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Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

Twenty Years Ago…

The morning mist was still thick and heady on the Isle of Faces.

Lyanna Stark, first and only daughter of Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, stepped off the small rowboat she had taken. Behind her, across the smooth waters of the God’s Eye, the great castle of Harrenhal rose out of the flat lands of the Trident like a leviathan’s shadow. The five great towers thrust into the air like black fingers two hundred feet tall. Even from here, she could make out the multi-coloured tents of all the assembled Lords of Westeros, both great and lesser, high and low, ancient and new-sworn.

It was in one of those tents that her brothers, Eddard and Benjen, still slept, undisturbed by their sister’s departure. Ned had stirred a little as she had slipped out of the tent, but last night’s beer and food had kept her brothers fast asleep in the morning light. Lyanna still had no idea where Brandon was, though she thought it likely he’d visited Ashara Dayne’s tent late last night. Either that, or he’d gone to the small village with her betrothed to find other, less noble company.

I can never say Ned didn’t tell me what Robert is, she told herself, though how the two get along I will never understand.

She pushed thoughts of her brothers from her mind; they would not serve her well today. That was precisely why she hadn’t told them about her departure, and was currently concocting a lie to tell them if they woke before she returned. They would only get in her way, or insist on escorting her when they had no business doing either. Lyanna fingered the blade she kept at her belt, hidden for now behind her cloak, which was embroidered with the direwolf of Stark.

I am a daughter of the North, blood of the Kings of Winter. I can look after myself.

Lyanna knew not who had summoned her, or why, but she could attempt a wager that even a fool could not disagree with. After the events of the previous day… she shuddered to remember them. Then, after all that was done, she came back to find the note on her pillow, and remembered her fury at the absolute gall of who she supposed it was from. Nevertheless, she’d read it, and read it again, and stared at the words until they were seared into her mind.

Lyanna,

Come to the God’s Eye tomorrow at dawn. We have much to discuss, and must go to great pains to keep it to ourselves.

Yours,

R

There had been no seal, but the letter had no need of one. The “R” alone was almost enough to allay Lyanna’s suspicions, and the figure she found waiting for her confirmed them all.

For, standing before her, garbed in the red and black of his House, was Rhaegar Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone himself. Standing atop the shore, a cloak black as night whirling around him in the morning wind, sword belted to his hip, hair floating about his head like a silver cloud, he looked half a god. It was easy to see why so many feared the power and seeming supernatural aura of the dragonlords.

He smiled at her, as if he had not caused outrage across all Seven Kingdoms at the tourney yesterday, as if he was just a man she’d happened upon on a jaunt in the woods, and as if she was the only woman in the world.

“Stop that.”

But Prince Rhaegar only smiled more, “Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that,” Lyanna snapped, not in the mood for japes, “Have you any idea the upset you’ve caused? Or are you so wrapped up in yourself that you ignore all consequences of your actions?”

The smile faltered for a moment, “My lady, I have summoned you on –”

“You can dispense with that as well,” Lyanna cut him off harshly, and was surprised that he actually stopped talking, “It may work on the lickspittles that surround you in King’s Landing, but it won’t work on me.”

Rhaegar paused, before apparently changing the topic, “I heard about your antics the other day. I’m impressed.”

Lyanna barely stopped herself from rolling his eyes. Flattery now. Will he kiss my boot next, to get my good mood? “Impressed? Are you impressed that I beat off three squires because I am a lady, or because I did it selflessly, a quality you Targaryens seem to lack.”

She had wounded him, and she could tell. Lyanna wanted to press the advantage, while she still had it anyway. She was sick and tired of southron courtesy, of Lord This-And-That telling her how beautiful she was, how she was a fine lady, how Rickard Stark ought to be congratulated on how he’d brought his daughter up, how it was a shame that her mother had died when she was very young, how she was lucky to be betrothed to Robert fucking Baratheon of all people. She was sick to death of them and their simpering smiles, their bows, their whispers behind her back of how wild she was, or how she would be more ladylike if her mother had lived.

To hell with them, Lyanna told herself, I’ll do as I please, and no silver-haired poet of a prince is going to stop me.

However, Rhaegar just looked abashed, “I apologise if I have given offence, my lady. I was merely impressed by your devotion to so lowly a man.”

“That man was Howland Reed, the son of my father’s vassal,” Lyanna retorted, “Hardly below my purview as daughter of the Warden of the North.”

Rhaegar smiled wanly, “If only all of us could be so kind as you, Lady Lyanna, the world would be a brighter place indeed.” He paused for only the briefest of moments, before continuing, “I suppose that you were the Knight of the Laughing Tree as well?”

Lyanna shrugged nonchalantly, though secretly she was pleased that someone had not been so bone-dead stupid that they didn’t figure it out, “It was Brandon’s idea,” she answered modestly, “But I was the only one willing to carry it out. Ben is too young, and Ned thought it dishonest. He wanted to just tell you and the king of the boys’ misdemeanours. Small chance of that working out though.”

“Quite.” Rhaegar just smiled again, maddeningly so, and Lyanna resisted the urge to smack him. He held out an arm, “Walk with me.”

Not willing to let the opportunity go amiss, Lyanna strode right past him, and allowed herself a small smile when he rushed to catch up. This was one of her secret joys; letting men bid for her hand and fall over each other trying to help her, then walk right on by, showing them that she never needed their help to begin with. Such was how Lyanna Stark responded to men and their silly ideas of chivalry.

After a moment, Rhaegar said, “You and your kin looked well at the jousting yesterday.”

Lyanna shot him a look, but there was no guile in those astonishing lilac eyes, only softness, and the barest hint of melancholy. Standing so close, Lyanna could see the golden strands in his silver hair, and marvel at the perfectly pure and pale skin of his face; unblemished, not so much as a freckle on his straight, well-formed nose. Rhaegar’s mouth suddenly turned upwards at the corner, and Lyanna realised that she was staring. She quickly looked away.

“Is that why you crowned me, Your Grace?” she asked, deigning for the first time to use his title, “Is that why you committed a folly greater than all your father’s rages combined?”

A flicker of hurt flashed across his eyes, but it was gone before Lyanna could be sure it had been there to start with, and Rhaegar looked to say more, but thought better of it. They walked in silence for a while, before stopping at the edge of the beach. Lyanna could see the sun rising in the distance, the world waking to a brand new day, and all the strife it would bring.

Nothing can be the same again, not if Robert and Brandon have their way.

This poor prince will be strung up by his ankles, if he dares too much more.

Perhaps no harm had been meant by it, though Lyanna failed to see how one so purportedly intelligent as Rhaegar Targaryen had not seen the foolishness in crowning a woman other than his wife as queen of love and beauty, even more the foolishness in crowning a woman promised to one of the greatest lords of Westeros. Lyanna had no doubt that she was more beautiful than Elia of Dorne, but that made no matter in these kinds of things. Rhaegar had won, and Elia was his wife, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. It was his duty to crown her, sick and waiflike though she was.

“Lady Lyanna,” Rhaegar said at last, “Do you know what we Targaryens mean when we say that “the dragon must have three heads”?”

“That otherwise your banners would be mismatched?”

He smiled some at her jape, but it seemed that there were more pressing things on his mind, “It harkens back to our greatest ancestor, the first Aegon. As you may well know, he had two sisters, and the three of them each rode a great dragon. They were the three heads of House Targaryen; three heads of the dragon. As time has worn on, those three heads have been diminished, until only one head seems to remain. That head is the head that Aegon represented – the king. His sisters – in this case, the king’s closest allies, counsellors and principle generals – have fallen out of use, or become one or more of the king’s vassals. However, it is written in the most ancient of texts that a darkness is coming, a darkness that will swallow the whole world, and doom us all to an eternal winter.”

“You speak of the Long Night,” Lyanna laughed aloud, “And you’ve little to fear from that. According to legend, the Others were defeated, and broken forevermore. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

“And yet what if they weren’t?” Rhaegar continued, ignoring Lyanna’s clear scepticism, “There is a prophecy of another battle for the world, a battle that must take place very soon. Think of your own words, my lady: “Winter is coming.” Does that not strike you as passing odd, given that the Long Night is already been and done? We must prepare for the worst, my lady, and that is what I intend to do. This is the song of ice and fire, Lyanna. What do you think that means?”

He was standing too close to her, and Lyanna decided to escape the awkwardness of the situation – and the self-righteous and sanctimonious tone Rhaegar was beginning to adopt – with one of her usual tactics; wit: “I would say that someone out there has a flare for the dramatic, most likely.”

“A sharp tongue will get you nowhere when the forces of darkness come, Lyanna,” Rhaegar retorted crossly, “The dragon must have three heads. Ice and fire. Azor Ahai, who forged a flaming sword from the heart of his beloved wife, and joined forces with Brandon the Builder to defeat the Great Other. These stories are told all over the world, Lyanna. Azor Ahai, champion of the red priests. Brandon Stark, first King of Winter.”

I like not where this is going.

“Does all this babbling about prophecy have a point, Your Grace?” Lyanna growled, “Or do you intend to start on about portents and scary dreams you’ve had?”

Rhaegar looked as though he was going to respond with a similarly biting reply, but held his tongue. Instead, he looked down, seemed to realise how close he was to her, and stepped back, eyes downcast, “I mean to say that these are all linked. I am a cautious man, Lyanna, and prophecies do not lie. Mislead, perhaps, but they do not lie. The dragon must have three heads, when the time comes. One of fire… and one of ice.”

Sweet gods of the North.

He really is a bigger fool than I could have imagined.

Lyanna slapped the Prince of Dragonstone hard across the face. She was shaking with rage, and part of her screamed at him for not rising to her own fury, “How dare you?” she half-snarled, half-screamed, “How dare you? Not only are you a married man, ser, and a prince besides, I am promised to another, and a woman and person in my own right. You have no cause to order me to bear a child, as though I were some Lyseni bedslave you had come across in the whorehouses which your shitpile of a capital is so renowned for. You should be ashamed of yourself for even considering the thought.”

“Lyanna,” he pleaded, “the very fate of the world hangs in the balance. I am trying–”

“I don’t give two shits what you’re trying,” Lyanna growled, so very wolflike, “You have no right… no right to request this of me, to demand that I give you my body as nothing more than a vessel for you to breed with. The Lords of Westeros say your father is mad… they have no idea that this is the future of House Targaryen!”

Rhaegar took a step towards her, grabbing her arm. His purple eyes were wide with fervour, blazing with mania. Lyanna cried out, stumbling backwards, pulling her knife from her side, slashing wildly. Had she slit the Prince’s throat, she was not sure that she would have particularly cared. However, it did serve to halt his advance, and now Rhaegar Targaryen regarded her more warily.

“Lyanna,” he spoke again, his hands raised in a placating gesture, “I know how insane this sounds. Believe me, I do. But you have no idea what’s coming.”

Lyanna arched her eyebrow, “The dead, my lord? An army of shambling wights to terrorise the Seven Kingdoms? Forgive me if I don’t believe the stories my wetnurse told me anymore.”

Rhaegar’s expression hardened in an instant, “The world must be saved, Lyanna, and sacrifices will be made to ensure our survival.” He stepped closer, his face inches from hers, “By your will, or by mine.”

Lyanna’s eyes widened, seeing the madness flickering behind his, and fled along the beach, hair whipping in the wind, a chill settling in her bones. The Prince of Dragonstone, a man renowned throughout the realm for his kindness and chivalry, was no less of a monster than his loathed father. Her boots, sturdy though they were, dug into the silken sand, creating deep tracks. They chafed at her ankles, and she bit her lip, knowing that she’d have blisters on the morrow.

Her boat was forty feet away when she became aware of the Prince behind her. Not for nothing was he seen as one of the great knights of his time, with long, loping legs and an easy grace to his movement. He ran up behind her almost effortlessly, and she could imagine his hair streaming behind him in a silver wave. Lyanna dared not look around, for fear that she’d slow.

A strong hand gripped her shoulder, and Lyanna spun, falling and flailing as she did so. She stumbled back to her feet, but Rhaegar was on her now. She smashed her elbow backwards, and heard a roar as it crashed into something solid. She didn’t bother looking around to see what it was.

The boat was only a few feet away, and she pushed it off into the water, the boat rocking as she leapt in. Lyanna Stark began to row as if her very life depended on it, and, as Rhaegar and the Isle of Faces faded into the distance, tears began to run down her cheeks.

Gods, she thought, What will become of us?

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

Volantis, the oldest and most majestic of Essos’ nine Free Cities, sat astride one of the four wide mouths of the river Rhoyne. The Valyrian spires and palaces in the east stretched into the wide blue sky, with the Black Wall surrounding them, keeping those without the Old Blood from seeing the true majesty of Volantis, and, across the Long Bridge, the seedy, cruel, criminal city spanned as far as the eye could see.

It was the largest city that Dany had ever seen, dwarfing Vaes Dothrak, Astapor and Yunkai all at once. It spread out for miles and miles, as far as her eyes could see, seeming to never end. The sun was just rising, but the city was bustling with activity, as though it had never slept. Already, Dany could hear merchants selling their wares, red priests lighting their flames and chanting their prayers…

And slaves clanking in their chains.

All around her, the newly freed Unsullied were wary. Volantis may not have bordered Slaver’s Bay, but all had heard the rumours of the city; that there were five slaves for every freeman. Such news could not be good for the Unsullied, nor would the Breaker of Chains be particularly welcome within those walls.

But, Dany’s future, and the destiny of the Seven Kingdoms, lay somewhere in the sprawling city, and Dany intended to find that destiny. Last night, she had sent Ser Jorah ashore with her bloodriders, to search the city for this mysterious ‘Aegon’, whoever he may be. Anchored a league outside the port, Dany was beginning to get nervous.

What if this is a trap, she asked herself, what if my brave bear has fallen to the cruel machinations of my enemies?

She grimaced, trying to shove those thoughts aside; a queen could not question herself, could not second guess every decision that she made. A queen must make a decision, and stick with it, she decided, and hoped to the gods that it was the right thing to do.

She stood at the helm of her ship – formerly The Harpy’s Crown, since renamed to Queen Daenerys’ Flame – with Grey Worm, Missandei and Arstan Whitebeard standing with her. Daario Naharis, the blue-haired sellsword captain was with his troops aboard the Prince Rhaegar, and Strong Belwas had taken command of the Dragonstone. Even with her trusted advisors so close, Dany still felt alone. Her dragons were mostly allowed free roam, though they flew further and further every day.

I need to learn control, she realised, more than ever, I need to bind them to my will.

