile dropped, replaced by mock horror as he looked to Johanna. “Oh dear, niece. You’ve betrayed me.”

Johanna frowned. “I have not.”

“You have. You’ve sprouted up past me,” Tyrion said. “The only Lannister I had left on my level and you’ve gone and grown.”

Johanna smiled wide. She went to him at once, bending to embrace him. 

Tyrion was her favorite uncle, and not just because he had spoiled her and her siblings with gifts from the time she was small. He had a pleasant effect on both of her parents. Her father was always quick to laugh in his presence and her mother smiled in a wide, unguarded fashion that Johanna saw very rarely.

Tyrion turned to Marcus and Nym and mimicked their more solemn expressions. He gave them both a formal bow. “Lord Marcus. Lady Nym. It seems you are practically a man and woman grown now.”

“I haven’t grown much,” Nym said flatly.

“No, that would be your mother’s fault,” Tyrion said.

“It’s distressing,” Nym said. “I don’t like looking up at my brother.”

“I understand this pain. But your brother is much closer to you in height than mine,” Tyrion said. He gave Marcus a silent nod and Marcus returned it with a small smile.

“It’s been a long road I’m sure,” Tyrion said. “Come. I’ve been asked to escort you to your chambers. Make sure you pay attention, the three of you. You’re new to the Red Keep, we don’t want you getting lost. I have a detailed lecture prepared.”

He had no need to give them such a warning. Nym made it her business to mentally map every new place they’d ever entered. Marcus would never dream of tuning out a lecture on the history of a castle. And Johanna just liked listening to people speak.

She noticed, of course, when her mother leaned down and whispered something to Tyrion. He nodded and whispered something in return before she stepped away and looking at them. “Stay close to your uncle and, if not him, Ser Erik. I have some business to attend to.”

“Yes, mother,” Johanna said. Then she watched her mother walk in the other direction with the swift confidence of someone who had walked these halls one thousand times.

The Red Keep was full of history and people. It was certainly less crowded than the city, but the annual council had drawn a great many lords and ladies to court. Johanna did not yet recognize any of her cousins as she passed through the halls, but she knew she would soon be surrounded by them.

Tyrion led them to their apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. It was, apparently, the same quarters the Lannisters were always offered when they attended the queen at the Red keep with numerous sleeping chambers and space to host guests. The window looked out over the gardens and the Godswood.

The gardens were the place she was most interested in seeing, without a doubt and they had not been settled for even a few minutes before she begged her siblings to come with her.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she said. “And mother probably won’t be done with her business for hours. Please, we should go.”

“Can’t we r-rest a bit?” Marcus asked.

“The weather could turn if we rest,” Johanna said. “And I’m not a bit tired. I want to explore.” She crossed her arms. “If you don’t go with me, I’ll go myself.”

“You won’t,” Ser Erik said. “I’ll be going with you regardless.”

“We’ll go.” Nym checked the knife in one of her boots before sliding it back into place. “You’ll need help looking after Johanna. Elsewise she’ll make for the dragon pit as soon as your back is turned.”

A surge of excitement pulsed through Johanna’s chest. “Do you think we could see the dragon pit today?”

Marcus elbowed Nym in the ribs and Nym gave her a flat look. 

“Jo.”

“I won’t sneak off,” she vowed. “I would only go with permission. I just want to see them.”

Johanna had only ever seen a dragon at a distance. Once or twice when she sat at her window, she saw the large black one, Drogon, cutting across the sky. But Queen Daenerys never directly flew him to Casterly Rock. It was a gesture of sorts that she land him a mile away and make the rest of her approach on horseback. Johanna had asked her mother why once.

“It seems easier to land him close,” Johanna said.

“Yes,” Arya said. “But she never does.” 

“Did you tell her not to bring her dragon to Casterly Rock?”

“No,” Arya said. “I would never presume to tell the queen what she can and can’t do.”

“Then why?” Johanna asked.

“Because some might see flying a dragon to one’s neighbor’s keep as a threat,” Arya said with the slightest smile. “And the queen would never presume to threaten me.”

She had spoken very calmly. But that was the day Johanna realized her mother’s power in Westeros. Without a word, she influenced where dragons could and could not fly.

Still, now that they had come to King’s Landing…Johanna was desperate to see one up close. The big one or one of it’s hatchlings. She did not care which. 

“We will be in King’s Landing long enough that you may,” Ser Erik said. “But your siblings are right. Do not give your mother cause to worry.”

“Of course, ser Erik,” Johanna said. “So let’s start with a very un-worrisome place like the gardens.” She looked at her siblings. “ Please .”

As usual, her siblings bent to her sweet smile. There were many disadvantages to being the youngest daughter. But the influence of her smile was not one of them.

The gardens of King’s landing were ablaze with color. The summer warmth had been kind to the flowers and Johanna enjoyed winding her way through the hedges.

Nym and Marcus had gone off to the Godswood and Eric stood at a distance, keeping them all in his sights. Johanna would visit the Godswood soon, but for now she had her eye on a stray cat with dark fur slinking through the flowers.

The creature slipped between two large bushes. Johanna tried to make her energy as kind and soft as possible as she slipped in after him, holding out a hand.

Hello, little one. I’m a friend. Don’t worry.

She found that when she thought kind things, animals seemed to understand that she meant them no harm. The cat looked at her fingers curiously, then rubbed it’s cheek against them. Johanna smiled as it ran itself all the way up her arm and let her take hold of it.

Johanna emerged from the bushes with the black cat sitting passively in her arms–and found herself looking up at a young woman.

“I’ve been trying to coax that stray from the bushes for ages,” she said. “How did you manage that?”

Johanna blinked, staring up at her. The first thing she noticed was her silvery hair, styled in a long braid which dangled to her waist. The second thing she noticed was the violet eyes. The third thing was her age. A year or so older than Johanna at best.

She smiled and curtsied. “Animals like me, Princess Rhaena.”

“I can see that,” Rhaena said. “I’m embarrassed not to know your name. You seem to know mine.”

“You have the Targaryen look,” Johanna said. “I have the look of my house too, if it helps.”

“You’re one of the Lannisters,” Rhaena said.

“Johanna,” Johanna replied. “I’m the youngest. Two of my siblings are close by.” She looked around but didn’t see them just yet.

“I’ll be happy to meet them,” Rhaena said. “Come with me. I’ll introduce you to my brother.”

The black cat squirmed in Johanna’s arms, tiring of being held. Johanna gently set her down and went with Rhaena to a shaded area just down the path.

Sure enough, there was a young man sitting there, paging through a book. He was nearly as pretty as his sister, with the same silvery hair, bright violet eyes and high cheekbones. But while she had inherited a bronzed tint to her skin from her late Dornish father, Quentyn Martell, he was quite pale. A Targaryen prince right out of the histories.

“Daerys, look,” Rhaena said. “I ran into Johanna Lannister in the garden. She arrived this morning.”

Daerys glanced up from his book, eyes settling on her. He smiled and closed his book, standing to greet her. He was quite tall, which was strange because Daenerys Targaryen wasn’t very tall at all. Had his father been? She never met Prince consort Quentyn Martell before his death, but in paintings he didn’t seem very tall. “Lady Johanna. A pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, your grace.” She curtsied, extending her hand. 

He accepted and kissed the back of it like a proper prince.

This was the bit she had been looking forward to. Meeting other young lords and ladies at the Red Keep. Of course she was never lonely at Casterly Rock and she had many cousins who visited now and then. But she was always looking for new friends and she had been curious about the Targaryens for some time. But while Queen Daenerys had made a few visits to Casterly Rock, the prince and princess had never joined her just as she had never visited the Red Keep.

Until now.

“You’ll want to meet my siblings as well,” Johanna said. “They’re in the Godswood. Follow me.” 

The prince and princess went with her to the Godswood. Marcus sat near the border, cleaning his knife. When he noticed Johanna and her new companions, he stood quickly, eyes wide with surprise. “Oh. Hello.”

He did not stumble over his greeting despite his shock. Johanna was quite proud of him. “Prince Daerys, Princess Rhaena. This is my brother Marcus Lannister.”

Marcus’ dark eyes flickered back and forth between the two siblings before he seemed to remember himself. He bowed at the waist.

“No need for that,” Daerys said. “Save the formalities for court. We’re just enjoying the garden together.”

Marcus straightened though he did not reply as he looked at Daerys. He seemed nervous about what he might say or how his words might come out.

At that point Nym appeared at Marcus’ side. She must have heard them at the edge of the Godswood. She performed a short curtsy.

“I’m Nymeria. You may call me Nym. It’s easier.”

“It’s a pretty name,” Rhaena said. “I’m Rhaena.”

“I know,” Nym said. “And you are Daerys. Am I allowed to call you by your names?”

“I’d say so,” Daerys said. Nym’s bluntness seemed to amuse him. Johanna noticed Marcus relax the moment Nym took the attention of the prince and princess.

Poor Marcus. I should have given him more warning before introducing him to such new and important people, she thought.

“We’re glad to meet you,” Rhaena said, carefully brushing her pale hair behind her shoulders. “We met your older brother and sister some time ago when we were younger. Now we’ve met all the Lannisters. It’s an honor.”

An honor. Johanna had never considered that it would be an honor for a prince or princess to meet her. But then again, she consistently underestimated the influence of her mother and father and her name. Her family seemed so ordinary to her.

At that moment a shadow fell across them. A great, hulking shadow that brought a great wind with it. The woosh of something so large overhead made Johanna gasp and look up. And sure enough, she saw him. The great black dragon. Drogon.

“Looks like mother is home,” Daerys said, as if he were looking up at an eagle flying above them. It seemed he found his own family just as ordinary. Even with dragons involved.

Johanna couldn’t help herself. She ran across the garden to the edge so that she could watch the creature continue it’s flight to the dragon pit. Oh what a sight that was. What it must feel like to be able to fly through the air.

“It’s quite a sight,” Rhaena said, drifting up beside her. “You like dragons, Johanna?”

“Yes of course,” Johanna said. She turned. “Do you have a dragon?”

Rhaena smiled. “I do. Would you like to meet her?”

Johanna reached out instinctively, grasping Rhaena’s arm with excitement. “Oh yes. Oh yes, I would.” She dropped Rhaena’s arm just as quickly, dipping into a curtsy. “Your grace.”

Rhaena gave a laugh. “Well, you are guests in our home. I will do my best to accommodate your wishes.”

Whenever Arya arrived at the Red Keep, she made a point to speak with Varys before she even settled in her quarters. The spider was her most watchful pair of eyes in the Red Keep and his network of spies saw and heard everything.

Some would consider her a fool to trust him. But it was his motives she trusted, not his morals. Varys wanted peace and balance for the realm and as long as she strove to maintain that, he would be on her side. More than that, he had a particular distaste for the Red priests and any religious extremists. She had no need to fear him siding with the Flaming Sword and if he had even a hint that Daenerys was leaning in their favor, he would tell her.

Varys kept humble chambers in the keep. When Arya entered, he pretended to look surprised, as if he had not been watching her approach since she reached the gates of King’s Landing (if not before).

“Lady Arya. It has been too long.”

“It has,” Arya said. She unfastened her riding cloak, hanging it over a chair. “Lord Varys. You seem well.”

“The long summer agrees with me,” Varys said. “Apparently it shows no sign of stopping for some years yet.”

“Some years, yes,” Arya said. “But it will come again.”

Varys smiled. “Ah. Still your father’s blood speaking through you.”

Arya was pleased by that comparison. But she did not linger in the flattery. “The Flaming Sword. They seem to have a wealthy sponsor. I don’t suppose you can point me in the right direction.”

“I could point you in many directions,” Varys said. “There are many who put their money behind the followers of R’hllor. It is something of a fashion to share a religion with the queen. The Faith of the Seven is not particularly happy about it.”

“They’ve been clashing no doubt,” Arya said.

“Fighting between religious factions is forbidden in the city,” Varys said. “Though so is robbery and murder and you can imagine that King’s Landing is still rife with such things.”

“Do you think we’re at risk for a religious war?”

“No. More like religious squabbles,” Varys said. “So long as the queen does not declare R’hllor the one true god. And she has no intention to do so.”

Arya nodded once. She knew that she could trust Varys’ assessment of the queen in this way. If Daenerys was going to turn zealous, Arya suspected it would happen years ago when the Red Priests first helped her to have an heir.

“If you are looking for a backer of the Flaming Sword, you’d do better to look inside the church,” Varys said. “Funds go into their coffers but the religious leaders decide where they go. I’d imagine some notable priest or priestess is directing money toward the Flaming Sword in secret.”

Arya nodded. If a noble had been funding the flaming sword directly, Varys would have found them out by now. But she imagined that the red priests were more skilled at operating in the shadows, despite their love of the light.

“There’s something else,” Varys said. He crossed the room to his desk, unlocking a particular drawer. “I’ve obtained some interesting information recently. I don’t know if I would call it useful in these peaceful times. But I trust you to handle it responsibly.” 

Arya raised an eyebrow. “I thank you for your trust.”

“Some time ago, two people of noble houses had a bastard child who was taken in by his uncle and raised as his own,” Varys said. He did not speak the names. He did not need to. Arya knew at once who he spoke of and it would be too dangerous to mention names in this place. “Or at least…we assumed him to be a bastard. If the father had an annulment. And if they were wed…one could say the child was actually legitimate.”

Arya’s eyes widened as she tried to take in this news. Was Varys saying…

Varys turned away from his desk, crossing to her. He held out a scroll. She took it and slipped it at once into her sleeve without looking at it.

“You’re sure of this?” she asked.

“I’m sure,” Varys said. “But as I said…it is not information that would do for peaceful times.”

No. Even if there was proof that Jon was Rhaegar’s legitimate son…Daenerys had ruled for twenty years. She would not simply step aside if they declared him legitimate. Especially if she discovered that many of the Starks and Lannisters had been hiding the secret of Jon’s birth all of this time.

To put Jon on the throne would be to truly secure the future for Arya’s children and all of her family. But that would not happen without a bloody conflict.

“I won’t be the one to throw us back into war,” Arya said. “But I’d finish it…if it ever came.”

“I do not doubt you, Lady Arya,” Varys said. He gave a small smile.

Arya observed him. “What is it?”

“I was just thinking…Lord Tywin was right to entrust the future to you.”

Arya’s throat tightened. She inclined her head. “Thank you, Lord Varys.”

She left the Spider’s quarters and walked the halls toward her quarters, her mind racing ove the contents of the scroll tucked into her sleeve. Over what it would mean. Over what it could cost. She wouldn’t dare let this off her person until they were safely at Casterly Rock. And she would tell no one. Not yet. Not even–

“Arya?”

Arya turned at the sound of a familiar voice. A new family had arrived in King’s Landing and were being escorted to their chambers, donning Baratheon black and gold. And Jon. Jon stood at the head of them. His dark hair and beared was peppered with silvery white hairs.

The scroll seemed to burn in Arya’s sleeve. But she pushed it to the side in that moment and moved swiftly to her brother, letting him catch her up in a hug.

“It’s good to see you Jon.”

Chapter Text

Jon was the family’s best kept secret for the past twenty years. Robb legitimizing him as Jon Stark was their way of claiming him. He was a Stark, through and through. He had the Stark look. Who would ever suspect that he was also a Targaryen.

If Jon was foolish and power hungry, he might have leapt to claim the iron throne as his own, plunging them into civil war. But Jon was neither of those things. He had tasted leadership at the Night’s Watch and been killed for it. He knew what power meant. He knew it’s cost. 

So he and Arya had always been in agreement about his name and blood. They would not reveal who he was unless the nation was already plunged into war. His name would be a play to end conflict–not start it.

So Arya did not feel the need to share the scroll with her brother just yet. She did not want to speak to anyone at all about it. Better if as few people as possible know for now.

She stepped back from her hug with Jon and turned to greet the others. Margaery had come with him. She was dressed in brilliant gold, as beautiful as ever, with an antler like circlet in her brown hair. She stepped forward to embrace Arya, placing a kiss on each cheek.

“I’m surprised to see you both here,” Arya said. “Is Steffon managing things at home.”

“He’s a man grown,” Margaery said. “We can afford him that responsibility. He looks after his siblings well.”

“I’m sure he does,” Arya’s gaze flicked to the girl standing just behind Jon’s shoulder. Raven curls fell all the way to her waist in waves. She had Margaery’s beauty but Jon’s solemn dark eyes.

“Sara,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

Sara smiled politely and dipped into a curtsy. “Yes, Aunt Arya. I’m glad to meet you again.”

She had learned courtly manners from her mother clearly, though she lacked Margaery’s same ease.

“Are your siblings well?” Arya asked. “I’m surprised not to see more of them.”

“They are well,” Sara said. “And Lyra sends her love.”

Sara was a smart girl. Even though she knew Arya was an ally, she did still did not volunteer too much information. Arya inclined her head. “I hope I’ll be able to visit soon to see her in person.”

“She would like that,” Sara said.

Arya looked at Jon. His face was stern and troubled. Margaery seemed to notice their silent communication and she circled her arm through Sara’s. “Come. Let’s find our chambers and leave your father and Aunt to talk.”

Sara nodded and moved with her mother down the hall. Jon watched them go, then let out a breath.

“My chambers,” Arya said softly. “The children should still be out and about. Quickly.”

Jon followed her without any protest.

As Arya suspected, her chambers were clear of her children. Ser Erik sent word that they were exploring the gardens. Still she did a cursory check about her quarters before turning back to Jon.

“Something is wrong,” she said.

“I suppose we’re skipping the pleasantries,” Jon said.

“Neither of us were ever very good at pleasantries,” Arya said. “What is it?”

“We found another clutch of eggs at Storm’s End,” Jon said.

Arya let out a breath. Rhaegal had been a trial these past twenty years. The biggest threat to their careful secret keeping, in part because ‘he’ turned out to be a ‘she’ capable of reproducing. 

Jon had ridden upon Rhaegal during the Long Night at the Battle of Harrenhal. But they all insisted to Daenerys that this was Bran’s doing. That he had taken Rhaegal’s mind in order to allow Jon to ride her.

The fact that Rhaegal flew often to Storm’s End was a product of that confusing time. The fact that he had not been claimed by her children was because dragons took one rider at a time and even though Jon was just a Stark, Bran’s actions had confused him.

Daenerys had not at all been pleased by this, but at least she had acknowledged that the Long Night was a desperate time and that neither Jon nor Bran had meant to compromise one of her dragons. Rhaegal still came frequently to her and flew with Drogon. But she did not take another rider.

Because Jon was a Targaryen as much as a Stark by birth. Rhaegal wanted to keep flying with him. And Jon’s children had that same blood running in their veins. They could claim dragons if they wished to. And the moment they did…

Well either they would be revealed as Targaryens or the world would think that anyone could, in fact, ride a dragon. Both situations would be disastrous to Daenerys’ current reign and would almost certainly cause a war.

“I don’t suppose you could persuade Rhaegal to lay eggs elsewhere,” Arya said.

“Dragons don’t take to being persuaded,” Jon said. “She’s irritated with me. She has been for years. Night time flights are not enough for her.”

“Any flights are risky,” Arya said.

“I cover my face. I only go on the clouded nights when no one can possibly see me,” Jon said.

“Even so. Rumors are dangerous,” Arya pulled at the two fingers of her right hand. “What about Lyra.”

Jon’s expression saddened. “I hate keeping her locked away from the world Arya. And she is growing to hate it too.”

“She understands why,” Arya said.

“She understands. But how is a young woman supposed to endure her siblings being able to travel and meet new people while she is confined to Storm’s End, interacting with the same people day by day,” Jon said. “At least I wasn’t kept confined.”

“You look like a Stark,” Arya said. “She…is not so fortunate.”

Jon’s shoulders sagged. “I know.”

Lyra Stark. Lyra Baratheon. Lyra Tyrell. It didn’t matter what name she went by–and there was much debate over what name Margaery and Jon’s children should bear–Lyra had more features of a Targaryen than her other siblings.

Some cursed of bad luck had brought Targaryen traits through to the girl. Her hair was raven black like her sister when she was a baby, but as she grew, the silvery white strands became more and more evident until they mixed equally with the dark. And from the moment she opened her eyes they were a problem. Bright, shining violet.

If Jon had been born with white hair or violet eyes like Rhaegar Targaryen, their father never would have had a much more difficult time hiding him. And Jon and Margaery realized almost instantly that they could not hide her alone.

Thus Lyra became known as their poor sickly daughter who could not even stand in the sun long without feeling ill. When she appeared for the court, she did so with her hair dyed inky black, too far away for anyone to make out her eye color. But mostly she stayed in the Baratheon quarters.

Only specific attendants were assigned to her. Her siblings were sworn to absolute secrecy. And while she was treated well and loved by all of her family…well, Arya could only imagine how frustrated the young woman must feel after all of these years.

“She said to me in a fit of anger that she would shave her head and pluck out her eyes if it meant she gained some freedom,” Jon said. “I didn’t know what to say or do. I’ve taken her on dragon back before in the dead of night. I’ve tried to give her some tastes of the world when no one is around. But it only makes her long for it more. If she were born a man, I think she would ride for the Night’s Watch just to have a chance at her own life.”

“So she’s like you then?” Arya said softly.

“She reminds me of you actually,” Jon said. “Extremely willful and stubborn. Full of life.”

Arya’s heart constricted. “Well…I knew a thing or two about being confined in my younger years. I’ll have to visit soon with her cousins. She might like that.”

“She would,” Jon said. He ran a hand through his dark curls. “About the dragon eggs.”

“If Daenerys has heard of it, give the excuse that Storm’s End is closed to Dragonstone,” Arya said. “That dragons have historically laid their eggs in such places. But don’t volunteer information unless she asks.”

Jon nodded, observing her with a strange look in his eyes.

“What?” Arya asked.

“I can’t imagine how you do it,” Jon said. “Managing so many complex pieces, always seeming so sure. You must get tired.”

“I do,” Arya said. She pulled at her two fingers. “And I’m not always sure.”

Jon left her then to go make sure his family was settled. Arya sat in her chair, thinking about the scroll in her sleeve. About Jon’s words. About poor Lyra. About the dragon eggs. About the flaming sword and the Red priests. About her children, out in the gardens.

And then a knock came and an attendant with an invitation entered. An official invitation from Queen Daenerys to take tea in her chambers.

Well, Arya thought, toying with the corner of the invitation. This will be interesting.

Marcus did not want to meet the dragons. It was, to him, far too frightening a prospect for his first day in King’s Landing. Even seeing Drogon flying overhead had sent his heartbeat racing. So while Erik Hill went with his sisters after the princess, he retreated with some of the other household guard back into the keep.

There, he headed for the library.

He was worried for Nym. He had been since she started sleepwalking again. And he had promised her that they would find answers. He thought it best they found those answers as quickly as possible before she sleepwalked into the mouth of a dragon.

The library at King’s Landing was impressive–shelves that stretched to the ceiling, packed to the brim with various volumes and scrolls. They were well organized though, in the same fashion as the library at the Rock. He balanced carefully on stepladders to reach some of the texts he wished to investigate.

He looked especially for books on dreamers. On prophesy. And if anyone asked, he would simply say he had an interest in religion. Fortunately, he doubted many people would ask. Of his family, Marcus was generally the one who drew the least attention–small for his age, with very ordinary dark hair and features. It served him well when he wanted to go unnoticed.

Which was why it was particularly surprising when he was spotted.

“What interesting reading material,” a woman said softly.

The woman was dressed in a deep red dress with long, billowing sleeves. Her neck was adorned with golden jewelry set at the center with a ruby. And her dark hair hung free about her face.

Marcus recognized her as a Red Priestess at once and he tensed. His most recent encounter with the Flaming Sword set him on edge with any follower of R’hllor.

“You have an interest in prophesy then?” she asked. “Are you a religious boy, Marcus Lannister?”

Marcus lifted his chin. So she knew him. That did not ease his tension. “Who are you?”

“Forgive my manners,” the woman said. “I’m Priestess Kinvara. I am the High Priestess of the royal family.”

Marcus bowed his head just slightly in respect. His mind raced. She was perhaps the most powerful person in her religious order. And, for some reason, she was talking to him? Why?

“It is good to see young lords taking an interest in religion,” Kinvara said. “Given your family, I imagine you worship the old gods and the seven.”

“I have studied all of them, yes,” Marcus said. He prayed more to the old gods than the new. There was something peaceful about the Godswood to him. He felt more power there than in a sept.

“Including R’hllor,” Kinvara asked.

Marcus chose his words carefully, fighting back his stutter. “Yes. Some.”

“You seem like a curious boy,” Kinvara said. “One who asks the right questions. If there are any questions on your mind…I would be happy to answer.”

Marcus had many, many questions, and he would not trust a single one of them with this strange woman. He did not like the severity of her gaze. The way he studied him. It chilled him and he desperately wanted to extract himself from this conversation.

“Priestess Kinvara,” a voice said and, mercifully, Kinvara’s gaze snapped away from him. “You shouldn’t corner people in libraries to speak in religious riddles. They’ll get the wrong idea.”

Kinvara straightened a bit, clasping her hands in front of her stomach and bowing her head a fraction. Marcus looked past her to see the crowned prince Daerys Targaryen leaning against one of the bookshelves a wry smile on his face.

“Forgive me, my prince,” Priestess Kinvara said. “I was not trying to speak in riddles.”

So you were cornering me then, Marcus thought but did not say.

“Of course,” Daerys said. “In any case. I’d like to speak with Marcus. Privately.”

Me? Why? Marcus couldn’t help but wonder. Why do people keep noticing me today?

Kinvara swept away without another word. Daerys waited until she had gone to glance back at Marcus. “Sorry about her. She can be a bit…intense. But she means well.”

Marcus didn’t reply. He didn’t know how to. He was still trying to puzzle through why the Crowned Prince would want to talk to him. Or had that just been a ruse to dismiss Kinvara?

 Daerys made no move to leave though. Instead, he pushed off the bookshelf, closing some of the space between them. “Have I done something to offend you, Marcus?”

Marcus shook his head. He did not trust himself to speak.

“Are you sure?” Daerys said. “Because you have not said a single word to me. Some might consider it…disrespectful.”

His voice was light as he spoke the word. He didn’t seem particularly disrespected. And yet Marcus felt ashamed anyway. He forced himself to speak, taking care to shape each word perfectly.

“Forgive me, your grace. I’m a man of few words.”

“And why is that?” Daerys said.

“I don’t have many interesting things to say,” Marcus said.

“I doubt that,” Daerys said.

“I… thought you would still be at the dragon pit,” Marcus said softly.

“Oh, my sister can handle that. But I noticed you dart off and I wondered if something was amiss.” Daerys stopped at the table in front of Marcus, leaning back against it. 

There were only a few steps between them now and it was hard not to recognize the Crown Prince’s  beauty. He had the Targaryen silver hair which fell loosely to his shoulders and in whisps across bright violet eyes, and ivory pale skin. His jaw was angular and though he was clearly young, he was beginning to look like a man grown. No youthful roundness to his face and he stood a head taller than Marcus. This was the kind of prince who would be sung about and painted for generations to come. The kind that every young lady would dream of.

Marcus found it exceedingly difficult to hold his gaze.

“I don’t truly find your silence disrespectful, I promise,” Daerys said. “You’re not required to keep me company. I just wanted to save you from Kinvara. I’ll leave you be if you don’t wish to speak to me.”

“It’s not th-that,” Marcus said quickly. Too quickly. He felt the word catch on his tongue and he winced, looking up at Daerys. He hoped that the stumble might have gone unnoticed. But Daerys’ head was tilted to the side, violet eyes observing him closely.

“Ah. So it’s not that you have nothing to say,” he said. “You just stammer when you try.”

Marcus longed to sink into the stone floor and keep sinking until he was deep underground. This was not how he had wanted a conversation with the prince to go.

Surprisingly, Daerys smiled. “I don’t mind, you know.”

“You don’t?” Marcus asked softly.

“No,” Daerys said. “I don’t think it’s worth you staying quiet just because a few words come out wrong. I’m sure you have a lot to say.”

“Y-you give me too much credit, your grace,” Marcus said with a small smile. “I could be v-very dull.”

Daerys laughed at that. “That can’t possibly be the case, Marcus Lannister .”

Marcus ran a hand through his dark hair nervously. “Interesting families don’t always p-produce interesting children.”

“If that’s the case then I could be very dull too,” Daerys said.

“I don’t believe that,” Marcus said.

“Just as I don’t believe you. We don’t seem to have much trust between us.” He said the words with mock offense but there was humor glittering in his eyes. 

Marcus couldn’t help the grin that slid over his face. “I suppose not.”

A pair of smiles between them seemed to dissolve some of the tension. Daerys turned back toward the table, pulling Marcus’ book toward him. “So…what were you reading?” he mercifully didn’t wait for Marcus to answer the question. He simply read the title. “Prophets and Dreamers. An interesting choice. Why this one?”

Marcus could not tell him the true answer. That his sister was sleep walking again, and having dreams she could not remember, and he was hoping he might find answers as to why in these pages.

“I’ve always found them f-fascinating. The line between…p-prophets and mad men,” Marcus said.

“It’s a thin line,” Daerys said. He stopped flipping at one of the pages. The section on Daenys the Dreamer. “Most said she was mad. But her dreams are the only reason my ancestors escaped their doom in Old Valyria.”

“So that means she wasn’t mad at all,” Marcus said.

“Yes, but who can really tell in the moment.” Daerys shrugged. “And then so often prophesies just…don’t turn out the way you thought. You’ve read about Azor Ahai?”

“The one who ended the first long night,” Marcus said.

“It was said he would be reborn to end the second one,” Daerys said. “The red priests and priestesses told my mother that it was her. But she’s not the one who killed the Night King, is she?”

“No,” Marcus said. “I guess in the end…all that mattered is that the Night King died.”

Daerys closed the book. “It doesn’t mean the prophecy is meaningless I suppose. I think there’s a little truth in most religions and visions. Some just have more of it than others.”

He was more intelligent than Marcus would expect from a prince. The Targaryen dynasty had seen all sorts of princes and kings. Many of them were handsome in charming. Many were accomplished warriors. Many were particularly faithful and religious. Few were admired for their intelligence. Marcus did not know if that was a fault of the history books or if Daerys was just…rare.

“Do you frequent libraries often?” Daerys asked.

Marcus nodded.

“Then perhaps I’ll see you here again.” Daerys said.

“I h-hope so, your grace,” Marcus said.

Daerys smiled and drifted away, leaving Marcus’ alone with his thoughts.

“You’re red,” Nym told Marcus when he returned to their quarters. “Did you run here?”

Her blunt question only made Marcus’ face heat further. “No.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Nym approached him, touching his forehead with her hand. “I suppose you aren’t.” She observed him. “Where have you been then?”

“In the library,” Marcus said. “I was reading about dreams…Prophesy.”

Nym fell silent. She didn’t have to ask. She knew exactly why. “Anything interesting?”

“You’re not the only person in history with strange dreams,” Marcus said.

“I know I’m in good company in my strange dreams,” Nym said. “I just want to know if I’m going mad, Marc.”

“You’re not,” Marcus said.

“How can you know. I can’t even remember my dreams,” Nym fell back onto her bed, staring at the ceiling.

“So maybe you are seeing the future without knowing it,” Marcus said.

Nym was silent for a long while. Then: “I don’t think I’m seeing the future.”

“No?” Marcus asked.

“If I’m seeing the future…why am I so drawn to crypts and graves,” Nym said. “The dead aren’t part of the future. They’re part of the past.”

Marcus shrugged. It was a good point.

“I…hear things sometimes when I’m there,” Nym confessed quietly. “No…I don’t hear. I feel things. There are sensations. Like something reaching out. If I could remember my dreams I might be able to understand what it means.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Marcus said. He sat on the bed next to her, grasping her hand. She squeezed his hand back.

“You still didn’t tell me why you were flushed,” she said.

“I was…embarrassed I suppose,” Marcus said.

Nym sat up, a storm in her silver eyes. “Who embarrassed you?”

“No one,” Marcus said quickly. “I was talking to the prince. I stuttered. He was kind about it, but I wish I…could speak smoothly around strangers.”

Nym observed him for a long time, eyebrows raised. “So the prince made you flush.”

The heat returned to his skin. “Nym.”

“What?”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what? I’m stating the truth.” 

Nym’s face was as stoic as ever. But there was the slightest glint of mischief in her eyes. Marcus glared at her, silent.

Nym reached over, poking his forehead. “You think I don’t see you, Marc?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Today in the garden, a beautiful princess and a handsome prince spoke to us,” Nym said. “And you barely spared a glance for the princess.” She sighed. “It’s not the first time I’ve noticed something like that.”

Marcus swallowed hard, icy cold gripping his chest. Was he so transparent? “Is it obvious?”

“No,” Nym said. “Only to me.”

“Don’t tell,” he pleaded quietly..

Nym squeezed his hand protectively, and he knew her response before the word formed on her lips. “Never.”

Chapter Text

Earlier that day, while Marcus had been searching for answers in the library, Nym had found a few answers of her own in the Dragon Pit.

Well…not answers. Just more confusing questions. But even new questions were a comfort to Nym in this swirl of uncertainty.

“The Dragon Pits used to be bursting with dragons, from the size of ponies to the size of castle keeps,” Rhaena told Johanna as she walked with her into the pit.

Nym drifted behind them, Johanna’s silent but watchful shadow. If Johanna was going anywhere near a dragon, she planned to keep an eye on her.

“How large is your dragon?” Johanna asked.

“Still quite small,” Rhaena said. “She’s only just grown large enough to ride this year. You’ll see.” She turned  her face to the sky as if searching for something. Waiting.

Then, Nym saw it. A flash of silvery blue through the patches of cloud. A beautiful dragon circled above them before coming to land beside Rhaena. She was the color of the sea on a bright day and her scales shimmered in the sunlight. She was twice the size of a horse with a narrow nose which she nudged into Rhaena’s hand.

Johanna looked beside herself with joy as she looked a the creature. Nym put a hand on her arm, as if to remind her not to bolt at the dragon.

“Her name is Moonfyre,” Rhaena said. “She is quite sweet so long as I’m around.” She gently pat her dragon’s neck, the gestured to Johanna. “Come. You can touch her.”

“Carefully, Johanna,” Nym said as her sister shifted forward. 

But she shouldn’t have worried. Her sister had never been bit by a creature in her life, and Moonfyre was no different. The dragon merely shook her great head like a horse as Johanna laid a hand on her shoulder. It observed her with a single amber eye.

Johanna laughed, absolutely giddy. “Oh, she’s so beautiful. It must be incredible to ride her.”

“It is,” Rhaena said. “I would show you, but she’s not large enough to carry two.”

“That’s all right,” Johanna said. “I’m very patient.”

When it came to animals, that was not at all true, but Nym was sure that even Johanna would not be brazen enough to climb upon a dragon’s back without their rider’s permission.

“You’re welcome to say hello as well, Nym,” Rhaena said.

Nym eyed Moonfyre. Moonfyre stared right back at her with the curiosity of a cat.

“I’m all right just looking,” she said at last.

Rhaena did not press the issue. She and Johanna stepped back and Moonfyre took to the air again. Johanna looked toward the tunnels of the dragon pit.

“Are there others in there?” she asked. “Babies?”

“There are some young dragons, yes,” Rhaena said.

“What about the big one?” Nym asked. “Drogon.”

“Oh he won’t be inside the pits,” Rhaena said. “Drogon hates to be contained. He only sleeps in the pits, and even then, only sometimes.” She gestured for them to follow. “Come.”

Johanna hurried after her, and Nym, reluctantly, followed.

The pits were full of impressive sized caverns–little caves where dragons could tuck themselves away. But most of them, Nym noticed, were empty.

“It’s so quiet,” Johanna said.

“It is,” Rhaena said. “Dragons were almost wiped from this world, until my mother woke them up again. But now they’re returning to the world.” She smiled. “I hope to see this place full of dragons and their riders one day.”

“That would be wonderful,” Johanna said. Because she saw the dragons as beautiful animals and not potential weapons in the wrong hands. She’d read all of the Targaryen histories but not a word of the wars could convince her to fear a dragon.

“It’s their riders that should be feared,” she once said. “Their riders that use them in war.”

“So the riders are bad and the dragons are good?” Nym asked her.

Johanna had laughed. “No. Dragons aren’t good or bad, Nym. They just are . Like all animals.”

Nym’s eyes were drawn to a flash of firelight in an open cavern near the back. And she stiffened when she laid eyes on what she thought was the largest dragon head she’d ever seen. No. Not a head. She was looking at a skull. Several dragon skulls, all arranged before a flaming shrine of sorts.

“Oh. You noticed the memorial,” Rhaena said.

“Memorial,” Johanna said. “Oh. Those are all of the past dragons of your family. Like Balerion the Black Dread.”

“You know your dragons,” Rhaena said.

“She knows all of their names,” Nym murmured.

“I’m impressed,” Rhaena said. “You should speak with Daerys. He’s very good at remembering them all as well.”

“What are the skulls doing down here?” Johanna said.

“Well, they were thrown in the crypts by Robert Baratheon,” Rhaena said. “But when my mother assumed the throne, she decided they should be memorialized somewhere. We decided here. The place where they lived.”

And where many of them died, Nym thought.

“Come, this way,” Rhaena said. “I’ll show you some of the younger dragons from the clutch we found at Dragonstone a few years ago.”

Johanna eagerly followed, but Nym continued toward the memorial. The firelight flickered off of the great skull of Balerion. What a huge creature he must have been–able to swallow an entire horse in it’s jaws with no problem. One great tooth was practically the size of Nym herself.

She reached out, laying her palm against that large tooth.

A sensation came over her then. First icy cold then burning heat. A burst of emotions. Anger. Hunger. Want.

And rising above it all, fear. Terror. A burning terror.

Nym jerked her hand back. The sensation left her in an instant, sucked right from her body. But her blood still buzzed and she staggered.

“Nym?” Johanna called after her. “Are you coming?”

Nym let out a shaky breath, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. Then she turned away from the great skull and hurried to join her sister.

Daenerys Targaryen invited Arya to tea in her personal quarters–a show of respect. Arya knew she did not give most lords and ladies a private audience. Sometimes, she did not even afford Arya a private meeting during the annual council. Not unless she had something to discuss.

The queen waited on her private terrace for Arya’s arrival, looking out across King’s Landing. Her silvery white hair had grown quite long and it was only the complex braid which kept it in check. She wore a deep red gown with black embroidery on the sleeves and hem. 

When Arya’s name was announced she turned to face her, a warm but calculating smile on her face.

“Lady Arya. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Arya mirrored her controlled smile. “Of course. You know we would never miss an annual council.”

A servant poured the tea. Arya took the cup but waited until Daenerys drank to take a sip herself. She did not think the queen would try to poison her, but she also wasn’t one to let her guard down.

“I hope your journey here was easy,” Daenerys said.

“Easy enough,” Arya said. She did not bring up her encounter with the Flaming sword. She preferred to save that for the council itself. “My youngest three are happy to finally see King’s Landing.”

“We’re happy to host them here,” Daenerys said. “Your youngest is…fourteen, yes? And the oldest is nineteen?”

“Indeed,” Arya said. She wondered if Daenerys inquiring after her children meant something or if she was just making small talk. Either way, Arya would exchange pleasantries until Daenerys got to her real purpose. She knew that she had a reason for asking her here.

Soon enough, Arya’s patience paid off. Once they had discussed the journey and the weather and the crops, Daenerys set her cup down. Her face grew a bit more serious.

“Have you spoken to my children yet?” she asked.

“I haven’t,” Arya said.

“Daerys was eager to speak to you,” Daenerys said. “You’ll have to excuse him when he does. He has so many questions about the Long Night. He’s a bit of a historian.”

“I am used to my children asking questions about that night,” Arya said, thinking especially of Tybolt. “I won’t take offense.”

“It’s hard to believe he’s in his seventeenth year,” Daenerys said. “Every day nobles campaign to wed their daughters to him. Minor lords who look to improve their status. More prominent lords who look for ways to increase their power. I receive petitions from the north, east, west and south.”

“It’s not unusual,” Arya said. “Has Daerys taken an interest in any of these proposals?”

“Not particularly,” Daenerys said. “He’s shown little interest in marriage, but he understands the necessity of it. It’s time I consider viable options. I’d like to give him some choice.” She tilted her head to the side, observing Arya. “I don’t suppose you have any thoughts on the matter.”

For a moment, Arya was too surprised to reply. She understood what Daenerys was hinting at. But would she truly consider one of Arya’s daughters as a match for her son after the tense history between their families?

Of course, came the answer just as quickly. Of course she would consider it. She understood the power Arya had. She wanted a piece of that power and if she had one of her daughters…

“My daughter Elissa is of marrying age,” Arya said slowly. “I won’t deny the possibility of a match.”

“Elissa is a delightful girl from my recollection,” Daenerys said. “What about your other girls? Nymeria and Johanna. 

“Johanna is too young for me to consider a match for her yet,” Arya said. Of course she knew she had been Johanna’s age when she was first betrothed. But just because she had found happiness with her husband did not mean that she would place her daughter in that same situation. “And Nym is…not ready for such things. Like you, I want to give my children a choice. I swore a long time ago that I would never force them into a match. You understand.”

“I do,” Daenerys said, and Arya heard the sincerity in her voice. Arya and Daenerys both knew what it was like to be used from a young age as a bargaining chip. They’d found their way to power but not without considerable difficulty.

“I’m honored by your consideration,” Arya said. “But…do you want to know my honest opinion?”

“I do appreciate your honesty,” Daenerys said.

“You should consider one of Jon and Margaery’s daughters.” she said.

Daenerys’ eyebrows rose. “Why is that?”

“Well, Steffon was your heir until you were able to have Daerys,” Arya said. “Your show of good faith when you took the crown. At the time, you thought you could not have children. But then you did and he lost that status as your heir.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “A betrothal to one of Margaery’s daughters could repair that broken promise.”

Daenerys considered this. It had been a subject of tension between Daenerys and Margaery after Daenerys bore a son. Margaery had smiled and accepted the change of course. But behind that sweetness, there was bitterness that her child had been robbed of the throne.

“Why do you care about repairing that damage?” Daenerys asked.

The queen was no fool. She knew that Arya did not offer council out of the goodness of her heart. But she also could not know the real reason.

News of Jon’s parentage. News of the clutches of eggs. Of Lyra. It was becoming increasingly clear that the other Targaryens could not be kept hidden. But if they could join their families, Daenerys would not need to feel so threatened by Jon’s existence.

“We both want peace,” Arya said. “That has always been the case, your grace.”

Daenerys studied her. Then nodded. “I will announce my intention to search for a match for Daerys at the annual council. I have no doubt many of the lords and ladies in attendance will offer their daughters. But…I will consider what you said.”

Arya inclined her head. She wasn’t sure what Jon would think of the move, but this seemed the obvious solution. If they joined their families, then Daenerys would have less reason to worry if the truth came out. And maybe poor Lyra could know some freedom.

And then, maybe there was some part of Arya that would not allow her to match her child to the crown prince. A part of her that remember what happened when her sister was engaged to a crown prince.

Maybe Daerys Targaryen was a better man than Joffery. But she would not risk one of her children to find out.

The queen provided Arya and her family with the same quarters during every annual council–a generous suite of rooms on the western wing of the keep. That evening, when Arya returned there, she already had a guest waiting for her. He sat at the desk studying a Cyvasse board, a familiar knowing smile on his face.

“The Wolf of Casterly Rock,” Tyrion said. “I’m relieved you’ve finally come. I’ve been in want of a proper Cyvasse partner for months.”

