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Chapter Text

Next time we will see each other, we will talk about your mother.

Ned had barely recalled the promise he had given the boy upon his departure for King’s Landing. Back then he had believed that he had years before he would be forced to tell the boy the truth.

“It is beautiful here,” Ned said as he stepped into the small grove harboring nine weirwood trees. “It almost feels like home.”

“It’s here where the recruits from the north swear their vows,” Jon explained, his longish face even paler in the bright morning light. It was a Stark face, but his grey eyes were darker and his brown hair reminiscent of his mother rather than Ned or his Uncle Brandon. The boy was all Lyanna, safe for the eyes, his eyes were the eyes of a stranger, a man who Ned hadn’t thought about in years. Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon.

“They forced me to swear my vows before coming here to the Wall,” Ned explained in return and stepped closer towards the weirwood trees. “I had no other choice.”

The weirwood trees with their crimson leaves stood out against the fresh-fallen snow like a sore wound. Ned had always sought the comfort of the godswood when his mind was filled with doubt, but now he felt only dread.

“Of course not,” Jon replied and nodded his head in understanding. “You are no traitor, aren’t you?”

Ned nodded his head, feeling ashamed of his lie, but then it had been the only way to save Sansa and Arya, though only Arya had been allowed to return to Winterfell while Sansa remained betrothed to Joffrey.

A greater honor than a traitor deserves, the Queen had told him, but the truth was much colder. Sansa might become Queen, but she would also be a hostage till the end of her days.

He hadn’t even been allowed to speak to her before his departure, but his heart filled with dread when he thought of her being wed to Cersei Lannister’s bastard. His only hope was that Stannis Baratheon would prevail against the Lannisters and retrieve his girl.

“Father?” the boy’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Did you hear what I said?”

Father, Ned thought. He had never thought of himself as the boy’s father. It was another lie that had burdened him all these years. A lie Lyanna had forced upon him. No, it is time to tell the boy the truth. Mayhaps it will help to ease my heavy heart.

“I heard you, my boy.”

Then, he shook his head and touched the cool bark of the weirwood tree.

“I lied to protect Sansa and Arya. It is all true…Joffrey is a bastard and so are the rest of Cersei’s children.”

Jon didn’t answer at once, his expression as serious and thoughtful.

“I would have done the same. You do not need to feel ashamed, father,” Jon replied at last and drew closer, his black cloak swishing after him through the snow. His wolf followed closely, his ruby eyes piercing into Ned’s. It felt as if the wolf was able to smell his dirty lie.

“I see,” Ned replied and sucked in a deep breath. “But that is not the reason I called you here. You asked me about your mother…,” he trailed off, his voice failing him.

The boy’s dark eyes widened in hope and fear.

“Who was she?” he asked, his voice drowned out by the howling wind. “Where did you meet her?”

Ned had mulled over this moment a thousand times, but now he didn’t know what to say.

“I think we should start at the beginning of the tale…the Tourney of Harrenhall.”

“The Tourney of Harrenhall?” Jon asked in confusion. “Is that where you met her?”

“No,” Ned replied and forced the words over his lips. “Do you remember the name Howland Reed? He saved my life during the rebellion…”

“Aye,” Jon confirmed and brushed his hair out of his face, but the strong wind blew it back into his eyes. “But what does he have to do with my mother?”

“I shall explain it all,” Ned promised and braced himself. “Lord Howland Reed is my friend, but my sister Lyanna was even dearer to him. There was a group of squires that attacked Lord Howland Reed on the first day of the tourney and my sister and your Uncle Benjen defended him. Later that night Lyanna had him dressed up in Benjen’s clothing and invited him to sit at our table. Sadly, she did much more than that to help him…”

Jon had listened in silence, his eyes growing wider with every word spilling from Ned’s lips.

“What did she do?”

“Something very brave,” Ned replied in a heavy voice. “She dressed herself up as a mystery knight to defend Howland Reed’s honor…the Knight of the Laughing Tree. She was successful, but she also made an unknown enemy that day.”

“Was it…,” Jon began, his voice barely above a whisper. “Was this enemy Prince Rhaegar Targaryen? Is that why he took her?”

“No,” Ned replied and shook his head. “The unknown enemy she made was the Mad King, but the King sent his son to find this mystery knight,” he trailed off.

“And then he found her and raped her,” Jon finished for him.

It was another lie. A lie Ned had supported to protect this boy from Robert’s wrath.

Robert was dead now and all that was left of his legacy was a Lannister bastard.

Mayhaps that was his punishment, Ned thought. For building his throne upon the blood of innocents…Princess Elia and her smothered babes.

And I stood by and watched, Ned knew and was barely able to meet the boy’s gaze. Mayhaps that is why the gods punished me.

“That was what I and Robert believed…it was the only thing that made sense to us after Lyanna’s sudden disappearance and the fact that Prince Rhaegar crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty,” Ned forced the bitter truth over his lips. “We all thought she was abducted, but once all was said and done Howland Reed and I found out the truth. Lyanna was never abducted…she loved the Prince.”

“Loved the Prince?” the boy asked and shuddered from head to toe. “I do not understand….What does all this have to do with my mother?”

It didn’t surprise Ned that the boy’s mind refused to accept the truth.

And yet there was no turning back.

“It matters, because Lyanna was your mother and because Prince Rhaegar took her as his second wife…it was only a vow beneath the weirwood tree, but that wouldn’t have mattered to Robert,” Ned explained.

The boy didn’t speak nor move. He looked as if Ned had poured a bucket of cold water over his head.

“That’s a lie,” the boy said in utter disbelief, his face growing paler with every passing moment. “You are lying to me, are you not?”

“No,” Ned replied and was about to step towards the boy, but his piercing dark eyes stopped him. “It is no lie…Rhaegar Targaryen was your true father.”

“So you are telling me that all my life was a lie?” Jon asked, his mouth twisting in pain.

“Why?” the boy demanded know, his voice icy and distant. “Why did you lie?”

“To protect you,” Ned gave the boy the reason. “Robert would have killed you like Prince Rhaegar’s other children…I had no other choice…,” he tried to explain his reasoning, but the boy cut him off.

“Protect me?” the boy asked and started to laugh. It was a laugh filled with pain and resentment. “By treating me like a fool?”

“Robert would have killed you,” Ned repeated and tried not to flinch. He had expected such a reaction, but it had been necessary, the only way to honor his promise to Lyanna. “He hated your father too much and Lyanna asked me to protect you…I had no other choice…” he continued, but Jon’s snapping voice cut him off.

“You made me believe that I am the sole stain on Lord Eddard Stark’s white vest!” the boy choked out angrily and started to flex his hand. “You made me believe that my mother never loved me! How much would it have cost you to tell me at least that!”

Then, the boy stumbled forward and leaned against the tree. A moment of silence passed, before he lifted his head and met Ned’s gaze, his dark eyes piercing into him like Valyrian steel.

“All I ever did was to prove my self worthy as your son. That is why I am here…that is why I left everything behind…to no longer be a burden to you…It was all a lie…all a lie,” the boy continued to mumble, tears shining in his eyes.

In that moment Ned felt as if he had been thrown back in time to the day his father had informed Lyanna about her betrothal to Robert. There had been much shouting and tears, but even Ned had been surprised by the vitriol Lyanna had shown him when he went to seek her out.

Ned had tried to comfort her, to assure her of Robert’s love, but Lyanna had only shook her head.

Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man’s character, she had told him and her words had proven true, though it had taken Ned years to realize it.

Robert had not been the man Ned had believed him to be. Both he and Jon Arryn had been blind to the bitter truth, but giving Robert a crown had been a grave mistake.

“I should have told you,” Ned admitted weakly and stepped closer, attempting to touch the boy’s shoulder, but he shoved his hand away, a scowling expression taking hold of his face. In that moment the boy looked so much like Lyanna it made his heart ache.

“And what consolation is that to me?” Jon asked him, his voice heavy with bitterness and pain. “I joined the Night’s Watch because I thought it was the only place for me and because I believed it would please you…’A honorable calling’ you called it, but now I am finally seeing the truth of it all. That was another lie, wasn’t it?”

“I did it to protect you,” Ned repeated, but he realized then that this explanation wasn’t enough for the boy.

“Protect me?” the boy spat at him. “Do you really believe that? You allowed me to come here despite knowing what kind of a place the Night’s Watch is. Uncle Benjen warned me, but I didn’t listen. I will tell you the real reason…you never wanted to protect me. You wanted to protect King Robert. Why else allow me to join the Night’s Watch before telling me the truth? It is awfully convenient, isn’t it? By joining the Night’s Watch the son of Rhaegar Targaryen would no longer pose a danger to his rule. Did you ever care for me at all or was that another lie?”

The boy had spoken with so much vitriol that Ned was at a loss of word.

He had expected anger, but not these accusations. Jon had always been such a calm boy. Ned had hoped he would understand.

“Mayhaps that was part of the reason,” Ned replied. “But my foremost goal was to protect you and our family. Robert would have killed us all had he known truth…,” he continued to explain, but the boy cut him off again.

“Our family?” the boy asked, his voice laced with utter disbelief. His cheeks were deeply flushed as he broke into another angry rant “I was never really part of your family. I was always the bastard…to be hidden away and to be send to the Night’s Watch. I meant nothing to you…you even allowed your wife to believe this lie. How many years have I endured her cold stares for your sake? She was another reason I left…Gods, I should have told her what I really thought of her when I had the chance. Curse you, Uncle. Curse you, and your damn wife to the seven hells!”

Ned felt like slapped as he watched the boy balance himself against the tree. He was ringing for composure, his massive wolf brushing his head against her his hand.

“Catelyn has nothing to do with this,” Ned added once the boy had regained his composure. “I lied to her as well. She tolerated you for my sake. She did it out love.”

“Love?” the boy choked out. “The last time I spoke to her she told me that I should have been crippled instead of Bran. So deep goes her love for you, my lord. She wished death upon your blood.”

Then, the boy turned around and was about to return to his horse, but in the last moment the boy turned around and flashed him an icy look.

“You are no longer my father. I cast you aside, just as you cast me aside. Do not ever speak to me again.”

He needs time, Ned told himself that night. In time he will come to accept his fate.

Thus, he kept his distance and tried his best accept his own fate.

Yet his hopes soon turned to ash when he was called before the Lord Commander.

“Jon Snow is gone,” the Old Bear informed him in a grim voice, his bothersome raven seated atop his shoulder. The bird’s small black eyes watched Ned as he tried to absorb this piece of information. “He took his horse and left in the middle of the night. He also left his black cloak and the sword I gifted him for saving my life.”

Ned could neither speak nor move. Ned brushed his hands over his face, the burden of his failure pressing down on him.

I failed, Lyanna. I failed.

…

Chapter Text

The Exile

Jon watched as Daario drowned another cup of wine and pulled another whore into his lap. Jon had never met a more grotesque man than him. His beard was cut in three prongs, all dyed blue. His eyes and curly hair were equally blue, but his mustachios were painted gold. Yet the most startling about him were his golden tooth and his frilly garments. He was a fool and a mummer, but that couldn’t change the fact that he was a capable fighter.

Jon had joined the Stormcrows scarcely a year ago and had had plenty of time to see their prowess in battle. First they had fought a handful of small skirmishes against a Dothraki horde and scarce four moons ago they had fought a bloody struggle against another sellsword company hired from Myr. It had been Jon's second taste of battle and he had done well. At least that is what Sallor had told him when he saw the blood on his blade, though Ghost had killed far more men than him. Sallor, like Daario, was another joint commander and in charge of the archers. He was a tall and thin man, a twisting scar marring the right cheek of his face. Jon liked him well enough, but that didn't mean he trusted this man. Sometimes, he seemed far more interested in Ghost than Jon.

"So this dragon whore expects us for an audience, eh?" Prendahl na Ghezn asked. He was a  man with a broad face and dark of hair. He also spoke with a thick Ghiscari  accent and had made it his habit to call Daenerys Targaryen "dragon whore" whenever he found the moment to do so.

Jon knew why. He felt sympathy for the Masters that had been butchered at Astapor.

As always, Daario laughed and brought his cup to his lips as the second whore settled in his lap and twirled his blue curls in a playful manner. It was the dark-haired girl from Norvos that had shared Jon's bed for nearly a week during their campaign against the Dothraki. Thinking about it made Jon realize how low he had fallen after his departure from the Night's Watch. He had been so angry and determined to leave the past behind him that he had thrown away everything he had held dear, including his honor.

The first thing he had done after arriving in Volantis was to drown himself in wine and to take a whore to bed. All his life he had suppressed his urges to please his Uncle, but that had been his way to pay him back for his betrayal. And yet as much as Jon had enjoyed this week of leisure, he had also used up all the coin he had earned by working as a shiphand. The fact that he had nearly puked out his guts out for the following three days, had been enough to get sober and to make plans. Not long after, he had made the acquaintance of the Stormcrows and had asked to join. At first, they had made fun of him, but after he had proved his mettle by defeating one of their capable warriors, they had allowed him to join.

That he was able to read and write had brought him a place as an apprentice to the paymaster. He was an elderly man and far too blind to do the accounts on his own. Jon didn’t mind helping him, though he had joined to taste blood, not to control dusty accounts.

And he had seen blood aplenty. The campaign in Myr had been bloody enough, but it had been nothing like he had imagined it.

That was another lesson he had learned. Real war was not glorious. It was bloody and afterwards, even when a victory had been won, it smelled of shit. Truly, it was no wonder that these sellswords were constantly drowning themselves in wine and whores to numb their fears.

Not that Jon blamed them. He had done the same by taking said girl to bed, though it hadn't given him as much pleasure as he had hoped for. It was cheap pleasure bought by coin. Theon Greyjoy might be able to convince himself that these girls really admired him for his supposed prowess, but Jon was not so easily blinded.

"They also say this dragon whore is the most beautiful woman in the world," Daario pointed out. "Mayhaps I can take her for my own once we have won this battle. Mad women are the best to fuck."

Jon didn't know why, but after hearing Daario's words he felt the hot breath of anger coursing through his body.

Daenerys Targaryen was a stranger to him, but even so she was his relative, his aunt, whatever that would mean to her.

All he knew about her came from stories. That her brother had sold her to a Dothraki Khal, that she had hatched dragons from a burning pyre and that she had put the Masters of Astapor to the sword. And yet, when Daario had spoken so crudely about her he couldn't help but to feel angry. It had felt as if he had spoken about Arya or Sansa, his supposed sisters. Arya, he was sure wouldn't care that he was a Targaryen, but Sansa, who was pledged to wed Joffrey would only see him as a threat. 

"Mayhaps we should listen to what she has to say before we make any hasty decisions,” Jon countered and searched Daario’s gaze. “Mayhaps she would be prepare to pay us more than we were offered by the Masters? 

Daario’s smile faded instantly, a more serious expression taking hold of his features as he pondered over Jon's words. He liked to play the fool or the flamboyant lover, but deep down he was a realist. Jon had heard that Daario had changed sides numerous times if it was to his advantage. Loyalty was a foreign word to a sellsword like him.

"It seems our paymaster has been training you well, green boy."

"My name is Aemon," Jon corrected him, though that was another lie. It was a name he had taken to conceal his identity, but he had no doubt that Daario was aware of his lie.

"Even so, you are a green boy," Daario japed and bared his golden teeth. Ghost stirred suddenly, his teeth bared. Jon patted his head to calm him, but Daario seemed not the least bit frightened. His smile grew only brighter. "A boy who can't drown a flagon of wine without puking his guts out is no true man."

"Even so," Jon countered and took a sip from his cup. "You should at least listen to what Daenerys Targaryen has to offer you. She has three dragons, ten-thousand Unsullied and a horde of Dothraki following her. Aegon Targaryen took the Seven Kingdoms with less than that. She is clearly on a conquest and by helping her with this conquest we might all get very rich.”

"Her brother was the Beggar King," Prendahl scoffed. "They say she stole the Unsullied and killed men who invited her into their city. How trustworthy can a whore like here be if she butchers innocent men?"

"Innocent men," Jon scoffed and couldn't help but to laugh. The short time he had spent in Volantis had shown him how innocent the Masters were. Back when he had lived in Winterfell he had never taught much about the topic of slavery, but now he knew why it was outlawed in Westeros. It  was a disgusting practice and what the Masters of Astapor did to boys to turn them into Unsullied was even more disgusting No, Jon felt no sympathy for these slavers. They could burn for all he cared. "The Masters of Astapor are hardly innocent. They built their riches upon the suffering of those beneath them."

"As if the Lords and Kings of the Sunset Kingdoms are any different. The only difference is that you call them smallfolk and not slaves. Do not act so highly, green boy. You know nothing of the world," Prendahl replied and smiled smugly. "You know nothing of the world."

"Mayhaps that is true," Jon granted him grudgingly. "But slavery is outlawed where I come from. You also seem to forget that many a man here in this company was a slave or a pit fighter. I have yet to hear them speak about their Masters’ kindness."

"You dare!" Prendahl snarled and freed his blade. "I will not take insults from a green boy."

"As you wish," Jon returned and freed his own blade. Ghost was quickly at his side and bared his teeth.

The other men laughed and snickered in amusement, but it was Daario put an end to the quarrel before it had even begun.

"Are you so easily roused by a green boy, old friend?" Daario asked and grinned. "Or are you just angry that he is not licking the Masters’ feet like other sellswords. Well, I can’t say I have ever held much love for these cunts either. My mother was a whore and I was probably fathered by one of these cunts. Later they sold me into slavery, until the day I won my freedom by becoming a champion of the pits."

"And wasn't it an honor to you? Weren't you rewarded for your loyalty? The Masters are good to those who know their place.

Daario laughed and leaned forward to pick a grape from the bowl while his other hand fondled the girl’s breast.

"The Masters can suck my cock for all I care. The only reason I fight for them is the gold they pay."

Then, he leaned forward and spit out the core before Prendhal’s feet.

"And that is why am willing to consider the green boy's idea," Daario added tauntingly and shifted his attention back to Jon. "We shall talk to the dragon whore and listen to what she has to offer.”

Jon didn't know if he should feel relieved, but this was at least something he could do for his aunt. He had considered seeking her out a year ago, but then he had realized what a silly idea that was.

What could he offer to her? Nothing, but if he could help her win this battle she might consider giving him her trust. It was all he had left or he would remain and exile until the end of his days.

It wouldn't be a bad life, but then he had recalled Master Aemon, the blind old Maester withering away at the Wall. He had no strength left to help Daenerys Targaryen, but Jon Snow did, whatever that would mean for him.

"You are listening to this green boy?" Prendhal asked. "Have you lost your mind or are you thinking with your cock?"

"My cock has always been a better judge of character than my head, old friend," Daario replied cheerfully and shifted his attention back to Jon.

It seemed Prendhal had heard enough and a heartbeat later he was gone.

"But Prendahl  is not completely wrong. They say Daenerys Targaryen took Astapor by treachery. How can we be sure that the dragon whore would keep her word?”

Jon was taken back by this question, though it didn't take long before he found an appropriate answer.

Jon knew it would be risky, but hiding the truth from her and revealing it at a later time might be just as bad of a choice.

She might think that I came to fool her. No, it is better to be honest. Besides, I have already lost everything. I can only win.

Thus, he returned Daario's smile and tried to sound as confident as possible.

"She will listen, because she is my blood, my aunt. Allow me to speak to her and I might be able to convince her. And if she doesn't agree, well, then you can still fight for the Masters. Either way you cannot lose.”

For the first time since meeting him Daario looked stunned.

"Aemon," Daario repeated then and suddenly started to howl with laughter. "Of course! Aemon!"

Once Daario had regained his composure, he started to nod his head in understanding.

“But if she is your aunt…Why are you here with us and not with her?”

“I have never met her,” Jon admitted hesitatingly. “I cannot guarantee that she will like me, but I am prepared to face the consequences alone. Still, what I said about her isn’t wrong. I think she is on a conquest to gain an army to retake her father’s crown. You and the others could get very rich by earning her trust.”

“Prendhal will not agree. I might be able to convince Sallor, but not Prendhal. He loves his chains too much,” Daario pointed out and leaned back.

“He doesn’t have to live until the next day,” Jon suggested. “The Widower would make a better join-commander than him. I have seen him tear apart two men at once while Prendhal was pissing himself.”

“Prendhal would kill you if he knew what you just said, green boy,” Daario warned and slipped his curved blade free, showing Jon the bare steel. “But it is good for you that I have never held much liking for Prendhal.”

“Which means?” Jon asked and watched him polish the curved blade with the hem of his silken tunic.

"That we are going to meet your aunt, green boy, but be warned. Do not betray me or I shall cut off your cock and hand you over to the Masters myself. I am not a man to be trifled with, green boy.”

"I understand," Jon replied and dipped his head. I am not to be trifled with either, he thought and brushed his hand over the pommel of his sword. I am a green boy who has nothing to lose, but his worthless life.

And despite his threats, Daario kept his promise.

Prendhal didn’t see the next day.

…

It was beyond midday when they set out to meet his aunt. To reach her camp, they had to cross through a birchwood forest and down a slanting sandstone ridge.

The current battle plan was a simple one. The Second Sons would fight on the left wing and the Stormcrows on the right wing while the Yunkish slaves would hold the center. In total they were five thousand men to face ten-thousand Unsullied and a small horde of Dothraki. It would be a bloody battle, a battle Jon Snow didn’t want to participate in. He had already betrayed his first family. He didn’t want to do the same with his aunt.

Not long after, they finally arrived at the well-fortified camp. Daario liked to make fun of the Unsullied for lacking the essential parts of a man, but nobody could deny that they weren’t disciplined soldiers. The deep ditch they had dug around the camp was impressive and even now the woods were full of Unsullied, lopping branches off birch trees to sharpen them into stakes.

“You should have brought your wolf with you, green boy,” Daario teased him as he led his horse beside Jon’s. “I heard her dragons are not bigger than dogs.”

“Ghost will meet her soon enough,” he replied politely and kicked his feet in the sides of his horse, urging it into a faster pace. He was not in the mood for japes. He was about to meet his aunt and he had no idea how she would react to him.

She is he Mad King’s daughter. What if she burns me upon hearing my story? My mother was part of the reason her family lost the throne.

The camp itself proved equally impressive. The tents were arranged in orderly rows and surrounded a golden pavilion in the center. My aunt’s dwelling place, Jon guessed and noticed that there lay a second encampment beyond the golden pavilion. It was sprawling and chaotic, but without ditches to protect it or even tents. Goats, sheep and half-starved dogs roamed freely amongst the horde of women, children and old men.

Half of Astapor followed her, he realized with horror. The sheer amount of them worried him more than the swords of the enemy. These people will either be enslaved or starve to death if my aunt doesn’t win this battle.

It was a sun-kissed Unsullied leader who greeted them with a score of hundred men, their sharp spears glinting like diamonds.

“This one is Greyworm,” the man greeted them in Bastard Valyrian. “The Queen means to see the leaders of the Stormcrows.”

“And we shall be pleased to meet her,” Daario returned and climbed from his saddle, a bright smile curling on his lips. Sallor, the ever-serious joint-commander followed in silence.

Thus, they left their horses behind and were led towards the golden pavilion. Outside he spotted Dothraki, their bells ringing with every movement.

Jon counted around thirty men, but no more. It was not much, but more than Jon had to offer. All he had was Daario, who would drag his aunt into his bed like a cheap whore.

That will never happen. I will kill him before he comes to that.

As they entered his tent, his heartbeat increased and the heat of the day was becoming almost unbearable. Sweat was rolling down his cheeks, but an almost sweet smell filled his nostrils. It was the smell of incense; of lavender, jasmine and perhaps sandalwood.

Inside he also found a heap of cushions and a young girl, seated atop it in a cross-legged position.

It was true what they had said about his aunt. She was a beautiful girl, but Jon Snow had known too few girls to judge whether she was the most beautiful.

Her soft-featured face, her silver hair and her dark purple eyes gave her an exotic appearance and yet he couldn’t help but to notice that she was still half a child.

Even the two sun-kissed ladies seated beneath her feet looked older than her. Only the slightly darker-skinned girl seated next to her looked younger than her.

There were also two men in the pavilion. One was a large man with a black beard and balding head. He was garbed in leather and wool, but it was only after Jon had laid eyes on the black bear embellished on said man’s tunic that Jon realized who he was.

Jon had seen him only a handful of times, but never this close. This man was Jorah Mormont, who had been exiled for the crime of slavery.

What is he doing here, Jon wondered and lowered his head. It made him glad that he had cut his hair short. Why is he serving my aunt? 

“Welcome,” his aunt greeted them in a soft-spoken voice, her deep violet eyes studying them with interest."Welcome."

It made Jon wish that he had something of the Targaryens of old to call his own.

Yet he forgot about his doubts when he laid eyes on the dragons. They were a wonder to behold, almost like a dream.

The white-and-golden dragon sat atop a cushion while the black dragon lay curled beneath the Princess’s feat. The green-and-bronze dragon was the only one who showed interest in them, his head moving back and forth, watching Jon from the distance. “Welcome, my friends. I am please to have you here. Well, what do you have to say to me?”

“You would do well to take your rabble elsewhere,” Sallor spoke his practiced lines. “You took Astapor by treachery, but Yunkai will not fall so easily.”

“Five hundred of your Stormcrows against ten-thousand of my Unsullied,” his aunt teased sweetly. “I am only a silly girl and do not understand the ways of war, but these odds seem poor to me.”

She was not wrong. Her men surpassed their numbers and even Jon didn’t trust these slave soldiers to hold their center.

“The Stormcrows do not stand alone,” Sallor countered. “The Second Sons stand with us.”

A band of pickpockets and savages, Jon knew. They were known far and wide for their lack of discipline. They would turn their back on them without hesitation.

“The Stormcrows do not stand at all,” his aunt taunted them. “They fly, at the first sign of thunder. Perhaps you should be flying now. I have heard that sellswords are notoriously unfaithful. What will it avail to be staunch when the Second Sons change sides?”

“That will not happen,” Sallor insisted weakly. He truly was a bad mummer. “And if it did, it would not matter. The Second Sons are nothing. We fight beside the brave men of Yunkai.”

“You fight beside bed-boys armed with spears,” his aunt mocked his words, the bells braided into her short silver hair bringing forth a clinking sound. “Once the bloodshed has begun, you will come to see your mistake. Join me now and you shall keep the gold the Masters paid you and claim a share of the plunder. And once I come to my kingdom there shall be even greater rewards waiting for you. Fight for the Masters and your wages will be death. Do you think the Masters will open the gates when my Unsullied are butchering you beneath the walls?”

"You are very convincing, oh gracious Queen,” Daario said with a grin and dipped his head. “And as it stands I also think that fighting at your side could be more profitable than fighting against you.”

Jon noticed the hint of surprise in his aunt’s face. It was only subtle but it was there.

I seems the offer surprised her.

“That is good,” she said once she had regained her composure. Then, she swept her gaze back to Daario and briefly at Jon. “But why trade mockeries if you are prepared to fight at my side?”

“To test the waters, your grace,” Jon added hesitatingly.

“Your grace,” his aunt repeated, obviously pleased with the use of her title. She even smiled a little, but her brows were slightly furrowed as she regarded Jon more closely. “You are not from Essos. Your accent is familiar…,” she trailed off, but it was Ser Jorah who gave her the answer she was seeking for.

“The boy is from the North,” the grim man said, his grey eyes piercing into Jon’s. “And I think I know him.”

The old, white-bearded man that had been lingering at the entrance of the pavilion was also watching him, though he appeared less hostile than the Ser Jorah.

His aunt gave Ser Jorah a startled look.

“You truly know him, Ser Jorah?”

“I think so,” the man said and drew closer, his hand touching the pommel of his sword. “The boy has a Stark face. I have seen him before, when he was much younger. The boy is Eddard Stark’s bastard son.”

Jon swallowed hard and his aunt’s expression darkened instantly.

“So he is the son of one of the usurper dog’s?” the girl asked, her voice laced with hostility. Jon should have expected such a reaction, but it didn’t change the displeasure he felt when he heard these words from her lips.

Jon met her gaze directly. Fear would not serve him now.

“Aye, Lord Eddard served the usurper Robert Baratheon,” Jon confirmed and shifted his attention to Ser Jorah. “The same man you served before you were exiled for the crime of slavery, isn’t that so, Ser Jorah Mormont?”

The effect was instant. Ser Jorah’s face changed to a grimace of anger and he was about to unsheathe his blade, but his aunt raised her hand to stop him.

“No fighting, Ser Jorah. I want to hear what he has to say.”

“This brazen bastard boy dared to insult me!” Ser Jorah snarled, his grey eyes fixed at Jon.

“I was just telling the truth,” Jon replied tauntingly and ignored Ser Jorah. He was not the reason he came here. The reason he came here was his aunt. “But let me be clear. I hold no grudge against Ser Jorah or you, your grace. It is true, I have Stark blood and for many years I believed myself to be his son, but that was another lie…,” he trailed off, his voice faltering as her violet eyes met his.

Swallowing hard, he forced the words over his lips.

“In truth, I have never been Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard son. That was a lie he made up to protect me from R-…no the usurper’s swords. In truth, my mother was Lady Lyanna Stark and my father was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon…which makes me your nephew.”

Silence followed, but that was no surprise to Jon either. He had not silver hair nor purple eyes. And yet it seemed his words had moved something inside his audience.

The handmaids looked confused, but Ser Jorah seemed to understand the implications as did the old, white-bearded man.

His aunt also seemed to understand the implications, but she appeared more shocked than anything.

“You dare to make up such lies…,” Ser Jorah began to grumble, but his aunt silenced him again.

She looked incredibly pale and trembled as she handed her cup to the younger girl seated next to her.

“Ser Jorah speaks true,” she said in an almost soft voice. “Why should I believe you? You come here after so many years…telling me that you are my nephew. Tell me, why should I believe a boy with a Stark face?”

“You have every reason to mistrust me, your grace,” he granted her and shrugged his shoulders. “I have no silver hair or purple eyes.”

Then, he pointed at the green-and-bronze dragon, still watching him. “I don’t even have a dragon. All I have is the story my uncle gave me and the bitter lies to accompany it. I never asked to be a Targaryen nor did I ask to be born. My uncle made me believe that I am his bastard, but barely a year ago, after he joined me at the Wall, I found out the truth. To protect me from the usurper he had lied to me and had allowed me to enter the Night’s Watch, forsaking lands and titles all in one. Feeling betrayed, I deserted the Wall to make for Essos. In truth, I am an oathbreaker, no better than a slave trader like Ser Jorah. Were I to return home my own brother, no cousin, would be forced to take my head.”

His aunt stared at him in utter disbelief, her mouth opening and closing. The black dragon seemed to have noticed her discomfort, because he was brushing his head against her thighs. The green and bronze dragon seemed even more anxious.

Could it be that he is able to sense my blood?

“Your grace,” Ser Jorah spoke again. “This boy is obviously trying to fool us…mayhaps he is even a spy.”

“I doubt that,” the old, white-bearded man remarked. Jon had never met him, but there was something soft and fearful in the way he looked at Jon. “A spy wouldn’t be so honest. I also do not think the boy is lying. It is possible…everybody knows that Rhaegar Targaryen took Lady Lyanna. Tell me, my boy? What exactly did Lord Eddard tell you about your mother and father?”

Jon met the man’s gaze and cleared his throat. He had mulled over this tale a thousand times, but that didn’t make it any easier for him to recount it.

“He told me that my mother’s abduction was a lie…he told me that my mother loved Prince Rhaegar and that he wed her beneath a weirwood tree. I suppose that makes her his second wife, though I don’t know what that means for me. The vows beneath a weirwood tree would be regarded valid by the people of the north, but I doubt it would be the same in the south. Everyone knows that my father was wed to Princess Elia Martell, his first wife. I do not know whether I am a bastard or trueborn,” he explained and angled his head to search his aunt’s face. “All I know is that you are my aunt and that Maester Aemon would have wanted to help you if he was able to do so.”

The girl’s eyes widened in confusion.

“Maester Aemon?”

“Aemon Targaryen, the son of King Maekar and brother to King Aegon the Unlikely. He was a Maester of the Citadel and later joined the Night’s Watch,” the old, white-bearded man said, his voice laced wonder. “I thought he was long dead. Did he send you here, my boy?”

“No,” Jon replied. “In truth, he would be ashamed of me for breaking my vows. And yet without breaking them I wouldn’t be here.”

Then, Jon sucked in a deep breath and searched his aunt’s face.

“I know you have no reason to believe me, but it was I who asked Daario to listen to your offer, because we all have an interest in seeing you succeed. Daario and his men long for riches and I long for home, but I can’t return without getting a pardon from a King or Queen. By helping you to the crown I can do that.”

“You don’t want the crown?” his aunt asked him, her voice barely above a whisper. “You came all the way to help me?”

Jon nodded his head. It was true. It was not the loss of his potential birthright that had angered him so much, but the fact that his uncle had lied to him all those years and that he had treated him like a fool.

“No, I don’t care for the crown. You can have it for all I care.”

“Your grace,” Ser Jorah began again and drew closer to touch his aunt’s shoulder. “I must advice you against this…this boy is…,” he continued, but his aunt cut him off, her gaze still fixed on Jon.

“Come here,” she told him. It sounded almost like an order. “Come here to my side and let me take a look at you…forgive me…I have not even asked your name?”

Jon did as she had asked of him and rose slowly to his feet.

“Among the Stormcrows they call me Aemon, but the name I have known all my life is Jon…Jon Snow.”

“Aemon,” she repeated and smiled. It gave Jon the assurance he needed. “Come here, Aemon and meet, my children.”

The silver-winged dragon stirred and the green-and-bronze one grew even more anxious as he drew closer. He flapped his wings excitedly and made a chirping sound, before he propelled himself into the air and soared towards Jon.

He landed beneath Jon’s feet and chirped again, his wings spread wide.

Jon was at a loss of words, the dragon staring back at him as if he was beckoning Jon to touch him.

Jon gathered his courage, leaned down to touch his head and surprisingly the dragon complied eagerly.

He chirped and rubbed is head against Jon’s burned hand.

“What is his name?” Jon asked his aunt, his breathing labored from the sudden excitement.

“Rhaegal,” his aunt said, her voice brimming with emotions. “He is named after my brother Rhaegar.”

“My father,” Jon whispered, unshed tears burning in his eyes. “You named him after my father.”

“This…,” Ser Jorah stuttered helplessly, his face as pale as curled milk. “Your grace…this must be a sham.”

“It is no sham. My children wouldn’t lie to me,” his aunt replied and brushed his hand away, her smile only meant for Jon. “And it also means Jon Snow will stay.”

“But your grace!” Ser Jorah exclaimed, but his aunt cut him off again.

“Enough, Ser Jorah. Your Queen has spoken. Jon Snow stays.”

Then, she angled her head looked over to Daario and Sallor. “And you shall have your gold, but first we must win. And to achieve this feat you must prove your loyalty to me.”

“Of course, oh gracious Queen,” Daario chirped in amusement. “We shall prove our loyalty to you. But how will it be done?”

His aunt smiled sweetly.

“I shall explain it to you.”

…

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Mhysa, they had called her, her heart still beating fiercely when she recalled this sweet memory. The meaning of the word was mother, something she could never be. Not until the sun rises and the west , she recalled the witch’s curse.

“You must be my children,” she whispered to the dragons, who lay curled on the carpet, their tails curled around their slim bodies. It was her only comfort against the pain when she recalled the babe she had lost. Rhaego, she had wanted to name him. For her dear brother Rhaegar.

And while the gods hadn’t brought Rhaego back to her, they saw it fit to send her nephew here. My supposed nephew, she corrected herself quickly. Rhaegal had liked him, but the visions in the House of the Undying still lingered freshly in her mind.

She still recalled the colorful cloth dragon swaying on poles amidst a cheering crowd. The mummer’s dragon, she had dubbed him jestingly. A false dragon, Ser Jorah had called him and had reminded her of said vision after she had decided to give Jon Snow and Daario Naharis her trust.

And despite her Bear’s warnings, showing them trust had proven more than fruitful. Daario had turned his cloak and had helped her to win the battle beneath the walls of Yunkai. Her nephew had also participated in the battle or so Daario Naharis had told her after his visit.

He was a vain man, but pleasant to look upon. His open-hearted flattery had also stirred long-buried feelings inside her. It had been a long time that a man had shared her bed. Ser Jorah had made such illusions, but she hadn’t appreciated them. He was her trusted advisor, but that would have to be enough for him. Daario Naharis was different from her Bear. He could be a pleasant bed companion, but not her trusted advisor.

There is not time for that, silly girl, she reminded herself. You are a Queen. The Mother of Dragons.

Thus, she stepped out of the lukewarm water and allowed her two handmaids to rub her dry. Once they were finished, they braided her bells into her hair and helped her put on a green dress.

As, she stepped out of her pavilion she found Arstan Whitebeard standing guard in company of her blood riders.

He looked thoughtful, his sky-blue eyes fixed on the distant horizon.

“Arstan,” she addressed him in a quiet voice. “Where is Ser Jorah?”

“He went to attend to the Unsullied…as you bid him earlier, your grace,” Arstan replied as he lifted his head to look at her. “Do you want me to call for him?”

“No,” she replied and shook her head. “I want you to call for someone else. I want to speak to Jon Snow…my supposed nephew, which is the reason I bid Ser Jorah to attend to the Unsullied.”

If Arstan was surprised by her request it didn’t show on his face.

“As you wish, your grace,” was all he replied, before departing on his quest.

Satisfied, Dany returned to her handmaids and sat down on the cushions placed on the floor. The little girl Missandei was not seated far from her, her dark eyes flickering over a parchment.

Not long after, the flaps of the tents parted and Arstan led Jon Snow inside.

He looked different from last time, younger and more vulnerable. Last time, he had worn his armour, but now he was only garbed in dark breeches, boots and a faded white tunic. Beneath the tunic, she noticed bandages and above his brow she noticed a deep cut, the proof his participation in the last battle. When she had asked Daario about her nephew’s performance, he had looked slightly disappointed.

The green boy has a lot to learn, was all he had answered. But he survived.

Dany had been relieved, though she still didn’t know what to make of Jon Snow. Looking at him, she saw not much of herself in this comely young man.

Jon Snow was not particularly tall, but looked very fit. It was not hard to see that he had served as a sellsword. His face was very long and solemn and framed by dark hair, neither completely black nor brown, though it had a pleasant curl which helped to soften his wolfish features. His eyes were equally dark, though it was hard to say whether they were black or grey.

Compared to Daario, he looked almost plain, but there was something pleasant about his accent. He certainly no mummer like Daario, but it was hard to read his feelings. They were well-hidden beneath those dark eyes.

“Your grace,” he greeted her and dipped his head, his dark eyes meeting hers across the tent. “You called for me?”

“I did,” Dany confirmed and felt suddenly at a loss at words. She didn’t know how to approach him. He might very well be her nephew, but also a liar like Ser Jorah wanted her to believe, but she had called him to talk openly and thus she decided to be as forthcoming as possible.

“Do you want a cup of wine?” she asked him and forced a smile over her lips.

“I cup of wine would please me,” Jon Snow replied apprehensively and his eyes darted to her two handmaids seated next to the brazier. Irri was mending one of her dresses and Jhiqui was already retrieving the wine. Missandei was still reading, unbothered by Jon Snow’s appearance.

Satisfied with this answer, Dany shifted her attention back to Arstan, who was still lingering next to the entrance of the tent.

“Arstan will join us,“ she informed her nephew and angled her head to look at Jhiqui.

“Bring a third cup for him as well,” she asked of her handmaid and as always she was quick on her feet to fulfil her task.

By the time Jhiqui had poured the wine in their cups, Jon Snow had taken a seat on the cushioned seat opposite of her. Arstan was more hesitant, but eventually sat down near the brazier after Dany had graced him with an encouraging smile.

Sucking in a deep breath, she jerked her head at Arstan Whitebeard.

“Arstan knew your father Prince Rhaegar,” she informed Jon Snow and fingered her cup. “He told me how he became a warrior.”

It was only subtle, but a sudden change took hold of Jon Snow’s face.

He shifted in his seat, his dark eyes darting to Arstan.

“All I know about him is how he died, slain by Robert Baratheon.”

“Robert Baratheon was a fierce fighter and during the Battle of the Trident he supposedly turned into a demon. Even so, your father was a capable fighter. He simply overestimated his abilities and was defeated.”

“And lost the battle,” Jon Snow added and grimaced. “Which in turn led to the fall of the Targaryen dynasty…and the death of Princess Elia and my half-brother and half-sister. Forgive me, but I can’t bring myself to like him very much. His actions caused the death of thousands.”

“He is your father,” Dany couldn’t help but to remind him, her voice laced with sudden anger. “And it were the usurper dogs who caused this war, not my brother. Whatever failure he might have committed by enveloping with your mother, it was no reason to rebel against their rightful king, your own grandfather.”

Dany didn’t know why, but in the blink of a moment Jon Snow’s face had changed to an expression of complete shock.

He looked frozen, his mouth slightly agape as he stared back at her in utter disbelief.

“You don’t know?” he asked, his fingers curled around his still full cup. “You don’t know what King Aerys did to Rickard Stark and his son Brandon Stark?”

“Of course I know,” she replied defensively. She didn’t like the look he was giving her. It made her feel like a silly little girl. “Brandon Stark threatened Rhaegar’s life and was executed for treason and Lord Rickard, who dared to insult the dragon with his presence, followed him into his grave. My brother Viserys told me that this was the only fitting death for a traitor.”

Jon Snow seemed even more shocked by this answer, his face suddenly a shade paler.

“Gods,” he muttered to himself. “Gods be good…you really don’t know.”

“How dare you!” she couldn’t help but to snap at him. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“No,” Jon Snow replied, his voice laced with a hint of guilt. “I didn’t mean to insult you. It is just…let me put this mildly. What your brother told you is not completely wrong, but the way he presented it is rather one-sided.

“What?” Dany asked and felt the urge to give him a piece of her mind, but then she recalled the many lies Viserys had given her over the course of their childhood.

Could he have lied about this too, she wondered and trembled.

She tightened her grip on her cup and sucked in a deep breath.

“Tell me,” she prodded and braced herself. “What did my brother neglect to tell me?”

“It is true, my Uncle Brandon did indeed threaten my father’s life, but he had reasons for his hot-headed behavior. He thought my mother raped and defiled. He feared for her life, which is why he dared to enter the dragon’s lair. And my grandfather Rickard Stark…he never insulted King Aerys. He went to King’s Landing to plead for his son’s life and asked for trial by combat, a right every high lord is entitled to. And King Aerys granted him such a trial, but his champion was not a man of the Kingsguard, his champion was fire. He burned Lord Rickard alive, before the very eyes of his assembled court and had my Uncle Brandon watch. My Uncle Brandon didn’t live much longer than that…he strangled himself to death by trying to reach for a sword that was mockingly placed before him. Mayhaps in his last moments he hoped to save his father. It were these actions that earned your father…and my grandfather…the name the Mad King, though only what came after this bloody incident would mark the beginning of the rebellion, namely the fact that King Aerys called for Robert Baratheon’s and my Uncle Eddard’s heads. They were not just fighting for the crown, but also fighting for their survival. Still, that doesn’t justify the murder of Princess Elia and my siblings or the fact that they drove you and your brother into exile…My Uncle Eddard must have believed that Robert Baratheon would make a good King and I never doubted his words until I saw King Robert with my own eyes. King Robert was nothing like my Uncle had described him…He was no King, but a fat drunkard….Then, when my supposed father told me the truth…I couldn’t believe that he lied to me to protect this man’s crown. It felt as if he threw me away for Robert Baratheon…I would have never aspired to the crown had he simply told me the truth, but instead he lied to me and made me believe that I am the sole stain on his white vest. This was the greatest betrayal.”

Dany had listened in silence, her body growing tenser with every word spilling from his lips.

Lies, her heart cried in defiance. Lies of the usurper dogs, but the way Jon Snow had spoken had sounded so honest, so straightforward. He was not lying, so much she could tell.

Whoever told him these lies, he certainly believed in them. And how could it be any different? He had been raised by one of these usurper dogs, a man who had lied to him his entire life.

“Who told you this tale?” Dany asked and searched his face. “Your treacherous Uncle?”

Jon Snow gave her a confused look.

“Everyone in Westeros knows this tale,” Jon Snow replied hesitatingly, his dark eyes darting to Arstan, who had observed their conversation in silence. “You are hailing from Westeros, aren’t you? You must be familiar with this tale.”

Dany’s head snapped around, her eyes seeking Arstan’s benevolent gaze.

What she saw only helped to increase her doubts.

Arstan Whitebeard looked as if someone had poured a bucket of icy water over his head.

“I am familiar with this tale,” he confirmed, his lips trembling with emotions and his eyes glassy with tears. “Forgive me, for neglecting to tell you…I didn’t think it was my place to tell you these gruesome details without your approval.”

Dany shuddered, her gaze flickering back to Jon Snow.

She couldn’t speak, her mouth opening and closing, her head a whirl of chaos.

“Your grace,” Jon Snow said in a calming voice. “Mayhaps I should…,” he began, but Dany cut him off.

I am the blood of the dragon, she reminded herself. It hurt, but she wasn’t afraid of the truth, no matter how bitter.

“Viserys was always a fool,” Dany admitted and lifted her cup to her lips. She drank deeply, shivers running down her spine. “In the end he was also mad…so mad that he threatened my life and the life of my unborn son. That is why my husband gave him a golden crown.”

Tears burned in her eyes, Viserys’ pleading face fluttering before her eyes.

He was my brother, my blood.

She shuddered gain, a terrible fear taking hold of her.

The Mad King.

This was not the kind of title she wanted to be associated with.

I will not be like him. Never.

“But he was my brother. I loved him, despite his failures,” she added and placed her cup back on the table. Then, she lifted her chin and met Jon Snow’s gaze, her old strength returning to her. “He protected me from the usurper’s sword, the very man your Uncle supported. I wonder if he was aware of the usurper’s actions? He was his Hand, wasn’t he?”

Jon Snow looked like slapped, but as before he didn’t deny the truth.

“What you say is true,” he admitted weakly. “My father supported King Robert and called him his friend. I will not deny his failures, but as much as I hate him for lying to me, he did protect me.”

“His good friend King Robert sent an assassin after me and my unborn child,” she couldn’t help but to give him the hard truth, trying to make him understand the hatred she held for the usurper and his Uncle. “You say that you wish to help me to crown, but are you also aware what this would mean? Do you think I will show mercy to your treacherous Uncle? Do you think I will forgive his involvement in this incident? I can forgive much, but not that.”

Jon Snow swallowed hard, but he didn’t flinch. And yet his speech seemed to fail him.

“Your grace…,” Arstan added, breaking the silence, but in the last moment he hesitated.

“What is it?” Dany asked softly. He looked very troubled and yet he shook his head and remained silent.

“Nothing, your grace. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she assured him and leaned over to touch his arm. “I value your council, Arstan. Speak if you have something to say.”

“Thank you, your grace,” he replied gratefully, his eyes still glassy as his gaze flickered to Jon Snow. “But Lord Eddard Stark won’t pose an obstacle on your way to the crown. As Jon Snow mentioned, he joined the Night’s Watch, forsaking all titles and lands. It is his son you must confront, not the father.”

“Robb is my bro…cousin,” Jon Snow added quickly. “I have no doubt that he hates the Lannisters just as much as you. Mayhaps I can convince him to support us…if you were inclined to show him mercy. Surely, you won’t blame a child for the actions of his father?”

Dany was taken back by these words. The pain over Rhaego’s loss had flared up when she had recalled this gruesome incident in Vaes Dothrak, though it hadn’t been the usurper’s swords that had killed her sweet babe.

“You have a point there,” Dany admitted. “And as much as it pains me to admit it…what you told me of my father terrifies me. It will take me a while to accept this, but I am not my father. I shall not harm your brother if he shows reason, but I shan’t show him mercy if he dares to fight me. This I can promise you. Are you still prepared to help me to the crown?”

“Aye,” Jon Snow replied. “But I do not know if Robb will listen. As I said…he might even attempt to take my head for my past actions.”

“I shall take his head if he dares to harm you,” Dany promised. “If you are my nephew then you are my blood. No one shall dare to harm the blood of the dragon. This I can promise you too.”

Jon Snow looked stunned, a strange expression taking hold of his features. Whatever emotion it was, it helped to soften his sharp features.

“And I shall help you to the crown,” Jon Snow replied, a ghost of a smile curling on his lips. “But I don’t want to lie to you. It won’t be easy. Which is why winning over Robb would be better than to make him our enemy. The other rebel lords might follow his example. It is easier to catch flies with honey than with fire, your grace.”

“You want me to be merciful,” Dany said. “I understand what you are trying to say and I promise you. I shall show mercy to these rebel lords if they are prepared to see the error of their ways, but there are those who cannot be allowed to live. Tywin Lannister is one of these people, but as he is a common enemy of ours I doubt it will be much of hinderance. Can we agree on that?”

“Aye,” Jon Snow agreed hesitatingly, his face changing back to its usual unreadable expression. “Tywin Lannister murdered Princess Elia and her children. He deserves a faith worse than just death. I owe the Dornish his head to make up for my father’s failures.”

“And we shall give it to them,” Dany replied with renewed determination. “And you shall have your reward as well. You will be pardoned and I shall raise you up to a position worthy of your birth. You said that there will be those who will call you a bastard, but their views are dust to me.”

“I only want to go home,” Jon Snow added almost softly and lifted his cup to his lips. He drank deeply and closed his eyes. He looked like a child that tasted a rare kind of candy.

“Have you never tasted wine?” she asked suddenly, for no reason other than curiosity. They had spoken about war and the future, but she still felt as if she knew nothing about him.

There will be more talks, she decided. But even Valyria wasn’t built in one day.

He nodded his head, a hint of a smile showing on his pale lips.

It suited him, but it was easy to see that he was not prone to smiling.

“Not such a fine wine,” Jon Snow admitted. “In the north we rarely drink wine. Mostly on feast days.”

“I see,” Dany replied, mildly amused by this sudden change of topic. “It’s Arbor Gold. The best wine in the Seven Kingdoms or so I was told. I salvaged three gallons from one of the Masters’ wine cellars. I suppose they have no need of them anymore.”

Surprisingly, Jon Snow chuckled.

“I suppose so,” he agreed and brushed his hair out of his face. “Speaking of the Masters…Why are you delaying the sacking of Yunkai? Are you hoping to take them off guard like you did in the previous battle?”

Dany was stunned by his question. She hadn’t told him all about her plans for the future, but now she felt there was no reason to withhold it from him.

“There will be no sacking. The Masters fulfilled their bargain by handing over the slaves. In exchange I promised them to leave the city be.”

Again, Jon Snow gave her this strange look that made her feel insecure.

“What is it?” she asked, straight to the point. “Do you disapprove of my plan? Earlier you said that I should show mercy to the rebel lords and now you are looking at me as if I lost my wits.”

“What I said I meant,” Jon Snow replied hesitatingly. “But these slavers are not the kind of people you should show mercy. They are rich and powerful. They can hire more sellsword companies to retake the slaves. I am no King nor have I ever commanded an army, but to leave them at peace is a mistake. Besides, if we take the city we could take their riches and food. Then, once you have taken Meereen you could install a man you trust to guard Yunkai against future enemies. I would also recommend taking hostages,” he continued to explain, getting carried away by his own words.

“I heard enough,” Dany cut him off. “And I understand your reasoning, but I have given a promise.”

Jon Snow’s eyes widened in surprise, a chuckle spilling from his lips.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because I do not understand you,” he admitted and searched her gaze. “They say you took Astapor by deception and the battle that was fought on the day before was also won through such ploys. Why do you suddenly care about these slavers?”

“I have no siege machines,” Dany countered.

“You have ten-thousand Unsullied and a forest. Simple siege machines can be built within a few days.”

“Yunkai has high walls.”

“Walls manned with spoiled Masters who have never fought a single battle. How long will the city stand? A week or two, not more than that. Besides, they won’t expect your attack…please, allow me to make another proposal.”

“I shall hear your proposal, but you have neglected to mention an important fact. The host of my freed slaves if ever growing. I cannot linger here longer or they might be harmed. I must foremost think of their safety. I promised them protection.”

“Of course,” Jon Snow agreed, a knowing smile curling on his lips. “And I never said you should linger here longer than necessary. What I propose is a different plan. Send your main host towards Meereen and have a smaller host sack Yunkai. It will be a pleasant surprise for the slavers. You should also ask a hand-picked number of slaves to return to Yunkai…They could pretend that they have abandoned you and help us to enter the city. Mayhaps they could even open the gates for us.”

Dany was taken back by his eagerness, but she knew him too little to trust him in this matter.

“And who do you think should be tasked with the sacking of Yunkai?”

“I will do it,” he proposed without hesitation, but Dany only saw the bandages hidden beneath his tunic.

If he truly was her blood she couldn’t endanger him.

“Ser Jorah will do it,” Dany proposed instead and graced Jon Snow with a smile. “You and Daario are more useful to me if you stay close.”

Jon Snow looked unhappy with this command, but he accepted it.

“I have one last advise for you, your grace.”

“Aunt,” Dany corrected him. Mayhaps he will open up to me if I show him more familiarity. “You may call me Aunt Daenerys. And I would be pleased to call you Jon.”

“Very well,” Jon corrected himself. “Well, Aunt Daenerys it is. My advice is simple. Keep away from Daario Naharis. His flattery may be charming, but you would be nothing more other than another pearl on his string of lovers. He once bragged to me that he has fucked every whore in the Free Cities. In your quest to the crown he would only be an obstacle. Nobody in Westeros would accept you without taking a husband of Westerosi blood. Keep your bed empty for a proper match. And if you must take a lover, choose someone discreet and not prone to sleep with whores. It is not safe, some of them carry diseases and many sellswords like Daario receive them by seeking out their beds. I respect Daario as a warrior, but he is neither discreet nor particularly careful when it comes to his bed companions.”

Dany had chided Ser Jorah for questioning her interest in Daario, but back then she had taken it for plain jealousy.

Could it be that Jon Snow is jealous like Ser Jorah, she wondered and searched his features for a sign of emotion, yet she found none.

Nonsense. This supposed nephew of mine is as cold as ice…he must be an ice dragon.

“I shall head your warning,” Dany replied at last and not long after he left to seek out his companions, leaving only her and Arstan Whitebeard.

“What do you think of him?” she asked as she pulled her pelt of the hrakkar over her shoulders. The chill of the night made he feel cold or mayhaps that was only the result of the grizzly tale Jon Snow had told her. “Does he resemble my brother?”

“Not in looks, safe for the eyes,” Arstan replied softly. “But in character. He also shows a certain resemblance to another family member of yours.”

This roused her curiosity.

“Who does he resemble?”

Arstan smiled sweetly as if he was recalling an old memory.

“Prince Duncan, the Prince of Dragonflies.”

…

Chapter Text

Jon

Meereen was much larger than Yunkai. Its walls were made of thick brick walls, but where Yunkai’s walls had been yellow, Meereen was made with bricks from of many different colors. The walls were higher too and in much better shape, studded with bastions and anchored with great defense towers. Behind these walls, he could see the Great Pyramid, a monstrous thing that seemed higher than the Wall, a towering bronze harpy sitting on its top.

 The Harpy is a craven thing, Daario had said earlier before they had paid witness to Strong Balwas’ fight against the Champion of Meereen. She has a woman’s heart and a chicken’s legs. Small wonder her sons hide behind their walls.

Jon had offered to fight in his stead, though he had known what a foolish idea that was. The arrow that had hit his shoulder in the last battle had gone deeper than expected. Now, whenever he moved his arm he felt a sharp pain, though he had been assured by the more experienced sellswords that this was natural.

You will always remember your first arrow, my boy, one of them had even jested.

Well, the champion of Meereen had been bested, but the walls stood strong and their host had only grown since they had left Yunkai behind them. True to her word, his Aunt had sent back a smaller host, about two-thousand Unsullied under the command of Ser Jorah, who was tasked to sack Yunkai, but that could take weeks and until then these freed slaves would have devoured each other.

That the Great Masters had burned everything they couldn’t harvest made the situation even more difficult. Scorched fields and poisoned wells had greeted them along the way, but the worst had not been the lack of food. Worst of all, the masters had nailed a slave child upon every milepost along the road from Yunkai, their entrails hanging out and one arm outstretched to point the way to Meereen.

It had been a grizzly sight, even for Jon, who had seen the work of a Dothraki first hand, but his Aunt had not taken it well.

She had been pale like a ghost, her teeth gritted like a dragon as she took in the children’s rotten corpses and had counted them each. Then, she had ordered the children to be taken down, a task that had occupied Jon and a dozen of his sellswords companions for hours.

The smell had been bad and sight even worse, but Jon had done plenty of such work before. Burying the dead was work for the younglings, to numb them against death and other unpleasant sights.

Yet this task had been different for him and he had drowned a whole cup of wine to drive the smell of death out of his nose. These had been children, some of them not older than Rickon or Bran. It made Jon wish that the three dragons were bigger and could burn the Great Masters like Balerion the Dread had done with King Harren.

“I must have this city,” his Aunt repeated for the third time that day, sitting cross-legged on a pile of cushions, her dragons ever close. Viserion lay curled in her lap, Rhaegal was seated on her shoulder and Drogon  was rubbing his head against her shoulder. Occasionally, Rhaegal cocked his head to look at Jon. “Meereen’s granaries are full. There are figs and dates and olives growing on the terraces of the pyramids and casks of salted fish and smoked meat buried in her cellars. I need this food to feed my people, my children.”

“You forgot to mention the fat chests of gold, silver and gemstones,” Daario added enthusiastically. “Let us not forget about the gemstones.”

“The walls are too thick,” Jon remarked. He had spent several hours looking at them from the distance. “If we had the time might be able to breach them, but as you rightly said, we would starve before we achieved our goal.”

“Too thick?” his Aunt asked and lifted her head, her violet eyes meeting his. “Mayhaps we could attack from the river or the sea?”

Jon had not gone with the bloodriders who had scouted every piece of land around the city, but the idea had merit. Sadly, they had only three meagre ships at their disposal.

“I doubt that would be much use, unless we find a hole in the city walls,” Jon replied and received a frown.

“What if we were to build siege towers?” she asked in return.

“In Yunkai we had plenty of wood at our disposal,” Jon replied. “But here the masters burnt every tree within twenty leagues. I suppose we could send men to Yunkai, but that would take weeks…time we don’t have. Perhaps we should simply try to storm the gates.”

“Did you miss the bronze heads above the gates, boy?” asked Brown Ben Plumm, the leader of the Second Sons. “The defenders of this city can squirt boiling oil out of their mouths and cook us alive.”

Daario grinned and gave Grey Worm a sideway-glance. “Perhaps we could send the Unsullied out to fulfil this task. Boiling oil should feel like no more than a warm bath to you, shouldn’t it?”

“This is false,” Grey Worm replied stoically. “The Unsullied do not feel burns as common men do, yet such oil blinds and kills. The Unsullied do not fear death, though. Give us rams and we shall storm the gates.”

From someone else’s mouth it might have sounded like blatant bragging , but the Unsullied were not common men. Cockless stonemen, Daario liked to call them mockingly, but Jon couldn’t help but to feel pity for them. They had been robbed of their humanity and had been turned into killing machines, though contrary to Daario’s believes there resided a human heart in each of these Unsullied. They might not be able to bed women, but that didn’t make them any less human. Even these stonemen must have some sort of dream beyond sacrificing themselves.

“I will not throw away your lives, Grey Worm,” his Aunt added with a heavy sigh. He hadn’t expected anything less. His Aunt had a hot temper, but she also held a great fondness to those loyal to her and it seemed the Unsullied were one of these people. I am not. Perhaps in the distant future…

“Perhaps we could starve out the city?” his Aunt asked then. It was the question of a girl who had never seen starving soldiers. Jon had and it was no pleasant experience.

“We would starve long before them. As you rightly said…There is no food here, nor fodder for our mules and horses. And the nearby river water doesn’t look any more pleasant. We must take the city as soon as possible. There is no other way.”

“Then what can we do?” his Aunt asked in obvious frustration.

“Storm the gates or find another entrance,” Jon offered. “Or convince someone to open the gates for us…the slaves come to mind, though I am not optimistic. As we could see with the children…the punishment for disobedience is a rather severe, which leaves us with storming the gates or finding another entrance. Does anyone among our host hail from this city? Is there any weakness? Most cities have one.”

“I know a way,” Brown Ben Plumm added surprisingly and stroked his speckled grey-and-white beard. “The sewers is what you are searching for, boy.”

“Sewers?” his Aunt asked, her eyes full of hope. She looked almost like Arya ,who had looked like this when Jon had promised to teach her archery. “What do you mean?”

“Great brick sewers empty into the Skahazadhan, carrying the city’s waste,” Brown Ben Plumm, explained without hesitation. “There might be a way in, for a few, but the smell is nasty. I dream of it sometimes.”

Jon grimaced at the thought, but it was better than to starve or to march all the way back to Yunkai. “The sewers empty into the river, you say?”

“And are closed with iron gates,” Brown Ben Plumm admitted. “But some have rusted through. Once inside, it is a long foul climb in a pitch-dark maze of brick. The filth is never lower than waist-high and can rise over your head from the stains…and there are things down there…monstrous rats.”

Daario laughed in amusement. “Monstrous rats? If any man were foolish enough to try this, every slaver in Meereen would smell them the moment they emerged.”

Daario’s answer didn’t surprise Jon. He was not the kind of man who would voluntarily wade through heaps of shit.

Ben Plumm grimaced. “The boy asked and I answered, but Ben Plumm is not going down the sewers again, not for all the gold in the Sunset Kingdoms.”

The bloodriders and Grey Worm tried to offer their services at once, but his Aunt raised her hand to silence them.

“These sewers do not sound promising,” was all she said and wrinkled her nose in disgust. Then, she swept her gaze over the assembled group of people. “I must think about this properly, before I make a decision. Please return to your duties.”

Jon was about to leave when his Aunt called after him.

“Not you, Jon,” she told him, Rhaegal still seated atop her shoulder, watching him. Her request surprised him, but he had to take what was offered to him. Thus, he whistled and called Ghost back to his side. His direwolf complied at once and lay back down on the carpet.

His Aunt had observed his wolf with great curiosity.

“What do you call him again?” she asked then and lay back on her cushions, her bells tinkling as she moved. “Direwolf? Are these wolves common in the north?”

Jon couldn’t help but to chuckle as he sat down beside Ghost and stroked his ear.

“No, they are not common. Until I found Ghost and his brothers and sisters, direwolves were as uncommon south of the Wall as your dragons.”

“Brothers and sisters?” she asked.

“There are five of them,” Jon explained, recalling how he found them. It was a sweet memory. “Three male wolves and two female ones, one for each of my cousins. Mine was the runt of the litter. Ghost was the only pup with white fur and ruby eyes.”

“Your wolf looks rather special” his Aunt agreed and nibbled on a piece of nut she had taken from the bowl placed beside her. “He looks more Targaryen than you.”

Jon didn’t know what to make of her words. Was it meant as a jest or an insult?

“I was lucky then,” Jon replied and met her gaze. “For I don’t know what my Uncle would have done with me had I been born with silver hair and purple eyes.”

“A good point,” his Aunt replied. “After our caretake died, my brother and I had rarely spent a moon in the same place. We were always on the run, fearful of the usurper’s swords. You were lucky that you had a family and a roof over your head.”

“A father who lied to me and a step-mother who thought I would usurp my brother’s rights to Winterfell,” Jon countered, trying his best to calm the anger in his heart. “Aye, I was not on the run like you, but I was always reminded that I didn’t belong in this place that was supposed to be my home. I love my cousins like my siblings, but one needs more than just food and shelter to be happy. I was never truly happy there, which is why I wanted to join the Night’s Watch. My Uncle Benjen served there and I thought it was an honorable calling, a way to make up for my supposed father’s shame of fathering a bastard. Well, that was another lie, but I already told you that.”

“And is that why you came here?” she asked, her voice suddenly softer. “Did you think you would find your home here in Essos?”

“No,” Jon gave her the truth and grimaced. “I left because I couldn’t bear to look at my Uncle. When I arrived in Volantis I tried to drink and whore away my sorrows, but that was no use. Then, after I had returned to my senses I thought of finding you, but then I had no idea about your whereabouts. Thus, I joined the Stormcrows and spent the next year drowning myself in blood and shit. I didn’t expect that the Stormcrows of all people would lead me to Yunkai and to you. When I came before you I didn’t care if you believed me or not. I wouldn’t have even cared if you killed me. I have nothing to lose.”

Whatever she thought, his words must have stunned her, because she had remained silent for a long while before she finally spoke again.

“You still had a family. I only had my mad brother, who sold me like a whore,” she countered sadly. “But let’s not compare woe against woe. The past is in the past. What counts is the future. Tell me. What would you do if you were in my positon?”

Jon tried not to be surprised by her question. He hadn’t expected her to ask for his advice. It was something he had to get used to.

“You said it all,” Jon replied. “You must feed your host and it seems the sewers are our only chance. Not a pleasant task, but our only way forward. I could…,” he continued, but she cut him off.

“The blood of the dragon will not wade to through heaps of shit,” his Aunt reminded him. “You claim to be my nephew and you claim to be a dragon, but you act like a lowly bastard still.”

Jon was taken back by her words, but he understood what she was trying to say. Princes do not bath in shit.

“I understand,” he confirmed determinedly. “What will you decide?”

“I do not,” she replied honestly and lifted Rhaegal from her shoulders. He made a chirping sound, flapped his wings and suddenly soared towards Jon, who was completely taken off guard by the dragon’s action.

His Aunt laughed, her bells tinkling as she shook her head while Jon tried to lift the beast from his head.

The dragon’s body  felt hot like a brazier and he smelled of roasted meat.

“Rhaegal! Come here!” his Aunt called out to the dragon and finally the beast let go of him, slithering back into her embrace.

“He likes you,” his Aunt added. “But I think you already knew that.”

“It seems so,” Jon confirmed hesitatingly. “He certainly likes to surprise me.”

His Aunt giggled, silver locks spilling over her shoulder as she turned her head. She had a lovely smile, a smile rarely seen when she was playing the queen.

His Uncle had also rarely smiled, as if ruling Winterfell had been more a burden to him than a joy. Being Queen would pose an even harder task for his Aunt.

“Well, I have another surprise for you then,” she added jestingly and rose to her feet, calling Missandei to her side.

Barely a heartbeat later the young girl joined them.

“Missandei,” she told the girl with a gentle smile. “Have my silver saddled. I intend to ride out.”

The little girl bowed. “As Your Grace commands. Shall I summon your bloodriders to guard you?”

“No need,” she informed the little girl. “I will take my nephew and Arstan with me. I do not mean to leave the camps.”

Jon wanted to protest, but when she graced him with another smile he gave in.

“Very well,” Jon agreed and whistled, yet Ghost proved lazy. He yawned and rolled to the side.

“He seems tired,” Missandei pointed out the obvious conclusion. “You should allow him to rest.”

Jon sighed and left Ghost where he was, finding his own mount.

 When he returned, Arstan had long joined his Aunt, his white beard billowing in the wind like a white shroud. And despite his age he seemed fit and agile, though Jon had yet to see him swing a sword.

When the horses had been saddled, they left the city behind them, riding along the shoreline, the stakes and pits that surrounded the camp of the Unsullied greeting them as they passed. Jon watched as Grey Worm and his Unsullied were running a company through a series of drills with shield, short sword and a heavy spear. Another company was bathing in the sea, clad only in their breechclouts. The Unsullied were cleaner than the sellswords’ in his Aunt’s employ, so much was true. They bathed each evening, even if they had marched all day. And when no water was available they cleaned themselves with sand.

The men knelt as his Aunt passed, raising their fists. Not far from their position he could see the three ships his Aunt had been gifted by a magister from Pentos, each ship named after one of King Aegon’s fabled dragons.

The camp of the freed slaves proved much more chaotic. They had been armed with weapons from Astapor and Yunkai and Ser Jorah had organized the fighting men into four strong companies, yet they looked lost and aimless.

Jon had searched for a task and it seemed he had found one, least until the grim old bear returned. Jon doubted he would entrust him with four companies.

“I could train them, until Ser Jorah returns,” Jon offered as he searched his Aunt’s face. “I am still hurt, but training them does not mean I have to lift a sword.”

His Aunt gave him a doubtful look.

“You know how to train recruits?”

“I trained my brothers of the Night’s Watch, most of them more hopeless than these men and later I did the same while serving the Stormcrows. I am no Grey Worm, but putting them through drills will help wonders for their discipline and moral.”

“A good idea,” Arstan added his voice. “And I would be pleased to offer my services as well. I am only an old squire, but it is better than nothing.”

“Very well,” his Aunt replied at last. “You may train the freedmen until Ser Jorah returns.”

Jon couldn’t help but to smile. He had finally found a purpose, a way to be useful.

“I shall train them well,” he promised and urged his horse onwards, after her. They can’t be worse than Sam.

His Aunt nodded her head and did the same, her eyes flickering to a horde of children, running after their horses. The freedmen spoke in many different tongues, but one word was repeated more than once.

Mother. Myhsa. The Mother of Dragons.

His Aunt seemed to like this title more than the many others she had acquired, though she was no mother herself, at least not to a human child. Jon knew that she had been with child once, but hadn’t dared to ask her what had happened to said child.

And yet he couldn’t help but to notice the sad smile crossing her lips as she was presented with a newborn babe. Jon hadn’t heard the whole exchange, but when his Aunt turned around to glimpse at a tall, ragged man with a shaved head and a sunburnt face, he grew vary suspicious. There was something about the man that rubbed him the wrong way, especially his glinting green eyes, filled with anger.

“Not so hard,” he heard his Aunt whisper, before the man had yanked her from the saddle, throwing her on the ground. His Aunt’s white mare whinnied and Jon slipped his blade free, parrying the man’s blow, before he was able to bring down his blade.

“Fuck off boy!” the man snarled, sliding his blade against Jon’s. “I only want the whore!”

Jon gritted his teeth, a sharp pain running down his shoulder.

“I have no time for this!” the man snarled again, and swung his blade, aiming at Jon’s right side. He was able to evade the blow and aimed for his enemy’s head, but his shoulder was not yet as strong as he wanted. The man parried the blow, making the metal sing. “Fuck you!”

A quick strike followed, aiming at Jon’s weaker side. He parried the blow, a painful gasp escaping his lips as he stumbled backwards.

The enemy gave him no reprieve, bombarding him with a quick succession of blows . He managed to parry each, but every blow was more painful than the next.

“Are you not done yet, boy?” he asked and bared his yellow teeth. Jon’s breathing had grown labored, sweat running down his temples. “Or do you want more?”

“I always want more,” Jon taunted. “But not from an ugly whore like you!”

The man snarled and slashed his sword at Jon’s head.

Jon parried the savage blow, nearly knocking the air out of him. Only the pain was worse, making him shudder from head to toe.

As he stumbled backwards, he evaded another blow, but this time he barely managed to lift his blade. The pain was too strong.

He evaded another blow and then another. Their dance would have continued forever, but Arstan’s wooden staff smashing into the man’s head put an end to the fight, sending him sprawling to the ground and blood bubbling from his mouth.

As Arstan pulled Jon along, he watched how the freedmen washed over the man, knives and fists rising and falling in bouts of rage.

“You did well, but an arrow needs proper healing.”

Jon pulled his hand away, annoyed and impressed by the old man’s performance.

Something is rotten here, he realized, but kept these thoughts to himself. A man with such abilities couldn’t be a mere squire.

“I will do that, Arstan,” Jon replied instead and searched for his Aunt.

She looked unharmed, Missandei clinging to her arm.

“Your Grace,” Arstan said and knelt before her. Jon sheathed his blade and rubbed his shoulder. “I am an old man and shamed. He should have never gotten close enough to harm you. I was too lax. I did not know him without his beard and hair.”

Jon hadn’t recognized him either, but then he had only met the Titan’s Bastard once. It was an honest mistake.

“No more than I did,” his Aunt replied in a trembling voice and searched Jon’s gaze. “Thank you as well.”

“It was no bother,” Jon assured her quickly. “You are my Aunt.” And my only way to go home, he should have added truthfully, but kept this to himself.

“And you are my nephew,” she replied hesitatingly and shifted her attention back to Arstan.

“Take me back to my tent. I have seen enough for today.”

By the time Jon had settled his horse he found his Aunt huddled in her white lion pelt, a cup of wine in hand.

Arstan was also there. Ser Arstan it should be or perhaps he was already a Ser and had simply omitted this truth.

“Here,” his Aunt offered and pointed at Jhiqui, who handed him a cup of wine.

“Drink. It will help against the pain,” she told him, her violet eyes darting to his bandaged shoulder. “You should have someone take a look at it. Missandei will do it later.”

“Missandei is welcome to do so,” he replied politely and sat down, his cup heavier than it should feel.

The taste was sweet, but there was something he needed to do.

“May I ask you a personal question, Arstan?” he asked the old man.

“Of course,” the old man confirmed, a smile curling on his lips. He had always been kind to Jon, but kindness could be very well be a mask to hide one’s true intentions. “What do you want to know?”

“How can a mere squire defeat a man with a wooden stick? Why was a man with abilities like yours not knighted?”

It was only subtle, but Jon saw the hesitation in his bearing. He was hiding something.

“The opportunity never presented itself.”

“Well, you shall be a knight once Ser Jorah returns,” his Aunt added in amusement, oblivious to Jon’s real intentions.

“I am serious, Daenerys,” Jon insisted and flashed the old man a distrustful look. “Arstan Whitebeard? That is obviously not your true name. Who are you and what do you want?”

The old man frowned, then smiled. It was a smile full of regret and pain.

“I am indeed a knight,” he replied and dropped to one knee. “I squired for Lord Swann in my youth and at Magister Illyrio’s behest I have served Strong Belwas. But before that, I was a knight in Westeros. I have told no lies, yet there are truths I have withheld and for that and all my other sins I can only humbly beg for forgiveness.”

Daenerys’ smile faded.

“What truth have you withheld?” she demanded to know. “You will tell me…now.”

The old man lowered his head as if a heavy weight had been lifted on his shoulders.

“At Qarth, when you asked my name, I said I was called Arstan, so much was true. Many men had called me by that name while Belwas and I were travelling together. But it was not my true name.”

For Jon his words meant nothing, but he must be someone who had known his father’s family. How else would he know all these stories he had been relaying to his Aunt?

“Who are you?” Jon asked again.

The old man dropped his head further as if Jon had defeated him with a blink of his eye.

“I am Ser Barristan Selmy.”

Jon nearly dropped his cup, but managed to catch it. His Aunt seemed equally shocked, but there were more emotions written on her face. There were anger and pain, mixed with sadness.

Jon knew why. Ser Barristan Selmy had once served her family, but had bent the knee to Robert Baratheon to save his life.

It was the reasonable thing to do, but for his Aunt it must feel like an act of betrayal, for a man of the Kingsguard was sworn to die for his King.

And yet Jon couldn’t bring himself to fault him for it.

I am not any better than him. I broke my vow and abandoned my brothers.

“Why are you here?” his Aunt demanded to know, her voice hard and cold. “If you serve the usurper, why did you save my nephew’s life? I want the whole truth, on your honor as a knight. Are you the usurper’s man?”

Hope washed over the old man’s face.

“Yours if you will have me,” Ser Barristan replied, tears glittering in his eyes. It made it even harder to hate him. “Aye, I took Robert’s pardon. I served in his Kingsguard and council. I served with the Kingslayer and others who soiled the white cloak I wore. Nothing will ever excuse that, I know that. I might still be serving in King’s Landing if the vile boy seated upon the Iron Throne had not cast me aside. But when he took that cloak that the White Bull had draped around my shoulders and sent men to kill me, it was as if someone had opened my eyes to the truth. That was when I knew I must find my true King…,” he continued, his gaze flickering from Daenerys to Jon and then back to Daenerys.

“I am no King,” Jon told him. “How much would a second marriage count? Nothing. Daenerys is our best chance to reclaim the throne.”

If Ser Barristan was disappointed by his answer it didn’t show on his face.

He even smiled. “You are Prince Rhaegar’s son. Many loved him and many love him still. You are too humble.”

“I am far from humble, good Ser,” Jon replied stiffly.

“A humble man would not have cast aside his honor and broke his vow to the Night’s Watch. A humble man wouldn’t have abandoned his brothers,” he continued and glanced over to his Aunt. “But that is not the real reason for my refusal. I cannot guarantee that my cousin will support us, but there is another kingdom who suffered the greatest loss during the rebellion….Dorne. They would hold not love for Rhaegar’s second son, but they would hold no grudge against his sister. Lord Stark always told me that the Dornish are the kind of people who never forget a slight and their history proves that. Besides, Dorne is rich and well-protected. It would be the best place to land an army. Not even the Lannisters would be able to touch us without suffering considerable losses. Then, we could move up the Stormlands and towards King’s Landing, to cut off the lion’s head. It would be the best and fastest way to secure a victory…,” Jon continued, but stopped abruptly when he noticed his Aunt’s stare. She looked angry and very sad, her slender from trembling.

“I apologize,” he said quickly and gave his Aunt an encouraging smile. “I didn’t mean to get carried away.”

“No need,” his Aunt assured him, her voice taking a harder tone as she searched Ser Barristan’s face.

“You lied to me,” she said. “And you betrayed my brother. You knelt before the usurper and sat at his council while my Viserys and I were begging on the streets. I should have your head…Viserys would have taken your head.”

“And I would humbly accept my punishment,” Ser Barristan replied and lowered his gaze to the ground.

“And yet you saved me,” she added angrily, her gaze flickering back to Jon. “And my nephew. I should give you a traitor’s death, but it shouldn’t be my decision alone.”

Jon swallowed hard, his gaze flickering from Daenerys to the old knight Bran had admired so much.

The answer was simple, at least for Jon.

“Pardon him. Actions speak louder than past failures. He had numerous opportunities to kill you and he didn’t. More importantly, it will help you gain allies once you return to Westeros. The Targaryen loyalists will see it as a sign that Ser Barristan the Bold returned to his old loyalties.”

Daenerys looked displeased and sucked in a deep breath.

“I won’t kill you,” she declared at last, her voice laced with pain. “And I will give you a chance to prove your loyalty. Give me Meereen and I shall rethink your fate.”

To his credit, Ser Barristan the Bold did not flinch away from his fate.

“I shall do as you ask, your Grace, but first I must inform you about another traitor amongst your midst.”

His Aunt gasped.

“Who?”

“Ser Jorah Mormont.”

…

Chapter Text

Jon

Jon watched the dragons chase each other, the Great Pyramid of Meereen looming above his head. From up here he was able to see the entire city. It made him feel taller than he was.

Much like Yunkai, Meereen consisted of a maze of twisted alleys, brick streets, temples, hovels, palaces, brothels, baths, gardens and fountains and the great red circles of the fighting pits. And yet the city was much bigger than Yunkai, the pride of Slaver’s Bay.

Not long ago, Meereen was in the hands of those that had toiled day and night to serve the masters, but now they had made the city their own.

“I have never seen such a high building,” his Aunt remarked as her deep violet eyes watched the dragons and nibbled on piece of peach. Despite the smile playing on her lips she made a sad impression.

Jon knew why. Ser Barristan’s lies had hit her hard and after the old knight had revealed Ser Jorah’s betrayal, she had locked herself up in in company of her handmaids and had refused to speak for a whole day.

Jon had also been shocked. His young self would have killed to meet Ser Barristan Selmy, but now he felt apprehension, though he was glad the old knight had survived his expedition through the sewers. Whatever past failures Ser Barristan had committed, having him at her side would help his Aunt’s cause more than she could know. Ser Jorah, however, was a different matter. Pardoning him might not sit well with the Lords of the North, but then Robb might just ask for Jon’s head as well the moment he returned to Westeros. Jon had no doubt that Lady Stark would remind Robb of his as Lord of Winterfell.

“It is impressive,” Jon replied and took a bite from his peach. It tasted fresh and sweet, the best food he had tasted since joining the Stormcrows. “But you wouldn’t be as impressed if you knew the Wall.”

“When we go home,” his Aunt said and smiled warily. “I want to see everything, especially this Wall.”

Jon couldn’t help but to chuckle. “You would be the second Targaryen Queen to visit the Wall. The first one was Queen Alysanne. She flew there on her dragon.”

His Aunt graced him with a knowing smile. “My brother told me about her, but I forgot most of it. Ser Jor…,” she continued, but stopped abruptly. “I owe books about Targaryen history, but I have never had much time to read them. I am sure there is a part about Queen Alysanne.”

“I don’t remember all of it,” Jon added and watched as Ghost rolled on the other side. Jhiqui and Irri had brought him bones and now he was sated and happy. “But the Northmen remember her fondly, especially the women. She abolished the right of the first night.”

“Right of the first night?” his Aunt asked. “What did this right entail?”

“That a lord or a king would be allowed to bed the bride before her husband,” Jon explained and realized that he had said too much when he noticed his Aunt’s grimace.

“I apologize…,” he was about to apologize, but his Aunt waved her hand to silence him.

“No need, but Viserys mentioned something similar when he wanted to crawl into my bed on the night before my wedding to Khal Drogo. I see, that’s where he got the idea from.”

Jon shuddered at that. The practice of brother-sister-marriages had always mystified him. He tried to imagine wedding Arya or Sansa and felt only disgust.

His Aunt must have noticed his discomfort, because her gaze softened a little.

“He didn’t manage to do it. Magister Illyrio had placed guards at my door and Viserys was gently returned to his own chambers.”

Jon couldn’t quite understand why she thought that would make him feel better.

“Your brother still sold you to this Khal Drogo,” Jon countered hesitatingly and took a sip from his cup. His past encounters with the Dothraki hadn’t painted a positive picture of them, though the Dothraki in his Aunt’s employ knew how to behave themselves. It was clear to him that she had made them her own. “Most people in Westeros would consider them barbarians, not unlike the Northmen think of the Wildlings. They rape, pillage and earn their living by enslaving their victims. Why did you brother think it was a good idea to marry you to one of them? Did he really believe that would be enough to re-take the crown?”

His Aunt gave him a wary look.

“Why are you laughing?” she asked and leaned over to pick a nut from the nearby bowl. “My husband commanded a khalasar of forty-thousand Dothraki screamers. Viserys was a fool, but Drogo would have given me the crown of the Seven Kingdoms had he lived long enough to do so.”

Jon didn’t know what to say. She had spoken with so much conviction and it made him realize again how little she knew about Westeros.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked and wrinkled her brows in confusion. “You are making this face again.”

Jon chuckled, trying to overplay his discomfort.

“This face?” he asked instead.

“Aye,” she replied. “This face you always make when you disagree me. Tell me…what bothers you about the Dothraki? I admit…their traditions are bloody, but they are good fighters. Magister Illyrio told my brother that even your knights would flee from a Dothraki horde.”

“The peasants armed with sticks and spears might flee,” Jon replied after he had carefully pondered his answer. “But your Dothraki would stand no chance against a well-trained army of foot soldiers, armed with spears and pikes. And they would be even more useless against longbows and crossbows. They would kill your Dothraki screamers before they got even close to their enemy. Most knights in Westeros wear heavy armor, but the Dothraki are almost bare when they face battle. However, their greatest disadvantage is their bad reputation. This Magister must have taken your brother for a fool. Bringing Dothraki to Westeros would have brought your brother more enemies than friends. Even your former allies might have joined King Robert’s banner to protect their home against an army of barbarians. The Unsullied and your sellswords will serve you much more in retaking the Seven Kingdoms than a horde of Dothraki ever could.”

His Aunt’s face had grown paler with every word spilling from his mouth, but only now after he had finished speaking did he realized how upset she looked.

“That can’t be true,” she insisted, a stubborn look taking hold of her features. “Magister Illyrio wouldn’t have lied to my brother in such a vile manner. He harbored us for a whole year…he protected us from the usurper’s swords.”

“And why would I lie about that?” Jon asked and met her gaze. “I am not saying that this Magister is a liar, but he certainly is a fool if he thought that bringing a horde of Dothraki to Westeros would bring your brother a crown. That is all.”

He had hoped his explanation would ease her obvious displeasure, but the way she gritted her teeth told him otherwise.

“Then my sacrifice was all for nothing…,” she muttered to herself, picked up the cup and drowned it in one go. She trembled and averted her gaze, her violet eyes darting to the dragons. “Not all of it…I still have my children.”

Jon didn’t know what to make of her words, but remained silent. Instead he shifted his attention to Missandei, who brought a scented candle meant to drive away the flies and mosquitos.

His Aunt was very fond of the girl and it was not hard to understand why. There was something endearing about her.

She is Arya’s age, Jon recalled and grew sad. He missed his little sister the most.

“Missandei,” his Aunt said once the little girl had lightened the candle. “Come, help me dress.”

Then, his Aunt turned to look at Jon. She looked still upset, but remained polite.

“I shall return soon,” she told him rather coldly. “Join me later.”

Jon nodded his head in understanding and wanted to slap himself.

I should have chosen my words more wisely.

When he joined her later, she was garbed in a robe of purple samite and a silver sash. On her head rested the grown she had worn on their first meeting, a gift by the Tourmaline Brotherhood of Qarth.

To mock me, she had told him. But it is a beautiful crown. That’s why I keep it. It makes me look like a Queen.

To Jon she still looked more like a girl than a Queen or Conqueror, though she had taken Meereen with deception and wooden rams built from Admiral Groleo’s ships.

This ploy had been his Aunt’s idea alone, but in truth it had been the slaves of the city who had brought the final victory after Ser Barristan’s sewer rats had cut off their chains.

Jon wished he had been there to fight, but then he had also taken to heart what his Aunt had told him.

The blood of the dragon does not wade through heaps of shit.

It hadn’t been the first time she had kept him out of the fighting, but he had at least hoped to lead the freedmen into battle since he had been training them over the last days.

Truly, it had felt like a hollow victory to him when they had entered the city.

He understood why his Aunt had not trusted him to lead the freedmen into battle, but it had made him feel utterly useless.

Sitting by while others were fighting was not in his nature, though he supposed he would have to get used to this life unless he was able to win his Aunt’s trust.

Ser Jorah will make sure that she doesn’t, Jon knew, but reminded himself of the truth Ser Barristan had given his Aunt before his departure, namely that Ser Jorah was a traitor working for King Robert.

And yet, Jon was not sure if his Aunt might not forgive him after all. He seemed dear to her heart while Jon was only a stranger to her.

It was a cruel thought, but Jorah not only stood in the way of his Aunt’s ascension to the crown, but also in Jon’s way to win her trust.

He mustn’t be pardoned, Jon realized then. He must die or leave. That is the only way.

Thus, Jon emptied his cup and took Ghost for a walk along the plaza of the Great Pyramid, where his Aunt had nailed one-hundred and sixty-three of the Great Masters of the city to repay them for the murder of the slave children.

They had been stripped of their jewels and their fringed tokars. Then, they had died a gruesome death, full off painful moans and bloody bowels, but even so, Jon couldn’t bring himself to feel pity for them. Mayhaps it had been the sight of the dead children that had numbed him against such feelings.

And mayhaps that was good.

Essos was not Westeros. Sharpened swords and blood were the only words the people of these lands understood. Honor and mercy wouldn’t serve them here, so much Jon had learned in his time as a sellsword.

Brushing these thoughts away he returned to his chambers and changed the linen bindings wrapped around his shoulder. It would take another moon before the wound would be fully healed, but that was the danger of war. One could never be sure to live to the next day. His father had learned this when he had faced Robert Baratheon at the Trident.

I must be careful. I owe so much to my mother, he knew and re-fastened the black cloak around his shoulders. It felt strange to wear this garment, but it had been a gift from his Aunt for defending her life.

He fingered the soft wool and took a glance at the three-headed dragon embellished on the back. It was beautiful to behold. Truly, Jhiqui and Irri had done their best.

I must thank them, he reminded himself and took his leave from Ghost.

Jon found his Aunt in the large audience chamber made of purple marble.

There had once been a throne gracing these halls, made of gilded wood and wrought in the form of a savage harpy.

His Aunt hadn’t hesitated to get rid of it and was now seated on an ebony bench.

Jon had never seen the Iron Throne, but from what he had heard about it must be a rather uncomfortable chair.

As expected, his Aunt was not alone. There were her bloodriders, their bells tinkling as they moved. They had also covered themselves in the gold and jewels that had once belonged to the Masters of Meereen. The sellswords had followed their example, Daario and Ben Plumm among them. Jon had taken coin and jewels for himself, in preparations for harder times, but the idea of bedecking himself in spoils of war had never entered to his mind until Daario brought it up.

I am no woman, he had returned when he saw the rings Daario wore around his neck. Leave me out of this.

Daario had laughed and had called him green boy, but by now Jon had stopped caring about his japes, though he wondered whether his Aunt had taken his advice to heart.

He had seen Daario flutter around her with a bundle of flowers, but he had never seen him slip into her tent.

“Was the night as quiet as it seemed?” his Aunt asked Brown Ben Plumm.

“All is well, your Grace,” Ben Plumm assured her with a smile.

Jon liked him. He was a serious man and did what was asked of him. His accomplishments also spoke for him. He had been successful in fulfilling his Aunt’s decrees against rape, looting and murder, though Jon had a hard time understanding how they were able to differentiate between the enemy and their own people. Many a slave had committed murder that night and he had no doubt that plenty of rapes had been committed as well.

The peace won’t last long, Jon knew and watched as his Aunt tried to drive away the flies and mosquitos.

“There are also too many flies and mosquitos in this city. Can you get rid of them too?”

Ben Plumm barked with laughter. “There were flies and mosquitos in my ale this morning. I swallowed plenty of them.”

“They are the dead man’s revenge,” Daario jested and stroked his beard. “That’s the way of the world, my friends.”

“Then we should rid ourselves of the corpses,” his Aunt added with a smile and waved her hand at Grey Worm.

“You will take care of it, won’t you?”

“This one shall do as his queen commands,” Grey Worm replied dutifully ever.

“But that won’t get rid of the mosquitos,” Jon added and filled his cup. It was sweet juice mixed with honey. “There is only one effective counter-measure for mosquitos. Garlic paste.”

“Garlic?” his Aunt asked in disbelief. “You are fooling me?”

Jon chuckled and took a sip from his cup.

“On the contrary. The crannogmen swear on it and they are usually drowning in swarms of mosquitos.”

“Crannogmen,” his Aunt repeated. “Who are they?”

“They live in the Neck. Some in the North like to call them bogmen, but they are fierce fighters and very agile, despite their small height. Most of them are barely taller than children. Some say they have the blood of the Children of the Forest.”

“Sounds like a bunch of horseshit to me, your grace,” Daario chimed in. “How can a bunch of dwarfs be dangerous?”

“They are not dwarfs,” Jon corrected him. “And they know ways to make up for their disadvantage in battle. They use poisoned arrows and know how disappear in any landscape. They are also excellent in hiding their trails from their enemies. Most men die before they manage to put their blade into a crannogman.”

“Well, then I ask you to introduce them to me, green boy,” Daario bragged and placed a ripe grape into his mouth. “I will show them how quick a dwarf can die.”

“They are not dwarfs,” Jon reminded him mockingly. “And they would cut off your cock for mocking them in such a vile manner.“

Daario howled with laughter.

“Well, that would be no surprise to me. A cock merchant once offered me a hefty price for my best piece. I refused of course, but it earned me many compliments.”

“Kala would agree,” Jon told his Aunt, who had observed their exchange in silence. “She swore that Daario’s piece was the biggest cock she had ever laid eyes on.”

His Aunt chuckled drily. Other girls would have blushed, but she seemed unbothered by this vile talk.

“What happened to this Kala? Did she survive Daario’s cock?”

“She did,” Daario added proudly. “But she wasn’t able to walk for nearly a week.”

“Well, I heard from one of the other girls that she died from the pox not long after she had enjoyed Daario’s company,” Jon added and searched his Aunt’s gaze. “It’s an unpleasant death or so I heard.”

He knew his words had been fruitful when he saw his Aunt’s frown.

And if everything went well this would keep Daario away from her bed.

Not long after, the first petitioner presented himself. It was an envoy from Astapor.

The man that came before them was a pale ferret-faced man with ropes of pearls and spun-gold hanging around his neck.

“Your Worship!” he greeted his Aunt and dipped his head. “My name is Ghael. I bring greetings to the Mother of Dragons from King Cleon of Astapor, Cleon the Great.”

His Aunt froze.

“But I left a council to rule in Astapor. A healer, a scholar and a priest.”

“Your Worship, those sly rogues have betrayed your trust. Soon after your departure, it was revealed that they were scheming to restore the Good Masters to power. Great Cleon exposed their plots and hacked their heads off with a cleaver. For his grand deed the grateful folk of Astapor crowned him their King.”

“Noble Ghael,” Missandei added and wrinkled her dark brows in confusion. “Is this the same Cleon once owned by Grazdan mo Ullhor?”

“The same,” the man replied in obvious discomfort. “A great man.”

“He was a butcher in Grazdan’s kitchen,” Missandei explained then. “It was said that he could slaughter a pig faster than any man in Astapor.”

His Aunt winced, but Jon couldn’t help but to note the irony.

A butcher turned king. Well, I am a bastard turned prince. The world is a strange place.

His Aunt gritted her teeth and forced a smile over her lips.

“I shall pray that King Cleon rules well and wisely. What does he want?”

Ghael smiled then. “Perhaps we could speak alone, your Worship?”

“I have no secrets from my advisors.”

“As you wish,” he replied unhappily and lowered his gaze. “Great Cleon bids me to declare his devotion to the Mother of Dragons. Your enemies are his enemies.:.He offers to seal your allegiance with a pact of marriage.”

“Marriage?” his Aunt asked and Jon had a hard time not to break out in laughter.

The fool named Ghael smiled and Missandei came to rescue.

“Does Great Cleos have sons?”

The fool’s smile faded at once. “Great Cleon has three daughters by his first wife and two of his newer wives are with child, but he is willing to put them aside for the Mother of Dragons.”

And despite this prosperous offer, his Aunt remained calm.

“How noble of him,” she said and smiled sweetly. “I will consider his offer.”

Then, she ordered that their guest be given chambers for the night and not long after she called the second petitioner to her. It was a Qartheen captain, who gave them even grimmer news. According to him, Astapor was bleeding and the butcher King started to turn the children of the city into Unsullied.

Jon was not surprised. Men who had suffered under others could easily turn into monsters when they were given the chance to do so.

This butcher king was the best example for it.

His Aunt trembled and Jon felt the urge to speak out, but he knew better than that. He had defended her queenship in front of Ser Barristan and now he had to stand by his word. A Queen shouldn’t be questioned in front of her subjects, not even by her own nephew.

He would give her his thoughts later, though he doubted she would like to hear them.

“What do you want of me, Captain?” she asked the man.

“Slaves,” the man answered. “My holds are bursting with ivory, zorse hides and other fine goods. I would trade them from slaves of the city, to sell them in Lys and Volantis.”

“We have no slaves to sell,” his Aunt replied, her voice laced with displeasure.

“May I speak?” Daario asked then. “The riverside is full of freedmen, begging leave to sell themselves to this man.”

Jon wasn’t surprised by this either, but he felt the urge to slap Daario for his comment.

He had just undermined his Aunt’s cause with one ill-put question.

The shock was palpable on her face.

“They want to be slaves?”

“These are learned ones and gently born. Such slaves bring a high price. In the Free Cities they will be tutors, scribes, bed slaves, even healers and priests. Here they have lost all and live in fear, a life they are not used to.”

“I see,” his Aunt said, her mind working as quick as an arrow, though he was surprised by her decision. “Any man or woman who wishes to sell themselves into slavery may do, but they may not sell their children nor a man his wife.”

It was a reasonable decision, though it would certainly undermine her cause. And yet they could hardly feed all these people. For the time being, they would have to bite in the sour apple.

Besides, there were plenty of other freedmen left, used to hard labor. They wouldn’t balk at tending to the fields, though they first had to take hold of the mansions in the countryside and the lands that belonged to them.

“In Astapor the city took a tenth part of the price, each time a slave changed hands,” Missandei added.

His Aunt nodded approvingly.

“We will do the same,” his Aunt decided. “A tenth part in gold or silver or ivory. Meereen has no need of saffron and zorse hides.”

“It shall be done as you command, oh glorious queen!” Daario chirped and rubbed his hands.

He planned this, Jon realized then and wanted to slap himself. I should have seen through this.

“May I make a suggestion, your grace?” Jon added quickly and broke his silence.

His Aunt gave a nod. “You may speak.”

“I do not think the Stormcrows are the right men to see to this task. Give me a score of Unsullied to enforce your commands. I served as an apprentice to the paymaster and I know my sums better than most men. I will make sure everything goes according to order.

His Aunt pondered his suggestion, before giving her answer.

“But you are already training the freedmen?”

“I can do both.”

Surprisingly, his Aunt didn’t refuse.

“It is decided. I shall entrust this ask to you.”

“And I shall not disappoint you.”

Once everything was said and done, his Aunt dismissed everyone apart from Jon.

She looked weary as if the dark tidings she had received earlier had drained her strength.

“Everything is falling apart. Astapor is in ruins and I am no better than the masters,” she told Jon, allowing him a glimpse into her mind.

This surprised him, but he supposed she had no other choice.

She had yet to see Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah was still fighting in Yunkai. It would be weeks before he returned to Meereen.

“Nothing is lost,” Jon assured her. “The matter with the wellborn slaves is regrettable, but Daario is not wrong. They are a burden. Besides, they were not the ones that suffered under the masters. It were the working slaves who suffered the most and these men and woman you can put to good work. Sent the Unsullied into the countryside to take hold of the masters’ lands and gift them to the freedmen. It will take time and effort, but one day they will be able to stand on their own feed. Freeing them was kind, but it is no use to give them freedom unless you can feed them, though I am sure you now that. That said, I think you should also choose the most qualified among the well-born to serve in governing positions once held by the masters.”

His Aunt nodded her head, though it seemed something bothered her about his council.

“I have already spilled enough blood. I have hoped to make peace with the remaining masters.”

“Peace?” he asked in disbelief. “You think you can make peace with them?”

His Aunt’s eyes widened.

“Why not? The battle is done. Meereen is ours and Yunkai will be as well…there is no need to continue fighting. Soon we can leave…we can go home.”

“This is only the beginning,” Jon countered. “Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, Volantis…these cities will not like what you did and they will try to put the masters back into power. Do not think yourself safe, Daenerys. The only way to keep that from happening is to make them fear you and best way to do that is to take their lands, their wealth and their children.”

“My dragons are small,” she countered wearily. “Why should they fear them?”

“Not forever and once they are big enough you won’t have need of Unsullied or sellswords, but until then you must be cruel and decisive. One act of weakness…,” he continued, but his Aunt cut him off.

“I am not weak!” she snapped at him. “I have survived the Red Waste. I have conquered Astapor without your help. Do not act as if you know everything better than I.”

“You are right,” Jon granted her. “I haven’t conquered Astapor, but now that you have lost it to the butcher king I recommend re-taking it as soon as possible. This fool undermines your cause and could pose a danger. Let me…” he continued, but his Aunt silenced him with a shake of his head.

“How much more do you want me to give you, nephew?” she asked mistrustfully, her voice laced bitterness. “I have already given you two tasks. What will you ask for next? My Unsullied? My dragons? The claim you have so graciously left to me.”

Jon didn’t know why, but hearing her speak of his claim made him laugh.

“What claim?” he asked bitterly. “As you rightly said…I do not even look like a Targaryen. Who is going to believe me? An oathbreaker without a home or family. I told you already why I came here and I understand that you hold distrust for me, but I have never once lied to you and yet you accuse me of stealing something that is not even mine to take. If you do not want me here I can leave at any moment. I am sure Ser Jorah will be pleased to hear it.”

His Aunt stared back at him in silence, obviously shaken by his burst of anger.

“I didn’t mean…,” she stuttered, struggling for the right words. She looked close to tears, but she didn’t cry. She only lowered her head as if to apologize. “It is just…first Ser Barristan turns out to be a traitor and now Ser Jorah. Can you blame me for being cautious?”

Suddenly, everything was clear to him.

I was such a fool, he chided himself. I shouldn’t allowed my anger to blind me to the obvious truth.

“No, I don’t blame you, Daenerys,” he replied and softened his voice. “But I am not your enemy and I think neither are Ser Barristan or Ser Jorah. Both had plenty of possibilities to kill you, but neither did. Do you want to hear my honest opinion on this matter?”

“Speak,” she replied almost softly and searched his gaze.

“Pardon Ser Barristan. He redeemed himself and you have dire need of a capable man like him. Daario is capable enough, but he is only here because he hopes to profit from your exploits. Ben Plumm is a capable man, but he is still a sellsword. Ser Barristan, however, is a knight and has fought more enemies than Daario and Ben Plumm together.”

His Aunt nodded her head.

“I shall call for him.”

“And Ser Jorah?”

“Hear him speak,” Jon replied. “But do not allow him to remain in your service.”

“Why?” his Aunt asked, her voice returning to a mistrustful tone. “Because you don’t like him?”

“No,” Jon replied. “Because most of Robb’s lords would eye him with mistrust.”

“The same can be said about you,” his Aunt countered.

“True,” Jon granted her and couldn’t help but to smile. “You got me there. And now let me give you one last advise…Just because I say this or that, doesn’t mean I am in the right nor do I expect of you to listen to me. I am merely giving my opinion. You are the Queen and I respect that. You should know that.”

“I understand,” she said at last and even smiled a little. “I shall hear what Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah have to say. Until then, I want you to go about your task.”

“And the Butcher King?” Jon asked.

“Will be left at peace. I shall decide upon a further cause once Ser Jorah has returned to us.”

“Why not allow me to do it?” Jon asked. “Do you not trust me? Be honest for once, Daenerys? Do you trust me or not?”

“As I have learned only recently,” she told him sadly. “A Queen can’t trust anyone. That said…I do trust you to fulfil the task I gave you and I value your council, but trust you want from me, like good wine, needs to be earned, nephew. And there is another reason…a more obvious reason why I am trying to keep you away from the battlefield. If you are my nephew you then you are also my heir.”

…

Chapter Text

Dany had braced herself for this day, but now that she laid eyes on Ser Jorah she felt only dread.

“Your Grace,” Ser Jorah greeted her with a seldom smile. He looked unharmed, safe for a cut above his brow. It made her wish that she had never heard Ser Barristan’s words. “Yunkai is yours.”

“I heard of it,” she replied and tried to smile, but failed miserably “And I value your service…,” she trailed off, her voice failing her as her eyes darted to her nephew.

His face was a blank mask of ice. Gone was the hot-headed young man that had quarreled with her. Until then she had not seen much of her forbearers in him, but when he had snapped at her, baring his truth thoughts, she had seen a glimpse of the dragon beneath his icy façade. Strangely, in that moment he had reminded her of her brother Viserys, but not the brother that had sold her to Drogo, but the brother that had once fought a man with his bare hands to defend her. This brother had been taken from her when he had been forced to sell their mother’s crown and had been exchanged with a vicious monster, but Jon was different. He may hide his feelings behind his cold demeanor and he had a talent to rouse her temper, but he had also defended her life against the Titan’s Bastard and he had yet to give her a bad council. And yet, more than now she couldn’t help but to think of the visions from the House of the Undying. Three treasons you will know. Once for blood, once for gold and once for love.

Is the Mummer’s dragon one of these traitors? And if so, which one is he?

Ser Barristan’s and Ser Jorah’s recent treachery had left her with even more doubts.

“I have made a grim discovery during your absence…we had a traitor among us,” she added, trying to make her voice appear softer, to hide her true intentions. “Arstan Whitebeard was no common squire, but in truth he was Ser Barristan Selmy, a man who bent the knee to the usurper.”

Ser Jorah froze, an even grimmer expression than usual taking hold of his features.

“Did he harm, your Grace?” he asked, his hand brushing over the pommel of his sword. “I shall bring you his head.”

“He did not,” Dany assured him and lifted her hand. “He protected and gave me this city…like you gave me Yunkai. I gave him this task to prove his loyalty and now I am thinking of pardoning him. I would like to hear your council?”

“Cut off his head,” Ser Jorah replied without hesitation. “He still to you. He deserves a traitor’s death.”

Like you, she thought bitterly and tightened her grip on the skirt of her dress. Would you council me to take your head as well?

“I heard you,” she replied in a trembling voice and shifted her attention to Strong Balwas.

“Bring Ser Barristan.”

The Eunuch obeyed and not long after he returned in company of the old knight. He looked different as he had shaved of his beard, his blue eyes meeting hers across the marbled hall.

