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Chapter Text

Jon Snow was barely 3 years old when he understood that he was different from his siblings.

“Don’t you dare call me that, I’m not your mother, bastard! You have no mother!" Lady Catelyn Stark screamed at the boy, who was clutching his red cheek. He tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back tears. He didn’t know what hurt more, the slap, or the words.

He had only imitated Robb, called for “mommy” to pick him up, he just wanted a hug and kisses. He was old enough to know the Lady didn’t like him much, but he hadn’t understood why. He had no mother, it seemed, no one to pick him up when he cried, or to tuck him in at night.

“Take that, evil villain! I’m Ser Duncan the Tall!" Robb exclaimed, thrusting his stick towards Jon, in the leaf covered ground of the Goodswood. The boys were five years old, already trying to imitate the adults in everything they could.

“And I’m The Dragonknight! Ha!" Job swung his stick back.

“Then I’m The Sword of the Morning!”

“And I’m Lord of Winterfell!”

Robb abruptly stopped the game.

“No you’re not. You can’t be Lord of Winterfell." He scowled.

“Huh? Why not?" Jon asked, brows furrowed and stick lowered to the ground.

“’Cause you’re a bastard. I will be Lord of Winterfell. Mother said so." Robb affirmed, as if it was obvious.

Jon stood there for a few seconds before dropping his stick and running away, tears brimming in his eyes.

It didn’t take much for Jon Snow to understand he was different from the rest. Lady Catelyn was the first to make it clear to him that he was not her son, that he was a bastard, unwanted. Her children followed. And from that point on, Jon knew there was something about him, something wrong, something inherently broken that set him apart from the rest, that couldn’t be fixed.

“Father… Can I speak with you?" Jon timidly asked, face peeking out from behind the door. It was the day after Robb’s 8th nameday. The previous night had been full of joy and love as the family crowded around Robb and gave him gifts. Except for Jon, who had to watch from afar for most of it, seated with the servants.

“Of course son, come here.”

Jon climbed into a seat at the Lord’s desk.

“What’s the matter, son?" Ned asked with a smile.

“Father… Do I have a mother?" He asked, not daring to raise his head.

“Oh Jon." Ned answered after a few seconds. "Of course you have a mother, my son.”

“But… Then where is she? Robb and the rest have Lady Catelyn, but I… " Jon sniffed. "Does she not like me?”

“Son, you know I can’t tell you about your mother. Maybe when you’re older. But don’t doubt for a minute that you’re loved. You’re my blood, son, and I love you. And I know you meant the same to your mother. You’re loved, Jon.”

Ned walked around the desk and hugged the crying child to his chest.

Once they were old enough, he joined his brother Robb in his studies, learning from Maester Luwin about language, geography, history, and everything else a Lord was supposed to know. Soon enough he realized that most of these things made no sense to him. He didn’t have a Lord’s sensibilities, their worries and wants. He was a bastard, he would never inherit, he would never hold a Lordship or govern a keep. And so he started to look at things differently.

“Maester Lewin" He asked.

“Yes, Jon?" The maester inquired. Jon was very quiet, so he tried to answer as best he could the few questions the boy asked.

“Why do knights fight? Last time you spoke of that King of Storms that declared war because of a bard. Why would you risk your life because someone couldn’t handle a jape?”

“Well, Jon, you see, Knights are sworn to uphold their Lord’s honor and to follow them into battle, and these Lords in turn are sworn to their King. So regardless of the reason, they’re duty bound to follow when asked. Besides, glorious battle is the place where a Knight makes a name for themselves, often being gifted with lands or titles. It is also the best place for a squire to be recognized and raised to knighthood.”

“I don’t understand, Maester. You said that they can sometimes spend years away from home, fighting battles in which they might die. Why would anyone swear that oath? Don’t they want to be at peace with their families?”

“Well, swearing yourself to your Lord is one of the most honourable things a man can do. You uphold your honor and loyalty to your Lord, and in return, the Lord shares with you his victories and glory. Everyone gets something from it.”

“I… still don’t understand, Maester.”

“That’s ok, Jon, that’s why we’re here.”

But Jon couldn’t stop thinking about it. From the time he was little and he heard the stories for the first time, he had wanted to be a renowned knight, fighting for honor and glory. The lessons, however, told a different story. Lords and Kings fought over the smallest things, and huge battles followed. In these battles the knights on their service found the opportunity to gain honor and renown, to die a great death. But all Jon saw was that they died. They died young, in a war they had nothing to do with, far from their home and families. And that was the knights. Reading the casualty tallies of the battles, thousands and thousands of smallfolk would have died the same way, without their names ever being remembered. He had noticed in his studies people tended to overlook the smallfolk, even his father did, even if he was always courteous with the servants. But he, as a bastard, felt more like one of them than one of the nobility, and couldn’t help but think war was awful.

He knocked on the door.

“May I come in?”

There was no response, but Jon knew Arya well enough to know that if she didn’t want something she’d be vocal about it. He entered the room and sat on the bed. Arya laid on the bed, her back to Jon. He knew she was trying to conceal her tears, he could see the stains on the pillow, but he would not mention it.

“Was it Sansa again?" He asked, patiently.

After a while, she responded.

“No. It was her friend Jeyne." She sniffed. "She called me horseface.”

“And what else? I know you don’t really care what Jeyne thinks of you.”

“She… She was talking with Sansa. I was above them, in the wall, chasing a squirrel, and I heard them as they passed by. She said… She said that I was more of an animal than a lady, that I would never find a husband.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be a lady, or get married.”

“I don’t! It’s stupid! But then Sansa… Sansa said she agreed. That the only thing I’m good at is making things worse, that…" She curled up into the pillow. “She said that she wished Jeyne was her sister instead.”

John sighed, Arya liked to act like she didn’t care, but she was actually quite sensitive.

“I know she doesn’t like me. And I don’t want to be more lady-like for her to like me. But it still hurts. Am I really so bad?" She cried

Jon hugged her against his chest

“You know she loves you in her own way, you’re just very different.”

“I know. She loves me. Same way Mother loves me. But they don’t like me for me, just because I’m family. If we weren’t family they would hate me." Arya bawled against Jon’s shirt.

“Come one, little sister, you know that’s not true, they like you. What’s not to like?" He tried.

Arya sobered up and looked up at her brother from behind her tears.

“We’re a lot alike, you and me. Everyone says so, especially my father. " Jon nodded. "And how do Mother and Sansa treat you? That would be me if I had a different mother." She whispered.

Jon didn’t know how to answer. He just hugged her harder and let her cry.

“Come in." Lady Stark called from inside her rooms.

Jon entered and closed the door behind him.

“Lady Stark." He nodded.

“Bastard, how dare you enter my rooms? What do you want?!" She sneered

“My Lady, please, I have need to speak with you. It’s about Arya." He tried, keeping his posture non-threatening and his eyes to the ground.

“What have you done to my daughter, bastard?!" She started.

“Nothing, my Lady! It’s just… She was crying the other night, and after I asked, she confessed… that she thinks you and Sansa do not love her.”

“How dare you! How dare you imply I do not love my child!”

“I know you do, Lady Stark!" Jon replied, incensed. "But Arya doesn’t believe so. She thinks you love her only because she’s your daughter, but that you do not like her for who she is. Same with Sansa. She’s quite convinced of it.”

“And who has put these ideas in her head, then?" Catelyn accused him.

“Not me, my Lady. I know what it’s like to grow up without a mother’s love. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all Arya." He answered, incensed, looking into her eyes for the first time since he entered the room. "If you love her, you have to show her, or else she’ll keep believing the opposite.”

“Get out." Catelyn seethed. "How dare you come tell me how to raise my children?! What would you ever know of family, you motherless bastard?! Get out, right now!"

Jon inhaled deeply, nodding and leaving the room, before he said something he would regret.

“Jon, what did you say to Catelyn? She was incredibly offended." Ned asked him the next day in the hallway, he had seldom seen his father this angry.

“Father I -”

“No son. You know better than to provoke her, and now you’re telling her how to raise her children? What’s gotten into you son?”

“But Father I was merely trying to-”

“No buts, son. There’s no excuse for that kind of behaviour." He sighed "This is even worse than last year’s debacle, what am I gonna do with you Jon?”

Last year, Arya had come crying to her father, asking if she was a bastard. It took a long time for Ned to reassure her that no, just because she looked like Jon instead of the rest of her siblings, and that Sansa disliked her like she did him, that didn’t make her a bastard. It was a miracle he had managed to keep his wife from hearing of it. She would have immediately blamed Jon, and he shuddered to think what she would have done to the poor boy.

“You will apologize to Lady Catelyn before the end of the day. I didn’t raise you to act this way. Am I understood?”

He could see that there was nothing he could say to sway his father. The word of a bastard was worth nothing.

“Understood, Lord Stark." He resigned himself.

“Come on Snow, what are you waiting for? An invitation?" Robb teased.

“Don’t bother, Robb, you know he’s craven" Theon sneered.

Jon scowled, but didn’t give in. Robb tired of waiting and attacked, giving Jon the advantage. He patiently parried his attacks, keeping his feet moving towards his objective. Then, there it was, a misstep from Robb. He slightly overextended on a lunge due to the uneven terrain. Jon took the opportunity and counterattacked hard, keeping him out of balance until he was able to disarm him.

“Well done, Snow. A bit too clinical though, you’re lacking spirit." Said Ser Rodrick, the master at arms.

“Clinical? More like boring." Robb grouched half-heartedly as he was helped up by his half-brother.

“I’m sorry if I don’t enjoy hacking at things." Jon grumbled.

“Yeah, we all know you don’t know what to do with your sword." Theon snickered.

“That’s enough Theon." Robb scolded the older boy, whose sexual innuendos always made Jon visibly uncomfortable. He had tried to break both boys of their attitudes to no avail.

Jon went to dry off his sweat reflecting on the match. He always had mixed feelings about sparring. He loved swordfighting itself, the technique, the beauty of the movements, the patience of waiting for the right opening. But he hated the violence of it, the fury, the will to harm, the impact of a sword on his shield that would make his arms tremble. And that seemed to be what the rest enjoyed, just smashing each other with slabs of iron. It seemed every bruise was a trophy. Nevermind that this was all just practice for killing people, the mere thought of which made him queasy. Theon liked to call him craven for it, and deep down he agreed. Everyone seemed so eager to go to war, but he dreaded it.

Shaking his head, he looked up and was surprised with the sight of a bucket moving slightly above the parapet.

“Come on out, Arya, I can see you." He sighed.

“Crap! How do you always find me?" She said, coming out from behind the parapet where she had no doubt been spying on the sparring. She was wearing a bucket as if it was a helm.

“You’re not that stealthy, sister." He smiled.

Arya pouted, but quickly came down to help him with his sword and padding.

“I saw you in the courtyard! You were all quiet, waiting, and then, BAM, you struck out and took Robb!" She recounted excitedly, trying to weave around the sword with both arms.

“Shouldn’t you be at your classes?" He asked.

“But it’s embroidering! That’s so boring!" She lamented. "I’d rather hit things with a sword.”

“Sewing is not that bad. I find it calming. " He said. He had definitely practiced by fixing up his clothes, as Lady Catelyn would not spare the servants. "And don’t call it hitting things with a sword. There’s much more to it, hitting things is what brutes do.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. And I have no idea how you could enjoy sewing, it’s so girly!" She pouted.

“I’m sure girly things aren’t so bad. At least it’s not so violent." He countered.

“Girly things suck. I hate them, I’d much rather do boy things. You guys get all the fun." Arya grumbled.

“Well, I didn’t make up the rules. Sorry sister. Tell you what, tomorrow I’ll teach you a couple of moves at the Godswood, ok?”

Her face lit up at the thought of sword lessons.

“Yes! Thank you thank you thank you!" She said, hugging him.

“Jon! We’re going to Wintertown, are you coming?" Robb asked him. He didn’t have to inquire as to what exactly was in Wintertown. The boys were 13 now, and developing an interest in women. It didn’t help that Theon Greyjoy, a self-proclaimed “ladies man”, was stuck to Robb like dung to a shoe’s sole.

“No. You know I don’t like brothels, Robb." He answered, exasperated.

“Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t know what to do with your manhood. The whores would charge you triple." Greyjoy laughed.

“Come on, Theon, don’t pressure him. You know he’s scared of women." Robb snickered.

“Well, I’m sure if one tries to rob him of his purity, he can always show that brooding face of his, it can make children cry." He laughed.

“Yes, I think I’ll stay here brooding. After all, I’m not the one so repulsive that I need to throw coin for someone to show an interest." Jon responded, annoyed at the teasing.

“Come on boys, that’s en-”

“Well, I for one look forward to tonight. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and find your mother in the brothel." Jon froze, and Robb paled. "I’ll be sure to put a child in her belly, give her a son she wouldn’t be ashamed to keep.”

Something snapped inside Jon. Before he realized he was straddling Theon, raining blow after blow in his face. He barely registered Robb trying to take him off the bleeding boy, but he couldn’t stop hitting and hitting. After a while, stronger hands managed to throw him off Theon, and he could see through the bloodlust. 

“Stop, you’re killing him!”

The older boy was wheezing in the dirt, face a bloody mess, and missing several teeth. Jon could only look at his bloodied fists, not believing what he had just done.

Jon arrived at his chamber with a smile on his face. Yesterday was his 14th nameday, and his father had given him a few coins for the occasion. He had been saving up for months, and it was not easy. Unlike his siblings, he didn’t receive an allowance, and he wouldn’t ask his father for money. He made some gold working odd jobs around the village from time to time, but he was usually too busy. After he had beaten Theon nearly to death, the maester and the master at arms had decreed he had too much pent-up energy, and so they had put him in training with the soldiers. He had become quite good with a sword, but he barely had time and energy for anything else.

Nevertheless, he had been saving up, and he thought he finally had enough. Nearly a year ago, he had met a girl, Jane, the daughter of a barmaid, while working a shift at a tavern in Wintertown. She had been funny, kind, and pretty, and Jon had quickly become enamoured. A visit turned to two, then to three, and soon he was missing her company as soon as they parted. The day they first kissed was the happiest of his short life. He knew then he was in love, and for the first time in his life, he was glad he was a bastard.

He didn’t have a duty to marry some noble girl to secure an alliance. As a bastard, his marriage was worthless at best, an insult at worst. And so he was free to marry a peasant if he so wanted. He could marry for love. And so he had been saving up for months to buy a present for Jane with which to ask her for her hand. A ring, maybe, or perhaps a pendant. Nothing too ornate, she wasn’t vain and was more of a kind girl. And nothing too valuable, or there was a risk of thieves attacking her. A trip to the jeweler later, and he had a pendant with a simple design coated in silver. Simple, but elegant.

He made his way towards the tavern next, wishing to ask for Jane’s mother’s blessing before asking her. The owner told him she was in the backroom, and he made his way there, but he stopped before the door. He could hear cries from inside, and he could recognize the voices. They were Jane and her mother.

“Stop your tears child, you know it must be done.”

“But mother I don’t want to. There has to be another way." She pleaded.

“Yes, of course there is another way. You can just live your life like the rest of us do. Living day by day, worrying if tomorrow you will starve, die of sickness, or be raped and killed in some stupid war! The boy is your best chance at life, Jane, gods be damned, he lives in a castle! Everyone would kill for a lordling to show interest in them.”

“I know mother but it just… I’m scared. I’ll have to lay with him. And give him children. I already feel disgusted when we kiss, I don’t want to lay with someone I don’t love just for money! I want to marry someone for love!" She cried.

“Oh you fool, marry for love? You think I married for love? I didn’t love your father. He certainly didn’t love me either. But he put bread on the table, and I gave him a child, so it worked. We made it work. And even if he was a piece of shit, his death was still a blow. Those were difficult years. So no, child, you do not marry for love. Fools marry for love, and then die young. A marriage is a business. You get food and safety, and he gets to think you love him. And be glad that this boy is damned kind. Most of them would have raped you and gone on their way. The boy loves you, and will treat you better than most would. Hell he might even marry you instead of keeping you as his mistress. So next time he comes, you show him that you love him. If he wants a kiss, you kiss him. If he wants to fuck you, you spread your legs. You understand, child?”

“Yes, mother. I understand." She said, sniffling.

Jon didn’t know what to do. He was frozen in place, in front of the door. He couldn’t breathe. He could hear them coming out so he ran away. Before he left, though, he turned back for a moment, approaching the owner.

“Would you mind giving this to Jane next time you see her?" He asked, giving him the wrapped pendant, and a silver stag as a tip.

“Of course, m’lord." The owner said, accepting the package.

Jon then ran out of the village on foot making his way towards the castle, not stopping until his breath gave out. And only then letting the tears free.

Jon was wide awake, looking to the wooden veins of the rafters over his bed, when the door opened, a small face peeking through the gap.

Arya didn’t waste any time asking for permission, she just climbed into his bed and hugged him tightly.

“You can’t keep coming into my bed Arya, you’re getting older, it’s not proper.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not." He sighed.

“That’s stupid.”

“I know.”

They laid in silence for a while.

“You’re sad.”

“I am?”

“You’re always sad. But you’ve been sadder lately. I don’t like it." She mumbled against his chest.

“I suppose I am sad. It’s ok to be sad once in a while, little wolf." He kissed her head.

“You shouldn’t be sad, ever. You’re my brother. I love you.”

Jon hugged her tighter against his chest. She loved him. Well, she was the only one. And that was just because she was as lonely as him. Sooner or later she’d find her place in life, and she wouldn’t need him anymore. She’d realize he was worthless and disgusting, just a bastard, and would discard him. Jon supposed that was fine. It would hurt, but fine. At least he’d enjoy her love while he had it.

“Why are you sad, really?" Arya asked in a low voice. He had thought she was asleep already.

“I liked a girl. But she didn’t like me back.”

“That’s stupid. She’s stupid. What’s not to like? Who is she? I'll put manure in her boots." She grumbled.

“It’s not her fault, little wolf. We don’t choose who we love, or who we don’t. It just happens.”

He couldn’t fault Jane. Of course she didn’t love him. He wasn’t worthy of love, love was for good people, for people who were wanted . He was just a bastard, no love on the cards for him. His mother hadn’t wanted him, and his father only took him out of a misguided sense of duty. Lady Stark made her dislike very clear, and his siblings were just friendly, as they would be to anyone, hardly familial love. Just little Arya, brash and wild Arya, cared for him. And that too would fade away in time.

So no, he couldn’t fault Jane. If anything, it was his fault, for daring to think he could be loved like that in the first place. What was there to love? He certainly wasn’t handsome, his wide jaw and deep brow, his wide shoulders and bulging muscles, and to top it all he was starting to grow a patchy beard, and even more hair in worse places. He hated how… beastly, how much like a bear he looked, and yet Robb and Theon mocked him for being “too pretty, like a maid”. He certainly wasn’t talented either. He had no special skills, he couldn’t play any music and his singing was atrocious, he was barely decent with sums and letters... His only real skill was with the sword. His only talent was at something whose only use was to bring pain and death.

He didn’t fit either. He didn’t enjoy swordfighting like Robb and Theon did. He didn’t like to read stories of chivalry like Sansa, or wished to be a warrior like Arya and Bran. He didn’t really have any activity to share with his siblings. They were just… different. He felt like a jagged piece that didn’t quite click with the rest. Arya didn’t understand why he abhorred combat, Bran why he didn’t wish to be a knight. Sansa… the less said about her, the better. And Robb and Theon mocked him constantly for his refusal to visit the brothel.

He wasn’t even sure he liked girls the way he was supposed to. Yes, he found them attractive, but unlike Theon - or even Robb, at times - he didn’t enjoy undressing them with his eyes. It seemed… violent, intrusive, ugly. He could tell his attraction wasn’t wanted, and it made him feel dirty, like a raper. He had been invited by his brother to the brothel plenty of times, and he had considered it once, to try and get over this strange sensation, but the mere thought of sex, of being naked and joining with another just made him feel nauseous. Not only the fact that he was taking advantage of someone who didn’t have anything and was forced to sell her body, but the mere act, even with a willing woman, terrified him. The thought of being completely naked, vulnerable, offering all of himself to someone who would certainly judge him for it… It paralyzed him with fear.

With Jane, though, it had been different. What they had - what he thought they had - hadn’t been born of lust. He had merely enjoyed her presence, spending time with her, like one would with a dear friend. Over time, that feeling had taken on a different shape, of wanting to be close to her, to hold her and be held by her, to breathe the same air, lie on the same bed. Still far from lust, just a sense of… wanting to belong somewhere, to someone. To see and be seen. Accepted for every part of him he disliked, not despite them.

And yet, it was not to be. While he had approached the relationship with this… innocence, for lack of a better term, Jane had not seen it that way. She had seen regular male lust, a desire to possess, to consume, to devour. Maybe that was all it could be, with him. Maybe that was all a woman could feel towards a man, and love was just learning to live with it. In any case, Jon wanted no part of it. There were a lot of things wrong with him, but he could at least try and not make anyone else miserable. He didn’t know how the rest did it. Did Robb and Theon think of it this way? Did they just not care, or did they not realize? Was this what his sisters had in their future? Not for Arya, he prayed. She would sooner break than bend to such a fate.

His mind back on his sister, he turned his gaze to realize she had fallen asleep some time ago. Shaking his head of such thoughts, he decided to sleep too. There was no point in wondering about things that couldn’t be changed.

Chapter Text

“Lord Stark, may I come in?" Jon asked from behind the thick wooden door.

“Come in, son.”

He entered the Lord’s Study, and walked in front of the desk, not taking a seat.

“And how many times do I have to say it, call me Father.”

Jon didn’t bother to answer.

“Lord Stark, who was my mother?”

Ned sighed.

“Jon, you know I don’t wish to speak of this. She loved you, that’s all you need to know.”

“Then if you won’t tell me of her, at least tell me her name, so that I may find her for myself." Jon steeled his resolve, looking his father in the eyes.

“No, Jon. There won’t be any reckless roaming of the realm. That’s enough of this subject.”

Jon sighed and knelt before his father.

“Please. I beg you." He said.

“Jon, get up, this is not necessary-”

“I’ll do whatever you want! I’ll join the Night’s Watch! That’s what Lady Stark wants right? So I can’t usurp Robb! I’ll join them, or the Maesters, or the fucking Faith, just please, tell me of her!" He pleaded, desperate

“Enough, Jon! I said no!" His father roared. "If you wish to join the Night’s Watch, your Uncle Benjen is coming down before the King’s visit. You can talk to him. If it is the Maesters or the Faith, then I’m sure someone in the King’s procession will be able to guide you. Good night, Jon.”

Jon got up from the floor and looked at his father with contempt.

“I have never asked anything from you. Not money, not a title, not anything. I’ve worked for all I’ve got. And now I ask one thing of you, just the one thing everyone should have, and you deny me. It’s not fair." Tears of rage pooled in his eyes, threatening to fall.

“Life isn’t fair, Jon, best you learn it now rather than later.”

“I see." He breathed deeply. “Good night, Lord Stark.”

When Jon found five direwolf pups - "Three males and two females, for your children, Lord Stark" - he did not cry. When he found a sixth pup, the runt of the litter, almost dead, and looking quite unlike his siblings, he did not cry. It was only later, once they returned to Winterfell, and he was alone in his room, that the tears fell.

He couldn’t remember the last time he cried. He didn’t cry, as a rule. Only every once in a long while, when he had bottled everything too long and it overflowed, did he let out a few silent tears, where no one could see him. Not only did men not cry, but crying was a sign of weakness. That he was letting life keep him down. And with his lot in life, if he cried every time something was wrong or life got a bit too much, he would drown in tears. He had to be strong. After all, crying was just a way to tell the rest that you were sad and needed someone. But if he cried, no one would come. He would only be laughed at. So no, Jon Snow didn’t get to cry.

And yet, his tears were dampening the fur of the small albino pup. For this was the proof that no matter how everyone saw him, he was a part of the family, a Stark. The Gods themselves had said so. All his life, all he wanted was to be a Stark, just one more of his siblings. And finally, here was proof that he was one all along.

But that, if anything, made it worse. Because then, it meant that he wasn’t an outsider. He wasn’t some threat trying to worm his way into the family and take advantage of them. Lady Catelyn had no reason to be cruel to him. Sansa didn’t need to be dismissive towards him. Robb didn’t have to treat him the same or worse than the fucking squid. He didn’t need to be the only one of his siblings to call his father by his damn title. There was no real reason for it. Which meant that they did those things because they wanted to. They didn’t treat him this way because he was not family. He was, they just didn’t like him. It hurt to know, to be certain, that it had never been his name that was the problem, but rather Jon himself.

There was no place for him in Winterfell. There never had been.

“Uncle Benjen!" A crowd of Stark kids corralled Benjen’s horse the second he made his way through to the courtyard, not even giving him time to dismount.

“Alright, alright! Let me breathe!" He said between laughs, dismounting and greeting his nephews and niece.

As always, Bran and Arya were the most excited, telling him of a hundred things at once and not letting him get a word in. Robb was growing into a man, broad and strong, greeting him with a firm hand on his shoulder. Sansa stood a few paces back with her parents, always respecting propriety, but the wide smile on her face would assure anyone she was just as happy to see him as any of her siblings. The only thing out of place, however, was Jon.

He was keeping his distance, closer than the servants, but farther than the rest of the family. This wasn’t unusual, no matter how angry it made him, but every other time he had come, there had been a shy smile on his nephew’s face, glowing bright in comparison to his usual brooding, but not today. He had a pinched expression, almost… resigned, in a way. Certainly a far cry from how he usually received him. Was he sick? Had something happened to him? Ned hadn’t written of anything like that.

“Hello, nephew. It’s good to see you." He greeted him once the boy finally made his way to greet him. 

It was after the rest of the household had been presented and started entering the castle, as it always was, any other way would surely anger Lady Catelyn.

“Welcome, Uncle." The boy said in a subdued voice, lacking his usual enthusiasm. He had half-expected him to look a bit better out of view of the Lady, but no luck. He hugged his nephew, trying to convey his love, but with Jon it was always hard. He didn’t receive affection very well. "May we talk later? I wish to go with you when you leave and join the Watch. I would ask you a few questions.”

The Watch? Since when? When he was little, Jon had looked at it like an honorable calling, but had quickly grown out of that phase. For him to wish to join the Watch now… There were two types of men at the Wall, those who had been forced to join due to their crimes, and those who had come of their own will, running away from something.

What did Jon have to run away from? He was going to have a very serious conversation with Ned.

Jon was making his way to the library, to read up on the geography of the lands north of the Wall. He would have asked his Uncle, but right now he didn’t feel like talking to him. They could talk on the journey when they left tomorrow, anyways. The rest of the Starks were well used to his ‘brooding’, as Robb called it, and would leave him alone when in a bad mood. Except for Arya, not that he ever minded her company, who would usually pester him. She wasn’t talking to him at the moment, though, angry at him for his decision to leave to the Wall. His Uncle, however, would prod and push trying to find an easily-fixable reason for his bad mood, as if he could make it all good with just a couple of words. He didn’t have the patience for that right now.

As he was passing in front of his father’s solar, a muffled yell pierced the thick oaken doors.

“Look at him! He might be safe but he’s not happy, Ned. He looks half dead!" It was his Uncle’s voice. Jon had never in his life heard his Uncle yell like that, he was a very calm person, what could have possibly made him that angry?

“I keep him safe! Better sad and angry than wrapped in a red cloak!" His father thundered.

The rest of the conversation was too quiet to overhear. After a few moments, Jon realized he was eavesdropping and set to keep walking. After all he wasn’t one to spy, it wasn’t honorable, but then he heard something that chilled his blood.

“And you call yourself his father?! He deserves to know, Ned! You made a promise, you promised her!”

“YES, I DID! I WAS THE ONE WHO HELD HER HAND AS SHE BLED OUT! I’M THE ONE WHO HAD TO SEE THE LIGHT FADE FROM HER EYES!" The Lord of Winterfell roared, his voice breaking towards the end. "I was the first to hold her son! And I promised I would do everything possible so that he may live! It might not be a very happy one, but it’s a life!”

Her mother. They were talking about his mother. Jon couldn’t care less about honor in that moment, and set his ear to the doors.

“Not much of one! You know that’s not what she would have wanted!" Benjen countered.

“Well, what she wanted isn’t possible, now is it?" Ned said, sounding defeated.