Ser Jorah returned in the middle of the morning, aboard the same small rowing boat. He was alone, which did little to assuage Dany’s fears, but he seemed unmolested. He came aboard, and knelt before her, the sun shining on his armour.

“My Queen,” he honoured her, “I was met by the boy calling himself Aegon, as well as the commanders of the Golden Company.”

“You have my thanks, ser,” Dany replied, “Will we have an audience?”

Ser Jorah looked uncomfortable, “Aye, khaleesi, but I cannot recommend that we accept it. This boy, whoever he may be, is not your nephew. Why would he have been hidden for so long, and why would he ally himself with the Golden Company?”

Dany hesitated, knowing the truth in his words. If this boy truly was Rhaegar’s son, why had he remained a secret so long? Who had been hiding him, and why had Dany not heard of him before? Ser Jorah’s warning of the Golden Company also sent a chill down her spine. A sellsword company notorious for its hatred of House Targaryen, yet was now supporting that very line?

What is that old maxim? A sellsword never changes his livery.

That bodes ill.

Dany bit her lip, and made her decision, “This ‘boy’, Ser Jorah, is Aegon of the House Targaryen, my brother’s rightful heir. If we are to parley with him, we must treat him with the respect he deserves. And I will treat with him, because we must work together if we are to make the Seven Kingdoms bend their knees to us.”

Ser Jorah looked as though he would argue, but another look from Dany silenced him. They made their way towards one of the harbours on the rowing boat, with Grey Worm and Arstan in attendance. The Rhoyne’s mouth felt like a sea, so wide it was, and Dany felt the power in the river coursing through her, almost like a supernatural instinct. She was vaguely aware of her dragons swooping far above, and closed her eyes, calling to Drogon.

The black dragon, his wings near twelve feet in diameter, glided down to fly beside them, and Dany felt his presence at the edge of her mind. He was nearly large enough for her to ride. Perhaps she would, by the time they got to Westeros. She smiled to think on looking down at her new kingdom from the skies, a view only a privileged few among even the Targaryens had seen. A tendril of jealousy twisted through her stomach when Dany realised for the first time that she’d have to share that view, with Aegon. She chastised herself, but that didn’t stop the twisting in her stomach as they approached Volantis’ Long Bridge.

Ser Jorah led her to a large tavern, right at the centre of the bridge. The door was adorned with gold leaf, and the insides were painted with friezes depicting dragonriders laying waste to ancient cities, flames of black and gold and red and green flickering from their mounts’ gaping maws. The tavern seemed almost empty, save for a wealthy-looking innkeep. He had a serpent’s smile, and his hair was long and twisted into three plaits.

“The Mother of Dragons,” he addressed her in Bastard Valyrian, one of the dialects of the Free Cities, “You are expected above.”

Dany thanked him, before ascending the stairs. She had little idea what this Aegon would look like, who he would be, what kind of people he had brought into his army. She’d heard tales of the Golden Company from Viserys, and later from Ser Jorah and Arstan Whitebeard. They didn’t sound like the most savoury of companions.

And I walk with Dothraki bloodriders and eunuch soldiers in my company.

I am not one to criticize.

The room above was grandly decorated, with a thick Myrish carpet beneath Dany’s sandals, richly dark paint on the walls and strange framed pictures adorning the walls, portraits, Dany thought they were called. A strange eastern custom rarely transferred to Westeros, Dany nevertheless thought them very beautiful.

In the centre of the room, around a wide, round, mahogany table, sat the man who claimed to be her nephew. Aegon’s hair shone bright as the sun in the warm light of the tavern, his features so perfectly sculpted, he looked almost impossible. His eyes were a shade lighter than hers, iridescent and flickering with a hundred different emotions. He wore a black doublet slashed with red, and black trousers and heavy boots. At his side was a sword with a glimmering ruby in its hilt, and Dany felt a strange longing for that blade.

At Aegon’s side were two men, whom she presumed were the captains of his sellsword company. One, round-bellied and sweaty-faced, did not much look like a conqueror. Dany could smell fear on him, and wondered how Aegon intended to take Westeros with such a man at his side. At Aegon’s right hand stood another, tall, strong-backed, with thinning hair that may once have ben copper. His eyes were dark blue, cold, hard as steel. When they flickered to Aegon, Dany saw in him the same devotion she saw in Ser Jorah.

Aegon rose when he saw her, a queer smile spreading across his face. It was not quite joy, nor was it a sour, cruel smile and Dany could not quite understand it. He stepped forward, but his greetings were overshadowed by the tall man’s shocked cry.

“Ser Barristan?”

Dany frowned, and looked around the room. No one leapt forward, and there was no “Barristan” among their number. She narrowed her eyes.

“I know no Ser Barristan, my lord,” she said coolly, “And I’m sure your… liege has told you about speaking out of turn to a queen?”

The man opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced when Aegon held up a hand. Daenerys’ nephew spoke with a voice like sweetest music, humour dancing in his eyes.

“I am sure Lord Connington meant no offence, sweet aunt,” he informed her, before turning to the man, “Speak, my lord Hand, if you would. Who do you call out for?”

Lord Connington raised a hand, and pointed towards Arstan Whitebeard, “That man there, Your Grace, is Ser Barristan Selmy, one of the greatest knights the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen.”

Dany laughed, “You must be mistaken, my lord,” she explained, “This is Arstan Whitebeard, the squire of a trusted friend.”

“There is no mistake,” Arstan said in a strange, powerful voice. He moved forward, seeming to grow in size and in power as he did so, “I am indeed as he charges me. I am Barristan, knight of House Selmy, of your father’s Kingsguard, of your grandfather’s Kingsguard and – to my shame – Lord Commander of the Usurper’s Kingsguard for fourteen years.” he knelt, drawing his sword, and laying it between Dany and Aegon, “I beg your forgiveness, Your Graces, for my failure to protect your family. For my… my defection to the side of your greatest foe. I failed House Targaryen once. I will not fail it again. I will not fail you again.”

“The Usurper’s Kingsguard?” Lord Connington spat. He addressed Aegon, “Your Grace, do not pardon such a man. Were he as devoted a servant as he claims to be, he would not have turned his white cloak at the Trident. He would have died for you and your father, if he were as loyal as he says.”

“All this talk of loyal men,” Ser Jorah rumbled, “I almost forgot that I was standing in a room with Jon Connington.”

The older lord drew himself up, hand on his scabbard. Beside Dany, Ser Jorah and Grey Worm tensed, ready to fight as soon as necessary. This was escalating far too quickly. It wasn’t supposed to escalate at all.

“Stop it!” Dany and Aegon commanded at the same time.

Reluctantly, the men moved their hands away from their steel. Dany glared at Ser Jorah, mentally chastising him. A vein throbbed in his muscular neck, and he did not meet her gaze. For his part, Aegon had to lay a hand on Lord Connington’s shoulder to prevent the man putting up his blade. He whispered a few words in the man’s ear, and Connington stepped away. Aegon pulled a chair out from the table, and spread his arms wide.

“Please, aunt,” he smiled, “Sit. I hope no offence was caused.”

“None was,” Dany accepted the apology, “And I hope the same.”

Aegon waved the apology away, and sat back at the end of the table. Dany noted that he took the top seat for himself, facing the door, whilst she would have to crane her neck if anyone entered. A cheap ploy, to be sure, but she let it slide. Men did like to play their little games. It would do no good for her to rise to bait that obvious.

“It has come to our attention,” Aegon announced, “that the Seven Kingdoms, whilst not unified politically, are in the strongest position they have been in since before your father was toppled. If we seek to take Westeros, we must factor this into our plans.”

“I am open to your suggestions,” Dany informed him, “I must admit that my brother did little to educate me in the politics of our homeland.”

Aegon smiled, “Fear not, aunt. Westeros will be ours, soon or late. You have your dragons, I have the Golden Company, and together we have a claim stronger than Stannis Baratheon’s will ever be.”

Dany did not respond to that immediately. Suddenly, her palms were sweaty, and her heart was thudding in her throat. She licked her lips with anticipation, and shared a sideways glance with Ser Jorah. His eyes were face was unreadable, implacable as stone, but his eyes betrayed him. As usual, he was worried for her, and, if she did not ask this question, she could not be certain that he would not either. That might open a whole other bag of direwolves, something Dany could definitely do without.

It will have to be asked, one day, Dany decided, better now than when he is safe atop my father’s throne.

“You say our claim,” she spoke cautiously, but she sensed the men in the room tensing, already close to blows for the second time that day. Dany grimaced, but bulled on through, ignoring Aegon’s closed fist, “Yet you have offered no proof of your own legitimacy. Pardon me, nephew,” she added when Lord Connington took a step forward, “but you must understand that I may find it somewhat suspicious that it is only now, after all these years, that you have revealed yourself.”

“You dare?” Connington growled, fist curled, face red with rage, “You dare speak to your king in such a tone?”

“Mind your tongue, Connington,” Jorah’s voice was equally fierce, “Or we’ll have to remove it.”

“Enough!” a whispery voice from the shadows halted both men. Ser Jorah paled, and his hand began to tremble. Connington scowled, and spat out a command.

“Go back to your weaving, Spider.”

A low chuckle came from the other end of the room, and a man emerged from the shadows. Dany could not be sure if he’d been there before, and a horrible memory of the Undying in Qarth swam up in her mind. He was bald as an egg, with shadowy eyes of a dozen colours, then blue, now green, eyes that searched Dany’s very soul. They were eyes that were accustomed to knowing what they were seeing, Dany could tell, and they watched her with a curiosity that unnerved her. She swallowed, and tried speaking again.

“I mean no offence, Aegon,” she told him earnestly, “And I am willing to believe that you are my brother’s son. All I ask is proof to found this belief on. I have my dragons, and the word of an older brother and of the Magister of Pentos. What have you?”

Aegon’s face had darkened at hearing her words, and, at first, she thought he meant to strike her, or else command Lord Connington – and whoever else may be lurking in the shadows – to cut her and her loyal guardians down. He balled his fists, but a sharp look from the bald man served to chasten him. Instead, the last son of Valyria stood, left hand resting on the jewelled pommel of his sword.

“I suppose it is no great surprise that you do not believe me,” Aegon admitted, “After all, you have no good cause to. In your position, I would be just as incredulous. However, I believe I have an artefact that may persuade you of my honest and genuine claim.”

“The object you mentioned in your letter?”

“The very same,” he smiled at her, and it seemed just as genuine as his words, “It was lost many years ago – no-one is quite sure when – and its very nature and history has caused infighting in our family for generations. However, with it, the Seven Kingdoms will be assured of m– of our – legitimacy.”

Dany realised her stomach was twisting with strange anxiety. Her eyes locked with Aegon’s, the pure lilac pushing against the soft indigo. He seemed to be enjoying the power his obscurity was giving him, and Dany found herself having to admit this defeat.

Just this one, mind.

“What is this ‘artefact’ of which you speak, my lord?” she asked through gritted teeth.

Aegon smiled once more, and drew his sword from its scabbard. The hand-and-a-half sword almost sang as it tasted the air, a note so pure and high, Dany felt it in her bones. The smoky steel cast glimmering shadows across the room, and, beside her, Barristan Selmy took in a sharp breath. The shimmering light of the sword danced across Aegon’s face, making him look half a ghoul, and he uttered a single word.

“Blackfyre.”

Chapter Text

JON

Snow was falling outside, thick and fast. Soon, the world would be covered, as if under a great white sheet, and the lands of Westeros would be cold for years to come. People were already freezing, both beyond the great Wall of ice at the edge of the world, and behind it, in the lands of the Seven Kingdoms.

Two kingdoms, now.

Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, sat in his solar, overseeing a meeting that had stretched on far too long. In his black leathers and mantle, he looked far older than his seventeen years, and the dark beard that had grown on his chin only served to remind him how much a Stark he looked. Every time he looked onto the sheet of polished bronze in the Lord Commander’s – in his – bedchamber, Eddard Stark stared out at him. Jon wasn’t sure how much longer he could take that.

Eddard Stark’s true heir sat at the other end of the table. The King in the North did not wear his crown today, but a bearskin cloak clasped with twin leaping direwolves and his riding leathers. Jon would have found it hard to imagine his half-brother wearing the fine robes and silks of a southern king, and so did his best not to. They were joined by Castle Black’s Maester Aemon, one of the oldest men in the Seven Kingdoms, having seen a hundred years pass. Blind with age, Aemon was aided by Samwell Tarly, formerly heir to Horn Hill, and Jon’s closest friend.

“I will not accept.”

Robb Stark’s hand had curled into a fist at Maester Aemon’s suggestion. His eyes were flinty, and his face had darkened with anger.

“My King,” Aemon dipped his ancient head, “the wildlings must go somewhere.”

“But the Gift?” Robb shook his head in disbelief, “That is too much to ask. My lords will string me up.”

“Would those be the lords that named you king?”

“Aye, and the ones that can un-name me just as quick,” Robb growled, “They won’t stand for this.”

“Where else will they go then?” Aemon asked, a queer little smile on his face.

“Back from whence they came!” the King declared, “That’s what we’ve done before, isn’t it?”

Aemon chuckled, “And look how well that’s worked.”

Robb shot him a look, and Jon thought it best to intervene. Robb may have been King in the North, and the reason why the Wall was still standing, having forced Mance Rayder’s hand into surrender, but it was Jon, not Robb, who commanded the Wall.

“The free folk came south for a reason,” Jon told the table, “They’ll not go back without a fight.”

Robb snorted, “Then where are they? You say that a hundred thousand wildlings came south under Rayder’s banner, yet there are fewer than half that even in view of the Wall. Whither did they go, if not back north?”

He has me.

Jon knew that the free folk would not trade their lives for passage through the Wall, terrified though they were. He supposed that they were being led by someone like Tormund Giantsbane or one of the Thenns in Mance’s absence. Jon had little idea how he was going to bargain with people like that. His only hope was to get one of the other free folk to set up a meeting, but that wasn’t like to happen either. It wasn’t just the black brothers who saw him as a traitor now. The free folk would not take kindly to his lies.

“The free folk aren’t fools,” Jon replied, choosing his words carefully, “They have long memories. They remember the last time they came south, the last time a Stark slaughtered them with a host of Northmen. They’re wary, Robb, and we have to show them that we want to end this war.”

“Aye, and we’ve done that by breaking them.”

“We have to let them through.”

Robb, who had stood to emphasise his point, turned suddenly, wheeling on the plump figure of Samwell Tarly, who quailed under the king’s gaze. For his part, Jon smiled, relieved that Sam had taken his side. Sam, a veteran of the Fist of the First Men, would be able to persuade Robb to the plights of the free folk better than Jon ever could. Sam nervously looked at Jon, who nodded reassuringly. Sam seemed to take heart at that, and spoke in a tremulous voice.