“Your Grace,” he greeted and dipped his head in reverence. “I am prepared to face my punishment.”

“Not yet,” she replied and shifted her attention back to Ser Jorah. She could scarcely bear to look at him, so deeply Ser Barristan’s accusations had shaken her. “First you will repeat your accusations against Ser Jorah.”

Ser Barristan didn’t hesitate to do so.

“Ser Jorah served as a spy for the Spider, who was giving King Robert information on you and your brother’s whereabouts. In return for his services he was promised a pardon for his own crimes.”

Ser Jorah paled visibly and fletched his teeth.

“Khaleesi…,” he began, but she cut him off.

“Is it true?” she demanded to know. “Is he true what he says?”

“Ser Barristan is a traitor,” Ser Jorah countered. “Why do you believe his word over mine? I saved your life, did I not?”

“You did save me,” She granted him and gritted her teeth. “Ser Barristan and you both saved me and so did my nephew, but that doesn’t mean you are more trustworthy than them. If Ser Barristan’s words weren’t convincing I wouldn’t have wasted a second thought on this matter, but there is something he told me that seeded doubt in my heart…The poisoner in Vaes Dothrak…Ser Barristan knew every detail about this plan and he claims you did as well. I have always wondered how you knew about the poisoned wine…,” she trailed off, giving Ser Jorah another chance to confess his lies.

“I told you that I knew it from a letter,” Ser Jorah replied. By now his neck had turned crimson, though whether it was from anger or shame she couldn’t say. “I have warned you a hundred times. I warned you about Arstan. I also warned you about Xaro and Pyat Pree and every time I was proven right. Why do you…” he continued, but Dany wanted to hear none of it. She desired the truth, no matter how bitter.

“Aye, you warned me, against everyone except yourself,” she replied colder than intended. “Trust no one but Ser Jorah Mormont, you said and all the time you were serving the Spider.”

“I didn’t serve him!” he snapped back, his anger obviously getting the better of him. “Aye, I took the damn eunuch’s gold and I was offered a pardon, but that was not all…” he continued to slip deeper into the abyss.

“All?” she asked bitterly. “You spied on me and sold me to my enemies!”

“Only for a time,” he admitted and grimaced in obvious pain. “But I stopped.”

“When did you stop?” Dany asked, tears burning in her eyes. “When?”

You are the blood of the dragon, she reminded herself and brushed these feelings of sadness away. The blood of the dragon does not weep.

“I made one last report from Qarth…,” he admitted sourly. Even now that his treachery lay bare for everyone to see he remained stubborn.

“From Qarth?” Dany asked in utter disbelief. “What did you write? That you changed your allegiances? I remember well, that you once offered to take me away. Was that your wish or the wish of the usurper?”

“I wanted to protect you from harm,” he replied firmly, but could scarcely look at her. “I knew what snakes were waiting for you out there.”

“Snakes?” she asked, every word pouring from his lips more painful than the next. “You told them that I was carrying Drogo’s son.”

“That…,” Ser Jorah stuttered, but this time it was Ser Barristan cut in.

“I was there when the Spider told the council and when King Robert decreed that Her Grace and her child must die. You were the source and there were even discussions that you might do the deed yourself.”

“Another lie!” Ser Jorah snarled at the old man. “I kept her Grace from drinking the wine…I saved her life while you were still licking the Usurper’s boots! What right do you have to judge me, old man?”

“So it is true,” Dany conclude, her heart clenching with pain. “You knew about the poisoned wine from the Spider, didn’t you?”

“I...the caravan brought a letter from Varys…he warned me against possible attempts,” he explained and fell to his knees. “If I hadn’t told them someone else would have done it. You know that.”

“I know only know that a poisoner tried to kill my son because of your actions,” he replied icily. “That’s what I know.”

He shook his head. “I never meant…you have to forgive me.”

“Have to forgive you?” she asked and bit her lips, drawing blood. “I have to do nothing of the sort. Ser Barristan is a traitor like you, but he didn’t deny his crimes when he was confronted with them and he is prepared to face them with humbleness, but you are giving me nothing but petty excuses. Whatever your reasons were….I can’t forgive that.”

“I fought for you and I killed for you,” Ser Jorah defended himself. “Daenerys…I have loved you.”

“So claimed Viserys,” Dany choked. “And he sold me to Khal Drogo.”

Again her mind returned to the three treasons. Once for blood and once for gold and once for love. She had wrecked her brain over them many times. The treason for blood could be Viserys or her supposed nephew. The treason for gold could either be Jorah or Xaro. He took gold from the Spider, she knew now, yet like always her mind came back to the third treason. For love, she recalled. Her nephew didn’t love her nor had Viserys after he had turned cruel, but Jorah had claimed so numerous times.

He kissed me, she recalled. And now he must leave.

“Leave me. You are banished, Ser. Go back to your masters in King’s Landing and collect your pardon. Or perhaps the butcher of Astapor might have use for you. I heard a king has always need of knights.”

He grimaced, pleaded with her, stretching out his hand, but Dany backed away.

“Do not ever touch me again. You have until dawn to collect your belongings and to leave this city,” she gave her judgment and averted her gaze, her tears ever close, burning like fire in her eyes. “Stay and I will have your head cut off.”

She didn’t turn around until she heard the closing door. Then, she buried her head in the palm of her hands.

They were all gone now. Like her father and mother and her brothers. Ser Willem as well, and her sun-and-stars and her son….all of them gone. All she was left with was her nephew or perhaps only a mummer’s dragon.

“You have a good heart, my Queen,” Daario purred like a cat. “But you shouldn’t have let him live. Let me take care of it…,” he offered, a smile curling on his lips.

She had once felt charmed by him when he had brought her his companion’s heads, but now she felt only disgust.

Another false smile, she realized now. Jon was right about this too. Daario was a good fighter, but not trustworthy, but the same could be said about everyone in her service, even her nephew.

“Leave him be,” she replied indifferently and lifted her gaze, her eyes seeking Ser Barristan’s. ”Let him go home.”

“Now to you, Ser,” she added and tried to sound queenly, but she felt only like a silly girl. Even the crown resting atop her head felt heavier than usual. “You served my father and brother, but you abandoned Viserys and bent the knee to the Usurper. Why?”

“I did,” Ser Barristan replied truthfully. “You have to understand…Prince Viserys was only a boy while Robert was a…a good knight…and he spared my life and the life of many others. Yet the truth for my betrayal goes far deeper…The truth is…even as a child your brother seemed to be his father’s son.”

Dany felt like slapped and recalled the gruesome tale her nephew had given her.

“The Mad King,” she repeated and gritted her teeth. “Are you saying that Viserys was truly as mad as him?”

“He was a troublesome child,” Ser Barristan replied, but unlike Ser Jorah he didn’t even blink when he met her gaze. “Quick to anger and prideful too. The Queen tried her best, but your father groomed him to be his true successor. There was hardly a moon when your brother didn’t pay witness to your father’s burnings. That is also the reason I withheld my name from you. I wanted to watch you for a time to make certain that you are not like him.”

It hurt, it hurt so much. Viserys could be cruel, stupid and prideful even to his own blood, but he had also been her brother.

“Viserys protected me and fed me,” Dany couldn’t help but to defend her brother one last time. “And a long time ago he might have even loved me…he only grew mad and cruel after he had been forced to sell my mother’s crown. Mayhaps he would have never turned mad had he been guided by a man like you…,” she trailed off, her voice failing her. She gave him a hard look, fresh anger stirring inside her heart and asking for purchase. “Well, we will never know, because you bent the knee to the usurper, because you heard tales of his supposed chivalry. Well, tell me then. Where was his chivalry when he saw my brother’s butchered children and wife? Did he lift a finger to avenge this injustice? My father was a mad man…I can accept that now, but the usurper built his thrown on my brother’s children, innocent babes. May he burn in hell where he belongs.”

“It was Tywin Lannister who gave the order, not King Robert, but it pains me to say that he indeed didn’t do anything to punish the murderers,” Ser Barristan said, his voice and face so full of pain that all anger was banished from her heart. When she saw his tears, she knew that he deeply regretted his past actions. It was more than Jorah had given her and what Jon had told her was also true.

To kill Ser Barristan would be a waste. I might have need of him in the future.

“Don’t fret,” she told Ser Barristan. “Those who put my brother’s children and wife to death will get their punishment, but it was wrong of me to blame you for a crime committed by Tywin Lannister. I called you here to judge you by your own crimes. Will you hear my decision?”

“Certainly, your grace.”

“I saw your regrets,” she said with a heavy heart. “And that is why I forgive you. In exchange for your life I ask you to give me your pledge of loyalty.”

Ser Barristan froze, shock palpable on his face. It seemed he didn’t expect to hear this kind of judgement from her lips.

“I flung my sword at Joffrey’s feet and I have not touched one ever since. Only from my Queen will I accept a sword again.”

She saw tears glittering in his eyes and knew his words to be true.

“As you wish,” she told him and asked Jon to give him her sword.

As custom expected, she offered it to him hilt first.

The old knight’s cheeks were streaked with tears as he knelt and spoke the words.

Dany felt relief and pain in equal measure, fighting for dominance in her chest.

When all was said and done, she dismissed everyone, but when her eyes fell upon Jon, she called after him.

“Jon…visit me later. I must speak with you,” she told him and left to seek the company of her handmaids.

Her handmaids helped her bath and dress in a loose dress of blue wool and above she donned a painted Dothraki vest. It was one of the many gifts Drogo had given her, but looking at it now filled her with even more doubts.

She had loved him or at least that is what she had believed, but then she had also believed that Jorah was a loyal man or that Drogo would give her the crown of the Seven Kingdoms.

The thought made her laugh now. Drogo had been strong and had been kinder to her than Viserys had ever been in his last years, but now she knew that this had been another one of her delusions. She had come to love the Dothraki, but what Jon had told her must have some truth as well. Perhaps, he was right and the Magister had fooled her brother just as much as she had fooled herself.

Drogo could have never been King of the Seven Kingdoms, she realized now. He would have given her the heads of her enemies, but he would have also pillaged and burned her subject’s lands. And while she might have been able to convince him to show mercy to some, he would have eventually reminded her that he was a Khal of the Dothraki.

Did he ever love me, she wondered and her memories strayed back to the first weeks of their marriages. He had been kind to her on her wedding night, but the nights afterwards he had taken her like a mare, regardless of the tears she had shed. Only after she had learned from Doreah how to pleasure a man, had he started to show interest in her desires and only after someone had threatened the life of his son had he considered crossing the Narrow Sea.

He killed Viserys for me, she reminded herself, trying to quell the doubts in her heart. Or did he only do it because his possession had been hurt?

Mayhaps that was the truth of it all. Khal Drogo had loved her as far as a man could love a pretty possession or the mother of his child.

Would he have kept me if my womb was barren like now, she wondered, a wave of sadness washing over her and threatening to swallow her whole. Or would he have married another woman while keeping me as his bed companion?

The truth was all too clear to her.

Drogo had wed her for her womb, just like Daario wanted her in his bed because she was a desirable woman to conquer.

No, it had all been a lie she had told herself to make herself feel better, to banish away her loneliness…

“Your Grace,” Missandei snapped her back to the present. “Jon Snow came to see you.”

Dany sighed deeply and banished away her doubts. She had allowed Viserys’ death and had sent her bear away. Only her supposed nephew remained and Ser Barristan. They would have to serve instead.

“Lead him inside,” she told the girl. “And tell Jhiqui to bring supper.”

Then, she stepped out unto the terrace where she found Rhaegal curled beside the pool. Drogon sat perched atop stone statue and Viserion was gliding over the sky like a pale kite.

When she noticed Jon, she greeted him with a smile.

“Come,” she said and waved her hand at a nearby table, where Jhiqui had laid out their supper: salads of sweetgrass and spinach, sweet plums and boiled goose eggs. “Let us eat. Do you take wine?”

“No wine,” her nephew replied. “I have work to do on the morrow.”

“I see,” she replied and was suddenly at a loss of words. He looked like always, garbed in a faded white tunic, dark breeches and boots. His brown hair had grown longer and was now reaching to his shoulders. It was the pretties feature about him, soft and slightly curled at the edge, but mostly straight and smooth. His eyes were also pretty, especially when they were not icy like now. “Then, I will take a cup.”

“Why did you call me here?” he asked as started to peal one of the plums.

She felt hurt by reaction, but understood. She hadn’t treated him with much kindness since their last interaction

“You have been serving me for three moons and I hardly know anything about you.”

He gave her a stunned look and took a bite from the plum. He chewed slowly, the fruit-flesh soiling the corner of his mouth. He looked like a little boy who had tasted heaven.

“Is it good?” she asked.

“Very good,” he confirmed and even smiled. It was a rare sight, but warmed her heart after all the bitterness it had experienced in the last weeks. “Very good.”

“You can have more,” she offered and pushed the bowl over the table. “While you tell me about Winterfell.

He looked surprised, but didn’t refuse her offer.

Instead he started to peal another plum.

“What do you want to know?”

“What does Winterfell look like? Is it a big castle?”

“Bigger than most,” Jon replied. “At least that is what Maester Luwin told me. I have not seen many castles other than Winterfell.”

“Maester Luwin?”

“He taught me reading, writing and letters,” Jon was quick to answer. “He also taught my cousins. He was a good teacher.”

Hearing, this made her sad. Viserys had been her only teacher. She decided then that she wanted to hear more about Winterfell.

“Did Winterfell have as colorful walls as Meereen?”

“They are plain grey,” Jon gave her the truth, destroying all her fantasies in one swoop. “But it looks beautiful when the snow covers the towers and walls. Yet the most beautiful place in Winterfell is the godswood. The hear tree’s bark is as white as fresh-fallen snow and its crimson leaves are as bright as crimson. And the hot springs…Oh, what I would give to have something of the sort here in Essos.”

“Hot springs,” she repeated and wrinkled her brows in confusion. “Winterfell has hot springs? I thought it is bitterly cold in the north?”

“Winterfell was built on these hot springs,” Jon explained and smiled as he ate another plum. “That’s why it is always cozily warm inside its halls. I am not trying to fool you.”

“Daenerys,” she corrected him. “Or Dany…my brother used to call me like this when we were children.”

His dark eyes widened and he gave an accepting nod.

“I am not trying to fool you, Daenerys. When I was a young boy I and Robb went swimming there every day. Sometimes Sansa, Arya and Bran joined us. It was wonderful.”

This story she liked too. It made her think of happier times with Viserys.

“Viserys also liked to bath with me, but we had rarely enough coin to pay for a proper bathhouse. Once, we sneaked inside. It was wonderful.”

Daenerys’ didn’t know why Jon’s smile had faded the moment she had mentioned Viserys.

“Well, I have no hot springs,” she offered quickly, trying to overplay the strange tension between them. “But there is a pool of water over there. It’s pleasantly warm and you could get a proper wash. I don’t mind.”

This offer brought a smile to his lips, though he sounded a little flustered.

“I would like that.”

Hearing his positive answer, she felt a wave of joy washing over her.

“Wonderful,” she said and pulled off her dress, leaving her bare, before stepping into the water. Rhaegal chirped happily and soared over the pool, which brought another smile to her lips. But when she shifted her attention back to Jon, her smile faded.

He looked as if she had dropped a bucket of cold water over his head.

“What is wrong?” she asked in confusion. “Are you not going to join me?”

He gave her a dumbfounded look. He looked as if she had asked him to cut off his balls.

“I didn’t think you would join as well…” he replied, his voice unnaturally high.

His reaction amused her. It seemed she was finally able to crack his cold façade.

“Why not? You said you bathed in company of your sisters?”

“My sisters are children,” Jon countered quickly. “You are grown…Don’t you see? It is unseemly.”

His words confused her and amused her in equal measure. She had seen Viserys’ nakedness a hundred times and he had seen her naked as well. The same could be said about the bloodriders, her handmaids and even Ser Jorah.

“Why?” she asked, feeling the sudden urge to tease him. “Drogo’s entire khalasar has seen my nakedness. You are my nephew. There is nothing unseemly about this. Or are you afraid?”

“Afraid,” he muttered to himself, his dark eyes filled with annoyance. “I am not afraid.”

It seemed she had wounded his pride too. Perhaps he is still a maid, she wondered for a moment, but then she recalled that he and Daario had spoken about girls.

“Then, prove it.”

He stared back at her in silence, his mouth opening and closing.

“I…,” he began and for a moment she thought he might bolt, but then he didn’t.

“Very well,” he said, his voice laced with sudden determination and pulled off his tunic, but stopped after he had pulled off his boots, his gaze darting back to hers. She sat half-emerged in the water and realized that he wouldn’t continue if she watched him.

Thus, she graced him with another smile and averted her gaze, pretending to look elsewhere, but she still allowed herself a brief glimpse as he waded through the water.

Doreah would have giggled at her childishness, but then she had suffered enough bitterness for a day. Was it wrong to have a bit of joy? On the morrow she would be Queen again.

Dany had once compared her nephew to Daario and Drogo and while he was not as strongly-built as them, he didn’t have to hide away either.

Her nephew was graced with a well-formed body, forged by hard training. Especially, the sight of his well-formed thighs gave her this tingling feeling she hadn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t badly endowed either. He was neither boy nor man though, but what she saw was promising enough. His long face was comely enough, but it seemed his real beauty was hidden behind plain clothing.

Dany couldn’t help but to conclude that her nephew looked much better without clothing.

“The water is pleasant,” he remarked awkwardly, his body now fully covered by the water. His gaze was fixed on Viserion, circling over the blue sky. “Thank you.”

She smiled and dipped her head beneath the water. Then, she shifted her attention back to him, but was mindful to keep her lower body beneath the water. She wanted to be able to look in her nephew’s face when she was talking to him.

“Tell me more about Winterfell,” she prodded gently. “Tell me about your family. Lady Lyanna Stark was your mother…What was she like?”

When she saw his sad look she regretted her question, but she still wanted to know more about the girl her brother had loved so much that he would desert his wife and children.

“I don’t know,” he replied and barely met her gaze. As the dying sunlight fell upon his eyes they changed to a purple hue. It was a beautiful sight to behold. “My Uncle hardly ever spoke about her, but I have seen her statute in the crypts of Winterfell. I think she liked flowers…winter roses…my cousins or my Uncle used to decorate her grave with these flowers. I also heard Harwin the stablemaster say that she was a capable rider.”

“She must have been very beautiful,” Dany countered. “And good of heart if my brother loved her so much. Ser Barristan told me that my brother was the best man he knew. Rhaegar couldn’t have loved anyone other than a good woman.”

“I like to think so too,” her nephew replied and averted his gaze. His eyes looked glassy and sad. “But…my father. If he was such a good man as you say…Why would he leave his wife and babes? It doesn’t make sense to me.”

Dany couldn’t deny that truth, but then she wanted to believe that her brother had reasons for his actions that went beyond selfishness.

“Ser Barristan told me that my brother was a very sad man, burdened by the tragedy of Summerhall. Mayhaps he was unhappy with his wife…mayhaps your mother was a glimpse of spring for him, something he couldn’t give up without breaking apart his heart and realm…,” she continued, struggling for the right words, but then an idea bloomed in her mind.

“Mayhaps you should speak to Ser Barristan,” she suggested and brushed her wet hair over her shoulder. “He might be able to tell you more.”

“I would like that,” he replied, a weary smile curling on his lips. “It is not like I hate my father. But how could he be so foolish? Why did he die?… Why did he leave me? My life would have been different…Mayhaps even my mother might have lived. It makes my heart bitter to think what could have been…,” he trailed off and grimaced.

She felt the urge to comfort him, but doubted he would appreciate it in this state.

I need to distract him, she decided right there and searched her mind.

“Winter roses,” she repeated, lacking a better topic. “Are these flowers beautiful? What color do they have? Do they grow in the snow?”

Jon chuckled.

“No, they grow in glass houses and they are blue…blue like frost. I do not understand much about flowers, but I suppose they are beautiful.”

Blue, she realized, a vision of the house of the Undying slipping into her mind. A blue flower growing from a chink of ice.

Even now she recalled its sweet smell.

Death smells also has a sweet smell about it, she reminded herself, but couldn’t shake off the feeling of confusion and longing in her heart.

Her nephew had come to her from a place called the Wall.

It was all so confusion and drained away her previous joy.

I need rest, she concluded. And peace of mind.

“I am tired,” she told him then. “I think I will retire now.”

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked and gave her a confused look.

“No,” she lied. By a simple slip of tongue her life had turned even more complicated. What was her nephew? The Mummer’s dragon or the blue flower? And would he be one of the three treasons?

I should send him away as well, she thought, but then she feared loneliness even more.

“I am just tired,” she assured him, pulled her dress over her head. Jon had remained in the water, probably waiting for her to leave. “Forgive me.”

He nodded his head in understanding.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

…

Chapter Text

Jon

Left and right the blades met. Ser Barristan was almost a grandfather, but he was still quicker and his blows were not to be underestimated. There were strength and precision behind them.

That his shoulder ached with every movement of his arm only helped to slow down his movement.

Again the blades kissed and parted within the blink of a moment. This action repeated itself three more times, before Jon backed away, trying to ease the weight on his sword arm.

He gritted his teeth as he parried another blow, a sharp pain running down his arm as the blades kissed in a dance of steel.

Again, Jon lifted his blade and aimed at Ser Barristan’s left side, his weaker side. As if the elderly knight had anticipated his next step, he managed to parry his blow halfway.

The elderly knight smiled as Jon’s blade slid against his. Then, he stepped backwards, lifted his blade and bombarded him with a barrage of blows that drained  all air out of Jon and left him laboring for air.

Left and right, he parried each blow, but otherwise he was far too slow. He had barely managed to lift his blade when Ser Barristan dealt him a quick blow to the left. Jon stumbled to the side and barely managed to parry the next attack.

To put distance between him and Ser Barristan, he stepped backwards and observed the elderly knight’s movement. He moved with the ease of a dancer, his blue eyes twinkling like two stars as he graced Jon with another smile.

It was not the first time. Jon had noticed these smiles more than once. Sometimes, Jon couldn’t shrug off the feeling that Ser Barristan was searching his father’s face in his features.

“I think that is enough for today,” Ser Barristan added and sheathed his blade. His face was flushed and sweat coated his cheeks, but he looked barely exhausted. “Let’s allow the other ones to prove themselves.”

With other ones he meant the young freedmen Jon and Barristan had been training the last weeks. Most of them ranged from ten and four to twenty and were well-built youths that had been used to hard work all their life. Yet their strength was no use if it was not directed into the right direction and that is what Barristan and Jon had been trying to do. They had trained the boys like one would train squires. With sword, shield and spears, on horse and afoot. The boys were enthusiastic, but it would take years before they were as capable as they should be.

“Aye, let’s see what they can do,” Jon agreed and sheathed his blade, before brushing the sweat from his brows.

The sun loomed high above the Great Pyramid of Meereen like a boiling egg. It was midday or so Jon guessed, but he wasn’t sure. They had overseen the drills of the recruits all morning.

This seemed to please them far more than the drills Jon and Ser Barristan had imposed on them. They looked excited and whispered to each other in their respective tongues. Jon understood only parts of it as many of them spoke strange dialects of Bastard Valyrian he was still unfamiliar with.

Ser Barristan had it easier, for he was also well-versed in High Valyrian.

The first one to volunteer was Red Lamb, a strongly built Lhazareen boy with a sun-burned face. His enemy was Larraq, a thin and lanky boy, who was very skilled with the whip.

Even so, Red Lamb seemed enthusiastic about the fight and twirled his spear like a mummer, a broad grin curling on his lips.

Ser Barristan gave the sign and a moment later Red Lamb was already hacking at his enemy. He was all ferocity, but had yet to learn the proper handling of a spear to do any real harm. Left and right he jabbed his spear at Larraq, who used his speed and shield to his advantage. Every time, Red Lamb aimed at him, he absorbed the attack with his spear, his small dark eyes waiting for the right moment.

Thus, the dance continued. Round and round they moved as Red Lamb continued to bombard his enemies’ shields with blows. Red Lamp, who was known to have little patience, fell for it and gave his enemy the opportunity he had been waiting for.

Within the blink of a moment, Larraq had ducked out of the way and had snapped his whip around his enemies’ feet, before yanking Red Lamb off his feet.

The hot-headed young man cursed as he kissed the ground while Larraq received cheers and approval from the onlookers.

“Well done,” Ser Barristan added in Bastard Valyrian. “You both did well.”

Red Lamb frowned. “I lost.”

“You didn’t lose,” Jon corrected him. “You merely made a mistake. Next time it won’t happen again, because you will remember. That is why we train. Winning is for the battlefield and called killing. This here is just a game for children.”

Red Lamb gave him a disbelieving look and returned to his assigned place. This procedure repeated itself a good dozen of times and by the time they had finished the sun had started to disappear behind the colorful walls of Meereen. As always, Ser Barristan had left shortly after paying witness to Red Lamb’s and Larraq’s duel. Everyday, after midday he went to join Daenerys in her never-ending task of hearing petitions.

Weary and sweaty from the heat, Jon dismissed the boys and returned to his sleeping place.

Daenerys had offered him a place in the Great Pyramid, but he had refused. He rather slept in company of the men he was training than in these soft beds once occupied by these slavers.

Daenerys was different. She had to appear a Queen.

And I am her nephew, he reminded himself as he stripped naked to wash himself with the water left to him by the boy that served as his squire. His name was Tuco, a small sun-kissed boy that sported a nasty burn on his cheek.

I once dropped a cup, he had explained to him one night. That is why my master punished me.

Jon had shown him his own burned hand. This must have endeared the boy to him, because ever since that day Tuco was much more open-hearted towards him.

The water was already lukewarm, but it was enough to remove the grime and dust that covered his body. And yet he longed for a proper bath, like the one he had taken in company of his Aunt, no matter how strange that had been.

Jon was by no means prudish. He had seen countless of naked girls before he had taken his first girl to bed, but when his Aunt had offered him to take a bath, he hadn’t expected her to strip naked and to join him.

His first reaction had been to leave, but then she had teased him as if he was a maid instead of a man grown.

Thus, Jon had stayed and for a brief moment it had felt as if she had allowed him a glimpse beneath her façade, but then she had changed back to her serious self.

I must have said something wrong, Jon thought as she sprinkled the water into his hair. Why else did she send me away so suddenly?

He had of course visited her again and at times she was very friendly towards him, but at other times she seemed troubled and confused. For some time, Jon had attributed her ever changing behavior towards him as a sign of mistrust, but by now he had realized that his Aunt was just like most girls. Very confusing.

The touch of the water in his hair felt pleasant, but even better felt the fresh tunic Tuco had washed for him.

“Thank you,” he thanked the boy, who was eating a bowl of lintel soup. He was rather small for his age and at times Jon was not sure if he understood him properly, but yet he couldn’t have asked for a more dutiful squire. “You may go to bed if you wish. On the morrow you can join me for another round of training.”

“That good,” the boy replied in Broken Valyrian and grinned. “I like fighting.”

Jon was pleased by his answer and fastened his cloak. Before leaving the barracks he fed Ghost and left him in company of his little squire, who had taken an immediate liking to his wolf.

Jon took it as a sign that he could trust the boy and had by now no qualms to leave Ghost in his company.

When Jon entered the gardens, he found his Aunt seated beneath the peach tree, the bright sunlight making her form appear blurred and distant.

Only as he stepped into the shadow of a nearby tree was he able to see her properly. She wore of these loose dresses that bared her shoulders and navel. Where he came from most people would have considered such clothing inappropriate, but then he was in Meereen a city of heat and blood. His Aunt, like most women in this city, seemed not to care about presenting their nakedness to the world. More than once, he had seen a woman with bared breasts or a bared womanhood walking through the streets as if it was the most normal thing in the world. His Aunt had only done so once, but what little he had seen of her had confused his mind.

More than once he had tried to suppress the sensations whirling up inside him whenever he thought of her well-formed small breasts. His Aunt was a beautiful girl and yet she was still his Aunt.

He hadn’t come here to bed her, but to help her.

Do not lie to yourself, he reminded himself of the truth. You came here because she is your only way home.

This was also true, though his inappropriate thoughts towards her confused him greatly…

It was Rhaegal’s shriek that aroused her attention. Her hair fell over her shoulder as she moved her head and the bells fastened on her braids filled the world with a soft song.

“Jon,” she said, surprise evident on her face. “I didn’t expect you.”

“It was a spontaneous decision,” Jon explained and cast his gaze to the sky. “Do I bother you?”

“No,” she replied, her voice laced with sadness. She looked very distraught. “I just didn’t expect you.”

Her dress was not only revealing, but had a low-cut chemise that left little space for imagination.

Gods be good, Jon thought as he got a glimpse at her nipple and felt a jolt of heat cursing through his loins. This is utter madness.

He tried to imagine something unpleasant to banish these feelings away. He recalled the deadmen he had buried in Myr, but didn’t help. Only when he thought of Lady Catelyn, did his inappropriate thoughts disperse.

“Are you well?” asked his Aunt.

“Aye,” Jon replied and pulled his cloak from his shoulders. Then, he spread the garment on the ground and graced his Aunt with an encouraging smile. “I would prefer to stay here.”

His Aunt seemed surprised, but didn’t refuse his request.

She even smiled and nodded her head in confirmation sat back down.

“The dragons seem happy,” Jon remarked as he watch them fly circles over the sky.

“Seems so,” she agreed and shrugged her shoulders.

“You look tired,” Jon remarked and pulled out a handful grass. It helped to calm his whirl of thoughts. “Were the petitioners as pesky as always?”

“Not just the petitioners,” she confirmed. “Have you heard about the dead Unsullied?”

Jon had heard something about the dead Unsullied in passing, but he hadn’t inquired further.

“What happened?”

Her face fell and she pulled out a handful of grass.

“They were slain while they were visiting a brothel. Their murderers butchered them and stuffed the genitals of a goat into their mouths. It were the same men that killed the freedmen. The Sons of the Harpy.”

“Sons of the Harpy,” Jon repeated and recalled that the Harpy was a symbol of the masters. “A fitting name…But why were these Unsullied in a brothel?”

“To find comfort,” Daenerys said, her voice trembling. “You don’t need a cock to seek comfort from a woman’s arms.”

“And what are you going to do about these Sons of the Harpy?” Jon asked in return and searched her gaze.

“I do not know yet, but I sent out Greyworm to investigate,” she admitted, but avoided his gaze.

Jon frowned at that. The Unsullied were better suited for the battlefield than to conduct investigations.

Daenerys smiled wryly when she noticed his frown.

“Ser Barristan has already told me that the Unsullied are not exactly well-suited for this task, but I have little choice in the matter. Ben Plumm is holding Yunkai and my bloodriders are occupied with subduing the hinterlands like you had bid me and Daario is in Lhazar. Mayhaps he and your former brothers could serve once they return from their task.”

Jon nodded his head in understanding and pondered over the problem.

“The Stormcrows would be a better choice for sure, but even better would be if the freedmen could protect themselves. Sadly, most of them wouldn’t even be able to fight off a squire, let alone these Sons of the Harpy. A proper guard would be better. There are pit fighters among the freed slaves. Mayhaps you could use those.”

“A good idea,” she agreed hesitatingly. “But I have yet to see the gold the masters were hiding in their estates and until then the Unsullied will have to suffice. And according to one of my pesky petitioners these pit fighters are more interested in killing each other than to serve as my guards.”

“And who is this pesky petitioner?” Jon asked in return.

Daenerys frowned as is she wanted to avoid talking about him, but then she suddenly lifted her head and smiled when the dragon Viserion unfolded his pale wings and soared into the sky. It was a beautiful sight, but Jon had also paid witness to the danger these beasts could pose.

It made him wonder how his forebearers had managed to tame them. Did it just happen naturally? Did they just hop on their backs and fly away? Probably not. It was hard for him to believe that such proud beasts would submit easily to the will of mere humans, Targaryen or not.

Once Viserion was gone she shifted her attention back to Jon.

“The man’s name is Hizdahr no Loraq, a wealthy merchant with many friends in Meereen and across the sea. He supposedly visited Volantis, Lys, Qarth, has kin in Tolos and Elyria and is even said to wield some influence in New Ghis. According to him, some masters were able to slip out of Jorah’s hands and are now trying to stir up New Ghis against me.”

Jon was not surprised by this revelation. Meereen, Astapor and Yunkai were not the only cities that practiced slavery. That the other cities would not look friendly upon his Aunt’s actions was to be expected.

“And what makes this Hizdahr so pesky?”

Daenerys exhaled deeply and blew her strands of silver hair out of her face.

“This Hizdahr is quite rich and acquired all the fighting pits in the city. Today was the six time he came to ask me to reopen the fighting pits. An old tradition he calls it, but in truth it is a blood sacrifice, a blood sacrifice to the gods. Well, he thinks this bloodshed would be eased by the fact that the victorious fighters are pampered and acclaimed for their skill and the slain ones are honored and remembered. He also thinks that by re-opening the fighting pits I could make coin and win the respect of the people of Meereen.”

Jon had listened in silence, but was confused by her dislike for the idea. It would fit her current policy of making peace with the people of Meereen. Jon had advised her against it, but he had also named her his Queen and it wasn’t like she had refused all his suggestion. At least, she had sent her khalasar to subjugate the hinterlands and had tasked the Dothraki and the Unsullied to demand children from every single noble family. Said children were now serving as Daenerys’ cupbearers and attendants, though Jon had envisioned them more as hostages. Seeing Daenerys play with them worried him more than the Sons of the Harpy. Hostages were not meant to be cuddled and pampered. They were meant to be a leverage against their fathers and in the worst case, to be killed. Yet his Aunt treated them like guests of honor. It wasn’t like Eddard Stark had mistreated Theon Greyjoy, but Jon had no doubt that even Lord Eddard would have done his duty and executed Theon if Balon Greyjoy had dared to break the peace he had made with King Robert after the Greyjoy Rebellion.

“You are having that look again,” she remarked, a ghost of a smile curling on her lips as she pulled on her slippers. “Speak.”

Jon laughed at that. It had become some sort of a jape between them.

“I hope my council will not displease you, but I think you should re-open the fighting pits. You said you could make gold from it…use it to set up a proper guard. Mayhaps this Hizdahr might even be prepared to give up some of his pit fighters for your cause.”

Her furrowed brows told him that she didn’t like his council, but she didn’t outrightly refuse his suggestion either.

“I understand what you are trying to say, but I have already sold the well-born back into slavery. I do not wish to support these bloody games.”

“You cannot force freedom upon them and you can only help those who are willing to take your help. If these pit fighters are willing to fight, allow them to do so. Daario was once a pit fighter and he is quite proud of his reputation and so are many others. You cannot compare them to slaves that are forced to work the fields and the mines. The same can be said about these well-born. They would have never been able to take up the work of a farmer even if you gave them land to work. It might sound strange, but I think for some people the life under a generous master is more pleasant than to take responsible for their own fate.”

Daenerys had listened attentively, but even after he had given his arguments she seemed displeased with the idea.

“I shall think about it,” she said at last in obvious frustration and pulled the slippers from her feet. They must have hurt her, because she sighed in relief when they were off. They were made from gilded leather and decorated with green freshwater pearls, but looked too small even for his Aunt’s dainty feet.

“Are they too small?”

She nodded her head in confirmation, a half-smile curling on her lips.

“A little,” she admitted. “They are also a gift from the butcher king. It seems my feet belong to a child. Well, they are as pretty as they are uncomfortable.”

Jon chuckled as he recalled a tale that Old Nan had told them about a girl who cut off her toes to fit into a glass shoe. He had forgotten the rest of the tale, but it probably ended like many of such tales: with a wedding. Sadly, the girl had to give up her toes. It made Jon wonder if the bargain was worth it in the end.

“What is so funny?” his Aunt asked. “Do you know someone who could have use for the slippers?”

“Give them to Missandei,” Jon suggested. “Her feet look dainty enough and a Queen’s Lady-in-waiting should look proper.”

Daenerys seemed to like the idea, a startling smile spreading over her lips.

“Missandei will like that. It shall be done.”

“And what if the Sons of the Harpy continue to kill?” Jon asked, the question that had been burning under his skin since the moment he had heard about the death of the Unsullied. “I know you are trying to make peace with the people of Meereen, but you cannot allow these murders to go unpunished. Mercy is good, but they might also take it as a weakness and it might encourage them to continue with their actions.”

The dark look taking hold of her features told him that he had overstepped his bounds.

“I will not butcher children,” she insisted in a firm tone.

“That is their purpose…,” he countered, but his Aunt’s grimace silenced him.

“I do not wish to talk about killing children…,” she told him and wrinkled her nose as if she recalled a bad memory. Then, she pulled herself to her feet, her slippers still in hand. “I value your advice in this matter, but I wouldn’t be better than the Usurper or my father if I killed children. And now I must leave…there are matters I need to attend to, nephew.”

Her answer had hit him like thunder. Robert Baratheon had benefitted by his half-brother’s and half-sister’s deaths. He hadn’t butchered them himself, but he still had their blood on his hands by allowing Tywin Lannister to get away without punishment.

Before he had known about his parentage, Jon had never wasted much thought about these children. Prince Rhaegar had been a madman to him, someone who had deserved his fate. His children had not matter in the grand scheme of things nor had his wife Princess Elia. Killing them was a necessity King Robert had been forced to take to secure his claim. It had made sense to Jon, though he had never cared much about King Robert. He had been Lord Eddard’s friend, but Jon hadn’t been particularly impressed with him. He had looked like a fat and drunken fool, not like a King.

But now he knew the truth.

His half-sister and half-brother had also died for Jon and he would have to bear this guilt until the end of his days, unless he managed to take revenge on those who had murdered them.

He had tried to bury these thoughts in the back of his mind, but now they spilled forward like a wave overcoming a ship.

Even the cup of wine he had poured himself didn’t give him much comfort.

“You look distraught, my boy,” Ser Barristan’s soft voice roused him out of his deep thoughts. Ghost growled, but he calmed down when Jon lifted his hand.

Jon angled his head and graced the elderly knight with a smile. Like Jon, he didn’t reside in the Great Pyramid, though he often attended to his Aunt and spent more time there than in Jon’s company.

“I am well,” Jon lied, though he was sure that Ser Barristan was able to see through him. “I am just tired.”

“You visited her grace,” the old knight remarked instead and sat down near the brazier to arm himself. Meereen was a city of heat and blood, but the nights could be chilly and full of sandstorms. “It seems to me that your visit upset you.”

“Me?” Jon asked in confusion. “It is my Aunt who seems distraught and I think I made it worse.”

Ser Barristan nodded his head and inspected the flagon of wine Jon had placed on the table. “I overheard your conversation about the hostages. Her grace is indeed upset, but not because of anything you said, my boy. The sad truth is…it seems Drogon burned a child.”

Jon sucked in a deep breath. Drogon was the largest of the three dragons and he was certainly capable of killing a grown man. A small child wouldn’t pose much of an obstacle for him.

“He must have been hungry,” Jon surmised and felt a hint of relief. It was no wonder that his Aunt had been angry about his suggestion for the child hostages. “Well, they are still beasts, despite their intelligence. I suppose my Aunt blames herself?”

“She does,” Ser Barristan confirmed, a warm smile curling on his lips. “Her grace has a kind heart. It can be both a strength and an obstacle. She has much of your father, just as you.”

Jon was taken back Ser Barristan’s words. He had neither the silver hair nor the purple eyes the Dragon Prince had been famous for, but Ser Barristan was probably referring to his character not his looks.

“Am I? In what way?” Jon asked and poured himself another cup. The topic of his father was a touchy topic for him, but it seemed it was time to address it. He couldn’t avoid it forever.

“You have his single-mindedness and tendency for melancholia,” Ser Barristan explained and leaned back in his chair as if to get a better look at Jon. “You also have his eyes.”

Jon couldn’t help but to chuckle.

“What you call “melancholia” my brother Robb used to call broodiness. Was that the reason he ran away with my mother and threw the seven kingdoms into a war? Was he so unhappy with his other wife? Was she the reason for his sadness?”

Jon’s words had banished away Ser Barristan’s smile, a more serious expression taking hold of his weather-worn face.

“Princess Elia had nothing to do with the Prince’s sadness. It had its origin at his birth in Summerhall and what followed afterwards. To be honest, I do not think your father had it in him to be happy. There was always something doomed about him. Your mother…I suppose she was a piece of happiness he was desperate to keep, despite the consequences.”

Jon had heard about the tragedy of Summerhall, but he didn’t know that his father had been born there.

“You said ‘what followed afterwards’,” Jon repeated and rose to his feet to retrieve a cup from the wooden box placed across the room. “Would you tell me about it in detail? Over a cup of wine?”

Ser Barristan’s smile returned.

“A cup should do no harm. Her grace has dismissed me and bid me to rest.”

Jon returned the smile and filled the cup to the brim, before handing it to Ser Barristan.

“Its bitter,” Jon replied and sat down. “I should have gotten some honey.”

Ghost had also woken from his slumber and walked over to Jon, his furred head brushing against his shoulder.

Jon scratched his ear and chuckled when his wolf started to lick his face.

“It seems Ghost also wants to hear the story.”

Ser Barristan laughed and took a hesitant sip from the cup.

As expected, he grimaced. The wine from here was bitter and made his tongue curl, but he had gotten used to it by now. Ser Barristan, on the other hand, hardly ever drank or indulged in such simple pleasures.

“I shall be honored to entertain your loyal beast,” Ser Barristan jested and placed the cup on the table. He didn’t look as if he had any interest in trying the wine again. “Where was I?”

“You wanted to tell me about the cause of my father’s sadness,” Jon reminded him.

“Ah, yes,” Ser Barristan said and sighed deeply. “Well, I didn’t know your father as well as his closest confidant Ser Arthur Dayne, but it had to do with a prophecy.”

Jon was taken back by his words. A prophecy was the last thing he had expected.

Yet he wished to hear more.

“Please, go on.”

“Prince Duncan, King Aegon the Unlikely’s heir fell in love with a beautiful Lady from the Riverlands. Jenny of Oldstones was her name. It was also this Lady who brought a woodswitch to court, who prophesies that a promised prince would be born from King Aegon’s line that would bring back eternal spring. I do not know the details of this prophecy, but it was the reason King Aerys and Queen Rhaella were forcefully wed. As it happened, it was an unhappy marriage, but I suppose that is the price King Aegon and King Jaehaerys were prepared to pay to beget this prince. Well, King Aegon perished in Summerhall and King Jaehaerys died from a mere fever. Mayhaps they were punished for their belief, but your father was also raised with the belief in this this prophecy. He was always a somber child, who preferred his harp and books to sword and shield, but one day he everything changed,” Ser Barristan had recounted his father’s childhood, but he had stopped abruptly as if he wasn’t quite sure if he should continue.

Jon was not sure either if he wanted him to continue and fell silent.

I cannot run away, he reminded himself and took a sip from the cup to drain away his fears. I need to hear the full truth.

Then, he lifted his head and gave Ser Barristan an encouraging nod.

“Please, go on. Tell me…What changed about my father?”

Ser Barristan smiled approvingly.

“One day your father Prince Rhaegar decided to leave his books behind him and stepped out unto the practice yard. ‘It seems I have to become a warrior’ he had said to Ser William Darry, with such a serious tone that even the guards had started to laugh. Nobody had expected, that the bookish prince would take up a sword, though your father proved them all wrong. He was an excellent swordsman, though he had always favored the lance.”

“And yet he lost at the Trident,” Jon couldn’t help but to remind Ser Barristan.

“Aye, but skill in the practice yard had little to do with a real fight on the battlefield. I wish I had been there to help your father. I might have been able to save his life. Another one of my failures,” he admitted and lowered his gaze to the ground.

Jon leaned over and touched his shoulder. He couldn’t speak for his father, but for himself.

“You are no failure. What happened was fate or perhaps bad luck. Who knows? Or mayhaps it was punishment for believing in silly prophecies. Tell me, Ser Barristan. Did my father really believe he was this promised prince?”

“He did,” Ser Barristan confirmed. “For a time, but then he changed his mind or that was at least what Ser Arthur implied to me once. He believed that Prince Aegon was this promised prince, but the fact that he died makes it impossible. Well, I do not know what to make of your father’s belief in prophecy…All I know is that he was a good man who tried his best to handle King Aerys’ madness. Sadly, Lord Varys was always one step ahead of him.”

“How so?” Jon asked curiously.

Ser Barristan sighed deeply.

“Harrenhall was not meant to be a simply tourney or so Ser Arthur Dayne had implied to me once. It was meant to be a way to unite the Lords and Ladies of Westeros against King Aerys. I don’t think Prince Rhaegar intended to kill his father, but he certainly intended to remove him from power. Sadly, Lord Varys made this impossible by informing the King and the rest you know yourself…,” Ser Barristan trailed off.

“My father crowned my mother Queen of Love and Beauty and a year later he disappeared with her,” Jon finished for him, the old bitterness engulfing his heart and begging for release. “Leaving his wife and children. You call him kind and good. What was kind about that?”

“I doubt the Prince had any intention to leave his children forever. He was always very devoted to them,” Ser Barristan defended his father. “As for the Princess Elia…Prince Rhaegar and Princess’ union was a match their parents arranged for them. Most of the time they resided at Dragonstone, because the King held little love for the Princess and thus I do not know much about their relations during this time, but when they were in King’s Landing the Prince was rarely seen in Princess Elia’s company. Despite her sickly health, Princess Elia was a vibrant woman who enjoyed dance and mummeries. She always lightened up when she was around her ladies, but the Prince didn’t share her love for such spectacles. He always was a bit of a loner despite being well-liked by everyone who knew him. I do not think the Prince held any personal dislike for Princess Elia, but I also think they did not have much in common beyond their children.”

“And yet he left them to die,” Jon countered, the guilt still clenching around his heart like a tight noose.

“He didn’t do anything of that sort,” Ser Barristan retorted, his voice laced with suppressed anger and his blue eyes piercing into Jon’s. “Before he left for the Trident he came to King’s Landing to bid them farewell. Prince Rhaegar wanted them to go to Dragonstone, but King Aerys destroyed your father’s plans, by keeping them in King’s Landing. Tell me, my boy. Why do you think was your father so eager to fight Robert Baratheon?”

Jon was taken back by Ser Barristan’s angry reaction. He didn’t know what to say.

“Why?” Jon asked instead and kept his voice intentionally low. It hadn’t been his intention to insult Ser Barristan.

“Because killing Robert Baratheon would have probably ended the war. He was after all the spearhead of the rebellion. I suppose Prince Rhaegar intended to parley with the rebels once the battle was done and to reveal the truth to your Uncle Lord Eddard Stark, namely that he wed your mother and fathered a child on her. I admit, I did not know Lord Stark well, but I do not think he would have continued the war had he known the truth, let alone fought his own nephew.”

Jon didn’t know why, but he couldn’t bring himself to agree with Ser Barristan.

The bitterness was still there, poisoning his heart with fresh hatred.

“My Uncle told me that it is an honor to serve in the Night’s Watch and the fool that I was I believed him. Had he known any honor to begin with he should have told me the truth before allowing me to throw away my life. He used my guilt and shame against me. That was vile of him and even now I cannot bring myself to forgive him,” Jon allowed his anger to spill forward, hoping to find understanding in the elderly night. “He chose Robert Baratheon over his own nephew. Thus I can only disagree with your assessment. I am not sure what my Uncle would have done. Not that it matters. They are all dead…my father, Princess Elia, my siblings and my Uncle… he is in the Night’s Watch.”

When Jon was done pouring out his anger, Ser Barristan picked up his still half-filled cup and offered it to him.

“Drink up, my boy. You are not at fault for what happened to Princess Elia and your siblings. That was Lord Tywin’s work, not yours. And in regard to your Uncle…we are all human. Make your peace with his lies or your hatred will eat you up.”

“On the first part I can agree,” Jon replied and picked the cup from Ser Barristan’s hands. “But I cannot forgive my Uncle…Maybe in the future, but not yet.”

Then, he drank deeply, trying to forget the anger and bitterness poisoning his heart.

…

Chapter Text

Deanerys

Dany walked through the water of the terrace pool, a soft wind touching her skin. She felt cold and alone, the fish nibbling on her toes as she waded through the water.

She dipped her head beneath the water, closed her eyes and allowed herself to float away as if she was seated upon Drogon’s back.

It felt as if she had been embraced by heaven, but her peace state was soon disturbed by the rustling of the trees.

Sitting up she swept her gaze over the terrace, but found nothing, but grass and a flock of birds seated in the twigs of the persimmon tree.

“They are asleep,” a soft and familiar voice whispered and caused her to turn around. Suddenly, there was a woman, her face hard and shiny beneath her dark hood.

It took her a moment to realize that the women wore a dark red, lacquered mask of made of wood.

Quaithe. This has to be a dream…

“What are you doing here?” Dany asked  and recalled how Quaithe’s last appearance had led her where she was now, Meereen. “How did you make it past my guards?”

“Your guards never saw me,” Quaithe whispered, though she was far away. “Hear me out, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the pale mare and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, the lion and the griffin, the sun’s son and the mummer’s dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware of the perfumed seneschal…,” Quaithe trailed off, her voice growing ever softer.

“Reznak?” she asked in a trembling voice. Reznak mo Reznak was her seneschal and one of her trusted advisors, the heavy smell of his perfume still lingering in her nose. It can’t be…and the mummer’s dragon…Jon is already here. If it is not him then who is it?

Water trickled down her body as she crawled out of the pool, her feet touching the soft grass, but her eyes searching Quaithe’s gaze of moonshine.

“Remember the Undying…,” Quaithe’s warned again, but gave her no clear answer to her many questions.

Dany was sick of it.

“Don’t give me riddles, give me answers!” she snapped and stretched out her hands to touch Quaithe’s robes, which instantly dispersed into nothingness as if she had been made of light and air alone. “Speak plainly.”

“Remember the Undying…remember what I told you,” the voice grew ever fainter, before fading away like the morning mist.

Dany fell to her knees, her mind a storm of confusion.

“I remember,” she muttered to herself and pulled out a handful of grass. “I remember the way. To go north I must go south, to go east I must go west and to go back I must go forward. And to touch the light I must pass beneath the shadows.”

It was another riddle, but no answer to her questions.

“I am the blood of the dragon,” she reminded herself and yet she had chained her dragons.

Was it another mistake?

She also recalled the words of the Undying all too vividly.

Child of three, they had called her. Three mounts she had been promised, three fires too and three treasons. Once for gold and once for blood and once for love.

“Your Grace?” Missandei’s soft voice woke her from her slumber, her small hand pulling on Dany’s nightgown. “Who are you talking to?”

Dany sat up, the bedding slipping down to the waist.

It must have been a bad dream, she realized as she searched Missandei’s face. Dany could still see the sadness lingering in her gaze. A weekturn ago, one of her two brothers, who had been turned into Unsullied after they had been taken from their home in Naath, had perished at the hands of the Sons of the Harpy.

Missandei had wept bitterly and ever since she had taken Irri’s place in Dany’s bed. Dany liked to keep her close as it reminded her of happier times when her brother had still loved for her…

“Nothing,” Dany assured Missandei and slipped out of bed. She trembled as her feet touched the cold stone floor.

“Dawn is close,” she told the girl as she noticed the faint light streaming through the windows. “I best dress and eat.”

The little scribe was quick on her feet, but Dany waved her hand to stop her.

She didn’t want to be alone. Not when her mind was heavy with worries.

“Stay and help me braid my hair. Then, we can eat together,” she offered instead and received a stunned look.

“Jhiqui and Irri,” the little scribe replied, but Dany silenced her with a shake of her head.

“Let them sleep,” Dany added and smiled at her. “Now come and help me braid my hair.”

Missandei was hesitant, but complied. She worked quickly and once she had finished her work, the little scribe wanted to slip away to retrieve their breakfast, but Dany held her back.

“Let me braid your hair as well,” she offered to the girl, her golden eyes growing wide.

“Your…,” she stuttered, but Dany’s smile silenced her. “Let me try…I am quite good at braiding hair. My brother Viserys showed me how to do it when I was little. Sometimes, he even allowed me to braid his hair too.”

The memory made her smile, but also sad.

Missandei seemed to sense her sadness and sat back down, her small fingers touching Dany’s silver hair locks.

“Did your brother have pretty hair as you?”

“Aye,” Dany replied, tears burning in her eyes as she started to braid Missandei’s curly hair into something that resembled a braid. “My brother had very pretty hair.”

It was the only pretty thing about him in his last years, she recalled. She had hated and loved him in equal measure, but he had destroyed everything when he had threatened the life of her unborn child. If you had just been patient…

“You had two brothers,” Missandei stated after Dany had finished her work. “Like me.”

“Aye,” Dany confirmed again and pulled herself back to her feet. “I had two brothers. Rhaegar and Viserys. I named my dragons after them.”

A sad smile curled on the girl’s lips as she touched the small braid falling over her naked shoulder.

“Do you think the dragons are afraid in the dark?”

Dany shuddered and felt the sudden urge to correct the little scribe. A dragon knows no fear, she wanted to say, but that was another lie.

Dany feared the dark just as any other little girl.

“Dragons are fire made flesh,” she said instead and patted the little scribe’s cheek. “Now go and fetch us some supper. You must be hungry.”

Not longer after sunset, she returned with a bowl of dates, honey and two cups of milk. They ate in silence, the whispering of the wind their only companion, before Dany called for Jhiqui and Irri to help her dress and fasten her bells.

The last time she had faced Xaro as a beggar, but today she wanted to welcome him as a Queen, though the crown resting atop her head felt heavier than ever.

Dany watched as the dancer’s sleek bodies moved. Blazing torches swirled from hand to hand, the beat of a drum and lute filling her ears.

Whenever the torches were crossed in the air, a naked girl leaped between them, spinning madly.

Dany found the whole event comical, counting three erect in the crowd of onlookers.

Amused, she shifted her position and shifted her attention to her advisors.

Raznak’s mouth was wet, his dark eyes greedy as he watched the girls move. Ugly Shavepate, was stern as ever, and Ser Barristan had refrained from attending altogether, but promised once the dancing was done.

Even bothersome Hizdahr zo Loraq had come to attend the spectacle or perhaps their guests were friends of his. She hadn’t asked him, for wished not to speak to him further than politeness demanded it. The triumphant smile he had given her after she had allowed him to re-open the fighting pits had only intensified her dislike for the man.

And yet it had been the right thing to do. She needed the gold to set up a proper guard.

Missandei’s second brother won’t fall prey to the to the Sons of the Harpy, so much she had sworn to herself after seeing the little scribe’s tears.

The loud beat of the drum snapped her back to the present and made her eyes dart back to Jon, who was not seated far from her, beneath the large marble pillars holding the heavy ceiling above.

He looked so different from his usual self. He wore polished armor and the cloak she had gifted him.

The dark cloak fitted his long brown hair. It looked almost black in the flickering torch light, almost like raven feathers.

Fire magic, she thought with amusement and searched his long pale face. His eyes were two pools of blackness, but they weren’t focused on the dancing girls, but their guests. He was seizing them up, like his white wolf whenever he was making a new acquaintance.

He truly is an ice dragon, she realized again. It made her wonder if his cock was as cold as his sharp gaze. It was as a silly thought, but the only amusement she could find in this place.

Looking at him again, she realized that she wouldn’t mind taking him to her bed. It was what would be expected of her kind and it would certainly please her more than the suitors the Green Grace had in mind for her.

Yet that wasn’t the only reason. She like Missandei’s and her handmaid’s company, but it was not enough to quench the loneliness in her heart...

She couldn’t allow herself to love this nephew of hers, but would it be so wrong to seek comfort?

No, she reminded herself and averted her gaze.

She had loved her brother too. He had promised to make her his queen before he had sold their mother’s crown, but then he had grown mad and had sold her to Khal Drogo.

And while she no longer doubted that Jon was her blood, she also knew that she couldn’t allow herself such an indulgence.

It was too dangerous, for both her heart and the future of her house.

She would never bear children, but Jon Snow could continue the line.

It can never be, she thought and shifted her attention back to their guest. Never.

The pale and hawk-nosed man who shared her high table was garbed in robes of yellow silk and a cloth-of gold, his bald head shining in the torchlight as he ate a fig. Splendid opals lined the nose of Xaro Xhoan Daxos as his head followed the movement of the dancers.

Dany had done her best to dress up for her guests. She had chosen a Qartheen gown, a confection of violet samite and cut in such a fashion that it left her breast bare. Jon had given her one of his frozen looks when he had seen it, which had amused her. She couldn’t take him to her bed, but she could tease him. It made her wonder if it would be enough to lure him into her bed. Daario wouldn’t have hesitated, but Jon Snow’s tales about Daario’s many adventures had dimmed her interest in the flamboyant sellsword. It had been easier than expected to sent send him away to Lhazar.

Xaro’s smiled when the male’s dancers pulled the girls unto their members.

Dany watched in silence as they went about it to the rhythmic sound of the drum.

Suddenly, she felt warm, her gaze darting back to Jon. He met her gaze briefly, but the sound of clapping snapped her back to the present.

The dancers knelt and she joined their clapping.

“You were splendid!” she tried to show her approval. “Never have I seen such beauty…such grace.”

Then, she urged Reznak to escort the other guests to the baths before lifting her cup to her lips.

The wine was both strong and sweet and she savored its taste as she watched Xaro picked a persimmon from the golden plate Jhiqui was carrying around.

He must have liked the taste, because he pursed his lips.

“Would my lord prefer something sweeter?” Dany asked softly.

Xaro ignored her and took another bite, chewing slowly. Only once he was done did he speak.

“Daenerys, oh my sweet queen, I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is for me to be here. A mere child left Qarth and now I find a queen.”

Dany tried to return his false smile. “And I am glad you came to see me, old friend.”

She had need of his help, no matter how much she hated it. For centuries the cities of Yunkai, Astapor and Meereen had been the center of slave trade, but without slave trade this city had little to offer. She needed to make friends to feed her people.

“I had no other choice but to come here,” Xaro replied calmly. “Even far away in Qarth fearful tales have reached my ears. It is said that your enemies have promised wealth and glory to any man who slays you.

“The Sons of the Harpy,” she confirmed tried to hide her anger as best as possible. She couldn’t allow herself to show weakness in front him, not matter how much the past murders had upset her. “They hide in the shadows and murder my people. They are cravens, but I am not afraid. They should fear the wrath of my Brazen Beasts.”

These Brazen Beasts were the newly formed watch of Meereen, made up of freedmen and pit fighters.

Day and night, they were patrolling the streets, garbed in their dark hoods and brazen masks. It was necessary to hide their faces, for the Sons of the Harpy had promised a cruel death to all traitors and their kin.

Xaro chuckled lightly and shook his head. “A craven’s knife can slay a queen as easily as a hero’s blade. I would sleep more easily if you had your blood riders beside you. Where are they now?”

“Aggo, Jhogo and Rakharo are still in my service,” she replied and forced a smile over her lips. He was clearly playing a game with her.

Thus, she smiled sweetly and twirled a silver curl around her finger. “I am just a silly girl, but my advisors tell me that to hold Meereen I must control the hinterlands. That is where my brave bloodriders went.”

“Your hinterlands mean nothing to me, but you, oh sweet queen, you are precious to me.”

Another lie, she knew, but her smile only brightened when she noticed Ser Barristan’s presence. Jon had also left his seat and was beside Barristan, his dark eyes narrowed as he continued to seize up Xaro.

“There is no need for you to fear for my safety, old friend,” she explained and waved her hand at Ser Barristan Selmy. “As you can see…I am well-protected. Ser Barristan the Bold they call him and he saved my life twice.”

It was the first time she saw a hint of surprise in Xaro’s dark eyes as he angled his head to take a good look at her Lord Commander of the Queensguard.

“Barristan the Old?” He asked softly, pretending that he had not heard her properly. It was meant to mock her, she was sure. “Did you exchange him for the bear knight? I must say you made a bad bargain:..,” he was about to continue, but Dany cut him off.

“I do not wish to discuss Ser Jorah,” she told him curtly and brought her cup to her lips. The sweetness helped to wash the sour taste from her mouth. “Let us speak about other things. Let us speak about business.”

“Business,” he repeated, an amused smile curling on his lips. “Why speak of such boring things when we could speak about other, more pleasant matters. Tell me, oh sweet queen, why did you leave me?”

“Qarth wished me gone,” she replied teasingly and picked a grape from the bowl in front of her.

A single tear rolled down his cheek when he heard this. It was another mockery.

“Who would want you gone? The Pureborn? The Spicers? The Undying? You could have been my wife. I asked, no begged for your hand if I remember correctly.”

Dany feigned amusement. She remembered his begging all too well, but she knew that his cock would no stir for someone like her. His cock would only stir for a pretty boy like one of these dancers. It would be a fruitless marriage for both of them.

“You asked me a good hundred times. In the end I stopped counting.”

“What if I ask again?” Xaro inquired overly sweetly. “No, I know better than that. You would refuse me again. I cannot do that to my bleeding heart.”

Again he shed a tear.

Dany ignored his advances and came straight to the point.

“I am know that you do not desire me in such a common way, old friend,” she laid out the truth. “Tell me, why did you really come here?”

“Because I heard of your exploits, oh gracious queen.”

“Ah, my exploits!” she repeated teasingly. “And what concerns you about them so much?”

“I was just stunned to hear about it,” he countered. “You had no qualms about my slaves when you dwelled in my home and now you are conquering cities instead of reclaiming your crown. What changed your mind, oh precious queen?”

“Your slaves seemed content,” Dany replied defensively. “But in Astapor my eyes were opened to the cruelty of slavery. I assume you know how the Unsullied are trained?”

“Tempered in blood and strife,” Xaro replied. “But how could it be otherwise? My dancers are also slaves and have been trained since they could walk. They are not so much different from the Unsullied and yet they would never achieve such greatness without a strong hand to guide them down his path. I was even thinking of gifting one of them to you…to keep your empty bed warm.”

Dany took a sip from her cup and feigned a smile. “Then, I shall free them to.”

Xaro winced visibly as if he had smelled something rotten.

“And what use is freedom?” he asked, his voice laced with mockery. “What can a dancer do other than dance? The same goes for the Unsullied. What can an Unsullied do other than to kill and fight?”

Dany didn’t like that tone and took another sip from her cup. “And who decided that for them? You did. Mayhaps some of them wanted to purse another future.”

Xaro sighed, like older men tended to do in presence of young children. It made her blood boil, but she forced herself to remain calm.

“Daenerys, my sweet queen, you have a tender heart, but let me give you my counsel. Things are not as easy as they seem. We curse rain, but yet we need it. The world needs rain and the world needs slaves. You might disagree with me, but it is true. You may have freed them, but yet you sit above them to rule as their Queen. If you think about it, you are not that much different from the masters.”

He had spoken eloquently, but Dany couldn’t bring herself to agree with him.

“Rain is not the same as slavery. I know what it means to be sold and I can assure you that no man wishes to be owned.”

He gave a shrug and took a sip from his cup, before he dealt her another blow.

“When I came ashore I spotted an old friend of mine. He was stripped naked and digging a hole. It pained me deeply to see a man humiliated who had once been a guest in my home.”

“He was digging a ditch,” Dany replied in a flustered tone. “To bring water from the river to the fields. We mean to plant beans.”

Xaro laughed triumphantly.

“And I suppose my friend generously offered to dig that ditch? Was it his choice? Well, last time he spoke to me he begged me to take him back to Qarth to serve as my slave.”

The words hurt, but Jon had told her the same. Don’t waste your efforts on slaves who do not want your help…

“Then, you have my support to take him with you,” she replied in displeasure. “It would ease our burden and I do not wish to see a friend of yours unhappy. But you must repay him for his efforts.”

Xaro smiled. “I shall do that, sweet queen, but that is not the only reason I came here. Is there some private place where we can speak plainly?”

Dany disliked the idea, but she had need of his help.

“Come then,” she offered softly and soon Xaro was following after her, up the marble steps that led to the outer terraces. Ser Barristan was also there, following after her like a faithful shadow. Jon’s gaze had followed them briefly, but he had stayed behind.

A starry night sky spread over the walls of Meereen, a full moon glittering in the distance.

Then, she sighed deeply and bared her true intentions.

“I told you before what I want to speak about…business. Trade with me, Meereen has salt to sell and wine…,” she began, but Xaro’s sour face silenced her.

“Ghiscari wine is not to my taste, but I would buy all the olives you care to sell to me, my sweet queen.”

Dany’s heart sank. “Sadly, the slavers burned all the olive trees. We are trying to replant them, but it takes up to seven years until an olive trees bears fruits.”

“What of copper?” she asked, still hopeful.

Xaro’s false smile dashed all he hopes. “A pretty metal, but fickle as a woman. Give me gold and we can speak. Give me slaves and I shall give you gold and food feed your people.”

“Meereen is a city of free men,” she insisted stubbornly, though it felt like a lie. She had sold the well-born. She had allowed Hizdahr to re-open the fighting pits and she was now tempted to sell men for gold…

Xaro seemed to sense her doubts and dealt her the next blow.

“A city of starving and dying men,” he scoffed. “To make Meereen rich you need slaves. You know how it goes. The Dothraki make the slaves, the Ghiscari train them, but to bring them to Qarth the Dothraki would have to drive them through the red waste. We have need of slaves and we are prepared to pay you handsomely. Do not ruin Meereen as you ruined Astapor. This once prosperous city is now ruled by a lowly wretch and the people there are now dying like flies because of the plague and hunger. Continue with your quest and you shall only reap more blood and death for those you claim to protect. New Ghis, Myr and Volantis are already hiring swords against you: The Company of the Cat, the Long Lances, the Windblown. Some say the Golden Company as well.”

She bit back a sharp comment and continued to smile. Viserys had once tried to hire the Golden Company to their cause, but they had mocked him.

“I too have sellsword companies,” she began, but Xaro cut her off.

“Your enemies will send twenty sellsword companies if need be. And when they march to war they will be accompanied by many others. I have heard that Tolos and Mantarys have only recently forged an allegiance.”

Dany felt sick when she thought of the envoys she had sent to these places. All for nothing.

“We have made an allegiance with Lhazar,” she replied weakly, almost expecting another scoff.

“The Lamb men are no threat, my sweet queen.”

“They will be,” she bared her fangs. She had tried her best to be courteous, but she had heard enough of his mockery. Again and again, Jon had asked her to send men to Astapor and she had refused, not wishing to weaken Meereen’s defense. Now she realized that she had made a mistake. She had shown weakness by allowing this butcher king to rule over Astapor, a weakness her enemies now wanted to use against her. “I have gold too and I can hire sellswords.”

“But not enough,” Xaro countered and leaned over to touch her arm. She brushed his hand away, meeting his gaze.

“I have my freed men and I have my Unsullied,” she added sharply. And my dragons, she wanted to add, but that would be a lie. She had chained them, because of that little girl. Her name had been Hazzea. “Is that why you came here? To threaten me? Tell me, did they sent you here?

Xaro feigned a smile, glittering tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Of whom do you speak?”

“The enemies you named,” Dany replied, no longer fooled by his façade. “Did they send you to spy on me?”

“You wound me,” he wept and backed away as if she had slapped him. “Nothing could be further from the truth. I came to bring you a gift. I bring you the thirteen ships had asked for while you were still dwelling in my humble mansion. Thirteen galleys and men to pull the oars.”

Dany couldn’t help but to frown. When she was still a widowed khaleesi she would have readily accepted his gift, but the times had changed. She couldn’t simply abandon her cause.

“I might consider your offer if you gave me thirty or fourty ships, enough to transport my Unsullied over the Narrow Sea. Thirteen are not enough.”

Xaro frowned.

“You are blind to the danger that lurks in the shadows, my sweet queen. Pyat Pree set out with three of his fellow warlocks to seek you in Pentos. Best would be for you to leave as soon as possible. I doubt they would be able to reach you across the Narrow Sea where your father’s crown is still waiting for you.”

Strangely, Dany felt not afraid. She had lived a life of fear. It was her constant companion.

“I am not afraid of these warlocks and their blue lips,” she countered brazenly. “What say you? What do you say to my offer?”

“Fourty ships,” he muttered in utter disbelief. “Impossible.”

Dany had known beforehand that he would refuse, but the stunned expression on his face was worth it.

It was a small victory, but better than nothing.

She chuckled and kissed his cheek. It was a dry kiss, meant to instill fear rather than comfort. If she had her children here she would have had them paint the sky with their colorful flames.

“I have no need of such a meagre offer,” she replied coldly. “Thirteen ships are not enough. You may have our hospitality, but on the morrow I want you gone from this city.”

Xaro paled visibly.

“My…,” he began, but Dany turned her back to him and cut him off. “I have no need for your false friendship. Tell those that want me gone that I shall not surrender the city and those I have freed. Tell them that I will defend them with fire and blood.”

No longer was his face filled with sadness. No, an ugly grimace of anger had taken hold of his face.

This was his true face.

“I shall repeat my offer once more. Take these ships and leave. You have made many enemies. This is my last warning.”

“As you told me before,” Dany acknowledged and averted her gaze. “Now leave and take your false friendship with you.”

It had felt so good to speak plainly, but when she saw Ser Barristan’s serious face she knew that she had allowed her temper to get the better of her.

“You think I should have agreed to his offer, ser?”

The old knight averted his gaze, barely able to look at her bared breasts. Jorah wouldn’t have looked away.

Jorah had loved her like a woman and Ser Barristan loved her like his queen. What am I to Jon then? His estranged Aunt? A friend?

She couldn’t say.

“Speak. I want to hear your opinion.”

He cleared his throat and stroked his white beard as drew closer.

“The warlocks,” he began, but she silenced her with a wave of her hand.

“Forgive me, but I fear no warlocks. I want to hear a better reason, ser.”

“Westeros…your home awaits you,” Ser Barristan replied plainly. It was such a simply answer, that filled her heart with a deep longing. She had never known a home, besides the house with the red door in Braavos. Sometimes she believed it to be a dream, something she made up to still the sadness in her heart, but Westeros, her father’s lost seat, that was real and no dream.

“I shall think about your words,” she replied then and leaned closer to place a kiss on his cheek. “Please, send Jon to me.”

Jon joined her not long after, still garbed in the beautiful cloak she had gifted him.

She asked him to sit beside her, the table in front of her still covered with the fruits she had wanted to gift Xaro.

“I sent Xaro away,” she told him when he came to stand in front of her. His black gaze darted to her bared breast and then to her face. He looked slightly annoyed, but kept his composure. Does he detest me so, she wondered. It were the thoughts of a silly girl, not a queen. Or mayhaps the dancers had stirred something inside her. It had been too long that she had lain with a man. ”He offered me thirteen ships to sail home.”

Jon’s frown deepened further.

“Thirteen ships is a meagre offer,” he said at last and sat down in front of her. “And I think now is not the right time to sail for Westeros. Your dragons are still too young.”

His words sounded reasonable, but by his serious expression she could tell that he wished for something different.

“You worry that I chained them,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“I could never chain Ghost, even if he killed a hundred children,” Jon countered and angled his head to look at her. He was barely an arm-length away from her. She didn’t know why, but in the blink of a moment the expression on his face had grown even sadder. “They also say that the dragons died because they were chained. I do not want to see them suffer the same fate.”

“I know,” she said and leaned over to squeeze his hand. “But the girl…she died…I cannot control them. Do you know how?”

“No,” He admitted and squeezed her hand in return as a deep sigh left his mouth. Then, he dropped his head down to his chest, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders like a shroud. “I do not know. Mayhaps Maester Aemon would know. I wish he was here.”

Dany grew sad when she thought about that poor grand-uncle of hers, sitting atop this frozen Wall.  Suddenly, Xaro’s offer didn’t sound so bad anymore. How long would this grand-uncle of theirs continue to live? Mayhaps that had been her only chance?

That thought made her even sadder.

Silly girl, she thought, but it was no use to weep over spilled wine. That is what happens when you allow your temper to overwhelm you.

“He will tell us when we return to Westeros,” she promised and received a half-smile from her nephew. It was such a seldom sight and warmed her heart.

It was a dangerous feeling and she quickly pulled her hand away.

“But first I must take care of my people here,” she declared firmly, putting more distance between them. “I want you to go to Astapor. You can take as many Unsullied as you like, but I want you to take Greyworm with you. He can be of help to you.”

Jon Snow didn’t hesitate to nod his head in acceptance.

“Do not fret,” he assured her in return. He sounded confident as ever. “I shall go to Astapor and bring you the butcher king’s head.”

…

Chapter Text

Jon

Astapor was a city of red stones. No, that was not right. Astapor was a city of death and blood.

Until now Jon heard only stories about this city, but riding through its bloodied streets made him wonder what this place must have been like before Daenerys’ had killed the masters.

Everything in this city had once been geared towards the business of slave trade, but now it was a place of hell.

Everywhere he looked he found death. Half-rotten corpses littered the ground, half-starved children were hiding in the abandoned and burned-down buildings. Now and then, he spotted a woman carrying a babe or pulling her children along the street. The only women that had approached them had offered themselves up as whores in exchange for food and water. That the majority of their army was made of Unsullied didn’t seem to bother them and some of the Unsullied had been quite receptive to their offers.

Even men lacking a cock crave human warmth, Jon recalled as he swept his gaze over the place that had once been the Plaza of Punishment or that was at least what Tuco had told them. He, like many other slaves had followed his Aunt to Meereen.

Jon couldn’t fathom what it must feel for the boy to return here, though he seemed calm as ever. He hardly spoke, but now and then he pointed at a pyramid and gave him an anecdote about its previous owner or whether this or that particular master had been kind to his slaves or not.

Not that any of these masters had made it. Most had been killed during the sack of the city and the rest had had been slain by the rebellious slaves. The few that had been left after this, especially the younger noble boys, had been turned into a new force of Unsullied, serving the supposed butcher king.

The Unsullied marching with Jon had taken offence when Jon had called the butcher king’s half-starved boys “Unsullied.”

Unsullied cannot be made in a matter of moons, Greyworm had told Jon when they had laid eyes on the good thousand boys the butcher king had sent to meet them in battle. It takes years to train them. These are green boys, a poor imitation of the Unsullied.

 The battle itself had lasted barely an hour, before the false Unsullied had bolted, abandoning the battle. Some had even turned on their own men, who had continued fighting, butchering them like sheep. The rest, as their brave leader, had fled back behind the city walls.

Thus, the siege of Astapor had begun.

Jon and Greyworm had both expected that the slaves inside the city would eventually turn on their king, but that the siege would only last for two days had surprised them.

The gates to the seven hells, Jon thought in hindsight as they rode towards the large pyramid, where large crowd of people had gathered. Looking at their fine clothing one could have believed they were masters. Some of them wore silken tokars, fringed with gold and silver. Others had bedecked their necks, arms and other body parts with golden necklaces, rings and silver trinkets. They looked like princes or lords, though their gaunt faces told him that they too hadn’t seen a proper meal in a long time, which didn’t surprise Jon.

They had found hundreds of peaked corpses strewn over the city. More had died of hunger than through violence and many more would die in the coming weeks.

Jon had taken several wagons of food with him, but they would also have depend on what little was left in the city.

“Be praised, friends!” one of the men exclaimed and lowered his head in greeting to Jon and Greyworm. “The Mother of Dragons be praised too!”

The man that had spoken was a haggard fellow with a crimson robe and a heavy chain of gold. He looked like a master, but the slave markings on his neck betrayed the truth.

It was an ironic sight to behold. These were former slaves who had donned their master’s clothing and yet all looked starved and haggard.

All the riches in this city hadn’t been enough to feed them.

And now they had butchered their king. Jon also didn’t know if he shouldn’t consider them friends or enemies.

They had to tread carefully.

“Who are you?” Jon asked and whistled at Ghost, who had bared his teeth. “Are you the leader of these people?”

The smell of blood clinging to these men must have woken his animalistic urges, but after Jon had whistled Ghost backed down immediately.

“I am Nekloz,” the man explained, his voice laced with a thick Ghiscari accent. There was a hint of anger behind that voice. “I once served as a master of this city. For some time, I served as his scribe and thought letters to his children. Later I was even his trusted steward. When the Mother of Dragon’s freed the city all the slaves in my household rebelled against my master. The butcher king was one of these slaves and I helped him murder our master, but then he also murdered the poor mistress and turned her boys into Unsullied. I have raised these boys and I have loved the my mistress…and now I have taken revenge against the butcher king.”

Then he waved his hand at a young man, who had just emerged from the ever-growing crowd of people.

“Here. A gift for you, my friends.”

Jon didn’t even have to take a look into the bundle the young man was carrying. The woolen material was drenched with blood.

Jon held his breath as he glimpsed inside. The smell was still blinding and made him want to empty his meagre fast onto the open street, but the sight that presented itself to him was even more grizzly.

Jon counted six heads, all of them bloody and rotten. One head belonged to a man in his forties and was particularly ugly. His face was so bludgeoned it looked as if it had been kicked throughout the entire city, but it was not the sight of this head that had caused him distress. No, it were the heads of the women and small children that made his stomach flutter in discomfort.

“I suppose that is the butcher king?” Jon asked and pointed at the bludgeoned head.

“Aye,” the man confirmed and bared his teeth. “And the others are his wives and children. We killed them all. A worthy gift for the Mother of Dragons.”

Jon doubted Daenerys’ would welcome such a gift, but after seeing the state of the city he had a good idea what kind of a king this butcher king had been. He must have been must have been worse than the masters if his “subjects” had butchered him and his king in such a grizzly manner.

Jon nodded his head and swept his gaze over the crowd of people. Lord Eddard would have taken these man’s head for butchering innocent women and children, but this man had also been of help to Jon.

A siege could have lasted for weeks or even moon, the siege of Astapor had only lasted for barely a few days.

And the blood of women and children had been the price for their quick victory.

The thought filled Jon with rage and shame.

Was this how Lord Eddard had felt after she saw my half-siblings’ butchered corpses?

If you hadn’t broken your vows you could have asked him yourself, Jon knew. The feeling of guilt was not as strong as in the past, but the guilt was still there, making his heart clench.

I am not my Uncle, he reminded himself and banished these feelings from his heart. I am may own person. I must make my own decisions.

Thinking like this made it easier for him to forget his disgust and helped him clear his mind.

And yet he couldn’t help but to give the man a sharp rebuke.

“The Mother of Dragons would feed you to her dragons if she knew that you butchered women and children,” Jon told him and brushed his hand over the pommel of his sword. It was a threatening gesture. “But I did not come here to sit justice over you. I came here to free this city from the butcher king. Tell me, how many freedmen still reside among these walls and what is needed to return order to this city?”

“Order?” another man asked bitterly. He was short and stocky, his head bald and red like a lobster. “Are you blind? Those that remain are either starving or dying in the Temple of Graces. This city is lost…soon there will be nothing left but rotting corpses.”

Jon felt slapped and exchanged a quiet look with Greyworm.

Greyworm looked as if he wanted to speak, but he remained silent.

Greyworm never spoke unless asked.

It must be an old habit or mayhaps he was simply showing respect to Jon because Daenerys’ had ordered him to do so.

It made Jon only more away of his position. He was acting on Daenerys’ behalf.

“How many freedmen are still residing in this city?” Jon repeated his question and searched the man’s gaze. “I am only asking for a rough estimation? And more importantly…How many of them are sick?”

“Around ten-thousand are still residing in this city,” a woman added pleadingly, her single remaining eye wet with tears. She was around fifty, her face wrinkled and her other eye an empty socket. It looked as if someone had burned it out with a hot poker. “A third of them is sick and the rest is either starving or looting the city for food. You must help us…please.”

Jon shuddered when he noticed the skeleton child clinging to her skirt. It looked more like a walking corpse than a human, spittle running down its lips chin.

“All will be well,” lied and shifted his attention back to the crowd.

His voice faltered a little when he saw the sheer amount of people, but then Jon straightened himself and raised his voice. He couldn’t allow himself to show weakness.

“None of you shall be judged for the murder of the butcher king or his family. This I promise, but now that the city has been freed from his grasp we need to restore order. I have brought food, but it will be strictly rationed. Looting shall be punished with death and the Unsullied will carry out this punishment without question. I also have need of able hands to gather and burn the rotten corpses. Everyone who works shall receive food, this I promise. Those are the rules. Accept them and live or break them and die.”

“We cannot stay!” a young girl begged, completely ignoring his earlier words. “The plague will kill us all!”

“Your rules cannot feed us!”

“We need to leave this city!” Another woman wept and fell to her knees.

“Meereen! Take us to Meereen!” a boy shouted at the top of his lungs. “Meereen is our only hope!”

More and more of the freedmen gathered around them. Ghost bared his teeth as them, but Jon waved his hand at him, urging him to remain in place.

The Unsullied, who had walked in formation had also raised their spears, their sharp tips now pointing in the direction of the freedmen.

Yet it was no use.

“Enough! Calm yourself!” Jon shouted at the top of his lung, but by then one of the freedmen had struck the first blow, a sharp dagger finding its way through one of the Unsullied’s leather armor.

It was the spark that made the keg blow over. Daggers roses and fell and spears found their way into women and men alike. There were children too, their shrieks of terror filling his ears.

Jon had not had much time to think, for the freedmen had tried to drag him from his horse, but Jon had managed to slip his blade free and had slashed a man’s neck. He kicked another out of the way and a shrieking woman was killed by Ghost, who had buried his sharp teeth in the woman’s neck.

Jon fought his way through the crowd, hacking down those that were trying to howl him down and avoiding those who were trying to evade him. He swept his gaze left and right, searching for his squire, who had been swallowed by the crowd.

When Jon laid eyes on Tuco, he was half-dead, his head bloody as if it had been cracked with a hammer. Jon gritted his teeth and pushed a good dozen of people aside, but it was no use. The boy was gone.

Yet he had not time to mourn. Soon he was also fighting for his own survival, hacking away men and women alike…

When the butchery was finally over the sky had changed to a gloomy grey color, the pyramids casting long shadows over the ravaged streets.

Off in the distance he noticed swathes of dark smoke blemishing the sky.

“How shall we proceed?” Greyworm asked him later after they had brought order back to the city and had retreated to the safety of one of the stepped pyramids. He was a few years older than Jon and yet he was asking him what to do.

I spoke to them like a silly boy, he realized, slowly becoming aware of his failure. I was a fool to expect obedience from them.

He should have known better than to expect obedience from a horde of starving people.

They would only understand fear. Fear and a firm hand.

It was the only way to return order to the city.

“We shall do what we set out to do…to return order to this city,” Jon replied in an imposing tone. “Send out the Unsullied to scour the city for survivors. Explain to them they will receive food and protection if they are prepared to work. And salvage any wood you can find. We need to build pyres to burn the dead.”

“What of the sick ones?” Greyworm asked stoically as ever.

“Custom would dictate to kill them, before they can infect the healthy ones.”

Jon was stunned by Greyworm’s answer, but then he shouldn’t have expected anything less.

An Unsullied has to slay a babe on its mother’s breast, he recalled.

And Greyworm certainly had a point, but Jon had shed enough blood for one day.

He was no butcher, even if he had soiled his blade with the blood of women and children.

“Leave them be,” Jon replied and winced when he brushed his hand over his side, where one of the rioters had cut him open. It wasn’t a deep cut, but the wound had to be sewn together. “But send those who appear sick to the Temple of Graces. We must keep them away from the healthy ones.”

A common man would have objected, but Greyworm simply tapped his spear on the dusty ground and went to work.

…

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Tyrion had been crammed face-first into a cask, his knees pushed up against his stubby ears. Half the day he had felt the urge to scratch his nose, but sadly there was no room to move.

Truly, it was a fitting place for a man of his small stature.

Jaime would have rolled with laughter if he saw him like this, but his brother was far way, probably gathering troops to take revenge on Stannis Baratheon for murdering their sweet sister and his nephew or as most of the realm would know by now, his lover and incestuous son. Tyrion had no doubt that Stannis Baratheon would make sure that everyone heard the truth about his sister’s affair with her brother, for it would give him the right to murder Tommen and Myrcella without fearing the wrath of the seven or the condemnation of his enemies. Not that Tyrion took Stannis Baratheon for a man who would care about the wrath of the gods. If the rumors were true, Stannis Baratheon had long abandoned his belief in the Seven and had made a witch from Asshai his advisor. Tyrion knew only bits and pieces about this foreign Faith, but he doubted that the High Septon nor the people born in this faith would look favorable about Stannis Baratheon for his disregard of the Seven.

It matters not, Tyrion thought shrugged his shoulders. What is done cannot be undone.

His sister’s and nephew’s deaths were a great loss for the world, but Jaime, Tommen and Myrcella were a different matter. Jaime had shown Tyrion nothing but brotherly love and his niece and nephew had been as sweet as Cersei had been cruel. Rethinking the turn of events, it had been a good decision to send Myrcella to Dorne, for Tyrion doubted the Martells would hand his niece to Stannis Baratheon. Surely, Doran Martell wouldn’t aide the family that had usurped his nephew’s birthright? No, it was more likely that Doran Martell would declare Myrcella Queen to place his son on the throne beside her. And Tommen…,for him Tyrion feared the most. Shortly, before the Battle of Blackwater his sweet sister had put the boy under Lord Rosby’s protection, but Tyrion had sent Ser Jacelyn Bywater to intercept their party on the road, making sure that his nephew had been put in the custody of a man in Tyrion’s control. All he could hope for was that Ser Jacelyn had made haste to bring his nephew to safety, most preferable to his brother Jaime, who had been sent back to the Westerlands before the battle had begun. Jaime had raged against his father’s orders, blind to their father’s true intentions. Jaime had always been his father’s golden boy and heir. He had sent him to safety while Tyrion had been forced to remain in King’s Landing.

Had Lord Varys not helped him escape he would have found his ugly head placed upon the ramparts of the Red Keep.

Mayhaps Sansa’s too, though hers would been much prettier to look upon, he thought as he was hoisted up, every bounce cracking his head against the bottom of the cask. The world went round and round as the cask was rolled downward, then stopped abruptly. Another cask must have slammed into his, causing Tyrion to draw blood from his lips.

This continued over and over again, until his head was aching from all this rolling and foreign tongues.

Finally, someone pounded on the top of the cask and the lid was opened. Bright light came flooding in and cool touched his skin. It was a blessing.

Tyrion gasped for air and tried to stand on his wobbly feet, but landed face-first on the ground, taking the cask with him.

Once, he had managed to sit up he found a fat man with a forked yellow beard looking down at him.

He also wore a pink bathrobe that could have easily served as a tourney pavilion.

“Ah, the drunken dwarf,” the fat man said and smiled. He had spoken in the Common Tongue.

It sounded like an amused statement, but Tyrion felt the need for mockery to relieve his displeasure. Varys had promised a comfortable travel, but instead he had forced Tyrion to hide away like a common criminal.

Thus, Tyrion sharpened his tongue and graced the fat man with a mocking smile.

“Ah, the rotting sea cow,” he said and spat the blood he had drawn from his lips on the fat man’s feet. “Or should I call you, Magister Ilyrio?”

The fat man giggled like a giddy maid.

“Varys told you about me,” he said and stroked his yellow beard. “I feel honored.”

“Where is Varys?” Tyrion asked as he swept his gaze over the beautiful garden, full of exotic flowers and a small pond. “And Lady Sansa?”

“They arrived safely,” the fat man assured him and wrinkled his nose. “And you will be able to see them during supper, but I won’t have you unless you have taken a bath and donned fresh garments.”

Tyrion frowned at that. It hadn’t been his choice to travel in such an undignified manner.

Still, it was better to get on the fat magister’s good side until he knew what game Varys was playing with him and Lady Sansa.

“I understand,” he replied and dipped his head. “Nobody wants a stinking dwarf in his home!”

Soon after, Tyrion found himself drenched by pleasantly hot water and garbed in fresh garments. They were made of fine silk, just the right size for a child. They had also been worn before, so much he could deduce by the smell and the worn-out collar.

When he was led back into the magister’s garden, he found the fat magister sprawled on a padded couch, feasting on roasted chicken, hot peppers and strange onion-like fruits. In that position he looked even fatter, his pig eyes glittering with amusement as he laid eyes on Tyrion.

“Here,” the fat man said and waved his hands at the two people Tyrion hadn’t seen since their hurried departure from King’s Landing. “As you can see…your travelling companions are well, my Lord Lannister.”

Varys had long changed back into his usual pink robes, the smell of flowers hanging over him like a cloud, but he had scarcely recognized Lady Sansa.

She had donned one of these colorful Pentoshi dresses that left no room for imagination and her hair had been painted black. She was a feast for the eyes and the pleasure of beholding her beauty stirred his cock to life, though thinking of Shae’s unknown fate helped to forget about these inappropriate feelings. He had tasked Bronn to bring her to safety, but that didn’t mean she had made it out of the city.

“My Lord Lannister,” Lord Varys tittered sweetly as ever as he dipped his head. “I hope your travel wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

“I have travelled better,” Tyrion replied, keeping his displeasure to himself as he marched towards the table. Lady Sansa’s pale blue gaze followed him, the blue-red bruises on her cheeks nearly gone. The poor girl had been so delighted to wed his depraved nephew, but that had changed quickly after their wedding. Tyrion hadn’t been there, but one of his nephew’s servants had implied to Tyrion that the King had been unable to fulfil his duties in the marriage bed and had blamed his lack of prowess on his wife’s lack of appeal. At first, Tyrion had thought it a bad jape, for the servants had never held much love for his nephew, but now he knew that it hadn’t been a lie. Joff had indeed been unable to fulfil his duties and had therefore unleashed his anger and frustration upon his young wife.

Joff was always a fool, Tyrion thought as his gaze darted to the girl’s small and firm breasts, hidden behind a silken chemise. Sansa Stark was a beauty. Truly, no normal man would have had a problem to bury his cock between those silken legs, but a depraved little shit like Joff.

“You look well, my lady,” Tyrion remarked and graced her with a smile, though it showed not much effect on the girl. “I suppose your travel was kinder than mine?”

Lady Sansa didn’t answer at first, but looked as if she was about to wrinkle her nose, but stopped herself in the last moment.

Tyrion should feel insulted, but he had long gotten used to such reactions.

And yet Lady Sansa quickly regained her lady-like composure and forced a smile over her lips.

“It was pleasant enough,” she said sweetly and lifted her head to look at Lord Varys. “Lord Varys made sure that we had a comfortable travel.”

“Come and sit, little friend,” the fat magister added and waved his hand at the empty seat between Varys and Lady Sansa. “We have much to talk about.”

“First I need something to wet my throat,” Tyrion explained and picked up the flagon of wine placed in the middle of the table. Without hesitation he opened the bottle and poured crimson summer wine into his golden cup.

He sighed and closed his eyes when the sweet liquid touched his lips. This was even better than to bury his cock in Shae’s cunt. This was paradise.

“The wine is to your taste, isn’t it?” Lord Varys asked in amusement and picked the cup from Tyrion’s hands. “Arbor Gold is always the best, though the Dornish wines are not bad either. What do you think, my Lady?”

“The wine is sweet enough,” Lady Sansa replied quietly and shifted her attention to the broth of crab and monkfish that had been served by one of the many naked servant boys running about in this mansion. Why a rich man like Illyrio was unable to dress his servants properly mystified Tyrion, but mayhaps he the fat man simply liked to watch naked bottoms.

“I agree,” Tyrion added his voice. “The wine needs a bit more honey.”

“Honey you will have, my little friend” the fat magister cheered and waved his hand at one of the servant boys. “Nobody will say that Illyrio is not a generous host!”

Not long after, the same servant boy returned with a cup of honey. The sight coaxed a smile from Lady Sansa’s lips, but it faded as quickly as the morning mist.

“Now, let’s eat, my friends!” the fat magister declared and clapped his hands together. “And then we shall speak about the future.

Tyrion didn’t need any further invitation and devoured the cup quickly. Then, came quails in honey, goose livers dipped in white sauce, buttered lobster and a bowl of suckling pig accompanied by red peppers.

“Now that we all had a piece of lemon cake we can speak about the future,” Tyrion broke the silence that had settled over them during their meal. He had never been a patient man and wanted to know why Lord Varys and this magister had saved him and Lady Sansa. He doubted their motives were as altruistic as they wanted to appear.

Magister Illyrio chuckled and exchanged a smile with Lord Varys.

“This very morning news from the east reached my ears. They say that Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen have fallen.”

“Slaver’s Bay is far away from Pentos,” he stated and frowned. “Why would you care?”

“Why not?” the magister teased and bared his ugly yellow teeth to the world. “I am a merchant and I always have to keep a close eye on such new developments. The fall of the Slaver Cities’ will have a great effect on the market, though there is another reason I am interested in these recent events. Do you know who sacked these cities?”

Tyrion frowned again and gulped down another cup of wine. He hated guessing games and was incredibly tired. He longed for a soft bed and perhaps another bath.

“Who?”

The answer came promptly and suddenly everything was much clearer.

“There was once a girl I harbored in my home…Princess Daenerys Targaryen, the Mad King’s daughter.”

“I heard of her,” Tyrion confirmed. “Not long ago my good-brother King Robert wanted to kill her and her unborn babe. I thought she had died. Well, it seems that was another one of his many failures.”

“Robert was a poor King,” Varys admitted in an almost sorrowful tone, though Tyrion noticed the mockery beneath his façade of sweetness. “Lord Arryn had such high hopes for him, but instead of ruling he preferred to roll from one whore to the next, leaving the realm in dire need.”

Realization hit Tyrion and his eyes met Lady Sansa’s who had observed their exchange in silence.

Could it be…, he wondered and smiled. Is that why the fat magister is interested in the Mad King’s daughter?

“Robert was a fool,” Tyrion agreed and shifted his attention back to Varys. “But he was still better than Joff and what came before him. Well, he was never particularly fond of me nor of my family.”

“Joff was not his son,” Lady Sansa added quietly, her eyes wet with sudden tears. “He was a bastard all along, wasn’t he? My father told the truth, didn’t he?”

She was visibly begging him for the truth and for whatever reason Tyrion couldn’t help but to answer honestly.

“He was,” Tyrion confirmed. “He was a bastard, but, but that had nothing to do with his rotten nature. Even trueborn he would have been a monster to be feared.”

“I should have known better,” Lady Sansa choked out her answer and brushed her tears away. “I was a foolish girl.”

Tyrion felt the urge to say something comforting, but he felt that he lacked the right words. He still tried his best.

“Joff was good at fooling people,” he told her. “He even managed to fool my sister into thinking that he was a normal child.”

“A grave miscalculation,” Varys added with obvious amusement. “Well, now King Stannis sits the throne, though I doubt his reign will last long. His witch will earn him many enemies.”

“My brother will kill him first,” Tyrion promised. “Jaime will never forgive the murder of my sister. Well, that is if he is still alive. Then, there are still Tommen and Myrcella.”

“Prince Tommen is dead,” Illyrio informed him as he poured himself fresh wine. He feigned sadness, but it was no comfort to Tyrion, who felt as if someone had dropped a bucket of ice water over his head. “Lord Rosby sold the poor boy out to King Stannis and was sentenced to death for his actions. At least, that is what the rumors say.”

Tyrion drowned another cup, hoping it would dry away his guilt, but the waves roared higher, threatening to overwhelm him.

Only when he heard Lady Sansa’s soft whimpering did he come back to himself.

He looked at her and found her head buried between her hands.

Her reaction didn’t surprise Tyrion. Tommen had been fond of her and she of him.

“Well, then…there is still Myrcella,” Tyrion added, though he knew that the magister had already set his eyes on another person. It must be the Mad King’s daughter. Why else bring her up? “She is a sweet girl, but I doubt anyone will see her as a Queen now that the realm knows about my sister’s shame.”

“Well put, my Lord Lannister,” Lord Varys added approvingly and rubbed his hands. “And that is why we will soon travel to Volantis.”

This roused Tyrion’s curiosity. Lady Sansa seemed to share his feelings, for she had stopped weeping, her red-rimmed eyes watching Lord Varys warily.

“Why Volantis? I thought the Mad King’s daughter took Slaver’s Bay?”

“You are an impatient little man, my Lord Lannister,” the fat magister added and laughed boisterously. “But sadly, I can’t tell you. This will be another surprise.”

Tyrion didn’t know what to make of the fat magister’s words, but it wasn’t like he had anything to lose. Without Varys’ help he would have died and there was always a chance to turn one’s cloak…

Thus, he lifted his cup and graced the fat magister with a warm smile.

“I like surprises as much as the next men.”

The magister howled with laughter, the red summer wine spilling on his silken robe.

“Ah, you are a man after my heart, my little friend!”

I am not your friend, he thought and continued to smile. And do not think that I will ever be one, my fat friend. You may have saved my life, but I refuse to be a pawn in your game...

…

Chapter Text

Jon

 The Temple of the Graces was a huge structure topped with golden domes.

It had once been a building of unsurpassed beauty and dedicated to the worship of the gods, but now it was a symbol of Astapor’s demise.

Jon had to shield his mouth with his cloak to shield himself against the sharp smell filling his nose. It was a mixture of sweat, shit and the flowery incense the blue-roped graces were spreading everywhere.

Yet it was the sound of the dying that affected Jon the most. While he had served the Stormcrows he had seen men and boys of all perish, but this was different.

Most of these people were women and children.

Jon had heard about the “Bloody Flux” before and some of their men had been stricken by a bout of this sickness while they were campaigning in Myr, but this was much worse.

Here in Astapor thousands of people are suffering from the plague.

“Are you sure that it is the Bloody Flux?” he asked one of the blue-veiled girls who served as healers in the Temple of Graces, though just had to look at the sick to know that it was true.

The common symptoms of this particular sickness could be witnessed everywhere he looked: watery and bloody stool, vomiting, wrinkled skin and extreme thirst.

“There is no doubt,” the blue-veiled girl replied and lead them along the rows packed with people. Their feverish eyes followed after Jon and Greyworm as if they hoped they had an answer to their suffering. Jon could barely look at them. “The gods are punishing us for our sins.”

“How many?” he inquired further, trying to distract himself from the suffering. “How many of these people will make it?”

“One in four will survive,” the blue-veiled girl explained to Jon as she stopped near an unmoving woman. The pink-veiled girls that had followed after them at a respectful distance quickly dragged the dead corpse out to the large plaza where the Unsullied and the still healthy freedmen had erected pyres to burn the death.

Day and night the fires had burned, filling the air with the sweet smell of burned flesh. By now Jon had grown numb to the smell, but that was not the worst of it all.

A day ago, the outriders he had sent out to scour the lands surrounding Astapor, had brought dark tidings about ships filled with an army of Ghiscari legions and sellsword companies.

When Jon had been informed about the numbers he had felt his stomach flutter. New Ghis had sent two legions and two sellsword companies, namely the Windblown under the command of the illustrious Tattered Prince and the Company of the Cat, led by a man that was commonly known as Bloodbeard. Jon had never personally met this Tattered Prince or this Bloodbeard, but he had heard plenty of stories about them from Daario and the other Stormcrows. He was known to have a ferocious appetite for slaughter, wine and women, though that certainly wasn’t an uncommon characteristic for a sellsword. On the other hand, the Tattered Prince was famous for another reason. Many years ago, he had nearly been appointed to the office of Prince of Pentos, but instead of accepting this position and thus become a puppet to the magisters, he had fled to the Disputed Lands taking up the life of a sellsword. He had supposedly served in almost all of the known sellsword companies and had eventually founded his own company the Windblown. They were known for their blood feud with the Company of the Cat, which made it all the more surprising to Jon that they were riding the same banner…

It matters not, Jon reminded himself and swept his gaze over the ever-growing crowd of people. He had barely one-thousand Unsullied and five-hundred freedmen at his deposal. No matter how often he pondered the problem, there was no way they would be able defeat an enemy of this size. Defeating the legions from New Ghis was certainly possible, but the sellswords had horses and well-trained archers. Not even the discipline of the Unsullied would be enough to face them in a direct battle and a siege would lead to the certain death of even more people. No, Jon had no other choice but to abandon the city. At least that way he could save some of the freed men and take them safely to Yunkai.

“And how many are on the way to recovery?” Jon asked, though he could have just looked at the starving children and the whimpering women to receive an answer. Most of these people would never see the next day, let alone be able to march all the way back to Meereen. “Can you tell?”

The blue-veiled girl’s head snapped back at him with the quickness of a whip.

“I think I can,” she said, her green eyes narrowed in distrust. “Why?”

Jon couldn’t bring himself to answer, fresh bile rising up inside his throat as he thought about what they were planning to do. Greyworm and he had discussed the matter back and forth, but in the end they had come to the same decision…

“You must separate those who are doomed from those who still have a chance of recovery,” Jon explained, his gaze flickering to Greyworm who had listened to their exchange in silence. “And then you must tell your sisters to pack their things. We are going to abandon Astapor and march for Yunkai.”

The young woman’s eyes widened in shock. Jon could hear her quick breathing and saw the fear in her eyes.

“We cannot,” the blue-veiled girl replied in a trembling voice. “The Green Grace will not agree to this.”

“The Green Grace can hump a horse for all I care,” Jon told the girl, his temper rising. By now, Jon had called for said woman a good hundreds of times, but every time he had been refused. He had no time for such silly games. “Nobody forces her to follow me nor your sisters, but this city is lost and only death will await those who decide to linger here. This I can promise you.”

The young woman stared back at him in stunned silence, but reason eventually triumphed over fear.

“I understand,” she said. “When will we march?”

“By sunrise,” Jon replied. “Send those who you deem healthy enough to the Plaza of Punishment. The others…,” Jon continued to explain, his voice failing him momentarily. He had been so prideful when he had told his Aunt to execute these child hostages, but now that he had to play the executioner he felt as if a strange terror had taken hold of him. Killing a hostage was one thing, but killing women and children who were hoping for his help was a different matter.

“The others…those for whom all hope is lost…keep them here…,” Jon stuttered like a green boy as he searched the girl’s green eyes. “Do you understand?”

It didn’t take long before the young girl started to tremble after she realized what Jon Snow had implied.

Yet they couldn’t afford doubt.

“Do you understand?” Jon repeated his question more sharply.

“You can’t…,” the girl stuttered, but Jon pulled on her arm, making clear to her that this was not a matter of debate. “And what other choice do we have? As you said yourself…most of these people won’t see the next day. Why make them suffer unnecessarily? Or do you think the enemy will show them mercy?”

“They won’t,” Greyworm added his voice and searched the girl’s face. “The Masters will slaughter them like sheep.”

Then, he freed the sword fastened at his belt and showed the young woman the polished blade. “This is mercy.”

The girl trembled, but Jon needed to make clear to her that nobody could know about their true intentions. “Nobody can know about this and if you betray us I will cut out your tongue before killing you too. Do you understand?”

The girl froze, her green eyes widening in surprise.

“Do you understand?” Jon asked threateningly.

Finally, the girl nodded her head, her green eyes filled with disgust.

Will may Aunt also at me like that when she finds out, he wondered but brushed these thoughts away before they could take hold of his mind.

“I understand,” she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I shall do as you ask. When will it be done?”

“After sunset,” Greyworm replied for Jon after he had stared silently at the young woman for a good dozen of heartbeats. “Be ready.”

No further word was spoken as Jon and Greyworm returned to the stepped pyramid where he, Greyworm, the other Unsullied sub-commanders and Marselen, the leader of the freed men who were commonly known as the Mother’s Men, had taken residence.

The ever-present smell of smoke-filled Jon’s nose as he entered. It was a spacious chamber made of pink marble and covered with colorful depictions of exotic flowers and naked maidens.

Otherwise there was not much left of the beauty of this place. The food and the furniture had been destroyed, some of it salvaged to feed the flames.

“An outrider has come,” Pink Elephant informed Jon without warning. He was a year younger than Greyworm and one of the three sub-commanders leading the Unsullied. “He says the enemy is preparing to march.”

Jon sucked in a deep breath and sought Ghost, who was still sprawled on the ground where he had left him earlier. He truly could be a lazy bud, but Jon couldn’t bring himself to rouse him from his sweet slumber. He needed rest.

“I see. Well, it matters not. We are almost done, aren’t we? The wine has been prepared and the bodies have been dumped into the wells. The only task that is left to us is…” Jon continued, his voice failing him.

“You don't have to do it,” Greyworm replied, his gaze hard and unyielding. “The Unsullied were trained for such bloody business.”

Jon knew what Greyworm was trying to do.

He was offering Jon an easy way out, but to Jon that would feel wrong.

Jon would feel like a coward if he left it to the Unsullied.

No, this was also his responsibility to bear, no matter how painful it would be.

“My fath…my Uncle has a saying,” Jon countered and graced Greyworm with sad smile. “A man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

...