“And whose fault is that, huh?! Your great friend, Robert Baratheon. The best of friends, brothers in all but blood. Except he would see Jon’s head on a spike!" Benjen thundered.

The King? Why would the King want him dead? Was it because he was a bastard? But the King was supposed to have lots of bastards himself, it didn’t make sense.

“And what would you have me do?! Call on the banners, rise up in rebellion?! We would end up dead and it would have been for nothing! The only way to survive is to hide, Ben, you know this.”

“Yes, I know! No matter how furious it makes me, I know. But he should know as well, he has that right! He has the right to know of his birth, of his mother! He has been asking for all his life, Ned, it’s not fair to him!”

“Life isn’t fair, Ben! The less people that know, the safer he is, himself included! What if he decides he’s unhappy with his lot and wants more? What if he wants to honor his parents? If Robert finds out it’s not only him that dies, it’s our whole family! I will not put him in danger, Benjen. I made a promise, and I will not break it. Not for you, and not for anyone. Not even for Jon himself.”

Jon could feel all of his hopes going down the drain. He should have known. He had accepted some time ago that his father wouldn’t ever tell him of his mother. That if he expected nothing, he would never be disappointed. But he had allowed himself to hope, only for those hopes to be dashed.

Uncle Benjen’s voice broke his train of thought, full of rage and resentment.

“You know what I think, Ned? I think you don’t give a shit about the boy. I think you took him in because of duty, but only see him as a reminder that you couldn’t save Lya. I think the reason you don’t tell him is not to protect him, but to protect that fat drunkard that sits on the Iron Throne. I think you calling yourself Jon’s father is a joke in bad taste. I think any father who gave a shit about his son wouldn’t stand for Jon’s treatment, they would make sure he was happy and felt loved. I think you hold on to the excuse of the promise because it’s the only way to justify the situation. I think if Lyanna saw what you do in the name of your promise she would be ashamed of you. And I think you know that.”

Time seemed to stand still for a few moments, in which even the sound of the water through the pipes was absent. And then, Jon understood why his father had a nonsensical moniker such as “The Quiet Wolf”.

“Get out of my castle. I expect you to be gone in the morning, and never show your face in Winterfell again. And Benjen… if you tell Jon, I’ll cut your head off, gods be damned.”

Jon didn’t know how to process all of this, and so he ran and ran, until he reached his quarters. He didn’t understand anything, there was a lot that didn’t make sense, and he felt scared and uncertain. He decided to call it an early night and sleep on it, and tomorrow he would try to make sense of what he had heard.

His sleep was troubled, his body writhing around on his bed as his mind wandered through horrible nightmares.

He was running through the Wolfswood, trying to reach Winterfell. He could see its towers rise above the trees in the distance, their light illuminating the path, but as much as he ran, they seemed to be further and further away.The wind grew from a whisper, to a whole, to screams and wails, and the trees grew closer together, the forest seemingly trying to swallow him. Voices yelled at him, ‘Bastard, abomination, whelp’ they said. As the last tower went below the canopy the forest seemed to grow completely dark, though he could still see well enough to witness the trees grow weeping scars. That was when he realized he was in a Godswood, and the trees around him were heart trees, the scars tracing faces, weeping blood-red sap. All the faces were angry, they judged him, and found him lacking. He screamed.

A stream of images ran through his sight too fast for him to understand, only managing to catch glimpses here and there. A blue rose wilting in the sand. A lion roaring proud, stood above eggshells. A dragon with three heads, the last one malformed and blind. Different animals fighting over the carcass of a deer. A starving, feral wolf protecting a wounded dragon. A snake hiding amongst a bed of roses, ready to strike. A squid with a bright blue eye swimming through the sea, leaving huge waves at his wake.

Finally he saw a white wolf with black, leathery wings. He was trying to run through the snow, but he sank deeper and deeper, as black iron chains were weighing him down. The poor animal struggled, the sight filling him with deep anguish, more and more chains dragging him into the frozen depths. Finally, with a silent scream, he was submerged.

John woke up, too afraid to even scream. He didn’t know what to do, but he wanted to be as far away from his bed as possible, so he dressed and walked outside his room. Ghost followed in his footsteps, silent as the grave. He kept wandering, trying to find some sense to his dreams, and trying to avoid thinking about what he overhead the night before. When he stopped walking, he realized his feet had taken him to the Winterfell Crypts.

He had only been there once before, when he was a young boy, and he hadn’t stayed long. The place seemed hostile, full of anger, and it gave him the creeps. But somehow, something was pulling him towards it that night.

As he entered the Crypts he felt a chill. It was far colder inside than out in the grounds. He shivered and started to climb down the stairs. Ghost wouldn’t follow, and after a few tries he gave up and walked inside alone.

He made his way deeper into the Crypts, as if guided by an invisible hand. He felt worse and worse, the voices of his dreams appearing, and growing louder as he went deeper. Their screams grew more defined as well.

“Bastard. Abomination. Halfbreed. Mistake." The voices seemed to say. They also seemed to convey feelings without saying the words out loud. “Shameful. Unwelcome. Unlovable.” Every word made him feel worse and worse, as if the ground beneath his feet despised him as much as Lady Catelyn did. But he couldn’t stop his feet, as if he was pulled by an invisible force.

Finally the voices stopped. He looked around and his heart skipped a beat. He had stopped in front of a grave, and he knew whom it belonged to.

“Lyanna." He whispered.

All his resolve not to think about the previous night’s conversation vanished. She must have known his mother, he decided. Perhaps his mother had been a companion to her in her captive months. Maybe a servant, or a maid.

Father had promised Lyanna that he would take care of him. Why? Eddard Stark’s honor was beyond doubt, of course he would take care of his own son. He had promised to protect him because of King Robbert. Was his mother a Targaryen supporter, and that’s why Robbert wanted to kill him? But that didn’t make sense. Most loyalists had been pardoned, and a maid and her child didn’t warrant such attention. Perhaps she had made some kind of personal insult to the King? It didn’t make sense. And Uncle Benjen’s words kept resonating in his head “You call yourself his father”. What in the gods did that even mean?

He lifted his sight towards the stone depiction of his Aunt, and his breath was taking away. She was wearing a crown of winter roses, and winter roses decorated the border of the sarcophagus. A winter rose wilting in the sun. Father had found Aunt Lyanna dead in Dorne. His dreams were trying to tell him something. He ran a hand over the stonework, and he noticed something. The roses in the border had four petals, but winter roses had five. He looked around and noticed that the bottom most flower did have five petals. But it also looked weird, the center of the flower was slightly raised. By instinct, he pushed the center, and it slid in. A hissing noise went off, giving him a fright, and he saw that a panel was protruding off the side of the sarcophagus.

He opened the panel to see there was a chest hidden at the feet of the tomb. He pulled it out with some difficulty. Its clasps had the Targaryen seal, a three-headed dragon. This didn’t make any sense, why would Father leave anything of the Targaryens on Aunt Lyanna’s tomb? The Targaryens had killed her. And why hide it?

He opened the chest to find a banner, some letters, and at the bottom of the chest, a heavy harp. He took the letters and left the rest. His curiosity took him over and he started reading them. Quickly, a story was built. Aunt Lyanna hadn’t been kidnapped. She had been in correspondence with Prince Raeghar, and they had run off together. They were in love. Then, there was a skip in the letters, presumably they were together and didn’t need to write. Then the letter resumed, and the War was underway. They wrote of missing each other, and fear for the future. Then, a letter spoke of a terrible secret. Lyanna was pregnant.

Suddenly it all came crashing down. Lyanna was pregnant with Raeghar’s child. She had died, and made Father promise to protect him. Protect him, because King Robert would have wanted him dead. Him knowing about his mother was dangerous. Father saying he was his father was “a bad joke”. Lyanna was pregnant and then she died. Lyanna had died in childbirth, and then Father had come home with a child. Lyanna had asked his Father to care for him with her last breath.

Lyanna Stark had died giving birth to him.

The voices came back in an instant, screaming at him.

“BASTARD. ABOMINATION. HALFBREED.”

“YOU DON’T BELONG HERE”

Jon ran.

“What is it?" A sleepy voice asked as she struggled to wake up.

“Arya! I need to talk to you!" Jon whisper-yelled.

Any other day, Jon would have smiled at his little sister. She had managed to sneak Nymeria from the kennels to her room, and was sleeping with the pup. Over the years, there had been less and less reasons for him to smile, but Arya never failed to raise his spirits. Until today.

“What is it? It’s the middle of the night!" She complained.

“Shhh. I need you to be quiet." He swallowed "I wanted to see you.”

“I’m not talking to you, stupid" She said and fell back to bed.

“I’m leaving Winterfell." He spoke.

“I won't let you! You can’t leave! You can’t leave me here!" She screamed at him

“Arya! Calm down! I’m not leaving you alone, you have your brothers and sisters and parents. And you have Nymeria now. And even if I’m not here, you’ll always have me. I’ll always be your brother.”

“No! You’re just saying that! I hate you!”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes I do! You’re stupid! Why do you have to leave anyway? The pack survives! We have to stay together!" She started to cry.

“I’m not pack, Arya. I never was. You know that. I’m your brother and I will always be, but I don’t belong in Winterfell. I don’t have anything here for me. I must look for my place in the world." He didn’t want to tell Arya that with the King coming to most likely take his father to King’s Landing, there was no alternative. Taking a bastard to court would be an insult, and Lady Stark would not let him stay in Winterfell. And anyways, if he ever wanted to get answers about who he was, he would never get them here. But he didn’t want to tell Arya that her parents were part of the reason he was leaving.

“I don’t want you to go. I don’t hate you, I lied. Please don’t leave." She cried, hugging him as hard as she could.

“I’m sorry, Arya. Someday, we’ll see each other again. And in the meantime, we can write to each other. But for now I have to leave. I’m sorry.”

They stood together for a bit, and then Jon ran away. If he stayed any longer, he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to leave.

Chapter Text

Jon hated ships.

He hated the smell of salt that inundated his nostril every waking moment. He hated the swaying motion of the ship that would wake him up thinking he was falling from a height. He hated the smell of many men confined to such a small space for such a long time. But most of all he hated the food. He would never again eat salted jerky of his own volition. That stuff was vile.

Ghost wasn’t faring any better. The poor beast couldn’t keep much of a balance with the swaying of the ship and preferred to sleep it off in the crew quarters. It had taken Jon more gold than he thought to convince a captain to carry his wolf, even though he was no larger than a common dog. The direwolf had enjoyed the first leg of the journey immensely, a rush towards White Harbor. He had left a message saying he’d run ahead towards the Wall, hoping to keep up the ruse for as long as he could, but he wouldn’t risk being taken back to Winterfell, so he had to get on a ship as soon as possible. Running at top speed trying to keep up with Jon’s steed had been good for the wolf. After selling the horse and buying passage to Braavos, the poor animal had encountered his first experience in the sea, and hadn’t liked one bit.

After arriving at Braavos, Jon had quickly booked passage to Myr, as it was the first ship departing after his arrival. He knew there would be people trying to stop him, and Ghost wasn’t very inconspicuous. He had to put enough distance between them as possible for them to lose his trail. After all, Lord Stark would try to get him to return to Winterfell. It didn’t help that he had technically stolen the horse and the sword on his hip. He had also commissioned Needle under false pretenses. He doubted his father would care much for any of it, but even if he wasn’t punished he refused to return to Winterfell. And so, he had taken a ship to Myr.

He didn’t know much about the free city of Myr, besides it being renowned for its artisans, producing the finest lace, and the best glass lenses. He also knew that it was a slave city, but he didn’t know what to expect from one. He had never seen slavery with his own eyes. In theory, it seemed to him like a repugnant practice, but also something impersonal, no real feelings evoked. Nevertheless, he was willing to reserve his judgement. After all this was a new life, and he intended to have a fresh start.

First step was to ensure he had income. The paltry sum he had left after travelling wouldn’t hold up much longer, and that’s if he wasn’t robbed. It was easy to figure out a plan, though, he had only ever had one marketable skill. He had to join a sellsword company. 

His fa- his uncle would frown at him. Most of the north would. But honestly, it didn’t seem that bad to him. At least sellswords chose whether to fight or not, and got rewarded for their service. Knights and bannermen were just expected to die for no good reason, and yet somehow that was the honorable thing. No, it was not an issue of morals, but one of means. He had no idea how to contact them. He supposed a tavern wouldn’t be the worst place to start.

The tavern, turned out, was a horrible idea. He had not considered the fact that most people in the Free Cities did not speak Westerosi, but rather different forms of Bastard Valyrian. Over the next couple days he hung by the docks, searching for westerosi ships, hoping to overhear some gossip. Most of it, however, was useless.

“... biggest teats I’ve ever seen, I tell you, like a cow she was, and…”

“... married a Khal outside Pentos, poor girl, he’ll ride her to death as they’re wont to do.”

“... recruiting a lot up by Sellsail’s Cove, I think they’ll go to war for Myr, or maybe just to fight the Cats…”

Apparently, a sellsword company called The Windblown was recruiting a lot of people in preparation for war in the Disputed Lands. Good thing about the Three Whores, there was always work for sellswords, there had been uninterrupted war for centuries in the zone.

Two days later, a sellsword by the name of Cregan marched south with his wolf.

“Arya.”

“Father.” She answered without lifting her gaze from the book.

“What’s going on with you, child? You’re missing your classes, you weren’t there to greet the King’s party, and now you're cooped up in the library, reading about…” He paused to check the title of the tome. “Poisons. Of all things.”

Arya let out a small hum, but didn’t bother to answer.

“Enough of these games, child, you will do your duty and that’s that. You’re too old to lash out in such a childish way.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no, Arya.” He spoke, starting to get irritated. Arya was a difficult child, but she had never been so misbehaving.

“I mean no. I’m not doing stupid embroidery with the septa. You want to punish me, go ahead. But it won’t make me go.” She continued reading the book.

Ned frowned and took away the book, snapping it closed and setting it down far from Arya’s reach.

“You’re disrespecting me, and you’re disrespecting the King, Arya. It reflects badly on our family.”

“Who cares what the King thinks.” She huffed.

“Child, you can’t say those things, you want the King to take offense? Is that what you want? He’s not a forgiving person.” He despaired.

“If it bothers him that much he can come chop off my head himself, if he’s not too fat and drunk to move.” 

A bright laugh cackled from the doors to the library.

“Oh, you have more stones than half the court, my lady.” Tyrion Lannister approached the table.

“I’m not a lady.” She deadpanned.

“That’s ok, I’m not a lord.” He grinned back.

“Lord Tyrion, this is a private conversation, if you don’t mind.”

“He can stay. I don’t have anything to say to you.” Arya snarled, reaching for her book.

“You will sit, and you will listen!” Her father raised his voice, grabbing her stretched arm by the wrist and pulling her back to her seat. “You will attend your lessons, you will conduct yourself as befits a lady, and you will apologize to me and your mother.”

“Or what?” She growled back. “You’ll send me to the Night’s Watch? They don’t take girls.”

“Perhaps the carrot would be a better approach, my lord?” Tyrion grinned, clearly enjoying the situation.

“I’m not asking for your advice on how to rear my children, thank you.” Ned gritted out between teeth.

“Girl, you enjoy swordplay, right?” Tyrion ignored him. “Your brother talked about how you would always chase behind them. Perhaps some instruction as reward for good behaviour?” 

“No, thank you. Can I get back to my book?”

“What?” Ned was stumped, he thought she would jump at the chance. “You’re always complaining we won’t let you train with the sword, now you suddenly don’t care?”

“That’s not the point, father. What use would it be? You’d just throw me scraps to keep me quiet, not actual training. I wouldn’t really learn anything of value and wouldn’t be able to beat the lowest squire. And some day you’ll take away my sword, anyways. The Imp said it, it’s just so I’ll go to classes, not so I’ll learn the sword. So what would be the point?”

The dwarf lifted a brow and nodded his assent.

“Arya, enough.” Ned sighed, tired. “Why are you being so difficult, child? What do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want, it never has.” She shook her head. 

“How can you say that, you’re my daughter, of course I care what you want.” 

“Yeah? Jon was your son and you drove him out of his home anyways.” She sneered.

“... is this what this is about?” He asked after a seconds pause. “Arya, Jon left out of his own will. I know you don’t like it but it’s nobody’s fault.”

“Nobody’s fault?!” She yelled. “You all made him feel like he didn’t belong, pushing him away until he got the hint and left. Mother treated him like shit and you ignored him, and now he’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere!” She cried. “So yeah, I’m not going to bother to go to stupid classes or bow to stupid queens. Jon tried his best and it was never enough, so why should I bother to even try, when you’re just going to throw me away at the first chance?”

“Arya, what? Why would you say that, we’re going to stay together, you know the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

“Oh, so you’re not going to take me from my home to King’s Landing, to try and sell me to the first man you find so he’ll take me away?” 

Ned winced, Caitlyn had spoken to him about trying to find a match for Arya.

“It’s the duty of every lady to marry, Arya.”

“I know.” She nodded. “That’s why I was reading up on poisons. So I can kill my husband the moment I’m married and be left alone as a widow, no husband and no parents to sell me to another.”

Tyrion tried and failed to stifle a laugh at the nonchalant murder planning.

“You would really kill an innocent man just for your whims?” Ned pleaded in a sad voice.

“Whims? My freedom is not a whim, Father. I’d rather be hanged for murder than live as… decoration.” She crossed her arms.

“Then I’ve failed you as a father.” He hung his head.

“Yeah, you’re good at that. Two out of six so far, I’m sure you’ll manage to get the rest.”

Ned looked at his daughter seeing a stranger. He shook his head and left the library.

“Well, that happened.” Tyrion snorted. He jumped off his chair and walked up to the girl, who was clenching her fists in rage. “For the record, I agree with you. If you have to change who you are to gain someone’s love, do they really love you?” 

He thought of his brother and his devotion to their sister. Sometimes, there were glimpses of the Jaime from his childhood, but mostly he was Cersei’s creature. 

“Sometimes I think my fate is kinder.” He continued. “There was never anything I could even attempt to do that would make my father look at me with anything other than contempt. It’s freeing in a way, you can do whatever you want when you’re not worried about what they will think.”

“You think you know so much, Lannister.”

“I know what it’s like to be alone while surrounded by family.” He smiled mirthlessly.

“How do you deal with it?” Arya whispered, completely worn out from the argument.

“Oh, I drown myself in wine. Or whores. Or both at the same time. I’d say give it a try, but you’re a bit young.” He grinned. “There’s no real cure for it, girl. Once the world has marked you as ‘other’, there’s really nothing to it. Just try to take whatever happiness you can find for yourself while it lasts, and don’t bother trying to seek any justice. You won’t find it.”

He patted her hand and handed her the book. Arya watched his back as he left the library, wondering if that was the future that awaited her.

War was horrible. Everyone could agree, on paper, but it was quite another thing to be able to affirm so from experience. Jon had always hated fighting. The vibrations from the impact, the taste of blood, the bruises, the pounding of blood in his ears… None of it compared to how much he hated war. The sound of steel ripping through flesh, the squish of a body beneath his foot, the pain of being cut and stabbed. The cacophony of yells of bloodlust and agony. War was hell.

He had spent a few months in the Windblown, and fought in several battles. He was no longer a green boy, but a blooded man. He wished that was the achievement they made it sound to be. He had killed a lot of men since, and yet he still woke up in the middle of the night with the face of his first kill clear in his mind’s eye. Imprinted unto his being like a brand. His time in Essos had not been better than Winterfell. In many regards, it was far worse.

And yet, there were some upsides to it. For once, it was easier to just exist, most of the time. He still didn’t fit in, of course. Most of these men were violent brutes who congratulated him on gutting a poor lad. They were not people with whom he wanted to share his time. He felt as much of an outcast as he was back in Winterfell. And yet, it was his own doing. He wasn’t made to feel different. These people, as horrible as they were, accepted him, and even praised him, even if he didn’t exactly want to be praised. His skills with a blade were recognized and valued, and he was treated the same as any other men in the camp. It was nice to just be able to be, and not have to fight tooth and nail for what was freely given to others.

In fact, his name - or, well, Cregan, the false name he had joined under - was quite known among the Company, mostly for the huge white wolf he kept at his side, which was fiercer in battle than any warrior. At least one of them enjoyed the carnage, even if Ghost didn’t like the heat at all. Perhaps he would prefer their next stop, as it was near the ocean. They headed to Lys.

“How is there so much mud?! We’re far away inland, there shouldn’t be so much mud!” Jon despaired as his boots sunk yet again today.

“First time crossing no-man’s land, wolfie?” Ronnel smiled.

His smile was an ugly thing, missing several teeth as he was. Ronnel was a norvosi veteran, a career sellsword, who had made it to nearly forty namedays. It spoke of great skill, for a sellsword to reach such an advanced age, as luck could only take you so far. Jon had gravitated to the older man in his first week amongst the Windblown, seeking a mentor who could keep him from making a fatal mistake, and so far it had paid off.

“Why can’t we take a damn ship, isn’t Lys an isle?” He grumbled. Not far away, Ghost shook himself free of mud, splattering the woman right next to him. The grizzled woman merely laughed.

“These lands are dangerous, pretty boy. It’s a free for all, if you come across a bigger company and they decide to crush you, that’s that. No one’s coming for you.” She spat on the ground. “But that’s still far better chances than crossing the Stepstones.” 

Bitchface Harla - and he hadn’t bothered to ask how that name came to be, he would like to keep his head - was such an interesting character. Born a reaver from the Iron Islands, and turned pirate in the Summer Sea, she was now a sellsword. It was quite a deviation, she should be much better suited to the sea, and yet here she was, marching on foot. She was one of the few women of the company, and she had earned her post, nobody wanted to go against her twin handaxes. 

“Is it that dangerous?” He asked.

“It didn’t use to be. It was stable with the Targaryens. The Crown had a good relationship with the Velaryons and Redwynes, as well as Dorne. Then after the war, all of those went their own ways, and pirates took the chance. It’s suicide unless you’re part of a big navy.” Harla explained.

“And yet there is more water here than in the sea, somehow.” He still grumbled about the mud.

“Stop whining, wolfie. You know why it’s like this? The centuries of fighting and fighting have spilled so much blood it soaks the ground still. This used to be a desert.” Ronnel nodded sagely.

“Wait, really?”

“Fuck no.” He snorted. “Big clouds come from the sea only to be stopped by the mountains, so it rains a lot. You’re so gullible, kid.”

“And how in the seven hells do you know that?” He narrowed his eyes.

“I’m educated! I can be a sellsword and a man of knowledge, you know?” He acted offended.

“Besides, it’s not that wet. Wetter still where we’re going.” Harla stated.

“Indeed.” Ronnel agreed.

“Wait, really? Is Lys somehow even muddier?” Jon despaired.

“No, just every whore’s cunt turns into a roaring river when they lay eyes on me.” Harla smirked. “And there’s a lot of whores in Lys.”

Jon groaned. Harla couldn’t spend a single day without boasting about her conquests. Queerly enough, she bedded women as well as men. Though it was far from the weirdest thing he’d seen in Essos, it was still shocking to a boy from the North.

“Oh, don’t despair, pretty boy. I can save some of this for you, if you’d like.” She pumped her bicep.

“Still not interested, Harla”. He frowned.

“Tasteless as always, Cregan.” She huffed.

“Some of us prefer a fairer kind of woman, Bitchface.” Ronnel grinned. “You know, I myself like to fuck my women, not the other way around. Though babyface here might be interested.”

These two were always the same. Since he had met them they could not stop making sexual jokes at his expense. Harla kept trying to… seduce him, for lack of a better term. And, surprisingly, it was not a joke. It was well known amongst the company that she preferred lithe, girly looking boys, or just women. As for Ronnel, he liked to boast about his sexual exploits just as much as Harla, even if his tastes were more traditional. He, on the other hand, liked to tease Jon about his attitude towards sex, his reluctance to go whoring. It was quite similar to what Robb and Theon would tease him about, but while those two would say it with some malice, mocking him as inadequate, Ronnel’s felt more like an older brother trying to encourage him into mischief.

“Do you want me to set Ghost on you again?” He arched an eyebrow.

“So, Lys is an island so you’d think we have to take a ship from the coast, but there’s actually a bridge…” Ronnel changed topic without a second’s pause.

Jon and Harla snickered at him. While the silent wolf - who was already big enough to reach Jon’s shoulder - had warmed up to the iron islander, he did not get along with the burly norvosi, not since he had mistakenly eaten a piece of chicken Jon had reserved for him. Ghost hadn’t forgiven the transgression.

It would be several moons until they reached Lys. A long time to be marching in muddy ground, at constant danger of being ambushed, and joined only by other lowlifes. And yet, he felt more accomplished and comfortable than he’d ever had in Winterfell.

Arya watched from the steps of the Sept of Baelor as her father was led away in chains. To the Wall, that bastard Joffrey had decreed. 

It had all gone to shit when the King had died. The moment Father told her to pack and leave, she knew something bad was about to go down. She hated that she was always right. They’d come for them, and only she had been able to escape. Unlike Sansa, who had pranced around with the Queen and Prince, she had kept to herself. It was easy to steal some breeches and pass as a servant boy, no one here knew her face. She had exited the Keep through the door, just another servant going to run an errand. She’d learnt in Winterfell, looking suspicious made people suspicious. If you acted like you were meant to be there, no one would question it.

The streets of King’s Landing weren’t a nice place to live, not at all. But she made do. She always did. Arya was a survivor, and if surviving meant catching rats, sleeping in the cold, and dining bowls of brown, then that’s what she’d do. She wasn’t completely defenceless, as a smelly man had found when he tried to force himself on her one night. She had gouged out his eye with her nails and run away in the chaos. Arya wasn’t a useless maiden like her sister.

The reason for all this was incredibly dumb, however. Really stupid. Apparently, her father had gotten it into his head that the Queen’s children were bastards. Which, admittedly, they looked nothing like the King. But, she didn’t really get why that mattered? If she had learnt one thing in her history lessons, it was the North cared not for the happenings of the South. She could understand it if an offense was given, like a broken betrothal or the like. Lords went to war for the silliest things. And yet, Sansa was to marry the stupid Prince. So removing Joffrey was actually detrimental to the North. The only one who would care was the fat King, and he was already dead, so he couldn’t complain too much.

She had no idea what had forced her father to do this. If he even did. It was possible that the Queen was just trying to get Father out from the Capital, it was obvious they didn’t stand each other. But no, arresting him was too much. Apparently Robb had called the banners, so they wouldn’t have done this on a whim. Knowing Father as she did, he would have put his friend’s honor over starting a war. For all their recent friction, Arya loved her father deeply, but sometimes she couldn’t help but think he was a bit stupid.

In any case, there was to be a party of men heading north to treat with Robb, turn Father over in exchange for peace. She’d just follow them, sneak into their party, and reunite with her family. She’d see Robb again. And the rest, back at Winterfell. Perhaps she’d even find Nymeria where she left her at the Neck. 

The only one she’d miss was Sansa. Of course, her betrothal to Joffrey had been cancelled. She had been promised to another Lannister instead, Lancelot, Lance, or something like that, the King’s squire. She would be fine, she’d always dreamt of marrying a southron knight, and anyone was better than that cunt Joffrey. She was still a hostage, so they wouldn’t dare hurt her while she was of use.

It hurt anyway, to not have her whole family together. But in truth, that was never a possibility. Not since Jon left, most likely to never return. Not even before that, really, they’d always been fractured, even if Father refused to see it. Still, Arya would try to keep as much of their family together as she could. One loss had been one too many.

Chapter Text

The world-renowned pillow houses of Lys certainly lived to their fame. The air was thick with perfume and the smell of sex, with sounds of pleasure, with faintly coloured smoke. It lulled the senses and lured you within, assaulting your sight, hearing and smell all at the same time. A feast so succulent you wouldn’t know where to start.

His companions did not have such a problem. Ronnel was already walking upstairs, led by the hand of a buxom brunette. Harla was sat on a table between two whores, a petite silver-haired girl in one arm, and a lean, feminine-looking boy around his age in the other. He shook his head, if there was one place that would cater to such queer tastes, it was Lys. Apparently, there were whole brothels dedicated to each specific obsession. No wonder the sellswords loved it here, for a bunch of men led by their cocks this was the paradise their gods spoke of.

