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Chapter Text

The bracing air of Braavos, sharper and laced with the salt of the sea, bit at Jon Snow's cheeks as his ship drew near to the city. Though cold, it was so different from the chilled air of Winterfell, the clime he had been so familiar with all his life. His heart pounded with a mixture of trepidation and exhilaration; a rhythm that sang a new adventure. This was a world far removed from his home.

He stood at the ship's prow, eyes fixed on the horizon where Titan of Braavos rose, a gargantuan sentinel that heralded a new day. Absent were the snow-laden woods of his homeland, the familiar faces of his brothers and sisters, the solemn statues of his ancestors in the crypts below Winterfell. Here, on the cusp of this foreign land, Jon felt the whisper of the unknown brushing against him, promising freedom and opportunity. The weight of his bastardy, of Lady Catelyn's hard stares slipped away with each cresting wave that carried him closer to the Free Cities.

But he looked behind once more. Faces flashed through his mind - fierce Arya, playful Bran, strong Robb, gentle Sansa, and little Rickon. Their features blurred with the distance, and he felt a sense of longing and guilt. What would they think of him, running away like that, with no more than a letter each to his siblings? What would Father think? It took effort to tear his eyes away and back towards the Titan. There was no use in thinking of the past now. There was a strong likelihood that he would never see House Stark or Winterfell again. That was the price of identity, of a name of his own.

Their ship drew into the bay, and Jon felt his breath catch in his throat. The narrow, meandering streets and canals of Braavos were full of houses painted in bright stucco hues of blue, green, and red, their windows adorned with intricately wrought iron grilles. There were tall towers, ornate domes, and sloping shingled rooftops, their varied architecture a testament to the diverse origins of Braavos' populace.

Overhead, a network of bridges spanned across the numerous canals that crisscrossed the city, serving as veins that pumped life through its heart. Gondolas and small boats filled with brightly clad citizens of all kinds skimmed over the water, propelled by expert oarsmen.

Even from where he stood, Jon could see the great Sealord's Palace, a majestic building that dominated the skyline with its marble walls and verdigris-crowned domes. It stood atop a small island in its own lagoon, its grandeur a stark contrast to the modest seafarers' homes and bustling markets that surrounded it.

Just north, down the great center canal there was a wide plaza with a great pool. Surrounding it were several notable buildings, though Jon could not see them. He knew of them by reputation - places such the grand Iron Bank, an imposing structure made entirely of black granite, its fortress-like façade a symbol of the power and influence it wielded in Braavos and beyond.

It was the fervor of a city that never slept, a melting pot of cultures, religions, and races. The smells of saltwater, fresh seafood, and fragrant spices filled the air, mingling with the voices of a thousand tongues. Everywhere he looked, he saw life: jugglers performing tricks for coins, poets reading verses for the pleasure of passersby, children chasing each other in a never-ending game. The people of Braavos, no matter their origin or status, seemed to carry an air of freedom and determination. It was infectious, and despite the sense of being an outsider, Jon felt a stir of anticipation. Everywhere Jon looked there was something to marvel at – it was like he had wandered into a riotous living tapestry. But there, under the surface, he noted the wretchedness, too. There were poor, yes, and beggars and cutpurses and cutthroats.

White Harbor was nothing compared to this city. He was awed by the size of the Northern port when he arrived there. Its bleached, stark walls and houses were impressive then, as were the Manderly banners fluttering in the wind, but now it seemed little more than a village of hovels compared to the grandeur of Braavos.

A group of raucous dockworkers bustled past him, temporarily blocking his view of the bustling harbor. In the momentary confusion, he felt a slight tug at his belt. Glancing down, he noticed the absence of his coin pouch, his hand instinctively reaching to find it gone. His eyes darted across the crowd, scanning for the culprit. There! A slim figure, a young child, wiry and quick, was weaving through the chaos with his coin pouch in hand.

Without a second thought, Jon pushed off, his boots thudding against the cobbled streets as he gave chase. He dodged merchants haggling over goods, darted past squawking chickens, sidestepped baskets of fish that spilled out onto the pavement in his pursuit. The sound of his own pounding heart was deafening over the cacophony of the marketplace, yet still he ran on.

The thief turned down a narrow alleyway and disappeared from sight. Jon skidded to a halt at the entrance and peered through the shadows—but it was too late. The little thief had vanished like smoke in the wind. With a frustrated sigh, Jon cursed himself for being so careless with his possessions and reluctantly began to turn away.

Just then, a faint voice reached his ears; it was soft but insistent, as if coming from just beyond view: “Wait!”

Jon stopped short and searched for its source, finding instead an old man sitting cross-legged at the far end of the alleyway. His tattered robes were splashed with color unlike anything else in Braavos, yet over them he wore a thick cloak made of shadow and moonlight that seemed to swallow him up when he moved. Beside him rested an ancient wooden staff carved with runes Jon could not decipher.

The old man raised one arm towards Jon beckoningly and smiled — it was a strange smile that seemed to draw all of Jon's attention towards itself without ever revealing what lay beneath its surface — before speaking in thickly accented Westerosi speech: "Come, Young Wolf," he said slowly. "Your destiny lies ahead. What you seek is before you."

Jon stared at the man, bewildered, and took off down the alley. To his surprise, the thief had not gotten far - perhaps it was a few lucky turns, but he saw the child in front after he rounded yet another corner. The nimble thief saw him reappear and bolted, but Jon was hot on his heels. The alley twisted and turned, a labyrinth within the city, but he kept his eyes focused on the thief. His northern blood was boiling, not so much for the loss of the coins, but the audacity of the theft.

As they hurtled around a sharp corner, the thief stumbled, the slick stones betraying his swift feet. Jon lunged forward, grabbing the boy's collar and bringing them both crashing down onto the cold stones. The stolen coin pouch skittered away, coming to rest beside a puddle of murky water.

"Thief!" Jon growled, pulling the young man up and pinning him against the rough stone wall.

The thief stuttered in some tongue Jon did not recognize, his eyes wide with fear. He was younger than Jon had first thought, barely more than a boy, with a thin, hungry look about him. Jon released him, watching as the boy slumped to the ground, chest heaving. He picked up his coin pouch, checking to ensure all was still there. The weight was familiar and comforting.

"Next time, choose your target more wisely," Jon admonished, casting a stern look at the boy. He reserved some of his anger for himself. He was not in Winterfell anymore, and he would have to be more vigilant. With that, he turned and left the narrow alley, the thief's wide-eyed stare burning into his back. Before he could go too far, however, two men stepped into the alleyway in front. They were large, burly, and mean-looking. Both of them wielded truncheons in their hands.

Jon stood his ground, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the two men blocking his way. "What do you want?" he demanded, his voice laced with authority. He sounded braver than he felt. His hand trembled towards the sword on his hip.

The taller of the two men stepped forward, his truncheon held at the ready. "We want what you got," he said gruffly, eyeing Jon's coin pouch hungrily. The man's voice was accented as well, but he spoke the Westerosi tongue well enough. "It would have been easier if you just let the urchin go, Andal. Better for your life."

Jon shook his head resolutely. "I suggest you find another target," he replied evenly, drawing himself up to his full height. He may have been outnumbered, but he would not let these cutpurses intimidate him.

The shorter man sneered and lunged forward, his truncheon raised high. Jon sidestepped him easily, grabbing the man's arm and twisting it behind his back. With a swift kick to the back of the knee, he sent him crashing to the ground, writhing in pain. The taller man hesitated for a split second before charging forward, his own truncheon whistling through the air. Jon brought up his sword in a swift motion, catching the truncheon with a metallic clang. The impact of the blow jarred his arm, but he did not let it falter. He pushed back against the man, his sword locked against the truncheon. The man grunted, pressing forward with all of his weight behind him. Jon struggled to hold him off as they moved back and forth along the alley.

With one surprising move, the man suddenly disengaged and backed away, revealing a hidden knife. Jon saw it flash in the dim light of the alley before it came down towards him. He reacted quickly, blocking the blow with his sword and knocking the knife out of the man's hand with a swift kick. The other man had gotten up from the ground and was now coming at Jon from behind. But Jon spun around at just the right moment, catching his attacker off guard with a punch to the face. The man stumbled backwards, blood spurting from his nose.

The taller man recovered and charged again, swinging his truncheon wildly in an attempt to catch Jon off balance. Jon kept him at bay by fending off his blows with his sword but knew he couldn't keep it up forever. His opponent was not a trained fighter, however, and one wild swing of the truncheon left him exposed. Jon shoved the pommel of his sword into the man's face, feeling a satisfying crunch. The taller man screamed and fell, blood spurting from his nose and mouth.

Then something hit him hard in the back of his head, and blackness overtook him.

When Jon regained consciousness, he was lying on an unfamiliar bed in a dimly lit room. His head throbbed painfully, and he groaned as he tried to sit up. A hand pushed him back down gently.

"Easy there," a voice said softly. "You took quite a beating."

Jon blinked against the pain, trying to focus on the figure seated next to his bed. His vision was blurred, though clearer once he rubbed his eyes.

"Who are you?" Jon asked.

"The name is Brandon. At your service." Brandon, as the man had introduced himself, was well built, with a mess of dark brown hair and a perpetually worn look about him. There were signs of past battles etched on his face – a slight scar that lined his jaw, a nose that wasn't quite symmetrical - but it was his steady, grey-eyed gaze that most arrested Jon. He looked quite a great deal like a Northman. Then there was the fact that his name was all too common in the North.

"I'd been passing through that alley, on my way back from the market. I must confess, I didn't expect to find a brawl," Brandon said, explaining what happened. His gaze studied Jon's face, a hint of humor dancing in his eyes. "I thought for sure you were done for, after that second blow to your head, but it seems you are made of sterner stuff."

"Thank you for the help," Jon muttered, still slightly dazed. A sudden memory flashed - the sight of two burly men towering over him, his coin pouch heavy at his side. He turned to Brandon sharply. "My coin, is it—"

"Safe," Brandon finished for him, pointing to a small table by the bed. The familiar pouch was there, looking rather mundane in the dim light. "As I said, you're lucky. If someone else had found you, I'm not sure this awakening would be so pleasant, my good Northman."

Jon sighed, relieved at the sight of his coin pouch. The term Andal, Jon had heard, was used broadly in Essos to refer to Westerosi, but the Northerners were of the First Men, not Andal. The thugs in the alley had called him Andal, but this man knew him as a Northman. Jon looked at his rescuer more closely.

Brandon leaned back in his chair. They were in a small, dimly lit room. A few candles cast flickering lights against the wall. Some stucco peeled off to reveal faded bricks underneath. There was a wooden door on the left side, where some light seeped through underneath. He could hear voices, faintly, and the occasional bootsteps and the accompanying shadows pass by. A singular window, opaque and grimy, graced the wall on the right side. Jon could tell that it was night outside. The moon was visible through it. "So, a Northman lost in the city of the Titan, eh?" There was no mockery in Brandon's tone, only a curious interest.

"I am not lost," Jon defended, the words coming out a bit more petulant than he’d intended. He saw Brandon's brows raise in amusement. "I meant to come here."

"Well, whatever you had in mind, I imagine this was not exactly it," Brandon chuckled, but his gaze grew serious as he studied Jon. "You fought well, I shall give you that. But, fighting in the narrow streets of Braavos is a different beast from the training yards of a Northern castle. I can help you."

Jon raised a brow. "How did you know?"

"You neither speak nor look like a lowborn. And you look fresh - to Essos, to life outside a castle. Which one do you hail from, pray tell?" Brandon asked.

"Winterfell," Jon answered. There was something about the man that made him seem trustworthy, and yet Jon hesitated. How would Brandon react if Jon divulged his identity as the bastard son of the Warden of the North? Would he try to return Jon to Winterfell? What if Father had posted a reward for his return, or sent men looking after him?

His worry increased exponentially, for Brandon's eyes lit up. "You're a Stark," he said.

"No," Jon replied. His voice was perhaps more sullen than he intended.

"You are. You have the look. Father always said..." Brandon said. Then he laughed. "I suppose that would make us kin, Stark."

"I am not a Stark," Jon said angrily. "My name is Jon Snow."

"And your father, he is Eddard Stark, no?" Brandon said, chuckling. "His father was Rickard Stark. And his father was Edwyle Stark, whose father was Willam Stark. Willam was the second son of Lord Beron Stark. He was never meant to be Lord of Winterfell, but Beron's eldest, Donnor, was claimed by the plague, without any sons of his own." Brandon rattled off the names as though he was intimately familiar with them; Jon gaped at him for his familiarity with the Stark lineage.

"Beron had other sons too," continued Brandon. "There was Rodrik Stark, the Wandering Wolf, and Errold who died young as well. But people always forget Artos, who defeated the King Beyond the Wall, Raymun Redbeard, at the Long Lake. He had sons of his own - Brandon, and Benjen. Brandon's line is gone, but Benjen... You see, kinsman, my name is Brandon Stark, son of Torrhen Stark, son of Eyron Stark, son of Benjen Stark, son of Artos who was brother to your ancestor Willam. That makes us kin, no?"

Jon looked at him as though he had grown another head. "Starks? Here in Essos?"

Brandon shrugged. "There is quite some distance separating our shared blood, and I am sure the descendants of Artos Stark are lost to history. We kept no lands and no titles. My great-grandfather Benjen left the North and joined the Company of the Rose. My father always said he had little taste for the Wall, for at the time, the Lord Commander was Brynden Rivers, the Bloodraven, and so chose he to leave the shores of Westeros forever rather than rot under a Targaryen bastard. Or perhaps he liked Lyseni girls too much," Brandon said with a laugh. "He took a Lyseni woman to wife and had my grandfather Eyron. Well, this makes my decision to haul you back to our barracks even more fortuitous."

"Why would you do that?" Jon asked, suspicious. He was not sure he believed this Brandon. The people of Braavos had not shown themselves to be particularly charitable so far.

"Because you remind me of my friend, Asher, when he first arrived here," Brandon answered. He got up and walked over to the window. Jon's eyes followed him, never leaving the back of his head. "I am part of a sellsword company myself - the same as my great grandfather, the Company of the Rose." He turned and fixed Jon with a meaningful stare. "We could always use a strong arm and a keen mind."

Jon eyed Brandon for a moment, considering his words. There was something distasteful about joining a sellsword company, but it was a fate he had considered on the voyage to Essos. Jon had been trained to fight - it was something he knew how to do. And there was coin, and maybe opportunity... and it would provide him with the training he needed to survive in Essos, and if this man was to be believed, it seemed a good place to start. For the first time since arriving, Jon felt a small spark of hope.

"I'm not sure if I should place my faith in you," he said slowly.

Brandon grinned at that. "Smartest thing you've said since you arrived in Essos, I would wager. I won't ask you to swear any oaths to me, and joining the Company is not something you absolutely must do. Speak to Asher in the morning. I think you will agree then, but if not, you are free to leave." With that, Brandon left and closed the door gently behind him. Jon let his head sink back into the pillow. The plaster on the ceiling was cracked too, and Jon lost track of time as he stared at the cracks running about like spiderwebs, until his eyes closed and sleep came to him.

The next morning, Jon woke up to a pounding headache but a slightly clearer mind. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing as a sharp pain stabbed through his temples. Blinking his eyes open, he found that the room was bathed in the soft light of dawn, streaming in through the window.

The sight of his coin pouch on the bedside table brought back the memories of the previous day's events. The thugs in the alley, his narrow escape, and Brandon, his unexpected savior. Brandon, who claimed to be his distant kin and who was part of a sellsword company in Essos. Jon frowned, his gaze going to the closed door of the room. He had so many questions, and he hoped this Asher that Brandon had spoken of would have answers.

He got out of bed, his body protesting every movement, and dressed himself in the simple tunic and breeches that were neatly laid out on a chair. The clothes were plain but well-made, much better for the climate than the roughspun wool he was wearing when he had arrived in Essos. He supposed he had Brandon to thank for that too.

Once he was dressed, he ventured out of the room, finding himself in a narrow hallway. He could hear the distant hum of voices, laughter, and clanging metals, signs of life beyond the closed doors. His curiosity piqued, Jon followed the sounds until he reached what appeared to be a large common area.

Men and a small smattering of women, all dressed in similar tunics, were scattered about the space, some talking and laughing, others working on their weaponry. Long wooden tables with stools split the hall into sections. Some of the men had their faces in their bowls of porridge, breaking their fast. A few people turned to look at Jon with curiosity, but not many. Jon could see the crest of a rose on some of their tunics, confirming that he was indeed in the barracks of the Company of the Rose.

"Jon Snow?" A voice pulled him from his observation, and he turned to find a big man about Brandon's age approaching him. He was taller than Brandon, with a large stocky build and short cropped hair. His face was marked by a couple of old scars, but his eyes were grey and friendly, and he carried an air of authority about him.

"The name's Asher Forrester," the man introduced himself, offering Jon a firm handshake. "Brandon told me about you." Asher leaned in a fraction, taking in Jon's features. "You've grown some since I last saw you, but you are him - Lord Stark's natural son, Jon Snow."

Jon eyed him cautiously, remembering Brandon's words from last night. But then the light of recognition flickered in his eyes. He knew this man. "Asher? Lord Gregor Forrester's son?"

"The very same," Asher said smiling.

"You... in Essos?" Jon said, bewildered. He knew that Lord Gregor had many children - his heir's name was Rodrik, and there was a daughter, Mira, who was only two namedays older than Jon and Robb. He remembered the three eldest children when they had come to visit Winterfell with their father.

"It is a long story," Asher said, his smile dropping a fraction. "But we have time."

Clearing his throat, Jon said, "Brandon said you might be able to help me."

Asher's smile widened at that. "Aye, I reckon we can. It is not often we get fresh Northern blood in our company, despite our origins. But come, let's see if we can get you some breakfast first."

Asher got him some porridge. Jon ate ravenously. He did not realize how hungry he was until he actually began to eat. It was gruel, in truth, but still - better than emptiness. After eating, Asher began to speak, as if he anticipated all of Jon's questions.

"Yes, Brandon is who he says he is. His line has given up claims to the North - and I daresay in Barrowton and White Harbor you'll find similar Stark seeds who have fallen far from the main tree, but they do exist. You would not consider them kin, and few of them would consider you the same of course, but Brandon is closer than all that. He is only a few generations removed. Brandon is a captain in our company. We have ten of them - each man commands his own pack, each pack made up of a hundred men. Our leader is elected by the captains amongst themselves."

"Leader?" Jon said. He did not know much about the Company of the Rose, or any of the sellsword companies, in truth. He had occasionally heard of the Second Sons, and more occasionally the Golden Company - who didn't know about them? - but the Company of the Rose was more obscure. Jon only knew it was made up of Northmen who left the North rather than live in Westeros after Aegon the Conqueror secured the submission of Torrhen Stark.

"Aye, leader. And in true Northern fashion, the leader is called-"

"Lord Commander," Jon said suddenly. Asher laughed.

"Aye. Our Lord Commander is Owen Ironhand," Asher said. "Not a Northman - few of us are these days, though some of the lifers whose fathers were in here have Northern blood - but a good commander. Hails from the Reach - an exile from the Rebellion. Harsh fucker, though." Asher got up. "Come, let's go find Brandon and get you set up. You are joining us, right?"

Jon looked at him, unsure. It was a relief to see a friendly face in Essos, and the fact that Brandon had been telling the truth - that he truly was distant kin to Jon - warmed him greatly. But was this something he wanted to do? Did he truly want to join a sellsword company?

It was either this or the Wall. Jon was deluding himself if he thought there were any other options left open to him, and he made his choice regarding the Wall when he went south instead of north, to White Harbor and a ship that would take him to Essos.

Jon nodded. "Aye. I'll join the Company of the Rose."

Asher smiled at Jon, pleased with his decision. Soon they were out on the busy streets of Braavos, the sound of horses and carts and shouting merchants filling the air. The sun beat down on them, making Jon's skin prickle with sweat, even though it was not particularly hot that day.

As they walked, Asher told Jon stories of the Company of the Rose. He spoke of battles won and lost, of strange and amazing adventures, of men who had died for their cause, of the camaraderie that existed among them. Jon listened, his sword arm itching with anticipation. He could see why Brandon was a captain. He was the type of man other men would follow into battle. Sometimes, Father had described King Robert in the same way.

They arrived at a blacksmith's workshop, the sounds of hammering and clanging echoing out into the street. In front of the shop stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with wild red hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore a studded leather jerkin, and a set of tools hung on a belt around his waist.

"Voqqo!" Asher called out. The man turned and grinned when he saw them.

"Asher!" he said, clapping him on the back. "And who's this?"

"This is Jon," Asher said. "He's come to join us."

Voqqo gave Jon an appraising look, then nodded in approval. "I am sure the Company is happy to have you," he said. "Come on in, so I can get you outfitted."

Inside the shop was chaos. Men milled about, trying on armor and swords and shouting over each other to be heard. Asher led Jon to a corner where a small pile of armor lay.

"Take off your shirt," Asher said gruffly.

Jon did as he was told, feeling self-conscious as Voqqo eyed him up and down.

"Not much meat on your bones," Voqqo remarked.

"I'll fill him out," Asher said with a smile, cuffing Jon's neck. "I'll be damned if my liege lord's son starves on my watch."

As Jon stood there shirtless, he couldn't help but feel self-conscious about his thin frame. He had always been more slender than the other boys his age - certainly more than Robb and Theon. Asher's comment didn't make things any better, but Jon kept his chin up and stood straighter.

Voqqo handed him a smattering of underlayers, and then a leather chest piece studded with steel, and Jon felt the weight of it in his hands. He slipped it over his head, wincing as the cold metal touched his skin.

"Good fit?" Asher asked, grinning.

Jon nodded, feeling the weight of the armor settle on his shoulders. It felt strange but good at the same time, like he was finally doing something right.

"Come, we shall find you a weapon," Voqqo said, gesturing towards a rack of swords.

Jon stepped forward eagerly, taking in the gleaming steel of the different blades. He had the sword he had taken from Winterfell's armory, but it was rudimentary, not truly meant for him. He had little time to plan which weapon to take when absconding from Winterfell, and unlike Robb, he had never had a sword made for him.

He hesitated for a moment before selecting a simple hand-and-a-half with a plain hilt. The handle was wrapped in black leather and had a spiked pommel. It felt solid in his hand and he swung it experimentally, feeling the weight of it as it cut through the air.

"That will do," Voqqo said with a nod.

The rest of the day was a blur as they finished equipping Jon for battle. At some point, Brandon joined them. Jon was fitted for gauntlets and boots; he selected a shield and a helmet; and he acquired other essentials such as bandages and wax for patching up dents in his armor.

Brandon paid for the armor, but Jon would not let him pay for the accessories. He insisted on pulling that from his own purse, something he could tell earned Brandon and Asher's approval. They told him that he would earn a wage, of course - all members of the Company did, based on veterancy and skill and rank - but Jon felt content not feeling like a burden.

When the equipment had been purchased or ordered, Jon and the others returned back to their barracks. By then, twilight had fallen over the city. On the way back they passed the Grand Canal, the biggest of the many waterways that cut through Braavos. The water shimmered in the fading light, and Jon found himself staring at it for a while. He was lost in thought, thinking about his past and how far he had come. Braavos was not what he had expected when he left Winterfell.

Brandon's hand on his shoulder shook him out of his reverie. "Come, cousin. Do not dwell. I find it is always better to look forward, and never back." Jon nodded. Brandon would feel that way, he thought. But even with both feet now in this new life, he could not help but glance across the water, far away to the shore he could not see, and the family that he had left behind.

Chapter Text

A month had passed since Jon Snow decided to join the Company of the Rose, and the time seemed to rush by like a river in spring. Each morning found him sore and aching, each night found him tired but restless, his mind filled with new knowledge and the anxious energy that came with trying to learn everything at once.

He learned how the Company operated. A hair over a thousand men fought under the banner. Ten captains commanded packs of roughly a hundred men. Some packs were bigger and some larger, but not by any great amount. The ten captains chose a Lord Commander from among them, who would lead not only his own pack but the Company as a whole. Between company-wide contracts, however, packs were free to choose smaller contracts with the Lord Commander's approval, so long as the Company got a share.

There was a great sense of camaraderie among the warriors of the Company, Jon found, and particularly within Brandon's pack. Captain Brandon Stark was a respected man, well loved by his soldiers. Asher shared a few stories at night about Jon's kinsman. Each dashing exploit and daring endeavor made Brandon seem like a great leader of men. Brandon never seemed to bask in the attention or glory of it. When Jon asked him about one such escapade, involving a blood feud between two Ibbenese families, Brandon simply smiled and waved it away.

Asher was the lieutenant for Brandon's pack, serving as a sort of second-in-command to Brandon himself. Each pack had a captain and lieutenant, but otherwise were free to organize themselves as they saw fit. Brandon split his pack into thirds, placing a serjeant each in command of a third. Asher introduced them to Jon. There was Merregon, a bold Tyroshi with dyed blue hair, green eyes, and a flashing smile. He was the kind of man Jon might have mistrusted on first glance, but Asher seemed to trust him. Then there was a woman, large, burly, and somehow unnamed.

"She-Bear?" Jon whispered to Asher, after they had been introduced.

Asher simply shook his head. "I don't know her real name. No one does, in fact. And it's best you do not ask. Two men badgered her about it once in a tavern and she ripped their arms out, clear as day. Ruined a perfectly good lunch.”

From the looks of She-Bear, she seemed the type. Swarthy, tall, and burly, with curly dark hair and bright golden eyes, Jon was wary of her, but she was friendly enough to him. The third serjeant was an older man, sallow, bald, and with a salt and pepper beard, named Veryll the Deadeye. Jon saw for himself the reason for that name when he split three arrows on a bullseye from eighty paces.

Jon ensconced himself into the company like a caterpillar burrowing into its cocoon. He trained day and night, and sat and ate with the men of his pack. He could sense approval from Brandon as he did so.

It was sometime in the early days of his second month with the Company when his first contract came. The sun had barely peeked over the horizon when Jon found himself in the open courtyard, a wooden practice sword in his hand. His muscles ached from the previous day's training, but he ignored the discomfort, focusing instead on the two men standing across from him: Asher and Merregon.

Asher, though stocky, moved with a nimbleness that Jon found surprising. He was quicker than his size would suggest, his movements precise and practiced. Merregon was tall, but slimmer in build like Jon; his experience and his effortless grace in wielding a rapier made Jon feel like a fawn taking its first steps.

"Again," Merregon called, his lilting voice echoing and teasing in the quiet courtyard. Despite the early hour, a small group of men and women from the company had gathered to watch. Most were sipping on their morning ale, their faces still marked with sleep, but their eyes keen and attentive. Brandon was among them, eyeing Jon keenly.

Jon took a deep breath and lunged at Merregon, his practice sword aimed at the other man's chest. Merregon sidestepped easily, his own sword knocking Jon's out of the path. Jon barely managed to twist his body to dodge a counter attack, his heart pounding in his chest.

"You mustn't only attack," Asher's voice rang out. "Think, Jon. Watch your opponent. Look for an opening."

Jon nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. He circled Merregon, trying to take in his mentor's advice. Merregon was a picture of calm, his emerald gaze never leaving Jon's.

Merregon attacked then, his movements quick as a viper. Jon parried, but the force of the Tyroshi's swing made him stagger back. Before he could regain his footing, Asher moved in, his own practice sword aimed at Jon's shoulder. Jon tried to dodge, but he was too late. The wooden sword connected with his shoulder, sending a jolt of pain through his body.

Cheers erupted from the onlookers as Jon stumbled back, rubbing his shoulder. A small smile twitched at the corner of Brandon's mouth, and Asher clapped Jon on the back.

"Not bad, Jon," Asher said. "You have the strength and the speed, but you need to be quicker on your feet."

"And remember to think," Merregon added. His lilting, musical voice made everything sound like mockery, but his advice was often good. "In a real fight, my friend, your opponent will not give you time to recover. You need to anticipate their moves. A man's feet can lie, but his eyes never will."

Jon nodded, wincing slightly as he rotated his shoulder. Despite the sting of defeat, he felt a flicker of excitement. He was learning, growing stronger and more skilled with each passing day. He may have lost this spar, but he was not always on the losing side. He was managing to get his hits in on Asher and Merregon now as well.

He straightened, looking at Merregon and Asher. "Again," he said, a determined glint in his eyes. The two men shared a glance before nodding.

"Again," Asher agreed. And so they did, with Jon falling and rising again and again, a little better each time, under the watchful eyes of his newfound kin and companions in the Company of the Rose. The early morning chill was gradually replaced by the warmth of the sun as the spar continued. Jon was panting, his shoulder ached, but a sense of satisfaction filled him. He was managing to land more hits, and while both Merregon and Asher were still better than him, Jon felt a spark of pride knowing he was improving.

"Again," Asher commanded, the word now a mantra of sorts.

The setting sun painted the canals of Braavos in a fiery orange hue, casting long shadows and reflections across the shimmering waters. Gondolas glided gently over the surface, while bravos walked the walkways, their swords swaying at their hips, their eyes searching for challenges. The salty tang of the sea mixed with the more pungent odors of fish, spices, and the myriad of scents that made Braavos the bustling hub of trade it was.

Jon followed Asher and Brandon made their way to one of the grander estates nestled alongside a canal, a grand testament to the wealth of its owner. He had been invited last minute - told to bathe and make himself presentable right before he planned to eat dinner and turn in for the evening. He was not told where they were going, but now he knew. The cobbled bridge that led to the small isle was the first sign - it was a private bridge, which meant that their host was the owner of every property that existed on that small strip of land. Merchant lords occupied entire islands of Braavos.

The palace, a marvel of architecture, was a multi-story edifice of white marble, its large windows framed with rich purple drapes. Carved water serpents coiled up the columns that supported the portico, while golden lanterns illuminated the entrance. Another bridge led over from the gardens onto marble steps that disappeared, for gently lapping at the steps of the estate were the dark waters of the canal, where a private gondola awaited its next passenger.

"Look sharp," murmured Brandon as they approached the guards standing by the entrance. Both guards wore gleaming breastplates and helms, their faces obscured by visors. One held a halberd while the other carried a longsword sheathed at his side.

”We have an audience with Lord Vaelaros. I am Captain Stark of the Company of the Rose.”

The trio was ushered in without a word. Inside, they were met with opulence that would put most Westerosi lords to shame. Vibrant Myrish carpets lined the floors, statues of ancient Sea Lords graced the corners, and crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings.

They were led to a grand chamber where a merchant prince awaited them. For who else could live in such opulence? He was a tall man, skin the shade of olives, with sharp, hawkish features and a meticulously trimmed black beard specked with gray. He wore a long robe of rich Tyroshi blue, embroidered with golden threads depicting mythical beasts of Essos. On his fingers, he sported several rings, each boasting a different precious stone.

"Captain Brandon Stark, I presume," the merchant prince intoned in a voice smooth as silk. His Westerosi Common Tongue was accented, yet flawless. "I am Tercios Vaelaros. Welcome to my home."

Brandon nodded, his stance upright and formal. "Lord Vaelaros, an honor. We are here about the contract. You were referred to us by a contact of mine at the Iron Bank.”

Jon studied the merchant prince. Vaelaros sounded vaguely Valyrian to him, like some of the houses that Maester Luwin had told them about, before the great Doom of Valyria. Some of that old noble blood still flowed in the veins of the Free Cities. Yet Tercios did not look Valyrian. Some part of Jon had conjured ethereal features, silver hair, and violet eyes - like a Targaryen come out of a storybook. 

Tercios' eyes, the shade of dark ale, twinkled with amusement. "Straight to business. I have always appreciated the directness of Westerosi. Yes, indeed. I have a chest of great value that needs to be moved from its place of safekeeping in one of my properties to the Iron Bank, under utmost discretion and security. While my security measures are formidable, the streets of Braavos can be treacherous - and this is something precious to me. It will be safe in the Iron Bank's vaults, and I shall sleep soundly at night knowing as such."

Jon's eyes darted around the room, taking in the details. There were several other men, likely the merchant prince's advisors or bodyguards, standing by the periphery, watching intently.

"We are aware of the risks, Lord Vaelaros," Brandon said. "But you would not have taken this meeting had you not heard our reputation. We will ensure the chest reaches its destination."

Tercios smiled, his teeth startlingly white against his dark beard. "Excellent. The chest will be ready for transport at dawn from the manse. I trust you'll take all necessary precautions, including the plan of transport?"

"Of course," Brandon responded, his tone unwavering. "I know this part of the city well. I already have a preferred route to the Iron Bank. How many men did you have in mind? From what I hear, you are an old hand at this game. I am sure you know well that more is not always better."

"No indeed," Tercios said. "Discretion is more important. Your fee, and fee per man?"

Jon watched intently as Tercios and Brandon began to haggle over the price. Brandon suggested a number as a flat fee, first, for the services, and per man - they went back and forth on it for a while before settling on a number. Then they began to debate the number of men. Eventually, Lord Vaelaros acquiesced to Brandon's suggestion that a party of eight help transport the chest to the Iron Bank. Tercios summoned a scribe, who drew up the contract, and both parties signed. After it was all said and done, Lord Vaelaros gestured to a servant, who approached with a tray bearing three crystal goblets filled with a deep red liquid.

"A toast then, to a successful venture," said the merchant prince, taking a deep draught.

The trio accepted the goblets, and with a nod from Brandon, they drank. The wine was rich and flavorful, its notes dancing on Jon's tongue. He had rarely ever had good wine - not much of it found its way up to Winterfell, and even less into his hands in particular - but this was fantastic, heady, making him feel warm all over.

"You know, Captain Stark, that Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos speaks highly of your services. He said you performed quite a difficult task for him - though he never told me what it was," Lord Vaelaros said, a twitching smile on his face.

Asher choked momentarily on his wine, and Brandon let out a soft chuckle. "It is not my place to reveal the good magister's secrets, my lord. I hope he stressed my discreet nature as well."

"Indeed, he did," Tercios replied, his fingers tracing the rim of his goblet thoughtfully. "It was one of the reasons I felt comfortable approaching your company. I hope that the chest remains as discreet as our current conversation."

"It will," Brandon replied. "I do not need to know its contents, but I do wonder why you wish for a sellsword company to arrange the transport. From what I hear, your lordship has more men in his service than anyone in Braavos save the Sealord himself."

Tercios raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes glinting with intrigue. "Why, because of the politics of Braavos, Captain Stark. There is always a game within a game. I need the assistance of someone uninvolved. Your Company is itinerant. You have plied your trade in Braavos for only half a year, and I know soon you will be in some other end of the Free Cities. Sometimes I wonder if it would not be simpler to be like you Westerosi, with your lineages and your clear hierarchies. You fight your battles in the open, with no guile - just strength.”

Jon did not know how true that was. People were liars everywhere. Brandon seemed to disagree as well, though he was always clever in expressing it. "Simple is not always better," Brandon replied smoothly. "Each system has its own pitfalls. Besides, I have spent all my life in Essos. I am only Westerosi in name, and in my tendency to wilt in the summer heat."

Tercios swirled his wine, eyeing its deep hue. "Indeed. Braavos' system is different from Westeros. Of course, anything may happen to a king, but it is generally understood that his heir will be of his body - deserving or not. Braavos does not dare place so much importance on blood. We choose - and choose for life. But sometimes a Sealord does not live so long. And then we choose again." Jon did not have to be an expert on Braavosi politics to understand what underlay Lord Vaelaros' words.

Brandon cleared his throat. "I am sure the wise prelates and keyholders will make the right choice when it next becomes necessary, if they are half so wise as you." Jon knew that he understood, as well.

Tercios chuckled. "Well said, Captain Stark. You flatter me with your praise. Of course, I would serve if called upon, but our Sealord lives long - and I expect he shall continue to do so. To his health." They toasted once more, but it was an empty toast. Jon was sure that if it were up to Tercios, the Sealord would be dead this instant. 

Tercios turned to survey Asher and Jon. He only gazed at Asher for a moment, but he studied Jon intently, as if seeing him for the first time. "And who might you be, young man? You do not have the look of a long-tenured sellsword to you."

Brandon, noticing the intense gaze Tercios was giving Jon, stepped in, "This is Jon Snow, the natural son of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North - my distant kinsman."

Tercios's interest was unmistakable. "Ah, a Stark of Winterfell and a Stark of Essos. How strange that distant kin should be reunited under the same banner once more. I have heard much about your family, young man. I deal often with the Manderlys of White Harbor. The North has always been a place of mystery and fascination for many in Braavos. But tell me, why would the son of such a revered lord leave the comforts of his home and come to the Free Cities?"

Jon hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. "I am a natural son, my lord. Lord Stark treated me well and I hope to honor him and our lineage, but I wanted to forge my own path, to make a name for myself outside of the shadow of Winterfell. Not all bastards are as fortunate as I, but I did not wish for the comfort of a half-home to become a cage."

Tercios smiled, clearly intrigued. Jon tried not to wilt under the man's gaze. "And what is it that you hope to accomplish here? Braavos is a city of opportunities, but also of many challenges."

Jon met Tercios's gaze squarely. "A name, my lord."

Brandon added with a hint of pride, "Jon has always shown a keen mind and promise at arms. I have no doubt he'll make his mark with our company."

Tercios nodded slowly, taking in the young Stark's determination. "Very well, Jon Snow of Winterfell. I look forward to seeing what name you will carve for yourself here. I shall be taking great interest in your career."

Jon, thoroughly discomfited, nodded in acknowledgment.

As the meeting concluded and they prepared to leave the grand chamber, Tercios's voice rang out once more. "Remember, Captain Stark, the value of that chest is more than just gold and jewels. Guard it with your life."

Brandon's eyes met Tercios's, the weight of the responsibility settling in. "We understand, Lord Vaelaros. It will be done."

With a final nod, they exited the palace, the impending task weighing heavily on Jon's mind.

Asher grumbled as the left the way the came. It was the dead of night now, but Braavos never truly slept. “What just happened in there?”

Brandon sighed. “We do have a way of walking into things, do we not? It appears that the good Lord Vaelaros is making moves towards becoming the Sealord of Braavos.”

They traveled with a candle in a lantern, winding through the alleyways and over canals on their way home. Jon could not help but peer over his shoulder several times. Though he never saw anyone, he grit his teeth during the entire walk back to the company barracks. His hair stood on end, and a crawling feeling that would not leave his spine made him feel as though someone’s eyes were affixed onto the back of his head. They dared not speak more until they were safely ensconced within the barracks.

“What do you think he has in the box?” Jon said, as they sat down with bowls of soup. There was a fire roaring in the common room, but few were still awake. A few drunken comrades stumbled in and out, either coming back from a night of debauchery or going to it.

“Could be anything,” Brandon said.

”Must be valuable,” Asher muttered into his bowl.

”Not necessarily in and of itself,” remarked Brandon. “You remember the security we provided to that one-“

”The Qohorik with his daughter’s skull?” Asher groaned.

”Precisely.”

Jon’s ears perked up. “What was that about his-“

”Long story, for another time,” Asher said, shaking his head. Whatever it was, Jon gathered, it was not a pleasant memory for Asher, though Brandon’s chuckle suggested a humorous cause. 

“My point is,” Brandon continued, “that it is likely to be treasure of another sort. Some item of blackmail, some piece in a game, some incriminating item or information. The election of a Sealord is an arcane process, Jon. Not so simple as casting lots. The current Sealord, Ferrego Antaryon, oscillates between good and ill health. He is an old man now, so illness or no, he will not last another two years. Vaelaros will angle to be the Sealord, and he surely will be accompanied by others. Sealords are capricious, and the men who scramble over each other to attain the role even more so."

"Is it wise to get involved in this, Brandon?" Asher asked.

"Probably not," Brandon shrugged. He wagged a copy of their contract in front of Asher. "Did you see the rate he agreed to pay us, though? I've worked entire moons without earning so much for a single job. The pack will be ecstatic. Even old Ironhand won't have an ill word to speak of this." Brandon pocketed the contract in his pocket and patted Jon on the back. "Besides, it will be a good opportunity for my cousin here - a good first contract."

On the morning of the transfer, Jon and the others made their way through the silent streets of Braavos, shrouded in darkness. The misty night air clung to them like a second skin, while the moon hung low in the sky casting a soft light over the winding alleys and canals. As they approached Lord Vaelaros’ manor, Jon could not help but feel a chill run down his spine.

The large gates of the estate loomed before them. Jon had not really noticed them before, the two massive bronze doors which appeared to have been designed for strength rather than aesthetic pleasure. Still, they were not totally devoid of decoration. Each door had a face - one was smiling, and the other frowning. The faces were like the masks that mummers wore in the streets.

Brandon instructed his men to wait outside as he spoke to one of the guards standing watch outside the door.

The guard nodded and disappeared into the manse. After what felt like an eternity, a small window opened revealing an aged face illuminated by candlelight. Jon's hand eased from the hilt of his sword. After exchanging a few words, the window shut again and Jon heard several locks being unfastened from within. Finally, one of the doors cracked open revealing an old servant standing before them, his wizened face barely visible under a hooded cloak. Without saying another word he gestured for them to follow him as he led them inside.

The mansion was dark and quiet save for some distant sounds coming from deeper within its walls. Unlike their last visit, the manor seemed almost empty as though all life had left from it some time now. After walking down long corridors and ascending several flights of stairs they arrived at Lord Vaelaros’ chambers, where another hooded figure stood guard by the door; upon seeing Brandon’s face he stepped aside without any questioning or formalities.

When they arrived in the room, they were met by Lord Vaelaros himself, who led them to a small, well-guarded room where the chest was kept. The chest was smaller than Jon had expected, about the size of a breadbox, but it was ornately decorated with intricate carvings and inlaid with precious metals and stones. Brandon and his men carefully lifted the chest and carried it out of the mansion, with Jon and Asher flanking them on either side.

"Remember the plan," Brandon said. "We follow Archon's Road along the Great Canal until we come upon the alleyway I mentioned. From there - it is alternating lefts and rights until we have doubled back across the Grand Canal over the Muddy Bridge. From there, we move down to the Iron Bank's western side."

Asher nodded and turned to the men. "Do you remember the alternate route?" They all nodded yes, including Jon, but as each second passed by, his heart pounded louder and louder in his chest until he could not hear himself think. They moved then, quickly and quietly through the deserted streets, the chest held aloft between them. The Iron Bank, their destination, loomed in the distance, its towering spires silhouetted against the predawn sky.

The moon hung low in the sky, casting an ethereal, silvery glow over the cobblestone streets of Braavos as they wound their way through the winding alleyways of the city. The chest, held aloft by two of Brandon's men, seemed to glow in the last of the moonlight, its precious metals and stones twinkling like stars before the rising of the sun.

The alleyway they were currently traversing was narrow and lined with tall, imposing buildings on either side. Jon felt like they were walking through a canyon, the walls of stone rising up on either side of them, blocking out the sky. The only sounds were the soft footsteps of the men and the occasional distant bark of a dog.

As they turned a corner, the alleyway opened up into a small, circular courtyard. It was empty except for a fountain in the center, the water long since dried up. The courtyard was surrounded by a high wall, with only two exits – the way they had come in, and the way they were headed. The exit out led to the bridge, Jon remembered.

Suddenly, as if materializing out of the shadows, a dozen figures emerged from the exits, blocking their way. They were clad in black, their faces covered with masks. Each of them carried a sword or a dagger, and they moved with a fluid grace that spoke of years of training.

Brandon and his men came to a halt, their hands moving to their swords. Jon and Asher did the same, their senses heightened and their muscles tensed, ready for the fight that was to come.

The leader of the black-clad figures stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the moonlight. "Hand over the chest," he demanded, his voice a low growl.

Brandon stood tall, his eyes narrowing. "I'm afraid you will have to take it from us," he replied, his hand moving to his sword.

With a nod from their leader, the black-clad figures surged forward, their swords drawn. The air was filled with the clang of steel on steel as the two groups clashed.

Jon found himself face to face with one of the attackers, his sword raised to block the other man's strike. The impact sent a shockwave through his arm, but he held on, pushing back with all his might. The attacker was strong, despite the slight figure he cut under his black robes. They fought fiercely, their swords moving in a blur as they sought to find an opening in the other's defense. Jon and his opponent moved in a deadly dance, their swords flashing in the moonlight. Jon grit his teeth as he avoided a few narrow scrapes with death. The enemy was a skilled fighter, and his movements were precise and efficient. He parried each of Jon's strikes with ease, his own counterstrikes quick and deadly.

Then, Jon felt his foot slip on a slickened cobbled stone. He yelped as he lost his footing and fell backwards, his sword slipping from his hand. The attacker lunged forward, his sword poised to strike Jon down. But before the blade could make contact, Jon rolled to his side and kicked at the enemy's shin.

The attacker stumbled, and Jon was quick to take advantage of the opening. He jabbed his elbow into the man's ribcage, and then got to his feet. Before the attacker could recover from the sudden attack, Jon grabbed his sword and aimed a quick stab at his opponent's midsection.

The man fell to the ground with a thud, blood gushing from the wound. His mask, jarred loose by the impact of his fall, fell away from his face. Jon stood over him, panting heavily, his heart pounding in his chest. It was a young man - maybe of Jon's age, maybe just a little older. He was tanned with curly brown hair and jade colored eyes that were fading fast.

Jon had taken his first life.

Another attacker gave him little time to dwell as the battle raged on. Jon defended himself once more. The sound of clashing swords and grunting men filled the air, drowning out all other sounds. Asher came to help him with this one, after having dispatched his own man. Together, he and Jon made quick work of the next enemy.

Jon whipped around to survey the bloody courtyard. Four of their men had fallen, but so had almost all the attackers. Only the ringleader was left, now, the one who had accosted them first in this courtyard. He fought with a cold precision, his every strike aimed to kill.

Jon charged at the ringleader, his sword held high. The man parried each of Jon's attacks effortlessly, his skills surpassing even those of his fallen comrades. Asher joined the fray, their swords striking in unison as they attempted to overwhelm their opponent with sheer force. Three men were too much for him, and Brandon struck the killing blow.

The chest lay on the ground where it had been dropped during the fight, its lid slightly ajar. But its contents were untouched, the plain, wrapped parcel inside drawing Jon’s attention. Asher did not bother. He checked on their men, but Jon could not take his eyes off it.

As Jon's fingers stretched out towards the chest, a strong hand shot out, capturing his wrist in a vice-like grip. He looked up to see Brandon's hardened gaze fixed upon him.

"Jon, you must not," Brandon's voice rang with authority.

Jon met his eyes, a bit startled, as though he had been awoken from a deep trance. "Aren't you curious to know what lies inside?"

Brandon's gaze did not waver. "There are items and secrets in this world that are best left concealed. This attack is proof that whatever this chest holds is of such immense value that even knowing of its existence endangers you. Would you willingly put your life - our lives - at further risk?"

Jon paused, weighing the gravity of Brandon's words, then replied, "No, of course not. I apologize, Captain. I just..."

Brandon sighed, glancing towards Asher, who had been silently observing the exchange. "I'm dying to know as well, but it is not worth our necks, Jon."

Asher approached, his gaze contemplative. "It is a matter of trust, Jon. For sellswords, that is all we have. Once you acquire a reputation for being untrustworthy, it will haunt you for the remainder of your short and miserable life."

"Some secrets are too large," Brandon added. "They bear the weight of dynasties and kingdoms. Do you want to carry that weight?"

Jon swallowed and nodded, feeling the weight of their words pressing down on him.

With Asher and Jon's help, the chest was closed and secured once more. The surviving fourth member, a burly man named Kedric, took the rear as they made their way through the streets of Braavos. Dawn's early light began to paint the city in shades of gold and pink.

The Iron Bank's imposing façade grew larger as they approached. The massive doors, adorned with intricate carvings, creaked open to reveal a grand interior. Surprisingly, an elegantly dressed bank official, a spindly man with a sharp nose, reddish hair and blue eyes awaited them, seemingly unbothered by their disheveled and bloodied state.

"Ah, you have arrived," the official greeted them, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Lord Vaelaros was quite descriptive in his message. He mentioned a group that would emerge from the night, painted in the blood of their foes."

Brandon, keeping his composure, replied, "Lord Vaelaros has a flair for the dramatic. We have the chest. It needs to be deposited safely."

The official nodded, gesturing for them to follow. "This way."

They walked down a seemingly endless corridor, flanked on either side by vault doors that looked as old as time. At last, they stopped in front of one particularly large door. The official produced a grand key, which he used to unlock it, revealing a rather disappointingly empty chamber.

The chest was placed prominently in the center, and the official locked the door. He then turned to them with a sickeningly fake and gracious smile, "The Iron Bank thanks you for your delivery."

From there, Asher and Kedric left, to gather the bodies of their dead comrades and take them back to the barracks where the Company was staying. Jon did not know any of the fallen well. He knew their names, but that was the extent of it. He wondered if any of them had come to the Company with dreams like his. Now they were dead, and their dreams no more.

Jon accompanied Brandon back to the Vaelaros manor. The Lord did not greet them this time. Instead, the same old wizened servant handed them their payment and dismissed them. 

Morning was fully here now, and the city streets began to fill up. Jon had blotted out the eerie stillness of earlier in his mind, but the hubbub now truly made him realise how quiet it had been during the transfer. Everyone that passed him by seemed oblivious, even though his clothes and leather breastplate were speckled in dark and drying blood. Once, someone passed him by that looked so similar to the boy he had killed that he almost jumped, but then the man was gone and Jon could not see his face anymore.

”You killed your first man today,” Brandon remarked. An uncomfortable silence filled in. “Are you alright?”

”I am,” Jon lied. “It was me or him. I did not intend to die.”

”No, but did you intend to kill? Did you wake up this morning knowing you were going to take a life today?” Brandon countered.

”I’m not an idiot,” Jon muttered. His frustration felt like a thousand angry porcupine pricks in his skin. “I know that a sellsword’s life is not a peaceful one.” 

“Knowing it and experiencing it are two very different things,” said Brandon.  He paused in his steps. They were now crossing the last of the bridges before their barracks. Jon could see its squat walls even from here. Brandon leaned against the balustrade. From here the Titan was clearly visible, and it seemed as though a thousand ships were pulling into the city. 

“My first was a slave soldier. Not an Unsullied - if my first battle was against them, I would not be here now,” Brandon chuckled. “No, I think he was… Lhazareen, maybe. But enslaved and bound to the service of Norvos. It was a small skirmish in a war between Norvos and Qohor. When I took off his helmet, I realized he was but a lad of thirteen, maybe fourteen. He looked scared.” Brandon paused. “It is something terrible, to see the light leave a man’s eyes, and to know that you are the cause of it. Fifteen years since that day, and I still remember his face. I see it in the street at least once a day.”

”Why are you telling me this?” Jon murmured, starting at the lapping waters of the bay outside the city. “I have seen men die before. My Lord father beheaded criminals in front of my eyes.”

”Executing justice and killing a man in a battle are two different things. I say this so that you know that it is a good thing. It means you feel. You should not dread it. You should instead dread the day you no longer do, for then you will know you are lost.” Brandon turned and continued on, and Jon followed in his footsteps after a heartbeat.

Chapter Text

Jon set his tankard down louder than he intended to.

The bronze metal made a resounding thud when it slammed into the wood of the table. Jon shook his head and looked up, but no one had noticed.

The Silver Seashell was a tavern located at the crossing of the Grand Canal and the Keyholder’s Way, one of the widest and grandest avenues in all of Braavos. The Keyholder’s Way ran from the Iron Bank at one end to the Sealord’s palace. One of the greatest bridges of Braavos, the Old Bridge, was the centerpoint of that crossing. It was lined with shops and apartments all the way across from one end to the other. 

The Silver Seashell sat on far end of the bridge. It was only the second building once one stepped onto the bridge proper. The first was a tailor’s, flagged and lined with bright and eye-catching fabric. The third shop was a… well, Jon was not sure what it was called. Teahouse would have been the word he used, but they did not serve tea. It was a rich, bold, bitter brown liquid that could be made light as a taupe sackcloth or as dark as the color of charcoal. The word used for it in the Bastard Valyrian tongue was something like qahva, and Jon was told it came from Ghis.

Jon was not in the mood for qahva today. The ale at the Silver Seashell was crisp and light and cheap, which was best of all. Jon had gawked at the size of the purse Brandon dropped in his hands when the contract for the merchant prince Vaelaros was complete. It eased some of the bitter taste he felt in his mouth after, and the ale took care of the rest.

”Another!” Jon called loudly. Next to him, Asher tried hard to not laugh. 

“Take a Stark and give him a bellyful of ale, and he might just act cheerful for once,” Asher said. He pounded Brandon in the back, which made the Captain spout up some of the ale he was consuming. “Not this one though. This one could do with a little more grimness.”

”I’m perfectly capable of being morose when I wish to be,” Brandon muttered. The Captain ran a hand through his sandy, cropped hair. He called the barmaid over for another round, eliciting a cheer from She-Bear and appreciative applause from Merregon. Around them sat Veryll the Dead-Eye as well. There were two other Captains and their lieutenants who has accompanied them as well - Mahdon son of Razi, a burly Lhazareen with curly hair and a greying beard, and his lieutenant Kell, a son of a slave from the Westerlands, who had been captured by Ironborn and sold into bondage in the Free Cities. Kedric, the man who had helped them with the Vaelaros contract a fortnight ago, was there too. The other captain was a woman, Tausret, who hailed from the Rhoyne, and her lieutenant, her twin sister Azenet. They were young, perhaps twenty namedays to Jon’s sixteen. Both of them possessed a sharp, deadly beauty, with olive skin and hazel eyes. They shaved their sides fully, and braided their brown hair up top into cascading war braids. Were it not for the scar that ran from Azenet’s nose to past her bottom lip, however, Jon would never have been able to tell them apart.

”My dear Captain, I have known you for seven years now - and I have only seen a pout on your face twice,” Merregon claimed.

"One of them being the time the daughter of a Norvoshi magister refused his hand in marriage,” She-Bear muttered.

Jon nearly sputtered out his drink. "What?"

"Any one of you says anything else, I will have your head," Brandon said drily.

The barmaid came by then. She was a young girl - no more than fifteen or sixteen namedays, and roughly of the same age as Jon himself. She was pretty, with reddish-brown hair, a dimpled smile and honey colored eyes. She smiled at all of them as she brought new tankards, filled to the brim, but her eyes lingered on Jon a little longer than the others. Jon felt his cheeks flush even more, and this time not from the alcohol.

”Do mine eyes deceive me?” Merregon said with a sly smile, twirling his moustache. “Or is our young master Snow smitten? Tell us lad - is there a girl back home in Winterfell?”

Jon’s face fell. If there was a girl back home in Winterfell, would he have left? His heart twinged. There was no one. If he was honest with himself, he might have admitted that there was a short time where he allowed himself to dream of Jeyne, the steward’s daughter. Jeyne was pretty, and she had a lovely smile, but Jon knew she only lit a flame for Robb in her heart. Robb the heir, Robb the Stark. What hope had he, Jon the bastard?

A familiar bitterness and shame welled up in him - rage at his lot, horror at the awful jealousy he felt against his beloved brother, who was his best friend for his whole life. “No one,” Jon said into his tankard. He lifted it and gulped the ale down, hoping it would wash down the turmoil he felt within.

Tausret blinked. “A maid amid our ranks?” She studied Jon more carefully and then grinned. “I do not believe it. You are too pretty. Silly girls at your age love pretty boys like you.” When Jon struggled to answer, reddening further at being called a pretty boy, the table burst into laughter. All but Asher, who had a knowing look on his face, and Brandon, who was studying Jon carefully.

The laughter had hardly subsided when Azenet leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. With a playful glint in her hazel eyes, she said, "It is hard to believe that someone with such striking features has never caught the fancy of a girl." Her eyes narrowed and bored into Jon's. He resisted the urge to squirm.

Jon shifted in his seat, his hand tightening around his tankard. "Not quite," he muttered. "Circumstances were different in Winterfell."

Azenet's smile deepened, turning sly. "Oh? Were the girls in Winterfell blind?" She leaned in closer, her voice taking on a sultry tone. "Or perhaps, Jon Snow, you simply need a woman who knows what she is doing to show you the ropes."

Jon's eyes widened in disbelief. He tried to find words, but all that escaped his mouth was a strangled cough. The table erupted into laughter once more, with Merregon slapping his thigh in amusement and Veryll barely containing his chuckles.

Mahdon, witnessing Jon's discomfort, tried to interject, "Azenet, perhaps—"

But Azenet was not done. She continued, teasingly tracing a finger along Jon's forearm. Her touch felt like lightning coursing up and down his skin. His hair stood up on end. "You know, Jon, if you are looking for someone to teach you, I would be more than willing to offer my... expertise. I confess, I have never tasted a Stark." Her eyes flickered over to Brandon and her lips curled into a cat-like smile. "Not for lack of effort, of course."

Tausret smirked, a hint of pride in her sister's audacity evident in her eyes. "Always the charmer, my sister. I often wonder how she manages to stay out of trouble."

Jon's face was now the color of freshly spilled wine - or so he assumed, for his cheeks burned as though someone had lit a flame on them. "I appreciate the offer," he said, trying to keep his voice level, "But I am no Stark. I think my taste would be a poor imitation."

Azenet's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Pity. I think you'd be a quick learner."

Brandon spoke up then, his voice carrying a note of authority that silenced the table. "Enough, Azenet. Leave my poor cousin alone."

Azenet leaned back in her chair, still smirking but nodding in understanding. "Very well. But my offer stands. Come by my quarters sometime if you wish to take me up on it."

Jon took a deep breath, attempting to regain his composure, and dipped his head in acknowledgement. 

She-Bear, never one to let a moment go without a jest of her own, piped up, "And here I was thinking the North of Westeros was filled with hardy folk. Guess not all can handle the heat of a southern woman's heat."

"Even a southern woman's heat would be found lacking in the deepest reaches of winter," Jon muttered. He stood up and turned on his heel, the anger finally bubbling over, aided by the ale. He ignored the calls that came from behind him. As he swept aside the tavern doors and stepped into the Braavosi street, a cool air breezed past his face, caressing his cheeks. He drew his black cloak around closer around him, covering his leather armor with the thick wool. Essos was reputed to be hot, but Braavos was still temperate, being the northernmost Free City.

More than the cold, it was the the barbs that had gotten under his skin, but he would not admit to them why it was so. Did his father find his mother in some similar way? Jon tried hard to imagine his father's cold exterior melted by the charms of a southern woman, but all he could picture was someone who looked like Azenet. Even that would be preferable to the worst thing Jon could imagine - that his mother was some brothel bedwarmer, someone his father had just sated his lusts with. How could anything born of such a union ever be worth anything?

The followers of the Seven believed that bastards were born of lies and deceit, and so their nature was treacherous intrinsically. Jon wondered if he was treacherous, but then he scoffed. He was not Lady Catelyn. Jon knew himself, and knew he was not a liar. Sighing, Jon began to wander aimlessly. He crossed the Grand Canal and headed in the direction of the docks. Some strange part of him beckoned to feel the salt spray of the sea.

Jon's journey to the docks took him past various street performers, shops still bustling with customers, and various inns and taverns filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses. The streets were alive with the energy of the city, and the night was yet still young. Along the way, he was drawn to the sounds of clashing steel. Turning a corner, Jon found himself amidst a crowd of spectators watching two bravos duel in a courtyard. Men traded coins and bets, laughing and groaning as fortune took its turns with them and their luck.

The dance of the bravos was a beauty to behold. Each movement was precise and deliberate, each strike aimed with purpose. The combatants, dressed brightly and flamboyantly like peacocks, moved with the grace of dancers, their thin blades flashing in the moonlight. The crowd was silent, captivated by the spectacle. Jon's eyes were drawn to their footwork, the way they used the ground to their advantage, always seeking the upper hand. He found himself itching to join them, to feel the weight of his sword in his hand and the thrill of the fight.

His wish was granted when one of the combatants called for a break after his second loss in a row. The other bravo, a tall man with a braided beard and a scar running across his cheek, turned to the crowd. "Is there anyone who dares challenge me, Roderino of the Golden Canal?" he called out.

Before he knew it, Jon had stepped forward, drawing his sword. He had never heard of Roderino, but something about the duel had inflamed his soul. The crowd erupted in cheers, and the bravo grinned, showing a mouthful of gold teeth. "Ah, a young Andal! This is the bravo's dance, the water dance. Are you sure you have what it takes to dance with Roderino?"

Jon smiled. His Bastard Valyrian was still improving, but he knew enough to respond. "I am no Andal. I am of the First Men, from the North. And even water must freeze when winter comes."

Roderino beamed, seemingly enticed by Jon's retort, and gave a flourishing bow. "Let us put those words to the test then, good Northman!"

The duel was intense and fast-paced. Jon found himself pushed to his limits, his opponent's skill and experience evident in every move he made. The crowd cheered and gasped with each strike and parry. Jon held his own, and landed a few blows of his own. The water dance gave Jon no end of trouble, but he was no green boy himself. The bravo's movements were fluid - every parry was a prelude to a counter, every counter flowing easily into an attack. The bravo's movements were like the flourish of a maester's quill, each stroke leading into the other, every move with intent, every step purposeful. In the end the bravo was the better swordsman, and he won out. With a deft move, he disarmed Jon and sent him sprawling to the ground. The crowd erupted in cheers, and the bravo offered Jon a hand up.

"Well fought, young Northman," he said with a grin. "You have the heart of a true bravo." His eyes caught sight of the pin on Jon's jerkin, the insignia of the Company. "Ah, a winter rose. You will do well, I think."

Jon nodded, his chest heaving. "Thank you, Roderino of the Golden Canal. You are a skilled fighter."

With that, he continued on his way, the cheers of the crowd ringing in his ears. A few people patted him on the shoulder or on the back as he walked past, and he gave them each a grateful but tired smile. The streets became quieter as he neared the docks, the sounds of the city fading into the background. The salt air filled his lungs, and he felt a sense of calm wash over him. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of an alleyway. A memory flashed in his mind – this was where he had rushed down when following that pickpocket who had stolen his purse the first day he arrived. The memory of the chase and the fight brought a smile to his face. He remembered the strange old man who had spoken to him when he was chasing the thief, and he felt a sense of curiosity. Who was he? What was his story?

Jon turned into the alleyway, the shadows enveloping him. Some part of him knew it was foolish, but he was armed and felt braver than usual after his duel with Roderino. The moonlight bathed the narrow space in an eerie light, casting long shadows. He walked to the spot where he had last seen the old man, but there was no sign of him. The alleyway was empty, the only sound the distant murmur of the city. Just as Jon turned to leave, he felt a presence behind him. He spun around, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. But it was too late. Three masked men appeared from the shadows, surrounding him. One of them stepped forward, a wicked-looking dagger glinting in his hand.

"Well, well, what have we here? A lone rose, wilting out here in the alley." The man's voice was cold and mocking.

Jon's mind raced. He could try to fight his way out, but he was outnumbered. "Who sent you?" he asked, his voice steady.

The man chuckled, the sound sending shivers down Jon's spine. "Tercios Vaelaros sends his regards."

Jon's eyes widened in surprise. Why would Lord Vaelaros want him dead?

"Why?" he asked.

The man shrugged. "Not your business, lost little rose."

Jon laughed, a bitter sound. "I am about to be a dead man. What is the harm? Surely three great warriors like you can take a green boy like me."

The leader cocked his head to the side, considering Jon for a moment. Then he grinned, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. He was an ugly man. Jon did not enjoy killing, but if there was a man who might change that, it was this one. "Why should me and my friends be afraid? You are right, there is no harm - for a dead man like you will tell no tales. My lord is ready to take his rightful place among the primates of this city. He does not need any loose lips spilling secrets they may or may not know in the streets before his move. That is why you must die. Take heart, little rose. Your death will pave the way for greatness in this city."

A cold chill ran down Jon's spine. Whatever they had transported to the Iron Bank was significant enough that Vaelaros would kill them for it. Brandon and Asher were right - whatever was in there, it was a secret that carried an entire city. Part of him now wished he had peeked under that cloth in the chest, to see what lay within, but it was long gone now, deep in the vaults of the Iron Bank, out of his reach. Whatever the scum Vaelaros had planned, it would plunge the city into chaos. Asher and Brandon were in danger too., he realized. Jon's mind made up, he drew his sword, ready to fight.

The first attacker - the shorter man, to the right of the ringleader - lunged at Jon, his dagger gleaming in the moonlight. Jon parried with his sword and countered, the blade slicing through the man's throat. He crumpled to the ground, blood gushing out and staining the cobblestones red. The other two hesitated for a moment, their faces masked with shock. But then they attacked in unison, their weapons flashing in the darkness.

The alleyway was narrow, and Jon used that to his advantage. He positioned himself so that the attackers had to come at him one at a time. The second man swung his sword, and Jon blocked it with his own. The impact sent vibrations through his arm, but he held on. The fight progressed like that for a while, but even the narrowness of the alley could not protect Jon from injury. He sustained a cut here, a gash there. Each blow made his body cry out in protest as it stung from the blood. But then the second attacker made a misstep. He slipped on a slick cobblestone, and gave Jon the perfect opening. He sidestepped and thrust his sword into the man's side. The man screamed and fell to the ground, clutching his wound.

The third attacker, the leader, was more cautious. He tried to circle Jon, looking for an opening. Jon's breathing was heavy, and he felt a burning pain in his side where the second man had managed to land a blow. Blood dripped from a cut over his left eye, blinding him on that side. The leader saw the opportunity and lunged, but Jon parried and countered, slashing the man across the chest. The leader stumbled back, his face contorted with pain.

Jon pressed the advantage, attacking with all his strength. But the leader was cunning. He feinted and then landed a blow on Jon's leg, sending him to the ground. The leader raised his dagger, ready to deliver the final strike, but Jon kicked out, sending the man sprawling. They grappled in the street, the cobblestones digging into Jon's back. The leader was strong, and he pinned Jon's arms to the ground. But Jon summoned the last of his strength and twisted his body, throwing the man off. He rolled on top of the leader and wrapped his hands around the man's neck, squeezing with all his might. The leader gasped and struggled, but his movements became weaker and weaker until he finally lay still.

Jon rolled off the man, gasping for breath. His body was battered and broken, and he knew he needed to get help. But first, he had to warn his friends. Brandon, Asher, and Kedric were in grave danger. If Lord Vaelaros was moving to usurp the office of the Sealord, then he would want to eliminate anyone who could stand in his way. Jon staggered to his feet, using his sword as a crutch. He stumbled out of the alleyway, his mind filled with agony doing battle with grim determination. He had to find them before it was too late.

In a feverish haze, Jon stumbled through the winding streets of the city, tracing back his steps towards the Silver Seashell, the inn where he had last seen his friends. His vision blurred, the pain from his wounds dulling his senses. His mind, though in a state of turmoil, was focused on one thing – finding Asher, Brandon, and the others.

The streets seemed to twist and turn, and Jon found himself lost, the towering buildings on either side closing in on him. His legs wobbled, threatening to give way under him. Blood oozed from his wounds, staining the cobblestones red. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot searing that threatened to consume him. People stared at him as he passed, their faces a blur of shock and concern, but Jon paid them no heed, his mind consumed with his mission. The city seemed like a labyrinth, the streets winding and intertwining, leading him in circles.

By sheer luck, as he was about to give into despair, Jon stumbled upon an alley that led towards the Keyholder's Way. His heart raced in his chest as he heard the clash of steel and the shouts of men in combat. His steps quickened, despite the protest of his battered body. As he reached the end of the alley, the scene before him made his blood run cold.

There, in the midst of a melee, were Asher and Brandon and the others, both covered in blood, fighting off a group of masked attackers. Their faces were set in grim determination, their movements fueled by desperation. Jon's heart swelled with pride and fear for his friends. He rushed forward, his sword raised, ready to join the fight.

Even as he closed in, limping the whole way, his body finally gave way. He staggered and fell to his knees, crying out in pain as they cracked against the paved alley. The world spun around him, and darkness crept at the edges of his vision. The pain from his wounds became too much to bear, and with a final, staggering crawl, Jon collapsed, the ground rushing up to meet him. As his consciousness slipped away, the last thing he heard was a storm of swords and a clash of steel.

Jon awoke with a start, his mind foggy and disoriented. Pain shot through his body as he tried to sit up, and he groaned. His vision swam before him, and he realized that he was lying in a bed, the plastered walls of the Company of the Rose's barracks surrounding him. His body felt heavy, as if he had been submerged in water, and it took all of his strength to push himself to a sitting position. Daylight streamed through the window, but not so brightly yet. Jon estimated that it was still early in the morning.

Bandages were wrapped around his chest and arms, and he felt the pull of stitches in his side where he had been stabbed. As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he clung to the bedpost for support.

His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The last thing he remembered was collapsing in the alleyway, the sounds of battle fading into the darkness. What had happened to Asher, Brandon, and the others? Were they alright?

With weak steps, Jon staggered out of his bed, clutching at the walls for support as he made his way down the hallway to the mess hall. His legs felt like jelly, and his head pounded with each step, but he pressed on, the need to see his comrades outweighing the pain that wracked his body.

As he reached the mess hall, the sounds of voices and the clinking of cutlery reached his ears. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, his eyes squinting against the bright light that flooded the room.

Kedric spotted him and rushed over, his face a mask of concern. "Jon, what in the seven hells are you doing out of bed? You should be resting!"

Jon tried to speak, but his voice came out as a raspy whisper. "Kedric... you're alive! Asher, Brandon, the others... are they alright?"

Kedric's eyes softened, and he placed a gentle hand on Jon's shoulder. "Easy now, lad. You've lost a lot of blood. Here, let me help you."

Kedric supported him as they made their way deeper into the mess hall. Jon's eyes scanned the room, searching for familiar faces. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Brandon and the Lord Commander of the Company of the Rose, Owen Ironhand, standing in the center of the room, arguing heatedly. The rest of the men were gathered around them, their faces tense and worried.

As Jon and Kedric approached, the voices fell silent, and all eyes turned towards them. The Lord Commander, a grizzled veteran with a bushy beard and a scar running down the side of his face, frowned when he saw Jon. He turned to Brandon. "What is this? I thought I gave strict orders for your men to rest."

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but his voice failed him. Instead, he simply stood there, his eyes darting from face to face, searching for answers. He felt the world spin around him as Kedric guided him to a seat. The pain from his wounds, mixed with the dizziness, made it hard to focus. He slumped into the chair, his body sagging with exhaustion. Everything around him seemed to move in slow motion, the voices and faces of his friends and comrades blurring together in a chaotic jumble. Asher appeared too, without any severe signs of hurt. He sat next to Jon and patted his shoulder.

Brandon turned to him with a concerned expression, "Jon, cousin, how are you holding up?"

Jon tried to force a smile, but it felt like a grimace instead. His voice was barely a whisper, "Been better. Glad to see you alive, cousin."

Brandon nodded, his jaw clenched tight. He turned back to the Lord Commander, his voice raising in anger, "We cannot just let Vaelaros get away with this! We are your company, Lord Commander, and we were attacked in the open street. We must make him pay for what he has done!"

The Lord Commander stood tall and imposing, his arms crossed over his chest. His voice was steady and commanding, "It is a fool's errand, Stark. We are not in a position to take on Vaelaros. The smart move is to cut our losses and leave Braavos. The contracts here are drying up as it is, and and my contacts inform me that Pentos is ripe with work. It is time to move on. We have spent long enough in this city as it is. We only stayed in Norvos for a moon's turn, and Qohor for a fortnight and some change."

Brandon's face turned a deep shade of red, his eyes blazing with fury, "I do not care for contracts or offers! Vaelaros must pay for his treachery! Tausret and Mahdon are dead because of him!"

Jon felt as if he had been punched in the gut. His head snapped around to face Asher, "What? Captain Tausret and Captain Mahdon are dead?"

Asher nodded grimly, his voice breaking, "Aye, Jon. They were ambushed in the alley along with us. Mahdon died almost instantly - arrow to the heart. Tausret took two down with her. Azenet survived. She has taken it... harshly."

Jon felt the world close in around him. The news of their death was like a physical blow, even though they were not particularly close. Jon felt a wave of grief and anger wash over him. His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white. He turned back to the Lord Commander, his voice filled with a quiet fury, "We cannot let this go unanswered. We must make Vaelaros pay. Lord Commander, the men who attacked me - they told me that Vaelaros plans to make a move for the office of the Sealord."

Ironhand scoffed. "Ferrego Antaryon is not yet dead, Snow." 

"And if Vaelaros has his way, he will be dead in a sennight," cursed Brandon. "Vaelaros is plotting something. It is the only reason that he would strike against us. He fears we know something, something related to the chest he had us transport to the Iron Bank."

The Lord Commander sighed, his shoulders slumping as if he carried the weight of the world on them, "Brandon, my boy, I understand your pain. I feel it too. But we must be practical. An attack on Vaelaros would be suicide. We need to think of the Company first."

Brandon's face was twisted in rage as he stepped forward, his finger jabbing at the Lord Commander's chest, "I am thinking of the Company first! I want revenge for the Company! I want Vaelaros' blood on my hands! I want to see him beg for mercy before I cut his throat!"

The Lord Commander's face hardened, his voice like steel, "Enough, Brandon! You are letting your anger cloud your judgment. This is not the way of the Company of the Rose. We are mercenaries, not assassins or catspaws."

Brandon's eyes flashed with fury, "Then you take the Company out of the city, but leave me a dozen men. We will attack Vaelaros' mansion under the cover of night and kill the merchant lord ourselves."

The Lord Commander shook his head, "Brandon, I cannot allow you to do this. It is a suicidal task. You will be throwing your life away."

Brandon's face was inches from the Lord Commander's, his voice a low growl, "Then I will go alone. But know this, Lord Commander. I will not rest until Vaelaros is dead, and his mansion is nothing but ashes."

"I will come with you, Captain," Asher said solemnly. He turned to Jon, and his eyes were like steel. "Vaelaros owes us a debt, and I intend to collect."

"And I," said Kell, from behind. The blonde man emerged from among the spectators. Mahdon was my Captain. I would be a piss-poor lieutenant if I did not avenge him."

Others stepped forward to volunteer - She-Bear, who had a huge gash over her forehead, and Veryll the Deadeye, and Merregon, who seemed unharmed. Kedric said nothing, but Azenet came forward last. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Jon remembered that she had lost her sister Tausret. If he had lost Robb... there would have been very little difference between them. Azenet glanced at him for a moment before fixing her gaze on Brandon.

"I want to be the one to take Vaelaros' life," she said. Her voice was flat and dead.

"I will hand you the knife myself, sister-at-arms," Brandon said. "I swear it by the old gods."

The new moon hung in the sky, a mere sliver of light amidst the vast darkness, as Jon and his comrades approached Vaelaros' mansion silently by the river. The only sound was the gentle lap of water against the sides of their boats. Shadows melded with the inky night, shrouding the world in an impenetrable cloak of darkness.

Jon's body was still in pain from his wounds, but he pushed it to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the task at hand. He glanced over at the other boat, where Brandon, Kell, Veryll, and two others from Kell's pack were situated. They were all clad in nondescript cloaks, their armor made of leather to minimize any noise. There were no insignias of the Company of the Rose to be seen. This mission was a quiet endeavor that required utmost secrecy.

In Jon's boat, he was joined by Azenet, Merregon, She-Bear, and Asher. As they neared the mansion, Jon could see the silhouette of the beautiful structure against the night sky. The river bank around the steps which rose from the waters of the canal to the bronze doors with the two faces was lined with reeds, providing them with the perfect cover to disembark and approach the mansion unnoticed. Two guards stood watch by the bronze doors. Jon saw Veryll ready his bow from the other boat and fire two shots in quick succession. Both men dropped, arrows protruding from their throats.

They pulled their boats onto the bank, the soft mud squelching beneath their boots. Jon felt his heart pounding in his chest, a mixture of adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins. The reality of what they were about to do hit him with full force. They were not just fighting a battle; they were on a mission to assassinate a lord.

The group moved silently, their bodies merging with the shadows as they made their way towards the mansion. The estate was surrounded by a high stone wall, but Brandon had already scouted the location and found a section of the wall that was low enough for them to climb over.

They reached the wall and with ropes and hooks, they scaled it, their movements swift and silent. Once they were inside, they split into two groups. Brandon, Kell, Veryll, and the two others from Kell's pack would infiltrate the mansion from the south side, where they currently were, while Jon, Azenet, Merregon, She-Bear, and Asher would circle around the wall to the north side and find a way in.

Jon had not seen the garden before. It was filled with exotic plants and trees, their leaves rustling in the gentle night breeze. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers, though it did not entirely mask the scent of the canal. They moved stealthily, avoiding the guards that patrolled the estate. Jon stepped lightly, looking about at every turn for Vaelaros' men.

They reached the back of the mansion and found a servant's entrance to the central house that was unguarded. Merregon picked the lock, and they slipped inside, the darkness of the corridor enveloping them.

They made their way through the corridors, their ears straining for any sounds that would indicate the presence of guards or servants. When they reached the main hall, Jon could hear the muffled sounds of voices. Jon's heart skipped a beat. They were so close. They reached a staircase that led to the upper floors, where Lord Vaelaros' chambers were located. The stairs creaked under their weight, and Jon held his breath, fearing that the sound would give them away.

As they reached the top of the stairs, they heard the sound of voices growing louder. He was so close now. Jon could feel the anticipation building in his chest, a mixture of fear and excitement. They were about to face Lord Vaelaros, the man responsible for the deaths of their comrades.

"Just ahead," Merregon whispered. "We are near. Do you recognize this part of the manse, Jon?"

Jon shook his head, but then strained to hear the voices.

"-tomorrow. It will be done in a matter of minutes."

"But what makes you think you will have the votes?"

"I would not take this step had I not secured the votes," scoffed the first voice again. Jon recognized Vaelaros' voice. "The glassmakers' guild and the Golden Bank have pledged their support. Even if the Iron Bank breaks for Lord Trastamar, I will win the election."

"It is him," Jon hissed back to Merregon.

A door creaked open, and a guard stepped into the hallway. He was a large man, his armor clinking with every step. Jon's breath caught in his throat as the guard turned in their direction. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, and then She-Bear stepped out of the shadows, her dagger gleaming in the dim light. In one swift, fluid motion, she slit the guard's throat. His body crumpled to the floor, but Jon and Asher caught him first, laying him down gently. blood pooling around him.

"Now?" Jon whispered.

"Now," Asher confirmed. Jon swung the door open, and they stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn back to reveal the night sky. A luxurious bed stood in the center of the room, and sitting at a desk was Lord Vaelaros, his back to them, speaking to another finely dressed man.

The merchant lord turned around, his eyes widening in shock as he saw the intruders in his chamber. "Who are you?" he demanded, rising from his chair.

Jon stepped forward, his sword drawn. "We are the Company of the Rose," he said, his voice steady. He pulled down his cloak and revealed his face. He saw the flicker of recognition spark with fear in Vaelaros' eyes. "And we are here for vengeance."

The moment the door to Lord Vaelaros' chambers swung open, the world erupted into chaos. A clamor broke out from the hall across the room, and the double doors flung open to reveal more guards rushing in, weapons drawn and faces set in grim determination. But they were not alone.

Brandon and his team burst in from a balcony, somehow having scaled onto it, their blades gleaming in the dim light. They clashed with the guards in a flurry of steel and fury, the air filled with the sounds of grating metal, shouts, and the thud of bodies hitting the floor. Jon and the rest of them joined the fray.

In the chaos, Jon's eyes locked with Lord Vaelaros'. The merchant lord's face twisted with fear and anger as he realized he was cornered. The other man who had been with him had since been gutted, She-Bear's sword buried deep in his stomach as he cried and bled out on the floor of Vaelaros' room. Turning on his heel after seeing his co-conspirator's fate, Vaelaros fled the room, his robes billowing out behind him as he made for the door that led to the tower.

Jon's instincts kicked in, and he took off after him, his sword still drawn. Azenet was at his side in an instant.

They raced up the winding staircase, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The torches that lined the walls cast flickering shadows that danced in Jon's peripheral vision. He could hear Vaelaros' footsteps ahead of them, growing more desperate with each step.

As they reached the top of the tower, they burst out onto the balcony to find Vaelaros backed against the railing, his face pale with fear. The wind whipped around them, sending his robes fluttering around his ankles.

"What was in the chest, Vaelaros?" Jon demanded, his voice steady despite the adrenaline that pumped through his veins. "Was it worth trying to kill us for?"

Vaelaros' eyes darted around, looking for any possible escape, but there was none. He was trapped. His shoulders slumped in defeat, and he let out a shaky breath. 

"You… you truly did not know?” he said, his once silky voice trembling with fear. “I was certain… my man said that he saw the chest opened…”

“Because it fell when we were ambushed, not because we intended to betray our word. I am not an oathbreaker like you,” Jon retorted.

Vaelaros’ eyes widened. “Then there is no harm done. Please...I beg you...I will give you anything you want. Depart now, join your company, and all will be forgotten. We will put this regrettable incident aside, the Company and I…”

With that, he reached into the folds of his robes and pulled out a small wrapped package. He held it out towards Jon, his hand trembling.

"A token of my good intent, Lord Snow. This… it is a lump of finished Valyrian steel," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "A master smith can rework it into a weapon like no other. It is yours... just let me live."

Azenet had been silent as the grave until now. She still said nothing, but she stepped past Jon and stalked towards Vaelaros. She snatched the package from Vaelaros' hand. She unwrapped it to reveal a small ingot of dark grey metal with the characteristic ripples of Valyrian steel. Jon knew it was real instantaneously. He had seen Ice too many times to not.

”Is it real?” she asked.

Jon was a little surprised that Azenet would ask that. He had expected her to reject Vaelaros’ offering and slit his throat here and now, but she seemed to consider it in earnest. Still, he nodded yes. “My father’s sword is Valyrian steel. The blade ripples in the same way,” Jon said.

Azenet nodded. She turned to Jon, the metal glinting in her hand, and offered it back to him. “Take it, Snow. It is yours.”

”Azenet-“ Jon began.

”What was it you called your attempt to murder us, Lord Vaelaros?” Azenet said, turning to the cowering merchant prince. “A regrettable incident? My sister died in your incident. How do you plan to make it up to me?”

Vaelaros’ eyes widened in panic as he realize she had not yet escaped his predicament. “A-anything, my good lady,” he said. “Jewels and silks, perfumes and oils!”

Jon wanted to laugh. Azenet was no silk and perfume girl.

”What of vengeance?” Azenet said quietly. It was silent atop the tower then, save for the soft whistles of the wind. Lord Vaelaros whimpered, and Jon felt disgust rise up in him.

“Please… I can give you anything you desire…”

"But you cannot give me my sister back, can you? This is for Tausret," Azenet said softly, her voice filled with pain and anger.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and charged at Vaelaros. The merchant lord's eyes widened in terror as Azenet tackled him, sending them both tumbling over the railing.

Jon rushed forward, but he was too late. All he could do was watch as Azenet and Vaelaros disappeared over the edge, their bodies falling into the darkness below. Then he heard a sickening thump. A moment of silence hung in the air as Jon leaned over the railing, peering into the abyss below. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The fall was five stories long and seemed to stretch on forever in the darkness of the courtyard below.

And then, from the shadows below, a figure emerged, climbing back up the side of the tower. She moved impossibly quick - and Jon knew it was a she, for Azenet’s silhouette was unmistakable, even in the dim light. Relief and disbelief washed over Jon as he reached down to help her over the railing.

“How…?” Jon began, but Azenet cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“I landed on him. Broke my fall, broke his neck,” she said, her voice steady but her face pale. “A better end than a coward like him deserved."

Jon was at a loss for words. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked at Azenet, at the haunted look in her eyes, he knew that some wounds would never fully heal. The loss of Tausret weighed as heavy on her as the loss of Robb, were it to ever happen, would weigh on him. He did not doubt he would carry it forever.

The sounds of the battle from below brought Jon back to the present. He could hear the clash of swords, the shouts of men, and the groans of the wounded. Brandon and the others were still fighting. They had to go back and help them.

“Come on,” he said, putting an arm around Azenet’s shoulders. “Let’s finish this.”

They met up with the company before dawn. By the time they left the city, the smoke was visible from sea and from the city walls. The Manse of Vaelaros of the great house of Vaelaros was in fire, and the noble name come to a dead end of his own making.

In the end, they had lost only two in the raid. Merregon, the vivacious Tyroshi who was one of Brandon's serjeants, had died, taken in the back by a knife from one of Vaelaros' guardsmen. Jon mourned him, having come to call him a friend. The other was one of the men who had come with Kell. They took both bodies with them, leaving behind dozens of dead guards and members of Lord Vaelaros' household behind them, as well as a burning manse. Brandon also took a stack of papers from Vaelaros' desk. Before they left the city through the canals, Brandon stopped at a different manse, leaving the papers with a man who answered the door. Jon asked him about it when they found the company.

"Evidence for the Sealord," Brandon said tersely. "And to clear our names."

Their camp was near a river - a flowing stream, really - and before dawn could break, Jon took his waterskin. A faint pink hue began to color the night sky at the edge of the horizon, signaling the coming of the morning. For now, though, the moon and stars were still visible in the sky.

Jon had not realized it, but it was the first time in a long time he had seen actual vegetation. Braavos was not a green city by any means, though the rich - like Vaelaros - had gardens in their manses. He filled his waterskin by the stream, before realizing he was not alone. There was no noise. The night was silent, except for the gentle sound of the water flowing down the river, but he felt her presence anyway.

Azenet came and sat beside Jon by the bank, her eyes fixed on the sky. Jon put his waterskin on his belt and sat next to her on the grass.

For a while, they sat in silence, watching the sky turn from pink to orange as the sun slowly rose.

"You have siblings?" Azenet asked abruptly. "Sisters?"

Jon nodded, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "Two sisters," he replied. "Sansa and Arya. And three brothers, Robb, Bran, and Rickon."

Azenet's honey-colored eyes flickered over to him briefly before returning to the sky. "Do you miss them?"

"Every day," Jon said, his voice low.

"I know the feeling," Azenet said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "But you could still one day return to your siblings, Jon. I will not see Tausret until the end of my days, whenever the Mother Rhoyne calls me back to her shores."

Jon turned to look at her, noticing the pain etched into her features. "I am sorry about Tausret. I never had the chance to tell you. I... I should not have left the Silver Seashell that night. Perhaps..."

Azenet shook her head, tears starting to well up in her eyes. "What difference would it have made?" she said, her voice choked with emotion. "It feels like an ill-advised jape. Every moment of every day, I expect her to appear from around the corner, laughing at my misery - as if this was one of her little tricks. She always delighted in irritating me. What I would not give for her to irritate me some more." Azenet let out a broken laugh. "Forgive me. I do not mean to be so-"

"There is nothing to forgive," Jon said, squeezing her shoulder.

"I hoped to die with that whoreson when I tackled him on the tower roof," Azenet confessed.

"I am glad you didn't," said Jon.

Azenet looked at him, her eyes truly holding his for more than a fleeting second for the first time that morning. There was sadness there, but also a spark of determination that Jon had come to admire in her. She was a fighter, in every sense of the word.

"I am too," Azenet said softly, leaning into him. Jon was surprised at how quickly she melded to his side, but he did not shrink away from the touch. "I have come to realize that revenge is not enough. It will never bring her back. But I can honor her with my life." She peered over at the water, which moved slowly enough for her to see her reflection in it. "It hurts to see her face look back at me. My face. Our face."

Jon nodded, feeling the weight of her words. He could only imagine. All his siblings were hearty and hale when he had left them. He thought of them now, and prayed to the old gods that they were still so.

"We should return to camp," Azenet said softly. Jon nodded in agreement and got up to follow her. Her tent came before his, but it was not far away. After Tausret's death, another person had been elected Captain. Asher told him before the attack on Vaelaros' manse that Azenet had elected to join Brandon's pack rather than stay on as lieutenant to the new captain. Her tent was with the rest of their pack.

As they walked towards her tent, Azenet took Jon's hand in hers. For a moment, he thought to pull away, unsure of what it meant. But the warmth of her hand and the gentle pressure of her fingers made him realize that she was seeking comfort.

"Thank you," she said, her eyes meeting his. "You are a good man... maid or not." Her lips curled into a smile that disappeared almost as soon as it came, like a summer snow, and then she disappeared inside her tent. Jon turned away with a sigh, looking to the horizon once more.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn had barely touched the horizon when Asher roused Jon from a restless sleep, his hand shaking him awake. Jon groaned and rolled over, blinking against the pale light that filtered into his tent.

"Arise, fair lady. It’s time to pack up. We leave within the hour," Asher grunted, and disappeared before Jon could summon the energy to respond.

Jon sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His muscles were stiff and sore from the exertions of two nights ago. He had slept for nearly a full day. Every movement seemed to take an enormous effort, and he was starved. Jon pulled out his waterskin and splashed his face, which jolted him awake. He forced himself to his feet, dressed in his clothes, donned his leather armor and his cloak, and began to pack his belongings, rolling up his bedroll and stuffing it into his pack along with his spare clothes and other possessions. The tent itself was the last to come down, and he folded it carefully before strapping it to the top of his pack.

By the time he emerged from his tent, the camp was a hive of activity, with his comrades packing up their belongings and dismantling their tents. The sun had now risen, casting a warm golden light over the campsite. The stream sparkled in the light, the blue waters contrasting sharply with the green of the grassy bank.

Brandon’s pack assembled in a loose circle ahead of the rest of the Company, and Brandon himself stood in the center, his arms crossed over his chest. When the pack was finally assembled, Brandon stepped forward, his boots crunching on the grass. He cleared his throat and began to speak.

“The Company of the Rose is marching south from Braavos,” he said, his voice carrying clearly over the camp. “We will follow the coastline until we reach Pentos. I know the roads are rough and we must pass through mountain passes and harsh country, but it is the only way. The entire company is moving south, and we have been chosen to lead the vanguard. You understand this place of honor and responsibility?"

The response was such a loud roar that its pride rang in Jon's ears for the rest of the morning.

"Good. I expect each and every one of you to steel yourselves up and ready for the march. Serjeants, assemble your squadrons. Those of Merregon's squadron - report to Asher in the front. Veryll in the middle, and She-Bear's men at our rear. Now get moving. We have a long way to go.”

With that, he turned and strode off towards his tent. But before he could reach it, he paused and looked back over his shoulder, his gaze meeting Azenet’s.

“Azenet, a moment.”

Azenet glanced back at Jon. Her eyes seemed wide with surprise. She turned and then followed Brandon to his tent, and the two of them disappeared inside. Jon watched them go, curious about what was happening. A few minutes later, Azenet emerged from the tent, her face strangely uplifted. She caught Jon’s eye and smiled at him.

“Brandon has asked me to become one of his serjeants,” she said. “I accepted his offer.”

“You deserve it. I think Merregon would be pleased that it is you who will succeed him," Jon said. "He was my teacher at swordplay, and I considered him a friend. You are as good any successor Brandon might have chosen.”

Azenet’s eyes were brighter than they had been, and she seemed to have put the immediate pain of Tausret’s death behind her, if only for a moment. Jon was happy for her, but he could not shake the feeling of unease that settled in his stomach. At that moment, his belly chose to rumble, causing Azenet to laugh.

"I should see you fed before we march, else you might drop of exhaustion,” said Azenet. “Gods know you slept for near the whole day.” She looked him over. “You were wounded after that ambush in the city. Were you hurt again in the raid?”

“Not beyond the usual assortment of bruises and scratches,” Jon said. “But I confess the thought of marching many leagues is not a pleasant one.”

Azenet beckoned him to follow as she strode past. “You’ll feel up to the task after eating.”

She began to guide him towards where the cooks were busy packing their supplies, and eventually found him a bowl of cold porridge with cut pears on top - an orchard had been found and out to good use near the camp - and then they began their march, near as soon as he had finished eating. Azenet took her place in the front of the pack, joined by Asher and Brandon. Jon marched in the first rank, pleased to at least be with close friends.

Despite his journey from Winterfell to White Harbor, and from there by ship to Braavos, Jon realized he had yet to see so much of the wide world. The coast of Essos here in the north was beautiful country, and cold, though perhaps not as cold as the North. There were snow capped mountains here that blocked Braavos by land from the other Free Cities. Small wonder it was, then, that the Valyrian Freehold had never found the escaped slaves that steered their ships north and founded Braavos in the hidden lagoon. 

The mountains here were called the Hills of Norvos. At least, that was what Maester Luwin had called them when Robb, Jon, and Theon were at lessons. Jon wanted to laugh - ‘hills,’ Luwin said. They rose high, jagged peaks against the sky.

The terrain was anything but easy. The path was rugged and steep, rocky outcroppings and fallen trees making their journey grueling. Jon found himself breathing heavily, his pack heavy on his shoulders. Swordplay was something in he had an advantage over many of his comrades, but this was endurance, which had never been a part of his training in Winterfell. Perhaps it should have been. He trudged along, his eyes fixed ahead as he pushed himself to keep up with the others. Brandon, Asher, and Azenet seemed to handle their own, and he felt a surge of anger and shame for not being able to keep up as well.

A sudden gust of wind caught him off guard, nearly knocking him off his feet. Jon stumbled, regaining his balance at the last second and glancing around in surprise. The wind had picked up considerably, whipping at his hair and clothes.

That first night, when they made camp on a ridge that overlooked their hilly pass and the trail that led along the coast, Jon collapsed into his roll, exhausted and worn. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath and feeling the sweat begin to cool on his skin. It was then that he heard the sound of footsteps approaching, and he sat up. His tent flap rustled, and Azenet stepped in. A gust of shivering wind followed in after her. She wore her black cloak tightly around her body, for it was cold up here where they had camped in the mountains.

"May I?" Azenet asked.

Jon laughed. "I would not dare refuse my commanding serjeant." He patted next to him and continued to unpack.

You did well today," she said, sitting down next to him. When Jon gave her a puzzled look, she waved at him. "I'm not so foolish as to not notice how you fared during that march. It not an easy journey, but you kept up with the rest of us - and that is commendable. I have seen plenty fail. This is your first march, surely."

Jon smiled faintly, still too tired to feel proud. "I never imagined it would be this difficult," he said. "I don't think I've ever been so tired in my life. Back in Winterfell, we had horses for longer travel."

"That is because, bastard-born or not," Azenet said with a sly smile, "you are still a noble." Somehow, that though struck Jon like a tumbling boulder, and he felt a surge of sympathy for the footmen and peasants levied into warfare, condemned to long marches before ignominious deaths.

"I never quite thought of it that way," Jon murmured.

"If it consoles you any, you will become hardened to it."

They sat there in silence for a few moments, both lost in their own thoughts. Jon could not help but think about what lay ahead, and to what lay behind. He had not pictured this life as life of a sellsword - but then again, he was learning a great deal about the world outside of the life he had in Winterfell. Already he had killed and lost friends in battle. Would Father think him a man now, or would he think him a dishonorable lout? What would Robb say?

"Have you been to Pentos before?" Jon asked, if only to clear his thoughts of home.

"Never." Azenet shrugged. "I have seen Norvos and Qohor and Lorath, but never Pentos. Asher and Brandon have been there before."

"I know," Jon said. "When we first took the contract with Vaelaros, he mentioned that Brandon and Asher had made the acquaintance of some Pentoshi magister. But neither of them will talk about it."

Azenet nodded. "Then it is not my place to say." She stared at Jon, and though he was aware of it, he did not meet her eyes, choosing to busy himself with the final steps of unpacking. "What troubles you?" she asked.

Jon sighed, unfurling his bedroll fully. "I... I was thinking of my lord father and my brother Robb."

"You mentioned him. And your sisters, and your other brothers," Azenet said. "Do you wonder if they miss you?"

"Aye," Jon muttered, finally stealing a glance back at her. "I never sent a letter. I do not know why, now that I think on it. I suppose it is not so easy as sending a raven."

"We do not have your ravens and... what is it you call their tenders?"

"Maesters," Jon said, chuckling. "They're more than just raven-tenders. Maesters are... scholars, healers, messengers, historians, and a host of other things asides. Sometimes they are termed 'knights of the mind' in Westeros. Near every landed house has one."

Azenet's brow furrowed. "How do you get one?"

"They all train in Oldtown, down in the Reach. Their great center of learning - the Citadel - is there. Maester Luwin - the maester at Winterfell - he told me that they spend years forging their links, becoming experts in chosen subjects beyond their proficiency in running a lord's household and helping in managing his affairs. You must request one from the Citadel. Luwin was the only maester I ever knew, though there was surely another before him in Winterfell, and one before him."

"That does not sound so bad a life, though more bookish than I prefer," Azenet said.

"Well, they are supposed to be celibate," Jon added. "And they abandon their family names and oaths to their houses, if they come from highborn backgrounds."

Azenet laughed. "You buried the worst parts. Celibacy... well, I suppose men tend to think poorly when they think with their other head." Jon blushed at her words, which made her laugh harder. "Well, I suppose having one would be beneficial. But in Pentos, as in most of the Free Cities, surely you will be able to send a message through their post."

Jon frowned. "Post?"

"Each city has a postal house," Azenet said. "They ensure transport of messages across Essos, and to Westeros. The postal house contracts with different companies of deliverymen, who send riders across land, or with select merchants, whose cogs ply trade between here and the Narrow Sea. In Tausret's company, we had a man - Martyn - whose wife and son lived somewhere called Maidenpool. He used to send them letters - at least, until he died."

Jon smiled. "Then I am more eager to get to Pentos," he said. "I feel guilt to think of how my father and siblings must have felt after I left. A letter... it is not truly enough, but it will have to do. I hope they can find it in their hearts to forgive me."

"For your sake, I hope they do," Azenet said. "But if not, you should not blame yourself. The ghosts of the past will swallow you whole if you let them." There was a stretch of silence between them as Jon considered her words, wondering if the thought of Tausret and whatever family they had in the old, ruined homeland of the Rhoynar. "Get some rest, soldier," she said, yawning. "We have a long day tomorrow." She flashed him a quick smile and left his tent. Jon watched her go, and then laid back down on his roll, pulling his cloak tightly around himself as he drifted off to sleep.

The night was cold, which reminded him of home, and Jon shivered as he slept. His dreams were disturbed and vague, a jumble of images that made little sense. At one point he dreamed he was fighting a giant, the creature's fists smashing against his shield with a horrible crunching sound. Another time he was in Winterfell, training with Robb, but they were suddenly surrounded by horrid, dead men that clawed at them with their cold putrefying fingers.

The morning came too soon, and Jon woke up feeling more tired than ever before. His muscles protested as he stretched and got ready to continue the march. He ate a bowl of porridge and drank some water, but it helped little.

Despite his struggles, Jon pushed forward, determined to keep up with the others. The landscape around him was breathtakingly beautiful, with snow-capped peaks rising above them and the glittering sea stretching out on his right, to the west. But he hardly had time to admire it as he stumbled along the uneven path, his boots slipping on loose rocks and his pack weighing him down.

A couple of days passed like this, a blur of exhaustion and pain punctuated by short breaks for food and rest. Their pack led the way for the rest of the company, leading the rest by almost a day's worth of travel. The company did not have many horses, but there were enough to send messengers and keep the Lord Commander appraised of their path through the mountains. Jon resolved to buy a horse as soon as his purse was fat enough. He felt like he was slowly losing his mind, his dreams drifting off into strange incoherent places whenever he closed his eyes for even a second. One night, he dreamed of a woman. She was dressed in black and red, of middling height, with a slim waist and dark hair that fell to her back. Jon called out to her as if he knew her, but he could not remember the name when he woke. She turned to him, but then the dream ended, and daylight visited him once more.

On the third day they came across a hamlet nestled in a valley at the base of a distant mountain peak. It consisted of many dozen huts and hovels arranged around a central meeting place. Smoke rose from several chimneys, and Jon could hear faint laughter and singing coming from the meeting place. Nearby, several tents were pitched up in garish colors.

"A traveling mummer's troupe," murmured Asher, who had marched next to Jon that morning. "I had not thought to see one out here. Not much coin in small villages like this. They must be on their way to Braavos."

Jon would not have called this village particularly small. It seemed at least as large as the winter town was in the summer season outside Winterfell. As they approached the village, Jon could see the inhabitants, dressed in furs and roughspun wool, staring at them with wary curiosity. A few men armed with spears and bows stood at the entrance to the village, blocking their path. Jon tensed, hand going to his sword hilt instinctively, but Azenet stepped forward calmly, raising her empty hands in a gesture of peace.

"We mean no harm," she said in her distinctively accented Bastard Valyrian. "Our company is on our way to Pentos." She whistled at one of their men and directed him to bring Brandon to the front.

The men looked at each other for a moment, then lowered their weapons and stepped aside.

As they entered the village, Jon noted that the inhabitants were mostly women and children, with a few older men. The younger men were likely out hunting or fishing. They stared at Jon and his companions curiously but made no move to approach them. A few children ran up to them, curious about their strange clothing and equipment, but were soon shooed away by their mothers.

"Stay with the horses," Azenet instructed two men before walking away with the rest of the company towards the meeting place.

As they walked, Jon could not help but feel a sense of unease radiating from the villagers. He had heard tales of sellsword companies attacking and pillaging small villages in their path, especially those that refused to pay tribute or let them pass through freely. The meeting place was a large open clearing with a bonfire burning in the center. Villagers sat on benches around the fire, eating and drinking, though many stopped to gawk at the Company of the Rose. A group of musicians played a lively tune on flutes and drums, and others danced around the fire, but that, too, came to a halt.

Brandon, who by now had caught up to them, Asher, and the serjeants spoke with the village leaders, negotiating for their company to camp nearby. Jon watched from a distance, his eyes darting around the crowd. The negotiations concluded successfully, and Jon began to wander around the village. The tension in the air had dissipated somewhat, and the villagers now mingled again freely, though there were still suspicious glances thrown their way. His feet pulled him in the direction of the bright colored tents, where the mummer's troupe was encamped.

As he approached the tents, Jon could hear the sound of laughter and music. Drawing closer, he saw that a group of performers were rehearsing a play. They moved around the small stage with practiced ease, their costumes vibrant and ornate. He stood there for a moment, watching as the troupe performed a scene in which two star-crossed lovers declared their love for each other.

As they broke from their performance, several of the players approached him, looking him up and down curiously.

"Looking for someone, stranger?" one of the men asked, grinning.

Jon cleared his throat. "No, just passing through. I was drawn by your performance." He shuffled away from the performers, wandering about the tents further. That was when he saw it - a small white wolf in a cage, with red eyes that seemed to glow bright. It was an odd sight, for wolves were not known to be captive creatures.

Jon approached the cage, his curiosity piqued. The wolf remained still, its eyes locked onto him as he neared the cage. Jon hesitated, unsure if the wolf was dangerous. He had heard stories of direwolves in the North, massive creatures that could tear a man apart with ease. But this wolf was small, hardly larger than a pup. As he came closer to the cage, he saw that the wolf was not alone. There were other exotic animals in other cages, surrounded by a makeshift pen in the dirt. But it was the wolf that captivated him. He found himself lost in those ruby eyes, and reached out to touch the bars of the cage. He only stopped short as a voice spoke up behind him.

"Careful there, boy. That pup may only be a few moons old, but he will take your hand off if you're not careful."

Jon turned to see an old man standing nearby, leaning on a cane for support. He wore tattered robes, dyed in bright colors that seemed to clash with each other.

"What is this place?" Jon asked, gesturing to the cages.

The old man chuckled before responding. "Why, it is part of our mummer's show. The finest in all of Essos. We are Poliziano's Troupe, and I am Poliziano. We travel from city to city, performing for lords and ladies and making fools of ourselves for coin. We have plays, acrobatics, and animals." The old man smiled faintly. "We perform tonight - our last stop before we push onwards to Braavos. You should come and watch - and bring as many of your fellow soldiers with you as you can."

Jon hesitated for a moment before nodding his assent. "I will," he said. He pointed to the wolf. "Where did you get him?" Jon leaned in closer. 

The old man chuckled. "Aye, he is large for his age - only four moons old, if you believe it. A rare creature, that one. A white wolf with red eyes. A merchant in Pentos sold him to us. He said he bought it from a poacher in the North. He said it was a direwolf, from beyond the Wall of Westeros. Have you heard of the Wall, and the wild land north of it? They say savages and giants and beasts of myth and legend live among those frozen woods. Having seen this one, I believe it."

Jon's eyes widened in surprise. "A direwolf? There haven’t been direwolves south of the Wall in… gods know how long."

"You know of the Wall, then?" the old man said. "You sound quite familiar with it."

"I have only seen it once," Jon confessed. "I am from the North of Westeros. Once I thought I might man that Wall, but it was not the path the gods had in store for me, I suppose."

The old man nodded. "We thought we could make a pretty penny off of him, but he is dangerous. Damn near bit off the trainer’s fingers every time.” The old man turned to him. "Say, Northman... would you like to keep him?"

Jon gawked at him. "Are you offering to sell him?"

"He makes me no money, and he is dangerous besides," Poliziano said. "I doubt I will be able to recoup what I paid the merchant, but... as it is now, the wolf is no use to me."

Jon was dumbfounded, and unsure of what to say. "I... My purse is in my pack," Jon said. "I would have to-"

"No matter," Poliziano said with a slick smile. "Come back after the show tonight, and we shall settle upon a price."

Jon did not reply, knowing there was little he could do about it now. He could not shake the sight of the red eyed pup, however. He felt as though some tether, some rope had been established between them, even as he walked away from the cage and headed back towards their camp area.

As they sat around their campfire that evening, eating their dinner meal, Jon brought up the pup to Asher.

"The mummer’s troupe has a direwolf pup?” Asher said incredulously. “Where in the seven hells did they get a direwolf pup? There are no direwolves south of the Wall, not even in the Wolfswood. Are you sure the old man wasn’t exaggerating?” 

"I am sure," Jon said firmly. "But more than that..." he trailed off, unsure of how to say it. “As I stared in the pup’s eyes, it was as if I was staring back at myself. Even now I can feel it.”

Asher chuckled uncertainly, but Azenet was dead serious. “Does your family have magic?”

When Asher laughed again in disbelief, she shot him a sharp look. “In old Rhoyne, the great princes had magic in their blood. It is something known to all people.”

Jon shook his head. “If there was any magic in House Stark, it is long gone. It’s said that my ancestor Brandon the Builder raised the Wall, and Old Nan used to tell tales of skinchangers and wargs among the First Men, but those were just tall tales,” Jon scoffed, remembering the old woman fondly. “She just wanted to scare me and Robb when we were boys.”

She-Bear, who had been silent until now, simply shrugged. “Witches are real, that much I know. But witches are evil. You a witch, Jon?”

"Witches may be evil," Asher agreed, "but skinchangers aren't witches. Witches practice strange arts and necromancy. Skinchangers, wargs - this is the magic of the old gods, and the Children of the Forest. If you believe the stories, anyway."

Jon shook his head, but Azenet was up in a flash, grabbing Jon’s hand and leading him away. “Where are we going?” he cried.

”To the camp. I want to see this pup for myself,” she said. She turned back and smiled at him. “Besides, won’t you take me to the mummer’s show?”

The village was relatively empty, as its residents ambled into the mummer’s camp for their entertainment for the night. Jon realized that it was rare for the inhabitants of the place to get a chance at entertainment like this, since troupes stuck to the large cities. Their only chance would be in situations like this, where the troupes were on their way in between the Free Cities. Many villagers came with their families - mothers and fathers with gaggles of children - but others were young men and women, of courting age, arm in arm - just as he and Azenet were now. The thought made him blush. He shot her a glance, but she was simply taking in the sights.

Different attractions were under different tents. Jugglers, sword swallowers, fire eaters, and acrobats performed their shows for coin. Under a large tent, there was a play put on by the mummers. The coin fee was nominal, so he and Azenet filed into the tent and took their seats.

The show was for an hour, and Jon did not recognize the story. It was about a man called Azor Ahai. It began in Yi Ti, where the murder of the Bloodstone Emperor caused a great darkness to spread from the shadow lands. A great warrior rose to fight this darkness - the play’s hero, Azor Ahai. Azor Ahai needed to forge a hero's sword, so he labored for thirty days and thirty nights at the sacred fires of a temple until it was done. However, when he went to temper it in water, the sword broke.

Azor Ahai took fifty days and fifty nights to make another sword better than the first. To temper it this time, he captured a lion and drove the sword into its heart, but once more the steel shattered. The third time, Azor Ahai worked for a hundred days and nights until it was finished. This time, he called for his wife, Nissa, and asked her to bare her breast. He drove his sword into her living heart, her soul combining with the steel of the sword, creating what the narrator called the Red Sword of Heroes. The crowd wept bitterly at this scene, and Jon had to give it to the members of Poliziano's troupe - they were good at their roles. The mummer playing Azor Ahai then called it Lightbringer. He lit it aflame, drawing gasps from the crowd.

Azenet’s hand had somehow found his during the play. When Azor killed his wife, her grip tightened around his. Jon ran his thumb comfortingly over her knuckles, which caused her to almost let go. But then her eyes met his, and then her hand slipped into his once more, her fingers intertwining with his. Azor Ahai led an army against the great evil and prevailed, but once his task was done, he was alone, and his wife was dead. Purposeless, Azor became a wanderer, and left for unknown lands, never to be seen again. The play was then done, the crowd cheering the mummers. Many in the crowd wept, for it was a sad tale, Jon thought in agreement. It was not too different from the Northern legend of the Last Hero of the First Men. Perhaps every culture had a similar tale.

He and Azenet left and went towards another tent. This was the animal show. An animal trainer was coaxing a mountain lion through flaming hoops, much to the crowd's amazement. However, Jon's mind was preoccupied with the direwolf pup. After the show, he led Azenet towards the back of the tent, where the cages were kept. The pup was still there, his red eyes looking out at them. Jon heard Azenet gasp beside him and turned to see that she had taken a step back from the cage.

"Magnificent," she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Come closer," Jon urged her softly, taking her hand once more, and leading her towards the cage. The pup sniffed at their hands as they reached through the bars to pet him. Azenet giggled, and Jon felt a warmth grow within him at her laughter.

Then Jon heard someone clear his throat behind them, and he turned. Poliziano had found them. He was dressed in finery now, and no longer using the cane to move. It was obvious that he was the troupe master now, and not a shabby old beggar in a fool's rags.

"Ah, I see you've come back for the pup," Poliziano said, grinning at them. "And you have brought a lady with you. Have you decided to buy him after all?"

"I will," Jon said, reaching into his coin purse and pulling out a handful of coins. "How much do you want for him?"

Poliziano's eyes glittered. "For a beauty like this, I will take ten gold dragons."

Jon's eyes widened - he had expected the man to say a smaller price. Ten gold dragons was enough to feed Jon for two months. The contract wage from Vaelaros had netted him more than enough to cover the price, but it was simply unreasonable. Still, Azenet cut in before he could say anything.

"Absurd. Ten gold dragons would buy you three prime bloodhounds. This is but a pup. How can we even be sure that he is a direwolf? Three gold dragons and five silver crowns."

Poliziano rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Six gold dragons and five silver crowns."

Azenet shook her head. "Five gold dragons, and that is final."

"Done," Poliziano said with a grin, and extended his hand for Azenet to shake. She did so slowly, and Poliziano pulled her hand closer to him, giving it a quick kiss. Azenet retracted her hand quickly and rested it on the pommel of her dagger, but Poliziano had already moved away to unlock the cage. To Jon's surprise, the pup did not move. His blood red eyes stayed fixated on Jon.

Jon opened the cage and picked him up, cradling the pup gently in his arms, as Azenet took five coins from Jon's purse and handed them over to Poliziano. The wolf looked up at Jon again with those ruby eyes, and he felt himself pulled into them. Suddenly, his vision shifted, as if someone pulled a lens over his eye. Colors disappeared and became more muted, but his senses sharpened. He could see himself. He could hear breathing, and whispering, and loud man-voices. He was hungry and he wanted to eat. His breath came in hot pants, and -

"Jon!"

There was a sudden rush and Jon jolted, his vision returning to normal. Azenet glanced at him, worry and... fear? Was that fear in her eyes, he wondered?

"What?" he said, his voice dazed. Poliziano was looking at him in terror, backing away before turning to hobble away as quick as possible. Jon watched him go and chuckled. "What has got him so afraid? Did you take back the five gold dragons?"

"Jon... something happened just now," Azenet said slowly. "You... do you not know?"

Jon shook his head, confused. "Know what?"

Azenet took a step back, eyeing him warily. "When you touched the pup, your eyes rolled back and you froze... as though something took hold of you."

Jon blinked in shock. "I... do not remember that happening. My vision shifted, aye, and for a moment it felt like I could hear and smell everything..."

Azenet's expression shifted, a small smirk gracing her features. "It seems your old nursemaid's tales of magic were not so far-fetched." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Whatever it was, it is not something everyone will take to. Be careful, Jon. Tell no one, before people begin to whisper of you as a witch... especially She-Bear. Her kind are not like us Rhoynar, for we see magic as something natural." 

Jon nodded, silently acknowledging her warning. He cradled the pup close to him once more and made his way out of the mummer's troupe with Azenet by his side. The night grew colder as they made their way back to their camp, the direwolf pup still nestled in Jon's arms. He could feel its warmth against him, its body trembling slightly with each step they took. Azenet kept a watchful eye on their surroundings as they walked, her hand never straying far from the hilt of her sword. He fetched some meat and milk and gave it to the pup when they got back to his tent.

As the pup ate, Jon felt a sense of responsibility wash over him. He knew innately in his heart that he would have to care for Ghost and train it to become his companion. Surely it was no easy task, raising a direwolf, but Jon knew he would do it - that he had to do it. He spent hours with the pup that night, playing and bonding with it until it finally fell asleep in his lap. To his delight, the pup seemed to be comfortable with Azenet, who stayed a little longer there. Before she left, they shared a look, and something passed between them.

They departed from the village the very next day, but the travel was no longer so wearisome for Jon, now that he had his wolf. There was a general alarm from his pack mates, and She-Bear complained. Even Asher looked at him strangely before laughing about Starks and their affinities for wolves. Jon was not sure he would be able to keep the pup, but Brandon put an end to that fear definitively.

"The direwolf is a symbol of House Stark, and Jon is my kin," Brandon said, his eyes fixated on the pup in Jon's arms, when the serjeants and Brandon convened to decide the pup's fate. Jon knew that Brandon felt something too. It surely had to do with their Stark blood - the direwolf sigil was not a coincidence, as Old Nan had always insisted. The next few days were a blur of training and getting to know the direwolf pup. Jon named him Ghost because of his white fur and ruby eyes, and because the pup was entirely silent.

Their travel no longer seemed so terrible to Jon, and weeks began to fly by as their march took them further and further south. They passed through the mountains - the Hills of Norvos - and the scenery began to shift, as did the weather. It grew warmer as they descended from the hills, and the climate and vegetation, which had been not so different from the North, now began to take on a warmer, more temperate flavor. Scrublands gave way to heaths, and then meadows and fields full of yellow and green-yellow grass and crops. The towns they passed through became larger, and the roads better. A moon after their stop in the small village with the mummer's troupe, they arrived at their destination.

"Look," Asher said, pointing. "The Sunrise Gate."

Aptly, they had arrived at sunrise too, marching through the night to ensure that no Dothraki khalasars prowled the lands outside Pentos. Brandon warned him that Pentos was a favored target of the Dothraki, for the Pentoshi would rather pay every ransom than give battle, even with their high, massive walls. Pentos had no standing army and could not contract with sellswords as a sovereign city due to their peace treaty after a defeat in war against Braavos, though individual citizens and magisters could hire and did hire companies to guard their palaces and treasures and escort their caravans. The Dothraki would plunder the outlying towns and fields, and take their tribute from the city, and then depart. The Company could ill afford to be caught unawares by a prowling khalasar, so their pack scouted ahead, as they had done so this entire march.

As they approached the Sunrise Gate, Jon felt a sense of awe at the grandeur of the city. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before. The canals of Braavos had given a different feeling to it; Pentos was a city proper. The streets were wide and bustling with activity, full of merchants hawking their wares and travelers from all over the known world. The architecture was foreign to him, with ornate domes and spires rising up towards the sky.

Their pack made their way through the gate and into the city proper after Brandon sent a rider back to the rest of the Company. Jon took in the sights and sounds around him, but this time, it was not so overwhelming. Jon felt it then - he had changed. He was not the same wide-eyed boy from Winterfell any longer.

As they walked deeper into the city, they eventually came upon a large market square. People who otherwise would have walked past Jon without another glance parted from him, some of them giving fearful glances to Ghost, small though he was. The scents of exotic spices and perfumes filled the air, mixed with the sounds of merchants calling out to potential customers. It was a vivid display of colors and smells that was different from Braavos. Brandon led them to an area with multiple inns, and one large insula. There was a sign near it indicating that it was for rent. Large households, traveling merchants, and free companies used such buildings to house their men - it was a common thing in Braavos, and here as well, it seemed. Their barracks in Braavos had been one such building. Brandon spoke to a few passerby, and then disappeared with the serjeants and Asher. When they came back, the Company had secured the building's use for two moons, but Brandon had a serious expression his face. Jon went to go speak with him, but he pulled Asher and Jon aside and bid them shut the door to his captain's quarters.

"What is it?" Jon said. Ghost ambled by his side. The pup had grown larger in the moon of travel from the village to Pentos, now the size of a small dog.

Brandon gave Asher a pointed look. "We have been invited to dinner tonight at a Pentoshi magister's manse, one that I have had dealings with before. He asked for me and Asher... and you as well, Jon. By name. It appears that knowledge of your identity is not so secret as you might have thought."

Jon's stomach fell. He felt guilt then, for not having sent any letters back home to Winterfell, but also dread. He was no one - how was it that his name was known to a Pentoshi magister he had never met before?

"What do you plan to do?" Jon asked.

"I don't know about you, cousin," Brandon said, with a sly chuckle. "But I am hungry for coin and good food, and this magister is no stranger to either. Let us feast and see what he has to say."

Chapter Text

The flurries of the last summer snows kissed Lord Eddard Stark's face and turned to water as they streamed down his skin. He blinked them away, and they fell like tears onto the frost-dusted grass below.

The northern sun, dull and cold, shined through the canopy of trees of the Wolfswood. It was silent and still save for the soft rustle of the pines above and the hum of the few birds that did not go south by now.

"Steady aim now, Theon," Robb murmured to his right. "It's a clean shot."

Theon let his arrow fly. It whistled through the air for the briefest moment before it sank into the deer's side. The creature whined as it keeled over.

Ned watched as the deer struggled, its blood seeping into the snow and staining it a deep crimson. He walked over to it and knelt down beside it, stroking its soft fur as it gasped for breath.

"It was a clean shot, my lord," Theon boasted as he stepped closer to admire their kill.

Jory and Ser Rodrik and some of the squires and pageboys rushed forward to retrieve the deer. Their stocks and larders were filled in anticipation of Robert's arrival, but his wife insisted that they needed yet more. She was right, of course. Any Stark knew that. They would feast the king and their stores would be emptied, but they could not survive if their larders were empty come winter. And winter was coming.

Their party made their way back to the castle. Ned rode at the forefront, his face grim. He could not shake the image of the dying deer from his mind. He did not balk at the sight of blood - never had, not human or animal - but now it caused a deep unease in him. He thought of Jon, laying out in the snow - pale, losing blood, dying.

Ned thought of a bed of blood and roses, and a promise.

As they approached Winterfell, Ned saw Catelyn waiting for them at the gates. His wife of seventeen years was as beautiful as ever. Though Ned could not honestly claim that he had loved her at first sight - for she had been promised to Brandon, as had everything that was now in Ned’s possession - but he loved her now. Her red hair glinted in the sunlight - red hair that she had given to all their children save Arya and Rickon, whose hair was brown. She smiled when she saw him and opened her arms wide to embrace him. He held her tightly, breathing in her scent of lavender and rosewater. He felt a sense of comfort and home wash over him, even as his thoughts lingered on Jon.

"Are you alright, my love?" Catelyn pulled back and looked at his face. "Something troubles you."

"I am simply tired," Ned lied, trying to put a reassuring smile on his face. "Age, my lady, is seeming to catch up with me."

"Well," Catelyn said, lowering her voice to a more intimate whisper. "You are not that old, lord husband." That earned a laugh from Ned. He patted Catelyn and took his leave, heading up to the walkway above the courtyard. The guards were going through their paces, and watching them train was something Ned took care to observe at least for a few minutes, every day. Ser Rodrik soon rejoined the men in the courtyard below, and was quick to bark at any lapses in form or concentration. Ned turned to leave, knowing his men were in capable hands, but the noise of footsteps on the wooden walkway behind him made him stop.

"My lord?" said Maester Luwin. The old maester wore an inscrutable expression across his face, and breathed heavily from the walk. He held a scroll in his hand, having no doubt crossed over here from the rookery. Over the years that Luwin had been in service to Winterfell, Ned thought he had learned to read the maester's face and expressions well enough. Luwin was not the secretive sort. But now his face appeared mystifyingly guarded.

"What is it, Maester Luwin?" Ned asked, feeling a chill run down his spine.

"My lord... a raven, from the port rookery at White Harbor. A message - from Essos, I presume. Else it would have come from a raven from Lord Manderly."

"From Essos?" Ned took the scroll that the Maester offered. "Where from?"

"The seal indicates that it was entrusted to the post in Pentos," Luwin said.

Ned glanced at the maester before breaking the seal of the letter. He unfurled it and breathed sharply.

"Luwin, please fetch Robb and my other children. Even if they are at lessons. I want to see them at once."

"Of course, my lord," Luwin said with a short bow. The old maester hesitated. Ned could hardly blame him. Surely the man wondered why Ned had reacted in such an abrupt manner.

"Jon," Ned breathed. That was answer enough for Luwin, who immediately departed, faster than Ned had ever seen him go.

Robb shepherded his other children and brought them to him. Bran's clothes were pristine. The boy rarely climbed anymore - at first of his own volition, but since Jon’s disappearance, Robb had never let Bran out of his sight. Arya's hair was mussed, and she had clearly not been at her needlepoint, judging by the glares Sansa shot her sister. Only Rickon was not present, as he was with his mother, and Ned did not think to concern Catelyn with this news - at least, not now.

"What is it, Father?" Robb glanced at him. His heir was growing up before his eyes. Robb was everything Ned could ask for in a son, and some more. He was dutiful, honorable, and clever. He excelled on the horse and with the lance, and Ned had begun to take note of his increasing command over the household of Winterfell. Men and women deferred to him, and command came easy to Robb. But he had been subdued over the last few months, ever since Jon disappeared.

The two boys had always been inseparable. Jon was half Robb's shadow - everywhere one went, so went the other. They may as well have been twins, save for their differing looks. Robb had taken after his mother, and though the structure of his features was of the Starks, his coloring was decidedly Tully.

But then again, Jon also took after his mother. Gods, to look upon that boy was a knife deep in Ned's heart, a feeling only relieved when he had the chance to go into the crypts of Winterfell and beg forgiveness from Lyanna's bones. He had not done so, not gathered the courage to face even the stone resemblance of his sister ever since he had lost her son. Jon was his nephew by blood, but Ned considered him no different from his own children. He loved that boy dearly. What he would not give to hear him call Ned 'father' once more.

"Have a seat, all of you," Ned commanded. His voice was shakier than he expected, and it sounded so even to his own voice. Sansa's eyes grew large and Robb's brow furrowed in concern. Arya's eyes were red. Gods, they were always red. His daughter, the one who most resembled Lyanna in spirit and appearance, missed Jon more than the rest of them, even more than Robb. Robb and Jon may have been twins in all but blood and appearance, but Arya and Jon were near one soul.

"Father?" Sansa asked. "Is everything alright? Does this have to do with the king?"

In a way, Ned thought darkly. But he shook his head. "No, sweetling. It has to do with your brother Jon."

Robb immediately shot up from his seat. "What? Father, what is it? Has he- is he-?"

"Don't you dare say it!" Arya shouted, half-screeching.

"Peace, children," Ned said, raising his voice. "Peace! I have received a letter from Pentos. It is written by Jon, in Jon's hand. I believe it to be true. Your brother is still alive. He asked me to read this aloud to all of you. Sit, Arya, Robb, please."

Arya practically jumped back into her seat, her face streaming with tears. Robb's jaw was set hard, like stone.

Taking a deep breath, Ned began to read. "Dear Father, Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon - to my family. I am sorry and I beg your forgiveness that it has taken me so long to write this message to you. I am sure that you all think the worst of me, or fear my death, for I left in the dead of night and I do not think you would have found any trace of me, or surely Arya would have come to drag me back to Winterfell by herself, by now." At this, Arya let out a cross between a hiccup, laugh, and a sob. Ned continued, "I am safe and hale, though exhausted. Surely you have discerned that this letter has come from Pentos, and that is where I am, for now. When I left Winterfell, I took a mare. Enclosed with the letter is a sum of dragons that I think should cover her value, for I had no way of returning her to you."

"I left and journeyed directly to White Harbor. From there I was able to board a ship heading to Braavos. I do not recall if you have ever been, Father, but it is a wonderous city. I saw the Titan in all its glory and sailed into the harbor. From there, I had the fortune to run into some of our fellow Northmen, in whose company I remain still. I met Lord Gregor Forrester's son, Asher, who is a member of the Company of the Rose. I met, additionally, a man claiming to be Brandon Stark, descendant of Artos the Implacable, through his son Benjen. I believe that Brandon is who he says he is, for he has all the honor and pride of House Stark. Brandon and Asher took me into their protection, and I joined the Company of the Rose." Ned's heart shattered a little at that. There was only one reason Jon would have run all the way to Braavos. It was Benjen and his own fault. Ned did not oppose Jon's service at the Wall - surely, the Wall held more honor than that of life in a sellsword company - but he wanted the boy to at least see what he was joining before he swore any vows. Jon had been as silent as the crypt when he returned from the Wall, and within a week he was gone.

"I do not blame the lad," Benjen had said, when Ned told him of what had happened. "I know the Wall is looked up on as a calling of honor in the North, but the sorry truth is that my order is a hive of rapers, thieves, scum, and the worst of the South. Aye, occasionally, we get good ones, from the stock of the First Men - there was that Royce boy, and a few others besides, and the Lord Commander himself, of course - but outside of those few, there are few of honor. Jon is not blind, brother. He saw that."

Ned recalled fully his brother's words. "I made a promise to his mother," Ned had replied then, exasperated and sinking into grief. "She would-"

"Aye, Lyanna would," Benjen said quietly. When Ned looked sharply up at him, Benjen simply shook his head. "Do not take me for a fool, Ned. I knew he was never yours. I thought, for a time, Brandon... but he looks little like Brandon. You know I loved Lyanna more than either of you. I was closer to her than you and Brandon were. He has all of her, and whatever else I see must surely be... Lyanna would have loved him, no matter what his father did to her."

"He didn't," Ned had mumbled, ever so softly. "She... she went with Rhaegar. Of her own will. She begged me to protect him. Said Robert would murder him if he ever found out, and I fear she was right. News must have already reached her of what happened to the imposter children the Martells had placed in the Red Keep, though at the time she thought it truly was Aegon and Rhaenys, for the real Elia had died too. She begged me to keep him safe, and I promised. Now I have failed."

"So he was never Jon Snow," Benjen had muttered. "Jon Waters."

"She named him Aemon," Ned had replied, and all the color had drained from Benjen's face then.

”Gods keep our nephew safe,” Benjen had whispered.

"Father?" Sansa's small voice shook him back to reality.

"I'm sorry, sweetling. I was remembering something... no matter." Ned cleared his throat and began to read the rest of the letter. "The Company has been an adventure in and of itself. I have completed several contracts. Brandon is my captain, and he has never asked dishonorable service of me. I have been paid well for my troubles, as it is, and I have people I call friends. I have lost some of them too. I have fought and bled." That part had shaken him when he read it for the first time. He did not wish for his sons to know war.

"We left Braavos a moon ago - on the third day of the seventh moon. There was some trouble after our final contract. We have just arrived in Pentos. Along the way, a friend convinced me that I should write to you. I felt shame the longer it took for me to pen this letter. I can only ask your forgiveness, though I do not deserve it," Ned continued.

"Please pass on my love to my brothers and sisters. I miss them all dearly. I miss home, and I miss the quiet calm of the godswood. I miss Arya and Bran and their incessant fighting. I miss Sansa in all her ladylike splendor. I miss Robb, and I wish I could be there to spar with him every day. But here... Father, I have earned every ounce of respect and coin I have been given. It is the strength of my back and the sweat on my brow that has brought me on the path I have forged, and that much I do not regret. I cannot live off your good graces for all my life. Perhaps at home in Winterfell, I might have been comfortable, but I will always be the Bastard of Winterfell in Westeros, and in the North. Here, I am Jon, and my name is what I will make of it," Ned choked.

"One day, I will return. I will bring all manner of gifts for you all - the finest silks for Sansa, an Essosi sun-steed for Arya, swords for Robb, Bran, and Rickon, and precious gems for Lady Catelyn. I will bring back tales of adventure and my own deeds. With love, your son and brother - Jon." Jon's writing was shaky, spilling a few drops of ink onto the paper there.

"In postscript, Jon wrote that he found a direwolf - sold by a poacher - in Essos. He bought the wolf and cares for it now," Ned finished, folding the letter.

"Just like our direwolves?" Robb asked. "Gods, that is some unlikely fortune. Still... I'm glad to know that some piece of the North is with him. Father, we have to go get him and bring him home."

Ned looked at Robb with a mix of sadness and resignation. He had anticipated this request, but he knew that it was impossible to grant it. "Robb, you know as well as I do that it is not that simple. The King is on his way and though his party moves slowly, we will not have time to travel to Pentos and return before his arrival. Even if we did have the time... do you think your brother would return with us?"

"Why wouldn't he?" Arya cried. "You're his father, you're his liege lord - you can make him do whatever you want to."

To his surprise, it was Sansa who spoke up in Jon's defense. "Arya, it's not that simple. Jon made a choice to leave and make his own way. He doesn't sound like he wants to come back." Sansa sniffed, and Ned saw her wipe away a quick tear. Sansa and Jon had only been close when Sansa was young, and since she began to mature, a distance had formed between them. Some of that was the work of the Seven Pointed Star, some of it was Cat's own doing, but now he saw that there was still love there, even if buried.

"Sansa is right," Ned said. "Jon has made a choice. From what his letter conveys, he is a man now - a warrior in his own right, even if it is as a sellsword. While I do not agree with that path of life, I cannot force him away from it, if it is his choice. I do not have it in my heart to force him, even if I want him here, safe and sound." Ned folded the letter and put it away. "There will come a day where I will no longer be able to protect any of you. Gods be good, it will not be for a while yet, but just as Jon is learning to fend for himself, so must you all. Sansa, Arya - both of you will join other great houses, become ladies of great castles. You will run your households and counsel your lord husbands. Robb will inherit Winterfell and every weighty responsibility that I hold. Gods be good, one day I will have castles to give to Bran and Rickon, too, and they will be lords. You all will have to make your own choices and live with the consequences. I cannot save Jon from those, nor does he want me to."

Ned looked out across the courtyard, watching the goings-on of his keep. The realization that one day, he would no longer be able to protect his children, weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had always wanted nothing but the best for them, but now he was forced to acknowledge in his heart that one day, sooner or later, they would have to find their own way, even as he told them the same for Jon. But for all his trueborn, he could give them an advantage - he could make sure Sansa and Arya married into good houses, with good husbands who would treat them with honor befitting a lady. Robb would inherit Winterfell, a mighty seat, and be a lord paramount in his own right. For Bran and Rickon, there were a myriad empty or broken keeps in the North, ones that could be given or restored... why did he not think to do that for Jon? Why did he not give Jon that assurance, too?

The pit in his stomach yawned wider. For too long he had been blind. He was the Lord of Winterfell. It may have been uncommon, but no one would question if he raised his bastard son to his own house and his own lordship. Perhaps it could not be some great castle, in order to appease Catelyn and his father-in-law, but it would still be a home and a name. He could have given Jon that.

The children began to filter out, sensing an unspoken dismissal. When Robb rose from his seat across from Ned, however, Ned raised a hand. "Stay, Robb."

"Father?"

Ned blinked. Perhaps he had been remiss in keeping the secret to himself for so long. There were only three men in the world yet living that knew, of that he was sure - Howland and Benjen would never tell. The only one he could trust to add to that number for now was Robb, and Robb - if he was to be the future Lord of Winterfell - needed to know. It could impact him and his own children one day. If Jon went to the Wall, perhaps everyone would have been protected. But not going to the Wall was Jon's right, and he was in the wind now. If the secret ever got out...

No, Ned decided. Now was not the right time to tell the lad. "Do you think I ever treated Jon unfairly? Any different from you?" he asked, instead.

Robb seemed taken aback. "No, Father. I..."

"What is it, lad?”

"I know that most bastards don't have the fortune of growing up inside their lord father's castle. Even fewer have the fortune of receiving the same education and training as a lord's son. In that respect, you treated Jon no different from me. I loved him for it and I loved you for it," Robb said, honestly. His voice was filled with trepidation at first, but as he spoke, it grew more firm. "But Father, I always knew who my mother was. Mother was there to care for me, to teach me, to guide me, and to comfort me in ways that only mothers can. I understand that you cannot be that for him, but you never even told him who his mother was. I could see it on his face every day. I know you rode off to war with Robert Baratheon days after marrying mother. Whoever Jon's mother was, I don't hold it against you. But you should have told him. Perhaps he might still be here."

And that was that. It always came back to Lyanna - the one secret Ned wanted to tell Jon more than anything else, but knew he could not. Ned's reply was slow and measured. "Robb, there are some things that a man regrets until his dying breath. Not telling Jon who his mother was is one of those things for me. But..."

"But what?" Robb said. "Who could it be and how terrible must her fate have been that you did not want Jon to know?" Robb asked. "She's dead, isn't she?"

Ned nodded, his eyes lowered. "Aye, son. She's dead."

"Did you love her?"

Ned looked up sharply. There was a strange expression on Robb's face - a mixture of curiosity and sadness. Ned hesitated for a moment, but the words tumbled out of their own accord. "Yes, Robb. I did love her. More than words can say."

Robb's eyes widened in surprise. "More than Mother?"

Ned sighed. "In a different way. I made Jon's mother a promise that I would always keep him safe. I have failed in that regard." He looked at his heir for a long time. "When I am close to my last days, when you are to inherit Winterfell, I will tell you something - something you need to know. It may endanger our entire house. If I should pass before telling you - if some manner of plague or shiver takes me away - you must write to Lord Howland Reed. He is my good friend, and a loyal servant of Winterfell. He will pass on the knowledge to you. I pray to all the gods that you will be the last Lord of Winterfell to have to worry about that secret." He nodded at his son, and Robb rose and left, his face utterly bewildered. Ned was grateful that Robb did not question him beyond that.

Ned rose and wandered through the castle. There were tasks that needed to be seen to, but his feet led him of their own accord down into the crypts. He wandered through the halls of his forefathers until he came upon Lyanna's statue.

"I am sorry, sweet sister," Ned sighed, gazing at the stone statue. It was a poor likeness of her - not because of any fault of the sculptor, but because no stone could ever capture the liveliness of Lyanna Stark. He placed a winter rose into her outstretched palm.

His sister's bones said nothing in response. Lyanna would have screamed her head off at him, and deservedly so. Instead, Ned allowed himself to weep in silence. 

Chapter Text

In the late afternoon, Jon, Brandon, and Asher found themselves outside of the magister's palatial manse. It was a sprawling stone structure, its edifice dotted with high, arched windows and adorned with richly carved statues and fountains.

The gateway house was a square arch with a decorative dome at the top. Jon admired the opulent turquoise tiling that adorned the dome as he passed through the gateway. The arches were vaulted as he passed through the intricately carved wooden doors, held open by richly garbed servants.

According to Brandon, Magister Illyrio Mopatis was known throughout the Free Cities for his love of grandeur, and Brandon's words proved true. Jon recalled the opulence of Lord Vaelaros' residence in Braavos. The Braavosi merchant lord's house had occupied an entire small isle of the city. Pentos did not boast the same canals, but the airy openness of the garden they walked through seemed like a mimicry of paradise to Jon. Soft grass was intersected with stone walkways and fountains. There was water everywhere - pools of varying lengths symmetrically dotted the garden. Though there were guards and servants bustling to and fro, the garden remained strangely quiet in a way that reminded Jon of the godswood in Winterfell, even though the two locales looked nothing alike. If there was one major flaw of the garden, however, it was the hubris on display. For there were statues littered all over the garden of a man Jon could only assume was the illustrious Illyrio Mopatis. He was depicted in stone almost like a flamboyant bravo of Braavos, with flair and swagger and a rapier at his side.

"He does not look like that now, if he ever did," Asher whispered to Jon with a large grin plastered over his face.

The residence was teeming with attendants, guests, and guards, all appearing to have a purpose or intention of their own. From the moment they were ushered inside, Jon was aware of the sly but attentive glances and whispers that surrounded them. They did not cut extremely impressive figures, at least compared to the Magister's guests and household, though Brandon and Asher were dressed in the finest clothes they had - a rich grey doublet for Brandon, and a dark brown one for Asher. Jon had nothing resembling finery. His only clothes were a handful of roughspun tunics, a well-worn but quality leather jerkin, and some trousers and shoes. It was warmer here in Pentos than it had been during the march, and his wool clothes were ill fitted to this clime. Nothing he had at any rate, befitted a trip to a Magister's house, so Jon had found a waistcoat of brown cotton to go over dark grey tunic and trousers of a similar, airy material. He purchased a leather belt and new boots as well, though he paid more than he would have liked. It was cheaper than the price he had paid for Ghost.

He thought of the pup and the strange incident that had occurred - or that Azenet said had occurred - when he first cradled Ghost. Nothing like that had ever happened again, for the remainder of the march to Pentos. He began to think that he had simply lost focus and attention, and Azenet had thought it to be something worse than it truly was.

Jon wished Azenet came, but she declined Brandon's offer. She wanted to spend more time with her squadron, to get to know her men better. Jon did not begrudge her that, though during the march, she had proven an effective leader of men and an able replacement for Merregon.

Unsurprisingly, they were asked to leave their weapons with some guards prior to dinner. Brandon handed over a falchion, and Asher a sword. Jon handed over his own blade, but he knew that his comrades had not handed over their true weapons. Brandon had a sword of fine make, and Asher, though trained with swords, preferred axes in battle and had a prized axe of weirwood and iron that he had brough with him from the North. Jon had a knife strapped to his leg, hidden by the rise of his boot, and he assumed Brandon and Asher had taken similar precautions. After what had happened with Vaelaros, he did not think he could be too careful. It was only as they were being led by a pretty serving girl to the dinner hall that Jon realized that Azenet may have been wary of attending another noble prelate's invitation for the same reason, after what happened to her sister.

"I hope we aren't entangling ourselves in something like what happened with-"

"Shh," Asher murmured. "I agree with you, but let us not speak of it now."

"Nothing whispered goes unheard in halls like these," Brandon said.

Dinner was served in a grand hall, but on a surprisingly intimate round table. The Magister sat across from them, resplendent in his fine robes. Illyrio Mopatis, upon first glance, was a man who did not believe in half-measures, it seemed. He was a giant of a man, both in stature and girth. The statues had not lied about his height, but the rest of him was another matter. His body, large and round, was swathed in layers of vibrant, expensive silks and furs that could have rivaled a Pentoshi wedding procession. His attire was a melange of colors; purples, blues, and greens were interspersed with splashes of gold. Encrusted with gems and sequins, they glinted in the light as he moved, drawing attention to his immense presence.

His face was as memorable as his form. A heavy double chin hung beneath a small, smiling mouth. His cheeks were rosy, the result of good food and good wine, Jon guessed. Yet, despite the jovial exterior, Illyrio's pale, calculating eyes missed nothing. Set deep beneath thick, bushy eyebrows, they sparkled with shrewd intelligence and a hint of mischief. That had not been conveyed in the statues either. Jon was immediately wary of the Magister. Though he looked nothing like the hawkish Vaelaros had, they had the same calculating glint in their eye.

"Ah!" the Magister exclaimed upon seeing them. "Captain Brandon Stark. I am pleased that you were able to make it!"

"I could not refuse an invitation from an esteemed man as yourself, Magister," Brandon said politely, casting a sidelong glance at Jon. "May I introduce you to my companions? Though he may not need introduction, here with me is Lord Asher of House Forrester, son of Lord Gregor Forrester of Ironrath." Brandon gestured next to Jon. "And this... this is Jon Snow, natural son of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

The way Illyrio Mopatis looked at Jon made his hair stand up on end. "Ah," the Magister said. "It seems that the Company of the Rose has finally chosen to return to its Northern roots - such a surfeit of Northern blood now! I had heard of some of your exploits in Braavos, and it is not so often that I have the pleasure of the company of lords of the First Men. I do remember Lord Asher, of course - the both of you did me a great favor, a great one indeed."

"It was our pleasure," Asher said. "We are grateful for your invitation. The road from Braavos was hard."

"But of course," Illyrio said, gesturing to the table. He then turned his attention back to Jon. "Master Snow, welcome to my home. I am Magister Illyrio Mopatis. Unlike your great and illustrious house, the name Mopatis may be unknown to you. I made my fortune in trade, but before that I was a wandering bravo - not unlike yourself."

"I did not know," Jon said. "I had the pleasure of dueling some of Braavos' finest in the streets. It was a humbling experience, to say the least. A man of your stature must have been a fearsome opponent." Only too late did he realize that he may have offended the Magister, by implying -

"Well, it is one thing to be a bravo who rules the street, and another to be a man who accomplishes great things." Illyrio smiled at him knowingly, which made Jon's blood run cold. The Magister surely knew about what happened with Vaelaros in Braavos. Of course he did - how could he not. They had set a merchant lord's manse alight and fled Braavos under cover of darkness.

Jon felt a twinge of uneasiness as Illyrio's knowing smile lingered. He wasn't sure if the Magister was impressed or simply humoring him. He decided it was best to change the subject. "Your home is quite impressive," Jon said, looking around at the lavish decor and ornate furnishings. "What is it you trade in now? I wonder if I have come across some of your goods in Winterfell."

"I would not be surprised if you have," the Magister said. "I have multiple enterprises, but cheeses and wines are some of my major products - I have ships cross to White Harbor often enough, so I am certain some of my cheeses have found their way to Lord Stark's larder. My ships often ply their trade to Braavos as well, so I was astounded when they brought back a curious tale about the recent goings-on in that city."

"Oh? And what might that be?" Brandon asked, with a small smile playing upon his lips.

"It seems as though Lord Tercios Vaelaros, a certain magnate of Braavos with connections to the mining guilds, was killed in a raid on his manse. The Sealord proclaimed publicly that whoever did the deed did Braavos a service, for evidence was uncovered that Vaelaros was plotting against the Sealord and some voting keyholders in a bid to win the next election.

Brandon raised an eyebrow at Illyrio's words. "Is that so? Unfortunately, I haven't the foggiest. We left Braavos before such news could find its way to us." Jon struggled to keep his mouth from twitching up at Brandon's deadpan tone.

Illyrio chuckled. "Of course not, my dear friend. It was merely a curiosity that my traders brought back with them. Of course, I had associates dig deeper into it. I am sure you would be curious to know what they uncovered."

Brandon leaned forward, clearly intrigued. "Pray tell, what did they discover?" he asked.

"Well," Illyrio began, leaning back in his plush armchair. The poor object groaned with the enormous shift in weight. "It seems that Vaelaros was not acting alone in his plot. He had allies within the Iron Bank - or so he thought. In truth, Lord Antaryon was aware of Vaelaros' intention and the danger he posed. Through proxies, he convinced Vaelaros of a need to deposit some incriminating information in the Iron Bank with the assistance of sellswords." Jon's blood froze in his veins. The Magister knew.

"Information?" Asher said. He was a better liar than Jon expected.

"Nothing against the Sealord - such information, if it exists, would not be easy to uncover. But secrets of his associates - important associates, bodyguards, and the like - those are not so difficult to come by," explained Illyrio. "And such information could prove quite useful if one intended to seize power."

Jon's mind raced, trying to piece together what the implications of this new information were. If Sealord Antaryon was aware of Vaelaros' plot, then who sent the attackers during their transport?

"Perhaps Antaryon intended to recover the information in transit. I have heard that, when that failed, he poisoned Vaelaros against the company that contracted the delivery. Is this starting to ring any bells?" Magister Illyrio said with a wide smile.

Brandon chuckled, and somehow the tension in the air dissipated. Jon felt pressure lift from his shoulders - the game was up, and there was little use in pretending otherwise.

"I admit it sounds familiar," Brandon said. "Vaelaros sent men after us in the streets. He killed some of our best. I could not let that go unanswered."

Illyrio stroked his chin. "How did you come by the job?"

"It was one of our contacts with the Iron Bank," Brandon answered.

"I am almost certain that you and the Company were simply pawns in Antaryon's game," Illyrio said. "The man has been Sealord for the better part of three decades, and such a feat is not accomplished by good fortune alone. Your contact at the Iron Bank was either fully aware that you were being lured into a plot, or they themselves were fooled. I would err to guess the former, as there are few who can pull wool over the eyes of the Iron Bank."

"Not even the Sealord?" Jon asked.

Illyrio chuckled and fixed his gaze on Jon. Those beady eyes lingered on him in a way that made him want to squirm in his seat. "No," Illyrio said. "Not even the Sealord. Power does not always equate to knowledge, though the opposite is quite true. Your King Robert, for example, likely knows little and less of the secrets of his own court. Powerful men often do not have time for details, though Ferrego Antaryon is better than most at this. That is why they have their councils and advisors - to add knowledge."

Brandon smiled and popped a grape into his mouth. "And which are you, Magister? The powerful man or the knowledgeable one?"

Illyrio laughed a full belly laugh and wagged a finger towards Brandon. "This is why I've always enjoyed your company, Captain Stark. I think of myself as a little bit of both, but in truth I am neither." That much, Jon knew from a few moments of having known this man, was a lie. "I am but a humble purveyor of cheeses and wines."

"Humble in Essos has a different definition than it does in the North," Asher said. "Your home would put all keeps in the North but perhaps Winterfell to shame."

"You are most kind to say so, Lord Asher," Illyrio responded. "But your Westerosi keeps need to be ready for wildling attacks. There is little threat of that occurring here, allowing me to focus on more... frivolous choices of design."

"I was told that the Dothraki often raid Pentos for tribute," Jon remarked. "But your city has high, strong walls."

"Indeed they do - but not the city of Pentos proper, Master Snow. I fear the Dothraki are more liable to raze a few villages and towns on the outskirts of Pentos' territories and holdings. They will put our wheat fields and vineyards to the torch, and kill hundreds of smallfolk. If we are fortunate, their demands will come before they have razed more than one village. We pay them handsomely, and they do not return for some time, but a Khal who has not had a great slaughter in a while will raze and raze before his demand comes."

Jon nodded. "If you will pardon my curiosity, Magister - how did you come to know my cousin Brandon?"

Illyrio laughed. "That is a long tale, one which will take far too long to recount. Suffice it to say that something precious was stolen from me and that Captain Stark and Lord Forrester here assisted with its recovery."

As they continued to eat, Magister Illyrio asked them all personal questions, though Jon felt as though the majority of his focus was aimed at him. The food was excellent, rich and delicious and foreign to his tongue, but he could hardly enjoy it with the barrage of questions about his life in Winterfell. The magister seemed amused at the fact that Jon did not hate his family. he asked about which gods Jon held to, to which Jon mentioned only that the old gods made sense to him, never the Seven. Illyrio also asked about Jon's relationship with Robb, and Robb's own character.

Tired of the magister's onslaught, Jon eventually asked a question of his own. "Magister, do you know of any metalsmiths capable of reworking Valyrian steel?"

This seemed to catch Illyrio by surprise. "Why yes. The list is not long, but there is a master in Pentos who can do it. Of course, as you likely know, creating new Valyrian steel is all but impossible, but if you have some finished steel..." the magister laughed and his eyes twinkled with mischief. "You have some, don't you, Master Snow?"

Jon nodded and smiled darkly. "It was a parting gift from Lord Vaelaros."

"And a lordly gift it was," Illyrio clucked. "I will send a servant to the master smith in the morning and direct him to take your order. The price will not be cheap, and he will have to evaluate the metal, I presume, but you may be able to have a Valyrian sword of your own. It would make you a mighty warrior... or a capable defender." Illyrio then turned to Brandon. "Of course, that brings me to the issue I find myself mired in. I had dearly hoped you would be able to offer the solution, for I have come to trust in the quality of your services, Captain Stark."

"I hoped we might discuss business," Brandon nodded. "I do not know if the Company intends to stay in Pentos indefinitely, but if it is a contract I can complete in time, I am more than willing to hear it out."

"I have... guests that I am hosting," Illyrio said delicately. "They are here in Pentos for now - but they will not remain here indefinitely. In a fortnight's time, they must be escorted to another manse I have, by the sea, some leagues south of here. They will attend a meeting there, and then they must be escorted again - this time to another manse of mine outside the town of Folgorica. Do you know it?"

"Only from a map," Brandon said. "Some fifty leagues to the east of here."

"Sixty is closer to the truth," Illyrio said.

Brandon was silent for a moment. "Forgive me, Magister. After the incident with Lord Vaelaros, I am hesitant to discuss a contract that, to me, seems as though you yourself are capable of fulfilling with your own men. Vaelaros' transport contract was not to different in that regard. Even then, I wondered why he chose to contract the job out to a free company, and now I am again wondering the same."

Illyrio gestured with his hands, palms up and open. "You are only wise to ask, Captain Stark. The truth is, my guests may be in constant danger while they are here. And though I trust my men, I am inclined to believe that a company come from Braavos is less likely to have ill intentions towards them then the people who I know are in fact plotting against them. But mostly, Captain Stark, I think it would benefit these guests to have your protection in particular."

Jon blinked. Who were these guests of the magister?

Brandon nodded slowly. "How many men will you need?"

"Twenty or more of your best," Illyrio said. "Of course, as captain of your entire unit, I understand that you cannot always be there to oversee this particular contract, which is why I would request that Lord Asher, as your second... and perhaps young Master Snow, as your kin, may be assigned to it to see it through."

"And the contract price?"

"Fifteen-hundred dragons," Illyrio said smoothly.

Brandon shook his head. "Magister, this contract seems to me to be nearly for a moon. I would-"

"You misunderstand me, my dear captain. Fifteen-hundred dragons - a day."

Jon's fork froze on its way to his mouth. Asher actually dropped his spoon into his bowl, with some soup still dripping from his whiskers.

"Forty-five thousand dragons in total?" Brandon said, voice clearly shaken.

