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Chapter Text

The North: Winterfell

The Warden of the North’s solar was thick with tension, quick angry breaths escaped through teeth so tightly clenched one would think they were going to break. It was warmer than normal, the height of a summer day in the north, pushing the temperature just above comfortable in the room.

Grey walls padded by tapestries and a few paintings of scenery, interspaced by mostly closed windows and the soft glow of yellow light from the candles in the sconces cast them in moving light, shadows moulding and shaping their faces all the harsher.  A breeze came from a single cracked window, the framed pane pushed slightly out, wafting in the smells of the evening: burning wood, churned earth, and nature as a whole.  

“It’s not right Ned, none of this is right!” Eddard knew his brother couldn’t help his tone, he was unrestrained, his pacing growing more and more fervent.

This wasn’t a place either thought they would ever be, High Lord and Lordling. They were meant for freedom, not duty. He was the second son, unprepared for the temperament it took to claim his father’s title. Everything was learned through harsh trials and terrible errors. He focused on Benjen, pushing the rampant thoughts away. Each step his brother took further frayed his worn nerves; his shoulders taught, resigned yet apprehensive. 

It felt as if the walls were closing in, a rushing sound following each word as he tried to focus through his unease, clenching and unclenching his jaw.  There was a pervasive wildness in most of his kin, even his youngest sibling.  A willingness to usurp authority, seek out what they thought was right, but nothing was right, nothing had been for a few years and Benjen’s presence only made that clearer to see.

“What would you have me do?”

“Not let him live like this!”  Ben was angry, rightfully so and it made Ned feel guilty, the ever-present pit in his stomach doubled in weight.  

When his brother rushed into his solar, all black, grey, and white fury, voice raised as he yelled that he had meant to find Jon, play with the boy some.  As the youngest sibling himself, Benjen had an inkling of understanding as to how it felt to be looked over.  He understood that for Jon, feasts were especially tough, his longing to be a part of the family so obvious in those deep purple eyes, the flecks of grey so prominent in the daylight. 

Ben had never meant to chance upon the boy crying under the Weirwood, a statement that felt like Eddard’s heart was clenched in someone’s fist.  

“Ben…” Ned said, softly, willing his calm into his brother. “…It’s just not safe.”

Grey eyes were wide, face frowning in concern as he furrowed his brow, quickly processing every word and mulling it over before accepting it heavily, almost like it hurt.  His own words seemed distant, as if in a long hallway and he was at the end of it, there was no conviction just wind meant to make him feel better. 

Ben was pacing the length of the room still, his voice filling it despite how hard he tried to speak softly. 

He shook his head, pushing away the torrent of questions and worries, returning to the present as he looked at his baby brother once more who for his part hadn’t noticed Ned’s distance. 

“He was crying Ned, real tears.” The anger left Benjen in a gasp and a soft shudder as he looked down, shoulders slumped slightly.  His lips pulled into a frown as he looked up at his elder brother.  Ben was no older than ten and nine, but the rebellion, the deaths, and the loss of the majority of the people he loved.  It aged him. 

Ned reacted in kind, his own sombre eyes widening as he listened to him.  His soul felt weary, a lingering and sickening pain weighing him down with each step and each breath.  He was breathing lightly, his own eyes downcast.  “Why?”

“Why do you think, brother?” His voice was distant and sharp.  “He doesn’t understand any of it. He’s a boy.”

“Ben.”

“You forced this on him.  You!” His finger was pointed at Eddard’s chest, black brows furrowed in surprise at his own righteous anger. Ben had always considered himself uncaring. Though Ned had always believed it to be a front; his way of coping with their shared losses and guilts.  Benjen was probably the most caring of them all - a kind heart hidden behind jokes and laughs. But the laughs were over and the jokes fell flat.

“You told her you would protect him, but you haven’t. Catelyn hates the boy, Ned, why do you think I stayed for so long? Why do you think I still haven’t said my vows?” He paused, catching his breath, though continuing shakily at first.  “I’m a Stark, aye, but even the Watch will expect me to choose one way or another.  I can’t be a guest forever.”

“What are you saying Benjen?”

Ben scoffed as if he was unsure he was actually talking to his brother, his open scepticism wasn’t missed.  His eyes were angry, though pleading, questioning and wild.  Ned stuttered in what to say, suddenly unsure. Am I blind? Am I inept? No...I just didn't want to see. The thoughts rushed through his mind between the seconds it took for Benjen to think and take a breath, renewing his tirade. 

“You know what I’m saying Ned.” He ran his hand through his hair now, no longer held up in their traditional manner, but framing his long face in a way that made him look so much younger. 

“I really don’t know who beat it into your head that life is about honour…maybe Jon Arryn and his southron ways, because I know it wasn’t our father, for the most part, he believed family came first.  Those we love. He had his ambitions, aye, but it was always about the pack.  Jon has nobody else Ned, no pack, and if you won’t be there for him then I will. I’m not joining The Watch, I’m not leaving Lyanna’s son to suffer the fate of some bastard at The Wall.”

“I would never…”

“God’s Ned…” Benjen stopped him, hand raised.  “Have you ever heard him call you father when the two of you aren’t alone?” His eyes bore into Ned before he nodded as if seeing the realization cross his elder brother's face; teeth clenched as he all but hissed “What is the point of having honour if it hurts those you love?”

Ned’s eyes grew wide and he drew his head back, a sudden and sad realization as his world was dashed soundly to the side.  He staggered for a moment...clutching the chair in front of him for stability, his knees suddenly weak, whether from drink or sudden helplessness, he wasn’t sure.  Was he so blind?

As if reading his thoughts, Benjen shook his head, again.  His black shoulder-length hair moved from side to side.  Of the two he was always the one that wore a smile the easiest, but not today.  His face suddenly looked older, well-worn with lines of age and sadness and anger creasing his forehead.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, drawing it through his nose and releasing it through his mouth before opening his eyes once more. 

“You’ve deluded yourself so deeply that you aren’t aware of what’s happening in your own castle.  Pay attention and see that she has no love for an innocent child .” Just like Robert.  The words went unsaid but the hint was there.  He bit off the last words with some force, clenching his jaw. 

“On his fourth name day, he asked me why he couldn’t call you father when others were around. He hadn’t even seen his fourth year before he learned what you made them teach him. By all the gods, Old and New, it took everything out of me not to beat you bloody…but not this time Ned, not this one.”  Ben was breathing harder again. “Three days and I tell him the truth.  He’s not a bastard that Catelyn Tully can't love, he is Vaegon Targaryen a trueborn Prince and son of House Stark.”

Before Ned could reply, Benjen swept out.  His grey breeches and white tunic no more than a blur as he pushed past his brother, the taps of his boots retreating down the hall.  There were no words spent, save a stifled attempt at a plea from Ned.  He sighed, shifting slightly as he tugged on his own tunic, untucking it from his breeches before he pulled the chair he was leaning against out and sat in it roughly, a sigh of failure escaping his lips.

How had he failed so decisively?  Ned could remember maybe a handful of times Jon had called him father, and even then it seemed guarded as if he were afraid he’d get caught in the act.  Before he realized it, his hair was falling around his face, obscuring his vision as he leaned forward and put his face in his hands, clenching his jaw and simply breathing the sadness through his teeth, roughly. 

Tears welled up in the inside corner of his eyes, he tried to hold them back but they fell between his fingers and to the floor.  His body shook with each soft gasp and sob, as a heavy and true reality set in so deep and profound that it shook him.  I have no honour.  Everything seemed to coalesce into a disgusting truth, he had utterly failed Lyanna’s son, a boy with no mother or father, he had never even given him the name he deserved and the comfort of unconditional love. 

He took a deep stilling breath, unsure of how long he had remained there.  Resolve formed in his steely grey eyes as he looked up and wiped the tears from his face on his sleeve.  Everyone was still talking and laughing and eating at Robb’s name-day feast. 

He was alone in his solar, and with a pang of guilt, he realized Jon would be alone too.  Benjen was right, he needed to tell the boy, tell him his truth and figure out a way to give Jon some sense of comfort and peace. He had to, he needed to. 

With a new sense of purpose, he left his solar and strode with resolve through the main keep.  He made no noise as he walked out to the coolness of summer in Winterfell.  Summer for the North would be considered winter to the remaining kingdoms. Storms blanketed them with snow, at times one or two feet deep with no warning, rain and cold battered them, but it was less; and therein was the definition of the Northern summer.  Less snow and cold than the winter but still much more than the rest of the kingdoms. It bred for tougher people, the Northerners liked to brag.

He nodded as the guards passed him, begging them off with a wave as he made for the Godswood, for Jon.  Within a few moments, he realized the boy wasn’t there, he thought for a moment before finding himself walking to his son’s room. At times like this, he cursed the expanse of winding halls he called home.  It made searching that much harder, and finding his destination empty that much more disappointing. Ned frowned, unsure where else to look. His only conclusion was that mayhap Benjen brought him to the Great Hall. 

Upon arrival, and with a quick glance, he could see that Jon wasn’t here either. His heart began to speed up as he turned away quickly just as Robb and Cat saw him, only for them to frown as he turned and left them in a hurry.  Robb made to follow but Cat stopped him, corralling the lordling back to his celebration. 

Ned went outside, brusquely pushing through two guards.  “Apologies!” he called back as he made his way to the crypts.  By the time he reached the barred doors, he was realizing what was going on. With a growing sense of dread, he now sprinted through the keep, away from the barred doors of the crypts.  He was panting by the time he reached the guard house. 

“Mi’Lord?” An armoured and cloaked Stark man at arms asked, brow raised in concern as he shared a look with a matching associate. 

“H-Have” Ned tried to say between pants.  “Have you seen anyone come through here? Benjen or anyone else? They’d be on horseback, leaving in a hurry?”

“No mi’lord.” The soldier replied, “I haven’t seen Lord Benjen since he arrived.”

Ned cursed lightly, nodding to the man before telling them to move through the castle quietly and quickly, all the while searching for Benjen or Jon. His heart was sinking as he found his way back into the great hall, a feeling of desperation clinging to it as the sound of music assaulted his ears.  Three days, he said three days, the only thoughts rattling in his mind as his heart threatened to beat through his chest.  

“Little Robb!”

They called, all singing along to some tune Ned couldn’t place at the moment.  He was trying to catch his breath, despite the ever-present pit in his stomach growing, the expanding feeling of apprehension leeching away any warmth he had before.  There was no peace here, his mood now ruined as the apprehension gave way to panic. The guards he had approached no less than twenty minutes ago came to him, both shaking their heads, thin-lipped and grim looking.  He knew now that he had made a mistake…

The music was loud, men and women enjoying every moment of it they could, Catelyn finished making her rounds amongst those that came to join them, baby Sansa bouncing merrily on her hip.  It was by chance that she caught Ned’s expression, watching as he pulled away from the guards he was talking to. Robb stood at her other hip, laughter in his eyes before he tilted his head questioningly seeing the concern on her face. 

“Mother?” he began, not Mama she thought wistfully.  He’d told her that morning that he was a big boy now, and big boys didn’t say ‘Mama’.

But Catelyn smiled down at him, patting him gently on the cheek before stooping down and kissing him on his forehead.  “I’ll be right back my dear.” She nodded to Old Nan, calling the woman over to watch on both of her children as she passed the happily clapping Sansa off to the elder.  She kissed them both on the forehead before sliding through the group of people, making her way from the great hall and to her Lord husband’s solar.  As she reached the cracked door she paused, listening to the voices, speaking. 

“—but why, My lord?”

That was Maester Luwin, she thought as she crept closer to the door. 

“Because I made a mistake with Jon and broke a promise I kept.” Ned replied, his voice heavy.  Is this about the bastard? Had he been crying? She frowned at the thought, sucking in a breath before she pushed the door open.  The faces of Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrick and Jory Cassel, Veyon Poole, and her husband all turned to her.  Each with a measured look of surprise save Ned, there was anger in those eyes.

His face grew grimmer, she wouldn't believe it possible if she hadn’t seen it herself.  “If you would let me speak to my wife in private?”  It was posed as a question but the tone indicated it was a command; his voice somber and grave, deeper than normal. 

Nobody said anything as they each left where they were, filing from the door with mumbled greetings for the Lady of the house.  Once they were gone and the door was closed, Catelyn made her way to her husband’s desk and sat opposite him, smoothing her dress and placing her hands on her lap, her face measured and concerned. 

Ned’s eyes never left her face as if he was searching for something in the depths of her eyes.  A storm of emotion played in his own gaze, though underneath it all she saw distance. Something had closed him off from her, something that suddenly had her angry and frightened equally.  It seemed he was fighting something as his mouth opened once and then closed before he sighed, closing his eyes. She knew what he was doing, he was clearing his mind, taking a second to compose himself and put his Lord’s face and voice on.  It only served to put her on guard, nervousness claiming her emotions as she wondered why he would need to do that with her? 

“Jon is…was…” He paused and took a breath, as dread clutched at her heart. “Jon was taken. I do not wish to cause alarm to the household, so this will be handled as quietly as possible until I can get more information.  I do not want to worry Robb just yet, it may still be unnecessary.” He said it with no emotion, the words were hollow and distant, empty of life.

She drew up, shocked for a moment before settling on him, her eyes narrowing.  Her natural reaction was anger as if he was making a very morbid accusation, one she hoped he wouldn’t think her capable of no matter the circumstances, but that was swiftly supplanted by worry as she remembered Ned’s cold reception and colder delivery.  They didn’t speak to apprehending a suspect, but of something else entirely. “What do you mean? He was outside of the great hall when I last saw him.”

“And when was that Catelyn?”

“I’m not certain, Eddard, but I’m sure your bastard is fine.”

Ned’s lips parted for a second as if to speak before drawing themselves into a thin line as any warmth that remained in his eyes fled, only to be replaced by cold flecks of Valyrian Steel grey. “I just said he was taken, and you tell me ‘He’s fine’?” He questioned; his voice soft. 

