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Chapter Text

Deep in the smoky longhall of the Aegonfort, presiding over court, the King who claimed rule over the Seven Kingdoms – Five in practice – shifted in the mess of broken and melted swords assembled by dragon fire, and wondered again what had driven him to hammer his throne. Certainly, the intent that no king should ever rest easy was more metaphorical than literal.

“I miss Orys,” his beloved Rhaenys murmured from her own throne – much lower, but still a queen’s throne. “If only-”

“We must be thankful that Orys yet lives, my love,” Aegon assured her as he leant over to peer down. “The Lady Argella writes that his mood improves – the Citadel seem to have false hands that could aid in his bodily health and recovery, even the Grand Maester defers to their expertise.”

“Yes... Those… Northmen… how would they ally with Dorne?” Rhaenys whispered. “Before his departure I felt that Lord Edmyn had the right of it – that the wolves would not act, only react. Establishing the Northern Marches only increased aggression along the Trident – see now, how the war against Dorne fared once the Riverlands armies had assembled, and the wolves took the field.”

“It is true, and Dorne took this chance to kill our Warden of the Sands,” Aegon hummed as beneath the Iron Throne, more maesters and chancellors debated in low whispers.

In due time the Grand Maester Lyonce sketched a bow: “Your Grace. An… assembly of Winterlanders have arrived, with a plump lad that… they claim to be Lord Qoherys.”

“Ah, old Quenton’s grandson,” so acknowledged the king. “Why have these enemy aliens seized my lord and subject?”

“Gargon the Guest,” the Grand Maester paused at the shamefully true epithet given to the ruling Lord Qoherys, a fat and lusty lad known to attend each wedding in his domain to take the lord’s right of the first night. “Upon attending the wedding of Ser Arlan Paege… the bride’s family come from north of the Neck, Your Grace, and not keen on the first night or that one of theirs would be attacked in your Realm, and did raise the hue and cry and seize him.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed. “It must be a great house that Ser Arlan welcomes his bride from, that the Lord of Harrenhal could be seized at all.”

“A Flint of the mountain clans, so alleged, though the wedding guests for the bride’s party included the commander of Long Barrow at the Wall.” The Grand Maester hummed, gathering his thoughts that despite his age were still fresh. “Men have lived in the high valleys and mountain meadows for thousands of years, ruled by their clan chiefs. Petty lords, so the Starks call them, though they do not use such titles amongst themselves.”

The king hummed in thought. “It would be the black brothers who had played their part. I have… heard of the Night’s Watch.”

Including their very fierce Lord Commander, yes. Anyone who commanded a castle on the Wall would be reporting to that monster. Aegon’s back had straightened, and he would have reached for his sword were it not necessary to maintain appearances.

Rhaenys, bless her, had already beckoned Ser Corlys to make ready his sword and shield. She too, had met the monster that the Night’s Watch took orders from. His direct vassal would be… formidable, if described kindly.

Gargon Qoherys was carried in stretched out on a pallet between two poles – at least he had all his limbs attached, though he clutched his ribs in a manner suggesting that someone had – rather deservedly – broke them. When the pallet was set down he rolled, the beauty of old Valyria in his face lost in a mask of terror as he scrambled for the twisted blade at the foot of the throne.

With dark wings came dark words – so the saying of the mainland went. On Dragonstone it was not mentioned much, if at all, but never had the sentiment been expressed more clearly than the slow, measured steps that echoed within his own smoky longhall. With every step the nearest brand stuttered, the candle flickered; were it possible, mayhaps in the skies the sun would race for a cloud to cower behind.

Aegon’s grip on the armrest of his throne tightened as the figure approached. The courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, their whispers dying on their lips. Lovely Rhaenys leant back into her own throne, protected by good Humfrey the Mummer.

Though as the nearest brand threw light over the crow’s descent, Aegon could not help but gasp with the rest of his court.

The silent sisters were said to serve the Stranger in wordless, faceless contemplation; to look upon one was thus to face death. Nonetheless, Aegon could not imagine a woman more suited to the title of the Stranger’s wife – above a shapeless dark cloak her skin was a grey hue, her cheeks run through with cracks, like a weirwood barely hung together on its filaments. The greyed whites of her eyes peered out, with rheumy film covering the pupils; her face was blank in the pallor of death, even as she swept down over the rushes of the longhall, finally resting to a stop by the foot of the Iron Throne.

As she halted, her gaze turned up to fix unwavering on Aegon. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to meet those deadened eyes, to show no weakness in the face of such an ominous presence even as the chill sunk into his bones and the steel of the throne beneath his grasp threatened to cut him.

By the gods, Aegon did not wish her there.

“State your name and position,” Rhaenys recovered first, though her expression proved that she was as disturbed as he had felt. He had heard the stories of the Long Night and the monsters at the north… though why a wight would take the black and fight her own kind eluded his merely mortal ken.

“Your Graces.” Aegon fought down a shudder; the voice was raspy, as though one parched of thirst would murmur. “Danelle Flint, commander of the Long Barrow.”