"Or more, should there be a delay," the magister said, picking at his robe quite nonchalantly. Jon's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Forty-five thousand gold dragons would be enough to erect a lordly manor and village on an estate somewhere in the North. It was the prize purse of a joust winner in some great tourney. He sat there in stunned silence, trying to process the magnitude of the offer. Forty-five thousand gold dragons was an unfathomable amount of money, and the idea of having that much wealth within his grasp was dizzying. Of course, it would be divided - a third of the purse would go to the Company coffers - something the Lord Commander would relish, no doubt - but the remaining thirty thousand gold dragons, to be divided among the packmates who fulfilled the contract... that was nearly fifteen-hundred gold dragons a head! Jon's head spun from the number.

"To provide additional assurances," continued Magister Illyrio, "I will enter the contract, once agreed upon, into the Pentos Exchange clearinghouse for safekeeping." That part went right over Jon's head, though Brandon nodded readily at it.

"Two thousand a day," he countered.

"Eighteen-hundred," said the magister with a satisfied smile. Jon knew he had roped Brandon in.

"There will be no lasting threat to the lives of my men, after this contract is completed?" Brandon asked.

"I would not think so," Illyrio said. "My guests have been guarded by others before, and the protectors who have not died in the line of the contract have gone on to live their lives - as long as the lives of sellswords can be, at any rate. Rest assured you will face no repercussions for me for a job well done. I am not Tercios Vaelaros."

Brandon mulled it over for a moment. Jon was distrustful, but just like his captain, he could not deny that the contract would be a massive one. They would be well fed and well equipped for more than a year.

"Done." Brandon said. A servant came up with papers. The magister did not even read them - he had likely already perused the language and ensured the language was to his liking. Brandon read the contract in quiet for fifteen minutes. Neither Jon nor Asher touched their food, any sign of hunger gone, but the Magister continued eating as if they were not even there. After some time, Brandon signed as well. The magister clapped his hands, and two servants and four guardsmen appeared.

"Have this deposited at the Exchange tonight," the Magister said. "I want a certificate of confirmation tomorrow."

"At once, Excellency," said one of the servants, taking the papers from the magister before he bowed and left, flanked by the guards.

"Now, may I know the identities of your guests?" Brandon asked.

Illyrio paused. "They are four exiles - of whom you have heard, no doubt. Their family was once quite prominent in Westeros, but has suffered a considerable fall from grace. Rest assured that the four of them are quite innocent and did not have any hand in the matter."

Brandon's nostrils flared. "There is only one family I can think of whom you might refer. You are fortunate, Magister, that I am an open-minded man. You do realize that this contract may require us to bear arms against the Crown of Westeros?"

Illyrio waved his hand dismissively. "I do not concern myself with the politics of Westeros, and the Crown has not targeted these guests in quite some time because the Crown thinks they are currently in Volantis, squirreled away into some hiding hole by the Red Priests. Regardless, Robert Baratheon can hardly be seen sending real forces into Essos, lest he wish to risk war with all the might of the Free Cities. Should anything happen, it is more likely to be by proxy. My only concern is that my guests are protected. And I trust that, with your skills, expertise, and professionalism, they will be well guarded. I am fully aware of your name, Captain Stark, but I think you and I both know you are a man of Essos now, more than anything else."

"And him?" Brandon said, tilting his head in Jon's direction. Jon was taken aback. What about me? he thought.

"Master Snow, tell me - do you blame a child for the actions of his parents?" Magister Illyrio said. All the mirth and mischief was gone from his voice and eyes, and now they bored into Jon's directly. "Do you think the sins of a father belong to the sons and daughters of his line?"

Jon shook his head slowly. "I do not. There is no justice in it."

"No justice in it," echoed the magister. "No justice in the malignment of a child who did not ask to be born, yet your Seven Kingdoms punish natural-born children of love, force, or simple irresponsibility, for it every day. No justice in the murder of a mother and wife whose husband made foolish choices."

Brandon looked at Jon with an inscrutable expression on his face. "When will we meet the charges?" Brandon asked.

"Tonight," the Magister said. Four figures filed into the dining room, followed by attendants and servants. Jon knew almost immediately who they were. Three of them had silver hair, and all four had violet eyes.

"May I present their graces, Aegon of the House Targaryen, Sixth of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm; his sister, Crown Princess Rhaenys of Dragonstone, and his royal uncle and aunt, Prince Viserys, the Prince of Summerhall, and Princess Daenerys, the Stormborn," Illyrio said.

A horrid clarity crashed into Jon in that moment, and the magister's words fell clearly into place. Brandon stood and bowed, followed by Asher. It was a short bow. It was only after a pointed glare from his two friends that Jon realized his courtesies and bowed. Part of him cried out in resistance. How could he bow to these beggar kings? His father had fought to overthrow this dynasty, and their father and brother had stolen and raped his aunt Lyanna. Jon grit his teeth, but the magister's words rang out in his ears. He would do this as a courtesy, for Illyrio was right - they were not to blame for the Mad King - but he would not acknowledge them as his rulers.

Illyrio watched them with a satisfied smile, his eyes flicking between the Northerners and the Targaryens. Jon could see that the Magister relished the moment; it was a small display of his power, his ability to summon and introduce two seemingly opposing factions and enjoy the uneasy tension that filled the room. Jon forced a calm facade, but inside, he felt his nerves sing. He felt as though they had traipsed into the den of the dragon, and now found themselves surrounded by its brood.

Each Targaryen possessed a striking beauty that was both enchanting and disconcerting. Aegon, the man Illyrio had proclaimed as King, had a mix of soft, handsome features, though with a strong jawline. His violet eyes intense and commanding, and he had rosy, full cheeks, and skin that glowed with a healthy tan. His mouth looked as though he was accustomed to an easy smile. Aegon stood tall and regal, his every gesture holding a certain authority, reminding those present of his royal lineage, but he was of an age with Jon. His hair was silver and cropped short on the sides, but longer on the top. He was dressed in a black and purple doublet with a black shoulder cape. Viserys was a contrast to his nephew. His features were sharp, high and cruel, and his eyes held a certain wildness, a fiery glint that echoed tales of Targaryen madness. He was smaller, leaner than his nephew, a string pulled taut. His smile did not reach his eyes, and it was more a grimace than anything else. He was pale, almost to a point of sickliness. His eyes were more lilac than violet, and his silver hair was longer, falling straight down to his shoulders, but he was dressed the same as his nephew. Daenerys was the youngest of them, yet she held herself with grace. She was diminutive in stature, wearing flowing robes that matched the lavender of her eyes - she was a small thing, but captivating, her silver-gold hair falling in waves past her shoulders, her large, innocent violet eyes filled with a curious warmth.

There was only one among them who did not possess the same silver hair, and yet she took Jon's breath away. Rhaenys Targaryen was strikingly beautiful with long, flowing black hair that cascaded down her back like a dark waterfall. Her olive skin was as smooth as unblemished silk, her eyes a piercing orchid color, and she moved with the grace of a swan. Her dress was made of the finest black fabric, and hugged her curves in all the right places, accentuating her slender waist and wide hips and drawing attention to her figure.

"I have heard tales of your exploits from the Magister, Captain Brandon Stark," Aegon said. His voice was rich, and he spoke with no hint of an accent, Jon realized belatedly, even though he must have spent his whole life in exile in Essos. "I confess that I was not aware that House Stark's seed had spread so far and wide in the world. Nor that of the North, in general."

"If I may introduce my companions, Your Grace," Brandon said. He gestured to Asher first. "This is Asher Forrester, the second-born son of Lord Gregor Forrester of Ironrath in the North."

"Ah," Viserys said. His voice was sharp, bordering on shrill. The eldest Targaryen gazed at Asher with an expression that seemed to be fixed into permanent mockery. "And where, exactly, is Ironrath?"

"Eighty leagues north of Winterfell and thirty east of Deepwood Motte, Your Grace," Asher responded coolly, though Jon knew him well enough by now to hear the offense in his voice. "My house is sworn to the Glovers of the Wolfswood, where our castle is. Our house is known for-"

"Exceptional quality ironwood," Daenerys interjected. Her voice was soft, gentle, and sweet. Jon thought it honeyed to his ears, and in a pleasant way, not a cloying one. Though Daenerys was older, she reminded him of Sansa in some painful ways, in her gentleness. Jon's eyes flickered over to her in surprise. "Their lands contain much of the ironwoods of the North, and the only other place you can find them - in much more limited numbers - is at Yronwood in Dorne," she said with a soft smile towards Princess Rhaenys. "Tell me, my lord - does Maester Wendell write true when he says that burned ironwood emits a blue flame?"

"I..." Asher seemed taken aback by the depths of Daenerys' Targaryen's knowledge. Jon knew that she was correct, but was nearly as stunned as Asher too. "Yes, Your Grace. And you'll never have a bow shoot as true as a bow made of ironwood, save maybe one of weirwood."

"Weirwood?" said Daenerys Targaryen. "I should very much like to see a weirwood tree. I have heard all about them. I did not know that the Northerners cut down weirwoods. Are they not gods to your people?"

"Barbaric tree worship," scoffed Viserys.

Jon's temper flared. "The weirwoods with faces are sacred to us. Those have been marked by the Children of the Forest to remind us of the Old Gods. But weirwoods without the faces are prized for their wood. An ironwood bow would be a lordly gift, but a weirwood bow would be a kingly one."

"My other companion, Your Graces," Brandon said, his smile a tad more forced as he glanced at Jon with an indecipherable look in his eyes, "is Jon Snow." There was a pregnant pause, as if Brandon weighed the wisdom of disclosing Jon's identity, but it had already been disclosed to the Magister and would not stay a secret for long. "The natural son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell."
Nearly in sync, every Targaryen's head turned to look at him. Their gazes seemed to pierce into his skin, but Jon stared back, willing himself to remain unfazed.

"I suppose you have an explanation for bringing the son of the Usurper's dog before us, Magister," Viserys growled, his eyes not leaving Jon's face. "Bastard born or not."

"A baseborn son of House Stark in Essos, a sellsword with a company of repute," Aegon mused, his eyes twinkling. He glanced at Illyrio once. Something unspoken passed between the Targaryen and the Magister, though Jon could not place whatever it was. Aegon seemed to look at Jon with the greatest amount of curiosity, though even his eyes were hardened. Jon supposed their animosity was only predictable - his father had been one of the handful of men primarily responsible for the downfall of their house. It was only fair that they not blame him for his dislike of them, too, for their father and brother Rhaegar Targaryen had kidnapped and raped his aunt Lyanna, and their father and grandfather the Mad King had murdered his grandfather Rickard and uncle Brandon.

"I came to Essos to make my own name," Jon said. "I am not here as a representative of Winterfell or House Stark. I am not a Stark."

"And yet Eddard Stark is your father," Viserys retorted.

"And Catelyn Stark is not my mother - and therefore, I am not a Stark," Jon responded with gritted teeth. "I do not ask your forgiveness, Your Graces, for a slight I was not alive to commit. Nor do I hold you responsible for a slight that I was not alive to take offense for. Whatever the enmity between House Targaryen and House Stark, I have not raised my sword against you, nor you against me. As it stands, I have given my word to your host that I will guard you with my life - and I will honor that."

"Well said," murmured Aegon. "I hope your sword arm is as talented as your tongue. I assume you will not be our only guard. Have you fought before?"

"He has," Brandon said. "The lad has a natural talent for the blade, and I will spare an entire squadron for your protection."

"Jon can fight," Asher agreed, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "Took down three men who cornered him in a Braavosi alley by himself."

"Is that so?" Rhaenys said. She looked over Jon from head to toe with a cold glint in her eye. "Perhaps I will take the opportunity to test my spear against you, Jon Snow."

"Captain Brandon - I and my uncle would welcome the chance to speak with you in greater detail about this contract," Aegon said. Brandon dipped his head and followed behind the two Targaryens, along with the Magister. That left Jon and Asher alone in the room with Rhaenys and Daenerys, though guards were posted at near every door. Rhaenys observed both of them, though Jon could feel the shift in her gaze whenever her eyes left Asher and turned to him. Asher was but a curiosity to her - Jon was... well, no friend, of that he was sure. Then she turned, and without a word, left.

Daenerys watched her go. "My niece is..." she said, trailing off. "She is slow to trust, I fear."

"Not unwise," Asher commented. "If we were less honorable men, she would be in the right, Princess. But Jon said it true - we have given our word to guard your life with ours."

"For coin," Daenerys interjected. That brought a smile to Jon's lips. Though she seemed the most delicate out of all of them, there was steel in her, too, and she was not foolish."For coin," Asher agreed. "And though I would prefer to be alive to spend it, I have near thrown my life away for worse things. It would be much easier to do it for a person - and a princess of surpassing loveliness, even more so." That brought a blush to Daenerys' pale cheeks, and Jon wanted to laugh. He had not imagined Asher as such a charmer.

"Would you both accompany me for a walk in the magister's garden? We have been relegated to the more secure quarters of his manse for most of today, in anticipation of your meeting, and I would very much like to walk in the free air - and to talk about your homeland," Daenerys said.

"I would be more than happy to," Asher said. "But as a matter of responsibility, I should find Captain Brandon and speak to him. I believe he will assign me as his deputy to be in charge of your security, and as such, duty calls. But Jon would be more than happy to accompany you. He knows as much - if not more - of the North as I." Asher kissed Daenerys hand and left with a bow, though not before winking subtly at Jon.

Jon cleared his throat, and approached, offering his arm to the princess. Daenerys took Jon's arm and they began to walk towards the magister's garden. It was even more vast when he was actually in it, Jon felt. The scent of exotic flowers and herbs filled his nostrils, and the sound of a small waterfall provided a soothing background noise.

"You are very quiet," Daenerys observed softly. She gave Jon a sweet smile. "I am sorry if I have imposed upon you."

Jon cursed himself for his poor manners. "No, Princess. The fault is mine - I am a little quiet by nature. And I do not have much practice at escorting ladies, much less princesses."

"Were you not introduced to other highborn ladies in Winterfell?" Daenerys asked.

Jon shook his head. "I am not truly highborn myself," he said. "I do not know how much you know of bastardy in Westeros, Your Grace. Though my father is a lord, I live in his castle by his grace. I am not the heir to anything - there is not much to be gained for a lady to marry me, for through me she would not become the lady of a keep or a castle. I cannot give myself or my issue the name Stark."

Daenerys nodded thoughtfully. "I have read of it, and I understand. Were you unhappy in Winterfell?" She tilted her head and looked at him with her violet eyes.

"No," Jon said, falteringly. "Unhappy is not the right word. I love my father, and my siblings, but... I did not think there was a future there to be had. I wanted to make my own way in the world. To prove myself, and not just be known as the bastard son of a lord."

"Tell me of the North, then," she asked. "They tell me it is a land of harsh winters and rugged terrain, with fierce people who hold to the old gods of the First Men. I have heard other, less kind things, but I thought it best to ask a Northman first."

That elicited a small laugh from Jon. "Yes, the North can be harsh. The winters especially. But there is a beauty to it, too. In the summer, endless fields of heather and wildflowers bloom, and the forests are thick with game. Our people are strong and proud - some would say too stubborn for our own good. And yes, we worship the old gods still, though there are some who have converted to the faith of the Seven. House Manderly is sworn to House Stark, and they keep to the Seven. Some among the North take to the tradition of knighthood, though not all."

Daenerys nodded thoughtfully. "And of House Targaryen... what do they say in the North?"

Jon cleared his throat, as discomfort crept in at her question. "I would be lying if I said that none in the North still held grudges against House Targaryen. For what it is worth, though... my father never spoke ill of your house. I never even heard him speak ill of Rhaegar Targaryen, despite... well..." Jon trailed off. "He never forbade us from learning our histories, either, nor did he rebuke us when we pretended we were Targaryen heroes at play. My sister Arya - her hero is Visenya Targaryen," Jon recalled with a laugh. "I once heard Ser Rodrik, our master-at-arms, say that the death of Princess Elia angered my father greatly, and that it opened a rift between him and King Robert."

"And yet he rebelled against his liege and fought to overthrow him," Daenerys said coolly.

"He did. His father and brother had been slain by that same liege," Jon responded. "They say King Aerys burned my grandfather alive while my uncle Brandon was strangled trying to save him. Then he demanded my father's head and the head of King Robert - for what crime?"

Daenerys pulled her arm out of his and stared at him angrily. "These are vile lies spread by the Usurper. I do not believe them. My father and brother were slain by traitors who coveted the Iron Throne. The death of Princess Elia was a heinous crime, and I will not forget it. My family had done much good for the realm before they were overthrown. We brought peace to the Seven Kingdoms after centuries of war, and my ancestors united the realm under one ruler. The Targaryens were beloved by many, even in the North."

"Beloved," Jon scoffed. "For what? When Jaehaerys wrested land from the North to give to the Night's Watch - land that now rots, unused? For when Cregan Stark had to march down the Kingsroad to set the traitors and kinslayers to task? For when Rhaegar kidnapped and raped Lyanna-"

Daenerys slapped Jon across the face with surprising strength. "Keep your vile lies about my brother to yourself, cur," Daenerys hissed, her eyes flashing with fury. "You speak of things you know nothing about. Rhaegar did not kidnap and rape Lyanna Stark. They loved each other."

"So he was an adulterer at best and a raper at worst," Jon retorted. Daenerys moved to slap him again, but he was too fast, moving his hand out of the way. She huffed and stormed off, though Jon could see tears falling from her eyes. That much sent a stab of shame through his heart, though he did not feel sorry for telling her the truth. Had no one truly explained to the Targaryens the real circumstances that led to their downfall? Jon knew that the topic was still a sore spot for many in the North, but somehow it did not even occur to him that she might not know the truth of what happened. He decided to go after her, to perhaps try to make amends. He had made a right mess of things.

He found her sitting on a stone bench, sobbing quietly. Jon hesitated for a moment, but he knew what he had to do. He approached her cautiously and knelt down in front of her. "I am sorry, Princess" he said softly. "I did not mean to upset you. Regardless of how I feel on the matter, I should have minded my courtesies."

Daenerys continued to cry, looking down at the ground. Jon felt helpless, unsure of what he could do to make it better. He thought back to something his father had once told him - about how sometimes, all it took was a kind word and a gentle touch to bring sense into a person. Slowly, he reached out and took Daenerys' hand, giving it a light squeeze. "I know that I am just a bastard from the North," Jon said softly, "and I do not know how to speak to noble ladies."

"Get away from my aunt," a voice hissed behind him. Jon turned to find Rhaenys standing behind him. She was no longer dressed in a black gown, but instead wearing training clothes. Her arms were bared, revealing rippled muscle. In her left hand was a spear, braced against the ground.

Jon slowly stood up, releasing Daenerys' hand. "I mean no harm, Princess Rhaenys," he said calmly. "I was merely trying to comfort your aunt."

"She does not need your comfort," Rhaenys spat out. "Why my brother has agreed to take you and your company on as our guards, I do not know. But I want you away from her. Your apologies will not bring back my family," she said bitterly. "And they certainly will not make up for the years of suffering we have endured since their deaths. As far as I am concerned, you are the son of a traitor. A Northman such as your captain and Lord Forrester, I might have tolerated. But you... you are the lowliest of dogs."

Jon straightened, any feeling of pity or sympathy in his heart gone. "Not dogs, Princess. Wolves. And wingless dragons who cannot breathe fire will not last long against a ravenous pack." With that, he turned on his heel and left, before Brandon and Asher. He gathered his weapons from the guards at the Magister's gate, and stormed back to the barracks. Azenet saw him on his way in, and when he did not stop to talk or to acknowledge her, she followed after.

"Jon," she said. "What happened? Where are Brandon and Asher?"

"Concluding business with the Magister," Jon muttered. "We have a contract that will put coin in all our pockets, but it leaves an ill taste in my mouth. Brandon would have us guard the Targaryen exiles - the relatives of the men responsible for killing my grandfather, my uncle, and my aunt," he spat bitterly. "I thought him a Stark. Where is his sense of honor?"

"Jon," Azenet said cautiously. "Careful now. Brandon may be your kin, but he is a Captain of the Company. His job is to find us that which will feed us. And these exiles... what power do they have? They cannot harm your family as their fathers did."

"What right have they to judge me?" Jon raged. "The mad king was a vile man, Rhaegar Targaryen was a vile man, and yet they have the gall to call my father a cur! House Stark has suffered for their family, the North has bled for their family, and after three hundred years they rain injustice down upon us and then have the gall to call us traitors."

"But you are not a Stark, Jon," Azenet reminded him. "You have said it yourself. You claim to want to make a name for yourself, but you cannot help but feel a blind loyalty to your father's family - a loyalty that they did not return, even if they did truly love you. Else why would you be here, if not to be your own man? You cannot have it both ways. Who are you, Jon? Who do you wish to be? Will you cling to the Starks, even if the Starks will not have you?"

"I do not know!" Jon cried in blinding anger, and then his voice dropped to a quiet, dead whisper. "I do not know who I am. Only my father knows, and my mother, if she still yet lives. And one will not tell me, and the other is not there to say."

"It does not matter. I know who you are. A brave fighter, a fair man, a good friend," she said quietly. She put her hand on his arm. "More importantly, who do you one day wish to be? What do you want for yourself?" She drew closer to him. "Riches, wealth, a name?" Her eyes bore into his. "A woman to love, a child of your own in your arms?"

Jon's breathing hitched at the last question. "I swore I would not father a bastard of my own," Jon said softly, looking away from Azenet's gaze.

Azenet smiled gently, placing her hand on Jon's cheek and turning his head to face her once again. "No one here knows, or cares, that you are a bastard," she said. Then she laughed gently. "Besides, if you marry that woman, the child would still be trueborn. All your stains, perceived or imagined, can be washed away here in Essos."

Jon stared at her, taking her in fully. The scar that marred her lip only enhanced her deadly beauty, but her hair was down, her brown curls fluttering with the gentle breeze that swept in through the open window of the barrack house. His fingers traced the scar ever so gently, inadvertently - he moved to pull away, but she did not stop him. Her eyes were locked onto his.

Jon leaned in, his hand still tracing her scar. Azenet's eyes flickered between his own and his lips before she closed the distance between them, pressing her lips against his. Jon responded, kissing her back with a fire that bloomed from his chest, enveloping his whole body. His hands roamed over her body, memorizing every curve, every inch of her. They broke the kiss for a moment, breathless and panting. Jon leaned in again, only to be interrupted by someone clearing their throat.

"Jon - a word? Sorry to interrupt you two." Asher grinned at him, not looking sorry at all. "Brandon wants to speak to you."

"Right," Jon said, a little dazed. "I will be right there."

Azenet smiled at him, and as he made his way over to the door, she called after him. "Remember what I said. And when you are done, come to my room. I will be waiting."

Jon's ears burned as he followed after Asher. They walked down the hallway towards the top floor, where the captains and the Lord Commander's quarters were.

"So... you and Azenet...?" Asher asked.

"None of your damn business, Forrester."

Asher whistled and laughed. "Forget I asked, Snow." He led him to Brandon's quarters and knocked. "Brandon knows about what happened with the Princesses. Mind your temper, Jon. My father fought against the Mad King too. My grandfather Thorren died at the Trident. Won't do any of us any good here to hold on to that grudge." Jon nodded and pushed through the door, after Brandon asked him to enter.

Brandon was seated at a desk, writing something. "Jon."

"Cousin," Jon responded. "You summoned me?"

"Yes," Brandon said, standing up and handing Jon a scroll. "Here is a copy of the contract. Read it carefully."

Jon took the scroll and unrolled it. His eyes skimmed over the writing. Brandon was assigning Asher and Azenet's squadron to guard the Targaryens - thirty of their company in total. The total contract worth and each man's payout was listed through the clauses. No matter the gold, Jon could still not make his heart believe it was worth it.

"Jon." Brandon's voice brought him back to reality. "What do you think?"

"The fee is good," Jon said hesitantly. "But I have some concerns."

"Name them," Brandon said, folding his arms.

"Well..." Jon began. "I do not want to guard those exiles. Assign someone else."

"Out of the question," Brandon said sternly. "I assigned Azenet's squadron, and she is your commanding officer. Besides, Aegon asked for you by name."

Jon laughed harshly. "Asher told me you know what happened between me and the Princesses, and yet you still wish for me to guard these Targaryens? Does Aegon know the words his aunt and sister exchanged with me?"

"He does, and he does not care - and more fortune for us," Brandon growled. "You could have cost us the entire contract."

"Is gold all you care about?" Jon asked incredulously.

"Gold?" Brandon roared. "Gold? I care about this pack of mine, the only family I have known. My name may be Stark, Jon, but the Starks of Winterfell are distant to me. These men and women under my banner are my family, and I am their captain. I have but one duty - to keep them fed and armed and alive. You are my cousin, aye, but your tie to me as a member of my pack is greater than any blood tie we might share. You are here, now, Jon. You are a member of the Company of the Rose, not the Bastard of Winterfell. The Magister asked if you blamed the children of a madman for the madman's crimes - and though you said no, your actions say you do. They are people highborn fools like any other. Ignore the silver hair and purple eyes, if you can, and act like a man of the Company for a moment."

Jon stared at the ground, absorbing Brandon's words. "I... I have nothing else to say to this. If it is your command, Captain, I will serve."

Brandon nodded, and then his eyes softened. "Do not think me unaware or uncaring of what their family has done to ours, Jon. But they are wingless dragons, and they have more than paid the price for the Mad King's cruelties. As it is... I believe Aegon is intent on impressing you, so I do not think you will have to deal with further outbursts from the Princesses. He seems to think you are the key to the North."

"Me?" Jon asked incredulously. "The key? Why not you? And are they planning to invade? With whose army?"

Brandon scoffed. "It is a fool's dream, but they think they will raise soldiers somehow, and soon. I do not know what their plans are, but I think it would not hurt for you to entertain Aegon's folly, at least for a time. Get to know them. Aegon will impress upon you that he can deliver Winterfell into your hands. If you follow him, he may hint at offering you a legitimization, to make you his Warden of the North. It cannot be me, Jon. I may have the name, but I am not Westerosi at heart. You are still a son of the North... and in the end, conquest trumps all."

"Against my own father?" Jon laughed.

"As I said, it is a fool's dream. Then let us part these fools from their money and be on our way." Brandon patted Jon on the shoulder. "They pose no harm. Let them spend their coin how they wish - keep them alive, and let them dream of impossible invasions. What does it matter? Torrhen Stark bent the knee because the Aegon who stood against him had three dragons. What does this Aegon have? Nothing and less."

Jon nodded and turned to leave. As his hand reached for the door, Brandon called out to him.

"Jon?"

"Yes?"

Brandon gave him a long look. "I had your letter sent to the rookery. It will be in Winterfell in less than a moon's turn. I do not begrudge you letters to your family in Winterfell... but remember. We here are your family, too. The family you chose - and we chose you back." He nodded a dismissal, and Jon left, his feet dragging him back not to his bunkroom, but to Azenet's quarters.

When he opened the door, she was sitting on her bed. A lone candle bathed the room in a dim orange light. She beckoned to him, and Jon closed the door silently behind him.

Chapter Text

Jon woke before dawn, supremely comfortable, and warmer than usual. He shifted under the covers, surprised that he had fallen asleep without clothes. It was not usual of him to do so, for he had always preferred to wear pyjamas and a tunic in the cold of the North. Then he felt skin against his, and his eyes shot fully open.

Azenet lay next to him, her arm resting atop his chest. She was awake already, her hazel eyes staring gently into his.

"It is not yet dawn," she whispered. "Go back to sleep."

Jon recalled the events of last night and lay his head back to rest on the pillow, but sleep did not come back. He felt oddly sated and rested. "I don't think I need any more sleep."

"Well, you hardly slept last night," she murmured into his ear, her fingers tracing gentle circles on Jon's chest. "Do you still have regrets? I am sure your Wall and your Night's Watch will take you, if women were not to your liking."

Jon groaned. "How can you ask me that?" It was the truth - he was not sure how he could ever have thought to give it up, but he did not know.

"Good. I enjoyed myself as well," Azenet whispered. Jon stole another kiss from her. "We have some time yet before either of us needs rise. I assume Brandon will have us report to the Magister's manse, and I am not eager for it."

"I know," Jon whispered. "The more I meet these magisters and merchant princes, the more they all seem the same. All of them with their plots and agendas. Vaelaros sought to overthrow the Sealord... this Magister, fool as he is, seeks to overthrow the Seven Kingdoms."

Azenet pulled in closer to him. "I hate them all. I had cause to hate them even before Vaelaros took Tausret away from me. We, the last of the Rhoynar - we make good slave chattel for them. They send slavers from the markets of Lys and Volantis to come and take our people away. We huddle in the ruins of our cities, hiding from the stone men, and Dothraki, and from slavers. Sometimes I wonder if we should not have followed Nymeria the Forsaker to your Westeros."

"The Forsaker? That is not a title that I have ever heard of her in Westeros," Jon said.

"I come from the ruins of Ny Sar," Azenet said, staring up at the ceiling. "She was the last ruler of that city before the Valyrians came with their dragons and their dragonfire. For the few who remained, she was a coward. Now I wonder if she was not wise."

"It is not an easy thing to give up your homeland," Jon said. "The First Men once ruled all Westeros from beyond the Wall to Dorne. Then the Andals came, and it was only through bitter centuries of war that we halted their march at the Neck. I think Nymeria was brave, but I cannot blame the stubborn ones who remained behind. Did your family live in Ny Sar your whole life? Are they still there?"

Azenet shook her head. "Tausret and I were orphaned at a young age. We left Ny Sar when we were thirteen. We were captured by slavers, who planned to take us to Norvos. A Norvoshi merchant bought us. At first he put us to use in his kitchens, but Tausret and I grew older and then he wanted Tausret for other things..." Azenet's lip trembled. "He intended to travel to Qohor one time, to oversee some great transaction. At night, his caravan was raided by Dothraki. We escaped in the confusion. Joined the Company and never looked back. The merchant, he gave me this, when once I attempted to keep him from touching my sister," she said, pointing at the scar on her face. "So we cut his throat before we ran away during the attack."

Jon gently traced the scar with his finger. "I am sorry for what you've been through," he said softly.

Azenet smiled and tilted her head to the side, letting Jon's finger trail down her neck. "It is not your fault," she said, "but thank you." Her hand moved down his chest again, and then lower to his stomach. "I think we should make use of this time," she whispered in his ear, biting the lobe playfully.

Jon groaned in response, his body responding eagerly to her touch. He rolled on top of her, pinning her to the bed. Azenet met his lips with hers, their bodies entwining as they lost themselves in each other again.

When dawn broke, Jon finally dressed and left, breaking his fast in the mess hall. He ate his porridge in silence, watching from afar as Azenet organized their squadron. Asher came and sat down next to Jon with his own bowl.

"Cheap fare compared to what we ate at Illyrio's, no?" Asher said, taking a spoonful of the porridge and making a face. "Gods, we need a better cook than Olyvar."

Jon chuckled. "Doesn't it remind you of the North?"

Asher smiled. "Aye, that it does. Jon, I meant to talk to you... you and Azenet-"

Jon opened his mouth to say something, but Asher cut him off. "I am not stopping you. It is a good thing. You are a member of this Company, Jon, but I've always felt that you have not given yourself fully to it. There is a life to be had here, Jon, but I always felt that you had one foot here and one foot back in Winterfell. Azenet is a good woman and a good comrade. She will be good for you, I think. The Company has never had rules against such relationships. We even had a couple once, paid a weregild to relieve themselves of service and went and married and settled somewhere near Braavos. This was when I first joined the Company."

"Weregild?" Jon asked.

"Aye. It is a price you can pay to release yourself of service before five years. It is not a steep price, but most choose not to pay it and serve out their years," Asher said. "I think of my family in Ironrath often, Jon. Not a day goes by. But this, this Company... they are the family I chose."

"Why did you leave Ironrath?" Jon asked.

"I love my father, but we did not always see eye to eye. And Rodrik... well. There is not much in the world for a second son, and Ironrath itself is not a wealthy seat. I had a woman I loved, and I could not be with her.""Who?" Jon asked.

"Gwyn Whitehill."

"Whitehill? Lord Ludd Whitehill's daughter?" Jon asked.

"Aye, the same. You know her?"

"She came to Winterfell once, with her father," Jon said. "Though I do not remember her well. I think Lord Ludd may have intended to secure a betrothal for her with Robb, but nothing came of it. The Whitehills are sworn to House Bolton - which I always thought strange, given how far Highpoint is from the Dreadfort."

"I know. And my house sworn the Glovers, and the Glovers in turn to Winterfell... well. Regardless of the politics, I intended to marry her. We were together, in love. When my father found out, it was the last straw. Things have always been strained between us and the Whitehills, but to make peace - and to get me out of his sight, no doubt - he sent me to Essos. And so I came here and joined the Company."

"Did you ever find another woman?" Jon asked.

Asher chuckled. "If you remembered what Gwyn looked like, you would not ask me that question. By the way, the magister sent a servant to the barracks. It seems that he made good on his word - the smith who can work Valyrian steel awaits you at his shop, on the Street of Coin. The name of the man is Varik Mott - Qohorik or some such. Where in the hells did you get finished Valyrian steel?"

"Vaelaros offered it to me in exchange for his life," Jon said. "Azenet took the ingot and took his life, too."

Asher whistled. "Now I wish I had been the one to chase him up the stairs. Well, go on, get your bloody Valyrian steel sword made. Meet with us at the magister's manse afterwards. I'll arrange for transport of all the squadron's belongings there. It seems as though we'll be staying there until we have to escort them south."

Jon nodded and stood up. He fetched the ingot of Valyrian steel, though an affronted Ghost accosted him in the bunkroom. Jon spent a few moments with his wolf, apologizing for having abandoned him that night, and then made his way out of the mess hall and into the streets of Pentos. Ghost tagged behind him, drawing curious glances from passerby. The city was busy, even in the morning. The smith's shop was easy enough to find, though shop was perhaps the wrong word. The forgeworks of Master Varik Mott were enormous - a veritable factory of metalsmithing. Apprentices and journeymen rushed to and fro, and by the gods, it was hotter here than anywhere else in Essos, Jon thought. He began to ask around for Varik Mott, but most of the workers simply ignored him, going about their business.

"You're looking for Mott?" a soot-covered man, middle aged with greying hairs in his brown beard, finally said, approaching Jon. "He's busy. What business you have with him?"

"Magister Illyrio sent me. I have Valyrian steel that needs to be reworked."

The man's eyes bulged out of his head and he nodded rapidly. "Ah... Yes, Master Mott has been waiting for you, he'll see you. Follow me, lord."

Jon thought to correct him, but let it slide for once. The man led Jon through the bustling forge, the heat intensifying with each step. Finally, they reached a smaller, more secluded section of the foundry. There sat a man who could only be Varik Mott, a short, stocky man with a thick beard stained black from soot and sweat. He was hammering away at a red-hot piece of metal on his anvil.

"Ah, you're the one with the Valyrian steel," Mott said, not bothering to look up from his work.

Jon nodded, holding out the ingot.

Mott finally did look up. An apprentice scrambled to take over the hammering of the metal. Mott took it from him with thick, calloused hands, examining it closely. "Impressive," he grunted. "There is enough here for two swords. My brother in King's Landing would be green with envy if he knew about this."

"Two swords?" Jon said, incredulously.

"Yes, two, boy," Mott said. "But the Magister only paid for one. Fear not, I will return what I do not use to you. How came you by this?"

"It was a gift," Jon said.

That elicited a snort from the master smith. "And my name is Aegon Targaryen. Well, hold out your current sword." Jon did as commanded, and the master began to observe Jon from all angles. "Do you like the balance on this?"

"Aye," Jon said. "It's good. Suits my height."

"And how old are you? You are tall already," Mott said.

"My sixteenth nameday was seven moons ago," Jon said.

Mott nodded. "Still some room for growth, then. The man barked at another apprentice, who scurried away and returned within moments with a measuring stick. Mott made Jon stand in various stances, and measured his arms, legs, shoulders, and torso. He wrote numbers on a slate and handed it to the apprentice.

"Do you prefer hand-and-a-half swords? Your current one is." When Jon nodded in response, Mott smiled. "Good. Best for Valyrian steel, I think. It will be lighter than any sword you've ever owned, so you can wield it with ease with a shield in your other hand. If you would rather wield it with both, you'll be a terror on the battlefield, but the sword will not cut through stray arrows. Best stick to a shield." The smith squinted at Jon. "Tell me you know how to wield a sword, boy. It would be a shame to craft a Valryian steel blade for an idiot who does not know how to fight."

"I've survived every fight I've been in so far. Is that good enough?" Jon said.

"Ha!" Varik Mott said, slapping Jon's shoulder. "Well said! Well, that's it then. Come back in a sennight and I'll have it ready. Ah - before you go - the pommel. Do you want a design?"

He thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. It was the perfect marriage of his life - where he came from, and who he was now. "Are you familiar with the winter rose?" Jon asked, smiling.

After putting in his order and receiving a bill for pick-up of the sword upon completion, Jon set off in the direction of the Magister's manse. The Street of Coin was located in the center of the city, located just off the main thoroughfare known as the Great Street. The Great Street was always packed with people, horses, and goods, though it was a wide cobbled thoroughfare. It ran from the Sunset Gate all the way to the port of Pentos, and every major street connected to it at some point or another. Illyrio's manse was located closer to the sea, upon a hill that rose on the southern edge of the city and ended in small cliffs that overlooked the Narrow Sea. As he walked up the road leading to the magister's manse, he could faintly smell the salt of the ocean, a smell he had come to enjoy.

When he arrived at the manse, Illyrio's guards parted way for him. This time, they did not take his weapons. He was not dressed so finely this time, but wore his leather armor, a thin linen cloak to keep the dust away, and a loose tunic and breeches underneath the armor. It was hotter here in Pentos, but not unbearably so. He feared what it would be like if the Company went any further south.

A serving girl escorted him to a dining room. This one was larger, and not so grand as the one Jon had dined with the magister in. He supposed it was for servants and the household staff. Most of his squadron was there, having their midday meal. He received some catcalls and teasing ribs about the long night he had last night, which made his ears burn, but Asher clapped him on the shoulder when he saw him.

"Take care of the sword business?"

"Aye," Jon said. "I'll have it in a sennight."

"Good. Azenet has gone to speak with Aegon to discuss security assignments and the like. I was bit to tell you that the Princess was looking for you."

"Daenerys?" Jon said. "That would be a surprise. I was not careful with my words, and I regret upsetting her... even if she does have some deluded beliefs about the Rebellion."

"Best not to discuss those while we're on duty for this contract," Asher advised. "I do not sympathize with the Targaryens either, but we need to treat this like any other contract. Go in, do the job, get out - and we'll be a great deal richer at the end of it. Just some advice, Jon - swallow you pride, apologize for the discourtesy, and grit your teeth. Let them rage - what does that change the reality of the Mad King and the downfall of their house? Talk is talk."

Jon nodded his acceptance and set off to find the Princess. He had already resolved to apologize, though he was not sorry about the content of his words. His delivery could perhaps have been better. The first two servants he asked did not know where the Princess was, but the third directed him to the garden. Visiting it in the day was a different experience. It seemed far more alive, with birdsong and the noise of insects. The water in the many fountains shimmered under the midday sun, and some people - finely dressed, perhaps other guests or friends of Illyrio - lounged under the shade of the trees, eating grapes and fruits and drinking wine. Servants attended to their every whim.

He found Rhaenys in a clearing. She was dressed simply for training, with loose fitted linen with a small, thin leather cuirass, shin guards, and arm guards. She wielded a staff deftly, and her brown hair, which had flowed down her back the other night, was tied up in a ponytail. Jon watched her run through a training set. She was fluid in her movements, and sharp in her strikes. She wielded the quarterstaff as though it was a spear. Jon noted the way she fought. Though strongly built herself, she was not a particularly large woman - not like the Mormont girls, or She-Bear, and so she would stab with her spear at the training mannequin before moving, always maintaining distance.

"Come to train?" she said after she was done. Rhaenys wiped the sweat from her forehead and rested her staff against the ground, leaning against it as she stared at him.

"I was told that you requested my presence, Your Grace," Jon said, dipping his head. "I recall you mentioned your skill with spears at dinner. You look as though you have been formally trained."

Rhaenys did not respond, only beckoned him closer. Jon approached, leaving the shade of the tree he stood under.

"You have a sword," Rhaenys observed. "But how well can you fight with it?"

Jon drew his sword and held it out in front of him, with the grip turned towards her. "I was trained at Winterfell by our master-at-arms, a knight. And Lord Forrester and my old serjeant - a Tyroshi named Merregon - trained me here. I think it fair to say I can hold my own in a fight," Jon said. "I've had my fair share."

Rhaenys nodded, and without warning, swung her staff at Jon. He was too late in defending himself, and the staff struck him on the side. Luckily his cuirass wrapped around, so all he suffered was a hard sting from the impact, but he was caught entirely unawares."Slow," Rhaenys mused.

"I was not aware we had started to train," Jon responded, trying not to let annoyance seep into his voice. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to warn me before attacking next time, Your Grace."

"I should think you know that your opponents do not usually announce themselves before attacking," she said, swinging her staff again. Jon was ready this time, blocking her attack with his sword. He gave her a stern look.

"Allow me to wield a tourney blade or a wooden sword before we begin, Your Grace. My sword is good steel. Otherwise, you should wield a real spear."

Rhaenys smiled at that."Would that I could, but none of Illyrio's Unsullied will lever let me borrow theirs. Fine, Jon Snow. Grab your sword."

Jon took a wooden sword from the rack, testing its weight and balance. It was not as good as his sword's, but it would do for this training bout. He cast aside his cloak, letting it fall to the ground, and stood ready, eyes fixed on Rhaenys who had readied her staff.

Rhaenys made the first move, striking towards Jon's legs. Jon blocked it with practiced ease, and countered by going for her arm. She parried it with her staff, and they began their dance in earnest. They circled each other, each waiting for the other to make a mistake. Rhaenys was well-trained; Jon could tell from the way she moved. Her offense was not perfect, but her defense was impeccable, and she was adept at keeping him far away from her body, where she maintained the advantage with the reach of her staff.

Jon had to get in close to stand a chance, and he knew it. He feinted a strike towards her head, then quickly pivoted and aimed for her knee. Rhaenys saw the move coming and shifted her weight, causing Jon's wooden sword to hit the ground with a resounding thud. In one swift move, Rhaenys disarmed him by knocking his wooden sword out of his hand with her staff.

She grinned at him and began to say something, but Jon launched himself at her. She was caught entirely by surprise, and Jon was too close, too soon, for her staff to be effective at defending against him. He caught her square in the torso with his barreling leap. They both tumbled to the ground, but Jon maneuvered his weight to pin Rhaenys and had her hands above her head in an instant.

Breathless, she looked up at him, a hint of surprise on her face that he had managed to catch her so off guard. Jon was not sure what had come over him, but he felt an intensity within him that he had not felt before. His eyes bore into her own purple ones, which were unreadable entirely to him, but her face was flushed pink with exertion.

"Try not to gloat before you've killed your enemy. A fight is not over when the other man is down - it ends with a death, his or yours. Finish first," Jon growled, and then got off her.

Rhaenys pushed herself up off the ground, refusing his offered hand, her chest rising and falling with the effort. A rosy flush had spread across her cheeks, lights flickering in the violet depths of her eyes.

"I did disarm you," she said somewhat petulantly, fixing her crumpled tunic.

"Aye, that you did, Your Grace. You wielded that staff like you were trying to kill me," he pointed out, retrieving his wooden sword from where it had fallen. "That was skilled defense. If you are ever in trouble, I would not bet my coin against you. Who taught you at the spear?"

Rhaenys opened her mouth as though to speak, but then shut it, her expression becoming guarded. Jon knew what that meant - there was an answer there, but it was secret. Not for the first time, Jon wondered whether Dorne was aware of their prince and princess being in Pentos. There was no way they were not.

He remembered well when Maester Luwin had discussed the recent histories and the downfall of the Targaryen dynasty at lessons. Jon and Robb both wondered why, if it became known after the death of Princess Elia that her son and daughter had been squirreled away to safety in Essos, that Dorne did not rally about them. Father heard this, and told them why.

"Because Princess Arianne Martell, the firstborn child of Prince Doran, stays in the Red Keep as a guest of King Robert," he had said. By 'guest', Jon knew, even then, that she was a hostage. Dorne would not rise with their heir's life at stake, not openly. But could they continue to support the Dornish dragons in secrecy?

"I had my trainers," Rhaenys said. Jon nodded his acceptance of that answer, though his curiosity remained.

"That is good. In the North, we do not train with the spear often. The highborn prefer swords, axes, and maces. For lowborn levies - the longer pike is preferred. We use the lance on horseback, but that is not quite the same thing. But it is a good weapon for you. You are quite strong, but it would be better if you do not let an opponent get too close to you." He looked her up and down. "Keep a knife somewhere you can reach with ease. Knives are best for close work."

Rhaenys nodded. Jon opened his mouth to speak, but the words did not form with ease on his words. "Princess, if I may... I wanted to apologize. My words were unnecessary and harsh, and they reflected poorly on me. I cannot take them back, but I feel ashamed that I was discourteous last night."

"Your apology would be best directed at my aunt," Rhaenys said coolly. "A warning, Snow. Daenerys is soft and sweet, but she is a dragon just the same. Do not upset her. Aside from my fury, and that of Viserys and my brother, you will have to contend with her as well." With that, she turned to leave, but not before she tossed a final glance over her shoulder.

"She should be by the gallery overlooking the sea. She often goes there after midday to read." Then Rhaenys stalked off, and Jon watched her go. Of all the Targaryens, she was the most difficult to read for him. She did not speak expressively, and though she was hostile, it was not the same hostility that radiated from Prince Viserys, for example. Daenerys seemed as she was - sweet and gentle. And Aegon, though he did not know him well, struck Jon as a charmer, someone dedicated to keeping up the visage of a king. It was a good visage, but Aegon was king of nothing for now.

But Rhaenys... he could not read her. She was beautiful - perhaps the most beautiful of all the Targaryens, which was saying something, given that the other three had the famed silver Valyrian hair - but beauty meant little when it came to character, Jon found. He shook his head and put away his wooden sword, and made up his mind to go find Princess Daenerys and apologize to her.

As Jon walked towards the gallery, he couldn't help but feel a gnawing at the back of his mind. His thoughts were a swirl of conspiracy and plotting, trying to untangle whatever game the Targaryens were playing here.

He arrived at the gallery and saw Princess Daenerys bent over a book with her long silver hair cascading over her shoulders, shimmering in the sun. She sat with her back to him, and her face towards the sea. She looked back as he approached, and he could see a sadness flicker in her violet eyes.

"Princess, if I may," Jon began, bowing respectfully. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. It was uncalled for and unbecoming of me. I should have minded my courtesies."

Daenerys smiled sadly at him, her eyes seeming to hold a thousand emotions. "Thank you for your apology, Lord Snow, but it is not needed. It was discourteous of me to strike you so."

Jon felt a pang of sympathy for the princess. She was his age, and she was very sweet. It was hard to bear any ill will to such a lovely, innocent creature. "I could not imagine what you and your family went through at the end of it all, Princess," Jon said softly. "Perhaps it would be best if we do not speak of the Rebellion, given its sensitivity to your house and to my father's house, but I welcome any questions you have about Westeros, and the North."

Daenerys glanced at him and gave him a small smile. "Thank you, Lord Snow. That means a great deal to me." She looked back at the sea. "Would you sit with me a while?"

"Of course, Your Grace," Jon said. "But I must warn you - I have just come from a spar with the Princess Rhaenys. She tested me, and I'm afraid I am a little sweaty."

Daenerys giggled. "I do not mind," she said, gesturing at the bench. Jon unbuckled his sword and laid it by the side of the bench before sitting down. They sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds being the crashing of waves against rocks.

"Lord Snow... may I ask you something?" Daenerys said softly, breaking the silence.

"Of course, Your Grace," Jon replied. "But first, may I ask you to simply call me Jon? I am no lord of anything."

"Very well, Jon. But then, when we are alone, you must call me Daenerys," Daenerys said. His name sounded strange and foreign upon her lips, and hers on his, but he nodded his head in agreement. "Before our... exchange last evening, you were telling me about the North. I have read so much about Westeros in all my books." She gestured towards the open book, as the wind shuffled through its pages. "But it does not... it is not..."

"I understand," Jon said. "I could tell you all about the land, but that would be no different from the treatises you read in your books. Let me tell you instead about the time Robb and I went riding past the castle, upriver." Jon drew a rough map on his hand. "Winterfell lies near the western fork of the White Knife. Up river, the land turns rocky, and the river winds through hills. Up here, near the origin of the river, there is a waterfall. It is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. In the summer, the waters sparkle blue on a bright day - in the winter, the waterfall freezes. There is a cave there, heated by hot springs, with pools inside. Robb and I rode hard back to Winterfell once we found out about it and ran to inform Lord Stark. The next day, he gave us permission to take our siblings there." Jon laughed. "We played in the cave all day. By the end of it, Arya and Sansa refused to leave. We were late in returning, and even Jory and Ser Rodrik couldn't save us from Lord Stark's irritation." Then Jon's face fell. "Lady Stark was upset with me. She thought... well. It does not matter. Arya came to my room that night and wept all night, apologizing over and over again. She said she would argue with Lady Stark for me, but I told her not to."

"Is... is that why you left?" Daenerys asked gently.

"That, among other things," Jon confessed. "Essos is strange, and I find it hard to call it home - especially because we move from city to city and have no true home - but this Company is like a home to me. I have friends, and people I care deeply for here, and who care for me the same."

"And your family?"

"I miss them every day. And they loved me too, but their love could not give me what I want in this life. That I needed to go out and claim for my own," Jon responded.

"I should very much like to visit Winterfell one day," Daenerys said quietly. "And see this waterfall of yours."

Jon smiled, and with all genuineness in his voice, said, "I pray one day you shall."

After dinner, Azenet told Jon that Aegon requested Jon's presence. She had a searching look in her eyes as she told him, and Jon resolved to explain Brandon's suspicions about the Targaryens and their reasons for hiring the Company of the Rose of their protection later that night. He trusted Azenet implicitly with this, and knew she would understand.

"Later," Jon whispered, as he passed her. "I will explain." She only nodded in response.

Jon bathed between his time with Daenerys and dinner, and he felt cleaner than he had in ages. There had been little opportunity to wash during the march down from Braavos, though he made do with creeks and rivers as they passed them by. Illyrio's manse had luxurious baths with servants to attend to his every need. He felt pampered, and part of him enjoyed it. His dark hair had grown over-long, so he tied it back and resolved to visit a barber when he could. He had put away his armor, and servants had collected his linens and clothes for washing, though he kept his sword by his side. He was dressed in brown trousers belted around a white tunic that felt cool against his skin in the warm night.

He walked to Aegon's solar. It was guarded by two of the Company, both of whom greeted Jon. One of them poked his head inside to announce Jon's arrival, and was evidently given permission to open the door. Jon walked inside.

Aegon's solar was strangely more austere than he had imagined. Illyrio's palace could only be described as lavish, but this room lacked many of the ornaments that he would have expected to see. That was not to say that it was ill appointed. There was a large, well-made wooden desk that dominated the room, with stacks of parchment piled high, and a plush chair. To the side, there was a second comfortable-looking armchair. Aegon sat at the desk, writing on some parchment. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the circular candelabra which hung above.

"Jon Snow," Aegon said without looking up. "Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat." He gestured towards the empty armchair.

"Of course, Your Grace," Jon replied, bowing his head slightly, and sat down. "How may I be of service?"

"I wished to know how you came to be in Essos," Aegon said. "I spoke, at length, with your kinsman, Captain Brandon. It was quite fascinating to me that a Stark would be found so far away from Winterfell, so you can imagine my surprise that I have instead found two." Aegon raised his hand, as if he had seen Jon's objection coming. "I know that you will say that you are a bastard, and therefore not a Stark - and it is true, you do not have the name. But from what I know, you were raised as a member of your father's household. So, I must ask... what are you doing here?"

Jon hesitated for a moment, unsure of how much he should reveal to Aegon. The man had already proven himself to be adept at reading people, and Jon suspected that he wouldn't be able to hide much from him. Besides, he had been quite forthright with Daenerys and Rhaenys already. "I left home in search of what any bastard wants - a name and a legacy of his own," Jon said. "So far, the Company has proven to be a good means towards both."

"And what do you hope to achieve with the Company of the Rose?" Aegon asked, still studying Jon closely. "Do you wish to grow rich, retire - perhaps become a merchant or resident of the Free Cities? Marry, have a family of your own?"

Jon thought of Azenet and her words from the previous night. "Perhaps. I try not to dream too aimlessly. The life of a sellsword is brutish and short."

"I understand," Aegon said. "I think you and I are not too dissimilar, Jon."

Jon leaned back in his chair. "Your Grace, I am flattered, but-"

"I do not speak of our bloodlines or the legitimacy of our parents' relations, but our goals in life," Aegon said smoothly. "We both seek to make a name for ourselves, to establish a legacy, to leave our mark on the world - to claim our futures. The only difference is that I have a legacy to re-establish, while you are seeking to forge your own name."

"It is as you say, Your Grace."

Aegon leaned forward, his eyes still intense. "And I believe that we can help each other achieve our goals. You are a skilled fighter, and I have need of men like you in my service." Though this had been expected after Brandon's warning, Jon felt a sense of unease in his stomach at the mention of Aegon's service.

"I am listening, Your Grace," Jon said carefully. He remembered Brandon's instructions. Let him believe, let us finish out this contract, and I shall never have to speak of this again.

"You mentioned just now that you are searching for a legacy of your own," Aegon said. "I believe that I can offer you that. With my help, you could establish yourself as a formidable warrior, a leader among men - perhaps even a lord in your own right. There are many lands in Westeros belonging to traitors, and many things will have to be set right once I come into my throne."

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I would not want to usurp my brother Robb, or any of my other half-siblings," Jon said uneasily. "I understand the history between Stark and Targaryen. But my whole life, Lady Stark made it very clear that she viewed me as a threat to her children. I love my siblings, and I would never harm them or their inheritance. And I would not want to prove Lady Stark right."

"It would not have to be," Aegon replied quickly. "If House Stark were to bend the knee - to pledge allegiance once more - I would spare them and their lands, with the proper concessions." Hostages, Jon thought. "But there are still many traitors - in the Vale, the Stormlands, and the Riverlands. And most of all, the Westerlands." Aegon leaned over the table. "The Starks, Baratheons, and Arryns - all of them rose because my grandfather demanded the heads of Lord Eddard and the Usurper. While my sister and aunt and uncle will not admit it, this was an overstep, even if your uncle Brandon spoke treason when he rode to King's Landing."

"You seem more aware of the events of the circumstances around the Rebellion than the other members of your house," Jon observed carefully. "I offended Princess Daenerys yesterday. I apologized to her for the harshness of my words today, but it seems that I need not be so gentle here. You, at least, know the truth."

"That Aerys was mad?" Aegon said, leaning back. "Yes, he was mad. But Brandon Stark still spoke treason when he came south to demand my father's life. And Rickard Stark rightfully needed to answer for his son."

"Through burning?" Jon snorted derisively. "Forgive me, but that is not justice."

"No," Aegon agreed. "A trial would have been preferable... and had I sat the throne, taking the Black would have been an appropriate punishment. But as I said, Aerys was mad, and madmen are not prone to delivering justice. I want to be a just king, Jon. More just than a man who would look upon a raped, murdered mother, and two butchered infants he thought to be the children of his enemy, and call it justice. More than a man who would murder his cousin on the battlefield, take a throne through his blood relation to my house, and then try to murder those blood relations every day of our hidden existence in Essos. Help me be that just king, and I shall not forget it."

If he were any other man, Aegon would have convinced him. Though they were of an age, when Aegon spoke, Jon wanted to believe. There was an enchanting quality by the way he said things, that made one sure of the convictions behind the words. But he was not seduced entirely, and Brandon's warning rang clear in his mind.

"Your Grace, with all due respect, I am a sellsword, not a lord," Jon said. "I swore an oath of service and loyalty to the Company of the Rose, and to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms. Our oaths are for five years. If I were to break that oath and take another... if I was you, I would not accept my service," Jon said diplomatically. He hoped Aegon would believe this, and did not know of the weregild. Hells, he had not known about it until earlier this morning. He had no intention of abandoning the Company prior to the end of his oath, though.

Aegon's eyes narrowed for a moment, but then he relaxed into his chair. "Very well, Jon. I can respect a man who knows his own mind. You have my gratitude for your service to us thus far. But I urge you to keep an open mind. As I said, I see a commonality of spirit in us... and I would accept your service, still, if you should give it. I value your commitment to your oath, but it is a sellsword oath, not a bond to a king."

But you are not yet king of anything, Jon thought, but he nodded and stood, sensing an unspoken dismissal. "By your leave, Your Grace."

"You may go, but first I must ask you one more question," Aegon said. "Do you trust me, Jon?"

The question caught Jon off guard, for how personal it was, and he hesitated for a moment before answering. "Your Grace, I have only known you for a short time. Trust is something that must be earned over time, not freely given."

"That much goes without saying," Aegon responded. "What I truly meant was... do you believe that I mean these things?"

Jon bowed his head respectfully. "I believe you mean what you say, Your Grace." He left it unspoken that he knew not whether any of those lofty aspirations would ever hold true, if Aegon ever had his chance at the Iron Throne. From the flicker in Aegon's eyes, Jon knew the other understood. He departed from Aegon's solar.

It was only during the walk back to his quarters that one of Aegon's comments struck him. Aegon mentioned that Robert Baratheon had tried to murder them before, but that was at odds with a comment the magister had made during dinner the other day. What was it that Illyrio had said? The crown had not tried to murder the Targaryens in a while. So why was it that Aegon was afraid of non-existent knives? Who was lying - Aegon or the Magister? Jon's head spun. He hated this game of kings and the rules of deceit. Everyone had a different face for a different occasion. Azenet's hatred of the highborn now seemed much more reasonable.

She was there waiting for him, as if she had known his thoughts. His quarters were through the mess hall the company had assembled in earlier, but only Azenet was there now, sitting on a table, biting into an apple. She tossed it to him, and Jon took a bite. It was crisp and fresh, and Jon savored the flavor in his mouth."It could have been poison," Azenet said.

"And then you would be dead with me," Jon smirked.

"Not so bad. I will haunt you during the afterlife, as our spirits flow down the Great River," she laughed. "Come with me."

She led him by hand to her quarters. Like in the barracks, she had her own room. Ghost was already there, sitting by the base of her bed. Jon frowned at his wolf, wondering how he had ended up here.

"He can read your mind," Azenet whispered into his ear. "I did not know if you would come back tonight, but Ghost came here of his own accord. So come to me. We can talk about the Targaryens after," she said. Jon smiled and followed her, as she sat back into the bed, the moonlight glimmering in her eyes.

Chapter Text

Jon awoke to the chirping of the birds in the trees. The room was still yet dark, and the woman next to him warm and very real. Jon blinked and then kissed her scarred shoulder, reveling in Azenet’s embrace.

"Good morning,” she whispered, not opening her eyes. She pulled in closer to him. “It’s still dark?”

"Yes,” Jon said. “Go back to sleep.”

"It’s no use, now that I’m awake,” she mumbled softly. “I should see to the patrol schedule. Do you have your morning training to see to?”

"Aye. I need to hit something. Meeting with Aegon still has my thoughts racing.”

"Pay it no heed, Jon. What would they possibly aim to gain?” Azenet kissed his bare shoulder softly. Jon told her about Aegon’s offer when he came to her bed the night before. “Besides, you are just one man - hardly a conquering army,” she teased.

”Be that as it may,” Jon grumbled, pride wounded, “Aegon would seek to make me his claimant to Winterfell. Through me, he would keep a Stark in the North, but one beholden to him. And even if I refused, and Aegon followed through with his claim of mercy for Robb and my siblings, he all but offered my my choice of castles.” He let out a sigh. "But you are right. The chances that Aegon will ever be in a position to do something about it..."

“A magnanimous offer,” Azenet said, “if it had any promise to it. Aegon Targaryen is not likely to conquer anything, and you know it.”

"Yes,” Jon said. “And the more time I spend here, the more I feel at home. The Company is my home.” Azenet stared into his eyes, her hazel ones searching for something in them. Then she pressed her lips to his, a tender, sweet, lingering kiss that lasted for more than a few moments.

When Jon left Azenet's quarters, the sun had yet to rise in the east. He washed his face in the bathhouse and dressed in light armor. Azenet had drawn up patrols and security around Illyrio’s manse. Some soldiers made rounds, others were assigned as shadows to the Targaryens. Asher and Azenet herself were guarding Aegon. Jon had been assigned to Rhaenys. Jon mentioned to Azenet earlier that Rhaenys was trained with a spear and capable of handling herself, but she had simply shrugged and pointed out that Aegon wanted all of his family protected.

In truth, Jon did not hate the prospect of shadowing Rhaenys that much. She was one of the more interesting Targaryens, and the prospect of additional training and sparring was something he relished. He was not surprised to find her in the garden, training with her quarterstaff. He said nothing, but grasped a wooden training sword, and they began to spar together.

At the end of it, a young servant girl came looking for him. "Master Snow, there is a messenger from Master Varik Mott for you. He says your sword is ready for pick-up, and that you may come by anytime today to retrieve it."

Jon broke into a smile. "Thank you. Let the messenger know to tell his master that I will be there today." Jon watched the servant girl go. He was going to receive a Valyrian steel sword! His heart pounded with excitement. How often had he dreamed of wielding Ice in battle? But Ice was never to be his, and Jon made his peace with that. Now he was to have a Valyrian steel sword of his own, and it was all his - not passed down due to blood, but earned in it. 

"You seem quite pleased with yourself," Rhaenys said, shaking him back into the real world.

"Well... yes," Jon said. "Something I have been waiting for has been completed."

"And what might that be?" she questioned. The two of them had gotten quite sweaty in the humid early morning of Pentos, and their clothes clung to their skin, soaked with sweat. Jon plucked at his shirt to cool himself down, which earned a laugh from the Targaryen princess.

"A sword," he muttered.

Rhaenys pointed at his sword in its scabbard, which lay by a tree nearby. "You already have one. "

Jon rolled his eyes. "It is a Valyrian steel sword."

"Valyrian steel?" Rhaenys exclaimed in disbelief. "Have you also learned the secret to hatching new dragons? That is quite an achievement. I would love to see it - if it is real. I fear you may have been taken for a fool by a charlatan."

Jon scowled. "It is possible to reforge finished Valryian steel. It so happens that I have an ingot of it in my possession." In response to Rhaenys' questioning eyebrow, he said, "If you must know, it was given to me by a merchant prince in Braavos."

"You must have performed him a great service," Rhaenys said, her mouth quirked.

"No," Jon said. "He offered it in exchange for his life."

"And what happened to that merchant prince?"

"He's dead," Jon replied sharply.

Rhaenys studied him for a moment. Jon did not like how her eyes dug into him, as if trying to pry into his soul. "I wish to accompany you to the smithy. I have not seen Pentos at all, and I tire of these walls."

Jon was about to protest, knowing the risks of bringing a Targaryen out into the city, especially with the delicate situation surrounding them. But before he could say anything, Rhaenys spoke up.

"And before you say anything, Jon Snow, you do not command me. I am not one of your soldiers to be ordered about. I am the blood of the dragon."

Jon held up his hands in surrender. "Of course, Your Grace. But the House of the Dragon has a head, and I report to him and the Magister - not to you. If he gives his permission, then you are more than welcome to join me." Rhaenys did not look entirely pleased with this, but she nodded. 

"Go break your fast," she commanded. "I will have my answer after."

To his surprise, Aegon agreed. What was more, Daenerys was to accompany them, and Azenet made the decision to send the Targaryen princesses with Jon alone. Jon was not even permitted to take Ghost with him. "Less attention that way," she said. And to her credit, it was the right decision. Few people gave them a second glance as Jon walked slightly behind the two princesses. Daenerys had bound her hair and covered it under a cloak and hood, so that the only ones who could see her hair were the ones shorter than her. Given her small stature, it was a good disguise.

Jon, dressed in plain clothes and with his hood up, kept a watchful eye on their surroundings as they made their way through the bustling streets of Pentos.

They made their way to the Street of Coin, the heart of Pentoshi commerce. The wide street was lined with shops and stalls, each one selling all manner of exotic goods. The air was thick with the scent of spices and incense, and the sound of merchants hawking their wares filled the air. Jon had become somewhat familiar with the layout of the street now, and he knew that Varik Mott's foundry was at the far end of the street. He could see the smoke billowing from the chimneys even from here.

Daenerys' attention was caught by a trinket-seller's stall on the street. She moved closer to examine the items on display, fingering a necklace made of delicate silver chains and small mother-of-pearl. "Jon, come look at this," she called out to him. He made his way over, keeping an eye out for any potential threats.

"It's beautiful," he said, examining the necklace. It was indeed a pretty bauble, though the merchant had it on a small rack in his stall, not behind a glass. There, Jon could see, the merchant kept the quality things.

"How much for this?" Daenerys asked the seller, holding up the necklace for him to see. The seller named a price that was exorbitant, even for the Street of Coin. But Daenerys did not realize. She had not counted coppers before, Jon realized. He did not know much of how the Targaryens spent their exiled life in Essos, but if it had been difficult, Daenerys would have been the one they kept sheltered. It explained a great deal about the differences in personality between Rhaenys and Daenerys.

"Dany," he said, using a shortened version of her name. It was agreed upon by them that Jon would not call them by their real name, even as they departed. "It's too much for such a thing." Turning to the seller, he asked in his accented Bastard Valyrian, "Half. No more."

The seller grinned impishly at him. Jon knew that even half of what had been named was too much, but it was still much closer to the mark. "The Andal drives a hard bargain," he said obsequiously. "Deal." Jon drew a handful of silvers from his pouch and handed them over to the seller who gave him only a few coppers of change. Daenerys beamed at Jon and put the necklace on, and they continued on their way. The walk was not too long, but it took time, for Daenerys and Rhaenys stopped at every other market stall. Still, he found it in him to forgive the amount of time spent in the street. It was evident that they were not allowed to leave the confines of whatever safe house they lived in very often, so this would be a treasured outing for them. He could not imagine life this way elsewhere. It was true that he had lessons and chores in Winterfell, but outside of that, he and Robb had spent plenty of time outside the walls of the castle and in the Wolfswood or the winter town. The sellsword in him, however, could not help but stay on edge, his eyes darting every which way in anticipation of some threat. Eventually they arrived at the foundry without incident. Rhaenys removed her hood, letting it fall against her cloak, for even outside the forge it was warmer than the rest of the city. Daenerys only did the same after entering.

The place was just as sweltering and busy as last, only Jon was more aware of it now that he had royal company at his side. Last time he had to push through the workmen in the forge, but this time, many of them stopped their hammering to gawk at the princesses. There were no women in the forge, Jon surmised, and he began to grow nervous at all the attention lavished at them. He saw the man who led him to Varik Mott last time and hailed him.

"I am here for the sword," Jon said. "The Valyrian steel."

"Yes, yes, right away, lord," said the apprentice, though his eyes were fixed on Daenerys. He scurried to the back, and Jon beckoned for the princesses to follow. Many eyes lingered on them as they followed behind the apprentice. Mott was in his corner of the forge, seated at a desk and making entries into a ledger. When he saw Jon approached, his lip curled up into a smile. If he noticed the ladies by his side, he did not comment on them. Mott had done business before with the Magister, so he must have known to not ask too many questions.

"Ah, if it isn't the newest wielder of a Valyrian steel blade," Mott said, clapping his hands. The master smith stood up and produced a wooden box from behind him, covered in a suede cloth. "Go on, good man. Let me see you wield it for the first time."

Jon's heart pounded faster as his fingers fumbled with the suede cloth, removing it and placing it on Mott's desk. He undid the latches to the wooden box and opened it.

The sword was beautiful. It was even more beautiful than Ice, Jon thought. The Valyrian steel glittered in the light of the forge, its blade rippling with shades of silver-blue and black. Jon reached out to grasp the hilt, running his fingers over the intricate designs etched into the metal. The balance was perfect, and he could feel the weight of the blade in his hand, as if it were an extension of his arm. Despite its size - larger than the arming sword Jon currently wielded - it was incredibly light. He could swing it around as though it was a stick with two hands, and with one only marginally slower. The master smith had been right - this would give him such an advantage in battle, especially if he continued to use a shield.

The pommel was made exactly as Jon described it to the smith. It was a winter-rose, made of the same rippled Valyrian steel, but unlike the sword, which was mostly silver with only ripples of blue, the rose was entirely blue. It was banded by silver where it connected to the leather hilt, and to Jon's surprise, he recognized runes - runes of the First Men - engraved in the silver.

"Master Mott - this is the Old Tongue," he said carefully.

"Yes, yes, it is," the man said, grinning. "One of my journeymen hails from the coast of the North, near some godsforsaken island called... what was it, er... Skeggon?"

"Skagos?" Jon asked.

"That's the one. Says men still speak it there. He did that work. Don't ask me what it says. The pommel is also Valyrian steel. Some of the metal turned blue - though I know not why, so I used it for that. I thought it was closer to what you requested."

"It looks just like a real winter rose," Jon murmured. "Thank your Northman journeyman for me," Jon said, now turning to examine the rest of the box's contents. On the other half of the wooden box was an equally magnificent scabbard.

"The sword was so beautiful that I could not bear to give it an equal scabbard," Mott bragged.

Jon smiled up at him, grateful. It truly was a good gift. The scabbard was reddish brown, made of fine leather. It was adorned with silver fittings, each one delicately carved and etched with intricate designs. Jon slid the sword into its scabbard, feeling a sense of satisfaction as it clicked into place. The sword and scabbard were a perfect match, a work of art that he would treasure for the rest of his life. "Thank you, Master Mott," Jon said, turning to the smith. "It is more than I could have ever imagined."

Mott smiled, pleased with Jon's reaction. "It was my pleasure to forge, my lord. The Magister has taken care of the payment. May it serve you well in battle, and may you tell everyone who made it for you. Ah, before I forget." The man handed Jon another package. Jon unwrapped it and saw the shimmering glint of the remainder of the Valyrian steel ingot, and quickly wrapped it up again, placing it in his pouch. "The rest of your steel. Keep it safe - and when you are the wealthiest man in Essos, come back to me so that I may forge you another blade... or perhaps a helm, or gauntlets... ah, the possibilities are endless!"

"May I?" Rhaenys asked, to Jon's surprise. He nodded and handed the sword in its scabbard over to her. She pulled it out slowly, examining the work.

"It is beautiful," she whispered half to herself. "Though too long for me." Her fingers lingered over the pommel, tracing over the winter rose. Jon's breath caught for a second. He wondered if, like he had, Rhaenys had ever heard the story of how her father had crowned Jon's aunt with a crown of winter roses. In truth, he had not truly thought of that when picking the rose for his pommel. It was more to signify the Company, as well as a nod to Winterfell, where winter roses bloomed in the wild moors. He thought of all the times Father went to visit Aunt Lyanna's tomb in the crypts, and how often Jon and Robb had snuck down there to play. Always, there was a winter rose in the outstretched hand of Aunt Lyanna's statue.

"If you run me through with it, you can have Master Mott reforge it. Perhaps a spear for you," Jon offered, with a smile on his face, beating away his wayward thoughts. To his surprise, Rhaenys burst out into laughter - real laughter, not harsh or angry or hurt. It was a stirring, pretty sound that crept uncomfortably into his chest.

"Do not tempt me, Snow," she said, sheathing the blade and handing it back to Jon. Jon shifted his current sword to the other side of his belt, and fixed the new sword and scabbard in its place. After thanking the master smith once more, they left the foundry, Daenerys putting her hood back over her head.

On their way back, the Street of Coin seemed even busier than usual. Everyone was rushing towards the Great Street. Jon looked around in confusion, and then gestured for the princesses to stay closer together. They advanced in a tight group, with Jon keeping his head swiveled and on the lookout for any danger. The throng grew larger and larger as they approached the Great Street. Jon stopped them and asked a nearby merchant what was going on.

"Are you daft?" the man asked. "Today is Morninglord's Day! They are lining up for the procession. The Priests of Thalander will have their parade from the Sunrise Gate to the Port. Have you ever even been to Pentos before?"

Jon frowned and turned away from the man. Turning to Rhaenys, he muttered, "did you know about this day?"

Rhaenys shook her head. "I know of the Morninglord - he is one of the thousand deities worshipped in Essos - but I didn't know that the Pentoshi had a day for him, much less a procession. He is less important in other cities, such as Lys, Braavos, or Volantis, where people worship the Lord of Light." Jon thought those names were oddly confusing, but did not dwell on it.

"Stay close, Dany, Rhae," he said. The secret names sounded too familiar, too intimate. With Daenerys it was not so difficult, but he did not miss how Rhaenys' mouth twitched when he said it. They huddled together as they tried to push across the Great Street, but it was too late. The procession had already started, and somehow, in the massive throng, Jon was separated from the Princesses. Jon pushed his way through the crowd, his heart racing with fear. He had to find them, he had to make sure they were safe. But the sea of people was too dense, too chaotic, and he could not see anything beyond the heads and shoulders surrounding him. He called out their secret names, but his voice was lost in the cacophony of noise around him. As he pushed forward, he caught glimpses of the priests leading the procession - a sea of white and gold robes, banners fluttering in the wind, priests carrying gilded censers that filled the air with the scent of burning incense.

Finally, he caught a glimpse of blonde hair in the distance, and he surged forward, pushing past people with increasing desperation. "Dany!" Jon called. Daenerys turned around to face him, and her eyes were wide and fearful.

"Jon!" she cried. "Someone took Rhae!" Jon's pulse stopped. Panic and heat rising to his face, he all but dragged Daenerys out of the procession to the other side of the Great Street. He had been a fool to try and push his way across - they simply could have waited, it was not worth the risk! He berated himself.

"What happened?" he asked urgently. The company barracks was not too far from here. He could find Brandon, or someone, and have them escort Daenerys back to Illyrio's manse while he went back to look for Rhaenys. Yes, that was what he would do...

"I was distracted for a moment, and then I saw her. Someone had grabbed her and pulled her away from me, out of the procession, back towards the Street of Coin. I saw someone coming for me, too - his eyes were fixed on me - so I pushed away until you found me. They were looking for us, Jon, I'm certain of it." Jon cursed. He pulled Daenerys by the hand and raced through the street. The barracks were nearby, and by some stroke of luck, She-Bear was waiting right outside.

"She-Bear!" Jon bellowed. The woman looked surprised to see him. Jon practically foisted Daenerys over to her. "Take her to Brandon. She'll tell him everything, and then she needs to be escorted to the Magister's manse. I don't have time to explain. Go, now!"

He turned away and ran back towards the Great Street, back into the throng. He barreled through the procession, ignoring the scandalized shouts of the priests and worshippers who were walking down the thoroughfare. Re-emerging back down the Street of Coin, he ran in the opposite direction from the procession. He knew, vaguely, that the Street of Coin ran all the way to the southern edge of the city, where there was a smaller gate that merchants often traveled in and out of.

Jon did not stop running until he came to that gate. Just ahead, there were stables, where he saw two men wrestling someone onto the back of a horse. Whoever it was, they were bound by ropes. Surely that had to be Rhaenys.

"Stop right there!" Jon shouted. This part of the city was nearly empty, though whoever was on the street turned to look at him, the kidnappers included. They shouted at each other and got on their horses, galloping out of the city. The guards did not even bother stopping them, looking on with confusion at what happened. Jon ran towards the horses, drawing his sword. He leapt onto the back of one of the horses, the one which had been saddled already, and with a fierce yell, hacked at the ropes binding the horse to its post. He spurred it on through the city gates. This time, the useless guards tried to stop him, but he ignored them, bursting out of the city and galloping down the road at breakneck speed. The land outside Pentos to the south was dry shrubland, and flat. The dusty ground nearly blinded him as the midafternoon sun shone down brightly on him. He should have been hot, but his blood was cold. He could see ahead a small speck where the men were disappearing with Rhaenys as their captive, and the cloud of dust their horses kicked up. Jon followed them, but they soon disappeared beyond the horizon.

It did not matter if he could no longer see them. Jon kept racing forward. He lost track of time, and the midafternoon sun turned into an evening sun. The land was no longer flat, but he could tell from the tracks left on the dusty road that he was on the right track. He nearly missed it, when, as the land became more hilly, he realized that the men had veered towards the right - towards the coastline. Two horse tracks led off the road and into the scrubland.

Jon followed the tracks, his sword at the ready, his heart pounding in his chest. The terrain became more difficult, but he pushed the horse on. Though it was not the fastest beast, Jon gave it credit - it was sturdy and hardy enough. He could feel the weight of the sword in his hand. It was a comforting weight, one that made him feel strong and in control, despite the fear and uncertainty of the situation. In the distance, he could hear the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Eventually he followed the tracks to the cliffs. By now, it was dark, and but the bright moon and stars lit the night well enough for him to see. The horses of the captors were there as well. Jon rode up and dismounted. He searched for tracks in the dark, willing himself to remember what it was like going on hunts in the Wolfswood. These men were prey too, he reminded himself, just larger, and bipedal. Soon he saw their footprints, leading down towards the cliffs.

Jon approached the edge of the cliff carefully, crouching down to avoid being seen. He peered over the side, trying to see if he could spot Rhaenys. The waves crashed against the rocks below, and the sound was deafening. But there was a faint glow from the rocky face of the cliff. Jon leaned over further, and realized that there was a small cove. He looked around frantically for a path down towards it, and then saw it. It was narrow and perilously small, but enough for him to follow if he was careful. Quietly, he unsheathed his sword and began to inch down the cliffside trail.

The rocks were slick with seawater, and Jon had to proceed with caution to avoid slipping. The wind was picking up, and the sound of the waves was becoming louder and more violent. Jon's heart was pounding in his chest, but he knew he could not turn back now. He had to find Rhaenys and make sure she was safe. As he descended further down the path, the glow from the cove became brighter, and he could hear the sound of voices. He slowed his pace, his grip tightening on his sword, and he peered around the corner of the rocky cliff face.

There was a small fire burning in the center of the cove, illuminating the faces of the two men who were sitting next to it. Rhaenys was there too, tied up and gagged, sitting in between them. Her face was contorted in tearful rage, and she was struggling against her bindings. Jon let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. He had found her. Now he had to act quickly before her captors noticed him. He crouched down away from the cave mouth, assessing his options. The men likely thought they had given him the slip, and that he did not know where they were. Surprise was on his side. He looked down at the sword in his hand, and settled into grim determination. He crouched and began to enter the cave.

He only crawled forward a little before Rhaenys leaped to her feet and charged, knife in hand. She had somehow managed to escape her bindings, and she launched a furious attack on her captors. Jon scrambled to his feet, roared and charged in as well. The two men were taken aback by the oncoming assaults and only had time to draw their weapons before Jon was upon them. The first man, grizzled, middle aged, and missing nearly all his teeth, parried Jon's downward swing.

Or he tried, at least. The Valyrian steel was too fast, and too strong. The man's sword was knocked out of his hand and the rest of Jon's blade buried itself in the man's skull. He shrieked, but only for a second before Jon lopped off his head. His compatriot was quicker to react, lunging at Rhaenys with a longsword, but still too slow. The princess was too close, and buried her knife in his belly. The man let out a painful moan, blinking and grasping at the blade buried in his gut. He pulled it out, but bled faster, and he fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

Blood pooled around the two bodies, and Jon took a deep, ragged breath. He turned to Rhaenys. "Are you alright, Princess?" Jon asked, trying to keep his voice gentle as possible. He could not be sure he succeeded, for his heart was pounding louder than the sea outside the cove.

Rhaenys let out a wince as the blood flowed back into her limbs. "I live yet," she said through gritted teeth. She took a few steps gingerly, but cried out in pain and leaned hard against him. "They hurt my ankle with their bindings."

"It's a miracle they carried you here without falling into the sea," Jon muttered. He helped her sit, and then leaned down to join her. "May I?" With her nod of affirmation, he examined her ankle. It was mottled and bruised, nearly entirely purple. Overall, however, she seemed mostly unharmed, though there were small, superficial cuts along her arms and some on her face. "I do not know if you will be able to walk on this, but I should be able to carry you."

Rain began to lash against the cliff, and Jon realized soon that it would be nearly impossible to try and get up the narrow trail while conditions outside were like this.

"We'll have to wait out the storm. We cannot risk climbing up the cliff in this weather," Rhaenys groaned. Jon looked around the cave, which was small but dry. There was no way out other than the way they came in. Thankfully, Rhaenys' captors had already started a fire. Jon helped Rhaenys over to the fire and they huddled close together for warmth. Her body was shivering from the cold, and Jon knew they needed to get her warm as soon as possible. He began to gather some dry wood and twigs, building up the fire until it was roaring.

"Better?" he asked.

Her teeth were chattering less, so that was a good sign. "Much. Thank you, Jon." Jon nodded and unclasped his cloak. It was thin - made for the Essosi heat, not for lashing cold - but it was dry and he draped it around her shoulders anyway.

"What about you?" she asked, rubbing her arms.

"I've endured worse, Princess. My uncle Benjen took me to the Wall once. I went atop the structure. The way the wind howls, the way the lands beyond the Wall look - if you felt that, this would feel downright blazing in comparison." He glanced at her, scowling at him, and laughed. "Forgive me. We Northmen are notorious for touting our advantages in the cold, which surely brings a southern girl like you little comfort."

"I am not a southern girl," Rhaenys said flatly. She fixed him with a stare, but it was not her cool aloof one. There was some emotion simmering behind it. "I do not remember much of the south, or my time in Westeros. Neither does Viserys, frankly, though he was about six when we were forced into exile. He alternated quite often between Dragonstone and the Red Keep."

Jon nodded. "For what it's worth, Princess, I am sorry that you had to flee your home. And I am sorry about what happened with your lady mother. That was unjust. Only a fool would deny that."

Rhaenys gave him a strange look. "Are you sorry about the Usurper's Rebellion, too?"

Jon sighed. He truly did not wish to fight, though the flare of anger he felt whenever the Rebellion was mentioned was hard to quell. The Targaryens obviously had not been fed any morsel of truth about their involvement in it, save for Aegon, who seemed to at least be aware of Aerys' madness.

"Let us say, for a moment, that everything happened as you believe it to be. Prince Rhaegar did not abduct my aunt Lyanna, but rather, they ran away for love. Let us also say, then, that when Uncle Brandon rode to King's Landing to demand the Prince's head, that was a commission of treason. Do you know how your royal grandfather executed my uncle?"

"The King's Justice," Rhaenys stated confidently.

"No," Jon shook his head. "And if you believe that, you should speak to anyone who actually hails from Westeros. Aerys summoned my grandfather, and upon his demand for a trial by combat, burned him alive, and placed Uncle Brandon in a machine that strangled him to death if he attempted to get out and save my grandfather. Then he demanded the heads of my father and Robert Baratheon. Uncle Brandon did not raise his hand in rebellion against the Targaryens. He was a hotheaded fool, I suppose, to have come saying such words at the Red Keep, but not treasonous. House Stark stood behind your house from the day Torrhen knelt to the day Aegon Dragonsbane was crowned to the day the Mad King murdered its head, heir, and demanded the head of my father. Should I be sorry that Jon Arryn refused to put my father's head on a pike and send it to King's Landing? Where was the treason there?

Rhaenys met his eyes squarely, and Jon was surprised to see that she seemed to be truly considering his words.

"That was not just," Jon concluded. "But neither was what happened to your mother. And whether or not your father forced my aunt or loved her, seven kingdoms burned for that choice." He looked out into the lashing wind and rain that howled outside the cave mouth. "I was born in the south," Jon said. "Not many know. Sometime during the war, I suppose. My father retrieved me when he went to break the siege of Storm's End and took me to Winterfell with him. It's odd to think that had it not been for that war, I might not have been born."

"How many namedays have you seen?" Rhaenys asked.

"Sixteen, though I am halfway to the seventeenth," Jon said. "And you? You could not have been any older than three when the rebellion started, if I remember my lessons."

"No," Rhaenys said. "Nineteen, though like you, I near my twentieth."

The two of them sat in silence for a time, with the sound of the storm outside filling the small cave. The rain was coming down harder now, battering against the rocks and creating a cacophony of sound that made it hard to hear anything else. Jon watched the flames of the fire dance and flicker, casting shadows across the walls of the cave.

Finally, Rhaenys spoke up. "Why did you come for me, Jon?"

He looked at her with surprise. "What do you mean?"

"You had no reason to come," Rhaenys said. "If I was lost, the safer thing to do would have been to take your horse and to leave Pentos forever. My brother and uncle would surely try to have your head on a pike if you had lost me."

"I gave my word," Jon replied. "And I keep my oaths, Princess. And besides," he paused, looking at her. "I didn't want you to steal all the glory and overcome your captors by yourself."

Rhaenys laughed gently. "It was good you came when you did then, else these men, or perhaps I would have met an entirely different fate." She patted the ground next to her. "Come sit here. I won't have my rescuer freeze to death simply because he's too much of a stubborn fool to avail himself of a cloak. It's plenty large for us to share." Jon hesitated for a moment, but Rhaenys would brook no opposition. He sat next to her and allowed her to spread the cloak over both of them. It was better than sitting exposed, he had to admit.

"The serjeant, the Rhoynish woman - is she your lover?" Rhaenys asked. Jon nearly jumped out of the cloak, taken aback by the sudden shift in questioning.

"Azenet?" he blurted. Then his face flushed red, and Rhaenys laughed again.

"I have my answer, I suppose," she said. "I have seen you slip out of her chambers in the earliest reaches of the morning. I do rise earlier than you, you know. It is why I'm always at training before you."

"We have been through a great deal together," Jon said. "And Ghost likes her." Feeling emboldened, he asked, "What about you? Certainly many have vied for Princess Rhaenys Targaryen's hand."

"Perhaps they would, if Aegon and Magister Illyrio allowed me to leave the confines of whatever building we happen to be staying in. Then again," she scoffed, "they allowed me this once and look what happened. Either way, I am not free to marry for myself. My husband must be one who has the means to help my house return to Westeros. Someone with hordes and armies at his command." She glanced at him wistfully. "In that regard, I envy you, Jon. You can choose to be with your lady love for the rest of your life. In some ways you are freer than the highest of the highborn. Is that what you wish from this life? To settle down here?"

"You know that Aegon all but offered me Winterfell if I pledged myself to your cause?" Jon asked. When Rhaenys nodded yes, he continued. "When I was younger, I used to dream of being lord of Winterfell, but that was quickly corrected by Lady Stark. For a long time, I dreamed of something else, and I was happy with it - a lesser holdfast, to be my brother's bannerman, to be perhaps even the castellan or master-at-arms of Winterfell. All of those are good futures for a bastard. But they all would have come through my father, and none would have been things of mine. Rather than take the scraps, or a life of freezing death at the Wall, I chose to bet on myself. So far it has not been a bad bet."

"So why do you not accept? Do you not believe in our cause?" Rhaenys asked.

"Do you love your family?" Jon asked. When Rhaenys nodded, he sighed. "And I love mine, Princess. I would not drive them out of my own home for something that is not mine, nor should it be. Robb was born to be Lord of Winterfell. He deserves to be Lord of Winterfell. He is a good man. But even supposing that I was interested, Your Grace. You are not at liberty to tell me anything that would give me a clearer picture as to your chances of success," Jon said.

"Nor can I," Rhaenys said. She looked up him up and down and sighed. "It is hard to make people believe and keep things a secret all at once. I wish I could be honest. I have little patience for the games of politics. If there is something that needs to be done, I want to act - swiftly, decisively, and on instinct. But maturity and repercussions have taught me that it is not the best way to go through life, nor the best approach to every problem. I cannot fault you for lack of faith."

The wind outside continued to howl, but the crackling of the flames from their fire was somehow louder still in the recesses of their little cave. “May I ask something?” Jon said. Upon Rhaenys’ nod, he continued, “How did you survive the sack of King’s Landing? Eventually they realized you did, but not immediately.”

Rhaenys shrugged. “Truth be told, I… I do not know. So much of those days are just a blur to my mind. I was barely more than a babe. Aegon certainly doesn’t remember. I was later told by loyal men that my mother arranged to have Aegon and I smuggled out of King’s Landing, and that decoy children were put in our place. Though I never understood how it took so long to realize that Aegon and I were not truly dead.”

Jon looked down. Though none of it was his fault, he still felt shame. Rhaenys noticed. “What is it?” she asked sharply.

Jon sighed. “I overheard my father talking to my uncle once. He talked about what happened when he arrived in King’s Landing. The Lannisters presented Robert Baratheon with the Targaryen bodies. He…” Jon faltered.

”Tell me.” Rhaenys’ hand settled on top of his. “Tell me true, Jon,” she commanded, firmly.

”Your mother… everyone recognized. My father had seen her at tourneys before,” he said. “But the babe posed as Aegon… he said was unrecognizable. Little was left of the face. As for the babe posed as you… she had been stabbed so many times that little was left of her.” Jon paused. “My father said it was the worst thing he had ever seen. When Robert refused to punish the Lannisters for it, he rode south in a rage to fight the remaining battles of the war alone. It was only upon his return that he learned that the dead children were not you and your brother. Some maid had recognized a lack of a birthmark on one of you-“

Rhaenys pulled up her sleeve, revealing mottled skin in the crook of her left elbow. “This?”

”Perhaps,” Jon said. Rhaenys’ violet eyes glistened with tears. She did not cry or sob, but tears rolled down her cheeks nonetheless.

”Whose children died so that I might live?” she asked raggedly. “Which mother was left without her babes so that another could die with them? The gods are cruel, Jon Snow, to let such evil men walk the earth in the place of innocent babes.”

He did not have an answer for that. Eventually the princess fell asleep by the fire. Jon arranged his cloak over her and moved to the opposite side. Sleep came late for him, and when it did, it came with dreams.

He saw the woman in the black and red dress again. He still did not recognize her, but this time she turned to him. She was pretty, but tired and haggard, and somehow familiar. She stared right at Jon, before she whispered.

”Why only one?” she said, and then she was gone, and Jon dreamt no more.

Chapter Text

Morning came, and with it, calm.

Jon arose to the gentle noise of the sea. Sunlight filtered into the cove, warming his bones. It was not so cold as it was last night. He rose from his place near the dying embers of their fire. Rhaenys was still there, sleeping peacefully under his cloak. He watched her for a brief minute, and then set about quietly exploring the cove. It was easier to do so with the light. The two bodies he had piled near the edge last night. He patted them down, finding only a few coins which he pocketed. Near the back of the cave, though, were some crates filled with supplies - clothes, fresh water, dried crackers and salted meat - and in one of them was a letter along with a modest sum of coin.

It was unmarked, unsigned, and in the plainest handwriting. It provided detailed instructions - to capture any Targaryen the men could find and to bring them here to this cove, where a boat would come for them. No boat ever came as far as he could remember. Whoever it was knew the Targaryens were in Pentos. Perhaps the King himself knew about it. There was something strange about all this. What would King Robert want with a captive Targaryen? Jon could not claim to know the mind of the King, but he felt that the Iron Throne was more likely to simply have the Targaryens murdered in their sleep. Perhaps this was the work of someone seeking to curry favor with the Crown - or something else, someone entirely unrelated to the Crown. Jon pocketed the letter and took out some of the food, carrying it back over to where Rhaenys slept.

She stirred awake, blinking away the sleep from her eyes. They widened in alarm when she saw Jon, but the panic receded a little when she realized where they were and the events of yesterday.

”Good morning, Princess,” said Jon. He offered her some of the crackers and salted beef. “We should break our fast and be on our way. The rain stopped last night and I think the path is dry enough for us to climb safely.” 

Rhaenys nodded and took the food. They ate in silence, and then Jon carried her on his back up the cliff. It was rough going, even with the relatively dry track, but he managed easily enough. To his utter surprise, his horse was still there, grazing on shrubs. Jon let out an incredulous laugh as he put the Princess down and helped her over.

“Brave girl, aren’t you?” Jon whispered to the horse. “Sat out here all through the storm. I shall have to find you treats when we get back.” She was a dappled grey, lean and sturdy, and she looked at him with knowing eyes. He stroked her mane.

”Fond of horses?” Rhaenys asked. He turned to her and smiled, helping her up into the saddle, taking care with her hurt ankle. Then he joined her, and she wrapped her arms around him.

"I spent as much time as I could in the stables,” Jon confessed. “Though it always rankled me that Robb was better at holding a lance on horseback. Still, I could outride him, any day.” He spurred the horse on, this time at a far more leisurely pace than when he was chasing Rhaenys down. The princess quickly fell asleep again. He could tell when he heard a gentle snore against his back, and the weight of her body pressed against his. He checked her feet to make sure she was not going to slip and fall anytime soon, and then continued.

It was a few hours from sundown when they arrived back in the city. Jon’s first stop was the stable just by the gate. As soon as he found the stablemaster, the man recognized him and began yelling. Jon gestured for him to be quiet and tossed a pouch of coin. His gesturing did nothing, but the coin did silence the man. He counted the coin without speaking.

”I am not a thief,” Jon said in bastard Valyrian. “Is this enough?”

The man finished counting and then nodded. “Keep the horse. For an extra 10 dragons, keep the saddle as well.”

Jon looked down at the horse. He tossed the man 7 dragons instead. “This should suffice.”

The stablemaster smiled. Half his teeth were gone and the other half rotting. “You were chasing after the girl?” he asked. Before Jon could answer, the man continued. “Can’t blame you. What a lovely piece of arse.”

Jon ignored the stablemaster’s crude comment and turned to Rhaenys, who was still sound asleep. Her head rested against his back, her hair tickling his neck. He gently shook her awake.

"Rhae, we’ve arrived,” he said softly, remembering to use her shortened name. She stirred and opened her eyes.

"Where are we?” she asked groggily. The people around them stared openly at their disheveled appearance, but Jon paid them no mind. He was focused on getting Rhaenys somewhere safe and comfortable.

"Why stop here?” Rhaenys wondered with a yawn, against his back.

”I needed to pay for the horse I stole.”

At first, Rhaenys said nothing. Then she laughed against his back, which sent an uncomfortable rippling tingle down his spine. “You are by far the strangest sellsword I have ever met, Jon Snow.”

Jon gently nudged the horse into a trot, making their way through the bustling streets of Pentos towards Illyrio's manse. The city was alive with the sounds of evening life; merchants were closing their stalls, and lanterns were being lit, casting a warm glow on the cobblestone streets. Their journey back to Illyrio's manse was uneventful, but Jon remained vigilant, his senses alert for any signs of danger. As they approached the grand gates of the manse, the guards immediately recognized them and swung the gates open. One of the men assigned by Azenet to guard the gate saw Jon and his eyes opened wide.

“Snow!” he shouted. “You’re back!” When he saw the Princess behind Jon on the horse, he grinned.

“I’ll let the serjeant know you’re back. Good to see you alive, Snow… and you as well, Princess.”

“You as well, Kyros,” Jon said, thanking the Tyroshi. 

Once his new horse was stabled, Jon helped Rhaenys dismount. Two more men of the Company came to Jon and Rhaenys and informed them that they would take them to the waiting Targaryens and Magister Illyrio. Rhaenys still limped, but Jon helped her with a steadying hand. The halls were dimly lit, the evening shadows stretching long across the floor. They passed a few shocked glances from the servants, and plenty of whispers, but no one stopped them.

The men of the Company led them to the Magister’s study, and then departed. Jon and Rhaenys exchanged a glance before they entered the study. As they did, the room fell silent, all eyes turning towards them. Aegon, Viserys, Daenerys, Magister Illyrio, Asher, and Azenet awaited them. Daenerys still looked disheveled, and her eyes were red-rimmed.

Rhaenys gingerly limped closer to them. Daenerys came rushing to them, though she embraced Rhaenys gently, taking care not to aggravate her wounds. She then hugged Jon as well, which made his cheeks redden.

“Thank you, Jon,” she said.

Jon patted her shoulder. “I would be a very poor guard if I let anything happen to one of my charges, Princess.”

Daenerys smiled and returned to Aegon’s side. Aegon, his expression a mixture of concern and relief, was the next to speak.

"Jon Snow, tell us everything. What happened?"

Jon recounted the events in detail, from the pursuit into the storm, to their night in the cove, finally handing over the note he had discovered. The room listened in rapt attention, the air thick with tension.

“Does he tell the truth, niece?” Viserys asked.

Rhaenys nodded. “He does. I do not think I would still draw breath if Jon did not come for me,” she replied.

Magister Illyrio took the note next, his eyes scanning the contents swiftly. A frown creased his brow as he read. "This is King Robert's doing," he said, his voice grave. "He is growing bolder in his attempts to eliminate the Targaryen line.” He turned to Aegon. “We have no choice, Your Grace; we must accelerate our plans."

Aegon's face darkened, a troubled look passing over his features. He turned to Jon. "Thank you for your service to my house, Jon Snow. I will not forget your bravery. We shall we discuss this in greater detail later. I must speak with my family.”

Asher nodded, though his expression remained unreadable. "As you wish, Your Grace." He nodded at Jon, and then he and Azenet crossed the room, and they departed together.

As they made their way through the corridors of Illyrio's manse, Asher turned to Jon, a look of sincere respect in his eyes. "You did well, Jon. That rescue sounded like no small feat.” He glanced at Azenet, and then continued. “Safe to say that our reputation as a Company remains intact.”

“It was a good plan,” Jon said, defending Azenet. “We succeeded in not drawing attention to ourselves. If someone is looking for the Targaryens, that is a different matter altogether.”

“And something I should have anticipated,” Azenet said with a sigh.

Asher clapped him on the back. "It worked out in the end. I'll need to report to Brandon. He'll want to hear about this." With a final nod, he veered off down another hallway, leaving Jon and Azenet alone.

Azenet watched Asher leave, and then her gaze fell on Jon. She stepped closer to him, her expression a mix of relief and something more intense. Something Jon could not place. Without a word, she threw her arms around him, her embrace tight.

Jon was taken aback for a moment, but he quickly returned the embrace, feeling her body tremble against his. "Azenet," he began, but she silenced him with a passionate kiss, her lips pressing urgently against his.

Their kiss deepened, and they stumbled backward, fumbling their way back to her room. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them, caught in a whirlwind of emotion and desire.

As they reached her room, Azenet pushed the door open, and they tumbled inside. Jon kicked the door shut behind them, their lips still locked in a fierce kiss. Azenet's hands roamed over his body, her touch setting his skin ablaze. They fell onto the bed, their kisses growing more fervent, their hands exploring each other with an urgency that spoke of long-suppressed desire. The world outside ceased to exist, and for a brief, blissful moment, there was only them, two souls lost in a sea of passion and longing.

Jon awoke sweating that night.

He was in Azenet's bed, but Azenet was not here. After their passionate lovemaking, she took a night shift of guard duty herself. Jon knew that it was a good move for a serjeant to be in the dirt with the members of her squadron; 'penance,' Azenet had called it. Jon told her she was not to blame for what happened but she was set on punishing herself regardless. The Company’s reputation was at stake, she said, and she had nearly fumbled it away.

He dreamed. Sometimes it was the woman in red and black, but this time, he dreamt of a terrible horse with a braided mane. The horse was a great beast. It galloped across a rolling sea of grass, but fell mid-stride, neighing loudly as it did. The stallion burst into flames, and that was the end - Jon woke then.

He splashed some water on his face from the water basin near the bed and put on a linen tunic. Sitting on the bed, he glanced at the sword in the corner. Even shrouded in darkness, the scabbard was beautiful, and Jon could still see the brilliant blue of the winter rose pommel. It struck him then that he still had no name for the blade. Huffing, he stood and left the room.

Illyrio's manse could sometimes be a maze, but Jon knew the layout well enough to know where the baths were. The floors in the bath were mosaic tile. The images portrayed some history of Pentos, Jon assumed - battles won and lost, glories attained, and self-aggrandizement on the part of the magister. Unlike Winterfell, which rested on hot springs, Jon knew these baths were heated though a hypocaust. The baths were empty save for a single servant, who must have been assigned to keep the facility running should someone want a bath deep in the night. Feeling sorry for the man, Jon gave him a silver coin as a sign of thanks before he found a heated pool and sank into it. The warm waters relaxed his muscles, and he laid his head against the back of the pool, closing his eyes.

He stayed there for a while longer, letting the tension of the past day seep away into the water. Only when he felt his body wrinkling like a prune did he leave, gathering his own towel and dressing in fresh linens laid out by the servants. It was still night, but Jon knew the dawn was less than an hour or two away. The garden was pleasantly cool, and so he detoured before returning to Azenet's chambers, opting to enjoy the relaxing surroundings. Some part of him felt guilty that the rest of the Company was holed up in some barracks in the city, while their squadron got to enjoy the luxuries of palatial living, but he was not that guilty about it that he would trade places with them. Winterfell was comfortable, too, but hardly opulent. Northerners lived a harsh and bare life compared to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. This sort of opulence was seductive. Hot baths and warm meals and soft linens and pleasant gardens were things that, when one got accustomed to them, would not let one go. 

"Were you born brooding, Jon Snow?" lilted a musical voice.

Jon turned around to see Rhaenys. He gave her a small smile, which she returned. "Much better," she said. "I assume you, like me, cannot sleep."

"I slept a while," Jon said. "But not well. I thought a bath was in order."

"Indeed. You look refreshed," she said. At some point, the Princess had also bathed, for she was free of all of the grime of the preceding day's events. She still walked a little gingerly, but rested more of her weight on that leg than before. 

Jon gestured towards it. "I assume we will not be training anytime soon."

"No," Rhaenys said sadly, shaking her head. "A pity. I was growing used to the routine. I fear many things will have to change in the coming days." She sat by a bench and patted next to her, gesturing for Jon to sit. He followed after, sighing as he did so. The water spouting from the decorative fountain right next to them was the only noise they heard, aside from the soft noise of crickets in the distance. 

"The Company will escort us to Magister Illyrio's manse, as agreed upon," Rhaenys finally said. "But we will leave tomorrow. We will not go to his manse by the sea before. We have had to hasten our need to travel to Folgorica, and cannot linger. Aegon has already spoken with your Captain Brandon. Your entire - pack, is it called? - will escort us there."

Jon sighed. "I had hoped to get some more sleep."

Rhaenys smiled. "Me too. Beds agree with me more than damp seaside coves."

That earned a laugh from Jon, but there was something in Rhaenys' eyes, something that troubled her. He felt a strong urge to ask, but was that too familiar of him? Aye, they shared something - a friendship would perhaps be overselling it - but Jon did not want to cross boundaries and be too familiar with a princess.

You are a bastard, an ugly voice reminded him.

You are a free man, beholden only to yourself and the oaths you make, another voice said.

"Are you alright?" Jon blurted out. Rhaenys looked at him quickly, and then looked away. "I am sorry if I overstep, Your Grace. I- that is, you look troubled."

"And you know what I look like when I look troubled?" she retorted.

"It takes one brooder to know another," Jon replied. That cracked her irritation a little, and she finally relented with a smile. 

"I suppose so," she said. "But I cannot tell you, even if I want to. I feel as though I can trust you, but it is not only my secret to share, and I will not cross that line. I know you understand."

Jon nodded. "Very well, Princess.”

”Will you stay with me a while?” Rhaenys asked. “I do not wish to be alone right now.”

”Of course,” Jon said. And so they sat together, enjoying a companionable silence, until she took her leave and Jon watched her disappear back into the maze of corridors.

In the morning, Brandon and the rest of the pack was at the gate. Azenet sent Jon ahead to greet them. Illyrio had not granted them entry to the palace, but they were to wait and escort the Targaryens in full strength out of the city and to the town of Folgorica. When Jon went outside to greet Brandon, he was graced with a rough, quick hug and a pat on the shoulder from his kinsman.

”Asher told me what you did,” he said. “Well done, Jon.” Brandon produced a pin and fastened it to Jon’s cloak. “We have new recruits - enough to form a new squadron within our pack. I have need of a fourth serjeant. Congratulations, Jon.”

Jon’s jaw dropped as he looked at this pin, and then at the grinning Brandon. “I- I’m honored.”

”I’m not trying to honour you, I’m trying to get you to run my pack for me. Now go grab Morris, Jean, Kyros, and Bellam from Azenet’s squadron. I’m assigning them to you so you have some tested men to help you get your squadron up and running.”

Jon nodded and dashed back inside. He went to Azenet first. She was happy for him, wrapping him in a tight embrace and kissing him on both cheeks. She whispered something in Rhoynish in his ear and then finished it with a searing kiss on the lips before letting him go. He gathered his own gear from Azenet’s quarters and found Bellam waiting for him outside. Bellam was a red headed Riverman with a jovial face and blue eyes. He was a good shot with the bow, too, and had been in the company for many years. 

“Captain says I’m to be your valet, Serjeant,” he said, shaking Jon’s hand in congratulations. “I’ll see your gear to the baggage train. Kyros and Jean are organising the new bloods. Dunno where Morris is, though.” 

Jon expressed his thanks and headed back to the gates. True to Bellam’s word, the other two were organizing the new recruits, and Morris had joined them. Jon inspected them quietly before introducing himself. There were nineteen men and two women. One was lithe and the other Jon nearly mistook for She Bear. The men came in different sizes, but all of them were young.

"Welcome,” Jon said, stepping forward.

"At attention, you flea-ridden louts!” Jean shouted. A Flea Bottom man by birth, Jean was hard nosed. His was a face only a mother could love, scarred and broken by so many drunken fistfights in taverns and brothels. His cauliflower ears and straw-colored hair spoke to it.

”Thank you, Jean,” Jon said. “My name is Jon Snow. I am the serjeant of this squadron. You likely already know our pack lieutenant Asher Forrester, and our Captain Brandon Stark. Jean, Morris, and Kyros are our squadron corporals, as is Bellam, who you all will meet in a few moments. We’ll have more time to talk when we make camp this evening after our March. Until then, I want you to hold formation and keep good pace. On all your faces, I see promise and ability. Let’s put all the other squadrons to shame, shall we?”

A few half hearted “ayes” greeted him, but he received blank stares from others. Mentally hitting himself, he repeated a more truncated version of the speech in Bastard Valyrian to them. They seemed to understand, and saluted before going about their business. 

Jean had a good laugh at his expense. “Don’t forget to use the right language in battle, Serjeant,” he ribbed Jon. 

Their squadron was to march behind Azenet’s, ahead of Veryll the Deadeye’s, which was then ahead of She Bear’s, which brought up the rear. Brandon was going to ride ahead with Azenet, as would Asher. Aegon and Viserys were ensconced with them - Rhaenys was with Jon’s squad, no one with Veryll’s, and Daenerys with She Bear in the rear. The magister had already left with his entourage, claiming the fanfare he drew would pose too great a threat to the Targaryens.

Bellam brought his new horse, saddled and fed, as well as a second white horse. Jon looked at him quizzically. Bellam only shook his head. "White mare's for the Princess, Serjeant. Speaking of..."

Jon whipped his head around. Rhaenys approached, dressed entirely differently than he had seen her until now. She wore light armor, for one, fit for riding, with a cloak bearing a decorative dark orange pattern draped over her shoulders. Her dark hair was pulled back into a braid, and she looked every bit a daughter of Nymeria the Great.

"Princess Rhaenys," Jon greeted her, his voice filled with surprise. He used a formal tone - it would not do to have the men of his squadron wonder at his familiarity with the Targaryen princesses. "Are you ready to ride out?"

She smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "To live life as a member of the Company of the Rose? I couldn't be more excited. You have my congratulations, by the way. From what I understand, you were promoted to serjeant for your brave rescue of a princess in distress."

Jon fought the smile that came to his face, but he was not sure he entirely succeeded. "The princess was not as distressed as the stories make it sound, Your Grace. I think she was capable of handling herself. But I thank you."

The others in the squadron looked on with awe and curiosity as Rhaenys mounted her horse gracefully, with Jon's assistance. He was close enough to hear the slight hiss she gave when she was forced to put weight on her hurt ankle.

"Easy there," he murmured. Rhaenys caught his eye and gave him a half-smile. She put on a good show for the men, but she was as weary as he was inside. They had hardly slept last night. Today would be a hard march. He was grateful for the horse he had obtained, and for not having to march until his feet fell off as was the case from Braavos to here.

He whistled, and Ghost came loping out of the manse. The direwolf grew larger and larger. Rhaenys' eyes widened when she saw him. "I've seen glimpses, but by the gods, he is beautiful," she whispered.

"Aye," Jon agreed. "Though few have that reaction. Fear typically comes first," he countered. Indeed, many of the new men to his squadron shied away from the wolf, as Ghost came over to his side. Jon leaned down from the saddle and rubbed a hand in his white fur, earning a pant of happiness and a lolled tongue from the wolf.

The column ahead of them began its march. Jon could see Azenet mounted on her horse, her dark braids swaying as her horse trotted forward. With the aid of his corporals, Jon's squadron began their march as well. He turned in the saddle and saw Veryll behind, and She-Bear even further. They proceeded through a side street and hugged the city walls until they arrived at the Sunrise Gate, rather than taking the direct way through the main streets of Pentos. Though Jon could not help but keep his head swiveled for danger at every turn, they went unmolested through the city.

As they left the city behind, the sprawling landscape of Pentos stretched out behind them. After an hour, Jon gave his horse to Bellam to lead, and took his leave of the Princess. He spoke with the new recruits - learning their names, where they came from, who they had been in their past lives.

Each recruit had a unique story to tell, and Jon listened intently, trying to piece together a sense of who these individuals were and what they brought to the Company of the Rose. There was Mira, a former tavern wench who had discovered a talent for archery during a raid on her village. And then there was Marquo, a weaver's apprentice who had been something of a tavern brawler in his spare time. The stories were varied, but one thing was clear—they were all seeking something more in life, a chance to prove themselves and find purpose. In that, Jon found that he could relate fully.

Jon returned to his horse after speaking with them and rode alongside Rhaenys once more. She glanced at him with curiosity, as if there was a question upon her lips. Jon smiled.

"Ask, Princess," he said in a low voice.

She glanced back at his men. "It is less a question and more an observation, I think."

"And that would be?" Jon asked.

Rhaenys shook her head. "I do not think many men born to a horse, born to a highborn life, would get in the mud alongside their men, and talk with them, rather than just to them." She looked back at them once more. "Farriers, farmers, smiths, apprentices, wenches - but no soldiers. Will they become soldiers for you?"

Jon nodded, measuring his next words. "None of our pack love Brandon just because he holds a title or wears a badge of authority. They love him because they trust him with their lives. We've all agreed to fight and die by our bond, and when Brandon gives his word to someone, when we put in a contract - all of us know he's wagering our lives. And we let him do it because we trust him." Jon glanced back at his men. "They'll never trust me if I don't come to know them."

Rhaenys listened, her eyes fixed on Jon as he spoke. "And what about you, Serjeant?" she asked, her tone soft. "Do you trust them?"

Jon's horse trotted alongside Rhaenys', and he took a moment to consider her question. The wind carried the scent of grass and earth, mingled with the distant sound of hooves hitting the ground. "I must learn to trust them too," Jon replied, his voice steady. "In battle, it won't be just our skill with a sword or bow that keeps us alive. You have to keep faith with the man shielding your back."

"That is a great deal of trust to put in anyone," Rhaenys remarked.

Jon shrugged. "In the end, you have to put it somewhere. Better a comrade-in-arms than anything else, save perhaps the gods."

As they continued their march, Jon was pleased to observe a growing camaraderie among the squadron. Days went by quickly, and within a fortnight they neared the town of Folgorica. The pack lost two men - one was ill when they arrived in Pentos, and his cough and his lungs got the best of him on the march. The other was bad business all around - the fangs of a copperhead did him in, the poison claiming him in two days. Still, there were no attacks on the Targaryens, not even a hint that they were being followed. On the eleventh day after their departure from Pentos, they arrived in Folgorica.

The small town was a fairly large one - small being relative in Essos, as Jon had learned. Still, it was no Pentos. The streets were dusty and dry, the houses not nearly as opulent, and the people of a decidedly more rustic bend. Yellow grass stretched as far as the eye could see, along with vineyards.

"The Magister claims he grows the majority of his wine here," Rhaenys remarked as they arrived near the town. "Says it pairs well with his cheese." That earned a chuckle from Jon. Still, rustic or no, Jon was looking forward to a proper bed - and Azenet, for they had little chance to spend time together, managing their own squadrons. Two days in, they had stolen away early in the morning and made love by a riverbank, but since then, opportunities had been scarce.

When they arrived at the Magister's manse, Illyrio was already waiting for them. Each of the serjeants, along with Asher and Brandon, rode ahead with the Targaryen royals. Illyrio stood at the entrance of his grand manse, his robe billowing in the warm breeze.

"Welcome, my friends," Illyrio greeted them with a wide smile. "I trust your journey was uneventful?"

"Indeed, Magister," Rhaenys replied, dismounting from her horse with Jon's help. Her ankle appeared to have healed somewhat during the march, though she still favored it slightly.

Aegon continued. "We encountered no troubles along the way. Captain Brandon and his men were most careful."

Illyrio nodded, his gaze lingering on Rhaenys for a moment longer than Jon thought necessary. "Well done, Captain Brandon. The safety of the Targaryens has proven to be in good hands thus far. I'm afraid our contract will be at an end soon, but never fear - you shall be compensated fairly despite the reduction in duration. Until then, I have need of your services for their Graces for a few days longer still."

Brandon's jaw tensed, but he managed to keep his composure, or so Jon observed. "Of course, Magister. We are happy to serve."

Illyrio smiled and clapped. "My servants will help your serjeants see to the accommodations for your men. They will be fed and given water and some of the wine from this very vineyard," he said. "After your company is settled, I would like to invite you and your officers to dinner. Your Graces, if I may show you to your quarters..."

The Targaryens trailed after him. Rhaenys turned to give him a look before she set off down a long hallway, disappearing from Jon's sight.

The next few hours before dusk were spent arranging their men, though Jon was afforded an opportunity to bathe in the manse before dining with the Targaryens. This time, Azenet was accompanying them, as was She-Bear, though Veryll had declined.

Once settled into his own room, Jon took a moment to refresh himself before dinner. He splashed cool water on his face, washing away the sweat and dust from their journey. As he stared at his reflection in the mirror, he noticed the weariness etched into his eyes. Jon took a deep breath, trying to shake off the fatigue that clung to him like a heavy cloak. The door creaked behind him, and Azenet stepped in. She glanced around his quarters.

"Bigger than mine," she murmured. "I suppose we'll spend our remaining nights here, then."

Jon turned and smiled. She drew close, pulling into his arms and resting her body against his. They stood, hugging each other close, for a few moments. Jon felt some of his cares slip away, and when they pulled apart, he felt lighter.

"There," Azenet said, kissing his cheek. "I have been waiting for that since were arrived. I have not seen you near enough, it feels like." She stroked his cheek with her hand. "When did you become such a necessity for me?"

Jon chuckled softly, savoring the tenderness of her touch. He pressed his forehead to hers. "Somewhere in the chaos of battle, I think," he replied, his voice filled with warmth.

Her eyes sparkled with affection as she gazed into his. Their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss, but the sound of footsteps approaching tore them apart reluctantly. A servant's voice called for him, and Jon replied that he would be out shortly.

"Dinnertime with dragons," Azenet said with a soft laugh. "I will see you there." Her hand lingered on his cheek. "So much stubble. Do not shave it. I intend to feel it between my thighs tonight," she said, winking at him as she left.

Jon groaned as he watched her slip out of his room. He slipped into a clean set of clothes, feeling the soft fabric against his skin. He brushed his hair, which had grown a little long and unruly. When he was presentable. Jon made his way to the dining hall where dinner would be served. The air was filled with the tantalizing scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread, making his stomach growl in anticipation.

As Jon entered the dining hall, he was greeted by the sight of a lavishly set table. The room was adorned with golden candelabras and tapestries depicting scenes of nymphs and spirits dancing and playing in the woods. The Targaryens sat at the head of the table, with Illyrio seated beside Aegon. Daenerys and Rhaenys sat between Aegon and empty seat. Brandon and Asher were already there, and Azenet caught Jon's eye from across the room and gave him a mischievous smile. He felt a familiar warmth spread through his body at the thought of their impending reunion later that night.

"Apologies, Your Graces," Jon said, inclining his head. "I appear to be late."

"Not at all," Aegon said. "We still await my dear uncle."

Jon took his seat and made himself comfortable. Servants filled their wine goblets every so often, and Brandon spoke with the Magister at length about the vineyard and the sort of wines and grapes grown on Folgorica's soil. Jon listened for a while out of politeness, but his attention began to wander. His eyes ventured over to Rhaenys. She seemed oddly subdued.

Aegon cleared his throat. "Please, good officers of the Company - do not wait on my uncle's account. Let us begin eating." He began to pile onto his plate, and everyone followed. The meal was fantastic, and doubly so after the march they endured to get to Folgorica. He exchanged small talk with his fellow serjeants and smoldering glances with Azenet.

As the feast continued, Jon's mind found itself wandering to Rhaenys. She had been quieter than usual throughout the evening, her eyes distant and troubled. Jon wondered what could be weighing on her mind, for she did not seem the sort let her ill-feeling show so openly.

As the main course was being cleared away and desserts were being brought out, Aegon stood up, tapping his glass with a spoon. The room quietened, and he turned to face his guests, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Friends and esteemed company," Aegon began, his voice carrying through the room. "I thank you all for joining us tonight and for your unwavering service in protecting me and my family. Were it not for the efforts of the Company of the Rose, and of Jon Snow in particular, I would not have been in a position to make this announcement." Aegon raised his goblet and turned to Jon.

"To Jon Snow, Serjeant of the Company of the Rose," he said, smiling. Everyone toasted Jon, and he felt his cheeks redden as he forced an awkward smile to his face. Jon raised his goblet in acknowledgment, the weight of the room's attention resting on him as he sipped.

"You may be wondering why we have come to Folgorica, and why we have need of your services for a few days longer," Aegon said. "Your contract was to end once you brought us here. Time and circumstances have forced a change of plans. In two days time we will host a guest of immense importance here - my sister's newly betrothed."

Jon's head swiveled to Rhaenys, but the princess would not meet her eyes. He looked to Daenerys next, who looked away from him as well.

A ripple of whispers spread through the room, as everyone exchanged curious glances. Jon's heart began to race, anticipation and uncertainty intertwining within him. His eyes searched for Azenet, but she seemed just as surprised as he was.

"Who is this betrothed?" Brandon asked, breaking the silence. "And why is their arrival of such importance?"

Aegon looked to Illyrio, and for a moment, Jon saw the composed mask of the would-be Lord of the Seven Kingdoms slip and fall. Illyrio gave him an imperceptible nod. He then looked for Rhaenys, but the Princess's eyes were fixed on her lap. "He is... Khal Drogo, one the greatest living horselords," Aegon said, his voice steady.

Brandon's face visibly paled, and Jon's heart sank. He never heard of this particular khal, but he was well aware of the Dothraki by reputation. The Dothraki were well known for their brutal lifestyle and fearsome riding skills. They were a force to be reckoned with on the open plains, but their reputation for violence sent a chill down Jon's spine. A sense of unease settled upon the room, tension brewing beneath the surface.

"Khal Drogo?" Brandon repeated calmly. Then he did something Jon had never seen him do. He turned to address Illyrio directly. "I will speak with you, Magister, for I'm certain this plan came from you - and if it did not, you should have dissuaded it from the beginning. I have taken the field against Khal Drogo. We were hired by Norvos seven years ago when I was but a serjeant of another captain's pack - we and the Norvoshi citizen-army and six other sell-sword companies. Drogo and his khalasar swept us from the field. I am no Targaryen loyalist, my lord, but even if I were Robert Baratheon himself, I would not wish this fate upon the Princess Rhaenys."

"Come now, Captain," Illyrio said, his eyes glinting. The look in them belied his otherwise genial tone. "Marriages have solidified alliances for centuries before this one and they will continue to do so centuries after this one. The Princess is prepared to do her duty by her house. And, as you say, the Dothraki horde swept you off the field. Those riders would serve in the re-conquest of Westeros. That to me is a ringing endorsement, not a sufficient warning."

Jon was hardly listening. His eyes were fixed on the Princess. Rhaenys would not look at him. Daenerys, on the other hand, could not hide the sad frown that graced her otherwise elfin features.

"Your Grace... the Dothraki can sweep the field when facing sellswords and citizen-soldiers. What will they do against the charge of Westerosi knights?" Asher asked, quietly. He had not spoken up till now, but his voice was measured, careful, and direct. "What will they do in the winter snows of the North when even a man on horseback can disappear under the snow? Will your people love you when your foreign soldiers rape and pillage across the kingdoms? Who will they see as Usurper then?"

A tense silence fell upon the room, punctuating Asher's words. Finally, it was Rhaenys who broke it. "I appreciate your concern for me, my lords." She looked at all of them, though her eyes skipped over Jon. "I am no naive child. I understand the risks and the potential consequences of this alliance, but it is not just about me. It is about securing the future of House Targaryen and reclaiming our rightful place on the Iron Throne. For that, I would give my life."

Jon felt a lump form in his throat as he listened to Rhaenys's resolute words. The weight of her sacrifice hung heavy in the air, suffocating him.

Brandon finally nodded. "Very well. If you are aware, then it is not my place to dissuade you. You must, of course, do what you think is right."

"But it is not, is it?" hissed a voice.

Jon turned his head. The speaker stood a few paces behind him, silver hair unfurled and shining against the firelight, purple eyes deadly and enraged. Viserys Targaryen held a sword dripping blood in his hand. He bore armor and a dark cloak, almost black in the dim light, though it was more purple in truth. Behind him were eight other men, armored, wielding swords of their own. Brandon, Asher, and the other serjeants immediately stood, but none of them were armed. They grabbed what they could - knives and dinner forks - and Jon joined them.

"What is the meaning of this, uncle?" Aegon shouted. "Why-"

"Keep your mouth shut for a few moments, Aegon, if you please," Viserys sneered. "You have prattled on long enough about sacrifice for our house, but you are quick to condemn your own sister for the promise of a few barbarian swords."

"Uncle," Rhaenys said. She stood and held her hands out. "Please, we discussed this. You know I am willing."

"You do not have to be!" Viserys raged. "You need not be! We have plans in Westeros already laid, and Aegon would have us waylay them simply because of another plot by the Baratheon dog." He pointed his sword at Aegon. "You are not fit to lead our house. Sister, niece - with me. I have a plan for us to return home and begin our war in earnest. You need not stay a slave to a weak-willed boy and this poisonous leech that spills plans in his ears," he said, growling at Illyrio.

Illyrio stood and gestured placatingly. "My prince, please. Do not rush to hasty action. You have not thought this through. The fastest way to get back home is this way. I have ever been a loyal servant of your house -"

"Enough," snarled Viserys. He gestured to his men. "Take my niece and sister - but be gentle about it. Kill any of these sellswords who get in the way." As Viserys' men lunged forward, Jon and the other serjeants reacted swiftly, their makeshift weapons clashing against the swords of the Targaryen loyalists. It was a chaotic scramble, bodies colliding and grunts of exertion filling the air. Jon saw Veryll get run through almost immediately, falling to the ground and gasping as the last vestiges of his life left him. She-Bear gave a loud roar and leaped at the man who killed him, pounding him mercilessly with her enormous fists.

Jon found himself locked in a fierce struggle with one of Viserys' men. He avoided his deadly sword and closed in instead with his fork. The taste of adrenaline was strong on his tongue as he lunged at the man and plunged the utensil into his throat. As the man twitched on the ground, Jon grabbed his sword and leaped back to his feet.

Amidst the chaos, Daenerys stood frozen, her eyes wide with fear and indecision. Rhaenys, on the other hand, mustered up her courage and grabbed a small dagger from a nearby table. She slashed at one of Viserys' men who had lunged towards her aunt, drawing blood with a vicious strike. It was not enough. Two men were able to wrestle the princesses and retreat from the dining room, even as Aegon and Illyrio watched helplessly. Seeing that he had secured his captives, Viserys turned and ran, as did the rest of his men. Jon, Azenet, Brandon, and Asher chased after. Jon's feet pounded frantically as he chased with all the speed he could muster, the thud of boots echoing through the dimly lit corridors of Illyrio's manse. Jon pushed himself harder, his heart pounding in his chest as he desperately tried to catch up with Viserys and his men.

The stampede of footsteps abruptly halted as Jon reached a grand staircase leading to the lower levels of the manse. He could hear faint echoes of commotion coming from below, signaling that Viserys and his men were still within reach. Without hesitation, Jon descended the stairs two at a time, his companions hot on his heels. As they reached the bottom, a chaotic scene unfolded before them. Viserys and his men fought with a few of Illyrio's guards by the stables across the garden. They had the princesses on the backs of two horses already. Jon rushed after them, but it was nearly too late. Viserys and his men had their horses, and Illyrio's guards lay dead. Jon leaped at the nearest horse, the one on which Daenerys was slung across the back, lunging at the rider with his sword. Before the man could get away, Jon struck home. His blade plunged into the rider, who fell from the saddle with a cry, but by then Viserys and the others had already ridden away, and there were no remaining horses. Jon helped Daenerys down from the horse. His hands shook as his heart pounded.

As soon as the princess was down, Jon clambered atop the horse. He was about to dig his heels into the horses side when a heavy hand landed on his thigh, and another held back the reins of the horse.

”No, Jon,” Asher said. “Not this time. There are five of them still living, not including Viserys. Even if you do catch them…”

“I have to try,” Jon snarled in response. He was a second away from grabbing the reins from Asher, only for Azenet to place her hand on his thigh as well. She shook her head. Helpless, Jon hung his head and came off the horse. 

The cool night air bit at Jon's cheeks as he looked out into the darkness, watching as Viserys and his men disappeared into the distance. With a heavy sigh, he turned to Daenerys, who stood beside him, her eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and sorrow.

"I... my brother," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of their racing hearts. "He took Rhaenys."

Jon reached out and gently squeezed her hand, offering what little comfort he could in such a devastating moment, but he felt no comfort in his own heart. He watched the fading cloud of dust as Viserys disappeared with Rhaenys in tow. A mixture of emotions drowned his heart, and none of them were good. Failure tasted bitter in his mouth - not just of the professional variety, but because he could not help but feel as though he had failed to protect a friend.

"Damn that man," Brandon muttered next to him. "Our stables are on the other side of the manse, by the main gate. Azenet, go have the guards saddle them. We need to ride now if we have any hope of catching them." Azenet nodded, sharing a glance with Jon before she took off.

"We won't catch them," Asher said. "They are too far now. She-Bear - see the Princess back to the interior of the palace. Put five guards on her room, and ten on Aegon. Count for our men and make sure there are no dead among them. If there are any traitors - hang them, quietly."

She-Bear nodded and lumbered off with Daenerys. Jon, Brandon, and Asher were left, and they began to follow where Azenet had gone, to the main gate. When they arrived, Azenet greeted them with a stone-faced expression.

"Damn whoresons cut all the ties and opened the stables. All the horses are loose," she said, pointing. The ground was embedded with hoofprints that led past the main gate. Illyrio's guards there lay dead, too, as well as three men from their Company.

Jon's heart sank as he surveyed the scene before him. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut - Viserys and his men had covered their escape well. Without horses, their chances of catching up seemed slim at best.

"We'll never catch them on foot," Brandon muttered, his voice heavy with frustration. "Damn it all. I'll go speak with Aegon and the Magister. You three - rouse the men. I want us ready to march in less than half an hour. Asher, you lead Veryll's squadron for now, until I can appoint another serjeant." Brandon stalked off, and so did Asher. Jon and Azenet watched them go.

Azenet sighed. "And I was looking forward to a night of rest," she muttered. "This contract was a bad idea from the beginning, I felt. Still, we could guarded them from external threats. How were we supposed to know that the uncle would turn traitor?"

Jon shook his head. He could not understand Viserys' motives, other than the fact that he plainly disagreed with the idea of marrying Rhaenys to the Khal. It struck him then, what Viserys mentioned upon arriving at the dining room - what plans did he have already laid in Westeros? The rogue prince would be headed to Westeros, he was sure of it. They would go to Pentos or some other port town along the coast, and find passage across the Narrow Sea. Dorne was the only place Jon could think of - but how would they feel about Viserys betraying Aegon, the son of their princess Elia? Would they forgive him for Rhaenys' sake?

It was a bind, one he could not make full sense of. A sense of loss yawned in him as he thought of Rhaenys, and uttered a quick prayer for her safety. He did not think Viserys would harm her, but the uncertainty gnawed at his gut. Jon knew he had to act quickly if they were to have any chance of rescuing Rhaenys and stopping Viserys from causing further harm.

"I don't know," Jon said, giving voice to his uncertainty. "We need to gather the men." Together, they rallied the members of their pack, along with Asher and then She-Bear, as she returned too. They quickly packed, even faster than they had unpacked, and within half an hour, they were ready to march. They had sent some of their men to retreive as many of the horses as they could, and though they had not found all, they did find the horse Jon had newly acquired from Pentos. Jon's squadron suffered no losses, miraculously, and Ghost was safe, too, but Azenet's had lost two, She-Bear's one, and Veryll's seven, including Veryll himself. Now Asher led them.

Brandon came stalking out, fully armored, accompanied by Daenerys. "Our contract is cut short," he said glowering and shaking his head. "The Princess wanted to speak with Jon and Azenet."

Jon and Azenet exchanged a quick glance before stepping forward to join Daenerys. The princess looked visibly distraught, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. Jon could see the pain etched on her face.

"Jon, Azenet," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor that lingered beneath the surface. "I cannot thank you enough for what you've done tonight. You risked your lives to protect me and Rhaenys. I am forever grateful."

Jon dipped his head slightly. "I thank you, Princess, but we failed. For that I am sorry."

A flicker of something crossed Daenerys' face as she clasped her hands together. "You must understand, she means everything to me. Rhaenys is my niece, but I have loved her as my own elder sister since the day I was born. I cannot bear the thought of anything happening to her. My brother and the Magister may have terminated the contract, but... if you see her..."

Azenet laid a hand on Daenerys' shoulder, offering her a reassuring smile. "I had a sister I loved just as dearly," she said. "If Jon and I see her, we will get her back... free of charge, of course. It is a matter of honor now."

Daenerys nodded and swallowed back the rest of her sobs audibly. "Thank you. I suppose this is goodbye, then."

Jon exchanged a solemn look with Azenet before turning his attention back to Daenerys. He reached out and gently took her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Be safe," he said firmly. "It was an honor to get to know you and Princess Rhaenys."

"All rivers come to Mother Rhoyne in the end," Azenet added, her voice filled with conviction. "Have courage, Princess."

Daenerys nodded gratefully, her gaze lingering on Jon for a moment longer before she turned and walked away, disappearing into the depths of the palace. Jon watched her go, with the feeling in his heart that it was likely the last he'd ever see of the silver-haired Targaryen princess that he had grown fond of.

Chapter Text

VISERYS

Every time a wave rocked the ship, Viserys felt his stomach churn.

He hated the sea. It was cruel, capricious, and arbitrary. It was perhaps the only thing men could not tame, and that made it greater and more terrible than anything else. But he was a prince, and though he could not tame the sea, he would not let himself be bested by it.

Viserys turned from the side of the ship and headed back towards his cabin. The two guards posted outside made way, dipping their heads deferentially as they did so. Viserys said nothing, but opened the door and entered.

Rhaenys turned to glare at him. It was all she could and would do, now. Before, the first few days of their journey, he was sure that his niece had tried to murder him. She was angry then. She was still angry, but it had turned into a sullen kind of anger, a simmering resentment that hung heavy in the air between them. Viserys could feel it, like a hefty weight on his shoulders, as he sat down on the worn-out chair in his cabin.

The room was dimly lit by a flickering candle, casting eerie shadows across the walls. The scent of salt and the dampness of the sea clung to every surface, for even the cedarwood walls of the cabin. He ran a hand through his silver-gold hair, feeling the exhaustion of sea travel seep into his bones.

Viserys had always prided himself on his resilience, his ability to endure any hardship that came his way. There had been plenty of those from the moment he and his house had been driven from Westeros. But this journey had tested him in a different way. The constant swaying of the ship, the ceaseless crashing of waves against the hull - it was enough to drive any man mad, but that was not wh. Coupled with the hatred his niece held for him...

His eyes wandered over to Rhaenys, her silhouette illuminated by the dim light. She was perched on a small cot at the corner of the room, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Despite their shared blood, they were strangers in this cramped cabin.

As the days turned into weeks on this treacherous voyage, Viserys knew that their survival depended on setting aside their differences. He had to find a way to bridge the widening chasm between them or risk losing the last remnants of their family. His plans in Westeros depended upon it.

Taking a deep breath, Viserys rose from his seat and crossed the room to where Rhaenys sat. He could see the surprise in her eyes as he approached, uncertain of his intentions. With gentle resolve, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"I know these circumstances have not been easy for you," he started softly, his voice carrying what he hoped was his sincerity. "But we cannot afford to let our past grievances consume us. We are the only hope of our house."

"Aegon is the only hope for our house," she snarled in response. "And you betrayed him."

Viserys flinched at the venomous accusation, but he refused to let it deter him. "I did it for you, niece, and for my sister. From the moment we left, it has gnawed at me. Do you take me for a fool? He has likely sold Daenerys into the same bondage he has planned for you, and yet you remain loyal to him. Do you not love Daenerys? Do you not care for her fate at all, or are you so selfish that you are simply glad to be spared her fate?"

He was not fast enough to catch her open hand before it slapped the side of his face with a harsh sting.

The room fell into a tense silence as Viserys staggered back, his hand pressed against his cheek. The sting of her slap lingered, but he welcomed the pain. It served as a reminder of his failures, of the deep wounds that festered within their fractured family. He was not absolved of his inability to guide his house members simply because Aegon was a fool.

Rhaenys's chest heaved with anger, her eyes blazing with a mixture of hatred and hurt. "Do not dare speak of how I feel for my aunt. You know nothing of my heart," she spat, her voice laced with bitterness.

For a fleeting moment, Viserys contemplated retaliating. He could feel the heat of anger rising within him, fueled by years of resentment and frustration. But as he gazed into Rhaenys' violet eyes, he remembered her as she was, and how he had played into the late hours of the night with his only friend, for Daenerys and Aegon were babes then.

Instead, he took a step back, allowing himself to absorb the brunt of her fury. His hand dropped from his cheek as he regarded Rhaenys with a newfound serenity. "You're right," he conceded, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him. "I cannot pretend to know your heart or the depths of your love for Daenerys. You were as near as sisters. And because I failed, she has taken your place. The blame lies not with you, sweet niece, but with Aegon and I."

"I do know this," he continued, his tone laced with sincerity. "We share blood, Rhaenys. We are bound by our heritage and our duty to House Targaryen. And if we wish to see our family rise again, we must find a way to set aside our differences and forge a path forward together - a better path than that cheesemonger had to offer."

He stalked out of the cabin, gently closing the door behind him. and marched towards the edge of the ship. The crashing waves seemed to mock him as he gritted his teeth and vowed to conquer them, knowing that it would be easier than repairing the broken bond with his niece. He could feel the weight of guilt and regret crushing his chest, filled with Daenerys' wide, innocent eyes, but he pushed them aside, focusing on taming the unforgiving ocean instead.

One day he would return for her over this very same sea with one thousand ships and a thousand more. He would murder a thousand khals and their khalasars for her and bring her home, as his queen.

DAENERYS

Khal Drogo was a head taller than the tallest man in the room, yet somehow light on his feet, as graceful as the panther in Illyrio's menagerie. He was younger than she'd thought, no more than thirty. His skin was the color of polished copper, his thick mustachios bound with gold and bronze rings.

Drogo's braid was black as midnight and heavy with scented oil, hung with tiny bells that rang softly as he moved. It swung well past his belt, below even his buttocks, the end of it brushing against the back of his thighs. Aegon already mentioned that Dothraki men did not cut their braids until they were defeated in battle, and Drogo had never been defeated. Surrounding Drogo were his bloodriders, fierce and loyal warriors, each bearing the look of the untamed steppes on their weathered faces.

Daenerys stood, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird in her chest, as she was presented to Khal Drogo. The great hall of Illyrio's manse seemed to shrink under the imposing presence of the Dothraki leader. His eyes, dark and searching, met hers briefly. With a simple nod, Drogo sealed their fate together.

The bloodriders brought forth several chests, the wood old and groaning under the weight of their contents. As they were opened, the glitter of gold and jewels spilled forth, a grand fortune in plunder and loot. Aegon at least had the ability to look a little ashamed when their eyes crossed.

You are selling me, sweet nephew, she thought. Does the price you have exacted for my maidenhead not please you?

With a heavy heart, Daenerys watched as Khal Drogo mounted his horse and rode off, his figure diminishing in the distance. She was left standing in the vast hall of Illyrio's manse, alongside Aegon and the Magister himself and the servants, who now melted away from their assembled stance and back to their normal duties.

Aegon broke the silence, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Should we not have pressed Khal Drogo for his warriors? Our conquest needs more than gold," he mused aloud, his brows furrowed in thought.

The magister shook his head. "The Dothraki are like the wind, Your Grace. They cannot be tethered to our cause, not truly. Their loyalty is as changeable as the seasons," he replied, his gaze lingering on the chests of gold. "We must look elsewhere for our army. The gold will aid immensely in that regard. Remember – this is but a taste. We are to receive the rest once the nuptials have taken place.”

Aegon nodded slowly. "Have you heard anything of my uncle and sister?”

Illyrio nodded sagely. "My sources tell me they may seek refuge in Volantis. Rest assured, I have eyes and ears in every daughter of Valyria and across the Narrow Sea. We will find them. Now that Princess Daenerys is to be with Khal Drogo, you, Your Grace, must think of alliances. A marriage with a noblewoman from Volantis, one whose father's wealth can secure you an army, is a wise choice."

Aegon glanced at her. "I would like to go with my aunt. I would make sure she is comfortable."

"I fear that would risk angering the Dothraki, Your Grace," Illyrio responded smoothly. "Besides - the sooner your preparations are ready, the sooner you would be ready to leap at any opportunity presented to invade Westeros. There is much that must be done before you land. You now have the funding. You must secure men, horses, and ships."

Daenerys, who had been silent, finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "When the Seven Kingdoms are ours, when will I be able to visit?" Her eyes searched Illyrio's for a semblance of hope.

Illyrio's response was cautious, measured. "That, my dear, will depend on Khal Drogo. But yes, you should be able to visit, in time." His words were meant to be reassuring, but Daenerys saw through the thin veil of optimism.

She turned away, her thoughts swirling in a tumult of emotions. The grandeur of the hall, the shimmering treasure, all seemed like gilded cages. Daenerys felt a profound sense of isolation, for she knew now her struggles would be faced alone. She was to be a queen in a land she did not know, with a people she did not understand, and at the mercy of a husband who was yet a stranger to her.

I am a dragon, she thought, her inner voice quavering. And I will be brave. But no matter how many times she repeated it to herself, she felt alone and scared. She bitterly cursed fate. She wished she, too, had escaped with Viserys, and then felt guilt. This was to have been Rhaenys’ fate. Yes, her niece had agreed, but so had Daenerys. She felt they had no other option. Now she wondered if Viserys was not right to argue that they should have tried everything else.

She thought of the Company of the Rose – of Jon Snow, the handsome young bastard sellsword who had become their guardian and something of a friend. If Rhaenys and Viserys were still here, he would find them – surely? But the loneliness returned. Jon Snow had been their guardian because he was paid to do so. He owed them nothing, least of all for free.

Most likely, she would never see him again, nor any of her family. Daenerys Stormborn would die half a world away from where she was born.

JON

He felt like scum, leaving Daenerys with a hope that would now almost certainly go unfulfilled.

He and Azenet were serious with their offer to find Rhaenys, if they could, in Pentos, but no sooner had their pack marched back to that city were they informed that the Company had found a full length contract.

Asher and Brandon walked out of a meeting with the Lord Commander and the other captains ashen-faced and stricken. Their pack had been paid upon their arrival from Pentos. The cheesemonger, true to his word, had placed their contract in the exchange, and apparently had marked it as completed, though they were given no additional credit for the days after they left the magister’s manse to go escort the Targaryens to Folgorica. Still, they were paid a great sum of money. The weight in his purse seemed to collect on Jon's shoulders alongside his guilt. That contract now gave way to their next - to fight for the Free City of Myr.

Upon hearing of it, five men used the payment from the magister to pay their weregild and terminate their contracts immediately. None of them were from Jon's squadron, who grumbled at the lack of pay from the Targaryen contract, for they had only signed on at the end, and had only participated in the march to Folgorica, for which they were paid pittances. Jon called each man and the two women to his quarters and spoke with them quietly, pressed a gold coin from his own payment into their hand, and told them that if they stayed true to him and their company, many more coins would come their way. 

"You handled it well," Asher said with an approving glint in his eye, when Jon told him of the incident. "Not many men handle insubordination the right way. Sometimes you must give the carrot, other times the stick. The trick is knowing when to use which one."

"So you think the carrot was the right move?" Jon asked. They stood on the balcony of Brandon's quarters at the barracks in Pentos. The sun was setting over the domed buildings of the city, setting alight a sea of turquoises and blues and sea greens. Sparrows flew overhead in flocks, and the street below hummed with a steady thread of activity and life. 

"Can't truly say," Asher said, stroking his beard. "But I think so. We march now to the Disputed Lands. You know what that means?"

Jon shrugged, so Asher continued. "It means battle. Whether that means a skirmish or the eruption of a full blown war between the Three Sisters, can't say - but battle nonetheless. It could be just for a raid on a few border towns. It could be an entire campaign. My first year with the Company, we signed a contract for Lys. It was just one battle - a little godsforsaken village along a nameless river in the wasteland that lies between the Three Sisters - but there were five companies involved. Near two thousand men died. We made sure the village stayed in the hands of Lys. After we left, about two moons later, I heard that Tyroshi sellswords razed the entire village. That's the short, brutish life of someone in the Disputed Lands. Now, if Myr is paying for our full company's contract, it means something real is brewing."

Jon did not reply. The prospect of war seemed far off. His inability to find Rhaenys was something else. He wasn't sure if Viserys would mistreat her. Though he struck Jon as haughty and arrogant - moreso than the average highborn - he did not seem as though he would hurt his own family. Still, his words to Daenerys rang hollow in his ears.

"I'll go into the city one more time," Jon said, drawing his cloak around his shoulders. "Just for tonight." He turned to leave, but Asher stopped him.

"Jon, a moment," Asher said. "I know you made a promise, and if it makes you feel better if you at least try to keep it - the girl is likely long one. Her uncle could have taken her any number of places. I'll wager now that they're on a boat headed to Volantis or Braavos or the Summer Isles."

"Or Westeros," Jon echoed. 

"Or Westeros, though I feel it unlikely," Asher acknowledged. "But your path lies here. I trust you know that."

Jon swallowed glumly. "Aye. I do." He shared one last look with Asher, and then marched down the barracks and into the city.

He found nothing, even with Azenet's help. The next morning they boarded a ship to Myr along with the rest of their company, heading into war.

RHAENYS

Rhaenys Targaryen's eyes squinted against the sharp glare of sunlight as she emerged from the cabin, her time in seclusion leaving her unaccustomed to the brilliance of day. The journey had been long, hidden away under the watchful guard of Viserys, who now stood beside her. His face was hard and unreadable, but he dressed now in his finest robes, black and red, but loose for the heat of their environment. He gave her a gown to put on. She changed in front of him. They had never hidden their bodies from each other in their family, and though a harsh hatred burned in her heart for her uncle now, she did not shy away now. Despite her accusation early in their trip, she knew full well that Viserys held no desire for her. His eyes had always been for Daenerys. Standing now on the deck of the ship, Rhaenys maintained her silence, her gaze cool and distant, directed more at the unfamiliar horizon than at him.

The ship rocked gently, moored at the docks of a quaint village. Rhaenys' senses, dulled by the confines of the cabin, now awakened to the vibrant hues of the world. It was almost too much at once. The coast was adorned with white sandy beaches, an inviting contrast to the deep blues of the sea. Above, seagulls circled and called. She did not know where she was, but she had an idea that gnawed at her stomach now.

Darkly, she wondered if Jon Snow was hidden somewhere here, ready to steal her away and bring her back to her brother - and to the Dothraki. Her eyes scanned the docks, but there was no handsome young bastard sellsword of the North here. Strangely, she felt a pang of sorrow. As though awakening for the first time, she realized that she missed his company.

As she was led off the boat, Viserys paid the captain. The guards - sellswords paid by Viserys, she supposed - left with the captain, heading back to Essos, no doubt. The dry heat of the day wrapped around her like a tangible embrace, a stark contrast to the cool, damp air of the cabin she had been confined to. The docks were bustling with activity, but a small honor guard, dressed in the distinctive Dornish style armor, stood apart, their presence a silent testament to her importance. Martell flags waved in the arms of the men, as did yellow standard with red cockatrices on them. She knew the Dornish houses better than any of the others on Westeros. Martell she would recognize anywhere, but the other took a second longer. House Gargalen - the town of Salt Shore, on the southern coast of Dorne along the Summer sea - she was in Dorne. She was home.

Her heart clenched.

Among them was a striking woman clad in vibrant orange robes, her presence emanating a sense of warmth and authority. As she approached Rhaenys, her face broke into a wide, genuine smile. She approached and then enveloped Rhaenys in a full embrace, planting a tender kiss on each of her cheeks. Her voice was rich with emotion as she introduced herself.

"I am Arianne Martell, your cousin," she said. "Welcome home, Princess Rhaenys. We have missed you dearly."

Chapter Text

Four moons later…

The battlefield was a maelstrom of chaos and blood, a dance of death painted on a canvas of churned earth and torn bodies. The deafening chorus of war—clashing steel, screaming men, and the relentless drumming of hooves—filled the air, drowning all else.

The Silver Lynxes and the Onyx Legion were advancing on their position. The archers from the Silver Lynxes were reputed for their unerring aim, and their lethal rain of arrows transformed the sky into a shroud of raining death. The Onyx Legion, renowned for their heavy infantry, had their front line of shield bearers press forward, the afternoon sun glinting off their imposing wall of steel.

Jon clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on Frostbite, feeling the familiar adrenaline course through his veins. His heart pounded in his chest, a furious drum matching the rhythm of the war horns sounding the enemy charge. He steeled himself against the grasping, whispering tendrils of fear that snaked their way around his heart. He looked across to Azenet. She winked and blew him a kiss.

"Archers, ready!" Brandon commanded, raising his sword, and the men of the Company of the Rose bent their bows, their gaze never wavering from the relentless approach of their adversaries.

The Onyx Legion were first to reach the river ford, their vanguard charging in with a primal war cry. Then came the hailstorm of arrows from the Silver Lynxes, to soften them up before the the infantry crashed into them.

"Shields!" Brandon yelled. The serjeants repeated the command, and the men of the Company of the Rose raised their shields above their heads, forming a protective canopy. Arrows thudded into the wooden shields, some finding their way through gaps, cutting down men who screamed and fell to the ground, their lives ending in the muddy riverbank. But most of them lived.

Once the volley ceased, the river ran red, the water swirling around the fallen, who had died from unlucky arrows. Jon lowered his shield and looked up, meeting the charge of the Lynxes with a roar of his own. He swung his sword, feeling the satisfying jolt as it connected with an enemy shield. No wood was a match for Valyrian steel. He kicked, hard, knocking his opponent off balance and finished him with a swift cut to the neck.

Beside him, Azenet and Asher fought back-to-back, their weapons whirling in deadly arcs. A Lynx soldier lunged at Asher, only to be impaled by Azenet’s axe. Asher spun and cut down another, his blade slick with blood. The Company and their squadrons maintained a tight formation. Their shieldwall withstood the waves of enemies.

The battle raged, a deadly dance of steel and blood. The Silver Lynxes and the Onyx Legion pressed on relentlessly, their numbers seemingly endless. The men of the Company fought valiantly, but the bodies were piling up, and the ford was slowly turning into a death trap.

“Hold the line!” Brandon roared, his voice a thunderous echo amidst the frenzy of battle. His command cut through the air, piercing the bone-shaking clangor of steel on steel, the guttural cries of men, the heavy, sucking squelch of boots in the muddied water. The men of the Company of the Rose were near tireless, standing shoulder to shoulder, an unyielding barricade of steel. But they were not fighting merely against the onslaught of enemy soldiers. Jon knew they were fighting against the inevitable tide of exhaustion that seeped into their muscles, against the creeping dread of despair, against the icy hand of death that clawed at their lives, for all that they felt, he felt too.

"Courage, men! Courage!" Azenet shouted, her lilting Rhoynish accent wafting over the orchestra of battle.

Despite her words, with each swing of his sword, each clash of metal, each throaty cry of a fallen comrade, Jon could feel a little more of his resolve erode. Despair tugged at his soul, sapping the strength of his sword arm. But he swung and swung and swung anyway, knowing his brothers in arms were depending on him, their trust as heavy as the shield in his left hand. Everywhere he looked, he saw the grim determination of his brothers, their faces grimy with dirt and sweat, their eyes burning with a wild, desperate sort of courage. Their ranks may have been thinning, their breaths ragged and heavy, but they held. They stood their ground at Brandon's command, their loyalty as unwavering as their purpose.

The numbers were against them. The Silver Lynxes and the Onyx Legion continued their ruthless advance, undeterred by the river of blood and bodies. The ford became a swirling mass of chaos, an abattoir where men were butchered under a cruel sky that cared little for the lives beneath it. Jon fought with the desperation of a cornered beast, the familiar rhythm of parry and strike guiding his movements. Beside him, Asher cut down an enemy, his face twisted in a fierce snarl, while Brandon parried a blow meant for his back. Azenet cut down two men with her axes. Arrows rained down again, their deadly hiss adding to the cacophony of battle. The Silver Lynxes did not care if they cut down their own men with their bows. Men fell, their screams cut short by the cold bite of death. But the line held. The Company of the Rose stood firm. They fought with the grit and stubbornness of men refusing to kneel, men who clung to life with a fierceness that defied the overwhelming odds.

As the hours stretched into a relentless, grueling struggle, the evening sun began to dip behind the hills, bathing the battlefield in a bloody red hue. Slowly, the sound of battle began to wane, as the enemy was thrown back a third time, and this time they finally yielded. The screams of battle were then replaced by the guttural moans of the wounded and dying. Brandon, Jon, Azenet and Asher stood amidst the chaos, their bodies battered and weary, their spirits as bruised as their flesh.