Arya raised her eyebrows, removing her gloves carefully and setting them on one of her trunks. “Does our queen not provide a worthy challenge?”

“I’m afraid the queen doesn’t often indulge me with games,” Tyrion said. “But you…you must humor me as my sister by law.”

“I don’t believe that was included in my vows to Jaime,” Arya said, approaching the desk and sitting down in the chair across from him. “But I will indulge you none the less.”

“Gods be good.” Tyrion reached across the desk. 

Arya clasped his hand tightly in hers, allowing herself an unguarded smile. “How are you?”

“Well enough,” Tyrion said. “Dreadfully busy. You know how these annual councils are.”

“It seems almost as if you don’t have time for fun and games then,” Arya said. None the less, she made her first move with the rabble.

“I always carefully schedule time for fun and games,” Tyrion said. He responded to her move by adjusting one of his own rabble pieces. “I’d be useless to Daenerys if my brilliant mind wasn’t given a break or two.”

“I suppose Cyvasse is better than bathing your mind in wine.”

“Exactly. I am showing tremendous self control.”

They traded moves back and forth for a moment, until Arya moved her dragon into play. “Do you anticipate any unexpected turns at this year’s council?”

“It is always best to anticipate the unexpected,” Tyrion said. “But no. Nothing beyond the usual. The Greyjoys will complain about not enough resources being given to the coast. Your brothers will be very serious, just as your father would want. And you and Oberyn Martell will engage in a bit of verbal sparring while the rest of us hope it doesn’t escalate to real sparring.”

Arya’s mouth quirked. “Even if we sparred for real, we’d take care not to kill each other.”

“Thank you. It would create a lot of problems if Lannister and Martell tensions restarted in earnest,” Tyrion said. His trebuchet had begun to pose a threat to her elephants. She went more on the defensive. “Your meeting with the queen. How did it go?”

“You act as if you don’t already know,” Arya said. “I’m sure she spoke to you.”

“She did.”

“And?”

“I was surprised.”

Arya raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Well, because Daenerys spoke to you about the prospect of marrying off her heir…and you suggested someone else’s child instead of your own,” Tyrion said.

Arya traced her finger over the top of one of her dragon pieces. “Is that wrong?”

“Daenerys was certainly not expecting it,” Tyrion said. “She hoped to strengthen the tie between your two families. To ensure that the Lannisters and Targaryens will continue to work together to keep the peace.”

A rueful smile tugged at Arya’s lips. “Because she fears me.”

“She respects you, or she would never have offered marriage,” Tyrion said.

“She did not offer marriage,” Arya corrected. “She hinted at the possibility. She was gauging my reaction. And she wanted to see how quickly I would jump at a chance to tie my family to the crown.”

“Such cynicism. My father would be proud,” Tyrion said. 

The comparison didn’t cut her so much coming from Tyrion. Maybe because of the lightness of his tone. Or maybe because, while Tyrion acknowledged she had learned a great deal from Tywin Lannister, he did not see her as walking in his shadow. 

“Since when are you an optimist,” Arya said. “Do you plan to tell me your queen has the best of intentions.”

“The best of intentions? No,” Tyrion said. “But she has good intentions. She wants to maintain peace. She is highly aware of your connections throughout the seven kingdoms. The power you hold. She wants to have your web of influence on her side.”

“I am on her side,” Arya said.

Tyrion gave her a look as he shifted his own dragon into play. “You both want the same thing. It’s not the same. Because if what you wanted changed…” Tyrion trailed off, leaving the suggestion in the air.

“If what I wanted changed, I wouldn’t want one of my children held hostage in the Red Keep by her husband to be,” Arya said.

“Daerys is no Joffery,” Tyrion said. “He’s a highly intelligent boy and he shows little interest in tournaments or hunting. And I’ve never once seen him torture a small animal for the fun of it.”

“You recommend him highly,” Arya said dryly.

“Well…I’ll just say that serving as Hand for this family has been a much simpler job than my first time,” Tyrion said. “And much simpler than my father’s job of playing hand to the Mad King.”

“Even so,” Arya said. “I’d rather not give one of my daughters over to Daenerys for the sake of making her feel more secure.”

“But you offer one of your brother’s daughters?” Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

Arya was quiet for a long moment. She did not know how much Tyrion knew, or at least suspected, about Jon’s heritage. Tyrion was no fool. But she would not let him in on any conspiracies that might endanger him. He should, as Daenerys’ hand, have plausible deniability.

“Jon and Margaery have more to gain by betrothing a daughter to Daerys,” Arya said at last. 

She moved her rabble into exactly the right place. A trap. Tyrion would lose the game in a few moves and he could see it. He sighed, but continued to play out the game.

“It should still be enough for the queen,” Arya said. “I suggested and supported a match between her son and one of my closest allies. My brother’s child. She knows that my family means a great deal to me.”

“She does,’ Tyrion said.

Two more moves and she had him. Tyrion knocked over his king with a playful flick. “There always seem to be a million thoughts going on behind those eyes of yours, Lady Arya. I can’t help but wonder how you keep track of them all.”

“With great practice,” Arya said. “You should understand though. Your thoughts never stop either.”

“My mind is as blank as an unwritten book, my lady,” Tyrion raised his glass of wine. “I’m enjoying my leisure time with you. Not a thought to be had.”

Arya grasped her own goblet and clinked it against his. “To quiet thoughts then.”

He inclined his head. “To quiet thoughts.”

Nights at Casterly Rock were quiet. Nothing but the wind whipping through the narrow gaps in the stone building. Elissa liked to wander the courtyard at night. It helped her think.

In the darkness, there was no need to put on the performance. There was no need to be the perfect eldest daughter who lived up to the legacy of her parents. She could just…be.

She went to the armory and found a sparring sword. She took her place in the courtyard, holding the blade in front of her. Then she began to practice.

Elissa shifted through her stances, moving like water in the moonlight. The sparring sword was a part of her arm. In the muscle memory of practice, she found some peace.

She spun and her sword met another blade. Her father stood there, holding a sparring sword of his own in his left hand. He gave her an admonishing look, though she could tell he only half meant it.

“It’s late.”

“It is,” Elissa agreed. “I couldn’t sleep. And neither could you apparently.”

“I worry about your mother when she’s away,” Jaime said.

“Why would you have to worry about her?” Elissa asked. “Mother always handles everything perfectly.”

Jaime’s mouth twitched. “You know your mother wasn’t born invincible, don’t you?”

“Sometimes I doubt that,” Elissa said. Of course she knew her mother had weaknesses. She knew her mother was once young and had less power. But her mother didn’t talk much about those days.

“You’ll have to take my word for it then,” Jaime said. He stepped back, turning his sparring sword in his hand. He gestured for her to make her attack, and she did.

Elissa lunged at her father. He parried easily. While he had lost his right hand years ago, these past few decades had seen him become one of the greatest swordsmen in history again with his left hand. It was because of him that Elissa practiced with both of her hands.

She struck again. He batted her blade to the side and danced out of the way, a smile on his face. It was easy for him and Elissa did not want to make it so easy.

And so she came at him harder, one blow after another, forcing him to work harder and faster to block her blade. But no matter how she tried to exploit his weaknesses, it didn’t matter. Not even when she went for his right side. He knew that trick from her.

It wasn’t long before, her father went on the attack, disarming her with a flick of his wrist. The sword clattered across the ground. Elissa’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

She was excellent with a blade, a bow, a knife. But when she fought her parents, she saw all of her weaknesses laid bare.

“You keep getting better,” her father said.

“After I couldn’t land a hit on you?” Elissa asked. “That’s what you say?”

“I’ve been wielding a sword much longer than you, El,” Jaime said. “You’re only eighteen.”

“Mother killed the Night King when she was eighteen,” Elissa said.

“She did,” Jaime said. “And I’m so pleased that you haven’t had to do the same.”

Elissa gave him a look.

“Truly, Elissa,” Jaime said. “By the time your mother was your age, she had seen four wars. She lost people she loved to all of them. I watched her suffer more times than I can count and it is a blessing that you have not suffered the same.”

Elissa swallowed hard. “I know. I just wish…she would speak of that time like it was more than an entry in a book. But when we ask questions she just gives us the events. She doesn’t tell us what it was like .”

“No,” Jaime said. “Your mother keeps much of that time locked in a deep chamber of her heart.”

“Why?” Elissa asked.

“Because. She’s only human. It’s how she keeps moving forward,” Jaime said. 

There was a sadness in her father’s smile. How much he cared for her mother. Elissa bit the inside of her cheek.

“She will tell you some day, Elissa. I promise,” Jaime said.

“And if she doesn’t?” Elissa asked.

“Then I will tell you myself,” Jaime said. He handed her the sparring swords. “Put these away. Then sleep. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Elissa said, holding the swords close to her chest.

He placed a hand on her cheek. “That’s my girl.”

Elissa made her way back to the armory. And she was planning on keeping her word. Until she heard the crashing sound coming from the shed.

It was a storage space for animal feed. Sometimes they got rats or other vermin, but they did well to keep them away most days. This sounded larger than a rats though. Much larger.

She eased closer, hand on the hilt of her dagger. She heard a growling sound from within. Was it a stray dog? A very large one perhaps? The door was wide open and splintered at the edges. What could have…

She stepped past the threshold of the shed. Moonlight fell past her shoulders illuminating the creature. And it wasn’t a dog at all. She was staring at a dragon.

The creature was only about the size of a horse, but it’s wings nearly filled the shed. In the darkness, it’s eyes glowed like a cat spotting a tasty mouse. And Elissa knew she was the mouse.

A few spark popped in it’s open maw. Elissa threw herself to the wide as a puff of flame shot from the stable door. It seared the ground where she stood moments ago. The creature let out a high pitched roar, turning towards her. It’s large tail rammed into a crate of feed, breaking it apart.

Terror gripped Elissa and she scrambled back across the hay.

“Elissa!”

Her father roared her name. The dragon’s head whipped in the direction of the sound. At the open door. If her father burst through, it would roast him alive.

No you don’t, Elissa thought. She pulled her dagger and lunged at the beast, driving the tip toward it’s soft underside.

It might have struck the creature in the chest if it hadn’t moved. The tip sank into it’s flesh none the less, carving a bloody line across it’s belly. The creature screeched a whipped it’s tail around. It caught Elissa in the shoulder, sending her sprawling.

The creature turned slowly, thoroughly distracted from the open door, remembering it’s initial prey. It’s jaws opened wide, displaying sharp teeth, and fire burned in it’s throat.

Then, the slice of a sword. A single strike cleaved halfway through the dragons neck. A second strike took it’s head off the rest of the way. The dragon collapsed to the ground and her father stood over it, gripping his blade tight, his green eyes blazing like wild fire.

“Father,” Elissa choked out.

The fire in his eyes cleared. He dropped his sword and rushed to her, pulling her into his arms. Elissa sank into the hug as tears burned at her eyes. She forced them back though. She wasn’t a child anymore. She refused to cry just because she had nearly been killed by a dragon.

Gods, she had nearly been killed by a dragon.

“Are you hurt?” Jaime murmured. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Elissa said. “I’m all right.”

“Good girl.” Jaime kissed the side of her head. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Elissa swallowed down a sob, burying her face in her father’s shoulder.

“Lord Lannister!” the guards called out from nearby. “Are you all right?”

“We’re fine,” Jaime called out, keeping Elissa close. “Just a wild animal. It’s been dealt with.”

His voice was firm and confident, but Elissa knew the truth. Wild dragons had been spotted at Dragonstone before. But if they had made their way from the east all the way to the west?

That was an entirely new problem.

Chapter Text

The best thing to do with a body you did not want found was to burn it. Quite unfortunately, the body Jaime wanted to hide was that of a dragon, and those did not burn so easily.

Jaime was sure that this dragon was wild. The dragons under the watch of the Targaryen family did not stray far from King’s Landing. It was just an animal, looking for food, who had tried to seek shelter. Maybe it would have gone by morning if Elissa had not happened to wander into it’s hiding space.

But she had and now it was dead, and Jaime had to do something about it.

He sealed off the shed at once and focused first on making sure Elissa was all right. She had little more than bruises. More than anything, she was shaken. But her clothes were splattered with dragon blood.

“If anyone asks, tell them it was a boar,” Jaime told her quietly.

She nodded, understanding at once, and hurried inside.

Once he was sure she was safe, he spoke to Merwyn about the dragon. He told him to take only some of their most trusted guards to transport the creature to the cliffs. They would dump the body into the sea.

Dragons were protected under the queen’s law. There were so few of them, after all. Daenerys offered compensation to any farmer who’s livestock was eaten by a dragon. In return, everyone was to leave them well alone.

But Daenerys could not have compensated him for the loss of his eldest daughter, so Jaime did not feel any guilt for killing it. Still, it was not something he wished to explain to the queen. She tolerated him but she had never forgotten why he earned the name ‘Kingslayer’.

When the dragon was dealt with, Jaime went at once to Elissa’s room to check on her one more time. She was awake in her room, carefully organizing her arrows into her quill. As if she thought another dragon might come to her window and she would need to fell it.

“You’re all right?” Jaime asked again. It was perhaps the hundredth time he’d asked it. He could not push aside the fear he’d thought seeing that dragon looming over his daughter.

Elissa nodded. Externally, she had composed herself again. “Will you get in trouble?” she asked quietly.

“Not if no one finds out,” Jaime said. “And even if they do…the Queen would understand.”

Elissa did not look so sure. But it was Jaime’s job to sway his childrens’ fears. Not to burden them.

Of course his eldest were keen on being burdened now that they had come of age. And when Jaime stepped into the hall, Tybolt was there, eyes wide with worry.

“What happened?” he asked. “Elissa was covered in blood when she came in. She wouldn’t say what happened.”

Jaime cast a glance down the hallway. Then grasped his son’s shoulder and guided him into his chambers, shutting the door behind them.

When they were alone, he told Tybolt the truth of it. Tybolt sank into the nearest seat, rubbing a hand across his mouth.

“A wild dragon,” Tybolt said. “Here?”

“So you find it strange as well?” Jaime asked.

“This far from Dragonstone and King’s Landing? Yes,” Tybolt said. “They must be getting crowded.”

“What do you mean, crowded?” Jaime asked.

“Well, according to everything I’ve read, dragons are very competitive and territorial,” Tybolt said. “They choose particular hunting grounds and fight off other dragons when they intrude. They generally allow family to share, but they’re not exactly pack hunters.” He shrugged. “If too many larger dragons have claimed Dragonstone and King’s Landing, the smaller ones might be seeking grounds of their own.”

Jaime’s brow furrowed. “They should all be family though…right? These dragons all come from Drogon and Rhaegal.”

“It could be competition between different clutches of eggs,” Tybolt said. “Though I’ll say…Rhaegal seems to have produced a strange amount of eggs. More than usual.”

Jaime observed his son. “You’ve read a lot on dragons?”

Tybolt shrugged. “It’s seemed relevant, considering that they exist again.”

“All right so…what do you think about all of this?”

Tybolt blinked as if he was surprised to be asked. “I…well, there are a few possibilities. One is that Rhaegal is producing more eggs because the dragons almost went extinct. But the other…” He trailed off.

“What?” Jaime asked.

“It’s a theory,” Tybolt said. “And not a widely accepted one. Only a few maesters have spoken of it so…”

“It wouldn’t hurt to speak it,” Jaime said.

“Well, twenty years ago, a red comet heralded the dragons return,” Tybolt said. “We know now that corresponded with Daenerys Targaryen stepping into a fire with three petrified dragon eggs and emerging unharmed with three baby dragons.”

“We do,” Jaime agreed.

“But there are some people,” Tybolt said. “Who think that more dragons awoke that night. That any petrified eggs hiding in the depths of Dragonstone also gained life again. And that would mean that Drogon and Rhaegal are not the only source of these new dragons.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. If other dragons had been hatched…they could have a much more serious crisis on their hands in the coming years. Especially if Daenerys did not have control over those dragons.

“I hope your first theory is the answer,” he said at last.

Tybolt swallowed hard. “So do I.”

The following morning, Arya woke early to walk the grounds of the Red Keep. To pass across familiar old stones. Winterfell was her childhood home. But she grew into a woman in this place, under careful guard and the watchful eye of the Lannisters.

There were certain places she avoided. She rarely met Tyrion in the tower of the Hand. He came to her instead. She had climbed those stairs too many times and she did not like the memories.

But she frequented the old terrace where she once had her lessons with Syrio and, later, Jaime. She still drifted back there, to practice with her sword.

Winter’s Fury was Arya’s fondest companion. A piece of her father’s sword gifted to her by Tywin Lannister after she had saved his life. She had first grasped the pommel of this blade a lifetime ago, and since then it was as familiar as the back of her hand.

She drew her sword and took up a familiar position, facing an invisible opponent. She always imagined Syrio. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The tilt of his head when he was observing her form. Though her dancing master had passed of old age a few years back, she could still picture him perfectly. 

She twirled the sword in her hand, shifting seamlessly into the next form, fluid as water. It was like breathing to her. She was weightless.

Her feet shifted and she turned, spinning her sword in the same motion–and was surprised when the blade clattered against a spear.

“Early morning practice?” Oberyn Martell asked. His eyebrows rose and his mouth curved into a smirk. “Lady Arya.”

Seven hells, Arya thought. He’s quiet as a cat .

She did not let her surprise show on her face. “Prince Oberyn. Sneaking up on me is a good way to inadvertently lose an ear.”

“For some,” Oberyn said. “But if you wish to maim me, you’ll have to put in a bit more effort.”

She twisted her blade, disengaging from him in a single fluid move. She took two steps back. “I have no wish to maim you. Not to worry.”

“Shame,” Oberyn said. “It could add a bit of entertainment to this annual council, don’t you think? If the Lannisters and the Martells were at each other’s throats again.”

“Tempting,” Arya said. “But I’m sure there will be plenty to engage you at the council.” She circled him. “I thought that you would arrive sooner. You have less distance to cover. Trouble on the road?”

“No trouble. I took more than one diversion,” Oberyn said. He circled with her, his footwork matching hers. “You see, I brought my son with me and he loves to explore.”

Oberyn’s son. After so many daughters, a son must have been unexpected. The mother was Ellaria Sand, mother of several of his bastard daughters. Arya had never met the boy before.

“Well. I’m glad you found your way,” Arya said.

“Are you?” Oberyn asked. “Or were you hoping I’d get lost in a sandstorm.”

“We’re allies, Prince Oberyn,” Arya said, tilting her head to the side. “Why would i ever hope that?”

He smirked. There was a single breath of silence that past between them. Then he jabbed forward with his spear. She flicked the blade to the side with her own. And then they were locked in a battle again.

It was hard for Arya to explain her relationship with Oberyn Martell. Twenty years ago, the man had blamed her for denying him his vengeance. He had wanted justice served against Tywin Lannister in a more painful way. And she understood that. She truly did.

And in the same token, she hated him for sitting on that trial. For condemning Tywin to death. For forcing her to be the one to kill him just so that she did not have to watch him die where her father once died.

Twenty years had not softened the tension between them. Rather it had solidified into a familiar shape. Whenever they met, they would dance around each other–either with blades or with words. Oberyn would fight to ensure Dorne’s power in King’s Landing and the power of their Targaryen allies. And Arya would fight for the Lannister, the Starks and all of her family spread out across Westeros.

They both knew why they fought. They both respected each other, in a sense. But they could not, and would never, be friends.

This was the closest they came to it, funny enough. Drawing weapons and sparring in the early hours of the day, until they were both damp with sweat, panting from the exertion.

Oberyn’s spear jammed against Arya’s chest. Her blade inches from his throat. They hovered there until Oberyn stepped back

“I will see you at the council, Lady Arya,” Oberyn said, twirling his spear, to balance it over his shoulder as he stepped back toward the door. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty more to say.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed and her chin lifted a fraction. “No doubt, Prince Oberyn.”

In the next few days, Robb and Sansa arrived at King’s Landings, one after the other. Robb did not bring any of his children with him. He rarely did, unless pressed. Sansa, on the other hand, brought her two eldest girls, Cat and Wylla. They were quick to convene with the Princess Rhaena and they let Johanna tag along with them, though she was the youngest.

Robb and Sansa gave a good report about Arya’s mother. She was still alive and had good days mixed with the bad. It was the weather that had an effect on her. Colder weather kept her in bed.

“I tried to convince her to come south,” Sansa said. “Maybe Highgarden would be better for her health. But…she says when she dies she wants to be in Winterfell.”

Arya nodded. She understood. Her father would have preferred to die there as well.

The day before the annual council, Arya sought out Margaery. She had thought first about speaking to Jon, but she wasn’t sure how her brother would feel about her suggesting his daughter for marriage to the prince.

Jon was a good man. Even if they did not truly share a father, was still Ned Stark’s son. He was honorable and when he committed acts of violence, he always did so to protect or defend his own. It had gotten him killed in the Night’s Watch.

He was not a great lover of politics or schemes. That was why his partnership with Margaery was so effective. She could scheme enough for the both of them without a soul knowing what she was up to.

Arya hadn’t been sure, when she had gently nudged Margaery in her brother’s direction, if Jon would truly have an interest in the woman. Of course, he had eyes, and Margaery was beautiful. But he also was not a man easily swayed by flattery or sweet words. He had a sense when people were lying.

Their courtship had been an interesting one. Jon did not fall for Margaery at first sight. Or second. Or third. He did not seem to understand why anyone like Margaery would have an interest in him. And of course he had no desire to father any bastards or to put Margaery in a compromising position.

Maybe that was why Margaery stopped trying to win him over for possible political gain. He treated her as an equal when they spoke. He saw her for more than just her beauty. And that made her truly fall for him.

Ultimately, they were wed. All the way up until the day of the wedding, Jon was nervous. He had assumed he would never marry anyone after he took the vows of the Night Watch. This was a life he had never imagined for himself.

Years later and he still sometime seemed uncomfortable with such a life. But he wore it better than he did. And Margaery was always there to help him navigate the politics he had no taste for.

Arya imagined that Jon had barely considered how to go about marrying off his children. But Margaery? She would have been thinking about it constantly.

“It’s good to see you this year,” Margaery said. “I don’t mind when Jaime attends the annual councils. But I prefer when it’s you.”

“Jaime will be so hurt,” Arya said. “Why do you prefer me?”

“Sometimes I like to see our Queen sweat,” Margaery said. “Not a lot. Just a small bit. I am of course loyal to the crown.”

Arya smiled. “Westeros is grateful to you for that loyalty. If it had faltered after Steffon was removed as heir, it would have meant a conflict we weren’t ready for.”

“Well, I am a master of restraint,” Margaery said. She set down her tea. “You have something to tell me. I can sense it.”

“Yes,” Arya said. “Daenerys plans to marry off Prince Daerys soon. She enquired after my daughters as possibilities.”

“Really,” Margaery said. “Trying to truly make peace with the Lannister family then.”

“Or trying to bind me to her,” Arya said. “Either way…I may have suggested that she speak to you.”

Margaery observed her. “Did you.”

“Yes,” Arya said. “I suggested that maybe she should use this opportunity to put right the wrong she did to Steffon.” She sighed. “And I’ve heard from Jon about Lyra.”

Margaery sighed. “Yes. My poor Lyra. What are the odds that she would show her features so clearly.” She gave a little smile. “Her birth was what made Jon tell me, you know. The truth. When she was born with those eyes, I thought he might think I’d taken up with another man. But he assured me that he was the one at fault for those.” She laughed once. “And then suddenly I understood why you suggested him to me.”

“You understand why I couldn’t be honest with you then,” Arya said.

“Oh. of course I do,” Margaery said. “And I believe you were looking out for me. There was a chance that this match could see me back in the Red Keep…but there is also a chance it could be the ruin of me and my family.”

“That’s exactly why I suggested Daenerys talk to you,” Arya said. “Because I do not want this to be the ruin of your family.”

“I know,” Margaery said. “It’s funny…how often I’ve had to lie about my childrens’ heritage. Pretend that Steffon has any stag in him at all. Pretend that Jon and I’s children are just wolves with flowers in their fur.” She laughed. “It’s a good thing I’m so good at lying or I’d find this all exhausting.”

Arya didn’t reply. She just ran her finger along the rim of the tea cup.

“Promise me that whatever happens,” Margaery said. “That you’ll see this end well.”

What an impossible promise that was to make. And none the less, Arya reached out and clasped her hand.

“I promise.”

The annual council took place at a series of tables set before the Iron throne. It was a large space for a meeting, but the cavernous walls helped their voices to carry across the table when they wished to be heard.

Many great lords and ladies sat at the table. The wardens of the north, west, east and south of course. But also Yara Greyjoy. Oberyn Martell. The Hightowers of Oldtown. All of Daenerys’ small council members. 

There were some other minor lords there as well. Likely they had petitioned throughout the year for a seat at the table to discuss matters of grave importance. These seats changed out every year.

She also made space for religious officials. Usually the High Septon would attend. But he was notably absent from these proceedings.

The Red Priestess Kinvara, on the other hand, was not. She sat only a few seats away from Daenerys her gaze sweeping steadily over the attendants. Arya noted the way her gaze lingered on her.

The annual council was a long affair. Often they went through two or three meals before it was over. Each lord or lady reported on the affairs of their region. The harvest. Their armies. Any significant projects undertaken. The state of their debts to the crown, if they had any. Arya did not have to worry about that. The crown still had unpaid debts to the Lannisters, in fact.

Daenerys gave leave for the smaller lords to speak first. Some complained of their farmland being made into dragon hunting grounds and Daenerys offered her compensations. Others asked for help with repairs since a great storm had cut through the Riverlands, ripping whole trees from the earth. Arya’s uncle Edmure concurred with them on the need for assistance.

Arya waited patiently for others to speak their concerns. It was not until Sansa spoke to bring up a recent attack on a Sept near Highgarden, that she spoke.

“It is not just Highgarden,” she said. “Septs and Godswoods have become more frequent targets all around Westeros. It has been the common refrain from the north to Dorne.”

“Yes,” Robb said. “I’ve had many recent complaints.”

“We have not,” Oberyn said. “The Lady Arya need not speak for us. Dorne’s septs have been left unspoiled. But then, the Red Priests have had more practice living in harmony with the septons in the south.”

“I’m glad you’ve been at peace,” Arya said. “Or maybe the flaming sword has not yet seen fit to cause trouble in your lands.”

Because you are so closely bound with the queen, she thought. Then she glanced to Yara, wanting to test that theory. “In the Iron Islands. Have there been attacks on temples to the Drowned God?”

“We do not have temples,” Yara said. “Nor do we keep statues of our gods to burn. Our place of worship is the sea. A bit hard to burn that.”

“They can burn people,” Arya said. “In fact I saw them doing so on my way to King’s Landing.” She raised an eyebrow. “So have they tried that?”

Yara shrugged. “I’ve seen people burned alive. Not sure of the culprit. If it was the Flaming Sword, they did not take credit.”

“Still, burning people alive seems a bit worse than simply burning temples,” Jon said. “I know it’s an old method of execution amongst the Red God, but they are lighting innocents ablaze.”

“So you have had trouble in the Stormlands as well,” Daenerys said.

“Aye, we have,” Jon said.

“There’s been a recent and sudden rise,” Margaery said. “Tensions are growing. And I can’t help but note that the High Septon isn’t here. Why?”

“He was given an invitation,” Daenerys said. “He refused it.”

A wave of murmuring passed over the tables.

“We all know that the Flaming Sword does not speak for all followers of the Red God,” Varys said. By his sweet tone, Arya could almost believe that he did not loathe that particular religion. “But still, it seems something must be done about them.”

“Thus far, you have left it to the lords of the seven kingdoms to handle the flaming sword,” Arya said. “For us to protect our own septs and godswoods. But we did not popularize the religion of the Red God in Westeros. You did. I do not believe that you support the radicals. But I believe managing them still falls on you.”

Daenerys’ jaw was tight, but she clearly did not have an easy retort to that. There was a reason Arya had waited to bring up this issue until they were in a group. Some matters she preferred to tackle with an audience.

“It would soothe the septons in the city,” Tyrion said after a long pause. “To see you taking some action.”

“It would embolden them,” Kinvara said. It was the first time she had chosen to speak up. Her voice rang throughout the room. “Make them think they have power over the other religions.”

 Her eyes turned to Arya. “Or have you forgotten that the followers of the New Gods used to burn your godswoods as well.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed, but Robb cut in.

“We haven’t forgotten the history of the Old and New Gods,” he said. “But Winterfell holds both a sept and a godswood. Both are part of my family history and I will see them both protected.”

“It is reassuring to see you are open to more than one religion, Lord Stark,” Kinvara said. “Do you have a red priest there as well?”

Robb’s lip curled just slightly.

“The New gods were not immediately accepted in Westeros,” Sansa said. Her voice was sweeter and calmer. As if she was a sympathetic party to Kinvara. Arya admired the way her sister could still appear so kindly after all of these years. “The rise of any new religion will be met with resistance. It’s not that many aren’t intrigued by your red god. It’s that the red god challenges their faith. Their culture. The culture of their forefathers.”

“We can not help the teachings of our god,” Kinvara said. “That R'hllor is the only true power in this world. And the Seven did not save Westeros during the Long Night. But the Red God lent his power. Westeros would be a land of frozen dead without him.”

“Westeros would be a land of frozen dead without my brother Bran,” Arya said through her teeth. “And it was not Rh’llor who spoke to him.”

Kinvara opened her mouth to reply but Daenerys held up her hand.

“Enough, Kinvara,” she said. “No one has denied the role Rh’llor played in our victory. And you know that I do not deny his power. But from the beginning I swore that I would never force the country to take up my religion. Westeros is free to believe and practice as they wish. My decision has not changed.”

Kinvara inclined her head, settling back in her chair. But her gaze was still sharp as steel. She obeyed the queen, but Arya knew she wished that she served a crusader.

Daenerys surveyed the table. “I will create a militia with the task of keeping peace in each of the regions. Their job will be to help seek out any radicals and put them to justice. Furthermore, I will offer rewards to any who capture a member of the Flaming Sword.” She looked to Arya. “Is that sufficient?”

Arya nodded. “Yes, your grace. That will do for now.”

She settled back in her seat. She did not at all like Kinvara, but her display of radical faith had helped them in a way. It forced Daenerys hand. If she had not taken a strong stance, it would only earn her more distrust from the lords and ladies seated at the table. Daenerys already represented an upset to their system–the first queen to sit the Iron Throne. She could not afford to throw out the old religions.

“Turning now to happier business,” Daenerys said. “My son has reached his seventeenth name day. We have agreed that it is time that he should choose a bride. But I also have promised that I will give him a choice. Thus in six months time there will be a feast.”

“A fortnight of feasting in fact,” Tyrion said. “Along with tournaments and other such frivolities.”

“Indeed,” Daenerys said. “We are in the midst of a long summer and a long peace. It is time to celebrate that. And by the end…there will be an engagement to announce.”

This declaration sent ripples of energy across the table. Many of the lords and ladies present had eyes that lit up with desire. The chance to wed their daughter to a Targaryen prince? There was power in that. A chance to tie themselves to the new Targaryen dynasty.

Others took care to watch their reactions. Robb’s expression did not move at all, and Arya could see that he had little interest in matching Lyanna to Daerys. Sansa’s expression was thoughtful. Curious. But wary. Arya doubted she would jump at the opportunity to betroth her eldest to a prince.

Jon glanced at once at Margaery who had a calculating look in her eye. She simply smiled at him and grasped his hand as if to say ‘we’ll discuss this later’.

And Oberyn…

Well when Arya’s gaze went to Oberyn she found he was already watching her, searching her face for answers to some unknown question.

Arya held his gaze, raising her eyebrows, daring him to speak.

Oberyn simply smirked and settled back in his seat, turning a butter knife between his fingers.

She did not need words to take his meeting. “Whatever plots you lay, Lady Lannister. Whatever plans you have…I will be watching. Do not forget.”

At the council’s adjournment, Arya took note of Daenerys and Margaery speaking in the corner, a queen and a former queen discussing some private business like old friends.

Arya felt her shoulders relax at the sight. Oberyn could watch her if he wanted. But he’d be a fool to try to stop her plans from unfolding.

Chapter Text

Arya woke to a steady, insistent thumping. It took only a few moments for her to rouse from sleep to wakefulness. Her eyes were barely open before a knife was in her hand.

She shifted from the bedroom of her quarters out into the main chamber. Someone had already lit candles. Marcus stood rigid and worried staring at Nym who was, it seemed, in a battle with the door.

Nym, as they had discovered long ago, was shockingly clever in sleep. Opening doors was no problem at all, and if she could find a key, unlocking them was no trouble either. She could move very quickly and even when she descended or ascended stairs, she never seemed to fall. She could also fight with some accuracy. Her hits were wild but practiced from her training. One would almost think she wasn’t asleep at all.

But her grey eyes were glazed over with sleep, staring into some far away dream. And no matter how they spoke to her, she would not stop.

At present, Nym had decided that she needed to go through the door, but it was locked and she did not have the key.

That did not stop her from trying.

Nym rammed her shoulder against the door. Once. Twice. It did not give. She turned and started kicking at instead. Her movements were angry. Violent. But her face was absolutely blank.

Marcus looked on, wide eyed. His gaze flashed to Arya, looking for some answer. What do we do?

Arya didn’t know. In Casterly Rock, the answer would have been simple. Marcus would open the door and walk with his sister, keeping watch over her until her journey ended. In Winterfell, the answer was just as easy. Those places were home. They were safe.

But here in the Red Keep? Arya could not let her daughter wander wherever she may. Too many dangers lurked around corners. Too many people who she preferred not know about her daughter’s night time wanderings.

She couldn’t exactly explain that to Nym though, who’s attack on the door was growing increasingly agitated. She had taken to throwing herself against the door.

“Sh-she’s going to hurt herself,” Marcus said, stepping forward toward his sister.

Arya grasped his shoulder, tugging him back. “Don’t. Let me.”

She approached Nym. When her daughter hit the door and stumbled back for another attack, Arya grasped her tight. She pinned her arms to her side and dragged her back as Nym kicked and snarled, snapping her teeth as if to bite. Her mouth only closed over air.

A few errant strikes of her foot hit Arya, but she did not give. She kept hold of her daughter until the struggling ceased. Until the film in front of her eyes cleared.

Nym blinked, confused. She went rigid as she recognized arms around her. This time, when she struggled, Arya released her.

Nym stepped back from her and Marcus both, hands in front of her. A skittish cat expecting some kind of attack. Neither Marcus, nor Arya spoke. They waited.

“Where did I go?” Nym asked at last.

“Nowhere,” Arya said. “We kept you in our chambers.”

Nym nodded once. She rubbed her shoulder. Arya knew a bruises would form by tomorrow.

“You don’t remember anything?” Marcus asked softly.

Nym shook her head. She took a few steps back toward her chambers. “I’m…going back to sleep. Sorry.”

Arya opened her mouth to say it was all right. That there was nothing to apologize for. But Nym had already vanished from her view.

Nym did not sleep the rest of that night. Every time Marcus woke, he noticed her sitting still on her bed, looking out the window. And by morning, she was still there, dark circles beneath her eyes.

“I didn’t want the dream to come back,” she told him when he woke at dawn. “So I didn’t sleep.”

“You said you didn’t remember it,” Marcus said.

“I don’t,” Nym said. “But I was…so afraid when I woke up. I didn’t want to feel that again.”

It would be better if Nym got some sleep, but she refused. Instead, she asked to go with Marcus to the library. She wanted to help him with his reading. He agreed.

They found a small corner in the back of the library. Nym absently flipped through a book, but her eyes were glazed. He doubted she was reading at all. At one point she was laying down on the bench, eyes barely open.

Marcus had a hard time concentrating too. He found a book that spoke of prophets who struggled to remember dreams. The theory of the septon was that the prophesy was too much for a mortal mind to handle. That if they did remember, they would descend into madness.

He snapped the book shut and tossed it away.

Nym stood from her seat.

“Sorry,” Marcus said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It…it wasn’t even important.”

Nym didn’t reply. She just started walking with steady steps away from him. Steady, familiar steps.

Oh no, Marcus thought. “Nym!”

Nym didn’t reply. She kept walking.

Seven hells, Marcus thought. She must have fallen asleep and now…oh no.

He hurried after her as she slipped out of the library. She chose the door that was absent of their household guard–as if she remembered where they were stationed.

Should I call them? Marcus thought. No. Too much attention.

Instead, he walked beside Nym. He could act as if they were just exploring the keep together. Nym didn’t speak to people on the best of days. Anyone they passed might assume that it was normal. He spoke to her as if they were carrying on a conversation. She kept walking, staring ahead into space.

Where are you heading, Nym , he thought.

It didn’t take long before that question was answered. He began to recognize the route. They were headed to the dragon pit. 

He wished now that he had found one of their household guards after all, but if he left Nym now, he might lose her. Could he hold her back? Not likely. Nym had her knives on her and she had pulled them before in sleep. He might lose an eye.

But maybe he would risk that. It was preferable to being eaten by a dragon.

They had just rounded a corner when Marcus saw Daerys approaching from the otherside of the hall. He was dressed in riding leathers, removing his gloves. That meant his dragon was probably in the pit. So maybe…

Daerys opened his mouth to greet them just as Marcus grasped his arm in panic. “Your grace. W-we need your help. I…” Marcus removed his hand from his arm as once, realizing that might be too familiar. “S-sorry. Just…can you come with us to the dragon pit?”

“The dragon pit?” Daerys asked. “Why are you going there alone?”

“I don’t know. I mean…” Marcus’ cast an anxious glance toward Nym who had not stopped in her steady course and was already leaving them behind. “Walk with me… your grace. Please.”

Daerys thankfully fell into step beside him as Marcus walked quickly to catch up with Nym. Marcus’ brain raced as he tried to come up with an explanation.

“She just…l-left something very important the other day,” Marcus said. “So we h-have to g-get it.”

His stammer was completely out of control, but he was too frantic to feel embarrassed in that moment.

“Really.” Daerys paused, then called out to Nym. “What did you leave, Lady Nymeria?”

Nym, of course, did not response. Marcus swallowed a lump in his throat. “Sh-she’s just…”

“She’s in a trance of some kind,” Daerys observed. He didn’t seem frightened by this fact. If anything he was curious. “Is that right?”

Marcus searched for a lie and found nothing. “She’s sleep walking,” Marcus said. “Sh-she does this sometimes.”

“In the middle of the day?” Daerys asked.

“No. She tried. Last night. We kept the door l-locked. We didn’t want anyone to see,” Marcus said.

“Should we…stop her?” Daerys asked.

“It’s n-not recommended.” Marcus said. “She fights back.”

“I see,” Daerys said. They had reached the dragon pit by now and, frighteningly, there was a dragon standing in the middle–a creature that stole Marcus’ breath.

He was a large dragon, not bulky but long and sleek. His scales were a deep crimson color with edges of black at the elbows, claws and tips of the wings. His long neck snaked toward them as they approached, a mouthful of teeth glittering in the light of the sun.

“I’ve got him,” Daerys said, touching Marcus lightly on the shoulder before he moved swiftly forward as if the dragon were a harmless creature, easily dealt with.

His dragon nudged it’s head into his arms like a cat–a cat whose head was about the same size of Daerys’ whole body.

“Forgot something,” Daerys told the dragon, rubbing the top of his head. “You should hunt, Aegarax. Go on.”

The crimson beast stepped back, unfurling his wings. Marcus shivered at the size of him, forgetting for a moment to follow Nym. Wind buffeted through the dragon pit as he launched himself into the air.

Daerys watched him go and then returned to Marcus. “We should move. Your sister is ahead of us now.”

“Right,” Marcus said, remembering to breathe, and rushing after Nym.

They made their way into the caves of the dragon pit, deeper in until at last, Nym stopped in front of the shrine of dragon skulls. She knelt before the largest one.

“I’m back,” she murmured, setting her hand upon the skull.

Daerys tilted his head to the side. “Who is she speaking to?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus said. “She d-doesn’t remember them. Her dreams.” He turned to Daerys. “I-I’m very s-sorry about–”

Daerys rested a hand on his shoulder and Marcus fell silent.

“Breathe,” he said in a surprisingly soft voice. “I’m not angry. You were right to bring me along."

Marcus took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm. It wasn’t easy with the crown prince suddenly so close to him. “I…need to w-wait with her. Until she comes out of it.”

“Of course,” Daerys let his hand fall away. Marcus tried not to miss it.

Marcus sat himself cross legged on the stone near the wall. “You don’t have to st-stay. She could be a while.”

“Oh, no, I’ll stay,” Daerys said, sitting down beside him on the cold stone. “You’re in the dragon pit. You need a Targaryen present to make sure none of the living dragons eat you.”

Marcus inclined his head. “I p-prefer not being eaten.”

And I prefer you being here, he added silently.

“Most do,” Daerys said. He stretched out his legs and leaned back on his hands as if he were casually lounging in the sun of the garden and not watching a girl having a silent conversation with a dragon skull. “You say she has these often?”

“More often lately,” Marcus said. “I don’t think it b-bodes well.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re afraid,” Nym murmured. Most of her whispers were too soft to hear but a few of them echoed in the tunnels. “It’s in your bones.”

“Dreamers d-don’t often dream of happy times,” Marcus said.

“Ah,” Daerys said. “So you think this is a harbinger of great misfortune.”

“You don’t, your grace?” Marcus asked.

“Prophesies are notoriously untrustworthy,” Daerys said. “For instance. The prophesy of Azor Ahai. You know it?”

“Somewhat,” Marcus said. “I know he ended the first long night.”

“Yes. And the red priests believed that he would be reborn again to end the second,” Daerys said. “When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone.” He sighed. “Everyone believed that applied to my mother. They believed she would be Azor Ahai, reborn, to end the Long Night. But she wasn’t was she? The end of the Long Night came at the hands of your mother.”

“And my uncle,” Marcus said. “Bran. She always said she couldn’t h-have ended it without him.”

“Even so. You admit the prophesy doesn’t seem to fit them,” Daerys said. “So…how do you think the red priests dealt with all of that. Do you think they admitted their mistake? That their prophesies were wrong?”

Marcus’ mouth twitched. “I doubt that.”

“Smart,” Daerys said. “No, when the Long Night didn’t end in the form or fashion they expected, they simply shifted the prophesy. That Azor Ahai was reborn with another purpose. That the darkness still lingers in the world for Azor Ahai to banish with Lightbringer. They talk about the end of the world in the middle of peace as if they long for it.”

“What did you see in the ruin,” Nym whispered. “What was left?”

Marcus swallowed hard, trying to distract Daerys. Nym would not want him listening too closely to her murmurings. “You d-don’t put much stock in the Red P-Priests then.”

Daerys leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. “You know how I was born, don’t you Marcus?”

“With the help of Priestess Kinvara,” Marcus said. “Right?”

“Yes,” Daerys said. “I am a miracle. I have been told as much since I was born. And every red priest and priestess looks at me like I am R'hllor sent.” He sighed. “I don’t really want to be a miracle.”

Marcus thought for a moment of reaching out a resting a hand on Daerys shoulder, or perhaps taking his hand. But he killed that urge in himself.

“You prefer to just be a p-prince,” Marcus said.

“Yes, I think being a prince is more than enough responsibility,” Daerys said. “I’m already going to endure an entire fortnight of young women competing for my hand in marriage.”

Marcus had heard about that. It wasn’t surprising. Daerys would need a wife at some stage. Though he didn’t seem thrilled about the prospect.