“…forgive my query, my… lady,” Rhaenys weakly asked after the pause that felt like eternity. “Was a song written, for you? ‘Brave Danny Flint’. The brave young girl who disguised herself to take the black. Her song was pretty, but sad. What happened… was not.”

The flesh cracked, and shadows danced within the ghoulish smirk that was her reply. “The Southron minstrels would leave out the other half.”

“That must be… quite the other half,” Rhaenys whispered, her eyes wide and incredulous as Aegon’s mind reeled.

“Aye. It was almost repeated when Lord Qoherys thought to force himself on my kin.”

Aegon’s expression hardened, the weight of his crown suddenly feeling much heavier. “The bride was a Flint, I see.” His voice stayed steady by some miracle of the gods – old or new or Valyrian he knew not, only that the Old Gods worshipped in the north likely had more power than he had ascribed.

Even if this was likely the work of the monster that they called White Wolf.

“’Tis justice that we would ask of the Stark of Winterfell, and he would deliver.” If the sands of Dorne could be audibly heard in mortal words, it was in this voice. “Lord Qoherys is your subject, and… therein lies the problem.”

Aegon pondered it, his mind racing. With this example before him, he dared not contemplate deeper on how the Starks had negotiated with the White Wolf – it definitely involved Eddard Stark either way, because Aegon could not imagine what steel, bow, or dragon-fire would bend that monster. For a moment he wondered to discuss birthing another child with Rhaenys. Were it a girl, then little Aenys would have a bride; were it a boy… some consideration could be given to peaceful integration of the Winterlands, should a Valyrian beauty be more to taste.

With that in mind, what gains to be had from the Dornish War was not to be considered – at the rate of losses then, what with a leal bannerman being thrown out of the highest tower of Sunspear or the disappearance of Harlan Tyrell that forced him to issue a reconciliation with Gawen Gardener, the Dornish might actually shake the new Throne by its foundations. Building the kingdom took precedence before discussing how to peacefully integrate the ends of the continent.

Starting with placing House Stark squarely between the Crown, and the Wall.

For now, the problem was that of a foreigner in the kingdom being oppressed by his own lord. The injustice inflicted upon the Flint bride could not go unanswered, certainly not. Yet Lord Gargon’s actions, while distasteful, was his right against his Paege vassal.

“We will address this grievance with both swiftness and wisdom,” Aegon declared, his voice steady yet heavy with the responsibility he bore. “Grand Maester, summon the council immediately. My… Lady Flint, would you do… us… the honour of… taking bread and salt?”

“I have only taken my furlough for a moon; the Lord Commander will expect me back come the turn.” Lady Flint’s paleness only highlighted how she lacked any of the small twitches of muscles or veins where life would course through the living. “T’would be quiet if we were to take our rest at the inn outside your keep, beg pardon.”

His mind raced through the possible solutions – it sounded like a threat, and the… woman likely knew it. Dragging Gargon Qoherys here was a mannerly gesture – he would die, certainly; the only difference being that his death would not trigger hostilities across the Northern Marches.

After him, though? There were many Winterlanders, they would intermarry here… much as the Andals and a number of the Valyrian houses have save his own. Certainly, the procedure and writs for naturalisation or denization would need to step up... and an embassy formed with the Winterlands. Mayhaps even with Dorne, though how Orys would take that…

He glanced at Rhaenys, who stood firm beside Ser Corlys. Her silent strength was his anchor in this storm.

“Lady Flint. Though not of dragon-blood, Lord Qoherys shared the blood of old Valyria with us, and it is our kin who have done your family wrong. We insist that a were-gild be made out and that House Paege be assuaged that the Iron Throne protects its subjects. Rest assured that we shall deal with it immediately… court is dismissed.”

Rhaenys was of a mind with him, for they took flight to Dragonstone and did not rest until the Blackwater stood between them and her – the Lady Flint.

“I thought the walking dead were mere fairytales…” Rhaenys shuddered even as she continued to groom her faithful Meraxes. “It is… remarkable, that she would take the oath despite all her suffering. Even… when mortal, she would be a force to match our late sister. I am bewildered that the Stars and Swords would call us abominations when she’s around.”

Eyeing his own mount as Balerion grumbled, sand gathering in his claws, Aegon blew a long breath as he sank to fold his legs under his body to sit on the beach. “Like as not they knew – the First Men and the Andals have warred long before Dragonstone was formed, and the Night’s Watch predates that. Though I reserve my opinion on how the Lord Commander kept his post even with such a… subordinate. The Faith…”

“Remember, brother dear, the Winterlands worship the Old Gods with the strange trees – though one of their major houses do follow the Faith,” Rhaenys shook her head even as she leant on him. “I am incredulous of the fact that those bull-headed blowhards would not chase down and kill her, even with the distance and… the Lord Commander.”