Jon merely walked around, just taking in the sights. He had mellowed a bit, far from the teasing of Robb and Theon, and yet the whole idea of sex still made him uncomfortable. He was… frustrated. It was a thing that was, certainly, important. Most people spoke of it as something central to the human experience. In the eloquent words of Ronnel, you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted the warmth of a tight cunt. And yet, the mere thought still unsettled him. 

At least he wasn’t confused about his tastes. Unlike Harla’s, his were far more common, he felt no attraction towards the boys. They were not, however, very refined. Pretty much every girl he saw, he felt desire towards. From the curvaceous ones like the one Ronnel took, to the slight ones like the one sitting on Harla’s lap. There was plenty to choose from, all shapes of body, and all colours of hair and skin. 

His indecision must have shown in his face, for a whore - less sparsely dressed than the others - approached him.

“How can we serve you today, ser? We have something for even the most refined tastes” She purred in his ear, draping her arm around his shoulders. Jon tensed. “You seem nervous, perhaps one of our older girls, yes? They can guide you, teach you, be motherly.” She trailed a finger down his arm. 

Jon shivered slightly. He had no intention whatsoever of mixing a whore with a mother figure.

“Ah, perhaps not. Maybe you would prefer a young, inexperienced one, ser? A maiden, so you both can share a first, explore the unknown together?” The woman continued, her voice a low purr that seemed designed to draw him in.

Exactly what Jon needed, a girl just as inexperienced as him. With his luck, he’d manage to fuck it up in the worst possible way. No, he shouldn’t be given the lead, at all. 

Bothered by the silken propositions, he threw his gaze around, trying to find something, anything that drew him in even the slightest bit, a sign of some sort. Eventually, his eyes settled on one of the girls. On the surface, she seemed quite average. Valyrian features, as was common here, slight of build, with a flat chest, which was, admittedly, a weird thing to see in a whore, but not completely out of place. And yet, there was something in her face, in her looks, that made her stand out. Not for better or worse, just… different.

“Hmmm, I see what our ser wants. Dyana is preoccupied at the moment, but we have a couple other boymaidens to serve you. Perhaps… a brunette?” She asked, smirking.

“... boymaidens?” Jon asked, confused. That word didn’t make sense, at all.

“Ser?” She blinked, then cocked her head. “Born as boys, but just as lovely and sweet as any of our other girls. For our clients that prefer their girls with… a little extra between her legs.” She grinned, then blinked again. “Of course, we also have cut ones, if that’s your preference, ser. We strive to cover all tastes.”

That was a man?! No, that didn’t make any sense, she was prettier than many of the other women here! Yes, she had no teats, and her face looked a bit more square, and her… So maybe it was a man. But he - she? - looked as pretty, if not prettier, than any other woman. Her clothes fit her well, for all that a whore’s clothes covered almost nothing. Her giggling was soft and high, like a woman’s. How was this a man? No. It was just… wrong. 

Men couldn’t be women, couldn’t act as women. It was wrong. The Gods decided who was born as a man, and who as a woman, and to do otherwise was to affront them. If anyone could just choose what to be on a whim, the world would be chaos. There would seldom be any men left, he’d imagine, everyone wishing to be the fairer sex. The whole structure of their world, of men ruling over women, of men hating women, had always struck him as resentment born of jealousy. If one could just choose and pick as when choosing one’s clothes then what was the point of all civilization? No, this was an affront to the Gods and all that was right in the world and he would not take part of it.

And yet, the girl was mesmerizing, he could barely look away. There was an allure about her that the other girls lacked. Jon grit his teeth. It was the sinful nature of it, the wrongness, that called attention to itself even in a nest of perfidy and evil as was a slave city. He needed to get it out of its head and get it fast. 

“An older girl. With big teats. Your pick, as long as it’s fast. I’ll pay extra.” He almost growled at the perfumed woman still by his side, giving her a few extra coins.

The whore merely grinned and left him, only to return a mere minute later with an olive skinned woman, perhaps in her late twenties, with raven curls and a big chest that practically popped out of what little fabric covered it. She led Jon up the stairs into a room, and pushed him to the bed.

The woman kissed him. It was nothing like his first kiss. His kisses with Jane had been nothing like this. This wasn’t a childish, innocent exploration, this was an assault on his mouth and senses by a professional. It unsettled him, almost scared him. It was a loss of control, and of intimacy. He felt… taken, conquered, despoiled. Yet Jon pressed on, burying those feelings inside. He was a man, dammit, he would act like one.

He put his hands on the whore’s breasts, and kneaded, as he’d often heard Theon brag about. The woman moaned into his mouth and started undressing him. Her gown - if it could be called a gown - fell in one piece to the ground. She pulled him up on top of her between her kisses, and guided his member to her entrance. He froze, and before he could continue, the woman pushed him from the back, doing it for him.

The whore moaned in pleasure, most likely fake, she was a whore after all, and yet the sound made Jon emboldened. He started fucking her on his own, trying to enjoy the sensations. Yes, the heat around his member felt good, yes, the woman’s body and sounds were very arousing, and yet… It was all wrong.

He was supposed to be enjoying this. This was supposed to be one of the most pivotal moments in his life, when a boy turns into a man. And yes, it felt good, but he couldn’t really let himself enjoy it in the middle of it all. He felt like he was being judged, like one of Maester Luwin’s tests. Was he doing it correctly? Was he enjoying it as he should? He felt pressure to perform in a given way, which didn’t let him enjoy what he had. 

And the way he moved, it felt… dirty, just like he had imagined. The woman laid there moaning and caressing him, lost in the throes of passion. And yet, on his side, he was just… rutting away like a dog. The whore was clearly acting, there was no way she was enjoying this. He felt like a soldier doing a task, just enduring until it was over. Not enjoying it himself, not bothering to make it enjoyable for the other, just… performing.

Was sex even enjoyable at all? He’d say no, but all the sellswords loved it. It wasn’t even a man’s thing, Harla being a great example. So clearly, it was him that was broken. Him that wasn’t able to appreciate one of the best parts of life. What was wrong with him? 

Then it hit him, and it all came crashing down. He wasn’t the only one not enjoying this. There was no way the poor woman was enjoying this, for all her moans and pleading, she was just getting paid to do it. Hells, this being Lys, she might not even be paid, she could be a slave. Jon felt revolted. He was forcing a woman to lay with him, and even then for no good reason at all, as he didn’t even get any enjoyment out of it. 

Soon enough his member turned flaccid and he was unable to continue. The woman smiled tenderly at him, most likely about to reassure him, but he wouldn’t hear it. He dressed as quickly and possible and left the brothel at once.

There was something inherently wrong with him, and as much as he tried to leave it behind, it had followed him to Essos. It was not something he could run away from, it was part of him. Jon Snow was broken, and most likely would always be.

Arya tried to keep the tears from falling, she would not look weak in front of these monsters. Her plan to follow the royal soldiers escorting his father had fallen by the wayside. As she was trying to exit through the Old Gate, the less guarded one, the goldcloacks had instantly pointed her out as a Fleabottom urchin, and taken her to an orphanage. The place in question turned out to be run by a few corrupt goldcloacks who sold kids to essosi slavers.

Now Arya was kept chained along with four other boys in the belly of a ship. She was at least glad to have been mistaken as a boy. The single girl that had come with them, they had taken into a cabin. She shuddered to think of what they were doing to the poor girl. Death would be more merciful. 

“What do we have here then?” One of the slavers asked as he descended the steps into the hold. He had airs of command about him, an arrogance that marked him as the leader, or at least high up in their ranks.

“Five boys, plus the girl above. Two are too young for any hard work.” One of the other men commented.

“I see.” There were two boys who were quite young, about five or six years old. “We’ll sell those in Lys, they like to train them young.” He shrugged.

Lys. One of the Free Cities, far south if she remembered correctly, though Arya didn’t quite recall what was special about it.

“This one looks strong, will fetch us a nice price.” He commented looking at the next boy, who was older and taller than Arya. The boy strained against his chains, but couldn’t do anything.

The man chuckled and looked at the next boy.

“Nothing special about this one. Maybe a serving boy. If we don’t sell him in Tyrosh just throw him out the board.” He dismissed.

The boy’s eyes widened in fear.

“No! Milord, I can work, I’m good with my hands, I can -” He was interrupted by a slap, which shut him up, turning his pleading into whimpering.

“And what do we have last, huh?” The slaver grabbed Arya by the chin. 

She gritted her teeth, looking at the slaver with hatred. Her hands were shackled too tightly for her to do anything to him.

“Hmmm, this one looks kind of girly, and there’s a fire to him. He’ll sell well in any pillow house, I think. And if he proves to be too wild to handle, not our problem.” He chuckled.

Arya was not dumb. She might be young, but she knew what a pillow house was, and she was not stepping foot into one alive. Right there and then, looking at the disgusting smile in the slaver’s face, his golden teeth glinting in the soft light of the ship’s hold, she decided that she was not going to bow to them. Fuck keeping her head down, fuck biding her time, and fuck surviving. She’d rather die than bow to these fucks.

Arya chuckled along with the slaver.

“What the hell are you laughing at, rat?” He frowned.

“I know something you don’t.” She singsonged.

“Ah yes, and what’s that?”

“It’s a secret! Come closer and I’ll tell you.” She grinned.

The man frowned, but came closer. Arya subtly leaned backwards.

“Closer, milord, it’s not for just any ear.” She continued.

The slaver turned his head, moving his ear closer to Arya’s lips.

As soon as it was in reach, she snapped forward. She bit down with all the strength she could, through flesh and sinew. The man screamed and the other slavers didn’t waste time in trying to help him. One punched Arya in the face, but she wouldn’t let go. The other pulled the screaming man back, but it only caused the ear to rip and separate from his head.

Arya looked straight at the man, and only when their eyes met did she spit out the ear at his feet, a bloody grin marring her face, making her look unhinged. The other man kept beating her, but Arya only laughed.

“You’re going to regret this, you filth!” The man yelled, holding a hand to the bleeding hole in his face.

“Maybe.” She managed between coughs. “But whatever you do to me now, you’ll still be an asymmetrical cunt for the rest of your life.”

Another punch knocked her lights out and she knew no more.

Jon crossed the gates to the glorious city of Volantis, paying no mind to the gold and silks around him, all his attention on his wineskin. Many people turned his head at him, or more likely, at the huge white wolf calmly walking at his side. The looks didn’t bother him, not anymore. His name was somewhat known along these lands, both because of Ghost and his renown as a fighter. And yet, he found no solace in the recognition and respect he’d once craved. He just moved one foot in front of the other, just as he had learnt on his first week as a sellsword.

Another city, and another contract. Many things changed, and yet most remained the same. Yes, Volantis was a new city he had not visited before. But it was still the same, riches and slaves, masters and soldiers. The sellswords cared not for who held the contract as long as they paid in full. Not even the company was the same, he had moved on from the Windblown and into the Second Sons, after an encounter with the rival Company of the Cat had wiped out most of his squad. 

He still kept the company of Ronnel, but not Harla’s. His friend had taken an arrow to the gut, and it had pierced something vital. In classic Harla fashion, she had demanded wine and a whore, and spent her last hours in pleasure. He missed her. 

He missed Ronnel too, in truth. Whatever camaraderie he’d developed with the two older sellswords had taken an insurmountable backstep after their visit to Lys. He had felt confused, ashamed, and angry at himself after the debacle in the pleasure house. Each time his friends teased or prodded, in misguided attempts to understand or help him, he closed off more and more. By the time Harla had died, he barely shared a meal with them once a fortnight. He felt guilty, not having spent more time with Harla while she lived, but what was one more heavy feeling against the vast weight resting on his shoulders.

He’d found solace, of sorts, in wine. It dulled the mind and made all those voices in his head feel foggy and far away. The times when they readied for battle and he gave up the drink, not wishing to be impaired in the fight and take a hit otherwise easily avoided, were hard on him. The thoughts and voices swimming in his head came back with a vengeance. Sometimes, he wondered if it was his Targaryen blood surfacing. Many of them had been cursed with madness. It wouldn’t be out of character for the Gods to add yet another burden to him. At his most bitter he thought he should be proud that the Gods paid so much attention to him, if only to fuck him over again and again.

“Cregan!” 

“What?” He drawled. Apparently Ronnel had been trying to get his attention for a while now. He tended to space out when drinking.

“I said, would you be willing to visit the Temple of the Lord of Light on the morrow?”

“The Red God? Why? Isn’t he the one that likes to burn people?” He frowned, scrunching up his nose.

“Because it helped me through a dark time and it could help you too.” He sighed.

“You know I keep no Gods. What have any of them done for me?” He snorted and drank a deep gulp of wine.

“Listen, Cregan, you’re not well. I know not what happened in Lys, because you won’t talk about it, but you’ve been off ever since, and it’s not going away. You need help.”

“Fuck off, Ronnel, I’m fine. And even if I wasn’t, some flaming maniac isn’t going to fix it.”

“I killed my father.” Ronnel spoke out of the blue.

“What?”

“I killed him. He beat my mother you see? He was a mean bastard, never liked him, but he wasn’t that bad to me. My mom, however, he treated her like shit. And my mother… she was the kindest, most beautiful woman, kid. She would tell me stories before she put me to bed, she knew the names of all the birds around our home. She was beautiful.” He sighed. “And she wilted. As I grew up and my father got worse, she became less of herself, until she was not but an empty husk.”

Jon chose not to comment, taking another drink instead.

“When I was a lad, not quite a man but not a child any longer, she hit me. Just the once. I don’t remember what I did or what I said, but I remember the look on her face. Pure loathing. She looked at me and saw my father. So I killed him. He had taken my mother away from me, and so I would take his life.” 

Ronnel stopped his story to snatch the wineskin off Jon’s hand. He frowned as the taller man drank deep from it.

“I thought she’d be happy to be free from him. I was always a stupid fuck, I guess. She cursed me for killing the man she loved, and threw me out.” He shook his head. “I walked down the Royne, trying to earn penance for kinslaying, for hurting my mother… I didn’t feel any cleaner by the time I reached Volantis. Thought of throwing myself to the ocean. That’s when a red priest found me and took me in. Didn’t really preach, just lent an ear. And it helped, Cregan, it really did.”

He offered back the wine, with a sad smile on his face.

“Just, give it a chance? Just one.”

Jon shrugged noncommittally. “Whatever. I’ll check it out. But if they want me to burn someone I’m setting Ghost on them.”

“Good enough for me.” Ronnel chuckled.

Robb was sitting on a wooden chair, hunched forward, with his head on his hands. A raven had arrived with news late at night. Dark wings, dark words. The sound of his mother’s sobbing was like the spattering of rain against the ground, or the gentle rumbling of a far away storm. Just there, something he heard, but was not quite processing. His head fell full of cotton, like a veil had been dropped between him and the rest of the world.

Father was dead.

‘The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives’. Well the Starks were all but pack now. Arya had disappeared, and was likely dead. Sansa, a hostage of the Lannisters. Bran was crippled and alone at Winterfell, and Rickon just a babe. And now, Father was dead.

What was he to do, now?

There was, of course, one more Stark, even if he didn’t carry the name. Jon’s departure had affected them all, even if they showed it to different extents. Arya had become far more wild, and yet it was like the fire within her had been quenched. Bran had had little time to process it before his fall. Rickon just asked for his brother, not understanding he was gone. Sansa now seemed not quite sure, when she repeated their mother’s words about how good it was that the bastard was gone. Father… Father was hurt.

It was strange, to see Father hurt. He had always been their rock, more than human, not having any kind of weakness to him, never tired or worried or unsure of himself. He’d only ever seemed sad when Aunt Lyanna was mentioned. But when Jon left… He looked like he had aged a decade. 

It had all gone wrong then. It was like a sign from the Gods, heralding what was to come. Jon left, and was probably dead somewhere. Then Uncle Benjen left too, without saying goodbye. His Father went South, and he’d never see him again. One sister was lost, most likely dead, and the other may never come back home. And here he was, in the middle of a camp, playing war, as if he was truly his Father’s heir and not just a boy with shoes too big to fill. 

He wished Jon was here. For all that Mother hated it, he truly was the most like Father of all his siblings. He would know what to do. He would keep his composure before devastating news, as he always did before his mother’s scorn. He would have the respect of his bannermen, and he’d manage to take their sisters home.

But Jon wasn’t here. They had driven him away. And now, the Starks were all scattered. One in King’s Landing, two lost Gods know where, and him in the middle of the Riverlands. He only hoped that at the end of all this, even if they all ended lost or dead, that Bran and Rickon wouldn’t be separated.

Chapter Text

“Why have you come to the Temple of the Lord of Light, my child?” A gentle looking old man asked him, as he led him into a simple room.

He looked the very image of a doting grandfather, with a bushy grey beard and soft eyes. His gold-threaded crimson robes, however, betrayed his rank. This was no mere acolyte.

Jon sat on the chair opposite the priest. There was food on the table, simple fare, but filling. A huge fire roared in the hearth. He suspected there was not a single room in this temple that was bereft of a flame.

“A friend forced me to, priest. He insisted it would help, though I’m not of the same opinion. I would not waste your time.”

“Well, here at the temple we endeavour to help all those who would ask for it. Why do you think we won’t be able to help you, my child?”

“I don’t keep to your God.” He shrugged. “I don’t keep any Gods, really. They’ve never listened to me.”

Surprisingly, the priest nodded with a smile.

“Understandable. It is quite common to lose faith when one feels abandoned by their Gods. Fear not, child, you do not need to keep to R’hllor in order to seek our guidance. Speak of what ails you, and we will try and help you to the best of our ability.”

“And what will you ask in return?” Jon frowned.

“Nothing.” The old man shook his head. “All that carries the Fire of Life is a child of the Red God. It is our duty to help one another.”

Jon observed the old man for a long while, but he could not detect any deceit in his words. He sighed and decided to try. It was about as good a way to spend his time as any other.

“I think I lack that Fire you talk about. I find no joy in living. Not really. All the things that men crow about, the things that songs are sung about, the deeds that are inked into stories. At best, they seem as tasteless as gruel to me. At worst, they’re ash, clogging my throat and drowning me.”

“Is there nothing that brings you joy, no matter how peculiar? Perhaps something that brought you joy in the past, as a child?”

“I had moments of joy in my childhood, yes. Spare, but present.” He acquiesced. “I would play with my brother Robb, get into mischief with my sister Arya…” He smiled, reminiscing. “But I couldn’t stay there, and left. Now I’m half a world away, and my family is but a memory.”

“You are lonely.” The man deduced. “It is no wonder you feel like this, my child. Small embers are snuffed out by the wind, it is a big roaring fire that stands the weather. We are not made to be alone.” He paused. “You mentioned that a friend made you come here. Is he not company enough?”

“He was, once.” Jon admitted. “But we’ve grown apart, even though he tries to hold on.”

“Is there a reason for your distance?”

“I can’t seem to relate. To him, or to anyone. I don’t share a single opinion with him. Or with anyone else I meet, really. I’m the odd one out, the freak.”

“Do you truly think you have nothing in common with anybody in your company?”

“My company? How do you know I’m a sellsword?” He tensed.

“Your name is hardly unknown in Essos, White Wolf. Still, you should be able to find common ground with someone, even if only to talk about swordplay.”

Jon had to laugh at that remark.

“I hate fighting. I really do despise it. And the killing… It makes me sick, when they boast. The only part I even like is the technique, the art of it, and these are sellswords, most don’t care what their weapon does as long as it kills their foe.”

“You hate fighting, and yet you make a living as a sellsword. Why is that?”

“What else was there to do?” He shrugged. “Swordplay is the one thing I’ve ever been good at, the only use I’ve had. And there’s not many other ways to earn coin when you’re on your own in Essos.”

“Yet you are not on your own now, by your own admission. You could change occupation, become something else. Surely you have coin enough to get you started.”

“It wouldn’t work.” Jon shook his head. “It would just be the same, the one left out, a freak. It… It’s just my nature.”

“What makes you think that, child? No son of R’hllor is made to live apart.”

“I grew up as a bastard, in Westeros.” He huffs a mirthless laugh. “It sets you apart from birth. Not high enough for the highborn, not low enough for the smallfolk. It’s a lonely existence.”

“So you left”

“So I left. I thought it would be different here in Essos, in a sellsword company your name does not matter, just your skill. And yet…”

“You found yourself different.”

“Yes. I think I was born broken, different, and it is my lot in life to be apart. I don’t think it’s truly anybody’s fault, really, just…” He shrugged.

“Nobody is born broken, child. Life just finds a way to break us. But we can always put ourselves together.”

“Oh, but I was. My mother gave me away as soon as I was born. I know not her name. My father took me in only because his honor demanded it. He never truly wanted me. I think perhaps leaving me with my mother might have been a kinder fate, if she’d just smothered me in my crib and gone on with her life.”

Of course, that was what he had grown up thinking, but the truth was even worse. He would not speak of it, it might endanger his family even this far away. But he knew, and that was enough to eat at him.

The worst thing was his mother had wanted him, after all. After being kidnapped and raped by the son of the man who killed her brother and father, she still found love in her heart for him. Lyanna was truly a beautiful soul. There was nobody in the whole North who had a single bad thing to say about her, and to this day she was the one thing that could move Father to tears, the one topic he wouldn’t speak on. She had found love in her heart even for a baby raped into her by a madman, a baby that had ripped apart and killed her. Love enough to ask Father to protect him and raise him. 

Lyanna truly was kind. And Jon had killed her. Then his father had to see him every day. To see Lyanna’s murderer. To have the only thing left of her be a reminder of what she suffered. To have her rape spawn grow up in the place where she was once happy and free. And despite that, to be, if not warm, then at least kind to Jon, despite all the pain he carried. Ned Stark had truly loved his sister, to endure such a thing. And Jon, like a parasite, complained about not having enough. 

Jon had been born broken. His very birth had torn a family apart. More than a child, he was a scar, a reminder of a great wound. And scars never truly heal.

The priest hummed thoughtfully and sipped on a cup of wine.

“People from all walks of life come to our temple.” He started. “It is not uncommon for the ones to seek refuge to be some of the most hurt and mistreated. Many of them are former slaves, the scars of their past harrowing, having known nothing better since they were born.”

He paused yet again to bite on a slice of cheese.

“I tell you this not to make less of your hurt, my child, but to show you that we are not beholden to the circumstances of our birth. Just as an ember can grow into a forest fire, so can the lowest of the low rise towards the greatest of heights. Your past has already been set in stone, and nothing can change that. But your future is yet to be written, and the quill is in your hand.”

“I’m sure these platitudes sound great to many, and they most likely work. If a slave is set free and has enough coin to get started with their life, then they can make do, I agree. It is not them that was the problem, but their circumstances. I don’t think my case is comparable, priest.”

“And why not, what is it that makes you so different from the rest, my child? You keep dancing around the issue, and I wish not to push you, but I can’t help if you don’t confide in me. I can promise not to judge, for that is the prerogative of R’hllor only.”

“I… I’m ashamed.” He whispered.

“Be not ashamed, for we’re all equal in his creation. Whatever sins weigh so heavily on you, fire cleanses all anew.”

“I…” Jon gulped, deciding whether he wanted to confide in the priest.

In the end, it was his own apathy that made the decision for him. He didn’t really care if the old man was offended and burned him alive for it. It was a nasty way to go, but did that really matter, as long as he got to close his eyes?

“Like I said, I find no joy in all the things I should. All the men crow about their fighting and the killing of their enemies, but it only makes me sick to my stomach. I have no taste for blood.”

The priest remained silent, giving him space to continue.

“But that’s not all. I… If there is a thing that’s universal, that all enjoy and crave, it’s the touch of a woman. Every bard sings about their lady love, and every sailor counts the days before the next brothel.”

“Do you not feel attraction to women?” The priest asked, not unkindly.

“That’s not it.” He shook his head. “I know of sword swallowers. It’s looked down upon, but hardly unique. And yet, they feel the same things, even if for another man. I had a friend, Harla. She was as bawdy as any man when telling tales of the whores she bedded. It’s a queer thing, but not unheard of.”

Jon took a deep breath and continued.

“But for me… I feel the attraction well enough. I find women beautiful, and wish to touch them. But when the time comes… It feels… Disgusting, slimy. Wrong. It feels like rape, like they couldn’t possibly want a sweaty, hairy man rutting on top of them. It feels like I shouldn’t be there, like it’s not what I’m meant to be doing. It makes me feel like a worm.”

“It sounds to me, that your problem isn’t with women, but with yourself. You carry a great deal of self-hatred, child. Why is it that when other men do it it’s fine, but you somehow are not worthy, or not wanted? Do you consider yourself inferior to others?”

“Not… inferior, I guess, it’s just… I should be a certain way, and I’m not, and I don’t know why. I crave the touch of a woman and yet I feel disgusted by the idea of bedding one. I delight in the appreciation of my skills with a sword, and yet I despise the brutality of it. It’s all just so… brutish. So much like an animal, like a beast taking and taking and caring not for the rest.”

The priest took a moment to reflect on it.

“So you don’t particularly hate the activity itself, but the things associated with it. It is not the intercourse, but the idea of a man taking a woman, not the sword, but the animalistic brutality of it. It sounds to me that you dislike many things that are heavily associated with being a man.”

“Exactly! That’s the problem. I dislike all of the things I should like.”

“And why should you like them?”

“Because I’m a man. I’m supposed to like manly things.” He frowned.

“Do you enjoy being a man? And all it brings with it?” 

“Not at all. It’s just so… jarring. It clashes with me. I don’t fit.”

“Alright. Let’s try something. Imagine, just for a moment, that you had been born a woman. Instead of beating up other boys, you are expected to pretty up yourself and make beautiful things, perhaps play an instrument. When bedded, instead of taking by force, you are gentle and loving, giving yourself. Does this sound appealing?”

Jon had to bite back tears. It sounded wonderful, and it was so painful to have it out of his reach.

“Yes. It sounds like I would have been happy.”

“Well, I think that solves your dilemma.” The old man smiled gently.

“What?” Jon frowned.

“That’s the crux of the issue. You were never meant to be a man. To try and be one is to go against your very being. To deny the plans of R’hllor. You’ll only hurt yourself like this.”

“Well, knowing the problem doesn’t make me much good if I can’t fix it, does it?” He answered bitterly.

“You can fix it, my child. Just be a woman.”

“Just be a woman, he says.” Jon chuckled. “So what, do I just put on a dress and go prancing around?” He mocked.

“Come with me, child.” He spoke, leaving the room. 

Jon, befuddled by the old man, made to follow.

They arrived at a courtyard, where a burly young man was moving bales of hay.

“Brother Inel.” He greeted.

“Father Marcus.” The young man bowed.

He was a muscular man, but his features were soft. No sign of stubble on his face, and a soft smile with dimples.

“How goes the work?” 

“We’ve finished today’s load and we’re starting with tomorrow’s, it will save us enough time to do a second check of the larder.” The young man smiled.

“Great, keep up the good work, son.” He nodded and continued walking. 

Jon followed him in silence, trying to figure out where they were going.

“What did you think of Brother Inel?” The now named Father Marcus asked.

“I don’t know, he seemed competent I guess?” He frowned.

“Did he seem girly to you?” 

“What? I mean, he had soft features and no beard, but that’s hardly anything. And his arm was about as big as my thigh.”

“Well, he was once.” The priest nodded. “He came to us lost, much like you. You see, he was a woman, and yet he was never meant to be one. He’s a man now, and much happier for it.”

“That was a woman?!” 

“Lower your voice.” The priest frowned. “And no. You just saw, Inel is a man. Whatever he was born as is irrelevant. Truth is often hidden, but light reveals all. Fire transforms, letting the trapped coal travel the winds as ash. Come.”

The priest led him to yet another brazier and picked up a candle from a nearby table. 

“Pay attention to the shadows. What does this look like?” He held the candle upright, its shadow a long stick.

“Like a candle. A long stick, I guess?” Jon didn’t see the point.

“Exactly. How about now.” He turned the candle sideways, and its shadow narrowed to a small circle.

“A circle.”

“Correct, once more. Just by seeing its shadow, you would not be able to tell if it was a candle, or just a coin. Perhaps a pebble.” He put back the candle on its table. “This world is crude, it is but a shadow of the Realm of R’hllor, and we who inhabit it are but shadows cast by our true images. The light of R’hllor reveals us as we truly are, not as we seem to be.”