“They can’t go back north, Your Grace,” Sam told the king, “There are dark forces at work Beyond the Wall, creatures rising that we haven’t seen for thousands of years.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Others, Your Grace,” Sam said it so matter-of-factly that Jon had no trouble believing him, “Others and wights. I saw them at the Fist of the First Men, I saw them cut down our brothers like a farmer cuts wheat.”

Robb snorted, and Jon stood, desperate to prove his case to his brother, “Robb, we went north with a thousand men, now we have fewer than three hundred. Hardened men of the Watch were slain by the dozen; this isn’t just about our morals, it’s about survival.”

The King in the North wheeled on Jon, his eyes flinty. Even growing up, Robb and Jon had never bickered extensively; Jon had fought more with Theon as they grew to manhood far more than he had with Robb when they were small. But now, for perhaps the first time ever, Jon saw his trueborn brother’s fury. And he was determined not to let it cow him.

“I can’t go to my lords with this, Lord Commander,” Robb growled, “They won’t allow wildlings to settle in the Gift.”

“It’s not your land to allow –”

“But it is your responsibility to keep wildlings beyond the Wall, not behind it –”

“NO!”

Robb seemed to falter at Jon’s harsh tone, even before Jon realised that he’d shouted. His hands on the table had curled into fists, and Jon later remembered that he’d slammed his palm down on the table, causing Sam to squeak in fright. Robb was breathing heavily, his eyes flashing with barely contained rage. Biting his tongue, Jon sat down. If this unpleasantness carried on, he’d lose the ability to bargain with Robb forever. He needed his brother to be friendly to the south, and that was something he’d always taken for granted.

We can’t quarrel like foolish children, he chided himself, we must work together.

“Your Grace,” Jon swallowed his frustration, “I apologise for my short temper. But I implore you to see reason, Robb. We have to allow the free folk through, otherwise the Others will only grow stronger.”

Opening his mouth to argue further, Robb was instead stopped by the cracked, aging voice of Maester Aemon. The wizened old man, who had kept quiet throughout Robb and Jon’s bickering, raised his head from the yellowing parchment he had been reading, and began to speak.

“Your father, Lord Stark, knew the dire situation of the Night’s Watch,” the maester told them, “He knew that the Gift was turning to fallow, and that the farmers were moving south, in search of better soil, and he wanted a solution. Your predecessor,” he nodded towards Jon, “also wanted a solution. And I believe we have just arrived at one.”

“How is this a solution?” Robb did not look away from Jon.

“With the folk from Beyond the Wall tilling the fields of the Gift, the Watch need not rely on the generosity of Winterfell – nor from any lord of Westeros – for sustenance during these long winters,” Aemon explained, “The wildlings will be safe from whatever troubles them, the Watch will have food, and the North will be freed from a burden on its stores.”

Robb turned on his heel, and began to pace. Jon poured himself a cup of bitter wine; looking after the Watch was harder than it sounded at first. Every day he received ravens from across the Wall, telling him that this bit’s fallen over, or that castle needs some maintenance, and half a hundred other, more useless bits of information besides. He didn’t particularly care that Cotter Pyke was going to be sending another hundred men to Castle Black in three weeks, other than that he knew he needed the men.

His mind turned once more to the question of how he was going to speak to the wildlings, before it suddenly occurred to him; Val. The girl was close to Mance, and so she’d likely been close to Tormund. Besides, as a spearwife, he knew that she’d be able to survive in the frozen wilds Beyond the Wall. The fair maiden – though no maiden at all, if she was to be believed – was as wily as she was comely, with a sharp wit sparkling in her pale grey eyes. He may lose favour with some of the Watch, but he’d sooner that than allow people to starve.

Finally, Robb turned on his heel, and faced the three black brothers, “My lord father was one of the wisest men that I have ever known, and I never knew him to act in an unjust manner. If you will forgive me, Lord Commander, Maester, I have allowed my temper and fear to cloud my sense of justice. I shall put your solution to the lords of the North, and shall ensure their co-operation.”

“You have my thanks, Your Grace,” Jon replied, allowing a smile to brighten his face.

With that, Sam took Maester Aemon from Jon’s chambers, to bring the old man to a fire and make him his midday meal. Jon closed the door and re-filled his cup of ale, and offered to do the same for Robb, but the King in the North shook his head.

“I’ve probably had enough for now,” he smiled, adding: “and the Greatjon’s bound to try and get me drunk tonight.”

Jon laughed, “When do you ride?”

“Tomorrow,” came the answer, “I must get back to Winterfell before the snows get too bad to travel.”

Jon nodded; he knew better than most the dangers of travelling with hungry troops through treacherous snows. His time Beyond the Wall with the wildlings had taught him that. Unbidden, a memory of red hair and the smell of fresh snowfall swam up in his memory. Jon’s hand twitched, and he pushed Ygritte from his mind.

Not now, he told himself, I’ve mourned. Now I have work to do.

It had been nearly a week since Ygritte died; a week of non-stop battle, blood and bereavement. And not just on the part of the Night’s Watch; the free folk had lost hundreds if not thousands in the attack on the Wall, and dozens more during Robb’s attack the very next day. Those that were left were likely in abject terror of the King in the North. That wouldn’t make the negotiations easy.

Robb’s presence had, admittedly, been more of a reassurance than it had been a pain. The two men had mourned their father together, as well as Uncle Benjen, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont and Robb’s mother, Catelyn. After Jon had worked up the courage to tell Robb about Ygritte, and after a few disbelieving questions, they’d mourned her as well.

“Then we’ll feast tonight,” Jon decided, pushing the pain of loss from his mind, “To celebrate our great victory.”

“Can your stores handle a feast? I don’t want to inconvenience you –”

“With the realm at peace, I’m sure we can manage,” Jon assured his brother, “I assume you’ve much work to do at Winterfell?”

Robb nodded slowly, “Theon’s stay there did little damage, but I must establish my kingdom. I’ve sent ravens to bid men come and serve as my councillors; the Greatjon, Uncle Brynden, Lords Manderly and Reed chief amongst them. Winning was easy, but I fear that ruling will be harder.”

“A challenge you’ll be more than up to,” Jon smiled, “Father trained you well.”

“Aye, I’m sure he did.”

With that, the two brothers sat in silence, enjoying each other’s company for what may have been the first time in years. And, Jon reflected, it might well be the last time for a long while to come.

Chapter Text

SANSA

The sunlight poured through the high windows like molten gold, splashing across the floor and illuminating the room far better than candlelight ever could. The light was shared all around by the glimmering green tapestries that lined every wall, as well as the Braavosi mirrors that Lord Mace's grandfather had brought with him after a tour of the Free Cities many years ago.

It was into one of these mirrors that Sansa was looking into now, half a dozen handmaids busying themselves with this newest dress that they were trying out on her. The skirts and sleeves were made of silk so light it felt like she was wearing clouds, and the bodice was made of crushed velvet embroidered with silver twinned wolves. The Queen of Thorns had suggested – rather forcefully, in Sansa's opinion – that the dress be made in emerald and silver silks, to signify the joining of two Houses. As far as Sansa was aware, however, Willas would be wearing the green and gold of his own House.

"How is this, my Lady?" one of the handmaids who had accompanied her from King's Landing asked, tightening Sansa's dress.

"As snug as it needs to be, Greta," Sansa answered, "Though I think the fabric could be more reflective of my ancestry. Have we any blue?"

"Lady Olenna was very specific, my Lady," replied Maggy, an older, and more severe, handmaiden, appointed to Sansa by the Tyrell matriarch, "Green and silver only."

Sansa smiled sweetly, "My mother is – was – a Tully of Riverrun, and my lord uncle Edmure Tully will surely be in attendance. I do not wish to slight a House as important to me as my betrothed's or mine own. Surely we can look for a little blue for the dress?"

Maggy pursed her lips, but obeyed Sansa's request, if a little stiffly. She found a cerulean sash, and pinned it across Sansa's front. Sansa narrowed her eyes, still more than a little peeved that she had to wear the colours of a House that was not hers on her own wedding day.

When she was a little girl, her head filled with silly songs about chivalrous knights, handsome princes and distressed damsels, she wouldn't have cared what dress she'd gotten married in, so long as it was beautiful and she was marrying a beautiful lord; preferably the King's handsome, brave and gentle son. Even when she was betrothed to Joffrey, she would gladly have gotten married in red and gold if it meant being with him. But that was before, and now was now. Now, Sansa was a wolf, within and without. She would not have her claws plucked by anyone, least of all a shrivelled crone.

I am a daughter of Winterfell, she reminded herself, and these soft southern flowers had better not forget it.

"And perhaps a little red?" Sansa asked, measuring just the right amount of honey into her voice, "Blue and red look so beautiful together, wouldn't you say?"

"But red and green do not, my lady," Maggy replied firmly, and Sansa grimaced. The older maid was proving to be far more difficult to move than any had before. Sansa supposed that she'd have to either earn her respect or find a way of getting rid of her, and she was beginning to realise why Cersei Lannister had had a vehement hatred of all handmaids.

"Let's at least try it."

Maggy set to the job, and Sansa pretended not to hear her grumbling. She didn't really want to get into an argument with her new handmaid, especially seeing as she was going to remain in Highgarden for the rest of her life, and she was probably stuck with Maggy. However, she wasn't entirely convinced that the woman wasn't spying on her, and Sansa hated the idea that the Queen of Thorns knew exactly what was going on in Sansa's life. She supposed it just proved everything that she'd learned in King's Landing; never trust anyone, because they're always out to get your secrets and use them to destroy you.

A soft knock on the door interrupted Sansa's thoughts. She frowned, and looked at her King's Landing handmaid, asking her to check the door. The handmaid, Greta, her name was, came back with a funny look on her face, a look of concern.

"Lord Willas to see you, my Princess."

"Tell him that I'll see him in a few minutes, I've just got to get changed," Sansa turned to Maggy, "I'm sure that this dress will be acceptable, thank you Maggy."

"As you say, my Lady."

With the aid of her handmaids, Sansa undressed and readied herself to meet her betrothed. After taking off her wedding dress – her heart still flipped to think that she would be getting married in a little over a moon's turn – and turned to select a dress to wear for meeting Willas. Like as not, he would be taking her out for a walk in the gardens, as he had been promising to do since her arrival at Highgarden. He'd always been prevented, what with learning to run the second-largest region in Westeros, and being called away to sit in on his father's meetings. But he could not have found a better day to be free; the sun was still warm, despite the autumn breeze in the air, and there was not a cloud to be seen.

Sansa picked out an austere-looking dress slashed with red, blue and silver, a dress that had been made for her shortly after her departure from King's Landing. It had been strange, having new dresses for the first time in what felt like forever; she certainly hadn't been able to wear anything this fine during her time under Joffrey's cruel thumb, though she wouldn't have wanted to anyway; it would only have left her open to more of his cruel japes.

She opened the door, and was greeted by the smiling face of her betrothed. Willas stood tall despite the wooden cane between his fingers, and his eyes were warm and comforting. His beard had grown a little longer since Sansa's arrival, and she briefly - and scandalously - wondered what it would be like to play with the hairs. Today, Willas wore a fine green doublet inlaid with gold stars. His face broadened into a smile when he saw her.

"Sansa," he said when she opened the door, "Forgive me if I'm intruding –"

"You aren't, my lord," Sansa assured him, "We were just finishing off. Thank you, ladies."

Maggy and Greta left with a curtsy and a "my lady" each, and Sansa was left with her betrothed. Ser Wendel Manderly was in the corridor, but Sansa knew him to be tactful enough to pretend that he couldn't hear what they were saying. The Manderly knight had been a boon to Sansa in this new place; a man she knew to be loyal to her and her alone.

When they were alone, the Tyrell heir said, "Please call me Willas, Sansa. We are to be married, after all."

"We are indeed," Sansa echoed, "Willas. What did you have in mind for today?"

"A ride?"

Sansa looked sceptically at her betrothed, and he laughed, and added, indicating with his cane, "I'll walk, if you think that's best. Not even married and you're looking after me. Come on, let's pick you out a horse."

She looked to Ser Wendel, and the fat knight nodded his assent. He had a strong destrier in the stables, a mount which he exercised regularly in the fields around Highgarden. He'd follow them, make sure that Sansa was safe, even though she was beginning to doubt that Willas meant her harm. His grandmother may wish to stifle Sansa's Stark roots, but she hoped that Willas wasn't involved in any of that.

"I'm not a confident rider," she told him as they walked down the stairs to the stable.

Willas laughed, "That makes two of us, my dear."

Sansa smiled, and soon they were in the stables. Willas asked one of the stablehands to find Sansa a horse, and the lad brought out a strong-looking grey charger. In no time at all, the horse was saddled and Sansa was riding him out into the courtyard. She hadn't ridden anywhere since Winterfell, and she suddenly realised that she'd missed riding, though she'd never remembered enjoying it quite this much. Arya had always been the rider, like Jon, Robb and Theon, and Sansa had been left behind at Winterfell with her sewing. She'd always thought it had been because horses were dirty animals, and riding was rough and uncomfortable, but she was beginning to realise that she hadn't liked it because she hadn't been good at it like she was good at other things. Maybe Highgarden was a good place to learn how to be better at riding. Maybe Highgarden was a good place to learn how to be better at many things.

She trotted nervously to a stop by the stable door, where Willas had hobbled out, leaning on his cane for support. His face lit up to see his betrothed on the horse, and Sansa felt a flutter in her tummy when she saw that he was happy for her. As she stopped the horse near to him, she studied his face for any guile, any hint of the lies the game of thrones forced out in people. She saw none.

"How are you going to come with me?" Sansa asked sheepishly, a smile spreading across her face.

"I've a wheelhouse that I can take," Willas answered swiftly, "We won't get quite as far, but that's alright. I just wanted to show you the Mander."

"Perhaps we could take a walk too," the words escaped Sansa before she even thought them, "so that we can be alone?"

Now it was Willas' turn to smile, "I think that's an excellent idea."

And so they rode. Sansa rode out ahead, with the rolling fields of the Reach all around and wide waters of the Mander ahead. Beneath her, she felt the coursing power of the horse as if it were her own, felt the horse's muscles rippling between her legs as they rode across the unending landscape. She surprised herself at how quickly she got used to this new horse, almost feeling its muscles as her own. She rode far faster than Willas' wheelhouse, though she always turned back to meet back up with him when she was out of sight for too long.