The river ford, once a serene passage, now bore the gruesome testament of their struggle. Bodies littered the ground, the water churned with a grisly mix of blood and mud. They had held the line, but the aftermath was a grim reminder of the cost they had paid. It was a victory, if it could be called that, won with a dear payment of blood and lives. As the last remnants of daylight faded, the harsh reality of their ordeal washed over them.

They fished as many of the corpses of their men out of the river as they could, giving them burials in shallow graves by the riverbank. The bodies of the enemy they left to rot. Three hundred men of the Company had been sent here by the Lord Commander, three packs, Brandon and two other captains, with Brandon holding command. Three hundred men had been ordered to hold this riverbank at all costs, and they had held.

There were only a hundred and fifty-eight of them now. Of Jon’s squadron of twenty-two, only fourteen survived. Bellam and Jean died in the fighting among his corporals. He would have to appoint new men to take their place. Azenet’s own squadron fared little better. Overall, of the entire detachment sent to hold the ford, near half their number were dead. Each of the men of the Company of the Rose had taken near eight of the enemy with him. The enemy companies were decimated.

Jon was heartened to see that Asher and Brandon and Azenet had escaped relatively unscathed. Besides the usual assortment of nicks and bruises, and bone-deep exhaustion, Jon was unhurt as well. They regrouped at their camp, by the small town that overlooked the ford. Sarnost it was named. It was a humble town nestled in the bosom of the Disputed Lands. It was not an imposing settlement, but it bore the wear and tear of time with a strange sort of permanence. The buildings were built of mudbricks stacked with precision; their roofs thatched with reeds that grew along the river.

Jon, Brandon, and Asher found their camp in the lee of the town, where the remnants of their pack were nursing their wounds and tending to their dead. The smoke from the funeral pyres danced against the setting sun, casting a somber haze over the makeshift encampment.

The captain of the second pack, a tall Braavosi named Jaquo Telleris, approached them. His usually jovial face was somber, the toll of the battle visible in his tired eyes. "Captain Stark. Captain Forrester,” Jaquo said, nodding his head at each one of them. “I take it your packs fare little better than mine own.” 

Brandon shook his head. “We shall have to recruit more from Myr and the surrounding towns, I suppose. But we held. Your pack can be proud of that, Captain Telleris.”

Jaquo nodded. “I am simply glad we did not greet the Many-Faced God today. I will attend to my pack and reorganize the men. Have you received orders from the Lord Commander yet?”

Brandon shook his head. “Not yet. See to your men, Jaquo. I’ll send a messenger as soon as I hear.”

As they dispersed to attend to their duties, Jon stuck by Brandon's side. Four moons of war there had been. Asher's feelings proved prophetic. Myr and Tyrosh united in an alliance in war against Lys, and war enveloped the Disputed Lands. Their contract for Myr turned out to be for far more than just a skirmish. The same war had seen him elevated to lieutenant, second in command of Brandon's pack, when Asher was elevated to Captain himself. Soon Brandon joined Asher to see to the reorganization of his pack, and left Jon to bring order to theirs alongside Azenet. It was while he was giving commands that the messenger arrived. His horse was lathered in sweat, its sides heaving. The boy dismounted and handed Jon a missive. The seal bore the insignia of the Company of the Rose.

It was from Owen Ironhand, the Lord Commander.

Jon's heart began to beat rapidly. Their battle here at the Sarnost ford was just a response to a flanking action, a move ordered by Ironhand to keep the forces of Lys from circling around and taking their army in the rear. But no news had reached them of the fate of the main battle three leagues away until now. Jon broke the seal and opened the scroll in a hurry.

His spirits sank like a stone. The news was not good. The main host, despite being bolstered by the might of other sellsword companies, had been routed. The Gilded Fist had betrayed them, shifting their allegiances in the middle of the battle. Ironhand was ordering a retreat to Andros, a town fifteen leagues away.

The campaign to get to the river from Andros had taken them three moons. Three moons of bloody progress reversed in one night.

Thousands of men dead so that a few leagues could change hands.

The color drained from Jon's face as he read the missive. He folded the note with shaking hands. His eyes blazed and stung with a fiery rage as he gazed out over the camp. His men, their men, tired and battered, gathered around the fires, their faces haunted by the specter of a war that seemed to have no end. Jon dismissed the messenger and stalked off to find Brandon.

"We're ordered to Andros," he said, when he found him. Jon could not keep his voice from heaviness.

The look on Brandon's face was grim as he processed the news Jon relayed. He grit his teeth, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he read the message Jon handed him. "Gilded Fist," he spat out the name like a curse, his face contorting with a mixture of anger and disgust.

"Andros," Jon echoed, a sense of despair creeping into his voice. "We fought tooth and nail for this damned ford and now we just surrender it."

He cast a desolate look at the river ford, the sight of their hard-won victory, which was now to be abandoned. His gaze then shifted towards the men of their company, still recovering from the brutal battle, preparing to bury their fallen brothers. Now it was their lot to tell them that all that had been for nothing.

"We can't delay," Brandon said, forcing a note of command into his voice. "Ironhand's orders are clear. We leave, now. Gather the men, Jon. Tell the serjeants to get them ready. I’ll go pass on the news to Jaquo and Asher.”

Jon's heart sank at Brandon's words. His eyes swept across their encampment once more, at the wounded men nursing their injuries, at the soldiers wearied from the fight, their spirits dampened. Now they had to retreat, relinquish the ground they had spilled their blood for. He nodded, a curt, short dip of his head, before turning away from Brandon. His boots crunched on the gravel as he walked across the camp, his voice steady but heavy with regret as he started to bark orders.

"We're moving out!" he called out, striding through the camp with a grim look on his face. "Pack up! We retreat to Andros. Ironhand's orders!"

The reaction was immediate. A chorus of groans and curses and some wails of despair echoed around him, but none dared to defy the orders. Slowly, the camp began to stir into action, men hurriedly gathering their belongings, extinguishing fires and preparing to march. Every step he took, every man he hoisted up and commanded to move onwards, felt like a betrayal. He felt as if he was dishonoring the memory of those who had fought and fallen here, defending the ford.

Azenet joined him soon. Her face was grim, a match for his own. A new scar, a small one by her lips, joined her old, from a few battles ago. She led him by the hand and took him upriver, and together they washed the grime and blood from themselves as much as they could before returning to the pack to lead the retreat march. Ghost found them there. The direwolf grew massive - larger than any regular dog by now, the size of the largest hunting hounds and regular wolves. Jon left him behind in the battle, for in a defensive battle, Ghost was only likely to get hurt or killed.

As the grey light of dawn filtered through the trees, the town of Andros came into view. Its modest size and charm did little to lift their exhausted spirits. The sounds of tired men and horses echoed through the silent woods as the men of the Company of the Rose trudged their way into the town, each step a monumental effort.

Upon their arrival, they were met by Lord Commander Owen Ironhand. His eyes were hard, but there was a flicker of relief in them as he saw Brandon.

"You held the ford," Ironhand acknowledged, giving Brandon a curt nod. "Well done."

"We held it. By now, we have lost it," Brandon responded grimly, his voice hoarse from exhaustion and frustration. He glanced back at his weary men. Jon looked back with him. Each face seemed a mirror of his own disappointment and fatigue.

Ironhad merely grunted. "Come," he ordered, "We have much to discuss. Our situation is grim. A meeting of the other captains has been called. I want you by my side, Stark."

Brandon nodded, glancing at Jon and Azenet. "Get some rest, eat something. I will need you both alert and ready."

Jon and Azenet nodded, grateful for the opportunity. They watched as Ironhand led Brandon away towards the town center where a large pavilion had been set up. Other figures were also moving towards it - the leaders of the other sellsword companies, each with a grim expression on their face.

As they headed into the town, the news that filtered through to them was no better than what they had already discovered. The remaining forces of the main force of the Company of the Rose numbered a mere three hundred and twelve men. With their surviving hundred and fifty eight, they numbered less than five hundred. Half their strength before the war was gone. The other companies had fared no better - the Coiled Serpents and Crimson Vultures each were down to five hundred men from their previous strength of two thousand each. Companies that had joined later, such as the Maiden's Men, were down to a thousand from three, the Iron Shields were down to four hundred from two thousand, and the Ragged Standard were down to six hundred from two and a half thousand.

Their combined forces were a shadow of the army that had marched into battle, their numbers reduced by the cruel toll of war and the betrayal of the Gilded Fist. Where once there had been more than fifteen thousand men sworn to fight for Myr, now there were only three thousand, at best. The once teeming campgrounds were now scattered with too many empty tents.

Jon and Azenet ducked into a tavern off the main street, one they had been to often. He left Ghost outside in a shaded bay - meant for horses, but now a kennel for him. The inn was nearly empty. The entire town seemed a little deserted since the last time Jon had seen it. Perhaps people fled the war. Perhaps slavers had come. Azenet paid for a room and disappeared within, but Jon stayed behind in the common room.

The common room of the tavern was a large, dimly lit space filled with the scent of ale, wood smoke, and the undercurrent of old sweat. Heavy wooden tables and benches were scattered haphazardly around the room, worn by years of use. A fire crackled in the hearth, its warm glow providing a modicum of comfort. In one corner, a pair of sellswords from the Crimson Vultures hunched over their tankards, their armor glinting faintly in the firelight. They spoke in hushed whispers, their words indistinguishable beneath the low crackle of the fire. Opposite them, a burly man from the Iron Shields nursed his drink in silence, his gaze lost somewhere in the depths of his tankard.

The room was otherwise empty, the usual bustling activity of the tavern reduced to a somber hush, reflecting the grim mood that had fallen over the town. The weariness of the men and the silence seemed to hang heavy in the room, amplifying the crackle of the fire and the occasional clink of a mug against a table.

Behind the counter, one of the barmaids moved with quiet efficiency, her steps soft against the wooden floor. She was a pretty girl, around Jon's age, her long, brown hair falling in waves down her back. She refilled Jon's tankard with a soft smile, but he was too tired to muster even a polite nod back. Jon found himself thinking, not for the first time, of the Targaryen contract.

Rhaenys Targaryen seemed more a dream than anything else now. He wondered where she was now, what had become of her. No Targaryen invasion had ever materialized. Perhaps Daenerys had been sold to the Dothraki in her place. No word had come of Aegon or Viserys. Perhaps they were all dead. Maybe it was for the best, Jon thought. Word had come a moon ago with some new arrivals to the company from Westeros.

Lord Stark - Father - had been made Hand of the King by Robert Baratheon.

Azenet came back and they shared a few mugs of ale before heading back to their quarters.

He followed her out of the room, studying the way she moved as they walked. Azenet seemed as graceful as ever, despite the weight of exhaustion that no doubt rested on her shoulders. As they entered the room Azenet rented, Jon took in his surroundings. The room was sparsely furnished, but tidy and clean. A small lit candle flickered on a wooden table in the corner, casting shadows on the walls.

Quietly, they discarded their clothes. The moons had made it so that each knew the other's movements like their own. Their lips met in a soft kiss, and Jon felt a warmth spread through his body that had nothing to do with the candle's flame. He ran his hands over her shoulders, feeling her skin beneath his fingertips. The kiss deepened, becoming more passionate as Azenet climbed onto his lap and straddled him. Her fingers tousled his hair as she leaned in close, whispering sweet words in Rhoynish. Their hands wandered over each other's bodies as they explored one another with an intensity born of mutual desire. Jon felt himself losing control, consumed by the sensations coursing through his veins, and drowned his sorrows in Azenet's embrace.

"Jon."

His eyes snapped open. He could feel Azenet's naked form next to him, curled into his body, underneath the covers. He blinked away the sleep and propped himself upward in bed.

Asher was looking at him. His eyes went to Azenet and he smiled. Jon simply sighed and extracted himself from the bed, putting on trousers and a tunic and gathering his arms and armor. Before he left the room, he turned back to look at Azenet once more and allowed himself a small smile before he left.

It was evening now. He had slept most of the day, but it was to be expected. His body still ached. When they made it back to camp, Jon called one of the orphan lads who'd attached himself to the Company as a page of sorts and had him store his armor. Asher then led him to Brandon, who was writing something by candlelight in his tent.

Brandon gestured for both of them to sit as he continued to write.

"I miss anything?" Jon grunted.

"I had meant for you to recuperate some," Brandon said, waving him off. "You're no use to me dead, cousin. I accompanied the Lord Commander to the meeting of captains. Myr is sending two more free companies here, and there is a Tyroshi army four days from here. We are to hold Andros, regroup, and march back to Sarnost to retake the river."

Jon nodded numbly. Moves and counter moves, death after death, for the same few precious leagues of wasteland. How men fought here without descending into madness was beyond him.

Brandon ceased his writing, leaving the ink on the scroll to dry. He turned back around. "I learned something interesting today," he said, addressing Jon directly.

"And what might that be?"

"Of course, you are aware that your father has been appointed Hand of the King," Brandon said. "It would appear that he has learned of your whereabouts."

Jon stood up fully straight. "What?"

Brandon nodded and handed a sealed parchment to Jon. Jon took it, glancing at Brandon as he did so. His eyes widened when he saw the seal on the letter - a grey direwolf. His hands trembled as he broke the seal and began to read. As Jon's eyes roamed over the carefully scribed words, his heart lurched.

My son,

It is my sincerest hope that this letter finds you in good health. Your siblings and I received your letter of several moons ago. It made me happy to know that you are alive.

I do not write to scold you. It was enough of a relief to know that you were not dead. Until I received that letter, all I could think of was of you somewhere in the cold snow, dead or dying.

I write to you to ask you to come home. I have come to the south to King's Landing. King Robert has asked me to serve as his Hand of the King, and I have accepted. You may have heard this, but you should know how your siblings fare as a result. Your brother Robb holds the North as the Stark in Winterfell. Sansa, Arya, and Bran have come south with me. Bran wants nothing more than to be a knight, but his spirits have been dampened since you left. Even Robb is more quiet than usual. Arya torments her sister with greater frequency.

If I ever made you feel as though you did not have a place in my household, that was my failing. You are my blood. I will not ask you to forswear any oaths you have made, even if it is to a sellsword company, but if you are able, if your honor allows, come home. Take a ship in White Harbor. Lord Manderly has been made aware that you may return at some point in the near future. Your brother will need you in Winterfell. In time, come and see me in the capital.

Come home, son.

Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and your father.

He read and re-read the letter countless times. His reverie was only broken when he letter became damp, from tears spilling from his eyes. He wiped them away and carefully rolled the parchment back up, placing it carefully in his pocket.

"What did Lord Eddard say?" Brandon asked quietly.

"For me to return to Winterfell," Jon said hoarsely. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenys 

Daenerys

Jon

Brandon

Azenet

Asher

Aegon

Arianne

Viserys

Sansa

Bran

Arya

Robb

Catelyn

Ned

Chapter Text

The rushing waves crashed against the side of the ship. Blackish blue they were, with white seafoam rising at the top to kiss the deck and Jon’s face as it flew, driven hard by the winds.

Thunder rang across the bay and lightning coursed through the heavens above, obscured by thunderclouds greyer than the banners of House Stark. The sun struggled to peek through the canopy of the storm. Through the lashing rain, Jon could see the great holdfast of Storm’s End atop the cliffside. It was a massive beast of a castle, rising as though carved by the sea gods themselves from the jagged rocks of the bluff. The sea churned relentlessly beneath the storm-laden sky, the ship's hull slicing through the tumultuous waves. Jon scanned the horizon, his gaze narrowed against the wind, searching for any sign of respite from the tempest's wrath.

Suddenly, a sense of foreboding swept over him—a looming shadow in the turbulent waters behind them. His eyes widened as he discerned a silhouette emerging from the mist, a vessel materializing as if conjured by the raging elements. He blinked once and twice to drive the rain from his eyes, to see if it was real.

"Ship astern!" a sailor's voice cut through the howling wind, alerting the crew to the looming threat.

He strained his eyes, attempting to discern the identity of the relentless pursuer. The ship trailed them, gaining ground with alarming speed, propelled by relentless determination. Uncertainty gripped the crew as they strained to make out the sigil on the mast that fluttered defiantly in the squall.

A flash of lightning tore through the sky, illuminating the pursuing ship, revealing the distinct sigil billowing in the wind—a kraken, unmistakably the banner of House Greyjoy.

Dread seized Jon's heart as the realization struck him like a thunderbolt. "Ironborn," he uttered, his voice barely audible above the howling winds.

The crew's apprehension escalated at the sight of the Greyjoy colors, their fears confirmed. Panic rippled through the ship as the realization of their perilous predicament set in. The gap between the two vessels narrowed as the Ironborn ship relentlessly closed in. It seemed to glide over the stormy sea, even as they struggled to crest the dark waves. Jon's grip tightened around his sword, and he steeled himself once more.

The ironborn ship drew alongside them, cruel and fast. The raiders destroyed their oars - their merchant cog had little chance against a war galley. They were left adrift, tossing side to side in place in the sea, at the mercy of the waves. The Ironborn boarded quickly, but with no war cries or shouts. They came on grappling hooks and ropes, drawing their ship alongside the merchant cog and climbing over the side. Jon drew his sword, joined by Asher, and they screamed back, defiant to the end. Jon knew this was his last moment. Death had not had its due of him, and now it had come to claim its prize.

The clash erupted in a frenzy of steel meeting steel, the clang of weapons drowned out by the cacophony of thunder. Jon wielded his blade, Frostbite flashing in the storm's erratic light, parrying blows and striking back with determined ferocity. The Ironborn were tenacious fighters, but not particularly disciplined, and Valyrian steel was no mean defence against their pathetic axes and shields. Asher stood tall beside him, his axe cleaving through adversaries with precision and strength. Ghost burst out from underdeck, savagely biting and clawing at any raider whose unexposed flesh fell near him. Together, they formed a formidable bulwark against the invading raiders, pushing back against the onslaught with unwavering courage, but it was not enough. The crew surrendered, but to no avail. They were cut down on their knees, or on their backs, as they begged and pleaded for mercy. The Ironborn said nothing, taking lives in silence. 

Asher threw one of his attackers overboard, into the frothing sea. He lurched back up from over the side of the ship, and bellowed at Jon. "Follow me!"

Jon cut through another raider and charged in Asher's direction. When he saw what Asher was pointing at, he balked.

One of the smaller ironborn ships - launched from the longship to pursue and board their transport - was lashed to the side, bobbing in the raging sea. Asher threw his axe at one of the raiders who ran towards them. The metal thudded right between the man's eyes, splitting his skull and killing him nearly instantly, but now he was without a weapon. Asher leaped over the side and down the rope. Jon swore and followed after. Ghost was hesitant, but followed last, leaping into the sea just next to the moored boat. For a frightful moment, the white wolf disappeared under the waves, before bobbing up and paddling furiously to their side. Jon helped him onto the boat and cut the rope. 

The small oars there were meant for little more than covering short distances. They were fully at the mercy of the raging sea and the storm here. Casting a glance backwards, Jon saw their transport lit by the bright white flash of lightning. He saw, standing, leaning against the side, a man with an eyepatch, gazing out in their direction. The Ironborn stared in their direction for a few moments before turning away. 

"Jon!" Asher screamed.

Jon turned his attention back towards him. Their tiny boat was being carried straight towards the rocks. The waves dashed themselves against stone with brutal force. Jon swore.

"Hold on to something!" Asher shouted.

"There's nothing to fucking hold on to!" Jon screamed back. He braced himself against Ghost as well as he could, until he heard a loud splintering, the crack of thunder, and felt the sea swallow him whole.

Sand and salt, and something wet.

Jon felt little else as the world blurred. He blinked a few times, unsure of what had happened.

"Jon..." wheezed a voice nearby. Jon groaned. Every part of his body hurt. He felt weighed down. His hands fumbled uselessly at his sides. He felt the pommel of Frostbite still at his hip - thank the gods for small mercies - but his clothes were soaked through and through, briny and grimy and covered in sand. He felt the same wet feeling on his face, and blinked.

Ghost - drenched, his ears down, with a sad expression in his ruby-red eyes, licked at him. Jon blinked again. His wolf had survived somehow. He reached up and ran his hand through Ghost's soaked fur. "You're alive, boy."

He lifted himself up off the sand and stood upright. Every bone protested, every muscle screamed against the effort, and he staggered, unable to fully balance on his feet. He blinked twice more. He had washed up on a grimy beach. The heavens overhead were still overcast, creating a gloom that hung about in the air. The waves were more gentle now, though they still rushed onto shore. Some wreckage had washed up on the beach as well, though nothing he recognized.

"Jon..."

Jon looked down. By his feet was Asher, groaning, though apparently still in one piece. Jon knelt and helped his friend off the ground, rubbing his back gently as he did so. Asher coughed, spitting out some water. He looked battered and bruised, but Jon was happy to see him alive. After losing Azenet and Brandon...

He froze, fumbling at his pouch. He reached in and frantically searched for the small bag of ashes, sighing audibly in relief when he found it. His fingers trailed over the waxed material of the bag. The twine that held the bag shut was still fastened, and he felt secure that he had not lost his promise to the depths of the unforgiving sea. His hand flickered over the remaining Valyrian steel as well, before he withdrew it and trailed down to his sword, which was still fastened and in its scabbard. By some miracle, he had lost very little.

"Where the hells are we?" Asher muttered. "And how did we survive?"

"Perchance the Drowned God loves us more than his Ironborn," Jon muttered. He looked around. There was nothing to indicate where they had washed up, only that they were on land. Jon hoped it was the mainland of Westeros, for he doubted that they had somehow washed ashore by the coast of Essos when the Ironborn attack had taken place just off the coast of the Stormlands. He wracked his brain for a mental image of a map of Westeros, pretending as though he was a boy of twelve in Maester Luwin's study once more. They were about to sail past Storm's End when they were beset by the Ironborn, so Jon judged that they were either near Durran's Point - perhaps by the Kingsroad. Jon and Asher ventured to the top of a small hill to get a better idea of their surroundings.

The sun was still rising over the sea, so he knew that it was more likely than not that he was on the coast of Westeros itself, not on Tarth, for it would be exceptionally unlikely that they would have washed up on the eastern shore of the Isle of Tarth. To the west, Jon could see a road.

"I think we're somewhere near the Kingsroad," Jon said to Asher. He pointed at the bay and the road. "Most likely that is the final stretch of road leading to Storm's End. If so, Bronzegate should be somewhere along there. If we set out up the road, we can find something - a village, or a castle - and from there decide where to go next." Jon sighed. He had been both looking forward and dreading a return to Winterfell, but now he would have happily gone there without complaint, no matter how awkward or strained his reunion with Robb and the others might have been. Now, the only course Jon could see was to set out for King's Landing, and hope to secure an audience with his father. It was strange, now that Jon thought about it, that nowhere in his letter did his father mention for him to come visit him in King's Landing, where Arya, Sansa, and Bran all were. Perhaps he was more needed in the North - to help Robb rule. The thought that his father wished for him to help Robb warmed his heart, but something in his mind alerted him that it was not necessarily the case. Still, King's Landing seemed like the only road, and he was eager to tell his father about the Ironborn. A cruel part of him thought of Theon's head rolling away from his body, his blood coating Ice, but it was accompanied by shame. Theon was a little shit at times, but not deserving of death.

"Well, to King's Landing it is," Asher agreed. "Now let's get off this damned beach. No matter how much time I spent in Essos, I never got over my hate for sand. It's coarse, and rough, and irritating, and it gets everywhere." Asher grimaced and dusted himself off.

They set out northwest until they arrived by the road and followed it. A village came before mid-afternoon, where Jon confirmed that they were indeed along the Kingsroad. The little hamlet - called Maddenton - had blue banners with three brass buckles on it.

"Literal, aren't they?" Asher said of the house that governed these lands. Other than the fact that the name of this particular house was House Buckler, Jon knew little about it, nor did he particularly care to visit Bronzegate. The bastard son of the Hand of the King might find some purchase there, but Jon was unwilling to find out, and he was entirely sure that House Buckler would not care to entertain a second son of a house such as Forrester. Instead, they passed Bronzegate just before evening two days later, and a sennight from then crossed the Wendwater at Wendwater Bridge, where Daemon III Blackfyre and the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion met their ends.

Fortunately for them, three fool highwaymen tried to take advantage of their haggard appearance as they neared the Wendwater, and so Jon and Asher were able to acquire horses from said fools after relieving them of their lives. They rode hard for the next three days until the wall of King's Landing appeared on the other side of the Blackwater. For most of their trip, Ghost remained out of sight, but when they were in the Kingswood, Jon had never seen the wolf so happy. Ghost followed them to the northern edge of the Kingswood, very close to the city, but no further. Jon did not wish to leave him behind, but his heart told him that Ghost would not leave forever, and besides - King's Landing was no place for him.

Jon stared at the great beast of a city when they crested the hill of the Kingsroad, and got a good look at the Red Keep. There it stood, like a clay-colored trident, jutting high into the sky. Jon could see four massive drum-towers from their vantage point, of pale red stone crowned with iron ramparts. With a start, he realized that the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell - he was sure of it, if he had to measure. Massive curtain walls surrounded the Red Keep, with crenelations for archers, and thick parapets. There, somewhere in the clouds, was his father, in the Tower of the Hand. Asher whistled.

"I've never seen it, you know. It's said that King's Landing is smaller still than any one of the Free Cities, but it still beggars belief that there's something this large in Westeros," Asher said. "Imagine if we had a city like this in the North."

"I suppose White Harbor doesn't count," Jon replied. "Nor Barrowton."

Asher scoffed. "Barrowton? Lady Barbrey is welcome to keep that dusty hill village to herself. 

They rode down to the Blackwater and crossed the river into the city harbor, which lay just outside the walls. Even from here, Jon could smell the stench of the city. It was worse than any of the Free Cities he'd visited in his time, but all cities smelled terrible. The walls of the city were massive, though - greater than those of the Essosi cities, and Jon could see men in gold cloaks patrol it. The portcullis of the gate was raised, and people traveled in and out with little resistance from the watch. Jon vaguely remembered from his lessons with Maester Luwin that the city had seven gates along its walls, but had no recollection of their names save for the Dragon Gate. Past the portcullis was a large, smelly, muddy market square. To Jon's left he could see a massive marble dome rise atop Visenya's Hill, replete with extravagant crystal towers with bells on them. Surely, that was the Great Sept of Baelor. More or less straight ahead, and most distant, was a great ruin of a domed castle - the Dragonpit atop Rhaenys's Hill. To his right, however, was the Red Keep - his destination. Jon and Asher set out at a trot through the city streets in that direction. It was strange for Jon to hear the common tongue of Westeros spoken so widely. He had been gone from Westeros long enough to master Bastard Valyrian and to speak and understand a little High Valyrian, too. Though he spoke in common often enough, rarely had he spent time in a city square or street where everyone spoke in that tongue, too. Now it sounded strange to him.

The street that led towards the keep and up Aegon's Hill was relatively narrow for a city thoroughfare, and packed with people, though it seemed to become less and less so as they approached the castle. The smell of the poorer parts of the city faded. Soon they arrived at the great gate of the Red Keep, an immense barbican with a small cobbled square in the front. The Red Keep had no moat, for the hill was defense enough. Jon hailed a guard at the gate, a man of the City Watch.

"I am here to see the Lord Hand, if it please," Jon said. His voice sounded rougher than he remembered.

The City Watchman was tall, lantern-jawed, with deep-set eyes, a prominent brow, and salt-and-pepper hair. His cloak was gold, but on his armor Jon spotted a house sigil - blue frets on white, with three silver fish. He looked at Jon with something - not disdain, perhaps, but certainly distrust.

"And who is it that has pressing business with the Lord Hand?" the man asked.

"That would be me," Asher declared. He pulled a ring off his finger and tossed it towards the knight, who caught it with his left hand. Jon realized, with a start, that the man had an iron prosthetic hand on his right arm, just like the Lord Commander of the Company did. A flood of memories rushed past his eyes, though he did his best to beat it back.

The man stared at the ring - a signet ring, one that Jon knew to bear the sigil of House Forrester - and then back at Asher. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with Northern houses, Lord...?"

"Forrester. Asher Forrester, son of Lord Gregor Forrester, Lord of Ironrath. My house is sworn to House Stark." Asher pointed at Jon. "This here is Jon Snow - the Hand's natural son. Lord Stark hasn't seen Jon in over a year - and he'd be understandably anxious to see him again. His love for his children is well-known in the North."

"Jon?" a voice cried out from behind the City Watchman. Jon craned his neck and sat up straight in the saddle. There, beyond the barbican, by the raised portcullis - a tall woman, in a grey-green dress, with red hair called out to him. "Jon, is that you?"

To his surprise, the woman ran towards him. As she passed through the portcullis, the guards watched her go, double-taking as they saw a lady run. When she drew closer, Jon realized that she was not a woman at all, but Sansa, his sister. Jon dismounted from his horse, though the City Watchman did not let him pass further. An even greater surprise greeted him when Sansa raced past the guard and threw her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Oh Jon, is it really you?" Sansa cried. His younger sister had grown even more fair in the year they had been set apart. She had grown into herself, more a woman now than the girl he left behind. She was tall as well, graceful and delicate - and apparently more affectionate than he remembered. Sansa had never held a great love for him, except perhaps when they were young and she had no idea of what bastardy entailed. His eyes still misted over as she held him tight.

"Aye Sansa, it's me. I'm happy to see you," Jon whispered, patting Sansa on the back.

After what seemed like an eternity, she pulled away from him and gawked. Her eyes traveled over his rough features, and then her jaw dropped when she saw Frostbite in its scabbard on his hip. Then she looked at Asher for a brief moment, and then to the City Guard.

"Is this truly your half-brother, my lady?" the man asked, with a respectful deference in his voice.

"Yes, Ser Jacelyn. This is Jon, my brother," Sansa said, beaming. "Though I do not know you, ser...?"

"Asher Forrester, Lady Sansa," Asher said, dismounting to give Sansa a polite kiss on the hand. "I visited Winterfell once with my father and brother. You were quite young."

"But I do recall your father, Lord Gregor. He was not a stranger in my father's hall," Sansa replied. "You have his look. Ser Jacelyn, will you please grant entry to my brother and Lord Forrester? My father would be overjoyed to see Jon again. He has been gone for so long from home."

"I would like nothing more than to reunite your brother with your family, my lady," said the guard - Ser Jacelyn. "But the safety of the Red Keep's inhabitants is my charge, so I must ask your brother some additional questions. I trust you will understand, Ser Jon."

Jon nodded. "No ser. I'm no knight. Jon or Jon Snow would be sufficient, ser."

Ser Jacelyn dipped his head in understanding. "Forgive the directness, but you are not dressed as I would expect of Lord Stark's son - even if you are a natural son. It would appear that your sister and father hold great affection for you, but your appearance is that of a common vagabond."

Jon nodded. "A fair enough question. Lord Forrester and I have not come from the North. We are coming from Essos. I never intended to come to King's Landing, in fact. Our ship set sail from Myr towards White Harbor. We were attacked by Ironborn in Shipbreaker Bay and our ship went down. Lord Forrester and I washed up on shore in the Stormlands. We came here for lack of a better place to go, for I do not think we could make it to Winterfell in our current state. I would like to speak with my father - see my brother and other sister - and then be on my way home."

Ser Jacelyn pondered his words. "And what were you doing in Essos?"

By the gods, this man takes his job seriously. An honest guard? Jon thought. "Lord Forrester and I both served with the Company of the Rose," Jon said. "Lord Forrester was one of its captains, and I was a lieutenant to another. The Company..." Jon said, his voice creaking just a little, "is no more. We were in the war between Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh in the Disputed Lands. The Company was annihilated in battle. Lord Forrester and I survived. There is nothing left for us in Essos. I am anxious to see my father - to dispel any rumors he may have heard of my death."

Ser Jacelyn was apparently satisfied. "Very well. I shall admit you to the castle." He gestured towards two of his men. "Anders will take your horses to the stables. Erryk, please find the Lord Hand and inform him of his son's arrival. I trust I can release your brother and Lord Forrester into your custody, Lady Sansa?"

"Of course, Ser Jacelyn," Sansa said with a smile. She grabbed Jon by the arm and led him past the guards.

"I can hardly believe it," she breathed. "Jon, Father heard about what happened to the Company three days ago. I've never seen him so pale. Oh, I will take you to him right away. He'll be so relieved to see you whole. I'm so relieved, and Bran and Arya - they'll be thrilled!" she said. Tears streaked down her cheeks, which made Jon's heart lurch.

"Sweet sister, do not cry," Jon croaked. "I am sorry - so sorry I left- I..."

Sansa patted his hand. "I am happy, not sad." She bit her lip, and then glanced at Asher. "I'll take you to Father now, but I hope we can speak again soon, as soon as you're free." She looked at him once up and down. "And perhaps once you've bathed." That made Jon laugh.

"Not many baths on the Kingsroad from Bronzegate 'til here, I'm afraid," Jon said. 

Sansa led him through the grand courtyard, towards one of the great spires of the castle. Jon gawked at it. He had never seen something reach so high save for two things his entire life - the Wall, and the Titan of Braavos.

"This is the Tower of the Hand," she said. "Father will -oh!"

They did not need to travel up the great tower, it seemed, for a man emerged into the courtyard from the great wooden door that marked the entrance of the Tower of the Hand from this courtyard. His long face was red, and beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. His hair was matted to his forehead, but Jon would recognize that oft stern countenance everywhere. Eddard Stark approached Jon, his eyes wide, as if he could not believe what he saw. His incredulity was matched by Jon's own. Only then did it drive home how long he had been gone from Winterfell, all that he had seen, all that he had done - it all became real the moment he saw his father.

"Jon," Father said. "Is that truly you?" With long strides, he crossed over to where Jon stood rooted into place. His grey eyes seemed to sink into Jon's soul. A levee raised in him, unleashing a torrent of guilt and shame mixed with fear and some joy. 

"Aye, it's me," he croaked in response, but no sooner had the words left his lips did his father wrap him in an embrace so tight Jon thought he might die. Tears stung at his eyes. He felt weak, partially from the exhaustion, partially from the lack of food since he and Asher trekked through the Disputed Lands and across the sea - but most of it came from the feeling of security. Jon felt, for the first time in a long time, that he could be weak.

Father separated from him, holding him at arm's length. "By the gods, boy. You look like you have been through seven hells." He turned and glanced at Asher, before the light of recognition flickered in his eyes. "Asher Forrester? Is that you, lad?"

"Aye, my lord, it is," Asher said, getting on his knee. "It is good to see you once more, though so far from Winterfell and our beloved North." Asher had told him, before, that the reason he left the North was because his affair with the Whitehill girl had been revealed. He wondered now if there was some penalty for Asher's return - had he brought his friend into danger? The thought flickered across his mind briefly, but his father wasted no time in putting it to bed.

"And you, Lord Asher. Your lord father will be gladdened to hear of your safety. I will write to him today, if you would like," said Father.

Asher dipped his head in deference. "I would be in your debt, Lord Stark. I would prefer not to return to Ironrath without my father's blessing. It was... strained... when I left. I would not want to make things difficult for him with Lord Whitehill."

Father turned his attention back to Jon. "We had heard some rumblings about the war between Myr and Lys and Tyrosh. I wrote to your Captain Brandon. I was not sure if the post in Essos would deliver the message."

"I received it," Jon answered. He tried to not let the memories of the Company creep back into his mind, but it was difficult."

"And the Captain sent you home?" Father asked.

"Not exactly," Jon answered painfully. "It is still midday, Father, and you must be busy from your duties. My tale is long, and... better relived in more private setting. A great deal has happened to Asher and I, and I will need some wine to get through it all." He was not oblivious to the look of concern that crossed through his father's eyes. "As for our current state, that is attributable to an Ironborn attack off the coast of Shipbreaker Bay, not far from Storm's End. The ship was flying Greyjoy sails." Father's eyes widened.

"I shall have quarters and a bath drawn up for you, but I will need you to accompany me to a meeting then. I will need your testimony before the Small Council." He raked his eyes over Jon. "You are a man now. I can see it in your face. Sansa, will you show your brother to the empty quarters by yours and Arya's? As for Lord Forrester, please find Vayon Poole to attend to his needs and to Jon's. I must go now, but we will speak very soon." He hugged Jon once more. He put a palm on Jon's face and laughed. "You're growing something of a beard. Leave it. You remind me of my own lord father with it," he said, and then patted his shoulder and turned to go. Jory Cassel followed after him, giving Jon a big smile and a firm clap on the arm as he trailed after Father. Sansa watched them go before she nudged Jon. 

"Come with me, Jon, Lord Forrester. I'll show you to your rooms." Sansa led them past the guards who stood by the entrance of the tower of the Hand and led him up a stone spiral staircase. The bricks and stones inside the Red Keep were quite similar to the ones outside, made of a pale red color. The staircase seemed to spiral forever, going up past many, many landings. Sansa explained that very little of the tower was actually used, and that there was a bridge between the midlevels of the Tower that connected it to the rest of the Red Keep, which was much more often used. Their chambers were only a few landings above that, and Father's quarters and the Hand's office a few more above those. To his surprise, Sansa seemed to express little exhaustion at the climb, where even he and Asher found it challenging.

They found Vayon Poole along the way. The steward recognized Jon almost immediately. It was strange how much taller Jon had gotten - he felt it now, compared to familiar faces. He stood taller than Vayon Poole, Jory Cassel, and even Father now. Father was just a hair short of six feet, so Jon knew he himself was taller than that now by half an inch. Poole showed Asher to his chambers first, a landing below his, and then accompanied Jon and Sansa up the stairs to his. It was a spacious room, well decorated with tapestries and paintings. A large armoire sat in one corner, and a four-poster bed sat on a raised platform on the floor. There was a balcony from which Jon could see the placid sea. Poole sent two other servants to get his bath warmed up.

"Quite the view," Jon remarked to Sansa.

She tittered. "Isn't it? So much better than looking out our windows at Winterfell and seeing the dreary summer snows all day. I hope you find these rooms to your comfort, brother. I know you must not have had much of it in Essos, travelling with your sellsword company."

Jon swallowed the lump in his throat. "There were times where we stayed in good accommodations, but this is a welcome change. I'm happy to be back with Father and my siblings." He turned away from the balcony and patted Sansa's hand. "After I've cleaned up, will you let Arya and Bran know I'm here? Come and spend some time with me if you can."

Sansa smiled. "We'll have lessons through the day, but we always have dinner with Father. We'll see each other then... if Arya doesn't run away to come find you first." That made the both of them laugh, and Jon watched his sister go. Sansa had changed. She was near a woman now, and her way of speaking had become only more prim and proper, if that was even possible. But she didn't treat him with an ounce of disdain - indeed, she seemed happy to see him again. That was a welcome change at least. He was eager to see Arya and Bran as well now. The servants left and he sank into the water after disrobing. He propped up Frostbite against the bed. The heated water felt good, but he did not linger in the bath. After scrubbing himself, Jon sat down in front of the mirror at a desk by the bed with a razor in hand, and shaved. Recalling Father's comment, he left some of his beard, which was now looking less patchy than it had, and cleaned his neck and the upper portion of his cheeks. Satisfied with the end result, he dressed in the clothes that had been laid out for him. Long ago he would have rebelled at loose linens and light fabrics, but in Essos he had grown used to them. He wore trouses with a linen shirt, and a thin leather jerkin over them. When he was done combing his hair, he heard a knock on the door.

"Enter," Jon said. Father walked in and observed the room. 

"I hope you'll find this to your liking," he said. "Sansa and Arya's rooms are nearby, though both should be at lessons. Bran is on the other side. I know you must be eager to meet them."

"Sansa said we'll all gather for dinner. That is perfectly fine with me, Father. Shall we go to the Small Council meeting?" He looked down. "Am I presentable? I have had little excuse to dress up for court in Essos, I'm afraid, though I did once have to find clothes to dine at a magister's manse in Pentos."

Father chuckled. He wore his usual clothes from the North, though fewer layers. Jon should have known that Father would not acclimate easily to the South and its fancies. "Fine as a man of the North should look," he said. "Come."

He led the way down two landings and across the great bridge the that connected the Tower of the Hand to the main portion of the Red Keep. Jon peered over the bridge and at the waters below, which were blue and sparkling and placid as ever. After crossing the bridge, they arrived at the Great Hall and the Throne Room. It was empty, save for the odd servant or courtier crossing the space, but there, at the far end, under stained glass and just in front of a giant yellow Baratheon stag banner, it sat.

The Iron Throne - Aegon's twisted chair, towering above the room. It was a monstrous thing, all blackened iron and sharp edges. Jon knew he could not count all the swords that littered the floor around it, fused into the ground as though they were iron flowers that grew from underfoot. The stairs seemed deadly. Even a small slip could lead a man to fall and impale himself on the fused swords. Jon thought it ugly, but he could not help but stare at it, as though it called to him. When he was finally able to wrestle his eyes away, he found his father staring at him strangely.

"It's remarkable. Ugly, though," Jon muttered.

"Aye, ugly," Father agreed. He joined Jon in staring at it. "I still remember the day I arrived in this hall, after the city was taken." Then he sighed and shook his head. "A long time ago." Father walked across the hall and past the stairs. To the left, a hallway opened up into a spiral staircase. Three landings later, they arrived into a chamber with an opulent table. The entry to the room was guarded - on the inside - by two Kingsguard, both of whom looked first at Father, then to Jon.

"Lord Stark," said one of the knights. He was an older man, his hair white, his face beardless. Jon knew almost immediately who it was.

"Ser Barristan," Father said, with a nod. He glanced back in Jon's direction. "This is my son, Jon."

Jon dipped his head in reverence. "An honor, Ser."

Ser Barristan nodded at him. The man's eyes still twinkled with youth, though his appearance belied it. He seemed to take the measure of Jon in one quick glance. "You have the look of a strong young lad," he said. "You seem no stranger to the training yard."

"I was in Essos with the Company of the Rose for over a year, ser," Jon answered. "I fought in the Sisters' War in the Disputed Lands. I've seen my fair share of battles, I'm sorry to say." This seemed to sparkle some interest in the old knight's eyes.

"Is that so?" Ser Barristan asked. "If you find your way to the practice field, perhaps we may share in a spar." Jon's eyes widened at the offer, and he found himself smiling. 

"Of course, Ser. I- it would truly be an honor."

"You won't be saying that when he's had his way with you," chortled the other knight. He was a comely man, with long, light brown hair, and his white cloak was pinned to his armor with a golden brooch made to look like a leaf. Jon nodded politely and followed after his father, who beckoned. Both he and Father stopped in their tracks when they realized who was seated at the table. 

From left to right, each chair - save for his father's, which had a hand carved into the backrest - was occupied. To Jon's left was a bald man with a plump and effeminate face. It was a powdered face with an obsequious smile that reminded him of the Magister from Pentos. He was dressed in rich silks and sat with his hands folded in his lap. Next to him was a slight, slim man in a velvet doublet with a small pointed beard on his chin, and dark hair with threads of grey running through it. He had beady green eyes that Jon did not trust, and he was looking at Jon as a cat might do with a mouse.

To the far right was a younger man, perhaps eight or nine years older than Jon. He was tall and handsome with jet black hair, and a clean shaven face. He had a broad smile and laughing blue eyes. He was dressed in a black doublet with a yellow cloak, and a black stag brooch. Next to him was a decrepit old man wearing the robes of a maester, with many chains around his neck. It was the man in the middle who stole all his attention.

He was large in every sense of the word. Black bearded, lightning-eyed, ruddy cheeked, and breathing hard, there sat Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. He was tall and near as girthy. His belly was large, but underneath the fat man was an absolute bull. He was dressed in silks, but seemed as though he would be happier in chainmail and half plate. 

His father seemed near as surprised as he was to find the King at a meeting of the small council. From that, Jon gathered that it was a rare enough occurrence.

“Your Grace, I-“ began Father.

King Robert raised a hand. His eyes glowered. “Ned. The whore is pregnant.”

Chapter Text

Almost straight away, Jon realized he had walked into trouble, and likely dragged his father with him.

King Robert’s hateful eyes did not lose any of their rage. The king’s fist slammed down on the council table loud as a thunderclap. “I warned you this would happen, Ned. Back in the barrowlands, I warned you, but you did not care to hear it. Well, you’ll hear it now. I want them dead, mother and child both, and I want the other three found and killed as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead.”

The other councillors were all doing their best to pretend that they were somewhere else, but not Father. “You will dishonor yourself forever if you do this,” Father replied. To all he might have appeared calm, but Jon could sense the shakiness in his voice.

“Then let it be on my head, so long as it is done. I am not so blind that I cannot see the shadow of the axe when it is hanging over my own neck,” grumbled the King.

“There is no axe,” Father told the king. “Only the shadow of a shadow, twenty years removed… if it exists at all.”

“If?” The bald, powdered man asked softly, wringing powdered hands together. “My lord, you wrong me. Would I bring lies to king and council?”

Father looked at the bald man coldly. “You would bring us the whisperings of a traitor half a world away, Lord Varys. Perhaps Mormont is wrong. Perhaps he is lying.” Jon’s eyes flickered. This was the Spider, the spymaster of the King. He wondered if Varys was aware of Jon’s involvement of the Targaryens. Oh, woe to him - he should never have been here. Now, he could potentially place his own father in danger.

“Ser Jorah would not dare deceive me,” Varys said with a sly smile. “Rely on it, my lord. The princess is with child.” He turned to face Jon. "Perhaps our Essosi sellsword might be able to shed further light on this. I had heard that the Company of the Rose was contracted to provide protection to the Targaryens in exile in Pentos, and I heard yet another little rumor that two members of the Company had arrived in King's Landing only today."

Jon froze. His palms felt sweaty, and it was worsened when the King turned to look at him with those lightning blue eyes. He had never felt such fear before, not even with thousands of enemies bearing down upon him. 

"Robert, the boy-"

The King waved Father off. "I'll hear it from the lad himself. What's your name, boy?"

Jon got to one knee and bowed his head. He tried as hard as he could to keep his breathing even. "Jon, Your Grace. Jon Snow."

King Robert gestured for him to come closer. Jon did so reluctantly. The King stared hard at him, but then something quite unexpected happened - his lips curled upwards into a genuine smile, and then he looked at Father. "Looks just like you did in the Eyrie, Ned. The hair color though - that's more Brandon."

His father sighed. "Aye. The blacker hair comes from the Flints."

"It's a great crime to tell a lie to a King, boy. I trust you know that. You're in no trouble here. Tell the truth, tell it plain, and you'll have done your king and the realm a great service. Do you swear it?"

"I swear it, Your Grace," Jon said, swallowing. "I joined the Company of the Rose as soon as I arrived in Braavos. I was taken in by a captain and Asher Forrester, son of Lord Gregor Forrester, who was an officer in the company. We did some contracts there in Braavos and then went to Pentos two moons after I joined. This was near a year past now. In Pentos, my captain and Lord Forrester were contacted by a Pentoshi magister, Illyrio Mopatis, with whom they had some dealings with in the past. Mopatis was sheltering the Targaryens, and he offered our company a contract to guard them. We accepted."

"Were the Targaryens aware of who you were? Surely not, for I cannot see any good reason for them to accept you as a guardsman if they knew of your father's identity," said the other black haired man. "Forgive me, young Jon. I am Lord Renly Baratheon - brother to our King here, and Lord of Storm's End." He flashed Jon an easygoing smile.

"They came to know of it, my lord," said Jon. "Aegon Targaryen seemed to think it an opportunity. He all but offered me Winterfell in exchange for my sword. Out of the love and loyalty I bear my father and his house, I refused. He continued to try and win my favors, but I thought him impetuous and foolish. There was an attempt to kidnap the Princesses when we were in Pentos. That attempt... was thwarted, but in reaction, fearing for their lives and their plans, Aegon decided to sell Rhaenys to a Dothraki Khal. Our company escorted the Targaryens deeper into Essos, where the Dothraki were to come and meet Rhaenys, but Viserys hatched a plot to kidnap the princesses and spirit them away before Aegon could marry them off. He was only able to escape with Rhaenys. After that, our contract was terminated. I know not what became of any of them, save for Daenerys. She knew she was to be sold to the Khal in Rhaenys' stead. After that, our company went to war and I heard nothing more of them."

The bald man sat up straight. "Thank you for your account, Jon Snow. Now, I find it curious that you mentioned a kidnapping attempt against the Princesses in Pentos. I assume you believe that it was the work of the Crown."

Jon shrugged. "So we thought, my lord."

"If such an attempt was ever sanctioned," said the man with the pointed beard, "it was never done so by the King, or this Council. Strange indeed." He fixed his cat-like eyes on Jon. "Strange as well that Aegon Targaryen would offer you Winterfell and that you would refuse. Forgive me, young Snow, but surely as a young man in your father's castle, you might have dreamed of one day coming into a lordship of your own."

Jon's eyes flashed with anger. "I might have dreamed of a lordship, my lord, but I never dreamed of stealing one from my brother Robb. I love my siblings and I love my father. I went to Essos to make a name, not to steal one." His father's hand felt firmly on Jon's shoulder then, and he looked him in the eye. Father gave him a reassuring squeeze.

"Well said, boy," rumbled the King. "Well said indeed. I'd never expect any less from one of Ned's."

"What did you think of the Targaryens?" asked the pointy-bearded man. Jon felt he did not like him much.

"I will answer in due course, my lord, but I fear I am unfamiliar with many of you. I would at least like to know who I have the honor of addressing," Jon sniped back. The man smiled a predatorial smile. 

"How impolite of us. I am Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord of the Fingers and Master of Coin. My esteemed colleague here is Lord Varys, our spymaster. You have already learned of Lord Renly's identity, and next to him sits Grand Maester Pycelle."

Jon dipped his head. "A pleasure, my lords, Grand Maester. To answer your question, Lord Baelish, it differs based on which Targaryen of you speak. Aegon... I have little good to say about him. Any man willing to sell his aunt or sister to savages is no man at all. As for Viserys... he seemed to chafe under the command of his nephew, but he was more enigmatic. He spoke little and seemed to hate everyone other than his family. The Princesses..." Jon faltered.

"I take it you have positive impressions of them," said Lord Baelish with a sly grin. "I have heard it said that Rhaenys and Daenerys Targaryen have flowered into legendary beauties. You would not have been the first man to become enchanted by them."

"I was not enchanted," Jon snapped. "Daenerys struck me as an innocent girl. She was sweet-spoken and gentle. I pity her fate for having been sold into a Dothraki khalasar." In truth, he did more than simply pity Daenerys - he mourned her, for she had become something of a friend to him during their time together. "Rhaenys on the other hand... she had more fire and blood in her. If it was her sold to the Khal, I would not have been surprised to find the Dothraki landing ashore already," Jon said, trying not to expose the fond grin he felt inside. "I know not what became of her and Viserys after their disappearance."

"It is possible... though unlikely..." wheezed the Grand Maester, "that Prince Viserys has brought the Princess Rhaenys to Dorne."

"Unlikely," Renly countered. "Arianne Martell returned to the capital five moons ago after visiting her lady mother, who had come from Norvos to Sunspear to visit. She was escorted the whole time by Ser Arys." He gestured to the Kingsguard knight standing next to Ser Barristan. "If Dorne plans to rebel, they would not hand their crown princess back into our arms. Though, my lord Hand, I do question the wisdom of sending Princess Arianne back, even if it was for a few fortnights. That was a risky mercy."

Father shook his head. "She was supervised the entire time. The girl is paying the price for her father's support of his sister's family by law in war. She has seen little of her homeland in the time since. And Dorne has yet to rise in rebellion. We have heard nothing of whispers of Targaryen presence, have we, Lord Varys? And as for Daenerys Targaryen... if you are wrong, we need not fear. If the girl miscarries, we need not fear. If she births a daughter in place of a son, we need not fear. If the babe dies in infancy, we need not fear."

"But if it is a boy?" King Robert insisted. "If he lives?"

"The narrow sea would still lie between us. I shall fear the Dothraki the day they teach their horses to run on water," Father replied.

"Your Grace, if I may?" Jon interrupted. Every head turned to look at him. King Robert apprised him for a moment, and then grunted with a nod.

"The Dothraki are not disciplined fighters," Jon said. "During the war, a small Khalasar was paid by the Lyseni to join in battle against us. Our Lord Commander, Owen Ironhand, assembled us on a hilltop in square shieldwall. We were all armed with pikes in front, archers and crossbows behind. The Dothraki charged us thrice and failed to break our lines. They charged us a fourth time and then their khalasar was no more."

"Forgive me, Jon Snow, but sellsword companies are not renowned for their bravery upon the field of battle. You must excuse me if this tale seems a little... fanciful," Lord Baelish said with a simpering smile.

Jon reached into his pouch and fished out a braid. It was a strange trophy, one he never wanted to keep, but Azenet insisted. 'You defeated the Dothraki in battle, and that is no mean feat,' she had said with a smile that night in their bedroll. 'Keep it for me.' He was glad now that he did. His throat constricted with emotion, he tossed it over to Baelish, who flinched. The braid, weighted down by gold, landed with an echoing thud on the council table.

"Ask the Dothrakan whose head that braid was attached to what he thinks of my tale," Jon said. "Your Grace, my point is that if Daenerys Targaryen were ever to rally a Dothraki horde behind her son, the armies of Westeros would crush them. They are fearsome in the open field, but against other, undisciplined armies, and they know nothing of the land. Westeros is not like the plains of Essos. And how many Westerosi lords would flock to her banners, even if they did harbor love for the dragons, if they saw her or her son at the head of an army of barbarians?"

The King looked at him, then at Father, before taking a great swallow of wine from his goblet. "You would counsel me to do nothing until the dragonspawn has landed his army on my shores, is that it?"

"This 'dragonspawn' is in his mother's belly," Father said. "Even Aegon did no conquering until after he was weaned."

"Gods! You are stubborn as an aurochs, Stark." The king looked around the council table. "Have the rest of you mislaid your tongues? Will no one talk sense into this frozen-faced fool?"

Varys gave the king an unctuous smile and laid a soft hand on Father's sleeve. "I understand your qualms, Lord Eddard, truly I do. It gave me no joy to bring htis grievous news to council. It is a terrible thing we contemplate, a vile thing. Yet we who presume to rule must do vile things for the good of the realm, howevermuch it pains us."

Lord Renly shrugged. "The matter seems simple enough to me. We ought to have had Aegon and the rest of them killed years ago, but His Grace my brother made the mistake of listening to Jon Arryn."

"Mercy is never a mistake, Lord Renly," Father replied. "On the Trident, Ser Barristan here cut down a dozen good men, Robert's friends and mine. When they brought him to us, grievously wounded and near death, Roose Bolton urged us to cut his throat, but your brother said, "i will not kill a man for loyalty, nor for fighting well,' and sent his own maester to tend Ser Barristan's wounds." He gave the king a long cool look. "Would that man were here today." Jon's ears reddened. He had always heard his father speak like this, but always to lesser men. Here now he defied a king.

The King's cheeks reddened further. "It was not the same," he complained. "Ser Barristan was a knight of the Kingsguard."

"Whereas Daenerys is a sixteen year old girl," Father said. "Robert, I ask you, what did we rise against Aerys Targaryen for, if not to put an end to the murder of children?"

"To put an end to Targaryens!" the king growled.

"Your Grace, I never knew you to fear Rhaegar," Father said. Jon heard the disgust in his voice. "Have the years so unmanned you that you tremble at the shadow of an unborn child?" Jon's jaw dropped. He had never expected such an insult to fly out of his father's mouth. Father stared straight ahead at Robert, as though they were the only two men in the room. The air felt thick and humid, as though preceding a thunderstorm.

"No more, Ned," the King warned, pointing. "Not another word. Have you forgotten who is King here?"

“No, Your Grace,” Father replied. “Have you?”

“Enough!” the king bellowed. “I am sick of talk. I’ll be done with this, or be damned. What say you all?”

“She must be killed,” Lord Renly declared.

“We have no choice,” murmured Varys. “Sadly, sadly…”

Ser Barristan Selmy raised his pale blue eyes from the table and said, “Your Grace, there is honor in facing an enemy on the battlefield, but none in killing him in his mother’s womb. Forgive me, but I must stand with Lord Eddard.” Jon was heartened to see Ser Barristan live up to his monker.

Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat, a process that seemed to take some minutes. “My order serves the realm, not the ruler. Once I counseled King Aerys as loyally as I counsel King Robert now, so I bear this girl child of his no ill will. Yet I ask you this—should war come again, how many soldiers will die? How many towns will burn? How many children will be ripped from their mothers to perish on the end of a spear?” He stroked his luxuriant white beard, infinitely sad, infinitely weary. “Is it not wiser, even kinder, that Daenerys Targaryen should die now so that tens of thousands might live?”

“Kinder,” Varys said. “Oh, well and truly spoken, Grand Maester. It is so true. Should the gods in their caprice grant Daenerys Targaryen a son, the realm must bleed.”

Baelish was the last. As Jon looked to him, the master of coin stifled a yawn. “When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, the best thing to do is close your eyes and get on with it,” he declared. “Waiting won’t make the maid any prettier. Kiss her and be done with it.”

“Kiss her?” Ser Barristan repeated, aghast.

“A steel kiss,” said Lord Baelish.

Robert turned to face his Hand. “Well, there it is, Ned. You and Selmy stand alone on this matter. The only question that remains is, who can we find to kill her?”

“Mormont craves a royal pardon,” Lord Renly reminded them.

“Desperately,” Varys said, “yet he craves life even more. By now, the princess nears Vaes Dothrak, where it is death to draw a blade. If I told you what the Dothraki would do to the poor man who used one on a khaleesi, none of you would sleep tonight.” He stroked a powdered cheek. “Now, poison… the tears of Lys, let us say. Khal Drogo need never know it was not a natural death.”

Grand Maester Pycelle’s sleepy eyes flicked open. He squinted suspiciously at the eunuch.

“Poison is a coward’s weapon,” the king complained.

Father, by now, had apparently heard enough. “You send hired knives to kill a sixteen-year-old girl and still quibble about honor?” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Do it yourself, Robert. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Look her in the eyes before you kill her. See her tears, hear her last words. You owe her that much at least.”

“Gods,” the king swore, the word exploding out of him as if he could barely contain his fury. “You mean it, damn you.” He reached for the flagon of wine at his side, found it empty, and flung it away to shatter against the wall. “I am out of wine and out of patience. Enough of this. Just have it done.”

“I will not be part of murder, Robert. Do as you will, but do not ask me to fix my seal to it.”

For a moment, King Robert did not seem to understand what Father was saying. Jon knew then that defiance was not a dish he tasted often. Slowly his face changed as comprehension came. His eyes narrowed and a flush crept up his neck past the velvet collar. He pointed an angry finger at Father. “You are the King’s Hand, Lord Stark. You will do as I command you, or I’ll find me a Hand who will.”

“I wish him every success.” Father unfastened the heavy clasp that clutched at the folds of his cloak, the ornate silver hand that was his badge of office. He laid it on the table in front of the king. His face seemed saddened, perhaps by the memory of the man who had pinned it on him, the friend he had loved. “I thought you a better man than this, Robert. I thought we had made a nobler king.”

King Robert’s face was purple. “Out,” he croaked, choking on his rage. “Out, damn you, I’m done with you. What are you waiting for? Go, run back to Winterfell. And make certain I never look on your face again, or I swear, I’ll have your head on a spike!”

They did not speak until Father led Jon back to his office in the Tower of the Hand. Though large, it was used about as modestly as Jon might have expected from Father. There were few comforts in the otherwise spare room. There was a desk in one corner, stacked neatly with papers, quill, and ink, with a hard backed leather chair. The fireplace was empty - it was hot enough as it was. A hall led down to the Hand's sleeping quarters. Jon saw a post of a bedframe in the corner.

"Father," Jon said. "That was dangerous, defying a king."

Father looked at him with surprise on his face. Jon knew why. Before, he never would have questioned Father, before he left Winterfell. He never would have spoken first, choosing instead to let his father lead the discussion. But he saw what he saw - and he intended to speak on it.

"It was. But it was the right thing to do." Father ran a hand through his hair. "Only once have I seen Robert like this before - when Tywin Lannister presented the body of Elia along with the two impostor children wrapped in red cloaks. Murdering a pregnant girl is no better." He looked sharply at Jon. "I did not know that you met the Targaryens in Essos. Your letter made no mention of it."

"It was after I sent the first letter. And after I heard you were made Hand, I did not want to add any dangerous information to the letters after," Jon sighed. "Daenerys was a sweet girl." Dropping his voice, he said, "I was very fond of both the Targaryen princesses. I did not mention it in the council chamber, but the kidnapping attempt against Princess Rhaenys - it was I who rescued her from it. Back then, I would have counted both the Princesses as friends."

Father gave him a queer look. "And Aegon? Viserys?"

Jon shrugged. "I was honest about them, Father. I thought Aegon a fool and a madman for selling his kin to a Dothraki khal. As for Viserys... he kept things closer to the vest. I could not discern his true feelings, but I do think he thought himself better suited to leadership of their house over Aegon. Besides, the real danger would have been Aegon at the head of a Dothraki army, not Daenerys' unborn son," Jon mused. "It is strange that the spymaster made no mention of Aegon's whereabouts. Did he go with the Dothraki? What happened to him? He is the claimant of their house, not Daenerys or any half-Dothraki son she might have. Perhaps if you were able to speak with the King..."

Father snorted uncharacteristically. "You have only just met Robert, but I know him. When it comes to the Targaryens, he will not see reason. He never has. The only reason they are not dead yet is because Robert was never able to locate them, not until they arrived in Pentos some moons ago."

That took Jon aback. He recalled the words of the Targaryens - of Aegon, who had insinuated that the King's daggers followed them at every turn - and then the words of the Magister, who said that the Targaryens had not been targeted by the crown. Which was it? He relayed the same back to Father.

"Strange that this merchant would give two differing accounts based on who asks," Father said. "Perhaps he wanted to make the Targaryens feel indebted, as though his protection was what kept them safe. In any case, it seems as though we did not learn of their whereabouts until the Targaryens arrived at this magister's home. It may be that he is one of Varys' spies as well. As for the kidnapping attempt..."

"None of this amounts of any sum of sense," Jon muttered. "Who then would want to kidnap the princesses, if not the King? And it does not seem to me that the king is interested in bringing them into custody. He would much rather have them gutted in their sleep." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. The Targaryens are gone to the wind. I fear more for what might happen to House Stark, if you have fallen out of favor with the king."

"As do I," Father agreed. "Jon, I have an important task for you. I did not want you to linger in the capital, for you are needed in Winterfell. Your place is by Robb's side, by my side, with our family. I want you to take Sansa, Arya, Bran, and some of the household guard. See if there is a ship to take you North by tonight. I will accompany the rest of our people North by foot within a day or two. Be quick and quiet about it. I do not want it known that we are fleeing the city like a gaggle of common thieves."

"After what happened with the Ironborn, I fear what may happen with my siblings on a ship," Jon said. "The King did not give us a chance to mention what happened."

Father sighed in frustration. "Aye, you have the right of it. Take them north by horse then. Quick and quiet. Leave tonight. Take Lord Asher with you. I will send a raven to his father today." Father summoned Vayon Poole, who appeared very shortly after.

"Lord Hand, Master Snow - you summoned me?"

"Lord Hand no longer," Father said. "The King and I have quarreled. We shall be returning to Winterfell. I mean to have Jon ride with the children ahead of me, with Hullen and some others. The rest of us will follow in a few days' time. Inform Jory, and tell no one else."

"As you command, my Lord." Vayon Poole left, and Father returned to the window, brooding.

"Why did you accept the King's offer?" Jon asked softly. Father turned to peer at him. 

"I thought I might serve my friend," Father said. His voice was little more than a whisper. "But I did not see that friend in the council chamber with me today. Still, I feel disheartened to have left so much undone. The King is surrounded by flatterers and cravens. The finances of the realm are in ruin, and I do not know why Jon-" Father paused abruptly.

"Jon... Arryn?" Jon asked. "The former lord hand? He was your foster father. I know you loved him greatly, Father. I am sorry about his passing."

Father was quiet for a few moments, and then he approached Jon closely. "What I am about to tell you shall not leave your memory, understood?"

"Understood, Father," Jon said, straightening.

"I do not think his death was natural. I have cause to believe the Lannisters are involved. I was looking into the circumstances of his death, and I believe he was murdered, but I have yet to find anything solid, anything real - as to the reason why. You may have noticed an empty chair in the council chamber today. Lord Stannis was helping Jon Arryn investigate something. When he died, Stannis went to Dragonstone and has not returned yet, nor does he answer my ravens." Father shook his head wearily. "It is not safe here. Go now. Gather your siblings. I want you out of the city by dusk." Jon nodded and turned to leave.

"Father, one thing."

"Son?" 

Jon fidgeted with his hands. "I wanted to speak to you about my mother. I would like to know who she was."

Father looked at him then, with such sadness in his eyes Jon feared they might spill over with tears. "When we get back to Winterfell, I'll tell you about her."

There was a knock on the door then; Tomard peered his head through, smiling when he saw Jon. "Lord Stark, Lord Baelish is here to see you."

"Let him in," commanded Father. Baelish swept in, crossing paths with Jon on his way out. Jon mistrusted that man, mistrusted his smile. He had a sudden feeling as though he should not leave his father alone with Lord Baelish, but then the door was shut and Jon left to go find his siblings. He stopped in his room first, gathering some clothes in a pack. He tied Frostbite in its scabbard around his waist and fastened a cloak around his shoulders.

He found them all at their lessons in a large sitting area on the landing just below their rooms. Sansa was sitting straight-backed in her chair, sewing something, supervised by Septa Mordane. Arya was there too, looking rather angry as she pricked at whatever poor thread found itself in her hands, and Bran was reading from a book. They all paused when they heard footsteps, and Bran and Arya gaped when they saw him. Arya was the first to get up, all thoughts of angry sewing thrown aside. She launched herself at Jon. She had grown taller since Jon saw her, more coltish now, wrapped in a grey woolen dress and gangly. Bran followed after, and he had grown larger too - combined, his siblings' and their heft knocked him to the ground, laughing.

"Jon!" they shouted in unison. Jon wrapped his arms around them both and pulled them tight.

"Little brother, little sister. I've missed you both," he said, warmly. 

Then they helped him up, and Arya wasted no time in punching at him, much to Septa Mordane's consternation. "How could you leave with just a stupid letter! Never do something like that again or I'll have Jory come hunt you down and drag you back to Winterfell tied with ropes!"

Jon yelped at his sister's blows. "Never, never, I promise, Arya! Now will you quit hitting me? I have something important to tell you all, something from Father. You too, Septa." When they gathered, Jon looked at all of them seriously. "Father is ordering us to leave King's Landing tonight. I'm to take you all to Winterfell with Hullen and some of the others. Father will follow in a day or two. He and the King... they have had a falling out. Father is no longer hand. I will not lie to any of you, for all of you are grown and no longer children." He patted Bran's shoulder. "This is a dangerous place for us to be without the King's favor, and even worse with the King's wrath. We should be on the road by evenfall. Sansa, I need you to help the other two pack. Can you do this for me? Septa, if you might aid Sansa - I will go speak with the guards and ready horses for us all. Take what you can have on your person, and perhaps some spare clothes. No matter what valuable you must leave behind - we will get new ones in Winterfell."

"But - Jon," Sansa cried, her eyes wide. "I'm betrothed to the Prince! How can Father just make us leave-"

"Hush," Jon said, quieting her. He did not know that she was betrothed to the Prince. That changed things - and explained why Sansa looked so happy and content in the South. If that betrothal still held - and Jon had no idea if it did - it would not protect them much, he feared. "It does not matter now, Sansa. No matter what the King and Father have promised each other  - everything changed today. We must give them some time to sort things out, as friends and brothers sometimes need time. Do you remember when me and Robb fought that once after the Solstice feast three years ago?" When the siblings nodded, Jon continued. "It took us two moons to speak again, and we were just boys. Father and the King are lords and warriors. They will need time. And it may not resolve so easily. We must not be here if that happens. Our lives are in danger, Sansa. I need you now, to be brave, to be a Lady of Winterfell, a Lady of House Stark. What are our words?"

"Winter is coming," Sansa said, trembling. 

"What are your mother's words?"

"Family, duty, and honor," Bran repeated.

"Good." Jon pulled Sansa in and kissed her forehead. "Now winter is coming for us, and we must look to our family, our duty, and our honor. Can I trust you, Sansa? Bran, Arya?"

Each of three nodded, Arya the most strenuously. He smiled and they went to their rooms in a rush. Septa Mordane lingered behind. She looked at Jon strangely. 

"Septa?"

She was quiet for a heartbeat longer. "A boy left Winterfell a year ago. A man has come back in his place." Her eyes lingered on Frostbite's pommel and hilt, visible outside the beautiful scabbard. "Go to Hullen and the guards. I will help the children. You have my word that we will be ready upon your return."

Septa Mordane was true to her promise, and that night, flanked by Hullen, Asher, and a dozen guards, they set out from the Dragon Gate, thundering up the Kingsroad and back home to Winterfell. That same night, when they made camp some leagues away from the city, Jon heard a rustle in the bushes and saw the familiar red eyes of Ghost. His muzzle was slick with blood.

Chapter Text

It took precisely three hours from their departure from King's Landing for Jon's siblings to begin pestering him about Frostbite.

Arya, naturally, was the first to notice, and did not cease her begging until Jon unsheathed the blade from its scabbard. The light of the campfire caught on the ripples, red-orange waves on a steel-blue sea. Bran and Arya were mesmerized, and it captured even Sansa's attention. 

"How did you get your hands on this?" Arya breathed. "Did you take it from a pirate?"

"A great bravo from the Free Cities?" Bran offered helpfully.

Jon shook his head, laughing. "I did not. Our first contract in Braavos went awry. When we took our revenge on the man who betrayed us, he..." the smile slipped from his face when he remembered Azenet. "He offered me re-worked Valyrian steel as payment for his life. My friend killed him anyway. His treachery led to the death of her sister. I kept the Valyrian steel ingot and found a smith from Qohor who knew the secret of reworking Valyrian steel. He forged this for me - Master Varik Mott was his name," Jon recalled. 

"Why a winter rose?" Sansa asked. "Did you think of Aunt Lyanna?"

Jon blinked. In truth, he had not thought of her directly, though at some point he recalled Father's tendency of placing winter roses in the hands of the statue above her tomb in the crypts. It was a testament to the company, but the company no longer existed. "Not at the time," Jon confessed. "It had more to do with my ties to Winterfell and the Company of the Rose. But now, it may as well be in her honor. The company is no more."

Arya was the first to catch onto the ill-feeling that lingered in his words. "Your friends, with the Company... they all died, didn't they?"

"Aye, my lady. They did," Asher said solemnly, joining them. He laid his roll by the fire, next to Jon's. "We were betrayed on the field of battle that day. We lost friends... friends who were like our own family." He looked to Jon and then turned back to Arya. "Best not to talk about it. Those wounds are still a little raw, Lady Arya."

Arya nodded quickly, her face a little shameful for the gentle reprimand she just received. Jon patted her knee. "It's alright, Arya. Some other day I'll tell you all about the Company and our adventures. For now, get some rest. Ghost will watch over us."

The siblings all nodded with wide eyes. All of them were shocked to hear that Jon had found a direwolf in Essos, under the least likely of circumstances. Jon heard all about each of theirs - Lady, Nymeria, and Summer, all three left behind in Winterfell on Father's orders, for three wolves were too many to bring south. He learned that Robb's was the largest of the pack, named Grey Wind, and Rickon's somewhat appropriately named Shaggydog. Rickon was just a boy of eight. Perhaps he would regret that name in due time, but Jon loved it. He was eager to see both of them in Winterfell. His previous fears about a chilly homecoming had been fully swept away by Arya and Bran, but most of all Sansa. Sansa had shown him far more sisterly affection than she ever had before, and Jon secretly found himself enjoying it greatly. They had been close as children, and he welcomed the chance to be close now as they came of age.

Jon lay awake that first night in his bedroll, unable to sleep. A cursory glance sideways revealed that Sansa was similarly awake, her blue eyes staring up into the void of the starless night sky.

"Can't sleep, sister?" Jon asked softly. Sansa shook her head in silent response. "Me neither," said Jon. "What ails you?"

"My betrothal with the prince," Sansa grumbled. "Jon, if only you'd met him. He's the perfect prince, a gallant lord, and he's to be mine. Why did Father have to go and upset the King? What could have been so worth ruining all of it?"

Jon laughed, which earned him a glare. "Would the life of an innocent woman and her unborn child be worth it?" he asked.

Sansa made a face. "What do you mean?"

"It was King Robert's desire to murder Daenerys Targaryen," Jon said softly. "He heard that Daenerys was pregnant. Without knowing anything else - knowing only that she might bring a son into this world - King Robert wanted her dead. A girl of sixteen, Sansa, sold as a broodmare to a Dothraki khal. The Dothraki are a brutal people. They lay with their women as dogs take bitches. They take slaves and they raid and pillage everywhere they go. It is not a good life, but it is her life. I hope she has found happiness in it, if even in small measure. And the King wanted her dead simply for having a child, one she likely had no say in choosing to have. Father would not be a part of it. I think he did the right thing."

"But..." Sansa said, her voice small. "Would the King truly..."

"Powerful people do terrible things to ensure their power," Jon said. "It is the way of the world, sweet sister. I say this not to make a fool of you, but because I fear that one day Robb or Father or I won't be there to help you when you need it, and you will need to fend for yourself." He turned over and faced her directly now. "I met Daenerys, you know."

"You did?" Sansa's eyes widened.

"Aye. She reminded me so much of you it hurt. She was sweet and gentle - a perfect lady," Jon said with a small laugh. "When she told me what was to become of her, I was saddened. I thought of you being sold to a barbarian, and the thought sat poorly with me. Somewhere halfway across the world, she is fending for herself, with no brothers to help her, no sister to support her. And she walked into that doom bravely. You are luckier than her. Sansa, there is no such thing as a perfect prince or perfect man. I have met many good men, and in each I have seen a killer - and that is just the good men. You will find love and a good husband - a better man than this prince, who I cannot think much better than his father who would slaughter babes and pregnant mothers and call it justice."

"You have changed, Jon. Sometimes you sound like Father. Sometimes you look just like him too," Sansa murmured. Her voice seemed adrift. Jon could sense that she was beginning to fall into the early throes of sleep.

"It honors me that you would think so," Jon replied gently, but by then Sansa had fallen asleep.

By the next morning, a Stark rider came up from behind them along the Kingsroad, and handed a message to Jon. Father wrote to await the rest of the household at an inn known to them some leagues to the North. Jon found it perturbing that the letter made no mention of Father himself - just the remainder of the Stark household. A younger Jon might have considered it an oversight, but now something wormed into his mind and made him uneasy.

They arrived at the inn by midafternoon, and Jon found himself with plenty of time with his siblings. He sparred with Bran, who was a precocious young man with the blade - time never dulled his dream of being a knight - and helped Arya with her archery. He enjoyed a midafternoon meal with them and Sansa, and together they shared laughs and smiles. Spending time with them relieved his mind of the constant anxieties that plagued him. Too many things felt in motion at once - the falling-out between father and the King, the Ironborn attack, mentions of Daenerys and Rhaenys…

He offered a quick prayer to the gods that his Targaryen princesses might be safe and hale, wherever they were. For Viserys he said nothing, and he was like as to curse Aegon than ask for a blessing for him.

Since they arrived, Rhaenys saw little of Viserys. He spent most of his time locked with Uncle Dorian, plotting whatever they were plotting. She was not privy to their councils - in fact, the only uncle present who seemed glad for her return was Uncle Oberyn, and he had been gone to King’s Landing in secrecy for a fortnight.

He returned that night under the cover of darkness. Rhaenys only saw him because she was in the yard to train, matching her spear with Obara. The Sand Snakes quickly took her in upon arrival, as though she was one of their own sisters. Indeed, as a public identity, she was Marya Sand, one of Oberyn’s late discovered bastard daughters. She still found that identity amusing, but it reminded her of a bastard she had known not too long ago. She still remembered the tears she shed for Jon Snow, her one-time rescuer, the night Uncle Oberyn returned from a voyage to Myr, and claimed that four entire sellsword companies in the employ of the city had been wiped out in the Sister's War. One of them was the Company of the Rose. 

“Father!” Obara said, when she saw Uncle Oberyn slink into the garden quietly. She embraced her father. Rhaenys joined her and found her uncle’s arms wrapped around her. She never tired of his affection, for she imagined it was the closest she would ever get to her own father.

”Sweet girls,” he said. “It pleases me to see you both at your training still. I was gladdened to know you never ceased your lessons in Essos.”

Rhaenys smiled proudly. “It would have been a waste to let your teachings go stale.” There was a time, until it became to dangerous, that Uncle Oberyn would come to Essos and occasionally visit them. During those trips he taught her the basics of the art of the spear. “How went your visit to King’s Landing.”

Oberyn’s lips curled upward in amusement. “Eventful. We’ll talk about it at supper.”

Suppertime could not come fast enough. When the sun went down behind the shadow city and blanketed Sunspear in darkness, Rhaenys donned a simple evening dress. The Martells ate supper together, in a small dining room reserved specifically for the family, when they were not feasting guests from outside or receiving visiting lords and ladies or bannermen. Uncle Doran was already seated at the head of the table, which already had food served on it, with Areo his shadow as always. Next to him on his right was Uncle Oberyn, and on his left were Quentyn and Trystane. Her cousins she rarely saw. Trystane was occupied in his own pursuits - hunting, hawking, and now, at the age of 14, discovering girls - while Quentyn was always quiet, always surrounded by his friends, and rarely ever looked her in the eye, much less speak to her. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes, however, were not present, which was unusual. Rhaenys had grown used to the presence of her bastard cousins and her uncle's paramour, who were very much like family and treated so, even in Uncle Oberyn's absence. Across from the empty seat reserved for her, of course, was Viserys, whom she roundly ignored as she had been doing all these months. Viserys had tried to get her to speak to him for some time, but had evidently resigned himself sometime after. He still spoke to her, but never expected a response. And she heard what he had to say, but never spoke in turn. It was childish, perhaps, but she still blamed him. What for, she could not quite say. 

She did not want to wed the Khal. She did not want to resign Daenerys to that fate either. Blaming Viserys made it easier, but Rhaenys knew that her uncle and one-time best friend already blamed himself more than anything else. Viserys loved Daenerys more than the rest of them, and that was no shameful secret.

"Niece," Uncle Doran smiled at her. "How was your day?"

"The same, Uncle," Rhaenys replied. "I am gladdened by Uncle Oberyn's presence."

"As am I," Uncle Doran said with a smile, patting his brother's hand. "You bring news from the capital, I assume."

"Of course, brother," Oberyn replied with a cat-like grin. "It would appear that Lord Stark and the King had a falling out."

Rhaenys took a bit of a roasted pepper. The flavor exploded in her mouth. She thought the Essosi were masters of spice, but Dorne was a different beast. "Any weakness in our enemies is a good thing. Did you ever hear what about?"

Her uncle shook his head. "I do not know the direct cause. A day earlier, Lord Stark's son arrived with a companion. That same evening, that son and the rest of his children, as well as about half his household, were seen leaving the city by the City Watch. Lord Stark himself, apparently, was still in the city when I left. By now his household must be in the Riverlands. I cannot say if the Lord Hand had joined them, but rumors travel fast."

"What would Stark's heir be doing in the south, and what news could he possibly carry that might have anything to do with a strain in Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon's relationship?" Uncle Doran said thoughtfully.

"Not the heir," Uncle Oberyn said. "It was the bastard. Arianne got a good look at him, though they never spoke. Dark hair, tall, and had a rather unique sword.”

Rhaenys' fork, which had been about to spear a spiced potato, clattered on her plate. Every head turned to look at her. Her hands trembled.

Jon? she thought.

”Is everything alright, my dear?” Uncle Oberyn asked. Concern was etched onto the lines of his forehead. 

“The bastard - Jon Snow?” Viserys asked coolly.

”I don’t know his name,” Oberyn said. “But I take it you are acquainted, my Prince.”

”My niece moreso than I,” Viserys muttered. “You may recall the kidnapping attempt I mentioned. Jon Snow was the man who was-“

”He saved my life,” Rhaenys said flatly. “Rode hard after my captors and put them down. He was…”

To her surprise, it was Trystane who spoke. “You seem quite fond of him, cousin.” 

“He became something of a friend,” Rhaenys muttered. “Aegon thought it wise to court him in preparation of an invasion, to groom our own claimant to the North should the Starks prove unwilling to bend the knee. Jon refused him. He loved his siblings too much to usurp their claim.”

”Or he didn’t think you were a winning side,” Uncle Oberyn pointed out.

”Mayhaps,” Rhaenys conceded. “But I didn’t think him a liar. In any case, I thought him dead when you brought news of the Company of the Rose’s fate in Essos.” Jon was alive, the thought to herself. That gladdened her. She wondered if any of his friends - Captain Brandon, Lord Asher, or the Rhoynish serjeant woman he took for a lover had survived.  

”Could he prove useful in some way?” Uncle Doran mused.

Viserys snorted. “Unlikely. What use is a bastard to us?” That earned him a glare.

Uncle Oberyn’s knife scraped against his plate, creating a terrible shrieking noise that cut into Rhaenys’ spine and made her hair stand on end. “You forget, my Prince, that bastards have many uses. My daughters, for example, have proven worthy time and again.”

Viserys was not easily cowed. “Dorne is different, Prince Oberyn.”

”The question is less about his bastardy,” mused Uncle Doran, “and more about his status in the eyes of his lord father. I cannot claim to know Eddard Stark well, but those who have met him have always claimed him to be a principled and level-headed, if somewhat stubborn man. Does this Jon Snow have his ear?”

”I think yes,” Oberyn said. “If he didn’t, Stark wouldn’t have fled the capital like a thief in the night. There is something queer in all that. I should like to know more, but we will have to await a message from Arianne on the matter.”

”Why should we not court the Starks?” Rhaenys offered.

Viserys looked at her incredulously, as though she had just sprouted a second head. “Rhaenys, you can’t be serious-“

”Uncle Doran, the North would be a serious ally. Like Dorne, their kingdom is difficult to invade.” The idea had so much plain faced merit that she forged ahead with it. “They have fierce armies, and the Starks can bring the Tullys and the Arryns to the table as well. That starts to look like a winning side.”

Oberyn stroked his chin, looking at her thoughtfully. “I don’t know if I can stomach the idea of siding with those who stood by while your mother was killed.”

Rhaenys grimaced. “You needn’t remind me, uncle. But the man who carried out the deed, the man who gave the orders - neither of them are Starks, Tullys, or Arryns. I will settle for their heads on spikes and call it justice.”

”I shall consider it,” Uncle Doran said as he sipped his wine. “The idea is not wholly without merit. I shall have to consider how to go about approaching such an alliance. They say Stark has five children, excluding the bastard. None of them are marriageable to Arianne for their ages, I would think, but perhaps Quentyn and the elder girl… yes…”

”Enough about Stark,” grumbled Uncle Oberyn. “I’ve had my contacts in Essos search high and low for Aegon. There is no sign of him, or the cheesemonger.” That information tore at Rhaenys. She wondered every day where Aegon was, if he was safe, what had become of him. All they knew is that he did not seem to be with Daenerys, who had disappeared into the Dothraki sea.

”Retrieving our nephew is essential,” said Doran. “The question of succession notwithstanding,” he said, with a pointed look at Viserys, “Elia’s son belongs at home with Elia’s family.”

”Aegon does not seem to agree,” sneered Viserys. “And if you think your nephew is suited for the crown, after trying to sell your niece to a Dothraki khal - and failing that, selling my sister - then your judgment is akin to that of a fool.”

Rhaenys could see Uncle Oberyn visibly tense at the insult, but Uncle Doran was cool in his response. Still, Rhaenys could see that Viserys’ words troubled them. Even if Viserys’ aim was to be seen as the head and heir of the family, Rhaenys had to concede the point.

As supper conversation drifted to more mundane topics, Rhaenys’ mind raced back towards the thought of her Northern friend. Suddenly the idea struck her.

”Uncle Doran,” she said.

”Yes, dear niece?”

”Send me to the north,” she blurted. “With Nym or Quentyn or whoever else. I can pose as Marya Sand. Jon will not betray me. Entrust me with this and I will bring an entire kingdom to our side.” She did not know where this strength of belief erupted from, but she knew she believed it. Jon would listen. If everything he said about his Lord father was true, they would listen. “Send a raven north. Claim it has something to do with a betrothal proposal. Quentyn for the eldest girl…. Sansa, that’s the name,” she said. She realized her voice was excited, hurried, and so felt embarrassed. She felt like an eager little girl.

Uncle Doran's face did not betray his opinion on the matter. It remained as pensive as ever, his hazel eyes burrowing into hers. She always felt as though he had a gaze that could pierce into her thoughts. 

"You place a high value on the standing of this bastard in Lord Stark's court," Uncle Doran said. "And you are far too dangerous to risk."

"Send anyone else and the bastard will not be prone to believe us," Viserys muttered. She looked at him in surprise, but he did not meet her eyes. Instead he looked to Uncle Doran. "I have no love for Eddard Stark or any other of the Usurper's dogs. If I was confident of victory through any other means, I would take it. It simply makes numerical sense. The North might bring us the Vale and the Riverlands. That would amount to near a hundred thousand men - a hundred thousand that the Usurper could not bring to us. Every man we gain is a double victory."

Uncle Doran looked at Viserys, then her, and then at Uncle Oberyn. "Oberyn, dear brother. Will you go as my personal representative? It would guarantee Quentyn and our niece's safety, and I would sleep better at night for it."

Uncle Oberyn nodded, though he did not look pleased. Rhaenys did not mind. She would win him over to her side of thinking. "I will. We would leave tomorrow night, then."

Jon waited a night at the inn. The Last Homely House, true to its was a homely thing, but large, with enough guest rooms for their party and plenty to spare. There were more inns further up north, past Darry, Jon knew, but few enough on the road south to King's Landing until one reached the more populated villages and towns near the God's Eye. There was a village a few minutes ride down the road, next to a babbling brook the winded near the inn too. Nearby was a windmill and a farmhouse on a hill that overlooked golden fields underneath. They were a few leagues south of Darry, and a few leagues south of the ford that would take them across and further up the Kingsroad along the Green Fork, all the way to the North. Ghost ranged in the forests nearby, always staying near and never straying too far.

The next morning, the rest of the Stark household caught up with them. Jon awaited Father's arrival early in the morn, on his horse at the top of the hill around which the Kingsroad curved before arriving at the inn. A few riders galloped in front, and the rest of the household came along. Jon recognized Vayon Poole, driving a horse with a cart in tow. His daughter Jeyne was seated next to him. Jon smiled to see her. He had always been shy around Jeyne, and she had hardly given him the time of day - but she was a pretty one and prettier now still, having grown into a woman. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she blushed.

"Good morn, Master Poole," Jon greeted. "Where is my lord father?"

"Good morn to you too, Jon," Vayon said. His face was somber. "Lord Stark, he... he stayed behind, I'm afraid. Vayon pulled out a scroll, sealed with his father's sigil. "He instructed me to give this to you and to tell you to not turn back for him. He wants you to get the girls and Lord Bran back to Winterfell, as quickly as possible."

Jon's face fell. He reached out for the scroll and unsealed it, his eyes scanning the contents.

Jon,

The King is in danger. I have reason to believe that he has suffered a great betrayal. I may no longer be hand, but I must stay and fulfill my duties. I cannot forget our friendship but for one bitter argument.  I have little doubt that I am exposing myself and our house to danger by doing this, but my mind compels me to stay, as much as my heart longs for Winterfell.  Take your sisters and Bran north. Do not turn back, no matter what you hear. 

If something should happen to me, seek out Howland Reed.

Your Father,

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North.

Jon cursed silently as he rolled the scroll and put it away. "Do you know why he stayed?" he asked.

"I cannot say, truly. I pled with him to leave, Jon, but Lord Stark was adamant that he had to say. Just before he ordered me to go ahead with the rest of the household, he met with Lord Baelish, and after him, Lord Varys," said Poole.

"Did any guards stay behind with him?" Jon asked sharply.

"T-ten," Vayon stuttered. "Jory, Theo, Wyll, Tomard, and-"

"Not enough," Jon groaned. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Father, what are you thinking?" With a sigh, he said, "My frustration isn't your fault, Master Poole. If you are tired and need rest, we can stay one more night at the inn, but we have the whole day ahead of us and I would prefer to put more leagues behind us. If possible, we can ford the Green Fork at midafternoon and be on our way up the Kingsroad."

The steward agreed, and soon Jon's party joined the rest of them. Jon and Asher rode at the head of the party. Without realizing it at first, Jon became something of the commander of the party - and to his surprise, the men listened. He organized patrols and sent men in pairs to scout the road ahead. Poole had come with many people, and now there were near a hundred and score of them - but only ten and score that could fight, including him and Asher. When they arrived at the ford, it was Arya and Bran who brought up the significance of the place.

"This is the Ruby Ford," Bran said, riding alongside Jon. "This is where Father and the King defeated the royal army, led by Prince Rhaegar. This is where Rhaegar died."

"I wonder if we'd see rubies in the river below," Asher muttered. "Not likely, of course. If there were any, survivors and bandits and smallfolk would have taken them all by now."

Jon found the topic of the Prince's rubies morbid. The ford was like any other, really - reedy, wet, and muddy. There was no true sign that a great battle had been fought here some sixteen-seventeen years ago. Jon wondered what the battlefield outside Andros looked like now. An image of bodies - hundreds of bodies, bloodied, strewn around like wet rags - filled his mind, and he shook it away. His hand fell to the pouch that contained Azenet and her sister's ashes.

They crossed without any trouble save for one stuck cart, which Jon and the men dislodged; after that, they were on their way. A fortnight later they were already past the Twins, though they did not see it from here. The Kingsroad was at least two days ride east of the crossing on the Trident, and they made faster pace on the paved Kingsroad anyway. Just before they arrived at the edge of the North, where the Frey lands bordered the Neck and the swamps of the crannogmen, they were beset by a large party of bandits.

Beset was perhaps the wrong word. The bandits - most likely men from the mountains of the Vale - were roaming an hour's ride up the road, or so the scouts Jon sent out to screen the party reported. There was no true way of getting around them, for they had moved in and made camp near the edge of the road. One of the scouts - Marq - said that it was not uncommon for the wild people of the Vale to come and raid the kingsroad for a day or two - sometimes longer, depending on how slow the Freys were at clearing them out, and the Freys were never quick about it, for it funneled more traffic to their crossing to the south west. 

Jon drew up a plan to attack them under the cover of night, if they did not move. The bandit camp was at the top of a small rise that overlooked the road both directions for a league, but it backed against a forest. At night Jon and twenty fighting men ranged out and curved around the base of the rise, using the bog and the trees for cover. It was dark, damp, dirty going. The bog was filled with dangerous things - snakes and lizard lions and other animals Jon could not name - but they were able to maneuver around it without any loss of life. Dripping with bogwater, they crept through the trees until they spotted the bandit camp. 

Silent as thieves, Jon and the men advanced. The wildmen had entirely failed to set picket lines in the trees, thinking no one would dare to hook around them. That was a fatal error. With a bellowing war cry, Jon and Ghost the Stark men emerged from the trees with steel and fire and brought death. The battle was less so that and more a slaughter than anything else. Jon cut down five of the wildmen himself with Frostbite, including one that wore a great antlered leather helm. That one gave him a hard time with his great hammer, though Jon ran him through sooner rather than later. They had been caught unawares; Jon's victory was complete. Not a single Stark man was lost, for they had surprised the wildmen so utterly that the entire thing was over within ten minutes. The wildmen had gathered a great deal of plunder. Jon ordered the men to take the chests and boxes they could carry, and in the morning, he divided up the battle loot, an action that earned him a great deal of cheers and a great swig of Marq's blackberry wine, a sweet but strong drink the man claimed to brew in his home in Winterfell.

As the rode up the Kingsroad and through the bogs - danger on both sides, Jon made sure that no one stepped off the beaten path - Jon kept thinking of Father. What danger was so grave against the King that Father would stay behind to resolve it? He was no longer Hand - he had no responsibility to the King. Jon found himself more and more angry at the decision. Their family needed him more - Winterfell and the North and House Stark needed him more. What did he owe the King? If anything, Jon thought, Robert Baratheon owed his throne to Eddard Stark - not the other way around.

But then there had been Jon Arryn's death - what his father thought to be murder. Father was not the type to abandon his duty when the realm was at stake. Jon wondered what he himself would do in that position. He wondered if he would run away. 

Such thoughts plagued him all through their trip. At some point, through the swamps of the Neck and when they reached Moat Cailin. Father's letter, and the ominous instructions within to seek out Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch should something happen to him, seemed to repeat in his head. Regardless, he led their party as they forged ahead.

It took a full moon from their encounter by the edge of the Neck to get to Winterfell. When the grey towers of his home emerged from behind a hill, Jon let out a breath he had not known he was holding. Bran, who was riding beside him then, smiled.

"Happy to see home, brother?" he asked.

Happy - he was not sure if that was the right word. But the familiar sight of Winterfell's walls and towers and the Stark direwolf flying above them brought him warmth in his heart. Jon sent a rider ahead, and when the entire caravan arrived, they were greeted with open gates. Jon rode through on his horse, dismounted, and handed it to one of the stableboys - a new one that Jon did not recognize. From the great hall, he saw two figures emerge. Both had red hair, but one was a man, tall and thickly built, while the other was a shorter woman, slender, beautiful, and grave-faced. Jon's heart skipped a beat. It was his brother Robb, and Lady Stark.

Jon turned to face, and as his brother approached, he drew Frostbite and got to one knee. "My lord, my lady." He bowed his head, waiting for the scorn or anger he had feared since they set off from King's Landing. Though lessened, his fears were reignited anew.

"Get up," Robb said. Jon stood, sheathed the blade, and looked at his brother.

For a moment, Jon thought Robb might strike him. He was taller than Robb now, though Robb was of no mean stature, but Robb had filled out in a way that Jon did not. He was powerful, and his hair seemed a little less red than before, and more coppery, with brown showing. His blue Tully eyes raged with some storm that Jon could not decipher.

Then the dam broke; Robb charged two steps forward and pulled Jon into a powerful hug. When they pulled apart, Robb's face was no less grave.

"A raven came this morning," he said to Jon. "Father has been arrested for treason. We have been summoned South to answer."

Bran

Arya

Sansa (already posted in the Character art chapter)

Robb

Catelyn

Ned

The Riverlands

Chapter Text

RHAENYS

When they crested the final hill, Rhaenys saw it.

The great fortress of Winterfell jutted from the hard earth, like a sepulcher carved from the earth by great giants. It was far larger than Sunspear. A town was nestled against the wall, but it was no real city, not like the shadow city that sprawled under the Tower of the Sun in Dorne. A grey early mist hung over the air, but still she could make out enormous towers and curtain walls. White and grey direwolf banners fluttering in the morning fog flew proudly from the battlements.

Even Uncle Oberyn was impressed. He gave a small whistle. “It is larger than I thought,” he said.

”It doesn’t look as though built by people,” Quentyn muttered from beside her. “But rather as though it has been there since before men.” With that assessment, Rhaenys agreed.

The Dornish party forged ahead over the hill and to the castle. The Starks were expecting them from the raven sent North by Uncle Doran, it seemed, but once inside, Rhaenys could not help but notice that there were an unusual number of blacksmiths hard at work, forging swords and spears and billhooks and axes. Quentyn rode up and leaned to the side on his horse, and whispered something to Uncle Oberyn.

A portly, pale, kind-faced man came to greet them. “My princes, my lady, dear guests - please, we are honored to have you in Winterfell. I am Vayon Poole, steward of Winterfell. Lord Robb is ready to receive you in the great hall, but he has asked that I see to the accommodation of your horses and personal effects and offer you bread and salt.”

“And we shall partake of it,” said Uncle Oberyn. They were given bread and salt, that custom of the Westerosi guest right. Their horses were seen to the stables, and the steward personally escorted them inside the great hall. Before she entered, however, she caught sight of a massive ashen tree and a forest peeking above a walled section inside the castle, and knew she had sighted one of the famed godswoods of the North. 

The Great Hall of Winterfell was once a hall of kings, that much was evident. Expansive, with a high, vaulted ceiling, it radiated an austere majesty. To her surprise, the castle was quite warm inside, which their entire party was grateful for. None of them had been fully equipped for the weather in the North. As it was still summer, they wore only moderately protective clothing, but the nights were still cold here, and the days could only be described as cool. A great hearth blazed with fire, adding additional warmth. Light seeped in from glass windows, bathing the hall in light. At the far end, on the Throne of Winter, sat a man dressed in leathers and furs.

He had red hair and the beginnings of a beard. His eyes were blue, and he was overall rather handsome, Rhaenys thought, but young - younger than her. On his left was a beautiful woman, mature though not aged yet, dressed in a greyish blue gown; beside her was a carbon copy of herself, a flowering beauty of a girl;  then another girl whose grim face reminded her of Jon, and then two more boys, young, similar to the man seated on the throne. On the lord's right, however, stood the person she came here to see.

Her heart stopped for the briefest minute, and she faltered in her approach to the throne. It was Jon. He was alive. Not that she did not believe the news when it was relayed by Uncle Oberyn, but he was here, in front of her eyes, alive, breathing, or surely the gods played a cruel trick on her. Dressed in dark grey furs and black leathers, with a fur cloak just like the throned man, and with that beautiful, familiar sword at his hip - that was him. Their eyes crossed - and his widened, his face flushed, and his mouth worked, as if struggling with unsaid words. He recognized her, Rhaenys knew.

After the steward announced them, Uncle Oberyn was the first to speak, with a slight dip of his head - he was a Prince, and Robb Stark only an acting lord of Winterfell - and greeted his host.

"My lord, thank you for receiving us in your home. I must say, it is a welcome respite from the assault of the cold. We are not used to such things in Dorne."

"You are welcome in our hall, Prince Oberyn, Prince Quentyn..." his eyes turned to her. His voice had a rough, gravelly quality to it, similar to Jon's, but even more so. "My lady, I apologize. At first I thought you must be Princess Arianne, but to my knowledge she resides in the capital."

"I am not my cousin Arianne, my lord," Rhaenys said, curtseying. I must now don my mask , she thought. "My name is Marya Sand. Prince Oberyn here is my father. I have only recently come to Dorne from Essos." She saw Jon’s mouth twitch, stopping her heart once more. 

"Marya has come to me after her mother's passing in Essos," Oberyn said. "She was quite content with her life there, but without her lady mother, I thought it best to have her near so that I could ensure her safety and happiness. Of all my girls, Marya is the one I see least, and I desired her to keep me company on this long voyage so that we may spend time together, as father and daughter should."

"Then you are welcome as well, Lady Marya," said Robb Stark. He was polite, at least, Rhaenys noted. "My princes, my lady - you and your party must be tired after so long a travel. After all, our kingdoms are furthest apart from each other, and we rarely have the chance to interact."

"How fares the Lord Hand? Of course, we understand if his duties have kept him away from Winterfell,” said her uncle. “If you would, please express my best wishes to your father when you next write to him."

Robb Stark shifted near imperceptibly in his seat, but his eyes spoke volumes. So did the presence of the other Starks - many of whom had been in the capital with Lord Stark until recently. Yet Lord Stark had remained behind, or had not come yet, and so her uncle feigned ignorance. To ensure the success of their endeavor, it was necessary, Rhaenys knew, to see how deep the discontent in House Stark ran with the Usurper. "Your words are appreciated. I will pass them along to my father when next I write," he said, and stood. "I would personally escort you and Prince Quentyn to the chambers we have prepared for you. I'm afraid the castle is a maze to many first-time visitors."

"Lord Stark?"

Every head, every set of eyes turned to the speaker. Rhaenys' breath hitched. She had not heard that voice in so long.

"Jon?" Robb asked.

"If I may - and if Lady Marya is willing - I might escort her to her chambers as well," Jon said. "And if Prince Oberyn has no objection, of course."

“Prince Oberyn, this is my brother, Jon Snow. He has recently, too, returned to the North from Essos,” Robb Stark said by way of introduction. “Perhaps some familiarity with her home might entertain my lady – it is a long enough walk to the guest house, as it is.”

Uncle Oberyn smiled broadly and exchanged a glance with Rhaenys. She suppressed a frown. He was truly enjoying this, she knew. "I have no such objection, of course. In Dorne we are quite... open-minded about these things, and I have trust in my daughter and in a son of Eddard Stark to comport themselves as befits their status. Please, Lord Stark - lead the way." Robb nodded his acquiescence to Jon, who drew alongside her and offered her his arm. 

"My lady," he said. The strain his voice was obvious.

"My lord," she responded, softly.

Together, they walked arm in arm. Jon led her aside from the Great Hall, a different way than the way Robb Stark led her uncle and cousin. The rest of their party, she saw as she left, was guided by the steward. The Starks were splitting them apart.

"You all will be in the same wing of the castle - the Guest House," Jon said then, as though he read her thoughts. "Robb will lead your uncle and cousin across the gallery overlooking the courtyard. I just wanted to speak with as much privacy as possible," he muttered, shooting her a sidelong glance. "I feel as though I'm in a dream, or as though the gods have played tricks upon my eyes. I might blink and you'll be someone else - a Marya Sand in truth."

"No," Rhaenys said, voice low so that only he could hear. "It is me. I can scarce believe my eyes, too. I never thought to chance upon a friendly face this far from..." she meant to say home, but where was that? Dorne? Dragonstone? King's Landing? She had lived most her life in Essos, but hadn't she always called herself an exile? Not knowing how to finish that, she changed her words. "I don't quite have the words to tell you how glad I am that you live, Jon. We heard what happened to the Company." She could feel his arm flex against her hand as he tensed. Surely it was an ill memory for him.

"Asher Forrester survived as well," he said.

"That I am glad to hear as well," she replied. "Captain Brandon, and..." she sifted through names in her head, before remembering. "Azenet, the serjeant. Your lover?"

"Dead," he said.

Fool , she thought to herself. He would have told you had they lived. Now what was the use of digging up that wound for him? Well played, Rhaenys. "I'm sorry for your losses, Jon, I truly am."

By then he had led her outside, where it was cool again. Thankfully, the sun was out, but it did not stop the nip in the air. They were crossing a training yard, where squires and guardsmen were busy hacking at mannequins and at each other to hone their craft. Archers trained with bows in a nearby range, against the great castle wall. She saw a broken keep behind her - taller than the rest of the castle, but ruined at the top, and with blackened stone. Jon muttered a quick apology, and to her surprise, took off his cloak and placed it around her shoulders. The massive garment dwarfed her, but it kept her warm. It smelled just like Jon, too - pine and earth and Northern air. It was a pleasant smell. Sunspear was fragrant, but the shadow city and the Planky Town, not so much. That was one thing about the North - it seemed cleaner, if only because the people were so far flung. She gave him a searching look.

"Recompense for bringing you by a different route," Jon said. "Obviously, I have not yet had the chance to tell Robb who you are, for I never thought you would be here." He wrinkled his brow. "This offer from Prince Quentyn to Sansa - is it true? How did you think to come here?" He huffed. "I have too many questions. I should lead you twice around the battlements to get them all out," he said.

Rhaenys blushed. "Someone might ask questions, then. We would be gone far too long, but I welcome the chance to speak soon." She squeezed his arm once. "Jon, I came here to see you. Word reached Sunspear of your survival and Lord Stark's disagreements with the King. If there is a threat to your house from the Crown, Jon, then Dorne would stand behind you."

"War is uncertain,” Jon said, but Rhaenys could sense the hesitation in his voice. “My father and King Robert have quarreled before."

"Is that why you have armorers and farriers and fletchers working double-time in the courtyard?" Rhaenys said.

Jon's jaw was hard as stone on his clean-shaven face. "Preparing for the winter.”

“Do Northmen often hunt with swords and plate armor?” Rhaenys countered. “Do not pretend as though you know nothing, Jon Snow. The part of the fool does not flatter you.”

He said nothing immediately in response. There's something he can’t or won’t tell me, Rhaenys thought. The idea, surprisingly, stung at her a little bit, but he was here as a member of House Stark now, not the guardsman who had sworn to serve her and who had pursued her captors to rescue her. She could not expect him to share everything. "What news do I bring my brother?" he asked.

"I suppose that discussion will have to be had with all of us,” Rhaenys sighed. “I had hoped to win you to my side, so that you might influence your brother. I fear that might be a long gamble now.”

Her words seemed to have the effect she desired. Jon seemed to puff up a little. “Robb listens to me,” he said. “But a Targaryen restoration… that will be a difficult thing – near impossible – to sell to the bannermen, even if we were to call them all.”

By now they had arrived at the Guest House. It was a large building, and quite comfortable and warm again. She gave him back his cloak, and he guided her along a row of apartments. Some were small, some were expansive. He gestured to two doors down the left side. "The Princes are there, and the rest of your guards and party are in the smaller apartments that we just passed. Robb will likely have you as guests of honor at meals, but if you prefer a quiet breakfast, it can be served over there," he said gesturing to a large chamber. She could see some tables and rows of benches inside. There was a little temper in his voice. "How can you still stand behind Aegon after he-"

"Shh," she said, pressing a finger to his lips. His breath was hot against her skin, which sent a jolt of lightning down her arm. "Not here, not now. Is there somewhere we can speak at length in private?" She drew her finger back, and he nodded. 

"The Godswood. I'll come midafternoon and take you there." With a nod, and a lingering glance that made her shiver, he strode off through a hall and disappeared from sight. Rhaenys exhaled, letting out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

JON

Robb leaned back in his chair. Jon took a sip of his ale as they sat together for a quiet lunch in the lord's solar. "Apparently we couldn't hide the armorers well enough," he remarked casually.

Jon snorted. Rhaenys realized it – surely the Princes did too. "What in the hells was I supposed to, make them move the armory to the winter town?" He finished the last of his bread and cheese and washed it down with another swig of ale. "Did you glean anything from the princes? Do they know of King Robert's death?" Any levity vanished, replaced by the morose mood that settled over Winterfell and all the North upon the news that Lord Stark had been arrested and set to face trial.

What happened in King's Landing after Jon left was not entirely clear. When he came back to Winterfell, Robb immediately told him about the arrest, and that King Robert had died and been succeeded by his son, Joffrey. In the formal letter laying out the charges against Father, he was said to have committed treason against the crown, in order to seize the throne for himself in usurpation of the rightful heir. No other communication had come save to summon Robb south to answer as an acting head of House Stark in defense of Father. That much was a legal sham, Jon knew. Robb was not the head of House Stark, but the crown wanted them to come south, to swear public fealty. What fate they had in Father Jon knew not, but it likely was nothing good. If Father's suspicion of the Lannisters' involvement in Jon Arryn's death was true, then Father himself was in danger.

The day after Jon arrived, Robb sent ravens to call the banners. Now, every lord in the North rode for Winterfell with their soldiers. Some of the nearby ones they expected in a sennight.

"Nothing important," Robb said. "Pleasantries and fake smiles. As for the King - no, I don't think they do. Lord Manderly wrote to tell me that a royal announcement of treason came a sennight ago, but the Dornish party arrived in White Harbor a ten-day ago. They would have been on the road here and news is difficult to come by there. Do you think the offer to marry Quentyn to Sansa is real?"

"Why not?" Jon replied. Though he knew it was principally the pretense under which Rhaenys came, to support her dreams of restoration, he did not think the offer a falsity. "Quentyn is the first son of a great house. Granted, according to the laws of Dorne, his rights of succession come second to his sister Arianne, but he is still a prince. And once we march south..."

"If it comes to war, Dorne would bolster our forces," Robb said. "The North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and Dorne – not quite an equal side, but close enough. It was worse during the Rebellion.”

Robb had a point, but Jon did not believe in the loyalties of men anymore, until they came to the field of battle – and even then, he had seen them strike their banners then. No, he did not trust men that did not exist yet. "No use in counting soldiers until they're in hand."

"If we think like that, all we have are forty thousand men of the North. Forty thousand is not enough to stand against the Crown. Not enough to force them to release Father."

"If only we had Father in hand,” Jon said. He cursed. “It would have been easier had he come north with me. It's easier to hold the North than it is to go south, but as long as the Crown holds Father hostage, I do not think we can simply wait here. They'll execute Father and brand us all traitors for refusing a royal summons." He sighed and stood, pacing by an open window. "There is a condition to the Dornish offer."

"And that is?" Robb said. His brother came to his side. They stood shoulder by shoulder, staring into the training yard. Below, men swung swords under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrik, as did Bran. Jon's heart clenched. He did not wish for Bran to go to war, but Bran was now thirteen - near a man, near ready to go to war. He would want to go. He hoped Lady Stark would refuse him.

"Targaryen restoration."

Robb whipped around to look at him. "What?"

"The ultimate goal of their support would not just be freeing Father from the crown and the Baratheons or Lannisters. They want us to overthrow the crown so they can crown one of the Targaryens. I would have assumed Aegon naturally, but Aegon vanished in Essos." Jon told Robb and Lady Stark about all that happened in Essos when he arrived, including Daenerys' wedding to the Dothraki Khal. Both of them shared a similar opinion of Aegon as he did. "That leaves Viserys and Rhaenys Targaryen.”

"Or Rhaenys Targaryen, if the Dornish intend to use their laws of succession," Robb muttered, and then his eyes widened. "That girl, Prince Oberyn's daughter... is she-?"

Jon smiled. "Well, at least I didn't have to betray her secret, since you guessed it. Aye, she is. Which is why I took her aside to speak to her first."

"Yes, you met her in Essos. I recall from your story. It cannot happen. Our bannermen will never stand for it," Robb said. “Targaryens? Jon, they-“

“They killed our uncle, aunt, and grandfather,” Jon said. “Aye, I know. But neither Viserys nor Rhaenys gave the order. I don’t know if either would make a better king than Robert or Joffrey, but does it matter? Joffrey is not a good king to us now. ”

Robb shook his head. “Sometimes I think I ought to simply humble myself. Bend the knee and they’ll give us Father.”

“They’ll never give us Father,” Jon said sharply. He knew that from the bottom of his heart. “This is not the son of Father’s friend who sits on the throne now, it is the grandson of the Lannisters. Father does not trust them, Lady Stark does not trust them, and we can’t trust in them either. If you go to King’s Landing and bend the knee, you’ll be lucky if you get to leave alive.”

Robb studied him for a moment. “There was a time you were quicker to trust.”

“I learned things the hard way in Essos,” Jon muttered. “As for the bannermen… it’s up to you to convince them, to manage them, to show them who holds in the North in case we must march south," Jon said. "You are Lord of Winterfell. You must make them look to you.”

Robb shook his head. "Hopefully not for much longer, so that I can return that honor to Father. I never wanted it like this, you know.”

Jon nodded and wrapped his arm around Robb’s shoulder. “Aye, brother, I know. But it is your duty now. You were born to be Lord of Winterfell, raised to be Warden of the North. You have it in you.”

“All the same,” Robb said, “I’m glad you came back. I feel less alone in all this.”

True to his word, Jon went to retrieve Rhaenys after his meeting with Robb. As he left the lord's solar, Lady Stark passed him on the way. They exchanged quick glances. Jon once might have shied his eyes away from her, but he did not longer. The same coldness was in them as always, tempered now by a sorrow for Father. Jon knew, though, that she did not favor how quickly Robb had taken him back into his counsel. He also passed Theon, who he had not missed at all. He said nothing to the Greyjoy heir, but it sparked an idea in his head that he decided to save for later.

He knocked at Rhaenys' door. "Lady Marya?"

She opened it. She had traded her lighter southern dress for a Northern one. It looked to be Sansa's - it was grey and blue, with fur trimmings, made of wool and meant to keep her warm. She had also been given a cloak, Jon noticed. The colors complimented her eyes – and Jon could not help but find himself a little lost in them. She gave him a small smile. "Is it midafternoon already, my lord?"

"It appears so," Jon said. Only a beat too late did he realize a smile graced his face too. He held out his arm again, and she took it again. Her touch was delicate - belying the muscle and strength he knew lay underneath. Rhaenys was a fighter - Rhaenys was a killer, as well, after she took down one of her captors. A sudden longing to spar again with her surfaced within him.

"I've desired to see this godswood of yours greatly," she commented. "I was told quite wonderous tales of them by a friend when I was in Essos."

Jon now could not hold back the smile that crept onto his face. "A friend from the North, my lady? I can't say Northmen are too common there."

"No, they are not," she agreed. "But this one was someone unique."

He took her across the gallery and down the stone steps to the great courtyard. The high wall that separated the godswood was not so high to obscure the soldier pines and the great red leaves and white boughs of the heart tree within. As he guided her inside, towards the warm pools by the heart tree, he could see her eyes drink in the majesty of the place.

"It is singular," Rhaenys whispered. "I had never imagined seeing so much green in my life before." She gasped when she saw the heart tree. "That must be the weirwood, yes?"

"Aye," Jon said. "Come." He led her around the pool and the boulders to the great trunk of the tree. "The face there - they say it was carved by the Children of the Forest."

Rhaenys arranged her dress before taking a seat on one of the flat boulders. "This place is quite serene, but the face..."

Jon laughed. "I can see how it might have that effect on southerners.” He sat next to her. "We should be alone here. May we speak freely?"

"Yes," Rhaenys agreed, her voice dropping into a more familiar tone. "And Jon, please, a favor - don't call me Princess. We have known each other long enough that at least, in confidence, you can call me by my name." She blinked at him with her violet eyes, and smiled. "I may have already said it, but I am so very glad you survived."

"And I’m glad that you did as well," Jon said. "Though I did not fear that Viserys would hurt you, I suppose."

"No, Viserys would not," Rhaenys agreed. "We were close as children. Regardless, Viserys did not need to harm me for me to be angry about it all. I felt guilty. Aegon never hurt Daenerys either, and now she is wedded to a barbarian at the edge of the world. Sold into slavery for a mere pittance, if that." She shook her head. “That fate was to have been mine. Now she suffers. Not what Viserys intended, but…”

“I’m sorry, Rhaenys,” Jon said. “I promised Daenerys I would try to find you. When we got back to Pentos, we had some time before the Lord Commander took us to the Disputed Lands to fight in the war. Azenet and I… we tried. We truly did.”

“You would not have found me,” Rhaenys said. “We did not leave from Pentos. I believe you tried, Jon. It is not your fault. Even if you had found me, what would you have done? Killed Viserys?”

Jon snorted. “I’m sure I could disarm Viserys without having to resort to worse.”

Rhaenys let a small laugh slip. “Well, mayhaps. Tell me about what happened after.”

Jon sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “There was a march to Myr to muster with the other sellsword companies, and then we went into the Disputed Lands. For months we fought and bled for small strips of land, burned out husks of towns. It took us five months to advance to a town called Andros. From there another month to a nearby river. There one of the other companies turned traitor and joined Lys and we were forced to retreat to Andros. The reinforcements that came from Tyrosh might have turned the tide, but when we gave battle outside the town, the Tyroshi companies struck their banners. We lost near everyone. The Lord Commander. Brandon.” His voice became strained. “Azenet and I nearly escaped on horse, but she was hit by an arrow. I could not save her. I burned her body and swore to return her ashes to the Rhoyne one day.” Rhaenys’ hand covered his and she squeezed it. Her eyes were misted over at his take. He cleared his throat and continued. “I learned later that Tyrosh changed sides and that Myr was hard pressed, but Asher and I did not linger. We booked passage on a merchant cog and came here.”

Rhaenys nodded. “I have yet to see Lord Asher. Is he here?” 

“Aye, you’ll see him sooner or later. He’s waiting for his lord father and brother to arrive. My father already lifted the terms of his exile, but I have to wonder if it’ll cause issue.”

Rhaenys frowned. “I never knew Lord Asher was in Essos due to compulsion. What sort of crime did he…?”

Jon chuckled. “He loved the wrong woman. Her family and his are neighbours, and have something of a feud.”

Rhaenys gave him a strange smile. “It shouldn’t be a crime to love.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Jon agreed. “We can’t help whom we love.”

A silence settled between them, interrupted only by the rustling of the trees and the sound of the wind through the grass. Rhaenys seemed sad, to Jon, but he was sure h she thought the same of him. They had been through a great deal in different ways.

"I told Robb about the offer," Jon said. "And since you were honest with me about the condition of this offer, then I’ll be honest with you. King Robert is dead."

Rhaenys' jaw dropped. "What?" she said, her voice higher in pitch. Her eyes were wide now, and she stood up rapidly. "When?"

"The raven came with news of my Father's arrest. Surely everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows by now. His son Joffrey rules now. They claim that Father attempted to usurp the throne for himself, out of jealousy and spite for the loss of the position of the Hand. No one seems to know that it was of his own volition that he abandoned that position. I don't know why he stayed behind in King's Landing..." he shook his head. "Regardless, when Robb goes south to answer the royal summons to answer for my father's ‘crime,’ the whole of the North will go with him. If it comes to war, then that will be that.” Jon paused. “Robb guessed your identity.”

"I suppose it does not matter," Rhaenys sniffed. "Your situation is more dire than I thought, Jon. You must take this alliance - it may be your only chance of survival."

"I’m well aware, and so is my brother," Jon said. "But you understand the idea of a Targaryen restoration is difficult to swallow for most Northern bannermen."

"Make them swallow it," Rhaenys scoffed. "If they are so foolish as to place their pride over the well being of their lord, then they are not bannermen but rebels."

"It isn’t so simple," Jon said. "Every family in the North lost someone in the rebellion, and Northmen's memories are long and their grudges longer still. They say here that 'the North remembers.' Aye, they remember what Aerys did to my grandfather and Uncle Brandon. What happened to-" he paused, realizing he'd likely overstepped, but Rhaenys' eyes had softened. She reached out and put her hand over his.

"Uncle Oberyn told me the truth of things when I came to Dorne," she said gently. "I am sorry, Jon. All my life I believed... well... I believed none of what you told me. I know at least that the Mad King's name was well-earned. On behalf of my house, I am sorry. What was done to Lord Rickard and your uncle was unjust. The demand for your father's head was unjust." She shook her head. "I know you will not believe me, but Uncle Oberyn says he believes Lady Lyanna went willingly with my father. Perhaps she did not. We will never know the truth of it, but I do know that his recklessness sparked the injustices Aerys did to your family. And for that, I am doubly sorry."

Jon was shocked. He had never expected such an act of contrition from Rhaenys. Friends though they may be, she was proud - and which dragon would not be? Here she was, a princess of a great house of Valyrians, humbling herself before him - apologizing to him, a bastard, a Snow. "I... thank you, Rhaenys."

She nodded. "But I suppose apologies are not enough."

"Specifics would help," Jon said. "Robb understands that your offer is conditioned on Targaryen restoration, but the question remains - which Targaryen? If you still mean to support Aegon, then I don’t know if even I can agree to this, and if I can’t, then..."

Rhaenys took a deep breath, and then met his gaze. "Dorne is prepared to abandon support of Aegon. My uncles' faith in him has been shaken - when he sold Daenerys to the Khal and disappeared, I fear it may have been shattered. Even I don't think Aegon would make a good king, and even if I did, he is nowhere to be found. I don't even know if he lives. Perhaps the Magister betrayed him and slit his throat. Perhaps the Dothraki killed him. No one knows what happened after Daenerys was sold to Khal Drogo."

"Then who?" Jon pressed. "You?"

Rhaenys let out a bitter laugh and shook her head. "If only the Seven Kingdoms were so open as my mother's country. No kingdom would back a woman for the throne. No, before we left, it was agreed. Viserys will marry Arianne. Uncle Doran will get what he always wanted - Dornish blood on the throne, but not through his sister. Through his daughter."

"Princess Arianne is a ward of the Crown, in the capital," Jon said. 

"Not for long, I think, if my Uncle has learned of the Usurper's death. Plans are in motion."

Jon mulled it over in his head. Unlike Aegon, whose judgment - and sanity - he questioned wholly, Viserys was a much bigger enigma to him. He was not sure if Viserys would make a good king, but did it matter? The king who held Father now was no better, at the very least, with the Lannisters, the North would find no favor with the crown. Perhaps a crown indebted to the North was a better move. Regardless, he did not see any way for this to not end in bloodshed, and if the Dornish offered to help, did it truly matter? Could they not just leave the South well enough alone, and let Viserys Targaryen lord over all of them and leave the North to itself?

“I think,” Jon said, “that we all need to sit down and discuss this in detail. Particularly Robb and your uncle.”

“Agreed,” Rhaenys said. “I was told Winterfell will host a great dinner for us tomorrow.” She stretched and yawned. “We can discuss it then. Truth be told I am glad for it. The voyage exhausted me.”

Jon nodded. “I imagine you won’t be able to tarry long either. It wouldn’t do for Dorne to be known to court a house out of favor so thoroughly.”

“No,” Rhaenys hummed. “I suppose not.” She slipped her arm through Jon’s. “This is a big castle and I’m sure you’ve yet to show me its greatest secrets. Do you mind escorting a lady?”

“Not at all,” Jon laughed.

RHAENYS

Rhaenys was about to turn in for the night. Dinner was served in the Guest House, but the Starks were not miserly hosts. Duck, pig, chicken, and quail were served, along with some Dornish red. To her surprise, Lady Sansa joined them at dinner. She was very quiet, but Rhaenys could hardly fault her for that. Surely she thought of her father every moment. She was very pretty, and Quentyn, judging by his blush and propensity to trip over his words, knew. He tried to be gracious, but came off more slow than anything else. It served as good entertainment throughout dinner.

After dinner, she went to her room. The window opened into the courtyard below. She was nearly about to undress when she heard a noise and rustle from below the window.

She glanced at the door. It wasn’t safe - she could run and tell her uncle and cousin - but something gave her pause. Then, quiet - someone said her name, her true name.

She peered over and saw Jon below her window. “Jon?” she hissed quietly. “What are you doing?”

Jon glanced around the yard, which was mostly empty. He climbed up some of the jutting bricks of the wall and offered his hand.

“Would you care to see the Wintertown?” He asked.

Rhaenys fought a smile and leaned over, grabbing his hand. He helped her up and over, and swung her below. Her feet grazed the ground and she let go, landing with a soft thump. Jon clambered down and held a finger up to his lips. 

“I know a way through the postern gate. Hal’s on duty. He won’t report me.” She followed after him, feeling like a mischievous child. Cloaks up, no one bothered them at all. He led her past the gate and nodded at one of the guards, who smiled at Jon and gave her a very short bow of the head. Clear of the castle, they followed the dirt road that led into the Wintertown.

The town was lively, though larger than it needed to be. Jon explained to her that normally only a few thousand people lived there, but that during the winter, many people from outlying hamlets and villages ruled directly by the Starks would come to the Wintertown with their supplies to wait out the season. They slipped into a tavern.

It was warm and alive. A great fire roared in the hearth, and people were loud and boisterous. A man played a flute and another a drum, and together they struck up a lively tune.

“Two ales, Master Tom,” Jon said, slapping a handful of coppers onto the bar table. A red-bearded bald man with a toothy smile grinned at Jon and at her. 

“Master Snow, mi’lady. Pleasure to have you here tonight. Will mi’lords be joining us?”

“Not today,” Jon said, taking the ales and thanking the man. He passed one to her and grinned.

“Mi’lords?” Rhaenys asked, eyebrow arched. “Who are the other hooligans who frequent this establishment with you?”

“That would be Robb and Theon,” he answered with a laugh, and took a great gulp of his ale. He seemed so different than before. She was not sure she had ever seen him so lively. His face grew a little more flushed with every drink. She couldn’t say that she cared for Northern ale, but it was a heady drink that made her giddy and shot straight to her head.

“I never thought you a troublemaker,” Rhaenys said. They settled into a corner table even has many men and women began to dance in the center. “I also thought the North to be frigid and cold and not very alive.” She glanced around the room. “I should abandon preconceived notions.”

“We can be stubborn idiots,” Jon shrugged, “but we live too. Aye, you can only know what it means to live and be warm when you know what it is to fear the cold. And winter is coming.” He gestured at the revelers in the tavern. “In a few sennights these men will march south to war. How many will come back? How many maids will wait in vain for their lovers to return?”

“I take it back,” Rhaenys giggled. “I was right. You Northmen are a morose lot.”

Jon laughed too. “Aye, that we are. I knew it would be like this tonight. People will want to enjoy themselves before it all goes to shit.” He smiled. “I remember something you and Daenerys told me in Pentos. You hadn’t much chance to see the city outside the walls of the magister’s manse. I wanted you to get a taste of the North - the real North, not just the guest house of Winterfell.”

“I’m glad you brought me,” Rhaenys said. She studied him for a second, and thought to herself that he, too, was here to have a last hurrah before he went off to war. With Lord Stark imprisoned… this might be his last chance to enjoy something, too. She downed the last of her mug and then stood, tilting her head towards the dancers. “I don’t know how to dance. Not this way, at least.” The drink was definitely in her head now, and she found herself swaying to the drums. “Mind showing me?” she asked.

Jon’s eyes widened for a second, and she could have sworn that she saw those iron-grey eyes of his flare. He got up and took her hand, pulling her into the crowd.

They locked arms and he showed her the steps. It was simple enough - a four count, like a square dance, with a pivot of the right foot at the end to bring the partners closer. She took it slow at first but then he grabbed her. With a yelp, she was pulled right along with the rest of the revelers to the beat. She felt light as air as they spun around and could not help but laugh at Jon’s exaggerated movements. She never felt so free as she did now.

The drumbeat slowed and the flute did too, taking on a more bittersweet tone. Now the dancers were in pairs, men and women, close together, swaying to the tune. She did not object when he pulled her in closer. A woman began to sing, joined by another, until all those who weren’t moving to the song joined in.

“ My featherbed is deep and soft,

and there I'll lay you down,

I'll dress you all in yellow silk,

and on your head a crown.

For you shall be my lady love,

and I shall be your lord.

I'll always keep you warm and safe,

and guard you with my sword.

And how she smiled and how she laughed,

the maiden of the tree.

She spun away and said to him,

no featherbed for me.

I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,

and bind my hair with grass,

But you can be my forest love,

and me your forest lass.

Her breathing hitched as she locked eyes with Jon. They seemed to pull her in. His hand at her waist and her hip felt warm, searing into her skin in the best possible way. But the song ended, and though almost every couple around them pulled themselves into deep kisses, Jon simply held her close.

She cleared her throat, and the spell was broken; they quietly left the tavern a few moments later and returned to Winterfell by the same road. The same guard let them in and Jon took her back to the guest house. This time Jon took her back in through the front door, for no one was awake, and escorted her back to her door.

It loomed larger than ever before. She opened it and thankfully it did not creak. “Thank you, Jon,” she whispered quietly. “That was wonderful.”

Jon smiled softly. “Aye, it was.”

A powerful, fiery urge seized her. She wanted to reach up and taste his lips, but a singular voice of clarity stopped her. Do not be foolish. He still grieves his lost love.

“Goodnight, Rhaenys,” he said. The urge seized her once more but he was gone, gone before she could turn him around and press her lips to his, and then she was left confused and flushed, and in the silent, deepest reaches of her heart, cursing herself for having hesitated.

Chapter Text

RHAENYS

She woke before the rising sun. Embers smoldered in the fireplace. The many layers of furs and blankets piled over her kept her warm and comfortable. She struggled out of bed, wondering how Northmen ever left the comfort of their beds so early. The guest house was quiet. Rhaenys donned a pair of riding trousers and a tunic with a fitted jerkin. Over it she tied a fur trimmed cloak. Satisfied with the warming abilities of her garb, she set out for the training yard. It was deserted save for a whiskered old man who was inspecting the training weapons. His eyes widened when he saw her, and he gave a short bow. “My lady,” he said. 

“Forgive me, Ser…?”

“Ser Rodrik Cassel,” the man said. “Master-at-Arms of Winterfell.”

Rhaenys smiled. “Just the man I was looking for, then. It’s been some time since I’ve practiced with my spear. I was wondering if you had some on hand to practice with? Blunted edges?”

The man looked taken aback, but then corrected his surprise. “I had not expected a southern lady to be trained at arms,” he said.

“Dorne is not entirely dissimilar from the North, ser,” Rhaenys countered. "We are the sons and daughters of Nymeria, after all."

“As you say, my lady. I’m afraid I don’t have any spears with blunted edges, but would a quarterstaff suffice? In the alternative, I can procure a spear with an edge for you.” 

“With an edge, ser, if it pleases,” Rhaenys said. The knight got it for her and stood back at a distance. His curiosity was evident. Rhaenys dropped into her stance in front of a dummy. 

This always came easy to her. She breathed deep, and then launched a flurry of attacks, mindful of her footwork. She danced lightly and nimbly, moving from side to side as she jabbed and struck at the dummy. The knight looked at her wide-eyed. 

“Morning, Ser Rodrik," called a voice.

“Good morn, my lord, Jon. A spar today?”

Rhaenys finished the last of her blows and jabbed the spear into the soft ground. She tied up her hair and wiped her face. Jon and Robb arrived in the training yard. They both cast her a glance - Jon’s more lingering, and accompanied with a small smile - as they took off their shirts and took tourney blades and practice shields into their hands.

Rhaenys did not bother looking away from Jon’s physique. A year of fighting and war transformed him into a lean killer. He was taller than his brother, who was burlier.

The two brothers hacked away as though they hated each other. Fists, elbows, forearms, and foreheads were just as much weapons as their blunted tourney swords. Jon was faster, but Robb was stronger, and they were evenly matched when Jon's speed countered Robb's size, and vice versa. Jon’s experience was the deciding edge. It showed in what others might call dirty tricks.

Robb Stark, for his part, did not complain. Dirt in the eyes, a foot to trip - some might have called foul. Robb only got up and increasingly met such moves with his own, but never so naturally as Jon did - the difference between yard training and war, she supposed. “Peace!” shouted the master-at-arms. “I’ll not have the two of you slice each other into steaks in my training yard, thank you.” The two brothers came to a stop, with sheepish grins. Robb swung an arm around Jon. Suddenly Rhaenys felt as though she was intruding.

“Did you know, brother,” said Jon, gesturing in her direction, “that Lady Marya is quite proficient with the spear?”

Robb turned to look at her, and then back at Jon. His lips curled upward into a small smile. “Is that so? Would you care to join us for a spar, then?”

Rhaenys frowned. “I would, my lord, but I’m afraid your armory doesn’t have blunted spears for training.” She pulled the spear from the ground and twirled it in her hand, and grinned at the Stark lordling. “I would be distraught to draw blood over a friendly training spar.”

Robb exchanged a glance with Jon, who was suppressing a smirk. He donned his shirt and put on a leather training cuirass from the rack of weapons. “I’m armored now, my lady. What do you say?”

“Lord Robb,” cautioned the master-at-arms. “Even with armor, a sharpened spear-”

“If I get gored like a squealing pig, Ser Rodrik,” growled Robb Stark, readying his sword and taking a stance opposite, “then reprimand me. I think I should be good enough to hold my own here.”

Jon stepped between them, arm outstretched. Then he lowered it and said, “begin!”

Rhaenys wasted no time in lunging forward with a powerful thrust. Robb was no passive fighter, though. He charged forward, too, and with a sidestep that seemed to defy his powerful figure, dodged her thrust. She retreated with two quick steps and swung the spear in a wide arc to keep him at bay.

Quickly she learned his strategy. She already saw his raw power when he sparred with Jon, but to be confronted with it was another beast entirely. Rhaenys knew that if she let him get within striking distance, she would lose. She focused her efforts into repetitive, shallow jabs, keeping him at bay. He could not circle around her, nor barrel at her with full speed, and so quickly grew frustrated. 

When his frustration reached a boiling point, he lunged forward. He was too fast for her initial jab but she quickly recovered and thrust her spear between his legs and swept. The blow on his ankles caused him to topple over with a roar. Before he could get up, she poked his armor with her spear.

“Yield?” she asked, blowing a loose strand of her hair from her face.

Robb Stark glowered at her, but it was quickly replaced by a grin, joined by Jon’s mocking laugh. “Aye, you won fair. Not like this one,” he said, jabbing a finger at Jon. He rolled himself up and dusted off his clothes. “Well fought, my lady.”

Jon clapped Robb on the shoulder. “In any other circumstance, I would never let you hear the end of it. But take it from me, brother. Lady Marya is a proper warrior in her own right. You should feel no shame.” He looked at her as he said it, though his words were directed to Robb. A flush crept over her face, one that had little to do with the exertion of the spar.

“Robb! Jon!” cried a little voice.

Rhaenys spun around, as did the two brothers. A girl - the lanky, dark haired Stark - Arya, yes that was her name - ran towards them with glee on her face. “Robb! She beat you. A lady, with a spear!”

Rhaenys let out a little surprised laugh. “Should ladies not wield spears?” A frown returned to Robb’s face, but Jon simply nudged his brother. 

Arya smiled. “Well, I always thought a little sword would be better for me, but spears are fine too, I suppose.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “Have you been keeping at your bow, Underfoot?”

“Don’t call me that, Jon,” the girl said, crossing her arms. “And yes, I have been.”

“Go on then. Show Lady Marya here your own skill,” Robb said. “And if you don’t hit two of three in the bull’s eye, I’ll have Septa Mordane give you two cloaks to knit.” He mussed his sister’s hair, much to the younger Stark’s chagrin.

Rhaenys watched them all with a bemused grin, but she felt a stab of sorrow at the scene. For so long, she had despised the Starks for their role in the usurpation of her family’s throne. But Jon had changed her opinion a little for the better, and now that she was here, she was forced to acknowledge that the Starks were far from monsters. It was true that the revelations of the Mad King’s true nature took her by surprise, but still - she felt wistful, wondering what her own life might be like if she, Aegon, Daenerys, and any other uncles and aunts or siblings they might have had would have grown together and happy like this.

Arya did hit two of three in the bull’s eye, and crowed about it endlessly to her brothers. Robb and Jon took the ribbing in good nature. Robb informed them that breakfast was soon to be served, and headed off. Arya groaned and complained to Jon that she had to return to the Septa. Jon encouraged her to go, and then only the two of them were left - and the Master at Arms, who was busy tending to the armory, though Rhaenys could see his eyes peering in their direction more than once.

“I’ll be damned if she actually goes to her lessons,” Jon sighed. “Arya has never been one for sewing needles.”

“I can hardly blame her. If I grew up with brothers like you, I’d want to fight with swords too.” Her stomach rumbled silently - for which she was grateful. “I’m famished,” she said. “Shall we go for breakfast?”

Jon nodded his assent. Together they ventured off back into the Great Hall. After their conversation in the godswood yesterday, Jon gave her a general tour of the castle. She felt a little more familiar with its main areas. Many of the household were eating, but Rhaenys spotted her uncle and cousin. She led Jon there and sat next to them. Jon hesitated for a moment, but then sat across from her, next to Quentyn.

“Good morning, my princes,” Jon greeted. He flagged one of the servants, who brought bowls of fruit - apples, pears, and berries - and bread, cheese, butter, crepes with honey, some stew, and biscuits. It wasn’t the most flavorful of fare, but she saw the value in hearty food before a long day in the cold. 

“Good morning to you, Master Snow,” said Uncle Oberyn. His eyes twinkled with some unexpressed mirth. “I trust your venture with Lady Marya to the Wintertown was eventful.”

Jon coughed into his mug of ale. Quentyn patted his back. “Easy there,” he said, sharing a small smile with Uncle Oberyn. Rhaenys, for her part, flushed a deep red. 

“Father,” she hissed. “How did you know?”

“I have ears, sweetling,” said Uncle Oberyn with a wink. “And legs. I, too, decided to sample a taste of the true North. Quent and I found our way to the very same tavern, though I daresay our night lasted longer than yours.” When Jon glanced at Quentyn, Oberyn laughed. “Do not fear for your sister’s future, Master Snow. Quent is not that sort of lad - though I am. Your Wintertown - it seems a little empty.”

“It is,” Jon confirmed. “The town fills up from the surrounding villages and hamlets when winter comes. They pay their taxes and store their excess food from each harvest here. We preserve it in Winterfell. Our own food grows in the glass gardens.”

“I saw them. Marvelous,” Oberyn said. “I suppose we’ll partake more of it tonight, at dinner.”

Rhaenys exchanged a glance with Jon, who nodded. “I look forward to it,” he said. Turning to Quentyn, he asked, “how fares your courting of my sister?”

Now it was Quentyn’s turn to flush red. Rhaenys suppressed a laugh. “It-it goes…” Quentyn began, before sighing. “If I may be entirely honest, I am no expert at courting ladies.”

Jon looked him up and down. “Ever kissed a girl?” The boldness of that question made even Uncle Oberyn chuckle.

“I have!” Quentyn sputtered with indignation. “It’s not-”

“You seem like a polite, courteous man, my prince,” Jon continued. “That already gives you an advantage with my sister. Kindness and gallantry should win her heart. Perhaps the two of you ought to go riding today. There is a lake two leagues to the south, by the edge of the wolfswood. Crystal clear waters, a good place for a mid-day meal. Neither Lady Stark nor my brother should object.”

“An excellent suggestion, Master Snow,” said her uncle. Again, Rhaenys saw a hint of mischievousness in her uncle’s eye. “Might I suggest that you and Marya accompany them as chaperones? If it would ease Lady Stark and your brother’s concerns.”

Jon’s eyes widened for a moment. “If my brother has no objection to sparing me from my duties, certainly, my prince.” For a moment, Rhaenys’ heart sank. His answer was perfectly reasonable, of course, but some irrational part of her wondered why he hadn’t leaped at the opportunity. Because you didn’t kiss him, fool , berated her mind. You have only yourself to blame. She shook her head. Why do I act the part of a lovesick girl? He is… the thought ended there. Only a bastard? That was no fault of Jon’s. She knew him. He was kind, good-hearted, loyal, brave…

“Marya?”

Her uncle’s voice shook her out of her reverie. She blinked furiously. “Sorry, Father. I must have dozed off for a second. What did you say?”

“My lady must be tired from her morning spar,” Jon said, giving her a soft smile. It lifted her spirits some. “She’s quite skilled at the spear. Is it a weapon you favor, my prince?”

Oberyn looked at her proudly. “I taught her myself, when she was young. It was only my regret that I could not spend more time with her when she was little. As ferocious as she is now - she would have been a warrior to rival Nymeria herself had I gotten the chance to train her as I wished.” That much, at least, lifted her spirits.

Robb Stark, as it turned out, had no objection to Sansa and Quentyn’s excursion, nor to Jon Snow accompanying them. The four of them rode out of Winterfell just before midafternoon. The horses came from the Stark stables. Sansa rode a fine white mare, and Quentyn was given a lordly grey courser. She found a chestnut palfrey, but Jon rode atop a great black charger. She was delighted to see that Ghost, Jon’s great wolf, had survived their ordeals in Essos. Sansa Stark also brought along her wolf, a gentle, majestic thing she called Lady. Quentyn shied away from Lady at first, but Ghost did not hesitate to come by her. As they were readying to mount their steeds before leaving the gate, he ambled over to her and licked at her hand while she scratched behind his ears.

“He remembers me,” she said, quietly, so only Jon could hear, giggling as the wolf’s wet tongue tickled her palm.

Jon looked at both of them and smiled. He patted Ghost’s haunches. “Aye, that he does.”

That gave Quentyn enough courage to not be unnerved by Sansa’s direwolf, who was smaller and far less frightening. She had yet to see the other Stark direwolves prowling around the castle, but Jon explained that each of them had one. She wondered what it was like to be bonded to such a creature, and thought of her own ancestors and the dragons they rode.

A path led down from the castle towards the edge of the woods. Great soldier pines and firs and the occasional weirwood dotted the treeline. The path was relatively well trodden, and wide enough through the forest. They did not have to ride long before they arrived at the lakeside.

The waters were an astonishing shade of turquoise. Jon explained that the waters came from the hills in the Wolfswood, which gave them that coloring. The lake was wide and round, though Rhaenys could still see the edges without having to crane her head too far. Quentyn helped Sansa from her horse as Jon tied all the steeds to a short, squat tree. The courting couple laid out a sitting cloth and a small basket containing food and some wine. Rhaenys watched Quentyn and Sansa from a distance. Her cousin was not the handsomest of men, but he seemed to have a good, dutiful nature, from what she had seen. Sansa, for her part, did not seem to be enamored with him - but she still caught a hint of a blush every time Quentyn assisted her in a gentlemanly manner. 

“I think she’ll grow to appreciate him,” Jon said from beside her. She nearly jumped out of her skin for how close he was. She glared at him, but there was a hint of mirth in his eyes.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “Quentyn does have impeccable manners. Enough to know not to sneak up behind a lady.”

Jon was suppressing a laugh, clearly pleased with himself. She could not be upset with him, though. For as long as she had seen him here, he was so different from how he had been in Essos. That was not to say that Rhaenys had found him to be continuously morose then, but now there was a lightness in him she had never seen before. 

As though he read her mind, his smile slipped a little. He turned his gaze back to Sansa. “In truth, I’m glad Prince Quentyn came. You, your uncle, and Quentyn - it has helped to not think about what Father might be going through in King’s Landing now.”

“I’m sorry for what happened to him,” Rhaenys said. “We’re committed to helping you free Lord Stark once this alliance is concluded.”

“That isn’t what I mean,” Jon said. “Look at my sister. She is smiling and laughing now. This might be the last chance she has for some fond memories before we all ride south, and when we ride south I can’t say for certain that we will come back north the same.”

Rhaenys looked back at Quentyn and Sansa. To her surprise, the young lady was laughing, and even Quentyn looked more at ease, leaning back against his palms on the ground. She could faintly overhear a discussion about something in the water gardens - some incident between him and Trystane. 

“I’m happy for your sister. And for Quentyn. A good, happy match is a wonderful thing,” Rhaenys said softly.

Jon drew a little closer. She resisted the urge to twitch. Why did every moment of closeness between them set her skin afire? She felt as though a current of lightning passed through her every time he drew near. She cursed herself for it, for being this weak and out of control.

“You have helped, too,” he said. “I should feel guilty for any happy feeling I can muster while my father is a prisoner of the Lannisters and the crown, but with you here, I don’t.” He paused. “That should be a worrying thing, I think.”

Rhaenys’ throat constricted. Was it possible? Did he feel the same way? “What other use is a good friend, if not to help lift your worries?” she said tightly.

Jon gave her a smile. She was sure it was just a trick of the light, but she felt as though he leaned away from her just a little, and suddenly she felt more free to breathe. “I’ve said it before, but I’m glad to see you again, Princess.”

After Quentyn and Sansa finished their light meal, they packed and mounted their horses again. This time, Sansa led them through another path, less well-trod, through the woods. Quentyn rode alongside her, while Jon and Rhaenys rode in the back.

“Where are we going?” Rhaenys asked him.

Jon pointed up the road. “It curves around a hillock, and then heads up. You can’t see it because of the woods, but there’s a small, abandoned holdfast there.” True to his word, as the road curved around a small rise, it then sharply cut back across and up the hill. As they rose above the treeline, Rhaenys saw the fort that Jon mentioned. 

It looked ancient . It seemed even older than Winterfell itself. Much of the round stonewall around it was crumbled, though sections still existed. Little existed of any building save the foundation, but the center keep was still partially intact.

“Jon,” called Sansa from the front. “Can you recall from lessons who used to rule here? Prince Quentyn was inquiring.”

“It was House Frostling,” Jon called back. “White banners with a blue winter rose. Descended from a distant Stark relative, if I recall correctly. Long extinct now.” Sansa and Quentyn resumed their conversation, but Rhaenys was still staring at the fort. 

“Does anyone live nearby?” she asked.

“Aye, there’s a little timber village perhaps a quarter-hour’s ride from here. Once the village might have been tied to this fort, but now they pay their taxes to Winterfell. Why?” Jon asked.

Rhaenys shook her head. “No reason in particular. This is a modest but good keep. It even has its own village. A shame to let it sit abandoned, I think.”

Jon shrugged. “Much of the North is littered with keeps like this. All of them hail from the time of the First Men - the real First Men, when there was little difference between us and the wildlings.” He was quiet for a moment. “The first time I saw this place, I must have been ten namedays old. I remember thinking to myself - dreaming, really - what if my father rebuilt it and gave it to me? I would be close to Robb all my life, look after his lands, bring my soldiers and men-at-arms to his wars, and my sons leal bannermen after them. Just a boy’s dream, I suppose.”

His eyes were trained on the castle now too, but Rhaenys could not help but look at him sadly. There were far less deserving men than Jon who ruled keeps now, she thought. Would it have been so difficult for Lord Stark to grant him a little future of his own? None of this would have taken away from any of his other siblings, if in truth there were many keeps like this across the North. After his trueborn sons, it would have been no great difficulty for him to give such a little fief to Jon. She remembered why he came to Essos in the first place.

“Perhaps I’ll make it another condition of our alliance offer. Robb Stark must raise Jon Snow to lordship of this castle and make him the head of his own house,” she declared fiercely.

Jon turned to her in surprise, but then his eyes warmed and he gave her a smile. “A sweet dream, Princess. What would I call that house?”

“You could resurrect the name Frostling,” Rhaenys suggested. “A white standard with a blue winter rose is not an unappealing sigil. Like you, they were descended from the Starks. You have a claim to it as much as any other.” A thought, unbidden, flashed to her mind - Rhaenys Frostling, Lady of-

She snapped out of it. Are you mad? she thought to herself. If Jon noticed her internal struggle, he made no mention of it. He laughed and patted his horse. “Mayhaps one day, once we bring Father back from the south. You would be welcome in my hall anytime you wished.”

Rhaenys did not want to admit that perhaps she wanted more than just to visit now and then.

JON

The time before dinner was spent overseeing the armorers, and, near the end of the day, welcoming the first of the lords bannermen to Winterfell.

The first to arrive with five hundred swords, fifty mounted lances and men-at-arms, and four household knights was Lord Cerwyn. Jon spotted the black battle-axe of Cerwyn coming up the Kingsroad and greeted them himself. The northern lords were a proud, quarrelsome lot - Jon remembered that quite well from his childhood - and so he thought to test their temperatures before sending them along to Robb. Cerwyn was always the first to arrive - Castle Cerwyn was only a day’s ride from Winterfell - but it took time to muster their levies. Jon knew there were more men to be had - there always were - but it dawned on him that they would not have the time to muster the full strength of the North before marching south. No, the harvest was too close, and winter was coming. The North knew that all too well. They would have to fight with what they could get, and it would not be the forty-thousand they hoped for.

Medger Cerwyn was a man Jon had seen plenty of, and he knew Jon as soon as he saw him. The man dismounted, tall and built like a spindly weirwood. His tufted brows and hair and beard - long and streaked with silver - belied his age. It had been at least two years since Jon saw him last, and he looked his age more than he recalled.

Cerwyn eyed him up and down. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d have sworn that Brandon Stark reborn stood here right in front of me. Too thin though. Brandon was a bull of a man. Jon Snow... thought you were dead.” His voice was always gentle, never coarse or rough. Jon remembered that much as well, but he had a great fury and a pride to match. He was curious, though - he had never really been compared to Uncle Brandon before. People had always mentioned, during his childhood, his resemblance to Father.

“Still drawing breath, my lord,” Jon said, bowing his head. “You and your men are a welcome sight. On behalf of my brother, be welcome to Winterfell. I shall take you to bread and salt and then to him.”

Jon led him in. After receiving bread and salt, Jon took him to the Great Hall, where Robb was sitting to receive him. The meeting was short and cordial. Ruling was becoming second nature to Robb, though his brother was often still unsure of himself in private. In public, he appeared the perfect heir, and a worthy Lord Stark in his own right. Jon felt a growing pride for Robb. He could not help but think about Rhaenys’ comment, however. A castle and a name of his own…

For so long, he dreamed of little else. When he left for Essos, that dream was on the verge of death. He had not paid much attention to it when he came back, for the moment he arrived in King’s Landing, he was charged with duty to his house, to his siblings - a duty he intended to discharge to the best of his abilities. Now, here, in Winterfell, he had a duty to Robb. Jon did not shy from it or shirk it, but there was a growing feeling in him, fueled by his experiences in Essos, that he wanted - and was right to want - more. He resolved, at the end of all of it, to petition his father. Nay - he would not beg. His thoughts drifted to the half-ingot of Valyrian steel he quietly kept in his possession, in his room - he would sell it and use the funds as a weregild to earn that house. Jon would not have it said of him that he did not make his own name.

After Medger Cerwyn was received and seen to, Jon went to his own room to clean up before dinner. The discussions with the Martells weighed on his mind, but those thoughts were quickly enveloped by other thoughts - thoughts of Rhaenys. Every moment he spent in her presence felt stifling - in a way that made him want more. Whatever existed between them in Essos, it was not like this. Now, every time he laid eyes on her, it was as though he saw nothing else. Perhaps there was some sort of witchery with the purple eyes of the Valyrians, for he found himself enchanted. He wanted to believe it was against his will, but he knew that his heart was not opposed to it entirely. His heart tinged with guilt even as he traced his fingers over the pouch containing Azenet’s ashes. That pain still lingered in him. 

Even when he sank into the heated waters of his tub and scrubbed himself clean of the grime of the day, his thoughts fixated on the princess. He still did not know what possessed him to take her down to the winter town, but the memory of their shared dance and the closeness of their faces and bodies raged like a fire within him. She had a heady effect on him - one that he would have to control, for he was a bastard and she a princess. They were friends - good friends - those were her words. He reminded himself that he should not see something that was not there, nor the potential for.

He dressed in the finest clothes he had, a simple black doublet with trousers and a fine fox-fur trimmed cloak. Ghost trailed after him as he wandered through the halls of the castle. Dinner was to be held in the Starks’ private quarters now, not in the great hall. Jon arrived first, then Robb, and the rest of the Starks, as the servants finished setting the round table. The family dining room was cozy, but Jon had so very rarely dined in here with the rest of them. Sometimes, with only his siblings, or at Father’s invitation - but never with Lady Stark. 

The Dornish party entered after. Prince Oberyn was resplendent in orange robes, wearing clothes that must have been customary to Dorne. Even Prince Quentyn, who normally, Jon thought, was plain - if courteous and honest - looked the part of a royal prince, a descendent of Nymeria.

Rhaenys was the last to enter, but she dressed not in the bright hues of Dorne. Her dress was black and red, imperiously beautiful. It clung to her toned figure and revealed the lean spearwoman’s physique underneath. Around her neck was a necklace of rubies; two ruby earrings dangled from her lobes. Her black hair was styled in an elaborate braid, and her purple eyes seemed more piercing than ever before.

Arya pinched him. “Will you stop gawking like that?” she hissed, grinning like the cat that caught the canary. “You’re drooling all over the floor.”

