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Chapter Text

The Sons of the North

The clang and clatter of steel on steel rang through the training yard. Servants, guards, craftsmen, all stood along the walls surrounding the yard, watching the two young men facing each other across it.

Robb Stark, Heir of Winterfell, had a nearly manic grin on his handsome, sharp featured face as he kept his blue eyes on his opponent across the rim of his raised shield, his sword held with the blade pointing out across the top. On the far side of the sparring circle, Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell, slowly paced along the edge of the acknowledged space, his steps a careful mirror of Robb’s own. His slightly curved training sword was held over his head, the blade angled down behind him.

As he took another step, he slowly changed his stance, the sword coming down to equal with his eyes, the blade now pointing towards his brother. His own face, slightly longer than Robbs, and not so sharp featured, was impassive, but his steel gray eyes where shining with excitement.

“Watch your footing!” Jon’s eyes flickered to the edge of the circled, where Mendarath crouched on the balls of his feet beside Ser Roderick, the Master-at-Arms of Winterfell. “You must keep your weight centered, low, and your feet light, ever ready to move.” Jon turned his eyes back to his brother and watched as the grin on Robb’s face grew even wider. Soon.

Robb took another step, and his heel shifted slightly on a rock. There. Jon threw himself forward, his Dar’Misaan flickering out to Robb’s face.

Quick as thinking, Robb raised his shield, the face angled slightly down, to the ground, and Jon’s blow skittered across the surface of the steel. Robb responded as the sword tip glanced past him, his own sword around to Jon’s shoulder. Jon ducked beneath the blow, and began to back up, bringing his blade into guard as Robb launched a flurry of strikes, shoulder, ribs, hip, shoulder, chest. Jon’s curved blade rose to meet each blow, sliding each past, slapping the opposing steel away again and again, but never contesting directly.

Then Robb extended too far with a lunge, and Jon spun with the weapon, rolling down the length of Robb’s arm, to bring his sword to Robb’s neck. The Heir of Winterfell threw himself forward, shield before him, and rolled past Jon to the far side of the ring. He came out of the roll to his feet, grinning like a mad man. “You will need to be quicker than that, brother. You are too predictable. Every time you use that spinning dodge, you always follow up with the neck blow. I know when it’s coming.”

Jon was grinning as well now. Again, his charged forward, the Dar’Misaan whipping out like a striking snake, and Robb was forced to use both his shield and his sword to knock away the flashing steel. Steel chimed again and again. Then Robb struck out, not with his sword, but with the shield. The blow caught Jon on cheek and sent him reeling back. Robb moved forward, tasting victory, his blade raised to come across, but Jon ducked beneath the blow, spinning as he dropped, until he was under Robbs raised arm, the point of the elven sword pressing against Robb’s ribs, behind the protective face of the shield.

“Enough, enough.” The gruff voice of Ser Roderick rolled across the murmuring the watching crowd. Jon rose to his feet, withdrawing the point of his training sword from his brother’s ribs, a small smile on his face. Robb was laughing. “Damn it, Jon. Every time. Every time, you best me. Maybe I should start learning from that Master of yours, and you can spend hours learning tallies and taxes with Maester Luwin.”

Robb turned and tossed his sword, then shield, to a pair of guards in the crowd, then clapped Jon on the shoulder. “Come, let us see what these honorable old soldiers have to say about how poorly we learned their lessons.” He pulled Jon after him, to stand before Ser Roderick, who fought to hide a grin, Master Mendarath, and Ser Borsun.

Ser Borsun shifted his weight on the wooded barrel he was sitting on, eyeing Robb from beneath his heavy brows. His gray, close cut hair and the scars on his face and hand, not all from blades or other weapons, added to the impact of the old Templar’s stare. “Yer still not making full use of yer shield, boy. Using it to hit your foe one time isn’t enough. That’s a dozen pounds of steel and wood strapped to yer arm. Use it. That edge can crack a man’s throat, the face can break a man’s nose and drive it into his brain. It’s as much a weapon as the sword in yer hand.”

Robb bowed his head, but his grin didn’t fade. He knew Borsun well enough to know when the knight was hiding pride. Ser Borsun liked to veil his praise behind lectures on faults. It was when he didn’t say anything that Robb knew the Templar was truly disgusted. If he hadn’t been pleased with the Heir of Winterfell’s performance, he wouldn’t have stayed and watch the fight to its end.

Jon, for his own appraisal, turned to Master Mendarath. The old elf was silent, his eyes unreadable. Jon fought hard not to swallow. When the elf spoke, Jon instinctively flinched. “Adequate. Barely. Your Steel Web should have prevented any injury.” He raised one of his long, thin fingers, and pointed at a spot-on Jon’s upper arm. Jon looked down and saw a slice in the fabric of his jerkin, and slowly growing dampness around it. One of Robb’s thrusts had come closer than the others and left a small cut. Jon returned his attention to Mendarath and bowed his head in contrition. “My apologies, Ghi’lan. I have no excuse for my failure.”

Mendarath raised his finger from Jon’s arm to his chest and prodded him. “I will not have my teachings insulted by failure. Improve.” Then the gray haired, wrinkled Dalish rose from his squat, clasped his hands behind his back, and strode away. Ser Roderick watched the elf go, before turning back to Jon. “Do not worry about that old codger, Jon. He was impressed enough for three men. Said no other human he has tried to teach has ever been able to move well enough, fast enough, to pull off that last move you did, nevermind the Web of Steel. If I had tried it, even in my youth, against that assault of Robb’s, I doubt I could have stopped a quarter of those blows.” The old knight clapped Jon on the shoulder, then turned to the crowd. “Off with ye now, you layabouts. There’s work to be done, and none of it will finish itself.”

Jon sighed, and turned to place the Dar’Misaan on the rack of Tourney blades, before whistling. Out of the crowd flashed a white blur, and Ghost was at his master’s side. Jon looked down at the wolf pup. “Mendarath will never be happy ‘til I can deflect a storm of arrows with my sword in one hand, while inscribing vallaslin on my own face with the other.” He sighed again, then began walking to the door to the kitchens. The spar had been intensive, and now he had an appetite fit for a direwolf.

As he walked to the kitchens, Robb came up beside him, throwing an arm over the bastard’s shoulders.

“Don’t worry, brother mine. You still beat me. Your swordsmanship is the finest in the North, beyond doubt.” Robb glanced over their shoulders, towards a window, high up in the guest wing of the keep.

Jon turned his eyes there as well, and caught a glimpse of silver, before the window shutters closed. “Though it doesn’t help my injured pride, to know that your betrothed is the finest beauty in the North, and maybe even in the South as well.”

Jon felt his face grow hot, as his cheek flushed. A sheepish grin appeared in place of his usual somber expression, and he shoved Robb away from him. He walked into the kitchens and sat on a convenient barrel in the corner near the door. It gave him a view of the recently closed window shutters.

“I don’t deserve her.” He said softly. “It should be a gallant knight of the south, or a chevalier of Orlais, all bedecked in shining plate, astride a white charger.” Jon bowed his head, his eyes on the straw strewn flagstones that made up the kitchen floor. “Not some bastard from the frontier of the Realm.”

Robb leaned back against the frame of the door, his eyes on his brother. “Bullshit.”

Jon looked up at the Heir of Winterfell, one of his eyebrows cocked in question.

“I’ve seen those Southern Knights, those Orlisan chevaliers. And do you know what I thought of them? Each and every one of them isn’t half the man you are, Jon.” Robb turned his head to look out at the smallfolk meandering through the yard. He watched as elves and dwarves moved through the crowd of humans. He even spotted several Dalish, including Master Mendarath, in conversation with Mikken and Gorvic at the smithy.

“I’ve seen how those southern popinjays, and those foreign armored cunts, treat their lessers. Like cattle, or worse. It is worse for the elves.” Robb looked back at Jon. “I saw them, last time I accompanied Father to White Harbor. There was this Chevalier, from Val Foret I think. Had a pair of Westermen knights with him, or maybe they were his squires…” Robb shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. They were cunts regardless. Saw an elf, a woman, step in front of them in the street. She was knocked over, dropped her basket of fish. I think she must have just bought them, since she was coming from the docks.” Robb’s eyes grew hard. “That Orlisan bastard grabbed her tunic and pulled her to her feet, then slapped her so hard she fell back down. Said she had gotten fish all over his nice polished boots. Called her a ‘knife-ear’. Told the Westermen to educate her on the mistakes she made and to teach how to respect her betters. The cunts kicked her ‘til she was vomiting blood.”

Robb’s fists were clenching so tightly that Jon feared he could hear the bones creaking. “It took all Jory could do to prevent me from killing them, right then and there.” He stopped, and took a deep, cleansing breath. “I know not every lord in the South is so callous, nor is every lord here in the North as gracious as Father, but still. There is a line, and those southern bastards seem bent on crossing it whenever they godsdamn feel like it.”

Robb shook himself again. “Enough, I’m bitching like a Templar in the Great Sept. Let us grab ourselves an ale and speak of better things.” A mischievous light returned to the young lord’s eyes. “Are you nervous yet, brother? Your happy day is naught but a fortnight away, and then a freeman you will no longer be.” Jon laughed with his brother as he accompanied him further into the warmth of the kitchens.

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The Daughter of Dragons

Daenerys returned to her seat in front of the small dressing mirror, a slight grin gracing her features. She had enjoyed watching Jon and Robb face each other across the circle. Septa Mordane would have told it was wicked and unbecoming for a lady to spend her morning watching handsome young men sweat and exert themselves. If only the weather had been warm enough to encourage the lads to remove those jerkins.

Daenerys sighed as she picked up the brush from the little table before. As she began to brush out her silvery-white tresses, she looked around the room that she had been given, so long ago. For the last 12 years, this room, this keep, had been her home. It had been her refuge, its people her family, since she had lost what remained of her blood-kin in Braavos.

The brush paused in her hand, her eyes beginning to burn, as they always did at the memory.

Viserys doubled over, coughing and gasping, his breath coming ragged and weaker with each attack, more blood dripping through his fingers as he held his hand to his mouth. Ser Willem, his face pale, his breathing and voice hoarse, shoving the bundle into her arms. “You must leave, My Princess. Quickly. You must take these tokens and flee. I do not trust the servants to keep you safe, to hold their loyalty.” Another bout of coughs racked him then, leaving him doubled over in the bed, gasping for what little air he could catch. Flecks of blood littered his lips, his hands, the sheets of the bed. “Go, precious, before you catch this vileness. You must not die here.” The old knight fell back into the pillows. “Go…. My Princess….”

Daenerys was trying not to cry, but low, hard sobs still racked her small, slight frame, as she ran from the room. She stopped at her brother’s room. “Vissy? Viserys?” she pushed open the ajar door.

Her bother lay back on the pillows of his bed. He wasn’t coughing anymore. Daenerys crept to the side of the bed. Viserys’s eyes were open and glazed. He didn’t notice the girl, didn’t see her at all. Daenerys prodded at his arm. It was stiff, like a plank of wood. “Viserys?” Dany’s voice was trembling. “No, no, Vissy. Please get up. Ser Willem says we must leave. You need to get up. Please, Viserys, please…..” she was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her brother wasn’t moving. He wasn’t going to move ever again.

She turned from her brother’s corpse. She was alone. Alone in a house, in a city, of strangers. Ser Willem’s words echoed in her ears. She needed to leave. Clutching the bundle that Ser Willem had given her to her chest, she fled out of the house, and into the City of Braavos….

Daenerys came back to herself and raised her hand to her cheek. It came away damp. It always did, when she remembered.

She shook herself. No, that was the past. She was no longer a frightened little girl, cowering in the corners of porches, in the shadows of alleys, holding a bundle, given her by a dying knight, as if it were a piece of driftwood and she lost in a storm at sea. No, now she was safe, loved, protected. Now she was betrothed, betrothed a handsome, kind, gentle young man. A man she had known since childhood, with whom she had shared her fears and dreams, with whom she had shared her first kiss. She was not that helpless girl, roaming the streets of Braavos anymore.

She returned her gaze to the mirror, examining herself in its reflection. Yes, yes, this would do.

She set aside the brush and plucked up the small silver brooch that she always wore. She had received it a few namedays past, a gift from Jon. He had save up the stipend he was given by Lord Stark and used the coin to have the piece of jewelry made for her. She gently brushed her fingers over the detailed dragon heads. The brooch was beautifully made, crafted by Gorvic, who was far more skilled at fine, small detail work than Mikken. It was a skill he had developed over his years of working Lyrium in metal.

It was all of silver, a dragon with three heads, bound within a circle. Tiny flecks of red crystal, she thought they might be ruby or garnet, sat in place of the dragon’s eyes.

She always wore the brooch, ever since she had been given it. It was one of the only things she could remember Viserys telling her, “We are Dragons, Daenerys.” She was a Targaryen, a daughter of Kings and dragonlords. She would be proud of her house, of her history, regardless what the Fat Oaf wanted.

She reached for the dark grey cloak that hung from a peg near the door to her small but comfortable room. The cloak itself was gift, this time from Sansa. The outside was a deep, dark grey, nearly black, and silver-gray thread work scrolled along the hem. The inside of the garment was lined with white fox fur, and it kept Daenerys suitably warm, here in the cold of the North. Once the cloak was draped across her shoulders, she clasped it together with the brooch, and left the room. Dinner was fast approaching, and she wanted some time alone with her betrothed before he was banished to the servants table by Lady Stark.

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She found Jon sitting on the top of a barrel, a wooden mug of ale in his hand, Ghost at his feet. He seemed lost in thought but looked up to meet her eyes as she approached. He smiled at the sight of her, and that smiled lit up the world like a sunrise. Daenerys loved his smiles. Jon was always so somber, so serious, a younger version of his father, Lord Stark, who some still called the Quiet Wolf. But when Jon smiled, when his eye lit up with pure joy, he was transformed. No longer was he the Bastard of Winterfell, the sole shame of his father’s House. Instead, he was simply a handsome young man, with life and the world before him, waiting for him to claim both with all the passion he could bring.

Jon set down his mug as she stretched forth her hands for him to take. His fingers were calloused, roughened from years of gripping the hilts of swords, the haft of bows, but when they touched, when his fingers wove through hers, they were so gentle. He was always so gentle with her, and with his sisters. Dany grinned to herself as Jon stood from his seat atop the barrel. Arya hated how gentle he could be sometimes, for all that he was her favorite amongst her siblings. Arya fought, played, ran, as much as any of the boys of the keep, be they human, elf, or dwarf. She demanded to be treated as they were, in all ways, even in the punishments meted out for the mischief that she and her gang of miscreants raised from the kitchens to the library tower.

A sound of laughter and running feet drew her attention, and Daenerys turned her head to see the source. Speak of the devils and they shall appear, for Arya, followed closely by Frander, Gorvic’s son, Heldeath, a young elf whose father worked in the stables, and Pruston, a drudgery boy. A flash of grayish fur at Arya’s feet announced the presence of Nymeria as well. The band ran past Dany and Jon, chased a ranting Farlen the Kennelmaster, who in turn was being pursued by several his barking charges. As the Kennelmaster bounded past them, in hot pursuit of the children, they could see the red meaty stain on his back, running down into his breeches. Arya and her cohorts had evidently poured a bowl of bloody meat drippings down his back, much to the delight of the hounds he kept.

The sight sent Daenerys and Jon into peals of laughter, tears running from their eyes.

It took them both several minutes to regain their composure, by which time the procession of Arya’s gang, and their victim, had drawn the attention of most of the castle, including a pale faced, pinched lipped Lady Catelyn, a red cheek and eye twitching Septa Mordane, and a loudly complained Sansa. Fighting her own grin, Dany leaned into Jon’s ear. “Come, I wish to have you to myself for a while, before dinner begins. Walk with me, my love.”

Jon’s eyes sparkled, and he allowed the Valyrian to draw away from the commotion caused by his sister. With quick steps, she led him from through the passages, corridors, and alcoves of Winterfell, ‘til they came at last to the ancient keep’s Godswood. Once in the sacred grove, their steps slowed to a pace of leisure, and they walked beneath the leaves and bows of ancient sentinels, oaks, ironwoods, and other, lesser trees, until they reached the glade of the Heart Tree. There, they sat upon one of the rising roots of the Weirwood, beneath of the watching gaze of its weeping eyes.

Daenerys leaned against Jon, hands held, the finger entwined. The quiet of the Godswood settle over them, bringing with it a lingering sense of stillness, of peace and calm. Dany laid her head upon Jon’s shoulder. “Are you nervous yet, Jon?” She turned her face upward, the better to see his expression. “In but a fortnight, we will be joined. Here, in this place, before the eyes of Gods and Men.” She shuddered, as if chilled, but not a breeze stirred the blood red leaves above their heads. “I know I am. I’m frightened, Jon.”

The Bastard of Winterfell looked down into her lilac eyes. “Why? What scares you so, beloved? Does the prospect of marriage to me frighten you?” His own steel gray eyes were worried.

“No, not the idea of being married to you, Jon. Only the idea of marriage. I’m frighten by what it means. Once we are wed, we will leave this place, leave Winterfell. Leave our home.” Daenerys looked about her. At the trucks and branches and foliage of the Godswood, at the stone walls of the keep peeking through the gaps in the trees. “I have lived here, with you, with Lord Stark, and Robb and Sansa and Arya, and all the rest, for the 11 years. It has been my refuge, my sanctuary, since Ser Wendel brought me to its walls.” She could still remember, the fear, the sorrow, and the hunger she had felt. She had hidden in doorways, crouched in the shelter of alleys and alcoves, for 3 days after she had left the house with the red door and the lemon trees outside her window. She had been too weak to stand, but clutched still at the bundle in her arms, when the Fat Man with the merman on his breast had found her. He had offered her food, and a place to sleep for the night. While they had eaten, he had asked her questions, and after she had answered, her belly full, he had paid for the inn’s servants to bathe her, and then put her to bed in his own cot, while he had slept in the chair beside it.

She had found out later that the Fat Man was Ser Wendel Manderly, second son of Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor. He had been in Braavos, conducting trade business on behalf of his father, but decided to cut his negotiation short after he had found her, and discovered who she was. Ser Wendel had taken aboard his ship, and they departed Braavos for White Harbor, and from there on to Winterfell, where she had been presented to Lord Eddard Stark. She had been so afraid. She had known that name, even then, for not a day went past that either Viserys or Ser Willem Darry had decried and cursed the Lord of Winterfell, for his part in the fall and exile of her family. Yet, for of her fear, Lord Stark did not strike at her, nor did he scream and swear. He had held out his hand, looked her in the eyes, and Said only that this place was now her home, and that she would be safe there. That he would let no harm come to her. Lord Stark had taken her into his home, had fed her, clothed her, and sheltered her even from the wrath of the Usurper.

Daenerys looked back at Jon. “I’m afraid to leave. I know that Lord Stark has provided for us, and that Tŵr y Forwyn is ready for us. But still, I’m inexplicably frightened. To be on our own, to have the responsibility to care for our own smallfolk, our own lands.” Her cheeks took on a slight flush. “To start our own family. It’s all so much, and I cannot help but fear that we are not ready for it.”

Jon reached out and took her hands, pulling her into his embrace. “I know, Dany, I know. Father has done what he may to prepare to be a lord, even if it is of a keep so small that it most in the south would call it a cottage.” He grinned at the end. “But I am a son of Winterfell, taught by maesters, trained by a knight of the Realm, and a crotchety old Dalish blade master. I am brother, and friend, to the Heir of Winterfell. I swore to my father, when the betrothal was made, that I would do all in my power to care for and protect you. No matter the storm before us, we meet it, and we will pass through it the stronger for the meeting.”

Then Jon dipped his head and capture her lips with his own. She melted into his arms, her hands leaving his, only to move to his back. She clutched at him, pulling his form more tightly against her own, and he responded in kind.

When they finally broke from each other, their breath came heavy, and their heads spun with a dizzying array of stars. Both were stilling grinning sheepish grins and holding one another, when Arya came sprinting into the Godswood, to tell them that it was time for evening meal.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Lord of Winterfell

Eddard stared down at the roll of paper on his desk. He wasn’t really seeing the paper, or what had been written on it. He had already read it, and now his thoughts tumbled about each other in such a whirlwind of emotion that all he could do was stop and stare.

Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Hand of the King, was dead. Jon, who had been foster father for Eddard for 8 years, and dear friend for even longer. Jon, who had risen against his own king, to defend the lives of two young lords under his care and hospitality.

Jon, was dead.

And the King, the King was riding north to Winterfell.

Ned grit his teeth. That last time he had stood before Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, he had nearly brought the realms crashing back into war. They had parted, not as brothers of choice, nor even as friends, with a bone deep resentment hanging between them.

And now Robert was riding back north.

Eddard raised his hand and began to massage the building ache forming between his eyes. These headaches always seem to form whenever the issue of Robert Baratheon reared its head. Yet, for all the sorrow he felt for their lost friendship, he never once regretted his choice. He had made that mistake once, by allowing Tywin Lannister to escape with murder, behind a veil of politics and necessity. He had made damn sure that it didn’t happen again. It was a choice that nearly sent the Kingdoms careening back into war, but he didn’t regret it. It had been the right thing to do.

He leaned back in his chair, the old leather covered wood creaking as he did. Memory rose unbidden.

“She’s a Damn Targaryen! What the bloody hell are you doing with her?!”

Ned stood silent, his eyes never leaving Robert’s face, even as that face grew redder with barely contained rage. His fists clenched tighter on the hilt of Ice, grinding its point harder in the soil at his feet, as he fought the urge to bring the weapon up to bear. The sword was only present as the symbol of his authority today, not as a weapon.

“ She is a child, Robert.” Eddard forced the words through his clenched jaw. “She wasn’t even born when we went to war. She is innocent of her family’s crimes.”

“She’s a fucking Targaryen! That’s crime enough! She and her whole damn family are monsters! Or did you forget what Rhaegar did to your sister? To my Lyanna?"

Ned closed his eyes, fighting back pain. He also had to fight down the retort that threatened to lash out. Rhaegar didn’t do anything to my sister, save love her, have a child with her. He didn’t order the slaughter of children, nor did he condone it.

He opened his eyes, locking back on the King’s face. “I went to war, Your Grace,” and he snarled out the title, “Because Aerys executed my father and brother. I went to war, because he called for my execution as well, and Jon Arryn took a stand against his cruelty and madness. I recall that you did as well.”

Ned took a deep breath. “I did not fight, I did not bleed, lose friends and bannermen, just to watch you glory in the butchery of innocent children.”

“They were dragonspawn! They were…”

“ They were Innocents!” Eddard shouted back. “They had nothing to do with what their father or grandfather did! They committed no sin, save the sin of being born into House Targaryen!”

Ned straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and stared down the man he had called brother.

“And I will not allow it to happen again. Daenerys, of House Targaryen, is under my protection. She is my ward, and I will raise her, shelter her, and teach her what it means to have honor.”

At that last statement, Eddard’s eyes flashed over Robert’s massive shoulders to lock on the eyes of Jon Arryn, Robert’s Hand. Jon, who had ridden north with the king to council the two men, as he had so often in their youth, flinched back from the condemnation in that gaze. Robert glanced back over his shoulder at Arryn, then turned back to Eddard. “I don’t give two shits about your precious honor, Stark. I’m your fucking King, Gods damn it all. I’m ordering you to hand over the little bitch.”

Ned stared back at the King. “No. No, I will not. I will not turn her over to you, or to your Lannister lickspittles. She will not be a sacrifice to your bloodlust. I am willing, willing and determined, to fight you on this, Robert, even if it means the North breaks from that damn cursed chair.”

Robert’s eyes flashed like the storms of his homeland, and he puff up his massive, muscled chest. His hand was already reaching for the sword at his side. Then Lord Arryn stepped forward, his eyes tight and his face drawn and pale. “Enough! Cease this at once, both of you!”

Both Robert, blade have out of its scabbard, and Eddard, grip already reversed to bring the Valyrian Steel great sword up, froze. The authority, the command, in that voice invoked a level of obedience that had been instilled in the two younger men over years of life in the Eyrie.

Both men turned their heads to look at the Defender of the Vale, but they did not release the grips they had on their weapons. Jon Arryn now stood between the two of them, his face set, if pale, and his eyes angry. “You two fools! You would see the Realm descend once more into war? Now, of all times, when we have yet to recover from the horrors of the Rebellion? Over what? Your Honor?” Jon focused his stern gaze first on Lord Stark, then on the King. “Or your vengeance? A vengeance you carried out when you crushed Rhaegar’s chest in, at the Trident?”

The Lord of the Eyrie gestured to the small, silver haired girl, hiding behind the dark-haired boy several yards behind Eddard. The boy had his dagger out, held at the ready, as he stood protectively before the last Targaryen. “She is only a child, Robert. And a girl child at that. Do you fear that some fool in the Reach or Crownlands with declare for her? If this about a boy, and male of the Dragon House, like Viserys, then I would understand. His claim would be strong, and there are still many in the Realm who would wish to see the Dragons return. But this is a little girl. No one will proclaim for her. No one will rise for a girl child.”

Robert fixed his Hand with an angry glare. “She is still a Targaryen. Wait until she flowers. Then half the men in the Kingdoms will come begging for her hand. What if it’s one of those same fools you just mentioned, hrm? Then don’t have to declare for her. They can just declare for themselves, and with a Targaryen Queen on his arm, the idiot might just get the support he needs to cut me down as I did her family.”

“Then wed her to a House, a lord, loyal to you. A House you know will never rise against you.”

Robert released his sword and crossed his arms over his broad chest, his face scrunched up in deep thought. “No. No, it wouldn’t be enough. The fools could just declare for her children. Any son of hers will be a rallying point, and beacon for every lord and knight that hopes to remove me and mine from the throne.” Then the King’s eyes lit up. A cruel smile crossed his face, and an evil glint appeared in his eyes. “Then we will just have to be sure no one, no Lord of a High House, no knight sleeping beneath a hedge, will ever want to support her children.”

Robert turned his gaze back to Lord Stark. “You want the little wench to live? Fine. She can be a ward of your House, all her needs and cares entrusted to you to be fulfilled. As of this moment, I, Robert Barartheon, First of my Name, King of the Seven Kingdoms, order the Betrothal of Daenerys, of House Targaryen, to your own Son, Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell.” Robert threw his head back, and gave rolling, contempt filled laugh that filled the courtyard. “Let the Lords of Westeros find favor in her now, wed to a Bastard, and her children bearing a bastard’s blood.”

The king turned away, mounting back up on his charger. “We will find other accommodations, Lord Stark,” He said with a sneer. “But be warned. Neither I, nor my House, will forget what was said here today.” Then Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, turned his big horse, and rode out of the gates of Winterfell, leaving its lord to consider the consequences of his actions.