“Competing?” Marcus asked with a small smile. “W-will they have to fight each other?”

“That’s an idea,” Daerys said. “Do you think I should offer my hand to the finest warrior?”

“My sister will c-claim your hand, if that’s the case,” Marcus said. “Elissa.”

“Ah yes. We’ve met,” Daerys said. “She seems lovely.”

Marcus bit the inside of his cheek, imagining Elissa courting Daerys for a moment. She could do it. Elissa was very charming and made a sport of turning men’s heads.

“Will you come back to the Red Keep?” Daerys asked. “For the feast?”

“I’m…n-not sure,” Marcus said. “My mother and father will decide who stays at home and who attends.”

“You should come,” Daerys said. “I would like to have you there. As my guest.”

Marcus’ ears burned and he snuck a glance at Daerys. The prince was watching him steadily with those violet eyes. Marcus’ tongue felt heavy and he knew if he gave his reply, he would stumble over every word.

“Marcus.”

Nym’s voice came to his rescue. Clearer this time. Clearer and tinged with fear. Marcus leapt to his feet and hurried to her. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

“How did I end up here?” Nym asked, grasping his arm. “It’s daytime.”

“You fell asleep,” Marcus said. “It’s okay. N-nobody noticed. Mostly.”

Nym blinked. “Mostly.”

She looked over her shoulder and spotted Daerys. Her grip tightened on his arm.

“You were heading to the Dragon p-pit,” Marcus murmured. “We needed him.”

Daerys had stood but he didn’t not approach the two of them. He called out. “Are you well, Lady Nymeria?”

“Fine,” Nym said sharply. Then: “Your grace.”

“He won’t tell,” Marcus said, before he realized he hadn’t yet asked that of the prince. He looked up at Daerys, pleadingly. “You…y-you won’t, will you?”

“Tell what?” Daerys asked. “I was visiting the Dragon Pit with new friends. Nothing strange to report.”

Marcus’ let out a breath, helping Nym to her feet. He did not know if Nym was reassured by this promise. And he knew his mother would not be remotely reassured if she found out that the crown prince knew about Nym’s visions. But he trusted the reluctant miracle prince not to speak on his dreamer sister. 

And he trusted in the way he had called them friends. 

Chapter Text

A Guide to the Characters

House Lannister:

• Jaime Lannister
• Arya Stark Lannister
• Tybolt Lannister
• Elissa Lannister
• Marcus Lannister
• Nymeria “Nym” Lannister
• Johanna Lannister

House Stark:

• Robb Stark
• Taissa (Deceased)
• Eddard ‘Ed’ Stark
• Lyanna Stark
• Ben Stark

House Tyrell:

• Wyllas Tyrell
• Sansa Stark Tyrell
• Catelyn ‘Little Cat’ Tyrell
• Wylla Tyrell
• Brandon Tyrell
• Margaret Tyrell

House Targaryen

• Daenerys Targaryen
• Quentyn Martell (deceased)
• Daerys Targaryen
• Rhaena Targaryen

House Baratheon/Stark/Tyrell:

• Margaery Tyrell Baratheon
• Jon Stark
• Steffon “Stef” Baratheon
• Sara Stark
• Lyra Stark
• Tomas Stark
• James Stark

Nym didn’t want to speak to anyone for a while after the sleep walking incident. Not even to Marcus who kept looking at her with those big, apologetic eyes. Even if he liked the prince, he knew that Nym had not wanted him to know of her visions.

Objectively, she knew why Marcus had grabbed the prince for help. She had been heading straight for the dragon pit and if they had ventured in unaccompanied…well who knew what might have happened?

But she felt exposed. Like there were eyes on her even though she was safely locked in her room. She pictured all of the people to whom Daerys could whisper what he saw. If he was close with his sister, he might confide in her. Then perhaps Rhaena told her handmaidens. Or worse. Her mother.

What would the Queen do if she knew? Nym didn’t know. She didn’t know Queen Daenerys. But she knew that there was, and always been, tension between their two families.

“Mother will be furious if she finds out,” Nym murmured. It was the first words she’d spoken to Marcus in a while.

“We don’t need to tell her,” Marcus replied. 

“What if she needs to…do something about it?” Nym asked.

“Like what?” Marcus asked. “Daerys won’t tell anyone. And even if he planned to, what could Mother do? Threaten the crown prince into silence?”

Nym fell silent. No. Even their mother couldn’t get away with something brazen like that.

“He wasn’t afraid of you,” Marcus said. “Just…curious.”

Nym wasn’t sure that was better. Curious people could ask the wrong questions to the wrong people.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Marcus said. “Neither of us.”

“That doesn’t matter when we’re playing by strangers’ rules,” Nym said. 

At the very least she was going home in a few days. And she had no intention whatsoever to return in six months. She didn’t care if she was technically an eligible match for the prince. She couldn’t be sleep walking through these halls when they were filled with every prominent noble in the country.

“Did I say anything while I was dreaming?” Nym asked. 

“You did,” Marcus said. “You told the dragon skull that it was afraid. You asked what it saw in the ruin.” He leaned forward. “Does that sound familiar?”

“I remember fear,” Nym said. “And I…remember heat. The smell of smoke. I couldn’t breathe.”

“If you’re seeing the past,” Marcus said. “Then that would make sense. That dragon saw so much war and death. We saw what it did to Harrenhal.”

They had. And it would be easy enough to assume that she had seen a glimpse of Balerion the Black Dread’s past. But how hot did a fire have to burn to sear a dragon? How thick did the smoke have to billow to choke such a beast?

And why in the world would the creature show her these memories?

Among the many sights Johanna wanted to take in on her first visit to King’s Landing, the Sept of Baelor was chief among them. Naturally, it was a place her mother refused to go.

She was kind enough about it. She said that she did not mind Johanna visiting, so long as she went with good company. But she had much to take care of in the Red Keep and couldn’t spare the time.

Johanna knew her mother was lying, of course. She had not heard all of the stories of her mother’s past, but one she had heard–that her grandfather Eddard Stark was beheaded on the steps of Baelor. And that her mother had watched.

When Johanna placed herself in her mother’s shoes and imagined watching her own father die…well, she was sure she would never want to return to such a place either. So she did not press.

She found, in her time in the Red Keep, that so long as she joined her older cousins in their ventures, she was allowed just about anywhere. Rhaena, Lyanna and Wylla formed a close companionship and they were kind enough to let Johanna trail behind them though she was younger. Young ladies were always willing to make space with her so long as she was lovely and sweet–and she was quite good at that.

Thus she visited the Sept of Baelor with the three of them one bright morning in King’s Landing. Two king’s guard went with them on behalf of the princess, along with a few guards from House Stark. Johanna’s Uncle Robb and Aunt Sansa seemed to have an agreement with her mother–that any member of their household guards would defend their children with their lives if it came to it.

It was a beautiful place, beyond any sept Johanna had seen in her young life. A great marble plaza, accented by a statue of Baelor, surrounded the main building, along with a swath of lovely gardens. She was tempted to wander off into the floral bushes immediately, but her cousins and the princess were intent on reaching the sept proper.

It was an impressive building with a great domed ceiling that stretched above Johanna’s head for what seemed like miles. Every step echoed in this place. It wasn’t crowded with people at the moment. They must have cleared it of most peasants when they heard the princess was coming. There were only a few holy brothers and sisters deep in prayer amongst the pews.

There was a young man too, copper skinned, who Rhaena greeted as she entered. Johanna was too far away to hear her call him by name. She was looking at the statues. The Mother. The Maiden. The Crone. The faceless Stranger.

Perched upon that faceless head, her eyes caught movement. A little sparrow, fluttering it’s wings.

“Oh, poor thing,” Johanna murmured. “How’d you get stuck in here?”

The creature twittered and flapped away–but down one of the halls leading away from the sept proper. It was only going to get itself more stuck like this.

She glanced back at her cousins, then quickly followed after the bird. She’d be back before they noticed she had gone.

She followed the sparrow down a winding hall, noting the turns as she took them. But it was frightened and kept retreating. She called out to it, trying to let it feel that she meant it no harm. She reached out–

Her vision left her. No. It didn’t leave her. It just became…suddenly different. The colors changed and she was higher, looking down at a girl with golden hair.

She was looking at herself.

Oh.

Johanna grasped onto the wall for stability as the bird flew, vision tearing away from her and continuing down the hall.

No, she thought. No, come toward me.

She stumbled forward, grasping the wall.But she was too confused and frantic and she was sure that she must be frightening the bird more. She had never done this before.

Since she was a child, Johanna found she was good at soothing animals if she just reached out to them. It was a gentle touch. A tap. But this…this was like something her uncle Bran could do. This was warging.

She bird kept flying, following a holy brother as he slipped through a door. The bird followed after. Inside the offices stood four people. A septon, a holy sister and two holy brothers.

“--if she’s smart, she won’t show her face here,” one holy brother was saying.

“Kinvara is smart. And she has no fear,” the Septon said. “She will wish to gloat.”

“Wretched red witch,” the other holy brother spat. “The High Septon should have gone to the council.”

“He could not have dealt with her in front of so many people,” the holy sister said. “If we do not want to spark religious riots in the streets, we must be quiet.”

“Won’t do any good,” the first holy brother murmured. “We tried poison. Her god protects her.”

“Her witchcraft protects her,” the second holy brother corrected. “Her god is a falsehood.”

“She is not immortal,” the Septon said. “We have seen them fall before to servants of the seven.”

“She is more powerful than most,” a holy sister whispered.

“Yes. And that is why we cannot allow her to dig her hooks into the Prince and Princess,” the Septon said. “The Targaryens rose to power by the will of the Seven. It is our divine task to guide their steps.”

“Will the Father forgive this?” the holy sister asked.

“The Father forgives all sins committed for the greater good,” the Septon said confidently.

Johanna’s grip tightened on whatever wall she was clutching. She was suddenly struck with the need to leave . But that was not at all easy when she was not looking through her own eyes. She stepped backwards, placing her palm against the wall. She tried to speak, but instead only heard the chirp of the bird.

“I’m sorry,” she told the creature. “I am trying to leave you be.”

She stepped backward again, and her foot knocked into something. A loud crash as she lost her balance and fell. Her knees struck the marble floor and that pain brought her back into her own head.

It was startling to see through her own eyes again. To feel breath in her lungs. For a moment she could only sit there, disoriented. It gave one of the holy brothers enough time to step out and investigate the crash before she could think to hide.

“You,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”

She looked up at him, wide eyed. “I tripped. I’m sorry.”

She must have looked too frantic. Too guilty. Because the man’s face twisted. “You were listening.”

The other holy brother and sister emerged, the septon trailing behind them. Johanna eased to her feet. “Listening to what?”

Her voice was thin to her own ears. She had never been a very good liar. Her parents were too good at spotting lies to try.

And it was clear that these people did not believe her.

The septon, however, quickly put on a smile. “What is your name, child?”

Johanna wondered if giving her full name would help or hurt her here. Was this an instance where she should proudly claim the Lannister title to scare them. Or to pretend to be no one at all important. If she told them that she knew important people–people who could see them executed–they might kill her. But then again, if they knew that she was no one…they might kill her anyway.

Her gaze darted around, hoping that maybe one of her cousins had followed her into the halls. She did not see them. She had foolishly wandered too far and they had gone on without her. There were downsides to be a pleasant little shadow. They did not notice when she left them.

“Child,” the septon said again.

“My name is Jeyne,” Johanna said, making a split second decision.

“Jeyne,” the septon said. “You have the bearings of a future holy sister. Do you have a moment to speak?”

Johanna did not reply. She wasn’t a good liar. But she was very good at telling when people were lying. This man was trying to usher her into another room so that he could take care of her out of sight.

“I should go.” Johanna stepped back. “My mother will be looking for me.”

As she stepped, the two holy brothers stepped as well. They had greater strides than her. It wouldn’t be long until they overtook her. 

“You can return to her in a moment,” the septon said. “This won’t take long.”

Johanna wanted to call out for her cousins. But if she raised her voice, she knew they would be on her in a second. Her hand inched toward the tiny dagger she had tucked in her belt, longing for Nym or Marcus in that moment. 

Johanna knew how to use a knife, but the twins were much better in a fight than she would ever be. She was told that he hesitated too much in a fight. She was too afraid of hurting her opponent. Johanna was not sure how to get past that particular hurdle. She could not stop being afraid of hurting people.

But these men…they did not look at all hesitant to hurt her.

“Child,” the septon said. His kindly voice had grown strained. Cold. “Come with me.”

Johanna bolted the other direction down the hall.

The initial burst of adrenaline gave her a small head start. Her footsteps echoed frantically down the hall, pursued by much heavier, much more frightening footsteps. Two pairs. The holy brothers.

“Lyanna! Wylla!” Johanna called out. Her voice sounded small here. But if she could just reach the sept-proper, she was sure she could find them.

A hand grasped onto her ankle, jerking her right off her feet. She caught herself with her hands, scraping them raw. Frantically, she grasped for her dagger as the holy brother pulled her toward him. She struck with the knife, slashing the back of his hand.

He released her in surprise. Johanna scrambled backward on hands and knees as the other Holy Brother approached her with swift steps. He carried a knife of his own. She tried to evade him but he seized a fistfull of her golden hair. She yelped as he yanked her back. Back down the hall. Away from the sept-proper and to some corner where he could properly slit her throat.

Someone whistled. A little melody, that alerted her–and the holy brothers–that they were not alone. The copper skinned man from earlier leaned against the wall at the edge of the hall.

“Forgive me for eavesdropping, holy brothers” the young man said. He had the lilt of a Dornish accent. “But it seems you’re doing some very unholy work right now.”

“Fuck off Dornishman,” the holy brother spit.

“Unholy words too,” the young man said. He tilted his head to the side, dark curls spilling across equally dark eyes. “Let the girl go. And maybe I will.”

“She was caught stealing from the septon,” the holy brother said. “We’re returning her to him.”

The young man raised his eyebrows, glancing to Johanna. “Were you?”

Johanna shook her head, too terrified to speak. The holy brother’s grip in her hair tightened and she whimpered.

Anger sparked in the young man’s dark eyes and his smile sharpened. He took a step forward.

“Stay back,” the man holding her hair snapped. A flash of a blade. The tip passed too close to her face for comfort. Johanna stopped breathing.The young man stilled. “Come closer and I’ll cut her throat.”

The young man looked down at her again and his smile softened. “You’ll be all right. Promise.”

“Turn back around,” the man said. “Or–”

The young man’s hand moved in a blur, flicking upward. A flash of silver was the man holding her’s only warning. He gurgled and his grip slackened on Johanna’s hair. She leapt away from him before he could collapse on her. Her eyes went wide with horror as she saw him gurgling on the ground, blood pouring seeping past a throwing knife stuck in his throat.

The other holy brother tried to run. The young man did not allow that. He sent a second knife spinning toward him with Nym’s same perfect technique. The blade stuck in the back of his head and he dropped like a stone.

Johanna shook violently, staring at the bodies. Her heart pounded in her ears. She didn’t even notice the young man shifting over to her until he rested a hand on her shoulder. She jumped at the touch.

“It’s all right. You’re safe,” he said. He had a surprisingly gentle voice for someone who had just killed two man with no hesitation. “Your name is Johanna, isn’t it?”

Johanna nodded once. “How…how did you know that?”

“Because your cousins are looking for you,” the young man said. “I’m Morgan. It’s nice to meet you.”

Johanna swallowed hard. “I…don’t think this is a nice way to meet someone.”

Morgan laughed once. “No. The circumstances are not ideal.” He drew her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

Johanna shook her head. “Just a few scrapes. I’m all right.”

“Good,” Morgan said. Only she had steadied did he let her go and go to retrieve his knives. He pulled them from the bodies of the men, wiping the blades on their tunics before he stowed them again. “Come. We should go before anyone finds them.”

Johanna nodded, letting him take her arm and escort her quickly from the hallway.

Moments later, she was back in the sept-proper and Lyanna and Wylla were pulling her into their arms.

“What happened?” Princess Rhaena asked Morgan. 

“Two holy brothers attacked her,” Morgan said. “They claimed it was stealing but…she doesn’t seem the thief type.”

“She’s not,” Lyanna said, her lip curling. “ Where are they?”

“Oh they’re dead,” Morgan said. “Not to worry.”

Lyanna’s shoulders relaxed. It was clear that if Morgan hadn’t done the job, she would have completed it herself.

“Why would two holy brothers attack a lady?” Wylla asked.

“They didn’t know I was a lady,” Johanna said. “And I think they would have attacked me anyway. I heard them…plotting an assassination.” Johanna looked to Rhaena. “Against Priestess Kinvara.”

Rhaena’s violet eyes widened. “Oh. That is concerning.”

Johanna let her cousins fuss over her. But she did not tell them how she had ended up in such a predicament. That she had entered the mind of a bird. That she was a warg like their uncle Bran. She would save that revelation for her mother.

Oh dear. Her mother was going to be furious .

With the annual council at an end, Arya had been hoping to pass the rest of her time in King’s Landing without incident. Spending time with her siblings and speaking of any important matters of the realm with Varys, Tyrion and other such confidants.

She was taking tea with Sansa and Margaery in Sansa’s quarters when her nieces and daughter returned from the Sept of Baelor. She was not expecting the frantic looks on their faces–or the state of Johanna.

Johanna was known to dirty her dresses or disturb her braided golden hair while roaming the gardens. But usually, after such excursions she returned bright eyed an smiling. And certainly not with bloody palms.

Arya stood at once, going to Johanna and grasping her wrists. “What happened?”

Johanna’s green eyes welled with tears. Arya grasped her at once and pulled her into a hug. 

Arya looked to Lyanna and Wylla, ice creeping into her tone. “ What happened?”

Lyanna and Wylla spoke quickly about what had transpired. That Johanna had separated from them. That she had heard something she shouldn’t and that she was attacked. Arya’s blood thundered in her ears. Her hand itched to go for her knife as she thought of anyone laying a hand on her girl.

“They’re dead,” Lyanna said quickly. “They’re dealt with. And Princess Rhaena went to inform her mother of what happened.”

“You’re sure you should involve the queen in this?” Sansa asked.

“We couldn’t ask Princess Rhaena to stay quiet,” Wylla said. “What Johanna overheard. It was plans for an attempt on Priestess Kinvara’s life. A septon was plotting with others.”

Arya tugged Johanna away from her, looking down at her face. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” Johanna whispered.

Arya let out a breath. “Johanna it is not wise to listen to whispered voices no matter how curious you were.”

“I know,” she mumbled.

Arya’s anger rose again and she looked at Lyanna and Wylla. “You should not have let her out of your sight. When I send you with Johanna I trust you to look out for her.”

“It’s not their fault, mother,” Johanna said. “I wandered off. I’m old enough that I should have known better.”

Arya could think of a thousand times she did the same when she was Johanna’s age, wandering the Red Keep. And she could think of more than a few times she heard something she shouldn’t and almost died for it. But Johanna…

“You should have kept a closer watch,” Sansa told Wylla firmly. “I’ve told you over and over again not to let your guard down in King’s Landing, haven’t I?”

Wylla dipped her head. “Yes, mother.”

“I’m the eldest,” Lyanna said. “I should have kept everyone in my sights. I take full responsibility.”

As wild as Lyanna could be, Arya could see Robb’s honor in her. The Stark honor. It cooled some of her anger.

“You said the culprits are dead,” Margaery spoke up. “All of them?”

“No. Just the two who went after me,” Johanna said. “There was septon and a holy sister who stayed behind. I described them for Rhaena.”

“Which of you killed them?” Arya asked. “Did anyone see?”

“It wasn’t us,” Wylla said. “It was Morgan.”

“Yes,” Lyanna said. “When we realized Johanna was missing he offered to help us look.”

“Morgan,” Arya repeated. “Who is Morgan?”

Margaery let out a weary sigh. “Morgan Sand. Prince Oberyn’s son.”

Arya’s jaw clenched. She was relieved her daughter was all right. But of all people…why did it have to be a Martell?

“Where is he now?” she asked.

“He went with Rhaena to explain what happened to the Queen,” Lyanna said.

And to explain what happened to his father, no doubt, Arya thought. Oberyn will never let me hear the end of this.

“Well,” Arya said. “I will have to thank him later.” She looked to Margaery and Sansa. “Apologies. I do not mean to cut our discussion short. But I need to see to my daughter.”

They both nodded their understanding and Arya walked Johanna from Sansa’s quarters all the way back to her own. Her daughter remained silent until they were out of sight. When the door was closed, Arya knelt in front of her, looking again at her hands.

“I’ve had worse scrapes,” Johanna said softly.

“I know,” Arya said. “We should still clean them.”

Johanna nodded.

“Why did you run off?” Arya asked.

“I didn’t mean to go so far,” Johanna said. “There was a sparrow trapped in the sept. I wanted to guide it out.”

Arya let out a breath. How like her daughter that was.

“I saw through it’s eyes,” Johanna said.

Arya stilled. Then looked up at her, making sure she had heard her correctly. 

“It was an accident but suddenly I…I was in it’s mind,” Johanna said. “It was so disorienting and I didn’t know what I was doing. That’s how I overheard them. Through the sparrow.”

Arya took in this information. Then she went to the wash basin and dampened a cloth, carefully tending to her daughter’s wounds.

“Are you angry?” Johanna asked.

“No,” Arya said. “You know your uncle Bran was a warg.”

“Yes,” Johanna murmured.

“And so was I,” Arya said.

Johanna looked up at her with wide eyes.

“It’s been years since I have used it,” Arya said. “But I used to see through my wolf’s eyes. Sometimes I traveled to her in dreams. Sometimes when I was awake. I was never as good at it as Bran.” She sighed. “It is…not unusual for our family.”

“What about Uncle Robb?” Johanna asked. “Aunt Sansa?”

“I believe Robb could,” Arya said. “Sansa’s wolf was killed when she was very young. Maybe if she lived she would have.” She set the cloth aside and set about bandaging her hands. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No,” Johanna said. “Not even my cousins. I wanted to tell you.”

“Good girl,” Arya said. “It is not unusual. But it is best you keep it a secret. All right?”

Johanna nodded.

Arya finished with the bandages, then tugged her daughter into another hug. More than ever, she looked forward to leaving the Red Keep and turning homeward. Where Nym could sleep walk without fear. Where Johanna could speak to every creature under the sun. Where Marcus could stutter without judgment. Where Jaime, Tybolt and Elissa waited for her.

Twenty years ago, this place was home and prison to her all at once. But it could never be a home again.

Chapter Text

Arya had planned to leave the Red Keep by the week’s end, but she shifted her departure after the attack in the sept. At the very least she had no need to make excuses to the Queen. Daenerys knew exactly why she was leaving because her daughter had told her of the incident.

“You have the queen’s word that we will search out the remaining culprits,” Tyrion said. “And execute them for plotting treason as well as laying hands on a young lady of the courts.”

“I want Johanna’s name out of it when you do,” Arya said. “I do not want any other extremist members of the faith to know of her. She did not give her name to them so she should be safe enough.”

“Of course. You have my word,” Tyrion said. “I am sorry this happened.”

“I expected some sort of an attack from an extreme religious group,” Arya said. “But I was looking in the wrong direction.”

“Out of character for you,” Tyrion said. “Usually you expect attacks from every direction.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed.

“Peace, my dear sister. I think this caught all of us off guard,” Tyrion said. “I can’t imagine how anyone could bring themselves to lay a finger on my niece. She is a ray of sunshine wherever she goes.”

“There are people who most enjoy harming someone like her,” Arya said. Like Myrcella. Or Tommen. They were sweet natured. Ever smiling and optimistic. And they had died none the less. Euron Greyjoy had relished taking their lives. “Especially with her name.”

“We do bear a rather weighty name,” Tyrion agreed. “I am sad to see you go, but glad that it won’t be long. I don’t imagine you will send any of your children alone to the Red Keep in six months time.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Arya said. “I don’t know yet who I will bring. Elissa of course. She’s my eldest. It would be a great disrespect if I left her behind. But…I don’t think I can bring Nym.”

“Why is that?” Tyrion asked.

Arya had many reasons. But she went with the least dangerous one.

“She would absolutely loathe a celebration of that sort,” Arya said. “And she would loathe the spotlight of being a princess even more. I’d just as soon not put her through that.”

“And Johanna?” Tyrion asked.

“Too young to engage,” Arya said.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow at her.

Arya sighed. “Yes, I am aware that I was about the same age when I was betrothed, Tyrion. I’d like a different life for my daughter.”

“It’s not just that though,” Tyrion said. “You know Johanna would love a chance to meet so many people. She thrives in the spotlight.”

“Yes. But she almost died yesterday,” Arya said. “I don’t want to risk that again.”

“Well then, how about this,” Tyrion said. “I promise to root out all those who meant her harm and you can bring her back with you.”

Arya tapped the fingers of her right hand on the edge of her chair.

“Oh, come now, Arya,” Tyrion said. “You know your daughter will cry endless tears if you keep her back from such an event. I am sparing you that pain by offering you this deal.”

“Why do you care about her tears?” Arya asked.

Tyrion placed a hand to his chest. “You wound me. I have a soft spot for all of my nieces and nephews.” He grinned. “If you must know, I want to be their favorite uncle. I am competing with your brothers Robb and Jon. They’re such somber men, I’m hoping my charm will win me favor.”

Arya turned her gaze to the ceiling. Then nodded. “Fine then. I hope you’re able to handle the situation.”

“As am I.” Tyrion stood from his seat and went to Arya, clasping her hand. “Safe travels. I will make all of your apologies to the queen.”

“Thank you,” Arya said. She turned to go just as the door opened–and the last person she wanted to see stepped through. Oberyn Martell.

He noted her at once. His eyebrows rose and a smile tugged at his mouth. It was clear that he was quite glad to run into her.

“Apologies for interrupting,” Oberyn said. “I was looking for Lord Tyrion. I heard he was here.”

“He is,” Arya said with a nod. “Don’t worry. You weren’t interrupting. I’ll leave you to your business.”

She strode past him, through the door. She prayed that he would let it be, but she heard footfalls behind her.

“Lady Arya,” Oberyn said. “I had wished to speak to you too, before you left.”

Arya paused. Let out a breath and turned back to him. “Did you? Some other business?”

“No,” Oberyn said. “Only to ask after your daughter’s health.”

So he knew. Of course he did. His son would have told him. How amused he must have been when he heard that his son had saved her daughter.

“My daughter is well,” Arya said. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your son. I hope you will pass my gratitude onto him.”

“That gratitude tastes bitter on your tongue, doesn’t it, Lady Arya?” Oberyn asked.

“No,” Arya said. “My daughter’s life is more important than any tensions between us.”

“But you still wish someone else had saved her,” Oberyn said.

Arya did not reply. She did not need to. They both knew the answer was yes.

Oberyn had always been a complicated man for her, of course. He was the one who forced Tywin Lannister to trial. But at the same time, she could not deny that he was the only reason she lived to see Tywin’s passing.

Oberyn had saved her from drinking poison once at her wedding. And after that Oberyn had saved her at Casterly Rock when she faced Cersei and Euron Greyjoy. He never mentioned these incidents. He didn’t need to. He knew that she remembered.

But time had passed and now his son saved her daughter. It called to mind all of those incidents. And he knew how much she hated to be in anyone’s debt.

But still, she was a Lannister. And they had a saying about debts.

“What I wish doesn’t matter,” Arya said. “I owe your son a debt. If he has need of some favor from me, I will pay it.”

She hoped the message was clear. She owed Oberyn’s son–not him–for this rescue.

“I will tell him. He is out riding at the moment. He won’t be able to say his goodbyes,” Oberyn said. “Pass our well wishes onto your daughter.”

“I will,” Arya said. “I am sure I will see you in six months.”

“No doubt.” Oberyn turned on his heels and sauntered back to Tyrion, raising his hand in farewell. “Safe travels, Lady Arya.”

Arya watched him go, clasping the fingers of her right hand tight in her left. “And to you, Prince Oberyn.”

She knew he would not forget this. But then, he would not be the Red Viper if he did. She was destined, from the moment she took his vengeance into her own hands, to always watch for him in the grass.

Marcus was standing at the courtyard’s edge, watching the Lannister household guard load luggage into the carriage when he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced to the side and was surprised to see Daerys standing there. Had the queen sent her son to see them off?

Daerys motioned for Marcus to join him. Marcus hesitated then crossed to the crown prince.

“Your grace,” he murmured with a small bow.

“Still so formal,” Daerys said. “You can call me by my name, you know.”

I’m worried I would stutter over saying it, Marcus thought but did not say. He just shrugged.

“Well, my lord, it seems you’re leaving too soon,” Daerys said. “I’d hoped you’d stay a little longer.”

“After what h-happened in the sept, my mother w-would rather return home,” Marcus said.

“Right. I heard from my mother. Your sister is well?” Daerys asked.

Johanna was currently speaking to one of the horses–a usual activity for her. “She’s well,” Marcus said.

“That’s a relief,” Daerys said. “Well…I suppose it won’t be long before the Lannister banners return to the Red Keep. Six months time.”

“Yes. N-not long,” Marcus murmured.

“I hope you’ll be with those banners,” Daerys said. “I know your stay in King’s Landings has not been altogether peaceful but…”

Marcus shifted from foot to foot. “I-I’m not sure, your grace.”

Daerys studied him. “If you don’t wish to come.”

“No, I-I do,” Marcus said, too quickly. He let out a breath, his ears burning. “I do…wish to return. But I don’t kn-know if I’ll be able.” 

He glanced over his shoulder. Nym was perched on the back of the carriage, turning a knife in her hand. She was watching Daerys and Marcus with a steady gaze.

“I understand,” Daerys said. “She’s your sister. You’re worried for her.”

Everyday, Marcus thought. “I’ll t-try my best,” he told the prince.

“Good,” Daerys said. “I’ll be meeting many strangers vying for my hand. It would be nice to have a friend at my side.”

Marcus swallowed hard. “I’d l-like to be that friend, your grace.”

Daerys smiled and clasped Marcus’ shoulder with one hand. The touch made Marcus’ breath catch in his throat. 

“Until I see you again then,” the prince said. “Safe travels, Marcus.”

“Thank you,” Marcus murmured. He barely managed to make it through even those two words smoothly.

Marcus watched Daerys as he went and did not move even after he turned the corner and vanished. He didn’t stir until Johanna appeared at his side.

“You and the prince are friends?” Johanna asked.

“I…y-yes I think so,” Marcus said.

“Isn’t that generally something you know ,” Johanna asked.

Marcus glanced down at her. “You’re b-better with people than I am, Johanna.”

“Am I?” Johanna asked. “You’re good with people when you talk to them. You just never talk to them.”

Marcus flicked her on the forehead.

“Hey!” Johanna rubbed her ‘wound’. “Don’t be rude.”

“S-sorry,” Marcus said flatly. “That’s just my natural ch-charisma.”

Johanna gave his shoulder a little shove.

Ser Erik called out to them both. Their belongings were packed. It was time to leave. Marcus joined Nym on the back of the carriage, while Johanna clambered up onto her horse.

Nym was silent the entire way out of the Red Keep and all through the streets of King’s Landing. That wouldn’t be so strange for Marcus’ sister. But it was the strain of the silence–pulled taut like a bowstring.

She stared up at the Red Keep, utterly still, until they passed out of the gates of King’s Landing and onto the open road. Only then did her shoulders relax as she released a breath.

Marcus reached over clasping her hand. “You made it through. We’re going home.”

Nym nodded once. “I don’t want to go back there. Ever.”

Marcus let out a long breath, looking up at the towers of the Red Keep. “You never have to, Nym. Promise.”

Daerys’ face passed through his mind. The way he had squeezed his shoulder. But he pushed those thoughts away. It did not matter if he was fond of the crown prince. He had to take care of his twin first.

If that meant never returning to King’s Landing, then so be it.

Elissa spent more time than usual in the yard over those next few weeks. She sank arrow after arrow into her targets and swung her sword at every weak point of the straw dummies a hundred times over. 

When she could, she sparred with Tybolt or her father or with whatever guard wanted to try their luck with her. Anything to remind her that she was strong.

Her parents had showed her the importance of self defense from a young age. First with knives. Then with a bow. Then with a sword. It was understood that she would learn to fight as soon as she was able.

And when she saw her parents spar–she wanted to be like them. It was like they were not even fighting. They were dancing. They moved their blades with such ease. And they had only to draw their swords to send terror radiating through their enemies.

Elissa longed to send that same terror through those who might hurt her simply by resting her hand on the hilt of her sword.

But she could not do that with a dragon.

Dragons didn’t fear men. They were too large. Too ancient. Even the small wild one had looked at her like a meal.

If her father hadn’t come, she would be dead. And she did not want her safety to depend on the rescue of others.

At the end of her latest practice, she had lopped the head of the straw opponent and decided that was enough for the day. Her arms were heavy and her hands calloused from handling the sparring sword for too long. She did not have the hands of a fine lady but her parents never saw a need to comment on it.

She returned her sword to the armory, dabbing sweat from her brow. The sun was beginning to set. If she wanted to practice again today, she would stay indoors. She was not willing to risk another wild dragon finding her late at night.

A wild dragon sighting is very rare, Tybolt had told her. You’re unlikely to encounter another. Lightning does not strike twice.

She understood that. But even so–

A hand fell on her shoulder. Elissa whipped around, drawing her dagger in one fluid motion, raising it to the throat of her unfortunate assailant.

“Seven hells,” Sebastian Farman said, rasing his hands at once. “I come in peace, my lady.”

Elissa let out a breath, lowering her dagger and returning it to the sheath. “You should know better than to sneak up on me, Lord Sebastian.”

“I like a bit of danger.” Sebastian grinned. “Did you not realize that already?”

“Should I keep the knife out then?” Elissa asked.

“Whatever you wish.” Sebastian glanced over his shoulder. “Is your brother close? Or your father?”

“No,” Elissa said. “I’m alone.”

Sebastian nodded. “Wonderful.”

Then he clasped her face in his hands and kissed her. 

She welcomed the familiarity of his lips. The warmth of his hands on her face. And the wanting of the kiss. She had always enjoyed that. The sensation of being wanted. And Sebastian Farman had proved an excellent partner for providing that.

He was pleasantly tall. Not so much that she had to crane her neck to kiss him, but just enough to enjoy him. He had a handsome face. Soft lips. A good name that meant if she was ever caught, her parents could not be too terribly cross with her.

Him being a close friend to her brother was, perhaps, a slight problem, but then Tybolt would get over that in time if it became anything serious. After all, he couldn’t deny that the Farman’s were an important family to the Lannisters.

These were the kinds of thoughts Elissa turned in her mind when she kissed Sebastian. She wondered if he thought of similar things. Of how good it would be for him to have a Lannister bride. Of whether or not he could convince her parents to engage them.

No. He probably thought of those things when they were apart. When they were together, he didn’t seem to have many thoughts at all, rather than getting her closer to him.

She didn’t mind it. She liked the feeling of his fingers tangled in her hair and the way his teeth grazed her lower lip.

He was a proper distraction from Elissa’s fears. And a reminder of her power. When he moaned against her lips she knew she had him in her control. And that feeling steadied her.

Jaime had been worried about Elissa ever since the dragon attack. Outwardly she was fine. But Elissa was never the type to wear her emotions outwardly. He was also worried about telling Arya, when she returned, what had happened.

A letter from her arrived before she did, reporting on the annual council. Most interesting was the grand feast to be held in six months time–a celebration to determine who would be engaged to Daerys.

In her letter, Arya wrote that she was not sure that any of their children should be engaged to him, but that Elissa would attend at the very least. She had not made any decisions about the others.

Jaime decided it was best to tell Elissa beforehand about the feast…especially since he had recently noticed her spending more time with the Farman boy. They were subtle enough, but he knew the look of young people hiding their trysts.

He feared his daughter might protest the feast or beg him not to make her attend. So he was surprised, when he told her about the upcoming event, that she seemed only thoughtful.

“I suppose it was a matter of time before the crown prince was engaged,” Elissa said. “Do you think the queen has designs on our family? Or another?”

“It’s hard to say. I’m sure you’re mother will know,” Jaime said.

“I wonder if the prince will truly be able to choose his own bride,” Elissa said. “Or if that will all be arranged. Still…I could turn his head if I needed to.”

She did not seem at all distressed by the possibility.

“And what will your friend think of that?” Jaime asked. “The Farman boy.”

Elissa stared at him. For a moment, she hesitated as if trying to decide if she should lie. Then: “You knew?”

“I was young here, Elissa,” Jaime said. “I know the places young people sneak off to hide.”

Elissa sat back in her chair, running her thumb over each of her nails. “You didn’t stop me.”

“No,” Jaime agreed. “I trust you to be smart.”

“Does mother know?”

“No,” he said. “I only found out since she’s been gone. I did not think it important enough to send in letter.”

“It’s not important enough to tell her at all,” Elissa said. “I’ll go to King’s Landing and vie for the prince’s hand if that’s what you and mother wish.”

Jaime tilted his head to the side. “No pleas for us to let you be with your love?”

Elissa laughed once. “I don’t love him, father. And he doesn’t love me.”

“Are you sure of that?” Jaime asked.

“I’d like to think I know my own heart,” Elissa said.

“I’m not speaking of you,” Jaime said. “Are you sure he doesn’t love you?”

She shrugged. “He loves the idea of me, I’m sure. My name. My position. He loves the way that marrying me could raise him past his dimwit older brother.” She smiled. “But I promise, he doesn’t love me and I have made no vows to him.”

“Then…why?” Jaime asked. “Why bother with him?”

His daughter gave him a peculiar look. “Father, you say you were young here. Did you never find companionship out of boredom?”

Jaime’s mouth twitched. “As a matter of fact no. I did not court widely. I only pursued women I loved in my youth”

He did not specify that the woman he had loved had been his twin sister. That was not information his children ever needed to know about him.

“Well. You would be rare in that I think,” Elissa said. “But don’t worry. I’m not in love. I’ve never been in love. Truthfully I don’t know if I ever will be. But I don’t need love to marry.”

“You’ve never been much of a romantic,” Jaime said.

“It always seemed to me that romance caused far too many wars,” Elissa said. “I don’t want men to ride into battle for me like my Great Aunt Lyanna. I want to find a match where I can have power and safety and help my family. That’s enough.”

She’s so practical, Jaime thought. But he knew his daughter harbored a deeper desire in her heart. A longing to be his heir. More to the point, Arya’s heir.

He saw a great deal of Arya in Elissa. But he also saw glimmers of Cersei. Not in her malice or cruelty. Elissa loved all of her siblings and was good to nobility and servants alike. It was her ambition. Her desire to be a master of her own destiny. That was the bit of Cersei he saw glimmering in her bright grey eyes.

She would be a good queen. He could see that in her. If Elissa was betrothed to the crown prince, she would make an excellent, strong ruler. If that was what she wished.

Of course, he did not know if Arya would wish that. And that was the real question. Elissa had always done as she was told and always worked for the betterment of the family. But he wondered if there would come a day where his eldest daughter’s desires clashed with her mother’s.

He imagined that day would bring quite a storm to Casterly Rock.

Chapter Text

Tybolt had nearly barricaded himself in the library with stacks of books.

 It hadn’t been intentional. He’d read an interesting anecdote in one volume which would reference another. Then he’d go to find that book for further research. He’d find a section in one scroll quite lacking and would search for volumes with more detailed accounts. He would discover other notable books while searching for another and then add them to his collection. And on and on until he had created a veritable castle of knowledge.

The fact was, there was very little literature in the way of wild dragons. The era of the Targaryens had seen tome after tome written about the great dragons they chose as their mounts. The dragons who were not–or could not–be tamed were foot notes next to such creatures as Balerion the Black Dread, Vaeghar, Vermithor or Caraxys.

Tybolt could not tell if this was because wild dragons were simply rare at the height of the Targaryenn dynasty or if it was an intentional suppression of information to make the family seem more in control of the creatures than they were. Perhaps a combination of both.

He focused some of his research on the wild dragons of Dragonstone from the time of the Dance. The Cannibal. Grey Ghost. And Sheep Steeler, the only one of them who was eventually claimed.

These dragons were all problematic for the Targaryens for their own reasons. Of course a dragon which would eat it’s own kind and would sooner swallow a Targaryen than allow itself to be claimed was a great danger. There were some accounts of the Cannibal venturing further than Dragonstone and killing small folk, but those were few and far between.

I’m sure there were more instances never written in ink, Tybolt thought, drawing his thumb across a sketch of the Cannibal.

The Grey Ghost was shy. Elusive. Difficult to track. It also refused to be claimed but there were no accounts of it causing serious damage. It was eventually killed by Sunfyre.

And then, Sheepstealer. Claimed by Nettles, the most problematic of the so called ‘Dragonseeds’. Nettles had none of the Targaryen characteristics. Deep brown skin. Not a hint of silver in her hair and no violet in her eyes. Yet of course the claimed her as the bastard of some unknown Targaryen because what else were they meant to do? Admit that a lowborn girl had tamed a notoriously untamable dragon merely by offering it sheep?

And then there was the fact that Nettles and Sheepstealer survived the war and vanished from Westeros. The Targaryens couldn’t have been happy about that either.

There were many accounts which painted Nettles as a crass girl of low intelligence. Many others that spoke of her rumored love affair with Daemon Targaryen. Some that insisted she was a dragonseed and a few bold sources which claimed that, in fact, she was not Targaryen at all. Even have of these sources claimed she was a witch who had used blood magic to control her beast. Very few dared to claim that an ordinary girl could ride a dragon.

It was an interesting thought. And it was Nettles existence which led him to question the first of his theories into question.

He thought, at first, that the influx of wild dragons was directly related to the number of Targaryens in Westeros. The more Targaryens without dragons, the more dragon eggs laid. After all, it was with the weakening of House Targaryen that the dragons had eventually died out. And there were many with Targaryen blood hiding in the Stormlands–Uncle Jon and all of his children.

But that was a theory that hinged on Targaryen exceptionalism. It denied the fact that dragons had largely died out because of the attack of the smallfolk on the dragon pit. Because one of the only notable wild dragons had eaten it’s own before they could grow to adulthood. It ignored that Tybolt’s cousins were only a quarter Targaryen by blood.

And it wasn’t as if the Targaryens were the only family in history to ride dragons. They came from Old Valyria. Many great families rode dragons at the time, hadn’t they?

I need to look deeper into Valyria, Tybolt thought. Perhaps they had more wild dragons before the fall.

He was about to rise and search for a book on Old Valyria when he spotted Merwyn at the door.

“Lord Tybolt,” he said. “I hope that we don’t find you buried under your books one of these days.”

“There are worse ways to go,” Tybolt said. “Did you need something?”

“Passing on a message,” Merwyn said. “Your mother and siblings were spotted returning to Casterly Rock.”

Tybolt stood so fast that he almost knocked over his pile of books. “Thank you, Merwyn.”

Then he rushed to greet them.

He arrived in the courtyard just as the gates were closing behind their carriage. His mother swung off her horse, looking stern as usual. But she smiled when she saw him.

“Ty.” She reached up cupping his face. “You look tired. Are you well?”

“Long nights in the library,” he said. “You haven’t been here to tell me to sleep.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And your father hasn’t told you?”

“He’s tried, to his credit,” Tybolt said.

Arya sighed. “Well. I’m home. For a few moons at least.” She peeled off her riding gloves. “I trust things have been well in my absence?”

Tybolt hesitated. He hadn’t meant to, but she caught it at once.

“Tybolt?”