Lady Flint’s very presence, and the fact that half the continent had not banded together to crusade north… implied something about the Winterlands that had the Faith of the Seven in denial to her continued state of existence. That, and the fact that the kingdoms below the Neck had never lacked reasons to ally with the Faith for a cause to war, especially against other faiths long settled to the lands…

“She is… unusually practised,” Aegon decided. “Not only in the discretion of placing such miscreants before their liege and king, also in not staying in the castle. Like as not the kings afore the union have met them before; but kings and lords are hardly known to bend to the demands of enemy aliens, much less warlords or their lesser pieces.”

“Which means that it had happened before, and the consequence, or result thereof, was so terrible that they would continue to send tribute to the Wall, even despite the dragons of old Valyria,” Rhaenys frowned. “The Night’s Watch… was formed to fight monsters.”

They exchanged startled glances, as though their minds had drifted to the same conclusion.

What could face monsters… besides other monsters?

“The late Ollidar was much better at the histories than I, so I confess to Your Graces,” Lyonce shuffled to his lecterns where masses of books and paper were laid out. “The subject was Danny Flint?”

“Yes, Lyonce,” Aegon nodded. “My queen has enlightened me as to the story and song of the brave lady, yet…”

“…yet Danny Flint continues to walk the earth in black, despite her rape and murder by those she called brothers, yes,” Lyonce settled back, his tone morose. “A sweet, sad song if one did not know how it ends. No doubt many a singer had felt the same.”

“The story from the Winterlands I had heard, said that she gelded and killed her own rapists upon her… revival,” Rhaenys interjected then. “Surely the Faith would have heard tell – there are Septons in White Harbour, for one, and House Flint is an old family. I cannot imagine the Warrior’s Sons leaving their creed, even if… the Lord Commander extended shelter.”

Lyonce hummed. “One difficulty of the Citadel’s understanding of the Night’s Watch, was that the remotely plausible could be untrue, whereas the truly fantastic tales serve the strangest chance of being a deed already done. Peremore the Twisted, upon returning of his fosterage in Winterfell, had told all and sundry of the Lyceum of Winterfell; one little-known myth was that he founded the Citadel in imitation of that illustrious establishment.”

“Was that truth?” Rhaenys asked.

“He did not; as he was blood-kin of Garth Greenhand… the Lord Commander has never lacked favour for the children of his war comrades – either true- or false-born.” A short sigh. “For much of his short yet fruitful life, the prince was paid visit by the lords of the Moat, and in his bed listened to the White Wolf’s lectures on the world beyond as did the Stark prince that was his companion. The sparks that drove the prince’s intellect compelled him to surround himself in all manner of wise men, priests, healers, as well as wizards, alchemists and sorcerers… Alas, the Lord Commander departed eventually, despite the offers of lands by the Honeywine and an ample estate to fund his studies. Prince Peremore expired shortly after, with foul rumour having that he had pined for that which he would not have, and thrown himself off the Hightower in his shame and unrequited love.”

Aegon had met the Lord Commander – he could believe the legend.

Leaving aside the scandal if Peremore Hightower had indeed loved his teacher and died for it, or the more prosaic perishing from his famously bad health…

“And the Lady Flint?”

“I believe she served under the Hungry Wolf’s banner when he sailed for Andalos,” Lyonce mused. “Presumably, she had profaned the sacred hills with her presence and yet lived, hence the gods may have determined her worth.”

Despite his token adherence to the Faith, Aegon doubted that the Seven were so easily pacified. He gave no voice to his own speculation; mayhaps, the Stars and Swords had finally met an opponent whose stubbornness extended beyond their zealotry and death itself. Rather than challenge the omnipotence of the gods and have it known of their failure… it was better to maintain this thin veneer of peace.

However, there were always fools… with Gargon Qoherys amongst them, damn him to the seven hells.

Chapter Text

The next day, saw Queen Rhaenys Targaryen in her rooms at the Aegonfort, choosing amongst her jewels a set that would match her gown for this day. The messenger she had sent after the Night’s Watch retinue had returned the Lady Flint’s acceptance to dine with royalty – even suggesting tea as taken north of the Neck, using the lady’s own stock of leaves.

What that creature would imagine as delicious, Rhaenys dared not to think. She simply hoped that the Grand Captain stationed in their little settlement of King’s Landing had finally caught wind of the wight and made short work of her. A small array of comestibles was thus the Queen’s plan, should it come to that.

Already in her mind she was halfway through planning the consolatory letter to be carried by a rider north, when there was a hurried tattoo beat on her door. A herald announced the King, and then His Grace King Aegon, the First of his Name, had swept in hurriedly, closing and bolting the door behind him.

“Sweet Rhae,” he had murmured, “they have failed.”

Partway through checking a lovely square-cut ruby pendant, Rhaenys set the jewel down on her bed. “All of the Swords and Stars?”

“Uncertain – the Poor Fellows come of all walks of life,” her brother-husband mused aloud. “No doubt the black brothers… and their sister… would suspect, but they have not taken guest right.”

“One wonders if guest right would protect them, or us,” Rhaenys pointed out.

“…I will have the Kingsguard with you,” Aegon decided.

“I will have mine own guards, as King you will need protection.”

“I will be there, Rhae. The Kingsguard shall protect me, rest assured.”