After a little while, Ser Wendel rode up beside her, his warhorse panting under his girth. The Manderly knight had a grin on his face, as was his custom, but he looked very much more alive than Sansa had seen him for a long while. He wore a tabard emblazoned with the merman of his House, and a cloak of green flowed from his shoulders.

"Ser Wendel, you came!" Sansa was thrilled to see him.

"Absolutely, my Princess," Ser Wendel replied, "I'm honour bound to remain by your side, though I must thank you for choosing such a delightful path to ride along today."

"You were a part of my brother's guard, weren't you?"

"Aye, that I was." Ser Wendel's voice turned suddenly grave, "I fought with King Robb at Oxcross, at the Camps, and at King's Landing. I was by his side when he was declared a king, and when he took Casterly Rock. Your brother is a great man, my Princess, a man well-deserving of my loyalty. As, I'm sure, you are."

Sansa smiled, "I thank you for your loyalty to my House, dear knight. If the other men of Manderly are half as loyal as you, then my brother has a fine vassal in Lord Wyman."

The Northern knight swelled proudly at Sansa's words, his jowls quivering with great dignity. They chatted a little more as they rode, Sansa telling him of the beauties of the South, and Ser Wendel awing the princess with tales of his and other's valour in battles gone by. Ser Wendel was much better company than Sansa had expected, and he was far, far better company than her old friends, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, and a welcome presence here in this land of strangers.

They came to a ford, and one of Willas' footmen came to bid them halt. The heir to Highgarden stepped out from his wheelhouse, cane in hand, and smiled to see his betrothed atop her horse. He looked very dashing in the sunlight, so much so that Sansa forgot his crippled leg. She frowned, and then chided herself for being so childish; Willas had a good heart, and that meant more than a fair face or strong legs.

Sansa walked over to him, and instinctively took a hold of his elbow to help him down the steps. Willas smiled at her gratefully, and hobbled to the water's edge, sitting down just a few feet away. He waved a servant over, and the other man brought a wicker basket and blanket.

"Thank you. The Princess Sansa and I shall stay here alone, please," Willas turned to her, "I had a word with my sister, and she told me that these were your favourite."

He unclasped the latch on the wicker basket, and took out a familiar looking pastry. Sansa beamed;

"Lemon cakes!"

Willas handed the cake over, and Sansa took it eagerly, savouring the taste. She hadn't had lemon cakes since that meeting with the Queen of Thorns and Margaery when she was at King's Landing, what with being imprisoned by the Lannisters, and then the whirlwind of activity once Robb had taken the city. For once, Sansa didn't feel self-conscious tucking into the delicious treat.

After a moment, she looked up, and saw that Willas was smiling strangely. "What?"

The Tyrell man blushed, "I – er – nothing. You have a bit of lemon on your lip."

Sansa's stomach did a flip, and she quickly wiped at her mouth, her cheeks colouring instantly. Gods, she thought, the one time I forget to act a lady with my food…

"You don't need to…" Willas trailed off, before rubbing his chin, "Never mind. You look..." he hesitated,"nice today, Sansa."

"So do you, my lo – Willas."

She didn't know why, but, even though she'd wiped away the lemon, Sansa's cheeks were still burning. Willas' brown eyes seemed almost golden in the reflected light of the sun, and she saw in him a handsomeness that – strangely – exceeded the golden good looks of Jaime Lannister or the unearthly beauty of Ser Loras. He was no pretty boy, as the Knight of Flowers was. Willas was a man, and a comely one at that.

Suddenly, Willas coughed and looked away, and Sansa's heart sank a little.

Gods be good, she said to herself, I'm falling for him, aren't I?

As it turned out, they spent the rest of the day by the ford, talking and learning about each other. Willas told Sansa with glee of his hawking, and all about the different birds he kept in the rookery at Highgarden; the ones he took hunting as well as the more exotic ones he kept as pets. In return, Sansa told him tales of the North; she told him about Winterfell, how the summer snows allowed the Stark children to have snow fights – though Sansa herself never joined them – and about the stories her father told the children before bed on stormy nights, on the few occasions when they weren't terrified by Old Nan's tales.

"Sansa," Willas said, when the sun began to dip, "I hear from my sister that a song from your lips sounds more beautiful than any other. Would you do me the honour of singing me a song of the North?"

"I – the Northmen are not known for their songs of love, Willas," Sansa protested.

But the Tyrell man only smiled, "Then sing me a song of joy, or sadness, or loss, or rage, or fear. Sing me a song from your homeland, Sansa. Let me understand it, as I hope to understand you."

Sansa thought a moment, trying to collect the words in her memory. The bard had sung the song she was thinking of at King Robert's feast in Winterfell, back before all the horrors had begun. It was not a song familiar to her, yet it was one that unmistakably reminded her of the North. She sung the first note, cold and clear as the lands of her home.

"Ooooooh, I am the last of the giants,

my people are gone from the earth.

The last of the great mountain giants,

who ruled all the world at my birth.

Oh the smallfolk have stolen my forests,

they've stolen my rivers and hills.

And the've built a great wall through my valleys,

and fished all the fish from my rills.

In stone halls they burn their great fires,

in stone halls they forge their sharp spears.

Whilst I walk alone in the mountains,

with no true companion but tears.

They hunt me with dogs in the daylight,

they hunt me with torches by night.

For these men who are small can never stand tall,

whilst giants still walk in the light.

Oooooooh, I am the LAST of the giants,

so learn well the words of my song.

For when I am gone the singing will fade,

and the silence shall last long and long."

Chapter Text

BRAN

He was back in the forest.

The broken boy had come here a dozen times in as many nights, yet the place still felt strange to him. Snow swirled and the wind howled, and he got the impression that, were he really here, he would have frozen to death by now. Yet some warm force inside his chest protected him, forced the cold and the dark away from his broken body.

"Welcome, Brandon Stark."

He turned, his scream catching in his throat. The broken boy had not expected anyone else; the last few times he'd been here, he'd been alone. Now, standing a few paces from him, was a dark figure, clad all in black, like a ranger of the Night's Watch. A sword glimmered in the gloaming, wisps of steam issuing from where snow touched the blade. The ranger shimmered with some kind of… power, there was no other word for it. The broken boy narrowed his eyes, and suddenly the ranger was blinding, a torrent of fire and death. The boy fell back, and the image was gone.

"Who are you?" His words came out high and scared, and he hated his broken, child's body even more for it.

"No one," came the reply, "My name was surrendered long ago. I am a watcher here, and that is the sum of my nature. It is you that they have been waiting for."

"Who?"

There was a pause, and the broken boy suddenly saw that no mist issued from the ranger's mouth. He stood unnaturally still, though perhaps any small movement was smothered beneath layers of furs. The broken boy tried to peer beneath the hood, but it was too dark in the forest to see anything.

"The children."

The words came unhurried from the ranger's mouth, and yet their very invocation caused a wind to rustle the leaves around them. At least, that's what it might have been, the broken boy couldn't be sure whether the wind had been unbidden, or whether the ranger had summoned it. His mind whirled at the prospect of these words though.

The children? He thought, The children of the forest are here?

"Impossible!" he uttered in a small voice, though anything seemed possible here, "They're just stories!"

"But were do stories come from, boy," the ranger asked, "if not from the truth?"

With those words, he strode towards the broken boy, sheathing his sword. Effortlessly, the boy was lifted up, and carried like a sack of potatoes deeper into the forest. The ranger walked for what felt like hours, though it was impossible to tell time in this place. They could well have only moved half a hundred feet. Eventually, however, the boy was put down, his back against a tree stump. He looked around with eyes that glowed blue in the night, and unblinking jade eyes dotted the forest around him. Eyes that seemed so, so old.

"H-hello?" the boy stuttered, failing to swallow his fear, "Why am I here?"

"It is your destiny," a thousand voices and one whispered like thunder in his ears, "The North remembers, prince, and it needs you."

"Why me?"

"It is not for us to understand the will of the old gods, prince," the voices told him, "only to act on it. You must come north, Brandon Stark. You must hurry."

Suddenly, the ground disappeared, and the broken boy was falling, falling, falling…

…and then he was in his bed, weak sunlight trying to force its way into his room. And he was screaming.

Maester Luwin burst into the room, and then Bran was speaking, but the words were coming out so fast he could barely hear them himself. He reminded himself that Maester Luwin was an old man, and probably couldn't hear Bran for all of his panting, and so stopped, slowed down, and started again.

"Maester Luwin," Bran panted, "I saw the children, in a dream, I saw them, they spoke to me!"

"What children, Bran?" Luwin asked absently, as he checked Bran's legs for any problems that the boy's thrashing might have caused.

"The children of the forest!" Bran explained, "I was somewhere cold, maybe somewhere beyond the Wall, but it was definitely a forest, and the children were there, and so was a ranger, and they told me to go north, that I had to hurry…"

"Slow down, Brandon," Luwin implored him sharply, "You do know the children of the forest aren't real, don't you? You do know they're just a story?"

"But I saw them –"

"Enough." Luwin cut him off abruptly and stood up from the bed, "I'll not have you entertain these fantasies any longer, Bran. Your brother is still at war, and the North needs you to rule it. It's unacceptable for you to believe these children's stories."

"Can't Robb's councillors run the North whilst he's gone?" Bran asked in a small voice. He knew the answer even before Luwin spoke.

"You are a Stark and it is your duty to serve the North whilst the King is gone. I shouldn't have to remind you of that."

With these words, Luwin swept from the room, a dark expression on his face. Something must have been about with the castle, perhaps some administrative matter than Bran had not the patience for. But Lord Manderly, Robb's new chancellor, had come in the night a bare few days ago, and with him much gold and expertise from White Harbour. He had begun drawing up a list of potential advisors for Robb, with the aid of Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik. Bran could hardly believe that Robb would soon be back and be ruling. He wondered if his brother would be able to do the job.

The shambling figure of Hodor darkened the doorstep, and huge hands suddenly lifted Bran out of bed. Hodor's soft brown eyes looked at Bran with concern, as if he was trying to express something that his slow mind couldn't put into words. Then, it was gone, and the blankness was back in the big lad's eyes.

Bran was taken down to the Great Hall, where breakfast had been prepared. Many of the swiftly growing highborn population of Winterfell were already there, and Bran had to endure the shame of others seeing him being carried around like the cripple he was. Their eyes burned into him, even as they pretended not to stare, and Bran stared back miserably.

Stupid legs.

The only one who didn't stare was Arya, but that was because she was focussed somewhere else; the young Stark daughter talked animatedly with Meera Reed, with the older girl likely telling the younger tales of the bogs that surrounded her home. Few in Winterfell liked the Reeds, and fewer still trusted them, but Bran hoped that the Starks would be able to change that. Both Jojen and Meera, as well as their mysterious father, Lord Howland, were kind and gentle souls, and deserved none of the hatred and fear aimed their way. Besides, Bran felt that he could learn more about his greensight from the Lord of Greywater Watch.

In the second place on the dais sat Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's aging master-at-arms, with his side-whiskers and leather armour. Ser Rodrik had been named Castellan of Winterfell in Robb's absence, and was a favourite to serve as his king's Master of War. Beside the stern Ser Rodrik was the expansive Lord Wyman Manderly, one of House Stark's most leal and wealthy vassals. Lord Wyman had sent two sons to fight in the South, the younger of whom was now serving as Sansa's guard in Highgarden. Lord Wyman was a man who baffled Bran, with a keen mind in private but a fool's mouth in public. It was with his fool's mouth that he greeted Bran to the Great Hall.

"My Prince of Winterfell!" Lord Manderly cried, "I trust you slept well?"

Bran caught Luwin's eye, and the old maester shook his head. Bran understood his meaning; these people are not to know of your dreams.

"Peacefully, my Lord of Manderly," Bran replied swiftly, "Though there was a hint of draught in my room last night. Winter is coming on in earnest, it seems."

"The prince speaks the truth," Howland Reed said in his soft voice, "Autumn will last only a few months more, and we must prepare for a long winter."

"And so we shall," Manderly declared, "But for now, we break our fast on the good food the gods have granted us. To the Prince! To the King! To the North!"

"To the North!"

All in the Great Hall raised a cup, and drank deeply from it. None raised theirs higher, nor drank more deeply, than the fat Lord of White Harbour, who then tucked into his sausages with glee. Bran had the fleeting impression, and not for the first time, that Manderly was hiding something. He had no idea what it could be, but Bran found that he could not bring himself to trust the fat man sitting at the other end of the table.

A hush suddenly fell over the assembled Northmen as the door that Bran had just come through opened up again. This time, however, Lord Manderly would not offer a warm greeting. None would. Robb's newest ward, the bastard son of Cersei Lannister and her brother, the Kingslayer, walked up the hall, his pudgy fingers clutching nervously at nothing. Tommen Waters looked less a lion and more a kitten before the hard stares of the Northmen who'd lost sons, brothers and fathers to Tywin Lannister's armies. Bran had liked Tommen when the boy had visited Winterfell, though found it hard to reconcile his pity for the boy with his hatred for the Lannister family.

As he often was in meetings, Lord Manderly was first to speak, his tone laced with venom, "Good morrow, boy."

"Good morrow, L-Lord Manderly." Tommen stuttered, and Bran felt a curious feeling of sympathy for the shivering boy. He dipped his golden head in Bran's direction, "Good morning, my Prince."

Bran replied graciously: "Good morning, Tommen. You are a little later today than yesterday."

The boy winced, "Y-yes, my Prince. I was praying."

These words caused a harsh bark of laughter to rise up from Ser Rodrik; "Praying to the false Seven of the South, boy? The gods your parents forsook when –"

"Ser Rodrik, that's enough." Howland Reed suddenly spoke up sharply, iron in his voice, "Tommen is a guest here, and he will be accorded the respect a boy of his birth should be," he then turned to the boy in question, "Tommen, sit down. Someone will bring you some food."

Close to tears, the poor lad practically ran to his chair. Bran heard Arya laugh cruelly, and then a growl from the Hound behind her. He shrank back in his own chair, somehow ashamed that he didn't speak up in Tommen's defence. But then he saw the boy, and knew that, had their positions been reversed, had Bran been a prisoner in Joffrey's court, as Sansa had been, had Bran been beholden to Joffrey's cruel will, Tommen would not have dared speak up. He would have stayed a cowardly and silent as I did.

The meeting that morning was short, and Bran wondered for the hundredth time why Robb hadn't just appointed Lords Manderly and Reed as regents, seeing as they knew how to rule. It would give Bran more time to learn how to warg, how to control his wolf and his dreams. He wasn't sure what any of them meant, but he did know that he'd need to control them, when the time came. Whatever time that might be.

