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Chapter Text

274 AL

Jamie’s mother squeezes his hand with a sudden bout of strength, her gold rings cutting in to his skin.  

“Look at me,” she demands. 

He and Cersei have their mother’s face and their father’s eyes. Mother’s are hazel, just a hint of Lannister green flecked within, but hold no more softness than her husband’s. There is a reason Tywin Lannister loves his wife so deeply. There is a reason he considers her his equal above all others. 

“Love your brother,” she says, her girlish voice rough with death. “Your father and your sister will hate him. He will need you. Love him. Promise me, Jaime. Love him.”

“Of course,” he easily agrees. He’s always wanted a brother. Sisters are complicated. 

“Love your dragon,” she orders. “I’ve watched the three of you. Cersei is your twin, yes, but the princess can be so much more. You will be a better man at her side. Do not leave it. Love her Jaime, love Valaena. Promise me.”

“I promise, Mother.”

She finally releases her grip. “Good. Now fetch your father. I have a vow to ring out of him as well.”

Jaime obeys. It’s not something he does often. Its not something he does well, either. He and Cersei have always been good at twisting rules and promises to their favor. Nonetheless, he fetches his father. He loves his brother. He loves his dragon. But she isn’t really his, he knows, so there’s no point. A dragon cannot belong to anyone other than itself. It’s something Father and Mother and Cersei will ever understand. 

281 AL

Jaime doesn’t care for Harrenhal. It’s dark and full of history, full of death and dragon fire and mysteries to be revealed. Valaena will love it. She’ll probably drag him to the Isle of Faces before the week’s out. 

If she speaks to him at all.

Jaime’s grip tightens on his reins. He hasn’t seen Valaena in nearly a year. They left the Red Keep’s training yard covered in blood and new scars. The worst are the hidden ones, the ones that lie just under the skin, that cut every time he touches Cersei. 

‘I know,’ she’d said, her indigo eyes soft and damning all at once. ‘I’ve always known.’ 

“Jaime?” Addam asks. 

Jaime smiles. “Sorry, Addam. Thinking about my betrothed. We tried to kill each other the last time we met. Do you think she’ll try it again?”

It’s meant as a joke, but Marbrand’s easy smile falls into a grimace. Dread pools in Jaime’s stomach. 

“You don’t think she will, do you?” He asks frantically. He’s good, but he’s not Prince Rhaegar and the Kingsguard all at once good. He barely got away with his head intact last time. 

“I...er, well, everyone in Casterly Rock remembers how excitable our princess is.”

A soldier behind them falls into a coughing fit. Jaime can’t hide his disapproving frown. She isn’t as bad as all that. In fact, she can be a bit glum and boring until she gets angry over something. Naturally, Jaime spent most of their childhood infuriating her.

Jaime may be a lot of things, but he isn’t a coward. He spurs his stallion past the tents and banners, past the cheering sycophants. They wouldn’t be have as excited to see his father’s colors if they’d actually met him. 

Jaime’s worked himself into a right mood by the time they pull to a halt in the sprawling courtyard. Casterly Rock is no small castle, but this place could hold five Casterly Rocks and probably half the mountain. It’s unnatural. Unsettling. Imposing. Cersei will hate it. She hates anything that isn’t gold or useful or Lannister by nature. 

He looks around the courtyard, wondering if either of them bothered to welcome him. There’s no head of golden hair, no cutting green eyes. Against the wall, though, are two tall figures. One in all red and one in all black. Unnatural. Unsettling. Imposing. It’s no wonder Cersei hates her so much. 

The prince and princess march over to him. His stomach twists and turns with every step they take. Rhaegar is just as he remembers when he snarled down at him with boot on his throat. Valaena always said she was inconsequential to her family, just another cattle to sell. Rhaegar proved her right that dreadful afternoon. If anyone had Cersei pinned to the ground with her throat bleeding under their knife, Jaime would have killed them then and there, no matter the consequences. 

Jaime leaps off his horse to bow like his tutors taught him. They could be twins if not for the seven years between them. They have their father’s regal austerity instead of their mother’s soft beauty. Valaena did not even inherit her curves, though she’d always been good at playing tricks with her dresses. Her and Cersei both. It’s a shame they hate each other so. They could conquer the Known World if they put their pretty heads together. 

Valaena’s throat is bared, her silver braid thrown over the opposite shoulder to reveal a thick pink line. He stares at it, guilt roiling in and in on itself until it’s storming in his gut, battering against his chest for a way out. 

“If you’d stop ogling...“ Rhaegar begins drily, but Jaime doesn’t pay him any attention. 

He dreams about it. He dreams about not stopping himself, about pushing further and further, about her dark blood spilling out into the dirt. Her face so pitying and thunderous as it pales and pales until her eyes are empty. He wakes with the taste of bile in his mouth. 

“Ser Jaime?” Prince Rhaegar asks, a wry smile playing on his lips. 

He jolts. The prince and princess and their kingsguard are all staring at him.

“I asked you to stop ogling my sister,” the Prince says. 

“She’s my betrothed. If anyone can ogle her, it’s me.”

“I quite like being ogled by all sorts of men. If I want to be ogled, I shall be ogled and neither of you can stop me,” Valaena cuts in. 

“Well you’re certainly dressed for it,” Jaime says. 

She’s dressed in all black, as she always is. Her gown is tight and thin and sleeveless, revealing her lean, muscled figure. He knows he is damned when she turns around. She’s got the tightest ass he’s ever seen. He thinks about fucking it as often as he thinks of fucking Cersei’s pretty mouth. 

“I always did prefer you in leathers, though.”

“And blue,” she says, shapely lips quirked into a sad smile. 

Relief floods through him. It feels as though Gregor Clegane has been lifted from his shoulders. 

“And blue,” he says. 

They leave him staring after her like an abandoned dog. 

Addam claps him on the back. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? There’s hope for you yet.”

“There’s always hope where Cersei is to be found.”

Valaena wears blue to the welcoming feast. It’s a gauzy, ethereal gown that makes her look like an eldritch creature from a northern tale. No one can take their eyes off her, not even the lovesick Robert Baratheon. It isn’t transparent, she’s a princess after all, but every curve of her body is visible when she stands in front of a fire. Cersei keeps scowling darkly and Rhaegar keeps shaking his head in exasperation. The King, though...

Jaime downs his mug of mead and stands. 

“That’s a lad,” one of Father’s men says. “Go show them who she belongs to.”

“No one can own a dragon,” he snaps. He glanced up at the madman lusting over his own daughter. “Not even another dragon.”

The man follows his gaze and pales. Uncle Kevan digs his fingers into Jaime’s arm. He frowns, not in the mood for a scolding, but when he looks down, his uncle’s eyes are hard and unyielding. 

“That girl is a Lannister in all but name. She learned to walk and wield in a sword in the walls of our forefathers. You have shared blood and tears with her. Go. We will not let such a monstrosity stand.”

Jaime nods tersely. A monstrosity. Is it the age? The father-daughter dynamic? Or simply the incest? Was she right, then? Is he truly a monster? Even Rhaegar and Valaena, siblings who were expected to marry, do not love one another as Jaime and Cersei do.

Jaime Lannister, the monster, his whore sister, and his imp brother. Whatever would Father say? 

He’s still brooding when he finally crosses the hall. She’s standing in front of a massive window with Ashara Dayne, who’s wearing a dress nearly identical to Valaena’s. Jaime is stunning in his own right, but faced against two creatures such as these, he’s little more than a boy. 

“Oh look how adorable!” Lady Dayne coos. “He’s terrified.”

Valaena sighs. “More like feeling sorry for himself.”

She tilts her head, her soft curls falling nearly to her hips. “Still refusing to take accountability for your poor decisions?”

Lady Dayne’s dark brows shoot up. “Well. You’ve got a handle on this. I’ll leave you to it.”

Jaime and Valaena study one another. He stands tall, refusing to fidget, and she sips on her wine. 

“You look handsome,” she finally says. “The girls are staring at you more than they are Rhaegar. A rarity, I assure you.”

He smiles his most blinding smile. 

“Don’t look at me like that. It just makes me want to punch your teeth out.”

Jaime sighs. “I thought....”

“You thought?! Seven hells, call the High Septon! There’s a miracle to record.”

“You wore blue.”

Purple eyes burn into his and he knows that she would be snarling if they were alone. 