“Ned…what is this about?”  Cat asked indignantly, suspicion and worry clouding her ability to see the greater picture.  Her worry was routed in what she perceived as her husband’s abnormal love and care for the boy, the boy who she believed should never have existed. Though as her anger threatened to rear its head, and paint the room red in her more than righteous fury a thought clicked as she realized that the men that had been in the room had been men of import around the castle.  If Jon was simply hiding in Winterfell, then why would he include the master-at-arms, the captain of the household guard, their Maester and their steward? With a quick look she noticed the raven-sized parchment, quill, and ink. “Where do you think the boy is? Who would take him and why? He is a bastard!”

She realized too late, her tone was less than favourable.  His face contorted for a moment, brows furrowing as he made to speak but then stopped.  She understood it was all he could do to keep himself from throwing something across the room. She’d never seen him this angry.  Ned brought the side of his fist against the surface of the desk, hitting it in a moment of fury, his goblet jumping and clattering.  Cat herself jumped with a yelp as her hand flew to her chest.  “God’s Damn It! Bastard or not, a child is missing and you care so little?!” He shouted, the color draining from Cat’s face as he stood and glowered over her now, both hands planted on his desk. 

“A boy Cat, that’s all he is!” he began.  The calm and collected Ned was gone, emotions clear on his face, panic had set in and fear was there in his eyes.  The cold façade broke the moment he started shouting, the passion and anger coloring his words and gestures.  Eddard rose a shaky hand, pointing at her now, jabbing almost.  “You have brought hate into this house. Hate for a boy that could do little to help himself.  Did you think I would not notice that he struggled even to call me father?” He paused,  his eyes searching her face. 

“Ned…” She breathed, trying and failing to push away as she felt the spittle from his mouth pelt her face; the faint tang of Ale in the air between them.  Suddenly the chair didn’t feel far enough away.  Their few years of marriage hadn’t prepared her for his true ire, that was obvious.  The Quiet Wolf they called him, she’d always paid attention to the first word of that title. His normally stoic face, a demure example of pure resolve.  Yes, he was quiet, but a Quiet Wolf was still a wolf. 

Her eyes were wide and she could do little more than shake her head, trying her hardest to refute what he was saying but knowing it was all true.  “…I tried…” She whimpered.

The fury was back on him, she saw him shudder at her words.  Will he strike me?   Ned’s hand was shaking and she wasn’t certain what he would do next. 

The blood of the wolf they called it, but he’d always said somehow it missed him.  Mayhap his aggression was saved for the battlefield? She’d never seen him fight, and he did lead and survive the rebellion. He took one deep breath, his arm falling limp as he stood upright and sat back down slowly, taking calming breaths as he stared deep into his wife’s eyes.  Cold stone grey found blue as he searched for something, something he must not have found if the deep and suddenly haunted look in his eyes was anything to go by. 

“I pray we can find them, I pray no harm comes to him.” He sighed, shaking his head. 

“His name day is soon, he’s younger than Robb. He wouldn’t inherit over him. All you had to do was smile at him, once even, make him feel like he wasn’t worse than the dirt that’s swept outside.” He chuckled sadly. “But, mayhap were both to blame?”

Cat stayed in the chair, quiet, unsure of what to say but certainly sure of her husband’s stance.  She had been so certain that her belief and treatment was correct.  No highborn Lady would ever accept a bastard, especially one that was a mockery of what she hoped her sons would look like. 

Even at four, the boy was undoubtedly a Stark, save for his very purple eyes, but even those had flecks of grey where her own children were pure Tully blue.  She hated admitting that she made a mistake, one she had been so sure she was well within her rights to make. Ned’s sudden departure and cryptic words weren’t missed on her.

Catelyn could only think that her hate of the boy had made him an easy target for any of her husband’s enemies, and as a Warden, there were any number of them.  It would be the reason that made the most sense, considering how much Ned loved the boy.

Now she only cursed herself for it wondering why her view couldn’t have been this clear before.  She knew she should have tried harder, gave him something, just a little bit, nothing more than a smile even.

He was a boy, and in all honesty, innocent. 

Her heart was beating faster than she’d ever felt. She was scared, what would that mean for her? A woman incapable of loving a helpless babe, Oh God’s cat, you should have tried harder!   The fear gave way to a sudden and harsh sadness. 

The God’s would curse a woman that scorned a helpless babe. 

Maester Luwin was able to convince Eddard that sending a raven to every Lord of the North would do them no good.  If Jon was truly abducyed then the culprit would make their demands known. It seemed to Catelyn that they were skirting a subject, a shared secret, but avoided outright doing so in her presence. 

Despite her feelings and suspicions she still couldn’t understand Ned’s desperation regarding his bastard. She felt the secret of his mother more than ever, as the men and women of the castle began to cast her sidelong glances. 

It wasn’t her fault he was born of sin, it wasn’t her fault Ashara Dayne opened her legs to Eddard, granted none of them could foresee the disaster the next few years of life would be. No, rather than wallowing in self-doubt and believing Eddard chose his bastard over her, she associated his desperation with his sense of honor.  A way to honor the mother who flung herself to her death all because the man she loved married another and killed her brother. It was all too poetic for her at times, finished off with an evil Lady of the house and their story was truly a tale.

A search party was formed quietly, Ser Roderick and Jory Cassel assured Lord Stark that they gathered thirty five of their most trustworthy and honorable men.  It did nothing to allay her husband’s fears as they sorted the men into groups. Ten were to go South along the Kings Road and split up leaving five to sail to White Harbor along the White Knife and another five to ride for Moat Cailin.  Another ten would go East and range over Hornwood and Bolton Land’s. Ten more went West through the Wolfs Wood, making their way to Deepwood Motte, leaving five to go North as far as Last Hearth. Ned went with the group headed south, following the most obvious trail as he was convinced that whoever made off with Jon would head to white Harbor. 

They found Hodor nearly eight miles from Winterfell, heading South West following the Kings Road.  An obvious distraction. He was whistling merrily, a lantern swinging from a pole strapped to his horse as he walked along its side, gold coins brazenly displayed on his hip, completely cloaked in his usual charcoal grey.  

She learned the reason for her suspicions and Eddard’s growing distance then. Maester Luwin originally recommended they avoid sending ravens because they would be placing Benjen Stark in harm's way.  Benjen took Jon because of her hate for the boy. Ned’s voice had been distant as he told her that, eyes staring through her.

He believed that she would, for all of her family’s words, condemn Jon to a life of misery leaving him with the option to lash out and rebel violently or curl in on himself.  It broke her heart to see that Ned agreed, though he did not care for his brother’s method of escape.

Ben, In his haste, had thought it a good idea to use Hodor as a distraction; preying on his simple-minded loyalty. The man was a beacon of all that could be good and right in the world, meandering oblivious to danger down a well-used road.  Hodor’s size and the hound at his side must have been enough to deter most highwaymen.  The fact that they were on staunchly guarded Stark lands was the other; the memory of the rebellion was still fresh.

Catelyn found no peace over the coming days.  She wasn’t even sure when she realized a few moons had turned, and she had yet to have her moonblood.  The thought sent a chill down her spine, a lingering suspicion that she wasn't too thrilled about. It was as if the gods were mocking her, telling her ‘He’s finally gone, it is what you wanted?’ Maester Luwin confirmed her suspicions one gloomy morning. 

They were in the Maesters turret.  The sun had just crept above the horizon and she had desperately fought off a bout of sickness.  Her face was a bit paler than normal, but her eyes were alive; focused and anxious. “You are with child my lady.” The Maester said softly after the examination, his eyes not looking at her but writing something as she sat up resting her hands on her lap fidgeting as she took a deep stilling breath.  

“It is something to be excited for My Lady, is it not?” Luwin followed up, this time looking at her.  She caught the concern in his gaze.  

Some women were known to abjectly hate the thought of children after birthing their first few, some even found themselves distant from their children.  The Maesters eyes searched her face, obviously worried for something along those lines but she nodded her head. The reality stung in a way she hadnt thought it would, her thoughts fleetingly pondered the sex of the child. 

She left Luwin with a smile and thank you. Agreeing with him that it was a thing to be excited for, though it was half hearted. Woe seemed to be her constant friend. Ned’s company was very rare now, and although he had come to apologize for his words that night, she still felt them to be true.  His distance was greater and colder than the great grey stones of Winterfell’s freezing wall-walk, the ancient grey curtain wall standing strong against all manner of foes.    

It was during the lulls in her activities, during the times she wasn't busy being the Lady of Winterfell, going over sums, following up with their kitchen staff, or making sure the children were minding themselves that her mind would wander back to the babe that grew within her.  Pregnant. It wasn’t the first time she had actually hoped it wasn’t true, and as a devout follower of the Seven, she knew it was wrong to wish a babe away.  How could the Gods see to give me a child when I ran Ned’s from this home? 

With the boy gone, remorse seemed possible, almost absolute…it was easy to see the weight of her actions when the face of betrayal wasn’t looking at her day in and day out.  Though Benjen’s laugh always seemed to echo through the walls, she had thought she hated the way he would chase his nephews through the keep.  She had scorned them then, chastised Ben for taking Robb away from his studies with the Maester.  They’re only four Cat, they have a lot of time before they need to worry about duty. The memory of those words almost haunted her

She had been vexed, still only a bit so, but in her mind, it was justified.  A disingenuous sense of humility washed over her pale face.  She couldn’t even pretend it didn’t matter.  She questioned her every action now. At one point she had been proud of her ability to manage a castle of Winterfell’s size, but doubt was a sinister friend and often left her wondering if she made the right decision. 

She was angry at herself for forcibly estranging the boy, and in doing so, her own son.  Robb was not stupid, even at five, he knew something happened and why and disliked her for it. He would act out at any given time, preferring his father's company to hers. She had thought telling him he would soon have another brother or sister would make him happy, put a smile on his face but it hadn’t worked, quite the opposite actually. 

“I don’t care! I don't want another brother or sister, I want my brother! Jon!”   He screamed at her, the accusation was there, not spoken but implied. 

He had run from her then and tried his hardest to stay away from her, hiding when she came down a hall or searched for him in the yard.  He often took to the Godswood, knowing she never felt comfortable there, now even more so. A child of five years, so full of sadness and anger and confusion and only knowing it was his mother’s fault his best friend and brother wasn’t at home. 

Time had a way of continuing its progression regardless of strife or discord.  She wasn’t sure when she had taken to reading the ravens with Maester Luwin as they arrived.  It became a daily practice, to check in with him for any new news. 

A clutch of something like hope lingered in her bosom as her stomach began to show. The gloom had given way to hope; hope this child would be strong and healthy and help heal their home.  Arryn if a boy, Arya if a girl. She promised herself she would confer with Ned when he returned. 

The Greyjoys had rebelled again. 

Ned’s now constant anger had flared, and he almost dove at the chance to leave the castle.  Though she couldn’t blame him, he needed an escape.  He was tired and overwhelmed. His brother and son were gone, he knew not where.  Hodor had been a decent enough distraction to allow them to vanish in the night.  Ravens had come of a deserter and a death from the Night's Watch, and she had watched Ned’s face visibly pale.  She couldn’t understand why though was curious at the names or why Ned wouldn’t share them with her, deciding rather to throw the missive in the hearth and watch it burn, jaws clenched and brow furrowed.  She tried to see who they were but only succeeded in deducing that the death was of the old Maester at castle black.  

A few days later, he told her who it had been, his voice distant and forlorn.  He repeated the words methodically almost like he had rehearsed it, just as detached and hollow as the night he told her Jon was gone.  An ancient Targaryen and a disgraced knight that had once been sworn to the very same Targaryen’s house. 

She had expected Ned to say something, anything, deriding the knight's honour, but his face had grown distant. His grey eyes now pale and bloodshot.  So tired, so sad. His lips had tightened into a frown, the slightest lines of grey worming their way through the dark brown almost black of his beard.  He had looked like he wanted to tell her something.  But he just left, a sombre sigh on his lips as he vanished deeper into the keep.

That had been moons ago, and now she was sitting, alone in Jon’s old chambers looking down at something he had drawn.  He had an odd way of worming his way into her thoughts; she hadn’t realized where she was walking until she was lighting a torch and dragging two larger pieces of wood into the hearth. 

Now that there was more light in the room she could see better. The room was sparse, startlingly so.  There was barely any evidence a little boy had once lived there. 

The drawings she held onto were charcoal, drawn on some bits of worn paper that had fallen off the upturned crate he had been using for a table. They were rough etchings, though she could make out two small drawings beside a bigger figure, each with what looked like swords in their hands. Jon, Robb, and Ned. 

There was a tree with a face. The Weirwood, she thought. 

She traced it until her finger stopped at another small figure on the left she hadn’t noticed, another figure roughly the same size as the bigger one holding the stick sword. It was holding a crudely drawn smaller figure. She wasn’t certain how she knew it was holding it, but she couldn’t help the sad smile that crossed her cheeks before she cursed inwardly. 

Sansa and I.

An odd conflicting sensation as she processed what she saw, a war of emotions was being fought inside her, a willingness to do more was tempered by a hate that had always lingered.

The memory sprung forward, surprising her by its sudden clarity, as if her mind was mocking her soul. Her naivety was in believing there was anyone or anything to blame outside of herself, if anything it should have been her husband who deserved her anger. But when her eyes first took in the boy she wasn’t able to help the sudden sharp breath she took or the overwhelming jealousy. Even as an infant he carried the Stark look and that had made her fear real. She had wished the boy dead before he could take what was rightfully her sons, him and his purple eyes. 

She had never despised a woman more than Ashara then, for birthing this mockery of the love she had for her husband.

He looked too much like Ned for her to ever feel comfortable with. Her fear was rooted in her faith and its deep dislike for bastards, but why? Because of one occurrence by fools born of incest? Jon’s circumstance was nothing like that. His unluckiness was having Ned Stark, the honourable fool for a father.

Her resolve broke in that dark room as a cold harsh truth settled in. She loved Ned for the man that he was, foolish decisions and all. They were strangers on their wedding night, yet he’d lain with her and given her a son, as was his duty.  He made a mistake and accepted his son, unlike any other lord, Ned stood true to himself despite what others would say and claimed the boy as his own, as was his duty.  

Family, Duty, Honor. Ned held all three more dearly than she ever did.  Jon was his family, as his son, was also his duty. He married her to uphold his father’s honour though they had grown to love each other dearly.  She scolded herself as she set the drawing down. She had taken pride in her studious adherence to her family’s words, but never realized she was in fact failing. Duty and honour meant nothing if her family was broken. 