The end to the meeting couldn't come soon enough, and soon Bran found himself asking Hodor to take him to the godswood. It was rare for Bran to be alone these days, but the godswood was the only place where the Northmen would respect his privacy. He felt ashamed, but sometimes all that Bran wanted in the whole world was for things to go back to how they were, and for people to stop bowing every time they saw him.

Unfortunately, it looked as though he wouldn't be alone today.

For, kneeling slightly nervously before the stern face carved into the weirwood bark, was the golden-headed figure of Tommen Waters. Bran placed his hand on Hodor's shoulder, and the big boy stopped, sensing Bran's caution without a word being exchanged.

"Hodor," Hodor whimpered, more than a little confused, and Bran shushed him.

But it was too late. Tommen turned around, and looked at Bran sitting atop Hodor's shoulders in his basket. His face was red and his cheeks streaked with tear tracks. His green eyes widened upon seeing Bran, and he stood, then remembered, and knelt.

"My apologies, my prince," he mumbled, "I was just…"

"What were you doing?" Bran asked, trying to sound like Father, but probably failing. He was more curious than angry, after all.

"I… I wanted to be alone," Tommen started, "And there's no sept, so I didn't know where else to go and pray."

"There's a sept in the Old Keep," Bran told him, "It was put in when my mother came north. I'll show it to you, if you want."

Tommen hung his head, and mumbled something. When Bran didn't reply, he said it again, a little louder; "They're my family's gods, and I'm not supposed to be a part of my family anymore, am I? I'm a bastard."

"My brother Jon is a bastard," Bran told him, "But he's still my brother. He's still a Stark to me and Robb and to all of our family. Maybe it'll be the same for you one day."

"Maybe." Tommen didn't sound convinced. He took another look at the heart tree, and then back at Bran. His eyes were still wide, and looked as though they would run with tears before long. Bran felt a stab of pity for the poor bastard boy, and asked Hodor to take him to a tall rock near the weirwood.

As Bran sat against the rock, Tommen sat down also, looking carefully for some grass to perch on, trying not to dirty his fine clothes. Finer clothes than Jon ever wore, Bran thought, even though that was probably a bit unfair. Tommen used to be a prince, and Jon had always been a bastard, after all. Even that felt unfair.

"You don't have to be here, Bran," Tommen said after a moment, in a small voice, "Not after all the things Joff… that my family did to yours down in the south."

Bran opened his mouth, but no words came to his lips. He had wanted to say that he shouldn't be there, because the other Northmen would disapprove, because it felt like betraying Father to be speaking to a Lannister – even a bastard Lannister – in the sight of the old gods, because Tommen was the enemy not too long ago. But Bran suddenly found that he couldn't speak. Instead, he reached a tentative hand forward and placed it on Tommen's shoulder. The blond boy jerked, and looked at Bran with surprised emerald eyes.

"Winterfell is your home now, Tommen," Bran told the younger boy, "And it doesn't matter where you come from or who your family was. What matters is you, and what you choose to do. You're here to foster good links between Stark and Lannister, so that Robb can build his kingdom on a strong foundation," the words came to him from what Maester Luwin had said upon Tommen's arrival, "but you are also here as a guest. My brothers became friends with Theon Greyjoy, another ward in our castle. Maybe the two of us can be friends just like they were."

"I'd like that," Tommen said, his voice more confident now.

"Good. I'll leave you to pray."

Bran called for Hodor, who came shuffling into the clearing once more. As he was carried out, Bran could have sworn that he heard a small voice saying "Thank you, my prince."

Chapter Text

JAIME

“Traitor!”

The harpy’s voice pierced through the darkness, and suddenly he was at Casterly Rock. High above him, the eaves shone with golden light, and golden statues of lions came alive, prowling the walls like the beasts whose image they were carved in. Scarlet tapestries hung from every wall, the leaping lion of Lannister everywhere he looked. Jaime put his hands to his head and screamed.

“Traitor!”

Again the voice. Jaime wheeled around, grasping for a sword that wasn’t there. Before him stood Cersei, rags of her golden dress hanging off her otherwise naked body. Her emerald eyes – eyes that had once been so beautiful to him – were blazing with unholy fire, and her hair was too bright to look at. She frothed at the mouth and leapt at him. They tumbled head over heels, Cersei scratching and biting, Jaime screaming and crying.

Then he was alone again, and the gashes caused by Cersei’s talons wept tears as red as the tapestries. He was on his knees, breathing heavily, blood trickling down his chest.

“Don’t look down, it makes you subservient.”

“No!”

At that voice, that old ghost, Jaime wanted to curl up and never wake again, never never see the light of day again. An iron-strong hand grabbed him by the throat and hoisted him forcefully to his feet, and then he was looking into the gold-flecked eyes of Tywin Lannister. But, where once those eyes may have held pride – oh so many years ago – or even an acknowledgement of family, they showed only hatred now.

“You are a lion, my son,” Tywin snarled, “And yet you are chained.”

Jaime wanted to scream, yet he knew that would make this worse. He wanted to tell his father that he had tried to escape, tried to run many, many times, but Tywin Lannister would never listen to such drivel. Lannisters do not run, he would say, Lannisters do not escape, they fight, they fight until their flesh be hacked from their bones.

“Traitor!”

Again, Cersei’s shade came to torment him, this time clutching at the worm-lipped son they had made together, his eyes full of the murderous fury Jaime had seen plenty of in life. Tywin released him, and Jaime crumpled to the floor, whimpering as his ghosts converged on him…

…until he realised that he wasn’t sleeping anymore, that he was lying on a hard, cold bed in a hard, cold castle below a very hard, very cold Wall.

Heavily breathing, Jaime sat up, drenched in cold sweat and a stink of fear. Around him, other recruits to the Watch were waking, though it was still dark outside. Jaime supposed it would likely be dark outside for hours yet, this far north and this far into autumn. Reckoning he wasn’t going to get much more sleep, Jaime rolled out of his astoundingly uncomfortable bed and pulled on a few clothes, before making his way outside.

Outside was the ancient keep of Eastwatch-By-The-Sea, one of only three manned strongholds along the Wall. To the east, the narrow sea frothed and foamed amidst dark, jagged rocks, and Jaime would often see pods of whales or clans of seals in the black waters beyond. To the west were sixteen other castles, some populated, but most just idle, waiting, crumbling.

All around him, the black brothers of the Night’s Watch were waking, cooking fires were being lit, and the scent of smelting iron was hot in the morning chill. Eastwatch-By-The-Sea was home to around seventy men of the Watch, as well as one hundred and twenty old Lannister soldiers, sent north in exile by the Young Wolf and the King in the South. So now, Jaime Lannister, firstborn son of Westeros’ greatest lord, the man who’d killed his king and forsworn all his vows, was to spend the rest of his days rotting at the very edge of the world with a legion of waifs, wastrels, rapists, cutpurses and killers.

A noble order indeed.

As Jaime entered the mess hall, a silence fell around him. He was accustomed to this by now; the stares, the pointing, the unveiled hatred in the eyes… but it was different back when he was Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingsguard and Queen’s brother. Now he was…

“Kingslayer!” a raucous voice called, “Sisterfucker! Get over here!”

Jaime rolled his eyes, and turned to look at the hard-faced commander of Eastwatch, an ugly brute by the name of Cotter Pyke. Born on the Iron Islands to some tavern wench or other, Pyke was a man as baseborn as he was bad-mannered, with a harsh tongue and a black temper. Half a year ago, he would be kneeling at Jaime’s feet, but now…

“The stables need mucking out,” Pyke growled, “And I need three men to do it.”

Jaime nodded, “Have you any volunteers?”

“I’ll worry about that,” Pyke snarled at him, before holding out a gnarled finger, “Get!”

Jaime rolled his eyes in lieu of a subservient nod, and strode to the stables. Despite the black brothers’ best efforts, he would not trudge, he would not stumble, he would not merely walk. He may have been disgraced, a Kingslayer, a traitor, a liar and a turncloak, but he was still a Lannister. And Lannisters strode.

And stables stink, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Tyrion’s whispered in his year, what are you trying to prove?

“Shut up.” Jaime growled.

The stables did stink. Who knew that forty bare-fed horses could produce so much shit? Reluctantly, Jaime took a couple of buckets and went to go fill them up. He hadn’t mucked out horses since he was a squire, and he hadn’t particularly missed it. That being said, the mind-numbing drudgery of sweeping up shit was better than the glares he got from the people here. As if they weren’t all rapists and thieves. As if he was the worst one out of the lot of them.

Mucking out the stables took all day, even with the other Lannister men sent to help him. A man of the Night’s Watch supervised them, officially to make sure they finished the work, but Jaime had a hunch that they were there to stop him from plotting. The thought almost made him want to laugh. He’d never plotted anything in his life. He’d left that up to everyone else, and it was far too late to start now. No, he’d keep his cloak clean of any such devilry, thank you very much.

This Wall is doing the world of good for my honour, Jaime mused, I wonder if Catelyn Stark is happy with that, wherever she is. They’ll make an honourable twit of me at last.

More expectations of his honour came that night; as Cotter Pyke stood up in the mess hall, a hush fell over everyone, men of the Watch and men of the West. Jaime rolled his eyes, and went back to his food; they may expect his attention, but the thick gruel called for most of Jaime’s willpower to chew. Even Robb Stark at war had given him better food than this.

“Tomorrow, our newest members will take their vows,” Pyke announced, ever a man of short words, “The Lord Commander has requested more men, and I will send fifty of our newest recruits to garrison Castle Black. That is all.”

Our inspiring leader, Jaime thought sardonically. Mind you, it would be nice to have a change of scenery, though Jaime doubted he’d be trusted to go too far outside of Pyke’s view. Reputation was everything, as his father had been fond of saying. It just so happened that Jaime’s reputation was that he could not be trusted.

He slept better that night, though nightmarish images of his fallen family still swam before his eyes. Tonight, it was the decapitated body of his son, Joffrey, lurching at him with a horrendous scream ripping into Jaime’s very soul. As usual, Jaime woke in a cold sweat, though he felt about as much grief over Joffrey’s death as anyone could expect; it was more the headless body and the scream that sounded eerily like Cersei that terrified him. Jaime figured that he wouldn’t get much more sleep that night, so he got up and left the barracks. A few of the others stirred as he walked past them, but none woke.

Outside, the snow was swirling and the wind howled down the Wall like the ghouls in Jaime’s dreams. He fancied that he could almost see the wind as it roared and screeched across the wide, flat, barren North. Though a Lannister, and thus duty-bound to be disdainful, he had to admit that the North had a certain beauty to it. A cold and dismal beauty, but beauty nonetheless. Jaime looked south – for south was the only way to look – and tried to imagine himself at Casterly Rock, leagues and leagues and leagues away, where he assumed that his Uncle Kevan would be ruling with a hard-eyed Northman looking over his shoulder. Jaime uttered a harsh barking noise that could have been a laugh when he thought what Tywin would think of that

Legacy was everything to you, he thought, gazing across the land as though Father would somehow appear on the horizon, but I guess we cocked that up too, eh?

“Evening.”

The sharp voice cut through Jaime’s thoughts, and he turned. There stood Cotter Pyke, black cloak flowing in the wind. Pyke’s eyes were flinty and his expression mistrustful, yet he was armed and Jaime was not. If anyone had anything to fear, it was the lion’s son.

“Evening,” Jaime gave a curt nod, “It’s fresh, isn’t it ser?”

Pyke gave a sly smile, “I’ll wager that “ser” sticks in yer craw, Kingslayer.”

“Not at all. I know my betters,” Jaime tried to be affable, whilst imagining pulling the older man’s teeth out, “And please use my name. My mother gave it me for a reason.”

“Yer mother don’t matter up here, Kingslayer,” Pyke laughed darkly, “Nor yer father, nor yer precious Lannister name.”

“Have I done something to offend?”

Pyke shrugged, “Just fuckin’ hate Lannisters.”

Jaime nodded sardonically. Of course you do. Everyone does. He thought of voicing this to Pyke, but decided swiftly that a fist across the face and more hateful looks would leave him even more depressed. Jaime often surprised himself with his own sensitiveness, but, even after all these years, the word “Kingslayer” still stung every time it landed in his ear.

“Yer going to Castle Black when ye take yer vows,” Pyke said after a moment, “Lord Commander’s orders.”

Jon Snow wants me at Castle Black?

“Why?”

Pyke shrugged, “Wants to keep an eye on ye, I suppose. Try not to turn your cloak, Kingslayer. We don’t take as kindly to traitors as the White Cloaks.”

Then he was gone, and Jaime was alone again. He walked up to the parapets, in order to clear his head. The old cook, a half-blind, half-lame greybeard by the name of Othor, had claimed that the clouds would clear soon, but, hearing the wind and seeing the snow, Jaime was a little sceptical. His green eyes tracked across the horizon – as much of it as could be seen – and settled on the sea. Jaime imagined himself cutting down the guards at the gate, stealing a horse and then a boat, and fleeing across the waters to find his fortune as a sellsword, or mayhaps as a fighter in the slavepits in Meereen. The thought was bleak and unfamiliar, but Jaime was beginning to find that he was being driven to more and more desperate thoughts since the stream of wealth and privilege that was the Lannister name had been cut off. He remained there until the castle woke.

He was taken below, out of the cold and into the sept, crudely carved faces leering down at him in the half light. In King’s Landing, the Seven’s divine statues were things of unrivalled beauty, but here at the Wall, they had been corrupted, twisted like everything else this far north. Punishment for being brought so far from where they’re welcome. A split ran through the Maiden’s heavenly face, and the Mother looked on Jaime with angelic distaste. He did not meet the eyes of the Father, for he feared that Tywin Lannister’s rage would be glaring out.

Cotter Pyke held the torch, with four other black brothers around the room. The small sept was fit to bursting, with three score former Lannister soldiers within, and Jaime knew that there were dozens more just outside. He wondered, fleetingly, how easy it would be to overthrow the black brothers and take command of Eastwatch for themselves, but he knew it was foolish.

Your days of defying authority are done, Kingslayer, he reflected bitterly, Let them fasten the black noose around your neck.

“Recruits,” Pyke’s voice boomed around them, and sounded almost godly, “Ye came to us as soldiers of a defeated king. Ye came broken men, men with no cause. Today, ye will rise to become men of the Night’s Watch, men with the greatest cause of them all. The cold winds are rising, and we must face the threats that lie Beyond the Wall. Ye know the words; say ‘em now.”