“Of course I wore blue. I wanted you miserable.” She throws back her wine and slams the glass down on the windowsill. She grabs his sleeve to drag him to the wide area between the tables. Several couples nearly trip in alarm. “Come on. Dance with me so I can go to Stark.”

Jaime hesitates with his hand on her waist. He’s never been able to wrap his head around how someone so small can be so strong. 

“Stark? Why would you go to Stark?!”

She lets him drag her into the first wide sweeps of the dance. 

“Because Eddard Stark is taking my maidenhead, dear betrothed,” she croons. 

Jaime clenches her harder, relishing in the way the hard muscles give under his tight grip.

“Is that so, my beloved?” He hisses back.

“Yes. I’m tired of being a maid and he-“

“He wouldn’t even know what to do!”

“That’s not what Robert Baratheon said when he was deep in his cups last night. Eddard Stark is many things, a wolf chief amongst them if the giggles are true.”

“He’s meek! He-“

“He is kind, which is more than I can say for you. He will treat me well and go back to his own bed after.”

Jaime begins to protest, but she cuts him off with one of her glares. He’s always imagined her atop a dragon when she looks at someone like that. 

“Don’t try to deny it. You chose her, Jaime. Don’t pretend to regret it now.”

He nods stiffly. They carry through the motions of the other dancers, taking care not to stray too close. 

“This isn’t the kind of dancing I like to do with you,” he says. 

She smiles, close lipped and wistful. “Do you think we could take Arthur together?”

She’s so beautiful. She’s even more beautiful than Cersei in her own way. 

“We could have taken them all, you and me.”

She furrows her brows, her long nose crinkling like it does when she’s deciding what to say. 

“I’ll always love you,” she finally says. “I’ll always love the man you could be. I’ll be here when you decide to be him.”

He cups her face in his hands and studies her. He doesn’t deserve her. She deserves so much more. She deserves Stark and his kindness and his loyalty. It’s cruel of him to keep her. It’s something Father would do. 

Jaime pulls her close and presses his lips to her forehead. She smells like lavender.

The next day, under the afternoon sun, Jaime rises as a knight of the Kingsguard. He only looks at Valaena once and only then because he has to. Princess Elia greets him on her own with a curious glint in her eye. Prince Rhaegar is behind her, his hand gripping his sister’s tightly. He doesn’t say a thing, only inclines his head the slightest bit. Valaena is straight backed at his side. 

“Do you remember everything I told you?” She asks, her eyes alight with fire. “Do you remember my dreams?”

Rhaegar startles. His neck nearly breaks with how fast his gaze snaps to his sister. 

Jaime doesn’t pay him any attention. He nods to show he is listening. 

“Then be brave. Mine the sapphire and-“

“Mind the goat. I know.”

It happens like she dreamed it would, a mad dragon threatening to burn his own kingdom. He slays the dragon, but it’s isn’t a quiet wolf that finds him. It’s an old one. 

‘I watched your son burn,’ he wants to say. ‘I choked on the smell of his burning flesh.’ 

All that comes out is, “Where is she?” 

Rickard Stark studies Jaime curiously. The grey in his eyes is just as unnatural as the violet in hers. 

“Safe in Winterfell. She said she didn’t believe in her brother’s cause, but she didn’t want to raise her sword against him. I intend to keep her there.”

Jaime lets out a deep breath and collapses further into the Throne’s embrace. 

“She told me to take it,” Lord Rickard says, eyeing the jagged edges of his seat. “She says it would be the surest way to save the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Do you want it?”

“Would you let me have it?”

“Fuck the Seven Kingdoms. It was the closest chair I could find.”

Lord Rickard smiles like a wolf. He sheathes his bloody sword. “I understand why she likes you, boy. You’ve got balls. I was supposed to tell you something. Something about a goat and a diamond or-“

“Mine the sapphire and mind the goat.”

Lord Rickard barks out a laugh. “And fuck the Seven Kingdoms.”

Chapter Text

There are two constants in Jaime Lannister’s life: his sword and his sister. 

Once, there had been three. He tries not to think about the third. It serves no purpose to think about her. Just as thinking of her battered, broken niece and nephew serves no purpose. Jaime, however, has never been a logical man. He does all sorts of things for no discernible reason. He thinks about her all the time. Sometimes when he thinks about her, he’ll find Ser Barristan staring at him, thinking about her too. Sometimes when he thinks about her, he’ll find Cersei staring at him, thinking about her too. 

Jaime Lannister doesn’t like thinking. He tries not to do too much of it. Life is simpler that way. He has Cersei and he has his sword and he doesn’t need anything else. 

And then the Greyjoys rebel and he’s suddenly faced with the truth. 

Robert and his valiant, honorable Starks keep her from him for a whole damn month. Four weeks of planning and sieging and puzzles and all he can think about is her. The Greyjoys have merged at Pyke for one last stand and Robert has answered the call. Still, all Jaime can think about is Valaena.

Jaime doesn’t even get a glimpse of her until the King is stomping through the cold water. Jaime has one boot on the boat and the other in the water when a flash of silver catches his eye. He nearly drowns before the fighting even begins. 

Fury swells in Jaime, white hot and sharp. Valaena grew up wearing rubies the size of a man’s fist and dresses embroidered with pink diamonds from Southroyos. He and father gifted her with custom swords and armor worth more than most lords would ever see in a year. Now she’s here, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, in old armor and second rate leather. She draws her weapon, a hand and a half sword with an unadorned pommel. 

It’s the ugly, plain pommel that does him in. He has pushed through two boatfuls of soldiers before he even realizes what he’s doing. Someone is calling his name, but he wouldn’t care if it were the Stranger himself demanding attention. 

Jaime grips her by the elbow and spins her around. Almost lazily, she raises that ugly sword to rest against his neck. She stares at him and he fills like he’s drowning and burning all at once.

“Still spiteful, I see,” Valaena says, lowering her weapon. 

Her voice. Gods, her voice. He’d forgotten how girlish it is. And her hair. Her silver hair is pulled back in a complicated northern braid, revealing sparkling lilac eyes and a sad smile. She’s never looked more like Rhaegar. 

His mouth is suddenly dry. There are a thousand things he’s wanted to say and not a single one seems adequate. 

“Still annoyingly handsome, too. You’re going to be one of those men that age like a fine Dornish red, aren’t you?”

“More of an Arbor gold. Much sweeter.”

“Ser Jaime!”

Jaime sucks in a breath. He’ll kill him. Fuck the Seven Kingdoms. Fuck Robert. Fuck Father. He’ll kill them all. 

“Ser Jaime!” Ned Stark says. His grey eyes dart from Valaena to Jaime and back again. He purses his thin lips tight and breathes out harshly through his nose. “You abandoned the King.”

“The King doesn’t need me to hold his hand, Stark.”

“It is your duty-“

Jaime takes one step forwards, smiling brightly in Ned Stark's face. Gods what a drab man. He refuses, absolutely refuses, to accept that such a sorry excuse of a wolf defeated the Sword in the Morning. Brandon Stark, he wouldn’t doubt. Rickard Stark, he could grudgingly accept. But not this wet, moldy rag of a human being. 

“I am doing my duty. I’m going to keep her across the island from the King so that she won’t be tempted to put her sword in his back like I did the old one. Run along now, and send me my men.”

Ned Stark bends around Jaime to frown at Val. Jaime doesn’t bother turning around to see her reaction. If Stark’s hand so much and brushes that hilt, his little Tully boy will be the Heir to Winterfell. Eventually, Stark nods and walks off, his gait uneven on the sand. The dozen or so soldiers that paused to watch move on disappointedly. 

“Please tell me you never fucked him,” Jaime groans. 

Val’s pale brows raise. “Are you judging me on who I fuck?”

Jaime curses, scowling murderously at a troop of nosy men. They scurry away in a clang of metal. Val sighs and rolls her eyes as she begins to trudge along after another group. One of the passing lords, a pale man with eerie eyes, lowers his head in greeting. She nods back in a gesture that is purely Tywin Lannister. 

“Anyway, I never slept with Ned,” she says. “I’ll not have word getting back to your bitch of a sister and have his honor besmirched.”

“His bastard didn't stain it enough already?“

“You'll not hear any complaints from me. Little Jon Snow is likely the only child I'll have.”

It shouldn't be true. She shouldn't accept it so easily, with such a blasé tone. She'd always wanted children. She would lie in the godswood at night and tell him about all the little blond monsters they would have. Warriors, the lot of them, or scholars like Tyrion. When he'd said that the boys would be knights as great as the Sword in the Morning, she’d gone furious in that cold way of hers and said that no child of hers would be a knight. 