Johanna interrupted their conversation by launching into Tybolt’s arms. He picked her up and swung her around.

“Oh, Jo. How was the capital?” he asked.

“Beautiful,” she said. The gardens. The sept. The dragon pit. Tybolt I saw dragons .”

As did we, Tybolt thought but did not say. He set her down on her feet. “You did not try to ride one, did you?”

“No, I restrained myself,” Johanna said. “Dragons weren’t the real danger.”

Tybolt’s brow furrowed. He looked from her to his mother whose mouth was set in a grim line.

“Later, Johanna. Go on inside,” Arya said, nudging her toward the great doors. Johanna followed alone with Nym and Marcus who gave Tybolt their usual solemn nods of greeting. He nodded in return, watching them go.

“What happened?” his mother asked quietly. “While I was gone.”

“I…” Tybolt trailed off, not sure what to say.

“Your father will tell me anyway, Ty,” Arya said. “You don’t need to keep secrets.”

“There was… a wild dragon,” Tybolt said, lowering his voice to barely a whisper though there was no one near them. “In one of the sheds. Elissa encountered it. She’s all right,” he said quickly when his mother’s mouth dropped open. “Father…dealt with it.”

The tension did not leave Arya’s jaw. But she clasped Tybolt’s shoulder. “Tell me you have not also nearly died in my absence.”

“No, mother,” Tybolt said. “I’ve only lost sleep.”

“Well then. It’s only my daughters then who court danger,” Arya said.

Tybolt’s eyes widened. “What happened to Johanna and Nym?”

“I’m sure they will tell you. But behind closed doors. Keep everything quiet,” Arya said.

“I will,” Tybolt said. “Mother are we…in trouble?”

Arya gave a small smile–but it did not reach her eyes. “No…not yet.”

Arya went to find Jaime straight away. There had been perhaps a hundred times she had wanted to speak with him about what was happening since they parted. A hundred times that she had been left to turn their problems in her own mind, which was always dangerous. Arya had a predilection toward catastrophe. Jaime was the optimist that kept her from spiraling into the worst case scenario.

She walked swiftly through the halls, moving toward their quarters, until she nearly collided with his chest.

“There you are,” his warm, familiar voice said. “I hoped to make it to the courtyard to greet you but–”

She wrapped her arms around him tight, letting her head fall against his chest. He quieted, circling her with his arms.

“Arya,” he murmured. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she replied. “But I’m better now.”

They retreated to their quarters. Jaime poured her a generous cup of wine and she did not speak until she had finished half of it. She sat back in her chair with a heavy breath.

“Well, should we talk about the terrible things that happened here first?” she asked. “Or the terrible things in King’s Landing.”

“Who told you?” Jaime asked. “Tybolt or Elissa.”

“Tybolt,” Arya said. “I doubt Elissa would have voluntarily told me that she was in danger.”

“Good point,” Jaime said, taking a long drink of his own wine.

“Tybolt said you took care of it,” Arya said. “How?”

“By removing it’s head first,” Jaime said. “Then depositing it off the cliffs in hopes that the ocean will carry it away.”

“I don’t imagine you managed to drag the body to the cliffs yourself,” Arya said. “Who else knows?”

“Merwyn and a few other members of our trusted guard. They’ve been ordered to keep silent,” Jaime said.

“And if the body is discovered?” Arya asked.

“If we’re lucky it will wash up far away from Casterly Rock,” Jaime said. “And even if it doesn’t, we can launch a full investigation which will eventually lead to a dead end. The queen should be satisfied with the illusion of effort.”

“We can only hope that she will be too focused on the upcoming feast to begin her own investigation,” Arya said.

“Is it the feast that has you worried?” Jaime asked. “Or is it something else?”

“My daughters have me worried,” Arya said. “Bad enough that Nym’s sleep walking has gotten worse. I don’t know if it is something with her or something about being in King’s Landing. But she fought to escape from our chambers more than once. And then there was Johanna.”

Jaime’s brow furrowed. “What happened with Johanna?”

Arya explained the events in the sept as they had been conveyed to her by Johanna and her cousins. Usually when she explained dangerous things, she looked to Jaime to be the calm one. To promise her that this was nothing so serious and that they could handle it. But he could not keep his face from going pale.

“Tyrion has promised to seek justice,” Arya said. “As has the queen. But…I worry if that will earn us the ire of the the Faith of the Seven.”

“You said Johanna gave a fake name,” Jaime said.

“She did,” Arya said. “And I asked Tyrion to keep Johanna’s name out of any proceedings. It’s enough that there are septons plotting the death of Kinvara.”

“But?” Jaime asked.

“But little birds have a way of finding things out,” Arya said. “The queen knows. The princess. And then there’s the Martells.”

“Oberyn’s son saved her, didn’t he?” Jaime asked. “Why would they turn around and throw her to the wolves.”

Arya didn’t reply as she turned Oberyn in her mind. Trying to think of every possible motive. Until at last she sighed. “They wouldn’t. The Martells are aligned with the Targaryens and supportive of R'hllor worshipers. But if they talk and the wrong person over hears…I worry.”

“You’re right to be worried,” Jaime said.

“And here I hoped you’d tell me I was being paranoid,” Arya said.

“I wish I could,” Jaime said. “We’ve been focusing on the Flaming Sword and other R'hllor radicals. But the faith of the Seven has been radicalizing just like them. They have no choice if they’re going to combat their growing influence. We’ve done all you can to eliminate the Flaming Sword in the west. But we receive letters often about how we are not doing enough.” He sighed. “And, the septons have never much liked your continued faith in the Old Gods.”

“Do you think it would help if I told them I primarily go to the Godswood to speak to my dead brother,” Arya said with a grim smile.

“Alas, no. I don’t think that would help at all,” Jaime said.

“It’s been some time since I prayed to any gods at all,” Arya said. “A long time since I really believed in them. I know there is power in the weirwoods. In the water and earth and ice and fire. But I’m not sure if it is the power of gods.”

There is only one god, she thought. And his name is death.

Jaime reached out, taking her hand in his. “The septons and the red priests will squabble. And maybe the Seven and Rh’llor will join in the fun. But there is no reason for us to involve ourselves unless absolutely necessary.”

Arya agreed. It was their job to keep peace in the west and all across the country. They would put down religious extremists not because they rejected their faith but because they rejected their eagerness to kill innocents in the name of their god.

But if any follower of any god tried to put hands on her children again…then she would introduce them to Death.

Nym gathered with her siblings in the parlor to recount their adventures in King’s Landing. Or at least–to listen to Johanna recount their adventures in King’s Landing. They let her take the lead on the story. Marcus was content to sit tucked into the corner of a couch, twirling one of his knives between his fingers. Nym perched on the bench of the pianoforte, one leg tucked tight to her chest, resting her cheek on her knee.

“Dragons really are so beautiful up close,” Johanna said. “When Drogon flew overhead he was like a black cloud covering the sun. It was incredible.”

“I’m sure it was,” Tybolt said. His green eyes flicked to Elissa for just a moment. As if he was worried for her. Elissa did not look at him. She just leaned forward, ruffling Johanna’s hair.

“It’s so like you, Jo,” Elissa siad. “You were nearly killed but you spend far more time talking about the dragons.”

“Because the dragons weren’t frightening,” Johanna said. “Almost dying was.”

Tybolt glanced at Elissa again. This time she met his gaze and gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. Oh, so they were keeping secrets. Usually Nym would poke and prod until they shared. But she was too tired to start any fights.

“If I’d been there I would have gutted those Holy Brothers,” Elissa said flatly. “They had nerve to touch a Lannister.”

“They didn’t know I was one,” Johanna said.

“Well then they had nerve to touch anyone as sweet as you,” Tybolt said.

Johanna shrugged. “I’m just glad it’s over and done with. But I wish we didn’t have to leave so abruptly.”

“I know, Jo. But maybe you and I will be returning soon,” Elissa said. Her grey eyes went to Marcus. “What about you? I’m sure you’re happy to be away from the crowds.”

“Yes,” Marcus agreed. “I-I didn’t like the crowds.”

“He liked other things,” Nym said quietly.

Marcus shot her a look. In fact all attention turned on her. Not her intention.

“What was that, Nym?” Elissa asked. “What did he like?”

“Nothing.” Nym walked her fingers up and down the keyboard in a rather discordant run. “I’m glad to be home. Don’t like sleeping there.”

“You wandered in your sleep again?” Tybolt asked.

Nym shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about it.

“I t-tried to find things in the library of the Red Keep,” Marcus said. “B-but all the stories about dreamers were just that. Stories. There was n-nothing on how to control visions. Or remember them.”

“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong place,” Tybolt said. “I doubt any official history books on prophesies would indulge in the minutiae of dreaming. Many believe visions come from the gods. To control them would be some sort of blasphemy.” He looked to Nym. “But I’m sure there are more ancient texts with answers.”

“Maybe,” Nym murmured. “But I’m not sure you can fix this with something in your books.”

“I wouldn’t mind reading the ancient texts,” Johanna said. “Because…well I learned something else during my ordeal in the sept.”

“Something more ,” Elissa said. “Gods, it seemed you all were having a great deal of fun without us.”

“Why is d-danger fun for you?” Marcus asked.

Elissa flashed him a grin. “Reminds you that you’re alive.”

“And that you can die,” Nym countered.

“Cheerful observation as always, Nym, thank you.”

Nym’s mouth twitched into a small smile.

“What was it you found out, Jo?” Tybolt asked.

“Well…the reason I overheard the Septon is because I accidentally went into the mind of a sparrow,” Johanna said. “Because I’m a warg.”

“Like Uncle Bran.” Tybolt’s eyes widened.

“Not just Uncle Bran.” Johanna leaned forward, smiling big as if she held a most precious secret. “You know what mother said? She used to be a warg too.”

That made all of them shift in closer to the circle. Nym even slid off her piano bench and slid across the floor to sit near Johanna. New information about their mother’s early life was one of the most valuable currencies amongst the five of them. 

“I can’t believe she never mentioned that,” Elissa said. “Oh. You don’t think she keeps watch on us through stray cats and birds, do you?”

“I h-hope not,” Marcus said.

Elissa reached over and nudged him. “Why? Have something to hide?”

Marcus threw a pillow at her head.

“I don’t think she spies,” Johanna said. “She says she hasn’t for a long time. I don’t know why she would ever stop.”

“Was it frightening?” Nym asked. “Being in something else’s head.”

“At first,” Johanna said. “But that was because I didn’t know what was happening. I’m sure if I meant to do it I wouldn’t be so scared. Mother says that I should be able to control it.”

Envy twisted in Nym’s gut. Wouldn’t that be nice.

“I guess this isn’t so surprising,” Tybolt said. “You’ve always had an affinity for animals.”

“Well that’s not all because my latent warg abilities.” Johanna frowned. “Perhaps animals just like me.”

“No one denies that,” Elissa assured her, smoothing down a few of her golden curls. “We’ve seen the evidence over the years.”

“Still. We’re not meant to discuss it outside of the family,” Johanna said. “And I’m not supposed to talk about my ordeal in the sept either. Mother’s orders.”

They all nodded. They knew well enough of keeping some secrets between themselves.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Tybolt said. “All of you. Elissa and I didn’t have nearly as dramatic a time when we last went to the Red Keep.”

“No. I’m feeling very jilted,” Elissa said. She glanced at Marcus. “Now is the time for you to tell us about your secret power.”

Marcus gave a little smile. “I d-don’t have one I’m afraid. I’m very b-boring.”

And very smitten with the prince, Nym thought but did not say. There were some secrets that they kept even from their siblings.

Johanna reached out and took Nym’s hand then. It startled her but she didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry about your dreams. But at least we’re both a little strange, right? We can be strange together. And we can figure it out together.”

Nym swallowed hard and gave a small nod. But she was not sure she believed it.

Johanna was different. Her power was one passed down to her from their uncle. From their mother . It was in her Stark blood. And more than that, she had control over it. She could choose when to enter the mind of animal and she could remember what happened when she was there.

Their mother had no need to fear for Johanna because she knew what it was to be a warg. She could calm her fears and teach her how to manage it.

But there was no one in the world to teach Nym. Her dreaming was not a gift from her bloodline.

She was beginning to think it was a curse.

Nym woke to darkness. To dank, cold air. And to words still handing at the tip of her tongue and mind. She’d spoken. But what had she said.

As she blinked sleep from her eyes, she recognized that she had walked to the crypt. That was not so strange. It seemed she often made her way to this place. And after waking up a breath away from a dragon skull, this was much preferable.

But Marcus wasn’t with her. He must have slept through. He’d made a point to keep watch on their trip home just to make sure Nym didn’t wander away from camp. How exhausted he must be.

So Marcus wasn’t here.

But she wasn’t alone.

A prickle at the back of Nym’s neck. She knew in her bones that someone was watching her. Her hand went to her belt where she kept her knife and she clasped the hilt.

“I know you’re there.”

For a moment, an endless silence. The darkness of the crypt seemed to press around her. Then–

“A girl has good senses.”

A torch lit only a few paces away from Nym. She ripped her dagger from it’s sheath, leaping back and settling in a crouch, prepared to strike if she needed.

A man stood there, dressed in plain clothes. He had ruddy hair with pale streaks. His face was pleasant but his eyes were dead. There was something off about him. Something indescribable that made Nym’s whole body rigid with fear.

“What do you want?”

“A girl has no need to fear. A man means her no harm.” The man took a step forward. Nym shifted back keeping the same distance between them.

“What are you doing in my family’s crypt?” Nym asked.

“A girl asks many questions.”

“And you haven’t answered any of them.”

The man’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “A girl is…interesting. She has the sent of death on her.”

“So do you,” Nym said flatly. “You…are dead. Aren’t you?”

She didn’t know how she knew it. But the moment she said it, she was sure. But she was sure that she was looking at the face of a dead man.

“In some ways, yes. In others, no,” the man said. “A girl has a name, yes? What is it?”

“Nym,” Nym replied. “And you?”

“A man has no name,” the man replied. “But for now, a girl may call him…Jaqen H’agar.”

Chapter Text

The dead man–Jaqen H’ghar–had a strange but familiar sort of accent. Braavosi. Nym remembered that when she was very young, her mother had a Braavosi swordmaster. She had released him in his later years to return to his home country.

Jaqen spoke with the same lilt but even Syrio had not spoken quite so strangely as him. It was as if he was not even fully connected to his body. To the name of Jaqen H’ghar.

“Did you steal that name?” Nym asked.

He seemed amused by the question. “What is stealing, girl?”

“Taking something that does not belong to you,” Nym said.

“Well…this name does not belong to anyone anymore,” Jaqen said.

“You can steal from dead men.”

“Can you?”

“Yes. Especially since you are dead,” Nym said flatly.

“A girl seems certain,” Jaqen said, tilting his head to the side.

“A girl is ,” Nym said, mimicking him.

“Why?” Jaqen asked.

Nym did not know how to answer that. Why? Why was she certain? Why did the truth of it shiver along her spine like a winter’s wind.

“I think I speak to dead people when I sleep,” Nym said at last.

“But a girl is awake,” Jaqen said.

“I know. That’s concerning,” Nym said. If her visions were creeping into her waking hours, what was she to do with that? Would she begin seeing shades that weren’t there? But then again…maybe she would remember her conversations if they came to her when she was awake.

“What does a girl dream?” Jaqen asked.

“If I only I could say,” Nym said. “I never remember. I just know my feet take me to graves and crypts and bones. And I say strange things to the shadows.”

“A girl has died before,” Jaqen said. It was a statement, not a question.

“I was born dead,” Nym said. “The maester was able to revive me.”

“A girl met Death as a babe, then,” Jaqen stepped toward her. This time, Nym let him. She had no need to fear visions, did she? “And Death left his mark upon her.” His hand rosed and two fingers touched the pale skin of her throat. He felt startlingly real. Icy cold. But real.

More than that, it was where he lay his fingers. She had not told him how she had almost died. That it had been her brother’s cord wrapped around her neck like a snake. And yet…he seemed to know. Could he see Death’s mark?

“Do you know what’s happening to me?” Nym asked softly.

“A girl has been given a rare gift,” Jaqen said. “Most can only speak two words to Death.”

“Not today,” Nym said automatically. How many times had her mother told her those words? That she had faced Death as a babe and told him ‘not today’.

Jaqen gave a smile as if she had answered a difficult question correctly. “Yes. But a girl is blessed to say many more.”

“Is it a blessing?” Nym asked softly. “Or a curse.”

“Blessings and curses are two sides of the same coin,” Jaqen said. “Moral titles cast on the same extraordinary thing. What a girl has is not good or bad. It simply is. Just like death.”

“Valar Morghulis,” Nym murmured.

Jaqen inclined his head. “Valar Dohaeris.”

Nym became aware of footsteps–distant but filling the crypt with their echo. Someone had come to look for her.

“A man must go,” Jaqen said.

“Wait,” Nym said. She did not want him to go. He was the only one who seemed to understand what was happening to her. The only one who did not seem surprised or troubled.

Jaqen smiled. “A girl will find me here again.”

“Nym?” A voice called somewhere close.

Nym whirled around in time to see Marcus rounding the corner, a torch clutched in his hand. His eyes did not flick to Jaqen. Nym knew he must have already gone. Or maybe he had never been there. Maybe only her eyes could see him.

“I’m all right,” she said.

“You are,” Marcus hurried to her. “I woke up and you were gone. I’m sorry.”

“You were tired. It’s all right,” Nym said. “We’re home now. You don’t need to worry about watching me.”

Marcus nodded once, turning the torch in his hand. “Do you… remember anything?”

Yes, she thought.  I met a man. His name is Jaqen H’ghar. He is dead. But he knows things. He might be able to help me.

All of these things she could have told her twin. Her confidant. But she was tired of worrying him and the rest of her family. She was tired of being so strange and troublesome. 

So she simply shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

The next few months passed slowly. Some might even say pleasantly. But Elissa’s eyes were fixed ever ahead to the future.

Long ago, she had accepted that her brother would inherit the Rock before her, because he was both first born and male. She accepted that if she were to gain power over a keep she would have to seek it elsewhere. Most likely through a marriage.

It was how Elissa’s mother had done it. She was the second daughter of a great house who would never have inherited any land at all in the north. But through marriage, she became the matriarch of an equal house.

Now, the same opportunity was presented to Elissa. She could not be Lady of the Rock. But maybe…maybe she could be queen.

The question was whether her mother wanted that.

On paper it seemed the best course. Through marriage, Elissa could guarantee an alliance between her family and the Targaryens. It was the family that caused her mother the greatest stress. One of the few great houses with whom they did not share some blood or family connection. A marriage could alleviate that.

Yet her mother had given her no instruction to seek a match with Prince Daerys. She had not involved Elissa in any of her political plans. Did she have some other plot in mind then?

She asked her father about it. He, unhelpfully, suggested she speak to her mother about it.

“Why do you think I’m asking you,” she said. “You’re easier .”

“Many lords of the West have made the mistake of thinking that,” her father said with a wry smile. “But I’m actually nearly as stubborn as your mother. And far more irritating when I wish to be.”

Elissa huffed an errant strand of auburn hair from her eyes. “I have noticed.”

When she went to Tybolt, he was similarly unhelpful. He’d been so consumed with research as of late that Elissa had to force him from the caverns of the library and outside onto the cliffs.

“It would be ideal, don’t you think?” Elissa asked. “If when you came into your own as Lord of the Rock, I was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. We could help each other.”

“My being Lord of the Rock is a long way off,” Tybolt said. “And you being queen would be just as far away even if you did marry Daerys. Queen Daenerys is still young. So is mother.”

“I know it’s a long way ahead,” Elissa said. “But we have to look far ahead, don’t we? To be prepared for what comes.” She gestured to him. “That’s why you won’t get your head out of your books.”

“I’d say a wild dragon in one of our sheds marks a more immediate threat,” Tybolt said.

Elissa sighed, letting her arm fall to her side. She looked out across the sea. “Have you found any answers though?”

“No. Plenty of theories and questions.”

“Ah. Theories and questions. Sounds like our research about mother’s childhood.”

Tybolt cracked a smile. “Have you talked to her about it?”

Elissa sighed. “You and father ask the same thing . No. Not yet. I wanted to gather…other opinions first.”

“Right, of course,” Tybolt said. “Why do you always treat every conversation with mother like a debate you have to study for.”

“I don’t,” Elissa said petulantly.

“You do,” Tybolt said. “I study books. You study mother. That’s how it’s always been.”

“I’m a woman who wants power in this world,” Elissa said. “Mother is the best person to study.”

Eventually, Elissa accepted her father and brother’s advice and went to her mother’s offices. Her mother was writing letters. She did a lot of writing, it seemed. She had so many sworn houses and allies that needed instructing. But she gave so little instruction to Elissa.

Her mother looked up at her when she entered, giving a small smile. “You’ve been troubled by something?”

“Am I so obvious?” Elissa asked.

“To me. You’re my daughter,” Arya said. She dipped her quill in ink again, continuing her letter. “What’s wrong then? I don’t think it’s your brush with a dragon that has you avoiding me.”

“No,” Elissa said. “I wasn’t even hurt so… it’s not worth troubling over.”

“Of course not,” her mother said. It did not seem she believed her, but Elissa did not want to speak of her weakness today. “What then?”

“The feast in King’s Landing is approaching,” Elissa said. “I know you mean to bring me along. But you’ve given me no instruction to try to win the prince’s hand.”

“Do you have an interest in the prince’s hand?” Arya asked.

Elissa gave a sweet smile. “What young lady of the realm doesn’t wish to win a prince?”

Her mother looked up at her, raising an eyebrow. Thoroughly unconvinced, it seemed.

“You rose to your position by marrying father,” Elissa said after a pause. “You earned respect through your strength and wit, yes, but marrying father was what gave you the chance to try.”

“Yes,” her mother agreed. “And I fought against it.”

Elissa fell silent, not knowing, for once, how to respond. 

Her mother looked up from her papers, setting down her quill. “I did not want to marry your father. He did not want to marry me. But it wasn’t our choice. It was your grandfather’s.”

Elissa bit the inside of her cheek. It was a rare thing for her mother to bring her grandfather into conversation. It took everything in Elissa to not let a thousand questions spill from her lips. She had to limit it to one at a time.

“Well…what would my grandfather think if he were here? Would he match me to the prince?”

Arya’s grey eyes–the grey eyes she’d passed to Elissa–were very grim. Clouds just before a storm. “Your grandfather is dead, Elissa. The dead don’t have any opinion at all on the marriages and politics of the living.”

“Mother,” Elissa said. “Please.”

Arya let out a long breath, tapping the two fingers of her right hand against the desk. “He might consider it advantageous. He once, long ago, tried to match his eldest daughter with the crown prince but was rejected. Of course, he then learned the danger of having one’s children so close to a Targaryen king…when your father was conscripted into the King’s Guard at a young age. It was a position that almost cost him his life.”

Elissa nodded once. Her father had told her that story before–the reason for his title of Kingslayer.

“Then, your grandfather saw to the sack of King’s Landing and sought to end the Targaryen line entirely,” Arya said. “So whether he would see his granddaughter help extend it again is up for debate.”

“He also helped the Targaryens to transition peacefully back onto the throne,” Elissa said. “Didn’t he?”

“He only did that because he knew a war would cost us dearly,” Arya said. “If he had thought he could win? He would have seen Daenerys Targaryen killed.”

Is that what you wanted, Elissa could not help but wonder. Did you want Aunt Margaery to stay on the throne instead? Or Uncle Jon?

“But Daenerys has now overseen a twenty year peace,” Arya said. “So would he see the need of a marriage? Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You don’t seem sure on what he’d want,” Elissa said.

“When it comes to my children’s marriages I’m not concerned with what he would want,” Arya said. “Elissa, in the past twenty years, I have tried my best to keep the West together and strong. That has often involved doing as your grandfather would have done. But there is one thing I promised myself–that I would never force my children into marriages for my own political gain. That I would give them a choice.”

“But you’re not forcing me, are you?” Elissa asked. “Not if it’s what I want.”

“ Is it what you want?” her mother asked.

“I intend to find out,” Elissa said. She stood from her seat. “If you have other plans, please. Make them known to me. Otherwise, I will make my own choices, just as you wish.”

Her mother studied her for a long time. Then settled back in her chair. “I won’t stand in the way of your heart, Elissa.”

But I know your heart has nothing to do with it, her eyes seemed to say. Elissa ignored her eyes, nodding once and going toward the door.

She stopped there, gripping the handle.

“Do you regret it? Marrying father?”

“No,” Arya said.

“But if you’d been given a choice back then,” she said. “What would you have done?”

Her mother did not answer for a long time. Then: “I would have gone home.”

Elissa nodded once, then strode from the office.

Her mother had given her agility and strength and her stormy temper. Elissa thought she had also given her an ambitious heart.

But maybe…maybe she had gotten that from her grandfather instead.

Tybolt dreamed often of dragons these days. Of their mysteries. Of the answers he simply could not find . And even when he left the library, he found himself thinking of them.

Sebastian and Franklyn teased him about the far off look he got in his eyes during training. He’d gaze up at the clouds like he was expecting dragons to appear.

Sebastian used one such daydream as an opportunity to wack Tybolt in the arm.

“Seven hells,” Tybolt snapped, rubbing his shoulder.

Sebastian laughed. “Don’t expect your status as future Lord of the Rock to keep me from taking advantage of an opening like that.”

“He’s right,” Franklyn said. “You’ve got to stay on your toes, Tybolt. No time for day dreaming in the yard.”

“Apologies for letting my guard down in my own house,” Tybolt said.

“See that’s the point,” Sebastian pointed at him with the stick. “That’s where they’ll get you. When you think you’re safe in your bed.”

Tybolt cast him a glare. “Thank you for the extra paranoia, Sebastian. That will surely help me sleep.”

“Oh you’re very welcome,” Sebastian said.

“You don’t look rested,” Franklyn said. “You keep on getting that lost look in your eyes. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Tybolt said. Because he couldn’t tell them anything else. Not about the wild dragon or about the attempt on Johanna’s life or about Nym’s sleep walking. They were his friends, but some secrets his family bore alone. “It’s been a busy year.”

“For your family, maybe,” Sebastian said. “Half of them went to King’s Landing for the annual council. Now more will go back for the feast. But you’ll be staying here, won’t you?”

“It’s likely,” Tybolt said. “There’s no need for me to go to win the hand of the prince.”

“Could look for a lucky lady though,” Franklyn said. “If the prince rejects one you could comfort her and take his place. Dry her eyes.”

“Tempting,” Tybolt said. “But why would I want to win a lady when she’s crying?”

“So that she can’t see your face through the tears,” Sebastian said.

Tybolt dug an elbow into his side.

“Well, I’m sure your sisters will go along at any rate,” Franklyn said. “Elissa will have a grand time.”

“So she’s surely going?” Sebastian asked. There was something searching in his tone.

“Of course she is,” Franklyn said. “She’s the eldest daughter of House Lannister. Closest to the prince in age. It would be an insult if she didn’t go.”

“Well, she might not like him,” Sebastian said. “I doubt that anyone could convince Elissa to take someone she doesn’t like.”

“No. They couldn’t,” Tybolt said, eyeing Sebastian. 

He wondered if his friend thought he was blind. He knew perfectly well he’d been seeing his sister for some time. But if he had been fool enough to fall for her, he’d have to accept the pain when she released him.

Tybolt asked Elissa later when she planned on releasing Sebastian. She replied with an innocent: “what do you mean?” and a flutter of her eyelashes.

Tybolt gave her a look.

“I will release him,” Elissa said. “Soon. Don’t worry, I’ll be very kind. I’ll tell him it’s my duty to look to my family’s future. That in another life maybe it could have worked between us.”

“That’s kind?” Tybolt asked.

“Of course,” Elissa said. “It doesn’t damage his ego if I play a slave to my family name.”

Tybolt wasn’t sure of that, but he refused to get involved in any relationship between his sister and his close friend. He would rather swim in the ocean in the middle of winter.

Or spend another late night in the library finding absolutely nothing of worth.

There were so few books about Valyria that went beyond the obvious–that it was one of the greatest civilizations the world had ever seen–a place of magic and dragon riders. The foremost power in the world. And that it burned and no one living had seen it’s ruins.

Tybolt was able to find some about Valyria in Essosi texts, particularly from it’s neighbors. He read of their colonization of the East and their use of the slave trade. But translations of these texts were few and far between.

That night, however, he did find something interesting. A translated script from an explorer about ‘the dragon of the wastes’. He described a skeleton of monstrous size, so large that he could ride his steed through it’s jaws with no trouble at all. It’s rib cage could shelter an entire caravan. It’s tail seemed to go on forever–an endless snake.

Tybolt could not help but wonder if the creature was the size of Balerion the Black Dread, or perhaps even larger. And where had it come from. Had it escaped the Doom only to perish in the wastes.

That was his other question. Why had more dragons not survived the doom. Animals had a way of telling when disaster was imminent. Birds and beasts might flee a wild fire long before humans could smell it’s smoke. And if the dragons could fly, couldn’t they have gotten away? But almost no dragons had survived at all. Why?

He set the text to the side, looking down his list of other potential titles that would hold answers. That list was growing ever shorter as he struck one book after another from it.

“Still researching dragons?” Johanna asked. She had appeared so suddenly that Tybolt jolted at the sound of her voice.

“Yes. I am,” Tybolt said.

“Why?” Johanna asked. “You’ve always had an interest but you’ve never been so obsessed.”

Tybolt toyed with the corner of one page. They hadn’t told their younger siblings of the wild dragon. Partially to keep the secret close. And, in Johanna’s case, no one wanted to tell her they’d killed one.

“Just curious about them,” Tybolt said. “Specifically their numbers and how their populations grow.”

Johanna nodded, sitting at the table. “I could always ask the prince and princess for you. I’m sure they know a lot.”

Tybolt raised an eyebrow. “Are you certainly returning to the Red Keep then?”

“Yes,” Johanna said. “Uncle Tyrion sent word yesterday. They found the septon responsible and he was tried for his crimes. So I’ll be allowed to return with Elissa.”

“I’m happy for you,” Tybolt said. “You’ll look after Elissa when you go, won’t you?”

Johanna laughed. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around.”

“Well, Elissa will of course look after you,” Tybolt said. “But she needs people to look after her too, even if she doesn’t know it.”

Johanna nodded in agreement. “I can keep close to her. Mother will prefer me not wandering off alone anyway.”

“True,” Tybolt said. He reached over, ruffling her golden hair. “I’ll miss you when you go, Jo. You’ve grown so much.”

Johanna smiled. “Yes, I’m a proper lady.” She swished her skirts. “I only ruin a quarter of my dresses with my wanderings.”

“A great improvement,” Tybolt said.

Johanna giggled, then leaned over one of his books. “Have you read anything more about wargs?”

“Very little,” Tybolt said. “I’m sorry I’ve been so consumed by this. But I will look more into it. I imagine it will be just as difficult as looking into the Doom of Valyria.”

“Why?” Johanna asked.

“Well, wargs are of the Old Gods,” Tybolt said. “And unlike worshipers of the Seven, those who keep the Old Gods spoke more in oral traditions. They have less written texts.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “But I’ll find something to help you.”

“Thank you,” Johanna said. She poked at his list. “Can I help you?”

“If you want.” Tybolt handed Johanna a piece of paper. “Go find me the book written here. It’s the next on my list.”

Johanna read the title. “The Doom of Dragons.” She lowered the paper, frowning. “That doesn’t sound like a very enjoyable book.”

“Well, research isn’t always enjoyable, Jo.” He tapped her on the nose. “Go on.”

Jo went forth obediently, disappearing around the corner and into the depths of the library.

Tybolt returned to studying the image before him. An entire range of mountains exploding with fire and debris reigning down upon Valyrians and dragons alike.

Maybe it was a lost cause trying to look to Valyria for information. So much of it’s history, it’s knowledge, it’s magic, was lost to the eruption of it’s mountains. 

He was just wondering what it must have been like to die in a storm of fire–when he heard Johanna scream.

Chapter Text

In the dream, Arya stood before the sept of Baelor, beneath a familiar statue. A man was being led to the steps but the crowd was too great for her to make out his face. She refused to climb for a better look. She would not reenact the worst day of her life in her dreams.

“If you do not wish to reenact it, why do you continuously return here?”

Even twenty years later, Tywin Lannister’s voice was instantly recognizable in dreams. She was aware of his presence at her left shoulder. Of his shadow cast over her.

“I don’t decide where my dreams take me,” Arya murmured. “Or who appears in them.”

“Or else you would choose not to see me.”

Arya sighed. “You always seem to speak in omens in my dreams. You appear when I fear for the future.”

“I’m a figment of your memory,” Tywin said. “If this is the shape your dreams take when you fear for the future, that is no fault of mine.”

Arya looked up at Tywin. He was staring straight ahead, over the crowd, at the man being forced to his knees before the sept of Baelor. Tywin looked the same as she had the last day she saw him. Sounded the same. It was strange that she should still remember him so clearly even twenty years later.

“This was where everything changed for me,” Arya said at last. “This place. This was when I realized what the world was. I was twelve.” She ran her thumb across her right knuckles. In her dreams she had all of her fingers. “All of my children are older than that now.”

“They are,” Tywin said. “It’s something of a miracle…that they have made it so far without being shown the way of the world. But…it means that they do not have your strength.”

“They are strong without hardship,” Arya said flatly. 

“So were you,” Tywin said. “But there is a different kind of strength that comes from surviving what you did. From experience. You cannot teach your children that.”

A huge shadow passed over them. Arya looked up to see a dragon blotting out the sun. It’s jaws unhinged and it unleashed a jet of flame on the steps. Arya closed her eyes.

When she opened her eyes, she was sitting in the Tower of the Hand. Tywin sat across from her. A Cyvasse board, mid game, lay between them.

“You’ve been playing a defensive game,” Tywin said. “And your opponents have done the same. It has kept you safe.” He shifted his dragon piece forward. “But if your opponent goes on the attack…”

“My defensive game will only hold for so long,” Arya said. She moved her king. “Eventually I’ll have to attack too.”

“Yes. And you will not be able to do that alone,” Tywin said. “A strong defense and all of the pieces in the world mean nothing if you are not willing to move them into danger when the time comes.”

Arya gripped the edge of the table. So many of her allies were family. People she loved dearly. People she would do anything to protect. It was an asset in some ways. She could be sure of their loyalty. But she could not shift them coldly across Westeros as if they were pieces on a board.

“The day is coming when you will have to choose who you protect,” Tywin told her. “And who you trust to protect themselves.”

Then he reached over to take the goblet on the table. The same goblet Arya had poisoned twenty years ago. He raised it and drank deeply.

“Good luck, Arya.”

Arya startled from sleep to a banging on her door and Jaime’s hand at her arm. It took her only a moment to recognize Ser Erik’s voice. 

“My lord. My lady. There’s been an incident in the library.”

Arya leapt from the bed without another thought, all of the sleep gone from her. If something happened in the library, Tybolt was probably there. Her mind raced through every worst case scenario in an incident as she threw on her robe and grabbed her knife from her bedside. Then she threw open the door and fell into step beside Ser Erik, knowing Jaime was right behind her without having to look.

“What happened?” she asked.

“An attack,” Ser Erik said. “Your son killed one of the perpetrators.”

“Tybolt,” Arya said. “Is he all right?”

“The maester is seeing to his wounds. They are minor.”

Seeing to wounds. Minor wounds. He’s alive. He’s all right.

Arya had to fight to keep from sprinting all the way to the library. Their household guard was standing at the door. They stepped aside at once for her.

Her eyes searched for Tybolt until she found him sitting on the floor against one of the bookshelves. His arm was cut and the bandage stained red. Red flecked his pale face and his green eyes wide. Only a few paces from him, a body lay face down on the floor.

When Tybolt saw her, his face was that of a child again. A boy searching for his mother.

“Ty.” She swept over to him, kneeling down and cupping his face with one hand. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” his voice was shaking. “I’m sorry. I tried. But it was just me and…and they moved so quickly. I tried–”

“It’s all right,” she told him. “You fought them off. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

“No, it’s not,” he mumbled. “They took her.”

Cold dread spread through Arya’s veins. “Who?”

Tybolt shuddered beneath her hand. “They took Johanna.”

I failed her. I failed my sister.

That was the refrain that circled Tybolt’s brain over and over in the library. As he watched his father examine the body of the man he killed. As he watched his mother speak to the guards in low voices, sending them out to every corner of the west to search for Johanna. He could only remember his failure to protect her.

The moment he heard the scream, he had launched himself across the library, toward the sound. He’d had no sword, but he had a knife and he knew how to use it.

He skidded around the corner and saw four men, dressed in dark clothing, faces covered. One had Johanna in a firm grip, holding some sort of cloth over her mouth.

For the split second before she lost consciousness, Johanna’s eyes had found his. They had pleaded for help. 

And then his vision was filled with a different assailant, knife in hand, intent to kill.

Tybolt had been training to fight since he was a young boy. Muscle memory kicked in and he redirected just enough that the sharp edge sliced his arm rather than piercing his chest. He hooked his foot behind the man’s ankle tugging, sharply. He toppled, but the assassin had a grip on him and pulled him down after.

For a split second as he fell, Tybolt saw a flash of Johanna’s golden hair as they pulled a bag over her head. He tried to lunge after them, but the assassin grabbed him, rolling him onto his back. Tybolt drove his blade upward, right through the ribs of the assassin. He pierced a lung. The man coughed and blood splattered across Tybolt’s face.

He kicked the man off and stabbed him again twice, just to be sure he was dead. His head was woozy from his own blood loss and he swayed as he tried to stand.

“Johanna,” he called out hoarsely, stumbling along the book shelves, bloody knife still clutched in his hand.

But he didn’t see any sign of her or the kidnappers. So he had kept calling out until a guard heard him. But by the time they reached the library…the kidnappers were long gone.

Now he sat in the library, staring at the man he had killed. He hadn’t taken many lives in his nineteen years. He always expected it to feel more significant. But all he could think about was his sister. He would have killed a hundred more if it meant protecting his sister.

The whole family was gathered in the library. Of course his parents had sent for them at once to make sure they were safe. Marcus and Nym sat beside each other across the way, talking in low voices. Elissa arrived last, and when she spotted Tybolt, she went and sat beside him, pressing her shoulder up against his.

“I couldn’t stop them,” Tybolt murmured.

“You tried,” she said quietly. “It’s not your fault.”

Tybolt couldn’t quite believe that. He was the one who told Johanna to fetch him a book. If she’d been next to him, at least, maybe he could have kept hold of her.

“How did they get in?” Marcus whispered to Nym from where they sat against the opposite bookshelf. “A s-servant?”

“There are many passages in,” Nym replied. “Someone must have known about them.”

She was right. Ancient keeps like this had plenty of passages in. Tybolt and his siblings had used more than one on occasion. But they were by no means widely known.

Whoever had done this had some sort of informant.

Her father rose from where he was inspecting the body. He held something in his hand and passed it to his mother. Arya studied the object closely, running her thumb across it. They spoke to each other in low voices.

Then, his father turned to face Ser Erik. “Get Nym and Marcus back to their rooms. Post a guard.” He looked to Tybolt and Elissa. “You both come with us.”

Elissa helped Tybolt stand and they fell into step after their parents, leaving the library and the stench of death behind.

There was nothing quite like their mother when she was angry. In those moments, Elissa watched Arya become the she-wolf of legend. The woman who killed the Night King himself. It was wonderful to behold when that anger was turned on others. And terrifying when it was turned on them.

But tonight, Elissa felt neither mirth nor fear. She was as angry as her mother was at the thought of anyone having their hands on Johanna. On her baby sister. She wished she had been there. Maybe if she and Tybolt had been together, they could have stopped it.

Tybolt sat quietly in his seat, staring into some far off distance. Elissa sat beside him as her mother placed something on the desk.

“Your father found this on the body,” Arya said. “A sparrow.”

“A sparrow,” Elissa repeated. “Is that the sign of some house?”

“It’s the symbol of a radical sect of the Seven,” Arya said. “They believe in bringing back the Faith militant in response to the rising power of the Flaming Sword.”

“So it is the same people who attacked Johanna in the sept,” Elissa said.

“Maybe. Or maybe that’s just what someone wants us to think,” Arya said. 

“Your mother is right,” Jaime said. “In general, we have been on good terms with the Faith of the Seven because of our opposition to the Flaming Sword. They don’t enjoy our worship of the Old Gods, but they prefer them immensely to R’hllor.”

“The only reason they attacked Johanna in the sept was because she overheard something she shouldn’t,” Arya said. “She did not give them her name.”

“Someone could have informed them later,” Jaime said.

“Yes. But who. That’s the question,” Arya said. “Whoever this is…it is something who knew about the attack on Johanna. Either the sparrows taking revenge. Or someone who found the sparrows a very convenient scape goat.”

“Who knows, then?” Elissa asked.

“By now? Any number of people,” Arya said. “The Targaryens. The Martells. The Tyrells. The Starks. The Red Priests and perhaps the Sparrows. And whoever they happened to tell.” She slammed her fist against the table. “It could have spread a hundred different ways.”

Elissa’s father rested a hand on her mother’s back. For a moment, silence settled over all of them. The truth that this betrayal could come from any corner of Westeros.

“We were meant to leave for King’s Landing in a fortnight,” Jaime said at last. “If we cannot recover Johanna by then…what do we do?”

For a while, Arya did not respond. She stood before her desk, hands planted on the surface, her grey eyes in some far away storm. It was like she was peering down into some deep abyss that only she could see.

“We will still go,” Arya said. “To stay behind would show weakness. Our name would be whispered all through the halls of King’s Landing. Whoever did this is trying to throw us into chaos. We won’t allow that.” She straightened. “I am going to go to the Red Keep. And I am going to look every guest in the eye until I know exactly who took Johanna. And then I’m going to make them bleed for it.”

A silence followed. Elissa believed every word that came out of her mother’s mouth. She wondered if the person responsible could feel the chill of her anger even far away.

“If we intend to pretend everything is normal, I will be expected to attend as well,” Jaime said. “If I stay behind, they will ask questions about what is so important back at the Rock that I could not go to such a politically important feast.”

“Then go,” Tybolt said softly from his seat.

Their parents looked to him.

“I’ll manage the Rock in your absence,” Tybolt said. “Merwyn will help me. We’ll search for Johanna in the west while you look in King’s Landing.”

“You’re sure?” Arya asked.

“Yes,” Tybolt said. “I am a man grown. If you cannot trust me to look after the Rock now, why should you trust me later.”

There was a confidence in Tybolt’s voice Elissa had never heard before. A determination. All his life he had balked at the idea of taking over for their mother and father. He had insisted that he would give that right over to Elissa if he could. He would spend all day with his books if allowed.

But now… Johanna’s kidnapping had changed something in her older brother. It had hardened something in his eyes.

“All right,” Arya said. And that was that. She had, without question, trusted Tybolt with the Rock. Elissa was envious of that though she tried not to be. She knew that Tybolt did not relish this task.

“You should sleep for now, Ty,” Jaime said, standing. “It will help the wounds heal.”

Elissa watched as their father gently tugged Tybolt to his feet and led him down the hall. The door closed, leaving her alone with her mother.

“Do you still intend to take me with you to King’s Landing?” Elissa asked. “Or am I to wait here?”

“You will have to go to King’s Landing,” Arya said. “If we want to give off the pretense that nothing is amiss.”

Elissa nodded. “And you are sure that the person who took Johanna will be there?”