Jaime thought about staying silence, but his voice disobeyed him, and rose in chorus with the others around him, “Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come”

Then it was done, and Jaime Lannister had sworn himself, for the second time, to an eternal brotherhood.

Chapter Text

ASHA

The raven had come not two weeks ago. A raven with a message likely sent to all thirty-one of the Iron Islands, and to all the two score lords who ruled over them. The message was plain, crude and simple, like its writer, but its mere existence sent shivers down the spine. Asha Greyjoy, last child and only daughter of Balon Twice-Crowned, was facing a challenger to her throne.

She’d read the letter a dozen times since its arrival, and would likely read it a dozen more before the crown was safe atop her brow. The rage that had filled her upon its arrival had not dampened, instead rising up volcanically whenever she was reminded of the traitor she’d once foolishly called family. Snatching the letter back up, Asha read it again, her dark brows furrowing further with every word.

To all the Lords of the Iron Islands,

My brother, Balon, Ninth of his Name, is dead, his head cut off by Eddard Stark’s pup. Now, the Seastone Chair is empty, and the Iron Islands require a king to lead them. The Seven Kingdoms are in chaos, and ripe for our reavers to take riches worth more than we can imagine. The Westerlands are ruled by the Halfman, the Riverlands by an impotent Tully and the King in the North has left his kingdom to fend off a wildling invasion.

I declare myself King on the Iron Islands, and do lay claim to the Seastone Chair of my ancestors. My brother, the Damphair, has called a kingsmoot, and I call on every true man to declare his loyalty to me, and to the Old Way my brother died defending.

Victarion of the House Greyjoy, First of His Name since the Grey King, Lord-Captain of the Iron Fleet and Rightful King on the Iron Islands

“You ought to burn that.”

The quiet yet still empowered voice of Asha’s lord uncle, Lord Rodrik Harlaw, rang out across the room. The Lord of the Ten Towers walked with none of his usual reservation towards his niece, his grey eyes flickering in the firelight, strides long and commanding. Outside, a storm raged, but inside the Reader’s castle, not a shiver of wind could be felt. Asha had long known her uncle to be unmoved by any worldly force, yet was growing impatient with his mild nature day by day.

“Aye, and what would that do for my fortunes?”

“Little and less,” Lord Rodrik admitted, “But it might brighten your mood. It pains me to see you so aggrieved, niece.”

“Aggrieved?” Asha snarled, “Victarion seeks to steal my birthright, and you call me aggrieved? What other wisdom do you bring, nuncle?”

He smiled, “That of history, my Queen,” he opened a small, forgotten tome inscribed with ancient letters, “No woman has ever laid claim to the Seastone Chair before, let alone sat upon it. Ironborn men follow Ironborn men. Surely you know this.”

Asha cocked her eyebrow and stared curiously at her uncle, “Your words belittle yet you yourself call me Queen. You profess me your loyalty, yet caution against my claim to the Seastone Chair. With whom do your loyalties lie?”

Rodrik bowed, “With you, my Queen, as I have sworn and sworn again. You are my blood, and that is the oldest and most unbreakable of all oaths. Now come, we have much to discuss.”

He led her through the winding corridors of the Ten Towers, treading walkways that had been trod upon by generations of Harlaws before them. The sky roiled above them, and Asha wondered how long it would be before the snows began to fall. She’d been half a girl when the last winter had begun, and remembered little of its course. Her brothers had been alive then, all of them, and her father had smiled more often than ever after.

Stop it, she chided herself angrily, I won’t let weakness consume me like it did Theon.

Lord Rodrik’s solar was bedecked as one might expect; the walls were lined with greenlander tomes, each one written in the hand of a long-dead maester about some long-dead king. Asha often wondered how her uncle could possibly find any wisdom in the dried-up thoughts of these men, however privately grateful she was for his counsel. He’d once told her that only a fool would ignore the lessons taught by the past, and maybe Asha could see the truth in that; her father had risen once before and been defeated, yet rise again he did, no harder, no stronger. Except, his fall had been all the harder for his second time of rising up against the Iron Throne.

She felt her heart sink a little as she remembered the ignominy of her father’s defeat at the hands of the Wolf King, and hardened it when she remembered the words that rang in every Iron Islander’s mind when they rushed ashore to reave and pillage.

What is dead may never die, the words echoed and boomed in her mind, but rises again, harder, stronger.

Rodrik took a book from one of the shelves, and hefted it over to his desk, which was littered with quills and inkpots. He swept these aside, and opened the book. Asha went to him, her curiosity getting the better of her scepticism for once. The book was a detailed history of the Houses of the Iron Islands, catalogued by island of origin. Rodrik traced his finger down lines of faded parchment, and Asha wondered fleetingly how accurate this text could be, given that it looked like it was written before the Conquest.

“You’ll want to rally liegemen to your cause, not just high lords,” the Reader cautioned, “I suggest the Drumms and Blacktydes would be a good place to start. You’ve me and my vassals, of course, and I’ll send ravens to others and persuade them to back your claim. Your best gamble is the kingsmoot, however.”

“There hasn’t been a kingsmoot in three centuries,” Asha spat bitterly, “Vickon Greyjoy and Aegon the Dragon established that the Iron Islands would pass from father to son, just as the greenlander kingdoms did. I will fight for my claim, yet those who oppose me would do well to remember that these Islands are mine by birthright.”

“Your uncle Victarion likely believes the same.”

“Victarion is a dullard and an ox. He’ll fall in line when I am Queen.” Asha laughed derisively.

“And he won’t be alone,” Rodrik continued, mercilessly bulling through Asha’s words, “the Damphair would not have called a kingsmoot if he didn’t believe that Victarion could win it.”

Asha frowned, “You think this is the Damphair’s work?”

The Lord of Harlaw spread his arms, “Whose else, dear niece? Who else would give Victarion the courage to usurp his brother’s last remaining child?”

That made sense, and Asha cursed herself for not seeing it earlier. She’d underestimated the seriousness of Victarion’s claim, believing that it was mere and naked ambition, and that the other Ironborn would see the same. If the Damphair, Asha’s other uncle of Greyjoy, were behind this, then her reign would be made all the more difficult. His mind may have been swimming in grimy seawater, but it was quicker than Victarion’s ever could have been. As tenacious as Balon Greyjoy was, the Damphair was a hundred times more so. Asha knew that he was one of the few men that Rodrik truly feared.

“I have the better claim.” Asha said stoutly, but her uncle just laughed. But when Asha turned to glare at him, there was no mirth in his eyes.

“You chastise me of acting like our foes, yet you talk of claims and rights,” he spoke in harsher tones than any she’d heard issue from his mouth before, “If you would sit upon the Seastone Chair, then you must prove yourself worthy of it! No bleating of your rights will sway the Ironborn, you should know this. Not even a reaver as white-blooded as myself would join your cause.”

Asha regarded her uncle evenly, “Yet here you stand.”

“You are my blood, and I would rather see you upon the Seastone Chair than any other of your House,” Rodrik said shortly, “Now sit down and pay attention. We must plan for the kingsmoot.”

And so they planned. Long into the night, the two discussed the interrelations between the dozens of Ironborn Houses, arguing over which could be bought, blackmailed and turned against one another. They also discussed Asha’s reign, and what it would be like. Once again, the Reader cautioned her against outward condemnation of the Stark boy’s kingdom, and once again Asha threatened to storm out and raise a host to burn Winterfell to the ground.

“That is a fool’s errand, and you know it!” Rodrik slammed his hand down upon the table, upsetting a pile of books, “Tywin Lannister could not crush the boy with all the might of the Iron Throne, yet you think you could?”

“You dare?” Asha snarled, “You dare address your Queen in such a manner?”

“Yes I do!” Rodrik shouted, and Asha resisted the urge to flinch. It was as if the sea itself had brought all its rage to bear through the small Lord of Harlaw, “I dare, because it is harsh words such as these that you must hear, Your Grace. If yours is to be the throne, then you must act with more caution. Chase not the Starks, nor the Lannisters, Tyrells, nor any other of the mainland. Unite and rebuild the Iron Islands. Then look for allies. Then, and only then, will we be strong enough to rid ourselves of Stark’s treaty.”

“My people will never be content with that.”

“Then you must teach them to be.” Rodrik’s voice softened, his earlier anger abating in the face of his usual tenderness. “That is the truth of rule, dear niece. Not rage, not vengeance, not cruelty. It is the strength of the mind that makes a great Queen, not the sharpness of her blade.”

He reached out a hand and his fingers ghosted over his niece’s. Asha wanted to brush him aside, yet she felt all the more comforted by his presence.

They did not sleep at all that night, and by the time the sun felt brave enough to try and penetrate the clouds, Asha was exhausted. Her head was swirling with the names, words, members and loyalties of every House in her kingdom, and she desperately wanted a drink. Rodrik refused to let her leave the room, however, for fear of her losing her focus. Her opponents would be spending every waking hour trying to undermine her, as well as a fair few of the non-waking ones too. She could not afford to rest.

The throne will be mine, she told herself, I only have to await the kingsmoot.

Chapter Text

ROBB

Winterfell rose up before them, a grey sentinel in a land of grey skies and grey men. As they approached, Robb remembered the lessons he’d endured as a child, lessons spent hearing about Winterfell’s long and storied history. He remembered why Bran the Builder had chosen this spot to build his home; firstly the hot springs below, which would nourish the castle throughout the long Northern winters, but also because of the leagues of flat land all around the castle, making it easy to defend. As the centuries rolled past, and as the castle grew, Robb reflected that the castle’s location might serve another purpose; to remind any travellers that this was the seat of Northern power, standing strong and proud against the elements.

The snows had followed them down from the Wall, and Robb had feared that they would become stranded on the kingsroad. However, they had been fortunate, and the ride to Winterfell took only a few weeks. Now, it was almost at an end.

Robb sent his squire, Olyvar Frey, ahead to ensure that the castle was prepared for their arrival. As he rode off into the distance, Robb considered knighting him before long, and perhaps appointing him as Roslin’s guardian; after all, the two were siblings, and Robb trusted very few more than he trusted Olyvar. He decided to consult with the Blackfish, once the affairs of the North were set in order.

As he’d told Jon, Robb knew that the time had come to appoint an official council. Lord Manderly had already arrived from White Harbour, Robb knew, to serve as Chancellor, the chief advisor to the King. The Greatjon would serve as Robb’s master of laws, and the Blackfish as his chief general. Further than that, Robb wasn’t sure whether to appoint his old war council to official positions, or to create advisors anew.

Things would be so much easier if Mother had lived, he thought to himself, she would know whom to put where.

They arrived in Winterfell just before nightfall, and were greeted by Bran, Ser Rodrik, Maester Luwin and an enormously fat man that Robb had never met before. Beside Bran stood a skinny, long-faced girl with ratty hair, and beside her stood Queen Roslin, looking regal yet demure in an icy blue dress. All knelt as Robb dismounted. He still hated that.

“Your Grace!” cried the fat man jovially, bowing deeply, and Robb guessed that this was Wyman Manderly, the Lord of White Harbour, “An honour to meet you at last!”

“Rise, my Lord,” Robb commanded, “I fought alongside your sons in the war. If they have even half their father’s honour, I am a lucky man indeed.”

Lord Manderly chuckled warmly, and took Robb’s hand firmly in his own. They shook, and Robb turned to Bran, smiling. His brother looked tired, and Robb wondered if he was sleeping properly. He knew the stresses of rule better than most, and could only imagine how much harder it must be for a boy of ten. Bran sat nervously, and looked to the girl to his left.

“Robb, this is –”

“I know who it is,” Robb said softly, turning to his sister, “Welcome home, Arya.”

Stony faced, Arya looked at him suspiciously, as if she couldn’t quite believe he was standing before her. Her grey-eyed gaze, so very like Father’s, burned right through him. It wasn’t a look Robb had ever seen in anyone’s eyes since he’d duelled Asha Greyjoy at Pyke, but one he’d grown accustomed to seeing in the eyes of the Smalljon, Lord Karstark, the Blackfish and the hundreds of others he’d ridden with in the South. It was the look of someone who’d seen too much death.

After a moment, the tension broke, and the two rushed forwards, each holding the other tight. Robb had had no idea that his little sister was alive, and to see her here in the flesh was altogether too much. He felt the eyes of his court on his back, and ignored them. The Starks were home at last, together again in Winterfell.

The gods are indeed good.

The family dined together that night, all five of them, for the first time ever. Sansa’s exception was notable, and the obvious absence of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn hung over them like misery hangs over a funeral. But, as the meal progressed, they found themselves slipping back into their old roles. Bran chatted about watching Ser Rodrik training the boys of the Winter Town in the yard, Arya was cheeky and Rickon was wild as ever.

Roslin, who’d seemed extremely nervous that first night they’d spent in Winterfell, looked as though she was growing more and more into her role as Queen in the North. Later, she told him that Northern customs were rather bracing for a southron lady, but he was proud of her nonetheless. Seeing her cajole Rickon into eating his carrots fleetingly made him think what a good mother she would make.

Is this how Father saw Mother? Robb asked himself, She was another southron lady who married a Northern warrior. Will we ever be as happy as they were?

Robb didn’t manage to see his wife after they supped that night; Ser Rodrik, Lord Manderly and Maester Luwin begged a meeting with him immediately after dinner. Reluctantly, he attended, reminding himself that he was King in the North now, not just the Young Wolf. Kingdoms needed a ruler, and the North needed him.

The meeting lasted until midnight, with each man coming to him with grievances that Robb initially thought insurmountable; Lord Ryswell was having problems with the harvest, the Blackwoods and Brackens were back at each other’s throats, Ramsay Snow wanted to be legitimised and married… the list of complaints seemed endless. Robb found the patience to try and find solutions to around half, deciding to keep Jon’s request until the morning meeting.

As he trudged to his chambers, he noticed the warm glow of candlelight flickering under Arya’s door. Rubbing his eyes, Robb knocked softly on the door. Immediately, a grumpy voice asked: “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Arya,” Robb replied, “Are you alright?”

The door swung open, and Arya greeted him with raised eyebrow and a look of mild annoyance, “Aren’t you supposed to be with Roslin?”

The last word seemed bitter, and Robb frowned at his little sister. She glared back, and made to step back inside the room. Robb held open the door with his hand, and pushed it back against the wall when Arya made to close it anyway.

“What’s wrong?”

She glared at him, “Leave me alone.”

“Arya,” his voice became stern, and Robb was suddenly aware that he was trying to sound like Father, “Shutting yourself away will do you no good. Talk to me, please.”