He hadn’t understood then, but he understands now. Oh, does he understand now. 

“Have you been keeping up with your left hand?” She asks suddenly. 

“Have you been keeping up with your right hand?” He counters. 

Her lips turn up in a smirk. For one glorious moment, he thinks she’s going to flirt with him. 

“Let’s see what the squids think, shall we?”

Something in Jaime’s chest cracks. 

“Lead the way, Princess.”

He tries not to think about how it feels to watch her walk away. 

Rickard Stark has taken command at the eastern passage. The battering ram, a frightening thing carved to resemble the snarling face of a weirwood tree, is nearly through the thick wooden gates when Jaime and Valaena arrive. Lord Stark slings a heavy arm over Valaena’s shoulders and pulls her in to kiss the crown of her head. She leans into him easily. 

Jaime casts his jealous thoughts away guiltily. He’s watched her do the same with Uncle Kevan a hundred times. Who is he to begrudge her this? He who slayed her own father?

Jaime casts that thought away just as quickly. Kevan Lannister and Ser Harlan Grandison were the only fathers she knew. Aerys was nothing. 

“Getting a bit old for this aren’t you?” Jaime asks with a smirk. 

Lord Rickard shrugs. His hair has turned as white and grey as his house colors.

“I have come to die,” he says. 

Jaime nods respectfully. It’s the best the likes of them can hope for. Tyrion can have his lecherous, peaceful death. Jaime would rather be found dead beside a mound of corpses, his sword still in his hand. Problem is, there aren’t many capable of delivering such a boon and two of them are at his side.

“Do you think a squid capable of killing you?” He wonders. 

“If not, I will join my son on the Wall. Perhaps there is a wildling or a giant worthy of the honor. But I doubt this will be my last battle. The best of the Greyjoys are with the fleet: Euron and the brute Victarion.”

“Shame. I would have liked the- A giant?! Surely you jest. Next you’ll be giving an Other the honor.”

Valaena hums. 

“We could have fun all the same,” she says. She turns to Jaime, a wild glint in her eyes, a hint of the madness that had ensnared him so thoroughly as a boy. “What do you say? Shall we make them fear us?”

Jaime steps back in an attempt to maintain his composure. Gods, he’d forgotten how stunning she is. Even Cersei could not resist the Targaryen pull. So mysterious and wild, so dangerous and melancholy. Even the Mad King had looked like some sort of eldritch creature in the moonlight. A nightmarish one in the end, but still something entrancing and damning and unmistakeably other. Something more. 

“They already whisper our names, Princess. What more could you ask for?”

She frowns, scrunching up her nose adorably. She’d always been so much more expressive than Cersei. The North hasn’t frozen her that much at least. 

“I want a name like the Kingslayer.”

 A great yell sounds from above. Jaime looks up the stairs to watch the first wave of men flooding the stronghold. Another yell sounds from behind. Ser Willem Tybett, Jaime’s cousin ten times removed and the leader of his men, waves from lower down the cliffside. Nearly a thousand men march into formation beside the northmen. 

“No, you don’t,” he says as loudly as he dares.

Valaena squeezes his shoulder. “Come, Jaime. When have we ever balked at carrying the others weight?”

Jaime flashes his most blinding smile, expecting to see her roll her eyes. Instead, her cheeks tinge a dark pink. His heart soars. 

“Are you asking me to carry your weight in this battle?” He taunts. 

She actually does roll her eyes. “Come on. Let me show you what all I’ve learned.”

“My men are yours to command,” Jaime says to Lord Stark. 

The grizzled old man nods once, his face contemplative. 

“I wonder, sometimes, what it would have been like if you had taken it. A Visenya on the Throne with a Kingslayer at her side. It would have been fearsome to behold.” He turns his fierce glare onto Valaena. “Show them, girl. Show them what it is to have a dragon with the wolves at its back. Make them tremble.”

They do not lead the second charge.

They are the second charge. 

Jaime and Valaena pass under the foreboding stone kraken without fanfare. He in his elaborate golden armor and she in her plain steel set. A dragon wing helm is her only ornamentation; a smaller, artless version of her brother’s. Even her shield is unadorned except for the painted weirwood that some northerners prefer. They stand side by side as they survey the battlefield. After a moment, Jaime raises his hand to the northeast. The tower there is swarming with Ironborn. 

Soldiers move for them without a single command. One Pyke man is stupid enough to charge at them with an axe. Jaime sidesteps the charge easily, allowing Valaena to stab into the gap at his neck. 

He is the first of many. 

They paint the first tower red. 

A very long time ago, Valaena had stomped into the training yard at Casterly Rock. She was dressed in Jaime’s clothes and had cut her hair to match his. Ser Benedict Broom, the master-at-arms, had immediately sent for Father. Father had only stared down at Valaena with his cold green eyes and she had stared implacably back. Eventually, an argument erupted, the likes of which was sung in Lannisport and King’s Landing for a decade. 

Father had not relented until Valaena picked up a shield and sword, stood at Jaime’s left side, and demanded Father to charge at them. He had. He beat them of course, but it took him longer than he would ever admit. Jaime and Valaena were the same height, had opposite sword hands, and nearly of the same mind. It was like fighting a four armed knight. A short one, but a knight with double the hands nonetheless. 

They are no longer children. Jaime is in his prime: six foot two, fourteen stone, and nearly a legend. Valaena is no more than three inches shorter, twice as clever, and has had nothing to do but play at swords for the past nine years. They are unstoppable. 

The tower falls in under half an hour. The following northmen watch them with fear and awe and trepidation. 

Eventually, they fight their way through a spiraling stairwell and emerge to find Lord Bolton barking orders at his flayed men. Jaime pauses to admire his armor even in the haze of battle. It is engraved to resemble an actual flayed man, the muscles and tendons of forearms glinting in the dull sunlight. 

“Bolton!” Valaena calls as she shoves her way through the soldiers. Her voice is only slightly muffled by her helmet.

Lord Bolton turns, glancing at Jaime over her shoulder. A strange gleam lights in his pale eyes. 

“Targaryen,” he replies. “I led my men around yours. We-“

“COVER!” Another man bellows. 

Immediately, the flayed men raise their shields to the windows. The room darkens as arrows crash and rebound into the sea below. Lord Bolton, however, does not miss a beat. He hardly raises his voice. 

“We must take the bridge before they crush the chain,” he explains. 

Jaime smiles, bliss and ecstasy rushing through his limbs. There’s nothing like a good fight except for a good fuck and nothing like a good fuck except for a good fight. 

“Cover us and we’ll take it for you,” he says. 

Lord Bolton does not pay Jaime the slightest bit of attention. He only looks to the Targaryen princess for his orders. Strange, that. And hadn’t Rickard Stark said something strange?

“Keep the arrows off of us and you’ll have your bridge. You’ll have your whole fucking castle, Bolton.”

Lord Bolton does not smile or sneer or scowl. His face is just as unsettlingly empty as Tywin Lannister’s. 

“You know how I despise arrogance,” he says in his flat voice. 

“Oh, there’s no need to worry about me, sweet Roose.” One of the flayed men cries out in dismay and another makes a strangled noise. “We haven’t even started yet.” 

As one, Jaime and Valaena switch sword arms and places, so that she is on his left and he on her right. A soldier curses and another’s jaw drops. 

“Shall we, my love?” Valaena asks. 

“On our sweet Roose’s word,” he replies. 

Lord Bolton does not roll his eyes, but he does exhale rather loudly.

“On three,” he says. 

Jaime positions himself just outside the door, his shield ready to raise. Valaena is his mirrored shadow. Others line up behind her and all around them, arrows drawn. 

“One. Two. Three.”

A soldier rips the door open and dull light pours in. The arrows fly, Jaime barrels through, and a roar escapes his lips. 

They are artists and flesh is their canvas. He is so caught up in the manic euphoria that he cannot think. He is nothing than memory and muscle and bliss. Valaena is at his side and his sword is in his hand and there is nothing else that matters. 

They fight on and on, through dark halls and cramped stairwells and bright balconies and swinging bridges. They fight on and on and on, yet he never grows tired or sore. She loses her helmet and it only takes that blinding flash of silver hair to put a grin back on his face.