Chapter Text

Jenny

It was the upward movement of the litter that woke Sansa from her slumber.

She rubbed her eyes and turned around on her pile of cushions to get a view at the Magister and Lord Tyrion.

At times, it was hard for her to believe that someone could be this fat. Sansa had always thought that Lord Manderly had been the fattest man she had ever laid eyes on, but his size was nothing against the magister.

“I see, you are finally awake my lady. Please wait here,” the magister tittered sweetly and bared his yellow teeth. Sweating and moaning, he lifted his massive body into the air and crawled out of the litter. It had looked like an ox drawing an overloaded cart.

Sansa herself felt hot, the sweat clinging to her brow and her naked skin. She had spent a year in the south, but she had never gotten used to the heat. Here in the Free Cities it was even worse, though she was rather here than back in King’s Landing. She doubted King Stannis would have killed her, but who knows what his men would have done to her in the heat of battle.

Stannis might have kept me as a hostage or wed me to one of his bannermen. Or would he have given me to his red witch?

Tyrion and Lord Varys had spoken about the red witch in hushed whispers and many more things she wasn’t supposed to hear. She had asked when she would be allowed to go home, but so far they had only given her sweet words of nothing.

All she knew was that they were going somewhere. That the magister had mentioned Princess Daenerys Targaryen had been her only hint, but she didn’t know what to make of that either. Her Lord Father had fought the Targaryens after Prince Rhaegar, the Last Dragon, had raped and abducted her Aunt Lady Lyanna Stark, though that had certainly not been the cause of the Rebellion. The cause had been the vile execution of her Uncle Brandon and her Grandfather Lord Rickard Stark. In the end, Robert Baratheon had slain Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident and Tywin Lannister had sacked the city of King’s Landing. Some say that the Mountain had slain Princess Elia and her children and others say that she had committed suicide and smothered her babes before they could fall into the hands of the enemy. Even her father had never told her the full truth. In fact, he had rarely spoken of the past or the Rebellion as if it was too much for him to bear.

Daenerys Targaryen is just a girl like me, she tried to assure herself. She must have been a babe during the rebellion or so Sansa believed. And yet the same girl had supposedly sacked cities and had woken dragons from stone.

Dragons made Torrhen bow before Aegon, she recalled from her history lessons. Arya would have burst with excitement to see a living dragon, but Sansa felt only fear when she thought of confronting a fire-breathing creature.

They can’t be worse than Joff, she thought and touched her cheek. She had loved him once with all her heart. Oh, how stupid she felt now after she had realized the bitter truth.

It had been a lie. Joff had been no brave and good Prince. He had been a monster and his love for her had never been true.

A good husband wouldn’t treated her gently. The first time, she had hit her she had wept, the second time she had apologized, but the third time, when Joff hadn’t been able to consummate their marriage even after having a whore run naked through her chamber, she had hadn’t been able to hold back her laughter. For that, he had had hit her in the face, something he had usually avoided in the past.

I don’t want an ugly bride, he had told her then, but even her beauty hadn’t been enough to stir his desire.

Now she was glad that he hadn’t been able to take her maidenhead…

It had been the rasping sound of Lord Tyrion’s breathing and the foreign voices from outside that called her back to the present.

She forced a smile over her lips when Lord Tyrion’s strangely-colored eyes met hers, his mob of hair in complete disarray.

“Were you blessed with sweet dreams, my lord?” she asked.

He graced her with a twisted smile and rubbed his head.

“No, I was blessed with nightmares of green fire, but now that I am seeing your face I feel much better, my lady.”

If Tyrion Lannister had been half as handsome as Joff she might have blushed, but his ugliness made such feelings impossible.

And yet, she found that she didn’t disliked him as a person. She certainly didn’t trust him, but he had been kinder to her than any other member of his family. That was a truth she couldn’t deny.

Thus, she decided to favor him with an honest smile.

“I am pleased if my presence is a comfort to you, my Lord.”

Her words seemed to please Lord Tyrion, for he grinned and swung his stubby legs through the curtains, disappearing a moment later.

Sansa didn’t follow him, but leaned forward to glimpse through the curtains.

Outside she spotted Magister Illyrio standing next to two horses, mounted by two large riders. Both wore skirts of worn leather beneath cloaks of brown wool.

The magister smiled at lord Tyrion as he passed them. Sansa blushed when she noticed that he was undoing his breeches and averted her gaze quickly. It made her think of the one time she had seen Theon Greyjoy naked. She, Arya, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassle had wanted to take a bath in the hotsprings and had come about Theon and one of the servant girls. Sansa had long forgotten the girl’s name, but Theon had been naked as his nameday, brazen smile curling on his lips when he had noticed their presence. Sansa recalled now how embarrassed her and Jeyne had been while Beth had only giggled and Arya had howled with laughter. Her little sister had even told Theon to put his “worm” away…

“Pissing is the least of my talents,” she heard Lord Tyrion brag while the men on the horses laughed.

The bright sunlight made her eyes burn and it took her a moment to adjust to her new surroundings. The green summer dress she had chosen was wide and pleasant to wear, but the blue shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders was beginning to bother her. And yet she didn’t wish to reveal her bosom in such a base manner. If she had had the time she would have changed the dress to her liking.

“Are these two known to you, magister?” Lord Tyrion asked brazen as ever while Sansa decided to keep a respectful distance. They had their swords sheathed, but they looked like dangerous men. “They look like outlaws to me. Do you want me to fetch my axe?”

They gave him stunned looks and Lord Tyrion graced them with one of his twisted smiles.

“Your axe?” asked the brawnier of the two. He had a shaggy beard and a shock of orange hair. “Did you hear what the dwarf said? He wants to fight us!”

The other rider, was clean-shaved and graced with a lined and ascetic face. His brown hair was pulled back from his head and tied in a knot behind his back.

He seemed to hold only scorn for Lord Tyrion’s boasting.

“Small men often feel the need to prove their courage with boasting,” the man snapped back. “I doubt the little man could even kill a duck.”

Tyrion shrugged his shoulders as if it insult meant nothing to him.

“Fetch the duck,” Lord Tyrion replied in a challenging tone.

“If you insist,” the older rider replied and bared his teeth as she jerked his head at his brawny companion.

The man’s grin widened he unsheathed his sword.

“I am Duck, little man,” he introduced himself.

Lord Tyrion continue to grin despite the obvious threat. “I had a smaller duck in mind.”

Sansa sighed with relief when the big man roared with laughter. It helped her to overcome her fear and she stepped towards the men, unwinding her shawl as she walked. The heat had grown unbearable to her.

“Did you hear, Haldon?” the man with the orange hair asked, his face deeply flushed. He was about to say more, but when his gaze fell upon her or better said her bosom he fell silent.

“Good work, my lady,” the older man remarked and met her gaze. “You managed to silence the duck.”

Then, he flashed his companion a disapproving look. “Keep your eyes elsewhere, Rolly. She is the magister’s guest…just like his little friend there.”

Sansa, who had no idea how to interact with these kinds of men, dropped her head in greeting and smiled.

“I am Lady Jenny,” she introduced herself. It was the name she had used while residing in the magister’s mansion. “A pleasure to meet you, my brave knights.”

“Well met, my Lady. I am Haldon Halfmaester and the fool over there is Ser Rolly Duckfield,” the older man explained and waved his hand at the blushing man with the orange hair.

Men are fools, little bird, Queen Cersei had told her before her marriage to Joff. They do not think with their minds, but with their little cocks. Show them a bit of flesh and They will be yours.

Cersei had been right, but she was dead now, her head mounted atop the ramparts of the Red Keep. Sansa didn’t know if she take advice from a Queen who lost her head.

“Enough jesting, my friends,” the magister’s tittering voice snapped her back to the present. “Your travel will be long, won’t it?”

“Aye,” the one called Haldon agreed. “We have pack horses. Duck, attend to that.”

The man named Duck or Rolly frowned in obvious displeasure.

“Why is it always Duck who has to attend to things?” he asked and sheathed his blade. I am a knight…It should be you serving me!”

Yet he still obeyed and stomped away towards the baggage train.

“How fares our lad?” the magister asked Haldon while Ser Rolly was loading their chests upon the pack horses.

Haldon smiled proudly.

“He is now nearly as tall as Griff. Three days ago he knocked Duck from his horse. A fine lad he has grown into.”

The magister smiled warmly.

“I put a gift in the chests,” the magister added, his smile fading. He looked sad. “Some candied ginger. He was always fond of it, but I know that you must hurry before it becomes impossible to reach Meereen. I managed to procure you a ship, but it will still be a dangerous travel.”

“But worth it,” Haldon replied determinedly. “We must find the Princess before hit is too late. What about Lord Varys? Where is he?”

“He left for Myr,” the magister explained. “To win the gold coins to our cause.”

“That is good,” Duck said and grinned. “Soon we shall go home. It will be worth it in the end.”

Sansa didn’t know what to make of their words and exchanged a quiet glance with Tyrion.

“Of course,” Tyrion replied and played along as if he knew what they were talking about. Then, he dipped his head. “By the way, I am Hugor Hill.”

“A bastard,” Haldon remarked and eyed Sansa curiously. “And who are you? I forgot to ask for your name. Are you his lady of the heart? Or perhaps a courtesan? Well, your accent tells me something different. I think you are from Westeros.”

“The Lady Jenny is of highborn blood,” Illyrio came to her aid. “She is no bed toy.”

“I see,” Haldon replied in understanding and patted the saddle before him. “Then, you shall ride with me, girl. I am half a Maester. I shan’t take your maidenly virtue. The dwarf can ride with Duck.”

Sansa’s cheeks burned, but it was better than to ride with the Duck, who was still throwing hopeful looks at her.

“I thank you,” she agreed and took his hand. He lifted her in the saddle as if she was a little child. Seeing him up close, she realized that he must be her father’s age.

Thinking of her father made her sad.

I betrayed him.

“Let’s go!” Duck exclaimed happily and hoisted Lord Tyrion into his arms. Before Ser Rolly grabbed the reins of his horse he flashed Lord Tyrion another smile. “Hold tight to the pommel of my sword, my little friend.”

Then, he kicked his feet in the sides of his horse, before setting off into a gallop.

“Safe travels, my friends,” the magister called after them. “Tell the boy I am sorry that I will not be able to attend to his wedding. I shall soon join you in Westeros, this I swear, by my sweet Serra’s hands.”

The magister had sounded so distraught that Sansa was surprised he didn’t break out in tears.

His words of departure had confused her even more. Who was this “lad” the magister had spoken about? Was he his son? And what had all of this to do with Princess Daenerys’ Targaryen?”

Sansa cast her gaze back at the magister as they set off unto the next part of their travel. He stood there with slumped shoulders, his brocade robe blowing in the wind like a flag, until disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Sansa clung to Haldon, her eyes burning from the whirled-up dust. Ser Rolly soon caught up with them and was from thereon riding next to them.

Sansa tried to listen to their lengthy conversations, but her eyes were soon growing heavy and eventually she drifted off to sleep. The last thing she heard was how Ser Rolly had ended up in the Golden Company and how he had squired for someone called Harry Strickland…

It was midday when she was roused from her sleep. They made camp near a thin river and watered their horses. Sprouts of brown grass and weed could be found between the cobbled street and there was a mossy wall that might have once belonged to a manse.

Afterwards they shared a simple meal. Salted pork and dried meat, washed down with bitter ale that made Sansa choke.

Once, she had finished her meal she decided to go for a walk. She stretched her legs and enjoyed the cool breeze coming from the east. When she grew bored she went to the horses and fed them with grass.

All the while her travelling companion were talking about the armor and the fine garments the magister had acquired for them.

Sansa was not surprised. She had watched the servants stuff the chests with fine woolen doublets, velvet cloaks and silken pants.

By dusk they were back in their saddles, moving further eastward, a starry sky spreading as far as the eye could see.

Sansa’s grew heavy again when Lord Tyrion was sharing a story about a man called Lomas Longstrider, who had been a traveler and some sort of hero of Lord Tyrion. Sansa had never been an avid reader, but Bran loved stories and had always dreamed of travelling the world. Arya had promised to accompany him and Sansa had called her stupid. A lady cannot travel the world, she had chided her. A lady needs to wed.

Thinking of Arya made her sad again. She had been horrible to her and she regretted that now. Yet the worst of all was…she didn’t even know if she was still alive.

Yet these dark thoughts were soon banished from her mind and exchanged with far more worldly concerns, namely her wound bottom.

When morning came she realized that she had fallen asleep again and that they had ridden throughout the whole night.

“The fabled Rhoyne,” Lord Tyrion declared and pointed at the glow green waterway in the distance.

Ser Rolly shook his head.

“The Little Rhoyne,” the young knight corrected Lord Tyrion with a smile, the walls of a city looming in the distance.

As they continued onwards, Lord Tyrion and Ser Rolly blew kisses at naked girls bathing in the muddy water until they reached a crumbling temple and behind it an old palace half sunken into the earth and covered with gnarled old willow roots. Beyond the tangled roots, the road ended abruptly until the thick shrubbery gave away and they suddenly found themselves beside an old stone quay.

“Duck!” came an elated shout. “Haldon!”

Sansa’s head snapped around and soon found the owner of this voice. There, standing on the roof of a low wooden building was a boy, waving a straw head. He was a well-made youth with a lanky built and a shock dark-blue hair. He was older than Sansa, around Robb’s and Jon’s age.

As they drew closer, the roof the boy was standing on turned out to be the cabin of a ship, which as Haldon informed them a moment later was called the Shy Maid. It was an old poleboat, or so Tyrion explained to her. Sansa found it ugly. The paintwork was a muddy greyish brown, mottled and flaking; It looked dirty and was in dire need of a good wash, but Sansa kept these thoughts to herself as she followed after her travelling companions.

Soon the crew of the boat made their appearance.

There was an older pair standing beside the tiller and a white-robed Septa, who had flashed a smile at the boy as she had passed, was now coming their way.

She was neither tall nor short, her face long and her short light-brown hair slightly curled at the edge.

Sansa was about to introduce herself when a booming voice filled her ears.

“That will be enough shouting for today!” the man shouted as he burst through the door. He was tall, had a clean-shaved face and bright-blue eyes underlined with wrinkles. His hair was as blue as the boy’s hair, but his hair had red roots and even redder eyebrows.

His gaze was icy cold as it took in Sansa and then Lord Tyrion.

Sansa couldn’t help but to shudder. She didn’t know why, but the way this man was carrying himself reminded her of Lord Tywin Lannister.

Sansa was relieved he directed his displeasure at Lord Tyrion.

“A dwarf,” he said full of contempt. “Why did you bring him here?”

“I know, you were hoping for a seacow,” Lord Tyrion quipped and shifted his attention to the boy who had long crawled from the roof and was eying them curiously.

“Blue hair will not serve in Westeros, my boy,” he teased the boy. “The girls will laugh into your face.”

The boy’s reaction could only be described as stunned.

“My Lady Mother was from Tyrosh,” the boy replied after he had regained his composure. “I dye it in memory of her.”

“What is this creature? Is he going to be our fool?” the grim man demanded to know and interrupted their exchange, his gaze flickering to Sansa. “And who is the girl? Did the cheesmonger send the girl to become the boy’s bedwarmer?”

“Calm yourself, Griff,” Haldon countered calmly. “Let us speak in private and I shall explain their presence.”

“Come then,” the grim man relented and pointed at the open door of the cabin. “Let us speak.”

Haldon sighed and she was about to follow after them, but Ser Rolly held her back.

“Only the dwarf,” Ser Rolly explained and graced her with a sweet smile. “Illyrio tasked us to keep you from harm, my Lady. I fear Griff will not hold back.”

Sansa sighed in disappointment. She was somewhere far away from home and now she had had to stay with these strange people.

Could it be true, she wondered fearfully and eyed Ser Rolly and then the blue-haired boy. Did they bring her here to put her into the boy’s bed?

She averted her gaze quickly when the boy’s bluish gaze sought hers.

“What is your name, girl?” he demanded to know. The way he had said it reminded her a bit of Joff, but she saw none of Joff’s cruelty in him. Mayhaps he was only a boy without manners, but then he didn’t know who she really was. He was just some boy on a poleboat. How could she expect courtly manners from him?

“Lady Jenny,” she replied and lowered her head in greeting. “And you are…Young Griff?”

She had heard the Septa call him that.

 “It is a great pleasure to meet you,” the boy replied suddenly and stepped closer to take her hand in his own, before placing a kiss on her knuckles.

Mayhaps I misjudged him, she thought and forced a smile over her lips. She was among strangers. It was better to make them her friends than her enemies.

“Lady Jenny,” repeated the Septa, who had observed their conversation in silence. “Where to you hail from if I may ask?”

Sansa knew it would be futile to hide her Westerosi accent.

“The North.”

“I knew it,” the Septa said and smiled warmly. “I am Septa Lemore. Well met, my Lady Jenny. Care to keep us company while Griff sorts out he business with your little companion?”

“His name is Hugor Hill,” she lied and glanced at the door, the loud shouting scaring her. “The man…Old Griff, isn’t it? He won’t hurt him, won’t he?”

“He won’t,” the boy promised quickly and gave her an assuring smile. “I shall make him stop at once.”

He was about to run off, but the Septa grabbed him by the shoulder and held him back.

“You will leave him be,” she chided him and pointed at Lady Sansa. “Griff won’t harm a man sent by Illyrio. In the meantime, we could entertain Lady Jenny.”

The boy seemed unhappy with the Septa’s command, but obeyed.

Then, he craned his neck and smiled at Sansa.

“Do you know how to fish, my Lady?”

Sansa, who had never been asked such a question by a boy, simply nodded her head in acknowledgement.

“I fear not.”

The Septa elbowed the boy and grinned proudly.

Not long after, they were putting small worms on hooks and put them into the green water. Well, the boy and the Septa did it, but Sansa couldn’t bring herself to touch these worms. Just looking at them made he want to empty her stomach into the water.

It made her wish that she was a little bit like Arya.

“So, are truly a Lady?” the Septa remarked after she had lowered her bait into the water. “Your hands are so soft. Are you the daughter of a Lord?”

“A bastard,” she replied quickly and averted her gaze. “My name is Snow. Jenny Snow.”

Sansa didn’t know why, but in he blink of a moment the Septa’s face had turned as pale as ash.

“Are you well?” the boy asked sweetly and patted her shoulder. “Do you want me to call for the Halfmaster?”

“I am well,” the Septa assured the boy and sucked in a deep breath, before searching Sansa’s gaze.

Sansa couldn’t help but to squirm under her intense stare. From the distance the Septa’s eyes had looked blue, but seeing her close up she realized that they were grey. The almond-shaped form of the Septa’s eyes reminded her a little of her sister Arya, but her eyes were much darker and the woman in front of her was quite the beauty and not a horsefaced little girl like her younger sister.

“You don’t want to tell me,” the Septa said then, a sad smile curling on her pale lips as her gaze darted back to her bait. Suddenly, she grinned, all sadness forgotten. “Ah, I caught our supper!”

“Wonderful!” the boy exclaimed. “I am sick and tired of broth.”

Sansa watched in silence as the boy and the Septa pulled the fish out of the water, their smiles growing only wider as they took in the silver fish dotted with purple streaks.

Sansa’s stomach growled at the sight of the fish.

“This is purple salmon,” the boy explained while the Septa conjured a small dagger from beneath her robes.

Sansa was shocked, but when the Septa started to cut apart the fish she couldn’t help but to be slightly impressed. She had never seen a Septa wield a dagger with such efficiency, but perhaps that was an ability one needed to master to survive such a rough life.

It didn’t take long before the Septa was done and led them into the ship.

As promised, she found Lord Tyrion unharmed and seated at the table with Ser Rolly.

Ser Rolly’s eyes widened when he saw the fish.

“Supper,” he said and patted his stomach. “Be quick about it, Lemore. We are all starving.”

“Be patient, Rolly,” the Septa chided him and  stepped towards the small fireplace. There she started to roast the fish over a cookfire while listening to the men’s talk.

They talked about the weather and exchanged further pleasantries until the grim man Old Griff joined them.

“Supper is nearly ready,” The Septa informed the grim man, but he ignored her and shifted his attention to the boy.

 “It is time, my boy,” he announced, his voice trembling with emotions. “We shall soon depart for Meereen to collect your bride.”

…

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Every day, after breaking her fast Dany counted the ships arriving at Slaver’s Bay. It made her think back on her time in Pentos’ when she had dreamed of sailing back to her home across the Narrow Sea.

Today she had counted five-and-twenty, but she wasn’t sure. They were too far away to be sure.

Not that it mattered. All traded had stopped since she had taken Meereen for her own. Matters had turned only worse after Xaro’s departure. These ships from Qarth, Tolos and Ghis had arrived.

“Free the dragons,” Admiral Groleo told her for the hundred time. “Let them have a taste of dragonfire and the trade will flow again.”

Dany knew he was right, but she had no control over her children. Drogon was gone and the other spat fire at her whenever she tried to get close to them.

They are angry that I abandoned them, she thought. They have every right to hate me.

Yet she couldn’t share these thoughts with her Admiral.

“Can’t we build ships?” she asked instead, knowing very well how silly that sounded. The woods around Meereen had been burned. There was no wood left to build ships. “But you would have to ride into the hinterlands. I shall give you wagons, workers, mules, everything you need to fulfil this task.”

“I am not a shipbuilder,” the captain complained, his voice laced with bitterness.

His bitterness filled her with fear. Could he be the one that will betray me?

No, she thought and banished these thoughts from her mind. He is only an old man.

“There must be something we can do,” she replied weakly and shifted her attention back to the ships.

“There is something we can do, your Grace. Let fire rain from the skies…,” he began, but fell silent when Dany flashed him a sharp look.

“Leave me now,” she told him, softening her voice after she had heard his sadness. “And pray for your gods to send us a storm.”

“No true sailor would ever wish for a storm, your Grace,” the old Admiral replied and excused himself, leaving only Ser Barristan Selmy.

“Our stores are filled and your Grace’s subjects have planted beans, grapes and wheat. The masters have also been driven out of the hinterlands and freed the rest of the slaves. They are now adding their strength to freedmen of Meereen. Daario Naharis has also won the friendship of the Lhazareen.”

“Aye,” she agreed. “But at the end of the day they are just Lamb men. I just wish they have sharp teeth, like Jon’s wolf.”

“That would certainly help, your Grace,” Ser Barristan agreed with a wry smile.

The old knight’s remark made her chuckle. “To hear about Jon’s campaign in Astapor would be even more welcome. How long will it take?”

“A few weeks,” Ser Barristan replied. “I cannot say.”

Dany sighed and brushed her fears away.

“How are your little knights, ser?” she asked in an attempt to change the topic.

The old knight’s face lightened up.

“Well, four or five of them certainly have the making of a knight or perhaps a dozen of them. I hoped for more and I fear the day will come when we will have need of every knight.”

Dany smiled, imagining the grand tourneys Viserys had described to her when they were little children. Her brother Rhaegar had won such a tourney and had crowned Jon’s mother Queen of Love and Beauty. It must have been a grand thing to behold.

The thought made her happy, but also sad. Had her brother not perished at the Trident she might have seen many such tourneys. Mayhaps some great lord or a knight would have also crowned her. She would have liked that.

It made her also wonder if Jon or his brother Aegon would have competed for her hand. Or perhaps Viserys too? Her brother had always told her that it was custom for their family to wed and bed each other, though she it was hard for her to imagine Viserys on a horse.

“What are you thinking about, your Grace?” the old knight asked, his voice laced with amusement.

“Nothing in particular,” she replied and placed a kiss on Ser Barristan’s cheek. Sometimes, she pretended he was her grandfather. “I was just dreaming.”

Not long after, Missandei appeared at the door. She wore a blue dress with a silver tread that fitted the slippers Dany gifted her. She wears them day and night, Jhiqui and Irri had jested.

“Missandei?” Dany asked and graced her with a smile. “What is it?”

“The Shavepate wishes to speak with you,” the little scribe explained and dipped her head.

Dany sighed.

“Send him to me.”

As always, the Shavepate was accompanied by two of his Brazen Beasts.

“Your Radiance, I came to present my report to you,” the Shavepate explained. Six and twenty days ago, Hizdahr no Loraq, with the Green Grace’s prodding, had proposed a match between them. Dany had refused him of course, but the Green Grace had suggested a bargain to prove Hizdahr’s worth to her: If Hizdahr was be able to put an end to the killings committed by the Sons of the Harpy Dany would agree to wed him. Dany had agreed to the bargain, but had not promised to agree to the marriage. She had only promised to think about a possible betrothal.

She had also followed the Shavepate’s suggestion to have the Brazen Beasts follow her betrothed and take note of all his actions. “Last evening, Hizdahr has visited the pyramid of Zhak last and he did not depart until late into the night.”

This new piece of information roused Dany’s curiosity.

“How many pyramids has he visited?”

“Eleven,” the Shavepate replied curtly.

“And how long since the last murder?”

“Six and twenty days,” the Shavepate grumbled. “So far the noble Hizdahr has made good on his promise.”

“How?” Dany wanted to know. “Why have the Sons of the Harpy put down their swords?

Deep down she knew the answer, but that would make situation only more difficult. Without Hizdahr’s gold she would have never been able to afford her Brazen Beasts.

Yet the Shavepate remained blunt as ever.

“The answer is simply, your Radiance. Hizdahr is most likely one of the Sons of the Harpy, if not the Harpy himself.”

Dany frowned at that. The Shavepate was convinced that the Sons of the Harpy had a leader, but Dany didn’t share this belief. The Brazen Beasts’ had captured a dozen of these Sons of the Harpy and they had readily yielded names. All too many names for Dany’s taste.

But the Shavepate was not wrong to point out this possibility. Hizdahr had been flying around her like a bee around a pot of honey. She could not trust him. In that regard she also agreed with Jon, who had warned her vehemently against trusting Hizdahr before his departure to Astapor.

It made her wish that she had never sent him away. His absence had made it clear to her how much she had relied on his council and companionship.

“What you say is true,” Dany replied. “Noble Hizdahr is a persuasive man with many friends, but that doesn’t make him the Harpy.”

The Shavepate sucked in a deep breath. The frustration was palpable on his face.

“He may not be the Harpy, but he may know him or her. Let me question them further…,” the Shavepate began, but Dany cut him off.

“I know very well what your questioning would entail,” she said and made her displeasure known. “And I don’t deny that it brought me many names… all too many if you ask me. That said, you may continue to watch the noble Hizdahr, but do no harm him. Do you understand?”

“I am no fool,” the Shavepate grumbled and unfurled a parchment he had kept in the vest of his cloak. “But have a look at this, your Radiance. This is a list of all the Meereense ships that have recently joined the blockade. All the ruling families are present, even Reznak and Loraq.”

The list was of no use to her, just as the numerous names he had given her.

“Every man on that list has kin within the city. I cannot imprison them all.”

“You have taken hostages,” the Shavepate reminded her of the hard truth. Jon had done the same and yet she couldn’t bring herself to do it. I shall not be my father, she told herself. I will not butcher innocent children.”

“You know my view on this matter,” was all she replied. Yet even later as the first rays of sunlight appeared on the distant horizon was she reading over the parchment, repeating the names to herself. She had wanted to burn the parchment, but she hadn’t been able to do it.

Barristan had even assured her that her brother Rhaegar would have been proud of her. Thinking of her brother made her sad as it also caused her to think of Jon and Ser Jorah. One she had sent into exile and the other she had sent to Astapor to kill the butcher king.

Do not fret, he had told her with full confidence. I shall bring you the butcher king’s head.

Come back instead, she thought as she wrapped herself in the white pelt of the harakker Drogo had killed for her so long ago. The pelt had always given her comfort, but it was not enough to drive away her loneliness. Daario had also offered himself to her after he had returned from his campaign in Lhazar. He had also brought a good hundred sellswords that had once served the Long Lances. She had thanked him and had then rebuked his advances.

Daario was charming, but he was no dragon.

“Is the mistress sad?” Missandei asked softly, rising from her sleeping place beside her. The little scribe’s hair was a tangle of wild curls, her golden eyes wide with worry.

In the last weeks, Irri had shared her bed, but it had been no use to calm her mind. Thus, she had taken the little scribe back as her bed companion.

The little girl’s presence gave her no sweet release, but the companionship she was craving for.

“I am well,” she assured the little scribe and rose from bed. “I am not tired. Would you call for Irri and Jhiqui to help me dress and bath? I shall break my fast in company of the Green Grace. I need to look proper.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

At dawn, the Green Grace arrived in attendance of a dozen of girls, all of them garbed in snow-white robes.

Missandei entertained the girls while she and the Green Grace sat down to break their fast.

It was more than Dany usually consumed, a meal of honeyed chicken, lamp, pig and accompanied by crushed mint and small green figs dipped in honey. It was Dany’s favorite dish and two of her favorite hostages served the food and filled her cup with wine.

The doe-eyed girl filling her cup was called Quezza and the skinny boy with a tangle of dark curls was called Grazdahr. They were brother and sister and cousins of the Green Grace.

“They are as sweet as honey,” Dany told the Green Grace. “Quezza has a  lovely voice and Grazdahr is very interested in learning more about Westerosi chivalry. I will ask Ser Barristan to teach him."

“That pleases me,” the Green Grace replied softly as ever. She was a very old woman with snow-white hair and thin skin. Yet her age hadn’t dimmed her eyes, sad and full of hidden wisdom or at least that was Dany’s impression. Unlike Dany, the Shavepate held only scorn for her. The old hag is playing her games with you, he liked to say. “But you do look rather weary if you do not mind me saying so, your Radiance.”

Dany feigned a smile. She didn’t like that the Green Grace had noted her lack of sleep.

“I commanded my men to attack the enemy ships, but it was no use.”

The Green Grace sipped from her cup in silence and pondered over her words before giving her answer.

“I heard about it, but I have also heard that the Sons of the Harpy have stopped their attacks,” she remarked quietly, her words cutting deep.

It was true. There was no way to deny the truth.

“Aye, they have stopped their attacks,” Dany admitted. “I suppose I owe that to noble Hizdahr.”

A triumphant smile played on the Green Grace’s lips.

“And that is why I urge you to wed him as quickly as possible…to bring peace to your freedmen and the people of this city.”

The Green Grace had spoken softly as ever, but the way she had separated the freedmen from the people of this city woke her displeasure.

I am still an outsider to them, she knew. They will never accept me. Not without a marriage.

“And you think marrying Hizdahr would help?”

“It would bring you the friendship and the love of the people of Meereen,” the Green Grace assured her. “I am speaking out of concern for you, your Radiance. You have need of a king to sit beside you and to help you bear your many burdens.”

It was true, but it was not Meereen she wanted to rule, but her home across the Narrow Sea. And it was not Hizdahr she wanted to give a crown. She wanted the crown for herself and for her nephew’s sake, for her family’s sake.

She had imagined it like this: she would rule and Jon would be her heir. She would pardon him and give him a good wife and a castle to rule. He would also sit at her council. She could not wed him, but she wouldn’t be alone. With Hizdahr she would have a man to share her bed, as he had already fathered children on his current wives, but he was a stranger to her and not a man she could trust, let alone a man she desired in her bed. He was not bad looking, but nothing stirred inside her whenever she laid eyes on him.

It had been different with Jon, perhaps because he was of her blood, but taking him to her bed would only ease her loneliness, but not solve the greatest impediment for the continuation of her line: her bareness.

Yet she could not outrightly refuse the Green Grace’s suggestion and thus she decided to remain polite.

“I shall think about your words, but it is too early for a promise,” she offered instead. “You must understand.”

“I understand, your Radiance,” the Green Grace promised, but Dany couldn’t help but to notice the displeasure in her voice. “And I trust Hizdahr to prove himself worthy.”

Which is no surprise, Dany thought with growing displeasure. Mayhaps the Shavepate has been right all along. You and Hizdahr are playing your games with me, aren’t you?

Dany sighed and drowned her cup. Then, she excused herself and returned to bed. The Green Grace’s presence had brought her no peace, but it made her realize something important.

Dany was in dire need of rest. A tired Queen couldn’t rule.

After she had slipped beneath the bedding she had asked Missandei to tell her a story.

This time, she managed to fall asleep easily.

The wine must have helped too, because it was close to dawn when she was roused from her sleep.

“Your Grace!” Missandei’s bright voice roused her from her sleep.

Dany rubbed her eyes and gave her little scribe a questioning look.

“What is it?” she asked and brushed her hand through Missandei’s tangle of hair.

“the Shavepate and Reznak ask for your attendance…a rider has arrived. From Astapor.”

Dany’s heart fluttered when she heard this. “Did my nephew sent a rider?”

“It seems so,” Missandei confirmed. “The Shavepate refused to tell me more, your Radiance.”

Dany didn’t hesitate to hop out of her bed and pulled on the gown she had worn last night. She had no time for beautification and left without combing her hair.

As she entered the large audience chamber she found the Shavepate, Reznak, Ser Barristan and the Green Grace in attendance.

They look grim, which promised bad tidings. Her heart sank, but she couldn’t allow herself to show fear.

I am the blood of the dragon.

“Missandei informed me that a rider from Astapor has arrived?” she asked without further hesitation as she swept her gaze over the assembled group of people. “Where is he?”

“Dead,” the Green Grace answered softly. “He came out of the morning mist, your Radiance. A lone rider on a pale horse, already dying. His mare was staggering as she approached the city gates, her sides pink with blood, her eyes rolling in terror. Her rider called out ‘Astapor has fallen!’. Under his tunic he was a skeleton, all bones and fevered flesh. The Bloody Flux, my Blue Graces told me.”

The Blue Graces were healers. They would know what illness killed him.

Yet it was not the man’s death that had horrified her.

“Jon sent him?” she asked, realizing her mistake when she noticed their surprised faces. She rarely called Jon by his given name in their presence. “I mean…Are you sure my nephew sent the rider?”

“He was one of the freedmen,” Ser Barristan replied. “I knew him. A boy from Astapor. I am sure he was sent by your nephew.”

“Why would your nephew sent a sick man to us?” the Green Grace asked. “It must be a sign of death and ruin…A sign of the gods. The Bloody Flux could bring ruin to us all.”

Dany shuddered, but not only because she had heard grizzly tales about this sickness, but because she had sent her nephew to a city struck by the plague.

And yet she doubted that Jon have intentionally sent a sick man to Meereen. The man must have been healthy at his departure and must have fallen ill on the road.

No, there was only one possible explanation for this. Jon had sent him here to warn them. If Astapor had fallen it must have been besieged by enemies, the sellswords Xaro had promised her.

And if Astapor had fallen Yunkai would be next.

Dany shuddered, her mind a storm of confusion. She was torn between her longing for peace and her wish to unleash her rage on Xaro and his allies.

And then, she recalled the promise she had given Jon not long ago.

She had promised to defend him against those who would harm him. She had given the same promise to her freedmen and her Dothraki.

It pained her to admit this to herself, but the time for peace was over. It was time to fight.

“If Astapor has fallen it is only a matter of time until Yunkai falls as well,” she told her advisors, her gaze seeking Ser Barristan’s gaze. “My nephew must have sent this rider to warn us and I shall not abandon him. We shall ride for Yunkai and if necessary to Astapor.”

“Your grace,” Ser Barristan said and stepped closer. “The Bloody Flux is a dangerous foe. I must insist that you remain…,” he began, but she cut him off.

“The blood of the dragon fears neither sickness nor death,” she replied determinedly and braced herself for the coming battle. “I shall saddle my silver and accompany you to Astapor. We shall take half of the remaining Unsullied and Daario shall join his Second Sons to our cause. The Shavepate will hold Meereen in my absence and has all freedom to subdue my shadow enemies. My patience is at an end. If they want war they shall have it. Fire and Blood, as my forebearers would say.”

Ser Barristan had fallen silent. Reznak, her Perfumed Seneschal stared at her anxiously and the Green Grace looked stunned.

“Your Radiance…,” she began. “The gods will not look kindly upon you if you stray away from your path of peace.”

“The path of peace brought me nothing but headaches,” Dany countered, sick and tired of the woman’s false council. She had thought she was a friend, but by now it had become clear to her that she was serving the enemy. “I shall give them what they deserve for harming my blood and children. Fire and Blood. Your gods may damn me, but Old Valyria had its own gods and mayhaps it is time I start praying to the gods of my forebearers.”

Then, she shifted her attention back to the rest of her council.

“Are my orders clear?”

“Of course, your Grace,” Ser Barristan replied and lowered his head in understanding.

Reznak spoken no word nor did the Green Grace.

The Shavepate was the only one who smiled and bowed his head lower than usual.

“I shall to my best, your Radiance.”

So will I, Dany promised to herself and brushed her fears away. So will I.

…

Chapter Text

Robb

Shielding his eyes against the bright sunlight Robb sat up and tried his best not to rouse his wife from her sweet slumber.

Wife. It was such a strange feeling to have a wife. He had always known that he would have to wed, but he had always believed that his Lord Father would be the one to find him an appropriate bride, but not that he would be forced to wed a girl for something simple as a bridge

A beautiful bridge, Roslin had jested after she had met him for the first time, not long after he had bent the knee to the Lannisters.

In truth, he had wanted to do the opposite. He had wanted to spit into Joffrey’s face, but instead he had bent the knee to save his sisters’ and his Lord Father’s life. He had even gone as far as to hand over the Kingslayer.

This decision had angered his lords greatly. Especially, old Rickard Karstark had been angered by his decision and had had tried to kill the Kingslayer before Robb could hand him over to Lord Tyrion Lannister, who had not long after arrived in Riverrun to collect his brothers and to settle the peace treaty on his father’s behalf.

Generously, Robb had offered the stubborn old man to take the black, but he had refused and thus Robb had been forced to take his head. As a result, the Karstark troops had nearly abandoned him, but after Robb had revealed his “true intentions” they had remained, though at the time their new lord and heir Halys Karstark had still been a prisoner of the Lannisters. By now, Roose Bolton had managed to take Harrenhall and had also managed to free Lord Halys, but Robb had no doubt that the young man might hold a grudge against him for executing his Lord Father.

The whole incident had soured his mood only more, until he had met Roslin in person.

In truth, he had expected a weasel-faced girl, but Lady Roslin had turned out to be a pleasant surprise as she had inherited little from the Frey part of the family.

On contrary, Lady Roslin was graced with a pretty face and gentle doe-eyes.

Even the small gap in her front teeth was pretty in its own way.

And while Robb hadn’t been struck by thunder when he had first laid eyes on her, it could have been far worse. Walder Frey could have offered him someone like Fat Walda and then Robb would have been forced to ask him politely for another wife, something the old man would have surely seen as an insult. Even during their last meeting old Walder had reminded him of the match his Lady Mother had arranged for his sister Arya and Lord Walder’s grandson Elmar Frey.

His sister Arya, who had been through hell and back while travelling in company of the Night’s Watch recruiter Yoren, had refused to speak to him ever since she had found out about the match.

His Lady Mother had assured him that Arya would eventually see reason, but Robb knew his stubborn sister better than that. Arya would rather run away than to wed a boy that wasn’t to her taste and thus Robb had intended to offer Rickon in exchange for his sister Arya, but then the gods had decided differently.

Barely a week ago, word had reached them of the destruction of Winterfell by the hands of the Ironborn. Robb had read the letter a good hundreds of times, before the reality had hit him like a brick wall.

Theon had betrayed him. The boy he had called his brother had turned his cloak and had helped murdering his two brothers, two innocent boys he had grown up with.

Even now, Robb had a hard time to wrap his head around Theon’s actions.

All he had left was to take revenge on Theon Greyjoy and the Ironborn, but for that he first had to re-take the North.

“Robb,” Roslin’s spoft-spoken voice snapped him back to the present. “Isn’t it a bit early?”

It was true. It was very early, but Robb had a hard time sleeping with so many responsibilities weighing down on him.

Smiling, he shifted his attention to Roslin.

“Aye, I am awake.”

Looking at her child-like body made him realize how young she was, though that hadn’t hindered his enthusiasms in consummating their marriage.

Robb had never been one to indulge in women. He had lost his maidenhead to a whore named Ross, but afterwards he had used his hand, staying away from fathering bastards. Theon Greyjoy had always made fun of him for that, but the real reason for his hesitance had been his brother Jon.

Jon had always stayed away from whores in fear of fathering bastards. Once his brother had even broken Theon Greyjoy’s nose after he had teased him about the matter.

“You are so silent,” Roslin’s sweet voice broke the silence as she sat up and pulled the pelts around her naked shoulders. They had continued to consummate their union even after Robb had managed “to put a pup in the girl’s belly!” as old Walder Frey had told him before his bedding.

This amused him, because his Lady Mother had explained to him before the wedding that a fragile lady like Roslin “might not care for it all too much”, but the contrary had been the case. Roslin was just as, if not even more enthusiastic, than Robb himself. “Bad dreams? Are you nervous?”

Robb wanted to deny his fears, but he was indeed fretting about the meeting with Stannis Baratheon, no King Stannis Baratheon, the First of his Name.

Robb had never met the man. All he knew about him was what his father had told him, namely that he was a grim, but loyal subject of his brother King Robert.

Robb didn’t doubt his father’s words, but what he had heard about King Stannis made him worry. Some say that his Red Witch from Asshai had worked magic to take Renly’s life.

Robb was of course skeptical of such tales. Magic was not something he believed in and Renly could have very well fallen to the blade of an assassin, but that wouldn’t change the fact that Stannis had a motive to kill his brother as Renly’s sudden death had brought him the loyalty of the Stormlands and had helped to destroy Renly’s allegiance with the Tyrells.

Not that Stannis’s actions were not to a certain extend understandable. Renly had claimed a crown that was not his to claim. By the laws of the Seven Kingdoms Stannis was the rightful King, considering that Joff and his siblings were revealed to be bastards of incest born from the ungodly union of Cersei Lannister and her brother Ser Jaime the Kingslayer. Renly had committed treason and yet, Robb couldn’t imagine killing one of his brothers, not even Jon, who disgraced himself by deserting the Night’s Watch.

Now he is the only brother I have left, Robb knew, though he was sure his mother wouldn’t share his sentiment. I must find him.

“Robb,” Roslin’s voice rang in his ears and her small fingers pulled on his shoulder. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard you,” Robb replied and forced a smile over his lips, leaning closer to touch he cheek and to brush her hair out of her face. It was like a waterfall of silk and soft to touch.

Having her small, pert breast hovering before him made his cock harden, but there was no time for that.

He had to do something about his mother. He couldn’t keep her here, holding his hand while he was meeting King Stannis.

No, he had other plans for her, to give her a task to occupy her grief-addled mind. He had already settled everything, but he still had to speak with her.

“I need to get up,” he told her and touched her cheek. “I need to speak to my mother…alone. Mayhaps you could break your fast with your ladies.”

Roslin gave him an understanding smile.

“About time you are speaking to her,” she added and crawled out of bed to pull her discarded nightdress over her shoulders. “You two have been avoiding each other for weeks.”

It was my fault, he knew and rose to his feet, fresh guilt clenching around his heart when he thought of his sweet sister, who had remained a hostage after Robb had bent the knee. Mayhaps I shouldn’t have fought.

Not long, after that shameful day his poor sister had been forced to wed Joffrey, a bastard of incest. He had even been invited, but Robb would have never set foot into King’s Landing even if his life had depended on it. His Lady Mother had offered to travel to the capital, but Robb had forced her to stay. Joff would have used her as a hostage against him, Robb was sure.

And while Robb had indeed bent the knee, he had always been watching the developments of the on-going war.

Officially, Robb had disbanded the majority of his army and had commanded them to march all the way to the Neck while Robb himself had remained in Riverrun, pretending to enjoy his honeymoon with his new wife.

And while he had enjoyed his honeymoon he had also planned his next strike, an invasion into the Westerlands to repay Lord Tywin Lannister for his bloody butchery in the Riverlands.

The few lords and men he had kept with him had been enthusiastic enough and his Uncle Edmure had fully supported him in his endeavor, but his Lady Mother had been sick with fear that Lord Tywin might find out about their planned betrayal.

Yet all the waiting had been worth it in the end. Barely a moon had passed, before word of King Renly’s death had reached Riverrun.

Renly had supposedly been slain by the hands of an assassin near Bitterbridge and King Stannis had not hesitated to march straight for the capital.

Robb hadn’t remained idle and had quickly put his plan into motion and had invaded the Westerlands a few weeks later by some mountain path that had allowed him to circumvent the Golden Tooth.

What had fallowed had been a brutal campaign of burning and pillaging towns, to instill fear into Lord Tywin’s subjects and more importantly, to keep the Lords of the Westerlands from joining the rest of their host with Lord Tywin Lannister’s that had taken position in the capital to defend it against King Stannis’ assault.

Not long after, Robb had defeated Ser Stafford Lannister’s host near Oxcross and had dealt them a harrowing defeat.

Barely week later, word had reached them about Stannis Baratheon’s bloody victory over the lions.

Lord Tywin Lannister and his army had been supposedly butchered beneath the walls of King’s Landing after wildfire had devoured Stannis Baratheon’s fleet.

More and more rumors had reached them in the weeks after the sack of King’s Landing, some more terrible than others. Cersei and Joff had been killed, their heads mounted atop the ramparts of King’s Landing, so much had been confirmed by first-hand witnesses, but what had happened to Sansa was still clouded in mystery.

Thinking of his sister made him sad, but what other choice had been left to him?

His lords had been angered by his cowardice and by helping King Stannis to the crown he had given them the revenge they had desired for their losses.

And while Robb had been victorious, he felt no joy about his victory as his Lady Mother had avoided him ever since as if looking at him pained her.

The reason was Sansa and his brothers, so much he knew, which was why he had hoped King Stannis would give him assurance regarding her whereabouts, but so far Robb hadn’t received a single word about his sister, only a raven that had informed him that the King was riding for Riverrun and expected the Lord of Winterfell to bend his knee to the rightful King.

The wording alone had been enough to wake Robb’s displeasure, but he also knew that he couldn’t allow his feelings to blind him to reason.

Establishing a good relationship with the new King was of utmost importance, especially if he had Sansa in his custody.

“You are frowning again,” Roslin’s sweet voice called him back to the present. “Forgive me, if my words made you sad.”

“They didn’t,” he assured her quickly. Then, he went to pick up his clothing and to retrieve breeches from a nearby strongbox. Roslin’s brother was a squire and would usually lay out his clothing for him every morning, but Robb had given him leave for today as he had wanted Roslin to share his bed and had wanted to spare his good brother the embarrassment of seeing his sister in such a disheveled state.

Olyvar’s other brothers might have cheered Robb on, but the young man was rather shy when it came to the ladies.

Once, he had finished dressing he pulled on his boots, washed his face and combed his long hair.

“You should at least shave,” Roslin chided him gently as she took in his beard. “You are soon going to meet a King.”

“King Stannis won’t have my allegiance until he has told me about my sister’s fate,” Robb replied and placed a kiss on her cheek. “It is that simple.”

“As you say,” Roslin replied, her voice laced with worry.

“Don’t be afraid,” Robb assured her and patted her cheek as he took in her new dress. “All will be well.”

Garbed in grey wool and a white pelt thrown around her shoulders she looked almost as if she had been born in the north.

“I hope so,” she replied fearfully, her doe-eyes seeking his gaze. “May the seven protect us from the Red Witch. I heard she can kill a man just by looking at him.”

“Nonsense,” Robb countered as he clutched her face between his hands. “Even this Red Witch is just a woman of flesh and blood. I promise, no harm shall come to you. And now, I must speak with my mother.”

His mother looked even paler than usual, but Robb had no time to shed tears. He had work to do and Ironborn to kill.

“You look better, mother,” he lied and filled her cup to the brim. The servants had also served them a hearty meal: roasted bacon, fresh fruits from the gardens and cooked eggs. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” came the curt answer, though she didn’t refuse the cup of wine. “I have already eaten.”

Then, she swept her gaze over the empty table.

“Where is Lady Roslin?”

“Breaking her fast in company of her ladies,” Robb replied just as curtly. “Where is Arya?”

His mother sighed deeply and took a sip from the cup, before meeting his gaze.

“Probably running about with the Mormont girl,” his mother explained. “Wait and see, soon she will dress in chainmail and wave around an axe. She already has this horrid sword.”

“Needle,” Robb corrected her and couldn’t help but to smile. At first, he had been shocked, but after Arya had told him that Jon had gifted her this sword, he hadn’t been surprised. His brother was the kind of person who would do something like that, though his mother had been less pleased. “The sword is called Needle and we should allow her this small piece of freedom. She is ten and one and once she is flowered she will be a grand price…,” he trailed off.

His mother gave him a confused look.

“Arya is already betrothed.”

“Aye, but due to Rickon’s and Bran’s deaths she has become much more valuable than that. I can’t wed her to a Frey boy with no inheritance to speak of. Besides, I have different plans for her if you allow me to explain.”

His mother seemed displeased, but the nod of her head told him that she was willing to listen.

“Given that Aunt Lysa is being stubborn and that she is now wed to this Petyr Baelish, a man that once served the Lannisters, I think it would be in the North’s best interest to pursue and allegiance with Lord Yohn Royce. I am thinking of a match between Uncle Edmure and his daughter Lady Ysilla Royce and in exchange I would support him in removing Aunt Lysa and her husband from power. I am also thinking of having Arya betrothed to my cousin’s heir, a certain Harrold Hardyng. At least, Lord Royce thinks that would be the best course of action.”

“Harrold Hardyng?” his mother asked in utter confusion. “What about Robin?”

“Robin is a sickly boy who still sucks from his mother’s tits,” Robb countered and tried his best to hide his obvious disgust. “Arya deserves better than that.”

“He is my sister’s son,” his mother countered with obvious displeasure. “But I understand what you are trying to say. Well, do as you please. You have long stopped listening to my council.”

“Mother,” Robb said, softening his voice a little. “I know that Aunt Lysa is our blood, but she is a hinderance. I shall see that she and her boy are well-treated, but I cannot do more for her than that. Besides, you said yourself that the boy is of fragile health. The winter’s are harsh in the Vale and the maesters think this will be the longest winter in a thousand years…it is not out of the question that the boy will perish before winter is over.”

“Very well,” his mother agreed at last and searched his gaze. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to travel to Runestone and to have Edmure wed as soon as possible. Arya will go with you, to keep her safe. Lord Royce will make sure of that. She is after all my heir until my child is born,” he explained and forced a smile over his lips. “Do you understand, mother?”

His mother frowned, but nodded her head in agreement.

“I understand.”

…

Chapter Text

Daenerys

The sun had barely risen above the horizon when her handmaids roused her from her slumber. Wearily, Dany rubbed her eyes and climbed out of her sleeping roll, discarding her robes. Naked as her nameday, she allowed Irri to rub her clean, before Jhiqui helped her dress in black breeches, boots, a simple tunic made of wool and a leather vest. Once she had dressed, she asked Missendei braid her hair and fasten her bells. In the past it this had been Irri’s task, but the little scribe enjoyed doing it and Dany enjoyed listening to her stories while she braided her hair.

“Ser Barristan has already made preparations to pack up the camp,” Irri informed her as she sat down to break her fast. They had a bowl of lintel porridge and a cup of honeyed milk. “He says that we can leave at sunset and that we will most likely arrive in Yunkai by midday.”

“Thank you. Now sit down and eat. You will need your strength,” Dany replied thoughtfully and shuffled the porridge into her mouth. The taste was not to her liking, but she had had worse food while she had resided with the Dothraki. Sometimes, she still dreamed of the iron taste of the horse heart she had been forced to devour. The Dosh Khaleen had foretold that her son would be the stallion that mounts the world, but that had been another lie. Yet Rhaego had perished and with him all hope to continue her family’s legacy. Now she had Jon to depend on, but then she had sent him to Astapor.

Irri smiled and sat down, dropping a spoon of whipped cream on her porridge, before starting to eat. Jhiqui did the same, but she added dried dates.

Dany didn’t eat. Thinking of her nephew and the coming conflict had stolen her appetite. Instead she sipped on her cup of honeyed milk and listened to her handmaids’ chatter.

Soon after, Ser Barristan joined them to inform them that everything was ready for their departure.

They rode all evening, Dany on her Silver and flanked by her two handmaids. Missandei rode in front of her, seated on a soft-hearted palfrey horse. Looking at her she realized how young she was. She was still a child and Dany was taking her to war, but then she might have need of her abilities as a translator.

They made a small break near a winding river to rest their horses, but Dany urged them to move on towards Yunkai.

The sun loomed over the city walls when they arrived at Yunkai, its crumbling walls, towers and stepped pyramids glowing like burnished copper.

The harpy that had once been mounted atop the city gates had long been removed by her bear’s hands, but the sight gave her no comfort.

“Your Radiance,” Ben Plumm greeted them along the way, seated atop a black stead and accompanied by a good hundred of his Second Sons. He smiled when he saw the Unsullied she had brought with her and Daario, who had brought his brave Stormcrows, despite her refusal to share his bed. She had expected him to be cross, but only a day ago before their departure she had heard that he had been sighted in Meereen’s finest pillow houses. “I welcome you in Yunkai and I have important news to share with you. I assumed you heard about the fall of Astapor?”

Dany nodded her head in confirmation.

“Aye, we heard about the fall of Astapor. That is why I came. Has the enemy been sighted?”

“Aye,” Ben Plumm confirmed and jerked his head at the city. “Jon can tell you everything about it, your Radiance.”

Dany’s heart nearly stopped, Ser Barristan smiled warmly and Daario laughed.

“The green boy has more lives than a cat.”

“Jon is alive?” she asked and exhaled deeply. “And he is here?”

“Aye,” Ben Plumm confirmed and frowned. “He arrived a day ago in company of your Unsullied and freedmen. He also brought six-thousand Astapori, those few who haven’t been killed by the plague.”

“And you allowed them entrance?” Ser Barristan asked in shock.

“Jon insisted upon it,” Ben Plumm replied with obvious displeasure. “He claimed these were the healthy ones or those who have recovered from the plague. He also threatened me and thus I agreed to put them in a separate part of the city in one of the abandoned pyramids. Some, those who are still a bit sickly, I sent to the Tempel of Graces. So far, they have made no problems, but then Yunkai is still well-supplied with food and water. A siege would pose no problem for us, though the city walls are certainly less fortified than in Meereen, but then you also brought your Unsullied. The enemy won’t have an easy play. That is for sure.”

Dany had listened in silence, trying take in all this new information.

“Do not be cross with Jon,” Dany said at last. “The freedmen are my people. They need protection and Yunkai shall keep them.”

“Of course,” Ben Plumm replied, his eyes darting to the sky, searching for something. Dany knew what he was hoping to find. Her other ‘children’, her dragons. “But…,” he was about to continue, but Dany cut him off.

“No buts,” she chided him. “Let’s move on. I want to hear what my nephew has to say.”

The freedmen of Yunkai cheered as they rode through the city, the steps of her Unsullied ringing in her ears and giving her the comfort she needed.

Throughout her march to Yunkai she had been plagued by doubts, but now she knew that she done the right thing.

Not much to her surprise, Ben Plumm had taken residence in one of the largest of the twelve stepped pyramids. Like in Meereen, they had belonged to the most powerful that had ruled over the city. Her bear hadn’t hesitated to put the male leaders of said families to the sword. Only the women and the children he had taken as hostages.

Only a handful of noble families had managed to escape the slaughter and were probably among those that had attacked Astapor.

She found Jon in a large hall of pink marble, standing at a round table made of dark wood, a painted map spread before him.

At his side were the two sub-commanders of the Second Sons, a stocky Pentoshi and a tall and strongly-built Astapori, his bright tattoos betraying his past as a pit fighter. Greyworm was also there, his dark gaze searching hers the moment she had entered the room.

If Greyworm was prone to smiles he would have smiled, Dany was sure and directed her gaze at Jon.

She couldn’t help but to frown when she looked at him. There was something different about him and it wasn’t just his appearance.

His cheeks were hallow and his face very pale, even more so than usual. Yet the worst were his eyes, wet and glistening with a deep sadness.

He looked exhausted and sad.

“Nephew,” she greeted him. “I am glad to find you hale. When your rider arrived in Meereen we feared the worst. What happened?”

Her nephew didn’t return her smile as he met her gaze.

Instead he sucked in a deep breath and brushed the sweat from his brow. His cheeks were flushed while his lips were as pale as snow.

“We managed to defeat the butcher king’s “Unsullied” and the siege of Astapor only lasted a few days, before the freedmen of the city cut off his head and opened the gates for us,” he explained and jerked his head at Greyworm. “We tried to restore order to the city, but then our outriders informed us about the approaching enemy…the Company of the Cat, the Windblown and two legions from Ghis. Fighting them would have ended in a butchery and thus we decided to abandon Astapor.”

Daario chuckled. “So you ran away to hide behind Ben Plumm’s skirt, green boy?” he asked, his voice laced with mockery.

Jon’s reaction came promptly, namely in form of an angry frown and fletched teeth. Even his massive wolf stirred to life, his ruby eyes seeking Daario’s.

“I abandoned the city,” her nephew confirmed bluntly as ever and shifted his attention back to Dany. “We took all the valuable food with us and soiled the wells of the city with those that had perished from the Blood Flux. We also left the masters’ wine cellars untouched,” he added, a ghost of a smile hushing over his dry lips as he looked over to Greyworm.

Greyworm gave a quiet nod, though it might have also been a smile.

Dany was confused. The soiling of the wells she could get behind…But how would the untouched wine be of help to them?

“We poisoned the wine with stool from those who perished from the plague,” Jon explained and his face turned even paler.

Is he perhaps sick, she realized at once and felt her heart drop. Dany and Viserys had rarely been sick. Her brother had always claimed it was due to their dragon blood, but then Viserys had filled her young heart with too many lies.

Dragon blood or not, her nephew looked sick.

“I understand,” she said at last and graced her nephew with another smile. “And I approve of your actions. Thank you for saving my freedmen.”

She expected some sort of acknowledgement. A smile or perhaps a nod, but her nephew froze as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water of her his head.

When he started to tremble, she knew something was amiss.

Still, she didn’t dare to address the issue in front of all these people. It would make Jon appear weak.

Thus, she dismissed everyone from her presence.

“Nephew,” she said once everyone had left. “Are you sick?”

He froze again and brushed the sweat from his brow.

“It is a sunburn,” he explained hesitatingly. “I can’t stand the heat…and I haven’t slept very well since my departure from Astapor.”

“But you look like a ghost,” she insisted, not buy his words. “Is there something on your mind?”

“No,” he replied stubbornly, but didn’t move despite her lingering presence. “I am just tired.”

Dany frowned and lifted her hand to touch his cheek.

I didn’t surprise her how hot his cheeks felt.

“You have a fever,” she said and he pulled away, fleeing from her presence.

“I shall rest,” he declared and dipped his head, indicating that he was about to leave her.

Dany was stunned by his behavior.

He his cheeks had felt like a brazier, but his words had felt as cold as frost, leaving her with one lingering question: What happened to Jon?

…

Chapter Text

The Onion Knight

Castle Riverrun was unlike any castle he had ever seen. It was bordered on the north by the Tumblestone, on the south by the Red Fork and on the west side it was protected by a massive man-made ditch. If one filled the moat with water one could easily turn it into an impregnatable island.

And yet Ser Davos doubted it would be large enough to host all large amount of men behind its glimmering red sandstone walls. They reminded him a bit of the Red Keep, but the smell was much better. In King’s Landing everything smelled of fish and shit, but here in Riverrun the smell of flowers was lingering everywhere he turned.

Davos didn’t dare to admit it openly, but the Riverlands were the most beautiful place he had ever seen. It was full of rolling hills and green meadows. It made King’s Landing look like a heap of shit.

And yet he had also seen the destruction that had been caused by the short struggle between the Lannisters and the Starks. They had seen pillaged villages, scorched fields and had encountered mistrustful smallfolk.

There had been no cheers for the them, though Davos doubted Stannis would have cared.

Davos had a different view. He knew the common people better than the King’s other advisers and knew how hard it would be to get them on their side.

Most of the smallfolk were followers of the Faith. Lady Melisandre’s presence in the King’s council wouldn’t bring them anything but mistrust and yet Ser Davos also understood why the King kept her close. She had proven herself to him and without her Stannis would have never been able to claim the throne.

The same could be said about Robb Stark, who had broken his vow to the Lannisters, but when it came to Eddard Stark’s oldest son, his King remained skeptical.

His King held no love for Eddard Stark and even less for his son, whom he viewed as a green boy.

When Davos had tried to convince him otherwise, his King had scoffed.

Do you think the boy did it out of selflessness, he had destroyed all of Davos’ delusions. He will have demands.

And that may very well be true, but nobody could deny that Eddard Stark’s son lacked manners.

An escort of a good hundred men, all garbed in matching cloaks of red and blue, awaited them on the road, led by a young man.

At first, he had mistaken the young man for Lord Edmure, for the Tully’s were known for their red hair and blue eyes, but when he had seen the massive wolf prowling next to the young man’s horse he knew that this was Robb Stark himself.

Ser Davos had met Eddard Stark only once and the boy showed little resemblance to him. Unlike, Lord Stark he was a of a stocky built, was graced with a full face and lacked the Starkish coloring.

And yet his grey cloak betrayed his Stark inheritance.

“I am Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell,” the young man greeted them in a firm and commanding tone and swept his gaze over their party of about one-hundred men, most of them King’s men.

 “I expected King Stannis,” the young man remarked rather bluntly and searched Ser Davos’ face and then the sigil displayed on his vest. “Are you the Onion Knight?”

“I am indeed Ser Davos Seaworth,” Davos confirmed himself and dipped his head. “Hand of the King to King Stannis, though most call me the Onion Knight. The King sent me on his behalf.”

Realization washed over Robb Stark’s face.

“He informed me that he would come himself,” Robb Stark added after a moment of silence had passed between them. “What changed his mind?”

Careful, Davos reminded himself. The wrong answer could cost us dearly.

“On the contrary, my Lord,” Ser Davos replied and forced a smile over his lips. “The King would have been very pleased to come to Riverrun, but his reign is still fresh and you might have heard about the riots at the capital, caused by the so-called Sparrows.”

“Aye,” Robb Stark confirmed. “But not only in the capital. I heard these so- called Sparrows are growing like weed. Even here in the Riverlands we have seen them travelling from town to town, trying to frighten the smallfolk with their tales about the approaching end of the world.”

Davos wasn’t surprised by this. A land ravaged by war was full of despairing people ready to follow these kinds of troublemakers. And yet he wished King Stannis would handle them with more understanding. Butchering them might stir the smallfolk to even more foolish acts.

It had been worse enough when they had demanded Lady Melisandre’s head for the destruction of the holy shrines in the Great Sept of Baelor.

Of course, the King had never given Lady Melisandre an order to destroy the shrine, but then he hadn’t prevented it either. That he had yet to install a new High Septon posed an even greater problem, for many of the Sparrows were spreading rumors that he intended to give the crystal crown to his “Red Whore” as Lady Melisandre was commonly called among the Sparrows.

Yet he couldn’t voice these thoughts in front of Robb Stark.

“True, my lord,” Ser Davos replied instead. “These Sparrows are nasty, but I am sure they will calm down.”

“I hope so,” Robb Stark replied and jerked his head at castle Riverrun looming. “Let us ride for Riverrun. Salt and bread awaits you and your companions, Ser Davos.”

Salt and bread, Davos thought as he pulled on the reins of his courser, directing it where it belonged. It seemed Robb Stark was also mistrustful.

They rode for another hour, before they reached the gates of Riverrun, where they were greeted with salt and bread and a cup of wine.

Davos drank deeply to brush the taste of dust out of his mouth and to give Robb Stark the assurance he was seeking.

Eating salt and bread sealed the guest right. This also meant they had to give up their weapons, before they were allowed into Riverrun’s Great Hall.

That night, they ate and drank at the side of the Riverlords or those few that had come to attend. There were a handful of Northmen among them, but not as many as Davos had expected to see.

He must have sent them North, Davos had realized soon after. To fight off the Ironborn. The King won’t like that.

Yet he had kept these thoughts to himself and any talk of politics was forgotten until the next day.

On the morning, they came together to negotiate.

It was the first time that Davos had been tasked with such important matter. Others would have hidden their intentions with false flattery, but Ser Davos was a simple man and preferred blunt words.

“My King’s demands are simple, Lord Stark. He wants you to bend your knee and help him defeat our enemies, namely the Lannisters and the Tyrells,” Ser Davos explained to Robb Stark and took a sip from his cup. It was summerwine, sweet and pleasant on the tongue. Like Marya’ and his sons’ kisses. Three of them had perished during the Battle of the Blackwater and the others…he hadn’t seen them in nearly a year.

When this war is done I shall visit them and never leave them, he swore to himself. Mayhaps Marya and I shall have another child. A girl would be nice for a change.

Robb Stark had waited until Ser Davos had finished drinking, before he gave his answer.

“The Lannisters are indeed our enemy,” the young man confirmed, but his words lacked the smile to back them. “But the Tyrells are not. Why are they still fighting? Did Lord Renly leave Lady Margaery with child? Surely, King Stannis would allow them to bend the knee in exchange for hostages?”

Davos wished it was so easy, but the Queen’s insistence of seeing her family returned to their birthright made such an agreement impossible.

Not that he didn’t understand King Stannis’s reasoning. The Queen’s Men were his staunchest supporters. He couldn’t simply ignore them and he was too proud to forgo a promise he had given in earnest. Yet he couldn’t tell Robb Stark about these personal matters.

“No,” Ser Davos replied and put his cup back on the table. “Lady Margaery is not with child, but I doubt they will ever consider bending the knee. The Tyrells blame my King for Renly’s death. There are rumors that they are allying themselves with the Lannisters, which is why the King wishes to strike quickly.”

“Strike quickly?” Robb Stark asked in displeasure. “I assume that is what he wants my men for?”

“Aye,” Davos confirmed without hesitation. “He has need of your help.”

“But first have need of his help,” Robb Stark replied and searched Se Davos’ gaze. “I do not wish to accuse the King of any misconduct, but it surprised me that there was no mention of my sister Sansa in his letter. We know what happened to Queen Cersei and her bastard Joffrey, but we know nothing about my sister’s whereabouts.”

Ser Davos had known beforehand that this topic would come up and could only drop his head.

They had done their best to find Sansa Stark, but so far they had found no trace of her. Either the girl had been killed during the riots or she had been whisked away.

“The King did not mention her, because he has no knowledge about your sister’s whereabouts,” Ser Davos explained. “We have searched the entire city, but so far we have found no sign of her.”

“How is that even possible?” asked the Blackfish, who was seated next to Robb Stark. He had grey hair, blue eyes and a weather-worn face. “Was she not in the Red Keep? There must at least be a body.”

“We found no sign, Ser,” Ser Davos repeated sadly. “I wish it was otherwise.”

“Mayhaps something was done to her body,” the Blackfish countered, his blue eyes narrowed and simmering with distrust. “Mayhaps your King is trying to hide something.”

“Be careful what you say, Ser,” Ser Alester Florent interrupted. He was a tall and slender man, with silver hair and a spikey beard. As always, he was dressed in splendid clothing: a slashed velvet doubled and a jeweled cloak. Davos had wanted to leave him in King’s Landing, but the Queen had insisted that her Uncle would accompany him. “You are speaking about our King.”

If the Queen had her way he would be Hand of the King, Davos knew.

“And you seem to forget that without my late brother King Robert would have had no claim to speak of,” the Blackfish replied bluntly as ever. Davos wouldn’t have expected anything different from a man like him, but Lord Alester Florent looked as if a cup of wine had been poured over his head. It made Davos almost smile, but he was mindful of his task.

“And the King would never deny this truth,” Ser Davos replied quickly, before Lord Alester was able to recover. “But he is still the rightful King.”

“Aye,” Robb Stark agreed and waved his hand at the Blackfish. “He is the rightful King and I shall recognize him as such, but for the time being I can’t offer King Stannis more than the Riverlords. I need my men to re-take the North from the Ironborn.”

“The King won’t…,” Lord Alester was about to speak again, but Ser Davos’ gaze silenced him at once. The Queen had wanted him there, but it was Ser Davos who was Hand of the King and not him.

“The King will not like that,” Davos finished for Lord Alester and graced Robb Stark with a weary smile. “But the times are difficult. The King will appreciate any amount of men you are able to offer against our common enemy.”

Robb Stark didn’t return his smile, but nodded his head in acknowledgement.

“If the Tyrells have truly allied themselves with the Lannisters then they are also my enemy,” Robb Stark added. It sounded almost like a promise. Almost. There was also doubt ringing in Robb Stark’s voice. “A terrifying enemy if I may say so. How many men does the King have?”

Davos was hesitant and exchanged a glance with Lord Alester Florent.

His face was deeply flushed, but Davos had no time for court games.

He didn’t sugarcoat the truth.

“The Stormlands and the Crownlands and some of the Reach lords have joined our cause.”

“What about Dorne?” Robb Stark asked after he had pondered Ser Davos’ words for a while. “Has the King made any attempts to make peace with them? They do not hold much love for the Tyrells.”

Davos was surprised by Robb Stark’s answer. It seemed he knew more about the south than he led on.

“The King has made no such attempts as the Dornish refused to hand over Myrcella Waters,” Davos explained.

“What does the girl matter?” the Blackfish asked with a frown and crossed his arms in front of him. “Even Dorne can’t hope to claim the throne with a bastard girl.”

“True,” Lord Alester agreed. “But who knows what that the Dornish are plotting. They have always been treacherous vipers.”

“Or mayhaps Prince Doran is still grieving for his sister’s death,” Robb Stark stated. “We all know what the rumors say about her death, namely that she and her babes were slain by the Mountain. At least that is what my Lord Father used to say. Promise them the head of the Mountain and they might reconsider your King’s demand.”

It was a bold statement, but true.

“We already tried that,” Lord Alester scoffed. “It was no use.”

“Which leaves us with your Aunt Lady Lysa Arryn,” Ser Davos added hesitatingly and took another sip form his cup. “Jon Arryn was a loyal supporter of King Robert, but the same cannot be said about his wife. She is now wed to a traitor…Petyr Baelish.”

“Petyr was always a clever fellow,” the Blackfish remarked mockingly. “And Lysa always wanted him in her bed. It does not surprise me that she agreed to wed him.”

“His entanglement with your niece if of no concern to us, Ser,” Lord Alester returned grimly. “But our King desires Petyr Baelish’ head.”

“So do we,” Robb Stark agreed surprisingly. “And I have already taken actions in this matter. Petyr Baelish will be removed from power. This I can promise you.”

Davos was stunned by this revelation.

“How so?” Davos asked. “The rumors say that your Aunt refused to pledge your men to your cause. Why would she suddenly be prepared to give up her Paramount?”

“Because there are certain Lords who hold as much love for Lord Baelish as your King. Sadly, I cannot tell you more until the matter is resolved. In the meantime, I ask your King to show patience.”

“Patience is not something a King can afford,” Lord Alester scoffed again, much to Ser Davos displeasure.

“What Lord Alester wants to say is that our King has need of loyal subjects.”

“I can be a  loyal subject,” Robb Stark replied almost coldly, his blue eyes piercing into his. “I have broken a vow to help your King. I have sacrificed good men as well, but for now I must fight my own battles. Can you accept this on behalf of your King, Ser Davos?”

Ser Davos knew that he had little choice to accept Robb Stark’s offer. It was less than the King had hoped for, but better than nothing.

The sad truth was, they needed Robb Stark to win this war.

“I understand and accept your offer, my Lord.”

…

Chapter Text

Jon

He was prowling through the dusty landscape, a fat moon mocking him and an inky cloak of glittering stars spreading over the sky. A soft wind whispered in his ears as he moved along the river cast in silver moonlight.

It gave a clear sight ahead, a familiar smell entering his nose. It was the smell of flesh and fear that had lured him here. It was the smell of food.

As he continued onwards, the whispering of the wind was joined by the sound of the rushing river and the sound of the rustling shrubbery.

Driven by purely by instinct, he rushed after the creature, his four paws allowing him to move quickly and agile. The animal, a white rabbit, had barely been able to lift his head, before his sharp teeth had buried itself deep into its neck.

The iron taste of blood filled his mouth, but helped to still his hunger. He felt a hint of pity for the rabbit, before he tore of its head with one quick bite. The flesh was delicious. Soft and hearty, but his prey had been too thin. He lusted for another meal to fill his empty belly and disappeared in the darkness…

Darkness. Sometimes, he also dreamed of a prison full of darkness, his brother’s scream filling his ears…

When Jon woke he still had the taste of iron on his tongue, but his head felt worse. It felt as if someone had bashed his it against a stone wall.

His throat felt not much better, dry and aching with every breath he took.

I need water, he thought and tried to move to the side, his gaze searching the room for something or someone.

It was a single dimly-lit room with a single narrow window.

It is night, he realized at once. I must have slept all day.

“Lord Snow,” a shy and sweet voice aroused his attention and made him crane his neck. It was Missandei, the little scribe. She was garbed in bed robes and wore a pelt around her shoulders.

She smiled as she leaned closer, her golden eyes bright like two polished gold coins.

“The mistress will be pleased,” she said and leaned down to pick up a cup, presenting it to him. “You look thirsty, Lord Snow?”

Lord Snow was not a name he liked. It had been given to him by a man who had only ever held scorn for him, but then he could hardly blame the little scribe for her lack of knowledge.

It was true. He was indeed thirsty. There was no reason to spurn her offer.

“I am thirsty,” he confirmed and leaned down to take the cup from her hands. He drank greedily, emptying the cup in one go, yet it was not enough.

“Can I have more?” he asked and the girl gave him an understanding nod.

The girl smiled and rose to her feet, wandering over to the table where she had left a flagon of water.

While she was pouring water into the cup Jon, pulled himself into a sitting position. Once, he had accomplished this simple goal, he swung his legs over the bed and put them on the cool stone floor. He was glad that he was still garbed in his tunic or he would have been forced to wrap that bedding around him.

As he tried to stand, he realized his folly. His feet felt weak like pudding. He was barely able to balance himself against the wall before he stumbled to the ground like a child that had just taken his first steps.

His face hitting meeting ground had hurt, but the embarrassment cut far deeper.

To Missandei’s credit, she didn’t laugh at and waited patiently until he had pulled himself back to his feet.

“You need to rest, Lord Snow,” the girl explained kindly and offered him the cup. He couldn’t smile, but drank greedily. Once he had emptied the cup, he placed it on the floor and shifted his attention back to Missandei.

“How long have I slept?”

“Only two days, my Lord,” the girl replied obediently. “The Mistress wanted to take care of you, but the others thought you caught the Blood Flux and that is why she tasked me to take care of you. I did my best not to disappoint her.”

Jon was surprised by the girl’s words. It touched him that his Aunt cared about his well-being, but then his nostrils took in the smell of his tunic.

It was drenched in sweat. The smell was disgusting.

“I had a fever,” he knew and smiled at the girl. “It must have been a very bad sunburn.”

“Aye,” the girl confirmed. “And exhaustion. Your skin was dry and your stomach empty. I fed you with fruit and honey. At first, I also thought you might have a bout of the Blood Flux, but there was no watery stool. Still, you should rest,” the girl added and pulled the bedding back over his naked feet.

Jon realized his mistake when he started to blush and pulled the bedding all the way up to his chin.

Yet it was. He was still weak and his head was pounding painfully.

But a battle is coming. There was no time for rest.

He at least needed to wash himself and find out what was going on.

“I will head your advice,” he replied and graced the little scribe with another smile. “But I need to wash and have need of fresh clothing. I also need to speak with Daen…your mistress. Would you call for her? And…Have you seen my wolf?”

The girl nodded her head in understanding and walked towards the door.

“I shall bring you fresh water and fresh clothing. Once, you are done I shall call for my mistress and bring you something to eat. And your wolf…he scared off the guards after they tried to feed him and ran away. I hope for you that he comes back.”

“Thank you, I am sure he will,” Jon replied and was glad when the girl had left. Ghost’s disappearance didn’t worry him, for he had dreamed of him tonight, slipping inside his mind, thought that must have been another dream. That Ghost had left didn’t surprise him either. His loyal companion had never liked being scooped up in the city and yet Jon knew that he would always come back to him.

Exhaling deeply, he pulled himself back to his feet and stumbled towards the window, yet down below he only found the moon-cast walls and pyramids of Yunkai.

He was in one of the great pyramids, so much he knew but that thought gave him no comfort. Soon, the enemy would come for them and he was sure that it would be a bloody battle, despite the trap he had laid out for them in Astapor. If they were lucky it would reduce their strength, but that didn’t mean it would be easy to win. Sure, they could retreat back to Meereen, but what massage would that send to the enemy? It hated that he had to abandon Astapor. He couldn’t tolerate another act of cowardice. That he had been forced to give the doomed freedmen “mercy”…

Just thinking about it made him shudder, the dark memories of this day trying to wedge its way back into his mind. He brushed these thoughts away, before they could overwhelm him, though they haunted his dreams. It had been a relief that he had been able to slip into Ghost’s mind and mayhaps that was the reason he had finally been able to find proper sleep.

“Lord Snow,” someone called out to him and caused him to turn around. As promised, Missandei had returned with a bowl of water and fresh clothing. “Tell me when you are done. Then, I will call for the mistress.”

“Thank you again,” Jon replied and went to work. He stripped naked and washed himself from head to toe, rubbing the sweat and dirt from his body. Once he was finished, he sprinkled water over his head and washed his hair, before taking in the fresh clothing Missandei had brought him.

It was a fresh tunic, dark breeches and underclothing. He dressed slowly and felt ashamed of his weakness.

It had been his fault. He knew how easily affected he was by the heat and yet he hadn’t taken enough time to rest and to take care of himself. He had been too occupied with the task of getting the last survivors of Astapor to safety. And he had accomplished this task, but soon the enemy would be upon them. How many of them would survive was up to the gods…

“Nephew,” his Aunt greeted him as she entered, a smile curling on her lips. “I mean Jon. Missandei told me that you wish to speak with me?”

She looked so different from her usual appearance. Her shoulder-length silver hair was tumbling freely down her shoulders and she wore a red wool tunic fastened with a leather belt. She also wore breeches and boots.

Just looking at her made his heart clench with guilt. He had expected to feel guilty, but not like this…

Yet that was not the only reason. When he had given the people of Astapor mercy, he had also acted in Daenerys’ name. She hadn’t even been able to harm the hostages.

He would understand if she despised him for his actions.

He had long accepted his fate, but even so he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth.

Not yet, he told himself. When the battle is done.

“Jon,” his Aunt’s voice called him back to the present. “Did you hear what I said?”

Jon nodded his head and stumbled back to the bed.

“I heard you,” he said then and eyed the bowl of fruits greedily. His stomach was as empty as Theon Greyjoy’s head. “I hoped you could tell me what I missed.”

“Oh,” she said, realization washing over her beautiful face. Jon didn’t know why, but she sounded slightly disappointed. “I see, but I think it would be better for you to rest.”

Jon was stunned by her calmness and confused by her reaction. What had she hoped for?

Could it be…, he wondered but banished these thoughts away before they could take hold of his mind. If she liked me in such a way she would have made it clear to me.

She made you strip naked and bath with her, his hopeful heart reminded him and his heartbeat sped up.

Not that it mattered.

She will despise after I have told her the truth.

Thus, he forgot about his hopes and hardened his heart.

“The enemy will come for us,” he reminded her and jerked his head at the bowl in her hands, asking her permission. “Can I?”

“Of course,” she offered and lifted the bowl. Jon picked a peach and took a bite. Usually, he would peal them, but now he didn’t care.

He couldn’t help but to sigh when he tasted the fruity flesh and when the sweetness of the fruit touched his tongue. It was better than heaven.

Within the blink, of a moment the peach was gone and he was licking his fingers. He couldn’t just clean them with his cloak. That would be childish.

His Aunt seemed amused by his actions.

“They grow on the terraces of the great pyramids like weed. Another good reason to save this city,” she jested and took a bite from her own peach. She ate as greedily as Ghost when he tore apart his prey, wetness streaking her lips and chin.

There was something endearing and arousing about it. He realized that when he felt his manhood harden. It made him also realize that it had been too long that he had last taken a girl to bed…

He averted his gaze and quickly thought of Catelyn Stark. Her icy looks never failed to drive away his lust.

“Do you want another one?” she asked then and held up the last peach.

“No, thank you,” he replied and picked a date from the bowl. “I had enough peaches. They are too sweet for my taste…and I would prefer to hear about the preparations. I doubt Ben Plumm will allow me to join them until I can stand on my own two feet.”

His Aunt sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

“According to Ben Plumm’s outriders the enemy is still in Astapor. We are preparing the city for a siege, but Ben Plumm and Daario think that it will take another week before anything happens. Barristan thinks it would be better to retreat to Meereen, but I disagree with this notion. Running away would encourage our enemy only more.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed and lifted his cup to his lips. He had re-filled it earlier, before his Aunt’s arrival. “This battle will be decisive for the future of your cause.”

He saw the fear in her deep violet eyes, but also determination. She was trying to appear brave, like Arya.

“Do you think we have a chance?” she asked, her voice laced with worry. “You have seen the enemy…,”

“They have more men,” he gave her the truth. “But numbers are not the only deciding factor in a battle. If my trap works many of them will be weakened by the plague. And the sellswords…well there is always a chance to sway them to our cause. I suggest speaking to them before the battle is done. They have one thing in common…they like to talk.”

“They do,” she replied with amusement and leaned closer to touch his hand. “And in regard to the sellswords…Daario made an interesting suggestion. He thinks we might be able to get the Tattered Prince on our side.

Jon felt the urge to return the gesture, but instead he pulled his hand away.

It would only make it harder once he revealed the truth.

“What suggestion did he make?” he asked and decided to change the topic.

“The Tattered Prince has always desired Pentos. Daario thinks we should promise him to re-take in exchange for his help. What do you think?”

“A good idea,” Jon agreed. “But we shouldn’t agree to such a bargain without gaining something in return.”

“Illyrio was the one who convinced my brother to sell me to Khal Drogo,” she explained her reasoning. “He has ships and gold. By taking the city all that is his would be ours. Think about it…we would have enough gold and ships to re-take what is ours.”

Ours, Jon thought. Nothing had ever been his. It made the idea only more enticing.

No, he reminded himself. I cannot allow myself such attachments…soon Daenerys will send me away.

“Good idea,” he replied instead, trying his best to overplay his discomfort. Then, forced a smile over his lips and touched his bed. “And now I need rest. I shall join your war council on the morrow.”

His Aunt looked taken back by his words.

I am such a fool, he realized then. I haven’t even thanked her.

“Daenerys,” he called after her before she had slipped out of the door. “Thank you for coming to help us. I appreciate the risk you took on my behalf.”

She stared back at him in silence, a hesitant smile crossing her lips.

“You are my blood. I promised to protect you.”

…

Chapter Text

The Sun’s Son

Mysha is coming. The dragons are coming. Daenerys Targaryen will descend upon us with fire and blood.

All these rumors and many more he had heard from the mouths of the other sellswords on their long ride to Astapor.

Quentyn didn’t know what to make of all these rumors, but it was all that they had. Ever since, his departure from Dorne, he had been blind and deaf to anything that had happened at home. Of course, they had heard rumors, but rumors were akin to fairy tales. One might be able to find a corn of truth in them, but not more than that.

The same must be thought of the rumors concerning Daenerys Targaryen. Before his father had sent him to Essos he had been told that she was a wee girl of ten and five and that she was pretty to behold, but what he had heard of her so far made him believe otherwise. Daenerys Targaryen had supposedly been sold to a Dothraki horselord, had supposedly woken dragons from stone, had supposedly marched her host through the Red Waste, had supposedly killed the Undying and had sacked three cities, before naming herself Queen of Meereen. Whatever his father had claimed, must have been false, for he couldn’t imagine that some soft-hearted girl would be able to do such things.

Mayhaps she is another Rhaenyra Targaryen, his friend Gerris Drinkwater had jested over a cup of wine. Well, at least you won’t be bored while keeping her bed warm, Quent.

Quentyn had been less amused. He had never bedded a woman, let alone a madwoman, but to Gerris everything was a jest. The sky could be dark and threatening, but Gerris Drinkwater would still have a smile on his lips.

That had been three days ago, after a long ride under the burning sun. Quent had been born and bred beneath an even hotter sun, but he had still sought comfort beneath the shady trees lining the dusty road towards Astapor. The flies and mosquitos were worse, slipping even through the silken nets they used to cover their sleeping places. This morning he had counted three more bites, but by now he had stopped caring. He had endured too much to run away from his destiny.

I am a Prince of Dorne. Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken, as the saying of House Martell went. His forbearers didn’t bend the knee to the dragons and thus he wouldn’t bend to the whims of mosquitos and his silly fears.

Yet when they reached the gates of Astapor he felt a dark foreboding overcome him.

Quentyn didn’t know why, but to him the city looked dead and deserted.

“The Red City,” Greenguts remarked and waved his hand at the blood red and crumbling walls of Astapor. He was a big bald knight from Dorne and to everyone among the Windblown, the sellswords company they had joined, Quentyn’s master and lord.

It was a humbling life. In Dorne Quentyn had been a prince, in Volantis a merchant’s man, but once he had set foot on the shores of Slaver’s Bay he had changed his name again. In the blink of an eye he had become Frog, a squire to Greenguts, though the other sellswords hardly ever used that name. They usually called him “you” or “boy” and when they were really mean they called him “Froggy.”

Not that Quentyn was surprised by the lack of proper names. Many free companies had been born and had disappeared like the seasons. Their life was as unstable as their names. Death was ever present.

The Windblown were not much different. They had been formed about thirty years ago by a soft-spoken Pentoshi noblemen commonly known as the Tattered Prince.

Quentyn had only seen him from afar. His hair and mail were silver-grey, but his ragged cloak was made of twists of cloth of many colors, blue and grey and purple, red and gold and green, magenta and perhaps cerulean. His sister Arianne would have known, she always had a liking for bright colors, but he brushed these memories away before they could take hold of his mind. Thinking of his home made him sad.

The story of the Tattered Prince, like of his future bride, was even more captivating. As the story went, the magisters of Pentos had chosen him to be their new prince, hours after beheading their old prince. Yet instead of accepting his fate he had fastened his sword, had mounted his stead and had fled to the Disputed lands. He had ridden with many companies since that day and then he had eventually formed his own company, the Windblown. Of its six founders only the Tattered Prince remained.

“What are you waiting for boy! Out of the way!” the booming voice of their sergeant called him back to the present. He was a hulk of a man and commonly known as Hammerhand Dick, for his preference to slash his enemies’ heads with a warhammer. Quentyn couldn’t help but to be reminded of King Robert. He had never met the Stag King, but even in Dorne they knew him as a fearsome warrior, though his Uncle Oberyn preferred to call him the “Fat Stag” or “the Drunken Fool.”

“Be careful what you say, Dick!” Greenguts snapped back and unsheathed his shiny blade. He was the best swordsman of their group and even Dick Hammerhead wouldn’t have easy play with him. “Frog is a clumsy fool, but I won’t see him harmed. I am fond of my Froggy.”

Quentyn felt again like a little boy. Arianne had always given him strange nicknames as a child, though he had returned the favor. She had been a rather pudgy child and thus he had dubbed her “piggy” something she had never forgiven him. Now years after, Arianne had changed into a beauty while Quentyn was still the plain-looking boy he had always been. At times, especially when he looked as his well-built companion Gerris, he believed that the gods must have punished him for his vanity.

All he could hope for that fifty-thousand Dornish spears would be enough to sway Princess Daenerys’ heart.

“Very well,“ Dick Hammerhead replied and spit on the ground before Greenguts. “Now move. Astapor is waiting for us.”

His words had turned out to be true, but not in the way they had expected.

Astapor had indeed been waiting for them, but no sign of the enemy could be seen.

They had approached the city gates carefully, their light cavalry riding circles before the city gates while the Ghiscari legions had been placed upon the hills surrounding the city. Behind them and at the flanks their heavy cavalry had taken their places. The Company of the Cat, led by the infamous Bloodbeard, had been placed on the left flank while their company, the Windblown, had taken position on the right flank.

Thus, they had remained, waiting for the enemy’s movement, but nothing had happened. Eventually, after their leaders had realized that no enemy would come for them, they decided to storm the gates.

The brazen fools that had stormed the gates had been led by the Bloodbeard. Quickly enough, the Ghiscari infantry followed and then the few thousand men that had been provided by the exiled masters from Yunkai. Their own men had been eager to join, but the Tattered Prince had advised his sergeants and captains to stay behind and to watch lands surrounding the city for further enemy movements.

It could be a trap, Dick Hammerhead had told them when Drink, the name Gerris Drinkwater had given himself to hide his identity, had pestered him about their lack of participation. Let us rest while the Bloodbeard is doing our work.

Not long after Bloodbeard’s men had managed to break the city gates, but again the Tattered Prince held his men back. Instead he had ordered them to make camp.

They obeyed and built tents, gathered wood and fed their horses while the Bloodbeard’s plundered the city.

The sun was already disappearing behind Astapor’s red walls when they were allowed to enter the city, though once he ridden through the broken gates, Quentyn wished he had never come here.

Astapor was no city, it was hell on earth, a city of death and ruin.

The streets had been littered with a river of corpses, on the spacious plazas they had found hundreds of pyres heaped with ash and the remains of human bones. They scoured the pyramids and the houses, for a sign of life and food, but all they found were corpses and more corpses. Some had been so infested with maggots and flies that they had to carry torches to keep the swarms of flies at bay.

Yet the smell had been the worst. It was a mixture of sweetness and foulness, unlike anything Quentyn had ever smelled.

Drink and Greenguts had barely been able to keep their fast inside their stomach and even the Ghiscari were hesitant to remain in the city, weren’t it for the fact that they had need of water. Only Blackbeard and his horde of pickpockets seemed to thrive in this rotten environment. The night had barely fallen, before they had salvaged the casks from the masters’ wine cellars and had started to drown themselves in it.

Some of their men had joined too, but the majority had not. The Tattered Prince was a soft-spoken man, but he had firm rules in his company and one of those was: no wine while on campaign, though instead they had a flock of pretty girls following after them and attending to the men’s needs. Not long ago, Drink had sent one of the girls into his tent, but Quentyn had sent her away. She hadn’t been ugly by any means, but her smell had disgusted him.

Drink had laughed about him that night, but on the next day he had apologized, but that hadn’t been enough to ease Quentyn’s hurt pride.

Quentyn would have preferred a cup of wine, but instead of taking some of the casks for his own the Tattered Prince had sent them out to scout the surrounding area for a water place.

They had been successful in their endeavor, but the men had grumbled as it had taken them nearly half a day to find a brook in this dry landscape.

Astapor was a place of hell, but full of cisterns and wells filled with water. That the Ghiscari and Bloodbeard’s men had mocked them for it had cut even deeper.

That is until the fools had found out that the wells had been soiled with bloated corpses.

The Ghiscari had been horrified, but the Bloodbeard hadn’t cared. Instead he and his men had continued drowning themselves in wine.

Two days had passed since then and many of the sellswords, who had been deprived of a good fight, were growing bored and were resorting to whoring, gambling and mock fights. Quentyn watched Greenguts play a game of dices with someone called Old Bill Bones. The other sellswords loved Greenguts, who bet as fearlessly as he swung his sword, but sadly he was never blessed with luck.

Greenguts lost again and again, but there was only so much time one could waste with gambling. Yet when the first men were beginning to fall sick, Quentyn wished that wasting time would be the least of his problems…

It started with a hundred men from the Company of the Cat and two hundred men from the two Ghiscari legions, but soon everyone who had consumed water or wine from the city fell sick. The Bloodbeard was only one among many.

Quentyn had not seen him die, but even those that had despised him had felt pity for him in the end. They say he had bled out all the wine he had consumed, before his skin had turned as dry as the desert of Dorne and he had begged one of his subordinates to cut his throat.

“The Bloody Flux,” Dick had told them not long after, his voice laced with fear. “Bless our Prince. He saw the painting at the wall and spared us such a terrible fate.”

And while the Tattered Prince had spared them the same fate, he hadn’t been able to spare them the fate of becoming gravediggers for their fallen comrades.

Thus, instead of fighting, they spent their time burying and burning those that had perished by the plague. Quentyn thought it would never end, but after a week had passed the dying ceased, though that was not much of a comfort.

Half of the men from the first Ghiscari legion had perished and the while the men from the second Ghiscari legion had fared better, some of them were still on the way of recover. Yet the Company of the Cat had been hit the worst. Two third of their numbers had perished.

The worst is over, the Tattered Prince had supposedly told his captains and sergeants after two more days had passed without another sick case. Now we can finally march on Yunkai.

The exiled slave masters from Yunkai had supposedly agreed with him and so had the leaders of the two Ghiscair legions that had joined them barely a day ago. These two fresh legions were supposed to march for Yunkai while their two legions were meant to hold Astapor, but now after so many of their comrades had perished through the plague, it was unavoidable to bolster their rows with these fresh troopes while the sick ones would return to New Ghis.

They will still piss themselves when they have to face the real Unsullied, Denzo D’han, one of their captains and a veteran of a hundred battles had declared after he had overheard their heated discussion.

They had marched from dusk till dawn to put an appropriate distance to Astapor, but in the end Quentyn had only wished for rest.

Yet there was always something to do. Armor to polish, tents to build and food to cook.

That night he was also ordered to endure the first watch and to guard the horselines.

It had taken all his willpower to keep himself from falling asleep.

The sun was rising on the distant horizon when Drink came to see him.

“Where is the big man?” he asked, referring to Greenguts.

“He’s gone to lose the rest of his silver,” Drink said. “Leave him out of this. He will do what he has to do, despite his complaints.”

Quentyn was much the same. He had done many things he disliked, all to make his father proud. He had sailed on an overcrowded ship tossed by wind and sea, eating hard bread and drinking bitter ale, sleeping on piles of straw and had endured many more misfortunes, all for a pretty princess. It felt like living a song, only Quentyn didn’t feel like one of these heroic princes, but like a fool.

And while he had accepted all this as part of the great adventure he had embarked on, he was now about to commit plain treachery.

Their comrades in arms were hard men, but Quentyn had shared their mead and had traded tales with them. It was not honorable, no matter how often Drink tried to justify it.

Yet this time, it seemed as if the gods had heard their pleas, for a day later they were suddenly called to the Tattered Prince’s tent.

It was sour Hungerford who had led them to the commander’s tent, a great grey sailcloth pavilion.

It took him only the blink of a moment to realize that most of the assembled men hailed from the Seven Kingdoms. Most of them were probably exiles or the sons of exiles. Dick Straw, friend of Dick Hammerhead had claimed not long ago that there were three score of Westerosi serving in their company and it seemed many of them were among these men. There was Dick himself, Hugh Hungerford, Pretty Meris and a man named golden-haired Lewis Lanister. Denzo D’han was also there, with huge Caggo beside him. Strangely, neither was Westerosi, but both of them were captains and the Tattered Prince’s right and left hand.

Something is going on here, Quentyn realized at once.

“The slavers wants us to scout ahead,” the Tattered Prince explained. “They think the Dragon Queen could prepare another trap for us. That is why I am going to send one third of our men into the hills. What is left of the Company of the Cat will follow, but they will ride among their own.”

Whispers could be heard and fearful looks were exchanged between the men. Neither company liked each other, but the fact that some of them might carry a deadly disease made these men only more fearful.

“But why make us ride together, m’lord?” Dick asked. “We have never broken up the company by blood or tongue. Why now?”

“A fair question,” the Tattered Prince granted, his sad grey eyes sweeping over them. “I want you to split up and ride for Yunkai or better said…should you come about one of the Dragon Queen’s sellswords, namely the Second Sons or the Stormcrows…well, I want you to go over to them.”

“To go over to them?” asked Dick Hammerhead. “You want us to turn our cloaks?”

“I would,” confirmed the Tattered Prince.

Quentyn had a hard time to keep his laughter at bay. Mayhaps the gods hadn’t cursed him after all.

“And you think the Dragon Queen will welcome us?” Hugh Hungerford asked and made a sour face. “And then? Are we spies? Are you really thinking of changing sides?”

“That is not for you to decide,” Caggo grumbled. “You will do as you are told.”

“Always,” Hungerford swore and raised his hand that consisted of only two fingers.

“Then let us be frank,” added Denzo D’han. “The exiled masters from Yunkai are bumbling fools. The only men of worth are the Ghiscari legions and what is left of the Company of the Cat. Yet only yesterday fifty of the Ghiscari legions have fallen sick. The disease is still spreading. That is why I think our prince is wise to keep all roads open.”

The Tattered Prince had listened in silence and had obviously taken this as agreement by all parties.

“Meris will command you,” he declared at last and rose to his feet. “She knows my mind in this…and Daenerys Targaryen may be more accepting of another woman.”

Quentyn didn’t know if he could agree with that when he laid eyes on Pretty Meris.

She had cold, dead eyes. They made him shudder.

And yet it was their only chance to get to Princess Daenerys.

…

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Dany held her hands over the roaring flames of the brazier. The ride from Meereen had been marked by heat and strife, but as hot as the days were the nights could get just as chilly.

Even garbed in her wool dress and her hrakkar pelt wrapped around her shoulders, she felt cold.

Perhaps it was not the chill, but her last interaction with Jon had left her chilled.

He had always been cordial towards her and sometimes even playful, but since she had reunited with him in Yunkai he had avoided her at every turn.

At first, she thought he might be angry that he had been forced to give up Astapor, but now she was sure that there was a different reason for his sour mood.

“Mistress,” Missandei’s voice filled her ears and caused her to turn around. She was already wearing her nightgown and her hair was braided. Dany usually took her as her bed companion, but the little scribe had been exhausted while Dany had remained awake and thus she had allowed Missandei to sleep in Jhiqui’s and Irri’s chamber. “Greyworm came to see you.”

Dany smiled and gave the little scribe an approving nod.

“Please let him in.”

“At once,” Missandei replied and a heartbeat later Greyworm entered.

He was garbed in his uniform and carried his usual stoic expression. Only his helmet was missing.

“Missandei informed me that you wish to speak with me, your Grace,” Greyworm greeted her and dipped his head.

“I did,” she confirmed with a smile, but was unsure how to approach the topic she wanted to speak about. “Say, Greyworm…Do you care for a cup of wine?”

I didn’t surprise her when he refused her offer.

“We Unsullied do not drink before battle,” he explained and eyed the flagon of wine, she had placed at the table, with a mixture of curiosity and mistrust.

The Unsullied harbored a strange curiosity for things that most people would consider common, yet at times they were almost shy to try out new things.

“The battle won’t happen on the morrow,” Dany countered and rose to her feet to open the flagon of wine. Two cups were already there and she filled hers half-full. “I will make an exception tonight.”

Yet Greyworm remained stubborn as ever.

“I am a captain, their leader. I would be a bad example for the other Unsullied, your Grace.”

Dany sighed and lifted the cup to her lips. It was watered wine mixed with fruit syrup, but it was better than fermented milk or simple water.

And yet she didn’t enjoy it as much as she had hoped for.

“You are shaming us all with your perfect conduct, Greyworm,” Dany added teasingly and sat down on the pelt she had spread over the chair. “But I did not call you here to speak about wine…I asked you to come here to speak about Jon.”

If Greyworm was surprised it didn’t show on his face.

“Jon Snow,” he repeated and searched her gaze. “What about him, your Grace.”

“He has been acting strangely…as if he is not quite himself,” Dany tried to explain and smoothed the pelt. “Perhaps you noticed it as well?”

“I noticed it, your Grace,” Greyworm repeated and sounded as if he did not quite know what to make of her question. “I do not understand.”

Dany sighed. She should have been blunter.

“What I am trying to say…,” she forced the words over her lips. “Did something happen during your campaign in Astapor?”

Dany wasn’t sure, but she believed to see a hint of realization on Greyworm’s face.

“Your Grace,” Greyworm replied hesitatingly, which surprised her. A true Unsullied was seldom hesitant, but then she hadn’t expected either that they would seek out brothels to cuddle with courtesans. “I think this one knows what ails Jon Snow’s mind. I think it has to do with the sick Astapori and what we did to give them peace.”

“Give them peace?” she asked and re-filled her cup. She didn’t drink though, only watched the red liquid move as she circled the cup between her fingers. “What are you trying to say?”

Greyworm swallowed calmly and drew closer.

“I should have chosen my words better, your Grace,” he explained and averted his gaze. “I shouldn’t have said ‘we gave them mercy’. When we arrived in Astapor the plague had broken out and many of those we found there were doomed to die a painful death, either by the hands of the enemy or the plague. Thus, when the time came to abandon the city, Jon Snow did what every Unsullied would have done, but well, Jon is not an Unsullied. I think there is your reason for his behavior…,” he trailed off.

“I see,” Dany said and shuddered. She didn’t need to hear the details, to know what an Unsullied would do when he was confronted with the dying. And the fact that they had been forced to abandon Astapor made only clearer to her who they had handled the doomed.

To give them mercy, Greyworm had told her and yet she still didn’t understand why Jon was cold towards her…

She sighed deeply and shifted her attention back to Greyworm, who was still waiting for her answer.

“Thank you,” she replied and smiled at her loyal captain. “You may return to your quarters.”

Greyworm dipped his head.

“Greyworm is always pleased to serve.”

When Greyworm had left, Dany discarded her lion pelt and fastened her cloak around her shoulders, before slipping out of her chamber.

She needed to speak to Jon. It was the only way to resolve this matter.

When she arrived at his chamber, Ghost was the first one to greet her.

At first, Dany had been afraid of the massive wolf, but by now she had gotten used to his constant presence.

Ghost wasn’t really that much different from her children, fearsome and gentle, depending on their moods.

“Did you wait for me?” she asked the wolf and stretched out her hand towards him.

Ghost lifted his head and licked her hand, before rolling to the side. Then, he closed his eyes and allowed her entrance.

Smiling at Ghost, she knocked at the door and entered when she heard Jon’s muffled voice.

“Daenerys…,” Jon began when he had noticed her entrance. He was seated at his sleeping place, his brown hair disheveled from bed. “What brings you here?”

Hearing her name from his lips pleased her. Most of the time he called her “Aunt” or “your Grace”, especially when they were in presence of other people.

“You didn’t expect me,” she remarked teasingly. “Did I wake you?”

“No, you didn’t,” he assured her with a shake of his head. His face had finally regained some color, but he still looked like the most miserable person in this city. “I was already awake.”

She couldn’t help but to frown. She had preferred it when he was blunt with her.

She would say that she even missed his bluntness.

She wanted the old Jon back.

And the only way to achieve that was to address the elephant in the room.

“Greyworm told me what happened in Astapor,” she said and came to stand in front of him. “Is that the reason you have been avoiding me?”

Within the matter of a heartbeat, Jon’s head had snapped up, his dark eyes alight with a mixture of surprise and misery.

“It is true,” he admitted and sucked in a deep breath. Yet he didn’t avert his gaze, even when Dany drew closer. “It is true.”

Frustrated by his tongue-tied behavior, Dany sat down next to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked and searched his face. In the past you never held back with your opinion. I thought you were angry with me.”

A mixture of shock and guilt glittered in his dark eyes, though in the candlelight they had a touch of purple.

It felt as if the candlelight revealed his dragon-like qualities. Mayhaps there was truly a dragon residing beneath his icy façade. The thought excited her, her heart fluttering like a butterfly caught in a storm.

She sat barely two armlengths away from him. It made her wonder what he would do if she kissed him…

She knew it was wrong to think like that. She was a Queen, but the enemy was coming for them and they might all just die.

“The child hostages,” Jon said and broke the silence between them. “I told you to execute them, but when I had to do the same…I mean I did it, there is no denying the truth, but I thought it would be easier…and now I feel like a monster, but the reason I haven’t told you until now is….that I didn’t want you to hate me.”

Dany was taken back by his words. Those serving her were always careful about pleasing her, but the only family member she had known would have never shown such concerns.

Viserys had been her brother. He had fed and protected her, but he had never cared for her beyond being his possession and in the end he had sold her like one.

Jon Snow, despite her initial distrust towards him, had never lied to her.

No, by now she had realized the truth.

He was not the Mummer’s Dragon, but the blue flower.

She still didn’t know what the flower meant, but mayhaps she had been wrong from the beginning.

There is still the treason for love, she recalled, but that could have been Ser Jorah. He had claimed to love her and had betrayed her.

Jon Snow, she was sure, would never betray her and if he did she would be able to see it displayed in his dark eyes.

His face may be made of ice, but his eyes where their own world.

Again, she took a glimpse at his lips and then back at his eyes.

Brushing these distracting thoughts away, she leaned closer and touched his cheeks, forcing him to look at her.