Her eyes were still smouldering, but they seemed to be less sure of anger than before. Robb took a moment to remember that Arya was still only a child, barely past her eleventh name-day. He wondered, and not for the first time, how scared she must have been, all on her own for all of those months, with no word as to how her family was, or even if they were alive. She must have been petrified when she heard that Robb was at war, or that Sansa was still in King’s Landing, or that Winterfell had fallen to Theon Turncloak.

“I wanted Winterfell to be ours, when I got back,” Arya said after a moment, “I wanted there to be Starks, just like it used to be. But when I came home, there was Lord Manderly, and the Reeds, and two Frey boys and a southron girl who claims to be your queen.”

Robb chuckled, “Roslin is my queen, and I’m sure she’s just as nervous to be here with all these new people as you are. I wish we could go back to when it was just us and Jon, but we can’t. Mother and Father are gone. Jon is at the Wall, and Sansa wanted to stay in the south with the Tyrells. We are scattered to the four winds, and yet we are together. We survived the war, and that’s what matters.”

Arya nodded uncertainly, and said: “I only want us to be safe, and we were safe in Winterfell as children.”

“I know.” Robb agreed, “But things are different now. We have to make ourselves safe in other ways. I’m just glad we’re all alive.”

Except for Mother and Father.

I should never have sent her to the Iron Islands.

Robb pushed that ugly thought from his mind, and bade his sister goodnight. The King in the North returned to his chambers – my parents’ chambers – to find his wife already asleep, her arms curled protectively around her belly. Robb kissed his wife on the cheek, and undressed, doing his utmost not to disturb Roslin’s sleep.

Robb’s own sleep was peaceful; for once, he was not plagued with nightmares of wolves howling against the wind. He saw no visions of wraiths and shades creeping through wild, unfamiliar forests. He did not hear the death throes of his loved ones as they were taken from him, one by one. And when he woke, Robb slept not in a camp bed by a brook somewhere in the south, but in a bed of warm furs in the great castle of Winterfell. He was home, and the pack was together again.

As the days turned into weeks, Robb found himself settling into the routine of rule, just as he had adapted to leading an army in a land that was not his own. His days consisted of meetings which were as lengthy as they were dull, and Robb found himself drawing on long-lost memories of Maester Luwin’s lessons from years ago just as much as he drew on the wisdom of those around him. He’d tended to the North in the days before the war, whilst his father sat on the small council of Robert Baratheon, but that was merely directing harvest efforts and ensuring that Winterfell was running smoothly. But now winter was coming on in earnest, and Robb had three Kingdoms to rule, all of which were recovering from devastation, terror and war.

One of the causes of those wars was still out there somewhere, lurking in the Wolfswood or fleeing for the Wall. Theon Greyjoy, Robb’s brother in all but blood, still evaded capture. Robb had sent Ser Rodrik Cassel and fifty trusted men out to search the North, and had sent ravens ordering the Lords of the North to send out similar search parties, and bring the Turncloak to Winterfell for justice.

Whilst the heat of his rage had dampened somewhat with the liberation of Winterfell and the ending of the war against the ironmen, Robb’s resolve was still iron. Theon would face justice, but justice would not be kind to him.

He would often visit the godswood to pray when he thought of Theon, searching the age-old face on the tree for guidance. Sometimes, Robb fancied he could see the likeness of Lord Eddard Stark in that face, with queerer times than those showing him Bran’s face. The wolf dreams also returned in force, and it was not uncommon for Robb to wake his wife with his thrashing. He took to sleeping in his old chambers, partly for the comfort of waking in his own bed, partly so as to let Roslin have a full night’s rest. Robb often felt guilty for missing the greater part of his wife’s pregnancy, having spent a little more than four months journeying to and then back from the Wall. And now, with all the time that Robb spent dealing with matters of state, he was less and less able to get to know his wife, the mother of his unborn child. He wondered if his parents had started like this, one at war, defending the Seven Kingdoms and ruling the North, the other a stranger in a strange land.

A few days after his return to Winterfell, Robb sent a raven to Prince Doran Martell, intending to discuss the offer made by Oberyn regarding Arya’s future. He’d been unwilling to countenance sending his little sister away for the second time, but, after a discussion with Maester Luwin about the Dornish and their ways, Robb had begun to come around to the idea. The gutsy, hard-headed and reckless way the Dornish held themselves would be the perfect place for Arya to grow up in, and would be a welcome change from the customs Arya had been forced to endure as a child.

One night, not long before Roslin was due to give birth, the whole Stark family was together in one of the castle’s great halls, the fire roaring in the grate. Rickon played with Shaggydog whilst Roslin looked on nervously yet caringly, and Bran was listening to Arya telling another of her tales of the South. For his part, Robb sat apart from the group, watching with a small smile on his face. He thought of some words his father had said one day, so very long ago;

When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

How right you were, Father.

Chapter Text

DAVOS

The one thing he’d never get used to was the sheer size of the place. As a young smuggler, he remembered gazing up at the Red Keep and the Tower of the Hand, and wondering what it would be like to gaze across the wide flat plain of Blackwater Bay, and then across the rolling fields of the Crownlands. Now, he could look out for himself, and see the carcass of the realm as it smouldered with the remnants of a war not long won.

Yes, the poor boy from Flea Bottom is Hand of the King.

But at what cost to the common folk of Westeros?

With a heavy heart, Davos Seaworth tore his eyes away from the view before him, and stepped back inside. He could feel the beginnings of a chill in the air, and wondered how far off winter was. Like as not, the Red Keep would receive a white raven from the citadel in the next few weeks, announcing the turning seasons for all to hear. The North would succumb to the snows soon after, and then the frosts would creep below the neck and suck the colour out of the southron lands. Davos shivered. It had been a long time since his last winter, and everyone knew that a long summer meant a longer winter.

Davos’ thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Ser Meryn Storm, his sworn sword. Ser Meryn had fought with great bravery at the Battle of the Three Kings, and had been elevated to Captain of the Hand’s Guard in the aftermath.

“My Lord Hand,” Ser Meryn dipped his head in salutation, “Your presence is requested at the small council.”

“Aye,” Davos smiled wryly, “What does he want now?”

As Ser Meryn escorted him across the Red Keep to the small council chamber, Davos reflected on the increasing urgency of the King’s small council meetings. Where once they met twice weekly, the six men and one woman who made up the council were being summoned more and more often, so much so that Davos had joked that he make his bedchamber in the room next door. This was their second meeting today, and Davos wondered what on what occasion he had been summoned.

The small council chamber itself was an unassuming room; where once plush tapestries depicting leaping lions or glorious hunts hung, there were now bare walls. The table in the middle of the room was big enough for the seven council members, but no bigger. At the head was a chair slightly larger than all the rest, but otherwise the King sat as his advisers did. Even walking into the room, Davos felt the shift in temperature. The small council chamber, in the presence of the Stag King, felt like a chamber of ice.

Stannis Baratheon stood at the head of the table, hand resting atop his chair, sword belted at his side. His flinty eyes burned with a blue fire, and the soft candlelight threw jagged shadows across his hollow cheeks. Even though they were not at war and the highborn of King’s Landing ate aplenty, the King was still thin, his eyes still sunken, his skin still stretched across his skull. He wore a simple black doublet and hose, and, though his brow was free of the red-gold crown he wore atop the Iron Throne, no man would doubt the power of his office.

The King was not alone; by his side, as ever, stood the Red Woman, her fiery hair shining brighter than a thousand candles. Ever since the capture of King’s Landing, she had grown impossibly more beautiful… and even more terrible. Davos remembered with a shudder the day she spawned a demon on his boat, a demon with a death wish for Renly Baratheon.

The mother of demons at my King's right hand.

Who knows what foulness she speaks in his ear?

Soon thereafter, they were joined by Oberyn Martell, a Prince of Dorne with a wit as black as his beady eyes. Like his King, Davos knew to be wary of the Dornishman and his japes, for they barely concealed the Viper’s hatred for House Baratheon and all of its members. His taste for vengeance had been somewhat sated by the executions of Tywin Lannister and the Mountain that Rides, but there remained a cruel hunger behind his black eyes. Following the Red Viper of Dorne was Lord Paxter Redwyne, the master of ships, Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone, master of coin and Ser Richard Horpe of the Kingsguard. As ever, Davos counted three loyalists, one former traitor, one non-combatant and one deadly poisoner among their number. He knew that the King added up the same arithmetic.

His kingdom is fractured, whether we admit it or not.

Gods grant that we can be united in this chamber.

“You are late,” Stannis growled when the final members of the small council had arrived.

“A Dornishman comes when it suits him,” Oberyn Martell grinned, “It is what makes us such excellent lovers.” he added, winking at Melisandre, who regarded him coldly.

Davos held back a chuckle upon seeing the icy glare the King sent the Red Viper, and decided to bring the council’s attention to matters of state.

“Lord Royce,” he began, praying that he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. Despite the moon's turn or so that he'd been in King's Landing, Davos still felt small before these high lords, “I understand that you have been looking over the Crown’s finances. Where do we stand?”

Yohn Royce, the barrel-chested, grizzled Lord of Runestone, shifted in his seat. A man of great courage, he had reportedly petitioned his liege lord, Robert Arryn, almost monthly to bestir the forces of the Vale, yet Davos had yet to find out for whom they would have been bestirred.

The King had been less than pleased even after hearing the Vale’s oaths of fealty, asking Davos, “Where were these fair-weather lordlings when I claimed my kingdom?”

“The knights of the Vale are amongst the most noble and honourable in the land, Your Grace.” Davos had reminded his King, but it made no difference.

“Then the others are poor indeed.” Stannis had growled.

“Your royal brother left the Kingdom in a good deal of debt upon his passing,” Bronze Yohn intoned carefully, “And since then the Iron Throne has waged a costly and destructive war. Add the costs of this to your own expenses, my King, and we are in very bad shape indeed.”

“And what will be done to remedy this, Lord Royce?”

To his credit, the Lord of Runestone never broke the King’s gaze, no matter how hard the latter’s tone became; “I would advise a levy on all goods entering King’s Landing for the remainder of the autumn, as well as additional taxes on non-essential goods. I have prepared a list for you, my King,” which he duly handed over, “Further, the payments from Lords Lannister and Tyrell should prove helpful in balancing the Crown’s debts.”

“Tyrell?” Paxter Redwyne stirred at the mention of his liege lord, “My King, House Tyrell has loyally proclaimed you King-”

“Yet before that, the Fat Flower proclaimed two usurpers; the abomination Joffrey and my fool younger brother,” Stannis’ voice was like iron, “Do not prate at me of House Tyrell’s loyalty, my Lord, for I have little patience for more lies.”

He stood, coldly regarding his small council, “Lies and injustices infest these kingdoms like maggots infecting a corpse. They brought down Ned Stark, they brought down Robert, but they will not bring me down. There will be no more corruption, no more treachery, no more malfeasance of the high lords whiles I sit the Iron Throne,” the King leaned over the table, his voice a mere whisper, “This is our purpose, my lords. This is our destiny.”

The meeting finished soon thereafter, and Davos found himself cornered by the Red Woman on his way out of the chamber. The crimson jewel at her throat gleamed with unholy fire, and the smile on her ruby red lips did not reach her pale grey eyes.

“The King may choose to tarry in this city of sin,” Melisandre purred to Davos, “yet he must not forget his greater purpose.”

“He sits on the Iron Throne, rules over lands others can only dream of,” Davos shot back, “What greater purpose must he have?”

But the Red Woman’s smile only widened, “The Lord of Light has a great destiny planned for Stannis Baratheon, Onion Knight,” she seemed to revel in the anger she caused Davos, “And you will find yourself in the front lines of the war to come.”

With that, she was gone in a swirl of blood-red silk. Davos glared mutely after her, and was thus received with a chuckle by Oberyn Martell. The Dornishman had become something of a friend to Davos over the past few weeks, even despite his questionable loyalties, providing some sorely needed levity to Stannis’ meetings and, indeed, to the dour-faced capital. Even now his black eyes were alight with mischief, though Davos had heard enough stories not to trust this Prince any further than he could be thrown.

“An interesting statement, methinks,” Oberyn observed, “One that will not be popular with the lords of Westeros. At least, the lords your King rules over.”

“Our King.”

“Of course.” His eyes continued to glitter, “I wonder, my Lord Hand, how long the King believes he will hold his crown if he continues to aggravate the Fat Flower of Highgarden.”

Davos shot him a look, “I was not aware that the Red Viper of Dorne was so protective of Mace Tyrell.”

The Dornishman laughed often and easily, and he let loose a rich, thick chuckle at that very moment, “The Tyrells are no friends of mine, this is true. Yet in Dorne we know the Reachmen better than most; after all we fought them for centuries. And Mace Tyrell is a proud man who had the ear of his King not too long ago. Only time will tell how he takes this recent rejection.”

He started down the corridor, evidently finished with the Hand. After a moment, however, he turned back and cocked a dark eyebrow, “And remember, Onion Knight, the Martells have no great love for House Baratheon.”

As Davos walked back to his chambers, he thought deeply about the conversations he had just had. He knew from experience to take the Red Woman’s words with more than a pinch of salt; too often had her prophecies led good, brave men to their deaths. More, Davos worried about what kind of hold she held over the King; when the war had been won, how Davos had hoped and prayed that she would be sent away, but alas she remained in King’s Landing. The Faith had protested her presence at court, the new High Septon and all his Sparrows calling for her removal, yet the King refused to budge.

Stannis Baratheon never took orders well.

The Sparrows might as well petition the Wall to stop standing.

Besides the restless Faith, the people had seemingly acquiesced to Stannis’ rule; the black-and-gold soldiers of Baratheon were greeted with hero’s welcomes upon entering King’s Landing, just as the boiled-leather-clad Northmen. The high lords who continued to lounge in the new King’s court commented snidely that the people would soon tire of Stannis’ stoicism, but Davos knew that their jubilation had nothing to do with whose arse was found on the Iron Throne. The common folk were just glad that they weren’t in any danger of pillage or rape.

When Davos returned to his chambers, he found his son Devan, currently serving as the King’s squire, waiting for him. The two dined together, Devan eagerly telling his father about his lessons with Grand Maester Pylos that day. The boy was learning more and more about what it meant to be a lordling; he could already read and write better than Davos ever would, and knew his Cresseys from his Crakehalls. All these would prove useful one day, when he inherited Davos’ titles as Lord of the Rainwood. Though Devan had not grown up in any expectation of inheritance, he was beginning to understand the solemnity of what that might mean.

And the sacrifices made for that inheritance.