“The person who took Johanna has political ambitions. They have stolen her hoping to use her against me,” Arya said. “They will be there.”

Elissa bit the inside of her cheek, as if to bite down the anger burning inside of her.

“When we go to the Red Keep,” Arya said. “Anyone could be an enemy.”

“I know,” Elissa said.

“But it will be your job to make them believe that they are your friend,” her mother continued.

Elissa stared at her.

“I’ve seen you, Elissa,” Arya said, approaching where she sat. “You have a talent with people. With making them like you. Making them trust you. If you set your mind to it, I know you could win over the prince or anyone else you had in your sights.” Her mother clasper her face in one hand. “And I need you to put every bit of that talent into finding out who took your sister. Can you do that?”

Past the anger and the fear, determination swelled in Elissa’s chest. Her mother was asking for her help . When had she ever done that before? But here she was, putting her faith in her.

She nodded once. “I’ll find who did this, mother. I promise.”

Her mother exhaled, sweeping back a few errant strands of auburn hair from Elissa’s face. “You are both Stark and Lannister, Elissa. Through and through. What do wolves do?”

“Survive,” Elissa said.

“And lions?” Arya asked.

Elissa gave a grim smile. “We pay our debts.”

Chapter Text

Marcus lay awake at night thinking about Johanna and who might have taken her. Their mother had told all of them from a young age that they needed to be cautious because there were many who wished their family harm. But Johanna? Who could possibly wish her harm?

He had puzzled over that when she was attacked in the sept and now again since she had been kidnapped. There was no one sweeter and kinder.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe the people who took her wanted someone that their family would fight for tooth and nail.

Elissa told them that their mother was convinced whoever did this would be at the Red Keep during the feast. What if Marcus’ extended family was in danger? What if the prince was in danger?

What if, worse, the prince the Targaryens were involved somehow.

He hoped not. Daerys had paid Johanna very little mind so he couldn’t be involved surely. But could Daenerys be? He wasn’t sure.

After everything had happened, he shouldn’t want to return to King’s Landing. But he did want to. He wanted to help find Johanna. And, selfishly, he wanted to see for himself if his affections were misplaced.

He agonized over all of this in silence. But Nym was an expert on reading his silences.

“You want to go to King’s Landing,” she said. She was in the midst of carefully cleaning her knives and lining them up on the table beside her bed.

Marcus nodded once.

“So. Why don’t you tell mother?” Nym asked.

“Because I know I can’t go,” Marcus said.

“Why?” Nym asked.

Marcus shrugged. “Because you can’t go.”

Nym did not reply for a long time. She set another knife in a line, perfectly parallel with the others.

“I’d never make you go somewhere you were unsafe,” Marcus said. “So that’s the end of it.”

“Is it,” Nym said.

“Yes,” Marcus said. “We still need to find out what’s happening with your sleepwalking.”

“I’m not sure if that’s something you can help me with,” Nym said.

“I can keep trying,” Marcus said. “I will.”

“I know you would,” Nym said. “But I don’t want you to keep trying.”

Marcus stared at her.

“We won’t be tied to each other our whole lives,” Nym said. “We cannot always move in each other’s shadows. Someday, something will separate us. Why not now?”

“Do you want me to go?” Marcus asked.

“You want to go,” Nym said. “And you should. Do not stay behind just because of me. Make your own choices, Marc.”

His own choices. Marcus had always been comfortable not making his own choices. As a middle son of a great family. As a twin. He always had someone to follow. He was better as a follower.

Making his own choices felt wrong. It felt selfish. But…

“Talk to mother,” Nym said. “I’m sure you can convince her.”

Marcus licked his lips nervously. Then stood from the bed and walked to the door. He looked back at Nym, trying to gauge how she really felt about all of this. But she was focused back on her knives, her face unreadable.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Then he left her alone.

Arya had sent parties all across the west to search for Johanna, but she didn’t have much hope that they would find her. This was not the disorganized attack of amateurs. When they hadn’t found Johanna after a few days, she knew that until they dragged the mastermind into the light, she would remain lost.

Arya had moved through her days in a quiet, brewing rage. When she woke in the morning, the memory of Johanna’s kidnapping hit her like ice water and that cold clung to her until she went to sleep. She dreamed of her daughter crying out for her.

She tried to focus on the upcoming journey to the Red Keep. On the many houses that would be in attendance. All of the people who could have taken her daughter. She did not eliminate any suspect. The Targaryens. The Martells. The Greyjoys. The faith of the Seven. The Flaming Sword. Even the houses sworn to her family. Upstarts who hoped to overthrow the Lannisters from their seat now that they had let ‘too much of the north’ in.

She was making a list in her mind. And it felt like that first list she had made years ago, whispered into the dark like a prayer. This was not a promise of death like that one. But it was a promise that if they were guilty…she would find out and make them pay.

When a knock came at the door to her offices, she expected Merwyn or maybe Tybolt to enter. She was surprised to see Marcus slip through the doorway. Just Marcus. Nym did not move in his shadow that day. That was unusual.

“Marc,” Arya set down her quill, making an effort to soften her expression. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Marcus said. “I-I’d like to go with you to King’s Landing.”

Arya blinked, taking in the words. Of all the things she expected her son to say, this was not one of them. Marcus detested crowds and preferred familiar places. Why would he want to go back to King’s Landing when it was absolutely choked with people?

“I know,” he said, as if reading her doubts on her face. “It’s not t-typical. But when we went for the annual council I m-made friends with Daerys Targaryen. He invited me as his p-personal guest.”

Arya was not sure what was more surprising. That Marcus made friends with the Targaryen prince or that the Targaryen prince made friends with Marcus. Other young lords and ladies of importance historically avoided Marcus and Nym because they found them strange. They struggled to make friends. 

“You understand what that means?” Arya asked. “To be his personal guest during the feast.”

“Y-yes,” Marcus said. “It m-means Daerys wishes me to be a companion while young ladies try to court him. He would confide in m-me about his choices. Maybe ask f-for my advice.” Marcus swallowed. “It also p-puts me in a position to listen to many conversations.”

Arya sat back in her seat, considering his proposal. Marcus continued on. It was the most words she had perhaps ever heard from him in one setting.

“Elissa w-will be in the spotlight,” Marcus said. “From the moment she enters sh-she will be considered one of the strongest contenders for Daerys’ hand. Everyone will watch her.” He gave a mirthless smile. “N-no one will watch me.”

“No. You have a talent for observation. You always have,” Arya said. “But I’m reluctant to put you in danger, Marcus.”

“By the time we arrive, I’ll be s-sixteen,” Marcus said. “A man grown.”

“Your older siblings are grown and I am reluctant to put them in danger too.”

“Elissa is going with you.”

Arya pressed her lips together, inclining her head.

“D-do you suspect the Targaryens took Johanna?” Marcus asked.

“I don’t know,” Arya said. Then after a pause: “I think it is unlikely. The Targaryens have little to gain from kidnapping your sister. Just a few months ago, Daenerys Targaryen suggested joining our families. But that was behind closed doors. Someone may be working to gain the Targaryens favor in some way.”

“All the m-more reason to have someone close to the prince,” Marcus said. “Not a s-suitor. Not someone fighting for his hand. Just a friend. I will learn more than Elissa could f-from him.”

Arya had never seen such conviction in Marcus. Since he was a child, he was content to hide in Nym’s shadow. To let Nym speak for him. And that was her other worry.

“Nym cannot go back to King’s Landing, Marc,” she murmured. “With her sleepwalking, it would put her in too much danger.”

“I know,” Marcus said. “I-I spoke to her. She thinks I-I should go.”

That was, perhaps, the greatest shock of all. The idea of the twins separating of their own volition. Of course they did not go everywhere together. But to be split by so many miles for such a period of time?

“I want to help find J-Johanna,” Marcus said. “I can be of use to you. Nym can be of use t-to Tybolt while we are gone.”

Arya studied Marcus. He held her gaze. She let out a long breath.

“All right. You may come to the Red Keep,” she said.

Marcus nodded. “Thank you, mother.”

She gave him a sad smile, reaching out her hand. He grasped it with his own. And she wished she could tell him that she knew this feeling. The fear that came from a sibling being taken captive. Arya had felt it so many times before. When she left Sansa behind in King’s Landing and wondered if he was even alive. When Bran and Rickon were held captive in Winterfell by the Greyjoys. When she was separated from Bran after the Boltons had taken them.

And she knew her siblings had felt it over and over again for her. When she became ward to the Lannisters and when she was stolen from the Godswood.

It never got easier, seeing one’s family in danger and not being able to fix it. Arya had never grown used to it, and she wished her children had never had to experience it.

But perhaps it had always been inevitable.

In the days leading up to half his family departing for the Red Keep, Tybolt spent a great deal of time with his father, reviewing his responsibilities in his parents absence.

He would work closely with Merwyn of course, who had been their faithful steward since the Long Night. Tybolt had known Merwyn since he was born. The man was shrewd and loyal. He could trust him even as his trust for everyone else thinned.

He would have to hold court and hear the complaints of smallfolk and nobles alike. He would be allowed to settle disputes and past judgements as he saw fit. Tax collection would also begin, and it would be his job to make sure everyone paid their share.

“There should not be any issue,” Jaime said. “They know the price for refusing to pay their debts.”

“Shall I remove their fingers myself if they don’t,” Tybolt asked. He did not like that idea at all.

“If it comes to it,” Jaime said. “But the threat of removed fingers should be enough. You speak with my voice and your mother’s. They know any disrespect will get back to us.”

Tybolt nodded once.

“I don’t think you will have much trouble,” Jaime said. “You have the Lannister look. Most of our bannermen are glad to have you as their future lord.” He sat back in his seat. “They were happy to see me take on my father’s seat as well. They just didn’t like it that your mother sat beside me in everything.”

Tybolt gave a small smile. “When did you feel…ready to lead?”

Jaime laughed once. “Oh…never. I didn’t feel ready to lead until a few years after I became Lord of the Rock. All my life I thought that your uncle Tyrion was better suited to the task. I thought that if he weren’t a dwarf, our father would have named him heir in a heartbeat.”

“Really?” Tybolt asked.

“Yes,” Jaime said. “But Ty…you are a much better man than I was at nineteen. At nineteen I had already killed the king I was sworn to protect. I was in the service of the king who usurped him standing guard while he dishonored my sister with whores. I was not even thinking of the possibility of leadership. I spent most of my time training with the sword because it was the only thing that gave me any worth. My ability to fight. To kill.”

His father passed his flesh hand across his golden one.

“It took losing my hand–my whole identity–to discover I was more than a sword. And even then, it took blackmail to accept the charge of leaving the King’s Guard to take up my place as heir. I had so many sins to atone for by then. So many pieces of myself to reassemble. I was twice your age by the time I considered myself even a bit worthy of all of this.”

“But…you always seem so at ease,” Tybolt said. “When you deal with other lords. When you make decisions.”

“That’s half the game,” Jaime said. “Being able to seem like you are in control. If you can figure out that…the rest will follow.”

Tybolt passed a page over the ledger in front of him. “I hope you’re right.”

“I am,” Jaime said. “You are taking this position not out of a desire for power but an obligation to your family. That is a greater motivation than most men of your age can claim.”

“I don’t think someone is cut out to be a leader just because the don’t want power,” Tybolt said.

“No,” Jaime agreed. “I suppose it helps that you have such a sharp mind then.”

Tybolt’s mouth twitched. “Thank you, father.”

He clapped Tybolt on the shoulder. “You don’t need to thank me for the truth.”

Yes, I do, Tybolt thought. It helps to know that someone else believes it.

The morning of their parting came. Elissa had been waiting anxiously or this moment all along, but since Johanna’s disappearance she had struggled to sleep. Every night in her dreams she turned over the feast and how she would behave. All the things that could go wrong.

Finally, they were on their way.

She stood in the courtyard as her parents bid Tybolt goodbye. As Marcus and Nym shared a rare hug. She was still shocked that Marcus had asked to come with them, but she was glad she’d have another ally with her in the capital.

Tybolt turned toward her after hugging their father goodbye. His mouth opened as if he was searching for something to say.

“Good luck,” she said softly.

“You too,” Tybolt replied.

Then she hugged him tight and he hugged her in return. And that was enough.

Elissa swung up onto her horse where it stood next to Marcus’. She watched her brother cast a glance over his shoulder at Nym and raise his hand again. Nym gave him a single nod.

“You’re sure about this?” Elissa asked him softly.

Marcus gave her a single nod.

The gates opened and their caravan started off, led by their mother and father. Elissa cast the Rock one last look and hoped, that when she returned home, they would still be at peace.

The night after her family left, Nym returned to the crypt. She did not sleep walk there. She walked into the darkness and waited. She had done the same thing most nights since Johanna had disappeared. But she never received the visitor she wanted.

She was sure he was a hallucination. He was dead, after all. But then, she had thought she felt him touch her.

She wanted to test her theory. Dead men who were not there could not be killed.

That night, he returned. Jaqen H’agar. And she greeted him with a knife in her hand.

The moment his shadow shifted in the darkness, she sent knife spinning his way. He merely tilted his body to the side to avoid it. She lunged across the gap, second knife in hand, driving for his chest. He caught her wrist and twisted it to the side, stopping her dead in her tracks. His hands were cold but they were solid.

“You are real,” she said flatly.

“Yes,” Jaqen said. “And if a man had been slower…a girl might have harmed him.”

Jaqen did not look particularly concerned that Nym had tried to stab him. Nor did he look surprised. Maybe because dead men did not fear death. She had identified that he was, in fact, real. But she still got the distinct feeling he was dead.

“If you were real, you might have helped to kidnap my sister,” Nym said. “And you would deserve it.”

He tilted his head to the side as he observed her. She was pushing against his grip but it was like iron. She could not budge him. “You believe a man took your sister.”

“I know several men took her,” Nym said. “But I don’t know if you were one of them. You know how to sneak into the crypts. You appeared just before she was taken.”

“That is true,” Jaqen said. “But if a man meant to kidnap your sister, he would not have revealed himself to you, would he? That is not the way of the House of Black and White.”

Nym’s eyes narrowed. “Release me.”

“When a girl releases her knife.”

Nym did. Jaqen released her and she stepped back, rubbing her wrist.

“The House of Black and White,” she said. “What is that?”

“A place across the sea in Braavos,” Jaqen said. “Where people like me learn to deal in death.”

“You’re assassins,” Nym said.

“We are servants of the Many Faced God,” Jaqen said. “We are servants of Death.”

“That sounds like pretty words to describe assassins,” Nym said.

“Assassins kill for coin alone,” Jaqen said. “Faceless Men do not.”

“What do you kill for?” Nym asked.

Jaqen gave her a pleasant smile. “Many reasons.”

Nym swallowed hard. She had the sense that if this man wanted to, he could have already killed her in ten different ways. Since he had not…he must have a reason to want her alive.

“A girl wishes to uncover those who took her sister,” Jaqen said. “She wishes to see them dead.”

“Yes,” Nym said.

“A man could help her to do that,” Jaqen said. “If she promises something in return.”

Nym’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“If she promises to walk a path her mother refused when her sister is found,” Jaqen said.

That stopped Nym. Her mother? “You knew my mother?”

“A man came to her when she was young like you,” Jaqen said. “And bid her study the way of Death. She refused.” He smiled. “It was right that she did. Death had other plans for her. But Death has claimed Nymeria Lannister from birth. She is meant to walk the path her mother rejected.”

“I do not know you,” Nym said. “I do not know the Faceless Men. I cannot make any deal until I understand what it entails.”

Jaqen nodded once.

“I need…to think on it,” Nym said. “I am wary of making deals with Death.”

“A girl, of all people, needn’t fear Death,” Jaqen said softly.

“I don’t,” Nym said, and she was surprised to find it was true. “But I fear it for my family. They come first. I will not walk any path until my family is safe.”

Jaqen inclined his head. “A man understands.” He took a step back. “He will return here.”

“So will a girl,” Nym said.

He smiled “Yes. she will.”

Chapter Text

The ride to King’s Landing was a solemn affair. They traveled great stretches in silence, which did not usually bother Marcus. But the quiet was noticeably heavier than usual.

Their mother left often to ride ahead and check the road, sometimes with their father, sometimes with Ser Erik. Sometimes alone. Her eyes were fixed ever ahead.

Many times, Marcus felt the urge to turn to Nym to say something or simply exchange a look. Then he remembered that Nym was not with him. She was miles away at the Rock. Alone.

She told you to go, Marcus thought. But did she mean it? Should I have stayed with her?

That question had plagued him since the moment the gates closed and he suspected it would plague him several more times on the Kingsroad.

He had Elissa with him, but it wasn’t the same. In truth, Elissa had always been the most difficult of his siblings to relate to. She was beautiful and had the confidence and charisma to match. She was born to lead. 

Those sorts of people were difficult to speak to. They made Marcus all the more aware of his stumbling tongue.

And of course, Johanna was always on Marcus’ mind. He knew that was why his mother road ahead, with some vain hope that she might stumble across his sister in the woods, or at least a clue as to her whereabouts. The last time he took this road, Johanna was with him, wandering the edges of camp, looking for animals to befriend.

We’ll find you, Marcus thought. I promise.

A fortnight from King’s Landing, when they made camp in a wooded glade, their mother and father called Elissa and Marcus into their tent. Their parents had spent many nights talking in low voices, no doubt planning their course of action when they arrived in the capital. Now, it seemed, it was finally time to share that course of action with them.

“There are many houses and people that will require our attention,” Arya said. “Not all of them are suspects. But they could still be inadvertently involved.”

“The goal is not necessarily to find the culprit immediately,” Jaime said. “It’s to eliminate what suspects we can to make our job easier. The problem is, the culprit has delivered no terms and asked for no ransom.”

“So the motive is unclear,” Elissa said.

“In some ways,” Arya said. “We do know that whoever is doing this wants to throw our family into chaos. Maybe provoke rash action. Rushed accusations. Declarations of war.”

“So we look for people who have something to gain from a conflict,” Elissa said.

“Exactly,” Arya said. “At the center of everything, of course, are the Targaryens.”

Marcus swallowed hard, pressing his knuckles into the wood of the table between them.

“They are not suspects,” Jaime said. “Daenerys has no reason to want a conflict. But the fact that this happened so soon before a great feast brings so many families together is notable.”

“Someone could be mistakenly trying to gain favor with the Targaryens,” Arya said. “They could consider the Lannister family contenders for Daerys’ hand and wished to distract us.”

“Do we know who is vying most for Daerys’ hand?” Elissa asked.

“Well, any family would jump at a chance,” Jaime said. “It would increase their power in Westeros by a significant margin. So the question is which families want both an increase in influence and wish to use that influence against us.”

“The Martells seem the most obvious,” Elissa said.

“Yes,” Arya said flatly. “But I’d like to believe that taking Johanna is too incendiary for Oberyn. We don’t have a friendly relationship but we’ve maintained peace this long. But we can’t dismiss that they knew about the attack on Johanna. His son saved her. And I am certain that whoever took her knew about the attack.”

“How loose lipped is the son?” Elissa asked.

“I haven’t had the occasion to meet him, so I’m not sure,” Arya said. “We can then consider the houses who hold the Faith of the Seven in high regard. The ones most likely to support the sparrows. The Hightowers of Oldtown are one of them.”

“And Baelor Hightower has a longstanding friendship with Oberyn Martell,” Jaime said. “It is possible word of Johanna could have passed to them.”

“They have an unmarried daughter I presume?” Elissa asked.

“Deyna Hightower, yes,” Arya said. “From my understanding she is quite religious.”

Elissa nodded once. Marcus could practically see her adding the name to a list of people to watch closely.

“Isn’t there a p-possibility that the sparrows were framed?” Marcus asked. “And that followers of the r-red god are greater suspects?”

“Yes,” Arya said. “Johanna overheard a plot on Priestess Kinvara’s life. I doubt that Daenerys hid this detail from the woman. It may have been communicated to other red priests. Maybe even to the Flaming Sword. Which means any houses funneling money to them, may have reason to stoke a religious war.”

“As it happens, many of our greatest suspects come from the Stormlands,” Jaime said. “There are plenty of lords unhappy with who sits in power at Storm’s End.”

“If that’s the case why wouldn’t they attack our cousins?” Elissa asked.

“Most blame the Lannisters for the situation in the Stormlands,” Arya said. “Your father helped to end Stannis Baratheon’s attempt to claim to the throne. Stannis was considered by many to be the true king and he was a worshiper of R'hllor. Many of his bannermen maintained the practice of that religion after his death.”

“On top of what I did,” Jaime said. “Your grandfather saw to it that Margaery was engaged to Tommen.”

“Tommen was a Baratheon,” Elissa said.

“Yes,” Arya said without hesitation. “But Stannis firmly believed that Tommen was a bastard. That was the only way Stannis’ claim to the throne held water.”

“And if that were true, that would mean that there is no Baratheon blood in Storm’s End,” Jaime said.

Marcus’ brow furrowed. His cousins in the Stormlands certainly had an interesting combination of bloodlines, but he hadn’t realized exactly how complicated it all was.

“Many of these houses are supporters of Daenerys and supporters of R'hllor,” Arya said. “The Velaryons for one. Rolland Caron, once Rolland Storm, legitimized by the queen to take the seat of Nightsong. There’s no love lost between us and former supporters of Stannis.”

“What about Shireen Baratheon?” Elissa asked. “His daughter.”

“She will be in attendance,” Arya said. “But with a betrothal to Steffon on the horizon, she won’t be vying for Daerys’ hand.”

“And she doesn’t seem to bear any ill will toward those who once fought against her father,” Jaime said. “Fortunately.”

“It’s…a g-great deal of people that could be against us,” Marcus murmured.

A long pause followed his words. He’d meant to keep them to himself, but they had just stumbled out.

“Yes,” his mother said after a long pause. “Which is why I will be grateful to have both of your eyes and ears. Finding the culprit is too large a task for two people alone.”

“Remember,” Jaime said. “Speak to each other. Speak to us. Do not keep any relevant information to yourself. Even if you think it doesn’t matter. Something innocuous on it’s own could be the loose thread of this tapestry.”

“Of course, father,” Elissa said. Marcus gave a nod.

“And above all else,” Arya said. “Stay safe. Do not take unnecessary risks or wander off on your own. Even if you think you have located your sister. You return. You find us . Understood?”

Elissa and Marcus both nodded, because there was no other response. But Marcus could not help but wonder how much Elissa meant that nod.

He could not help but wonder how much he meant it.

Marcus could not sleep. He kept a fire going into the early morning hours, staring at the sparks as they drifted into the sky. In those dark moments just before dawn, Elissa emerged from her tent and sat beside him.

“Nervous?” she asked.

Marcus bit the inside of his cheek. Then nodded.

“Me too,” she murmured.

Marcus looked at her in surprise.

“I wasn’t before Johanna disappeared,” Elissa said. “When it was just my future on the line, I felt steady. A misstep would hurt me and no one else. Now…it’s a lot more than that.”

Marcus stared grimly into the fire. Yes. It was so much more than that.

“I’ve been looking out for her since we were kids,” Elissa continues. “And I keep wondering what would have happened if I was there. If I was close…” She trailed off.

“Me too,” Marcus murmured.

Elissa sighed. She reached over, ruffling his hair. “It was brave of you, by the way.”

“What?” Marcus asked.

“Coming with us,” Elissa said. “Separating from Nym. That was brave.”

“Was it?” Marcus said. “It f-feels selfish.”

“It’s not,” Elissa said. “Tybolt will look after her. And I’ll look after you. I know I’m not Nym, but… I’ll do my best.”

Marcus gave a small smile.

“So,” Elissa said. “The prince extended a personal invitation to you as his guest?”

Marcus was glad for the darkness. It would hide any redness that gathered in his ears. “He did.”

“That’s good,” Elissa said. “The feasts and gatherings allow for a good deal of socialization between the sexes. But it’s the times in between where much of the real gossip happens–and that is quite segregated. Young ladies with other young ladies. Young lords with other young lords. You being invited to Prince Daerys inner circle is advantageous. You’ll know exactly which ladies he is seriously considering.”

That was, admittedly, the part of this whole affair that Marcus was least looking forward to. But he knew it would be important.

“You can keep me informed of the serious contenders,” Elissa said. “And I can keep you informed of the ladies trying hardest to win his hand.”

Marcus nodded, rubbing his hands together. “Are you t-trying to win his hand?”

Elissa sighed. “That was the plan before all of this happened. But finding leads on Johanna comes first. My attention is going to be a bit split.” She glanced at Marcus. “If he does ask your advice at all, you might mention my name. Keep me a possibility as the feast goes on.”

Marcus wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Elissa and Daerys together. Of course, Elissa would be a good queen and it might be beneficial for their family to have her in that position. But…

But nothing, Marcus thought. Some young lady will be his betrothed. Isn’t it better if it’s someone in your family? Then you have reason to keep seeing him.

Marcus nodded. “I can d-do that.”

“Thank you,” Elissa said. “Meanwhile, you let me know if any of the stupid young lords in his circle try to bully you. I’ll deal with them.”

A smile tugged at Marcus’ mouth. “I don’t think th-they’ll respect me if my older sister fights my battles.”

“Then I will help you to humiliate them yourself,” Elissa said, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder.

Marcus laughed once. There was one thing Elissa and Nym had in common–they were both fearsome to behold when they were angry.

“I’ll look out for you t-too,” Marcus murmured. “When you draw the attention…I’m always j-just out of sight.”

Elissa smiled. “I know, Marc.”

She placed another log on the fire. He poked it lightly. And they sat in silence as the first light of dawn broke the through the darkness.

Just over a fortnight after his family departed, Tybolt found himself holding court on his own for the first time.

It was not an unfamiliar setting for him. He had sat at his mother and father’s side many times at court since he entered his sixteenth year. He’d watched them listen to concerns, rule on various issues and, in some cases, dole out judgment. He was just a boy the first time he’d watched his mother remove the two smallest fingers of a man’s hand. He was just a boy the first time he’d watched his father remove a man’s head.

He who passes the sentence must swing the sword.

Now, the choice of sentence fell to him until his parents returned.

One of the most notable lords in attendance to court that day was Lord Serett–a man who Tybolt knew was missing two fingers on his left hand even though he tried to cover it with a special glove.

He spoke with a smile dripping with condescension about the silver mines. “Our production has decreased this year,” he said. “We are digging for more veins from which to mine. But we should discuss a decrease in tribute this year.”

“I’d be happy to send a man to investigate this claim,” Tybolt said. “But I won’t make a decision about tributes at this time. You’ll have to endure a few moons until my lord father and lady mother return.”

 “Are you not a man grown?” Lord Serrett said. “Do they not trust you to handle these economic decisions.”

Tybolt’s jaw tightened.

“They fully trust Lord Tybolt,” Merwyn spoke up. “And I’m sure they would be interesting to hear that you waited until they had left to bring this concern to court.”

Lord Serrett had little to say about that. He simply glared at Merwyn. “I did not ask for your opinion, steward.”

“And yet I give it for free, Lord Serrett,” Merwyn replied.

Tybolt was tempted to cast him a relieved glance, but he kept his head facing forward and strong.

“Was there anything else, Lord Serrett?”

“No, my lord,” Lord Serrett inclined his head, though his smile had soured. “Nothing.”

Tybolt wasn’t so surprised to see Lord Serrett, but he was surprised to see Sebastian’s older brother Androw Farman. He’d been given charge of much of the Farman navy and, according to Sebastian, it was lucky they weren’t at war because Androw would see the fleet sunk within a fortnight.

Androw was an imposing man. Broad shouldered and quite tall. But there was a sway to his walk. The sway of a man who started and ended his day with liquor.

“There have been problems at sea,” Androw said. “Pirates. And not the same kind as usual.”

“Are there more worrying pirates than others, my lord?” Tybolt asked.

“Yes,” Androw said. “Because I think it’s that bastard Aurane Waters commanding them.”

Tybolt’s brow furrowed. That was interesting. Aurane Waters was a bastard of the Velaryons. He had long parted from noble life and was suspected to have taken up piracy. But he hadn’t been a problem for the west.

“The fleet needs more support to deal with them,” Androw said.

Or maybe you should try being less in your cups, Tybolt thought but did not say. If he could not curb pirates with his fleet, how could he hope to curb an enemy navy in war time?

“How many ships to these pirates have?” Tybolt asked.

“Don’t know,” Androw said. “Pirates are good at staying out of sight. They don’t attack all at once.”

“So they only attack in small numbers,” Tybolt said. “I would think that the Farman fleet is equipped to handle that. Especially after years of dealing with pirates from the Iron Islands.”

“This is a different situation,” Androw said.

“Explain why,” Tybolt said, sitting back in his seat. “I lack experience in naval battles. I would love to understand.”

Androw’s frown deepened. “Don’t toy with me, boy.”

Tybolt’s eyes narrowed but he did not rise to the bait. “If you can get back to me with more information and more certain terms for what you need, I will be happy to accommodate, Lord Androw. But until then, I must decline.”

Androw was not happy with this decision. But at least he stood down.

“My older brother is an indisputable dick,” Sebastian said later.. “I think you should have told him so.”

“I’d rather not enflame tensions between my house and our bannermen in my parents absence,” Tybolt said. “You’re welcome to tell him yourself though.”

“Sure,” Sebastian said, fidgeting with a button on his sleeve. “I’ll think about it.”

“Oh will you?” Franklyn asked.

“Yes,” Sebastian said. “Thought about it…decided I prefer living.”

Tybolt laughed once, finishing his cup of wine. With any luck, he’d only hold a few more courts before his family returned, hopefully with some news of Johanna.

No one today had mentioned her. No one seemed to know she was missing. They were all caught up in their own concerns. But still…Tybolt had not ruled out the possibility that one of their bannermen was responsible for the incident.

And if they were…he would have no problem passing a sentence then.

Nym had hoped to find more information of the Faceless Men before making any decisions. But there was troublingly little information in the library about them.

She supposed she should be used to this by now. Books had been just as unhelpful when it came to her night time wanderings. That was exactly why Jaqen’s offer to help her was so tempting. But still she searched for what she could.

Most of what she found on the Faceless Men were rumors and speculation. There were texts that mentioned ‘the Many Faced God’ and their followers who used death as an act of worship. There were texts that speculated about various high profile assassinations and whether or not they were the work of a Faceless Man. But this speculation was rarely relevant. It was about the man who paid the assassin, not the assassin themselves.

The most interesting source Nym found speculated on the identity of the Many Faced God in other religions. After all, a deity with many faces need not be confined to a singular religion. This source speculated that some of the god of Death’s faces included the Black Goat in Qohor. The Lion of Night in Yi Ti. And in Westeros…the Stranger.

It struck Nym that she had been visiting a sept of a singular god with many aspects all her life. Seven who are one. She knew it would be blasphemy to the church–the idea that only six faces belonged to their god…and that the seventh was that of another deity entirely.

It was intriguing enough that she found herself leaving the library and wandering to the Sept of the Rock.

The sept of the Rock was carved from the very stone of the hill like everything else. It was nothing like Baelor’s sept with it’s high marble columns and fine construction. It was cavernous and ancient, filled with as much shadow as candlelight.

Each of Nym’s siblings had various affinities for the religions of their parents. They visited the godswood and the sept. Tybolt had always been drawn most to the study of religion and Johanna used to spend long hours reading at the foot of the weirwood, but they all showed respect for the old gods and the new.

Nym was never sure how she felt about the gods, but there was power in places like these. On holy ground, silence was not strange. It was often expected and praised. Nym could spend long stretches in the shadows of the statues here and never be disturbed, all while septons and septas praised her dedication to religion.

Today, Nym went to stand in the shadow of the Stranger. The faceless statue, cloaked, neither man nor woman in form.

Nym had always been most intrigued by the Stranger, as well as the Silent Sisters who served them. If she had not been born a Lannister, maybe she would have become a Silent Sister herself. She would not have found it all too difficult to keep quiet and she was not squeamish of dead men.

Now she wondered if there was something else that drew her to the Stranger. Had she always been touched by death? Had she been looking upon a face of the Many Faced God all her life?

“A girl is deep in thought.”

Jaqen’s voice startled her and her hand leapt automatically to the hilt of her blade. She had not expected to see him out of the crypt.

Jaqen smiled. “A girl is also quick to use a knife.”

“Yes. It helps keep a girl alive,” Nym said. “I read something interesting about your god. It brought me here.”

“Been trying to find answers in books?” Jaqen asked with a knowing smirk. “Has that been helpful?”

“Not very,” Nym said. “But there was a text that suggested that the Stranger is a face of the Many Faced God.” She looked up at him. “Is it true?”

Jaqen glanced around the sept. “A man would not wish to disturb the people here with blasphemy.”

“So it is,” Nym said.

“Truth is a strange thing when it comes to the divine,” Jaqen said.

Nym turned, sitting at the base of the Stranger’s statue. “Is the Many Faced God in every religion?”

“The Many Faced God predates religion,” Jaqen said. “Before society. Before the laws of men. As soon as anything could live, it died. Death is the first truth of this world.”

“It seems every religion has a god of death,” Nym said.

“Men create gods for inevitable things,” Jaqen said.

“So the Many Faced God is created?” Nym asked.

“No,” Jaqen said. “But when man creates a new religion, the Many Faced God gains a new face.”

Nym nodded. That made sense to her in a strange way. “The Stranger is it’s face amongst the new gods. That means it must have a face amongst the old.”

“Yes,” Jaqen agreed.

Nym looked up at him. “Was the Night King one of it’s faces?”

That made Jaqen grow quiet. Nym could not tell if he was contemplating the question or how to answer it properly.

“Yes and no,” he said at last.

“That’s an unsatisfying answer,” Nym said.

“Answers about the divine are like that sometimes,” Jaqen said. “If a girl wishes for more understanding, she must join the order of the Faceless Men.”

Nym tapped her fingers against the hilt of her knife. “A girl might wish to. But she wants two things in return.”

Jaqen raised an eyebrow. “And what are those things?”

“First, a man must help me remember my dreams,” Nym said. “And second you must help me find my sister. I will join only once I have mastery over my own mind and once my sister is safe. Not before.”

“A girl drives a hard bargain,” Jaqen said. “The second request is reasonable. The first is more difficult.”

“Why?” Nym asked.

“Because a girl might achieve mastery of her mind only through joining the order,” Jaqen said. “To help her before would require training her before she fully commits herself to the Many Faced God.”

“Yes,” Nym said. “But a girl will not join until she understand her nature. So if a man wants her to join, he has no choice.”

Jaqen observed her steadily. “You are confident a man will accept.”

“A man came to me first,” Nym said. “He has told me more than once that I am unique. Touched by death. You need me for something. But you need me to be a willing participant.”

“A girl seems sure,” Jaqen said.

“You would have taken me already,” Nym said, holding his gaze.

“A man could be waiting,” Jaqen said. “Perhaps that is why a man is here today.”

Nym tilted her head to the side. “Then I suppose a man should get on with it.”

Jaqen smiled. Her bluntness did not seem to offend or upset him. That was one thing Nym liked about this man. He was not unsettled by her questions or quips or strangeness. Nothing seemed to unsettle him at all.

“Does a girl have any other terms to add?” he asked.

“A girl does not,” Nym said.

“Very well,” Jaqen said. “Then a man accepts.”

Nym let out a breath. A deal struck in the sight of the Stranger. She supposed that was fitting enough.

Chapter Text

As they neared King’s Landing, the Kingsroad grew crowded with travelers–every one from merchants hoping to trade wares during the feast to minor nobles wishing to improve their connections. 

Most lords and ladies would not even attempt to win the prince over with their daughters. They stood to gain more by making alliances with other houses. They would never be counted amongst ‘the great houses’ of Westeros, but their families would have land and titles and good marriages.

Arya wondered sometimes what it would have been like to be born into a minor northern house. If she had been the daughter of a lesser known northern lord like Tywin had first suspected he would have had no need to keep her as a hostage. She would have been able to sneak away unnoticed. Maybe even make it back to her family safely.

But then again, she would never have been on the run in the first place if she were not a Stark. She likely never would have left home.

On the Kingsroad today, she felt closer to her father than she had for many years. Years ago, Lord Eddard Stark had ridden the Kingsroad with two of his children in tow, hoping to protect his friend Robert and to investigate the death of his other friend, Jon Arryn. He knew already that his friend was murdered. That the king was in danger. And he had to find out who did it without falling into any of their traps.

Arya vaguely remembered her father in that time. His solemn expressions. His measured words. She knew he must have stepped as carefully as he could. But he wasn’t prepared for just how many snakes lay in wait. He had trusted the wrong people.

She did not intend to make the same mistake as she sought the one behind Johanna’s abduction.

Arya and Jaime had already gone to great lengths to keep Johanna’s disappearance from becoming common knowledge. Their household guard knew, but their loyalty had been tested many times before they were ever trusted with the safety of their family. Only the most trusted among them had been sent out to search for Johanna, and they never gave hint of their true purpose.

Arya had sent no ravens to King’s Landing. Not Tyrion or Varys. She preferred to speak to them in person. But she had sent a rider to Robb. A rider to Jon. A rider to Sansa. She bid them to speak nothing of this kidnapping to even their families.

The only one of her family she bid do anything was Sansa. She asked her to listen through her web of spies for any word on Johanna’s disappearance. If rumors had gotten out despite Arya and Jaime’s efforts, it pointed to the culprit themselves spreading the word and that would tell them a great deal about their motivations.

Arya would not know the situation until she talked to Sansa.

“I’ll speak to Tyrion when we arrive,” Jaime said. “People will expect me to go directly to my brother. I assume you will speak to Varys?”

“I will speak to him,” Arya agreed. “But I don’t plan to tell him what has happened.”

Jaime glanced at her, surprised.

“I want to see if Varys can tell me what happened,” Arya said. “If he doesn’t, it means one of two things–first, the kidnappers are so skilled they have kept the disappearance from even his spies.”

“And the second?” Jaime asked.

“That his spies have heard something,” Arya said. “But he is withholding the information.”

“You don’t trust him,” Jaime said.

“I’ve never trusted him . Just his motivation,” Arya said. “I’ve firmly believed that he wants peace and the best for the realm, so it wouldn’t make sense for him to have anything to do with this.”

“What changed?” Jaime asked.

“Last time we spoke, he gave me proof that Jon was legitimate. A single piece of information that could fling us back into war. At the time, I was flattered he trusted me not to do something so foolish. But now I wonder if he hoped I would.”

“Why would Varys suddenly want war?” Jaime asked.

“I’m not sure,” Arya said. “To be clear…he may have nothing to do with this at all. I’m just not keen to trust him yet. I want to be careful. I don’t want to make the same mistakes as my father.”

“Your father trusted Littlefinger,” Jaime reminded her.

Yes, Arya thought. But Varys was there too when he died.

When they arrived at the Red Keep, they were quickly received by servants. Nearby lords and ladies moved in to greet the Lannister house.

Jaime at once let a gregarious smile settle across his face and took the brunt of the initial pleasantries. Arya slipped around to Elissa and Marcus.

“Get settled into our quarters,” she said. “I’m going to find your aunt.” She rested a hand on each of their shoulders. “Be careful. Always assume someone is watching and listening, even when you’re alone.”

“Yes, mother,” Elissa said. Marcus gave her a firm nod.

Arya hurried from the courtyard without another word. She stopped at the edge to catch Jaime’s eye. He gave her the smallest wink and nodded for her to leave it to him. So she did.

Arya made herself walk at a cool and controlled pace through the Red Keep to where she knew her sister would be housed. 

Sansa had brought all of her children except for her youngest, Margaret, who Arya imagined was glad to be left behind with her books. Catelyn and Wylla were in the quarters and bid Arya hello when she entered. Sansa brought Arya out onto the balcony where they would not hear them speak.

“Well?” Arya asked.

“Nothing,” Sansa said. “No rumors of her disappearing or her whereabouts. I imagine some will start when the other lords and ladies realize you’ve brought only one daughter with you but…”

“But her abductors are being carful,” Arya said.

“Maybe,” Sansa said, reaching out to adjust a vase of flowers on the small table. “But maybe not as careful as you think.”

Arya’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The kidnappers did their job well,” Sansa said. “The trail on Jo is cold which means you cannot find her. But the culprit has every reason to expect that you would tell the world about her disappearance. That you would send ravens to every ally and warnings to every enemy. Most mothers would. But you didn’t. Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to play into their hand,” Arya said.

“Exactly,” Sansa said. “Based on the songs I’ve heard, you did your job well. So if some foolish man decides to ask you about your daughter’s whereabouts out of some false concern…they play into yours.”

Arya nodded once. “I can only hope they’ll be so foolish. But I don’t know if they are. This game they’ve started…I don’t know why . It would be easier for me to play it if I knew the goal.”

Sansa rested a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find it, Arya. I promise.”

Soon after Arya left Sansa, she went to Varys. She asked him the usual questions–if he had any new information to report.

Varys smiled. “Well it won’t surprise you, Lady Arya, but the Red Keep is about to be bursting at the seams with lords and ladies who all have their own motivations.”

“What a surprise,” Arya said. “Any whose motivations concern me?”

“Some interesting guests from the Stormlands,” Varys said. “Possible benefactors for the Flaming Sword.”

“Old allies of Stannis?” Arya asked.

“Indeed,” Varys said.

“I have my eye on them,” Arya said. “I’m interested in any information at all on religious conflicts. From followers of the Red God or the Seven. We want to keep tensions from boiling over.”

Varys inclined his head. “Indeed we do.”

They spoke of various names and houses of which to be wary at length. Varys, as always, seemed keen to keep the spread of the Flaming Sword and the influence of Kinvara managed.

But he did not speak of Johanna.

Marcus was not in his quarters long before a messenger came from Prince Daerys with an invitation for Marcus to join Daerys and some other companions in his quarters. 

At once, his heart jumped into his throat. He had known he’d be meeting with the prince soon, but he’d hoped for a bit more time to catch his breath. And it was the ‘other companions’ bit that had him especially worried. He liked speaking with Daerys but what would he be like in a group of young lords?

Marcus exchanged glances with Elissa and she gave him an encouraging smile and nod. He turned to the messenger, forming his words carefully. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

He was happy he’d managed the sentence without stuttering. He would try to keep that up as long as he could.

Once he had changed from his riding clothes into something more suitable, he followed the messenger across the Red Keep to Daerys’ quarters. He could hear voices within, all of young men and rattling cups. He took a deep breath as the messenger opened the door.

“Lord Marcus Lannister,” he announced.

Marcus stepped within, very aware of several pairs of eyes on him. But he found Daerys’ eyes first as the prince stood with an easy smile.

“So you made it.” He crossed the room to greet him, clasping his arm. “I did wonder if you’d take my invitation seriously.”

“Was I meant to?” Marcus asked carefully.

“Yes, of course, Marcus,” Daerys said. His tone was sincere and sent a flash of warmth through Marcus.

Daerys rested a hand on his shoulder, ushering him further into the room. “I know I don’t have to introduce you to your cousin.”

Only now did Marcus realize that Brandon Tyrell was lounged in a chair across the room. Marcus’ shoulders relaxed a bit. He was relieved that some of his family had been included amongst Daerys’ friends.

“All right, Marcus?” Brandon asked.

Marcus nodded. “Fine. Easy journey.”

A lie. He had barely slept on the trip, but he was not about to admit any such weakness with strangers in the room.

There were three young men Marcus did not recognize. First, a golden haired youth, a few years Marcus’ senior, who was peering at him past a cup of wine. Beside him sat man with bronze skin and coppery-brown hair that fell to his shoulders. He held an ornate dagger in his hands and it seemed he had been in the middle of showing it off to his companion.