He froze, but made no attempt to stop her. It seemed as if he had expected a different reaction from her.

He really thought I would hate him, she realized then, her heart swelling with warmth.

“I do not hate you,” she assured him and wetted her lips. Her throat felt dry, despite the wine she had consumed. “And I certainly do not think you are monster. And everything you told me is true. Making peace with the slavers was a foolish notion. The Green Grace and Hizdahr have been playing their games with me and only your sickly rider was able to rouse me from my delusions. I still abhor killing children nor do I have any intention to murder them for the crimes of their parents, but you were still right to point out the truth to me. I can’t be neither too soft-hearted nor too harsh. I need to find the right balance. Just like you.”

“Me?” he asked, his eyes widening. “I killed…,” he was about to continue, but Dany cut him off.

“You gave them peace,” she countered quickly, before he was able contradict her, her hand brushing through his hair. “I would have done the same, even if it pained me to do so. You have no reason to feel ashamed,” she added softly and leaned forward to place her lips on his, finally giving into her longing.

Jon’s lips felt pleasantly warm, but only briefly. His lips also tasted of blood and when she stopped kissing him, he immediately backed away.

His expression could only be described as flabbergasted. He looked back at her as if she was the first girl that had kissed him.

She touched her lips, the taste of iron still lingering in her mouth. He must have bitten his lips.

Ignoring the blood, she smiled and decided to break the silence that had settled over them. Teasing was always the best ice-breaker, though knowing her grim nephew she wasn’t sure if it would be enough.

“Tell me, have you ever kissed a girl, Jon Snow?” she asked and watched him carefully. She had heard him speak about whores and thus she had assumed that he had lain with plenty of girls.

“Whores do not kiss,” Jon Snow countered quickly. “That’s only something proper girls do, but I never had a proper girl in my bed.”

It became clear to her how much his admission had cost him when his long brown hair brushed his chest.

His glimmering dark eyes told her so much more. No, proper girl would bed a bastard.

Yet Dany had a hard time believing that not a single proper girl in the North had found Jon Snow pretty enough to kiss him.

Either these northern girls were fools or blind.

“I am a widow,” she replied jestingly and leaned closer. “But I think I still count as a proper girl.”

Suddenly, Jon Snow started to smile and pushed his forehead against hers, his hand brushing her cheek and his warm breath brushing over her lips.

She felt lightheaded and couldn’t help but to be amused by his actions. Any normal boy would have ravished her by now.

“A proper girl wouldn’t say such things,” he whispered, his voice a pleasant burr to her ears. It sent shivers coursing through her body, from the top of her head all the way down to her toes. “Especially not a Princess.”

“I was never a real princess, not until I hatched my dragons,” she admitted to the truth and watched him carefully. “And you were never a bastard.”

It seemed that had been the assurance he needed, for heartbeat later kissed her softly, then more forcefully, prying her lips apart to taste her.

The sensation made her head swim, banishing away all her worrisome thoughts at once.

He seemed to enjoy this as much as her, as he kissed her some more, with tongue and then with teeth, nibbling on her lips. It was enough to send blood coursing through her core.

He seemed to share her feelings, the evidence of his desire brushing against her belly after she had somehow landed in his lap.

He gasped in her mouth as she pressed herself flushed against him, giving her confirmation of what she had wished for. That he wanted her just as much as she had wanted him.

It felt as if something had snapped inside her, her hand slipping inside his breeches, palming him. He gave a horse moan against her cheek and kissed her brow while his hand fondled her breast.

She touched him in turn, just as Doreah had shown her such a long time ago, a muffled moan leaving his lips as he rutted against her.

She expected him to spill on her hand, but he stopped her before anything like that could have happened.

Breathing heavily, he regarded her, his dark eyes blown.

Dany could see the conflict in his eyes, but she wanted to hear none of it. Soon, she would have to give all of this up again or die…

It was wrong, but then she pulled her nightgown over her head and discarded it on the ground.

Again, he stared back at her in silence.

This time, Dany bridged the distance and kissed him, yet he didn’t put up much resistance, his lips preying hers apart as if he had done this a hundred times before.

As she continued to kiss him, she pulled impatiently on his breeches. Understanding the meaning of his actions, he pulled his tunic over his head. She had seen him naked before, but all felt new to her now as she brushed her hands over his chest and shapely thighs after she had helped him get rid of his breeches.

Kissing him again, she straddled him, his cock hard against her stomach.

Eventually, he let go of her mouth, probably to catch his breath, his hand palming her right breast and his mouth kissing the other one. Warmth trickled down her spine and she shuddered at his touch.

Longing to still the emptiness inside her, she clutched his face and kissed him fiercely. He returned her kiss with equal favor while her hand touched his cock, slipping him inside her easily.

He gave a grunt of pleasure, his brow pressed against hers as she rolled her hips. This too, Doreah had taught her.

Soft gasps left his mouth as she continued to swerve her hips with practiced movements, his eyes shut and his mouth slightly open. Soon, her stomach was throbbing with a familiar heat she had desired for so long. She quickened her pace, their breathing growing louder with every buck of her hips.

Panting, he clutched her head and kissed her deeply, before a low cry escaped his lips.

Then, she felt it. The pulse of his cock and the warmth of his seed.

She fluttered around him, warmth engulfing her fully as he clung to him, her head resting on her shoulder.

Once he had softened, he sank down on the bed, exhausted and spend.

She laid down next to him and watched him as she came slowly back to himself. As his dark eyes cleared, she realized that he had been just as lost as her.

They were fools. Utter fools. She knew all that, but it had felt so good.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he told her, his voice soft, as he brushed her disheveled hair out of her face. “I could get you with child…”

His words felt like a slap to her face, though he couldn’t have known any better.

She had never told him.

“That is why I have never kissed a proper girl,” he told her then, probably spurned on by her shocked reaction. “I do not like the idea of fathering bastard children…,” he trailed off and averted his gaze.

He was such kind fool. His words made her fears melt away and she couldn’t help but to smile as she leaned down to touch his cheek, forcing him to look at her again.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow. I am a Queen and no child of mine would ever be called a bastard. This I can promise you.”

Not that she would ever have a child, but seeing Jon Snow’s smile was reward enough.

“Aye, I suppose I truly know nothing.”

Dany chuckled and curled up beside him.

“That was only a manner of speaking,” she explained and pulled the bedding over them, her eyes growing heavy. “You do know a lot of things. I have seen that often enough. Don’t let other people tell you otherwise.”

“I won’t…,” he promised and pulled his arm around her shoulder, his eyes fluttering close. “I won’t.”

…

Chapter Text

Tyrion

“But Why? Why do I have to cut my hair? Many boys have long hair,” he heard Sansa’s pleading voice. She, the Septa and Ysilla, the tiller’s wife, had washed each other with water from a round pot and a sponge. Not long after, the Septa had returned with her knife and had started cutting off her hair until it was as short as a finger, before she had announced to Sansa that she must do the same. Not much to Tyrion’s surprise the Sansa had given the Septa a horrified look as if she had asked her to travel naked.

Well, they had been half-naked while they were washing and Tyrion had stolen some glimpses at his female companions, but that was not the point. The point was that they would soon leave the Qartheen merchant ship that had transported them all the way to the shores of Slaver’s Bay. Once, they would leave the ship, it would be very advisable if Sansa no longer looked like a pretty maid.

That her dark hair had changed back to its natural red color had amused the Septa and their other companions. The boy commonly called young Griff had quickly joined Sansa and had washed off the blueish hair paste he used to hide his silver hair. The ever-grim Griff had grumbled in displeasure, but had accepted the boy’s will after he had argued that he couldn’t meet his bride when he looked like a Tyroshi sellsword.

Looking at the boy now, with his short-cropped silver hair and his bluish-purple eyes, it was not hard to imagine that he was Rhaegar Targaryen’s seed, but then Tyrion had seen many a silver-haired and purple-eyed girl in the brothels of Essos. It wouldn’t be hard to dress up a boy and call him a dragon. That Prince Aegon had been killed as an infant was even more convenient, but there was another piece in this puzzle that made it somewhat believable to Tyrion, namely the existence of old Griff or better said Jon Connington, formerly the Lord of Griffin Roost. Even Tyrion had heard of this man, who had once served as King Aerys Hand of the King and had later been exiled for his failure at the Battle of the Bells. He seemed utterly convinced that the boy was born from his Prince’s seed and Tyrion was sure that many would believe his word. His good-brother Robert hadn’t been wrong when he had believed that there were still those who held sympathies for the Targaryens. The son of Rhaegar Targaryen would receive support from these people, even Tyrion was convinced. Yet his ascension to the throne would also be the death blow for House Lannister, though mayhaps it was just as possible that the boy would prove generous and grant Tyrion what he had always desired, namely Casterly Rock.

Maybe I could even convince the boy to spare Jaime, he mused, though he had his doubts when he thought of old Griff.

“Aye,” the Septa granted the girl and brushed her hand through her shortly-cropped hair. It was plain brown and slightly curled at the edge, now even more so than before. “But cutting it off will be good for your hair.”

Sansa gave her a stunned look and fingered her long hair. Like the Septa she was garbed in her underclothes, her nipples visible through the white wool. Tyrion had to avoid looking at them while the rest of his travelling companions seemed completely unfazed by the women’s state of undress. Griff was seated at a table and reading through a heap of parchments. Haldon was crunching herbs and filling them into small bundles and the tiller’s wife was repairing one of her dresses. Only Duck, who was sparring with young Griff was occasionally stealing glances at the girls.

“How so?” Sansa asked the Septa, her face full of disbelief. “What are you trying to say?”

“Hair gets damaged through such hair pastes, my girl. Young Griff can tell you all about it. Cutting it off will help  to heal the damage.”

“Lemore speaks true,” young Griff agreed with the Septa and brushed his hand through his freshly-cropped silver hair. “Your hair will feel as good as new, my Lady.”

“Very well,” Sansa agreed, but continued pouting. “I shall head “his Grace” advise and hope for the best.”

The boy seemed mightily pleased by Sansa’s agreement and grinned from one ear to the other, though it probably had something to do with the fact Sansa had taken up to call him “his Grace”. And while it didn’t surprise Tyrion that Sansa was acting like that, he found it a bit pre-mature to call the boy “his Grace”. What he had seen of him was promising, but a King needed to be more than a perfectly-trained puppet of his advisors, but perhaps that was exactly what Varys and Illyrio hoped for. The question that remained was if Princess Daenerys Targaryen would allow them to use her in the same manner…

“You won’t regret it, my Lady.”

Thus, Septa Lemore started to cut off Sansa’s mane of red hair. It was a pity to see the pretty hair go, but even Tyrion agreed that it would be better for Sansa to pose as a boy.

Once, the Septa was done Sansa sported shorter hair than Tyrion, but even that couldn’t hide the fact that she had a pretty face. Most men wouldn’t care about the lack of hair. There were plenty of men who would rape a pretty boy just as quickly as a pretty girl.

That is why it didn’t surprise Tyrion when the Septa pressed a small dagger into Sansa’s hand. “Hide it beneath your tunic.”

Sansa’s face had turned to ash when her blue eyes fell upon the dagger in her hand, but she didn’t refuse the gift. Instead she had graced the Septa with an unsure smile and had accompanied Lemore and Ysilla below deck to dress.

Not long after, they returned, Sansa sat down next to Duck, Young Griff, Haldon and Duck, who were breaking their fast on baked snails and roasted onions. Tyrion’s stomach was empty, but what he truly wished for was a cup of wine, a pleasure that had been denied to him by Old Griff. 

No wine, he had told him. We have no need of a drunken dwarf.

“You look lost, Hugor,” the Septa’s voice snapped him back to the present. He had been watching the clouds drifting over the sky. They were beautiful to look upon; pink and purple they were and one looked like a dragon. Maybe it was a sign. “This might help to lift your spirits.”

She was baring her teeth as she showed him the small flagon she had hidden beneath her white robes, clinched at the waist with a woven band of seven colors.

Her smile could have woken a dead man. It was a pretty smile of white. Her teeth were better than most teeth and made him only more convinced that she must have once lived a different kind of life. A commoner wouldn’t have such proper teeth.

That she was a Septa and from the North intrigued him even more. It was common knowledge that the people of the North worshipped the Old Gods. Followers of the Seven were scarce in the North, safe for White Harbor. Mayhaps that is where this odd Septa hailed from, though he doubted she would tell him if he asked her.

“What is it?” he asked and grinned, though he knew what was inside the bottle after she had opened it.

It was wine.

“Ghiscari wine. Dry and bitter, but better than nothing.”

Tyrion preferred Westerosi wine, but he had been starved for wine. He didn’t hesitate to pick the flagon from her hand and took a quick gulp. The wine was as dry and bitter as the Septa had promised, but the taste helped to ease his worries.

“Ah, thank you,” he replied and handed the flagon back to the Septa. “I think you just saved my soul.”

The Septa chuckled and hid the flagon beneath her robes, before her gaze darted to Sansa, who wrinkled her nose as Ysilla roasted another snail over the cookfire.

“The gods do not care for our souls,” the Septa added and jerked her head at the girl. “But this one is very innocent…and quite spoiled. What was Illyrio thinking?”

“I do not know the magister’s mind,” Tyrion replied and drew closer to stand next to the Septa, who was leaning her body against the wooden railing. “As for the girl…she is the daughter of a high lord.”

“A bastard daughter from the North,” the Septa added and frowned. Even when she frowning she looked pretty. Tyrion wasn’t sure, but he believed that she was a bit younger than Cersei. And while she was not as beautiful, there was something enticing about her nimble body and her shapely legs. “Children in the North are rarely cuddled. The girl’s mother must have been from the south. She doesn’t act like a northern girl.”

“You are also from the North, my Lady,” Tyrion countered. “I have never met a Septa hailing from the North.”

“I wasn’t raised in the Faith,” The Septa replied bluntly, her grey eyes meeting his gaze. “I converted when I was a young girl. You would be surprised how eagerly I was welcomed by the Septon.”

“And yet you said that the gods do not care for my soul,” Tyrion repeated her earlier words. “Which makes me believe you do not hold much believe in the Faith or the gods.”

“There are no gods,” the Septa replied almost coldly. “If the gods really existed the world would look differently.”

“How so, my Lady?” he asked with mild curiosity. He had always enjoyed talking about god and the world, especially after he had a sip of wine.  “How would the world be better?”

“The current world is ruled by monsters,” the Septa summed it up. “If the gods existed the world would be ruled by good men. Sadly, that will never be.”

“What you say is true,” Tyrion agreed and eyed the young Prince, who was laughing over one of Duck’s jests. “But I think even good men can become monsters. It is only a matter of time. King Aerys was once a promising King.”

“You are quite right. The Mad King was not always mad,” the Septa countered quickly, her  voice laced with bitterness. “Duskendale turned him into a monster or so I heard. In his youth Robert Baratheon was a good-natured fool with an unsatisfiable lust for women, but in the end he built his throne upon the death of innocents. People say that Aerys lost his crown to Robert because he was a monster, but mayhaps that is the wrong way to look at it. Robert Baratheon slew the monster and became his own kind of monster when he brought about the demise of the Targaryen dynasty.”

Tyrion had listened in silence and was surprised to hear a Northern woman speak so ill of Robert Baratheon, but then she was also a supporter of Prince Aegon. Perhaps her family had been wronged by the Starks. What surprised him even more was that the Septa had spoken as if she had known Robert Baratheon personally.

Tyrion was curious to hear more and thus he decided to play along.

“Robert was a fool,” Tyrion agreed. “He held no interest in being King, which is why he failed so miserably in every way possible. His greatest accomplishment was that he at least didn’t burn people alive. Well, his Hand, Jon Arryn must have been convinced that he would make a good King.”

“Jon Arryn was always a blind fool,” the Septa snorted. “Robert Baratheon could have pissed into a cup and Jon Arryn would have called it the finest wine in the Seven Kingdoms. It doesn’t surprise me that he was blind to Robert’s failures, but even so, Jon Arryn was said to be an honorable man and not cruel of nature. It surprises me that he didn’t talk Robert out of wedding Tywin Lannisters’s daughter, the man responsible for the death of Aegon’s mother and sister. Truly, it makes me question Jon Arryn’s supposed honor. Tywin Lannister lifted not a single finger for the rebel’s cause, but in the end he got a crown for his daughter, which only confirms what I said earlier. The world is ruled by monsters and to rule there is no other way but to become a monster yourself or better said ‘the right kind of monster’.”

Finished with her rant she fell silent and slipped her hand beneath her robes, bringing forth the flagon. She drank deeply, before offering the flagon to him again.

She must have noticed his stunned expression, for she didn’t hesitate to address the elephant in the room.

“I knew Robert Baratheon personally,” she explained and sighed deeply. “It might surprise you, but I was one of Lady Lyanna Stark’s ladies.”

This explained a lot, but the way she had spoken about his late good-brother had sounded so personally…

“You dislike him,” Tyrion remarked and recalled the stretch marks he had seen while she had undressed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he stole your maidenhead, my Lady. I heard he was a lusty man and you are a beautiful woman.”

“And you are a clever dwarf,” the Septa snapped back and frowned. She didn’t seem angry, but she took another sip from her flagon of wine. “Well, you are wrong. Robert Baratheon never stole my maidenhead. I gave it to the man I loved, the man I chose. He is dead now, murdered by his rival and the man my father wanted to force upon me. The man I loved…he was married.”

The way she had said the last part confused Tyrion. It had sounded like regret.

“Many men are wed and take other women to bed,” Tyrion remarked and shrugged his shoulders. “Is that why you became a Septa? To repent for your sins?”

The Septa shook her head and put the flagon of wine away.

“Perhaps, but the real reason was less admirable. I became a Septa to flee from the man that murdered my beloved…and from certain death.”

“Death?” Tyrion asked. “Was this rival so intent on killing you, my Lady?”

“No, I am sure he would have wed me anyway, but he would have also expected me to birth him babes…,” she trailed off and sucked in a deep breath. Then, she averted her gaze, as if she didn’t want him to see the expression her face. Tyrion imagined her grey eyes wet. “My first babe nearly killed me and the nursemaid said I would be best for me to avoid having more babes. That is the real reason I fled, I wanted to live. Five years, I lived as a Septa, before I met Lord Connington and Prince Aegon…now I feel useful again. That is why I am here. I want to see the boy succeed.”

And yet it doesn’t explain why you hate Robert Baratheon , Tyrion mused.

“And your lost babe?” he asked and jerked his head at Prince Aegon. “The boy…Prince Aegon holds much affection for you, my Lady. The boy gives you comfort, doesn’t he?”

Tyrion didn’t know why, but within the blink of a moment the Septa’s head had snapped around, her sharp grey eyes piercing into his. He realized at once that he had overstepped his bounds when she leaned closer and gritted her teeth like a wild animal, ready to tear him apart. Only in the last moment, she regained her composure and exhaled deeply.

“Your wrong,” she replied and shrugged her shoulders.  “My babe is not lost and Aegon had a mother that loved him. I could never replace her nor do I wish to replace my babe with Aegon. I didn’t leave my son willingly. My brother ‘stole’ my babe and that is all I will say about this topic.”

“Understood,” Tyrion replied and graced her with an assuring smile. “I have committed my own share of sins. I would never judge you, my Lady.”

The Septa smiled at him warmly. It was the kind of smile Tyrion Lannister had seldom received in his lifetime. Most were appalled by his appearance, but it seemed the Septa was one of the few people in this world who weren’t disgusted by him. Tysha, his first wife, had been one of these people, but even that had turned out to be another lie. She had been a whore and had deceived him.

“Mayhaps one of these days you might want to share them.”

Tyrion felt the sudden urge to do that, but then he recalled who he was and banished these foolish thoughts to the blackest corner of his mind.

He still returned her smile.

“Mayhaps I will. But I would need better wine.”

“Bad luck for you,” the Septa replied and shrugged her shoulders. “I doubt we will get much wine where we are going. It is going to be a dangerous travel.”

Tyrion could only nod in agreement.

“Very dangerous indeed, my Lady.”

…

Chapter Text

Jon

Everywhere he turned he found darkness. It felt as if the darkness was trying to choke him to death, like so often when he dared enter the crypts of Winterfell.

As children he and Robb had often played among the statues of the Kings of old, pretending to be Lords and Kings. Sometimes, they recalled their names and their histories through the lessons they had learned from Maester Luwin.

By now their stone faces were as familiar to him as the faces of his siblings.

As always, he felt their piercing looks in his back as he continued to move along the dark corridor, trying not to stumble over his own feet.

He felt cold and warm, his heart thrumming loudly as he moved deeper and deeper into the crypts.

He hesitated for a moment when he passed his grandfather’s statue. His had a long and solemn face like his Uncle. Lord Stark had rarely spoken about him and even less about his Uncle Brandon and his Aunt…no, his mother, Lady Lyanna Stark.

Her statue was the only woman in the crypts. As a child, he had often wondered about this fact. 

It was because his father loved her so much, Robb had offered as a possible explanation, but Jon had his doubts.

If he loved my mother so much why did he treat Jon, her only child, like a fool?

He was afraid, his guilt-ridden mind whispered. He was only a man. Wouldn’t you have done the same to protect your own children?

Jon knew all that and yet the resentment was still there, poisoning his heart.

Mayhaps Ser Barristan was right. He would have to let go of his anger if he wanted to move forward.

It made him wonder what his mother would have thought of his Uncle’s actions.

His mother’s statue showed a beautiful maid, but looking at a statute was not the same as having a real mother of flesh and blood.

The only woman who could have served as his mother had been Lady Stark, but she had always hated him.

Thinking of her, only helped to increase his resentment. Would she have been more tolerant of him if Lord Stark had told her truth?

Jon thought not, for then he would have posed and even greater danger for her children.

She would have hated me either way, he knew and stretched out his hand towards his mother’s folded stone hands, but stopped when a cold current of wind washed over him, making his blood breeze.

Jon’s head snapped around, his hair fluttering around his face as he stared into an abyss of darkness.

Suddenly, he felt fear. Incredibly fear, his heart pounding violently.

He had dreamed this dream a hundred times, the darkness always waiting for him.

Sometimes, he also heard the whispering of the dead.

You don’t belong here, they whispered. You are not one of us.

Now he knew why. He was no wolf, but a dragon. Or better said half a dragon.

Still, he felt that there was something down there, hidden in the darkness of the crypts. A secret that needed to be unlocked.

His breathing grew labored as he continued to climb down the steps, the world around him growing colder and colder.

He closed his eyes to forget about the pain, but when he opened them again he realized that he was chained, the clinking metal around his neck choking him.

In his ears he herd the roar of his brother.

He sounded angry. Oh, so very angry. He was longing for the taste of blood.

It scared Jon, his breath coming faster and faster, a bright flame lightening up the world around him…

“Jon,” a soft and familiar voice roused him from his blackness. “Jon.”

He knew it was Daenerys, her warm body brushing against his. She was looking down at him with a mixture of amusement and worry.

“Are you well?” she asked and touched his cheek. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Not a nightmare,” Jon explained and pondered for a moment whether he should tell her the truth. “Only a recurring dream. Sometimes, I am dreaming that I am Ghost and at other times I am dreaming of home or better said the crypts of Winterfell.”

“The crypts of Winterfell?” Daenerys asked, her eyebrows rising to the top of her head. She was naked, but the furs she had wrapped around her concealed her slender from.

Not that it mattered. He had seen all of her last night and had kissed every part of her body.

The thought made his cock harden, but there was also shame.

We shouldn’t have done this, he had told her last night, but he had broken his vow the very same night. They had done it a second and a third time, though his Aunt hadn’t complained.

On the contrary. She had been very eager.

And now he was lusting after again. Mayhaps Lady Stark had been right all along.

Bastards were lusty and wicked creatures.

You are no bastard, he reminded himself, but it was the touch of Daenerys’ lips on his cheek that made him forget about Lady Stark.

“The crypts of Winterfell are the resting place of the Stark family,” he whispered against her lips. “My siblings and I used to play there when we were children. As I said…it is not the first I dreamed of the crypts. My forebearers told me that I don’t belong here. Now I know why.”

“That is nonsense,” Daenerys’ countered, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You are half a Stark, are you not? Why would they hate you?”

Daenerys had a point, but there had to be a reason for these dreams.

“I don’t know,” he admitted and angled his head to look at the window, pale light falling through the shutters. “Mayhaps it was only a silly dream.”

Soon they would have to return to their assigned task: to prepare the city for the coming battle.

That thought scared him even more now, especially when he looked at Daenerys.

They would rape and murder her.

No, I won’t allow that to happen, he swore to himself. Never.

“Mayhaps was only the result of a restless mind,” she offered as a possible explanation and brushed his hair out of his face, her lips bruised from their ardent kissing. She had more signs of his mouth on her body. Around her neck and between her breasts.

She must have had a similar thought, for her hand had slipped beneath the bedding to touch him.

Lustful as he was, he closed his eyes and allowed the feelings of pleasure to overwhelm him. As always, Daenerys stopped at the hight of pleasure and graced him with a wicked smile.

“Your turn,” she said and spread her legs wide. He knew what she wanted and buried his head between her thighs.

If someone had told him that he would end up like this he would have laughed.

Her gasps of pleasure and her squirming movements told him that she was close.

He decided to repay her for her earlier actions.

He stopped abruptly and lifted his head to look at her.

He graced her with a smile and brushed the slickness from his mouth.

It made him long to bury himself inside her.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked, her chest heaving with anticipation.

Her deep violet eyes were as black as the night as he moved between her legs, burying himself deep.

“Good,” she gasped, her head rolling backwards. Jon thrust deeper and crashed his mouth against hers, her legs spread wide. “Don’t stop…don’t hold back.”

Jon had been too lost to his desires to refuse, their mouths crashing together anew as she wrapped her legs around him while he continued to move at a quick pace.

“Faster…,” she whispered, no ordered him. Jon tried to oblige as best as possible, his own breathing labored and his mind clouded. He had bedded whores, but he was no bull. There was only so long he could endure this.

She shuddered beneath him, her fingers digging in his shoulder blades.

He closed his eyes, trying to forget about his own pleasure, but it was hard to focus when his insides were aflame and his release overwhelmed him.

Still buried inside her, he collapsed on top of her, his head buried between her pert breasts.

“It is close to dawn,” she remarked after his breathing had calmed down, her hand brushing through his sweaty hair. “I should return or my handmaids will worry.”

“Aye, you should,” he murmured, but she made no attempt to move, her legs still loosely wrapped around his waist. “What will happen now?”

“We will play our roles,” she replied and caressed his face, forcing him to look at her. “And we have a battle to win.”

She had smiled when she said these words, but she had also looked sad.

Jon couldn’t help but to feel that she was hiding something from him…

…

Chapter Text

The Sun’s Son

Quentyn couldn’t help  but to notice the signs of battle. Black scorched marks stained the buildings and most of the mansions they had passed by were occupied by women and weeping children.

Many of them must have fled here from Astapor, because they looked gaunt and exhausted, just as Quentyn and his companions. They had travelled for days and by the sixth day they had used up their food and several of their horses had perished.

Quentyn had almost wept when Daenerys Targaryens’ outriders had found them. At first, they had threatened them, but welcomed them after they had explained  their purpose.

Exhausted and drenched in sweat, Quentyn had arrived at Yunkai, but now after he had laid eyes on the massive pyramid looming in the distance, he was beginning to feel anxious.

“Come along, my friends,” the blue-haired sellsword named Daario waved his hand and graced them with a golden smile. He had made fast friends with Greenguts and Quentyn hoped that they could use this to their advantage. “The Queen is waiting for you.”

Quentyn managed only to nod in silence and sucked in a deep breath.

Daario guided them beyond a massive stone door, a handful of Unsullied following them as they went. Golden torches lined the walls and braziers flickered in the darkness of the corridors, blurring the colorful paintings that lined the walls of the Great Pyramid. The language was foreign to Quentyn, but he believed it to be Ghiscari, for everywhere he looked he saw the imagines of harpies, the sign of the masters that had once ruled over this city.

Deeper and deeper they were led into the pyramid. Numerous steps followed and more paintings full of harpies and naked humans, before they arrived at two wooden doors, carved with even more harpies and a golden whip.

Four stone-faced Unsullied pulled the door open as if their weight meant nothing to them.  As he swept his gaze through the hall of pink marble he noticed more Unsullied. All of them were armed with shields, helmets and spears. Their tips glinted like diamonds whenever the sunlight fell upon them.

Yet they were not the only warriors present. There were sun-kissed men garbed in leather and armed with winding arakhs, the weapons of the Dothraki. Their black eyes met his across the hall, watching him and his companions.

Quentyn tried his best to ignore them and followed Daario up the broad steps leading up to the wooden bank that been placed in the middle of the spacious chamber.

There, seated beneath a ray of sunlight, he found Princess Daenerys Targaryen.

“You stand before Daenerys Targaryen,” a young girl, seated on a cushion informed them and gave them a dozen of more titles that were nothing but a blur to Quentyn Martell’s ears, his heart pounding loudly, drowning out all sound around him.

Quentyn had seen many a pretty girl in his life, but the girl he saw before him was a different kind of beauty. Her finely-shaped face could have been carved by an artist. Her silver locks looked like beams of moonlight and her large eyes reminded him of amethysts.  Even her rather simply clothing didn’t dim her breathtaking beauty. She wore a simple red tunic, fastened with a leather belt, sandals and a crimson cloak wound over her shoulders. Her only jewels were the small bells fastened on her braid.

“This is Pretty Meris,” Daario introduced their assigned leader to his Queen. If Pretty Meris was actually pretty, Quentyn would have felt much more at ease, but nothing could be further from the truth. Pretty Meris was six feet tall and earless, with a slit nose, deep scars in both cheeks and had eyes as cold as ice.

Next came Hugh Hungerford, all long-faced and clad in faded finery. Webber was short and muscular, with spider tattoos littering his head and chest. Red-faced Orson Stone introduced himself as a knight and so did Lucifer Long. Will of the Woods, a boy of ten and six, eyed the Princess’ bosom even as he knelt.

Quentyn only hoped he and his companions would make a better appearance.

The Princess’s violet eyes had followed them all the way up the steps. Quentyn was relieved to see a hesitant smile curling on her pink lips.

It was then that he noticed the presence of an old and young men. The old man was garbed in polished plate, a snow-white cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He looked as if he was posing as a member of the Kingsguard.

The young man was garbed in black and greyish clothing, black trousers that were tucked into worn-out leather boots and a black cloak that was wound over his shoulder. The only colorful part of his clothing was the red fleck his cloak. At first, Quentyn couldn’t make out what it showed, but after he had stepped closer, he had realized to his astonishment that it was a three-headed dragon.

Quentyn was about to take in the young man’s face, but the Princess’ soft voice called him to attention.

“You may rise, my friends,” the Princess said, her smile intensifying. She had a pretty smile, like sunshine. It seemed his fears of marrying Aerys with tits was unfounded. “My brother Viserys told me that Sunspear stayed loyal to my father when the Usurper stole his throne. I thank you for coming. You must have faced many perils to reach me.”

“Many,” Drink replied with a smile. “We were six when we left, your Grace.”

Her smile faded when she heard this and her grip tightened on her red tunic.

“I am sorry for your loss,” she replied politely and eyed Greenguts. “You have a rather odd name.”

“A jape, your Grace,” Greenguts informed her promptly and bobbed his head. “From the ships. I was greensick the whole way from Volantis. That is where the name came from.”

Surprisingly, the Princess started to laugh, a pink flush creeping up her cheeks.

“I can imagine it, Ser. It is Ser, isn’t it?”

“Knighthood is easily claimed this far from Westeros,” the elderly man remarked, his blue eyes piercing into Greenguts. “Are you prepared to defend this boast with sword or lance?”

“I am,” Drink replied without hesitation. “Though I will not claim that any of us is equal to Ser Barristan the Bold. Forgive us, but we came before you under false names, your Grace.”

“The man beside me did the same,” the Princess remarked, her voice suddenly laced with suspicion. “Tell me your true names, then.”

“Gladly,” Drink replied and dipped his head. “I am Ser Gerris Drinkwater, your Grace. My sword is yours.”

Greenguts simply crossed his arms against his chest and grinned. “And my warhammer. I am called Ser Archibald Yronwood.”

“And you, Ser?” the girl asked Quentyn, who was still frozen in his spot, his feet suddenly weak like pudding.

“Your Grace,” he replied and lowered his head. “May I first present my gift?”

“If you wish,” the Princess replied and watched in silence as he retrieved the faded piece of parchment he had hidden in his boots.

“Give it to me,” the young man offered in a cordial tone and made his way down the steps towards Quentyn. He had a long face, framed by shoulder-length brown hair and unblinking black eyes. “I shall treat it with utmost care. I promise.”

“Jon has my trust,” the Princess assured him. Quentyn complied, handing him the parchment, who in turn handed it to the Princess.

The Princess read quietly while the long-faced young man was watching her intently.

“May we know what it says, your Grace?” asked the elderly man, who had turned out to be no other than Ser Barristan Selmy. Even in Dorne they had heard of his dismissal from the Kingsguard, but that he was here was a pleasant surprise.

Yet it was the Princess’ expression he was watching. His bride or so his father hoped, but there was no smile on her lips as she folded the parchment and looked at Ser Barristan.

“It is a secret pact,” the Princess explained then. “Made in Braavos when I was just a wee girl. Ser William signed for us, the man who spirited my mother and myself from Dragonstone before the Usurper’s men could reach us. Prince Oberyn Martell signed for Dorne, with the Sealord of Braavos as his witness. The allegiance is to be sealed by a marriage. In return for Dorne’s help my brother Viserys was supposed to make Prince Doran’s daughter his Queen.”

The elderly knight nodded his head agreement.

“If Robert had known of this, he would have smashed Sunspear like he had once smashed Pyke.”

“And that was probably the reason Prince Doran chose to keep this pact secret,” the Princess offered, her voice laced with a hint of bitterness. “If my brother Viserys had known that he had a Dornish Princess waiting for him, he would have crossed to Sunspear as soon as he was old enough to wed.”

“And would have brought Robert’s warhammer upon himself,” Quentyn repeated Ser Barristan’s earlier words, finally finding his strength to speak. “My father was content to wait for the day that Prince Viserys found himself an army.”

The Princess looked surprised.

“Your father?”

“Prince Doran,” he offered and knelt. “I am Prince Quentyn Martell.”

The Princess eyes’ widened, but the young man’s face, who had stayed close to the Princess’ side, had turned as white as a slate.

“You came to marry me,” the Princess added and glimpsed briefly at the young man, who immediately backed away as if he had been touched by a flame, putting distance between them. “To get Dorne’s help I must seal this pact, isn’t that so?”

Quentyn didn’t like the tone in her voice. She sounded bitter.

“My father hoped you might find me acceptable,” he replied politely, trying to keep his composure. “Dorne has fifty thousand spears to offer, your Grace.”

“A generous offer,” the Princess replied and bit her lips, her violet eyes darting back to the young man, who was staring at Quentyn as if he wanted to say something. Then, she sucked in a deep breath and waved her hand at the young man, as if to introduce him. “But first you must be introduced to another relative of mine…my nephew…Jon Snow.”

Quentyn didn’t know what to say, the young man’s odd name echoing in his ears.

That she had called him her nephew confused her only more.

It was still long and framed by plain brown hair.

It made no sense. Viserys had been a child when he had been exiled and this young man was around Quentyn’s age.

“Are you jesting with me, your Grace?” he asked in an unsure tone and shifted his attention to the young man. “Aren’t you a bit too old to be Prince Viserys’ son?”

The young man’s face turned even grimmer, his dark eyes narrowed and his right fist clenched.

“I am not Prince Viserys’ son,” he explained and lowered his head in greeting. “My father was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen…,” he continued. Then, stopped and swallowed hard, his fist opening and closing again in the same breath. “And Lady Lyanna Stark.”

The young man’s answer was met with deadly silence.

Quentyn didn’t know what to say, for the answer made no sense.

He knew about Prince Rhaegar’s entanglement with Lady Lyanna Stark, but had never heard of a child being born from their unholy union.

“Wasn’t the Stark girl raped?” Drink asked, breaking the silence. Quentyn felt the urge to throttle him when he saw the Princess’ shocked face.

“She was not raped!” the young snapped back as quickly as a whip. There was something wolfish about the way he brushed his hand over the pommel of his word. It was clearly a gesture of threat. “My mother wasn’t raped. It was a lie made up by my Uncle Eddard Stark to hide the truth. My mother loved my father and they were wed in the Faith of the Old Gods, the gods of my people. I was born a few moons after the sack of King’s Landing…in a tower in Dorne.”

“It is known,” Greenguts repeated. “Lyanna Stark was kept in a tower in Dorne and died.”

“Aye,” the young man named Jon Snow confirmed, his voice trembling with emotions. “She died there…she bled to death. Afterwards, my Uncle took me to Winterfell to raise me as his bastard son…Jon Snow.”

Quentyn had listened in silence, his head thrumming with pain from all these lies.

It couldn’t be true.

It was utter madness.

“You said Prince Rhaegar married your mother, boy,” Drink repeated mockingly, his hand brushing over his sword. “He was already wed. Whatever vow your mother gave to Prince Rhaegar means nothing. You are still a bastard.”

“My forebearers took second wives before,” the Princess Daenerys offered in obvious displeasure “And do not call him boy. His name is Jon Snow.”

It was easy to see that she held liking for this liar. Mayhaps he was even more than that. He was a comely young man and her age.

Yes. That was the only possible explanation. This young man must have been able to fool the Princess.

It wasn’t impossible. It would not be hard to make up such a tale…

“It is fine,” the young man assured the Princess and searched Quentyn’s face. “I do not care if you believe me, but it is true. I am Prince Rhaegar’s son and I am aware what your father and family must think of this. I do not care whether my mother’ vows are considered false or not. I am here for the same reason as you…I want to help my Aunt to retake the throne. Surely, that is common ground we could build on?”

Quentyn saw that Drink was about to open his mouth and waved his hand at him.

He was done playing Froggy the squire. He had to act a Prince, even if he felt like a foolish boy.

And the best way was to play along until he understood what game was being played here.

Thus, he met the Princess’ gaze and forced a smile over his lips.

“I did not come here for Lyanna Stark’s son. I came to find you…and my offer still stands.”

The Princess nodded her head and exchanged another quiet look with Jon Snow, before answering.

“I shall think about your words, my Prince,” she replied. “But first I must win the next battle. Until then, you are my guests. I would like to hear more about Dorne and I think my nephew shares this feeling.”

…

Chapter Text

Daenerys

The horizon was flecked with orange and red streaks, blurring together like a strange painting. The sun itself was fat and looked like a freshly boiled egg.

Even so, the air was chilly and an even chillier appearance made the enemy, who had erected their camp on the slanting sandstone ridge spreading south from the city.

Their approach had been shadowed by the thick birchwood forest they had crossed, but the enemy was not far and had yet to move from its position.

They are waiting for us to attack. So much Jon, Ser Barristan, Daario and Greyworm had agreed on but they had yet to decide what to do about it.

While they had prepared Yunkai for a potential siege, they had also agreed that avoiding such a siege would be even better. Dany had left enough Unsullied in Meereen to defend the city, but she didn’t like the idea of staying away for too long. New Ghis could easily transport more legions by ship to Meereen.

“Looks like Ser Froggy told us the truth. There are two Ghiscari legions waiting for us, which means around eight to ten-thousand men,” Daario estimated, his gaze narrowed against the bright sunlight. “But we shouldn’t forget about the two sellsword companies…the Company of the Cat and the Windblown.”

“Prince Quentyn told us that half a legion perished from the plague and that a second legion lost a third of their men. These two legions over there are supposedly a mixture of fresh and old troops and some of them are still recovering from the plague. The sellswords supposedly suffered a similar fate…Only the Windblown were relatively unaffected by the trap we laid out for them. It seems the Tattered Prince saw through it.”

Daario laughed. “The old man has a sharp mind. The Bloodbeard always liked mocking him. Well, in the end it was the old man who survived.”

“So much is true,” Ser Barristan agreed and stroked his snow-white beard. “But that doesn’t mean this old man can be trusted. He is still a sellsword.”

“The Tattered Prince has been toiling for thirty years to ret-take Pentos. It is his heart’s desire. If Pentos won’t convince him to come over then nothing will. The fact, that he sent his men to us also tells me that he is not confident in his allies’ victory.”

“True, but they could also be spies,” Jon countered, his dark gaze darting to the river that spread beyond the ridge. “I also think a cautious man like the Tattered Prince won’t change sides until he sees that the battle is “decided” in our favor. That is why I think we shouldn’t count on his support when we decide on our battle plans.”

Dany swallowed hard and searched Jon’s face. He had kept his distance since their meeting with the Dornish envoy, but that was no surprise to her. ‘Elia Martell’ was a difficult topic for Jon and for her as well.

Despite Rhaegar’s actions, Dany couldn’t bring herself to hate her brother. What he had done was reckless, but then she wasn’t much better.

Her younger self would have readily accepted Quentyn Martell’s offer, but now she felt conflicted.

It weren’t just her affections for Jon that held her back, but also the fact that she couldn’t bear children.

Sure, she could hide the truth. But for how long? No, she wouldn’t want to live like that.

First we have to win this battle, she reminded herself and graced Jon with a warm smile. One step after another.

“Then, we should return to Yunkai to decide on our battle plans,” Dany offered when Jon didn’t reply.

Jon’s serious face softened a little and for the blink of a moment she got a brief glimpse at the young man that had eagerly shared her bed.

“Aye, we shouldn’t waste more time,” Jon agreed and kicked his feet in the sides of his horse. “Better today than on the morrow.”

Dany and the others followed, the Unsullied flanking them.

“They outnumber us one to two,” Ser Barristan summed up their dilemma after they had assembled to speak about their battle plans. “And they have high ground, though they would have to assemble their troops on the flat ground beneath the ridge if they wanted to engage us in battle.”

 “If…if…if,” Daario repeated in amusement. “They don’t make the impression that they are going to attack us soon. Well, eventually their rations will start dwindling and then they will be forced to leave their hiding place.”

“That could take days or weeks,” Dany added disapprovingly. “We have already wasted more than two weeks. I can’t leave Meereen undefended. We need to lure them from the hill and defeat them.”

“That won’t be hard,” Jon replied and eyed the map spread over the oval table. They had already placed four wooden figurines on the table which were meant to represent the enemy. “I am sure they are eager to fight us. They are just waiting for us to attack and that is why I think we should give them what they want.”

“That is obvious, but would be a very bold move,” Daario remarked with a hint of mockery. “They lost men, but at the end of the day they still have more men than us. How many men did the Company of the Cat lose again?”

“Prince Quentyn estimates that about two third of the Company of the Cat perished from the plague,” Dany replied.

“That means that the Company of the Cat and the Windblown must amount to roughly three-thousand cavalry men while we have barely one thousand. That means we are in danger of being outflanked,” Ben Plumm added.

“That depends entirely on how they will arrange their troops,” Jon countered and shifted his attention to Ser Barristan, who had listened to their exchange in silence. “What do you think, Ser Barristan? How would you fight us if you were the enemy?”

Barristan frowned and leaned over the map, pondering Jon’s question, before giving his thoughts on the matter.

“I would use the river to protect my right flank and place all my cavalry on the left flank. My superior numbers would allow me to go deep and pin down the enemy. Once this is achieved, I would bring in my cavalry and attack the enemy’s weaker flank,” Ser Barristan trailed off, his blue eyes flickering from Dany to Jon.

“Exactly,” Jon agreed and furrowed his brow as he picked up the wooden figurines that were meant to represent their own troops. He assembled three wooden figurines next to each other and another, the one that looked like a horse, at their right flank.  “And I think that is why we should encourage such an attack. By luring the enemy to attack our cavalry they would bare their left flank to us.”

“To attack their flanks would be easier than to break through the center,” Greyworm agreed, his gaze fixed on the wooden figurines.

“That sounds good in theory,” Daario remarked in displeasure. “But it is more likely that the enemy will simply overwhelm our cavalry and outflank us!”

“I know, but there is something we could do,” Jon replied calmly and placed another figurine close to the cavalry. “Sadly, it would mean to thin our lines further…we could form a smaller fourth line and hide it behind our cavalry. The whirled-up dust should hide our true intentions well enough and the Unsullied’s spears should make quick work of the enemy’s cavalry.”

“I like the idea,” Dany agreed hesitatingly and shifted her attention to Greyworm. “What do you think, Greyworm? Do you think you we can afford thinning your lines further?”

“The Unsullied will stand strong, your Grace,” Greyworm promised without hesitation. “Forming a fourth line should be possible and the Unsullied’s spears shall bring disorder to the enemy’s cavalry.”

“Are you sure?” she asked again and searched Greyworm’s ever unreadable face. “I do not wish to sacrifice your men unnecessarily.” 

She believed to see a flicker of emotion in Greyworm’s dark eyes. Was it gratefulness or fear, she couldn’t say.

“The Unsullied will stand strong, your Grace,” Greyworm promised again and dipped his head as if to emphasize his promise.

“It is a nice idea,” Daario granted in obvious annoyance and exchanged a brief glance with Ben Plumm. “I guess me and Ben Plumm will be the bait?”

“Only one of you,” Ser Barristan added. “I think you forgot that someone needs to man the city walls.”

“Ben Plumm can do that…” Daario began, but Dany cut him off.

“You heard right. Ben Plumm will lead the cavalry. You will stay behind and command the freedmen manning the city walls…an important task,” Dany explained, but hid her true reasons. Ben Plumm and Daario were both sellswords, but she had always found Ben Plumm more trustworthy, especially after she had spurned Daario’s attentions. She didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks.

“You want me to hide away like a coward?” Daario asked in shock. He looked like a child that had been deprived of his favorite toy.

“Someone has to do it,” Dany insisted. “And I am sure Ben Plumm will take good care of your men.”

“I shall do that,” Ben Plumm promised and graced Daario with an assuring smile. “Do not fret, Daario. It is me who is soon going to piss himself while you can watch us from the city walls.”

“You shall not be alone,” Greyworm added. “The fourth line will be there to protect you. I do not think her Grace wants to sacrifice your men.”

“Greyworm speaks true. I shall accompany our men to battle,” Dany assured Ben Plumm. “I shall not hide behind city walls.”

Jon’s gaze widened in displeasure and his lips changed to a thin line.

Yet he didn’t speak out against her decision.

“I understand and I shall stay beside you,” he assured her instead.

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan interrupted, seeking her gaze across the table. “I must ask you…,” he began, but Dany cut him off.

“I shall not hide behind city walls. We win or die together.”

“We will win or die together,” Jon repeated and met her gaze, a ghost of a smile curling on his pale lips.

Jon’s words gave her a surge of confidence .

“Then, we should prepare for battle.”

The next hours were spent on who to deploy their troops and other details. She nodded her head and asked her questions, but in the end realized that she had to trust them with this.

And yet she couldn’t help but to feel a hint of resentment. She was no fighter like Jon, Ser Barristan, Greyworm or Daario, but if she had control over Drogon she could simply mount him and frighten the slavers away. Sadly, Drogon hadn’t been seen since she had chained Viserion and Rhaegal.

He must hate me for what I did to his brothers, she realized and pulled her feet to her chest. The water in her wooden basin was lukewarm and Irri, who had been attending to her, had fallen asleep next to the warm brazier. She could have called for Jhiqui and Missandei, but she didn’t want to disturb their peace either.

Quietly, she crawled out of the bath and retrieved her tunic and belt. Then, she pulled the woolen garment over her head and fastened it with her belt, before making her way over to Irri.

Gently, she touched her shoulder and whispered into her ear.

“Irri, wake up!”

The girl’s head snapped up immediately, her dark eyes wide in shock.

“Forgive me…,” she was about to apologize, but Dany grasped her shoulders and silenced him with a shake of her head.

“No need, my friend,” she assured her and kissed her cheek. “You must be tired. Leave me now.”

“As you wish,” Irri replied with a smile and left Dany to her own thoughts.

Not knowing what to do with herself, she sat down and started to brush her hair. After she had left Qarth it hadn’t been longer than her small finger. Irri had bemoaned the loss of Dany’s silver locks, but Dany herself found the long hair more a bother than a blessing unless it was tightly braided.

Truly, it was silly to think about her hair when they could all be dead on the morrow. She had considered calling for Jon, but then she was sure he would refuse such an offer to keep up appearances.

My nephew can be an honorable fool, she thought with annoyance after she had arranged her hair into a simple braid. It wasn’t as proper as Missandei or Jhiqui would have done it, but it was better than to wake up with her hair in complete disarray.

That was another silly thought, she realized as she took a glance in the small looking glass that had been a gift from Magister Illyrio.

She froze in surprise when she noticed someone’s presence, but relaxed when she realized that it was Jon.

“Irri assured me you are alone,” he explained to her, a slight blush creeping up his pale cheeks. “Nobody saw me.”

Dany furrowed her brows and felt the urge to chide him, but then she decided against it. The fact that he came on his own accord meant much more to her than words could say.

“I don’t care about that,” she assured him as she drew closer, loosening her belt. “Especially not when we could die on the morrow.”

“We won’t die,” Jon replied without hesitation. “The enemy has more men, but many of them are sick.”

“You didn’t sound as confident when we were planning for the coming battle,” Dany remarked with a smile and discarded her belt.

“It is always better to plan for the worst and hope for the best,” he explained with a smile, his dark gaze darting to her lips.

Dany chuckled and grasped his hand, placing it on her chest.

His expression was serious and unreadable.

“Is that wise?” he asked, his voice strained and distant to her ears. Yet she could see how blown his eyes were. He wanted her.

Smiling, she leaned forward and touched his cheek.

“Prince Quentyn’s offer is generous, but I have no intention to simply go along with his demands. I understand why his father kept the pact hidden, but the Martells didn’t lift a single finger to help me and my brother after Ser William’s unfortunate death. They could have at least helped us through a middleman. My impression is that Prince Doran Martell is not doing this out of loyalty for my family, but to satisfy his own ambitions.”

“That is so,” Jon agreed and touched her hand. “But all high lords seek to satisfy their ambitions. I doubt Prince Doran Martell is worse than these other lords. And while Dorne may not be as powerful as the other kingdoms, it offers one advantage…it is hard to conqueror. Dorne would provide you with a good landing place for your invasion. From Dorne could easily move on into the Stormlands and then to King’s Landing. Taking the capital is the first thing you must do.”

What Jon had told her made sense, but she didn’t want to depend on the Dornish. She wanted to stand on her own two feet.

“Viserys was so desperate that he believed every lie spilling from Magister Illyrio’s lips. He gave me to Khal Drogo before making sure that he would keep his bargain,” she explained and forced him to look at her. “I shan’t make the same mistake. I will not agree to any bargains until I have placed my feet on Westerosi soil.”

 “That makes sense,” Jon added and leaned closer, but  pulled away suddenly when she didn’t move. He looked torn, his hand gently brushing over her shoulder, making her shudder.

His answer didn’t satisfy her, but then couldn’t marry him either. She was barren and Jon the only one who could continue the Targaryen line.

She should tell him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so.

It was selfish, but she didn’t want to think about the future. At least not now when they could die on the morrow.

Once more she wanted to know his embrace.

Thus, she brushed her doubts away and leaned closer to place a soft kiss on his lips.

“Do you want me to marry him?” she asked after she had pulled away, searching his face.

Jon looked as if someone had slapped him.

“Gods no!” Jon snapped back, his features changing into the wolfish expression it always took when he was angry. “Why would you even think that? I didn’t want to appear too forward…,” he continued, but  Dany silenced him with a kiss.

Jon didn’t hesitate to return her kiss, pushing apart her lips and pulling on her tunic.

“You are suddenly in such a hurry…,” she remarked after she had pulled her tunic over her head, leaving her completely bare.

“That’s because I don’t want to waste any time,” he returned and was upon her again, his lips tasting hers greedily, leaving barely space to move.

Eventually, she managed to break way and slipped her hand beneath his tunic to work the laces of his breeches. Once she was done, he grabbed her and lifted her to straddle his waist. Dany though he might dump her on the rug or her bed of cushions, but instead he bushed her against the wall, kissing and touching her wherever his hands could reach.

He took her like that, in a frenzy of desire he hadn’t shown before, marking her neck as he was losing himself inside her.

Not that Dany minded. It was what she had craved, a distraction from her restless mind.

…

Chapter Text

Robb

Robb felt the sweat clinging to his body as he moved across the narrow path leading through the swampy landscape of the Neck. These were the lands of the crannogmen, people of slender build which made it easier for them to move through these small paths covered with thick foliage and infested with swarms of flies.

Lord Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watch, had sent them a score of men to lead them through the wilderness. Robb himself had chosen roughly a few hundred men to accompany him on this perilous path to circumvent Moat Cailin and to drive out the Ironborn that still occupied the castle.

For half a day, they had wandered through the wilderness, their boots sinking deep into the wet ground no matter where they went. At times, Robb had felt the urge to turn around, but their guide’s encouragement had eased his fears.

Moat Cailin is not far, my Lord. Just a bit of patience and we will be there.  

That had been hours ago and by now it must be late in the evening, though that was hard to say. The sky was barely visible through the thick tree crowns.

“We are almost there, my Lord,” the leader of the crannogmen told him for the third time in the last hour and pointed ahead, stopping the column of men in their tracks.

“Are you sure?” Galbert Glover inquired. Not far from him loomed Dacey Mormont, Robin Flint and the Smalljon Umber, all of them members of his Wolfsguard. Greywind or so he believed to sense, must also be close. He had dreamed of him tonight and had seen him kill a bear. He had also woken with the taste of blood in his mouth.

“Aye, I am sure,” their guide confirmed and shifted his attention to Robb. He was a slender man with a mob of black hair and bright green eyes. He was a distant relative of Lord Reed or so the man had told him not long ago. “But we should move slow and carefully.”

“Aye, let’s be careful,” Robb agreed and drew closer. To move through the thick foliage he had to adapt a crouching position, but now that it was growing sparser he could straighten himself.

Relief washed over him when the ruins of Moat Cailin became visible through the soft mist that concealed the ancient ruins.

“Well done,” Robb thanked their guide and turned back to Lady Dacey Mormont. Robb had personally tasked her with caring for their ravens after the Lady had told him that her Grand-Uncle had shown her how to care for these kinds of birds when she was a young child. “It is time to send out the ravens. Our men are waiting for the sign.”

These men consisted mostly of Robb’s host that had accompanied him when he had ridden south to save his Lord Father’s life. Only the host under the command of Roose Bolton that Robb had sent to secure Harrenhall had yet to join them.

“I agree, my Lord,” their guide said approvingly. “The fog should serve us well and my people have been pestering the Ironborn with constant attacks, but they still outnumber us.”

“Aye,” Robb said and nodded his head in understanding. “But according to Lord Manderly, Victarion has taken the brunt of the Ironborn forces with him when he left Moat Cailin. The rumors also say that Balon Greyjoy died.”

“Good for the Ironborn,” the Smalljon mocked, his voice laced with bitterness. “But bad for us. Now you won’t be able to kill Balon Greyjoy yourself, my Lord.”

“I certainly won't grieve for Balon Greyjoy’s death,” Robb countered coldly. “But Bran and Rickon were killed by Theon’s hands, a man I treated like my brother. This isn’t about the House Stark and House Greyjoy. This is much more personal. It’s Theon’s head I desire. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“And to retake the North,” Robb added when the Smalljon had stared back at him in silence. “We shall butcher every single Ironborn remaining in the North, but I have no intention to start another war with the new Lord of the Iron Islands. I have killed enough and I want to go home.”

“We understand,” Lady Dacey added with an assuring smile and called her men to her side. He was carrying the cage with the ravens. “And the ravens are ready.”

Robb returned her smile and nodded his head in agreement. The message was two words long, but it took several tries until the bird calmed down enough to fasten the scroll around its feet.

The purpose for the ravens was simple. They were meant to inform the army located south to begin their attack up the causeway leaving Robbs small group unimpeded to attack the Ironbron from the rear.

The hardest part came next. The wait for the battle.

They hid away in the thick foliage, watching the ruins in the distance, though that was harder than expected.

The closer dusk came the thicker the fog grew. It was both an advantage and a disadvantage. It would make it hard to see further than an arm-length, but would also make easier to conceal their movement.

Their only source of light were the stars glinting at the distant horizon and the lights glimmering in the bent and broken towers.

The battle was announced by the sound of arrows.

Robb didn’t hesitate to free his blade and followed after their brave guides.

His pounding heart was drowning out all other sounds and his senses heightened even more as he freed himself from the embrace of the thick foliage.

Leaving the swamp behind him felt freeing and the familiar sight of Moat Cailin’s ruins was a welcome sight.

Great blocks of black basalt lay scattered and half-sunken into the ground, the three remaining towers cast in thick mist.  They were bent like the back of an old hag and looked as if they would fall apart any moment.

And yet, Robb knew better. He had once resided in one of these towers. They had endured for hundreds of years and even a handful of Ironborn wouldn’t change that fact.

The archers hiding in these towers were an even greater danger to Robb’s host. They were the ones that needed to die first.

“After me!” Robb whispered and lifted his blade. “We must secure the towers.”

His men didn’t need more encouragement, but they approached as they had planned. Carefully and hidden by the shadows.

That the enemy was seemingly occupied with Robb’s host helped. While Robb and his men were moving towards them from behind the Ironborn were unleashing one arrow after another.

The first men that found his end by Robb’s hands never saw him coming. He had barely turned his head, before Robb had buried his blade in his stomach, twisting it free a heartbeat later to move on.

The next man proved a more formidable enemy. He was armed with a mighty ax that would have surely managed to cleave off Robb’s arm hadn’t the Greatjon split the man’s shoulder with his mighty sword.

Robb would have thanked him, but the battle was raging and he had to focus on killing his enemy.

He killed another man, half a boy going by his clean-shaven face. He gave a quiet choke as Robb cut his throat, his scythe clattering as it hit the ground.

This one had been the last men that died defending the Gatehouse Tower, but two more towers were waiting for them to be taken.

By the time they were done, Robb’s chain mail and cloak were drenched with blood and both his feet and arm ached from the battle and the exhausting march through the swamp.

Robb knew he should feel happy, but he felt nothing but emptiness when his men scaled the walls and exchanged the golden kraken of House Greyjoy with the snarling direwolf of House Stark.

He was stunned by this as he had hoped that killing Ironborn would help to ease the pain in his heart.

The realization that came afterwards was far more devastating. Not even killing Theon Greyjoy would bring his brothers back.

No, the bitter truth was: Bran and Rickon were lost to him forever.

Jon is the last brother left to me, he realized again as he oiled Ice. Lord Tywin had returned the blade to him after he had bent the knee, but even in this battle Robb had used his own sword, a much lighter blade. And while Ice was too heavy for him to use it in battle, he would use it when delivering justice.

Theon will die by it, he decided right there and watched his men assemble around the cookfires scattered around the ruins of Moat Cailin. There was  also drinking and music to be heard.

Not that Robb blamed his men. Most of them were happy to return home to their families, but Robb couldn’t share their happiness.

More than half his family was lost to him. Again his restless mind returned to his loss.

His father was exiled to the Wall, Sansa was most likely dead, Arya and his mother hated him, Bran and Rickon were dead as well and Jon…he didn’t even know where Jon went.

I need to find Jon, Robb knew and rolled to the side, pulling the furs over his shoulders. The cheers of his Wolfsguard could be heard outside of his tent and Olyvar’s shadow was dancing in the curling flames. He is the last brother left to me.

Yet, that was easier said than done. Jon was an oathbreaker and his Lords might not like it if he made an exception for his brother…

It was the howl of a wolf that woke him from his slumber.

Robb didn’t need to hear more than that to free himself from his furs and to step out of his tent.

Another howl followed, before he laid eyes on his loyal beast, Greywind.

His massive wolf strutted through the camp as if he was a King, though most men, apart from the guards, were asleep.

“Where have you been?” Robb asked his loyal companion as he drew closer to scratch his ears. “I had need of you during the battle?”

When he saw the blood around Greywind’s mouth he knew what his loyal beast had been doing. It seemed his dream became reality.

“Ah, I see,” Robb remarked with a smile and patted Greyworm’s head. “You were hunting, weren’t you, my boy?”

His wolf gave a whine and curled beside the cookfire.

Robb laughed and returned to his tent to dress himself, before breaking his fast in company of his men.

They were speaking about how they should best move their host over the causeway, but were interrupted by the arrival of a surprising visitor.

Robb recognized the banner. It was no other than Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watcher, who arrived in company of a good hundred crannogmen.

All of them were glad in green cloaks and armed with nets and frog spears.

Lord Howland Reed was leading them, seated on a small hairy horse that reminded Robb of a pony.

“Lord Stark,” the small man greeted him with a sad smile after he had climbed from his saddle. He didn’t kneel, but bowed his head lower than expected, his right hand crossed over his chest. “It is a great pleasure to meet you. I am Lord Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watch.”

Like most crannogmen, Lord Howland Reed was a man of slender build. His face was long and his eyes were large and green like freshly-cut grass.

“On the contrary,” Robb replied and graced the smaller man with an honest smile. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Reed. My father told me much about you and I owe my victory to your capable guides.”

Then, Robb shifted his attention to the woman that had ridden behind him. She had was small in build, but much taller than the average crannogman.  Her skin was also darker and her eyes were bright blue.

“Is this your Lady?” Robb asked in surprise that Lord Reed had brought his wife here.

“I am Lady Jyana Reed,” the Lady confirmed with a smile and lowered her head in greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Stark.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Reed,” Robb replied and graced Lord Reed with another smile. “But why did you come here in such a haste, my Lord? Are you here to warn us?”

“No,” Lord Reed replied, a wry smile curling on his lips. “My reasons for coming here are twofold. Firstly, I came to inquire about my children. I haven’t heard anything from them since the sacking of Winterfell. Secondly, I came to speak about your brother…Jon Snow, though this matter should be discussed in private.”

Robb froze. He had completely forgotten about the Reed children.

“Sadly, we haven’t heard anything about your children, my Lord,” Robb told him and waved his hand at the nearby tent. “But I am sure we will soon know more. Regarding Jon…Would you care to break your fast with me? Your wife may join us as well. You must be famished.”

“That would please me,” Lord Reed replied cordially, but there was something sad and distant about him.

It must be because of his children, Robb believed as led him into the tent.

Not long after, Olyvar appeared and brought them dark bread, cheese and roasted bacon. They also drank ale while Lady Reed received a cup of milk.

I carry another babe, my Lord, she informed him after she had refused the ale.

“What do you wish to tell me about Jon?” Robb asked and had a hard time keeping his feelings in check. “Did you see him? Did he seek you out?”

“No,” Lord Reed explained and left his food untouched. “I wish it were so, but I think I know why the boy deserted from the Night’s Watch. I feel I must tell you about it…to prevent you from doing something you might regret.”

Robb was confused by Lord Reed’s words, desperate to get answers.

“Let me put it this way, Lord Reed,” Robb replied and took a bite from the bread. “I am surprised that you believe to know about his reasons for leaving the Night’s Watch. I mean…I myself have a hard time making sense of his actions and I have known Jon all my life. He joined voluntarily. I do not understand why he would dishonor himself.”

Lord Reed nodded his head and sucked in a deep breath.

“He must have found out the truth,” Lord Reed said after he had exhaled deeply. “And I think I know who told him.”

“Truth?” Robb asked in confusion. “What truth are you referring to?”

“That Jon Snow is not your father’s son,” Lord Reed replied plainly and searched Robb’s gaze in silence.

Robb read guilt in his bright green eyes. It must have cost him much to say this, which made it hard to out-rightly refuse what he had just told him.

Yet, it made no sense. Jon was not his father’s blood? That was utter madness.

Robb couldn’t help but to shake his head in disbelief.

“Forgive me, Lord Reed, but that is impossible…Why would my father lie about Jon’s parentage? And whose’ son is he then? He looks more like a Stark than me.”

“That is because he is undeniably of Stark blood…through his mother, your Aunt Lyanna.”

The answer felt like a slap to the face.

“My Aunt…,” Robb repeated, his mind a storm of confusion as he tried to make sense of Lord Reed’s words. “But that means…,” he trailed off, realizing what Lord Read had implied.

His Aunt had been taken by Rhaegar Targaryen. It was the only possible explanation.

“That Jon Snow is in truth the son of Rhaegar Targaryen,” Lord Reed finished for him and left the implications looming like an executioner’s blade ready to fall down on them any moment.

“He raped her,” Robb said in utter shock. It was the first thing that came to his mind. “Gods be good…and Jon is his son.”

“Prince Rhaegar never harmed Princess Lyanna, Lord Stark,” Lady Jyanna Reed added softly, her grip tightening on Lord Reed’s shoulder. “He was a kind and courteous man. I would know…I served as one of your Aunt’s maids that aided her in birthing the little Prince.”

Robb felt as if someone had cracked his head with a hammer, leaving his thoughts even more scattered and confused.

“You called my brother a Prince,” he addressed Lady Reed. “And my Aunt a Princess. Why?”

He had his suspicions, but he wanted to hear the truth from their lips.

“The Prince…he told us to call her ‘Princess’, because he took her as his second wife. As for your Aunt, we became friends. And her little Prince…Jon I liked to sing for him while we were travelling back to Starfall.  It was all that I could do to help…I couldn’t feed him like Wylla.”

“Wylla,” Robb repeated, the name sparking a distant memory. He had heard his father mention such a name to his mother. “What happened to her?”

“She returned to Starfall after your Father had found another nursemaid for the Little Prince and sent him to Riverrun,” Lady Reed explained and smiled at her husband. ”I myself left for Greywater Watch. I was carrying our first child…our Meera.”

“But Prince Rhaegar was already wed and my Aunt was betrothed to Robert Baratheon,” Robb countered, trying to make sense of this madness. “I do not understand…this goes against everything what I was told.”

“It was a lie Robert Baratheon told himself and Ned encouraged to hide what really happened. The truth is, Lyanna held not much love for Robert Baratheon, but for Prince Rhaegar she did…so much that she decided to spurn her betrothal and became his second wife,” Lord Reed explained and sucked in a deep breath. Exhaling deeply, he forced the next words over his lips. “That is at least what she told us after she recovered from the birthing fever.”

Robb couldn’t believe his ears, his mouth opening and closing in silence.

“Are you trying to say that my Aunt didn’t die?”

“Exactly,” Lord Reed confirmed, his voice growing strangely sentimental. “Lyanna is not dead…the bones in the crypts belong to a servant girl from Castle Starfall that had perished from a fever. I do not know where she is, but I am sure she is still alive. I also believe that it is very likely that she sought out Jon Snow and told him the truth.”

“This is utter madness,” Robb muttered and felt suddenly very sick. His father had lied to them all these years. And Jon…he couldn’t even imagine the anger he must have felt. “Utter madness.”

“So much is true,” Lord Reed agreed sadly. “Imagine how your father felt when he found out the truth. He was so convinced that Lyanna had been raped and so was Robert Baratheon. It was partly my fault, I should have told them about my suspicions.”

Robb’s head snapped up in an instant, anger stirring inside his stomach.

“Are you implying that you knew that my Aunt wasn’t abducted?”

“I didn’t know,” Lord Reed returned hesitatingly. “But your Aunt Lyanna wasn’t like the average maid. She and your Uncle Benjen beat up three squires that were hurting me and later she disguised herself as the Knight of the Laughing Tree to take revenge against these squires by challenging their lords during the tilt. She won each match…not an easy feat. Truly, I should have known better than that.”

“My Aunt is alive,” Robb repeated again, hoping that it would help to make sense of this new reality. “What happened to her and why did she leave Jon?”

“The same reason she ran away with Prince Rhaegar,” Lord Reed replied. “Ned wanted her to wed Robert. He meant well, but he should have known better than that to pressure her into such a match after what happened to her. Yet his worst mistake was to take the boy away from her…,” Lord Reed trailed off and averted his gaze.

“Wait!” Robb called out, unable to hide his shock. “Are you trying to imply that my father took Jon away from her?”

“He did,” Lord Reed confirmed with a deep sigh. “You must understand…Ned feared Lyanna would try do something reckless and endanger the boy. ‘To protect the boy I must take the boy away from her’ he justified his actions to me on the day he sent the boy to Riverrun. That was several weeks before Lyanna woke from her slumber.  I think you can imagine her rage when she found out. She demanded her child back, but Ned refused. Truly, at times Ned could be even more stubborn than Lyanna. Ned probably believed Robert would forget his hatred for the Targaryens if he got his bride back…Ned is my friend, but he was always blind when it came to Robert Baratheon. I know this might sound like treason, but I do not think Robert truly loved Lyanna as much as he claimed. The idealized picture he had of her was all in his imagination and I think Lyanna knew this. ‘The moment he sees my true self he will surely come to hate me’ she had told me on the last day of the tourney. Ned didn’t understand this…he loved Robert too much. In the end, Ned told her plain and simple that she wouldn’t see her boy again unless she did her duty. Well, that didn’t end well as you can imagine. I am actually surprised she didn’t return sooner, but then perhaps she was too afraid for her boy’s safety. Ned always made sure to keep the boy in Winterfell where everyone would be able to recognize Lyanna. He even refused all of my offers to foster the boy in Greywater Watch. I suppose he didn’t fully trust me. He must have known how fond I was of Lyanna.”

Robb had listened in silence, anger and confusion quarreling for dominance.

Yet he wanted to hear all of it. Only then would he be able to move forward.

“I can only imagine,” Robb asked and broke the silence that had settled over them.  “And what happened afterwards?”

“I don’t know the details,” Lord Reed explained. “But I think Lady Ashara helped Lyanna to escape from Starfall. Ned pleaded with her to tell him his sister’s whereabouts, but she refused him rather coldly. I suppose she did it out of spite.”

“My father killed her brother,” Robb recalled, an idea blooming in his mind. “What happened to Lady Ashara?”

“I killed Ser Arthur Dayne,” Lord Reed replied, his voice laced with guilt. “I stabbed him in the back to save your father’s life. As for Lady Ashara…she threw herself into the sea. Well, not that it matters anymore. Important is that you are aware of the truth should Jon decide to come back.”

“Jon is still a deserter,” Robb countered in frustration. This was all too much for him. “He broke his vow. My lords will expect me to kill or at least punish him. That is another truth.”

“What you say is true, Lord Stark,” Lord Reed returned quietly. “But your father also pledged to support Robert, but in the end he lied to him all these years. Love is stronger than duty. Tell me, do you think I fought for King Robert’s crown? No, nothing could be further from the truth. I fought for Lyanna, my friend and a girl I cherished, for defending my honor when she had no reason to do so. I was shocked when I found out the truth, but that doesn’t change my feelings of loyalty towards her and her son. Jon Snow also deserves your forgiveness. He was lied to his entire life.  And most importantly, he is your blood. Consider this when you see him again, Lord Stark.”

Howland Reed was right. Robb had known Jon all his life and knew how much he had yearned to know about his mother…

He understood his father’s fears, but he shouldn’t have left Jon in the dark.

“I don’t know what I will do,” Robb told Lord Reed. “But I could never kill my brother. So much I know.”

…

Chapter Text

Jon

Dawn had come and gone, before they had managed to arrange their troops across the flat plain that spread beneath the ridge across the battlefield.

The enemy hadn’t been idle. Not long their own skirmishers had crashed with the enemy while the Ghiscari legions had taken position on the other side of the battlefield.

As Ser Barristan had foretold, the enemy had arranged their Ghiscari legions left from the river and in the common three-line formation. The two sellsword companies, which consisted mostly of cavalry, had taken their position at the left flank.

Judging by the position of the sun it was close to midday, but even so the air felt hot and stifling, making him sweat like a pig.

Dany no Daenerys, who was seated on her Silver, seemed unaffected by the heat. The Unsullied seemed equally unaffected, but that was no surprise to Jon. They were the most disciplined soldiers he had ever seen.

Only Ser Barristan had shared his discomfort when his squires had dressed him in full plate.

Jon hadn’t followed his example. He had chosen lighter armor and a helmet that was open on the front. He also wore his sword, a shield and a spear, though at times he wished for Longclaw. His current blade was made of proper Pentoshi steel, but it was nothing compared to real Valyrian steel.

“It is time,” Dany roused him out of his thoughts and searched is gaze. “Ser Barristan’s and Greyworm’s men are in position. Shall we begin?”

Jon tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword and sucked in a deep breath. “You are the Queen. You must decide. You must lead.”

Dany graced him with a smile and lifted her chin, before she addressed the men that had formed the fourth line  behind their cavalry.

“My brave Unsullied! The outcome of this battle will depend on you! Sharpen your spears and remember your orders!”

Lord Stark’s men would have shouted their approval, but the Unsullied only battered their spear tips against their shields, bringing forth a clattering sound.

Dany said no more and shifted her attention to the men carrying the horn that was meant to announce the beginning of the battle.

The sound of the horn rolled over the plain like the sound of thunder, waking the Unsullied out of their frozen state. At once, the men on their left flank under the command of Ser Barristan and the men from the center under the command of Greyworm advanced forward.

It was a gloomy sight to behold, for the Unsullied moved without words, the sound of their footsteps the only sound that could be heard.

What surprised Jon was the enemy’s reaction. He had expected them to attack at, but the enemy remained firm as ever.

“What is going on?” Dany asked him. “Why aren’t they moving?”

“They are waiting and resting,” Jon explained. “And they are probably hoping that the Unsullied will get exhausted from their advance.”

“What can we do?” Dany asked him, but Jon simply jerked his head at their advancing men.

“Nothing,” Jon replied and smiled. By now the Unsullied had crossed half the battlefield, but they had also begun to slow down their approach. “It seems Greyworm and Ser Barristan have long realized that the enemy is trying to play with us.”

“I hope you are right,” Dany replied skeptically and brushed her hand over the small blade fastened around her waist. Seeing her fear made him want to comfort her, but this was not the time nor the place for such displays of affection.

Words of assurance was all he could give her.

“All will be well.”

He felt like a liar, his heartbeat faster than a rabbit as he watched the Unsullied launch their javelin at the enemy.

Jon was in awe at their perfect timing. It seemed as if a hundred of birds had taken flight at once and were now crashing down on the enemy lines.

Jon was too far away to see how much damage they had caused, but not long after the first line collided with the enemy lines, the sound of battle breaking the silence.

“The enemy’s lines remain unbroken,” Dany remarked in obvious disappointment. “I suppose that was to be expected.”

Jon nodded his head in agreement and watched the enemy’s left flank with anticipation.

Come on, he thought and squirmed in his saddle. Now is the right time to send out your cavalry.

Some higher presence must have heard his prayers, for a heartbeat later the attack of the enemy’s cavalry was announced by the high sound of a trumpet.

With the sound of thunder at their heels; the enemy stormed at their right flank, leaving behind them a cloud of dust that made it hard to see further than a few leagues.

“It is time,” Jon announced without hesitation and searched Dany’s gaze. This might be the last time I see her, he thought with growing anxiety, but brushed these feelings away before they could take hold of his mind. “You know what to do.”

“I know,” she confirmed and graced him with one of her beautiful smiles. “Take care and come back safely. Promise me.”

Her words and smile gave him the courage he needed.

“I will come back,” he promised with a smile before moving his horse away from her towards the fourth line.

He wanted her to remember him with a smile on his lips. That was the least he could do for her.

All the way, he kept his attention fixed on the approaching cavalry and watched their men.

Jon’s heartbeat sped up as he watched them wait for the inevitable clash with the enemy’s cavalry.

Jon was reminded of a swarm of bees, his head rattling from the sound of horse cries and clashing swords.

As expected, it didn’t take long before the enemy cavalry overwhelmed theirs and the rout started.

To the enemy it must feel like a grand triumph. This was evidenced by their whooping battle cries and their lack of hesitation to pursue their supposedly beaten enemy.

Jon almost smiled. They did what he wanted them to do.

It was time to spring their trap.

Quickly, he whirled his horse around the fourth line, raised his spear and gave the order for attack.

“They are coming!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, the whirled-up dust making his eyes burn. “Sharpen your spears! They are coming!”

No sound answer came, but Jon had expected none.

The battle cry of the Unsullied was a silent one. Like death.

Jon had barely taken a breath before  the Unsullied rushed forward, setting a fast pace, but still keeping an orderly formation.

It was a beautiful sight, but Jon had no time to admire the Unsullied’s iron discipline in the face of death.

It was time to fight, Ghost close at his heels.

Thus, he sped up his horse and tightened his grip on his spear.

He forgot everything as he focused his attention on the enemy. His Uncle. Robb. His siblings. Even Dany was nothing but a lingering thought at the edge of his mind as he subtly slowed down his horse and buried his spear deep in the first enemy that came his way.

The man could barely react before he was thrown backwards and kissed the dirt. The next one was overwhelmed by Ghost, who felled his horse as if it was nothing but a pony.

The man’s cries rang in his ears while Jon wheeled his horse around and nearly clashed with another rider. He was clad in thick plate armor and armed with a shining shield. He was also a very skilled rider. He easily avoided Jon’s spear tip.

Jon could almost imagine the man’s smile, but he had no time for such silly thoughts. Clenching his teeth, he lifted his shield and absorbed the attack.

Channeling his strength, he maneuvered his horse forward before aiming at the enemy’s horse, piercing its head.

The animal collapsed like a puppet without strings and its rider was crushed like a beetle.

Jon’s head hurt and sweat was running down his neck like a river, but he was still alive.

Yet he had no time to waste. He had given a promise and he intended to keep it.

Exhaling deeply, he freed his blade and slashed it in the neck of the enemy, hot blood splattering his cloak and helmet.

The next man died just as quickly and the man after that was torn apart by Ghost’s sharp fangs.

After he had killed another man he took a moment to sweep his gaze over the dusty battlefield. The Unsullied were fighting off the enemy cavalry by attacking their horses.

The horses reared in panic and by the time they had crossed half the battlefield, the  enemy’s lines were falling apart.

It was a wonderful sight. The enemy was fleeing. Their trap had worked.

Jon didn’t hesitate to search for one of the captains.

They were easy to differentiate them from the other Unsullied by the red paint around the tip of their spear.

“We must attack the exposed flank! Move! Move!” he shouted and rode along the lines of their men, pointing at the enemy soldiers, who were still keeping Ser Barristan’s and Greyworm’s men pinned down.

Surprised by their attack, The Unsullied  managed to cut deep into the enemy’s lines.

It was a butchery, but Jon’s mind was already somewhere else.

Casting his eyes against the bright sunlight he searched for Dany.

Relief washed over him when he saw that their third line was advancing to strengthen their already fighting men.

Dany had timed the attack perfectly.

He shouldn’t have doubted her.

Brushing his fears away, he whistled at Ghost and shifted his attention back to the battle.

His heart rushed with excitement as he buried his sword in his enemy.

The promise of a victory was better than any of these plants he had consumed in Volantis. When the men riding under the Tattered Prince’s banner finally turned their cloak, his heart soared as high as one of Dany’s dragons.

“Ghost!” he shouted after his wolf. “Stay close!”

By the time, they had encircled the enemy from all sides, the sky was covered with red clouds.

It was hard to even make out the colorful banners of the Unsullied cohorts.

Suddenly, he heard it.

It started with an ear bleeding roar. Suddenly, the sunlight was gone.

As Jon lifted his gaze to the sky he got a glimpse of dark wings, and a glitter of red, before a flash of heat crashed down upon the enemy’s rear.

Drogon returned.

…

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Dany watched as Drogon continued to feast on the blackened corpses of the enemy soldiers.

They had barely begun to encircle the enemy when her child had swooped down from the sky and had bathed them in hot flames.

Jon, Ser Barristan and Greyworm had been quick enough to call for an orderly retreat back and to put distance between Drogon and themselves.

Even so, Dany was sure that some of her men must have fallen prey to Drogon’s friendly fire attack.

The thought alone was enough to make her heart clench with guilt, but then she had always known what her children were. Wild beasts who didn’t care if their next supper would be a little girl.

I need to learn to control Drogon, she knew and led her Silver closer to her dragon while Jon and a good dozen of Unsullied following after her. Or I will never be able to go home.

At a safe distance, she climbed from her horse and turned around to look at Jon. He was more or less unharmed, but his face was deeply flushed and his hair sweaty from the helmet he had worn during the battle.

Even Ghost, who was rarely frightened by something, kept an appropriate distance, his ruby eyes watching them.

“Ghost should stay away,” Dany told Jon after he had climbed from his horse, holding it by the reins. “I do not want see him hurt.”

“Ghost is smart enough to stay away,” Jon assured her and stretched out his hand, taking the rein of her Silver. He looked tense and as his dark eyes darted to Drogon she believed to see a hint of fear in them. “But are you sure that you want to get close to him? He seems very angry.”

Drogon must hate me, she knew and clutched her chest. I imprisoned his brothers.

And yet, he was still her child and her responsibility. She owed it to the little girl that she learned how to control him.

“He is my child,” she assured Jon and graced him with a last smile, before gathering her courage and moving towards Drogon. “He won’t harm me. I know it.”

By now, he had stopped feasting on the blackened bones and lay down, his tail curled around his body. Drawing closer, she realized how much he had grown over the last moons.

His jet-black wings stretched at least twenty feet and gave him the appearance of a black shadow. The rest of his body was also black. Only his horns, spinal plates and his eyes were red smoldering pits.

If he continues to grow at such a speed he will be the next Balerion the Dread.

Stepping over these blackened corpses, her heartbeat increasing with every step she took towards the dragon.

When she was only a few steps away Drogo turned his head and looked at her, his mouth slightly open.

He smelled of death. It was a sweet smell, but worse was the sheer heat she felt radiating from his body.

She was the Unburnt and yet she was sure that Drogon’s flames could kill her like any other person.

She was nothing but a piece of flesh like these blackened corpses littering the ground.

The thought caused her to stop her approach.

Drogon seemed to sense her fear and opened his massive mouth, baring his sharp teeth to her as his head drew closer.

His breath felt like a furnace and Dany tried her best to ignore her insecurities.

“Drogon!” she called out at the top of her lungs. “It is me!”

Drogon seemed to recognize her voice and bridged the distance between them, his jaw brushing against her hand. She smiled and quickly pulled her hand away. It had felt like a hot brazier.

As he had moved, he had spread his wings, but his tail was straight as if he was about to take flight.

Dany’s heart was pounding loudly, drowning out all sound around her.

It felt as if her and Drogon were the only beings left in the world.

And yet, there was distance between them. When Drogon was still a hatchling she had always felt some sort of connecting with him, but now  it felt as if he was keeping her at a distance.

Yet, she needed to try. She was after all the Mother of Dragons.

“Come here!” she called out again and took a glance at his back. All she had to do was climb on his back and soar over the blue sky. “Drogon!”

It could have been so easy, but she knew that it wasn’t when Drogon bared his sharp teeth and gave a defiant roar.

Again The sweet smell of death filled her nose as she stared into Drogon’s opened mouth. It was the first time she felt afraid of him. His sharp teeth reminded her of the Unsullied’s spears.

Yet, she was to stubborn to give in.

I must try again, she reminded herself and trembled as she made another step towards Drogon, stretching out her hand as his smoldering eyes were following her movement. I must try again.

“Drogon! It is me! ” she shouted once more, but again he backed away and gave an angry roar, drowning out her words. “Listen…!”

Dany felt both fear and frustration.

She was ready to try again, but someone had grabbed her around the waist and had dragged her backwards before Drogon unleashed a bout of flames on  the nearby corpses.

The flames hadn’t been directed at her, she knew, but it seems Drogon was still angry with her.

“Let me go!” she couldn’t help but to company and freed herself from Jon’s grip. Then she watched as Drogon took flight, his black wings spread wide.

It felt as if Drogon had abandoned her. It hurt and stirred her anger.

“Daenerys…,” Jon’s concerned voice filled her ears, but she cut him off.

“Why did you do that?” she asked, unable to hold her disappointment at bay. It had been so long that she had last laid eyes on Drogon and now he was gone again. “I wanted to tame him.”

“I thought he might hurt you,” Jon replied apologetically and gave her a worried look. “I didn’t mean…” he trailed off and averted his gaze.

Dany realized her mistake.

“I am not angry with you,” Dany assured him then and stepped closer to search his gaze. “In truth, I am angry at myself. It is my fault…I shouldn’t have chained his brothers. That must be the reason for Drogon’s anger.”

“Then, we shall free them when we return to Meereen,” Jon assured her and touched her shoulder. She expected him to kiss her, but he didn’t. Instead he turned and whistled, calling Ghost to his side.

The direwolf appeared at once and Dany’s gaze darted one last time to the sky, hopeful to see Drogon return.

Yet he was gone.

“We shall free them,” she promised and gave Jon a sad smile, before climbing back into her saddle.

The sun was already descending when they returned to the city. They had won, but Dany took no pleasure in the victory. The people from Yunkai were still starving and the refugees’ from Astapor were still dying. And as long as the ships from Qarth were blocking the waterways trade would be difficult.

If she had a dragon at my command everything would be much easier, she knew, but that was not her only realization blooming in her mind.

There was still a matter of Quentyn Martell. She had told Jon that she had no intention to give any promises regarding a match until they reached Dorne.

In truth, Dany saw little use in a match between herself and Quentyn Martell. She was barren and she didn’t want to live a life in which her husband was waiting for her to bear an heir.

Her affections for Jon made the situation even more difficult for her. At times, she wished he wasn’t her nephew. Then, she wouldn’t feel so torn between her affections for him and her duty to her family legacy.

No matter how she twisted and turned  the truth, the facts  remained clear as ever. Jon was the only person capable of continuing the Targaryen line.

Her heart ached at the thought of having to share him with another woman, but it was the only way.

Yet again she pushed these feelings away and focused on the now. As always, her handmaids helped her wash off the sooth from the battle and then they broke their fast on fresh dates and nuts.

The Unsullied were offered wine and better food, but most refused while Ben Plumm’s and Daario’s sellswords were pleased to celebrate and were soon joined by the Windblown. Some more wine casks were opened, women of were called to entertain them and jolly songs were played.

It was a victory celebration and yet the enemy was not completely vanquished or so Quentyn Martell had told her. Several thousand men had abandoned the battlefield after their lines were overrun, but Dany had given no order to pursue them.

Some of enemy soldiers that had fled even came over to them and were now residing in the city, though kept apart from the other men. Dany feared they might hurt them.

Once she had finished her meal, she sent Jhiqui and Irri on their way and asked Missandei to fetch her a quill and paper.

Not long after, she called for Ser Barristan to bring Prince Quentyn into her presence.

“Please seat down and eat,” she offered politely and waved her hand at the cushioned seat placed on the wooden floor. She had also asked Irri to leave the bowl of nuts and dates while Missandei had gone to fetch them a flagon of wine which she was now pouring into the Dornish Prince’s cup.

All the while Dany had taken her time to watch him closely. Quentyn Martell was a comely boy, but otherwise she found no reason to dislike him.

He had said not much as Missandei had filled his cup to the brim, before doing the same with hers. Smiling, Dany patted at the cushioned seat beside her and her little scribe didn’t hesitate to sit down, preparing her quill if there was need for it.

“It is Ghiscari wine, but better than nothing,” Dany remarked to break the silence. “The dates are good, though I am not sure if you share the same taste. Well, my brother told me that Dorne is famous for two things…its oranges and Dornish wine.”

This seemed to reassure the young man enough to finally speak.

“The Dornish wine is too bitter for my taste,” the young man explained and shrugged his shoulders before he took a sip from his cup. “I prefer Arbor gold, but do not tell my father. He holds not much love for Lord Tyrell’s kin.”

Dany was surprised by this.

“How so? What did Lord Tyrell do to invoke Prince Doran’s anger? Because he bent the knee for the usurper?”

“Gods no,” the young man replied and placed the cup back on the floor, his dark eyes darting to the dates. He looked at them for a moment, but then he shifted his attention back to her. “The reason was an unfortunate accident during a tilt. My Uncle Oberyn unhorsed Lord Tyrell’s son and crippled him irrevocably. Lord Tyrell accused my Uncle of doing it on purpose, but that is utter nonsense. Well, my father is not the kind of man who would forgives easily and thus he still holds a grudge against Lord Mace Tyrell.”

Dany found herself astounded by what she had heard. Prince Doran and this Mace Tyrell sounded as if they had the mindset of a children…

It made her realize that a long and hard way lay ahead of her…and Jon.

“I see, but surely your father wouldn’t be against working together with Lord Tyrell if it meant to serve our cause?”

Quentyn’s torn look told her otherwise.

“I cannot speak on my father’s behalf, your Grace,” he explained and shrugged his shoulders. “He sent me here for one reason only, to fulfil the pact that has been agreed on.”

It took all her effort not to wince at the mention of the marriage pact.

Yet she also feared that the longer she waited the more upset Quentyn Martell might be when he found out the truth. Thus, she decided to bare her intentions to him. And if he was not willing to help her, well, then she would have to depend on herself. Like she had told Jon.

I shall defeat the slavers and the Sons of the Harpy. I shall free my dragons and then I will go home to re-take my father’s crown.

“I appreciate your offer, my Prince,” she replied and sucked in a deep breath. “But I cannot marry you. There is an impediment that makes it impossible.”

Quentyn Martell squirmed beneath her gaze, a hint of anger  apparent in his dark eyes, yet he remained calm and polite. A true Prince, though he looked more like a boy.

I too look like a girl queen, she knew and forced a smile over her lips, hoping it will help to ease Quentyn Martell’s obvious displeasure.

“Don’t you want to know why I can’t marry you? You made all this way? That must be a disappointment for you.”

Prince Quentyn Martell froze, his mouth falling open, but no sound coming of it. Dany also believed to see a hint of pink on his cheeks.

“It has nothing to do with you, my Prince,” Dany told him and took a sip from her cup, before she lay her heart bare to this young Prince of Dorne. “The fault is mine alone.”

Prince Quentyn’s eyes widened in confusion, his fingers digging deep into his yellow tunic. It was a far cry from the sellsword garb he had worn during their first meeting.

“I do not understand,” he stuttered and searched her face again, as if he hoped to find out the truth by looking at her face. “What fault could there be, your Grace?”

Dany nodded to her and put her goblet away. Her hand was trembling:

She wouldn’t look away. She was the blood of the dragon. She couldn’t show fear.

“The sad truth is…I can’t bear children…I am barren,” she replied and fell silent, giving Prince Quentyn enough time to absorb this new piece of information.

The effect was palpable and showed on his face. He looked both confused and embarrassed.

“I do not understand….,” he stuttered, his cheeks pink with obvious embarrssment. “How can you be so sure?”

Dany was surprised by his question, but she couldn’t tell him that she believed in the words of a witch. He would laugh at her or think her a liar.

 “The woman attended to me during my first pregnancy told me so,” Dany replied instead. “She was a learned woman.”

Quentyn was silent for a long time, but eventually managed to find his voice.

“Please, do not think that I hold no respect for your servants, your Grace, but I do think you should consult a Maester before accepting such a truth. What qualifications did this woman have beyond being a midwife?”

Dany felt anger rising inside her. It had cost her much to tell him the truth, but it was necessary if she wanted to convince Prince Quentyn Martell about her plans for Jon.

“She claimed to be trained by a Maester,” Dany insisted.

“Your Grace…,” Quentyn Martell was about to protest, but Dany cut him off. She had spoken enough of this topic.

“I told you what I know,” she said and sighed deeply. “And while I cannot marry you, I want to make offer to Dorne, which I hope you will accept on behalf of your father Prince Doran Martell. Will you hear me out at least?”

Quentyn Martell gave a quiet nod.

“I cannot act on behalf of my father, but I came too long of a way to return with empty hands. Please tell me about your plans.”

Dany felt hope and began to explain.

“I am aware what the Dornish would think of Lyanna Stark and her son, but you could say the same about my father. My father was an evil man and it was him who kept Princess Elia in King’s Landing. The way I see it, he and Tywin Lannister hold a greater responsibility for the death of your Aunt than my brother Rhaegar and for that matter Lyanna Stark. She was half a child when she ran away with my brother and love makes people do foolish things. I do not expect forgiveness from Dorne, but if your father is prepared to consider a match with the Mad King’s daughter, surely your father would also be prepared to consider a match with my nephew?”

Quentyn Martell looked as if he had been hit by thunder.

“I do not quite understand, your Grace?”

 Dany sighed in frustration. Quentyn Martell was either playing dumb or her offer had surprised him.

He doesn’t believe that Jon is my nephew, she realized at once. Well, then I need to change his mind.

“You heard quite right. I want to arrange a match for my nephew and your sister. The one that was meant to marry Viserys. In return for Dorne’s support your sister would receive a crown and revenge against those who murdered Princess Elia Martell and her children.” That is if Jon agrees.

Again, Quentyn Martell gave her this dumb look.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” he apologized at once. “But why do you believe this boy? He looks nothing like a Targaryen and the story he made up is questionable at best. He could be trying to fool you…,” he continued, but Dany cut him off again.

“Ser Barristan told me he shows quite a resemblance to Prince Duncan the Prince of Dragonflies and…my dragons like him. At least, they did when they were younger. I am sure of it, Jon will one day ride one of them. That is all I am going to say on this topic. Jon is my nephew, whether you or your family denies this fact or not.”

“Even so, he is Lyanna Stark’s son,” Quentyn Martell replied with growing frustration. “My father would never agree to this. He is not the kind of man who forgives easily. And my Uncle Oberyn…he would spit in the boy’s face.”

“A Slight against his family?” Dany asked, her temper rising. She should have known better than to believe that Prince Doran actually cared about House Targaryen. He had not lifted a single finger to help them while Dany and Viserys were reduced to beggars. She had been polite so far, but she felt the need to set him straight. “Well, I am surprised to hear that a wizened man like Prince Doran Martell would be so petty to hold a grudge against a boy that was nothing but a babe on his mother’s breast when his sister and her children perished. If we all thought like that then I too should hold a grudge against House Martell. I am only a silly girl, but even I know my history lessons. Has Dorne not murdered King Daeron Young Dragon? Has Dorne not murdered Queen Rhaenys Targaryen? If we were to take revenge for every little slight of the past we would live in constant quarrel with each other and if your father cannot look beyond my nephew’s birth then I have no use for an allegiance with Dorne.”

Quentyn Martell paled visibly and barely managed to keep his composure.

“My father is many things, but certainly not petty,” he defended his father through. “Your brother shamed my Aunt and this boy…he is the fruit of that. My sister might be able to overlook his birth, but Dorne would not. They would curse the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.

Dany couldn’t help but to clench her teeth. She tried to keep a semblance of composure as she lifted her cup, realizing that the cup was empty. She had a sudden taste for milk and honey, but now was not the time to give in to such childish cravings.  She needed to act a Queen.

“Call my nephew bastard once more and I shall banish you from this city,” Dany replied in a warningly. “Is that understood?”

 “It was not my intention to insult you, your Grace, but I must speak openly for I fear for your safety,” Quentyn Martell replied and dipped his head. “I can see that you are attached to this Jon Snow, but associating yourself with this boy won’t bring you any friends in Dorne or elsewhere. I suggest this…allow yourself to be inspected by  a proper Maester. My Aunt was frail and sickly, but even she was able to conceive children. I see no reason why you shouldn’t…,” he trailed off when he noticed Dany’s angry stare.

She was glad for it, for otherwise she would have probably said something discourteous.

“I think I have heard enough for today, Prince Quentyn. We shall speak once more when we return to Meereen. There is someone else with whom I wish to speak. “

“As you wish, your Grace,” Quentyn Martell replied curtly and departed shortly after.

Missandei meant to offer her more wine, but Dany waved her away, for her next visitor had arrived. The Tattered Prince, the leader of the Windblown.

Dany had called upon him to receive his vows of loyalty, though in truth she also wanted to see what kind of a man he was and if their allegiance had a future.

He was an old man, but his sad blue eyes had a softness to them that many other sellswords lacked. He reminded her a bit of Ser Barristan, who was waiting in the anteroom as befitted the captain of her Queensguard. Or Kingsguard, Dany corrected herself. Quentyn Martell had refused her offer, but she was still determined to go to Dorne. Doran Martell might be a proud man, but he also might change his mind once he sees her dragons.

“I have come to give you my vows, your Grace.”

“So you have, my Prince. And I thank you for turning your cloak,” she replied and smiled sweetly. “I will not forget what you did and you shall have a reward. You and your men shall receive gold. Yet, I doubt that would be enough for a man like you?”

A surprised expression took hold of his weather-worn features.

“It is Pentos what I want…it’s my hearts greatest desire.”

“So I have heard,” Dany confirmed and waited for a moment until Missandei had placed a fresh cup in front of him, before filling it to the brim. “You have been fighting more than thirty years to re-take this city, isn’t that so?”

“Indeed,” he replied and accepted the cup from Missandei’s hands, though he left it untouched. “I have been fighting for a long time and I am not getting any younger.”

“Then we are kindred spirits, for since I am old enough to understand anything I have been fighting to re-take my father’s crown. That is why I think our allegiance could be beneficial for both of us.”

The Tattered Prince had nodded his head in agreement. “What would this allegiance entail?”

“That I am going to help you re-take Pentos and in return you would help me in my quest for the Iron Throne. I saw your men fight. I would do well to have you fighting beneath my banner.”

“A kind offer,” the Tattered Prince admitted. “And I am inclined to accept it, but may I ask why you are so ready to agree to this? I can only offer you three thousand men and taking a city is a difficult thing to do.”

“Illyrio Mopatis,” Dany replied plainly. “He is the reason I want to take Pentos. There are questions I want to ask him.” Why did you fool my brother? Why did you tell him that the Dothraki would bring him a crown?

Recognition showed on the Tattered Prince’s face.

“Illyrio Mopatis is a familiar name,” he said and took a sip from his cup. “I heard about him. Barely two decades ago he caused a great scandal by marrying one of his slave girls…Serra was her name. They said she was a Lysean whore of great beauty. Silver hair and purple eyes…much like you, your Grace.”

Dany found that interesting and waved her hand at him.

“Please tell me more. My brother and I have resided more than a year in Magister Illyrio’s home and I know next to nothing about him.”

“I don’t know him well,” the Tattered Prince replied and shrugged his shoulders. “All I know are these rumors. I know that said girl died from the pox and that Illyrio was beyond himself with grief. I also heard that he had a son with her that followed her into an early grave. Many of his enemies thought it a just punishment for marrying a slave girl. That is all I heard, your Grace.”

None of this had answered her questions, but it also showed her that the Tattered Prince was willing to cooperate with her.

“I thank you nonetheless,” Dany assured him with another smile. “And now I would like to hear your vow.”

“It would be my pleasure, your Grace,” the Tattered Prince replied and gave his vow, before departing, his cup half empty.

Not long after, she heard the clinking of Ser Barristan’s armor.

“What are your thoughts on my conversation with Prince Quentyn?” Dany asked and searched his gaze. His eyes were deep and blue, like the sea on a clear day. She could have drowned in them, but she also noticed the sadness. “Will you leave me now that you know the truth?”

“I see no truth,” Ser Barristan replied in a calmly. “And I have to agree with the Prince. I think you should first consult a Maester. Your Lady Mother also suffered many miscarriages. I might be possible that you inherited these difficulties.”

Dany had wished to hear something different.

“I do not wish to hear more about these Maesters,” she couldn’t help but to avoid the topic. “I want to hear whether you are still loyal to my cause.”

“Of course,” he replied and lowered his head. “Why would you question my loyalty?”

“I do not know,” she admitted sadly and started to tremble. It felt as if these prophecies were slowly poisoning her mind. “I just wanted to be sure.”

She sighed deeply and forced a smile over her lips.

“Well, I was not able to secure a match for Jon. I suppose I have to find someone else unless Prince Quentyn changes his mind. Do you have someone in mind?”

Ser Barristan looked taken back by her words, but answered honestly as ever.

“Lady Margaery Tyrell would be the obvious choice. Her father is an ambitious man who always dreamed of winning a crown for his daughter, but there is one problem. When I left she was still wed to Renly Baratheon and I think it is not unlikely that he prevailed against his brother.”

Dany huffed in frustration.

“Well, I suppose I will have to turn Lady Margaery Tyrell  into a happy widow.”

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan added cautiously. “Your concern is commendable, but have you considered your nephew’s desires? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would…,” he trailed off. Not that there was any need for him to say something. She was sure that he knew about her and Jon.

“I shall speak to him,” Dany replied. And convince him. I will make clear to him that my affections for him are still true…but that I also have need of his help. Jon has never disappointed me and I am sure he won’t disappoint me now.

Laster, as she walked through the dimly-lit corridors, she wondered what she should say, if anything at all. Yet all these thoughts fled from her mind when she saw the warm smile playing on Jon’s lips.

Yet, instead of speaking her mind she walked straight into his arms to seek comfort.

Carefully, he touched her hair and gave her a concerned look.

“Is something amiss, Dany?”

Dany exhaled deeply, lacking the right of words. What did  What could she say? Nothing made sense anymore.

Everything felt wrong.

Instead of giving an answer she lifted herself on her toes and placed a kiss on his lips, which was soon followed by another kiss…

She shouldn’t have given in, but she craved his touch like a sweet she could eat a hundred times and never feel sated.

When they were done, the night had fallen and they were  naked as newborn babes, though Dany quickly pulled a robe over her body when she felt the chill of the night creeping into her bones.

“You came to tell me something?” Jon asked after a moment of silence had passed between them. “What is it?”

Dany pulled her legs to her chest and fixed her gaze to the ground. She couldn’t bear to look at him.

“I spoke to Quentyn Martell,” she replied quietly. “I doubt he is going to support us.”

Jon’s gaze darkened immediately and he drew closer, touching her shoulder.

“Because you refused to marry him?”

“Partly,” Dany forced the words over her lips. “But mostly because I told him something…I was a fool.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I am unable to have children,” Dany forced the words over her lips and trembled as she angled her head to look at him.

Understanding showed on Jon’s face.

“You lost your first babe,” was all he said and brushed her silver hair out of her face. “Is that the reason?”

“Perhaps,” Dany replied and shrugged her shoulders. “The witch who killed my son implied it when she gave me a cursed prophecy.”

Jon’s dark eyes widened in surprise.

“Prophecy?”

“A prophecy,” she repeated and touched the hand resting on her cheek. “I know how mad that sounds, but ever since I birthed my children I am barren. The dragons will be my only children.”

She paused and waited for an answer, but Jon remained silent. Thus, she broke the silence.

“Do you know what that means?”

“I think I do,” he confirmed  at last and dropped his hand into his lap. “But why are you so sure that this witch told you the truth? She killed the Khal and murdered your son. By all evidence she must have hated you. I think you should consider consulting…,” she  began, but Dany cut him off.

She couldn’t help it. She wanted no false hope.

“The dragons are my only children,” she insisted. “Do you understand?”

Jon looked as if he wanted to protest, but he kept his true thoughts to himself.

“I understand,” Jon assured her and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “Is that why Quentyn Martell refused the allegiance?”

“No,” Dany gave him the truth, but didn’t pull her hand away. His touch gave her comfort. “No, it had more to do with the fact that I tried to arrange a betrothal between you and his sister.”

Jon looked as if she had poured a bucket of cold water over his head.

“You did…what?”

Dany was not surprised by his reaction and forced a smile over her lips.

“How else can I hope to continue the Targaryen line? You are the only other dragon I know. That is why you must wed.”

“I cannot,” he protested and dropped her hand. “I cannot marry some random woman. I am no broodmare!”

Dany grabbed his hand, before he was able to get away.

“You are not!” she assured him quickly. “Not if you don’t want. I would have asked for your approval before giving my agreement. Please, try to understand my reasoning. I carry a heavy burden and I want you to share it with me. What I am traying to say…I think it is time for you to stop acting a bastard…Jon Targaryen sounds strange, but it is better than Jon Snow.”

“It is the only name I know,” he countered, his voice laced with obvious displeasure. There was suddenly something cold and distant in his gaze. “I wasn’t aware that my name bothered you do much?”

Dany understood his anger. She knew how much his life as a bastard had pained him and yet she had also come to realize that he held certain affections for his humble life.

“Your name wouldn’t bother me if we were common people,” she gave him the hard truth. “I intend to make you a King and a King needs heirs. That is the sad truth.”

Jon swallowed hard and turned away from her. He cradled his face between his hands as he pondered over her words.

He looked very upset.

“What about us?” he asked suddenly and lifted his head to look at her. “Was it all a game for you?”

“No,” she replied fearfully and leaned forward to pull on his shoulder. “Please don’t think that. And it doesn’t have to end. It is a long way to Westeros and even if you were wed…our entanglement would pose no danger to your future lady as all your children would be hers to bear.”

Jon grabbed her hand and kissed it once more.