“My Princes,” Robb greeted. “Lady Marya.”

“Lord Stark,” replied Oberyn. “Thank you for the welcome to your home, and for the invitation to dine tonight. Before we begin, however, there is something I must confess to. Lady Marya is not who I have represented her to be… as Master Snow here already knows.”

Only Robb - and Rickon, who was not present - did not turn to look at him now. Every other Stark - Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Lady Stark - turned to him. 

“Then who,” said Lady Stark icily, “is she, and why did you not inform us of this, Snow?”

“My brother is aware, my lady,” Jon replied. He glanced at his brother. “You didn’t see fit to tell anyone else?”

Robb shrugged. “That is why we’re here tonight.” Jon suppressed a groan. He did not care for Lady Stark’s opinion of him greatly anymore, but would still prefer not to antagonize her needlessly. Now, Jon thought, she probably thought him a traitor with nefarious plans.

“I apologize for the deception in your own home, Lady Stark,” Rhaenys said. “But it was necessary to protect my identity. If the crown knew I was here, I fear House Martell would be in a similar situation as your house. Jon knows who I am because we have met in Essos. He was sworn to protect me, and I believe he would hold to that even now, even though that pledge has been erased. If he has told you anything about his time there, then perhaps you may be able to guess my identity as Lord Robb did.”

Lady Stark was no fool. Her face appeared stricken. “By the gods. You are Rhaenys Targaryen, aren’t you?”

“What?” breathed Sansa.

“You have it correct, Lady Stark,” Rhaenys said. “And I come bearing a proposal. A marriage, yes, between Quentyn and Sansa - and an alliance between Houses Stark, Martell, and Targaryen.”

“No use talking over an empty stomach,” said Prince Oberyn in a flippant manner. “Hungry people make poor decisions.”

Robb gestured for them to sit. Only the family and the Dornish were here now. Just by chance, Jon happened to be seated by Rhaenys on one side, and Arya on the other. He and Rhaenys exchanged a quick glance before settling fully into their seats.

Even as they all began to pile their plates and fill their goblets from the carafes, Robb began to speak. “My understanding is that you want our support for a Targaryen restoration.”

“Essentially,” said Prince Oberyn. “But if it makes the draught easier to swallow, we are helping you free Lord Eddard. You can’t possibly think that Joffrey would be a good king to House Stark, now would you?”

“If we were to go to King’s Landing, ask for mercy - explain how this is a mistake,” said Lady Stark, “then we could still retrieve my husband with no bloodshed.”

“And how many of your children would need remain in the capital to ensure the good behavior of House Stark?” said Prince Oberyn. “My niece Arianne speaks often of the Queen. She does not favor house Stark. It’s unlikely that Lady Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey would be reinstated.”

“If you go south to bend the knee,” cautioned Rhaenys, “you may not come back.”

Robb looked at Jon. “You were the last one to speak with Father. Do you think the crown would give him back to us if we bent the knee?”

They had already had this discussion many times, but he could see from Robb’s tone that this question was less a question and more theatre. He knew it, Jon knew it - war was near inevitable. But as for Lady Stark, who perhaps still harbored hope against hope… she needed to be convinced.

“I don’t,” said Jon. “Father was convinced the Lannisters had some treacherous trick up their sleeves, some plot against Robert. That loyalty to House Baratheon was turned against him and now he rots in a cell because of a Baratheon.” His voice grew angrier. “Father is the most honorable man we know, Robb. If the Lannisters call him traitor, then I know who the real traitors are. When we go south, we must not go alone. We’ll bring the North and winter with us.”

Arya pounded the table once, causing Lady Stark to nearly jump out of her seat. “Jon’s right. We have to save our father. Joffrey was a twit, we all saw it-“

“Arya!” exclaimed Lady Stark.

“But he was, mother, ask Bran!”

Bran shrugged. “Prince Tommen was quite afraid of him. He told me once that Joffrey murdered one of his kittens.” 

“I don’t know about the kittens,” said Sansa quietly. “But there were times he… he said and did things that weren’t… right.” Everyone turned to look at her, Jon included. He was surprised. She had been so hesitant to abandon her betrothal to him. He wondered now if being with a true gentleman like Quentyn had changed her opinion of Joffrey.

“My niece Arianne has much to say about Joffrey’s character. He’s spoiled, clings to his mother’s skirts, and mistreats the castle servants greatly. He’s a monster in the making. He might sit the throne, but the true king now, in effect, is Tywin Lannister,” said Oberyn. “And Tywin Lannister will never let you have Lord Eddard back simply for bending the knee and saying some words, even if you truly mean them.” 

Lady Stark still appeared troubled, but it was becoming increasingly apparent to her that she was the only one on her own side. “And what would the terms of this alliance entail?”

“Marriage between Sansa and Quentyn,” said Rhaenys. “That offer was made in earnest.”

“Prince Quentyn is a second son by the laws of Dorne. Princess Arianne is the one who stands to inherit,” said Robb.

“Unless her station was to be even greater than that of a Princess,” said Rhaenys. “Like that of a queen. No, Lady Stark, Arianne will wed the king.”

“Aegon?” asked Robb.

Rhaenys looked at her uncle and then shook her head. “No, not Aegon. Unfortunately he is lost to us. We have not heard from him since leaving Essos. He may be dead. Dorne rallies to Viserys, Third of his Name.” 

“There is some precedent,” said Oberyn. “The truth is, however, that we cannot rely on Aegon, for we do not even know if he lives. Viserys was chosen by the last Targaryen king.”

“Who was a madman,” Robb pointed out.

“He was, but still a king. He proclaimed Viserys his heir after Prince Rhaegar was felled on the Trident.”

“How can we trust the word of a house that abandons the son of one of its daughters?” questioned Lady Stark. “Aegon is Princess Elia’s son - your nephew, your cousin, your brother.”

“Aegon…” said Rhaenys, before trailing off. Her eyes were misted over, and Jon could see how difficult it was for her. Aegon was her little brother, but he had planned to sell her. No matter that she was prepared to do it; the guilt she felt at damning Daenerys to that fate was upon her shoulders too. Belatedly Jon wondered if the crown ever dispatched assassins after Daenerys.

“Aegon would have sold her to a Dothraki khal for the promise of some gold and swords for his invasion of the Seven Kingdoms,” growled Jon. His mouth seemed to speak before his mind could order it. “After Rhaenys and Prince Viserys departed, he went through with it - only with his aunt, Daenerys. No king of mine would do such a thing.”

A troubled silence fell over the table. Rhaenys wiped at her eye and gave him a strange look, gratefulness interspersed with something else.

“And Viserys is better than Aegon?” Robb asked.

Rhaenys nodded. “My uncle is fiercely protective of family. He… he has his faults, like any man, but he is not unjust, and is openhanded with his friends and allies.”

Robb looked to Jon. “You’ve met him.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “Haughty and proud, but not mad. He tried to save the Targaryen girls from Aegon’s plans. You and I would do the same for our sisters.”

Robb tapped the table. “If Princess Arianne becomes queen consort, Quentyn-“

“Becomes Prince of Dorne,” finished Prince Oberyn. “And Lady Sansa would become Princess Consort of Dorne. I’m afraid it is not the same as being Queen in name, my lady, but I promise you - life in Sunspear would be no meaner a fate.”

“I would do my best to ensure your happiness and comfort in Sunspear were we wed, my lady,” said Quentyn. This limited time I have spent with you has been a delight. I would be honored to have the chance to know you further - as my betrothed and lady wife to be.”

“Sansa?” Robb asked.

“My prince is very kind,” Sansa said. She looked at Jon for the briefest second, and he wondered if she had taken his words during their trip back to Winterfell to heart. “I, too, would welcome the chance to know you better.”

Quentyn smiled then, and for the first time Jon found him to not be so plain, when he was happy. Even Prince Oberyn seemed genuinely pleased instead of sardonically so. When he locked eyes with Rhaenys, though, all she could share was a sad smile with him.

“And as to the military aspects of this alliance - we would supply the spears of Dorne to the war efforts of House Stark. Already we have fortified the Marches and the Prince’s Pass and the Boneway to keep the Stormlords distracted should they foolishly choose to invade our lands Whether or not you agree to this alliance, Dorne is prepared for war, as we know war will come for you anyway,” said Prince Oberyn. “But if we fight together, we can free Lord Stark and replace the Baratheon usurpers together.” 

“What will it be said of my house that we fought to make a king and then a generation later, sought to unmake his son?” Robb said. “House Stark will be called faithless.”

“You need not be faithful to an unjust tyrant,” Rhaenys said. “My grandfather was such a man. This Joffrey has slighted you the same by imprisoning your father. The histories will say that House Stark will brook no injustice against one of its own.”

Robb leaned back in his chair. Jon could see the weight of the world on his head. He would not admit so much to the Martells, but convincing their banner men of this course of action would be difficult. But they had no choice. Jon knew that Robb knew it too. If they could not muster the whole north in time, they would need more soldiers. Dorne could provide as such.

“I must take the counsel of my family in this matter,” Robb said. “But as of now, I do not see how Dorne or the North will win this war without aid from each other.”

"I understand," said the Prince. Rhaenys looked as though she was about to say something, but her uncle gave her a knowing glance that silenced her. "We would need an answer soon, however. We cannot tarry here for long, for the Crown will know something is afoot if Dorne courts the North while the North prepares for war."

Jon's gaze lingered on Rhaenys. She was staying for a while longer, at least. The thought gladdened him, and he realized he was not quite ready to be parted from her. Lady Stark, for her part, seemed miffed at all of it. She had her reservations, no doubt, but Robb was the Stark in Winterfell. She would chastise him for acting rashly later, but Jon saw no other path forward either. 

Dinner passed by with a mixture of talk of war and various houses of Dorne. He ate little, suddenly filled with more than just hunger. He thought of battles ahead, a triumphant Stark army entering the capital with Robb at its head and Jon by his side. He thought of the chance to spend more time with Rhaenys.

He wanted to bury his face in his dinner plate in frustration. The gods saw fit to make him a smitten fool, for he should not entertain such thoughts, or so he told himself.

After dinner, Jon chose to escort Rhaenys back. But as he led her from the Starks’ private wing of the great hall to the Guest House, Rhaenys stopped him.

“Jon, would you take me to the crypts?” she asked suddenly.

Jon was taken aback. “Why? To tell it true, even I don’t feel as though I belong down there sometimes. It’s a somber place.” And reserved for members of House Stark, which he was not.

“Only if it would not cause offense,” she asked. “Down there are people wronged by my family. I would ask their forgiveness.”

Jon nodded hesitantly and took her. The way to the crypts was cold, but Rhaenys braved it even in her rather thin dress. He led her down the stone stairs from the courtyard and through the halls ensconced with lit torches. Statues of long dead Starks stared at him. Rhaenys gasped.

“This is a massive crypt,” she said. “How many generations?” 

Jon shrugged. “I’m not sure anyone knows.” He pointed at some of the statues. “Even the writing has faded. Who knows what that King of Winter was called. Brandon most likely. We never were too imaginative with the names.” That part made Rhaenys giggle just a little. She wrapped her arm tighter around his.

"Nor my house either. Too many Aegons, if you ask me."

He led her to the end, where grandfather and Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna were buried. To his surprise, a blue winter rose was in the outstretched hand of the statue of Aunt Lyanna. He was not sure who had placed it there, for it was always Father's custom. Perhaps Robb had taken to it in his absence. Rhaenys stared for some time, quiet. Jon watched her carefully.

“She must have been beautiful,” she said quietly. “But young. I can see that even in the stone.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “Around my age. Father always said she had a wild beauty to her. One time he said that Arya had some of her look and much of her wild spirit.” He wondered if that meant he too shared some of it. Everyone always said he and Arya looked very much alike.

Her fingers traced around the blue winter rose. “To me, when you came to the magister’s manse in Pentos, you were just a stranger. But here, now, I can see that our houses have been so intertwined. So much has happened.” She turned to Jon. “It is a hard thing for a child to admit that her father might have wronged someone. But all I can think of is why he would do something like that to my lady mother. And if he dishonored your aunt, why did he do it?” She looked back at the statue. “I fear there is no forgiveness to be found from stone and bone. All we can do is move ahead and try to right the wrongs of the past.” 

“You don’t need forgiveness,” Jon said. “We are not our parents or their sins.” 

“But we must still deal with their legacies,” Rhaenys countered. “The curse of all children. We pay for their mistakes. I can see it in you. All your life you have paid for being a bastard, and was that your fault? Did you ask Lord Stark to be with your mother? No matter. It is your burden to bear, even if the shame lies with someone else.” She drew close to him. “How do I deal with my father’s legacy? Some think him a prince worthy of emulation, a kind man. Some think him a raper with an infatuation for a Stark lady who was not his wife. And here I am, a Targaryen starting to…” she trailed off, a bitter laugh welling up in her. “No matter. Shall we go?”

Jon nodded and took her arm again, his mind replaying her words. He did not have a response to her, but he knew she struggled with her father’s honor, in a way not dissimilar to himself. He, too , wondered what possessed Rhaegar Targaryen to do what he did. He supposed they would never truly know. 

An idea struck him as they left the crypt and passed by the gardens. “There is one thing I want to show you,” he said. When she nodded - without asking - he guided her toward the glass gardens. When they entered, Jon sought out the bushes in the back and came back with a winter rose. 

“For you, Princess,” Jon said. “For a new start to the relationship between House Stark and House Targaryen - and a new meaning to this flower between them. A happier one, if I can hope.”

She stared at the rose in her hands as though mesmerized. “Thank you,” she said. Jon simply smiled and took her arm once more.

Chapter Text

JON

“Why are you so nervous?” Jon asked Asher.

The man could not stop bouncing his leg at the breakfast table. He ate his porridge slowly and looked slightly green when doing so. “It’s nothing.”

”It’s not nothing,” Jon said, laughing. “I saw you face down hordes in battle and never lose your meal. Now you look as though ready to cough up last night’s roast mutton.”

”Yes, yes, have your fun,” Asher hissed. “My father is on his way here as is Lord Whitehill. They’ll be here today or the day after if the raven was any indication.”

”Father already wrote to Lord Gregor. Your exile will be lifted,” Jon reassured him. “As for your fair lady…”

Asher fixed him with an irritable look. His voice dropped. “Methinks Marya Sand’s presence has loosened your humor greatly, Snow. Found a lady love of your own, have you? A true hidden gem.”

Jon’s smile dropped. “It’s not like that-“

”Have you bedded her already?”

He nearly choked on his porridge. “What?” Jon spluttered. “I- No-“

”No?” Asher said. “I did not think you a coward.”

”I’m no coward. She’s a princess-“

”Who wants you,” Asher said. “I saw it with my own eyes.” They had met in the training yard earlier this morning. Jon and Rhaenys sparred and Asher came down. His friend’s jaw dropped and he nearly gave away her identity, for Asher recognized her immediately. Winterfell was a large castle and Jon was grateful their paths did not cross before more prying eyes. 

“She does not want me,” Jon said. “She’s a prin-“

”I heard you the first time, simpleton,” Asher said. “She’s not just that, she’s a woman with her own desires. You’re no green boy, Jon. If she’s willing and you are…” Asher shook his head. “The gods had their fun when they fashioned you. The prettiest boy the North has seen in an age, born with the sense of a goat.”

Jon huffed. “She will marry for alliances, to secure Viserys’s reign. If she were to get with child, everything would be ruined.”

Asher stared at him as though he’d grown two heads. “There’s a tea for that. I take it back. Even a goat has more sense.” Jon glared at him and pushed away his empty bowl of porridge.

”I’m off. I’ll see you later. Robb has to give an answer to Prince Oberyn.” Jon stood and left. His ears burned. Rhaenys did not want him. Asher had gone soft in the head waiting for his father. His own Gwyn Whitehill was muddling his thoughts, Jon knew.

He made his way to the lord’s solar. The Dornish princes and Rhaenys were already there, and Robb and Lady Stark and Sansa. Lady Stark gave him a piercing look as he took Robb’s side.

“I have taken counsel with my family, Prince Oberyn. We have a few questions, but in general, we are in agreement with your proposal.” Rhaenys beamed, but Oberyn only smiled.

”And your conditions?” The Prince said. “For I expect they are not conditions.”

”Those are your words, Prince Oberyn,” said Lady Stark. Winning her agreement had been the hardest part of the last few nights. With the Northern lords arriving at Winterfell with their armies, she had grown more adamant about refusing the Dornish proposal. It was only when the third of Lady Stark’s ravens to the Eyrie went unanswered that she finally relented, perhaps beginning to believe their side was not as strong as she thought it to be. 

“The North has suffered greatly in the past at the hands of House Targaryen,” said Robb. “Despite this, we have been faithful servants of the crown until faith was broken. You promise us justice, but we need something more permanent.” Robb took a sip from his wine goblet. “The New Gift. I want it returned. The Night’s watch has let it fall into ruin and it serves no purpose to anyone.”

“That land was donated by your house at Queen Alysanne’s request,” said Rhaenys. 

“Request is one word for it,” Jon said. He fought off a smile. He was going to enjoy this verbal spar as much as their real one. “There is a copy of Ellard Stark’s journals in the library. Would you care to hear his version of events, Your Grace?”

”I will allow the lords of the holdfasts and their villages to pay six tenths of their taxes to the Watch. The rest will go to Winterfell. They will ride to aid the Watch in their time of need, but they will be sworn to House Stark. We will watch over them and ensure the Gift remains in a habitable state and protected from wildling raids," Robb said. This was something they discussed as well, a suggestion of Robb's. Jon remembered what he had seen of the New Gift when he went to visit Uncle Benjen at the Wall with Robb and Father several years ago - good land, completely abandoned, with villages burnt out and left to rot. The Watch had proven poor stewards of the Gift.

"Six tenths to the Watch?" said Prince Oberyn. "I fear that is too little."

"As of present, my prince," said Lady Stark, "the Watch receives zero tenths of any tax, for they have failed to maintain the New Gift entirely, and Brandon's Gift fares little better. I invite you to tour it. You will not like what you see."

Rhaenys and Prince Oberyn shared a look before nodding. "His Grace would be amenable to that," said Rhaenys. "House Targaryen has no desire to see the loyal North or the Watch imperiled by poor oversight. Is that all?"

The haggling went on for another hour at least, over things major and minor. Tariffs, taxes, privileges, trading rights - things that were of smaller consequence, but each one well thought out. The credit for that went to Lady Stark, for it was she who proposed exacting concessions not only for the Starks, but also things that would benefit the North. The Manderlys were loyal to House Stark, she pointed out, and fought hard in the Rebellion against House Targaryen. They would not easily agree to a Targaryen restoration, but what if it was paired with reduced tariffs for goods shipped to White Harbor? What if House Forrester and House Glover were given exclusive license to trade weirwood and ironwood north of King's Landing? Lady Stark's distrust of him aside, Jon found his respect for her increased by her ideas. She may have been a southern lady by birth, but her advocacy for her house by marriage was fierce. Robb was lucky to have a mother like her. 

The last thing to be negotiated was Sansa's dower. Nothing could be had for free, of course, and despite whatever treasures and furs and silks Robb promised to give away as part of her bride-price, Jon lamented that his sister would go. He and Sansa were not close before, but now they had grown closer since his return. She sought out his opinion more often, and did not shy away from him as she did in the past. It also made him realize that Arya would not chase him and Robb around forever. The old guilt of his flight to Essos resurfaced for a moment, and he felt the pain he must have put his siblings through.

"Now that our agreement is done, I think it is time to return to Dorne," said Prince Oberyn. "My brother and His Grace will need me to lead our armies. Quentyn will return with me, but my niece has a request."

"I desire to travel to the Wall," Rhaenys said. "I have a relative there, still living. Most have forgotten but I have not."

"The old maester at the Wall," Jon said suddenly. He remembered meeting the old man on his trip to the Wall. "I remember him. I'd forgotten he was a Targaryen. Maester..."

"Aemond?" Robb said helpfully. "No, that wasn't it. Aemon, I think."

"Aemon," confirmed Rhaenys. "Aemon Targaryen, son of Maekar Targaryen, brother to Aegon the Fifth. I suppose it is a foolish request, and not well-timed, but he is the only member of my house other than Viserys that I have the opportunity to speak with. Daenerys is lost to us, and Aegon..." she did not finish that thought. "I would only need a guard or two, and I can ride hard. I need little comfort. My years in Essos saw to that."

"It is not a quick trip," Robb cautioned. "The ride from here to Castle Black will take a fortnight if you ride rough. And from there you would need to return to White Harbor and return to Dorne."

"I would not return to Dorne," Rhaenys said. "I plan on riding south with you, my lord." She glanced at Jon for a brief moment. "I would be His Grace's envoy to the North. Aside from that, my uncle and I agree, it is a foolish idea for all three of us to return the same way we came. We do not know what is known in the capital of our voyage, and anything might happen at sea. War is upon us now."

Robb stood and wandered to the great map of the north that hung in the solar. It was commissioned by their grandfather Rickard. The bright black lines looked as though they had barely aged on the vellum. "I do not know if I can spare an escort for you. Many lords ride now to Winterfell. We will begin our march soon."

"With your leave, brother," Jon said suddenly, "I can escort the Princess to the Wall. If she is willing, of course."

"I need you here, Jon."

"Aye, I know," Jon countered. "But Last Hearth has yet to send a raven indicating Lord Umber's departure. Their lands are the most far-flung. I'll stop by Last Hearth on the way to see their march south done. And someone has to speak to the Lord Commander, let him know our plans for the New Gift. It will be easier done with the Watch's cooperation."

Robb considered it. "If Princess Rhaenys acquiesces," he agreed.

"I do." Rhaenys leaned back in her chair and smiled. "Jon Snow is the reason I still draw breath. I trust him with my life."

Jon felt as though the temperature in the room dropped. Lady Stark looked to the Princess first, and then at him. The ice in her stare was enough to freeze him on the spot. He did not care what she thought of him, but he did not want to infringe on Rhaenys' honor, either. Prince Oberyn, on the other hand, was carefully regarding him. The Red Viper of Dorne's stern gaze made him feel exposed.

"Very well." Robb patted Jon's shoulder. "When would you leave?"

"Today, if we can," Jon answered. "The road is long and I want to put as many miles behind us as possible." He looked to Rhaenys, who gave him a nod, the corners of her mouth curved upward.

They set out by midday on their horses, saddled with enough provisions to last the trip. Rhaenys was bundled in a new fur cloak. "You'll need it," Sansa insisted. "Winterfell is only halfway up the North." She was right. Jon remembered the cold there. He still wondered how the rangers who went beyond the Wall did it. They were hard men, and still they died in droves. The road was well trafficked as supplies and men trickled south for the campaign. Near the evening, as the sun began to dip over the wolfswood to the west, he spotted banners on the road. The bear of Mormont fluttered high on the road. The band that marched down was no great army, but upon seeing them, Jon would not trade a man for ten southerners. The folk of Bear Island were hardy - half bears themselves - tall and grizzled and mean in the best possible way. 

"Who are they?" asked Rhaenys.

"House Mormont. Their lady is Maege Mormont. Her heir Dacey will be with her. Gods, its been some time since I've seen her." Jon laughed. He still remembered Dacey tanning their hides in the training yard. It wasn't a fair fight - Dacey was near nine years older than both Robb and Jon - but she had been merciless in battle and then a joy to be around after. He spurred his horse forward.

"Hail, men of Mormont. Where rides your lady?"

A stout, grey-haired woman, garbed in patched ringmail came forward on her horse. Time had left Maege Mormont unchanged from last Jon Snow saw her. Dacey rode next to her. Even in the saddle she stood near Jon's height, and Jon had grown significantly taller since they had last met. 

"Who goes there?" Lady Maege called. "By the looks of you, a Stark."

"No Stark, my lady, only a Snow come home after some time."

Dacey squinted and then laughed. "By the gods, I'd recognize that long face anywhere, though it belongs to a bigger boy than the one I saw when last I came to Winterfell." She looked him up and down. "No, not a boy at all. You've grown some, Snow."

"Well met, my lady. Allow me to introduce my companion - this is Lady Marya Sand, daughter of Prince Oberyn. She came with her father and her cousin Prince Quentyn to discuss a betrothal with my sister. My brother will be glad to see you at Winterfell. House Mormont's presence is always a welcome sight." The Mormont ladies peered at Rhaenys. Maege said nothing, her face unreadable, but Dacey gave Jon a sly grin.

"Well, someone has to teach Umber and Glover how to remove their heads from their own arses," said Lady Maege. "We'll be there before tonight. Who has already arrived?"

"Lord Cerwyn came first, then Ser Kyle Condon the next day. Tallhart and Hornwood. Glover and his other bannermen were to be there today too, though I was on the road before they arrived. We expect Lord Bolton in a sennight and Lord Karstark in a fortnight. You'll have the company of many friends.

Lady Maege squinted into the distance. "Last I marched south like this it was for the Greyjoy rebellion. The time before that, it was to fight to defy another tyrant." She spat on the grass nearby. "Andals and Southerners. Don't know the first thing about the North or our people, our gods, our customs. A year ago ravens went to every keep from your father asking if you'd been seen. I wondered where you went. Most probably thought you dead." She sniffed. "Not many lords out there that'd give as much a damn about a bastard son as Ned."

"No," Jon echoed. "There are few men like Father. As for where I've been... Essos, and war."

"Aye, I can see it in your eyes," Maege agreed. "Good. Where we're going, you'll need a taste for it. Don't let me keep you or your lady, Snow. Will you ride south with us after?"

"As soon as I can return from Castle Black," Jon said. "I plan to stop by Last Hearth and see if Lord Umber has forgotten which way is South." That earned a guffaw from Lady Maege and a snort from Dacey. After bidding their farewells, Jon and Rhaenys returned to the road. It was near dark now, but Jon knew there was a village and an inn not half an hour away. They rode in a companionable silence. The wind picked up from the west and Rhaenys drew her horse closer to his so that their legs nearly touched.

"You Northmen really are quite different," Rhaenys said after a while. "Much more direct than others."

Jon laughed. "Aye. We have a saying in the North. Everything before the word 'but' is horseshit. A man should say what he means, no more or less."

"You say that, and yet you were the one haggling like a fishwife for the New Gift," Rhaenys teased. "The journals of Ellard Stark. Ha! You make a good courtier for your brother." She quietened, and then continued. "Lady Mormont seemed to think little of Northern allegiance to the Iron Throne."

"In the last twenty years there seems little cause for continued allegiance." He eyed her. "That doesn't mean they'll never listen, Rhaenys. But it'll take time - and Dornish spears bleeding alongside Northern axes. Do you know what every successful Targaryen monarch had in common?"

"Dragons?" Rhaenys quipped.

Jon groaned. "Yes, but that's beside the point. Each of them had a good relationship with the North. It makes more than a third of the Seven Kingdoms. They let us handle our troubles by ourselves and trusted us to guard the north for them. When that happened, each time House Targaryen called, we answered."

"And you fear Viserys would not be one of those kings. You think he would interfere in the matters of the North."

Jon shrugged. "I don't know what kind of king Viserys would be. Better than Aegon, certainly, for at least he cares about family." Rhaenys flinched a little, and Jon winced quietly. It was a sore wound for her. He said, a little quieter, "If you were Queen, I'd feel better about it."

"How do you know I would be a good queen?" Rhaenys asked. "I could be a tyrant. I could be Maegor with teats."

Ahead, upon the horizon, Jon could see the distant silhouette of smoke rising against the moonlit night sky. The inn came minutes after. It was a hard worn place, but busy enough, set at the corner of a sleepy village at a crossroads. The west road disappeared into the wolfswood, and Jon knew the east road went across the White Knife through the Lonely Hills, to the Dreadfort and Hornwood. They entered the inn and were instantly greeted by warmth. Jon couldn't help but grin when Rhaenys let out a contented sigh at the heat emanating from the hearth.

"Stop laughing," she complained. "I'm not as built for this as you. You would turn into a puddle with clothes in Dorne." With a laugh, Jon went to the innkeeper and slid him five copper groats. 

"Two rooms, one each for the lady and I," he said. The innkeep looked at him, then at Rhaenys for longer than Jon would have liked. 

"Only one room left. A stag for it." Jon frowned and looked at Rhaenys. A single room? His mind flashed back to the night they spent in the cave near Pentos, after Jon rode down Rhaenys' captors. That was out of necessity, but then again, so was this. 

Rhaenys simply smiled and looped her arm around his. She rested her head against his arm. "Cregan, my love, we don't have to pretend anymore. We don't mind, master innkeeper, but you could do us a favor and make it five groats. We'll be out your door early in the morning. We have a long way to go to Cregan's uncle in Last Hearth."

The innkeeper looked Jon up and down. His eyes fell upon the hilt of Frostbite, which Jon couldn't keep hidden under his cloak entirely. "Strapping lad like you should be headed south to answer the call, eh? Deserting?" The innkeeper seemed determined to stir up trouble, and his gaze towards Rhaenys made Jon uncomfortable.

"That's why I'm headed to Last Hearth. My uncle fights mounted for Lord Umber. He said there's a horse and a lance for me if I want it." Jon's temper rose and he flashed the hilt of Frostbite once more. "I fought in Essos for a year, friend. I've seen worse than a few yellow-bellied southerners. Now... five groats, one room, and I'll put in a good word when Lord Umber's vanguard rides south."

The innkeeper sighed. "Alright." He slid over a key. "Ale and breakfast will be two pennies a head, and I expect you'll need to stable your horses."

"Stables would be good," Jon said.

"Six pennies total. Breakfast and the horses." Jon slid over the coin. 

"Go ahead and take care of the steeds," Rhaenys whispered to him. "I'll be fine."

"You don't have a weapon," Jon said. "And I didn't care for how the innkeeper stared at you. Your safety is my duty." 

Rhaenys smiled. "Have you forgotten what you told me in Pentos all that time ago? I have more weapons on me than you think." She winked and gave him a soft nudge. "Now go, Cregan dear." Jon huffed and his ears burned red. Did she have to say it like that? And why Cregan? Those thoughts burning in his mind, he put away the horses for the night, making sure nothing valuable was left in the saddlebags. The stable was a locked barn, which Jon was grateful for. When he returned to the inn, Rhaenys was seated in the corner by the fire with two tankards and a plate with bread, salted pork, and some cheese. Jon joined her.

”This is the most adventure I’ve had… ever,” she confessed. 

“Being on the run from Robert’s hired knives not thrilling enough?” Jon took a deep draught of his tankard, even as Rhaenys playfully slapped his empty hand.

”Not the same, and you know it, Cregan.”

Jon made a face. “Why that name? Jon is common enough in the North.”

”It’s simply what I imagine my Northern husband of the smallfolk to be named,” she said lightly, and then she laughed. “It was the first name I could think of. It doesn’t suit you. Cregan should be hairy. And you, Jon Snow, are not.” She giggled and her hand brushed his cheek. He had taken to shaving closely since his return to Winterfell, but the feel of her smooth hand against the rough skin of his cheeks lit a flame in his core. His eyes flared with desire, but it was a fleeting touch and soon her hand retreated.

”So we’re to pose as a married couple headed to Last Hearth,” Jon said. “I’m Cregan, and you… well, Marya isn’t uncommon in the North either.” 

“I tire of being her,” Rhaenys said suddenly. “I wish to be myself. All my life I feel as though I have worn this mask or that mask. Now I am back in my homeland and I must still hide myself.” There was a bitter edge to her words.

”But you know who you are,” said Jon. “And so do I.”

“And who is that, pray tell?”

”A strong woman,” Jon answered. 

“Did you mean what you said, before we came here?” she asked. “Would you truly feel better if I was queen?”

“Of all the Targaryens, you are my favorite,” Jon chucked. “Though I was fond of your aunt, too. I did not know her long, but I do miss her.”

”Pentos feels so long ago,” Rhaenys said. “A fleeting chance of an encounter, with the son of a man I once called enemy - and now I’m on a journey to see the end of the world with him. The gods have a circular sense of humor.” She fixed him with hooded eyes. “I thought you died, and I shed tears for you.”

There was a heat, an intensity to her words that crawled under Jon’s skin. “It was a close thing.”

”Then tell me. We haven’t properly spoken about it,” she said. She rested her chin in her hand.

Jon sighed and told the tale, and all of it. Every bloody inch of dirt won with death, every battle, including the last. He spoke of Azenet’s death through gritted teeth. He told her about the Ironborn attack and King’s Landing. When he finished, she was quiet.

”You called it a close thing,” she said. “But it seems to me to be near destiny. Any other man might have died. So many times you might have been lost." Silence settled between them. "You said something on the road, and I would have the truth of it. Why do you think I would make a good queen?”

“I just do,” Jon said. “Daenerys is gentle, Viserys mercurial, Aegon... You have everything a good ruler needs. Patience, cleverness, bravery and fairness. You are fair and that is a rare enough thing. What more can you ask of a ruler but that they be clever and brave and fair and just?”

”How do you know I’m just?” she challenged. “I’ve never had to make a proclamation on someone’s innocence or guilt, never had to sentence a man. Why do you believe in me?”

Because I’m a smitten fool, he wanted to shout. “Because I saw how you carried yourself when treating with a house that warred against yours. You came to Winterfell and forged an alliance. You mended bridges that were burned. It is a good enough start for a queen.”

Rhaenys gave him a strange look. “It is getting late,” she said abruptly. “We should go to bed.”

Jon nodded. “Aye. We have many miles to cover tomorrow.” They stood together and found their way to the room. It was a cramped thing with a small bed. There was no way he would be sleeping in it tonight, Jon thought. “Take the bed, Princess. I’ll sleep by the door and keep watch.” 

“Jon,” she said quietly. “It is a long road. We huddled together in a damp cave. This is no different.” She laid down and patted the small space next to her. “If it makes you feel better, consider it a command from your princess.”

It didn’t make it feel any better. Wearily he laid down Frostbite by the side of the bed and removed his cloak. He stripped down to a tunic and trousers and then gingerly got into bed next to Rhaenys. His height and size made it near impossible to be comfortable while keeping a gap between them.

”Jon,” she called softly. “Please don’t be a fool.” She wiggled gently until she was closer to him, her backside fitting perfectly against his thighs. He tried his best to think of anything that would keep blood from pooling in his member, because the last thing he wanted was to poke Rhaenys with it now.

The last thing and the first thing, for he was consumed by her.

EDDARD

Grime and filth.

That was all that existed in the black cells of the Red Keep. That and the darkness that swallowed everything whole. It made Ned blind without taking his eyes, which was a torture of his own. The only thing that punctuated the void and the silence was the scurrying of rats and the occasional groan of the other condemned and damned men like himself. But he made no piteous noise. He lived instead in his mind, and saw nothing but a bloodied bed and wilted blue roses, and spoke to himself so as to retain whatever shred of sanity he could preserve.

Promise me, Ned.

Time without count went by. He was not sure what day it was, or how long he had been here. Had it been days, months, years? No one could say. Trying to keep sense of it was useless for all of it jumbled in his head, and he was left to his thoughts and nightmares in moments that blended, one with another, never giving a hint as to when it was. Terrible dreams filled his sleep, so that was little escape from the dark. He dreamed of the Winterfell, and the godswood, and his children, and Jon, and a bloodied bed, and wilted blue roses.

Promise me, Ned.

When he was given some respite from dreams, he plagued himself. He made many mistakes. He was a fool. Part of him wished he had followed after his children. He hoped that Jon got them all to the North safely. They put him in chains before he could get any news from Winterfell. Chains - for finding the truth, the one that Jon Arryn died for, the one he would likely die for too. 

Now Robert was dead, and a Lannister bastard sat the throne in his place. He was this close to warning Robert, this close to telling him the truth, but then he was in chains and Robert dead. Baelish. It must have been Baelish who betrayed him, for promise of reward, lands, castles. He had never trusted the grasping master of coin from the start, and never had any reason to. 

There was a groaning noise, different from the one that came before. He heard footsteps. Footsteps were rare. He scrambled, hoping to get even a ray of light at the opening of a door or window. He heard a creaking of hinges. Rusty iron screeched against rusty iron like the screams of a dying man. A single torch illuminated the face that now stood before him. It was not powdered, not how he had always seen it, but after a few blinks even his sight-deprived mind was able to make sense of it.

"Varys?" he croaked. He had not spoken in so long. He did not sound like himself.

"It is me, Lord Stark," sighed the eunuch. "I am sorry I did not come sooner. The speed at which the queen mother arranged your arrest... even I did not think she would move so quickly after the death of the King." The eunuch handed him a waterskin. Ned eyed with suspicion, which elicited another sigh and a roll of the eyes from Varys. He took the waterskin back and took a swig from it, before handing it back to Ned. The eunuch did not die, and Ned was thirsty. Not all poisons were so quick, but he did not care. Ned took it and drank greedily. The water wetted his parched throat like a Dornish rainfall.

"No one trusts a eunuch," Varys said sadly. "Poison it is, my lord, but no more poisonous than any other vintage or ale. Not at all like what Lancel Lannister plied His Grace with. You should be glad to know that it appears your bastard was able to escort your children and your household to the North. Even now, your son gathers your banners and plans to come south. Brave boy," he said. The eunuch leaned forward. "I trust you realize that you are a dead man, Lord Eddard?"

"They will not kill me," croaked Ned. Robb was gathering the banners. He feared for him, for all his children. "Not with the North behind my son."

"Just the North?" said Varys. He clucked. "It took a combined alliance of four great houses last time to topple the crown. Robb Stark, on the other hand, is quite lonely. I fear he and your lady wife are soon to discover that her sister is quite changed from who she once was."

"Then slit my throat and be done with it," Ned said, tired and heartsick.

"I would be the prime suspect," Varys said with a shrug. "As I said - no one trusts a eunuch. And it is as you said. The Lannisters gain nothing from your death now, but that does not change the truth, my lord. You will be dead soon enough. What fit of madness compelled you to tell Cersei you knew the truth? I do not know if she can suffer you to live now. Perhaps if you swore to take your knowledge of it to the grave. She knows you to be honorable."

"The children," Ned replied. He wanted to spare the children. He remembered the children who died in the place of Rhaenys and Aegon.

"And you told no one else?" Varys asked.

"No one," Ned said. He meant to write to Stannis, as soon as he discovered the truth. He cursed himself again. He should have told someone before confronting Cersei. He was a fool, and he had played like a fool, and he had lost.

Varys studied him for a moment. "I worked hard to keep the realms at peace with Robert. For fifteen years, I plied him and his council with information to keep his reign prosperous, informed him of threats before they arose, and made sure his enemies knives were always a second later than his. All that and I could not protect him from men like Jon Arryn, men like you."

He had been foolish to trust him, but alone in the capital - he remembered Baelish had been Cat's friend. He wished he had a chance to speak with  her. She might have told him otherwise, said something that would have confirmed the feeling in his gut that Baelish was not to be trusted. "It was the Queen, then? Through Lancel?"

"The Kingswood is a convenient place for accidents. You sentenced him to death when you told the Queen, my lord. I fear Robert's fate was sealed when she knew. He was never going to leave that forest with his life. A stray arrow, a hunting accident - something would have occurred."

Ned felt a stab of guilt. He knew Varys spoke the truth. There were better ways, ways to ensure Cersei's children were not harmed without telling her. Brandon would have had his head for such a foolish mistake, and Lyanna...

Promise me, Ned.

"My lord, you may not have been able to tell anyone, but if you value your heir's life, and the lives of Lady Stark and all your children, you may heed my counsel," Varys said.

"And what is that?"

Varys reached into his pockets and produced a scroll. It did not have any seal on it. "Signatures. To the Seven Kingdoms. I can concoct a story as to how you were able to transmit your messages - a loyal servant tasked to act upon news of your imprisonment or death - and the uproar it will cause will only aid your son. Lord Stannis and the Stormlands will rise. Few will be willing to come to the aid of the Lannisters. The war will be swifter, and the realm will be at peace sooner."

Some part of Ned did not trust the man, but he knew that knowledge of the Lannister secret would only turn the realm against Cersei and her children. It was no longer a question of protecting hers now - it was his children that needed his protection. If he signed these, the Lannisters might execute him anyway, for they would no longer be able to buy his silence. But then Robb would live. Robb alone was a dangerous thing, but if Stannis, Renly, the Stormlands were to rise - yes, yes, Ned thought, it could work. "Give me ink and quill then," he rasped.

AEGON

Aegon stared at the red banner that fluttered in the wind. It was by itself, unique in a sea of gold banners and war totems. On it, a three-headed black dragon reared its heads.

Black or red, a dragon is still a dragon. Magister Illyrio’s words reverberated in his head. A dragon is still a dragon. Once, long ago, these men fought for Daemon Blackfyre against the main Targaryen line. For it, they were exiled from the Seven Kingdoms. The Golden Company was the legacy of Bittersteel. Aegon wondered what had possessed the man to have such an unquenchable loyalty to the line of his half-brother Daemon. It was said that he hated Brynden Rivers and loved Shiera Seastar. If that was all, then his hate must have been powerful to fuel him so long. Bittersteel was a true moniker.

Bittersteel’s golden skull gazed at him now atop a golden pike. It was surrounded by other skulls. He felt a shred of pity for the man. If all went well, Bittersteel’s skull would have to cross the Narrow Sea with a Targaryen, not a Blackfyre. It would have to do for him. If not, well… there was no harm in it for the living. Aegon inspected the skull. He stepped closer and reached out a hand. No one saw and no one stopped him. When he pulled his hand away, there were golden streaks where his hand touched the skull. Aegon wanted to laugh. It was paint of some sort - not gold at all, but false.

He stepped into the tent and his guards and Illyrio followed. Opulent was a good word for it. The Captain General of the Golden Company lived a better life in a tent than many beggars.

Harry Strickland was not a modest man, but he did not seem much a warrior to Aegon. Rotund, soft - there were the words that came to mind. He did not cut a dashing figure as the other sellswords Aegon had seen, such as Brandon Stark and Asher Forrester and even the bastard Jon Snow. The other captains around him were an odd assortment. Some looked at though they could crush his skull in their hands - some looked ready to do so now - and others yet still looked strange. None were as unthreatening as Strickland, but there was a pale man with silver hair and painted nails, a Summer Islander with white hair, and others who wore Westerosi sigils. Those were the exiles, the ones he truly hoped to court, the ones who would take him home and help him take his crown.

”I have the honor of presenting Aegon, Sixth of his Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms…” Illyrio announced his titles, but Aegon had eyes only for the captains.

”My lords,” Aegon said. “It is a pleasure. I thank you for your gift of time. I will not tarry or flatter you with excessive talk. I am here with a proposal.”

”A proposal that we already know of,” said Strickland. He gestured to his squire. “Fetch the wine. The blackberry, not the Dornish red. Aegon, Sixth of his Name. You would have us cross while the Seven Kingdoms are peaceful and prosperous. Not even at the Company’s greatest strength have we ever attempted an invasion of such a hale realm.”

Aegon exchanged a glance with Illyrio. “I suppose my spies are better than yours, Captain General.” There were a few chuckles around the table of captains. The pale one grimaced and frowned at him. “The Wolf and the Lion circle each other, ready to make war. Robert Baratheon is dead and his son faces rebellious Northerners. The Vale and the Riverlands will follow.”

”Even so,” Strickland said. “The risk-“

”Damn the risk,” said one of the captains. His insignia was a brown plowman on black, with a bend sinister - the reversed sigil of House Darry, a bastard sigil. “Robert Baratheon won the Iron Throne with less. We can do the same. And if I am wrong and the realm does not rise for us, we can always retreat back across the narrow sea, as Bittersteel once did, and others after him.”

“We will not be alone,” Illyrio insisted. “Dorne must rise for Elia’s son. And we have been in talks with the other great houses. One in particular is very keen on seeing their blood on the Iron Throne. We have the gold needed to finance this war, I assure you. We just need the men to stand behind their king.”

”It is a heavy thing I ask of you,” Aegon said. “But I will claim the Iron Throne by myself, and I hope with your swords and your allegiance. Move fast and strike hard, and we can win some easy victories before the Lannisters even know that we have landed. That will bring others to our cause.” He paused. “I am not the color of dragon you were waiting for, mayhaps. But a dragon is still a dragon.”

The bastard with the plowman sigil was smiling in approval. Others traded thoughtful looks. But it was Strickland’s face that turned. He gave Aegon a knowing smile, one he didn’t like.

Then one captain said, “I would sooner die in Westeros than on some godsforsaken ford in the Disputed Lands,” and another chuckled and responded, “Me, I’d sooner live, win lands and some great castle,” and another knight slapped his sword hilt and said, “So long as I can kill some Fossoways, I’m for it.”

When all of them began to speak at once, Aegon knew the tide had turned. One by one, the men of the Golden Company rose, knelt, and laid their swords at the feet of his young prince. The last to do so was Harry Strickland.

”A dragon is a dragon,” he said. “Hail, Aegon King. Hail, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!”

Chapter Text

RHAENYS

Rhaenys woke feeling warm. 

Her face was buried in something soft and moving. With a start, she realized it was Jon’s chest. In the middle of the night, she must have turned to face him. Her head was tucked under her chin, their legs were intertwined. She did not know where she began and he ended.

It was wrong, but she let herself close her eyes and revel in it. Her breathing began to match his, her chest rising with his. 

As his eyelids began to flutter, she gently extricated herself from him. She was not entirely done when his eyes flickered open fully.

Rhaenys cautiously slipped out of Jon's embrace, her heart pounding. The warmth that had enveloped her moments ago now felt like a distant memory. She cast a quick glance at Jon, who was now fully awake and looking at her with a mix of confusion and sleepiness.

"Good morning," she mumbled. She hoped her voice seemed level as she sat up in bed. Rhaenys avoided making eye contact, as though it would force them to relive the intimacy they had shared in their sleep.

"Morning," Jon replied, rubbing his eyes and sitting up on the edge of the bed. There was a brief moment of silence, filled only by the soft rustling of clothes as they both attempted to compose themselves. "I apologize if you did not sleep well, Princess. I should have slept by the door."

"I slept fine, Jon," she said. "I need you to be as well rested as possible. I imagine we have many leagues to cover if we mean to get to Castle Black soon." She watched him from the corner of her eye as he dressed, donning his leather jerkin and cloak and tying his sword to his belt. "Shall we break our fast?"

"Aye," Jon said. His voice was especially coarse in the morning, which lit a low flame in her belly. They left the room and went back to the common room of the inn. It was nearly deserted, and the pale, cold, early light of morning seeped in through the windows. The innkeeper was no longer there, but a serving girl came with porridge, bread, and watered ale. They ate quickly and left. Jon checked the horses and their saddles. Satisfied that they were not robbed overnight, they were soon back on the road.

"I do not know if we'll come across another inn today," Jon said. "I brought a tent, so we may have to make do. The North gets emptier and emptier the further north you go."

"So everything about the Gift..."

"All true," Jon answered. "I imagine you'll see for yourself when we pass Last Hearth. It's a desolate place at best." He glanced at her and smiled. "Lest you think I only brought you here to see destitution, we have our share of beauty here too. We'll pass the Long Lake, and the hills and then the mountains that become the Frostfangs. Only the folk of the mountain clans live there."

As the day wore on, the landscape around them transformed from scattered villages to vast stretches of wilderness. Jon and Rhaenys rode side by side in companionable silence, occasionally exchanging glances and sharing snippets of conversation about life in the north, between Winterfell and the Wall. The North revealed its rugged beauty. They passed by a shimmering lake in the distance where a small waterfall cascaded over a cliff face, though Jon laughed and shook his head when she asked if that was the Long Lake.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting hues of orange and pink across the sky, they decided to make camp for the night. Jon led them to a clearing near the Kingsroad, nestled at the edge of the Wolfswood. The air was crisp, and a sense of tranquility settled over the surroundings. Rhaenys became acutely aware of how quiet it was without human voices. It was so different from any place in Essos she had ever been. She realized how alone she was, even with Jon as her companion.

Jon efficiently set up the tent, securing it near the remnants of their campfire after they ate. However, a shiver ran down her spine when she noticed the weirwood tree nearby, its gnarled face carved into the trunk, illuminated by the fading twilight. She could not shake the eerie feeling that the ancient tree was observing them. This face was different from the sad face that was carved into Winterfell's heart tree. This face was almost angry.

Jon, sensing her unease, approached her. "No cause for alarm, Princess. The weirwood trees may look eerie, but they mean us no harm. Not even this old one."

Rhaenys nodded, trying to dispel her apprehension. "I suppose I’m not quite used to the gods staring at me so directly."

Jon chuckled. "If the tree is staring, I find it hard to blame. It likely doesn't get to see Targaryen princesses every day. I imagine you're a change from the families of squirrels it usually houses." That elicited a giggle from her, as she pictured the furry animals running up and down the angry face. "Now, let's get inside the tent. There's a chill in the air tonight."

The rest of their venture to Castle Black was spent similarly. They stopped at inns where they could, but more nights were spent in the tent. Jon did not lie to her. The North was beautiful country. West of the road were flint hills, grey and rugged, with tall watchtowers on their stony summits. To the east the land was lower, the ground flattening to a rolling plain that stretched away as far as the eye could see. Stone bridges spanned swift, narrow rivers, while small farms spread in rings around holdfasts walled in wood and stone.

Three days ride from the first inn, however, the farmland gave way to dense wood, and the kingsroad grew lonely. The flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fifth day they had turned into mountains, cold blue-grey giants with jagged promontories and snow on their shoulders. When the wind blew from the north, long plumes of ice crystals flew from the high peaks like banners. To their east were the crystal waters of the Long Lake, which seemed near an ocean to her. It was long, and they trailed along its side for a while. There were fishing villages dotting the coast of the lake, and so they were able to shelter there. There were more abandoned holdfasts and ruined towers. Some seemed as ancient as the earth itself.

Some days after they passed the Long Lake, they came across a mighty, rushing river. "The Last River," Jon said, pointing to the bridge. The road forked after crossing the river. The Kingsroad continued on, to Castle Black several days north. But the road that forked away to the east led to Last Hearth, only a half-day's ride away. It took them the rest of that day to get there. Last Hearth was a large, imposing thing. It had high grey walls, but instead of a great central keep, Rhaenys noticed that the hall was made of wood. It was long and angular, almost like the keel of a ship. 

"What is that?" she asked, pointing to it.

"The hall of Last Hearth," Jon said. "Aye, it looks a little strange. Maester Luwin says the style is that of the old First Men, before the stone keeps. Longhouses, they called them. Great halls for the great lords and kings. At some point they must have learned that wood burns, but not the Umbers," he said with a chuckle. 

Many tents were arrayed around Last Hearth, and the small village outside the walls was bursting with people. The Umbers had a great force, and looked nearly ready to march. They stopped at a inn in the village.

"We should stay here tonight," Jon said. "If we were to stay at the castle itself, I would rather not answer any questions the Greatjon might have about who you are."

"Agreed," said Rhaenys. "Will you be back soon?"

"Aye," Jon said. "I only need to remind Lord Umber that he needs to march with the men he has, or else he'll be left behind while the North rides to war." Jon left then. Rhaenys watched him go up the dirt street of the village and disappear into the castle after a short conversation with the one of the guards at the gate. He was true to his word in the end. He came back in a little over an hour, shaking his head.

"It was the right choice not to bring you along. The first man I ran into was old Crowfood."

"Crowfood?" Rhaenys said.

"Hoary old bear. The castellan of Last Hearth, one of Lord Umber's uncles. He lost his sons at the Trident. I've delivered Robb's message, and Lord Umber sent a raven in response. He says he plans to leave no later than midday tomorrow. Most of the North will assemble soon at Winterfell now," said Jon. They left from Last Hearth the next morning, and Jon did not lie. The lands of the Gift were in poor condition indeed. Sullen people lived in bleak conditions. Their lives seemed devoid of hope. Only a handful of hamlets were like that; the rest lay in various stages of ruin and abandon. Rhaenys pitied the poor people, wondering what violent ends they had met, or if they had just died of the cold. It was cold here, truly cold, not like it had been in Winterfell. No, that was crisp at best. This was the cold that crept through the flesh and burrowed into the narrow of her bones. In two days time, they arrived at the Wall.

Rhaenys did not realize what it was until she drew closer, and only then did she realize she had been staring at it all day. She could see it from leagues off, a pale blue line across the northern horizon, stretching away to the east and west and vanishing in the far distance, immense and unbroken. This is the end of the world, it seemed to say. It was a sunny day, and it appeared to be blazing blue and crystalline in the sunlight.

"I've never seen it like that before," Jon remarked. Even his eyes were wide. "Last I came, it was grey and overcast and the Wall was gloomy. Now it seems almost..."

"Beautiful," Rhaenys finished. She found herself awed by it, shivers traveling down her spine.

"Aye," Jon agreed. "Beautiful."

Castle Black, on the other hand, was anything but. Like an ugly blemish, it sprouted at the bottom of the Wall. Thin black lines - veined up the Wall, as did a lift on ropes that went up and down the length of the Wall. There were no real walls guarding the south, east or west, but there were several towers connected by walkways. They stopped at the first of these keeps, at a guard post manned by two black brothers. Jon hailed them.

”State yer business,” said the taller of the two. Both were lanky, pockmarked, missing teeth and leering at her openly. They sent a shiver of worry down her spine. Rhaenys resisted the urge to reach for her dagger.

”Here to see the Lord Commander. I have a visitor to speak with Maester Aemon.”

”And you are…?”

”Jon Snow. Son of Lord Eddard Stark. I’m here on behalf of my brother Robb Stark. Let us through,” Jon said.

The two men shared a look. “Fine. Lord Commander’s tower is-“

”I know where it is,” Jon snarled, and spurred his horse forward. Rhaenys followed behind. When the men were out of earshot, she called to him.

”Did they do something to anger you?” she said.

”I misliked their look,” Jon growled. 

“I’m a Targaryen, and a princess to boot,” Rhaenys reminded him gently. “I must grow accustomed to stares.”

”Mayhaps,” Jon replied unhappily. “But not from these. The Watch is a noble calling to us Northmen but the brothers themselves are a different story. Half here are rapers and murderers. If they got their hands on you alone-“

”Then they would be short a hand… or their manhood,” Rhaenys said. Jon gave her a small smile at that, but Rhaenys found herself oddly pleased by his protectiveness. She had forgotten that feeling from their time in Pentos. It was a cloak of security around her, one that kept her warm and comfortable. She wished, in a deep place in her heart, to never let it go.

They tied their horses at the stable, helped by young boys no older than pages. Both of them gawked at Rhaenys too, but less malevolently than the older men. For that Rhaenys smiled back at them and even tossed them a copper for their trouble. They were soon admitted into the Lord Commander’s tower. The stone keep was surprisingly warm inside, small and homely, reminding her of a bear's cave. The primary inhabitant of said cave also reminded her of a bear. Jeor Mormont, the 997th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, was a massive man. Old, but not wizened, bald with a great grey-white beard and a spotted face, the man was tall and large and imposing. She did not doubt that he still possessed great strength despite his age. 

"My steward tells me you're here to speak to me, Snow," the Lord Commander grunted, staring at Jon, and then at her. An old raven perched on his shoulder as he sat in his great chair. "Speak!" it squawked. "Speak, speak!"

Rhaenys stared at it with narrowed eyes. A talking raven was a first. There were birds in Essos that could do the same, but they were bright and full of life and color. This one was not.

"Aye, for two things, my lord," said Jon. "It's been some time since I was here last. I wasn't sure that you would remember me."

"You have the look of the Starks, same as your father and uncles and grandfather, and aye, even your aunt Lyanna. I was the first to get your father's ravens when you disappeared a year ago," the Lord Commander said. "Your Uncle Benjen took a fortnight to sweep the lands of the Gift, to see if you were on your way here. You never came and I thought that was the end of that. Never heard what you got up to, but you certainly seem alive and breathing now. I expect you'll be wanting to know where Benjen is."

"It was not the purpose of my trip," Jon admitted. "But I would be glad to see him. I have apologies to make, I think."

Mormont studied Jon for a second. For a moment, Rhaenys thought he even looked apologetic. "Ben Stark went on a ranging with six others. He hasn't come back yet. I'm sorry, Snow. I'm sure you hoped to speak with your uncle."

"Your Uncle! Uncle!" cried the raven. Rhaenys, for a fleeting few seconds, wondered what it would be like if she could throttle the irritating beast.

Jon's frown deepened. "That is a shame. Do you know when he might return?"

"I sent him to look for a black brother who disappeared on a ranging some time ago. Benjen's been gone for long periods. Six moons, a year. One time he went under for a year and a half. Came back half-frozen on his horse," said the Lord Commander with a chuckle. "Such is the life of a ranger. Might've been your life, way I heard it from your uncle. Didn't want to join us, boy?"

"Boy!" cried the raven. Now Jon stared at it balefully.

"Never mind the bird, lad," said Mormont. He fed it some corn.

"My path led elsewhere," Jon said. "Well, I would not want to take up more of your time than is necessary, my lord. The crown has agreed to give us back the New Gift. I expect nothing will change for now, but my brother intends to raise lords and holdfasts along the land. In the New Gift, they would give six-tenths of their taxes to Winterfell and the rest to Castle Black. I saw the state of the land on my way in, my lord. The people have not fared well."

Mormont stared at the two of them incredulously. "I got the raven from King's Landing that your father was imprisoned for treason," he said. "Now you tell me that this boy king has given you the land of the Gift?"

"Not the usurper who sits on the Iron Throne presently," said Rhaenys, calmly, for the first time. The Lord Commander abruptly turned to her. "By His Grace, Viserys, Third of His Name."

"The Baratheons and Lannisters no longer are fit to rule," Jon said. "They have betrayed us the same as Aerys the Mad King did. And just as when he broke faith, the North will ride south and remind them of what happens to those who break their vows with us. The North remembers, my lord. If Viserys Targaryen promises us justice, then we will fight to free my father and see the Dragon King sit his iron chair again. As part of our agreement with the King, we plan to shore up the defenses of the Watch. We do not do this for our greed, my lord. Our intention is to help the watch. Men do not view the life of the black brothers as an enticing prospect." Jon leaned forward. "I did not join for the same reasons. I've seen the strength of your forces, my lord. Half the keeps here in the castle sit empty." Mormont looked bitter, but did not deny it. "Men may not wish to join the Watch, but men can be made to aid it without swearing all the oaths. When the war is done, we'll see the support system of the Watch reinforced. My brother Robb plans to raise lords in the Old Gift, too - and those would pay their taxes entirely to Castle Black. All the lords of the Gift would be sworn to ride to the aid of the Watch in its time of need. It is a good deal, a good plan for the safety of the realm."

Mormont looked away. "Aye, your uncle and your father mentioned it to me. It seemed a distant prospect then and seems even more distant still now. A dream for spring, and as you Starks are so fond of saying, winter is coming. Go win your war first, Jon Snow, and then we'll see what that plan is worth." Rhaenys shared a glance with Jon. It was not a full acquiescence, but it was not a denial either. The Lord Commander, at least, did not shut the door on the prospect entirely. The Lord Commander looked her once over again. "A young Dornish lady but with purple eyes, come to speak of Viserys Targaryen. There is only one person you might be, and I suspect I know the second reason for why you've come."

"The Watch is sworn to take no part," Jon said. "I trust the Princess's identity will remain between us, my lord. We will be gone the next morning if all goes well."

"Aye, I know our oaths better than you, boy," retorted the Commander. "Will you stay by her side while you're here? I cannot guarantee her safety. This is the Watch. Most of these men have not seen or been around women save for the whores in Mole's Town, and a tenth of them are former rapers. I'd trust them with my life, but not with either of yours."

"I hope it does not have to come to that, my lord," Rhaenys said. "I would hate to leave you more bereft of men than you already are." That earned a small smile from the Lord Commander. 

"The Maester's quarters are in the rookery, near the King's Tower. I'll have the men prepare quarters for you there to stay the night. No king has stayed in the tower for years, but at least for tonight, we shall play host to a princess. Do you remember your way around, Snow?" 

"I do," Jon confirmed. "We can find our way." They stood together, and took their leave of the Lord Commander. Jon led her down the stairs of the keep and back out into the cold courtyard of the castle. The rookery was a stout wooden keep built atop a squat, stone building. Next to it was another tower, this one fully stone, round with merlons atop it and a door made of oak with wrought iron. 

"That's the King's Tower," Jon pointed out. "And next to it, the rookery." As if on cue, a raven flew out from the top, cawing as it did.

A portly young man with bags under his eyes and a sad, bruised face with an otherwise pink complexion opened the door to the rookery. His eyes widened as he saw Rhaenys, and then Jon. "Oh, er... hello," he said. "My lady, my lord," came almost as an afterthought. Rhaenys suppressed a smile. From his speech, he seemed highborn. She wondered what he had done to come here. His face did not appear unfriendly. 

"Hello," she said. "I'm here to speak with Maester Aemon. The Lord Commander told us we might find him here. Is he here?"

"Oh, yes," said the Night's Watch brother. "I'll take you to him, my lady. My name is Sam Tarly. I assist the maester, help read his letters... er, because he's blind, you see." 

"Tarly," Jon said. "From the Reach?" For some reason, that seemed to have an effect on the man. His face fell into an expression that was half a scowl, half a sad frown. There was something there, some story. A root of doubt took hold in Rhaenys' mind. She did not think he was here for the same reasons many of the other black brothers were. Some crimes were vile, but others, Rhaenys could understand, were borne of desperation. How often had she felt desperate in Essos? For them, at least, she could feel some level of sympathy.

"Yes, Horn Hill," said Sam. "My father is Randyll Tarly." 

"I know the name," said Jon. "My father is Ned Stark. They fought on opposite sides during the Rebellion. My father said yours was one of the best commanders to fight for the crown. The only man to defeat Robert in open battle."

Sam did not look comforted by that. "Yes, that would be he." He led them higher up the rookery. Rhaenys wondered how her great uncle could traverse these steps without his sight. She supposed that was why Sam Tarly was needed. The structure was well built, though like with everything else in Castle Black, the interior seemed otherwise dilapidated. The tables and chairs had cobwebs, as did the bookshelves, which were stocked with scrolls and tomes. When they arrived on the second floor, Sam led them to the right and down a hallway. He knocked on a door.

"Yes?" said a wizened voice from inside.

"Maester Aemon, it's me," said Sam. "I have some visitors here for you."

"Visitors?" said the voice. "Best not keep our guests waiting too long, Samwell, please - show them inside." Sam nodded at them and opened the door.

The room was sparse, for the most part, save for the shelves that were built into the walls. Each shelf was neatly stacked with books. The bed in the middle was piled high with furs, no doubt to keep the maester warm during his nights. There was a small desk in the corner, with several inkpots and quills and a smoldering candle. Scrolls, rolled up and sealed, as well as empty parchment, lay in well organized piles on the desk. 

On the bed itself sat the maester, leaning on his cane. Rhaenys' heart fought between sinking and rising when she saw him, for she was so gladdened to see this ancient member of her house here, a piece of her blood's history alive in front of her. At the same time, the old man was so small, feeble, and shrunken, she felt as though even the lightest touch would cause him to fade away. His eyes were clouded and milky-white, his face wrinkled. A light smattering of white hair graced his crown, though he was mostly bald, and his eyebrows were similarly whitened. There was no sign of his Targaryen coloring left, even though Rhaenys knew that once upon a time his hair would have been silver and his eyes purple.

"I'm afraid you'll have to introduce them with your words, Samwell," said the old maester. "By the sounds of it, I have two guests."

"Er, yes, of course, maester. May I present..." Sam trailed off. "Sorry, my lord, my lady. I never actually asked your names."

Rhaenys laughed. "No, Master Tarly, you did not."

"I'm no lord," said Jon. "We have met once before, Maester. It was over three years ago. I came north with my brother and my father and my uncle, Ben Stark. My name is Jon Snow."

"Ah!" said the old man. "Yes, young Jon Snow. I remember you and your brother. Yes, yes... nephews to our First Ranger, and sons of the Warden of the North. I heard about what happened to your father, Jon. You have my condolences. But I expect that you did not come all this way only to speak with me."

"Thank you, Maester," said Jon. "In truth, it is my companion who came to visit you. She... well, perhaps it would be better if she could speak with you in private."

"I trust Sam," replied the Maester. "In his short time as my assistant, he has proven quite useful to us as a maester's apprentice. Not all men's talents lie in the same arena, a fact that I feel goes rather underacknowledged around here... Nevertheless, Sam will hold your secret close."

Rhaenys exchanged a glance with Jon. "Your choice," he said quietly.

"The name I have given everyone so far on my way here is Marya Sand. It is who I must be to keep myself safe for now," she began. Her voice cracked a little, and she had to muster her strength to speak the rest. "My real name, uncle, is Rhaenys. Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen. I am your great-niece, several times over."

The old maester was struck speechless. His mouth worked, but no words came out. Rhaenys' heart crumbled and tears began to slip unbidden from her eyes. She felt Jon's touch, gentle, on her arm, but she could not look away from her uncle. "Please, uncle, say something," she croaked.

"Describe her to me, Sam. I am so very sorry my dear, for my eyes cannot see," the old man replied, sniffling. 

"She is above average height for a lady, olive-skinned in complexion, dark of hair... but definitely violet of eye, Maester."

"Come closer, dear," said her uncle. She did as requested, and the Maester raised his papery hands to her face. She leaned into the touch. Her tears brushed his skin.

”Do not weep, my dear. You have the cheeks of my niece, Saera. She was your great grandmother, and the sweetest child.”

”I can vouch for her too, Maester,” Jon said quietly. “I’ve met all your living family. Your nephews, Viserys and Aegon, and your other niece Daenerys as well.”

”Jon is a friend, uncle. I trust him. You can too,” Rhaenys affirmed. “I owe him my life.”

”She owes me nothing of the sort,” Jon said. His cheeks flushed.

”Sam, dear boy, will you leave us? I would speak with my niece alone. Fear not. She would not come all this way to harm me.”

”Never, uncle,” breathed Rhaenys.

”Come, Sam. Shall we grab an ale? This is a moment for family, not interlopers like us,” said Jon, patting Sam’s arm. 

”I would welcome a few moments with my niece, Jon Snow,” said the maester. “But I think you have a part to play more than that of an interloper in this story. Come back when you've had that ale. Sam deserves it, he’s been copying an arduous tome for me all afternoon, and I would speak with you after.”

”Of course, maester,” said Jon. His gaze softened and he looked at her. “Will you be alright?”

Rhaenys nodded and gave him a smile for his thoughtfulness. “I will. You’ve earned that ale too, Jon. Go ahead. We’ll speak later.” 

Jon nodded and left with Sam. She watched him go and shut the door behind them, and then she was alone with her uncle.

”The last news I heard of you and the rest of our house was that Elia’s children survived along with Rhaella’s and that they fled across the Narrow Sea to Essos. I never heard anything of your demise, so I held out hope that you lived. What about the rest?” Her uncle switched into Valyrian, which made her laugh. 

“My Valyrian is a little unpolished, uncle,” she said.

”You speak it well enough, my dear. Better than I could have hoped. How I have longed to hear someone speak my mother tongue,” he said. 

Rhaenys felt her heart ache. She did not want to relive Aegon’s horrid plan, or Daenerys‘ fate, but she had to be brave for her uncle. She started her story at the beginning, and ended with their time in Pentos, the plan to sell one of them to the Dothraki khal in exchange for gold, and how Viserys, chafing under that plan, decided to try and rescue her and Daenerys from it with the help of their Dornish relatives. Finally, she told him of her venture north, and the alliance with House Stark.

She could see the pain on the old Maester’s face when he listened to her tale. But in the end, instead of cursing her misfortunes, or weeping about them, he asked only a single question.

”Why did this magister not plan to bring Aegon to Dorne?” he asked.

Rhaenys blinked. “I… we thought he did. The eventual landing point and beginning for the reconquest was always to be Dorne.”

”But as you tell me, your contact with your Dornish relatives ceased after some time. When was the last time you spoke with Prince Oberyn or Doran - before you came to Westeros?”

Rhaenys reached back into her memory. She had been twelve, or perhaps thirteen. More than six years had gone by between then and now. “It was some time.”

”This magister has plans for your brother, plans that he feels he cannot trust the Dornish with, though they are your relatives. Perhaps he fears the lessening of his influence with your uncles’ presence on Aegon’s side. And poor Daenerys. When this is done, and Viserys sides the throne you must try to save her. You must! And Aegon, if you can find him, if you can help him see the light, and bring him back to the family. My dear, a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.”

”I will, uncle. I swear it by the old gods and the new,” Rhaenys vowed. “But Aegon is headstrong. He does not listen easily.” 

“You must try anyway,” her uncle assured her. “It is good that you have courted the Northmen. They will make steadfast allies in this war as they made deadly enemies in the last war. There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath - or so they say. If there were any, they are lost to time."

Rhaenys patted his hand. "Will you tell me more about our house, uncle? Did you ever have the chance to speak with my father?"

"Only through writing, alas. Rhaegar had a sharp mind, but he applied it to the prophecies. Our house has always dared to dream. In many ways, it is what allowed us to survive the Doom when every other Valyrian house of note perished, consigned to the pages of history. It has always been that propensity to dream that has set us apart from other men. The smallfolk claimed sometimes, when they loved us, that we were closer to the gods than other people, but that misses the mark. We are not gods, but we dare to dream. I see dragons in my dreams, my dear, and I see their shadows on the snow, hear the crack of leathern wings, feel their hot breath. My brothers dreamed of dragons too, and the dreams killed them, every one. Rhaenys, we tremble on the cusp of half-remembered prophecies, of wonders and terrors that no man now living could hope to comprehend. Your father was such a man. It is our curse, also, that those same dreams are the other side of the coin of madness."

"Do you think he was mad, then? Did he rape Lyanna Stark?"

"I cannot say, my dear. I yearn to tell you that he would not have done it, could not have done it, but I have long since ceased to be surprised by what men are capable of. He did not seem that type of man, from his letters, at least. I hope that is of some comfort to you." Her uncle paused. "Of all the prophecies, it was the one regarding the prince who was promised that intrigued Rhaegar the most. We spoke of it often. He was convinced, I think, that he was such a prince. In time he became convinced that the prophecy spoke not of him, but of his children. But not all prophecies come to pass, and not all dreams are true. I have never traced the origins of this prophecy, but the Red Priests of Assha'i speak of it, as do other strange cults and religions. It is said that this prince would be born amidst smoke and salt, and heralded by a red, bleeding star at the time when darkness gathers."

"I don't think that applies to any of us - even Daenerys and Viserys," Rhaenys said sadly. "Was that all he was? A man chasing after prophecy? Is that why he took Lyanna Stark? I have heard the whispers, uncle. Aegon's birth weakened mother greatly. Did he think that his prince had yet to be born?"

"I wish I knew the truth of it, niece. Whatever secrets and dreams Rhaegar knew, he took them with him to the Trident, and they died there alongside him." The old maester shook his head and reverted back to the common tongue. "I have other tales, though, happier memories of House Targaryen. Would you care to hear them?"

Rhaenys nodded eagerly. "Yes, uncle. Whatever you can tell me." And so her uncle regaled her with tales, one after another - of his father Maekar, of his brothers, and little Egg who would grow into Aegon V, and Aegon's children. He spoke of the trials and tribulations, the happiness and sorrow, and she absorbed it all. Soon the sun dipped so that it was near the horizon, and only then did Rhaenys realize they had been speaking for so long. She had just poured her uncle a cup of water and one for herself when she heard a knock at the door at the door.

"Yes?" she called.

"It's me," Jon's voice called from behind the door. "I apologize if I interrupted. I just thought to see if you were well."

"Very kind of you, Jon Snow," said her uncle. "In fact, I have need of a pair of arms, and I would rather not inconvenience my niece. If you would come in?"

Jon opened the door. It creaked on its hinges as he entered and shut it behind him. Rhaenys thought he looked tired, but he gave her a smile when he saw her. 

"How may I be of use, Maester?"

"There is a loose floorboard under my bed. If you remove it, you will find something wrapped in cloth. May I ask you to retrieve that object, for an old man?"

"Of course." Jon knelt and rummaged around underneath. "I think I have it," he called, his voice muffled from under the bedposts. After a moment, he emerged from underneath, holding something long and thin and wrapped in an old, yellowed fabric. He placed it in the lap of the old maester, who simply laughed.

"Oh, I cannot lift that now. Rhaenys, dear. Please, unwrap it. It is a gift from me to you - a gift that has been in our household for many ages. I have never had someone to pass it on to since it was given to me, but now I have the chance."

Rhaenys lifted the object from Uncle Aemon's lap and undid the fabric, but she knew what it was before she even removed all of it. It was a sword in its scabbard. When the wrappings fell away, she was stunned. The grip of the blade she held was blackened iron wrapped with leather that seamed to gleam like dragonglass in the candelight. The pommel was gold flame, and the hilt was a twisted, gleaming gold as well. Inlaid in the crossguard was a shining ruby. She pulled the sword from the scabbard to reveal the slender blade. The steel rippled when she did.

"This is Valyrian steel," she breathed. 

"Maester," said Jon, his voice trembling. "Is that... Dark Sister?"

"You know your swords, Jon Snow. Yes, it is. Last held by Bloodraven, before myself, and before him the Dragonknight, and before him the Rogue Prince, and before him Baelon, Jaehaerys, even Maegor and Visenya," said the old maester. "But it is of no use to me now. Take it with you, Rhaenys. Take it south and put it in the hands of someone who knows how to use it for the glory of House Targaryen."

Jon laughed and pulled Frostbite from its scabbard as well, laying it next to Dark Sister. "You've put it in the hands of someone who knows how to use it, Maester Aemon. Your niece is something of a warrior herself. Now we both have Valyrian steel, Princess."

"And now I can match you blow for blow on the training yard." She embraced her uncle and held him as tight as his frail body would allow. "Thank you, uncle."

"Of course, sweet niece. Now would you and your companion be so kind as to help this old man up to his feet? I fear I have some letters to finish before the night is done. And before you retire for the night, please send Samwell Tarly back. I do have more tasks for the poor lad."

After making sure her uncle was situated, she and Jon took their leave. The sun was still to set, and their quarters nearby. Rhaenys thought they were set to turn in for the night, but Jon gentle brushed her elbow with his hand. "Would you care to go to the top?" he asked, pointing to the lift. Rhaenys readily agreed. A young boy manned the winch that took the lift up, and he gawked at the both of them as they got on. What a pair they must have made, dressed in riding clothes, cloaked, with Valyrian swords at their hips. Rhaenys made no secret of the blade. No one here would recognize it, unless they were secret Targaryen historians as Jon had revealed to her just now. She teased him about it on the way up.

"I never knew you would recognize Dark Sister merely by laying eyes on it," she said, wagging a finger at him. "How did you know?

"The descriptions are in a book called Steel that Survived the Doom," he said. "Robb and I pored over it after lessons with Maester Luwin in Winterfell. It has descriptions of every known Valyrian steel weapon, including ones that were lost. Dark Sister was thought to be among them, but now I know it was never lost. It was with someone who had a right to it all along."

"And now it is mine." She placed her hand over the pommel and sighed contentedly. "Must I give this to Viserys?"

"You need not give it to anyone. It belonged to Visenya." His eyes fell on the blade in its scabbard. "The thinness of it tells me it was meant for a woman's hand, anyway. Did you train much with swords?"

"Barely," Rhaenys admitted. "You'll train me?"

"Gladly."

The winch finally grinded to a halt. The wind had blown faster and harder the higher they went, and near the top it was almost unbearable. When they stepped off the lift, however, and onto the wall itself, it was not so windy. The walkways built at the top were insulated with high packed walls of ice and snow, forming crenellations of sorts along the top. Several black brothers huddled in groups around lit braziers while others stood on jutting platforms that looked over the edge, keeping watch. Every now and then they would rotate - the man keeping watch would come to the brazier, and one of the men by the brazier would groan and head out towards the cold. They made their way across from the lift platform to the other side, where the Wall overlooked the lands beyond.

It was bitingly cold, but the setting sun provided some warmth. The view was breathtaking. The lands beyond the Wall were white as could be. They encountered snow on the way here, but those grey, melting snows were nothing like the snow beneath. A quiet forest sprawled in the distance, beginning perhaps half a mile from the Wall and stretching as far as her eyes could see. In the distance, to the west, were frost-tipped mountains, dark and unforgiving as hard iron. Other than the whistling of the wind, and the occasional grumble or laugh from one of the black brothers, it was quiet. They said nothing to each other for a while, as Rhaenys drank in one of the last true wonders of the world.

"This might be the only good thing about joining the Watch," Jon murmured. "I'm not sure one could get tired of this."

Rhaenys shivered. "No, but you would tire of the cold," she said. "Jon?"

"Yes?"

"I'm very glad you didn't join the Watch," she said.

"As am I." She leaned into him then, for the warmth, for the closeness, but also because the view, as serene as it was, lifted her inhibitions. Perhaps it was the thin air, or the freeing feeling of being so high up, but in that moment she did not care that it was wrong of her to impose her affections on him like this, that he was still grieving his dead love, that perhaps he thought himself a bastard unworthy of her affections. As much as she wanted to be her true self, to be Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, now she would have gladly been Marya Sand. Marya Sand could love Jon Snow. Marya Sand could be his wife. She stole a glance at him, and then she knew it was pointless to deny it to herself. She was coming to love this man. Part of her, a dark part, wanted to laugh. It was her father's desire for a Stark that undid him, and now here she was, pining for a Stark. It was true that his name was Snow, but that did not matter. He was a wolf, and she was a dragon, and if that had been enough to engulf the whole Seven Kingdoms in flame before, what else could she do besides burn from the heat now?

Chapter Text

JON

The next day, they rode south from the Wall, after Rhaenys bid her uncle a tearful goodbye. He felt her pain at leaving him. She sailed North, leaving Viserys - with whom her relationship had been strained, of late - and she had not seen anyone from her house in some time. The maester was wise and had a long memory, and in that much Jon was happy she found someone to confide in and to hear tales of her family.

The ride south was largely uneventful. The Kingsroad bore the signs of a large force of men moving south, which Jon knew to be the Umbers. Every day the signs grew fresher and fresher, and Jon knew that they would arrive at Winterfell very shortly after Lord Umber did. He wondered if Robb had already told the Northern banners about the alliance with Dorne and the plan to restore the Targaryens to the throne. He did not think Robb would have told them, not until most of the banners were gathered. Since lord Manderly, the crannogmen houses, and some of the lords south of Moat Cailin were to join the Northern host on the kingsroad, and Robb would need all their support and acquiescence for this. 

He guessed correctly when they arrived at Winterfell to find the Umber banners there before them. Upon his arrival in the castle, he was taken to Robb immediately. The courtyard was a hubbub of activity. They would set out very soon, but Jon welcomed the chance to spend at least one more night at home before leaving. Robb was in his solar, waiting for him with Lady Stark. When Jon arrived, it was clear that an argument had just finished.

"Brother, my lady," Jon said in greeting.

Robb looked at him and sighed. "Welcome home brother." They pulled into a quick embrace and Robb kissed Rhaenys' hand. "Princess. I trust your trip went well?"

"It did, my lord," said Rhaenys. "The Wall is magnificent, as is the Northern country. Harsh, but beautiful."

"That is gladdening to hear," Robb replied. "Jon, how did the Lord Commander take the news? Did you see Uncle Benjen?"

"He didn't say no," Jon admitted. "Said he'd see once we came back for the war. But he knows and understands the condition of the Gift. He'll agree if we make it back in one piece. As for Uncle Benjen, he was away on a ranging when we got there. We only stayed the one night. I wanted to get back as soon as possible. How long before we set out?"

"Pity about Uncle Benjen. We'll leave tomorrow," Robb said. He glanced at his mother. "Bran wants to come with us."

"I thought you wanted him to stay. He'd have to be the Stark in Winterfell. If he comes with us..."

"Rickon is ten and old enough to manage here. Bran is a man now," said Robb. "I don't want him to go, but the banners - some of them have sons as old as twelve come with us to wage war. How would it look if I left Bran behind? He doesn't want to stay, either, and each day I have less and less the heart to refuse him."

"He is just a boy!" cried Lady Stark. "And you would have him go fight in the field of battle like a man!"

"He's thirteen nearing fourteen, mother. He can wield a sword. Ser Rodrik says he fights as well as any of us."

"Robb," Jon interrupted. His heart ached for Bran. "I've seen the field of battle. When I think of Bran out there on it, it fills my soul with dread." He glanced at Lady Stark, who looked at him with shock, as though she had never expected him to agree with her. "I cannot imagine what you must think, my lady. But I also understand what Robb says about the banners and their sons. My lady, would you be more contented with it if Bran was to serve as Robb's squire only? We would not have him ride into battle with us, if it comes to it. He would keep his honor as a man going to war, but face less of the danger."

Lady Stark’s lip quivered, and in that moment, Jon felt a deep, deep sympathy for her, even if they had never cared for each other before.

”Mother, we’ll keep him away from the fighting. But in the end, he is a Stark of Winterfell, and I won’t have it said of him later that he did nothing when Father was in need. No one will respect him as much as he deserves if that happens, and it’ll be our fault for not letting him go. He is a man now,” said Robb.

Lady Stark shook her head, but Jon knew she saw the inevitable. “You swear to keep him away from harm as much as you can. Swear it on all the gods.”

”I swear it, before the old gods and the new,” Robb said. 

“You did not ask for my promise, my lady, but I love Bran. I love all your children,” Jon said earnestly. “And if I must give my life for Bran, I will make that trade with a joyful heart.”

It was not enough to convince her, but it was enough for her to agree with an unwilling heart. Jon shared her trepidation. "What of the lords?" he asked Robb. "It will be difficult for Rhaenys to hide her identity now. Do you think we should tell them about the match between Prince Quentyn and Sansa?"

"I already have." Robb walked over to the great map in the solar and pointed to Moat Cailin. "But only of the betrothal. I did not mention the Targaryens yet. Once we do, there will be a storm. For now, I think it would be best for you to maintain your cover as Lady Marya, Princess, at least until we can meet with all the lords on the Kingsroad."

"A storm we have prepared for," said Lady Stark. "That is when we must move swiftly, and shore up the support of the most important bannermen. They will bring the rest in line, but we must win them over first. They will march south for your father, but they will hesitate for Viserys Targaryen."

"I expect we can promise the Umbers lands in the New Gift," Jon said. "Crowfood and Whoresbane. And the Greatjon has three sons and two daughters aside from his heir. The Karstarks and Glovers too. We may not need to give House Mormont anything, but they have always held the faith and should be rewarded for it."

"But House Dustin, Ryswell, and Bolton - they are not likely to support it, or so Mother says," Robb pointed out.

"House Manderly has more men than the Dustins and Ryswells combined, and more than Roose Bolton does as well," Jon said. "And Lord Manderly's heir only has daughters. We have three unwed male Starks." Robb shifted uncomfortably, which made Jon want to laugh. "Chin up, brother. I think we can reserve you for greater alliances, though I remember you were quite enamored with Wynafryd Manderly when they last visited."

"Is that so, my lord?" Rhaenys said with a smile. "Perhaps I'll speak with Lady Wynafryd to see if such interest is mutual." Robb blushed, and Jon did chuckle this time.

"I gave some thought on the ride down from Castle Black to who we might court with your hand," he told Robb. "You could marry in the North to solidify an alliance with your important bannermen. I thought about the Karstarks. Lady Alys is of an age with us. We already spoke of Lord Manderly's granddaughters, but Wynafryd is like to be Lady of the New Castle at some point and the younger one is... well, younger. Lord Bolton has no female descendants, nor is there anyone you could marry into with House Dustin or Ryswell. There are ladies of other houses, but none that would bring you a father-in-law with many swords. That leaves Karstark and Manderly. The other option is to marry outside of the North."

"Go on," Robb grumbled. "Who have you sold me off to in your dreams, Jon?"

"Anyone who can bring us more swords for Father," Jon said. 

That night, the lords of the north feasted and ate one more time before the march south. The Great Hall was packed, more so than Jon had seen it in ages. Banners of every sort hung along the sides of the wall, all a foot lower than the highest banners at the head of the hall, behind the dais and the high table, behind the throne of Winter. Jon stared at the banner of House Stark, the grey direwolf snarling on white. He had seen this banner every day of his life before he left for Essos. He was filled with a sudden wish for Brandon to be here, for him to have seen this. His cousin and mentor would have enjoyed the sight, he thought. 

Robb offered Jon a seat at the high table. He had been so sorely tempted, for his pride if naught else, but he declined. Instead he sat near the front, with the Forresters and the Glovers. Lord Gregor was an imposing man with a greying beard, and Rodrik, Asher's elder brother, looked much like Asher himself, but without the scars. They seemed to be getting along well enough., so Jon took it as a sign that Father's message to Lord Gregor had been well received and Asher's exile lifted. When Jon took his seat near Asher, after greeting the Forresters, he leaned over to him.

"Everything went well, then?" he asked quietly.

"Aye. My father seemed happy to have me back," Asher said. His face was flushed with a contentment that Jon had not seen on him in a long time, since they were in Essos, and for that he was grateful. Food and ale flowed freely, and as with any Northern party, the musicians struck up a steady drumbeat leading lords and ladies alike onto the dance floor. Most of the lords had not brought their wives,  but many of them brough their daughters. Jon knew why. Robb was unwed - and so was Bran, and even Rickon. Aside from them, all the young flowering nobility of the North was here. There would be marriages made today... and widows too. While the heirs danced with the young ladies, the older lords chose to embarrass themselves with the serving wenches and women. Jon looked upon it with distaste in his mouth. Many a Snow might be born after this night among the Winterfell kitchens and scullery maids. Jon's eyes travelled across the room until they landed on Rhaenys. She was seated in her Dornish dresses again, bright and out of place in the room, but better than the black and red dresses she wore that made his mind wander so and inspired awe with their regality. She spoke with Sansa at the end of the high table. Their eyes connected briefly, and she gave him a small smile that quickened his heart's pace.

Then she was approached by one of the Karstarks. Jon did not know who - his cloak was black and had the white sunburst on it - but it was one of Karstark's sons, either Harrion or Eddard. Without thinking, he stood from his table. He seemed to be asking her to dance as he kissed her hand. She would accept, Jon knew, because politeness dictated so, and because she was here to build bridges in support of the Targaryen claim, not turn her erstwhile supporters against her before she even revealed her identity, but it did not sting any less when she got up, hand in hand with the Karstark, and went to the center of the hall. His eyes burned and he felt his fists ball up. A rage took a hold of him. He saw Lady Stark's eyes on him. She had seen, and she knew. Gods, she knew. 

"Jon," Asher said, patting his arm. He turned to look at his friend, who simply shook his head. "A piece of advice from someone who feels as you do - she loves you. Even a fool born yesterday can see that. She looks at you as she looks at no one else. A dance is nothing. Lady Stark danced with Lord Umber and Lord Glover. You will have to bear more of it if you must love a woman you cannot have openly."

"She doesn't love me," Jon muttered. "We're only friends. I'm the fool rushing to anger. She owes me nothing."

"No, she gives it to you of her own free will. You may be a bastard, Jon, but don't be a dumb bastard. Go and dance with her while she stays Lady Marya Sand. Go love her, if she lets you, or else one day you will come to regret this moment more than any other. Go on." Jon did not need further encouragement. Standing, he cut through the crowd into the center of the great hall, only to find himself face to face with Dacey Mormont.

"Slow down there, Snow," she said, placing her hands on his shoulders. The last time they met in Winterfell years ago, she would have looked down on him; now she had to look up. "Don't make a fool of yourself. At least wait for Harrion to finish his dance before you murder him for your Dornish lady."

"I'm not-" Jon said, teeth gritted.

"Harrion couldn't charm an aurochs, and he's not a quarter as pretty as you. I don't think you have much to fear," Dacey said with a laugh. "Now dance with me and I'll help you get to your lass." She locked arms with him and spun him around before he could even agree. What Dacey lacked in grace, she made up for with enthusiasm and charm. Despite himself, Jon could not help but laugh as she led him on a merry jig around the hall. When the song neared its end, they spun back towards where Harrion and Rhaenys where, and as soon as the song ended and the musicians took up another tune, Dacey barged in between them.

"Think you could run from me all night, Harrion?" she growled at him as she wrenched his arm towards her. "You owe me a dance." Without waiting for the Karstark to say anything, she spun him away and gave Jon a wink. Jon cleared his throat and turned to Rhaenys, who was staring at him with a bemused expression.

"I have never been so thoroughly shown up before by another lady," she said, and then giggled as Dacey nearly tossed Harrion into the tables with a particularly violent spin.

"I came to claim you for a dance," Jon said abruptly. His eyes burned into hers. "Would you do me the honor?" He held out his arm, hoping by all the gods she would not say no. But of course, she only smiled and looped her arm around his.

"I was waiting for you to ask," she said. The song slowed, and they pressed close and spoke in soft tones. "Unfortunately, Lord Karstark was a mite quicker."

"I wasn't sure if I should," Jon murmured. "Lady Stark disapproves, knowing who you are, knowing who I am."

"Is that so?" Rhaenys tittered. "I wasn't under the impression you particularly cared what Lady Stark thinks."

"I don't."

She smirked. "Then next time, come and dance with me first." Keeping pace with her came effortlessly to Jon. He had never been much of a dancer, sulking and stepping on toes when forced to dance with ladies in Winterfell before - even a bastard son of the North had enough to him to garner boyhood dances with girls - but as with everything else when it came to her, dancing with Rhaenys was like putting on a well-worn glove. Everything about her fit him so perfectly, and her eyes never failed to enchant him when he looked into them.

"Every lordling in this hall wants to dance with you," Jon said. "You're the prettiest woman here."

"Mmm," Rhaenys hummed. "What a shame for them. I would much prefer to dance with you." When Jon shot a her a disbelieving look, her brow furrowed. "Don't give me that look, Jon Snow. I hear the scullery maids giggle every time they pass by you. Surely you can't be that blind."

"Apparently I can," Jon grumbled. "By chance, do you remember which maids?"

She smacked his arm gently and bubbled out a laugh. "You are a knave and a villain. Thank you for this dance, Jon. It is the eve of war. You could have spent this any other way, but-"

"I would choose to spend it with you no matter what else was on offer, Princess," Jon said, and how true it was. He would spend every waking moment with her, if she let him. Eventually, the music faded away and the songs must have changed, but their dance went on. Once the feast was over, and Rhaenys escorted back to her chambers, Jon went back to the Stark family quarters of the Great Keep. As he neared his room, he found Robb waiting outside. Jon shot him a dark look, knowing in his heart what was about to come, but he left the door open when he went inside. Robb followed after and shut it behind him. 

"Save it," Jon growled.

Robb held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Jon, I didn't come here to give you a lecture. That's Father's job, perhaps Maester Luwin's or Ser Rodrik's, not mine. You and the Princess are close."

"We are. I saved her life in Essos."

"I wasn't speaking of the closeness of a lady and her sworn shield," Robb said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall by the door. "You are close. Most won't notice, but I know you well enough to see it. You're in love with her."

"I am not. Is Harrion Karstark in love with her because he asked her to a dance?"

"No, but Harrion Karstark doesn't spend all his time with her. Harrion Karstark refers to her as 'my lady' - but to you, when everyone in the room knows who she is, you call her Rhaenys." Jon winced. He hoped Robb did not notice, but he had. "And she allows it. I don't want you to get hurt, brother. That is the only reason I came here."

"I've already had one woman I loved die in my arms," Jon retorted. "Do you know what that feels like? Do you know what it's like to have someone you love bleed out the last of their lifeblood in your arms, for them to breathe their last breath, to build them a funeral pyre and watch them disappear into ashes and flame? Do you know what it's like to have every friend you've ever made die in the span of ten minutes in battle, watch them get cut down and butchered like pigs for slaughter in front of your eyes?"

Robb sighed and sat next to Jon. "No, I don't. Nor do I claim to know what any of that is like. The year you spent in Essos, it made you different. I knew that the moment you walked back into the courtyard. You've seen things I haven't, lived through things I haven't. I don't contest any of that. But one day, she will reveal who she is, and then everyone's eye will be on her. The more time you spend with her, the more their eyes will be on you. Have you given thought to that? What will you do, make her your mistress? How would that work? Would you dishonor her before marriage, dishonor her even once she weds for an alliance after Viserys commands it-"

"Aye, I'll dishonor her," Jon bellowed with rage, standing up and walking away from Robb. "Isn't that what I am, a bastard, a product of dishonor? A product of Father's dishonor? Aye, everyone faults the bastard, but I didn't ask to be born. I didn't ask Father to sleep with whatever slattern he found in some brothel. I didn't ask him here to bring me to Winterfell and put a taste of the life of a Stark in my mouth only for me to be reminded at every turn that I am a Snow, not a Stark. I have no name, nothing to call my own except that which I forge for myself. He should have left me to rot in whatever hole I was born in. At least then I'd know the mother he never saw fit to tell me about."

Robb stood and rounded on him. "This isn't about Father or your birth. I don't want you to walk down a path you can't finish, but if you're intent on doing so then I won't stop you. Do as you will, and when she leaves to wed some Reachlord to give her uncle more armies, and you sit here heartbroken, don't come tell me that I didn't warn you." With that, Robb turned and left, and Jon stewed in rage and hate.

The next morning he needed the knock of a servant to wake him. The bitter taste of last night's conversation with Robb lingered in his mouth, but he washed his face and opened the door. Two pageboys stood there, carrying armor between them. "My lord, this is for you," they said. "By command of Lord Robb. He asks that you join him in the courtyard to oversee preparations."

Jon looked at the armor for a second before shaking his head. "Aye, bring it in. And tell Lord Robb I'll be there shortly when you leave." Jon studied the armor. It was half plate made of blackened steel and covered with boiled leather. There were greaves, pauldrons, bracers. It was heavier than any armor he wore in Essos, but it was well made, perfectly suited to his body. The pages helped him dress, and then one of them proffered a bundle wrapped in fur. 

"What is it?" Jon said, eyebrow raised in question.

"A-a cloak, my lord," the page said. He unwrapped it to reveal the cloak. It was smoke grey in color, like the wolf on the Stark sigil. When it was fully unfurled, Jon's throat constricted and he found it hard to swallow. There was there, a great bounding white wolf with red eyes and a red tongue, the perfect image of Ghost. It was the inverted Stark sigil. For a moment he thought of his argument with Robb from last night, but it was not in Robb's nature to stoop to or intend such things as a petty insult. Jon took it instead for the gift it was. 

"Help me with it." The pages fastened it to his armor and then bowed and left. Jon studied himself in the mirror for a moment, and then smiled. It was not a bad cloak. He fastened Frostbite to his belt and then left. He stopped by the kitchens to pester the cook for a small lemon cake to break his fast. Hilda, the cook who he spoke to, had bene in Winterfell for his whole life. She was an old woman with two sons of her own who were marching to war with them. She looked anxious and worn, and after she gave Jon the lemon cake she gave him a quick hug and patted his cheek.

"Best take care of yourself, Jon, would you? And look after my boys if you can?"

"I will, Hilda. Tom and Bren are smart lads. Us Winterfell boys will keep an eye out for each other." He gave her a smile and left, and knew that no eye could help. Battle was random, battle was death. All he could do was hope that Hilda wouldn't lose both of them. Robb was in the courtyard, getting saddled. When he saw Jon in his armor, he gave him a half-smile, an apologetic one. Jon knew it well. They had shared so many of them, having quarreled as brothers do, and had always forgiven each other. He could not forget Robb's words, but he saw no point in holding it against him.

"Morning," Robb said.

"Morning," Jon replied. "Sleep well?"

"Not a lick," Robb said with a laugh. "The armor suits you."

"Aye," Jon said, looking down. "Thank you. It's a lordly gift. You'll sleep fine tonight, I wager. Nothing like marching after a sleepless night to kick your arse and lull you to sleep. Thank the gods we have horses at the least."

"I couldn't sleep after the way we left things last night," Robb said, more quietly. "I need your help if I'm to get through this. You're my brother. You were meant to be by my side through all this." He cleared his throat. "When this is done, I'll speak to Father. The lands in the Gift..."

"Robb," Jon said. "It's fine."

"It's not. You'd make a fine lord. You learned everything I did. What was the point of that if you weren't meant to rule your own lands, lead your own people? You'd be my most loyal bannerman," Robb said. "And as the Stark in Winterfell, I've made up my mind. I'll speak to Father about it."

Jon inclined his head. "Let's free Father first." Bran came out after, in similar armor as well, though his cloak matched Robb's with the Stark sigil.

"Morning," he said. His face looked paler than usual, making his auburn hair and blue eyes stand out all the more. 

"You didn't sleep either," Jon said. Bran sputtered, but then he sighed and shook his head. 

"No, I didn't."

"Well that makes two of you," Jon said. "Get your horse. You'll be squiring for Robb. Attend to his needs, help him as befits his station. You understand everything that goes along with that, yes?" Bran quickly nodded, but Robb interrupted.

"He won't be my squire. I want him to squire for you, Jon." Robb gestured at him. "You've seen battle. You're more experienced at war than I am. He'll be safer with you. I trust you with this."

Jon laughed. “I don’t think Bran will thank you in the end.” He clapped Bran on the shoulder and then ruffled his hair. “What are you waiting for? Saddle my horse and yours. We ride soon, squire.” As Bran snapped to attention and ran in the direction of the stables, the brothers shared a laugh.

”I fear I’ve doomed him to a harsh taskmaster,” Robb said as Bran ducked into the stables. “Lord Umber demanded the right to lead the van. Said he’d go home if I put Cerwyn in front of him.”

Jon snorted. “Proud man, the Greatjon. What did you do? Their banners are still here.”

“I put his loyalty and bravery to the question. He drew steel in front of me. Grey Wind took two of his fingers in recompense.” Jon laughed. 

“Good. They need to respect you, love you, and fear you all at once. A captain needs inspire all three, ruling is no different.” Jon saw Mikken running around at the armory. He glanced at Robb. “Spare me a second. I wanted to say goodbye to Arya and Sansa.”

”And Rickon?” Robb said

”Him too.” Jon waved and flagged down Mikken. After thanking him for the armor he wore, he asked him if the order was ready. Just before leaving for the Wall with Rhaenys, he asked a favor of the smith. Mikken showed him the little rapier and Jon smiled. He took the package and thanked Mikken, and then went back to the Great Keep. He found Sansa with Rickon, playing with him. Rickon had been greatly upset the last few days knowing the plan, but he brightened and smiled and rushed to embrace Jon when he saw him.

"Oof!" Jon huffed, when Rickon tackled him. "Hello there, little brother. Or shall I call you Lord Stark now?" He mussed the boy's hair.

"I'm not sure I'm ready, Jon," Rickon said. He pulled away. Jon could see his lip quiver. Jon put a finger to Rickon's chin and tipped it up.

"You're a Stark of Winterfell. You were made ready. It is your duty, and it is in your blood." Jon crouched to be face to face with his littlest brother. "Sansa and Arya will be here to help you. Lean on them. They're your sisters and they have good heads on their shoulders. And you can trust Maester Luwin, too."

Rickon nodded with big eyes, and Jon gave him another hug. "Go on, go play. Can I talk to Sansa for a few minutes?" Rickon was gone as soon as the words left Jon's mouth. He wished that Lady Catelyn would stay behind, but he recognized her value in the Riverlands and when dealing with House Tully and their banners. Sansa, for her part, looked quite forlorn.

"Must you all go?" she said quietly. "It will only be Arya and Rickon and I. You and Bran and Robb all gone..." she said, trailing away. Sansa shook her head and a lone tear trickled down her cheek. "For a time I thought our family would be together again. Then Father... and now the war... Promise me you'll look after Robb and Bran? And that they'll look after you?"

"Of course, Sansa." Jon held her hands and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "We'll be back with Father soon, if all goes well."

"And then I'll be Princess Martell," she said, with a sad laugh. "Quentyn is sweet and I would make that choice a thousand times over to help our family. Do you remember what you told me on the Kingsroad, when I was lamenting my betrothal to Joffrey?" Jon nodded. "I was always so cold to you, and I'm sorry for that, Jon. Please come back, will you? If not for me, for Arya. She's always been your favorite."

Jon's heart lurched. "Sansa. You and Arya are both, equally, my sisters. I love you and I love her. Robb and Bran and I, and Fathrer - we'll all come back to you." He gave her a hug and then left to find Arya. She was in her quarters, sitting on her bed, staring aimlessly at the ceiling when he knocked and entered. She got up excitedly. 

"Are you taking me with you?" she said, face bright.

"No," Jon shook his head. "You know I can't, Arya." Her face fell, but Jon stood resolute. He would not subject any more of his siblings to war than was necessary, and he would feel better knowing Sansa and Arya and Rickon were safe behind the walls of Winterfell. "But just because we're going to war doesn't mean that I expect you to stop your practice when I leave."

"But Princess Rhaenys! Why does she-"

"Because she is a woman grown, and because she's a fighter. I've seen it with my own eyes. I've seen her kill," Jon answered flatly. He had to make Arya see. "Maybe one day, you'll fight too. But I've seen your technique. You need more practice. That's why I brought you this." He unfurled the gift and nodded towards the door. "Go shut it."

Wary but excited, Arya checked the hall. "Nymeria, here. Guard." She left the wolf out there to warn of intruders and closed the door. By then Jon had pulled off the rags he'd wrapped it in. He held it out to her.

Arya's eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his. "A sword," she said in a small, hushed breath.

The scabbard was soft grey leather, supple as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel. "This is no toy," he told her. "Be careful you don't cut yourself. It's Mikken's make, castle forged steel. The edges are sharp enough to shave with." Jon messed up her hair. "I will miss you, little sister."

Suddenly she looked like she was going to cry. "I wish you were staying with us. You've only just come back."

"Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?" He was feeling better now. He was not going to let himself be sad. "I better go. I'll spend the whole time never hearing the end of it from Robb if I hold up our march." 

Arya ran to him for a last hug. "Put down the sword first," Jon warned her, laughing. She set it aside almost shyly and jumped onto him with a tight hug. When he turned back at the door, she was holding it again, trying it for balance.

"I almost forgot," he told her. "All the best swords have names."

"Like Ice and your Frostbite and Rhaenys' Dark Sister," she said. She looked at the blade in her hand. "Does this have a name? Oh, tell me."

"Can't you guess?" Jon teased. "Your very favorite thing."

Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: "Needle!"

When he returned, Bran had both their horses ready, and Rhaenys came to join them. Their wolves were all there too - Grey Wind, Ghost, and Summer. Gone was Rhaenys’ dress, and in its place were riding clothes and light armor. Her hair was tied up and Dark Sister was at her hip, and a spear slung to her back. She looked like Nymeria reborn to Jon, a goddess of war. “I’ll travel with the Mormonts,” she said. “Fewer questions asked then, I think.”

“Very well, Princess,” Robb said. He glanced at Jon, said nothing, and took his leave. Only Bran was nearby, so Jon approached and put his hand on her shoulder.

”You’ll be alright?”

”I’ve grown rather fond of Dacey Mormont, actually,” she said. “I’ll be fine, Jon. Don’t come riding by to save me from my boredom. I’ll come find you when we make camp for the evening.” She leaned around him and then laughed when she got a look at Bran. “Morning, my lord. Squirehood suits you.”

”Don’t compliment him,” Jon chuckled. “I mean to put him to the test.” Robb’s words from last night came back to the forefront of his thoughts and his face must have shown it, or soured somehow, for Rhaenys’ smile fell.

”What is it?” she asked quietly. “I can tell something is bothering you.”

”It’s nothing,” Jon said, but she did not believe him. 

“It isn’t. Something weighs on you. I can see it. Keep it to yourself now if you insist, but I’ll have it out sooner or later.” She turned and mounted her horse, giving him a soft smile before she rode off towards the Mormont banners. Jon got on his horse and sighed. They rode out of the courtyard, and saw the army that had amassed. Twelve thousand men came to Winterfell and they expected to collect another eight on their march south. In more time they could have mustered more, but Jon knew even now, with this long summer coming to a close, men would be needed for the last harvests. They would have to do with the men they had. So many banners fluttered in the wind. Jon saw them all - Umber in the van, Cerwyn, Bolton, Hornwood, Karstark, Glover, the mountain clans, and all the smaller houses sworn to the Stark banners. The army snaked up the Kingsroad in marching formation, with carts and horses interspersed.

Bran’s eyes were wide, and Jon mourned his innocence. They joined Robb at the front, where Lord Umber rode with him, and the Smalljon. “Good morning, my lords,” Jon greeted. “It seems you remembered which way Winterfell was.” The Greatjon simply guffawed.

”I knew Lord Robb was impatient when he sent you,” said the Greatjon. He eyed Jon’s wolf. “Where did you get one of your own? Essos have direwolves now?”

Jon laughed. “Something like that. I suppose the gods wanted me to have a little piece of home there.” 

Like a great snake, the Northern host wound down the Kingsroad. By the end of the day they had reached Castle Cerwyn, where they set up camp and rested. Jon took to drilling the Winterfell men as a unit, reaching them the tactics he learned in Essos - how to move together in formation, how to pivot as a unit, how to make a proper shield wall. The instincts of the serjeant took over. Even Robb seemed surprised by how harsh a taskmaster Jon seemed. Bran wilted a little under Jon’s command, but he did his best, and Jon could not help but hold back just a little on his younger brother.

Rhaenys came by later in the evening and they ate together with Bran. In a way, Jon was grateful for his presence, because it let him avoid Rhaenys prying into his mood. It would mean admitting the depths of his feelings for her, and that was something he did not want to do. 

The next morning came and they set out again. Every night was punctuated by battle plans and meetings with the lords, arguing over strategies and tactics. He did not speak often, but when Robb called on his advice in front of the lords, he gave it. Not all of them begrudged him for it, but Jon made note of the ones who did. Karstark did not like it, nor did Bolton or his lackeys. Bolton unnerved him the most. He always heard the stories of the Boltons growing up, but with Roose’s lich-like appearance, he could believe it. Within fifteen days they arrived at Moat Cailin, where the rest of the Northern host was encamped. No sooner did Robb and Jon ride into the ruined fortress did Ser Wylis Manderly, the rotund, walrus-mustached heir to House Manderly, greet them with a grim look on his face and a raven from King’s Landing.

When Robb read it, he passed it on to Jon. The words made Jon's heart sink. "When did this come?"

"A day prior," said Ser Wylis. “It came to Lord Fenn who rode from his castle just to deliver it.”

"You should have sent a rider," Robb said. "Ser, this is grave news. This is in my Father's hand. What will the Lannisters do to him for releasing a secret such as this?"

Jon read and reread the letter. It was not in Father's hand, but titled to all the lords of Westeros. Jon knew this was not the only letter to travel from King's Landing. Affixed at the bottom, however, was Father's signature. Jon knew that well enough. It was his hand. Joffrey was no king, but the queen’s bastard born of Jaime Lannister. Was this the truth that his father discovered, the one that got Jon Arryn killed? 

“It’s time, brother,” Jon said. “Summon the lords bannermen.” He shared a look with Robb. It was time to declare. A runner entered the room out of breath. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and bowed before them. “Mi’lords. The Crannogmen sent by Lord Reed are here. He writes to tell that he will hold the causeway with some of his household men, as you commanded."

Robb nodded. “Good. Ser Wylis, please summon the bannermen. We must speak.”

None of the buildings in the ruined Moat were fit to house the lords of Robb's war council save for the great hall of the Gatehouse Tower, which the Starks had laid claim to as their base. Jon scanned the faces of all the men gathered there. Some were old men, some his father’s age, others were heirs like Robb. Last of all his eyes fell on Rhaenys. All of them were gathered here for one purpose. Now Jon feared it might be too late, and here they had to convince them of Targaryen restoration, too. It was all happening too fast.

”My lords!” Robb said. “Peace, my lords!” 

The hubbub did not cease so easily and Jon’s temper flared. He pounded his fist on the table. “SILENCE, MY LORDS!” he bellowed. The war in Essos had given him a commander's voice on the battlefield; this was no different. When a silence settled over the hall, Jon stepped aside for Robb.

”My lords. This letter,” Robb said, “has been sent to every castle in the North, and like as not, the whole country. It says here that the boy Joffrey, believed to be the son of King Robert, is no Baratheon at all. Instead he was begotten by Cersei Lannister’s affair with her brother, the Kingslayer. It bears my father’s seal and signed in his hand. I believe it to be his words.” 

"How did Lord Stark get this message out?" asked Lady Maege. "I doubt that the Lannisters plied him with ink and quill in the cells of the Red Keep." Jon knew it was a good point, but he saw the letter just as Robb did. The signature was his father's, though perhaps it was scribed by someone else.

"I do not know," Robb answered. "But my lady, it is my father's signature. The Lannisters would not want him to send this. He must have arranged something in the event of his imprisonment. My father was loyal to Robert. If he knew that the king had been cuckolded by his wife, he would try and protect him. Perhaps the king's death was no accident at all." Robb took a deep breath before continuing. "Before my lord father became the Hand of the King, my lady aunt Lysa Arryn wrote to my lady mother to reveal that she thought the Lannisters to be behind the death of Lord Arryn, and that his death was not a natural death. The Lannisters have been plotting to put their bastard blood on the throne for some time."

"Before I came north with my siblings and the rest of Winterfell's household," Jon added, "I stopped in King's Landing and met my father. He was convinced the Lannisters were plotting against King Robert. If they feared that this secret could be revealed, perhaps my lord father's discovery of it led to his imprisonment and the false charges of treason. My father was loyal to his king, and look where it got him."

"At present, we're gathered here with one goal," Robb declared. "And that is to free my father. But the more I think on it, my lords, the more I see that we can't end there. So long as the Lannisters sit the Iron Throne - and this Joffrey Waters, or Joffrey Lannister, or whatever he styles himself save Baratheon - the North won't be safe. They'll never let us live in full peace so long as we know that their king is a false king. Even now, letters like these likely fly to every keep in the Seven Kingdoms. How long until the great houses turn against the Lannisters? How long until King Robert's brothers make their move?"

"Do you mean to swear us to Stannis, my lord?" Roose Bolton's voice was cold, silken, soft. Jon misliked the man greatly, not in the least because he reminded him of a corpse. 

"Who are the Baratheons to us?" complained the Greatjon. "Robert had no gratitude to Lord Stark and we won him his damned iron chair! I'll be damned if I swear to Stannis or the Lannister bastard." 

Several lords made a show of spitting on the ground at the mention of Joffrey. Jon's eyes flickered over to Rhaenys, but her expression was resolute.

"What of the Dornish betrothal for Lady Sansa?" grumbled Lord Karstark. "Many a lord here in the North would have valued your sister's hand. Instead you chose to give it away to a-

"Not give, my lord," Robb interrupted. "The Dornish have agreed to help us in our war. Ravens to the Eyrie have gone unanswered, and at this point now we cannot hope for the aid of the Vale. My lady mother expects the Riverlands to rise with us, but it would not be the full alliance of the Rebellion. Dorne can bring thirty thousand spears to bear in our war. Their assistance will be sorely needed." A few people turned to peer at Rhaenys, no doubt thinking of her as Lady Marya Sand. "However, the Dornish have already - secretly - declared for a claimant."

"Who?" demanded Lord Umber.

There was a moment of silence before Robb responded. Then he cleared his throat and said the name.

"Viserys Targaryen."

Chapter Text

JON

The silence lasted for a second that seemed to span an eternity. Then it was broken by loud, angry voices.

It was impossible to make out one particular objection. The Northern lords had many. Each of them shouted - at Robb, at Jon, at each other, shaking their fists and yelling loudly. So much spittle flew about that Jon though it a minor rainfall. Rhaenys' eyes were wide. Whatever objection she had expected, she had not expected this outburst. She stood only a few feet away from them, and Jon found himself inching closer to her. 

"We expected it," he said in a low tone.

There was a dejection in her voice that tugged at his heart. "You expected this?" she said.

"We will convince them. Trust me." Jon went back towards Robb, who seemed to be trying to reason with Galbart Glover.

"-your father went to war to topple the Mad King, and now we go to seat his son?"

"When Aegon II usurped his sister's throne," Jon interrupted, "did we unseat the entire Targaryen dynasty, or just the Hightower branch of it, my lord?" That was a courtesy, for the Glovers were a masterly house - like landed knights, though as First Men and worshippers of the old gods, they were not knights - and though they held many lands and had their own banners, their title had never been elevated past masterly status to be called lords. It would not hurt to massage Glover's ego, though. "In truth, neither you nor I care one whit about who sits the Iron Throne. As long as they inflict their horrors upon each other, let them. Whether Viserys Targaryen lords underneath the Neck or Stannis Baratheon - it matters little. We have Viserys Targaryen's word that he will return to the old Targaryen policy of not interfering in our internal matters. He at least recognizes that we are a unique part of the realm. The Lannisters have no regard for us, and indeed, after my father revealed their secret, they will oppose us at every turn."

"His word?" said Glover.

"Yes, my lord." Rhaenys stepped out from behind Jon and tapped on the table with a firm hand. To Jon's surprise, the room quietened, though perhaps more out of curiosity about her than because they were done airing their grievances and complaints. "I am here as his personal representative. I must ask all of you, my lords, to accept my apologies for my deception. My name is not Marya Sand, and I am not Prince Oberyn's daughter. My name is Rhaenys Targaryen, and I am niece to his Grace, daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell."

The room looked on in shocked silence. Even Lord Bolton looked surprised, which Jon couldn't help but to enjoy. Glover looked at Jon, then Robb, and then finally back to Rhaenys Targaryen. To their surprise, he bowed and kissed Rhaenys' hand.

"What the Lannisters did to your lady mother was wrong, Princess. All of us men of the North, we knew it. I never saw what happened, but I spoke of it at length with Lord Stark. He was disgusted by it. No men of honor would commit such an act. Your grandfather was a tyrant, make no mistake, but none of the poor innocents of that city deserved what they got at the hands of the Lannisters."

Rhaenys placed her hand over his. "Thank you, my lord. Nor does Lord Stark deserve this imprisonment at the hands of the Lannisters." She turned to all the lords. "All the horror that followed my grandfather's death - it has all been wrought by one family, one house. As long as the Lions lord over the Seven Kingdoms, none of us will be safe. The fate of my mother is a fate Tywin Lannister will not hesitate to inflict on any family, any line, so long as it serves to preserve his power. We would see Lord Stark freed and the tyranny of the lions ended."

Jon suppressed a smile and a growing feeling of pride. If only he could proclaim her his queen now, he would. 

The rest of the lords were not so easily won over. The war council was comprised of every major lord, and Theon Greyjoy and Lady Stark as well. The Greatjon sat with Ser Wylis Manderly, Lord Hornwood and Galbart Glover. Lord Cerwyn was with Lady Maege and Dacey and Lord Karstark, whose great forked beard covered most of his face. Lord Bolton sat alone, which seemed perfectly in character for the pale leech lord.

Robb was discussing Rhaenys’ identity with the bannermen, but Jon quickly lost his patience. He drew Frostbite and drove it hard into an empty table in front of him. The noise silenced the hall. "That is what the Lannisters will do to my lord father while we sit here and bicker about a truth he risked his life to tell us," Jon snarled. "All of you, my lords, are veterans of wars, winners of wars. Tell me, how near a thing was it when Robert's Rebellion was won, and how many did we have on our side?"

"More men, and it was still a close thing," admitted Lord Cerwyn.

"What would you know of war?" said Lord Karstark. "Watch your tone, Snow. I've had shits that have more experience than you."

Jon pulled Frostbite out of the table. "This blade drank more blood in one afternoon than you've spilled your whole life, my lord."

"ENOUGH!" Robb shouted. "My lord, we need men. Dorne is prepared to give us exactly that. Tell me, Lord Karstark, when was the last time you needed to petition the crown for anything? When has House Stark ever given you cause to look elsewhere for guidance and for leadership of the North? Have we ever left a plea for aid unanswered? When has my father even rendered an unjust decision on any of you?" The room was silent, and at least a few of the lords had the decency to appear shamed.

"My lords," Rhaenys said. "Lord Robb, if I may?"

"Princess," Robb said, taking a seat. He gestured for her to continue.

"I did not come here thinking it would be an easy thing for House Targaryen to win the fealty and loyalty of the North. I will be the first to admit that the actions of my grandfather failed House Stark. They failed the North and all the Seven Kingdoms. For that, I can only express my apologies, mine and those of His Grace. Our years in exile taught us many things, my lords. For many years I believed what I was told about the Rebellion - that disloyal banners rose against their rightful king in order to depose him and place a usurper on the throne. When I came to Westeros, my uncle Oberyn told me the truth of the terrible things that were done to Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark. Even before then, the seeds of doubt had been planted in my heart.” She glanced at Jon and took a deep breath. “When I was in Pentos with my brother Aegon and my aunt and uncle , Daenerys and Viserys, the crown’s agents attempted a kidnapping of me. I was captured and taken away to a cove in the cliff side, to be taken by boat to a ship and then in chains to Westeros. It was Jon Snow, a Northman whose family my family had wronged, who saved my life.” Every head turned toward him, with curious or angry expressions. Jon stared back defiantly.

”I knew then the character of the Northmen,” Rhaenys said. “House Targaryen learned that day the great mistake we committed in squandering that loyalty. Time and time again, House Stark and the North has lived up to their word, just as Jon Snow did. My lords, for my family to regain what we lost, we need you. We need the North. I come before you not as a princess, but as a supplicant, penitent, to ask for your forgiveness first and your swords second.” She drew Dark Sister and laid it on the table in front of all the lords.

A quiet settled over the room. “Aside from forgiveness,” Robb intoned, “Viserys has offered some concessions to the North as well, in compensation for the pains we have suffered. Trading rights, privileges, reductions in taxes and tariffs, port privileges. He has also agreed to return the New Gift to the North to administer. It was my father’s plan to raise lords along the new and old Gift to bolster the watch. Wildlings slip past them every day as they grow weaker and weaker. These new lords would be drawn from amongst ourselves - second sons and cousins who have proven themselves - and would pay part of their taxes to Winterfell and the rest to the Watch. The lords in the Old Gift would only pay to the Watch, and be our bulwark against the wildlings. We have already spoken to the Lord Commander about it, and he recognizes the need for support.”

There was some discussion and grumbling in the room. Lord Bolton spoke up. “My lord, it seems that the agreement is comprehensive. However, it is of concern that none of us were consulted when it was made.”

“He doesn’t need to ask you or me for shite,” rumbled the Greatjon. Jon could have kissed the man in that moment. “The lad is the Stark in Winterfell, and he’s proven himself of that. The agreement seems good enough to me.” He glanced at Rhaenys and then Jon. “You, Snow, you’ve met these Targaryens in Essos, or so you told me when we marched south. What do you think of them?”

”Princess Daenerys is a sweet soul, gentle and kind,” Jon said. “She reminded me a great deal of my sister Sansa. Prince Viserys values family above all. He has a burning loyalty to his blood and will always do what is best for them. He is a little proud… but then, so are we all.” That earned a few chuckles. “As for the Princess here, she is… well, like her first namesake, but with some Visenya in her.” Jon gestured to the sword on the table. “I assure you she knows how to wield that and her spear.”

”Perhaps we’ll have a spar sometime,” Dacey said with a grin. 

“Tomorrow morn in the training yard?” said Rhaenys.

That earned some laughs among the Northern lords. Jon sensed they were close. Rhaenys had charmed them, and it was nearly a done thing.

”And what about Aegon?” said Roose Bolton silkily. “As I recall, he survived the sack of King's Landing too. How does your uncle’s claim come before that of your brother’s… or even your own?”

The smile on Rhaenys’ face fell. “My brother is lost to us. In our time of hiding in Essos, we were forced to rely on whoever we could to avoid King Robert’s assassins. A magister in Pentos, Illyrio, became influential with my brother. He whispered ill counsel in his ear. The plans drawn up for our restoration were poorly thought out, and after Viserys and I left for Westeros, he vanished. I fear he may have been killed by the magister who took advantage of him. Whether or not he lives or not, my brother was not fit to be king. My uncle Viserys is. He is just, fair, and everything else a king ought to be.  Indeed, he is the rightful Targaryen heir. When the Mad King saw the actions of my father he stripped him of his right to inherit. My claim comes after my uncle’s. He has my loyalty in this.” Rhaenys paused and shook her head. “It was never my dream to sit on a throne. I wished only for two things: to come home and to slaughter the men who wronged my mother. I have done the first… I need your help with the second.”

”What happened to Elia was a crime!” declared Galbart Glover. “Aye, we wanted to overthrow the Mad King… but what they did to her, and the children they thought to be Rhaegar’s… that was cruel. It was unjust, unkingly, ungodly.”

”He has the truth of it,” said Lady Stark. “My husband rarely spoke of it, but I know it to be true.”

”It was the work of the Lannisters,” Rhaenys said. “And now the Lannisters know that Lord Stark knows their greatest secret. The realm knows of his honor. If he says Joffrey is a bastard, they will believe. They will stop at nothing to punish the North for this now. That gives us a final reason to be allied - revenge. Revenge for Lord Stark. Revenge for my mother.”

”I can get behind that!” said the Greatjon, pounding on the table. One by one, the lords fell in line, announcing their agreement, some more eager than others, some who looked as they had swallowed a particularly bitter tonic. Jon took a deep breath. Rhaenys had a growing smile on her face, flushed with victory. When even the recalcitrant Lord Bolton announced his acquiescence, it was done. The North declared for House Targaryen.

As the lords and Theon filtered out of the great hall, Rhaenys collapsed into a chair. “Gods,” she said, trembling. “I have never been so frightened in my life as I was now, not even with swords at my throat. I thought our alliance was crumbling before our eyes. I should thank Galbart Glover for rescuing me. I didn't know the Northmen were so affected by what happened to my mother."

"They respect our father, and he was disgusted by it. But even if they had protested louder, we would have kept it together,” Robb assured. “But we hardly needed to speak. You won them over, Princess. And that will help your cause more in the long run than our bribery or the promise of reward.”

”Indeed,” added Lady Stark. “You spoke well, Your Grace. You have a gift for leading… but then, the women of House Targaryen have often been a class apart. It did the lords good to be reminded of that.” Rhaenys seemed to flush under her praise.

”I think I need to rest,” she said, with a shaky laugh. “I feel quite drained after that.” Then she left too, but not before she shared a look with Jon.

After a few more words with Robb, Jon took his leave. The Starks had rooms in the highest floors of the Gatehouse Tower. He wound up the stairs until he reached his room. There in the dark, flickering light, he stared down the hall to where Rhaenys was.

Like a possessed man, he went down there instead and gently knocked on the door. Rhaenys opened it and looked at him with a strange expression. She opened the door further and stepped back. She was dressed still, but her hair was down and she looked as though she was about to turn in for the night.

Jon entered and closed the door behind him. “Well done,” he said with a smile.

She broke into a wide grin and launched herself at him, enveloping him in a forceful embrace.  “We did it, Jon. The North is with us now. Gods, I was so scared when they began yelling at each other. Our dreams of alliance seemed to be dying right there.” She released him. “Jon, we’ll win this war. We’ll free your father and avenge my mother.” 

Jon smiled. “Aye, we will. I told you, didn’t I? You would make a good queen. What I saw in there, that was a queen’s work. Half the lords in there were ready to march to war under your command, not mine or Robb’s. You have a gift for inspiration. It was squandered in Essos.”

Rhaenys smile dropped. “Viserys is king.”

”He is,” Jon agreed. “But of all the living Targaryens, you’re the one with the soul of the Conqueror and his wives.” He got on one knee and bowed his head in front of her. “It’s you who has me believing in the word of House Targaryen. My sword is yours.” 

“Please stand, Jon,” Rhaenys whispered quietly. When he did so, she placed two hands on his shoulders. “I don’t need a sworn shield’s oath from you.” 

“Then tell me what I can give.” A silence stretched between them. Jon tried to read her lovely violet eyes, but he could not see what swam in those depths. 

Her hands traveled down his pauldrons and towards the cloak that hung off his shoulders. She unfastened it and set it aside. “Jon, I’ve had enough of hiding it. Please, please tell me that I’m not in a fever dream. Tell me that I’m not seeing things that aren’t there.” Her hands undid the buckles of his pauldrons and shrugged them off him.

He stared in shock. Oh gods. How had he not seen it before? Everyone who had eyes could see that she wanted him, and they told him, but he did not believe. Dare he hope that she wanted him as much as he burned for her?

”I… I’m a bastard,” he protested. “I would dishonor you.” Those were Robb's words, but they came out of his mouth.

She laughed harshly. “A horse already beat you to it, I’m afraid. The perils of riding astride and not lady-like, as a young flowered girl. The only dishonor you would bring to me is if you betrayed me. Will you betray me?”

”Never,” Jon breathed.

”Then be with me,” she said fiercely, looking at his eyes. “Jon, please. Tell me that I have not been dreaming this.”

”If you have, then we have been dreaming together,” he said. “Gods, Rhaenys, I’ve fallen for you a thousand times over since you came to Winterfell. But you’re a princess and I’m a -“

”Say it one more time and I’ll run you through with Dark Sister,” she growled. “Help me with these fucking straps, Jon. I want you out of this armor.”

Her words set him ablaze. Like a madman, he crashed into her lips with his. She let out a wanton moan in between the battle of their lips and tongue. There was a hint of blackberry wine on her lips, and she tasted heady. His head swam as he got more and more of her, and yet he still felt himself grow greedier. His fingers fumbled alongside hers, shedding his armor against the stone floor of her room. Then his hands went to her clothes. He undid the drawstring for her trousers and rolled them down her curved hips, while she undid his cuirass. His bracers and greaves came off next, leaving him shirtless with only trousers. Jon lifted her tunic over her head. They were down to their smallclothes, and then those came off as well.

He saw her naked, glorious for the first time, and preserved that memory in his mind forever. The gods had shaped her themselves. A narrow waist flowed into the flare of her hips. Her breasts were small but full, perfectly shaped on her body. Jon’s hands wandered over them and every other part of her, mapping her valleys and mountains so that they would always remain part of his memory. She did the same to him, and her hands slipped lower and lower until they found his cock. Even as she wrapped her hands around it, they kept their lips interlocked, taking turns slipping their tongues into each other’s mouths. Her hand gently massaged his length, and it did not take long for him to harden under her grasp. He let out a groan and her hand picked up its pace.

"Easy," he gasped. "You'll have me explode in moments if you keep that up." She giggled and resumed, but more leisurely. He slipped away from her mouth, trailing kisses down her jaw. His lips and tongue nuzzled at her neck, and her hands wound inside his hair, tickling at his scalp.

"Where are you going?" she whispered. His mouth trailed lower until he began to kiss at her breasts - around her pebbled, soft nipples, and the space in between them. He flicked his tongue out over and relished in the gasp she released. His ministrations became more and more steady, and her quick gasps gave way to moaning.

"Fuck, that feels good," she whispered. 

"Does it?" he asked. His hands trailed down between her legs, and he knew she wasn't lying. Her sex was wet. Gently he trailed a fingertip around her lower lips and between them, which made her keen out a soft wail.

"Yes," she moaned. "Yes, right there, kessa, kessa nuha zokla." His fingers found her spot and gently rubbed around it, which made her knees buckle. Smirking, Jon scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. The kisses started again, from her lips to every inch of her glorious body until his tongue caressed her inner thighs. She gave him a look filled with fire and lust and he returned it before he licked along the length of her slit.

She grabbed a pillow and held it over her face to muffle the cry of pleasure she let out. Jon adjusted his shoulders and settled in. His tongue traced patterns into her folds, savoring the taste of her. It was a heady scent that made him dive into her with the enthusiasm of a fanatic. He found her clit and licked it too. His arms looped around the underside of her thighs, and he hoisted her legs over his shoulders. Her feet looped around him and drew him further in. 

"Jon, please, keli daor. Don't stop," she groaned. Jon dared not disobey. The world outside her ceased to exist and he kept his pace steady. She squeezed her thighs around his head as she came, hard, screaming into her pillow. Jon extricated herself from the vice-like grip she put him in and smiled, but she was already crawling back towards him. She fell on top of him and began peppering him with kisses.

"Why didn't I make you do this earlier?" she asked. "I need you, Jon. Please." She adjusted herself on top of him and grabbed his cock, adjusting it to rest right by her entrance. She lowered herself and whimpered in pain as she engulfed Jon inside her. 

"Rhae, slow, please," he pleaded, but she shook her head. She began to lower herself, slowly, slowly on his length until she had taken all of him.

"I feel so full," she whispered. "Gods, I feel you deep within me." She leaned over him and Jon wrapped his arms around her waist. 

"Does it still hurt?"

"No," she shook her head. "Stung a little... go slow. I was perhaps too eager," she said with a breathy laugh.

Jon nodded. He began to work his hips slowly, only extricating himself an inch before thrusting back in gently. The smaller movements made her gasp, and then she was moving her hips in sync with his. Shallow strokes became deeper and deeper and she lowered herself to kiss him. Jon's hands moved down her waist towards her ass. His hands cupped her cheeks as their movements became faster, more needful. The room filled with the sounds of their wet kisses and the noise of his thighs slapping into her. She only broke away from him to moan his name softly. Her perfect breasts bounced rhythmically as she rode him. Their pace became more frantic as Jon chased her release and his, and he couldn't help but let slip her name.

"Rhae, Rhae," he mumbled with each thrust. "Fuck, Rhae, you feel so good." For her part she mumbled more and more in Valyrian, urging him to keep going. Nuha zokla she called him - my wolf. He came to a point where he felt fit to burst. "I'm going to come, Rhae," he said urgently.

Her eyes burned bright. "Don't stop. Keep going, Jon. Please don't stop. Come for me, my love." With the last of his thrusts, he came hard in her, and she peaked in pleasure too. She seemed to milk the length of his cock, wet and tight and pulsing around him, and then collapsed on top of him, both of them a sweaty mess. His mind was blank for what seemed like an eternity before he began to come back to himself. He peppered her with kisses and his hands trailed patterns on her back.

"Jon?" she said in a weary voice.

"Yes?"

"You will spend the night here," she said. By her tone, it was evidently not a request. It did not need to be an order. He did not want to leave. If he could, he would have let this moment last forever.

"I'm not sure I could put all that armor back on anyway," he whispered. She trembled for a moment, and then a sharp giggle escaped her and she rolled off him. She gathered the covers around her and yanked them over both of them, and they settled in together, basking in each other's presence, exchanging the occasional kiss. Her hands continued to explore him, tracing over the scars on his body. Each one told the story of a different battle, and she asked about some of them. He told her as much as he could remember, including the Ironborn attack.

"To think you could have been lost to me, nuha zokla," she murmured. Her fingers traced along his jawline. He quite liked when she called him her wolf.

"But I'm not lost, nuha zaldrizi," he said. "I'm right here." She laughed. 

"My dragon? An endearment I find I enjoy. I forget that you speak High Valyrian with the common accent," she said. "I like it. It is rough but sweet, much like you." She bit on her lip for a moment. "Why did we resist each other for so long? I can tell you burned for me as much as I did for you."

Jon shook his head. "I wasn't sure you could want a bastard. You're a Princess with the blood of Nymeria and Aegon the Conqueror in you. I don't even know my own mother, Rhaenys. And I was afraid to risk our friendship. From the moment you arrived in Winterfell, I could think of little else but you. I wanted - I want - to be in your presence every moment. It's frightening how strong that compulsion is."

"But I don't want a bastard," Rhaenys said. "I want you, Jon. You are so much more than your surname."

"Not to the world," Jon said. "I could not give you a name, a wedding cloak, a child. Any of those would stain your honor - and you know it, Rhaenys. There are things that not even a princess can have."

"But I have it now. I have you now," she countered and sighed. "Don't think about tomorrow or the day after. Here, in this bed, let it be you and me and now. Nothing else exists, nothing else matters."

"Nothing else matters," Jon echoed, and captured her lips in a deep kiss. He felt himself harden again and Rhaenys giggled.

”So soon?”

He groaned. “Only a dead man would fail to harden with a goddess like you in his bed.” She grasped his cock and began to stroke it. It was especially sensitive after the first orgasm, and he shuddered when her fingers trailed around the head. He could take no more - soon he was inside her again, and they were no longer two but one, joined together. 

Chapter Text

RHAENYS

When she woke, her bed was blissfully warm, and she felt a massive, protective presence around her. Jon was wrapped around her, spooning her like a large bear. She felt so delightfully safe and cozy in her arms that she did not move for minutes and minutes, letting herself enjoy his presence. The sun had yet to rise, and she knew she needed to wake him and send him on his way lest they be discovered. The few lucid words they'd shared after their lovemaking last night came back to her, filling her heart with sadness. She did not want to hide him like a dirty secret. Every part of her wanted to proclaim her feelings and her satisfaction from the highest mountaintops, but Jon was right. Returning to the world of secrecy was a terrible feeling.

"Jon," she whispered. He woke quickly, blinking away the sleep.

"Good morning," he responded, kissing her bare shoulder. She sighed contentedly.

"The sun has yet to rise," she said. "If you..."

"I'd rather not, but aye," he said. He got up and suddenly she felt so horribly alone. "I should get going before anyone asks questions." He began to dress. Despite his words from last night, he did indeed know how to put all his armor back on. When he was fully ensconced in his suit of armor, he knelt by the bed and kissed her. "I'll see you in a few hours." Rhaenys nodded and stroked his cheek.

"I'll see you soon, nuha zokla."

"Sleep well, nuha zaldrizi," he said, and then quiet as a cat, he was gone from her room.

As the door closed behind Jon, Rhaenys lay in the warmth of her bed, the remnants of their shared passion lingering in the air. A bittersweet taste lingered on her lips, the taste of both fulfillment and the impending return to the shadows. The sun had yet to cast its golden glow across the sky, leaving the room in a tranquil pre-dawn haze. Rhaenys allowed herself a moment of reflection, tracing the patterns of last night's encounter in her mind. She felt a mix of emotions - the ecstasy of their union, the warmth of Jon's embrace, and the heavy burden of secrecy that now draped over them. For him, it was a price worth paying.

Closing her eyes, Rhaenys sighed. Reality demanded discretion. As the first light of dawn began to paint the sky in gentle hues, Rhaenys reluctantly rose from the bed, wrapping herself in a robe. She couldn't linger in the warmth of the sheets, though she wished for nothing more than to stay and remember his scent. Rhaenys summoned one of her servants, an older Dornish woman named Marela who had accompanied her and her uncle and Quentyn on this northern journey. Marela had been a loyal hand, someone Rhaenys trusted to guard this secret. If she noticed that the bed was slept in by two, or that the smell of sex still hung in the air, she said nothing With her assistance, Rhaenys dressed in a simple yet elegant gown, adorned with the colors and sigil of House Targaryen subtly woven into the fabric. There was no need to hide that anymore, at least. Marela brought her a tea, too. Rhaenys' eyes widened.

"Fear not, Princess," Marela assured her. "I have seen far more scandalous things in the halls of Sunspear. You must be careful, and please, summon me in the mornings. I will help you keep this secret."

"Thank you, Marela," Rhaenys said. She drank from the tea. Marela laughed.

"I did the same for your mother once upon a time," she said. "I shall tidy the rest of the room while you break your fast with the Starks."

The great northern host marched down the causeway, through the peat and marsh of the Neck and into the Riverlands. Five days after they passed Greywater Watch, the castle of the Reeds, they met with the remaining Crannogmen and their lord, a certain Howland Reed.

To look upon he was not much. He was handsome enough, small of stature like the rest of his people. The Crannogmen did not remind her much of the rest of the Northmen - there was not much that Lord Reed and Lord Umber had in common. Lord Reed had green eyes, unlike the blue and greys of most of the Northmen. He also had sandy hair, and wore a shirt of bronze scales and a gossamer cloak that reminded her of the moss of the marshes. The crannogmen, and Lord Reed himself, fielded a strange assortment of weapons. They had bows and shields, which were common, but also tridents and pronged spears, strange hooks, and wicked falchions. 

He hailed them along the road and the Starks greeted him warmly. Lady Stark called him Howland familiarly, and Rhaenys realized that he had been a good friend of Eddard Stark's during the rebellion. He came to ride alongside Jon and her on a white hobby horse, and spoke with them warmly.

"I saw your father in the lists at the tourney in Harrenhal," he said. "Never had a I seen a finer knight, to tell you true." 

Rhaenys did not know how to respond to that. "I've heard tales of him," she said. "But I prefer not to think of them. That was the beginning of the tragedy for my house."

"Oh, there has always been tragedy about your house," he said. "But that is because your house is touched by fate. It is difficult to be so close to gods as the Targaryens were and to not have the touch of greatness and the touch of doom in equal measure." He shook his head. "Forgive me. You must think us crannogmen a superstitious lot. I did not mean to cause offense."

"No offense caused, my lord," Rhaenys responded.

"Lord Howland," Jon asked, "my father wrote me a letter to explain his reasons to stay behind in King's Landing when I escorted the rest of the Winterfell household north. In it, he told me to consult you about something should he ever pass."

There was a subtle shift in Howland Reed's face, and Rhaenys became convinced instantly that he knew the identity of Jon's mother. "Did he?" he said quietly. "Then Ned knows what he risked. He would not have asked otherwise."

Jon shook his head. "My father still lives. I will not ask before I have no other choice. If I make that choice now..." his voice cracked, and Rhaenys' heart tore.

"I understand, Jon," said Lord Howland. "I pray you never have to hear it from my lips."

News then came, bleak and disheartening. The Kingslayer smashed the Riverlords at the Golden Tooth. The Tully castle was now open to a Lannister advance. Lady Stark did not take the news well, but who could blame her? Her uncle, the Blackfish, who brought the news, joined them after they passed the Neck with five hundred men on horse, the only relief in a sea of worries.

The news from Dorne was much better. A raven came to Greywater Watch, and was relayed by a crannogman rider. Arianne had successfully fled the capital. Given the news that the Baratheons and the Lannisters were to be at each others throat, her uncle Doran had sent ten thousand spears under Prince Oberyn north. They were to make a landing near Maidenpool. Rhaenys found herself worried, for it was a risk to chance a crossing of the sea with so many fleets involved in the war. Robb, Jon, and the Northern lords seemed to agree, but it was necessary, they argued. Something in the plan must have changed for Uncle Oberyn to come to the Riverlands, since he went south for the sole purpose of conducting war in the Stormlands. The remainder of the Dornish army was to march north through the Boneway, around the edge of the Stormlands and into the crownlands.

Lord Brynden's outriders brought with them news of Lord Tywin's army, many days to their south. But Lord Walder Frey had not yet gone to join Lord Edmure Tully at Riverrun, though he had amassed four thousand by the Twins. "Expect nothing of Walder Frey, and you will never be surprised," Lady Stark said.

"He's your father's bannerman," Robb replied.

"Some men take their oaths more seriously than others, Robb. And Lord Walder was always friendlier with Casterly Rock than my father would have liked. One of his sons is wed to Tywin Lannister's sister. That means little of itself, to be sure. Lord Walder has sired a great many children over the years, and they must needs marry someone. Still . . ."

"Do you think he means to betray us to the Lannisters, my lady?" Galbart Glover asked gravely.

Catelyn sighed. "If truth be told, I doubt even Lord Frey knows what Lord Frey intends to do. He has an old man's caution and a young man's ambition, and has never lacked for cunning."

The war council was discontented and split into two camps. One, led by Lady Stark and Galbart Glover, argued that it was more important to cross at the Twins by any means necessary and to advance on Riverrun and prevent a siege. The other was championed by the Greatjon and her Jon.

"We must have the Twins," Galbart. "There is no other way across the river, my lord."

"Yes. And so does Walder Frey, you can be sure of that,” said Lady Stark. The surety with which that was said unnerved Rhaenys.

"And yet we have another ford with which to cross the river. Riverrun is a mighty castle and Lord Edmure still has many men amassed under its walls," Jon pointed out. "It can hold. The Riverlords have time to muster more forces. We can smash Tywin first and put him on his heels. He can't give us chase if Lord Stannis prepares to invade and that will leave us with the ability to " 

"Anything that lets us bring the fight to Lannister is the right choice by me," grumbled the Greatjon. "Let's break these southern dogs and show them what Northern mettle is. Begging your pardon, Your Grace."

Rhaenys laughed. "Nothing to forgive, my lord. I'm also quite eager to see Tywin Lannister choke on Northern mettle." That earned a few thumps and 'ayes' from around the table. 

As they drew closer to the Twins, they learned of some fighting between the Lannisters and Freys. Theon Greyjoy rode with the Blackfish's scouts, and came back reporting happily of dead Lannister outriders. Rhaenys had not interacted much with the Greyjoy ward, but she did not like him much. He was cocksure, and seemed to hold a small rivalry with Jon. But the news seemed to give Lady Stark little hope that Lord Walder meant to join them in any meaningful capacity. It was just like Frey to wait and watch and act only when necessary, she stated.

Robb was frustrated. He glanced between her, Jon, the Blackfish, and Lady Stark, searching for an answer and finding none. "What would my lord father do?" he asked Lady Stark.

"Find a way across," she told him. "Whatever it took."

Jon shook his head. Lady Stark glared at him. To some extent, Rhaenys understood why - her brother was under threat from the Kingslayer and Jon counseled to travel away from Riverrun, not to it. She blinked. She had only the faintest, foggiest memories of a young blonde knight. She wondered if he would recognize her. 

The next morning it was Ser Brynden Tully himself who rode back to them. He had put aside the heavy plate and helm he'd worn as the Knight of the Gate for the lighter leather-and-mail of an outrider, but his obsidian fish still fastened his cloak. Ser Brynden’s face was grave as he swung down off his horse. "The Kingslayer pushes on Riverrun," he said, his mouth grim. "He will give battle to Edmure in a few days, if Edmure meets him in the field. We had it from a Lannister outrider we took captive."

A cold hand clutched at Rhaenys’ heart. "Will Edmure fight?" cried Lady Stark.

"No one can say," Ser Brynden said. "There are some blooded men with him, veterans, but if he chooses to give battle it will be a grave mistake."

Robb looked fretful. "We must get a raven to my uncle. Tell him to stay in Riverrun, conserve his strength. We can meet the Kingslayer in the field."

"That will not be easily done," Ser Brynden cautioned. "Lord Frey has pulled his whole strength back inside his castles, and his gates are closed and barred. I do not know if he will pass on any message for you."

"Damn the man," Robb swore. "If the old fool doesn’t relent and let me cross, he'll leave me no choice but to storm his walls. I'll pull the Twins down around his ears if I have to, we'll see how well he likes that!"

"We will not have the time or the men for it," Jon said. He had ridden out with Ser Brynden. Rhaenys glanced at him wistfully. Since leaving Moat Cailin they hadn’t the time for another coupling, and she found herself lusting for him whenever her tired mind could spare the energy. “Ser Brynden would know better than I - it’s his homeland - but laying siege to the Freys would mean risking death were Tywin Lannister to fall upon us. My lady, you know Lord Frey better than any of us. What is your counsel in this matter?"

"The Freys have held the crossing for six hundred years, and for six hundred years they have never failed to exact their toll."

"What toll? What does he want?" Robb asked.

Lady Stark smiled grimly. “That is what we must discover."

"And what if I do not choose to pay this toll?"

She gave a cold look to Jon. "Then you must deploy to meet Lord Tywin in battle... or grow wings. I see no other choices."

They arrived at the Twins midday the very next day. Ser Brynden and Jon proved correct. The Greatjon began to curse and swear as soon as he saw what awaited them. Lord Rickard Karstark glowered in silence. "It would seem that our outriders spoke truly. That cannot be assaulted, my lords," Roose Bolton announced.

"Nor can we take it by siege, without an army on the far bank to invest the other castle," Helman Tallhart said gloomily. Across the deep-running green waters, the western twin stood like a reflection of its eastern brother. "Even if we had the time. Which, to be sure, we do not."

As the northern lords studied the castle, a sally port opened, a plank bridge slid across the moat, and a dozen knights rode forth to confront them, led by four of Lord Walder's many sons. Their banner bore twin towers, dark blue on a field of pale silver-grey. Ser Stevron Frey, who introduced himself as Lord Walder's heir, spoke for them. The Freys all looked like weasels; Ser Stevron, past sixty with grandchildren of his own, looked like an especially old and tired weasel, yet he was polite enough.

"My lord father has sent me to greet you, and inquire as to who leads this mighty host."

"I do." Robb spurred his horse forward. He was in his armor, with the direwolf shield of Winterfell strapped to his saddle and Grey Wind padding by his side. Jon shadowed him, Ghosg right behind.

The old knight looked at Robb with a faint flicker of amusement in his watery grey eyes, though his gelding whickered uneasily and sidled away from the direwolves. "My lord father would be most honored if you would share meat and mead with him in the castle and explain your purpose here."

His words crashed among the lords bannermen like a great stone from a catapult. Not one of them approved. They cursed, argued, shouted down each other. "You must not do this, my lord," Galbart Glover pleaded with Robb. "Lord Walder is not to be trusted." Roose Bolton nodded. "Go in there alone and you're his. He can sell you to the Lannisters, throw you in a dungeon, or slit your throat, as he likes." "If he wants to talk to us, let him open his gates, and we will all share his meat and mead," declared Ser Wendel Manderly. "Or let him come out and treat with Robb here, in plain sight of his men and ours," suggested his brother, Ser Wylis.

"I will go, " Lady Catelyn said loudly.

"You, my lady?" The Greatjon furrowed his brow.

"Mother, are you certain?" Clearly, Robb was not.

"Never more," Lady Stark said confidently. "Lord Walder is my father's bannerman. I have known him since I was a girl. He would never offer me any harm." Then, to Rhaenys' dismay, a voice called out.

"I will accompany you, my lady,” said Jon.

CATELYN

Every neck craned to look at Jon Snow, who took off his helm and strapped it against his horse. His black hair tumbled out of his arming cap as that, too came, off.

"I do not require an escort," Catelyn said, trying to keep the coldness out of her voice. It would not do to give Ser Stevron an excuse to withdraw now.

"Jon will go with you. For my own peace of mind, Mother," Robb said. "Thank you, brother."

"I am sworn to your house, my lord," Snow said stiffly, his eyes trained on her. "I shall protect my lady's life with mine own."

"I am certain my lord father would be pleased to speak to the Lady Catelyn," Ser Stevron said. "To vouchsafe for our good intentions, my brother Ser Perwyn will remain here until she is safely returned to you. May I ask your name, Ser? I was not aware that Lord Robb had a brother so close in age." he said, staring at Snow.

"I am no ser," Snow replied bluntly. "Jon Snow."

"Ser Perwyn shall be our honored guest," said Robb. Ser Perwyn, the youngest of the four Freys in the party, dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a brother. "I require my lady mother and my brother's return by evenfall, Ser Stevron," Robb went on. "It is not my intent to linger here long."

Ser Stevron Frey gave a polite nod. "As you say, my lord."

Catelyn spurred her horse forward and did not look back to see if Snow followed. Lord Walder's sons and envoys fell in around her. Her father had once said of Walder Frey that he was the only lord in the Seven Kingdoms who could field an army out of his breeches. When the Lord of the Crossing welcomed Catelyn in the great hall of the east castle, surrounded by twenty living sons (minus Ser Perwyn, who would have made twenty-one), thirty-six grandsons, nineteen great-grandsons, and numerous daughters, granddaughters, bastards, and grandbastards, she understood just what he had meant.

Lord Walder was ninety, a wizened pink weasel with a bald spotted head, too gouty to stand unassisted. His newest wife, a pale frail girl of sixteen years, walked beside his litter when they carried him in. She was the eighth Lady Frey. "It is a great pleasure to see you again after so many years, my lord," Catelyn said. The old man squinted at her suspiciously. "Is it? I doubt that. Spare me your sweet words, Lady Catelyn, I am too old. Why are you here? Is your boy over there too meek to speak to me himself?"

"Forgive my silence, my lord," Snow said. "I am not Robb Stark, nor do I presume to speak with his voice."

Catelyn had been a girl the last time she had visited the Twins, but even then Lord Walder had been irascible, sharp of tongue, and blunt of manner. Age had made him worse than ever, it would seem. She would need to choose her words with care, and do her best to take no offense from his. Addressing Snow as her son, however, had come dangerously close.

"Father," Ser Stevron said reproachfully, "you forget yourself. Lady Stark is here at your invitation. The man here is Jon Snow, Lord Stark's natural son."

"Did I ask you? You are not Lord Frey yet, not until I die. Do I look dead? I'll hear no instructions from you."

"This is no way to speak in front of our noble guest, Father," one of his younger sons said.

"Now my bastards presume to teach me courtesy," Lord Walder complained. "I'll speak any way I like, damn you. I've had three kings to guest in my life, and queens as well, do you think I require lessons from the likes of you, Ryger? Your mother was milking goats the first time I gave her my seed. You ought to learn something from Eddard Stark's bastard here." He dismissed the red-faced youth with a flick of his fingers and gestured to two of his other sons.

"Danwell, Whalen, help me to my chair." They shifted Lord Walder from his litter and carried him to the high seat of the Freys, a tall chair of black oak whose back was carved in the shape of two towers linked by a bridge. His young wife crept up timidly and covered his legs with a blanket. When he was settled, the old man beckoned Catelyn forward and planted a papery dry kiss on her hand. "There," he announced. "Now that I have observed the courtesies, my lady, perhaps my sons will do me the honor of shutting their mouths. Why are you here?"

"To ask you to open your gates, my lord," Catelyn replied politely. "My son and his lords bannermen are most anxious to cross the river and be on their way."

"To Riverrun?" He sniggered. "Oh, no need to tell me, no need. I'm not blind yet. The old man can still read a map."

"To Riverrun," Catelyn confirmed. She saw no reason to deny it. "Where I might have expected to find you, my lord. You are still my father's bannerman, are you not?"

"Heh, " said Lord Walder, a noise halfway between a laugh and a grunt. "I called my swords, yes I did, here they are, you saw them on the walls. It was my intent to march as soon as all my strength was assembled. Well, to send my sons. I am well past marching myself, Lady Catelyn." He looked around for likely confirmation and pointed to a tall, stooped man of fifty years. "Tell her, Jared. Tell her that was my intent."

"It was, my lady," said Ser Jared Frey, one of his sons by his second wife. "On my honor."

"Is it my fault that your fool brother lost his battle before we could march?" He leaned back against his cushions and scowled at her, as if challenging her to dispute his version of events. "I am told the Kingslayer went through him like an axe through ripe cheese. Why should my boys hurry south to die? All those who did go south are running north again."

Catelyn would gladly have spitted the querulous old man and roasted him over a fire, but she had only till evenfall to open the bridge. Calmly, she said, "All the more reason that we must reach Riverrun, and soon. Where can we go to talk, my lord?"