Rhaenys understood her brother-husband’s intention when the hour came, and she was surrounded by not seven, but eight men in full plate wielding shield and steel – including her husband the King.

The Lady Flint merited it – from her corpse-like embrace perched side-saddle atop her horse, her disembodied head settled on her lap smirked at dumbstruck Targaryen guards. One or two looked close to heart failure, and Rhaenys resolved to award the brave groomsman who took the horse with gold and land; the wretched creature from the Seven Hells grinned and leered at him, as the head’s owner tossed it between her hands, sometimes mummering its imminent drop onto the brave lad.

Behind their mistress more dark wings spread in the form of black cloaks, the watchmen trailing behind her while astride on their own horses, their faces almost a copy of the blank and relentless snows that Rhaenys had heard word of above the Neck. As though having enough of the creature’s jape as the Aegonfort loomed, one of the black brothers nudged his horse forward, leaning over to grab the lady’s ears as he set her head right into her string-tied neckline. The head rocked and moved, but later as she dismounted the head remained where it was set on her shoulders.

“Your Graces.” From how the clinging black cloak had moved with her, presumably Danelle Flint had curtsied. As though it were not a mockery of the highborn lady that it, and everything of her, clearly was.

“Lady Flint,” her husband whispered, clearly trying not to dive for Blackfyre and make a fruitless slash at her. “I pray you remember my beloved sister-wife and queen, Rhaenys. You have yet to introduce your black brothers?”

“So I have not, how remiss of me, I beg Your Grace’s forgiveness,” the lady’s rasp had lessened, her lips reddened as though she had drunk her fill of red strongwine – that, or blood, and Rhaenys dared not ask. “Karn and Kase, of the builders of Icemark. We had some discussion with the Iron Bank’s factor in the city. Let them at the bags – we have brought the tea.”

“I pray that the good masters will join us then.” As she led them, ever conscious of the monster at her back, Rhaenys hoped that her voice was lively enough that none of her nerves showed.

As she had ordered, the tea was set in the queen’s chambers, overlooking the peristyle where her little garden was laid out in the symmetrical and orderly arrangement of old Valyria. Roses and violets put little dots of colour where she could see them, with pride of place being a small fountain whose burble could be heard even from above. For the tea itself, she had had the self-boiler from the Iron Isles set up, pinecones long set within to crackle in their burn and reverberate within its great iron belly, with the occasional belch of pine resin. Already the murmur of water boiling within sang a little tune like a jongleur under the Queen’s patronage.

“Oh, what a lovely piece,” the creature-lady did not stint on her admiration, even as she turned around to Karn – or Kase? They looked the same – and the man produced with both hands a lidded round wooden box, about as tall as her hand was long, a pattern of concentric circles dazzling in their precision and beauty to centre on a dot in the middle of the box’s lid.

The box was opened, small red-brown leaves spooned out with a fine mussel shell attached to the end of a metal stick, to pour about five spoons into the spouted pot that had been presented alongside the self-boiler. The spoon placed back, the box enclosed, only then did she make to open the boiler’s tap and a stream of water that had been hauled of the Slayne river dribble within, and the scent released with a warming presence.

Rhaenys heard her lord husband’s breath start in surprise, and under the trestle table she held his hand, closing her eyes to admire its fragrance. There was a scent rich and hot, that brought to her mind autumn foliage and the smoke off of the Dragonmont, mixed with burning wood in a hearth and a suggestion much like the loam in the Rainwood, with an undercurrent of smoke to be savoured in each breath.

“Roasted tea, from the northern mountains,” the lady introduced, before she turned and motioned again.

Another box was duly produced, this time revealed to be cushioned with wool – its purpose soon made clear as wide-rimmed cups made their appearance, white as snow and tall enough to be held with two hands, their glazing an interesting texture that Rhaenys could not help but run her hands over to marvel at. The cups were rinsed in the hot water from the self-boiler that was then emptied into a slop bowl meant to carry such, and the steeped liquid was poured out into its waiting receptacles, a rich liquor of scent and taste.

Only then, that the cups were set out before the King and Queen of the Court, and then before the black fraternity. One of the men – likely Kase – took a sip, turning it upside down to prove it was drunk clear before setting it back down.

Thus assured the drink was not poisoned, Rhaenys eagerly reached a hand to take her cup, enjoying the warmth in her hand and taking a small sip with care not to burn her lips. “Delicious. This is… porcelain?”

“The porcelain was from the castle kiln at the Moat,” was the lady’s explanation. “Stark White is well known over the world, one of the best vessels to taste tea with.”

“It commands its worth, even in such a small vessel,” Rhaenys answered, enjoying the smokiness of the tea. “I have noticed tea grown in the Red Mountains – is there a difference of Stormlands tea, and the tea from the Winterlands?”

“It pains me to admit it, but the Stormlands receives much more sun than above the Neck,” the creature’s rasp belied the moue on her face. “Their tea is darker and more cutting, a liquor enjoyed by many a black brother on watch atop the Wall, steeped strong in the urn, and mixed with milk and sugar when it can be laid claim. I once heard a jape that the strongest brew could be used for leather. The chest of tea I make as a gift to Your Graces, and hope you will enjoy it.”