“I am not like that,” he insisted. “I don’t wish to use another woman as a broodmare. That would be dishonorable towards her and you.”

“This is not a question of honor,” Dany replied and tried not to flinch when his dark eyes pierced into hers. “This is about the survival of House Targaryen.”

Jon’s gaze softened, though his cheeks were still slightly flushed as he leaned in to touch her cheek.

“I know, but I can’t do that. That is not the kind of person I am. And you shouldn’t put trust into this witch’s prophecy. She doesn’t sound like a very trustworthy person.”

Dany wanted to believe him, desperately so.

“No, she doesn’t sound like a very trustworthy person,” she replied and smiled sadly.

…

Chapter Text

The Lion King

Jaime had never desired a crown. He had never wanted to be a Lord, let alone a King. All he had ever wanted was to be a knight like Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning and to bury his cock in Cersei.

For whatever reason the gods had decided to punish him for his godless wishes.

The gods are cunts, Tyrion had told him more than once, but Jaime had never cared about the laws of gods and men. Neither had Cersei when she was ten and two and had slipped beneath his bedding to taste his cock. Only when Cersei had been sent to court to serve as Queen Rhaella’s lady-in-waiting had their time together come to an end.

For this short time, Jaime had been betrothed, namely to Lady Lysa Tully and would have probably wed her had Cersei not hatched a clever plan to get him not into the Kingsguard.

He still recalled how happy he had felt when King Aerys had allowed him to join the Kingsguard. All his boyhood dreams had culminated into this moment. Finally, he would become the knight he had always wanted to be, but in the end it had turned out to be another ruse.

The Mad King hadn’t allowed Jaime to join the Kingsguard to honor his abilities in swordsmanship, but to humiliate his father.

Yet that had only been the beginning of his trials. Barely a moon later, he had been tasked to stand guard at the Queen’s door in company of Ser Jon Darry. That night the King had visited the Queen and had made her scream like an animal. Never before in his life had Jaime heard such inhuman cries and never in his life had Jaime been more terrified.

That night he had realized what King Aerys truly was: a monster in human form.

Trembling, he had turned to the only person available to him, Ser Darry.

Yet the older knight had silenced him with a sharp look and had given him the bitter truth.

We are here to protect him not her, he had said. Jaime had learned his lesson that night and had kept his mouth shut. That was until the Mad King had committed a grave mistake: he had asked for his father’s head.

That day he had slain the Mad King with his golden sword. What had happened afterwards were nothing but blurry memories. He remembered sinking to his knees after the rush of anger had left him. Then, he had sat down on the Iron Throne, his blade still bloody from his ungodly deed.

By that time, he had broken his vow twice. First, he had slain his King and secondly, he had neglected protecting the Prince’s wife and  children.

Thinking of their butchered corpses, made bile rise up inside his throat. He had never cared much about the children he made with Cersei. Joff had been rotten to the core, so much Jaime had realized after he had seen the boy pick apart a pregnant cat, but Tommen had been as innocent as Septa. He didn’t even know what had happened to that plump child that had loved his kittens as much as his plum pudding. Yet it was Cersei he couldn’t bear to think about…

Had she died like Rhaegar’s Princess? Had she been raped before they had murdered her?

The thought made his eyes burn. He had never felt so much hatred coursing through his veins.

It also reminded him of his purpose: to bury his blade in Stannis’ Baratheon’s black heart. And when he was done with him he would fuck his Red Witch and mount the head of his greyscale-infested child upon the ramparts of Storm’s End.

No, he realized with horror. That girl was ugly to behold, but she was as innocent as Tommen.

Jaime Lannister had sinned too much. He knew now that all these dishonorable acts had been the source of his family’s downfall.

If he hadn’t prodded Cersei into a quick fuck in that tower in Winterfell all of this wouldn’t have happened.

The gods cursed me, he knew and smiled bitterly when he touched the golden crown embellished with eight shining rubies. They had belonged to Cersei and before her to his mother. He had thought it only right that he would put them into his crown.

Can you see me, sweet sister? Can you see me, father? I shall be King to give Mace Tyrell’s girl a crown. Then, I will kill Stannis Baratheon and his Red Whore.

He felt the sudden urge to laugh, but only a bitter chuckle spilled from his lips as he lifted the crown atop his golden-curled head.

The crown felt heavy and he couldn’t help but to laugh again. It was a thin laugh, almost like the Mad King had laughed whenever he had burned a pickpocket.

The memory made him shiver and then he laughed again.

A Kingslayer turned King, he thought and braced himself on the table, his laughter only intensifying as he held his stomach. Oh, how mad that sounds!

He wanted to empty his fast upon the floor, he wanted to laugh and he wanted to weep, all at once.

Mayhaps I am really going mad, he thought and chuckled to himself. The next Mad King in the making.

“Jaime,” his Uncle Kevan’s well-meaning voice filled his hears. Ye Jaime couldn’t bring himself to answer. He felt numb and dead. “Jaime…my boy.”

The touch on his shoulder angered him only more and he had to bite his lips to suppress the urge to send away his Uncle.

That is unworthy of you, he knew and lifted his head, searching his Uncle’s gaze.

His Uncle was a big man with broad shoulders and a thick waist. His short blond hair was balding and his close-cropped beard made his massive jaw appear even bigger. He was not handsome and rather portly, though that said little about his character. His father had died in King’s Landing when Stannis had sacked the city and now his Uncle was the only person left to guide him.

As expected, his Uncle had dressed even more splendidly as usual, his silken cloak held together by a golden brooch that looked like a lion’s head.

Jaime himself had dressed in golden finery, his crimson cloak as bright as the sunset. The cloak had been the same his father had worn when he had wed his Lady Mother, Lady Joanna Lannister.

Not now, he remined himself and gritted his teeth, drawing almost blood. Thinking about his mother made him think of Cersei, but any thought of Cersei made it only harder for him to go through with this planned wedding.

“Jaime,” his Uncle’s voice rang in his ears. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard,” Jaime snapped back and whirled around to search his Uncle’s gaze anew. “But I am no longer Jaime to you. If you want me to act a King use the proper title, Uncle. Your Grace.”

With one more smile at his Uncle, he turned his back on him and prepared to face his destiny.

The Sept of Highgarden was adorned with thousands of golden roses, the gilded statues of the Seven and a jeweled ceiling that glowed in rainbow colors whenever the light fell upon it.

Jaime swept his gaze over the witnesses. There was Mace Tyrell, a once handsome man with a massive girth. His grey-haired wife Lady Alerie, his withering mother Olenna Tyrell, his crippled heir Willas, his other two knightly sons Garlan and Loras Tyrell and several cousins and other witnesses belonging to the numerous houses of the Reach the Tyrells had formed allegiances with through marriage.

Jaime’s own retinue was smaller. There was his Uncle Kevan, his two remaining sons William and Martyn Lannister, His Aunt Genna and Ser Devan Lannister. Of his Lords only Lord Tytos Brax, Lord Roland Crakenhall and his heir Tybolt, Lord Leo Lefford, the freshly widowed Lewys Lydden and at Jaime’s old friend Ser Addam Marbrand had accompanied him to Highgarden. The others had remained in the Westerlands to defend them against a possible assault by Stannis Baratheon.

Amidst this congregation of witnesses he found the Septon, who waited between the altars of the Father and Mother.

Soon, there was music ringing in his ears and the smell of incense filling his nose. Even as a little boy he had always disliked the smell of incense as it reminded him of his mother’s death. For several days the Silent Sisters had laid out her body and everyday Jaime and Cersei had been forced to pray for her in company of the Septon, the smell of incense ever present in his nose.

It was the smell of grief and death, but perhaps that was only right. For without the death of his father and sister he would have never found himself in this position.

Accompanied by hushed whispers he found his bride entering the Sept and take the hand of her father, Lord Mace Tyrell.

Most would have called Lady Margaery Tyrell a lovely girl. She had a finely-shaped face that was framed by curly brown hair and two golden eyes that seemed to smile at him.

Yet to Jaime it felt so very wrong to have her stand beside him like this.

The girl must have sensed his coldness for when she came to stand beside him her face was utterly solemn. She said nothing as he offered his hand to her, which she accepted.

Together they faced the Septon, who gave the seven blessings and the seven songs and the seven vows, tough at one-point Jaime lost track of the old man’s rambling. When he was finally done, Jaime undid the clasp of his bride’s green cloak and replaced it with his golden one.

Satisfied, the Septon raised his glimmering crystal, pouncing Jaime and his Tyrell bride to be one flesh, one soul and one heart. Jaime felt only disgust at himself when he placed a kiss on his bride’s pink lips.

It was a brief kiss, though not unpleasant. It could have been worse.

Not long after, they emerged from the Sept to attend to their wedding feast, though Jaime felt more in mood for a funeral. Still, there were flowers to be had, minstrels who played their jolly tunes, a bloody fool named Buttercup who hopped from table to table and a five-course meal of a variety of meat ranging from chicken to peacock and at last a table filled with pastries.

His bride ate nothing and spent most of the night dancing with her brothers and once with his father. Occasionally, the girl glanced at him, probably pondering whether he would dance with her eventually, but Jaime felt in no mood for such nonsense. He had never been a good dancer, but that was not the reason for his refusal. It would feel as if he was dancing on Cersei’s grave.

The rest of the evening felt like a blur of music and drinking, until some drunken fool called for the bedding. Jaime had by then drowned nearly a good dozen of cups and his head was pounding painfully as the gigging ladies were leading him into his nuptial chambers, tearing and plucking off his clothes one after another. His bride must have suffered a similar fate for she was devoid of most of her clothing when he found her sitting in the comfortable featherbed.

Most maids were afraid during their wedding night or so Jaime had always believed. Even Cersei had sought his company before her father had forced her into Robert Baratheon’s bed, but the Tyrell girl seemed unnaturally calm, a hint of a smile curling on her pink lips as laid eyes on his manhood.

This is no blushing maid, he realized at once, an amused though entering his mind. Could it be that Renly Baratheon managed to pluck Mace Tyrell’s golden rose?

Not that Jaime cared about that. He needed her father’s swords not her cunt.

The realization made him more daring.

“Tell me, lady wife,” he said in a slightly mocking tone. “Do you like my cock?”

Any normal maid would have blushed, but Lady Margaery Tyrell bared her teeth and pulled her white shift over her shoulders, leaving her bare to him.

It was a pleasant sight. She had slim body, two peart breasts and brown curls that covered her cunt.

It was enough to wake his desires.

“It is true what they say,” Lady Margaery added seductively and pointed at his cock.  The Lannisters are golden-haired from the tip of their toes to the hair on their head.”

Surprisingly, Jaime stared to laugh.

Mayhaps this marriage wouldn’t be as bad as he thought. His cock was hard enough and his lady wife was at least not boring.

Still, he doubted he would be able to fuck her while he was looking at her face.

It would be unfair towards Cersei.

“They also say we shit gold. Another lie,” Jaime replied jestingly and stepped closer towards the bed. “Now turn around, my lady and let us get this over with.”

…

Chapter Text

Jon

The Shavepate awaited them in the hall of pink marble that served as the council room, a dozen of his brazen beasts standing guard along the walls. Most of them were freedmen and wore brass masks formed in the shape of fanciful beats to protect their identity.

The Shavepate’s beetle-browed face, his small eyes, his oily yellow skin and his big dark nose were ugly to behold, but Jon was still relieved when found him alive.

When they had arrived at Meereen the city had been besieged by two more Ghiscari legions. They had been in the process of erecting their siege weapons when their Unsullied and sellswords had attacked their camp located across the muddy river that curled its way through Meereen.

The Ghiscari had fought bravely, defending their camp till the last men, but when the city gates had opened and the Shavepate had the rest of Dany’s Unsullied forces take formation before Meereen’s colorful walls the will of the Ghiscari legions had been broken and their lines had started to fall apart.

Within a matter of hours they had captured the camp and the siege machines. The Mother’s Men had wanted to tear them apart, but Ser Barristan had stopped them, making them understand that these machines could still be of use to them in the future.

At dawn, the last fighting had ended and Dany had led her Unsullied back behind the safety of Meereen’s city walls.

The freedmen had cheered for her, but most of the inhabitants of the city had holed themselves up, probably fearing that the freedmen might attack them now that they were drunk on two victories.

Jon couldn’t fault them for their caution, for he had seen with his own eyes what anger could do to people. Astapor had been his first learning experience and his second the rotting heads currently lining the plaza beneath the Great Pyramid.

The Shavepate’s work, he knew at once. Young and old men were among them, but their rich clothing told him that they belonged to the noble class of Meereen. The sight hadn’t fazed Jon nor had it shocked him, but Dany’s pale face had told him that she was not at all happy with her servant’s work.

The Shavepate must have had his reasons, Jon had assured her, but he knew that there would be a discussion to be had.

The tension only grew when Dany noticed the absence of Reznak, the perfumed bootlicker that had always been squirming around her and had unsuccessfully tried to convince her to wed a nobleman of this city.

He and the Green Grace had always been suspicious to Jon, which is why he had been pleased when Dany had finally stopped listening to their advice.

“Your Worship,” the Shavepate greeted her.

“Skahaz no Skahaz,” Dany greeted him rather briskly and sat down on the wooden bank she used as her throne. She was still garbed in a red tunic and black pants, her hair tightly braided atop of her head and the usual bells fastened on her braid.  “Where is the rest of my council? Where is Reznak?”

“Reznak turned out to be a traitor,” the Shavepate replied without hesitation. “That is why he isn’t here, your Worship. I am not surprised that you didn’t recognize his head. By now the crows must have picked up his eyes. I wasn’t aware that you liked him so much. I personally never liked his smell.”

Dany’s violet eyes burned with rage, but she kept her composure.

“I told you to keep order, not to butcher half of the nobility,” she explained and gritted her teeth. “Tell me, how did Reznak prove himself a traitor? Is there evidence beyond a confession brought forth through torture?”

“There is, your Worship,” the Shavepate confirmed, a  satisfied smile playing on his lips. “Two innocent mouths confirmed is treachery. He has been serving the Sons of the Harpy as do nearly all noble families of this city, among them the Green Grace and our dear friend Hizdahr.”

None of this was a surprise. Not even to Dany or at least that is what Jon deduced from her detached demeanor.

“And who are these two innocent mouths you are talking about?” Dany asked, her voice filled with foreboding. “One of the child hostages?”

“Indeed,” the Shavepate confirmed and bared his teeth. “The Green Grace’s kin gave me the truth. Sadly, one of them didn’t survive.”

Jon didn’t know if he should feel impressed or disgusted. The Shavepate was no common man. He was a butcher and even that was too kind of a term for him.

And even so, he had served Dany more loyally than any other person in this city. Without him they might have never found out the truth about the Harpy.  Killing him for doing his work would be downright silly.

“You tortured her kin?” Dany asked, her voice taking a dangerous tone. “I never told you to do anything like that…,” Dany trailed off and brushed her hand over her face.

“You told me to keep order,” the Shavepate defended himself, his dark gaze meeting Jon’s. Ser Barristan loomed right next to him, his blue gaze sad and distant. He seemed displeased by the Shavepate’s actions.

Jon felt suddenly like a freak, a terrible fear taking hold of him. Why do I not care? Am I turning into a monster? Has Astapor numbed my heart?

“Were the men you beheaded all Harpies?” Jon asked instead, trying to forget this disturbing realization.

“Not all of them,” the Shavepate explained, a hopeful expression taking hold of his ugly face. “Some were just supporters. Even so, the Harpy is still alive and there are many more of her sons residing in this city, which is why the Green Grace and Hizdahr yet live. As you can see, your Worship, my actions were reasonable and served to fulfil your order. Surely, that means I can keep my head?”

Dany had listened in silence, her violet eyes filled with suppressed anger.

Seeing this, Jon decided to intervene. “He is not wrong, Daenerys. And if it is true what he says then we finally have the information we have been seeking for.”

Dany gave him a speechless look, but soon regained her composure.

“Very well,” Dany said with obvious displeasure. “What did the Green Grace’s kin say? And who of the two children perished to gather this information?”

“The girl yet lives,” the Shavepate replied without emotion. This time, Jon felt a hint of disgust. The Shavepate spoke about the boy as if he had crushed a mere beetle. “The boy told me that the Green Grace has been intentionally trying to gain your trust and pressure you into marriage with our friend Hizdahr. They then planned to murder you. Raznak was also aware of this plot. I killed him to keep my findings secret.”

“Of course,” Dany added and bit her lip. “Reznak was most enthusiastic to see me wed. Tell me, who do you think is the Harpy? The Green Grace or Hizdahr?”

“Does it really matter?” the Shavepate asked and chuckled in amusement. “You are going to kill them, are you not?”

“Hizdahr is only one man, but the Green Grace is a religious figure,” Dany explained. “Killing her might cause an uproar. Even those not supporting the Sons of the Harpy might join their side if I kill her. It would end in a horrible butchery. I don’t want to risk it.”

“It will happen anyway,” Jon countered. “The freedmen are our only allies in this city, Daenerys. It is only a matter of time until the other inhabitants will rise up against you.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Dany asked in distress. “Butcher the entire city?”

“No,” Jon returned flabbergasted. He had been surprised by her sudden outburst, though he had noticed how tense she had been since they had left Yunkai. “Of course not.  I just think you should start thinking of the future. You told me that you want to leave Meereen to re-take the Iron Throne, but you can’t do that as long as the Sons of the Harpy continue to exist.”

“I have to agree, your Grace,” Ser Barristan added. “And this piece of information should serve us well despite the disgusting way it has been obtained.”

“It will,” the Shavepate assured her. “Would you care to hear my suggestions, your Worship?”

“Tell me,” Dany confirmed, though the expression on her face told him otherwise. She wants to cut off his head.

“Hizdahr will soon seek you out,” the Shavepate explained and smiled again. “And I think you should offer to sponsor his pit fighters.”

Dany’s face darkened.

“Sponsor his pit fighters? Why would I do that?”

“To give him a false feeling of security,” the Shavepate explained. “And is only natural that you would want to celebrate your grand victory, but in truth it will be a trap…to lure the Sons of the Harpy from their hiding.”

“It is not a bad idea,” Jon added hesitatingly and searched Dany’s gaze. “The nobles will be angered by your victory. Some of them might be desperate enough to attempt something…,” he trailed off when Dany’s violet eyes met his.

“And then we will kill them all in one swoop,” she summed up the plan. “Is that what you are trying to say?”

Jon remained silent and the Shavepate nodded his head approvingly.

“It is a dangerous plan,” Ser Barristan protested. “We shouldn’t endanger your life in such a manner, your Grace.”

Dany bit her lips and contemplated Ser Barristan’s words further. She looked torn and Jon felt the urge to comfort her, but this was not their bed chamber, but court.

Thus, he waited until Dany had made her decision.

“I shall call for Hizdahr on the morrow.”

…

Chapter Text

Griff

They had waited for a whole day before they finally received an answer from the Queen’s advisor, a certain Shavepate, who informed them that the Queen would see them in two days. Aegon had been displeased to hear this, but Lemore had managed to calm him down by reminding him that Daenerys Targaryen might need some time to process the fact that her nephew was alive and well. Aegon had been reassured by her words, but Griff knew how impatient the boy was to meet his only living relative. He had always been well-cared for, but he had been a lonely boy with no other children to keep him company. More than once he had pleaded with Jon to take him to his Aunt and Uncle, but every time he had been forced to disappoint his King as it would have been far too dangerous to seek out Princess Daenerys and Prince Viserys Targaryen. Keeping all Targaryen in one place would have made it easier for the Usurper’s swords to find Aegon.

Griff had also asked Aegon to stay away from the first meeting with his Aunt, but his King had protested again, explaining to him that only a King could treat with a Queen. The Halfmaester, Lemore and Duck had all agreed with him and thus Griff had accepted his King’s command with much teeth-clenching.

Even now, Griff felt tense when he thought about meeting Rhaegar’s sister as he had heard quite troublesome tales about that girl. She had been wed to a Dothraki horselord, she had supposedly woken three dragons form stone and she had managed to conquer Slaver’s Bay. Such a girl couldn’t be some obedient maid. Sadly, an obedient and fertile maid was what Aegon needed if he wanted to re-establish the Targaryen dynasty. Yet Jon feared that Daenerys Targaryen was neither of these two things. Her Lady Mother Queen Rhaella had not been a very fertile woman and Griff doubted the horselord left the Princess untouched. The reason they had need of her was to prove Aegon’s legitimacy.

The sky was blood red when the captain of their ship had his sailors row them to the shore. The city of Meereen was magnificent to behold and made Aegon gasp with wonder. Its walls were as colorful as a rainbow and the pyramids looming in the distance must be nearly as tall as the Sept of Baelor. King’s Landing and the Red Keep were nothing compared to this city.

It made him almost feel as if they were beggars, though they had donned their finest clothing and were bringing gifts and a promise to bring the Golden Company to Daenerys Targaryen’s cause.

They also had two hostages to offer: The wicked dwarf of Casterly Rock and the Stark girl.

“Where do you think are the dragons?” Aegon asked as he searched the sky. The curious expression on his face made him appear younger than his years.

Griff felt the urge to remind him who he was, but his fondness for the boy held him back. Especially, when said such child-like things Griff couldn’t help but to be reminded of his Silver Prince, though the boy showed little resemblance to him apart from his coloring.

His blood was soiled by his Dornish mother, Jon knew, but quickly banished these thoughts away. The boy’s mother was dead and gone.

“Dragons are dangerous beasts, your Grace. I doubt she allows them to roam freely..”

“I am sure she is going to introduce us,” Aegon replied with obvious disappointment and shifted his attention back to Lemore, who was seated on the other side of the small row-boat, her gaze fixed on the green waters blow. Next to her sat the ugly dwarf and the Stark girl. As always, the dwarf was drinking away his worthless life while the girl was much like Aegon, her large blue eyes watching everything with great interest.

“Of course, your Grace,” Griff confirmed and kept his true thoughts to himself. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt a strange foreboding when it came to Daenerys Targaryen.

If she was pleased to see us she would have called upon at once, Jon was convinced and brushed his hand over the hilt of his sword. We must be careful.

“Good,” his King said and frowned. “I just wished we brought the Golden Company here. It feels as if I am coming with empty hands.”

“That is not true,” Jon countered quickly. There was no time for doubts. “You are offering her to be your Queen and the most disciplined sellswords company in Essos. There is no greater honor.”

“She is already a Queen in her own right,” Lemore added thoughtfully. “I think it would be best we if we treat her as such.”

Griff couldn’t help but to scoff. “The girl was never supposed to be a Queen. Illyrio should have waited a while longer to wed her to the Khal, but he allowed this fool Viserys to speed up their plans. Aegon was supposed to save her.”

The Septa seemed displeased with his answer and fisted her skirt.

“Aegon is the rightful King,” she replied and graced the boy with a soft smile. “But Queen Daenerys hatched dragons. Aegon the Conqueror was only able to take the crown because he had such dragons. Why should she take a husband who is going to expect obedience from her when she could rule in her own right? I know you understand little about women, my Lord, but some of us are not satisfied to kiss our Lord husband’s feet and bear his children, especially when we have experienced the taste of freedom.”

Griff’s mood darkened even more, but that was no surprise. The woman had been like a mother to Aegon, but her bluntness had always bothered Griff.

“What do you want Aegon to do?” he asked in a mocking tone. “Kiss her feet and beg her to make him her lord husband?”

“No,” the Septa replied calmly. “But Aegon should treat her as his equal and must make clear to her that he can be of help to her. Instead of demanding her heart he should try to win it.”

“He is a King,” Griff grumbled and was about to speak more of his thoughts to the Septa, but Aegon cut him off.

“I shall do that,” he promised with  as smile. “I shall win her heart.”

Then, he turned to Griff and touched his arm.

“Be at peace, my Lord. No more quarreling.”

Griff sighed deeply and noticed that the dwarf was laughing.

“You should listen to your King,” the dwarf mocked and Griff felt the urge to throw him into the river, but was held back when he noticed that they had arrived at the shore, where they were greeted by a good hundred Unsullied and a face Jon Connington hadn’t seen in sixteen years.

Ser Barristan the Bold. Another traitor.

“I am here to meet the man who claims to be Prince Aegon Targaryen,” Ser Barristan explained, his deep blue gaze sweeping over them.

Griff tensed when his eyes fell upon him, but there was no reason to deny the truth.

“Your eyes do not betray you, Ser Barristan,” he confirmed grudgingly. “It is me, Lord Jon Connington, formerly the Lord of Griffin Roost. I am surprised to find a traitor severing Queen Daenerys.”

If Ser Barristan was angered by his words it didn’t show on his face.

“The Queen forgave my treachery,” was all he returned and exhaled deeply. “It surprises me that you are still alive, my Lord. The rumors said that you drank yourself to death.”

“These rumors were false,” Lord Connington returned coldly and touched Aegon’s shoulder, who had  been watching Ser Barristan with wide eyes. “As was the belief that Prince Aegon perished on the day King’s Landing fell.”

“So I have heard,” Ser Barristan confirmed and shifted his attention to Aegon and the rest of their entourage. “But it surprises me that Prince Aegon travels in company of a Lannister and Lady Sansa Stark.”

Aegon paled visible when he heard that, his head snapping around to look at Sansa and Tyrion.

Griff felt the urge to strangle the old fool. He had blown their cover, but then Griff had never expected to find the traitor here in Meereen.

It felt also wrong, so very wrong, but there was nothing he could do to change the reality at hand.

“Is it true?” his King demanded to know. “The dwarf is a Lannister and the girl is a Stark?”

“I fear so, your Grace,” Jon replied and jerked his head at Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister. Lemore was looming next to them, her face unnaturally pale as she stared at the Stark girl. “Illyrio thought that keeping them with us could serve our cause.”

“He is a Lannister!” his King snarled. “They killed my mother and the girl…she is the daughter of a traitor…,” he was about to continue, but Ser Barristan interrupted their conversation. He seemed impatient to move on.

“I am also a traitor,” Ser Barristan informed him. “Even so,  Queen Daenerys took me into her service. It would not surprise me if she would be pleased to meet Lady Sansa Stark.”

Jon felt even more confused, but he was impatient to see this meeting done.

Thus, he patted Aegon’s shoulder.

“You heard, Ser Barristan. Your Aunt awaits us.”

I shall protect him from all harm, Griff swore and watched his King closely as they walked over the large plaza spreading before the largest of the pyramids.

Aegon was dressed in finery, his crimson cloak beautiful to behold, but when Griff laid eyes on his silver hair he realized that he lacked a crown.

It made him wonder if Daenerys Targaryen would sport a crown, but he brushed these thoughts away before they could poison his mind.

Next came a massive stone gates, which was opened by the Unsullied’s able hands, before they were allowed entrance into a long corridor of black marble. Along the path he noticed golden carvings and a good dozen of torches filling the darkness with light.

They walked and walked and with every step Griff felt more tense. Lemore seemed to share his feelings, for her face was still as pale as marble, her eyes fixed on the dwarf and the Stark girl.

She must think them a danger, he was convinced. The woman was often too blunt for her own good, but she had never done anything to endanger Aegon.

Only Aegon seemed unaffected. He had been utterly silent until they reached the next door. It was made of pure gold and carved with foreign beasts.

Again they had to wait before the Unsullied opened the gates for them.

Jon sucked in a deep breath as his King stepped through the parted doors and disappeared in the stream of bright light falling through the narrow windows filled with golden glass.

When his eyes had finally adjusted to the golden light, he lifted his head and found a broad staircase leading up to a dais made of the same black stones as the walls of the pyramid. Next to the dais stood two high pillars that held the pink marble walls and beneath it he found a wooden chair and the girl Queen that was also Rhaegar’s sister.

On a cushioned seat sat a sun-kissed girl, who gave her Queen’s titles, yet Griff’s restless mind didn’t allow him to register all of them as he had used his time to take in the people that surrounded Rhaegar’s sister.

There were three Dothraki and an ugly man with Ghiscari looks that Jon identified as the Shavepate and another young man that looked very Westerosi.

He had a long face that was framed by plain brown hair and a pair of two dark eyes that were fixed on Aegon.

His expression could only be described as cold, but when his eyes darted to Sansa Stark his façade cracked. His eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly, a stunned expression taking hold of his long face.

Yet he remained where he was, his eyes remained fixed on the girl.

Does he know her, Jon wondered but had had no time to sort his thoughts as Aegon had stepped forward to greet his Aunt.

“I Prince am Aegon Targaryen,” he declared with an open smile. “The son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell. It is my pleasure to finally meet you, dear Aunt. I have long wanted to meet you.”

Rhaegar’s sister didn’t return his smile, her deep violet eyes narrowed in obvious discomfort as her gaze fell upon Aegon.

“Is that so?” she asked briskly. “Pray tell me then, where were you while my brother Viserys and I were begging on the streets, dear nephew?”

Griff should have expected such a question, but it seemed Aegon did not.

He paled a little and his smile faltered. Griff knew it was time to step in.

“We couldn’t seek you out, your Grace,” Griff explained. “All of us together would have made it easy for the Usurper’s swords to find us. If you wish to blame someone then it should be me.”

“And who are you?” she asked, her deep violet eyes brimming with anger. “My nephew’s wet-nurse?”

How dare she, Griff thought, anger stirring inside him. The girl is worse than I feared.

“This is Lord Jon Connington,” Aegon added suddenly and stepped closer towards the pyramid, his gaze unflinching as he searched his Aunt’s face. “A loyal friend to my father Prince Rhaegar and the man I owe my life. I must ask you to show him more respect, dear Aunt. He is a good man.”

The girl’s features softened a little and she bit her lips in displeasure, before she shifted her attention back to Aegon.

“Well, then,” she said and lifted her chin. “Why did you come here, nephew?”

“To bring you gifts,” Aegon replied more confidently. “The Golden Company and the crown of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“The Golden Company,” the girl repeated, an even colder expression taking hold of her beautiful face. “Why should they follow a Targaryen? When my brother asked for their help he was mocked as the Beggar King.”

“I wasn’t there,” Griff tried to explain, but Aegon cut him off.

“I must ask for your forgiveness, dear Aunt,” his King declared much to Griff’s displeasure. “What you say about the Golden Company is true, but there are no Blackfyres left and many of these men long for a home.”

“That is so,” Griff added once more and pointed at the rotten dwarf and the Stark girl. “And the Golden Company is not our only gift.  The dwarf is Tywin Lannister’s son and the girl is Lady Sansa Stark.”

The girl Queen’s eyes widened in surprise, but the young man at her side finally moved, a trembling smile curling on his lips as he stumbled down the steps towards the Stark girl.

He looked like a drunken fool, but his Queen made no attempt to stop him.

“Seven Hells! Sansa…,” he stuttered and came to stand in front of the girl. “What are you doing here?”

“King’s Landing was sacked by Stannis Baratheon and I was forced to flee in company of Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys,” the girl whispered, her blue eyes wet with tears, though she made no attempt to step closer towards the young man. The young man, whoever he was, looked equally helpless, his fist opening and closing as he was taking in this new piece of information.

“It is true, Lord Snow,” Tyrion Lannister added with obvious amusement. “My father is dead. So is my sister and Joff. At first, I did not know what Lord Varys intended for me, but now I have a very good idea…It seems we are meant to be hostages.”

“Sansa will be no hostage,” the young man snarled and gave Lord Connington a threatening look. “I will make sure of that.”

Griff didn’t believe his ears. This bastard was speaking to him as if they were equals.

That the Queen had remained silent was even more surprising and only helped to add to the bad impression he had of her. No true Queen would allow a lowly bastard to address a Lord in such a manner.

“Who is this boy and how do you know him, my Lady?”

The girl’s eyes widened in shock. It felt as if Jon had woken her from a dream.

“He is my brother, Jon Snow.”

That explained it. The boy was Eddard Stark’s bastard.

Griff felt suddenly very sick, his gaze flickering from Aegon to Rhaegar’s sister. The girl is more foolish than I thought. Her court is filled with traitor’s blood. First Ser Barristan and now this Jon Snow. What madness is this?

“I fear you are mistaken, my Lady,” Rhaegar’s sister added softly and graced the girl with a sad smile. “Jon isn’t your brother, but your cousin. It must be a surprise to you, but his mother was no commoner, but the Lady Lyanna Stark, and his father was my dear brother, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”

The Stark girl gasped, but Griff felt as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over his head.

His first urge was to deny what Rhaegar’s sister had revealed to them, but another part of him was trying to recall the blurred memories from the time before the Rebellion.

Prince Rhaegar ran away with Lyanna Stark and was gone for near a whole year. It was not impossible that he fathered a child on her. 

“But…,” Sansa Stark stuttered and clutched her chest. “I cannot believe that father would lie to us.”

“He claims he did it to protect me,” this Jon Snow replied, his voice laced with obvious anger. “But it is true. I am only your cousin. Nevertheless, I shall protect you and bring you home.”

“So shall I,” Rhaegar’s sister added with a smile and shifted her attention back to Griff and Aegon. “Do you hear? Sansa Stark shall be my guest…the same goes for you, Lord Connington and Prince Aegon…to give you time to acquaint yourself with everything you have heard today…,” she continued, but Aegon interrupted her.

“I am King Aegon,” he corrected her stiffly and turned around to regard this Jon Snow more closely. “And I am her nephew. What proof do you have that you can claim the same? You look nothing like a dragon.”

Surprisingly, Jon Snow remained relatively calm.

“I have no proof beyond the word of Lord Eddard Stark,” he explained humbly. “And to be honest I do not care if you believe me. Daenerys’ belief is more than enough for me. Still, if you are truly my brother, then I shall be pleased to know you.”

“Half-brother,” Jon added while Aegon remained silent. “And a bastard too.”

“That is not so,” Daenerys Targaryen countered quickly. “Rhaegar supposedly took Lady Lyanna as his second wife. That makes Jon a Targaryen or at least it does according to my views.”

“That cannot be true,” Aegon protested vehemently. “My mother would have never shamed my mother for the Stark girl!”

“He did,” Jon Snow confirmed curtly. “Whether you like it or not. I know it is hard to accept, but it is the truth.”

Griff swallowed hard. It hurt but, it was certainly possible. 

Prince Rhaegar’s marriage to Princess Elia had never been particularly affectionate and his Silver Prince was the kind of man who would wed a girl he fell in love with. He had been such a dreamy and idealistic man.

Even Elia Martell’s existence wouldn’t have changed that. Not that Griff cared about that woman. Weak and fragile as she was should have never been a Prince’s wife. The Princess’ mother had lied well to hide the truth from the King’s eyes, but Princess Rhaenys’ birth had revealed them for what they were: A house of vipers and liars.

Yet he could never bare these thoughts to Aegon. He was fond of Princess Elia’s memory.

And there was a more pressing issue at hand.

Rhaegar was supposed to have only one living son, not two.

The boy is a danger, was all he could think, though his heart clenched at the thought. For Aegon and his claim to the throne.

“That is a lie,” Aegon insisted and would have probably said something rude, but Griff pulled him backwards.

“It is certainly possible, your Grace,” Griff confirmed. “It is well known that your father ran away with the Stark girl and to be honest…about your mother…the Prince and Princess Elia rarely spoke to each other beyond courtesy. Theirs was a marriage of duty.”

“And you are not lying to me?” Aegon asked him and freed himself from his grasp. “Tell me!”

 Griff felt compelled to lie, but that would be mistake. They couldn’t afford to earn themselves the wrath of Rhaegar’s sisters who seemed to believe the boy’s words.

“It is true,” Septa Lemore interrupted their exchange and stepped forward, her gaze flickering from Rhaegar’s sister to the boy Jon Snow. “Jon Snow is Rhaegar’s son.”

Griff couldn’t believe his eyes. He had known Lemore as long as Aegon, but he had never seen her like this: her grey eyes swimming with tears. 

“How can you be sure?” Aegon asked Lemore, his gaze softening when he saw her tears.

Lemore smiled sadly.

“Because I am Lyanna Stark.”

…

Chapter Text

Daenerys

The hall of pink marble started to spin before her eyes while the woman’s words continued to echo in her ears.

Sucking in a deep breath Dany closed her eyes for a brief moment and grabbed the handle of her wooden seat.

This is utter madness, she thought, forced her eyes open and swept her gaze over these strangers. There was this Lord Connington who claimed to be her brother’s friend. There was this silver hair boy that claimed to be another nephew of hers. There was the fucking son of Tywin Lannister and of course Jon’s sister…no, cousin. And at last, there was Lyanna Stark disguised as a Septa. Utter madness.

Dany could neither speak nor form a proper thought as she instinctively sought Jon’s gaze. He looked as if he had turned to stone, his face unreadable.

It Lord Connington’s angry voice that roused her out of her stupor.

“Is this some bad jest?” the elderly man asked the woman that was supposedly Lyanna Stark. “Lyanna Stark has been dead for more than seventeen years!”

The woman nodded her head, her gaze still fixed on Jon.

She looked pale and trembled visibly.

“I don’t think she is lying,” Sansa Stark added fearfully, her large blue eyes fixed on the woman that claimed to be Lyanna Stark. “I noticed it before. She looks a bit like my little sister Arya…they have the same eyes.”

“And the story you told me,” the dwarf added with a contemplative look. “It makes all sense now. I suppose Lyanna Stark’s abduction was a lie?”

“It was no lie, but a misunderstanding…,” Lyanna Stark began, but Lord Connington interrupted her, before she was able to explain her reasons.

“Why are you here, woman? Why would Lord Dayne send you to us?”

“I wanted to help….that is all…,” Lyanna Stark tried to explain, but Aegon’s shaking head silenced her at once.

“That must be a lie,” the boy stuttered helplessly. He looked as if someone had pulled away the rug beneath his feat. “Why would Lyanna Stark want to help me? You stole my father away from my mother!”

“I didn’t steal Rhaegar,” Lyanna Stark countered quickly, her voice laced with a hint of defiance. “He acted on his own accord.”

Aegon trembled from head to toe. “Then, it is true?”

“It is true,” Lyanna confirmed firmly, but her gaze was no longer resting on Aegon, but again fixed on Jon, who had yet to speak a single word.

Dany didn’t blame him for his reaction.  She longed for a moment of peace to gather her thoughts after finding out that her brother’s wife was alive.

Yet for Jon she was so much more.

She was his mother and she looked nothing like Dany had imagined her.

She had a pretty enough face, plain brown hair that was slightly curled at the edge and sharp grey eyes, but otherwise she looked quite ordinary.

There must be a reason my brother loved her, she thought and sought Jon’s attention, but he remained motionless, shaking his head left and right as he met her gaze.

Their eyes met briefly, his grey eyes wide and showing a mixture of anger and sadness.

“I…,” he said and opened his mouth to speak more, but then he fell silent again and fled through the anteroom hidden behind the large silk curtain not far from the stairs.

Dany saw grimace of pain on Lady Lyanna’s face, but Jon’s reaction was to be expected. Jon had told her how much he had wished for a mother. Dany couldn’t even imagine how it would feel to find her own mother alive…

“He needs time…,” Dany began, but her other nephew interrupted their moment.

“So, you have been deceiving me all these years?” he asked Lady Lyanna. “I should kill you for lying to a King.”

“You are no King here,” Dany countered quickly and jerked her head at Lady Lyanna Stark. She needed to speak alone with her. Lord Connington and the rest of his company could wait a while longer. “And the Lady is my guest. I must ask you again, Lord Connington, Prince Aegon, Lady Sansa and Lord Lannister to leave us for now. I want to speak alone with, Lady Lyanna.”

Then, she waved her hand at Missandei. “Would you please take care of our guests?”

The little scribe was quick on her feet and lowered her head in reverence to the guests, pointing her hand on the other side of the room where another door led to a different part of the Pyramid.

“Please come along,” she chirped politely. “This one is pleased to show you the way.”

When they were finally gone from her presence, Dany exhaled deeply and asked of Ser Barristan and the Shavepate to send all petitioners today.

She would need some time to calm herself after this surprise.

“I leave you now, your Grace,” Ser Barristan declared after he had opened the door for her.

His blue gaze was now resting on Lady Lyanna and told her that he was as thirsty for answers as Dany herself.

“Do you care for a cup of wine?” Dany asked partly out of politeness and partly, because she didn’t know how to break the silence between them. “I certainly have need of a cup.”

Lady Lyanna nodded her head.

“I cup of wine might help.”

Dany nodded her head in acknowledgment and filled two cups with wine, before taking a seat at the table.

It was a small chamber, covered with colorful carpets, a beautifully-carved table and a brazier that helped to keep away the chill.

“I never thought I would meet Rhaegar’s sister,” Lady Lyanna mused sadly after she had taken her seat across Dany and lifted her cup to her lips. She took a hesitant sip, before looking directly at Dany. “Let alone find my son here in your company…” she trailed off.

“And I didn’t think I would find my brother’s wife alive,” Dany replied hesitatingly. She didn’t know how to approach her. Should she hate or pity her? She knew too little about her. “Jon believed you died in childbirth.”

“Ned must have told him that,” Lady Lyanna began, but when she noticed Dany’s confused look, she quickly corrected herself. “My brother Eddard must have told my son that I died in childbirth, but since he is here with you my brother must have also eventually told him the truth about his father.”

“He told him the truth about Rhaegar and you, but not that you are alive,” Dany confirmed. “But only after Jon had joined the Night’s Watch.”

Lady Lyanna paled visibly and sucked in a deep breath. She looked as if all air had been knocked out of her slender body.

“Ned did what?” the Lady asked and clenched her teeth, her long face changing to a wolfish expression. “No wonder he came here…Did he break his vows?”

“He did,” Dany confirmed again, before allowing silence to take over. Thus, she was able to watch Lady Lyanna’s face more closely.

Her reaction came promptly.

“Curse you, Ned!” the Lady snapped angrily and slammed her hand on the table, nearly knocking over the cup of wine. “How dare he do this to his own blood!”

Dany had winced at the impact, but the Lady seemed unaffected by the pain, but that was no surprise to Dany. The pain inside her heart was probably much worse.

Thus, Dany waited for a few heartbeats, before she posed the next question.

“Forgive me for being so forward,” Dany replied and searched Lady Lyanna’s face. “But why are you not with Jon?”

The Lady’s expression softened immediately and rubbed her face with the palm of her right hand, before finally answering Dany’s question.

“I should have done that…,” she admitted in a trembling voice. “But I was afraid. You have to understand…While it is true that I didn’t die from childbirth, I wasn’t in the best state after my son’s birth. I suffered from a bout of childbed fever that I only survived because Ned brought me to Starfall. It took weeks before I woke from my slumber and by then Ned had sent my son to Riverrun. ‘For his own safety’ he had told me,” she trailed off and inhaled deeply, before bringing the cup back to her lips.

She drank deeply and closed her eyes while Dany was given enough time to absorb this new piece of information.

Dany didn’t know much about Eddard Stark, but what little she had heard of him was influenced by her brother’s, Ser Barristan’s and Jon’s tales. Viserys had called him the Usurper dog, Ser Barristan had called him a misguided, but honorable man and Jon had called him a liar.

Dany herself could not say which opinion she favored, but she couldn’t help but to feel anger towards a man who would take a child away from his mother, no matter how good his intentions were.

“And then?” Dany asked after Lady Lyanna had finally lowered her cup. “What did you do?”

“I was furious,” Lady Lyanna replied and brushed her hair out of her face. It was not longer than her small finger, but the fringe always fell back into her face. “I asked my brother to return my babe to me, but he refused. Ned was always a stubborn person, much like myself and perhaps he was not wrong to think I would do something stupid, but even so…I cannot help but to hate him for it…,” she continued to explain, her voice suddenly failing her.

Lady Lyanna’s breathing had grown labored and tears were glimmering in her eyes, but she quickly brushed them away before they could roll down her cheeks.

Once, she had regained her composure she continued to explain.

“After what happened to my father and brother…It is understandable that Ned was upset with me, but the price he wanted me to pay for it was too high, even if it meant that I could have occasionally gotten a glimpse of my babe if my brother granted it,” she forced the words over her lips. “His price was that I would wed Robert and redeem myself.”

The thought was sickening. Dany had always feared the Usurper, but to wed a man who murdered her lover. It was unthinkable.

“And that is why you left?” Dany asked in return. “Because your brother expected of you to open your legs to the Usurper?”

“Usurper,” Lady Lyanna replied, a dry chuckle leaving her mouth. “You hate him as much as Aegon.”

Dany was surprised that she would say something like that.

“Of course, I hate him,” Dany replied.  “He murdered my brother! Don’t you hate him as well, my Lady?”

“I didn’t hate Robert at first,” Lady Lyanna admitted. “I just didn’t want to marry him. He thought himself in love with me, because Ned told him all kinds of flattering stories about me, but by then Ned hadn’t seen me in six years. I was no longer the little girl I that was sitting obediently beneath her mother’s feet to learn needlework and how to play the high harp. All these years I lacked a motherly presence to form me into the lady my father wanted me to be. Of course, I had my nursemaid and for a brief time I even had a Septa, but most of the time I spent with my brother Benjen and other boys. I learned how to ride and Benjen even showed me how to wield a sword and how to joust. I would have gladly carried a blade if my father allowed it, but that was not appropriate for a lady meant to wed a Lord Paramount. It was our Maester Walys who planted these ambitions into my father’s head, but without my brother’s prodding Robert would have never dared to ask for my hand in marriage. Do not misunderstand me, I have always known that I would have to wed, but I expected that my father would at least choose a man who would show a certain amount understanding for my inclinations. Robert expected some pretty southron girl to bear him heirs, but if he had known my true self he would have surely come to hate me. Ned thought it was because of Robert’s bastard girl, but I never cared about that. I just wanted a man who loved me for who I am, but Ned only ever saw what he wanted to see, but then most people are easily blinded by love. I count myself among them.”

She is not wrong, Dany thought, Lady Lyanna’s words cutting deeper than anticipated. She was in a similar situation with Jon and she often felt as if her affections for him made it hard for her to think clearly…

Yet this was not about her and Jon, but about Lady Lyanna, a woman she felt a strange kinship with.

“I was also sold into a marriage I didn’t want,” Dany added hesitatingly and hoped it would help to bridge the distance between them. “I do not blame you for fleeing from the Usurper. I would have done the same if I had had the strength, but I was only a little girl.”

Lady Lyanna gave her a strange look, but instead of commenting on Dany’s tale she refilled her cup, an awkward silence stretching between them, thought that was exactly what Dany had wanted to prevent from happening.

Dany exhaled deeply and made another attempt.

“Jon said you met my brother at the Tourney of Harrenhall. He crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty, didn’t he?”

Within the blink of a moment, Lyanna Stark’s whole demeanor had changed, a bit of color finally returning to her cheeks.

“Aye, he crowned me and he wanted to wed me,” Lady Lyanna confirmed almost softly. “But I refused him and even chided him for humiliating me in such a manner. I liked Rhaegar, but I didn’t know him well enough to agree to such a match, though I certainly had no intention to wed Robert. I and Benjen always planned to run away together. We wanted to live with the Wildlings…Truly, we were stupid children. Well, I eventually changed my mind about your brother…after Rhaegar proved his affections for me with deeds instead of words…he saved my life.”

That was a development Dany hadn’t expected.

“Your life? From whom?”

“Your father’s men,” Lady Lyanna explained and shrugged her shoulders. “The story about my abduction was not completely wrong, but it were your father’s men who took me, not Rhaegar. He was far away on Dragonstone when he heard of his father’s plan. He left his wife and children to protect me and even went against his own father and King, who most likely saw it as an act of treachery. Not that it matters now. Everything I did after Rhaegar saved me was my own decision. I shouldn’t have wed Rhaegar and I shouldn’t have followed him to Dorne, but I was in love and Rhaegar trained me with the sword, a dream come true. And it wasn’t like Rhaegar didn’t have reasons of his own to hide away. He feared his father’s wrath. Do not misunderstand me, I still love Rhaegar, but I should have come forward when I heard about my father’s and brother’s deaths. Rhaegar disagreed of course and by then I was already with child and even I feared what Robert would do if he found out truth. He was not the kind of man who would forgive such a slight. Thus, I stayed in the tower and waited for my prince…Gods, I was like one of these silly princesses from the songs.  Yet no Prince came to take me away, only my brother who was still licking Robert’s boots after he allowed Tywin Lannister to go unpunished for the murder of Rhaegar’s wife and children. Not only that, Ned and his companions had had also slain my protectors, noble Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent while I was giving birth. I was half dead by then and when I woke again…Ned had taken my child away from me. I was so angry with him…I hated him and wanted to hurt him…what I said were the words of a foolish child…”

“What did you say?” Dany asked.

“I wished death upon Robert,” she replied through clenched teeth and covered her face with her free hand. “And I informed Ned gleefully how I enjoyed every moment in Rhaegar’s bed. I said some more unpleasant things that I shouldn’t have said, but I was stricken by grief and anger. I wanted so very much to hurt him.”

“He took your child away,” Dany countered. “I would have probably done the same. Yet there is one thing I do not understand…Why did my father want to abduct you?”

“Because I was a stupid child,” she explained and smiled sadly. “I dressed up as a mysterious knight to defend a friend’s honor against three squires that dared to hurt him. I should have known better than to draw the Mad King’s attention on me, but I was reckless and thought myself safe. And now everything is lost.”

Dany felt a surge of sympathy for the woman in front of her and felt the urge to comfort her, but she knew  Jon well enough that he wouldn’t be as understanding…

“I shall speak to Jon,” Dany promised her. “Mayhaps I can convince him to listen to you.”

Hope showed on the Lady Lyanna’s tear-stricken face.

“You would do that for me?”

“Not only for you,” Dany explained hesitatingly. “But also for Jon.”

“Jon,” the Lady Lyanna repeated. It was the first time she had said her son’s name. “That was not name Rhaegar had in mind.”

Dany nodded her head in agreement, her heart beating vigorously.

“What name did my brother have in mind?”

“Aemon.”

…

Chapter Text

Jon

Jon was walking through the darkness of the crypts. Stone statues flanked his path, their unseeing eyes following him at every step. He found king’s with broken crowns. Lords with rusted blades and snarling direwolves sitting at their feet. He found more and more statues, some cracked and crumbling and others still whole and beautiful to behold, yet it were not these statues he was searching for.

The statue he was searching for belonged to his mother. He had seen her often when he and Robb had played in the crypts, but back then he hadn’t know that she was his mother. Then he had finally found out the truth from, namely that his mother hadn’t been just some tavern whore, but a trueborn Lady of House Stark, his Aunt, Lady Lyanna. Lord Eddard had also told him that his mother had died in childbirth, but most importantly, he had implied to Jon that his mother had wanted him.

Hearing about her death had pained him and Lord Eddard’s lie had pained him even more, but knowing that his mother had wanted him had helped to ease the pain in his heart.

Even that was a lie, he realized as he lifted his torch to see his mother’s face. It was only a stone face and it looked nothing like the woman that had waltzed into his life and had claimed to be Lyanna Stark.

He had only looked at her briefly, but her features had betrayed her Stark blood. Jon and her shared a similar face and her eyes, her eyes were Arya’s eyes and Lord Eddard’s eyes. The slope of her nose had a bit from Sansa and her sharp cheekbones reminded him of Robb.

This woman hadn’t lied, so much he knew, but that didn’t ease the pain in his heart. His mother had abandoned him to help this Prince Aegon, his half-brother, while he had been left rotting in Winterfell to live the life of a bastard.

It hadn’t been the worst kind of life for a bastard, so much he had realized now. He had loved his siblings and most of the inhabitants of Winterfell had liked him well enough, but at the end of the day he had still been Eddard Stark’s bastard. Theon had never called him anything but ‘bastard’ and Lady Stark had wanted him gone out of fear he might steal Robb’s birthright. He had no future other than to join the Night’s Watch or at least that is what he had believed at the time, though the real reason for wanting to join had been his need to prove himself worthy in Lord Eddard Stark’s eyes.

Curse him, Jon muttered to himself and stepped closer towards the statue of his mother. And curse you as well, mother!

Bitter tears began trickling down his cheeks and he quickly brushed them away, but it was no use. His anger was still there, simmering in the pit of his stomach like a volcano ready to burst.

He felt the need to hurt someone. He felt the need to let out his anger, but all he had was this torch.

He lifted the torch, hesitating, ready to give in to his feelings of rage, but the howl of a wolf stopped him…

When he woke he found himself on the stone floor, his face pressed into the rug of the Myrish carpet and the touch of Ghost’s wet tongue brushing over his cheek.

It took Jon a moment to lift his head and to free himself from this unpleasant position. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up and pulled himself into a standing position. There, on the small table next to the bed he found the empty flagon of wine and his half-filled cup.

His pounding head was the result of his wine consumption, but it had been the only way to ease the pain inside his chest.

Now he felt even more miserable and was rubbing his temples to ease this feeling of dizziness.

Ghost gave a whimper and brushed his furry head against his arm.

“Thank you, boy,” he thought and patted his wolf’s head. “I am fine.”

This too was a lie, but Ghost seemed to accept it for a moment later he lay back down on the carpet and closed his eyes.

Jon pondered what to do and rose to his feet, bridging the distance to the window. He pressed his head against the golden glass and realized that it was close to dusk.

Hours must have passed since he had fallen asleep, all drunken and miserable.

It also surprised him that Dany had avoided him, but then she had probably found him asleep and didn’t want to wake him.

Nobody wants to talk to a drunken fool, Jon thought and stumbled towards his bed. It was a kingly bed compared to what he had been used in the Night’s Watch.

It made him wonder what Dany would do now that his half-brother had appeared. By the laws of the Seven Kingdoms he was meant to be King.

He was sure that the young man came to wed his Aunt, but Jon resented the idea with every fiber of his being.

Lord Stark had tainted his childhood with his lies. His mother had abandoned him to stay with his half-brother. No, he had no intention to give him Dany as well. That was too much to ask for.

And mayhaps it was selfish to think like that, but then not even his own mother had wanted him. He had tried all his life not to be the wicked bastard Lady Stark believed him to be and even after he had cast away Eddard Stark as his father he had wanted to do right by him. Now he felt only disgust when he thought about the past.

A Stark, that is what he had wanted to be. Now he was a Targaryen or was he not? He doubted his half-brother would want to see the cursed son of Lady Lyanna Stark to be called Targaryen.

And perhaps that was only right, for a mother must be cursed if she left her only child like that.

Still, Dany he couldn’t give up. Not even for his half-brother who had lost his sister and mother to his mother’s and father’s reckless actions.

No, Dany was not a price to be claimed...

“I must speak to him nevertheless,” Jon thought and drew in a rapid breath. He felt suddenly cold and wrapped his cloak around his shoulder as he walked over to the table where one of the servants had left another flagon of wine. Jon was by no means a heavy drinker. His two weeks of debauchery in Volantis had taught him to keep away from too much drinking, but now he felt bored and lost. He felt tired, but he doubted he would be able to sleep without a bit more wine to lull him back to sleep.

Yet when he was about to open the bottle, he was distracted by the creaking sound of the door.

He knew at once that it was Dany. Only Dany would enter his chamber without knocking at the door.

He had instantly stopped his movement and had waited in silence until she had entered. Even Ghost had lifted his head and yawned before continuing to snore softly.

She looked different. Her hair was wet and free from its usual braid. She also wore fresh robes and appeared more hesitant than usual as she closed the door behind her.

Then there was only silence between them. Jon couldn’t blame her. Jon himself didn’t know what to say.

All had been a lie.

Exhaling deeply, Dany bridged the distance and came to stand before him, her slender fingers touching his cheek.

“You have been drinking?” she asked and furrowed her brows. “Did it help?”

“It feels as if someone cracked my skull,” he replied jestingly. “I shouldn’t have wasted a bottle of wine.”

Dany gave him a hesitant nod and lifted herself on her toes to place a kiss on his cheek.

She was about to pull back, but Jon wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest, his cheek brushing against hers.

“Jon,” she whispered. “I don’t think…,” she began, but Jon cut her off.

“Can’t we just forget about them…,” he said and closed his eyes, trying to forget his dark thoughts. “I don’t want to think about them anymore.”

Yet Dany seemed to think differently and lifted her head to search his face.

“You can’t just ignore the existence of your mother,” she whispered cautiously and graced him with a sad smile. “I spoke to her.”

Jon should have expected something like that and backed away. It felt almost like a betrayal, but this woman was also Dany’s good-sister by marriage.

“I don’t care to hear more lies,” he couldn’t help but to reply and backed further away, the wall suddenly far more interesting than Dany’s deep violet eyes. “Send her away!”

A moment of silence followed and then he felt her touch on his shoulders, pulling and begging him to look at her.

When he didn’t comply she raised her voice.

“I understand your anger, but you might regret it…,” she began, but Jon felt only more rage surging through his veins,  overwhelming all his reason.

“Don’t presume to know how I feel!” it escaped him abruptly. When he saw her stunned looked he immediately regretted his overreaction.

Exhaling deeply, he brushed his anger away and forced a smile over his lips.

“Forgive me…that was unworthy of me,” he apologized and stretched out his hand to take hers in his own. “I just can’t bring myself to speak with this woman. I am tired of hearing more lies. I just want to forget.”

Dany nodded her head and lifted herself on her toes to kiss him, her mouth parting his lips. This time, he felt a different kind of heat surging through his body.

It was exactly what he had in mind and pulled Dany closer to his chest, his mouth seeking hers and his fingers trying to loosen the complicated bindings of her dress.

“Wait…let me,” she whispered and pulled away, loosening the strings of her dress for him and allowing it to pool around her feet. Beneath her robes she was as naked as her nameday. She must have come to him right after her bath.

Smiling, he pulled off his tunic and discarded his boots. His breeches followed soon after and within the blink of a moment he found himself between her spread thighs.

He kissed her and licked her until she was squirming beneath his touch. Only then did he rise back to his feet and crashed his lips back against hers. Dany seemed just as hungry for his lips and sucked greedily while her nimble fingers touched his cock.

By now he had gotten used to her touch and had enough self-control to not spill on her hand, but even so he felt the heat of his desire surging through his veins.

Kissing her deeply, he rubbed himself against her body, the friction both pleasant and painful.

When her attentions became too much for him to bear, he pushed her back unto the bed. A light chuckled escaped her lips and changed to a gasp when he entered her with one quick thrust.

Soon she was pulling on his shoulder, her legs tightly wrapped around his hips and her lips sucking on his neck.

Yes, he thought and allowed the pleasure to overtake him. Yes!

Dany clung to him as he continued to lose himself inside her, but when he had finally spent himself between her thighs he heard nothing but a soft whimper leaving her lips.

Exhausted, he rolled to the side and closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

When he came back to himself expected to feel better, but the contrary was the case.

Nothing had changed. The anger was still there.

“Are you feeling better?” Dany’s soft voice roused him from his misery.

Jon felt the urge to deny the truth, but he decided against it. At least with Dany he wanted to be honest.

“No,” he replied and sat up. “And I shouldn’t have used you for my personal pleasure. It was not very satisfying for you, was it?”

“That’s not important now,” she assured him as she sat up. The furs slithered from her shoulders, but Jon caught them in time and put them back in place.

She smiled sweetly and touched his hand.

“It was no bother for me, but I think you should consider rethinking your decision. I have spoken to your mother and what she told me…it is not as black and white as you think…,” she continued and Jon was about to protest, but Dany’s shaking head silenced him at once. “Let me put it differently. I never had a mother nor do I think she will magically re-appear like yours, but like you I have always longed to know her. And while I cannot understand your pain I think you are going to regret it if you don’t speak to her. I am not saying you should speak to her at once, but do not do something hasty. Take your time and speak to her when you are ready.”

Jon understood what she was trying to say, but the rage inside him made it hard for him to even consider such a possibility.

“You could simply tell me what she told you,” Jon countered.

“No,” she replied firmly, but her voice did not lack warmth as she leaned closer and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I do not think it would be right for me to speak for her. Well, I can tell you this…Your mother had her reasons…reasons even I can emphasize with. It is not going to take away your pain to hear them, but it might make it possible for you to make peace with the past.”

Jon couldn’t help but to frown.

“That is not much and I do not care for her reasons.”

Dany sighed deeply and tightened her grip on his hand.

“Sometimes you are more stubborn than myself,” she chided him sweetly and leaned closer, her warm breath brushing against his lips. “And I cannot force you, but she told me something…She told me your true name.”

Then she smiled and continued. “It is an odd coincidence.”

Jon was confused.

“How so?”

Dany chuckled.

“The name you first used when we met in Yunkai,” she explained. “It is the same name my brother would have chosen for you had he lived.”

Jon was taken back by these words, though the name was quick on his lips.

Aemon. For the Dragonknight he had admired as a boy.

“Aemon,” he repeated slowly as if the name was foreign to his lips. “Why did my father choose this name?”

Dany shrugged her shoulders. “Your mother didn’t tell. You have to ask her yourself if you want to know.”

Clever of her, Jon mused bitterly and crawled out of bed to pick up his clothing. Mayhaps his act of selfish desire had brought about something positive. His heart was still bleeding, but his exhaustion was gone.

“Where are you going?” Dany asked and watched him as he pulled on his clothing.

“I am going to speak to Sansa and Lord Tyrion,” he explained. “That woman won’t be there I hope.”

“I gave your mother a separate chamber and Missandei is keeping her company,” Dany assured him, her voice laced with worry. “But can’t that wait?”

“No,” Jon replied and turned around to look at her. “We must also speak with Lord Connington and his Prince…my half-brother. Best would be to introduce him to Prince Quentyn. Perhaps during supper?”

Dany gave him an unhappy look. It was clear that she held no liking for them.

“We could do that,” Dany confirmed and addressed the elephant in the room. “And your mother? You can’t ignore her forever, you know? Do you still want me to send her away?”

“No,” Jon replied. “I shall speak to her soon, but first I want to speak with Lord Tyrion and Sansa.”

Dany frowned at that.

“Why would you want to speak to that dwarf?”

“I know him,” Jon replied, but didn’t want to explain the  circumstances of their meeting. “He is the best Lannister I know.”

Dany grimaced at that.

“Then I do not want to know what the worst kind of Lannister looks like.”

“Not so ugly,” Jon replied drily and leaned down to pat Ghost’s head. “The bad ones have beautiful golden hair and brilliant smiles, but don’t fret. Ghost will protect you.”

Dany rolled her eyes.

“You forget my dragons. We should go and see them after you have spoken to your mother.”

“A good idea,” Jon replied and left her at peace to seek out his sister, no cousin, and Lord Tyrion.

He was sure that an observant man like Tyrion could tell him one or two things about his supposed half-brother and this Lord Connington.

…

Chapter Text

Sansa

Sansa couldn’t help but to frown when she saw her reflection in the looking glass.  Her hair had grown a few inches since they had left the Qartheen ship that had brought them here, but it was still not much longer than her small finger. Whenever she was wearing breeches she looked almost like a boy.

Like Arya, she thought, her heart filled with sadness when she thought of her little sister. She had been horrid to her and now she was lost to her forever.

It was no wonder that Jon hadn’t come to see her. Sansa had never shown him much attention since she was old enough to understand what ‘bastard’ meant. She had also been the only one of her siblings who had always insisted on calling her ‘half-brother’.

Arya, Robb and Bran had always given her cold looks for her behavior, but Sansa had wanted to do right by her Lady Mother.

Now she knew better. She had thought herself above others, believing herself a true lady.

And what had been the result of her selfishness? Her father had been imprisoned and their household guard had been butchered like pigs.

This too was a burden Sansa would have to carry until the end of her days.

At least, I can ask for father’s forgiveness, she thought and brushed her hand over the dress she had been given. It was bright green and beautiful to behold.  She had also been allowed to take a proper bath and had been served a supper that had consisted of fresh peaches, olives, bread, cheese and a cup of honeyed milk.

And Jon. I must speak with him. To ask for his forgiveness and to speak about our Aunt.

Sighing deeply, she paced the room. Back and forth, she walked not knowing what to do with herself as she waited for the servant girl that had told her to wait.

As time was passing by, her mind was shuffling back to the revelations she had been confronted with in the last hours.

Jon was not really her brother, but supposedly the son of her Aunt Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. He was a Prince, wasn’t he? She couldn’t quite remember what had been said. Not that it mattered.

What had shocked her was that their Lord Father had lied to them. She knew of course, why he had done it. King Robert would have most likely murdered Jon, even if he was the son of Lyanna Stark, the woman he had claimed to love.

Their father must have felt that he had no other choice, but to hide the truth from her Lady Mother and everyone around them.

That Lady Lyanna Stark was still alive had been another surprise she couldn’t have anticipated. That said woman had been travelling with her all the time made the tale even madder.

I should have recognized that there is something odd about her, Sansa thought. She has Arya’s eyes.

“Blind fool,” she chided herself and angled her head to look at the door where she found the young sun-kissed girl that was serving the Queen. Missandei, Sansa recalled the girl’s name.

“Did my brother send you?”

The girl graced her with a polite smile and held the door open.

“Indeed, mistress. Jon of Winterfell asked for your presence.”

Sansa felt relieved and stepped out to the hall. The walls were black like the night and glittered like stars when the light of the torches fell upon them. Truly, King’s Landing was nothing compared to the might of the Great Pyramid. It made her feel like a Queen, thought that was another lie. She had been Joff’s Queen, but he hadn’t treated her better than his servants.

Joffrey was no true King, she knew now. He was a monster.

She passed many winding halls, several servants who barely paid her any attention and two staircases with painted steps, each different from the other, until the girl named Missandei opened a gilded door.

The room was long and the walls were held by massive pillars that were painted in bright blue, yellow and red. The table was just as long and black and polished like a looking glass.

Seated at said table was Lord Tyrion Lannister.

He looked much better than the last time she had laid eyes on him. His hair was washed and combed, his beard was shaved and he was garbed in a clean tunic, breeches and boots that could only fit a small child. He also smelled much better, but as expected there was a flagon of wine and a cup placed beside him on the table.

“My Lady,” he greeted her with a twisted smile. Even in pretty garments he looked ugly. “It pleases me to find you well.”

“It pleases me too,” she replied politely and swept a searching glance through the room. She had hoped to speak with her brother alone to ask for his forgiveness. ”Have you seen Jon?”

“I am here,” Jon’s interrupted their conversation and entered through a door that had been hidden by a black cloth. “Forgive me, for letting you wait, but Missandei told me you were resting.”

“It is no bother,” Sansa replied awkwardly. She didn’t know how to speak to him, though revelation about his birth was not the only reason. Lord Tyrion’s presence was another reason. “It was good to rest. The travel was long and bothersome.”

“Indeed,” Lord Tyrion agreed and leaned back on his cushioned seat. He looked like an ugly child seated on a beautiful adorned throne. “But our grim travelling companion made the travel all the more bothersome. His name is Lord Connington. I think you remember him.”

“I do remember him,” Jon replied and sat down at the table. He looked different from the boy she had known. His face was still long, but older and there were scars lining his jawline and brow. His hair was also much longer and reached way beyond his shoulders. It helped to soften his sharp cheekbones. “But this Aegon Targaryen, my supposed half-brother, he seems a bit more pleasant.”

“His Grace can be a pleasant person,” Sansa offered quickly. “But I think your Queen’s cold greeting upset him. And then there is the matter with our Aunt. It sounds like a mad tale.”

“It is mad,” Jon agreed, his gaze flickering from Sansa to Tyrion and then back to Sansa. “How come you two ended up in their company?”

Sansa sighed and grabbed for one of the empty cups with the intention to fill it, but Lord Tyrion had been faster and was already pouring the sweet red liquid in her jade cup.

“Thank you,” she replied politely and shifted her attention back to Jon. “Our allegiance with them was not something either we planned, but have been forced to agree to. Lord Varys was the only one who offered us a way of escape. Without him we would have probably died.”

“Does that mean Stannis Baratheon is King?” Jon asked, displeasure evident on his face. “Gods, these are bad tidings indeed.”

Sansa was confused and Lord Tyrion chuckled.

“Not what your Queen was hoping for, eh? I suppose my Lord Father would have made a much better enemy.”

“Indeed,” Jon confirmed and picked a grape from the bowl on the table, but didn’t put it into his mouth. “I had hoped to draw Robb to our side once we return to Westeros and that would have been much easier to accomplish if we share the same enemy…the Lannisters.”

Sansa knew what he was trying to say. Jon was now aligned with the Mad King’s daughter. She doubted Robb’s lords would like that, but even so, Robb loved Jon. She doubted he would fight against his own brother as long as his Aunt didn’t threaten his family nor did Sansa believe that Jon would ever allow that.

“Robb will listen to you,” Sansa replied and graced Jon with an encouraging smile. “I know it.”

“I broke my vow to the Night’s Watch after Lord Eddard told me the truth,” Jon replied bluntly. “Robb’s lords will most likely demand my head, sister.”

Sansa was shocked. She hadn’t been aware of that and couldn’t quite believe it.

Jon had always been so quiet and obedient. She hadn’t thought him capable of doing something like that, but then it must have also hurt him to be lied to his entire life.

Sansa didn’t know what she would have done in his situation.

The selfish thing, Sansa thought and recalled with shame how she had told Queen Cersei about her father’s plans of leaving the city. You are not better than him. You have no right to judge him.

“Robb will not harm you,” Sansa assured him again. “He is your brother.”

Jon’s expression softened.

“Mayhaps you are right,” he remarked and put the grape into his mouth, chewing softly, a thoughtful expression taking hold of his face as she shifted his attention to Lord Tyrion who had just refilled his cup. “But that is not the real reason I wanted to talk to you. I had hoped to find out more about my supposed brother. Do you think he is the real Aegon?”

Lord Tyrion shrugged his shoulders.

“The boy has silver hair and purple eyes, but you can find such a boy in every pillow house. I have also never met Prince Rhaegar and thus I cannot say whether the two share a resemblance. Well, the presence of Lord Connington speaks for him, but apart from that there is not much proof for the boy’s true birth. Gods, even your tale is much more believable to me.”

Jon frowned at that and leaned forward, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders like a river of ink.

Jon had the Stark face, but mayhaps there was something about the fabled dragon prince hidden in the slope of his nose and the straight line of his jaw.

“This Lord Varys that helped you escape, I think Daenerys called him the Spider, sent assassins after her when she was still wed to Khal Drogo. Ser Jorah Mormont told us so much when he was still in her service.”

“Ser Jorah was indeed in the service of the crown,” Lord Tyrion confirmed with a knowing smile. “But eventually stopped giving Lord Varys information on your Queen. We thought he died.”

“He didn’t die,” Jon explained, his voice laced with surprise. “He proved himself a traitor and Daenerys exiled him. Mayhaps that was a mistake.”

Sansa couldn’t help but to disagree. Ser Jorah Mormont had been a slaver. A man like that couldn’t be trusted, but she kept these thoughts to herself.

“Not that it matters now,” Jon continued and frowned again. “But that brings me back to Lord Varys. Why would he help Prince Aegon and at the same time allow this Magister to wed Daenerys to a Khal of the Dothraki? A smart man like Varys would know that it would only bring Prince Viserys many enemies if he brought a horde of Dothraki to Westeros. And now, that Daenerys has dragons he conveniently sends her supposed nephew Aegon Targaryen to her.”

“Lord Varys is a mysterious man,” Lord Tyrion offered in return. “Above all, he claims to serve the realm. Mayhaps he thought by raising this Prince Aegon he could give Westeros a proper King. King Aerys and King Robert both proved huge disappointments in this regard, but that doesn’t mean the boy is really Prince Aegon. As for his sudden interest in the Princess, it was revealed to us only recently that the plan had been to save Princess Daenerys from the Dothraki and make her his wife. That is why I think that Prince Viserys was ever meant to get to Westeros.”

“So much is clear,” Jon confirmed grimly and rubbed his face. This Magister Illyrio and Lord Varys may have manipulated Prince Viserys to wed Daenerys to the Khal, but that doesn’t mean the boy they protected all these years is a pretender. What about Lord Connington? He claims that he knew my father personally. Why should he lie? He seemed very convinced that this Prince Aegon is who he claims to be. Was he perhaps fooled? And then…there is my mother…,” he trailed off and clenched his teeth.

Sansa couldn’t even imagine how he must feel. Sansa had always had a mother who loved her…

“I don’t think she was trying to fool us,” Sansa offered. “She seemed just as convinced as this Lord Connington.”

Jon seemed unhappy with her answer.

He brushed his hands over his face and pondered the situation for a moment.

“What do you think of her?” he asked suddenly. “My mother I mean…,” he trailed off again.

“She was always kind to me,” Sansa replied unsure. “I would like to speak with her. What about you?”

Jon clenched one of his hands to a fist. It was heavily burned and scarred.

“I suppose I will have to listen to her excuses,” Jon muttered to himself.

“She told me a bit about herself,” Lord Tyrion added. “And why she didn’t return to Westeros. Would you care to hear what she told me?”

Jon gave Lord Tyrion a stunned look.

“She told you the truth?”

“Not all of it,” Lord Tyrion replied. “I didn’t even know who she was. I thought she was a Septa that chose the veil to escape an unwanted marriage, not Lyanna fucking Stark. Well, tell me. Do you care to hear what she told me?”

Jon gritted his teeth and gave Tyrion an approving nod.

“Tell me.”

…

Chapter Text

Lyanna

Lyanna chose to wear one of the dresses she had received from Rhaegar's sister. 

After living the life of a Septa for sixteen years it felt strange to wear a proper dress. Well, the first five years she had spent in a Sept, a dreary life filled with early mornings, meagre food and prayers. As a child she could have never imagined that she would one day immerse herself in this foreign faith.

In the North they had no need for lavish Septs, the scent of incense and dusty books. No, all one needed to do was sit down beneath a weirwood tree and listen to the whispering of the leaves. In such moments it had been easy for her to forget her sorrows and fears, though her current self had long lost her trust in the gods of her forebearers, or better said the gods in general. She couldn’t imagine that a rotten world like theirs had been created by otherworldly beings. No, she imagined them more like humans. Selfish and driven by their own desires.

Like you, she reminded herself every day and fastened the dress with a blue sash. You chose love over duty. You abandoned your son. Thousands died for your sins…

Duty, that was a word she had always hated. It was a word her father had used to justify the match with Robert Baratheon. It was a word Ned had used to justify stealing her son.

And perhaps he was right, but then duty always came easier to men like her brother. In fact, duty always came easier to men. Men could always escape an unhappy marriage by keeping themselves a lover on the side while women had to be chaste.

It was the law of men and gods, a law she had always hated and thus her reckless self had decided to live by her own rules. She had spurned her betrothal with Robert Baratheon and had loved Rhaegar, who had promised her the freedom she had always craved. Oh, it had sounded all so perfect to her younger self. Elia Martell would be his Queen and Lyanna would be his love. That Elia Martell might not have wanted to see her children threatened by hers, hadn’t even occurred to her. She hadn’t cared about the crown. All she had wanted was to get away from Robert and to love Rhaegar.

It had been an impossible dream and mayhaps that had been the reason she had been punished.

Not that it mattered now. The past was gone and all that remained was an uncertain future, a brother that had betrayed her more than she had thought possible and a son that hated her. Even the boy she had raised in his stead hated her now or at least she wouldn’t blame him for doing so. She had after all caused his mother’s and sister’s deaths.

“My Lady,” Daenerys' voice roused her out of her thoughts. Lyanna had taken a seat by the window and had tried her best to tame her mob of brown hair into something orderly. “Am I intruding?”

Lyanna turned around and found Rhaegar’s sister, Princess Daenerys or Queen Daenerys, standing at the door.

She was a true Targaryen, all silver-haired and purple eyed. Even the slope of her nose and the fullness of her lips spoke of Rhaegar’s beauty. It was hard to deny that she was his sister and even harder to deny was that she held affections for her son. Lyanna had spent years as a Septa, but it hadn't escaped her the way the young girl had said her son's name. The cold demeanor she had shown when meeting Prince Aegon had suddenly been exchanged with a girlish softness.

Jon, she reminded herself and couldn’t help but to dislike the name Ned had chosen for her son. It was the name of his foster father as Ned had liked to refer to the Lord Paramount of the Vale, a man that had aided Robert in usurping Rhaegar’s crown. Just the idea of having her son named after such a man angered her. Even so, she couldn’t deny the reality at hand. Jon Snow’s true name may be Aemon Targaryen, but he had lived all his life as Jon Snow, her brother’s bastard. She couldn’t expect of him to just forget about his past life nor could she expect of him to forgive her.

“My Lady,” Daenerys’ broke the silence again. She had come to stand in front of Lyanna, her purple eyes changed to a deep violet color after the bright sunlight had fallen upon her face. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Lyanna,” she replied and rose to her feet. Her smile felt forced, but it was the least she could do after the young woman had shown her nothing but kindness. “You may call me Lyanna if you like.”

Again, this almost childlike expression washed over Daenerys’ face. She seemed pleased with her offer and smiled warmly.

“Then you may call me Daenerys,” Daenerys offered in return and brushed her braid over her shoulder, the bells fastened there ringing softly. “We are after all bound by marriage.”

“I don’t think my son will like that very much,” Lyanna replied and walked towards the door. “In presence of the others I shall continue to call you by your title.”

Daenerys nodded her head in acknowledgement. “If that is what you want. Well, Jon and the others are waiting for us.”

Lyanna exhaled deeply and followed after Daenerys.

Into battle.

Daenerys had chosen a long hall to conduct her negotiations, though officially it was meant to be an uncoerced meeting between potential allies.

The hall was made from the same black stone as other parts of the Pyramid. The walls were about a hundred feet high and held by thick pillars made from white polished stone. Along the walls she noticed the ever stone-faced Unsullied and a good dozen of scones that held torches to lighten he windowless hall.

On the large table made from some sort of reddish wood, she found both familiar and unfamiliar faces staring back at her.

There were Lord Connington and Prince Aegon on one side of the table and not far from them a young man with sun-kissed skin and dark eyes. His garments looked Westerosi, a doublet made of orange and red cloth.

Prince Quentyn Martell, she guessed. Daenerys had mentioned him, albeit only briefly.

It disappointed Lyanna that she saw no sign of her niece Sansa and the wicked dwarf she had come to befriend during their travel.

Lyanna avoided to look at the others and followed after her Daenerys, who took her place at the head of the table while Lyanna sat down left from her, though at an appropriate distance.

Jon was seated right from her, but even when Lyanna had turned to look at him, he had avoided her gaze. The serious expression he carried reminded her of her Lord Father, but he also looked a bit like Rhaegar when he was in a particular melancholic mood.

“Why did you bring her?” Aegon’s voice disturbed the silence. He looked upset, his bluish eyes narrowed and filled with anger. “I thought we are going to negotiate?”

“She is my kin through her marriage to my brother Rhaegar,” Daenerys replied, her expression changing back to the queenly mask she had donned during their first meeting. “And my nephew’s mother. I want her to be here. You can accept that or leave, dear nephew.”

Lyanna could scarcely breathe when everyone in the room, but her son, turned to look at her. Jon Connington’s gaze was icy as frost and Prince Quentyn Martell looked as if someone had kicked him in the balls.

 “Are you telling me that Lady Lyanna Stark is still alive?” the young man asked in a shell-shocked tone and searched Daenerys’ face. “First my Aunt’s son…and now Lady Lyanna Stark. Gods, Is this some mad jest?”

“No jest, my Prince,” Lyanna replied and grabbed the cup that had been placed in front of her by one of Daenerys’ handmaids. They were both sun-kissed beauties and dressed in the fashion of the Dothraki. Irri and Jhiqui, she recalled, but wasn’t sure. Only her little scribe, that was seated next to Jon, wore a dress of the same color as her mistress; baby blue like the Summer sea and held together with a sash of baby pearls. “I am indeed Lady Lyanna Stark. ‘The Northern whore’, as your father liked to call me.”

It was wrong of her to bring that up, but she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t asked Rhaegar to crown her and had been dubbed a whore. What she had done afterwards should have earned her such a nickname, but not the mere crowning on a tourney.

When she saw the young man’s confused look she sighed and forced a smile over her lips.

“A name I might very-well deserve for my past actions,” she admitted and shrugged her shoulders. Slowly, she lifted the cup to her lips and drank, waiting for Prince Quentyn’s reaction, but again nothing happened. Sighing, she put the cup away and shifted her attention to her good-sister and then to Aegon. “And while I cannot bring back your Aunt and her children I had hoped that by aiding your nephew I can redeem myself.”

This, time her words had finally caused a reaction in her son, for he had finally lifted his head and was looking at her.

Grey eyes, she realized at once. Her son had her eyes, but she saw also Rhaegar in them. They were black like Valyrian steel, but there was also a hint of purple there, revealed by the torchlight.

Yet, that was all she could tell by looking at his face. His face was unreadable, his lips a thin pale line and his dark eyes icy like the winds of the North.

 “I do not know what to say,” Prince Quentyn stuttered and disturbed their moment. “This is utter madness.”

“Truer words have never been spoken, cousin,” Aegon added, his eyes still narrowed in anger as he met Lyanna’s gaze across the table. He appeared almost like a stranger to her now, a far cry from the cheerful boy she had known. His reaction hurt too, but she had always known that the day would come when she would be forced to reveal her true identity. Yet, she had also hoped that his anger would be eased by the success of regaining his crown and that he would come to accept her real son as his half-brother. A fool’s dream.

“And I still don’t understand why the presence of my father’s mistress is of essence for our negotiations.”

“My brother’s second wife,” her Daenerys corrected Aegon quickly. “Our forbearers were known for such practices. I do not see why we should ignore this fact.”

“The practice of polygamy is not legitimate in the eyes of the Seven. It is considered a sin,” Prince Quentyn Martell added almost shyly. While he had just declared Lyanna a whore and her son a bastard, she couldn’t bring herself to dislike the young man. He was of the upright sort, so much she could tell by the blush on his cheek.

“Aegon the Conqueror had two wives, Maegor had several,” Daenerys replied. “The way I see it, the reason the practice became outlawed had more to do with the death of the dragons than my forebearers sudden devotion to the Seven. I have dragons as well, my Prince. I can show them to you if you wish.”

Prince Quentyn Martell paled a little, but managed a polite smile in return.

“It would be my pleasure,” Prince Quentyn replied and lowered his head. “But I must tell you again. Your dragons are not going to change my Lord father’s opinion of your brother’s second marriage. Dorne will never accept it and you shouldn’t forget that Dorne withstood Aegon Targaryen’s dragons.”

“It does not escape me,” her Daenerys replied with obvious displeasure. “But if you want to make our allegiance work you will have to accept certain conditions, dear nephew,” she added and angled her head to look at Prince Quentyn. “As for Dorne, your father’s kingdom is only one of seven. Jon cannot offer me the spears of Dorne, but also has a cousin who loves him…”

“Forgive me, your Grace,” Jon Connington interrupted. “But I doubt Eddard Stark’s bannermen will think the same way. They will only see the Targaryen in him.”

“That may be so,” her son granted in an icy tone. “But that is a risk I have to take, Lord Connington. Still, it would be best if we worked together instead of quarreling like children. You want the crown? Well, tell me, dear brother, what connections do you have to Westeros other than a possible allegiance with Dorne? Do you think that will be enough to convince the rest of Westeros to bend the knee to you? If Stannis Baratheon has taken the crown then it is not unlikely that his brother’s former allies are going to support him. I wonder, who Robb Stark is more willing to listen to. A bastard who spend his entire life in North or some Prince that spent his entire life on a pole boat in Essos?”

Her son’s words had been merciless and Lyanna couldn’t help but to shudder. That her son knew these details about Aegon’s life surprised her as well, but when she saw the expression of rage on his face, she knew that she had to intervene.

“None of us can say what will happen in Westeros,” Lyanna added hesitatingly and angled her head to look at Daenerys and her son. “But I think you ought to listen to my son and Queen Daenerys. Working together would be more beneficial than to quarrel.”

“I do not care about your opinion, woman,” Aegon scoffed and averted his gaze. Exhaling deeply, he lifted his head again and looked at Daenerys. “I came here to speak with my Aunt. You mentioned conditions. Tell me, about them.”

A hint of a smile crossed over Daenerys’ lips and she exchanged a quiet look with Jon, before she named her conditions.

“My first condition is a simple one, I cannot marry you. In fact, I think it would be more beneficial for you to wed another woman of Valyrian blood. Princess Arianne Martell comes to mind. There are others I have heard about, but since Prince Quentyn is here with us it makes sense to bring up such a possibility.”

Lyanna was not surprised to hear Daenerys’ refusal to wed Aegon and only confirmed what she had already suspected. Her son and good-sister were more to each other than Aunt and Nephew. That Daenerys had been sold into a political marriage before, made it even more understandable that she would not consider marrying Aegon for political reasons alone.

Yet, Aegon seemed taken back by her words.

“Why would you not want to marry me?” he asked, his eyes incredibly wide. “You would be Queen.”

“I think I know why,” Prince Quentyn added softly, his dark eyes still fixed on Daenerys. “It has to do with your condition, doesn’t it, your Grace?”

The change in Daenerys’ demeanor was palpable. Her smile had vanished within the blink of a moment.

“I fact I hoped you would keep to yourself, my Prince,” Daenerys replied through gritted teeth and exchanged another telling look with Jon. Lyanna almost expected her to stretch out her hand to touch his arm. “Well, now that Prince Quentyn brought it up, it is hard to deny the truth,” she added tensely. “The truth is…I am most likely barren, thus a marriage between us would most likely not be of use to you, dear nephew.”

“I see,” Aegon said, all anger suddenly washed away from his face, though he looked slightly disappointed. “Well, that certainly complicated the situation. But please tell me, how can you be so sure? Have you been inspected by a Maester?”

“Isn’t it already humiliating enough that she had to tell you about it?” Jon asked, his voice laced with disgust. “What do you want her to do? Have a hundred maesters crawl between her legs to inspect her? If you haven’t noticed, but Daenerys is willing to support your claim, though she has no reason to do so.”

At once’s Aegon’s gaze darkened. “I am her nephew. I am Prince Rhaegar’s eldest son and heir…”

“My supposed nephew that has been hiding away for seventeen years,” Daenerys added crisply. “But let us not speak of the past. I want to speak of the future. What Jon told you is true. While I do not completely trust in your identity I do not wish for another Dance.. I thought it was my duty to retake the crown, especially after my brother’s death, but now I am no longer alone. The game has changed and I am willing to accept that for the sake of peace. The truth is, I am tired of war and I simply want to go home. That said…Are you willing to hear the rest of my conditions?”

“We are willing to hear them,” Lord Connington answered on Aegon’s behalf. “Please tell us about your conditions.”

Daenerys looked weary as she gave the rest of her conditions.

“My second condition is that you are going to yield me Dragonstone. My dragons need a place to live and it is also the place I was born. It is only natural that I want it back.” 

Aegon seemed displeased with this condition, but he nodded his head in silent acknowledgement.

“And your third condition?” Lord Connington asked tensely.

“That you will accept Jon as your brother and allow him to be your heir should you be unable to father sons of your own. I also want you to wed your children to his. This is perhaps the most important condition on my list.”

Aegon’s clenched fists were telling.

“That I cannot do,” he declared coldly and shook his head. “That would besmirch my mother’s memory. Lyanna Stark’s bastard will never be a legitimate member of House Targaryen.”

Then, he lifted his head and looked directly at Lyanna.

“You said that you wish to seek redemption for your past actions. Well, now is your chance, my Lady. Show loyalty to your King.”

Right would be to defend Aegon, but when she looked at her son it felt as if she had lost her ability to speak.

She had abandoned him. She owed him to take his side in this matter.

“A King needs an army and allies,” Lyanna replied in a trembling voice. “Your Aunt made a generous offer to you. You should consider it.”

Aegon scoffed and leaned back in his chair.

“It doesn’t surprise me that you stabbed me in the back. You probably took great pleasure in fooling me all these years.”

Lyanna’s heart clenched at Aegon’s angry tone. Her lies must have hurt him just as much as her son.

“That is utter nonsense, Aegon,” she assured him. “I was just trying to help you and I am still trying to help you, which is why you should consider your Aunt’s generous offer.”

“I have to agree,” Lord Connington interrupted surprisingly. “We will consider your offer, but we will need time for that.”

“That should be no problem,” Daenerys returned politely. “Take as much time as you need.”

Aegon frowned, but Jon Connington’s words held sway over him.

“Very well,” Aegon agreed at last. “I shall consider your offer, Aunt.”

When all was said and done, Lord Connington, Aegon and Prince Quentyn left without having eaten a single piece of the roasted peacock, the ostrich eggs or the spicy carrots nor had they touched the sweet summer wine.

Lyanna didn’t feel hungry either. The angry negotiations and her son’s cold demeanor had stolen her appetite, but even so she decided to speak to Daenerys before leaving.

Her son, ignored her as always, his dark gaze fixed on the colorful tapestries.

“Aegon can be rather hot-headed,” Lyanna explained hesitatingly. “And his anger is meant for me, not for you, your Grace. I shall leave you now.”

Daenerys nodded her head in understanding, her violet eyes quickly darting back to Jon, who was still averting his gaze. She looked as if she wanted to pull on his cloak and drag him to her side, but in the end she remained still.

Instead she sucked in a deep breath and gave Lyanna an apologetic smile.

“I also have my hot-headed moments.”

Lyanna took this as her cue to leave and was about to turn around, but her son’s voice caused her to stop in her tracks.

“My Lady,” he said, but then she shouldn’t have expected more than that. “Lady Lyanna…I think it is time we speak.”

To Lyanna it felt as if time had stopped, the world spinning out of control.

She felt dizzy as she turned around, her legs suddenly wobbly like jelly.

“You can call me Aunt if that is easier for you,” she offered instead and took in her son’s face once more. It was the second time he was directly looking at her. His face was long like hers, but even-shaped like Rhaegar’s. The slope of his nose and the softness of his lips came also from Rhaegar, though his slightly curved brows where all hers. His hair, a plain brown color, reminded her of Benjen, but his dark eyes reminded her again of Rhaegar. At the first glance, he looked like a Stark, but at the second and third glance he looked like his father. Truly, her son was lucky to have been born with her coloring or Ned wouldn’t have been able to hide his identity for long.

Seeing Rhaegar in her son, made the whole situation only harder for her, his dark eyes brimming with resentment.

“That would be a lie,” he replied and pointed his finger at the chair Lyanna had occupied earlier. “And I am tired of lying. I should have called you mother, but I can’t. That is why I will call you Lady Lyanna. Can you accept that?”

Lyanna was surprised that he had asked for her opinion and could only nod her head in acknowledgement.

She wanted to say so much more, but her throat felt incredibly dry and she felt dizzy as well.

Thus, she decided to sit down.

When she had found her balance again she exhaled deeply and shifted her attention back to her son. Daenerys was also there standing beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder.

If she had needed more evidence for their affection she saw it now.

“I accept it,” Lyanna replied and finally found her voice.

“Good,” her son replied curtly. “Then, we can finally speak. I have recently spoken to Lord Tyrion and he told me things…he said that my Uncle supposedly took me away from you? Is that true or another lie you made up to make yourself feel better?”

Lyanna didn’t know if she should feel glad that the wicked dwarf had lifted a part of her burden from her shoulders.

“It is no lie,” she confirmed and searched his gaze. She wanted him to see that she was honest. “Ned did take you away from me. After your birth I was very sick…the birthing fever. I was unconscious for weeks and when I woke again I was back in Starfall and you were already on your way to Riverrun. Ned did it to protect you from me or that is at least what he told me. I suppose he was afraid I would do something foolish and I wasn’t very forthcoming to him…I said some very unpleasant things to him,” she continued, but her voice failed her when she saw her son’s reaction.

His cheeks were deeply flushed and he was shaking from head to toe.

“Don’t defend him!” he snapped angrily and balled his right hand to a fist. It was ugly to behold, all burned and scarred. “He always loved Robert Baratheon more. He fooled me into believing that the Night’s Watch is an honorable calling. And the fool I was I believed him. I told him so much before I fled from the Wall...”

Then, he paused for a brief moment, probably to catch his breath, and rubbed his face in frustration.

“Even so, I never thought he had it in him to do something like this,” he continued in a strained voice and averted his gaze.

Seeing the tears glittering in his dark eyes broke her heart.

“Ned meant much to you, didn’t he?” she couldn’t help but to ask. “He raised you after all and that is why you are so hurt that he betrayed you.”

His dark eyes flickered back to her. He looked as if she had slapped him and bit his lips.

“He made me believe that I am his son,” he said with obvious contempt. “He made me be believe that he loved me…another lie to fool me.”

“I do not believe that,” Lyanna added to her own surprise, but then she wanted to speak the truth and the truth is that the world couldn’t be easily separated into good and evil. She and Ned had both acted wrongly and the person who had paid for it was her son. “Ned is not cruel by nature. He must have held some affection for you if he allowed you to grow up in Winterfell. He loved me too, at least that is what he claimed, but I suppose the love of a sister is nothing compared to a man he called his brother. And mayhaps that is only to be expected…Ned spent half his life in the Eyrie. Jon Arryn was a true father to him and Robert Baratheon must have been the brother he had always wanted. I and Benjen were almost strangers when we visited him years later. It was then that I first met Robert Baratheon. I thought not much of him, beyond being Ned’s friend, but not long after I was informed by my Lord Father that I am to be wed to this man. I was shocked and angry. I pleaded with Ned to speak to father, but Ned was so convinced about Robert’s love. I suppose that is something we have in common. Ned chose Robert and not us.”

“Us,” her son repeated and scowled at her. “There is no us. We are not the same. You could have stayed, but instead you left to raise my half-brother, this Prince Aegon.”

In her heart she felt that he was right, though he didn’t know the details, the details she needed to give him now.

“Ned wanted me to wed Robert,” she explained. “He wanted me to do my duty. That was another reason he took you. He wanted to force me to agree to the match…a match I could have never gone through with.”

“Why not?” her son demanded angrily, his dark eyes flashing with rage. “You could have done it for me. You would have been Queen and then you could have…,” he stuttered, clearly close to tears and his face deeply flushed.

“Kept you at my side?” Lyanna asked sadly. “That would have been impossible that nor would have Ned risked it. You could have never come south either…someone might have noticed your resemblance to Rhaegar. And what then? Robert would have killed you, but the real reason…the real reason is much simpler.”

“What reason could that be?” he asked, his voice weary and growing distant again.

Lyanna bit her lips and fiddled with the hem of her dress, to do something to delay the inevitable.

“Your birth was very difficult for me,” she admitted and averted her gaze. “The nursemaid told me later that another birth would be even more difficult for me. I admit, I couldn’t bear the thought of birthing Robert’s heirs, but I also didn’t want to go through this pain again. I didn’t want to die. That is why I couldn’t do my duty and ran again.”

“Did you tell my Uncle about your fears?” her son asked, a little softer.

Lyanna turned back to look at him and swallowed hard before giving her answer.

“I did not,” she admitted to her fault. “I thought about it that way... He has never listened to me so why should he listen now? And after he took you away I had lost all trust in him.”

Her son had opened and closed his fist while she had spoken and now he was clenching his teeth while he was probably pondering what to say.

Lyanna felt almost as if she was awaiting for her son’s judgement. Daenerys, who had observed their exchange in silence, looked tense and was gnawing at her plump lips.

“I cannot forgive you,” her son said suddenly and lifted his tear-streaked gaze. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to get to know you. You are my mother…that is a fact and that is something we can build on. Can you accept that?”

Lyanna felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders and for the first time in years she felt hope blooming in her heart.

The answer came easy to her lips.

“That is more than I could have ever hoped for.”

…

Chapter Text

Ser Barristan

Prince Aegon and Prince Quentyn were waiting for them by the steps, leading beneath the Great Pyramid.

Prince Aegon and supposedly Prince Rhaegar’s heir, was a young man of gangly build, his cropped hair a pale silver like the Targaryens of old. His eyes were blueish, but at times they appeared to be purple, though that could just by a side effect of Ser Barristan’s worsening eyesight.

He should rejoice over Prince Aegon’s survival, truly he should be, but he couldn’t help but to think that the young man’s arrival would make the current situation even more complicated. By the laws of the Seven Kingdoms this boy would be the rightful heir to the throne and as a former member of the Kingsguard he would be obligated to support him.

That is if this boy was truly Prince Aegon. Lord Connington seemed convinced enough and even Lady Lyanna Stark, who had been Prince Rhaegar’s second wife, seemed convinced of this fact, though the revelation of her identity had led to a quarrel with her former foster-son.

That Barristan felt great affections for Queen Daenerys and Jon made it only more difficult for him to accept this new development without nursing doubts. And while the revelation of his Queen’s condition of barrenness most had shaken his hopes there had been a clear way to the future.

It had all been so simple. Queen Daenerys had planned to find a good match for Jon and help him ret-take the crown.

Now they had two Princes from the same father, though Barristan was not yet completely convinced about the boy’s true birth.

He had known Prince Rhaegar since he was a young babe in his mother’s arms, but this Aegon, while clearly sporting the coloring of a Targaryen, looked nothing like his father. His face was fuller, his cheeks lacked the elegance of Prince Rhaegar and his eyes were the wrong color. Prince Rhaegar’s eyes had been purple and at times dark indigo, but then the reason for his lack of resemblance might lay elsewhere. The Princess Rhaenys’ had also taken after her mother in coloring, but her features had resembled Prince Rhaegar and Queen Rhaella. Mayhaps with Prince Aegon the contrary had happened: he had inherited his father’s coloring while his physical appearance resembled his Dornish relatives. Sadly, Ser Barristan’s memory of his Dornish kin was blurred and Prince Quentyn and Prince Aegon looked as different from each other as the sun from the moon.

That Prince Quentyn had become quite friendly with his supposed cousin in a matter of a short time was also telling.

Did he notice some sort of resemblance, Barristan wondered not for the first time. I must speak with him. Later.

He had also felt the urge to speak Jon Connington, but the man would most likely kill him rather than speak to him. Going by his reaction during their first meeting he held nothing but contempt for him.

He has the right of it. I am a traitor and believed myself redeemed. Now I do not know where to place my loyalty.

“My Princes,” the Queen greeted the Dornish Prince and Prince Aegon. Jon was looming over her like a shadow, his face a grim mask like so often these days. “It is a long way down. Are you certain you wish to do this?”

“If it would please your Grace,” Prince Quentyn replied shyly.

Prince Aegon was less hesitant.

“Of course. I have wished to see your dragons ever since we arrived in Meereen, dear Aunt.”

The Queen winced and smiled tensely.

“Then please come along.”

A pair of Unsullied walked in front of them, holding torches that lightened the darkness around them as they continued to walk down the thousand steps. As they walked the Queen used the time to prepare her guests for her ‘children’.

“I have three dragons. They hatched from the three eggs given to me by Magister Illyrio on my wedding day to Khal Drogo,” she explained. “They supposedly hail from  Asshai.”

“Magister Illyrio gave you these eggs?” Prince Aegon asked in obvious surprise.

“He did,” the Queen confirmed and this would have most likely been the end of the argument had Jon not interrupted them.

“Does that surprise you, brother?”

Prince Aegon winced, but didn’t flinch when he met Jon’s piercing gaze..

“Half-brother,” Prince Aegon corrected him. “And it does surprise me that the Magister gave the eggs to my Aunt instead of me, Prince Rhaegar’s heir. Magister Illyrio and Lord Varys saved my life, but even I have to admit that there is something rotten here. Well, I shall ask them once I have claimed my crown.”

“You will be able to ask them quite soon,” Queen Daenerys added. “Because I intend to conquer Pentos before returning home to Westeros. It is a price I have to pay for the Tattered Prince’s loyalty.”

“A price too high,” Prince Aegon replied pridefully. “I have the Golden Company. They are a hundred times more worth than the Windblown and it will only waste our precious time to conquer Pentos. I also do not think that the Magister will like that.”

“I gave a promise,” Queen Daenerys insisted firmly, but not unfriendly. “And I intend to keep this promise. Now let us move on.”

With these words they had reached the final flight.

The Queen sucked in a deep breath and stepped through the door into a long hall, that lead down to the dragon’s prison.

A loud roar made her stop in her tracks.

Their guests, especially Prince Quentyn, looked alarmed. Prince Aegon simply crossed his arms, his mouth slightly opened as he continued to listen to the dragon’s roar. Jon Snow scowled and watched their guests closely.

“The dragons know when she is close,” Barristan added awkwardly to break the tension.

“Come,” the Queen prodded and led the way.

Two Unsullied opened the large iron doors and they stepped through the door, to stand above the pit.

Barristan had been here a handful of times, but every time he felt jolt of fear surging through his old bones.

He was Barristan the Bold, but the sight of the dragons was something else.

The two beats craned their necks around, staring at them. Viserion, the pale beast, had shattered one chain and melted the others. He clung to the roof like some huge white bat. Rhaegal, was still chained and gnawing on the carcass of a bull. The heap of bones had grown as well and the walls were scorched. It was wise of the Queen to consider freeing them again. It was only a matter of time until they would grow too big for this pit.

The pit in King’s Landing should suffice, Barristan couldn’t help but to think and watched their guests’ reaction.

Prince Quentyn’s face was pale as fresh-fallen snow and Prince Aegon’s bluish eyes were wide in wonder as he watched the beasts go about their daily business.

“The pale one is Viserion,” Queen Daenerys explained and pointed at the beast. “And the green one is called Rhaegal. I named them after my brothers, Prince Rhaegar and Prince Viserys.”

“And the third one?” Prince Aegon asked. “Where is he?”

“Drogon is hunting,” the Queen replied, a pained expression washing over her face. “I hope he will return after I free his brothers.”

“Why did you lock them up anyway?” Aegon asked. “These beasts need to be free.”

“One of them burned a little child,” Jon added icily. “But as Daenerys rightly said…she will free them soon, after the peace celebrations.”

“Why?” Prince Quentyn asked awkwardly as ever. “Is there a particular reason?”

“The smell of the blood could lure them to the pit,” Queen Daenerys explained and jerked her head at the dragons. “I fear they could harm innocents. I cannot allow that when I am trying to make peace.”

Suddenly, Rhaegal roared, unleashing a current of red flames into the air. Viserion retaliated, unleashing flames of gold and orange.

Prince Quentyn had nearly jumped out of his skin while Prince Aegon had backed away two or three steps, covering his face with his arm. Queen Daenerys had thrown a handful of commands at them in High Valyrian, but they ignored her like so often these days.

Barristan couldn’t help but to compare them to unruly children.

“They are just confused by your presence,” Jon Snow added, his voice laced with mockery. “We must be careful.”

Prince Aegon must have sensed his hostility and gave him a challenging smile.

“They will get used to my presence soon enough. As our Aunt said…the dragon has three heads. One of them should be mine.”

“You…You mean to ride them?” Prince Quentyn asked in shock.

“First you will have to tame one of them,” Queen Daenerys offered in return. She looked tense and exchanged a telling look with Jon. “But you are not wrong. A dragon only bonds with one rider. When I was a little girl I read a book that said that even Aegon the Conqueror would have never dared to mount Vhagar or Meraxes, nor did his sisters ride Balerion the Black Dread. Of course, Balerion the Dread had other riders, but no rider has ever flown two dragons at once.”

“Have you tamed one of them?” Prince Quentyn hesitatingly.

The Queen’s face fell. “Not yet, but one of the three is very dear to my heart. Drogon, the dragon that is gone and will hopefully soon return.”

“Rhaegal is the wildest,” Jon Snow added and jerked his head at the beast. “It is good that he still has his chains or he would have most likely attacked us by now.”

Suddenly, Rhaegal had started to hiss, smoke rising from his nostrils as his head darted towards Jon Snow and Queen Daenerys, only held back by his chains.

Yet, it was no attack, so much Barristan could see by the way the beast kept his mouth closed.

No, instead of throwing flames into the air he leaned his head towards Jon.

The boy looked unsure, but still stretched out his hand towards the beast.

The dragon did nothing, but sniffed at his hand.

Suddenly, he gave another loud roar before returning to his supper.

“Rhaegal was always fond of Jon,” the Queen explained to Prince Aegon. “Which only leaves Viserion for you, dear nephew, though I would refrain from attempting anything until they are freed. They are angry and might even attack their own mother.”

Prince Aegon seemed hurt in his pride and was about to open his mind, but Barristan decided to intervene before the boy did something he would regret.

The boy may be Rhaegar’s heir or not, but even trueborn Targaryens had failed to mount dragons.

“I think we should return, your Grace,” Ser Barristan suggested. “On the morrow will be an important day and you should rest well.”

Queen Daenerys seemed to sense his intentions and played along.

“I agree,” she said and smiled sweetly at Prince Aegon, though Barristan could see that it was feigned. She held no liking for the boy and her entanglement with Jon was probably part of the reason. “I need my dire rest. And you shall soon see the dragons soaring above the blue sky, dear nephew.”