"We're talking now," Lord Frey complained. The spotted pink head snapped around. "What are you all looking at?" he shouted at his kin. "Get out of here. Lady Stark wants to speak to me in private. Might be she has designs on my fidelity, heh. Go, all of you, find something useful to do. Yes, you too, woman. Out, out, out."

As his sons and grandsons and daughters and bastards and nieces and nephews streamed from the hall, he leaned close to Catelyn and confessed, "They're all waiting for me to die. Stevron's been waiting for forty years, but I keep disappointing him. Heh. Why should I die just so he can be a lord? I ask you. I won't do it."

"I have every hope that you will live to be a hundred."

"That would boil them, to be sure. Oh, to be sure. Now, what do you want to say?"

"We want to cross," Catelyn told him.

"Oh, do you? That's blunt. Why should I let you?"

For a moment her anger flared. "If you were strong enough to climb your own battlements, Lord Frey, you would see that my son has twenty thousand men outside your walls."

"They'll be twenty thousand fresh corpses when Lord Tywin gets here," the old man shot back.

"Twenty-four," Snow corrected.

"Eh? What's that, bastard?"

"Twenty-four, my lord," Snow repeated calmly. "If Tywin Lannister takes us in the rear, that will be the end of my brother's march. Our heads will be mounted on the walls of King's Landing, and the North will pay a fortune to get my lord father back. But there will be four thousand other corpses from here to the other side of the river, to be sure, all emblazoned with two towers. That much, you have my word."

"Don't you try and frighten me, boy," Walder muttered. He turned to Catelyn. "Your husband's in some traitor's cell under the Red Keep, your father's sick, might be dying, and Jaime Lannister's got your brother in chains. What do you have that I should fear? That son of yours? Your husband's byblow? I'll match Eddard Stark son for son, and I'll still have seventeen when his are all dead."

"You swore an oath to my father," Catelyn reminded him.

He bobbed his head side to side, smiling. "Oh, yes, I said some words, but I swore oaths to the crown too, it seems to me. Joffrey's the king now, even if your husband claims him to be a bastard, and that makes you and your boy and all those fools out there no better than rebels. If I had the sense the gods gave a fish, I'd help the Lannisters boil you all."

"Why don't you?" she challenged him.

Lord Walder snorted with disdain. "Lord Tywin the proud and splendid, Warden of the West, Hand of the King, oh, what a great man that one is, him and his gold this and gold that and lions here and lions there. I'll wager you, he eats too many beans, he breaks wind just like me, but you'll never hear him admit it, oh, no. What's he got to be so puffed up about anyway? Only two sons, and one of them's a twisted little monster while the other one ruts with his sister, cuckolds one king and kills the other. I'll match him son for son, and I'll still have nineteen and a half left when all of his are dead!" He cackled. "If Lord Tywin wants my help, he can bloody well ask for it."

That was all Catelyn needed to hear. "I am asking for your help, my lord," she said humbly. "And my father and my brother and my lord husband and my sons are asking with my voice."

Lord Walder jabbed a bony finger at her face. "Save your sweet words, my lady. Sweet words I get from my wife. Did you see her? Sixteen she is, a little flower, and her honey's only for me. I wager she gives me a son by this time next year. Perhaps I'll make him heir, wouldn't that boil the rest of them?"

"I'm certain she will give you many sons."

His head bobbed up and down. "Your lord father did not come to the wedding. An insult, as I see it. Even if he is dying. He never came to my last wedding either. He calls me the Late Lord Frey, you know. Does he think I'm dead? I'm not dead, and I promise you, I'll outlive him as I outlived his father. Your family has always pissed on me, don't deny it, don't lie, you know it's true. Years ago, I went to your father and suggested a match between his son and my daughter. Why not? I had a daughter in mind, sweet girl, only a few years older than Edmure, but if your brother didn't warm to her, I had others he might have had, young ones, old ones, virgins, widows, whatever he wanted. No, Lord Hoster would not hear of it. Sweet words he gave me, excuses, but what I wanted was to get rid of a daughter.

"And your sister, that one, she's full as bad." Catelyn endured Lord Walder's rants about her sister as well.

When Walder Frey had finished, he asked, "You say you want to cross the river?"

"We do," Catelyn affirmed.

"Well, you can't!" Lord Walder announced crisply. "Not unless I allow it, and why should I? The Tullys and the Starks have never been friends of mine." He pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his arms, smirking, waiting for her answer.

"My lord, you remind me more of the Iron Bank than a Westerosi lord," Snow said.

Lord Walder seemed to find that quite funny, cackling at Snow's words. "What do you know of Essos, boy?"

"I fought for a year with the Company of the Rose in the Disputed Lands. We fought for Myr against Lys, and in the end, Tyrosh as well," Snow answered. "Braavos was the first place I landed in Essos. I had dealings with the merchant princes there.”

Walder Frey seemed to appraise Snow once more. "A sellsword, eh? No stranger to a barter, then."

Catelyn offered first, countered by Lord Walder. They sparred back and forth with their words, coming to an agreement upon several things. Two fosterlings would be sent to Winterfell, and Robb would have to take on a squire.

But the sticking point was Walder's greatest insistence - that Arya marry one of his youngest sons, and Robb marry one of his daughters, any among his choosing. She meant to agree to it, but Snow asked her if he might have a word with her for a moment.

"My lady, you must not agree to this," Snow warned her.

"And why not?" she hissed back.

"Robb is one of the most marriageable men in all Westeros," Jon said. "He‘s the heir to Winterfell, and in Father’s absence, its acting Lord. He could do worse than the Freys and their four thousand swords, it is true, but he could do better, too. And the Freys being as they are... if you wed Robb to them, they’ll spread like a disease in the North. I beg of you, my lady. Don’t agree to this."

"And what do you propose I give to Lord Walder in return?" she muttered.

"This," Snow said. He fished out a package and unwrapped it from his cloak. It was a lump of rippled metal.

"What is that?" she asked.

"A Valyrian steel ingot," Snow said. "Well, half of one. The other half is on my hip now. It was a gift from someone I met in Essos. I had meant to... It does not matter now. A daughter might make a lady of Winterfell for a generation, but a Valyrian steel sword... they would remember Walder Frey's name for that alone. By your leave, my lady."

Catelyn nodded, dumbfounded. That was a lordly gift. She was astounded that the boy had chosen to give it up. She was fully prepared to give Robb's hand in marriage, so crucial was the need to cross, but Snow was prepared to give up something valuable beyond words, beyond coin.

"My lord," Jon said, approaching Walder Frey. "No one will remember your name for marrying a daughter to my brother, I fear - as noble and handsome as my brother is." Catelyn frowned, but it earned a laugh from Lord Walder. She was not blind to the honey he was laying for the old man.

"But this," he said, offering the metal, "this they would remember you for. I understand House Frey has never possessed a weapon of Valyrian steel."

In the end, it was worth a try, but the obstinate Lord of the Crossing would not budge. "A Valryian steel sword is nice enough to look at, but so are my daughters!" he cackled. "I would rather Robb Stark take a look at them then I forge a sword that I can't even lift in my old age. Where am I to find a damned smith who can work this in the midst of a war, anyway?"

They rode out by evenfall. Snow was quiet, but that was not unusual. He often was. She wondered if he chafed at the thought of giving up the Valyrian steel. But she was grateful he made the offer. She did not want a Frey wife for Robb... and Snow cared enough about his brother for at least that.

"What...what did he want of us?" Robb asked. His eyes were wide, like that of a man expecting the bill of goods to come due.

"If you can spare a few of your swords, I need some men to escort two of Lord Frey's grandsons north to Winterfell," she told him. "I have agreed to take them as wards. They are young boys, aged eight years and seven. It would seem they are both named Walder. Your brother will welcome the companionship of lads near his own age, I should think."

"Is that all? Two fosterlings? That's a small enough price to-"

"Lord Frey's son Olyvar will be coming with us," she went on. "He is to serve as your personal squire. His father would like to see him knighted, in good time.”

"Squires," He shrugged. "Fine, that's fine, if he's-"

Catelyn sighed. "And... Lord Frey was insistent that you marry one of his daughters and Arya one of his sons. His lordship was prepared to allow you to choose whichever girl you prefer. He has a number he thought might be suitable."

"I do not think you should take that offer," Jon cautioned. "The Freys are sworn to Riverrun. By rights he should be marching south with us, with no questions asked. If he can't be trusted to honor his word with his liege lord, he would not make a particularly trustworthy father-by-law. And there are better unions for you. You're the heir to Winterfell, not some petty lord."

"But we must get to Riverrun," Catelyn fretted. Snow was right about Robb, and he had no reason to love her family.

"I know, Mother," said Robb. "I know. But Jon has the right of it. Uncle Edmure is not under siege yet. I can't give away a king's ransom for a bridge. When this is done, I will tear down the Twins and build then other bridges on this damned river. Damn him. Damn the Freys!" He glowered at Snow, but then let out a snicker. "You should have offered your hand instead. You were always the prettier one."

Catelyn did not miss how Princess Rhaenys bristled at that comment. She was shocked. This whole time she had doubted Jon Snow’s intentions towards her, but it was very clearly obvious to her that the Princess seemed to return his affections to some degree. Targaryens were queer, and any family which wedded brother to sister was capable of greater perversions, but it did not sit well with her. She had often thought of a betrothal between Robb and Rhaenys. She was beautiful, and aside from her judgement with Snow and her propensity for the martial arts, she proved to have an excellent head on her shoulders. 

They turned around at evenfall as a horned moon floated upon the river. The double column wound its way down the Kingsroad like a great steel snake, slithering aside the river. Catelyn rode at the head of the serpent, with her son and her uncle Ser Brynden and Snow and Princess Rhaenys. It took an hour for them to put the Twins behind them. Afterward, Catelyn would remember the clatter of countless hooves on the road, the sight of Lord Walder Frey in his litter on the bank, watching them pass. When they lost sight of the castle, Catelyn knew they had thrown the dice, and now the game of thrones was afoot.

Chapter Text

JON

The Northern army wasted no time marching down the Green Fork along the Kingsroad. The green, murky waters of the river flowed alongside them as the great host moved. Jon shook his head, reminded of a promise made. His finger traced the pouch containing Azenet's ashes. He reminded himself that he would not forget. One day, when this war was over, he would remain true to his word. And if he perchance died at this river, well... Azenet used to say that all rivers led to Mother Rhoyne. That was a dark thought, but he was filled with dark thoughts these days as they marched to war.

Robb heeded his counsel, but Jon took no joy in winning that joust against Lady Stark. He understood her desire to go see to her brother and her house. It was only natural. But it was a strategic mistake. If Riverrun was under siege, if that was the only pathway open to them, then aye, perhaps the gambit would have been worth it. But if the need was not that pressing, letting paranoia and fear and irrationality would only doom them. They had to be smart. For now, until all the other forces of this war could join the fray, it was only the wolf and the lion.

The lone bright spot in his dark thoughts was Rhaenys. Without her company, Jon knew he would be far more glum all the time. She had a way of bringing a smile to his face or making him laugh. They hadn't the chance to couple again like their night in Moat Cailin, though one night on the march they were able to sneak away and steal kisses in a wooded copse near the road. 

The only other thing beside all that was the temptation he faced from the presence of Lord Howland Reed. Father had told him to seek him out if anything happened to him, but there was something old and cold and primal inside his mind that whispered to him now, told him that if he asked, he would be the one to condemn his father. So Jon mustered his patience and strength and resisted the urge to ask.

On the eastern bank of the Green Fork, there were no great lords or castles of note. Most of the strength of the Riverlands lay on the western bank, or south of the Trident itself. As they passed by stout little holdfasts, though, they added to their army Ser Halmon Paege rode out first, one day after they passed the Twins. Jon thought the man had a disproportionately impressive sigil for a small house of landed knights - a black shield with intertwined red and white serpents. Ser Paege brought with him twenty knights and fifty crossbowmen. It didn't matter - the more the merrier. They were all headed to the great slaughter now anyway. Later came Lord Martyn Lolliston, with his sigil of three oaken barrels. He did not bring any oaken barrels with him, but he did bring a hundred foot and fifty horse, and that was all the better. They picked up more along the way, smaller houses and landed knights; Lord Harlan Terrick with two hundred, Lord Bryn Deddings with a hundred fifty. These small bands began to add up - by the time they were a day away from Harroway, they added nearly fifteen hundred men and five hundred horse and many knights and small lords to their army. Together they were not small. All of them rallied to Lady Stark and the Blackfish, and Jon acknowledged that Robb's decision to bring her south was a good one.

Jon, Theon, and Ser Brynden ranged ahead with the outriders, a pack of thirty horse prowling the countryside. Harroway's town on the other side of the river had already been plundered by Lannisters. It was too close to the Ruby Ford, and the old lion was intent on forcing the matter at the Ruby Ford and the Ruby Ford only. When they passed through the harbor on the eastern bank, they saw the burnt out buildings and smoke rising on the other side. The castle was still standing, untouched, and the banners that flew on the walls were that of House Roote.

"Old Lucamore held the castle, then," said Ser Brynden with a grim smile. "Lannister's outriders are still likely to be about. Watch yourself."

"There," pointed Theon. "On the ridge just up ahead."

Three men emerged from a burnt thatched house, dragging a kicking and screaming woman out. Another soldier led a man out from behind as the three soldiers roughly handled the struggling woman. The lone soldier slit the man's throat, and then went to join his compatriots by the woman.

Jon did not wait for a command. He silently drew Frostbite and Ghost padded alongside him. He spurred his horse on with a "hyah!" and rode hard at the men. They saw him coming but only too late. They let go of the woman, but by then Ghost leaped onto the soldier who had killed the innocent townsman. He went down with a scream; the only noises that came from him thereafter were the wet squelches of his flesh being torn off by the great wolf. Jon rode down one man and beheaded another with Frostbite. The last of them tried to get away, but his pants were still down around his ankles from his attempted rape. He did not get far before he fell down. Jon dismounted and strode over to the soldier. He wore patchwork armor, leather and some scattered mail, and wore an arming cap that only covered some of his sandy blonde hair. He was young. Jon did not care.

With a mailed fist, Jon punched him across the face and drew his knife, pressing it to the man's throat.

"Talk, and perhaps I'll let you live," Jon grunted. Ser Brynden and Theon and the rest of the outriders came up beside him.

"Hello, Lannister," said Theon mockingly. "Seem to have caught you with your pants down."

The man stammered. "P-p-please, sers, 'ave mercy..."

"That is entirely dependent on what song you have to sing for us, little bird," said Ser Brynden, kneeling by the man. "Any other patrols here on the eastern bank of the town?"

"A-a few more, mi'lord. J-just to w-warn the army if the Northmen come ta' make the crossin'," he said. "P-please."

Jon had little mercy for him, but he made it quick - a clean slice, a great deal of blood, and a few dying gasps before it was all over. There was no pleasure in it, only grim duty.

Ser Brynden eyed him with a curious look. "Cat said you'd done some fighting in Essos. Wasn't sure what that would be worth. You know how to handle yourself."

"It's not hard to kill a few idiots who aren't looking," Jon snorted. "Do you think he was telling the truth?"

"Yes, but the question is the extent," Ser Brynden said. "One, or two, or three, or perhaps a dozen parties? Most likely closer to the latter. The old lion is likely to be watching the crossing here to make sure we don't try to ferry men across.

“Is there is a ferry here?" Jon said.

Ser Brynden looked about. "There should be. It's a wide thing, twelve oars either side - we could ferry a few hundred men across quickly. But what's the point? Tywin would catch us with our pants down, half on this side of the river and half on the other side, and that'd be the end of this little song and dance."

“Not the whole army. Just enough to give Tywin Lannister a nasty surprise.” Jon went over to the woman, who was whimpering and trembling as she looked on at Ghost with fear. The wolf was still busy devouring the man it had killed. Ghost was a quiet beast, but the noise of chewed innards was not. One particularly wet ripping noise was enough to make the woman begin sobbing in fear.

"Easy, easy, good woman," Jon said gently, kneeling by her. "We're part of the Northern army, sworn to House Stark. We're allies to the Rivermen, and friends of yours. No harm will come to you, I swear it. What is your name?"

"P-p-posey, mi'lord. Oh, p-please keep that w-wolf away from me!" she cried.

"Don't worry," Jon assured her, patting at her hand. "The wolf listens to me. My name is Jon Snow. I'm the son of Eddard Stark, lord of Winterfell. He won't touch you, I promise." Jon tore his cloak off and wrapped it around her, half naked and stripped of her clothes by the soldiers as she was. "Posey, can you tell me if the ferry is still here?"

"Yes, mi'lord," she said. Her shoulders heaved slower now, and Jon could tell some level of calm was returning to her. "It's on this side. Me... me 'usband - 'im that's dead there... he was the ferryman." Jon glanced back at the corpse grimly.

"I'm sorry about your husband. If you'd like somewhere to sleep, somewhere safe, you can take refuge with our army. We always have need of washerwomen, camp hands, and the like. I can't promise it'll be a good life, but you're less like as to die." The woman nodded and stood. Jon pointed to the road upriver. "Head that way. When you find them, tell them Jon Snow sent you." The woman shuddered and nodded and left. Jon watched her disappear down the road.

"Take ten men," commanded Ser Brynden to one of the knights in their party, "and go secure the ferry, Ser Stefan." The Perryn knight nodded and gestured to some of his men. "Hold onto it with your life. I expect I know what you're plotting, Snow."

They spent another hour prowling around the rain-soaked eastern bank. It lay eerily silent, its charred buildings standing as monuments to the brutality that had unfolded. Jon, Ser Brynden, and Theon led their small band of outriders through the few buildings, spread far apart on the more sparsely populated side of the town. Each building was a potential hiding place for Lannister outriders. The scent of burnt wood and the acrid aftermath of fire lingered in the air. Ghost padded silently beside Jon, his fur matted with rain and his muzzle with blood and gore. The white direwolf, whose fur became more grey in the mud of the town, moved with an uncanny grace, blending into the shadows as they approached a burned-out tavern. 

Jon signaled for the group to halt, a silent command. His hand rested on the hilt of Frostbite, and his eyes scanned the surroundings. Ser Brynden, with his years of experience, gestured to a few of the outriders to flank them.

"There," Theon whispered, pointing towards the shadows near the burnt tavern. Jon nodded, his senses on high alert. They moved with the precision of a well-honed blade, each step deliberate and cautious. As they approached, the first Lannister outrider emerged, his armor glinting in the dim light. He froze as he spotted Jon and his companions. Without hesitation, Jon drew Frostbite, the blade catching a glimmer of light as it cut through the darkness. Ghost lunged at the man, his jaws closing around the Lannister soldier's throat. A brief gurgle, and the man fell, lifeless, to the muddy ground.

The skirmish had begun. From the shadows, more outriders emerged, armed and ready. Ser Brynden led a charge with a battle cry that echoed through the desolate streets. Jon fought with a controlled fury, parrying strikes with Frostbite and delivering lethal counterattacks. Theon wielded his axe with brutal efficiency, leaving fallen enemies in his wake.

The eastern bank became a battleground, the clash of steel against steel mingling with the distant roll of thunder. They fought through narrow, muddy streets, clearing out pockets of resistance. The sounds of combat reverberated through the empty streets, a haunting symphony of violence. A Lannister archer tried to take advantage of the darkness, unleashing a volley of arrows from a concealed position. Jon spotted the glint of steel-tipped shafts in the air and swiftly moved, catching the next on his shield before it took his eye. Ghost, sensing the threat, nimbly leaped up the wall with claw and fang, and took the archer down from the thatched roof, tearing him from his perch.

The battle raged on, building to a crescendo of clashing steel, shouts, and the anguished cries of the fallen. The small band of Stark outriders moved with a deadly efficiency, their tactics honed through experience. As they approached the center of the houses, Jon saw the last remnants of the Lannister outriders making a desperate stand. He charged forward, Frostbite gleaming in the stormy darkness. The remaining foes fought fiercely, but the outcome was inevitable. With a final swing of his sword, Jon dispatched the last opponent. The rain continued to fall, washing away the blood that stained their weapons and clothes. The eastern bank of Harroway, for the moment, was silent once again. Jon surveyed the aftermath, the small group of outriders catching their breath. Theon wiped blood from his axe, a feral grin on his face. The rain was coming down, so Jon tore a red cloak from one of the Lannister men and tied it around his shoulders.

They rode hard back to the main army, moving through lines of Stark pickets. Robb called the war council right away. Jon was happy to see Rhaenys there, though she looked at him with worry in her eyes. He silently mouthed an assurance to her.

"What news?" Robb asked. 

"Harroway's town is burned, but the castle holds. I saw Lord Lucamore Roote's banners on the parapets," Ser Brynden said. "We cleared the eastern bank of the town. The ferry is still on this side. In an hour we can have a hundred men across - give me five hours and I'll get us a thousand horse on the other side."

"And what the fuck are a thousand lancers going to do on the other side?" grunted the Greatjon. "Piss around while the rest of us do battle? It'll be naught but a mosquito prick on Lannister's backside on the battle."

Robb cut in. "A thousand horse might not do much, you're right, Lord Umber. But what about three thousand or four? Ser Brynden, how many castles and manors lie along the western bank of the Green Fork?"

"Within a day's ride? Roote, if he has any men left. Ser Harry Nutt in Nutten -" a few snickers erupted in the tent - "Lord Myles Grell in Riverbend, and Ser Morgan Keath in Sallydance."

"What about House Darry?" Jon pointed to Castle Darry on the map. "It's on the Kingsroad. Would the Lannisters have stopped to sack it on the way here?"

"Most like. Even if they didn't, Tywin Lannister is sure to have eyes there. Castle Darry sits on his road of retreat. He would have set pickets around the castle."

"Then how many men could we get with houses Roote, Nutt, Grell, and Keath?" Robb asked.

"Depends on Roote. Nutt, Grell, and Keath should be able to muster six hundred horse between them and twice that on foot. Roote could give you another four hundred horse and eight hundred foot."

Jon nodded and turned to Robb. "So we send a small force to cross here at Harroway. We rally the lords on the western bank and ride hard to the Ruby Ford. Upon your signal, we'll take the Lannisters in the rear. It's the only way to carry the day without losing half our army at the ford, brother. We can win without it, but I fear the cost will be too high. We need to smash Tywin here so hard that he has no choice but to flee back to the crownlands. Then we can deal with the Kingslayer and alleviate Riverrun."

"Nagga's bones, you came back with a set of stones on you, Snow," Theon said with a laugh. "I like it. A little mad, but I like it."

"Let us do this," Jon urged Robb. "Tywin will be so focused on the twenty thousand Northmen to his front that he'll forget about a thousand Northern lancers and three thousand Riverlords to his rear."

"Alright," Robb agreed. "Take a thousand men. The Blackfish will have the command. I want you to contact all nearby lords, but do not tarry. Ensure you keep an eye out for Lannister outriders. When you return, don’t roll up the rear. I want you to strike the flank. There’s a bend to the river here. Strike at this angle and they’ll be forced to choose drowning or steel. Jon, will you go with them in my stead?"

"I will, brother," Jon agreed. 

"I'll go as well," pledged Theon. It was agreed, then. One thousand men would cross now, as dusk fell, and would rouse the Riverlands as quick as they could. They had only until midday next day, as that was when Robb planned the attack on the Lannister position. 

As Jon left the tent, he heard his name called. He turned around to see Rhaenys and smiled, but she only had a frown for him.

”Please don’t try to play the part of the hero,” she said. Jon glanced about. There were too many prying ears. He nodded his head in the direction of his tent. When they got closer, he grabbed Bran.

“Come with me and keep your mouth shut and your eyes open,” he commanded his younger brother. “If anyone comes close, alert me.” Bran glanced and him and Rhaenys with wide eyes and nodded but said nothing. 

“I have to go,” he told Rhaenys in the confines of his tent. “It’s my plan. What kind of man would I be if I commanded three hundred men to risk their lives on a covert mission without doing it myself?”

”A smart man!” she said. “Gods. There’s no use talking you out of it, is there?”

Jon shook his head no and her gaze softened. “Hold out your arm.” He did as commanded and she tied her kerchief to it. It was a dainty thing, cream of color with a red three headed dragon stitched onto it. “You know what this means?”

”It’s my lady’s favor,” Jon said with a smile.

”No,” she said. “It’s a solemn vow. You are mine and you will come back to me. I am your princess and you will not defy me on this. Do you understand?”

”I do,” Jon affirmed.

She scanned his eyes and then pulled him into a searing kiss. “Come back to me or else I will haunt you through the seven hells, I swear it by the old gods and new. Do not test me.” Then she turned around and left. Jon let out a laugh, equal parts overwhelmed and happy. They’d had so few moments together that even this - as imperious as Rhaenys had been - was well worth it.

Bran looked at him with wide eyes. Jon chuckled. “I already know you won’t tell. It’s not me you should be afraid of. What do you think the Princess will do to you if you don’t keep your mouth closed?” Bran went paler than before and Jon ruffled his hair affectionately.

”Can I accompany you across the river?” Bran asked hopefully. “Please, Jon. I’m ready.” Jon mulled it over. Potentially, it was the riskiest job before the whole battle. On the other hand, there was a good chance it would keep him away from the actual battle. It might be easier to retreat back to Harroway and ferry across the river in case of defeat than try to flee back across the Ruby Ford with the main army in the middle of a rout.

“If Robb agrees,” Jon said. He did not want to say no, but they had promised Lady Stark that they would squire him to Jon to keep him away from the most brutal parts of war. He was loathe to renege on that.

In the end, Robb agreed over the tearful protests of Lady Catelyn. Jon averted his eyes when she cried. It was difficult to watch. Thankfully Robb had the sense to dismiss everyone from the tent when the request was made. It would not do for the bannermen to see Lady Stark like this. She rounded on him and begged him to persuade Robb, but Jon could not say anything. “I can only promise to bring him back whatever the cost, my lady,” Jon promised. “But I can’t defy a command from Lord Stark.”

”Lord Stark is your father!” she cried. Jon nearly recoiled. He had never thought to hear such an open admission from her like that. “Would he want you to take his younger son into battle like this?”

”Father would want us to do our duties,” Robb said. “Enough of this, Mother. Say your farewells to Bran. It won’t be forever. Jon will be with him. We’ll carry the day. Bran is a man just like the rest of us.” Jon understood why he did it. Lord Hornsood’s sons were riding into battle, as were Whitehill’s fifteen year old Gryff Whitehill and Lord Hornwood’s bastard, Larence, who was only fourteen. Bran’s honour would be questioned if he stayed behind.

When he and Bran left the tent, Lady Stark still wept. He put his arm around Bran’s shoulder. “Lady Stark weeps because she loves you,” he said. “But so do I. Promise me you will listen to my commands at all times. If I tell you to run and save yourself, run and save yourself. If you see me fall, stick to your uncle Ser Brynden. If we all fall, go back to Harroway and take the ferry across. Do you understand?”

Bran nodded shakily. Jon kissed his brother’s forehead. “Good lad.”

They crossed quickly just before dusk with their horses. All sigils were abandoned save for a Stark banner they kept hidden. No man wore a cloak with any insignia on it. Jon chose to keep the red Lannister cloak he plundered from the dead man. It contrasted with his blackened steel armor. The first stop was the castle across the riverbank. One of Lord Roote’s crossbowmen nearly killed Jon, shooting a bolt only a few inches to the right of his jaw, but Ser Brynden and Lord Lucamore knew each other well and he was able to diffuse the tense garrison. In the span of another hour, their flanking force swelled from three hundred to a thousand. 

From there they split into three groups. Jon, Bran, the Blackfish, and Theon took one to Riverbend. One went under the command of Ser Stefan Perryn to Nutten, and Lord Roote went to Sallydance. They rode hard through the night. They encountered small, scattered groups of Lannister outriders, but they were quickly dispatched. Once, a lone nearly got away.

Nearly. Jon had never thanked the gods for Theon Greyjoy before, but he did now. Through the eye at eighty paces, on the move - gods be good.

Their force rendezvoused at the crossroads south of Harroway. By then the force had swelled to nearly four thousand men. Men had come from all over, every village rallying to their lords to stand up against the Lannisters. The outriders stoked it up a little, chanting about Joffrey the bastard king, Joffrey Waters. There was no love for the Lannisters here. It was nearly dawn now, but it was enough to afford the men an hour or two of rest. Jon took the time to get some sleep. When he woke, their flanking force set to march. It was a sunny morning. The clouds and rain of yesterday had gone, and the ground was firmer and less muddy as they neared the ford.

Jon and Bran rode ahead with Theon and twenty riders. This time the Blackfish trusted him to lead a party of his own. Jon silently carved through the Lannister picket lines and scouting parties as they neared the site of battle. It was in one of these small skirmishes that Bran struck down his first enemy, a dismounted man at arms with a mace. Bran swung hard and took the man’s head clean off his body.

Jon patted his back as he retched over the side of his horse. “You did well, Bran. I still remember my first kill in Essos. Remember that feeling. Sometimes killing is necessary, but if you remember that taste it’ll stay a last resort for you, as it should.”

Some dense woods and thickets gave them cover as they came near the battle site. It was nearly midday when Jon crept ahead to the tree line in advance of their main force. Ser Brynden caught up with him to survey the battlefield.

”Gods,” he muttered. “It’s been seventeen years since I was last here, and I was last here for another battle. I still remember Rhaegar Targaryen charging across that river to his doom.” He eyed Jon. “Blackened armor, red cape - from a distance you could make a poor imitation.”

”I’m no Targaryen,” Jon scoffed. “And I have no desire to meet Rhaegar’s fate at this ford.”

”No, that would be a shame,” agreed Ser Brynden. The Lannister force was arrayed in front of them. They had a thin center but wide and deep flanks. “They mean to feign retreat,” Ser Brynden said. “That center will collapse and the flanks will fold in. If we hadn’t done this, the battle may well have ended in defeat.”

”But we did this,” Jon said. “Now we wait.” True to his word, the Northern army began to deploy across the ford just before midday. The Lannisters had already placed defensive lines on the other side, and their archers were on a height. It was a good defensive position for Tywin Lannister to make his challenge against the Northmen. Jon scanned the banners. The center was made up of Lannister bannermen, yes, but the wings were crownlanders. How loyal were they to their bastard king? It was the flank they had to break. Robb had the right of it. The first horn sounded and the Northern infantry advanced across the ford. Jon saw Umber, Karstark, Glover, Mormont, and Bolton banners. The advance was haphazard. He could see them lose cohesion when trampling across the ford to cross the other side, and when the Lannister archers began to let loose a hail of arrows, the line began to disintegrate more. When they crossed, they smashed into the Lannister infantry in the center. Robb placed most of the horse on his left, away from Jon and the flanking force. The Northern cavalry began a charge across the river. He could see the sun glint off the armor of the Northern cavalry. Riverlord banners mingled with Manderly and Stark and Hornwood. Crannogmen archers traded fire with the Lannister archers.

The Lannisters met the cavalry charge of the Northern army with their own. Heavy horse and knights crashed against each other in what became a chaotic melee on horseback. The Lannisters had more knights, and slowly but surely, the Northern cavalry began to be pushed back across the river. At the same time, though, the Lannister center began to buckle in. To any inexperienced commander it might have looked the part of an impending breakthrough, but Ser Brynden knew different.

"Do not commit, Robb," the old knight whispered under his breath. "Do not commit." But it was as though the Northern army did not listen. Robb was not a fool, but the Umbers began to pour into the gap, followed by the Mormonts and Karstarks. The Northern houses had taken the bait. Jon cursed under his breath.

Some Lannister archers that took up position on the right wing of the army now began to retreat in the face of the renewed Northern infantry charge. Ser Brynden pointed at the flank closest to them. "The archers, there!" he urged. "They'll have to part for them to get through. That's our chance." Jon saw it, too. The Lannister infantry on the right was already preparing to make way for their retreating archers. They had but a few moments to strike. Jon and Brynden and the Riverlords quickly massed the force and Jon joined the cavalry with Bran behind him. Ser Brynden blew the horn, and then they emerged from the trees. Jon's blood pumped in his ears as they thundered out from the forest, screaming and shouting and whooping. There was not a great deal of distance between them and the Lannister flank, and as soon as their force was spotted, the Lannister right began to disintegrate in surprise. Jon saw infantrymen running confused - the archers who were trying to retreat across the ford were caught going south, the infantry who had parted ways were now split in half, with only some being able to spot their flanking maneuver. At the same time another warhorn blew, and Jon saw Robb and the Northern reserve commit to the charge as well. Like two great hammers, they caught the Lannister right in complete disarray - Jon from the flank and Robb from across the ford.

It was little more than a slaughter. Jon lanced through the first knight he saw, a man with a sigil of a burning tree on his surcoat. That lance soon broke, and then he drew Frostbite, hacking and slashing through Lannister footmen like a scythe through wheat. "Stay close behind me, Bran!" Jon shouted. The battle rhythm took over as he fell into a trance - forward, cut, slash, parry, cut, forward cut, slash, parry. He felled two men, and then ran through another Lannister knight that had fallen from his horse. The Lannister line completely began to break apart as they folded the right and center into the river.

The ford ran bloody. When they drove all the way to the water, the Lannister center was still holding out, desperately, even as their right totally collapsed on itself. Jon's horse took a pike and fell, and he landed hard in the water. His armor took most of the blow, but it was difficult to get up. He only managed to stand in time to see a mace coming for his face. Jon raised his sword to parry, but it was too late-

Then Bran charged forward and thrust his sword through the Lannister soldier's armor, straight into the gap, with so much force that the man fell backward into the river. Bran wrenched his sword from his body. "Well done!" Jon shouted, slapping his brother's helm. "Now stay behind me, and make sure you have our men on either side. Don't slip in the water, do you hear me?" Bran nodded and they fell in with the rest of the Stark infantry pushing across the river. Jon could see Robb on his horse, surrounded by his honor guard. They cut through Lannister soldiers with ease. 

Then the Lannister reserve committed to the battle. Jon could see two banners - the golden lion of Casterly Rock, with a yellow banner with three black dogs on it. He would recognize that anywhere, just as he recognized the man leading the charge. He sat a horse larger than any other, and he himself was larger than any other man Jon had ever seen. His armor was black, covered by a yellow surcoat and cloak with the sigil of his house. It was Gregor Clegane.

The Lannister reserve plowed into their own men and began to punch a hole into the Stark infantry. Clegane slew everyone in his way, and belatedly Jon realized he was cutting his way across the center of the battlefield towards Robb. Robb! Robb was in danger. "Get back!" Jon shouted to Bran. "Back behind the infantry!" He pushed Bran behind him and charged forward. There was a fallen spear in the river, which he hoisted. Clegane was so close to Robb, too close... 

He lunged forward with the spear just in time to gore Clegane's horse. The beast went down with a screaming neigh, and Clegane tumbled from it onto the ground. The Mountain got up with a speed that was unnatural for a man of his size. His helmet was torn from his head from the fall. He looked around madly to find the man who had killed his horse, and then he saw Jon with his spear. With a monstrous roar, Clegane charged at him, drawing a massive sword that for any other man would have been a two-hander. Jon drew Frostbite and prepared to meet his charge. The first blow he foolishly tried to meet with his shield. It splintered under the force of Clegane's strike, and Jon felt his arm nearly go dead under it. He shouted in pain, but that was all he could do, for Clegane already swung the sword around and over his head, ready to cleave Jon in two. He spun out of the way and kept the Mountain in front of him. The Mountain followed with more heavy blows, most of which Jon had to dodge. He tried to dart in and get some blows in with Frostbite, but the only ones he landed were nicks at best. The massive man seemed to not tire at all, braying at him like an aurochs with every attempt to dismember him. Gods, Jon thought to himself. I'm sure to die here. There is no slaying this man. The last blow came close - too close. Jon stumbled backwards and landed in the water of the stream. The Mountain towered over him and prepared to strike.

His last thought was of Rhaenys, but his body operated on a soldier's pure instinct. His free hand grasped for something - anything - and found something small and hard in the water under the river. He grabbed it and flung it at the Mountain's face. He did not see what it was, but only caught a tiny flash of red. Whatever it was, it struck the man right in the eye. Gregor bellowed and dropped his sword, both of his hands going to his face. Blood spurted out from between his fingertips. Jon scrambled to his feet and leaped at Ser Gregor. Frostbite swung through the air, silver-blue, and severed the Mountain's head from his body.

The great beast collapsed and twitched in the river. Jon fell to a knee and gasped for air, but his deed had not gone unnoticed. The Lannisters saw the commander of their reserve fall and fell into a full, panicked retreat. The Northern cavalry began to pursue them across the ford, but the Northern army went into a full cheer. The battle was won - they had taken the ford. Jon crawled over to the head of the Mountain, and turned it to face him. There, buried in the man's fleshy eye-socket, amidst the snarl he had died with, was a lone, sparkling ruby. Jon looked at in shock, before plucking it from the man's socket and placing it in a pouch.

Robb and his honor guard rode by and dismounted. Bran was with them, and Jon was glad to see him unhurt. Soldiers and knights and lords alike all stopped to stare in awe at the scene. Jon yanked his helmet off his head and let his black hair tumble out. Robb came up to him and helped him to his feet, staring in awe at the corpse in the stream.

"By the gods, Jon. Are you hurt?"

Jon shook his head and gestured to his shield arm, which hung limply by his side. "I'll feel that next morning, but other than that... no."

"You killed the Mountain," Robb said. "The plan worked perfectly."

"It might have worked regardless," Jon replied. "Your charge was perfectly timed."

"As was yours," Robb grinned, pulling him into an embrace. Bran joined too, and the three brothers hugged on the field of victory. They only broke apart when a voice called from behind them.

"Snow!" Jon turned around to see Ser Brynden striding over to them. He had a half-smile on his face, but it was the largest smile he'd seen yet on the Blackfish. "Kneel."

The wind left Jon's lungs. He sunk slowly, resting on one knee and wincing as he did so. He was already beginning to feel his bruises, but now his chest was tight. The Blackfish placed his sword on Jon's right shoulder.

"I'd call on the Seven, but I know you Northmen don't hold to them. You have the gods of your father, son?"

"I do, Ser," Jon said. 

"Then before the gods of your father, I charge you to be brave." The sword moved to his left shoulder. "Before the gods of the trees, I charge you to be just." The sword moved back to his right shoulder. "Before the gods of the faces, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent. Arise, Jon Snow. Arise a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

Chapter Text

EDDARD

The hinges creaked. The sound they made was a herald of death. 

When the gaolers came, they did not come for him gently. They beat him with truncheons - on the face, the ribs, the belly, the knees. He was bloodied and bruised when they dragged him out by the arms. Clad in nothing but soiled rags, the Lord of Winterfell was as low as any man who had the misfortune of finding himself a resident of the Black Cells under the Red Keep.

They dragged him along the cobblestone until it became brighter and brighter. He moaned in pain for the sunlight was entirely foreign to him now, blinding and harsh. Unceremoniously, they threw him onto a cart. The rough wood slats underneath him splintered; the pieces cut into his cheek and his nose and his arms and hands and legs. The sun beat above mercilessly. It'd' been so cold down in the cells. Here now it burned. He burned.

All around him were marching feet, the honor guard of his doom come to take him to the gallows. At some point he knew he had passed through the Red Keep and into the city itself, for the marching feet were joined by mocking, derisive, harsh voices. Traitor, they shouted. Liar! Heathen! They did not know. How could they. Ned blinked and peered over the side of the cart, only for a rock to strike him in the forehead. He fell back in pain; more splinters pierced his skin, this time on the backside of his neck. They threw other things into the cart, too, things other than rocks. If they were kind, it was simply food. More than once it was spittle. Once it was the contents of someone's chamber pot. The smell and stench filled his nostrils and mouth and he gagged and retched over the side of the cart.

Then the cart came to a creaking stop, and rough hands pulled Ned out onto the cobblestones. He squinted against the harsh sunlight, his eyes adjusting slowly. There was a gathered throng among him, and a statue in the center of a plaza. Behind it was a great building - the Sept of Baelor. All around him was a sea of faces twisted in anger and disdain. He saw familiar banners among them—Lannister lions and Baratheon stags held high by those who had betrayed him. The High Septon awaited at the steps, adorned in rich vestments that glistened in the sun. Next to him was the Queen Mother, who stared at him with a hard face. There was no look of pleasure in her eyes. She turned to her son, a gleaming little cub of a lion in the sun. He was dressed in red with only the faintest hints of gold. It was too obvious now. There was not a drop of Baratheon blood in him. Joffrey glanced at him malevolently. If he had been capable of it, Ned was sure the boy would have strangled the life from him himself. 

The High Septon's booming voice echoed in the plaza, declaring the many crimes and perfidies of Eddard Stark. Ned listened to them all, but every word rang as hollow as the Seven who now stood before him. There was a falsity to all of it, an emptiness where piety might have been. Ned longed to lay his head to rest under the boughs of the weirwood tree, to die in his home, to let his blood water the roots of the gods. It would not happen here.

As the crowd roared with disdain and shock at every charge, Joffrey's malicious smirk grew wider and wider. Cersei, standing beside her son, seemed to radiate a tense energy, her gaze flickering between Joffrey and the condemned Lord Stark. She said something. She wanted Joffrey to spare him. Of course. Cersei was no fool, but she had lost control of her son. He was a wild thing, mad, mad just like the Mad King. Joffrey, however, was not content with whatever she said. He divested himself of her, pushing her away not gently. A hush fell over the crowd as the young king descended the steps, his every movement a display of arrogance.

Ned's eyes met Cersei's, and in that brief connection, he sensed a conflict within her. There was something in her gaze that spoke of reluctance, a silent plea for mercy. Not because she cared for him. He was not so naive. Joffrey, on the other hand, wore his rage openly.

"You thought you could plot your treason against me unpunished!" Joffrey spat the words at Ned. "You dared to question my birthright, my legitimacy! You call me a bastard, a stain on the honor of House Baratheon!"

Ned's gaze remained steady, his jaw set in defiance. He was prepared to face death, but he would not yield to the venomous lies that Joffrey sought to spit. His mother approached him, and now she gave voice to those pleas for mercy that were in her eyes. But she did not coat them in sugared words. "We need him alive," she said, "to make peace with the Northerners, to convince them to abandon the Targaryen pretenders. Listen to me, Joff-" Joffrey paid no heed, pushing his mother aside. He continued his tirade, accusing Ned of betrayal, of trying to undermine the throne. Then, Ser Boros Blount ascended the steps. His face was ruddy and there was a gleam in his eyes that Ned had seen before in the eyes of other men. It was the mark of fear. Something had happened. He leaned in, whispering into the ears of Cersei and Joffrey. Ned strained to hear, catching only fragments - enough to piece together that the Northmen had routed the Lannisters, and that Gregor Clegane was dead, slain by...

"Robb Stark's bastard brother," he heard whispered. His heart froze, and then blossomed. Oh Jon, he thought. My boy. My good, brave boy. He raised his eyes to the heavens. He would see her soon enough to tell her in person, he hoped. Do you see your son, Lya? Do you see the man he has become? Are you proud? Can you forgive me for wronging him? I only wanted to keep him safe. Forgive my mistakes, sweet sister. I only wanted to keep your boy - our boy - safe.

Joffrey's eyes widened in fury. "These traitors spread lies to turn the people against their rightful king, and now they take up arms against his loyal bannermen! There is no mercy for curs and dogs like these. They will only learnw with violence. I will teach Robb Stark the price of defiance!"

He pointed an accusing finger at Ned, and the crowd's jeers reached a fever pitch. The plaza became a cacophony of hatred, drowning out reason and justice. A kick forced him to his knees, but Ned Stark did not hang his head this time. He saw the statue of Baelor. A girl stood atop it, in a blue dress. She was sixteen, no older, with grey eyes and dark hair, a thing of surpassing loveliness. It was Lya. Her face was stern, but then her lips curled up into the smallest of smiles, and then he saw her no more.

He could hear the rasp of his own sword pulled out from its scabbard behind him. The High Septon asked him if he had any last words.

Ned looked at the crowd. They had settled some - perhaps, if only to hear the piteous begging of a doomed man. He would not give it to them. He turned to the High Septon. "Get it over with, old man. The gods of my father call to me."

Then Ice swung, and there was nothing but darkness.

In the corner of the raised platform, a spider watched and smiled. The last die had been thrown, the seeds of war spread all across Westeros, and now the time of the black dragon was near.

Chapter Text

RHAENYS

Rhaenys sat mounted on her horse on the hill and watched thousands of men die in front of her eyes.

She had never seen pitched battle before. It was different from the act of killing individually. She still remembered the way her kidnapper's life left his eyes when she stabbed him with a knife in the cove, so long ago, near Pentos. That had been quiet - nothing save the grunts and huffs and choking noises of death, and the sound of rain and the sea outside. This was loud, with horns, screams, and mass agony. This was indiscriminate, bloody slaughter. Men butchered each other. Horses trampled men. Men gored horses. Arrows put out eyes and crippled knees. 

Fire and blood, her family was fond of saying. She wondered now if there was really any difference between this butchery and death by dragonfire. At least with the latter, only the enemy died.

She saw the Northern center take heavy losses crossing the ford, and then the Northern cavalry on the left get thrown back by the Lannister cavalry. Things looked bleak, but then horns blew and there, far in the distance on the other side of the ford, she saw hundred of men pour out of the woods and crash into Lannister army. The first knight in the charge was a man in black armor, with a red cloak streaming behind him. She wondered if that was what her father had looked like. Her spirits lifted as the grey direwolf of Stark pushed back the golden lion. There was a countercharge by the Lannisters, but it broke, and then their enemies routed.

The only thing she could think of was Jon. Jon was there somewhere in that chaos. Only the gods knew if he was dead or alive. There were so many bodies, so many crawling wounded. She prayed to all of the gods, the Seven, the old gods, the gods of Essos and the lands beyond, that her Jon wasn't one of them.

Far to the distance she could see some of the Northern cavalry giving chase to the Lannister retreaters. Closer still a group of men thundered back up the Kingsroad from the ford. Stark banners flew high, but in the center there was a singular black banner, with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. She looked at the great dragon fluttering in the wind, flying low above the men like a spirit of vengeance. 

Jon and Robb rode ahead of the pack, with Bran right behind them, and Rhaenys' heart felt fit to burst with joy. Jon rode back on a different horse than the one he rode away on. It was a bay roan courser, not the black horse he took with him when he left for the ferry. One arm hung limply to his side, and there were large splinters of wood in his armor. He was the red-cloaked knight in black armor that she had seen, she was sure of it. He took off his helm as he approached and his unruly black hair tumbled from it. He had never been so beautiful to her than in that moment. She dismounted and did her very best not to run over to them and leap into Jon's arms. Lady Catelyn did not hesitate to run towards Bran, though, and she swept him into a loving embrace. Jon looked at then and gave her a lovely smile. Rhaenys could not help but redden and smile.

"Bran!" cried Lady Stark. "Oh, my boy. Are you hurt?"

"No, Mother," Bran said. He looked miffed; Rhaenys could not blame him. "I will be if you keep squeezing me like that."

"Let him go, little Cat," said the Blackfish, who dismounted just a few seconds later. "Bran did well, and fought like a man of House Stark. You should be proud of him."

"Bran fought like a madman," Robb proclaimed, tousling his younger brother's hair. "Saved Jon's life."

"Jon saved yours," Bran pointed out. "Mother, Jon defeated Ser Gregor Clegane! He killed the Mountain!"

A cheer went up from among the men, but Rhaenys' heart stopped. She looked to Jon in shock, her mouth agape. Jon turned to his horse and plucked something out of a satchel. He got to one knee and placed it before her.

"Your Grace, I know this cannot bring your mother back," he said, his tone grave and formal. "But I can try to give you justice for her.”

Rhaenys stared down at the blood-soaked head of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, who had caused so much pain and suffering. She etched every detail of his horrid face into her memory. This was the face that looked down as he tormented her mother in her last moments. Now it was ruined, with one of his eyes put out, and tongue lolling out. The blurry image of her mother's face flashed in her mind, and she felt a mix of grief, anger, and a strange satisfaction at the sight of the brute's head. She was seized with a sudden desire to draw her blade and hack at the head, and her hand even slipped towards the hilt of Dark Sister. Then her sense returned, and her hand retreated.

"How?” she asked.

Jon stood, his eyes meeting hers. “That is the other strange part of this tale.” He fished inside his pouch and produced a red ruby. It was small but sharp, and covered in crusted maroon blood. “He nearly had me. I threw whatever I could find at his eye. It just so happened to be this, under the stones of the ford."

Rhaenys' heart stopped. "Is that...?"

"I don't know what else it could be." Even the Blackfish leaned over to peer at it, and then glanced at Jon queerly.

"I remember that they burned Rhaegar's body after the battle," the old knight said. "His armor had been inlaid with rubies, but they were all gone. I suppose the dragon prince got some measure of vengeance in the end. The gods have a strange way of doing things." Jon handed the head back to the Blackfish, who put it in the satchel on Jon's horse. "I'll see to it that the body is disposed of however you wish, Your Grace."

Something in Rhaenys broke. She rushed forward, ignoring the eyes of the onlookers, and threw her arms around Jon. He held her tightly, and she felt a mixture of relief and sorrow. "Thank you," she whispered into his shoulder.

He pulled back, placing her hands in his. "I wish I could have done more, my Princess."

"You did enough," she said, her eyes searching his. "You brought justice. You avenged my mother." She looked around to everyone, tears glistening in her eyes. Some of the men looked at her with a mixture of sorrow and satisfaction, others with solemn faces. "All of you, brave Northmen, brave lords of the Trident. Today you did more than win a battle. Today, in the shadow of this hard-fought victory, you stand not just as soldiers, knights and lords, but as a realm bound by honor and a common cause. House Targaryen owes a debt to each of you that transcends the realms of coin or title. You fought not only for our family but for justice, for the countless lives affected by the cruelty of those who seek power without mercy. As you stood beside me this day. House Targaryen will stand behind you now. Your liege is held by the Lannisters. We will not rest until the false king is cast down, Lord Eddard is freed, and the realm is brought to peace once more. Remember the legacy of Cregan Stark and Kermit Tully, who brought peace to a fractured realm. You are those same Northmen, those same Riverlords. Two hundred years ago, now, it does not matter. You are the pillars of this realm. This day is yours, my lords. Tomorrow will be ours!"

A resounding cheer rose up from the men. Jon hoisted Frostbite in the air, and Robb his sword, and all their men and the lords of the North. It was so loud Rhaenys thought she might go deaf, but it was one of the sweetest noises she had ever heard in her life.

As the soldiers scavenged the ravaged battlefield, and the camp followers rushed back and forth carrying the wounded on stretchers and taking account of their dead, Robb called another war council. Midday had come and gone with the battle and now evenfall was upon them. The Northern lords were all present, as were Lord Lucamore Roote and the other Riverlords who had joined on the western bank of the Trident and helped deliver the victory. Robb honored them publicly and all of them declared for House Targaryen and Viserys as their king in front of her. Rhaenys accepted their allegiances graciously, thankful for the growing number of men she could count among their cause. 

"First, a toast," Robb said. Squires passed about horns of ale among the Northmen and goblets of wine to the Riverlords. "To my brother Ser Jon of Winterfell, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, slayer of the Mountain, the White Wolf!"

"Ser Jon, the White Wolf!" echoed the lords and knights. "Ser Jon, the White Wolf!" proclaimed Rhaenys with pride. Jon beamed at her, but his face was flushed. He was not used to adulation, but Rhaenys wished nothing more for him to get all the adulation in the world. He deserved it and then some. Matters then turned back to the war. 

"We expect that, if the winds remain fair, ten thousand Dornish spears should make landfall by Saltpans within a sennight," Robb proclaimed. "Our light cavalry reported that the Lannisters have pulled back beyond Darry on the Kingsroad. Lord Darry rides here even now to come join us with his men."

"We need to secure Harrenhal for our use," Ser Brynden proclaimed. "It serves as a good central base from which to control the Kingsroad and open the pathway to the west. The Lannisters will not be able to bypass us to get to the Kingslayer's forces by Riverrun. We'll have cut off the Crownlands from the Westerlands, and it will give time for the Riverlords to rally their men in peace. The news of Tywin Lannister's defeat will spread far and fast."

"Lord Stannis will surely stake a claim now," said Lord Lucamore.

"There are rumors that he's already landed at Storm's End and that much of the Stormlands are rallying to him," Robb said. 

"Stannis and Tywin fighting each other is only beneficial for us." Jon gestured at the map in front of the gathered lords. "The rest of the Dornish army should be able to advance through the Stormlands unimpeded towards us. Together we can knock the Lannisters out of the war and then deal with whoever holds King's Landing after."

"What of the Reach lords?" asked Roose Bolton. "I must admit that their silence is... unsettling." Rhaenys was not sure that there was anything more unsettling than the leech lord himself, but if Bolton was wary of something, then surely they would all be wise to be wary of the same thing. 

"It gives me pause too, my lord," agreed Ser Brynden. "The Reach commands the largest armies in the South. As of yet they are an unmoved piece."

"Joffrey Waters is unwed as of yet," Rhaenys said. "What if Tywin Lannister proposes marriage between him and one of the Tyrell girls?"

"Mace Tyrell does have a daughter of an age with Robb," agreed Lady Catelyn. "And I think we would be fools to pretend that Lord Tywin hasn't reached out to them yet. But whether they accept would be another matter entirely. It would be difficult to persuade the lord of one of the Great Houses to wed his daughter to a bastard, even if he is king." Rhaenys bristled. Lady Stark looked at Jon when she said it.

"Lord Stannis has a daughter, if I remember," said Galbart Glover. "And the Tyrells have several sons."

"Yes, the heir, Willas Tyrell, is unmarried. Good man, though crippled. He had a bad leg ever since he fell afoul of Prince Oberyn in a joust," said Lord Roote. Rhaenys' ears perked up at that. She never heard this tale before. "The middle son, Garlan, is wed. The youngest, of course, is the Knight of the Flowers. Lord Stannis could propose a betrothal between his daughter and them."

"You forget that Tyrell laid siege to Storm's End during the rebellion. Lord Stannis was eating rats by the end of it. I remember him emerging from the castle with Lord Renly," added Lord Howland Reed, "when we lifted the siege. It was a pitiful state they were in. I do not think Lord Stannis is the sort of man to forgive that easily."

"The only thing Tyrell laid siege to during the war was his own table and every larder for a hundred leagues around," shouted the Greatjon. 

"My lords, why do we debate this groom or that for the Tyrell girl?" said Maege. She let out a rough cackle. "We have a catch of a groom ourselves." Every head swiveled to look at Robb, whose cheeks reddened. Good natured laughs broke out among the room, and even Jon and Rhaenys joined in. 

"A Tyrell daughter would make a worthy match," mused Lady Stark.

"And her father's eighty thousand swords worthier still," Jon added.

Robb sighed. "If I must, I will do my duty, my lords. Mother, can I count on you to go to Highgarden and speak with Lord Mace? Bring forth a proposal. If we were to bring the Tyrells into the fold, we could put an end to this war quickly." She nodded, but Rhaenys could sense her reticence to be away from her sons. "Now we must make haste to Riverrun, my lords. We have defeated one of the lions, but not all of them, and House Lannister is numerous. The aid of the Riverlords will be necessary if we mean to win this war. Ser Brynden, take a hundred riders and rouse the lords to our east and south. Set a garrison in Harrenhal and choke the Lannisters from marching back up the Kingsroad. Tell them their aid is needed in the defense of Riverrun. The rest of us will march along the River Road. Lord Roote, is your rookery in good order?"

"It is, Lord Robb," he confirmed.

"I need ravens sent to all the Riverlords. Bracken, Blackwood, Mallister, even Frey. We will muster in force around the Inn of the Kneeling Man and from there move to smash the Kingslayer. I mean to end this war and soon, and then the sooner we will all go to our homes. The sooner we'll seat His Grace and then bring peace to the Riverlands and go back north of the Neck and stay where we are meant to." That earned a solid round of ayes from the Northern lords. They continued to discuss strategy, but Rhaenys' mind wandered. She locked eyes with Jon, and felt her core ignite. She wanted nothing more than to leap over the tables and grab him and press a searing kiss to his lips, but her rational side won over the impulsive heat in her chest. He looked back at her with the same smolder, and dipped his head slightly, before turning to leave the tent.

She caught up to him just as he slipped inside his tent. He barely had time to turn around before she launched herself at him. Their lips locked right away and his mouth parted to allow her tongue access. She did not care that he was still mostly covered in the grime of battle. He never tasted so good as he did now, so alive, so much hers. Jon let out a low moan that hummed into her own mouth as he sat on his bed and she straddled his lap. Only when she could no longer breathe did she part her lips from his.

"You came back to me," she breathed.

"I promised, didn't I?" Jon pulled off his bracer and revealed her kerchief tied to his wrist. It was somehow unstained with blood or grime, though it was on the arm that still lay mostly limp. She massaged it and he winced.

"Are you seriously hurt?"

"Not seriously," Jon shook his head. "But this arm will be useless for a day or two."

"It's a good thing I won't be needing it," she said heatedly. "Jon, you... you..." her words began to fail. "You are simply wonderful. I wish I had better command of my tongue to put into words what you have done for me, what you are to me, what you mean to me. You did more than just live up to your promise. You brought me justice and vengeance. You slaughtered that fucking beast and brought me his head." She crashed her lips against his once more, capturing them in a passionate. His gloves came off, and his hands began to trail under her skirts, traveling up her thighs and to her breasts. She moaned as he rolled and pinched a nipple under the fabric. She grabbed the back of his head and leaned to whisper in his ear. "Tonight. Come to my tent tonight. I need you to fuck me and fill me all night." Then she lifted herself off him and turned around to leave. She grinned, satisfied, when she heard him groan behind her as she lifted the tent flap and disappeared back into camp.

As she readied for the night, Marela drew her a bath and left a steaming pot of the moon tea on her vanity. Rhaenys sank into the heated water and washed herself, feeling the grime of the days of marching dissipate into the water. 

A strange feeling settled over her. For so long she had craved vengeance against the Lannisters, against Ser Gregor Clegane, against all the houses that had wronged her and her family. Now she was here in Westeros, and some of the people she had thought to be her enemies were now her greatest friends. House Stark had proven itself a valuable, steadfast ally, and Jon...

Not for the first time, she reflected on the man who had so quickly become her moon and sun. There was something beyond attraction, something beyond even love and lust that simmered underneath their relationship. The closest she could come to define it was obsession, but even obsession seemed wrong. It was as though her blood called out for him, as though he was a part of her she would never be able to shake, no matter if she wanted to. It was beyond rationality, beyond reason, and in some ways it scared her for how seductive it was. 

Her thoughts were filled with wild plots. Perhaps she would petition Viserys to legitimize Jon - but that would need Lord Stark's approval. Perhaps he would grant it. If not, there were many lands, many castles that would need to be filled with loyalists when the war was over. A sad part of her remembered that it was Aegon's original proposal to Jon, and now she was in a position to actually make good on it. Casterly Rock and the Westerlands, the Stormlands - all of them would need a loyal hand. Jon could be elevated to any great seat. Aegon the Conqueror granted Storm's End to Orys Baratheon, bastard-born. Why couldn't Viserys grant it to Jon?

She imagined herself Rhaenys, Lady of Storm's End, Jon's wife. The thought she had pushed away as reckless and dangerous in her time in Winterfell now came back in full force and she embraced it wholly. There were ways to get what she wanted, and what she wanted was Jon - now, tomorrow, and every day after.

The ruby laid at the side of the table near her bathtub. She fingered it. Innately she knew it had belonged to her father. A mixture of sorrow and gratefulness filled her, and she looked up. "If you did this, Father, thank you. Thank you for keeping him safe for me."

Marela dipped her head inside the tent. "Your Grace, Ser Jon is here."

"Tell him to wait for a few moments," Rhaenys called. She got out of the bath and dried herself down. Marela had laid out her clothes for the evening. They were silken, of Dornish make, gifts from Arianne to her. They covered almost nothing, and she did not want them to. She wanted Jon to devour her with his eyes the moment he laid them on her. A barely-there, shimmering gown went over a sheer chemise. She chose to wear no smallclothes underneath. "Let him in, Marela," she called. 

The tent flap parted and Jon entered. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared the moment he saw her. He had cleaned up too, and wore leather trousers and a tunic with a leather jerkin over. His hair was still damp. He had not cut it in a while, so it hung almost to his shoulders, but his face was freshly shaved again, the way she loved. 

"I believe Your Grace requested my services tonight," he said huskily. Rhaenys smiled warmly and held out her hand.

"Come here, my love. I have waited long enough." He did not need a second command. He glided over to her lithely. His shield arm still hung a little limply, but before she could comment he had already swept her away and off her feet. Melting into him was the easiest thing she had done all day, and she let out a contented sigh as he carried her over to the bed and showered her with kisses. 

"Where did you get this dress?" he whispered as he nibbled at her ear.

"Dorne. Do you like it?"

"It's almost as good as your naked body," he growled. He kissed at her jaw and nibbled there, and then trailed them along her pulse at her neck. Every kiss was warm and shot lightning down her skin. When he reached the place where her neck flowed into her shoulders, he bit her there and she could not help but cry out plaintively. He slid the straps of her dress down from her shoulders and she helped as he went along, shrugging the fabric off her body. He pressed kisses through the sheer fabric of the chemise underneath, on the swell of her breasts, on her nipples. Then that too came off, and she was grinding against him like a wanton whore as he sucked her nipples into his mouth. She could feel herself grow wetter and wetter, but there was something she wanted to do. She pulled away from him and flipped so that he sat on the bed, and she was in front. Never losing eye contact, she slid down until she was on her knees, her face in line with his trousers. There was a wicked gleam in her eyes and a look of wonder in his as she pulled down his trousers. His cock flopped out, semi-stiff, and she took it in her hands.

"You lick me down there so well," she said breathily. "I thought I would return the favor, Ser." Gingerly she put the head in her mouth, afraid of hurting him, but as soon as her warm, wet tongue began to swirl around the tip, he let out a deep moan.

"Oh, gods..." he groaned. "Yes, Rhae. Just like that. Your mouth feels so good."

His words shot to her core and she felt as if her sex was dripping onto the floor. Her mouth explored the tip and then she took him deeper and deeper into her throat as he expanded. Gods, he filled every hole she gave to him so well. A filthy thought filled her mind, of him spilling his seed deep in her throat. She thought she might like that. She continued sucking him, taking turns between paying extra attention to the head of his cock and then taking the entire shaft into her throat. She went so far as to bury the tip of her nose into the soft hairs at the base of his groin.

"If you keep that up I'll spill in your throat, love," he grunted. She pulled away and grinned at him. She must have looked a sight, she thought, saliva dribbling and stretching in spiderlike tendrils from his cock to her mouth.

"I can't have that," she whispered. "I need your seed in my womb tonight."

He lifted her so that she straddled him once more, and then lowered her onto his wet, glistening cock. She panted as she felt the head of his cock part her folds, and then when he impaled her, she let out a gasp and a moan that she buried into his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck. He led her down until she was fully impaled on top of him, and then he began to raise and lower her body. She rolled her hips in time with his movements, letting her body's instinct take over. They began to move as one, every move of hers complimenting every one of his. Her clit ground against his groin, sending repeated shocks of pleasure up and down her body. The pleasure built and and built until it reached a crescendo and she came around his cock. But he was not done with her. As she came down from her pleasure, he hoisted her off him and laid her on all fours on the bed. As she hazily looked around for him, she felt his cheeks against her thighs, from behind. Then she felt his tongue thrust into her slit. This time she could not control the wanton moan she let out. She did not care - let the whole camp know that Jon Snow fucked his princess like she was his whore. He began to lap at her from behind. It felt so taboo, for his tongue was so close to her arse. Then he moved away. She turned around to look at him, but he had only moved to position himself against her entrance and fuck her from behind. 

"Jon, please," she begged. He did not have to ask her to do so. She wanted it, and he obliged. His thrusts began languidly, but picked up in pace and steadiness until she felt the powerful slap of his thighs against her arse. He was reaching spots inside her she did not know existed. Then he stopped and growled in her ear.

"Fuck yourself on my cock, love," he said. Rhaenys gasped. She used her arm to push back on him, riding him according to his command. His hands squeezed and needed her arsecheeks as she did so. He shifted and then collapsed on top of her, his cock still inside. She felt so small and so protected under his body. His arms pulled her in tight and he began to fuck her into the bed, more gently than before. His lips were by her ear. He said sweet words to her, pressed kisses against her head and nibbled on her ears. 

It was overwhelming. She had never felt so complete, so loved, so valued and worshipped and used and fucked as she did now - not that she had any great deal of experience in it beside her first tryst with Jon, but she knew it was never to get any better for her than this. He had ruined all others for her. The gods themselves had fashioned him for her, and her for him, and there was no other that could lay claim to either of them now.

"I'm going to spill soon, love," he whispered into her ear. She panted harder.

"Kessa, kessa," she cooed. "Mazis, mazis iemny yne." She wanted his seed deep within, so deep that it would take root, she thought dangerously. Then, when she had borne him a little cub, half dragon and half wolf, no one could keep her from being his, not Catelyn Stark, not the Lannisters, not Viserys, not the gods themselves.

He did not need further encouragement. With a low roar, he spilled deep inside her, and her own pleasure crested. She felt him throb deep inside her, and she felt impossibly full, impossibly warm, and impossibly perfect. "Stay there, my love," she whispered. "Stay there. I don't want you outside until every drop of you is in me."

"Fuck," he panted, breathing hard into her ear. "Fuck. Avy jorraelan. Avy jorraelan, Rhaenys." His proclamation of love sounded so much more raw and real when he spoke in that lovely accented Valyrian of his.

"Avy toli jorraelan," she said. Her hand reached back and stroked his cheek. "I love you more, Jon." After some time she unclenched and let him slip outside her. She rolled around to face him properly and he pulled her into him.

"I love you, Rhaenys," he said again. "Gods, you don't know how much I've wanted to say that."

"Then say it," she giggled into his neck. "Who is there to stop you?"

"A great many people, I'm afraid," he groaned. "But it doesn't matter, not now. I love you." She would never tire of hearing those three words slip from his mouth.

"A great many people may hang then," she said. "It doesn't matter. Only you do. After this is done, if you were to whisk me away to some timber cabin deep in your wolfswood, I would not object, so long as you were mine and I was yours," she said. "You deserve this world, Jon. Not just for what you have done but who you are - the best of men."

"You're just saying that because you love me," he grumbled.

She laughed. "Perhaps. It doesn't make it any less true." She stroked his cheek. "Now that we've earned one victory, I can't help but think of what will come after. And any after without you in it seems as bitter as defeat to me. You were meant to be more than a bastard hidden in the North, Jon, and you know that."

"I haven't forgotten," Jon said, stroking her cheek tenderly. He brushed a stray strand of her hair away. "I'm here to save my father and to help Robb - but I never planned on sinking back into my old life in Winterfell forever. Essos spoiled that for me. Still, I don't know if I want to leave Westeros entirely, either."

"Why should you need to? Great castles will lay empty and unclaimed when this is done. And when it is over, you more than any other deserves to rule one of those castles, to have your own name. What you want and more, you can have here." She paused. "You can have it with me."

He pressed a kiss to her nose. "A sweet dream, love."

"No, Jon," she said fiercely. "Enough. You forget that my house is built on dreams. My blood flows with the same blood that coursed through Daenys the Dreamer. For others, dreams are but wishes. For Targaryens, they are the future. And if I dare dream it, I can dare to make it happen. Enough. It doesn't matter if I am a princess. You say I am a queen you could follow. If that is the case, then you are the king I would choose. I don't care if your name is Snow or Sand or Waters. You are Jon the Brave, Jon the Good, and that is all I need. You are seared into my soul. I cannot escape you, and you cannot escape me, and I will not let you escape your fate either."

He stared at her wide-eyed, but then that look was replaced by something else. It was only after he took her lips once more that she realized it was hunger.

Chapter Text

RHAENYS

She woke with a start. There was someone in her tent. She reached for the dagger by her side, but the face came into the light. It was Bran, and he was weeping.

"Bran?" she whispered. "What is it?"

He shook his head. "It's... it's Father," he croaked. "Please come. The both of you." A cold pit yawned wide in Rhaenys' stomach. She looked at the warm body beside her. Jon had fallen asleep here, and she had not the heart or the desire to make him leave her bed, never mind discretion. She shook him gently, and his eyes fluttered open. He saw her, smiled, but then it disappeared as soon as he saw Bran's face. He sprung out of the covers shirtless, his trousers barely on.

"Bran? What is it, brother?"

"Please, Jon," he said. "You have to come. You have to come now. You and the Princess both." Bran hadn't finished his sentence and Jon already had his tunic on and his trousers tied, and he was affixing his belt with his sword. Rhaenys threw on a robe and a cloak and joined him. Bran led the way back to the tent Robb used as his quarters, not the one in which he held his war council. Every manner of dark thought crossed her mind as they went through the camp in silence, with the guardsmen on watch parting way for them. 

Jon burst through Robb's tent behind Bran, and she came in right after. The tent was empty, save for Lady Stark and Robb. Lady Stark looked little different from her - she could tell that she had also just been roused. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she choked away horrid sobs that wracked her whole body. Robb's face was stone and as grey as granite. Jon looked to him, then to Lady Stark.

"No," he whispered. "Robb, no. Don't tell me..."

Robb shook his head and held out a scroll. The seal was red and it had been broken. Jon's hand trembled as he plucked it from Robb. The parchment shook even as Jon tried to read it. She could see the words through the firelight illuminating the thin paper, but the scrawl was messy and she could not see what it said. He rolled it up, put it away, and stood still and silent.

"When?" he asked, after what seemed an eternity to Rhaenys.

"The rider came half an hour ago. I set Bran to find you, but you weren't in your tent." Robb glanced at her. There was no judgment or anger in his eyes - not to her, anyway - but the deadness in them scared her. Those normally brilliant blues had turned icy.

Jon turned to Lady Stark. His mouth worked, as though he did not know what to say, and then he turned to her. She saw despair in his eyes, and then tears welled forth and began to spill. He cried in silence, and she did not hesitate to slip her arms around him and press his head against her bosom in comfort. It did not matter who was here; he was in pain, and he needed her. "I'm so sorry, my love." He his body shook against her with silent sorrow. "I'm so, so sorry." Robb comforted Bran, who had begun to cry again, leaning against his mother. Robb could not hold back his own tears now, either. They all grieved together, all the Starks. The direwolves outside began to howl a mournful dirge, as though they felt their masters' pain.

There was a silent rustle as a small figure entered the tent. Rhaenys’ eyes snapped to the person, who placed a trunk on one of the empty tables and pulled down his hood.

”Lord Reed,” croaked Lady Stark. “What-?”

”Please forgive my intrusion, Lady Catelyn, but this can’t wait,” Lord Reed said sorrowfully. “I know Ned is gone. I can only imagine what you are all feeling right now, but Ned would have wanted this to happen now and not later. I wish you could be allowed to grieve in peace, but there are things you must know, and the time has come. All of you in this tent - the Princess included.”

”Lord Reed, we are grieving,” Robb growled. "Get the hells out."

”I’m afraid I cannot, my Lord,” Lord Reed said, bowing his head. “Jon? It is time. Your Father once tasked me with this, and I mean to discharge my duty before I join him.”

Jon looked up, raising her head from her bosom. His eyes were red rimmed and strained. “How could you have known?" He glanced to Robb. "Did any other messages or ravens come?" Robb only shook his head no. "Father said to speak with you if anything should happen to him. I didn’t want to ask you. I wanted to hear it from him.” Jon’s voice cracked and Rhaenys’ heart with it.

”I have come to fulfill my duty,” said Lord Reed. “Again, my lords, Your Grace. I have to beg your forgiveness, but this must be said now. There is a tale that only one man alive now knows in full - and that man is me now that Ned is gone.”

Jon shook his head. “It can wait, Lord Reed.”

”No, Jon. It truly can’t.” Lord Reed shook his head and opened the trunk. He pulled from it several things - a cloak, a journal, and several papers, among other things. “I have a tale to tell and I’m afraid it isn’t short. Much of it you already know, but some things no one does. Did your father tell you about the tourney at Harrenhal?”

”Yes,” Robb said. “The tourney where Prince Rhaegar crowned Aunt Lyanna. Where everything began to go wrong.” 

“Not quite,” Lord Reed said. “Everything you said is true, of course. But that is not the entire tale. I was just a young boy, and then crannogmen were not often seen outside the Neck. Some pageboys and squires took to mocking and making me miserable there. The only person to come to my aid was Lady Lyanna.” Lord Reed sighed wistfully. “There was no one a fiercer friend than she. And through her came Ned and Benjen. Brandon was older, and did not have the time for me, but even he was kind. For the rest of the tourney, I was close by House Stark’s side - and I came to see it all.” He pulled another item from the chest. It was a small battered shield - painted white, with a laughing weirwood tree on it.

”The mystery knight,” rasped Lady Stark. “But-“

”But the knight unhorsed several men before disappearing?” finished Lord Reed. “Because the King’s paranoia conquered all. He sent Prince Rhaegar after him, but the knight was never found. Only, Rhaegar did find him - and he was a her. It was your aunt Lyanna.”

”How do you know this?” demanded Rhaenys.

Lord Reed smiled at her sadly. “Because I was there, Your Grace. I helped Lady Lyanna escape from the king’s men, but the Prince was resourceful. He found her, and instead of killing her or taking her back to her father, he sat and spoke with her. And I think, there, he fell in love with her.”

A knife twisted at Rhaenys. She was not sure what was worse - her father being a raper, or that he betrayed her mother for love. Did he betray her and Aegon for love, too? “My lord,” she choked out, “I appreciate this, but House Stark still grieves, and-“

”-and it does not concern them save for some closure about why their aunt did what she did,” Lord Reed finished. “I understand. But the tale is not done. After that, the Prince crowned Lady Lyanna and that was that. When Lyanna vanished, everyone assumed it was kidnapping, but I knew, and Benjen knew, and Ned came to know it - Lyanna went with Rhaegar of her own free will. She tried to leave messages,” he said, holding some papers, “but Brandon and Lord Rickard never found them. You know what came next. When Rhaegar was dead, and Ned saw what happened to Princess Elia and the babes we all assumed to be you and little Aegon, Ned and I and four others went south to go find Lyanna. We’d heard from the Kingslayer that Rhaegar had taken her to a tower in Dorne. When we got there, we found Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Gerold Hightower, and Ser Oswell Whent. They killed all of us but Ned and I, and we all of them. When it was done, Ned and I stormed the tower to rescue Lyanna. We could hear her screams even from outside.” Lord Reed shook his head. “I won’t forget those until the day I die. When we got to the top, she was bedridden.”

”We know she died from a fever, Lord Reed. Where is this tale going?” Robb said angrily. But the gears were turning in Rhaenys’ head. Lord Reed mentioned nothing of Jon or his mother so far, and wasn't that what Jon had asked his Father about in the first place? Had he been born after? When had he even been conceived? A sudden cold pit opened in her stomach. Oh gods. There was no reason to talk about Lyanna unless-

“Please, my Lord,” Howland pleaded. “She was not dying of a fever. She was bleeding - bleeding from childbirth.” It was as if her heart and blood began to freeze. Oh gods. Oh gods, it could only mean one thing. She began to breathe hard, panic setting in.

“With her dying breaths, she pressed the babe she had given birth to into the hands of her brother, and begged him of one thing. ‘Please, Ned. You have to keep him safe. Robert would kill him if he found out. Promise me, Ned, promise me,’ she said. And Ned promised her, and then she told Ned the babe’s name. Rhaegar had told her to name the babe Visenya. He was so convinced the child would be a girl, but the babe was a boy. And so Lyanna named him after her favorite Targaryen from the old histories, the Dragonknight. Aemon Targaryen, she called him. And then she made Ned promise again, and then she was gone.” A solitary tear rolled down Lord Reed’s cheek. “So Ned brought the boy North with him, and claimed him as his bastard, and no one blinked an eye. In the end, the greatest secret in the Seven Kingdoms remained alive only in the heart of an honest man, and me.”

Every head turned to look at Jon, hers included. Her heart seemed to revive from its paralysis and began to hammer in her chest. Oh gods. He was - he was hers. He had always been hers. Valonqar, Valonqar, Valonqar, her heart screamed. Jon, for his part, seemed dazed and confused.

”I- what?” he mumbled.

“You were never Ned Stark’s dishonor at all, Jon. You were never a Snow.” He held a scroll in his hand. “Rhaegar took Lyanna as a second wife in front of a weirwood and a septon. They considered each other man and wife in the way of the old Targaryens, when the dragon lords took more than one consort just as the Conqueror did. You were born Aemon, son of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna. You’re not a bastard at all, and you never were. Your name is Aemon Targaryen. You are a prince. You have king's blood in you twice over.”

Pindrop silence filled the tent. Rhaenys broke it first. She grasped his chin in her hand, and gently tilted his head towards hers. He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful, in a way that other men were not. Of course he was beautiful. The blood of Valyria pumped through his veins, just like hers. How could she have been so blind? He was her brother. She was fucking her own brother, and she loved every second of it. “Jon?” she whispered. Gods, that wasn’t even his true name, it was Aemon-

but then Jon got up and charged out the tent. She felt him rip away from her and she called out to him, pleading, crying, as he stormed away, and she felt as though she had lost herself and everything that mattered in the world. “Jon!” The words tore from her throat, hoarse, needy, harsh. “Jon!”

He was gone too fast for her to catch. “Jon!” she shouted once more, but he was not there to hear. She collapsed into one of the chairs around the table and began to sob.

“I’m sorry,” Lord Reed said. “But I could not let things carry on without the truth being known. With Ned gone, I am the only one living who knows this secret. If I were to die…”

Rhaenys rounded on him. Tears flowed freely, streaming down her cheeks. “You had to?” she shouted. “You dare tell me this after you rode side by side with us for sennights and knew this whole time? You knew that I wasn’t alone, that I had been with my little brother this entire time.” Her hands flew to her mouth which widened with horror. “Oh gods. Oh gods, Jon and I…. we… oh gods.” Despair writhed rapidly through her. She had slept with her valonqar. More than that – she was in love with him. Not because it mattered to her, but this was the end of that. Jon would never. He was not raised as one of them, and he had no connection to his Valyrian blood or ancestry. He was disgusted with her, with himself, and that was why he left the tent. He needed to be away from her. She had lost him.

The tale reverberated in her skull like a horrid song. Her father, her mother, this entire mess with Lyanna Stark – what everyone thought they knew was false. Perhaps it should have filled her with joy that her father was no raper, but instead she was filled with dread. Her father took a second wife. Why? Did he need more heirs? Did he not care for her mother? Did he not care for them?

“What else is in that chest, Lord Reed?” demanded Robb. He marched over to the box and peered into its contents. “What are those?”

“I believe it to be a dragon egg, my lord. Among other things. I believe Prince Rhaegar intended to leave it in the cradle for his child, as was tradition in the Targaryen court with young infants of their family. And these… these are letters. Letters between Rhaegar and a Maester Aemon at the Wall, letters from Rhaegar to Lyanna throughout the war, and then some letters that Lyanna wrote for Jon,” said the crannogman. “There is also an attestation of the marriage. It bears the seal of a certain Septon Maynard, and three witnesses to the wedding of the Prince and Lady Lyanna – the three Kingsguard who defended the tower against us that day.”

Lord Reed turned to her. “I can only ask your forgiveness for the pain I’ve put you through now, Your Grace. Both you and Jon. But this tale… it needed to be a secret at the time. You must understand, Ned did not do this because he hated your house. No, he loved his sister, and he loved his sister’s son so much so that he harbored him knowing full well that if King Robert ever found out, House Stark would be put to the sword and their heads would decorate spikes in King’s Landing. Every day he lied about Jon’s identity, he put Lady Stark, Lord Robb, Lord Bran, and all his other children at risk because of love. At the time, we thought you and Prince Aegon were dead. Prince Viserys was still at Dragonstone, we learned that Princess Daenerys had just been born, and the Baratheon fleet was days from storming the island. There was no reason to believe that Jon was better off on the run with two fugitives, one of whom was a six year old prince and the other a baby. Jon was nearly a year old when we heard that you and Prince Aegon may have survived, and when it was confirmed, Jon was three. By then he already had a brother and sister in Winterfell, a safe castle to grow up in, a father who loved him-“

Rhaenys screamed in rage. “His father was my father! Lord Reed, you kept my little brother from me!”

“Yes, we did,” he said somberly, sadly. “And if you cannot forgive that, I do not fault you. Ned and I, we kept a boy from his family... and put him in the arms of his other family. Ned kept him safe. It was his greatest mission, his one solemn vow to his dying sister. Would you have put him through the life that you and your family shared in Essos? What about the night where assassins broke into the manor in which you hid when you were six, in Norvos? What about the day Daenerys’ guards were poisoned by a wineseller?”

Rhaenys froze. “How did you know about… about any of that?”

“Because there are those among the Crannogmen who see things,” Lord Reed answered. “Glimpses of things that have happened and that may happen. I do not have the gift, not the way some do, but I know things. which is how I know Ned is gone, lost to us. But in your past I see a great deal of sorrow – at  least, until you found a benefactor who kept you shielded from the machinations of the King and his council. Jon had a steadier upbringing than that. And look at him - he took his lessons and made himself in Essos. He is a brilliant warrior, a cunning commander, an ideal knight. He is a prince men could follow. Everyone else sees Ned or Benjen or Brandon, but in him I see his parents. He has his mother’s ferocity and boldness, his father’s sense of justice and kindness, the same melancholy that hung over Rhaegar hangs over him. When he mounts a horse, he rides like Lyanna. Even when he takes off his helm, he looks like Rhaegar with the coloring of a Stark.”

“He’s my brother. He’ll always be my brother,” Robb declared. “But even with this evidence of Aunt Lyanna’s marriage, people will be hard pressed to accept it.”

“Hang other people,” Rhaenys said savagely. “They will accept it freely or they will accept it with fire and blood.”

Robb gestured in a conciliatory way. “Your Grace, he is my brother. You know I would take his side on this matter and any other. I only mean… Not everyone will look as kindly at it as I would.” He looked at his hands, and then at the tent flap. “I’ve lost my father today. I don’t want to lose my brother as well. I’m going after him.”

“I'll come too,” Bran said. “He’s my big brother and always will be.”

Rhaenys wrung her hands. “I need to see him, I need to talk to him, but he won’t want to see me.” The familiar fear began to choke at her again. “He’ll… he’ll…”

Robb touched her shoulder gently, so feather-soft that she was not even sure his hand had ever brushed it. “Your Grace, he’ll want to see you.”

“You don’t understand, Robb,” she said. Her voice was streaked with despair. “We…”

“I know. Neither of you were particularly adept at keeping it a secret,” Robb said wryly. “He loves you, you know. I tried to dissuade him from it. I knew you would go on to marry for alliances, and then Jon would be left in the cold. I didn’t want that for him, but he tanned my hide for even suggesting that. I know Jon well. He loves you. He'll remember that. Come, Your Grace. Let's go find him. Your voice may be the only one he heeds."

JON

The gods were cruel.

Later, Jon would think that, in a way, his father had died twice for him in one night. For in the same evening, Jon came to learn that his father, Eddard Stark, the man who had raised him, guided him, taught him, and loved him, was dead at the hands of their enemies. Then he learned that Eddard Stark had never been his father at all. As he had suspected for his whole life, he was an orphan, except it was twice over instead of once. 

In that moment, however, such rational thought was beyond him. There was little difference between him and a base animal. He tore through the camp and in the direction of the stabled horses. Revelry had been prevalent when Robb called the lords to council; now, somehow - perhaps rumor, perhaps more ravens - news spread of Lord Stark's death, the mood turned somber and angry. That reflected his own mood, save much shallower. There was no end to the depth of rage he felt. It was a betrayal that cut deep and left years of wounds exposed to the air. He felt as though he had been left to bleed and fester and die.

Eddard Stark was not his father. The man he had loved, the man he mourned now, was not his father. He was only his uncle.

Rhaegar Targaryen. Lyanna Stark.

He was still a bastard, but he was not Jon Snow. Whatever those fools thought they had done by signing a paper in front of some Septon, it did not matter. He was not Snow, he was not Jon. He was Aemon... Aemon what? Rivers? Sand? 

Blackfyre?

That was hardly the worst of it. Whatever his surname, the blood that ran in his veins was still half-Targaryen. Sometimes, in his dreams, he thought perhaps his mother was the Lady Ashara Dayne, as some servants had once whispered around the castle. Perhaps she was some nobody, some lady daughter of landed knights or a small retainer house like the Pooles or Cassels. Beth Cassel's mother was a sweet enough woman. Would that have been so bad? It did not matter to him as a child, for he at least knew his father - Ned Stark, dependable, honorable, noble, brave, dutiful Ned Stark, who did not lie and followed through on his word, who ruled justly and fairly, who loved his children so much so that he provided for the one bastard he'd fathered by raising him in the same castle and with the same education and training as his trueborns, even at the cost of upsetting his lady wife. That was a man he had been proud to call father.

Who in the seven fucking hells was Rhaegar Targaryen to him?

Faintly, he could hear someone calling out to him, but Jon did not pay attention. A light drizzle began to fall. It was always raining somewhere, sometime, in the Riverlands. The ground squelched under his boots as he marched over to his horse and untied it from its post. He jumped onto the roan and began to ride - somewhere, anywhere, anywhere far away from the camp. He rode hard and only when his horse began to plod over water did he realize he had come back to the ford. There were still many dead bodies, but most of the ones that were left were Lannisters, stripped of armor and valuables. The Northern dead were all buried or burned. Crows circled overhead, and some of the braver ones came down to feast.

Jon dismounted and stared at the water. His hand went to the pouch and he pulled out the ruby. Rhaenys gave it back to him later that day. It was much duller in the night, but something about it reminded him of Ghost's eyes. Was this for certain one of Rhaegar's rubies? There was no other immediate explanation for it. He pulled his arm back as though to throw the ruby far down the river, where it would be picked up and swept away by the current, but then something stopped him. 

The ruby saved my life, he thought to himself. In a way, Rhaegar had saved his life. That was a debt most foul, for it would never be repaid, to a father he would never know. He sank to his knees and began to sob. Hard, wracking sobs they were. His whole body shook with them. Even he did not know who he mourned for - was it Eddard Stark? Lyanna? Rhaegar? Himself?

Rhaenys?

He pounded a fist against the gravelly bottom of the shallow ford. The water splashed around him as he did it. He had lain with his own sister. No, it was worse than that. One night, where they had not known - no, no, that was something that he could move past. It could have easily been counted a mistake. Neither of them knew - if it even mattered to Rhaenys. But he did more than just sleep with his sister. He was horribly, wretchedly in love with her. Even now, even knowing who she was to him, he could not deny it. He loved her. There it was, dark and venomous in his veins, that poisonous dragon blood that coursed through him. He loved her. 

Jon stared up at the sky. No answer came from the heavens. No answer would come, he knew. He had just received an answer to a question that burned in his heart from the moment he knew he had no mother and now he wished he did not know anything at all. He pocketed the ruby and got back on his horse. He crossed the ford and let his horse trot aimlessly, leading him whichever way it would. The horse led him away from the battlefield, back in the direction of Harroway's town. Eventually the road forked - one path continued straight on to the town, but a smaller, muddier one led into a copse of trees. The horse went that way until the sky disappeared under the trees and the rain ceased to fall on his head. He heard a noise up ahead, which finally broke him out of his reverie. There were muffled noises - men, and quiet hushed voices. He dismounted and tied his tree to a horse. As he followed the path around the bend of trees, he saw a flickering light ahead, and smoke rising from it. There was a smell of something burnt - burnt flesh. He pulled Frostbite from its scabbard and inched forward.

When the men came into view, he realized they were Lannister men. There were four of them. Two were smallfolk, that much was evident. They were dressed in ratty rags and cobbled-together armor. One had a billhook by his legs, as he sat on a log. The other did not have any weapon that Jon could see. Of the other two men, however, one was a lord, and the other a knight or retainer of some sort. The lord was blonde. He was old - at least fifty, if Jon had to guess - and his hair had faded for the most part, the flaxen strands disappearing into a mushy grey. His eyebrows were bushy, but his face clean shaven and pock-marked. Even from a distance, in the firelight, Jon could see he had green eyes. His armor was fine; the surcoat over it boasted the lion of Lannister, as did his cloak. The knight was less interesting. His livery was strange - strawberries on a white saltire, on a green field. Jon had no idea what house it hailed from.

A rage seized him, focusing his thoughts. All talk of marriages and stolen ladies and dead princes vanished from his mind. Here were Lannisters - Lannisters who had killed his father.

With a bellowed roar, Jon burst forth from the trees. The man with the billhook, rolled off his log in surprise and did not have the time to scream before Jon ran him through with Frostbite. The other soldier, the one who did not have any weapon that Jon could see, pulled a knife on him, but he was too slow. Jon clove his arm from his body with one swift stroke, and with the other emptied his entrails from his gut. 

"Die, Lannister scum!" Jon screamed. He rounded on the knight, who was a fair bit faster than the aged lord. The man swung at him with steel - good, castle forged steel, for it did not clatter and bend or break the way cheap iron did sometimes against Valyrian steel. The knight was not a bad fighter, but fair skill was not going to let him live, even against Jon with a limp shield arm. Jon maneuvered him against a tree, and then slapped the sword away from the man's hand with a mighty counterblow. The knight fell to his lips and the beginning of a plea for mercy had only passed through his lips before Jon removed his head from his shoulders.

Jon turned and faced the Lannister lord, who finally managed to draw his sword. He held it with shaky arms and looked at Jon up and down. "Name yourself, ser," the man said. His voice sounded braver than he looked. Jon was glad for that. It would make him feel better when he put him in the dirt. Jon did not respond to him, but that did not stop the man.

"Wait, wait, a moment!" he cried. "I remember you. The knight in black armor, in a red cloak. You're the one that slew Ser Gregor. Ser, please. I- I would surrender, and discuss terms of ransom." Jon said nothing still, and advanced on him. The lord's bravery finally cracked and he began to blubber.

"I learned today that your Joffrey Waters killed my father," Jon finally said, when he could bear no more of the man's groveling. "Today, you lion cunts took away the one surety I had in life. There is nothing you could give me, no ransom worth what I want in recompense for his life. You could give me the whole of Casterly Rock and I would not spare you. You could give me the head of Tywin Lannister and I would not spare you. What I want is the Lannisters of the Rock, of the Port, and all your Lannys and Lannetts and Lantells and every blonde-haired green-eyed son of a whore dead and buried or burned. Then I can rest."

Knowing that there was no hope of mercy, the lord finally steeled himself. There was a bravery in that Jon could appreciate. It would make his death all the more satisfactory. "I am Ser Damion Lannister of the Rock, a cousin of Lord Tywin and a Lion of Lannister. You leave me no choice." He leveled his sword at Jon. He lunged and swatted Ser Damion's sword away, and the Lannister could not recover in time. Jon drove his sword straight through the gap between the man's pauldron and his cuirass. The blade sank deep into his flesh and Ser Damion cried out in pain. Jon yanked Frostbite out and this time drove it through the gap between his thigh and groin. Another scream, and now the fight was gone again, replaced by pleading, whimpering, dying noises. It did not matter. Jon stabbed and sliced and cut over and over and over again until the blood spurts from the man covered his face and his hands, and even then he continued to hack and cut. 

"Jon!" a voice cried out from behind him. "Jon, is that you?" He spun around and saw Bran.

His younger brother flinched and took a step back. Jon could only imagine what he looked like right now, covered in blood and gore from his celebration of death. "Jon, it's me, Bran."

Bran's voice made his arm feel heavy. He lowered Frostbite until the tip dragged against the ground, and then he put it away. Jon stumbled towards Bran, who finally began to advance towards him. "He's here, Robb!" Bran shouted. Just as he neared Bran, Jon collapsed to his knees, heaving for breath. Bran rushed to him and steadied him.

"Easy, easy, Jon. I'm here. Robb is coming, and so is the Princess." Jon tried to control his breathing, but his body felt strange, unresponsive. He ached and hurt and every part of him was tired. Two more people rushed towards him and then he heard Robb's voice. 

"Stay back. Let me talk to my brother alone!" Other footsteps came to a halt. Of course Robb could not come alone now. He was Lord Stark.

"Jon... what happened?" Robb said. "Why are you here? It took us half an hour to find your tracks after your crossed the ford. Where were you going?"

"I don't know," Jon said. "I don't know." He blinked and wiped the grime from his face, but it likely did little good. His hands were covered in blood and guts. He blinked, and saw violet eyes. Lovely, deep violet eyes that enchanted him so.

"Jon?" Rhaenys said. Her voice was uncharacteristically small. She sounded scared. He had never heard her sound scared before. It was not a sound he wanted to hear often. "Jon, my love?" she said. Her voice was quiet, but her words were enough to make him focus again.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

Jon shook his head. "No. No more than I was when I left." She bit her lip in response, her eyebrows furrowed with concern and worry. She reached out and touched his hands with her own. He pulled them away. "They're covered in blood, Rhaenys."

"I don't care," she said, batting away his worries and grabbing his hands with her own. "As long as the blood is not your own, I don't care. Come. Come with me, jorraeliarzy, my love." She pulled. "Come. Don't make me drag you, or gods help me I will."

He got up and she led him back to his horse. "Escort Ser Jon to my tent. One of you ride ahead, and tell Marela to prepare a warm bath," she commanded. A slew of Stark men waited, having followed Robb and Rhaenys to find Jon. Together they all rode back to the camp. Jon stared only at the bobbing head of his horse, focused on nothing else. He could feel all the warm blood on him cooling, drying, and cracking. It was a blur from there to Rhaenys' tent, but then they were alone and she took off his armor, piece by piece. She cleaned his face, his hands, with a warm washcloth, wringing it into a bucket that grew progressively more red as she cleaned him. 

"I'm sorry," Jon mumbled. "I shouldn't have left like that."

"I don't think any part of your reaction was unwarranted," she quietly assured him. "But how did you get from leaving the tent to knee deep in the blood of dead Lannisters?"

"I'm not entirely sure," he confessed. "I just rode and rode and rode. Then I saw them. I saw that lord's sigil, his livery, and then I knew I had to kill him." He hung his head. "That was a dishonorable thing to do. My fath-" his voice faltered, and the tears welled up in his eyes once more. 

"Your father, Ned Stark," Rhaenys said softly. The washcloth trailed around his ears and jaw now. "The man raised you. He earned that title, Jon. I do not think you have to call him anything else unless you want to."

"It was just revenge," Jon finally forced out. "No part of it was right. The man surrendered. I should have bound him and brought him back."

"Did you think I would chastise you for it?" she whispered. "Jon, you could behead every Lannister and I might still say you had not done enough to them. If there is one person in this world who burns with as much hate towards them as you, it is I." She sighed and put the cloth away. "That's as good as your face and your hands are getting, but the rest of you is still filthy. Get in," she said, gesturing to the tub of warm water. She helped him disrobe. For a moment he felt a stab of shame, exposing himself to her like this, but she did not flinch or look twice. She helped him into the tub, as his balance was poor with his limp arm. He winced as he sank into the water. 

"I'm sorry," he said, finally meeting her eyes. Her face shone with a light layer of perspiration, and her hair had become somewhat frazzled and curled. She tied it up in a messy bun. Her riding clothes were dirty and she smelled of rain and grass. 

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"No, Rhaenys. I'm sorry," he said, louder this time. "You begged me not to go, and I turned tail and ran like..."

"A coward? Balerion the Black Dread himself might have flown away from that truth, Jon. Please. Just wash. Call if you need me." She turned to go, but he stopped her.

"Rhae. Please stay. I... I don't want to be alone. I don't think I can be." Her face softened, and for a moment she looked as though she might weep. But then she nodded.

"I'll be right here," she said. Jon washed, scrubbing himself clean of the grime of the battle. When he was done, he clambered out and washed his hair and his face once more. Rhaenys had a mirror in her tent, and he glanced at his expression. He looked haunted and thin. His eyes were sunken from exhaustion, and there were large dark circles. For a moment he heard Rhaenys' voice come near the entrance of the tent.

"No, no... he's right here." There was a pause, and some indeterminate words said. He recognized the other voice as Robb's. "He needs rest, I know. I'll be with him. Good night, Robb." She came back in and sighed. Jon dried himself off with a towel and dressed. Clothes were laid out for him - simple trousers and a tunic. A servant - one of Rhaenys', who had come with her from Dorne, not a Stark servant - brought warm bread and some salted beef and cheese and a mug full of ale and placed it on her vanity table. "Eat," she commanded. The servant prepared a second bath, and when she left, Rhaenys got in herself. It was not strange for him to see her naked form again. Some part of him rebelled against that. He should have been disgusted. He should hate himself. If it was Sansa or Arya... even the thought of them made bile rise up in his throat. Not so with Rhaenys. She looked at him as she undressed and sank into the water and washed herself and her hair. She was quicker about it than her, for she was surely less filthy. When she, too, had dressed in a simple gown for sleeping, she came and sat next to him on the empty stool by the vanity table.

He offered her some of the bread, which she ate. Together the ate from the same plate in quiet, and she drank from his mug. The ale was not northern ale - it was something spiced that warmed him. Even Rhaenys drank greedily from it, for it was the perfect tonic against the rains outside. 

"It would be a shame for you to venture out into the rain after you've bathed," she said quietly. Jon did not say anything. Did she want him to stay? Did he want to stay? The answer within came quickly - yes. That had not changed at all.

"It would," he answered slowly. "May I sleep here tonight?" Could he sleep next to her every night? That thought sprang unbidden. 

"Of course," she said. When they were done, they washed up, Rhaenys changed into a shift, and both went to the bed at the same time. Jon let Rhaenys get in first, arranging the covers around herself until she was comfortable. Then she patted next to her, and he joined. He lay on his back, his head against the pillow, and stared at the raised tent and listened to the pitter patter of rain against the canvas. It was gentle now, almost lulling. But he could not sleep, cognizant as he was of her warmth right next to him. He craned his head over. She lay on her side, an arm propped under the pillow, and stared at him. Their feet touched under the covers, but neither she pulled away, nor he. 

"Jon..." she breathed. Her eyes misted and she wiped them with her free hand.

He chuckled darkly. "Is it? Or is it Aemon?"

"It's whatever you prefer," she said. "But you've gone by Jon your whole life. If you'd like..."

"Call me whatever you feel suits me," he said, rolling over to face her better. "I don't think I know anymore."

"A name is a name," Rhaenys said. "But it isn't who you are. It isn't your brooding face, it isn't your bravery at arms, your valor and your heart. All of those are yours no matter what you call yourself or people call you, no matter what I call you. You are still the man I met in Essos, the man who saved me. You are still my friend, and you always will be."

A friend. Was that all he was? "I'm more than just a friend, Rhaenys," he croaked. "I don't think we can run from that."

"Run from it?" she said. Her voice was incredulous. "Run? I've just been told another member of my family lives. Better yet, I know that he's a good man. If I run, it would be to it, not away."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," he said. Gods, it was tough to say. Did she need to drag it out of him? "You're my sister. I'm your brother. And... and..."

"And what?" she said, tears brimming over. "And we fucked? And they were the best nights I ever had in my life? And that I want to do it again -" her voice began to crack "-and again, and again, and again, until the end of my days? Is that what you want to hear, Jon? That i want to lay with my brother? I do. I'm a Targaryen, and to me it is as natural as breathing. It is what we do. We rule, and ride dragons, and fuck one another. Now that I've thoroughly disgusted you, leave me be and go to sleep. You need your rest." She turned around. Her tears were silent, but Jon could still tell from the ragged rise and fall of her shoulder that she was weeping. 

She was right. He should be disgusted. She had laid it out clearly that she wanted him still...

And he was not. He was not repulsed, or disgusted. He should be. Gods, he knew he should be. Everything, every part of him screamed that it was wrong, that the gods did not love the kinslayer - or the kin-fucker - and yet his heart was entirely devoid of shame or disgust.

The gods were cruel. So why not ignore them?

Instead, his blood ran boiling. He did not need to question Howland Reed. He knew, innately, that he was a dragon, if for no other reason than this. Whatever Stark was in him was repulsed at the thought of his cousins and yet whatever Targaryen was in him desired nothing more than to take the sister sleeping across from him and have her this night, and every night. Jon made his choice. He shifted, slightly, and enveloped her. She did not pull away, but her sobs did not recede, so he pulled her closer. His lips rested near her ear, breathing hot breath against her earlobes. He felt her skin prick and break out in goosebumps against his. 

"I want you," he admitted. It was a soft admission, a soft sin, a softer sin than her skin that set him afire so. "I will always want you." Like a horrid compulsion, a wretched depravity, the word spilled out unbidden from his memory. it was Valyrian, he had heard it somewhere. "Mandia," he breathed. It was the word for an elder sister. She shuddered and melted into him. Their hands began to fumble with each others clothes. All rational thought left his body, and now there was only instinct and a desire to burn, the both of them, together. Jon hiked up her dress around her waist and undid the laces tying the front of his trousers together. He nuzzled at her neck. She elicited a low, slow moan, and his hands fell against her supple waist. She raised her knee and gave him better access. His cock was already alive and hard, and when he rubbed his head against her slit, she was already wet and ready for him.

"Kessa, valonqar. Yne guros, aohon iksan," she mewled. 

"Nuhon iksa se aohon iksan," he growled into her ear. It was the truth. She was his; he was hers. That was a truth unshaken. He slid into her in a languid motion, and she gasped and then let out a low keening noise. 

"Jon, yes, please," she said.

"Not Jon," he growled, and thrust hard inside her. She gasped and her nails raked his jaw. "Vestras yno brozi. Say it, Rhaenys."

She looked back at him with wide eyes that quickly narrowed with a heated passion. "Aemon. Aemon, Aemon, Aemon," she whispered over and over in between her low grunts and moans. His pace picked up and his cock began to pound her quickly. The tent was filled with the slapping noises of their flesh on flesh, their filthy words whispered like dark prayers in Valyrian to one another, acknowledging their names, their relation, and reveling in it. He was wholly lost to the fire, and he would not have it any other way now. When she crested her pleasure and she clenched around his cock, he finally spilled deep inside her. She squeezed her thighs and milked every last drop. "Yne tepas ao rinar," she hissed, causing him to groan in pleasure, though the meaning of the words escaped him just then. They stayed together, locked like that, until she finally relaxed and he slipped out of her, softening. She sighed as he did, and turned around.

"We just bathed," she chided softly.

"We can bathe again." There was a silence which was broken by her giggle. She rested her forehead against his, and he pulled her close. "Promise me you won't be gone in the morning, J-" she paused. "Jon? Aemon?"

"Here, in the bed, whichever," Jon said. "I don't think I will ever stop being Jon, but perhaps I can learn to be Aemon too."

"Aemon, then, just here in our bed for now," she agreed. "Don't leave me, my love. Don't do this to me and then disappear. If you feel shame, if you feel disgust, promise me you will tell me before you pull away from me. There are many tortures I can withstand, but the feeling of having you by my, in me, and then to have you gone - that isn't one I think I can take."

He shook his head. "I'll be here when you wake, my love. There are some truths still yet left to face, and I don't think I can face them alone." 

Her fingers traced his jaw and she pressed a sweet kiss to his lips. "And you won't have to."

Chapter Text

JON

Jon woke with the earliest rays of dawn filtering into the tent. He stretched a little, taking care not to wake the sleeping woman wrapped around him. He turned to look at her and smiled. Rhaenys was peaceful with her eyes closed, her arm splayed out over him. Her head rested on his chest and rose and fell with his steady breathing. She was beautiful in every way, and warm and comfortable. The feeling of her skin was luxuriant on his. She stirred and woke. Lovely violet orbs glanced up at him, and then she pressed a kiss to his chest.

"Good morning, my love," she murmured. "I dreamed you were gone when I woke."

"Just a dream," he assured her. "Besides, your head was heavy and made it impossible to escape."

A whispered laugh bubbled out of her mouth and she traced patterns on his skin. Her olive complexion contrasted with his paler one, though Essos left a permanent mark on him and he was not so pale as he once had been. "I would rather we never leave this tent. The world outside has little peace, but here there's calm."

"I don't want to leave it either," Jon said. "But it won't stop for us no matter how much I wish it." There were truths to face outside. A pang of guilt rippled through him. He ran off and left Bran and Robb to grapple with Father's death alone. No, he forced them out of their own grieving to come deal with him. And then Father...

The man he thought to be his sire his whole life was his uncle. He did not know how to come to terms with that. Ned Stark had never been anything other than a father to him, and Jon missed him horribly already. He felt as though there was a gap in his heart where he had once been. With so much of it gone, he was not sure if there was any room left for Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. He was an orphan twice over.

"Jon?"

"Mhm?" He turned to look at her and shook himself out of his own thoughts. 

"I think we need to tell Viserys," Rhaenys said. Her fingers traced his jaw and then his lips. "If need be, issue a legitimization - or at least a declaration that he considers you a trueborn Targaryen."

"Rhae..."

"Don't 'Rhae' me," she said sleepily. "He is our uncle - and your family as well. If he was here, or Daenerys, wouldn't you want them to know?"

Daenerys he most certainly would, remembering his warm interactions and friendship with the silver-haired princess. A pang of hurt shot through his heart at the thought of her now, doubly so now that she was not only a friend but his kin. Viserys was another matter entirely... and he did not even dare to think of Aegon, lest he be sold to a Dothraki khal as well. "I suppose there is no running from it," he accepted grimly. "But no declaration. As of now, the Faith has not openly taken a side against any of the kings in the war, be it Joffrey or Viserys or even Stannis if the man truly has chosen to press his claim as well. Arguing my legitimacy involves the Faith and the idea of marriages. Targaryen kings have had ruined reigns because they chose to joust with the Septons. Viserys has more pressing issues."

She stared at him. "You don't want to be Aemon Targaryen - despite what you so filthily whispered in my ear last night."

Jon flinched, remembering that mad fit of lust that overtook him. "No, love. That's not it. I just don't want to cause more trouble for him than he needs right now. We can deal with that once he has been coronated by the High Septon."

"Then why not a legitimization?" she argued. "That power remains within the realm of kings. But then doing so would acknowledge that even we believe your mother's marriage to Father to be on shaky grounds."

"Don't you?" Jon asked with surprise.

"Not if it means that you keep the Targaryen name," she said forcefully. "Besides, Lord Reed never claimed that Father set my mother aside, or stripped me and Aegon of our titles or our inheritance. He took a second wife as the Targaryens of old did. But enough of that. Let me think of what to tell Viserys, and I'll write to him only once you agree upon it."

Jon agreed. She extricated herself from him gently and got up. Jon admired her naked form as she stood and washed her face in the washbasin. She looked as good from behind as she did from the front. Shapely thighs curved into a rear that looked as though sculpted by the gods themselves. Her back was smooth with deep, toned backline.

"I can feel your eyes burning a hole through my back," she said with a laugh as she toweled her face. "Don't worry. You can stare all you like for the rest of your days."

He left her tent and went to his own. Bran was not there, but Jon was not upset by that. He armored himself, though it took some time with all the straps. He had to flag down a page who was rushing outside his tent to help with the cuirass. Sometime later, as he was nearly done, Ghost poked his snout through the tent. He came to Jon and sniffed at him, then sat on his haunches and rubbed his head into Jon's lap.

Jon ran his fingers through the wolf's snow white fur. "There you are, boy. At least you think I'm still me, right?" Ghost stared at him with those intelligent ruby eyes and said nothing. Jon chose to take that as agreement, which was oddly reassuring. If the direwolf did not abandon him, at least he was no less a Stark than he had been before. To his surprise, he found the cloak Robb gave him in Winterfell, with the inverted Stark colors, lying neatly folded on his bed. He wondered if the woman they found in Lord Harroway's town returned it. He fastened it to his armor, and Frostbite, and headed to Robb's tent.

The guards parted as soon as they saw him. Both of them had been with Robb when he found Jon by the dead Lannister stragglers. He nodded to them, but one said something before Jon could walk past.

"I'm very sorry about your father, mi'lord," he said. He tilted his helmet back and Jon recognized him - Hilda's son, Bren.

"Thank you, Bren," Jon said. "Tom doing alright?"

"Took an arrow in the battle, but he's healing," Bren said. "Medic and maester both said he should be fine in a fortnight. Got the wound burned and cleaned before it could fester."

"Good," Jon patted his shoulder. "Maybe best not to tell your mother about that when we get back to Winterfell, then." He slipped inside the tent. Robb was sitting at his table, drinking ale and eating a biscuit. Jon came and sat by him, though he could not look him in the eyes. He stared instead at the map splayed over the table. It was a smaller version of the one they had in the council tent, where Robb met with all the lords. Little pieces were scattered across it, representing armies and castles and the latest information they were privy to. "Morning," he said flatly to Robb.

"Morning," came the reply. "How are you feeling?" 

"I don't know," he said. "Likely the same as you."

"I could only wish. I have one burden to bear. Lord Reed gave you a second. Look at me, Jon." Jon glanced up to catch Robb's icy-blue gaze. "You are my brother and you will be my brother until the end of my days. Father was your father, no matter who sired you. Never forget that. Never think otherwise."

Jon's throat constricted with emotion. "Aye," he said, nodding his head. "I need to speak to Lord Reed further. There were things he mentioned in that chest... letters and journals kept by Rhaegar and Lyanna, and other things." Robb nodded in agreement.

"Would you like me and Bran to be there?"

"It might help," Jon said. "At least one of you might stop me if I try to run again."

Robb snorted and then shook his head. "Even humor seems ill-suited today. It's strange how the world goes on even when those we love die. I half expected the sun to fail to rise this morning, and yet it did. I ate this bread and cheese and drank this ale, as I always do. My squire came to help me don this armor. And we still have Lannisters to kill," he said. "I'd have been hard pressed to imagine a world without him, but he is gone and the world still exists. It isn't right. It isn't just. It isn't fair."

Jon shook his head. "Life rarely is," he said. "If it were, there would only be good men like him, and no men like Tywin Lannister or the Mountain or the Kingslayer or the Mad King, for that matter. Those are the type of men that make men like Father stick out for they are rare enough. Sometimes I feel as though the septons and their seven hells lie empty. We have enough devils here."

"Father once told me that when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Now I must be Lord of Winterfell and lead our little pack. My shoulders are heavy with this weight."

"I will help you carry it, as much as I can. It is what brothers are for," Jon said. "Maybe I can start by killing more Lannisters for you."

"You got off to a good start last night," Robb said. "The man you killed was Damion Lannister, one of Tywin's cousins."

"So he claimed to me before I killed him. Shame - had he confessed to being anyone other than a Lannister, I might have let him live," Jon said with a dark laugh. 

"Yes, well... Damion Lannister isn't the only dead Westerlander highborn. The Blackfish recognized one of the knights you ran through during the flanking charge. There was a Ser Alyn Marbrand - flaming tree sigil, ring a bell?"

"Aye, faintly," Jon said. "Who else?"

"You, personally, aside from the Mountain? I'm not sure." Robb pointed at some of the castles in the Westerlands. "Among our prisoners there are countless household knights, several landed ones, and a handful of major lords. Lord Roland Crakehall is chief among them. His middle son Lyle, who they call Strongboar, is also in irons, but his eldest son Tybolt and his brother Ser Burton Crakehall both lie dead, food for the crows at the ford. Ser Flement Brax, also captured, is the third son of Lord Andros Brax. Lord Lewys Lydden and Lord Lucas Serrett were also both killed when the center routed, as was Ser Harys Swyft, goodfather of Tywin Lannister's brother Ser Kevan. And of course, the Mountain that rides. Let him try riding headless. By my estimate, nearly four thousand Lannisters died in the battle and an indeterminate but not insignificant amount in the rout thereafter. You're the talk of the camp, you know."

Jon was pleased to know they had struck heavy blows to the Westerlander nobility. Let them know the price of servitude to their bastard king and the Old Lion, Jon thought savagely. "And our own?"

"After a tally of the dead, we lost fifteen hundred men at the Ruby Ford. Most of the casualties came when first under heavy fire from Lannister bows, and then some more when the Lannister reserve and Gregor Clegane countercharged. Lord Karstark's middle son, Eddard, died crossing the ford, and Lord Hornwood fell to the Lannister countercharge. Today I must confirm Daryn Hornwood the new lord of that house. Aside from that, there were knights and castellans and distant cousins to the Northern houses - some Lockes, Flints, Umber men and Karstark men, and retainers of House Manderly, but most of the banners largely remain untouched. Between our existing host and the Rivermen who joined us on the Kingsroad, as well as those you picked up with Ser Brynden, we have nearly twenty-three thousand men in our ranks now."

They ate in silence for a few moments, before Robb broke it to say, "Theon came to me with a proposal this morning. He wants to go to Pyke and court his father to join our alliance. I was leaning towards accepting it."

"No," Jon said quickly. "That would be a mistake. Theon has fought well for us, but it is his father I fear. Keeping his heir is the only thing that keeps him in check. If we hand Theon back to him-"

"I'd only send him as a messenger, not as a gift," Robb said.

"It doesn't matter. The moment he steps foot on that boat headed to Pyke, he's out of your hands, and out of your control. There is one thing that Balon Greyjoy wants, and neither of us is able to give it to him. You have to be careful, brother. We can't depend on the honor of others. Living with Father too long made me think other men were like him. They are not. It is a world full of thieves and liars. There are exactly four people I fully trust with my life. One is Asher Forrester, for he and I have fought side-by-side through countless battles. Two of them are my brothers, and the last my..." Jon trailed off.

"Sister? Lover?" Robb said. His mouth was flat but then he burst into an uncontrolled laugh. "Admit it, brother. It's rather funny if you're standing in my shoes."

Jon tossed a crumb of bread at Robb. "Enough of your mockery."

"To think I tried to dissuade you from it," Robb said. "But she is as besotted with you as you are with her. Does it... change things?"

Jon shook his head, thinking of last night. No, it had not changed things. Some small part of him was afraid of how much he did not care. "No, it doesn't. I suppose that may seem... disgusting. But to tell you true, it revolts me to think of Sansa or Arya in that manner. With Rhaenys, it's different. It's as though... as though I can't get enough of her," he admitted. That felt good leaving his chest when he said it.

Robb nodded. "Well, as if I needed any other proof that Lord Reed told the truth. Must be the dragon in you. If it matters to you - and it most likely does not - then I don't look down on you for it. A queer custom, perhaps, but... a custom of the Valyrians."

"Whose blood I know now to run in my veins." Jon shook his head. "A strange thing. I know you have faith in Theon. He's fought well. But Balon Greyjoy? I'd sooner douse myself in wildfire than trust him." Jon took a deep gulp of his ale. "If we crush the Kingslayer, Greyjoy will smell lion blood in the water. Point him at the Lannisters, at Lannisport and Casterly Rock, and we may have something to speak of. Don't send Theon but invite Lord Balon to meet us somewhere south of Seagard. If we send Theon to him I fear we'll see Ironborn sails by Sea Dragon Point in a moon's turn."

Robb looked away. "It puts an ill taste on my tongue to mistrust him so, but every word you speak reeks of truth."

The tent flap opened up behind Jon. He turned to see Lady Stark enter with Bran, and then Rhaenys a few moments after followed by Lord Reed. Both Lady Stark and Bran looked exhausted. Lady Stark had not slept, clearly, for her eyes had deep, dark bags around them. It crossed his mind that she was his aunt by marriage. Never had he considered any sort of relationship to her save that she was the mother of his siblings. Now she was his aunt. His father - he could not think of Ned Stark as anything different, even if there was an undercurrent of bitterness to it now - had lied to her too. Jon stood and pulled Bran into a hug.

"I'm sorry about last night," he said. "Thank you for looking for me."

"You would do the same for me," Bran said as he pulled away. "You're my brother. I know you would." Jon fought away the mist that came to his eyes.

Lord Reed brought the chest with him. He looked at Jon apologetically. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, for how I broke this news last night. It could not have been easy to hear, not with what happened to Ned. But I was told that you wish to know more. Before I tell you anything else, please allow me to give you this. The contents of his chest are your birthright." He slid the chest over for Jon and produced a key. "It's already unlocked, but this is for your safekeeping."

Jon nodded mutely. He turned to Rhaenys. "Help me with this?" She patted his hand and lifted the lid. Her violet eyes lit up when she saw the contents.

"Go ahead," Jon urged.

Rhaenys reached it and pulled out a oblong object, rocklike in its exterior. He might have mistook it for a rock in truth, except that the ridges were not rocky imperfections but scales. It was grey and white with thin red streaks. "It feels warm," Rhaenys murmured. "Hold it, Jon. It's your cradle egg. You have more of a right to it than anyone. It belongs to you. Father wanted it for you." Jon reached out gingerly and touched it, and gasped. It was more than just warm - the egg felt close to burning, but it did not hurt at all. He grasped it with both hands for fear of dropping it.

"It's beyond warm," he said. "I can feel its warmth."

Robb gaped at him as did Bran. Even Lady Stark looked astounded. Jon handed it to Robb. "Feel it. Do you feel it?"

Robb took it tenderly but then frowned. "No. It's as cold as rock to me. Are you sure?" He glanced at both of them. "Surely both of you can't be wrong." He gave it back to Jon who caressed it tenderly before placing it back in the crate. There was a cloak that he pulled out. It was a Targaryen wedding cloak, but there were snarling direwolves of silver thread stitched by the fur trim on the edges.

"That would have been your mother's," Lady Stark said quietly. She glanced at him for the briefest second, but then averted her eyes. "All the time I wondered who she was when she was under my feet and in front of my eyes this whole time. I wondered who she might have been for Ned to break his wedding vow to me so, to shelter her son in his house even among his own. I wondered and I wondered, but it was in front of me all along. The only woman Ned loved more than me - his own sister."

"I wish he did not lie to you."

"When he brought you back to Winterfell, we were little more than strangers, despite Robb's birth. And then as time went on, perhaps he felt it was too late. I might have asked if he were here in front of me, but now I will never hear his reasons why. I only have his memory and the knowledge that he lied." She blinked away a few tears and looked away, as though she could not stand the sight of him. "He always chose you over anyone else, and now I understand why. Ned would have died before breaking his promise to his sister. When you disappeared from Winterfell, I had never seen him in such a state - not even when Bran had the fever. I saw him weep for the very first time."

"Would you have done anything differently had you known the truth?" Jon asked. 

"If he told me when he brought you, I might have come to care for you as I would any nephew or niece of mine. But it is too late for all that, and my Ned is gone. What use is it for me to forgive a ghost?" The ache in her voice was deep, and Jon did not know what to say to that.

He went through the remainder of the items. There were letters, and a wedding document, and even signatures from witnesses - Sers Gerold Hightower, Arthur Dayne, and Oswell Whent. He remembered that Ser Oswell would have been distant kin to Lady Stark. Then he found something rolled up. It was sealed with the oddest of seals - divided in half, there was a single-headed snarling dragon of red - on the other, an equally ferocious wolf howling. Perhaps his mother had her own seal, her own arms to signify her status as a Targaryen.

"I believe that is a letter Lyanna wrote to you," Lord Reed said. "There are a few more in there. There is also her personal journal in there as well. Though it is not up to me to decide, if I may make a suggestion, Your Grace - read it later. You would not want to be rushed by the imminent meeting of our Northern lords before we set to march."

"You keep calling me Your Grace," Jon muttered. He put the items away neatly in the chest.

"Many men will call you that before the end of your days," replied Lord Reed. "The lords will have questions. I will help answer as best as I can - but Your Grace, I beg of you, do not shy away from what your parents gave you. The name Aemon Targaryen means nothing to you, I am sure, but it meant everything to Lyanna. She chose it for you. And for this to end well, for you to find a place for yourself, I think you will need to make peace with Aemon Targaryen in the end." Quietly, Jon put everything back in the chest. The last item he put in there was Rhaegar's ruby, which Rhaenys wordlessly handed to him. 

From there they went, all of them, to the great tent pitched for the war council. It was not large enough for it was made for Robb and a handful of lords. This time, they were joined by every lord in the army, major and minor, all of them come to give their oaths to Robb and for Robb to return them. It was a grim procession, marked with sullen, aggrieved, and angry faces. Jon was gladdened to see they shared the same rage that he did. The North was a different place; the North remembered. Whether it was through Ned Stark or Lyanna Stark, Jon was proud to be one of them.

It was the Greatjon who came first and foremost, nearly pushing Lord Reed out of the way. He drew his sword and plunged it into the ground in front of Robb. "Lord Stark," he said. "To Winterfell I pledge the faith of Last Hearth. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron." Each of them came, one by one, and offered the same oath to Robb, and Robb accepted it and returned it with the Lord's pledge. Daryn Hornwood, only a few years older than the two of them, took longer, for Robb took the time to commend him on his house's fealty and to confirm him as the next lord of the Hornwood. For Lord Karstark he pledged vengeance for the death of Eddard. Jon watched them all. Robb may not have had the Stark coloring, but he had father's bearing, that same solemn face that belong to each member of their family. He was Father's heir, through and through, and he would make a good lord of Winterfell. It was his place and he had been born for it.

That same question plagued him now more than any other. Who was he, and what was he born for? Jon Snow was born to nothing, but at least he had been given the tools of a lord by his father. He could take those tools and make something of himself. It was why he went to Essos in the first place, and he was doing a fair job at it. A memory of the ruined castle in the Wolfswood floated in his mind's eye; that was something Jon Snow could have aspired to. The name Aemon Targaryen came with loftier ambitions - ambitions of thrones and palaces.

Lord Reed was the last of them. His words were the same, but in the end, he swore one more, and his eyes darted to Jon as he said it. "I swear it by ice and fire," he said, and then he stood.

Robb looked around at the gathered lords bannermen. "Your loyalty to my house has been demonstrated many times these last few moons, my lords," Robb said. "I take it as a testament to the honor of the North, and our loyalty to our own. But you honor me not only because House Stark has been your liege lord for many centuries, you honor me because my father and my grandfather were good lieges to you all. Do you agree?"

Solid, heartfelt 'ayes' rang around the room. "You came not only out of loyalty to my house, but also to my father. I know he was loved by you all. He was loved by me and my brothers and sisters and my lady mother. He was the best father that any of us might have asked for. He taught me the value of honor, the value of leadership, the value of one's word and the strength to live up to it. That was one thing he held closer to his heart than we could all imagine." Robb glanced at him, and Jon's pulse quickened. Rhaenys, who stood behind him, grazed his back lightly with her hand. He nodded to Robb. Tell them, he thought.

"But my father also told one lie," Robb said quickly. Confused heads looked about the room at each other, curious and whispering. "Not a lie of malice, but a lie of love. A lie borne out of a promise made to his dying sister." His hand grazed the chest and he looked to Jon. "Brother?"

Jon stepped forward and opened the chest. It seemed to open louder than it had before, ringing as the lid hit the table with a sound of doom. He pulled out the wedding cloak and laid it on the table in front of all the lords, and then placed the dragon egg there. He still did not see the light of recognition flicker in their eyes, in any of them save for one. Lord Bolton's pale, watery eyes looked at the cloak, then at the egg, and then at him, and then the leech lord smiled a soft, knowing smile. Of course he would be the first to piece it together. Those cruel eyes were intelligent as they were unnerving.

"When my father went to Dorne near the end of the Rebellion with Lord Howland Reed," Jon began, his voice rusty to his own ears, "he found Lyanna Stark dying in a tower in Dorne. Everyone believes a fever claimed her. It was not a fever. She died after birthing a child. A boy she named Aemon. Someone had brought word of what happened to the children everyone believed to be Rhaegar's, and what happened to Princess Elia. Afraid of the same fate for her own child, as she died, she exacted a promise from him - to keep her son safe. My father promised, and so he rode north with Lyanna's bones and his bastard that looked just like a Stark. Me."

There was a stunned silence in the room. Some simply looked down at the cloak, others' eyes widened as they realized what his words meant. "We have a marriage certificate and writings from Lyanna and Rhaegar to prove it. The ceremony was witnessed by the Kingsguard who were there at the time - the same Kingsguard my father and Lord Reed and the other Northern lords who ventured with him to Dorne did battle with. Ser Oswell Whent, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, and Ser Arthur Dayne."

"Lyanna was never kidnapped," said Maege Mormont in realization. "Aye, that matches what I knew of the girl. Robert had a way of making her sound a wilting flower, but that was not the Lyanna I knew." She looked at the wedding cloak, and then up to Jon. "A second marriage, eh?"

"Like the Conqueror and his two wives," Rhaenys said.

"No man can have two wives," muttered a voice in the back. There were some murmurs of assent. Jon did not see which lord said it.

"No man," agreed Rhaenys, "but Targaryens are not like other men. It does not matter either way. My mother does not live to give her opinion, and yet I do. I am her daughter, the child of the sun and spear and the child of the dragon, and if I call him my brother, he is my brother. He was born Aemon Targaryen and so I shall consider him to be. When His Grace King Viserys acknowledges it, I dare any man to come and challenge me on that." She drew Dark Sister and raised it high. "By all rights, my brother is the only other male of House Targaryen, and thus the heir to His Grace King Viserys, and also the Prince of Dragonstone." Most of them seemed unconvinced to Jon.

"But I ask you, my lords - does any of this change who you see him as? Is he not the man who broke the enemies' ranks on the ford yesterday?" Now there were murmurs of agreement and nodding heads. "Is he not the man who slew the Mountain who rides, who avenged my mother and my house?" The murmurs of assent grew louder. "You know who he is, and who he has always been. That the name Lady Lyanna chose for him was Aemon Targaryen should change nothing. If I have learned one thing about the North since my return to my homeland, it is that the North values men for who they are and what they do, not what their names are. Or was I mistaken?" The command in her voice was unstoppable, and few of the lords in the tent had the will to resist her. She was exaggerating. The Northern lords cared about bastardy only marginally less than the Andal-descended southern lords, but Jon did not cut her off. She played to their pride and insecurities, and it worked.

"You were not, Princess," the Greatjon rumbled gruffly. He pointed to Jon. "The boy rides alongside a wolf and fells mountains. Aye, if that isn't a sign of his blood, if he isn't a dragon and a wolf both, then we all live in old Macomber's blue eye." Some lords pounded on the table, including Lord Gregor Forrester and Asher, who shot Jon a smile. "Hero of the Trident!" declared Galbart Glover.

"It is written in the histories that Jacaerys Velaryon made a promise to Lord Cregan Stark when he came north to secure our support for his mother Rhaenyra," Lord Reed added softly. "My fellow lords, it is not a tale oft told, but I wager that at least once we were all told of the pact of ice and fire. It was never fulfilled, for there never was a co-mingling of Stark and Targaryen then or thereafter. But the pact has been fulfilled in Jon Snow. I tell you now - Rhaegar never raped Lyanna. She loved him, and he her."

"And what of the lives lost in Robert's Rebellion? They were lost for this pact of ice and fire, were they not?" Roose Bolton said, his voice like icewater down Jon's back. "We sacrificed much for Lady Lyanna's choice." There were some lords who agreed with that, too. Bolton's banners, of course, but Jon saw some nodding among the smattering of other lords, including Roger Ryswell, the son and heir of Lord Rodrik who led the Ryswell men, and even proud old Lord Karstark.

"Aerys was madder than a rabid dog," said Lord Cerwyn. "I saw him at Harrenhal, and I know others among you remember. We didn't rise because Rhaegar took Lyanna Stark and ran away to some tower in Dorne, else we would have marched south with Lord Rickard to answer the King's summons for Brandon. No, we only rose when Lord Rickard was killed and the Mad King demanded Lord Eddard's head."

"That was Lord Rickard's mistake for involving himself too much with the South," growled Lord Karstark. "Arranging all those southern betrothals for his southern ambitions."

"Come off it, Rickard," countered Lady Maege. "I haven't forgotten how much you wanted to arrange a betrothal between Lyanna and your heir - never mind that she was four years his senior. When the Mad King demanded Lord Stark's head, all those southern alliances came in handy, didn't they? Or do you think we would have defeated Rhaegar at the Trident if it was just us and the Baratheons? Lady Stark's kin played a role in that victory as did the Arryns. You lot, all of you - we swore oaths to House Stark. Whether this boy is Jon Snow or Aemon Targaryen or Aemon Rivers or hells, Aegon the Conqueror himself, it doesn't matter one whit to me. He's fought and bled alongside us, and the same Stark blood runs in his veins today as it did yesterday." The Greatjon banged on the table to show his approval.

"Lyanna's boy is as much one of us as Ned's!" he roared. "Yesterday we all toasted him as the hero of the battle. Is he any less a hero because he's Lyanna's boy? A Stark is a Stark, and she was as much a Stark as Ned and Brandon and Benjen!" Jon might have kissed the Greatjon then.

"My lords," Jon shouted. Though some of the lords were not in his favor, the show of support by the others kindled a fire in his chest. "My parentage does not change the fact that Eddard Stark was the only father I ever knew. He raised me as his own despite the dishonor it brought on him and on Lady Stark. He treated me the same as he treated Robb, and though he cloaked me in the colors of a bastard, he did it for my own protection. I will think of him as my father for the end of my days. And my intention is to avenge my father by taking Joffrey Waters' head from his shoulders and throwing it to the crabs in Blackwater Bay. I don't care what you think of my name. What I need is all of you with us as you have been these last few days, with House Stark as we make our own justice. Justice for my father!" That earned more cheers and ayes and thumps, but Jon now knew who lay in his camp and who did not. Bolton's little sly smile did not disappear.

VISERYS

Their arrival at Harvest Hall was marred with little fighting.

It was Viserys' first war. He hoped it would be his last. There was a fair bit of tedium in the marching, and the only resistance came in the form of marcher lords who stood up against them here and there, but not with any real force. Their supply lines were harried, but it was nothing their outriders couldn't deal with. The way through the Boneway would have led to Blackhaven, but it was on Lord Anders Yronwood's suggestion that they took a slower, less traveled road instead. It was a hard march, but they came out on the other side of the mountains by Harvest Hall.

Since the decision was made to send Prince Oberyn north with the smaller portion of the Dornish army, Lord Anders Yronwood was second in command of the main force. Viserys was commander in name, but he was not so foolish as to not listen to the counsel of the more experienced lord. Yronwood, a competent lord who quickly gained Viserys' trust, fought at the Trident alongside his brother, and was a good hand at the organization and the logistics of a large fighting force. Along with him came the great majority of the Dornish highborn. With Viserys came Prince Quentyn, and his newly betrothed, Princess Arianne. 

The Gods had clearly enjoyed themselves when shaping Arianne, and Viserys wasted little time taking her to bed. They were to be man and wife, king and queen soon enough; what was the reason to wait? And as much as the Gods enjoyed themselves, he enjoyed studying her shape. She proved to be a sharp intellect and a match for him in tongue and wit. She was caustic in a way he liked, but sweet when she wanted to be, and seductive - she seemed not to know how to turn off the seduction. Quentyn seemed to not get along with his sister, and they kept their distance from each other. 

When they arrived at Harvest Hall, the gates were thrown open for them without a second thought. To Viserys' surprise, Lord Arstan Selmy waited for them inside. He was a younger man, no more than thirty, blonde, tall, and pale eyed. A man stood beside him that Viserys recognized instantly, though it had been years. He was older than Viserys last remembered him, no longer so spry, but still graceful. His blonde hair, which was greying when Viserys knew him, was now nearly all white. He got to a knee in front of Viserys as did Lord Selmy.

"Your Grace," said Lord Arstan. "Harvest Hall is yours. Be welcome." They were given a gift of bread and salt after dismounting. Viserys took it and faced Ser Barristan in the eye.

"It has been years, ser," he said flatly. "Last we met, you served a different king."

The knight had the decency to look shamed. "I took Robert's pardon, Your Grace, 'tis true. I served him in Kingsguard and council. Served with the Kingslayer and others near as bad, who soiled the white cloak I wore. Nothing will excuse that. I might be serving in King's Landing still if the vile boy upon the Iron Throne had not cast me aside, it shames me to admit. But when he took the cloak the White Bull had draped about my shoulders, and sent men to kill me that selfsame day, it was as though he'd ripped a caul off my eyes. That was when I knew I must find my true king, and die in his service." Ser Barristan stood up. "I failed your brother, Your Grace. If you grant me a chance, I shall not fail you."

Viserys stared at the knight. No, he had gotten older, but he had not changed. "We could have used your service in Essos."

"Had I known, I would have come," Ser Barristan said. "But when it was discovered that all of you were still living, it was too late."

"Too late?" Viserys questioned. "It would not have been too late, I assure you. Not while the Usurper made one attempt a moon at my life and that of my family." Ser Barristan's eyes widened, and he seemed to be taken aback at that statement. Viserys found that curious, but left it aside for now. "However, my niece Rhaenys would be terribly disappointed in me if I had your head without hearing you out, so I shall give you the chance to redeem yourself, Ser Barristan. Only a fool would toss away the Bold without pointing him at his enemies first." Viserys gathered his cloak and swept in the direction of the great hall. 

Lord Arstan took them in, but no sooner had Viserys been led to the greatest guest quarters did Lord Arstan produce a scroll. "This came to me from Lord Stannis. He rallies men at Storm's End and his fleet at Dragonstone. I have not sent anyone, but many of the Stormlords have declared for him, as have the Florents in the Reach. Soon he will march on the capital. But there is other news as well. The Starks have defeated Tywin Lannister at the Ruby Ford and forced the Lannister forces into retreat along the Kingsroad, but a second Lannister army gathers in the western Riverlands under the Kingslayer, ready to assault Riverrun. If Lord Stannis makes his assault on King's Landing soon, it will be him you have to contend with, not the boy king." Viserys' eyes lit up. The news of the Stark victory was welcome. It bode well that Stark's son and bastard had proven themselves capable allies in war.

Ser Barristan sighed. "There is other news as well, Your Grace. Lord Stark is dead. I was set to leave the city, stripped of my white cloak, when I saw it happen. Queen Cersei tried to prevent it, but Joffrey executed him in a fit of rage for sending messages to the Seven Kingdoms about his parentage. Now Robb Stark is the new Lord of Winterfell. When we sent messages to the Starks proclaiming our loyalty to the Targaryen cause, we received two ravens back. One is from the new Lord Stark," he said, presenting a scroll with the direwolf sigil. "The other bears a Targaryen seal."

Viserys took the Targaryen seal letter first. "Most likely it is the Princess," he mused. His eyes scanned the scroll. It was indeed Rhaenys' handwriting. The scrawl at the top said,

Uncle,

There is grave news. Lord Stark is dead. I did not think I would shed tears for a man I once considered the Usurper's dog, but things have come to light in the past few days. 

Lord Stark may have been one of the greatest supporters of our house, without our knowledge, for he kept one of us alive at great personal risk to himself and his entire family.

We have always suspected that my father took Lady Lyanna not against her will, but with her consent, and that their affair was of love, not of force. They wed in a ceremony with witnesses, overseen by a septon. This was confirmed to me with evidence, both physical and that of an eyewitness. Lord Stark is dead, but he was not the only man to fight against the Kingsguard in the rebellion and survive. He went south to Dorne with other Northmen, and one of them, Lord Howland Reed, yet lives.

When news of Lord Stark's death came to us, Lord Reed approached Jon Snow. Jon had been instructed by Lord Stark to seek out Lord Reed in case of his death. Lord Reed related to us the events following the Sack of King's Landing and the death of my mother. When Lord Stark and Lord Reed rode south the finish the war and find Lady Lyanna, they found her. This is common knowledge. She died after - that too is well known.

Uncle, she died not of a fever but of childbirth. She died giving birth to my brother.

On her deathbed, Lyanna had heard of what happened to my mother and the babes posed as Aegon and I. Fearing the same fate for her boy, she pled with her brother to keep him safe from Robert at all costs. Lord Stark pledged to do so, and held true to that pledge his whole life. He disguised the boy as his bastard and raised him as his own son, along with his heir and other children, until that boy grew dissatisfied with the lot of a bastard and fled to Essos.

I loved Jon Snow before I knew who he truly was to me, and now that I know who he is, I love him more still. He is my brother, your nephew. His name - the name his mother gave him - is Aemon Targaryen. I think it will take time for him to wear that name, and in truth, I am convinced he will go by Jon for most of his life. Jon has begged me not to raise the issue with you, for fear of putting you at odds with the Faith before victory is certain, over the legitimacy of my father's second marriage to Lady Lyanna and his legitimacy of birth, but in my eyes he is one of us, a Targaryen as much as you or I. Aegon is lost to us and to his own madness. Jon is your heir, and the Prince of Dragonstone, until a son is born to you.

Vis, I intend to wed him and have him all my life. I will not be dissuaded from this. Understand it and know it well. I will do my duty to our house in all respects, but I will not let him go. He is my jorraeliarzy, my valonqar, my sun and my spear. Proclaim him a true Targaryen for the realm to hear. The House of the Dragon remains strong. Do this for the love we bore each other as children, and for the love I bear for you still.

You saved me from a terrible fate and I have been nothing but angry at you for it. It was petulant, but I blamed myself for what has happened to my dear aunt. Had you not done what you did, though, I should not have had the chance to be with Jon now. You stole me away out of love. I only wish you had succeeded in stealing Daenerys, too.  I hope to see you soon in person. I have had enough of my own bitterness. When I saw the tears Lady Stark and Lord Robb and Jon wept for Lord Stark, I knew it could end as easily for any one of us. I do not wish to shed tears for you but to embrace you once more as kin and family.

We move now to secure the Riverlands. I expect Lord Robb will have written to you in greater detail about that. We await Uncle Oberyn's spears and yours as well. Soon this war shall end and we will return home to the Red Keep, dear uncle. Until that day, I remain your loyal and faithful niece.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen

Viserys' calmly set the scroll aside, but his heart was hammering in his chest. Perhaps it was a cruel jest. Rhaenys was so angry with him, even when she left. But he dismissed that thought; Rhaenys was bitter, but she would not tell this sort of lie. "Your Grace?" Ser Barristan said with alarm. "What is it?"

"What do you know of Lord Stark's bastard?" he asked the knight. "You knew Lord Stark. Did he ever speak about his bastard's mother?"

Ser Barristan frowned. "I actually met the boy once, in King's Landing - just some moons before Lord Stark's arrest. He came by way of Essos - some trouble on the seas with Ironborn, or so I heard. He seemed a strapping lad, polite and humble. In truth he reminded me less of Lord Stark in looks than his brother Brandon, and to a certain extent his aunt, the Lady Lyanna. He had a Valyrian steel sword, which was unusual in and of itself." Viserys handed him the scroll and Ser Barristan began to read. The old knight's eyes grew wide and his breathing rapid.

"It... it cannot be. How could I not have seen?" the old knight wheezed. The Bold was now the blanched, for his face could not be any paler or devoid of blood, Viserys thought, but Ser Barristan's face did not lie.

"Does he resemble my brother?" Viserys asked. He could remember Rhaegar's face clearly, but the details of Jon Snow's were more blurry to him.

"At the time, I would not have said so," Ser Barristan admitted. "The first thing you see is the coloring. But I saw Prince Rhaegar's face nearly every day of his life. Once you look past the grey eyes, and the black hair... yes. His face is longer in shape than Rhaegar's, more like his mother's, but his nose, jaw, his chin and the shape of his eyes - that was all Rhaegar. Lord Eddard lied to everyone. No one knew the truth, else Robert would have found out and Lord Eddard's head would have been on a spike atop the Red Keep far earlier."

Viserys sank into his own thoughts. "Very well," he dismissed the knight. "Leave me. I must think on this."

"Of course, Your Grace." Ser Barristan bowed and disappeared. Viserys walked over to the fire burning in the fireplace of his quarters and stared into the flickering flames. He wondered what possessed Rhaegar to abscond with Lyanna Stark. Could she have been so beautiful? He had never seen the woman, only heard stories of her when he was a boy and later, in Essos. Were the rumors of Elia's frailty true? He remembered even now asking his mother when he could expect more Rhaenys and Aegons to play with. Rhaella Targaryen's face loomed in his memory, a beautiful, sad, haunted specter. She was never without some horrid mark on her face, some now tribulation inflicted on her by Father. "No more Rhaenyses and Aegons, my sweet," Mother had said. "You will have to make do with the ones that you have." She patted her belly which grew rounder by the day. "And of course, this one, when she comes."

"She!" Viserys said excitedly, putting his hands on his mother's bump.

Rhaella laughed softly. "Yes, darling. She. I think you have a sister on the way."

The flames crackled and the vision in the embers vanished like smoke up the chimney. Viserys shook his head. No more Rhaenyses and Aegons, no, but an Aemon instead. Jon Snow had been devoted to the princesses in Essos. He saved Rhaenys' life, which was certainly a mark in his favor in Viserys' eyes, and Rhaenys was convinced that he held the key to an alliance with the North, one that had materialized and yielded actual benefit. But more than that, Viserys longed for one thing more than any of the other Targaryens - family. He was the last of them to actually remember their family - with memories of Rhaegar, his brave, kind older brother who played with him when he could, of sweet goodsister Elia, who always doted on him, and of his mother Rhaella, who was the most enchanting woman in the world, full of love and grace and immeasurable sadness. They lived on only in him. He was the safekeeper and guardian of their house.

Did he have room for Aemon Targaryen or Aemon Waters or Aemon Sand or Aemon Snow or whoever he was in his heart? He thought once more of Rhaegar. He and Mother had not gone to Dragonstone until word reached them of Rhaegar's death on the Trident. He remembered still what Rhaegar said to him before he left, with a gentle finger lifting up his chin and his kind, kind eyes. 

"Will you keep my family safe, little brother?" he had asked him softly

Viserys had done all he could do to only nod, not let tears spill. "I will, I promise, lekia," he swore. He put every little ounce of his being into that promise.

"Good," Rhaegar said with a smile. "Aside from me, you are the other man of our house. I know you'll be a good uncle to them and a good brother to the little sister we have coming." Rhaegar winked at Mother, who had not been able to stop crying the whole day. "Muna told me you wanted more nieces and nephews to play with. When I come back, I'll endeavor to give you more." With a kiss to his forehead, a kiss on Mother's cheek, and a kiss on Elia's lips, Rhaegar left them and went to die.

"My love?"

Viserys was shaken out of his thoughts. He turned to face his betrothed. The Dornish beauty smiled at him and pulled closer, placing her hand on his chest. "What troubles you, Your Grace?"

"Memories," Viserys echoed. "Memories and ghosts. I need parchment and ink. I have a promise I must keep."

Chapter Text

JON

The march to Riverrun was miserable.

Heavy rains fell all the way from the Ruby Ford to the Inn of the Kneeling Man. The River Road felt more a river than a road at times. The going was slow. Their wagons fell into the ruts and constantly needed to be pulled out. Men's boots became waterlogged, and men fell sick. Mosquitos bit at them seemingly the entire way. It was not something Jon was unfamiliar with, even if the conditions were different. Every soldier who spent time at war knew that men died as much, if not more, on the march than in battle. It was decidedly more comfortable on horseback, but Jon knew what the foot-soldiers were feeling too. He had been one of them, and that let him sympathize. He spent time encouraging the men of his column, the Winterfell boys, keeping their spirits high during the march. At night, when they camped, he would spend some time with them - but not too much time. Father had always said that it was good for a commander to show love to his men, but that he must not become one of them. Even Brandon led like that in Essos, for the men there revered him as much as they loved him. There was a subtle distinction, but one a commander needed to grasp. Robb was a good hand it at too.

The lords were a different concern. Jon found their behavior in his presence somewhat changed. It was as though many did not know how to treat him. The highborn were creatures of habit but Jon did not fit neatly into any of the easy definitions of a highborn in their society. At the bottom of the highborn ladder, there were knights errant and hedge knights and the retainer houses such as the Pooles, who served greater houses. Then came the retainer knights and then the landed knights and masterly houses, then the lords, who could be roughly divided into lords and great lords - those being the bannermen who constituted the greatest portion of a kingdom's taxes and levies - and then the great houses themselves, the Starks, the Arryns, the Tullys, and so on. As a Stark bastard, Jon had some of the benefits of this status afforded to him, particularly because he had been claimed by Ned Stark. But now, none of these easy labels applied to him. He had the blood of a royal - and the illegitimate children of royals had always been a problem.

Jon stared into his reflection one night in Rhaenys' tent, as she brushed her hair. She hummed a soft song, but Jon could only look at his own mirror image. "Lady Stark always feared I would be a Daemon Blackfyre to Robb," he mused. "I wonder if Viserys feels the same."

Rhaenys tutted. She did not look away from the mirror, but her eyes reflected back upon his. "Jon, we have yet to receive a response. Only today a rider came all the way from Sallydance to let us know that Uncle Oberyn's spears were marching on the River Road behind us. Soon they'll be here, but Viserys and the rest of the Dornish army are far to the south, by Harvest Hall. Whatever Viserys has to say will take some time in getting here." She put the paddled brush away and smoothed her hair with her hand. "Viserys, more than anything else, cares about family. His blood is the most valuable thing to him, and those who share it. When he knows you have it..."

"He will decide whether he sees me as Aemon Targaryen or Aemon Waters," Jon finished. "I know you've placed your faith in him, love. You know him better than I do." 

"I do," Rhaenys said forcefully. "Now come to bed, and cease your brooding. She swept past him and sat on her bed and pulled her gown around her. It was a simple thing, dark red and yellow in color, and loose. In the humid nights that plagued them, it was surely a comfortable fabric; because of the heat, though, it clung to her curves enticingly. She smiled as she saw Jon's eyes linger on her. "Come, my love," she said more softly. Jon got up and obeyed.

The next morning they rode at the head of the column with Lord Bolton. To Jon's surprise, there was a young man, only a year or so older than Robb and himself, who rode with Lord Bolton. He was near a carbon copy of his father, with the same pallid skin, hairless face, though unlike the leech lord, he was decidedly more handsome. His eyes were also a darker shade, which made him look less like a corpse. Like his father he wore black ringmail and the pink cloak of Bolton embroidered with droplets of blood.

"Good morning, my lord," Jon greeted calmly. "I gather this must be your son - Domeric, if I remember? We've never had the pleasure of your presence in Winterfell, Lord Domeric."

"No, Your Grace," Domeric said. His voice was quiet much like Lord Roose's, but less whispery, less... chilling, if Jon could call it that. When Roose Bolton spoke, it was as though someone dumped a bucket of ice cold water down his back, or the scrape of nails on slate. Domeric's voice was more like a pleasant breeze through the branches of the firs. "And if it please, only 'ser.' My father is lord and I am but a knight."

Jon glanced at Roose. If there was any indication that Roose was displeased by Domeric's choice of address towards Jon, it did not show on his face. Nothing showed on Bolton's face. It was stone. His happiness, rage, joy - all of it was the same, save for the occasional smile. That smile was more terrifying to Jon than a thousand Lannisters bearing down on him at once.

"Did you foster somewhere, Ser Domeric?" Rhaenys asked.

"Yes, my princess," he replied. "If truth be told, I have spent a great deal of time away from the Dreadfort and my father's demesne. When I was a boy I served as a page at my aunt's hall in Barrowton. Lady Dustin is a Ryswell by birth, and my late mother's sister. Four years there, and then I fostered in the Vale as a squire to Lord Redfort. I only returned last year. I was good friends with Lord Redfort's sons. I've missed the companionship of those my age." He glanced at his father. "I had a natural-born brother that I sought out upon my return, but a sickness took him. Riding with the army has given me greater opportunity to meet my peers in the North."

"Ser Domeric acquitted himself well in the battle," Robb added. "You took Lord Crakehall's son captive, if I remember. Fine horsemanship."

"If my lessons serve me correctly, House Bolton has produced many great warriors," Rhaenys said, addressing Lord Roose. "The Red Kings were once as powerful as the Starks in the North, in the Age of Heroes. Will you tell me more about your house, my lord? There has always been scant detail in my studies about the lords of the North, the Starks excepted."

"I'm afraid the minute details would bore you, Your Grace," Lord Roose said calmly. "Beyond our time as the Red Kings, my ancestors bent the knee to Theon Stark to fight the Andals. Since then we have been Winterfell's bannermen. There were... some regrettable incidents, of course," he said. There had been more than one, if Jon recalled. The Boltons had risen a few times and were beaten back at every turn, but never quite extinguished. "For a thousand years our house has kept Winterfell's peace in the east among the Lonely Hills and the Weeping Water. I was Lord Eddard's age when he called the banners to march south in Robert's Rebellion and I fought alongside him at the Trident."

"For a great house of the North, my lord, there are so few of you in number," Rhaenys responded. Jon gave her a measured look. She was making more conversation with Lord Roose than she ever had before. He wondered what her goal was. Lord Roose did not seem the type to be easily manipulated or flattered, but at the same time Rhaenys was not saccharine in her words. She seemed to be genuinely curious. Jon realized that she had the ability to closely guard her emotions and her expression, and it was difficult to pry her thoughts from her eyes or smile. It was the mark of a good politician, he thought. She would be deadly in court one day.

"There was a bout of the Winter Fever in the North some two decades prior to the Rebellion," Lord Bolton stated. "It wiped out a great deal of the sons and daughters of Northern houses south of Long Lake. The Umbers, Karstarks, Mormonts were not as greatly affected. We were not a numerous house before and have not been since. My own father was the only surviving son of his father. I had two aunts and an uncle who died in the cradle. Of my own children with my late lady wife, only Domeric lives."

"A fine heir, my lord," Rhaenys said, gracing Domeric with a smile. "Are you betrothed, ser?"

Domeric had the wherewithal to look down and blush. It was the first sign of color to come onto his pallid face. "Not as of yet."

"You shouldn't have admitted that," Jon said, grinning at Ser Domeric. "Now I fear she won't rest 'til you've wed."

”What Prince Aemon means is that I care deeply about forging bonds that will heal Westeros when this is said and done, and that is done with marriages,” Rhaenys said, shooting him a reproachful glare that made him smile.

It took two more days after for them to reach the Inn of the Kneeling Man. The rains hardly relented, and the river began to overflow its banks. Fewer men than they had expected came to answer their summons. There were twenty and five hundred men from Seagard led by Lord Jason Mallister, and another two thousand from Stone Hedge under Jonos Bracken and his natural son Harry Rivers, whom they referred to as the Bastard of Bracken. Some other smaller houses had gathered, but others were missing, and there was no sign of the Freys and any of their banners. 

The news was grim. Lord Jonos Bracken, a rough-hewn, stocky man of brown hair and brown beard seemed almost gleeful to report it. Jon knew the Riverlords were a quarrelsome lot, but their disjointed behavior was maddening. More than half the lords gathered here had marched to Riverrun just the day before. Scouts reported that the Kingslayer was upon Riverrun, and had driven his army to get there before the Starks. There were near thirty thousand of them, as even more men had gathered by the Golden Tooth. Wayn, Blackwood, Vypren, Ryger, Vance and Piper had all marched to meet with the Tully army. But all those men combined could not number more than fifteen thousand at most. Robb blanched when he heard that.