Behind them, a target was set up on the wall, stuck already with a few knives. The last of the young men stood before it, plucking a few daggers from the target. He had warm brown skin and a head of dark curls. His gaze lingered on Marcus only for a moment before he went back to target practice.

“Phillip Hightower,” the golden haired one rose first with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

Marcus nodded once.

“Monterys Velaryon,” the bronze haired one said without standing. He turned the ornate dagger in his hand. The hilt and sheath were set with rubies. “You don’t look much like a Lannister, Lord Marcus.”

“That’s the Stark blood in him,” Brandon said helpfully. “Looks a lot like his mother.”

Marcus nodded once, glad to be spared the explanation. He wondered how often he could get Brandon to do the talking for him.

“I don’t recall if you met Morgan on your last visit,” Daerys said, gesturing at the young man throwing knives in the back.

Marcus’ jaw tightened. No, he hadn’t. But of course he knew who Morgan was. He had saved his sister at the sept of Baelor and was likely to ask after her wellbeing. And regardless of his motivations, Marcus knew he would have to keep a close watch on him.

“We did not have the pleasure.” Morgan plucked his blade from the target and crossed to Marcus, extending a hand. “Morgan Sand.”

Marcus accepted his hand with a nod. “Marcus Lannister.”

Morgan’s grip was firm, but that did not bother Marcus as much as his eyes. There was a sharpness to them that Marcus recognized. He was sizing Marcus up and Marcus knew that even as he watched Morgan, Morgan would also be watching him.

“Do you have much practice with knives, Marcus?” Phillip Hightower asked. “Morgan has been showing us up terribly.”

“I’d welcome the competition,” Morgan said, eyeing him.

Marcus could wield a knife as if it was an extension of his own hand. Both he and Nym could soundly put blade after blade into the center of any target. He had more than one knife on his person right at that moment. But he had not come here to draw attention or show off. He’d come here to be a non-threatening shadow.

“Later, maybe,” he said simply with a smile. 

Morgan inclined his head. “Suit yourself.”

Marcus took a seat near Brandon and let himself fade into the background of the conversation. This was an intriguing group of people to say the least. His mother had mentioned both the Velaryons and the Hightowers as a potential concern. And of course the Martells were always to be watched.

Fortunately, it seemed Phillip Hightower and Monterys Velaryon liked to talk as did Brandon. They spoke of recent hunts and their successes in felling stags and boars. They spoke of their horses. They discussed the upcoming tourney and where they planned to show off their skills. 

But Marcus’ concerns about Morgan only grew as time passed. As he suspected, Morgan was a listener rather than a talker. He responded to questions with an easy smile on his face and asked questions as well. But at no point did he let his tongue get away from him. He didn’t brag. He didn’t slip up. And he always seemed to notice when Marcus glanced toward him.

When the friendly gathering dispersed, Daerys rested a hand on Marcus’ shoulder before he could stand to go. He didn’t draw attention to keeping him back with words. Just let the others go on ahead. Only Morgan seemed to notice, glancing back over his shoulder as he left. But he did not comment on it as he closed the door behind him.

“That was impressive,” Daerys said. “You managed not to stutter at all.”

Marcus gave a small smile. “Easy enough. I only said a few words at a t-time.” He winced. “See? Too many words.”

“Well, you know I don’t mind it,” Daerys said. “I’m sorry to throw you into a crowd of strangers. But you’ll be seeing a lot of them over the next few weeks.”

“Friends of yours?” Marcus asked.

“Of a sort,” Daerys said. “Phillip and Monterys squired here so I’ve known them since I was young. Morgan as well. But I’d say he’s the only one of them I count as a true friend.” He shrugged. “Inviting Brandon Tyrell was more of a political maneuver. Same for your cousin Tomas Stark. I expect he’ll arrive later today or tomorrow.”

“And me?” Marcus asked. “Was inviting me a p-political move?”

Daerys raised his eyebrows. “Marcus you wound me. I thought I made it clear I enjoy your company.”

A smile slipped across Marcus’ face. He inclined his head, stepping back toward the door. “You may have as much of my company as you want, y-your grace.”

“Good,” Daerys said. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Marcus nodded, sliding from the room. He stopped for a moment in the hall, letting out a shaky breath. And for a moment, he wished for a world where his sister hadn’t been taken where he could simply enjoy this feast.

But this was not that world. And so long as he kept company with the prince, he would be watching his other companions for the slightest sign of treachery.

Jaqen had given Nym a single task–to practice balancing a smooth, round stone on the edge of a knife. He claimed this task had a point, but Nym suspected he had chosen it simply to vex her.

Nym had grown up doubting the intentions of others. Young lords and ladies used to make a fool of her in subtle ways because she had difficulty reading their tones and facial expressions. She often took jokes with the utmost sincerity and could be led to believe that people liked her when truly they saw her as strange and off putting.

So she grew to be suspicious of smiles and jokes and all other methods people used to mask the truth.

Jaqen was difficult to read as well. But there was something different about him. A strangeness to his smiles and a repetitive cadence to his words. Nym got a sense that, like her, he was imitating an ordinary person to walk amongst them, and he was much better at it than her.

She didn’t think he’d try to make a fool of her. Not without a point at least. But she was beginning to doubt his intentions after days of struggling with this damn rock.

Tybolt caught her at the practice once and asked what on earth she was doing. She told him frankly the goal of the task. He picked up the round smooth where it had rolled to rest against his boot.

“You might practice with an easier stone to start,” he said. “This one is far too smooth.”

Nym could not tell him that her mysterious Faceless friend had insisted on that rock. But she nodded and thanked him for his advice.

She did find some other stones in the gardens which were flatter and easier to manage. But though she could balance them for a time, she could never manage to keep it perfectly still.

“That is not the stone i gave you,” Jaqen told her when he found her sitting in the Godswood. 

The Godswood of the Rock, like the Sept of Baelor, was nestled in the very hill itself. It was called the stone garden and it was nearly choked with the roots of the weirwood tree so that nothing else could grow. It was a scared place and meant to be treated as such. But sometimes, as children, Nym and Marcus liked to chase each other over and under the ancient roots.

“I still have it.” Nym fished the stone from her pocket. “I decided to practice with other stones…since balancing this one is impossible.”

Jaqen smiled and held out his hand. She flicked the stone at him and he caught it easily, drawing a knife in the same motion. Carefully, he set the stone on the edge of the blade. It wobbled for only a moment before staying perfectly still.

Nym frowned. “You’re using Faceless Man Magic.”

“A man is not.”

“How can I be sure?”

Jaqen tilted his head to the side. “Do you think a man would give a girl an impossible task?”

“Maybe to teach a lesson about accepting one’s limits,” Nym said. “If that is the lesson, I accept it.”

Jaqen shook his head. “That is not the lesson. A man gives his word. It is not impossible. Just very difficult.”

“What is the purpose of the lesson then?” Nym asked.

“A girl should be patient.”

“A girl likes to understand the reason behind a task before she blindly follows orders.”

Jaqen flicked the smooth stone back to her. She caught it. “A girl will have to cope with the disappointment of not understanding.”

Nym glared at him.

Jaqen smiled. “A man will ask a question in leu of giving an answer.”

“Will the question frustrate me?” Nym asked.

“It’s likely,” Jaqen said. “What is natural: balance or chaos?”

Nym stared at him. “In what context?”

Jaqen simply nodded and kept walking, leaving her with her knife, her smooth stone, and his strange question.

Nym was not particularly fond of riddles. She liked straight forward answers. She liked to understand things as they were.

At first she thought about the question in the context of the blade and the rock. It was not natural for the rock to balance on the knife. That’s why it fell so readily. But was it chaos for the rock to fall? All things fell if dropped from a height. It would be far stranger for the rock to hover in the air after tipping from her blade.

So was he asking if balance or chaos was natural in the world itself? What would that even mean? What was his definition of balance and what was his definition of chaos.

When the question had sufficiently puzzled her, she went to one of the smartest people she knew–her older brother.

Tybolt had taken to spending hours in their mother and father’s office instead of the library. He spent time sending out small, trusted search parties throughout the west to search for evidence of Johanna. He spoke to Merwyn about matters of state. He read and answered letters. Nym could tell he took his new responsibility very seriously. 

When Nym entered the room, he did not notice her until she cleared her throat. He looked up, startled, but his shoulders relaxed when he saw her. “Nym. I didn’t see you.”

“I know,” Nym entered, closing the door behind her. “I have a strange question.”

“What’s that?” Tybolt asked.

“What is natural: Balance or Chaos?”

Tybolt’s brow furrowed. “Ah. That is a strange question.” He tilted his head to the side. “Did you read that somewhere?”

“No,” Nym said, and did not elaborate.

“I would say the answer would completely depend on who you ask,” Tybolt said. “There are many who believe that chaos was the original state of the universe before the gods shaped it and created order. So perhaps the answer is chaos. But then again, the gods themselves keep order and they are natural. So perhaps it is balance.”

“You’re saying you don’t know,” Nym said.

Tybolt gave a little smile. “I’m saying no one knows for sure, Nym.”

Then why did Jaqen ask me? She thought, but did not say. She sighed, sliding into the chair near the door.

“You seem tired,” Tybolt said. “Has the sleep walking persisted?”

“Yes,” Nym said.

“Well, I have something that might help.”

Nym straightened suddenly. “What? Why didn’t you say so?”

“I was going to speak to you at supper,” Tybolt said. “Mother had been speaking with the maester before she left about cures for sleep walking. Something to help you. Well, he found something that could help.”

“Something to help me stop?” Nym asked.

“Not exactly,” Tybolt said. “But perhaps something to give you more control.”

Nym tilted her head to the side.

“It’s a sort of tea,” Tybolt said. “It’s been used by some septons through the years to make their dreams more vivid. It also gives them some control and lucidity in the dream space. This was attractive to religious folks who see meaning in dreams. The maester does not believe it induces true visions. But he says it can help calm nightmares if the dreamer feels as if they have more control.”

“Really,” Nym said.

“Yes.” Tybolt pressed a small pack of tea leaves into her hand. “I don’t know if it will work. But maybe it will help you to remember where you go in your dreams. Maybe you could even control where you go.”

Nym nodded. Then she carefully set the leaves down and hugged Tybolt. Tybolt stiffened in shock. A hug was quite rare from Nym. But he carefully wrapped an arm around her.

“I know I’m not Marcus,” he murmured. “But I’ll do my best to look out for you, Nym.”

“I know,” Nym said. And she felt guilty about keeping secrets from him. She wondered what he would say if she told him about Jaqen.

But Tybolt had enough on his mind between managing the Rock and searching for Johanna. She would handle Jaqen. And hopefully, with this tea, she would handle her dreams as well.

Nym asked for hot water to be brought to her room that night. There, she brewed the leaves Tybolt had given her and drank long and deep. She lay down on her back in the darkness and closed her eyes, waiting.

She felt the effects of sleep come on her quickly and heavily. She practically sank through her bed and she was sure that the tea might knock her out completely.

But then…her eyes snapped open. It was the middle of the night, and she stood in front of her bedroom door.

Her body moved though she did not tell it to do so. She watched her hand lift to grasp the door handle and turn it. She felt the movement but only distantly. Like she was moving underwater.

She was sleep walking. But she was aware .

For a moment, triumph rose in Nym’s heart. Then the door was open and her feet were carrying her forward.

It was as if a fine mist had seeped into the castle. A haze drifted through the halls and everything seemed a bit less clear. And the sounds…the sounds seemed to echo endlessly. Nym’s footsteps seemed almost intolerably loud.

In the hall she came upon a figure, crouching in the hall, peering through a crack the door to her parents’ offices. Not a guard or an assassin. Not Tybolt. For a moment she thought it might be Johanna. A girl in a nightgown with long, flowing golden curls. But no…her face was not quite right. It was too angular. The eyes were too mischievous.

The girl turned from the door with a giggle, shiny golden hair flicking over her shoulder. She seemed to look right at Nym then, and held a finger to her lips. “Shh. Don’t tell my father.”

Then she ran down the hall, her ghostly white gown flowing behind her.

Nym wanted to follow the girl. But her feet did not let her. Instead they dragged her in the other direction down the hall, one step at a time. Tybolt had said this tea was meant to help her gain control. But maybe that was for people with normal dreams. This dream had her tied up in puppet’s strings and was walking her along like a marionette.

It did not take her long to recognize where it was leading her. A familiar path down into the depths of the rock. To the crypt. That would have been just fine. Nym did not mind the crypt. Except for…the noise as she drew closer.

It started as a murmuring. Like the buzz of an active bee hive. But as she grew closer it began to sound more like a great feast muffled by a heavy door. Dozens of voices. No. More than that. Hundreds. Thousands.

Hundreds of thousands.

The closer she got to the crypt the louder they grew. She could not make out any words. Too many voices spoke at once and some seemed to scream.

By the time Nym’s boot struck the top step of the crypt she could not even hear her own thoughts. Her skin crawled and she wanted nothing more than to turn and run the other direction.

But the dead…the dead would not allow that.

She knew, with certainty, that these were the voices of the dead. The voice of every man, woman and child who had ever been buried in this crypt. The voice of every man, woman and child buried below it, before the Rock was ever carved into this hill. Ancient voices from thousands of years ago, mingled with those who had died only recently. And they threatened to pull her mind apart at the seams.

“Nymeria, go back,” said a voice. It was unknown to her and familiar all at once.

She longed to obey the voice. But she could not. She took another step forward. And another. The voices rose around Nym like a wave. She was being dragged down by the current into a cacophony which threatened to drown her. Every nerve buzzed. She could not breathe.

Wake up, she thought. Wake up. Please wake up.

The voices pressed in around her and she sank to her knees in the dark, ready to give up and simply let the dead crush her beneath the weight of their cries.

“Get up, Nymeria.”

I can’t… I can’t…

Then, another voice. One she did know. One that rang louder, somehow, than the chorus of the dead.

“A girl must wake.”

She shuddered at the touch of a cold hand on her shoulder.

“Wake.”

She emerged from sleep with a gasp. The sudden silence of the crypt was such a relief it brought tears to her eyes. Her entire body trembled violently as she looked up at the man who knelt beside her.

“Jaqen,” she said hoarsely.

“A man is here,” he said softly. His hand was still on her shoulder, a grounding force that helped make her aware of her own body again.

“I don’t…I don’t know what happened,” Nym whispered.

Jaqen smiled but it was a grim expression. “A girl walked upon a wire before she learned balance. And she fell.”

Nym swallowed hard. She searched for any retort she could. But the voices still rang in her ears and she could only sink to let her cheek press against the cold stone. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” Jaqen said. “A man knows.”

Chapter Text

It took Nym some time of lying on the cold stone of the crypt to come back to herself. She was aware of Jaqen kneeling beside her. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. It was as if he realized that any sort of stimulus would be like a knife upon Nym’s skin. 

When her heartbeat had calmed and the throbbing of her head faded to a dull ache, she unwound her arms from around herself and slowly pushed herself to her knees. She looked up at Jaqen. He looked down at her.

“I should not have had that tea,” Nym said.

“No,” Jaqen agreed.

“Why?” she asked.

“For an ordinary girl, the tea would be harmless,” Jaqen said. “Because it would be harmless for an ordinary girl to remember their dreams.”

“But I’m not an ordinary girl,” Nym said.

Jaqen inclined his head.

“I heard the voices of the dead,” Nym said. “Everyone who ever died in this place. Everyone buried in the crypt. Buried beneath the Rock. They were…crying out to me.”

“It’s a great many voices to hear all at once,” Jaqen said. “Does a girl know why she forgets?”

Nym shook her head. She thought he might give her another riddle, but for once he gave a clear answer.

“She forgets so that she can wake up and still be Nymeria Lannister,” Jaqen said. “Her waking mind cannot bear the weight of it all. So her sleeping mind tucks it safely away. Out of reach.”

Nym shivered, her arms around herself. She did not usually get cold easily, but she felt icy down to her bones.

“There is a reason the Faceless men become ‘no one’,” Jaqen continued. “They cannot commune with the dead until they release who they were in life.”

“But…I can,” Nym said. “I’m different…aren’t I?”

“A girl is,” Jaqen said. “But it will still be challenging for her to hold onto herself–to hold onto Nymeria Lannister–if she remembers her dreams.”

“Can I learn?” Nym asked.

Jaqen nodded once. Then he held up the smooth stone. She had not noticed him take it from her. She watched as he balanced it upon his knife.

“Wielding a knife is a simple thing,” he said. “Dealing death is just as simple. A flick of a wrist and a man’s entire life spills across the ground.” He flicked the knife and sent the rock flying into the air. He caught it with his other hand. “But the Faceless Men do not simply deal death. They keep death in check. They keep death balanced .”

Nym tilted her head to the side. “What does that mean? Keeping death balanced?”

“All things die,” Jaqen said. “But that does not mean death is always measured.” He turned the stone in his hand. “A girl asked about the Night King. Does she think that armies of dead men marching from the north, killing every soul they see for their army is ordinary?"

“No,” Nym said.

“No,” Jaqen agreed. “But it happened. Because the god of death does indeed have many faces. Some of those faces are gentle. Patient. Some are cold and impassive. And some…hunger. They desire to consume everything in their path. They long to unmake the world at it’s seams.” He studied her. “If some faces are balanced and some are chaotic…which is natural?”

Nym swallowed hard. What a question it was. She opened her mouth wishing that the answer would come to her. That somehow she would have some higher understanding of death. But nothing at all came to her. 

“I don’t know,” Nym admitted at last.

Jaqen nodded as if that answer satisfied him more than any other she could have given. Then he held out the perfectly smooth stone.

“A girl must learn balance here before you walk the wire between life an death. And when she does…maybe her waking self will be ready to hear the secrets her sleeping self keeps.”

Nym nodded, closing her fingers tight around the stone. “Then a girl will learn.”

Jaqen smiled and stood from where he knelt on the ground. Then he unclasped his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. Nym grasped onto it, grateful for the shield against the chill of the crypt. But before she could thank him, he had already vanished into the shadows without another word.

Jaime wished this reunion with Tyrion was a happier one. When he entered the tower of the Hand, a grin split his younger brother’s face and he hopped at once from his chair to go to him. Jaime knelt and drew Tyrion into a tight hug.

“The brothers of House Lannister. Together again,” Tyrion crowed before he pulled back. “You look weary, Jaime. Was the road to King’s Landing hard?”

“No. Mercifully uneventful,” Jaime said.

“Hmm.” A frown twisted at Tyrion’s mouth. He could see right through him. He always could. But he didn’t yet disturb the peace. Instead he poured Jaime a goblet of wine. “Well, you’ll have much to tell me I’m sure. It’s been too long since you’ve attended the Red Keep.”

“I doubt your queen has missed me,” Jaime said.

Tyrion laughed. “I assure Daenerys has overcome any grudge regarding your ‘Kingslayer’ moniker. You have helped her to uphold the throne for twenty years without any hint of plunging a sword into her back.”

“That may be,” Jaime said. “But she hasn’t made me her Kingsguard, has she?”

“I think father is the one who successfully blocked you from ending your days as a Kingsguard,” Tyrion said.

“True enough.” Jaime drank deeply.

“Something is wrong,” Tyrion said. “Usually you’re more joyous to be in my presence.”

Jaime did not immediately reply. He instead plucked a piece of parchment from the table and a quill and wrote his answer. After all of these years, his handwriting was nearly as legible with his left hand as it once had been with his right. So Tyrion could perfectly read the words when he handed the parchment to him.

Johanna was kidnapped.

Tyrion’s eyes widened as he seemed to read the words five times. Then he hopped up, went over to the fire, and cast the parchment into the flames.

“Who knows?” he asked.

“My family and most trusted household guard,” Jaime said. “By now, I imagine Sansa knows as well. And now you.”

“Very immediate family,” Tyrion said. “I suppose this leads me to my next question–why so few people? Why have you arrived here like everything is normal?”

Jaime gave him a look. “Has your time as Hand made your brain softer, brother?”

Tyrion sighed. “You think whoever is responsible for this…slight…has come to King’s Landing for the feast.”

Jaime nodded. “We are particularly concerned with the recent religious conflicts. You helped to find the sparrows responsible for the attack in the Sept and bring them to justice, yes?”

“Yes,” Tyrion said. “But we focused on the fact that they were plotting to assassinate Priestess Kinvara. We had no need to bring the attack into it.”

“So who did know?” Jaime asked.

“This is King’s Landing,” Tyrion said. “I’m sure the full tale of the attack wound its way into many curious ears. The sparrows may have whispered to other sparrows.”

“Yes,” Jaime conceded. “What about Kinvara. Did she know who learned about the assassination plot?”

Tyrion hesitated, but nodded. “Yes. She did. The queen saw no reason to hide it from her. Kinvara has always been loyal to the crown.”

“Less loyal to our family,” Jaime pointed out, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I admit, Kinvara is intense,” Tyrion said. “Varys would use stronger words. But what reason would she have to wish someone who helped her harm? What reason would she have to stoke a war when the queen wants peace?”

“Six months ago, she and Arya clashed about how to handle the Flaming Sword,” Jaime said. “And ultimately the lords and ladies present, as well as the queen, fell on Arya’s side. She might be unhappy about that.”

“Kinvara has not defended the Flaming Sword since that decision,” Tyrion said. “Only insisted that Sparrows be punished in equal measure.” He sighed. “Still, I do not rule her out as a possibility. The rise of religious conflicts in the city has become quite a headache for us. I’m deeply sorry if your daughter is suffering the consequences for that.”

Jaime cast a nervous glance at the door. Tyrion gave a wave of his hand.

“It is safe, brother. You think I don’t guard my own offices from idol ears? If that was the case, someone would have done away with me long ago.”

Jaime nodded once, running a hand through his hair. He trusted Tyrion. But he did not trust this place. He’d seen too many people lose their political games in these walls. And he did not want to say anything or do anything that would risk his youngest daughter.

Johanna was a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. A smile from her and he’d give her anything and everything she wanted. If he found the people responsible here? He would choke the life from them with one hand in the middle of a crowded room if he could.

“If you want my advice,” Tyrion said at last. “You should watch whoever is watching your wife.”

Jaime tilted his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“In all of your time as Wardens of the west, who would you say has caused more outrage? Yourself or Arya?” Tyrion asked.

Jaime laughed once. “That’s an easy answer. I’m the eldest son of Tywin Lannister. They wanted me to succeed my father. They want me where I am. Arya on the other hand…”

“Exactly,” Tyrion said. “It used to be you who drew more ire. What with you being the Kingslayer and all. But since the Queen pardoned you in the sight of gods and men, most have been willing to look past your sins. Arya on the other hand…”

“She hasn’t committed any sins,” Jaime said.

“She is a Stark woman in the west,” Tyrion said. “And not one who is content to play the obedient wife.”

“Gods, can you imagine her trying?” Jaime asked. “Obedient and Arya simply don’t suit each other at all.”

“A disturbing notion indeed,” Tyrion said. “The point is, if you keep close to her and keep an eye on the crowds, you may spot certain sets of eyes watching her every movement. You may notice vultures circling, trying to hear her conversations. Whoever did this will be intent on watching Arya’s every move.”

“The could be watching my move as well,” Jaime pointed out.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Tyrion said. “But I don’t have to remind Arya to watch the crowds. She never stops.”

No, she didn’t. Whenever Arya fell silent, she was never idle. Her grey eyes were always at work, tracing every corner of every room. Every face. Every invisible intention. She had always been good at that. It was what had kept her alive after all of this time.

Arya would be looking out for their children and all of their allies at the Red Keep. So it was Jaime’s job to look out for her. 

If he did that, maybe they’d get through this.

Elissa was walking through the courtyard when the gates opened and she spotted the sigils of her cousins from the Stormlands. It was a tapestry of different colors. Black stags on fields of gold. A yellow flower set against green. And then Uncle Jon’s sigil–a white Stark wolf against a black background.

Her mother once told Elissa that Jon had claimed the sigil as both a political and personal move. It made the lords of the Stormlands less nervous about seeing a wolf in their territory if it was not identical to the Stark sigil. And it acknowledged that while he had been legitimized by the queen, he was not in competition with his brother, Robb.

Of course, Elissa knew that his flag did not tell the whole truth. He had claimed his mother’s house. His father’s…Uncle Jon would never be able to fly a flag with those colors.

Her uncle Jon swung from his horse. Elissa smiled and went to his side. “We worried you might be late, Uncle.”

Jon smiled at the sight of Elissa, drawing her into a hug. “That would be like me. I’ve never been much for grand celebrations. I prefer a darkened corner.”

“You and Marcus should keep each other company then,” Elissa said. She pulled back to note who else had arrived. Her cousin Steffon was swinging from his horse. He went around to the carriage and opened the door, holding out his hand like a gentleman to help his mother out. 

Margaery looked stunning as always, wearing a traveling dress of deep green with gold embroidery. Sara slipped from the carriage after her, quiet and solemn. But she smiled when she saw Elissa.

Tomas was the last to appear, practically vaulting off of his horse as he looked up at the Red Keep with delight. He and her twin siblings were born about the same time of year, but him a year behind. They were about to turn sixteen and he was about to turn fifteen. But he had the energy of a young pup. He was the first to run and hug Elissa and she had to brace herself to keep him from bowling her over.

“Tomas,” she gasped. “You’ve gotten taller.”

He had. He was nearly her same height now. At this rate, he would be towering before long.

“Really? I thought everyone else was shrinking,” he with a cheeky grin.

“Tomas,” Margaery said gently. “Know your strength.”

Tomas stepped back with a little laugh. “Ah. Right. Apologies, cousin.”

“It’s all right. I can take a hit,” Elissa said, turning to her aunt with a bright smile. “Aunt Margaery.”

“Elissa.” Margaery approached, resting a hand upon her cheek. “You grow more beautiful with every year.”

Elissa smiled, pleased at the assessment. Her aunt would never have given her such a compliment unless she believed it. And Margaery Tyrell was among the most beautiful women in all of the realm.

“I don’t suppose you know if the Lady Shireen has arrived yet,” Margaery said.

“I don’t believe she has,’ Elissa said.

Margaery nodded once and glanced back at Steffon who had been watching stoically from beside his horse. Though he was only two and twenty, Steffon carried himself like a man ten years his senior. He had Margaery’s calm and grace and Jon’s solemnity. Of course, Jon wasn’t his true father, but he had helped to raise Steffon since he was quite young and it showed.

“I’ll go with Tomas to greet the prince,” Steffon said. “Then make we’re settled in our quarters.”

“Will the two of you be playing companion to Prince Daerys during the festivities?” Elissa asked.

“Tomas will,” Steffon said and did not elaborate. Elissa wondered if he hadn’t been invited because of his age…or if it was because he had been Daenerys’ heir before Daerys was born.

Elissa kept that musing to herself and looked to Tomas. “Marcus will be at the Prince’s side as well. Look after him for me, will you?”

“Marcus is here?” Tomas asked. “Is Nym here too?”

“No. Just Marcus,” Elissa said.

Tomas blinked in surprise. Elissa didn’t blame him. She was still stunned that Marcus had wanted to come along, and more so that he would leave Nym. 

“I’ll look after him,” Tomas said after a pause. “Of course I will.”

“Thank you,” Elissa said, clasping his shoulder.

She watched Steffon and Tomas go before turning to her uncle. “My mother will want to see you as soon as you’re settled.”

“Of course,” Jon said. “I’ll find her. Margaery–”

“I’ll greet the queen,” Margaery said with a nod. She placed a hand delicately on his arm as she passed him. It was an almost unconscious gesture. Aunt Margaery always seemed to move so deliberately except when she was with Uncle Jon. With him she could move without thought or worry. It was effortless.

As they began to depart, Elissa felt an arm loop through hers. Her cousin Sara had drifted to her side without her noticing. “Take a walk in the gardens with me?” Sara asked.

There was an urgent tone in her voice–that of someone who had many matters they wished to discuss and could not wait a second longer.

“Of course,” Elissa said with a smile. “The gardens are lovely in the summer.”

Elissa and Sara walked a loop around the gardens before they spoke of anything important. They made a point to note all of the other guests of the garden that day. Various lords and ladies taking in the sun.

Eventually they found a bench set up against a small wall which looked out to the sea. If anyone were to approach them they would see them in plenty of time to change the subject.

“So? How are things in the Stormlands?” Elissa asked.

Sara shook her head, tucking dark hair behind her ears. “Lyra is…restless.”

“I’m not surprised,” Elissa said. “If I was in her position I would lose my mind.”

“Most recently, she stole a…treasure,” Sara said. “Hoping to claim it as her own. Or hoping it would claim her some day.”

Elissa’s eyes widened. She did not need to clarify what Sara meant by treasure. She had taken one of the dragon eggs to her room. “Gods…does she still have it?”

“No. They took it back from her. She was furious,” Sara said. “It’s as if she doesn’t care if she’s discovered.”

“I wouldn’t either if I was her,” Elissa said. “The moment she’s discovered…she’s free to go where she will.”

“Unless of course it starts a war,” Sara said.

“Right. Unless that,” Elissa said. “But maybe Lyra would take a war if she had freedom.”

Sara nodded once. “Maybe. She’s also tried convincing our parents to send her off to Essos. Maybe if she was a man, they would allow that. But they’re reluctant to send their daughter across the sea alone. And our brothers are a bit too young to go with her as chaperones. Except for Steffon, but he’s the heir to the Stormlands. He can’t leave.”

Elissa inclined her head. On one hand, she’d like to believe that Lyra could handle herself. She was strong willed and smart. But on the other hand…she was stubborn and that could get her into trouble. All she’d ever known was her home in the Stormlands where no one would dare raise a hand to her. She might pick a fight with the wrong person overseas and start an entirely different war.

“I’m surprised that all of you came to King’s Landing then,” Elissa said. “And left Lyra at home. What if she attempts to steal treasure again?”

“She won’t,” Sara said. “I convinced her that there was another path to freedom.”

Elissa raised an eyebrow. “What path?”

“If I were to marry the prince and unite our families…then our heritage would no longer be a threat to the crown,” Sara said softly.

Elissa twisted her fingers together in her lap. “So…you are vying for the Prince’s hand.”

“Yes,” Sara said. “There has been talk behind the scenes. My mother spoke to the queen. Evidently your mother spoke to her as well.”

Elissa’s mother had neglected to mention that. Was that why she had no worries about Elissa trying for the prince’s hand? Because she had already made plans of her own?

“It’s not set in stone,” Sara said. “The queen wants her son to have a choice in his bride. She won’t force him to accept me for political reasons. But I’m sure she’s mentioned my name.”

“It will help you to stand out from the other competition,” Elissa said neutrally.

“It’s the only thing that will,” Sara said. “Otherwise I would have faded entirely into the background.” She sighed. “Lyra and I would be better off if our places were reversed. I would be just fine staying at home. And she would relish competing for the hand of a prince.”

With another lady, Elissa might have offered false praise an reassurances. But Sara was her cousin, so she felt no need to do so. Sara had always been a quiet, solemn girl. She had a pretty face and shiny dark hair. But the natural set of her expression made her look so serious and when she did smile, it always looked a bit forced. She reminded her a bit of Nym if Nym tried more often to fit the role of a young lady.

“You don’t want it,” Elissa said at last. A statement, not a question. “His hand.”

“No,” Sara looked at her. “And you do.”

Elissa shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”

“You want it,” Sara said with one of her dry smiles. “And you’d be good at it. Being queen.” Sara sighed. “But I don’t want to let Lyra down.”

“You might not let her down,” Elissa said. “If I was to win the prince that would be mean a marriage alliance between the Targaryens and the Lannisters. That alliance could make space for the truth to come forward. We are family, after all.”

Sara nodded once, though she did not look fully convinced. Elissa wished she had an easy answer, but this was just one more knot in this tangled web. They were both trying to look after their sisters and felt utterly unable to do so.

“In any case,” Sara said. “Promise to keep me company over the next few weeks. I’ll need your help in the crowds.”

“I can promise that,” Elissa said.

“What about the tourney?” Sara asked. “Do you plan to enter your name?”

Elissa blinked at the question. She had honestly almost completely forgotten about the tourney. “Do you?”

“Oh, no,” Sara said. “If it was a smaller tourney maybe I would enter myself in archery, but I don’t want that many eyes on me. I fear I will get nervous and my arrow will miss the target entirely.” She smiled. “I know you don’t fear the attention though. So will you?”

Twenty years ago, such a question would have been absolutely laughable. Women taking part in a tourney? That was a privilege left for knights and there were no female knights. Even in tournaments not restricted to knights it was assumed that only men be allowed to compete.

Then Ser Brienne of Tarth, their Aunt Sansa’s sworn knight, took part in a melee in King’s Landing and won handily. Since then, she had won many more tournaments.

And Brienne was not the only one. In any tournament where the roster was not restricted to knights, other women had begun putting their names down to show their fighting prowess. Many were refused, so some women began showing up disguised as men, revealing themselves only after they had claimed a victory.

Some of the women who competed were quite notable. Oberyn Martell's bastard daughters, the Sand Snakes, for instance. They entered more than one tourney and did extremely well for themselves. Though they refused to hide their gender when they entered.

Then, at the tourney to celebrate the birth of Princess Rhaena, when Queen Daenerys allowed any brave soul to enter their name, many women arrived to test their metal. There was an uproar and the queen was asked to make a ruling on this matter. The queen declared she saw no reason at all to restrict a warrior on the basis of their sex. If the men wanted them out of the tournament, they would have to eliminate them hand to hand.

In solidarity, Elissa’s mother had entered herself into the tourney. Elissa had been too young to remember, but her father loved to recount the story to them. Of course, Arya Lannister, who had slayed the Night King and ended the Long Night, had no real need to prove herself in battle. But she entered herself in defiance of the men who did not think women fit for the tourneys.

In the bracket that year, her mother defeated opponent after opponent. The final fight took place between two women. Arya and Brienne of Tarth. Ultimately, Brienne had claimed victory and her mother surrendered to her with pride. Since then, at least in King’s Landing, women were allowed to enter tourneys as they pleased, thought plenty of lords still restricted such things in their own personal tourneys.

It was a tumultuous time to be a woman in Westeros. A Queen had sat the throne for twenty years. Some ladies of great houses seemed to hold as much power as their husbands. And women could win glory in tourneys and even knighthoods. But still, a woman’s fate was still often determined by men and men took precedent in the line of succession.

Elissa had competed in a few tournaments at the Rock. She loved the spectacle of it. The way her blood sang in the heat of a battle with so many eyes on her. To compete at a tourney in King’s Landing would be an altogether different experience. But if she did well, it would draw quite a lot of attention.

“I want to,” Elissa said at last. “Unfortunately what I want isn’t the only thing that matters is it?”

She wished desperately to tell Sara about Johanna. About all of her hopes and fears for the next few weeks. But instead, she plucked a flower from the bush behind her and set about removing it’s petals one by one.

Elissa wanted to enter her name into the tourney. She kept thinking about it–about the chance to show her strength to every lord and lady in attendance. But this feast was not about her personal glory. It was about Johanna. About finding who took her.

So she did something she rarely did when she needed advice–she went to her mother.

Often when Elissa wanted something, she asked her father. She could often convince him to give her what she wanted with a few smiles and sweet words. But her father had never been a woman wondering if they should enter into a tourney dominated by men. Her mother had.

Her Uncle Jon was just leaving when she made it to their quarters. He paused an rested a hand on Elissa’s shoulder, squeezing. The grave look in his eyes told Elissa that her mother had informed him about Johanna.

She gave him a simple nod back, not wanting to speak in the hallway where anyone could hear. There was not need for words between them. He continued on his way and she slipped into the room.

Her mother was sitting at the desk, leaned back in her seat, massaging the bridge of her nose. When she spotted Elissa, she straightened.

“Jon said you spoke with Sara. I assume you told her nothing?” Arya asked.

“Not a thing,” Elissa said. “We spoke of the feast. Of the prince.” She chose not to bring up what Sara had said about the push to engage her to the prince for Lyra’s sake. “Sara asked if I planned to enter my name in the tourney.”

Arya raised her eyebrows. “And do you?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to ask your advice,” Elissa said.

Her mother didn’t reply for a moment. She seemed genuinely surprised that Elissa would ask. Much more often, Elissa would follow her impulses and endure the lecture later.

“On one hand, Marcus and I have agreed that I should be the sibling to draw attention while he fades into the background,” Elissa said. “Entering the tourney would draw attention. It’s not as if I’d be the only woman. I’m sure Ser Brienne will enter her name as well. And likely win.” She shrugged. “But maybe it would draw too much attention. If the culprit sees me fighting, they might be reluctant to engage me in conversation.”

“To be fair,” Arya said. “I’d rather the culprit had nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

“I know,” Elissa said. “But they probably already fear you and father. If I played the demure lady, maybe they’d see me as the weak link.” She shrugged. “I just…I want to make the choice that will help us find Jo.”

Her mother did not immediately reply. Her brow was furrowed as she considered the possibilities. At least she had not told Elissa she was foolish to consider entering her name.

“Would you have entered yourself under normal circumstances?” Arya asked at last.

“Yes,” Elissa said.

“Even if it lost you the favor of the prince?”

“Yes,” Elissa said. “With a mother that rides on dragon back, I don’t imagine the prince would shy from a woman with a sword. But if he did…I would not want him. I couldn’t trade my weapons for any amount of power. I’d need a husband who understands that.”

The corner of her mother’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Enter your name then.”

“You’re sure?” Elissa asked.

“Yes,” Arya said. “I do not want our enemies to see you as weak. I do not want them to make the mistake of thinking you an easy target either.” She stood, crossing to Elissa, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Show them that you live up to your name.”

A proud smile slipped across Elissa’s face and she lifted her chin. “I will.”

Chapter Text

Late that night, Arya and Jaime stood out on the balcony of their quarters, overlooking the gardens. The balcony was such that no one in any nearby rooms would be able to hear them, especially with the wind. Still, they sat close and talked in low voice.

Jaime told her of his conversation with Tyrion and his worries about Kinvara. She told him about her conversation with Sansa and Varys, as well as Elissa asking to join the tourney. Jaime smiled a little at that story.

“I’m sure she’ll do well in the brackets.” He paused. “That’s what she’s entering, yes? Not the melee?”

“Yes, just the brackets,” Arya assured him. “And I’m sure she will do well. Of course, if Brienne has entered, she’ll find herself quickly humbled.”

“I don’t think Elissa would mind that,” Jaime said, leaning back in his seat. “We’ve both been humbled by Ser Brienne.”

A smile tugged at Arya’s mouth. “I’ll admit…I’m surprised she came to me and not you.”

“I’m not,” Jaime said. “If she had asked me, I’d have sent her to you. She just…cut out the middle man.”

Arya inclined her head. “In any case, we’ll have to worry about the welcome feast before the tourney. Hopefully the feast will give us some idea of what we’re working with.”

“I look forward to spending the night searching for enemies,” Jaime said. “I think…I will pretend to get a bit drunk. See if it draws any snakes from the grass.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Arya said. “Someone might hope the wine makes you loose lipped.”

“Exactly,” Jaime said. “And they’d never believe you if you played drunk.”

Arya frowned at him. “I could act the role if I needed to.”

“You could,” Jaime said. “If you had any history of over imbibing at parties. But you have a history of having only a few cups of wine, sipped slowly throughout the evening in a very responsible manner. It would be too out of character for you to be drunk.”

“True,” Arya said. “Do you think I could pretend to be sympathetic to the cause of the Red God?”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Where are you going with this?”

“You mentioned being worried about Kinvara,” Arya said. “I am too. She knew about Johanna. She knew that the sparrows were responsible. And she wasn’t happy with me at the last council. If she was a secret supporter of the Flaming Sword, then our family is one of the chief threats against their expansion. She might try to frame the sparrows for her own crimes.”

“True enough,” Jaime said. “Do you plan to ask her?”

“No,” Arya said. “I plan to tell her that we’ve been having recent troubles with the Sparrows. Of course she’ll know I blame them for the first attack on Johanna. If I claim there have been other issues in the west, she might jump at the chance to have me as an ally.”

“She’ll be wary of you,” Jaime said.

“I’m used to that,” Arya said.

Jaime wrapped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing lightly. “I’d say that we should rest. But I don’t know if you will.”

“I’ll stay out here a little longer,” Arya said. “Tire myself out with some practice. Then I’ll come inside.”

Jaime nodded, leaning over and kissing her on the side of the head. She could feel the urgency in the touch. They were both fearful for Johanna. They had been since she had gone missing. But Arya had a sense that she was out there alive.

They could not bow to fear or grief. They had to focus on finding their daughter.

The Temple of R'hllor was not as grand as the Sept of Baelor. It couldn’t possibly be since the Red God had only held sway in Westeros for a few decades. It had been constructed on the grounds of the Red Keep which had been a great source of contention for followers of the Seven. The idea that a temple of R’hllor should be behind the walls of the Red Keep while the Sept of Baelor was not? It was an insult.

It did not matter, of course, that it was the Sept of Baelor’s grand scale that prevented it from behind house behind the walls of the Red Keep. Nor were stringent followers swayed when Queen Daenerys pointed out that the Godswood was also housed in the Red Keep. After all, to followers of the Seven, worship of the Old Gods was practically a dead religion, kept only by ‘backwards northmen’. Followers of R’hllor were a more present, growing threat.

Arya did not see a need to cause such a fuss over a temple, but she knew some people were very particular about this sort of thing. She recalled that the North had reacted badly to a sept being built at Winterfell for her mother’s faith. She was just lucky that there was already a godswood at Casterly Rock. The western lords would have hated Jaime building any sort of altar to the Old Gods.

Arya had never stepped into this temple to R’hllor. It was dark inside even though it was broad daylight. Windows were made of red stain glass that gave the light a fiery quality. Torches lined every wall. And there was a pyre burning in the center, attended by two red priests at any given time. Their job was to keep the flame going day and night. The warmth of R’hllor.

Past the pyre, Arya noticed Kinvara kneeling at an altar next to the princess Rhaena. They were praying. Arya waited patiently in the shadows for them to finish. She knew that Rhaena made frequent visits to the Sept of Baelor as well. She wondered if Rhaena gave her favor equally to all of the gods or if she preferred one over the other. 

A few minutes later. Kinvara and Rhaena stood. Rhaena curtsied and made her way from the sept. She never noticed Arya. But Kinvara did. She smiled and circled around the pyre toward Arya.

“Lady Arya,” she said. “Is this your first visit to our humble temple?”

“It is,” Arya said.

“I’m sorry if it is not as ornate as you are used to,” Kinvara said. “We who serve the Red God are not so concerned with wealth as the followers of the Seven.”

Arya gave her a simple smile. “I have worshiped most often in godswoods with no walls or roof to speak of. I am not offended.”

Kinvara inclined her head. “I do not suppose you came here to pray like the princess.”

“I didn’t. I wanted to discuss other matters,” Arya said. “Is the princess particularly religious?”

“Oh yes,” Kinvara said. “You would be too if you were given life by the Red God.” She paused. “Though…I suppose you were.”

Arya kept her expression neutral. “You’re speaking of Berric Dondarian I assume.”

“He was a loyal follower of the Red God,” Kinvara said. “The Red God brought him back to life. And then Berric passed that gift onto you. If he hadn’t…your defeat of the Night King would be remembered as a heroic sacrifice.”

Arya might have argued that whatever power the Red God had instilled in him, it was Berric who had chosen to use it to save her. But she was trying to make friends.