Prince Aegon returned her smile, but it looked just as false.

“I am looking forward to it, dear Aunt.”

…

Chapter Text

Sam the Slayer

The smell of roasted onions met Sam’s nose as he entered Maester Aemon’s humble abode. The smell made his mouth water and his stomach grumble. It had been a whole day that he had last received a proper meal.

There had been so much work to do for the upcoming battle and that Bowen Marsh, who was currently in charge of Castle Black, was making them work like cattle hadn’t helped to ease his constant need for food.

The lack of sleep didn’t help either. Every night, when Sam he rarely slept more than a few hours, before he would be woken by terrible nightmares.

Some of his brothers had laughed about him for weeping like a little babe whenever he was wrapped up in his fur, but Grenn had silenced them on the next day and ever since Sam had been left alone. Pyp had even insisted that that Sam was called Sam the Slayer for killing this terrifying wight that had once been a brother of theirs.

Just thinking about the incident brought tears to his eyes. The only way he had been able to be brave enough was Gilly and her baby, but now that the Wildlings were coming for them he felt even more afraid. He imagined them all like Craster, cruel men who would pick out his eyes or cut off his balls and eat them as one of the older rangers had told them.

“Samwell Tarly is here,” Maester Aemon said.

As always, Sam was stunned by the old man’s superior hearing.

“How did you know, Maester Aemon?” he asked with an awkward smile after he had poked his head into the room.

What surprised him even more was the presence of Lord Eddard Stark, who was looming above the bent old men like a giant.

Sam didn’t know what to make of him. The former Lord of Winterfell was a plain-looking man, who usually kept his brown braided out of his face.

These days he appeared more miserable than usual. His face was gaunt and his eyes heavy with unspoken grief.

Sam knew about the source of his grief as well. Not long ago, word had reached them about the sack of Winterfell by the hands of the Ironborn. The entire castle and Lord Stark’s sons had supposedly been put to the sword.

This too had been part of the reason Sam had stayed away from Lord Stark, for he and Gilly had come about one of these dead boys when they had fled back to the Wall.

The boy named Bran had made him swear before the heart tree that he wouldn’t tell anyone that they had met and so far Sam had been able to keep his word, but that was now getting harder as he saw Eddard Stark’s miserable state.

It had been bad enough, that Jon had broken his vow to the Night’s Watch and had fled Castle Black in the middle of the night, but to lose his other sons as well must have been an even greater blow.

Sam had heard so much about Jon’s family and had always said what a kind man Lord Stark was, so unlike his own father Lord Randyll Tarly, who had only ever been ashamed of a weakling like Sam.

Sam had never wanted to be a man of the Night’s Watch. He had dreamed of becoming a Maester, but that idea had displeased Lord Father, who would rather see his son die by the hands of a Wildling than to serve in the Citadel.

“Samwell,” Maester Aemon’s voice rang in his ears and made him realize that he had been lost to his thoughts. “Stop dreaming and come here, my boy!”

Sam’s cheeks burned with embarrassment and he stumbled towards the large wooden table. Parchments, scrolls and old leather-bound tomes covered the surface and made it hard to get a proper view at the shrunken old man.

“Forgive me,” he apologized quickly. “Forgive me.”

“No need, my boy,” Lord Stark added wearily. His plate had been barely touched and the mere sight of the roasted onions and sausages made Sam’s stomach growl as loud as spring thunder. “You came just in time.”

“Oh, good,” Sam replied awkwardly, his eyes still fixed on the plate. Suddenly, his stomach growled again.

Lord Stark gave him another weary smile and shoved the plate over the table.

“Sit down and eat, my boy.”

Sam was stunned by the offer, but didn’t hesitate. He felt as if he hadn’t eaten since his birth and quickly shoveled a handful of onions into his mouth, but only after he had taken a hearty bite from the sausages did his strength return.

Only then did he realize that Lord Stark was staring at him intently.

“I forgot,” he apologized again. “Why did you call me here?”

Maester Aemon chuckled.

“Lord Stark has yet to tell me his reasons.”

Lord Stark sucked in a deep breath and took a sip from his cup of mulled wine, before shifting his attention to Maester Aemon.

He looked as if all air had been drained out of his face within the matter of a heartbeat.

“There is something I need to tell you, good Maester,” Lord Stark said in a heavy voice. “It concerns Jon.”

The mention of Jon made Sam forget about his food and even his empty stomach.

Ah, that must be the reason he called me here! He knows that Jon is my friend!

“Jon Snow,” Maester Aemon repeated in a sad voice. “What are you trying to say, Lord Stark?”

Lord Stark’s face changed to an even paler color and he took another sip from his cup before he finally spoke:

“You might wonder why he broke his vows,” Lord Eddard said. “Well, I was partly at fault for that. It had to do with his mother and the many lies I told to protect him and myself from King Robert’s wrath.”

Sam didn’t know what to make of Lord Stark’s words, but Maester Aemon looked even more confused, his thick white brows furrowed.

“King Robert? Why would King Robert care about Jon Snow?”

Lord Stark exhaled deeply and rubbed his hands over his pale face. He didn’t even look at Maester Aemon.

“How well did you know, Prince Rhaegar?” he asked instead of answering Maester Aemon’s question directly.

Maester Aemon’s brows moved downwards, his mouth a thin line. He looked suddenly very serious.

“I have met him twice. Once before he wed Princess Elia and a second time, barely a year before the Rebellion. He had travelled all the way to the Wall to see me. He was a very melancholic young man, but not cruel of heart. Well, I suppose I misjudged him.”

“You did not,” Lord Stark replied and lifted his head to look at Maester Aemon again. “It was all a lie. My sister was never raped or abducted by Prince Rhaegar. On the contrary, he loved her and wed her,” he continued to speak, his voice failing him.

Sam had long dropped his sausage and was watching Maester Aemon’s reaction.

What Lord Stark had told him went against everything he had been told since he was a little boy. Sam couldn’t even imagine how it must feel to Maester Aemon to hear that his kin had been wrongly accused.

Silence reigned between them as the old man was holding tightly unto the handle of his chair, turning his knuckles all white.

“But why lie?” Maester Aemon asked demanded to know, his voice laced with a hint of anger. “Why spread such vile tales about my kin? To protect your sister’s honor?”

“No,” Lord Stark replied and grimaced. “I did it to protect the boy. It was better if Robert continued to believe that my sister had been raped and murdered. Forgive me, but it was the only way…,” he trailed off and covered his face with his hands gain.

“The boy?” Maester Aemon asked, his breathing ragged. “Are you implying that your sister had a  child?”

The realization hit Sam like thunder.

The boy, he thought and started to shudder. Could it be..

“Aye,” Lord Stark confirmed and averted his gaze again after he noticed the tears rolling down Maester Aemon’s cheeks. “She had a child. A boy, you have known him longer than me.”

“Jon Snow,” Maester Aemon muttered and leaned on the table. “Of course…it makes all sense now. Is that why he ran away?”

Lord Stark shook visibly as he lifted his head to look at Sam and then at Maester Aemon.

“He left because I told him the truth,” he explained in a trembling voice. “He felt betrayed and left.”

Sam understood now. Jon’s anger on the night before his flight had been clear for everyone to see, but the reason he had kept close to his heart.

Seven Hells! This is a mad tale. No wonder he felt betrayed.

 “Jon,” Sam dared to interrupt. “Where might he have gone, my Lord?”

“That I do not know, my boy,” Lord Stark replied. “But I doubt he stayed in the North. He might have gone south or to Essos. When I was Hand of the King I found out that Princess Daenerys Targaryen was wed to a Dothraki warlord. Robert wanted to murder the poor girl and her unborn child, but in the end he backed away from his plan, probably because he didn’t want to lift more sins on his shoulders before joining the beyond. Well, I don’t think it is impossible that Jon went to seek out his last kin.”

“News has reached us that Princess Daenerys has managed to hatch three dragons, but that piece of information is nearly a year old,” Sam offered quickly.

“It matters not,” Lord Stark replied vaguely and leaned over to touch the old Maester’s hand. “I have already spoken to Bowen Marsh. He agreed to my suggestion of sending you and Samwell Tarly to the Citadel.”

“The Citadel?” Maester Aemon asked, understanding showing on his weather-worn face. “I see, you want to send us to safety.”

“You are Jon’s last living kin beside Princess Daenerys,” Lord Stark and squeezed the old man’s hand. “I owe him to keep you safe. Besides, the Night’s Watch will have need of a new Maester and Samwell here is the best choice for this position.”

Sam should feel happy, but he only think of his father’s rage.

“I can’t do that…my father…he is going to kill me…,” he stuttered, but Lord Stark’s warm smile silenced him.

“You are now a brother of the Night’s Watch,” Lord Stark reminded him. “Your father has no power over you. Besides, it will probably be another year before you can join the Citadel. The ship I commissioned for you will first sail to Braavos. That should give you enough time to seek out Princess Daenerys Targaryen.”

Sam felt like slapped.

“You want me to travel to the Mad King’s daughter?”

“Your father was a former Targaryen loyalist,” Lord Stark countered. “I am sure the Princess will be inclined to be courteous to you and if Jon is there. Well, I doubt you have to fear anything.”

“I am an old man, Lord Stark,” Maester Aemon added, his voice heavy with disappointment. “But I doubt I have the strength to travel all the way to Meereen.”

“Of course not,” Lord Stark assured Maester Aemon. “I also suggested sending two more brothers with you. One of them could remain with you in Braavos until Samwell’s task is done. They are meant to recruit men…Well, I needed to find a reason. You may choose any men you like and I think it would be best for you to take the girl and her babe with you. I doubt she will be safe here in Castle Black and the Northmen won’t like her either.”

“My heart is torn, Lord Stark,” Maester Aemon added sadly, shaking from head to toe. “I am inclined to accept your offer, but I am also a man of the Night’s Watch. I know my duty.”

“You are helping the Night’s Watch by going to Essos, good Maester,” Lord Stark insisted. “Because I fear we are going to have need of dragonfire should these gruesome tales from beyond the Wall prove to be true…”

“Grumpkins and snarks,” Maester Aemon repeated what the others had said about Sam’s tales. “I am surprised you believe these tales? The other brothers who had not joined Mormont think it nonsense.”

“I thought the same way,” Lord Stark said in a foreboding tone. “But Samwell here and  good dozens of other survivors have told the same kind of tales. I do not think all these men are lying, even if the others are too stubborn to accept the truth. Winter is coming for us all and we must prepare for the worst.”

…

Chapter Text

Arya

The Sept of Quiet Isle stood upon an island half a mile from the shore, where the wide mouth of the Trident widened further to kiss the Bay of Crabs. The terraced fields with fishponds down below and a windmill above were beautiful to behold, but even here autumn had lefts its mark.

The harvest had left the fields barren and the trees were dressed in colors of red, yellow and orange.

Winter is coming, Arya recalled the words of her house and tried to imagine these lands covered in thick snow.

It would make these lands feel more like home, she thought as she led her horse next to her Lady Mother. With them were ten men, led by Ser Robin Ryger, the captain of the guards of Riverrun, who like two of their other man had been hurt in a brief squabble with highwaymen that had attacked their camp in the middle of the night.

Arya had been dreaming that she was a wolf when the men had attacked. She had only heard loud shouting, clutching needle close to her heart as old Ser Ryger’s had called his men to the weapons. It was Pouls Pemford, who had thrown her over his shoulder and had carried her to safety while the rest of the guards had engaged the enemy in battle.

At the end of the battle, five men of the enemy had been slain and two had fled.

Arya, who had been too excited to go back to sleep, had watched all morning how the Delp and Elwood had dug four graves for the five men they had killed. They had all looked poor and raggedly clothed, their bones visible through their skin.

“Sparrows,” she had heard Ser Ryger mutter to her Lady Mother, who had paled and had whispered a prayer to the gods.

Arya didn’t know what sparrows had to do with these men, but they had managed to hurt three of their men, though they had only been armed with pitchforks and knifes. Enger had lost one ear and Long Lew had been cut open like a pig. All day she had heard him moan as he had clung to Elwood’s chest, who had share a horse with him. Enger had been the complete opposite. He had been utterly silent throughout the half-day travel to the Quiet Isle, holding his ever-bleeding ear. Only Ryger had gotten away with a simply cut.

Her Lady Mother had been just a silent, hiding her face beneath the hood of her cloak.

Arya had hoped they would turn around, but their Lady Mother had remained stubborn and thus Ser Ryger had suggest riding for the Quiet Isle, which was known for its healers, before moving onwards to the Giant’s Lance where Arya was meant to meet her future Lord husband…Harry something.

“My Lady,” Ser Ryger addressed her Lady Mother with the calm words of an old man. “Let me speak with the brothers and ask for their hospitality. They are usually welcoming to travelers, but we should be careful.”

Her Lady Mother gave an approving nod. “Do as you must, Ser Ryger.”

Thus, Ser Ryger dismounted and slowly crossed the broad expanse of glistening brown mudflats dotted by tidal pools.

Arya, who was getting bored shifted her attention to Elwood, who was always willing to answer her many questions.

“Why do they call this place Quiet Isle?”

“Those who dwell here seek to atone for their sins through contemplation, prayer and silence. I heard they are not allowed to speak much.”

Arya had nodded her head in understanding, trying to wrap her head around about being quiet all day long. It was a task she imagined impossible.

Sansa would have been thrown from the island in the matter of a heartbeat. And Jeyne Poole as well.

Thinking of her sister and her nosy friend made her sad again and she quickly brushed these thoughts away.

It was too painful to think about.

“So, they are like Silent Sisters but man?” Arya asked instead.

Elwood gave her a dumb look and pondered her reply, before a smile curled over his lips.

“I suppose so, my Lady. I have never thought about it that deeply.”

“Quit talking!” Long Lew complained with a heavy groan and jerked his head at the approaching Ser Ryger. “Get me to this damn Sept!”

“Not on horse,” Ser Ryger explained to her Lady Mother upon his return. “If we want to sleep beneath their roof we have to accept their customs. We must cross the mud on foot. The path of faith, they call it. Only the faithful may cross safely.”

All blood drained out of Long Lew’s face. “Are you fucking with me, Ser? My innards are threatening to spill out of my stomach and you want me to walk on foot through this mud? Just stab me and be done with me.”

“Calm your tits, Lew,” Elwood appeased him. “I am going to help you.”

Lew seemed less convinced, but they managed somehow. Long Lew was carried by two men over the expanse of mud while Arya, her Lady Mother followed behind Ser Ryger, who led the way.

 The path of faith as Ser Ryger had called it proved quite bothersome.

Now and then, the old man stopped and plunged his spear into the ground before waving his hand at them.

Their only interesting to see were all these sea creatures. Crabs, mussels and dead fish.

The sun was descending in the west, painting the sky in soft violet when they finally arrived at their destination.

There, waiting for them as they climbed up broken stones that ringed the shorelines, stood three men. They were clad in brown robes with wide sleeves and pointed cowls. Two of them had wound lengths of wool about the lower halves of their faces, which made impossible to see their faces.

The third brother was the one that spoke first.

“Welcome strangers,” he greeted them. “How may we be of help?”

“We ask for your hospitality,” her Lady Mother explained and pulled down the hood of her cloak. “We also have two wounded men. We hoped your healers might be able to help.”

The man nodded his head.

“The gods are always willing to help and so are we. You are welcome and the Elder Brother and his apprentices will be able to take care of your men.”

Her Lady Mother smiled warmly and Long Lew sighed in relief.

“I thank you, brother. The Seven may repay you for your generosity.”

“The Seven may bless you as well, my Lady,” the man replied and led them along a pebbled path to a wooden stable.

“Your horses can stay here,” the man explained. “Brother Gilliam will see that they are fed and watered.”

“We can do that ourselves,” Ser Ryger added and receive an understanding nod.

“As you please,” he replied and led them down a deep slope, though their descend was eased by wooden steps that wandered back and forth across the hillside and amongst the many buildings.

As they went, they passed a dozen of more brothers, all of them garbed in the same brown robes. They watched them as they passed, but none of them spoke a single word.

Arya saw many more of them, all of them occupied with work. There was one boy working a butter churn, a handful of boys guarding a flock of sheep and high up on a lichyard she spotted a massive man digging a fresh grave.

“Look that will be yours, Long Lew!” Elwood jested and promptly received a kick in the balls from the still very much alive Long Lew, though going by the weary expression on his face he seemed in pain.

“That’s the gravedigger,” the brother who was leading them warned. “Stay away from him. He is not the friendly sort, especially not to little girls, my Lady.”

“Come,” her Lady Mother added and pulled on her arm. “We shall listen to the, brother.”

Arya nodded her head and followed along. She didn’t want to squabble with her Lady Mother when she had recently suffered one loss after another. First, they had lost father to the Night’s Watch, followed by the death of Bran of Rickon and then they had lost Sansa as well.

Arya disliked Robb for selling her to this dumb Harry Something, but she also didn’t want to make her Lady Mother’s life harder than necessary.

The brow of the hill was crowned by a low wall of stone, encircling a cluster of large buildings. There was a windmill, the cloisters where the brothers slept and the common hall where they took their meals and at last a wooden sept for prayers. The sept had windows made of painted glass and wide doors carved with images of the Mother and Father.

Behind the building she noticed a garden where two young brothers were watering the plants.

Not long after, the brother that had greeted them led them around a chestnut tree to a wooden door set in the side of the hill.

Arya frowned at that.

“Why does a cave need a door?”

“It’s called the Hermit’s Hole,” the brother explained. “The first holy man to find his way here lived here and worked so many wonders that many others came to join him. That was supposedly two thousand years ago. Well, the door came later, as a matter of convenience. The night’s air can get rather chilly here.”

Well, for a cave, the Hermit’s Hole proved warm and pleasant, furnished with a long table, a settle, a chest, several tall cases full of books and chairs. All were made from driftwood, oddly shaped pieces that didn’t quite fit together, but polished and clean.

The Elder Brother proved not as old as Arya had expected. He stood straight and tall and moved with the vigor of a man in the prime of his years. His face was square, his eyes shrewd and his nose veined and red.

Arya had a hard time believing that this kind of man could heal people, but when he noticed their presence he graced them with an almost warm smile.

“Welcome, friends,” he said and lowered his head in greeting. “I heard of your woes. Bring your wounded inside and I shall take care of them while brother Elias will make sure to see you fed. You must be thirsty.”

“We are,” her Lady Mother confirmed and smiled in relief. “We are grateful for your hospitality.”

Soon after, Long Lew was carried inside and followed by Enger. Elder Brother joining them at once while her Lady Mother, Arya and the rest of their companions were attended to by brother Elias, who turned out to be a young freckled man with bushy-red eyebrows.

He poured them cups of sweet cider and brought them bread and butter. They filled their bellies in silence and not long after they were escorted to their sleeping places. It was not much but a wooden roof, but better than nothing.

Arya at least didn’t mind. She had slept beneath the open sky when she had traveled in company of the sworn brother Yoren, who had brought her way to Riverrun. Along the way she had seen many terrors, but had also made friends. There had been Lommy, Hot Pie and the Bull or Gendry as he had later revealed to her. Arya had offered them a place in Riverrun, but they had run away as neither of them had wanted to join the Night’s Watch. Well, Yoren hadn’t cared all too much, for Robb had given him three criminals from Riverrun’s cells to compensate for his loss.

Yet, that were not the only people she had met during her long travel. There had also been three dangerous men that Yoren had kept locked up in a cage, though only one of the three had survived the travel. On the last day before her arrival in Riverrun he had begged her to free him and had promised her a gift in return.

Arya had complied and had received a golden coin and the words “Valar Morgulis”.

As she wound her cloak tighter around her shoulders she wondered what had happened to all these people she had known.

She wondered if Yoren had found his way back to the Wall. She wondered if the strange man with the coin had found his way home. She also wondered if Jon had returned to Robb. He had supposedly broken his vows, but even Arya couldn’t imagine that Robb would harm him. Besides, Jon wouldn’t leave without a good reason. Someone might have wanted to harm him. Aye, that was the only possible answer.

Yet, most of all she wondered about Nymeria. She had left here in the Riverlands and often dreamed of her. Deep in her heart, she still hoped that her loyal wolf would find his way back to her.

You sound almost as whiny as Sansa, she chided herself and fell asleep.

It was the flapping of wigs that woke her from her slumber. Rubbing her eyes, she noticed a crow seated atop a tree visible through the window that was slightly opened.

“Girl! Girl! Girl!” the bird croaked and cocked its head left and right. “Girl! Girl! Girl!”

Arya was fascinated. She had never heard a crow speak.

Ever quietly, she rose to her feet and slipped outside.

As quiet as a cat, she reminded herself and closed the door ever carefully. And as quick as a rabbit!

The bird was still seated atop the tree when she arrived there.

“Girl,” he repeated and spread his wings wide. “Girl!”

Within the blink of a moment, he had taken flight and was soaring away.

Arya followed after him, her steps unsure in the darkness and before she knew what had happened she found herself on the lichyard where the freshly-dug grave had long been filled to the brim with fresh soil.

“Death!” the bird croaked again and the flapping of wings caused her to look up at the nearby tree. It was a large oak, all bent and crooked like an old hag. “Death!”

Arya stopped in her tracks, her heart nearly jumping out of her chest when she laid eyes on the odd stranger seated beneath the tree, the crow now perched atop his shoulder.

He was a scarecrow of a man, his face thin and incredibly pale, his lips almost blue. He wore the earthen robes of a brother and his head was covered with wool.

Yet, that was not the strangest thing about him. His brow was covered with a nasty cut and his right arm he carried curled up to his chest and held by a binding.

“Death!” the crow croaked again as the man turned to look at her with eyes as black as death. “Girl!”

With a slow movement of his good arm he touched the bird’s head and silenced him.

Then he shifted his attention back to Arya and spoke in a strange rattling voice.

“Girl,” he said. “Come closer. I mean you no harm.”

Arya wanted to give in to her fears, but then she was reminded of Syrio’s words.

Fear cuts deeper than swords, she whispered to herself and stepped closer towards the strange man. Fear cuts deeper than swords.

“Who are you?” she asked in a strained voice. “Is the crow yours?”

“Crows belong to nobody,” the man replied and watched her closely. “Like your wolf. She won’t be the same when she comes back to you.”

Arya was stunned.

“You know about Nym?” she asked. “But how?”

“My friend told me,” the man replied and patted the bird’s head. “The trees are also willing to bare such truths to us if we are prepared to sit still and listen, but for that you need the right kind of tree and to find such a special tree you would have to go to the Island of Faces.”

Arya was confused, but the man no longer appeared dangerous. Only very odd. At least that is what she wanted to believe.

He knows about Nym. Mayhaps he can tell me where to find her.

“Where is that?”

“Harrenhall,” the man replied and waved his hand at the patch of green grass surrounding the tree. “Not a place you have visited. You came from far away.”

“North,” Arya explained and sat down, pulling her knees to her chest. “And you? Where are you from?”

“Nowhere,” he replied. “That is why they call me the Stranger. Not that it is important. Death will come for us all very soon. Winter is coming at last.”

Arya shuddered when she heard these words. The words fitted him.

With his pale face and his hollow cheeks he looked literally like a dead man walking.

“These are the words of my House,” she explained and watched the bird. “Do you know House Stark?”

“Stark,” he repeated in his strange rattling voice. “No, but I have heard the words before. They are meant as a warning. Eternal winter. A forgotten pact. Death is coming for us soon.”

“You said that before,” Arya replied with disappointment. “You also mentioned Nym. Have you seen her?”

“She is a wild beast and haunts with her kin,” the man answered her question. “But she is still bound to you and always will be. You are having wolf dreams, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” Arya replied, hope filling her heart. “Did your friend tell you that as well? Or was it the oak tree?”

“My friend,” the man replied, obviously oblivious to her jape. “And you, child. You were touched by death as well. Will you show me your coin?”

Arya frowned and pulled the coin from her vest, showing it to the strange man.

He leaned forward and picked it from her hand, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips as he took in the golden coin.

“Valar Morgulis,” he said. “A Faceless Man gave you this? Why?”

Arya knew nothing about Faceless Men and even less about his reasons.

“I do not know,” she replied and shrugged her shoulders. “Mayhaps I will find out in the future. Well, back to Nym. Do you know where I can find her?”

“She will find you when she is ready,” the man replied and suddenly angled his head, his dark eyes seeking something or someone behind Arya.

Arya turned around and noticed that it was the massive man who had dug the grave, a spade slung over his shoulder.

“Welcome, gravedigger,” the man named Stranger greeted. “What brings you here?”

“It’s you,” the gravedigger replied and revealed his face to her. “Stark’s little runt.”

Arya’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest when she laid eyes on the man’s ugly scar. Slick black flesh with craters and deep cracks curled over his face and neck.

“The bloody Hound!” she shrieked and backed away.

“Aye,” the Hound grumbled. “And you are Stark’s little runt.”

 Arya quickly hopped to her feet and freed Needle, pointing it at him 

“Do not get closer or I will kill you!” she shouted, her voice high and distant to her ears. “I swear it! 

The Hound laughed and kicked the blade out of her hand, causing her to stumble backwards and land on her ass 

“That is quite enough, brother,” the man name Stranger said in his slow and rattling voice. “The girl’s companions would kill you if you do her harm.”

“Keep out of this, crowfucker!” the Hound growled and stepped closer, looming over her like a giant. “I didn’t want to harm her. I just can’t stand it if someone waves a fucking blade in front of my face.”

Arya didn’t waste any time and picked up Needle. Then, she fled from the lichyard without looking back.

Never fight a battle you cannot win.

This too her Syrio had taught her.

…

Chapter Text

Jon

Jon watched the blue sky with growing trepidation. He had grown up in the North where even the summers were full of snow. The heat of Meereen could be bearable at night and when a cool breeze came blowing from the east, but today would be no such day, so much he could tell by the lack of clouds.

“The poor fighters will soon be baking in the sun,” Dany remarked and handed her silken robe to Jhiqui while Irri was watching them from the shadows of the persimmon tree. Usually, Dany took her baths with them, but today she had asked for Jon’s company.

It made him think back on the day he had first taken a bath with her in this pool. She had been a stranger to him and he had been trying his best to only see his “Aunt” in her, but that had turned out to be more difficult than anticipated. By now he was craving her embrace like a sweet delicacy. It made him feel almost ashamed at times, but perhaps that was only natural. Their forbearers had taken their brothers and sisters to bed. Bedding his Aunt was almost harmless compared to that

It is in my blood, he thought and continued to flex his burned hand as he lifted his gaze to take in Dany’s naked form. The blood of the dragon and wolf.

Her form looked fuller, especially her breasts, but perhaps that was just his imagination.

Not that it mattered. Her sight never failed to wake his desire. Especially, the silver locks of her sex made him want to lose himself between her legs and forget about today’s event.

“Did you even listen?” Dany asked with a chuckle and glided back to him through the glimmering green water after she had swam a circle. Jon had sat atop the highest step leading into the pool, watching her.

“No,” Jon admitted with an embarrassed smile. “Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere.”

Dany chuckled and bridged the distance between them. Jon had barely managed to spread his arms in time to receive her, the water splattering around them and glittering in the morning light like diamonds.

“You are always apologizing,” she chided softly him and brushed his wet hair out of his face. “Bad habits die hard, eh?”

Jon knew what she was referring to, but he didn’t want to think about the uncertain future. Westeros was still far away from his grasp and with his half-brother’s appearance here in Meereen things had turned out to be far more complicated than expected.

We could be dead on the morrow, Jon thought and shifted his attention back to Dany, who was still secure in his arms.

He didn’t even give her  chance to lecture him again, for his lips had found hers within the blink of a moment.

His hands were as quick as her lips, running up and down her form, touching every part he could reach. She giggled when he touched her full backside and kissed him harder, rising even on her toes.

He let her do as she pleased, her slender fingers palming his cock. Kissing her dizzied his mind even more.

“Dany…,” he breathed when she let go of his mouth and trailed wet kissed down his bare stomach before swallowing him whole.

His vision exploded with stars and he tasted blood on his lips after he had tried to stifle his gasps.

He wanted her to continue, but then she stopped abruptly, leaving him laboring for breath, his heart pounding wildly.

She smiled at him, her silver hair spilling wet and untamed over her shoulders.

“Your turn.”

Jon knew what she wanted and cupped one of her breasts, relishing the touch of her skin and enjoying the weight of it in his palm.

The small puffs of air leaving her mouth told him that she was pleased by his attentions. Smiling, he leaned in to kiss her breast. When he gave the same treatment to the other, her hands started to grab for his wet hair.

It was a pain he craved.

As she continued her attentions, he spared a glance at the thatch of silver hair between her legs.

He kissed her again, before breaking away to kiss her neck.

Yet, his lips soon moved from her neck to her chest, her stomach and then between her legs.

He kissed and licked her hungrily as she continued to pull on his hair. The taste of her was just as pleasant as the soft moans spilling forth from her lips.

Then, Jon decided to pay her back for her earlier betrayal and stopped, seeking her gaze instead.

He found her face flushed and she was gasping for breath. Her deep violet eyes glittered with desire and were nearly as black as a starry night sky.

He gave her no choice to escape and lifted her up into his arms, her hands instinctively holding onto his shoulders and her thighs wrapped around his hips.

Half-dazed, he turned around and placed her gently upon a stone step, so low the water barely managed to reach their waist.

Jon gasped when he found her warmth, the heat and the wetness of her making his teeth clench.

Soon, she was shaking her head back and forth against his neck, before suddenly biting down on his shoulder.

It was this act that sent him over the edge, a shuddering moan leaving his lips as he spilled his seed inside her.

Out of breath, he slowly slid back into the water and left her pleasant embrace.

“You bit me,” he couldn’t help but to remark and touched his neck.

She chuckled and sank deep into the water.

“A dragon has also teeth,” she told him jestingly.

“I forgot to tell you,” she added then and touched his cheek, her face taking a more serious expression. “Aegon intends to accompany us to the fights.”

Jon couldn’t help but to frown. His supposed half-brother shouldn’t be there. Not only because he could get hurt, but also because his presence made him aware of a painful fact. There was nothing he could offer Dany other than a possible allegiance with his brother Robb that was now also put in question that Stannis had taken the crown. Aegon may or may not be his brother, but nobody could accuse him of coming with empty hands. The Golden Company was known far and wide, though he couldn’t bring himself to fully trust their intentions. They were known Blackfyre loyalists. Why would they help a Targaryen Prince to reclaim his crown? Gold? Desperation to go home? Jon had yet to find out.

“Jon,” Dany’s soft voice and touch on his shoulder called him back to the present. “Are you upset?”

“Not because of you,” he assured her. “But couldn’t you tell him to stay away?”

“He insisted upon it,” Dany returned. “And you told me I should try to make him our ally. Well, I am trying my best, but it is not as easy as you made it out to be.”

“But better than to fight a war amongst each other,” Jon countered. “That would only weaken our position, especially because Stannis has taken the crown.”

Dany nodded her head in understanding and brushed her silver hair behind her ears.

“If I could be sure that he really is my nephew it would be much easier for me,” she explained. “I could support him without regrets and we could simply do what I proposed. We could take Dragonstone and live there, we could even get married and leave it to Aegon to secure the Targaryen line…,” she trailed off.

“Yet you don’t believe that it is him?” Jon asked. Her certainty confused him. “He looks more like a Targaryen than me and this Lord Connington and even my mother are convince that he is Prince Aegon.”

She gave him a conflicted look and averted her gaze for a moment, before her violet gaze flickered back to him.

“It…it has to do with a prophecy I was given in the House of the Undying,” she explained, her violet gaze growing wide with fear. “I saw a cloth dragon swaying on poles amidst a cheering crowd or the Mummer’s dragon as Quaithe, another wise women I have encountered on my travels, called him.”

Her words confused him even more. He was not the kind of person to believe in prophecy, but then what did he really know about such matters? Dany had supposedly woken dragons from stone and had emerged unharmed from a burning pyre.

“A Mummer’s dragon,” he repeated and pondered over the name. “That could fit me just as much.”

“Never,” Dany insisted and clutched his face between her hands. “I was never warned of a dragon disguising as a wolf, but she did warn me of the others…The Sun’s Son, the Lion’s son, the Perfumed Seneschal, the Griffin and the Mummer’s Dragon.”

“The Sun’s Son,” Jon repeated in awe. “That can only Quentyn Martell…,” he trailed off.

“And the Perfumed Seneschal was Reznak and the Griffin is Lord Connington…which only leaves Aegon as the Mummer’s Dragon.”

“I understand,” Jon confirmed and brushed her hands away. “But that is no proof. People will still believe him if they want to believe him. Besides, I think it is not wise to depend on prophecies. Look where it brought my father? Into an early grave.”

Dany’s face fell, but a smile was still lingering on her lips.

“Mayhaps you are right,” she said at last and climbed out of the pool of water.

The water glittered on her like starlight. It was a beautiful sight to behold, but Jon quickly brushed these thoughts away.

The time for idleness was over. Meereen was expecting a mummery.

The sun loomed high above the Great Pyramid when he joined Dany and her retinue.

She wore a tokar of yellow silk and her strange crown that were in essence floppy ears.

Jon had laughed when he had first laid eyes on this odd crown, but it was only fitting for her to wear it today.

She was pretending to make peace, to lure the Sons of the Harpy out of the shadows.

Dany chose to ride on her Silver and surrounded by her handmaids. Behind her marched the Brazen Beasts led by the Shavepate and a score of Unsullied led by Ser Barristan and Strong Belwas while. Ser Barristan had insisted upon it as he held little trust in the Shavepate’s untried freedmen. The fact that half of them were people hailing from this city only added to Ser Barristan’s worries. Jon had agreed with him, but he saw little reason for the Shavepate to harm them. Dany had implied more than once that she intended to give him command over Meereen once she returns to Westeros.

Along the way they were joined by Lord Connington, his King and his new ally, Prince Quentyn Martell. Each were seated atop a horse and garbed in their finest clothing.

As expected, they had also brought their men-at-arms. Aegon was flanked by a massive knight with a shock of red hair while Prince Quentyn had brought his two travelling companions. Both looked dangerous enough, but Jon had yet to see them fight.

The only relief was that Sansa was safe with Lady Lyanna, his mother. Robb wouldn’t forgive him if something happened to her.

Lord Tyrion will keep them entertained, he was sure, though the prophecy Dany had given him made him question the dwarf’s intentions. The Lion’s son could be no other than a Lannister, so much was clear, but then he had also advised Dany not to trust too much in prophecies.

I should take my own advice, he thought with amusement and shifted his attention to Ghost, who was prowling next to his horse.

He had grown quite a bit in the last moons and was now bigger than a horse. Left and right, men backed away as he passed, but Jon felt no fear in his presence. On the contrary, he felt safer.

If you are lucky you are going to get a fat Son of the Harpy for your next supper, boy.

As if conjured by magic the wolf lifted his head, his ruby eyes seeking Jon’s.

It was a strange occurrence, but not the first time that this had happened. At times, it felt as if they were connected through an invisible bond…

Cheers rang in his ears as they rode through the city, but they were only a distant echo to Jon’s ears. His gaze was elsewhere, watching the crowd for a potential enemy.

The heat was getting only worse as they made their way through the crowd, sweat running down his cheeks and pooling around his neck. It made him wish that he was back in the pool of water, losing himself in Dany’s embrace…

The noise only increased as the Brazen Beasts continued to sound their drums that drowned out Jhiqui’s and Irri’s quarrelling voices. They were debating who was going to win the day’s finally match.

Jhiqui favored a man named Goghor, who supposedly looked more like a bull than man. Irri insisted that a man named Belaquo Bonebreaker would win the day.

Louder and faster, the sound of the drumbeats rose as they continued along the street only to come to a sudden halt.

“Why have we stopped?” Dany asked Ser Barristan and straightened herself in her saddle to get a better look.

Jon did the same and found the reason for their stop. A palanquin lay overturned, blocking their path. One of its bearers must have collapsed, overcome by the heat.

Dany was quick to command someone to attend to him, before they could finally move on to Daznak’s Pit.

At the gates of Daznak’s Pit, they were greeted by two towering bronze warriors standing locked in mortal combat. One wielded a sword, the other a mighty axe, their blades and bodies forming an archway overhead.

Jon had never set foot into such a place, but the idea of having men fight to the death to entertain these nobles made his stomach twist.

Not long after, they emerged at the top of a great brick bowl ringed by descending tiers of benches, each a different color.

Dany walked first, followed by Ser Barristan and the rest of their entourage to be met half-way way by Hizdahr zo Loraq, who led them to a box giving a commanding view over the pit.

As Jon swept his gaze over the pit he saw peddlers selling sausages, roasted onions and unborn puppies on sticks. The sight was enough to turn Dany’s face green.

Her stomach had been acting up since they had returned to Meereen or at least that is what she had complained about only recently.

Still, that didn’t keep Hizdahr from offering food to them. They offered chilled wine, sweet water, figs, dates, melons, pomegranates and at last a big bowl of honey locust. Especially, the last dish made Jon’s stomach turn in circles and made him long for Old Nan’s pies. Oh gods, what I would do for one of those! Another reason to go home!

Only Strong Belwas seemed enthusiastic about this type of dish.

“Locusts!” he seized the bowl and began to stuff them into his mouth. “Those are very tasty.”

“You ought to taste one yourself, your Worship,” Hizdahr offered sweetly. “They are rolled in spice before they are dipped in honey, so they are sweet and hot at once.”

Dany gave him an apologetic smile. “I am not feeling all too well, but the spice explains the way Belwas is sweating. I believe I will content myself with figs and dates.”

Jon’s hand brushed over the hilt of his sword as he swept his gaze over the rows of onlookers. Across the pit sat the Graces in flowing robes of many colors, clustered around the austere figure of the Green Grace or according to the Shavepate, the Harpy.

The Shavepate frowned as much as Jon as he watched Hizdahr stand up to address the crowd.

“Friends! The Mother of Dragons has come this day, to show her love for you, her people. By her grace and with her leave, I give you now your mortal art!”

The cheers of a thousand throats rang in his ears, tongues mixing together in dialects some of which were foreign to Jon.

Mhysa, he recognized and turned around to look at Dany and the rest of their companions. Mother.

Aegon sat there, one leg thrown over the other and his bright red cloak hanging loosely from his shoulders. His silver hair gave him the appearance of a true Targaryen King, some of which Jon had seen painted in Maester Luwin’s books.

He looked just as unhappy as Lord Connington, who frowned even more than usual. Only the red-haired knight seemed in awe, his cheeks deeply flushed, but his hand always resting on the hilt of his sword.

Prince Quentyn looked less at ease, his face covered with sweat and flanked by his two companions.

Yet, the most miserable of all appeared to be Dany. She wore her mask well, but whenever the word “mother” rang loud she tensed. He knew why and wanted to do something to ease her pain, but he knew there was naught he could do about that matter.

It was ironic, really. When he had been Eddard Stark’s bastard he had never wasted a second thought about having children. That had been a dream not meant for someone like him, but now that he wished for it, it was not possible.

Jon felt at times anger stir in his heart when he thought about Dany’s condition. Even cruel people like Cersei Lannister were graced with children.

Truly, births must be controlled by an existence who’s either extremely incompetent or extremely sarcastic.

“Khrazz will have the honor of the day’s first kill,” Hizdahr informed them with a smile after he had returned to his seat. “There has never been a better fighter than him.”

“Strong Belwas was better,” Strong Belwas added cheerfully as always.

This Khrazz was of humble birth, a tall man with a brush of stiff red-black hair running down the center of his head. His enemy was an ebony-skinned spearman from the Summer Isles whose thrusts were quick enough, but once Khrazz had managed to slip inside the spear with his short sword, only bloody butchery remained.

But that was not all. After the first battle was done, Khrazz cut the heart from the black man and presented his bloody trophy to the cheering crowd.

“Khrazz believes the hearts of brave men make him stronger,” Hizdahr informed them again.

Jon wanted to shut him up. It wasn’t like the battle had disgusted him, but the whole purpose of this spectacle did. That they were waiting for the Sons of the Harpy to make a move didn’t help to ease the tension in his body.

“Ah!” Hizdahr exclaimed in a pleased tone.” Now comes the Spotted Cat. See how gracefully he moves.”

The foe with the graceful moves was tall and as broad as Belwas, but very slow.

They were fighting not far from the box when the Spotted Cat hamstrung him. As the man stumbled to his knees, the Cat put a foot on his back and a hand around his head and opened his throat from ear to ear. The sand drank his life blood and the crowd screamed their approval.

“Bad fighting, good dying,” Strong Belwas added cheerfully. Jon wanted to shut him up too, but he was one of them and a good fighter. He had defeated the Champion of Meereen.

Many more champions followed, among them men from Qarth, from the Summer Islands, Dothraki, Tyroshi, Lamb Men, Jogos Nhai, Braavosi and many more.

“This one will show much more promise,” Hizdahr promised as a Lysean youth with bright silver hair stepped onto the battlefield.

Yet, this one died just as quickly, for his foe had grabbed a handful of hair and had pulled the boy off-balance before gutting him like a pig.

This one’s death seemed to upset Dany.

“A boy!” she shouted at Hizdahr. “We said no children would fight in the pits!”

“This boy was six and ten,” Hizdahr explained. “A man grown, who freely chose to risk his life for gold and glory.”

Dany frowned and shook from head to toe. Then, she covered her mouth and averted her gaze asking Irri to bring her water.

By the time, she had emptied her cup another battle had been fought and one of the many follies started. A group of cripples, dwarfs and crones fought each other with cleavers, torches and hammers, before an elephant made short work of a pack of six reddish wolves.

“The flesh is not wasted,” Hizdahr assured her, as if the death of the animal was worse than of the humans. “The butchers use the carcasses to make stew for the hungry.”

Dany’s smile was tense.

“A good idea.”

After the beast fights came a mock battle, pitting six men on foot against six horsemen, one group armed with shields and longswords and the other group armed with curved blades like the Dothraki.

The mock knights were clad in mail and hauberks while the mock Dothraki wore no armor. At first, the mounted riders seemed to have an advantage, but then the surviving knights attacked the horses one by one and killed each rider.

This seemed to upset Jhiqui, but Jon couldn’t hear what she muttered in Dany’s ear.

Next came another folly, a tilt between a pair of jousting dwarfs that had been supposedly bought by a noble from Meereen. One rode a hound, the other a pig.

Their silly antics made the crowd laugh and Jon scowl. It made him wonder what Lord Tyrion would think of this.

When one of the dwarfs finally tumbled into the sand the other dwarf galloped after him, hitting him with his wooden sword.

Again the crowd laughed.

“They are about to loose the lions,” Hizdahr added with an amused smile.

Dany looked just as confused as Jon.

“Lions?” she asked and frowned. “How will they fight lions with wooden sticks?”

“Badly,” Hizdahr replied and chuckled. “Though they might surprise us. Well, I think is more likely that they will piss themselves and run away screaming.”

Mayhaps we should throw you into the pit and watch as you run screaming.

Jon who was tempted to do that was sure the Shavepate would like that.

“I forbid it,” Dany’s firm voice rang in his ears.

“Your Worship…,” Hizdahr began.

“I forbid it,” she insisted louder and Hizdahr finally relented and waved his hand at this pitmaster.

“No lions,” he said with obvious disappointment “Bring Barsena. That should appease the crowd.”

The pitmaster snapped his whip and shouted out commands. At once, the dwarfs were driven away and the crowed showed their disapproval by throwing stones and rotten fruits.

Suddenly, a roar went up as Barsena Blackhair strode onto the sands, naked safe for a breechclout and sandals.

She was a tall, dark woman of thirty, who moved as graceful as a panther.

“Barsena is much loved,” Hizdahr gushed. “The bravest woman I have ever seen.”

“Fighting girls is not brave. Fighting Strong Belwas would be brave,” the fat man added unnecessarily.

My little sister would think otherwise, Jon couldn’t help but to think, but kept his mouth shut, his hand brushing over Ghost’s head to keep him still beside him. She would stick her little Needle in your guts and tickle you until you are dead.

“Today she will fight a boar,” Hizdahr explained enthusiastically and rubbed his hands together.

The boar she faced was a fearsome best, with tusks as long as a man’s forearm and small eyes that glinted with rage. Even, Ghost would have a hard time fighting this thing.

“Barsena is quick,” the Shavepate added surprisingly and took a sip from his cup. “She will dance with the boar and slice him when he passes near her. That is how she always does it. It is an old trick.”

It happened as the Shavepate had told them. The boar charged, Barsena spun aside quickly and her blade flashed brightly at the beast.

Jon had never seen someone fight a boar like that, but it seemed to work…

Soon, Barsena’s sword was running red with blood, but the boar was not as stupid as Jon had first believed. He stopped suddenly and didn’t charge again.

Shouting, Barsena edged closer to the bear, tossing her knife at the beast.

The boar backed away and she cursed, jabbing her sword at his snout.

This time, she finally managed to provoke him into an attack, but her leap came an instant too late.

Jon could only stare in horror as a tusk ripped her left leg open.

Barsena dropped her weapon instantly, obviously trying to flee, but the boar was on her again.

Jon looked, away as a high scream echoed in his ears, but not long after a choking sound caused him to shift his attention to Dany.

She had vomited her fast on Hizdahr’s golden sandals.

When Jon turned his attention back to the boar and his victim he knew why.

The boar had buried his snout in Barsena’s belly and began rooting out her entrails.

“Take off my floppy ears,” he heard Dany’s strained voice ringing in his ears and caused him to turn around again.

Her face was ash pale as she unwound the yellow silk of her tokar.

“We should leave,” Jon suggested once he had reached her side, all their plans and mummeries forgotten.

“There is more to come,” the Shavepate added in obvious displeasure.

Hizdahr nodded his head in agreement, though an expression of disgust was written all over his face.

“A folly, six old women and three matches are still left. And at last, Belaquo and Goghor!”

“Belaquo will win,” Irri declared quietly. “It is known.”

“It is known,” Jhiqui added with an unsure smile as her gaze darted to Dany. “Belaquo will die.”

“I care not,” Dany snapped in irritation and brushed the sweat from her brow. “I care not.”

“It would make a bad impression if you left…,” the Shavepate pressured further. He looked strangely nervous, which was odd, because the Shavepate rarely showed emotions.

Something is wrong, he realized at once and jumped to his feet, his heart racing wildly. Something is wrong.

Jon grabbed the Shavepate by his tunic, lifting him up in the air.

“What game are you playing?”

The man gasped for air, but Jon’s attention was soon directed elsewhere, for the Brazen Beasts that were placed outside their box had suddenly freed their weapons and were starting to attack the Unsullied and Ser Barristan.

Jon dropped the Shavepate and freed his blade to bury it in a serpent-masked man that had tried to lunge into the box towards Dany and her handmaids.

Barristan killed another, his blade sharp and deadly, but Jon had no time to admire his skill in swordplay.

Just as Jon had jumped out of the box, another one was quickly at him, trying to stab him with a spear

Jon managed to parry each blow, but then he suddenly felt something sharp brush against his side, making him cry out in pain.

He backed away, whirled around and found another masked man, armed with a curved blade.

He was about to lift his blade when Ghost had jumped him, his sharp fangs seeking the man’s neck.

Jon managed to gain some distance between himself and the man, before Strong Balwas had grabbed him from behind, breaking his neck with a quick turn of his arms.

Jon was thankful, for he was trying to cover his bleeding wound with his left hand while trying to hold his blade with the other had as his gaze flickered back to Dany and her handmaids.

Relief washed over him when he saw her surrounded by the Unsullied, their spears raised and their shields bared before them.

Jon glanced around to find Hizdahr or the Shavepate, but another man was quickly at him. This one wore a basilisk mask and swung a mighty maze at him.

Jon managed to avoid the maze, but his wound slowed him down as he stumbled down the steps, his sword half-raised and ready to cut the man apart.

This, time he went for Jon’s head and it was the greatest mistake of his life.

Jon cut him open, his gust spilling out unto the purple steps.

The smell was overwhelming as was the pain in his side. It took him a moment to realize that more men had emerged from the shrieking crowd and were attacking the Brazen Beasts, all of them armed with small weapons. It was hard to say how many there were, but Jon estimated at least thirty.

Jon had no time to waste another thought on them as two Brazen Beasts came straight at him, his sight blurred from the whirled-up dust.

Jon was about to lift his blade when a black shadow ripped across the pit.

At once, the tumult and the shouting died down. Every eye turned skyward, a warm wind brushing over Jon and above him he heard the sound of wings.

Drogon had returned.

His scales were black, his eyes and horns and spinal plates blood red, his wings stretching twenty feet from tip to tip.

He flapped them once as he swept above the sand and whirled up more red dust.

It was the sound of thunder and within the blink of a moment the boar and dead Barsena were engulfed by a shot of black fire.

Even from afar, Jon could feel the heat.

A dying scream echoed over the pit as the dragon sank his claws into the smoking flesh and started to feast.

Suddenly, a lone spearman darted forward and leaned into his spear, using his weight to twist the point deeper, causing the dragon to arch upward and roar in pain.

Angrily, Drogon lashed his tail sideways and hit the dragonslayer, who promptly lost his footing and kissed the red sand.

He was trying to get back to his feet, when the dragon’s teeth closed hard around his forearm and wrenched his arm from his shoulder and tossed it as if it was a child’s toy.

“Kill the beast!” a familiar voice rang loud over the crowd. “Kill the beast!”

It was Hizdahr, their oh so gracious host, who was waving his hand at the Brazen Beasts or Sons of the Harpy, who had only a moment ago been occupied fighting their Unsullied.

They obeyed at once, revealing the Shavepate’s treachery.

Jon gritted his teeth and glanced around to find the Shavepate surrounded by a good twenty of his Brazen Beasts.

He was still bleeding and his feet felt wobbly as he threw himself in the way of two spearmen trying to get to Drogon.

Ghost soon joined him, pulling them to the ground, but Jon was only one man and soon there were a good dozen spearmen hurling their weapons at Drogon while Jon found himself pinned down by another axmen.

Left and right, he hacked at him with his axe, his breathing labored from the exhaustion and his lifeblood a stain on the ground.

Jon managed to kick the man in the groin and caused him to lose his footing, before he buried his blade deep in his neck.

Twisting the blade free, he turned around and noticed that Dany was no longer with the Unsullied, but had jumped from the box right into the pit filled with red sand, leaving nothing but a cloud of red dust behind her.

Jon’s gaze followed her, but his feet were not as quick. He stumbled down the steps like a man to deep in his cups, his blade unusually heavy.

Another masked enemy came his way. And suddenly there was another and another, their weapons raised.

Jon killed the first one with a clumsy hit at the shoulder, but the others proved a harder task.

One had grabbed Jon’s shoulder, trying to wrench the blade free from his grasp and the other one was about to bury his dagger, but with a last attempt of strength Jon had turned the other man’s arm backwards, the sound of cracking bones filling his ears.

The man screamed in pain and Jon hauled himself at the one with the dagger, his sword forgotten and his hands bloody as he buried his fist in the man’s face.

His fit of rage was interrupted when a stream of heat washed over him from behind and caused him to fall forward, kissing the hard floor.

As he turned around on his back he saw that it was Drogon, his wings spread wide and Dany clinging to his back, before carrying her off into the azure sky.

The groans of the dying man next to him caused him to snap his head around.

He thought this was the end, but the man in front of him lowered his weapon and grimaced at Jon.

“So, you are still alive bastard,” he said, his face flushed red and covered with sweat.

It took Jon a moment to realize who he was, for without his usual beard he looked almost like a different person.

Yet, the grey eyes and he hateful look were unmistakable.

“Ser Jorah,” Jon mumbled and pulled himself up, knowing very well that the man in front of him hated him, but also sure that he wouldn’t dare to kill him. “Why did you return?”

“I am here to serve my Queen, bastard.”

…

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Whenever Dany climbed down the hill she saw a sea of green.

Sweat was pouring down her face as she set one foot after another, the rocks scraping her hands raw as she moved.

Her skin was pink and tender, but the burns she had received from Drogon were finally healing.

She sighed in relief when she reached the bottom of the hill.

Dragonstone she had called her hill, after the place she had borne at. Viserys had told her many stories about it, both happy and gruesome.

It had been his home and she had hoped to make it hers and Jon’s when they finally returned to Westeros.

She winced as she stepped through the thorny bushes covering the lower part of the slope.

A roar caused her to turn her head to the jagged tangle of bare rocks building the top of the slope. Up there, amidst broken boulders, sharp ridges and needle spires, Drogon had built his lair inside a cave.

He had dwelled here for some time as every rock and tree in sight had been scorched and the ground was covered with broken bones.

Yes, this must have been Drogon’s home during his long absence from Meereen.

And it seemed he also had no intention to leave.

Viserys had told her the dragonlords of old had controlled their dragons with binding spells and horns, but Dany had to make do with a word and a whip.

Flying had felt so very different from riding her Silver. Whenever she whipped her horse left she went left, but when she whipped Drogon he flew in the opposite direction.

At times, it didn’t matter what she did. Then, Drogon simply ignored her and did as he pleased.

Yet, no matter how far he had flown each day, come nightfall Drogon always returned here, his chosen home.

Not hers.

Her home was across the Narrow Sea, the land Jon called Westeros.

I must return , she reminded herself and walked along the craggy stones. Jon and the others need me.

The sun was hot this morning and the sky an endless blue color. That was good for Dany’s garments were hardly more than rags and offered little warmth at night. Her right sandal had slipped off during her flight from Meereen and the other one she had left at Drogon’s cave. It was also much easier to move barefoot among these hills.

Her tunic made of linen didn’t look any better. It hadn’t been made to withstand the hot days and the chilly nights of the Dothraki Sea. Sweat and grass had stained it and she had torn off a piece to make a bandage for her shin.

I must look like a peasant , she mused and walked to a green patch of grass. Almost like a beggar.

 At least I am not freezing, she thought. There is nothing worse than freezing.

She sat down in the soft grass to rest her feet and watched the crows circling the cloudless sky above.

They always came after Drogon had brought fresh game to feast upon. Sometimes he brought a boar, sometimes a sheep and last he had brought a lion, but he rarely left her more than a handful of burned bones and chunks of smoking meat.

She had eaten last night, but her stomach felt still empty as she watched the crows fly their never-ending circles.

Mayhaps I should climb back up the hill and watch until the crows go near the lion’s carcass. Then, I could squash them with a stone. I have never tasted a roasted crow.

No, she thought and rose back to her feet. She had enough of roasted meat. Vegetables she longed for and another fish like the one she had caught in the spring-fed pool outside Drogo’s cave. These crows have scarcely any meat on them anyway.

Gathering her strength, she marched through the tall grass, the earth warm beneath her toes.

The grass was taller than a man. It made her feel small and insignificant.

The grass was also not as beautiful as she recalled it either. It looked sickly green on the verge of going yellow…

Autumn was here. The grass was dying.

The thought made her sad and she continued onwards, memories following her at every step.

She had been half a girl when she had first come here to the Dothraki Sea. Viserys had been still alive and grim Ser Jorah had been at her side. She also recalled Doreah, who had perished in the Red Waste and Drogo.

They were all memories now, dust blown away by the wind. She had loved them all or at least, but even that felt now like a distant and happy dream.

She had been happy too in Meereen, with Jon, Missandei, Irri, Jhiqui, her blood riders, good Ser Barristan and her children, but even that hadn’t lasted.

Her path forward had been so clear to grasp, but then her supposed nephew had appeared and had destroyed her plans.

Now she had been betrayed again by no other than the Shavepate.

The thought filled her with anger and made her think back on Daznak’s Pit.

That day was all a haze to her now. She recalled the sound of rearing horses, a spear flying and the smell of burned flesh lingering in her nose as she had climbed Drogon’s back.

The fire burned away my hair, she had realized on the next day. One side had been burned away and on her arms she had also received some burns, but otherwise the fire had left her untouched.

Then, they had taken flight, leaving everything behind them. Up and up Drogon had carried her on his back, high above the pyramids and pits, his wings spread wide while Dany had desperately clung to his back.

North they had flown, beyond the river that streamed through Meereen, Drogon soaring on torn and tattered wings. Dany had glimpsed the shores of Slaver’s Bay and the old Valyrian road that ran beside it through sand until it vanished in the west. Then there had been nothing beneath them but green grass.

The sun grew only hotter as time passed and soon her head was pounding.

She clenched her teeth and shielded her face as she continued onwards to find the silver stream she had glimpsed from atop the hill.

Water meant plants and plants meant food.

It was beyond midday when she found the stream. It was a rill, no wider than her arm, but better than nothing.

She scooped up a handful of water and splashed on her face. The water was neither cold nor clean, but it helped to ease her sunburns.

Brushing these complaints from her mind she continued her search and found a patch of bushes that sprouted from the ragged stones. A tree was there as well, a slender thing with barely any leaves and even less shade.

Yet, on the bushes she spotted berries. They were red and blue and green.

Her stomach gave a rumble and she decided she could go no further.

Thus, she tore off another piece of her linen tunic and spread it on the ground.

Then, she started to pick the berries from the bushes and placed them on the linen cloth.

Not long after, she had gathered a heap of berries, but she decided to get some more. She would need something  to break her fast on the morrow, unless Drogon decided to leave her some meat.

Smiling, she gathered another handful, only to find her supper taken from her by these pesky crows.

Anger stirred inside her gut and she jumped at them, shouting and cursing.

“Away with you! Away! Damn birds!”

Two of them fled, but one of the crows didn’t seem frightened by her and took a comfortable seat on the tree, its dark eyes watching her as she was about to gather what was left of the squashed berries.

Suddenly, the bird started to speak.

“Death!” the crow croaked and flapped his wings, before soaring towards her. “Death!”

Dany stumbled backwards and landed on her backside.

With much effort, she pulled herself up and found that the crow was picking the rest of the berries from the ground. Soon, the bird was joined by his brothers and they started picking the berries from the ground and the brushes.

“Death!” the strange crow croaked again. “Death!”

Dany shuddered when the bird’s eyes changed to a bright red color.

It was then that a loud roar rang in her ears and a shadow passed over her.

It was Drogon. He was going hunting.

When she turned back she saw that the crows had disappeared.

Shaken by her strange experience she left the squashed berries and decided to settle for the wild onions growing beneath the slope of Dragonstone.

The sky was turning to a shade of pink when she reached the top of the hill, a handful of stars blinking on the distant horizon.

She liked to count them and had made up names for to them to pass the time, but that was much harder now as her stomach was still empty.

Thus, she gathered a handful of wild onions and ate them one after another, but they were not enough to fill her empty belly.

Her eyes were beginning to grow heavy when the sound of Drogon’s wings caused her to look up.

He looked even bigger now as he landed, a blackened sheep lodged in his mouth.

The sight made her mouth water and it took all her patience to watch how Drogon feasted until there was nothing left but a blackened  carcass of bones.

Once, he had returned to his lair she picked the last pieces of meat from the blackened. She would have eaten them as well had she been graced with Drogon’s sharp teeth.

Yet, she was no real dragon, so much she knew.

She had neither sharp teeth nor wings.

And an empty belly, she reminded herself and curled herself up on her sleeping place of grass and earth.

Off in the distance, she heard the sound of a wolf and for a moment she thought Jon had come to save her, but when she looked around she realized that she was still alone.

It was a sore disappointment and she returned to her sleeping place.

As the moon rose above her, she finally slipped into a restless sleep.

She dreamed again that she was flying, the stars spinning around her like a wheel.

To go north you must journey south. To reach west, you must go east. To go forward, you must go back. To touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow.

These had been Quaithe’s words. She had never forgotten them.

“Quaithe?” she called out and sat up. “Are you here?”

She saw her in the sky, her mask made of starlight.

“Remember who you are,” she whispered with the voice of he wind. “The dragons know. Do you?”

Dany had woken at these words, her body stiff and aching from the uncomfortable position.

As so often these days, the familiar feeling of sickness overcame her and she emptied her fast upon the ground.

When she was done, she gathered more onions and nibbled on them, before going to Drogon’s lair.

As every morning, she found her dragon gone.

Another day has passed, she realized as she watched the sun rise. And I am still stuck in this place.

I need to leave, she realized then. I cannot stay here or I will die. Mayhaps Drogon will follow if I lead the way.

Thus, she climbed from her hill and marched back into the grassland, but this time she took her whip with her.

She would need it once Drogon returned to her.

I shall climb on his back and fly back home, she told herself and walked, setting one foot after the other.

Above her flew the pesky crows and followed after her.

She hated them, but her arms and whip were to short to reach them.

Hours passed and more blisters sprouted on her feet as she stamped through the grass.

The only relief was the soft breeze touching her skin.

Along the way she had passed the silver stream and drank, but not as much as she would have liked. The last time, her belly had ached from the water and she decided to move onwards as the land changed to a brighter shade of yellow.

There must be another stream, with colder and clearer water, she dreamed, her head pounding with every step.

It is a sunburn, she knew and giggled. The blood of the dragon has a sunburn! So much for fire made flesh!”

“Fly!” the crow croaked again and dipped lower, flying before her. “Fly! Fly! Fly!”

He is mocking me, she realized and too tired to curse. Damn bird.

Yet, she continued to walk until the sky was beginning to change again. This time a cobalt blue, but even this beautiful sight was nothing compared to the stream she found soon after.

“Fly!” the bird croaked and soared over the stream. “Fly!”

I am going mad, she thought as she waded into the waist-high water and dipped her head beneath the water. The cool water washed over her, cleaned her and eased her pain, but when she emerged again she felt still tired. Half-walking and half-crawling she moved back to the edge of the stream and sat down in the dry grass.

There, she drank as much water as she pleased. This one was cleaner and colder, the best water she had ever tasted.

All the while, the crows continued to fly their circles above her head.

Once, she was done she lay back and closed her eyes, unsure whether she would be able to open them again.

This time, she dreamed of her dead brother.

Viserys looked as she recalled him. His mouth was twisted in anguish, his hair burnt and his face was black and smoking where the molten gold had touched it.

“You are dead,” she whispered in disbelief.

Murdered, he seemed to whisper, but his lips never moved. You never mourned me, sister.

“That is a lie,” she threw back. “I loved you once, but you betrayed me.”

Once, he whispered gain, his mouth unmoving. You were supposed to be mine, to bear me children with silver hair and purple eyes, to keep the blood of the dragon pure. I took care of you. I fed you. I even sold our mother’s crown to keep you fed.

She shuddered at the memory. How sad Viserys had been and how he had hit her until her arm had been dotted with blue bruises.

“You hurt me.”

Only when you woke the dragon, he whispered back. Only when you woke the dragon.

“You sold me like a common whore!” she couldn’t help but to snap back. “I meant nothing to you!”

You betrayed me. You turned against your own blood. Your husband and his stinking band of savages lied to me. They promised me a golden crown and gave me this.

He touched the molten gold and smoke rose from his finger.

“You could have had your crown,” Dany lied and backed away. “If only you had shown a bit more patience.”

I have waited long enough. I have waited my whole life. I was their King, their rightful King and they laughed at me.

As they did with me, she knew and stood her ground. And now my nephews have come to take this crown. One I love and one I mistrust. What would you have done, brother?

They are false dragons, he whispered. One more a wolf than a dragon and the other a mummer. You ought to kill them both, before they kill you, foolish sister.

Dany shuddered at that, the words of the Undying ringing in her ears.

Once for gold, once for gold and once for love.

Her heart didn’t want to believe it.

“Lies!” she shouted and snapped her whip at him. “You were always lying to me! Begone!”

And within the blink of a moment he was gone, exchanged with another appearance she had not asked for.

You must go home, the gruff voice of Ser Jorah rang in her ears. Your crown awaits.

He was right about that too. He had always given her good council, though he had betrayed her.

You are only lost, because you lingered in a place you were never mean to be, the gruff voice  rang in her ears, clear and loud. And because you trusted that lying bastard.

“It was you who betrayed me, for gold,” she reminded him bitterly. “And for what?”

For home. Like you. All I ever wanted was to go home.

“You wanted me in your bed,” Dany countered. “Because I look like a ghost of  woman you lost. That is why you hate Jon.”

I gave you good counsel. I told you to save your spears and swords for the Seven Kingdoms. Leave Meereen to the Meerenese, I told you. Again you would not listen.

“I had to take Meereen to feed my people,” she defended herself, but the words felt wrong.

And you took Meereen and lingered.

“To be a Queen, to protect those I freed.”

It was half a lie.

“I am weary of war,” she spoke from the heart and searched for him in the swaying grass, but found only Quaithe. “I want to rest, to laugh. I want peace.”

No, you are the blood of the dragon. Dragons plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are. Remember your words.

“Fire and Blood,” she whispered back and lifted her whip. “I have seen enough of it to last for a lifetime. I only want to go home.”

Then, she snapped her whip and chased the masked woman away.

No man can escape fate, the voice whispered no more. Not even dragons.

When she woke again she felt the hot burn of the sun on her skin and saw the crows still fly circles over her head.

Shaking, she sat up and swept her gaze over the grass to her back.

Suddenly, it started to move when it had no cause to do so.

She picked up her whip and rose to her feet.

With the soft tinkling of bells the green sea opened and a rider appeared.  His braid was black and shiny, his skin sun-kissed and his eyes black as obsidian.

Bells rang as he moved and watched the landscape.

A scout, Dany knew. He was one of those that rode before the khalasar to find game and foes alike.

She bit her lips in fear. If he found her he would kill her, rape her or enslave her. At best, he would send her back to the Dosh Khaleen.

He hadn’t seen her, though. The grass concealed her well and when a black shadow passed over her heart soared with happiness.

Frightened, the scout stood frozen for a long time, before he suddenly wheeled his mount around and disappeared in the swaying grass.

Dany had watched him go and not long after Drogon came towards here, the grass parting before him.

Dany didn’t hesitate to hop unto his back.

She snapped her whip and then the  dragon flew, though in the wrong direction.

As she soared, she spotted a vast herd of horse, fleeing from the dragon.

Soon, one horse lagged behind and Drogon descended upon it. At once, the animal was aflame, yet still running and screaming with every step until Drogon broke its back.

The carcass proved too heavy to carry him back to Drogon’s lair and thus the dragon started to consume his kill right there, tearing off charred flesh as the grass burned around them with a sizzling sound.

Dany, who was starved, slid from his back and tore a piece of smoking meat from the dead horse.

Her fingers burned as she chewed, the western sky changing to the color of a crimson bruise and the sound of horse hooves ringing in her ears.

She knew that they had come for her, but she felt no fear.

She had faced her brother and now she would face these ghosts as well.

…

Chapter Text

Jon

Jon’s body ached as he turned to the side and pulled himself into a sitting position. Every time he moved, he felt a sharp pain surging through his body, where one of the Brazen Beasts had cut him open like a pig. Hours later, one of the healers from the Tempel of Graces had been called upon to stich him together, but his wound still pained him day and night. Sleep was even harder to find, though that had more to do with Dany’s absence.

Soon, he reminded himself and pulled on his boots, before opening the door for his daily visitors. Soon the bloodriders will return from the hinterlands and then I will be able to find her.

He tried to smile when his mother entered his chamber in company of Sansa. They came every day, because his mother had taken it upon herself to care for his wound.

Jon didn’t know what to think of that. All these years, he had wished for a mother to care for him like Lady Catelyn had cared for Robb and his other siblings, but he felt only resentment stirring inside him whenever his mother was trying to act motherly towards him.

It wasn’t like he didn’t understand her feelings for not wanting to wed Robert Baratheon, but even so she could have least tried to stay for his sake. Instead she had run away to raise his half-brother and had given him the love that had been meant for him.

It was a shameful thought, as his half-brother had lost much more than Jon, but the feeling of jealousy was always there, sizzling in the pit of his stomach.

“It is a bit early,” Jon remarked.

“I am an early riser,” Lady Lyanna replied and placed her tools on the nearby table. “And I knew I would find you awake. You are restless, aren’t you?”

Jon nodded his head in confirmation and gave Sansa a hesitant smile. It was much easier than to smile at his mother. They had never been particularly close, but Sansa had mostly ignored him while Lady Stark had never hidden her dislike for him.

“Ghost is also awake,” Jon offered and pointed at his loyal beast still curled beside his sleeping place. “I am sure he would be pleased to receive your attentions, sister.”

A real smile crossed over Sansa’s lips as she made her way over to Ghost and touched his furry head.

“Do you think he recalls me?” she asked and received a lick on the cheek as if to answer her question. “Well, there is my answer.”

She had laughed, but Jon had also heard he sadness ringing in her voice.

“You miss Lady,” he remarked, sat down on the stool facing the window and pulled off his tunic to reveal his bandaged side. “I wouldn’t know what to do without Ghost.”

“The wound healed well,” Sansa added and touched Ghost’s back where a Brazen Beast had tried to cut him open. “Direwolves are tenacious beasts.”

“I wish my wound would heal so quickly,” Jon added with a sigh and winced when his mother’s hand brushed over his scarred wound after she had removed the soiled bandages. “The bloodriders will return soon and I need to be able to sit a horse.”

“The cut was deep,” his mother countered unhappily. “You shouldn’t sit a horse for at least several weeks, but if you got my stubborn mind I doubt you will listen to my words.”

“No,” Jon replied curtly and was glad that they had found common ground. “Ser Jorah and I are going to leave once the bloodriders arrive.”

“The grim slaver?” his mother asked skeptically and put a few drops of strong grog on the white linen, before brushing it over his wound. The burning pain came instantly, but it was half as bad. Still, Jon gritted his teeth and his mother continued to frown. “Are you sure you can trust him?”

“Ser Jorah hates me,” Jon admitted. “But he knows these lands well and he is utterly loyal to Daenerys.”

“And yet she exiled him?” his mother asked, her eyebrows rising to the top of her head. “That makes no sense to me.”

Jon sighed and winced again when his mother started to wrap fresh linen bindings around his wound.

“You don’t have to fret,” he assured her again and patted Ghost’s head when he came to sniff on his hand. “Ghost will be with me.”

“And we will be stuck here,” Sansa added worriedly. “I had hoped we could go home soon.”

“We will go home,” Jon promised her. “Together.”

“How can you be so sure that Daenerys will come back?” his mother asked bluntly as ever and searched his face.

The question had taken him by surprise, fresh anger stirring inside him.

“How can you even say something like that? Of course, she is coming back!”

A pained expression washed over his mother’s long face.

“I didn’t mean to insult you, but it has been days and there has been no sign of her. Where could the dragon have taken her?”

“I don’t know,” Jon replied and shifted his attention to Sansa. “But I will find her. And when all is said and done here in Meereen, we will go home. I promise.”

“Robb will support you,” Sansa assured him again and smiled. “And my mother will be happy to have me back. You can even tell her the truth. Maybe it will ease her heart to hear that father didn’t betray their marriage vows.”

Jon had little hope in that regard. He expected nothing but cold looks from Lady Stark, though he doubted she would do it openly, especially if he had three dragons at his back.

Not that Jon cared about Lady Stark. She had wished upon him the fate of  cripple, but he couldn’t tell that to Sansa.

“Your mother will not be pleased to hear that Lord Eddard lied to her for all these years,” Jon countered. “I doubt knowing the truth is going to change how she feels about me. On the contrary, she will still think I am an oathbreaker and a danger to her family. Lord Eddard would have certainly supported King Stannis’ kingship.

Sansa’s face fell. She looked suddenly very pale and tears glittered in her eyes.

“I understand,” she added quietly. “Well, Robb will probably be upset with me once he hears what I did.”

Jon was confused and exchanged a quiet look with his mother, who had finished her work and was gathering her tools. An uncomfortable expression had washed over her face when he had spoken about Lady Catelyn.

It had given him a certain amount of satisfaction. He wanted her to know how much her absence had pained him, though he didn’t want to voice these thoughts in front of Sansa.

He had heard from Lord Tyrion that Sansa had been wed to Joff and that he had mistreated her. Whatever she had done in the past, it had been the actions of a silly girl who didn’t know better, but his mother had been a woman grown.

“Would you care to hear what I did?” Sansa asked almost fearfully. “It would help to ease my guilt.”

Jon gave her an encouraging nod.

“What did you do?”

Sansa averted her gaze and bit her lips.

“I sold out father,” she confessed in a trembling voice. “I told Queen Cersei about his plans of leaving King’s Landing. I was such a stupid girl and in the end I got what I wanted…my horrid marriage to Joff. He was a monster.”

Jon shuddered at the thought. He didn’t even want to imagine Joff touching his sister or any other girl.

“I was also stupid,” he added and leaned over to squeeze her hand. “I should have left the Wall the moment I realized what kind of place it was . I should I have asked Robb to let me stay in Winterfell. I was just too proud to ask.”

“That wasn’t all I did, though,” Sansa added and lifted her tear-streaked gaze. “Good men died for my foolishness and Arya…only the gods know where she is. And my friend Jeyne Poole. I don’t even know if she is still alive.”

“Arya is alive,” Jon assured her quickly. “I know it.”

“That you cannot know,” Sansa replied sadly. “But thank you. I know I don’t deserve it.”

“Stop saying that,” his mother interrupted tensely. “We all do foolish things when we are young and reckless. I am sure your brother will forgive you.”

“Like Lord Eddard forgave you?” Jon asked and was unable to hide his bitterness. “By stealing your child.”

His mother froze and averted her gaze, staring to play with the hem of her dress.

“Perhaps you are right,” she agreed and rose to her feet. She looked as if she was fleeing from  him. “I do not know Ned’s son well enough to be able to make such assumptions.”

Then, she jerked her head at Sansa.

“We should leave. Jon has work to do, doesn’t he?”

Jon nodded his head in confirmation. He had to consult with Ser Barristan, Jorah, Daario and Greyworm. Knowing them it would be another tense conversation, but at least his half-brother had decided to stay away for now.

When he entered the council chamber he found Ser Barristan surrounded by Dany’s advisors and seated on the wooden bank she had made her throne.

Jon and Greyworm had agreed that Ser Barristan should act as Dany’s Hand of the Queen until her return, though the old knight had refused at first.

I am a knight, he had told Jon. You are the Queen’s only kin. You should sit here.

Jon had laughed at that, but not because he didn’t think himself capable enough. What the old knight had said was also true, but Meereen was different from Westeros. Dany ruled here not because of her blood, but because the freedmen chose to follow her and because she had the men necessary to conquer Slaver’s Bay.

Thus, Ser Barristan had become the Hand of the Queen and looked as uncomfortable on that wooden bank as Maegor the Cruel must have felt seated atop the Iron Throne.

“Forgive my delay,” Jon apologized when he noticed that the others were already assembled. “Did I miss something?”

“The Unsullied have taken all nobles under house arrest,” Greyworm explained. “But there are still Harpies roaming the city and causing havoc. The freedmen have armed themselves and only yesterday five more attacks have taken place. I have my Unsullied patrol the streets, but I fear for them.  The Queen’s absence makes them brave.”

Jon was not surprised and turned to look at Daario. “What about the Shavepate? Were you able to make him speak?”

“He is keeping silent,” Daario replied and bared his golden teeth. “I tried my best, but had I gone further he would have died.”

“And this Hizdahr and the Green Grace?” Ser Jorah inquired grim as ever. He disliked Daario just as much as Jon. So much was obvious. “Were you able to make them speak?”

“Hizdhar spilled the beans without hesitation, but gave us no new information. The Green Grace I didn’t touch. Jon demanded it,” Daario explained.

“Why is that?” Jorah demanded to know, his voice laced with contempt. “Why was that woman spared? Didn’t her healers poison the locust that made Strong Belwas sick and that was meant for the Queen?”

“Probably,” Daario added and stroked his beard. “That is at least what Hizdahr told us.”

“She is a religious figure,” Jon explained and didn’t flinch away from meeting Ser Jorah’s piercing gaze. The Old Bear Jon had loved and respected, but Ser Jorah was a man that woke only ambivalent feelings in him. He was loyal to Dany, so much Jon knew, but he also saw Jon as an enemy. Best would be to kill him, but Jon owed him a debt for helping him fight the Brazen Beasts. “Killing Green Grace would make the current situation only more heated. It would stir the citizens to munity and rage.”

“Indeed,” Ser Barristan agreed, who had listened to their exchange in silence. “Important is that we keep control over the city until the Queen returns to us. Let us hope the bloodriders can help us find her.”

“It could take weeks to find her,” Daario countered. “And what is if she is really dead? Who could succeed her?”

Ser Barristan exchanged a telling look with Jon, who told Daario what he had told his mother this very morning.

“Daenerys will return. Drogon wouldn’t harm his own mother. I know it.”

“Jon of Winterfell speaks true,” Greyworm added firmly. “The Queen will return and until then the Unsullied shall keep the peace.”

Not long after, Ser Barristan dismissed the others from his presence and asked Jon to stay.

“There is someone who wishes to speak with you,” he explained and waved his hand at the door where two Unsullied stood at their honorary positions.

“What do you wish to speak about?” Jon inquired politely as he shifted his attention to his half-brother and Lord Connington. “If it is about the Daenerys then I will have to disappoint you. We still have no information about her whereabouts.”

“What have you been doing the last three days?” Aegon asked in obvious frustration. “Why didn’t you send out men to search for her?”

“The lands beyond Meereen are vast. We are going to search for her once the bloodriders are here. They will know where to look,” Jon explained and tried his best to keep his composure. Neither his half-brother nor Prince Quentyn had hesitated to run away when the battle in Daznak’s pit had raged around them. And now they were suddenly interested in Dany’s safety. It was hypocrisy of the finest sort, but he shouldn’t voice these thoughts openly in front of potential allies.

“It is true,” Ser Barristan assured Aegon. “The Dothraki should be of great help in finding the Queen. And we have been occupied with other problems. The Queen’s disappearance has stirred up the slavery supporters.”

“And how long do you think will it take until she returns, good Ser?” Aegon asked and looked only at Ser Barristan. “The Golden Company is waiting for me.”

“The Golden Company will wait as long as Illyrio pays them enough, your Grace,” Lord Connington explained cautiously and touched Aegon’s shoulder. “Finding your Aunt should be our first priority.”

“Ser Barristan and Jon Snow have yet to answer my question,” his brother returned and pushed his hand away. His bluish eyes burned with anger when he met Jon’s gaze. “How long will it take to find her?”

“As long as necessary,” Jon returned icily. “You have waited for eighteen long years. I am sure you can wait for  another few moons, brother.”

“Don’t call me that!” Aegon snapped back, his voice filled with disgust. “Your mother was seducing my father while my mother and sister were imprisoned in King’s Landing. You may or may not be born from my father’s seed, but you are not my brother.”

“Your Grace,” Lord Connington added hesitatingly. “I do not think that Jon Snow is lying. Prince Rhaegar was very infatuated with the Stark girl and his marriage to your mother…As I told you before…it was a marriage of duty.”

“Marriage of duty or not,” Aegon scoffed. “Lyanna Stark is a whore.”

Jon had yet to make up his mind about his mother, but that was too much.

“Call my mother a whore once more and you will kiss the wall!” the threat had spilled out of his mouth before Jon had been able to stop himself.

Aegon’s eyes narrowed in anger and his hand brushed over his sword belt. “Are you threatening your King?”

Jon couldn’t help but to scoff and imitated the gesture as he stepped closer.

“King of what? A pole-boat in Volantis? Without Daenerys’s help nobody will believe you.”

“My cousin does and so will my Uncle,” Aegon countered heatedly. “Well, I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised by your lack of manners. You were raised as a lowly bastard, were you not?”

Anger had flashed in front of Jon’s eyes and within the blink of a moment he had grabbed his brother by his tunic and had pulled him towards him, their breath mingling.

“Aye, I was raised as a lowly bastard but at least I am not an ungrateful little shit like you…,” Jon had spat back at him and would have probably done more had Ser Barristan not pulled him away.

“How dare you!” Aegon snarled angrily, his face deeply flushed as he was pulled backwards by Lord Connington. “How dare you speak to me like that!”

“I only gave you the truth,” Jon couldn’t help but to stir the flames anew. It filled him with a kind of pleasure he hadn’t known before. “My mother raised you and loved you and all you show her is contempt. She shouldn’t have wasted her time with an ungrateful little shit like you!”

Aegon didn’t hold back his rage and was suddenly struggling hard against Lord Connigton’s grip.

“And without your whore of a mother my own mother would still be alive!” his brother shouted at the top of his lungs, his eyes wet with tears.

Jon couldn’t help but to chuckle.

“You act as if our father’s cock accidently found its way between my mother’s legs,” Jon taunted him. “He was just as much at fault. Do not excuse him because you derive your legitimacy from him. And it was Lord Tywin Lannister who gave the order, not my mother.”

“A dead man,” Aegon seethed with anger. “How can I take revenge against a dead man?”

“The Mountain is still alive, your Grace,” Lord Connington added Aegon’s. “And I have to agree with Jon Snow. Trying to put blame on someone won’t help our cause. Prince Rhaegar would have wanted his sons to work together.”

At last, Aegon calmed and stopped his struggle, as did Jon.

Jon felt suddenly very tired and his head was pounding.

“I need to rest,” he told Ser Barristan and left. He had wasted enough of his energy for today. “I will need my strength.”

…

Chapter Text

Daenerys

When the Dothraki had stared to shoot arrows at Drogon he had unleashed a current of flames upon the Dothraki warriors. A dozen of horses and Dothraki warriors had been devoured by the hot flames, their screams echoing in her ears. This spectacle had repeated itself over and over again, but when another hundred thousand of men had appeared, Dany had raised her hands and had commanded Drogon to leave. Arrows certainly couldn’t kill a dragon, but he had already suffered enough through the spears of the Brazen Beasts, his right wing still tattered and sometimes bleeding.

Drogon will come back for me anyway. I know it. I just need to buy myself a bit of time.

“I know you,” the Dothraki scout that had discovered Drogon shouted at her. He was a relatively young man, but his braid was long and littered with numerous bells. They rang softly as he climbed from his horse, his dark eyes searching her face. “You are Khal Drogo’s Khaleesi.”

Dany nodded her head and brushed the grime from her lips. The food had helped her to regain her strength, but her feet felt still wobbly. Her mind was also torn on what to say. If she denied the obvious truth they would rape her and if she told them the truth they would drag her to the Dosh Khaleen.

The second choice seemed much more pleasant. From the Dosh Khaleen she could flee and it would keep her far away from Khal Jhaqo. He had always hated her, but even a Khal was not allowed to touch a Dosh Khaleen. Such was the law of the Dothraki.

“That I am,” she confirmed in Dothraki and straightened herself. She tried to appear queenly, but that was hard when her clothes were tattered and her face covered in grime. “Do I know you?”

“I am Haquo,” the young man explained and lowered his head in reverence. “I am ko to Khal Jhaqo. When you were still Khal Drogo’s  Khaleesi I was only a common warrior. Have you come to return to your place among the Dosh Khaleen?”

 “I have,” she confirmed and forced a smile over her lips. “I have. I have realized my folly and wish to repent.”

The young man seemed to approve of her actions and shifted his attention to one of the older bloodriders.

“You heard the Khaleesi,” Haquo said. “She has need of a horse. She is coming with us.”

“The foreign whore shall have a horse,” a familiar and cruel voice added. It was Mago, who had joined Jhaqo not long after Drogo had dropped from his horse. He was no friend of her and the savage curling on his lips unsettled her. “But Khal Jhaqo will want to question her.”

“I shall be honored,” Dany replied and cast a quick glance at the sky. The sun was bright and hot, but Drogon was nowhere to be seen. Yet, she believed to feel his presence. He would follow her. She was sure about it.

Not long after, one of the younger bloodriders yielded his stead to her, though she doubted he was pleased about that. Dothraki were as close with their horses as the dragonlords of old were with their dragons. A dragon only chose one rider and a Dothraki usually took his horse to the grave.

It made her long for her Silver, but it was better than to walk on foot.

“Your stallion abandoned you,” Mago scoffed with distain as he rode behind her, his hand brushing over his curved blade. It was a warning. “We scared the beast.”

He is a dragon, she wanted to correct him, but that would make her situation only worse. He was only waiting for a provocation. Thus, she decided to play along.

“I have not yet properly mounted him,” she explained and averted her gaze. Haquo was watching her as well, but more with an expression of worry than dislike.

“And now you never will,” Mago added. “A Dosh Khaleen has no use for stallions.”

“Leave her be,” he warned Mago. “Or Drogo’s ghost will come to curse you.”

“Drogo is a pile of ash and died because she allowed the witch to attend to him,” Mago grumbled accusingly, his dark eyes as black as the night. “He could have been the Khal of Khals, but you had to break our traditions and allowed the witch to kill him. Then, you even sacrificed his son. If I had a say in this, I would plough your field until you bleed to death, but I am only a ko and no Khal. Mayhaps Khal Jhaqo will know what to do with you. I certainly would enjoy hearing you scream.”

Dany shuddered and clenched her teeth in defiance. Mago had been the cruelest among Drogo’s bloodriders. He had raped and murdered the girl she had tried to save. He was a monster.

“Khal Jhaqo would not dare to touch her,” Haquo added. “You know what they say about fucking a Dosh Khaleen. Your cock will wither away. I doubt the Khal would risk such a fate.”

Mago scoffed. “You are even more superstitious than Jhaqo’s Khaleesi. “

Then, he galloped away to join the head of the column of riders.

Dany sighed  in relief, but she knew that was only the beginning of a dangerous journey.

At midday, they arrived at the camp, beneath a hill. In the distance she could see the glimmer of a silver stream, but otherwise not much more than the swaying grass of the Dothraki Sea.

Everywhere she looked riders had gathered around steaming cookfires on which they were roasting meat and other delicacies she had missed. It made her suddenly crave for fermented milk and honey.

Haquo and three others led her through the bustling camp. Children ran wild as they passed hundreds of tents and the smell of spice and horse was filling her nose. It was a familiar smell and brought back memories, some of them happy and others sad.

They stopped at a painted tent and Haquo informed her that this would be her sleeping place for the night.

The tent was not overly furnished. There was a carpet on the floor and an oil lamp. A young slave woman was also called upon to bring her fresh clothing, a simple green wool tunic which she fastened with a leather belt and a pair of leggings and sandals. She also wished for a brush, but that was too much to ask and the food they brought her was much more welcome. She devoured the bowl of fruits and sweet grass greedily, before emptying two bowls of fermented horse milk. Strangely, it helped her to settle her stomach and not long after she curled atop the carpet and was claimed by her exhaustion.

This time she dreamed of her dragons. They were screaming for her in their prison of darkness…

Barely a few hours later, she was woken by a rough pull on her shoulder.

It was Mago.

“Khal Jhaqo wishes for your company.”

Dany swallowed hard, but didn’t hesitate to follow . She was relieved to find Haquo  among the men that had accompanied Mago.

She doubted he would help her escape, but he seemed very dedicated to the Dothraki laws and perhaps he had respected Drogo enough to consider taking her side if it came to the worst.

The Khal’s tent had been erected on a hill. It was huge and made of horse leather. Inside it smelled of incense, oils, cinnamon and dried sweet grass. In the middle of the room stood a large iron jar in which a fire was burning in colors of orange, gold and red.

Around the fire sat twenty men. The Khal’s bloodriders.

The Khal himself was seated atop a large wooden throne. His face was sharp, a big red scar running from his right ear all down to his chin and his long inky hair was neatly braided and decorated with bells of silver and gold.

His dark eyes flashed with recognition when his gaze fell upon her.

“So, it is true. Drogo’s wayward Khaleesi has returned.”

“I have come to join the Dosh Khaleen,” she lied.

“A foreign whore like her shouldn’t be sent to the Dosh Khaleen,” Mago added coldly. “She does not respect our traditions. Khal Drogo was a fool to wed her. She only brought death and destruction over his khalasar. Give her to me and I will make quick work of her after I have enjoyed myself.”

“That is not for you to decide,” Khal Jhaqo grunted in displeasure. “She was a Khaleesi. The Dosh Khaleen approved of her…they called her son the Stallion that Mounts the World.”

“Old hags that read in tea leaves,” Mago scoffed. “Khal Drogo listened to them and look where it brought him. He thought he would conquer the world beyond the poisonous waters and died a humiliating death.”

“I burned the witch for her crime,” Dany countered, deciding to try a different approach . “And prophecies are a dangerous thing. My dead son was not the stallion, but I have a living and breathing dragon. Mayhaps by mounting him I can fulfil the prophecy. You could be part of this, the Dothraki could be part of this. I wish to retake my father’s crown and have need of able warriors.”

Khal Jhaqo laughed and rose to his feet, making his way towards her. “I thought you wanted to be a Dosh Khaleen? It seems your tongue is as silver as your hair. Ah, you are beautiful. I understand why Drogo wanted you in his bed, but your pretty silver cunt wasn’t the only reason. You are of the blood of the dragonlords and Drogo always dreamed of greater things. He wanted to be the Khal of Khals, that would one day unite all khalasars as one. A worthy dream, but I have to agree with Mago…it was not worth it in the end, was it?”

Dany knew then that she couldn’t expect any help from him, but she tried once more to convince him.

“My son died,” she admitted. “I shouldn’t have trusted the witch, but I meant well.”

Then, she glared at Mago. “And that makes me not any less of a Khaleesi. There are still bloodriders that follow me. They are in Meereen and are well cared for. I reward my allies well. If you do not wish to cross the sea I could offer you something else. The Slaver Cities I have taken for my own, but they have need of protection, of men capable holding them against the slavers. Isn’t that a tempting idea? Take the riches of the nobles and grow fat and old?”

Something had changed in Jhaqo’s demeanor after she had said this.

“There is always a price. Name it?”

“You must give up slavery and pillaging. That is my price. In return your people will receive a place to prosper.”

Khal Jhaqo started to laugh again and swept his gaze over the assembled bloodriders.

“Did you hear her? She wants me to become a chained dog. A dog. Is Jhaqo a chained dog?”

The bloodriders howled with laughter and Dany knew she had lost this struggle.

“You will go to the Dosh Khaleen,” he informed her bluntly after the laughing had died down and threw a cold glance at Mago. “Touch her and I will cut off your cock. I hold no love for her, but Drogo was my equal. Disrespecting his widow means to disrespect the laws of our people.”

Mago’s dark eyes pierced into hers as he lowered his head.

“Of course, my Khal.”

…

Chapter Text

Robb

White Harbour was a clean and well-ordered city with straight cobbled streets that made it easy to move around. The houses were made of whitewashed stone and had steeply-pitched roofs of dark grey slate. The walls surrounding the city were thick and well-fortified as any city in the south.

Robb had visited White Harbour only once when he was a young boy of eight, but he remembered only bits and pieces.

The sun lurking over the walls, its bright beams pleasant to the eye as was the pink sky that spread above them. The ride from the Neck to White Harbour had been rather unpleasant, full of rain and bogs and later two stormy nights that had made it hard to build a fortified camp.

The Greatjon, Lord Glover, Maege Mormont and Roose Bolton had advised Robb to march for Winterfell, but he had refused. Roslin was with child and he didn’t want her to force to live in a burned-down ruin. Once Winterfell was returned to its former glory he would send her there, but until this matter was taken care of she would be a honored guest in Lord Manderly’s home.

Robb doubted Lord Manderly would refuse him. What little he recalled of him gave Robb the impression that he would be welcoming to anyone of Stark blood.

“It simply beautiful!” Roslin’s excited voice rang in his ears and caused him to turn his head. Like Robb she was seated on a horse, though she looked much different now as she had lowered her thick brown pelt and wore a warmer dress made of dark wool and inlaid with fur. Even her hair looked different. It was braided atop of her head and her face was hidden behind her shawl, which he had pulled down to be able to speak to Robb. “And it smells like salt and storm.”

“Fishy would be a more accurate description,” Olyvar Frey added cheerfully. Next to him rode the mighty Smalljon, who loomed over the lanky young man like a giant and a bit further behind followed Dacey Mormont. She was a tall and lean beauty with black hair and always carried her axe wherever she went. Robb had yet to find anyone among these men that would ever dare to show him disrespect.

That was until Lord Bolton had brought Halys Karstark before him, who had been freed by the same Lord Bolton after he had retaken Harrenhall in Robb’s name. He was a solemn young man with a long face that betrayed his Stark blood, though his eyes were blue instead of grey.

He looks more like a Stark than me, Robb realized and thought of Jon. His brother had inherited the Stark looks, but wasn’t even his father’s son. Truly, it was a mad world they lived in. And he hates me for killing Lord Rickard.

It wasn’t like Robb had had much of a choice. The man had not only tried to murder a valuable hostage, but had also refused to take the black. Pardoning him would have made Robb appear weak. Even so, he doubted that Halys Karstark cared about Robb’s reasoning. He had lost half his family to Robb’s war. He had every reason to hate him.

Yet I am still his lord, Robb reminded himself and shifted his attention to Roslin. She was smiling at him warmly and pointed at the strange street that loomed before them. It was called Castle Stair, Robb recalled vaguely and was a broad stone way that lead up from the Wolf’s Den to the New Castle, located on a hill overlooking the stormy sea below. It was there where Lord Manderly’s guardsmen awaited them and took hold of their horses. They looked like mermen, their cloaks striped white and turquoise and armed with spears that looked like tridents.

“Welcome Lord Stark,” the Captain of the Guards greeted them. “Lord Manderly awaits.”

He led them up the broad stairs, marble mermaids lighting their way, bowls of burning whale oil cradled in their arms. From atop here one had an even more beautiful look at the harbors, but they had no time to linger, for a sharp wind was blowing from the north. Roslin had yet to get used to the icy winds of his lands north and he didn’t want her to get sick.

The Merman’s Court, the great hall of the New Castle, was as colorful as his childlike mind recalled. Its walls, floor and ceiling were made of wooden planks notched cunningly together and decorated with all kinds of fearsome sea creatures. The floors and walls were even more colorful. It was painted with crabs, clams and starfish, half-hidden amongst twisting black fronds of seaweed and the bones of drowned sailors. On the walls he found pale sharks prowling painted blue-green depths, whilst eels and octopods were slithering amongst rocks and sunken ships. Higher up, he saw fisher nets spread over the rafters and to the right a war galley and the sinking sun. To Robb it looked more like a harbor than a feasting hall.

“Is the food to your liking, Lord Stark?” Lord Manderly asked. He was a man of sixty and so fat that he was no longer able to ride a horse which had earned him the name Lord Too-Fat-to-sit-a-horse. Yet, he was an amiable man with a shrewd mind or that is at least what his Lord Father had always told him. “Your plate is still full.”

The food he was serving was impressive. They had boiled eggs, capons, roasted eels, lampreys, delicious pork pies, sweetened porridge and all sorts of different sausages which Lord Manderly had ordered from the Free Cities.

Robb had tasted everything enthusiastically and so had his men, but there was always more and more being offered to him and he had no intention to reach as full as a form as his generous host.

“On the contrary,” Robb assured him and watched with satisfaction as Roslin was shoveling a piece of tart into her mouth, Lord Manderly’s granddaughters smiling and laughing with her. They seemed just as pleasant as their grandfather, though the green hair looked rather odd on the younger one. Wylla was her name, he recalled now. “I was delicious…and it seems my men enjoy your bitter ale even more. Well, my wife enjoys your tarts.”

“That is good to hear,” the old man replied with a smile. “I am just trying to make sure that your heir will be a fat and healthy babe.”

Robb didn’t want to think about that. Roslin was such a fragile girl. Pushing out a fat and healthy babe would most likely tear her apart, but then Lord Manderly probably meant well.

“I hope so,” Robb replied and took a sip from his cup as he continued to watch his men. They were in a good mood, drinking and singing songs, their loud voices echoing over the Merman’s Court. They were acting as if they had already re-taken the North, but the contrary was the case. The Ironborn still held Deepwood Motte. “My brothers are dead. I need a son to succeed me.”

Suddenly, Lord Manderly’s demeanor changed, his blueish gaze wandering over Robb’s face.

He smiled and tapped his finger on the table, indicating for Robb to lean closer.

Robb complied.

“About that, my Lord. I have made a curious discovery, but we shouldn’t speak about this while our men are celebrating.”

Robb’s heart had nearly stopped when he had heard this.

“Why not?” he asked impatiently. “If you know something…,” he trailed off when Lord Manderly started to shake his head.

“Not here, my Lord. This should be spoken about in private. Later, if it pleases you. Now you should rest and enjoy your feast.”

That was easier said than done, but Robb managed to bridge the time as best of possible. The ale and the song of the men certainly helped.

“You look tired,” Roslin remarked later and touched is cheek. Her hands were cold, but her smile was as bright as the summer sun. “You should rest. Speak to Lord Manderly on the morrow. I am sure he will understand.”

“I can’t,” Robb replied and squeezed her hand. Then, he leaned closer and kissed her chastely, first on the cheek and then on the mouth. It would be so easy to lose himself to her embrace, but he was eager to consult Lord Manderly about his “curious discovery”. “But I won’t stay long. Go to bed if you like.”

Roslin looked disappointed, but accepted his wish. “As you wish, but I will be waiting for you.”

Then, she angled her head and pointed at Greywind, who lay seated beside the large hearth.  “Greywind will keep me company while you are gone.”

Robb was not surprised by her answer. She had always been drawn to his wolf, though it had taken its good time until Greywind had warmed up to her. He had never liked strangers, but it seemed the fact that she was carrying his child helped.

“Greywind will bore you to death. He is sleepy,” he remarked and walked over to pat the wolf’s head. His loyal beast yawned and went back to sleep.

Not long after, Robb left Roslin and sought out Lord Manderly’s solar.

He was already waiting for him with two cups of summerwine and a serious expression, so unlike the cheerful smiles he had carried all day.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” he said and sent the servant out of the room. “I have bad and good tidings for you, my Lord.”

“I assumed so much,” Robb replied, his heartbeat speeding up as she watched Lord Manderly shove a folded parchment over the table. “What are these bad tidings you speak of?”

“Read,” Lord Manderly said. “Read my Lord.”

Robb followed his advice and unfolded the piece of paper. He soon understood what Lord Manderly had meant with bad tidings. The letter had been written by the hand of the Maester of Castle Black, asking for assistance against the Wildlings. That the letter was several weeks old scared him even more. He not only worried about his Lord Father, but also his people. A horde of Wildlings marching south was the last thing he needed now.

“Did you answer the call to arms?” Robb asked.

“I sent a hundred men and encouraged the others lords to do the same, but I do not know if they made it in time. The storms are growing worse by each passing day. You can only imagine how hesitant they were. Most preferred to keep their men at home to guard their keeps. The roads are no longer safe which brings me to my next point.”

Robb nodded his head and took a sip from his cup. “Continue.”

“Very well,” Lord Manderly replied and pursed his lips. “Have you heard about the sad fate of Lady Hornwood?”

Robb had, but he didn’t know the details.

“She was killed, wasn’t she?”

“The bastard of Bolton killed her,” Lord Manderly added. “He seized her, forced her to marry him and locked her up in her own home until she died of starvation. He now calls himself Lord Hornwood.”

Robb shuddered after he heard these gruesome details.

“I shall take his head for this. He helped my cause by killing the Ironborn men at Winterfell, but a rapist is a rapist. Well, he is also Lord Bolton’s only living son. A bastard at that, but Lord Bolton’s marriage to Lady Walda is still young and there is no certainty he will have another heir. I will have need of his men, even if I mistrust him. I fear I am in a difficult situation.”

“Soon you will find yourself in an even more difficult situation,” Lord Manderly added sadly. “Now to the good tidings. There is a great possibility that your brothers are still alive.”

Robb gave him a look of disbelief. “How is that possible? Ser Roderik’s last letter to my mother was quite clear.”

“There is a man named Wex Pyke who survived the sack of Winterfell. He was Theon Greyjoy’s squire. He cannot speak, but he indicated through his chalk writings that Ramsay Snow was in truth the person who sacked Winterfell and that Wex followed a boy, a woman and a direwolf after they left the castle. The woman was called Osha and she supposedly took young Lord Rickon to Skagos. I do not know where they took Lord Brandon, but one can assume that he is also alive.”

It was not hard to understand the implications of what Lord Manderly had just told him. This Ramsay was not only a vicious murderer and rapist, but he was also a traitor.

Though that didn’t solve Robb’s dilemma. Roose Bolton was a shady man, but was far away from the North when his bastard son was committing these crimes. On top of that, he had retaken Harrenhall for him and had freed Halys Karstark, whom Robb needed to keep the Karstark men in control. Ramsay needed to die, but it would be unjust to kill Lord Roose for the crimes his son committed, though Robb had a hard time believing that he had no connection to these incidents. House Bolton was never a true ally to House Stark and Roose Bolton was and always will be a dangerous man.

“Skagos, you say,” Robb sighed and brushed his hands over his face. “That is a dangerous place. I know no one who would be willing enough to go there.”

“I would recommend sending the Mormont men,” Lord Manderly advised. “They know how to talk to Wildlings. The people there are of a similar kind, only more dangerous. I could offer you my best ship. The Stormwhipper. It is freshly build and could make it there within a few weeks.”

“A good idea,” Robb agreed and took a heavy gulp from his cup. He should feel relieved to hear about his brother’s survival, but he felt only more anxious. Bran was still missing and he had a possible Wildling invasion to deal with. It felt as if the gods were conspiring against him by throwing more and more obstacles at him. “I thank you, but I must ask another favor of you.”

Lord Manderly smiled kindly and nodded his head agreement.

“Of course.”

“Do not tell anyone about my brothers until I have dealt with the bastard of Bolton.”

“Of course,” Lord Manderly agreed. “My lips are sealed, but if I may ask…How do you intend to get him? I doubt Lord Bolton is going to hand him over.”

“I could demand it,” Robb replied. “But that would displease Roose Bolton. And I have no time for infighting between my men. That is why I intend to send a small group of men to capture him while Roose Bolton will be tasked to prove himself useful. He captured Harrenhall from the enemy and now he can retake Deepwood Motte. That way I can also keep him away from me. After what you told me I cannot trust the man anylonger.”

“A wise choice,” Lord Manderly agreed. “And the Wildlings?”

“I have no other choice. I must assemble my men and march for the Wall. The Ironborn are much less of a threat than these Wildlings. I can’t have them march south.”

…

Chapter Text

The Sun's Son

Quentyn was restless, his mind a storm of confusion. All night he had been staring at the ceiling, trying to prepare himself mentally.

At last, he had given up and had gone to the solar to pour himself a cup of wine. The taste was sweet and pleasant and soon he had another cup.

As he continued to drink, he stared at the candle, an idea blooming in his mind.

As if led by an invisible force he placed his palm above the flame.

The pain came as sure as the summer heat.

“What are you doing, cousin?” Aegon’s voice echoed in his ears. First he was only a shifting shadow, but now he was suddenly standing in front of Quentyn, his face a halo of light.

He looked just like Quentyn had imagined a Targaryen Prince to look like. Silver-haired and purple-eyed, like Princess Daenerys and yet he hardly knew this boy.

Yet, you agreed to his plan.

“Nothing,” Quentyn stuttered and blushed profusely as flexed his burned hand. ”I just....”

“You burned your hand,” Aegon countered, his voice laced in disbelief. “Why?”

“I…I couldn’t find any sleep,” Quentyn stuttered gain.

“And that is why you place your hand in the flames?” Aegon asked and shook his head in disbelief. “No, that was not the true reason, was it?”

“No,” Quentyn admitted finally and lifted his head to look at him. “There is a saying…fire cannot kill a dragon. I was being foolish.”

“Plenty of Targaryens burned,” Aegon remarked in obvious amusement. At times he could be as light-hearted as his Uncle Oberyn, but at other times he could be rather gloomy. Prince Rhaegar was said to be melancholic. Maybe that was the proof Quentyn was searching for…

“That is so,” Quentyn agreed and took another sip from his cup. ”One supposedly drank wildfire.”

“Aerion was his name,” Aegon told him. “He was as mad as my grandfather, though I doubt he was as much as a monster. My Aunt is born of his seed. Do you think she could become like him?”

The question confused Quentyn. The Princess had made no cruel impression on him. In fact, she had been very polite to him until he had insulted her other nephew.

“I don’t think so. Besides, your father was also born from King Aerys’s seed. My Uncle Oberyn holds not much love for your father, but I have never heard him refer to Prince Rhaegar as mad.”

“Not mad then,” Aegon granted him. “But a second Rhaenyera in the making. She has been playing a game with me. I do not trust her word nor that of my supposed half-brother. She wants the throne for herself. That is quite clear.”

Quentyn didn’t understand why he was telling him all this. It was clear that Aegon was the rightful heir. That is if he truly was Prince Rhaegar’s son and heir. Lord Jon Connington certainly believed it, but Quentyn couldn’t be completely sure until his Uncle had laid eyes on Aegon. Only his father and Uncle would be able to tell him if Aegon was their sister’s son.