”And why did you not join them, my Lord?” he said heatedly. Jon winced. Bracken and Mallister were right not to go - even if they had, the Rivermen would still be outnumbered a little by the Lannisters. The wisest course of action was to wait for their armies to coalesce before facing the Lannisters, but he could sense Robb's mounting frustration with House Tully's banners. “Are you not sworn to my grandfather as they are?”

That wiped the smile from Jonos Bracken’s wide mouth. Lord Mallister had the decency to look ashamed. “I won’t be told how to conduct a war by a boy who was in swaddling clothes when the last one was conducted,” Lord Bracken said. There was a belligerence in his eye when he said it.

”That boy, my lord,” said Jon coldly, “is my brother, and the only man living to have sent Tywin Lannister to turn tail and run. He is Lord Stark of Winterfell. You will address him with care or I assure you, there are twenty thousand Northmen here with us who will explain to you in detail why you should choose your words carefully.” Bracken might have bared steel for that, but Lord Mallister's timely intervention assured that Jon did not need to split the Bracken from head to groin. 

"If we push hard now," said Lord Jason, "our forces combined should be able to relieve the other lords. They may have yet to give battle. Combined, we'll outnumber the Kingslayer and crush him." Jon did not share that optimism, nor did Robb, and so without stopping for rest they departed from the inn with the Bracken, Mallister, and other smaller houses. Their numbers swelled to twenty-eight thousand now. The steel serpent that was their column now extended so far down the River Road that Jon could not see the end of it even if he rode hard for half an hour. He questioned, sometimes, the integrity of their forces. Like Tywin Lannister's army at the ford, they were made up of disparate factions, some with more questionable loyalty than others. The Northmen, he generally trusted to be loyal to Robb; the Riverlords were another story. He took time to get to know them, at Rhaenys' behest. Some of them sided with the Targaryens during the rebellion. In their host that was Lord Lymond Goodbrook, Ser Raymun Darry, and a Ser Roland Lychester, who was the master-at-arms of Castle Lychester. All three of them were warm towards Rhaenys; Ser Raymun appraised Jon for a minute before proclaiming that he had Rhaegar's nose, and Ser Roland Lychester, who fought at the Trident alongside his cousin Lord Lychester, explained very sorrowfully that Lord Lychester could not be here for his advanced age had rendered him unfit to fight on the battlefield, and that all his sons had died fighting on the Trident for Rhaegar, which, naturally, left Ser Roland and his sons to inherit after him. The amount of loyalty they expressed to Jon just for being Rhaegar's son was inexplicable to him. They did not know him at all, but clearly they held Rhaegar in high enough regard to extend that loyalty to his son despite the grey circumstances of his birth.

"Your father was a gallant knight and would have made the greatest king the Seven Kingdoms had seen since the reign of the Conciliator," Lord Goodbrook said one night at supper with Rhaenys and Jon. "I knew what Robert and his lackeys said about his kidnapping of Lady Lyanna was a lie." As though seemingly realizing his offense, he quickly added, "Not that Lady Lyanna's honor is in question. Of course, your uncle Lord Stark was wise enough to see that you were safer as his natural son than to reveal your parentage, thank the Seven."

The other Riverlords, especially Bracken, Jon did not trust. Lord Jason Mallister seemed a good enough sort, but Bracken struck him the wrong way. At every turn he questioned the ideas and tactics he and Robb proposed. Jon supposed that as a bannerman of House Tully, and a powerful one at that, he did not feel that he needed to answer to Robb in any way, but the man rankled him regardless. The Riverlords were a bunch of bannermen that he could do without, for the most part. Who needed enemies when one had the loyalties of men like Frey and Bracken?

A day away from Riverrun, Theon came back with the outriders. His face was ashen. "The Riverlords have been defeated and scattered. I saw their armies straggling away to the north across the Tumblestone. I don't know who is dead and who lives, but the Tully banner still flies over Riverrun." 

"We have to give battle and drive away the Lannisters," Robb said. "Before the siege of Riverrun can progress."

"What of the Dornish spears? At least ten thousand men are on their way under Prince Oberyn. It would give us a decided advantage in battle," Jon suggested. "But the messenger you sent to them-"

"Has not come back in two days," Robb finished. "Which means it will take some time for the Prince to catch up to us. We are here, and we have to give battle."

Jon could not disagree with that assessment, so they drew up plans. It was generally agreed that Jaime Lannister occupied a solid defensive position on the plain in front of the castle. The ground had become a muddy bog, making it difficult for horses and men to cross with any particular speed. They needed to bait the Kingslayer into an attack, and so it was decided that Robb would march with eight thousand Northmen and all eight thousand Riverlords ahead to give the appearance of a relieving force come too late for battle. The hope was to trick Lannister into attacking, thinking he had found himself a weak opponent that had marched into battle haphazardly. The attack would then force Lannister to abandon his defensive position in favor of slogging through the mud to attack their lines. In the meantime, the remaining portion of the army would circle through the forest and launch themselves at the Lannister flank once the battle lines collided.

"I want you to lead the flanking force," Robb said in front of the lords. After the result of the Ruby Ford, no one dared oppose him except that arsehole Bracken, who loudly proclaimed that he should lead the flanking wing.

"Once you too have slain a Clegane," Robb offered, "then I might entrust you with such a task, my lord. Prince Aemon, my brother, will you aid me in this?" There was a silence in the tent when Robb referred to him with his Targaryen name.

Jon tried not to let his discomfort show on his face. It is only Robb, he told himself. He is doing it because it is the mummery that needs be done. He inclined his head. "I will lead the attack on the wings. Give me the best of our Northern riders and I'll drive the sword through the Kingslayer's back." That earned some resounding thumps from the Northmen who laughed and grinned. The Mad King may have been mad, but that made the Kingslayer no less reviled.

The next morning, as a pink sun rose over the trees and brooks and the rain finally ceased, Robb marched ahead with the Riverlords and the Northern vanguard. In the night, Theon as captain of the outriders had managed to wrangle whatever survivors of the earlier battle were in their vicinity; they had more than thirty thousand in total now, and Ser Karyl Vance and Ser Marq Piper had joined with them. They reported that Lord Edmure and Lord Blackwood survived and had holed up in the castle, but that most of their fifteen thousand men had retreated in a disorganized manner and that at least four thousand of them were dead. So ten thousand Riverlords and ten thousand Northmen marched ahead. Jon watched Robb lead their columns spaced apart, arriving at different times. When they made it to the battlefield, they would appear disorganized and tired, a haggard lot ready for the Lannisters to pick off one by one.

Rhaenys presented him with a black cloak then, embroidered with the red dragon of House Targaryen, and a banner with personal arms. It was a beautiful sigil - an ice-white single-headed dragon roared above a snarling, sprinting white direwolf on a black background. "For a prince of ice and fire," she said with a soft laugh. "I'd tell you you need to come back to me or I'll haunt you, but... please be careful." 

"I will."

She looked at him wistfully. "I could fight alongside you, you know. I have skill at the spear on horseback and I've gotten better with Dark Sister." That much was true. Jon had taken to drilling with her and she was a natural at the sword. She had even started to defeat the soldiers and start challenging the masters at arms in their army. Every time she fought in her leather armor, she drew a crowd and cheers, and she battled Dacey Mormont to a standstill yesterday. 

"I know you could," he said. "But if I know you're out there, I won't be able to fight, love," he said. "All I'd think about is you." She gave him a strange look at that but said no more.

Lord Bolton was also assigned to serve under his command, and so when Jon rode in formation along with the rest of the army, it was Lord Bolton and his son who flanked him during the battle, along with Ghost. Even the direwolf failed to unnerve the Bolton lord, though Domeric cast Ghost a few wary glances. Jon found himself at ease with the heir, and some part of him wished for Domeric to become Lord Bolton sooner rather than later. Jon set off with the eight thousand under his command and wheeled south of their camp and back around into the forest. Theon screened their advance, ensuring that there were no Lannister outriders who would get word to the Kingslayer about their feint. The forest was dark and made their going tough, and Jon began to worry that they would not get there in time. He hoped that Lannister had taken the bait, but if he took it too soon, they could be done for. Finally they arrived at the treeline by the plain outside Riverrun, and Jon could see the Tully banners from atop the castle far to their northwest. It was a pretty castle; smaller than Winterfell, certainly, but well defended. It backed onto the joining point of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork, and the moat that cut across the front of the castle between the two rivers had been flooded, creating an island around the castle. Lannister camps were set on all sides, but the Kingslayer's army was arrayed along the road, facing them, charging towards the Northern line. Robb's maneuver was executed perfectly. The Northmen and Riverlords looked as though they had arrived in a disjointed manner, each lord's company and division one after the other, and they barely had time to break out of their marching formation in order to form battle lines. Unfortunately, the appearance of disorganization gave way to some actual disorganization, which meant that the Northern line would not last long. The Lannisters charged into them with overwhelming force just as Jon arrived. He saw the Northerners shoot arrows at the Lannisters, and many of their knights and footmen died in the mud as they crossed the muddy plain in their attack, but it was not enough to even the gap.

"They've taken the bait," Jon muttered. "And now we spring the trap." 

"Wait for their flanks to commit, Your Grace." Lord Bolton's advice was calmly given, and Jon glanced at him. The man used the title as though he had not raised doubts about his parents' actions just a fortnight ago when Robb revealed his parentage to the Northern lords. He was never obsequious - it was simply stated as though he was pointing out the weather at a particular moment. Robb considered him to be a prince, and so that is what Roose Bolton did as well, publicly.

He wondered what the man thought in the recesses of his mind. He would pay a pretty copper to learn that truth.

"As you say, my lord," he agreed. "Ser Domeric, Bran, please inform the lords to form their companies as discussed. I would like House Bolton's force to advance with me down the center of our charge." Domeric nodded and rode off with Bran right behind him, relaying Jon's orders to each of their lords.

"I pray your son survives today," he said. "He is a fine knight."

Roose Bolton watched Domeric go as well. "Indeed. If he should not, I shall have to remarry." Jon grimaced. The battle below was not going well for them. The Lannisters had taken the expected heavy losses going across the muddied plain, but their numbers were putting weight on Robb's forces and they were beginning to buckle in the center and the left flank, closest to Jon. They needed to make contact soon before the Lannisters broke through. Soon their force had been arrayed and they were ready to charge. Theon and his outriders joined Jon in the center. The Greyjoy grinned at him from under his dark helm as he fell into line. Jon handed his horn to Ser Domeric.

"Do me the honors, ser."

"Of course, Your Grace," said Domeric. He blew the horn and their line burst forth from the woods, lances tipped towards the lions. With a great war-cry they rode down the slight incline from the forest and swept in a crescent around to the center-right of the Lannister army. The Northern forces seemed to draw courage at the sign of the flanking army, and the Lannisters were taken entirely by surprise.

"Winterfell!" Jon shouted. "Winter and vengeance!" With the North upon their lips, they broke down the plain, racing to smash their iron against the exposed Lannister underbelly. All down the ridge came streaming forth the power of the North. Jon felt the familiar blood-haze descend upon his eyes. It was time for killing. His infantry charged as well, right to the exposed right flank of the Lannisters, ready to sweep them into the center where Jon's cavalry was to strike. They emerge from the darkness beneath the trees. They were in a long line, an endless line, and as they burst from the wood there was an instant, the smallest part of a heartbeat, when all Jon saw was death tipped on their lances and swords.

The clash of steel and the pounding of hooves filled the air as Jon charged, their war cries joining the chorus of battle. The Lannister knights were caught in disarray, their formation breaking apart as they tried to defend themselves from the onslaught of arrows and lances. Jon's lance struck true, finding its mark in the chest of a Lannister knight. The impact was jarring, but Jon held on tight as the knight tumbled from his horse. He felt a rush of glee. Dead Lannisters, that was all he wanted - dead Lannisters He pulled his sword free and plunged into the fray, cutting down any Lannister soldiers and knights who crossed his path. Any Lannister cloak or surcoat, signifying a knight or noble of the house, was a target. Jon cut down at least three of the knights. The battle raged on, the sound of metal ringing against metal echoing through the plain. Lord Bolton and his guard cut through Lannisters like a hot knife through butter. Their enemies screamed and died, with nowhere to go. They were hemmed in from all sides. From a distance, Jon thought he saw the Smalljon fighting next to Asher; the white tree of the Forresters was visible even from here. Jon let out a small prayer that his friends and brothers would live.

There was another horn. Jon craned his neck to see where it came from; for a moment, it was as though the whole battle fell to a pause, men stopping their swinging and dying in that moment. A second horn blew, and then Jon saw the drawbridge of the castle lower, and defenders stream through. He saw the black tree of Blackwood and the trout of Tully and a dozen other banners. "Riverrun, Riverrun!" came the cry. "Riverrun!" echoed their army. The Lannisters quaked in fear and the slaughter resumed.

There was little else but the sound of battle and the pump of his rushing blood in his ears. Jon swung, and swung, and swung, and men died. All the grief that filled him at the death of his father and the discovery of his parentage tore through him and poured out onto the men who were unlucky enough to face him in battle. The morning became a cacophony of steel songs, human cries, and the howling of wolves. Ghost was a terror on the battlefield, the giant wolf mauling and disemboweling men where he could get his jaws and claws on them. As he fought through the line, a figure caught his eye. It was Jaime Lannister, fighting with a deadly grace that made him seem almost invincible. The man was furiously cutting through the Stark forces, and losing his own men at a rapid pace. Jon realized that the Kingslayer did not intend to win the battle - he already knew he had lost. Lannister simply intended to take any Northern lord with him and was leading his retinue headlong into the Northern ranks. Jon would not let it happen. Jon's heart leapt into his throat as he saw Jaime Lannister finally near, and make his way towards Robb, who was locked in combat with a burly Lannister knight. Jon's eyes darted around, searching for a clear path to the Kingslayer. He spurred his horse onwards, fighting his way through the chaos, dodging blades and parrying attacks, until he was within striking distance of Lannister.

The Kingslayer had cut through some of Robb's guard and was nearly upon an unsuspecting Harrion Karstark when Jon reached him, screaming death at the Lannister. The Kingslayer seemed taken aback but was able to face Jon just in time.

Their swords met with a resounding clang, and Jon felt the force of the Kingslayer's strike travel up his arm. He hacked at the man's horse even as spearmen prodded at it. The beast went down, but the Kingslayer was able to recover from the fall near miraculously. Jon gritted his teeth and dismounted, choosing to meet the man on foot. He had no intention of having his horse cut down under him, and he had always preferred to battle on foot rather than on horse. As their swords met, Jon pushed back with all his might, their swords locked in a deadly dance. The two warriors circled each other warily, their eyes locked in a fierce stare.

"Who are you that you should wear the cloak of a Targaryen?" challenged the Kingslayer in his golden armor. The knight pulled off his helm to reveal a tumble of matted blonde hair. "The last man I saw dressed like that left King's Landing to die at the Ruby Ford."

"Is that so?" Jon asked. He took his helm and handed it to Bran. If the Kingslayer intended to meet him one on one in battle, then Jon would oblige. "I have just come from the Ruby Ford, and the only things I saw there were dead Lannisters." Ser Jaime was supposed to be a swordsman of legend, and Jon quickly discovered that the legend was not made up from whole cloth. Their swords clashed once more, and Jon stumbled back, struggling to regain his balance. Jaime Lannister grinned wickedly, seeing his advantage. He rushed at Jon, wielding his sword with deadly precision. Jon stepped back as he tried to dodge the sword strikes coming at him one after the other. The Kingslayer was too fast for him, and Jon soon realized that he was tiring. He was a far better warrior than the Mountain, for the Mountain was little more than brute strength and violence.

They separated and the Kingslayer twirled his sword nonchalantly. "I have to say, you're much better than the last few I've fought in single combat. What is your name?" He looked Jon up and down. "Dark hair, glum face, grey eyes - I'd say Robb Stark, but Robb Stark wouldn't wear Targaryen colors."

Before Jon could give any answer, there was a scream. "Die, Lannister!" A smaller figure launched himself at Ser Jaime at lightning speed with a spear in his hands. He wore bronze armor with a bronzehelm with black and red horsehair plumage, and was dressed in red and black. The spearman caught Ser Jaime entirely off guard as the soldiers around them had left the two of them to their own melee for the most part. The figure tackled into Ser Jaime and sent him sprawling.  Jon rushed forward, but Ser Jaime had already flipped over and pinned the spearman down with his weight. With a mailed fist, he tore off the bronzehelm to bring down his sword...

and froze.

Jon heaved the Kingslayer off the spearman and moved between them, but the Lannister was not even looking at him. He looked with shock and something near fear as he lay on his backside, hands on the ground, not reaching for his sword. Jon turned to look at the spearman and his blood ran cold. It was no spearman at all, but Rhaenys. She looked back at him fearlessly, scrambling to her feet. Blood streamed down her above her brow, where an angry cut had opened up. Jon yelled at Bran, who had just gutted a Lannister footman nearby.

"Bran!" he screamed. It took another cry before Bran heard. Jon gestured towards Rhaenys frantically. Bran saw, and with wide eyes darted over to stand by her side, shield in hand.

Jon turned quickly to face the Kingslayer once more. He had gotten to his feet and found his sword, but the fight looked gone from his eyes. Whatever the Kingslayer had seen in Rhaenys' face, it caused him to make a mistake. He overextended himself in an half-hearted attempt at an attack, leaving an opening for Jon to strike. Jon saw the opening, and with a grunt of effort, he found a gap in the Kingslayer's armor by the thigh and slashed it, causing the man to scream in pain and surprise as he stumbled to his knees.

Jon punched Ser Jaime across the face with a mailed fist and shouted over him.

"Yield!"

And so Jaime Lannister yielded. Jon heaved deep breaths, sinking to his knees in exhaustion. They were surrounded by Lord Bolton and his men, and soon Robb and his guard, all of whom had let out a great cry of victory as the Kingslayer was taken away. Jon watched them take him, but Lannister's eyes were fixed on Rhaenys, searching for something. Rhaenys, for her part, stared back unflinchingly. The battle was won, and the Lannisters fled west as best they could, but it was a far more crushing victory than the Ruby Ford. The Lannister army was entirely broken and most of them were caught against the Tumblestone or the Red Fork, but Jon could not think about that now.

He stormed over to Rhaenys and pulled her aside. "What were you thinking?" he asked angrily.

Rhaenys stared at him with a look of disgust on her face. "That man," she said, her voice shaking with rage, "murdered my grandfather and sat on the Iron Throne like a conqueror as his father's dog raped and defiled and murdered my mother and two children he thought to be me and Aegon only a few hundred feet away from him. He was supposed to guard me with his life. I want it in recompense for what was taken from me, after I have had my words with him."

Jon wanted to rage at her for doing something so foolish, but he did not have it in him. He wanted revenge too. They locked eyes, and Jon nodded in understanding. "Then his life you will have, when this is all said and done," he agreed. He sheathed his sword and peeled off his gloves, his hands traveling over Rhaenys' face and towards her cut. "Does it hurt?" he asked.

"Stings," she admitted with a hollow laugh. "But I'll live. I think."

"You'll live," Jon agreed. "You'll have a scar over your eye, though." He touched around the wound gingerly, causing her to wince. "Sorry, love."

She leaned into him. He could sense her exhaustion through her armor and clothes, her body sagging against his. "Are you terribly angry with me?" she asked.

"I want to be," Jon admitted. "But for now my gratefulness for your safety is overriding my anger." He pulled her into a gentle embrace and gave Bran a small smile. "Thank you for looking out for her, little brother." He pulled away from Rhaenys and wallked over to Bran. "Two battles now, and two times well fought. Do you remember what you always wished for when you were little?" Bran's eyes brightened, and Jon smiled. "Kneel."

When Bran rose, he was a knight. Truly, his little brother deserved it, and Jon wanted to be the one to knight him. Bran had acquitted himself excellently as a squire. In many ways he seemed even better than Jon himself at that age, and even more dutiful. He was a faithful squire and he would make a good knight. Rhaenys congratulated him with a hug and a kiss on both his cheeks, which made the poor boy blush so hard his cheeks began to match his hair. Robb came by them and dismounted. For the most part he looked unharmed, though his surcoat was tattered and there was a broken arrow shaft protruding from under his pauldron, where it had gone in as far as the gambeson but not to the flesh. His eyes widened when he saw Rhaenys, and he glanced at Jon questioningly but said nothing for now.

"I've sent Bolton and Ser Domeric to go oversee the transfer of prisoners to camp," he said. "Come, brother, Your Grace. We should speak with my uncle. My mother must meet with my grandfather before she departs for Highgarden. You arrived just in time," Robb said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "For a moment I began to worry. It was a bloodier victory than the ford. I expect our losses to be high."

"It was a near thing," Jon admitted. "But your plan was perfect. Lannister took the bait. And whatever our losses, they suffered double, or triple even."

"Aye," Robb said savagely. "And we've exacted an ounce of revenge on them for what they did to Father. But I won't rest until King's Landing has fallen and the Westerlands are ablaze. I mean to teach House Lannister what it is to cross the wolves."

"The wolves and the dragons together," Rhaenys added resolutely.

"Aye," Jon agreed. "Together."

HOUSE BOLTON

Chapter Text

RHAENYS

Every step she took towards the pens was fraught with memory.

At least, she though it was memory. It was difficult to remember anything from when she was only two, nearly three years old - there were some fuzzy images in her head, flashes in truth, that she thought may have been memories. It was difficult to discern what was real and what was imagined. She remembered flashes of her kepa and muna and of her grandmother. Blissfully she remembered very little of the Mad King. Aside from that, however, she remembered the people of the Red Keep.

One of them, to her eternal dismay, was Ser Jaime Lannister.

His face was young and blurry. She remembered golden hair and kind, green eyes. The man she saw in battle that day was not the same man. There were lines in his face - seventeen years worth of lines, and his eyes were no longer warm green, like grass by the river, but cold jade, hard and lifeless.

Jon trailed behind her quietly. He was covered in grime and blood, but she thanked the gods that he was untouched in battle for the most part. He was still a little angry with her, no matter his sweet smiles or his reassurances that he wasn't. He had a point. She nearly got herself killed - it was only the fact that Ser Jaime remembered who she was that accounted for her still being alive at this moment. Any other and she would have been dead; Ser Jaime froze when he saw her and that gave Jon enough time. 

His pen was heavily guarded. Jon nodded to the men and they parted way. 

He was in the mud, tied to a stake. His hands and feet were bound in an uncomfortable manner, and when he craned his neck to look at them, he nearly fell over face first into the mire. The guards left them. His pen was isolated from the rest, and under heavy guard, but now they were alone. Jon stood beside her.

"Should I go?" he asked.

"You must stay," she said quietly, not taking her eyes off the Kingslayer. "This concerns our father, and our house, Jon. It is not just me he must answer to."

Ser Jaime heard what was said between them. His eyes widened, and he looked to her first, and then to him. His brow furrowed, and it was as though Rhaenys could see the gears turning in that golden head of his, piecing together their words with his memory of the Rebellion. Go on, she thought. Remember my father and what he commanded you to do. Remember where Lord Stark found Jon. It must have dawned on him then, for his mouth hung open a little.

"It can't be," he said. Then he let out a dry cackle. "I never thought Ned Stark would be the best liar amongst us all, but here I am." He stared at Jon with a piercing gaze. "It's right there. Underneath your mother's coloring, it's as though he stood in front of me, come alive from my memory and two decades past. Oh, no, the eyes are not indigo and the hair is not silver, but that nose, that mouth, that look on your face. Every ghost has come to haunt me today."

"I am no ghost," Rhaenys declared, drawing closer to the pen. She put her face against the wooden bars of the cage. "Do I look like my mother, Ser Jaime? I can't quite remember her face. My uncle Oberyn tells me she was very pretty, and that I look much like her. Does he tell the truth, Ser Jaime?"

He flinched. The Lannister knight was brave in battle, to be sure, but here in front of her he looked every bit the shamed sinner. "You do," he croaked. "Gods forgive me, you do. But there is some of your father in you as well, and some of Queen Rhaella." Rhaenys' nostrils flared and her breathing became heavy. She was filled with a deep rage. She wanted nothing more than to break down the pen and choke the life from him. 

"Did my father tell you to protect my mother and us before he left for the Trident?" she asked harshly. "Did you make your vows to him before he died?"

Ser Jaime hung his head. "He told me to protect Elia and the children. I made that promise. I... I had every intent-"

"Hang your intentions," Rhaenys hissed. "Your intentions got my mother killed. They would have gotten me and Aegon killed, but luckily my mother had the foresight to have us smuggled out of the capital before you could rear your traitorous head. You... you..." she was filled with so much anger that her heart hurt and her eyes began to well up with tears. "I loved you," she cried hoarsely. "I called you Uncle Jaime, or so I remember. You, Uncle Arthur, Uncle Gerold, you were all my uncles until my mother reminded me that you weren't. Oh gods, even then she knew. You were no kin of mine, you were killers honor-bound to guard a Mad King and then to betray his family when they needed you most. My mother died horribly. You could have beaten the Mountain, you could have killed him, you could have saved her and I would still have a mother today and you would not be the dishonorable cur you are now, Ser Jaime. Why couldn't you listen to my father? Why couldn't you hold true to your vow?"

"I thought I was," Ser Jaime pleaded. Every ounce of pride was drained from that haughty face, replaced with only regret and sorrow. He had never expected this day to come, she could see it. He never thought to come face to face with the fruits of his sin. "Princess, you must understand. The King, he... he was going to destroy the entire city. There were caches - wildfire caches - the pyromancers, they... he..." His words began to fail him, and his eyes glistened. "He would have killed everyone. I was terrified. I needed to stop him, stop Rossart. He was going to have them destroy the entire city. After I killed him, I saw my father's men break into the castle, but by then it was too late. The Mountain, Amory Lorch, they both came in earlier, likely through a postern gate. It was too late. After Lord Stark came into the Great Hall, I went to look for your mother, but..." Rhaenys sobbed as he explained. None of it mattered, why couldn't he see? He made a promise to them. It didn't matter why he broke it - he just did. 

Jon's arm was around her and he drew her in to cry her tears of sorrow onto his chest. She heaved and wept against him. His hand was steady on her back. She heard his voice. "Why did you never tell anyone about this? How do we know you speak the truth?"

"Because all that wildfire is still under the city," Ser Jaime admitted. "Under Baelor's Sept, the Dragonpit, running all the way down the Street of Steel and the Street of Silk and under every major thoroughfare, and the port and docks as well. And why should I have told the truth? They all made up their minds about me when they saw Aerys' dead body lying by my feet. They judged me for doing what they all would have done in the end, anyway. He was a tyrant. He used to rape Queen Rhaella after burning people alive - after he burned your grandfather and your uncle alive, boy. If I could kill him again, I would do so without hesitation." Rhaenys dried her tears and wheeled around to face him. 

"So you would let my mother die again?" she raged. "If it were still Aegon and I there as you thought, you would have still let us die?"

Ser Jaime hung his head. "I never thought it would happen," he said. "I... did not think. If I knew what I knew now, as soon as I'd killed Aerys I would have rushed to Maegor's Holdfast to come find your mother."

"Even if you did not know," Jon said coldly, "you should have gone to find her anyway. You swore an oath, Ser."

Ser Jaime barked a dark laugh. "You needn't remind me, son of my prince. He comes to me every night in my dreams to tell me." Rhaenys could not bear more of it, so she turned to leave, and Jon followed soon after her. She blinked and turned her eyes upwards to stem the flow of tears, and that was when she saw it, up there high in the sky, burning across like a blazing chariot. It was a blood red comet with a tail half as long as the sky itself, and Rhaenys thought it heralded doom.

She felt Jon’s arm on hers. “Do you want to discuss it?”

She shook her head and sighed. “No words can soothe right now. Just be with me, my love. That will be enough.” 

“Aye. I can do that,” he replied.

They took a barge into the castle while the Tullys drained the moat that ran between the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. The river was gentler now. The rains had stopped but the plain outside the castle was a feast for crows. Bodies lay in the open mud. Rhaenys could see men moving back and forth from the battlefield to the Northern camp, taking living men on stretchers and dead men in carts. Lannister bodies were stripped - armor, weapons, boots, arrows, anything that could be reused was taken and then their bodies collected for burning.

Lord Tytos Blackwood joined them on the barge, as did some of the Riverlords and Northern lords. Lady Stark sat near the front with Bran and Robb, while Jon was seated next to her. Finally out of his armor, he was dressed in a fine but plain black doublet with a red shoulder cape. Rhaenys chose to wear an iron circlet with a ruby inlaid, along with one of her Targaryen dresses. The Starks and the North had declared for House Targaryen in the war, but the Riverlands had not done so officially. Their involvement in the war hinged on their relations with the Starks. Rhaenys needed something more binding.

The garrison at the gate lifted the portcullis. The iron rose from the water, muddy and covered in river moss. The blackened metal was stained the color of red rust. When it was all the way up, they passed underneath and into the castle. Riverrun’s sandstone walls were topped with pointy-roofed turrets painted in bright blue and red hues, mirroring the coloring of the Tully sigil. The stream led to water stairs that ascended to the courtyard of the castle, which was paved with cobblestone and crisscrossed by a garden of trees and ponds. They disembarked from the barge and were greeted by a younger man, in his late twenties, who shared the coloring of Lady Stark and Robb. He was dressed His hair was auburn and his eyes a deep blue. His beard was fierce and fiery, and though stocky, he was a head taller than Catelyn and of similar height and built to Robb. The two shared a resemblance; it was easy to mark them as uncle and nephew. His face looked given to smiling, but he did not smile now.

"Sister," he said, greeting Lady Stark with a full-bodied embrace and a kiss on both cheeks. "It does me good to see you."

Lady Stark pulled back and put her hands on her brother's face. "And I you, Edmure. You are unhurt? I heard of the battle before we got here."

"The Lannisters licked us," Edmure admitted. "But most of our bannermen and I remain unharmed. We were able to retreat into the castle in good order. I am glad for it; I daresay our sally helped in the battle."

"It did, Uncle," Robb said. "I am glad to finally meet you." He shook hands with the man and then gestured towards her and Jon. "Uncle, this is the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, niece of His Grace Viserys Targaryen. She rides with us as the King's envoy and representative."

Ser Edmure bent to kiss her hand graciously. "It is a honor, Princess. Please be welcome to Riverrun. Ah... I should see to bread and salt. You are with friends, but custom should never be overlooked." He glanced towards Jon. "Forgive me, ser...?"

For a moment Jon did not respond, and Rhaenys felt a stab of fear that he might slink back into the shadows of bastardy. "Ser Aemon Targaryen," he finally responded, quietly but clearly. "I am the son of Prince Rhaegar and his second wife, Lady Lyanna Stark."

Pindrop silence greeted that proclamation. Ser Edmure, bewildered, looked to Lady Stark first; when he found only a nod in confirmation, he looked to her. "Aemon is my brother," she confirmed. "And to me, a trueborn son of my house. It is a long tale, my lord, and I would prefer not to tell it more than once. I understand we are to have a war council later tonight. I shall lay the tale for you and the other Riverlords who have yet to hear it." Ser Edmure did not look entirely satisfied with that answer, but he accepted it and nodded. "My castellan and steward will see to your accommodations, Princess, and sers. I apologize - but my father is in ill health and I feel as though I must take my sister to meet him. I fear we are in his last hours."

Rhaenys dipped her head in understanding. "There is no cause for apology, Ser. Please attend to your Lord Father as you must, and convey my heartfelt well-wishes to him." Rhaenys felt no heartfelt wishes of the sort - Eddard Stark and even Robert Baratheon rose in rebellion due to their own lives being at stake, and Jon Arryn, who was an adoptive father to both of them, rose with them; all of that was understandable. But Hoster Tully was little more than an opportunist. Still, she needed his armies and his men to finish this war, and there was no use in lording over the mistakes of a dying man when time itself would take him away to answer for his actions to the gods. Ser Edmure and Lady Stark departed and the other lords began to disperse. 

"Messenger at the gate!" shouted a sentry. Rhaenys perked her head up to look; the portcullis at the main drawbridge was lowered, for the moat had drained enough by now, and a rider with the flags of House Targaryen and Martell rode through. He dismounted and bowed towards Rhaenys. "My Princess. A letter from His Grace. I rode from Prince Oberyn's host to deliver this message; I expect my prince to be here before sunset." Rhaenys nodded and watched the messenger go.

Rhaenys waited until she and Jon had been shown to their accommodations by Ser Edmure's steward to break the seal of the letter and read it. She sat on a desk while Jon sat on the bed, tapping his foot on the rushes on the floor. She cast him a glance before she began to read aloud.

Dear Niece,

Foremost, I am pleased to hear you are well. News has reached us of your victory over Tywin Lannister at the Ruby Ford. It will be first of many such successes, I am sure. You did well in engineering the alliance between houses Martell and Stark. Quentyn, for his part, cannot help but sigh like a forlorn maid every time he thinks of his Northern betrothed. I expect Lady Sansa must be of surpassing beauty. That part earned a chuckle from Jon, but his foot-tapping only gained pace. We now march through the Stormlands, which lie empty due to Stannis's war against the Lannisters. I expect that we shall join you within the moon.

Regarding the other contents of your letter - once you have finished with this, read the second scroll that came with my personal letter. A copy of one has been sent to every keep and hall in the Seven Kingdoms. I cannot consent to your wishes for you and your brother without meeting him first. I have not had the chance to fully know him, and I must do so before I give my approval. Regarding everything else, we must also discuss the title of the Prince of Dragonstone.

If you are certain he is who he says he is - and I do not doubt your belief - then he is family. Tell him I look forward to speaking with him soon, and seeing his dragon egg.

All my love,

your Uncle Viserys, Third of his Name.

Rhaenys' heart jumped into her mouth. Viserys had not refused her outright. True, he had not agreed, but he had not refused. She quickly folded the first scroll away and peeled the second scroll from behind it. 

I, Viserys, Third of my Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby proclaim that the issue of my brother, Prince Rhaegar, and his second, lawfully wedded wife, Lyanna Stark, is to be considered legitimate from the moment of birth. The Crown recognizes the sanctity and legality of said marriage, established by precedent by my ancestor Aegon the Conqueror, and the legitimacy of such issue. Therefore, Aemon, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, is, from his first breath until his last day, a legitimate-by-birth member of House Targaryen, as are all his heirs in perpetuity.

The royal seal was affixed to it. Her hands trembled. "Jon," she whispered. Jon got up and paced over to her side. He put his hands over hers. "Jon, this is it. I told you. I told you he would accept you."

Jon shook his head. "But... but why?" He laughed in disbelief. "I did not think him the sort. He always struck me as..."

"Cold?" Rhaenys finished. "He is cold. Frigid, almost to anyone who isn't family. But he considers you family. And he hasn't said no to my most fervent wish, which is to wed you."

Jon smiled and kissed her face. "Truth be told, I was looking forward more to becoming Prince of Dragonstone." That earned a laugh from her, but then she grew serious again.

"It is your birthright, but I understand his point about the pretext under which Viserys claims the throne. It rests on the proclamation of the Mad King that Viserys was his heir, not Aegon or I, after Father's death. Any restoration of our claims has to be worded carefully, lest the wrong people use it for their own gains." In truth, what she feared most was a discord between the supporters of their house who had joined because of her, and those who threw their weight behind Viserys. House Martell, House Stark, and possibly House Tully if all went well tonight - all three were to be bound because of her, not because of Viserys. And while she did it for him, she would consider herself foolish not to recognize the power that gave her.

"I understand. It was kind of Viserys to do even this for me." He took the letter and re-read it himself. "This will earn him enmity from houses and the Faith."

"But it will make him well loved among the Northmen," Rhaenys pointed out. "Viserys is not a fool. He takes risks, but they are often well-calculated." She intertwined her hands with Jon's and peppered his face with kisses. "Do you still want to be wed to me?"

He laughed. "Did I not agree with putting that part in the letter we sent to Viserys? Of course I do, Rhaenys. I would wed you and abandon the rest if I could." That brought heat to her face and soon their clothes lay discarded by the table, and they lay in a tangle in the bed.

The council was held in the great hall of Riverrun. It was not as big as Winterfell's, but it was packed with more guests than Winterfell's had been when they left with the great host from the North. It had been nearly three moons since then, three moons since the beginning of their war. Long trestle tables were arranged in a square, with a raised platform in the center. A chandelier hung low above, creating a natural stage for whomever would grab the floor in order to speak. Lord Hoster was not in attendance, for his health, Rhaenys gathered, was too poor to let him leave his sickbed.

Ser Edmure instead sat in the high seat of the Tullys, and his father's bannermen were arrayed to right and left and along the side tables. Word of the victory at Riverrun had spread to the remaining fugitive lords of the Trident, drawing them back. Ser Marq Piper was with him, and they brought others - Vyprens and Greys and Deddings and Charltons and Butterwells and Shawneys and Smallwoods. Jonos Bracken arrived too, glowering and blustering, and took a seat as far from Tytos Blackwood as the tables would permit. The northern lords sat opposite, with Jon, Robb, Bran, herself, and Lady Stark facing her brother across the tables. They were fewer, as it seemed that every lord and heir under the sun in the Riverlands had gathered here tonight, save for the many Freys; Rhaenys shuddered to think at how stifling the hall might be if Walder Frey's innumerable brood were allowed in. The Greatjon sat at Robb's left hand, and Jon at his right, and then Lord Bolton and Ser Domeric, then Lords Cerwyn and Karstark and Theon Greyjoy; Galbart Glover and Lady Mormont were to the right of Lady Stark. 

Just before the council began, the doors opened to admit her uncle Oberyn. Rhaenys stood and embraced him tightly when she saw him. He strode in ready for war, in dark iron armor with the orange surcoat of Martell. He placed a kiss on both her cheeks and then her hands. "It is good to see you, sweet niece.”

”I am glad to see you hale, Uncle,” Rhaenys said, sighing contentedly. “Your presence brightens my day.”

”As does yours, my little sun.” Her uncle cast an eye about the hall and stopped when he saw Ser Edmure. “Thank you for welcoming us into your hall, Ser Edmure. I dare say it has been a few years.”

Edmure straightened in his chair. “Prince Oberyn. Be welcome in this hall.” The steward presented Oberyn with bread and salt, and then the other lords behind him. Rhaenys glanced at the different sigils - Toland, Qorgyle, Santagar, Dalt, and Wyl. 

The Dornish contingent sat with the Northern lords. It was a strange mix, though Rhaenys noted with amusement how Ser Arron Qorgyle and Dacey Mormont eyed each other with lustful glares. Perhaps there was hope of further Northern-Dornish matches yet. Her uncle, for his part, shared a handshake with Robb, a kiss to the hand to Lady Stark, and condolences for the loss of Lord Stark with both. Jon he only eyed, before looking at her with a sly smile. Rhaenys wondered if he had heard.

The council quickly devolved into little more than fist shaking and shouting. The Riverlords appeared to be divided between those who wanted to commit to the Targaryen cause and those who wanted only to see the Lannisters removed from their lands and then to go back to hearth and harvest. At one point Robb stood and took the center stage and delivered an impassioned speech in support of an overthrow of Joffrey and a return to sensible kingship under Viserys. She smiled throughout. Robb was smarter than to believe his own rhetoric, but he did have a knack for inspiring people. He was partially successful. Some lords changed their mind, but not many and none of import. For the most part, it seemed as though the lines were drawn similar to how they were during the Rebellion - with the only difference that Lord Tytos Blackwood, quietly, stood and proclaimed his support for a Targaryen restoration. Rhaenys was pleased to see that. Lord Blackwood brought numbers and weight with him, but it also set Lord Jonos Bracken firmly in the camp of those who wished to stay neutral in the coming conflict.

"If I didn't know any better I'd call the lot of you cowards!" roared the Greatjon, standing during a lull in the arguing. "Here you sit, under Lord Tully's hall, arguing about whether or not you should pledge yourselves to the dragons when it was a dragon who helped keep the Riverlands clear of Lannisters and lions! It was a dragon who broke that old lion's flank at the Ruby Ford and it was the same dragon who defeated the Mountain and the Kingslayer. You all should be getting on your knees and thanking him." The Greatjon stood and spat.

"Viserys Targaryen is not here and his armies contributed little to the victories," harrumphed one of the Vyprens. "What-"

"I'm not talking about Viserys Targaryen, you fool. I'm talking about Lyanna's boy. Aemon." Greatjon pointed a meaty finger at Jon, and Rhaenys suppressed a smile. She was becoming immensely fond of Northmen and their directness. Their loyalty was a valued treasure to her, and it had been won with little more than honesty. Her ancestors had been fools to squander the North.

Silence and some whispers filled the hall. "I think there are some facts we are not all privy to," Ser Edmure said carefully.

”I can fill in the holes in the tale,” Rhaenys said firmly, standing among the lords. She went to the center of the hall, as the Greatjon yielded the floor to her. Every set of eyes was on her, but she gazed back fearlessly. She was of the dragon, and no number of eyes could cow her. “I fear that what you all know of Robert’s Rebellion is incomplete. My father is said to have stole and raper Lady Lyanna. It was always my belief that this was not true. And today we know that it was not. My father the Prince eloped with his lady love and took her as a second wife, in the tradition of the Conqueror. Lady Lyanna bore him a son, and when Lord Eddard found his sister in Dorne in the last days of the war, dying of childbirth, she begged him to protect her son, his nephew. Lord Eddard swore to do so, filled with a deep love for his sister and a deep love for his nephew. He disgusted the babe as his bastard and raised him with his own children in the North. Hidden under the cloak of a bastard, Lord Eddard harborer a Targaryen Prince - my brother, Aemon Targaryen, who was known to all as Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell.” Shocked voices erupted in the room. She caught Uncle Oberyn’s eye. She had never seen shock and surprise on that face, but she did now. He stared openly at Jon. “My lords!” she cried. “We have here proof of the wedding and of my brother’s parentage. We have a wedding cloak and letters from both my father and the Lady Lyanna, and a dragon egg.” Some gasps were heard at that. “And we have a marriage certificate, signed by a septon and three witnesses - Sers Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent.”

Over the clamor, Ser Edmure stood. “My lords! Silence!” It took some time and a few angry shouts to make the room settle but when it did, he focused his attention back to her. “So you say, Princess, and your word is very persuasive, but…”

”We have two more evidences,” Rhaenys interrupted. She gestured to Lord Reed, who stood, and then unfurled Viserys’ proclamation. When it was read, there were shocked faces throughout the room. The Northerners, who were aware, appeared jubilant, shaking Jon’s shoulders and clapping his back even as he grinned from their reactions. “A northern prince!” they proclaimed.

The Riverlords who were loyal to the Targaryens came together. Jon went up to join her, sharing a look with her as the Riverlords neared. Roote, Goodbrook, Darry, and others - all of them who’d fought by Rhaegar’s side on the trident. They laid their swords by Jon’s feet and knelt. “We are with you and your House, my Prince and Princess.” They swore their oaths firmly and loudly. When they were done, they stood by the Northmen and the Dornish. Ser Edmure looked on incredulously. Rhaenys felt for him for a moment. It must have been difficult to realize that one’s banners were stronger than one’s own house; Ser Edmure seemed to be grappling with that reality once more.

”Uncle,” Robb called. “This war will end and someone must sit the throne. Lest it be another tyrant, let us seat someone good. I believe Viserys Targaryen will be someone good.”

Ser Edmure was not foolish enough to resist the tide. He could see the appraising glances and stares from most of the hall. The tide was in House Targaryen’s favor. Finally he stood and came down from the high seat of the Tullys and pledged his allegiance, and so the Riverlands were bound to their cause. By her uncle Oberyn's searching gaze, though, she still had much to explain.

TYRION

Even in the face of agitation and horror, Tyrion had to admit to himself that his father's composure was quite admirable.

Tywin Lannister was not a man given to hysteria or brooding. All that Tyrion could remember of him in childhood was his deliberation, paired with a decisiveness in execution. He did not waste time pondering excessively, nor did he rush to judgment. He found him harsh, cruel even, and often unfair - but never foolish. Even in the face of certain defeat, there was something to be appreciated in that sort of demeanor. He exhibited it now, sitting in the chair of the Hand of the King, as his beautiful sister looked on with panic in her beautiful green eyes, and her monstrous little spawn and the boy-king of Westeros raged and raged until spittle flew from his tiny grimacing lips onto the table of the small council. 

"How could Uncle Jaime allow this to happen?" Joffrey shouted. His eyes were manic. "First Grandfather gets turned back at the Ruby Ford by Stark and now Uncle Jaime gets captured and loses half his army!"

The situation was a little more dire than that. Father convened the council early this morning when a raven came from the Golden Tooth carrying ill news. It was bad enough that Robb Stark and the Northmen had defeated Father at the Ruby Ford - but there their losses had been manageable, aside from the somewhat demoralizing effect Ser Gregor's death had on the men, and the Northmen took welts of their own. But then the green boy had fortified Harrenhal and made it difficult and costly for them to march back up the Kingsroad and into the Riverlands. The garrison there was not great, but it denied them use of the road and the Riverlords closer to the Blackwater now gathered there in force. They could be overcome, but Robb Stark would surely clean up the survivors in his father's army.

Now news came of Jaime's defeat. Thirty-thousand Westerlanders trapped between the Tumblestone and the Red Fork and utterly smashed by a combined force of Northmen and Rivermen outside the walls of Riverrun, and Jaime taken captive in single combat by the enemy. A great number of their banners and their banners' heirs lay dead or captured. Many Lannister cousins were dead or captured. It was a disaster. Ser Damion Lannister, uncle Damon's son - dead before the battle, if it were to be believed. The Northmen sent his corpse to King's Landing hacked to bits. Ser Stafford Lannister was dead, as was Daven, his son. Uncle Kevan wrote from the Golden Tooth with worse. Of his sons, Lancel was here in King's Landing, but Martyn and Willem had been captured in the battle. Ser Addam Marbrand was dead. Lord Lydden was dead and his heir captured; astonishingly, House Prester may have been entirely decimated in the battle, for Lord Garrison was known to have died, his cousins Ser Forley, Ser Tyrek, and Ser Gareth as well and their heirs. Ser Terence, Lord Garrison's son, was missing - perhaps captured, perhaps drowned in the river as their army beat a hasty retreat. The list went on;  Lord Gawen Westerling captured, Lord Estren slain, Lord Kenning captured, Ser Lymond Vikary dead, Ser Steffon Stackspear, who was Lord Stackspear's heir, dead. Tyrion thought darkly that the next feast in Casterly Rock - if one were ever to be held again - would have quite a few empty seats.

And then there were darker rumors, news of Rhaegar's supposed bastard, and now a raven come from Viserys Targaryen confirming that tale. Oh, Tyrion thought it almost worth it when Cersei looked as though her head would explode as the proclamation was read aloud. Tyrion long knew that Cersei had wanted nothing more to be wedded to the Prince - it was bad enough when Elia Martell beat her there, but Lyanna Stark was ten times worse. She stole not only Rhaegar from her, but in many ways Robert Baratheon too. And now it was being said that she gave him a son - a son who had now apparently defeated the Mountain and Jaime Lannister in consecutive battles.

"Is there any truth to it?" Father asked. He turned to Pycelle first, who looked to be near-asleep, and then to Lord Petyr Baelish. Of the Small Council they were the only ones present who remembered what Rhaegar looked like and had seen the boy. Varys would have been one too, but he was gone - long gone - and Tyrion thought he had a good idea of who had helped Eddard Stark sneak messages of Joffrey's parentage out of the Black Cells. Like as not, he was with Viserys Targaryen or Robb Stark or some other house now, plotting against the throne, spilling their secrets to them.

Lord Baelish talked over a half-snore from Pycelle. "It's difficult to say, my lord Hand," he said with a small smile. "To me he looked a great deal like any Stark, but I suppose he was... prettier in a way, prettier than I remember Lord Stark in his youth or his elder brother Brandon. That could have come from Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna. It could also easily have come from the woman who shared Lord Stark's bed. However, Viserys Targaryen gains absolutely nothing from passing off Lord Stark's bastard as a son of Rhaegar. Such a proclamation puts a contender from his own house for the throne, weakening his claim. No, it is likely that he would only do this if he believed it."

"Pretty like one of the boys in your establishments?" Tyrion said lazily. Baelish's smile dropped a fraction of an inch, much to his satisfaction.

"Enough. Grand Maester?" Pycelle snorted awake at the iron tones of Father's voice. 

"Hrm... yes, yes... I... er... the boy. Yes... Maester Yandel once described in his genealogy of the Targaryens-"

"Grand Maester," Father said, gritting his teeth. "In more succinct terms."

"Er... well, it could be said that his physiognomy matches some of the features ascribed, traditionally, of course, to the descendants of the Conqueror... I recall an aquiline nose that is not known to be common among the Northmen, and almond-shaped eyes... a distinctly Valyrian trait, not one known among the Northmen. But his hair was dark and his eyes like steel."

"All of that is irrelevant," Tyrion said. "Whatever rumors there are that Rhaenys Targaryen, who rides with the Northmen, considers him to be her brother, or the more salacious ones, where they've already engaged in... the customary Targaryen entanglements," he said, casting a glance at Cersei, who glared back, "it doesn't matter. This proclamation from Viserys Targaryen is all the proof he needs." It is not my fault you decided to behave like  a Targaryen without being one, dear sister, he thought.

"Are you the new master of whisperers?" Cersei said snidely. "You hear quite a few rumors, don't you?"

"Considering as our old one is likely whispering into the ears of our enemies, someone must," Tyrion shot back. "Father, if the Northmen have not yet done it after winning two victories in Viserys' name, they are likely not to break faith now with Viserys, even with a Northern princeling of their own. That claim will be weak and it would be difficult to garner support among lords for a child born of a second marriage. But let us put such thoughts and unlikelihoods aside. Our situation is dire. We had one thing to prevent the Starks from turning against us, and that one thing had its head removed by our illustrious king." He shot a glance at Joffrey, who stewed in rage. The boy stood up and pointed an accusatory finger, but Father gestured to him.

"Be seated, Your Grace." Joffrey's outbursts had been well tamed by Father now, so he took them out on the servants and the serving girls and any other poor unfortunate soul that found itself in his path. Tywin Lannister, however, was not one of those he would dare raise his voice against. "Tyrion, I assume you have a point?"

Tyrion tapped his fingers against the wood table. "Let us examine our options. The Tyrells have rejected our offer of alliance. I cannot fathom why they have yet to get involved in the war - but I suppose to them it seems as though everything will resolve itself fairly soon, and they can make a show of allegiance to the Targaryens near the end. Lord Stannis is against us and will never bend, he can only break, and that is well known. The Arryns have yet to get involved in this war, but seeing as the Starks and likely Lysa Arryn, who put it in their heads, believe that we were involved with Lord Arryn's death, I do not think anything will entice them to join what appears to be the losing side as of now. We are divided from our base of support in the Westerlands and Viserys Targaryen marches north from the Boneway and through the Stormlands. If the reports from the sea are accurate, Lord Stannis will be here in a fortnight and his navy from Dragonstone will surround Blackwater Bay soon. Father, you have seen more of war than anyone here." Tyrion spread his hands. "I can only analyze the problem. I have no solutions to offer. I pray that you do."

Father stared at him. He had been on the receiving end of many stern glares from the man, but now there was only a flat curiosity on his face. "Leave, everyone. Everyone save my children. Ser Mandon, please escort his Grace to his chambers. The wear of governance requires respite." Joffrey growled as if to bite back, but stood and raged as the Kingsguard led him away. Baelish went next, bowing obsequiously before he did so, and then Pycelle was last. Tyrion was now Master of Laws, and they had no Master of Ships or Master of Whisperers. It was an empty council.

Cersei stood, wine goblet in hand, and paced around the room. "Father, surely there must be-"

"Enough," Father shouted, slamming his fist on the table. "You will not speak. You failed to control your son and now we are backed against the wall with nothing to bargain with. They have my son, do you understand? They have my son, and we have nothing to give them!" Tyrion shook in his chair. There was that anger. He had seen it before - Lord Tywin was not without anger - but the composure was always there. Not now. Now he sensed fear. Fear and desperation. Those were things mortal men felt, not the Lion of the Rock. Tywin Lannister was as human as the rest of them.

"They will not hurt Jaime," Cersei said. But she sounded as though she did not believe it. "Rhaenys Targaryen was said to have loved her kingsguard knights as a girl."

Tyrion snorted. "Do you remember all the things you liked when you were two? Did the things you like cut your grandfather's throat as a monster raped your mother?" Cersei looked as though she might gouge his eyes out. "I love Jaime as much as the rest of you. Don't deny it, you know it's true. He's the only one in this family who's treated me as though we share blood. I fear for his life. I fear that tomorrow Robb Stark will send us his head. But more importantly, I fear all our heads will decorate spikes on King's Landing's walls soon if we don't do something about this war that we are, at present, losing quite badly."

Father sighed. "Well, go on. I assume you've cooked up some sort of plot."

"Yes. We are losing. Between the two foes we face," urged Tyrion, "the Targaryens and Dorne are never going to forget that we put our strength behind Robert in the Rebellion, and the Starks will never forgive us for beheading Ned Stark. Stannis, on the other hand... his reputation is well earned. However, I do not think he bears as personal an enmity against our house the way the Targaryens do. There is only one path I see to winning this war, but it will not involve our blood on the throne. We have to surrender - on terms that preserve House Lannister's status. Our status as Wardens of the West must not change. Additionally, Joffrey, Tommen, Myrcella - Stannis is to make a proclamation that they are trueborn Baratheons, and Joffrey will say that he is stepping aside for his Uncle because that is what Robert willed, and for the good of the realm. We can betroth Joffrey or Tommen to his daughter. We will release Lord Renly from the dungeons as he has no male heir of his body as of now. Stannis must see reason. Even if he wins King's Landing from us, he will be surrounded by the Targaryens on all sides. He might defeat our depleted forces, but then he will have to contend with the North, the Riverlands, and Dorne, and that is a difficult task. It would be made easier if the Westerlands rose for him as well, as well as our crownlander bannermen."

"You would have us give up the throne?" Father asked. "Impossible. It will never happen. Our name will never recover from the ignominy. "

"When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground," Cersei muttered.

"Oh, but death is so final, dear sister. Whereas life... life is full of possibilities." Tyrion got down from his chair and went to Father. "You might think me cowardly for my advice, Father, but this is the only way I see that we can live to fight another day. You rebuilt the presence and power of our house after our bannermen began to step all over us. If we fell and rose, we can fall and rise again. But if we all die, then our story ends. All people will remember of House Lannister is that there was once a branch led by a Lord Tywin who thought himself a kingmaker, and who got his family killed. Now the Lannisters in Casterly Rock are different Lannisters, and they are meek little cats, not the lions of yore. That is what they'll say. If you have a better plan, I would love to hear it."

AEGON

Shipbreaker Bay earned its name, Aegon thought. 

He stepped onto the stony beach, clambering off the rowboat that brought him to solid ground. It was good to find solid, real ground underneath his feet. He was not much for sailing, if he admitted to himself.

The sky was dark and gloomy, and he could hear rolling thunder move through the clouds. They hung over the great castle that jutted out over the dashing sea beneath. The ground rose up from their beach and turned into cliffsides that went all the way to the edge of the castle. The building itself was dark stone, foreboding, squat, but massive, with thick walls and towers. From here he could see fluttering yellow banners. Storm's End was a fitting name for the great fortress that commanded and defied the sea.

More and more men came off the boats and landed along the beach, forming into their units guided by their serjeants and captains. Harry Strickland landed soon after, green-faced from the heaving of the sea. Quickly they called a council of the captains as the men began to assemble. They argued for a little while, and Aegon grew frustrated. Some of the bolder captains wanted to attack the castle; others became concerned when they realized that the storms which struck them during the voyage from Essos to Westeros had scattered their men, with some landing in other parts of the Stormlands or swallowed by the waves; Harry Strickland, as always, advised that they do nothing but sit on their arses and twiddle their thumbs. He tried of the cowardly leader and wondered, privately, whether killing the man in battle wouldn't be the best option.

"We need to take Storm's End," he declared, his voice carrying over the sound of the arguing captains. "And we will take it swiftly and decisively." Every head turned to him. "Lord Mace Tyrell laid siege to Storm's End for a year and waited out the entire Rebellion until Eddard Stark came and swept him off the field. We will not starve out the Baratheons. A quick raid, in the night. Ladders and hooks only."

"We will lose many men, Your Grace," cautioned Harry Strickland.

"And we will lose more if Stannis Baratheon returns to find us encamped here," Aegon said angrily. "If you haven't noticed, Captain General, the plain outside Storm's End is empty and devoid of any hills or forests. We will be driven off and dashed into the sea. If you doubt my plan, fear not. I will lead the attack personally."

The captains nodded, their resolve evident. "I will follow, Your Grace," said one, and then another, and then all of them. They had not come this far to falter now, Aegon knew. For them he was grateful. With practiced efficiency, the captains began to organize their forces as the sky grew darker and night fell, subdividing them into smaller units and assigning tasks. Aegon watched as his soldiers assembled, their armor glinting dully in the overcast light. As the preparations neared completion, Aegon was joined by Varys, the Spider slipping silently through the ranks to stand at his side. Aegon regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. The Spider joined them just before they set sail from Essos with the Golden Company, and though Illyrio said that he could be trusted - that he had always been an agent of House Targaryen despite being Robert's Master of Whisperers - Aegon found himself unable to entire place faith in the bald, smooth-faced eunuch.

"Your Grace," Varys began, his voice low and measured. "We must exercise caution. The Tyrells are marching to join us, and their support will greatly strengthen our position. Perhaps not an attack today, but in a fortnight-"

Aegon frowned, his brow furrowing in frustration. "I will not wait for the Tyrells," he replied firmly. "We have an opportunity now, and we must seize it. I have little doubt that Lord Tyrell will caution me as Harry Strickland does now. And what will I have to show for it? A great army with no successes. I mean to make of Storm's End an example to my enemies and a gift to my betrothed. We must be swift if we are to win this war." He pointed to the walls of Storm's End. "There I see a garrison that has not had time to prepare for our coming. They have eyes, Lord Varys, and they have seen us land. But no matter how fast, they will not have prepared for us by tonight. I mean to win by crushing my enemy before they have had time to take precautions."

Varys regarded him with a knowing look, his expression inscrutable. "Very well, Your Grace."

"And what of Dorne?" Aegon asked quietly. "Have you received word from Sunspear? Are the rumors true - my uncles have declared for Viserys?" Aegon's jaw tightened. That betrayal stung deep in him. He had counted on their support, but now it seemed that his uncle Viserys had swayed them to his cause. And Rhaenys... Rhaenys must have betrayed him too.

"It is true, Your Grace. Dorne has chosen to side with Viserys," Varys admitted reluctantly. "We were not able to get word to them in time. It appears your sister has driven them to support your uncle in his claim. And... there is news that Robb Stark and the Northmen have also declared for Viserys. I received a runner just an hour ago who informed me that Robb Stark defeated Tywin Lannister at the Ruby Ford and that he made a quick pace to face the Kingslayer by Riverrun. That battle must have been fought by now, though I have no news of the outcome yet."

Aegon nodded solemnly, his gaze never wavering. Inside, his stomach churned with rage, anger, and sadness. "Then we must proceed with haste," Aegon said. "We cannot afford to overextend this matter." He was not one for caution. He had come to Westeros to claim his birthright, and he would not be deterred by the shifting loyalties of lesser houses. "We press on," he declared, his voice ringing out with authority. "We will take Storm's End, with or without the support of the Tyrells or anyone else. Ensure that the captains have prepared the men. We attack after sunset."

As night fell like a dark shroud over Shipbreaker Bay, Aegon Targaryen stood at the forefront of his army, his heart pounding with anticipation. The air was thick with tension, the only sounds the distant crash of waves against the cliffs and the muffled whispers of his men as they prepared for battle. They were all of them dressed in dark armor and cloaks, forgoing the usual uniform and flash of the Golden Company. Aegon looked down at his own darkened plate, and at the sword that was tied to his belt. It was not a beautiful sword, not like the one Jon Snow had worn on his hip, with its blue rose pommel. No, this sword was uglier - but it was made of the same stuff, and with a greater history than that sword could ever have. He pulled it and admired the blackened, rippling iron. Blackfyre. It belonged in his hand by bloodright. All this time the Golden Company had held on to it for one of Daemon Blackfyre's descendants, but now it was back in his hands. Aegon liked that thought. No Blackfyres would wield Blackfyre from now on.

They left half the men in camp, burning fires and milling about in order to give the appearance of a full camp set to carry out a long siege. In the meantime, he and his men advanced slowly, quietly, ladders and ropes with hooks in hand.

Aegon's eyes scanned the looming silhouette of Storm's End, its massive walls standing tall against the backdrop of the night sky. The castle seemed to dare him, taunting him with its impenetrable facade. But he was undeterred. Tonight, he would prove the strength of his resolve. With a silent signal, Aegon's forces moved forward, their footsteps muffled by the soft sand beneath their boots. They advanced stealthily, taking care to avoid detection as they approached the castle walls. As they drew closer, Aegon's heart quickened. This was it. The moment he had been waiting for.

They were able to get hooks and ropes as well as some of the ladders up against the wall before the defenders realized what was happening. By the time they were able to react, some of the men had already clambered on top of the wall, and then the shouting and the clanging of steel and the screams of death began. A man tumbled over the crenellations and fell as Aegon climbed one of the ladders. The body nearly knocked him off balance and sent him falling too, but a hand behind him steadied him. "Easy, yer Grace," said a rough voice. Aegon shouted a thanks and climbed faster. He leaped over the crenelations and swung his sword at the first Baratheon guardsman he saw. Blackfyre cleaved through his halfmail like it was little more than butter. Blackfyre kept flashing in the moonlight as he engaged the enemy in combat. Two Baratheon knights stood before him, their swords raised in defense, but Aegon was relentless. With a series of swift strikes, he disarmed them both, his skill with the blade evident as he dispatched them with ease. This is what he had trained for all his life, and it felt natural and easy to him.

The defenders on the wall rallied around a knight with a brown surcoat. In the dim light Aegon could see the sigil of two crossed quills - a Penrose. With a determined stride, Aegon made his way toward the knight, his heart pounding with adrenaline. The Penrose was completely bald with a red, spade-shaped beard and a weathered face. The Penrose knight met Aegon's gaze with a steely resolve, his own sword drawn and ready for battle. With a swift movement, Aegon lunged forward, his sword arcing through the air with deadly precision. The knight parried the blow with skillful grace, his blade meeting Blackfyre with a resounding clash.

The two men circled each other, their swords flashing in the darkness as they exchanged blows with lightning speed. Aegon's muscles strained with exertion as he fought to gain the upper hand, his mind focused solely on defeating his opponent. But the knight was a skilled warrior, and he fought with a ferocity born of desperation. Blow after blow rained down upon Aegon, each one met with a fierce counterattack. As the duel raged on, Aegon felt a surge of determination coursing through his veins. He would not be defeated, not tonight. This was his night, his victory, and no knight no matter how skilled would stand in his way. With a primal roar, he redoubled his efforts, his sword becoming a blur of motion as he pressed the attack. The battle all around him stilled and fell away, and there was only him and his enemy.

Then, in a moment of opportunity, Aegon saw his chance. With a lightning-fast feint, he caught the knight off guard, his blade slipping past his defenses and finding its mark. There was a sickening crunch as Aegon's sword struck true, biting deep into Penrose's armor. With a strangled cry, the knight staggered backward, his grip on his sword faltering. Aegon wasted no time. With a swift, decisive motion, he delivered the final blow, sending the knight tumbling over the edge of the wall and into the courtyard below. The sound of impact echoed through the night air, or perhaps it was only so to his ears. Aegon watched as the knight lay motionless upon the ground, his lifeblood staining the stones beneath him. The battle came back to life, and soon Storm's End fell to his men.

Eight days later, Aegon rode out under the dragon banner to meet the host that marched down the Blueburn road from the Reach. It was a great armored serpent, coiling and roiling as far as the eye could see, all the way to the horizon. There were more men with them than Aegon could have ever imagined. His guard was around him. Two men had distinguished themselves in the fighting. There was Rolly Duckfield and Lorimas Mudd. Aegon raised both of them to highborn status and rewarded them with white cloaks. Now they were sers - not because of their nobility but because they were good fighters and Aegon found he could trust them to wield swords for his life. Behind him were a column of Golden Company men - captains and of course, Harry Strickland, and the Spider as well. 

They met with Lord Mace at the head of the column, where a wheelhouse was surrounded by a great company of men. "You stand in the presence of Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," a crier proclaimed. Aegon took in the Tyrell patriarch. Lord Mace was a handsome and once-powerful-looking man, but he had let himself go to grass. He had grown fat. Where once his curl brown hair might have charmed many women, now it served to make him look an overgrown pageboy. A beard hid what Aegon was sure was a sagging jawline. 

"Your Grace!" Mace proclaimed. His mouth widened. "You have already taken Storm's End!" He stammered for a moment. "Forgive me, I am... you know, I laid siege to the castle by your father's command for a year, and I never..."

Aegon flashed him a smile. "And your loyal service was not forgotten nor has it been," he said. "We simply had the advantage of catching the garrison unawares. Be welcome to Storm's End. It is my pleasure to meet you at last." Lord Mace and his entourage dismounted, and so Aegon joined them. He had clothes specially comissioned for this - a black surcoat to go over his armor, and a beautiful red silk cape that stretched down to his knees. It would not do to strike an image of an impoverished sellsword to his future father-by-law. Lord Mace and his men knelt for him and hailed him king, and Aegon's spirit soared. Soon all the lords of Westeros would follow.

Mace Tyrell struggled to his feet. "Your Grace," he said, his voice winded. "I would like to introduce to you your betrothed, my beloved daughter." He turned to a beautiful, curly haired youth by his side, a man only a little older than Aegon himself. "Loras, my son, would you please get your grandmother, mother, and sister from the wheelhouse?"

Loras Tyrell nodded and knocked at the wheelhouse. Aegon's attention was on the door. Illyrio had told him that the Tyrell girl was supposed to be a beauty, but he was sure now he would find whether that was an exaggeration or whether it was true.

The first woman to emerge must have been Lady Tyrell. She was tall, dignified, with hair that had once been blonde, Aegon was sure, but had since turned grey and silver. Then came a short old crone, frail and brittle, but with eyes like that of a hawk. Aegon had heard of her too, from both Illyrio and Varys. The Queen of Thorns, she was called, and Olenna Tyrell deserved the name, or so he was told. She watched him with that sharp gaze, taking the measure of him. Aegon took the measure of her, too, and then she gave him a small, sly smile. 

Then, finally, a young woman emerged, and Aegon's breath hitched. It could only be his betrothed, Lady Margaery, Lord Mace's daughter. She had thick, softly curling brown hair and large brown eyes. She was slender of body, but her figure was a woman's, with smooth and unblemished pale skin and small breasts. She was dressed in a pale green samite gown with a tight-laced bodice that bared her shoulders and the top of her bosom. Aegon's nostrils flared with desire. 

Aegon removed his helm and handed it to Ser Rolly. His silver hair had grown longer since their voyage and it tumbled, nearly touching his shoulders. With a gauntleted hand, he swept it back into place and approached. He kissed Lady Olenna's hand first, then Lady Tyrell's, and finally Margaery's. His lips lingered on her soft hand before he pulled away. "My ladies. It is a pleasure to meet all of you. Lady Margaery, I must apologize. My advisors did you a disservice," he replied, his tone earnest. "They spoke to me of your beauty, but it seems they erred on the side of restraint. Having seen you, your radiance outshines the sun itself, and your grace is unmatched. I am truly fortunate to have the privilege of calling you my betrothed."

Margaery's cheeks flushed with a delicate pink hue at Aegon's flattering words, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of surprise and pleasure. She curtsied gracefully, her gown swirling around her slender frame as she dipped low before him. Her smile was a warm and genuine expression that lit up her features like the dawn breaking over the horizon. She was even prettier when she smiled. "You flatter me, Your Grace," she said, her voice tinged with genuine modesty. "I must confess, I am eager to stand by your side and support you in any way that I can, and I welcome the chance to know you better."

"I promise, I will make time for us to get to know each other better," Aegon promised. "But in the meantime, I have a gift for you, my lady." He stood to the side and pointed at Storm's End. "There it is. The first of many. Before we are wed, I will give you King's Landing itself, my lady, this I swear."

Chapter Text

AEGON

Aegon scrapped the parchment and tossed it into the fire. How he wished he could toss his advisors in the fire as well.

He turned on his heel to face Lord Varys. To his credit, the Spider did not flinch. "These are lies," Aegon said heatedly. "Lies. Viserys means to place a brother of mine loyal to him beside me so that I will look the usurper, not him." He paced back and forth. The noise of his boots clacking filled the solar, which had very little decoration in it besides a bare desk, a ramshackle chair, and shelves with books. A great map of Westeros on vellum hung on the wall. Outside, rain pelted against the glass windows of Storm's End, and thunder crackled and rolled as lightning flashes illuminated the courtyard below every few moments. Aegon sighed and sat back down in his chair. The candle by his letters and ink and quill was growing shorter, the tallow and oil pooling, melted, at its base. He watched it drip down the side of the candle and collect there at the bottom for a moment and then looked up. "Is it a lie, Lord Varys?"

Lord Varys clasped his hands together. Aegon never could see them, always hidden in very large sleeves. He wondered if there was a knife there, to be held against his throat. "It is difficult to say, Your Grace. I saw him once. There is nothing tell-tale in his features, and Lord Stark was a singularly guileless man. It is difficult to think that he could have lied and lied so well to the whole realm.”

”But?” Aegon pressed.

”But Lord Stark rode north from Dorne with a bastard boy and his sister’s corpse after the rebellion. Did he find the bastard after the sister, before, or with?” The Spider shook his powdered head. “More telling, however, is that Prince Viserys seems to believe it. If Jon Snow is your father’s son, he presents as much a threat to him as he does to you, and yet Viserys embraces him.”

“Acknowledging him officially isn’t embracing,” Aegon snorted. “I know my uncle. He is undercutting him. No one will forget that his legitimacy was recognized first by Viserys, and if he should ever rise up against him, people will remember. Is there a chance the Northmen could break away and declare this pretender their king?” Aegon worried about it. They had Rhaenys. They could marry her to Jon Snow and declare for him.

”It is unlikely,” Varys said. “Of course, should I hear any whispers of discontent, I will inform you right away, Your Grace.”

”Very well.” Aegon stood and paced over to the map. “My uncle’s army had already crossed the Mander when Lord Tyrell marched down the Blueburn Road. Have you any news of their movements since?”

”They wheeled around Tumbleton and will have crossed the Blackwater Rush now. My little birds indicated that they were marching in the direction of Tumbler’s Falls - if they mean to ford there, they will be at Riverrun in a little over a fortnight. Robb Stark and the Riverlords are still encamped there. My eyes in the Westerlands indicate that Ser Stafford is marshaling the survivors of Riverrun and another army at Oxcross. They will try to force march through the Riverlands and make their way to King’s Landing to relieve Lord Stannis’s siege.”

”Is Stannis an experienced commander?”

”He lacks the... gift Robert possessed at personal violence, but yes," said the Spider. "He did have a great degree of success leading men during the Greyjoy rebellion, and he held Storm's End for the entire rebellion against the Tyrell army.”

”Then he’ll try to take King’s Landing quickly. He knows that if he seats himself on the Iron Throne, he will have a chance. Funding from the Iron Bank, the ability to buy sellswords, and the legitimacy of the throne.” Aegon tapped King’s Landing. “It is his only hope. As for my house, I want to reach out to my uncles. See if there is any chance to convince them to leave Viserys and support me. I will have to make it up to cousin Arianne somehow, I suppose.” 

“We may try, Your Grace,” Varys cautioned. “But they may or may not. Prince Quentyn is set to marry Sansa Stark and Princess Rhaenys rides with the Northmen. Those bonds have formed quickly.”

"And I intend to break them, if possible. If my Dornish uncles abandon him, I will make Viserys see reason, and forego his claim and throw his weight behind mine. All will be forgiven... even for the Northmen, perhaps." Aegon went back to the desk and sank into the chair. "I had a chance to turn Jon Snow to my cause in Essos. He did not take my offer of Winterfell. And now, you tell me, he has defeated the Mountain and the Kingslayer in the field. He proves himself to be a better avenger of House Targaryen than I." Rage bubbled up in his throat. 

"There is other news, Your Grace," said Lord Varys softly. "It comes only from a single source, and I cannot verify it otherwise. One of my birds in Essos tells me that Khal Drogo is dead; his Khalasar is broken and now rides under different khals. I do not know what became of your aunt, the Princess Daenerys. If I hear more..."

Aegon felt his heart lurch. "As soon as you discover more information, bring it to me - straight away."

"Prince Viserys is less likely to forgive you knowing this, Your Grace," Varys said. "Magister Illyrio tells me of his fondness for his sister. If they come to learn of this, you may need to give battle to them."

"Leave me," Aegon commanded abruptly. His throat constricted. "Get out, now." Lord Varys disappeared quickly and silently, and Aegon was left free to rage. He smashed the chair against the stone wall and pounded his fists on the table. Regret clawed its way up from his stomach and settled in his chest, heavy and cruel, like a weight he could not cast away. Dany did it because he asked, and now she was likely dead.

There was a knock on the door. "Your Grace?" A gentle voice called from beyond. Aegon straightened his tunic and fixed his hair. His hands were raw.

"Who is it?" he croaked. 

"It is I, Margaery," the voice responded. "Your Grace, are you alright?" Aegon quickly tried to compose himself and walked over to the door. He opened it and the two Kingsguard who stood outside, Ser Rolly and Ser Lorimas, stood aside. Lady Margaery stood there in a gown the color of pale moss, gossamer and almost sheer. Her eyes snapped behind him, to where the ramshackle chair must have laid splintered and broken. 

"I apologize, Your Grace, if I've disturbed you." She quickly curtsied, but Aegon caught her hand.

"My lady, you do not disturb me. Did you wish to speak?"

"I did, but nothing of import. I fear I've come with poor timing," she confessed. "If you would rather be alone-"

"I wouldn't," Aegon said hurriedly. "You came all this way. I would not send you back empty handed. Sers, please allow my betrothed through."

"Your Grace." Ser Rolly and Ser Lorimas stepped aside, and Margaery came into the room. Aegon shut the door behind her, and she moved to sit by a settee that was tucked away into the corner. Aegon sat next to her. They were silent for a few moments, and he did not know what to say. The words did not come easily to him. He struggled still with the frustration of the day and the news he had received.

"What did the poor chair do to deserve such a fate?" she asked suddenly, which made Aegon laugh abruptly.

"Be near me at a bad time, I suppose," he said. "I apologize, my lady. It's not in my nature to react to things in such a way, but I've received some ill news. My..." he trailed off, struggling again. "My aunt Daenerys may have died in Essos. I've tasked Lord Varys with finding out more, but she was already half a world away when we sailed here. I have a small family, my lady. Each loss weighs on me."

She patted his arm. Her hand lingered on his wrist. "Please. Between us two, call me Margaery."

"Margaery," Aegon repeatd. "My house is small. For so long it was only my uncle and aunt, and my sister Rhaenys. We were all each other had. We dreamed of coming here to take our homeland together. A need for resources meant that Aunt Daenerys had to stay behind." He swallowed. He was lying to himself. "I arranged a marriage for her to a Dothraki khal. Her bride price funded the Golden Company and my voyage here. It is my fault that she may be dead."

Margaery squeezed his hand. "It was a difficult thing you did, Your Grace."

Aegon laughed hoarsely. "Please. If I must call you Margaery, you must call me Aegon, at least in private."

"Aegon, then," Margaery said. "You are a king. Kings must sacrifice themselves and the ones they love for the betterment of the realm. If you are to rule, you will have to make difficult decisions again in the future. That you have the strength to make them speaks well of you. Did you force Princess Daenerys?"

"No," Aegon shook his head. "I never needed to. In the name of duty, my aunt, my sister... they were prepared to sacrifice a great deal."

"Then you committed no crime or injustice. Your aunt made a sacrifice just as you did. You owe it to her memory to take your throne and rule fairly in her memory, Aegon," she affirmed. Aegon looked at her with widened eyes. He had expected... well, in truth, he was not sure what he had expected. Revulsion, perhaps, for having given his aunt to a barbarian. But Margaery was not who he had expected. Her words rang in his ears as though the gods had spoken into them themselves. She was right. Aegon would not let Daenerys' death be in vain. There were many traitors and usurpers and pretenders he would excoriate to ensure that her sacrifice meant something.

"You counsel me wisely. When I next meet with my advisors, would you like to be present?"

Margaery's features brightened and she gave him a sweet smile in response. "I would be honored," she said.

JON

After the pledge of allegiance from the Riverlords, Hoster Tully died.

Lady Stark, who had already taken a grievous blow from Father's death, was now a statue of frozen grief. Like stone she seemed somber and unmoving as she stood on the pier the very next morning, a statue of the Winterfell crypts dragged to the Riverlands to see vigil to the last rites of Lord Hoster. The Silent Sisters were nothing if not quick and efficient with their work, and so the funeral was held the very next day from the council. She watched the boat that carried her father travel down the placid waters of the Red Fork. Ser Edmure fired a flaming arrow and set the boat ablaze, and Lord Hoster Tully went into the next world on a flaming pyre. Jon watched the boat disappear down the river, the blaze becoming ever smaller and the smoke wispier. Robb stood quiet next to him as Ser Edmure - nay, not Ser, but Lord - gave a final eulogy to his father. Then the funeral was over. Robb took his leave, heading to the godswood to pray. He and Rhaenys retreated to her solar, and Prince Oberyn joined them.

He felt as though the Dornish prince's eyes never left him from the moment he revealed his parentage. The chest with the documents was kept in Rhaenys' room, under lock and key. He brought it out now that it was only the three of them, and gave them silently to Rhaenys, who relayed the tale. Prince Oberyn said nothing for a while. He looked at some of the documents, at the marriage certificate, and the dragon egg.

When Rhaenys had finished the tale, he sighed. "There is nothing in those letters that speaks of my sister's knowledge or agreement to this, is there?"

Jon shook his head. "No. There is a letter from Ly- my mother. She describes her wish that her child might play with his or her siblings, with Elia's children. Perhaps she hoped the Princess would accept her and me, or perhaps Rhaegar told her she would, or perhaps it was done with Princess Elia's acquiescence." Jon sighed. "I don't know. The only comfort provided with these is that my mother went willingly, and my father did not coerce her."

"And you've taken him as your lover," Prince Oberyn said, now turning to Rhaenys. 

"He's more than my lover," Rhaenys said, chin up, a defiance in her eyes. "I mean to wed him. Aemon is mine; I am his."

The Dornish prince was silent for a while. "Viserys has acknowledged him and his legitimacy, and my sister was a strong woman. She and Rhaegar were fond of one another. It is a difficult thing for me to swallow, but you are all I have left of your mother," he said to Rhaenys. "If you take him as yours, then I will not contest you." Jon could tell that Oberyn was conflicted. He was not sure whether Rhaegar had betrayed Princess Elia or not - none of them were. But Rhaenys, as always, was his shield in this matter. Her acceptance earned his, even if it was more begrudging. 

"Thank you, Uncle," Rhaenys breathed, and then she smiled. "He slew the Mountain. He avenged Mother. That has to count for something, surely."

"More than you know." Oberyn clasped Jon's arm. "You collected a debt owed by the Lannisters to my house. I will not forget that. You have my thanks."

"It was the only thing to do," Jon said. "Justice demanded it. But to tell you true, my victory was more luck than anything. A second was the difference between my life and Clegane's."

"So it goes in battle," Prince Oberyn said. "You live and he doesn't. It is all that matters in the end. Still, Clegane was just the dog; there was a master to give the orders. Justice will not be fulfilled until Tywin Lannister meets the same fate."

Later that same day, a raven came from Castle Darry. Baratheon ships had been sighted along the coast heading towards Blackwater Bay, and there were reports from refugees trailing northwards that Lord Stannis' army was closing in on King's Landing. Robb insisted, and Jon agreed, that Lord Stannis would try his best to storm the walls of the city as soon as possible. With the Targaryen forces now positioned strongly in the Riverlands, and with the remainder of the Dornish army now less than a moon's turn away from Riverrun, they were stronger than any of the remaining contenders. But there were some strategic concerns as well. Robb convened another council, though smaller than the first - it was made up of the principal Northern bannermen under him, the principal Riverlander bannermen under Lord Edmure, and of course Rhaenys and Jon. Prince Oberyn and two other Dornish lords were present. Lady Stark was dispatched that same day to the Reach to discuss terms with the Tyrells. Still no word came from the Reach. To win the Tyrells to their side would be the final nail in the coffin for House Lannister and House Baratheon.

"There are still Westerlander forces marshaling behind the Golden Tooth," Lord Bolton pointed out. "We cannot abandon the Riverlands to go force the issue at King's Landing." He gestured on the worn leather map to the central position of Riverrun. "Combined, we outnumber any Westerlander army and Lord Stannis. But to move our full strength would mean to leave the western approach undefended."

"Lord Bolton has a point," Lord Edmure said. "Our strength is at forty-five thousand now with the welcome addition of Prince Oberyn's spears. When His Grace the King arrives, we will number sixty-five thousand. There is no single army larger than ours on the field. But if we abandon the defense of the Riverlands, there is nothing stopping the Lannisters from regrouping beyond the Golden Tooth and coming back down the hills to the Trident. Splitting our forces now would also ruin our numerical advantage."

"Stannis will be aware of that," Jon muttered. "Which is why he'll force the issue at King's Landing as soon as he can, while we worry about which direction to commit. If he has the city, he can hold it against our armies. If the Crownlanders bend the knee, he'll add another ten thousand to his numbers... and with the throne, he could call for sellswords and armies from across the Narrow Sea." News had come two fortnights ago that the wars in the Disputed Lands had reached a stalemate with an uneasy peace between the Free Cities. That meant a number of sellsword companies would be free and searching for new contracts - and where better than Westeros? Stannis, if he sat the Iron Throne, could gain a great financial backing from the banking houses and trade cartels of Essos.

"We could split our armies still," Robb said. "Send twenty thousand into the Westerlands to keep the Lannisters dancing. Lord Stannis' victory is by no means assured - much of Lord Tywin's host at the Ruby Ford survived. The Lannisters reforming in the Westerlands were broken harder. Twenty thousand men go into the Westerlands and set it on fire. If the Lannisters win, they will be weak and at our mercy. If Lord Stannis survives and takes the city, the other army of twenty thousand, along with King Viserys' men, can lay siege to the city while the army in the Westerlands returns. The only care we must take is that our men in the Westerlands not be surrounded and defeated - we must move quick, from keep to keep, village to village, never staying in one place too long but burning and pillaging as we go."

"The Westerlanders will hate us for it," Lord Edmure said.

"Good," Rhaenys replied. "Let them remember what it means to betray House Targaryen, and what our words are." That earned some pounded fists and hollers of approval.

Lord Bolton was chosen to lead the army that went into the Westerlands, sharing command with Lord Karyl Vance. With them went House Bolton's banners and Lord Bracken, Lord Mallister, and the Vyprens and the Karstarks. Twenty thousand men, made up mostly of Riverlanders but with a good contingent of Northmen too. Lord Bolton requested if Ser Domeric could stay behind with the main force; the reason he gave was that, should the worst happen to him, the heir to the Dreadfort would remain alive. Any father might have asked the same, but when Lord Bolton did it, it was with the same lifeless, toneless voice, as though he was asking for Robb to approve a lease or title to land.

The rest of them, twenty-five thousand, set out from Riverrun to Harrenhal, where Viserys was to meet them along with the several thousand men under the Blackfish's command. From there they would turn to King's Landing to face the victor of that siege. The march there was far more pleasant than the march to Riverrun, and the days were sunny and not so cold or rainy. It took them twenty days to get there. When they encountered the outriders posted by the Blackfish to guard all approaches to the castle, they were informed that the King was only a day away himself. Jon felt more and more nervous as the meeting with Viserys drew closer. Aye, Viserys had acknowledged him a trueborn Targaryen, but that spoke little of his true intentions. 

They were greeted by Ser Brynden upon their arrival at Harrenhal. It was a massive, massive castle, and it was the first time Jon had seen it. Completed, it would have been a terror to take, but now it was a ruin. "The power of dragons," Rhaenys said breathlessly when they saw the half-melted blackened, ashen walls and the broken towers. "Not even the hardest stone could stand against Balerion the Dread."

"Would that you had a dragon," Jon said wistfully, later, when they were alone in their quarters. By now they had abandoned the pretense of having separate quarters. They were still greeted with queer looks, but it was strange to Jon how quickly many had come around after learning that they were both Targaryens, as though it was now somehow simply expected. "You could end this war in a sennight, give Viserys his throne, and then you and I could fly off somewhere and live the rest of our days in peace."

Rhaenys laughed at that. Jon laid his head in her lap as they both rested on the bed. The room was large and thankfully had all four walls, so it did not become cold at night. She stroked his hair. "And where would we go?"

"I don't know," Jon admitted. "Remember that little keep by Winterfell? I could rebuild it for you. We could live there happily."

"We could," Rhaenys agreed. "Or we could go to Dragonstone. It is south, but it is cold. You would be at home there."

"Dragonstone?" Jon murmured. "But that is reserved for the crown prince. Even if I am made Viserys' heir now, once he has a son, it would belong to him."

"Then Summerhall," Rhaenys urged. "When we were in Essos, that is what Viserys styled himself, for I was Aegon's heir then. Summerhall belongs to our family. Aemon Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall. It has a nice ring to it," she said.

Jon chuckled. "Any fantasy of yours involves you and I in some overly large castle, doesn't it?"

"An overly large castle is the realm of princes," Rhaenys said, placing a kiss on his brow. "And when I am overly large from all the babes I will bear for you, you'll need all that space."

Jon snorted. "If you grow old and fat, then so will I. No more wars for either of us; feasts only." Something in him stirred at the mention of children - his children, their children, little dark haired babes with eyes of grey and purple. Perhaps some might even have the silver hair of House Targaryen. "How many?"

"Hmm?"

"How many children do you want?" he asked.

"As many as is safe for me to bear," she responded. "In Essos, it was the four of us. Yes, Viserys is my uncle, Daenerys my aunt, but at our ages we were more like siblings to one another. If I could handle it, I would give you as many children as Alysanne gave Jaehaerys."

"Perhaps not so many. Not many of them had happy fates. I would rather have a few and they all live to a ripe old age than many that know horrors and pain," Jon said. Rhaenys smoothed the last of his locks and then fixed his hair, and soon Jon drifted away into his dreams. As calm as the transition between waking and the realm of visions was, the dreams were more nightmares. Now he dreamt of a great, burning pyre on a grassy plain, and then of dragons - three, shrieking dragons, and then a city. He saw the city as though he was one of the flying dragons. He did not know which city it was, but as his mind's eye flew above the city, he took in the people and the hathays they rode on, their robes and their appearance and their manner of speaking, and Jon knew he dreamt of the wonderous city of Qarth. But as his vision swept through the air towards the city's bay, he saw three dragons approaching, screeching, and then he woke up with a start.

It was still nighttime. Jon could not tell if he had been asleep for thirty minutes or three hours. Rhaenys was softly snoring beside him, peaceful in her dreams. He was glad she was not haunted like he. He placed a gentle kiss on her brow, put on a tunic, and went into the halls of the castle. It was said that Harrenhal was haunted with the ghosts of all those who had died in the many tragedies that befell it, beginning with the fate of the Hoares. If the ghosts walked alongside Jon now, he could not see them nor hear them. There was simply silence, and the occasional whistle of the wind through the holes of the castle. Guardsmen gave him a quiet salute as he walked past.

He found his way to a kitchen floor. It was empty, though there was a tray with biscuits laid out. Jon picked one up; it was still warm, and smothered with honey at the top. He bit into it and sighed. It was the best food he'd had since they set out from Winterfell. In Riverrun they'd only served trout, and one could get tired of the different varieties of trout rather quickly.

"Good, aren't they?"

Jon spun around, nearly dropping the biscuit. Domeric Bolton's pale face appeared from out of the shadows, as though he was a phantom of the castle. "I apologize if I startled you, my prince." He waved a half-bitten biscuit at Jon. "I woke up rather peckish."

Jon sat down next to him. A low flame flickered in the fireplace of the kitchen. It kept the room comfortably warm, to counter the drafts from the hallways which were missing roof tiles and windows. "I wasn't hungry until I saw these. A good warm Northern honey biscuit is hard to beat."

Domeric chuckled. "Simple fare for us Northmen. I missed these when I was in the Vale. Did you feel the same abroad in Essos, my prince?"

Jon waved him off. "Please. Jon is just fine, at least in this setting. Everyone calling me "my prince" makes me long for the days of the Company and when I was just another soldier." The memory of those days rushed past him. It was a simpler time. "I did miss Winterfell, and the people, and sometimes the food - but not often," Jon said with a fond laugh. "On the march it was the same as it is, but in the cities - Braavos, Pentos, the food is something else. Every inch of the streets and thoroughfares and market stalls are filled with bakers and butchers and fish-fryers and stalls selling every kind of delicacy you can imagine."

"I suppose that kind of experience would give a person some worldliness," Domeric remarked. "It makes the garb of a prince fit you well."

"Does it? I feel something of an impostor." Jon perhaps sounded more bitter than he wished, but a little of the truth could not help but seep out into his words. "The role of the soldier and the commander I understand well enough. But when people hail me as their prince - what am I prince of?"

"What was your forefather Aegon king of before his conquest? Just a rock, a dreary one off the coast of Westeros. I've seen Dragonstone once," Domeric said. "It's not a particularly pleasant place - and I'm the heir to the Dreadfort, so that should say something of its bleakness." They both shared a light chuckle at that. "Claims are but words. They are the trappings of legitimacy, but legitimacy will not always land you a throne or a seat or a lordship. Sometimes it must be earned, or taken, by strength of will and arms. Are you familiar with the history of Valdemar Bolton?"

Jon shook his head and Domeric continued. "Valdemar was a bastard of House Bolton, many years ago when my house reigned as the Red Kings of the Lonely Hills, before we bent the knee to House Stark. He had a younger, legitimate brother, who was his father's heir. At the time, the Red King, Royce III, was at war with the Umbers to our north. The Umbers smashed his army in the Lonely Hills and plundered the Dreadfort. Royce and his legitimate son were killed, but Valdemar survived. He was just a bastard, so either the Umbers thought he wouldn't be a problem, foolishly, or they didn't know who he was, or perhaps he simply escaped them. Three years later, Valdemar gathered Bolton supporters from nearby holdings, retook the Dreadfort, and put the entire Umber garrison to the sword. When the Umber king came down from Last Hearth, he found the road to the Dreadfort littered with spikes, and with flayed men impaled on them. Some were still alive." Domeric shook his head. "Distasteful, but it worked. The Umber king made peace with Valdemar - and from then on, Valdemar was known as a Bolton in his own right. The entire line of House Bolton descends from a bastard. Naturally this is not something my father wishes to make widely-held knowledge, but I hope you understand why I tell you this."

"Because Valdemar was a bastard who overcame his lack of a claim," Jon said.

"Yes. Or more precisely, that his actions were what gave him legitimacy. Perhaps some might have looked to him and said - 'there is the son of Royce III, why should it matter if he was born on the wrong side of the sheet?' - but most of his supporters, and his victories, he won through his wits and his sword arm, and it mattered little that his name was not truly Bolton. And in the end that was enough for most of them to follow him. In your case, your lady mother and your father both come from lines of kings. There are few out there who would call you a bastard plain to your face, save your enemies, and even most of them when pressed would admit that you are, at the very least... a great bastard."

Jon stopped mid-bite into his biscuit. Domeric gave him a small grin, and then they soon both burst out into laughter. "Well, I suppose great bastard is a step above just bastard."

"Things are indeed on the up-and-up for you," Domeric said. "If it is a small comfort, your accomplishments are beginning to speak for themselves. A few more dead Lannisters and I daresay half the realm will be ready to crown you king." Though that thought was a little disquieting to Jon, they sat there a while longer, until their biscuits were done, and their second biscuits as well. They traded stories - Jon told him of some of the battles he experienced in Essos, and of the Company, and Domeric told him about what it was like fostering in the Vale. Domeric was far different from Roose Bolton, Jon soon came to realize. Both were quiet men, but where the father was chill as ice, Domeric had a warmth to him, like smoldering embers in the hearth. There was a little of southern knightliness in his manner, too. Bolton seemed proud enough to have him as his heir, though the two seemed little alike.

After the second biscuits were done, Jon took his leave and traced his way back to his quarters. When he entered, Rhaenys gazed up sleepily at him. "Where've you been?" she mumbled, still half asleep. Jon slid into the bed next to her and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Just went to nibble on something, my love," he whispered. "I ran into Domeric Bolton. We traded a few stories. Sleep now, and I'll tell you all about it come morn."

Rhaenys burrowed into him. She was warm, which Jon was thankful for, since his fingers and toes felt a little cold after his nighttime jaunt. "Fine," she murmured, and soon her breathing fell into a steady rhythm. Jon closed his eyes and let sleep come to him.

Chapter Text

Hey everyone,

I hope you all are doing well. The outpouring of love and encouragement from you all with this fic has been amazing. I've been bowled over and so motivated to keep editing, writing, and finishing the fic.

Not to scare anyone, but it is pretty unlikely that I will be able to update much between now and the next 4-5 weeks. I'm an attorney in my day job, and I've been given a project for this month that has been eating up all my time outside of what I have to spare for family obligations, eating, and sleeping. This project is just for the month and for a week or two after. My regular workflow will resume then and I'll have more time to devote to the fic.

I would expect one more chapter to be uploaded for this month and then regular updates to resume in April. I have a long trip planned for that month so after my work is done, some R&R, I'll be back at it. Rest assured I haven't lost any passion for the fic and I'm looking forward to actually have time to devote to it.

Love,

Kebab

Chapter Text

JON

The horned moon gave way to a brighter day when the Dornish banners appeared on the southern road. Quickly the castle was abuzz, with the great courtyard cleared and cleaned somewhat to make ready for the arrival of the King. The mists that often hung over the castle seemed to part upon his arrival, and the sun shone bright. Rhaenys smiled more that morning. Jon could tell that despite her disagreements with their uncle, she was eager to see Viserys. Together, they both dressed in the colors of House Targaryen. Rhaenys wore the circlet she wore long ago, when she revealed her identity to the Starks at dinner. It was strange how quickly she could go from being his Rhaenys to the Princess Rhaenys who faced the world and bent lords and ladies to her will. Even as they readied in their room, however, she smiled at him with her reflection in the mirror, and then she was his Rhaenys again.

The ruined courtyard of Harrenhal was massive. There was enough space for there to be guards lined up at both sides of the gate to present the King with an honor guard. People thronged behind the guards to get a glimpse at their king - soldiers, camp followers, locals alike shoved and pushed to get a better view. At the end of the courtyard, the lords of the North and the Riverlands who came in their army, and the Dornish lords who came with Prince Oberyn awaited their king. Jon and Rhaenys stood at the front, followed by Prince Oberyn, and then by Robb and Lord Edmure, as befitting their status as primary lords of the North and Riverlands. Behind them were the rest. Banners fluttered in the crisp morning breeze - Targaryen, Stark, Tully, Martell, and the banners of all the lords behind. The portcullis was raised open and the great wooden drawbridge lowered. Jon could see horses on the road, and men marching behind, and banners - Martell banners and Dornish banners, and a great red dragon banner ahead of all of them. As they drew closer, he could see who he thought to be Viserys at the head of the column.

They rode through the gates on splendid horses. Viserys rode astride a pale, cloudy charger, dressed in black armor of fine make. The steel was intricate, embossed with designs of dragons, and he was cloaked in fine black samite, offset with red accents. He wore no helm and his silver hair flowed in the breeze. Jon realized with a start that his hair was growing near as long too, though still dark.

It was the first time Jon saw him since that night in Essos, when Viserys and his agents spirited Rhaenys away. A pang of guilt tore through Jon. If it wasn’t for him, he thought, they might have spirited Daenerys away too. At the time it had seemed the right thing to do, but if he knew now what it cost, he would have let Viserys escape without a fight. More men poured in behind the king.To Jon’s shock, he recognized Ser Barristan riding behind him, and Quentyn as well. 

Viserys strode purposefully towards Rhaenys first. The ice Jon associated with Viserys face melted and he gave her a small smile. Rhaenys dipped into a curtsy, and Jon into a bow. 

”Rise, niece. Rise, nephew. Dragons shouldn’t bow so long.”

Rhaenys squeezed Jon’s hand as they both rose. “Your Grace,” she said. “Harrenhal is yours.”

”It is good to see you, Rhae,” Viserys said, leaning in closer. He kissed both her cheeks and then her forehead before turning to Jon. The warmth was gone, but the ice Jon remembered did not return, either. "You have won great victories for our house, nephew. We must talk more later." He swept past Jon and then greeted Prince Oberyn. Rhaenys squeezed his arm once more and gave him a small, hopeful smile. 

The next man to approach them, to Jon's great surprise, was none other than Ser Barristan, who bowed before the both of them. "Your Graces," he said. "It does me well to see you again Prince Aemon." His voice cracked a little when he turned to Rhaenys. "Forgive me, Your Grace. It was evident even in your childhood, but you have inherited all the loveliness of your mother and your royal grandmother."

Rhaenys kept herself composed, though Jon could see emotion swirling in her eyes. "Thank you, ser," she said. "It is good to see you after so many years. Once things have settled, I would welcome the chance to talk."

"As would I, ser," Jon said. Ser Barristan nodded at him. Jon knew that the old knight was aware of what he wanted to discuss; Ser Barristan was in the court of Robert Baratheon in his last days and in the days that Father was arrested and imprisoned. He wanted to know what happened, and whether Father had been betrayed. There were some snakes he intended to strangle when King's Landing fell to them.

The next person to approach them was a woman who was a little older than Rhaenys, but bore more than a passing resemblance to her. Her eyes were warm and dark, and she was buxom and shapely, though shorter than Rhaenys. She kissed Rhaenys on both cheeks. "Sweet cousin. I am glad to see you well. It seems the Northern airs agreed with you," she said, casting a sly glance at Jon. He could not help but redden.

Rhaenys smiled. "There is much about the North I found lovely, Cousin Arianne," she said. "May I introduce my brother, Prince Aemon?"

"My princess," Jon said. He leaned forward to kiss Arianne's soft hand. "Congratulations on your betrothal to His Grace. Rhaenys and I look forward to seeing you at home in the Red Keep soon."

Arianne tittered. "And to think the last time I left was under the cover of night, dressed as a fishwife." Her expression turned serious and she patted Jon's hand. "I understand Lord Stark was like a father to you. He was always gallant and courteous during our interactions in the Red Keep. He will be missed." 

"Thank you, princess," Jon said earnestly. After some more pleasantries and giggles with her cousin, the future Queen followed after Viserys. Quentyn was the last of the familiar faces. Something had changed in him since Jon last saw him; it took only a second for him to realize that it was the change of first blood, the change of a man from an innocent into a killer. Quentyn had taken lives now. His face was more gaunt, the roundness of childhood completely gone, and a beard was starting to grow in. He looked more dashing in a way. After him there were lords and knights of Dorne. Some greeted him amicably, respectfully, while others stared at him with curiosity, while yet others made a poor attempt of hiding their contempt for him. Among the latter was a Dayne who looked a Targaryen himself, Ser Gerold of High Hermitage.

”I mislike that one,” Jon whispered to Rhaenys as he went past.”

”And I mislike him too,” she whispered back. “Darkstar is poison.”

”Darkstar?” Jon said quizzically. Then it dawned on him - Ser Arthur Dayne had been the sword of the morning. This Darkstar was his foil. Perhaps Darkstar blamed him for Ser Arthur’s death. Perhaps he was just a dumb little shit who thought himself a killer because he was a half decent tourney knight. Somehow Jon knew that if they ever crossed blades, Darkstar was not beneath trickery. It was good for Jon that he was not himself beneath trickery either.

After the reception, Viserys summoned them to the king’s chamber. There was only Viserys, Arianne, Ser Barristan, and then Jon and Rhaenys. The king’s study was a massive room. It had been patched up somewhat in anticipation for Viserys’ arrival, though there was an uncomfortable draft only slightly belayed by a roaring fire in the hearth. A great rectangular stone table dominated the center of the room, with maps laid upon it. Viserys gestured to two chairs by the table as he sat at its head.

He fixed Jon with a look for a few moments, silent, as though he was taking his measure once more. Then he finally spoke. “Life has a way of making cruelly funny jests at our expense,” he said. “This entire time, a sellsword with whom I looked down on as a common bastard of my sworn enemy was actually my own nephew, protected by that sworn enemy.” He chuckled. “I would have thrown a man in the stocks for suggesting such a thing before. I would have questioned it now, but that I trust Rhaenys’ judgment. You have the evidence in that chest, I assume.” 

Jon nodded. They placed the trunk in the center of the table and opened it. Viserys leaned over and gazed long and hard at the egg. He reached in and picked it up and chuckled. “Warm,” he whispered. "And the color matches that giant beast of a wolf that follows you around. Perhaps it is a sign from the gods, or perhaps just a strange little coincidence." He looked up and smiled sharply. "Aemon Targaryen. Not a name for a king."

"No," Jon agreed. "But there has never been an unworthy Aemon in House Targaryen. I do not plan on being the first."

The smile became sharper still. "Well said," Viserys remarked. Then he turned to Rhaenys. "Can I count on his loyalty?"

Rhaenys seemed little pleased by the sharpness of his words. "Do you doubt mine?" she snarled.

"Not your loyalty. Your judgment in bedding someone you thought to be a bastard, perhaps, but that particular conundrum worked itself out rather nicely, since he ended up being your brother." Viserys sank back into his chair and waved his hand. "It matters little. You have won two battles for my cause and have not yet given me any suspicion of your own loyalty. That said, the impression I get among the Northmen is that they seem to look at you as some kind of hero of legend, and Rhaenys is not much behind that in their estimations either. No doubt they would rather see you seated on the Iron Throne rather than me."

"Perhaps," Jon agreed. There was little use in denying that he had more popularity among the Northern lords than Viserys did, though there were some who still looked down on him as a bastard, no doubt. "But you have not given the Northerners any cause to believe that you would be a poor king, either. I expect that unless you begin to burn Starks alive, that will not change."

Viserys laughed then. "Indeed. You were frank in Essos and are franker now still. Very well. I do not plan on betraying the trust of the Northmen either. I have come to understand that my house was not innocent in its own downfall, treasonous rebellion or not." Jon did not expect more understanding than that out of Viserys, but he was glad to hear the half-hearted admission regardless. "Robb Stark has served well thus far, as have you. As long as Daenerys is with the Dothraki and Aegon remains lost, and until a child is born to me, the only heirs I have are you and Rhaenys. Until the birth of my heir, I will proclaim you the Prince of Dragonstone." Jon's eyes widened a little. "Once the war is over, I will pass judgment upon the treasonous houses. House Lannister remains too large to purge in its entirety, and there are distant kin that could serve as future loyal wardens of the West. But House Baratheon will find no forgiveness from me." With hard eyes, Viserys proclaimed, "The northern Stormlands will be incorporated into the crown's personal demesne, and I will pass the Lordship of Storm's End to you along with its direct banners and associated fiefs. I presume this pleases you. It is quite a leap from being Jon Snow of the Company of the Rose to being Prince Aemon Targaryen, Lord of Storm's End."

Jon nodded quickly, for it was indeed, even if it did not come with the whole lordship of the Stormlands. And from the perspective of the Targaryens, it was a better idea to strengthen the Crownlands at the expense of rebels and traitors.  "It is a lordly gift. But there is one thing that matters more to me than lands, Your Grace. I want Rhaenys' hand in marriage. To be Lord of Storm's End will mean little to me unless she is its Lady."

It was Princess Arianne's turn to laugh now, but there was no malice in her tone. "By the gods, Rhaenys, you have truly entranced him. Not that I expected any less of a beauty like you, cousin."

Rhaenys gave Jon a half smile. "He has entranced me just the same."

"Do you want it still, niece?" Viserys asked.

"I do, with all my heart," Rhaenys affirmed.

Viserys looked between them and then nodded. "Very well. You have my consent, thought the ceremony will need to wait until such time as one can be organized." Jon's heart soared and he shared a look of glee with Rhaenys.

"There is a godswood in Harrenhal with a weirwood for its heart tree, Your Grace," Jon said. "We need not wait. I hold to the gods of my mother - the old gods of the trees and mountains and rivers. Rhaenys and I have discussed it - there is no need for a Sept."

"The sept is not for you - it is for the realm," Viserys said. "If you are to be a prince, nephew, you must appear as one to all. I don't care particularly to which gods you prostrate. I have little use for them myself, but it keeps the people happy and appeases the zealots among the lords and ladies. In a similar vein, you and Rhaenys will both attend my councils. I want the two of you to be seen and heard. House Targaryen must show a united front."

"And if one of us happens to disagree with your dictates?" Rhaenys sniped.

"Then express it - in private," Viserys growled. His expression tensed and then eased. He took Rhaenys' hands and patted them. “I am not unreasonable. But when cracks appear in the foundations of a house, the buzzards begin to circle. It is what happened before and I will not let it happen again." He released her hands and nodded at the both of them. “Go and see to your duties. I expect we shall speak again at dinner.”

Harrenhal’s great hall was twice the size of Winterfell’s. It had holes in the ceiling, but there were so many hearths that it did not get cold at night. Great trestles tables lined the hall and food lined the tables - lords and ladies sat in long rows, mingling, feasting, and laughing. Long ago Jon might have sat at the end of the hall with squires; now he was seated at the high table, right next to Viserys. Arianne sat on the other side of the King, and Rhaenys sat to his right, and Robb and Lord Edmure after her. Dornish lords sat on the other side by Arianne. 

“Have you given thought to your council?” Jon said to Viserys.

Viserys looked at him carefully. “I have. I imagine you have suggestions.”

”It’s premature to have suggestions,” Jon said. "You have more kingdoms to woo and the number of seats are limited. Is Ser Barristan to be the Lord Commander of your Kingsguard?” The old knight stood close behind the king, pacing around the high table, alert and watchful for threats.

”He is. One knight does not a Kingsguard make, of course.” 

“No,” Jon agreed. “Ser Brynden Tully would be a good choice. I’ve fought by his side. He’s a formidable and cunning warrior, and he holds no lands or title or wife. The Riverlands would consider it an honor. As for the council, I imagine Dorne will command a presence, as it should.”

”And would you care to see your Northmen rewarded in the same way?” Viserys asked.

”I think you would be hard pressed to find a Northman willing to spend so much time away from the North. Perhaps Lord Manderly would be amenable to being Master of Coin, but I do not think anyone else would care for a seat.”

”Not your cousin Lord Stark?” Viserys said.

”Robb least of all, I think.” Jon paused. “The other side of my family does not fare well in the south. I would prefer not to subject them to that."

The king was silent for a few moments. The feast was getting progressively more raucous. Lords and ladies and knights went from table to table, mingling with one another. As the wine and ale flowed, Northmen spoke with Riverlords, and Riverlords with Dornishmen, and Dornishmen with Northmen. The fighting was limited - for which Jon was thankful - and there was a convivial spirit in the air. It was as though they could all feel victory was near. The Lannisters were cornered by Stannis Baratheon, who was cornered by them. Soon this would all be over. Still, Jon knew better than to hope for such an easy resolution. Experience had taught him that fate was rarely so generous.

"What happened to your company?" Viserys said. "Stories filtered into Dorne of the Sisters' War, and of the Company of the Rose, but I never learned in detail."

Jon swallowed a gulp of his wine. It was sour and set his throat on fire, but he needed the liquid courage to recall the tale. "The Tyroshi sellswords turned on us in the heat of battle. We were surrounded, smashed, and scattered. As far as I know, only Asher Forrester and I survived. Captain Brandon, the others... all dead."

"Your woman?" Jon suppressed a flinch at the mention of Azenet.

"Died as we fled the battle. I cremated her."

"It is a harsh thing to lose a loved one. I presume you did love her."

"I did," Jon confirmed.

Viserys sipped from his goblet. "The reason I acknowledged you as a legitimate member of House Targaryen is because I, too, have a loved one. My sister languishes across the Narrow Sea in the bed of a Dothraki barbarian. She was to have been my wife - my queen." His voice was quiet, low, whispered almost, as though he did not want Arianne to hear. "If Rhaegar had two wives... then so could I."

Jon's eyes widened. "You mean to-"

"Yes. If she still lives," Viserys said. "Aegon was a fool and if he was here now, I would toss him into a cell and forget the key for half a lifetime, but the blame in truth lies with that cheesemonger. I should have steered Aegon away from him, but I let him wrap his fingers around my nephew too tightly for me to pry loose. When this war is over, I'll have a task for you. As many men, as much gold as you need - go back to Essos and get me Daenerys."

"I care for her too," Jon said quietly. "Not in the same way as you, but she became a dear friend to me. I'll do as you ask, not only because you command it but because she is family. But to take a second wife..."

"Come now, nephew," Viserys said with a tight smile. "Don't tell me you now have objections."

"Would mean to joust with the Faith," Jon finished sharply. "I don't have a personal objection. But if you mean to spar with the High Septon, I advise you do it from a position of strength."

"That is the worry of kings," Viserys said, waving his hand. "I only need from you to return Daenerys home."

Viserys would not be dissuaded from this, Jon knew, and it was a fool's task to try and convince him of it now. He glanced at Rhaenys, who was in conversation with Robb. She would speak with Viserys, and if he could not be moved from this plan of action, then at least she might be able to plot a way for him to accomplish it without turning it into a disaster for his reign, or with the Dornish who now supported him because of his impending marriage to Arianne. "Of course. I have promises to keep in Essos as well." 

Robb descended from the high table and began to mingle with the lords seated below. He spoke with the Northmen, for the most part, but even the Riverlords flocked around him when Lord Edmure joined in. Rhaenys leaned over to him.

"I've been thinking of Robb's marriage prospects of late," she said. "There are still as of yet uncommitted kingdoms. I know our victory seems likely, but..."

"But you can't shake that feeling in your chest - the one that says something might go wrong at any moment," Jon finished. "Aye, I know it well. It's burrowed in me like a worm in the dirt. So tell me which fair lady you see yourself saddling Robb with."

Rhaenys giggled and looped her arm through his. "Lady Stark will try for the Tyrells, of course, and that may be the best hope we have - but we cannot rely on the Tyrells alone. The Vale: there is yet an uncommitted force that should have sided with us, but little word has come from the mountains. What is Lady Arryn doing? There is no marriageable Arryn, but the other great houses, the Royces, and Waynwoods, and the others, they may side with us and lend us their force of arms." She bit her lip. "And there is one more that none of us have yet considered."

"And who might that be?" Jon asked.

"The Iron Islands," she replied.

Jon scoffed. The Ironborn were unpredictable in all ways except one - they were inevitably given to plunder and pirating. "You mean Theon's sister?"

"Why not? She is of an age with me," Rhaenys said. "And the Westerlands are a natural target for them."

"So is the North," Jon said. "They hate us. Father led the charge against them during the Greyjoy Rebellion. Theon's been our ward for years and the other Greyjoys were killed at the hands of the royal army. I don't think Lord Balon would ever seriously consider it, unless we were close to being the winning side."

"Are we not?" Rhaenys pressed.

"We are," Jon conceded. "But still..."

"Yes, my love. Your worm," she said with a soft laugh. "Just something to consider."

"The idea has its merit," Jon said. "It does, truly. But I am loathe to bring it up to Robb. If Theon finds out we considered it, I feel he will not stop campaigning for it, and Robb does listen to him."

"He listens to you, and puts more weight in your words," Rhaenys said. "As you go, Robb will go as well. As I said, love - just a thought to consider." A dance had begun in the center of the great hall now. There were calls for the King to join in, as well as for them. Viserys looked somewhat miffed, but Rhaenys leaned over. "Go on, Vis. You are king - put on a show for your people. Arianne will be more than happy to indulge." With a laugh, she tugged at Jon's hand, who smiled and joined her. A great cheer went up as they joined into the dance. The minstrels seated in the gallery struck up a merry tune, and off they went. Viserys did indeed join with Arianne, and the night whirled past in the blink of an eye.

TYRION

It was a windy day, and the winds were not kind to the Lannisters, Tyrion thought. They blew from the south and southwest, and directly into their faces. It was windy enough to kick up dirt, so much so that the field was cloudy with dust. The air was punctuated with sneezing and coughing and the general discomfort of men who were buffeted by the gale and the dirt. Their banner, the Baratheon sigil impaled, on the other side the proud lion of Lannister,  fluttered on banners in the air, and so in that they appeared kingly, but little else about it was particularly regal. In a way, Tyrion found it fitting.

A tent had been set up in the middle of the field, outside the Iron Gate of King's Landing. Fifty Lannister men and knights surrounded it. On the other side of them was arrayed the host of Stannis Baratheon, a hard army made of up of the brooding Stormlords and some of the Florents, Lady Selyse's kin. In Blackwater Bay, the entire fleet of the Baratheons blockaded the coastline and the entry into the city. Food was already beginning to dwindle. They had yet to delve into their stores for a siege, but Tyrion knew they had little intention of letting it go that far. Their war was lost. The news was bleak. The entire northern half of the kingdom, all the way down to Harrenhall, was more or less under the sway of the Targaryens. Oh, Littlefinger had gone to the Vale, yes, that much was true, but the Vale was a closed box from which no news came or went. Most likely he would find himself a nice, comfortable hiding hole, plead innocence of all the wrongdoing in the capital, and welcome whoever won this war of kings in the end. 

But Stannis Baratheon knew that as hopeless as the Lannister cause was, so too was the Baratheon cause. Viserys Targaryen's army had joined the Northmen. Now twenty thousand men cut off the Westerlands at the Golden Tooth and another fifty thousand now descended on them. Not with all the Baratheons and the Lannisters here in the Crownlands combined could they match that army, but together they had a better chance of defeating the Targaryens and the Starks and Tullys than alone. He felt vindicated when Stannis agreed to meet. It meant that, at least to a degree, that Stannis felt the same. 

He stepped into the tent. He was the last of their contingent to do so. Already Father and Cersei were seated at the oaken table that had been brought into the center, as was Joffrey, who looked positively murderous. It was not every day one had to surrender a crown, after all. Certainly they would try to negotiate a better deal, but Tyrion was no fool. Joffrey was not likely to walk out of this tent with a crown still on his head. Quietly, Tyrion thought, his nephew would be lucky to walk out of this tent with his head at all.

On the other side was seated Lord Stannis. Tyrion had seen him before, but he looked harder now, grim, dressed in black half-plate, and unsmiling. There was no resemblance between Stannis and Joffrey. Even a fool could see that. With him was a knight that Tyrion could not recognize. His sigil was that of a black ship with an onion on it. That sparked recognition; Tyrion remembered the story of a smuggler who was knighted for alleviating the siege of Storm's End. Perhaps he served as one of Stannis' advisors. There was also Lady Selyse, an unhandsome woman, and another woman, who most certainly was handsome - hauntingly beautiful, in fact, with hair the color of deep, burnished copper, a red-gold choker with an inlaid ruby around her neck, and a blood-red gown that left little to the imagination. 

"Tyrion," Father said. "Be seated. Introductions have already been exchanged. Let us begin."

"Yes, let us get to it," grunted Stannis. "Your meeting - your terms, I presume."

"A truce between the Baratheons of Dragonstone and the Baratheons of King's Landing," said Tywin. "We will join in an alliance to fight off the rebels and usurpers. At the end of the war, your daughter will wed her cousin King Joffrey and they'll sit the Iron Throne together."

The red woman let out a musical laugh. "I wonder if you are simply brave or simply foolish to offer such terms, Lord Tywin. King Stannis has the support of the Stormlands. He has the support of the Lord of Light. What need does he have of this lion in stag's clothing?" She gazed at Joffrey, who burned red in the face. Before the little smarmy toad could say something, though, Tyrion cut in. 

"It would be foolish to entertain the notion of a truce with your enemies unless you actually though there was merit to the idea," Tyrion cut in. "Lord Stannis-"

"King Stannis," cut in the Onion Knight. "Or 'Your Grace', if you prefer, my lord."

"Lord Stannis," Tyrion continued, with a pointed look at the man, "you could defeat us, yes. It would involve a lengthy and protracted siege. King's Landing is a formidable defense point."

"Do you know much of war?" Stannis said, cutting him off. "How many sieges have you participated in?"

"None," Tyrion shot back. "But I invite you to tell me otherwise if my assessment is inaccurate. May I continue?" Stannis grunted again, and Tyrion smirked. This iron goat could not contest that much. King's Landing was indeed formidable, and they did have their stores, and as Cersei had shown them a few days ago - they also had wildfire, if it came to it. "You do not have time for a protracted siege. You can dig in and surround us, but the Targaryens will come for you faster than you can come for us. And once they've swept you off the field, they'll kill us, to be sure, but only after they've killed you."

"I've fought worse odds before," Stannis said obstinately. "Those who would deny their rightful king are traitors. I will show them the wages of treachery."

"Worse odds? Do you mean when Lord Mace threw dinner parties night after night in front of Storm's End? Or do you mean when you fought the undisciplined rabble of the Iron Islands?" Father said roughly. "Do not mistake Robb Stark and Rhaegar's bastard for Lord Mace or Lord Balon."

"You say that because they defeated you," Stannis said. "Just as Lord Balon did when he sailed into Lannisport and burned your town."

"That was Euron Greyjoy's doing, not Balon's. That is beside the point. Stark and the bastard defeated my brother Jaime as well," said Tyrion. "They say that Rhaegar's bastard defeated Jaime Lannister in single combat. They say he killed the Mountain in single combat. Do you feel as though you would be any more successful than either of those two in the field against him?"

Stannis snorted. "Daemon Blackfyre was the greatest warrior of his age and it was an arrow or two that killed him, not any man's sword. There are other ways to kill a man than in single combat."

Tyrion sighed and resisted the urge to rub his temples. Truly, he now empathized with Robert Baratheon. With brothers like this one and Renly, he too would have preferred Lord Stark's company. "That is also beside the point. Unless you have a great plan to murder all the Targaryens in their sleep, let me put it succinctly, my lord. You are well and truly fucked." The gasp from Lady Selyse was almost worth it. "Your army is fucked. So are we, but that doesn't change the fact that you are too, and most likely before us. Together we can put maybe thirty-five, forty thousand in the field. It is not as much as Viserys Targaryen and the Starks will, but it is close. Those are odds you could win with."

"And in return my reward would be that my daughter marries this one," Stannis said, nodding in Joffrey's directions. "You speak so contemptuously of Rhaegar's supposed bastard, but consider that I have little regard for your own bastard with Ser Jaime."

Now this time no one could stop the outburst from Joffrey. He sprang to his feet and began hurling obscenities at his 'uncle'. Ser Boros had to restrain him at Father's command. Cersei was similarly incensed, for she too stood. "How dare you," she cried. "My son - all my children - are the legitimate children of my late royal husband. The only man to say otherwise was a traitor to the crown. If you believe such lies, Lord Stannis, you are little more than a usurper yourself. The only proof you have is the word of Eddard Stark."

"My lord," Tyrion intervened. "You must understand that this was the work of Varys, the Spider," he said. "He soon disappeared after Lord Stark's execution, and we believe he may have been feeding lies to him in order to start this chaos and to push the Starks into the arms of the Targaryens. You must not fall for his ruse, either. He has ever been a creature of the Targaryens, else your brother would have captured them many ages ago." He shared a look with Father. There was no way Stannis would accept the terms of their initial offer - which had been to name him Regent and Hand of the King, and to marry his daughter to Joffrey - and they knew it. They had not expected him to.

"Look to your sins, Lady Cersei," the red woman said. Her eyes seemed to glow. "For the night is dark and full of terrors." For reasons he could not explain, her words sent a chill down Tyrion's spine, but he ignored it. He continued to look at Father, who gave him an imperceptible nod.

"Very well," Tyrion said. "Then we have one more offer to give you. It is clear to all of us that the realm is in need of a warrior king at this time. As such, your nephew Joffrey is willing to abdicate the crown in your favor. However, the abdication is conditioned on you publicly naming Joffrey as your heir, no matter whether a son or a daughter is born to you later. Shireen will be betrothed to Joffrey - should anything happen to Joffrey, she will be betrothed to Tommen, who will be your next heir. All three of Robert and Cersei's children will be publicly acknowledged by you as the legitimate children of your brother and my sister. Be reasonable, my lord. This is our only chance of survival." Joffrey looked as though he was ready to continue to rage, but a glare from Father silenced him. Perhaps it would be best if something did happen to Joffrey, indeed. Tommen would make a far better king.

Quiet reigned in the tent. Stannis is not a fool, Tyrion thought. He repeated it to himself like a credo. Stannis was not a fool. He would see that this was their only hope to win against their enemies. It was not a bad trade, in reality. Joffrey would be king one day - perhaps later than if his father had lived a natural life, yes, but Stannis was no young man himself. He was only two years younger than Robert. And there were ways to dispose of Stannis, if the need came. Right now, it was the threat of the Targaryens that loomed over all of them.

"How many men could House Lannister lend to our cause?" said the Onion Knight. 

"In the crownlands? If you were to pull back your armies, fifteen thousand. Perhaps more if we were to squeeze the banners. There are more still in the Westerlands - another thirty thousand. But they would need to break past the army guarding the passage from the Golden Tooth. Our scouts and eyes report that Lord Bolton and Lord Vance share command of that force. We have a plan for that, but we would need this alliance to be concluded first," said Father. "The other condition is that I will remain the Hand of the King. The rest of the council, of course, would be Lord Stannis' to appoint once he is crowned."

The red woman whispered in Lord Stannis' ear. It was a vulgar display, more like that of a lover than an advisor. Whatever words she spoke to the Baratheon lord, he hung on every last letter. She pulled away then, and Stannis' expression hardened again.

"I accept. But Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella must swear to the Lord of Light and abandon your false gods. The Lady Melisandre and the priests of R'hllor believe that I am the chosen of the Lord of Light, meant to lead Westeros into a better age. I will brook no heathens or disbelievers in my house. The rest of you, she trusts will come to embrace the Lord in due time as you witness His works."

"Done," Father said without hesitation. Cersei looked as though she was ready to object, but it mattered little. They'd heard whispers of some foreign zealotry in Stannis' camp, but he did not know that this Red Woman played such a pivotal role in it. She was a fire priestess, of that Tyrion was now sure. He remembered still Thoros of Myr. Thoros was a poor example, to be certain, but this woman was not. 

"Are we in agreement, then?" said Stannis. "I will be king." 

"You will be king," Father agreed. "And Joffrey after you, with your daughter Shireen as Queen. Now... Your Grace. We have enemies to deal with."

Lady Melisandre smiled at all of them, but her eyes bored into Tyrion's. Suddenly he felt laid bare, as though she could see every inch of his soul. "Fear not, Lord Tywin. Your enemies are of the night, but your ally is of the fire, and His torch will keep the savage dark at bay."

Chapter Text

RHAENYS

When Jon told her of Viserys' plan, she was enraged. 

Whether that rage stormed from the plight of her mother, who had been the other Martell woman in her father's quest for a second wife, or whether she was upset that Viserys would gamble all his crown and legitimacy on an attempt to take a second wife. That he recognized Jon's legitimacy - on the same grounds - was another knife in her heart. Some part of her wished that Viserys truly accepted Jon as his own kin. Whether he did or not was not clear to Rhaenys, but it was clear that ultimately, his decision had much to do with his desire to take Daenerys to wife.

If life had wished happier fates upon all them, then perhaps that would have been Viserys' future. But it did not, and Viserys knew the price of his crown was a Dornish queen. For him to want that and Daenerys at once was the height of selfishness, she thought. Of course, telling Viserys did absolutely nothing. She took him aside when Arianne and Jon were not around. He needed to hear it from her, and perhaps she would have a chance to change his mind.

"I will do no such thing," Viserys retorted, when she told him to cease. 

"Viserys, you will ruin everything. Do you think my uncles will support you if they know you plan to do this Arianne?"

"I do not plan to do anything to Arianne. She will be my first queen. And how will they know?" Viserys asked. His eyes glinted with anger. "Will you tell them, niece?"

Rhaenys resisted the urge to strike Viserys across the face. He had a way of getting under her skin that neither Aegon nor Daenerys had mastered. "I will not tell them because I have no desire to ruin your campaign, unlike you," she hissed. "But reconsider this folly, or there will be a disaster on our hands. It may not be today, it may not be until you are crowned, but it will be a disaster. Even Jon did not want you to do this for him. Perhaps the Faith will let it slide because my father is dead, and they do not have to deal with the matter directly, but you will push them to their limits to do it while living."

"And will you dissuade Aemon from striking out across the Narrow Sea to retrieve her?" Viserys growled. Rhaenys' hand twitched. Viserys' face was looking ever more a tempting target.

"No, because I love Daenerys and I want her back, too," Rhaenys said. "How dare you? She is my blood just as she is yours. Jon would go whether you will him to or not. It is who he is."

"Good. As long as he brings her back, it matters little," Viserys said. He turned away from her and walked to the window of the solar. Rhaenys did not need to go that far to know how high up they were. Harrenhal's size was never anything less than impressive. 

"Viserys, I am warning you. Your marriage is the foundation of your rule. It is what pins Dorne to you, and the Starks as well between Quentyn and Sansa. When you abandon your allies, your enemies will not hesitate in striking."

"Leave me," Viserys commanded, not turning to face her. "If you plan to betray me to Prince Doran, niece, do so now. I would not have you bury treason for longer than you can." With a huff, Rhaenys stormed out of the solar, only to find Jon waiting for her past the kingsguard who stood guard outside the room. Ser Barristan tried to keep a straight face, but she swore that she could see a hint of apology in his eyes. She wondered if he could see a trace of the Targaryen madness in Viserys. Was this how it had started for Grandfather? Viserys had never been so obstinate before.

"I take it you were not successful," Jon said mildly.

Rhaenys bit back a retort. It was not his fault, she reminded herself, and he was not the source of her discontent. She took a deep breath and nodded as they walked together down the hallways and back towards their quarters. "I was not," she admitted. "Jon, he is out of his mind."

"It may not be so bad," Jon said. "Dorne is more... understanding, is it not?"

"Understanding, yes," Rhaenys scoffed. "If he was a lord and kept a dozen mistresses none would care. But that is not the issue. Even a King's bastards are too close to royalty. If he was to keep Daenerys as a wife, and to father sons between her and Arianne, which would take the throne when Viserys dies? The eldest? Surely the other woman's son will object - if it is Arianne's, he will call Daenerys' son an abomination of incest; if it is Daenerys' son, he will call Arianne's a lesser dragon, watered down and not a true Targaryen.” It was a dynastic disaster waiting to happen, and she knew it.

Jon seemed to share her qualms. “And he would not be content making Daenerys his mistress.”

”Being a mistress is no suitable place for a Targaryen princess. Need I remind you of the last bastard with two Targaryen parents?” Daemon Blackfyre had been a warning to them. Jon sighed, but it was a sigh of agreement. “Did you tell him you would go find her in Essos?”

Jon nodded. “I did. I owe her that much. It’s partially my fault that she languishes in Essos.” There was an undercurrent of guilt in his voice and Rhaenys knew he still punished himself for having foiled Viserys’ kidnapping. She rubbed his arm but he looked little reassured.

After their midday meal, Jon went with the other lords to go muster their forces in preparation for the march on King's Landing. Rhaenys went from the great hall to the tower where Viserys' chambers were located. Right next to it were Arianne's chambers. They were smaller than the king's. Most likely they had been made to be the chambers of the lady of the tower, and so they were still sumptuous - or had been before Balerion had taken wing against the castle - and Arianne had made herself at home in them. The bed was plush with many covers, and there was a beautiful mirror in the corner. A screen shielded a tub on the other side. Many windows lined the walls, though the shutters were closed to keep the wind out. Arianne awaited her inside and the two cousins embraced.

"I am glad to see you well," Arianne said as they pulled apart. "I wish I had more time to spend with you, but I could not tarry in Dorne long when you arrived. It was kind of Lord Stark to let me go under the pretenses I gave, but I dared not risk discovery of our plans before they were matured."

"You did the right thing," Rhaenys said patting her hands. A table was set with refreshments. Rhaenys pulled open one of the window shutters to let in some sun before sitting down to join her.

"You look more happy than you did when you were brought to our shores. I know that it was against your will, but Viserys meant the best for you."

"Viserys always means the best for us," Rhaenys sighed. The tea she sipped at was lavender, chamomile, and soothing. "However, Viserys also always thinks he knows what is best for us. Sometimes he does, and other times he does not."

"That is where we come in," Arianne said with a grin. "The king must rule, and someone must rule the king. Better it be the women of his family than someone else. In Robert's case, it was not his wife - Cersei could not control him - but Tywin Lannister ruled through her."

"And Uncle Doran will rule through you?" Rhaenys said with a raised eyebrow.

"I believe my father to know better than to overreach in such a manner," Arianne said. "The Lannisters' problem was that they thought to position themselves to supplant Robert. They were too grasping and the realm ready to turn on them for it. The fault of naked ambition is that everyone sees it for what it is. Some, like your Starks, find it dishonorable, and will oppose it out of conviction. Others see it as impetuosity and will oppose it out of envy, or fear of losing their own power. Whatever the cause, the Lannisters had few allies and only fear. It is why they cling to nothing now."

"They cling to nothing because the Starks and the Riverlords defeated them on the field of battle," Rhaenys said. "It is easy to say that the Lannisters were weak and ready to capitulate now that they truly are, but remember that had they routed us at the Ruby Ford or outside the walls of Riverrun, this war could look much different."

"I concede that." Arianne smiled slyly. "You are truly taken with your princeling, aren't you? I don't blame you, cousin. He is easy on the eyes, and the tales of his prowess as a warrior and commander have already spread throughout the Dornish camp. Surely he has ambition to match."

Rhaenys felt as though the temperature dropped in the room. Perhaps it was a breeze in the air, from the window she opened; perhaps it was the coolness of Arianne's words. So she thinks we move to supplant her and Viserys, Rhaenys thought. It was not an unreasonable thought, though she was hurt by it. "As much ambition as a prince should have, and devotion as well," she said. "As for me, I was prepared to take him as my husband when I thought the most he might have was a legitimization as a Stark and a small holdfast in the North. Viserys has been generous in his offers. Jon will not forget it, and neither will I. Though I have never seen Storm's End."

"It is a great keep, though the weather leaves something to be desired," Arianne said with a laugh, and it was as though warmth was restored in the room. But Rhaenys knew that eyes were on them now; Jon's ascendancy had caught Viserys' attention, and their loyalty would be monitored closely. It was irritating, to be sure, but she harbored no thoughts of rebellion. Nor did Jon. The thought still discomfited her. "But you will be close to Dorne and to King's Landing. I pray I will see you in the Red Keep often, and I am sure Uncle Oberyn and my father would be happy to host you in Sunspear as often as you care to visit." 

Rhaenys smiled. "As often as you will have me, cousin." She leaned back in her chair and nibbled upon a biscuit. "Why have you and Viserys not married yet?"

"It would be best if we wed under the eye of the High Septon, Viserys thinks. And I am inclined to agree. A wedding and coronation in the Sept of Baelor will serve as a symbol of our legitimacy."

"But your position as Queen is not secure until you have married," Rhaenys cautioned. She thought of Viserys' plans with Daenerys, but her tongue was tied in a knot. She could not now betray him to her, but she felt as though she was betraying Dorne. "Just tell Viserys to go and have it done. A coronation in the Sept would still be spectacle enough for the crowd."

"And I suppose none of this has anything to do with your rush to marry Jon, would it?" Arianne winked at her. Rhaenys blushed and laughed, and the two of them began to talk of weddings and futures.

ASHA GREYJOY

Asha heard the hissing noise and ducked her head. An arrow, too quick for her to see, whizzed over her head and landed in the neck of the man standing beside her. He gurgled, a scream choked in his throat by his death rattle, as he fell. "Shields together!" she shouted. They drew their shields closer and tighter. The mud of Shatterstone's dirt streets splashed over their breeches and boots, staining the blue and grey fabrics brown and black. Rain lashed against them. Through the gaps between the shields she could see that they were almost to the pier. "Break formation!" she cried. 

Her men split apart. The arrows hit a few more, but they did not have much further to go. Her boots plodded on the wood planks of the pier now, not the mud of the ground. She charged, ducking behind her shield as arrows bolted overhead, and charged up the gangplank onto the Black Wind. There were only a few of the enemy soldiers there, and she and her men cut through them with ease, with swords and axes and maces. The first man she encountered she knocked down with a push; her axe ended him before he could get up. The next man wore no helmet to save him from the blow that descended on hi skull. Her men finished the rest; she looked about the port, where her men and her allied captains did the same. Some men took the opportunity to board and take ships that did not belong to them either.

"Captain," growled Cromm, drawing beside her.

"Is she secured?" she asked.

"Aye. We're ready to sail on your command."

"Good. Torch every ship we can't take with us. Flag the order to all the other captains." Dismissed, Cromm set about her task as the gangplank was lifted away and her men began to oar them out of the bay. Ship after ship followed, and the ones that they did not have the men to take were set to the torch. She watched the docks of Old Wyk, of Shatterstone, of House Goodbrother, go up in a blaze with a spiteful smile. 

"Goodbye, Uncle Euron," she said. The events of the past few fortnights played through her mind's eye as the flames grew ever more distant. Father's death had come so swiftly, so strangely. She knew in her heart that he did not slip off the bridge and fall to his death on the rocks below Pyke - or at least, if he slipped, it was not only through carelessness. For days they sat in the lord's tower of the castle, debating, arguing over what actions to take. Word reached them over what was going on in the green lands, and how the Starks and the Crown, as well as the Lannisters, were at each other's throats. What became a conflict between two houses erupted into something else. Father was bitter and plotted revenge against his old enemies, but she had thought that short-sighted. With the arrival of the Targaryens, and the conflagration that was sweeping across the entirety of Westeros, there was opportunity - real opportunity for glory and plunder and riches.  There was news of Targaryens from across the sea, and then, the day before Father died, a raven from Viserys Targaryen with the most curious news of a Targaryen hidden in the North. Asha thought immediately of Theon, who must have known the boy posed as Ned Stark's bastard. Theon was said to be fighting along with the Starks, declared for the Targaryens.

Now she would have to seek him out.

The day after Father died, the day Uncle Aeron called for a Kingsmoot, Uncle Euron had arrived. She knew straight away that the Crow's Eye had something to do with it. His great ship docked in Lordsport with its frightening sails and its crew of mutes. Two bodies had been lashed to the prow. She knew not who they were, for they were blue and green, bloated from having been dead in the sea for so long and with chunks ripped away by sharks and krakens and the beasts of the deep.  Uncle Victarion was away, and so they were they only two real candidates for the Seastone Chair when the kingsmoot was convened on Old Wyk.

Asha was torn on whether it was time for their independence, but Euron was not. It was her mistake and his cleverness, and now Euron would call himself king. Well, she was resolved to leave him with little to no fleet. She had not expected the support of as many lords as she received, but as they sailed out of Shatterstone, she realized she had nearly fifty ships and all their men behind her. Not all of them had believed Euron's foolish and deluded promises of conquest. How were the Iron Isles to conquer the whole of Westeros? It was madness. From Old Wyk they sailed to Lordsport. Either Euron had not sent warning to the dockmasters on Pyke, or they had not prepared, but she was able to raze another three-score of ships and steal ten more there, along with some men who were willing to join her; from there, they sailed to Harlaw and took another thirty ships with captains sworn to House Harlaw. The journey to Seagard from Harlaw took a sennight and a half.

The bells of Seagard were ringing as they approached. Asha bade her men raise flags of truce on their masts as they rowed in. A dozen Mallister ships came to meet them outside the harbor. The captain was a portly knight. He wore far too much plate to be on sea. Asha though of how he might sink if he were pushed into the blue-black waves underneath. 

"Stop there, Ironborn!" he commanded. "I am Ser Duncan Mallister, cousin to Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard and its castellan. What business have you sailing to our town and keep?"

Asha hailed him. "I am Lady Asha Greyjoy, daughter of late Lord Balon. My father is dead, and my uncle Euron has seized power in the Iron Isles. He seeks to make himself king and declare war on your king, the Targaryen king." The next part caused her to grit her teeth. "I come to swear myself to the rightful King and seek his help in taking back my birthright from my uncle, the Usurper."

The old knight clearly knew not whether to believe her. His whiskers trembled as he considered her words. "And what guarantee have I that if I let you through to Seagard, that you and your men will not begin to pillage and reave?"

"None, but that my fleet will stay anchored and away from the port until you ascertain our good intentions," she replied. "After we speak, I would send ravens to His Grace the king and march south to meet him. Does Seagard have the space for near a hundred ships?"

The castellan shook his head. "If all goes well, no. We can take in thirty ships, but the rest must be anchored or grounded on the strand outside."

"Very well," Asha said. "Lead us to the castle. Only my ship will follow after."

By the end of the day, the ravens had been sent. It took three more days for the response to come. It came in the hand of the king himself, accepting her loyalty and commanding her to march her men with all haste to King's Landing via the Blue Fork Road. Seemingly mollified by the king's raven, the Mallisters gave her and her men horses and supplies as much as they could spare and she set out that same day, with her whole army behind her. There were just over four thousand men, once all 90 ships were emptied. The Greyjoy banner rode at the head of her army, with other banners behind - the scythe of Harlaw, the black ships of Farwynd, the white skeletal hand of Drumm, the silver fish of Botley, the green and black of Blacktyde. She rode forward, putting her homeland behind her, but not out of mind. Soon she would return, and soon she would have her revenge on her uncle.

JON

Their army marched leisurely from Harrenhal to Sow's Horn, and then to Brindlewood and down the Kingsroad to Hayford. Each of the Crownlander lords or their castellans were quick to surrender their castles. The crownland demense, Jon quickly realized, was rather weak. The lands here were flat and undefended by any great natural barriers, such as the rivers of the Riverlands or the hills of the Westerlands or the marshes of the neck. Rolling plains gave way to meadows and fertile fields. There was a great deal of prosperity to be had here in times of peace, but the lords who held these lands in direct vassalage to the King had small keeps of stone. Jon could have fit four or five of them in Winterfell's courtyard and godswood alone. Viserys' idea to incorporate the northern Stormlands into the direct service of the Crown was a shrewd move.

At Jon's urging, Viserys did indeed offer a place in the Kingsguard to Ser Brynden Tully, who accepted. The Blackfish traded his black scale armor for the armor of a kingsguard. The white cloak, Jon thought, was a strange departure, for fish did not often change the color of their scales as such. Along the way, he spent hours with Viserys and the rest of the lords in their councils. He grew to respect Prince Oberyn's advice quickly, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that different lords were campaigning for places on the King's council in the future - all, save Robb, perhaps. 

Aside from his foolish insistence on a second marriage to Daenerys, which he did not disclose to anyone, Jon found that Viserys otherwise had the makings of a decent King. There was a decisiveness in him, though perhaps one might consider it to border on haste. He did not brook foolishness, however, and he did listen to his advisors and whatever they had to say at least once, though he was quick to dismiss advice that he did not agree with. He was fair with appointments, and generally quick to determine what a man was truly getting at behind flowery speech and obeisance. There was a distance again between Rhaenys and Viserys, though, one that was palpable to anyone who spent time in their presence.

At their pace, they had no intention of rushing Stannis Baratheon's attack on the capital. Once it happened, they were decided on laying a second siege to the city. Surely Stannis' army - or the Lannisters, in the unlikely event they won - would be worn down and quick to surrender once beset on all sides. At Harrenhal they received news that the Iron Islands had been usurped by Euron Greyjoy, who now called himself King and defied the crown. By all rights, Theon was now Lord of the Iron Islands, but the fact that his sister was coming to join them now presented a delicate issue. Theon held no power and no means of enforcing his birthright. Jon knew they would have to navigate that issue delicately.

By the time they arrived at Hayford, a raven came from Harrenhal. The Ironborn army was force marching to join them and had passed the Gods Eye. Still, no news came from King's Landing. Jon had expected a steady stream of refugees running from Stannis' attack on the city, but there was no news. As they camped around the hills outside the city, they sent outriders under Theon to scout ahead, but there was no sign of an attack on the walls of King's Landing. However, they came back with startling news.

"The banner on the walls wasn't that of the Lannisters," Theon reported. Viserys called a council in Hayford's hall. "It was a burning stag. They say that's Stannis' banner. But there were no signs of an attack on the city's walls, and there wasn't any damage that I or the outriders could see."

"Did you go as far as the Blackwater Rush?" Robb asked.

"Aye, we did. We could see Stannis' fleet at the mouth of the river and in the bay. If he attacked by water, there were no signs, though. The gate by the river seemed untouched. It's almost as if the Lannisters vanished."

"Is there a possibility they might have surrendered the city before Stannis' arrival and slunk away?" Viserys asked. "What if they mean to retreat to the Westerlands by the Rose road?"

"Your Grace," said Ser Barristan, "it is possible. But they would be putting themselves at the mercy of the Tyrells. If Lord Mace decided now was an opportune chance to join your side, the Lannisters would make a good gift."

Viserys turned to Robb. "Has your lady mother written back? Do we have word she arrived at Highgarden?"

Robb frowned and exchanged a look with Jon. They had discussed the lack of messages from Lady Catelyn on the road, but Highgarden was a distance from where they had parted ways, and perhaps she had not had the chance to write a message yet. Even if she did, she would have sent a raven to either Harrenhal or Riverrun, and it would take time for that message to be redirected here, as she would have no way of knowing they had arrived at Hayford by now. "No, Your Grace," he said. "There is little news that comes out of the Reach, and nothing of my mother." Even Lord Edmure frowned in concern at that.

"It's possible Stannis could have taken the city through trickery," Jon suggested. "A turncloak to open a gate in the dead of night would not leave any marks from war engines on the walls. Was there a sign of a sack upon the city?"

"No smoke or any sign of destruction from behind the walls," Theon said. "Save for that of chimneys. If there was a sack, it was the cleanest, quietest one in the history of these kingdoms."

"Do you have any suggestions for a course of action, nephew?" Viserys said, turning to Jon.

Jon sighed and surveyed the map. He pointed at the capital. "Let us assume that Stannis has taken the city. We know not where the Lannisters and the surviving men have gone. Perhaps some have turned cloak and joined Stannis - the Crownlanders, perhaps, for it is difficult for me to think that the Westerlanders might have turned on Lord Tywin. The Lannisters are either dead or somewhere outside the city, with an unknown number of men. We need to secure our surroundings before we entrench around the city for a siege. If Lord Stannis took it without much of a fight, he will still have the greater portion of his forces and his navy to keep shipping lanes open to the city."

"We'll never take it so long as Stannis can bring food in," Robb said.

"No," Jon agreed. "We need to capture or destroy the fleet. I propose Lord Greyjoy and our newfound Ironborn allies carry out an attack on Stannis' fleet at night. We must build rafts in the woods, out of sight of the walls so that Stannis does not see what we are doing. Wait for a moonless night and attack with rafts. Fire ships and armed raiders - capture or sink as much of the fleet as we can. Then we blockade the city ourselves. Prince Oberyn, can we rely on Prince Doran to rally some sellsails to our cause to reinforce our numbers?"

Oberyn nodded. "I'll write to my brother. Dorne will find the ships."

"Good. With our blockade complete, we begin our siege. While we do so, however, we leave ourselves open here," Jon said, pointing back at the Golden Tooth. "The army under Lords Bolton and Vance continues to march through here. If they are successful in bypassing the Lannisters and pillaging the Westerlands, they should keep the enemy occupied. But if they fail or are routed, if the Lannisters come from a southward pass, they may be able to march to our rear. And the Tyrells remain uncommitted to our knowledge. If we're not able to sway them to our side, then they could ride out from behind us and smash us against the city. If we can, we may have to storm the city to ensure a quick resolution. I propose that we encircle the city, break Stannis' fleet, and then make a decision as to whether we intend to lay a protracted siege or to storm the city. Either way, defeating the navy will be necessary."

"I agree with the Prince's assessment, Your Grace," said Ser Barristan, inclining his head towards Jon. "The decision on whether to attack the city need not be made now, not until we have a better understanding of the situation on all sides. But breaking Stannis' hold on Blackwater Bay will be necessary regardless of the course of action you command."

"Very well," Viserys agreed. "Surround the city, and send outriders to determine where the Lannisters have gone. Once Lady Asha Greyjoy arrives with her ironborn, we break Stannis' fleet and take the city." Pounding fists and approval greeted that proclamation. "Prince Aemon. I appoint you to oversee the siege of the city and to command our outriders. Prince Aemon speaks with the Crown's authority."

"I am honored, Your Grace," Jon said, dipping his head. "Lords Stark, Tully, Greyjoy, and Prince Oberyn - if I might have a word."

The other lords then left the tent, and Jon planned the details of the encirclement and siege with the remaining lords. Theon was given command of the outriders once more, but this time with far greater latitude. He was to scout in all directions to see if the Lannisters had successfully retreated from the city. Additionally, his men were to secure wood from the Kingswood to the south so that the rafts for the attack on Stannis' navy could be made quickly and quietly. Prince Oberyn and the Dornish troops would surround the city from the south and southwest, while the Northmen and the Riverlords would surround the west and north. After dismissing the others, he instructed Lord Edmure to set a watch on the Kingsroad for the Ironborn soldiers and for Lady Asha Greyjoy.

"I want to meet her first, before Lord Theon," Jon told him quietly. "Have her brought to me and the king. I trust you understand that Lord Balon's death and Euron Greyjoy's subsequent usurpation leaves the inheritance of the Iron Islands a sensitive matter."

"Of course," Edmure said. "I will bring her to you and the king at once." Lord Edmure left then, and only Viserys, Jon, and Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden were left in the tent.

"A delicate matter indeed," Viserys said quietly, sipping from a wine goblet as he reclined in his chair. "Theon Greyjoy is lord by right of inheritance, but he has not been on the Iron Islands since he was a boy. Lady Asha is said to be a captain of no small renown in Essos and across the Narrow Sea. And she commands four thousand Ironborn. Now tell me, nephew. How do we resolve this conundrum?" He glanced at Ser Brynden and Ser Barristan. "Any suggestions, sers?"

"The ironborn are a quarrelsome, foul lot," Ser Barristan said. "They are good at violence, Your Grace. I would not be surprised if one of the siblings tried to murder the other."

"I must echo Ser Barristan," said Ser Brynden. "We've dealt with many Ironborn raids, Your Grace. I'm surprised Lord Mallister's castellan even let Lady Greyjoy land in Seagard. All they do is leave a trail of destruction where they go, picking on easy and unsuspecting targets. Give them a good beating and they'll crawl back and hide on their godsforsaken rocks for another generation."

"Theon has been an excellent leader of our outriders," Jon mused. "He has a talent for leading scouts and light cavalry on land. He has spent a great deal of time with us in the North, and so he might be less inclined to indulge in raiding and reaving along coastlines like his father and his uncles. Lady Asha is already a raider. I do not know if she would be willing to chart a more peaceful course for the Ironborn."

"The Ironborn? Peaceful?" snorted Ser Brynden.

"Mayhaps, Ser Brynden," Ser Barristan said thoughtfully, rubbing at his chin. "Under Lord Quellon, the Iron Islands were relatively quiet. He tried to reform them from the Old Way. Perhaps his grandson could continue the task."

"We should meet with Lady Asha first," Jon said. "And then we can decide. But my inclination is to favor Theon, and deal with Lady Asha some other way. Perhaps she would accept a marriage to someone prominent."

"Someone such as yourself?" Viserys asked pointedly. "Do not fear, nephew, I will not ask you to set aside your desire to marry Rhaenys, nor will I deny my niece that happiness. But then secure me a suitable groom for our Lady Greyjoy. Your cousin, Lord Stark, perhaps. He is not yet promised to anyone."

"Lady Stark has gone to negotiate terms with the Tyrells," Jon replied. "With Robb's hand, if need be."

"And yet we have not heard from Lady Stark in a moon." Viserys stood and paced around the tent. "That gives me cause for concern. If she was waylaid by bandits, that would be... regrettable. But if the Tyrells have taken her captive..."

"I cannot see to what end," Ser Brynden said. "She would be of value only to us - and would the Tyrells now court Lord Stannis or the Lannisters at this late hour of war?"

Viserys shook his head. "No, the Tyrells are up to something. I can feel it. Prince Aemon - have Lord Greyjoy send scouts down the Rose road when they cross the Blackwater. I would have eyes in the Reach, to see where their lords are."

Jon nodded. "Aye, that I will do. By your leave, Your Grace?" Viserys dismissed them and Jon left the tent. Ser Brynden stayed behind, but Ser Barristan followed him out. The Kingsguard had taken to protecting both the King and Jon and Rhaenys in shifts. They needed to add more knights to the order, that much was clear. Jon had already drawn up a list of the best knights from among their army, men who would make suitable candidates, but Viserys had not yet confirmed any. 

"My prince, if I may?" Ser Barristan said. "I had hoped to speak with you about your father - well... both of them. Your father by birth and Lord Stark as well." Jon nodded and gestured the knight to follow him to his tent. It was empty inside, for Rhaenys was likely meeting with Arianne.

"Let us speak freely, ser," Jon said, drawing two chairs for them. Ser Barristan politely declined the seat, but Jon sat anyway.

"Every breath you draw reminds me of Rhaegar, my prince," Ser Barristan said. The words were spoken quickly, breathlessly, as though the knight had held his breath for a long time just to say it. "From the corner of my eye, you look just like him, save for your coloring. It is a miracle that no one saw his face in you. I suppose no one was looking for it. When you speak, you sound like him. You have the same pensive quality, the same wisdom, the same thoughtfulness in your words." The old knight's chin trembled. "It is difficult to look at you and not feel as though my prince's ghost has come to haunt me."

Jon was startled. No one had compared him so much to Rhaegar before. "No one has ever told me the resemblance was so strong, Ser," he said carefully. "Rhaenys does not remember him well."

"No, she would not. She was a little thing, the Princess, and Rhaegar was gone for much of the rebellion," Ser Barristan said. "But I knew him well. Ser Arthur and I were with him often, and I saw him as a child and as a young man. There never lived a more gallant knight of House Targaryen, or a better prince. He would have made the greatest king of your house."