Minutes, or perhaps centuries later, they find themselves in a throne room. A massive black kraken stands tall and center, it’s fierce tentacles raised threateningly. Robert Baratheon’s large form is nearly hidden behind the monstrous coils from where he sits the throne. Kingsguard stand at one side and Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark at the other. Balon Greyjoy, a woman, and two children kneel at his feet. 

Robert does not notice them until Lord Rickard and Sweet Roose enter just behind Valaena. Bloodied northmen pull to a stop behind her. Ser Willem, ever the clever bastard, marches up to Jaime’s side. He raises his brows at all the gore coating his golden armor. 

“I see you’ve managed to survive, Dragonbitch,” the King grumbles. 

Valaena’s answering laugh chimes off the black walls, brightening the room with its girlish sound. 

“Cousin, don’t damn me so! I stand before a Demon and at the side of a Kingslayer. There must be a better moniker than Dragonbitch.”

“You’re a mad bitch is what you are. Nothing more.”

Valaena shrugs. “If my king says so.”

“Your king does. Come, Dragonbitch. Witness my mercy since you escaped it the first time.”

Valaena smiles dangerously, but she obeys all the same. Jaime’s sworn brothers take a step forward and unsheathe their swords. Jaime doesn’t blame them. Every inch of her is stained red. Even her braid, which has escaped its knot, is dyed a dull pink. She halts near Eddard Stark, her head tilted as she surveys the cowering Greyjoys. 

“Lord Balon has surrendered and bent the knee,” Robert explains. “Tell me, cousin, what would King Scab have done?”

“King’s blood has power. He would have bled the parents and burned the children alive over dragon eggs.”

Everyone, even Jaime, especially Jaime, shuffles uneasily. Her words are all too true.

“And what would you do?”

“If I wanted dragons, I would slit all their throats and put eggs in their pyres.” Everyone, even Jaime, especially Jaime, blanches. “If I wanted peace, I would give the heir to Stannis Baratheon. He’ll teach the boy to be hard and loyal.”

“The Starks will teach him better,” Robert argues. 

Valaena rolls her eyes. “The Greyjoys are an island people, Robert. He’s got to learn what it means to live on an island. He’s got to know how to command a fleet and run a ship if he wants to be respected.”

“She is correct, Your Grace,” Lord Arryn intones.

“Ned’ll teach him well enough.”

Valaena sighs. In a blur of red and grey, she places the tip of her sword under the chin of the Greyjoy girl and tilts her head up. The girl’s eyes are filled with a fervent hate. 

“What is dead may never die,” Valaena says. 

“But rises harder and stronger,” the girl spits back. 

Valaena grins and lowers her blade. Blood smears the girl’s neck and chin. She turns back to the King and bows. 

“They’ll never love him when there’s another Greyjoy with her own fleet.”

Robert huffs. “She’s just a girl.”

“Then you never deserved my daughter,” Rickard Stark booms. “Just as I never did. She was twice as wild as Valaena, just like this Ironwoman. Think of Lyanna, Your Grace. Think of what she could do with an axe and a fleet.”

Robert Baratheon sinks back into the Throne. “Very well. The boy will foster with Stannis.”

Valaena bows again. “Thank you for listening, Your Grace.”

“Just get out of my sight.”

Valaena does not budge. “May I go, then?”

“Is that not-...Oh for fuck’s sake. Why not? Go. Maybe a wildling will kill you for me.”

Valaena grins. “Since when have the gods ever been that kind?”

Robert waves his hand flippantly, already rising to speak with Eddard Stark. Valaena strides out of the room with a pleased air. Jaime does not even hesitate to follow her, though he can feel Ser Barristan and Jon Arryn watching. 

He waits until she’s found and questioned a maid, who gives directions to the lord’s bathing hall, whatever that is. Jaime presses a spare dagger in the woman’s hand and advises her to hide better. 

“What was that about?” He demands, rounding on Val. 

“Later,” she promises. 

The bathing hall is even more fascinating than the Seastone Chair. Anyone can have an interesting throne. Only a people that worship the sea can have this. It is a large, cavernous hall with a pool for a floor. It deepens just as gradually as the ocean does. Water gushes out of pipes in the wall with each deafening crash of a wave against the castle. 

He turns to share his awe with Val but she is already shedding her armor. He watches, almost guilty, before getting started on his own. 

He’s never seen her naked. He’s had his tongue in her mouth and his hand in her cunt, but he’s never seen her like this. 

As she descends in the pool, blood washes away from her smooth complexion. Her skin is so pale that it seems to glow like moonlight. Her unbraided hair falls to the small of her back in pink waves, and her ass is round and firm, curving steeply above muscular thighs. 

She disappears under the depths of water and re-emerges, shoving her hair back from her face. Her breasts are larger than he’d realized. They were always so small compared to Cersei. And her nipples are a bright pink. He can’t look away from them. Cersei’s are large and brown and make his cock hard. Valaena’s are endearing, almost. Oddly cute compared to the rest of her. 

“Are you coming in or are you just going to ogle?” She demands. 

He smirks, shoving his feet out of his boots. His shirt is next. He lifts it up slowly and makes sure to muss up his hair when he drags it off. Val blushes a beautiful rose color that brings out the purple in her eyes. He laughs and she dunks back into the water. 

Jaime shoves off his trousers and steps into the pool. It is cold, but he’s acclimated to cold, salty water over the past month. Anything to feel clean again. He dives underwater and kicks over to where she last was. It is just deep enough that the water covers everything but her shoulders. 

Jaime’s never been one for modesty. He reaches over to trace the curve of her breast and rub a thumb over her nipple. She sucks in a breath.

“What was that up there?” He asks as he steps in closer. 

She’s slender to be so strong. His thumbs overlap when he measures her waist. 

“Greyjoy surrendered and-“

Jaime hums, one hand trailing down to knead her ass and the other brushing her back. “Why would a wildling kill you?”

Her eyes dart to his mouth. “Haven’t you heard? I’m joining the Watch.”

He threads his fingers in her tangled hair and bends her head back. 

“Speak, Valaena,” he orders. 

She licks her lips. “I had a dream.”

He sucks in a breath. All of her dreams have happened: Harrenhall, Robert’s Rebellion, Joffrey and Myrcella, Greyjoy’s rebellion. Every single one of them has happened. 

“What? What is it?”

She smiles slow and wide and her eyes get that mad glint again. He can’t have that. He’s wanted this for too long. He’s thought about this far too much to not relish it, to not savor every moment of it. He relaxes the fist in her hair, trails his hand down her arm, up her ribs, and goes back to toying with her breast.

“Dark Sister,” she says, obviously struggling to keep her voice even. “Bloodraven disappeared. I think...”

He dips his other hand low, very low, sliding it between her legs to tease her cunt from behind. His fingers brush the skin between her thighs and tug at her thick curls there.  

“You think what?”

“I think he hid it- Ahh!” 

Her legs slam closed as Jaime shoves middle finger in her without warning, without preparation. He tries too, anyway. It won’t fit very far. He frowns and pulls it out. 

“Aren’t you fucking someone?”

She blushes, but she meets his eyes fiercely. “That’s none of your business.”

“I think it is if I’m about to be inside of you. I wouldn’t Stark to give-“

“What is it with you and Ned? I already told you-“

“You went to give him your maidenhead,” Jaime argues.

She laughs suddenly. “What?! You really think he would sleep with a woman betrothed? That would go against that immaculate honor of his.”

“Men like that don’t refuse women like you.”

Valaena smirks. “Not before I had him sputtering and red faced and straining against his laces.”

Jaime laughs. “What a fool.” He pauses, considering all that he knows. “Who did you go to? Don’t try, Val. I know you better than that. You wouldn’t give up so easily, not when you want something.”

Valaena sighs. Her eyes take on a faraway look, seeing someone far away.  

“Arthur.”

Jaime rips his hands away from her. “What?!”

“He found me. I was furious. So angry. I was mad at you and Ned and Rhaegar and the whole fucking world. I was young and beautiful and yet everyone was too afraid to touch me. The world was going to shit and I didn’t have anyone to make me forget it for a night.”

She traces her finger through the water. “He found me hacking away at trees in the Godswood. I went there to try to keep Rhaegar-...That doesn’t matter. Arthur found me and challenged me. We fought for hours. I won once, actually.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Well. I disarmed him. That counts.”

“Did he trip?”  

“Maybe.”

Jaime snorts. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, raising her voice playfully. “He escorted me back to my rooms, as only the most honorable knights do.”

“Obviously. The most honorable.”