Oh, my poor boys, my poor sons with their watery graves in the Blackwater Bay…

As Davos bade his son goodnight, he retired to his new solar to order his ledgers for the following morning’s meeting. Try as he might to scour the Tower of the Hand of any remnants of Lannister gold, he could not shake the feeling that he was an imposter. For all Stannis’ words of support – rare though they were – Davos Seaworth had never felt more out of his depth. To him, the Hand of the King was the highest lord in the land, answerable only to the King who appointed him. Now, the Hand of the King was a lowly crabber’s boy, more at home on a smuggler’s deck than on the Iron Throne.

But this was his duty now. Davos’ king needed him more than ever, if his instincts about the vipers at court were to be trusted. Stannis Baratheon had raised Davos up from nothing, and he’d be damned to all seven hells if he wouldn’t return the favour a thousand times over. Davos blew out the candle by his bed, and set to planning how he would protect the King from all his enemies.

Chapter Text

ARYA

Snow had fallen that night.

It crunched beneath her boots as she ducked and weaved and danced and laughed, her sword twirling in her fingers and whispering through the air. It masked the sounds of her footfalls as she skated around her opponent, never letting him know from where she would strike next. It served to trip him up whenever he took a particularly wild swing at her, unused to the soggy, slippery ground.

Yes, the snow was as much her ally as the darkness.

Unfortunately, she was still a skinny little girl, and the Hound was big, strong, and fought dirty.

Arya ducked under his sword, and lunged forward, her heart beating a swift march against her chest. The Hound’s hand came up from nowhere and smacked into her chest, throwing her backwards. She landed in a pile of snow, the impact jarring her bones. She glared up at him.

“Not fair!” Arya growled, “You cheated!”

“You think your enemies won’t cheat?” the Hound snapped back, “Don’t complain, improve.”

Though she grumbled out a curse, Arya knew he was right. She hadn’t been in a proper fight for ages, but memories of escaping Harrenhal and the fight at the mill still featured regularly in her nightmares. Being back in Winterfell had helped, but her past was never far away. She knew that she was small, and perhaps that was why the Hound was teaching her to fight dirty, instead of fighting like a knight would. Either that, or knights didn’t fight the way that the songs said that they did.

In her experience, the latter was more likely.

Again and again they duelled, Arya carefully and deftly avoiding the Hound’s much stronger blade. Her Needle could not compete with the broadsword, deceptively strong though it was. Instead, she had to fight with her eyes as much as with her feet and blade, looking for every opening that the Hound had.

Calm as still water.

Her arms never seemed to tire, though Arya knew that they should be burning by now.

Swift as the snake.

Her heart thudded in her chest, but she felt its beat in her ears and tasted its rhythm in her mouth.

Fierce as the wolverine

The world emptied of presence and it seemed that all she could see was the Hound’s ruined face and the steel of his sword.

Valar Morghulis.

He’d been reluctantly training her for weeks now, since they’d returned to Winterfell. When Arya had first mentioned that she wanted to learn to fight, Maester Luwin had scoffed. So had Roslin, Robb’s southron queen, and the Frey girl had taken it upon herself to “civilise” the younger Stark girl, acting in a most Sansa-like way. Bran, who had taken up his duties as Lord of Winterfell in Robb’s absence, had been unsure of what to do, until Arya wore him down with her complaining. He had allowed a compromise; Arya was to spend two hours every day with Roslin, learning to be a lady, and then two hours with Ser Rodrik, learning how to fight. The rest of the day was hers, and so she learned to fight some more with the Hound.

They trained in the godswood, where no-one would come looking for them, and the Hound trained her much harder than Ser Rodrik ever did. He also trained her better, teaching her to look for the weak points in a suit of armour, showing her to fight with her fists and showing her the best places to kill a man. Ser Rodrik just wanted to show off fancy moves and battle lines. And anyway, Ser Rodrik didn’t just train her, he trained the boys from the nearby Winter Town. He taught them how to fight in battle, but Arya didn’t much care about that kind of fighting.

Time and time again, however, the Hound knocked her into the dirt, and time and time again he growled at her to improve. This was more or less how their training had gone for the last moon’s turn or so. Arya was sure that she had improved, but the Hound wasn’t convinced.

After a good few hours of training, the Hound knocked her down harder than he’d ever done before, but Arya wasn’t having it. She sprang back up to her feet, ready for another bout with her opponent. To Arya’s disappointment, however, the Hound sheathed his sword and sat down heavily, leaning up against the white bark of the weirwood tree. She glared at him.

“What are you doing?”

The Hound snorted, “Taking a fucking rest, what does it look like?”

She walked towards him, wondering if this was a trick of some sorts. “Why?”

“Because I’m tired,” the Hound shot back, giving her a strange look, “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Knowing she’d get nowhere with him in this state, Arya huffed and sat down beside him. For a moment, she just listened to the sound of his breath, and watched absently as he took a swig of water. Wordlessly, he offered her the skin, and wordlessly she took it, never taking her eyes off of the burnt skin of his face. Arya had never bothered to pay attention to his face before, but now she took it all in, twisted flesh and raw skin, still shining after all these years.

“Does it hurt?” Arya blurted, before she could stop herself.

“Does what hurt?”

She raised an eyebrow, and the Hound made a noise that might have been a snarl. Arya met his stare defiantly, refusing to give into him. She’d learned that this was the only way to deal with the Hound, the only person in Winterfell who didn’t bow and scrape at her every order. Though it was often difficult, Arya respected the Hound because he refused to do everything she said. That was how real people worked, she knew. Much as Roslin may try to dress her up in pretty silks, the Hound knew the one truth that everyone else refused to see; Arya wasn’t a princess.

His resistance wasn’t invulnerable, however, and he sagged after a moment, “Sometimes. Hurts less when I drink.”

“Does Luwin give you milk of the poppy?”

He spat, “I’ve never asked for that. Too much of it does things to a man. He craves it, and it turns his insides sour. Give me a skin of wine any day.”

“Wine rots your insides too,” Arya replied.

It was the Hound’s turn to raise an eyebrow, “Maybe. But not near as fast, and wine tastes far better,” he took another swig, “There are worse ways to die than with the taste of wine in your mouth.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the little girl with stringy hair carefully watching the big man with the ruined face. Arya knew all about the ways that men died, and she’d ensured that a few of them had happened. She wondered if Robb knew that she’d killed people, or if he wanted to know. It was probably easier to pretend that the Hound had kidnapped her when the war began, or that she’d managed to stay alive by keeping out of sight. She wondered if he knew about the Leech Lord in Harrenhal, what his men had done in the Riverlands, before departing west to die. There was a new Lord Bolton now, a bastard by the name of Ramsay. He’d come to Winterfell some ten days ago, riding a horse that was black as sin, a pale pink cloak streaming from his shoulders.

Arya remembered the way he lazily knelt before Bran, who proclaimed him Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the Eastern Shore. The bastard had then stood, thanking the Prince of Winterfell for his generosity and grace. He’d then turned his pale eyes on Arya, and she’d felt naked and vulnerable before them. She’d seen that look before, in the eyes of men like Vargo Hoat and Rorge. Men who were like beasts.

The new Lord Bolton had guested at Winterfell for three nights, and in that time he’d never taken his eyes off of either Bran, Arya or Queen Roslin. Even when he left, Arya could feel his icy gaze upon her back. The worst part of it was, that Arya couldn’t tell anyone. Bran had noticed that she was quieter than usual, and he had tried to talk to her, but Arya found that she couldn’t speak. Even when Bran discarded his lordly manner, she was voiceless.

“What did you make of Ramsay?” Arya asked after a moment.

The Hound slowly turned his head, “Where’s this come from?”

She glared at him, “I just wanted to know what you thought. You were with me when he came to Winterfell.”

“I know where I was, girl,” he snapped, “and I know that no Bolton befriends a Stark. Your brother would do well not to trust the Bastard of the Dreadfort, if the tales are true.”

“What tales?”

He chuckled darkly, “They say Ramsay’s a mad dog, down in the Winter Town. They say he’s as cruel as his father, and with none of Roose’s wits. They say that Ramsay still flays his enemies, that he’s got scores of ironmen locked up in the Dreadfort, or hanging skinless from its walls.”

Arya frowned, “Don’t all the lords know this? Don’t they do something?”

The Hound shrugged, and did not answer.

She glared at him again, but this time he didn’t reply, save with a glare of his own. The North was her home, and Arya felt duty-bound as ever to defend it, whether that be against marauding wildlings from the north, against pillaging Lannisters to the south, or even against the scorn of a broken, burned dog.

She was saved from having to argue further with him by the arrival of another. His cloak whispered over the snow, but Arya could almost sense his presence. Either that, or her ears had become more attuned to the sound of footfalls in the snow after all her training with the Hound. Whatever the case, she turned round and saw the warm smile and straggly beard of her brother, the King in the North.

Robb had discarded his regal attire for the day, wearing instead a plain leather jerkin, trousers and boots, as well as a thick cloak. His old sword was belted to his side, Ice remaining within his solar for today. Grey Wind prowled at his heels, though the great direwolf bounded off into the godswood. Arya felt a sudden pang for her own lost direwolf, Nymeria, and wondered not for the first time if she’d ever see the golden-eyed beast again.

She stood, still nervous around him, “Robb, the Hound and I were just –”

“I know what you were doing,” Robb replied softly, “and I thought we’d agreed that you’d train with Rodrik and the others.”

Arya looked down at her hands, “Rodrik doesn’t want to teach me to fight. He wants to teach me strategy and how to stand in a line and not drop my sword. It’s useless, and I’ve no time for it.”

Robb surprised her then by laughing; she’d been expecting him to admonish her for disrespecting the master-at-arms. She looked at him, unsure of what to say. He looked down at her, at the sword she was still holding, and then at the Hound, who hadn’t moved from the tree, “Ser Sandor,” he called, “Does my sister trouble you by asking to be trained?”

“The girl is nothing but trouble,” the Hound growled, “but I’d rather train her than those green boys that your Ser Rodrik has. And it gives me something to do.”

“Would you train her then, ser? Officially, with the proper equipment, and in a better place than the godswood?”

The Hound shrugged, “Aye, if you can get your master-at-arms to leave us both alone.”

Robb smiled, “Consider it done. You’re staying in the Winter Town at the moment, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” came the wary reply.

“I’ll have the steward set up chambers for you.”

“There’s no need –”

But Robb didn’t back down, “I insist,” he replied swiftly, and Arya heard the hard edge to his voice that only came out when he talked to other lords, “It’s the least I can do for you, ser. You saved my sister’s life, and you brought her home. Anything I can do for you, I will. You need only ask.”

The Hound glared at him for a moment, before grunting out his thanks. He stood and took his leave of the two Starks, trudging out into the courtyard. Arya watched him go, and wondered, as she often did, what was really going on in his head. He didn’t have to say in Winterfell; he’d delivered her to her family, and been rewarded with two hundred gold dragons. As far as Arya was concerned, he could go back south and serve at the pleasure of some southron lord. Except, even as the thought occurred to her, Arya knew that she didn’t want him to go. Throughout all of her time running from the Lannisters, he’d been her most constant companion, very much like the beast he’d been named for. And now, he’d agreed to train her under proper supervision, even though he was under no obligation.

“Why did you tell him to train me?” Arya blurted out. She’d meant to keep that question to herself, but somehow the words had come out of her mouth.

Robb raised an eyebrow, “He saved your life, Arya. If it weren’t for Ser Sandor, you’d be lying in a ditch somewhere in the Trident, and we’d never have known.”

“I suppose,” she replied, before adding: “It’s just Sandor, actually. He’s not a knight.”

“What?”

“He hates being called “ser”,” Arya found herself telling her brother, though she had no idea why he would want to know, “So just call him “Sandor”, or “Clegane”. He likes that better.”

“Right.” Robb said doubtfully, “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Sansa used to call him ser,” Arya said, and then suddenly she was babbling, telling Robb about their life in King’s Landing, before the war, before Father’s head was cut off. She told him about her lessons with Syrio and about the tournament, where Sandor had fought with his brother Ser Gregor Clegane. After a few minutes, Robb sat down, and Arya sat by him, and she just talked.

He’d been at the Wall when she returned to Winterfell, and had only just gotten back. Until this moment, Arya hadn’t truly realised how much she’d missed her eldest brother. For his part, Robb simply listened to everything she had to say, and laughed when she told him about how smitten Sansa had been with Joffrey, and then with Ser Loras, and then with Joffrey again. Arya supposed that kings were supposed to be good at listening, and that was why fat King Robert had been so bad at his job.

“Arya, I need to talk to you about something,” Robb suddenly interrupted her in the middle of her story about getting into a fight with Hot Pie, “It’s very important.”

Reluctantly, Arya shut up.

“I know that we’ve only just managed to come together, as a family,” Robb said slowly, “And I want for us to stay together, more than anything. But I am King in the North now, and, like it or not, you are a princess of the North. That means you have certain duties.”

Arya frowned, “What kind of duties?”

“We must make alliances,” Robb replied, not really answering her question, “And we must make friends. When I was in King’s Landing, I met the Red Viper, brother of the Prince of Dorne.”

“So?”

“He said that Prince Doran has offered to take you to ward,” Robb told her firmly, “You would go to Sunspear, and live with House Martell for a few years. And he hopes that you would marry Doran’s son, Trystane.”

“He can hope all he likes,” Arya scoffed, “But that’s not going to make anything happen.”

Robb’s eyes hardened, and his voice shifted, “Arya, you’re not a little girl anymore. With Mother and Father gone, we have to be responsible now, and that means doing what’s right for the realm, and not always just what we want to do.”

She frowned at that. “That’s not what I mean, Robb,” she said stoutly, “I spent two years trying to get home, I don’t want to get sent away now that I’ve got here.”

“You don’t understand,” Robb said harshly, “You think I’m just being your older brother -”

“I do so understand,” Arya replied, louder than she meant to, angrier than she realised, “Father told me I was going to marry some high lord and keep his castle. But that’s not me, Robb, and he understood that, that’s why he got Syrio to teach me to fight. Jon understood it too, and that’s why he had Mikken make Needle.”

Now it was Robb’s turn to frown, “Mikken made your sword?”

Arya sighed, “Please, Robb? Please let me stay here?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” he replied, leaving, but Arya was confident she could wear him down. He knew as much as she did the traumas the south had visited on their family, and Arya doubted he’d want to put them in danger once more.

Besides, mention of Jon had sent a pang through Arya’s heart. She missed her half-brother dearly, and looked north as the sun began to set on Winterfell.

Soon, she told herself, I’ll see him again soon.

I promise