He turned back towards Jon.

“You, White Wolf, are a woman. No matter what your parents called you, or what people expect you to be, or what is between your legs, that will not change the truth. It is just mistaking the shadow for the object behind it.”

“But… I can’t be a woman! Look at me!”

“Womanhood isn’t defined by how pretty you look, my child. Yet, you would still have it easier than others, as your face is bereft of hair, and your features are soft and refined.”

“But that’s just… lying. I can’t go around pretending to be a woman, that’s just perverted. I…” He paused, remembering Lys. “Once, in a brothel, I saw some of the whores were boys dressed as women. I’m not a whore, I’m not just… catering to the perverted desires of men.”

“Is your goal to seduce men with specific tastes? Is it perhaps to deceive men out of some perverted enjoyment? Do you just enjoy wearing disguises?”

“None of them.” Jon denied vehemently.

“You just want to be happy, be who you are instead of who the world wants you to be. I see nothing wrong with that.”

“I…” Jon paused. Could he truly be considering this, to… to just live as a woman? To leave behind all he had known and make a new life? It wouldn’t be the first time, but… perhaps this time would be better. He was unsure. “Can I truly do that? Where would I even start?”

“The Temple of the Lord of Light helps all who are in need.” The old man gently smiled. “Though a small donation wouldn’t be out of place.” He smirked.

Chapter Text

“And over here, Most Gracious Queen, we have the counter where benefactors may place bets on their favourite…” The man droned with an air of self importance.

Daenerys wrinkled her nose at the stale smell of blood and sweat in the air. Even this far from the actual pit, it was noticeable, if not overwhelming. As much as her advisors had argued with her to reopen the fighting pits, and as much as she understood the need of it, she still found it unseemly. An ugly business. But better to endure and keep a close eye on it than to ignore it and find out later that the fighters are being mistreated. 

Drowning out the rambling of her guide, she noticed something in the corner of her eye.

“Where do those doors lead? They’re heavier than the rest.” She pointed. The doors were heavy iron with latches to bar it, while most other doors were just regular wood.

“Those… Those are the beasts cages, my Queen. The door is for safety, should one of them get loose.”

“What beasts are kept there at the moment?” She was curious.

“We had two lions, a bear, and a hrakkar.” Said one of the guards.

“We haven’t checked, my Queen, those doors were barred during the revo- the liberation, and have not been opened yet. We don’t know what beast might be loose inside, best let them starve.” The man quickly covered his slip-up.

“That’s inhumane.” The Dragon Queen frowned. “It is one thing for them to fight for their life in an arena, another altogether for them to wither in a dark cage. Open the doors, I would have these animals properly secured and fed.”

“But Your Highness, it’s dangerous, you might be harmed!” The man refused.

“I have with me some of the best guards in the city, a couple half-starved lions will not be a match for them. Though I would prefer capture than death, sers.” She nodded at her guards.

“It is not the lions that scare me, Highness… We used to have a wyvern.”

“A wyvern, truly?! Such a rare thing… What happened to it?”

“It was pit against a more fearsome beast.” The man shuddered.

Daenerys arched an eyebrow, but she doubted whatever resided behind those doors was truly as scary as this man seemed to think. She gave the signal.

“Your Grace, stay behind me at all times, please. And stay away from the cages, the animals might reach through the bars.” Ser Barristan warned her solemnly.

As the doors were dragged open the light entered the dark hallway. The group entered - though the pit worker had to be dragged inside - a long row of mostly empty cages. There was the bear, sleeping soundly. A few cages behind was the pair of lions, one of them unmoving, likely dead. There was a huge cage, likely once the wyverns. There was, however, no sign of the hrakkar, though there was a cage with an open door. The beast might be roaming free.

Soon enough, however, they reached the end of the hallway, where there was only a door to a small cell. The worker tried to squirm away, but was firmly held by Grey Worm. 

“What’s behind that door?” Daenerys asked.

“Death.” The man gulped.

Ser Barristan braved the danger head first, trying the door and finding it unlocked. It opened to show a small square room. On one corner was a waste bucket, on another a pile of bones, and lastly-

“Who are you?” 

A boy, young, with slim but corded muscle and matted, stringy hair. He was covered in slave rags and a white pelt, whose borders were ragged and uneven, as if it had been ripped apart.

The Queen’s party was stunned.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” She asked furiously at the worker. “All slaves were to be freed! Has this boy been locked here for over a moon?!”

The boy in question frowned and got up from the ground, shrugging off the pelt to show a skin full of marks and scars. 

“Where Gromoq?” He asked, in broken ghiscari, his gaze finding the pit worker quickly.

“M-Master Gromoq is dead.” The man babbled.

The boy blinked and then started cackling, laughing wildly.

“Why is there a man here?!” Daenerys asked once again, shaking the worker by his shirt.

“No one would come here, beasts are too dangerous to be left free!” He pleaded

“I see no beasts here but you” The Queen frowned. “Aggo, take him to the cells, I’ll deal with him later.”

The man didn’t protest, likely glad to be far away from the place.

“Why are you here, with the animals, instead of with the other slaves? You should have been freed a long time ago.” The Queen asked the still laughing boy.

The slave quieted down and cocked his head at the silver haired woman.

“Not slave.” He shrugged. “Beast.”

“But why?” She prodded.

“Beast bite. I bite too.” He grinned widely, showing a couple of prominent canines that looked to have been filed into a point. “Gromoq no like.”

Daenerys closed her eyes, once again wishing for all the masters to burn in the darkest depths of hell. She paused to take a look at the small room.

“You were kept here? Did they even bring you food and water in the last moon?”

“Beast. Meat, blood.” He shrugged, pointing to the pile of bones in the corner. 

She could see Rakharo’s esteem for the young boy rising. A hrakkar was not an easy fight, and the boy was unarmed and likely weak from hunger.

“Well, no more. Come, I’ll take you to the Palace, and there you can have food and water to your heart’s content. You will not have to fight anymore.”

“No fight?” He frowned. 

“Yes. You’re free now. All slaves are free in Meereen. Nobody has to fight that doesn’t want to.”

The boy looked pensive for a moment, then frowned.

“Fuck!” He mumbled between teeth, though Daenerys was sure she had misheard the westerosi word.

“No fight? What do now?” He scratched his head.

“You can fight, if that is your wish. But only if you wish for it. And never to the death.” 

“No fight.” He nodded. “Everyone fear. No man fight me. Cowards.” He spat at the ground. “You fault?” He growled at the Queen.

Ser Barristan wasted no time in stepping forward, putting himself between them.

“My Queen, this man might become hostile, I think it would be best for the city guard to deal with him.” He said in a low tone westerosi.

The slave blinked and stepped back.

“Wait, you’re westerosi? Then why am I grunting away in ghiscari?” He frowned.

“You speak westerosi? That’s wonderful. I’ll repeat myself.” The Queen spoke. “All slaves have been freed in Meereen as of a moon ago. As for the pits, they’re voluntary, any may sign out of their own will, but they might concede at any moment, and are not allowed to kill.”

“Well, there goes my livelihood.” The man snapped bitterly. 

“You are welcome to fight in the pit as long as you keep to the rules.” 

“The others won’t fight me, a fight with me was a punishment. I only fight to the death. They will refuse.” He frowned.

“You strong, you kill hrakkar. But always something stronger.” Rakharo interjected in broken westerosi.

“Tell that to the wyvern. So far I’m unbeaten.” He grinned again that bloodthirsty smile.

Rakharo didn’t much care, likely not knowing what a wyvern was. Barristan and Daenerys, however were aghast.

“You’re the one who killed the wyvern?! How many were you, with what weapons?!” She asked.

The boy blinked.

“Just me. And a knife. A good knife.”

“You killed a wyvern. With a knife.” Ser Barristan was beyond impressed.

“I’m good at killing things.” He shrugged.

The Queen thought for a moment.

“If you’re worrying about your livelihood, I would offer you a place in my household. As a guard, perhaps.” Daenerys spoke. “What are you good at, apart from killing things?”

“Surviving.” He spoke without a hint of doubt.

“Then guard it is.”

“My Queen, a guard is expected to lay their life for their liege, not to save themselves.” Ser Barristan pleaded in a long suffering voice.

“They’re expected to keep me alive, if he’s good at saving himself, I’m sure he can teach me a couple of things.” She huffed. “My guards will formalize the details, as for now let’s just get out of this place, it stinks.”

The slight crunch of boots on freshly fallen snow could barely be heard over the winter breeze. The woman prowled forward, encroaching on her prey, until she was in range. She pulled a beautiful white longbow, and prepared her shot. Her long, wavy dark hair was done half up, so as to keep it away from her face. She drew the string, her face flushed in the cold of the morning. Her features were refined, and her skin fair. The arrow flew, and hit true on its prey. The doe fell over, dead in an instant from a masterful shot.

She nodded, satisfied. It was a good catch, it would feed them for a while. She pulled the doe onto her shoulders, grunting with effort, and started dragging her home. The sun was low over the horizon, though to be fair, it never rose much higher this far north. There wasn’t a lot of light, it was miserably cold, and food was scarce. Hardhome was true to its name, and its people were even hardier. But it was home, and for Alyssa, that was all she had ever wanted.

She made her way past the other tents, ears primed to catch anything out of place. It seemed there was nothing out of the usual, and no news meant good news. Their tent was on the northeastern outskirts, closer to the beach than most of the camp. It always smelled salty, which was good for her perpetually runny nose. Her years on warm Essos had spoiled her, and she was not well suited to this much cold anymore. Ygritte would teasingly call her Queen of Snot whenever she felt like messing with her. Of course, she didn’t really need an excuse to mess with her, it was still the redhead’s favorite pastime.

She left the doe with Rinda, an old woman with a particularly deft hand with a skinning knife. She would take a cut of the meat in exchange, but it was still a good trade, Alyssa couldn’t skin to save her life, and Ygritte would much rather someone else did it. For such a wild spearwife, she was quite fussy about many things. Of course, Alyssa didn’t mind a bit taking on those tasks herself. She and Ygritte shared their work quite evenly.

The interior of the tent was warmer, the barrier against the wind enough by itself to make a difference. It was in a bit of disarray - Ygritte was messy - but welcoming, and Alyssa enjoyed nothing more than coming to the home she shared with her family, no matter how small or bereft of luxury. 

“Mama!” A yell was her only warning before a missile launched itself at her legs.

“Oof!” She fake grunted. “I’ve been attacked! Treachery! Perfidy! Who is the brave hero that hath vanquished the mighty Alyssa?”

“Me, Mama! I’m the hero!” The little girl babbled, jumping excitedly up and down.

“Of course, Lya. You’re the greatest hero of them all.” She grinned. “But beware! For I know your weakness! It’s kisses!” She started peppering the child with kisses on her face, making her squeal and laugh as she tried to escape.

“Still using those fancy words of yours, princess? You’ll turn the kid into one of your maesters.” Came the sarcastic drawl from the tent’s opening.

Ygritte, her wife in all but name. The Free Folk didn’t believe in marriage as the southern world conceived it. For them, whether a couple stayed together or not was up to the couple and no one else, no need for anyone to validate it, though most of them asked the Old Gods for a blessing when it became serious. She and Ygritte had asked for the blessing of their respective deities when they decided to start a family. 

Ygritte… She was far from the beauties southern songs spoke of. Her hair, though a striking crimson, was usually tangled and frayed. Her teeth were as crooked as her grin, and her curves barely there - even for the standards of the hungry Free Folk. And yet, you could not have asked Alyssa to name a more beautiful sight, except perhaps their daughter. She didn’t love Ygritte despite her faults, but because of them. She loved every part of her. Alyssa couldn’t look upon her wife with anything but admiration, for she was the one person in the whole world who had looked at her and found something worth loving.

Their daughter was a mix of them. The best parts of each, if you asked her. Lyanna had the waves and curls of Alyssa in Ygritte’s crimson hue. Her refined, Targaryen features with the spearwife’s smattering of freckles. Her bright, violet eyes with Ygritte’s crooked smile, though far healthier teeth. She wouldn’t change a thing about her. Their child was perfect, a blessing from the Gods.

“She can be a maester if she wants.” She pouted. “Learning is fun, right Lya?” 

“I like stories. Dragons.” The little girl nodded effusively.

“See, mom? She likes learning.” Alyssa grinned.

Ygritte rolled her eyes, but gave her a soft kiss in greeting, and another one on Lyanna’s nose, which set off another bout of giggles from the kid.

“Good catch?”

“A doe. Left her with Rinda.”

“Good, that will last us a few days. I’m going on the next one though.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They had decided to take turns on hunting duty, as it was the most dangerous job, as it sometimes took them far from the camp, into dangerous territory. The dead left them alone, mostly, but their forces grew every day. Soon, they would turn their eyes towards them. 

“Any news?” She asked, though she assumed nothing big had happened or the camp would have been far more lively.

“Nah. Well, another idiot tried to steal Val last night.”

“Another one?” Alyssa chuckled. 

“They don’t learn, do they? She kicked his teeth in, they callin’ him Gummy now.” Ygritte cackled at her own story.

“Mama, what’s stealing?” The little girl asked. She was quite inquisitive for her age, and Alyssa loved to indulge her thirst for knowledge.

“Stealing is when you try and take something that is not yours. This man tried to take Val as his wife, but Val didn’t want to be taken, so she beat him up.”

“Oh.” Her little brow furrowed. “Mum, did you steal mama?” She asked Ygritte.

The fire-kissed woman cackled again.

“Yes I did, sweety! See, so little and she already knows who has the reins here.” Her wife grinned widely.

“Har har, so funny you are, you should run for village jester.” She grumbled.

“If it was up to you, you would still be pining.” Ygritte raised a brow in challenge, but Alyssa couldn’t exactly contradict her. She had been quite useless in her pursuits.

“I stole your mama because she wanted to be stolen by me. You should never steal someone who doesn’t want to.” She explained to their child, who nodded seriously as she did to every explanation about anything.

“It’s the fourth this moon, isn’t it?” Alyssa tried to go back to the topic, embarrassed.

“Third, but still. They have no chance, she’s got her eyes on someone.” 

“Oh?” She arched a brow.

“Yes, that burly spearwife Orla, with Ryker’s gang.”

Alyssa was… somewhat surprised. As devoid of actual laws as the Free Folk were, they still had some reserves against certain things. They didn’t outright condemn couples of the same sex, but as the Free Folk treasured children - most likely a result of their low rate of survival - they saw it as something stupid and undesirable. As such, many didn’t consider a same sex couple as an actual couple, and those couples kept to themselves, trying not to invite anyone to try and steal them.

Many had tried to steal Ygritte or Alyssa at the beginning. They’d beat them and yet they kept coming back. It had taken Alyssa hacking a particularly disgusting one to pieces with Blackfyre before they learnt to leave them alone. Their example seemed to have inspired a few other couples to live out in the open, less scared of retribution. Good for them, Alyssa thought. 

And good for Val, if she had her eye on another woman. Less likely to treat her like a piece of meat. Alyssa’s years in the cold, hardy North had done nothing to curb her distaste for men.

“Can’t blame her for looking after a well muscled woman, can you?” She smirked as she flexed her bicep. 

Ygritte loved her muscled frame. It had taken some time for Alyssa to love that part of herself, seeing it as too manly, but Ygritte had allayed all her fears and doubts. Every part of herself she once hated, Ygritte had taught her to love.

“Hmm, can’t say I do.” She grinned and kissed her deeply.

“Yuck.” Little Lyanna turned her face away in disgust.

The food was good. Simple fare of cheese and wine was a feast to a slave. After bathing and eating, the fighter was led to the armory.

“We have a breastplate here that might fit.” The old knight started.

“No plate. Do you have a leather jerkin? Riding clothes?” The man asked, assertive.

“Here.” He pointed towards a section with several leather pieces. The man wasted no time in trying out some. “Any reason behind the preference?”

“Plate is rigid, and heavy. Speed is the best form of protection. Also, you can eat the leather in a pinch.”

Ser Barristan kept quiet. It still struck him sometimes, the awful things he wouldn’t even think about that slaves took as commonplace. 

“And your preference in weapons?” He cleared his throat.

“Daggers. Throwing knives, if you have them. A rapier if there’s nothing else.” The man answered, taking out his shirt and donning the leather jerkin over his shift.

Ser Barristan did a double take. Below the thin fabric of the shift there was the unmistakable shape of two small breasts.

“You’re a lady!” The man gasped, and immediately turned around in place, casting his gaze to the ground. “You should not take your clothes off in such a place, my lady, it is not proper!”

The newly discovered girl chuckled.

“Not a lady. Just a slave.”

“Y-You’re not a slave anymore, my lady.” The old man frowned.

“We are all slaves, to some thing or another. Some chains are just more obvious than others, that’s all.” She sighed. “You can turn around, you know? Not many people would put the Bold’s honor into question.”

“You know of me, my lady?” He frowned yet again, still not turning around. 

“You wear a white cloak and the Selmy coat of arms. You guard a Targaryen. I’m a slave, ser, not stupid.”

“You recognized my family’s coat, and yet your accent is of the North. You must have been educated. Are you highborn, my lady?”

“I was, once.” She clapped him in the shoulder. “Now, about those daggers?”

Not an hour later she was once again before the Queen, now dressed in leather armor, and equipped with twin daggers and a set of throwing knives. 

“Come closer.” Daenerys commanded. “My knight informs me you’re actually a woman. Why did you not correct us on our mistake?”

“I didn’t think it relevant, Your Grace. I kill things well enough without a dick.” She said, crassly.

“Perhaps not.” She acquiesced with a slight smile. She, too, hated being thought of less because of her gender. “I would have your name, then, my lady.”

“Arya. Not a lady.”

“Not quite a lady, no. I think you’d make a much better knight than a lady.”

“Piss on knights. They’re useless.” She frowned.

“Ah? What makes you say that?”

“All they care about is their vows, their honor.”

“What is a man when his word is worth nothing?” The Queen asked.

“Alive, for one. Your Grace” She tacked the title at the end, as an afterthought.

“It seems your time in the pit has given you a very different perspective than that of my usual guards. Good, I’d have advice from all walks of life.”

“You want my advice?” Arya lifted her eyebrows, incredulous.

“If you’re willing to give it, yes.”

“Well, for starters, you shouldn’t have your seat in a floor-level room with open windows. That’s just asking to be shot full of arrows. Also your guards are too far.”

“... I might look into moving, then. Why do you say so about my guards?”

Arya paused for a second, then moved quick as lightning, her arm snapping out. A metallic clang sounded as a small knife was embedded in brick, not even an inch from the Queen’s ear. 

In a moment, there was chaos in the room, as all guards tried to reach the young fighter and put her down.

“Stop!” The Queen demanded. “If she wanted me dead, I’d be dead already. She was merely making her point. Though she might refrain from such a demonstration in the future.” She glared at Arya, who stood unaffected.

“Knives can easily be hidden in hair, clothes, wherever. Your guards are too far to act.” She repeated. “Also, get a tester if you haven’t one. And pay triple to anyone handling your food.”

“Do you believe I might be poisoned?” Daenerys asked.

“You’re a Queen.” Arya simply said, as if that answered the question, and Daenerys realized it did. She’d been running from Robert’s assassins since she was young, but now she had far more enemies.

“How do you know such things?” 

“Surviving is my trade, Your Grace. And I’m good at it.” Arya shrugged, an unquestionable fact.

The Queen stood there for a moment, observing her new charge.

“I would hear your story, Lady Arya.”

“My story is mine to keep, Your Grace.” She frowned.

“I…” She stopped, shocked at the rejection. “Of course, I would not make you relive the horrors of your captivity. I was hoping to hear about your home and childhood.”

“It’s the other way around. You can ask me anything about my time as a slave, I don’t care.”

Daenerys was shocked yet again. This woman was a mystery, each answer just making more and more questions appear. A clearly skilled killer, who most likely had to scrape and fight for every breath of air she got to take. Strong enough to survive it, and strong enough to feel proud of it, instead of ashamed. And yet, there were things she wished to keep close to her chest. Arya intrigued the Dragon Queen.

“Very well then. How in the seven hells did you manage to kill a wyvern?”

“Like I said, with a good knife.” She grinned. “And decent bait, I guess.”

Arya pulled her shirt’s sleeve up to the shoulder, showing heavily scarred skin. Ser Barristan frowned, both at the amount of damage, and the impropriety of a young woman showing so much.

“This half-moon like scar, that’s where it bit me.”

“You let yourself be bitten by a wyvern?!” Daenerys couldn’t believe her ears.

“Hey, better it bite me in the arm than chomp me into two, eh?” Arya snarked. “As it bit me, I stabbed it through the eye, straight into the brains. Bam, dead lizard. They’re big and fast, but not that smart. I’ve fought worse.” She shrugged. “The arm broke, though. Took some time to heal.”

“What was your reward?” Asked Aggo. Of Daenerys’ bloodriders, he was the one with the best grasp on westerosi.

“Reward?” Arya laughed in disbelief. “Gromoq was livid, you know how much that thing cost him? I hardly had anything to eat for two moons. That’s why my arm took so long to heal.”

“Why would your master punish you so? Clearly you were his best asset, it was in his interest to see you healthy.” Daenerys frowned.

“Oh no, that asshole hated my guts. Tried to kill me with harder and harder fights. If I died, he was happy, if I survived, he got to organize another profitable fight, and he was happy as well. He always won.”

“I… I’ve seen plenty, and yet I’m still shocked sometimes by the cruelty of the masters. Thank you for your time, Arya, I may call on you at a later time.”

“My Queen.” She mockingly bowed.

“The dark shadows creep closer.” Mother Mole spoke. 

She was the unspoken leader of the Hardhome Free Folk. Touched by the Gods, they said, she seemed to know things she had no way of knowing. Everyone knew better than to ignore her advice.

“Can we fight?” Val raised her voice from the crowd.

“The Wings of Flame might win a battle or two, but not the war. We must retreat.”

“Retreat where, Mother?” Asked Ryker Sealskin, leader of his own gang.

“Behind the Wall, to the Warm Lands.”

“We can’t fight the crows, or cross the Wall. We’re too few, and many are children or old.” Grumbled Harma Dogshead, one of the few surviving chieftains from Mance’s host.

“We can’t fight the crows.” Mother Mole nodded. “But we don’t need to. They will bow before the Wings of Flame, and grant us passage. Or they will burn. The Free Folk will cross.”

Many in the crowd mumbled and prayed in relief at hearing the confident words of their leader. If Mother Mole said it, it would be so.

“How do we know the damn beast will fight for us, huh? It might decide to make a snack of us all.” Ryker protested.

“Still better than being risen.” Val spat at the ground.

“Hear, hear.” A few crowed.

“The Wings of Flame will come to our hour of need.” Mother Mole shifted her gaze straight at Alyssa. “For it guards an invaluable treasure.” Her gaze lowered to Lyanna, who rested in her mother’s arms.

Alyssa gulped. She still couldn’t stand the oracle types. People who knew things they shouldn’t know still pissed her off. 

A few followed the elder’s gaze to her.

“Witch, you’ve seen something in the flames?” Harma asked.

Many disliked her as a follower of R’hllor instead of the Old Gods, but most respected her strength, and the usefulness of her gift.

“I’ve seen a dragon at a fire’s light. Each night, the fire gets dimmer, and the darkness grows ever closer. The dragon weeps, and its tears freeze into the ground.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Harma asked.

“The fuck do I know?” She snapped back. “The first seems obvious, we should get out while we can. The tear thing… I don’t know, the crows say the wall weeps when it’s melting, so maybe we should go to the wall, or maybe we should stay away from it. Who the fuck knows, it’s just vague.”

“Fat lot of good you are, witch.”

“Why don’t you look into the flames, then, Harma? I’ll help you get a closer look.” Ygritte growled.

“A people divided will not stand.” Mother Mole interceded. “We must cross the Wall. The Wings of Flame will show the way. Be ready to leave.”

The group disbanded, grumbles of displeasure and sighs of relief both present among the crowd. Some trusted wholeheartedly in the elder’s vision, while some didn’t trust anything they couldn’t touch.

“I’d hoped to keep Blackfrost a secret for longer.” Alyssa sighed as she entered the tent. The little girl perked up at the name of the dragon. 

“Frosty?” She asked. 

“We can go see her later, sweetie.” She pressed her lips to her daughter’s hair.

“We knew it would come sooner or later. She’s our only defense against the dead.” Ygritte shrugged. 

“I know, I know, but you know what will happen. Some already adore her as a God, and that damn crone isn’t helping any. Bad things happen when people deify you.” A dark look crossed her face as she recalled the events of Volantis. She would not have a repeat of it.

“Well, if she’s closer to us she can protect us better, can she not? And if it gets to be a problem, we can just fly away and settle somewhere else, love.” Ygritte consoled her, holding her from behind, resting her chin on her shoulder, grinning down at their child. “Would you like to go live somewhere else, somewhere warmer, little bug?”

“Warm! Yes, let’s go!” She clapped.

“Two against one, love.” Ygritte kissed her cheek and walked away. Dragon time it was.

Later that day, the family had packed away their few possessions and were walking into one of the caves in the southern cliffs. 

“Frosty!” The little girl cried, running forward despite her mothers’ warnings to be careful.

“I still think that’s so undignified for a dragon.” Alyssa grumbled under her breath. 

Ygritte chuckled, she always said the same, and yet she knew she loved that they both had a good relationship with her dragon.

“Frosty, you be good now.” The little girl was cooing and petting the nose of the dragon, which was fondly rubbing her head against Lyanna. 

Blackfrost was big for such a young dragon. Alyssa theorized it was the magic of the lands that had spearheaded her rapid growth. Her scales were a dark, deep blue, with soft violet accents. The colour of true ice, and of Alyssa and Lyana’s eyes. The perfect companion for their little family.

Ygritte had been apprehensive at the beginning, clearly scared of such a powerful and imposing beast, and yet it had taken but the suggestion of a flight for her to become Blackfrost’s biggest fan. A lover of danger and excitement, Ygritte loved the thrill of flight. To this day, she still bragged about riding two dragons, a comment that never failed to bring colour to Alyssa’s cheeks. Lyanna, on the other hand, had never felt any fear in the first place, treating the dragon as an overgrown puppy. Blackfrost, vain creature that she was, loved the constant praise and affection. She was always extremely careful with the babe, and it warmed Alyssa’s heart to see all her family together.

“Well, say goodbye to mama, Lya. She and Frosty will follow from the sky.” Blackfrost grumbled, only really allowing the nickname from the little girl.

“Bye mama! Bye Frosty!” She waved her tiny hand as Alyssa mounted the dragon and flew out of the cave.

Chapter Text

“Is the food not to your liking?” Asked Daenerys.

“It’s fine, Your Grace.” Arya shrugged. 

She was such a nonchalant woman, Daenerys thought. She shrugged so much her shoulders might pop off.

“This is the finest goat cheese from Qohor.” She huffed. “I’d thought to give you a taste of higher cuisine, but I see it was not appreciated.”

Missandei rolled her eyes at her friend. Sometimes she didn’t understand the plights of the freed at all, never having been a slave herself.

“Food lost its appeal to me long ago, I guess. As long as it fills me, I don’t care.”

“I assume they did not feed you very well at the pit. That’s why I was trying to show you there’s a lot more to taste in the world.”

“That’s putting it mildly, you’d be sickened to hear what I’ve eaten.” She waved her arm. “But I’m not unfamiliar with good food. I was highborn, once. I’ve feasted in some of the biggest halls. Eaten the richest foods. Still don’t care.”

“Is it Westeros, where you feasted? Were you part of some Lord’s court?” Missandei inquired on her behalf. Gods bless that girl, she always knew her wants and needs before even herself.

“Aye. I’ve been to the biggest castles in the North. White Harbor, Last Heart… Winterfell. And I was a guest of the Fat King’s at King’s Landing, shithole of a city that it is. The feasts there were excessive.”

“You met the Usurper?” Daenerys asked sharply.

“Yeah, I met Robert. Tried to stay away from him, though.”

“Why is that? Did he displease you?” Missandei asked far more softly.

“He displeased everyone.” Arya huffed. “Wider than a walrus, always drinking and eating like a pig, whoring around and fondling servants. Disgusting man.” She shook her head. “I was told I resemble Lyanna Stark. I decided to keep out of his sight, lest he gets some ideas.”