A quick silent prayer left her lips as she fled from her very dim new view on life. She had to try harder. 

Her pregnancy was very clear now.  Every dress was a rough reminder as she was forced to have some of her things tailored and new dresses and gowns and small clothes made.  The baby kicked furiously, so much so that she was fairly certain it would be a boy, but Old Nan swore to her it would be a fierce little girl.  She would simply be happy if the child lived.  She shook that off as they stood in Winterfell’s main entry, everyone forming a greeting line in the courtyard as outriders hailed Ned’s return.  She was cloaked in a thin grey fox-fur lined cloak, underneath it a grey and blue dress she had sewn herself. 

The day was surprisingly bright, sparse bouts of rain pelting them for brief moments before vanishing amidst bright beams of sunlight and blue sky.  It was mildly off-putting, the brief moments of cold interspaced by lingering flights of warmth all mingled together by the wet.  It made for a ghastly feeling.  She stood at the front, Robb to her right and little Sansa, almost three-name days old to her left, holding her hand. She had finally supplanted the bouts of morning queasiness, though the paleness still lingered on her otherwise rosy cheeks.  Her hair was done up, tight enough for the wind not to tug at it. 

The horses were what she heard first, followed by the clatter of the smaller carts and then the larger wains until finally, voices came past the gatehouse and into the courtyard as the cloaked form of Lord Eddard Stark came trotting through on the back of a white destrier barded in chainmail, proud running direwolves sewn on either side; Lord Stark looked the image of The Warrior in his armour. 

He was wearing a dark grey, almost black brigandine, grey steel pauldrons, vambrace, gauntlets, cuisse, and grieves.  A blackened steel gorget with twin Stark dire-wolf heads facing each other were just visible under the straps of his cloak. Ice was strapped to his horse, a bitter homage to his strength as the ancestral greatsword moved with each step of the steed. Ned had his hair pulled back into a tight knot.  Only a few strands moved around his face in the few gusts of wind that pushed past the stone.

It was hard to place his expression as the sun chose just then to shine from behind him, casting him in black and shadow.  He had halted them all with a gesture of his gauntleted hand, his horse trotting to a stop before he dismounted swiftly, sable black cloak billowing as his grieves clicked when he reached the ground, a stable boy came and took the horse.  He said nothing as he approached his wife, and neither did she, it had been the better part of a year. 

“My Lady.”

“Winterfell is yours, My Lord.”

“And Robert?”

“King’s Landing I would assume,”  Ned replied.  They had retreated to the Lord’s solar, just he and Cat as they made to catch up.  Ned relayed what news he had and his story as Catelyn did the same.  “After I killed Balon, the Iron Islanders surrendered.  Victarion Greyjoy sits as steward and regent until his nephew, Theo or Theon, is old enough to take his rightful place.” Ned said, still unsure of the boy’s name.  It had all happened in a blur, landing on the Island, the fighting, storming the keep and Balon resisting…He was angry, she knew, still so angry and it had gotten the best of him.  “Jon Arryn believes it would be wise to foster the boy here.”

He sighed as he leaned back into the couch beside a mildly surprised Cat. She stayed her words, the thought of a random child, no hostage, running about their home.  Mayhap he could be friends with Robb?  She thought but shook the thought off in a matter of moments.

Nobody would ever replace Jon, in Robb’s eyes, and the boy would have to remember his place. 

“We have time to think about it, don’t we?” She asked him, and he nodded. 

Some servants brought them food, while everyone else retreated to the great hall to feast and celebrate their Lord's return.  “God’s Cat, it wasn’t supposed to turn out like that. I shouldn’t have killed him.”

“It’s war Ned, you can’t blame yourself for ending a foolish war a deluded old man started.  He knew the cost of his actions.  You only did what was right, to bring you home to me, Robb, Sansa, and…Arya.”

Ned’s grey eyes widened as she finished, the deep frown turning up as he sat upright and looked at Cat in full now.  “How can you be certain?” He asked, trying to hide his delight. 

She nodded, though finished with the slightest shrug.  “One can never be too sure, but I have my suspicions.” 

Ned smiled a real smile, one that she hadn’t seen in so long.  Before she could reply, he had swept to her and his lips were pressed against hers, she couldn’t stop the small giggle that bubbled up and escaped her lips before she returned the kiss. 

They were in their rooms now, her naked and very pregnant form pressed against his side, one leg casually draped over his as he traced a pattern on the small of her back.  She was looking out of the window, listening to his gentle heartbeat, noting that the sun must have set some time ago.

The gentle roar of the fire in the hearth warmed and cast them in a gentle soft glow, queer shadows dancing on the wall.   Being with him after so long had felt like a desperate measure of peace trying to overwhelm the sorrow she felt.   However desperate it was, it had worked and she felt warm and full and sure. She sighed contentedly, allowing her gaze to pull upward, though it was all obscured by his beard as she was resting her head just under his chin. 

“What made you choose that name?”

 “Jon Arryn, your foster father.”

He didn’t reply for a moment or two, “Oh.”

“I thought if he were a boy we would name him Arryn, but I’m certain this little wolf in my belly is a girl.”  She began.  “But…I really did it because of…your Jon…” She lied, but it was worth it, the symbolism was worth it.  She had to try.

Ned had grown still, though she could hear his heart, it was slowly speeding up almost as if coming to life.  She wasn’t sure if it was nerves or anger, perhaps she had miscalculated, but he was stiff now, his fingers no longer tracing the patterns on her back. 

“Please don’t pull away from me Ned.  I have missed you so, and the chill between us feels as if it’s finally gone.” She paused, growing a bit more certain, though she could hear his heart now, hammering against his chest.  “You were right…” She had to press forward, even if it went against her Southron pride, “I brought a cloud into this home. A shame so deep, but I can only ask for your forgiveness.  We will find them, we will bring them back to Winterfell…”  She couldn’t call it home and include the boy in the same sentence just yet.

He said nothing, only remained still, she imagined his eyes were closed listening to her.  His heart was racing, but his body was akin to stone, unmoving.  She meant to speak, break the quiet but was stopped as she felt him press a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Thank you, my lady.”

And that was it.  Nothing more was said that night.  They both lapsed into an amiable silence.  The warmth of the fire licked at their faces and what parts of their naked bodies were exposed.  Summer in the North would barely have been considered Summer anywhere else. 

They were still hit by brief flurries of snowfall and rain, hammered by ungodly winds and shadowed endlessly by grey clouds.  The weather and the environment, the land and its people, they were all hard. The hardest in all the kingdoms, Cat was sure of that. They were tougher than Rivermen even.  Jon and Benjen would live, and she would help Ned find them.

The Greater North

He watched as the normally dour but ever unctuous man sucked in air harshly between his teeth before he balled up the message he had given him to read and threw it on the floor, the flickering light of the candles pronouncing a vein in his forehead, slowly pulsating to life as he closed his eyes and tried to calm himself.  By all the gods above, he knew the man was trying. “God’s damn that fool!” His voice exploded in a puff of white as his hot breath fought the cold air, voice reverberating off the ice-like walls.

He didn’t seem to care though. 

He was pacing now, black-gloved left hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His free hand opened and closed as he walked, eyes darting to the window and bolted door. Vigilance. But even vigilance could not account for all the admittedly foolish happenings surrounding them. 

“It was already a mummers farce of a plan, and now we barely have any time to make this work…” His associate began. 

“I understand your concern my friend, but we must make do with what we have. At the very least, the raven took three days, but no more than four.” The aged man interrupted, taking a deep stilling breath before he pushed himself up from the chair he was currently reading the newest ravens delivered from around the realm, some having stopped at other castles along the way; though only the message his associate threw to the floor was worth the effort to read at this point.

“Emotion can get the best of any man, Ser Alliser, I speak from experience of course.”  Aemon finished with a chuckle, hiding his own reticence. 

Ser Alliser Thorne stopped abruptly, his head jerking up as wild eyes stared at the elder Targaryen with a look between abhorrence, anger, and sheer incredulity.  “You think this is a time for lessons and laughs Maester? What we mean to do is treason…” He drew out the word, “…and death.  There is no going back. So I don’t see what could possibly be funny about any of this!”, his voice a furious whisper as he stood over the older man, taking deep panting breaths that misted like smoke. 

“Calm yourself Alliser or you will be our undoing.” Aemon was stooped over his desk now, strangely calm pale lilac eyes moving over his desk as he sorted papers into neat piles before he placed most of them in a sack of his own making, tying the rest up in a spare piece of string and leaving them on the desk. “Can you get the body up here within the hour? He already has quite a lead on us, if he’s made it past Last Hearth and rode through the night...” He trailed off, voice still a whisper.

For a man of seventy and four, Aemon was surprisingly spry, his age masked well.   A genial smile, long cloak and robes hid the stuttering steps in the morning; the cold froze his joints and made his upper legs and left hip ache.  A wondrous sense of nobility and truth in every word he spoke masked the pain when he stretched from sitting and his lower back screamed at him in defiance. 

He had seen the rise and fall of many kings, many from behind their own walls. Age and knowledge allowed him to speak of pain and sorrow because he understood it.  It was as much a part of him as his worn knees.

He wouldn't deny that at times he was an optimist, indulging in thoughts of new life and rebirth, or a hope for a better tomorrow and the strength to fight for what you hold dear.  He shared a connection with his dead nephew, Rhaegar, an affinity for the occult. He believed that foul things were stirring where the eyes of men could not see.

Though none of it mattered when faced with the life of his ilk.  “You obviously know that it is of utmost importance that you are not seen.”  Aemon looked up at Ser Alliser.  “And try not to break any of the bones of the corpse.” 

Alliser nodded tersely, muttering a pithy “Aye”, before stepping out of the room leaving Aemon to his own devices. 

The plan had been simple enough: Aemon was to, for a lack of better words ‘die’, which of course would all be an act.  Once ‘dead’, Alliser would happen upon his ‘body’, and being aware of the older man’s wishes he would move his corpse North of The Wall to be burned.  While they were busy burning the decoy body of a bald wildling dressed in his clothing, Aemon was to sneak out in the dead of night, the guard being distracted by his death and whatever else was going on in remembrance of the man.

It was summer, the Watches numbers dwindled and the guard count was low.  Aemon would have made it out with no problem and it would have been as if he died and was gone.   The plan was simple, full of holes but in lieu of time, it was the best they had to escape the Wall relatively unharmed. 

A knock brought him back to life, his blood roaring in his ears.  He had let himself get idle, too absorbed in his preparations.  He wasn’t so old as to be deaf.  He cursed inwardly, straightening up with a grunt before he turned and went to the door, a soft yes, yes, as he reached it. 

“Maester?” A new recruit, Aemon mused. 

“Yes, young man?”  He asked. 

“Lord commander’s asking if there is any news of note, and if possible could you meet him this evening to talk about what you want sent to Eastwatch?” He mumbled.

The Maester gave the almost man a nod, “Ahh, yes, I received a missive from the citadel.  They asked for the correspondence to be distributed from here.”  Aemon said, A smooth lie. “Not to worry dear boy, I will bring it to the Lord Commander.” He finished with a quick shoo as the younger boy nodded and bowed away. 

“No more distractions, he mumbled.”  His heart slowed down as he returned to his preparations.  Clothes were not a necessity and a Maester’s robes were far too conspicuous.  Whilst he was preparing himself he heard yet another knock, but a gruff call of his name calmed his reaction as he returned and opened the door, letting a frazzled-looking Alliser into his room. 

The man grunted in acknowledgement, crossing the threshold with a figure over his shoulder.  “You weren’t seen?” He asked. 

“No, I told you I wouldn’t be, didn’t I?” He snapped, dropping the body on Aemon’s bed.  “Hurry and dress him, old man, we have to go tonight and I have to sling you over my shoulder.” 

That stopped Aemon in his tracks, “Why?”

“Raven from Lord Eddard Stark,”  Alliser replied quickly, pitching his heart into ice. 

“He says he sent some men North and asked if they could speak to you, they will be coming from Last Hearth on the morrow.  Lord Commander is curious as to why they would like to speak to you, so you have to die tonight.” 

He was only meant to be called a deserter but now they will call him a traitor and a murderer instead… he wanted to add, but that conversation would make them hesitate. 

He couldn’t afford that now. Pulling himself from his tremulous thoughts, Aemon prepared to do just as he said.  The knight turned as the older man slipped into black breeches and a black tunic.  He slipped o  black boots and came to his belt, strapping it on, flabbergasted for a moment by how thin he was. 

He had no mail or armaments, save for a small dragon bone dagger his father gifted him many decades ago.  Once he draped his cloak over his shoulders he set to preparing the dead man and pouring lantern oil over as much as he could. 

Aemon paused as he clutched at the links of his Maester’s chain, a wistful look in his eyes.  He was a prince, yes, but more than that, he was a Maester.  This chain was his truth, a literal and physical manifestation of what his mind had achieved.  Its weight was a testament to his desire to learn, his ambition, and his drive. I must, he thought to himself.  

“We don’t have all day.” Alliser’s voice brought him back to reality. 

“You’re right,” he said as he slid the chain over the corpse's neck and stood, staring for a moment at what would soon be his skeletal likeness.  He sent a little prayer for the soul that would serve their purpose, a thank you of sorts before he turned around and nodded to the man.  He pointed out the small satchel with his most prized notes. 

“The chest? You left it where I asked?”

“Aye, Maester, I did.” 

Aemon smirked at the tone, an odd sensation on his face as he had little reason to do so before.  His faint lilac eyes grew distant for a second before all light was blocked as the younger knight covered him in a black blanket and he was graced with a brief moment of disorientation and discomfort as the knight lifted and rested him on his shoulder. 

“Be quiet…I can’t explain any noise coming from a rug.” Alliser paused.  “Everyone should be in the main hall. The Lord Commander will want to speak to you after he’s done in there.  I’m going to drop you near the stables and then get the guards to help me in the barracks.  It’ll only be for a few moments.  Did you pour the oil over your bed and the books?” At Aemon’s muffled agreement, Alliser took a deep breath before walking to the door, on his way knocking over the candle on the table, waiting for a few moments before they both heard and felt the flames jump to life. 