Chapter Text

Northern Magic

“Lord Bran!”

Bran shot up in his seat, eye’s bleary, struggling to focus.

“If my lessons are boring you, my lord, I’m sure that Maester Luwin can provide you with a list of the lesser Houses of Dorne to memorize, or perhaps a review of the history of House Umber for the last 5oo years.” Master Mergus’s voice was scathing.

Bran Stark quickly wiped the line of drool from his cheek with one hand, while the other rubbed at his eyes. He looked down at the sheets of parchment on the table before him and scowled at the damp stains his impromptu nap had left across the intricate drawings and barely legible script upon them. The convolution of lines on each page left him confused and easily distracted.

This is so boring. He looked back up at the old mage seated by the hearth. Master Mergus was scowling at him in stern disapproval, his dark brown eyes glaring out from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows.

“Master, why do I have to learn all of this? I thought you were going to teach me magic, not make me study scribbles.” Bran’s voice was plaintive, almost whining. He was just so bored. He was hoping he would learn how to call up a storm, or make the ground swallow an army, or turn one of his sisters into a toad.

The old mage cocked one of his eyebrows. “But I am teaching you magic. Those... ‘scribbles’… are the basis for every magical formula you will ever need to learn. Without them, how do you expect to cast a spell?”

“But I can already cast spells, master. You said I just needed to focus my will and draw on that energy you said I have. Like this.” And Bran focused on his fingertips. He could feel the well of power in him, a deep dark pool, like those in the godswood. He reached out with his mind to that pool and touched a finger of thought to it. Instantly, he could feel it rushing into him, a swift flowing stream of energy, filling his body and mind, giving him a feeling of euphoria, lighting up his senses like sunlight on shadows. Colors were now brighter and cleared, smells and sounds were louder and sharper. He could feel every grain of the wooden table with his other hand, could feel each stitch, each thread, of the tunic and breeches he wore.

The energy sang in him, begging to be used. He directed the energy, shaped it with his will, commanded it to do as he bid.

A tiny flame sprang to life on the tip of his middle finger.

“Oh, most impressive. You called up a candle light on you hand. A true accomplishment.” Mergu’s voice drolled out.

Bran’s sense of elation at the power singing within him faded, and he let the flame flicker out, the fire in his veins to fade as he released the energy.

Mergus leaned forward, his gaze intent. “That, that was not real magic. That was a trick for balls and feasts. A quaint amusement for he unenlightened and uneducated. Any half-wit conjurer can call up a light, a cool breeze, move a goblet of wine from one end of the table to his hand. All he needs to be able to draw on his well, his mana.” The old man shook his head. “No, real magic, real Power, comes from outside yourself. To call up a ball of fire, fit to turn a cart to kindling, or raise a tower of stone from the earth, or mend the flesh of the wounded with a wave of your hand, you must open yourself to the Fade. All magic comes from the Fade, seeping in through Veil, to saturate the world. It doesn’t matter you are a Magister of Tevinter, a Dalish Keeper, a sareebas of the Qunari, or a Circle Mage like myself, all draw on the Fade. They open themselves up to it, let the raw power of Magic flow into them, through them. It is with that power that true magic is performed.” He reached out and tapped a finger on the pages of parchment in front of the young lordling. “And that is why you must study these diagrams.”

Bran was wide eyed, his face eager. “But why, master? What do these drawings have to do with magic? With the Fade?”

Mergus leaned back in his creaky chair. “It has everything to do with the Fade, boy. Do you remember what I told you about the Fade?”

Bran nodded, impatient. “Fade is the realm beyond our own, home to spirits and demons. It is the realm of spirit, thought, and dreams. Anyone can touch it while they sleep.”

“Correct, when someone sleeps, their minds brush faintly across the Fade, and leaves them with dreams. But a mage can touch the Fade more strongly in his dreams. While he is dreaming, he can know he is in the Fade, perceive is peculiarities, know them for what they are. And with proper preparation and the aid of lyrium, a mage can send his waking mind into the Fade, render the dream lucid and controlled. There are even some mages who can do this without the aid of spells or potions. These mages are known as Dreamers.” Mergus raised his finger in a warning gesture. “But there is a danger. Mages, especially Dreamers, create a ripple in the Fade, a beacon to make known their presence. They don’t intend to, but it happens regardless. This ripple, this beacon, attracts demons. Demons long to claw their way into our world, to experience the tides of mortal emotions that they embody. A mage, with his mind so much more connected to the Fade, is tempting prey for demons, an avenue of access to our world.”

The mage stood from his chair to stand at the hearth, his arm braced against the mantel as he stared into the flames. “If the demon can, it will attempt to possess the mage. To rip apart his mind and soul, take his body for its own. That mage, now possessed, becomes what we have termed an abomination. A living horror, terrible to look upon for the disfigurement the possession has wrought on his body and wielding monstrous power. A single abomination can decimate an entire village, killing everyone for miles around.” He turned his head to look back at Bran. “That is why you must learn this formula, why every mage must.” He reached down and plucked one of the pages of diagrams from the table. “This diagram is one the most basic formula known for calling fire, fir of any kind. All the spells for fireballs, rains of fire, explosions, all are based off this diagram.”

He set the parchment down and began to pace before Bran. “When I want to call up a fireball, I must draw the power for from the Fade. My own well of Mana is not sufficient to provide energy for some flame. But if I simply draw power from the Fade, I leave myself horribly vulnerable to demons, especially if I am attempting the spell while under some sort of emotional stress, for each type of demon is drawn to the emotion it embodies. If I am feeling rage, a rage demon will seek me out, or a pride demon should I be full of arrogance. This Diagram protects me, protects my mind. As I draw on the Fade, I picture the image of this formula in my mind, hold it firmly by my will. I imagine the energy of the Fade willing it up, line by line, until it is a blazing brand in my mind’s eye. Then I may direct the spell towards what it is I wish to cast it at. I picture the object of the spell in my mind, just beyond the diagram, as if I am seeing my foe through the gaps in a fence, and release the Power, casting the spell.”

Bran felt lost. The explanation made sense… sort of. “But how does the diagram protect you? It seems like an awfully complicated way to cast a spell.”

Mergus harrumphed, blowing out his bushy grey mustache. “It protects me, because by holding it my mind and pulling the energy of the Fade through it, I am warding my thoughts, my mind, from demons. I’m thinking so strongly on the diagram, that the demon cannot find purchase anywhere in my mind. And while it seems to be an overly long and complex method of using magic, remember that I have been a mage for decades. Most mages, even apprentices, practice using the diagrams so often, that it becomes second nature. They can call up the image, draw on the Fade, and cast the spell, in the space of seconds.”

He reached out and laid a hand on Bran’s head. “I did not assign this task to you because I did not want to teach you to use the Gift you have. Your talent for magic strong, stronger than most. But that is also a danger. The greater the gift in a mage, the greater a target for demons he is. I do not wish for you to delve too quickly and too deep into your powers. It could kill you, and everyone you hold dear to you. I assigned these irritating,” the mage grinned then, his eyes sparkling, “boring parchments for you to study, to protect you.”

He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Now off with you then. It’s getting late, and your mother will have my hide if you aren’t at supper.”

Mage of the Circle

Mergus watched as the lad practically fled the library. He shook his head and turned the table where Bran had been sitting and began to gather up the parchment pages. The boy had talent, talent like he not seen in 20 years. Westeros might prove a fertile ground for mageborn in the coming years.

He lifted his head when the sound of the closing door squeaked through the room. Ser Borsun was latching the door’s bar, his face grave.

“You are indulging the boy too much, Mergus.”

Mergus sniffed and turned back to his ordering the diagrams and circles. “Given the conversation I just had with the young lord, I doubt that.” He glanced back at the Templar, his eyebrow raised. “Besides, as his gift manifested during our time here in the North, it was only fitting I take up the task of keeping him setting half the keep on fire whenever he so happened to sneeze.”

Borsun glowered at the mage. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it, Mergus. He is a mage, newly awakened. He must be taken to the Circle. It’s your duty, as a Mage sworn to the Circle and the Chantry. And it’s mine as well, as a member of the Templar Order.”

Mergus slowly straightened up and turned to face his old companion. “You know damn well that we cannot take Bran Stark to the Circle. And you know why. He isn’t Thedosian, and these lands do not follow the Laws of the Chantry. He is under no obligation to surrender himself.”

“Maker’s Breath, Mergus. He is a Mage. It is our duty to take him into custody and deliver him to the Circle. It does not matter that these lands are full of pagans and heretics. The Maker’s Law is still supreme, still supersedes the judgements of mortal men. There can be no exceptions.”

Mergus’s own agitation rose in response. “Do you wish to cause an incident, Borsun? To start a war? Bran is not of Thedas. None of Westeros follow Chantry Law, nor are they obligated to. Not only that, but the boy is the son of a lord, and one the highest ranked Lords in this realm. Eddard Stark will not simply allow you, us, to bundle up his son and put on a ship for Denerim. He will do all in his considerable power, in his authority as the Warden of the North, to stop us. Or do you simply wish to abscond with the boy in the dead of night? I’m sure that King Alistair and Knight-Commander Tavish, not to mention the Divine herself, will thank you for igniting a war between Ferelden, the Chantry, and The Seven Kingdoms.”

Borsun was scowling even more fiercely than the mage. “It. Is. Our. Duty. I will uphold it, even in the face of war. I will stand before the Maker, proud of that fact. To shirk from it, solely because it is politically inconvenient, is blasphemy.” He turned to leave the library, his steps loud against the wooded floor of the tower.

“Then why are you teaching Lord Robb how to fight like a Templar? He, too, is a son of Lord Stark. He cannot say the vows, take the lyrium. You know this. Are you sure that you are not teaching him how to fight mages, because his younger brother might become one?”

Borsun halted, his back to the old mage. Mergus could not see the Tmeplar’s face, could not discern his expression. “I teach Lord Robb how to fight, because Templars, and our techniques, are some of the most disciplined and highly regarded in Thedas. Robb has a gift for warfare and battle, as does his half-brother. He learned this and asked it of me. That is all.” He continued out the door, slamming it behind him.

Mergus sighed and walked over to the window. The shutters were open, letting a light, cool breeze blow through the room. He stood, there, gazing westward. So much had happened. Was still happening. Bran was the first he had found, the first he had heard of, but there would be more. He was young enough for the Magic to seep into him, to awaken his own natural gifts, as well as develop new ones. Mergus had read the records and histories kept in this library. He knew of the ancient talents of the First Men, of the greensight and skinchanging.

When Bran had come to Maester Luwin, speaking of strange dreams, of seeing through the eyes of his yet unnamed direwolf, the Maester had dismissed the boy’s concerns. It was understandable. Magic had been gone, lost, for centuries. Thus, was taught at the Citadel of Old Town, to all Maesters and by all Maesters. But now, with the Arrival, and the holes it had torn in the Veil of the world, magic was flowing back into the world like leaks in the water barrel. Mergus, as well as other enchanters of the Circle, had tried to study those holes, and their effects, on this new world, Tegran. He had not expected to find those effects so soon, however.

He had gone to the lad, disappointment rife in the air around him, and offered to examine the lad. It had been mere curiosity, and tiny hope, to see if those old stories were true. But as he had held the flame in his hand, Bran focused so intently upon its light, he had felt it. That resonance. That echo of the flame in his hand resounding back from within Bran. The boy had Power. It had been that realization that had driven Mergus to teach him, to train him to control his gift. It was instinctive. Mergus had been a teacher at his Circle, before Godric Seawalker, Bann of Waking Sea Bannorn, had decided to visit the North of Westeros, to examine its culture and people, on behalf of King Alistair of Ferelden.

Bann Godric had requested of the Circle in Jainen that a mage accompany him as a member of his entourage. That, of course, had meant a Templar would follow along, for no mage of the Chantry could be left un-supervised. First Enchanter Jendrik had selected Enchanter Mergus, with Ser Borsun as his “Handler”, to accompany the Bann on his excursion. Mergus had been loathed to be separated from his students, teaching was his passion as much as magic, but he had little choice in the matter. Now, here, in keep of the High Lord of the North, he had found a new student. A new mind to mold, and new imagination to open to the world of magic.

But now the concern he had held so close, so quiet, had reared its head. It was his duty, as it was the duty of every mage of the Circle, sworn to the Chantry, to submit any new mage, or mageling, found to the authority of the Circle, the Chantry, and, most frightening of all, the Templars. He had been lucky. The Circle of Jainen was fairly progressive. Its Templars, while strict as any Templar should be, were above the petty cruelties and punishments seen so often in other Circles, such as in Kirkwall. But there was no guarantee that a young mage, freshly delivered for Chantry judgement, would be sent to the Circle of the Mage, or Templar, that had brought them in. He had seen Revered Mother Sarrisma order a newly made apprentice be sent to study in a Circle far removed from the locale where he or she had been found. Some had even ended up in Kirkwall.

But Bran had not been brought up in Chantry Law, had not been taught to fear, and even hate, mages and magic. He was the son of a mighty lord, a peer of the Seven Kingdoms. It would create a serious, frighteningly so, precedent for Bran to presented to the Circle. The son of a lord of a foreign, pagan realm? A Realm that the Chantry was not at war with. If it could be done, it would be a major political victory for the Chantry, though whether the praise for that victory would fall on the Circle or the Templars was unclear. It would mean a great step forward in the Chantry’s hopes to convert the Seven Kingdoms to the Cult of the Maker, that a scion of one its Great Houses would join the Circle and, by extension, the Chantry.

But if the child in question was taken by force, unwillingly driven to bend to the Will of the Chantry, to subject him or herself to the phylactery and the Harrowing, without the acquiescence of either the child’s family, or the permission of the Iron Throne? It could mean political disfavor, a revoking of trade agreements, summary punishments both in Thedas and in Westeros, a, expulsion of Thedosian dignitaries. Worse, it could mean war.

Mergus shuddered. War. There had been no serious conflict in Ferelden since the end of the Fifth Blight. And most of the battles and hostilities between the various nations of Thedas had come to an abrupt close when Thedas had ripped from its native world, hurled across the Fade the toy of some errant child, to appear naught for five hundred miles from the western coast of Westeros, its lands torn by ragged wounds. Where once the Donarks had been, as well as much of the Hunterhorn Mountains, and lands south of the Kocari and Arbor Wilds, now was only jagged and broken cliffs. Even Par Vollen had been brought along for the ride, much of northern lands rent and torn by whatever force had decided to involve itself in the affairs of both Tegran and Thedas.

Mergus knew, knew from his travels with Bann Godric, and from his readings of the manuscripts and histories in Winterfell’s library, that Westeros was rather primitive when stacked against Thedas. They had no magic, their metallurgy was only just beginning to delve into the manufacture of steel, and they had none of the more potent metals that Thedas boasted, such as Drakenstone, Nevarrite, or Paragon Luster to name a few.

Yet, where Thedas was still a land of distinct and separate nations, nations often at odds with one another, united only by Faith, and in times were the Faith itself was threatened, Westeros was a realm united. Its lands were nearly double those of Thedas, and they were held together beneath a single authority, a single throne. The Iron Throne.

Should war breakout between the Seven Kingdoms and Thedas, it would require the call of an Exalted March to match the numbers that Westeros could bring to bear. And there was no true guarantee that all the Chantry lead nations of Thedas, which only made up a portion of the realms of the continent, would heed the call. Many, especially in Nevarra, Antiva, and the Free Marches, would rightly fear that sending their own troops off to join an Exalted March against a land across the sea would them exposed, vulnerable to kingdoms that did not follow the edicts of the Chantry. The Qunari were ever eager to renew the spread of the Qun into the mainland of Thedas, and their mighty navy was the eternal nightmare for many of the ocean-going realms, such as Antiva, or the Marcher States of Wycome, Ostwick, and Kirkwall. While the Tevinter Imperium still longed for the days where their power was the greatest in Thedas, when their political authority reigned supreme from the Boric Ocean to the Frozen Seas. Should Nevarra or the Free Marches send too many troops from their own garrisons along their northern borders, Tevinter would seize the opportunity to march south, and reclaim the lands they still believed to rightfully belong to the Imperium.

No, an Exalted March was far too dangerous, too risky. But if Westeros declared war, a war over the abduction of the sons and daughters of its high houses, should they prove to bear magic, then a March may be inevitable. Chantry would never stand for such a challenge to its Maker given authority.

Mergus leaned his head against the stone of the window’s niche. There had to be another way. He only hoped he could find it soon. Bran was only the first. What if others appeared, in Houses farther south, closer to the foothold that the Chantry had established near Old Town. What if those children, those new magelings, were found by Mages or Templars less hindered by moral dilemma as he was?

He shuddered again. No, no he had to find another solution.

Mergus winced as his stomach growled loudly. The evening meal was well underway. He would not be able to think, let alone come up with an answer to this impending political crisis, if he perished of hunger.

Bastard Wolf

Jon took a deep breath of the cool, Northern, night air. It had grown stuffy, the air heavy with heat and damp, inside the Great Hall. It usually did, during the evening meal, when most of the castle folk came to gather over dinner. The night outside was cool, invigorating, refreshing. He always preferred to feel the wind on his face, to smell the crisp scent of pine and oak and sentinel, to have the cool sharpness of the cold clear his lungs of damp.

He glanced back in through the side door of the hall, at his family sitting at the high table. His lord father, somber and level, in quiet conversation with one of the man-at-arms to his left. Lady Catelyn, her form straight and proper, sipping from a goblet. Robb, laughing as Grey Wind and Nymeria rolled across the straw strewn floor, fighting over a slice of meat that Arya had undoubtedly snuck to her direwolf. Arya herself, locked in poking match with Bran. Sansa, trying to so hard to mimic her mother’s posture and poise. Daenerys, smiling gently as she held baby Rickon in her lap, feeding him from a bowl of broth softened vegetables and meats.

Jon had not been allowed to sit with them. He never was. Not even with Daenerys, his betrothed. He was but a bastard. Born of sin, of wickedness, and destined to be a creature consumed by those failings. Or so Lady Catelyn, and her septa, Mordane, preached. Bastards had no place amongst the trueborn and high.

But Jon knew his brother didn’t hate him, didn’t fear him or his ambitions. Neither did Arya, who spent her days chasing after Jon, begging him to play with her, when she was not leading her little gang of miscreants into trouble. They loved him, as did his father, though Lord Stark was far more reserved in his displays of emotion. That fact, and the love that he shared with Daenerys, were enough to keep him warm, in the cool nights when he dared not enter the Hall, for fear of Catelyn’s wrath.

He lifted the mug of ale to his lips, his eyes wandering the yard. He would miss this place. The walls, the towers and halls, the crypts, the Godswood and the Heart-tree. This had been his home for 17 years. It was the only home he had ever known. Its very presence echoed in his bones. He knew he, and Dany, would feel the loss of that presence as an emptiness, nearly an open wound, months to come, maybe even years. It would take time for Tŵr y Forwyn to feel welcome to him, to feel like a place he belonged to.

Jon furrowed his brow in thought. He had been to the ancient tower. Had seen its crumbling hall, its collapsed outbuilding. Lord Stark had told him, all of 11 years ago, that the ruin would be Jon’s, his and Dany’s. It, and the people on the lands about it, would become his responsibility, his charge, to care for and protect, to rule and guide. Lord Stark had ordered the tower rebuilt, remade from the ancient outpost of the Kings of Winter into a small, tiny really, keep for a bastard son and his new bride.

Jon smirked to himself. He had been made to sit with his Lord Father whenever reports of the construction’s progress were delivered to Winterfell. Had listened to the reports of how much of the tower’s exterior had been mended and shorn up, how far along the repairs to the roof of the hall were, how the laborers had been forced to tear down the old outbuilding and rebuild it from the ground up, how they had been forced to dig a new well in the center of the courtyard. The laborers had even built on two wings to the hall, one to house the keep’s kitchen and the other to serve as the servants’ quarters, not that he would have many servants. Jon actually laughed at that. He wouldn’t even have any men-at-arms to serve as guards for the keep or its lands. His holdings would include the tower, a mile or so of mountains behind it, the small hamlet at the base of the hill upon which the tower sat, and a few miles of forest to the east, near the long lake. Small indeed, compared to the vast territories held by the old houses and families of the North.

Still… it was far better than he deserved. For he was a bastard and would only ever be one.

“You know, Broody, I think you sitting in that exact same spot, with that exact same expression on your face, when I left here two years ago.”

Jon’s head shot up, a grin spreading across his face. Leaning against a cart by the gate was a dwarf. He was dressed in a finely made leather jacket, equally fine leather trousers and boots, and tunic of silk, unbutton so that most of his rather hairy chest was bare. A large, complicated looking crossbow was slung across his back, and his face, in stark opposition to tradition and culture, was bare, only a faint stubble showing across his jaw.

“Varric! What in the name of the Old Gods and New are you doing in Winterfell?”

“Oh, just making some deliveries, sealing some deals, gouging a few purses, the same old nonsense.”

The dwarf pushed off the cart and sauntered over to Jon, his broad, powerful hand outstretched. Jon seized it in as powerful a grip as he could, and he still winced as Varric’s grip crushed his own into submission. “I see the lady of the house still holds you in ill favor.”

Jon grimaced, then gestured for the dwarf to take a seat on crate next to his own barrel. “It is to be expected. It’s not like my status as ‘bastard’ can change in 2 years. And legitimization would only anger her more. Make me more of ‘threat’ to her children.” Jon sighed. “But I have had a lifetime to learn to live with it, and her displeasure. And soon, it will not matter what she thinks of me, for I will no longer have to force her to endure my presence under her roof.”

Varric’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, that’s right isn’t it. You’re getting married and moving out on your own, aren’t you? That’s, what, only a year or so away?”

“A fortnight. Or maybe less. Father said something at dinner, before I left the hall. The King is coming north, to Winterfell. I think he wishes to have Daenerys and I wed and away before the King arrives. Robert Baratheon’s… dislike, for those of House Targaryen is nearly proverbial. It might be best to ensure that Dany and I are safely away from his notice, to avoid any misunderstandings or flashes of temper.”

Varric nodded in understanding, his face grim. “Yeah, I heard tale of what happened the last time your king left his chair to visit your family. I understand that Broody the Elder nearly went to war with Antler Ass over your girl.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Andraste’s Shapely Legs, but you Westerosi are nearly as bad as the Orlisans when it comes to internal politics.” The dwarf shrugged. “Still, at least your father knows where his moral compass lays, and that’s what matters. Which reminds me, I actually have that compass your Maester ordered with me this time. I hope he can forgive the lateness, but it was a right bitch trying to get that Antivan artificer to part with it.” Varric pushed himself off the crate and began walking to the entrance to the hall. “Well, I’m starved, Broody Junior, and I want to fill my belly and wet my palate before I get bombarded with questions about what wares I brought this time. You coming?”

Jon sighed. “Might as well. The chill is starting to settle in my bones anyway.” He followed the dwarf into the hall. “Did you stop by Casterly Rock on your way, Varric?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, I swung by, dropped off a shipment of Bloodstone, Dragonling scales, Serpent stone, Highever weave, and Plaideweave. Maker’s Breath, but them Lannisters like their House colors. I think the Lions bought up just about the entire stock of Highever Weave the Arl had, and you could hear the screams of rage from the clothiers from Dairsmuid to Cumberland.”

Jon frowned. “Arent Bloodstone, Serpent Stone, and Dragonling Scales used for armor and weapons, though?”

“Sure, I guess. They’re used for a lot of things, really. Maybe the Old Lion wants to have his chandelier redecorated or something.”

Jon set his worry aside. There would be time to bring it up with his father later. “Did you see Tyrion while you were there?”

“Stunty? Sure, we talked a bit, drank a bit more. He gave me some designs he wants passed on to the Shaperate in Orzimmar. Says us dwarves might find them useful. I humor him a bit, but the Shaperate hasn’t entertained a new idea since the First Blight. I doubt a horse saddle designed for dwarves will get them off their asses. Not when riding nuggs and brontos served them, their fathers, their grandfathers, and so on and so on, for a hundred or so generations. Still, might be market for we Surface dwarves. It might be nice to see something from higher than Qunari’s knee.”

Jon laughed. “Somehow, I doubt a horse, any horse, could support the weight of your ego, Master Tethras.”

Varric looked up at Jon with a grin as he took as seat at one of the lower tables. “Me? Egotistical? Surely not.”

Jon glanced back out the door as he sat next to the dwarf. “So, what have you brought with you this time, Varric?”

Varric shrugged as he reached for a plate of chicken, which was soon joined by a bowl of stewed potatoes and carrots. “Some fabrics from Orlais, Nevarra, the Free Marches, hides and metals from Ferelden and Orlais. Got some Antivan wine and Ander’s statuary I think Lady Stark commissioned for her chapel thing she has here.”

“Her Sept?”

“Yeah, that’s it. And a shipment of Lyrium for Gorvic. Special order.”

Lyrium? Lyrium was expensive, especially here in Westeros. None had yet been found on here, which meant that any desired had to be shipped in from Orzimmar. “That’s odd. I wonder why Father would be willing to pay something so costly.”

“Hey, I’m just the guy making the delivery. I have nothing to do with the whys or why nots.”

Jon sighed, and reached for his mug. He had only just set the rim to his lips, when his father rose from his seat at the high table.

“My friends, members of my household, and honored guests. I wish to announce, that due to anticipated arrival of King Robert in a month’s time, I fear that we must accelerate the time of wedding between the Lady Daenerys of House Targaryen, to my son, Jon Snow. While it was to be held in two weeks’ time, the circumstances ordain that it must occur sooner. So, I must ask for a greater effort from all of you, that we may hold this wedding by the end of the week. I have sent ravens to the Lords of the North already, informing them of the change of plans. I do not expect many to be able to make the journey in time for the ceremony. With that consideration, I have requested that those lords, unable to come to Winterfell quickly enough, direct their gifts and congratulations on to Tŵr y Forwyn, to await the arrival of my son and his bride.”

Chapter Text

Preparations

The Lord of Winterfell

“Absolutely Not!” Eddard Stark near shouted, slamming his balled fist on the top of his desk with such force that several of the personal knick-knacks, mostly small gifts from his children, that lined the surface flew off into corners of the solar. “My son is not going to be sent off, across the seas, to join some monastery, bowing to gods not his own! I will not stand for it!”

Ser Borsun, fully bedecked in his ornamented Templar armor, clenched his own fists so tightly that Ned could hear the faint screaming of the gauntlet’s metal fingers. “My Lord, I’m afraid that your will does not supersede my own duty, as a Templar of the Chantry, nor the Mandate of the Maker’s Bride. Magic is to serve man, not rule over him. Your son is Mage. By the Law of the Maker, he must be taken to a Circle. My purpose is to take him. That is why I am here, it is why I am. A Templar, who guards and guards against mages.” Borsun narrowed his eyes, leaning in slightly. “He is going. That is the Will of the Maker and thus it is Chantry Law. There are no exceptions.”