“Do you truly think he would do something to you?” 

“Who knows? I wasn’t even flowered, but best not to tempt the fates. Anyways, he was a pig, and he died like a pig, killed by yet another pig. Fitting, if not very flattering.”

“He seems like he wasn’t a very loved king.” Missandei cuts before Daenerys, who was about to say something likely not very well thought out.

“He wasn’t. Robert was a manchild, stuck in his youth as a knight. All he cared about was fighting and wenching. There were no wars, so he sated himself with food and whores, while his city starved. He raked a huge debt for the throne and humiliated his Queen. He angered both the smallfolk and the lords, so… yeah, not a very well liked king. Better than the Mad King, but not by much.”

“Control your tongue, or I will cut it!” Daenerys snapped.

Arya raised a brow at the sudden anger.

“Then cut it and be done with it. I’ve not bowed to the people who held my chains, I will not bow to you.” She said like she was talking about the weather, and continued biting into soft cheese.

“You will not talk lies about my father in my presence.”

“Lies, Your Grace?”

“Lies spread by the Usurper to besmirch my family’s name!”

“Lies are a matter of perspective. What do you know of what happened? Were you there? Neither was I. All we know is from the mouth of others, or the pages of a book. Yet those people might lie, or be biased, or simply remember incorrectly. A King might order something written in the history books, and a century later when none are left to remember, who is to say if what is written is truth or lie?”

“And nevertheless, some things are agreed as truth by everyone.” Daenerys frowned.

“And nevertheless, some truths are agreed, yes.” She bit into the cheese again. She had not lied when she said she didn’t much care for food, but this was far better than she was used to. Better to eat it all before the Queen had her executed. “By all accounts, your father was a crazed murderer and rapist. You can punish me all you want, it will not change that truth.”

Daenerys was about to burst a vein by keeping herself from throttling this woman.

“And what, pray tell, makes you say this, huh?”

“The facts, Your Grace. Everyone agrees your father was a great man in his youth, loved by most. He was to be a great ruler.” Daenerys smiled smugly. “And everyone agrees that all of this changed after the Defiance of Duskendale.” Her smile fell just as fast.

“The Defiance, Lady Arya?” Missandei asked, not giving Daenerys the chance to interrupt.

“Not a lady.” She repeated once more. “He was kidnapped by a spurned lordling, not important right now. Thing is, whatever happened to him in those dungeons, he was never the same. He was paranoid, seeing threats everywhere. He became cold and cruel, enjoying the suffering of others and developing a queer obsession with fire. He would take his wife against her will and her crying and pleading were heard from outside the doors.”

“Lies! My father would never!”

“Ser Barristan is right there, ask him.” She shrugged, pointing at the white bearded knight guarding the room.

“Ser, is this true? Speak plainly.”

“I… The King did nothing that wasn’t within his rights.” The knight spoke, ashamed.

Daenerys gasped, not believing her ears.

“Did… He raped my mother? And you let him?!”

“We’re sworn to serve the King, my Queen.” He swallowed heavily.

“You’re sworn to protect the Queen as well!” 

“Not from the King, Your Grace.” He hung his head in shame.

Daenerys’ mouth hung open in disbelief. Missandei placed a comforting hand on her shoulder while she glared at Arya, who kept stuffing her mouth with cheese.

“What? She’s right, it’s good cheese!”

“Arya, tell me the rest, speak true.”

“Again, I wasn’t there. But your mother had a lot of miscarriages, so it was frequent enough.” Daenerys swallowed a sob. “Then there were the burnings. He would burn people alive for the smallest of slights. Real or imagined. They say there was a permanent odour of burnt hair in the Throne Room, that every time he burned someone alive, he would visit your mother. The fire aroused him. Everyone was afraid and hateful of the King, and the King was afraid and hateful right back. He didn’t even like his children. He hated Raeghar out of his fear that he would supplant him, and he was disgusted by his grandchildren because they were mixed blood instead of pure valyrian. He only liked Viserys, who was young enough to mold.”

“I… Viserys only ever spoke good things about Father.” 

“He was likely nothing but good to him. Like I said, truth is relative.” She shrugged again. “Anyways, then there was the rebellion. Raeghar kidnapped and raped Lyanna, and-”

“His grace would never rape a woman.” Ser Barristan interrupted for once. “King Aerys earned his reputation, but Prince Raeghar was a just and honorable man. He would not force a maiden.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter if it was rape or they eloped. People thought he did. That was their truth. So her brother Brandon walked into King’s Landing with a few other northern heirs demanding answers. Not very smart on his part.” She shrugged yet again. “The King jailed him and killed his companions. Likely someone convinced not to burn him on the spot. Then his father Rickard came demanding his release, and the King killed them both. There’s conflicting tales about what happened, but all agree it was particularly cruel.”

Arya shook her head.

“Anyway, he killed a Lord Paramount, his heir - who was betrothed to the daughter of another Lord Paramount -, and several other heirs from the North. After his son had allegedly kidnapped and raped the lord’s daughter. Then demanded the head of the remaining son, Eddard Stark, and the girls betrothed, Robert Baratheon, who was yet another Lord Paramount. And it also happened that those two were wards of a fourth Lord Paramount, who was betrothed to the other daughter of the second one. So yeah, he basically declared war on four out of seven realms. The Rebellion was more than justified, the King earned his name.”

Daenerys remained silent for a while.

“I need some time to process this. Please leave me.”

Arya nodded, and grabbed a wedge of cheese before leaving the room.

Cotter Pyke was woken up by a hand shaking him harshly.

“What the hells, I’m up, I’m up!” He yelled at his steward, the young boy stopping immediately.

He got up and put on his boots, walking barefoot, even for a second, was a good way to lose a toe. 

“Someone better be dying!” He complained.

Things were supposed to be calm, there had been no wildling menace since Mance’s host was broken by Stannis, and there were no tales of dead men this far east.

“You have to see this, Commander. It’s the wildlings.”

“What have they done now?” He grumbled.

Had some other warlord taken the remains of the host to try their luck on the bay? 

The men were haphazardly assembled atop the Wall, looking down. It was barely dawn, and the soft light of the sun came near horizontal between the sparse trees of the woods beyond the Wall.

Cotter looked towards the woods, and saw what had everyone so antsy. Though visibility was low this early, it was clear there was a big group of wildlings amassing at the treeline. Perhaps a few thousand. It would be a scary sight, if not for the fact that it looked nothing like an actual fighting force. Mixed with the warriors there were plenty of women with suckling babes, as well as the old and the wounded. At the helm of their group was not a warlord, but rather an old crone with wooden trinkets and jewelry. Perhaps some kind of priestess? Who knew what these savages believed in?

“Have they made any demands? Sent any message?”

“No, Commander, they’re just standing there. Saw them with the first light. Must ‘ave walked through the night.” One of the rangers spoke.

“We can scare them off, easy. Don’t we have one catapult still working?” 

“Mother above, Lothor, we’re not launching rocks at a bunch of children and old men, what is wrong with you?” Cotter pinched his nose. “Let me think, but for the moment do nothing if they don’t do nothing either.”

He paced back and forth, as it was his manner when he needed to think. They weren’t about to let the savages cross, and they could scare them off easily, they weren’t a fighting force. But a few of his brothers would be lost. 

Maybe if they delayed a raiding party from Essos would come and scare them off for them? No, Stannis had blockaded any pirates, they couldn’t count on that. What to do, what to do…

“Will anyone stop that wretched noise? What are you, airing out your sheets after you pissed the bed?!” He snapped, the repeating noise, like fabric flapping in the wind getting on his nerves.

“It’s not us, Commander.”

“It’s coming from beyond.” Lothor frowned.

They didn’t have to wait too long, as the noise grew closer and louder, so did a small spot in the sky they had mistakenly taken for a cloud.

“What the fuck is that thing?” One of the men asked.

“A bird? Maybe they have one of those warg things?” Another suggested, Pot, a young lad that helped at the kitchen.

“Shut up, stupid, wargs aren’t real!” Lothor hit the back of his head.

“Oi! So they are, Garlan saw one!” He protested.

“Shut up! That’s no bird.” The Commander spoke quietly.

The crew grew quiet when the shape grew clearer. None of them had ever seen one in the flesh, but everyone could recognize it. That was a dragon.

“Whatever you do, do not provoke the beast. If you piss it off, we’re dead.” He gulped. 

“Fuck off, we can’t fight no dragon, we have to run! It will kill us!” One of the younger builders panicked.

“Be calm! The beast might just fly past us, but if it truly is coming here, we will hold our posts. You’ve all sworn vows, men. We stand tall.”

Cotter was not quite processing what his eyes saw. He was chosen as Commander for his good performance under stress. He would deal with this dragon, he’d have time to freak out afterwards. He’d make sure a tankard of ale waited for him with his dinner.

The moments it took for the dragon to reach the Wall seemed like an eternity to the men of the Watch. They stood there, wondering if those were to be their last moments before being engulfed in fire, cold and tired at the edge of the world. Most had accepted they’d die at their posts, but they had imagined dying of old age in their sleep, or perhaps in battle against the wildlings, not bathed in flames by a creature straight out of legend. The wait took its toll on them.

Finally, for good or ill, the beast arrived at the Wall, flapping its wings to stop midair so it could perch on the edge. It was beautiful, in a queer sort of way, the way deadly things often are. Like a cave full of sharp ice crystals, death just a misstep away, or those stinging soft-fishes off the skagosi coastline, bright colours hiding the danger within.

“Men of the watch.” A voice spoke.

“Oh fuck me.” Lothor murmured under his breath.

The dragon had a woman on its back. A dragonrider.

“You will open the gates for the Free Folk.” The woman demanded. She was young. And pretty, for a wildling. But it was impossible to underestimate someone riding a dragon. You’d be dead before you could even try.

“No. We will defend the Wall.” Cotter refused.

The dragon snapped his head towards his voice, and growled in a low tone. Someone whimpered behind him.

“You’re the Commander here, then? Brave man. But you won’t stop us. I can just burn this place down, but I’m willing to avoid bloodshed.”

“The men of the Watch are sworn to protect the Realm of Men. We will not falter.” He spat at her feet.

Alyssa sighed.

“Look, ser, you might want to die in your post, but most of your men won’t. That lad behind you pissed himself. All you’re going to get is a mutiny and a dagger in your side. You think you’re here to fight wildlings, but you’re not. We both are part of the Realms of Men. The true enemy is further north, but it won’t be for long. The armies of the dead march towards the Wall, and every single living soul trapped on this side will be one more wight on their host when they lay siege to your castle.” She waved towards the Free Folk. “Look at them, do they look like an army of raiders? It’s just people trying to survive the dead. And they will. If you join them, they’ll help you man the Wall against the dead. If you don’t, you’ll just be ashes and we’ll cross still. Please, choose wisely.”

“Lies! These dirty wildlings will take no part in the battle against the Great Other, nor will the enemy reach the Wall. The Lord’s Chosen, King Stannis Baratheon, First of his Name, will stop the threat, and lay waste to the Great Other’s army, for he’s Azor Ahai reborn and wields the mighty Lightbringer. The path is clear, ser, we must fight back these trespassers!” One of Lady Baratheon's knights, Ser Lambert Whitewater, yelled at the dragonrider, waving his sword.

“Oh Lord, not another red zealot. What are they even doing in the damn wall?!” She despaired.

“Begone, demon! The Lord of Light protects our King and his men! The Lady Melissandre has the blessing of R’hllor! She will cast you into the flames!” The knight raved.

Cotter looked from one to another, not wishing to interfere and provoke one of the two parties. As terrifying as the dragon was, he didn’t want to piss off the Queen’s men and get burned at the stake.

“She’s not the only one, you know? R’hllor gives out his gifts to many.” She waved a hand and a flame shot out from one of the torches along the parapet right onto the knight’s face, who fell to the ground shouting in pain. “Fucking zealots. They’re calling anyone Azor Ahai these days. Damn priests are like whores, flocking to the first man with enough coin.” 

She shook her head.

“I’ve said my piece, Commander. What’s it going to be? Don’t kill your men for no reason, the Watch will need as many men as possible in the coming years.”

Cotter looked around and observed the faces of his men. There were, perhaps, two in total who weren’t panicking. Like the woman said, if he decided to fight, he’d be stabbed in two seconds flat. The fight was lost, better to retreat and fight another day. 

“Stewards, open the doors.” He sighed, defeated.

The woman nodded her respect, and spoke some other language, making the dragon fly away and leave the Wall alone.

“Maester, prepare the ravens for Castle Black, Last Heart, Karhold, and Winterfell. We must warn them, the Watch has failed in its task.”

Daenerys walked towards the courtyard of the Great Pyramid, the morning sun harsh on her skin. It had been two weeks now since she last spoke with Arya, and she wanted to know how the former slave was adapting. There was a curiosity there, an intrigue. The girl was like no one she had known before, completely fearless, not afraid to speak her mind. It was refreshing after so long being surrounded by sycophants.

“Good, pivot, and then if I- Good, now recover the balance and search the opening… Correct.” Came the voice of Ser Barristan.

He was training with Arya, who sported the same leather armor, but was now wielding a small thin sword.

“How goes the training, ser, is she good with the sword?” She asked in lieu of a greeting.

“Your Grace.” The old knight stopped fighting and bowed to her. “She’s decent, especially for not having formal training. A fast learner, quick on her feet.” 

“Decent? I thought you were a fearsome killer, Arya.” She teased.

“I’m better with daggers.” The young woman shrugged, unoffended.

“She certainly is, Your Grace. She bit me.” He chuckled.

“She beat you? Is she truly that good?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, well, that too, but I meant she bit me. With her teeth.” He grinned. “The lady is brutal and gives no quarter, she had me at her mercy soon enough. She’ll be a worthy addition to the guard.”

“Not a lady.” Arya grumbled yet again under her breath.

“Well, that is a golden review. Would you care to take a walk with me, Arya?” 

Arya blinked at the other girl.

“Of course, my Queen.”

“It’s just Daenerys.” She didn’t know where that came from, but she felt close to the feral woman. Or at least, she wanted to be close. “Come.”

They walked along the shade of the Pyramid’s balconies, protected from the unyielding burn of the sun.

“You were right. About my father, and brother.” Daenerys admitted. “Ser Barristan confirmed most of it, though he insisted Raeghar was good and noble and wouldn’t have taken a woman against her will. I’m of a mind to agree with you, though, I don’t think that mattered. It was still an insult to the Great Houses, when the realm couldn’t afford any. If not malicious, it was foolish.”

“I don’t judge, just telling it like I heard it. What’s good and wicked depends to who you ask.” She shrugged. “Westerosi denounce slavery as a great evil, while here it’s just the way of the world. Law and morals are just a matter of perspective. In the end, the powerful get to decide what everyone else does.”

“That’s… Quite a bleak take on the state of the world.” Daenerys commented with trepidation.

“I’ve had a bleak life.”

The Queen swallowed heavily but didn’t dispute it.

“Do you think me yet another tyrant? Speak true, I would have your honest answer.”

“I don’t know you.” Arya shrugged yet again. “So far you seem to be doing good work, what with all the freed slaves. You seem decent and compassionate. But a person is never wholly good.” She cocked her head. “My father was considered by many to be one of the most good and honorable men in Westeros. A good and kind man by any measure. My mother was quite loved as well. And yet they treated my brother so badly he saw no other option than to leave his home. He’s most likely dead somewhere. So, yeah, nobody’s good. At best, they’re good to you.”

“I see… Do you think I’ll be good to you?” 

“Wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t. Would‘ve joined a free company or something. Plenty of things to kill in Essos.”

“Why do you stay, then?” Daenerys asked, curious.

“You’ve got your sights on Westeros, don’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re a Targaryen. Last I knew, the kingdoms were divided, ripe for the picking. And you’ve got dragons. Chances are, you’re going to try and get your crown back.”

“That is my goal, yes. Even if my father had to be deposed, and my brother was perhaps not the ideal heir, there was still Viserys, there was little Aegon, and Rhaenys. Their reasons for rebelling do not justify the murder and persecution, and I will take back my family’s justice and birthright.” She spoke solemnly, with just a hint of ire.

“You want to go back home. I get that. That’s why I’ll go along, if you let me. I’d like to see the North once again.”

“You seem to miss your home and family a lot. Would you speak of them?”

“I…” Arya paused for a second, her breath trapped in her throat. “It hurts, to remember.”

“I know.” Daenerys answered with a sad smile. “It’s how we keep them alive with us, though.”

“Most people hate the North. Most southerners, I mean.” She started. “It snows even in summer, the weather’s harsh and the lands are harsher. But it’s such a beautiful place. When it really snows, the world looks like a white ocean, as if you were walking among the clouds. It’s so bright a white it hurts your eyes at noon.” 

Arya smiled, lost in memories.

“The best part, though, is the people. I lived in King’s Landing for not even two years, and yet it was still enough to make me never want to leave the North again. Admittedly, they’re the worst of the South there, but the visitors didn’t seem much different.” She chuckled. “There’s no such groveling and lying in the North, stabbing each other in the back for a bit of favour with the King. We're honest people, if we have a problem we say it upfront. There’s no time for pettiness in Winter, you work together or you starve.”

“Sounds like something I would appreciate, if only for the change of pace. King’s Landing sounds a lot like Meereen with all the grasping courtiers.”

“At least this city doesn’t smell like shit.” Arya laughed. “The North smells fresh, with all the pine in the woods. We lived right by the Wolfswood, a forest so big it took over a week of galloping to cross it. I would sneak out and ride when things got a bit too much.” She smiled sadly.

“Did you live in a big keep?”

Arya paused, as if thinking something over, and seemed to come to a decision.

“Winterfell. I lived in Winterfell. My name… was Arya Stark. Eddard Stark was my father.” She confessed.

Daenerys choked on her breath. This girl was the daughter of the Usurper’s dog! All her instincts told her to put her between bars, and yet… And yet those words were in Viserys’ voice. Was this girl truly guilty of her father’s sins? If she wasn’t responsible for the Mad King, Arya wasn’t at fault either. She swallowed her frustration and decided to trust, for the time being.

“Your family… You miss them.” 

“Yes. Every minute of every day.” A weight set in her chest, talking about it after so long… It wasn’t easy. “I loved them, even if it was hard at times. We were six siblings, plus our parents.”

“Big family.” Daenerys commented.

“Not so much anymore.” She answered self-deprecatingly. “I was always my father’s girl. He had a soft spot for me, apparently I reminded him a lot of his sister. He was always sad when she was mentioned.” She sighed. “It was easy to latch onto him when my mother was always nagging me to act more like a lady. I chafed under those expectations, being a lady has never been anything I wanted. It’s just not me. So it was easy to run to my more permissive father.”

“Did you not have a good relationship with your mother?” 

“I did. She was a good mother, and loved us all a lot. It’s just… She thought she was doing what was best for me, but it could get tiring after a while. Most of our siblings looked Tully, like her, while only me and Jon looked like father. It… divided us, somewhat. Mother resented that I was closer to Jon than to my other siblings. The cracks only widened with the years.”

“Did she dislike her son? Why?” Danaerys frowned. Viserys had told her that their father disliked Rhaenys and Aegon, saying they were not true dragons, but dornish mongrels. But then again, he wasn’t someone to have as an example.

“Jon wasn’t my mother’s son, he was my father’s bastard. He brought him home after the war. My mother was pious, had a lot of ideas about the evil of bastards. It didn’t help that Jon was older and looked a lot more Stark than her firstborn, Robb. I guess she feared he would usurp him.”

“If we had a bastard sibling, Viserys would have had him killed, no doubt. He was… paranoid, about his crown.” She offered something about her own family.

Arya looked grateful at the show of truth.

“Jon couldn’t be further from that. He loved us all, he was the best of my siblings. He would be the one to hold me when I cried, after my sister or her friends picked on me. Sansa was always the perfect lady, and made sure to let me know I wasn’t. Jon… He was there, always.” She chuckled, remembering. “I would sneak into his bed when there were thunderstorms. He always complained I kicked in my sleep, but never barred his door.”

“I… I did the same with Viserys, when I was very small. He was a good brother, once. The best.” She held back the tears. “After we fled Braavos, he had to sell my mother’s crown to feed us. He… He was never quite the same after. He became harsh, bitter. Obsessed. I curse the Usurper every day for what he took from me.”

“I… I understand.” Daenerys lifted her gaze as if challenging her. “I wasn’t on the run with my siblings like you, but… I’ve also lost most if not all of them. Worst of all, the blame lies mostly on my parents. It’s… hard to reconcile my love for them, with how much they fucked us over.” She finished with rage and bitterness.

“What happened to them, if… if I may ask?”

“It started with the old Hand, Jon Arryn. He was killed, so the King came to Winterfell to ask my father. During his visit, my brother Bran fell from a tower and was left crippled. Me, Father and Sansa left south. Some time later, my mother arrested Tyrion Lannister, convinced he was to blame for Bran. That started the war. The Kingslayer crippled my father. Then the King died, and the Queen had us all arrested, claiming treason.”

“How is that their fault? Your mother was just trying to protect her son.”

“My mother insulted the most dangerous man in Westeros on a half-cocked scheme for revenge, putting the rest of us in danger. Tyrion wasn’t even guilty, if it was a Lannister it was likely Cersei or Joffrey, not him. Then it turned out Father thought the Queen’s children were bastards and was going to tell the King, so of course the Lannisters struck first. Who cares if they’re bastards? Why would he risk his life and that of his children for the honor of that stupid fuck? Because they were friends in their youths? He put his friend above us.” She shook her head. “I had to run away and ended up sold into slavery. Sansa, a hostage of the Lannisters. Father to the Wall - likely never reached it - and Robb fighting a war at five and ten namedays.”

“I… I’m sorry about your losses. I cannot begin to understand, I only ever had Viserys, everyone else I never got to meet.” 

“Those losses are just as real, Daenerys. It’s not a competition.”

“I guess it’s not.” She smiled softly. “What about Jon? What happened to him?”

“He felt he had no place in Winterfell, especially with me and Father going south. Mother would never have allowed him to remain. So he left. We don’t know where. He might be healthy and happy, after all these years. Or he might have died a week into his journey. All because of his birth, through no fault of his own.”

Arya would not cry, her tears dried a long time ago, but Daenerys could see the hurt in her face.

The pair walked in silence, both separated from their families, joined by their shared grief.

Chapter Text

The Gift was not a particularly fertile land, by any stretch. It was harsh, cold, uneven. Inhospitable. To the Free Folk it seemed like paradise. 

The near four thousand men and women had crossed the Wall and were now in the process of settling. Many were excited, seeing the opportunities. Some were wary, fearing the unknown. All were relieved to have the Wall between them and the dead.

Alyssa, she was pissed. Her flight with Blackfrost had not passed by unnoticed, and where she once was decried as a witch, she was now revered as a saviour. It brought forth far too many memories of Volantis for her to feel comfortable with it. 

Of course, that was secondary to the matter at hand. Where were the northmen?

It had been a sennight now, and yet no Umber or Karstark scouts had come. Not even men of the Watch. Something was up.

Alyssa was making her way towards Mother Mole’s tent, to once more try and convince the old woman that yes, some sort of palisade was necessary, the dragon was not the solution to every problem. She was not about to burn armies to the ground if she could help it. About halfway there, however, a red bundle of furs launched at her legs.

“Oof.” She groaned. Lyanna was getting big.

“Mama! Look, look!” She raised her little arms as far as she could, showing her some kind of pendant, a wood trinket carved in the vague shape of a flame. “Some nice man gave me this!”

“Lyanna, you shouldn’t take things from people you don’t know.” She frowned. “Why did he give you this?”

“He said I was a princess!” She grinned, two teeth missing at the front. “He called you the Queen of Fire, and that you would beat the dead! You didn’t tell me you’re a queen, mama”

Alyssa sighed and pinched her nose. Not this again.

A zealot, even on your side, was still a dangerous maniac. Being an object of worship sounded good in theory, but in actuality was an awful thing. Once you were determined to be holy in some way, you belonged to that faith, not to yourself. If you dared to try and separate yourself in any way from the idealistic image they had of you, there’d be hell to pay.

In Volantis, the priests had quickly discovered her talent for fire magics. The revelation of her King’s Blood followed, and soon she was being heralded as Azor Ahai, the Princess - it turned out that High Valyrian didn’t gender nouns, people just assumed anyone of import to be a man  -  that was Promised. The priests gave her gold, silks, as many riches as she could want, but also controlled her in most ways. They gifted her with relics of her royal blood: a dragon egg and Blackfyre, the Sword of Kings, which they had somehow acquired from the Golden Company. 

It was nice, at the beginning, for someone who had always been judged and rejected by the nature of her birth, to be worshipped for the same reason. Soon enough, though, the demands became too many, the zealotry too unhinged. And yet, desperate for a sense of family, Alyssa would have remained.

But then they sacrificed Ghost to the flames. The magical blood of the Old Gods, offered to the flames. Her only true friend. Blackfrost was born that night, and the Temple of the Lord of Light burnt to the ground.

She would not allow any of these maniacs to take a hold of her. Lyanna would not suffer the same fate as Ghost, that she would make sure of.

“Come, little bug, let’s go see the elder.” She picked up her daughter, not willing to be separated from her in the camp.

Mother Mole’s tent was bustling with activity, which was a bit strange at this time of the day.

“What news?” She asked upon entering.

“Witch.” Harma spat at her feet.

“Dogsface.” Alyssa smirked back.

“It’s Dogshead.” She gritted her teeth.

“It’s ugly is what it is.” She and Harma had had a rivalry going for some time, since the warchief made an insulting comment on Ygritte.  “What news, elder?” She asked once again.

“Men march from the Wall. Ryker’s men saw a column of them going south.”

“Crows?” She asked.

“No, they wore shiny armor, and carried standards.” 

“Stannis’ men, then.”

“What are they marching south for?”

“How should we know?” Harma snapped. “Aren’t you the all-seeing one? Go ask your fires.”

“That’s not a bad idea, actually.” Alyssa smiled mockingly. 

She sat in front of the tent’s hearth. 

“Let’s look in the flames, sweetie. See if we can find something. You remember how?”

“Yes! Let’s look!” The little girl said excitedly.

The hues of yellow, orange and red mixed with the core of true white at the center of the fire. The sparks and flames dancing, following an unseen song, casting twisting shadows upon the walls of the tent. 

Falling deeper and deeper into the light, the shapes and colours began to form into images, and Alyssa saw.

A dark bearded man, his flaming sword high up, in front of a host of knights.

A banner in the shape of flames fallen in the mud, trod upon by horses.

A castle, its stone burnt and cracked, banners of pink men waving in the wind.

Her vision returned to her, and she blinked away the dryness in her eyes. Lyanna was looking at her, expectant.

“What did you see, mama?” 

Harma and Mother Mole looked just as expectant.

“I saw Stannis, I believe, leading an army. There was a fallen banner of a flaming heart, that would be his standard, I think, so perhaps he loses the battle. I saw…” She gulped. “I saw Winterfell, burned down, and with Bolton banners.”

Why would there be Bolton banners at Winterfell?

“Bolton! I heard that, mama!”

“What did you hear, Lya?” Her daughter heard, more than saw, in the flames. It was quite inconvenient as she had yet to learn how to speak correctly, so some things were lost in translation.

“A bad man, very ugly. Like Harma.” She pointed. Alyssa cackled as the spearwife growled. “He said: Bolton, not Snow, Bolton. He was very angry, mama.”

So a legitimized Bolton bastard, then. How was this relevant?

“Did you hear anything else, honey?”

The girl thought for a moment, her tongue comically out of her mouth. 

“Yes! He was angry at someone. A girl. She cried. She was hurt, mama.” Lyanna looked sad now. 

“Did he say anything to her?”

Lyanna nodded slowly.

“He said… said… I don’t remember. I’m sorry, mama.” She looked dejected.

“Hey, Lya, you know that’s ok. What do you remember?” Alyssa tried to reassure the little girl.

“Something something Stark, something about babies, and… oh, he said legi- legoli- legitimatty…”

“Legitimate?”

“That! What’s it mean, mama?”

“It… means your parents are married.”

Lyanna frowned.

“Just say that. I hate long words.”