“God’s watch over us and this fool of a plan…”  Aemon heard Alliser say before they left the room, and vanished into the depths of Castle Black.  It was eerily quiet, somewhat disconcerting as Aemon swung lifelessly over Alliser’s shoulder.  Nothing was said as the man moved through the corridors and down.  Aemon had to stifle a yelp every now and then, but before he knew it, they were exiting the warmth of the old stones of the castle and into the courtyard.  

“FIRE!” Someone yelled. 

“No, no, no, no, no…” He heard Alliser mutter as he felt the man sprint now before his body was unceremoniously dropped to the ground.  He could hear the horses and a chorus of voices following the shouting now. 

“Get to the horse Maester, I left one saddled, and stay quiet and in the shadows. I have to figure out how to make sure that fire stays lit, there shouldn’t be anyone at the gates now.” Alliser said to the old man on the ground wrapped in a blanket. 

He didn’t give Aemon a chance to respond before he turned and dashed back to the tower, following the commotion and voices and calls of fire. 

Aemon had one chance.  He struggled free of the blanket before he pushed himself from the ground, groping for his satchel.  He found it and made a mad dash for the first saddled horse he saw, a red-brown palfrey.

He was surprised by his own limberness, almost giddy by the feeling of mischief. He shook it off, attention back on the horse. It wouldn’t be the fastest, but it would keep going.  He came to it in the shadows, petting the horse gently as he muttered sweet words in High Valyrian to the beast.  He came to its reins and untied them before gently guiding the horse from the stables.

His heart was in his throat; every beat near made him gag as he swore he could taste bile.  By now, the majority of the men at the lower levels of Castle Black would be trying to douse the flames, but the fire had managed to continue to roar.  Alliser must have done something. 

Almost too soon, he was at the gates, the horse slowed before he pulled himself up its side and swung his leg over and with one quick whip of the reins, the horse surged forward. The Maester died as Prince Aemon Targaryen escaped into the night. 

“Oh my…” Aemon was breathless, the ride over had been rough, really reminding him of his age. The chest in his lap hadn’t helped much at all. He was a venerable totem of knowledge, not made for midnight escapes.  Each trot felt like a hammer fall on his lower back. His heart beat roughly against his rib cage, making him double over as he left the saddle, tentative steps checking the ground before he pressed down fully, dropping the chest with a slight rattle. 

He patted himself down, “I haven’t had that much excitement in a long time.” He said aloud, to no one, in particular, sore but thrilled.  He leaned against the side of his horse, using it to support him for a few moments as he let his body and mind find commonplace. 

He stretched his aged limbs before laying a calming hand against his horse as he led it to the huddled shadow just outside of Mole’s Town he’d been told to watch for. A muffled greeting confirmed his suspicions as Benjen dropped the heavy black cloak obscuring their bodies and faces. 

He smiled now, cheeks pulling back as a sparkle like none other came to his eyes.  “Hello, little one.”  He said softly, stooping over as he approached the boy in Benjen’s arms. 

He was perfect, in Aemon’s astute view. Soft black curls pooled around a pale face not too different from his own, barely hiding frightened purple eyes he was told contained flecks of grey, but couldn't see in the poor light.  His cheeks were pink, probably from the ride.  He took a deep breath, a soft pull through his tiny nose as he pushed his face away from the older man and into his uncle's chest.

He could see it, in his chin, his cheekbones, his nose, and the shape and colour of his eyes.  His features were softer, mixed in well, but this boy was most assuredly a Targaryen. It quite literally takes one to know one. The pull of the boy's dragon blood, the flames within yanking at Aemon in recognition only solidified his thoughts. 

The warmth in Aemon’s own chest was near unbearable, a fluttering pressing against his lungs as if he was almost struggling for air.  He had removed his gloves, soft hands like warm worn leather reached for the boy's own exposed hand. 

“Fear not, my boy, I am your great uncle.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but his own lilac eyes peered at the youth, almost marvelling. 

He would explain their relation later. The tears in the young boys face made it clear that he was going through quite a bit.  Trying to explain this weathered face and how he could be his uncle would take a bit more calm.

The future of our house. 

Jon responded in kind, sniffling ever so slightly as he looked at the older man, curiosity ever present despite the clear signs of anxiety.  Tentatively, he extended his own hand, letting Aemon take it and shake it gently. 

Such a proper child, the elder thought warmly.  Despite the overwhelming feeling of grief and despair, the boy must have felt the small flare of warmth when the man’s soft hands touched his own. 

“My…uncle?” He asked, voice so little, so soft.  He looked up at Benjen now, tilting his head to the side as his shoulder-length black hair fell back.  Ben nodded a gentle warmth in his eyes, and Jon turned back to the old man the tiniest of pouts on his lips as tears welled up in the boy's eyes again. 

“Oh my dear boy, don’t cry.” Aemon reached forward, swiftly taking the child from Benjen’s unyielding grip.  Something in Aemon yearned for that child, a hollowness he had ignored for so long.  A hole in his heart had found something to fill it and he gripped Vaegon, his little Vegg, with a strength he never thought he had. 

The boys sobs shook his body violently, and he clung to the old man as if afraid he would be stolen away just as quickly.  Aemon didn’t understand what was coming over him as he felt the tears in his own eyes.  He shushed the boy gently, patting him on his back as he rocked him. 

“It’s been a long ride.”  Benjen finally said, his voice soft and sad.  “A tough ride.”

Aemon only nodded, remaining silent as he cradled the now gently breathing boy.  “We should be going.  I do not know if the fire lasted.” He shook his head as Benjen went to question him.  “A story for another time, right now we must move.” 

Benjen took the chest and satchel Aemon had brought as the older Prince mounted his horse, Jon still in his arms.  The pair left, vanishing into the night, leaving Moles Town that same evening with nothing more than words and whispers in their wake. 

They met Alliser, a day later, though the man was injured and missing an eye.  He had no desire to speak on it then. A few hired strangers helped whisk their likeness into the night, spreading the false tale of Benjen Stark across the North, far and wide. 

“Iksan bȳre jēdri uēpa.”

A small face wrinkled in confusion as he looked at the writing and shook his head, loose black curls bobbing around, frowning now. 

“Worry not, you have a lifetime to master your father tongue.” He chuckled, a soft voice echoing around the spacious solar of ill-refined marble and sandstone. The room was well-lit, a few candle sconces sat parallel to each other. A warm fire roared in the hearth that sat horizontally to them on the wall to the desk's right. 

A rectangular Ironwood desk sat in front of the wall opposite the door.  On either side were bookshelves and a small end table, each with a litany of books, some common, others archaic.   The shutters and panes were closed as a summer storm battered the thick walls that housed them.  Prince Vaegon, Vegg to some and Jon to others, sat at the table closest to the desk at the left-hand of the man he looked to as grandfather.  

The elder man’s vision was almost past saving, but he clung to what remained.  Luckily, now relieved of the forward-thinking stagnation of Westeros and the Maester's order as a whole, he was able to search for solutions for his diminishing vision elsewhere.  He settled on a special form of Myrish lens that could be worn over the eyes and across the bridge of the nose, hooking behind his ears. 

Though they were a nuisance, they gave him a new view of life. Literally. Aemon was truly at home amongst his books and small literary treasures.  He found solace in his time to read and looked for solutions to questions of his own.  Though his greatest comfort came in the form of the small black haired, purple-eyed boy, he had the pleasure of calling his kin. 

He had never been so glad to have lived so long.

His death had been easy enough to falsify.  He was old, there was no other Maester, all he needed to do was have an accomplice, which he did.  Ser Alliser Thorne had always been bitter, even more so since the rebellion. The defeat left a foul taste in his mouth, so despite the ramifications, he agreed to be Aemon and Benjen’s accomplice, especially once he found out Ned Stark’s bastard was no bastard at all.  A fire like none Aemon had felt roared to life in his belly, his kin needed him.  

Benjen’s initial lack of communication and sudden raven sped up their whole timetable, leaving Aemon and Alliser to pick up the pieces.  Luckily, there weren’t many to pick up.  A year had passed by rather quickly. Four of those moons, Benjen was travelling between the kingdoms, assessing the situation, learning what it meant to be a lord apart from his brother. 

Having never joined the watch, he wasn’t missed. But since Vaegon was brought to Winterfell, and Benjen noticed his mistreatment at Catelyn Tully’s hands, his plan and focus had never strayed far from ensuring what remained of his cherished sister was safe. 

He admired the man and his earnest goal. A man with a purpose was a hard man to beat. Aemon enjoyed teaching the young Stark as Benjen’s father died long before he could impart him with the knowledge to successfully endure as a lord. He felt partially responsible as his kin was the reason for that death, but Benjen was bright and amiable, which made life that much easier. The only true way to gain the young man's ire was to mistreat his nephew.  

Aemon was writing in his notebook as Vaegon sat a ways from him, writing out his lessons.  The notes were detailed, telling of everything from when he left the Watch to that day.  A true compilation of activities, arguments, lessons, random thoughts, ideas, and anything he believed worthwhile.  If nothing else, Aemon was thorough.

He reflected on the initial difficulty of their plans.  He and Benjen were forced to contact a few people who remained loyal to House Targaryen and in turn their nephew. Ben's age, name, and association made it difficult for him to appeal to potential allies, so it was left to Aemon to delineate some of the finer details. 

Their conspirators relied on anonymity as their new positions in post-rebellion Westeros kept them close to the capital, but through them and a few friends in the North, they were able to secure safe passage to Skagos where he and Rhaegar had once planned to gift his betrothed a home away from home on a smaller island to the North West of Skagos’ main isle where he would petition the Citadel to allow him to be the maester of. 

His deceased nephew had been ecstatic when he found the location, Targaryens were oddly fond of islands.  He decided that it would be the Tower of Joy’s Northern counterpart, a place where the royal family could get away from the strife and power plays of the south and mayhap become closer to their Northern counterparts; though that was never to be. 

His notes were auspiciously blank on the days and weeks after Rhaegar’s death had been officialized.  The sadness that halted the planning, he thought.  But as with an old man’s wants and desires, he continued the plans with the hopes that one day a Targaryen would be able to claim it; imagine his surprise when he and his nephew were the Targaryen’s to do just that.  Friends from the old regime helped in secret where they could; Benjen and those he swore were trustworthy helped with the rest.  The notes, everything he wrote, were a link to the dead past he had once been tied to. He missed his family dearly and was only too happy to pull those plans out once more all those years ago when Benjen first came to him.  The memories still made him smile, almost as much as the little boy he was raising.  

Solitude; the aptly named home of two runaway Targaryen’s and a Stark, as well as a disgraced one-eyed knight and a growing host of interested islanders.  The foundation and smaller curtain walls had been finished years ago, as well as the first interior walls of the keep.  It wasn’t hard to finish; complete the rookery, the gatehouse, the port and the different rooms.  Braavosi builders were quick, and rock and stone was a very abundant material.

Small hills, too small to be mountains, but too big to just be hills rolled underneath a canopy of trees, ranging for miles on the Northern side to only a few on the southern.  The western shore was used for the small port with a wide walkway that led northeast and then south to the gatehouse.  The southeastern side was home to the highest hills, where they were able to keep an eye on Skagos and Westeros mainland by way of Myrish Lens and a three-floor tower, though their view was mainly of Karstark lands. 

The Stoneborn were easy to deal with and in all reality wanted no trouble, the year-round cold and snow and ice gave enough for all. They even proved Aemon’s thoughts true, they weren’t cannibals.  They weren’t as boorish as one would expect after dealing with wildlings, but they had a ferocity of their own. 

Some came to Solitude, finding comfort in creating a trade and a place amongst the shunned lords of Westeros and foreigners that stuck around. Most were charmed by the odd family and curious child instantly taking pity on the renegade wolf, the little dragon, the old dragon, and their ornery one-eyed friend. 

Alliser became their master-at-arms of sorts, while Benjen remained the steadfast young halfLord, starting a trade and venturing to ensure the keep was always well stored, ‘Winter is Coming’, he often liked to remind them.  Aemon took to Vaegon as a Grandfather, and before they knew it, a content life had sprung up around them, all for the sake of a little boy who thought himself a worthless bastard. 

“I…” Jon looked up, brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m six?” He asked, head tilting to the side.

Aemon smiled brightly at the lad, tapping the desk with a hum of approval.  “Correct!”  He said, “And how did you figure out what I said?”

“I thought of the word I knew.” He pointed to it, “Six.  And then I knew what you were saying.” He finished with a shrug.  Aemon smiled, the grandfatherly note of approval on his warm cheeks as he nodded at the boy's less-than-spectacular explanation. 

Jon was a remarkably quick learner who seemed to take to his studies as a fish to water.  Aemon was thrilled, it forced him to think of lesson plans, curriculums, and activities to stimulate a growing boy.  It forced him to think of the best ways to hold someone’s attention, forced his mind to question answers he had given time and time again because Jon wouldn’t settle for ‘It’s how it’s always been done’.  ‘Why’ was his go-to word.

And Prince Aemon would answer him every time. 

Chapter Text

Her eyes were closed.  She was taking a moment to herself, absorbing the relative peace she had, however fleeting it would be.  Composure was what it took, as well as patience, and simple skill to rear more than one child. She sought all of that in their drawing room; a cool morning breeze came in from the ajar window as she took in a deep refreshing breath, stilling her mind and rampant thoughts. 

Sounds of children’s laughter and playful shouting echoed through the halls of the manse forcing her eyes open as a little boy ran through the foyer of their Braavosi home, trailed by a little girl of equal height and disposition yelling and laughing much the same. 

The pair were separated by a moment, a slight hiccup in the veil of life and death that translated to little less than a minute between the birth of the twins.  The little girl would tell you she was older, and proud of it, to her twin's chagrin. They were identical in almost every manner, except for three obvious features:

Their opposite sex was the first, but where the girl's hair was pure Valyrian, a beautiful mix of silver and gold, her brother, at birth was nearly identical but for a strip of his hair that was black.  ‘A queer birthmark.’ The midwife had said, a stripe that lanced through his hair from his temple to the back of his head, though peculiarly it never changed as he grew. While his sister's eyes were a soft and curious shade of lilac, the boy's eyes bordered on violet. 