“Outside my door I asked if he was still a true Dornishman or if he’d killed that part of himself too.”

“Valaena! You didn’t!”

“Well it worked, didn’t it?! He kissed me so hard it nearly knocked my teeth loose. Then he fucked me so-“

“Alright. That’s enough.”

“What? You don’t want to know how good he was with a sword?”

Jaime splashes water at her. She laughs and splashes it back at him. She’s so beautiful it hurts, sometimes. It makes his chest ache something horrible. She smiles sadly at whatever she sees in his face and swims over to kiss his cheek. Then his lips. 

She pulls back to meet his gaze, her hands tangled in his hair and her soft chest flush against his hard one.

”There isn’t anyone, Jaime. I’ve tried. Gods, I’ve tried, but I just can’t ever enjoy it. You’re always there, in the back of mind, smirking and making stupid, snide comments, and saying how much better you would be.”

He kisses her slowly, reverently. He knows. He knows exactly what that is like, only it is her disappointment and sadness that he feels.

He fucks her hard and slow against the side of the pool. He fucks her until they cannot think of anything but the other’s skin and breath and heat.

After, they find a room and bar the door. 

Ser Barristan finds him on the third day. Jaime can’t sleep. He’s already unlocked the door once in a fit of guilt and rage. He only made it halfway down the hall before he slunk back in like a cowed dog. Jaime pulls the blanket higher over her back when his Lord Commander enters on silent feet. 

“Lannister-“ he whispers.

“I know,” Jaime says quietly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. She is so beautiful. So good. “She deserves better.”

“Yes. She does.”

You don’t understand, Jaime thinks. I am her Cersei. I am her shame and her ruin. 

Jaime kisses her temple one last time before he follows Ser Barristan into the hall. The man has the decency to wait until they are truly alone on some balcony. His hair is as blindingly white as his cloak under the moon. 

“Must you sully our cloak even more. You swore vows-“

“And this one that you confront me over?!”

Ser Barristan does not blanch. He does not yield. He only cuts into Jaime with his sharp gaze. 

“You are an oathbreaker twice over. First, a King-“

“And what a king he was! We swore to defend the innocent, did we not? What was Rhaella, Selmy? Was she not an innocent?”

The old man finally cringes. 

“Do you know what Darry said? Do you know what he said when I asked him if we had not sworn to protect her as well? ‘We are, but not from him.’ What kind of knights were we, Ser Barristan? What sort of knights stands by while a brother rapes his sister?”

“If the Kingsguard were easy, it would not be such a noble profession.”

 Jaime laughs, the bitter sound lost under the crashing of the waves. “Noble? Oh, how noble we are. How noble they all were. Arthur fucked Valaena too, did you know?”

Ser Barristan’s face goes pale. “You dare speak of the dead thus?”

“She told me herself. She said she asked if he were still a true Dornishman or if he had killed that part of himself too.”

He rears back as though struck. 

“Did Arthur not break his vows, too? He and Oswell and Gerold? Where were they to defend Rhaegar? Where we they to stop me?”

Ser Barristan takes a heavy step forward. “Be grateful we were far from you, Kingslayer.”

“No. You should be thanking me. You should be on your knees thanking your gods that you were not there to make the choice that I faced.”

“What choice could you have possibly-“

“Everyone forgets I killed the pyromancer. Everyone forgets and they never asked why. Only Rickard Stark ever did.”

Confusion, then a slow, terrible dread takes over the Lord Commander’s stern features. 

“Jaime,” he asks slowly. “Why did you kill Rossart?”

“Aerys told him to deliver a message. ‘The traitors want my city,’ he said, ‘but I’ll give them naught but ashes. Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat.’”

“Jaime-“

“I killed the pyromancer then I shoved my sword through the king’s back and slit his throat for good measure. Then I hunted down all the others. I killed everyone that knew of it.”

“Knew of what? What did they know?”

“The wildfire under the city. Great caches of it. Aerys meant to have the biggest pyre of every Targaryen that ever lived.”

Ser Barristan gapes at Jamie, his face pale and slack with horror. 

“Who’s escorting the boy to Dragonstone?”

“I...I meant to send Moore.”

“I’ll take him. I’ll take him at dawn.”

“Jaime-“

Jaime ignores the old knight. Instead, he rouses his men and finds a sailor to take them to Lordsport, where Theon Greyjoy is sleeping under a heavy guard. 

Jaime scowls out over the water, trying very hard not to think of their pool. 

Chapter Text

Robb shudders as Valyrian steel kisses the back of his father’s neck. 

“Dead,” Auntie snarls. 

Eddard Stark and Valaena Targaryen are always at one another’s throats. Their fights are brutal, the two of them wielding truths sharper than any Valyrian steel. It’s never been so bad as it is today. Today they are two seasoned killers determined to spill blood.

Most of their confrontations are about Jon. Occasionally, Auntie Val will make a wry comment on behalf of Sansa and Arya, but she surrenders on that front easily. Jon, however, does not have a Lady Catelyn to fight on his behalf. Valaena took up that mantle as soon as Father returned to Winterfell from Robert’s Rebellion.  

They’ve only come to blows once before. It was years ago, after she left for the Wall with Grandfather and came back alone with Dark Sister. She practically dragged Ned Stark into the training yard and beat him into the ground. Robb’s never told anyone, but he knows that one was about Jon’s mother. He watched Jon carefully for days, expecting some horrible truth to be revealed. Nothing ever came of it.

The worst, however, was during a supper years and years ago. It all began when Jon let it slip that he was learning High Valyrian. Father had been incensed. It was the first time Robb understood why people feared the Lord of Winterfell.

“What else are you teaching my son?” Father had asked softly, dangerously. 

He was using the Lord’s voice, wore the stern mask and the mantle. Robb and Jon watched with wide eyes while Grandfather reclined with a smirk. This was the man who won the Battle of the Bells. This was the man who fought the Sword in the Morning. 

“You’ll have to be more specific, Eddard.“

“Valaena.”

Auntie did not balk. She glared back with eyes just as cold as Father’s. It was easy to forget that she was a Princess, that she was supposed to be the Lady Lannister. Everyone agreed, from Maester Lewin to the laundresses, that she would have been the true power in the West. Jaime Lannister might have been a legendary swordsman, but he didn’t have his father’s brains.

“You’ve taught him your old ways. I’ve taught him mine. I’ve taught him to read and speak Valyrian. I’ve taught him to navigate the stars like the dragonriders. I’ve taught him the secrets of the Freehold and the Rock. I-“

“You’ve taught him enough.”

Robb thought she might do one of her loud laughs and make a sarcastic remark. She didn’t. She rose from her chair, balled her fists on the table, and glowered at the Warden of the North. 

“Is this what you want for him, Ned? Do you want him to be me? A ghost in Winterfell? I was raised by Tywin fucking Lannister to be a goddamn queen and look at me. Look at what I am. I am lonely, sad woman that everyone pities until I kick their asses into the dirt. Do you want that for your son? Do you? Or are you the father you claim to be?”

Father lost that fight. Soon, they all joined in on Jon’s lessons. Sansa loves them most of all, of course. She finds High Valyrian to be ever so romantic. Robb and Arya are just excited to have extra sword lessons from the Butcher Queen herself. 

Soft footsteps startle Robb out of his thoughts. Sansa comes to stand beside him, her hands clenching the bannister tightly. She’s never been one for conflict. 

“It’s Jon, isn’t it?” She asks. 

Robb can still remember when she hated Jon. She was always so cruel and aloof to their ‘half-brother’. Grandfather put a stop to that early on. He sent Septa Mordane away and hired a governess named Madam Sara from White Harbor. Mother hadn’t been happy, though her foul mood relented when the girls both confessed how much more they enjoyed their lessons. They even became close friends, a true horror for the rest of their siblings.

“It’s always Jon,” Robb replies. 

A savage yell echoes across the yard and a blur of silver barrels into their father. He grunts, knees buckling as he takes the blow. He only manages to throw her off at the last moment. 

Sansa sighs and fusses with her pale pink skirts. 

“He’ll not get away with it this time,” she says. “She’ll make him talk.”

“I dunno. Father’s as stubborn as any of us.”

Sansa shakes her head. “He can’t put it off any longer. There’s no time left.”

Robb runs his hand over his face. The King is on his way to Winterfell, which means that Father will be headed south. There are rumors of a betrothal with the prince, but Sansa has remained suspiciously quiet. She has her own private lessons with Val. 