“I shall, though I fear a long wait before I can get my own cups from above the Neck,” Rhaenys lamented, less a mummery and more an actual interest now as she took another sip to empty her cup, reaching to the table for one of the prince biskets as well as a fresh cup decanted. The pairing went well, a delicious melange that occurred to Rhaenys she could have hosted with many a lady at Court.

“They are well with comestibles and sweetmeats,” came the admission, though Lady Flint only sipped from her cup.

“Would you not have some, my lady?”

The lady was wordless, instead pushing the plate of cakes to her men. “I take tea as a courtesy, else I would have aught else to share,” she explained, watching her men take a cake each with their tea, their heads bobbing in wordless thanks.

“I… see.” Rhaenys settled her cup back down, unsettled by the blatant admission. “Were you… attacked?”

“A new settlement is not safe for women. That it would be so under the Dragon King is a pity.”

Rhaenys could feel her brother-husband stiffen, his lips parted almost to protest before the tightening of her nails drew his silence. “Is it not so in the… Winterlands? Men are violent no matter their homeland,” she reasoned.

“With the Stark in Winterfell, a maiden daft enough could walk the highway in her name-day gown and still go unmolested, and travellers could find fire, bread, and salt at many an inn and holdfast.” The answering smile cracked the flesh on her face, her greyed eyes blank as her state of life. “I passed far from Winterfell, but I was avenged still.”

“But you had to do it yourself,” Rhaenys spoke before she could hold herself back.

“Aye. Our way is the old way. The Lord Commander let me at those men, and His Grace mandated it so – so I have passed the sentence.”

Rhaenys felt her teeth click shut before she could ask again – it required some thought. She could not understand the northerners, so detached of what passed below the Neck, so unwilling to bend. Had the dragons been able to fly past the Neck, Torrhen Stark might have knelt and continued as a distant bannerman, an uncrowned king; with the inability to use their dragons, their treasury emptied, and a certain lack of sea power availed to the Iron Throne, conquering the Winterlands would be… impossible.

“Ser Arlan Paege had his Flint bride, though I… would think the Winterlands enclosed,” Aegon carefully acknowledged.

“Ser Arlan offered the Flint the bride’s weight in gold, for his heir to get a chance at the Lyceum.” Teeth bared, a solid wall of brown from what must be centuries of tea.

“The Lyceum?”

“Education in the Winterlands are centred on the Lyceums – schools where our young are taught their sums and letters and the laws and obligations each holds to their fellows.” A pause. “The Greyjoy at Pyke wrote my Lord Commander, that you have seen the Iron Isles, and that the Dragon King had wished the Ironborn to reave north.”

Aegon stifled the chuff that threatened. “He knelt and requested that I take his head off, but the Iron Isles could not take any more bloodshed. Though I confess my… surprise… at how Lord Greyjoy has correspondence with the Lord Commander.”

“Everyone does. Lord Greyjoy had taken a year in fosterage at Winterfell, with lessons from the Lord Commander.” The monster named Danny Flint pronounced it matter-of-fact, not caring that somehow all of the hundred kingdoms above and below the Neck had sent ravens to the Wall at one point or another. “The Watch deals in monsters. At times, they are shaped as men.”

Rhaenys fought the shudder that threatened. Even with the education at the feet of godlike creatures – and, presumably, connections – she could not bear the thought of sweet Aenys going so far north in the cold. “And… Harren the Black? He cut down weirwoods.”

“Before that, he sent a missive to the Nightfort, with the grave reassurance that he had not touched trees with the face of the Gods carved into them. Else the Lord Commander would have expressed his displeasure.”

“To what effect, one wonders.” Aegon dismissed, taking his cup.

“Well…” a pause. “I suppose the maps would only have to be redrawn a little bit.”

Aegon’s cup tipped over, and despite his hand flashing to catch it a puddle slopped onto the wooden trestles. “Pardon?”

The lady blinked slowly. “It seems that the Lord Greyjoy forbore to mention the fate of Lonely Light.”

Aegon paused, as though trying to recall the islands of the Ironman’s Bay. “There was no island of that name.”

“It existed ages past. And then the Farwynd of Lonely Light incurred the Lord Commander’s displeasure. Now, there is no more Lonely Light on the face of the known world.”

Rhaenys took another sip, the better to hide her shaking hands.

“Queen Sharra – ah, forgive me, the Lady Regent Arryn, that is, informed your crown that the Vale lacked for ships following the battle at the Bay of Crabs,” the Lady Flint continued. “Did she not mention the Three Sisters? Or the War Across the Water?”

“…no, she had not. Only that the Vale of Arryn had warred with House Stark… and thereafter pacified the North with the space above the Vale.” Aegon’s expression tightened. “That was how our sister died. Though you speak of events long passed… my lady.”

“The most recent one… ah, there was Lys.”