They were of a height at the moment, though the young boy pushed himself harder than his sister.  Finding the creature comforts of exploring and climbing and searching for nothing in particular to be the height of enjoyment.  

“Daenerys, Jaehaerys enough.” Rhaella’s voice cut through the din of the children at play before she pursed her lips and opened her eyes focusing on her children as they raced in.  

She looked around quickly, noting Viserys wasn’t there, asleep most likely.  Ser Willem will wake him, she thought.  The sun had crested over the white stone and mortar walls of the manse, a warm yellow and orange light spilling over the flat top.  The soft noises of the free city thronged just above the chirps of the colourful birds in the trees that surrounded their home, the vibrant and often fragrant citrus bathing the courtyard in dancing shadows as a faintly pleasant breeze blew in through the canals. 

She wore a light dress in mauve that hung off of her shoulders ever so slightly, leaving just enough to the imagination. Her figure was enduring, beauty lined through each movement she made.  She was a Queen, and as such never settled for anything less. The majesty of Old Valyria clung to her features, her petite frame (though she was taller than the average Targaryen woman) and endearingly flawless alabaster skin belying her age; her braided silver-gold hair hung loosely as she entered the room in full, corralling her younger ones.  

The children in these walls were her world.  

She thought of when the twins came to her.  Death had crept in on them from all around as she lay there in her birthing bed, silently weeping as her frail body protested against what had just happened. The Usurper had won, killed Rhaegar and was making for Kings Landing.  In a moment of Lucidity, Aerys ordered his pregnant wife and young son to return to Dragonstone. When on the island they got word that a blockade was to be formed and ships were headed to the Island to apprehend the remainder of the royal family since Aerys had been slain.  What remained of their forces left to intercept the Usurper's dogs in hopes of giving the queen and her children time.

They were meant to flee but her water broke as they made their way to the two hundred-oar royal galley, recently outfitted for war, the Queen Visenya.  Forced to the birthing bed, blood pooled just under her midsection and down, her legs trembled perilously as she clung to the breath in her lungs desperately.  She wanted her baby. The midwife had been shocked as they withdrew Deanery’s, screaming. A bolt of lightning shot through the sky as the thunder followed and shook the sconces of Dragonstone. The boy that followed forced them to throw caution to the wind, begging the ailing Queen Rhaella to push just a bit longer. 

The suspicion that she had been carrying twins had been cast aside moons ago when the midwife had said she could only feel one, but there they were.  She had clung to life as Ser Willem had swept them from Dragonstone. A battle-weary and haggard Ser Oswell Whent found them after being sent back by Lord Commander Gerold Hightower to help what remained of the royal family. Taking advantage of the disarray caused by the storm he was able to help Ser Willem Darry escape with more gold and supplies as they took the Queen Regent, her infants, and the recently Crowned Prince Viserys.  

Nearly six years had passed, some of them tempestuous as Rhaella tried to understand their place in this vastly new and completely unfamiliar world and how life would continue with two new-borne babes and her now eldest remaining son.  Their father was gone, their eldest brother was gone.  They had been harried for the first few years of Daenerys and Jaehaerys life, though she was comforted by the fact that they would not remember it. They had each other, a natural connection borne from their difficult birth and even harder early years.  Viserys though was a different matter, his early years at court in his father’s presence scarred him. 

After her last stillbirth, the son before him, Viserys became the apple of Aerys eyes and the object of his fascination. However fortunate or unfortunate it was, she feared his words and actions had taken root in their young son. Unfortunately, she sometimes regarded him with scepticism.  Her son had the capability of being as handsome as any other Targaryen prince, though he was often accosted by fleeting bouts of possessiveness or irrational panic, almost as if he was still being chased. His one greatest question, one greatest desire, to return to a home that wasn’t theirs.  He clung desperately to that hope. She pushed the thoughts away, remembering the times she would soothe his panic and restlessness, the nightmares that plagued him after watching his father’s burnings. 

Even at one and ten, it worried her, the depths of his infatuation with what was rightly his and his perception that he was better than everyone.  More than once she scolded him, his treatment of the locals and servants less than kind, he even tried to skew his siblings' thoughts.  She resolved to pay him more attention and calmed herself by noting that part of what he said was in all reality true.  One day, they would return and rain fire and destruction on everyone that turned on them, but if only revenge were ever that easy. Fire and Blood.   Their house words, the mantra she sometimes found herself chanting when emotion got the better of her. It was this thought that often made her wonder about the line of succession. Viserys would certainly take precedence, his crowning guaranteed that, though she wondered if life as they knew it ever returned, would she bar her daughter from ruling? ‘No’ She thought, if it should come to it, Kings and Queen's blood was in all of their veins.  

Her twins were chasing each other around the table in the receiving room.  She had tied both of their free-flowing locks back, choosing a braid similar to her own to twist down Daenerys back.  The young girl was resplendent in her red and black summer dress, the frills bobbing as she chased her sibling, a wooden sword in her hand, her lilac eyes gleaming in the morning sun.  

Jaehaerys, the rampaging dragon that he was came tumbling to a stop just in front of his mother, breathless and laughing. My surprise. He was given the name of her father, the name meant for his stillborn sibling.  It came tumbling from her lips at his birth, a shadow of a thought although it felt right then and did so now. He looked up at her, his deep violet eyes gleaming with youthful mirth as he panted, his wooden sword in hand and a smile across the little boy's face; a slight sheen of sweat plastered his silver-gold hair to the sides of his head and forehead, birthmark very prominent.

Gods, what have they been doing? She questioned herself, chiding her lapse of judgement, They were only out of my sight for a moment.  

Her youngest, ever the playful young prince he was, wore a black tunic that fit modestly on his lithe five-year-old frame, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on his left breast only ever worn at home.  His grey breeches were belted by a black belt and a well-crafted pair of black children’s boots finished off the attire she had chosen for him.  His hair had come loose, the red tie she had used lost somewhere in their home. He would never have sat long enough for her to give him the same braid. Both of the twins had hair that stopped just below their shoulders, though Daenerys seemed to care for hers much more than her brother.  

Today was an important day, she had told them, though it seemed her children’s memories were ruled by what entertained them the most.  Jaehaerys had a head for numbers and words, similar to his sister, but a sword seemed to be his calling.  She often watched him beating the straw dolls Ser Willem had erected for them in the garden behind the manse.   I’ll be the greatest knight one day mama. He had told her, striking at the straw doll in front of him. She had agreed, it was natural of course.  He was her boy, her special boy.  Jaehaerys and Daenerys, her twin strikes of lightning.

Who said lightning does not strike the same spot twice? she thought. 

A sad smile crossed her face as her memory shifted to their eldest sibling, gone now.  She didn’t want to stunt the boy's desire, but safety, that’s what she wanted, safety, with a  modest helping of revenge.  Safety remained her greatest want, for her and her sons and daughter, for their guards that stayed, and the men and women in the home that remained loyal.  

Braavos was a haven she had been surprised by.  The free cities though, she had since come to realize, would have invariably been just that.  They were a paradise for a man on the run, wanting to vanish in a crowd of ambiguous faces from far and wide.  Though they weren’t without their own peril; the faint whispers of assassins and sell-swords hired to murder them in the night.  A Targaryen mind was keen, a Targaryen mind with something to lose, was deadly; Though inevitably she realized anonymity could be their friend.  

Their first few years on the run had nearly done them in, but it wasn’t long before through very crafty manoeuvring, she was able to fully proffer evidence of her apparent “death”. 

What remained of her ever faithful Kingsguard efficiently dispatched any emissaries of The Stranger they couldn’t escape and all that knew the truth who she suspected were liable to turn on them. Keep my children safe. With that, wind, words, and little birds carried off whispers of the apparent demise of the last of the Targaryen’s somewhere in the streets of Braavos.  Her blood ties had found her amiable lodging, and promises had secured the often flapping mouths of the ruling Sealord of Braavos. Perhaps words on paper, some little more than an assurance. But we are safe.   She had used it all, to find them some form of comfort, and luckily Ser Willem had made off with a decent amount of gold.  

She found a chair and pulled it in front of her son who remained seated, his sister walking barefoot towards them from behind him.  As Rhaella sat she gestured for her boy to stand as she twirled her finger in a circle, indicating for the boy to turn.  Reaching back she drew her braid and one of the ribbons on it.  She took the black and red ribbon and tugged on her son's shoulders, pulling him towards her as he fumbled backwards until he felt himself standing in front of his mother’s knees.  

“Be more careful darling, we mustn’t take too long.”  She said softly, running a hand through the young prince's hair, parting it in the centre of his head before running her fingers through it, pulling a giggle from the frowning Princeling.   She separated the hair appropriately and began to braid it down, finishing by tying the ribbon she had taken from her hair in his.  

Jaehaerys rolled his eyes, an action Daenerys couldn’t help but smile at, her lips parting to expose two rows of pearly white teeth, except for the missing two along the top row.  Rhaella knew even though his back was to them, she smirked as she swatted him lightly on the back of his head. He followed it up with a faint ‘Oww’ as she and Daenerys shared a knowing smile, unaware her youngest was rolling his eyes again. The five-year-old oft tried to claim some semblance of maturity and mutiny in his actions.  Such a confusing thing to do, Daenerys had told her mother, especially when she thought of how freely her brother ran about the house paired with how scared he was when something was broken.  Rhaella watched Daenerys give her brother a small smile as she watched her brother's face scrunch up in mild protest, though nothing came.  

Rhaella smiled, a soft motion pressing against her cheeks as she pat Jaehaerys on the shoulders again.  “Much better.” She said

“Thank you, mama.”  He muttered in response, not turning around but eyeing his sister demurely.  

“Can we keep on playing?”  Daenerys asked, her voice soft and gentle, polite. As she had been taught.

Rhaella was standing now, though she shook her head at her daughter, motioning for the girl to follow her.  “Come, it's time we broke our fast.” She said. The girl set her wooden sword on the chair, her twin following suit as they followed each other to the dining room.  

Rhaella had told them of how different the keeps and castles of Westeros were, compared to the smaller homes built in the Bravoosi manner.  Our home is nice enough, she told herself, often wondering if it was anything like the homes her ancestors had lived in, all those years ago.  Perhaps she used it as a means of solace, a nugget of enduring hope for something better, and a desire to soothe the longing for more.  Humility. Her twins crossed the threshold, taking their desired positions next to each other, that ever-present connection binding them.  It made her smile. 

The Queen wondered if they would follow in her own path and find themselves bound to each other in a more romantic way, or perhaps Viserys would take Daenerys for his wife? She thought that to be unlikely and if she were honest, a bit disconcerting.  She would never force them to marry, but she wondered if she would allow it should it happen. She found that every circumstance would have to be judged individually and tried her hardest to prepare for any eventuality so long as her children were happy and safe.  

She sat at the head of the table, the twins on her right side.  Viserys followed them moments later, yawning as he padded in, barefoot. There was a softness in his eyes, a touch of something else. Perhaps it was just the morning rays that bathed them in a light that shone brilliantly through, making the lilac of his eyes look as if they were glowing. He could be so handsome. The thought coming and going. He gave them an easy smile as he slid into his chair opposite his younger brother. It seemed he wasn’t caught in the throes of puberty this morning and that was a blessing for them all. 

“Good morning?” She questioned him as the boy took his seat to her left, a smirk of frustration crossing her face as she noted his unkempt hair. 

A boy of one and ten did not make for the tidiest of people, though he had dressed well enough, he was clad similar to his brother, though where Jaehaerys breeches had been grey, his were black.  

The boy offered her the slightest of nods and a murmur of hello. “Where’s the food?” He asked, realizing the table was empty.  

Rhaella smiled, “Before we eat we all need to speak about today.” she began.  Her elder son sighed, she heard, pushing aside his frustration. He hadn’t eaten much the previous night, saying his head ached.  He must have woken hungry, hoping they would just start eating, but he should have remembered that she had plans she’d spoken of moons ago. 

“There will be strangers here, strangers that can help us. Representatives of a banking institution, I trust the three of you remember what I told you that is?”  She asked, giving them the faintest of smiles and approving nods when they each murmured or nodded an affirmative.  

“Good.”  She paused, her eyes falling on each one of them, making sure their attention was solely on her.   “It’s very important that you are all on your best behaviour.  Ser Oswell will be returning with the representative by mid-morning, and I may request each of you there.”  She paused, a small smile breaking her otherwise austere guise, the face and voice of a queen.  

If all went well then their days in Braavos were numbered.  She could feel a burgeoning fear and excitement. She hadn't had many opportunities to apply her cleverness, Aerys did not like women with a mind, but for the future of her children, she would cull the fear he’d instilled and learn to use every ounce of her ability.  

Realizing that the attention of her children, the younger ones to be precise, would eventually flounder and vanish, she clapped quickly.  Each child knew what that meant as the servants came through the door that hid the kitchen with a few platters.  Nothing too special, a rasher of eggs and bacon, some brown bread, butter, and some kind of jam. Mayhaps, pomegranate?   They gave the queen a glass of mulled wine, sliding each child a cup of milk and juice.  

As the servants withdrew and she nodded, she watched as her children began eating.  Noting with a reserved smile each of their tendencies and habits playing out fully.  Where Viserys always looked over his food for a moment, before cutting up each bite into smaller portions, her youngest Jaehaerys threw discretion to the wind.  He was always either not hungry at all or starving, never a place between.  His wild heart and nature even played out as he would often forgo a fork after a while, his fingers being his greatest utensils. She had given up swatting his hands, he was a boy, and far off from his duties as a prince.  

Daenerys, from the moment she could walk let alone talk, had taken to emulating Rhaella in her every move, save those free moments she and her brother would chase each other through the house or garden.  She watched as Daenerys tried her hardest to sip at her pomegranate juice as she had seen her mother sip at her wine.  A small dainty hand curled around the glass that was just a bit too large. Realizing this, the girl grasped it with her other hand, saving Rhaella a moment of panic.  