“You know that scar on her neck?" she asks suddenly. "By her pulse point?”

Of course he does. He was half in love with Valaena as a child. He and every other boy in Winterfell spent an unseemly amount of time memorizing every inch of her they could see.

“Aye.”

“Ser Jaime tried to kill her when they were five and ten.”

“What?! But she says they love each other!”

Sansa only hums, her eyes on the fight below them. 

“She learned something she shouldn’t have and Ser Jaime nearly murdered her for it. In broad daylight. In the Red Keep. During the Mad King’s reign. With Rhaegar Targaryen and Arthur Dayne corridors away.”

Robb whistles lowly. “What was it?”

“She won’t say. She only said her brother nearly ran him through.” Sansa toys with a trout ring on her left hand. “She’s told me things Robb, things that the Queen did. That Lord Tywin said, that he taught her. The things that he did....“

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and shakes her head sadly. He doesn’t know if it’s because of their conversation or the sight of Dark Sister resting against their father's neck again.

“Father never told me. He and Mother let me think life is a pretty song. They would have sent me down there none the wiser.”

“Sansa...”

Aunt Valaena hisses something at Father before she stomps away. He stays kneeling in the dirt with his head hung low. 

“She told me to write to Bear Island. The Mormonts are fierce fighters and know their way around a ship.”

“Perfect for making a quick escape.”

Below them, Father shoves himself to his feet. He catches their gaze and sighs heavily. As he stalks away, the dread in Robb’s gut grows heavier. A boulder sinking into the sea. There’s something strange on the wind, something terrible, and the Starks are caught in the middle of it. 

The King’s party is far too crimson for Robb’s liking. The Baratheon stags are buried deep within the lion banners flapping in the harsh wind. King Robert is just as disappointing as Auntie made him out to be. He’s nearly too fat for his horse and reeks of wine. Nonetheless, Robb shakes his hand and beams like an awestruck fool. At his side, Sansa peers up with a doe eyed expression. 

Princess Myrcella is sweet, but her mother and brother are the epitome of everything the North hates. As beautiful as they are, their internal rot gives them an odious aura. The Queen’s smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes and the Prince’s carries a hint of madness. 

The procession somehow takes far too long and nearly not long enough. The entire courtyard holds their breath when they reach Valaena. She’s dressed like a princess today, in a gown finer than Lady Stark’s. It isn’t odd to see her dressed as such, only strange for her to spend so much coin and time on it. She usually hoards the little treasure she has like a dragon of old. 

Sansa gushed about it being a grand romantic gesture for Ser Jaime. Father says it is only her pride. Robb thinks it’s silly to care so much about a damn dress.

Valaena curtsies to the King and his children, as is expected, but she only stares at Cersei. The two of them are locked in the other’s seething hatred long enough for Mother to fidget nervously. In the end, the King rolls his eyes and shoves his wife out of the way. His great belly jiggles with every movement. 
 
“Dragonbitch. I see the wildlings didn’t kill you. Shame, that.”

“The gods aren’t nearly so kind.”

“No,” the King says, suddenly serious. “No they aren’t. I hoped you would look more like him. I wanted to kill him again.”

Valaena snorts. “There are only two men capable of killing me now and you’ve only brought one of them with you.”

A hundred heads swivel to the Kingslayer. Robb’s brow furrows as he looks him over. He’s nothing like she described. They all expected a swaggering knight with gleaming hair and polished boots. He’s got the hair, but Robb suspects he was forced into the shining kingsguard armor. He looks more like a king than Robert Baratheon could ever hope to. 

As if to prove it, he swings off of his destrier with practiced ease. As he unbuckles a bag from the saddle, a slender blonde knight claws out for him. Ser Jaime shrugs the Lannister boy off without sparing a glance. Everything about the Kingslayer oozes danger. Robb’s only ever seen one person walk like that, put so much grace and thought into every movement. It is no wonder that everyone sings of their Red Reign of Pyke. 

“Kingslayer,” King Robert warns. 

Jaime Lannister pays him no attention. He merely cocks his head and studies the princess from head to toe. Robb wonders what he sees. He knew her, loved her even, when she was a young maid in her prime. She’s always been breathtaking, even in her twenties and thirties. Every boy at Winterfell has been infatuated with her at one point, Robb included. There’s no one left in Westeros, maybe even the world, with eyes so purple and lips so full. 

“You wore blue,” Ser Jamie says. 

“Of course I wore blue. I wanted you miserable.”

The two of them share a look so intense, so heart-wrenching, that Robb has to look away. This sort of intimacy is best left to closed doors, but the two of them will never have that luxury. It makes the scene before him all the more dismal. 

“Here,” Ser Jaime says, offering his satchel. “I found them on Dragonstone. They’re only rocks, but you’ve always held a fondness for useless pretty things. It’s why you loved me so much.”

Slowly, almost frightfully, she reaches into the bag. Her eyes close and she takes a deep breath before pulling out a massive egg. It is indeed pretty. Each of the scales fade from deep purple to soft green in a mesmerizing pattern. Dragon eggs. An exiled Targaryen princess with Dark Sister and dragon eggs. An uncomfortable silence spreads through the courtyard like a snow melting out over a rug.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft. “I shall cherish them.”

“As I shall cherish you, my lady.”

He reaches for her free hand and presses a swift kiss to her palm. At Robb’s side, Sansa sighs dreamily. She isn’t alone. On the balcony above, a maid presses a handkerchief to her eyes. Arya, however, groans audibly. 

“Lannisters,” the King grumbles. He spins on his heel, sleet kicking up under his boots as he stomps back to Father. “Take me to the crypts, Ned. I want to pay my respects.”

No one, not even the Queen, pays him any mind. They are all still caught up in Red Val and her Red Jaime. The Butcher Queen and her Kingslayer. Once, Grandfather told them about finding Jaime Lannister sprawled on the Iron Throne with the Mad King dead at his feet. In this moment, Robb can’t help wondering what it might have been like if he’d kept it. By the look of her, Cersei Lannister can’t either. Only she doesn’t seem half so bewitched by the idea. 

Bran falls and Valaena takes it the hardest. 

She and Ser Jaime, who have avoided one another for the most part (as much as Robb can tell, anyway), spend nearly every waking moment in the training yard. Their fights are mesmerizing. They move too quickly for the eye to track. One moment, Valaena will have him back into the corner and in the blink of an eye she is sprawled across the mud. Even then the fight goes on. They merely haul the other up and begin the macabre dance again. 

Winterfell is as silent as the grave. Even the royal retinue is somber, though Robb suspects it is mostly fear. Valaena doesn’t bother to hide her vehement hatred of everything Lannister and Baratheon. Southern maids and soldiers alike bow their heads and hunch their shoulders at the first glimpse of silver hair, yet they still gather around the yard in their free time. 

As beautiful as it is, it is terrifying to behold. Robb knew, logically, that his aunt is a legend. He chalked it up to her bloodline and upbringing. A beautiful Targaryen warrior-princess raised by Lannisters makes for intriguing songs after all. Seeing her angry, truly angry, and going up against her equal puts the tales into perspective. He thought it was all an exaggeration. But this...This is terrifying. 

A great pit grows in Robb’s stomach, whirling in on itself until his guts are twisted together and he thinks he might vomit. The Starks are not prepared for whatever storm is brewing. 

Robb rises from his perch on the barrel and stomps through the halls of Winterfell. First, he collects Jon from where he is sulking in Uncle Benjen’s shadow. Next, he marches into Father’s solar, bows to the king, and claims that the Maester needs to speak to the family about Bran. When the four of them arrive in Bran’s room, he sends Lewin out and orders the guards to watch for spies. Finally together and alone, he rounds on his family with his hands on his hips. 

“I’ve had enough of this horseshit,” he declares. 

“Robb!” Mother gasps.

“Bran can’t hear me and quite frankly I don’t give a damn. I’ve had enough. I won’t allow any more of this stupidity.”

“Son, what are you talking about?” Father asks, brows furrowed. At his side, Uncle Benjen is smirking proudly as he lowers himself next to Bran’s feet. The unnamed direwolf stretches to rest its head in his lap. 

“There’s a war coming. I know I’m hardly more than a boy, but I can feel it. It’s all building up to something awful and we can’t keep going on like this.”