Lord Stark’s own countenance was stormy. It was indeed fortunate for the Templar that Ned never allowed weapons, even his own, into his solar. Else, Ice would already be buried in the Ser Borsun’s chest. How dare this man, this foreigner, stand before him and presume to demand that his son, his son, be placed under Templar custody, and under Chantry Authority. This foreign faith had no power, no authority, here, in Westeros, in the North! Not even the Faith of the Seven, which shared the same continent as the North, held sway here, save in White Harbor.

“This is not Orlais, Ferelden, or the Free Marches, Ser Borsun. Hells, it’s not even Thedas! This is the North, this is Westeros. Your Faith, your… ‘Cult of the Maker’, has no more authority here than is does in Par Vollen! Neither I, nor my son, nor any of my people, believe in your Maker. We do not heed the wishes of an old women from across the seas, and we are not bound to follow the laws that she decrees. Thus, Bran is not obligated to join your Circle.”

Ser Borsun’s face had gone pale at the insulted Ned had offered the Divine. He could see the ever-rising rage behind the Templar’s eyes. “How dare you, sir! The Divine is the voice of the Maker, the will of the Maker amongst the living, and Heir to the faith brought to us by Andraste, the Maker’s Bride. When she speaks, it is the Maker who is speaking through her. The laws laid down by the Divine are the laws of God himself. How dare you presume that your mortal authority, your secular power, is greater than that of the Maker! His will makes the will of the Universe. That you do not follow in his Light, walk upon his Path, does not diminish his authority, an authority that holds sway across the length and breadth of Creation!” The Templar drew himself up, his stance one of absolute confidence. “It is the Maker’s will that your son, Bran, a Mage, be brought to the Circle, as all Mages must be brought, wherever they be found.”

Ned fought to keep his rage from exploding out of him, fought to keep his hands from this arrogant interloper’s throat. He stood slowly, though his limbs were shaking with anger. “You bring this before me, on the very eve of one of my sons’ wedding. You demand that I deliver up my own flesh and blood to another faith, a foreign power, to be imprisoned and converted, by force even, to a religion, to a god, that is not his own. You, a foreigner from a land across the sea, unheard of to this world more than decade ago, demand this of me.” Ned raised his finger, pointed it straight in the Templar’s face. “I will tell you now, Ser Borsun of the Templar Order, that if my son is not going. And if you force this, if you try to take him from me, I will call my banners. I will call them to war. And I will not stop until I have driven every Templar, every Mage, every follower of the Chantry into the Sea, pulled down their temples, sowed their lands with salt, and strewn their entrails upon the bows of my Heart Tree!”

Ser Borsun drew back, his face furious, and raised his fist. It appeared as if the Templar was preparing to strike the Lord of Winterfell, but before Ser Borsun’s fist even began to move, the door to the solar flew open. Mergus was standing there, his face thunderous, even unto the tiny flickers of light that gathered about him.

“Borsun! Cease this at once!”

Borsun drew himself up, his eyes wide as he turned to face the mage. “I am carrying out my Duty, Mage, just as you should be. Bran should be given to our custody and take…”

“I know full well what my duty is, Templar. It is to guide, to teach, and protect other mages from their own power. Which I am doing by training the boy. But as to your belief that he should shackled and hauled away, never to leave Thedas, let alone see his family again, then I must inform you that I have already sent a Raven to Old Town, to Mother Giselle, First Enchantor Actis, and Knight-Captain Cullen. I believe that the decision as to whether or not to declare war over the custody of a single foreign-born mage should belong to those with the authority to break all diplomatic ties. Wouldn’t you agree, Templar Borsun?”

Ser Borsun stared at the mage, disbelief painted plainly across his blunt face. Then he set his face in fresh scowl and marched from the room.

Mergus watched the Templar leave before stepping into the Solar himself and shutting the door behind him. He sighed deeply, then turned to look at the Lord Stark. “I apologize, Lord Stark, for the behavior of my companion. He is quite, ah… fervent, when it comes to the enacting of his duties.”

Eddard, himself struggling to slow his own breath and regain control of his temper, raised an eyebrow at the Mage. “Fervent would be an understatement, Master Mage. However,” He turned to fully face Mergus, his eyes hard, “I stand firm behind my decision. Bran will not go to the Circle. I will not allow it.”

Mergus stared back into Eddard’s steel grey graze. “Do you know why the Circles, and the Templars, exist, Lord Stark?”

Eddard frowned, then shook his head. “No. I know only that the duties of the Templars are to police and protect mages.”

Mergus nodded slowly, taking the seat the Templar had vacated when voices had started rising. “Magic, and thus mages, is inherently dangerous, my lord. Our powers allow us to open certain doors, in a way. Thing is, doors open both ways, and there are things on the other side that desperately want inside. Mages that have little, or no, self-control, or firm grasp of their own powers, cannot hold those doors shut when the things from the other side begin knocking. More than one young mage has failed his Harrowing, and let the demons in. An Abomination is a horrible thing, my Lord Stark, capable of reducing something even as impressive as Winterfell to a pile of rubble and bodies in short order.”

The old mage leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands. “It is the duty of the Templars to be ever on guard for such threats. To slay Abominations when found. Even better, to detain or kill any mage they fear is in danger of becoming an Abomination. And in the eyes of many, including Ser Borsun, any mage, not bound fully to the Circle, with a successful Harrowing behind them, is an Apostate, a single step away from being a Malificarum, and thus two steps away from becoming an Abomination. And such threats cannot be tolerated. So, they are most rigid in their beliefs, and most ardent in the pursuit of their duties, to bring mages to the Circle, and execute all that resist as Malificarum.”

Ned bristled. “My son is no Malificarum. He is barely awakened to his magic and has only touched it with your guidance.”

Mergus smiled faintly. “Yes, he is newly come into his power. But he is still in great danger my lord. However, I do not wish to rip him from his home, especially not if the act of doing so would ignite a war neither of our realms can afford. I hope that Mother Giselle and First Enchanter Actis can find a solution.” Mergus leaned back his chair, tiling his head to stare at the ceiling. “If it were my own choice, I would suggest that a new Circle be formed here in Westeros. A Circle where these new mages, for Bran is only the first, can come and learn, both of their gifts, and of the Chantry, of the good it tries to do using mages and magic. Let them study for a few years, undergo a Harrowing to prove that they can resist the lure of demons, and then give them a choice. A choice whether or not to remain with the Circle, to be a full mage, or to leave and return to their homes.”

Ned leaned back in his own chair, propping his head on his fingers. “That sound like a reasonable solution, Master Mergus.”

The Heir of Winterfell

“Look Out!”

Robb barely had time to throw himself into a nearby alcove before a maid servant came barreling down the corridor, her arms so full of what appeared to be blankets and sleeping furs that they were in danger of over-balancing. Robb managed to receive a barely respectful nod of her head before she was off and around the corner. Robb could only stare after her, amazed at the size of the armload she had been carrying. It was absurd yet was no longer an uncommon sight in the halls and chambers of Winterfell. Not since his father had declared that Jon and Daenerys’s wedding would take place nearly a week sooner than expected. Now the formerly leisurely pace of preparations for the wedding feast, and the accommodations for the attending lords, had taken a frantic turn.

Robb took the opportunity of the current vacant corridor to quickly dash to the nearest door and throw himself through it.

“Well, if it isn’t Punchy. It seems I’m getting all kinds of visitors today.”

Robb spun around. Leaning against the wall on the bed, Varric calmly rubbed oil into the woodworking of his elaborate crossbow. Sitting cross-leg on the floor, was Arya. She had the distinct look on her face of one caught where she ought not to be.

Robb raised his eyebrows at his sister. “I know I’m simply trying to avoid be trampled into the corridor floor, but why are you here, little sister, and not helping Sansa, Septa Mordane, and Mother finish Daenerys’s Maiden cloak?”

Arya scowled up at her eldest brother. “Because I hate needlework. I’m always pricking my fingers, and my stitching is never right, and I hate listening to Septa Mordane and Mother always praising Sansa. She keeps smiling and puffing up every time they speak to her.” A wry little smirk crept across her face. “I didn’t want to stay and wait to see if she finally explodes from it all.”

Varric chuckled from his spot on the bed. “Firesprite here decided that she would rather spend her afternoon here, hiding and begging me for stories and news about that surprisingly comfortable patch of dirt I call home.”

Arya threw a glare back at the dwarf. “I am not hiding or begging. You just can’t stop talking. And don’t call me ‘firesprite’.” Arya tilted her head back in an amazingly similar manner to how Robb had seen Sansa do. “I am a wolf. I even have one too. See?” She pointed to the corner of the room, where Nymeria lay curled before the hearth.

Varric was still grinning as he set the crossbow aside, then pushed himself off the bed. “Well, there are only so many wolf nicknames available, and I’m sorry to say, Firesprite, that I’ve already bestowed all the ones I know upon other illustrious individuals. Now come on, up you get. I would rather not have your father, or your mother, throw me out of the castle for sheltering you from their well-deserved wrath, especially since I haven’t finished loading up my purchases.” He sauntered, and it was amazing how well he could, given his height, to the door and pushed it open. “Besides, I think I hear Dalish horns at the gate.”

In a flash Arya was off the floor and a dozen strides down the hall, Nymeria hot on her heels.

Robb had to laugh. It was too much, too… Arya. Nothing could get her moving, either to someplace she needed to be, or away from somewhere she shouldn’t, faster than new arrivals to Winterfell. He looked to Varric. “Did you really hear Dalish horns?”

“Of course, I did.” Varric said, thrusting out his chest, and casually flashing his famous display of chest hair through his unbuttoned tunic. “Once, a few years ago.” He winked at the Heir before leaving the room.

Robb threw back his head and laughed. He knew why Jon enjoyed the dwarf’s company so much. Varric Tethras never made much of someone’s rank or status, even that of bastards. To him, they were all simply people. Jon was simply people. Dany was simply people. Sansa, Arya, Bran, Roderick, Mergus, Borsun, Jorry, Luwin, they were all just people. And people could be talked to. Could be joked with or be someone with whom to share a drink. That’s what Varric saw. It was only the truly important and powerful that the dwarven trader dipped his head to, if only his head. While he did make light of most he met, he did know when to show at least a minimum of respect.

Robb followed Varric down into the Great Hall, where tables and benches were being added, as Vayon Poole, Winterfell’s Steward, supervised. As Robb watcher, Poole descended on a hapless dwarf and human pair, verbally lashing them over some failure Robb could not discern. He stopped and watched as a pair of elven lasses, maybe a year or so younger than himself brushed past him, their arms full of strung flowers to be hung from the ceiling beams. He grinned to himself as he eyed the way their movements made their skirts swish. Elves were such a pretty race, he had to admit.

Varric nudged Robb in the side. “Come along, Punchy.  I don’t think you Lord Father or Lady Mother would appreciate you distracting the staff, just so you could bounce one of those pretty eyes maids on your knee.” Robb quickly pulled eyes back in his head and turned sheepishly back to the dwarf.

“Sorry, Varric. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help at least appreciating the view. They do have such nice, long, smooth legs. And those slender frames, yet still possessing such nice curves. Who wouldn’t look?”

“Your brother, for one. As long as I have known him, he has only ever had eyes for Silver. Though I take your point.” The dwarf paused at the massive double doors of the Great Hall’s main entrance. “You know, I think this was the first place I had ever seen elves treated like real people. They all look so happy. No one is ignoring them, or bullying them, or insulting them. Maybe that’s why they all look so pretty. They’re happy. You Father has really thrown all those traditions the humans back home have established out of order. He pays them, houses them, talks to them, treats them just he would any regular human. It’s downright bizarre, from my point of view at least. Not that I’m complaining. I agree with him, with his methods. Elves are people too, not just a bunch of knife-eared sub-humans good for nothing but being the doormat of everyone else.”

Varric scowled, though it seemed to be more to himself than directed at Robb. “If those arrogant sons of bitches back in Kirkwall could see this now, they’d go into collective apoplexy. It’s no wonder so many City Elves have been jumping ship at every port from Antiva to Gwaren to get here.”

Now Robb wore a frown. “It’s not perfect. There are still several lords, here in the North, that have yet to follow through on my father’s command to treat the elves as they would any of their servants. Granted, some of those lords, like Lord Bolton, treat their human servants nearly as bad, but my father is still having to lean on some of them far more than he would like to. Lords Karstark and Umber are the most vocal about resenting all these foreigners being allowed to settle on their lands. But as they live so close to the Wall, and suffer the most from Wildling raids, I guess that their aversion to anything not born of the North understandable.” He sighed. “And I am grateful, as is my Lord Father, that so many of the Northern Lords, like Lords Glover, Manderly, and Lady  Mormont, have taken to his command so readily. As well the whole of the North, save maybe the Boltons, respecting his decree that the Dalish have right to travel across their lands, un-molested, so long as the bands show proper respect for the lord of the lands through which they travel. That the Dalish bands provide so much in the way of trade is a boon as well. I know that Lord Forrester and Lord Glover have provided contracts to the Dalish, allowing them to harvest from the Wolf’s Wood, in wood, game, and herbs, in exchange for a favored status trading for Elven leather and woodcraft goods.”

“Yeah, what your father has done here, and what he is trying to do throughout the North, is a very good thing, Punchy. I just hope it stays that way, after he dies. Too many good things never survive, once the man trying to make them happen dies.”

“Gods forbid and keep him safe. I mean to continue his work, but the Lords of the North know, and respect, my father. They do not yet know or respect me. I pray that I can earn it.”

“Damn, now you’ve got me all depressed, Punchy. Come one, let’s go round up your lovesick brother and get ourselves good and drunk. I happened to have a bottle or two of Antivan Dark, 8:13 Blessed, very good year.”

The Wild Cub

Arya sulked as she sat on the parapets of Winterfell’s out wall. She hated being tricked and had already vowed to sneak mice or toads into Varric’s sleeping furs. She let her gaze wander over the grey lit landscape beyond the keep’s wall. She shivered as a fresh wind blew in from the north. She could smell a crisp, wet scent in the air. It would snow tonight, she was certain.

She sighed as she started to twist about to jump back onto the causeway of the wall. Then a deep, sorrowful tone echoed across the moors. She turned back to look out past the crenellations of the wall. For a time, she could see nothing, yet still, that mournful cry sounded out. She could see, out of the corner of her eye, several of the Stark guardsmen moving to stand next to her, shading their eyes as they peered out as she did.

“There!” Arya pointed out over the wall’s edge. Rising over the hills from the south was a line of dark, indistinct shapes. Arya stared hard at them, watching as they grew steadily closer and larger. Finally, she could make out the banner flapping in the breeze. Three tall sentinel trees on a field of brown. House Tallhart.

Yet another clarion sounded out of the fields, this time from the east. Arya was nearly trampled as she struggled to keep ahead of the soldiers running along the wall to look in that direction. From the courtyard below she could hear Jorry calling “What banners?”

“Tallhart rides from the South, Master Cassel. From the east…” The guardsmen who had responded leaned out over the edge of the wall. “From the east… The Moose! Its House Hornwood, sir!”

Still more horns sounded out, from the north and west, as well as fresh, new calls from the south and east.

“The Black Axe! Its House Cerwyn!”

“Their banner shows the Blue Moons, House Harclay approaches.”

“The Gauntlet approaches. Its Lord Glover!”

“House Condon on the hill. I can see the crossed tridents!”

“There is the pine forest, and the brown knot. Someone tell Lord Stark Houses Knott and Liddle arrive.”

“The Flayed Man! Its House Bolton!”

“Those green dots. Its House Lake.”

“A ship approaches up the White Knife!”

Arya spun at that last cry. A ship? Who would send a ship of the White Knife?

She ran back to the southern wall, leaping to stand on a crenellation, her hand on the banner staff nearby to steady herself. She squinted her eyes at the white and brown shape of the river barge. Flying from the single mast it boasted, above the lines of rowers, a light, slightly green, blue banner waved. As the wind caught it, she could see the form of a fish tailed man, bearded, and wielding a trident in one hand.

“It’s House Manderly!” she screamed out, jumping up and down, careless of her dangerous footing. Now, now things were happening. Now things were going to be fun. The Lords of the North were arriving.

Chapter Text

Wedding Part 1

The Bastard of Winterfell

Jon simply could not find a way to settle the queasiness in his stomach. For years he had been awaiting this day, been hoping for it, and dreading it at the same time. And now it was here, and he felt sick. It did not help that both Varric and Robb had decided it was their solemn duty to make japes about the end of his bachelorhood at every possible moment. He could only hope that he did not empty the contents of his stomach in front of all the wedding’s attendees during the ceremony.

He sighed and sipped from the tankard in his hand as he walked across the yard. The keep was full, packed with lords, both greater and lesser, so much so that even the inns of Winter Town were sleeping two, three, even four men to a room. Jon was relieved that it was unlikely that more would arrive. The journeys from their seats were long, and a week was not much time to prepare for such a sojourn. Indeed, Lord Umber, the Greatjon, had only just arrived a bare hour ago, roaring and laughing as he greeted Lord Stark and the earlier guests, and would likely be the last of the nobles of the North to attend.

Jon had to stop short, spilling some the ale in his tankard, as a group of servants came hurrying past him, carrying trays laden with mugs and tankards and goblets, or dishes of sweetmeats, cheeses, and small rolls of bread. While the marriage ceremony itself, as well as the following feast, would take place that evening, as the sun set, and the sky turned bloody, much of the day would be spent by the guests in talk and gossip, in trades and deals, in friendships made or broken, feuds began or ended. They would snack on small dishes, ease their thirsts, and await the fall of night and a true meal. Even now, Jon could see Lord Glover speaking with Lord Tallhart. He knew that Lord Glover’s nephew as reaching marriageable age, as was Lord Tallhart’s daughter. He would not be surprised to find that by tomorrow morning, a betrothal had been agreed upon.

Jon was about to turn back to the keep, to retreat to his room and wait for night fall, when a shout came down from the watch on the wall.

“Riders! Riders from the north!”

Jon turned and saw his father, and brother, make their way through the mingling lords and masters, heading for the north gate. Jon jogged after them. Who could be arriving now? And from the north? Lord Umber was the farthest north of His father’s bannerman, there should not be anyone left from that ways yet to arrive. He reached the gates a step behind his brother and watched as the riders approached.

As he watched, the mass of indistinct shapes grew ever closer, until he could see that it was not only riders, but a covered wagon that was approaching. They flew no flags, no banners, but one and all were garbed in black. They were nearly to the gate when Jon recognized the face of the lead rider. “Uncle Benjen!”

The group came through the gate, three riders and the wagon, before pulling up short in the yard. The lead rider dismounted and handed the reigns of his horse to one of stable boys that came running up. Benjen Stark had much of his brother in him, the same long face, steel gray eyes, and long black hair, though he was of slightly leaner build than Eddard, even if as broad in the shoulder. Grinning, the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch stepped forwards and pulled his older brother into a tight hug. Lord Stark shared in the smile, slapping Benjen’s back before pulling away enough to get a good look at him. “Benjen, it is good to see you. But, Gods man, what are you doing here? I did not think you would be able to arrive in time, after we moved up the wedding.”

“I guess that I must have missed your raven then, brother. I have been on the road for some time. It has been slowing going, travelling from Castle Black, but I had cause. We left well before you decide to change the date of the ceremony.”

Lord Stark frowned at his brother. “If you left before I even sent the raven, then what cause had you for coming south, to travel so slowly? Are the roads in such poor state?”

Benjen’s grin faded to a solemn smile. He gestured to the covered wagon. “He is why we left so soon, and why we were forced to travel so slowly.”

Jon and the others watched as one of the other Black Brothers moved to the back of the wagon and lowered its end. He held out an arm, and Jon could see as a hand reached out for the unseen interior to clasp it. With surprising gentleness, the Black Brother slowly helped the passenger out of the wagon.

He was old. Ancient beyond anyone that Jon knew, even Old Nan. His skin was like parchment, paled, wrinkled, and covered in liver spots. His hair was naught but a spare patching of wispy white. He wore faded, thick, dark gray robes, and chain drooped from his neck. As he was gently lowered to the ground, he turned his face towards Jon, Robb, Eddard, and Benjen. Jon could see his eyes, that they were a faint shade of lilac, what could be seen beneath the cloud of cataracts. He was blind.

Lord Stark stared first at the old man, then back at Benjen. “Are you mad, Benjen? To bring him so far from Castle Black? He is no fit state for such a journey, you could have killed him!”

Ben threw a disparaging glare at his brother. “Do you not think I knew that, Ned? He hasn’t left the Wall in nearly a hundred years. But this was his decision. He insisted on coming. It was all the Lord Commander could do to keep him at the castle long enough for the wagon to be found and fitted to carry him.”

Robb leaned towards Jon. “What are they talking about? Who is this man? He looks to be a maester, but I do not recognize him.”

“Nor should, my boy.” The voice that spoke was thin, reedy, dry with great age. “Not when I haven’t made myself known to the world for so long.”

Jon and Robb stared at the ancient maester in shock. How could he have heard them, when they had spoken so softly? The old man simply smiled gently as he stared blindly in their direction. “While my eyes maybe gone, my hearing has grown quite keen.”

Jon and Robb shared another glance, then turned back their father. “Father,” Robb asked, as politely as he may, while fighting down his curiosity, “Who is this maester?”

Lord Stark looked at the old man with a pensive look on his long face for several moments before answering. “He is Maester Aemon, maester of Castle Black, and sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch.”

Maester Aemon tilted his face in Eddard’s direction. “Indeed, I am, Lord Stark. I am also over a hundred years old. If you would be so kind, might we move this conversation inside? It has been a long journey, and I have need of a fire to warm my old bones.”

Eddard nodded, though the old man could not see it, and said, “Yes, of course Maester Aemon.” He gestured to Jon, indicating for him to assist the ancient man. Jon stepped up to the maester, offering up his arm.

“Here, Maester Aemon. Take my arm. I can guide you to the hall.”

Aemon’s head jerked up at Jon’s voice, his blind eyes wide for a second before shaking his head. “Yes, Yes. Thank you, young man, thank you.” He reached out with a seeking hand, which Jon took, and guided to rest on his arm.

“Thank you, young man. You do this old man a kindness. May I ask, what is your name?”

Jon glanced at the shuffling form next to him, as he slowly led the way across the yard. “I am Jon Snow, Maester. Natural son of Lord Stark.”

“Ah, Jon Snow. You are the one who is to wed the last daughter of House Targaryen, Daenerys.”

Jon felt his face flush. Neither the old maester’s voice or his expression showed any hint of accusation, yet Jon could help but feel slightly defensive. “Aye, that I am. I know that it’s an arrangement imposed by King Roberts, and that I am a Bastard of no true standing. But I care deeply for Lady Daenerys. I seek only to make her smile, to keep her safe, and to provide for her as any honorable man should.”

Maester Aemon only smiled sadly. “I understand, Jon Snow. I believe you. I can hear the sincerity in your voice, can feel it in your arm. I believe you will treat her well.”

Jon helped the man up the steps to the keep, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Who was this old man, to be so concerned for Dany? To make such a difficult journey, all the way from the Wall, at his age? He stepped through the doors of the hall, the old man still on his arm, as Robb held the heavy wood door open for them.

Once inside, Jon, accompanied by Robb, Lord Stark, and Uncle Benjen, lead the ancient maester to the large hearth, already lit for the coming night. Lord Stark took Robb by the shoulder. “Fetch a seat for maester.” He gestured to the high table, where the comfortable chairs stood. Together, Robb and Benjen wrestled one of the heavy wooden frames from the raised table and chaired it the hearth. Once it was set before the fire, Jon helped Maester Aemon on to the padded seat.

“Thank you, my lord. Your generosity is greatly appreciated.” Sighing, the old man settled back in the seat, before turning his blind eyes to where Robb once more stood with Jon. “You asked me who I was, young man, and while your lord father has spoken true, that I am the Maester of Castle Black, Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch, he did not speak the whole truth. Though, I must admit, there are no longer many in the Seven Kingdoms who do know the full truth. Indeed, that fact may be why I am still alive, even after Robert’s Rebellion.” He turned back the fire, letting its heat wash across him.

“Before I was a Brother of the Night’s Watch, before even I forged my chain in the Citadel of Old Town, and took my vows as maester, I bore a different name. My father was Maekar, First of His name. My brother was Aegon, fifth of his Name, and King of the Seven Kingdoms. I was born a prince, to house of kings. I was a candidate to be king, though I forswore the throne in favor of my brother.”

Jon’s eyes had gone wide as he stared at this ancient, wizen man. “You are Aemon Targaryen.”

“Yes, yes I am. When I forged my chain, when I put on the black, I forsook all claim to my family name, to my family’s titles. But I have never forgotten.” Aemon’s face grew dark for moment, his eyes hidden in shadow. “And I have never forgiven. I watched as my family was destroyed, slaughtered at the whims of petty and ambitious men. All of them, save one lone child, a daughter. A daughter, made ward of a House that destroyed her own.” Now the maester looked up Lord Stark, though he could see him not. “I know what my grandnephew did, Lord Stark. I know that his death was deserved, that it was just, even if it was done by an act of betrayal of his own Kingsguard. Of all those who rose in rebellion against his madness, your House alone stood ever for justice. To seek recompense for the murders of your father and brother. I know that you, and you alone, stood before the Iron Throne, and demanded justice for the lives of my murdered kin. That you gave guest rights, and more, to a small child, whose last relatives lay dead across the sea. That you sought to defend her even against your own king, the king that you put upon the throne. For you, my Lord Stark, I hold no ill will.”

Aemon turned back the fire. “But for those other Houses, those who rose in petty amibition, who did murder an innocent woman, her young daughter, and a babe in arms, who exulted and praised their deaths, I will never absolve. Those Lords, and their Houses, I curse. Were it within my power, I would damn them unto the very abyss.” The old man then sighed. “But it is beyond me now, if it were ever in my grasp at all. Now I am but an old man, a forgotten member of a fallen House, in exile at the Wall. Now, I can only sit, and watch, as my family fades from the world.” Now he turned his unseeing eyes towards where Jon stood. “You say that you will keep her safe, keep her happy. I will hold you to that young man and pray that you can keep that vow. Stay with her, always, for a Targaryen, alone in the World, is a terrible thing.”

Lord Stark glanced at Jon for a second before kneeling next to the maester. “Maester Aemon, I must ask. Why are you here? Why did you make such a difficult journey, when you must know that it may be your last, that you may never return?”