“You’re right,” Arya said. “Without Berric and his devotion to R’hllor I would be dead. I would have accepted that outcome. It was my younger brother’s fate.” She walked along the edge of the pyre, letting her fingers trace the barrier. “I have never had an issue with any of the gods. It is their followers that give me pause.”

“Yes, you’ve made that clear,” Kinvara said.

“I’m not just speaking of the Flaming Sword,” Arya said. “Based on…events that happened six months ago, I believe I’ve neglected the threat of the Sparrows.”

Kinvara paused. Arya was sure she saw a spark in her dark eyes. She had just heard something she very much liked.

“Six months ago. The plot upon my life you mean,” Kinvara drifted closer to her, lowering her voice. “I had hoped to thank your youngest for the role she played in exposing it, but you all left too quickly. In all likelihood, their plot would have failed. But none the less, I appreciate her coming forward.”

Arya reminded herself that Kinvara mentioning Johanna was not an admission of guilt, since she was one of the few who knew the whole story of what had happened. But still her jaw tensed when she spoke of her.

“We’ve had more problems with the sparrows in the west,” Arya said. “Dedicated followers of the seven have never really liked my worship of the Old Gods, but they’ve been…causing more problems. The blaze of the Flaming Sword drew my eye and I didn’t notice the…growing infestation.”

“The sparrows trade on looking humble and nonthreatening,” Kinvara said. “So it is not a surprise.”

And when one extreme group rises, another will rise to match it, Arya thought but did not say.

“I imagine you’ve kept an eye on the Sparrows movements,” Arya said. “Given that they have an agenda against your people. I wondered if we might be able to help each other. If I know more about their activities, especially in the west, I might be able to deal with them there.”

“I have tracked their movements,” Kinvara said. “As you noticed, they do pose a distinct danger. But my people have limited influence in the west so…we haven’t been able to do much about it.”

She wanted more presence  in the west, of course, but Arya would not promise anything. “Well…I may be able to work in the gaps of your influence.”

Kinvara nodded. Her eyes still gleamed. Arya had dangled the hook and she had taken the bait at once.

But Arya didn’t tug on the line yet. She didn’t want Kinvara to know that she was hooked. But if she slipped up or revealed any guilt, Arya would drag her from the water and hold her there until her Red God abandoned her.

There were several men in charge of the tourney lists. There had to be because every knight in the seven kingdoms planned to enter their name. In fact, since the list was not restricted to knights, every young man who could hold a sword submitted for a chance of glory and, more practically, a bit of coin.

Elissa waited through the more crowded hours to approach and sign her name on the list for the brackets. She did receive a wary look from the man in charge. But when he saw her name–Elissa Lannister–he did not ask questions.

Elissa quickly scanned the list for other familiar names. She did not see Brienne’s name and she glanced up at the man. “Do you know if Ser Brienne has entered?”

“In the melee and the joust,” the man said. “She likely did not want to extend herself to too many events.”

“I see,” Elissa said. “Well…it’s kind of her to give other contenders a chance to win.”

“Yes, it is relieving to hear,” a voice said from just behind here. “Maybe you’ll vye for that chance.”

Elissa turned to see a young man with dark curls and even dark eyes. He was tall with bronze skin. She recognized his features as Dornish and it took only a few seconds for her to process who this was. Morgan Sand.

“That is my intention,” Elissa said, putting on a bright smile. She extended the quill to him. “Will you vye for the same spot?”

“I might,” Morgan bent over the list, writing down his name. “Tell me, Lady Elissa. Do you take after your mother?”

“Do you take after your father?” Elissa asked in return. “Morgan Sand?”

He smiled as if pleased at her recognizing who he was before even making introductions. “Some say so. I do favor the spear.”

“It does have a long reach,” Elissa said, moving away from the tables and down the halls. Morgan fell in step beside her. “But not useful if someone is able to get into close quarters with you.”

“The goal is to not let them in close quarters,” Morgan said. “But if they do, I have other methods. Perhaps you’ll see if we meet in the bracket.”

“Indeed,” Elissa said. “I hope your pride will not be wounded if you are trounced by a woman.”

Morgan laughed. “I have many older sisters. I have spent my entire life being trounced by women.”

A smile tugged at Elissa’s mouth. Yes, the Sand Snakes were notable in any arena, especially Obara who was nearly as fearsome as Brienne in a fight.

“I meant to ask after your sister,” Morgan said. “I wondered if she was well after her last visit to the capital.”

Elissa bit the inside of her cheek. It wasn’t strange for Morgan to ask after her. He had saved Johanna six months ago, after all. But still she felt a tug of mistrust.

“Thank you for asking,” she said. “Johanna couldn’t be here but…she was grateful for your help. As am I.”

She took care not to tell a true lie. She did not know Morgan well, but there was a shrewdness in his eyes. Even as he studied her, she worried he would see right through her.

“It was no trouble,” Morgan said. “I was in the right place at the right time.” He gave Elissa a short bow. “I look forward to seeing you in the tourney, my lady.”

“You as well,” Elissa said as Morgan strode off down the hall. Only when he had vanished around the corner did she release a breath.

She did not know what to make of Morgan Sand at all. He had a charming, easy exterior, but watchful eyes. When they spoke, she got a sense he was listening carefully to every single word. Would he carry her words back to his father? And what would he tell him? Had he read that she was hiding something about her sister? She had been careful to control her expressions, but maybe she had made a mistake.

In King’s Landing, everyone wore masks. It was just a matter of who could find a crack in the facade first.

Marcus was on his way to the library when he spotted Monterys and Phillip coming the opposite direction down the hall. He strongly considered turning around or just stepping into the first room he could see, but they spotted him before he could move.

“Ah, Lord Marcus,” Monterys called out. “Where are you off to?”

“Looking for my cousins,” Marcus said carefully because he thought that would be a better answer than the library. 

“We just came from placing our names in the tourney,” Monterys said. “The bracket. There’s a great deal of competition this year.”

“Indeed,” Phillip said. “Have you signed up, Marcus?”

“No,” Marcus said simply.

“Oh? Why not? Not one for swordplay?” Phillip asked.

“I can use a sword,” Marcus said.

“Well, then why not show your skills,” Monterys said. “It’s a good arena for second sons to earn a little glory.”

“I’m not interested in glory,” Marcus said. He took time with his words, but this was dangerous territory. They were asking him questions now rather than letting him sit silent in the corner. He knew it was only a matter of time before one of his words caught.

“Well then,” Phillip said. “Maybe you can give us some advice for the tourney. You’re not competition. What would be your strategy?”

These questions were not suited to one word answers and Marcus was searching for any route of escape. “I’m not sure. I r-really–”

He felt the syllable catch and he fell silent. Phillip and Monterys didn’t look surprised though. They both grinned as if Marcus had walked perfectly into a trap. He realized their questions had not been friendly at all. It was a calculated move to reveal his weakness.

“So it’s true,” Phillip said. “Marcus of House Lannister has a stammer. We had heard rumors.”

“That must be a strange thing,” Monterys said. “Coming from so great a house and yet not being able to get your words out.”

“Well, at least he’s not the eldest son,” Phillip said. “That would be a thing. A stuttering Lannister as Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Marcus’ jaw clenched and he did not reply. He wished at least one of his cousins were here. Or Elissa. But it was just him and he knew that any clever retort he could come up with would be lessened by his clumsy tongue.

“Is there a problem?” Daerys voice rung out from behind Marcus. Marcus’ heart dropped into his stomach. He was aware of the crown prince coming up just behind him and his gaze dropped to the ground.

“No, no problem,” Monterys said as he and Phillip tried and fail to stifle their amused smile. “We were uh, having a discussion.” He gestured to Marcus. “Lord Marcus, tell Daerys what we were discussing.”

Marcus’ ears burned. “We were discussing the t-tourney, your grace.”

His stammer made them snicker again. Daerys, however, did not snicker. He was dead silent and it was enough to make Marcus look up. His gaze settled on Daerys in time to see the cool smile spread across his face.

“Oh. I see. You were trying to humiliate Marcus by making him stammer in front of me,” Daerys said. “Presumptuous of you to think I didn’t already know about that. And equally presumptuous of you to imagine that I’d care.”

The smiles had fallen from Monterys and Phillip’s faces now. This was certainly not how they’d imagined this conversation would go.

“We weren’t trying to humiliate him,” Phillip said. “Just talking. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“You’re a poor liar, Phillip,” Daerys said. The cool smile on his face remained but there was something glittering in his violet eyes as he stepped forward. He stood a few inches taller than Phillip. Just enough to look down his nose at him. “Remember. Lord Marcus is my guest, the same as you. If you disrespect one of my guests, you are disrespecting me. Do not let it happen again.” He raised an eyebrow, glancing at Monterys. “Are we clear?”

“Yes, your grace,” Monterys said quickly.

“Yes. Of course,” Phillip muttered.

Daerys’ smile widened and the look in his eyes melted into something warmer. “Wonderful.”

He turned and grasped Marcus by the shoulder, steering him away from Monterys and Phillip, further down the hall. Marcus went with him without protest.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Marcus told Daerys quietly. “I don’t mind what they th-think of me.”

“Well, I do mind,” Daerys said, glancing down at him with a hint of a smile. “And I’m the crown prince. They have no choice but to listen to me.”

Marcus’ mouth twitched and a bit of warmth spread through his chest. He wasn’t sure what he had done to earn such loyalty from the heir to the Iron Throne. But…if that could help them find Johanna down the line, it couldn’t be so bad.

Despite his fervent dislike of the Farman heir, Tybolt was forced to entertain him and other western lords, for a week before they would set off. It was customary to offer lords lodgings for a time if they traveled a distance to bring concerns to the table.

This meant Lord Androw kept trying to poke and prod at him to get what he wanted. And Tybolt kept on redirecting him or calmly stating that he could not act without more information.

Sebastian talked a big game in private about how Tybolt should stand up to his brother. But in public, he never said a word against Androw. He was often utterly quiet, which was a strange word to apply to Sebastian.

“All younger brothers talk badly about their older brothers,” Franklyn told Tybolt once privately. “But to their friends. Never to their face.”

Tybolt didn’t know if that was true. He couldn’t picture his brother talking badly about anyone, but that was mostly because he didn’t talk much. Did he and Nym spend long hours speaking on Tybolt’s faults?

Franklyn was right on one account–Sebastian never spoke ill of Androw to his face. But the night before Androw was set to leave, he came to Tybolt’s office with a grave expression.

“What’s the matter?” Tybolt asked. “You look ill.”

“I often feel ill after conversations with my brother,” Sebastian said with a smile. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes today. He was rubbing his cheek.

“What happened?” Tybolt asked. “Did he strike you?”

“Only once,” Sebastian said. “That’s normal behavior from him. Doesn’t bother me anymore.”

“Something is bothering you,” Tybolt said.

“Well…he passed out from the drinking. I may have spitefully stolen some letters from his cabin,” Sebastian said. “Read some of them. Thought…you should see this one.”

Sebastian set a letter on the desk in front of Tybolt.

Tybolt looked from his friend to the letter. Then picked it up and began to read.

The letter noted a deal. The pick up and delivery of important cargo to be carried out in absolute secrecy. It spoke of a large amount of gold to be exchanged, the first half upon the acceptance of the deal and the second half upon delivery. An amount of money that could not be for any normal cargo. And the vague language used…it could not be something legal.

“It mentions ‘keeping secure during transport’,” Sebastian said. “Honestly, it…sounded like slave trade.”

Tybolt nodded once. It did sound like slave trade. Certainly Androw was moving human cargo. That wasn’t a surprise. He spent so much time fighting pirates, maybe he had worked out a deal with a few of them to further line his pockets. 

But what if it wasn’t simply slaves? What if he was being paid to transport a much more valuable sort of hostage.

When Johanna had been kidnapped, his parents immediately sent out search parties of their most trusted guard. These were men skilled at tracking who knew the area well. It would have taken quite a bit of skill to remove Johanna from the west with so many searching for her. Better that the kidnappers lay low somewhere for a few months, with Johanna. And then…when much of the Lannister family left for the Red Keep…transport her further away.

Lord Androw had come to the capital to complain of pirates. But maybe he’d really come so that he would be in the port to transport the hostage away for a great sum of money.

Or, of course, he could simply be trafficking in slaves. Either way, it was a crime worthy investigating.

“He leaves tomorrow night,” Tybolt said at last.

“Yes,” Sebastian said.

“Then I shall have to inspect his cargo before he goes,” Tybolt said. 

“Right,” Sebastian said running a hand through dark hair. “I guess…that would be the right course.”

“You were right to bring this to me, Sebastian,” Tybolt said. “I’m grateful.”

“Of course.” Guilt twisted across Sebastian’s face and Tybolt did not blame him. It could not be easy turning on his brother even if he hated him. 

There were many who thought that loyalty to family superseded everything else. Tybolt was among those people–but he was fortunate to have a family that cared about each other and about him. Some families did not earn loyalty or love. 

“If he is guilty of trafficking slaves, he will be sent to the wall,” Tybolt assured Sebastian. “Not executed.”

Sebastian nodded once, seeming slightly reassured. 

Tybolt did not tell him the other truth–that if Androw had anything to do with taking his sister, his last days would be in a cell and his final moments on an executioner’s block. 

If Androw had taken Johanna, Tybolt might just carry out that sentence himself.

Chapter Text

The great hall was filled to the brim for the welcome feast. Targaryen banners hung all around, a swathe of red an black, intermixed with the gold, orange and crimson banners of House Martell. Dragons and Suns together. The colors of a roaring fire, Marcus realized. He supposed Dragons and Suns shared that in common. It was no wonder the followers of R’hllor tried to court favor with them.

For the welcome feast, each family was announced upon entry. Marcus entered, of course, with the Lannisters. His mother and father walked side by side. He walked just behind his father at his right hand side. His sister walked just behind their mother at her left. He was nervous as he felt so many eyes turn on them. But he knew most of the eyes wouldn’t be looking at him. They would be watching his father. His mother. They would be sizing up Elissa and her chances at courting Prince Daerys. They’d have little interest in the second son.

Their table was situated close to the main table–a sign of respect. Daenerys, of course, sat front and center. Her son and daughter sat on either side of her. Daerys caught Marcus’ eye for a split second as he took a seat before he turned his attention on the other families

The procession of introductions took some time, but even before every family had entered, the parade of food began. Course after course was delivered to be devoured. There was wild boar. Venison. Partridge. A variety of savory pies. Heaping trays of steaming vegetables and potatoes. And of course, there were dozens of servants all throughout the great hall with pitchers of wine, ready to fill any empty goblets.

Marcus sipped carefully at his wine and found it hard to focus on the food with so many people around. He kept catching snippets of conversation, mostly trivial, from the surrounding tables. But he was just a bit out of earshot to hear the conversation at the main table.

Between one of the courses, eligible daughters were called to walk before the main table and greet the prince as their names were called. Marcus took care to note the most important of the candidates–and Daerys’ reaction to them.

The young ladies in question dressed in colors befitting their house. They walked with a practiced grace. For some that grace seemed more forced than others. Marcus noticed a nervousness in his cousin Sara’s walk. A certain stiffness. But regardless of that, she looked lovely in a gown of white and green and Daerys’ eyes lingered on her after she left.

That, Marcus found, was Daerys’ tell for the ladies that drew his interest. For some girls, the moment they walked away, his eyes left them and he looked for the next candidate. For the others, he watched for a few seconds longer. It was a subtle thing–not enough to show any clear preference. But still noticeable.

Daerys’ gaze tracked his cousin Wylla Tyrell. Not a surprise. She had her mother’s beauty and in a gown of gold and green she stuck out from the others.

Green seemed to be the color of many houses that night, including Deyna Hightower, who also retained the Prince’s attention. She also lingered for longer than the others as if to relish her time in the spotlight. Every movement was graceful, like a well rehearsed dance.

Alina Velaryon donned a light blue dress with detailed white embroidery like waves along the skirt. Her movements and smiles seemed less practiced than Deyna’s, but far more natural. One could almost believe this wasn’t one of the most important nights of her life. That she was only here to have a nice time.

Marcus was a bit surprised that Daerys’ did not linger on his cousin Lyanna. Certainly there was a greater gap in age between the two of them than most. But she was still young and beautiful in a gown of midnight blue.

Of course, beside the gown, Lyanna did not seem invested in winning the prince either. Marcus imagined her appearance here was a purely political move. It would be considered an insult if Uncle Robb had not attended with his eligible daughter. But he doubted Robb would agree to a match between them.

Then there was Elissa. She was dressed in full Lannister colors–a deep crimson gown with resplendent golden embroidery along the sleeves and skirt. There was nothing rehearsed about her approach. Her greeting. Her smile. It all seemed so naturally confident. And of course, Daerys gaze tracked her for a few beats after she left.

Marcus wondered sometimes what it would be like to be so confident in his own skin. That had been Elissa’s talent from the moment she was born. She was proud of who she was and she would not hide it for anything. That confidence had always been magnetic to others. Maybe it would be magnetic to the prince as well.

But funny enough, through it all, Marcus never saw Daerys’ expression truly change. He was pleasant. He smiled and greeted each young lady that stepped before him. But his eyes did not soften like a man smitten at first sight. He did not seem to lose his breath. There was no moment like in the songs when eyes met and all became clear.

Marcus wondered if that was a careful calculation or a genuine lack of interest in his options. On one hand, he may have been encouraged by the queen not to show his preferences too early. It was best if more than one family thought they had a chance throughout the festivities.

But on the other hand, maybe he wasn’t the sort to fall in love at first sight. Marcus wasn’t sure. Whatever the case, Marcus did not envy the Prince one bit. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to sit at the main table with every eye on him watching for the smallest reactions. He couldn’t imagine the weight of so many expectations.

At last, the procession came to an end. Elissa rejoined their family at their table.

“Well,” Elissa murmured when she slid into the seat beside Marcus. “Anyone of note?”

“He seemed intr-trigued by you,” Marcus said. “His eyes followed you after you l-left.”

“Good,” she said. “Anyone else?”

“Our cousin. S-Sara and cousin Wylla,” Marcus said. “Then Alina Velaryon and Deyna Hight-tower.” He drummed his fingers on the table as he realized something. “It s-seems he gave more notices to sisters of those in h-his circle.”

“Perhaps that’s why he made the invitations he did,” Elissa said.

Marcus didn’t reply. He glanced back at Daerys who was sipping at his wine, speaking to his mother about something. He hoped the prince had not simply invited him as a way of getting to his sister. After all, Daerys had not once mentioned Elissa to him in the time they had spent together.

The hair on the back of Marcus’ neck prickled as the feeling of being watched washed over him again. He had only to slide his gaze a few seats to the left to see why. Morgan Sand had a seat near the edge of the main table. And he was looking right at him.

He smiled when Marcus caught his eye and raised his goblet in silent toast. Marcus held his gaze and did the same.

He had gone unnoticed by nearly everyone since he got here. But now it was clear. While he watched everyone else…Morgan Sand would be watching him.

When the feasting was over, tables were cleared away and space made for dancing. The musicians took up a jaunty tune and lords and ladies began filling in the space. Men escorted their wives to a dance and nervous boys bowed and asked girls to honor them with a dance.

Part of Arya was glad she had missed this bit of courting. She did quite like dancing, but she would have hated dancing with young men who mostly wanted her for her name and title. Of course, she also wished she had not been forced into an engagement from a young age, but at least she had had the peace of mind of knowing Jaime also did not want the match.

“Well?” Jaime leaned over to murmur in her ear. “Do you think it’s been long enough that I can play drunk without seeming like a complete drunkard?”

She smiled as if he was telling her a particularly juicy secret. “I think so. If you play lightly in your cups.”

“That is the plan,” Jaime said. “I’ll talk first to Tyrion. See who approaches to make pleasantries. Maybe discuss the tourney and how I would best them all if I had my right hand.”

Arya raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been fighting with your left hand for over two decades now, Jaime.”

“Yes,” Jaime said. “But I still want them to think I’m not as good as I once was.” He winked. “Element of surprise.”

She smiled as he rose from the table and made his way off into the crowds. Shortly after, she rose as well to take a turn around the room to speak with all of the expected people.

She stopped before the main table to bid hello to Queen Daenerys. Considering she was soon to give her eldest son away, the woman looked quite calm and pleasant as if she was just enjoying the festivities.

“It’s a lovely feast, your grace,” Arya said. She glanced at Daerys. “You certainly have many worthy options for your bride, Prince Daerys.”

“I do,” Daerys agreed. “It will make it a difficult choice.”

“I’m sure you will make the right one,” Arya said. She nodded at the queen. “Enjoy the rest of the feast.”

“And you, Lady Arya,” Daenerys said, raising a glass with a pleasant smile.

Arya walked away completely positive that Daenerys knew nothing about what had happened to her daughter. Her expression was open, like a woman who had nothing at all to hide.

She spotted Jaime in the crowd as she went to speak with her brothers. He was laughing loudly with Tyrion, effectively drawing some attention. Garth Hightower, more commonly known as Garth Greysteel, was making his way over to them both. Good.

Robb was sitting at a table, not dancing, drinking a cup of wine slowly as he watched Lyanna mill about the room. Jon sat beside him, keeping him company. When they were younger, Jon had been the more solemn of the two. The more quiet. But in time they had switched places. Jon smiled more easily now and Robb’s smiles were quite rare.

“Well, you two seem to be enjoying yourself,” Arya said, sitting beside them.

“Oh you know me,” Jon said. “These sorts of events are my favorites.”

“Yes of course,” Arya said. “You’ve always been so social.”

Jon smiled. “I leave this sort of thing to Margaery. She makes it look so easy.”

Arya found Margaery Tyrell in a crowd. Sure enough, she was laughing and making conversation with other ladies like they were the best of friends.

“And you?” Arya glanced at Robb. “Are you hoping to glare any suitors away from your daughter?”

“I’m not glaring,” Robb said simply.

“You are,” Arya glanced at Jon. “He’s glaring, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid you are, Robb.” Jon clapped him on the shoulder.

“I don’t recall asking either of you,” Robb said coolly.

Arya gave a small smile. “I am surprised you brought her. I thought you might attend alone.”

“It would have been considered an insult,” Robb said. “But in this case, Lyanna and I are of one mind. She doesn’t wish to be a queen in the south.”

“It must be nice to be of one mind with one’s eldest daughter,” Jon said lightly.

Arya found Elissa in the crowd, dancing and making conversation with a young lord of the Stormlands. Yes it would be nice.

“It doesn’t happen frequently,” Robb said. “I am enjoying it for now.”

“Yes. I can see how much you are enjoying yourself.” Arya stood. “Come. Dance with me.”

Robb studied her. Then rose and took her hand, guiding her into the center of the room. There was such a clamor on the floor that they could get close enough to whisper and not be overheard.

“Did Sansa speak to you,” Arya murmured.

“Yes. This morning,” Robb said. “I don’t understand why we are keeping so quiet about it. I have heard nothing in the north. But then, I didn’t know to listen for anything.”

“It was too far to send a rider. And I don’t think you will find anything in the north,” Arya said.

“I don’t understand how you can appear so calm,” Robb said.

“Because I keep telling myself it’s the best way to find her,” Arya murmured. “Every minute I promise myself that she’s alive. That she will be okay. That I will find her. And then I keep moving forward.”

“That’s what mother did,” Robb said. “There was a time when there was no word at all of you after father died. Many said you were dead. She never believed it.”

“I suppose I finally know what she felt,” Arya said. She was worried less about that first time she was missing and more about the second time when she was taken captive in the north. She tried not to think about what would happen if someone like Ramsay Bolton had a hold of her daughter.

I haven’t received any fingers yet, Arya thought. So she must still be in one piece.

The dance ended and Robb stepped back, bowing to her. “Now am I allowed to retreat to my corner.”

“Not quite yet,” Sansa said sweeping in as if from nowhere. “You must dance with me too, less I think you have a favorite sister.”

Robb sighed and acquiesced.

Arya turned, about to make her own exit from the floor, but found herself faced with a hand and a familiar sly smile.

“Will you honor me with a dance, Lady Arya?” Oberyn Martell asked.

“Would it honor you?” Arya asked, eyebrow raised.

“Of course,” Oberyn said. “And it would show our families at peace, which is of benefit to both of us, wouldn’t you say?”

Already, Arya could sense nearby gazes turning to watch them. Whatever choice she made, it would be witnessed. So she did not hesitate. She smiled and nodded, placing her hand in his and letting him guide her into the next dance.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” Oberyn asked. “That all of Westeros continues to watch the relationship between our families after all of these years.”

“It is,” Arya said. “Twenty years we have managed to keep a peace. And yet they still look for it to crumble.”

“Maybe they even hope it will,” Oberyn said. “A conflict between us, no matter how it ended, would open a wide hole in the West or in Dorne.”

“And plenty of families would like to fill that space,” Arya said. He spun her around him and she watched for the faces in the crowd that were watching them. She noted Rolland Caron. A few of the Velaryons. Baelor “Brightsmile” Hightower. “Have you spoken lately to anyone who is hoping for that conflict?”

“Have you?” Oberyn asked. A question with a question. It was typical of him, but she wasn’t about to tip her hand so easily.

“I’m sure I have,” Arya said. “None of them are honest about their intentions.”

“No. I suppose it’s not good form to admit you want a war. Especially at a celebration like this.” They drew close again. “I was surprised you didn’t bring your youngest to contend for the prince’s hand.”

Arya’s jaw clenched. She did not like hearing Oberyn speak of Johanna, but unfortunately she could not count it as a sign of guilt from him. Oberyn no doubt wanted to remind Arya of her debt to his son.

“She’s too young to be married off just yet,” Arya said.

“There are ladies her age in contention,” Oberyn said.

“That is their parents decision. I make my own,” Arya replied firmly. 

Oberyn inclined his head and did not argue this further. “I have been contemplating what happened six months ago.”

“Contemplating what debt you might extract from me, you mean,” Arya said.

“It is Morgan’s debt to extract, not mine,” Oberyn said.

“Yes, I’m sure you will have nothing whatsoever to do with it,” Arya said.

Oberyn gave a sly smile. “Well, sometimes a son does ask his father for advice about these things.”

Arya let out a breath, glad that the dance allowed her to turn away from him for a moment. But only for a moment.

“You do hate that it was my son that helped you, don’t you?” he asked, lowering his voice so that only she could hear. “It’s been eating you up.”

“I am glad she was saved,” Arya said flatly. “That’s all that mattered.”

“And yet, if you could choose the manner in which it happened…you would have chosen differently,” Oberyn said.

“There are a great many things that would have happened differently if I had a choice,” Arya said, looking up at him with hard eyes. “For instance I might choose that our families had no reason to associate at all.”

“You wound me,” Oberyn said. “And here I thought you enjoyed our sparring.”

There was a part of Arya that did. Circumstances removed, she imagined she and Oberyn could have been friends and allies. But gods, there were so many circumstances.

“Speaking of sparring,” Oberyn said. “I don’t suppose you have entered into the melee or the brackets?”

“I haven’t in years,” Arya said. “The last time I entered was to make a specific point. I made that point. I don’t see any reason to enter.”

“For the glory of your house, I suppose,” Oberyn said.

“My father never saw much glory in tourneys,” Arya said. “He told me once that when he fought a man for real, he did not want him to know what he could do.”

Except he hadn’t told Arya that. He had told Robb and Jon and she had learned it from them years later. Her father had never talked much to her about fighting or tourneys or hunting. Sometimes she liked to pretend he had.

“It’s sound advise,” Oberyn said. “Always best to keep a few tricks up your sleeve. Or knives.”

“Indeed,” Arya said.

The dance was ending and just as a pause presented itself, Jaime was there with an outstretched hand. Arya go a sense he had been waiting for a moment to intercept her.

“Apologies, Prince Oberyn. I don’t mean to break up a lively conversation,” he said with a sharp smile. “I simply must dance with my wife.”

Oberyn nodded and gracefully backed away. “Of course, Lord Lannister. Enjoy yourself.” 

“I shall,” Jaime said, spinning Arya away and into the next dance. They waited until Oberyn was out of ear shot before they spoke.

“Tell me,” Jaime said. “Why is it that you and Oberyn can never pass up a chance to poke at each other?”

“I suppose it’s become tradition,” Arya said. “It would feel wrong if we didn’t.” She shrugged. “In any case, I’m glad he approached.”

“Are you?” Jaime asked.

“Yes. He is acting as he usually does,” Arya said. “Which means he doesn’t know what happened.”

“You’re sure of that?” Jaime asked.

“Oberyn Martell is smart,” Arya said. “He would never toy with me if he knew just how much fury is burning in me right now.”

“Winter’s fury,” Jaime said softly. Arya’s mouth twitched. The sword that bore that name might be safely hidden away in her room. 

But she carried that cold fire with her wherever she went.

Nym had ceased to feel any disappointment when the smooth rock toppled from her blade and rolled across the ground. It had happened so many times now that she had become immune to the sting of failure. She would simply pick up her stone and try again. 

At some point, she started to get better. Her hand steadied and the rock hovered for a moment before it fell. The smallest bits of improvement kept her going.

Tybolt no longer asked the purpose of the rock and the blade. He just assumed it was one of Nym’s quirks. And it seemed he was quite consumed by other matters as of late.

“I’ll have to leave the keep tonight,” he told her. “But I’ll be back before morning.”

“Leave? Why?” Nym asked.

“I have to follow up on a matter from court,” Tybolt said simply. She could tell he was holding something back, she expected Tybolt wouldn’t keep a secret unless he felt it absolutely necessary.

When he set out, Nym realized that for the first time in her entire life, she was the only Lannister in the walls of the Rock. Her parents came and went for business, sometimes taking her older sister with them. But she was used to always having Marcus and Johanna with her.

Now Marcus was miles away and Johanna was…gods only knew where Johanna was.

Nym spoke silent prayers in the sept at the foot of the Stranger. She was sure most would pray to others to protect Johanna. For the Mother and Father to watch over her. For the Warrior to protect her. For the Maiden to guide her. But Nym prayed to faceless god–that they would not yet take her sister from this world.

It was in the shadow of the Stranger, praying for Johanna, that her hand finally steadied and she found just the right angle for her knife. She looked down and found the stone perfectly balanced on the edge of her blade.

She did not move a muscle. She did not even breathe. She stared at it to make sure she was not seeing things. Then she tried to make note of exactly how she held her hand so that she could repeat this later for Jaqen.

A Holy Sister polishing the altars of the Seven shifted to clean the altar of the Stranger. “An impressive trick, my lady,” she said softly.

“Thank you,” Nym said.

The skin on the back of her neck prickled. Her eyes slid off the stone to the Holy Sister. She seemed perfectly innocuous–a small young woman stooped before the Stranger.

But she had the aura of death around her. Just like Jaqen.

Nym’s eyes had settled on her for a second when she saw her hand dipping into her sleeve.

Nym flicked the stone from the knife toward the woman as she whipped around, blade and hand. The stone struck her in the face, but it did not slow her as she lunged at Nym. Nym raised a hand to block her but a smooth strike from her assailant sent the blade spinning from her hand and sliding across the stone floor.

There was no time to look for help. Even opening her mouth to cry out would waste the precious seconds she needed to stay alive. She had a sense that she was alone in the sept right now or else this woman would not be attacking her. She should have paid more attention to the comings and goings of the holy brothers and sisters but it was too late for that now.

She had to focus on surviving.

Nym ducked under her next strike but did not manage to dodge the kick which sent her toppling. She rolled across the floor, letting the momentum put some distance between her in the woman.

A knife flashed into Nym’s hand as she steadied herself in a crouch. She hurled her knife forward without pausing to aim, because the woman was already closing the gap. She did not pause when the blade buried itself in her shoulder. She didn’t even grunt.

Nym kicked out as she closed the gap, catching the woman’s ankle with her foot. The woman slammed to the ground beside her. Nym tried to scramble away and put some distance between them, but a hand caught her ankle, dragging her back.

Nym pulled another knife but a knee slammed into her wrist, pinning it to the stone. Two hands wrapped around her neck, squeezing tight. She jabbed the woman in the ribs with her free hand but she did not release. She stared down at her with empty, dead eyes.

Until her throat opened and her blood spilled across Nym’s face. Still, the grip remained on Nym’s throat for a few moments longer until the fingers slackened and she could finally gasp for air.

She was not surprised to see Jaqen when the woman crumpled to the ground. She was surprised to see a hard look in his eyes as he looked at the corpse. One of almost…disdain. Disgust. Jaqen’s face was always so pleasant and only here did she see it twist.

“A girl is unharmed?” he asked.

Nym sat up, rubbing her neck. “A girl will live.” She stared at the woman. “She is a Faceless Man.”

“Yes.” Jaqen bent down, peeling the mask from her face to reveal an entirely different woman, younger and paler.

“Why…would one of your people try to kill me?” Nym asked.

“They are not a man’s people,” Jaqen said. “Though they are the reason a man returned to Westeros.”

“I don’t understand,” Nym said.

“The House of Black and White has fractured.” He nudged the dead woman with his foot. “This one is of the House of Grey.”

Chapter Text

The feast went late into the night. Even long after the end, Marcus could still hear people chattering in the halls of the Red Keep as they stumbled their way back to their quarters.

He had left only when the noise started feeling like a living thing crawling under his skin. His father noticed him starting to twitched and murmured for him to go.

“The rest of us can handle things here,” he said. “Find somewhere quiet.”

Marcus had nodded gratefully and left as fast as his feet could take him.

He was sure not to go anywhere too secluded. Late at night, that wouldn’t be advisable. So he found his way to the library again. The torches were still lit. A few lords huddled in corners, speaking of trade agreements. A septa read by candle light. A maester searched for a tome in the shelves.

Marcus found it easier to breathe the moment he found a quiet corner of the library where he could sit. He didn’t even look for a book. He just leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, letting the buzz of the feast fade away.

He wasn’t sure how long he lingered in the silence before someone moved out of his peripheral vision. He jumped, hand leaping to his belt. But he just found the prince slipping around the shelves.

“Your grace, I–”

Daerys lifted a finger to his lips. “Careful, Marcus. I don’t want any of my potential suitors to find me here.”

Marcus smiled a little as the prince came to collapse in the chair across from him. “It did s-seem exhausting…being the center of attention like th-that.”

“Oh yes,” Daerys said. “You can feel them analyzing your every move. Every expression.”

Marcus didn’t reply. He knew he had been one of those analyzing the prince’s every expression.

“My mother said I did well,” Daerys said. “I’ve memorized all of their names and faces so that I can be as polite as possible for the next few days at the tourney.”

Marcus wanted to ask if he had already decided on his bride and hidden it well. But part of him feared the answer. So instead he asked: “Will you be entering in the t-tourney, your grace?”

“No,” Daerys said. “I don’t see the point in participating in that performance. Better that I watch.” He glanced at Marcus. “I don’t imagine you’ll be participating.”

“No,” Marcus said. “I d-don’t do well in the spotlight. My s-sister will be though.”

“Lady Elissa,” Daerys said. “Your sister is something. One of the most confident ladies I saw today.”

“My sister is very good in the s-spotlight,” Marcus said, and he hoped his voice did not sound too jealous. “Was there…anyone else y-you noticed at the feast?”

“Yes. There was,” Daerys said. He met Marcus’ gaze. “Why do you ask?”

“I…f-forgive me, your grace. It’s just curiosity,” Marcus said, dropping his eyes to his hands.

“Of course,” Daerys said. “Well…my mother has mentioned your cousin Sara is a smart option, politically. You know her. What do you think of that?”

“Sara is very kind,” Marcus said honestly. “She s-seems solemn but she’s not r-really. It’s just the way her expression sits.”

“So, like you then?” Daerys asked.

Marcus’ mouth twitched. “Do I seem s-solemn?”

“Yes. Always such a serious expression on your face,” Daerys said.

Marcus twisted his fingers together. He could feel his neck growing hot. There was something about being noticed by the prince.

“So,” Daerys said. “Who do you think I should choose?”

Marcus paused before answering. “I’m a bit b-biased, my prince. Considering s-some of my own family are vying for your hand.”

“Even so,” Daerys said. “I’m curious.”

Marcus drew in a deep breath and looked the prince in the eye. “I think you should choose someone who’s c-companionship you enjoy. Politics aside. Y-you’ll share a lot of your l-life with them.”

“So I should marry for love,” Daerys said, raising an eyebrow.

“Not n-necessarily,” Marcus said. “You should m-marry someone you think you could love.”

Daerys did not have a reply for that. He just sank back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So many choices. It gives one a headache.” He laughed once but it sounded genuinely pained. “Forgive me, Marcus. I should go. I’m very tired.”

“Of course, your grace,” Marcus said softly, watching as the prince walked swiftly from the library.

Marcus lingered at the table for a long moment, playing the conversation with Daerys over and over again in his head. Until at last he rose to return to his quarters.

As he rounded the corner, his skin prickled. A quick glance to the left revealed Morgan Sand walking the shelves as well. And Marcus had a feeling that just before he turned, the Dornish boy had been looking right at him.

Marcus’ jaw tensed. And he did something that he would not usually. He approached Morgan.

“Did the feast become too much for you?” Marcus asked, forming his words as slowly and carefully as he could.

“Indeed. I thought I should find a quieter space,” Morgan said. “It seems you had the same idea.”

“Mm.” Marcus nodded once. “Did you follow me?”

Morgan smiled. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been watching me all night,” Marcus said.

“Yes. And you’ve been watching the Prince,” Morgan turned to face him. “It seems we’re both observant people.”

Marcus swallowed hard. He wanted to reply but feared he would stumble over his words.

Morgan passed him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Stay watchful, Marcus. It will do you well in this place.”

Then he wandered from the library, leaving Marcus alone.

“So…what is this fracture,” Nym said as she carefully wiped blood from her face with a damp cloth. She had returned to her room as swiftly as possible, but she’d made a point to first check all of her family’s household guard just to make sure none of them had the stench of death on them. Only then did she feel safe returning to her quarters. And only then did Jaqen appear again, as if out of shadows. “What is the House of Grey.”

“A man spoke of the Many Faced God and his many aspects,” Jaqen said. “Including his…hungrier aspects.”

“Yes,” Nym said. “You said that the Night King and the Long Night represented one of those aspects.”

Jaqen nodded once. “The House of Black and White, for most of it’s history has dedicated itself to balance. To respecting Death. To dealing it out. But always with prejudice. Always with restraint. But…there are members of the order who believe in feeding these hungrier aspects.”

Nym’s jaw tightened. That did not sound ideal. “They thought the Long Night was a good thing.”

“They believed it was necessary,” Jaqen said. “That it was the Many Faced God choosing to cleanse this country and pave the way. But then…the Night King was stopped.”

“By my mother,” Nym said.

“Yes,” Jaqen said. “And the Many Faced God was not even able to claim her life as a price.”

“So…what? That Faceless Man was trying to take my life instead? As punishment?” Nym asked.

“It is not so simple as that,” Jaqen said. “A single life is not enough for the House of Grey. In their mind, the Many Faced God was promised thousands of lives in the Long Night. So they must create an event of equal scale.”

“A war?” Nym asked. Then shook her head. “No. Westeros was riddled with war before the Long Night. The threat of the dead was something all together different. What could they possibly do to equal that?”

“A man does not know,” Jaqen said. “He was forced to flee the House of Black and White because he did not agree with the House of Grey.”

“So it’s not just a fracture,” Nym said. “The House of Grey has taken power.”

Jaqen’s expression was always neutral, but the shadows beneath his eyes seemed to deepen. “There have always been dissidents in the Faceless Men. We become no one and yet…no one does not seem to agree as a unit. But this is not one or two dissidents. It is a movement.”

Nym stood, pacing across her quarters. She turned and paced to the other wall. This room felt too large without Marcus. She felt too one and too unsure.

“So…the House of Grey is in Westeros,” Nym said. “You don’t know their final goal…except to create a catastrophe that rivals the Long Night. That’s not something that happens quickly. It’s a ripple into a great wave.” She turned back to Jaqen. “Before the Long Night, there were several Civil Wars. The War of Five Kings. The Northern Civil War. The Siege at the Rock. We only had the numbers to hold off the dead because of an alliance made with Queen Daenerys.” She stopped her pacing. “So whatever horror they hope to unleash on the world…it would be easier if Westeros were divided.”

Jaqen nodded once. He seemed pleased by her line of thinking so she kept going.

“The alliance my family has with the throne. The alliances my mother has made throughout Westeros. They keep the realm at peace.” Nym turned back to Jaqen. “If I were trying to cause a war, I would target my family.”

“It would be a good place to start,” Jaqen said.

“But there’s another problem,” Nym said. “Johanna wasn’t assassinated. She was kidnapped. They tried to killed Tybolt. They tried to kill me. Why is Johanna different?”

“A man does not know,” Jaqen said.

Nym let out a breath. “A girl wished a man knew more.”

Jaqen’s mouth twitched. “A man wishes that as well.”

Nym sank onto her bed, holding her head in her hands, trying to puzzle through the situation. “Most of my family is at a feast with all of the most important houses in Westeros. Anything could happen there. And my brother–”

Nym leapt back to her feet as she remembered. Johanna’s kidnappers had tried to kill Tybolt. If the House of Grey was indeed behind her abduction then that meant…

“Jaqen. My brother left the keep tonight. To handle a matter from court,” Nym said. “Is he in danger?”

“The boy could be in danger, yes,” Jaqen said.

Nym’s heart pounded in her chest. Her first instinct was to run for the stables and ride out at once. But she was the only one of her family at home. She could not go and leave the Rock undefended. And she did not know where he had gone.

She pointed at Jaqen. “You. You must find him.”

Jaqen tilted his head to the side. “Must?”

“Yes. Must,” Nym said. “Otherwise he is vulnerable. A man wishes to stop the House of Grey, yes?”

“A man does,” Jaqen acknowledged.

“Then, please,” Nym said. “I don’t know if the guard my brother took are all as they seem. You are the only other one who could spot a Faceless Man in a crowd. I would go myself, but there must always be a Lannister at the Rock.”

Jaqen regarded her for a long moment. Then he inclined his head. “A man will see that Tybolt Lannister returns to the Rock alive…if a girl sees to it that she stays alive until he returns.”

Nym nodded once. “A girl will.”

When Tybolt arrived at the docks and found Lord Androw’s ship, the man himself was still in town, likely at a tavern, having one last drink before he shipped off. Which was all well and good. It meant that his men could begin their search before he arrived.

Androw’s men were shocked to see Lannisters boarding but none dared protest. They backed away at once.

“No one leaves the ship until after I’ve spoken with the captain,” Tybolt said. He turned to the acting head of the guard Ser Robyn. “When Androw arrives, show him to the captain’s quarters. I’ll be waiting there.”

Ser Robyn nodded and took up a post by the gangplank. Tybolt took two other guards with him into the captain’s quarters and took a seat to wait.

It was funny. All that day, Tybolt had been on edge. His whole body seemed to vibrate with the uncertainty of what would happen tonight. But now, sitting on Lord Androw’s ship, something in him calmed. Focused.

There was no room for fear here. At best, this man was a slaver who had tried to take advantage of his family while Tybolt’s parents were absent. At worst, he had been paid to take and transport Tybolt’s little sister. Either way…he would see justice.

Heavy footsteps creaked across the wood and the door slammed open. Lord Androw stood in the door, breathing heavily like an angry bull.

“What is the meaning of this, boy.”

“Lord Androw,” Tybolt said, sitting forward in his seat. “I’m glad I caught you before you left port.”

Androw paused for a moment. Tybolt wondered if he could see his cold anger just beneath the surface of his pleasant expression. He wondered if he knew what danger he was in here.