“Robb-“

“No. No, Father. You are going to tell us, this very instant, who Jon’s mother is.” He glares at his Mother, who desperately clutches the prayer wheel in her hands. “And you are going to accept it. I know you hate Jon, but he is my brother and I need him at my side.” Robb spins on his heel to face Jon. “And you are going to listen and you are going to brood about it and then you are going to stay here. With me. In Winterfell.”

“I am not,” he snarls.  

Robb takes a step forward, shoulders thrown back and chin tipped up. Jon’s tall and quick, but Robb’s broad and strong and most importantly, the eldest of six children. He has a over a decade of experience getting his brothers and sisters in line. Jon can’t be any worse than Arya and Sansa in one of their alliances. 

“You are,” he counters calmly. “The last time a Stark went to King’s Landing, he burned alive, and that was with the Targaryens in power. This time it’s the Lannisters and we know what they’re capable of. Valaena’s spent our whole lives warning us about them. The Wall’s always going to be there, Jon. We might not.”

“He’s right,” Uncle Benjen says. “In the last war, I was the Stark in Winterfell. I was stuck here while my brother and sister died thousands of miles away. Valaena was stuck here while her niece and nephew were slaughtered. It’s a terrible feeling, Jon. Fight this war. See your brothers and sisters safe, and if you still want to take the black, do it then. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.”

Father scowls and sighs, crossing his arms like a petulant child. “There’s not going to be another war.”

Benjen rolls his eyes. “Of course there is, Ned. Val dreamt it.”

“Her dreams are not-” 

“Tell me one thing she’s dreamt that hasn’t come true. Just one thing. Brandon, Lyanna, Rhaegar, Elia, the Greyjoys, Dark Sister. Now this. It’s all came true and it’s only going to get worse.”

“Worse?” Mother snaps. “How much worse can it get?! My Bran-“

“She almost died,” Benjen interrupts, still glaring at Father. “She almost bled out in that cave and she told me everything, everything she’s seen. It’s going to get bad, worst than it has since the last Dance of the Dragons.”

“When did she bleed out in a cave?!” Jon cries. 

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that my big brother gets his head out of his ass. Winter is coming, Ned. When have we ever been the type to shy away from it?” 

Father caves under Uncle Benjen’s steely gaze. He drops down into an armchair and rests his head in his hands. He looks old. So much older than Mother, who is older than him.

“You know?” Mother whispers. 

Benjen nods shortly. “I’ve always known.”

“Who is it?” She hisses, standing to tower over Father. “Who is it that has haunted our marriage all these years? Who is it-“

“Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Mother blinks and takes a step back. Father stares at the floor as he speaks, so quietly that Robb and Jon must edge forward to hear over the buzz of the castle. 

“Rhaegar didn’t take her, but he didn’t let her leave when she changed her mind. She begged and begged to leave and not one of those godsforsaken knights spoke up. Even when Wylla told them she would not live, they did not let her leave. Arthur Dayne would not ride to Starfall for a maester. He would not even search the villages for a midwife.”

Horror and understanding begin to unfurl, unease blooming in Robb’s chest. 

“When I got there, I begged them too. I gave them three times to recant, to let them leave. But they knew.” Father’s shaking hands clench into fists. He looks up at Mother with a fury in his eyes Robb has only seen on Auntie Val after Bran fell. “They knew what they did was wrong and they wanted to die for it. They could not live with their actions. So I gave them death and I climbed up the tower only to find more. 

“There was so much blood. I still smell it sometimes, all that blood with those roses. So many battles and I’ve still yet to see so much blood in one place.”

His expression softens as he gazes up at Jon. 

“She loved you. You cannot begin to comprehend how much she loved you. She refused to let you go, even as she died. We-...we had to pry you from her body she held you so tightly. ‘My Jon,’ she said. ‘My wolf. My little northern boy.’”

He swallows thickly. 

“Your mother’s name was Lyanna Stark and I loved her with every bone in my body.”

In the silence, only Bran’s heavy breathing and the distant bustle of the castle can be heard. It drags on and on, the twisting in Robb’s belly intensifying, until Jon breaks it with a broken laugh. He laughs and laughs until he has to throw an arm around Robb’s shoulders to stay upright. 

“Jon?” Father asks cautiously. 

Jon wipes tears from his eyes and leans into Robb’s side. Robb stares at him incredulously. 

“Some time last year Sansa came to my rooms and said she figured out who my mother was. She told me nearly the same story and I told her she was being foolish and fanciful. I said it didn’t matter anyway because I already have a mother. She told me lying was a sin, even to myself, and she’d believe me when I could say it in front of a heart tree.”

Uncle Benjen snorts. “And you lot wonder why she was always Father’s favorite.”

“She knew?” Mother croaks. “She knew and she didn’t tell me?”

“Cat...”

Mother steps away away from her husband’s embrace, nearly hiding behind Uncle Benjen. To his credit, their uncle edges forward to keep Father at bay. 

“Did you know? Did you know she knew?! My own Sansa?!”

“I didn’t, Cat. Only Ben and Val-“

“Valaena knew?!”

“She knew of Jon before Lyanna did!”

The entire room, sans Benjen, furrows their brows. He sighs at their confusion. 

“I don’t know what you’ve been told, so I’ll tell it true. The Mad King forced Valaena to Dragonstone with the Queen and Prince Viserys. She pleaded to stay with Elia and her babes, but King Aerys would not have it. So naturally, she escaped. When she fled from Dragonstone, she came across my father on his way to the capital. She managed to convince him to turn back and told him of all her dreams on the way to Riverrun. In one, she saw Lyanna dying in a bed of blood and roses with a babe at her breast. In another, she saw Ned pull down a tower in Dorne with the same babe swaddled against his breastplate. Father didn’t believe her, of course. He thought it was some sort of trap to waste his soldiers, so sent her to Winterfell with his best men.” He chuckles sadly. “I’ll never forget Ned’s face when she picked you up and said, ‘So this is Jon Snow?’ before he even said your name.”

“‘He’s brooding already’, she said,” Father muses, his lips quirking up in a pitiful semblance of a smile. He turns back to Mother with pleading eyes. “I couldn’t tell you at first. I didn’t know you. I didn’t trust you. I....I should have told you the moment I knew I loved you, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. She made me swear. At the end, she could only say ‘Promise me, Ned.’ I could hear her and smell those fu- damn roses every time I thought about telling you. I’m sorry, Cat. I am, but he is my son and she was my sister. What would you have done for Lysa? For Edmure?”

Shakily, Mother wipes the tears from her eyes. “I would have taken it to my grave.”

Benjen steps aside to allow Father to gather her in his arms. It would have been sweet if Jon were not so forgotten, as if it his life that has not changed. Robb grits his teeth, turns on his heel, and drags Jon into the hall. A guard nods briskly before walking out of earshot. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, eyeing his brother carefully. 

He doesn’t seem any more dour than he usually does, but Jon’s always been good at hiding everything, pushing it all down until it explodes in a fiery temper. 

“I’m alright,” he says with a shrug. “It’s....nice knowing, I guess?”

“I find that hard to believe, Jon.”

”Valaena’s my mother,” he points out. “The earliest memory I have is of her, you know.”

“I don’t, actually.”

Jon smiles wistfully, making him look extraordinarily like their-...like Lord Stark. 

“I’m in her lap in the godswood at night. I think she might be telling me the constellations, but I don’t remember the words. Just the way how warm she is and how her voice sounds in High Valyrian and how soft her hair is in my hands.”

“I’m glad you have her. Truly, I am, but you can’t just shrug this off.”

“Shrug what off?”

“This!” Robb hisses, waving his hands wildly. “They just shoved you out of their conversation and it was about you! It-“

“It’s always been like that Robb. You know it is.”

“It’s not right! You shouldn’t stand for it. I won’t stand for it.”

“It’s not worth it!”

“Yes you are!”

Jon groans and rolls his eyes. “There’s no point! I’ve never been a priority the way you are and I never will be. It’s the way of the world. It’s just how it is. And I’m okay with that. I’ve got all these brothers and sisters, you see. They’re snot-nosed brats most of the time, but occasionally-“

“Fine,” Robb sighs. “Fine, I’ll shut up about it for now.”

Jon nods. He frowns for a bit, then suddenly turns serious. Robb straightens his spine. 

“You were right, you and Uncle Benjen. My place is here for now. The Wall will always be there. My family needs my help.”

“The girls, especially.” Robb scowls darkly. “Do you see the way the Prince looks at Sansa? I don’t like it one bit.”