Turning from her food, she looked up brows furrowed, she could hear the faintest clink and jingle of metal and the muffled tap of boots on a rug. Odd. The thought vanished as Ser Willem came around the corner.  He looked healthier than he should have, for a man nearing sixty name days, clad in solid brown from head to toe save for the black tunic under his leather jerkin.  He had a hand-and-a-half sword sheathed on his left and a small dagger with an emerald in the pommel glinting from his belt on his right.  He was bent only slightly as he made his way in, the years of service as the Red Keeps master-at-arms only slightly showing its cost. 

There was a warm smile on his aged face pressing into his ever-greying brown beard. The bald bear of a man planted himself off to the right, sliding into the corner as he found the stool he often enjoyed. He drew his leg up, a booted foot resting on his knee as he pulled out a piece of wood and slid out the dagger from his side.  

Giving the briefest of smiles and a quick dip of his head he looked over the royal family, “Good morning Your Grace and assorted highnesses.” 

“Ser Willem,” Rhaella replied followed by a gaggle of muffled greetings as each child replied in return, though each child’s mouth was at some stage of eating.  

Rhaella finished a sip of her drink before she looked over at the former master-at-arms, a fond smile lingering on her lips as she nodded to the man once more. Her violet eyes moved back over the scene before she spoke, “Any word?” She asked, not impolite.  

“Not much, Your Grace.  We hope Ser Oswell will receive some real news, but nothing of note from the Seven.  Our contacts in the Red Keep say that a second child has been born.  A girl to add to the usurper's flock.”  He paused, near spitting, he continued with a hard sigh “Though nothing new elsewhere. Most that were loyal to the Targaryen’s have slipped into silence now.”

“Cravens,”  Rhaella muttered.  

Willem nodded, “Indeed Your Grace, you won’t hear an argument from me.”

“And Lord Connington?” She asked.  

“Connington should be back in a fortnight.  Though his message is a moon's turn old now.  We feared the worst but he was following word on a Lyseni boy rumoured to have been taken as a babe yet recently returned to his family.”

“That came to nought?” She asked.  Watching her children, though Daenerys had paused eating, Viserys had looked up, meaning to ask a question but thought better of it.  They are learning. Though as she watched her youngest she couldn’t help the smirk that crossed her face, he either didn’t care or was pretending not to.  

“Aye, your grace. The rumours were just that... rumours.  We’d hoped it was Aegon, but from Jon’s account, it was not. Oswell believes it to be a great lie started by the Usurper to lure out traitors.  A bait and hook with false information on a lone Targaryen heir. They would search for this Prince only to have their trail followed and end up murdered.”

Rhaella nodded, they were rumours, started by who they didn't really know, but they had a few guesses.  Her instincts had told her nothing would come from it, that there was no way Elia would have spirited only Aegon away yet left Rhaenys to her death, but her maternal drive to care for her blood had to make sure.  She turned her gaze slightly, watching her children now.  Jaehaerys finally paused, listening to what they were saying. Though when he met her eyes he went back to eating. 

She sighed inwardly, knowing it had been better not to hope. Wiping the thought from her mind, she put a piece of bread with a fork of eggs and bacon in her mouth.  As she chewed she thought, If all of Rhaegar’s children are gone, then we have no choice but to rally around myself and the children.  I can only flaunt my existence in private for so long before news escapes that we are actually alive.  Before that though…we have to prepare.  

“Hopefully Jon doesn't bring any murderers home with him. Do you know when Ser Oswell will be back?” her voice broke the silence as she was now aware that each child had finished and was now watching her.  

Looking up from the small dragon he was whitling he nodded, “In a few hours Your Grace.  The Banking Guild moves at its own pace.  Since they aren't a part of the Iron Bank and they take on clients with a bit more notoriety, they have the ability to dictate their own movements and terms.  Though I’m certain it is good news. They don’t send an envoy to just anybody’s home.”  

She nodded in agreement, taking a deep breath before she took another sip of her drink. “Well, then I suppose the three of you are free for a time then.”  

Their smiles mirrored her own as the twins leapt from their chairs, moving as fast as their little legs could carry them as brother followed sister this time, making their way towards the back garden.  

Viserys had stayed, lingering quietly as he looked down at his now empty plate.  

“What’s wrong?” She asked, her voice soft and tender, the shift in her stately demeanour present as the Mother within graced her lips.  

Viserys looked at her, his pale lilac eyes searching for something.  “Are…they still after us?”  He asked.   

Her mouth parted, but she paused, realizing where his worry came from.  “No, we are fine. I promise you, my little prince.”  She said, having slid from her chair, now kneeling in front of him.  “I had only hoped for another little dragon, but it was not meant to be.”

Viserys eyes grew wide for a moment before narrowing.  “Why? Why would we want more dragons? Would that not be a danger for us?” he looked in the direction of his brother and sister before turning back to his mother.  “We’re all we need.”

She breathed lightly, hiding her sigh, “We are safe Viserys, I swear it.”  She placed a tender kiss on his forehead as she drew him into her, pressing the boy against herself as she willed some semblance of peace into him before pulling away.  “Now go, start your lessons with Ser Willem.”  

Viserys nodded though frowned as he slid his chair back, got off and made his way to the older knight.  With a quick bow, they were headed to the back, leaving Rhaella to her own devices.

“You are swine Ballar Nahios.”

He could do little less than dip his head in apology, a small almost imperceptible smile on his face.  “You truly must forgive me, Your Grace.” Smooth and silky, he simpered on. “But what could you possibly offer us?”

Fire and Blood. “My promise. Knowing that you support the future of House Targaryen.”

“Apologies Your Grace, but ‘House Targaryen’ doesn’t have much of a future from where I’m sitting.”

It took everything out of her to not simply stand and strike the man on the side of his head with the blunt side of her goblet. “I assure you, Ser, House Targaryen is well.” She paused as she fingered said goblet, her idle index running along the lip before she grasped it with a certain finality.

“You came here for a reason, I’m sure of that.  But, if that reason is to waste my time, you will be escorted out.”  And that was that. She took the goblet and finished her drink before setting it back down. Rhaella had come to a realization, long ago, that she would no longer play any game but her own. She pushed herself from the desk, her chair scraping against the floor. She nodded to Ser Willem, her eyes still on the banker as she swept past him, focusing once more on the door to her left, just passed a bookshelf.  

“My knight will see you out now.” She intoned, brokering no option.  Her face had slipped into a demure mask of soft moonstone, her full lips drawn into a line.  

“Your Grace!” He chirped swiveling his head and turning to follow her out as Ser Willem approached him, all form of hospitality gone as the chair behind him was pulled away from the desk.  “Y-your G-Grace, we aren’t done…” He called nervously now as Rhaella left the solar of the manse, his lips twitching as he grasped for what to say; small beady eyes glancing back as he clutched at the desk before standing just in time to have Ser Willem roughly clasp his upper arm.  

Rhaella paused, and turned slightly, just enough to give the man one last discourteous glance.  “You’ve done nothing but insult me, my children, and my House. You see a woman, easy enough to manipulate or bully, but you will find Ser, that is not true.”  She looked at her associate, nodding to Ser Willem again.  “Do see him out, Ser Willem.”

He bobbed his head, “Your Grace.”

“Your Grace!” The banker called, hastily realizing he had overstepped.  “Please, I-I was instructed to offer you an agreement with new terms, terms that if they are reached we will see to it that you are extended a larger amount!” 

That was enough to make her pause and lift her hand, instructing Ser Willem to leave the man be with the faintest ‘ahem’.  She turned in full, her head tilting to the side like a wolf curiously inspecting potential prey.  “Why all of this?” She asked, waving a hand through the air.  

He at least had the capacity for humility it seemed, as he looked down, “Apologies, again, Your Grace.  I was simply told to ascertain your passion for this…venture.” 

Flared nostrils and a rough exhale were all she gave.  Little more would have moved the man further, she knew, so she made her way back to the negotiation table, both figuratively and literally.  

“Consider my passion adequate.” She said as she slid forward in her chair.  “And if what you said is true, then you have papers?” At his nod, she extended her hand.  “May I?”

No more than twenty minutes later the group's silence was broken by the tap of a stack of papers being aligned and the shuffling of paper on wood as Rhaella finished looking over the contract.  She tapped her chin now, absently staring out of the window across from her.  The morning had led into a lovely afternoon, she actually wasn’t sure of the hour. Beautiful billowy white clouds hung in the air, meandering across the sea blue sky.  She stifled a smile, realizing that it had been a good idea not to bring the children in here.  

With a soft breath, she returned to the here and now, turning back to the man, eyes narrowed.  I don’t like you. In this light, her eyes were more black than violet and held no warmth for him.  “Very well Ser.”  She began, drawing it out as she thought. “And if I agree to these terms, how should I expect payment?”  She questioned, a small frown crossing her cheeks.  

The man looked up, drawn back in, a sudden expectation usurping his fear.  “Blank gold and silver bullion, Your Grace.”  He began, pausing, “Delivered nightly in fruit crates.”  He offered her a tentative smile. 

“Anonymity?” 

He gave her a quick and terse nod, “Silence is key to a fruitful relationship, Your Grace. We have money invested in quite a few different places.”

“My possible opponents?”

He smiled now, his oddly thick face folding back at his purple lips, exposing strangely pristine teeth.  An ugly man, if ever there were.  “To speak on that would be to break our word to our associates Your Grace.” 

She didn’t even try to hide her eye roll.  “Of Course.”

She remained silent now, allowing it to invade the room, her eyes unwavering as she inspected the foulness that sat before her desk.  He was oddly thin with a thick and leathery head, deep-set eyes and wide dark lips.  When he had first entered she had to stifle a grimace.  Like many other ‘noble’ folk here, he was heavily perfumed. Reeking of some thick musk, she had opted to keep the man at arm’s length, not even reaching to grasp his hand.

Tapping the desk now she finally decided, and with a flourish, she took the quill she had left on the desk and the stopper of ink before setting the feather to the paper.  “I agree”

The man’s offensive smile came back.  She maintained her grimace and offered him the briefest flash of her upturned lips.  With a few more niceties, Ser Willem was seeing the man out, leaving her to her silence and her thoughts for a few moments, idle as they were.  She meant to ponder more before she heard the familiar click and shuffle of Ser Willems boots.  

“Servant saw him out?”

“Aye, your grace.” He said, thin lips parting behind a bushy brown, red, and grey beard, showing his chipped and flattened, yellowing teeth.  That didn’t matter though, the man emitted warmth and safety.  

She smiled up at him, “And what do you think?” 

Ser Willem sat with a huff, placing an arm on his Queens desk.  He found his jaw underneath his beard, resting his chin on his knuckles.  “They aren’t the Iron Bank, I know why it can’t be the Iron Bank, but still.”  He paused, thinking.  “They are risky, but if we ever want to get home risks will be necessary.”

“So then you approve?”

He nodded his agreement, “Aye Your Grace, I think it’s necessary.”

“You think it’s necessary, is very different from ‘You approve’.” She chided, a rueful smile on her face.

A smile took hold of Willems's face.  Rhaella was a beauty, it didn’t matter what land they were in.  He chuckled softly, his gruff voice pouring out, “I approve your grace, though, it doesn’t matter whether I agree or not.”

She tsk’d, shaking her head, “It does matter. You’re here, you’ve always been here and I value your judgment.”

He nodded, amidst the smile, “I approve your grace.”

“Good. Though I should tell you, I have no intention of paying them back, in fact, I mean  to either own them or destroy them by the end of this venture.”

His eyes widened, but he froze at her words.  His mouth opened, paused, and then closed, most likely in thought as he seemed to settle on silence.  He nodded slightly before their eyes met.   

“Worry not Ser Willem, I’m fairly certain this will pay off.  Besides…'' She turned to him now, her smile pulling from cheek to cheek as the light caught her violet eyes just right, making them shine with a life and vibrance that momentarily took Ser Willem’s breath away. “…It should be, if anything, much more exciting than what we’ve been doing.  One doesn’t conquer an island too often.”

“Step forward! Good, now pivot...” The instructions were easy enough. “Parry and counter...” but alas they still escaped the child's five-year-old form as he overextended and tripped, falling to the ground. Dany was sitting cross-legged off to the right, in the shade of a gazebo, wearing leather breeches and an untucked black tunic. Her jerkin was on the ground beside her, underneath her boots, a small wooden sword tucked under her arm. Daenerys smiled at the show and clapped, before pushing herself from the ground, all five years of strength standing with a lithe whoosh. 

“Ser Oswell?” She began, ever so politely. “I’m hungry, I think Jae is too.”

Jaehaerys sat up and leaned back on his elbows as he puffed air out. “I am.” He added, wiping his brow off on his forearm before he turned and stood as well, a small smile pulling at his face.

Oswell frowned, watching the pair as he shifted uncomfortably in his light chainmail and boiled leathers. As he grew, Jaehaerys hair had also grown out. The birthmark slowly vanished in a sea of the same silver he’d seen the majority of his adult life.  Oswell wasn’t sure if he appreciated it, it was how he separated the pair, especially during their little games.

“Aye, we can stop, unless the pair of you are plotting something...” which was a likelihood. They seemed intent on catching Oswell unaware, even if it meant camping out in the garden for half a night just to try to startle him. He brought his hands up, and using his index and middle finger he pointed at the pair, bringing the hand back to his eyes as he squinted at them. “I will be watching you prince and princess,” he spoke softly, with an air of forewarning even, the smile that threatened to betray him told them differently though. 

It was all he needed as Jaehaerys loped off now, approaching Dany as he grabbed her boots and she stooped to take the rest. “Do you think Viserys is done?” The young prince asked, looking up at Oswell.

The knight shook his head, “He’s with his tutor, probably best to leave him be.”

“And mother?” Dany prodded.

Oswell shook his head, “She’s busy as well princess.” He approached the pair, placing his hands on their shoulders as he turned them both back around. “Be glad you aren’t stuck in there with her. Now let’s go to the kitchen and see if there isn’t something a cook can prepare for you.” A half smile wormed its way up one side of his face, blue eyes constantly monitoring his surroundings. “You both did well today.”

Daenerys beamed as she walked, twirling around barefoot, braid following her. “Could I be a water dancer?” She asked facing him though skipping backwards.