The dragon might reveal the truth to me much earlier, Quentyn realized and forced a smile over his lips. Only then will I be able to decide on mx next step.

“Certainly, cousin. You are the rightful heir.”

“Will my Uncles say the same?” Aegon asked in a strangely sad tone. “I am both excited and afraid to meet him.”

“My Lord Father and Uncle Oberyn will be pleased to meet you,” Quentyn assured him. “But first we need to get away from here alive.”

“I am the blood of the dragon,” Aegon replied confidently. “If one of the dragons allows my Aunt to ride him it should be no problem for me to do the same, though I think I will settle for the pale one. He seems the most welcoming.”

I hope so, Quentyn thought fearfully, but kept these thoughts to herself. I don’t want to die.

“I am confident you will succeed, cousin,” he replied instead. “But do you really think it wise to leave like this? Princess Daenerys will be cross with you for sure.”

“She will be,” Aegon agreed. “But she might see reason once I have taken the crown and have proven my worth. Truly, I should have never come here. Instead I should have sailed home and taken the crown.”

“But then we wouldn’t have met,” Quentyn argued and emptied the last bits of wine into his throat. “People will not simply bow down to you once you arrive. It will be a hard fight for sure, cousin. And Dorne isn’t as strong as you believe. We will need other allies.”

“I understand,” Aegon replied and pointed at the cup. “And now I would like to have a bit of wine. To calm my mind.”

Quentyn returned his smile.

“Certainly.”

By the time, the hour of the wolf had come and gone, Aegon had drained his cup and rain had started to pour from the sky. Quentyn could hear the slashing sound outside while they were breaking their fast, a simple meal of fruits and dark bread, washed down with a cup of honeyed milk.

It was still pre-dawn when they met up with Aegon and his protector, a hunk of a man named Ser Rolly Duckfield. Lord Connington they had left in the dark about their intentions, because Aegon believed he would stop him from their folly. Quent had brought his friends Gerris and Archibald, who had stolen the garb of the Unsullied to pull off their planned mummery.

Drink had first scoffed at the idea. I do not want to play a cockless man. Does their amour even provide for a common man’s built?

Well, Quentyn had managed to convince him eventually, but he was not wrong. The Unsullied’s armor was really a bit tight around certain places he didn’t want to talk about.

The thought alone made him blush.

The Unsullied usually carried spears, but Quent had also asked for another tool, which Arch had kindly gotten for him. A whip, a nasty piece of old leather with a handle of brass and bone.

“For me?” Aegon asked and smiled warmly. “That was wise of you to think of. Even during the times of Old Valyria, whips were used to tame dragons, though they were supposedly magical.”

“Well, this one is common, but it will hopefully serve its purpose,” Quentyn replied and handed him the whip.

Aegon coiled the whip and fastened it on his belt.

It proved difficult to enter the Great Pyramid at night. The doors were barred each day at sunset and usually remained closed until dawn. Guards, mostly Unsullied, were posted at every entrance and more guards were constantly patrolling the lowest terrace, where they had a good look on the street. It wouldn’t be easy to kill them, but Arch, Gerris and Rolly were good fighters. He hoped it would be enough.

The watch changed when the sun was casting its first rays of crimson sunlight over the colorful walls of Meereen, which reminded him of a rainbow.

The sight made him think of a children’s tale in which a boy followed a rainbow and found a basket of gold on the other side.

It was a silly thought, but he hoped that there were good things waiting for them at the end of this rainbow. They walked a long time, the sound of their boots echoing in his ears.

The Great Pyramid’s main gates led to Meereen’s central plaza, but they entered through the side entrance opening to an alley. It were the gates the slaves had used in the past to attend to their master’s needs.

The doors were made of bronze and closed with an iron bar. As expected, they found two Unsullied standing guard before the door. They were armed with spears, short swords and shield.

The shadows hid Arch’s full form well. Quentyn and Aegon watched from the distance as Rolly and Gerris marched towards the men, imitating the stiff gait of the Unsullied. They had trained two days, but even so their mummery was lacking.

It seemed the shadows had concealed their shadows well.

Aegon spoke the best Valyrian, but Rolly had declared that he wouldn’t allow him to endanger his life.

Thus, Rolly addressed the Unsullied.

“You are too early,” a silver haired boy said in the stiff tone of the Unsulllied.

Quentyn felt as if his heart was about to jump out of his chest as their fate was hanging on a silver thread.

“We were told to come,” Rolly replied indifferently. “These two will leave then.”

“No,” the other Unsullied, a sun-kissed man with dark eyes replied. He was older than the silver-haired boy, judging by the wrinkles on his face. “Stay. It should be no bother. Tell us the word?”

“Dog,” Rolly replied as quick as a whip.

The Unsullied accepted it without hesitation.

Quentyn sighed in relief, but his heartbeat only calmed when the two Unsullied were moving away.

They had to act quickly. The iron bar was thick and heavy, but well oiled. Arch and Rolly had no trouble lifting it, though.

 Shortly after, Quentyn and Aegon pulled the doors open and Gerris stepped through, waving at them with his glimmering torch.

“Come on, bring the supper.”

This supper was transported on a butcher’s wagon, waiting in the alley. The driver’s wagon rumbled loudly as he moved over the bricks, the quartered carcass of an ox and a sheep covering the wagon. It were Pretty Meris’ men, who hadn’t even bothered to disguise herself.

“Let’s move,” Aegon declared determinedly and Quentyn followed along, his head light-headed.

All of this felt so damn unreal, yet so far he had been able to keep his composure, but when he stared in the darkness a terrible fear overcame him.

He trembled and his hands were slick with sweat. He wiped them on his breeches and stuttered his answer.

“There might be more guards waiting for us.”

“That is for sure,” Gerris said confidently.

“We are ready,” Aegon agreed.

“We are,” Rolly confirmed, though the tense expression on his face told Quentyn otherwise. “Now let’s get this over with.”

They all followed Gerris. Meris and two of their sellsword friends joined them, who were both armed with crossbows.

Beyond the stables, the ground level of the Great Pyramid became a labyrinth, but Quentyn recalled the way.

Beneath tree huge bricks they passed, then down a steep ramp into the depts of darkness, through the dungeons and torture chambers and past a pair of cisterns. Their footsteps echoed in his ears, accompanied by the butcher’s cart rumbling behind them with a clotting sound.

Arch eventually grabbed a torch from the sconces and pushed Gerris aside to lead the way. It seemed his slow pace bothered him.

Finally, they arrived at the familiar iron doors, rust-eaten and closed with an iron chain as thick as a man’s arm. Even worse. The iron was cracked and splitting in three places. The upper part of the door also looked like melted glass.

Beyond the door stood Unsullied and asked for the word.

“Dog,” Rolly answered.

This time they got it wrong.

“Take them,” the Unsullied commanded in a firm tone that lacked any human emotion. “They are not one of us.”

The leader, most likely the sergeant was quick, but Arch was quicker. He flung the torch at the nearest man and jabbed his spear into the man’s temple, piercing his face. A heartbeat later, the man collapsed like a puppet without strings.

Quentyn felt the urge to empty his fast unto the ground, his own blade still sheathed.

What followed next happened all so quickly.

His eyes had still been fixed on the dying man until Aegon had pulled him aside. Quentyn had stumbled to the ground, but had turned around at the clattering sound behind him. He hadn’t even seen the spear that had flown towards him.

The man who had thrown the spear at him died not long after by Gerris’ dagger and another one died by the hands of Rolly.

The last one died by Aegon’s hands who had easily ducked out of the way.

 He is quick, Quentyn thought. Almost like a dancer.

“Dog,” Quentyn replied in a stuttering voice. “The voice was supposed to be dog.”

“Does it matter now that they are dead?” Aegon asked with a breathy voice. “Mayhaps they have different words for each door. Who knows. Important is that we made it.”

“Your King speaks true,” Pretty Meris added in an impatient voice. “Now let’s get this over with.”

“Aye,” Aegon agreed enthusiastically. Quentyn envied him for it. “Let’s go and get ourselves a dragon.”

“The chains,” Quentyn added.

“They have the key,” Arch answered and cut the key from the Unsullied’s belt. 

“Brin the cart!” Aegon commanded after they had pushed open the door.

A sudden wash of heat washed over them as they entered, the air heavy with the smell of ash, brimstone and burnt meat.

Yet, it was completely black beyond the door. Quentyn sensed the dragons’ presence, lurking in the darkness.

Gods, be good. Warrior give me strength.

Aegon seemed unfazed as he stepped through the door.

“The pale one is called Viserion, isn’t he?” he asked.

“Aye,” Quentyn replied. “And Rhaegal is the other one. The dangerous one.”

Aegon did not speak another word until they reached the lip of the pit. His cousin edged forward, moving the torch from side to side. The light was reflected back at them from the walls and ceilings. They were scorched and burned.

The air also grew hotter with every step Quentyn took, sweat rolling down his cheeks.

Suddenly, two blinking eyes appeared before him.

Gold. They were and brighter than a polished coin and burning behind a veil of smoke rising like tendrils from the dragon’s nostrils.

The light of the torch revealed the dragon’s identity.

It was Rhaegal. His scales were dark green and when he opened his mouth heat washed over them again. Quent also got a horrifying glimpse at the dragon’s black teeth and the fire burning below.

The dragon’s head was larger than horse’s and the neck seemed to stretch endlessly, uncoiling around them like a snake.

“Rhaegal,” Quentyn said. He hoped it would keep the dragon at bay.

When Aegon stepped beside him, the dragon’s eyes narrowed and he opened his jaw, hot air washing over their faces, before he shifted his attention towards the cart with the food.

The dragon unleashed a current of flame on the dead animals, before staring to tear them apart.

Arch and the others had fled in the last moment and were now hiding in the shadows while Aegon and Quentyn were staring in awe at the strength of dragon fire.

It was the first time he saw a hint of fear in Aegon’s bearing, but he .

He may or may not be my nephew, but he is braver than me.

“Where is the other dragon…Viserion?,” Aegon asked and lowered his torch to throw some light into the gloomy pit below while Quentyn continued to watch the green dragon feeding off the steaming carcass of sheep, his long tail curling like a snake as he ate.

A thick collar was visible on his neck with three feet of chain dangling from it.  He also saw the shattered links strewn across the floor of the pit amongst blackened bones.

They must have melted the chains.

“There!” Aegon called out to him and pointed his torch at the blackened arches of bricks above. A trickle of ash caught his eye and then he saw something pale stirring amongst the shadows.

Viserion looked like a huge white serpent uncoiling inside the wall, up where it curved into the ceiling. More heaps of ash came drifting their way and suddenly the white dragon’s long horned head appeared, his eyes glowing in the dark like burnished gold.

“More meat!” Quentyn shouted, but Aegon was drawn to the pale beast by an invisible hand.

Suddenly, Viserion launched himself from the ceiling, his pale wings unfolding and the broken chain dangling from his neck as he moved over the ground.

He was so close, Quent felt as if he was looking straight into the oven of a baker.

“Viserion!” Aegon called out and the dragon’s eyes searched for him as he came down between Quentyn’s companions and the door, a loud roar echoing over the pit like a lion’s roar.

The dragon’s head moved from side to side as he watched the intruders, but his attention was soon directed elsewhere after Aegon had made use of the whip Quentyn had given him.

 “Viserion!” Aegon repeated again and didn’t move as the dragon’s head moved towards him, sniffing at him. “Come here!”

Smoke rose from his nostrils, but the dragon didn’t attack, though the smoke tore a cough from Aegon’s mouth.

“Good,” Aegon commanded calmly, though Quentyn could see the tremor in his hand as he touched the dragon’s head. The beast closed his eyes and made a cawing sound. He sounded almost like a weeping child. “Good beast.”

Quentyn was staring in awe, but the rest of their companions were frozen in time. Rolly’s face was as pale as ash, his eyes wide in fear. Arch was hiding in the shadows beneath a crumbling ceiling with Meris and the other two sellswords while Gerris was holding unto his spear like a babe to the tits of his mother.

It could have all worked out so perfectly, but their moment triumph was interrupted by the shouts of men.

“Have you lost your minds!” the familiar voice of an enraged Jon Snow rang in Quentyn’s ears as he turned around.

“Gods be good!” the son of Lyanna Stark exclaimed and froze, his eyes growing wide as he stared at something behind Quentyn.

The heat washed over him and Viserion gave a roar at Jon Snow and his men, though he didn’t attack them.

Quentyn’s heart nearly stopped as he stared back Rhaegal, who had sneaked up at him concealed by the darkness.

This is it, he thought. The end.

Yet, it never came to that, for Jon Snow had snapped his whip across the dragon’s face, his shouting drowning out all sound around him.

“Down! Leave him be! Rhaegal!”

The dragon roared and snapped his head forward, but left Jon Snow unharmed. He had only given a loud roar, like a child that shouted at its parent to make his displeasure known. It was the only way Quentyn could describe the sight before him.

“Rhaegal!” Jon Snow shouted again and slapped his whip against the dragon’s head once more. “Enough!”

Again the beast opened his mouth and roared at Jon Snow, though no flames left his mouth.

In that moment, Jon Snow’s face looked as if all blood had drained out of his face and he was trembling from head to toe as he lifted his whip once more.

“Enough!” Jon Snow shouted at the dragon. “Rhaegal!”

This time, Rhaegal backed away, his mouth closed.

“Rhaegal!” Jon Snow called out once more and snapped his whip .”Turn around! Backwards!”

The dragon didn’t obey immediately, but turned half around.

As is if possessed by a madman, Jon Snow bridged the distance and literally leaped atop the dragons back, clinging to the scales covering his back.

The beast roared in confusion, moving his tail back and forth.

“Rhaegal!” Jon Snow cried out again, snapping the whip with one hand and clinging to the dragon’s back with the other.

“There!” he shouted and pointed at the open door. “There!”

To Quentyn’s utter disbelief the dragon seemed to understand the meaning of his words and began to move, nearly pulling out half the door and leaving behind only dust and ash. Viserion followed after him, his roar echoing in Quentyn’s ears.

Now that Jon  Snow and the dragons were gone, Ser Barristan and his guards came forward, their eyes narrowed against the fluttering dust.

“Viserion,” Aegon called out in confusion, who had collapsed to the ground when the beast Rhaegal had rushed through the room. “Viseri…,” he trailed off when Ser Barristan grabbed him by the arm and pulled him backwards, towards the broken door.

Not far from there, Quentyn saw Merris, Arch, Gerris and the rest of their sellsword brothers still hiding in the shadows.

“You had no right to be here!” Ser Barristan shouted at Aegon. “Come or I will drag you out of here…,”

Aegon followed, albeit unwillingly while Quentyn was pulled back to his feet by two of the Unsullied.

It was then that Quentyn felt something warm pooling between his thighs.

The sight made him laugh, so happy he was to leave the dragon’s lair alive.

Now they will call me Quentyn Martell  the Pisswater Prince! Oh, what a song that will be!

...

…

Chapter Text

The Onion Knight

They had ridden without out rest, but then their travel had suddenly turned even more troublesome than anticipated. Along the way, they had been attacked by highway men. They had attacked their camp at night, trying to steal their belongings, but the Blackfish’s blue-and-red-striped guards’ had been quick to act.

Ten of the enemy had died in the struggle and three had been caught, among them two lads not older than his sons and an elderly woman. The two lads had been armed with cudgels and the elderly man with an axe that had easily taken the head of one of Davos’ guardsmen.

“These men are Sparrows,” the Blackfish pointed out after they had gagged and bound them.  They had also questioned them, but they had refused to speak a single word even after the Blackfish had hit them until their knuckles had turned blue and red. “Best would be to hang them to send a massage.”

“How can you tell that they belong to the Sparrows, Ser?” Ser Alester asked, clueless as ever.

“The big one with the axe carries the seven-pointed star branded into his flesh. The lads are probably young Sparrows.”

“Old sparrows…young sparrows,” Ser Alester mumbled and pulled his furred cloak tighter around his shoulders. It was a beautiful pelted cloak made from the fur of a fox. “For me they look like common rabble. I agree with Ser Brynden. Best we hang them and move on to the capital. The King must be eager to see us.”

Ser Davos nodded his head and rubbed his hands over the crackling fire. They had made camp near the slope of a small brook that was protected by a patch of wood; mostly oak trees and one or two elms.  He was also impatient to return to the capital, but Davos disagreed with the Blackfish’s suggestion. Better would be to take these Sparrows to the capital. Lady Melisandre might be able to make them speak.

“We are not going to hang them. The King might want to question them,” Ser Davos added at last. He had tried to put strength behind his voice, to sound like one of these high lords, but it made him feel like a mummer. He was called ‘Ser’ and ‘Lord Hand’, but deep down he still felt like the old Davos, the smuggler that had lost his fingers and had earned himself knighthood.

“Question them?” Ser Alester asked and wrinkled his nose as if Ser Davos had dumped a heap of shit in his lap. “Why would the King want to question this rabble?”

Davos sighed. For a high lord he was rather slow.

“They might be able to gives us more information about these Sparrows.”

“Not a bad idea,” the Blackfish added approvingly. “But I have already given these fools a hard beating and yet none of them spoke a single word.”

“They will,” Ser Davos assured the Blackfish. “Once they have seen the Black Cells.” And have met Lady Melisandre, he thought, but didn’t voice these thoughts openly. Poor fellows.

Thus, they had bound the men to their horses and had continued their travel, though the sudden autumn rains had delayed their travel and they had been forced to take shelter near an abandoned farm as the swelling rivers had made the streets too muddy to move forward.

When the rain had finally died down they had moved on, though the sky wasn’t any less dreary when they finally reached King’s Landing.

During a bright and sunny day the Red Keep’s walls were a clear crimson, but today they appeared mud red.

Davos rode first with Ser Alester beside him, who couldn’t stop complaining about his spoiled cloak. After them followed the Blackfish, with his blue-and-red-striped guards and the three Sparrows that had not spoken a single word since they had caught them.

Davos commanded the guards to lock them away and led the Blackfish to his King. Any other Hand would had offered time to rest and a proper meal, but Davos knew that would not please his King.

“Your men are well cared for, good Ser,” Ser Davos assured Ser Brynden, but the man seemed to grow only more tense as they entered the anteroom leading to the throne room. As they had ridden through the city, the people had eyed them with a mixture of fear and reverence. Many of them were still in a state of shock from the bloody butchery of the last sack. Ser Brynden, who feared his grand-niece among the missing dead, must have seen her among every young girl coming their way. “And my King will be pleased to see you.”

“I cannot stay long,” Ser Brynden replied curtly and stopped as they waited for the guards to open the heavy iron doors. Davos didn’t know them by name, but their armor was dyed in the colors of House Baratheon and a burning heart was painted on their gleaming amour. “The Kingslayer will try to take revenge against my people for my nephew’s betrayal. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sends us the Mountain.”

Davos shuddered at that thought. He had heard grim tales about this fearsome knight. A monster in human form, Ser Massey had called him. A man only fit for the seven hells.

“My King will be pleased to see you eager to fight,” he replied instead and graced the elderly man with a smile. They hadn’t spoken much during their long travel from Riverrun to King’s Landing, but Brynden Tully was a man right after his heart. Practical and straight to the point.

“It won’t be hard to convince Edmure’s bannermen to fight,” he replied and returned his smile. “They want revenge for their murdered wives and children, but the smallfolk are a different matter.”

“Indeed,” Ser Davos agreed and stepped into the dimly-lit hall that was now decorated with burning hearts and a good dozen braziers. “Now let me introduce you to my King.”

As expected, he found the King standing and in attendance of Lady Melisandre and a handful of King’s Men, which were promptly dismissed when he noticed Ser Davos’ presence.

The expression on his face was as dreary as the sky outside. Only the crown atop his head added some color to his pale face.

And as always, he remained silent until Ser Davos spoken.

“Your Grace,” Ser Davos greeted and lowered his head in reverence. “I bring you Ser Brynden Tully.”

“I have met him before,” his King replied curtly, his dark blue eyes seeking Ser Brynden’s gaze. “But back then I was still a young boy and no King.”

 “Indeed, your Grace,” Ser Brynden replied and lowered his head in reverence. “But I did not come here to speak of the past, but to speak of the future. I came to speak of your war against the Lannisters.”

“Lannisters and Tyrells,” his King corrected him with clenched teeth. “Traitor’s both of them.”

“The Lannister’s army was weakened by my nephew’s attack on the Westerlands,” the Blackfish added. “But the Tyrells have fifty-thousand swords and stores filled with grain and corn. There is reason to worry.”

“My Stormlords have not seen much battle and my lands were unaffected by the war,” his King replied. “Your men shall have enough grain to fill their empty bellies and to fight for my cause.”

“Not just our men need the grain, your Grace,” Ser Brynden added. “The smallfolk most of all. The Lannister burned more than half of our harvest. Everywhere in the Riverlands we have Sparrows and highwaymen wreaking havoc. Feed them and they will calm and take up arms for you.”

“Parts of the grain shall be delivered to them,” their King promised. “But the rest must be kept for our fighting men. I cannot feed the Riverlands. What does Lord Edmure Tully intend to do about this problem?”

“He is going to be wed,” Ser Brynden explained. “Lady Ysilla Royce, who will grant us an allegiance with Lord Yohn Royce. We were promised a generous dowry…gold and corn and a promise to remove Lord Petyr Baelish from his position as Lord Protector of the Vale.”

 “And you think this will be a successful endeavor?” his King asked skeptically. “I know this Petyr Baelish. He is a worm of the vilest sort, but not without wit. He should have died a long time ago, but always found a way to escape. We should not underestimate him.”

“I cannot promise that,” Ser Brynden replied honest as ever and clenched his fit. “But be rest-assured that I will take matters into my own hands should my nephew’s ploy fail.”

“Either way, it shall be my pleasure to see the worm fed to the flames,” his King replied, his voice laced with seldom pleasure, but without a smile. “My brother should have never given him a seat at his council. That was another one of Jon Arryn’s lackluster ideas, but what can you do. The old man loved Robert more than reason and now I have to do what the two of them failed to do. To rebuild the Seven Kingdoms.”

“That will be a hard task, your Grace,” the Blackfish remarked wryly. “The Kingslayer will be no easy enemy.”

“The Kingslayer was bested by your green nephew,” his King scoffed. “It is not him I fear, but his Lannister gold and his Tyrell swords,” he continued, but fell silent when Ser Alester joined their fold.

Davos sighed. The man was never a good sign.

“Your Grace,” he apologized and lowered his head. “Forgive my delay. I needed to refresh myself before stepping into your presence.”

The answer came promptly.

“Are you a whore, Ser Alester?”

Ser Davos couldn’t help but to smile, but the Queen’s Uncle had a talent to embarrassed himself. After two moons, on the road with this ever-complaining man it was nice to see him put into his place.

“Your Grace?” the man asked in confusion. “I do not…”

“Ser Davos and Ser Brynden came to me straight from the road, but you needed to bedeck yourself with perfume like a whore. I have no need of another Spider.”

Ser Alester paled, but kept his composure.

“Forgive me, I would never…,” he stuttered, but fell silent when the King waved his hand.

“Spare me your apologies,” he grumbled and jerked his head at Ser Brynden and Ser Davos. “My Onion Knight has already informed me about everything. You can leave us now.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Ser Alester replied and left.

“Now back to the topic at hand,” his King added and shifted his attention back to the Blackfish. “I am pleased to have the Riverlords at my side, but I must ask this…Why is the Lord of Winterfell not offering men to his King?”

“He has need of them to retake the North from the Ironborn, your Grace,” Ser Brynden offered in return. “You might have heard…,” he continued, but was promptly cut off.

“I heard that the boy lost the North to the Ironborn scum and I understand why he is eager to seek revenge,” his King grumbled. “But I have need of his men now.”

“I accepted these conditions on your behalf your Grace,” Ser Davos said, though the King must have known about his talks with Robb Stark as Davos had sent a raven to King’s Landing before his departure from Riverrun. “I told you so much in my raven.”

“I did,” the King confirmed with obvious displeasure and eyed Ser Brynden. “And I shall not seek revenge against the Lord of Winterfell. He is after all still a boy and boys often do not know their place. Besides, the defeat of the Ironborn is also in my interest. They are a pest and I have no need of another enemy. That said…as long as your nephew recalls his loyalty and bends the knee once his war is done I shall be more than forgiving.”

“Robb will be pleased to hear that,” the Blackfish replied in a guarded tone.

“Good,” his King said and waved his hand at the guards standing at the door. “You may leave us now Ser Brynden. You must be tired and I wish to speak alone with Ser Davos.”

“Guard the door,” his King told the guardsmen after they had crossed the anteroom and had entered another room.  It was a small room with an even smaller hearth, but the chandelier hanging from the ceiling was beautiful to behold.

“I was informed me about the Sparrows you managed to catch,” his King inquired after he had taken a seat next to the cold hearth. “What do you want me to do with them?”

“I thought it would be wise to question them about their plans. One is some sort of leader,” Ser Davos explained. “I am no expert on such matters, but we shouldn’t underestimate these Sparrows. The smallfolk is stirred up by war and hunger. That is a dangerous combination, your Grace.”

“So much is true,” his King confirmed. “But war is the only way to keep the Seven Kingdoms together.”

“That is also true,” Ser Davos agreed. “Perhaps it would help to name a new High Septon? That might calm the spirits of the Sparrows who were angered by Lady Melisandre’s actions.”

The King scoffed and leaned back.

“I will soon ride to battle,” The King scoffed. “Find me an appropriate puppet while I am gone. You are after all my Hand.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Ser Davos replied obediently, though the Kings answer worried him. “You intend to ride to war without me, your Grace?”

“You are not much of a fighter, Ser Davos,” his King remarked bluntly as ever. “And someone needs to sit the Iron Throne in my absence and guard my daughter. Who is more trustworthy than you?”

“That honors me,” Ser Davos replied, though he didn’t like the idea. “What about Lady Melisandre? Will she remain with us?”

“No,” came the answer as cold and blunt as a sword blow. “She is riding with me. She thinks I will have need of her help.”

Davos’ shuddered.

“What is it, Ser Davos? Speak plainly. What displeases you so?”

“I was there when she…when your brother was murdered. I did what I had to do…,” he struggled for words as his King’s piercing gaze met his.

“I was not there,” his King replied coldly. “I was asleep. Are you accusing me of having a hand in his death?”

Davos knew that his King knew, which made the situation even more uncomfortable. He had been there when this shadow creature had crawled forth from Lady Melisandre’s womb. That had been the Lady’s work, but she wouldn’t have acted without the King’s approval.

“I am not accusing you, your Grace, but a Kingslayer is cursed, your Grace. The Sparrows anyone devoted to the Faith will not look unkindly upon you should it become common knowledge. Now that the war is done, I think it would be best to send Lady Melisandre back to…,” he continued, but his King’s gaze was unyielding and hard as stone.

“The Faith of the Seven means nothing to me,” his King grumbled. “And while I do not consider myself a follower of Lady Melisandre’s superstitions, I wouldn’t stand here without her council. That is why I owe her my trust.”

The tone in his King’s voice told him that the discussion was at an end.

“I understand, your Grace.”

…

Chapter Text

Jon

A sea of green spread before him as he woke, his side hurting as he turned around.

He had taken shelter beneath a shady tree and had wrapped his tattered cloak around his shoulders to ward off the chill. Now, pre-dawn, it was still chilly, but in a few hours the heat would return and make him wish for the cold winds of the north.

“King!” a croaking voice caused him to lift his head. “Corn!”

It was a crow that sat perched on the tree, its black eyes watching him eagerly.

“King! King! King!” the crow croaked in the same manner as Lord Commander Mormont’s pesky bird. “King! King! King!”

Maybe it’s the same bird, he thought with amusement and brushed the dirt from his cloak.  The garment was dusty and slightly singed at the edge from Rhaegal’s flames. I wouldn’t fault him for abandoning the Wall.

At first, he had desperately tried to steer Rhaegal back to Meereen, but that hadn’t worked. For hours he had flown in circles, snapping his whip and shouting at Rhaegal, until he had given up.

Then, he had decided to try a different approach and had tried to steer him into the direction that Dragon had carried off Dany.

His reasoning was simple. Wouldn’t Rhaegal and Viserion, who had been separated for so long from Drogon, wish to seek him out?

Well, so far nothing had worked out the way Jon had imagined it. Rhaegal had given in and had flown in the direction Jon had wanted him to fly and for a time Viserion had followed after them, but soon Rhaegal had grown bored and had changed his course. Along the way, Jon had lost sight of Viserion who had probably to go hunting.

On the day before, Rhaegal had also left him here to go hunting, probably to return with a sheep.

Jon would welcome that, for he hadn’t eaten anything for a whole day, though even more than that he would welcome fresh water and bandages for his wound.

The wound had he had received during the battle in the Daznak’s pit had started bleeding again and the bandages were soiled. Yet, he had noticed not fever, which had relieved him.

Now I only need to find Dany, Jon thought and cast a hopeful glance to the blue sky. But before that I should eat something. Wherever she is, there might be danger afoot. I will need my strength.

It made him wish that Ghost was here and while his wolf might have very well followed him, but it was very unlikely that he would reach him in time.

Pulling himself back to his feet, he brushed the cloak from his shoulders and made his way down to the small stream curling through the sea of green and yellow grass.

The water was cool, but not completely clean. Yet, it was better than nothing.

He also sprinkled a handful of water on his hair and face, trying to ease his pounding head.

He had dreamed again. This time he had been in Rhaegal’s skin, soaring over the green see and watching out for his next prey.

Eventually, he had found a white lion prowling between patches of wood and watching out for his next supper.

It had taken only the blink of a moment, before the beast had been engulfed in a ball of fire, the animal’s screams ringing loud in his ears. Then, he had feasted on the lion, tearing him apart limp and bones.

The taste of blood, smoke and burned flesh had filled his mouth and had filled his belly.

Even now, after he had washed his mouth properly, the taste of blood was still lingering.

The dragon dream had felt odd. In his dreams he had often slipped into Ghost’s skin, but this had been the first time he had slipped into Rhaegal’s skin.

Is it because I rode him, he wondered not for the first time. Maybe it is similar.

Suddenly, he felt it. It was a tingling feeling he always felt when Ghost was close, but when he saw the shadow passing over him he knew that it was Rhaegal who had returned to him.

With a loud roar, the dragon landed on the bed of green grass, flattened by his weight.

Jon left the whip fastened at his belt and moved towards the dragon, staggering through the soft ground and the swaying grass.

The bright blinded him momentarily, but then he was covered in shadows again.

“Rhaegal!” he called out to the dragon. “Rhaegal!”

Rhaegal turned his head at once, his tail slithering behind him like a snake. Said tail had hit Jon several times as he had been clinging to the dragon’s back, leaving him with several bruises.

“Glad to have you back,” Jon said and drew closer, stretching out his hand towards the dragon’s head. “Have you been hunting?”

The dragon’s nostrils steamed as he opened his mouth and dropped a burned carcass on the ground. Bits and pieces of white pelt were still visible, which shocked Jon.

The pelt was as white as the lion’s had been.

Maybe it wasn’t a dream after all. Maybe he had really slipped into Rhaegal’s skin?

Rhaegal lay curled around the tree while Jon shifted his attention to the burnt carcass.

Jon scrubbed the bits and pieces of roasted meat that were left from the bones and started to eat his supper. The meat was still a bit pink and was in dire need of salt, but it filled his stomach well enough.

When Jon had broken his fast he shifted his attention to Rhaegal, who had finally woken, his bright eyes watching him.

Jon wished he knew how to slip into his skin, but it seemed he had do this by the old way.

He snapped his whip to rouse Rhaegal from his stupor. As always the dragon made his displeasure known. With a might roar.

“I know that you are angry,” Jon told Rhaegal and stepped closer. “But this can only work if you learn to obey.”

Rhaegal gave a grunting sound and ducked his head after Jon had snapped the whip again.

Jon used the moment and leapt on the dragon’s back, clinging to the scales as if his life depended on it.

Then, he snapped the whip again, to steer Rhaegal in the right direction. Luckily, Rhaegal was in the right mood to fly and spread his wings wide, before taking flight.

Jon marveled at the sight below, though the familiar feeling of dizziness overcame him.

Flying was still new to him, but the sight was worth it.

“There!” Jon shouted and snapped the whip. “We need to go in the other direction!”

As always, Rhaegal took his time, but eventually Jon had managed to bring him back on course.

Yet, his luck didn’t last long. By midday, Rhaegal had lost course again and no amount of whip snapping and shouting could steer him back on course.

Jon felt even worse, for the sun was burning down on him like the breath of hell, his clothing already drenched with sweat.

This time Rhaegal ignored his commands.

The sky was covered with crimson streaks when Rhaegal landed on a hill, jutting out of the sea of swaying grass.

It was a jagged tangle of bare rocks that built the top of the slope and further up there, amidst broken boulders, sharp ridges and needle spires, they found a cave.

It was easy to see that Rhaegal was not the first dragon that had come here, for every rock and tree in sight had been scorched and the ground and cave were littered with broken bones.

Drogon had been here. He was sure of it.

Rhaegal sniffed at the bones and gave a cawing sound.

Jon had followed after him and started to search the heaps of bones. He froze when he noticed one of the sandals Dany had worn.

A wave of fear washed over him, but then he reminded himself that Dany had brought these dragons into the world.

They are here children. They wouldn’t harm her.

Besides, the sandal was broken. What use would she have for one broken sandal?

“Drogon was here,” he told Rhaegal, who made another cawing sound. He sounded sad and lay down beside the heap of bones.

He looked like a lost child.

Jon felt the same and sat down beside him, his hand brushing over the lower part of his head. Rhaegal closed his eyes, his breathing still hot, but growing calmer with every passing moment.

Not long after, Jon fell asleep. This time he was blessed with a dreamless sleep and could have easily slept a while longer until Rhaegal woke him in the roughest manner possible.

The dragon had nudged him so roughly that Jon had kissed the hard ground.

“Was that necessary?” he asked Rhaegal, once he had pulled himself back to his feet. “That hurt, you know.”

Rhaegal made a grunting sound and turned around, slipping out of the cave.

Jon followed after him, momentarily blinded by the bright morning light.

“King! King! King!”

It was the crow again, but this time the bothersome bird hadn’t come alone. A whole swarm of crows were circling above his head.

“King! King! King!”

Jon ignored the crow and watched as Rhaegal stretched his tail and wings.

Jon knew what that meant and didn’t want to waste this opportunity.

He quickly returned to the cave to pick up Dany’s sandal, an idea bloomed in his mind.

“Rhaegal,” he called out to the dragon, who promptly turned his head. “Here.”

Jon held the sandal to his steaming nostrils.

Rhaegal hesitated at first, but then he started to sniff at the sandal.

“Do you smell your mother? Can you find her?”

Rhaegal gave no answer and turned around, lowering his back as he stretched out his wings.

Jon brushed his lingering fears away and hopped onto Rhaegal’s back.

This time, he didn’t snap his whip and decided to trust Rhaegal.

For by now, he had realized that dragons could be as stubborn and intelligent as humans.

…

Chapter Text

Barristan the Bold

Ser Barristan watched the Ironborn Fleet from afar, the golden kraken banners bright and golden like a sunbeam. Barristan knew an Ironborn ship when he saw one as he had fought them when he had still served Robert Baratheon.

When Barristan had left Westeros Balon Greyjoy had just made himself King of the Iron Islands. Could it be possible that he send these ships to forge an allegiance with Queen Daenerys?

Barristan didn’t like that prospect, but he was the Hand of the Queen and would perform his duties to his best abilities.

“These are Westerosi ships,” Greyworm remarked to Ser Barristan, his dark gaze still fixed on the ships. “Are they enemy or friend?”

“We won’t know until we have spoken to them,” Ser Barristan replied. “Send out men to greet them and bring the leaders to the Great Pyramid. I shall meet with them at once.”

Greyworm obeyed without question.

Barristan met the leaders of the Ironborn in the hall of pink marble and was seated on his Queen’s bench.

 It was a strange feeling. He was a knight not a King.

Greyworm was at this side and he had a score of Unsullied line up along the walls to show their strength. It was the only speech these Ironborn would understand.

Barristan was not surprised when the leader turned out to be Victarion Greyjoy, the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.

He was a large and powerful man, with a broad chest. His hair was black, but flecked with grey.

His armor was equally impressive. It was made of boiled leather, heavy chain mail, lobstered plate and a shining helmet in the shape of a kraken. Swept over his shoulders he wore a cloak made of nine layers of gold cloth sewn like the kraken of his house.

His longsword and dirk were also visible. Barristan had told Greyworm that it would only lead to unnecessary struggles if he tried to force the Ironborn to give up their weapons.

Barristan only hoped that he would not regret his decision when he laid eyes on Victarion Greyjoy’s companions. They all wore fearsome armor and sported axes, swords and scythes.

“Victarion Greyjoy,” Barristan stated as he rose to his feet and descended down the steps to get a better look at the man that had come to stand before him. “The Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. What brings you all the way to Slaver’s Bay?”

“Ser Barristan Selmy,” the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet said. “Didn’t you turn your cloak during Robert’s Rebellion? What made you decide to return to the dragons?”

“More than a year ago,” Ser Barristan replied, but kept the truth to himself. After I was dismissed from my post. Not out of my own strength. “Yet, you haven’t answer my question, Lord Captain. Why come here?”

“To speak to your Queen,” Victarion Greyjoy replied without hesitation. He was a blunt man, so much was clear. “I came to offer my services to her…the Iron Fleet could be hers.”

It was an offer to good to be true. If they added a few more ships they could easily sail to Westeros, but Barristan knew better than to expect such selflessness from the Ironborn. They couldn’t be trusted.

“Does that mean Balon Greyjoy wishes for an allegiance with my Queen?”

“My brother is dead,” Victarion informed him without a hint of emotion.

Barristan tried to hide his surprise.

“And who rules the Iron Islands now? You?”

“My brother Euron,” Victarion replied, a hint of anger visible behind his blank expression. “He has returned from his sea travels and was named as my brother’s successor. He tasked me to take the Iron Fleet here and convince Queen Daenerys to become his Queen.  Yet, I have no intentions to follow his wishes.”

Barristan hadn’t expected anything less from a Greyjoy. Him and Euron may be brothers, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t betray each other if the possibility arose. Yet, it surprised him that Euron Greyjoy would allow his brother to take with him so many ships. Either the new King of the Iron Islands had foolishly trusted his brother or he had hoped that misfortune would befall him during this long sea travel.

Whatever his reasons, Barristan was sure that his Queen would refuse such a match nor would he want her to agree to it. The Ironborn were hated in all of Westeros.

Yet, Barristan remained hesitant to send him away. He couldn’t make such a decision without his Queen.

“And what are your intentions?”

“To wed Queen Daenerys myself. I hoped to speak to her instead of you, old man.”

Barristan ignored the mocking remark and pondered his reply. He couldn’t tell him the full truth.

“The Queen is absent,” Ser Barristan explained vaguely. “But I am sure she will return in good time.”

“And when will that be? A week turn? A moon? A year?”

“I cannot say,” Barristan answered. “But you and your companions are welcome to stay as long as you are prepared to keep the peace. There will be no pillaging and rape. Is that clear?”

Victarion Greyjoy’s face was unreadable and his voice was laced with obvious displeasure.

“Very well, I shall wait for your Queen, but there is more I need to tell you, old man.”

Barristan gave an approving nod.

“Speak.”

“The Volanteen Fleet has been dispatched for Meereen. Good five-hundred ships. They mean to re-take the city.”

“Five-hundred?” Ser Barristan asked skeptically. “Volantis is powerful and rich. They should have more ships at their disposal.”

“When we sailed here we were plagued by many storms. I lost half my ships and I doubt these Volanteen ships are more robust than a ship of the Ironborn. Five-hundred are coming your way, old man. I am sure of it.”

These were grave news indeed.

“How long until they arrive here?”

“Could be weeks or a moon,” Victarion Greyjoy said. “Your Queen and her dragons will soon be needed. Not even the Iron Fleet would be able to take on five-hundred ships and I have yet to see a sign of the Meereenese fleet. Is there one?”

“No,” Barristan answered. It would be silly to pretend otherwise. “There is none to speak of.”

A satisfied smile curled on Victarion Greyjoy’s lips.

“Well, then I came in time. It seems you will have need of my help.”

Barristan disliked the notion, but it was the truth.

“It seems so,” Barristan replied. “As I said before, you are welcome to stay. I am sure the Queen will return in good time.”

“I have brought your Queen another gift,” Victarion Greyjoy added and waved his hand at his group of companions. “Come here, priest.”

The man that stepped forward had skin as black as ink. He was also incredibly tall and had the belly of a boulder. A tangle of pure white hair grew from his face like the mane of a lion and tattoos of yellow and orange were inked across his cheeks and forehead.

The man bowed deeply and leaned on his black staff, its head formed into the head of a dragon.

“I am Moqorro and I serve the one true god, R’hllor. I came to see your Queen, to guide her through the darkness awaits us all.”

Barristan tried to hide his confusion.

“What need would Queen Daenerys have for a priest of R’hllor?”

“High Priest has seen your Queen in the flames and tasked me to come here to reveal the truth to her.”

“What truth would that be?” Barristan asked curiously.

“That your Queen is Azor Ahai reborn. The High Priest saw the rebirth of her dragons. Dragons from stone, an ancient prophecy come true after so many years of waiting. The Red Comet was the sign my brothers and sisters have been waiting for all these years.”

Barristan was alarmed by this more than he could admit.

“I do not know anything about this Azor Ahai, but what you say is true. The Queen birthed dragons from stone.”

“Exactly, and that is why I came here,” the Red Priest explained. “I am to bring her to Volantis. The Queen has already stirred the flames of righteousness when she conquered this city and smashed the slaver’s armies at Yunkai.  I saw it in the flames…Volantis cleansed by the holy fires of R’hllor. It will mark the beginning of the final struggle.”

“Final struggle?” Barristan asked in return.

“The final struggle between good and evil. Fire and ice. Light and Darkness. Life and Death. The Long Night and the return of the Great Other, the eternal enemy of R’hllor. Azor Azhai is his champion and meant to deliver us from the Great Other with Fire and Blood.”

Barristan had a hard time keeping his composure. He held no love for prophecies and even less for such priests as him, but the Queen would not thank him for insulting a potential ally.

“As I told Lord Captain Victarion. My Queen is absent. You must await her return.”

“I shall,” the Red Priest replied without hesitation. “I saw her return in the flames. Dragons of green and black shall devour the enemy fleet. This will mark the beginning of R’hllor conquest.”

Barristan shuddered, but said nothing. There was more work to do and he had read enough of the man’s ramblings.

Thus, he dismissed him politely and returned to his duties.

When he was about to get his supper Lord Jon Connington came to seek him out and asked him to attend this his Prince.

Barristan hadn’t refused him this time, because he had long decided to visit Prince Aegon, though so far he had always found an excuse to stay away. First, because he had been fearful and now because he had been angered with the Prince’s misconduct. The Prince had acted against the Queen’s interest and had even murdered four of her Unsullied. He doubted she would murder her potential nephew, but it would make the current situation only more difficult.

Not that Barristan particularly liked the idea of making common cause with the Golden Company, the sons of sellsword and exiles that had wanted to place a Blackfyre on the throne. Sure, they were the best sellsword company there was, but it would leave the wrong impression. The heir of Rhaegar as the spearhead of the Golden Company? It was unthinkable to Barristan, who had slewn Maelys the Monstrous, but then what choice did they have? Beggars can’t be choosers.

That both his Queen and Jon were missing only added to the pressure resting on his shoulders. Lady Lyanna, the bloodriders and Ser Jorah had left a week turn ago and the more time passed the harder it would get to keep the peace. That Victarion Greyjoy had arrived here in the city and the dispatch of the Volanteen fleet made Barristan fearful for the future of Slaver’s Bay.

His blood also ran cold whenever he thought of the Red Priest that had come to see his Queen and the things he had said. Prophecies and visions had been the downfall of King Aegon and now this man came to poison his Queen’s mind.

Prince Aegon looked comfortable as he rested upon the cushioned canopy, only dressed in a simple tunic, dark breeches and riding boots.

That Barristan had placed guards before his door didn’t seem to dim his pleasure of seeing him.

Barristan tried to find a hint of Prince Rhaegar in this young man or any other Targaryen he had known during his long service, but he saw nothing.

If only I had a better memory of the Princess Elia, he thought as he lowered his head in greeting.

“How may I be of service to you?” he asked the Prince and noticed Lord Connington’s and Quentyn Martell’s presence.

“First you should sit down,” they young man offered and waved his hand at the cushioned seat placed not far from him.  He looked confident and there was always a smile on his lips. Prince Rhaegar had rarely smiled nor had the Princess Elia.

“I have been sitting all day. I would prefer to stand.”

If Prince Aegon was disappointed by his answer it didn’t show on his face. He looked open as ever, one leg swung over the other and a warm smile curling on his lips.

“You are known to be an honorable man, Ser Barristan. The lords of the Seven Kingdoms respect you, yet you bent the knee to the Usurper, the man who build his kingdom upon my mother’s and sister’s lifeblood. How have you been able to serve such a man with a clear consciousness?”

Barristan was taken back by the question, but he should have expected it.

“Robert Baratheon was a charismatic man and I deluded myself into thinking he would make a good King. It was easy to ignore the truth when one wants to save one’s life. I always said to myself ‘Tywin Lannister gave the order’ or ‘King Robert was an unwilling participant.”

Then, he exhaled deeply and searched Prince Aegon’s face. Ser Barristan had admitted to his fault, but also decided to address the Prince’s misconduct towards his Aunt. “I was wrong, just as you were wrong in trying to take the Queen’s dragons.”

A hint of displeasure was visible in his eyes and his smile had long vanished, but the Prince remained polite.

“I see that now,” Prince Aegon acknowledged and averted his gaze, perhaps in shame or embarrassment, Barristan couldn’t say, but it relieved him greatly. Queen Daenerys had  gentle heart. She might prove forgiving if the Prince showed remorse. “But I was blinded by my anger towards this Jon Snow and what he said to me. It were the actions of a foolish boy not a King.”

“It is wise of you to see your faults,” Barristan replied. “Your father Prince Rhaegar would be pleased to hear that you are intending to leave your past grudges behind you.”

“I am going to try my best,” Aegon promised and smiled at Barristan. “I shall forgive my brother’s rude words if he is prepared to forgive me. I doubt I will ever be able to see him as more than Lady Lyanna Stark’s son, but that doesn’t mean we cannot work together. We have the same goal…to re-take what was lost.”

“That is so,” Barristan agreed wholeheartedly. “Does that mean you are accepting the Queen’s offer?”

“Aye, but there is one condition I cannot fulfil. I cannot give Jon Snow the name Targaryen. I wouldn’t mind giving him the name Stark or allow him to choose a new name, but giving him the name Targaryen would anger my kin. I cannot make him my heir either, but I might consider marrying my future children to his or make them my heirs should I fail to have heirs of my own. Does that sound reasonable to you, Ser Barristan?”

“I does to me,” Ser Barristan replied with a hesitant smile, though was not completely pleased with the offer. Yet, he was the Hand of the Queen and that meant he had to keep the peace. “I think the Queen will also be pleased to hear that you are willing to see reason.”

“I doubt she will be pleased when she hears about my actions,” Prince Aegon replied regretfully and brushed a handful of silver locks from his face. “Which is why I hoped you could help me to persuade her.”

He sounded honest, but Barristan doubted lies would serve Prince Aegon now.

“The first thing you must do is apologize,” Barristan explained. “And then you must ignore your pride and give Jon Snow the name Targaryen. The Queen will not accept anything else, for Jon Snow is dear to her heart.”

“That is quite obvious,” Quentyn Martell said, who had so far observed their exchange in silence. “And probably the reason she refused me. Was the tale about her bareness a lie?”

“I do not know much about the woes of womanhood,” Ser Barristan replied and shrugged his shoulders. “But the Queen certainly believes that she is barren, which was the reason she refused your offer of marriage.”

“And yet she is willing to allow Jon Snow to wed another woman?” Jon Connington asked and raised his eyebrows. Barristan was surprised to hear such words from him. Never in his life had he seen Lord Connington concern himself with ‘such matters’.

“The Queen’s foremost wish is to see House Targaryen restored to former glory and she is prepared to make sacrifices for this goal. That is at least what she told me.”

Prince Aegon didn’t seem pleased with Ser Barristan’s answer.

He bit his lips and tapped his fingers on the table in front of him, before he spoke again.

“She doesn’t believe that I am Prince Rhaegar’s son, does she?” he asked Ser Barristan in a sad tone.

Again Ser Barristan gave him the truth.

“She does not.”

“That is what I suspected,” Aegon replied and exhaled deeply. “And which was the reason I tried to tame the dragon. I nearly did it and am sure I could mount Viserion if I was given another chance…a chance you could grant me. The dragon has built his lair in one of the deserted Pyramids, has he not?”

“He has,” Ser Barristan confirmed, a feeling of discomfort washing over him. “But my Queen would not permit it…,” he tried to explain, but the Prince suddenly interrupted him, albeit in a polite tone.

“You have doubts my parentage as well, don’t you, Ser Barristan?”

Ser Barristan lowered his head in apology. He wanted to believe him with all his heart, but the doubts were always there lingering in his heart.

“I do.”

“I see,” Prince Aegon said thoughtfully, a sad smile curling on his lips. “And I shall not judge you for it. Nor do I judge you for trying to save your life. You have my full forgiveness.”

Barristan felt like slapped. That was not the answer he had expected.

“I…,” he began, but seeing Prince Aegon’s sad silenced him once more.

“I shall be patient and wait for your Queen’s return.”

Barristan could only nod his head, his mind a storm of confusion.

“Of course,” he answered before he left Prince Aegon. “Of course.”

It was early morning when Greyworm roused him from his sleep and brought him the news of Prince Aegon’s sudden departure from the city and the death of six more Unsullied, namely the men Barristan had placed at his door.

…

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Again Dany had emptied her fast in the bowl she had placed beside her sleeping place. Yesterday had been the first time in days that she had been able to fill her stomach and now half of it had come spilling out of her mouth. It was a waste and gave her concerns about her health. At first, she had believed that the cause was the unclean water she had consumed, but now she was beginning to think that there was another reason.

I am sick, she knew, though throughout her life she had hardly ever been sick nor her brother Viserys. There is no other possible explanation.

Viserys had always believed that the blood of the dragon protected them against illnesses, but that had probably been another one of his many delusions.

How many lies did you tell me, dear brother, she wondered and fastened the bindings of her cloak around her shoulders to ward off the chilly breeze entering her dwelling place through the thin slits that were carved into the ceiling.

The dwelling place of the Dosh Khaleen stretched over several buildings located in the eastern part of Vaes Dothrak. There was a spacious stone pavilion, two manses and even a stepped pyramid. She liked going there the most for whenever she climbed all to the top she got a good view over Vaes Dothrak and the world beyond. A week turn had passed since she had been brought here, had been stripped naked and had been painted from head to toe with blood and other pastes that resembled the war paint of Drogo’s Khalasar. Three full days she had been forced to run around like that, before the eldest among the Dosh Khaleen, an old hag named Kamala, had given her the approval to wash off the paint at the holy water place of the Dosh Khaleen. Of course, she had only been allowed to go in company of the warriors that were chosen to guard and protect the Dosh Khaleen or as Dany saw it: to make sure that they do not leave their prison.

Not that many of the Dosh Khaleen seemed interested in leaving. Half of them were old woman who had grown comfortable with their life.

And it certainly wasn’t the worst kind of life. Every Dosh Khaleen had their own sleeping place and had nothing to want for as it was a matter of honor to care for a Khal’s wife, especially if she had born a child. Naturally, Dany had received not as much luxury as the other women, but she had received clean dresses made of a fine cloth, gemstones, fresh fruits, furs, hairpins and a pair of well-made sandals, all of it gifts by Khal Jhaqo who had wanted to honor Drogo.

Dany had been pleased with the gifts as some of them could be useful for a future escape. The furs would keep her warm, the sandals were made of thick leather, the food could feel her belly for a few days and the hairpins could serve as a weapon, though she doubted they would be much use against a Dothraki warrior. No, Drogon was her best hope, but to find him she needed to get out of here as soon as possible.

I should have never come here, she mused as she braided what was left of her silver hair. Half of it had burned off during her flight from Daznak’s Pit. I should have just climbed back unto Drogon’s back and burn them all. At least, I am far away from Mago. Not even a creature as vile as him would dare to touch a Dosh Khaleen.

“Khaleesi,” a whispering voice caused her to turn around. It was Lallah, a slave girl and another gift by Khal Jhaqo. She was ten and four, dark-haired and pale-skinned. Her accent told Dany that she hailed from the Free Cities and her bad Dothraki told her that she hadn’t resided her for a long time. “Your supper.”

Dany smiled at her handmaid after she had brushed the curtain aside that separated her dwelling place from the corridor outside. Most of the Dosh Khaleen had several girls attending to them, but Dany only had only Lallah, who was kind enough to tell her what was happening in the outside world.

“Please come in,” Dany told the girl and waved her hand at the carpet spread beside her sleeping place.

“What do you bring?” Dany inquired in a friendly tone. She hardly knew the girl, but the girl could be of help. Maybe Dany could convince her to help her escape if she promised her gold, but so far Dany had not felt sure enough to ask.

“Roasted meat, sweet grass and wild peppers,” the girl explained and showed her the bowl. It smelled delicious, but Dany saw not much use in eating other than to fill her stomach. Half of the food will most likely end up in the bowl beside her bed.

Sure, she could have gone to one of the Dosh Khaleen to examine her, but Dany couldn’t help but to be wary of so called ‘healers’ after her bad experiences with Miri.

I will have need of my strength, she reminded herself and smiled at the girl.

“I thank you,” she told the girl and knelt down beside Lallah. “But it is too much for me. Please have your fill.”

The first time, Dany had offered food to her she had been mistrustful, but by now Lallah didn’t seem to care and shoveled a handful of sweet grass into her mouth.

“Please have the peppers as well,” Dany offered and took a handful of bites from the meat roasted in honey. “They make my insides go wild.”

“You can’t keep it inside?” Lallah asked confusion and pointed at her flat belly. “Again?”

“I did,” Dany confirmed after she had taken a gulp from the fermented milk. “It seems I am no longer used to the Dothraki food. To think I was once able to eat an entire horse heart…,” she trailed off and smiled sadly when she thought of Rhaego.

Her babe must have given her the strength to do so.

“A horse heart?” the girl asked and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Then you had a khalakka? Why not have more slaves?”

The girl’s question hurt Dany, though she knew that Lallah didn’t mean to insult her. Her understanding of the Dothraki tongue was clumsy, but Dany didn’t dare to speak with her in Bastard Valyrian after Kamala had one of the other slave girls whipped for soiling the holy dwelling place of the Dosh Khaleen with a foreign tongue.

“I lost the khalakka,” Dany explained and washed away her sadness with the rest of the fermented milk. “To an evil witch.”

The girl’s eyes widened in fear.

“A witch? Who would trust a witch?”

“I was a silly girl,” Dany agreed and played with the hair pins she had used to fasten her braid atop her head.  “But you are right. I shouldn’t have trusted her.”

“And you did not have another khalakka?”

If Lallah hadn’t asked in such a heartfelt manner, Dany would have dismissed her immediately.

“No,” Dany replied and brushed her hand over her barren womb. “I didn’t have another khalakka”

Lallah frowned.

“But you have to empty your stomach every day?”

By now, Dany was getting slightly annoyed by the girl’s questioning, but she tried to keep her thoughts to herself. She might need the girl’s help in the future.

“I do, but I do not understand what that has to do with my lost babe?”

“Whenever my mother carried babes she could not keep food inside there,” Lallah explained and pointed at her belly. “Mayhaps your Khal gave you a babe before he left for the Shadow Lands?”

Dany was not surprised about the girl’s lack of knowledge, but couldn’t help but to chuckle.

“That is impossible.”

“Why?” Lallah asked, leaned forward and cupped one of Dany’s breasts. Dany backed away, a painful gasp escaping her mouth.

“See! It hurt, didn’t it? It means milk is coming!” Lallah exclaimed proudly and was about to cup another breast, before Dany had slapped the girl’s hand away.

“I am not a bloody cow!” Dany snapped at the girl and averted her gaze. “Leave me now.”

She heard no word of protest, only the sound of footsteps.

What Lallah had said was utter nonsense, but it wouldn’t leave her mind for a long time, even after she had climbed up and down the stepped Pyramid.

Today was another day she hadn’t seen a single glimpse of Drogon, but that was no surprise to her. Dragons were smarter than common animals. They might sometimes be overcome by their need for food and kill a little girl roaming a pasture, but they usually stayed away from cities.

Dany had no illusions about Drogon’s actions at Daznak’s Pit. The blood had drawn him there and not solely Dany’s presence.

I need to get out of here, she reminded herself and curled up atop her sleeping place. But how can it be done? Without a horse I won’t get far…

She wrecked her brain over the problem for a long time until her head started to pound and she fell asleep.

The golden rays of morning light streaming through the narrow slits woke her.

Lallah barely looked at her when she brought Dany her breakfast, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to think about the false hopes the girl’s had filled her heart with…

“Leave it here,” Dany told Lallah and took in her breakfast: flat bread with olives and a bowl of fermented milk. She was relieved when she felt no feeling of sickness overcoming her this morning, which made it easier for he to eat.  “I shall call for you later to take it away.”

Once, Dany had broken her fast, she climbed up the stepped Pyramid as part of her morning ritual. The sky was still covered with streaks of red and yellow, a handful of stars flickering at the distant horizon. Especially, the constellation of the Stallion appeared unusually bright.

It was a constellation that could only be seen for a few weeks each year, which told her the dry period had arrived. It also made her think back on her lost babe Rhaego and the last time she had come here to see the Dosh Khaleen.

She had been freshly wed to Khal Drogo and they had named her babe the Stallion that Mounts the World.

That night she had devoured the horse heart.

It was another lie, she knew now. Jhaqo was right to mock me. I was stupid enough to believe these old hags and Miri.

He even called Drogon the Stallion, she thought with amusement and continued to watch the fading stars.

Well, I suppose Jhaqo and the Dosh Khaleen were not completely wrong…I birthed Drogon and Rhaego had supposedly looked like a winged beast. Jhaqo will never know how right he was…the Stallion…of course, Dany thought, a sudden realization washing over her. The Stallion Mounts the World. That is how I will get out of here!

She wanted to smack herself for her blindness, but didn’t waste any time to set her plans into motion.

She washed and dressed herself properly. She also asked Lallah apply the ceremonial war paint on her face and arms, before she was led before Kamala, the eldest of the Dosh Khaleen.

Kamala was well beyond seventy, a small shrunken woman with a long grey braid of twisted and dirty hair that curled all down to her waist. She wore green war paint and her son had supposedly been a distant ancestor of Khal Drogo, but Dany saw not much resemblance between Drogo and the woman in front of her.

“What request do you bring before the Dosh Khaleen, sister?” she asked Dany and appraised her with her inky gaze.

“I wish to speak to Khal Jhaqo,” Dany raised her voice, trying to appear stunned and in awe as if she had just gone through an otherworldly experience. “I know he still resides in Vaes Dothrak…I must tell him about my vision!”

When the hag’s dark eyes widened with curiosity Dany knew she had roused her interest. The other three hags whispered to each other, the bells on their braids tingling as they moved their heads left and right.

“A vision you say?”

“The Stallion Mounts the World…I saw him,” Dany told the old hag. “You all know that the eldest of the Dosh Khaleen that came before you foretold that my son would be the Stallion that Mounts the World, but that was a misunderstanding. I birthed no living child…only three dragons. One of them I named after the Khal..Drogon. He was the black shadow that attacked Khal Jhaqo’s khalasar. I know now why my son brought me here…he chose Jhaqo. He is meant to be the Khals of Khals. He is meant to mount the Stallion and unite all khalasars beneath his banner.”

“She has resided here not more than a week turn,” remarked a thin-faced Dosh Khaleen whose name Dany escaped. “Visions are for the wise not for young girls who are still subject to their monthly courses.”

´”My courses have come unregularly ever since I birthed my dragons and in the last moons they have stayed away,” Dany countered and touched her silver hair. “Even the color of my hair makes me look more like a crone than you, dear sister. Besides, my ancestors are known to have sight. And when I wed Khal Drogo I became one of you.”

Kamala chuckled and Dany noticed by their smiles that she had won over two more of the eldest Dosh Khaleen.

“You are a witty girl, sister,” Kamala said. “And you are right to point out the faults of my predecessor. She was known to misread the signs, but what you told me confirms that we were not completely mistaken. You brought the Stallion into the world, just not the way you expected it would happen. Yet, I didn’t expect that Khal Jhaqo could be the chosen one. He was of Drogo’s blood, but was born from the womb of a Lhazareen woman.”

Kamala’s words confused her, for Dany had never heard that the Dothraki held a special favoritism when it came to blood. Their views on women were simple. If women were healthy and flowered they were be ripe for taking and birthing children.

“I do not understand why it matters that Khal Jhaqo has been born from the womb of a Lhazareen woman?” Dany asked respectfully and lowered her head.

“And that only shows your youth!” the thin-faced Dosh Khaleen mocked. “Why do you think Drogo chose you, girl? I suppose you are pretty enough to look upon, but what he wanted was a child of dragon blood. ‘There is no more fearsome creature!’ he had told us when he had announced his intentions to wed you.”

Dany should have expected such an answer, but it still hurt to be confronted with the truth.

So it is true, she thought. Even Drogo wed me for my womb. Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. Viserys was not much different.

Curse them both, she thought and tried to appear unaffected by this revelation. She put on her queenly face and met the woman’s gaze.

“And I fulfilled my duty, did I not, sisters?” Dany asked and raised her voice as she swept her gaze over the old hags. “I birthed the Stallion that Mounts the World! There is no more fearsome creature than him! And Khal Jhaqo will mount him! Who can lead him to his destiny other than the woman that birthed the Stallion?”

Silence reigned among the women until Kamala started to nod her head, filling the room with the soft sound of bells.

“You spoke like a Khaleesi, dear child,” she said with a warm smile. “And I agree to your request. I shall call for Khal Jhaqo, but let me warn you. Do not play with us. The Dosh Khaleen do not look kindly upon liars.”

Dany lowered her head.

“I would never dare to dishonor my people.”

It was another lie. She loved her Dothraki warriors and the few that had followed her after Drogo’s death, but these people here were not her people.

Vaes Dothrak was not the place she belonged.

The place she belonged was waiting for her across the Narrow Sea. A black castle with twisted towers overlooking the stormy sea.

Dragonstone was her home and that is where she intended to go.

…

Chapter Text

Arya

“That would be unwise, my Lady,” the Elder Brother told her Lady Mother, who was seated between Arya and Ser Ryger. “Your guardsmen are still in need of rest. A strenuous march to Runestone might worsen their state nor would they be able to offer much protection for you and your daughter.”

“But we have to move on,” her Lady Mother insisted, her voice laced with guilt. “My son expected me to go to Runestone.”

“I understand that, my Lady,” the Elder Brother replied and rose to his feet, his hand crossed behind his back as he looked out of the window.

Arya wondered who he was looking at. She hadn’t dared to go out alone without the company of their guardsmen. The memory of last night was still too fresh. First, she had met this strange man who was speaking to crows and then she had met the Hound.

Just thinking about this experience made her heart race. She had threatened the Hound with Needle, but he had slapped her weapon out of her hand as if it was a mere toy. If the strange man with the crows hadn’t been there to help her the Hound might have done worse to her.

Yet, she had been too proud to tell her Lady Mother about the incident.

“I think I might have a solution for your problem, but it might not please you all too much, my Lady,” the Elder Brother added.

Her Lady Mother took a glance at her plate, still covered with bread and cheese, before giving a hesitant nod.

“Please speak.”

The Elder Brother graced them with an amiable smile and waved his hand at someone visible through the window.

“I know men capable of replacing your wounded guardsmen. I asked them personally whether they would be prepared to accompany a Lady in need of protection. They agreed, but I am not sure if they would be to your liking, my Lady.”

Her Lady Mother narrowed her eyes in confusion and exchanged a telling look with Ser Ryger, before shifting his attention back to the Elder Brother.

“I am thankful for any man, but I am surprised that the men from this peaceful Isle know how to wield weapons. Aren’t you and your brothers sworn to peaceful conduct?”

“We are,” the Elder Brother confirmed. “But most of us here lived a worldly life before we came here. Some of the men here are criminals of the worst kind, but as the Seven-Pointed-Star rightly says ‘A mother loves all her children, the good and the evil ones’. And sadly there are times when we, who are sworn to peaceful conduct, are forced to defend our way of life against outside enemies. It is not something we relish.”

“I understand,” Ser Ryger replied. “But I must be able to trust these men. Are they criminals?”

“One of them,” the Elder Brother explained and waved his hand at the man blocking the entrance.

Arya recognized him at once. The Hound. “Come here, brother and introduce yourself.”

Arya shuddered and held tightly unto Needle as she watched how the Hound drew closer and pulled down his cowl to reveal his nasty scar.

Ser Ryger gasped in horror and recognition.

“The bloody Hound!”

“That is me,” the Hound grumbled and pulled the hood of his cloak backwards. His face was pale and his scar even uglier in the bright sunlight streaming through the window. “Do I know you?”

“This is Ser Robin Ryger, the captain of the guards of Riverrun,” her Lady Mother explained in a wavering voice, but looked straight at the Hound and then at the Elder Brother. “Forgive me, but are you trying to insult us? This man’s brother not only served our enemy, but butchered countless of my father’s people.”

“And why is that, my Lady?” the Hound asked bluntly. “Because you captured the bloody Imp. Lord Tywin didn’t like that, did he? Well, not that I care about the Imp or the King. I told the King to fuck himself when the Imp started burning Stannis’ fleet with wildfire. As for my brother, we were never particularly close, especially after he gave me this nasty scar as a nameday gift.”

“You see, my Lady,” the Elder Brother added gently. “My brother hopes to find redemption and I have always believed the best way to accomplish such a feat is to do noble deeds to lighten one’s guilty heart. Protecting a noble Lady in need is such a noble cause.”

“No,” her Lady Mother protested. “Out of the question!”

“My Lady…,” the Elder Brother began, but the Hound interrupted him.

“I am a rotten man. I know that, but I could be of use to you…I could help you get rid of the man that wed your sister.”

“Petyr,” her Lady Mother stuttered. “You know Petyr?”

“Of course I do. I served as the King’s personal watch dog. Besides, Littlefinger owns every brothel in King’s Landing. It is hard not to know him. I also know that it was him who betrayed your husband.”

Her mother paled even more, her lips trembling.

“How did it happen, Clegane?” Ser Ryger demanded to know.

“I do not know every detail, but Stark tried to depose King Joffrey. For this purpose he asked for Littlefinger’s help, who promised to bring the Gold Cloaks to his side. Naturally, Littlefinger broke that promise. Why your husband would trust a man like Littlefinger is a mystery to me, but that the ‘little bird’ went to tell the Queen about your husbands’ plans, was the final nail in the coffin.”

“The little bird?” her Lady Mother asked, her hands fisted in the seam of her dress. “Speak plainly, Ser Clegane!”

“Ah, forgive me,” the Hound apologized and dipped his head in a mocking manner. “It’s an old habit of mine. I was speaking about your daughter, Lady Sansa. She was the one who told the Queen about your husband’s plans of smuggling the girls out of the city.”

Her Lady Mother trembled and Arya had a hard time keeping her feelings at bay. She should have expected that Sansa would do something stupid like that, but now she was gone and Arya couldn’t even tell her how stupid she was. It made her want to weep.

That her Lady Mother looked so sad made it only worse.

“My foolish girl,” her Lady Mother muttered to herself, her blue eyes wet with tears as she lifted her head to look at the Hound. “My foolish girl.”

“If it helps my Lady, the ‘little bird’ showed not much love to the King after he revealed his true face. I think she regretted helping the little shit..,” the Hound continued, but her Lady Mother cut him off.

“Do you know where she is?” her Lady Mother asked. “You must have seen her!”

“I did…before the battle,” the Hound replied, his voice laced with sudden sadness. “But I do not know what happened to her afterwards.”

Her Lady Mother dropped her head in disappointment and shifted her attention back to the Elder Brother.

“You said ‘men’? Who else do you have in mind?”

“There is this man we call ‘the Stranger’. He speaks not much and his sword arm is ruined, but he is very capable with the lance and rides better me.”

“The Stranger?” Ser Ryger asked. “What kind of name is that?”

“He isn’t in his right mind,” the Hound laughed. “The ‘Crowfucker’ can’t even tell you when he was born, let alone his name.”

“He is a bit like me, my Lady,” the Elder Brother replied. “We barely survived the Rebellion, but sadly the Stranger did not only lose his sword arm, but also his mind. At least, that is what my predecessor used to say.”

“The Rebellion?” her Lady Mother asked, her eyes widening in surprise. “Did you partake in the battle of the Trident?”

“Aye, I did, my Lady,” the Elder Brother confirmed without hesitation. “I fought at King Aerys’ side and lost one of my brothers in this bloody struggle, Ser Jonothor Darry.”

“Then you are Ser Robin Darry? Truly?” Ser Ryger asked in shock and rose to his feet to take a closer look at the man’s face.

“Gods!” Ser Ryger exclaimed. “It is true... You have the ‘Darry nose’. How could I have been so blind?”

“Seventeen long years have passed,” Ser Robin explained friendly as ever. “And I hope my past allegiance won’t lead to further quarrels between us. I am a brother of the Quiet Isle and I only wish to serve wherever I can, which is why I am prepared to offer you my sword arm and my two most capable men. That is if you are willing to have me, my Lady.”

Her Lady Mother’s face was unreadable as she pondered over the Elder Brother’s offer.

At last, she sighed deeply and sought the Elder Brother’s face once more.

“What about the Quiet Isle? Are you not the overseer?”

“I shall appoint a capable steward until,” the Elder Brother assured her. ”It is not the first time I left the Quiet Isle to seek out those befallen by sickness. Nobody will take offence if I leave for a few moons and that way I can also keep an eye on my two brothers.”

The Hound scoffed. “I need no mother hen to look over me!”

“No, but your wound needs attention,” the Elder Brother countered.

“Whatever,” the Hound muttered and was about to open his mouth, when her Lady Mother interrupted them.

“I shall take your offer,” she said hesitatingly. “But only because I trust your word, Ser Robin.”

“Brother Robin,” the Elder Brother corrected her gently. “Please call me Brother Robin.”

Arya couldn’t believe her ears and finally found her voice. She had been trying to act like a Lady.

“The Hound can’t go with us! He killed my friend!” she shouted at her Lady Mother and pulled on her shoulder. “He is evil!”

The Hound chuckled at that. “Aye, I killed the butcher boy, because the Queen demanded it of me. You think the Queen would have allowed me to keep my head if I refused her order?”

“He was just a boy!” Arya couldn’t help but to snarl, tears burning in her eyes. “And you murdered him!”

“I have murdered a good many of people and so have your father and brother…,” the Hound continued to defend himself, but the Elder Brother silenced him.

“I think that is quiet enough,” he chided the Hound and smiled at Arya, offering her a handkerchief. “Hush, child. Wherever that friend of yours is now, it is a better place than here. As for my brother’s actions…it is a difficult thing to refuse a Queen.”

“The Elder Brother speaks true,” her Lady Mother added. “Brush your tears away and leave this matter to me and Ser Ryger.”

Arya couldn’t believe her ears and clenched her fist.

“The Mother can kiss my ass!” Arya spat back at the Hound and the Elder Brother, before storming out of the room. “I will never forgive him! Never!”

She hid with the horses, her favorite place on this stupid Isle. The brother who was responsible for the stables even gave her a carrot to feed her horse.

It was a black palfrey horse and Arya loved its black mane.

“You are better than these stupid grown-ups.”

“There you are, child,” a familiar rattling voice rang in her ears. When Arya turned around she realized that it was the ‘Crowfucker’ as the Hound had called him.

In the daylight his face looked even paler, his eyes blood-shot and his lips bluish.

He not only acted like a dead man walking, but also looked like one.

Yet, there was no sweet smell and he was talking to her as if he was a normal person.

That must be my silly imagination.

“What do you want?” she asked and averted her gaze. “I don’t want to speak to you!”

“Your coin, child,” he replied and held out his hand to her.

Arya shuddered when she saw that his hand was as black as his eyes.

“What are you?” she asked and backed away. “Why does your hand look like that?”

“I don’t know,” he replied and simply placed the coin on the ground. “I don’t know.”

Arya picked the coin from the ground and ran off.

This place shouldn’t be called the Quiet Isle, but the Scary Isle.

…

Chapter Text

Daenerys

They left at dawn, six hundred Dothraki screamers and their Khal. About fifty of these men were bloodriders and seemed more than enthusiastic to take on the winged shadow as the Dothraki had dubbed her child.

A dragon is no slave, Dany knew and marveled how well her ploy had worked. And would certainly not bow to a Dothraki horselord.

Viserion had liked Ben Plumm well enough, but she doubted her child would have accepted him as a rider. Even Dany had no complete control over Drogon, despite the blood of the dragon running through the veins. It made her wonder whether Viserys would have been able to ride one of her children…

He is gone, she reminded herself and squirmed in her saddle. All I have are Jon and…the Mummer’s dragon.

Are we the three heads of the dragon, she wondered and cast her gaze to the sky. Or was that a delusion, Rhaegar?

Dany couldn’t say nor did she want to give the Mummer’s dragon one of her children and yet it wouldn’t be good for a dragon to remain unbonded forever.

A dragon is no slave, but he needs guidance.

Well, first I need to leave this place, she knew and watched as the Dothraki horde spread behind her as far as her eyes could see. Drogo’s whole Khalasar had covered the entire horizon, but Khal Jhaqo had only brought his most revered warriors.

He is no complete fool, she mused, though that would make her task only harder. One arrow was nothing but a needle prick to Drogon, but hundreds of them might even harm the winged shadow.

Mounting him would be even more difficult, but then she didn’t have to mount him to burn her enemies. Even as a fresh hatchling he had always obeyed her commands and yet she felt sick when she thought of burning these brave men.

Brave fools, Dany corrected herself. Jhaqo and Mago deserve to die for their cruelty against the Lhazareen girl she had tried to save, but the rest of these men were only following after their Khal, because they were bloodsworn to do so.

“A good day for hunting,” Mago remarked and led his horse beside hers. “The sky is bleeding.”

It was true what he had said. The sky looked like a white blanket drenched in blood, a handful of bright stars blinking on the distant horizon.

Dany knew this constellation.

The Stallion that Mounts the World.

A sign by the gods, she had told the Dosh Khaleen. A lie.

Jhaqo seemed to believe her lie well enough, for he had come to see her barely a day later.

Dany had explained her plan and on the next day at sunset the Khal had brought with them what she had demanded: a horde of sheep.

“As you say,” Dany replied and averted her gaze when she noticed Mago’s greedy stare, his dark eyes fixed on her breasts visible through the thin garment. Dany had wanted to put on her tunic and leggings, but the Dosh Khaleen had demanded of her to wear the gifts Jhaqo had given her.

They had covered her entire body with the ceremonial war paint of Drogo’s khalsar. It was a fearsome kind of war paint, made from blood, piss and clay. Dried as it was now it smelled and made her nose wrinkle. 

“It is close to midday,” Khal Jhaqo added, his inky gaze narrowed against the bright sunlight. “And we have yet to see a glimpse of the winged shadow. Could it be that you misread the signs?”

“Visions are a difficult thing, my Khal,” Dany countered and brushed the sweat from her brow. “Perhaps your scouts gave us the wrong direction?”

“The black shadow was last seen east from Vaes Dothrak,” Haquo who had been tasked to watch her during their hunt had also asked for this honor. “I am sure of it, my Khal.”

“Good,” Khal Jhaqo replied and urged his horse into a gallop. Dany kicked her feed in the sides of his horse and followed after him. So, did the rest of his warriors, the song of their bells and war cries ringing in Dany’s ears.

It was a familiar song that had once filled her with happiness. Now she felt only dread when she thought of butchering these brave warriors.

It is the only way, she reminded herself and cast another glance to the sky. My only way of escape.

As they continued their hunt, the landscape changed from the swaying grass of the Dothraki sea to a dustier landscape of soft hills and dry pastures. Now and then she could even see a tree.

The heat only increased, the world blurred and unreal and with no sign of Drogon’s black wings.

Where are you, she thought with growing tension. Where are you, my child?

Eventually, they arrived at a stream of green water meandering its way through the dry landscape. It was like an island of greenery among a sea of dust and heat.

Dany welcomed it and so did the Dothraki. They spent hours watering their horses and refreshing themselves in the cool water, but Mago’s satisfied smile didn’t escape her.

He wants to see me fail, she knew and sprinkled fresh water into her face. It felt cool and pleasant on her skin, but didn’t still the fear in her heart.

I am the blood of the dragon, she reminded herself and smiled at Haquo who handed her the waterskin. I cannot show fear. A dog like Mago can smell it for sure.

“Thank you,” Dany told the young Dothraki warrior and filled the waterskin to the brim, before casting her gaze back to the sky that had by now changed to a pale blue color.

There was no cloud or bird to be seen, let alone a dragon.

“We will soon make camp and continue with our hunt on the morrow,” Haquo told her. “The Khal will be less displeased once he gets his fill of honeyed meat and a cup of wine. Not everyone is as impatient as Mago.”

“I hope so,” Dany sighed deeply and climbed back into her saddle. “I hope so.”

The sky changed from clear blue to a deep purple, the constellation of the Stallion burning brighter than ever before.

“See,” Haquo added enthusiastically and pointed at the stars. “We are close.”

Not long after they made camp. Dany watched as the Dothraki warriors built their camp and got a fire going to roast wild vegetables and pieces of dried meat.

The smell was delicious and the taste was even better. The meat was soft and spicy, but the vegetables were mild and had been dipped in butter. That her dizziness had eased since she had left Vaes Dothrak made it easier to eat.

She also liked the company of the Dothraki warriors. They sang and told her stories like Jhiqui and Irri used to do. Especially, Haquo seemed to like her company, though not in an unobtrusive manner like her bear. He treated her almost brotherly, like Viserys had done before he had turned mad.

Only when Mago was glowering at her from the distance did she feel fear.

That night she dreamed she was a dragon, her black wings spread wide and her hot breath devouring the army of frost-eyed men trying to cross the mighty river.

It was so cold, so very cold. The skin on her face burned and her toes and fingers felt numb. Within the blink of  a moment the tips had turned black like obsidian…

She unleashed her hot breath upon her enemies and they melted away like the morning mist…

“Rouse the whore from her sleep!” Mago’s cruel voice rang in her ears and through the thin fabric of the tent. “The Khal wants to move on. One of the scouts has seen the winged shadowed.”

The mention of Drogon roused her out of her stupor. She quickly put on her sandals, fastened her belt around her tunic and touched the hairpin in her hair, before she left her tent behind her.

Mago stood there, his face a grimace.

My success must anger him, she knew, but kept her thoughts to herself. Haquo’s presence gave her the courage she needed. By now she knew their names and had also found out that they too had been part of Drogo’s khalasar, which was probably the reason they were so courteous to her.

“I heard the good news,” Dany replied with a smile and tried to forget about the nasty smell of the war paint. “We should move on.”

Mago spat on the ground and left.

Not long after, they were back on their horses, the sky before them still cast in darkness and only lightened by the stars.

A purple bruise started to show on the distant horizon after they had crossed a silver stream and had found the ruins Haquo had told her about.

Not much was left of this city, but crumbling walls and faded paintings. Clouds of red dust washed over them and made her eyes water as the riders poured through the ruins.

Dany tried to imagine what this city must have looked like a hundred years ago. She saw high colorful walls, fountains, green orchards, a bustling street and looming above them all was the stepped temple and only building in this city that had remained intact.

It must have once been a magnificent temple, but now the roof was torn on one side and the lower walls were covered with scorch marks. Whoever had pillaged this city must have put the temple aflame.

Yet, that was not the only thing they found as they wandered through the deserted city.

They found scorched bones littered all over the ruins.

A strange foreboding overcame Dany as she took another glance at the scorched walls of the stepped temple.

Mayhaps she was wrong. Mayhaps someone else had inflicted these wounds upon this magnificent ruin.

“My son was here,” Dany told Jhaqo. “We should make camp here and prepare for his coming.”

Jhaqo nodded his head in understanding and commanded his warriors to make camp beneath the crumbling walls of the temple.

By sunset, the smell of the cookfires and spice filled her nose, but tonight she felt no longing for food. The familiar feeling of sickness washed over her as she watched Haquo and the other men eat. Not long after, she excused herself to make water and emptied her stomach.

She washed the taste away with a bowl of fermented milk, before she  was led to Jhaqo who had demanded her presence.

“We should butcher the sheep by sunrise,” Dany told him after she had taken her honorary seat beneath his feet. They had even brought her a cushion, but she still felt like a prisoner. “The smell of the blood will lure my son here.”

Jhaqo put his cup away and brushed the wine stains from his lips. He was clearly drunk and there was an expression in his eyes that made her uncomfortable.

I should be careful or he might forget that I am a Dosh Khaleen, Dany realized and touched hair hairpin to reassure herself. He can try, but then I shall blind him forever.

“I saw the bones,” Jhaqo told her and laughed vigorously as he leaned down and grabbed her chin between his fingers. “The scorched bones were not the work of a common animal. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Dany confirmed and took a gulp from her cup of milk. They had offered her plenty of wine, but she had refused, because she would need a clear head once Drogon came for her. “But many a man has underestimated me.”

“Mago certainly has,” Jhaqo agreed and brushed his hand over her shoulder. Dany shuddered, but tried her best to conceal her disgust with a smile. “But he always was a jealous fool. Do you know what he asked of me?”

Dany tried to sound innocent and leaned into his touch.

“What did he ask of you?”

“That I would hand you over if you were to prove yourself a liar,” Jhaqo replied and chuckled. “I refused him of course. To show him his place.”

“That was wise of you,” Dany agreed and couldn’t help but to clench her teeth when he touched her silver locks, but to refuse him would be madness.

 “He is not the Khal of Khals.”

“And you are a Dosh Khaleen,” he told her and put his hand on her hip, pulling her closer. “I would dishonor Drogo, but then he never cared much about traditions either. I have only kept my distance because it was expected of me.  Yet according to you I am not only Khal Jhaqo but the Khal of Khals. Why should I respect old laws that damn a beautiful woman like you to a life of nothing You could yet bear me an heir and keep my bed warm.”

Dany tried to hold still and graced him with a smile. She didn’t want to anger him unnecessarily.

“They say a man’s cock withers if he touches a Dosh Khaleen,” Dany reminded him gently.

“They also say a girl that becomes a widow should be mounted to drive away her sorrows,” Jhaqo teased and grabbed her head, before he forced his tongue into her mouth.

Dany felt the urge to gag and instinctively bit his lips, drawing blood.

He pulled away and gave her a stunned look.

Instinctively, she forced a smile over her lips.

Strangely, he didn’t seem displeased.

“Ah, I think I am beginning to understand why Drogo liked you,” he laughed and waved his hand at the other bloodriders in his presence.

“Leave us you fools!” he shouted and grinned at Dany. “I think I wish to ride a dragon!”

Dany had expected so much and bit her lip.

Never, she thought, a feeling of defiance rising inside her. I had whored myself out for Viserys. Not again.

But I have to be careful, she thought and played along, following him to his tent.

She would strike once the time was ripe. She had no sword, but the sharp tip of ‘his gift’ should serve him well.

There were no guards. It seemed the Khal of Khals didn’t deem her dangerous enough. Good. That will make it easier.

When they entered the tent he she pulled off her belt and discarded her dress just as quickly, leaving her bare. It was better than to allow him to do it.

It made her feeling in control of the situation.

He grinned as he took in her nakedness and discarded his own clothing.

Dany had seen quite a lot of cocks in her seventeen years on this earth, but this one didn’t impress her at all. She had to bite her lips to keep herself from laughing out loud. It felt almost unreal.

“Do I not please you?” he asked with drunken confidence.

Dany forced another smile over her lips and braced herself. It was good that she had vomited before, but it was the only way to get close enough.

“You please me,” she assured him with a soft chuckle and stroke both his ego and manhood like Doreah had shown her almost a lifetime ago.

He moaned and his head fell backwards, his eyes shut.

Dany didn’t hesitate to grab for her pin and plunged the sharp end between his legs and right into his soft flesh.

A piercing cry escaped his lips, hot blood splattering her face and lower body as she twisted the pin free and repeated her action.

She had expected the Khal of Khals to put up a fight, but all he had managed to do was grab a fistful of hair, before she had plunged the pin into his arm.

As he was screaming, Dany freed herself and hauled herself at Jhaqo.

He fell backwards, Dany atop of him and her bloody hairpin still in hand.

Beneath her pooled a puddle of blood as the Khal of Khals was trying to hold together what was left of his cock and balls.

The sight should have sickened her, but she felt nothing but the rush of fear surging through her body that stirred her back into action.

“You showed no mercy to Eroeh,” Dany whispered before she plunged the pin deep into his eye socket. The eye popped and blood coated her hand once more, but that didn’t make much of a difference as she was already drenched with blood.

When the Khal of Khals moved no more, Dany pulled on her dress and slipped out of the tent, running as fast as her bare feet could carry her, but Mago had already found her.

“Get the whore!” he shouted, his curved blade raised. “Get her!”

In that moment the world was silenced by a dragon’s roar, a crimson flame spurting from the ruins of the temple like a beacon of light.

Mago froze when Drogon came crawling out of his lair, his crimson eyes dangerous to behold.

Dany felt a current of heat washing over her as his massive head loomed above her.

Mago opened his mouth in silence and Dany gave the command.

“Dracarys!”

The ball of flames had barely engulfed Mago, before Dany wheeled around and hauled herself at Drogon’s back, the world around her erupting in chaos.

Dany didn’t care. The heat and smoke made her eyes burn, but she continued to move.

“Drogon!” she shouted at her child and pulled herself up along his scaled back. Her feet were bare and she nearly slipped, but every time she managed to hold onto his scales. “Drogon!”

All the while she heard the arrows snapping over her head, as Drogon lashed out at the approaching riders. Some unleashed arrows at the dragon and others attacked with their curved blades, storming straight at the dragons.

They were madman, these Dothraki, but Drogon didn’t care. He unleashed a stream of fire upon them, their bright screams filling her ears once more.

Dany shuddered and continued to climb, sweat rolling down her cheeks. Drogon’s skin felt hot. It was like running over hot coals.

“Drogon!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. It was her only weapon as she had lost her whip. “Drogon! Stop!”

Drogon finally calmed, but the Dothraki had no intention to give up.

The Dothraki warriors unleashed another volley of arrows upon them that would have probably pierced Dany had Drogon not bent his neck to the side to protect her.

Yet, that was only the beginning of their struggle. Another volley of arrows snapped over her head and this time Dany had had to press herself close to Drogon’s body to protect herself.

Suddenly, she heard another roar. A much louder one, like spring thunder rolling over a herd of sheep.

As she lifted her gaze to the sky she was confronted with a familiar sight. A sight that made her heart grow lighter.

It was Rhaegal, his  jade-green wings glittering in the torchlight like polished gemstones.

Her child roared loudly, before he unleashed a stream of flames upon the Dothraki riders.

They were beautiful to behold; waves of orange-and-yellow flames with veins of green washed over the men, their creams drowned out by her Rhaegal’s fearsome roar.

Dany didn’t let her opportunity go to waste, holding tight unto Drogon’s neck as she shouted her next command at the top of her lungs.

“Fly! Fly! Fly!”

This time, Drogon heard her and stirred to life. Dany clenched her teeth as she tried her best to hold tightly unto her child’s back.

It was a strange feeling. The hot skin beneath her made her feel as if she was burning alive as she tried to make out the blurred world before.

It was a beautiful sight. A sea of stars spreading before her as far as the eye could see. She would have gladly drowned in it…

It was Rhaegal’s cry that woke her from her beautiful dream and caused her to lift her head.

Rhaegal was soaring above her, his wings spread wide.

It was only then that she noticed person clinging to his back. The black garb made it hard to see Jon, but the scabbard fastened on his hip reflected the moonlight like a mirror.

Dany blinked once, twice and a third time. She couldn’t believe it. Jon was riding a dragon.

Relief washed over her and she threw a quick glance over her shoulder.

Behind her spread only darkness, the cookfires of the Dothraki camp growing ever distant.

When it was nothing more than a glimmer of light, Dany pulled herself up and shouted her command at Drogon, her loose hair slapping into her face.

“Drogon! Down! Down!”

Dany nearly slipped as Drogon had dipped lower. She had expected that he would obey her command, but it had never happened this quickly.

Rhaegal followed suit, but perhaps it was Jon who had told him to do it.

Not that Dany cared. She was just overjoyed to find him alive.

Her heart skipped a beat as she stumbled from Drogon’s back, her feet wobbly and still covered in blood, dust and sweat.

She probably smelled terrible. Like a heap of dung.

Yet, all that was forgotten when she heard Jon’s voice.

“Dany…,” he said, his body cast in shadows and the cloak she had gifted him so long ago tattered like the plume of a bird.

His voice snapped her out of her trance and then she was rushing towards him.

When she was only a handful of steps away from his shadowed form, she leapt into his embrace.

She couldn’t see his face, but he was warm and she could hear his heartbeat.

She kissed him once, twice and then a third time, her fingers twining through his long hair.

“Jon,” she asked, her voice hoarse and distant to her ears. “You are riding Rhaegal?”

“Aye,” he confirmed, a breathless laugh leaving his mouth. She wished she could see his face properly, but it was too dark. “But it took me longer than expected to get here. Rhaegal and I had some disagreements…,” he trailed off.

Then, he turned around and looked at Rhaegal.

“Isn’t that so?”

Rhaegal gave a roar and turned away to join Drogon. Almost as if he was annoyed by Jon’s teasing.

Dany chuckled.

“He always was of the sensible kind.”

…

Chapter Text

Aegon had visited Volantis three times in his young life. Once when he was a boy of six, once when he was ten and three to fit new clothing and the last time when he was ten and six and had accompanied Lord Connington to meet an old friend.

This man Aegon recalled well, both in face and character.

His face had been an ugly one, jug-eared, big- nosed and with a crooked jaw, yet all of that was forgotten when he had opened his mouth, for Ser Myles Toyne had been a man full of life with a smile so sharp that it could have easily cut through steel. Among his men he had been commonly known as the Blackheart, for the sigil of his house.

That was all Aegon had known about him during their final meeting. For Aegon he had been nothing but an exiled knight and old friend of Lord Connington, but now as he took in the golden skull atop a pole that had once been Blackheart Toyne he knew that this man had been much more than that. He had been the Captain-General of the Golden Company.

And he too, like so many other people in his life, had been part of the conspiracy that surrounded Aegon like a net spreading to places he didn’t even know about. It was a net woven Lord Varys or the Spider as Lord Connington called him. Or my old friend, as Magister Illyrio liked to call him.

To Aegon he was a stranger that had come and went throughout his life, almost like the shadows that perished at the coming of nightfall.

Thus, Aegon had never been able to build any attachments towards this man or towards the Magister, though he had resided in the Magister’s mansion until he was a boy of five. His memories from this time were blurred, but he clearly recalled his first meeting with Lord Connington. His red beard had fascinated Aegon and he had asked him if he hailed from Tyrosh or some other land he didn’t know and where men sported beards of fiery red hair.

Westeros, Lord Connington had answered, tears swimming in his blue eyes. That is where I hail from. Your home.

Aegon hadn’t understood the meaning of these words until much later. He was five when the Magister had made him color his silver hair and had sent him away to live with Jon Connington on the pole-boat commonly called the Shy Maid. First, it had been a grand adventure, but the more time had passed the lonelier he had felt. Sure, there had been Lord Connington, Duck, Yandry, Ysilla and Haldon to attend to his every need, but what he had missed the most had been the company of other children. Even when he had still resided in the Magister’s mansion he hadn’t been allowed to play with the other children, but he had done it anyway. By now he had forgotten their names. They would sneak around in the gardens, play ball games or take a quick plunge into the pond to catch goldfish.

All these simple things he had been deprived of when he had been sent to live on the pole-boat that had become his second home. From that day on, he had been pushed towards his destiny, to regain the crown the Usurper had stolen from his father. Until the day Lord Connington had revealed the truth to him, Aegon had always assumed that his nursemaid was his mother and that his father had been an old friend of Magister Illyrio who had been generous enough to care for him or bring him up as his heir, which wouldn’t been an uncommon practice, especially after the Magister had remained childless through his many marriages.

The day he had been told the truth, all his past dreams and hopes had been shattered. He was no longer Aegon, but Prince Aegon, the heir of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia Martell who had been murdered by the hands of Robert Baratheon and Lord Tywin Lannister, both men he had been told to despise.

Even so, his parents had been ghosts to him and all he had were the imagines he had built up in his head as children often do with the heroes from the songs. He had always imagined his father as tall and beautiful as Lord Connington had often described him and how he had bravely fought in the rushing waters of the River Trident to defeat the horned demon that wanted to take everything he held dear.

To imagine his mother had been even more difficult. Lord Connington had always described her as dutiful and sickly, but Aegon had always imagined her as the most beautiful he could think of. Thus, the imagine of his mother had been made up by the imagine of every beautiful woman he had met in his young life. For a time, he had even pretended that she looked like Septa Lemore. Deep in his heart he had known that it was a lie, but he couldn’t help it. His real mother was a ghost and Lemore had been there, loving and caring for him.

Now he felt only rage when he thought of Lemore or better said Lady Lyanna…the whore that had seduced his father and had fooled him for so many years.

“Your Grace,” Lord Connington’s tense voice rang in his ears. “Your Grace.”

As Aegon turned around he found him flanked by his cousin Prince Quentyn Martell and Duck.

It was a strange sight to behold.

Lord Connington looked like a true Lord, still tall and strong, though his beard was covered with grey streaks. Yet, compared to Quentyn, Aegon’s rather short and stocky cousin he looked like a giant. Still, Lord Connington’s height was nothing compared to Duck, who stood half and head taller than the Lord of Griffin Roost.

“Will he see me now?” Aegon asked impatiently and opened his clenched fist.

He had enough of waiting. First, his Aunt had received him like a stranger and had played her games with him and now this Harrys Strickland, Captain-General of the Golden Company was conspiring with Lord Varys, but had yet to meet with Aegon privately.

Aegon was sick of it all, being treated like a puppet and being directed by men he didn’t know.

Was he not a King? It was time to cut his strings and stand on his own two feet.

“Aye, Harry Strickland will see you now…as do his sergeants and Lord Varys.”

Aegon nodded his head and touched the hilt of his word. He had been taught many things during his time one the pole-boat, but swordplay he had always liked and excelled at.

“I shall be pleased to meet him,” Aegon confirmed and graced his travelling companions with a warm smile. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” Lord Connington confirmed as he pushed aside the golden flaps of the tent. It was made of a gleaming cloth of gold that was fit for a King, but in truth it was just the tent of the Captain-General whom Lord Connington usually referred to as Homeless Harry.

Aegon followed after him, but not before he had taken a last glance at the men of the Golden Company. They sat outside their tents, dicing, drinking and singing songs. These were the men that would fight for him and so far he had only made the acquaintance of one of them, a certain Ser Franklyn Flowers, the ugliest man Aegon had ever laid eyes on.

As expected, Aegon found him among the men assembled in the tent. He was big-bellied, shambling hulk of a man, his seamed face crisscrossed with old scars.

Despite, his ugly appearance, Aegon had liked him immediately. There was something pleasant about his bluntness. It was something he had always liked about Lemore. She had always treated him like a normal boy.

That was probably part of her mummery, he thought, fresh bitterness stirring inside his heart. To win my trust.

As they entered, the high officers of the Golden Company rose from their stools and chairs. Some greeted Lord Connington with smiles and others seized him up with curious looks.

They think me a boy, he knew and tried to hide his discomfort behind a blank face. Not a King.

Lord Connington introduced them.  Many of the men bore bastard names. There were Rivers, Hills, Stones and others that had claimed names that had once belonged to forgotten houses from the Seven Kingdoms, families Aegon only knew from his dusty history tomes. There were two Strongs, three Peakes, a Mudd, a Mandrake, a Lothston and a pair of Coles. Despite their poor bloodline, they sported jeweled swords, inlaid armor, heavy torcs and fine silks.  Yet, despite the abundance of Westerosi names, there were also those that were not of Westerosi blood.

There was a Summer Islander called Black Balaq, who had white hair and skin as dark as soot. He was commander of the archers and wore the most colorful of garb, a feathered cloak of green and orange.

There was also a certain Gorys Edoryen, who was the paymaster of the company. He wore a leopard skin swept over his shoulders, his hair oiled ringlets that freely spilled to his shoulders.

The spymaster, a Lyseni with lilac eyes and golden hair, was named Lysono Maar. At first glance, Aegon had taken him for a woman. His earlobes were dripped with pearls and glittering amethysts and his lips were full like a rose petal in bloom. 

Harry Strickland was neither ugly nor beautiful. He didn’t even look much like a warrior. He was of a portly built with mild grey eyes and thinning hair that he kept brushed sideways to conceal his balding head.

That he was currently soaking his feet in a tub of saltwater made the whole situation all the stranger.

Yet, it was not his presence that bothered Aegon the most. It was the man with the bare head and the silken robe. Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers.

This man had saved him from the Usurper’s swords by exchanging him for an innocent babe from Pisswater Bay and yet Aegon couldn’t help but to mistrust the man. Neither Lord Connington nor Lemore had ever spoken a single kind word about him.

He served too many Kings, Lord Connington had said to Haldon. And he will be the first one to lose his head. There will be no more Spiders to disturb Aegon’s peaceful reign.

“You will pardon me if I do not rise,” Harry Strickland said in a friendly tone. “Our march was hard and my toes are prone to blisters.”

Aegon didn’t know what to make of his words, but minded his manners.

“It is no bother,” Aegon assured him, his gaze flickering to Lord Varys. “It is no wonder that you are exhausted. You broke your contract for me. You have my thanks for that, Captain Strickland.”

“The gold offered to us by your generous supporter certainly helped,” Strickland replied and waved his hand at his squire. “Wat, bring wine for us.”

“For me only water,” Lord Connington insisted.

“And for me only half a cup,” Aegon countered as he turned to look at Quentyn and Rolly. “What about you, cousin? Will you take wine?”

“Sure,” Prince Quentyn replied shyly. He looked lost among these men of war and deprived of his companions. Aegon had wanted to bring them to the meeting, but Lord Connington deemed it unfitting.

Aegon envied them. Arch and Drink as they called themselves were probably enjoying themselves while he had to play King.

“A cup for me as well,” Rolly added awkwardly.

Aegon chuckled.

“Was that ever a question?”

“No,” Rolly replied and brushed his hand through his tousled red hair. “That was never a question.”

Aegon nodded his head and shifted his attention back to Strickland.

Now was no time for jesting. Now was the time to plan a war.

“You know why I came here, Captain Strickland,” Aegon told him and tried to sound kingly. “I wish to retake the Iron Throne and I want the Golden Company to be part of this endeavor. That is what you have been paid for.”

“I know so much,” Strickland replied and pulled his feet from the tube. His squire Wart brought him a pair of striped stockings which Strickland pulled on while he continued to speak, his gaze fixed on Lord Varys. “But we were told to expect a King and a Queen to raise up and send us home. Yet, you come alone. Why is that?”

“My Aunt is occupied with her conquered cities,” Aegon lied. “We shall sail alone.”

Strickland seemed unhappy with his answer.

“Daenerys Targaryen supposedly crushed the slavers at Yunkai. Why does she linger? Did she refuse you?”

“She did not,” Aegon lied again. “But I found out that our union would most likely lead to the extinction of House Targaryen. According to her own admission, she is supposedly barren, a result of her failed marriage to this Khal Drogo.”

At the mention of Khal Drogo, Aegon had lifted his head and was now looking directly at Lord Varys.

“A match that was the result of your plotting, wasn’t it, Lord Varys? She was supposed to be my bride and you sold her like a common whore. Why?”

If Lord Varys was shaken by his words, it didn’t show on his face. He smiled calmly, his voice soft like the sound of a harp.

“She was never supposed to stay wed to the Khal, your Grace,” he explained and dipped his head. “She was meant to be saved by your hands.”

Aegon felt the urge to laugh. It was all so clear. Of course, they had planned another one of their mummeries…

Was that what his future would look like? A long string of never-ending mummeries?

“I understand,” Aegon replied and clenched is teeth. Whether he liked it or not, he had need of the man in front of him. Lord Connington had told him so much. “And you are forgiven, Lord Varys. I suppose even the most cunning men commit errors.”

Lord Varys’ smile was as bright as a star.

“I am thankful, your Grace.”

And I would gladly present your head to my Aunt, Aegon and forced a smile over his lips.

“Now back to the topic at hand,” Aegon added and tapped his fingers on the table in front of him as he sought Strickland’s gaze once more. “As I said…my Aunt is most likely barren and her current interests are tied to Slaver’s Bay. We shall also have the help of my Uncle, Prince Doran Martell.”

“Prince Doran Martell?” Lysono Maar asked and wrinkled his brows. “Your mother’s kin. How can you be sure of their support?”

“Through me,” his cousin assured them loudly. Lord Connington had insisted on keeping Quentyn’s true identity hidden. Now they knew. “Prince Quentyn Martell.”

“Dorne is rich,” Strickland added approvingly. “And would be a good landing place for an invasion. “But they are not exactly known for their military prowess. The Reach…now that would be a fat prize.”

“Lord Mace Tyrell tied himself to the Lannisters when he wed his daughter to the Kingslayer,” Lord Varys tittered. “But then one shouldn’t underestimate Lord Tyrell’s ambition. How can the Kingslayer compare to a Targaryen King?”

Strickland frowned.

“Are you trying to imply that the Tyrell’s might change their cloak for our King?”

“Mace Tyrell would strangle a hundred puppies to see his daughter crowned,” Lord Connington scoffed. It was all he had ever hoped for from the day he first spurted his seed into his wife. I remember how he was most eager to arrange a match between Princess Rhaenys and his son Willas. Back then the boy was not yet a cripple and many believed Princess Elia would never conceive again. Some even believed Prince Rhaegar would soon take his father’s head. Well, the birth of Aegon destroyed Lord Tyrell’s grand plans and the Rebellion turned him into a traitor.”

“And our King’s return might remind him of his old loyalties,” Lord Varys countered. “The Tyrell girl might not longer be a maid, but better a fertile girl with fifty-thousand swords at her back than nothing.”

“And the Kingslayer’s brood in her belly,” Lord Connington grumbled.

“Nothing a cup of a moon tea can’t solve,” Lord Varys added sweetly.

Aegon felt only disgust, but perhaps that was another thing he had to get used to.

“I shall wed and bed whoever maid or girl you see fit,” Aegon replied determinedly and swept his gaze over the crowd of people. “I am only a green boy, but the blood of the dragon runs through my veins. I cannot promise you success, but I can promise you that shall reward you all handsomely for your loyalty.”

With the gold I received from Magister Illyrio. My half-brother was not wrong. I am truly a beggar. Well, I shall put my falsely-acquired wealth to work. For when they see me again I shall look down on them from the Iron Throne. Then, my Aunt will hopefully see her folly. Then, she will abandon the bastard and join her trueborn blood…

Strickland remained hesitant and searched Aegon’s face.

“Nobody says that you have to wed her, but to return without her support seems quite a risky ploy to me, your Grace. The Lords of the Seven Kingdoms might mock your supposed claim.”

“Then I shall prove them wrong,” Aegon replied with feigned determination. “And when the time comes I shall welcome my Aunt home. I am sure she will be pleased to receive help to stabilize her ever-spreading kingdom in the east. And when she is old and grey…Well, who will inherit these lands if she has no heirs of her own? My children.”

“So much is true,” Lysono agreed. “A kingdom without an heir is doomed to fall into chaos.”

“Yet, there is another matter we should take into consideration,” Strickland added. ”Stannis Baratheon has claimed the Iron Throne. What makes you think he will yield the crown to you, your Grace?”

“Stannis Baratheon is no danger to our King,” Lord Varys promised. “His realm is falling apart as we speak. The Kingslayer is sharpening his fangs in the west. Robb Stark abandoned him to fight the Ironborn. All Stannis Baratheon has are the Stormlords, some Lords from the Reach, the Crownlands and the ever splintered Riverlords. Half of them will flock to Aegon’s banner the moment they hear about his return. Lord Hoster Tully was not kind to those that kept their loyalty to House Targaryen. Most importantly, Stannis Baratheon is even less liked than the Kingslayer. His Red Witch makes those devoted to the Faith uncomfortable, especially Lord Hightower, who could be a valuable ally in our future plans.”