Jon, to his surprise, snorts. He throws an arm over his shoulder and steers him to the stairwell. 

“Sansa is more than capable of handling herself. More than any of us probably. I know some of what my mother’s teaching her and gods only know what all Grandfather said.”

Foolish as it may be, Robb allows his little brother to lull him into complacency. Winter may be coming, but isn’t quite here yet. 

Father leaves with his sisters. Aunt Valaena escorts Lord Tyrion to the Wall. Robb curses her to the seven hells for it when his mother finds a long, blonde hair in the broken tower. He curses her even more when an assassin strikes. When Val finally, finally returns, he stomps across the yard and frowns up at her severely. 

“Do you have any idea of what I’ve had to deal with, Princess?!” He demands. 

“Yes, actually,” she says with a quirk of her lips. Behind her, Lord Tyrion snorts. Robb doesn’t even bother sparing him a glance. “There was the hair, the assassin-“

“You left me here alone with Catelyn Stark and Jon Snow. Alone!”

She winces as she slides from her saddle. “I didn’t think about that.”

“No you bloody well-“

“An assassin?” Tyrion cuts in, his mismatched eyes sharp. “What assassin?”

“AUNTIEEEEEEE!” 

There’s a red blur and then Rickon smacks into Valaena with a meaty thud. She grunts, her horse snorting in protest as she staggers into it at the impact. She lifts Rickon easily, despite him being too old for such things, and kisses his temple. 

“Hello, wild one. I missed you.”

Lord Tyrion watches her with a sad expression. Robb scowls thunderously, balling his fists on his hips. He doesn’t feel the least bit sorry for her. 

“Couldn’t you have warned us about a bloody assassin-“

“No, I couldn’t have,” she says calmly. “I was afraid that Bran wouldn’t have awoken if Summer wasn’t the one to wake him.“

“Of course you know his name,” Robb snaps, but there’s no heat in it. 

He hadn’t considered that. None of them had. He sighs and turns his attention to Lord Tyrion. As much as he hates the Lannisters, Auntie taught him better than to ostracize the son of a great house.

“I’d apologize, Lord Tyrion, but I assume you know what dealing with Valaena Targaryen is like more than most.”

His reply isn’t amused, as Robb thought it might be. Instead, it holds a deep, lingering sadness. 

“I do. I’d forgotten how similar she and my brother are.”

Auntie sighs heavily. “There’s no use crying over spilled milk. Come on, Rickon. I want to say hello to Bran.”

Hours later, when Lord Tyrion is confirmed to be fast asleep in his guest chambers, everyone gathers into Bran’s room. Valaena scratches behind Ghost’s ears absentmindedly. He’s grown even bigger than Grey Wind. Robb suspects he is the alpha of the pack and isn’t quite sure what to make of it. 

“Do you remember who my goodsister was, Bran?” Auntie suddenly asks.

Mother and Maester Lewin stare at her, but they do not interrupt. Bran’s sulk turns into a frown. 

“Queen Elia Martell.”

“That’s right. Do you know who her brothers are?”

Bran regains a bit of his old liveliness. “The Red Viper,” he says wondrously. 

“The Red Viper.” A wide grin spreads across Valaena’s face. “I’ve traveled all over the Seven Kingdoms and crossed beyond the Wall, but I still have yet to meet anyone like Oberyn Martell.”

“What’s he like?”

“I would have ran away with him if it weren’t for Jaime. He’s incredibly handsome in the way that your Uncle Brandon was.”

“What way was that?” Robb finds himself wondering. 

Surprisingly, it is Mother that answers. Her smile is soft and nostalgic. “In a dangerous way. Rhaegar Targaryen and Jaime Lannister could be in a room, but all the maidens would drool over the Wild Wolf and the Red Viper. They were larger than life, the both of them. Their charisma made them just as enticing as the danger did.”

“Their charisma is what made them so dangerous,” Auntie points out. “Jaime and I could never do it. He’s too arrogant and I’m too blunt. Oberyn, however, will draw you into a conversation so throughly that won’t realize there’s a blade in your ribs until you see the blood on the floor. He’s deadly, Oberyn, but his brother is even more lethal. Do you remember his name, Bran?”

It takes a moment before the answer comes to him. 

“Prince Doran Martell. But how is he so scary?”

“Because who fears to tread on the grass?”

Robb suddenly understands where this is going. She may very well accomplish what the rarest of them have been trying to do for a moon’s turn. They’d mentioned Doran Martelll of course, but they don’t know him. Not like the Princess does, at any rate. 

“I don’t understand,” Bran admits. 

“Elia once told me that it is the grass that hides the viper until he is ready to strike.”

Bran’s eyes grow wide. 

“Doran is clever and patient and above all, wise. He is brother to the Red Viper, uncle to the Sand Snakes, father to Arianne Martell, the beautiful, manipulative heir to Dorne, and loyal to the Targaryens. And yet no one suspects a thing from him. Do you know why?”

He shakes his head. 

“Because he’s a cripple.”

Bran gasps, his mouth parting in surprise. 

“He rules Dorne and plots his revenge all in a wheelchair like Lord Tyrion designed for you. You may never be a knight, but you can still be just as deadly as I am. Can you tell me why?”

“Because I am the weirwood that watches over the wolves.”

Auntie Val turns stills. Watching her mind work is like watching a snake shed its skin. Every bit of her body transforms into something violent until it she no longer their loving aunt, but Red Val sitting with him. This is the woman who slaughtered hundreds of men with her own sword. 

“Bran, did you....Did you have a dream? Like mine?”

Mother gasps and makes to rise. Robb hurries over to clamp a hand over her shoulder. They can’t risk Bran retreating now. Not after this. 

“Maybe. I didn’t understand it all. I saw fighting all around me. It was everywhere and I was alone with Rickon, but when I looked north, a blizzard was coming. A bad one. I wanted to warn everybody, but you were all so busy fighting, and the raven told me it was our job to hold back the storm.”

Silence blankets over the room. Jon strides over to his mother. She has gone deathly pale. As still as the stone kings in the crypt. 

“Our job?” She asks. Snaps, really. “Just you and Rickon?”

Bran shuffles in his bed, looking a little afraid. “No. Our family was gone, but there were dragons and lizard lions in the castle with me.”

“The Reeds,” Mother says softly, tension tightening the muscles under his grip. “But the dragons? Why wouldn’t the two of you be at Robb’s side?”

“He’s not talking about me and Jon,” Valaena bites out.

Robb’s never seen her like this. He’s never known Valaena to be scared. 

“He’s talking about my boys.”

She tells them a story. It’s long and sad and keeps them up half the night. It’s the sort of story that would make Sansa cry for hours. Distantly, Robb finds himself wondering if Sansa’s already heard it. She was always Grandfather’s favorite and she’s close with their aunt as well. The story is full of the kind of plotting the three of them would do. 

Valaena Targaryen spent three days and nights with Ser Jaime on Pyke, and on the fourth day she woke to an empty bed. She was sad, but not surprised, so she dried her tears and carried on. It wasn’t until they were halfway to the Wall that she realized she was with child. Grandfather wanted to stop at the Dreadfort or the Last Hearth, but she refused. It might be the only time she could get away from Winterfell. Her duty was to travel north. 

She met with Maester Aemon at Castle Black. At first, she wanted herbs to dispel the child, but he begged her not to. There were not many Targaryens left in the world and fewer still that were born out of love. Valaena dried her tears and carried on. Her belly grew and grew as she followed Uncle Benjen through the Haunted Forest. It wasn’t long before an old wildling woman confirmed what everyone suspected: Valaena was carrying twins. Everyone pleaded for her to halt. Childbirth is dangerous and birthing twins doubly so, but Valaena refused. 

Eventually, when she was so big she could hardly walk, they finally came upon a Heart Tree as tall as the towers of Pyke. A Child of the Forest approached and led them into a cave under the the tree’s roots. Valaena arrived with Uncle Benjen, three loyal Stark men, and two wildlings in search of adventure. Her party left with two babes and a lost sword. 

They slowly made their way south. Grandfather and Maester Aemon met them in a village just to the northeast of the Wall. There, the three of them hatched a plot. Maester Aemon wanted to send the twins to Bear Island and Grandfather suggested the Last Hearth, but Valaena refused. She wanted her children to grow up hard and clever and together, so dried her tears, called in a debt, and sent her twins to a cursed place. 

Ravens fly from Winterfell at daybreak. One to Greywater Watch and the other to the Dreadfort.