Daughter of Dragons

Daenerys felt that it was decidedly unfair that she must spend the day of her wedding copped up inside the keep, being pampered, primped, and prepared to take her vows. Already that day she had been forced to endure the duties of a wife, as set down by the Seven New Gods, being lectured to her, not once, not twice, but three times so far, and it was only just passing midday. She forced herself to maintain her false, painfully cheerful smile, as Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn droned on and on, repeating to her what they had learned by rote from the Seven-Pointed Star. Dany personally looked upon the Faith of the Seven with distaste. She found it to be a cold, heartless, hypocritical religion, used to prop up the privileges of men and lords, while relegating the lives of women to that of breeding mares and hunting trophies.

It called for piety and penance, for generosity to the Faith, and damned all children born from the sins of their parents’ faults, while excusing those parents their failings, if the donations were large enough, especially for the men. Yet its voice was all it had now. Since her ancient kin, Maegor, nigh 300 hundred years gone, had destroyed their militant arms, the Faith of the Seven had been rendered impotent, dependent on the generosity and protections offer them by the Lords of Westeros. To Daenerys, born of a family that had never held much store by the wills of gods and the demands of their priests, and raised in the North where the Gods stood  not in the distant heaven but upon the earth, in the woods and hills and mountains and the white faces of the weirwoods, the Faith of the Seven was as ridiculous to her as singing to the skies of the Cult of the Maker in distant Thedas. She was to be wed before the Old Gods of the North, standing in front of the weeping face of Winterfell’s Heart Tree. Her husband would be a son of the North, raised to that belief, that the Gods were not some merchant or lord, to be bartered with or begged of, but they were to be a succor to the spirit, a quiet presence to which you bared your soul, a silent comfort in times of grief, and an unobtrusive participant in times of joy. That would be her faith, for the Old Gods of the First Men demanded nothing of those who followed them, and that was all she needed from their weeping expressions.

Daenerys sighed and turned to Sansa, who listened to her mother and septa attentively, even as she carefully wove Dany’s long silver gold hair into an intricate braid. “Do you not wish to be down, amongst the guests, Sansa? Surely some of the Lords brought their sons or nephews to bear witness to tonight’s ceremony. You might find a handsome young man to dance with.” Her eyes were sparkly in mischief.

Sansa blushed. “No, no don’t think that would be proper. Ours, as Ladies, is not to mingle with the boisterousness of our visitors, not until the feast tonight. Then may we speak with them.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes. “That is foolishness, Sansa. What harm may come of it, if we were to speak with the men before the feast begins?” She glared down at herself, at the shear shift she wore, over which she would wear her wedding gown once the sun began to set. “What harm would there be, if I were to spend this day in the company of my betrothed? It is to be my wedding, after all. Why must I spend the day locked in this room, waiting for the coming dusk?”

Sansa looked as Daenerys with a scandalous expression. It was a look shared with Jeyne Poole, who was busy selecting Daenerys’s slippers for the evening. Lady Catelyn and Septa Mordane resolutely continued in their rendition of a wife’s duties. Daenerys sighed in reluctant acceptance. She would never understand how Sansa could be so happy with the knowledge that her life’s ambition was to be an ornament on some boorish, boastful man’s arm, an ornament whose only purpose would be to provide heirs, preferably by the score, and endure her husband’s philandering whenever he was not visiting her chambers. Oh, how she wished she could have gotten away as Arya had. When the day had begun, the younger daughter of House Stark had vanished into the keep’s corridors and crevices, her direwolf in pursuit, eager to avoid this very same imprisionment that Dany herself now endured.

Her musings, and the continuous preaching of Lady Catelyn and Septa Mordane, were interrupted by a knock on the chamber door. Lady Stark glared at wood paneling, seeming offended by this intrusion on the women’s province. “Yes? What it is?”

The door opened a jar, and one of the serving girls peaked inside. “Your pardon, milady, but Lord Stark has requested the presence of the Lady Daenerys in his solar. At once, milady.”

The Lady Stark’s face looked positively affronted, the Septa’s scandalized, but Dany felt nothing but relief and curiosity. Why would Lord Stark need to see her? Surely it wasn’t to speak to Jon. But tradition, on this day neither she nor Jon may lay eyes on one another, until the moment of the ceremony before the Heart Tree. Daenerys leapt to her feet and snatched at the robe that she wore when visiting the privy. Covering herself and stepping into a pair of the house slippers she kept for cold nights wandering the keep, she stepped past the older women, ignoring their looks of incredulity, and moved into the hall beyond the door. “Take me to Lord Stark.”

The maid bowed her head, then turned and led Daenerys through the twisting passages of the castle. When she entered the Lord’s Solar, she spotted Lord Stark standing by the hearth with 2 other men, one sitting a chair facing the flames. She stepped past the bowing maid. “You summoned me, my Lord?”

Lord Stark glanced at her, an unreadable expression on his face. “Yes, come in and have a seat, Daenerys.”

He gestured to the standing man, who wore black leathers and furs. “I believe you remember my brother, Benjen, though it has been several years since last he visited these halls.”

Dany did recognize him now, as she approached. “Of course. I am pleased to see that you have returned, Lord Benjen. I am sure that Arya and Bran will enjoy hearing any new stories that you may have of your adventures beyond the Wall.”

Benjen grinned. “Funny that you mention the Wall, my Lady.”

As Daenerys took a seat in of the chairs before Lord Stark’s desk, she got a better look at the third man in the room. He was ancient. Older than anyone she had ever seen. His hair was in only a few patches on his wrinkled scalp, and what there was had gone to faint wisps. His skin was spotted, frail looking, his clasped hands shook, and his eyes were pale with blindness. A maester’s chain hung from his neck. She had never seen him before, and she found it slightly disconcerting that for all his blindness, he still seemed to be able to follow her every movement.

“This, my Lady,” Lord Stark gestured to the old man, “Is Maester Aemon of Castle Black. He has come a long way to speak with you.”

That statement sparked a tingle of curiosity in Dany. This old man came all the way from Castle Black, on the Wall, to see her? Why? She turned to the old man. “My apologies, Maester Aemon, but I do not understand. Why would you come all this way, just to speak with me?”

The old man smiled. It was a gentle, sad smile. “Perhaps,” he spoke with a dry, faint, quivering voice, “It would be better understood, if told you who I was before I became a maester of the Citadel. Long ago, before even the birth of your grandfather, I had another name. I had a father, brothers, sisters, even a title. You might have heard of them, my Lady. They feature quite strongly in your family’s history.”

Daenerys felt even more confused now. This ancient man had a connection to her family? What? “Who was your father, good maester?”

“My father bore the name of Maekar. My brothers were known as Aegon, Daeron, and Aerion. My sisters were Daella and Rhae. And I? I was once known as Aemon Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daenerys’s voice caught, her breath stopped. She stared at this ancient man. A man, who while was likely the oldest man in Westeros, was also the last living blood relation she had in the world, save for the Fat Fool and his brothers. “You are…” Her paused and wet her lips, her mouth was suddenly so dry, “You… are Aemon Targaryen? The Prince that forsook the Iron Throne in favor of your brother, while you took vows as a Maester?”

The ancient maester smiled and reached out a hand blindly towards her. On reflex she took it in her own, holding it as tightly as she dared for she feared to injure him, so frail did he appear. “Yes, my child. I am that Aemon. Your great, great granduncle. The last of your blood in this world.” Neither of them noticed the way that Lord Stark’s mouth tightened. “I dreamed that I must be here, in Winterfell, in time for your wedding. I could not let this once chance, the only one I will likely ever have, to be with you, while you still bear the name of our House. If I may, I would very much like to speak with you, dear child. You have been alone, all alone, in the world since the moment you were born. Even across the sea, with the protection of a knight and the care of a brother, you have been alone, just was he was, for you were both without the comfort of a true family. Ours was once a Great House, blessed with kin both old and young.” He sighed then, the sad expression on his face deepening as he patted her hand gently. “Now, now they are all gone. My father, brothers and sisters, your own siblings and parents. We are all alone now, and a Targaryen, alone in the world, is a terrible thing.”

Tears were leaking down both of their faces now. Daenerys could only weep beside this long-lost member of her family. “Yes, yes, uncle. I would very much like to speak with you, if I can. I would dearly love to hear about our family, from one who has lived it.”

The maester peered blindly at her face. “Then if you will sit here with me for a time, I will tell you what I can. I do have one request of you though, Daenerys Stormborn. It would honor me greatly, if I may be the one to give you away tonight, as you join your life with that of that young man who cherished you so deeply.”

Chapter Text

Wedding Part 2

The Bastard of Winterfell

Even for one of the Northern Born, the night was uncomfortably crisp and cool, for which Jon was grateful of his heavy fur lined cloak and supple leather garments. Still, the breeze that whispered through the bows of the Heart Tree and ruffled his long dark hair sent a shiver down his spine.

All about him stood those Lords of the North who had been able to make the journey in time for this night. They stood somber and quiet, in patient reverence of this ceremony. Let it not be said that the North knew nothing of quiet respect, when such respect was due. At his side, he could feel Robb shifting in the light snow that fell. “Nervous, brother?” He asked softly.

Robb glanced back at him. “It’s you who should be nervous, Jon. I’m not the one about to be wed.”

Jon turned his eyes back to his father, fighting the grin that Robb’s whisper brought forth. Lord Stark stood alone before the ancient weirwood tree, upon the old boulder that he normally sat on when visiting the godswood in solitude.

The Lord of Winterfell looked about the glade, his somber presence a silent domineering cloud that hung over the audience. “Guests of my House and hall, friends of old, vassals of my seat, and Lords of the North, I bid you welcome. Tonight, we gather here, in the sacred grove of my forefathers, before the eyes of our gods, to bear witness. One of my House, my son Jon, is to be wed. But he is also to be entitled, raised to stand amongst you, not only as a man, but as Master.” He turned his steely eyed gaze to Jon. “Step forth, Jon of Winterfell.”

Jon stepped away from his brother and stood before Lord Stark, alone in a circle made of the Lords in attendance.

Lord Stark reached to the side, where Jorry Cassel stood waiting, Ice held sheathed. As Eddard drew Ice, it made a soft ringing sound as it was pulled from its sheath. The light of the torches that lit the glade shimmered along the blade. It’s one imperfection, an intricate working of Lyrium, glowed softly, a glow which began to spread along the great sword’s length as a fine mist fell from the blade. The feeling of cold in the air intensified as the Rune of Frost, worked into the Valyrian blade years ago by Gorvic himself, radiated its power, a not so subtle reminder to the audience that this was the Heirloom Blade of the Lord of House Stark, living son of the Kings of Winter of old. Eddard reversed his grip on the weapon, holding its hilt high and the tip of the blade planted in the stone he stood upon.

“Kneel, Jon of Winterfell, of the blood of House Stark.”

Jon slowly, with all the gravity he could muster, lowered himself onto his right knee, his left arm braced across his left knee, his right hand a fist to the earth.

“Do you, Jon of Winterfell, swear here and now, before these Lords and Masters, before your kith, kin, and before the eyes of your gods, that you are loyal to House Stark?”

Jon swallowed, his throat dry. “I do.”

“And do you, Jon of Winterfell, swear to up hold the King’s Law and the King’s Justice, in the lands that shall be given unto your charge, in the name of your liege lord?”

“I do.”

“And do you swear to safeguard the lives of your holders and smallfolk, to care for them in both times plenty and times of want, to shelter them from the storms of man and nature?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear to bring honor, not only to your House, but to the House of your liege? To offer up the tithes due to him from your lands in times of peace and to answer his call to arms in times of war?”

“I do.”

“Then rise, no longer Jon of Winterfell.” As Jon rose to his feet, he saw that Robb had stepped forth and now held a folded bundle of cloth in his arms. “But as Jon Forwyn, of House Forwyn, Master of the Tower Forlorn.” Robb was grinning as his father spoke the last words, handing the folded cloth to Jon. “Take now the cloak of your House, that you may cover your bride in it as you take her into your keeping.”

Jon bowed to Robb as he took the cloth, then again to his father, before stepping up to stand at Lord Stark’s left and turning to face down the path into the glade. He saw out of the corner of his eye as Lord Stark nodded slightly to one of the serving staff, who then dashed off down the path back to the keep.

The Daughter of Dragons

She could feel every eye on her, like the weight of dozens of heavy furs in winter. Yet she cared not, for only set of eyes truly mattered. He stood at the end of the path, before the great white trunk of the ancient Heart Tree. Standing above him, on the great boulder about which the roots of the weirwood curled, Lord Stark held the Valyrian great blade, Ice, with its point dug into the surface of the stone. Already she could see the thin layer of frost creeping along the face of the rock from the tip of the sword.

She lifted her gaze to the great disc of the full moon above, its silver white glory alighting the glade as if it were a field of diamonds, the dusting of snow on the ground and gracing the leaves and branches of the godswood reflecting back the light in a dazzling sheen. It was indeed fortuitous that Lord Stark had hastened the coming of this ceremony to this night, for in the North it was seen as a good omen to wed under the light of a full moon. She breathed in deeply, filling her breast with the moonbeam rich air. Yes, a good omen, a sign that her union would be blessed.

The small cough from her side brought eyes back to the godswood. “Let us proceed, my dear.” She had to smile at the gentle admonishment from her ancient uncle. Her conversation with him, in the hours before nightfall, as he sat in her chamber before a fire while Sansa, Jeyne, and the maids finished their careful work on her fittings and decorations, had been time that she would cherish unto her dying day. Maester Aemon had shared with her as much as he could of the history of her family. True history, from the lips of one who had lived through near a third of it. Not the slanderous vitriol that the king sought to spread to every ear that would hear. He had shared not only what he knew of the reigns of her father, before his descent into madness after his imprisonment in Duskendale, but of the rule of her grandfather Jaeherys II; his own father, the maester’s brother, Aegon the 5^th, called the Unlikely, who sought to make better the lives of the smallfolk, only to be met with resistance and resentment from the Lords of the Realm. Of the maester’s own father, Maekar and grandfather, Daeron II, who fought in the time of the First Blackfyre Rebellion. Of Aegon the 4^th, called the Unworthy, whose debauchery and foolish pride begat the very conflict, in the naming of his bastards legitimate before the realm, and more kin beyond.

She had wept as they had spoken, for it tore at the heart to know that so renown a dynasty, filled with kings both great and minor, both good and debased, was to be cast down and driven into the annuals of history before of the wrath of one petty man.

She loved her Jon and would not wish her union to him on any women save herself, yet still it rankled her heart to know that with her, this mighty line of kings, princes, lords, and dragons would end.

At times, as the Maester had spoken to her in his soft, quavering voice, she let her mind wander down the paths of what might have been. If her father had not gone mad and set the ruin of his House into motion with his burnings, ravings, and beratements of those whose support he desperately needed. If her brother Viserys had not died in Braavos, coughing his lungs bloody, or Rhaegar had not whisked away the Lady Lyanna. If Rhaegar had won the fateful battle of the Trident, instead of that blustering fool who now sat on her family’s throne. Would she had been raised a true Princess of the Realm, and not had the title used for her simply as a courtesy by her foster family? Would she have wed her brother Viserys, as the traditions of Old Valyria demanded, or would she have been free to choose from amongst the horde of suitors that would have surely gathered at her feet? Would she still have found her Jon? She hoped that she would have.

Now she stood before the assembled Lords of the North, those who could make the journey to Winterfell in time, and she would remind them that while she might be wed to a bastard, she was still blood of the dragon, and dragons were cowed by no one. Her uncle’s words had reminded her of that, and she would take them to heart.

With all the grace a true princess of an ancient house could muster, she stepped forward to meet her intended before the eyes of her chosen gods, her elderly kin shuffling beside her, led by the steady pull of her arm.

As she walked, the eyes of the Lords followed her. Their faces were set, as unreadable as stone. she did not care. She was a dragon, and she would show them passion to crack even the hard rock of the North. She endured their stares as she stepped up to stand beside Jon before the weeping face of the weirwood and the stern expression of the Lord of Winterfell.

Lord Stark was watching her intently, and as she took her place before him, he spoke with a voice that echoed throughout the glade, though he did not shout or even speak loudly, such was the attention he demanded in this place that no sound was made to disturb him.

“Who comes before the Gods this night?”

She lifted her face to the moonlight to meet her foster father’s eye. “I do. Daenerys, of House Targaryen, trueborn daughter of Aerys and Rhaella of House Targaryen. A woman grown and pure.”

“And who comes to claim this woman?”

Jon took a step forward, away from where he stood with his brothers. “I do. Jon, of House Forwyn. Son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.”

“And who gives this woman, so that she may be claimed in honesty and with honor?”

Aemon spoke then, his voice thin, reedy, but still heard in the stillness of the night. “I do give this woman. I, Aemon, Maester of Castle Black, Brother of the Night’s Watch, Brother of Aegon, 5^th of his name, son of Maekar, first of his name, of House Targaryen.”

Lord Stark nodded, then gestured to the her and Jon. “Daenerys, of House Targaryen, do you accept this man? To be faithful and true to him? To bring honor to his House, to bear his children, and care for his people as your own? From this day, until your last day, unto the Ending of Days and the Breaking of the World?”

Daenerys bowed her head to the Lord of Winterfell. “I do.”

“And do you, Jon, of House Forwyn, take this woman into your charge? To be faithful and true to her? To protect and care for her? To be father to her children, to honor her, and defend her against all who would bring her harm? From this day, until your last day, unto the Ending of Days and the Breaking of the World?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Jon bowed to his father. “I do.”

“Then, Maester Aemon, if you would?”

Maester nodded his head blindly in the direction of Lord Stark’s voice, and shuffled his way to stand between Dany and Jon. He gently took her hand in his left, then reached out to grasp at the proffered hand of Jon. Once the old man had it, he turned it palm up, and brought it over to meet Dany’s loose fingers. As they touched, she wrapped her fingers around her groom’s, grasping his hand as if to never let go.

When it was done, Lord Stark spoke again. “Now, kneel before the Gods, so that they might bless this union.”

Slowly, Dany and Jon knelt, each going to both knees in the snow, their heads bowed before the weirwood tree that stood silent sentinel behind Eddard. Above them they could hear Lord Stark raise again. “Tonight, we ask of our Gods, the Gods of wood and field, of mountain and sky, to bless these two. To guide them in times of need, to hear their cares in times of grief, to smile in times of joy. Let of the Old Gods of North, of the First Men and the Children of the Forest, who dwelt here in times when Winters were but a dream of distant shadows, find honor and faithfulness in the hearts of this union, and bring it forth for all the world to see. Now, rise.”

Slowly, gravely, Dany and Jon rose to their feet. She could feel the pull on her hand and followed it, stepping around Jon so as to remain standing on his left, until they now faced the audience of visiting lords and residing household. Behind them Lord Stark spoke for all the grove to hear. “Now let her mantle of a former life be shed,” And as the Lord of Winterfell spoke, Jon reached up to her shoulders and unfastened the clasps that held the cloak bearing the heraldry of House Targaryen, pulling it from her shoulders and handing it Maester Aemon, who fumbled blindly for a second before his age spotted hands took hold of the fabric and began to pull into a bundle in his arms, “So that she may now be garbed in the cloak of her new one.” Robb stepped forward and handed a folded bundle to Jon. Her groom shook it out, and the crowd gasped. Mutters and whispers suddenly filled the night at the sight of her new sigil. Upon a field of black, as black that of her maiden cloak, stood a great full moon, silver as the great body above them. And standing silver against the white, a dragon in profile, its reared and wing spread behind it, claws reaching, tail curling about its legs. And about its neck, a garland of blue roses.

With no heed for the mutters and whisperings, Jon swung the cloak about, letting it swirl through the air, to settle on her shoulders. He took the silver dragon brooch she had worn for her maiden cloak, and that he had removed when he had taken the cloak from her back and used it to fasten her new marriage cloak in place. Taking her hand in his again, he smiled as he looked into her eyes, and she could not help but to smile back.

Lord Stark raised his voice again. “My Lords, I give to you, Jon and Daenerys Forwyn, Lord and Lady of the Tŵr y Forwyn.”

The applause began small, a single set of hands clapping, likely Arya, but it spread, and soon all in attendance were smacking hands together, whistling, and calling congratulations. Daenerys heard none of it, for Jon had pulled her to him, dipping his face to hers. Their lips met, and the world vanished from her perceptions. There was only her, and Jon, and their future.

Chapter Text

Feast

Lord Forlorn

The Hall of Winterfell was alive with sound and light. Torches flared on the walls, candles in their brackets and stands, the hearth was ablaze. All about the tables men laughed, sang, boasted, and fought. They drank of the beers of the North, the ales of the Riverlands, the meads of Ferelden, and the wines of Dorne, the Reach, and Antiva. The tables themselves groaned under the weight of platters piled high with foods from across the North, of great sides of beef and pork, whole chickens and geese, of mutton and druffalo, all roasted slow over fires, rubbed with herbs and salt and honey. They glistened in the firelight, their juices running thick down their sides to pool on the plates where the meats sat.

And still more dishes filled the gaps between these great pieces of flesh. Plates and platters of dark Northern breads, roasted roots and vegetables, small bowls of butter or honey, and larger ones of thick stews that sent mouthwatering aromas wafting through the hall. The lords and masters who sat as guests showed their appreciation for the provender with as much gusto as could be expected from the uncouth nobles of the North. Trickles of drink and gobbets of food lefts smears and stains across their tunics and shirts and jerkins. Pieces of meat and bits of vegetable, be it potato or turnip or beet or carrot, caught in their beards. It mattered not to them if their mouths were full when they spoke or laughed, and more specks of their dinners were spewed across the tables, the floors, and each other every time they opened their maws to speak or guffaw.

But neither Jon or his bride cared, for they had grown in the North, had dined with these boisterous lords and crude masters, and both knew that this crassness of behavior was only another proof of the openness and honesty of the Lords of the North. They did not hide their feeling behind pleasant speech, fine linens, or proper manners and courtesies. When the Northmen felt joy, they expressed it with laughing and gifts. When they felt anger, they swore their vengeances and hatreds in the open, before even those whom they were swearing against. Theirs was not the way of knives in the dark, or insults veiled behind flattering words. That was the way of the South, of the Lannisters and Tyrells and Martells and all those other Houses that enjoyed their long summers and plentiful bounties, while the North endured the cold of summer snows, and the brunt of long winters, when children died in their cribs for lack of warmth or food, and wildings raided in the night for what little the men of the North had.

No, Jon and Dany did not care that the Northern Lords in attendance were loud, were crass, where boastful. That they could be so here, now, at the feast that commemorated their union, was only proof that they approved of this marriage.

Jon looked now to his pale wife, dressed still in her shimmering wedding gown, as she soaked a piece of the dark rye bread of the north in a bowl of stew, sucking up the juices, before carefully taking a bite, trying to avoid spilling the broth and ruining her priceless dress. At her other side, in a spot that would have been reserved for Sansa, her aged great uncle nibbled on a slice of druffalo that had been cut for him by Daenerys. Jon had discovered, years ago, that he greatly favored the foreign meat himself. He found it had a richer, earthier flavor to it, even if it was somewhat tougher than regular beef. He was pleased that his lord father had seen fit to purchase a whole of the beasts from Ferelden, for the herd animal faired very well here in the rough North, enduring the cold and tough terrain with greater faculty than the cattle and sheep that the North had raised for thousands of years. On Jon’s other side, Robb was drinking from a silver worked horn of some animal, the mead trickling into his reddish beard. Bann Godric was speaking to him, saying something that Jon could not overhear for all the merrymaking about the Hall, and Robb choked, sputtering and sending a cloud of freshly drunk mead out across the table before him, and he tried to laugh and cough at the same time.

Beyond his brother, Lord Stark was in conversation with his brother, Uncle Benjen, who was leaning around from where he stood behind Lord Stark’s chair. At another table, farther down the Hall, Varric was speaking to Lords Umber and Glover, gesturing grandly with the tankard in his hand, and the Lords of Last Hearth and Deepwood Mott were roaring with laughter. At still another table, Enchanter Mergus deep in conversation with Keeper Kerritha, Keeper of the Dalish band to which Blademaster Mendarath belonged. Occasionally, Mergus would gesture to the High Table, to where Bran sat, 3 seats down from Maester Aemon. Futher down that same table, Ser Borsun would throw scowls at Mergus and Kerritha. Dashing to and fro about the hall, hiding under tables and benches, scampering between the legs of the elven, dwarven, and human servants carrying the pitchers of drink and platters of food, the direwolf pups played a merry game of tag, which sometimes devolved in pitched, squeaking, yelping fights as  one or another found a bone or piece of bread or scrap of meat, and had to defend its prize from its littermates.

“Tis a shame we will not be able to host such feasts ourselves, is it not?”

Jon blinked and turned to Dany. “What was that, beloved?”

“I was saying that it will be a shame that we will not be able to have such events a Tŵr y Forwyn, Jon. From what Maester Luwin has told me, it will take a great deal of effort to be able to support ourselves, without stripping every bit of provender from our smallfolk. I hope that we can improve our lands, make them more profitable, so that our smallfolk survive the coming winters as well as we.”

Jon frowned to himself. “It will be a trial, but surely it is possible. I do not wish to be a cruel lord, who hordes the produce of his lands to himself, while his people starve. We will have to live frugally, to conserve what we can when we can, and try to coax more smallfolk to come to our lands, so that we may expand the fields. You know that I have visited the tower. I have seen the people who live there. It is not a mean place, but it is small, a single tower with hall, on a hill above a hamlet. There are barely four families present, to work the fields and husband the livestock. And there are some who live in the woods in the east of our lands, where they meet with those of Houses Cassel and Knott, where the trees are cut for timber. Maybe we can trade that lumber, send it down the King’s Road to the White Knife, then on to White Harbor and the Narrow Sea. Braavos is ever hungry for wood, to build the ships that guard her gates.”

Dany nodded faintly, though her eyes were distant. “I hope I can do right by you, and our smallfolk, Jon. I have studied hard under Maester Luwin, learned all I must do, for we will have no maester to tally for us, nor any ravens to tend. All that a maester might do for us, I must do alone, and I fear that will make a shamble of it and ruin us before we even gather our first tithe.”

Jon reached over and took her hand in his, squeezing it. “If a shamble is to be made, it will be by both of us, not you alone, Dany. I have studied as hard under my Lord Father as you have beneath the maester. Worry not over it, my love. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and we can do naught but follow its pattern.”

Daenerys’s eye twinkled at him from behind long lashes. “That is a queer saying, My Lord Husband. The Wheel weaves…? Where ever did you hear that?”

Jon frowned, trying to remember. “I don’t quite know. It just came to me. Maybe I overheard one of the Dalish say it or found it in a book somewhere.”

“Well, I quite like it. Its awfully poetic, and it has a certain… gravity to it. Maybe I will use it myself.”