“That was him?!” Rhaenys reached up to clap a hand over her blurt of surprise, though it was too late.

“Small wonder… I had pondered how Pentos and Tyrosh had split the Disputed Lands between themselves so quietly in the Century of Blood,” Aegon’s brow had furrowed under his crown. “The sinking of Lys was a great mystery; rumour had that it was an after-effect of the Doom. How… did that happen, may I ask?”

“When Lyseni slavers accidentally kidnap a Stark prince and the Stark prince dies, that is to be expected,” so did this grimalkin explain the sinking and disappearance of the entire island and populace of one of old Valyria’s nine daughters. “Especially since they took the Prince of Moat Cailin, and the man died.”

“Forgive our lack of knowledge,” Rhaenys weakly protested, “but there is nothing explicable about the… Prince of Moat Cailin’s kidnapping and death, to be answered with the… destruction of one of the Free Cities.”

For nobody had known the cause – until now.

“The Citadel is sadly lacking in knowledge of the Winterlands – I shall have to inform the Lord Commander to step up the needed educational departures,” the lady sighed. “The Lord Commander concurrently holds the substantive title of Master of the Moat. Would that clarify?”

Aegon and Rhaenys immediately let out twin ejaculations of understanding. It was not a surprise, then, that the death of a Stark prince was answered with that monster taking action.

“So the… prince of the Moat,” Aegon concluded, his mind turning. “They must be… quite the overmighty vassal.”

“It is less an issue than one may think, Your Grace, since the royal that sits the Moat oft tend to die without issue – or have the title merged back into Winterfell.”

Rhaenys frowned. “I do not follow. Why would they die without issue?”

“The royals who sit the Moat… tend to be very close to the Lord Commander,” was Lady Flint’s delicate answer.

Rhaenys stared. “And the Kings of Winter let… let them?”

“Some of them were princesses.”

Aegon’s back straightened at the implication. “You mean… but the Night’s Watch oath?”

“The children born of such a union would be great – be they true- or false-born,” A hum. “Off the top of my head, one of the King Brandons had only daughters, and was troubled for an heir until Eddara of Moat Cailin birthed Hagun Snow – at which point the legitimisation and betrothal was established. King-consort Hagun Stark would assume the epithet of Army-Breaker when he broke the Dreadfort and House Bolton’s army of ten thousand forevermore.”

“Well, that makes him an excellent commander-”

“Alone.”

The sibling couple exchanged glances, before they stared at brave Danny Flint before them, taking a sip from her cup and pouring out another. From anyone else the idea of one man, even a dragon-rider, fighting ten thousand men was unbelievable – yet so was the living dead, and here was one wight taking tea with them.

Neither of them cared of the bastard name, or that the Starks had resorted to such – if there had been the prospect of introducing such potent blood into the line, any sensible king would have grasped it with both hands. The closeness of Prince Eddard and his paramour, and King Torrhen’s tolerance of such so many years ago at Moat Cailin, suddenly made much more sense, on top of the great bride price Ser Arlan had paid for his Winterlander bride–

“A query,” Aegon asked. “Would your Lord Commander take on more students?”

Chapter Text

“Such an honour to be invited to take tea with royalty,” the creature simpered over her cup of bone-white porcelain. “Your Grace looks well.”

In answer, a blank-faced Rhaenys simply tossed a folio of papers onto the trestle table and pushed away the lemon cakes that made her queasy. The Winterfell Crier’s new edition had just reached the Throne’s attention – a setback, in her opinion, since it meant that the Winterlands had undercut House Targaryen almost from the start of the Qoherys affair. The Kingsguard with her this day, Ser Roote, was fortunately too far to hear yet close enough to defend his queen – it would let her express the Crown’s displeasure.

House Qoherys being ended under Blackfyre the day before took on a different dimension now; to the world at large, it must seem as though her King had been forced to execute his own lord, or be permanently mocked in print and song.

“It seems that even the Winterlands has eyes and ears all the way in King’s Landing,” Rhaenys scowled.

“Hardly – merely the correspondents and journalists keen to report on activities in the South.” Blank and clouded eyes belied the sharpness of the Lady Flint’s smile. “Your Grace could set up a competing correspondence – many minstrels and singers exist under your patronage; you could pick suitable men.”

“Half of them are unable to write, the other half unable to read – but that is an idea.”

Rhaenys considered, before her eyes lidded and she considered the Lady Flint. “How is it,” she asked, “that the Southron Kings have never sought to emulate the Winterlands in this? The ability to share news farther would serve a boon.”

“And then you would have His High Holiness decrying the use of heathen machines, growing schisms in the Faith’s tenets from above and below the Neck, and the Maesters insisting that knowledge is best transmitted by the written word and not stamped altogether.” An indelicate snort, and then a hum of consideration. “Your Grace, you are aware of Prince Gawen Gardener’s return?”

Rhaenys kept her face blank. “…my King had permitted it, and awarded him his due as Warden of the South and Lord of Highgarden.”

“Since Lord Tyrell died in Dornish sands… Prince Gawen had been seeking an engagement to House Manderly ere his return below the Neck.”