This roused Aegon’s curiosity.

“How so?”

“Lord Hightower’s son was most devoted to your Lady Mother, your Grace,” Lord Varys explained. “But that is not the only reason. House Hightower was always close to the Faith. They would not bow to a heathen King.”

“And Dorne shall join you too,” Quentyn added awkwardly and searched Strickland’s face. “I see not why you are cautious to act? I thought the men of the Golden Company were brave.”

“I am no craven, my boy,” Strickland replied, his voice laced with anger. “The gold Magister Illyrio was more than generous, but I love these men as if they are my own children. I do not wish to see them butchered needlessly.”

“I understand that,” Aegon assured him and searched his face. “But I am sure of it. I am the only dragon you need.”

Lord Connington patted Aegon’s shoulder and flashed Strickland an icy look.

“Stop acting a craven, Strickland. Toyne would bloody your nose for your hesitation.”

“I would rather die in Westeros,” one of the men chuckled. Aegon vaguely recalled that he was named Marq Mandrake. “Then to rot here in Essos until the end of my days.”

“I rather have a nice castle to keep me warm,” added a man whom Aegon recalled as Tristan Rivers. “And a wife would be nice. A wife with big tits.”

“I rather kill a handful of Fassoways!” Ser Franklyn added cheerfully. His mother had been supposedly raped by a Fassoway. At least, that is what he had told Aegon over a cup of wine. “Time to cut some green apples!”

When Aegon heard the men’s excited whispers, Aegon knew that he had won them over.

Strickland’s face was as red as a lobster as the men laid their swords at his feet.

He rose at last to do the same.

He was another man Aegon couldn’t trust, but perhaps that was for the best.

It seemed trust was not something a King could afford.

...

Chapter Text

Jon

The sun was descending in the east when they landed near a water place to rest. They had flown for hours, but made regular breaks as the dragons had the tendency to get to restive when they are exhausted.

Almost like children, Jon thought as he watched Rhaegal curl his spiky tale around his body after he had dug a hole into the ground. Drogon was double his size and was feasting on a mountain lion he had picked up from the ground as if he was nothing boy a child’s toy.

The carcass was black and steaming and if they were lucky they would get some leftovers.

His stomach was growling at the smell of the meat.

“Drogon looks hungry. I doubt he will leave food for us,” Dany remarked with a chuckle as she continued to wash her tattered dress in the water. It had been drenched with blood and grime from the war paint that had covered her entire body. Now there were only a handful of stains left on her arms and legs, but a quick wash had helped to remove most of it.

Jon frowned as he sat down beside her near the shore. The water place was nothing more than a small puddle in a sea of dust and heat, but it went deep and the water was cool and clean.

There might even be some fish to catch, Jon mused as he watched the rippling movements of the dark green water. They were caused by Dany, who was still trying to clean her dress.

Jon understood why. It was her only garment, besides the tattered cloak he had given her to cover herself. Even her feet were bare and her silver hair was shorter than he recalled.

It burned off, she had told him when he had watched her unwind the knots in her tangle of silver locks. I have to thank Drogon for that.

Jon didn’t care. She was still the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

You would look pretty even without hair, he had teased her in return and had earned himself a startling smile.

I looked like that after I birthed my children, she had explained to him. The fire burned away all my hair.

Jon had tried to imagine Dany without hair, both on her head and between her legs. Some of the whores in Volantis had shaved away their hair, which had both surprised and confused him.

The thought made his cheeks burn with shame.

I shouldn’t be thinking about such inappropriate things given our dire situation.

Dany had avoided telling him every detail about her stay with the Dothraki, but Jon couldn’t imagine that it had been a pleasant experience given her bloody dress.

The sight had angered him and had made him wish that he had reached her sooner.

“I doubt that is much use,” Jon added hesitatingly. “ I think it would be better for you to keep my cloak and take a proper bath.”

Dany sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

“Perhaps you are right. A Queen shouldn’t smell like a heap of dung when she returns to the city she is ruling.”

Jon doubted the others would care.

“I am sure everyone will be relieved to have you back, but I agree. I think we both need a proper bath,” Jon added and jerked his head at the water, shrugging off his boots as he went. His breeches and tunic followed, the cool water embracing him like a mother her child.

The cool water washing over him made him sigh. He never wanted to leave, but his need for air forced him to return back to the surface.

Not much to his surprise, he found Dany smiling back at him, her wet hair clinging to her flushed face.

“That was quick,” Jon teased and splashed a handful of water into her face. “But then you had an advantage.”

“Fool!” she had squealed and had retaliated quickly. “Ah! It’s cold!”

Jon had quickly grabbed her by the waist, struggling with her for dominance like children in a wrestling match.

She prove faster than anticipated and slipped out of his grasp after she had kicked him, though she had been kind enough to avoid his groin.

Jon clenched his teeth when she had brushed his wound.

Dany froze, her violet eyes glittering with fear.

“Gods,” she gasped and touched his cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

“It is a mere cut,” Jon informed her and squeezed her hand, directing her back to the shore, where he sat down to examine the wound that had been knitted together by Lady Lyanna.

My mother, he reminded himself and was relieved to see that the wound had continued to heal. It made him wonder if she cared that he was gone. She certainly hadn’t cared enough to stay with him.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he assured her again as he pulled on his breeches, followed by his tunic and boots. “But I should have been more careful. We don’t have time for this. We ought to return as quickly as possible.”

Dany sighed and picked up his tattered cloak from the ground to wrap the garment around her body. “We should be able to make it on the morrow…that is if we fly all day and my two stubborn children are willing to obey.”

Jon chuckled and brushed his wet hair out of his face, before lying back on the green grass that sprawled a few leagues along the water place.

Jon could have stayed forever in this place. The sound of rushing water was better than a lullaby.

Yet, he also longed for a different kind of place. The godswood of Winterfell and the feeling of snowflakes melting in his hair.

If all went well they would soon return home.

Strangely, that prospect filled Jon with more fear than anticipated.

More than a thousand times he had imagined facing his brother and uncle, but it always felt unreal, as if he had stepped right into a nightmare.

“Jon,” Dany’s voice caused him to lift his head and turn to his side. “Did you hear what I said?”

“No,” Jon replied honestly and brushed his hair out of his face once more. “What did you say?”

“I said that that I do not know what to do with Aegon.”

He understood what Dany meant. Aegon hadn’t done much to endear himself to Jon, calling him a bastard and what not, but then he also understood his anger to a certain extent, especially when it came to his mother.

“I think Aegon is jealous,” Jon offered as a possible explanation for his headless actions in trying to mount Viserion. “And impatient to return home.”

“That our meeting didn’t go as he expected, probably added to his dissatisfaction. And the fact that I won’t bear him silver-haired heirs was probably the cherry on the top.”

“Still, no reason to kill your men and trying to steal a dragon.”

“Steal is the wrong word, though,” Dany countered unhappily and shook out her wet hair. “The dragons are my children, but they are not my property. A dragon is no slave and chooses his rider independently. Truly, all Aegon had to do was show a little bit of patience and I might have let him try mounting Viserion. I just wanted to be sure if I can trust him.”

“Sadly, he has shown that he cannot be trusted.”

“True,” Dany agreed and averted her gaze. “But I cannot disprove his claims. Killing him…I don’t think I want to do that…I allowed Drogo to kill Viserys and for a time I thought it was the right thing to do, but now I am thinking that my bareness was my punishment for killing my own blood.”

“He threatened your child,” Jon reminded her and touched her shoulder. “A true brother wouldn’t have done that. Besides, I doubt you would be here if Viserys had lived.”

Dany lifted her head and gave him a hesitant smile.

“You are probably right, but thinking of Viserys’ death makes me uncomfortable. Sometimes, I dream of him…he is begging me to spare him and I can’t bear to look at him in those dreams.”

“You loved him despite his cruelty,” Jon summed up her feelings.

It was similar with his Uncle. He felt anger whenever he thought about the lies he had given him, but then he could have also handed him over to Robert Baratheon. He committed treason for his sake, though that didn’t excuse his other actions…

Yet, despite Jon’s grudge couldn’t imagine ever harming Lord Eddard Stark.

He was a Targaryen. So much he had accepted by now, but he was also half a Stark and Arya would always be his sister. The same could be said about Robb, Bran, Rickon and Sansa.

They were his family as was Dany and perhaps even this…Aegon, this half-brother that saw him as nothing but a bastard. Mayhaps Lady Lyanna as well, once he found it in him to overlook her past actions.

She is my mother, he reminded himself again and recalled his fight with Aegon. I defended her.

Yet, when he had seen Aegon’s tears he had also realized that this supposed brother of his had been hurt by his mother’s mummery.

And while Jon had defended his mother against his supposed half-brother, he had also understood his pain.

He too had been bereft of a ‘true mother’, because his father hadn’t done what should have done, namely bring Lady Lyanna back to her family or at least come forward and explain his intentions.

That is what I would have done, Jon thought and watched as the first stars appeared on the distant horizon.

Mayhaps then Robert Baratheon would have never been able to seize the crown.

Then Dany and Aegon could have grown up safely and mayhaps even his cruel Uncle Viserys would have turned out right. He certainly wouldn’t have had a chance to sell Dany to a Khal.

She would have probably grown up like a Princess and I… I might not have existed at all.

And mayhaps that would have been better for all. Catelyn Stark certainly thought so when she had wished him the life of a cripple.

Jon must have been cursed at birth. A child of an unholy marriage wouldn’t be liked by the gods.

That he was an oathbreaker only added to his shame.

Yet, whenever he looked at Dany he realized that he would have never met her if his foolish father hadn’t wed his mother.

It wasn’t a state he longed for, a world without knowing her.

It was a selfish thought, but then all love was selfish to a certain extent.

The death of duty, Maester Aemon had called it.  Our greatest gift and our greatest tragedy.

“Jon!” Dany’s voice and pull on his shoulder roused him back from his whirl of thoughts. “Where is your mind?”

“With my brother. I think we ought to be careful how we handle him.”

Dany nodded her head and embraced him, resting her head on his shoulder.

Her silver hair tickled his nose and his eyes grew heavy, the longing for food suddenly gone.

“You look tired,” she said, her warm breath brushing his cheek. “I shall watch over the dragons.”

She was about to sit up, but Jon grabbed waist, keeping her in place.

“You ought to rest too.”

She chuckled and lay back down.

“Perhaps you are right.”

Sleep came easy that night as the heat had tired him out.

It was the rolling sound of horse hooves that roused him from his peaceful slumber.

Jon instinctively grabbed for his sword and swept his gaze over the dragons. Rhaegal had stirred as well and Drogon had opened his eyes, snapping his tail left and right as was watched the approaching horde of riders.

Jon’s heart raced as he watched their approach, their cries echoing in his ears like the booming sound of spring thunder.

Rhaegal must have felt his tension, because he pulled himself to his full height, smoke rising from his nostrils.

“Gods be good,” Dany gasped and held unto Jon’s shoulder after she had roused from her sleep.

“Go!” Jon told her and pushed her towards Drogon.” “Quickly.”

Jon followed close and was about to climb on Rhaegal’s back when the first  riders enclosed them in a formation that was reminiscent of a noose closing around a man’s neck.

Yet, they didn’t unleash arrows upon them, which confused Jon.

“Wait!” Dany called to Jon when one of the riders stopped his horse at an appropriate distance. “I know him.”

Jon couldn’t make out the man’s face, but he looked young, the bells on his braid ringing softly as he moved.

“Dany! What are you doing?” Jon called after her, but she had already dismounted and was back on the ground, holding her dress in place with one hand as she spoke to the young man in the coarse tongue of the Dothraki.

Jon understood no word, but the young man’s reply was short and a heartbeat later he was kneeling before Dany offering his curved blade to her like a knight giving his oaths of loyalty to his lord.

Dany gave a quick answer and smiled as she touched the blade.

The young man rose again and many more of the warriors that had accompanied him came forward, repeating the young man’s actions.

Jon could only stare in confusion as he watched these people that had followed them all the way.

Most were warriors, but there were also women and children.

Dany seemed pleased to see them and even picked up one of the children, speaking to each of them as if she knew them by face and name.

Jon felt a little out of place until Dany turned around and pointed first at the dragon and then at Jon.

The young man with the many bells smiled at Jon and dipped his head in greeting.

“This is Haquo,” Dany introduced the young man. “He offered his service to me.”

Jon was flabbergasted and didn’t know what to say.

Dany smiled and whispered into his ear.

“They think me ‘the Stallion that Mounts’ the world. It is part of a mummery I used to get away from the Dosh Khaleen. I shall explain everything to you in good time, but be rest assured that I know these people. They were once part of Drogo’s khalasar.”

Jon had no high opinion of this Drogo, but he also didn’t know much about the Dothraki.

Dany did and he decided to trust her judgement.

“Welcome,” he greeted the young man with a tense smile. He had learned a handful of words in Dothraki, but it was not all too much. “I am Jon.”

The young man called Haquo laughed and so did some of his companions. Even, the little girl that was pulling on Dany’s arm had giggled.

“Your pronunciation needs more work,” Dany whispered. “You said something rather unfitting.”

Jon couldn’t help but to frown and didn’t dare to ask what he had said.

“Then, tell him that I am pleased to meet him.”

Dany’s smile was as bright as a star.

“Gladly.”

…

Chapter Text

Ned

It was close to sunset when Ned woke from his slumber. Groggily, he rubbed his eyes and pulled his furred cloak tighter around his shoulders to ward off the chill that easily penetrated the thick walls.

His dreams had been disturbing. These days, he often dreamed of Brandon, strangling himself to death as he was trying to reach for the sword that had been mockingly placed before him.

He had also dreamed of his Lord Father, the billowing flames had embracing him like a lover. He had heard his screams and the cackling laughter of the mad man perched on his twisted chair.

Ned hadn’t been there when his brother and father had perished, but he had imagined the scene a thousand of times.

After the rebellion he had brushed away these dark memories, intent to forget about them, even about his wayward sister, but now he found himself thinking more and more about the past and the secrets he had buried there.

Tonight, he had seen Lyanna’s face again. Pale and hollow, after the long birth that had nearly taken her life. She had been half dead when they found her, her bedcloth drenched with blood and scattered with faded winter roses that she had torn from the crown the Prince had gifted her at the tourney of Harrenhall.

Even now, he could smell the heavy scent of the faded flowers and blood in his nose. At times, the memory was so strong that he felt the urge to empty his stomach on the dusty ground of his cell.

It could have been worse, he supposed. The Wildings could have butchered him like they had done with the others, but they hadn’t, because Donal Noye had saved his life by betraying his identity to the attacking enemy.

Ned didn’t know how many men had attacked Castle Black, but he doubted it had been more than a hundred men.

Yet, the attack had completely caught them off guard. They had fought, but the enemy had proved better prepared.

They had come with axes and spears in their hands and their bronze-and-leather shields on their backs. And war cries that had made the untrained men of the Night’s Watch bolt. Some had fought till the end, among them Donal Noye, who had killed three men at once while he had an arrow sticking in his shoulder and feet. In that moment, Ned had been reminded of Robert at the Trident. A demon in human form, jabbing his warmhammer at the enemy like a madman.

In truth, Ned hadn’t been there when Robert had fought Prince Rhaegar beneath the rushing banks of the River Trident, but he had heard the tale numerous times.

Robert had been so proud about his victory, but Ned felt only sadness when he thought of the past.  He had believed that Prince Rhaegar was a madman who had abducted his sister at sword point, but in the end he had only been a lovestruck fool.

A bloody fool, who hadn’t deserved this sad fate. Nor had his wife and smothered children. Ned had been aghast with horror when Robert had smiled at the sight of their butchered corpses and had given his old friend nothing but cold words before he had packed up his men and stormed off to find his sister in Dorne.

There, he had found her in an old watchtower and guarded by the Kingsguard. Ned and his companions had thought her a prisoner and had killed them one after another until only Ser Arthur Dayne had remained. Ser Arthur could have easily killed Ned hadn’t Lord Howland Reed taken him off guard by stabbing him the back.

It had been a pitiful death for a capable man like Ser Arthur Dayne. A death he hadn’t deserved and a death that was weighing down heavily on Ned’s consciousness. Lady Ashara hadn’t been able to forgive him, even after he had knelt beside her slippered  feet and had presented her brother’s sword to her. She had wept, her deep violet eyes full of anger as she had banished him from her solar.

Ned hadn’t protested and had left to seek out his sister and Lord Howland Reed.

They had brought Lyanna hastily to Starfall and while the Maester had been able to save her, she had been unconscious for weeks afterwards, her fever coming and breaking like the tide.

These handful of days as Lyanna was on the brink of dying, had given Ned too much time to think about the future and had spurred him to commit a grave folly.

He had taken his sister’s child, the boy she had born Prince Rhaegar in the last days of the Rebellion, and had sent him away . Jon Snow he had named him and had raised him as his bastard.

To protect him, Ned had justified his actions. And to protect my family from Robert’s wrath.

Ned had committed treason against the man he had named his King. A grave sin most would say, but he had given a promise and he had kept it to his best ability.

Of course, Ned couldn’t have refused his sister when she lay dying, but once he knew that she would survive he had been overwhelmed with a great fear.

Knowing Lyanna’s stubborn character she might very well try to stir up another rebellion.  It had been the Mad King who had murdered their brother and father, but it had been his sister’s foolishness that had driven Brandon into the Mad King’s arms.

That she hadn’t shown an inkling of remorse after she had woken, had only strengthen his belief. Ned had asked her to marry Robert for her boy’s sake, but she had spat into his face and called him names he hadn’t believed a well-bread lady like his sisters would be familiar with.

In that moment, Ned had scarcely recognized the girl he had known.

The Lyanna he had known had been stubborn, but had always known her duties. Their Lady Mother had made sure of that and when she had come to visit him in the Eyrie at age ten and two she had appeared to be the most well-mannered of ladies. Robert had been immediately taken with her and gushed about her for moons afterwards. Ned had thought that his friend was finally prepared to leave his wild ways behind him and was ready to settle down.

Naturally, Ned had encouraged Robert to propose to his Lord Father. That idea that Lyanna would be aghast about the match had never entered his mind, but then he had been young and had thought Robert the best man he had ever known.

Now he knew better than that. Robert had never grown up. A hundred years could have passed and he would have still remained the simple-minded boy that had chased every skirt in his vicinity and had loved to hunt the wildest of boars.

Lyanna had been right about that. So much Ned had seen when he had served as Hand of the King.

Robert wouldn’t have been a good husband to her.

Yet, this realization came much too late and now both his sister and her boy were lost to him.

I should have spoken to father to call off the betrothal. Mayhaps then she would have never run away with the Dragon Prince.

He had failed her just as he had failed Catelyn and his children.

Bran and Rickon, he knew were dead, slain by Theon Greyjoy, a boy he had raised as his son. Sansa might have very well survived the Battle of the Blackwater, but news about the south were scarce these days.

Only Arya and Robb remained to him. And Cat, wherever she was.

At times, Ned wishes he had done what Lyanna’s boy had done. Shed his black cloak and leave this frozen place behind, but now it was too late.

He was a hostage of Wildings and a possibly a burden to his son should he attempt subduing them.

Killing himself, would be the best way to go, but the Wildlings had taken good care in preventing him from doing something foolish like that.

They had removed everything from his cell that could serve as a tool to do harm.

Not that Ned wanted to die. Back then in King’s Landing,  he had brazenly told Lord Varys how he would rather die with honor than lie.

In the end, he had done the contrary. He had lied to save Sansa and Arya.

He had also lied to save the life of Lyanna’s boy.

No, that was not true. Had the boy stayed here at the Wall he would have probably found an early grave like so many of the other young recruits he had seen dying during the attack on Castle Black.

To think that the boy was save in the Night’s Watch was another one of his many miscalculations.

He had believed that Benjen would be able to keep him safe, to finally lift the responsibility from his shoulders…

It had been a selfish wish.

I should have refused Cat. I should have told her that the boy would say in Winterfell until his dying day. I should have found him a keep and a wife to wed.

I should…I should… I should…

It was like a rhyme in his head, slowly driving him to madness.

Not that there was much to do in this stinking cell. The darkness was his only companion and the occasional visit by his captors to bring him supper didn’t offer much reprieve.

It felt almost like a miracle when one of the Wildlings finally opened the door and allowed light to drive away the choking darkness.

“Lord Kneeler,” the man greeted him with a hint of mockery. He was a tall man that lacked ears. He was clean shaven and bald, with grey eyes and a very straight nose. His bronze scaled armor and his weirwood spear made him a appear every inch a fearsome warrior. “Mance wishes to see you.”

Ned had no reason to refuse as he pulled himself to his wobbling feet, balancing himself against the wall.

“I shall gladly attend to ‘his Grace’s’ court,” Ned replied mockingly.

It was too amusing. First he had to kneel before Cersei Lannister’s bastard and now he was about to kneel before an oathbreaker….

“Get him!” he commanded to the two guardsmen.

They grabbed him by the arms and steadied him as he tried to walk. An arrow had hit his leg during the battle and while Mance Ryder had sent men to attend to him, the wound continued to pain him at every step.

The Shield hall  was a long and dusty hall, now filled with Wildlings of all shapes and forms. A Thousand pairs of eyes followed him as he was led through the hall which’s rafters were infested with birds and rats. Before his entrance, laughter and music had dominated the hall, but now there was only silence.

At last, Ned stopped in front of a large table, where a man, presumedly Mance Rayder, was seated with his closest companions.

He didn’t look much like a King..

Mance Rayder was a slender man and of a middling height, but broader in chest than most men. His long brown hair had long turned grey and helped to soften his sharp face and shrewd brown eyes.

Next to him sat a woman of fair hair, a mewling babe at her breast. Beside her sat an even fairer woman, her golden hair kept in a long braid.

Her eyes were grey and in her hand she balanced a knife. She eyed Ned with suspicion.

“Lord Eddard Stark,” Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, greeted Ned with a weary smile. “I never thought a man like you would end up as a brother of the Night’s Watch. How did that happen?”

“I was punished for treason,” Ned replied curtly and met the man’s gaze. It wasn’t like he had anything to lose. “And I never thought an oathbreaker would be named King-Beyond-the-Wall. How did that happen?”

If Mance Rayder was insulted by Ned’s words, it didn’t show on his face.

He simply smiled and lifted his cup of ale, pointing at the fair lady at his side.

“This fair lady here saved my life. She is the reason for my oathbreaking. The babe in her arms is my son. A good reason I like to think, Lord Stark.”

Love, Ned thought. It was always love that made men forget about their duty.

It softened his dislike for the men in front of him. The men that will most likely murder his family.

“What do you want from me, your Grace?”

Laughter roared in Ned’s ears. Mance’s court seemed mightily amused by the way Ned had addressed their King.

“We do not use such titles among the Free Folk,” Mance Rayder explained and leaned back in his chair. He looked relaxed and comfortable. “I am Mance to most, Lord Stark.”

Ned gave a nod of acceptance.

“Well then, Mance. What do you want from me?”

“Your help,” Mance Rayder explained, his smile vanquished by the serious expression taking hold of his face. “I need your help, Lord Stark.”

Ned was stunned. That was not what he expected to hear.

“Help?” he asked. “Why would you need my help?”

“What did you think my plans are?” Mance asked and chuckled. “To blindly march my people into the North and see them butchered like sheep? No, that was never my intention.”

Ned swallowed hard and nodded his head in understanding.

“What is your intention?”

“To save my people from the enemy to the North…the Others. For your people they are mere tales, but for us they are quite real.”

The old Ned would have laughed, but he had heard enough from the survivors of the Great Ranging to deny the truth.

“Have you seen them?”

“I have and so have many others here,” Mance explained and pointed at an elderly man with a shaggy grey beard. “My friend Tormund Giantsbane lost a son to them.”

“I had to kill my boy. Nothing I am proud of,” the man named Tormund grumbled. He carried himself suddenly very different from the man that had cut apart Ned’s brothers.

He simply looked like a saddened father that had lost his child. That was a feeling Ned could understand.

“And I have lost two sons to the Ironborn,” Ned replied and exhaled deeply. “And I do not wish to lose another one to your people.”

“All fathers love their children,” Mance added approvingly and smiled at the babe nestled in his lady’s arms. “And I am one of them now. I want to see my son grow up, but the Free Folk cannot fight alone. We will have to work together if we want to survive the coming winter. How do the Starks say? Winter is coming.”

“Winter is coming,” Ned acknowledged. “And I shall speak to my son, but I cannot promise you success.

Mance smiled.

“I would have never asked for more, Lord Stark.”

…

Chapter Text

Lyanna

The bloodriders had led them deep into the Dothraki Sea, but they had yet to find Princess Daenerys and Jon. At first, Lyanna had been optimistic, but now after two week turns her hopes were beginning fade.

She didn’t even want to think of the possibility that her son or Rhaegar’s sister had found an early grave somewhere in this sea of yellow grass.

Where could the dragons have brought them, Lyanna wondered not for the first time. Rhaegar had often spoken about dragons, but he had never seen a real one. All his knowledge had derived from dusty books and  scrolls.

Princess Daenerys also called her dragons ‘her children’.

Would children harm their mother? Lyanna hoped not, but then her own son often looked at her as if he wanted to hurt or punish her, though not in a physical sense.

Even so, she had insisted on accompanying Ser Jorah on his search.

The grim Northman had rejected her help numerous times, but Lyanna had been persistent and soon Ser Barristan grown tired of their quarreling and had commanded Ser Jorah to take Lyanna with him.

Lyanna had been very pleased with herself, but so far she had been quite useless.

It were the Princess’ bloodriders who had done the most work, by leading them along some invisible trail. Their names were Aggo, Jhogo and Rhakaro. Aggo was the oldest of the three with broad shoulders and a serious face. Jhogo was the youngest, of a slender build and graced with a faint shadow of a mustache. He often spoke to Jorah and was quick to laugh. Somewhere in the middle was Jhogo, who sported a black mustache. He also wore more bells than the others. A good dozen, Lyanna had counted, which spoke for his prowess as a warrior at least that is what Ser Jorah had explained to her.

Said warrior was often watching her whenever she wasn’t looking.

Maybe he thinks it odd that I am riding with them, Lyanna thought and touched the dagger fastened at her belt. It wouldn’t be much use against such a hulk of a warrior, but she might be able to fight him off if he tried something stupid.

Well, Ser Jorah was also there. And while the grim Northman was not particularly courteous towards her, he doubted he would leave her to die.

Rhaegar’s sister exiled him, she recalled what Jon had told her. And he probably hopes to win back her trust…

“It is getting dark. We should prepare to make camp.” Jorah’s gruff voice rang in her ears and caused to turn her head. The landscape was covered with swaying grass of green and yellow, a gentle breeze brushing over her cheeks. Far off in the distance she noticed a silver stream and a cliffy landscape of mountains with red peaks.

Lyanna knew little about these never-ending grasslands lands and thus she decided not to question Ser Jorah’s judgements.

“Where?” Lyanna asked and swept her gaze over her surroundings. Here the grass stood not as tall as in other places and there were even a handful of trees that provided shade against the burning sun.  “Here?”

“No,” Jorah said and straightened himself in his saddle, pointing in the distance. “Not far from here we should be able to find a water place.”

Lyanna was relieved to hear that and kicked her feet into the sides of her horse, spurring it to a faster pace. “Then let’s go.”

They followed a down-trodden path until they reached a small water place, nothing more than a puddle in a sea of dust, yet it was enough to satisfy their need for water.

Lyanna spent some time watering her horse and offered her help to the bloodriders, but when they gave her strange looks she returned to Ser Jorah, who had taken shelter beneath one of the shady trees. One was crooked, with a pale bark and dark leaves.

Sweat was pouring down his temples and his bare head was shiny and sun-burned. Like her he was not used to the heat of Essos, but then he was also garbed in proper armor while Lyanna had put on a simple tunic, breeches and her riding boots.

“Here,” Lyanna offered her waterskin to Ser Jorah. “The water is a bit stale, but better than nothing.”

“I prefer this,” he replied glumly and took a gulp from his waterskin, that was filled with watered wine. “But your offer is welcome, my Lady.”

Lyanna nodded her head in understanding and sat down opposite of him, her legs crossed. She searched the landscape, hoping to see a sign of Ghost. The wolf had followed after them from Meereen, but had left them two days ago, probably to hunt or as Lyanna hoped to find Jon.

 “How long until we will find them?”

“I don’t know,” Jorah said and brushed the sweat from his brow. “Let’s hope the wolf finds them.”

Lyanna couldn’t help but to agree. “If anyone can find them it is Ghost.”

Jorah gave her a skeptical look. “You are quite convinced about the beasts’ abilities, my Lady.”

“And why not?” Lyanna asked with amusement. “Direwolves are much smarter than normal animals. My ancestors must have had a reason to keep them as their pets.”

“I hope so,” Jorah said and seized her up with his sharp grey eyes.

Lyanna chuckled.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Ser Jorah averted his gaze and sighed, putting his waterskin away.

“No.”

“Then why were you staring at me?”

“The boy looks like you. I doubted it at first, but no more. You are Lady Lyanna Stark and the boy is your son.”

Lyanna furrowed her bows and leaned back to balance herself on her hands.

“I can assured you…I am Lady Lyanna Stark and Jon is Prince Rhaegar’s son. Whether the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms will regard him as trueborn or as a bastard is open for debate, but he is your Queen’s nephew.”

“I accept that now,” Ser Jorah replied and inclined his head to look at her again. “And the other boy? This Aegon?”

Lyanna shouldn’t be surprised by his doubts and was momentarily at a loss of words.

“Lord Connington wouldn’t support a pretender.”

“Lord Connington could have been fooled,” Ser Jorah countered. “It would not be hard to find a boy with silver hair and purple eyes in Lys. How old was he when you first saw him?”

Lyanna didn’t like the sound of that, but gave Ser Jorah the answer he desired.

“Five.”

“Quiet old,” Jorah countered. “And for how long has this Jon Connington known the boy?”

Lyanna wished her answer was different.

“Not much longer than me, but I do not understand…” she trailed off.

“You do understand,” Ser Jorah insisted. “You don’t strike me as a foolish person, my Lady. Something is wrong here. Tell me, how did the boy survive?”

Lyanna swallowed hard and recounted what Lord Connington had told her.

“Lord Varys supposedly exchanged him for another babe and smuggled him out of the city.”

“Quite convenient, isn’t it?” Jorah muttered to himself and pondered her words, his bushy eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Then, he spoke again.

“I ask you as a mother, my Lady,” Ser Jorah began, his grey eyes narrowed as he looked directly at Lyanna. “Wouldn’t a mother save both her children? If there was really a chance to get her children out of King’s Landing, why didn’t Princess Elia do the same for her daughter?”

Ser Jorah’s question made her uncomfortable, but he was not wrong. Why would Elia Martell only save her son? Some might say that a Prince is simply more worth than a Princess, but then Princess Elia had hailed from Dorne, a place where women could inherit before their younger brothers.

There was only one possible explanation that came to Lyanna’s mind.

“Princess Rhaenys was nearly three. It is much easier to exchange a babe than a toddler.”

“True,” Jorah granted her. “But there are more discrepancies, my Lady. Ser Barristan told me that Prince Quentyn Martell hadn’t been aware of the boy’s existence. Why wouldn’t Lord Varys at least contact the boy’s family? I do not think Doran Martell would sell out his potential nephew to King Robert. He would have guarded this secret until his dying day. The only possible explanation I have is that this Lord Varys and this Magister Illyrio wanted to wait for the right moment.”

“So much is clear,” Lyanna agreed. “But I think I can explain that. Even Lord Connington believed that Aegon would need the support of his kin and a most preferably a marriage to Princess Daenerys to cement his claim. That is why we came to Meereen. Well, that failed. I doubt the Princess will be prepared to wed Aegon.”

“She is fucking your son,” Jorah grumbled, his voice laced with obvious displeasure. “I suppose it is in their blood.”

“What is done is done,” Lyanna added calmly. “I do not think it would be wise to try breaking them apart. The Princess seems quite stubborn and my son already hates me enough. I have caused him enough pain. Yet, I do not think we shouldn’t count out Aegon. He does have the Golden Company and I hope you won’t hate me for this, but can you blame me for wishing that the boy is truly Elia Martell’s son, Ser Jorah? I caused her death and I had hoped I could redeem myself somewhat by helping my son to the throne.”

Ser Jorah frowned.

“You would rather see that boy on the throne than your own son?”

Lyanna averted her gaze. The bloodriders were playing a game of dices, their laughter ringing loud in her ears.

It was a brief distraction, but Ser Jorah. demanded her attention.

“I asked you a question, my Lady?”

“I don’t care about the bloody throne. I never did. I want Jon to be happy, but you have to understand…I raised that other boy. I love him as if he is my own. I do not want to see him harmed. That is why I hope we can work together, despite Aegon’s foolishness, which had its cause in his justified anger for me.”

The expression on Jorah’s face told her that he didn’t agree with her idea.

“I do not care for the boy’s reasoning. He tried to steal one of the dragons. If had a say I would have thrown him into the darkest dungeon and be done with it. I also think we should not make any agreements with him until we can be sure about his legitimacy. The only person who can answer this question is Illyrio Mopatis, the fat cunt that fooled Prince Viserys into selling his sister to the Dothraki.”

“First we need to find them,” Lyanna told him and went to get her cloak, fastening the garment around her shoulders, before returning to Ser Jorah’s side.

She sat down, leaned against the tree and crossed her legs.

Then, she watched Ser Jorah as he sharpened  his blade, a fine sword made of castle-forged steel. He reminded her of her father and how he had always cleaned Ice seated beneath the weirwood tree in the godswood…

The world around her was still blurred in darkness when she was woken by the sound of horse hooves.

Lyanna rubbed her eyes and turned into the direction of the sound, finding Aggo, who must have returned from his watch. Every night, one of the bloodriders was searching the landscape for potential enemies.

“Aggo found your boy and the boy’s beast,” Ser Jorah explained to her when she joined them. “It seems they are travelling in company of a horde of Dothraki.”

Lyanna’s sighed in relief and searched Aggo’s face. “Ask him if he spoke with my son.”

Jorah asked him.

“Aye, he spoke to him,” Jorah explained to her as he was climbing back in his saddle. “Let us not wait any longer.”

Lyanna nodded her head and swung herself into her saddle, her heart filled with hope.

…

Chapter Text

Arya

The world around her was dying. In the matter of a week the trees had grown bare and the grass had turned yellow and dry like old parchment. The sun was also hiding away behind thick clouds scuttling over the distant sky like a horde of lost ships.

Winter is coming, Arya knew and rubbed her shoulders. She was wearing a cloak, but one made for southron people and not the thick ones made of bear pelt she used to wear in Winterfell.

I have grown soft, she thought and swept her gaze over the long winding road full of holes and puddles.

Rain had been their constant companion. Sometimes, it drizzled and sometimes it poured, but the thick forests lining the road had provided them with sufficient protection against the worst of it. Only one of their guardsmen had caught a harmless cold.

“It is going to rain again,” the Hound grumbled. “I hate he bloody rain.”

“Be at peace my friend,” the Elder Brother said in amusement. “The Inn at the Crossroads is not far.”

The Stranger, who was riding not far behind the Hound, remained silent as ever, the crow perched atop his shoulder his constant companion.

He scared her, but the Hound’s presence so close to her mother scared her even more and was the reason she always slept with one eye open, her hand resting on Needle’s slender hilt.

She had expected him to do something horrid, but so far he kept away from the others, minding his own business.

Arya still wanted him gone. She couldn’t bear to look at his ugly face or his bloody sword.

All she could think was that this blade had cut her friend apart.

He is only a stupid butcher boy, Sansa had said after Arya had wept over her friend’s death. Arya would have put dung into her sister’s bed hadn’t she been also affected by the Queen’s cruelty.

“He will pay for what he did to you,” Arya muttered to herself and galloped up the hill.

Her Lady Mother had been equally tongue-tied since they had left the Quiet Isle, the hood of her cloak always concealing her face.

At first, Arya had thought it was because of the icy wind, but now she knew why. Her Lady mother was afraid that someone might recognize her.

A highborn lady would make a fine hostage, she had heard her say to Ser Ryger not long ago. And the Tully coloring is well-known in these lands.

It was the only time in her life that she had recognized how fortuned she was to be born with plain brown hair and her horrid horseface.

It made her wonder what her betrothed would think of her. Sansa and Jeyne Poole had always called her Arya Horseface and many other names Arya had forgotten.

Only her Lord Father had called her ‘pretty’ and likened her to her Aunt Lyanna, but then he might have just wanted to comfort her.

Not that Arya cared. She didn’t want to disappoint Robb, but she would happy if this Harry something would think her too ugly to be his bride.

She knew what a silly thought that was, for men did not wed a woman for love or even for beauty, but for her inheritance or to build alliances. Only someone as silly as Sansa could believe that someone as rotten as Joff had wanted to wed her out of love.

Father grew up in the Eyrie and made many friends there. Mayhaps this Harry isn’t so bad.

“Arya,” her Lady Mother’s soft voice caused her to lift her head. “Put up your hood.”

Arya frowned.

“Why?”

“The Inn at the Crossroads is not far,” her Lady Mother explained and pointed ahead. “But I fear it is going to rain again.”

Arya huffed and pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair. She didn’t want to quarrel with her Lady Mother.

The road went on a while longer. Passing a familiar patch of wood, memories of her first travel south came back to her.

Not long, after a familiar village came in sight.

It consisted of nothing more than a small marketplace and a village with half a hundred white houses and a small sept.

The Inn at the Crossroads stood three stories tall with turrets and chimneys made of white stone. Its south wings were built upon pilings rising over a bed of weeds.

A throng of people was crowding the courtyard before the stables, dirty boys running back and fro, attending to the newcomer’s horses.

Ser Ryger was quick to put his men to work, even the Hound, who grumbled a rude answer at the old knight. The Elder Brother chided him gently and off their went again, the Stranger following after them like a dog led by an invisible leash.

Arya wasn’t afforded the pleasure of solitude and was quickly ushered inside by her Lady Mother and Ser Ryger.

The smell of ale and smoke filled her nose as they entered the long and drafty common room. There were wooden kegs at one end and a fireplace at the other. Children rushed back and forth, offering ale and wine to the guests and fresh pies and cakes.

The smell alone was enough to make Arya’s stomach growl.

Not long after, a girl appeared. She was thin, dark-haired and wore a green dress.

She was very young, but there was a hardness to her that made her look older than her years.

“I am Jeyne Heddle, my Lady,” she greeted and dipped her head. She had spoken very proper. There were no ‘M’Lords’ or ‘M’Ladies’ in her greeting. “How can I serve?”

“You are Marsha’s granddaughter, are you not?” her Lady Mother asked, her voice laced with surprise.

“My grandmother is dead,” the girl replied pensively. “She was strung up at the command of Lord Tywin Lannister, curse his rotten soul. She left everything to me.”

“It pains me to hear that,” her Lady Mother replied in a sad voice. “We only ask for a room for the night and a warm meal for our entourage.”

Then, she pulled a bag of coins out of her vest and showed it to the girl.

“Will that be enough?”

The girl’s serious face lightened up with surprise.

“Much too much.”

“Not too much, if you can give us a chamber far from the other guests. I do not want anyone to ask questions about our presence here.”

The girl gave her and understanding look.

“I understand, my Lady. My lips are sealed, but that is still too much coin. Our rooms are poor. The gods would curse me to accept so much.”

Arya sighed. Was the girl stupid or just proud?

“I say take the coin, sister!” piped a younger girl, who had suddenly poked her head over the wooden  table. “Then, we will be able to eat something other than stale broth. Gendry big, he needs proper food or he is going to starve.”

“Willow!” Jeyne Heddle snapped angrily and gave the girl a gentle slap over the head. “These are not common folk. You will apologize at once or you will go to bed without supper!”

“It is fine,” her Lady Mother said in an appeasing tone. “I am not insulted.”

Arya knew she should have nodded her head in agreement, but her gaze was still fixed on the girl named Willow.

Gendry, the girl had said. Could that stupid fool have survived after all?

“Gendry is here?”

Willow looked surprised.

“You know him?”

“He travelled with me. He is a bastard like my brother Jon. He has brown hair and  blue eyes and he always makes a stupid face when he thinks too hard.”

Arya had spoken so quickly, she had scarcely been able to breath. She must have also spoken rather loudly, for Jeyne Heddle, her Lady Mother and Ser Ryger were staring back at her with confusion.

“Gendry was my friend,” Arya continued to explain. “He protected me and Hot Pie and Lommy. He is a smith…he can makes sword and other useful things. He is a bastard, but he is a good one, like Jon.”

Her Lady Mother sighed deeply and shifted her attention to Willow and Jeyne.

“Do you know this Gendry, my Lady?”

Jeyne Heddle blushed and fumbled with the dirty hem of her dress. She looked almost like Sansa with that stupid smile curling on her lips.

“I know him, but we don’t call him Gendry. He is now Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill. Lord Beric, a friend of ours, knighted him and tasked him to protect me and the other orphans. He wields his hammer better than a sword, but he is still a true knight.”

“A bastard knight, then?” Ser Ryger asked, his voice laced with amusement. “I don not think it is appropriate for my Lady to…,” he began, but her Lady Mother cut him off.

“Is there a chance that this Ser Gendry will join us for supper?” her Lady Mother asked Jeyne Heddle.

“For sure,” the girl replied in obvious confusion. “He comes once his work in the smithy is done. I shall see that he attends to you, my Lady. Shall I show you the way to the rooms?”

“Please,” her Lady Mother replied and patted Arya’s arm as Jeyne Heddle was leading the way up the steps.  Arya followed wordlessly, still shocked what her Lady Mother had done just done.

Their chamber was dirty and the bed poor, but it was better than to sleep on the hard ground. Yet, the worst was the bath her Lady Mother forced upon her.

The water was lukewarm, quickly heated over the cookfire, but the soap made her skin prickle.

Then she was given fresh clothes, a simple grey dress and slippers..

“Can’t have you run about like a peasant,” her Lady Mother said sadly and placed a kiss on her wet brown hair. “Tell me, daughter. Does this boy know your real name?”

“Only Gendry knew, but he won’t tell anyone. He can be stupid, but he wouldn’t be that stupid. And he is quite loyal too.”

The expression on her Lady Mother’s face was telling.

It reminded her of the looks she used to give Jon, though less cold.

“Very well,” her Lady Mother said at last and pushed the door open. “Let’s join the others. Supper should be ready. You must be hungry.”

Arya was indeed hungry, but she was more anxious to see her friend. She needed to know what had happened to Hot Pie and Lommy, who had run away with Gendry, because they didn’t want to join the Night’s Watch.

The common hall was sparsely filled, among them more children than adults. They looked starved and some were armed with knives and axes.

Ser Ryger’s knights were seated around a wooden table, each of them having a tankard close at hand. The Hound sat on a lonely stool beside the hearth, his blade bare across his lap, the flames from the hearth making it gleam like the sun.

The Stranger sat in the shadows, his pale otherworldly face hidden beneath the hood of his cloak, his dark eyes watching the children. One of them was a long-legged girl that was playing a song on her lute. It was a familiar tune, but the girl’s play was lacking.

The Elder Brother sat with them, joking and talking to the children with animated gestures.

He looked like he was one of them, though two heads taller.

The only one who reached to the same height was a boy with a familiar face.

It was Gendry, but his hair was shorter and he had grown a beard.

Yet, he still carried the same dumb look and his blue eyes grew inclinedly wide when he saw her. “Arry! It’s really you! I thought Jeyne was trying to fool me!”

The boys and girls seated around him roared with laughter.

He stumbled to his feet, nearly knocking over his tankard as he went. He stopped in front of her, his hands dirty and greasy as he touched her clean dress.

He looked as if he wanted to pick her up and embrace her, but her Lady Mother’s presence stopped him.

“Will you introduce us?” her Lady Mother asked stiffly, her blue eyes of summer seizing up Gendry.

“This is Gendry,” was all that Arya managed to say. “And this is my Lady Mother.”

“Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill, my Lady,” Gendry added awkwardly and lowered his head. “I do not know how to conduct myself in front of highborn ladies.”

“It is fine,” Her Lady Mother assured him and leaned over Arya’s shoulder, her eyes searching Gendry’s face. “But I wish that my daughter’s name and identity remains unknown. Can you do that for me, Ser Gendry?”

Gendry blushed. “Of course!”

A ghost of a smile tugged on her Lady Mother’s lips as she waved her hand at their table. “You may sit with us and tell us about your adventures. My daughter spoke much about you.”

Gendry paled.

“I rather think not…,” he said and was about to bolt, but was caught by the Elder Brother.

“Not so fast, lad,” he said and took in Gendry’s appearance. “So, you are a knight? Where is your weapon and your shield? Do you even have a sigil?”

Gendry blushed.

“I have a warhammer.”

The Elder Brother nodded his head. “But a knight needs a sigil. It happens that I am rather gifted in the art of painting. What kind of a sigil do you have in mind, my boy?”

“A hammer should be on it and a hill,” he stuttered helplessly. “That would fit my name.”

The Elder Brother laughed and ruffled his hair.

“That should be no problem. Well, you will need to get a proper shield too.”

“I have never fought with a shield, Ser,” Gendry replied in an almost apologizing tone. “My hammer is all I know.”

“I will show you,” the Elder Brother assured Gendry and patted his shoulder. “And now go and sit down.”

Gendry swallowed hard and gave a hesitant nod. “Very well.”

They sat together, but pressed between her Lady Mother and Ser Ryger, who was eying Gendry like a hawke its prey.

Ser Ryger was even worse than Sansa.

Does he think Gendry is going to steal may maidenhead while my mother is eating next to him?

Bastards might be wicked, but not that stupid.

“So, you travelled with my daughter?” her Lady Mother asked in a tone that bordered on suspicion. “How come you ended up here?”

“I ran away, my Lady,” Gendry admitted, his gaze fixed on the table. “I, Hot Pie and Lommy. Lommy is now a carrier boy for the Brotherhood without Banners and Hot Pie works in the kitchens. He might join us later if he ever gets away from his beloved pies.”

Arya covered her mouth, holding back the laughter threatening to spill from her lips.

“Hot Pie made these,” Jeyne Heddle added with a tense smile and put a handful of pies on the table. They were soaked in honey and smelled delicious. “I hope you like them. I used up all the honey I had left.”

Arya took a bite and felt as if the doors of heaven had opened before her.

“Hot Pie will be pleased,” Jeyne Heddle remarked gently and brushed her hand over Gendry’s shoulder in a way that made Arya uncomfortable.

That Gendry smiled like a fool, made it only worse.

“Thank him on my behalf.”

They were eating while her Lady Mother and Ser Ryger were peppering Gendry with more questions. Arya helped him now and then, but he looked miserable.

 This would have probably continued, hadn’t Jeyne Heddle returned to gather the children around her like a mother hen her little fledglings.

She gave them each a kiss, but one of them, a bony boy with a tuft of blond hair and freckles, was not satisfied with a goodnight kiss and demanded a story.

“My Momma always told me a story,” he said with weepy green eyes. “Do you know one?”

Jeyne Heddle gave him a helpless look. “I fear not, little one.”

“I know one,” Willow said and ruffled the boy’s hair. “How about the burning of Harrenhall?”

The boy looked unhappy. “I know that one.”

“Everyone knows that one,” added a rosy-cheeked girl. “Do you know no other stories? I want one about knights and ladies?”

“I want a scary one,” another boy demanded. He was tall and had a broken nose. “With dragons and giants.”

“I know one,” the rattling voice of the Stranger interrupted them. “I know a scary story.”

All heads turned to look at him.

“What is it about?” the boy with the broken nose asked, his voice laced with childish curiosity.

The Stranger lowered his hood, baring his pale face to the light. His dark eyes gleamed, two black holes in an ashen face that might have once been quite comely.

“About the Others and the Children of the Forest.”

“I already know that one,” Arya scoffed. “And it isn’t that scary. Not even my little brother was afraid when he heard it.”

The Stranger’s face remained frozen as he turned his head to look at Arya.

“This tale is very old. It is the tale about the Great Other.”

“The Great Other?” Gendry asked and furrowed his brows. “I have heard of that one. Thoros spoke about him in passing…he is some sort evil lord or god…the enemy of the god of light. But what does he have to do with the Children of the Forest?”

A glimmer of emotion kindled in the Stranger’s dark eyes.

“Let me tell the story.”

“Aye, shut up, Gendry! We want to hear the story! Please tell us more!” The children demanded in unison and gathered around the Stranger as if he was some benevolent minstrel and not an odd man who spoke to crows.

A moment of silence passed, before the Stranger spoke, his voice changing to a different, almost human voice.

“During the Dawn Age the children thrived in these lands. Nature was their mother and earth their father. They lived under the protection of the great weirwoods that were said to work wonderous magic. They could enter skin of animals and composed songs so beautiful that men would weep. That was until the First Men came, who were so very different from them. Like moon and sun, like sky and earth, like ice and fire, these two sides could not coexist without conflict. And so it happened. It started with the harvesting of the rainwood trees, but that was only the beginning. Soon the First Men became weary of this child-like folk that wished to command them. Fearful and envious of their magic, they burned down their heart trees and started to slaughter them one after another. For thousands of years these two races fought for dominance. In a futile attempt the Children used the hammer of the waters to shatter the Arm of Dorne with the Breaking, creating the Broken Arm and the Stepstones in hopes to ward of these foreign men pouring into their lands like a pestilence. Yet, it was no use, for the First Men had already taken root and the Children were not able to overcome their weapons of bronze and fire. The Crow King, the powerful greenseer ruling over the Children, realized that the only way forward was to find a way to exist peacefully with the First Men. What followed was the forging of the First Pact, in which the Children granted the open lands to men and the forests to the Children. This Pact lasted for four thousand years, but as always, peace is never lasting, especially not in the hearts of humans. They are not like the Children, for their lifespan is short and they always crave for more, but by then it was already too late. The Children had committed a grave mistake…,” the Stranger trailed off, allowing a moment of silence, like Nan would do whenever she wanted to build suspense.

“What grave mistake?” asked one of the children. “What did they do?”

“They started breeding with the First Men, bringing forth odd mongrels, gifted with the greensight and immune to the poison of the bronze weapons of the First Men. They say that the Crow King’s daughter wed one of the many Kings of the First Men beneath one of the Great Weirwoods and conceived a child...a Prince…the Great Other.”

“Why do they call him Great Other?” the Hound asked, his voice laced with annoyance. “Sounds very plain to me.”

“Others…outsiders…half-breed,” these were the names given to them by the Children and the First Men, for as time passed it became evident that they could never exist in both worlds. Some of these half-breeds joined the Children and others remained with the First Men, but there were those who did not choose and lived among themselves. They were said to have build their own kingdom far off in the North. Their leader, he was the cursed child I spoke about. He was scorned by the First Men and the Children alike. And his own folk worshipped him like a god.”

“Why?” Arya asked. “What made him so different from the others?”

“The greensight was strong in him,” the Stranger explained. “And you know what they say about power. It breeds jealousy and fear. The Crow King, his grandfather and the wisest of the greenseers, feared him the most. He mistrusted this half-breed gifted with the greensight and filled with human ambitions.”

“And that bit them in the ass, didn’t it?” Ser Ryger asked. “What a man sows always comes back to him.”

“Yes,” the Stranger said. “The Children and the First Men harvested what they sowed, but there was a reason for their woe. The Others were once men of flesh and blood, but something corrupted them, but let me first tell you about the breaking of the First Pact.”

“As it came, the peace didn’t last forever, for the First Men started another war. The songs speak of the burning of one of the Great Trees by the hand of a First Men King who wanted to take revenge for some petty punishment the Children dealt him for hunting a stag. This time, the First Men didn’t stop their butchery and the Children grew desperate. How could they hope to prevail against the First Men, with their poisoned weapons forged in fire? The Great Other saw their desperation and saw an opportunity. He promised them help in the form of dark sorcery long forgotten. Sorcery that hailed from the lands beyond the Narrow Sea, magic of ice, blood and earth.”

“What sorcery? Shadow magic?” Gendry asked, his voice laced with childish wonder.

“Spells of ice,” the Stranger explained. “Magic to command the dead, to preserve one’s life forever, brought forth by an even sinister man.”

“Who?” one of the girls asked fearfully.

“A name not well known in Westeros. The Bloodstone Emperor, another tale. What you must now is this: the Great Other was a well-travelled man, who spend hundreds of years in foreign lands, learning and studying the dark arts. The children were desperate and thus they employed his help. A grave mistake.”

“Why? He didn’t defeat the First Men, didn’t he?” Another boy asked excitedly.

“No, he did not defeat the First Men,” the Stranger answered in a solemn and soft voice. “But he was not without success. He drove them back and those that lingered he hunted down one after another. They say he drank their blood, weaving more spells from it, one more terrible than the next. Soon, not only men were bound to his will, but other creatures. Giants, spiders, wolves, horses and birds, everything living creature that came his way easily bent to his will like metal to the heat of a forge. Yet, he did not receive the recognition he had hoped for…,” the Stranger trailed off.

Silence reigned for a moment, only the hushed whispers of the children and the cackling of the flames ringing in Arya’s ears.

Finally, the Stranger continued.

“Victorious and drenched in the lifeblood of his enemies he returned and came before the Crow King, his grandfather. Some admired him for his power, but most feared him. The Crow King most of all, who had long realized what a danger this half-breed Prince posed. He saw the corruption in his heart, tainted by the sorcery he had used. Even so he had allowed him to speak, for he could not deny that this half-breed Prince had done him a grand favour ‘I have found the magic to make myself long-lived like my mother’s folk. I have defended your people against our mortal enemies! I have slaughtered them in the thousands and fed upon their blood! They shall no longer trouble us once I have completed my task! But this last song shall not be woven until you heard my demands!’. The Crow King knew about the ambitions simmering deep in his grandson’s heart, for he was well-learned in the gift, but even so he allowed him to speak, for among the Children it was a grave sin to not hear the mind of man that had done good service. “Give your demands’ the Crow King had asked in a heavy voice and the half-breed Prince had not hesitated, for this ambition had long been burning in his heart. ‘I ask for you to name me your heir. I wish for the antlered crown and your black cloak and your pale seat carved of the finest weirwood. I am of your blood and I am well-learned in the Gift: Under my protection, our people shall prosper and thrive!’. And perhaps the half-breed Prince had been right, for he had accomplished what his half-brothers hadn’t been able to do, but that could not sway the Children. Their old ways were well-ingrained in their hearts. A half-breed could not be their King and wear the antlered crown and the black cloak or sit on the weirwood chair. The Crow King knew this and refused his demands.”

“But the Great Other didn’t accept that, did he?” the Hound asked. “Ambitious men like that do not bend easily, not even to Kings.”

“No,” the Stranger confirmed. ”As expected, he did not accept the Crow King’s blatant refusal, for his heart had long been burned up by his own ambitions, leaving nothing but ash. Not long after,  He slew the Crow King, donned his antlered crown, his black cloak and drank his blood. Those who shunned him called him ‘the Cursed One’ and those few who admired him called him the ‘Great Other’. The rest of the tale is known to you.”

“The Long Night came and shrouded the world in darkness until the Others were defeated in the Battle of the Dawn, made possible by the First Hero who had forged an allegiance between men and the Children of the Forest,” Arya replied in a frustrated tone. She had hoped to hear more. “You seem to know an awfully lot. Or perhaps you embellished this tale to make it scarier?”

The Stranger angled his head, his dark eyes boring into her.

“I did not, child,” he said. “The boy asked for a scary tale and I gave one. That is all.”

“A grim tale for sure,” her Lady Mother added tensely and pulled on Arya’s shoulder. “But now I think it is time we rest.”

Arya knew there was no use to quarrel with her Lady Mother and accepted her command. That she was exhausted made it all too easier, though the strange tale the Stranger had given her occupied her mind for a long time…

It was the thunder of hoofbeats that roused her from her uneasy sleep.

Fearful, she had quickly slipped out of the bed and had stormed to the open windows.

“Gods, what is happening?” she heard her Lady Mother’s fearful voice, but Arya’s attention was fixed on the riders below. They carried no banners, but they were well-armed with axes, swords and bows.

It was the cloak of the leader that betrayed their identity. He was a handsome man, seated on a black courser, a dirty satin cloak decorated with stars swishing behind him and a forked purple lightning bolt embellished on his breastplate.

Lord Beric Dondarrion and his band of outlaws had come.

…

Chapter Text

Sam

Sam watched the sky of Braavos change to a silvery grey, hopping nervously from one foot to the other. A thick mist had hung over the city all day, but now, so close to sunset, the sky had cleared again.

It was much pleasant here in Braavos compared to the Wall, but Sam knew that the Free Cities were supposed to be much warmer even at the beginning of winter.

This will the longest winter in a thousand years, he recalled what Maester Aemon had told him.

The thought made him shudder. He couldn’t imagine a winter lasting for so long. He couldn’t even imagine constant darkness.

“They promised to be back before sunset,” Sam complained to Gilly, who sat huddled next to the hearth, her hair tangled and her babe at her breast. “Grenn must have gotten distracted and Pyp, he is never up to anything good.”

Gilly chuckled. “You worry too much, Sam.”

“It is just…I am dying from hunger,” Sam couldn’t help but to complain. His last meal had been around midday and

Grenn had promised them wine and cakes.

“We could buy some supper below,” Gilly offered, but Sam gave her a sharp look.

“We cannot afford that,” he explained and shifted his attention to Maester Aemon, who was covered with two layers of pelt.  The travel had been hard on him, but now a hint of color was finally returning to his face.

A smile crossed over his lips when Sam drew closer.

“What is it, Samwell?” he asked, his trembling hand holding unto the handle of his chair. “Are you upset?”

Sam marveled at his ability to read his emotional state.

“How did you know, Maester?”

“Your walk. You sound like giant when you are angry. Have Grenn and Pyp returned?”

“Not yet,” Sam replied and sat down on the stool before the hearth, rubbing his hands. “I am sure the two are up to no good.”

“Probably,” the old man chuckled. “That is a common thing among young men, though I would hope to spread some tales about the valor of the Night’s Watch as they go about their business.”

Sam nodded his head and closed his eyes as he leaned against the stone wall. Soon, his eyes grew heavy, Gilly’s singing voice lulling him into a soft sleep.

It was the sudden sound of a cracking door that woke him from his slumber and nearly caused him to kiss the ground. He still hit his head and squeaked in pain, which caused Maester Aemon and Gilly to turn their heads to look at him.

“I apologize, Sam,” Pyp replied in surprise and held the door open for Grenn, who carried all kinds of things. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Sam smiled at his friends and hopped to his feet.

“It is no bother,” he stuttered. “And you brought food! Marvelous!”

“Pyp got lost when he ran after a whore,” Grenn grumbled and sat down before the hearth. “Eventually, I found him and we got the promised food. Show Sam what you got. He looks half starving.”

Sam blushed. “It is not that bad.”

“You have been complaining all the time,” Gilly added amusedly and helped Pyp unpack the food.

Not long after, they were having a plain supper. They had apples, wine, cheese and bread. None of it really suited Sam’s taste. The apples tasted stale, the cheese smelled, the wine was too bitter and the bread tasted strange, though it was soft enough to be consumed by Maester Aemon.

A hollow rumbling echoed off the roofs of Braavos, when they had finished their meal.

Sam felt about going to sleep, but the sudden knock at the door stopped him.

“Who could that be?” Grenn asked.

“Maybe the Mistress,” Pyp added and took a gulp from the flagon of wine. “What was her name again? Merry?”

“Forgot,” Grenn grumbled and rose to his feet, to open the door. “Let’s see.”

Blurred lights from outside filtered into the room, casting the man in shadows.

“Who are you?” Grenn asked as Sam joined him, though he kept a safe distance in fear the man could mean harm.

I am still a craven, he thought, his heart racing. Sam the coward they should have called me.

“I am Marwyn,” the man introduced himself as if that explained everything.  “I think I am being expected?”

The man named Marwyn looked rather odd, though his clothing hidden beneath his black travelling cloak, gave some indication of his occupation. He wore a grey robe and a chain of many metals around his bull’s neck. Save for that, he looked more like a thug. His head was too big for his body and the way it thrust forward from his shoulders, together with that slab of jaw, made him look as if he were about to tear off one’s head. Though short and squat, he was heavy in the chest and shoulders, with a round, rock-hard ale belly straining the laces of his leather jerkin. Bristly white hair stuck from his ears and nostrils like weed. He also had the biggest hands Sam had ever seen.

“Expected?” Sam asked in confusion. “Expected by whom?”

“By me,” Maester Aemon’s croaking voice echoed through the room. “It is good to see you, old friend.”

“Aemon Targaryen,” the man named Marwyn answered and laughed, but didn’t step inside at once. “I never thought to see you again.”

“Allow him inside, boys,” Aemon demanded in a gentle tone.

Sam and Grenn moved out of the way and allowed the man entrance. They were stunned when they noticed his companion.

It was a slender boy with a soft smile. His skin was the color of teak and his dark hair curled into a thousand small ringlets. He too wore a cloak and beneath breeches and a snug dark brigandine with iron studs.

“I am Alleras,” the boy introduced himself. “Well met.”

“I am Sam,” he replied and pointed at Pyp and Grenn. “And these are my friends Pyp and Grenn,” he continued and waved his hand at last at Gilly. “And this is Gilly and her baby. Maester Aemon seems to know you.”

“Aye, we know each other,” Marwyn chuckled as he shrugged off his wet cloak.  “How long has it been since we have last seen each other, Aemon?”

“Too long,” Aemon replied in a heavy voice. “Too long.”

“I was sad when I heard about the misfortune that befell your family,” Marwyn added and leaned down to touch Aemon’s hand. “Especially, the fate of Prince Rhaegar. He was a cynic and far too curious for his own good, but he had a sharp mind. I never imagined he could become as mad as his father and steal a maid from her bed to rape her.”

“He didn’t,” Aemon replied without hesitation, his voice suddenly hard and distant. “It seems that was a lie, one of many.”

Marywn seemed surprised, but let the matter rest, his gaze flickering to Sam.

“Is that Randyll Tarly’s boy?”

“That is him,” Aemon confirmed and touched Marwyn’s arm. “Did you bring your things?”

Marwyn nodded his head and waved his hand at Alleras, who carried a bag made of thick fur slung around his shoulder.

The boy was quick to unpack a good number of bound parchments and at last a dark candle, which he placed atop the wooden table where they had had their supper not long ago.

“I brought everything I could find…the candle as well, though one of the smaller ones.”

“Wonderful,” Aemon said. “Sadly, I can’t see it.”

Sam took in the candle. There was something queer about it.

The candle was unpleasantly bright and the flame did not flicker. The light did something strange to the colors too. Whites were bright as fresh-fallen snow, yellow shone like gold, reds turned to flame, but the shadows were so black, they looked like holes. The candle itself was as slender as a small spear and made of a glittering black material. It looked like the daggers they had found in the wilderness near the Fist of the First Men. There was also a horn, Sam had kept as a token.

“What is that?” Sam asked.

“Obsidian,” Alleras added cheekily as he looked over to Marwyn. “Or Dragonglass, isn’t that so, Archmaester?”

“Archmaester,” Sam stuttered. “You are an Archmaester?”

“Why not?” Marwyn asked and wrinkled his beetled brows. “Is there a specific way an Archmaester ought to look like? Aemon said you are a smart one, but you don’t sound like it.”

“Samwell has a sharp mind indeed,” Aemon added friendly. “But he is a bit awkward with new people. Do not mind him.”

“Dragonglass you said,” Sam repeated and took in the candle once more. “Never heard of it.”

“It burns, but is not consumed,” Archmaester Marwyn added solemnly.

Sam was confused, trying to make sense of what he had been told.

“But what feeds the flame?”

“What feeds dragonfire?” Marwyn asked and smiled. “All Valyrian sorcery was rooted in blood or fire. The sorcerers of the Freehold could see across mountains, seas, and deserts with one of these glass candles, though their existence probably predates the Freehold and Valyria itself. Through the candles one can also enter a man’s dreams and give him visions and speak to one another half a world apart. What do you think of that, my boy?”

Sam looked at the candle with wonder.

“We no longer would have need of ravens,” he replied at last. “But what you said…you said that the candles were used by the Valyrians, but that they probably predate the Freehold? If not the Valyrians then who made them?”

“A simple answer for a simple question,” Marwyn replied and sat down at the chair next to Aemon. He looked strange, like a giant trying to fit into chair fashioned for a dwarf . “The men that ruled before them. Or do you think Valyria was the first of the ancient civilizations? Tell me, what came before the Valyrians? Do you know?”

Sam wrecked his muddled mind for an answer and guessed.

“The Great Empire of Dawn comes to mind.”

“Good answer,” Marwyn clucked his tongue and shuffled through his bound parchments. They looked very old and smelled of dust. He grabbed for one and showed it Sam. “Maybe you are not as stupid as you look. Come here and see.”

Sam leaned over, taking in the curled scribbling. It looked a bit like High Valyrian, but also different. He certainly couldn’t read it, though he had tried to study the language of the dragonlords.

“What kind of writing is this?”

“An old dialect of High Valyrian,” Marwyn explained. “It is similar, but not the same. Yet, there is more,” he added and showed Sam some broken stone slab. “This writing he couldn’t understand it. It looked more like pictures than symbols.”

“And what language is this one?” Sam asked.

“It looks like birdshit,” Pyp jested.

“It is an old text from the kingdom of Yi Ti. A chronicle, but a copied one. One of my friends at the Citadel, who had travelled these lands intensively, translated it for me and thought me the basics. It speaks about such candles and how the God-Emperor of Yi Ti had a hundred of his servants executed for having them. The chronicle also predates the Freehold, which would  confirm my theory. These candles, whoever made them, were not crafted by Valyrians, though they may have made use of them later.”

“I see,” Sam said, his heart beating wildly. “But why did the God- Emperor kill his servants for having them?”

“That is what we of the League of Knowledge tried to uncover. With success I think,” Marwyn added proudly and showed Sam another stone slab. The writing on this one looked similar, but straighter. “It seems these objects were considered cursed by association with a man feared in Yi Ti.”

“Who?” Sam asked. “Some warlord?”

“A dark sorcerer, whose name is cursed in all of Yi Ti. The Bloodstone Emperor. Have you perhaps heard the tales of his cruelty?”

Sam shook his head. “Will you tell me about him.”

“Not now,” Marwyn said. “It is a long tale and only part of the puzzle we of the League of Knowledge tried to uncover.”

“League of what?” Pyp asked and rubbed his head. “Is that some group of odd Maesters’ or what?”

“Most certainly not, young man!” Marwyn grumbled and gave Pyp a sharp look. “It is a community of knowledge seekers which was founded by Aegon the Unlikely, who wished to discover the secrets of Ancient Valyria.”

“Secret community? Aegon the Unlikely?”

“That sounds mad, I know,” said Maester Aemon. “And our numbers have shrunken, but we do still exist. Prince Rhaegar, Jon Snow’s father was one of us before his death.”

“And what secrets did the Dragon Prince try to uncover?” Sam asked and looked first at Aemon and then at Marwyn.

“The Long Night,” Marwyn explained. “The Others, the Children of the Forest. The Prophecy about the Promised Prince, Azor Azhai and how all of this was connected. That was of great interest to him. All these parchments are the result of our efforts to gain a deeper understanding. It is not much, though I have scoured the secret vaults of the Citadel like a rat a storehouse. Sadly, there are still many secrets to be unlocked.”

“We have made some new discovery in regards to the Promised Prince,” Aemon explained. “It seems Rhaegar actually Lyanna Stark and fathered a child on her. Jon Snow.”

Marwyn nodded his head. “The Blood of the First Men and the Blood of Ancient Valyria? Now that would make for a powerful mixture. At least, the Red Priests would think so. They like to babble madly about the power of Kingsblood.”

Sam’s overwhelmed by all this new information.

“Red Priests?  Kingsblood? I do not understand…”

“And you can’t,” Marwyn told him. “But I shall explain everything to you in good time. For now you must know this…The Red Priests are the worshippers of the Red God. They like to use blood magic to perform magic tricks to win themselves more loyal followers. Most of them are nothing but above-the-average mummers, but some of them certainly know what they are doing. And Kingsblood, well they believe that kingly blood works the best kind of magic.”

“And how is all of this connected to the Others and this Prince?” Pyp asked cluelessly. “And what the bloody hell is an Azor Ahai?”

“A hero of ancient times,” Alleras explained. “He was said to have defeated the Bloodstone Emperor, who was said to have caused the Long Night by slaying the Amethyst Empress. There are as many stories as names for him. All that connects these tales is how he defeated the great evil. He was said to have forged his blade in the heart of his lover, Nissa Nissa, though in some tales she is his daughter or his mother. The same can be said about his legendary sword. Lightbringer is commonly referred to, but its description and looks vary from tale to tale. Some tales say his blade gleamed like moonlight and others say it was red like blood.”

“And to bring all of this back to the Red Priests,” Marywn added. “They believe that this Azor Azhai shall be reborn and face the ancient evil that came before.”

“But you said he killed this Bloodstone Emperor?” Grenn asked dumbly. “Or is he like one of these deadmen?”

“Deadman?” Marwyn asked with a stunned expression. “You saw a deadman?”

“Aye,” Pyp confirmed and jerked his head at Sam. “Sam slew one.”

Marwyn’s eyes went wide like saucers and he exchanged a quick look with Alleras.

Then, he hopped to his feet as quickly as a spring chicken.

“Astounding!” he muttered to himself and paced the room. “Astounding!”

“And you killed the deadman?” Alleras asked with wide black eyes. “Truly?”

"He did,” Gilly added proudly. “I saw him do it. “

“Impressive,” Alleras complimented and looked over at Marwyn, who stood turned to the wall, muttering to himself. “Don’t you agree, Archmaester?”

“Yes, Yes!” the elderly man exclaimed excitedly and turned around to look at Aemon. “Then, the Prince’s visions were not without merit after all. Gods, be good. If this is true we are all royally fucked!”

“Not yet, old friend,” Aemon added quickly. “There is still Princess Daenerys Targaryen. The rumors say she hatched three dragons…like in the prophecy. Remember?”

“The Prince that was Promised,” Marwyn rambled and paced up and down the room. Suddenly, he froze, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape as if he had found enlighten.

“What a mess!” he muttered to himself and searched Maester Aemon’s face.

 “So we have a Prince of powerful blood and a Princess that hatched dragons from stone? Who is the true Promised Prince? Oh, and there was a bleeding star too. Merciful mother, that Princeling was right after all.”

“One of them or both could be the one that was prophesized,” Aemon added. “But there is another thing. In High Valyrian there is no differentiation between Prince and Princess.”

“An interesting theory,” Marwyn rambled on. “But there is still the question of the sword? Have you pondered it, old friend?”

“I have,” Aemon said. “But I came to no satisfying conclusion. Rhaegar thought it might still be out there.”

“He made one last finding before he rode to his untimely death,” Marwyn added with a hesitant smile and shuffled through his heap of papers, until he found the right parchment. “It is a copy of a song, written in ancient Valyrian, a song dedicated to the great hero. He supposedly acquired it from a sorcerer from Qarth or some other place I forgot? Who knows where this proud wizard folk dwell these days.”

“A song,” Aemon said and wrinkled his brows. “Could you translate for us?”

Marwyn smiled and read the song out loud.

Upon the desolate plains of the Grey Waste,

The hero’s crimson standard proudly rippled,

 the Bloody Emperor’s army fled, scattering in

confused fright, as shadows flee before dawn

They fled from the hero and his sword Lightbringer,

Which, forged from a fallen piece of the sun, could cleave all forms and shapes

Just as there is only one sun in the heavens, so is there

only one hero that walked this earth

The hero without compare

With sun-forged sword and a bleeding heart

Who shall him succeed?

“A sword from a fallen piece of he sun?” Aemon. “The only origin that resembles this sword was Dawn, the sword of House Dayne, but it couldn’t be that old, could it?”

“Nothing is certain,” Marwyn agreed. “The song was written in Valyrian, but there is no exact indication how old this song really is. Still, it is certainly a hint. As for Dawn…nobody knows when it was forged. There are only tales. The same could be said about the other Valyrian steel swords. As with the candles, some of these swords might have been forged long before the Valyrians. Tobho agrees with me on that.”

“Tobho?” Sam asked, his head pounding from all this information. “Who is that?”

“One of the few smiths able to work with Valyrian steel. He supposedly learned it from a master in Qohor. Probably, another wizard. Only Tobho Mott would be mad enough to meet with such folk, which is why I value is council so much. He is a man who looks beyond what is in front of his nose, unlike the grey rats that are our dear brothers. Well, Aemon they are another reason I came here so quickly. I must warn you not to return to the Citadel. They might do you harm.”

Aemon paled visibly.

“So, you still believe in this conspiracy?”

“I do not only believe it. I know it to be true. I always frowned about Prince Rhaegar for dipping his nose so deep into ancient scriptures and trusting too much in prophecy, but in that case we always agreed. There was something rotten in Summerhall and you know it.”

Aemon smiled sadly.

“I hear you, but do not be afraid. I doubt I will ever make it back to Oldtown. I shall remain here in Braavos and use my last strength to make myself useful.”

Marwyn’s eyebrows rose to the top of his head.

Sam was also confused.

“Maester Aemon…What are you trying to say?”

The old man graced Sam with a placid smile.

“I shall speak to the Iron Bank. Aerys was a mad man, but he was a dutiful customer. Besides, the Sealords never held much love for slavery. Mayhaps I can assist Rhaella’s girl with her efforts in Slaver’s Bay.”

“But I thought we would travel to seek out Princess Daenerys?”

Aemon nodded his head. “Fear not, but we shall not come with empty hands. I am blind, but I have still some wit left inside me, my dear boy.”

 …

Chapter Text

Daenerys

They had barely seen the riders at the outskirts of the Dothraki Sea, a landscape of swaying grass concealing their view.

Yet, then they had seen Ghost, his pale fur visible from afar.

At once, Dany had commanded Drogon to land, Jon following her lead. He was a capable rider, but sometimes he was still showing insecurities.

I am only half a dragon, he had told her in his usual solemn tone, hiding his insecurity behind an unreadable mask. Jon could be as humble as stubborn, Dany knew by now.

The three riders that had been following after Ghost, had looked like horde of ants, but now as she was climbing down from Drogon’s scaled back she could make out their appearance.

Her heart soared with happiness when she noticed her three blood riders and surprise washed over her when she noticed two more familiar faces: the bear-like stature of Ser Jorah Mormont, seated atop a black stead and Lady Lyanna Stark, garbed in breeches and her hair tightly braided atop her head.

Her bear’s presence had surprised her less than she wanted  to admit. Deep down she had always known that he would eventually return to her, be it as a friend or an enemy.

And here he was, though she felt less anger than she should. He betrayed me, she recalled. But he also helped Jon.

Such confusing thoughts whirled through her head, but Jon’s bright laughter caused her to turn her head. Ghost was suddenly there, pinning Jon to the ground and licking his face.

Rhaegal was not far, his golden eyes watching the scene and emitting tendrils of black smoke from his nose.

“It is good to have you back, boy!” Jon chuckled and freed himself from Ghost’s grip, his dark eyes seeking hers. Dany smiled at the massive wolf, who dipped his head instinctively as she touched his wet nose. He licked her hand and gave a soft howl.

It had sounded almost like a greeting.

“I am glad to see you as well,” she replied and cast her gaze to the distant horizon. They had tried to fly slowly, but dragons were not slaves and thus they had to stop all few leagues to allow Dany’s new-found Khalasar to catch up. If they were lucky they would reach them by sunset.

And Meereen in a few days, she hoped. The Khyzai Pass was not far. For common travelers it would be a dangerous path, but not for a horde of Dothraki and two dragons. And a wolf, she reminded herself as she watched Ser Jorah unhorse, his green cloak fluttering behind him like the plumage of a bird.

He looked exhausted, his face deeply-flushed and sun-burned. A ghost of a smile tugged on his lips as he took in her appearance looked, but not for long.

As he drew nearer he fell to his knees and bowed his head deeply, as a true knight would. Dany’s heart softened at the sight when it should be as hard as stone.

He has seen Aegon, who would have surely promised to take him home for his oaths of loyalty. Yet, he came back. I exiled him and yet he came back.

She knew that the Northmen would not love her for keeping him amidst her entourage, but she knew few men as loyal as Ser Jorah. She would never be able to love him as he desired, but there were different kinds of love. Respect was one of them.

“Rise Ser Jorah,” she told him and raised her head as a Queen ought to do or at least that is what she believed. In truth, she had never seen a true Queen. Her Lady had been a Queen, but that hadn’t been enough to prevent her Lord Father from raping her daily. She had tried to be a Queen from the tales, but now it was time to be herself. “Rise and let me look at your face.”

Ser Jorah lifted his head, but remained kneeling. Jon was not far, but he remained silent, like a knight  standing vigil. In his dark gaze she read mistrust.

“You look exhausted, Ser Jorah,” she told him. “But I supposed I do not look much better,” she added. “But you have my thanks for helping Jon and for coming all this way to find me.”

Then, she swept her gaze over the rest of the entourage.

“I thank you as well for coming, blood of my blood,” she thanked her bloodriders in the Dothraki tongue. “And you, my Lady.”

Lady Lyanna returned her words with a hesitant smile, but her grey eyes were not resting on Dany, but on Jon, who said nothing in return.

Fool, Dany thought. She understood his anger towards his mother, but at times she also envied him. He at least had a mother. Dany had nothing, but Viserys’ and Ser Barristan’s tales. At least say something.

She felt the urge to throttle him, but Rhaegal gave a roar and Jon was called to attend to him. A pat and a whistle and the dragon calmed.

“The Dothraki should be here at sunset,” Jon explained.

Dany nodded her head and smiled at Ser Jorah and Lady Lyanna.

”We have made some allies.”

Ser Jorah gave her a surprised look, his bushy eyebrows rising to the top of his head.

“Allies? More Dothraki?”

Dany gave him a knowing smile.

“You will see, Ser Jorah.”

And as the dragon had foretold, they came with the sound of thundering hoofbeats and the song of a thousand war cries.

They liked to be loud, these Dothraki, but that was something Dany had always liked about them.

“They once belonged to Drogo’s khalasar,” Dany explained to her companions after her newfound allies had built their camp at the outskirts of the Dothraki sea. “And they follow me, because they think me the Stallion that Mounts the World.”

“Truly?” Jorah asked. “But wasn’t the stallion supposed to be…you know,” he trailed off when he noticed Jon’s cold stare.

“My son Rhaego,” Dany continued. “I suppose that should be a lesson for us all. Prophecies should not be taken literally. In some sense it came true, though. To the Dothraki Drogon is a Stallion.”

“True,” Lady Lyanna agreed and inclined her head to look at Drogo, who had dug his lair not far from their camp. It was easy to see his trail, burned grass everywhere. “He does have the right coloring. And they will follow us?”

“Of course,” Dany confirmed. “And as you rightly said…I have need of swords to take the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lyanna gave her a tense smile. “Of course.”

Aegon won’t like that, she knew. But she was beyond caring what Aegon wanted, though she was conflicted on what to do with him.

First I will talk to him and make clear that he has lost my trust completely, Dany thought. Then, I shall change my conditions.  

He may serve as a possible heir, but Jon and I shall rule. He will either accept that or leave.

I am done with bowing down to the whims of others. Once I have exacted justice on behalf of my people I shall go home where I belong.

The sky was drenched in crimson, when the sun started to descend behind the horizon, a handful of stars flickering besides a fat moon.

The cookfires roared and in the distance she heard her children’s song.

They were sleeping and she was glad for it.

She was exhausted herself. Tending to them was taxing and her sickness had returned worse than before.

She had eaten a little dried meat that night, but by morn she was emptying her stomach again.

Fear overcame her in that moment.

What kind of foul sickness has befallen me, she wondered not for the first time and covered the mess with a heap of leaves.

She had no interest in being coddled.

As Dany returned to her dwelling place, she found Lady Lyanna seated before the cookfire. Jon had ridden off with Ghost and Ser Jorah to hunt.

“You look sickly,” Lady Lyanna remarked as Dany sat down before the dying fires. The Lady’s face looked paler than usual and her grey eyes were underlined with dark cringes.

She looked older as well, her short brown hair streaked with silver.

Will Jon have grey hair when he is his mother’s age, Dany wondered and twirled a silver lock around her finger. Then, he would look as if he was born as a Targaryen.

“I am well,” she assured her good-sister with a smile and watched the flickering flames. Heaps of ash lay scattered amidst the circle of stones. “I am well.”

“You are not,” Lady Lyanna said directly as ever, her grey eyes narrowed. “I know it well…the symptoms I mean. Sometimes, I thought I was dying, but it got better at the end…,” she trailed off.

Then, she threw a glance over her shoulder as if to make sure that nobody had heard her.

“But why did you say you are barren?” Lady Lyanna asked and leaned forward, her hands placed on her dirty hose. “To avoid a marriage with Aegon? Not that I blame you. I would be a hypocrite to do so…I spurned my betrothal after all. Does Jon about the child?”

Dany felt as if someone had hit her hard over the face.

Her first reaction was anger.

“Are you trying to mock me?” Dany asked. “Why would I lie about something horrid as that?”

“Mocking you was not my intention,” Lyanna explained and raised her hands in defense. “I was just wondering why you would hide it.”

 “Hide what?”

“That you are with child,” Lady Lyanna hissed as she leaned forward. “Isn’t that obvious?”

“I am sick,” Dany snapped back, unable to contain her feelings. “Nothing more and nothing less.”

Lyanna’s eyes widened and without a single word of warning, she touched Dany’s brow.

“You are not warm,” Lyanna said at last. “If it was an inflammation of the stomach you would have more symptoms than a common stomachache. I am not a master, but Haldon thought me some things.”

“That is impossible,” Dany insisted and wanted to rise to her feet, but Lyanna grabbed her hand, holding her in place.

“Why?” Lyanna asked.

Dany knew that there was a certain amount of truth to her words, but neither her heart nor mind could accept that.

It had been so hard to make peace with the truth.

Giving herself up to fruitless hopes was dangerous.

Thus, her answer remained the same.

“It is impossible.”

“Did you miss your moonblood?” Lyanna asked, not letting go.

“It was never regular. Not since I lost my first babe,” Dany explained through clenched teeth.

“And your breasts?” Lyanna asked. “How do they feel?”

Dany blushed.

“Fuller, but I am not yet fully grown. It could be…,” she began, but fell silent when she noticed Lyanna’s shaking head.

“It cannot be.”

“It can be,” Lyanna whispered. “But only a healer can tell you for sure.”

Dany gasped and touched her stomach, a spark of hope jolting through her.

It was a treacherous feeling. She couldn’t risk another heartbreak.

She leaned closer and grabbed Lady Lyanna’s hand, trembling and her breathing labored.

“Which is why I want you to keep this a secret.”

Lyanna nodded her head and brought her finger to her lips.

“My lips are sealed,” she whispered. “For now.”

Dany sighed in relief.

“Thank you.”

…

Chapter Text

Margaery

“Are you sure?” her Lord Husband asked, his cat-green eyes wide in shock as he stared back at her across the table. “That was fast.”

It was true. Margaery hadn’t expected to have a child so soon, but then she didn’t understand much about these matters. She was nearly ten and eight and until a few moons ago she had still been a maid, despite being a widow. Renly had been kind to her, but he had never taken her to bed. No, he had always ever loved her brother.

Her second husband was very different. He had eagerly taken her too bed, though she doubted he did it out of love. He was an experienced lover, but he gave her no words of flattery like Renly had done.

Margaery didn’t know what she preferred. Renly, who had treated her like a sister or Jaime, who treated her more like a bed companion than his wife.

Marriage is a contract, her grandmother had told her before her marriage. You give him heirs and he gives you a crown. It is that simple, dear girl. It worked for me. I could have done worse than your grandfather. He had the intellect of a teaspoon, but our time in bed was quite enjoyable.

Well, I fulfilled my part of the contract, Margaery thought and took a sip from her steaming cup of tea. Now he has to fulfill his part of the bargain.

No, that was not completely true. Jaime had given her a kingdom consisting of the Westerlands and Reach, but what her Lord Father truly desired was the Iron Throne.

“Nothing is certain,” Margaery cautioned. “It is not uncommon to lose a babe in the first three moons. It happened to my mother.”

Jaime blew his mane of golden hair out of his face and leaned on his hand, regarding her with a strangely serious expression.

At times, she didn’t know what to make of him. He could be downright cynical at times, especially when he spoke with her father, but at other times he could be as cold as ice.

“I never thought I would have a child,” he said gave her a weary smile. “I had no such expectations, my lady.”

This surprised Margaery, but she tried her best to conceal these feelings.

“Understandable,” she said instead. “You were a man of the Kingsguard. Yet, you were quite persistent…I thought the desire for an heir was the reason.”

 Or was it something else, she wondered, her heart skipping a beat.

She had thought she would hate her new husband, but quite the contrary was the case. Jaime was good-looking, but she also liked his biting humor. She still hoped that he would warm up to her in time.

Her grandmother might think that a marriage based on a contract was pleasing, but Margaery had always hoped for more.

Yet, she was aware that the shadow of Queen Cersei’s death was still looming over him. He would deny it, but when he was fucking her he never looked her in the face…

“Well, you didn’t refuse me,” Jaime replied with amusement. “I supposed your father will be pleased.”

Margaery nodded her head. “Very happy. But it better be a boy.”

Jaime frowned at that. “As if we have influence on that.”

Margaery chuckled. “Well, someone told me once that I ought to drink lots of milk during a full moon to get with child. Well, that didn’t work out the way I imagined.”

Jaime gave her a confused look.

“Renly bedded you? I remember the blood from our wedding night?”

“Renly never touched me,” Margaery replied and blushed, both out of shame that she had revealed Renly’s secret and because she was talking about such intimate matters with her new husband. “He treated me like a sister.”

“So, it is true what they say,” Jaime said. “He preferred boys, didn’t he?”

“He preferred my brother,” Margaery explained. “They were very devoted to each other. I know it is a sin, but I do not understand why it should be. Love comes in all shapes and forms.”

Jaime clucked his tongue and took a sip from his cup of wine. “I took you for a pious follower of the Faith, my lady.”

Margaery laughed. “Most of it is to keep appearances. I always found the Seven-Pointed-Star dreadfully boring. Besides, most of these Septons are scoundrels of the vilest sort. The Septon who held our ceremony fathered three children and keeps himself a lover. Such men have no right to judge my brother.”

“That is quite true. The Last High Septon supposedly kept a married woman as his bed companion. What a hypocrite. The same could be said about the Kinsguard. Oswell Whent repeatedly visited brothels. Lewyn as well and Darry…Darry was the worst of all.  Most men do not take their vows as seriously as they claim. It is as you said...all about keeping up appearances.”

“I suppose so,” Margaery said, unsure whether she wanted to continue with this topic. More than once she had wanted to bring up the topic of Queen Cersei, but she had always backed out of it in the last moment.

She was afraid that Jaime might take it the wrong way.

Too early, she decided and rose to her feet, brushing her hands over her silken skirt. Another time.

“I should leave you now, my lord. My father and the others must expect you.”

Jaime frowned at that. He finds father bothersome, she knew.

His next question confused her.

“Your grandmother is always there, but you are hiding. Why is that, my lady?”

“My grandmother is a special person,” Margaery replied, but felt flattered that he wanted her there. Her Lord Father wanted her to be a pretty bird meant to entertain his lords, but she had always wanted to be more than that. “My father would never dare to send her away. He is afraid of her and he has dire need of the Redwynes, given what happened at the Shield Islands.”

Jaime’s smile vanished immediately, for the taking of the Shield Islands had made their situation only more difficult.”

Not long ago, word had reached them that Euron Greyjoy, the new King of the Iron Islands had taken the Shield Islands and was now slowly moving up the Mander. Truly, it was no wonder that Old Lord Hightower had only sent them a few thousand men-at-arms and was asking for the Redwyne fleet to be deployed to Oldtown.  That Stannis Baratheon was supposedly gathering his troops at Harrenhall made it only harder to predict how the situation would turn out.

The tide could turn at any time.

Margaery had learned this hard lesson with Renly.

Her Lord Father was a different matter.

“I think I have changed my mind, my lord,” Margaery declared at last. “I think I want to attend this meeting after all.”

Jaime’s face lightened up with amusement as he offered his arm to her.

“And I shall be pleased to see your lord father’s face.”

Margaery chuckled. She loved her father, but it was always amusing to vex. Her grandmother tended to make a sport out of it.

Her father’s flowery solar served as their war council. It was a round chamber, furnished with a large table covered with vines of gold and green, meandering their way up the table’s feet. The walls were covered with heavy tapestries and the chairs were placed along the walls to make room for the men that had gathered here.

Margaery knew them all by name and rank, but felt out of place. A bit like a hen in a room fool of cocks.

All heads turned as they entered.

Her Lord Father stood at the head of the table, flanked by Lord Randyll Tarly and Lord Paxter Redwyne. Her brother Willas was seated, Garlan  and Loras looming next to him like a shadow. Especially, Garlan was giving Tarly cold looks. The grim lord of Hornhill had never hidden his dislike for Willas, calling him a useless cripple. Truly, the only reason her father had never spoken out against the Lord of Hornhill was that he had need of his abilities.

“My Lady,” Lord Rowan greeted her with a smile and made space for her. Lord Fassoway, father to Garlan’s wife, had gotten a chair for her. “Please sit comfortably, your Grace. Your state is a delicate one.”

Grandmother certainly didn’t waste much time to spread the happy news.

There were more lords present, safe for Lord Layton Hightower, who was as he had informed them in his last letter, preparing Oldtown for a potential attack against the Ironborn.

Jaime looked even more out of place, as most of his men had returned to the Westerlands to prepare for war.

As always, Jaime didn’t hesitate to get straight to the point.

“What news do we have on King Euron?”

“Continues his raiding spree along the Mander, the Arbor and the Whispering Sound,” Lord Redwyne explained unhappily and moved his finger long the blue stripe upon the map that represented the Mander. “We deployed troops, but they were ambushed and our ships captured or destroyed.”

“Ambushed?” Tarly asked. “How did the Ironborn scum ambush your men?”

Lord Paxter Redwyne smiled tensely. “They left their ships undefended. My men underestimated…,” he began, but Tarly cut him off.

“You marched straight into their trap, didn’t you?”

“The mists were as thick as a potato soup!” Lord Rowan defended his men. “Suddenly, they were there, butchering my men left and right. The moment the battle was done the mist dispersed. When my men returned to their ships they found them burning. I do not know what to make of this incident. It sounds like magic.”

“Magic?” The Queen of Thorns asked as her eyes darted to Lady Brienne, who stood at the wall with the rest of the guardsmen.  She had been there when Renly had supposedly died by the hands of a shadow. The only reason she had lived was that Margaery had asked her brother to spare her. “Are we children?”

“No,” Willas added in a heavy voice. He looked exhausted, the hollowness of his face only hidden by his long brown hair. “But this Euron Greyjoy is cleverer than we give him credit for. The taking of he Shield Islands proves that.”

“I agree with Lord Tyrell,” Jaime added. “Euron Greyjoy is a madman. Who knows how much his years in exile have changed him. And one should never underestimate one’s enemy. I did that with Robb Stark and paid for my mistake. My father did as well, which is why I think we should send more ships to engage Euron Greyjoy. Storm’s End should be our last priority. Blocking the Roseroad should do enough damage to Stannis Baratheon.”

Lord Tarly gave an approving nod. Lord Rowan and Lord Redwyne looked pleased. Even Willas smiled.

“Good,” the Queen of Thorns said. “But I do not think that Euron Greyjoy’s silly tricks will work a second time. What we have sent him were small fishes. We shall repay them a thousand-fold. I say, a quarter of the ships should be enough to make quick work of our enemy. The others can besiege whatever castle you want to besiege, Mace. What do you say, my lords?”

“How many ships did you need to besiege Storm’s End the last time, Lord Tyrell?” Jaime asked her Lord Father bitingly.

“Certainly not an entire fleet,” her Lord Father declared proudly. “But this time we won’t fail. Lord Rowan shall capture Storm’s End, my Loras shall capture Dragonstone, and my Garlan shall accompany Lord Redwyne to engage the Ironborn.”

“And I shall continue to block the Roseroad, your Grace,” Lord Tarly explained and gave Jaime a challenging look.

He was eager for battle. So much was clear.

“And shall return to the Golden Tooth, to lay in wait for Stannis should he and his fishy allies decide to leave the protection of Harrenhall. My Uncle has already gathered a host of fifteen-thousand men, but I would be thankful for a few thousand more, Lord Tarly. They say your men are very capable.”

“They are,” Tarly replied coldly. “But I can’t spare more than five-thousand men, your Grace.”

Jaime frowned, but he had not much of a choice. Most of the men in this room only tolerated him because they had no other choice.

Only Tarly made his dislike known.

“I would prefer to attack Riverrun. Let us capture Edmure Tully and the Riverlords will abandon Stannis as quickly as a whore her poor suitor.”

“Riverrun is a well-fortified castle, Lord Tarly,” Garlan added politely. “I prefer ‘his Grace’s’ plan. Starving Stannis out will not only weaken his allies, but might also force him into a battle. Stannis cannot wait out winter. So much is sure.”

“And I think you are just afraid of Stannis,” Tarly complained anew and swept his gaze over the assembled group of men. “I defeated Robert Baratheon, who was much more of a warrior than him. I can do it again.”

Jaime’s face remained unreadable, but the tone of his voice betrayed his annoyance. “Nobody doubts your abilities. I want to kill Stannis and his Red Whore as much as you, but I shall not butcher my father’s men needlessly. Don’t fret, when the time comes I shall be prepared to fight.”

“Very well,” Lord Tarly snorted. “Let’s hide away like wailing women.”

…

Chapter Text

Arianne

“You must bring your brother home,” her Lord Father told her, the expression on his face weary and distant.

It was midday, the hot sun burning down on them like the breath of hell. Not even the spray of the fountains helped.

“What if it is a trap?” Arianne asked. “We don’t know anything about this boy. Who knows were Quentyn picked him up.”

“Sometimes I wonder about you, dear child,” her Lord Father said and clucked his tongue. “Quentyn is soft of heart, but no fool. There must be something about that boy that convinced him of the truth. Well, to be sure, your Uncle Oberyn and your cousins are going to keep you company.”

Arianne didn’t like the sound of that. She loved her Uncle Oberyn dearly, but she didn’t want a chaperone to watch her every move.

That is your own fault, silly girl.

“You should invite your supposed nephew here,” Arianne returned and stretched her limps. The canopy was soft and she felt too lazy to travel to the Stormlands, especially after the horrid incident with Princess Myrcella. “He wants our support. He should come to us.”

Her Lord Father gave her an unhappy look. “The boy has already invaded the Stormlands and retaken Griffin Roost. I doubt he would want to abandon his cause to sip wine with an old man.”

“Or to hide something,” Arianne countered mistrustfully. Quentyn was her brother, also her rival. Yet, she couldn’t voice such thoughts in front of her Lord Father. “We should be careful.”

Her Lord Father sighed.

“Which is why I am sending Oberyn and your cousins with you. At least, that way I can ease Ellaria’s burden. These girls can be quite a handful. They are in dire need of a useful occupation.”

“I suppose so,” Arianne said. “Well, Tyene and Sarella are off to attend to their own business. That leaves me with Obara, Nym, Elia and my Uncle? It will be like travelling with a horde of unruly children. I would prefer to take Aunt Ellaria with me, to keep them in line.”

“I am sure Oberyn would like that,” her Lord Father said. He looked exhausted these days. Close to death.

Arianne’s heart clenched with guilt.

I shouldn’t think like that. It is a sin.

“Very well,” Arianne agreed at last. “I shall go, but what if the boy turns out to be a pretender? I doubt they would allow us to go free.”

“In truth, it doesn’t matter whether the boy is a pretender. At least, not for me, dear child. I am dying…I only want to see Elia avenged and the boy is our best chance to accomplish this goal. And by marrying you, Martell blood will sit the Iron Throne. We can only win.”

Arianne couldn’t help but to disagree with that assessment. She had hated the idea of seeing Quentyn wed to Princess Daenerys Targaryen, but it surprised her that her Lord Father would support this boy without even meeting him.

The letter must have said more than what father told me, she knew and felt anger stirring inside her heart.

She knew why her Lord Father kept secrets from her, but it hurt.

“You want me to wed this boy?” Arianne asked and rolled unto her stomach, her bare feet dangling in the air. “What about Daenerys Targaryen? Why is she not with our supposed nephew?”

“I want you to be Queen,” her Lord Father reminded her of his promise. “And that is the best way to accomplish our goal. I do not know why Princess Daenerys is not present, but I am sure we will know more once you have met with this boy.”

Arianne huffed, blowing her black locks out of her face and rolled back on her side.

“So, you want me to seduce this boy?”

“Indeed. Seduce him and marry him. I had hoped you would enjoy this task.”

Arianne had heard the teasing in her  Lord Father’s voice an couldn’t help but to frown.

“I enjoy such tasks,” Arianne said and searched her father’s face. “But if I have to do this then I want to do it properly. Give me Dorne’s spears. I need to sell this mummery convincingly.”

Her Lord Father gave a hesitant nod.

“Very well. Three-thousand. Not more than that.”

Arianne had hoped for more, but at least she wouldn’t have to face this Prince with empty hands. He may be a potential pretender, but he had the loyalty of the Golden Company.

“What about the little Princess? I know Trystane is quite fond of her, but I think she would be fitting gift for our supposed nephew.”

Her father nodded his head in agreement.

“The girl is a bastard and means nothing to me now that the Lannisters are gone. Take her with you if you must. She has recovered enough.”

“Ser Jaime is now King of the Rock and the Reach,” Arianne reminded him. “He would never forgive us.”

“Mace Tyrell is a fickle man,” her Lord Father countered. ”He might change his mind. I also think we shouldn’t underestimate Stannis Baratheon. He is no fool.”

“If you say so, father,” Arianne said and smiled tensely. “Well, I shall leave at your command. I wonder when that will be? Obara and Uncle Oberyn are still out there hunting for the Darkstar.”

Her father smiled. “Word reached me that they will return soon.”

Her Lord Father’s words turned out to be true, for two days later she found herself watching them ride through the palace gates.

She pushed herself through the crowd of onlookers and was pleased to find Obara alive. They all wore glittering helms and polished armor. Her Uncle stood out with his striped cloak of orange, yellow and red.

Yet, there was no trace of the Darkstar.

Arianne hated him for dragging her into this mess, but he had once been her bed companion and she had a rule that she would never kill those that had tasted her breast.

It made Arianne wonder if they had found them at all.

“Cousin,” Obara greeted her with a quick bow. “I apologize for making you wait. When shall we depart?”

“On the morrow,” her Uncle added and pulled off his helmet. The tip of his spear was polished like a diamond, but she spotted stains of blood on his cloak. “Doran wouldn’t want us to dally around, but first I must take my leave from Ellaria.”

“Indeed,” Arianne agreed, her eyes still fixed on the stains of blood. “Father is most eager to see us gone.”

She swallowed hard and lifted her head. “Did you find him?”

“We didn’t find the Darkstar,” Obara grumbled, her voice laced with obvious disappointment.

“What happened to him?” Arianne asked.

“Ran off,” her Uncle Oberyn added his displeasure. “But do not fret. I shall find him and then I shall cut off more than just his ears.”

“He would be a fool to linger in Dorne,” Arianne countered. “Well, we must concern ourselves with our new-found nephew. That is what father wants. He even promised me three-thousand Dornish spears.”

Her Uncle gave her a sad smile and placed a quick kiss on her brow.

“That doesn’t surprise me. The Maester gave him six more moons.”

Arianne felt a sharp sting in her heart.

I should have known better. He didn’t do it because I asked him.

Arianne departed soon after, seeking out the little Princess.

The girl was a bastard, but she had never wanted to see her hurt.

As always, she found the little Princess and her brother Trystane seated at the cyvasse table.  The girl had been very cheerful in her first moons, but a gloomy expression had taken hold over her after the death of her family. Trystane had been her only joy. Sadly, the girl’s hopes of wedding him were in vain.

Arianne stopped at the door and smiled at her brother.

“May I speak alone with the Princess?”

Trystane gave her a suspicious look. “Father wants to send her away, doesn’t he?”

Arianne bit her lip. “Father wants her to travel with me to the Stormlands... as part of an envoy.”

“And then? Will you cut off her other ear?” Trystane asked, dark eyes narrowed.

“No,” Arianne appeased her little brother. “I mean no harm to Myrcella. This was all a terrible mistake.”

Trystane frowned, but obeyed.

Myrcella’s green eyes showed just as much mistrust.

“How are you feeling?” Arianne asked hesitatingly.

“Where am I to go?” the girl asked without pretense, all sweetness gone from her lips.

“To the Stormlands,” Arianne explained. “We are to  meet my cousin, Prince Aegon Targaryen.”

The little Princess’ eyes widened in confusion.

“They say Prince Aegon was smothered by his mother’s hands.”

Lies, Arianne wanted to shout. Lies made up by Tywin Lannister to hide his rotten soul. And the Usurper. 

“So, what am I to be? A hostage or an honored guest?” the girl asked, her lips twisting into a grimace. Her golden hair was swept over her left shoulder and her ear was still heavily bandaged, the linen soiled with blood and pus. “I suppose I am no longer of use to you. You said you wanted to make me Queen and that my Uncle Jaime might support me. You promised that I would be able to wed Trystane, but instead you allowed this horrid men...to hurt me.”

Poor girl, Arianne thought and fiddled with the sash of her dress. She had to give her the truth. “You were a hostage since your grandfather perished in King’s Landing.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders, a hopeless expression taking hold of her face. Arianne could only stare at the girl's soiled bandages. The Darkstar had taken the girl's ear and had damanged her beauty forever.

“I suppose your tales were nothing but empty lies. Why not simply kill me and be done with it?”

“I never wanted to see you hurt,” Arianne assured her. “You have to believe me…,” she continued, but the girl flashed her a look of utter disgust.

“Stop lying. Ever since, I came here your cousins were vying after my life. Your brother is the only one who cares for me. Truly, the only reason I played along with your silly ploy was because I had hoped to wed your brother. I see now, how foolish that was. Nobody wants to wed a bastard.”

There was no reason to contradict her words. It was the true. Even so, Arianne felt pity for the girl.

“Trystane loves you. I might be able to…,” Arianne began, but the girl cut her off once more.

“Spare me your lies!” the girl snapped angrily, her lips twisting into another smile. “At least, my Uncle Jaime is still alive. Leave me now. I must pack my belongings and take my leave from Trystane.”

There was nothing more to say.

“Very well.”

They left a week later.

The voyage had been even more boring than her long imprisonment. Not even Nym’s, Elia’s and Obara’s company could lift her spirit these days, her last interaction with the Princess still weighing heavily on her mind.

Said Princess had not spoken a single world throughout their whole journey. No, she had acted all prim and proper, her pale face a mask of cold indifference.

Uncle Oberyn, who had taken a liking to the girl, had tried to spark a conversation with her, but she remained silent as ever.

The weather had been another source of displeasure.

Stormy grey skies had greeted them as they made their way along the coast, giving her sleepless night. Two weeks later, they finally encountered ships belonging to this Prince Aegon Targaryen.

Once, they had revealed their identity and purpose, they were promised an audience with the King and his Hand Lord Connington. They had also told her that Quentyn would be there to greet her.

Griffin Roost proved as glum as its name. Exhausted, they were lead into a large hall, where servants awaited them with cups of mulled wine and cakes soaked in honey.

The taste of the wine helped to warm her, but when she spotted Lord Connington she couldn’t help but to tense.

There was something cold and unpleasant about this man. He was neither ugly nor handsome, but his blue eyes were as cold as ice as they fell on her Uncle.

“The Red Viper of Dorne.”

“Lord Jon Connington,” her Uncle replied curtly. “We thought you had drunken yourself into an early grave.”

“That was only part of my mummery,” the man assured him, his deep blue eyes flickering to her. “Lord Varys suggested it.”

“So it is true. The Spider saved my sister’s son?” her Uncle asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. “I suppose I have to thank him for his act of kindness.”

“You came to see my King,” Lord Connington replied coldly and waved his hand at the door. “I suppose you are eager to meet him.”

Her Uncle nodded his head in conformation.