"Perhaps," Jon said, shifting uncomfortably. "I suppose we'll never know, Ser. I don't know what possessed him to go after my mother. All I can think of is that my mother and father doomed Westeros to bloodshed and death because of me."

"It need not have been that way," Ser Barristan said. "No, my Prince. The greatest blame lies on King Aerys. It was his decision to execute your uncle and your maternal grandfather that started the war, that coupled with his demand for Lord Stark and Robert Baratheon's heads. Perhaps what they did was ill-advised, or mistimed, but..."

"Regardless of their intentions, Ser, I cannot help but feel those lives are on my head," Jon admitted. Ser Barristan gave him a sad smile.

"Rhaegar would have agreed," Ser Barristan said. "Perhaps I can tell you how he was in life, then. We used to go into the city from the Red Keep. Rhaegar could little hide his silver hair, so he wore a cap and pretended to be a bard or minstrel. He would play on street corners and you would not believe the amount of coin tossed at him if I told you." The old knight chuckled. "Had he been born a commoner he could have made a fortune that way. Instead he donated all his days' winnings to the orphanages in Flea Bottom. He took his skill at blade and lance seriously, and though he became very proficient, he never loved war or fighting. It was a thing of regrettable necessity to him." A chord vibrated in Jon. Had he not felt the same way when he first began taking life in Essos?

It was then that Rhaenys burst through the flaps of their tent. Her face was pale and Jon could see then that something was terribly wrong. "Princess," Ser Barristan said, bowing to her, but even he paused when he saw the look on her face. 

"Ser, the Princess and I must speak in private. Please stand watch outside our tent," Jon commanded. The command slipped from his mouth almost automatically. Ser Barristan nodded and passed by Rhaenys to leave the tent. When the tent flap closed behind him, Jon heard his boots crunch once before he stood in place, a sentinel to guard them.

"What is it?" he said, urgency seeping into his voice. "What's wrong, Rhaenys?"

Rhaenys' lip trembled and tears were forming at the corner of her eyes. She took a few tentative steps towards him. "Jon... Jon. I've missed two moon's bloods. I... once is not uncommon, but two, it has not happened..." she let out a ragged gasp. "Jon, I think I'm with child."

Chapter Text

RHAENYS

Jon blinked owlishly. His mouth worked, but no words came out. When they did, he was unsure, stammering. “Are you sure?”

Rhaenys nodded glumly. She remembered his reluctance and fear of fathering bastards. Gods, she wished she had not grown lax in drinking the moon tea Marela prepared for her. Did some part of her want Jon’s seed to take hold? Of course she did, but it never seemed pressing after the first time she failed to take it, and then a second, and then nothing happened - and of course it did not, because pregnancies did not happen all at once, and she berated herself for being so foolish. They did not couple every night, but they did at least every other night, and always more than once.

”I have been feeling sick in the mornings this last week, but it was never severe. I marked it as some sort of camp fever… but at tea with Arianne the smell of the tea repulsed me this morning and I retched it all up. My moon blood ought to have come a day or two ago.” She placed a hand on her belly. There was the slightest hint of firmness there. “I can feel it, Jon.”

Jon seemed entranced. He took a tentative step towards her, then another, closing the distance between them. He reached out his hand, slowly, and placed it on her belly. “A child?” he whispered, half to himself. Their eyes met. Rhaenys searched them desperately, but there was no hint of anger or rage in them.

”Please, say something. I’m sorry-“

He cut her off with a fierce kiss. It was hungry, possessive, and overwhelming. Tears streamed down her face as emotion blossomed within her. She wrapped her arms behind his neck and returned the kiss just as desperately. Outside, there was a shuffling of feet, and then she heard Bran's voice, in urgent tones, with Ser Barristan responding. She only pulled apart from Jon to have Bran burst in, half-dressed in armor. "Jon!" he shouted. Whatever they must have looked like in that moment, it clearly caught Bran off guard, for he looked fixatedly at the ground beneath their feet, not at them directly, and his face flushed red. 

"What is it, little brother?" Jon said.

"The king has called an council. Theon's outriders pulled back when they saw banners coming up the Kingsroad across the Blackwater Rush."

"Banners?" Jon frowned. "Whose banners?" 

"I don't know," Bran said. "Robb sent me to find you, that's all I was told."

Jon nodded. He stooped and wiped a tear from Rhaenys' eyes. "Come, love. We'll talk more of it later. Bran, attend me." They swept out of the tent, and Ser Barristan followed after them dutifully. The walk towards the command tent was a short one, but enough for Rhaenys to see that the entire camp was abuzz. Men ran to and fro, dousing fires, putting on their armor and sharpening their weapons. Serjeants bellowed foul-tongued commands as squires hastily helped their knights dress for battle and saddled their horses. The tent was filled with lords, but at Ser Barristan's presence they parted way for her and Jon. "Make way for the Prince and Princess," cried a voice. "Make way!"

Viserys leaned over a map at the center of the table. He was surrounded by Robb and Uncle Oberyn and Lord Edmure and the other highest ranking bannermen. Theon Greyjoy was there too, his face red and damp from sweat and exertion. He looked at them with a frown. 

"Your Grace?" Jon said.

Viserys looked up at the both of them. His eyes lingered on her for a second. "Good, you're both here. Lord Greyjoy, please fill in Prince Aemon on what you saw."

"Banners, Jon - we crossed the Blackwater Rush at the ford an hour and a half past, but no sooner did we get across did we crest a hill and see an enormous army marching from the south. They came up the Kingsroad, from the direction of the Stormlands, if I had to guess. But they had dragon banners. Targaryen banners. Tyrell banners. They are a large host. I don't have a good count, but if I had to wager, I'd say there are near as many of them as there are of us."

"Lady Stark?" Jon asked. But Rhaenys' heart said no. Lady Stark was not so irresponsible to not send a raven, unless their ravens had been shot down. But that seemed unlikely to her. 

"I don't know," Robb said. "She would have sent word."

"Aye, she would have," Jon said. "Your Grace, we could send a party with a flag of parley, to see who comes and ascertain their intentions."

"So advises the rest of the council," Viserys said. His voice was flat, but Rhaenys could sense anger under those words. "It concerns me that we had so little in the ways of eyes and ears that we could not see the Reach on the march until now. Prince Oberyn, I would speak to you about that later. Prince Aemon, you have command of the siege. Do you advise parley?"

"A parley as much as it would be a scouting mission," Jon said. "We need to know who comes, and why the Reach has stirred now. But do not stop the army from assembling. If we need to give battle, then we need to be ready. We should assemble our forces at the ford and be ready to defend the river crossing. Post men near the gates of King's Landing to watch for Stannis if he plans to sally forth. We need to keep a line of withdrawal open if we choose to yield the siege. If we are caught unawares we will all be slaughtered, that much is a certainty. We should send a small party north up the kingsroad to see how far away Lady Greyjoy is with her four thousand. Command her to watch the city gates and ensure our retreat lies unhindered."

"Retreat?" said Lord Edmure. "We are on the verge of victory." 

"We were on the verge of victory, my lord," Jon retorted. "Now we could be on the verge of disaster. It would be a smaller defeat to yield the siege and to regroup at Harrenhal with the rest of our forces than it would be to die here outside the city." 

Robb made a noise of agreement. "Jon speaks truly, Your Grace. This may not be a battle we need commit to."

There was a pregnant pause as Viserys seemed to consider their words. "Very well. Assemble the army. Lord Stark, Lord Tully - once you have seen to your forces, come and join me with five of your most trusted banners. And you as well, Prince Oberyn. That will be our party to parley with the Tyrells. Lord Greyjoy, set pickets and see to our avenue of retreat if need be. Locate your sister and relay the Prince's orders. We trust in you and your outriders."

"At once, Your Grace." Theon bowed and left the tent, barking orders. 

As men began to filter out under Robb and Lord Edmure and Uncle Oberyn's watch, she and Jon remained behind. The tent was empty save for Ser Brynden and Ser Barristan, and Bran who hung back behind Jon. "Your Grace, there is something pressing. It may not be solved now but the news of it cannot wait." Viserys arched an eyebrow in curiosity.

"Go on then," he said.

Jon shared a glance with her. Her eyes widened as she realized what he was about to do, but before she could say anything, Jon turned back to Viserys. "Rhaenys believes she is with child. Our child."

A deathly silence seemed to fill the room. Rhaenys reddened and her hand flew instinctively to her belly, a movement that did not go unnoticed by Viserys. He looked at Jon for a few moments, and then turned back to her. His eyes were wholly unreadable to her. Say something, she thought desperately. She wished Jon had given her warning, for it was all too rushed now, with battle bearing down on them. 

"Sers," Viserys said slowly. "Guard the entrance to the tent, and leave me with my niece and nephew."

"Your Grace, I-" Ser Barristan said. The old knight looked as shocked as she might have expected.

"This is a private matter of the household, Ser. I must deal with it as the head of the house. Leave. You as well, Brandon Stark," Viserys commanded. His voice brooked no dissent.

"Bran, saddle my horse and meet me in my tent," Jon ordered. Bran nodded, and the two kingsguard and Bran filtered out of the tent, and Viserys began to pace slowly.

"You both have been careless," he said. "I would have believed you to have taken the necessary precautions. You have always been level-headed, Rhaenys."

"She did take the precautions," Jon said in defense of her. "They do not always succeed in preventing things. Your Grace-"

"You may dispense with the title, Aemon," Viserys said. "You are to be the father of my great-nephew or niece, and we are family besides."

"Uncle," Jon said, more carefully, hesitantly. "I vowed never to father a bastard. I lived the life of one for most of my life and I would not wish it upon mine own child. Give me leave to marry Rhaenys at the first chance we get. It is still early. Perhaps we could pass the babe off as early to come, if the gods grant us a healthy child." Viserys seemed to regard his plea in silence, but then he turned to her. 

"I have always tried to forgive your transgressions and mistakes, Rhaenys, because from the moment we reunited in Essos after the downfall of our house, you were my closest friend. Dany may be my sister in name, but it was you who was my sister in bond, us two raising and looking after Dany and Egg before they could fend for themselves. You have not always been so forgiving in your heart for me, but I cannot find it in myself to hold those same things against you." He approached and placed a hand on her shoulder. A choking emotion constricted in her throat, squeezing the air from her passageways. "I would not let your child be born a bastard. Not the first child House Targaryen has seen in a generation. You and Aemon will wed as soon as circumstances permit."

Rhaenys let out a choked sob. "Thank you, Vis." She had not expected it of him. Rhaenys had been, if she was now honest with herself, harsh with Viserys, harsher than he deserved. It was not his fault that Dany had been left behind. He tried - and perhaps it was her own guilt of escaping that Dothraki ordeal that caused her to blame Viserys.

"Family is all that matters," Viserys said. "For both of you. For our house. It is the only thing that matters. But you must think in the future." He shook his head. "To you, I know my insistence on marrying Dany is just as foolish. But you know that she has always been the only one I have ever loved the way a man loves a woman. You think I am gambling my throne and my support on her, but I have planned it better than the two of you have planned this. I could have married you to the first lord I thought capable of bringing me armies. I could have sold you like Egg sold Dany, but I did not."

"I know," Rhaenys said. Her voice was cracked, fraught with despair even to her. "I don't say it because I think you should not marry Dany, you know that. Her happiness and yours means a great deal to me. But I do not want to see you fall into harm's way. You are king, Viserys. I want to see you as king until you grow old and feeble and then your children kings after you. I want this realm to remember you as Viserys the Third of his name, the great restorer, the wisest king of House Targaryen."

Viserys face softened and he took her hands in his. "Then work with me to achieve my goals, just as I have worked with you. Trust me in this, Rhaenys, and do not fight me as much as you have. Are you not tired of quarreling with me? It is all we've done since we left Essos. I am not Egg. I have plans on plans, but I will need your support - both of yours - to accomplish what I dream of. It is not just Dany - it is a strong house of ours, a prosperous realm. Help me, Rhaenys. Do not hinder me." He wiped away at her tears, and she flung her arms around him into a tight embrace. Viserys gently patted her back. "Come now. We must go face what is coming. Go now, and meet me when we ride out to face the Tyrells."

Jon took her hand and led her away, but she saw the surprise - and gratefulness - on his face as well. "We'll join you soon," Jon promised, and then they were out. Rhaenys wiped away the last of her tears and cleared her throat as Jon led her back to their tent. Bran was there ready with Jon's armor and weapons. The young Stark though a knight in his own regard now, still served as Jon's attendant, and quickly helped Jon armor himself. Rhaenys fastened his black Targaryen cloak around him as Bran handed Jon his helmet. "Jon," she said. "Please be safe. I need you to live."

"This won't be our last day, I promise you," Jon said. "But if anything should happen, leave. Flee the battle. And whatever you do, do not join the battle like you did at Riverrun. You have the child to think of. Bran, you'll guard her with your life? Swear it to me. Swear it to me on our blood, little brother."

"I swear," Bran solemnly pledged. "Princess Rhaenys is family to me as well." Rhaenys gave the sweet boy a watery smile and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, Ser Bran," she said. She grabbed her riding cloak from her possessions and soon they were horsed, with Bran trailing behind them. The army had assembled rapidly, as men marched out in formation from their camp and into position. At the far southern edge of camp, Viserys and their party of parley gathered. As commanded, Robb was accompanied by five northern bannermen, and Lord Edmure by five riverlords. Theon Greyjoy was not present, as he had been commanded to screen their positions and to find Lady Asha, but Uncle Oberyn was there as well, armored and ready for war, spear in hand on his sturdy Dornish steed, with his own bannermen in tail. Ser Brynden and Ser Barristan carried lances with banners of House Targaryen, and Bran was given a standard to ride with as well. Viserys had exchanged his tunic and trousers for black armor, similar to Jon's, but even more exquisite in design. On his head was a black crown with rubies, similar in design to what she remembered of the conqueror's. 

Their party rode south to the ford. At the edge of the river crossing, there were some outriders from their army awaiting them. Jon rode forward to speak with the captain and then rode back. "The Tyrell army is across the ford and behind the hill. We should send a messenger asking for parley here at the ford, on our side. I do not want to be on the other side of that river if they choose treachery." He spurred his horse back into position and leaned over to Robb. More quietly, so that only she and Robb could hear, he said, "Robb, I need you to be prepared for the possibility that Lady Stark was taken captive by the Tyrells. If they are here and she went to Highgarden, we do not know what has become of her. I need you to be patient, as difficult as it may be."

"It's my mother, Jon," Robb growled.

"Aye, I know. And I will do all I can to bring her back to our family. The Tyrells will not mistreat her. She is a lady of high birth and standing, and she would have traveled with them as a guest, even if unwilling." Jon sounded confident, but Rhaenys knew him well enough to see the doubt in her eyes. Yes, custom dictated the good treatment of Lady Stark, but there was no guarantee. 

Robb did not look convinced, but he nodded. "I'll follow your lead, brother. But if the Tyrells have harmed her, I will raze Highgarden to the ground."

"And I will salt their fields with you," Jon agreed. "Thank you, Robb."

The messenger they sent returned after some time. "Your Grace, my lords, Lord Tyrell has agreed to meet you on this side of the ford," he said. "He wishes me to convey his good intentions. I saw among their number golden banners, however."

"Golden banners?" Jon said. "With any design or device?"

"None, my prince."

Jon cursed, and Rhaenys' heart sank. They both knew what that meant. "Were there many?" Jon asked.

"Yes, my prince. At least a quarter of the banners I spotted."

"The Golden Company is here," Viserys muttered. "I mislike this. Battle seems to be upon us."

"Lord Edmure, you are one of our most senior lords," Jon said. "Your efforts will be needed to prepare the army. Will you ride back to the army and lead the commanders in throwing up stakes and digging ditches? We will need to be ready to ride back and give battle, or at least to build greater defenses around camp."

Tully puffed up his chest. "Of course, Prince Aemon." He spurred his horse back with the other Riverlords. Rhaenys watched them disappear behind them, dirt rising up where their horses raced away. Fear began to rise up from her gut, ugly, squalling, possessive. What the Golden Company was doing here she could not tell. They would only come here for someone who could claim the throne. Was it possible that Stannis had lured them in somehow? Baratheons were said to have been bastards of Targaryen descent, long ago, with Orys - was it possible that for lack of a Blackfyre they had thrown in behind the stag?

A few minutes later, the Tyrell party crested the Kingsroad, as did the advance column of their army. The scout did not lie. There were Targaryen banners, yes, but Tyrell banners and Golden Company banners. Somehow Rhaenys did not feel as though Lord Tyrell had come here to make a dramatic offering of his fealty as well as the Golden Company's. No, something was afoot. The Tyrell party rode out tightly packed together, but as their horses loosened formation, she saw him.

It was as if every part of her insides was coated in freezing ice all at once. Silver hair, black armor, violet eyes - as he drew nearer, she was sure her eyes deceived her. It was Aegon. Viserys cursed quietly under his breath, and Jon exchanged a glance, half worried, half shocked, with her. 

"Is that...?" Jon muttered. But Rhaenys did not say anything - could not say anything. It was Aegon. He looked older, a little more grizzled, than when she last saw him that fateful evening in Essos. There was a small scar on his cheek from some battle wound that was unfamiliar to her. Next to him, on a white mare, rode a very beautiful young woman, with thick, softly curling chestnut hair. She wore a green dress, with a riding cloak of autumn flowers. Anger, sorrow, fear, and hate roiled in her belly, and she fought against a rising wave of nausea that threatened to have her heave over the side of her horse. Jon's hand softly touched her forearm, and they shared a look. HIs eyes were filled with concern for her. 

A crier accompanying the Tyrells announced Aegon first. "You stand in the presence of Aegon, sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!" Rhaenys felt bile rise up in her throat once more. Aegon was none of these things. He could have been, but he made his choices and then vanished. She thought he was dead, or in hiding... not here, not at the head of an army. 

"You stand in the presence of Viserys, third of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men," snarled Jon in response. To the surprise of everyone, he rode out of their party and came face to face with the Tyrells. "Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. To claim the royal title is to pronounce yourself an upstart and a rebel." He took his helmet off and let his long hair tumble out. The Tyrells looked surprised, but Aegon wore a cross of hatred and shock on his face. Last time he saw Jon, Jon was dressed as a sellsword, a member of the Company of the Rose. Now he was dressed in black armor and a winged helmet, with a long Targaryen cloak around his shoulders, on a fine steed. Frostbite, his sword, gleamed on his hip. He looked every bit a prince.

Viserys and the rest of their party rode closer. "My nephew Prince Aemon is a zealous defender of my throne," Viserys remarked coolly. "A better champion I could not ask for than the man who defeated the Mountain and the Kingslayer in single combat. My brother Rhaegar would have been proud of him." Viserys patted his shoulder. "However, I am not so certain he would be proud of his other son - nor pleased with House Tyrell, my lords, for their lateness in arriving, and for the refusal to bend the knee to their rightful king."

"Prince Viserys," an older man said. He was dressed finely - very finely, Rhaenys noticed, but not for battle. He was heavyset and round of belly, and nothing about his appearance made him seem like a great, threatening warrior. "It is your claim that is the usurping one. His Grace, King Aegon, is the rightful heir of his father, who was Prince of Dragonstone. By what law or custom of succession does the crown fall to you? After Prince Rhaegar, it comes to His Grace, and his issue; and only then to the Princess Rhaenys, and then - only then - to you."

"My father pronounced me his heir after my brother fell on the Trident," Viserys responded. "When he died, I became King."

"A fact that you did not acknowledge when we were in Essos, uncle," Aegon barked back.

"Because I dared not upset your benefactors, nephew," Viserys replied. "Were we not hosted as the guests of men who plotted to make you king and to steal my crown?"

Aegon glared at him, and then turned his attention to her. His eyes were bright and angry, Rhaenys thought. Then he turned to their uncle. "Is this how Dorne treats Elia's son?"

"Elia's son was prepared to sell Elia's daughter to a Dothraki horselord," Jon retorted. "You have earned nothing of Dorne's support. Rhaenys has. She was the one to make an alliance of Northmen and Dornishmen. She forged the bonds that have led our army to triumph over the Lannisters and soon, the Baratheons. You have done nothing."

"And this sellsword bastard presumes to speak to me, his rightful king," Aegon snarled. There was more hatred in him directed to Jon than anyone else, Rhaenys could see that plain as day. Aegon was jealous, angry, and perhaps he felt supplanted. Well, it was not Jon's fault that Aegon chose to sell their family to secure his crown. 

"No bastard," Viserys disagreed. "I have seen the proof. Your father took Lady Lyanna Stark as a second wife. He left a dragon egg to her child - a dragon egg now in Prince Aemon's possession. I consider him to be a legitimate member of House Targaryen. What's more, he is to be your brother in blood and your brother by-law as well."

It took a moment for Viserys' words to truly impact Aegon. When they did, she could see his face transform, twisted into further anger. His skin, which had lost some of its Essosi tan from what she could remember, reddened, and his eyes narrowed to slits. Jealousy made him look like the monster he had become. "I see. Further proof that you are not suited to lead the house of the dragon, uncle, for who marries their niece to a bastard?"

"Who marries their aunt to a barbarian?" Viserys lost his temper for the first time, and his eyes blazed with rage. "Who sells her to savages on the end of the world? You fool, you who would trample upon the gentlest of us for a crown!"

"It is my crown!" Aegon said.

"It is the Conqueror's crown! The Conciliator's, the Young Dragon's, the Blessed's, the Unlikely's!" This crown belongs to our house. This country belongs to our house. All these houses before me have sworn their oaths to House Targaryen, because it is I who have seen fit to bring our house back to take what was once ours. I did it for House Targaryen, not for myself," said Viserys. Aegon spat and sneered, but Rhaenys was stirred to anger.

"Our uncle speaks truly. This was to be our homecoming, Egg, all of ours. Daenerys should be here with us. And it is because you could not be patient that you chose a bad plan. We could have waited. Look what Viserys and I were able to do here without that cheesemonger pulling the strings, without his tainted gold."

"Do not speak to me of homecomings," Aegon retorted. He leveled a finger against her. "I might have expected treachery of Viserys, for he was always envious of my claim and the shadow I cast on him, and it is no surprise coming from this bastard from the North, but to see it of you, sister, is a grievous wound."

"Speak lightly," said Jon. His voice was low, but dangerous. "Though perhaps you would care to back your words with steel. We don't need let our armies bleed out in front of Stannis Baratheon and the city. This can be settled between the two of us now. I need no champion, though if you care to name one, you may. You southern pricks don't know how to take a life with your own hands."

"These hands have taken lives," Aegon said, showing the metal palms of his gloved hands. "And they will take yours if you speak another word to me, cur."

"Enough," Viserys said. He looked to Lord Tyrell. "My lord, your family served my father during the Rebellion. He named me his successor. I will give you this one chance. Bend the knee and your momentary lapse of allegiance will be forgiven. Side with my nephew, and the Reach will have a new warden soon enough."

"It is only natural for Prince Rhaegar's son to be king, Prince Viserys," said the man. Rhaenys grit her teeth. The pretty girl next to Aegon - surely that was a Tyrell daughter. This was Lord Tyrell's play for power, to seat his blood on the Iron Throne. He would not side with them. "Please, my prince. Bend the knee to Aegon instead. His Grace is prepared to offer amnesty to you, and a place of honor at his side. He will find a good marriage for his sister the princess, and all the lords here will be forgiven - with the appropriate assurances, of course." Hostages is what he meant by that, Rhaenys thought. "And as for... Jon Snow... he will be allowed to return to Essos and seek his fame and fortune there as befits his status."

"As befits his status?" This time, the indignation came from Robb, who then elicited a whistle. From behind them came Ghost and Robb's wolf, Grey Wind, prowling. Though it had been just a few hours since Rhaenys last laid eyes on Ghost, he seemed even larger now - and Grey Wind larger still. The Tyrell party recoiled in fear and their horses protested, rearing and backing away. "Jon - Prince Aemon Targaryen - is my cousin by blood and my brother for the father who raised both of us. Whatever else the world will call him, he is a Stark of Winterfell, too, and a wolf does not take lightly threats against its packs. If you intend to send him away, I swear on the souls of the Lords of Winterfell before me, and the Kings of Winter before them, and all the gods old and new, that you will all die screaming and gasping deaths in the swamps of the Neck and the snows of the North."

"Lord Stark's answer is like mine own," Viserys said with a mirthless smile. "You have made your choice, nephew, Lord Tyrell. Farewell."

Chapter Text

SANSA

Sansa did her best to avoid rolling her eyes when the shepherd and his brood came before them in the Great Hall for the third time this week. Domestic disputes, she learned, were part and parcel of what it meant to be the Stark in Winterfell. How Father had dealt with these with his trademark patience and calm was beyond her ken at times.

It was still early in the day, some hours before noon. The pale sun filtered through the windows of the Great Hall. Roaring fires and the water of the hot springs that ran through the castle kept her warm, but they could not stop the chill that crept through her bones when she thought of Father. She cried for days and days, she and Arya and Rickon together. Her poor little brother was old enough now to know what death meant, what permanence was. His father would never return to him. Arya had taken it hardest, but her tears were commingled with rage. Jon left her a sword she practiced incessantly with; in the training yard, the mannequins had plaques atop their heads the day after the news came to them. Arya hacked at them as always, but now the mannequins were not just mannequins. Each had a name now: Cersei, Joffrey, Tywin, the Kingslayer.

Even now she thought of Father and felt a deep ache inside. It felt hidden, distant, and unreachable. She felt as though it might remain with her all her life. The days had become grayer since his death, or perhaps it was just a shadow upon her eyes.

The shepherd droned on and on, and she sat up straighter, did her best to listen. She sat on Rickon's right, and Maester Luwin on his left. Arya was not there, though Sansa knew she was likely at her sword. She could not find it in her to begrudge her sister her pastimes, nor her desire for revenge.

Letters from the south had become intermittent and brief. The last missive she received was from Jon at Harrenhal. He told her they were heading south for King's Landing and that Mother had gone to Highgarden to petition the Tyrells for aid, but there was no news besides. She missed her older brothers dearly, and Bran too. Bran had seen battle, a prospect which terrified her. She wondered now if things were as glorious as they were in songs and ballads, but she suspected not. When Father had died, so had many of her favorite songs. 

Jon she missed perhaps most of all, to her surprise. When the raven came from King Viserys regarding Jon, and his parentage, she had been shocked. The scroll fell from her hand to the floor; her hands flew to her mouth and she wept into a pillow for a day and a half. Jon was her brother - now more than before, even, for she had cast aside the aspersions of bastardy since he left, and she found herself missing him as much as she missed Robb and Bran. But now he was her cousin in truth.

Maester Luwin whispered some advice into Rickon's ear. Sansa did not. Her thoughts consumed her so, and she had only heard half of what the shepherd had to say. If it was anything like his previous visits to the castle to petition the lord, however, Sansa was sure it could not be terribly important. Rickon pronounced the words. He was getting better at it. He had sounded like a frightened child his first day holding court. He still sounded like the young boy he was, but no longer frightened. There was a confidence growing in his words. Sansa was glad for it and mourned it at the same time. Rickon should not have had to grow up as soon as he did. He was the baby of the family. It should not have been this way. Father would have said otherwise. Each and every Stark ought to know their duty, and how to perform it capably, he might have said. Sansa could not disagree. 

She resolved to find Arya after this and pen a letter to the South. She wanted to see if Robb and Jon were both well, and Bran as well. Of their mother they had not hear for a while, but she thought that so long as Robb did not send back the worst news, there was nothing of consequence that happened to her.

The shepherd left, but soon Ser Morrigan came rushing in. Ser Morrigan was a member of House Ravenspur, a very minor house sworn to the Manderlys. Ser Morrigan was perhaps thirty namedays; more importantly, he had both experience at war and a recommendation by Ser Rodrik, who was now south with Robb. A second son of a second son of a house with little more than a few manor homes in the country, an appointment to a castle like Winterfell was a great honor for him. 

“My Lord! My lady!” he said. He was red-faced, his green eyes wide. He removed his helmet and knelt. Scraggly brown hair tumbled out. “A rider has just come from Torrhen’s Square. Ironborn have swept in from the western shores. A force of them is now assaulting the Tallharts.”

Sansa’s eyes widened and she sat up at lightning pace. Uncertainty painted Rickon’s face. “How many, ser?” She did not wait for Rickon. The words came unbidden.

“Near a thousand, my lady,” Ser Morrigan said, turning to her. “The man was uncertain.”

”How large is our garrison?” Sansa asked.

”At present we have two hundred archers, a hundred footmen. At full strength, we could muster double that.”

She exchanged a worried glance with Maester Luwin. "Ser Morrigan, did they bring any news from the houses along the Stony Shore, and the Wolfswood?" said the old maester.

"None," the knight confirmed. "It is not necessary that the western shore was assailed. A party of Ironborn could sail into the Saltspear, up the Stonewater and be at Torrhen's Lake."

It was difficult for Sansa to put it together. A map of the North floated in her mind, but it was fuzzy, lacking detail. "Ser Morrigan, you are the master at arms and the most experienced warrior in Winterfell now. What would you counsel my brother?" she asked.

The knight's eyes brightened. "Lord Stark - allow me to take a force of men to Torrhen's Square to relieve the defenders. It would be wise to send ravens to all the castles of the North. The harvest feast is just now come to a close but the houses should be able to spare enough men to beat back any Ironborn incursion into our lands. And if I may... we should send a raven south to Lord Robb."

Sansa nodded, but she felt uncertain. She did not want to worry Robb and Jon when they were so far south. And Mother would surely come rushing north if she felt that Rickon and herself and Arya were in any danger. She whispered in Rickon's ear, agreeing with the knight's recommendations. Maester Luwin did the same. Rickon, to his credit, sat there and listened. Did he comprehend the full weight of his duties, of what was now transpiring? Stone-faced, like a true lord of Winterfell, he proclaimed that Ser Morrigan was to ride out and lift the siege of Torrhen's Square. Something in her heart hurt at the sight of him.

He is too young, she thought, and yet he sounds as if he was a smaller version of Father. We have all lost our innocence. Rickon was too young for it. Oh, poor baby brother. I wish it were not so.

JON

The flight from the ford back to their army was all but a blur. The only conscious thought in his head was that he needed Rhaenys to be as far away from the battleground as possible.

When they arrived, Lord Tully had done a decent enough job at rousing the army. Men were digging earthworks along the road that led from the southern ford up to their encampment. Soldiers scurried to and fro, and serjeants and captains barked orders at their men. Others carried logs towards the ditches, while others sawed at them, carving them into pointed stakes that could be leveled against the enemy. Jon did not know how long it would take Aegon's army to assemble, cross the Blackwater Rush, and march upon them, but they did not have long. In the distance, to the east, lay King's Landing. His eyes rested balefully there. Stannis could ride out at any time, and take them in the flank. This was a bad position to be in. He cursed Aegon.

Soon thereafter Theon Greyjoy came riding from the North. Despite their disagreements, Jon found it hard to fault his prowess at leading outriders. He looked worn, but was straight-backed even as he rode back in on his roan charger. "Your Grace!" he called for Viserys. "Your Grace, we found my sister and her men. She will be here within the hour." There was something hard and steely in his eyes. Jon wondered what it was like for him to meet a sibling he had not seen in many years.

"Good," Viserys said. "Keep to the rest of our plan. Cover our path of retreat, Lord Greyjoy. You have done well. I thank you for your service."

Theon nodded. "Aye, Your Grace." With that, he spurred his horse again, and Jon watched him go back the way he had come.

"We have to stop this battle somehow," Rhaenys said from beside him. When Jon turned to her, her face was full of worry. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hands were shaking. He felt his heart tremble. "How could Aegon do this?"

"He has always been this way," Viserys said derisively. "His ambition and self-serving has never known limits, and he will never see me or Aemon as anything other than usurpers. I am sorry it has come to this, but Aegon has made his choice."

"Surely... surely we can... there must be something to do," Rhaenys mumbled. Jon reached over and clasped her hand.

"Easy, Rhaenys." He dismounted and helped her dismount. With a gesture, he called Bran. "Brother, see the Princess to her tent. Set a guard about her. My love, I'll see you soon." He placed his hands upon her shoulders and locked eyes with her. She did not meet his gaze, but she followed Bran as he led her away. Jon watched her go, his heart heavy and leaden.

"I doubt anything I say will lighten your heart," Viserys said from beside him. The king had dismounted. His silver hair fell over his dark cloak and armor. He had never seen a great deal of sympathy in those cold purple eyes, Jon thought, but now he could see it. "Rhaenys is strong. She will be fine. I need you, nephew, if I am to win this battle."

"You have me, Your Grace," Jon said. He shook his head and cleared his throat. "Let me see to the battle formation. You must ride with an honor guard."

"I have one," Viserys said. "Several Dornish knights and my kingsguard. But I should not be away from the center. It will do the men good to see their king among them." 

Jon did not want to argue. Viserys had a point - it would do them good - but he did not want to risk his life unnecessarily either. "As you say, Your Grace. But stay behind the lines, and I advise you to avoid committing yourself until and unless we send the enemy fully to rout. Even in the dying throes of battle, all it takes is a stray arrow, a slick spot of dirt..."

"Your concern is noted, nephew," Viserys said with a wry smile. "Go now and win me this battle."

The next hour was spent organizing the battle lines and ensuring their rudimentary defenses were set up. Jon, with Robb, took control of the center, where Viserys and his honor guard were, and Lord Edmure took joint control of the left. The right flank was comprised of the spears and lances of Dorne under Prince Oberyn. The battlefield was sloping ground. Gentle, rolling, forested hills covered the ground to the west of the city, and declined into flatter plains around the walls. The earthworks and the row of stakes was bisected by the southern road, up which Aegon's army would come from the ford. Their right was well protected, and the ground favored them, but their left was wide open, open to the city... all it would take was a well-timed sally by Stannis after the battle was concluded in either side's favor, and they would be forced to rout. The sun above was past the midday mark and had started its downward descent into the west, and though it was not oppressively hot, it was a humid day. The air was thick, like aurochs stew, and Jon could feel himself sweat through his armor. He often took swigs from his waterskin, but the water left his body through perspiration as soon as he replaced it.

It was not long before the Tyrell army appeared marching down the road. As they neared, their columns morphed into rows, their battle formation taking shape, but they moved slowly, sluggishly. The Reach's forces went first, and there was a distinct lack of organization to their march. Jon saw it and felt the blood rise in his veins. He thought it over briefly. They had a strong defensive position, but the opportunity offered by the slow march of Aegon's forces and their laggard speed at forming battle lines was terribly tempting. Leaving their position would tempt Stannis, too, but routing the Tyrell host quickly and decisively could counterbalance that.

His throat tight, he decided to roll the dice of fate. "Robb," he said. "We should-"

"Attack?" Robb finished. The two brothers shared a hungry grin. "Aye, I was thinking it too." Robb barked for runners and Jon relayed his orders to Prince Oberyn and Lord Edmure. They sounded the horns - a double quick advance. With a lurch, the center of the army began to move forward, though at a more measured pace. The left and right followed, though with a slight delay. Jon hoped the runners would relay his intent to Lord Edmure and Prince Oberyn in time. 

Their center began to pick up the pace. The Northern cavalry stayed in reserve, following just behind the infantry, surrounding Robb and Jon and Viserys. Jon spared a glance at his newest uncle. To his credit, Viserys said nothing - he seemed to have an assurance in Jon's capabilities as commander. That warmed his heart, and confidence flowed easily through his veins and his voice. I speak for the King, he realized. And the King lets me be his voice in battle. Many men would be too vain to ever allow for such a thing. He would have thought Viserys to be one of those men. Aegon certainly was. But Viserys continued to surprise him. Perhaps he will be the king the Seven Kingdoms deserve, Jon thought with some satisfaction.

Ahead, the Tyrell army seemed to realize what was happening. They began to scatter in panic, their orderly marching column breaking into haphazard lines as they desperately tried to spend the few remaining moments they had forming some semblance of an organized battle line. They would not have enough time. The Golden Company took position facing Jon's left, directly against Lord Edmure and the Rivermen; they were far more organized and it seemed they would be able to form up in time. The Tyrell center and right, on the other hand, were a different story. Fool, Jon thought with some satisfaction. You should have formed battle lines well before you came into sight. 

He gave the command and the horns blew again. The center broke out into howls and snarls as they went from a double quick march to a full blown charge. Arrows began to rain down on them but with no sense of organization, as the Tyrell lines were not even formed to unleash arrow volleys in good order. They took little in the way of casualties. With a ferocious roar, the Northmen slammed into the Tyrell center with brute force, carving through them quickly.

The Tyrell center broke almost instantly under the force of the Northern charge. Men turned to flee, only to run into the late-arriving columns of their own men from the Blackwater Rush. A savage melee ensued as the lines blended together, the ferocity of the Northern forces allowing them to make short work of the scrambled Reachmen.

On the flanks, the battle was more evenly matched. The Golden Company clashed with Edmure's Rivermen, pike against pike in a grinding match of strength and endurance. Oberyn's Dornish spears fenced with the Tyrell right, darting in and out to inflict casualties before withdrawing from any counterattack. The Dornish fought in a different manner, as their phalanxes pinned down the enemy infantry while their light horsemen and lancers peppered away at the enemy’s flank and opposing cavalry.

In the center, Robb surged ahead, fighting on with Grey Wind and his own honor guard made up of the Northern lordlings and knights and pushed ever deeper into the enemy, cutting a gory swathe towards where the standards of Highgarden could be seen waving above the chaos. They intended to take down as many Tyrell commanders as they could, hoping to deal a decisive blow to their leadership and break the will of the Reach host. Yet Lord Edmure’s flank began to concern him. The Golden Company was proving to be a formidable foe, unbreaking against repeated assaults by the now-tiring Rivermen.

“Your Grace!” Jon turned to Viserys. “I intend to lead the Northern reserve to Lord Edmure’s flank. The sooner we break the Golden Company, the sooner we win this battle. If they withstand us, they could roll over our entire flank.” And it was true. Their center was now dangerously overcommitted against the reeling Tyrell force, but the Dornish had yet to gain a decisive advantage on the right. He did not wish to leave the King exposed in the center, but it was the best course of action.

“You and the Northern cavalry will not ride alone,” Viserys said. He lowered the face-mask of his great, black dragon helm. “My guard and I will ride with you. Today, nephew, we do this together - Rhaegar’s son and Rhaegar’s brother, together. Two dragons are greater than one.”

Jon nodded, even though some reluctance tore through him. “Together, Your Grace.” He looked to Bran beside him. “Steady, Ser Bran. Make it to the end of today for me.” Bran only grinned and drew his sword.

The order went out across the Northern cavalry, and they wheeled down the battle line to the left flank. He was glad to ride with these men. Forrester swords were with him - Lord Gregor, and Rodrik the heir, and of course Asher. Jon shared a smile with his old friend as they rode. And new friends were there too - Domeric Bolton, and Larence Snow, the bastard of Hornwood.

As they pivoted round the edge of the fighting, towards the flank of the Golden Company, Jon realized that an enemy cavalry force mirrored their flanking maneuver and was ready to stop them from attacking the Golden Company. He saw a banner they carried - four crows, and crossed bolts of lightning. It was as though someone lit his heart afire.

Stormcrows. Daario Naharis. The defeat of the Company of the Rose. Brandon. Azenet.

Blood boiling, he pointed his lance in the direction of the Stormcrows. He wheeled his horse around, as the Northern cavalry formed up for a charge. “Ride now with me, wolves of the North! Ride, ride to ruin and to bloody victory!”

Howls erupted from the Northern cavalry. Lances tipped foward, a horn blew, and they charged.

Jon heard nothing but the clopping of his horse’s hooves and the blood rushing in his temples. The two cavalry forces hurtled towards each other across the open field between the armies. Jon could see a rider in a plumed helmet, with long bright blue hair across the way. It is him, Jon thought, though there was no way to be certain. I will kill him if it is him. Their eyes locked for a moment before the forces slammed together with a thunderous crash of steel and splintering of lances.

Jon's lance took a Stormcrow rider in the chest, the impact nearly wrenching Jon from his saddle. Beside him, Ghost leaped and knocked riders off their horses, mauling them in the dirt. He drew Frostbite and slashed left and right at the enemy riders around him. Horses screamed and men shouted in pain and fear as Frostbite found its mark again and again.

On Jon's left, Viserys’ own sword seemed to be flaming in the sunlight as he cut down foe after foe, and as his kingsguard did even more damage. Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden were terrors in battle. A Stormcrow came at Viserys from behind but Asher put a throwing axe in the man's back before he could land his blow. Viserys nodded thanks before spurring his horse onwards.

The battle was a swirling jumbled pit, but Jon slowly fought his way towards the Stormcrow with the plumed helmet. He wanted the man's head. A Stormcrow almost unhorsed Jon with his axe but Domeric Bolton impaled the man from the side with his lance at the last instant. Jon would not be deterred. He fought like a madman, tearing his way towards the plumed rider. Bran fought fiercely beside him.

Finally, Jon closed the distance between himself and the horseman with the plumed helmet, and Jon knew it was Daario. That cocksure smile was the same. The Stormcrow did not seem to recognize him. Why would he? He had met Jon as a serjeant of the Company of the Rose, barely worth his notice.

They circled each other, hacking and parrying, both looking for an opening. Jon's fury had given way to cold focus. This man was responsible for what happened to Brandon and Azenet and his company. Only his death would pay his debt to Jon.

As they dueled on horseback, the battle raged around them, but in that moment, it was as if it no longer mattered. The world narrowed down to Jon and his foe. He feinted high with Frostbite; his opponent parried, but stumbled slightly in his saddle as his horse took a hit from a stray arrow. Jon saw his chance. With a roar that echoed across the battlefield, he drove Frostbite forwards, slashing the Stormcrow's mount's hamstring. The horse screamed and went down, throwing its rider. Jon leaped from his own steed and was upon the man in the blink of an eye. He yanked off the plumed helmet, revealing that accursed face.

Jon's world seemed to slow down as he stared into the familiar face of the man before him. Daario Naharis, the man responsible for the deaths of so many of his friends and comrades, lay there before him, helpless and bleeding. Many a night since flight from Essos had he dreamed of this, and now his dream had come true.

The Stormcrow still did not seem to recognize him.

"Do you know me?" Jon demanded, his voice a venomous hiss. Daario Naharis, for it was indeed him, blinked up at Jon through bloodshot eyes, trying to focus.

"A cunt?" he coughed, blood bubbling from his mouth. "Gods damn it, all the fucking cunts I've killed..."

The rage of frozen grief overwhelmed Jon. He raised Frostbite high above his head.

"I want the last thing you know to be this - it was a member of the Company of the Rose that killed you. This is for Brandon, for Azenet. Die now, dog." With a growl, Jon drove the blade into Daario's heart.

The Stormcrow's blue eyes went wide with recognition just before they glazed over in death. Jon withdrew Frostbite from the man's chest and spat on the corpse of the sellsword who had caused him so much pain. The Stormcrows around them had begun to scatter, leaving the Golden Company exposed, but Jon's rage was far from spent. He turned to face the remaining foes, and with Bran’s help, got back atop his horse. With another blow of the horn, he reformed the cavalry and led the Northerners against these new targets, fueled by the fire of vengeance.

They crashed like a rogue wave into the flanks of the Golden Company. Jon was dimly aware that Viserys and his kingsguard had joined him in cutting down their enemies like a scythe through wheat. Ser Barristan specifically seemed to be everywhere, his shining pale sword a blur as it danced its deadly dance. The fight became a blur of blood, steel, and death. In the chaos, Jon spotted Aegon. He was here, on the flank, with the Golden Company! There now was a chance to take him captive, to end the battle right here and now.

Urging his horse forward, Jon plunged through the melee, hacking down any who stood in his way. Aegon saw him coming ad wheeled to face him. With a bellow, he drew his own sword and waited for Jon's charge.

Jon spurred his horse toward Aegon, raising Frostbite high. Their swords met with a ringing clash of Valyrian steel.

They traded blows, their horses dancing and wheeling as each man sought advantage. Aegon nearly took off Jon's head with a sweeping slash, but Jon ducked just in time. He countered with a thrust that scraped along Aegon's breastplate.

"Yield!" Jon shouted above the din of battle. "Yield, and we can end this war right now!"

Aegon barked a harsh laugh. "The only thing ending here is your life, false dragon!" He came on hard, raining down blows. Jon parried each one, but the force of Aegon's strikes numbed his sword arm.

A stray arrow took his horse in the head. The beast screamed and fell over, and Jon tumbled from the saddle. He landed with a thud, the wind knocked from his lungs. He rolled over to see Aegon ride up on him, ready to deliver a killing blow.

At least he will be known as kinslayer, Jon thought bitterly. His hand grazed against something. It was the broken shaft of a spear, with the spearhead still attached.

“If you were truly my brother,” Aegon said with a snarl from atop his horse, “then I would spare your life. But you are a liar, and a bastard, and I will have your head for dishonoring my house.”

Jon gripped the broken spear tightly as Aegon raised his sword. At the last moment, Jon thrust the spearhead upwards, piercing the belly of Aegon's horse. The beast shrieked in agony and reared back, throwing Aegon from the saddle once more.

Jon struggled to his feet. He dropped the spearhead and picked up Frostbite from the ground. Aegon rose as well, cursing. His sword had fallen from his hand. The two half-brothers faced each other amidst the chaos of battle.

"This war serves no purpose save that of the Lannisters and Baratheons," Jon said grimly. “Give it up, Aegon. Admit defeat."

Aegon's eyes blazed with hatred. "I fight for my birthright, to take back the throne that was stolen from me."

“It was never yours, never mine,” Jon said, shaking his head. “Viserys will be a good king, Aegon. Better than you, better than I. Let it rest. Surrender.”

“Never,” Aegon snarled. He drew a dagger from his belt and lunged at Jon. Their blades clashed as Jon parried Aegon's wild strikes.

"This battle is lost, brother!" Jon shouted. "Your men flee the field. Live to fight another day!" But Aegon was beyond reason. His violet eyes were wide with rage and desperation. He slashed wildly, forcing Jon back. Jon stumbled on a corpse and fell. Aegon grabbed a sword and leaped forward, dagger raised for the killing blow. Ghost was nowhere to be seen, and Bran was busy fighting off a sellsword.

Jon rolled to the side as Aegon's dagger plunged into the ground where his chest had been a moment before. In a flash, Jon kicked out, sweeping Aegon's legs out from under him. The would-be king fell heavily, the wind knocked from his lungs. Jon scrambled to his feet, snatching up Frostbite once more.

"Yield!" he shouted again at Aegon as his half-brother struggled to rise. "Yield, you stubborn shit!"

But Aegon was beyond reason. With a guttural cry, he launched himself at Jon, all pretense of swordsmanship abandoned. The force of the launch caught him off guard, and Jon tumbled to the ground under Aegon’s weight. They struggled in the mud and dirt. Jon and Aegon grappled violently, punching and clawing at each other like animals. Jon managed to roll on top, raining blows down on Aegon's face. Blood spurted from Aegon's nose and mouth.

"Yield!" Jon shouted again. "For the sake of the realm, yield!"

Aegon snarled and thrashed beneath him. "Never!"

Jon reared back for another punch, but Aegon took the opening. He smashed his forehead up into Jon's face. Jon reeled back, clutching his nose. Aegon bucked and flipped their positions, now on top of Jon.

His hands closed around Jon's throat, throttling him. Jon's vision began to darken. This was how it would end, at the hands of the brother he had tried to spare. He should have killed him. Better a kinslayer than dead.

Suddenly a dark shape barreled into Aegon, knocking him off of Jon. It was Bran! Jon gasped for air as Bran wrestled Aegon to the ground. Though Bran was lean, he had the strength of the direwolves in his blood. He pinned Aegon down, fangs bared.

"Yield, damn you!" Bran shouted. "The battle is lost!"

Aegon thrashed and spat. "I'll have your heads for this!" Bran’s only response was a withering blow to the side of Aegon’s face with a mailed fist.

Jon staggered to his feet, still wheezing. He looked around - the Golden Company was shattered, its remaining men throwing down their swords in surrender. Viserys's forces had carried the day. The din of battle faded, replaced by the cries of the wounded and dying. Jon saw Barristan Selmy striding through the carnage, his armor drenched in blood, yet still standing tall and proud.

At last, Aegon ceased his struggle beneath Bran. "Very well," he said bitterly, spitting blood. "I yield."

Ser Barristan looked down at Aegon. Jon could see a mixture of emotions swirl through the old knight’s eyes. It was difficult for him, Jon thought, to see the sons of his charge and friend fight each other like this.

“Is it over?” Jon asked.

“Yes,” Ser Barristan said. “Lord Stark sent a rider. Lord Tyrell and his sons have been taken captive. The Dornish routed their opponents, too. The day is ours, but it is an abattoir, my prince. The losses look grievous on either side. Jon nodded and sighed. He cast a glance back to the city, and he could see movement on the walls. Too much movement.

Viserys arrived with the remaining honor guard, and Ser Brynden, whose face was smeared with blood. Viserys dismounted, but cursed when he saw Aegon. Before he could do anything, Jon stopped him.

“I know how you feel, Uncle,” Jon said. His use of the word was pointed. “I want him to pay for Daenerys. But look.” Jon pointed to the city. “Stannis means to ride out from King’s Landing. We must act quickly. Our forces are battle torn. Spare the Tyrells, spare them all, spare Aegon his life. We need them and the Golden Company if we are to carry the day.”

“I can’t spare his life,” Viserys hissed quietly. “You know what he condemned Dany to.”

“And I will bring her back to you, I swear it,” Jon responded firmly. “But if you and I are dead, there will be no one to do it. She will die the last Targaryen.”

Viserys stared at Jon, his purple eyes ablaze. For a long moment, no one dared speak. The silence was broken only by the groans of the dying and wounded around them.

Finally, Viserys let out a long breath. "You speak wisdom, nephew," he said quietly. "Though it pains me greatly, I will stay my hand...for now."

He turned to Barristan Selmy. "Bind the highborn hostages. As for the Tyrells…take Lord Tyrell’s sons hostage and tell him that if he strikes his banners and joins us, clemency will be offered."

Barristan bowed. "It will be done, Your Grace."

Men moved to take the other highborn captives away. Jon yanked Aegon to his feet and threw him in front of Viserys. Viserys stared coldly at Aegon, his purple eyes like flint. "I should kill you where you stand," he said in a low voice.

Aegon lifted his chin defiantly. "Then do it, Uncle. I will not beg for my life like a craven."

Viserys' jaw clenched. For a long moment he was silent, the sound of steel ringing across the battlefield as Stannis' men poured out of the city gates.

Finally Viserys exhaled sharply. "I am in a merciful mood. Join me. I will give you your life and some castle close at hand where I can come wring your neck if I must if you dream of treachery again. Bring me the Golden Company and I will let you live your wretched days in peace.”

Aegon stared at Viserys, his jaw working as he weighed his options. Jon thought that to bend the knee to the man who had usurped his throne would be a bitter draught indeed. Yet the alternative was death, here on this blood-soaked field.

"Come, boy," Viserys said, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. "I've offered you more than you deserve. Do not test my patience further."

Swallowing his pride, Aegon lowered himself to one knee before Viserys. "I accept your mercy... Uncle. The Golden Company will stand down and join your forces."

Viserys nodded curtly. "See that they do." He turned away, already focused on the Lannister forces pouring out of the city gates.

Jon stepped forward, clasping Aegon's shoulder and yanking him to his feet. "It was the only way," he said quietly.

Aegon wrenched his shoulder from Jon's grasp and rose, his eyes burning with humiliation and impotent rage. "Do not think this is over between us, bastard," he hissed.

Jon met his gaze steadily. With a calm voice, he said "If it were not for the sister who loves us both, I would have cut your neck from ear to ear and pulled out your innards from your gaping gullet already for what you did to Dany. But I would rather you live and the Lannisters and Baratheons pay than to die at their hands alongside you.”

Jon knew that Aegon's pride was wounded, but they had to put aside their quarrel for now. The enemy host would soon be upon them - thousands of mounted knights and men-at-arms, bristling with steel. At their head would be Stannis, a seasoned commander - no Lord Tyrell.

Jon quickly rode to confer with Ser Barristan and the other commanders. The newly-allied Targaryen and Tyrell forces were exhausted and bloodied from their battle. Lord Tyrell had wisely accepted clemency. Now they had to hastily re-form their ranks to meet this new threat. Messengers galloped up and down the line, rallying the men. Loyalists were placed in command of the Tyrell forces alongside the Reach’s bannermen, and the Golden Company’s squadrons were broken down and placed into different commands.

Viserys sat stoically atop his pale horse, staring at the oncoming Baratheon-Lannisters. Jon knew his uncle's mind was not fully on the battle. Half of it was still with Daenerys somewhere across the sea. They had to defeat Stannis if they hoped to save her.

Robb joined them, unwounded but covered in grime and blood. Grey Wind’s maw was as bloodied as Ghost’s. “Well fought, brothers,” Robb said, hailing him and Bran. “It was a bloody day, though.”

"The day is not yet won. Steel yourself, Robb, for we face a fierce foe."

Robb nodded grimly, tightening his grip on his sword. "Aye. But we'll send them back to their city tails between their legs, just as we did Tywin and Tyrell." Grey Wind snarled in agreement, blood dripping from his jaws.

The two brothers clasped arms, grey eyes meeting blue. Around them, the allied forces of Targaryen, Tyrell and Martell finished reforming their ranks, determined to fight to the last man.

In the distance, the Baratheon host drew nearer, a seething mass of soldiers tens of thousands strong, armed with pike, sword and axe. At their head rode Stannis atop his mighty destrier, clad in full plate armor enamelled with the fiery stag of his house. They crested a rise and the full might of the Baratheon host came into view. Row after row of armored knights, tightly packed formations of infantry. At their head flew the fiery stag banner of House Baratheon, but there were banners of the Lannisters too.

"By the gods, look at them all," Robb murmured. “Even with all the Lannisters we killed.”

"Aye," said Jon. "It will be bloody work."

The horns sounded and the Targaryen alliance lurched forward to meet the enemy. Arrows blackened the sky while stones and firepots arced overhead. The earth shook beneath pounding hooves as the two armies came together to decide the fate of Westeros.

Chapter Text

JON

It was the bloodiest day Westeros had ever seen - the Field of Fire perhaps excepted - and it was not yet mid-afternoon.

Targaryen and Baratheon forces crashed into each other like two great waves, with a cacophony of clashing steel that rang out like a discordant song above the plains, played out in front of an audience of rotting corpses and those that were soon to join them. Birds circled overhead, impatiently cawing for their meal which was now delayed.

Robb and Jon cut a bloody path through the Baratheon lines, their swords flashing in the sun as they hewed down their foes. Men screamed and fell on all sides as the two brothers fought with ferocity and skill that left all who witnessed it in awe. Jon’s heart raced as he fought his way towards Stannis. He though he could see him now, atop his steed, commanding from the rear lines - not something his elder brother would have done. His attention was drawn back to the present by an advancing Baratheon soldier. Jon parried a blow from him and thrust his sword through the flimsy padded armor covering man's chest, sending him tumbling to the ground. Robb was beside him, cutting down men with every swing of his sword. Robb’s horse was cut out from underneath him; Jon lost his against the Tyrells already. The two brothers fought back-to-back, their movements perfectly synchronized, like a training-yard spar in Winterfell with the squires and the men-at-arms.

Suddenly, a shout from Robb snapped him out of his reverie. "Jon! Look out!"

Jon turned just in time to parry a heavy blow from a Baratheon soldier. He barely managed to turn the billhook away from his chestplate. The man-at-arms fought with some skill, evidently castle-trained; he was no poor farmer’s levy. Jon could feel the weight of his opponent's weapon bearing down on him with each strike. By the gods, the man was strong. Jon grit his teeth as he struggled against the Baratheon soldier's crushing blows. Then, quick as a snake, he feinted left before spinning right, getting inside the man's guard and driving his sword up under his ribs. The soldier cried out and crumpled to the ground.

Jon had no time to catch his breath before two more Baratheon men charged at him, axes swinging. These were no raw recruits either. They were seasoned men-at-arms used to battle. The gods had seen fit to see to it that Jon would find no easy foes here today. He deflected one blow off his shield then met the other axe with Frostbite. The force of the impact jarred his arm, but regular steel was no match for Valyrian steel, and the axe rebounded almost comically, sending the man reeling in surprise.

Jon dispatched the reeling axeman quickly, though not without taking a glancing blow to his shoulder that drew blood from the other. He whirled around and shoved Frostbite through his gut. He winced but pushed through the pain. There was no time for weakness here.

The battle raged on around him, a swirling chaos of blood and steel. Arrows hissed overhead in dark clouds as men screamed and died. Jon caught glimpses of familiar faces through the press - Ser Barristan cutting down foes half his age, a gallant Tyrell knight dashing hither and thither atop his courser, dealing death with each swing of his sword. In the distance he could see Robb and his guards, separated from him now, surrounded by a knot of Baratheon knights. When had such a distance opened between them? Jon was surrounded by some of his own men, but Baratheons on all sides. Any semblance of strategy and order had broken down - the battle had become pure chaotic melee. Grey Wind tore at Robb's foes savagely, pulling men from their saddles, but still they pressed Robb hard.

Jon started toward his brother but a hedge of pikes barred his path. He could only watch helplessly as a knight in ornate Lannister armor dismounted and stalked toward Robb, a wicked falchion in hand. The knight swung a mighty blow which Robb barely turned aside. The two began to duel in earnest as they danced their deadly dance. Grey Wind leapt upon the knight but his armor turned aside the direwolf's fangs, and two retainers in Lannister armor soon pulled Grey Wind away.

Robb battled valiantly against Lannister knight. Robb was more than able, but his opponent was clearly a veteran of many battles. The knight pressed Robb back with powerful swings of his longsword, the flashing steel blade whistling dangerously close to Robb's body. He parried and sidestepped, struggling to find an opening. He feinted left then darted right, ducking under the knight's swing to come up inside his guard. But the knight anticipated the move and slammed his elbow into Robb's face, knocking him back. Blood streamed from Robb's nose as he narrowly deflected another vicious blow.

Jon desperately rallied men to his side, trying to hack through the wall of pikes. He launched himself at a gap between the pointed tips, toppling the pikeman and bursting through the line. He hacked and slashed like a madman as more of his men poured through the pike-line, though many died on the spearpoints. Ghost and Bran joined him on the other side, covered in blood.

The knight fighting Robb pressed his advantage, raining down heavy-handed, brutal chops that numbed Robb's sword arm with every deflection. Jon could see the leadenness with which Robb raised his sword. He was tiring, and the knight knew it.

With a mighty swing, the knight knocked Robb's sword from his grasp, sending it spinning away into the mud. Robb stumbled back as the knight stalked forward, armor spattered with blood, sword poised for the killing blow. Jon sprinted forward and launched himself in a mad frenzy at the knight. Jon slammed into the knight with the force of a battering ram, knocking him to the ground. The knight's sword flew from his grasp as they tumbled in the mud, a tangle of limbs and armor. Jon punched and clawed at any exposed flesh he could find, desperate to keep the knight down.

He managed to pin one of the knight's arms with his knee and drew his dagger, plunging it at the gap between chestplate and gorget. But the knight was faster, catching Jon's wrist with his free hand. They strained against each other, muscles bulging, Jon's dagger inches from the knight's exposed throat. Suddenly Ghost was there, claws finding the gap between the plates on his legs. The knight screamed as flesh tore in the direwolf's viselike grip. Jon felt the knight's strength fade and he drove his dagger home. The knight convulsed once, then lay still.

Jon leapt to his feet, chest heaving, and turned to pull Robb up. "Are you alright?"

Robb nodded, still gasping for breath. "I'm fine, thanks to you. Though we're not done yet." He gestured with his sword at the battle still raging around them. “Where is the king?”

Jon scanned the battlefield, searching for any sign of Viserys or Stannis amidst the chaos, not knowing which one Robb meant. Stannis had been in the back line of the enemy formation, and Jon had lost sight of Viserys when the battle lines crashed against one another. The fighting was so dense and confused, it was difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction without the benefit of a horse. They had so little time to prepare for the Baratheon sally that the fighting had become a muddled mess, man against man in massed groups, with no tactics or sense. It was just bloody slaughter. The more Jon stared though, the more he could discern one thing - their men were tired, and it did not seem as though the battle was going their way.

They fought their way back towards their rear lines, with men-at-arms and knights and squires covering them. The Northern cavalry kept horses in the rear, with the younger pages and squires. Jon was able to get a courser saddled for him and Robb a rouncey. Neither were true warhorses but they would do. With the added height, Jon could survey the battlefield from the rear line.

Stannis had sallied out from the city and assaulted them near the ford, where the Tyrell army crossed the Blackwater Rush. The Kingsroad bisected the battlefield, but Jon could tell their army was pushed back almost to the river. The ford was only a few hundred feet behind him now. The Dornish had made up their right in the original battle; with the field flipped, they now made up Jon's left. There were some Tyrell forces in the center, along with their own, and the Riverlords were now to the right. It was the Riverlords who were now in the greatest trouble, their flank showing signs of collapse into the river. The Dornish, whose charge in the initial battle had been more measured, now benefitted from the rougher terrain they had to traverse against Aegon. 

The center was beginning to buckle. Viserys was there, mounted, with Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden alongside him, with many other knights, in the thick of battle. Jon strained his eyes. Then he saw Stannis and his men committing to the center. They had seen the signs of collapse in the Targaryen army, and now they pressed their advantage. In committing himself, Stannis gave Jon the only option he thought might work.

“Fight to the King,” Jon ordered Robb. “Take Bran with you and get him to the rear of the battle. I’m going to lead a charge into the center.”

Robb was silent for a moment. He saw what Jon saw too. "It will be hard fought, Jon," he cautioned.

“Killing Stannis might be the only way we end this. Look around.” Jon leaned against Frostbite and gasped. Tiredness seeped into him. “Go find King Viserys. Leave Stannis to me.”

Robb looked as though he wanted to say something, but then closed his mouth. He knew just as well as Jon that this was the only move they had left. He nodded to Bran. “Come, little brother. Let’s go.” Jon watched Robb reform a group of men, with the core comprised of Robb’s honor guard. Jon blew his horn, and some of his men began to gather back around him. Most of them were comprised of the Northern cavalry that rode alongside him against the Tyrells. Asher was there, bloodied but mostly unharmed. Jon pointed in the direction of a great conglomeration of fiery stag banners. “Does anyone spot Stannis?”

“Aye, that’s Stannis,” replied Lord Gregor Forrester, pointing to the southeast. A thicket of Baratheon banners . A great gash streamed blood over his forehead, and he had to wipe at his eyes very few moments. “That’s him, or I’ll be damned.”

“Then that is where we must strike. This battle is close to lost.” The men could see their flanks were falling away, and their comrades at the front lines look tired, worn, haggard, and close to fleeing. Jon could see that panic in their faces, and it was very close to the edge now. He had seen it many times before, most often in the enemy’s face. To see it now in his own men was worrisome. “Kill Stannis and we may yet turn this.”

“One last charge,” Asher said in agreement. He shared a grim smile with Jon. “Just like old times, my friend.”

Jon smiled back. “Just like old times. Now fetch yourself horses if you lost them.” Nearly a hundred riders flocked to Jon, though many bore injuries from the day's fighting. He met each man's eyes in turn, seeing the fear and exhaustion within, but also the determination to fight on, to the death if need be. These were Northmen, through and through, wolves of the north.

"Men!" Jon shouted, his voice carrying over the din of battle. "This war ends today! One final push, for the North, for Wintefell, for victory or glory!"

A ragged cheer rose up from the riders. Jon drew Frostbite and raised the rippling Valyrian steel blade high.

"Forward, for Winterfell!" they cried. “For Lyanna’s boy! For Prince Jon!”

With a roar, they thundered toward the enemy ranks, the pounding hooves like rolling thunder. Arrows whistled past and Jon ducked low, urging the courser faster. They crashed into the Baratheon infantry in the center, cutting through them like a scythe through wheat. Men screamed and scattered before the heavy horse.

Through the chaos Jon spotted a great fiery stag banner, more intricate than the others. That was where Stannis was, he knew, and made for it, slashing left and right at any foe who stood before him. The horse reared as they burst through the last line of shields. Jon swung Frostbite frantically, cutting through Baratheon men as he pushed toward Stannis. He caught a glimpse of the lord himself, surrounded by his guard and a woman in red.

Jon spurred his horse onward, ducking under a wild sword swing from a soldier. He could see Stannis more clearly now, the square jaw and stern face encircled by a close-cropped beard. His armor was dull for a would-be king’s. With a roar Jon urged his horse into a leap, sailing over the last line of Baratheon spears. He swung Frostbite in a sweeping arc, clashing with Stannis' blade as he landed before him. Sparks flew as Valyrian steel met castle-forged iron.

Stannis' destrier reared with the impact. Jon slashed again and again, raining down blows on the Baratheon king. Stannis met each strike, the force jarring Jon's arm. So few of them had made it through the Baratheon ranks. Asher was there, and his father, and some others, but many of them died carrying the charge deep into the Baratheon force. They were surrounded.

A spearman gored Jon’s horse, causing him to tumble yet again from the saddle. He felt as though every bone in his body was broken. Still, he summoned the last vestiges of energy in him and scrambled to his feet, Frostbite still clenched in his fist. All around him was chaos as the few riders who'd broken through with him fought desperately against the Baratheon forces.

Asher was nearby, swinging his axe in great arcs, keeping the enemy at bay. Lord Gregor Forrester fought on as well, though he was tiring, his moves growing clumsy. The others battled bravely but were sorely outnumbered. Stannis had retreated several paces back, guarded by his knights. He seemed content to let his men deal with Jon's suicidal charge rather than face him directly again.

"To me!" Jon shouted, though he knew the effort was likely doomed. "Rally to me!"

Somehow, miraculously, his men fought their way over to him, forming a ragged circle as Baratheon troops swarmed around them.

"No surrender!" Jon yelled. "We fight on! Carve a path to the pretender!”

Jon and his men fought fiercely, Frostbite singing a deadly song as it cut through armor and flesh. But the Baratheon forces closed in like a tightening noose, even as they inched closer to Stannis and his knights. Asher's axe felled foe after foe, slick with blood. Their circle grew smaller; soon they would be overwhelmed.

"This is a good day to die!" shouted Asher. "But I'll take some more of these southern pigs with me first!"

Jon rallied his men with shouts and swings of his blade, carving out small pockets of space. His eyes constantly darted toward Stannis, who watched impassively from behind his guards.

Just a little closer, Jon thought. If he could just reach the false king, end him, it might turn the tide, even if it meant his life. With a fierce cry, he lunged forward, cutting down two spearmen. A space opened before him and he charged straight for Stannis, Frostbite gleaming. The Baratheon guards moved to intercept him, but Jon and Asher and his men cut them down with swift strokes of Valyrian steel. He broke through their line, eyes locked on Stannis. With a mighty swing, Jon brought Frostbite crashing down. Stannis raised his own blade to block, the swords sparking as they collided. Jon pressed the attack, raining blows on the Baratheon lord, but Stannis met each strike with calm precision. One of Stannis’ knights pierced through a gap in Jon’s leg armor with his spear, causing him to cry out in pain as he fell to a knee. Next to him, another man drove a sword through Lord Gregor’s belly. The old Forrester lord roared and killed the man with a furious blow, but then fell over himself, gasping out his last breaths. Asher cried out in despair and clove a man in two, but was soon overwhelmed himself.

Jon, on his knees, turned to Stannis, who still stared at him impassively. The woman in red sidled by him, staring at Jon with her piercing eyes. Jon stared defiantly at her, and then Stannis, refusing to show fear even as death closed in around him. His men fought bravely but the Baratheon forces were too many.

It was over. They had failed. Jon thought of Rhaenys and their child, only. He had failed them. He cursed himself. But before Stannis could give any command, be it to take Jon in chains or to take his head, a horn blew, far away, from the North. Then another, and then another. The fighting nearly seemed to pause as everyone turned around to look at who had blown it.

“Krakens!” someone shouted, and Jon’s spirits lifted. Never before had the thought of a Greyjoy filled him with such hope. Theon was here, and with his sister and the Greyjoy reinforcements! He struggled to his feet and rallied his men to him - now only eight of them, a wounded Asher included, they attacked with a newborn fervor. The distant horns grew louder as the kraken banners of House Greyjoy came into view. At their head rode Theon atop his black warhorse, leading a fierce ironborn vanguard that smashed into the Baratheon lines.

"What is dead may never die!" the Ironborn shouted, led by Theon's outriders, his men smashing like a hard pike through the Baratheon rear to relieve the beleaguered Northern force.

Hope surged within Jon at the sight. With Theon's arrival, the tide was turning. Theon’s outriders and the surge of Ironborn axemen made short work of Stannis' rear. Stannis bellowed orders to regroup, even as his advantage slipped away. The red woman whispered something to him. Stannis seemed to pale, but he nodded and gave an order to an old, bearded knight who stood next to him. “Sound the retreat, Seaworth. To the city!” Stannis mounted his horse and fled, his honor guard and his army streaming beside him. Even as the red woman mounted her horse, her eyes never left Jon’s, as if she was searching for something in his face.

Jon staggered over to Asher, who knelt by his father’s body. Rodrik joined them. He too was wounded, as he grasped his side. His surcoat was soaked in blood. “I’m sorry, my friend. Lord Gregor fought bravely.” He wondered if Asher blamed him, but Asher said nothing. Lord Gregor followed him valiantly, of his own free will. He knew Asher knew that.

Theon rode up, face spattered with blood but grinning broadly. "By the Drowned God, we got here just in time! I thought we'd find only corpses." His smile faded as he saw Lord Gregor's body. "My condolences, Forrester. Your father was a good man."

Jon grimaced, but he was still glad to see Theon. Beside him was a woman he had never seen before. She must have been Rhaenys’ age. She was pretty, beautiful, even, though her nose was a bit beak-like. She looked a great deal like Theon, with the same laughing, cold eyes and cocksure smile. This must be Asha Greyjoy, he thought. Jon clasped Theon’s arm in thanks, then turned to inspect the woman beside him.

"You must be Lady Asha Greyjoy," Jon said. "I'm grateful for your timely arrival. Victory would not have been possible without you, the king will be pleased. Your house has rendered a great service to the realm."

Asha grinned. "Well, I may need the King to render my house a great service. We are all beset by usurpers these days, aren’t we?" She examined him carelessly. “You must be the Prince hidden in snow. I’ve heard much.”

Her boldness reminded Jon of Arya. He hoped his wild little sister was safe and happy in Winterfell.

There was little time for more pleasantries. The Baratheon forces may have retreated for the moment, but Jon knew Stannis would regroup. They needed to establish the siege as soon as possible, and send for reinforcements from the Riverlands and Dorne and the Reach.

Robb and Bran found him soon after, as did Prince Oberyn, who travelled with Lord Edmure, Lord Tyrell and Viserys and his retinue. Viserys had sustained a gash across his face, but it was not deep. Jon knelt in front of him, but struggled to get up. Only with Bran’s assistance was he able to stand. “The day is yours, Your Grace.”

Viserys put his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “The day is ours, Prince Aemon.” He raised Jon’s arm and faced his lords. “The Prince of Dragonstone!”

Jon felt the cheers of the men wash over him, but his triumph was tempered by the loss of so many men. He knew the casualties would be dizzying. There would be time to mourn later. Now, they had to press their advantage against the weakened Baratheon forces.

"We'll make camp here and prepare the siege," Jon said. "We must send riders to secure the approaches. I want scouts patrolling day and night, and men preparing the war engines. And I want to see Rhaenys.”

“I’ve already sent riders to camp, to prepare to bring the camp closer to the city so we can begin the siege,” Viserys said. “Rhaenys will be worried. Go see to her, nephew.” Jon nodded and took his leave with a small bow, assisted by Bran. He was too sore to ride, so a cart was brought to him. Jon rode in the cart back to the camp, his body aching and his mind weighed down by the battle. So many had died, good men who had fought bravely for their king. And yet victory was finally in their grasp.

When he arrived, men were abuzz, packing their tents to bring their position closer to the city. Rhaenys came running out of the her tent. "Jon!" she cried, throwing her arms around him, heedless of his filthy, blood-spattered state. "Thank the gods you’re alright,” she murmured.

He held her close, breathing in her scent. "I'm alright my love. Just some bruises and cuts."

She touched his cheeks gently. "You must rest. Let me tend to you." Leading him inside, she sat him down and fetched water and supplies to treat his wounds.

As she dabbed at a cut on his cheek, she met his eyes. "We suffered heavy losses, or so I'm told."

Jon nodded grimly. "Aye. Many good men won't be going home. I don’t want to know the numbers just yet, but we broke Stannis' host. Now we must finish this."

Rhaenys took Jon's hand in hers. "Aegon surrendered?" she asked softly.

Jon nodded, his expression somber. "Yes. After we broke the Tyrell center, and the Golden Company’s flank, he laid down his arms. The Tyrells - what was left of them, fought alongside us against Stannis. I don’t know where he is - with Viserys, I think. They would not have let him lead men during the battle."

Rhaenys let out a long breath. "I still can't believe he persist in taking the throne from Viserys. Or that he was foolish enough to think he could succeed." She shook her head, her violet eyes troubled. “I was not sure Viserys would spare his life.”

“If I had not told him to, he wouldn’t,” Jon confessed with a dry laugh. “But for all Aegon's faults, killing him won’t bring Daenerys back any quicker.”

“No,” Rhaenys said, bringing his forehead to hers. “No, it won’t. Oh Jon, thank the gods you’re still here. I felt sick to my stomach thinking of all that could go wrong.”

“It must have looked even worse from camp,” Jon said.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she said. “First the battle against the Tyrells, and then against Stannis… when the Baratheons rode out from the city, it was worse. It nearly looked lost. I couldn’t sight you during the battle, and the gods old and new know I tried.”

For the best, Jon thought. If Rhaenys knew of his suicidal charge, she would have killed him now, he was sure of it. Jon closed his eyes, relishing the feel of Rhaenys' soft touch tending his wounds. The battle had been brutal, testing the limits of his strength and resolve. Yet they had triumphed, through skill and sacrifice both. Now King's Landing lay open before them, the Baratheon usurper's reign near at an end.

There was still work to be done, sieges and negotiations and the bloody business of war. But for now he allowed himself a moment's respite with the woman he loved. Rhaenys meant more to him than titles or lands or crowns.

"Come, Jon," Rhaenys said, a gentle smile on her lips. "Rest your eyes. I’ll wake you when they come to pack away our tent."

Jon nodded, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. He laid back on the cot as Rhaenys drew a blanket over him. Her hand lingered on his cheek and he covered it with his own, drawing strength from her touch.

TYRION

When the battered and bruised forces of Stannis returned into the city, it was deathly silent. 

Tyrion could see the people filing in along the Gold Road from his vantage point atop the Sept of Baelor. They came to see the Stag King bruised and bloodied, not entirely defeated, no… but what did it say for his Lord of Light that he should be beaten back by the forces of the Targaryens after they were already wounded by the Tyrells? They would see that their gods - the gods of their forefathers - favored Viserys Targaryen, and that Stannis was naught but a heathen or usurper.

The latter, Tyrion agreed with, but he couldn’t care less about Stannis’ own religious fervor or convictions. He found it boring, though the way the Red Lady’s eyes bored into his unnerved him quite often. Now though, the standard of the Red God came in through the Lion Gate, tattered and windblown.

He scanned through the ranks to see if he could spot Father. If Tywin Lannister yet lived, perhaps their chances of escaping this predicament were not so glum. If Father had somehow fallen among the dead that now littered the entire plain to the west of the city, though…

There - among a gaggle of Lannister knights, he thought he spotted him. The army now drew closer to the Sept. Tyrion hurried to descend from the hill and to beat the procession across the Street of Sisters to the Dragon Pit. It was here that Stannis held his war councils, and not the Red Keep. Perhaps that was wise; the Red Keep had many hidden passageways, and the Dragon Pit fewer, at least to his limited knowledge.

Cersei awaited him at the Pit. Her frown deepened when she saw him. It was a pity, Tyrion thought, for such a pretty face to be so recurrently disagreeable.

“Father?” she asked. “Joff?”

“Father lives,” Tyrion said with a sigh. He waddled over to one of the high backed chairs by the War Table and plopped himself into it. A wine carafe was convienetly placed across from him. He availed himself freely, knowing it would be necessary for the strategies and debates to come. “As for Joff… I did not see him. But Father would have taken care not to expose Joffrey to open melee.”

That was not enough for his impatient sister. She downed her own wine goblet. Tyrion guessed it was not her first.

“How bad was it?” she asked.

“Well, the Targaryens smashed the Tyrell army on the banks of the Blackwater Rush,” Tyrion said. When news had come that Aegon Targaryen landed and took Storm’s End, and was now marching with the Tyrells south to press his own claim, they had despaired. But then it became obvious that not all was well between the Targaryens. Watching the enemies kill each other had filled him with a strange sort of morbid hope. “And then pressed enough of them into their service to face and turn away Stannis’ charge. They nearly had it, too. But Stannis didn’t see the Greyjoys coming down the Kingsroad from the North.” Tyrion had seen that. That morbid hope had vanished then, filled only with a hungry dread.

Cersei paced back and forth, her crimson skirts swishing around her feet. "The krakens," she spat. "Where did they even come from? The last message from the Iron Islands was of Balon Greyjoy’s death and that foolish declaration of independence by his brother.” Euron Greyjoy styled himself king now; Tyrion wondered if the Targaryens had agreed to release the Iron Islands from their bondage to the Seven Kingdoms in exchange for support. Fear crept into his bones. He wondered now if the Iron Fleet was on its way to Lannisport again.

Cersei filled her goblet again, the wine sloshing over the rim. Tyrion eyed his sister warily as she drank deeply.

"The Greyjoys shattered Stannis' flank," Tyrion said. "It was a near thing. Stannis was about to rout them. I saw one of the Targaryens lead a desperate charge into Stannis’ center. I think he was trying to kill him." Tyrion wondered if that was the Northern bastard, Lyanna Stark’s son with Rhaegar, if the rumors were true. He did not see what became of him.

The doors of the Pit opened then, and in marched Stannis. Tyrion was surprised at the mild consolation he saw when Father and even Joffrey trailed in behind Stannis and his lords and knights; he did not miss the slight hint of a relieved whimper that escaped Cersei’s mouth - a reminder that his sister was indeed human.

Stannis' face was like stone as he strode to the head of the war table, the knuckles of his hands white as he gripped its edges. His jaw was clenched so tightly Tyrion thought it might shatter.

"The day is lost," Stannis ground out. "But this war is not over." Tyrion thought it was. They were in for a long siege. Their only hope was if the reinforcements from the Westerlands could break through the Northern force that now ravaged through the hills; but if the Iron Fleet was on Viserys’ side then there was no hope. They would lose.

Stannis looked up, his blue eyes like chips of ice as he stared at each of them in turn.

"The Targaryens and Tyrells have joined forces against us. If Aegon Targaryen has bent the knee, their numbers will swell. The Greyjoys ambushed my flank and prevented a decisive victory." Stannis' voice was tight with barely contained rage. "But I will not bend the knee to the dragons. Nor will I forsake the Lord of Light."

At this, Lady Melisandre glided forward, the ruby at her throat pulsing like a smoldering ember.

"Your Grace," she said, her voice smoky and seductive. "R'hllor has shown me the path forward. The flames do not lie."

Stannis turned to her, a hungry look in his eyes. "Tell me what you have seen, my lady."

Melisandre smiled, slow and sinister. "Fire and blood will reign in the nights to come. And in it R’hllor’s chosen will truly be anointed. It is near time, Your Grace.” Stannis closed his eyes, and a strange calmness descended on his face. Tyrion thought he might have miscalculated; the fervor which bored him now unsettled him. He did not trust the Red Woman or her prophecies, but he could not deny she seemed to wield influence over the dour Baratheon. Though he did not place any stock in her words, the phrasing - 'fire and blood will reign' - did not sit easy in his chest.

Cersei, meanwhile, was growing impatient. "While you speak of flames and visions, the Targaryen host marches closer," she snapped. "We must secure the city before they arrive."

Stannis turned his icy gaze on the queen. "Do not think to command me. I am the one true king."

Cersei bristled, but before she - or worse, Joffrey - could retort, Father cut in. "Your Grace, the queen raises a valid concern," he said smoothly. "We must shore up the city's defenses and prepare for a long siege."

The king ground his teeth, but nodded. "See that the walls are fortified and the catapults manned," he ordered. He turned back to Melisandre. "When I defeat the Targaryens, I will mount their heads on spikes. The Lord of Light shall have his due of their burning flesh. Now go, and leave me.” Tyrion suppressed a shudder at Stannis' words. He wondered if some of the Targaryen madness had crept in through intermarriage into House Baratheon, too.

Tyrion and the rest of the Lannisters slunk off together, surrounded by Lannister guardsmen, to the Red Keep. On the way, Cersei coddled Joffrey, but Joffrey did not look particularly in need of coddling. There was a strange glint in his eye. Tyrion was familiar with that glint. It was seen in butchers and back-alley knives, not in normal men. He turned his attention instead to Father.

“Was it as bad as it looked from the walls?” Tyrion asked.

Father grumbled. “The bastard leads the Targaryens well." Tyrion was mildly shocked at that admission.

“You saw him?”

“Once, when his helm was off.” Father paused again. “There is certain resemblance to Rhaegar.”

This caught Cersei’s attention. That must have been a knife in her belly, Tyrion thought. She had always dreamt of marriage to her promised prince. Well, Lyanna Stark had stolen that away, and what was more, she had stolen her real husband too. He pitied Cersei in a way; she was forever doomed to fight a ghost, and there was no way to kill a ghost.

“Surely it is a lie,” she said. But though she had repeated that phrase or variants of it often enough, Tyrion thought, it was beginning to sound hollow, mayhaps even to her own ears.

“Possibly. Viserys would be a monumental fool to assign command of his army and acknowledge a false bastard as his nephew. I do not think it a lie. Who better to hide such a secret than a man like Ned Stark?” Father glared at Joffrey. “Pity we do not have him around for questioning on the matter.” Joffrey seemed to shrink at that.

As they entered the castle, the booming of drums drew their attention. Men were rushing to and fro, shouting orders. Gold cloaks were reinforcing the main gate while others carried bundles of spears and arrows to the parapets. The city was preparing for a long siege. Father pulled Tyrion aside. “A word.”

Tyrion watched Cersei and Joffrey head in with the rest of their soldiers. His sister cast him a wary glance back before she disappeared behind the inner gate of the Red Keep.

“We must begin laying our plans for what comes after,” Father said. “Stannis will not win.”

“Even I can see that,” Tyrion agreed glumly.

“Then we must consider all options for survival. Your idea to side with Stannis - disagreeable though it was, it was necessary.” Tyrion suppressed a shocked smile. Father was admitting one of his plans was good? Surely the Targaryens had stormed the walls and he was dead now, for it must be a dream.

“Are you asking my counsel?” Tyrion said. Father did not respond so he sighed and continued. “Truly, Father, I do not see any end that ends well for us. All our hopes lie in the Western armies breaking through the Northern lines and coming across the Riverlands to break the siege. We do have enough supplies to last us some time, and the Baratheon fleet continues to hold strong in Blackwater Bay. We need allies," Tyrion said. "The Tyrells have sided with the Targaryens, which gives them a massive army and food supplies, but the alliance is forced, and now Aegon’s hand is weakened. Perhaps we can drive a wedge between House Tyrell and House Targaryen."

Tywin frowned. "House Tyrell is ambitious but they were smashed on the field."

"Then we must make them doubt their forced alliance," Tyrion said, his mind whirring. "And perhaps Aegon is desperate. Perhaps he has not surrendered in spirit. Perhaps now he would be willing to consider an alliance - even his Dornish uncles have sided against him, would he be so eager to appease them for his mother’s death? Clegane is dead. That should be enough.”

Father smiled mirthlessly. “House Lannister will have switched sides twice in this war now, if we follow your advice.”

“The side of the living is ever preferable to any other side,” Tyrion said in a low voice. “Honor is useless if you’re too dead to enjoy the reputation. Ask Ned Stark.”

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

Dany held her hand over her eyes to block out the sun. For a brief second, a black shadow flashed across it, then two more. She smiled. Her children were not big enough to blot out the sun yet, but one day they would be.

"Khaleesi," rumbled the old bear. Ser Jorah cantered down the gangplank from the ship onto the pier. She turned her eyes down to look at him. Her old faithful knight rarely went without his armor, but he wore lighter fare for this voyage. He was dressed in linens with only a thin leather chestguard, trousers tied together with a belt from which his scabbard hung. His balding pate was moistened with sweat. "We are ready to sail." 

Dany looked out past the knight, out at the bay of Astapor. The city was set ablaze, smoke rising high in the air. Her heart clenched. She did not want to leave, and yet she wanted nothing more than to leave.

"I could have done better by these poor people," she said bitterly. Ser Jorah followed her gaze, and then shook his head.

"You cannot change Essos in one day, or a thousand days, khaleesi," he said somberly. "The Good Masters are cruel."

"And what will become of the freedmen when I leave?" Daenerys asked. 

"Perhaps some will escape. Some will have time," Ser Jorah said. "It will take days for word to reach Yunkai and Meereen. Until then, the slaves have a chance to get away, and we have left ships in the bay. They can sail to their freedom."

Honeyed words they were, Dany felt. Sweetened to cover up the bitterness underneath that could not be entirely hidden. Her instincts protested. The people would stand little chance after she left. Yes, perhaps some would leave. Most would likely kill each other for a chance to get one one of the boats to sail... where? Westeros? Braavos? Where would they be sent where slaves did not exist? Most of those would be killed or re-enslaved by pirates. The ones who stayed behind would suffer the wrath of whichever vultures swooped in to feast on Astapor's carcass.

But what choice did she have? When word came of what was going on in Westeros, she had only been in Qarth for some time, and the events there had disconcerted her enough that she resolved to leave one way or another. The memory of Pyat Pree and the warlocks of Qarth was still fresh in her mind. Xaro had told her to leave when she rebuffed him so many times, so leave she had... with enough wealth to buy men and go back home.

Home. Her heart sang out for it. Viserys was home, and Rhaenys, and somehow the Northerners had rallied to their cause, along with Dorne! The last news she had heard was that the Northern army had defeated the Lannisters at the Ruby Ford - that from a merchant in the Astapori market. That day she had spent in her cabin, staring at a map of Westeros, her fingers tracing over the leathery vellum at the place where Rhaegar had died and now been avenged. She needed to go home. Viserys and Rhaenys needed her. There was no news of Aegon. That was for the best. Her thoughts turned dark, of revenge, and anger. Aegon would find no welcome from the Mother of Dragons. 

With a sharp breath, she strode up the gangplank and onto the deck of the ship. She felt as though all solid ground had disappeared beneath her - and now she was heading into the unknown. She steadied her thoughts, and mustered her courage. Viserys and Rhaenys were already in the unknown, fighting against the enemies of their house. It was now her time to join the fray.

JON

Rhaenys was welcome respite after the events of the battle. His bones were tired, and his mind still rattled from how near death he came just then. Were it not for Asha Greyjoy's timeliest of arrivals, they would have suffered a shocking loss. Stannis had timed his sally to perfection.

He woke in Rhaenys' arms, his armor discarded and his body free of grime. "I washed you while you were sleeping," Rhaenys said. "You slept like the dead. I was not particularly gentle and yet you still did not wake."

Jon settled upright. He was still in her tent, but the loud noises of the camp being taken down outside filled his ears. "Viserys is relocating the camp."

"Yes. Much of the army has already surrounded King's Landing and settled in for siege. A messenger came not five minutes ago requesting our presence. We should speak with Viserys. There are more than a few things that need to be settled."

"Anything else of note happen while I slept?" Jon asked. He clambered out of bed and washed his face.

"Lady Stark has returned, unhurt. Bran came by with the news. She seems well, all things considered."

That was good, at least. Jon finished his ablutions and ate an apple Rhaenys gave him, along with a filled waterskin. Her eyes were tired, and Jon was grateful for her loving care. Together, they left the camp on horses, heading towards the siege lines to Viserys' command tent. The battlefield was a little ways away, further to the south, but the smell of burning and rotting flesh came in waves and the crows circled overhead in great numbers, ready for the evening feast arrayed for them. 

“So much death,” Rhaenys said sadly. “And so much of it unnecessary.” Jon could not help but agree. He cursed Aegon inwardly.

Ser Brynden admitted them into Viserys’ tent. He had a bloodied bandage on his head. “Lost the ear,” he muttered grimly. “Some knight with a Wylde sigil… he lost more than I did.”

When they entered, Viserys awaited them alone, with only Ser Barristan by his side. 

“I hope you’re rested now, nephew, niece. We have a great deal to discuss.” Viserys rubbed his temples and settled into a chair. He gestured for them to sit.

”Some rest is better than none,” Jon said. “Thank you for the respite.”

”It was deserved. As much as I wish this victory was the end of it, however, it is not. And I need both of you for what is to come next.” Viserys pointed at a map. It was freshly drawn on vellum, a close recording of the city and its surrounding approaches. “Our scouts have put this together for us. We are setting siege camps at every gate. I’ve sent two thousand men under Lord Yronwood to guard the Kingsroad from the south. But Stannis still holds Blackwater Bay.”

”Aye. But no way to break it until we have Dorne’s sellsails,” Jon muttered. “I confess I have no knowledge of naval battle. We will need an experienced hand to break the Velaryon fleet.”

”That, and the Redwyne fleet,” said Viserys with a smile. “Which brings me to the most pressing subject before us - the fate of the Reach. Lord Mace and his lady mother are pressing for an audience. I intended to grant it to them, but I must have concrete terms for they will want the lightest punishment possible. What say you?”

”They made a naked grab for the throne with Aegon,” Rhaenys growled. “They deserve more than a light punishment.” Before Jon could say anything, Viserys tutted.

”I would not be so quick to absolve Aegon of responsibility, Rhaenys. I am more certain that he enticed the Tyrells than the other way around. And he must answer for Daenerys.”

”Did you have a punishment in mind?” Jon interjected. “Ser Barristan, you are likely more familiar with the Reach than either of us. How secure is House Tyrell’s position?”

”Secure,” answered the old knight slowly. “But delicately so. They are powerful but so are their banners. The Hightowers and the Redwynes are more powerful than all the banners of the Crownlands by themselves. The Tyrells have navigated that reality rather adeptly through the ages. Lord Mace’s mother, Lady Olenna, is a Redwyne herself, for Lord Paxter is her nephew. And Lord Mace’s wife, Lady Alerie, is the daughter of Lord Hightower.”

”So stripping lands from them and awarding them to the other families may not yield the punitive effect we desire,” Rhaenys completed. “What of other houses not so well tied to the Tyrell’s?”

”Of note there are the Tarlys, Rowans, and the Florents. The Florents are sworn to Stannis; they can be discounted, I think. The Rowans have long been loyal to House Targaryen, but they do have ties - more distant and less direct than those of the Redwynes and Hightowers - to Highgarden. House Tarly, on the other hand... I looked for Lord Randyll on the battlefield but I did not see him. He is the Reach's most seasoned battle commander, and he defeated Robert at Ashford."

"Does he have a son named Sam?" Jon asked, suddenly remembering the black brother who assisted Maester Aemon up at the Wall. "I met a Samwell Tarly when I went to Castle Black."

"I can't say for certain, my prince," said Ser Barristan. "But from what I recall the Tarlys are not very numerous. There is a good chance the man of whom you speak is Lord Randyll's son. Horn Hill is a rich demesne - good, fertile land, and widespread. Lord Randyll can call upon nearly four thousand men himself."

"Then he should be rewarded, and doubly so if he did not join the Tyrells on the field of battle," Viserys said fiercely. "Very well. Ser Barristan, send a message to Lord Mace and his household. I will meet with them and present terms. I have need of Lord Redwyne's fleet, and I need a full accounting of Highgarden's lands, the Tyrell incomes and estates. Find me someone who would know."

Ser Barristan bowed and left. Jon shifted in his seat. "We must be careful. The Tyrells can still call upon a host the size of the one we just faced. It would be a rude surprise to lay siege to King's Landing only to find forty thousand Reachmen eager to put forward Aegon's claim once more. And half the Golden Company - the ones who didn’t join our lines - remains out there as well."

"I have outriders under Theon Greyjoy seeking them out," Viserys replied, with a wry smile. "And Lord Yronwood's men on the Kingsroad have direct orders to pull back and guard the ford should they be faced with a superior foe. I would not be taken in the rear by surprise, I promise you. I have learned a thing or two about campaigning from watching my commanders. Now, to other business. The Greyjoy arrival was timely, but now there is a conundrum. We draw most of our numerical support from Asha Greyjoy, but Theon has been a loyal battle commander. The siblings will both want Pyke."

"Do we know that for a fact?" asked Rhaenys.

"No, but that is what they will want. The Ironborn..." Viserys lip curled. "I am glad for their arrival, but they are an unwashed, quarrelsome sort." There was a rustling behind them. Jon's hand flew to his scabbard, but to his surprise it was only Princess Arianne. She was dressed in a more muted orange gown, less revealing than the one she wore when he first saw her in Harrenhal.  Jon stood gingerly and gave a bow. "Princess," he said. Arianne greeted him with a smile.

"None of that, Aemon. We are all soon to be family. Please, sit." She glided over to Rhaenys, and the two women kissed each other's cheeks. "Cousin, I am happy to see you. Viserys said we had family business to discuss."

"Come, my love," Viserys said, gesturing beside him. "We were just discussing the Greyjoys." As Arianne took her place next to the King, Rhaenys drummed her fingers on the table that lay between them. It was a steady, paced beat, the motion drawing Jon's eye.

"It is avoidable," she said, after a moment. "Asha has been her father's only child in effect, ever since Theon Greyjoy became Lord Stark's ward. Perhaps she has been groomed for the role of the Lady of Pyke. But the right solution could allay all our problems, and keep us from losing our Greyjoy support. We will need them if we are to break Stannis' navy, I fear."

"What did you have in mind?" Jon asked.

"A marriage," Rhaenys responded. "There are greater prizes than Pyke."

"The greatest prize is the Iron Throne," Arianne said with a tittering laugh. "And unfortunately for Lady Asha, the seat besides that has already been claimed... as has Prince Aemon's hand, the next best thing." Rhaenys blushed a little but shook her head.

"What about Robb Stark?" Rhaenys pressed.

Jon couldn't help but laugh now. At Rhaenys' stern expression, he smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, my love. It's just... the idea of Robb marrying Theon's sister is amusing. You'd find it funny too if you grew up alongside the both of them. It will be a hard sell. The Ironborn are reviled everywhere. Many of Robb's bannermen would take umbrage that their daughters were passed up in favor of an Ironborn woman. I know the Northmen well. There is nothing we like more than holding a grudge."

"A marriage to the Greyjoys brings benefits. The Northern coast will remain unmolested by reavers, and any grudge the Northern lords hold can be allayed with other marriages," Rhaenys argued. "Arya and Bran are both close to marriage age, and they could be used to secure the Vale as well. And Rickon is young, but not so young that a betrothal is out of the question." She sighed. "I am getting ahead of myself. Robb has not even consented and I am already marrying off every member of House Stark as if they were my own children."

"Lady Stark will have something to say of it as well," Jon said. "But the idea has some merit. We shouldn't discount it. At the same time, Your Grace, I see no reason to force the issue if the Greyjoy siblings have not brought it up yet. Let me speak to Robb about it first. We should have options if a rift comes into the open."

"Good. I trust in the two of you to handle this discreetly," Viserys said. "Now, the issue of Aegon himself. I intend to keep him under guard for now. He has not yet married Lady Margaery Tyrell, and I am sure Lord Mace will be glad to be rid of that betrothal now. Despite his heinous crimes, and his betrayal of my sister, I will not be a kinslayer. I will, however, have it out of him where that poisonous cheesemonger is, so that I can have knives slipped into his plentiful gut at night." The last words came out as a snarl.

"My father and uncle will want Aegon treated gently," Arianne cautioned. "I agree with you that he betrayed himself and the Targaryen cause, but he is still Princess Elia's son, still our blood. Rhaenys, surely you agree."

"I do not want Aegon harmed either, but Viserys is right. That Pentoshi magister was the cause of all this discord, and if we can find out where that man is and extract our reprisal from him, I would be glad of it," Rhaenys answered. "With permission, Viserys - I'd like to speak to Aegon, alone. Perhaps I can coax the information out him. His position is hopeless. He will see that, surely."

"What is to be done with him after all this?" Jon asked. He stood and paced slowly, for his knees began to ache and he wished to stretch them. "Once the Red Keep is secured and you are crowned... I am the Prince of Dragonstone for now, but only until such time as your heir is born. After that, you have spoken to me of Storm's End, a worthy prize. What will be Aegon's lot? Will you keep him forever in the keep?"

"I am inclined to it," Viserys muttered. "Maegor's Holdfast can be his world and his eventual tomb, for all I care. I have thought enough of Aegon today. I would rather speak of something happier. Aemon, Rhaenys - I wish for the two of you two be married as soon as possible, given the delicacy of Rhaenys'... situation."

"I thought you wished for us to wait until we secured the city," Rhaenys said.

"I did, but the two of you could not wait to repopulate our house, could you?" Viserys said with a mirthful smirk. "To avoid that ignominy, I have sent for the septon from Rosby. He will be here in two days time. I understand that it will be rushed, but it is the best that circumstances will allow."

Jon and Rhaenys shared a look. She said nothing, but he could read between the creases on her face. Each valley he had committed to memory, learning to decipher them as he might a map. He could see emotions commingle; joy tinged with disappointment. Perhaps it was not the thing of dreams Rhaenys might have wanted for them, but it was the beginning of their life together as more than just lovers. He gave her a soft smile, and soon her disappointment seemed to vanish, replaced only by happiness.

"It will do for both of us," she said to Viserys, though her gaze never left Jon.

SANSA

Her heart sank as she arrayed the host of men come to the plains outside their castle.

They were camped on all sides, a sea of black sails and iron-clad soldiers, their banners fluttering ominously in the chill northern wind. The Greyjoys had been stealthy in their approach, slipping past the North’s defenses under the cover of darkness. Whatever sightings there had been of Greyjoys on their shores had been a ruse, or a mistake, or something else - Sansa could not tell now. But she had urged her brother to send their garrison out of Winterfell and now they were in peril. She cursed herself.

The first Ironborn arrived under the cover of night a sennight ago. There had been only a few - the smallfolk reported roving parties and war bands. At first she thought some Ironborn had run away from Torrhen's Square and the force led by Ser Morrigan. But more came every night. Now, their encampment stretched as far as the eye could see, and their dark tents blighted the land around the castle and the wintertown, whose inhabitants were now in the castle.

Sansa stood on the battlements of Winterfell, her eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of hope, but all she saw was the relentless encroachment of the enemy. They had sent ravens, but Sansa was not certain they had gotten to Robb or Jon. She was filled with a desperate longing for her brothers, her rescuers, her eyes misting over as she thought of Robb's bravery and Jon's steadfastness.

You must be brave, she told herself. Robb and Jon would want you to be brave. Father would have wanted you to be brave.

Inside the castle, the atmosphere was as a taut bowstring. Grimness hung over the defenders and the small folk sheltering in the keep. The godswood had become an encampment for them - the women and children, at least. Any boy over twelve was given a spear or a bow. Rickon, though young, had tried to muster what courage he could, but Sansa could see the fear in his eyes, the uncertainty in his voice. Arya, on the other hand, was fueled with a quiet, cold rage, her sword Needle never far from her side. She spent hours training with soldiers in the yard. Sansa had not the heart to stop her.

No demands had come yet from the Greyjoys. Each day that slipped by without word from anybody sapped further and further at her resolve. It was after a fortnight that it was nearly shattered. Only by midmorning did it become abundantly clear that Arya was no longer in the castle. They searched the castle high and low in alarm, but there was no sight of her. None of the horses were gone. Sansa wept in Arya's chambers that night, but two days passed, then three, and then another week - and no demand, no sign came that she had been captured by the Greyjoys.

"It is possible she may have slipped through the Greyjoy's siege lines," Maester Luwin claimed. 

Sansa could only dare hope.

Chapter Text

RHAENYS

It took longer than two days for Rosby's septon to get to their camp. In that sennight passed a relative eternity, bringing with it ill news.

It was a breathless rider that came from Stokeworth, bearing a raven scroll sent to that castle. The seal had already been broken, but it did not take long for Robb and Jon to identify and verify its writer. Robb blanched then, and Jon fared little better. It was the look of terror and grief on Lady Stark's face that was most difficult for her to digest, though.

JON

The news that Viserys granted leave for three thousand Northmen to head back home and deal with the Ironborn menace was received, though not with any great joy. Most of the men seemed grim and worn, anxiety plaguing their faces as they thought of their untested kin and blood facing against the raiders. Deciding who would go north and who would stay could have been fraught, but Robb managed it well. In the end it was decided that those lords closer to the western coast would go, for their lands were closer to the Ironborn and the threat from the sea, and those lords whose lands were in the Wolfswood and the Barrowlands and the surrounding areas of Winterfell - three thousand men, no more, no less. They would gather their strength upon crossing the Neck, drawing men from the bogs and Barrowton before marching on Winterfell. Ser Wylis had already pledged that his father would send another two thousand men from White Harbor to join them.

As the last of the lords filed out of the tent, Robb turned to him. The flickering candlelight, burning atop the long tables of the Northern tent, cast long shadows on the canvas walls. They danced now, to and fro. He could not help but look at the flames. 

"I am sorry this could not happen at a better time," Jon muttered. "This wedding is an inconvenience. I should speak to Viserys, let him know we intend to march before nightfall."

"Jon," Robb began, his voice low but firm, "The column and supply train will not be readied until nightfall." His hand found Jon's shoulder. "Aye, if it were up to me we'd be halfway to Harrenhal already, but we'll need all three thousand of the men."

"I cannot shake the guilt," Jon said. "Sansa is in danger, our people are in peril. It hangs over all this like a cloud. Damn the Greyjoys. They should have been extirpated after the rebellion." There was a rustling behind him, and then footsteps, tentative. Jon turned to see Bran stride in. His face was ashen, lips drawn tight.

"His Grace wishes to speak with you," Bran said. "Is it true? The news is spreading around camp."

"It is true," Robb confirmed. 

"I'm coming with you," Bran said determinedly. "I won't be left behind on this. Not while our sisters are in danger."

"You won't have to," Jon added. "I am heading North with you. Prince Oberyn will manage the siege in my absence. Go, Bran, help Robb with whatever it is he needs. I should go speak to the King." Clasping hands with Robb and mussing Bran's hair, Jon strode out of the tent and back towards Viserys's tent. He awaited him outside, long silver hair carried by the breeze.

"Nephew," Viserys said. "I know you must be busy, but I would like to speak. Come, let us take a walk." Jon filled in alongside his uncle, as Ser Barristan tailed them at a distance. When Jon turned to look at the knight, Viserys laughed. "More for our protection than anything else. I asked Ser Barristan to keep some distance because the words I must share with you now are those that belong between two Targaryens. They are not for other men."

"As you say," Jon agreed. They meandered through camp. Viserys was quiet. Men bowed before him, but he did not engage them. He was not a natural soldier, Jon thought, but he was brave, and he would learn. Men valued commanders who would fight alongside them, but there was some value in seeing the king as separate, higher - untouchable. 

"They look weary," Viserys said. "I can hardly blame them. Sometimes I feel as though the gods themselves draw my eyelids shut."

"It is tiring," Jon agreed. "I am used to it, somewhat, but it does not mean that I feel it any less. Marching, fighting... to be honest with you, the siege might be a reprieve compared to the past few days." Viserys led them out of camp now, to a grove of trees behind their supply tents. The hangers-on of the army - the washerwomen, sewing maids, camp followers, traveling merchants - stayed here. They were a motley bunch, but ubiquitous on every campaign. 

"Have you and Rhaenys come to a decision about whether she will stay?" Viserys asked.

"No. But I wish you would compel her to, or at least to retire to Harrenhal. It is not safe for her here, but it is even more dangerous in the North. I fear for the child."

"Yes, the child. The first little Targaryen prince or princess in a generation. I would not play loose with that life, but I can no more command Rhaenys as I can the seas. You must make her see reason," Viserys said. "That is why I wanted to speak with you. I have never tolerated well being separated from my kin. Rhaenys is to me as my own beating heart, but you have proved yourself more my blood than Aegon ever has." Viserys' turned his cold purple gaze to him. "When I first laid eyes on you in Essos, I misliked you." Jon chuckled, and Viserys smiled. "I take it the feeling was mutual."

"I did not know you well enough to mislike you. If it makes you feel better, I misliked Rhaenys more first."

"Put yourself in my shoes. I was not without reason. Eddard Stark had been our enemy in the Usurper's rebellion, and you were - so we thought - his son."

"And you are not a man who cares greatly for those who would threaten your family," Jon finished. "Aye, I knew you did not care for me. But we hardly interacted then. Aegon spoke more to me than you did, even."

"Aegon tried to sway you," Viserys said. "But not I. I knew you would not be swayed. It's as plain as day in your eyes. I knew it was a misuse of time."

"Were you irked that other men called him king and not you?" Jon asked.

Viserys glanced at him. "It would be a lie to say that I was not. Aegon has never lacked for cleverness, but cleverness is not the same as good judgment. There were enough times that I felt I would have made better decisions. He was too easily led astray by the cheesemonger." He paused. The two of them had come to a stop in a little clearing, a bald spot on a hill that rose gently behind their camp. Ahead, in the treeline, there were some guardsmen in a Stark uniform, sitting behind a copse of trees, watching the approach from behind. Ser Barristan trailed behind. The sun was now getting low in the sky, and the world's brightness began to dip into a more moody, cinder glow.

"When I was a child, my mother - your grandmother - did her best to keep me at her side as much as she could, but my father made it quite difficult. She was never allowed to be alone with me. So often I recall Ser Gerold or Jaime Lannister trailing behind us, be it in Maegor's Holdfast or in the godswood or at Dragonstone. She was exceedingly kind, and she loved me - and Rhaegar - a great deal, but there was always a coldness to her. No fault of her own... it was as if any flame she possessed had been long since sapped by my father, and he had fire in excess. It was Rhaegar who gave me any semblance of warmth in those days. I worshipped him. He was a storybook king made real, made flesh - tall, and strong, and respected. People looked at Rhaegar and listened. All I ever wanted to be was just like Rhaegar. I believe my father hated it."

Jon blinked. "Why did he hate Rhaegar so much?"

"I cannot truly say," Viserys replied. "But I have always believed that he saw in Rhaegar everything he once wanted to be, and it enflamed his jealousy. So much so that he did not permit me to even go to the Sept of Baelor to see Rhaegar wed to Elia or to see him attend tourneys across the realm. Then Rhaenys was born, and I had someone else to love as well. My father's paranoia could not be sated, but there were moments, under heavy supervision, where we were allowed to spend time together. Elia was always kind to me. I could not get enough of Rhaenys. I always wanted to play - lessons, swords, books, it didn't matter. I wanted to play with Rhaenys. Elia indulged me a little too much, I think. There is much of her in Rhaenys."

"She must have been a remarkable woman," said Jon.

"Indeed. Despite Aerys' madness, and the constant presence of his eyes upon us, I think between the two of them, Elia and Rhaegar endeavored to make us a family. And for a time, they succeeded. Then the rebellion happened and we lost everything. Mother died after Daenerys' birth. Elia died in the sack of the city. Rhaegar died in battle, but not before making me promise that I would always look after our family. You must understand, Aemon - it is that promise that has made me who I am today. Everything I do is in service of that promise. Not of the realm, not of the throne, but the security of our family, the security of the ones who mean the most to me. All else may burn in the Seven Hells." Viserys took two steps closer and laid a hand on Jon's shoulder. "From you and Rhaenys will come the first seed of hope for the future of our house, and so I need your sacred oath, nephew. Everything you do must be in service to our house, to our family. Our faith in each other is all that sustained us through Essos and it is all that will sustain us until the end of this damned war. Aegon lost faith in us and put it in others. You must never do the same."

"I swear it, by the old gods and the new," Jon intoned solemnly. "Do you fear that my loyalties will shift as I head north?"

"No," Viserys said. "I know you well enough by now to know that when you say something, you mean it true. No, Aemon. I ask you to remind you that it is natural for you to love the Starks. They are your mother's house, and they sheltered you for most of your life. But I want you to know that you are a Targaryen. It is your name, it is your blood. It is who you are, even if you did not know it for the whole of your life. I did not proclaim you a Targaryen only because it was prudent for me. I did it because Rhaenys wrote and convinced me that you would be a champion of our house. I want to hold you to that, no matter what happens. You must save your Stark cousins, but remember that in the end, your place is here, by my side, ruling this realm with me." Viserys reached within a sleeve and procured a pin. Jon gaped. The pin was dark, like pewter, and battered in the shape of a hand.

"Will you serve, Aemon Targaryen?"

Jon blinked. "Your Grace, there are better-"

"Oh, I sincerely doubt that," Viserys laughed. "I ask only once more. Will you serve?"

Jon only nodded, and dropped to his knee. Viserys gently raised him up and affixed the pin to Jon's tunic.

"Good," Viserys said. A rare, genuine smile came and vanished across his face. "Come now, Lord Hand. Let us get you wed."

RHAENYS

It was not the custom of the Seven to hold weddings in the night, though it was not unheard of. Northerners were the ones who wed by torchlight, or so Jon told her.

Now, though, they stood in that torchlight, with Septon Edmund in front of them. Jon's dark eyes glittered with the light of the small flames staked into the ground. He was dressed in black and red, with a fine cape. Her heart soared to look at him. She thought to herself that this is how he should have always looked, a prince of House Targaryen. He wore the garment better and better now. He would always be Jon, but now he was Aemon too.

The lords of their entire army were assembled, as were Lady Stark and Arianne. The entire ceremony seemed to speed by in a blur. 

Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger.

Viserys removed the plain cloak of House Targaryen from her, and Jon put the new cloak over her shoulders, the cloak that bore both parts of him, dragon and wolf. It was warm against her shoulders, and comforting, just like him.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," they vowed, and their lips met together. Rhaenys thought it tasted like honey. 

One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.

Even as the Septon pronounced it, Rhaenys knew it was true, and needed sanction from no gods, old or new. Dragons answered to no one. She resisted the urge to place her hand over her womb. She was Jon's, he was her's, and this little one would be all theirs. 

Jon led her by the hand, and she felt as though she was walking on a cloud. Even Robb's face, which had been grim since the morning's ill news, seemed somewhat lightened, and he smiled at her and Jon as they walked by. A great tent had been erected in the center of camp to host their feast, though Viserys had ordered it not be long. The Northern army - or at least the three thousand men that would march north in the morning, were still preparing for their travel. Even now, she knew that men were loading carts and saddling horses to set out at first light, and they would be doing so through the night.

He and Viserys had told her - under no uncertain terms - that she was to go to Harrenhal to wait out the rest of the war and her pregnancy, but she had refused. Eventually, after a great deal of arguing, that it was agreed that she would accompany the Northerners as far north as Greywater Watch, and then remain there. Lord Reed insisted that it was the safest castle in all the North, for no one but the crannogmen knew how to find it save on the brightest and clearest of days. She acquiesced, but not happily. It was only when Jon pled with her to think of their child's health that she finally bent to the compromise.

As she shared her first dance with Jon, now as man and wife, she pushed those thoughts away and beamed at him. Jon's cheeks were flushed, and there was a joy in his eyes that she was gladdened to see. She thought it was better he had this joy rather than the fear of what might happen to his sisters. They took their place at the head of the table and greeted the guests. The Northern lords came first. Some of them wore disapproving looks on their faces. It was her duty and Jon's to ease their restlessness with words of assurance, as best they could. Tomorrow they would go north, they promised, to fight for their home, for the Northmen deserved it for their leal service in the war. The Dornish came next, led by Uncle Oberyn, The Riverlords came next, and then the Greyjoys and finally Lord Mace Tyrell on behalf of the Reachmen. He looked nervous, Rhaenys thought, but he presented his gift - a ponderous tome on the history of Oldtown and the Citadel that Rhaenys was sure that he had never even read a word of - and then departed.

Rhaenys watched him go, an unsettled feeling growing in her stomach.

DOMERIC

There was a nip in the air that did not sit well with him.

In the Vale, Domeric learned he had developed something of a sense for when ill news was in the air. That unease coiled within now, but he did not think too hard on it. The North was in danger - what else could it be?

The wedding feast for Princess Rhaenys and for Jon was underway, but Domeric did not stay long in the great tent. There were preparations underway. Domeric did not bring men of the Dreadfort with him, else he would have had to stay in the south with the army, and continue the siege of King's Landing. All the Bolton men were with his lord father harrying Lannister armies around the Golden Tooth, and so he elected to go back home with the Starks.

Domeric went back and forth between tents and the supply van, overseeing the last few things packed onto them. The van was to set out now, a thousand men under the command of Lord Cerwyn. Domeric saw them off, as they wheeled north slowly. It was a sound plan to leave under the cover of darkness, so that the Baratheons and Lannisters would not see.

He went back to the tents. Near the wedding feast, there were a few knights sitting on stools around a campfire. Among them, to his surprise, was Brandon Stark. The boy was drinking from a wineskin. He wiped a stray droplet of wine from the corner of his mouth when he saw Domeric and hailed him.

"Evening, Ser Domeric," he said.

"Good evening, Ser Brandon," Domeric replied. "Are you not missed at your brother's wedding feast?"

Bran shook his head. "I was there for the ceremony. My lord brother thought it unwise for all the Stark men to be seen celebrating while our lands lie under siege."

"A wise decision." Domeric pulled up an empty stool and sat next to Brandon, who handed him the wineskin. He took it from the boy and sipped at it. It was sour stuff. He grimaced at the taste and handed it to the next person.

"They don't make it like that in the Vale, eh, Bolton?" the man said. Domeric looked at him fully and grinned.

"Asher Forrester. All this time we've marched together and these are the first words we've shared since you've returned from Essos."

"Aye," Asher said. "The last time we spoke, my father came to petition yours..."

"Yes, I remember. That business with the Whitehills." Domeric did indeed remember the occasion, though not the specific reason. The Whitehills and the Forresters had long feuded. Once upon a time the Forresters were sworn directly to Winterfell, but for some reason - many centuries ago, and under circumstances Domeric could not just then recall - they had become bannermen to House Glover instead. That was likely when the Forrester fortunes had taken a turn for the worse, for the Whitehills had strong benefactors in House Bolton. The Glovers did not compare well as patrons.

“That business,” Asher growled. His memory of it was sharper - and more bitter, no doubt - than Domeric's own. “Well. I cannot fault your lord father for championing the cause of his bannermen.”

Domeric could not truthfully recall the reason, but he knew his father did not champion any cause unless it personally benefitted him. If he sided with the Whitehills, it was because he saw the gain to be had there. Still, he kept that thought to himself. “Glad to be back with your family?” he asked instead. “I am sorry for what happened to Lord Gregor. He deserves to have songs sung of him in the north.”

Asher seemed to relax a little, his shoulders loosened. “Aye. Thank you, Bolton. I am glad to have made peace with him before. Rodrik will make a fine Lord of Ironrath. I miss home, I have not seen it in some time.”

“Well, we shall not miss it for long.” Domeric took a sip of wine. It was less sour than the first taste. “I only hope we can rid ourselves of troublesome Ironborn before they spoil those memories.”

Bran spat angrily on the ground. “To the hells with the Ironborn. My father raised Theon Greyjoy in his hall.“

”Theon Greyjoy didn’t invade the North, Ser Bran,” Domeric cautioned. “I mislike the Ironborn - they’re a people with little to offer - but it is not fair to lay the blame on his head. Nor would it benefit anyone to remove that head from his shoulders. Euron Greyjoy would sooner thank us for it than curse us.”

”He’s right, Bran,” Asher said, nodding his head. “Fuck the Greyjoys. But it isn’t Theon or Lady Greyjoy’s fault, so they shouldn’t be punished for it. I heard they moved the Ironborn tents to the other side of camp to avoid reprisal.”

”I saw it,” Domeric confirmed. He stood, stretching. “A wise move, I think. Well, I should see that the last of the wagons is supplied. I will see the both of you on the morrow. Good night and rest well. I fear we shall have little of it on our way home.”

He bade them farewell, and turned around. After walking for a few moments, Domeric realized he was in the part of the camp where the prisoners were kept. It was quiet - quieter than usual, though guards were still stationed here and there, dressed in Tyrell or Tully or some other garb. There did not seem to be many Dornishmen in sight. It was quiet in the night, quieter than camp should have been. He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword and began to move slowly. There were two pens that were kept under heavy guard. The first was the Kingslayer's - he was surrounded by ten men - Northmen - with torches all around. Domeric breathed a little easier seeing that. The other pen was Aegon Targaryen's. Four guards surrounded this one, all men in Dornish or Riverlander garb. Another two had the door open, and were hauling Aegon to his feet.

Domeric bolted forward. "Halt!" he said. The men turned to him in surprise. One of the guards lowered his spear for a moment, but then raised it again. 

"Mi'lord, it is at-"

"What is going on?" Domeric demanded. He unsheathed his sword and glared at the men, who seemed to cower before him. 

"It's the King's orders, mi'lord," sputtered one of the men. "Wanted 'im to be there at the Prince and Princess's wedding."

Domeric's eyes narrowed. "His Grace informed you of this himself?"

"No, my lord," said another man. This one was olive-skinned, with smooth black hair and a pointed goatee. He smiled at Domeric. His voice was silky, and foreign. "It was by order of Prince Oberyn. He had spoken with His Grace and arranged for Prince Aegon to attend his siblings' wedding feast, and to pay homage. While I commend your diligence, rest assured this is at the command of the Crown." He pointed to his blazon. Domeric did not recognize the arms - two curved swords under a seven pointed star. "I am Ser Maron of Saltshore. I am in service to my lord Tremond Gargalen. I was commanded to carry out the Prince's order. If you would like, please, accompany us to the wedding tent."

Domeric looked at the man quietly. There was something about him that he did not quite trust. He glanced at Aegon, who was staring at the ground. The princeling looked disheveled. Were he to be presented to the King, Domeric thought his uncle might have at least deigned to give him a bath. The Dornish knight made a noise of impatience in his throat.

That was when Domeric saw it. All of the men had armor that looked wrong, including the Dornishman. There was a hole through his breastplate and blood on the surcoat. Each of the other men also had armor that was battered, as if the men wearing it had sustained fatal wounds. 

"You are much too perceptive," the Dornishman said with a sly grin. He drew his sword as fast as lightning and leaped at Domeric.

Chapter Text

DOMERIC

Steel rang against steel as Domeric parried the Dornishman's strike at the last moment. His instincts, honed from years of training, took over. He knew he was outnumbered and outmatched. The false Ser Maron pressed his attack. His blade was a blur. Domeric gave ground, desperately trying to create space. The other men moved to flank him, cutting off any escape. "Traitors! Enemies in the camp!" Domeric shouted. He felt a surge of panic rising in his chest. He had always been taught to be calm and collected in the face of danger, but his muscles seemed to sing with fear now. The clash of swords echoed in his ears as he fought for his life.

Finally, one well-placed blow from the Dornishman sent Domeric crashing to the ground with a groan of pain.

"Quickly, take the King and go!" the Dornishman ordered. Two men grabbed Aegon and started to drag him away, but the false Ser Maron was distracted enough for Domeric to act. He clambered to his feet as quick as he could, feinted towards Ser Maron, then spun and lunged at one of Aegon's captors. His sword found its mark, sinking deep into the man's side.

The victory was short-lived. Pain exploded in Domeric's shoulder as another attacker's blade found home. The iron did not pierce the padding, but it bruised. He stumbled, nearly dropping his sword.

Through the haze of pain, Domeric saw torchlight approaching and heard shouts of alarm.

"Finish him, we must alight now!” Ser Maron hissed.

Domeric raised his sword, determined to sell his life dearly. But before the killing blow could fall, an arrow whistled past his ear and buried itself in Ser Maron's throat. The Dornishman fell, gurgling blood.

RHAENYS

The flickering candlelight glinted off the scales of the dragon egg placed on the table, with Dark Sister in its scabbard next to it. The two symbols of Targaryen power sat between her and Jon. The egg’s iridescent surface seemed to pulse with an inner fire. More than once, as well-wishing guests came to ply them with gifts, Rhaenys found herself distracted by it. It was pale white. There had never truly been a pale white dragon before, as much as she could remember from her histories. The wild Grey Ghost was perhaps the nearest. Rhaenys couldn't help but steal glances at it, even as she smiled and nodded to the well-wishers approaching their table.

The sudden screams tore through the celebratory atmosphere like a knife.

Armored men burst into the tent, their blades already slick with blood. For a heartbeat, Rhaenys couldn't comprehend what she was seeing. These were their own men, wearing the sigils of houses sworn to them. But their eyes held nothing but murderous intent. Around her, the tent erupted into chaos as the attackers fell upon the feasting guests. She saw Jon draw Frostbite in a flash of blue steel, cutting down the first man to reach them. "Protect the king!" someone shouted. Rhaenys scanned the tent wildly and spotted Viserys, flanked by his Kingsguard as they tried to cut a path through the melee.

Jon grabbed her by the arm and led her out of the tent, fending off another attacker. Rhaenys grabbed a sword from one of the fallen. She did not intend to be helpless if the fight came to her.

Outside was little better. Chaos reigned through the camp. Another pair of attackers came towards them, one swinging a club wildly at her and the other lunging at Jon with a spear. Rhaenys parried the club with her sword, the impact sending painful vibrations up her arm. She countered with a slash at the attacker's face, opening a gash across his cheek. The man snarled and swung again, but this time Rhaenys was ready. She sidestepped nimbly and thrust her blade through a gap in his armor, and he fell. Jon dispatched the spearman with a flurry of blows, Frostbite living up to its name as it cut through flesh and bone like ice. More men converged on their position, no doubt having seen Rhaenys as a prime target. Jon placed himself between them and her, Frostbite weaving a deadly barrier.

As they were encircled, a sound pierced the air, causing everyone to turn towards the source of the noise. An arrow whizzed past them, landing in the heart of one of the attackers. More arrows followed, each finding their mark. The attackers let out a startled cry and turned to face the new threat.

Bran emerged from the darkness, screaming as he charged with his sword, flanked by Ghost. Stark men and Domeric followed behind. Bran loomed like a vengeful spirit, his auburn hair flowing in the night wind. Domeric followed behind. Jon could see that he had suffered wounds - a dark stain blossomed from his shoulder and a gash was opened over his eye.

“Rally to the Prince and Princess!” Domeric roared. “Into the fray, lads!” The tide turned as quickly as it had begun to roll against them. The attackers, caught between their own men and their enemies, found themselves surrounded and outmatched. One by one, they fell to the Northmen. Bran fought like a man possessed. His sword whirled through the air, severing limbs and piercing hearts with deadly precision. The attackers fell before him like wheat before the sickle. And behind him, the others rallied. Jon joined in, careful to keep Rhaenys near him as he sliced through the enemy ranks with a deadly grace. The direwolves leaped upon the screaming and fallen, and Ghost mauled a man right in front of Jon.

Bran and Domeric led Jon and Rhaenys away from the fight. “Bran, what is going on?” Jon demanded.

Bran shook his head. “I don’t know. Men in the camp, enemies-”

“Our enemies have men in our ranks. The Northern van is going to retreat. Lord Stark has gone to rally the men. Our position is lost, the camp is lost. We have to pull back and regroup at Harrenhal,” Domeric cut in. “There is no choice, Prince, Princess - if we stay in this chaos, we will be lost. We will take you to the King and to the Northern forces.” He grimaced as he spoke.

“You’re wounded, Ser,” Rhaenys said. “And I can fight.” She lifted Dark Sister, dripping crimson with blood.

“I have no doubt, Princess," Domeric said. "There is something else. Men have alighted with Prince Aegon. He is in the wind now. I know not if it was men of the Golden Company or Stannis, but they called him King. I do not think this is Stannis's work. I fear we have been betrayed."

“It cannot be,” Rhaenys cried. “What of the Dornish, the King? The Tyrells?”

“I don’t know, Princess,” Domeric said. “Ser Brynden would know to take the King to the Northern column. We must hope for the best. If not... we have his heir here." Domeric nodded grimly at Jon. "Come, please. We must away now." Heavy hearted, Rhaenys followed as Domeric and Bran’s band fell into a protective circle, even as they melted away from the camp and into the woods. 

The sounds of battle grew distant as they moved deeper into the forest. The flickering glow of torches and the clash of steel were replaced by the rustling of leaves and the calls of night birds. Rhaenys's thoughts raced, unable to settle on any one fear or hope for longer than a heartbeat.

Jon squeezed her hand.

They came to a halt in a small clearing. Bran signaled for silence and listened intently, his acute hearing giving him an edge even in the thick of the woods. Ghost stood still as a statue beside him, ears perked and eyes scanning the shadows.

"We should be safe here for a moment," Bran whispered.

Domeric sank against a tree trunk, his face pale beneath the moonlight. The wound on his shoulder looked worse now, the blood soaking through his tunic. One of Bran's men moved to tend him, but Domeric waved him off with a stubborn flick of his hand. "Save your salve and stitches. We've not the time."

Rhaenys turned to Jon, her violet eyes wide with worry. "I lost sight of Viserys and Arianne in the tent. Dear gods, how could we not see this coming? How did this happen?”

Jon's face was unreadable, but his eyes were cold. Arrestingly, Rhaenys realized there was fear in them, and that did nothing for her own confidence. "We need to trust that Ser Brynden and Ser Barristan know what they're doing," he said at last. "If we fall here, it is over. If we survive and regroup, we still have our armies in the Riverlands. We can fall back and reassess." He swore. “Traitors, again, damn them.”

A noise from the woods silenced him. Bran and Ghost tensed, and the small company gripped their weapons tighter. For a long moment, all was still. Then Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden emerged from the fray, followed by Uncle Oberyn, Quentyn, and Viserys. Viserys was wounded, clutching at his side. Blood blossomed from his doublet.

She rushed to him and cupped his face. “Vis, thank the gods. Where-?”

“They killed Arianne,” Prince Oberyn said. His voice was filled with seething rage.

"The Tyrells have turned traitor," Viserys muttered, his eyes hollow and distant. He flinched as Rhaenys tried to examine his wound, but he made no move to stop her. "They joined with the attackers. It is clear this is not Stannis’ doing. We were caught completely unawares. The Dornish forces are in disarray."

Rhaenys's heart sank at the news of Arianne. She looked to her uncle, but Oberyn's face was a mask of cold fury, unreadable and terrifying.

"We need to move quickly, Your Grace" Ser Brynden said, his voice gravelly with urgency. "This respite won't last and the enemy hunt for you. You are the king. The enemy will regroup and sweep the woods soon enough. We must find Lord Stark.”

"Blood for blood," Oberyn said hissed with an ironclad promise. “Before this is over I will kill every Tyrell that lives, and that kinslayer nephew of mine.”

Jon, Rhaenys, Bran, and Domeric remained in tense silence as the Kingsguard and Viserys fell in with them. They plunged deeper into the woods. Bran stopped them at every place where the tree cover broke and he could spot the stars, to guide them north and east. Still, Rhaenys felt there was something wrong, as if her footsteps were being shadowed by someone she could not see. The feeling grew worse and worse the longer they drudged on.

Jon heard it before she did. “Ambush!” he cried. She felt something whistle past her ear, and she fell to the dirt.

An arrow struck a tree trunk with a dull thud, its fletching quivering from the force of the shot. Chaos erupted as the company scattered for cover, drawing their weapons and peering into the darkened woods, but more arrows poured in. One deflected off Ser Barristan’s armor.

A host of men poured in from all sides. Some wore blazons of the Golden Company, others had Stark or Dornish armor, others were Tyrell men. Rhaenys raised Dark Sister to block a blow and slashed wildly at the outstretched arm of an assailant. Her sword found a gap between his bracer, and severed the man’s arm just before the elbow. Jon struck down another two men in rapid fashion even as Bran stood by her other side, fending off a Golden Company soldier.

Their circle tightened as the attackers pressed in, a maelstrom of steel and shouts. Rhaenys's arms ached, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"To the King! Aid your King!" Ser Brynden cried out, his voice cutting through the din. He swung his sword with the fury of a man half his age, but even he was beginning to flag. An enemy soldier lunged at Jon, and Rhaenys watched in horror as Jon slipped on the blood-soaked ground. The strike missed his heart but caught him in the shoulder. He cried out and sank to one knee.

"Jon!" Rhaenys screamed, her voice cracking with fear and rage. She slashed Dark Sister in a wide arc, its ancient Valyrian steel biting through flesh and bone as if they were soft clay. She fought her way to Jon's side and stood over him, defiant.

The attackers hesitated, perhaps awed by the sight of the princess wielding her ancestor's blade with such lethal grace. But their pause was brief. A man wearing Stark colors—an infiltrator, surely—raised his axe and rushed at them. A spear shot out from the side and impaled the man through the chest. He collapsed in agony as Uncle Oberyn leaped from him to another assailant. Rhaenys struggled to help Jon to his feet.

Then the unthinkable happened. Time seemed to slow as two men in Tyrell colors overcame Ser Brynden. One plunged his sword through a gap in the leg armor, and the other pushed the wounded knight onto his back and drove a dagger between helmet and gorget. Ser Barristan had been driven too far back, and Viserys stood alone, one hand clutched to wound, the other hand gripped around his sword.

A cry tore from her lips, but it was too late. The men, their path to Viserys open, attacked. Viserys attempted a feeble parry, but his strength was sapped. The Tyrell men knocked his sword aside and slashed in unison. One blade struck his shoulder, the other buried itself in his thigh. Viserys collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, his blood dark in the moonlight.

"No!" Rhaenys screamed, her voice raw with agony. Jon surged forward in Viserys’ direction and cut down every man in his path. The ambushers were now outnumbered, and the men who had come with Domeric and Bran cut away the last of them. Rhaenys scrambled to Viserys. His breath was ragged and choked.

“Vis!” she cried. “Vis, please!” Frantically, she scanned around her for help, but who could possibly help? There were no maesters here. “Jon! Please, help me with him!”

Jon sank to her side, his hands pressing against Viserys’ wounds. He cried out in pain. Other surrounded them, but Ser Barristan forced them away and joined them by Viserys, followed by Uncle Oberyn. The old knight’s eyes shimmered with tears.

"Niece," her uncle began, his voice heavy with sorrow. "We must go. Your life is—"

"My life is nothing without my family!" Rhaenys snapped, her face a mask of grief and desperation. She clung to Viserys, unwilling to let go. "We can't leave him. We can't—"

"Rhaenys," Viserys whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the forest and the fading echoes of battle. He coughed, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. "Promise me… Aemon…. promise. You promised…. Dany."

"No, Vis, you’ll be there to greet her yourself, don’t you see? Don't you dare leave us!" Rhaenys sobbed, her tears mingling with the blood on her hands.

Viserys choked. “Aemon… you promised…. swear it to me, now, nephew.”

Jon’s throat bobbed. One hand found hers, the other Viserys’s. “You have my oath, Uncle.”

Viserys nodded once. “Good,” he rasped. “Now go, Aemon… first of his name.” His hand grew limp, his eyes lost their light, and he was gone.

Rhaenys sat frozen, unwilling to accept the reality before her. The world around her seemed to blur and distort, sounds coming in waves and then receding like a fickle tide. She could hear Jon breathing heavily beside her, feel the warmth of Viserys’s lifeless body seeping into her hands, but it all seemed distant, unreal.

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan said softly, but she did not respond. "Queen Rhaenys," he tried again, more insistent. "We must move."

Jon squeezed her hand tightly, trying to pull her back to the present. "Rhaenys," he said, his voice filled with a pain that mirrored her own. "We need to go." A horn blew in the distance; Ser Barristan looked at that direction; her uncle swore.

Slowly, as if moving through thick molasses, she turned to look at him. His face was pale from his own wound, but his eyes were what struck her deepest—they were filled with the same sorrow that gnawed at her heart.

“They are coming,” Uncle Oberyn said. “We must go. I will carry him. Will you help me, Brandon Stark?”

Bran nodded. “Yes.” He moved over to come and lift, but another arrow whistled out from the brush and deflected off the pauldon of one of the soldiers. With curses, they began to retreat, heading north under Bran’s yelled directions.

Jon hauled her to her feet, but she cried. “We cannot leave him!”

"Rhaenys, we have no choice!" Jon pleaded, his grip slipping as she tried to break free. "We'll all be dead if we stay!"

“I will carry him,” Uncle Oberyn said. With near super-human effort, he hauled the King’s body over his shoulder and began to run. Rhaenys allowed Jon to pull her along. They stumbled after the retreating group, Rhaenys casting glances over her shoulder with every step. Each time she expected to see more attackers descending upon them, but the woods remained eerily silent until nearly out of sight. Then she saw more Tyrell men burst into the clearing, and then she was out of sight.

They emerged into a small clearing lit by pale moonlight. Bran halted the group and turned to Oberyn. “We are close to the Kingsroad. A little further and we should find the Northern column retreating.” He was right. As the tree cover grew thinner, they emerged from the woods to the Kingsroad. She saw Stark flags, some Riverlander banners flapping in the wind as a column of haggard, tired looking men and their wagons beat double time up the road. Some scouts that were screening the main party found their way over to them, hailing them. They were led back to Robb.

The Lord of Winterfell sat astride his horse, flanked by Grey Wind, whose eyes glowed a fierce yellow in the night. Robb’s face was a mask of grim resolve, his red-brown hair tousled from exertion. When he saw the group approach, his expression softened with a mix of relief and concern.

"Rhaenys, Jon," he said, dismounting and striding toward them. He took in their bloodied forms, the slump in Rhaenys's shoulders, and the grievous wound on Jon. "Seven hells. We feared the worst when stragglers from the camp came from behind to find us. The tail of the column has fended off some attacks. What is going on?”

"The entire camp was ambushed," Jon explained, wincing as he spoke. "Tyrell men and infiltrators from the Golden Company. They had us surrounded. Theon… I though Theon was searching for the stragglers."

Robb’s face slipped into a frown. “I do not know where he is, but Asha Greyjoy rides with us. She came up the road with some of her men.”

“Robb… the King is dead,” Jon said. “Viserys was with us in the woods, but we were attacked once again. Ser Brynden has fallen as well. We couldn’t bring his body back. Prince Oberyn has the King’s.”

Robb stared at them dumbfounded for a moment, the weight of the news sinking in. He glanced at Oberyn, who stood with a silent, stoic grief, the body of Viserys still draped over his shoulder.

Robb sank to one knee after drawing his sword. “Then you are king, brother. You have my sword. You have Winterfell. You have the North. What is your command?” Jon squeezed her hand for a brief moment.

“Conduct the retreat. See to our rear and make sure we are not being pursued,” he said.

“And gather wood,” Rhaenys croaked hoarsely. “It is the custom of our house to burn on the pyre in death. We are born with flame, to flame we return.”

Robb climbed to his feet and dipped his head. “As you command, my Queen.”

Viserys’ body was laid in a covered wagon. Rhaenys climbed into it and wept alone, holding his hand. She let sobs wrack her body and let herself sink into sorrow. No one disturbed her. The column moved along, voices low and subdued, or perhaps muted by her own grief. The weight of their losses hung over them like a dense fog, stifling any attempts at conversation or camaraderie. In Essos, they were four. Now Dany was lost to the Great Grass Sea, Viserys was cut down, and Aegon…

Her blood boiled to think of her treacherous brother. His vanity and ambition had cost them so dearly. Now she had only Jon, only the life that grew inside her. Yes, the aged Maester lived to the North, but even those new family members she had gained could not quell the heat of revenge now stoking inside her.

After what felt like an eternity, the wagon halted. A hand parted the canvas covering, and Rhaenys flinched, expecting to see Jon or perhaps Oberyn. Instead, it was Robb Stark.

"My Queen," he said gently. "We've gathered the wood. The column has stopped - we do not fear pursuit. It is time."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Thank you, Robb. Please… when it is just us, just family, call me by my name. I do not want to be Queen, not right now."

He extended a hand to her, and she took it, letting him help her down from the wagon. The night air was cool against her tear-streaked face, a stark contrast to the warmth of Viserys’s body that still lingered on her hands.

The makeshift pyre stood tall, a solemn monument of stacked logs and kindling. The flicker of torches held by somber men cast wavering shadows, creating the illusion that the forest itself was mourning.

Jon walked up beside her, his movements slow and deliberate due to his wound. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Are you ready?” he asked softly.

She nodded, though in her heart she knew one could never be truly ready for this. The men made way as Ser Barristan stepped forward, his face carved from stone. With the tenderness of a father putting his child to bed, he laid Viserys’s body atop the pyre. The King’s features were serene in the moonlight, as if he were merely sleeping, his crown of silver hair undisturbed. From when she had left the wagon, his body had been cleaned, and he had been wrapped in a shroud, only his head exposed. Rhaenys's heart ached with the sight, a thousand memories rushing over her—of their time in exile, of their hopes and dreams for reclaiming the throne, of their childhood, of all the love shared between family.

Oberyn took a torch from one of the men and approached Rhaenys. "Your Grace," he said, his voice laden down with somberness. He held out the torch to her. "It is your right."

She took the torch from him, its fiery glow dancing in her eyes. For a moment, she simply stood there, transfixed by the flames. The fire had always been a symbol for their house: dangerous, consuming, but also a source of light and warmth. Then she gave the torch to Jon.

“Your Grace. It is your right, as well.” She turned to Bran. “Ser Brandon,” she said, her voice crackled but firm. “The egg.”

Bran unfastened his satchel and unwrapped it from its swaddling cloth slowly, revealing the dragon egg, its surface shimmering with deep veins of red. The sight of it sent a jolt through Rhaenys; it was one of the last tangible pieces of their heritage, of their bloodline. The Targaryens had been born and eggs in their cradle; now the eggs would accompany them until they were ash.

Jon hesitated, the torch's flame licking at the night air dangerously close to the wood. He looked at Rhaenys, searching her eyes for something—permission, perhaps, or an assurance that this was truly what she wanted.

"Rhaenys," he started, but she cut him off.

"It is my will,” she said.

Jon simply nodded. She walked to the pyre and placed the egg by Viserys’ side. Jon joined her, and she placed her hand over his on the torch. They lit the corners of the pyre and stepped away as the flames grew, from little licks to roaring tongues of fire. The heat pushed the onlookers back, searing even at a distance, but Rhaenys and Jon stood close by. The wood crackled and popped, sparks shooting into the sky like fragments of a shattered star. The scent of burning pine filled the air, mingling with something more primal and ancient as the flames began to consume the shroud around Viserys.

Rhaenys watched with unblinking eyes, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if in prayer. The fire reflected in her violet irises, giving her an eerie, almost otherworldly look. Around the pyre, the assembled men stood in silent reverence. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.

Time stretched and warped as the fire did its work. Memories played out in Rhaenys's mind like scenes from a mummer’s show: Viserys teaching her to read in Old Valyrian, his awkward first attempts at swordplay, the fierce determination in his eyes when he spoke of taking back their homeland. Viserys had not been perfect, but he had loved them dearly, more than anything else. And now he was gone, leaving a void in her that yawned and threatened to engulf all else.

The flames roared higher, kissing the night sky with their hungry mouths. The heat grew unbearable now, forcing even Rhaenys and Jon to take several steps back. The silhouette of Viserys's body started to blur and waver in the intense heat, like a mirage dissolving in the desert.

A sudden burst of sparks shot upwards. They flared like fireflies, momentarily illuminating the canopy before being swallowed by the night. The wood now glowed a molten orange, and the shapes within the pyre began to twist and buckle.

Rhaenys felt a hand take hers. She looked to see Jon, his face etched with concern and love. Her eyes flickered to his, then back to the flames. She squeezed his hand tightly, drawing strength from him, from the life they had yet to live.

A log split with a loud crack, sending a shower of embers into the air. The sparkles danced and whirled in a macabre ballet, carried aloft by hot currents. It carried on until gentle showers began to rain down, and the fire waned. But then there was another crack, distinct from the wood, and then another, and then another, and she knew it was not the wood at all.

The sound was like the popping of bone, a sharp and sinister note beneath patter of rain. Rhaenys’s breath caught in her throat. She stared in horrified fascination as something stirred within the heart of the pyre.

“No,” she whispered, too softly for anyone but herself to hear. “It cannot be.”

Jon tightened his grip on her hand, his body tensing as he prepared for the unthinkable. The forest around them seemed to shrink away, the night growing deeper and more oppressive, as if even the darkness feared what was happening.

A silhouette appeared from the flames. It was not human, and it was small. Gasps rang out behind them. Rhaenys’s heart pounded in her chest, each beat a painful thud against her ribs. The small, non-human silhouette moved with a fluid grace, its form bathed in the smoke. It stretched and arched, its movements almost seductive, like a serpent waking from slumber.

The creature stepped forward on delicate, clawed feet and unfurled wings that shimmered with an ethereal glow. It was a dragon, no larger than an small cat, its scales a luminous white, streaked with red. The dragonling turned its head from side to side, surveying the world with eyes like molten gold.

Disbelief gave way to awe as Rhaenys took in the sight. The men around the pyre were frozen in place, their expressions a mix of fear and wonder. Even Ser Barristan, who had seen more than his share of legends come to life, looked stricken.

The dragonling let out a high, keening cry. She watched in silent awe, but Jon’s hand pulled away from hers. It was he who walked towards it almost in a trance, his arm outstretched. She moved to stop him, to say something, but he was gone. His hand tentatively touched the dragon… which let out a purr, and climbed along his hand. With shaky steps, it advanced up his sleeve and curled around the nape of his neck, resting there and letting out a shrill croak.

The sounds of thudding broke her reverie. She turned behind her to see every onlooker dropped to their knees. Some had their swords buried in the ground before them. Jon beckoned to her.

“Rhaenys,” he called gently. She took her place by his side, and reached for the dragon. It let her pet its scales, smooth and not very rough, and seemed to welcome her touch. The dragonling was warm, like the heat of a campfire at night.

It was Ser Barristan who broke the silence. He drew his sword aloft and cried to the gathered crowd. “All hail His Grace, Aemon of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! The White Wolf, the Dragon in the North! Hail your Queen, Rhaenys of House Targaryen, the Dragon of the Sun!”

The men echoed Barristan's cry, their voices rising in unison. “Aemon! Aemon! Aemon!” The forest erupted with the sound, as if the trees themselves were joining in the proclamation, like a dream teetering on the edge of waking. She met Jon’s eyes, and they seemed to blaze as never before.

They blazed with fire and blood.

AEGON

The moans of dying men permeated the camp. A chill wind bit through Aegon's thin tunic as he walked among the wounded. He pulled the garment tighter around himself, his mind racing with thoughts of the battle.

"Your Grace! Over here!"

He turned to see Ser Garlan Tyrell waving him over. He stood next to his lord father and Margaery. Margaery rushed over to him, placing her hands on his face.

“My love, I am glad to see you. Are you whole?” she pulled back and inspected him for wounds. Finding none, she took his arm as they walked closer to the Tyrells. Blinking, he realized Varys and Illyrio and Harry Strickland were by them.

“What…” he rasped out hoarsely. “What happened? The Starks had me under guard. Men came. Was this your doing?”

“Not ours,” Garlan Tyrell said, casting a sidelong glance at Varys. “The Golden Company rallied. Lord Varys brought news to us during the feast, in disguise. They infiltrated the camp with uniforms of dead men.” His tone was clipped. Aegon could tell that the knight did not approve.

Lord Varys dipped his head obsequiously. “Your Grace, the remnants of the Golden Company were not as scattered as Prince Viserys believed. We were able to mount a…”

“Treachery,” muttered Ser Loras, who was bloodied, still in the regalia he must have worn for Rhaenys’ wedding to the bastard. “There was nothing noble about this. We swore oaths to Viserys.”

“Oaths under duress are no oaths at all,” Varys said smoothly. “Ask his Grace whether he is pleased that your oaths to the true king held when pressed to the fire. Your Grace, I have further news. Multiple men ambushed a party of stragglers. Prince Viserys, Princess Rhaenys, and the bastard Jon Snow were among them. Viserys was slain in the action, though the men were not able to recover his body. Princess Rhaenys and Jon Snow escaped with their lives.”

Aegon took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs, then exhaled slowly. The news of Viserys's death should have brought him some measure of happiness, but instead it felt hollow. Viserys had been a fool, yet he was family.

Margaery squeezed his arm. "This means the war is over, does it not? You are king now, uncontested."

“I am,” Aegon said. “I am glad. Thank you, Lord Tyrell. Thank you, Captain Strickland. You will be honored beyond honors when the time comes.” He cast his glance along the battlefield. “I need a report. What is our footing?”

“Prince Viserys’ army has been crushed. A few thousand Northmen and Riverlanders have retreated north up the Kingsroad, but most of the Dornish forces of their army have scattered southward. The battle has scattered many of our men, but Prince Viserys’ army is entirely broken. We have thousands of Dornishmen captive, and about ten thousand of our own Tyrell men have reorganized here. The Greyjoy party that was looking for stragglers was driven off, we know not where they are. Asha Greyjoy seems to have retreated along with the Northerners, and most of her men,” recounted Ser Garlan. “Captain Strickland?”

“And about seven of the Golden Company are now with us. Until Tyrell reinforcements reach us from the Roseroad, we are likely outnumbered by Lord Stannis’ men inside the castle.”

“Strange that they have seen all this and not acted. They have yet to sally forth. They could sweep us easily from the field,” Ser Garlan said uneasily.

“There is quite a great deal of smoke rising from the city,” Varys observed. Aegon swore he could see a small smile on his lips. “Quite odd.” A rider came galloping to them, bedecked in Golden Company garb. He addressed Aegon and Captain Strickland in bastard Valyrian.

“Great king,” the man said. “A scout who came close to the city walls reported sounds of battle. It sounds as if there is fighting going on in the city,” he said.

Aegon frowned, the news settling uneasily in his mind. "Fighting within the city? Could it be Stannis' men turning on each other?"

Margaery squeezed Aegon's arm, her face a mask of concern. "Perhaps some of Stannis' bannermen have had enough and are switching sides?"

"Or it could be a diversion," Ser Garlan interjected. "We should prepare for the worst."

The rest of the night was spent uneasily watching as more flames and more smoke became visible from the city. Aegon ordered for scouts to be sent close to the walls. When it became apparent that there were no guardsmen on the walls, some of the scouts used hooks and ropes to ascend the walls.

The gates of the city opened before the scouts could return with news. His commanders rallied their forces to prepare for an attack, but Lannister banners - accompanied by a white flag of truce - rode forth from the gate, in small numbers - far too small to be an attack.

“They intend to parlay?” Lord Mace said incredulously. “Is this some trick?”

“No trick,” Aegon muttered. “The Lannisters have proven traitor again, I think, this time to Lord Stannis. Let us see what they have to say.”

The Lannister envoy halted a respectful distance from Aegon's assembled forces. A tall man, balding, with whiskers along his cheeks, dismounted.

"Your Grace," the man - who could only be Lord Tywin, Aegon thought - called out, his voice carrying over the tense silence of the field. "I come with terms."

Aegon signaled for his commanders to stand down, though their hands remained near sword hilts and spear shafts. He stepped forward, Margaery still clutching his arm, her knuckles white. Ser Garlan and Ser Loras, with Tyrell and Golden Company men behind them, flanked him.

“What are those terms?”

Lord Tywin stood tall, his eyes cold and calculating as ever. "King Aegon," he began, the title rolling off his tongue with a practiced ease. "Stannis Baratheon is finished. His forces are divided, his leadership in disarray. The city burns not by our hand, but by his in a last, desperate attempt to hold King's Landing."

Aegon's eyes narrowed. "So you claim. Where is Stannis now?"

Tywin's lips curled into something resembling a smile. "Dead, along with his closest supporters. The Iron Throne is vacant once more."

"And you expect me to believe that the Lannisters have suddenly grown loyal to House Targaryen?" Aegon asked, suspicion heavy in his voice.

"We are loyal to the realm," Tywin replied smoothly. "And the realm needs stability. A prolonged war serves no one. We recognize the strength of your position and wish to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.” He glanced about. “We have not the time for a siege. You could break us, or we might wait you out until Viserys and his forces return. But with the strength of the Westerlands, we can bring a swift end to this war.”

“Terms,” Aegon rasped. He did not think it important to notify Tywin Lannister that Viserys was dead and unlikely to rally his men from the grave. “Concrete terms. You wronged my family greatly.”

“The men responsible for those crimes are dead,” Tywin responded. “I ask only for this - that you pardon House Lannister and the Westerlander houses sworn to us. You may do with House Baratheon - what remains of it - as you see fit, save for my grandchildren. You will confirm our position as rightful Wardens of the West, and my grandson - Joffrey Baratheon - will be Lord of Storm’s End.”

“I’ve heard your grandson is no Baratheon at all, but a Waters,” Aegon said with a smirk. “I have a mind to have your head now, for what was done to my mother.”

Varys tugged at Aegon’s sleeve and whispered in his ear. “Ser Jaime was not collected among the dead or wounded. The Northerners may still have him. It would be wise to accept, my lord. Lord Tywin’s forces can come of use in this war. I do not know that we can fight effectively without them.”

“Spider, these men killed my mother. Dornish support-”

“Princess Arianne is dead,” Varys said sharply, though quiet. “I fear Dornish support will be difficult. You must rely on what is available to you. Once you sit on the Iron Throne, changes can be made as needed. Think on it, Your Grace.”

Aegon’s stomach churned. Cousin Arianne, dead? She had taken the wrong side in this war, and he did not feel personal pity to her, but he knew now there was little chance that Uncle Doran could be brought to see the light. He wanted to curse and rage, but did not want to give Lord Tywin the satisfaction of that sight.

The flames from the city cast a flickering light over the battlefield, giving every face a ghostly pallor. Every man looked tired and worn, their faces dirtied or bloodied.

"Very well," Aegon said at last, his voice heavy with reluctance. "I accept your terms, Lord Tywin. But know this: any agreement we make will be written in sand if your loyalty wavers. House Lannister has proven traitor twice now. There will not be a third time."

Tywin's expression remained inscrutable, though his eyes gleamed with something like triumph. "Wise decisions are never easy, Your Grace.” He paused, letting his words sink in. "I will send word to my forces in the Westerlands. They can pen Viserys’s forces in from the West." He glanced back. “My men will leave the city in your hands, Your Grace. The Iron Throne is yours.”