Rhaenys frowned at the sudden change of subject, before the implications sank in. “We have been learning more on the history of the continent… there is some history between the Tyrells and the Manderlys, were there not?”

“It was the Gardeners and Peakes who drove the Manderlys to take flight almost a millennium ago, but there was instigation from the Tyrells afore, aye,” the Lady Flint was dispassionate in her recount. “And now the Manderlys are neighbours of Moat Cailin.”

Rhaenys considered this revelation. “Yet, Prince Gawen returned without a bride – he will marry Lord Manfred’s daughter, forsooth.” Since he had not been burnt with the rest of his family, the princely title would remain as a courtesy to Gawen Gardener until the end of his days.

“Did you wish him to marry the Tyrell chit? Gardeners will know to uproot the roses in their greens should they overgrow.”

Rhaenys pressed her lips tight at the analogy of the Tyrells’ imminent end. It was through no fault, save that Harlan Tyrell had surrendered Highgarden under threat of dragon-fire… it was a great house putting down an overly ambitious vassal, such was the game of thrones. “And the… Manderlys did not wish the betrothal?” she sought to clarify.

“The Merman remembers that it were the green hands that sent them north,” the Lady Flint considered. “And, so I gather, the effect of a basic education in the Winterlands, is the reasoning that in each individual’s private communion with the Seven, Septons and Septas are surplus guides, not the fount of knowledge into the mysteries of the Faith. Yet what would I know? I worship the Old Gods. I would not understand even if the White Kirk would lecture on it.”

“…you mean, my lady, that the Manderlys have founded a sect breaking away from the Starry Sept,” Rhaenys was ashamed that it took her so long to piece it together. “…my lady, you realise that as a defender of the Faith, my King can well ride his dragon to head north with this cause? Why would you inform me?”

“The Andals have wanted the Winterlands and its peoples since they came fleeing the Freehold,” a shrug from the walking dead lady. “Many times they have sought to send their brides of the new gods, only to have their lies exposed; or, where inclined, the maids were redirected to White Harbour’s motherhouse. Dorne would hold septs and Septries, but that had not saved them the dragon’s wroth either. Forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but my Lord Commander had summed on your King Aegon, that he does not look like someone who would bend to any scripture or dogma in his ambition.”

“…It pains me to admit that the Lord Commander has my King’s measure,” Rhaenys admitted, even as her mind spun. Any inroads the Iron Throne would hope to make north would lie with the Faith – conversion or marriages or diplomacy would work when dragons and men would not cross the Neck. This admission of another priestly order, one within the Faith under protection and patronage north of the Neck…

What would that sect make of Aegon, anointed under the Starry Sept?

What attitudes would they hold to unions meant to keep the blood of the dragon pure?

“I confess that the mainland that preoccupied us was concentrated south,” Rhaenys admitted. “With that in mind, I am of a mind to ameliorate that – I pray that my lady would assist this… foreign queen.”

She was a foreigner to those north of the Neck, and far beyond in the snows. It was true for now – it may not be true down the years.

“Since the foreign queen had helped ensure the Qoherys was executed, I shall,” the grimalkin inclined her head; for a brief moment Rhaenys feared that her head would fall off of her shoulders. “Where shall we begin?”

“In the histories of the Citadel, on the occasion I have read of a prince awarded, say, Wolf’s Den,” Rhaenys recounted. “And yet a generation later, the son would inherit as lord of Wolf’s Den, not as prince. I would think it an error, save that the Grand Maester insists the records come of the Lyceum of Winterfell.”

“It is not.” The lady tilted her head. “Cadets of House Stark would have their titles downgraded by each generation separate from the main line of Winterfell. After a certain number of generations, they would lose the right of succession and the lordly name – thus did the wolves maintain the fervour to advance themselves in mind and body within the pack.”

“Yet there remain cadets that still hold the princely title,” the Queen noted.

“Aye. Thus far, the only appanages founded with perpetual heritability of succession-right parallel to Winterfell, have been the royal princes of Moat Cailin, Karhold, Sea Dragon Point, Hardhome, and the Fist.”

Most of the locations were foreign to Rhaenys, save for the first of them; it invited the memory of a young man of dark hair and storm-grey eyes, trailed behind by a monster. It took a while before she found some words: “I would think… it would be easier, to confer Moat Cailin as the seat of the King’s heir.”

There was a thud, and a clink, as shards of bone-white fell down and puddles of tea-brown soaked into the rushes underfoot. Rhaenys would have stood, called a servant, done something, but the look in the dead wight’s eyes drew her back; some animal instinct made her freeze as though seized under a predator’s gaze.

The gaze dropped, and Danny Flint picked shards of porcelain out of her left palm – as though a cup had not just been crushed into shards and powder in her hand. For what earthly reason, Rhaenys wished to ask, and yet dared not.

“As successor of the Winter Throne, the heir must be kept close to hand and look over the accounts,” was the bland reply from the lady. “Prince and Great Steward of Winterfell is the title assumed by Prince Roan.”