“I know you do.” Alyssa ruffled the girl’s hair. “Now, why would a Boston bastard care about-”

The answer struck her, for all the voices in her head screaming that it was not possible. Not in her wildest nightmares she’d had thought it could end like this, but perhaps…

She had heard of the war in Westeros, as had anyone. If, perhaps, the Starks had lost decisively, especially if they were betrayed by their bannerman such as the Boltons, they would have lost Winterfell. The castle had looked burnt. It would have been given by the Lannisters to a house loyal to the crown, one of the traitors surely. But the rest of the houses, those loyal to the Starks, wouldn’t take it. They’d only bend the knee to a Stark. But if they married one of her sisters, their children would have a legitimate claim to Winterfell. 

Which meant… That all of her brothers were dead, and either Sansa or Arya were a captive of the Boltons. 

Her heart was crushed in a moment. Alyssa had decided, after leaving Volantis, that she would not return to the North. It had never been her home, and they wouldn’t really take her back, much less as a woman with a dragon. But she had convinced herself that they would all be well without her. Robb would lead his armies and avenge Father. They would return home and be happy. Had she- Had she really abandoned them in their hour of need?

Alyssa picked up her daughter and ran towards her tent, ignoring the cries of Harma and the elder. If one of her sisters was captive, she had to save her. She steeled herself against the panic that was starting to rise in her heart. She was finally about to return to Winterfell.

Daenerys landed heavily near the courtyard, her hair waving in the wind. It was not often that she managed to get away and fly for a bit on top of Drogon, but when she did, every worry, every responsibility and thought clouding her mind just vanished. Only her, the dragon, and the skies.

She smiled when she saw just who was approaching her. The young northerner had quickly become one of her closest friends, both her brutal honesty and buried grief endearing her to the Queen.

“Daenerys.” 

“Arya.” She greeted, getting off Drogon’s back.

The guard stood still a few moments, observing the black dragon.

“He’s beautiful.” She commented in a soft voice.

She’d noticed her looking at her children when they flew over the city, clearly entranced by them. It was yet another thing that had assuaged the Queen that her trust was not misplaced. Very few people saw them as anything other than fearsome beasts.

“He’s grumpy, is what he is.” She chuckled, palming the beast on the snout.

Arya came closer, her steps coming to an abrupt stop when Drogon’s head pivoted towards her and let out a soft growl.

“Arya, step back.” Daenerys said softly but firmly, worried.

Arya, however, stood her ground. The dragon huffed and lifted his head, looking at her from above.

“Arya!” Daenerys yelled.

The black beast stretched his neck, looking at her from up close. His head was big enough that he could swallow her up whole, without chewing. Arya remained still, not looking away.

“Drogon, stop it!” The Targaryen Queen pleaded.

Drogon didn’t listen, and an instant later opened his mouth in an immense roar, right on Arya’s face. It was so loud it made Arya’s hair flail in the wind.

And yet, the northerner didn’t falter, and kept looking at him straight in the eye, posture relaxed but not submissive.

The dragon cocked his head to one said, then touched his snout to her chest, a low rumbling sound emanating from his throat.

Arya chuckled and fearlessly put her hand on top of the snout, scratching the scales there. After a few moments the huge beast turned back and flew away.

Daenerys stood there, frozen in place, not believing her eyes.

“Are you crazy?!” She finally snapped. “You could have died! Why would you even- Drogon doesn’t get along with anyone! He could have killed you!”

“I know.” Arya agreed. “But I knew he wouldn’t. He was testing me. He wouldn’t kill me without provocation, but he wanted me to submit.”

“How- what?”

“I told you of my direwolf, right?” Arya asked, offering her arm to the Dragon Queen, leading her back to the pyramid.

“I- Yes, why?” 

“I’m a skinchanger, I don’t only connect with my wolf.” She had told her new friend about her wolf dreams, and the reason behind them. Daenerys had been fascinated about this type of magic unknown to her. “Of course, I can’t connect that deeply with just anything. Much less a dragon. But it’s enough to guess what they’re feeling. It’s how I beat most of the beasts in the pit. Just knowing when they saw me as prey and when a threat was a big advantage.”

“I… Could you really feel him?”

“Vague impressions, nothing close to your bond.” Arya waved her hand in dismissal. “I knew he was curious and challenging, but not murderous. His mind is so vast, I-” A childish grin made its way to the northern woman’s face. “I always wanted to meet a dragon, since I was a child.”

She didn’t see Arya smile much, which was to be expected after the light she had lived. But when a smile got through the grief, it took years if not decades of her expression, letting through the young child that she never got the chance to be. Daenerys oftentimes forgot she was barely ten and seven. She couldn’t help but look fondly at her friend, the sparse smiles were becoming one of her favorite things.

“So, the ships are ready?”

“They finished loading this morning. Ready to sail tomorrow.”

“Finally, we’re going back home. Are you excited?” 

“Of course. I’ve missed the North.” She said wistfully.

“What will you do when we land? Visit your family?”

“No. I won’t be meeting them if I can help it.” Arya shook her head.

“What? How come? Don’t you want to see them, after so long apart?” Daenerys frowned.

“I hope I never meet them again.” Her guard confessed in a quiet voice.

“Why?” She despaired, she really didn’t understand.

“They would hate me.” She chokes out. “They think I’m dead, and they remember the girl I was. If they saw me now, what I’ve become… It would destroy the good memories they had of me.”

“Arya…” She stopped and grabbed her hands with her own.  “There’s no crime so vile, no change so large, that they wouldn’t welcome you with open arms. You just did what you had to survive. Surely they’ll understand.”

“You don’t even know half of it, they… No, they’d hate me.”

“Then tell me, please. I wish to understand.” Daenerys pleaded.

Arya sighed.

“I didn’t just survive, Daenerys. It’s the things I did to survive. If I was a decent person, I would have just died. You don’t - Gromoq hated me. Truly hated me. He revelled in my humiliation, more than my suffering. So, he wouldn’t whip me, or leave me to die, or even rape me. He just… didn’t feed me.”

“What? Then how did you survive?”

“Daenerys… Why do you think they kept me with the beasts, with the maneaters?” She smiled mirthlessly. “Why do you think everyone was so scared to fight me? I did what I had to survive. In body, at least. My soul was buried somewhere in the sands of those pits, years ago.”

“No…” She whispered, disbelieving. “He wouldn’t. You - How could he - “ Daenerys shook her head. “I don’t care. You did what you had to survive, you’re a fighter, no one can take that from you.” 

“You don’t get it, do you?” She shook her head. “It’s not even that in itself. When I was an urchin in King’s Landing there was not a lot of food to go on. If you caught a rat or a pigeon, great, otherwise you starved. Most resorted to buying a bowl of brown, incredibly cheap stew. It smelled horrible and tasted worse, but it was warm. Everyone who could afford to,  stood away from it. It was only the desperate that bought it. It wasn’t until years later that I realized what the meat was. Dead people were one of the few things in abundance, down in Fleabottom. So, that’s not it. Horrible, yes, but understandable.”

Arya sighed and looked far away, seeing into her memories.

“Not so much in the North. Old Nan told us stories, the tales that all children know, the ones that drive you to your parent’s bed, scared of the shadows in the night. Tales of the Rat Cook, of the Skagosi and the Ice River Clans, of Gendel and Gorne. Cannibalism is the true evil, it is what separates evil men from true monsters.” She scoffed. “Even your dragons, for all they killed and burned, the only one that is remembered as a terrifying beast is The Cannibal. No, they would not understand. They’d see me dead, and they’d be doing little Arya a favour, getting rid of the monster that took her place.”

Daenerys gulped, but didn’t try to argue the point. She didn’t know enough about northmen to dispute it. She just wrapped her arms around the smaller girl, and let her crumble down.

“Father wouldn’t even be angry. Just disappointed. Ashamed.” Arya sobbed.

She hugged her tighter and held her through her tears. If there wasn’t a home waiting for Arya, she’d make one herself.

Chapter Text

“Your Grace, there’s…” A knight hailed him down.

“Speak clearly, ser, I don’t have time for whatever this is.” Stannis frowned, though it was hard to distinguish from his usual expression.

He kept his gaze on the maps over which he was bowed. They were camped on the north side of Winterfell, and he was still deciding the best approach to attack.

“There’s a couple women demanding to see you, they approached the camp on foot. They say they’re here to help us in taking Winterfell.”

“And what use will two women be? I will not tolerate camp followers. There’s no place for whores on the battlefield.”

“They’re dressed like wildlings, Your Grace. One carries a sword, the other a longbow.”

The King hummed, contemplating for a moment.

“They might be Bolton spies, they would be the type to deal with wildlings. In any case, if they have crossed the Wall they won’t be alone. It is my duty to defend the North. I would speak with them.”

“Right away, my King.” The knight bowed and moments later two women entered the tent.

The second one was unremarkable. Just another wildling. Red hair, unkempt, and covered in furs. Though she carried a weirwood longbow. She might not be useless after all. His eyes glossed over the child in her arms to the first woman, who was not, in any way, unremarkable.

The woman had Stark ancestry, that much could not be denied. Even then, her features were softer, more refined than he would expect. She carried herself with confidence, not afraid but not arrogant either. She kept a hand on the hilt of her sword, which judging by the scabbard, was no wildling bronze. 

“King Stannis.” The woman at the front nodded.

“You’re in the presence of the King, bow.” One of his knights demanded. 

“Free Folk don’t bow, ser, we’re not his subjects. Though we are willing to work together.”

The knight was about to protest again, but the King raised his hand.

“I would know who I’m speaking with.”

“I’m Alyssa Snow. These are my wife Ygritte, and our daughter Lyanna.”

“Wife? A woman can’t take a wife.” The knight said dumbfounded.

“Enough, the queer customs of the wildlings are not relevant at the moment.” Stannis interjected. “I was right then, you have Stark blood.”

Alyssa nodded.

“You wish to recover Winterfell for your family, is that it?”

“Part of it.” She admitted. “I have reasons to believe a daughter of Ned Stark is being kept hostage by the Boltons.”

“If the Boltons marry a Stark girl, they would legitimize their control over Winterfell, yes.” He frowned again.  “How do you know this?”

“I saw it in the flames, King Stannis.” She pointed with her head towards one of the flaming heart banners. “I assume you’re familiar.”

“You’re a priestess of the Lord of Light?”

“I was, for a time.” She nodded. “Now I merely have his favour.”

“You would presume to have the favour of Red R’hllor? The Lord doesn’t bestow his gifts on just anyone, and falsely claiming so is heresy.” A voice came from the shadows, and a woman stepped forward.

Her hair was a deep crimson, darker than Ygritte’s and Lyanna. Her face was completely devoid of emotion, except perhaps smug satisfaction. Her robes were bright red and shiny, as was the ruby set in her necklace. 

“How are you not freezing?” Ygritte wondered, as the woman was wearing a short-sleeved silk dress, not nearly enough for the North.

“The Lord of Light is a mighty and generous patron.” She smiled condescendingly at her.

“Shadowbinder.” Alyssa hissed.

The priestess merely raised an eyebrow.

“This is the Lady Melissandre of Asshai, Priestess of R’hllor.” The King introduced her.

“You know she uses wicked dark magics, right?” Alyssa asked the king.

“The night is dark and full of terrors, my lady. The shadows are just another child of the Lord of Light, and they keep the terrors away.” Melissandre said in a patronizing tone.

“Well, you better keep your shadows away from me, Melissandre.” Alyssa snarled.

The King was about to separate them when a tiny voice spoke up.

“Mum, why do they call her that? That’s not her name.”

“Lya?” Ygritte asked, confused.

“Not her name.” The little girl shook her head. “She’s Melony. The bald man said so. Lot seven, Melony.”

The Red Woman paled.

“How dare you, you spawn of dirt!” She made to reach for the girl, but found a sharp blade at her throat. The fires in the brazier and torches in the pavilion flamed far more violently.

“Try and touch her, and it will be the last you do.” Alyssa spoke softly.

“Enough!” The King ordered. “I will have peace in my tent. Now, Snow, mind explaining why you carry the Sword of Kings?”

Alyssa lifted an eyebrow. Not many people would have recognized her sword so easily.

“A gift from the priests at Volantis.” She sheathed the sword. “You’re not the first to be called Azor Ahai. It never ends well, I would urge you to get rid of this woman.”

“You! You’re the one who burnt down the Temple of the Lord of Light! You’re an enemy of R’hllor!” Melissandre condemned her.

“Is this true, Snow?” 

“They killed my wolf.” She shrugged. “For all the time they spend around fire, they burn just fine.”

The man frowned but reserved his judgement.

“Essos is a lawless place. Nevermind that. Are you familiar with Winterfell and its terrain?”

“Yes. I spent years there.” She nodded.

“Then I accept your offer, though you will be under my command, if not my subject.” 

Alyssa agreed, she assumed that would be non-negotiable.

“Good, then you are dismissed.”

“My King, you cannot trust that vile heretic!” The priestess spoke as soon as they left the tent. 

“I know. I’ll have my men keep an eye on her, but she’s useful for the moment.” Stannis was, if nothing else, a pragmatic man. 

Someone who could upset Melissandre so, was certainly someone who was powerful. And that was without taking into account her knowledge of the terrain, a valyrian steel blade in his ranks, and most important of all, the dragon. It was somewhat of a gamble, but time would tell if it was a good one.

“She did what?!” Daenerys exclaimed, shocked. “Ser Barristan, do you believe it?”

“It’s… certainly hard to believe anyone could reach such vileness, but…”

“Cersei was always a cunt, I wouldn’t put it past her.” Arya cut in from where she sat on a barrel, as Daenerys and her advisors discussed the situation in the hold of the ship.

The Dragon Queen nodded, the northern girl wasn’t one to either lie or exaggerate. 

“Who’s left to inherit, then?”

“The oldest son, Willas, was not present at the wedding. He rarely travels from Highgarden as he is crippled, my Queen.” Ser Barristan explained.

“What about the grandmother?” Arya asked. “She alive?”

“I… don’t know. My contact didn’t mention.”

“She’s the one you want, Daenerys. She had a hand on every pie. Everyone gossiped about how she ruled through her son Mace, who was pretty dumb.” She shrugged.

“It’s pointless until we get more information. Assuming we get the Reach on our side, along with Dorne, that’s still not a winning force.” The Queen shook her head.

“The Riverlands are completely exhausted, and both the Westerlands and North are low in armies from the previous wars. The Reach and Dorne are both untouched.” Ser Barristan pointed at the different kingdoms.

“What about the Vale?” Asked Missandei, observing the map.

“The Vale has remained isolated, not taking part in any of the fighting. They can field the best knights of the realm, and their forces are untouched. If they decide to join in they might tip the balance.”

“The Vale won’t be a problem.” Arya shrugged. 

Daenerys motioned for her to go on. She wasn’t exactly one of her advisers, but she was always present as her guard, and her council didn’t go amiss most of the time.

“Cavalry is useless against your dragons. They can’t charge without leaving behind any siege weapons that might actually hurt them. Goad them into a charge, then burn them.”

“The idea is solid, Your Grace.” Barristan nodded.

“Can we count them as allies instead? I’d rather not be Queen of the Ashes.”

“Lady Arryn is… unstable, your grace. Obsessed over her son. Most likely, she’ll remain holed up in the Eyrie.” 

“It’s not my aunt you’re dealing with, but Littlefinger. Everyone knows he had her wrapped around his finger. The Vale will go wherever benefits him.”

“Littlefinger?” Daenerys frowned.

“Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin.” Barristan explained. “Are you sure of this, Lady Arya?”

“Servants talk when there aren’t any lords around.” She shrugged. She didn’t bother to correct the Knight about her title, he would just ignore her.

“Very well. We’ll reconvene when we dock at Lys, try to get some more news.” Daenerys dismissed them. She didn’t wish to ask about the North, not in front of Arya. She’d taken the news of the Boltons ruling Winterfell with a stoic attitude, but she knew the girl was hurting inside. She’d been… withdrawn, since then.

She gathered her thoughts as the rest left, Arya sitting still on her barrel, cleaning the filth from under her nails with a throwing knife. 

“Are you excited to see Lys?” She asked, trying to break the ice.

“Am I excited to see the biggest slave hub this side of the Rhoyne?” She lifted an eyebrow.

“Right, dumb question.” She shook her head. 

“It’s alright, Daenerys, I’m okay. I knew my family was gone, I just didn’t think…” She cut off and clicked her tongue. “Anyways, I’ll just not be traveling North now. It won’t be a nice place to live in, under the Boltons.”

“Where will you go then?” 

“Who knows?” She shrugged. “Dorne, maybe? Though I don’t think I could handle the heat. Perhaps I’ll cross the Wall and join the wildlings, I’d fit there, I think.”

Yeah, Daenerys could see her wild friend among the savages, she’d be a chief within hours. 

“Or maybe I’ll stay in Lys and work at a pillowhouse.” She smirked.

Daenerys looked at her incredulously and Arya broke into laughter.

“Oh, Gods, can you imagine? I’d starve.”

“You’re far from homely, Arya, but I think you’re lacking the… disposition.” She smiled playfully. “You’d stab the man in the first twenty seconds.”

“Likely.” The northern girl grinned. “If any man would even pay for me.” She scoffed. “When I was a child it would hurt to be called ugly and horseface, but honestly, it’s been a blessing so far. Other slaves had it worse.”

“Well, you’re more handsome than pretty, yes. Very rugged. I don’t think many men would chase after you, no. Women, on the other hand…” Daenerys smirked.

“Women? I thought that was a thing that was only done in brothels for the men’s entertainment.” She looked confused. “Why would a woman want to bed another woman?”

“Some women prefer the company of other women instead of men, or they enjoy both. Same with the men, though it’s rarer since an uninterested woman is less likely to stab you. It’s quite common in the Free Cities, though I think not so much in Westeros, except maybe Dorne.” The Dragon Queen shrugged.

“Huh. Well, whatever floats your boat, I guess.” She shrugged. “There are far worse vices. I’ve just never seen that for myself. I’ve never thought about love or sex much, to be fair.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know, it just never interested me. Sansa was the one always reading stories about knights and chivalry. I wanted to be the knight, not marry him. I’ve never felt the want to bed a man, or a woman. I’m made more for killing than loving, I guess.”

“Don’t say that, Arya.” Daenerys scowled. “We’re all worthy of love, and we can all find it. You’ve had a… bad childhood. Perhaps, now that you're free and grown, things will change. I hope you can find love someday.”

“Maybe.” Arya decided to let her believe what she wanted. 

She’d never imagined her future as some man’s wife, bearing him children while trapped inside a keep. That wasn’t her. It might be lonely, but even that wasn’t that bad. She had friends, didn’t she? Daenerys was a friend, or at least, she thought so. That was enough. And if it wasn't, then that was fine, too. She’d long been making do with whatever scraps she could reach. She’d survive.

Alyssa entered the tent, escorted by yet another scowling knight. She’d swear there wasn’t a single happy face in the whole camp.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Come here, Snow, I require your knowledge.” He pointed to the map he was hunched over. “Winterfell’s walls are too formidable. We cannot storm it, nor can we siege it. Unless you know of some secret entrance?”

“There is none.” She shook her head. “Huge walls separated by a wide moat. You’de need the strongest siege weaponry, and still it would take some time to wear it down.”

“Or a dragon.” He commented, offhandedly. 

“Do you have one?” She asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Don’t be coy, girl, I got the raven from Eastwatch. I know there’s a dragonrider with the wildlings, and you show up wearing Blackfyre. I can put two and two together.” He scoffed.

“The dragon won’t help in the fight.” She shrugged. 

“And why is that, exactly?” 

“Because the Bolton’s have my cousin, I’m not risking her. That’s the only reason I’m here in the first place.”

“The Bolton army outnumbers us, and they have the field advantage.” The King pointed, drily.

“The Bolton men are undisciplined and greedy, though competent. They won’t throw their lives away if they see there’s no point to it. They won’t like having to come out and fight without any reward, any plunder or spoils.”

“So?”

“So, in the face of fear, they’ll flee, not fight.” She stressed.

“Hence the dragon. How else are you going to scare a bigger army?”

Alyssa smirked and waved a hand, the fire of the hearth growing wild and brighter. 

“I thought you’d be familiar with the theatrics of red priests, King Stannis. A seasoned commander is one thing. A God King commanding the very fires of hell, is quite another. Besides, the fire will also help us to corral them and constrain their movements.”

“Perhaps. How do you intend to ignite such fires, then, without a dragon? Melissandre is not that powerful.”

“I am.” She cocked her head. “The Lord of Light likes King’s Blood.”

The man pondered, considering, and finally nodded.

“It just might work. There’s just a small consideration.”

“Oh?” Alyssa asked.

“I will not give Winterfell to you.” He denied her.

“I… didn’t ask for it? It will go to my cousin, of course, who is the rightful heir.” She scowled.

“Am I to believe you have no designs to usurp the trueborn Starks, perhaps even the Iron Throne?”

“Oh, fuck no.” Alyssa laughed. “If it wasn’t for the dead I’d grow old north of the Wall. I have no interest in any stupid keep or throne. You can kill each other over it. The only reason I’m getting involved at all is to help my family.”

“You have no desire to press your claim?” Stannis asked, incredulous.

“Let me be frank, Stannis. I’ve been many things. A highborn bastard. A sellsword. The fucking avatar of R’hllor. And the more power you think you have, the less free you are. I was revered as Azor Ahai too, and all I got for it was getting my best friend killed. It’s not worth it.”

“We’re in agreement, then.” Stannis hadn’t listened to a thing she said. He was still fixated on being the Prince that was Promised, he wouldn’t give it up. Not that Alyssa cared much in the first place, if he wanted to be a pawn of the red priestess, let him.

“I’ll get you your fires.” She agreed, leaving the tent without leave, the knight scoffing at her disrespect.

If Stannis knew about her heritage, then they had to be a lot more careful. She wasn’t dumb enough to think they were ever safe in his camp, but now he had a reason to get rid of her, a perceived threat to his claim on the throne. She’d have to plan with Ygritte.

As she walked through the camp a couple of the knights scoffed at her, though there were a few looks of respect thrown in as well. She had been mocked for being a woman, a wildling woman at that, when she had first arrived. A couple of spars had been enough to shut up those voices. So had Ygritte’s archery practice, and her weirwood longbow had drawn more than a few looks of envy, not that many of those would be able to even draw it in the first place. It was fun to see them angry and emasculated when they realized Ygritte was stronger than them.

She reached their tent, hastily raised on the outskirts of the camp, on the south side where they were more likely to be hit from. Certainly, not the most luxurious of accommodations. 

“Hey.” Alyssa greeted her wife by grabbing her waist and leaving a kiss on her cheek.

Ygritte gave her a fond smile, focused on mending a small pair of pants as she was.

“Mama!” Lyanna called, jumping at her. 

“Hey, bug!” She smiled. “Are you having fun?”

“Yes! I saw a dragon!”

“Blackfrost? I thought she was resting by the wolfswood?” She frowned.

“No, silly. A big black one. He looked mean, but was nice. I saw him in my dreams!” Lyanna smiled.

“Did you? What else did you see?” Sometimes the little girl would have dreams that might come true, much like the visions in the flame. It was best not to ignore them.

“He was on a ship. There were a lot of ships, in the middle of the sea.”

“I see. What else?” 

“The dragon had friends. A big wolf, an old man, and a pretty lady with brown skin.”

“A wolf?” She frowned.

“A big fluffy grey one. A girl wolf. The fur was patchy, but she was still pretty.”

“I see.” Alyssa smiled. Perhaps this was just a regular dream, none of those things made any sense. “And what about mum, what did she do today?”

“Fix this one’s pants ‘cause she keeps ripping them.” Ygritte mockingly scowled at the little girl, who giggled in response. “Any news?”

“Sure. Lya, honey, can you bring me a blue apple from my sack?”

“Ok, Mama!” She ran to the other side of the tent on short little legs.

“We’ve got a problem. Stannis knows I have a claim on the throne. He might try and take me out, though he’ll wait until after the fighting.”

“First the priestess, now the King?” Ygritte scoffed. “Southerners are all cunts. The minute we save your sister I’m getting Lya out of here.”

“Mama! I can’t find it!” Lyanna called out from afar. 

“It’s at the bottom, honey, keep looking.” Alyssa called back. “No, she’s staying with Blackfrost during the fight, I don’t trust her around anyone here. If anything happens, she’ll take care of Lya.”

“At least you’re not telling me to wait too.” Ygritte smirked.

“Like you would give up the chance to skewer some southrons.” She scoffed.

“Mama there is no blue apple here, are you sure you had one?” Lyanna came back scowling.

“Oh, I guess I must have lost it somewhere. It’s ok, sweetie. Now, how about we play dragons and knights?” She grinned at her child.

“We’ll be landing soon. Are you excited?” Arya asked from behind Daenerys, as the silver haired girl observed the horizon.

“I… don’t know how I feel, actually. Part of me can’t wait to finally set foot on Westeros. But another part is scared I’ll be disappointed.”

“Yeah, I can understand that.”

“You can?” Daenerys asked, perplexed. Even she couldn’t.

“You’ve grown up with all this talk of coming back to your home, to your birthright, so of course you’re excited. But it’s also a place you’ve never seen before, that you’ve only heard of. You have no real attachment to it, only to the idea of it.”

“Huh. That’s exactly it.”

“I’m kind of in the same boat. For years, even back in King’s Landing, I only thought of going back to Winterfell, to my home and family. But that’s gone now. Whatever’s waiting for me, if anything, is nothing like what I left behind.”

“Are you scared of going back and finding something different than what you remember?” Daenerys asked in a low voice.

“Scared shitless. That’s why I don’t want to go there, you know? Better to keep the memory alive, than to write it over.” Arya crossed her arms over the ship’s railing. 

“I can’t afford that. I’ve lost so much, given so much to get here to this moment.” She shook her head. “Even if it scares me, I have to try, for everyone who died so I could.”

Arya sympathized with her friend. The girl had grown up being taught that nothing was more important than recovering her family’s birthright. She had suffered immensely just for a chance at getting it. There was no place left for any doubt or hesitation, if she stopped now everything would have been for nothing. Arya just hoped it wouldn’t cost Daenerys more than she was willing to pay. The girl was truly kind, she didn’t deserve the cards she’d been dealt by life.

“That’s the reason I won’t go North. Father and Jon, they would always indulge me, treat me gently. Robb went to war to save Father, Sansa and me. One thing’s for them to think me dead, but to spit on their grief by showing them what I’ve become… That would be a poor payment for their love.”

“You’re not a monster, Arya. Your family would understand.”

“We’ve tal-” She started, irritated.

“No, Arya.” Daenerys interrupted. “I was sold as a whore to a savage, and let him kill my brother. I killed my son and made myself barren in an attempt to save that same savage who raped me. I did to the masters the same unspeakable things they did to their slaves. My only family are fire-breathing beasts who kill indiscriminately. Am I a monster?”

“Daenerys…”

“Am I so horrible? Unredeemable, unlovable?”

“Of course not, you know that.”

“Well then if I’m more than my worst parts, then so are you!” She stressed.

Arya huffed, but didn’t answer. Daenerys saw something that wasn’t there, mistaking strength for virtue. Arya wished she was weak, instead. Too weak to commit such evils.

“I’ll have no more talk of this, Arya. No one speaks so of my friend, not even you.” The Queen turned her nose up in challenge. “Now, are you excited about Dorne?”

“Not so much.” Arya shrugged, welcoming the topic change. “It’s a good place to stock up in poisons, I hear, but that’s about it.”

“Ah, yes. I believe they are well known for it. Perhaps one of the Martells might lend you a hand?”

“I’d prefer not to meet them.”

“Why is that?” Daenerys blinked.

“As a child, I was repeatedly told I looked just like my aunt Lyanna. I doubt that’s the case any longer, but still I’d much rather they not see me. It’s not a face that’s welcomed in Sunspear.”

“The Martells would not dare to harm or even insult one of my friends.” She scowled.

“I’d rather not chance it. The Dornish are not known for being patient and level-headed.”

“They will either welcome my whole retinue or not welcome me.” Daenerys shook her head. “If Arya Stark walks by my side, then they shall accept that.”

“Not a Stark, just Arya.” She huffed. “I have no wish to claim that name. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make me any new enemies.”

“Well, I’ll be needing my personal guard.” The Queen smirked playfully. “You can’t expect me to part with her?”

“Godsdammit Dany, just take Barristan.” She buried her head in her hands.