Jon smiled at his new wife. “Then I am grateful to have been of some service to you, my lady.”

Dany smiled back at him then leaned in, her eyes closing. Jon bent to her face, his lips meeting hers. For several long moments they remained thus, there world around them fading to a dull wash a noise that neither of them paid heed to. When they parted, Daenerys’s eyes were sparkling, and a faint flush had risen in her cheeks. Jon grinned down at her, pleased with himself.

It was then that Robb raised his voice above the clamor that filled the Hall. “While I do find these festivities in my brother’s and goodsister’s names delightful and entertaining, the night is wearing on, and I for one would rather like to see happy couple’s faces as they receive the gifts that have been prepared for them in honor of this joyous occasion.”

Cries of “Hear, Hear,” and “Get on with it,” answered to the Heir of Winterfell’s words as Lords and Masters stood to present their gifts to Jon and Daenerys. Jon winced as Lord Greatjon Umber struck Lord Forrester across the jaw, forcing the Master of Ironwrath out of his way clutching his cheek and swearing, if good naturedly, at the Lord of Last Hearth. The big man continued to push his way to the front of the crowd that gathered in before the High Table.

“Master Jon, Lady Daenerys, I am more honored than you can know to be here, to have witnessed your union and partaken of my Lord Stark’s hospitality. The only honor greater would that this had been your brother’s wedding, for he is Heir of Winterfell, High Seat of the North, and on him rest the hopes of all First Men from the Neck to the Wall. I, and many others in this hall, have watched as the two of you grew up, here under the watchful eye and guarding hand of Ned. We know the honor of the Lord of Winterfell, and we know the honor of his sons and daughters.”

The Greatjon directed his eyes to Jon. “Bastard though you may be, boy, you have your father’s caution, his loyalty, his quiet nature. I have never seen you strike out in pointless anger, in petty rage. You speak with respect to all and consider all that is said before raising voice yourself.” Around the hall, murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.

The Lord of Last Hearth turned to Daenerys. “You are no child of the North, Daenerys Stormborn. You are the Blood of Old Valyria, and the fires of that damned and doomed land burn in your blood. You are passion, be it in the joys of your life or the hatreds. Your family did much ill to the men of the North. But you are not your brother, nor are you your father. My Lord Stark was right, those years ago, when he took you in, raised you alongside his own children. He told us then, when we raised our voices against his decision, that Sins of the Father are not the Sins of the Child. And as we have watched you grew from a that frighten little urchin from Braavos into the silver-haired beauty you are today, his words have been right. You maybe have been born in the South, but you are a daughter of the North, today in name as well as in fact.”

Daenerys ducked her head, the blush of embarrassment spreading from the crown of her head to neckline of her gown.

The Greatjon did not seem to notice as he went on, turning to face the assembled guests. “Today, I am proud to welcome these two to the ranks of we Lords and Ladies who rule the North. I am proud of my Lord Stark, who stood up to that fat fool who sits a throne we won for him, when he came to demand this innocent girl pay for the crimes of her family. When he dared to raise our lost and beloved Lady Lyanna’s name against our Lord, when it was Eddard’s family that had suffer the most from the Mad King’s cruelty. I say this now, for now she is one of us, that I will defend the honor of House Forwyn, as I have defended the honor of House Stark! Who is with me? Who will stand beside these two young folk, against even the wrath of a Fat Baratheon King and Proud Lion’s Roar?”

The roar of assent from the guests was such that Jon was forced to wince in discomfort. The Greatjon returned his attention to the couple. “In honor your marriage, my new Lord and Lady Forwyn, I gift you supply of salted beef. It will months yet before your lands can support you, and it would do me much pleasure and honor to help you get your feet under you, at least when you are not busy making new heirs for your House.” He winked at the two them, then turned away with a roar of laughter.

The rest of the presentation of gifts was much the same, save that none seemed able to follow Lord Umber’s great declaration. Then, few could ever follow the boasts of a member of House Umber. The gifts themselves were much in line with what Lord Umber had already offered them. There were salted meats, venison and beef, mutton and druffalo, pork and goat from many. Barrels of salted and smoked fish from those Houses that lived by the sea or fishable rivers. Bags of flour and grain, enough to fill the small granaries Jon had seen being built behind the Tower. Barrels of pickled vegetables and roots, bound bunches of dried garlic and carrots and herbs. Crates of salt and cheeses. Even bags of seed, ready to be sown, for Jon to hand out to his new acquired smallfolk. It was a great relief for Jon, seeing how much of the basic needs of his newborn House would be met, for months yet, out of the gifts of the Lords of the North.

But not all gifts were simple offerings of supplies and food. Lord Rodrick Ryswell, the Lord of the Rills presented the couple with a pair of horses. “They are of my finest stock. True Northern Coursers, hardy and strong. They will serve you well.” Daenerys insisted on viewing the beasts, but the old Lord of the Rills informed that the animals were already on their way to the Tŵr y Forwyn, if not there already. While Dany was disappointed, Jon felt relieved. Daenerys was often in the stables of Winterfell, nearly as much as Arya, and had a deep love for horses. If their new mounts had been brought to Winterfell, the feasts and gift giving would be held up for hours as she cooed and fawned over the horses.

Then Daenerys’s eyes lit up and smile shown across her face as Ser Wendel Manderly stepped out of the crowd. She rose from her seat to lean across the table, laying a kiss on the fat man’s whiskered cheek. “Ser Wendel! Oh, I’m so pleased that you were able to make it. I know that White Harbor is far from Winterfell, and I had not expected that your family would be able to attend, after Lord Stark moved up the day of the wedding.”

Ser Wendel smiled at Daenerys from behind his bushy mustache. “My girl, I would not have missed this day for the world. If I had hire teams of horse to pull us the river, I would have. I am thankful that the Seven were kind to us and favor our sails with a good wind.” He took her hand is his and patted it gently. “Ever since I found you in that alley in Braavos, you have been a star in the sky of my life, my Lady. You fair enchanted me, and my brother and father when you met them, and I would sooner cut off my own arm than miss this, the most joyous day of your life.” The fat knight’s eyes twinkled in mirth. “At least, it is until you finally hold a child of your own in your arms. I may not have ever wed, myself, but I remember Wylis’s face the day he held Wynafryd in his arms. I am quite sure it will be no different for you,” He turned his eyes to Jon, “Or your new husband.”

Still smiling, he let go of Dany’s hand and stepped back. “But where are my manners. I am a knight of the Seven, and I should show better courtesy. Here, the gift of me and my House to you and your new one.” He waved to a pair of men-at-arms, dressed in the livery of the ruling House of White Harbor. The two men nodded reached down between them for a small chest. For all its size, it seemed rather heavy, for it took both men to carry it up to the High Table. At Ser Wendel’s gesture, they set on the table be Jon and Daenerys. “It was my, and my House’s, honor to provide for your dowry, Daenerys, since your own family is gone, save for the revered Maester,” He turned and bowed his head slightly to Maester Aemon, though the old man could not have seen it. “As part of that obligation, aside from the gown that you wear so beautifully this very moment, we offer this gift to you and your lord husband.” He reached forward to flip the clasp and raise the lid of the small chest.

Daenerys could only gasp, and Jon could not blame her. The chest was filled to the rim with silver stags. Jon could only stare at the coins. Here was a gift indeed. There was enough wealth before him to buy food for his keep and lands for months, years even. It may only be silver, but so much of it had to represent a fair portion of Lord Wyman Manderly’s liquid wealth. He turned to eyes back the knight. “Ser Wendel, this is truly gracious and generous gift, but I would feel ashamed to accept so much, when it must mean that your own House has divested itself much of its wealth. I would raise my own House at the expense of yours, when you have been so loyal to Lord Stark, and nearly as close as family to Daenerys. It would be dishonorable to take so much from you.”

Ser Wendel eyed Jon for several moments before a fresh smile appeared underneath his mustache. “Fear not, lad. It will not pauper us to give away this much. My Lord father himself decided the amount to give the two of you, and trade has been good these last years. We see it all back soon enough, so long as Bravvos does not decide it no longer needs to buy wood for its ships, or furs and leathers for its tanners and clothiers. Your concern for my family’s wellbeing does you credit, Jon of House Forwyn, but fret not. This coin is given in good faith, and with well wishes. Accept it, and my family’s congratulations, if you wish to thank us for our generosity.”

Jon looked back down at the silver, sighed, and held out his hand to the knight. “Then I thank you, Ser Wendel. I thank you and ask that you convey my thanks to your Lord Father on mine and my bride’s behalf. You and your family have given us a princely gift, and I vow that we shall use it with all proper consideration for the future of our House.”

Ser Wendel took Jon’s hand is his own, giving a tight squeeze and firm shake. “I accept your thanks, young Master, and I will convey your gratitude to my father on my return to White Harbor.” When he let go of Jon’s hand, he took up Dany’s and raised it to his lips, kissing her knuckles gently. “And I wish you a long and happy life, my Lady.” With that, he let go of her hand and vanished back into the crowd.

Following Ser Wendel came several of elves of Blademaster Mendarath’s Dalsih clan. Jon recognized them as hunters of the clan and knew several on sight as those who had gone hunting with Robb and himself on several occasions, though he did not know their names. “On behalf of the clan, we offer this gift, in token of your union.” The eldest hunter, who had silver streaking his hair, place a cloth covered bundle before Jon. Gently, they peeled back the wrappings, revealing a bow of beautiful craftsmanship. Jon carefully lifted, noting that it was already strung. He knew that the Dalish made their bows and bow strings in such a way that the stave never lost its draw, no matter how long it was left strung, and the strings never rotted or frayed from weather. It was a secret they shared with no one, and their bows were highly prized by the hunters and archers of the North. He was unsure if that regard held true south of the Neck.

He hefted the bow, feeling the grain of the wood, the tautness of the string. He held it up and drew the string back to his cheek. The pull was resistant, and he could not hold the string for long. As he relaxed the bow, he admired it shape. The stave had a slight wave shape to it, the arms of the bow curving forward and thickening at the middle of each arm, before slanting back. The tips of the bow, as well as its edges, were trimmed in bronze and the front of the arms were decorated in bronze inlays, stylized to resemble wolves and hawks. The wood was dark, nearly black. Jon looked up to the old hunter in shock. “This looks like ironwood, but it shouldn’t bend so. How did you manage to give it such suppleness?”

The hunter smiled slightly. “That is a secret of our people, Jon of Tŵr y Forwyn, and I will not share it, even with one as regarded by our people as you and your family. But I will say that it had been treated as we treat all our bows, so that a wood even as hard and stiff as ironwood will bend. It will serve you well.” With that, the elves withdrew to stand once again in at the back of the Hall.

“Well, I may not have a fancy bow to give you, Broody, but I think I might have something the lady will like.” Jon grinned as Varric stepped up the table. The dwarf still had the front of shirt unbuttoned to mid chest, his chest hair on display for all to see. He could hear Arya giggling off to the side. Varric reached into an inside pocket of his fine leather coat and withdrew a small box. He set it in front of Daenerys and lifted the lid. Dany smiled as she reached in and lifted out a delicate working of silver, black pearls, and tiny diamonds. Varric grinned up at her. “Had it made in Antiva. I know a guy in Rialto, makes stuff like this for nobles up and down the Amaranthine Coast. Had it made special order and managed to pick it up before I left for Lannisport. He told me that if even one detail was wrong, he would demand it returned so he break it apart and start from scratch.” The dwarf shook his head. “For a kingdom known for its wine, this guy had a stick up his ass over his work so long I thought he would need stilts to walk. I don’t think he touch a drop of wine, or cracked a smile, in his entire life.”

Daenerys just gazed down at the necklace, the latticed work of silver, studded with sparkling gems and the gleam of pearls. “It’s beautiful, Master Tethras. It looks something my mother would have worn.” She leaned over and kissed the gruff Thedosian merchant on his stubbled cheek. “Thank you. I will treasure it.” She gently laid the necklace back into the velvet padded wooden case Varric had carried it in.

When Varric stepped away, still grinning. He was replaced by Master Mendarath. The Blademaster was the last of the guests to step forward, and he carried a long, thin object wrapped in linen.

Jon stood and bowed to his instructor in the sword. “Ghi’lan. You honor me and my wife with your presence. I hope that you have enjoyed tonight’s ceremony and feast.”

The old elf stood with his back straight, and he moved with a grace and purpose that made him seem as if he was always about to jump into sudden action, even when appearing perfectly relaxed. Jon had been learning how to walk like that, in a manner the Blademaster referred to as ‘Cat crossing the Courtyard.’

 “I found the noise to loud, the food heavy, and the reasoning joyous. I wish the two of you many happy years together.” Mendarath bowed to them both, bending forward over the package in his arms.

When he straightened, his eyes were firmly on Jon. “When you approached me, 5 years ago, in the courtyard of this very keep, asking to be taught the ways of a Elvhen Blademaster, I thought you a foolish shemlen. A Human, seeking to learn to wield a blade as the People do? Ridiculous. You were slow and clumsy, your skills too engrained with the way humans fight, all bashing and hacking, as if a sword was little more than an edged club of metal, that you might use to beat your foe into submission.  You lacked the grace, the speed, the smooth motion that our children learn even as they learn to walk. So, I put you to the exercises of our folk, to break the stiffness in your limbs and give you the hope that you might gain something of our grace. I felt sure that you would give up a week into your lessons, for I drove you harder than I would any Child of the Elvhen. But each day that passed, week upon week, month after month, I awoke from my pallet to find you waiting for your next lesson. By the time half a year was gone, you showed all the progress of a child of 6. But still you came, and still you learned. I decide to remain here at Winterfell when the aravels traveled on, to continue to teach this young human who would not give up.”

Mendarath frowned. “You still move too much like human, your strikes too strong, your foot work too slow. But now you stand with greater lightness than another human, you strike more swiftly, and your balance is adequate.” The elf shrugged. “You will never be a true Elvhen Dar’Misaan Tarlin, but you are as close as any human will ever become. That, in itself, is a remarkable achievement. One worthy of reward.” He stepped up the table and withdrew the linen from the bundle in his arms. “Worthy of a Blade.”

Jon could not take his eyes off the weapon. The scabbard was black leather, the cap and throat worked silver decorated in a flowing pattern, of water or vines Jon could not be sure. The hilt was strange to his eye. The grip was black leather as well, of a length for a bastard sword. The pummel jutted forward from the grip oddly and was carved of silver, shaped like a snarling wolf’s head. The guard was an ‘S’ shape, the forward tine curving down, as if to meet the pummel, while the rear tine curved sharply upward along the blade.

Mendarath turned the sword, offering the hilt to Jon. Jon reached out and gripped the hilt, drawing it forth. There was grasp throughout the hall as the blade was revealed. Shining Silverite threw back the torchlight to blind the eye. It shone like silver, but brighter, as is a sliver of moonlight had been hammered into a solid shape. The blade was the length of a bastard sword, slightly broader than two of Jon’s fingers together. It ran straight for nearly its full length, but its tip curved back, like a hunting knife or an elven dar’misaan. A fuller ran down the blade, from where the curve began to the guard.

Jon was mesmerized. Never had he seen such a weapon. Its only equal, that he knew of, was Ice, his father’s Valyrian Steel great sword. He looked closely at the blade, for something had thrown back the light differently than the rest of the sword. There, several inches up from the guard, a rune of glowing Lyrium pulsed softly. He could recognize the sigil as one for Frost.

Jon looked back up at his teacher. “Master Mendarath, this is a kingly gift.” Jon slid the sword back into its sheath and bowed deeply to the Blademaster. “You honor me, Ghi’lan. I will do my best to honor you, and this gift, with what you have taught me.”

Mendarath simply nodded his head. “That is appropriate.” Without another word, he turned and vanished into the crowd.

Jon looked back down at the sword in his hands. An enchanted sword, of Silverite, a metal precious even in Thedas, for his own. A wonderous gift.

Robb was suddenly at his side, clapping him on the back. “Come now brother, you will have enough time to admire your new toy later. I think a lady is waiting for you, and our guests are eager to continue tradition.”

Jon scowled at that, for he did care for all the rituals of the North. But before he could decry it, Lord Umber raised his voice in a bellow that echoed around the room. “Time for the Bedding!”

Chapter Text

Leave-takings

Lord of Tŵr y Forwyn

With a final heave, the last of Daenerys’s chests was pushed up into the bed of the covered wagon. Robb and Jon both leaned against the side of the wagon, breathing hard. Jon was sorely confused as to why Daenerys had so much luggage to bring with her to the Tower Forlorn. He had only the one chest of clothing, in addition to what he carried on his person, yet Dany had three chests, all larger than his own. He understood that she had received more in the way of gifts of clothing and keepsakes from Lady Stark and Sansa, but surely not so many as to fill 3 large chests?

He looked over at his brother, who was grinning ruefully. “So, it finally comes to it. You’re leaving us to take your place in that out-house of a keep, and I likely will not see you again save for a formal summoning.” He turned his head to look at Jon. “I knew this day was coming, would be a certainty after you and Dany were wed. I knew it up here,” He reached up and tapped the side of his head, “But I didn’t really accept here.” He laid a hand over his chest. “I do not think I can forgive you for leaving me, brother, and taking my newly made sister with you.” Robb glanced over the top of the collected chests in the wagon to the hooded figure seated on the driver’s bench.

Jon sighed. “Nor will Arya, I suppose. She has not come out of her room since Dany and I decided to leave for the Tower. I had hoped to give her this gift,” he pulled a rough linen wrapped bundle from his pile of belongings. “But it may be that I have you deliver it for me.”

Robb laid a consoling hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Do not worry, Jon. I’m sure she will come down to see you leave. You are her favorite brother.”

Jon turned and looked at the crowd assembling to bid him and Daenerys farewell. Most of the guests from the wedding, Including Maester Aemon, had left already, departing the day following the feast, though many of the Lords and Masters, especially Lord Umber, were still suffering for sore heads. That had been 3 days ago, though Jon had not been present at the farewell of so many of the North’s nobles. He had a good excuse for it, one admitted and even appreciated by the Lords and Masters, If Lord Umber’s cries of congratulation and encouragement through the window could be believe.

Jon felt a blush rising in his cheeks as he remembered that night.

He stood in the guest room Lord Stark had set aside for them for this night, dressed only in his small cloths. Though a fire blazed in the hearth, the room had enough chill to set his skin to goose-flesh. Daenerys stood in front him, stripped to her shift. Neither of them had wished for the Bedding Ceremony, mortifying as it was, but once Lord Umber had called for it, there had been no stopping the assembled Lords and Masters from laying their hands on Dany as they carried her to the bed chamber. The Ladies in Winterfell, some having come with their husbands, brothers, fathers, others the household of Winterfell itself, had shown no less enthusiasm in their giggling assault on Jon’s person. For all that he was a Bastard, if one newly Entitled, he was still a handsome, nearly pretty, man.

Now they stood before each, Lord and Lady, man and wife. They had waited for this moment for 11 years, in both trepidation and eagerness, the latte growing as they grew older themselves. They had waited for this, and yet they did not move. Jon had never felt so nervous, so self-conscious, in his life. While he and Dany had kisses and cuddled, teased and taunted one another, they had never gone so far as this.

Daenerys lifted her chin, her eyes challenging, and heated. “Well, are you just going to stand there, Jon?”

Jon jerked at her voice. He had not realized he had been simply staring at her. Slowly he stepped up to her. Gently he reached down and took her hands in his, stroking her knuckles and the backs of her fingers with his thumbs. “I’m sorry, Dany. I couldn’t help myself. You are so beautiful that my mouth forgets to speak.”

Dany blushed, the red creeping along her pale skin. “If you cannot speak, there are other things you could be doing with your mouth.” Those last words came out rushed and high, as if Dany was forcing herself to speak them before she thought better of it. “It is not as if there is anything…” She could not finish as Jon leaned in a laid his lips on her.

The kiss was small, sweet, tentative. They had kissed each other with greater fervor and heat before, in the small, quiet moments they could steal, hidden from others in the secluded places of the keep.

But as they kissed, Jon drew her closer to him, until her form was flush against his. Then the kiss began to deepen. It was slow, tantalizing, agonizing, a gradual increase of pressure and intent.

As they kissed, his hands let go of hers and began to travel up her bare arms, gliding lightly across her skin. Jon marveled at the feel of that skin. Silk was not so smooth, so soft.

With every delicate, tickling touch, Dany shivered, her breath coming in light, hitching gasps. Jon smiled into their kiss, pleases that he could illicit such a response from her.

Still their kiss deepened, Jon’s tongue darting into dance against her lips and teeth, against her own tongue, even as his hands danced along her flesh. Up her arms they went, until they reached her shoulders, where they slowed and gently caressed their way up her neck, til he cupped her face, holding it still as he kissed her. Her own hands were moving to grip his head, to tangle in his curling black hair.

From her face, his fingers danced lightly down her front, brushing gently against the curve of her breasts. Again, Daenerys’s breath hitched, and her body trembled. He was grinning now, and continued his teasing touch, letting his fingers trace faint lines down her sides. When he reached her waist and hips, he stopped his dancing fingers, and instead slid them around her waist.

With a sudden jerk, he pulled her close to him, fitting her snuggly to his shape. She gasped, first at the sudden motion, then at the feel of him, hard and hot against her. With a moan she pushed herself against him harder still, her mouth aggressive, her own tongue swirling and twining with his. A heat was building within her, and aching heat that urged her on, to satiate itself with the man who held her.

Suddenly Jon pulled away, his eyes dark and hungry, his flesh hot. He returned his hands to her shoulders, the straps of her shift. Her own eyes were heated, her mouth already swollen. It would grow more so before the night was done. She lifted her hands to where his sat, her fingers trembling. She tugged at the straps, his hands moving away as he stepped back. Cloth rustled as the undergarment fell from her should, pulling at her ankles.

Jon’s mouth had gone dry as he stared again at her. Her skin was pale, pale as the moon, as new fallen snow. Her breasts were round, perky, just large enough to fill his hands, crowned in pink tips. Between her legs, a small patch of pale hair, the same color as the locks that framed her face. Either she or one of the maid servants had shaved her valley. She was beauty. She was perfection. He wanted to kneel, to worship her.

She stepped back to him, her arms reaching for him. He took her and pulled her close, his mouth claiming hers once more. His hands roamed across her skin, long her arms and shoulders, down back, caressing her buttocks, then returning to her front, where they cupped her breasts.

Her own hands traveled his body as well, even as she moaned against his mouth. She wanted him, wanted to see him. Her fingers travelled down his chest, muscled from hours of sword practice each day, from time in the woods and forests, climbing trees and rocks, of riding a horse from sunrise to sunset. When they reached his waist, she began to tug at the hem of his smallclothes. “Please, Jon. Let me see you.” She whimpered into their kiss. She finally loosed the band of the smallclothes enough, and they fell from his waist.

She stepped back to view him. He was hard, red, eager. He almost scared her. But she knew what she must do, what she wanted to do. She ignored what Lady Stark and Septa Mordane had tried to instruct her in, and instead remembered what the maids and serving girls would whisper to each other, what would set them to giggling and gasping as they stared at one or more of the guards in the practice yard.

She reached to him and took him in her hand. He was hot, almost burning hot, and it please her to know he burned so for her. Gently she caressed him and gave him a wicked smile as he groaned. Suddenly he twisted from her, moving to stand at her side. He bent down and swept her up into his arms, sending her into a peal of giggles. With exaggerated grandeur he carried her to the bed, a large, if plain, thing covered in furs. Jon laid her out across it, silencing her mirth with another searing kiss, before climbing on after her.

She reached for him, body aching with need, but he withdrew from her lips, his mouth moving to her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, marking a trail down her body with kisses and bites, sucking on her skin. From her shoulder he slowly teased his way down to her breasts, pausing long enough to gently take one of her crowns in his mouth, sucking, softly biting, and sending tremors of pleasure through her body. When he again moved down her flesh, Daenerys almost cried at the loss of sensation from her breasts.

As Jon reached her valley, he paused long enough to kiss the inside of her thigh, before he laid his lips upon her. Daenerys nearly screamed, the tension inside built so high that even this lightly attention to her most sensitive region sent her mind racing to the heavens. Jon was smiling even as he licked, kissed, and sucked at her. Again, and again she arched her back, cries and moans filled the chamber, and still Jon did not relent in his ministrations of her lower body.

When he finally lifted his face from between her legs, she body lay sweating before him, tremors wracking their way through her. He pulled himself up beside her, looking into her pleasure glazed eyes. “Did you enjoy that, my Lady?”

Dany’s breath came heavy, panting as if she had just run for leagues. “Where… when… what did you do to me?”

Jon smiled down at her, stroking a hand through her hair. “It was something I heard about from one of My Lord Father’s guards one evening, after some that were off duty returned from Winter Town. I thought I might give it a try. Did you like it?”

Dany could only nod, my perception still swirling from the heights he had just them to. “Oh… Oh yes. Very much so.” She turned her face to him, tried to bring his into focus. “But now, I want you, my love. I have waited so long, and I can bear it no longer. Come to me, heart of my heart, and make me yours in truth.”

Jon nodded slowly, cupping her cheek and kissing her gently, before moving to kneel over her. Her took his flesh and laid it against her. He knew what must be done, had heard from casual gossip of the guards, from the teasing of his brother, but this was as new to him as it was to her. He would be gentle, and gentle as he could possibly be. As he set himself, he looked back up to her face. There was fear in her eyes, but also an eagerness, and yearning that matched his own.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper.

Slowly, he pushed himself inside her. She gasped, wincing in pain. Abruptly he stopped, concern in eyes. “Dany?”

“No, I’m fine, beloved. They told me it would hurt, but it is not as much as I feared.”

“I can stop, until you are ready.”

Dany shook her head. “No, keep going. I want you to, Jon. I want to feel you. Just… go slowly.”

Jon nodded, and as slowly as he dared, continued to push himself inside her. With every motion, she gasped and winced, but she did not tell him to stop. When he was as deep as he could be, he stopped again, looking back at her. She lay there gasping, her body trembling about him. “Dany?”

For several seconds she just lay there, breathing heavily, before she nodded her head. “Go on. I’m ready.”

Slowly, and gently, Jon began to withdraw himself, only partly, then to push back inside. With each movement the pain lessened until Dany was moaning with pleasure as before. When Jon looked down at himself, he saw that he was slicking with her. Still her kept his rhythm slow, gentle. He was not some drunken soldier or proud lordling, taking his own pleasure from some whore in exchange for coin. He was a husband, wed to a woman more beautiful than any other. A woman he had cared for since childhood. What he did, he did for her sake as much has his.

“Jon.” He looked up into her eyes as she spoke. “Jon, it feels so good. I feel so full and so good. Go faster. Please, my love, go faster. Take me, let me give myself to you as you give yourself to me.”