Thus evaded, Rhaenys hummed. “Given how many Kings of Winter had the name, I would think that King Torrhen would have named his heir Brandon.”

“It would be rude to do so while Lord Brandon remains – as he did when King Aegon chose to turn south rather that persist north.” With a new cup prepared, Lady Flint took a redundant sip. “None shall doubt Lord Brandon’s devotion to His Grace.”

It rankled that for the nonce Torrhen Stark had not bent the knee, but the mere proximity of brave Danny Flint made Rhaenys remember that this was not a battle she could pick. Summoning Meraxes to bathe the grimalkin in fire… while tempting, was not worth the Lord Commander’s wroth.

“I… see.”

Nonetheless, something rang false; Rhaenys admitted her curiosity, knowing something of kingship and the worries of kings. Certainly Winterfell was the centre of the Winterlands, and yet Moat Cailin held the castle, the lands, and the monster – like as not magic was involved. However, a sensible king would have ensured the power be directly controlled by the Throne, not named to a cadet… unless…

“I admit some curiosity,” Rhaenys carefully broached the subject, “of what a woman serves in the Watch. Mayhaps in the order of stewards?”

 “Few women south of the Wall take the oath, if at all, and serve a variety of roles. Followers and washerwomen are oft residents of the castle towns, and a fair few Spearwives assist in Watch operations. I am… an exception.”

So you clearly are, Rhaenys thought. “I pray my lady would elaborate.”

Great long nails drummed into the trestle table quite rudely, though the pursing of the lady’s lips was, to Rhaenys, rather unnecessary.

“The First Men would bury their dead in barrow fields,” Lady Flint’s cloudy eyes were distant, as though recalling a memory older than the Doom. “South of the Wall, before the Stark earned their submission, the Dustins had crowned themselves as Barrow Kings over the long, low hummocks. A barrow is thus, a grave. That is how Long Barrow was named, when it was first raised, and I took command of it and its town.”

What does that make you, then? Rhaenys forbore to ask, mesmerised instead by the clear, matter-of-fact recount that without consideration would have glossed over the implication that Danny Flint had been named to keep a large grave.

“Years hence, when the Lord Commander had departed north in the heart of Winter in his labours, seventy-nine deserters went south in outlawry. One was the Ryswell’s youngest son, so when they reached the Rills, they sought shelter. I was the officer who came for them, and Lord Ryswell quite sensibly assisted in their return.”

If Danny Flint had turned up on a lord’s doorstep, Rhaenys did not doubt that any sane mortal would have relented.

“When I asked their punishment, the Lord Commander told me such: ‘They left their posts in life, so in death their watch goes on forever’. Above Long Barrow, holes were hewn into the Wall, and the deserters were lowered into them with spears and horns to face north of the Wall and watch as the ice shut them into the cold.”

There was a sigh, of… appreciation, mayhaps. A respect akin to reverence, acknowledgement of the deaths’ significance, while empathy was very much alien. Not human; not like the lady who had known what reaction mere mortals would have on hearing such a tale to harry the fears, and but for a brief moment hesitated before telling the awful truth.

Rhaenys hated herself for having asked the lady. If she had known…

Rhaenys wished that she could unknow it.

“I am their warden – when the Watch needs men, they come out. I would imagine they would prefer were the Watch to be forever lacking in living men, but alas, the living are required on the Wall.” In her demise, Danny Flint may have lost that which made her story sweet; what minstrels dared not sing, was that she had incarnated to deathly, bitter cold.

Rhaenys ducked her hands beneath the boards of the trestle, rubbing the backs of her hands where her flesh had goose-pimpled. Before her steamed the cup of tea she had been nursing, and she willed to drink it, to cradle some fragment of warmth and life in shaking fingers; yet, to reach out now was to come close to her – a monster, serving a greater monster. “And… Lord Ryswell?”

“When Rodrik Ryswell was old and dying, he had himself carried to the Wall, so he could take the black and stand by his son,” the eyes flickered. “For honour and their oaths, he had returned the boy; yet such was his father’s love, so he came to share his watch. I pour a libation in his pit on the year’s turn – if I were not dragging back deserters, which I rarely am.”

For the oath was only for life, whereas the Lord Commander would drag them back from the seven hells if needed – was Danny Flint not an example? “But… they have died.”

“And before that, they would forswear their oath to defend the realms of men.” Danny Flint’s eyes turned hard. “The Watch was meant to fight monsters. That I watch over them at Long Barrow is thus my usual duty.”

“That duty could be relieved, if we were to fly to Long Barrow to burn it,” Rhaenys offered, only to earn a stare.

“I wonder,” the lady’s response was cool, “if the Lord Commander had not thought of the same thing. While I understand parts of the dragon was exhibited at Winterfell, most of the body rests at the Wall… as does its rider.”

Still staring at the Queen, there was a careless shrug, as though a terrible menace had not just been implied. “Long Barrow… is very long, after all.”

…

..

.

Rhaenys sicked up, and would not sleep then, or until the grimalkin had finally departed back north of the Neck to where even dragons feared to tread.