‘Dany’. The last one to call her that had been Viserys, when they were but children… She decided she liked it. It made her feel small, in a good way. Like she was once again just a little girl, instead of a Queen with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“I think you’re a much better fit for the dangers of Dorne. Barristan wouldn’t even think it possible to break guest right.” 

“Gods, can you imagine? He’d see a taster collapse dead and go ‘these dornish spices sure are strong!’”

The pair giggled like little girls. Daenerys breathed deeply of the ocean air, feeling oddly relaxed. She let her head rest on the shorter girl’s, a hand around her shoulders. She really hoped Arya wouldn’t leave on her own any time soon. She managed to make her feel unburdened in a way nothing else did.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen, but the air was far from silent. The sounds of battle, a cacophony of metal, hooves, and screams filled the plains north of Winterfell. As predicted, the Boltons had ridden out to engage Stannis, and the battle had slowly grown in size. It was nearing the time for her part, and she was watching intently for the signal. She was tense with anticipation, her only comfort knowing that Lyanna was safe with Blackfrost, and Ygritte on the rear with the archers.

Trumpets sounded announcing the arrival of King Stannis to the front. He did look imposing in his horse and shiny armor, all covered in flame sigils. Slowly, dramatically, Stannis raised his flaming sword to the heavens. Alyssa cut her palm and let her blood drop, chanting under her breath. Fire erupted in front of her, then spread along the trail of dried leaves and sticks, growing a flaming wall that cut off the Bolton army from Winterfell.

Stannis’ forces charged, heartened by the display. It would not be long now until the Bolton army broke ranks and fled. The battle was as good as won, and yet, there was something bothering Alyssa. A sense of danger. Of impending doom. 

She looked into the fire, asking for an answer, and the fire responded. She could see Blackfrost, roaring at black flames that waved and shimmered oddly. She could see Lyanna, running from the fire, afraid. She could see a dagger, posed to strike.

Alyssa’s blood froze, and she sprinted into the Wolfswood, as fast as her legs would carry her. It wasn’t a long trek to the clearing where she’d left the pair, but they weren’t there. She called Lyanna’s name to no response, and searched through the bound with her dragon, but only felt frustration and rage. The dim light of the moon wasn’t enough to find a trail, and she was running out of ideas. Desperate, she prayed under her breath, pleading for a sign.

Her prayers were answered with a faint scream coming from the east. Alyssa bolted towards the sound once more, calling Blackfrost through her bond.

She gasped in relief when at last she saw Lyanna, but it was short-lived when she took in the situation. 

“Let her go, zealot!” She yelled, unsheathing her sword.

“I don’t answer to you, false prophet.” Melisandre sneered, holding tight the wrist of the little girl, who was trying to get away, holding a dagger close to it, ready to slice at any false step. “Your spawn will pay for your blasphemy against the Lord of Light, and her King’s Blood will empower the Prince that was Promised.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your prophecies, witch. Release her now or die.” She snarled.

Blackfrost was still far from her, probably trapped by some dark spell from the red priestess. She didn’t have many options, and she looked around to try and look for something, anything.

“The Prince that was Promised shall be reborn amidst salt and smoke, he will be Azor Ahai, and his shall be the Song of Ice and Fire. Lord of Light, feast on the Blood of Kings and grant him your power.” The priestess chanted as she moved them both closer to the roaring fire in the middle of the clearing. 

As she raised the knife, Alyssa decided to take a risk and pushed her magic at the flames. The fire erupted forward, engulfing the priestess completely and licking at Lyanna’s left side.

As Melisandre screamed, she rushed forward to gather the child in her arms and check her over. Alyssa let out a sigh of relief. Below the ash and soot, her skin was unblemished. She had not known if Lyanna had inherited her immunity to fire, but being maimed was preferable to being dead. It had been a risk worth taking.

The danger now passed, Alyssa collapsed in sobs, the fear and relief taking over her flee or fight response. Lyanna was crying too, terrified by the experience, and she clutched her mother’s furs. 

The moment was interrupted by a choking sound. The charred body that was Melisandre was moving slightly in the ground, not yet dead.

The priestess couldn’t get past her shock. This couldn’t be happening. Fire was her weapon, her ally, hers to command. She was a chosen of the Lord of Light, not this heretic who had destroyed his temple. She didn’t understand. She’d devoted her whole life to R’hllor, to his glory, why did this heathen have his favour? Why had the Lord forsaken her, just as she was going to pay him tribute?

He would get no answers to her questions, at least not from Alyssa. She just got closer and finished the job with a stab to the heart, making sure she could never threaten her child again.

“It’s all over, Lya, let’s go find mum, huh?” She tried to smile at the sniffling little girl. “We’ll have to give you a haircut, you singed it a little.”

“No! Don’t cut it!” She pleaded.

Alyssa chuckled, relieved. She would be fine. They would all be fine.

“Your Grace, welcome to Sunspear.” The woman bowed deeply.

She was a beautiful lady, her revealing outfit accentuating sinful curves and showing olive skin. It didn’t phase Daenerys one bit. If dornish guises were skimpy by andal standards, they were practically prudish compared to some in Essos. All in all it was a poor attempt at… what, even? Shock? Seduction? Not a great first impression, in any case.

“I’m Princess Arianne Martell, heir to Dorne. My father, Prince Doran, regrets not being able to greet you himself, for he suffers terribly from gout.”

“Of course, Princess. No offense is taken. This is my advisor and dear friend Missandei, and my guards, Ser Barristan Selmy, Grey Worm, and Arya.” 

If the princess was surprised by her choice of company, she didn’t comment on it.

“Greetings, my lords, my ladies.” She bowed slightly. “Allow me to introduce my own companions, these are my late uncle Oberyn’s paramour, Ellaria Sand, and his daughters, Nymeria and Tyene Sand. They act as advisors to the Prince and myself.” 

“Well met, Ladies Sand.” The Queen greeted. “Now that introductions are done, may we go inside? We are weary from our travels, and would appreciate some rest before we meet the Prince.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Please follow me.”

The Princess and her ladies lead the way into the castle, and the Queen’s retinue followed. She could see Barristan and Grey Worm tensing, keeping their hands close to their weapons. Arya, on the other hand, was far less conspicuous, but her eyes were also darting around, seeking threats.

They were shown to their chambers and left alone soon enough.

“So, wha-” Daenerys was stopped by a look from Arya, who put a finger to her lips, indicating silence.

She proceeded to knock on the walls with the pommel of her dagger, then repeated the procedure on the floors and even the ceiling - though, humorously, she had to ask Grey Worm to do it with his spear, being much too short herself.

“You can talk now.” She said, not elaborating.

“What was that about?”

“In the Red Keep, there are plenty of secret passages. At any point, you can be more or less confident that there’s one of Varys’ spies listening behind a wall. These are solid, though, we can talk freely in this room, just not too loud or too close to the door.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrows in shock. Being friends with Arya paid dividends every day.

“Very well then, thank you, Arya. Now, first impressions?”

“They seem to have a weak position, my Queen.” Missandei started. “Their Prince is crippled, his heir is a woman, and all her supporters are other women, bastards at that.”

“Dorne has no problem with women, Lady Missandei, they can inherit over men here.” Ser Barristan explained.

“Yes, but the rest of the realm does not respect them as equals. If their face and supporters are women they look inconsequential to the other kingdoms.” The girl explained.

“More telling is the fact that there weren’t any Lords or Ladies of dornish houses with her.” Daenerys added. “Only her family. If I’m not mistaken, Oberyn Martell was the most respected figure of Dorne, right?”

“Feared, not respected, my Queen.” The old knight corrected. “The lords outside Dorne saw him as a lecherous and violent man, a second coming of the Rogue Prince. Very few were brave enough to oppose him.”

“And now he’s dead and all that’s left is a cripple and a bunch of bastards.” The Queen mused. “This may play to our advantage, our enemies might underestimate them.”

“It is clear they are interested in an alliance, the Princess was trying hard to seduce you.” Missandei commented.

“Oh, I noticed.” She chuckled. “She clearly isn’t very familiar with Essos if she thinks that was scandalous.”

Ser Barristan blushed red, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of a woman doing the seducing, and of another woman at that!

“The Princess is not the one you should be wary of.” Arya spoke for the first time. “She’s playing at politics. The older woman, and the brunette, those have more of a bite. They might behave brashly and do something stupid if provoked. But the blonde one, with that perfect look of innocence, not a hair out of place? That one’s a killer. She’ll slip you poison then cry real tears about it, if it benefits her even slightly. Don’t lower your guard.”

The four others looked at Arya, surprised, for none of them had considered the blonde girl to be a threat. Nevertheless, none were willing to contradict the girl. If anyone knew killing, it was her, and even if she was wrong, it was best to err on the side of caution.

Dinner had been a pleasant affair - for most of them, Arya was unused to spices, for even if they were just as common in Essos she had been fed scraps all her life. There was the surprising addition of Myrcella Baratheon. The girl seemed to be harmless, understanding her role as a hostage and trying to make no waves. She seemed like a quick-witted, kind girl. Arya thought it was ironic, with the parents she had.

An alliance was quickly talked over, with Prince Doran swearing fealty to Daenerys. It all seemed to be very straightforward, but Arya couldn’t help but think she was missing something, feeling like the calm before the storm.

In the end, it was for nothing. 

The battle was won, yes, but there was no reward for it, not for Alyssa. None of her sisters had ever been captives of the Boltons. They were using some northern girl and trying to pass her off as Arya. Her sister hadn’t been seen since she was a child, so no one had proof she wasn’t, and the poor girl - scared out of her mind - kept insisting she was Arya Stark, so it may very well have worked. 

Stannis got the control of Winterfell as he wanted, but there wasn’t anything here for Alyssa or her family. Even worse, this had only served to put them in danger. 

For one, Stannis would be wondering where his red priestess was, and would quickly come to the right conclusion. She had been an extremely valued part of the King’s party, and Alyssa was sure that the fact that she was saving her daughter wouldn’t be enough to outweigh the loss of the Red Woman. It was best if they left in the chaos of the battle’s aftermath.

Even worse was the fact that, in his desperation to reach Lyanna, Blackfrost had flown over the camp, being seen by most of the King’s and Bolton forces. One raven from Eastwatch could be dismissed as lunacy. Plenty of first-hand accounts from the soldiers would not be dismissed so easily. No, the cat was out of the bag, and the world at large would soon be aware of the dragon in the North. All the players in the game of thrones would want a piece. Either deal with the threat, or gain a strong servant. Alyssa wanted none of it.

“What do you think?” She asked her wife as they were dismantling their tent.

“Don’t look at me, you’re the one who knows these southern lands.” Ygritte shrugged, practical as always.

“I used to know them, aye. A lot has changed since. I never could have imagined the North without Starks…”

“Hey, it’s ok.” She put a hand on her arm. “You will be reunited with them, some day.”

“Will I, really? It’s been so long, and they’re all lost… I don’t know if I’ll ever see them.” She sighed.

“You know nothing, Alyssa Snow.” Ygritte smirked. “It is not your fate to be alone.”

“I’m never alone.” She smiled back, sad but content. “I have you and Lya. That's all I could ask for.”

“You can always ask for more. Be greedy for once, Snow.” She snorted.

“I asked for more and now look at us. My sister wasn’t even here and now I’ve put us all in danger.” Alyssa shook her head.

“Hey.” Her wife grabbed her by the shoulder. “Stop that. You did what you should have, you couldn’t have known it was a fake. Not even the flames told you. Perhaps this was your god’s plan all along.”

“Yes, well, my god’s a bit of a cunt sometimes.” She grumbled.

“Don’t I know it.” Ygritte chuckled. “But really, it will be fine. So, what next, do we go back to the camp with the others?”

“That… I don’t know. Surely that’s the first place they’ll look, right? But we don’t have anywhere else to go, not really.”

“Then we can do that for the time being, and stop worrying so much. If they find us there, we can just fly away again.”

“I guess.” Alyssa sighed. “Where would we go, then? I have no other family, no place to go. None that would take me in instead of my dragon.”

“Again, don’t sweat it. Worst comes to pass, we can just go to… Skagos, or something.”

“Skagos?” She lifted an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Always wanted to see one of those furry horned thingies.” Ygritte grinned her crooked smile.

Alyssa smiled back and leaned in to lay a tender kiss on her lips. Her wife was right. It would be fine, for the moment. As long as her family remained together, it would be fine.

Daenerys was awoken brusquely by a hand shaking her shoulder. Her eyes shot open, and her hand instinctively swiped the dagger below her pillow at her assailant. 

Arya dodged the attack without any issues, backing away to give her space to breathe.

“Get up, there’s trouble in the keep.”

Daenerys wasted no time to argue, dressing quickly in simple breeches and shirt, putting on her boots and going for the door.

She opened it, a startled Ser Barristan looking confused at Arya.

“Lady Arya, how did you get here?” 

“I came through the window, not important, there’s trouble in the other wing of this floor. Couple dead guards.”

“It might be an attack on you, my Queen.”

“No, that’s the family wing. I think more likely it’s something they want to blame on you. What do you want to do?” She asked her friend.

“We have to stop it. If our alliance with Dorne falls through our efforts will be greatly impaired.”

“Let’s go then.” Arya led the way, looking at all sides, checking for threats at every step.

“How did you know there was trouble?”

“I warged into a rat.” She shrugged. “As good a way to do recon as any.”

“You weren’t asleep?” Daenerys asked

“On the first night in an unknown place? Are you crazy?” She arched a brow at the Queen.

“Fair enough.”

As they came closer the noise grew louder, and they quickened their pace. They finally reached an inner courtyard and took in the situation.

On one side were the dornish household guards, Doran’s huge personal guard at the helm, five of them all with their spears - and two-handed axe, in the case of their norvosi leader - pointed at the intruder. There were several bodies of guards all surrounding a crying and wounded Myrcella Baratheon, who cowered behind -

“The Kingslayer.” Sneered Ser Barristan, with loathing on his tone.

“What is going on here?” Daenerys demanded with her Queen voice.

“Your Grace.” Ellaria Sand greeted, tears on her face. “This man broke into the keep to rescue his bastard, killing many in the process. He murdered my daughter!” She cried.

It was then that she noticed that Ellaria was joined by Nymeria Sand, but not Tyene. There were also many bodies already on the floor, plus those who weren’t on sight. She knew where her priorities lay.

“I will have no more bloodshed here tonight. Jaime Lannister, lay down your weapon. You are defeated, surrender now and you will be granted a just trial.”

“I piss on your justice.” The man chuckled mirthlessly. “What do you know of justice, that you would kill an innocent child.”

“I resent that accusation. I would never harm a child. I’m no Lannister.” She growled.

“Yeah, I’m sure your friends here were just showing Myrcella their daggers, what’s a little attempted murder between friends.”

Daenerys’ eyes widened.

“Lies! My children would never attack a child, he’s lying. He’s a murderer!”

“Lady Myrcella. How did you get that wound?” The Queen asked in a calm voice.

“I… It was Tyene, Your Grace. She… Why would she do that? She was my friend.” The girl sniffled.

“She lies! We treated her as a friend and now the whore lies!” Nymeria yelled between tears.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, Ser Barristan, escort the girl to the Maester.”

Many things happened at once, the courtyard exploding in noise in a moment.

“Your Grace, you’re going to believe the fucking Lions!” Yelled Ellaria

“My Queen, surely you will allow us justice for our fallen” Requested Arianne.

“Stay away, Ser!” Screamed Jamie, keeping Barristan away with the point of his sword.

Myrcella whimpered in pain and fear.

“Enough! I will see justice done and-” 

In the distraction of the noise and movement, Jaime kicked sand at Ser Barristan, and used the opportunity to grab Daenerys, pulling her flat against his chest, his sword at her throat. There was finally silence in the courtyard.

“Lannister, lower your weapon.” Arya demanded, walking forward slowly.

“Stay back.” He demanded, pressing the sword closer to her neck.

“If you kill her, then Myrcella dies too. You don’t know what you’re doing. Lower the sword.”

“You will kill her anyways! Stay back!”

Arya blinked at him and remained silent, observing him slowly. In a split second, she launched into movement. She threw a knife hidden in her sleeve straight at the hand holding the sword, which made him flinch and loosen his hold. Arya was already there, driving a dagger through the sword’s guard, stopping him from hurting Daenerys as she harshly pulled the Queen behind her.

The Kingslayer was quick to retaliate with his sword, but Arya pulled a second dagger and blocked his strike, going on to trade several hits with the knight. He was clearly an exceptional swordsman, but Arya’s size and speed along with her unorthodox fighting style made her hard to hit. Even then, if she had not wounded his sword hand, he’d probably have killed her by now.

Before she could wonder what the fuck Barristan was doing instead of joining her, the courtyard shook. Jumping back to reevaluate the situation, she saw what had brought Drogon here. Daenerys was lying wounded in Barristan’s arms, clearly having hit her head against the ground.

The huge black dragon had collapsed the gallery where he had landed with his sheer weight. He roared at the Kingslayer, as well as the Martell guards.

“Hey, Drogon, cut it out!” Arya called out. In these close quarters, if the dragon breathed fire, they were all dead except the Queen. 

The beast growled and came closer, snorting hot air right in front of Arya. The northern girl, however, was used to his antics and didn’t back down. 

“Enough.” She slapped his nose without any fear. “Daenerys is fine, you need to calm down. Don’t make things worse for her.”

The dragon growled at her, but Arya stood her ground, never breaking their staring contest. Finally, Drogon huffed in defeat and flew away.

She turned around and looked at the blonde knight, his sword still raised.

“So, are you coming quietly, Lannister, or do I have to call him back?”

Chapter Text

It had been a frantic exit.

Skagos was as good a destination as any other, and they really had to leave. They’d been already packing when Stannis had sent his guards, and Alyssa had to set fire to a couple tents as a distraction. It was safe to say that they weren’t welcome in Stannis’ army anymore. 

Now that he had conquered Winterfell, and was sure to give it to a major northern lord, like the Umbers or the Manderlys, in exchange for their loyalty, they weren’t safe in any part of the North. Yes, they had a dragon, but they weren’t willing to risk Lyanna.

They’d only stopped once before leaving, at the Free Folk camp. They owed it to their neighbours to inform them of the situation. Alyssa had gone alone, being afraid of the zealots taking offense to their ‘god’ leaving them and hurting her family. It had been a good call, as a few looked about to draw their weapons when she left. Hopefully they would be able to keep to themselves in the hills, instead of being rounded up by the Umbers.

The journey to Skagos was long, and even though they had a dragon, Blackfrost was still young, and couldn’t fly fast with the three of them and their supplies. They had to take several stops along the way to let the poor dragon rest.

Alyssa was sitting in front of the campfire, looking into the flames - not focusing on getting a vision, merely lost in her thoughts - when Ygritte sat next to her. She let herself drop to the ground ungracefully, as was her style.

“It’s not your fault.” She said, laying her head on top of her wife’s shoulder.

It was uncanny how well the redhead could read her thoughts at times.

“I know. I just… I asked around, in Stannis’ camp, you know? I knew what having the Boltons in Winterfell meant, but I just… Father killed by the Lannisters. Robb dead, betrayed by his own people. Bran and Rickon killed by his best friend. Sansa disappeared a year ago, and Arya much earlier. I’m likely the only Stark left.”

“And none of it is your fault. You couldn’t have done anything. You weren’t even here.”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? My family died, and I wasn’t there. All because of a childish tantrum. I failed them.”

“Do you regret leaving?” Ygritte grabbed her chin, making her look into her eyes.

“No. If I’d never left, I’d never met you, or Lya. I’d never found myself. I can’t regret it.”

“Then stop torturing yourself. Horrible things happen to everyone. None of it is deserved, the Gods don’t care. It’s not your fault.” She kissed her softly.

“Maybe.” Alyssa answered once finished. “That doesn’t make me feel any better, though.”

“Well, that has an easy solution.” Ygritte smirked. 

Alyssa’s eyes widened as Ygritte jumped on top of her, holding her arms against her sides. 

“Lya! Mama says she’s sad and needs cuddles!” She yelled.

A loud gasp was heard from the other side of the camp, followed by a quick pitter-patter of tiny feet against the ground. The brunette groaned as the little girl jumped on top of her, wrapping her arms around her mother’s neck. 

Alyssa smiled as even Blackfrost laid down next to them, the whole family sleeping together. Even now, she couldn’t be happier. She never thought she could be so happy one day. And it all started by pure chance.

Alyssa was dragging her feet through the snow, a couple hares on her shoulder. For all that she had grown up in the North, she was not quite used to the weather north of the Wall. 

“Well, lookie here, food and fun all at once. Ain’t we lucky?”

Alyssa turned around to find three wildlings approaching her, two men and a woman. All seemed armed. 

“Try it and you die. Leave now, I’m not looking for trouble.”

The man at the front cackled with disbelief.

“Ah, I love the ballsy ones. I’m keeping this one, Jarod.”

“Fuck off, Orell, I want a turn.” The other man complained.

“Pff, you can keep Ygritte.”

“I don’t fancy getting my bits cut off, man.”

“Damn right.” The girl scoffed.

“Well girly, what’s it gonna be?” Orell drew his bronze blade.

Alyssa lifted her brow at the poor make of the weapon. She laid the hares on the ground and drew Blackfyre from the scabbard.

Jarod whistled.

“Damn, that’s a pretty blade. If you’re keeping the girl, I’m keeping the sword.”

“Fine by me.” Orell advanced.

Alyssa shrugged and met him. A simple parry and pivot and he was missing his head.

Jarod gasped and charged her, enraged. A second later he had been stabbed through the chest.

She turned towards the girl only to see her running away already. Unfortunately for the redhead, she ran face first into Blackfrost.

“Gods, what is that thing!” Ygritte yelled, backing away from the young dragon, which was nearing the size of a horse.

“Blackfrost.” Alyssa called. 

Once she had her attention, she nodded towards the two bodies, which were soon engulfed by flames. She approached the trembling girl and offered her hand to her.

The girl looked at her in suspicion and confusion.

“Listen, I don’t want to kill you. I can’t let you go, though, you either die alone and turn into a wight, or you find others and tell them of my dragon. Neither works for me. So you’re staying with me for a time, understood? I’m not gonna tie you, just know if you attack me or try to run, Blackfrost can fly faster, and fire is not a good way to go.”

The girl nodded dumbly, but didn’t move.

“Come on, get up. I’ve got two hares to eat, are you hungry?”

“I… Fuck, of all the ways, I didn’t think it’d happen like this.” Ygritte shook her head as she took her hand and got up.

“What?”

“Being stolen. I’d imagine something completely different, but eh, you don’t seem like a cunt, and you’re very nice on the eyes. Good enough for me.”

“... what?!” 

“Kingslayer.” She greeted him as she entered the room.

“Princess.” He greeted her back.

Daenerys observed the tied up man as Ser Barristan and Arya entered the room behind her.

“First of all, I’d like to assure you that Myrcella Waters is not in any danger from my people, nor will I allow the dornish to hurt her.”

“Right, I’m sure you will treat her very nicely. Just like her friends.” He smirked.

“I don’t believe in harming the innocent, Ser.” She cocked her head. “If nothing else, she’s a valuable hostage, if that might calm your worries.”

“She was valuable to the dornish too.”

“I’d like to think I’m a bit less short-sighted, or prone to irrational revenge plots.” Daenerys explained.

“Ah, so you’re not here to take revenge for your dear old dad?” The knight grinned in defiance.

“Revenge? No, Ser Jaime. I would thank you for your service.”

Both Jaime and Barristan started.

“By all accounts, my father should have been stopped a long time before he was. Many things would be different, if only someone had been brave enough. Now, I do not know of your reasons to betray your vows. Would you be willing to share, Ser Jaime?”

“And what would you care?” He spit out in distrust.

“Well, to start with, it matters to me, personally. It is one thing to kill the King to end his madness, or to protect people from him. It’s a much different one to do it on orders of the rebels. It does not escape my mind that you’re Tywin Lannister’s son. The same man that sacked the city and ordered the deaths of my niece and nephew.”

“I had no part in that!” The man snarled, straining against his bindings. 

Barristan put his hand on his sword, ready to draw, but Arya stayed leaning against the wall.

“Go on, Ser.” The Queen prodded.

“I never betrayed my charges! I’d have followed Prince Rhaegar to the field, to death, but I had to stay, as a hostage against my father. I did my duty! I was the Queen’s protector, and I did my duty. I was the one who arranged for her to escape the Keep with you and your brother. I’m the reason you’re alive right now, Your Grace.” He sneered.

“You?” Daenerys blinked.

“Me! I swore I’d protect her and I did! The Queen was the kindest, warmest, most beautiful woman in Westeros. I couldn’t protect her from the King, we all had to stand guard while he…” He cut down with a choked sob. “But I did what I could, and sent her away to safety. Even if it was for nothing, I tried. I tried! It was my duty.”

“That wasn’t duty, lad.” Ser Barristan commented with a sad expression. “You loved the Queen. We all could see it. There’s no shame in it, she was so easy to love.”

“Yes, well, she’s dead. So it didn’t matter much, now did it?” He scoffed. “I couldn’t protect the Queen. Or the Prince. Or the Princess and her children. The only good thing I did as a Kingsguard was kill the fucking King. My proudest moment. And everyone hates me for it. What a fucking joke.”

“You claim you didn’t know about your father’s intentions towards the children?” Daenerys questioned after a few moments of silence.

“How could I? I’d never imagine my father would be capable of…” He shook his head. “I’ve done awful things, Princess. I’ve killed a bunch of people. Fucked my sister. Help ruin my brother’s life. I threw a kid from a tower once.” He huffed mirthlessly, as Arya tensed in the background, unnoticed. “But that? What was done that day was beyond anything I could think, much less do. That was evil, plain and true.”

Daenerys observed his face, searching for a lie.

“He’s telling the truth.” Arya interjected. “Why did you kill the King at that moment, though? Not sooner or later?”

“What, now I get interrogated by mercenaries?” He scoffed. “At least it’s a good one.” He took a deep breath. “You want to know why I killed the King? I couldn’t say. Literally. We took a vow to keep our King’s secrets. I broke pretty much all other vows, so I’d try and keep at least one, right? But with you calling yourself Queen, I guess I can tell you. Does the name Rossart ring a bell, Your Grace?” He drawled.

“No.” Barristan whispered. “What did he do?”

“Ser?” Daenerys asked.

“Rossart led the Pyromancers, and by the time of the sack, was your father’s Hand. Let’s just say he had skills the King valued a lot. You know, like burning people, and things, and more people.” Jaime continued. “When the Lannister army broke into the city, he gave the order. ‘Burn them all’, he kept saying. ‘Burn them in their homes, burn them in their beds.’ Apparently, he had ordered caches of wildfire to be distributed throughout the city, from the Red Keep to Fleabottom. He would consume the city in an inferno. If it couldn’t be his, it wouldn’t be anyone’s. Of course, the King wouldn’t die, but be reborn from the ashes as a dragon. Naturally.” He snickered.

“No… He might have been mad, but he wouldn’t… He wouldn’t have done that. A million souls, surely not.” Daenerys despaired, looking distressed at both her guards.

“Of course not, Your Grace. It was just drafty in the city, and he wanted to keep them warm. Kind King Aerys, patron of the people.” Jaime laughed wildly.

“Stop it, ser!” Daenerys demanded.

“Burn them all! Burn them all! BURN THEM ALL!” He kept screaming, between laughter and tears.

“What’s Braavos like?”

“I… don’t know much, actually. I was there for barely a couple hours.” Alyssa shrugged.

They’d decided that Skagos was too risky, with the looming threat of the dead coming in from the North. They could very well freeze the Bay of Seals and walk right up to the island. Essos was a safer solution. 

Away from the dead, both the ones who walked on cold feet, and the ones who lived on as memories.

“It’s not too hot, is it?” Ygritte frowned, recalling her wife’s stories of the heat of the essosi sun.

“No, no. Braavos is south of here, but not that much. The climate is mild.” She chuckled. “It’s right by the sea, and most of the city consists of tiny islands, with narrow canals and bridges instead of streets. It looks… interesting.”

“Interesting, huh?”

“Well, it smells like fish, except for the canals with stagnant water, which smell far worse.” She snickered. “But it’s got cool things too, like the Titan.”

“Ah, right, the giant sculpture, right? I still think you’re joking.”