With a nod, “Of course, you could.” He would never say otherwise, it just so happened that he did see the makings of a fine warrior princess. “Queen Visenya reborn.”

“And me?” Jaehaerys turned expectantly, near completely silver-gold hair following him as he did, the braid had survived. Deep violet eyes looked at Oswell; clear hope for approval. 

“The Dragonknight if ever I’ve seen.” He proclaimed, a firm nod for the princeling. The boy was an oddity, a blessing if ever he’d seen one. Rhaella doted on him, and he couldn’t help but see why. The child’s tenacity and drive and simple love for his sister were infectious, his smiles came easier than his brother, but therein was the crux...Viserys approval and affection were what he wanted most, though the elder prince had shown his displeasure at having a brother to contend with. He doubted Jaehaerys had any designs for more than what he would do in the next hour, his age the obvious reason. 

Dany was gifted with an effortless grace for her age that made her nothing but adorable. She twirled around, still bouncing on the balls of her feet as she skipped alongside her brother.  Jaehaerys followed at a run-walk, the pair in some sort of animated conversation that Oswell couldn’t help but smile and shake his head at. They acted as each other’s crutch, making up for what the other lacked, by standing by each other through thick and thin. 

Crossing the threshold into the kitchens, Jaehaerys and Daenerys dropped their belongings on the ground off to the side near the door before running to a counter where a tray of what he assumed were some kind of tarts. A cook happened to walk in to the room and greeted the twins with a smile, speaking to them in bastard Valyrian. Oswell tried to hide his frown, barely able to understand the language. But whatever they said must have worked as the twins approached the knight, a tart in their hands and identical smiles across twin cheeks.  

Rhaella made her way from her solar after conferring with Ser Willem, revisiting her plans before she decided to see what her youngest son and daughter were doing.  Viserys was pushed into further studies with yet another teacher.  He abhorred learning history, and finding a tutor in Westerosi lore was hard enough. Pondering a solution to the child’s displeasure, she had chanced upon watching her youngest practising with a sword, his fumbled movements and subsequent fall. 

The mother in her wanted nothing more than to give Ser Oswell a word or two, logic and sense knew he needed to learn, her hovering wouldn’t help him or Daenerys.  His sister’s cheering seemed to pull him from his disappointment, and she couldn’t help but smile.  

The three in the garden made their way back into the Manse, and Oswell trailed behind the twins.  She knew they were going to the kitchens, so she walked slowly and listened.  As she made it to the door, she was met by a retreating cook who opened his mouth to say something but was silenced by a quick though polite “Shh” as she gestured for him to continue with a smile. 

The maids and servants usually shared a laugh amongst themselves when the queen took to her guilty pleasure, listening to the twins plot and plan and play.  If anything, their childish wonder and endless positivity were like a light in the darkness.  

“…more than one?” That was Ser Oswell.  She smiled at the man's tone, playful and measuring, though ultimately yielding.  He had no backbone when it came to them.  

Daenerys replied,  “Mhmm, he said we could have as many as we like.”

Rhaella could almost see the duplicity in her minds eye.  Her own lips pulled into a smile.  

“He did Ser Oswell, I swear it.” She bit her lip now, stifling the laugh that almost burst from her.  I swear it. Jaehaerys was lying; She knew it, but would Ser Oswell know?

“I would say you were lying, but I honestly have no idea what he said.”

“Most likely not that they could have as much as they want.” Rhaella interrupted, seeing the knight was at a loss.  She had stepped through the door, a small smile pulling at one cheek as she regarded the pair for a moment.  “You naughty children.”

“Mama!” Twin voices called out, belying their surprise with excitement.  Oh how she loved this, they were still at an age where their love for their mother could be shown with little to no impunity.  She would miss it as they came of age, but for now, she revelled in the pair that threw themselves around her legs.  

Ser Oswell, already standing dipped his head, “Your Grace.”

“We really must get you a tutor Oswell.”

“Perish the thought Your Grace.  It may take me longer than others but I’ll pick it up.”

She shook her head, one side of her cheek rose in a half smile. “Then they will try to trick you until you do.”

“Just makes me work that much harder, keeps me on my toes.”  He shrugged. “Though you may be right.” He nodded to the twins, “The little ones can help me. One can get lazy living here and my mother always said that idle minds are a demon's plaything.” He was smiling as he finished speaking.  

Rhaella rolled her eyes dismissing the idea, though remained playful, “Hopefully that won't be an issue for very long.”

Jaehaerys and Daenerys looked at her, just as Oswell did the same.  The adults shared a look, a moment of understanding that near six years of forced exile and running could foster.  “The meeting was fruitful?” The knight asked.  

“It was.”

“You didn’t want us there?” Daenerys interrupted.  

Rhaella looked down before she shook her head and gently untwined herself from the pair. “I think we should all speak as things will be changing in a few moons.”  She looked up to Oswell, “Can you get Viserys and meet me in my Solar? If you see Ser Willem, tell him to come as well.”

The knight agreed, turning and leaving the kitchens by way of the garden, as he made his way to the sunroom to fetch Viserys, while Rhaella herded the younger two through the manse.  They peppered her with questions, but she simply shook her head as they finally came to the room and each took a seat on the couch. 

It was only moments later when Viserys made his way in, sitting between the twins, snatching a pillow from behind Jaehaerys and pushing it under his arm, physically separating him from Daenerys.  He was still put out, blaming his sister for being stuck studying longer. She had managed to memorize information that he found trivial, and their mother had condemned him to more reading while his siblings were free to play.  

Ser Willem made his way in, followed by Ser Oswell who turned and closed the door. Before making his way to the chair Ser Willem had been in during the earlier meeting.  The other knight pivoted back and stood in front of the door, his left hand resting on the pommel of his sword, ever a guard.  He winked at Jaehaerys, whose eyes always found the man's sword at his hip, itching to wield his own.  Jaehaerys frowned at the knight, blushing at being caught before he turned back to his mother.  

“War.” No preamble.  It actually caught Oswell off guard, enough for him to blink twice almost frowning before he tilted his head in questioning, wondering how she would follow up such a brazen opening.  “You three, my children, know all too well what war is.  What war does to people, even the innocent, because that’s what you three are. You were innocent of any crime perpetrated by your father, and even by a lesser standard myself.” 

Ser Oswell made to interject but she shook it off.

“It’s a harsh truth, but a truth nonetheless.  I turned a blind eye to my husband, I said nothing as all fell to ruin and focused solely on our children. Though, that I don’t regret it.”  She added because she didn’t. “I do regret giving the people a reason to remove us, hate us as they did.” She sighed, realizing she would need to turn this around before the blackness of sadness swallowed her.  

“Though what I mean to do will give some cause to hate us, it is a stepping stone to our ultimate goal.  Returning home.”  Viserys had leaned forward, silve-gold brows furrowed. “You are my children and as such this is your right to know.  We will be leaving Braavos soon, sailing the Shivering Sea for the Island of Ibben.” 

“Why?” Viserys asked, though she herself wondered why he even bothered, he wasn’t foolish.  Rhaella was purposefully straightforward, her words particularly simple, for the twin's sake more than anyone else.  But Viserys, the proverbial fly on the wall that he tried to be, knew the purpose of the meeting she’d had, he made a bad habit of sneaking about the Manse trying to covertly listen to conversations which in truth he was horrible at.

She’d seen him, lurking about and waiting for her.  Rhaella’s meetings had started at least three or four moons ago, each with a foreboding sense of finality as she never felt too happy when all was said and done, though this time, she wasn’t sure what her son saw.  He was focused on her, waiting on each breath, almost willing her to allow him to live a childhood fantasy of bloody revenge for his family.  

She gave him the slightest of smiles, “I’m sure you know.” He blushed and slid back in his seat, though his eyes never left her.  She knew he snuck out to listen, he wasn’t quiet enough.  His patience was a liability she hoped he would conquer. “Though, what I mean is war.”

Daenerys’s eyes grew wide, though her twin remained silent, unsure what to feel.  “Will we hurt people, mama?” Daenerys asked.  Rhaella’s intent was obvious. She had hoped to simply allow the children to understand their reality, not shield them from a cruel truth.  They were children dealt a horrible hand, and would have to learn to live with it.  She sighed, unsure what to say…

“Why does that matter?” Viserys cut in.  “We’re dragons.  We do as we please, anything it takes to get home.”

Rhaella’s jaw clenched.  “No VI---”

“Is that true mama?” Jaehaerys asked.

Their mother shook her head, her eyes glued to her now eldest.  “While we are dragons, we will do this as quickly and peacefully as possible.  I promise you that.  I do not mean to place the people under any amount of unnecessary violence. As I said, this is a stepping stone, as well as a way to put distance between us and the Iron Throne.  The isle is North of Essos mainland in the Shivering Sea and east of Braavos, Lorath, Saath, and Morosh.”

“How though?”  Viserys questioned, pushing his brother back before he could say more.  “We don’t have an army or even a ship.  You said the usurper killed everyone that was loyal and all the others that were hiding were now too craven to raise arms!” She cursed inwardly, he really did listen in.  She vaguely remembered the conversation she had with Jon Connington before he left. It had been after a few cups of wine, angry words came easier.  

“You overheard me when I was angry, Viserys.  It’s not good to listen in on the conversations of your elders, especially your mother !” She snapped.  He shrunk back, sufficiently cowed, though eager. The look in his eyes spoke volumes.  He was old enough to remember the fear that came with the violence.  She knew above all, he never wanted to be vulnerable again.  It hurt her heart to see his pain.  

“But…” She began, “Viserys is only partially right.  Though that is not a conversation I wish to have with the three of you.  You must all be aware that our lives will change, and it will be sudden.  I’m not certain as to how long our preparations will take, but when that time comes, I do not want any questions, simply obedience.”

Her three silver/gold-haired children nodded in understanding, though each at a varying level.  She wanted to ask them all what they were feeling.  She wanted to take them all and lock them in some vault where they would be safe from the world and its chaos, the disorder that surrounded power and the twisted plays that controlled their lives. 

She was at a loss on how to proceed, realizing then that she had never been privy to such things whilst her husband ruled.  She felt out of her depth, nothing more than a broodmare playing at being a dragon. Fire and blood. Their house words.  I am a dragon. We are dragons.

Failure was not an option.  

“And he was our nephew?” Daenerys asked, her head tilted slightly to the right as her braid dangled off to the side.  It was hours later, after their mother had told them what she had and the siblings were now amongst each other.  They had yet to speak of what their mother had said, but they knew it was coming.  She was kicking her feet on the bench beside her twin, watching their brother train in the yard next to the gardens.  

Viserys took two quick steps back, twirling the wooden sword in his hand as he took one lunging step forward, striking the wood and straw quintain on the right with a mighty rap.  He smiled at his work before he turned to his younger siblings.  

“He was, but he’s dead. Like all the rest of our family.” 

“Really?”  Jaehaerys asked curiosity on his face.  “But Lord Connington hasn’t come home.”

Viserys shrugged, “I heard Mother speaking to Ser Willem and then Ser Oswell. But don’t you worry, my baby brother and sister.” He smiled brightly and paused for emphasis.  “We are the last of the true, pure dragons.” He had stopped his movement completely, his sword resting at his side as he looked between both of his siblings. 

The Braavosi sun beat against the trio’s fair skin with an unbridled fury they still had yet to master. Their cheeks flushed in the sun like ripening berries as Viserys looked them over, both of them, with searching lilac eyes.  They look the same. He found himself thinking, sometimes longing for the brother long gone.  He missed the sibling he thought he resembled, but the memories were so faint he doubted it now; owing it to childish wants.  He brushed it aside, his thoughts returned to them.  

When they were born, he had been surprised at first, then angry.  He thought the boy was a challenge to his eventual authority, a rival, and as such hated him.  Even his hair. Especially his hair. The black strip amongst silver and gold had thrown him.  He questioned the boy's validity, his purity, but he couldn’t deny the otherwise high Valyrian looks they shared.  The birthmark in his hair shrunk slowly, year after year, reminding Viserys that he truly was one of them.  

As they grew he definitely could no longer deny it,  Jaehaerys and Daenerys were copies of the opposite sex.  Their laughs matched, and their mannerisms were similar.  Where they were different in their passions, they made up for in their connection.  An odd realization, as it seemed each was acutely aware of the other's emotional state.  It made it hard for Viserys at times, a feeling of longing for Rhaegar ever-present.  His mother and even both knights would counsel him against wallowing in pity, but at times he couldn’t help it…they were as much a reminder of what they had lost, as their daily lives were.  He stifled the growing frustration and resulting frown.  

“So sod the others, right Jaehaerys?” Viserys asked, turning his frown as he smiled when his brother gave him an enthusiastic nod.  “Good. Now go put on your padding and get your sword, I’ll show you what Ser Willem wants me to learn today.” He said, his brother leaping from the bench with so much excitement he nearly fell, but caught himself.  

Rhaella was watching from the same window overlooking the back garden.  She pushed it open, the creaking joint surprisingly quiet as she watched her three reasons to live do whatever it was they did together.  She worried for them like any mother would. But she was afraid...She simply hoped life would eventually get easier. 

Planning a war was a tedious affair, she soon came to realize.  But also a dire necessity.  She had never actually entered a war room during the formulation of attacks, she was never actually taught the subtle nuances and ebb and flow of true warfare, only ever reading about it and running from it.  But she couldn’t deny it, it was thrilling.  Ser Oswell and Ser Willem had given her enough praise as she moved their fleet pieces across the shivering sea.  

“How many do you think we can launch at any given time?” Her eyes were hard as she plotted nine ship-shaped pieces leaving Lorath, six more from Saath, and seven more from Morosh.  “From my last count, we had secured sixteen war galleys, and six long ships to make up the bulk of our armada.”

“Aye, but you can add seven carracks. Courtesy of Magister Illyrio Mopatis.” Oswell added, the smoother of the two knights.  His age gave him room for idle cynicism, an irreverent tone in each word.  Though his eyes were the key to his less-than-complimentary comments…he cared for most of the people in this room with a silent ferocity you would be hard-pressed to challenge.    