The words sent a shiver through Jon. He felt himself speed up, felt himself try to push deeper within her. The sounds of flesh meeting flesh, of heavy mingled breath, and of joined, voiced, passion filled the room. As Jon moved within her, he leaned forward, his face to hers, their lips meeting. He claimed her mouth as the rest of him claimed her body. Yes, yes this was right. This was how it was meant to be. The two of them, together, blind and deaf to the world as they made love. With each motion, pleasure spiked through their bodies, and with each jolt of pleasure, joy and love filled them to overflowing.

Suddenly, Daenerys twisted beneath him, rolling him over, yet never did their bodies separate. Jon laid there on his back, staring up at her. Her hair down, covering her beautiful breasts, veiling her lovely face, she rode him, her hips rocking back and forth on him. Pleasure roared through him in a flood, drowning out all sensation but her atop him. His hands rose and settled on her waist, as his own rose to meet hers. He groaned and closed his eyes feeling her and only her. She was all that mattered. She was all that was.

He opened his eyes and sat up, Daenerys still in his lap. He curled one of arms about her, keeping her close. She gasped but did not stop her movement. Together, they moved, as one being with a single purpose. His face level with hers, he tugged with the arm at her waist, his other keeping him upright. She leaned into him, moaning and gasping in the feel of him. Savagely he took her mouth with his, his tongue seeking hers. He could feel the pressure, and tautness, building within him, could feel from her shivering and trembling body that yet another rising was building in her. He kept her there, kept matching her movements with his own, kept the pressure inside them building. Suddenly she cried out, a scream of pure ecstasy as her body shuddered in his arms, about his flesh. The sensation touched of the tightness within himself, and he felt his own release echo hers. His arm tightened around her, holding so close it was as if he sought to pull her body into his, to make the two of them a single being.

They remained as such, bodies entwined, shivering as the wake of their shared ecstasy cascaded through them. When they finally relaxed, loosened the limbs that held them so closely together, they fell as one back to the bed, Jon still holding Daenerys atop him, still joined to her. They lay there, panting, sweat trickling from them, steam rising from their bodies, a heat that had nothing to do with the hearth fading from them. Dany resting her head against his chest, quivering. “Oh. Oh gods. Jon, my heart, my beloved. I never knew. I never expected. The Lady, the Septa… they told me it would hurt, that it should hurt. That I would not, should not, find joy in this. That enjoying it would be sinful, a blaspheme against the Gods. But they were wrong. They were wrong, and it was wonderous.”

She lifted her head to look into his eyes. “I love you, Jon. My Lord, my love. With all that I am, I love you.”

Jon stared back into her eyes. “And I love you, My Pale Lady Forlorn.”

She smirked at him. “Show me, My Lord. Show me once more, the depth of your love.”

Jon had to shake himself from the reverie. That first time had been heated enough, but to dwell on the remainder of that night would lead him to shame himself. He leaned his head against the frame of the wagon, breathing slowly, deeply, trying to calm himself, and his body. But still, the memories came unbidden.

They had made love throughout the night and had not ceased their passions until the sun had risen. When he had finally left their bed to relieve his aching bladder, Daenerys was sleeping soundly, an afterglow of satiation surrounding her as she softly snored. He had found it strangely funny, to discover that she snored. Funny, and endearing. He loved her all the more for it.

“What has your face so heated, Jon?”

Jon turned from Robb. Damn it, but he had been trying to avoid embarrassing himself. “Nothing.”

Robb grinned at him. Jon could not see it, but he could hear it in his voice. “Still remembering your wedding night? Well, it sounds like both of you enjoyed it, from the servants gossip I catch.” Robb slapped Jon’s back jovially. “It’s good then. An omen that yours will a happy marriage.”

Jon nodded. Robb was probably right. How often did marriages begin with the Lord simply taking his pleasure, with no regard for his new wife’s comfort or enjoyment? How often did those marriages become affairs of cold, dispassionate rutting, for no purpose other than to produce heirs? Such times often led the Lords to seeking the wares of brothels, and the Ladies to seek the solitude of the Septs?

No, he would not force that upon Dany. He loved her. This no callous union of political means. This was a joining of hearts, a union of equals. Jon would keep it so. He treasured her too deeply for it to be otherwise.

“Well, I this is the last of Dany’s belongings.” Robb reached out his hand to Jon. “I guess this is goodbye, Jon.”

Jon reached out to take Robb’s hand, but when he did Robb seized him by the arm and pulled him into a rib creaking embrace. “Take care of yourself, brother. You and your lady.”

Jon wrapped his own arms about Robb’s shoulders, slapping his brother on the back. He could feel the tears in his eyes. “Aye, I will, brother. Keep our family safe.”

He pulled away, smiling a wistful smile, and turned to climb up on the seat of the wagon. He was reaching for the reins of the drafts horses when he heard pounding steps.

“WAIT!”

Jon turned to see Arya running as swiftly as she could around the corner of the keep, staggering as she feet slipped in the mud of the yard. He jumped down from the wagon in time to catch her as she threw herself at him. He spun about, trying to keep his balance, twirling his little sister in the air before he set her back on her feet.

“I didn’t think you would come.” He looked down at her, his eyes wet. This was his favorite amongst his kin, the only one that had never reminded him of his station, who had loved him unconditionally, at least until Daenerys.

Arya stared up into his face, her own eyes streaming tears, but her mouth set, her expression defiant.

“I’m not going to say goodbye. You are going to come back, going to come see me, and Bran and Robb and Rickon. It’s not goodbye if you are coming back.”

Jon could feel the cold eyes of Lady Stark on him as he knelt in front of his sister. “I cannot promise you that, little sister. I have my own lands to look after now, my own family. I will be very busy and may not have time to return to Winterfell. And you are growing up. Soon, father will be looking for a husband for you, as he is for Sansa. You will be leaving Winterfell, going to live in another keep, starting a family of your own.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, keeping her eyes on him, even as she began to sniff. “We all have duties, responsibilities, that we must attend to, Arya. To not do so is to be dishonorable, to your House, to your family.”

She stamped her foot, her hands clenched into fists. “I don’t want to be a Lady. I hate it. I hate it all. The needlework, the singing, the sighing over stupid stories about stupid knights and stupid damsels. I hate all of it.” Suddenly she threw herself back into his arms, hugging him about the neck. “Take me with you, Jon. I don’t want to be a Lady. Let me go with you.” She was sobbing into his shoulder.

Jon held her close, letting her cry her grief out on him. “I cannot, Arya. You know that. I cannot take you from Father, from your Lady Mother. I wish I could. I wish I could give all the adventures in all the stories for you live. But you will have to make your own story now.”

Slowly Jon stood up, wiping at his own eyes. Then he looked down at his sister with a grin. “I may have something for you, something to help you make that story.” He walked to the back of the wagon, reaching in and pulling out the cloth wrapped bundle he had considered passing on to Robb to give to her.

Turning, he knelt down again, angling himself so as to hide the gift from Lady Stark. He pulled Arya in front of him and held the bundle out to her. “Open, just enough to see inside. I do not think you Lady Mother would be best pleased to see you with it.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion as she tugged at the wrappings, then her still red eyes widened as shock, then joy passed over her face. The glint of a bronze pommel and rich brown of a leather wrapped hilt appeared from within the packing. Quickly she rewrapped the small sword, then threw her arms around Jon’s neck again. “Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.”

Jon grinned as he hugged her back. “Just be sure neither your mother or Sansa sees it. And remember…”

“Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” They said in unison before laughing.

As Jon stood back up, he laid a hand on Arya’s head. “I love you, little sister. Never forget that.”

Arya held the bundle against herself as if to never let it go. “Come back soon Jon. This is your home too. We all love you.”

Jon pulled himself back up into the wagon seat. As Daenerys wove her arm through his, he took up the dropped reins before looking back at his little sister. “I will try, if I can, Arya. Good bye, Little Wolf.”

With that, he shook the reins, whistling though his teeth. The draft horses snorted and began trotting, pulling the wagon, loaded with Jon, Daenerys, and all their worldly possessions, out through the North Gate, and towards their future.

Chapter Text

Mage of the North

Bran hated his dreams sometimes. He knew that they were special, that he was special. Mergus had told him that for mages, dreams were far more important, and far more dangerous, than they were for regular, unmagical, people. They only briefly touch the Fade with their dreams, brushed against it like a feather upon one’s skin. Mages dipped into it the Fade with their dreams. It may not be very much, a finger into a vast pool of water, but it was enough. With that one finger, they could see things, call on the Fade for magic, light the signal fires of their minds to every demon and spirit nearby.

Bran was more special than that. When he slept, when he dreamed, he did not dip a finger in the pool. He leapt in bodily, immersing his mind deep into the realms of madness and imagination, of wonder and horror, and sending ripples across the un-reality of that realm that could be felt by things older and more dangerous than any demon of pride or lust or fear. Mergus had told that he must always ward his dreams, lest something beyond imagining scents his mind, follows it back to him, and draws his soul kicking and screaming into itself, and take up residence in his flesh, turning him from a boy barely grasping at his own power into a horror that would destroy everyone he ever loved, and everyone that ever loved him.

But sometimes, that was not enough, to shield his sleeping mind from the other facet of his power. He could see things sometimes, things he could not understand, but always know to be true. He could remember the first dream like that, when he had been barely more than a babe in arms. A scattered pile of great stones, shot through with seams of iron, weathered and bitter, but still proud and enduring. A great storm of fire, moving forward with unnatural rigidity and discipline, for no fire should behave as such, swept down on the stones from the west, and covered the stones. The stones screamed like red hot metal being thrust into a barrel of ice filled water, began to crack and split. When the fire receded, the stones were crumbled, the iron in them burnt out. No more were they proud and unyielding. Now, what pebbles remained crumble to dust at a touch.

He had not known what the dream had meant, but it had terrified him for he had known it was true. Days later, his Lord Father had received a letter from the South, from Riverrun, of the news of the War with House Greyjoy, in its bid to secede from the Iron Throne. News of how House Greyjoy, indeed the entirety of the Iron Isles, was no more. How the Iron Fleet had been destroyed to a ship, its people, and all the people of the Iron Isles, had been put to the sword, or bound in chains. How the keeps and settlements of the Isles had been laid low, razed, the fields salted, and even the Pyke Itself sent to the bottom of the sea, as the great warships of the Qunari sailed out of the west to bring destruction upon the Iron Born. With sword and spear and thunderous blast of their strange weapons of fire and stone the Iron Born were slaughtered or taken aboard their great ships. What had become of those captured, none could say, but many feared that it would happen to them as well. But the Qunari had not turned their fleet to the mainland. Once the final keep was torn down, and the final ship sunk, they had sailed back west, to whatever strange land they had come from.

Bran had never told Mergus, or any of his family, of the dream. He was afraid they would think him mad, or that he had made it up, after hearing the tale from his father. He had been barely a child, and he had been afraid. And other dreams had come. Some had been as frightening, others not as much, but that he knew each to have been true comforted him little.

And now he dreamed again, and again he feared, for now he dreamt of his family.

He had watched as Jon strode South, wrath in his eyes, and the land was aflame with every stride. He dreamed of Robb leaping from a towered bridge into a bed of roses, plucking one to set in his shirt, heedless of the many cuts the thorns made in his flesh. He saw a line of people, unknown to his eyes, of dark skin and light, old and young, man and women, boy and girl. But in every face, he could see Arya’s eyes staring back at him, flat and without emotion. He watched as Sansa walked through a graveyard, the headstones marked with the sigils of many Houses, and a mockingbird sang in her ear. He wept as his father walked into a pit of lions. As the beasts leapt at him, he turned to look at Bran, and said “Because it was asked of me.” He felt his skin grow tender from heat as Daenerys danced in a ruined keep. A tiny ember that had long withstood the wind and rain suddenly flared to life, flames swirling up to consume all about the ruin as Daenerys danced, untouched by the blaze, and shadow covered the sun.

Bran hated his dreams, and he could never run from them, for he knew them true and could never forget.

Tonight, he dreamed again, but it was not the dream he knew. He stood vast ruin, empty save for mists and shrouded trees. He walked the worn paths of stone, between shadows, until he stood before a great tree, larger than any he had ever seen, even in the Wolf’s Wood. Its bark was bone, its leaves dripped blood, and Its crying face was more horrible than his deepest nightmare. In its branches a raven cawed mournfully. It almost seemed to be speaking, crying “Lost, lost, lost,” repeatedly.  Bran looked into the branches, trying to see the bird, and caught a glimpse of black wings and shining eyes. There seemed to be too many.

“It is rare, to see a human wandering the Dream. And a child at that.”

Bran spun about. He had been alone, save for the frightening tree and the cawing raven.

A man, an elf, stood behind him. He was bald, his face bare of the vallaslin of the Dalish. The jawbone of some animal hung about his neck like some macabre talisman or decoration. And behind him, faint in the mist, a shadow like some great beast.

Bran backed away from the strange elf. “Who are you? Why are you in my dream?”

The elf cocked his head, his eyes unreadable. “Your dream? This is not a dream, man child. This is The Dream.” He glanced up the massive weirwood. He seemed fascinated by its crying face. “The Dream, The World of Dreams, it has many names, from many lands, and many peoples. To humans, it is the Fade, home of spirits and demons, realm of dreams and magic. To the Elves, it is I’Ve’An, the Beyond. And to others it goes by still different names.”

The elf turned to look at Bran. “The Dream touches all places, and all peoples, save those who have been severed from it, denied its caress and its nourishment of the mind. It touches even other worlds, worlds beyond Thedas and Westeros. And because of that, you must be wary, man child, lest you wander into one of those worlds and become lost.” He turned and began to walk into the mists.

Bran started. Someone else who walked in dreams? Someone who knew them? He ran after the elf.

“Wait! Please Wait. Who are you?”

The elf stopped and looked over his shoulder. “My name? How rude of me, I did not give it, though you did ask, and I did not ask for yours.” He turned fully, and bowed, his right hand over his heart. “I am called Solas, though I have been known by many names. But as I have given you one to call me by, I would now know yours.”

Bran swallowed, his nervousness superseding his courtesies. “My name is Bran. Bran Stark. My father is Lord of Winterfell.”

Solas cocked his again. It seemed habit of his. “I have heard of the Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. He has many of elves in his service yet does not treat them as other men are want to do. He pays them and houses them as he does the humans in his employment. He is well spoken of by both men and elvehen. That is to his credit. And you are his son?”

Bran nodded. “I’m his second son. Or third, if you include Jon.”

Solas nodded thoughtfully. “I did not know that a son of the Lords of Westeros could enter the Dream. Are you a mage?”

“Yes. I’m still learning, and Master Mergus has not had long to teach me, but I am a mage.”

“That is interesting. I wonder how many more sons and daughter of Westeros will awaken to magic. But even if they do, that does not mean they can walk the Dream as you do. I have seen you, watched as you strode from one dreamscape to another, watched as you came here, and shaped this place to your subconscious.”

Bran looked down at his feet. “I have never been here before. And I try to not dream. Mergus says that dreams are dangerous for mages. That we enter more fully than those without magic, and that we attract demons more easily. But I have always dreamed things, things I don’t understand, and things I know are true.”

Solas knelt down before Bran. He had not noticed the elf stepping closer. “You are a Dreamer then? There are so few amongst humans. Your Chantry frowns on Dreamers and dreams I have been told, for the Cult of the Maker holds magic in poor opinion. It was Dreamers that heard the first whispers of the Old Gods of Tevinter, who broke into the Golden City, according to their legends.”

Bran felt affronted. He was young, his values still malleable, ready to be shaped by the teachings of his parents and teachers. But in faith he had already set himself, established what and who he believed in. “I am a Stark of Winterfell, of the blood of the First Men. We do not hold to the Stars of the Faith of the Seven, or the Martyred Bride of the Cult of the Maker. I follow the Old Gods of the North, the gods of the forest and field, of the mountain and valley.” He turned, gestured at the vast weirwood and its weeping face. “Our gods bear witness to our thoughts and deeds through the eyes of the weirwoods, as they have since the Children of the Forest first carved faces into the pale bark. I am no follower of the Chantry.”

Solas looked behind Bran at the tree, his brow furrowing as he watched the raven rustling in the branches. “I have heard of the First Men and their Old Gods. And I have heard of the magic in that blood. The Greenseers of old were said to see through the eyes of time, to review the past, to observe the present, and to peek at the future. Do you have this gift, Bran of Winterfell?”

The Lady Forlorn

Daenerys stared up the hill at her new home. She knew that it was small, had been told it would be. But she had grown to womanhood within the walls and towers of Winterfell, and of the other keeps and fastnesses of the North she had only ever visit the New Keep in White Harbor. To now see just how small her home was, brought a since of disbelief to her. Could this even be called a castle?

She looked behind her, down the hill, to the small collection of huts and cottages that huddled close to the rise upon which Tŵr y Forwyn sat. So few, when Winter Town held dozens, even hundreds, and many built of stone. These were constructed of no more than rough cut logs and thatched roofs. Of the six buildings, only 5 held families, with the sixth a barn to shelter the cattle, goats, and stout northern hogs shared by the smallfolk. Beyond the huts, fields spread out before her, studded with rising stalks of barley and rye, the sprigs of carrots and radishes and peas, and blossoming cabbage and lettuce. All northern foods, though she had rarely been able to enjoy the leafy greens she could now see. Such edibles did not keep well, and Winterfell rarely took from its smallfolk what could not be easily preserved.

Could so few tend so much, she wondered. Would their smallfolk be able to meet the tithes they were required to give their lord? Maester Luwin had taught her that they could, if she and Jon were careful and conserved when possible. This was the North, where the people, Lord and peasant alike, live by meager means, ever cautious of winters to come, or poor summer weather. For House Stark was always correct, Winter was Coming, it was always coming. So the North ever sought to be prepared for it. Squander and frivolity was the province of the South, where the weather was warm and pleasant, where the smallfolk were without number, and much wealth in crops and livestock could be wrestled from very little land. The North was a cold and unforgiving land. Those who failed to recognize and respect that undeniable, unspoken, law of the land inevitably died for it.

She looked back to the tower looming above her. Jon handle the reigns, guiding the two draft horses Lord Stark had given them for labor up the rise.

As the wagon rambled through the gate in the low wall, she could finally fully examine the grounds of her new home. A low wall, only has high as Jon’s shoulders, ran around the property, broken only by the one gated opening they had passed through. To one side of the yard that they pulled into was a low, long building. One end was all of wood, the low walls inside an obvious indication to its function as a stable. Dany felt a tremble of excitement. Lord Ryswell had gift her and Jon with a pair of horses from his own herds and had informed newlyweds that the beasts had already been delivered to the Tower Forlorn. She hoped that she would have time to see her new mount, before the day was done. The other end of the structure was all of stone, with open sides showing a small forge. The smithy, were what metal work She or Jon needed done could be seen to.

On the far side of the yard from the smithy/stable, another, smaller stone wall surrounded a small patch of tilled earth, small tufts of green in neat rows. A garden for the kitchens she guesses, where herbs and more valuable vegetables could be grown for the special use of Jon and herself. Beyond the garden, several small, cylindrical structures. They had to be the granaries, for they were much like those she had seen in Winterfell, but far smaller. Nearby was a shack, smoke rising from a rough stone chimney. A smokehouse?

The sudden halting of the wagon dragged her attention back to the largest of the building within the wall. It seemed made of two building, attached by an adjoining wall. It consisted of a single Hall, far smaller than the main hall of Winterfell. To one side, a smaller long hall sat up against the side, slate roofed at the Hall was. To the other side, a tower rose into the sky. It was a squat thing, maybe twice the height of the Hall, with a wooded palisade at the top. Jon and Lord Stark had told her that the keep had once been an outpost of the ancient Kings of Winter, before even the Unification of the North, thousands of years before her ancestor, Aegon the First, the Conqueror, first set foot upon the shores of Westeros. It had been little more than a ruin, the roof of the hall fallen in, and the parts of the tower wall tumbled down. Lord Stark had paid to have the hall and tower rebuilt and refurnished, as well as building the smithy and stables, and adding on the kitchens and granaries.

Jon jumped down from the wagon seat, then turned to offer a hand to her. “Come, Dany. Let us greet our new household.” With his other hand he gestured to the small crowd of people assembled before the doors to the hall.

Dany took his hand, and the accompanying assistance, as she stepped from the wagon seat. Brushing off her skirts, she examined the people before her. There were only 6 of them. One was a dwarf, a female, stout and dressed in plain white linens, an apron about her middle. The dwarven woman stepped forward. “Greeting, my Lord and Lady. Welcome to the Tower Forlorn. I am Megtha, your head cook. These are Tilwin and Koyg, my assistants.” Two of the men bowed as their names were given. “Ferley and Noele, they will tend to the serving and cleaning.” The two young women, neither of who seemed older than Daenerys herself, curtsied. Both had brown hair, but where one was the color of Oak Wood, the other was lighter, like the coat of a deer. Both were pretty enough and seemed of sweet disposition. “And this is Woden, the smith and stable hand.” The final man, broad shouldered but slimmer than any blacksmith Dany had ever seen, bowed.

Jon and Dany both nodded their own heads in return of each bow and curtsy. “Thank you, Mistress Megtha, for the introduction. I am Jon, of Winterfell, now Lord Forwyn of the House Forwyn. This is my Lady, Daenerys of House Targaryen, now Lady Forwyn. I am pleased to make your acquaintances.”

Megtha nodded briskly as she and the other servants stepped up to their new lord and lady. “Thank you for the courtesies, my Lord. Don’t you mind the bags and chests, I’ll have the lads take them inside. If you will follow me, I will show you to your quarters.”

She turned about and headed to the doors, while the two kitchen workers and the smith began to remove chests from the back of the wagon. Jon glanced at Daenerys, then began to follow the dwarven woman.

Stepping through the heavy oak doors, Dany was able make out the inside of the hall. As she had noticed before, it was far smaller than the main Hall in Winterfell. The hall here was close to thirty feet in length, from the entry doors to the far end, and maybe twenty feet in width. In the middle of the space was single long table, with seating for four on either side, and a single large chair on either end.

On one side of the hall, where she judged the wall of the tower met that of the hall, a single door of iron banded oak stood open. Across from it, on the far side of the long table, a large fireplace was already lit with a great flame. At the far end of the hall from the entrance, a door stood in the wall shared by the hearth. Megtha gestured to the far door. “Through there is the kitchen, which Lord Stark had added on to the original structure.” She pointed to the far wall. “On the far side of that wall is the servants’ quarters. The door to them is through the kitchen, as is the door to the larder. The old cellar, or maybe it was a dungeon, from when this was an old outpost, has been expanded and reworked. With all the gifts of food and drink that the Lords have sent to you, I needn’t think that we will be wanting of fine meals for some time, the larder is near bursting from their generosity.”

 She led them through the open door across from the hearth. Immediately inside they were confront with a curving wall. To their left was a stairway, curling up and around, out of sight. To their right was another iron banded door, though this seemed even heavier, with a great lock set into the wood. Megtha pulled a great ring of keys from her belt and pulled one from it. She set it to the lock and gave it a turn. Dany could hear the heavy clink of released bolts and gears within the lock. Megtha withdrew the key and gave the door a heave. It swung open, its hinges squealing to set Daenery’s teeth on edge. The room beyond was not very large and was bare save for a pair of tables against the wall.

“This is the strong room, My Lord and Lady. It is tight against eh thickest walls of the tower and hall and, as you can see, the door is quite secure.” She proffered the key she had use to Jon. “This be the only key to open the door, Lord Jon.” Jon reached out and took the key from the Dwarf, staring at it before slipping it into his own belt pouch. He turned to the men who were carrying several of their chests in their arms. Jon gestured to one of them men, holding a chest Dany recognized as holding her treasures.

“Place that one inside, then two of you return to the wagon. There is another chest, this one smaller, marked with an ornate scroll working on the iron banding. Bring it here and place it on one of the tables. It will require two of you to carry.”

The stable/smith, carrying Dany’s valuables, nodded and placed the chest he carried just inside the door, then hurried back out through the hall. One of the kitchen workers also set his load, Jon’s loan chest of clothing, down and followed him out. It took them several minutes to return, the chest of silver from House Manderly between them. Together they heaved it inside the strong room and placed it on one of the tables. Jon waited for them both to step out of the room before he hauled the heavy door shut, then used the key to lock it. Jon then gestured for Megtha to continue the tour.

The cook led them up the stairs, curving around the inside of the Tower’s wall, to an open door. Inside was a room furnished with a plain wooded desk on one side, near the door, and a hearth on the far side. A pair of padded chairs were arrayed before the fire, and several shelves lined the walls. The lone window stood in the alcove between the door they just passed through and another just before them.

“This is your solar, Lord Jon. Lord Stark had several pieces of furniture moved here from one of the store rooms in Winterfell. This way please.” Megtha continued to the next door and opened it reveal a second flight of stairs. As they continued up it, then came to a small landing, the stairs going on up just past a narrow door in the outer wall of the tower. Jon opened it to reveal a tiny room with a stone bench built into the wall. There was hole in the bench, and Dany could feel a slight draft coming up from it.

“This privy, my lord.” Megtha quirked an eyebrow at Jon. Jon blushed and closed the door. “I was only curious.” He said, flushed with embarrassment.

They continued past the privy to the next door. Inside this room they found yet another hearth built into the wall, nearly directly above the one in the solar. Against the wall across from the hearth, a large, old, well-worn but sturdy bed, stood already covered in sleeping blankets and furs. Megtha directed the men carrying the chests of clothing to set their loads at the foot of the bed and against the wall nearby.

There was one final door, again facing the one they had entered through just across a small alcove. Megtha opened it, and Dany could feel a breeze wafting down the stairs beyond. The cook led them up to a landing, its sides open to the air. They were atop the tower, sheltered by only the wooden peaked roof and the stone crenellations that stood only as high and Daenerys’s waist. “This use to be completely open to the sky, my lady,” Megtha looked up at Dany. “But Lord Stark had a wooden roof built up here to help keep out the breeze. See those panels?” She pointed to large wooden boards, one over each gap in the supports for the roof. “They can be unlatched and swung down to block each of the gaps between the supports, completely enclosing the roof. Lord Stark was afraid that without a way to block out the weather, one good snow would overstress the ceiling of your bedchamber below us and collapse it.”  

Daenerys felt a swell of affection for her foster father. For all his obligations to Jon and herself, to establish the foundations for their own lives outside of Winterfell’s walls, the reconstruction of the stables and smithy, the adding of the kitchen and servants’ quarters, and the building of this wooden roof with movable walls to protect the top of the tower, were all beyond what custom and law demanded of him.  That he would go so far for her, a daughter of a fallen and disgraced Housed, and for Jon, a bastard with nothing owed to him by the laws of Westeros, spoke volumes of the honor and integrity of the Lord of Winterfell.