Tywin turned to remount his horse, but Aegon called out, "One more thing, Lord Tywin."

The old lion paused, looking back over his shoulder.

"Where are your grandchildren now?"

Tywin's eyes locked with Aegon's, a silent battle of wills playing out in the brief moment of hesitation. "Safe," he said finally. "In the city."

"I shall pray they remain that way," Aegon said.

With that, Tywin signaled to his men, and they rode back toward the city at a measured pace. Aegon watched them go, a storm of conflicting emotions raging within him. He had the throne within his grasp, yet it felt like holding a handful of thorns.

Margaery broke the silence first. "You did the right thing, my love," she said softly. "A kingdom cannot be ruled by vengeance alone."

Aegon sighed. "I know. But it would feel so much better."

The assembled commanders began to disperse, giving orders to their men and making preparations for the entry into the city.Aegon lingered, deep in thought, as Margaery and the Tyrells conferred in hushed tones. Varys had already slinked away to his own business, leaving Aegon alone with his broiling thoughts. It struck him then that he might be seen as kinslayer twice over now. Surely the wise and discerning would see that he had no personal hand in Viserys' death, but Arianne's... though he had not struck the blow there either, her passing would make things difficult for him in Dorne. He cursed his overreaching uncles for placing him in a conundrum. 

It was the magister who approached him now. “Your mother would be proud of you, Your Grace.” He said it wistfully. Given the current track of his thoughts, Aegon found it hard to believe his mother would approve of any of this.

“I was not aware you knew her that well, Magister,” he said coldly.

“I did,” Illyrio said softly. “Through… correspondence, of course. But any mother would be. You have done well. Victory is yours, from the jaws of defeat. And now it is time for you to sit your throne.”

Aegon regarded Illyrio with a mixture of suspicion and gratitude. The magister had been instrumental in financing his campaign, yet there was always an air of hidden agendas about him. Still, Aegon knew he needed every ally he could muster, at least for now.

"Thank you, Magister," Aegon said at last. "Please ensure the men of the Golden Company are ready to move. I would go to the Red Keep.”

Illyrio bowed, his large frame bending with surprising grace. "As you command, Your Grace." He turned to leave, but then paused and looked back. "Remember, a king's decisions echo through the ages. You have taken the first step towards a lasting legacy."

Aegon watched the magister waddle away, his mind a whirl of thoughts. Soon they were mounted, Aegon's hair washed, and he was given a fine black doublet with a shoulder cape. As he returned, he was hailed by a parade of men. The Westermen had left the city, for the most part, save for a few hundred that lingered behind with Lord Tywin as a guard. Their new alliance was fresh, and Aegon did not trust it - though Lord Tywin did not seem to either - and his men swept the Red Keep in advance of his entry. Haggard, tired cityfolk came to witness, though the streets were lined with Baratheon dead.

The Red Keep loomed large over the city. Aegon’s eyes were transfixed upon it as it grew closer and closer. Entry to the keep was a blur, and he found himself standing in the great hall, unsure of exactly how he had gotten there, with men lined on both sides and a great, monstrous throne of swords in front of him. Like a man hypnotized he inched closer and closer ascending the steps.

The throne was even more imposing up close, each twisted blade a silent testament to the conquests and ambitions of kings and lords long dead. Aegon reached out a hand, hesitating just a moment before his fingers brushed the cold steel. The touch sent a shiver through him, as if the spirits of those who had once ruled were awakening to acknowledge their new master.

He turned and surveyed the hall from his new height. The faces of his commanders, his allies shone with expectancy - perhaps of their own reward, Aegon thought darkly, and even the courtiers who remained from the previous usurping regimes seemed to be stricken with fear and uncertainty. This was what he had fought for, bled for, what so many had died for. Now they were all at his mercy. Yet it still felt somehow unreal, like a dream teetering on the edge of waking. Aegon felt any moment his eyes would snap open and he would be rotting in a cell in Viserys' camp.

"Your Grace," called a voice. Aegon looked to see Varys standing at the foot of the throne, shaking him out of his reverie. He sat on the cold, hard seat of the throne.

“Hail, King Aegon!” shouted the men below. Margaery beamed at him. Aegon allowed himself a small smile.

As the day turned to night, Aegon found himself in the King’s Chambers. The last Targaryen to occupy these was the Mad King, he thought to himself idly. After that had been the Usurper, then Joffrey, then Stannis. When his head was presented to him by the Lannisters, he had been pleased. He ordered it placed atop a spike at the gate of the Red Keep. The priestess of R'hllor - or the Red Witch, as the Westerosi here called her - who apparently cavorted with and advised Stannis was nowhere to be seen, gone in the smoke of the fall of the city. Aegon could not bring himself to care much about her. The R'hllorians had always been odd to him. Surely she had slunk back off to Volantis by now.

Varys found his way quietly to his chambers, admitted by the guards outside upon his order. The master of whispers slinked closer to Aegon on padded slippers.

“You have won a great victory, Your Grace,” the man said with a smile. Aegon found the smile odd. It was the first of Varys’ smiles to truly reach his eyes.

“But not the last victory,” Aegon said. “I have a great deal more to do. The guards told me you insisted it was urgent. I would rest sooner than late, my lord, so please. Say what it is you have to say.”

Varys drew himself together. “I would not have told you this before, but I fear the deaths of Prince Viserys and Princess Arianne will necessitate it. I will do my best to soften the blow of the tales, but I do not think Prince Doran will believe that anyone else was responsible for her death, nor will those in the realm sympathetic to Viserys' claim forgive you for his death either. You are not a kinslayer, but it does not matter if everyone thinks you a kinslayer."

Aegon looked at the master of whispers, discomfited. "Where is this going, Lord Varys?"

"There is something you must know - something that I have worked hard to conceal. Once you are aware of it, you may decide how to deal with it. The choice is entirely yours, Your Grace.” Aegon found himself uneasy. A chill crept up his spine.

“What is it, Varys?" Aegon asked. The chill deepened, like the first touch of winter on an unsuspecting land.

Varys took a deep breath, his usually composed demeanor faltering for a split second. "The truth, Your Grace, is a heavy burden. Sometimes it can crush a man before he ever has a chance to wield it. But you are strong, and you must be prepared for what is to come."

Aegon rose from his seat, pacing the chamber with restless energy. "Spare me the riddles. If there's something I need to know, then tell me."

"Your father's bastard and your sister are not the only threat you face," Varys said slowly. "Nor are they the most immediate. Nor are the Lannisters."

Aegon stopped in his tracks, turning to face Varys with narrowed eyes. "Who else could there be? You mean the Greyjoy rebel? He is miles away and will be dealt with in time."

"Euron Greyjoy is a concern, yes, but not the one I speak of," Varys interrupted gently. "The true threat lies closer to home. Closer than you might ever imagine."

Aegon’s mind raced. Who else could pose such an immediate danger? The Tyrells? The remains of Stannis' forces? He thought of Margaery and his heart sank for a moment.

"Out with it, Varys," Aegon demanded, his patience wearing thin. "I will not play this game with you."

"The truth, Your Grace, is that the greatest threat to your reign... is yourself." Varys let the words hang in the air like a noose.

Aegon stared at him, dumbfounded. "What nonsense is this?"

“I have a long tale to tell, and I will say it only once for now. You must listen closely,” Varys said. “During the rebellion, when Princess Elia begged my assistance in smuggling you and your sister from the Red Keep, I initially thought to refuse.

Aegon’s anger flared. "You thought to refuse? Varys, you said—"

"I said I thought to refuse," Varys cut in, his tone still unerringly calm. "But I did not refuse. Instead, I devised a plan. A plan to save not just you, but the future of the realm. To save… us."

Aegon’s mind snagged on that last word: us. He took a step closer to Varys, searching the man's inscrutable face for answers.

"Go on," Aegon said, though part of him didn't want to hear what came next.

"We smuggled you out and replaced you with another infant, as we did with Rhaenys," Varys continued. "A child with your features, marked in the same way. His hair was a little more blonde, if I remember, but at that age it hardly mattered. After the birth, Princess Elia was far too stricken with ailments to ever present her child at court save once. The Lannisters believed they killed the true Aegon, but it was our changelings who perished."

"You told me this already," Aegon said, his frustration mounting. "You saved me so why do you now speak as if it were otherwise?"

Varys sighed, a long, heavy sound of a man burdened by secrets too large to carry alone. "Because, Aegon, the time has come for you to understand the full truth. Once both of Elia’s children were across the sea, and news reached us of the death of all the Targaryens save Viserys and Daenerys, I put my plan into motion. Nothing needed to be done for Princess Rhaenys, but you were the last hope of our house.”

“I was not,” Aegon said. “You had Viserys as a fallback.”

“No,” Varys said with a smile. “Viserys was no fallback at all. You, Aegon, are it.” He stepped forward, inching closer to Aegon. “After the death of Maelys the Monstrous, it was commonly believed that all the Blackfyres were dead. This was true - of the main line. But Daemon Blackfyre, the one whose head Maelys wrenched off before embarking on his ill-fated conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, had two young children - a girl and a boy, both infants in when Maelys killed their father in 258 after the conquest. They were both sold into slavery. The boy was castrated, but the girl went on to be freed, and married a magister of Pentos. She bore him a child born just before the rebellion, but she herself tragically died in childbirth.”

Aegon stepped back, mind reeling. No, no… it cannot be, he thought.

“Once I had Rhaenys and Aegon across the Narrow Sea, I realized how closely the son of Daemon’s daughter resembled him. I had no choice, you see. I was the castrated brother, and my nephew was all that I had left of my house. So I tossed Aegon Targaryen into the sea and raised my nephew as him. You, my boy, are that child. You are not a Targaryen. You never have been. Yes, your name is Aegon, but your mother was not Elia. Your mother was Serra, daughter of Daemon, son of Haegon, son of Daemon Blackfyre, First of His Name.

Aegon stood frozen, his thoughts a maelstrom. Every word Varys spoke crashed against the walls of his mind, threatening to collapse the very foundation of his identity.

"You expect me to believe this?" Aegon said at last, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. "That I am a Blackfyre? That you are my true kin? These are lies… you are a servant of Tywin, yes, speaking lies.” He looked around for his sword, wildly. “You lie!” he shouted.

Varys did not flinch at Aegon's outburst. His calmness, his unyielding serenity, only served to infuriate Aegon more.

"Think what you will," Varys said softly. "But I have no reason to lie to you now. The Golden Company sided with you knowing who you are, who you truly are, because I told Captain Strickland. The Lannisters have surrendered, Rhaegar's bastard is running away with his home under siege, and you sit poised to reclaim the throne. Everything I have done was to prepare you for this moment."

Aegon's anger simmered just beneath the surface, his hands trembling with the urge to strike something, anything, to release the torrent of emotions that threatened to consume him. "Prepare me?" he spat. "You mean manipulate me. You claim that you made me believe I was one thing when I was another all along. If what you say is true, then my whole life has been a lie."

"No," Varys said, shaking his head slowly. "Your life has been exactly what it needed to be. The name may be different, but the blood is the same. Whether as a Targaryen or a Blackfyre, you are still a dragon. The choices before you remain unchanged."

Aegon turned away, staring out the narrow window of the chamber. The city stretched below him, a sprawling beast of stone and flesh. His city now—or so he had thought. Could he still claim it with this new knowledge? Did he even want to?

"I gave you every advantage because I believed in you," Varys continued. "The education, the training, the support of influential magnates—all of it was to forge you into a ruler who could withstand the trials ahead. A ruler who could bring stability to a fractured realm."

Aegon closed his eyes, trying to shut out Varys's words, trying to shut out the world. He remembered his childhood in Essos, the harsh lessons, the constant fear of discovery. He had endured it all because he believed he was fulfilling a destiny that was rightfully his. Now that belief was crumbling, and with it, everything that had sustained him.

"Why tell me this story now?" Aegon asked, not turning around.

"For three reasons. One, because I have finally seen a Blackfyre ascend the Iron Throne, and after a lifetime of holding my tongue until the opportune moment, I am allowed this one folly. And second, because a king must rule with knowledge and understanding, not with illusions," Varys said. "The third reason is that Dorne is now beyond your grasp. Prince Doran will never bend the knee, not unless we capture Prince Oberyn or Prince Quentyn, who may still be alive and with the bastard. The Tyrells can be made to support you regardless - you need only tell them the truth once you have wed Margaery Tyrell in Baelor's Sept. No one will call a Blackfyre a kinslayer. Minstrels will sing - of their volition, or because of some well placed coin - of how you avenged Daemon Blackfyre, of how the true line of dragons took what should have always been theirs. The truth can be painful, but it is also powerful. You needed to know who you are, so you can make the choices that lie ahead with clear eyes. The throne is in your grasp, Aegon. Will you take it and conceal the truth, or reveal yourself to the world?"

Aegon turned back to Varys, a horrid realization dawning on him. "This is why you and the magister intended to sell Rhaenys to the horselord. She wasn't my sister. You never cared for her. They were ready to sacrifice their lives for me, thinking I was their brother." He felt a churning in his stomach. He had cared so little even then. Part of him wanted to blame the Spider, the magister, for convincing him, for convincing Rhaenys and Daenerys that it was necessary...

“It was a necessary thing,” Varys admitted. “You would have gained armies, and at no real personal cost to you. She is not your sister. I had intended to marry you to Daenerys, so that there would be no question to your birth, and so the Targaryen blood would once more be subsumed into House Blackfyre, but that is out of the question now. Remember, Aegon, the game of thrones is not won solely through lineage or even loyalty. It is won through alliances and the careful balance of power."

Aegon clutched at the side of his desk for support. “Get out,” he gritted through his teeth. All his struggles, all his battles and losses, now felt in pursuit of a lie. Anger and betrayal roiled within him. He wanted to lash out, to strike Varys down for his deception. But the Spider's demeanor remained infuriatingly calm. The bald eunuch simply nodded, seemingly unperturbed by Aegon's anger. "As you wish, Your Grace." He turned and made his way to the door. Before exiting, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. "One final thought - the name Blackfyre may carry a certain weight in your mind, but it is the actions you take from this point forward that will shape your legacy - and the legacy of the Blackfyres. The choice is yours."

With that, Varys slipped out, leaving Aegon alone with his turmoil. The young king sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands as the revelations threatened to overwhelm him. His entire life had been a meticulously crafted fiction. The Targaryen name, his supposed birthright, his very identity - all lies perpetrated by the eunuch he had trusted. Some part of him wanted to scream and rage against the lie, but there was a horrid, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him otherwise.

Fury burned within him, an all-consuming rage he could no longer rein in. It erupted, and he began to destroy whatever he could get his hands on. Ornaments, furniture, tapestries - nothing was spared from his wrath.

When the storm passed, Aegon sank to the floor amidst the wreckage, emotionally and physically spent, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

JON

If the way the men looked at him was any indication, they may as well have thought him half a god. He was not so sure of his own divinity. Dragon or not, he still felt made of flesh.

That same white dragon now perched on his shoulder. Jon watched it cling to him like a child to mother as he gently shifted in the saddle, side to side with each forward movement of his horse. It was an eerie thing to others, the dragon, and to Jon oddly familiar, as though he'd known it longer than the few days since its hatching. It was small as a cat yet undeniably a creature of fire and blood, for it radiated heat in the cool evenings. Its pale scales shimmered like fresh-fallen snow under the morning sun, and its eyes—red as the embers of a dying hearth—followed every movement with a child-like curiosity.

Rhaenys cooed at the dragon, and the little creature tentatively clawed its way over from Jon’s shoulder to his other, closer to his wife. Jon held out his arm, and the dragon traveled down it all the way over to Rhaenys’ hand, from where she sat astride her own horse. Rhaenys placed the dragon in her saddle, where it curled up by her body.

The warmth of the dragon pressed against her side as it settled. Rhaenys smiled softly, though her dark violet eyes held an unspoken tension as she looked over at Jon. She reached out to touch his hand briefly, her fingers brushing against his gloved ones. “You’ve been quiet,” she said, her voice low enough not to carry to the dozen men riding behind them.

Jon didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the hills rolled away into a blur of mist and possibility. “I'm thinking,” he said finally, his tone clipped and distant, moreso than he wanted it to be.

“I know. But your thoughts are not a burden for you to carry alone. I'm with you in this, remember?” she pressed.

Jon exhaled a sigh, long and weighted. His hand tightened around the reins as if gripping the answers he sought. The white dragon stirred briefly at Rhaenys's side, its ember-red eyes flicking up to him with an almost knowing look before settling back down.

"I know," he said softly. “I would tell you, but the truth is that my own thoughts are as muddied to me as they would be to you. I know not where one begins and ends. There is a weight to a crown that I didn't wish to bear.” He paused. “Viserys was stronger than he seemed.”

“Far stronger than he let on,” Rhaenys agreed. With a gentle chuckle, she seemed to recall a fond memory. "Viserys could be arrogant, but sometimes that arrogance had a way of projecting itself as confident strength. He had his doubts. And strength isn't measured only by how quietly one endures, my love.”

“It feels as though I'm grappling with everything. Every choice feels illusory, and it's as though I'm on a path I can't deviate from, no matter how much I wish to," Jon sighed. "The choice seems pre-made for me, Rhaenys. Every step forward feels like sinking deeper into quicksand. There are enemies at all sides.”

Rhaenys reached out again and clasped his hand more firmly this time. "We will make it past this. Why else would the dragon have come to us now, in this hour? It is a sign, Jon. The rebirth of the sigil of our house."

Jon turned to look at her then, his grey eyes meeting her violet ones, as cold stone might meet a flame. She was fierce in her resolve, and it buoyed him. He couldn’t help but wonder if Rhaenys saw in him the same strength she believed he had—or if she spoke in hope rather than certainty.

Before he could respond, a shout from down the column broke their conversation.

"Your Grace!" A rider spurred forward from the front of their column—a lean man with a haggard face darkened by travel and worry. "A runner has come from Harroway. Lord Roote’s castellan sends word."

Jon's jaw tightened. “What news?”

The rider dismounted hastily, his boots crunching against the frost-laden earth. His breath billowed in clouds before him as he stepped closer, clutching a rolled parchment bound with the seal of House Roote. He knelt and held it aloft. "Grave tidings, Your Grace. Lord Bolton and the remainder of the Northern army awaits you on the other side of the river. But Lord Bolton's scouts have sent word of an army marching down the High Road towards the Crossroads. Arryn banners."

Jon took the parchment from the man’s outstretched hand, his gloved fingers quick and steady despite the rising trepidation in his chest. He broke the seal with a practiced motion, unrolling the message to read its contents. Rhaenys leaned closer, her presence a steadying tether as his eyes scanned the words.

Rhaenys' grip on his arm tightened. "The Vale? Do they mean to aid or hinder?"

Jon handed the parchment to her silently. His face felt leaden. The weight of dread pressed heavily on his shoulders. “Send for Lady Catelyn and Lord Robb. I need to speak to them.”

The rider inclined his head before hurrying back to his mount, spurring it into a gallop toward the rear of the column where Lady Catelyn and Robb traveled. Jon watched him ride away, his thoughts already shifting toward the worst-case scenarios. The Arryns’s - Lady Catelyn’s kin through her sister—had stayed on their high perch in the Eyrie for the whole war, detached from all goings on. Their movement now was not without reason. But was it friendship or war they carried south with their banners?

Rhaenys worried her lip with her teeth. “Jon,” she said softly. “If they march against us...”

“They won't,” he interrupted, though his tone lacked conviction. “They shouldn’t.”

“And yet they come.” Her violet eyes burned into him as if willing him to face the possibility he did not want to name. “The Arryns have been silent for too long. Lysa Arryn may be kin to the Starks, but that doesn't mean she owes you loyalty. That she acts now bodes ill.”

Jon rubbed a hand over his face, his leather glove scratching against the growing stubble on his jaw. She was right—of course, she was right. But Jon clung to the thread of hope that perhaps her silence all this time had not meant opposition but indifference. Indifference was irritating, but not an active detriment. This...

“Whatever their purpose,” he said after a long pause, “we have no choice but to meet it head-on.”

Rhaenys tilted her head slightly. “Can we win another battle?”

Jon's gaze dropped to the muddy ground beneath his horse's hooves, as if the earth itself might yield some hidden answer. The question lingered in the air between them, a phantom of doubt neither dared exorcise too soon. Another battle—could they win it? It was not just a matter of swords and shields; it was hearts, spirits, food stores dwindling by the day, and morale fraying at the edges like a worn carpet. The men might have thought him a god but he knew better. He was no god if he did not fill hungry bellies and mend worn boots. "We'll have to," he said finally, his voice low. "There is no other choice."

Rhaenys said nothing, though her hand remained on his arm. It was a comfort. The white dragon at her side chirped softly, a fragile little sound. The cool wind shifted as they crested a hill thick with trees, their branches rattling like bones. Below stretched a shallow valley where the rest of Jon’s forces - the army under Lord Bolton’s command, that had been harrying the Westerlands, were encamped—a sea of tents grayed by smoke curling from cookfires too weak to warm even a soldier’s boots. Men scrambled about like restless ants. He didn’t need to be told that morale was thinning even among Lord Bolton's men, who were not lessened greatly in number from when Jon sent him west. Whatever goodwill the news of the birth of the dragon had bought was beginning to dissipate. Fewer songs were sung now around the fires; fewer cups raised in defiance of death. Too many friends had been buried beneath hastily piled mounds of dirt.

Robb and Lady Catelyn joined them as they rode through the encampment. Lord Bolton was among the first to meet them, and so Jon summoned Domeric to accompany him.

Inside Lord Bolton’s tent, Lady Catelyn stood weary, her auburn hair streaked with silver - streaks that did not exist moons ago. Robb remained at her side, along with all the northern lords of import.

“My king,” Bolton greeted him with his trademark softness. He knelt, as did all the other lords that had been part of his detachment. “My queen. My condolences for the loss of King Viserys.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Rhaenys said quietly. The white dragon perched atop her shoulder now. Jon observed it quietly, and then scanned Lord Bolton’s face for any reaction. Some of the Northern lords who had yet to see the dragon gazed at it mouths agape, in wonder.

Lord Bolton’s pale eyes flicked upward, lingering on the creature for only a moment before returning to Jon’s face. If he was awed or unnerved by the presence of the dragon, he gave no sign, his expression as calm and unreadable as fresh snow. “It seems the Targaryen legacy endures in you, Your Grace,” he murmured, his voice silk-soft and cutting.

“It does, and it will continue to endure so long as we stand united, my lord," Jon replied.

“The matter of unity is precisely what concerns us all at this moment,” Lady Catelyn said then, her voice steady but grim. She stepped forward, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if holding herself together. “We received your missive on the road, my lord. This news is troubling, to say the least. I have not heard from Lysa at all...”

Robb folded his arms across his chest. “If the Arryns come down from the Vale with their banners raised in war,” he said gravely, “we’ll have no choice but to meet them. Mother, is there any way to get a message to Aunt Lysa, to see what this really is all about?”

Catelyn shook her head. “Perhaps we could meet for parley, but aside from that, no. The Eyrie is too far... and I do not think a raven would make it back in time."

“Can we expect the support of the Riverlords, if we need give battle?” Robett Glover asked.

"I have released them from the army for now. I would not leave our foothold south of the Neck unguarded,” Jon said, “Nor can I ask them to abandon their homes when Aegon’s armies could ride north at any moment.” Jon walked over to the table, where a map lay unfurled. “The Arryn force comes down the High Road. That will bring them to our east should we cross here and make for the crossroads. The land will favor them as they march south, but if they mean to give battle, I would pick a field where they are at the disadvantage.”

“If I may, Your Grace,” Roose Bolton said. “The land by Nutten near the end of the High Road is low and marshy. The Arryn knights will struggle to maneuver there. A force that relies on lighter infantry and cavalry—such as ours—will find the advantage.”

Jon traced the map with his gloved hand, his brow furrowed in thought. “Nutten's fields are ringed by forest, are they not? If we could force them into that bottleneck…”

“They’d be like fish in a barrel,” Robb finished.

“The trouble,” interjected Glover, “is that Bronze Yohn and many of the Vale’s commanders are no fools. They’ll not march blindly into an obvious trap, which this is.”

“True,” Jon said, his voice calm though his mind raced. His finger hovered over the map, skirting past Nutten to the surrounding terrain. “But if they’re given no choice…”

Robett Glover’s bushy brows arched faintly, his interest piqued. “You mean to herd them?”

“Lure them,” Jon replied. He straightened and glanced around the tent, seeing both wariness and curiosity in the eyes of his counsel. “The Vale lords are proud. They will not retreat once committed, not if it risks dishonor or shaming their banners before other kingdoms’ eyes. We must make Nutten appear too attractive to pass up.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” asked the Greatjon, arms crossed as he leaned closer to study the map.

“I believe His Grace suggests bait,” Robb said suddenly, his voice clear and decisive. The two brothers exchanged a glance, and Jon knew that his mind had been read. Robb was good at it. All eyes turned to him now as he moved to stand beside Jon. “We send a sortie ahead near the High Road—small enough to seem vulnerable but substantial enough that their destruction would feel like a victory.”

Ser Wylis frowned. “A sacrificial force, my lord?”

“No,” Robb corrected sharply. “We choose our bait well—riders who can feign defeat convincingly and retreat swiftly. When the Arryns pursue, we collapse around them.”

“They’ll sense a trap,” Ser Wylis countered.

“Not if I’m there,” Jon said. A chill quiet settled over the tent.

Rhaenys turned to him sharply, her violet eyes flashing with alarm, but Jon forged ahead. “We need them to believe the bait is genuine. If their scouts see me leading the men, they’ll think we are desperate, scrambling. The King himself fleeing before the might of the Vale? That will embolden them.”

He moved to the other side of the map. “Robb commands the main force hidden along Nutten’s forests. Lord Bolton will take all our horse save for those with me north to secure our retreat—the sight of him withdrawing will only add to the illusion of collapse. Lord Bolton - I want you to make it appear as though there is division in our ranks, that the North means to abandon me to my fate. They will think you intend a broken retreat North.” He turned to Robb with an intensity that brooked no argument. “You’ll follow through only when you have clear confirmation they’ve committed to pursuit. They must be deep in the fields. I want archers and crossbowmen in crossfire patterns. The Arryn knights ought to drown in mud and blood and a hail of bolts and arrows."

"And what of their flanks?" Roose Bolton asked. His pale eyes flicked toward the map once more. "Royce is seasoned. He'll send skirmishers through the surrounding hills to scout for ambushes or outmaneuver us."

Jon met Bolton’s gaze unflinchingly. “That’s where your horse come in, my lord. Once the Arryns commit to pursuing me into the lowlands, I want you and your men to turn about back down the road and sweep through the hills and cut off any flankers and pickets. Isolate their main host from reinforcements, and take their rear. We'll entrap them on all sides. They'll be caught in the mud with little better to do than die.”

Bolton’s lips curled upward briefly in that unsettling smile that sent a ripple of discomfort through the tent. “As you command, Your Grace. I shall ensure the Vale’s scouts have no tales to tell of what is to come.”

Robett Glover grunted thoughtfully, tracing Nutten’s fields with a calloused finger. “And if they do see through our bait?”

“Then we adapt,” Jon said firmly, straightening his spine. “But we won’t give them that chance. Timing is everything. They must be lured deep enough that turning back becomes impossible before they realize their error. If we can bring their heavy horse in, they will not abandon them to die in the field.”

“You’re staking much on this gambit, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan advised. “If Bronze Yohn, or Lord Redfort, or whoever commands the Arryn host does not behave as predicted—if even one piece of this plan stumbles—it could unravel.”

“Ser Barristan, can we beat them in a straight battle?” Jon asked searchingly. “Do we have other options?”

The knight looked down, chastised. “No, Your Grace. Not without grievous losses. The knights of the Vale fight with honor, but their numbers and discipline would break us in open combat.” He sighed, his weathered face heavy with experience. “Your plan is a risk, but it may be our only choice.”

Jon nodded. “Then we move swiftly. The Vale’s pride will be their undoing, but only if we’re precise. Ser Bran will prepare his riders at first light— Lord Robb will secure the forests by the muddy field and ensure our forces are in position to spring our trap by the time they reach Nutten.”

“Do you have anything to ask of me, Your Grace?” Lady Catelyn asked softly, her voice steady despite the worry etched into her features.

“My lady, I must impart a task of utmost importance to you,” Jon said. He had wished to avoid this, but there was no other choice that would strengthen his deception as much. “I need you to present yourself to the Arryn host. I cannot go myself. It must appear to them that we don't suspect any sort of treachery. I would have you greet them as though we expect their aid in our wars. If that's indeed their intent, I welcome them with open arms. But should you become aware that they plan otherwise… ride back immediately. I know I ask a great deal of you, but Lady Lysa is your kin.”

Lady Catelyn’s lips drew tight into a thin line. “I understand, Your Grace. I will go.”

Jon inclined his head in gratitude. “Your courage is not unnoted, my lady. I don't wish to put you in harm’s way nor do I want for your captivity as with the Tyrells. Return safely.”

"And I will accompany her, as will my riders," added Prince Oberyn firmly. Quentyn nodded in affirmation alongside his uncle.

Rhaenys shifted restlessly at the edge of the table, her hands clasped behind her back. When she spoke, her tone was clipped. “And who stands as your shadow on the field while you dangle yourself as bait? Do not think to take such a risk without protection. W hen knights bear down on you with lance and fury, you will need it,” Her violet eyes bore into his grey ones, unflinching.

Jon regarded her for a long moment but said nothing. It was Robett Glover who broke the tension, his rough laugh cutting through the charged silence like an axe to kindling. “The queen speaks sense if you ask me. Bad enough we’re riding into the teeth of the Vale knights; no need for our king to face them alone with only a few outriders and Ser Bran, brave though the young wolf might be.”

“I’ll go with him,” Domeric said. “And perhaps an honor guard. Proper Northern warriors with Ser Bran’s outriders.” Jon nodded to him. He did not believe that Bolton was planning treachery, but he did feel better knowing that Bolton's temptation to take the Northern horse and simply abandon them in the field would plummet. They had gone a long time without conversing with Bolton, and now he felt unsure of his footing with the silent lord.

“I will go with the King as well,” Asha Greyjoy said. She stood at the corner of the tent, not speaking a word until now. "Seems like fun."

“Then it’s settled. The King will have his protection, and his force will appear sizeable enough to lure the knights of the Vale in.” Robb cut in, as if he feared Jon and Rhaenys would argue more. His voice carried the steady authority of the Warden of the North, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease as they darted between Jon and Rhaenys. Jon’s lips pursed, and he cast a quick glance at his wife. Rhaenys was incensed, though she did not move to speak against him. She would not, not in front of his lords. Her ire was yet to come, and it would come heavy upon him.

It came then after, in the privacy their tent, at night.

The candles burned low, their flickering light casting restless shadows along the walls of the tent. Rhaenys stood by the fur-draped bed, her back to Jon as she unfastened the clasps of her cloak with sharp, jerking movements. She was silent, but her silence was a storm waiting to break.

Jon watched her from his place near the brazier, his hands clasped behind his back. He could feel the tension radiating off her like an unrelenting winter wind. He knew the words that would come, and he steeled himself against them, though he did not relish what would follow.

Finally, she turned to face him, her violet eyes aflame with barely-restrained fury. “You mean to martyr yourself,” she said flatly, her voice laced with venom. “Is that it?”

“That is not what this is,” Jon replied evenly, though there was a flicker of weariness in his tone. “It is strategy.”

“Strategy?” she repeated, the word bitter on her tongue. “Strategy that places you in the line of their charge? Strategy that leaves me to wonder if I’ll next see your body broken and shattered and in a pool of your own blood?”

“And what would you have me do, Rhaenys?” Jon shot back, his calm fraying as her words cut deeper than he had expected. “Would you have me hide behind the lines? To sit in safety while others bleed and die for my cause? While our cause is decided without me?”

“I would have you live, you fool!” Rhaenys stepped closer, her fists clenched at her sides, trembling with fury. “You’re a king, yes. But you are also a husband—a father. Do you think I want to explain to our child why their father rode to his death like some reckless idiot boy playing with swords for the first time?”

Her voice cracked, and in that moment, the flames of her anger flickered to reveal the raw fear beneath it. She collapsed onto their bed and broke down into body-wracking sobs. Jon’s resolve faltered. He took a step toward her but stopped short, unsure if she would strike him or break.

Jon exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air of their tent. He stood frozen for a moment, torn between the gravity of duty and the weight of her anguish. He wanted to go to her, to wrap his arms around her trembling frame and assure her that all would be well, but he knew she would not accept hollow promises. Not now. She had always been fire, where he was ice. He had seen her stand unflinching against enemies. He had watched her command respect in council chambers with a sharp tongue and unyielding will. Now she was unraveled, and Jon felt unmoored without her strength.

"We do not get to pick the paths we walk," Jon said softly, his deep voice carrying across the space between them like a whisper carried by the wind. "I am the King, and not by my own choice. A King must lead; he must show his people that he does not fear what they fear. They are close to breaking, Rhaenys. I cannot let that happen."

Rhaenys lifted her head then, her tear-streaked face defiant even as her breathing came in shuddering gasps.

"And what of me, Jon?" she demanded, her voice a raw mixture of anger and despair. "What of our child? What of the people who love you—not as a king, but as a man? Do you think your death would lead them anywhere but ruin?"

He moved toward her then, cautiously, as one might approach a wounded animal. He knelt before her where she sat on the edge of their bed, taking her trembling hands in his own.

"I do not want to die," Jon said quietly.

She yanked her hands away as if burned, standing swiftly and turning her back to him once more. Her voice carried fire again when she spoke, though the tremor beneath it betrayed her lingering fear.

"From the day we met, you’ve had the look of a man who sees himself as a shield for others but never spares a thought for what happens when that shield shatters."

“Would you have loved me if I was any different?” Jon asked.

She could not meet his gaze then. Her silence was answer enough.

“It kills me,” she croaked, “that I cannot ride to your aid when you might need me. I can fight. With spear or sword. I am no wilting flower. It is this helplessness that I cannot stand.”

“I know,” Jon said softly. “I know you’re braver and fiercer than half the men who ride under my banner. But this… this I must do alone.” He rose to his feet as if the act might steady him, though his shoulders bore the burden of her anguish. “Not because I doubt your strength, Rhaenys, or your skill, but because if I bring you into this… I put more than myself at risk. I would sooner cut my own heart from my chest than see an arrow pierce yours.”

Her back was to him still, her head tilted slightly downward as if fighting to keep her emotions at bay. The silence between them stretched thin, pulling taut like a bowstring, threatening to snap.

“Don’t die,” she said quietly, turning to face him. Her face was red and streaked with tears. “Please.”

CATELYN

The next morning she rode up the High Road.

A light morning frost clung stubbornly to the ground, crunching beneath the hooves of her mount as Lady Catelyn Stark urged her mare onward. The cold bit at her cheeks, though it was not enough to drive away the fire smoldering deep within her. The air was sharp and still, the kind of quiet that foreshadowed a storm, though whether it would come from the heavens or from men, she could not yet tell.

She tightened her grip on the reins, her eyes scanning the rugged landscape ahead. The High Road wound through the mountains like a silver thread, treacherous and unyielding. She had traveled it before and knew its dangers well from Uncle Brynden - rockslides, bandits, and the never-ending wind. Yet none of it gave her pause now. The thought of her uncle's death still lingered in her marrow, another ache to go by the loss of Ned and the fear that rooted in her chest for her daughters and Rickon in the North.

Her escort rode behind her, a small column of men sworn to Sunspear, and Princes Oberyn and Quentyn aside from her.

Catelyn did not look back at them. Her focus remained fixed on the path ahead. It was sometime before midday when the Arryn banners appeared ahead, cresting over a hill as they marched down. She uttered a quick prayer to the Gods before riding towards the Valemen; rehearsing her lines. She knew that she needed to act as though the loyalty of the Vale was already presupposed. She did not carry a white standard of parley. To do so would have revealed their hand, that they suspected treachery. She felt naked without its protection, but it was only a banner. After the treachery displayed by the Tyrells, she was not sure she could trust in the foundations of their world. All honor and decency was now gone, and there was only bloodshed.

A contingent of Vale knights rode forward. There were Arryn banners, but also those of House Royce, Waynwood, Redfort… and Baelish? Surprise coiled in her chest. What were Petyr’s banners doing at the forefront?

Catelyn straightened in her saddle, squaring her shoulders as the riders drew closer. As they approached within speaking distance, the lead rider raised a hand to signal a halt. It was not Lord Yohn Royce or a knight with the hardened visage of battle—it was Petyr himself, cloaked in rich velvets and fur that looked near untouched by travel or hardship. She blinked in surprise, hardly believing her own eyes.

“Lady Catelyn Stark,” he greeted warmly as if they were old friends meeting at a feast instead of adversaries on an uncertain battlefield. “It does me good to see you.” Catelyn brought her horse to a stop, and Prince Oberyn was right behind her. She scanned the faces of the Valeman contingent. She recognized Lord Royce, tall and strong even in his advanced age with his bronze armor, and Lord Redfort, whom she had met during a visit to the Eyrie many years ago. There was a Waynwood knight that she did not recognize, as well as knights and lords in other liveries - Corbray, Templeton, Grafton.

“Petyr,” Catelyn replied. Her fingers tightened on the reins of her horse, betraying the unease she kept from her face. Petyr had been part of Robert's council. He had been there when her husband had been captured and executed... and he did nothing to stop it. “It has been some time.”

Petyr’s mouth curved into a soft smile, one that did not reach his eyes. “Far too long, my lady.”

“The last I heard you were in King’s Landing, on the small council of Robert Baratheon, the same small council that sat by as my lord husband was killed on the orders of a Lannister pretender bastard,” she said flatly, unable to hold the accusation. “And now I find you leading my nephew’s army to answer the summons of your rightful King, Aemon Targaryen, First of his Name. What am I to make of this?” She peered at the Valemen lords, to see if she could gauge a reaction from their faces.

Petyr inclined his head, humbly. “I serve the Vale, as I always have. And the Vale serves its Warden of the East, Lord Robert Arryn, your nephew and my charge. Where Robert commands, we follow.”

“He is a child,” she snapped, her knuckles white against the reins. “Do not insult me by pretending this is his command. Where is my sister?”

Petyr’s smile faltered for just a moment, the faintest crack in his mask. The Valemen behind him seemed ashamed. “Lady Arryn…” Lord Royce began. “I am sorry, my lady. Your sister… there was an accident. She fell from the Moon Door in the Eyrie.”

Catelyn’s breath caught, the cold air burning her lungs as she stared at Yohn Royce. “An accident?” The words came out brittle, splintering under their own weight. She felt something terrible rear its head in her belly.

“She fell?” Prince Oberyn's gruff voice cut through like a blade, the Viper urging his horse forward. His eyes were hard, glinting with suspicion as they fixed on Petyr.

Petyr stiffened ever so slightly, though he quickly masked it with a solemn expression, hand pressed to his heart. “It grieves me to say that Lysa… she was troubled in her final days. The strain of ruling without Lord Arryn, in Lord Robert’s stead, weighed heavily upon her. Her fears consumed her.”

“Her fears,” Catelyn echoed bitterly, feeling her stomach churn with dread. She shook her head. “But that does not explain your presence here instead of the capital with the bastard Joffrey, or your place at the head of this host, my lord.”

“Lysa and I were married,” Petyr said. His voice carried a tone of confusion, as though this ought to have been common knowledge. "We had been for some time. She and I together ruled in Lord Robert’s name. Since her passing, that duty has fallen to me - as aggrieved as I am at the loss of my lady wife, I must discharge it. It is what Lysa would have wanted. The lords of the Vale are in support of me. We have sat on the sidelines of this war for far too long.”

Catelyn cleared her throat. No matter how in disarray her thoughts were, she had a part to play. “Then your King commands you, Petyr,” she said, her voice cutting through the chill like steel through flesh. “Your King commands you to march to his banner. Aemon Targaryen calls.”

Her words hung in the air, the silent throng of knights and lords watching her with expressions varying from wariness to quiet respect. Petyr tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

“Aemon Targaryen…” he began. She bristled. She did not like where this was going. “I do have a missive from the King, Catelyn, but it is not from Aemon Targaryen. As far as I can tell, Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name, is the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. And he has ordered me to apprehend the traitor Jon Snow and the wayward Princess Rhaenys before this rebellion goes on any further. Prince Viserys is dead. It is over. Surrender - the King has offered generous terms.”

A cold wind whipped across the valley. To Catelyn, it felt like death. She stared at Petyr, her face unmoving though her heart was hammering in her chest. Her mind raced as she processed his words, trying to stave off the creeping despair seeping into her bones.

Behind her, Prince Oberyn let out a disgusted grunt, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. "Generous terms?" he spat, his voice low and sharp as flint. "I know enough to recognize poison when it's offered."

Petyr's expression remained maddeningly calm, though there was a flicker of amusement in his pale green eyes. "The terms are not mine, Prince Oberyn," he said smoothly. "They are the King's. And even a Stark would do well to consider them. They are quite generous. Our King does not demand heads. He would offer a pardon to the Starks and Martells, amnesty to the Tullys, given certain concessions, support against the Greyjoys who now invade the North, and even generous terms to this Jon Snow - the Black, and the Wall, not his head."

Catelyn forced herself to keep steady. “And what has Aegon Targaryen offered you?”

Petyr's expression shifted, just slightly, like a shadow passing over his face. “I am but a humble servant of the realm,” he replied, his voice apparently sincere. “What I do, I do for the Vale and for peace. War is a dirty business, Catelyn. Surely you see the wisdom in ending it swiftly, with as little bloodshed as possible.”

Catelyn’s fingers tightened around the reins once more. Her horse shuffled nervously beneath her, sensing her turmoil. “Peace?” she repeated, her voice clipped and disbelieving. “You speak of peace while standing at the head of an army you have no right to command—after usurping power in the Vale and my sister’s death.”

Petyr sighed as though he were wearied by her accusations. “Your grief blinds you, my lady,” he said quietly, almost gently. “I loved your sister dearly. Her loss weighs heavily on my heart.”

“Spare me your lies,” Catelyn snapped. She leaned forward in the saddle now, her blue eyes burning with an intensity she had not felt in years. “You think yourself clever, playing both sides of this war, whispering poison into lords’ ears while planting your seeds of chaos. But do not mistake me for a fool or a frightened sister sitting idle in the Eyrie. My husband died and you did nothing."

Her voice rang clear across the valley now, loud enough for all gathered to hear. Lords Royce and Redfort exchanged uneasy glances. “I have not forgiven what happened to my husband in King’s Landing. You served a different king then, and a different king now. I do not trust your words. I came here to relay King Aemon’s commands only to find that you have turned traitor and sworn yourselves to Aegon.” She turned to the Prince. “Ride hard, Prince Oberyn,” she whispered sharply. “Now. They will try to take us, I am sure of it.”

Prince Oberyn's eyes narrowed. "I am loathe to abandon you."

"You are not abandoning me," she assured him, braver than she felt. "But if your niece and the King are to survive what is coming, you must get word to them." At that, Prince Oberyn wasted no time, wheeling his horse around with the practiced ease of a seasoned warrior. His weathered face betrayed no hesitation, only grim determination. "Take care, my lady," he growled under his breath, spurring his mount into a gallop down the ridge. The Viper and his riders carved a path through their own lines, the sound of hooves thundering like distant drums as they disappeared into the valley below.

Catelyn turned back to Petyr, her fingers curling tightly around the reins as her heart raced. She saw it then—the predatory gleam in his eyes, the subtle curl of his lips. He knew what she had done, but he made no immediate move to counter it. Instead, he studied her in that unnervingly calculating way of his, as though weighing every possible outcome against some grand design only he could see.

"My lords," Petyr addressed the assembled knights of the Vale without breaking eye contact with Catelyn, "it seems Lady Stark does not understand the position she finds herself in." He gestured almost lazily to Yohn Royce. "For her own protection, we should see to her safety. The King does not want her harmed, nor does Lord Robert wish to see his aunt come to danger."

Lord Royce hesitated, his broad frame frozen in the saddle. She saw it then, the briefest whisper of indecision and shame. Catelyn latched on to that moment of doubt like a drowning woman grasping at driftwood.

"You call yourself a man of honor, Yohn Royce!" Her voice rang out sharp and clear above the gathering tension. "Do you not remember your oaths to the realm, to justice, to truth? You would hold me against my will while the rightful king calls us to war? Aegon Targaryen's terms are naught but shackles bound in silk!"

The gathered knights stirred uneasily, some shifting their weight in their saddles, others casting wary glances at Lord Royce. Catelyn could see the conflict in Yohn's eyes—the honor clashing with the practicality of survival. For all his stalwart reputation, his silence gnawed at her hopes. Then he spoke. “I am sworn to my lord Arryn, Lady Stark. And he has sworn to King Aegon. Please do not be unreasonable. You and your guards will be afforded every courtesy.”

The hope vanished from her heart, and she felt the crushing weight of inevitability settle upon her chest. But even as despair threatened to drown her, Catelyn Stark knew she still had a part to play. She did not have to feign despair when her voice broke. “Please, my lord. King Aemon’s cause stands at the edge of the precipice. Our hopes were buoyed to hear that the Arryns marched down the High Road. Do not do this, Petyr. For the sake of our friendship.”

“Lady Catelyn, I have not forgotten it,” Petyr said. There was sorrow on his face, but she could see a glint in his eye that betrayed it. She hoped she had made their situation seem dire, so that their army would take the bait in the fields once they marched down. “It is for that reason I will advocate before you for the king, for even more lenient terms. But trust that I do this with your safety and security in mind, and for that of your children, even as they stand in rebellion against the crown.” As the Vale knights approached, Catelyn trembled, wary of yet another long captivity, and she felt fear take root for her children.

Chapter Text

JON

Prince Oberyn’s arrival brought news that he feared. Lady Catelyn was once again in custody. Robb looked downright murderous… and it was Jon’s fault. He did this again, sending her into danger.

“How long before they arrive?” Jon asked.

“A few hours, Your Grace,” Ser Brynden said.

Jon nodded. He turned to Robb, thinking to speak, but the words did not come out. How could he apologize now?

As if his brother sensed his turmoil, Robb spoke first. “I’ll feed this Baelish to Grey Wind,” Robb growled. “I’ll see to my men. Bran will be here shortly.” His brother turned on his heel and left. Jon felt his heart sink as he went. He was not sure if Robb blamed him, but he blamed himself enough for both of them. Jon had sent Catelyn to the Vale despite his misgivings, despite her protests, and now her fate hung in the balance. He clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself to focus, to think clearly. The battlefield did not forgive hesitation, nor did the lives of those he cared for.

The tent’s air was heavy with tension as Prince Oberyn lingered, his expression carved from stone but his eyes betraying concern. "What are your orders, Your Grace?" he asked after a long pause.

Jon drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Riders to scout their movements," he began, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him. "I want to know when the Vale will arrive. If they falter or hesitate on approach, we may have to adjust.”

Oberyn nodded sharply. “And if they’re already en route?”

Jon met the Prince’s gaze, steel meeting steel. “Then the plan remains.” He hesitated for half a heartbeat before adding softly, “But I want you with Rhaenys if the worst comes to pass.”

“You understand that you’ll be the one in greatest danger.”

“I’m not asking,” Jon said firmly. “I trust you more than anyone else to see her safely away from this chaos. Robb will fight until Grey Wind takes Baelish’s throat—or until he falls himself. But Rhaenys carries my child. Her survival is all that matters to me.”

Oberyn’s silence was suffocating. Jon sighed. “My prince, if you feel so strongly, then Quentyn can ride with me. I will have hundreds of horsemen alongside me - we have to make it convincing to the Vale. And I am no green boy. You know that as well as anyone.” The Viper’s jaw tightened, his lips forming a grim line. For several heartbeats, he said nothing, the tension between them stretched taut enough to tear. Finally, with a sharp nod, he conceded. "As you command, Your Grace," he said.

Jon exhaled slowly, his focus shifting back to the table that held their hastily sketched maps and markers of enemy movements.

"Find Ser Bran," Jon ordered. "It’s time to lay our trap. Tell Lord Bolton it is time to feign his desertion. Send a loyal runner to the Arryn army. I want them to think we are bleeding the loyalty of our men."

Oberyn nodded and left without another word, leaving Jon alone with Ser Barristan in the tent, staring at the map and trying to summon calm amid his rising dread.

No sound announced Ghost’s arrival, just the imposing presence of white fur and crimson eyes in the corner of his vision. Jon turned to the little white dragon that sat chirping on the war table. He pulled out a chair and sat by it as the dragon came to rub itself against his gloved hand. “Would that you were large,” Jon said wistfully. “And that I might ride you as my ancestors rode their great dragons.” The dragon tilted his head, as though wondering what he was prattling about.

“Your wings cannot save me yet, little one. Only steel now.” Ghost came and nuzzled against his knee.

Jon ran his gloved hand through the wolf’s fur. Bran followed in behind, breathless. “My mother?” he asked.

Jon shook his head, rising and turning to face his brother. “I do not think she will come to harm in the Vale’s custody. Not while your cousin is lord. I need you, Bran.” He took his brother’s shoulders and touched his forehead to his. “I would not have wanted any of this for you. You have had to become a man in a year’s turn, see more bloodshed and fighting in weeks than you should have seen all your life.”

Bran’s breath hitched, but he steadied himself. “I’ll not fail you, Your Grace,” he said, his voice steadier than Jon expected. The boy—no, the young man—was no longer the wide-eyed innocent from Winterfell. The gods had taken that from him. They had taken their father, their home, and now perhaps Bran’s mother too. But they hadn’t taken Bran’s resolve, and Jon saw it burn in his brother’s gaze.

“Good,” Jon said softly, patting Bran’s cheek. “Are your outriders ready?”

Bran nodded, determination replacing doubt. “They are. We’ve mapped every gully and copse between Nutten and the High Road.”

“Then we should be off. Ser Barristan?” The knight nodded and followed behind Jon and Bran as they marched through the camp. Domeric joined them, as did Prince Quentyn, Asher, Larence Snow, Eddard Karstark, Ben and Beren Tallhart, Dacey Mormont… these faces of his homeland heartened him as he marched into the jaws of all hells.

Their outrider party of several hundred horse took off from the camp even as the rest of the army stirred to take positions. Lord Bolton’s banners began to wind away behind them, feigning the retreat that would make it seem as though the Northmen had divided and some abandoned him. He hoped that the ruse would play to the Vale Lords’ pride like a lute. If Bolton’s retreat could make the Vale knights overconfident, cast doubts upon Jon’s leadership… well, then they had a chance.

Jon led his small party toward the rolling hills where they would meet Bran’s outriders. The younger Stark rode at his side, but Bran’s back was straight, and his expression fierce. Jon could see their father in him—and their mother too, in the way Bran’s lips pressed together when he was deep in thought.

The wind bit sharply at their faces as they crested a ridge. “Here,” Bran said, pulling up his reins. He pointed down into a shallow valley dotted with trees and brush, where the High Road descended into the Riverlands. His voice carried none of the hesitation that used to color his words when they played at lords back in Winterfell’s courtyards. “They should spot us in that gully. From the High Road they will be able to see Lord Bolton’s retreat up the Kingsroad. We are close enough to the crossroads here.”

Jon dismounted in silence, his eyes sweeping over the valley below. The spot was carefully chosen—Bran’s outriders had done their work well. The terrain was deceptive, offering what seemed like favorable ground for the Vale army to press an advantage.

"This will do," Jon murmured, his voice low but firm. “Now we wait.”

The chill of the air settled over them like a second cloak as the party took up their positions along the ridges and within the cover of trees. The stifling silence, broken only by the rustle of wind and occasional snort from their mounts, pressed down on Jon’s shoulders. Every subtle sound made his hand twitch toward Frostbite's pommel, though no enemy yet approached.

Bran crouched beside him, his sharp eyes scanning the valley below. The shadows were lengthening, and soon darkness would cloak the land entirely. It was not yet time for torches—not yet time to announce their presence—but the afternoon sun painted everything in hues of blood and gold, turning their hidden figures into wraiths.

Jon turned his head slightly at the faint creak of leather and glanced toward Ser Barristan, who stood like an old oak nearby. The knight’s calm demeanor gave Jon some measure of reassurance, though he knew even Barristan Selmy could not guarantee victory here. I’ll not see half these men come back, Jon thought grimly, his throat tightening. His every decision felt heavy enough to crush a mountain.

Bran broke the silence first. “Do you think they’ll send scouts ahead?” he asked quietly, his hands tight on the hilt of his dagger. His voice was steady despite his youth, but Jon caught the slight quaver behind it.

“They will if they have any sense,” Jon replied with a grim smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But we need to stand our ground against them. They are essential to our plan, for they’ll carry word of our force to the main Vale force. I must be seen amongst them.” He had dressed for the occasion - his black armor, a red cape, and a dragon helm. Targaryen banners surrounded him.

And then it came: the faint thud of hoofbeats echoing like a distant drumbeat through the valley.

Jon stiffened, his hand tightening instinctively around Frostbite’s hilt. Around him, he sensed his riders doing the same; even those hidden in trees shifted with measured tension now. The sound grew louder with each passing second until the first glimpse of steel and pennants broke the horizon. Vale scouts—lightly armored, their mounts swift and lean—descended into the gully with practiced ease. Jon squinted, counting heads. Twenty riders. A small group, but well-trained, their movements deliberate.

Bran leaned closer, his breath misting in the cold air. "They’ll return to their commanders fast if they catch sight of us."

Jon nodded, lifting a hand to signal silence among his party. "We let them get just close enough," he whispered. “It must seem a chance encounter for it to be believed.” They mounted their horses, preparing to ride out of the brush. It was far enough that it would not seem an opportune ambush but an unfortunate discovery.

Jon raised a gauntleted fist, signaling his riders to ready themselves. Dacey Mormont gave a curt nod from her position behind him, her dark eyes gleaming with fierce resolve. Ser Barristan stood immovable as stone, his white cloak fluttering softly in the breeze. Domeric Bolton’s expression betrayed nothing, but Jon knew well enough that cold cunning burned beneath those pale eyes.

The Vale scouts were nearly upon them now, their pace slowing as their horses picked their way down the uneven terrain toward the gully. Jon waited until he could see the whites of their eyes—waited for that moment when a scout turned his head toward their hidden position, suspicion flickering across his face.

Now.

Jon spurred his horse forward with. His party surged out from their hiding places like a shadow given life, hooves thundering against the frozen earth. The noise seemed to echo as they seemed to emerge alongside the startled Vale scouts, who scrambled to rally in the narrow confines of the gully. To Jon, it looked as thought they’d succeeded in making it appear a chance encounter, not a planned ambush.

Frostbite gleamed in the light as he swung it across a scout's guard, slicing the man cleanly from his saddle. Another scout raised a spear to counter him, but Dacey Mormont was already there, her axe burying itself in the man’s chest with a sickening crunch. Around him, his riders struck with precision and ferocity born of desperation and duty.

Bran rode at Jon’s flank with determination etched into his young features. He maneuvered deftly amidst the chaos, quick for a boy his age but still inexperienced. A scout wheeled his horse toward him, sword drawn—but Ser Barristan intercepted with fluid grace. The Kingsguard knight moved like water, disarming the attacker before driving his blade through the man’s chest. Blood sprayed across Bran’s cheek, but he didn’t flinch.

“Hold your ground!” Jon roared over the clash of weapons and the cries of men and horses. His voice rang clear above the fray, commanding and unyielding. They had to leave survivors—just enough to carry word back to their commanders. Two of the Valemen turned to go, and Jon did not order pursuit, even as they finished the rest of the Valeman party.

When, within half an hour, the vanguard of Valeman army crested the hill of the High Road approach, Jon knew they had taken the bait. He smiled. They had a chance, even if it was but a sliver of one. He turned to Ser Barristan and Bran. “We need to really lure them. A charge, now.”

Ser Barristan took point as promised, his white cloak billowing behind him like a ghost charging headlong into fate. The thunderous drumbeat of hooves reverberated off the ridges and gullies as the small force descended upon the Vale army. From their perch above, the Valemen hesitated only briefly—Jon saw it in their faltering line—as they calculated their advantage over what seemed a reckless assault from an inferior force. But then their ranks parted, and a massive contingent of knights came thunder down the hill and into the gully.

It was exactly what Jon had hoped for. The narrow gully would turn the Vale knights’ advantage in numbers against them, forcing the bulk of their cavalry into a bottleneck where they couldn’t maneuver freely. Jon felt a grim satisfaction as he spurred his mount forward alongside his riders, Frostbite gleaming cold and unforgiving in his grip.

“Stay tight!” he barked, the command cutting through the roar of hooves and the rising clang of steel. “Break the vanguard, and fall back to the tree line!”

Ser Barristan led the charge like a tempest given form, his white cloak streaming behind him as he rode straight into the heart of the approaching knights. His sword flashed with deadly efficiency, cleaving through armor and flesh with every stroke. Behind him, Dacey Mormont fought like a wild bear come to life, her axe splitting helmets and shattering shields with savage precision.

Jon’s force slammed into the Vale knights with the power of a wave crashing upon jagged rocks. The tight confines of the gully worked to their advantage, forcing their enemies into disarray as horses reared and knights struggled to pivot in the crush of bodies. Frostbite sang as Jon drove it through a knight’s chest, then wrenched it free with a spray of crimson. He turned his horse sharply, intercepting another attacker who had broken through their line. They could not fight long. Jon knew they had to feign retreat towards Nutten, and soon.

“Fall back!” Ser Barristan ordered. “The whole of the Vale is here! See the King to safety!” he cried. Jon made a show of resistance, but that was enough for the Vale knights to press, and for the main body of the Vale army to begin to descend the High Road in earnest. They had to retreat now before the Valemen enveloped the gully and cut off their retreat to Nutten.

The Vale knights surged forward, emboldened by the sight of Jon’s forces seemingly withdrawing in desperation. Jon urged his horse faster as they galloped toward the mouth of the gully. Behind them, chaos reigned; shouts of fury and triumph from pursuing Valemen mingled with the cries of the wounded and dying. Dacey Mormont slashed at a pursuing knight who had drawn too close as her mount kicked up earth and mud in their wake.

Jon cast a glance over his shoulder. The Vale forces were relentless, pouring into the bottleneck below them like water through a cracked dam. Their commanders would have little choice now but to throw their full weight behind this pursuit, blinded by the tantalizing prospect of crushing what they perceived as a routed enemy.

“Hold together!” Jon barked at his riders, who maneuvered with precision despite their hasty retreat. Ser Barristan fell back to regroup with them at last, his armor flecked with crimson streaks but his movements still steady as if untouched by fatigue or fear.

The terrain ahead began to open up they broke the treeline on the other side of the wooded copse. Before them lay the killing field, where Robb’s men had taken up position in the treeline just before the town. This is where they would feign a final stand, drawing the Valemen in for the kill.

Jon turned his horse sharply, pulling it to a halt just short of the treeline. He raised Frostbite high, signaling his riders to form up. The sound of hooves pounding on frozen earth filled the air as his men obeyed, falling into a tight formation despite their apparent “desperation.” Behind them, the Vale had slowed their pursuit, seeing that Jon intended to make a stand. Their knights did not charge ahead of them just yet, and the rest of the army was beginning to catch up.

“We need to dismount,” Jon said. “Make them think we plan to make our stand.”

Dacey Mormont slid off her horse without hesitation, her axe resting upon her shoulder as she cast a keen eye across the field. “Aye, they’ll think us cornered,” she growled, her voice rough but tinged with grim determination. Around her, Jon’s riders began dismounting, their movements quick and efficient despite the exhaustion creeping into their bones. They tethered their horses hastily to the sparse trees at the edge of the copse, ready to cut them loose if needed. Asha Greyjoy hefted both her axes.

Jon stepped forward, his boots crunching against the brittle, frost-covered grass as he surveyed the battlefield ahead. Robb’s position in the far treeline was invisible to all but him; his brother's archers and infantry lay cloaked in shadow, waiting for the signal to spring their trap. The killing field stretched vast and empty before them—a sweeping expanse of open land dotted here and there with low shrubs and jagged stones that offered no real cover. To anyone else, it would appear suicidal to make a stand here.

Jon strode in front of his line. He had over five hundred men, and from one he took a Targaryen pennant and planted it in the loamy, marshy ground in front of him, hefting his sword high above his head. The Valemen began to march forward, thinking their enemy was in the bag. He hoped Lord Bolton’s force was doing its job, wheeling behind the hills to cut off the Vale’s back scouts and to pin them from behind.

It was the Vale Knights whose impatience broke first. They took up ahead of the main Vale force, their lances glinting in the dying afternoon sun as they began their charge. A wall of steel and fury hurtled toward them, horses snorting clouds of breath into the chill air. Jon tightened his grip on Frostbite, raising it high against the slow creep of doubt in his chest. Timing was everything now; a moment too soon, and the trap would spring misaligned. A moment too late, and they would be overrun.

"Hold!" His voice carried clear across his line, steady and commanding. The front ranks braced themselves, shields locked together in a makeshift bulwark of wood and steel. Behind them, Dacey Mormont and Asha Greyjoy prowled like wolves waiting to strike, their eyes fixed on the advancing knights.

The thunder grew louder, deafening now. Jon could see the white plumes of their helm crests bobbing closer with every heartbeat, the shimmer of richly adorned armor marking these riders as the pride of the Vale’s nobility.

"Not yet," Ser Barristan muttered at Jon's back, his voice low but firm—an anchor against the tide of nerves threatening to rise. Even with decades of experience under his belt, the tension clawed at the old knight's composure.

Closer now. Two hundred and fifty yards. Two hundred.

Jon's eyes flicked once toward the distant treeline where Robb’s men were hidden like shadows among the branches. Not yet… not yet…

Just over 150.

"Archers!" The shout came from behind, and bolts and arrows filled the air. Jon watched as they arced overhead.

The first volley of arrows descended like a storm of razored sleet. The Vale knights, tightly packed and charging forward at full gallop, barely had time to react as death rained upon them. Horses screamed as shafts found their way into muscled flesh, and riders tumbled, their fine plate mail offering little solace against the sheer force of the strike. The rhythm of their charge faltered, a ripple of chaos spreading through the ranks as mounts reared and knights tried desperately to regain control.

"Shields up!" Jon roared, his voice cutting through the cacophony even as the second volley of arrows rose into the dying light. His men obeyed without hesitation, their rough line of shields forming a wall against the charge. Frostbite gleamed in his hand as he turned briefly toward Ser Barristan. "Now?"

"Not yet," the old knight growled, his eyes locked on the carnage forming ahead. The Vale's vanguard was staggering now, some knights breaking away to circle back toward their main force, but others—stubborn or simply too panicked to heed retreat—pressed forward into the kill zone.

At one hundred yards, another hail of arrows fell from Robb’s treeline. This volley was aimed with eerie precision at the horses leading the charge. Jon watched as two destriers went down in tanedem, their screams mingling with the sound of steel shattering on impact with frozen ground. The fallen beasts created a barrier of thrashing limbs and tangled armor that brought more cavalry crashing down behind them. At fifty yards, the charge was no more than a chaotic mess of men and horses, their momentum and speed utterly broken by the relentless volleys and the scattering piles of their own dead and dying. Those who made it through bore only desperation in their eyes, going headlong into what they had thought would be their final clash with Jon's shieldwall.

"Hold the line!" Jon bellowed once more, his voice a rallying cry against the frenzied chaos tearing toward them. The knights that reached his front were few now, slow in speed, their horses wading through the muck of the field, forced to wheel around the wreckage of their vanguard. The ground beneath them churned with blood and blackened slush as their horses charged directly at the waiting wall of steel.

The first knight collided into Dacey Mormont’s section, his lance shattering against her shield. With a guttural cry, she and her men surged forward, splitting his helm wide open with a vicious sweep of her axe before planting herself back in formation. Around her, others did the same—meeting steel with steel and breaking whatever fragments of order remained in the Vale charge.

Behind, the Vale army, seeing what had happened to their knights, broke into a disorganized charge towards Jon’s lines. He grinned. It had worked. They had seen the flower of their nobility go down and now their lords were desperate, surging forward to save their sons and brothers and retainers.

Jon turned sharply to Asha Greyjoy, whose grin stretched from ear to ear, her axes slick with blood from the first fools brave enough to meet her fury. "Now’s the time," Jon said, his voice steady as the chaos of battle raged before him. He raised Frostbite high, the Valyrian steel catching what remained of the sun's fire.

Asha nodded, already in motion. "Let’s gut these pretty knights like fish!"

"Signal Robb," Jon ordered to Bran beside him, who quickly raised a horn and blew a long, deep note that echoed over the battlefield.

From the treeline on the far side of the killing field, motion erupted as if the woods themselves had sprung to life. Robb’s hidden infantry poured forth, their shields and spears glinting in the last light of day. Alongside them came his cavalry—a fearsome sight of Northern bannermen on warhorses and Karstark, Umber, mountain clan men roaring like feral beasts as they took position against the Vale’s charge. Arrows continued to pour forth overhead, raining death on the Valemen as they were caught, fully committed to a battle they did not know was coming to them.

Jon stood firm, his heart hammering in his chest as the battlefield shifted irrevocably in their favor. The Vale forces, so sure of their noble superiority mere moments ago, were now trapped between the unyielding shieldwall of Winterfell's soldiers and the emergence of Robb on both of Jon’s flanks. A ripple of panic moved through their ranks like a crack spreading across ice, but Jon knew that the real breaking point was yet to come.

“Push forward!” Dacey roared, her voice carrying above the din as she led her section of the left flank into a brutal advance. Her axe rose and fell like a storm, carving through man and steel alike, her Bear Island warriors following close behind with grim determination.

Asha Greyjoy was no less relentless on the right flank. She wove through the carnage almost gleefully, laughing as she struck down panicked knights and terrified squires fallen in the muck of the field with dual axes that seemed to dance in her hands. "Run home to your mountains if you can!" she shouted at one trembling warrior before splitting his helm clean in two.

The Valemen pressed forward in desperation. Soon they would be committed, and Jon knew that they still were heavily outnumbered by the Arryn force. He pressed his lips into a tight line and glanced at Domeric. Come now, Lord Bolton. Do not let your heir die here, he thought.

The Northern army now presented a long, tight battle line. Robb’s cavalry rode ahead to counter the few Vale knights that tried to skirt the killing field and get around them. Jon saw the telltale shimmer of armor in the distance—Bolton banners cresting the ridge to the east, behind the Valemen. The flayed man of House Bolton stretched pink and red in the fading light, unmistakable even on this chaotic battlefield. Lord Bolton had timed it perfectly.

The Vale was surrounded now. Their once-proud momentum had become desperation—a trap snapping closed on prey too foolish or proud to see it coming. Still, they fought fiercely, clinging to some semblance of order even as panic began tearing through their ranks.

Jon advanced with Frostbite gripped tight in his hands, leading Winterfell's center into the melee. Their archers stopped firing and streamed out of the woods to join the fight. The ground had been churned so badly that the Vale soldiers collapsed and tripped on each other in heavy plate, and Jon’s lighter northern infantry dashed through, delivering death to opponents. He himself moved like winter’s wind—precise and deadly - Frostbite cleaving through men and steel alike with ease.

“Hold steady!” he barked to his men as they pushed forward in a synchronized wave. Shields locked and spears thrusting in unison, they broke the last semblance of cohesion in the Vale's front ranks. The cries of dying men and the screams of panicked horses filled the air, mingling with the relentless clash of steel. Blood soaked into the churned muck, painting the battlefield a dark crimson made darker by the dipping sun, no longer afternoon but evening.

A knight lunged at him, desperation clear in his wide, terrified eyes. Jon sidestepped deftly, letting the man’s blade glance off his shoulder plate before driving Frostbite through his chest. The Valyrian steel slid through gaps in armor as though it were silk, and Jon pulled it free in time to deflect another blow from a different opponent.

To his left, Asher was a sight to behold. He swung his greataxe in brutal arcs, battering aside foes who got too close. "Come on, you lot!" he roared between strikes. "You wanted glory? Here it is! Come and take it!" Forrester warriors cheered him on, responding with renewed ferocity as they pressed into the collapsing Vale line. To his right, Asha Greyjoy was a whirlwind of chaos. She danced between blows with almost playful ease, her axes carving red paths through anyone foolish enough to step into her reach. At one point, she grabbed a bloodied standard bearing the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn and snapped it over her knee before tossing the broken pieces into the mud with a bark of laughter.

Robb’s cavalry had driven off the Vale knights on either flank, now linking with Bolton’s men, charging like wolves scenting blood. He caught sight of Ghost and Grey Wind and Summer together, moving with Robb under a great Stark banner, breaking the Vale’s left. The sound of hooves thundered through the valley as the Northern cavalry bore down on the sides and rear of the Vale forces, driving deep into their exposed flanks. What little order the Valemen managed to maintain crumbled entirely. Men screamed for retreat, but there was nowhere to go. To run back toward the treeline meant certain death beneath Bolton's men, some of whom had dismounted and now advanced with long spears in a tight phalanx, and the Northern cavalry on the sides. To surge forward meant breaking against Winterfell's shieldwall, where Jon and his force stood unyielding as the mountains themselves.

The first cracks began to show in the Vale’s center. Soldiers threw down their weapons and fled, clawing through their own ranks in a desperate fight for survival. But there was no salvation to be found. The North had them surrounded.

Jon felt his pulse roar in his ears as he blocked another blow with Frostbite's hilt before driving it upwards into a knight’s throat, silencing his cry with a wet gurgle. He didn’t stop to watch the man collapse but moved forward, his eyes scanning the chaos for any sign of coordination among the enemy. There was none. The battlefield had devolved into sheer madness—a bloodbath where discipline and order had been swallowed whole by terror and desperation.

"Jon!" Robb's voice rang out over the cacophony, and Jon turned to see his brother astride his warhorse, Grey Wind bounding ahead, snapping at the heels of fleeing Valemen. Ghost came to a stop by Jon’s side. Robb’s armor was splattered with blood, though whether it was his or another’s, Jon couldn’t tell. "The center is breaking! Let’s Drive them into Bolton's line and finish this!"

Jon gave a sharp nod, raising Frostbite high as he bellowed to the men nearest him. "Forward to victory! Let us drive these dogs to hell!"

The Northern soldiers roared and surged as one, a wave of iron and fury crashing into what remained of the Vale's front ranks. Cries rose high from the ranks. “Aemon!” “The Dragon King!” they shouted. Jon felt himself swept up in it, Frostbite singing in his hands as it found chinks in armor and exposed flesh. He felt exhaustion begin to creep into his limbs, each swing heavier than the last, but he pushed it aside with a vicious hunger, a black, yawning void in him that wished to swallow all these treacherous Valemen whole. Near him, Dacey Mormont fought like a woman possessed, her axe cleaving through a knight’s raised shield before splitting his helm with brutal efficiency. She turned toward Jon briefly, her face fierce beneath streaks of mud and blood.

"They're done!" she shouted over the din. "Like rabbits in a wolf's jaw!”

The encirclement tightened. Bolton’s men advanced from the rear like a tide of red shadows, their pikes locking in merciless precision. The sound of steel on steel was gradually replaced by the wet crunch of flesh and bone as those who tried to flee were cut down without quarter. The flayed man of House Bolton loomed above them like a dark omen, its crimson and pink stretching vibrant against the muted grays of twilight.

A cry went up from somewhere in the Vale center, ragged and despairing: "Lay down your arms! Yield!"

But it came too late. Panic had already overtaken logic; discipline had already dissolved into slaughter. Pockets of Valemen surrendered haphazardly, casting their swords and shields into the mud as they fell to their knees with hands raised high. Others fought on futilely, preferring death to dishonor or else too caught in fear to think clearly. Jon felt no pity for them—not here, not today.

"Spare those who yield!" he barked, his voice cutting sharply through the din. "The rest—no mercy!"

A squire brought forth a horse for him - Jon took it and pulled away from the front of the fighting. He rode around the side of the battle, towards the rear. Lord Bolton commanded from the center of his line, and hailed Jon as he approached. For once, the stoic, pale lord seemed rather pleased.

“Well done, Lord Bolton,” Jon said, as he rode by the man. Domeric and Bran and Ser Barristan trailed behind, along with others. “Did you take their camp?”

“I did. Lady Stark is safely back with us. I have positioned her at the rear,” he said. “It seems you laid a irresistble trap for the Valemen. Victory is yours, Your Grace.”

Jon smiled. “What of the Vale Lords? Have you taken any prisoner?”

Bolton wiped a speck of blood from his gauntlet before answering. "We have several - mainly landed knights of smaller houses, Lord Redfort’s heir, I believe, and Ser Nestor Royce. Ser Nestor guarded the Vale’s camp by the terminus of the High Road. He surrendered when we rolled in from the northeast. I also have a Lord Baelish, as well. Under lock and key.”

Jon’s grin grew wider. “Good. Keep him secure, my lord. I think my blade has not yet its fill of blood for today.”

Bolton inclined his head, his thin lips curling in a shadow of a smile. “Of course, Your Grace. Did my heir acquit himself well today?”

Jon looked back. “I could not ask for a better battle companion, my lord.” Domeric gave him a soft smile.

Jon turned his horse, scanning the remnants of the battlefield as dusk descended like a heavy shroud. Fires burned low amidst the churned earth, casting flickering shadows over the mangled dead and dying. The cries of the wounded mixed with the snarls of wolves—Grey Wind, Ghost, and Summer still prowled through the carnage.

Robb rode up alongside him then.. His brother’s face was grim now as he surveyed the slaughter, though there was an undeniable glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

“We stand victorious once more,” Robb said quietly, his words carrying both pride and weariness. “The Valemen are surrendering by the droves. I’ve sent parties to hunt down the remainder, but not many escaped. It was a near total encirclement. We did not lose many.”

“Good,” Jon said. He clasped Robb’s arm. “Lady Stark is safe, courtesy of Lord Bolton.”

Robb glanced at Roose. “Thank you, my lord. You have done Winterfell a great service.”

Bolton inclined his head silkily, his pale gaze low. “The honor is mine, my liege.”

“What of all the prisoners?” Ser Barristan asked. He gestured in direction of the battlefield. “The Vale army is entirely broken. What do you command, Your Grace?”

Jon was silent for a few moments. He thought of Viserys’ fatal mistake - trusting the Tyrells. He would not repeat it, but he needed men. Desparately. “Who, after the Arryns, is the strongest of the Vale lords? Is it House Royce?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan replied, his voice low and steady.

Jon nodded, his dark eyes narrowing as he considered his next move. The battlefield reeked of death; crows had already begun to descend upon the slain, their cries carrying on the wind like wailing specters. If this war was to end with fewer dead in the long march toward kingship, he would need more than blades and broken spirits—he would need alliances.

“I will speak with Lord Royce tomorrow,” Jon finally said, dismounting with a weary sigh. The ground beneath him felt unstable, as though it shifted beneath his boots like sand in an hourglass. He turned to Robb. “See that all prisoners are accounted for and separated by rank. I need a count and a roll of names.”

“And those we capture fleeing?” Robb asked, though Jon could see in his elder brother’s eyes that he already knew the answer.

“No mercy, brother,” Jon repeated softly but firmly. "Highborn or not. Feed them to the wolves."

Robb nodded grimly and spurring his horse away. Grey Wind followed with a growl low enough to send shivers down anyone’s spine. Jon returned to their camp, trailed by his guard. Everywhere, the Northmen hailed him. He was not sure of their losses, but they did not seem to be great. This was an utterly resounding victory.

He rode in front of the battlefield, where his men milled about in the hundreds. He raised his sword atop his horse, high to catch the dying light. “Men!” he shouted.

Every head in earshot turned to him. Men cheered to see their king. “Men of the North! Men of Winterfell!" Jon's voice rang out, steady and sure despite the weariness settling into his bones. "This is your victory! This day belongs to you! These men stood between us and our homes and our families under threat. They dared stand in the way of hungry wolves and dragons!"

The cheers swelled, a deafening roar that rose and rolled like the tide. Swords clanged against shields, steel ringing out a hymn to war and survival. Jon's gaze swept over them, his warriors caked in blood and mud, their faces lit by the flickering orange of the distant fires. They had bled for him—bled for the North—and though he could not yet afford to rest, he felt it in his chest: a faint but growing pride.

"And what happens," Jon continued, his voice cutting sharply through their cries, "when men dare try to chain wolves and dragons? What happens when cowards and schemers think they can test the bite of the North?"

"They die!" someone shouted from the throng, soon echoed by another.

"They die!"

Jon let their ferocity build for a moment longer before raising a hand. “We have a long march, and at the end of it, more death. But not ours, men of the North. In time, we feed on squid! We will crush the Ironborn and drive them back to their salted rocks in the sea!”

The roar that erupted from the crowd drowned out even the crackling of distant flames. Axes banged against shields, swords thrust high into the smoke-laden sky. The Northmen were a storm given voice—an unrelenting force bound by blood and purpose. And Jon let them revel in it, their shouts shaking the very earth beneath their feet. The grimness of death now blanketed the battlefield, but his men did not seem weary. They seemed to regard him as a god.

It was intoxicating.

Jon shuddered a little at the feeling. If this was the taste of the glory his forebears had felt, when they rode on dragons as big as villages, it was little wonder they had all gone mad with power.

Afterwards, when he retired to camp, he found his tent was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the brazier in the corner, its fire casting flickering shadows that danced across the canvas walls. Rhaenys got up as soon as she saw him. Relief was etched plain across her face as she approached. Jon knelt and pressed his forehead against her womb.

“You’re alright?” she asked softly.

“Not a cut on me. A few bruises, perhaps,” Jon murmured. “And you?”

“I’m fine,” she whispered, running her fingers gently through his hair. “But I was worried for you. Every moment dragged like a year.”

Jon closed his eyes and held her tighter, his face pressed against the warmth of her belly. He lingered there for a moment, letting himself feel something other than the guilt and weight of his decisions. Here, in her presence, was the only place he could allow himself to be vulnerable.

“I have to meet the Vale Lords,” Jon said.

“You intend to offer terms?” she asked gently. To his surprise, she did not seem entirely opposed to the idea. As if reading his mind, she shrugged. “I have been thinking of little else - save your safety - this entire time. Viserys made a mistake in trusting the Tyrells, but we need men.”

“You and I thought the same,” Jon agreed. “But I am wary, Rhaenys. Viserys did not see the daggers until it was too late. These Valemen have already sworn themselves to Aegon.”

Rhaenys cupped Jon's face in her hands, tilting his chin so their eyes met. Her gaze was steady, her voice soft but firm. “Aegon is not here. You are flesh and blood before them, Jon. You hold the sword. You command the wolves. They’ll bend the knee if they’re wise… and if you are wise, you will guarantee it.”

Jon searched her face for doubt but found none. Her confidence in him was a balm to his weary soul. “Hostages.”

“Hostages,” she agreed. “And many of them. They are broken. But there is one thing more lasting than hostages.”

“Marriage?” Jon wrinkled his nose. He disliked rewarding rebels.

"Marriage," Rhaenys confirmed with a small, knowing smile. "A union that binds blood and honor in a way hostages cannot. The Lords of the Vale are proud, Jon. They will accept your terms because they have lost, but if you can make them believe this is not just conquest but also alliance—a shared future, to give them a chance at redemption, to make them want to earn it, they will follow you willingly… or fear what will become of their daughters if they do not. She stepped closer, taking his hand in hers. Her warmth grounded him once more. “You and I know these are no rewards - they are chains, in one way or another. And if they dare cross the dragon again, it is their loved ones that will feel our wrath.”

There was an intensity in her eyes that set him aflame. His hands went to her belly.

"Anyone who threatens you, threatens this child, threatens my flesh and blood will taste fire and blood. This I swear to you, my love," he pledged.

Chapter Text

JON

The next morning, Jon and Robb pored over the reports of his lords. The list of dead among the Valemen was staggering, and the list of captives no less so. “House Belmore of Strongsong,” Robb muttered, his fingers tracing ink. “Lord Benedar, captured. Heir, Ser Trevor Belmore, killed. Sons, Ser Rickter Belmore, captured, Ser Symon Belmore, killed. House Corbray of Heart’s Home. Lord Lyonel Corbray, killed. Ser Lyn Corbray, killed - Valyrian steel sword recovered. Ser Lucas Corbray, killed. House Grafton - Lord Gerold Grafton, captured, Heir, Ser Myles Grafton, captured, sons - Ser Gyles Grafton, Robert Grafton, and Warryn Grafton, captured.”

Jon chuckled. “Lucky for House Grafton. The Corbrays - is that the entire male line, dead?”

“I think so. Jon, this list goes on,” Robb said. “Hells, will there even be any lords left in the Vale?”

“Well, I would hope so, else Rhaenys’ suggestion will come to naught.” Jon shared his plan with Robb in the morning, and found his brother agreeable, though he shared some reservations after what had happened with the Tyrells - reservations Jon shared, privately. He also apologized for Lady Stark’s captivity.

Robb had sighed then. “I know. It was not your fault, and my mother was the natural person to undertake that task. But-”

“I know. I won’t ask her to put herself in harm’s way. She’s done her service to the realm twice over, as far as I am concerned,” Jon said. “But I wanted you to know that I entrusted her because I trust her with those tasks, not as punishment for-”

“I know,” Robb said, and Jon knew then his brother did not hold a grudge. And that was enough for him.

Robb continued down the list. “Royce of Runestone - Lord Yohn Royce, captured. Heir, Ser Andar Royce, captured, son, Ser Robar Royce, killed. House Redfort - Lord Horton Redfort, unaccounted for - may not have been present at battle. Ser Jasper Redfort, heir, killed, sons - Ser Creighton Redfort - killed, Ser Jon Redfort - captured, Ser Mychel Redfort - killed…and the list goes on,” Robb muttered, letting the parchment drop onto the table with an air of finality.

Jon ran a hand over his face, feeling the beginnings of stubble scratch against his palm. “Fear will only carry us so far." He turned back to face his brother. "I can claim their swords with hostages but I need them to believe in me, the same way our Northerners do.”

Robb raised an eyebrow skeptically. “And you think marrying off half their stock will give them hearts loyal to you?”

Jon’s lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. "Not loyal hearts, no. But resentful ones bound too tightly in chains of blood may be the same semblance of loyalty until I have time to actually gain it.” He glanced at Robb. “Would you care to marry one of these lords’ daughters?”

“Very easy for you to say - you had the privilege of seeing Rhaenys before you married her. If you command me, yes." Robb wagged a finger at him. "But if I end up with a toothless, warty beast of a wife, I’ll hunt you in hell when we’re dead.”

Jon chuckled. “Assuming we'll both end up in the same circle of the seven hells. I would not be so optimistic, brother.”

Robb smirked faintly before his expression sobered. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, hands steepled beneath his chin as he stared down at the scattered parchments. “Aside from these men, what do you intend to do about Baelish?”

“I mean to speak with the Vale lords. This business about your aunt’s death, his marriage to her and his subsequent regency for Lord Robert - it all seems too convenient. I didn’t like the man when I met him in King’s Landing, and I like him even less now. At best he did nothing for our father in the capital when the Lannisters arrested him - at worst, he may have even had a hand in it. I will have his head, but I mean to pry as much information out of it as possible before I do.”

“Sounds like a wise enough plan to me,” Robb agreed. “But we must make haste. Every day we linger here is another day Winterfell remains under siege."

"We haven't forgotten." Rhaenys' voice carried over as she entered the tent. The white dragon was on her arm, and she set it down on the table by Jon as she took a seat, smoothing her skirts. "Jon, I had thought we might make the Vale Lords send their daughters and hostages by sea from Gulltown to White Harbor as we march to Winterfell. Once we have them, the marriages can take place before we ride to Winterfell."

"The Vale lords will not agree," Robb countered. "And perhaps it is not in our best interest to do so, either. Think about it - a battle with the Ironborn may make widows of some of those Vale lords' daughters, and then our plans have gone to naught. Better to have the daughters brought to White Harbor and for the weddings to take place in Winterfell once we've dealt with Euron Greyjoy."

Rhaenys seemed to consider his words for a moment before she conceded with a nod. "I suppose it would not do to have carefully crafted bonds of marriage go up in flames because of an errant sword-stroke in battle." Jon watched her as she gently stroked the dragon's spined back.

"I've thought of a name for him," Jon said suddenly. "Vedros."

Confusion etched itself across Robb's face, and Rhaenys laughed gently. "It means fury or vengeance, depending on the context, dear goodbrother. I think it is a fine name, my love."

The dragon lifted its head at the sound of its name, smoke curling from its nostrils. Rhaenys scratched beneath its jaw thoughtfully. "Vedros seems to agree."

Jon reached out cautiously, his fingers brushing over Vedros’ warm scales. The dragon’s head turned sharply, bright golden eyes locking onto him, and for a moment Jon thought the creature might bare its teeth. But instead, Vedros snorted softly, a wisp of smoke curling from his nostrils, and settled back down against the table.

“Your Grace.” Jon turned around to the source of the voice. Lady Catelyn stood just past the threshold of his tent, with Bran by her side. She curtseyed and Jon stood to meet her, followed by Rhaenys.

“My lady,” he said, gently taking her hands in his. “I am glad to see you hale. I am sorry that my command caused your captivity. It was not my intention.”

“Your Grace, you owe me no apology,” Catelyn said, her voice firm. “I did what was required for my family and the realm.”

“You have done more than what is required. We will not ask you to sacrifice so much again in that manner - if for no other reason than we would not see our family come to harm,” Rhaenys said, embracing her. “My sympathies for the loss of your sister Lady Arryn.”

“Thank you, Your Graces,” Lady Catelyn said. “But Bran found me and said you have need of me. How may I serve?”

“It is your knowledge of southern houses we need.” Jon explained to her their plan of arranging marriages between the daughters of the defeated Vale lords and the Northern houses.

Lady Catelyn's brow furrowed as she listened, her sharp mind already turning over the implications. "A practical plan, I think," she said. "But between us, I would ask you to take care. The wrong marriages may not accomplish your stated goal - but too many of the right marriages could imperil House Stark’s hold on the North. It would not do to have any one bannerman gain too much from the exchange.”

Jon nodded grimly. "I know this is a gamble, my lady. And I think you have the right of it. So what would you suggest?”

“There are some matches that present themselves as obvious,” Lady Stark mused. “Domeric Bolton fostered in the Vale, at the Redfort. I recall Lord Horton being too old to fight. Was he present at the battlefield?”

“Not that we know of,” Robb said. “He is unaccounted for. But three of his sons are dead, including his heir. Only Jon Redfort yet lives.”

Lady Catelyn seemed to pale. Jon could hardly fault her, even if the Valemen were enemies. “Lord Horton has a daughter, I believe - Melissa - not much younger than Robb. She would make a good marriage for Domeric. The Redforts are strong, but not so strong that it would make Roose Bolton a much more significant threat than he is today.”

“A good suggestion,” Rhaenys agreed. “We can speak to Lord Bolton. What of House Royce?”

“I was aggrieved to see Lord Yohn on the other side from us,” Lady Catelyn replied. “He and Ned were friends. They spoke highly of one another. I suppose he thinks it honor that he followed Petyr’s commands, in the name of little Robert.”

“Does he have daughters?” Jon mused.

“One, I believe. Ysilla - she must be Her Grace’s age. The Royces are powerful.”

“I would think a Royce would make a good marriage for a Stark,” Jon mused, with a grin at Robb. “But I think the Northern bannermen would take offense at their liege marrying a defeated opponent. Why reward an enemy when there are so many leal bannermen to reward in turn? No, I think it would be a poor decision. Better to marry the Royce girl to a weaker, but more trustworthy house.”

“Daryn Hornwood?” Robb suggested.

“Yes, the Hornwoods would certainly benefit from such a match," Lady Catelyn affirmed. "House Hornwood has long been steadfast in its loyalty to Winterfell.”

Jon’s eyes were affixed on Bran. He did not wish to marry his younger brother off so quickly, but a thought occurred to him. “Are there any houses that lost all their males, save for a potential female heiress?” he asked suddenly.

Robb pored through the list. “The Hunters… no, Lord Gilwood’s son still lives. I did say the male Corbrays were all dead. And we recovered the Valyrian steel sword.”

“Truly, Lord Lyonel and his brothers are all dead?” Lady Catelyn said. “There is a sister, I believe. Young, as well. She must be no older than Sansa. I cannot recall her name. Ellyn, perhaps.”

Jon’s eyes were still affixed on Bran. "A union between Bran and the girl would mean that Starks would inherit Heart’s Home… and Bran would have a Valyrian steel blade.”

Bran’s eyes widened comically. “Me?” he said. Jon had to hold back a laugh. Bran was a terror in battle, but at the mention of marriage and a castle he seemed to revert back to the fourteen nameday old boy that he was. It warmed him to see the youth come back to Bran’s face.

Rhaenys turned to Lady Catelyn. “I think it a shrewd move. Bran would secure lands for himself, and House Stark would gain a foothold in the Vale. Most second sons do not stand to gain such a boon often in their lives.”

“He would be far from home, but Heart’s Home has a port, does it not?” Robb murmured, half to himself. “It is not a bad idea.”

“The decision is yours, Bran,” Jon said. “I do not wish to force this on you if it is not something you want. I think you have earned that much, and more."

Bran shifted uncomfortably, his hand idly brushing against the edge of the table. He glanced up at Jon, then back to Rhaenys and his mother. Their gazes were steady but not unkind. Finally, he looked to Robb, who gave him a small nod of encouragement.

“I... I don’t know,” Bran stammered, his voice hesitant. “Marriage? A castle? It’s not what I ever thought about for myself.” His eyes flicked back to Jon. “I never sought to be a lord or to rule. I just wanted... to fight, to protect our family like you and Robb.”

Rhaenys reached across and put her hand on Bran’s arm. “Bran, you’ve proven yourself as a warrior time and again, but this is another kind of battle. One that you might find rewarding - and one that would secure a future for any children you might have.”

Lady Catelyn added gently, “Your father never expected to rule Winterfell either, Bran. That did not mean he was unworthy of the task when it came to him. Sometimes we are called upon to serve in ways we do not anticipate.”

Bran shuffled his feet. “Would I get Lady Forlorn?”

“The sword?” Rhaenys said with a laugh. “Is that all boys think about?”

Bran’s lips pressed into a thin line as he mulled it over, his fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the table. The idea of possessing a Valyrian steel blade seemed to sit heavier in his mind than the notion of marriage or ruling a castle. Jon could see the light of ambition stirring faintly beneath Bran’s boyish uncertainty. A Stark in the Vale, wielding Lady Forlorn—it was a seductive vision of the future.

“And what if I fail?” Bran asked quietly, his voice barely above a murmur. He looked up at his mother, his elder brothers, and Rhaenys with eyes full of unease. “What if I’m not good at ruling?”

Jon clasped his shoulder tightly, forcing Bran to meet his gaze. “You won’t fail,” he said firmly. “The blood of House Stark runs through your veins. You were raised at Winterfell; you know what it means to lead with honor and strength.”

Robb chimed in with a grin that was equal parts teasing and reassuring. “And if you do make a mess of things, your brothers the King and the Lord of Winterfell will come down and fix it for you.”

That earned a small laugh from Bran, and Jon released his grip on his shoulder, satisfied to see some of the tension ease from his younger brother. Bran drew a deep breath, straightening his posture. Though he still seemed daunted by the prospect, there was a new glimmer of resolve in his eyes.

“If this is what you think is best for our family,” Bran said slowly, looking directly at Jon and then to Lady Catelyn, “then I’ll do it. For House Stark.”

The next few hours were spent devising marriage plans and agreements. After it was done, Jon invited the Northern lords to his tent, with Rhaenys and Robb sitting next to him, and made his proposals. For the most part, they agreed - none of the marriages Jon proposed were disadvantageous to any of the houses. Roose Bolton’s eyes seem to gain a sickly gleam to them when Jon suggested that Domeric marry Melissa Redfort - no doubt from the thought of how he might stand to occupy more lands if Melissa’s surviving brother somehow met an untimely end. Domeric, for his part, seemed incredibly sorrowful when Jon told him that almost all the male Redforts he fostered with had died on the field of battle.

“Only Jon Redfort lives? Mychel is dead?” he asked. His face seemed paler than usual.

“I am sorry, Domeric,” Jon said. “I know you cared for them.”

Domeric bowed his head, his fingers tightening around the arms of his chair. “He was like a brother to me,” he murmured. Then, louder, he added, “I will honor his memory and do my duty, my lord. I will take Melissa’s hand. We parted on good terms and I will treat her well.”

He expected more of a fight with each of the Northern lords, but it became quickly apparent how frighteningly powerful their belief in him was, that they grumbled only a little before nodding their assent.

Vedros curled around his shoulder likely did little to dispel the image of the Northern Dragon.

Once the plans were finalized, it was well past midday. Jon remained seated, his fingers tracing the smooth grain of the table while Robb lingered nearby, his arms crossed.

"Do you think Bran will handle it? The marriage... Heart's Home... all of it?"

Jon exhaled slowly, considering the question. "I think he will. He’s grown up faster than you and I had to, and he has us to guide him if he falters."

Robb nodded but didn’t press further. “Did you mean to question Baelish before you speak to the Vale lords?”

Jon rose from his seat, Vedros shifting lazily along his shoulders as he was stirred by his movement. The dragon’s low rumble vibrated against Jon’s collarbone as he met Rhaenys’ gaze across the tent. Her eyes narrowed slightly; she had been waiting for this moment since they dragged Baelish back in chains.

“Yes,” Jon said quietly, flexing his gloved hand absently. “But not here.”

They found Baelish bound in a smaller tent at the edge of camp, flanked by six Stark guards whose grim expressions deepened when their king approached. The Master of Coin sat on a rough-hewn bench, his posture relaxed as though hosting a midday salon rather than awaiting judgment. His smile didn’t reach his eyes when Jon pushed through the flaps with Rhaenys at his shoulder and Robb close behind, but it quickly dropped altogether when he saw the little dragon curled around Jon’s shoulders.

“What is it, Lord Baelish?” Rhaenys taunted. “Does the sight of a dragon atop His Grace’s shoulders unnerve you? Are you beginning to realize, perhaps, that you sided with the wrong dragon?”

Baelish's eyes flickered between Jon, Rhaenys, and the dragon, a hint of unease ghosting across his features before he smoothed it away with practiced ease. "Your Graces," he greeted, inclining his head in a mockery of respect. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Jon remained silent, letting the weight of his stare bore into Littlefinger. Rhaenys circled around to stand at Jon's side, her own gaze sharp as flint. "I think you know very well why we're here, Lord Baelish. Your schemes have caught up to you at last."

Baelish spread his hands in a gesture of innocence, the chains at his wrists clinking softly. "Schemes? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Your Grace. I have only ever acted in the best interests of the Vale and the realm."

Vedros’ tail flicked lazily but warningly along his shoulder. Jon’s patience grew thin. Baelish was the same as when he’d last seen him, in King’s Landing, when he and Asher had visited after their encounter with ironborn pirates and their shipwreck along the Stormland coast. He had been oily and smarmy then and he was worse still now. “You opposed me - your rightful king. You and the Lords of the Vale did not ride to the aid of King Viserys when he called, and it was only after I inherited my uncle’s crown that you rode - not for me, but against me, when my army was decimated in number and my defeat all but assured. Lady Stark has told me of her encounter with you along the High Road. You have all but already admitted to treason.”

Baelish’s mask of calm slipped for just an instant, a flicker of unease crossing his face before he recovered it. He adjusted his posture, sitting up straighter and adopting an almost self-righteous air. “Your Grace, there was a great deal of confusion after the battles outside King’s Landing, I-”

“How did you come by your regency of the Vale?” Rhaenys cut in. “Lady Stark tells us you married her sister and that she then suffered a fall from the Eyrie. A tragic outcome, to be sure, but quite a windfall for you, my lord.”

Baelish's lips tightened, just for a moment, a crack in the porcelain mask he wore so carefully. "It was tragic, Your Grace. My lady wife was not well, and the Vale had careened into misrule and inaction even before I arrived there - as you know, for Lady Arryn did not rise to march with you when you came south initially. After her accident, I convinced the Lords of the Vale to allow me to help put the Vale to rights. After Lord Jon’s death, there had been mismanagement, and chaos loomed over the Eyrie like a storm cloud. My guidance was a necessity to keep the region stable. Your Graces, I fear you mistake my actions for malice when all I sought was order.” His voice was tinged with faux regret. Each word he uttered cause Jon’s fury to build higher and higher.

"You speak as if you are their savior," Jon said, stepping closer now, his shadow falling over Baelish like a thundercloud. Vedros let out a low growl, the vibrations reverberating through Jon’s chest. "But you’re the one who led the Vale lords into the greatest disaster the Vale of Arryn has seen since the Starks burned Gulltown’s harbor in the War of the Three Sisters. Tell me, did you push Lysa Arryn through the Moon Door yourself? Or did she simply prove too inconvenient to keep alive?"

For the first time, genuine fear flickered across Littlefinger’s face, his hands twitching against the chains that bound him. "Your Grace – please – I did not—"

"Enough," Jon snapped, his voice sharp as steel cutting through Baelish’s protests. He leaned forward until they were almost eye to eye. “Lies and half-truths will not save you now. You think yourself clever, slippery as an eel, but I have seen men like you before. Men who sow chaos and who backstab and lie and cheat. Lord Baelish, I will feed you to my direwolf in front of the entire army tomorrow for marching against me under the order of the usurper and kinslayer Aegon.” Baelish let out a whimper that sent a dark thrill through him. “But I can be persuaded to mercy if you but confess all your crimes. Confess all your crimes and I will not pronounce your death. Confess about your role in my father’s arrest and murder. Confess about your role in Lady Arryn’s death.”

Baelish's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, the words that normally flowed so easily from his silver tongue suddenly stuck in his throat. Jon could see the gears turning behind those sly eyes, calculating the odds, searching for some crack in Jon’s resolve to exploit. But there was none to be found. Jon was iron, immovable and unyielding.

The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, until Rhaenys broke it with a sharp laugh. "Look at him squirm," she said, her voice laced with disdain. "Do you think your honeyed words will save you now, Baelish? Confess. Now.”

Baelish’s composure finally shattered. “Yes,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his gaze darting between Jon and Rhaenys as though searching for some lifeline in their unrelenting stares. “I pushed her through the Moon Door when she became too mad to control! Now please, have mercy, Your Grace!”

The tent was silent save for Baelish’s ragged breathing. Jon didn’t flinch, though a cold rage burned hotter in his chest with every word Baelish uttered. Vedros hissed softly on Jon’s shoulders, smoke curling from the corners of its mouth.

“What of Lord Stark?” Jon asked icily.

“What of him?” Baelish said. “I had nothing to do with this death, nor his imprisonment. The perpetrator of that was Varys.”

Jon’s fist crashed down on the wooden table between them, splitting it down the middle. The force echoed like thunder through the tent, and Baelish flinched, his chains rattling as he recoiled. Jon loomed over him, his shadow vast and unrelenting. Vedros hissed again, smoke now more prominent as though the dragonling sensed his master’s fury.

“Do not insult my intelligence with more lies,” Jon growled. “You expect me to believe Varys orchestrated my uncle’s death alone? That you had no role in the power play that followed?”

“I swear it!” Baelish protested, desperation sharpening his tone. “The eunuch had far more to gain. I did not know of his ambition to play Aegon Targaryen against the realm, against his own family, at the time. When Lord Stark was arrested, it was too early, too soon for my purposes - I wanted Stark to rule as Joffrey’s regent, and I as regent-maker would benefit immensely from it. Stannis ascending the throne would have doomed me. My intent was not war, and if Stannis had pressed his claim and revealed the parentage of Cersei’s children, there would have been war. Varys was the one to betray Ned Stark because he was prepared to launch Aegon’s invasion.”

“You knew of Cersei’s secret?” Robb asked, quietly, deadly. “And you didn’t think to tell my father earlier?”

Baelish’s eyes widened. He’d been caught in something, Jon could see, and the whirring of gears behind his eyes was almost transparent as he thought to weave some tale out of it. Why would Baelish have known the secret of Cersei’s children’s parentage? Was he the one who fed that information to Father, who helped him send those ravens out? But that did not make sense - Baelish had all but admitted that was Varys’ doing to instigate war. Baelish claimed he did not want war. The only plausible explanation was that he knew before or at the same time that Jon Arryn knew… and if so, why did he not say anything to Father?

Because he had a hand in Jon Arryn’s death. Father wasn’t just investigating the secret - he was investigating a murder. Jon Arryn had been about to reveal the same parentage, and so Baelish put a stop to it.

“You killed Jon Arryn,” Jon said suddenly.

Baelish was sweating now. "I did no such thing!"

"The poisoning of Jon Arryn paved the way for everything that followed," Jon said slowly, deliberately, as if laying stones in a meticulous path. "Lord Arryn discovered Cersei’s secret… and died thereafter. You knew it, and Varys knew it. Varys was the one who helped my uncle Lord Stark - you admitted it yourself. He wanted war, but you did not. So if you knew, why did you not say earlier? Why did you not implicate the Lannisters? Whether or not they were involved, it was you who did it. Deny it all you want, Baelish - I have the Kingslayer captive and I would be more than happy to get corroboration from him. You said it yourself - it was too soon for the Lannisters to be discovered in their treason even when Lord Stark was arrested. You knew exactly what chaos would come from his death, and you wanted to time it for your own purposes.”

Baelish’s lips parted as if to argue, but no words came out. For once, his silver tongue failed him.

Rhaenys laughed sharply. "Confess, Lord Baelish. You are dangerously close to Ghost’s maw right now.”

Baelish’s chains rattled as he shifted in his chair, his eyes darting between Jon and Rhaenys like a trapped animal searching for escape. His fingers twitched, betraying the panic creeping into him despite his best efforts to maintain a facade of composure. A bead of sweat trickled down Baelish’s temple. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. Finally, he spoke, his voice a trembling whisper.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Yes, I… I had a hand in Jon Arryn’s death.”

Rhaenys was beside Jon now, her eyes ablaze with fury. “A hand? Speak plainly, snake. Did you poison him?”

Baelish’s lips pressed into a thin line before he nodded reluctantly. “Lysa did it,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “At my urging. She loved me—a foolish girl waiting for scraps I threw her way. But I did not have a hand in Lord Stark’s death, I swear it. That was the Eunuch’s doing.”

“Explain at once,” Jon demanded.

Baelish closed his eyes and sighed. He did not speak immediately. “You know, I trust, that the Spider is currently one of Aegon Targaryen’s closest advisers.”

“I did not,” Jon said curtly, his tone sharp enough to cut. “I thought his main benefactor was the magister in Pentos.”

“Perhaps his main benefactor in Essos, but not here. That was Varys,” Baelish said. “When Lord Stark discovered Cersei’s secret, I knew time was running short. I had to play my hand quickly for events to transpire in the way that I wanted. I urged him to bury Cersei’s secret. But the Spider beat me to Lord Stark’s confidence, and it was in the Spider that Lord Stark placed his trust. Lord Stark as regent and I as the Master of Coin would have made me the richest and most powerful man in Westeros. Tywin Lannister would not get in a word edgewise with him running the realm, and I financing it. I confess. I killed Lysa Arryn and I orchestrated Lord Arryn’s death - but I did not play a hand in Lord Stark’s death. That is not my burden to bear. You promised that you would spare my life if I confessed and I have.”

Jon nodded. “I will not pronounce your death, Lord Baelish.” Rhaenys turned to him, eyes ablaze, but he hoped she got his meaning. Robb, too, opened his mouth to protest, but then simply stalked out of the tent. When he and Rhaenys joined him, Robb rounded on him.

“You cannot mean to spare his life.”

“I don’t,” Jon said quietly. “I have a plan, but it requires your cooperation. I said I would not pronounce his death. But the crimes he committed - or confessed to - were against the Vale.”

“The lord of the Vale can prosecute the crime himself,” Rhaenys said with realization. “Which means Baelish’s fate will rest in Lord Robert Arryn’s hands, not yours. You will not pronounce his death. Someone else will.”

Robb’s brows knit together. “Baelish was my cousin’s regent.”

“And now your cousin needs a new regent,” Jon said with a grin. “What of a certain Brandon Stark, Lord of Heart’s Home and one of the Vale’s most powerful bannermen, by marriage?”

RHAENYS

Lord Royce was a tall man, with a tall pride. She took some satisfaction in the act of bringing him low.

His bronze armor hung to his frame in a sad way. Polished, cleaned, it might have gleamed in the sun. Inside the tent it looked a faded relic. The man himself was not much different. His hair was flat and stringy, beard matted, and face covered in scars and filth.

He looked up at them, her and Jon, sitting side by side while he kneeled in the dirt before them.

“Lady Stark tells me you and my uncle were good friends, once,” Jon said. “I am disappointed that this is then how we meet. You have committed treason, my lord.”

Royce glared up at them. “It was no treason. My liege swore to Aegon Targaryen. Even if your claims to your lineage are true, he is your elder brother. He sits in King’s Landing. I did my duty by my liege.”

“It is a curious word, duty,” Rhaenys mused. “Often it is a cloak for convenience. Duty comes easy when duty is but the mere cleanup of a rag-tag remainder of an army. My lord, you were quite keen on duty when it meant taking a lady under custody.”

“Lady Stark did not come with flag of parley,” Royce objected. “There was no-”

Ghost, on his haunches by Jon’s side, growled at Royce. That was enough to silence the objection before his tongue could finish.

“You hide behind mere technicality.” Rhaenys shook her head. “The honor of the Vale is quite overestimated, I think. It is a good thing for you that His Grace and I have concocted a way for you to earn some of that honor back.”

Lord Royce grimaced. “You offer terms; I ask none.”

“What I offer is a choice, my lord.” Jon stood from his chair and paced in front of Royce. “You can choose between the extinction of your house or you can pledge yourself to me. I offer mercy. I need swords, my lord. I intend to put this land to peace and topple my usurping, kinslaying brother, and that will require a great deal of bloodshed before all is said and done.”

“You understand, of course, that such a mercy does not come without assurances on your part,” Rhaenys added. “But such assurances need not be painful. You have a daughter my age. She is unwed, is she not?”

Lord Royce gave her a baleful stare. “She is not wed.”

“Good then. We mean to bind you with loyalty, Lord Royce. The marriage is but a means to that end. Your house will not perish today, nor tomorrow, if you make the right choice. Your daughter would be wed to Lord Daryn Hornwood. Lord Hornwood has already agreed to the match. He is a loyal bannerman of House Stark, and a good man besides.”

“Aside from that,” Jon said, “there is something you should know. I questioned Lord Baelish today. He confessed to the murder of Lysa Arryn… and worse still. Both he and Lady Lysa conspired to kill Lord Arryn when he discovered that Robert’s heirs were bastards born of incest between Queen Cersei and her brother Jaime Lannister. The very foundation of the war your Vale has fought for was built on lies and treachery, Lord Royce. Is that the kind of legacy you wish to uphold?”

Royce’s fists clenched in the dirt. Rhaenys could feel anger and indignation radiating from the man.

“You suspected it, my lord,” she said suddenly. “You suspected it all along. You knew something was amiss with Lady Arryn’s death, didn’t you, yet you stayed silent. Tell me, did duty bind your tongue then too, or was that convenience as well?”

“I had no proof,” Royce grunted. “Baelish is more slippery than an eel, but I could not level an accusation so easily.”

“And yet you followed this eel into the jaws of defeat,” Rhaenys said.

“He speaks with Lord Arryn’s voice!”

“Lord Arryn is a boy!” Jon roared. Rhaenys had to suppress a flinch.

Jon’s voice echoed in the tent, silencing the air as if the entire world held its breath. Ghost shifted, his crimson eyes never leaving Royce. The lord knelt there, his pride battered, his fists clenching and unclenching, though he dared not meet Jon’s gaze again.

“Lord Arryn is a boy,” Jon repeated. "A boy manipulated by vipers. And you allowed it. You claim duty as your shield, but where was your duty to the truth? To your liege? To your honor?"

“You have a chance now to reclaim it,” Rhaenys said. “You have a chance now to do right by your liege. Aemon is the rightful King, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. He is just and fair. His family is kin to your liege, and have his interests at heart. Conversely, Baelish is a poisonous snake and murderer and Aegon a kinslayer, both accursed by the gods. You have a choice, my lord, and I cannot help you if you cannot distinguish between the two paths laid out before you.”

Royce was silent as the grave for a few moments. Then, finally - “What would you have me do?”

“Swear to me. Marry your daughter to Lord Hornwood, who will take good care of her and treat her with honor. And help me set the Vale to rights. Help me bring justice to Lord Arryn’s murderer.”

From the look in his eye, Rhaenys could tell they had hooked him. She suppressed a smile.

“How?” Yohn Royce asked.

“To extract the truth from Baelish, we said we would not pronounce his death,” Rhaenys said. “But that exempts him not from the justice of his liege. Unfortunately Lord Robert is in the Eyrie and too young to deal with such matters. That is where you come in, Lord Royce. As one of the most respected lords of the Vale, you carry more weight than any other voice in the region. It is within your power—and your duty—to summon the Lords Declarant, install a new Lord Protector, and hold a trial.”

Royce’s head shot up, his frown deepening. “A trial? For Baelish?”

“Yes,” Rhaenys said smoothly, leaning forward in her chair. “A public trial for his crimes against House Arryn and the realm. Bring his deceit to light before all in the Vale. Let justice be seen.”

“Who would be Lord Protector in Baelish’s stead?” Royce asked.

Rhaenys did not hesitate. “Someone loyal to Lord Robert. Someone with his best interests at heart. Kin. The King and I had thought of Ser Brandon Stark.”

“Ser Brandon?” Royce’s voice was confused, but that only made Jon laugh.

“That would be my cousin by blood, and brother by bond, Lord Royce. Ned Stark’s second son. He will be marrying Lady Ellyn Corbray soon, as it is.”

“But Ser Brandon is… he must be a child,” Royce objected.

“A man of fourteen namedays,” Jon snapped, “and with more kills to his name than warriors who’ve lived half a century. It was Ser Brandon who forced the Kingslayer to yield at Riverrun. He is fiercely loyal to his kin - as I know first-hand - and he will be loyal to Lord Robert. And if you fear him an outsider, keep in mind that he is a knight, his lady mother a southron, and soon by marriage Lord of Heart’s Home.”

Lord Royce’s face dropped in horror. “Are all the Corbrays dead?”

Rhaenys idly picked at a fingernail. “Indeed they are. I fear if you should read the list of your Vale dead, my lord, you would weep.”

The tent descended into a tense silence after Rhaenys's cold declaration. Royce’s weathered face, lined with all his years, could not make secret his grief. The Lords of the Vale had always been a proud breed, unyielding as the mountains they called home. Yet here he knelt, one son dead, the other captive. It must have gnawed at him, Rhaenys thought to herself. But it was not her fault. They had all chosen this. They had come to prey upon what they thought was the carcass of House Targaryen and instead they found a dragon strong and unyielding, more woe to the vanquished.

To her surprise, Jon knelt by Royce’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. “You weep for the lost, Lord Royce. Your son was among them, and for that you have my sympathies. But I weep for my lost too. I weep for my uncle Ned Stark, who was to me the only father I’ve ever known. I weep for my royal uncle, King Viserys, who took me in as his blood and flesh and raised me high with trust. This realm deserves better than kinslayers like Aegon. The Vale deserves better than Baelish’s lies. Your daughter deserves a future unmarred by treachery, and your name deserves a chance for honor that rings true.” His grey eyes softened slightly. “Do not let your house fall into ruin because you refused to act when justice called.”

Lord Royce raised his sharp gaze to Jon, studying him as though trying to find fault in his conviction. Then his eyes turned to her. “You truly look like the best of your lady mother and Prince Rhaegar, Your Grace. You have every bit of his grace, and her iron wit.”

“You knew my mother?” Rhaenys said, surprise coloring her voice.

“Yes, I did,” he said. “She and your uncle Prince Oberyn toured the Seven Kingdoms in search of suitors for the both of them, with your grandmother Princess Myriah. She stopped at Runestone for a while, and charmed all who knew her - myself included.” The Valeman’s eyes softened. “Very well. I do not know if I deserve the mercy Your Graces have seen fit to grant me, but I will help.”

“Good,” Rhaenys said, her tone firm but not unkind. “Then let us begin to remake what has been broken.”

Jon rose to his feet, towering above Lord Royce now. “We must speak with the remaining Lords of the Vale, but with your acquiescence, this will be easier. I would have you send for your daughter and all the other matches we wish to make to sail from Gulltown to White Harbor, where Lord Manderly will see to their comfort. Once we have retaken Winterfell, the weddings will take place in the North - and then together we’ll march south to cast down my usurper brother.”

“And you’ll stand at our side, my lord,” Rhaenys added. “With your voice and your name, none will doubt the integrity of this action. Together, we bring the Vale back into the light.”

Royce nodded, though his frown lingered like a shadow. “The lords will be cautious. Baelish has tied half of them in knots of gold and promises.”

“Do not fear,” Jon said, smiling. “They can choose to side with the viper in a cage or the dragon in whose claws their lives rest. I do not think it a difficult choice, my lord.”

Chapter Text

AEGON

So many people, pressed into a throng, in the great wide plaza outside the Sept of Baelor, Aegon thought.

They pushed and pressed and huddled, dirty faces and clean faces, burghers and beggars alike, all straining to lay eyes upon their king. What was the mob to a king?

The High Septon placed the crown atop his bowed head. What was a king to the gods?

When he raised his head up, he saw a flock of birds travelling through the sky. It looked as if they were headed south. A great, massive Targaryen banner flapped in the wind. It caught his eye, the red dragon, all three heads breathing flames. It was a lie.

What were the gods to an unbeliever?

Aegon rose from his knees, the weight of the crown settling on his brow like a shackle. The cheers of the crowd surged and echoed through the plaza, a cacophony of hope and desperation that threatened to drown him. They called his name, their voices overlapping in an eager, frenzied chant: “Aegon! Aegon the Conqueror reborn!”

The words sent a twinge of something bitter curling in his chest. He was no conqueror. He was no savior. These people clamored for a king who did not exist, and what they saw before them, standing atop the steps of the sept in black and red splendor, was a shadow masquerading as something it was not.

A black dragon wearing a face of red.

The Septon bound his hand with Margaery’s, and they said words. He uttered them, but it was as though his mind had glazed over, taken on an automatic quality. He looked through eyes that felt not his own, spoke with a tongue that was not his, uttered words with a voice that did not come from him. But it was done. Margaery was Aegon Targaryen’s wife.

Another lie. She wore a face of red and did not even know it, now.

He took the second crown offered by the High Septon. He had rejected the Targaryen crowns, as surely they would have rejected him. Maekar’s crown, in particular, seemed to threaten him with its spikes. It knew he was not meant to wear it. There was the Unworthy’s crown, but that felt too ironic.

So instead the goldsmiths and metalsmiths and the jewelers had worked day and night to fashion him a crown. It was black, and with red rubies, something of an imitation of the Conqueror’s. That was enough, he thought. The Conqueror was his progenitor still. Not everything had changed… even though everything of import had.

The crown he placed atop Margaery’s head, to the jubilation of the crowd, was Queen Alicent Hightower’s, also worn by Helaena Targaryen, wife of Aegon II. He hoped his and Margaery’s fates would be better than Aegon and Helaena’s. His wife smiled at him prettily when she rose, the pale gold circlet with jade complimenting the color of her father’s house.

But the rose was no longer a rose. She was a black dragon, the same as he, a lie, just as he was.

The cheers rolled on, a tide of humanity swelling at his feet, yet Aegon could not feel the warmth of their adoration, bought with Tyrell grain and Tyrell wheat and Tyrell gold. It all seemed distant, as though he stood behind some invisible veil that separated him from the thousands clamoring for a savior. His fingers itched against the cold black pommel of Blackfyre at his side. He wanted to laugh. There was a time when he thought Blackfyre had escaped the hands of the Blackfyres. How wrong he was.

"Your Grace," came Varys’ voice beside him. “It is time to return to the Red Keep.”

Varys hurried away. Aegon watched him go, before he extended his hand to his wife. Margaery took it gracefully. Her smile had not dropped.

“You cut the image of the Conqueror, my love,” she said.

He tried to smile in return. He cut the image of Daemon Blackfyre.

As they descended the marble steps of the Great Sept, Aegon felt that the black crown atop his head had not been fashioned to fit properly—it pinched at his temples, too tight. He would have to remedy that. Margaery was radiant. The jade in her crown caught the sunlight. How effortlessly she played the role given to her, he thought bitterly. Yet there was no malice in the observation—only envy. Did she know what it was to be hollowed out from within? To wear a mask so tight it became one with his skin?

The Kingsguard awaited them at the foot of the steps. They were knights chosen from among Aegon's loyalists, and some from the bannermen of the Tyrells. From the sept, the royal procession proceeded to the Red Keep. The way was lined by onlookers, held back by the City Watch. The goldcloaks formed two picket lines made of flesh and steel that went all the way up the King’s Way to Aegon’s High Hill.

The city seemed alive beneath the tumult, its breath heavy with the stench of unwashed humanity. That smell had never really bothered Aegon. He lived enough of his life hidden in cities to know how they truly were - dirty, smelly, violent, harsh places, full of liars and cheats and backstabbers. What else would King’s Landing be if the king who lived in it was a lie himself?

The people reached out as the royal procession passed, hands outstretched as if grasping for salvation. Aegon wondered if they thought touching his shadow would bring them luck or bring them ruin.

“Your Grace. Do you hear them? They love you.”

It was an insipid comment, not one he wanted to hear now. He glanced at Margaery from the corner of his eye. “Promise me one thing.”

If she was taken aback by his directness, she did not show it. “Of course.”

“You do not know yet what I have to ask of you.”

“You are the king. It need not be an ask - even a queen can be commanded by the king.”

“Be that as it may, I cannot read your mind. You have a queenly mask, and you wear it well, but I am not a subject, not to be charmed, not to be fooled. I must know your mind and you must know mine.”

There was a glint of something in her eye. Margaery was no foolish flower. There was a mind under there, sharp, clever. “Are you asking me to be honest?” she said. “I thought we had just sworn something to that effect in front of the High Septon.”

"I am asking for more," Aegon replied, his voice low, almost drowned by the roar of the crowd. "Honesty spoken before gods is easy; honesty whispered between two people is another thing entirely."

"And what truth do you wish to wrest from me on this, the day of our union?"

The procession moved onward, the black and red banners snapping in the wind above them, casting fleeting shadows over the faces of the crowd.

"I wish to know if you believe this farce as they do," he said quietly.

Margaery's delicate fingers tightened ever so slightly around his palm. "Aegon," she began softly, her lips barely moving as she leaned closer under the pretense of sharing a tender word. "do you take me for a fool?”

“No,” he finally said, after a pause that felt too long. “I value your counsel. And I know it is anything but foolish. But we are strangers still, you and I.”

“We are man and wife, king and queen, lord and lady. I agree with you. We cannot afford to be strangers. You ask if I believe? I say it is a poor question. For kings, belief is not necessary, and perhaps even harmful.”

“Go on.”

“A king who believes in what the people think him to be - not just the smallfolk, but the lords, and the ladies —he is a fool," Margaery finished smoothly, her voice barely audible beneath the din surrounding them. "Belief is for them. For the crowd. For the court. Your part is to know the truth and know how to bend it to your will, to shape how you are seen, to shape the beliefs of others.”

Aegon studied her carefully, and then he smiled. Perhaps there was hope.

As they passed through the gatehouse of Maegor’s Holdfast, his fingers tightened reflexively around Blackfyre’s pommel again. It was strange how little comfort being armed brought him these days. The hall awaiting them was grandly decorated, resplendent in gold and red and black finery. The skulls of the dragons were mounted once more in the Great Hall. Down they gazed at him - Vermithor, Vhagar, Meraxes. Balerion most of all.

He gazed back. Under the scale, whatever the color, a dragon was a dragon. It was in their bones. Perhaps that was all he needed. Perhaps there was no difference between Aegon Targaryen and Aegon Blackfyre.

But one ugly thought never left his mind. Aegon Targaryen was a kinslayer. Aegon Blackfyre was not.

DAENERYS

They sailed past the pink limestone walls of Maidenpool without challenge. The town bore the banners of House Targaryen, as did her ships - they were not even offered challenge as they sailed past them and upriver. The walls seemed undermanned. She wondered idly how many men who had once walked those walls in defense of the city were now dead. Many, if not most.

“The last time I was here,” Ser Jorah remarked idly next to her, “there was a melee. It was while your father was still king, Khaleesi. I remember the day well.”

Daenerys tore her eyes away from the walls of the city and fixed them upon her bear. “Did you win, ser?”

Ser Jorah chuckled. “No, sadly. I was one of the last eight remaining, but it was Ser Barristan who won the day. Barristan the Bold… few knights lived up to their names, but he was one of them.”

“Yet he bent the knee to the Usurper,” Daenerys coldly remarked. “Even now he likely serves whoever sits the Iron Throne now.”

Ser Jorah did not say anything in response to that.

Beneath the deck she could sense her children growing restless. She felt much the same as them, but she did not think it wise to reveal the existence of three dragons just yet. “We should stop and ascertain the whereabouts of the King,” Jorah finally said. “I do not know if it is wise to sail upriver blindly.”

“The last we had heard, the Starks had dealt the Lannisters a sound blow in the Riverlands and were marching to Riverrun, did we not?” Daenerys asked. “But that was some time ago. I suppose you are right, Ser Jorah.”

“Shall I ask for volunteers to go ashore?”

“Yes,” Daenerys said. She looked to her guards, the Unsullied captain at their head. “Take ten men, fully armed. Ser Jorah, go with them. Speak to the garrison. Return within the hour, and safely, if you please, ser.”

From the deck she tracked the party—Jorah, the Unsullied, and her quartermaster—splitting from the longboat and walking along the pebble strand toward the Maidenpool gate. She watched until the guards disappeared inside, trailing suspicion like a cloak. “They will be safe,” she said, half to herself, half to the warm summer wind.

She resumed her walk along the gunwale, making modest show of herself to the dock as her sailship dropped anchor. It took less than an hour before the guardsmen returned by boat. As they reembarked upon the ship, Jorah walked at their head, flanked by the Unsullied, with two new men in tow, one in leathers bearing the arms of House Mooton and a strange personal sigil she did not recognize, the other a less ostentatious man in patched green. They climbed the swaying ladder and were ushered to her deck without pause.

“Your Grace,” Jorah said formally, “may I present the commander of the Maidenpool garrison, Ser Addam Mayweather.”

The knight in Mooton livery bent the knee, helm in hand. She had never heard of House Mayweather - perhaps it was some small house, unlanded knights or retainers. “Princess Daenerys, your presence here is an honor. Ser Jorah told me that you have brought reinforcements for the King.” He stood, and then Daenerys saw him shuffle his feet. Whatever it was he had to say, it filled him with hesitation. “He said that you were here for King Viserys.”

“Should I be here for any other king? Are you?” she asked sharply.

Mayweather shook his head and composed himself before looking her in the eye. “No, my princess. King Viserys is dead.”

To Dany, it felt like the deck gave way under her feet. Missandei held out a hand to steady her. “W-what?” she said. “How?”

Ser Addam’s voice was low. “Murdered. Foul betrayal, a terrible calumny outside King’s Landing, Princess. King Viserys, the Riverlords, and the Northmen gave battle to the Tyrells outside the capital. Then they were beset upon by Stannis and the Lannisters, and they defeated them too. But as they were preparing to lay siege, the King was slain. Traitors. It was the Tyrells, after offering surrender. They did it for Aegon the Kinslayer.”

It took a moment—long, shuddering breaths—for her to regain control, a moment in which the world seemed to slow and the sunlight harden and fracture against the deck. Daenerys looked at her hands, which trembled. “Aegon the Kinslayer?”

“Yes.” She stood there frozen as Mayweather recounted how Aegon had taken the Stormlands by force, marched to challenge Viserys by the capital, and had lost, only to turn his surrender into a terrible victory. The knight spoke for some length, but offered little detail, for he had been assigned to the Maidenpool garrison and only knew what he knew from ravens and passing outriders of the army. “The Kinslayer took the Tyrell girl to wife and now sits the Iron Throne with the Lannisters and the Stormlords bending the knee,” he said at the end.

Dany thought she might collapse. Two twin urges overtook her - to flee, and to go to King’s Landing and burn the entire city down with Aegon in it.

“Who commands the King’s forces? Is it Princess Rhaenys?” Ser Jorah said. Missandei’s hand stayed on her arm. It was like a tether, and Dany clung to it. Viserys was dead. Her brother was dead, and Aegon had killed him.

“Queen Rhaenys, now. And her husband, King Aemon.”

For a moment, the words seemed incomprehensible. She tried to call up his face, the sharp purple eyes always hungry with expectation, the pale hair that fell in curtains about his thin, noble face, the mouth that could never quite manage to form a complete smile. Now all of it was dust, and the world was changed in an instant.

She opened her mouth and closed it, found she could not summon a single question or curse. Aegon had done this. He had sent her to Drogo’s bed in Essos and now had reached out from a continent away and torn her life in half. She gripped the railing. The wood was warm in the sun, but her fingers were numb.

Missandei’s hand closed gently over her own, and Ser Jorah’s voice was a low, steadying presence at her ear. Only the Unsullied stood at rigid attention, unaffected. Daenerys breathed in, once, twice, and tried to steady her voice. When she finally spoke, it was flat, almost child-like.

“You said Aemon. King Aemon. I have no living kinsman named Aemon.”

Ser Addam nodded gravely. “I think you should read this, Princess. It is a letter from King Viserys. One was sent to near every castle in Westeros.” He handed a scroll to Ser Jorah, who gave it to her. Its seal was long broken. With trembling hands she unfurled and read it.

She could scarcely believe the contents. I, Viserys, Third of my Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby proclaim that the issue of my brother, Prince Rhaegar, and his second, lawfully wedded wife, Lyanna Stark, is to be considered legitimate from the moment of birth. The Crown recognizes the sanctity and legality of said marriage, established by precedent by my ancestor Aegon the Conqueror, and the legitimacy of such issue. Therefore, Aemon, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, is, from his first breath until his last day, a legitimate-by-birth member of House Targaryen, as are all his heirs in perpetuity.

Aemon. She had another nephew named Aemon. Rhaegar’s son by Lady Lyanna. For a moment she suppressed a hysterical laugh. Hadn’t she debated that same point with the sellsword from Essos, Lord Stark’s bastard, her eventual friend, Jon? She wondered what he would think of that now.

“Where was this Aemon Targaryen kept hidden for so long?” Ser Jorah said incredulously.

“He was kept hidden because Lord Eddard Stark claimed him as his bastard,” Ser Addam said, looking at the knight and then her. “He fought in Essos for some time as a sellsword. He and Lord Robb Stark gathered the Northmen and declared for King Viserys. He killed Gregor Clegane in single combat at the Ruby Ford.” He seemed bewildered. “Truly, Princess, none of this news has reached you?”

Now she could not help but let a crazed laugh escape her. It was a dream, all of it, surely. A fever dream, some sailing sickness that had taken her on the voyage across the Narrow Sea. Jon. Her friend Jon, the kind, brave boy who had guarded her and kept her company. The world had seemed to lose its very foundations. Up was down, down was up.

"Jon Snow," she whispered, half to herself. "Jon Snow is Aemon Targaryen."

"You do know him, Princess?" Ser Addam asked, surprise coloring his weathered features.

Daenerys nodded slowly, her mind reeling. The quiet boy with the dark eyes who had served as her guard in Essos, who had spoken to her of honor and duty, who had listened to her dreams and fears. Her kind, gallant friend. Her nephew. Blood of her blood.

Her hand flew to her neck. There sat the same necklace he had bought for her in the Pentos market, what felt like a lifetime ago, and she somehow knew this was no dream.

“This is dire news,” Ser Jorah said. “Ser Addam, where are the Targaryen forces now?”

“They are retreating North. The Dornishmen were scattered and have fled south, to my understanding, but there are still some thousands with the King, and another twenty thousand Rivermen and Northmen awaiting the King across the Ruby Ford. The Greyjoys have laid siege to Winterfell. We Rivermen have been commanded to hold our castles and forts from any incursions from the south while the Ironborn are dealt with.” Ser Addam stood straight. “I fought for King Aemon at Riverrun. He and my Lord Mooton entrusted me with Maidenpool's defense and I intend to defend it.”

Dany rolled the letter between her fingers, staring at the dust motes dancing in the light that flooded across the deck. “How many days must I row upriver to meet him?”

“No more than three days, Princess.”

Daenerys’ eyes hardened. She needed to find them, Jon and Rhaenys. “Thank you, Ser Addam, but there is somewhere I must be. I shall have a boat take you ashore.”

After leaving Maidenpool behind, Daenerys allowed her mask to crack. In her cabin, with only Missandei - she even dismissed Irri and Jhiqui - she allowed herself to weep. Viserys was gone. Her beloved, fierce brother. She wept for an hour, maybe more, Missandei kneeling nearby, quiet as a shadow. The sobs tore from her not as they might from a child wronged or a woman bereft but as from something wounded deeper, an animal scarred to the marrow. When there were no more tears in her, Dany lay motionless upon her cot, head pillowed in the lap of her handmaid. Missandei stroked her pale hair, humming a syllable-less tune that might have been heard once along the rivers of Naath.

When she stirred again, it was to visit her dragons belowdeck.

That was a mistake. The hatch was secured, but Viserion’s hiss curled up from the hold before she could fully draw the latch. Rhaegal circled near the opening, head bobbing up and down in anticipation.

She ducked in. The light was coppery, lantern-gold. The smell of river and dragon, sharp and acrid, filled her senses. Drogon’s black wings uncoiled from the shadows. All three regarded her with their unfathomable eyes.

She fell to her knees amidst them, and for a moment she forgot her grief.

She embraced Viserion’s snout, buried her face in his smoky warmth. “My brother is dead,” she whispered to him. “Shall I grieve? He was your namesake.”

The dragon huffed, hot and sour against her skin. Dany cradled Viserion’s head in her arms and closed her eyes. The deck thudded softly with her heartbeat and the slow, pulsing breath of dragon. Here, at least, her tears came without shame; here, as with Missandei, with her children, she needed not wear the mask of a queen.

For a little while she let herself weep again, but it emptied her instead of unmaking her. The anger that followed was clean, chilled and white as a blade in snow. She wanted Aegon’s head.

A day later they arrived at Saltpans - here they learned from Lord Cox’s castellan that Jon’s remaining forces were marching north across Harroway, and that it would be easier to disembark near the Widow’s Ford and meet them on the road than it would to sail any further upriver.

Her Unsullied marched in tight formation, and what was left of her Khalasar was ecstatic to finally be off the ships and back on horseback. From the Widow’s Ford they marched to the Crossroads, Ser Jorah serving as their guide, for Dany had only heard of these places as names in books, not as real places. She commanded a column of three and a half thousand Unsullied, a paltry host by Westerosi standards, and only a few hundred riders, but many in the villages along the Trident fled at the sight of warriors with whip scars and dark, unsmiling faces, foreign banners hung with red dragons and flames. None dared challenge them. Her dragons she kept out of sight, more out of paranoia and fear for their safety.

At the Crossroads, Daenerys was met with a herald. He bore the Targaryen sigil, and knelt before her.

“Princess Daenerys? King Aemon received a rider from Maidenpool yesterday informing of your arrival. He sent me to lead you to his camp. His Grace has just won a victory over the Arryn host near Nutten, and he bids you join him there.”

"Then that is where I must go," she told him. The messenger rode off, and at dawn she and her army set out in his wake.

They traveled for another day before they arrived at the camp. A group of riders broke out to meet her at sunrise near the edge of the woods—Stark men in furs, banners hung with wolves, Riverlords in bright colors. At their head rode a young man with auburn hair, flanked by a great grey direwolf that padded silently through the grass. His banner bore the wolf of Stark, and when he dismounted and approached her party, she could see the weariness in his blue eyes.

"Princess Daenerys," he said, inclining his head with the respect due her station but not the deference of a subject. "I am Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell.

"My lord," she replied.

The young lord possessed a rugged handsomeness that caught her off guard. He was not the hulking barbarian she had somehow conjured in her mind, though he was certainly more rough hewn than Jon.

"His Grace and Queen Rhaenys are eagerly awaiting you," Stark said. "If you'll permit me, my princess, I'll escort you to them."

Daenerys nodded, casting a glance toward the treeline where her dragons remained hidden among the baggage wagons. Drogon's presence pressed against her consciousness like a warm coal, ready to ignite at her call. "Lead on, my lord."

They rode together through the camp, past rows of Northern tents and Riverlander pavilions. The smell of cook fires and leather filled the air, mingling with the sharper scents of steel and horse. Soldiers paused in their tasks to watch her pass.

Stark pointed as they approached a large clearing where a crowd had gathered. "It seems the trial has already begun."

"Trial?" Daenerys asked, urging her horse closer to his.

"Lord Baelish," Stark explained, his mouth twisting with distaste. "The man who murdered my aunt Lady Lysa Arryn, and orchestrated the death of Lord Jon Arryn. He brought the Valemen to bear against our forces as regent, in the name of my cousin Robert Arryn, and lost. He is finally facing justice for his crimes."

They dismounted at the edge of the gathering, and Stark guided her through the press of lords and soldiers. At the center sat a makeshift court—a young man upon a chair that served as a throne, with Rhaenys beside him, both wearing crowns. Dany’s heart thrummed at the sight of them. Rhaenys looked every inch a queen, but she had always been regal. The man next to her…

She hardly recognized Jon Snow. In his armor, his cloak, he looked the part of a warrior king, not the dusty sellsword friend she remembered. More than that, she saw how everyone else looked at him - with awe. Behind him stood an old knight with a white cloak that, despite the mud and mist that seemed to hang over all Westeros, was pristine. A kingsguard, she knew, but she did not recognize the man.

Before them knelt a slight man in chains, his graying hair disheveled and his once-fine clothes now stained and torn.

"Who presides?" Daenerys whispered.

"Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone," Stark murmured back. "One of the most respected lords of the Vale. He's speaking for my cousin Lord Robert, who remains in the Eyrie."

The bronze-armored lord was indeed speaking, his voice carrying clearly across the assembled crowd. "Lord Petyr Baelish, you stand accused of the murder of Lady Lysa Arryn, whom you pushed through the Moon Door of the Eyrie. How do you answer?"

Baelish's voice was barely audible. "Guilty, my lord."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Daenerys found herself studying the faces around her—Northern lords she didn't recognize, Rivermen in bright colors and surcoats, and even Vale lords. They did not seem as though they were captive.

"And to the charge of conspiring in the murder of Lord Jon Arryn through poison administered by Lady Lysa at your behest?" Lord Royce continued, his bronze armor gleaming dully in the morning light.

Baelish lifted his head slightly, and Daenerys caught a glimpse of his pale green eyes—calculating even now, even in chains. "Guilty, my lord," he whispered.

The crowd stirred more violently this time. Daenerys heard curses muttered under breath, saw hands drift toward sword hilts. The Vale lords present looked stricken, their faces pale.

Lord Royce's voice rang out over the murmur. "The crimes you have confessed to are heinous beyond measure. You have murdered your liege lord and his lady wife. You have brought the Vale to ruin through your treachery." He turned toward Jon, who sat motionless upon his makeshift throne. "Your Grace, what judgment do you pronounce upon this man?”

Jon rose slowly, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. When he spoke, his voice carried clearly across the assembly. "I gave Lord Baelish my word that I would not pronounce his death if he confessed his crimes. A king's word must be his bond." He paused, his grey eyes hard as stone. "But the crimes he has admitted to were committed against the Vale, against House Arryn. It is not for me to judge him, or make a pronouncement—it is for his liege, Lord Robert Arryn."

Now, Dany saw panic in Baelish's eyes. This was not something the man had foreseen. The calculating look was gone. "Your Grace!" he shouted. "You-"

"Lord Robert is but a boy in the Eyrie," Lord Royce said sternly, cutting off the man. "He requires a Lord Protector to act in his name until he comes of age."

"Then name one," Jon replied simply. Dany's eyes narrowed. Would he simply let the Vale lords choose?

Lord Royce straightened, his voice carrying the weight of formal proclamation. "I nominate Ser Brandon Stark, soon to be Lord of Heart's Home through his betrothal to Lady Ellyn Corbray, as Lord Protector of the Vale."

Dany's eyes widened slightly. No, Jon had not simply let them choose, she thought. There was something orchestrated, something that felt predetermined in all this. A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd as a young man stepped forward from among the Northern lords. He could not be more than fourteen, yet he carried himself with quiet confidence. This was the boy they would entrust with the governance of an entire kingdom? Why entrust a boy to be regent for another boy?

Because he was Jon's brother - or at least, raised as his brother. She saw the political calculation behind it and exchanged a glance with Lord Stark. The man's face was solemn, but she could have sworn she saw the corners of his mouth rise just a little in a hint of a smirk.

Ser Brandon was tall for his age, with darkish-red hair and blue eyes, similar to Lord Stark. When he spoke, his voice was steady despite his youth. "My lords of the Vale, I am honored by this trust, though I know I am young to bear such responsibility." He looked out over the assembled knights and nobles, many of whom had grey in their beards. "I swear to you that I will rule justly in my cousin Lord Robert's name, protecting his rights and his realm until he is of age to take up his birthright. The Vale has suffered enough from treachery and lies. I promise you truth and honor."

Several of the Vale lords nodded, and Daenerys found herself impressed despite her astonishment. The boy spoke well, and there was something in his bearing that reminded her of Jon, when she had known him—that same quiet strength, that same sense of duty.

Lord Royce inclined his head. "Does anyone contest Ser Brandon's office?" When no one spoke a word, he continued. "Then as Lord Protector, what is your judgment on the prisoner?"

Brandon’s blue eyes fixed on Baelish, and for a moment the boy's youth fell away entirely. "Petyr Baelish, for complicity in the murder of Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, and for the murder of Lady Lysa Arryn, I sentence you to death."

The words rang out with finality. Baelish's composure entirely cracked, his face going white as parchment. He began blubbering and pleading.

Jon stepped forward, drawing the sword from his side. Even from a distance, she could see the rippled steel, the way it seemed to drink in the morning light. "Frostbite," she heard someone whisper. Valyrian steel. She remembered that blade. It had come to her defense once.

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword," Jon said quietly, offering the blade hilt-first to Brandon.

Two guards hauled Baelish to his knees, forcing his head down. The crowd fell silent, even the birds seeming to hush their songs.

"Do you have any last words?" Brandon asked.

Baelish raised his head one final time, his eyes darting desperately around the circle of faces. "Everything I did was for— for-" he choked, and no other words came out. He looked at a woman, a handsome woman who resembled Robb Stark. She had the same hair, the same eyes of blue. "Cat, please," Baelish begged.

The lady said nothing.

Ser Brandon swung hard. The Valyrian steel took his head cleanly, the blade passing through flesh and bone as though they were water. Baelish's body toppled forward, blood spreading dark across the trampled grass. He wiped the blade clean before returning it to Jon, his face pale but resolute. "Justice is done," he said simply.

The crowd began to disperse, lords and soldiers moving away in small groups, their voices low with discussion of what they had witnessed. Daenerys remained where she stood, still processing what she had seen. A boy of fourteen had just taken a man's head with the composure of a seasoned lord. She was no stranger to brutality or violence, not now, certainly, but the sight was still captivating.

"Princess." The voice made her turn. It was Lord Robb. “Your reunion with your kin awaits - in the King’s tent. I think it is a private moment, just for the three of you.” He smiled lightly. “Targaryens only.”

Daenerys followed Robb through the maze of tents, her heart hammering against her ribs with each step. The weight of everything she had learned—Viserys's death, Jon's true identity, the war that had reshaped the realm in her absence—pressed down upon her like a physical burden. But beneath the grief and shock, anticipation fluttered in her chest. She was about to be reunited with her kin.

Robb stopped before a large pavilion bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen and pulled back the entrance flap. "Your Graces," he called softly. "Princess Daenerys has arrived."

Daenerys stepped inside, and the world seemed to narrow to just the three figures within the tent's confines.

Rhaenys rose from her seat with a cry of joy. "Dany!" She rushed forward, and they collided in an embrace that drove the breath from both their lungs. Daenerys buried her face in her niece's dark hair, inhaling the familiar, pleasant scent that had always clung to Rhaenys.

"I thought I would never see you again," Rhaenys whispered fiercely, her voice thick with emotion. "When I heard you were given to Khal Drogo in my stead, when there was no word for so long..."

"I am here," Daenerys murmured back, holding her tighter. "I am here now."

They pulled apart just enough to look at each other, hands still clasped. Rhaenys was more beautiful than ever, her face matured by queenship and... something else. Daenerys's eyes dropped to her niece's waist, where the flowing fabric of her gown couldn't quite conceal the gentle swell beneath.

"You're with child," Daenerys breathed, wonder replacing grief for a moment. Bittersweet wonder. Rhaego.

Rhaenys's hand moved instinctively to her belly, a radiant smile spreading across her face. "I am. Our line continues, Dany." 

Daenerys felt tears spring to her eyes—tears of joy this time, not sorrow. She placed her own hand over Rhaenys's, feeling the warmth of new life beneath her palm.

“Dany." The quiet voice made her turn, and there stood Jon—no, Aemon now, she reminded herself. King Aemon Targaryen, First of His Name. But when she looked into those familiar grey eyes, she saw only her friend.

"Jon," she said simply, and moved toward him.He opened his arms and she stepped into them, feeling the solid strength of his embrace. He had grown broader since she'd seen him last, his frame filled out, no longer eating a sellsword’s diet. But his hold was gentle, careful, as it had always been.

"I am so sorry about Viserys," he murmured into her hair. "He was a good king. He was my king. And he was a good brother to you."

She nodded against his chest, not trusting her voice. When she finally pulled back, she studied his face—the same strong jaw, the same serious mouth, but there was something different in his eyes now. The weight of a crown, the burden of command.

"You've changed," she said softly.

"We all have." His mouth quirked in a small smile. She recognized that. "Though I suppose my name has changed more than most."

That drew a watery laugh from her. "Aemon Targaryen. I quite like it."

He gestured for them all to sit, and as they settled around a low table, Daenerys noticed something moving in the shadows near Jon's chair. A pale shape emerged into the light, and she gasped.

It was a dragon. Small, no larger than a cat, with scales that gleamed white as fresh snow and eyes like molten gold. Smoke curled from its nostrils as it regarded her with intelligent curiosity.

"Seven hells," she whispered. "You have a dragon.”

Jon reached out and the little creature climbed onto his arm, settling against his shoulder with obvious familiarity. "His name is Vedros. He hatched not long ago. This egg was an heirloom for me, left by… by my father, Rhaegar Targaryen.” Jon’s eyes became faraway, and Dany realized he was still grappling with his parentage. In his shoes, she could hardly blame him.

Dany stared in amazement. The dragon was beautiful, perfect in miniature, its white wings folding neatly against its scaled sides. She had thought herself the only one, the last dragonlord in all the world.

"How?" she asked breathlessly.

"Viserys’ funeral pyre," Rhaenys said somberly. “But he is the first dragon in almost-”

"I have three," Daenerys interrupted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

The tent fell silent. Jon and Rhaenys stared at her, their expressions shifting from surprise to shock.

"Three?" Jon repeated faintly.

Daenerys nodded, her heart racing. "Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion. They're... they're much larger than Vedros. Drogon is nearly the size of a horse now."

Rhaenys covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide.

Daenerys felt a laugh bubbling up from her chest, wild and joyous despite everything. "All this time, I thought I alone had brought dragons into the world."

"And I thought the same," Jon admitted. "When Vedros hatched, I believed it was some miracle, some singular event. Something born of Viserys’ life force.”

Daenerys leaned back in her chair and blinked away the wetness that sprang to her eye. Viserys. She looked for a long time at the white hatchling. Was it Viserys in there? Some part of him? Dragons were magic, fire made flesh - and so often were Targaryens described in the same way. She stared hard at the dragon, wondering if she might see some sign of her brother in it, but the hatchling was only a hatchling. "Tell me everything," she said finally. "I've heard fragments, pieces of the story, but I need to know what truly happened."

Jon and Rhaenys exchanged a look, and she saw something pass between them. Then Jon began speaking, with Rhaenys interspersing her own comments at times. He related the origins of their alliance, their victories over the Lannisters, Ned Stark’s execution, Jon’s parentage and its reveal, the desperate alliance between Stannis and the Lannisters, the battles outside King’s Landing, and Aegon’s betrayal during their wedding. Her heart soared and sank with every victory and tribulation. When they described Viserys' death, Dany felt wet tears streaming down her face, though no sobs wracked her body.

"In the chaos that followed," Rhaenys whispered, wiping away a tear, "we barely escaped with our lives. The Dornish forces were driven south, though my uncle Oberyn remains with us. But we gathered what remained of our forces, and we gave Viserys the pyre he deserved. That is when Vedros hatched, born from our king's flames.”

Daenerys drew a shuddering breath, her fingers twisting in her lap as the weight of her own tale pressed upon her. "Thank you for telling me. The curiosity burned and burned and I... I needed to know." She wiped away the tears. "He was a good king."

"He was," Jon said. "I would have followed him to whatever end. It took time, but I came to believe in him. And he came to believe in me. My regret is not having kept him safe."

Dany nodded emptily. "You are not to blame, Jon. Well, you have told me what has happened to you in this time. Now I must tell you of my trials across the Narrow Sea, I think.” She started, slowly, with her wedding to Drogo, and the travels across the Great Grass Sea.

Jon leaned forward, his grey eyes intent. "When I returned to Westeros, I visited my uncle Lord Stark at the Tower of the Hand. A report had reached King Robert that you were with child. He planned to murder you. Lord Stark spoke against it. He resigned his post when Robert planned to follow through with it anyway.”

"Robert's assassins found me in Vaes Dothrak. They tried to poison me with wine." Dany's hand moved instinctively to her throat, remembering the merchant's false smile. "But Ser Jorah saved me. The attempt on my life... it changed everything."

"How so?" Rhaenys asked softly.

"Drogo had never cared for the Iron Throne, for Westeros. He had given Aegon what Aegon wanted to finance his campaign, and that was that. But over time, in our marriage, we had come to care for one another. When they tried to murder his khaleesi, his unborn son..." Daenerys closed her eyes. "He swore to cross the narrow sea, to take your Seven Kingdoms with fire and blood. For me. For Rhaego.” She could see the question in their eyes, about Rhaego, about where he was. “But it cost us everything." The words came out hollow, drained of emotion by repetition in her own mind, of replaying those events over and over and over until they had sunken into permanence in her memory. "Drogo took a wound, a small thing. It festered. A maegi woman named Mirri Maz Duur offered to heal him with blood magic."

"I was desperate," Daenerys continued. "Drogo was dying, and the khalasar was fracturing. I agreed to her ritual. But blood magic always demands a price." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "And I paid it, not knowing how dear to me it would be. The price was Rhaego's life." She did not look at Rhaenys' eyes, did not want to see the judgment of a mother to be against her. "The maegi... she saved Drogo's life, after a fashion. But she left him empty. No mind, no soul, just breathing flesh. And my son..." Daenerys touched her belly, remembering. "My son was born dead. Twisted. Scaled like a dragon, but cold and still."

The tent fell into heavy silence.

"I smothered Drogo with a pillow," Daenerys said finally. "He deserved better than to live as an empty shell. Then I had the maegi bound to his funeral pyre. She burned with him, screaming that I would never bear a living child."

"Dany," Jon said softly, pityingly, but she continued.

"That's when they hatched. My dragons. I walked into Drogo's flames, and when the fire died, I emerged with three dragons clinging to my skin. The Dothraki who remained knelt and called me the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons."

She looked up at them both, seeing her own pain reflected in their faces. "Do you think me a monster for what I’ve done?”

Jon was the first to answer. "No, Dany. You are no monster." His voice was firm, certain. "You were betrayed by someone you trusted, someone who cost you everything you held dear. What you did to the maegi... justice has many faces."

Rhaenys nodded, her hand still resting protectively over her belly. "The maegi murdered your child with her treachery. She deserved to burn." Then she frowned. “The maegi cursed you?”

Daenerys nodded slowly. "She said I would never bear a living child. That I would only know the taste of ash and grief." Her voice grew quieter. "Perhaps she spoke truth. I have known no man since Drogo died."

Rhaenys leaned forward, her violet eyes fierce. "Witches are liars, Dany. They twist words to wound. You are young still, and dragons have returned to the world through your blood. Do not let her poison take root in your heart."

Jon was quiet for a long moment, then looked directly at Daenerys. "There's something else you should know. Before we marched on King's Landing, Viserys spoke to me of his plans after victory. He intended to send me to Essos, to find you and bring you home.”

Daenerys's breath caught. "To bring me home?”

"He wanted to take you as his second wife," Jon said gently. "Rhaenys and I counseled against it - if only because it was not worthwhile to start a war with the Faith as well as with the Lannisters. But he... he loved you, Dany. Despite everything, he never stopped loving you."

Tears spilled down her cheeks again then, and she made no effort to stop them. Viserys had wanted her back. Had planned to make her his queen, to restore their house together. And now he was ash and memory, and Aegon the Kinslayer sat the Iron Throne.

"He's gone," she whispered. "And I was an ocean away when he needed me most."

Rhaenys reached across the table and took her hand. "You are here now. That is what matters. We are the last of the dragons, the three of us. We'll make them pay for what they've done."

Jon leaned forward, his grey eyes burning with quiet intensity. "Aegon thinks he's won. He sits the Iron Throne, wears a crown, plays at being king. But he has forgotten something important."

"What is that?" Dany asked.

A small, cold smile touched Jon's lips. "Fire and blood, Dany. The words of our house. And now we have both in abundance."

Daenerys stared at Jon for a moment, then at Rhaenys, seeing in their faces the same resolve that burned within her own heart. The grief that had consumed her since learning of Viserys's death began to transform into something harder, sharper.

"Then I pledge myself to you both," she said. "To you, King Aemon, as my rightful sovereign. To you, Queen Rhaenys, as my sister-by-bond, the blood of my blood. To the restoration of our house and the destruction of all who would stand against us." She rose from her chair, and they rose with her. "I have but one demand," Daenerys continued. "I want to see Aegon dead. Not captured, not exiled, not imprisoned in some tower to live out his days in comfort. Dead. By any means, but painful if possible.”

Jon studied her face, then exchanged a look with Rhaenys. "For what he did - I planned on it, sweet aunt," he said.