“Why is that?” Androw asked. “You’ve come to tell me you actually have a plan for dealing with Aurane Waters?”

“No,” Tybolt said. “I came to inspect your cargo before you leave in the dead of night.”

Androw’s jaw tightened like a man who had something to hide. A lot to hide.

“Do you inspect every ship yourself?” Androw asked. “Did your parents give you menial tasks to make you feel useful?”

“No. I’m showing initiative I’m afraid,” Tybolt said. He gestured to the chair across the table. “Sit.”

“Why don’t I give your guards a tour of the cargo instead,” Androw said, stepping back toward the door.

“No. They’ll find their way,” Tybolt said. “You’ll sit with me and wait for their report.” When Androw hesitated, Tybolt let his cold smile drop. “That was an order from the acting lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Androw. Not a request.”

With deliberate slowness, Androw lowered himself into the chair in front of Tybolt. There was a restlessness to him. He kept glancing at Tybolt’s guards. Back at the door. He shifted in his seat.

“This is foolishness,” Androw muttered. “I’m not going to sit here while you play lord, boy.”

“You will,” Tybolt said. “Because I am not playing. Do not call me boy.”

Androw glared at him with an intense hatred that might’ve cowed Tybolt usually. But not tonight. He could think only of Androw’s possible cargo. And of the fact that this man may have lain hands on his sister. So he held his gaze.

The guards returned minutes later, both looking quite pale. “We found people. Hidden in some of the barrels.”

The chill in Tybolt’s blood turned to ice. Androw’s face seemed to twist with rage. Tybolt did not look away from him as he asked: “How many?”

“Seven,” the guard said.

“Were there any young people among them?” Tybolt asked.

“Mostly grown men,” the guard said. “A few women. There was one young boy.”

Tybolt’s jaw clenched. He didn’t have Johanna. That somehow made him even angrier. He doubted this was Androw’s first time to transport people. He could have moved his sister earlier. And if that was the case, who knew where she had ended up.

“Well,” Tybolt said at last. “People in barrels. It sounds like damning evidence, Lord Androw.”

“Low lifes the lot of them,” Androw said. “They were criminals. I’m taking them off your hands.”

“Really,” Tybolt said. “Was that why you complained of Aurane Waters? Because he’s your competitor?”

Androw slammed both hands on the table as he stood, hovering over Tybolt. “And what will you do?” he snarled, spittle flying from his mouth like that of a rabid dog. 

Two of Tybolt’s guard had shifted forward but Tybolt held up a hand to stop them. He let Androw continue with his raving. Tybolt’s calm had made the man so furious and now he was foolishly trying to move Tybolt to anger. He didn’t realize that Tybolt had arrived feeling more angry than he had in his entire life. 

“Will you punish me yourself, young lord?” Androw asked. “Will you take two of my fingers like your mother?” His eyes blazed. “Well, boy?”

“No,” Tybolt said. “I think I’ll favor my father’s punishment here.”

Androw blinked. Too slowly did he realize what Tybolt meant. And before it had a chance to click, Tybolt had drawn a dagger from his belt and driven it through the back of his right hand.

Androw screamed, falling to his knees in front of the table as pain cut straight through to fury right to fear.

“Two fingers is the price of theft of money and material goods,” Tybolt said, drawing his sword. “You traffic with human lives. For that I will take your good hand.”

“ Bastard ,” Androw screeched at him, but Tybolt brought the sword down all the same, severing the man’s hand.

“I’m no bastard,” Tybolt said flatly. “I am my father and mother’s son. You should have remembered that.”

He cleaned his sword and gestured for his guards to seize and cuff Lord Androw. As they did, he made his way up the deck. He was stumbling on the stairs as adrenaline made his vision hazy. 

When he reached the deck of the ship, most of Lord Androw’s crew had already been apprehended by Lannister men. Tybolt leaned against the edge feeling as if he might throw up. He had not thought himself capable of such a thing. But in the moment it felt…so simple.

He straightened when he heard them leading Lord Androw to the surface. He looked the man in the eye as he was led past. Then he followed them onto the docks.

He passed the line of men and women who they had freed from the lower decks of the ship. Some were laughing. Others crying tears of joy. They reached out to give thanks as Tybolt passed. He clasped their hands, one by one, nodding to them. Trying not to look disappointed that his sister did not stand amongst them.

He reached the last one, the young boy, clasping his hand. The boy smiled up at him, clasping hard to his arm, almost desperately.

“Thank you, m’lord,” he said. “Thank–”

Something ‘snick’ed by Tybolt’s ear. The boy cut off as an arrow embedded in his throat and fell back.

“Get down!” one of Tybolt’s guards yelled and Tybolt dropped on instinct, waiting for another arrow. Another attack.

None came. Instead, Tybolt simply stared at the dead man. He watched him gurgle. Watched the blood seeping across the wood. And when he followed the path of the blood, he saw it. His hand, clutching a small, shiny dagger.

He meant to stab me, he realized. And…someone stopped him?

His heart thundered in his chest as his guards dragged him to his feet and led him swiftly away, back to the horses.

Seven Hells. What is happening?

Chapter Text

Tybolt’s ears still thundered with his own heartbeat when he returned to the castle–but he did not let it show. He channeled his years of watching his parents rule. He kept his footsteps steady and strong like his father and his expression unreadable like his mother. For them, punishing traitorous vassals was ordinary and assassination attempts were practically routine.

He let the tightness in his jaw–in every muscle of his body–show as fury instead of fear.

He saw Androw all the way to the cells beneath Casterly Rock and posted two guards at the door. Then he returned to his parents’ offices.

Sebastian and Franklyn were waiting for him in the hallway–Sebastian pacing back and forth and Franklyn leaning against the wall. Franklyn spotted him first, straightening at once. Sebastian whipped around.

“Well?”

“Your brother was transporting slaves,” Tybolt said. His voice was hollow to his own ear. “He’s in the dungeons now, along with his crew.”

Sebastian let out a breath. “Ah.”

There was no better response than that. It was hard to take pleasure in being right when it was one’s family on the line. Even if that family was wretched.

“Are you all right, Ty?” Franklyn asked softly.

Tybolt swayed at the question. He rested a hand on the wall to steady himself. “I’m…alive.”

His friends exchanged glances, then went to him at once, each grasping him by an arm and walking him into his parents’ offices without a word.

Franklyn helped him into a chair and Sebastian brought him some wine. Tybolt almost lifted it to his lips but then set it aside. “An unopened bottle, Seb.”

“Do you think I’m trying to poison you?” Sebastian asked wryly.

“No. Not you,” Tybolt said. “But someone tried to kill me tonight. Can’t be too careful.”

“Seven hells,” Sebastian said. He set the wine aside. “Fresh bottle it is.”

“You’re all right though?” Franklyn asked as Sebastian found an unopened bottle of wine in the cabinet and handed it to Tybolt. “You don’t seem to be bleeding.”

“I’m fine. Someone else killed the assassin. I have no idea who,” Tybolt said. He uncorked the bottle himself and drank deeply to settle his nerves. “I can’t make sense of much of what happened. Androw turning out to be a slaver was the simplest part.”

“Did he know anything of your sister?” Sebastian asked.

“He claims to have nothing to do with moving her,” Tybolt said. “But he’ll be questioned further.” He looked up at Sebastian. “Your brother will never raise a hand against you again.”

Sebastian smiled weakly. “Hard from inside a prison cell I suppose.”

“Yes,” Tybolt said. “Also I did…take one of his hands.”

A startled laugh left Sebastian. “Ah. You really are your parents’ son.”

“I’m trying to be,” Tybolt took a deep breath. “Sebastian…you’ve done a lot for my family already. But I need to ask something more.”

“Anything,” Sebastian said.

“Good,” Tybolt said. “Your mother and father. Do you think they know anything of your brother’s activities?”

“No,” Sebastian said without pause. “Androw is clearly using this to line his pockets. My father would never sully himself with a crime like slavery.”

“All right,” Tybolt said. He stood and went to the desk, pulling out parchment and ink, beginning to write. “Then you should take one of Androw’s ships. I’ll provide you with a crew. Sail for home, and tell them what happened. This news should come from a loyal son rather than a raven.”

“Not sure how much that’ll soften it,” Sebastian said. “My father is going to rage through the whole of the Fair Isle.”

“Will he harm you?” Tybolt asked.

“No…probably not,” Sebastian said.

“I’ll speak of your loyalty to House Lannister and the good name of your family in the letter,” Tybolt said. “And recommend that you be named heir as Androw will be unable to continue his responsibilities. The Farmans will not be held responsible for his actions provided that they disavow him.” He paused in his writing. “Do you believe your father will accept those terms?”

Sebastian just nodded, seeming a bit dazed by Tybolt’s words. Tybolt lifted his head to look him in the eye.

“You’re sure, Seb? Be sure.”

“I’m sure.” Sebastian looked at him. “They’ll disavow him. They’ll name me heir.”

“Good.” Tybolt returned to writing. He was aware of Sebastian pacing to the window, letting out a long breath and Franklyn following him. But he kept to his work until it was done.

As they waited for the ink to dry, Tybolt poured a goblet of wine for both of his friends and handed them off. They all nearly finished their drinks in a few gulps. It was simply that sort of night.

“Thank you,” Tybolt told Sebastian. “For coming to me. I’m sorry to send you away so quickly. I’d like to keep you at my side.”

“Well, I always said I’d do a better job with our ships than Androw,” Sebastian muttered. “Now’s the time to prove it.”

“I’ll look out for you while he’s gone,” Franklyn promised, clapping a hand on Tybolt’s shoulder. “You’ll need at least one good marksman at your back.”

Tybolt nodded. His shoulders remained tense but some of his fear eased as he finished his goblet of wine with his friends. Sebastian and Franklyn had been at his side since he was young. They’d always known that some day they would inherit the west together when they were grown. 

Tybolt just didn’t think the day would come so soon. He could only hope they were ready for the responsibility.

It was dawn when Tybolt finally returned to his quarters. Nym was waiting for him there. That was not surprising so much as the way she threw her arms around him in a tight hug. Nym rarely initiated such a gesture.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone tried to kill you,” Nym said. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

Tybolt blinked, grasping her by the shoulders and detaching her from him. “How did you know about that?”

Nym did not reply. She turned her gaze from his face in favor of staring at the wall.

“Nym. Did you follow me?” Tybolt asked.

“No. I sent someone to follow you,” Nym said. “You were outside the walls. An easy target.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Though I don’t know if inside the walls is safe either.”

“We’ve doubled the guards since what happened to Johanna,” Tybolt said.

“Someone almost killed me,” Nym said with a remarkably casual tone. “Today in the sept. A Holy Sister. They are inside the walls, Tybolt.”

Tybolt clasped the side of Nym’s face with his hand. “Someone tried to…Nym, are you all right? Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

“Because no guards saw,” Nym said.

“Then how did you…did you kill the assassin yourself?” Tybolt asked.

“No. A man did,” Nym said. “Then I sent him to protect you.”

“Do you know this man?” Tybolt said.

“In a way,” Nym said, which only brought up dozens more questions.

“Someone did save me tonight,” Tybolt said. “And if this man also saved you then I would see him rewarded.”

“I do not think he’s looking for a reward,” Nym said. “He is looking to stop the ones doing all of this.”

Tybolt’s brain was screaming with confusion. It had already been a long enough night. And now it seemed it was about to get longer. So he tugged his sister to sit down at his table and sat down across from her.

“Nym. Tell me everything plainly. Now.”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure how much I am allowed to share.”

“Johanna is missing. Both of our lives are on the line,” Tybolt said. “If you don’t share then I am in the dark, and I could make some crucial misstep that gets one or both of us hurt. Please.”

Nym stared at the table between them. “Do you promise to believe me, Ty?”

Her voice was soft and small and it tugged painfully at his heart. Nym was the strange one of the family. The one who had odd dreams and wandered the crypts in her sleep. The one who watched the world like a visitor who did not belong there.

Nym was many things. But Tybolt had never believed her mad.

He grasped her hand tight in his own. “I promise.”

Morning broke on the first day of the tourney through a haze of gray fog. Elissa rose early to watch the workers putting the last touches on the grounds–setting up tents and tables. Measuring out the length of the joust. Grooming horses until their coats shined.

Her father joined her at the balcony, leaning against the railing next to her. “Are you nervous?”

“I’ve competed before,” Elissa said with a shrug.

Her father smiled. “That’s not an answer.” He glanced at her. “You’ve competed at home, amongst our bannermen. Fighting in the shadow of the Red Keep is a bit different.”

“True,” Elissa said. “But considering everything happening, winning the bracket seems trivial.”

Jaime laughed once. Elissa gave him a look.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just amusing seeing my daughter pretend that she isn’t desperately competitive.”

Elissa pursed her lips. She hated that he could see right through her.

“It’s all right. You were doomed from the start,” Jaime said. “Your mother and I are the exact same.”

“Maybe,” Elissa said. “But I also know that finding Johanna comes first.”

“I highly doubt finding your sister will require you to sacrifice a bout at the tournament,” Jaime said. “Your mother and I are searching for leads. Your job is to act as you normally would–compete in the tournament; compete for the hand of the prince–so that our enemies do not think we are on high alert.”

Elissa nodded once. She knew that was her task. But it still felt terribly selfish because it wasn’t all an act. She did want to win the bracket. And as for the prince…

Well, she wasn’t sure what she wanted there. Her conversation with Sara had certainly muddied the waters.

Elissa went down to the tournament grounds early to take in the sight and smells. It was a thoroughly nostalgic atmosphere. She had fond childhood memories of watching knights and other daring fighters competing for glory. She remembered sitting on her father’s lap at four as he pointed out each competitor–their name, their house, their number of victories. Their strengths and weaknesses. Her father did not compete often in tournaments now on account of his missing hand, but she knew that in his younger years, he was one of the fiercest fighters in the field.

Her mother treated tournaments like an obligation–she clearly did not enjoy the small talk she was required to make with other lords. But Elissa knew Arya liked the sport itself. Her father only had to drop a few casual remarks about his predicted winner to engage her in a lively debate. Elissa relished listening to such conversations from a young age. She grew up thinking, for a while, that most people’s parents must be like that. She didn’t realize at the time how few noble husbands and wives actually liked each other.

If I were to marry the Prince, would we be the same? Could we be friends even if we could not be in love?

Slowly, the tournament ground filled. Nobles packed onto the benches, and competitors lined the sidelines, scoping out the competition. Most of the competitors were men of course, but there was not an insignificant amount of women. Lyanna was joining Sara in competing for archery. A woman from Dorne she did not recognize was standing with the competitors for the melee. And of course, there was Ser Brienne, towering over most other knights in her shining suit of armor.

Elissa slid over to the woman when an opening presented itself. “It seems like many knights have turned out to be beaten by you, ser.”

Brienne turned toward Elissa with a smile on her face. “Don’t tell them that. Many have come here hoping to beat me.”

“Well, they should know better, shouldn’t they?” Elissa asked. “If I’d seen your name on the Bracket list, I would have accepted my fate at once.”

“And surrendered before we even began?” Brienne asked.

“Of course not,” Elissa said. “I just wouldn’t feel badly when you trounced me.”

Brienne shook her head. “You’re more like your father everyday, Lady Elissa.”

“I hope that’s a compliment,” Elissa said.

“At one time it wouldn’t have been, but now it is,” Brienne said. “You are competing in the brackets then?”

Elissa nodded. “I’m sorry I won’t have a chance to face you. But then again…I do like to win.”

“You are always free to spar with me outside of the tourney,” Brienne said. “I’m surprised that neither your father nor mother has asked me yet.”

Elissa kept her smile though her chest tightened. “They have a lot on their minds. I’m sure they will find you soon.”

“I won’t be offended if they don’t. Politics being what they are,” Brienne said. “I may not participate, but I’m at your aunt’s side frequently. I know these events are…complicated.”

“Especially when they involve royal engagements,” Elissa agreed. Because of course that was all there was to worry about. No other secret plots or missing sisters. No reason to act differently than she would normally. “In any case, good luck in the tourney. All of my family will be cheering for you.”

“I welcome the support of House Lannister,” Brienne said, with a slight bow. Then she slid her helmet onto her head. “Good luck to you as well, Lady Elissa.”

“Thank you,” Elissa said. There was a stirring in the stands and she looked up to see that Queen Daenerys had arrived to the field, flanked by her two children. Daenerys and the Princess Rhaena favored the red of their house in their dress today, with some black accents. Daerys dressed in black with the shoulders embroidered to look like scales. With him in their box followed Tyrion, Varys and other members of the small council. This included Oberyn Martell, who was speaking to his son Morgan.

I’ll be facing him in the bracket, Elissa thought. She didn’t know that for sure of course. They both had two win a few fights before they met each other in combat. But even so…

Morgan looked up and met her eye from across the way. And the way he smirked, it seemed he felt it too–the two of them would certainly be locked in a fight before the day was done.

Nym told Tybolt everything. It was a relief and a source of anxiety all at once. She knew that Jaqen would not be pleased with her sharing such secrets so easily. But Tybolt was right. The House of Grey had gone after him twice. If he did not know what to look for–what to fear–she couldn’t protect him.

Tybolt listened quietly and kindly. Sometimes he betrayed his reactions in the tension of his jaw or the way he gripped the table. But he didn’t interrupt her. And most importantly, he didn’t look at her like she was crazy. Not even when she spoke of hearing the voices of the dead in her sleep or the Faceless Men.

When Nym had fallen silent, Tybolt sat back in his chair, stroking his jaw. “I’ve read of the Faceless Men before,” he said. “They are commonly blamed in the histories in lieu of other reasonable explanations. I never doubted their existence. Death cults are common throughout the world. But I didn’t think they had any true…magic.”

“You believe me then?” Nym asked.

“I promised, didn’t I?” Tybolt asked. “Though I didn’t promise I wouldn’t lecture you. You should have told us about this Jaqen long ago. He could have meant you harm.”

“If he had meant me harm, I’d be dead already,” Nym said. “And…at first I thought he was a hallucination. I didn’t want any of you to think I had truly lost my mind.”

“He may not mean to take your life,” Tybolt said. “But he wants other things. He wants to absorb you into this…cult of his?”

“He wants to teach me how to use my gifts,” Nym said.

“Because they could be useful to him.”

Nym shrugged. “Maybe. But maybe I want to be useful in that way.”

Tybolt fell silent, tapping his fingers on the table in a steady, agitated rhythm.

“All my life, I’ve felt wrong,” Nym said. “My dreams. The way I am. But this…if I can learn more about my connection with Death then maybe I can help our family. Maybe I can stop this House of Grey. Because they are coming for our family. They tried to kill both of us. And I think they took Johanna.”

“Why simply take Johanna?” Tybolt asked. “Why didn’t they kill her? What is different about her?”

“I don’t know,” Nym said.

Tybolt sat back in his chair. “Does this mean that Androw was working with the Faceless Men? Or is he a slaver on his own?”

“The Faceless Men may have paid him,” Nym said. “Or…he could be one of them already.”

“How would we know?” Tybolt asked.

“Let me see him,” Nym said.

Tybolt shook his head. “Nym, I’m not involving you in any sort of interrogation.”

“I don’t need an interrogation,” Nym said. “Just to look at him. All of them…they’re touched by death. They cannot hide it. Not from me.”

Tybolt hesitated and she worried that his belief in her had limits. But then he nodded. “All right. I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to sleep first?”

Nym hopped out of her chair. “No. I don’t believe so.”

Androw Farman was sitting in a corner of his cell when they arrived. He was in the midst of being treated by a maester, dabbing a salve on his stump of a wrist to help fight infection. Sweat beaded his pale forehead as he looked at Tybolt.

“So…the young lion comes to show off his roar,” Androw muttered.

“No need to roar,” Tybolt said, his gaze sliding to Androw’s stump. “My bite speaks loud enough.”

Androw made a face between a sneer and a smile. He looked terrible in this state. But he did not have the haze of death on him. Tybolt glanced down at Nym and she gave a small shake of her head.

“Why’d you bring the little one,” Androw said. “Is she meant to interrogate me?”

“She’s none of your concern,” Tybolt said. “In fact I’d prefer if you didn’t talk to her. Or even look at her.”

“Or what?” Androw asked, not looking away from Nym. “Will you take my eye?”

“I’ll consider it,” Tybolt said. “Unless you answer my questions.”

“You found your evidence,” Androw said. “What more is there to tell, boy?”

“What did I say about calling me boy?” Tybolt asked. His gaze flicked to the maester, who took the time to dig one of his tools into Androw’s room, just enough to make him groan.

“Apologies…” he muttered. “Young lord.”

Nym watched the exchange with interest. Her brother had always been so gentle–his manner of speech, the way he handled old books, the way he treated her and her siblings. She had never seen him like this.

“Better,” Tybolt said. “You seemed to make a great deal of coin off of your slaves. Were you ever paid a greater sum to transport more important cargo?”

“What does ‘more important’ mean?” Androw asked.

“A specific request from one of your buyers,” Tybolt said. “Someone that was worth more than the usual vulnerable smallfolk you move.”

Androw coughed out a laugh, slumping slightly in his seat as the Maester pulled back and began putting away his tools. “What is it worth to you to know?”

“I won’t be paying you more gold for your answer if that’s what you’re wondering,” Tybolt said. “You won’t be seeing a cent of gold again.”

“I’m more interested in knowing if I’ll see the sunrise,” Androw said. “Will you be sending me to the wall if I’m honest? Or killing me?”

Tybolt’s jaw tightened. “Do you think your honest answer is worth death, Androw?”

Androw shrugged, coughing again. He was barely keeping his seat. A sense of wrongness stirred in Nym’s chest. She glanced at the maester, standing at the door as one of the guards unlocked the cell for him to leave. He did not have an aura of death on him. But she still stood in front of him before she could fully leave.

“Is there something wrong, Lady Nymeria?” the old man asked.

Nym looked past him to Androw. There was a bit of blood at the corners of his mouth, trickling down, and his eyes were beginning to bulge. “Tybolt.”

“I see it,” Tybolt jerked the door open before the guard could finish closing it and stalked toward Androw. “Maester! The prisoner.”

The maester hurried back to the cage, dropping his bag on the way. The jar of ointment rolled across the stones and Nym snatched it up before turning back to look at the scene.

Androw wasn’t speaking anymore. Every cough was accompanied by a spurt of blood. It was not an infection that took him now. It was poison. Poison in the ointment that was meant to heal him. But the maester’s naked look of surprise told her that he was not the culprit.

No. There was still an assassin in the walls of Casterly Rock–one who had gained access to the Maester’s materials–and Nym was going to find them.

Chapter Text

The first day of the tourney had few upsets, at least according to Marcus’ cousins. The personal guests of Prince Daerys all gathered beneath the Royal Tent, which was elevated and open on multiple sides to allow views of the joust as well as the brackets, the melee and the range. 

This was Marcus’ ideal company: Brandon, Tomas and Prince Daerys. Morgan Sand, Monterys Velaryon and Phillip Hightower were all competing in the bracket and had left early to get ready. Marcus rather hoped that they would be injured and unable to return. Monterys and Phillip played nice enough when the Prince was around, but Marcus could still feel their general distaste for him. And Morgan? He just didn’t know what to think of the man at all.

But with this smaller group, Marcus could speak a bit more easily as they watched the beginning rounds of the tourney. And he had eyes on most of his family too, sitting in the stands amongst other nobles. His aunts. His uncles. His cousins. And some guests. He noticed, for instance, that his cousin Steffon had brought a companion with him to the tourney.

“Is that Shireen Baratheon?” Brandon asked. “Finally arrived, did she?”

“Yes,” Tomas said. “And Steffon has been playing escort to her ever since.”

“Must mean they’ve nearly reached an agreement,” Brandon said, raising his goblet. “I wonder if that will calm the troubled waters.”

Marcus studied Shireen Baratheon across the way. Everyone said that she was ‘no beauty’ on account of the scaled skin marring one half of her face, the remnants of her childhood brush with a terrible plague. But she had a regal countenance about her. She was ten years Steffon’s senior but she had never married, having spent many years after her father’s death in hiding. It had taken much negotiation to coax her back to the Stormlands, with many promises from Margaery that she would bear no punishment for any of her father’s treachery.

But it was complicated even without the promise. There were plenty of lords in the Stormlands who still believed in Stannis’ claim, though they kept quiet about it. Plenty who still believed that Steffon was not a true Baratheon because King Tommen had also not been a true Baratheon. People who saw Margaery’s many marriages as a blight upon the line. People who did not acknowledge his uncle Jon as anything more than a legitimized bastard.

Margaery, Steffon and the entirety of their family had held firm to the fact that Steffon was a legitimate Baratheon. But if he married Shireen, the daughter of Stannis, that might calm those who still whispered of Stannis’ claim behind closed doors.

Marcus had no idea if Steffon liked Shireen or not. His cousin was not the talkative sort and when he did talk it was not to discuss his feelings. But eldest sons didn’t get many choices in the matter.

“Whatever the case, they won’t announce anything until after the festivities are complete here,” Tomas said. “Mother won’t try to compete with a Royal engagement.”

The joust was nearing the end of its first round. Archery was in full swing as well. Lyanna had already done quite well, and Marcus had the pleasure of watching his cousin Sara hit a dead bullseye with her final shot.

“That’s my sister!” Tomas crowed, raising his goblet. Away from the watch of his parents he had already had more wine than he might usually be allowed. “Well done Sara!”

Across the way, Sara seemed to flush at his call, but she smiled and gave a little curtsy in the direction of the Prince’s tent.

“She’s quite the shot,” Daerys said, approaching with a fresh flagon of wine. “Your families have a number of talented fighters it seems.”

“Aye. She’s quite a rider too,” Tomas said. “No interest in sword play though. That’s Lyra’s preference.”

“Lyra,” Daerys repeated. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure. She’s never come to the capital?”

Tomas grew quiet as if he realized the reason why too much wine could be dangerous. “She has long bouts of illness sometimes. It makes it difficult for her to travel because she has to stay indoors.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Daerys said, before turning back to watch the joust. Tomas seemed to let out a sigh of relief. No further questions. No more reasons to lie.

How would Daerys react if he found out Uncle Jon’s children were his secret second cousins, Marcus wondered. Would he feel threatened? Would he be glad to have more family?

“Something wrong, Marcus?” Daerys asked. Marcus dropped his gaze. He’d been studying the prince for too long.

“Nothing,” Marcus said. “I just w-wonder…which event would you favor if you were to compete in the tourney, your grace?”

“Hmm,” Daerys considered the question. “Well, I ride Aegarax so often that I have neglected my horsemanship. And there are few situations where I, as a prince, would be in the midst of a huge melee. So I suppose the bracket. Sparring one on one is more to my tastes.”

“You’ve trained extensively, I’m sure,” Brandon said, joining the conversation. “Who was your teacher?”

“I’ve had a great many teachers,” Daerys said. “But my most consistent sparring partner has been Morgan. And he learned from his father and many fearsome sisters.”

“I’ve heard many stories of the Sand Snakes,” Brandon said. “Does Morgan measure up to them?”

“He would say not,” Daerys said. “But between you and me, he’s one of the most gifted fighters I’ve ever crossed blades with. More years of experience will see him nearly unstoppable.”

“Must be a f-frustrating sparring partner,” Marcus murmured.

Daerys gave a little smile like he was enjoying a private joke but inclined his head. “And you, Marcus? Where would you compete if you had the chance?”

“The b-bracket as well,” Marcus said. “But I’d be terrible.”

“Please,” Brandon said. “I’ve seen you spar with Nym. Never seen anyone handle knives like the two of you.”

“That’s sparring with a small audience,” Marcus said. “All of those eyes on me? I-I’d freeze up.”

“Well then,” Daerys said. “You’ll have to show me your skill with knives when there’s less of an audience.” 

“Speaking of the bracket!” Tomas called out. “The first match is about to begin. Marcus, your sister is up.”

“Oh. Brilliant.” Brandon trotted over. “Who is she fighting?”

“Phillip Hightower,” Tomas said with a grin.

“Even better,” Brandon said. “I hope she flattens him.”

Marcus bit back a smile. He hoped that very much too.

There was no need for hope. Elissa did, indeed, flatten Phillip Hightower. Not a minute had passed before she’d disarmed him with a flick of her wrist and kicked his sparring sword across the ring. She held her blade to his throat and demanded he yield. He did but he looked positively miserable about it. 

Morgan was in the next match and he, likewise, ended the match quite quickly. His weapon of choice was a spear and with its long reach, his opponent never even got close to him before he hooked their blade from their hands and pinned it to the ground with his spear before the poor man could retrieve it. Daerys clapped enthusiastically for Morgan’s victory.

Marcus quite enjoyed watching the bracket. Though he sometimes turned toward the first rounds of the joust or melee, he found himself lingering longest on the right side of the tent, which had the best view of the smaller arena, surrounded by a rickety wooden barrier.

Many of the combatants in the bracket were younger warriors. There were a few older, more experienced knights, but most of them seemed to favor the melee and the joust which were considered more prestigious victories and came with a larger coin purse. It left the bracket quite open for upsets and upstarts. A place for young fighters to test their metal before a crowd.

It was Marcus’ worst nightmare. But it was Elissa’s dream. His sister wasn’t just good at fighting, she knew how to milk the crowd. At first, she got more than her fair share of boos from those who still did not approve of women enrolling in the tournament. But those jeers only seemed to make her fight harder. And with each decisive win, she curtsied and seem to bask in approval and disapproval alike.

Before long, the crowd seemed to be turning in her favor. The boos were drowned out by cheers. Marcus’ family certainly helped with those. His father had no shame about calling out his approval for Elissa and his mother clapped and smiled openly whenever she won her bouts. 

Aunt Sansa and Aunt Margaery, so often demure well spoken ladies, frequently rose to their feet to cry out and cheer for their favorite competitors and they cheered the hardest for Elissa. Even his solemn uncles, Jon and Robb, openly joined into the festivities. And no one could calm the cheers of Lyanna and Wylla. At one point, Wylla even jokingly offered Elissa her favor, which she took with a deep and dramatic bow.

Before the day had ended, Elissa was still in the running for the bracket and Marcus had the pleasure of watching her defeat Monterys Velaryon as well. Which Marcus supposed accounted for the incidents of the following evening.

As the tourney adjourned for the day with the first rounds having weeded out the weaker competitors, the Prince invited his companions to the private royal terrace overlooking the garden for a bit of wine and food before the true feast began.

The Prince ran late for his own gathering, but refreshment was already set out for the rest of them when Marcus arrived. Phillip swayed slightly, clearly using wine to nurse his defeat. Monterys was still, unfortunately, stone cold sober and angry from his more recent thrashing. When Marcus entered the room, he felt both of their eyes on him. As if he had been the one to knock them into the dirt.

Marcus pointedly ignored them at first, keeping close to his cousins. But eventually, Phillip was the first to throw out a barbed question.

“Tell me, Marcus,” Phillip said. “Why does your family seem to train the women so much better than the men?”

Silence. Brandon and Tomas turned their attention away from the food. Morgan Sand glanced up from his chair where he was carefully polishing his knife.

“Meaning?” Marcus asked.

“Well…your sister enters and you don’t,” Phillip said. “She must be a better fighter than you. I suppose that’s the consequence of allowing a woman to lead a family. Weak sons.”

Brandon set down his fork with a clatter and took an angry step forward. Phillip might as well have insulted his mother with that statement. But Marcus grasped his arm and held him back.

“He’s right,” Monterys agreed. “A bad showing when the daughter is the best fighter.”

“She was certainly better than you,” Tomas tossed out, a little acid to his usually friendly tone.

Monterys took a few steps forward, teeth barred. “She got lucky.”

“No she didn’t,” Marcus said. “Sh-she could beat you any day.”

Monterys whipped back to look at him, shoulders heaving, eyes burning. Marcus knew the look of a man who wanted a fight, so he wasn’t surprised when he said: “And what about you? Think you could beat me?”

“Of course he couldn’t,” Phillip said. “He’s the weakest Lannister of the bunch.”

“You want to get knocked on your sorry ass again?” Brandon asked, clenching his fist like he was ready to do it himself.

“Sure, fight his fights for him,” Monterys said, stepping a bit closer, looming over Marcus. “Just proves the point. Doesn’t it, M-M-Marcus?”

Something stirred in Marcus’ gut. Shame, he thought at first. That was what he usually felt in moments like this. But no. Shame was hot and boiling. This…this was as icy as the North.

The door to the terrace swung open. Monterys and Phillip both shifted back a fraction as Daerys entered. But they did not move quickly enough for the prince not to notice the tension.

Daerys’ violet eyes flicked from Marcus to Monterys to Phillip and back to Marcus. Then he stepped further into the room. “So…What exactly is going on here?”

Marcus swallowed. He had a feeling that if he told the Prince about the casual insults, that he would deal with the issue swiftly, just as he had before. But…

“The weakest Lannister…”

It was something Marcus had thought of himself on more than one occasion. But he could not stand if Prince Daerys thought that way of him.

Brandon started to answer on Marcus’ behalf. “These two were–”

“We were about to spar,” Marcus interrupted. His voice came out surprisingly steady. “Lord Monterys and Lord Phillip wanted to test their skills against a different Lannister since my s-sister beat them so soundly.”

A single stumble did not soften the ice of his words. A burst of surprised laughter left Tomas. Phillip’s face grew an angry red and Monterys’ lip curled in a snarl. Marcus’ expression did not waver as he looked from them to the Prince.

Daerys studied him, a glimmer in his violet eyes. “I see. Of course, two on one would not be a proper fight.”

“They are welcome to fight me one at a time,” Marcus said.

“Very well,” Daerys said. “Since they issued the challenge, you may pick the weapon.”

“Knives,” Marcus said without hesitation.

“Knives?” Phillip said incredulously. “That is no true weapon.”

“They’re quite sharp in my experience,” Morgan said from his seat on the couch. He had been watching the clash in intrigued silence since it began and Marcus had almost forgotten he was there. “Even with your delicate wrists, Phillip, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble.”

Phillip’s complexion grew even redder, if that was possible.

“Knives seem suitable enough to me,” Daerys said. “Of course, I’d prefer neither of you spilled blood on my floor, so we’ll set some rules. First to make contact three times or first to pin or disarm the other takes the fight.”

“Fine then,” Phillip said. “I’ll go first. I’ll need a dagger.”

Marcus could not imagine not carrying a knife on one’s person at all times. But Morgan offered up one of his own for the fight. He glanced at Marcus. “Will you be needing one?”

In response, Marcus drew one of his concealed knives and turned it a few times in his hand. Morgan inclined his head and stepped back. Brandon and Tomas moved quickly to clear away the table and chairs and make space and Phillip and Marcus took their places on opposite sides of the makeshift arena.

“Oh, before we begin,” Daerys said. “Phillip. Monterys. If either of you lose, you will be dismissed from my company for the remainder of the week.”

The two whipped to look at the prince, eyes wide. “Your grace?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem, should it?” Daerys asked. “It seemed you were quite confident just a moment ago.”

“We are,” Monterys said firmly. “Go on, Phillip.”

Phillip was suddenly looking not so confident at all. But he nodded once and raised his dagger.

“Begin,” Daerys said.

Phillip lunged at Marcus. A few easy steps and Marcus danced out of the way, leaving the first strike to shift through air. He did not bother to raise his blade yet. There wasn’t a need.

Phillip gritted his teeth, whipping around and going for another slash. Marcus simply ducked under it, spinning around Phillip and retreating from him again. Brandon chuckled from the side lines. He and Tomas had seen Marcus and Nym spar plenty of times. His speed was no surprise to them.

Phillip kept coming at Marcus, strike after strike and Marcus kept casually avoiding him with very little effort. It was starting to anger the man. His strikes were becoming less and less precise.

“Are you going to dance around me all day,” Phillip asked. “Is that all you can do?”

Marcus faced him, his face blank. “No.”

Then he struck. The lunge caught Phillip off guard and he stumbled back even as he lashed out to hit Marcus. The strike was so wild that dodging it was easy. And then he was in close quarters with Phillip tapping him once on the side, twice on the back. When he spun for the last time, Marcus leveled the tip of his knife with his chest, pressing in just enough to count as a third strike.

“Well,” Morgan observed. “That was quick.”

Phillip stepped back from Marcus, eyes wide with shock and humiliation. He said nothing to him or Monterys or the Prince. He simply tossed his dagger to the ground and stalked from the room.

Marcus turned now to face Monterys. A fire had been lit in the man’s eyes watching his friend humiliated. He scooped up the fallen dagger and took his place across from Marcus.

Monterys was taller than Phillip and nearly twice as broad. His larger reach would make him more of a challenge. But Marcus felt no fear. The both of them were slower than his sisters who had grown up sparring against. And he had plenty of times fought with Tybolt and his father who had always been a whole head taller than him. If his mother had taught him anything, even one small in stature could make someone bleed.

Still, there was an anger in Monterys after the first fight, and he’d had a chance to watch Marcus’ tricks. He wouldn’t be able to play with him like Phillip. He’d have to do this quickly.

The fight began. Monterys cut high and wide and wild. Marcus ducked under him, skating the flat of his blade along his side as he darted past. Then, before he even had a chance to fully turn, he spun the blade in his hand and jabbed it sharply against his back. If he had put more force behind it, it would have sunk through the fabric of his outfit and into his flesh.

“One and two!” Morgan called out.

Almost a victory, but Marcus was caught off guard when Monterys whipped around and simply backhanded him across the face. A hard hit that sent him sprawling to the ground. Brandon let loose a stream of curses at Monterys as the man stalked toward Marcus, knife in hand. But as soon as he bent down close enough, Marcus kicked him in the face, hard enough to break his nose.

It left his leg open long enough for Monterys to land one hit upon it. But Marcus was able to roll out of the way and right himself before he managed another. Monterys had brought himself lower to attack and he whirled as Marcus lunged, stabbing out. Marcus redirected his momentum and gave him another firm tap with the flat of his blade against his chest.

“That’s three,” Morgan said. “Victory.”

Marcus made the mistake of relaxing at the acknowledgment of his win. Which was a problem because Monterys was still absolutely bursting with rage. The larger boy seized him by the collar and hefted him from the ground.

“You bloody bastard,” he snarled.

Marcus bared his teeth and lifted his legs, tangling them about Monterys arm and shoulder and wrenching them to the side. The man was thrown off balance and toppled to the ground. He somehow kept his grip on his knife, but Marcus jammed his boot against his wrist before he could lift it and shoved the full weight of his knee into his sternum. Before Monterys could even think of using his weight to throw him he pressed his knife to his throat.

Everyone in the room stilled. Not a breath was drawn, except by Monterys, panting like a worn out horse, glaring at Marcus like he wanted nothing more than to wring his neck. But for his stuttering and meekness, Marcus was the one who held his life in his hands.

Marcus leaned in close, cold fury mixing with a deep sense of satisfaction as he stared into Monterys’ eyes. “Even the weakest Lannister is stronger than you.”

Monterys strained to lift his hand. Marcus dug his boot into his wrist.

“Yield, Monterys,” Daerys said. It was a soft command but a command nonetheless. Monterys released his grip on the blade. Only then did Marcus stand and step back from him.

Monterys’ rose, breathing heavily like a bull about to charge. Before he could consider, Morgan stepped up beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“A deal is a deal, Monterys. I’d be on your way.”

Monterys shook off Morgan’s hand, rounding on him. But he seemed to remember at that moment that Morgan was quite dangerous too. So instead he stalked off with what remained of his dignity.

The moment he had gone, Thomas and Brandon surged toward Marcus, whooping and cheering. Thomas clapped him on the back and Brandon fully lifted him from the ground in a hug.

“Now that was a show,” Brandon said.

“More entertaining than anything I saw at the tourney today,” Thomas agreed.

Marcus allowed himself a small smile of pride. He glanced at Daerys who smiled and raised his goblet of wine. “The competitors of the bracket are lucky you prefer not to fight in front of crowds.” He glanced at Morgan. “You should worry…fighting his sister tomorrow.”

“Actually I’m quite looking forward to it,” Morgan said. “The Lannisters seem full of exciting hidden talents.”

It was a compliment. Mostly. But it was also a reminder that the people in this room knew now of Marcus’ true skill with a knife.

And he could not help but wonder if he had shown too much of his hand.

“I wish I hadn’t already sent Sebastian away,” Tybolt said, pacing around his parents' offices. “Whoever poisoned Androw and tried to kill me could just as easily kill him en route and dump his body into the sea.”

“How do you know the person who tried to kill you is the same as the one who killed Androw?” Franklyn said from his perch. “Seems to me like two entirely different methods and aims.”

“Killing Androw meant I lost a lead to Johanna,” Tybolt pointed out.

“But they could just as easily have poisoned you,” Franklyn said. “And they haven’t.”

Tybolt wondered if they had tried but he had gotten lucky. He’d been careful only to drink from unopened bottles lately and insisted Nym do the same. There’d been an attempt on both of their lives afterall. At least he knew that his sister had some way to tell if someone was ‘touched by death’ as she called it. He was completely in the dark.

He still had not met this mysterious friend of hers. Jaqen H’ghar. Nym said that she could not summon Jaqen. He just appeared at odd times. But Tybolt very much wanted to tell the man that he would not be absorbing his sister into this strange cult of his. At the same time, he wanted to thank him for saving his life.

Maybe he is the reason I haven’t been poisoned, Tybolt mused.

“Tybolt,” Franklyn said. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know.” Tybolt rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry I’ve…learned a lot of new information lately. I’m trying to make sense of it all.”

“Let me help.” Franklyn sat down next to him. “I know that I can’t replace your family. But until they return, I can do my best.”

Tybolt exhaled. He wished he could share everything with Franklyn. But he would not trade Nym’s secrets lightly, and even if he did, would his friend even believe him? Most families of Westeros were not so tied up with strange old magics. The Lannisters, it seemed, had more than their fair share. “I just…”

Nym appeared in the door, as if to confirm he was right to keep her secrets. She glanced from Tybolt to Franklyn with her usual solemn expression.

“Nym. Did you need something?” Tybolt asked.

“Looking for something,” she said vaguely. “Pretend I’m not here.”

Nym moved into the room, to the shelves behind Franklyn. Franklyn raised his eyebrows in Tybolt’s direction. A silent ‘what is going on with your sister today? ’ Tybolt just shrugged.

“We can continue this later if you like,” Franklyn said. “A bottle of wine. A game of Cyvasse.”

“I always beat you,” Tybolt said.

“I’m a glutton for punishment,” Franklyn said. “Anyway–”

A flash of metal. A gurgle. A burst of blood. Tybolt blinked trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Nym, suddenly behind Franklyn, one hand twisted in his hair. The other gripping the bloody knife she had just used to slit his throat.

Tybolt leapt to his feet so fast his chair toppled. He opened his mouth to say something. Anything. But he couldn’t find the words. What had just happened. What in the seven hells…

“It’s not him,” Nym said. Her voice cut through the haze of panic that had settled over Tybolt’s mind. And he watched her fingers grip the skin at Franklyn’s throat and pull it back. His face came off cleanly, revealing another, unfamiliar man, ten years older and with bronzed skin. He was still gurgling and gasping for breath through the blood. “He’s a Faceless Man.”

“Where did he get Franklyn’s face,” Tybolt muttered. He surged forward, grabbing the dying man by the shoulder. “What did you do with Franklyn?”

The man smiled. Coughed up a splatter of blood. And died.

Tybolt’s hand slipped from the man’s collar. He hadn’t answered. But he knew.