They spent some time beneath the wooden structure as Megtha pointed out features of the lands about them. It was only as the sun began to set beyond the peaks of the mountains to their west, that Megtha led them back inside. “By the Stone, it’s getting late. I should be returning to the kitchen. Will my lord and lady be taking their evening meal in the hall?”

Before Jon could answer, Dany spoke up. “No, we will take our meal in the solar. Just have one of the maids bring up a tray and leave it there.”

Megtha bowed over her apron to Daenerys. “As my lady wishes. I have had a side of pork turning on the spit since this morning, several loafs of nice dark bread, glazed with butter and honey, fresh from the oven, and a broth with potatoes and peas stewing.”

Daenerys considered for a moment. “Bring up two bowls of the broth, with a loaf of the bread and flagon of wine from the cellar. I believe that some Antivan Dark was gift to us from the Ferelden Bann, Godric. Carve some of the pork into small pieces and add it to the broth.”

“Of course, my lady. Will that be all? I believe that a fire has been started in both the hearth in the solar and in the bedchamber.”

“Yes, that will be all. Thank you, Mistress Megtha. I will be down to the kitchen in the morning so that you may show me the larder. I must begin an account of our stores.”

“Of course, my lady. I will send Ferley up with your dinner.”

“Thank you. Just have her leave it in the solar.”

Megtha bowed again and proceeded down the stairs, leaving Dany alone in the bedchamber with Jon. She crossed quickly to the door, shutting it and throwing the latch, locking it.

“Dany? What are you doing? Were we not eating in the solar?” Jon asked behind her.

Daenerys turned from the door to face her husband. A predatory light flickered in her eyes as she fixed the young Lord Forwyn with a hungry stare. “We have been on the road for three days, and during that entire time, I have not enjoyed my husband’s embrace. This is our first night in our new home, in a chamber, with a bed, all our own. I wish to bless them both, as well as the tower itself, in the ways of our people, my love.” She was almost stalking towards Jon, and she felt her lips curling into a satisfied smile at the expression on his face as her cloak, gown, and shift fell to the wooden floor of the chamber in quick succession.

Chapter Text

Lord of Winterfell

It took all of Eddard’s considerable self-control to keep his face schooled to cool, respectful indifference as the royal entourage streamed its way in the main yard of Winterfell. The caravan of knights, nobles, and servants, almost a thousand souls, that accompanied the royal family on its visit to the high seat of the North stretched for miles beyond the gates of castle, and it would take most of the day, and likely well into the night, before all those accompanying Robert and his family could be settled into appropriate accommodations. Damn Robert, and damn the Lannisters, for insisting on this extravagance. How much of his Court did he need to drag along behind him? How many servants does Cersei Lannister truly need, when there are plenty here in Winterfell to tend to her needs? Is there anyone left in the capital at all?

He stood with his family, his household assembled behind him, waiting to greet the king. Already rank upon rank of knights, their armor gleaming and surcoats spotless, had passed through the gates. Many of those were now dismounted, their horses handed off to the grooms and stablemen of the keep while they themselves stood in poses of idle arrogance, repeatedly throwing back their cloaks to flare their sigils in the sun and display the ornamentation of their swords.  Southern foolishness. Still the king had yet to arrive, and Ned could feel the impatience of his children. Arya and Bran kept fidgeting, shifting their weight from one leg to the other. Rickon kept tugging on his mother’s sleeve. Only Robb and Sansa remained steady, though for separate reasons.

Sansa was perfectly still, her eyes alight with anticipation, a flush of excitement in her cheeks. She had been waiting for this day with as much eagerness as a virgin knight for his first time in the lists. Her head was still full of the stories of gallant knights and handsome princes, of fainting damsels and daring rescues. Eddard had fought hard to keep those stories from his children, to raise them on the tales of the North, of the First Men and Children, on the grim truth of the world and its inhabitants. He had wanted to make his children aware that the world, for all its wonders both before and after the Arrival, was a place of cruelties and hard truths. That it was not a world where the Handsome Prince always returned home with victory and glory. Not a world where Gallant Knights were always honorable and chivalrous.

Robb, on the other hand, had a look of determined resolution on his face. Where Sansa had grown up on the stories and expectation of her mother and Septa Mordane, raised to see on the shining mask of the world, Robb had spent far more time with Jon and Daenerys. He knew the reason why Dany and Jon had been betrothed to each other, what the king had demanded. He knew why his father never spoke of Robert Baratheon or House Lannister with fondness or love. And he knew the truth of those southern knights and their “courtesies”. He had seen them without their masks. Robb held no love for the South and its “Game of Thrones.” And he held no love for King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name.

 That Ned knew this of his son made him all the prouder that the lad held his temper, as the King rode through the keep gateway, followed by a monstrous wheelhouse. It was a grotesque thing, massive in its size, and far too ornate for practicality. It was over 20 feet in length, and nearly half that in height, drawn by 8 horses with coats gleaming white and gold.There was enough gold gilding on it feed a minor House, such as Jon’s, for half a year, and every inch that was not covered in gold was carved into the most ridiculous images of lions, stags, leafing trees, and blooming flowers. An extravagance that Eddard found quite offensive, if he was to honest with himself.

As Robert passed through the gate Ned and his family dropped to their knees. For all his distaste, Ned was still and honorable and respectful man, though for a heartbeat he feared Robb would not follow suite. It was but a moment’s hesitation, noticeable only to those who knew enough of the young man’s character to recognize it, but it was still there. And it was still dangerous. Eddard resolved to speak his eldest son later, when privacy could be assured, and remind him that all courtesies and respects must be paid, while the King was in Winterfell.

He remained on his knees, his eyes staring at the ground in front of his toes, until a pair of very well-made boots and the hem of fine, fur trimmed cloak came into his view. He glanced up, just enough to see the fingers of a lowered hand. After a moment, the fingers turned and beckoned, gesturing for Ned to stand. As he did, he took in the sight of the man who now stood before him.

Robert had been a massive man, tall and broad shouldered. His arms and chest had been so thick with muscle that the man had often found it difficult to locate tunics and jerkins large enough to fit him without the seams splitting whenever he raised his arms. His strength was such that he could have lifted a fully-grown man over his head with little effort and thrown him several feet. His face had been all hard planes and strong jaw-lines. A rough, masculine handsomeness that hand lent itself to his natural charm.

Now… now he still seemed to barely fit in his fine tunic and hoes, but not from size of muscle. Now instead of the fabric being strained against a massive chest it was drawn tight over a huge, hanging belly. The once hard, strong lines of his face were now concealed on rolls of pudgy flesh. And Eddard was willing to swear by his Heart Tree that beneath the massive tangle of black beard that hung down across Robert’s chest were several fat chins, where that had once but a single strong one. Gone was the Demon of the Trident, the passion of every maiden’s dream, the inspiring warlord of a hundred stories, both factual and fiction. Now there was this fat, sagging man. It seems that the gossip from King’s Landing was true after all. Robert Baratheon was a Fat King.

As Eddard stood, the king gave him look, his now piggy blue eyes roving over Ned’s form. “You got fat.” he grunted, his other hand resting of the swell of his own paunch.

Eddard kept his face impassive, his eyes string directly into Robert’s flushed face. After several seconds, the king’s own stern expression cracked, a grin spreading across his mouth. He let out a hearty chuckle and slapped Ned’s shoulder good naturedly. Ned was startled, even more so when the king took him by the arm and pulled him into rib creaking embrace. “Ah, Ned, its good to see you. Where have you been hiding, you old snow wolf?”

Ned looked back at the king, his mind struggling to keep up with this unlooked for greeting. “Holding the North, Your Grace. As is my charge, and my honor.”

How could this man, this man with whom he had nearly gone to war, with whom his parting had been so sour, be so jovial, so friendly. Had he forgotten how they had left one another, 11 years gone, on this very spot?

The king again cuffed Ned about the shoulder. “Come now Ned, why so serious? You will give that stone-faced brother of mine rival for grimmest man in Westeros if you keep this up. Gods man, its been years since I saw you and you haven’t changed. Just like this ice box you call a home. Hah.” He was still grinning, his eyes bright with merriment.

Ned felt poleaxed. Maybe the fool truly had forgotten what had transpired the last time they had spoken face to face. He chided himself. He should have remembered all those times in the years of their youth, growing up together in the Eyrie. Robert had always had a knack to forgetting unpleasant things whenever he wanted to. He could let it slide away from his mind, gone and forgotten, and return to being the smiling oaf that could make friends of nearly anyone who crossed his path, save for his own brother. It took something truly offensive, on a deeply personal level, to remain in Robert’s mind beyond the first swig of wine or mouthful of food. Only something that Robert found truly unforgivable could be held as true grudge by him. Rhaegar, Lyanna.

Robert gestured to the rest of Ned’s household. “Come Ned, introduce the rest of your brood. I want to greet your family.”

Ned nodded stiffly then extended his hand to Catelyn. Lady Stark stepped up to stand by her husband, her lips in thin smile as she curtsied. “Your Grace.”

“Cat.” Robert pulled her up and gave her a whiskery kiss on her cheek before pulling back to smile with the kind of affection that one normally reserves for close sisters, not the wives of bannermen not seen in a decade.

Ned frowned but let it pass, reaching for Robb. “Robb, my eldest and Heir of Winterfell.”

Robert took the lad’s hand in his own, giving it a firm shake. “Robb.”

Robb dipped his head, muttering “Your Grace,” before releasing the king’s hand. Ned could see the tight lines of distaste on his son’s face, lines that Robert had did not notice as he proceed down the line, greeting each of the children in turn. He laid a surprisingly gracious kiss on the back of a blushing Sansa’s hand, and ruffled Bran’s hair. It was at Arya he stopped, his eyes growing wide for a second. The look passed, and he patted her head. For her part, Arya glared defiantly at the King’s back. As with Robb she had given her love and loyalty to Jon and Daenerys and held none for the king. Ned knew why Robert had paused in greeting the youngest daughter of Winterfell. More than one Northernborn, including Eddard himself, had commented on the striking resemblance Arya had for lost and lamented Lyanna Stark, Eddard’s own sister.

While Robert had been greeting the household of Winterfell, the Royal Family had disembarked from the vast wheelhouse. Radiant in gold and ruby silks, her hair bound in an intricate combination of buns and braids that flowed down her back like rivers of gold, Cersei was the very epitome of Southern, Lannister beauty. Her figure was full, her poise and posture perfect, her face haughty. She was truly a lioness, the lioness, of the Rock, and she knew it. Nor would she ever let those about her forget it. Eddard remembered a hearing a comment that had been credited to Tywin Lannister, Cersei’s father, the Lord of Casterly Rock and the head of House Lannister. “Lions cared nothing for the opinions of sheep.” And to a Lannister, especially to Tywin and his daughter, all who were not Lannister were sheep. But wolves have brought down lions before, and it is the Direwolf that rules in the North.

As the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms stepped away from the wheelhouse, 3 more climbed out behind her. One was a girl-child, Ned would place her younger than Sansa but not by much, who could only be the Princess Myrcella. For all her youth, Ned could already see all the promise of Cersei’s own beauty in her, from her perfect poise to her golden hair and emerald eyes. Standing next to her was a little, pudgy boy, maybe between Bran and Rickon in age. By his own hair, he too was of the royal children. Tommen, the youngest.

The third to emerge surprised Eddard. While the he had all the stature of Prince Tommen, his face was that of one much older. His arms and legs were far too short for his height, while his head was too large. Ned knew of the youngest of Tywin’s children, but all he had heard was that the Old Lion of the Rock preferred to keep him out of sight and out of mind in the Seat of House Lannister. That Tyrion Lannister, the Imp of Casterly Rock was hear puzzled Eddard. He had heard much of the little man, that he was an avid reader who devoured books like a starving man did a loaf of bread, that his mind was sharper than the swords of his father’s armory, and that his vices could send any 3 septons and 5 clerics of the Chantry into apoplexy. Whatever reason he had for visiting Winterfell left Eddard with great unease.

A pair of horses broke off from the steady stream of riders and wagons still pouring through the keep gates, their riders swinging off the beasts to join the Royal family before the wheelhouse, adding two more heads of gold to an assembly that already was approaching a blinding brightness in the midday sun. One, a young man a few years short of Robb’s own 16, was clad in fine silks and furs, nearly as fine as Robert’s, and more opulent in gold embroidery. The other, older and of an age with the queen, wore gold colored armor and flowing white cloak. Those could only be Prince Joffrey, Robert’s eldest and Heir to the Iron Throne, and Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, the Queen’s twin brother.

Ned scowled. The Kingslayer’s very presence grated against his nerves like rough rock salt in an open wound. The man, who even now smiled in a mocking, knowing way, as if he was laughing a private joke that mocked all those about him, had stained his white cloak, the cloak of a Kingsguard, when he forsook the oath he swore upon donning it by killing the very king who had given it to him. Eddard knew, indeed the whole of Westeros knew, that Aerys had been mad, that he had needed to be killed. But It should have been the task of someone else, someone not sworn to safeguarding the king’s own person. Jaime had broken a sacred vow in his treachery against the Aerys, while still in the Mad King’s service, and that tainted his honor and his word. If he could break a vow so strong so easily, then surely no oath could hold him.

Eddard’s distaste could only grow as he looked upon Robert’s heir. Prince Joffrey looked to be all a son a royal house should be, handsome, charming, polite. He had bestowed a gentle kiss upon the back of Sansa’s hand when the lass had been introduced to him by Catelyn. But there was something, a light in his eyes that sparkled unwholesomely, whenever he looked about him, his lip curling oh so slightly in distaste. It was if all he surveyed was of less worth than the grime on the bottom of his polished leather boots.

Ned stepped forward to offer his greetings to the Queen and her family, but he halted as a second wheelhouse trundled into the yard. This one, while far less ornate and audacious, still caught the eye. This time, however, what pulled his attention was the sigil blazoned across the side of the contraption. A blazing sunburst, its rays spiraling out in gold on a field of brown. The rest of the cart was painted in white, red, and gold, though only the trim on the wheelhouse’s edges was gilded. Though the horses that pulled the carriage, only 4, were of impeccable breeding, they were of all colors, and the strain of pulled the wheelhouse showed far less in them than it did in those that had hauled royal carriage.

Ned felt his brow furrowing. The Chantry had come to Winterfell. He had known that Mergus had dispatched a missive to Old Town, to the Chantry that sat before the city’s walls. But he had not expected for a response to be delivered in person. He watched as the carriage door opened and an elderly woman, her head adorned in a high crested cap, her robes all white and red, stepped out. She looked to be somewhat older than himself, maybe into her 6^th decade. Her warm brown skin, much like that of the Summer Islanders but lighter in shade, was marked with smile lines, her eyes bright and kind.

Ned’s eyebrows rose. From his own discussions with Master Mergus and Ser Borsun, he could recognize the ornamentation and styling of the robes as those belonging to someone of middling rank in the Chantry. A “Mother” at least. But there was only one such in all of Westeros, unless things had changed in Old Town since Varric Tethras had left Lannisport, and for her to come here… It did bode well for Bran’s future.

As Ned moved up the foreign priestess, another figure climbed out of the wheelhouse behind her, while a large war horse, a charger of some foreign stock rode up alongside. The man who stepped form the carriage was tall and thin, his features sharply defined for a human, though not so much as an elf’s. His nose was hawk like, and his har was deep brown, like tree bark. He wore grey robes, with red lining, the collar rising high behind his head. He carried a staff of some dark material, wood or metal he could not say. The head of the staff split into two intertwining dragon head, their open mouths cradling a crystal at the staff’s peak.

The man who dropped from horse back to land beside the Mother wore plate armor, or at least segments of it, over a leather jerkin of some sort. Across the cuirass was blazoned the fiery sword of the Knights Templar. At his side was a simple longsword with a somewhat smaller guard than Eddard was used to seeing, while in his back was a kite shield. His hair was fair, mostly gold with highlights of red. He had a strong jaw and straight nose. Ned might consider him a fine seeming fellow, were it not for the purpose this newly arrived Templar likely had here in Winterfell.

It took much of his self-control to approach the visitors from across the sea, but he at least kept his displeasure from showing on his face. “My Lady, my Lords. Welcome to Winterfell. I open my home to you, our friends from across the western sea.” Ned turned and gestured to one of the servants near the entry to the great hell. The servant scurried over, his arms laden with a platter carrying a loaf of bread and small bowl filled with salt.

The old woman looked up into Lord Stark’s face, her own crinkling into a smile. “You must be Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. I thank you for your welcome and assure that while there is no need for your custom of Guest Rights, for to harm one who offers hospitality is to spit in the eye of the Maker, we appreciate the consideration and will gladly accept the offer.”

She took the loaf from the platter, ripped it into 3 chunks, handing a piece each to the men standing behind her, then sprinkled a pinch of salt from the bowl over it before taking a bite. Custom met, she placed the loaf back upon the platter, where it was joined by those she had given to her companions, similar bites taken from them as well. “Please give the remainder to those who are in need of it. I am sure that while we sup at the table of lords tonight, there will be those go without amongst the people of this house. To share in the bounty of the earth is to share in the Maker’s love.”

She turned back to Eddard. “Forgive the delay, my lord. My name is Giselle, Mother of the Chantry in Old Town. My two companions are Actis, First-Enchanter of the Old Town Circle,” She gestured to the robed man with the staff. “And Cullen Rutherford, Knight-captain of the Templar Order in Old Town.” The armored man nodded his head respectfully.

Eddard tilted his own head in return, then looked back to Mother Giselle. “My Lady…”

The Mother raised a hand, halting Lord Stark mid-sentence. “Please, My Lord, ‘Giselle’ will be just fine. Or if you must insist on an honorific, then simply refer to me as ‘Mother Giselle’. While some of my sisters of the cloth may demand the obeisance and exaltation of others, I have never sought it, nor will I ever seek it. If I did, I would be more than a simple Revered Mother from Orlais.”

Lord Stark looked into her eyes for several moments. Her attitude surprised him. He had expected someone like what he had heard of the High Septon in King’s Landing, calling for extreme piety, regarding the Northmen as barbaric pagans that foolishly resisted the dominance of the Faith of the Seven, and demanding that all touch their heads to the dirt in reverence for his august personage. Indeed, from the gossip and rumor that made its way to Winterfell from distant Thedas, many was the cleric of the Chantry that demanded much the same. But this woman, this priestess from the very homeland of that foreign faith that had waged so many wars against those who did not believe the same as they, this old woman with kind eyes spoke with such sincerity that he nearly believed her.

He mentally chided himself. He must not relax in the face of this invader of his home, however peaceful her entry to it. “Forgive, Mother Giselle, if I do not appear as pleased with this visit by your honored person as I might under different circumstances. But I know why you have made the long journey from Old Town, and I will tell you now that I will not relent in the matter of my son.”

The Revered Mother just smiled. “I can understand that, Lord Stark. What father would do less for his son? I also understand the… uniqueness of this particular situation. It is not one that we have encounter often, if ever. A mage born to a high and noble house, of a distant land that does follow our faith, yet with whom we are not at war? It is unprecedented.” She sighed, turning her eyes to the assembly of Eddard’s children, who were now splitting apart as interests and duties began to draw them away. Bran was still standing near Catelyn, Master Mergus’s hand on his shoulder, their eyes on the newly arrived Chantry-folk. “I hope that I and my companions may have a moment of your time, during our stay in your home, so that we may discuss the situation concerning your son.”

Eddard opened his mouth to respond, yet before he could give his anger voice, Robert called to him. “Take down me, Ned. I want to see her.”

Eddard looked back to the king. Robert was standing a little ways from the gather of Household and guests, a small distance in the direction of the entry to the crypts. Ned quickly hid the grimace that had crept across his mouth. For all the truths that the Lord of Winterfell knew, Robert still had some little right to visit the crypt. If only just.

He looked back to Mother Giselle. “My apologies, Mother, but I must attend the king. I appreciate your offer to speak on the matter of Bran, and I will accept it. But it is a conversation that will have to wait, for it is a matter I would discuss privately.”

“Of course, my lord. Maker go with you.” With a gentle smile she turned to the doors of the great hall, tailing her fellow Andrastians behind her.

Ned walked to join Robert at the entrance to the crypts. As he escorted the king down the passageway set into wall of the keep, its stairway vanishing down into the darkness beneath the castle, he could hear the Queen calling out to Robert, but the king ignored her, his blue eyes set firmly on torch lit corridor as he passed under the eaves of the entrance.

Ned led the way, and he was grateful that between the darkness of the passage, lit only by sporadic bracket held torches, and his position ahead of the king Robert could not see the scowl he could not keep from his face. Robert had no true right to be here, but the request was reasonable, and in this he could not deny the king. The lie had to be upheld, the farce maintained. But the resentment still rose in his heart.

As they reached the alcoves that were their destination Eddard looked into the faces of his lost kin. In the middle rose the carved statue of his father, Rickard, while flanking on either side, standing silent vigil, Brandon and Lyanna rested. Robert stepped up to stare into Lyanna’s face.

“Why, Ned? Why did you have to bury her here? In this dungeon, this prison, away from the sun and sky. She deserved, she deserves, to be on a hill side somewhere, flowers about her, the feeling the caress of the wind.”

Ned was silent for a time, gazing at his sister’s tomb. “Its where she belongs. Where all Starks belong. With her family. This is our place, her place. As it will be mine, and my children’s’.”

Robert snarled. “Her place? Where she belongs? Fuck that and gods damn it all! She belonged with me! Her place with me!” He turned back to the beautiful face of stone. “She was supposed to be my queen. Her, not that golden harpy upstairs. Lyanna was mine. And what a queen she would have made. She would not have called me a fat fool before my court, would not have reprimanded me over my indulgences before the lords of the realm. She would have made a good queen and me a fine wife.”

Ned could barely contain his surge of disbelief and outrage. If Robert had bothered to look away from the crypt, he might have been puzzle by the sudden shaking that wracked Eddard’s body as he fought to hold his fury in check. Truly, Robert is a fool, if he believes that Lyanna, the wolf-daughter of Winterfell, would not have called him to task for his flaws. And she would not have stopped as speaking against him in public. She would have boxed his ears. She was a woman of passion and action. Not some demure maid, to sit in quiet contemplation of wifely duties and spend her time in needlework. She would have been out, among the people. Or in the hills and woods, the wind in her hair and her horse surging beneath her. Ned closed his eyes, asking, not for the first time, for his sister’s forgiveness for not seeing her as she was until it was too late. Yes, she would have been a fine queen, just not your queen, Robert. Rhaegar would have let her pursue her passions and dreams. He was one to see the truth in things, before any of us who were raised with her.

He opened his eyes to see Robert lift a hawk feather from his belt pouch and place in the up-turned hands of the statue. He saw that there were dried and wilted petals of a Blue Winter Rose already in that hand and scattered about the crypt’s base. He would need to bring fresh flowers down from the glass garden.

He sighed and turned to Robert, who never let his eyes leave the statue’s face. “How did Jon Arryn die?”

The king breathed deep, huffing the air out to ruffle his whiskers. “I don’t know. One day he was as hale and strong as he had ever been. The next, it was as if something had reach inside and ripped the vibrancy from him. He was so pale, so weak. A fever burning through him like a fire in the King’s Wood. Before I knew it, he was gone.”

“Why are you here, Robert?”

The king turned back to Lord Stark. “I want you to become my Hand, Ned. I can’t run this bloody realm by myself and you are the only one left I still trust.”

Ned straightened. Trust? “Why me, Robert? I can’t play the Game, I don’t want to. Winterfell, the North, is where I belong. Surely there are lords aplenty in the South that could serve you better, could play at Southern politics better, then I.”

Robert scowled. “Gods damn it, Ned. Of course, there are lords elsewhere who know how to play the Game of Thrones. If I wanted one them, I would still be in the Red Keep. I want someone who is going to be honest with me, who is going to run my kingdoms while I drink, eat, and fuck myself into an early grave. All those Southern daisies, they would tell me what I wanted to hear, hiding truths and realities from me, stealing my throne from me every step of the way.” The king sighed, his face suddenly weary. “But you will tell me the truth, you always told me the truth. Even when I didn’t want to hear it, even when I didn’t listen to it or act on it, you still told it to me. That’s what I need down there, in the snake pit of a city and cesspool of a castle. Someone I can trust who will never lie to me.”

Robert suddenly snorted, as if at a private joke. “Besides, it will be a nice change, to see someone in colors other than red and gold. That Harpy has flooded my court with his father’s men. Everywhere I turn, I see red and gold cloaks and tabards, and all that damn golden hair. A nice bit of grey would alleviate the pattern.”

Eddard was silent for a long time. He looked back at the tombs of his father, his brother, Lyanna. It is an irony, sister, that Robert comes to me. Comes to me, because I never lie. Because I have always told him the truth. And for nigh on twenty years I have kept a secret, told a lie, that would secure not only my own death, should the truth be known, but the death and destruction of my entire House. Robert, for his hatred and for the betrayal of his trust. Tywin, for his ambition, and that he will never suffer a contestant to his grandchildren’s’ claim. And neither would understand why I told the lie, kept the secret. They would only seek the end of our House that has ruled these lands since before the first Andal set foot on this side of the Narrow Sea.

But Robert had asked. He had damn near begged. Ned had never lied to him, he had said. Ned always told him the truth. Ned was the only man he trusted.

Lord Stark returned his attention to the king. “I will accept this charge, Your Grace. I will be your Hand.”

Chapter Text

Summons

Robb Stark found himself facing a dilemma concerning the guests of Winterfell’s hospitality. The dilemma was that, while these guests were the Royal family of Westeros and hosting them was a great honor to Robb’s home and family, he was finding that he truly hated them. Each of the visitors to which the ancient seat of House Stark was host irked him in some way, from the lowest of the court servants to the king himself. All save for the Queen’s younger brother, Tyrion. It was actually quite ironic, to the Heir of Winterfell’s eyes. The Imp of Casterly Rock was the most visibly foul of the party, with his limbs stunted, his head over large, his face misshapen. Yet, for all his gruesome appearance, his was an attitude that was both self-deprecating and cleverly honest about everyone around him. He never spoke in veiled slights, save to make what could only be seen as a joke by any but the most prickly of observers, nor did he tell a lie save in one of his jests.

 Robb found that upon finally meeting the Imp he rather liked the man, despite his family name. Much of that, Robb had to admit, was likely due to some sort of pre established leanings he had garnered from the time he had spent with Master Varric. The Dwarf was possessed of a dry wit, and a penchant for jokes that he paid out to all, including himself. The young Stark could now see that Tyrion Lannister was of similar nature. It was little wonder that the two squat gentlemen spent so much time together, be it for business or for the shear pleasure of each other’s company.