“Well, you’ll see. It’s impressive, and tall, though not as tall as the wall. Then again, it was built by men, not magic.”

“Pff, I’ve climbed the wall, this doesn’t impress me.”

“Yeah, yeah, nothing is big enough or impressive enough for the mighty Ygritte.” Alyssa rolled her eyes.

“Hmmm, I can think of a big, impressive thing.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Alyssa laughed and slapped her in the arm, getting up to tidy up the camp before night. 

It was still hard to believe just how nonchalant Ygritte was about her… circumstances. For a long time after she’d ‘stolen’ her, Alyssa had stayed away, not believing any woman would be interested in a woman like her. However, upon finding out the only comment had been ‘as long as you know how to use it’. 

It was easy, instant acceptance, like there was nothing to consider about it. That was the moment she first realized she loved Ygritte with her whole heart.

Of course, she hadn’t been as nonchalant about it when she started puking in the mornings, but they both doted on Lyanna.

The little girl was already fast asleep, cuddled up next to her best friend, the dragon covering her with a wing. It was surprisingly warm, and it kept the couple relieved that their daughter wouldn’t be cold in the night. 

They woke up early the next day and made their final trek to White Harbor. Ygritte had complained - as usual - of having to walk instead of riding Blackfrost, but Alyssa didn’t want to risk the dragon being seen. She didn’t want anyone to follow after them. 

Ideally, they would have flown over the Narrow Sea and avoided all this, but the dragon was too young yet to make that trip with all three of them, so they needed a boat. A couple rags they’d stolen from washerwomen at Stannis camp would help them look less like Free Folk, even if their weapons were sure to draw some attention. 

As they were walking through the docks, she couldn’t help but overhear.

“... to Dorne, he says. He saw the beasts flying by near the stepstones, as he was doing a slave run. Big fuckers they are, scared the shit out of the crew he said.” One sailor laughed.

“What’s the Dragon Bitch have to do with Dorne? She want to conquer us now?”

“Fuck knows? As long as she leaves the seas alone, she can take any throne she wants. I just want those lizards away from my sails.” He shuddered.

Dragons? They had to be speaking of dragons, right? But who in the world had dragons? The only Targaryens left apart from her were Viserys and… Daenerys. Was that it? Did Daenerys somehow hatch a dragon too? More than one, by the sound of it.

Well, it didn’t matter. She shook her head, trying to focus. Whatever she did, whether she conquered the Seven Kingdoms, or enjoyed retirement on a dornish beach, it had nothing to do with Alyssa. 

They were leaving Westeros behind for good, and her aunt could deal with the army of the dead.

“The Kingslayer. What are you going to do with him?” Arya asked, from on top of the cushions she was lounging on. Dornish seats were weird.

“I’m… not quite sure, yet.” Daenerys answered, taking a sip of bitter Dornish Red. 

The pair were in the chambers the Martells had offered the Queen. Daenerys’s most trusted advisor had always been Missandei, but she found that on these kinds of issues, the distasteful affairs that came with ruling, Arya was the more pragmatic one.

“Well, he has value as a hostage. Maybe not to his crazy cunt of a sister, but you will need someone to leverage the rest of the Lannisters if you want the Westerlands to back you.”

“Who’s the current Head of House?” 

“Honestly? I’ve got no idea.” Arya shrugged. “It was supposed to be Kevan, Tywin’s brother, but apparently he’s dead too. The other two brothers are dead too I think, and his sister is a Frey. You don’t want that. So I suppose Kevan’s eldest son, whoever he is.”

“I’ll have someone look into it. Would they care much about Jaime?”

“The Lannisters are easily the proudest House. Give up their golden boy, renowned Knight and Kingsguard? Tywin’s heir? They will negotiate, that you can count on.”

“Good. Good.” She sighed. “I don’t know how to feel about him, personally.”

“That’s ok. Just the fact that you’re thinking of his use first instead of yourself says a lot about what kind of ruler you are.”

Daenerys’ smile was radiant.

“Thank you, Arya.”

The northern girl only shrugged, as if it was obvious.

“He killed my father, but it was for a good reason. He was complicit in my mother’s pain, but he did all he could for her. And if I was to punish him for that, Ser Barristan did too.” She sighed. “He’s clearly not a good man. He has broken every vow and done plenty of evil, even if that torments him now. Do his bad deeds outweigh his good ones?”

“Don’t sweat it. Keeping him as a hostage is the logical choice. But it’s not all about logic. If you truly want him dead, then kill him. You’re a Queen, not a stone statue.”

“What would you do, Arya?”

“He threw my brother out of a tower, what do you think?” She cocked an eyebrow.

“Oh! That was…?”

“Bran, yes. He was eight.” She sighed, laying back on her elbows. “But then again, that’s my answer to everything. If I don’t like it, I kill it. I’m not a Queen, just a killer. So what I’d do is unimportant.” Arya looked Daenerys straight in the eyes. “You have to decide what you value more, the political advantage he can bring, or the peace of mind if you kill him. And the only one who can decide which side tips the balance, is you.”

The two women let the silence fill the room for a while.

“I don’t really feel slighted by him, personally. I just feel like I should, you know? What kind of Queen pardons her father’s killer? But I can’t hate him for it. I never met my father, and by all accounts, that’s something to be grateful for.”

“If your reluctance is due to what people will think, then the choice is easy. Fuck ‘em.”

“Arya!” Daenerys scolded between giggles, shocked by the inappropriate candor.

“You’re a woman. Unmarried. Foreign.” She raised a finger with each. “And gods know what else they’ll find to judge you by. Even if they support you initially, they’d soon realize you’re not another fat asshole that they can puppet around. That you’d make them attend to their responsibilities.”

Arya stopped to take a piece of cheese from the table, munching on it softly.

“So, no, you were never going to win the hearts of the nobles. You’ll have to buy them with concessions, blackmail, threats… I wouldn’t worry about them judging you as a person, it won’t change a thing.”

“That’s… awful. I don’t want to force my rule over others. I want people to love me, to want me to lead them.”

“Then go back to Essos.” Arya shrugged. “In Westeros, the people have no power. You may win the love of the smallfolk, but that will only matter after you’re crowned. It will win you no battles. Nobles have all the power, and they’re all greedy cunts. The only ruler they’d really want is one who favoured them above anyone else. Best you get is they prefer you to the current one.”

“I thought the North was different, that their Houses actually cared about their people and lands.”

“It was. Under the Starks. And now they’re all dead and the Boltons rule in their place.” She chomped on a big piece of cheese in her anger.

Daenerys sighed, tired. It seemed she’d have to fight for every little piece of her home. To have to carve a place for herself with sweat and tears. She just wanted to go home, to rest. The Queen scuttled closer to the shorter girl and laid her head on her shoulder. Arya had no home to go back, and she was fighting for one that maybe never existed. It was lonely, but perhaps it was a bit less lonely together.

Chapter Text

“I don’t like this place. It smells.” Lyanna pouted, scrunching up her nose.

“I know, sweetie.” Alyssa tried to placate her.

“Yeah, I mean I know you warned us, but… It smells like Rattleshirt in here.” Ygritte smirked.

Both women snickered, remembering how foul the warlord was.

“It’s not all bad, though, is it?” 

“The big statue was cool.” The little girl admitted.

“Yeah, that was one big fucker. And it yells almost as loud as your mama snores.”

“Oy!” Alyssa protested over the child’s giggles.

Braavos was different than Ygritte and Lyanna were used to. The climate, the people, the language… And they’d never seen a big city such as this. It was certainly an adjustment, and the past two weeks had been hard on them. Fortunately, Alyssa was more than familiar with Essos - even if she’d never been to Braavos itself but for a short stop - and tried to ease them into it. It soon was made clear to them, however, that this would only be a short stop along their journey. 

“But Lya’s right. We can’t stay here for long.” Ygritte got serious.

“I know, but the rest of the Free Cities aren’t going to be much better. It’s not Braavos that is the issue, it’s cities in general. Hunting and tanning aren’t exactly in high demand here.” Alyssa sighed tiredly.

“Well, the money from your playing around is barely enough to keep us afloat. We need a plan.” The redhead shrugged.

“Don’t call it playing around.” She frowned. “I’m fighting bravos.”

“Grown men going out at night to see who’s cock is bigger? That’s playing, even if you’re doing it for the money.” Ygritte smirked.

“Yes, well, that playing is the only reason we aren’t starving.” Alyssa groaned. “I’m only good at killing, and apart from the bravos the only other thing it’s good at is for being a sellsword. Even being hired as some rich merchant’s guard depends more on connections than skill.”

“What about… Pentos, I think you said? The one with the fat rich people that the horse people steal from all the time. They hire people to defend them on the regular, yes? We could make some money without leaving the city.”

“We’re not fighting for money, Ygritte.” She shook her head emphatically. “It takes just a stray arrow or a festering wound to leave Lyanna without a mother. Duels are one thing, a battle is quite another. We’ll find something else.”

“That money thing is weird.” The little kid interrupted. “Why can’t we live like we did before, mama?”

“Hmmm, she’s not exactly wrong, you know? Worst comes to pass, we can always move to the Forests of Qohor and build a cabin.”

“...That was an option? Why didn’t we go there already?” Ygritte frowned.

“Well, it’s not exactly ideal. We’d be far from anyone else, no trading, no healing… You know how harsh that is. And the dragon is going to be noticed anywhere, but in a city it would be hard to pinpoint who it belongs to. Out in the woods?” She shook her head. “It’s a last resort, at best.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t sweat it.” The redhead scoffed. “We’ll try your dumb cities. So where to next, then?”

“I’m not sure.” She frowned. “Tyrosh, Myr and Lys are out, same with Volantis. I can’t show my face there. And the zealots of Qohor would sacrifice us to their gods just because we look different. That leaves Pentos, Norvos and Lorath. Lorath is about the same as here, but more remote, so I doubt it would be useful… Pentos or Norvos it is.”

“I don’t know much about those places, so…? Which one is it?”

“To be honest, it will be about the same, but Pentos is on the coast so it will have more news. Maybe we can find something there.” She shrugged.

“Pentos it is, then. Should I start fattening you up so you can be one of the rich ones?” Ygritte grinned.

“I mean, if you prefer me big and flabby instead of muscled, I guess I can try, for you.” She drawled.

“No no no, this is more than okay, don’t you worry.” The redhead backtracked with a smirk, having always been very vocal about how much she liked her wife’s physique. 

“To Pentos it is, then.” Alyssa smiled, tired, but content with having a direction.

“I miss the snow.” Lyanna pouted.

“I know, sweetie. I know.” Ygritte kissed her on the top of her head.

“I’m not naive to the sacrifices necessary for taking the Crown, but I will not condone petty revenge and cruelty for no reason.” Daenerys stated, sounding far more confident than she really felt. “Jaime Lannister and Myrcella Waters shall be my prisoner and guest, respectively, and that’s the end of it.”

“He killed my cousin.” The dornish princess gritted her teeth.

“Exactly, there’s been killing enough, don’t you think?” The valyrian snarked, clearly tired of these childish games. “I came to Dorne as an ally, intent on honoring my good-sister and her family. And what do I find? Knives in the dark, plots, and treason.”

The last few days had been particularly trying. Apparently, the girl hadn’t been the only target. The Princess, along with her cousins and Ellaria, had assassinated Doran Martell, leaving her as the ruler of Dorne. This put her in an extremely uncomfortable position. She couldn’t exactly reward treachery and treason - she could very well be the next one to die -  but there wasn’t anyone else that could realistically lead Dorne at the moment. Putting anyone other than the Martells at the helm would only result in a civil war and end her reign before it had even started.

Of course, she couldn’t just issue a pardon and let it go. The dornish lords were angry, decrying Arianne as a kinslayer, and many were refusing to follow her. Daenerys had had to improvise. She’d decided to rise to the challenge and start being the decisive leader she should be.

“And yet, you want to put these murderers at the throne of Dorne.” Lord Yronwood protested.

“Temporarily, yes.” She nodded. “At present, they are the only ones who can take the position. From my understanding, Prince Trystane has not had the education needed for an heir.”

After Arianne there was Quentyn, the spare, but the young boy had spent some time as a sellsword in Essos, like his uncle before him, and had perished in the Disputed Lands. The last Martell, Trystane, was barely twelve and had never been raised as an heir, being third in line.

“The boy is old enough to lead.” He protested again.

“The boy can speak for himself.” Trystane interrupted. “The Queen is right, I’m not able to lead at the moment. But I can learn, and in any case, that is no excuse to let the murderers go free.” He looked at his sister with hatred.

“I agree, Prince Trystane.” Daenerys said, trying to keep everything calm. “You are the heir to Dorne, and shall ascend to Ruling Prince once you’re deemed competent enough. However, at the moment, we need a figure at the head of Dorne with more experience, someone recognized by the other Kingdoms.”

Arianne preened at that, looking smugly at her brother.

“Don’t look so satisfied, Princess.” The Queen looked at her with derision. “You are to be ruler just in name. A castellan will take control of Sunspear, while control of the Dornish Armies shall be shared between Lord Yronwood and Lady Blackmont. The Martell name carries weight, however, so you shall be heading Dorne as far as the other Kingdoms can tell, but make no mistake, Arianne,” Daenerys sneered, “you should be tried and sentenced. Be happy you’re not sharing the same fate as Ellaria and your cousins.”

Arianne fumed, her face red enough that anyone would think she was about to burst a vein, but to her credit, she didn’t protest.

“Now that’s out of the way, Lord Gargalen, you had news about the coast?” She dismissed Arianne as if a worm, unworthy of her attention. Harming your family in search of power was something that hit a little too close to home.

“Yes, my Queen.” The man recovered quickly. “The Crown’s Navy is particularly weak at this moment, I believe.”

“Elaborate.”

“Yes, well, the Crown itself doesn’t float ships, they all come from sworn houses. The biggest contributors are the Redwyne, Lannister, Velaryon, and Manderly navies, Your Grace. They lost the Velaryons at the beginning of the war, they sided with Stannis, and lost most of their ships in the Battle of the Blackwater. The rest are currently stationed around the Wall and the northern coast. The Manderlys were under control of the Crown through the Boltons, but we just got news that they were ousted by Stannis. It remains to be seen if they’ll swear allegiance to him, but it’s likely.”

Arya blinked from her place behind the Queen. The Boltons were gone? Good. Served them right. She wondered who would rule the North now.

“Then there’s the Lannisters and Redwynes. That should make up for a formidable navy on its own, but since the Queen of Thorns denounced Cersei as the one who exploded the Sept, they’ve pulled all of their ships. So there’s only the Lannisters left, but House Lannister is in tatters at the moment, with the deaths of Tywin and Kevan. Yes, the navy is led by the Lannisters of Lannisport, a cadet branch, but it was known they were pretty much Tywin’s puppets. I would assume they lack clear leadership, so their force will be diminished, though I can’t be certain by which amount.”

“Hmm. Thank you for the report, Lord Gargalen.” Daenerys nodded to him. “We can consider a naval assault on the capital, then, if neither the Stormlands nor the Crownlands are protected. I would like to put this topic aside for the moment, as there are still some uncertainties. We should be sure of Stannis' position and the state of the Lannister navy before deciding on a course of action. I would like to approach Olenna Tyrell, in the meantime. The Reach has every reason to ally with us, even considering their past grievances.”

“In that case, my Queen, it would be better to do it quickly.” Suggested Lady Toland. “I’ve heard rumours of unrest in the Reach. Since the Tyrells have been torn down, only one unwed son remaining, the Hightowers and the Tarlys are considering taking control of the Reach for themselves. If we want to keep the Tyrells in power we would need to boost them somehow.”

“And tie them to us. Hmm, there is a westerosi saying about killing two beasts in one shot, isn’t there?” She looked once again towards the tainted Princess. “I hope you’re not averse to marriage.”

“I don’t like this place, it’s full of people, and everyone seems so sad.” Lyanna protested from her mother’s arms.

“I know, sweetie, I don’t like it much either.” Alyssa tried to appease her.

“What’s with all the guards? They look like statues.” Ygritte commented.

“That would be the Unsullied. Slaves, trained from childhood to think of nothing else than to serve.” She commented with disdain. “Of course, if you ask anyone they’ll tell you there’s no slavery in Pentos, it’s outlawed. But as always, laws don’t really apply when you’re rich enough. Still better than Volantis, though.”

The redhead spit on the floor at the mention. Slavery was vile, but to the Free Folk it was anathema. People weren’t meant to live for others, to be owned.

They’d arrived on Pentos a couple days ago, and it was hard trying to find some honest work. The city was just too busy, it seemed you either knew someone who could set you up or you starved. The only thing they’d found so far was a woman who weaved baskets, but the moment she saw Ygritte knew nothing of these particular fibers she’d thrown her out of her stall. Alyssa was even less lucky. She’d tried going on a fishing boat, but she’d gotten terribly seasick, and been left on land after being made to clean the mess. 

All of that was without taking into account Lyanna. They had to find at least one job that allowed for the little girl to go with them, as she couldn’t stay alone. And then there were the lodgings to worry about. They’d stayed in an inn the past two days, but money was running low.

Defeated, they decided to stop the search for the day and try their luck again in the morning. Ygritte went upstairs to rest with Lyanna, but Alyssa decided to stay up for a little while longer, needing some drink to settle her stomach after emptying it so thoroughly.

There was silence in the inn. Alyssa blinked, she hadn’t noticed when everything went quiet. Looking around, she saw that a few men had entered, everyone making sure to stare everywhere but at them. Dangerous men, then. Known locally.

“A glass of red.” The one at the helm asked at the bar, leaning on his elbow.

“Right away.” The barmaid answered in a quiet voice, scared.

The other two men with him stood around him, still like stone. If not for their clothes and faces, she’d have thought they were Unsullied as well. She took a quick look from the corner of her eye at their leader. From his clothes, he was probably some kind of pirate. But that didn’t explain this much fear in everyone’s faces. The man turned his head and caught her looking. His face was lean, with a contented smile. There was something sinister in his gaze, in his pale blue eye, the other one covered by an eyepatch. Most startling of all were his blue lips. 

Alyssa had only seen that on poor souls who fell into cold water too long. All heat left them, turning their blood sluggish, until they died. And yet, this man seemed perfectly healthy. She lowered her gaze, not willing to anger him, but was clearly not fast enough.

The man chuckled and walked towards her table. Alyssa tensed.

“Do I look curious to you, my dear?” He drawled, taking a seat in front of her. The other patrons shifted away from her table.

“I don’t want any trouble.” She spoke clearly, her gaze still stuck on the wood of her table. She slowly moved her hand to the hilt of the sword hidden under her clothes. She’d made sure to wrap it, too easily recognizable, even this far from Westeros.

“Ah, but it is so often that trouble just happens to find us, is it not?” He chuckled. “Fret not, I have no quarrel with you. Eyes are for looking, after all. But then, you should lift your gaze, shouldn’t you? You laid eyes on my face, ‘tis only fair that you return the favour.”

Alyssa knew it was a gamble. He could get mad if she didn’t comply, or he could get mad if she ‘dared look upon him’. These types of people were always unpredictable. She decided looking up was the safer option, and set her eyes on his face.

“Ah. Just what I thought.” He smirked, his single eye widened as it took in all her features, stopping for a while on her own eyes. “Beautiful. Thank you for your time, dear. I shan’t bother you anymore.” The disturbing man grinned at her with those dead lips and walked back to the bar. “Her drink is on me.” He swallowed the rest of his wine in one big gulp and set the cup with force on the bar. “Good evening.”

He went back the way he came, taking his two guards with him. The rest of the bar seemed afraid of her now. She guessed whatever had this man’s attention was a threat. It would be best to move in the morning. Whatever this man had in store for her, she wanted none of it.

“Blue lips?” Ygritte asked incredulously the next morning. “You sure he wasn’t a wight? ‘Cause blue lips means dead, or close to.”

“Yes, it was very weird. He was… unsettling. I don’t know what he wanted, but be on the lookout, yes?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, we’ve dealt with a bunch of weirdos like him before. Nobody can ever top the Weeper in creepiness.” She shrugged.

“That man was scary.” Lyanna agreed.

“Yes he was. Well, if you see a man with blue lips and an eyepatch, then he’s scary too, you run away from him and come to us immediately, ok, Lya?”

“Ok, mama.” She nodded.

“Did you see something in the flames?” Ygritte asked.

“Nothing.” Alyssa shook her head. “It’s weird. Usually there’s at least something, even if irrelevant, but this time… It’s as if someone had set a blanket on top of the flames and smothered them. I can’t see anything but dark smoke.”

“That… hasn’t happened before, has it?”

“No. It’s freaking me out a little. Be careful, please.”

“Of course, who do you take me for?” The redhead smirked, putting an arm around her wife’s shoulders.

They moved to an inn on the opposite side of Pentos, far from the docks. It was a setback, as most of the work was seaside, so it was even harder than before to find something. The day was tiring for Alyssa, running around searching for anything that paid while Ygritte took Lya to the market. Her feet were sore when he came back to the inn in the afternoon, tired and defeated. It was looking more and more like they would have to join the military.

As she entered the room, she heard sniffling.

“Lya?” She asked, worried.

“Mama!” The little girl got up and ran towards her, smashing into her knees, almost toppling her.

“What’s wrong, what happened?”

“I was so scared! Mommy told me to run, but I didn’t know where I was, so I had to find a fire, but there were mean men in red who didn’t want me near, so I bit one and heard the fire, and then I knew how to come here but you weren’t here and I was so scared-”

“Lya! Lya, it’s ok, I got you.” She hugged the little girl tightly. She was shaking. “Lya, what happened, where’s mommy?”

“I don’t know! The bad man with the ugly lips took her, she told me to run, so I ran.” She cried.

Alyssa paled. He took Ygritte. He had to know that she was with her. Had he been watching them? What did he want with them? She swallowed a snarl, not wanting to agitate Lyanna further, and set the table on fire with a thought, looking straight to the flames. 

Once again, R’hllor refused to speak to her. 

Alyssa swallowed heavily. She didn’t care if the Red God didn’t have her back. She was going to get her wife back and gut that dead-lipped cunt, even if that was the last thing she did.

Drogon roared in the air. His brothers returned the call as all three flew turns around the skies above the keep. It was a simple, yet effective, way to demand everyone’s attention. Better than any herald, even if she had one of those as well. 

“Queen Daenerys. Welcome to Highgarden.” The old woman bowed slightly.

“Lady Olenna. Well met. I thank you for receiving me.” She nodded back.

“My grandson Willas, Lord of Highgarden.” She introduced the young man, who inclined his head. Neither of the Tyrells were in a position to kneel, so she wouldn’t take offense.

“Well met, Lord Tyrell. With me are Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne, Lord Anders Yronwood of Yronwood, and Lady Larra Blackmont of Blackmont, as well as my own advisers, Missandei of Naath, and Grey Worm, plus my guards.”

The old woman made a face at the Unsullied’s name, though her face was sour already, her opinion of the dornish clear in her expression.

“Well, now that the introductions are out of the way let’s go inside and plot how to kill that maniacal cunt. My knees are killing me.”

Daenerys swallowed a smile at the comment. She couldn’t exactly condone the disrespect, but she enjoyed people who were direct. She’d had enough politicking for the moment.

They were led to a wide solar. The views on the way were magnificent, Highgarden certainly earned its title as the most beautiful keep in the realm. Daenerys, however, wasn’t naive enough to let herself be enchanted by the roses. She knew thorns laid hidden behind the petals.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we? I’m not getting any younger.” The Queen of Thorns sat with a groan on a plush chair. “I want to kill Cersei. You want to kill Cersei. Let’s make a deal.”

“Indeed.” She decided to skip her speech and laid everything directly. The deal was sweet enough, what with such a precarious spot the Tyrells found themselves in. “I will recognize the Tyrells as Lord Paramounts of the Reach and Wardens of the South, and help quell any possible revolts from their vassals. In exchange, you shall swear fealty to me and provide your armies towards the war.”

“That’s about right.” The old woman snorted. “The Reach counts to near sixty thousand strong. We will want some more concessions.”

“At least half of that strength is shared between Oldtown and Horn Hill.” Lord Yronwood growled.

“The Reach remembers the Field of Fire. One look at the dragons and they will lay down their arms.” Willas intervened.

“It would not do to burn our crops with winter upon us, Lord Tyrell. I would like to reserve that for a last resort.” The Queen tried to be diplomatic. She was sick and tired of people seeing only her dragons’ fire. There was more use to her than just that.

“Hopefully, just the threat will be enough and we won’t need to carry it out.” Olenna waved her concerns away in a manner that irked Daenerys.

“Assuming that we can count with unanimity in the Reach, I’m willing to give the Reach a seat on my Small Council. To seal the deal, Lord Willas and Princess Arianne shall marry.”

“Ha! What, you think we would jump at the chance to control Dorne? I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere, Your Grace. I know the girl is not inheriting anything.”

“Well, then the issue of which title to grant their children is solved, isn’t it?” Daenerys buffed her nails, unbothered. “The Reach gets heirs, there’s a marriage alliance, and we have no succession issues. Of course, if you decided to press their children's claim to Dorne I would have to intervene, but that won’t benefit anyone, now will it?” She smiled condescendingly. This woman thought her a naive girl to make use of. She’d show the old crone.

Olenna looked at the Queen, reevaluating her judgement, while the groom and bride weighed each other up. 

“We will agree. Provisionally. All of this depends on being able to take on Tarly and Hightower, and then Cersei.” She snapped her fingers and an attendant brought a series of maps. 

“Tarly’s armies are amassing here and here.” Willas pointed to two wide fields south and southwest of Highgarden. “We assume they are waiting to be joined by the Hightowers, who are coming up from Honeyholt. They should join in about three days, and if they don’t stop they could be at our gates in two to three weeks.”

“That’s a short timeframe.” Commented Lady Blackmont. “What are their forces composed of?”

“Mainly infantry, the cavalry was somewhat exhausted in previous years, though they will still count to about a thousand strong.”

“A thousand cavalry isn’t anything to scoff at.” Frowned Ser Barristan.

“If they were doing hit and run tactics, yes. But they’re sure of their victory, no doubt. They will stay at the front of their formation.” Judged Lord Yronwood.

“Let’s not make assumptions, consider the worst case. I don’t wish to be surprised.” Daenerys stopped him. “If they join, that works out best for us, a bigger target for my dragons. I will have to make a show of force, to make them surrender.”

“The Mander.” Arya’s voice was barely heard from her usual place against a wall.

“The Mander?” Daenerys arched an eyebrow.

“If they join forces here,” she walked to the map and pointed, “then their easiest route here is close to the river. We ask for their surrender there. If they don’t, then the dragonfire can corral them towards the banks of the river, where they will be easy prey, especially if we put archers on the other side.”

“That sounds like a solid plan, but what if they don’t march near the river?” Lord Willas was skeptical.

“I thought they were cocky? We can go back the way we came from, make it seem like we didn’t reach an accord and Highgarden stands alone. A few leagues from here, we turn around and prepare for the pincer.”

“That… might actually work.” Lord Yronwood agreed grudgingly.

“Insightful, for someone so young. What makes you so sure they will take the bait?” Willas still sounded suspicious. 

“I’m good at killing things.” She grinned. “Beasts will always go for the kill once they deem you prey instead of a threat, and people are no different.”

“Indeed, girl, we are not.” Olenna chuckled, surprising Daenerys. “So that’s where you were all these years, eh? Essos?”

“You know her, Grandmother?” Willas arched his eyebrows, surprised. How did his grandmother know this mercenary?

“I’m not yet old enough to go blind, I wouldn’t mistake that long face for anything but a Stark. Am I right, Lady Arya?”

“Not a lady.” She answered, as usual. The dornish contingent looked her over, surprised at her identity. 

“No, you don’t look the part. What would lead a Stark to join forces with a Targaryen, I wonder?”

“You’re not the only one who wants to kill Cersei, you know?” Arya cocked her head.

“Fair enough.” The old woman conceded the point. “If anything, this works in our favour, the North and the Riverlands will join forces behind a Stark. But let’s not sell the pelt before skinning the bear. The river plan has merit. Let’s get to it.”

“Very well. We shall reconvene tomorrow to plan the specifics and for you to swear your oaths. Now, if you would be so kind as to lead us to our accommodations?” Daenerys retook control of the conversation. That old woman seemed too used to being in charge.