However, the rest of the Imp’s family, including his royal good-brother, were of another matter. For three days Robb had been forced to endure their company, at the feasts that the King and Queen’s very presence demanded be held on a near nightly basis, in the yard where he had been obliged to face the Crown Prince in sparing matches, in the halls of the keep as processions of Southern courtiers seemed to deliberately fill the passageways til not a single native of the castle could pass without first stepping first into alcoves and chambers to let them by. It galled the Heir of Winterfell to watch as the notables of his home, men and women of families whose bloodlines stretched back to before the Andals came across the sea, were forced to make way for the arrogant southern knights and nobles who had only held titles for a handful of generations, if that long. This was his home, the Seat of the Kings of Winter, a blood line nearly unbroken, and certainly untainted by Andal blood until the marriage of his own parents, for thousands of years. He was a scion of a house of kings, kings who had given up their crowns only at the coming of beasts against which there could have been no defense, and the proud man who had ridden them.

It may have been his long friendship with Daenerys, and the fact that she was now his good-sister, but it seemed wrong to him that the North should bow its head to stags and lions, when it had been dragons that had won the fealty of the house of wolves. And now those lions and stags had come to his home, with all the arrogance of the South, and the treated what was one the oldest keeps of the Seven Kingdoms as if it were but a sty for hogs.

And no where was that behavior more obvious than in the Royal Family itself. Save for King Robert, who seemed not to care what was about him so long as a wench sat upon his knee, a feast was laid out before him, and a goblet of Arbor Gold was in his hand, there was not face in the royal house that was twisted into some sort of sneer.

Well, maybe not in the faces of the two youngest, for they had not as yet taken on the manners of their mother, for all that they shared her Lannister looks, but the others certainly did little to hide the distaste they obviously held for the North and its habitations. He rarely saw either the Queen, her twin the Kingslayer, or the Crown Prince, without seeing their lips curl in disgust, or listen to them speak without hearing the undertone of contempt. It only raised his dislike for them.

It was worse in the Queen and her eldest son. Everywhere she went, most often in the company of Robb’s mother and eldest sister, he could hear the comments she made about the state of the ancient castle, the insults buried under a veil of backhanded praise. For all her beauty, for truly she was one of the loveliest ladies he had ever laid eyes on, with her long golden hair, flashing emerald eyes, and figure that was the aching dream of many a young man in the keep, Cersei Lannister could not hide the ugliness of her opinions from him, or from his Lord Father.

But where the queen at least made the attempt at civility, if only for the sake of appearances, the Crown Prince, Joffrey of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, didn’t seem to even bother. His face was ever an open sneer at all he saw, as if everything about his person wasn’t fit to even sully the bottoms of his well-polished leather boots. He made no attempt to hide the insults he gave out as freely as septon or chanter might give out alms and blessings. He commented on the state of the yards around the keep, on the dull grey look of the castle walls, on the number of elves and dwarves who wandered about the castle on the business of the household, even on the direwolf pups that scampered after the Stark children. And with every word out of his mouth Robb grew only enraged. Yet he could not resolve it, for to do so would mean striking the royal person of the prince, and it had been made clear to all, in a speech heavy with understated threats made by Kingslayer when he accompanied the prince to the yard the morning after arriving at Winterfell, that should any harm come to the Heir to the Iron Throne, for any reason, the walls of the Seat of the North would quickly be decorated with the severed heads of the perpetrators.

That had been another bone in Robb’s craw. Jaime Lannister, Kingsguard and Kingslayer, never seemed to stop smiling. It was as if the whole world was a joke, and only he was smart enough to understand it, and how feeble a joke it was. He would stride down halls, across yards, and through chambers, as he was the only man of importance in the room, an arrogant strut that challenged everyone around him to order him to stop. His sneer was not one of contempt, but rather one of supreme arrogance, a surety in himself that none could rival. Robb was not sure if that overwhelming self confidence was out of pride in his House, for all knew and respected, even feared, the power of the strongest House in the Realm, or if it were out of surety in skill with the golden sword that hung at his side.

Robb had seen it drawn once, since the royal party had arrived, when the Kingslayer had gone to the yard to practice. Not truly gold in color, save for the gilding on the lion’s head pommel, the blade shimmered bronze. The eldest son of Tywin Lannister had boasted that it had been forged from Volcanic Aurum, a metal found in the far west of Thedas, and brought with great expense to Casterly Rock. While it did not have a true gold color to it, the bronze shade was close enough to suit Tywin’s needs, especially if embossed with gold filigree. The hilt had been crafted from red bloodstone, save for the pommel, and the grip wrapped with leather from a golden halla, all bought from Thedosian markets. Tywin Lannister spared no expense when it came to upholding the image of wealth and power for his family. When it came to his favored son, one can be sure that only the finest of materials would be used in the making a suitable sword.

And finally, there was the king himself. While Robert Baratheon did share the contempt that his wife and eldest son did for Winterfell and the North, Robb still found his behavior reprehensible. Kings should behave as kings, with decorum, honor, dignity, and restraint. Robert… did not. He drank until most of his forward movement was more inline with falling towards his destination rather than walking. He ate enough at every sitting to feed a family of three for several days. He never took to the same bed as his wife, instead tumbling into his blankets with whatever maid, whore, or other caste girl he happened to see. Quite often he would dandy his current dalliance on his knee in front of the entire feast hall, before the eyes of his court, his host, and his wife.

It shocked Robb to think that this was the man famed as the Demon of the Trident? The killer of Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone? The man was a fat oaf, as debauched as any history lesson about Aegon the 4^th, called the Unworthy. This was no king.

Robb was still mentally listing all the reasons he had for despising the Royal Family when he climbed the stairs to walls and looked out over the vast moor that spread out from Winterfell. He found himself looking northward, realizing that without meaning to he had habitually sought out this particular stretch of the keep’s wall. He had often found himself here, staring northward, since Jon and Daenerys had left for Tŵr y Forwyn.  He was unsurprised to look about and spy Arya, sitting on a crenellation. Her feet dangled off the edge as she gazed out from the walls, her direwolf Nymeria sprawled out on the walk behind her.

Robb walked over to his youngest sister and leaned against one of the crenellations, his arms folded on the stone. “I miss them too, little sister.”

A tremor visibly ran through her, but she did not jump or spin about, or otherwise lose her precarious seat on the wall. “Don’t do that, Robb. I nearly fell.” She said as she scowled over at him.

Robb turned his head towards her and grinned. “And that’s why Mother and Father hate it when you do it them, Underfoot. Now come down from there. You know Mother dislikes you being up here.”

“I wont fall. I never do, same as Bran. Or, at least when he still liked climbing. Now he sits in that stuffy library all day, reading some stupid books full of nothing but stupid drawings of circles and squares and triangles and every other shape. I though he was learning magic. Why does he have to read stuff like that?”

“I don’t know, little sister.” Robb looked back out over the moor. “Mergus says its magic, and he is the mage, not I. And if he says it is, then I guess it is. And don’t change the subject. Come on, get down from there.”

Arya blew out her cheeks, sticking her tongue out at her eldest brother, before twisting about on the stonework and pushing herself off. “Well, I think its stupid. Magic is spells and curses, throwing balls of fire or calling lightning. Not shapes in a book. Anyway, I was watching for Jon.”

Robb sighed, turning about so to lean one elbow on the wall while looking down at his wild sister. “I know Jon said that one day he would try to come back, but you can’t wait here every day for him to come riding over that hill. You have already been up here for at least one hour every day since they left to take up their own holdings, and that was three months ago.”

Arya scowled at her brother. “I know that. I’m up here watching because Father sent a rider to Twr y Forwyn yesterday morning.”

Robb turned his head to face his sister so quickly that his neck cracked.

“How, by all the gods, did you know that?” Robb asked, reaching up to rub at the pain in the neck.

Arya frown turned into a mischievous grin. “I was chasing Nymeria, and I ran into that servants’ passage behind Father’s study, the one the kitchen uses to send meals to Father when he stays up late working and they don’t want wake the whole keep by using the main hall ways. I heard Father and the king talking.”

Robb frown at Arya. She had a bad habit of drawing out her explanations, especially when she knew something of import that others did not, a habit Robb believed she had picked up from Varric. The dwarf merchant was a gifted storyteller, and often used his skill to drag out his narratives and news for a maximum effect on his audiences. “Do not try your games with me, Arya. I’m not one your little friends to spin a story for. If Father and the King were discussing something important, I should probably know about it. I am Heir, Father’s regent when he is away. Things I don’t know might be what brings ruin to our House.”

Arya huffed at him. “You’re no fun Robb.” She sighed, then sat cross-legged on the wall parapet. “Fine, have it your way. The fat oaf was demanding that Jon and Dany be summoned.”

Robb’s brow rose in surprise. “The king summoned them from Tower Forlorn?”

“Weelll, he didn’t summon Jon, really. Just Dany. But if she is coming, then Jon must as well, right. They are married, and that means they have to remain together.”

Robb looked back out past the wall. “Not really. But normally, the Lady only leaves her home in the company of her lord, be it her father or her husband.” He looked back down at his sister. “And you are probably right. Jon wouldn’t let Dany go anywhere without him. He is far too protective of her to do that. Has been since she first came to Winterfell. But why does King Robert want Daenerys here? He hates Targaryens. Surely, he would be happier not having her present. If he was expecting her to be here, he would have raised the issue as soon as the Royal Party arrived.”

Arya shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, Robb. I heard him say something about ‘inspecting the dragonspawn’, but I don’t know what he means.”

Robb scowled. “Its what Robert Baratheon calls anyone from House Targaryen. ‘Dragonspawn’. Father told me that’s how the King referred to Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen, Prince Rheagar’s children and Dany’s niece and nephew. The Lannisters had butchered them, then tossed their bodies before Robert after the Sack. Father had demanded that the murderers be brought to justice for killing innocent children and their mother, Princess Elia of Dorne. King Robert said that he saw no children there, just dragonspawn.”

Arya’s face had gone pale, then started turning red as a Reach tomato. She drew that slender sword that Jon had given before departing the castle and began slashing about herself, swearing sulfurously. Robb was surprised at the language his sister was using, and doubted she really knew the meaning behind half of the words spilling from her mouth. “I don’t care if he is the King. Dany is my sister, my favorite sister! If he tries to kill her, I’ll kill him! I’ll poke him full of holes and watch all the wine leak out of him like a stuck skin. I won’t let him hurt her. And neither will Jon!” Her face was drawn into a fierce and hungry smile. “Jon will protect her. He is best fighter in Winterfell, in the whole of the North. He can beat anyone, I know it. Even the Kingslayer. He won’t let them kill Dany.”

Robb sighed, then slipped up behind and quickly divested Arya of her sharp little blade. “I know you and Jon, and Father and me for that matter, won’t let anything happen to Dany. We all love her a great deal. Father certainly will not let the King kill her, if he can help it. I remember what happened the last time Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell. Father nearly went to war with him, and all of the South, to protect Daenerys from the king’s bloodlust. I doubt that he will let the king try it again.”

He frowned, thinking. “But why now? If it was of that importance to the King, he would have demanded Dany be presented to him as soon as he got off his horse. He didn’t. In fact, it was if he had forgotten completely what happened before. So why would he care know?”

Arya looked up at her brother, her eyes concerned. “Maybe someone reminded him.”

Robb was about to answer when he heard the blast of a horn from one of the wall towers. He looked up at the tower, then out over the wall.

Crest over the hill, a line of tiny dots was making its way towards the north gate of Winterfell.

Robb, Arya, and their father stood in the yard as the small line horses cantered through the north gate. Of the riders, Robb only recognized two, and he smiled broadly as his brother dismounted. He broke from the line and walked up to Jon, pulling him into a back-slapping embrace, before stepping back to look at the sibling he had not seen for three months.

“Married life suites you, brother mine. You seemed to have put on a little weight, and I have never seen a larger smile on your face.”

Jon was grinning hugely. “I have good cause, Robb. Something wonderful happened, and it has given me plenty reason to be happy.” He turned from Robb to the second of the four horses, reaching out to help the rider dismount. Robb smiled as the rider pushed back the hood of her cloak, revealing her cold reddened cheeks, violet eyes, and silvery blonde hair.

“It is good see you again, good-sister. How is your new home?”

Daenerys Forwyn smiled down at the Heir of Winterfell. “It goes well enough, Robb. The seed has been put in the fields, our holders are building new barns and store houses, and the herds have been put to the pastures.”

“Then it seems you have put your wedding gifts to good use. Now what is this news that you…” Robb’s voice trailed off as Jon helped her down from the horse, and he could see the state of her being.

“Oh Dany! Jon! What are you doing here and…” Robb turned to see Sansa exiting from one the smaller keep entries, accompanied by Jeyne Poole, Beth Cassel, and the golden haired princess of House Baratheon, Myrcella. Sansa was staring at Dany, taking in the new details. “Oh, by the Seven, Dany! This is wonderful! Oh, this is truly a blessing of the gods on you and Jon.”

Daenerys smiled contentedly, cradling the rising bump of her belly. Though she wore her favorite cloak for warmth, the dress she wore beneath clung close enough to her figure to hug the swell. “Yes, I do think they indeed blessed us.” She looked back up at the elder of her good sisters, her smile now mischievous. “Though I believe you brother had something to do with it quite a bit. He is most… ardent, once one gets past that somber reserve of his.”

Sansa, and her companions went scarlet, nor were they only ones. Jon looked decidedly sheepish and scowled at Robb when his brother burst out laughing, clapping a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Its quite alright, brother, no need to look so embarrassed. I do believe this,” and he gestured at Daenerys, “Is more or less the general purpose of those particular activities. I’m happy for you, Jon, truly I am. I can not wait to meet my little niece or nephew, and to share with them just how red their father’s face became when his family found out.”

“Leave off your brother, Robb. It isn’t becoming of a lord to embarrass his kin and vassal so.” Lord Stark chastised his eldest son as he stepped forward, smiling at Jon and Daenerys. “At least, not in public, where all the yard can see and hear.” He was grinning as he pulled Jon into another embrace. “I am happy for you, lad. And I am proud of you.”

He turned from Jon and reached out for Dany, who stepped into his arms, kissing her foster father on the cheek as he gently hugged her to him. “I’m proud of both of you. I have had news of your progress at Tŵr y Forwyn, and what I hear pleases me. It will take time, but I believe that both you and Jon will make your holding prosper”

He cupped Dany’s cheek, then laid a hand on her growing womb. “And I also look forward to meeting this little one. It does my heart good to see this family continue to grow.”

Daenery’s placed one of her own hands over Eddard’s. “You will hold your grandchild in your arms, my Lord. It’s the least I can do, in return for all the generosity and kindness you have shown me.”

Eddard leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “It was my pleasure, Daenerys. You have been as a daughter to me since you first came to this keep. And you still are.”

Dany had tears in her eyes as she smiled back up at Lord Stark, then fell into a graceful curtsy.

Arya had simply stood apart as the family reunited, staring in utter silence at the rising bump of Daenerys’s belly. Jon looked at her, his face puzzled. “Arya? Little sister, why do you not come greet me?” He grinned at her. “Am I not your still your favorite brother?”

Arya looked up at him, her expression one of slight confusion. “Huh? Oh, yes. Hello, Jon.”

She walked over and wrapped her arms about his waist. “I’m glad you’ve come home.”

Jon reached down and folded his own arms around her back. “Hello, little wolf. I’ve missed you.”

Arya looked up into Jon’s face. “I missed you too, Jon.”

“Aren’t you happy that Dany and I going to have a baby?” Jon asked, his face puzzled.

“Oh, I guess I am. Good for you. And for you too, Dany.” She turned her head to Jon’s wife.

Robb looked at his sister. “Is there something wrong, Arya?”

“No, no. I’m happy, really. I just didn’t… expect it.”

Robb’s father shared a concerned look with Robb, but his voice was as sure as ever. “Well then, let us go inside. I’d rather not have my good-daughter stand in the cold too long, with her condition.” He looked back Jon and Dany’s horses, and finally noticed the two figures on the extra mounts. “Jon, would you shared with us who these are that accompany you?”

Jon blushed again. “Of course, my Lord. Forgive me. These are Telanin and Remrial. The first of my household guard.”

The two figures dropped down from their horses and re-adjusted their cloaks. Both had bows slung across their backs. As they stepped forwards, they pushed back the hoods of their forest green cloaks. Lord Stark’s eyes widened, and Robb felt his own climb up his brow. With those large almond shaped eyes, fines featured faces, and pointed ears, Telanin and Remrial were obviously elves, and, by the intricate tattooed lines framing their faces, Dalish elves at that.

 Robb looked to his brother. “When did you manage to gain house guards of your own, Jon? Father didn’t have any extra men to give you, and I thought that hamlet of your lacked enough men to spare from the fields to be employed as guards. Nor were there any elves there when last father took us there to inspect the progress of the renovation.”

Jon nodded. “And nor were there any men to be had. Telanin and Remrial are hunters from Master Mendarath’s band. They came to Tŵr y Forwyn only recently. I was with my smallfolk, helping them remove a stump from one of the fields. These two came out of the woods and walked up to us.”

One of the two Dalish stepped up and bowed respectfully to Robb and his father. “Myathash fra mar arla, Tarlen Stark. I am Telanin, once a hunter of the Dalish clans, now sworn to the service of your son and House. My companion is Remrial, my clansmen.” The second elf also bowed low, is hand over his heart.

Lord Stark eyed the two newcomers with an unreadable expression. “Forgive me, should I give offense to those that have given their service to one my family, but why would two hunters of the wandering Dalish clans wish to put themselves into the employment of a human? Is it not a crime against those of your kind to enter into our service?”

The two elves glanced at each other briefly before Telanin answered. “It is… complicated, Mar’tarlen. You, and your House are worthy of respect amongst the clans that have come to dwell here, in the North of Westeros. You have treated us fairly, and given us free reign to travel your lands, and the lands of your vassals, at will, so long as we respect the laws of this realm. That is more than most, either here in the Seven Kingdoms or across the sea in Thedas, have done. Even those of your vassals that are discontent with our presence in these lands have respected your edict and have left us be. Then there is your son. Jon has studied under one of finest blademasters the clans have to offer and has learned much of us and our ways. When he left to take up his new lands, Tarlin Mendarath spoke to the clan Keeper, expressing his desire that Jon Forwyn be given aid in his responsibilities. He noted to the clan that the young lord had no soldiers or warriors to call upon to aid in the defense of his land, home, and family. If there were no warriors to be had, then might not hunters suffice to fill this lack? The Keeper was in agreement, for in Tarlen Forwyn the Dalish see the hope for true accommodation between Elvehnen and Shemlen”

Lord Stark looked back at his bastard son. “Aye, I can see that. Many hopes rest upon my children.”

Telanin nodded. “Just so, Tarlen Stark. The Keeper asked for volunteers, those who might give up the freedom of the aravels to bind ourselves to one place and master. Remrial, who is my kin, and I stepped forward, and so we traveled to Tŵr y Forwyn, with all we possessed, little though that is, to place ourselves at the service of Jon Forwyn.”

Lord Stark stood silent for a moment, his eyes on the two elves. When he spoke again, his voice held the solemn gravity of a lord passing judgement. “Then, Telanin and Remrial, of the Dalish, I will trust the care of my son, his wife, and the future of their family, to your care. Should all the fires of Hell, and the wrath of all the gods, come against them, you are to stand between my kin and all danger. You are to safe guard their lives, even at the cost of your own. Do this, and House Stark will ever be in your debt.”

Telanin and his kin exchanged glances only briefly before falling to their knees, palms over hearts. “We swear to uphold this oath, this charge, even in the face of Unbeing, when the Forgotten Ones break their chains and loose their fury upon all that lives and forsook them. This we swear, by Elgar’nan, Falon’Din, Fen’Harel, and Mythal.” Both looked back up into the face of their lord’s father.

Lord Stark stared down at the kneeling elves for a moment longer, before nodding and beckoning them to rise. “Then stand, Hunters of House Forwyn, and stand in service of your lord with the blessing of House Stark.” He gestured towards Jon ad Daenerys, who had been standing to the side, their faces apprehensive at the exchange. Quickly the two Dalish moved to flank their master and mistress, hands and arms hidden beneath the folds of their cloaks.

Jon eyed his guards for moment before turning to his father. “My Lord Stark, as you have summoned, we have come. What would you wish of us?” His tone was formal, and Robb suspected that it was for the prying eyes and ears the had begun to filter into the yard. Jon was a bastard after all, for all that Robb tended to ignore that inconvenience, and for him to address their father in anything like familiarity in public would be… embarrassing in some quarters.

Father waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Never mind the spectators, Jon. You are my son, my blood, and I’ll not have your address me as a stranger in your own home, save under true necessity.” He looked back towards the Great Hall, his brow furrowed and his eyes dark. “The king has demanded that you presented before him, Daenerys. Such was his order that I could not in good faith refuse, not when there was no real cause to defy it. Though I suspect it was not a thought first born of Robert’s mind. I see another hand at play, and it please me not.”

Scowling, he turned from his children and good-daughter and strode towards the entryway of his hall. Sansa’s face was troubled as she watched her father leave, her companions huddled behind her. Arya still clung to her brother, and Dany had stepped up to twine her arm through Jon’s own.

Robb sighed, then looked to his elder sister. “Sansa, I do believe that one of your company is a stranger still to our returned family.”

Sansa jumped a little at his voice, then turned to smile at Jon and Dany. “Of course, forgive my lack of manners. Jon, Dany, I would like you to meet my new friend. This is Princess Myrcella, of House Baratheon, recently come to Winterfell with the rest of her family.” The young blonde girl smiled brightly and curtsied before Jon and Daenerys.

At the mention of her name, Jon stiffened. He glanced at his wife, and Robb could see that his good-sister’s face was pale, her eyes hard as amethyst. She stared down at this young girl with all the towering pride of a family that had reigned supreme for three hundred years. Her mouth began to curl in contempt, and for a heartbeat Robb feared that his good-sister would speak things that would earn her only the ire and retribution of the King and Queen, Myrcella’s parents.

Suddenly Daenerys closed her mouth, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. When her lids lifted, her expression had changed to one of cool, polite, indifference. “Greetings, Princess Myrcella of House Baratheon. I am Daenerys Forwyn, Lady of the Tower Forlorn. I hope you are finding your stay in Winterfell to your satisfaction?”

The golden-haired girl, seemingly not to have noticed the brief flash of anger in Dany’s face, continued to smile sweetly. “Of course, my lady. It is much cooler here, in the North, then it is in King’s Landing. But the keep is warm enough, and I so enjoy the stories that Old Nan has been sharing with us. We do not have such tales in the South, not anymore. My uncle Tyrion has told me that there used to be many stories, of the Age of Heroes and the Long Night, of the Children of the Forest and the First Men. Of the wars between the hundreds of petty kingdoms that once dotted the whole of Westeros.” The princess sighed, her face becoming almost comically forlorn in expression. “But now its only tales of the Andal Kingdoms, and their knights. No more monsters, no more mysteries, unless it’s a septa telling me that the Doom of Valyria was brought on by the gods, in punishment for the wicked ways and magic of the dragonlords.” Myrcella puffed out her cheeks in a pout. “I have heard them all a hundred times, from my septa, from the High Septon. He is the worse too. He keeps coming to my father and demanding that the Crown force the Chantry to leave Westeros. He says that they are heretics and blasphemers for preaching that women could ever be the bride of a god and calls them degenerates for placing women is such lofty positions in the clergy. He wants my father to hurl all the Chantry folk back into the sea and to tear down all their cathedrals.”

She suddenly giggled. “I think its just because the Chantry is attracting so many followers, with all the miracles they have been performing at their chapter in Old Town, as well as being so generous to the poor. I have even heard that many younger sons and brothers from lesser Houses have been approaching the Chantry on the subject of joining the Order of the Knights Templar.” She smiled mischievously at the Stark household. “That had been something the High Septon has complained about most bitterly to my father. He says that if the Chantry if allowed to maintain a militant arm here in the Seven Kingdoms, then it is only right that the Faith of the Seven be permitted to reinstate the Faith Militant to protect itself and its parishioners from the corrupting influence of a foreign faith.”

Robb gave an amused chuckle and leaned over to whisper in Jon’s ear. “She is quite talkative, our visiting princess. Once she gets started, we can’t seem to shut her up.”

Jon gave a chuckle of his own. “How is she getting on with the rest of the family then, Robb?”

“Fairly well, all in all. Arya tries to stay away from the Royal Family whenever she can, but when mother finally pins her down into keeping company with them, she just tries to ignore them. Sansa is nearly besotted with the young lady. I would gather its due to her being the only girl of her own age, or close to it, who has any knowledge of the world south of the Neck. Mother just adores her, though I think she finds the princess a slight bit exhausting. Bran seems to have locked himself away in the Library with Master Mergus, and Rickon is too young to understand what’s happening around him.”

“And what about the rest of the Royal party?”

Robb sighed. “The King seems to be contenting himself with some sort of crusade to eat our larders bare, drink our cellars dry, and put a babe in the belly of every maid in the keep. Queen Cersei seems content to spend her time with my mother, Sansa, the Princess, and Sansa’s companions. Doing what, I have not a clue. The Kingslayer seems to be making it his business to strut about the training yard and flaunt his sword at us every opportunity he can find, the Imp can usually be found either in the Library or at one of the brothels in Wintertown, and the Prince has been casting insults into my teeth, and the teeth of the entire North, since he arrived.”

Jon scowled. “I’m surprised that you have not sought to remedy that, brother mine. Surely you can entice him to meet you in the circle.”

Robb gave a harsh bark of laughter. “I would dearly love to do so, Jon. But the brat’s arms men, especially that brute, Clegane, has made it quite clear to us poor provincials that to harm but single hair of His Royal Highness’s golden head would be to invite ourselves to our own beheadings.”

Jon looked shocked. “Is the prince that formidable with a blade?”

“Nay, brother. But the queen is most protective of her eldest son, and it would be at the hand of her knights, likely her brother the Kingslayer, that we who offend her son would find our punishments.”

Jon looked sour as he turned to his lovely, pregnant wife. “Come, fy nghalon. Let us continue to our audience with the King. To stave it off much longer might only bring his wrath down on us. If we show ourselves to be punctual in heeding his commands, then maybe it will lay away some of his ire at your appearance.” Slipping her arm through his, they stepped past Sansa, Myrcella, and the other ladies towards to the entrance of the Great Hall. Like living shadows did their two elven guards move behind them.

Robb reached down and placed a hand on Arya’s shoulder. “Come on, little sister. Lets see if we can lend our brother and his wife our support before the fat king.”