Rhaella smirked, unsure of the Magister.  He had presented himself as an ally, but she wasn’t actually certain how or why.  He played the role of friend and advisor, a worthy conciliator of her needs, wants and desires.  She did not trust him; even after the eggs he had presented, a gift only a dragon can truly cherish. She had stowed them away, planning to present them to her children once this was done, though not before admiring them herself, noting an undeniable warmth present in all three.  She had meant to say more, but watched as Illyrio, and then Oswell and even Willem said nothing.  How queer? She had thought then.

She took seven more ship pieces from the side and placed two more at each port, but remained holding the last…”And we have men for every ship, and soldiers as well?”

Oswell Nodded.  “We do Your Grace, but our force shouldn’t encounter too great an opposition.  These savages are not warriors.  They fish and dig.” He chuckled. “They're probably as soft as the Tyrells. There isn’t a standing military and their leadership is spread out.  Aye, they may see us sailing in, but by then barring no mistakes, we’re too close for them to mount a true defence.  It's their ships we need to worry about, those are their true power.” He finished, drawing his finger along the eastern shore of the island. 

“So long as we have the wind on our side, move at night, and prey to the gods we aren’t struck by a storm we can drop anchor.” He grimaced at his tone, not chancing a look at the Queen.  “Thankfully we’ve been North so we know what to expect, though I doubt many of our ‘ soldiers’ will know what to do in the cold.  The bulk of our force will be ferried to Ibben.” The knight found his trust lacking when it came to sellswords or sellsail’s but realized their necessity.  He shifted some pieces on the map, bringing nine ships in total to create a line between Ibben and the mainland of Essos.  “We will have a detachment of ships form a roving blockade until we can secure our hold.  

Rhaella nodded.  “We have no interest in New Ibbish, so we can allow a few people to escape, though we will have to take hostages.”  She paused, disliking the taste of the word in her mouth.  “Targaryen banners will send a panic, which is why I am considering a temporary banner.  We will have to move swiftly to show them all we are not to be toyed with.” 

Rhaella Targaryen turned to the man who sat silently to the right of the table.  “Nothing to add Ballar?”

The man in question shook his head, “No, Your Grace. Merely admiring Your Grace’s company and talent .” He tried to feign a smile, but it came off as little more than a grimace, in her astute opinion, the man would be better served hiding his face behind a veil.  

Willem gripped the pommel of his sword as Oswell stifled a response.  Rhaella clenched her jaw but released just as quickly, internally shaking it off reminding herself that he was sent only to insure his superiors interests. His veiled insults, misgiving because of her sex, would have to be overlooked.   He was a necessary evil, though one she hoped she wouldn’t be saddled with for too long.  She looked away from him, arms crossing over her bosom as she looked down imperiously.

The attack left quite a bit to chance, but the Sea was a temperamental bitch and nothing was certain when sailing it.  Their force was solid enough. The bulk made up of the Windblown led by the Tattered Prince. They had yet to meet, but the man had promised his forces to the growing Targaryen host, hoping for a new location to call home.  They had agreed, as sooner or later, they would need soldiers to stand with them and for them.  If anything it promised to add to their growing notoriety.  

“Last word from the Tattered Prince puts his numbers at three thousand five hundred, with the five hundred unsullied our banking associates managed to procure for us and the fifteen hundred men-at-arms Magister Illyrio is providing, our force stands strong with fifty-five hundred men. A good number of which are mounted.” Ser Willem told them as he looked over a piece of paper he had been marking numbers down on.  

“Our cavalry and infantry?” The Queen asked.

“Of the Windblown, I believe two thousand of their number are cavalry, the remainder are infantry. The remainder of our force is infantry as well with a few seamen scattered in that will remain on the ships.  It’s doubtful we will need siege weapons, which is good because we don’t have any.” Willem frowned.  “The word our associate has given us is that they haven’t had a true attack in some time, so yet again a night surprise attack plays to our advantage.”

“That goes without saying.”  Oswell mocked, smirking all the while. 

“Aye, it does.”

Rhaella had to stifle a yawn before she looked outside and noted suddenly that the hour had slipped past them.  She had to excuse herself from the room, leaving her ever-faithful knights to their planning whilst she made off to see to her children before they fell asleep.  

She was going over numbers in her head, counting the number of ships they still needed to adequately supply their soldiers with enough passage.  Each tally made the venture more daunting. Her heart beat faster as the total grew… Is this the right course of action? She couldn’t second guess herself.  She had to place herself firmly in the tether of resolve and claim it, wholly.  It was a stepping stone, nothing more, nothing less and support came to those that proved themselves worthy.  Their mission was a righteous one.  

She reached Viserys room and listened carefully, her ear pressed against the door as she gently opened it and looked in.  He was fast asleep, legs poking out of the quilted blanket she had gifted him years ago.  He snored gently, his little one and ten years old chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, a smile pulling at his cheeks. He’s dreaming, she thought, wishing he would smile more while awake.  She closed the door gently, praying she didn’t wake him.  

She stepped away and went to Daenerys’s room, but the door was open, she crept slower as she tried to peer in but soon realized the room was empty, her bed was undisturbed.  She sighed, knowing where the girl would be and crept just as slowly down the hall until she stood in front of her youngest’s door.  It wasn’t closed, but it was dark. She could hear muffled voices, young ones, worried ones.  She tried her hardest not to draw their attention as she leaned closer to the crack of the door, positioning herself closer as she pushed her silver-blonde hair from her right ear and leaned in.    

“No, it wasn’t like that!”

Jaehaerys was quiet for a moment before he replied, his voice a clearly bothered whispered.  “Then how was it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

She couldn’t see her, but her daughter's lost and empty reply made her heart seize for a flicker of a second. 

“Our brother died, our papa died. Mama can die.  What’ll happen if she dies? And Ser Willem and Ser Oswell? If it’s just the three of us, we will die Dany.” He sounded panicked, but older than he had cause to. She wanted to push the door open, to rush in and soothe his worry.  His fears were based in a truth and a reality that she had bore witness to.  There was a clear and present fear in his voice, but she couldn’t run to his rescue. Her resolve was solidified by one invariable truth: They would not be home until they were in their fortress, they would not be safe until Robert Baratheon and his ilk were gone.  

“Then I’ll be there for you.”  Dany’s voice was soft, wavering, though there was something in there.  A faint defiance.  “And you’ll be there for me.”

“Always?” That was Jaehaerys, his voice a little stronger, emboldened by the spirit of his elder sister.  Though there was a strength of his own, something he gifted to Daenerys when she needed the push to maintain.  Rhaella loved it.  She feared she would die and leave her daughter with nothing but words and stories…but there it was a subconscious and innate bond, something to do with Dragon Blood, that would always pull them to each other, regardless of their distance.  

“Always, Jae.”  Dany giggled at the nickname her twin hated.  Rhaella took a chance to peer into the room through the cracked open door but unfortunately put too much pressure. The door creaked audibly and both children yelped.  

Rhaella endured and stepped into the room.  

“Mama! Were you lurking?” Jaehaerys tried his hardest to hide his mirth through fake indignation.  Amidst the darkness they both saw their mother nod slowly, looking away bashfully before the twins both started laughing as their mother couldn’t help it and joined in, sweeping forward and taking her children as she twirled them around and fell back on Jaehaerys bed with them. 

They laughed with each other for a while longer, before lounging into an amiable silence, Jaehaerys curled into her right side and Daenerys mirroring him on her left.  She pulled them closer and simply lay there, absorbing the warmth and sense of completeness she felt at that moment; vaguely aware that they had both fallen asleep.  

She shifted gently, slipping off her sandals, as she pulled her children closer to her and then shifted enough to cover them all with a few separate quilted blankets and well-made bedding.  She let them settle as she closed her own eyes, allowing sleep to take her all the while holding her twins.  

This was what she was fighting to keep.  

He meant to find something to drink, nothing else.  But curiosity pulled at him.  The manse was quiet, their hired guard was patrolling.  Security had been increased since his mother’s plans had taken shape.  That meant that where they slept was the easiest place to move.  Rhaella had been his destination but when Viserys didn’t find her in her room, he went in search.  Only stopping when he came to his youngest siblings' room.  

He clenched his fists before turning around and almost storming away, but stopped himself, realizing the hour.  It wouldn’t get him anywhere, not if she was sleeping with them, he thought.  He made it into his room, an acute feeling of betrayal weighing in the centre of his stomach as he pondered the meaning, trying not to let jealousy overwhelm him.  Not for the first time did he wish their father was still alive if only to show him and only him his attention.  

His young mind could only feel a lingering dismissal as if he were being replaced before his eyes by a brother he found undeserving.  He silently screamed into his pillows, punching his bed a few times before laying there, drawn… I am the dragon. And with that he closed his eyes, lulling into a moderately fitful sleep, full of dancing dragons, and battling lords.  

Chapter Text

The North: Wintefell

The first thing he noticed was that he was cold, very cold and it was dark. A resigned sigh left his lips at the familiarity of the scene.  A trickle of water was heard in the distance, stale air and the very faint bitter scent of mold, old wood, wet stone and earth but he could see nothing. Only darkness and a growing feeling of apprehension.  He was aware that he was standing, walking actually, down a great roughhewn hallway. He could hear distant voices, most angry. Faint growls echoed everywhere before torches suddenly lit up racing down the hall around him, making two parallel lines. The crypts he realized, as the carved faces of the Kings of Winter and Lords of Winterfell all stared down at him with cold stone grey eyes, queer shadows from the torches on their faces. The direwolves guarding them came to life, each growling and snarling, all a different shade of color.  Greys, Blacks, Reds, a mix of all, until only a pure White one stared at him, deep crimson eyes staring into his soul, a soundless growl on its teeth as it snarled at him as he was forced to walk by. “You failed the north Eddard.” A voice eerily reminiscent of his father, Rickard, said through the throng of growls. “You failed our sister.” Another voice echoed, this time similar to his elder brother Brandon’s as he was drawn down his path, arms pinned to his side, mouth sealed closed as he was forced to pass the unrelenting gaze of each King and Lord of House Stark. The Kings and Lords shifted now, stone grating on stone as they stood from their thrones, hefting iron swords in the air as they all pointed them at Ned. “You failed him...a son of the North.”

Suddenly it all cleared, and Ned was standing outside. The crypts were gone, whatever was pulling him had stopped. The angry Kings of Winter’s voices still filled his head, but now he stood, silently in the Godswood of Winterfell, the nights sky bore no hint of reprieve from the dark, the moons light hidden by thick swirling clouds. The pools of the Godswood were perfectly still, odd in of itself, but not a single leaf of the heart tree had fallen. The pull of the wind did nothing to the leaves in the trees, but carried with it the soft sound of crying. It yanked at Ned’s heart. He walked, quietly gliding around the trees of the woods, making his way to a small clearing just shy of the exit. There on a small mound no more than fifty feet from the heart tree, Jon sat, all of four years. His knees were pulled to his chest with his head resting on them, his little arms wrapped around his legs. His small form shook softly as he cried...the faint sound of music in the background.  It was Robb’s fifth name day.  

“Jon.”

Hands found their way around his throat, lifting him from the ground with an otherworldly ease arresting any breath he was taking. He gasped as he struggled against the hand, his eyes closed as he kicked and pulled, clawing at his throat.

“You chose that murderer over my Son!” Her voice was livid, cold fury personified. Her tongue like a dagger pushing itself repeatedly into his heart. “Why Ned? You promised me! You promised me Ned!”

His eyes opened slowly as he took a deep calming breath...he was in bed, having been asleep for a while if the empty hole that was the hearth was anything to go by. Ned lay, soundless and still, staring at the shadows on the ceiling of his bedchamber. Edmure Tully had come North to visit his sister. The southroner had taken rooms in the guest house and Cat was staying there during her brothers visit, the better to enjoy time with her sibling. Gods how he understood that desire...the dream had brought up old feelings, again. The hundredth time now? he questioned himself.  The nightmare was always on the cusp of his memory, a vivid and glaring reminder of his greatest failure next to failing to save his sister.

Sleep never found him after, so he pushed himself from his bed and the warmth of the furs and linens, and made to dress. It was well past the hour of the eel, probably closer to the owl, if the mornings tepid glow was anything to go by. Dressing silently, he found his way to the old Winterfell war room.  Moving, thinking, acting, always grounded him. He took solace in the comfort of actions, and this was the greatest of all. The restoration of the North. The paintings and tapestries of deeds and happenings long past greeted him as he entered. If he was being honest, this all started from sheer pity, nothing more than something to keep him occupied. It had definitely evolved in the five years since Ben and Jon’s disappearance.  Ned understood the scope of his undertaking. Leaning forward, hands on either side of the map-table he commissioned the year after the war, the wood carved intricately, showing a perfect replica of everything North of the Riverlands and Veil. He didn’t understand cartography, but the woodworker had been given maps and worked with the maester.

He called the other Lords of the North to Winterfell with the explicit purpose of talking about improvements he already implemented and some he was thinking of.  His wife’s decision to stay in the Guest House with her brother while he held his meetings served three purposes, interacting with her brother, maintaining relations with their guests and their wives, as well as assessing the overall moods, as the men seemed to relax around the Lady Stark now. Her attempts to integrate hadn’t gone unnoticed, neither had Ned’s increasingly grimmer and stonier face. His presence was more and more inescapable, domineering in a way not even his father had possessed. It was a change neither expected but each enjoyed and when necessary exploited.  Looking over the wood map he found Winterfell, but his eyes traced a line north east to Deepwood Motte and then further. Sea Dragon Point . The history of the place was vague, a past holding claimed by the Warg King and held with the help of the children of the forest; it was conquered by the ancient Starks of Winterfell, shortly after the Long Night. At best it was sparsely populated, mayhaps small fishing villages with a few people. At worst there was nobody, with nigh inhospitable land and constantly raided borders. Building and maintaining a new western port would be difficult. Establishing a trade and Naval presence even more so. They would need wood, stone, metals, glass... hells, people!

Ned wiped his face, sighing lightly before he turned and pulled his chair to him, absently noting the sun had finally risen above the walls though it was still early. He dropped into the chair slowly, reaching for his now empty cup and water he’d taken from his chambers while he looked at the map once more. His eyes traveled south, brow furrowing as they stopped. “Stony Shore.” He said aloud.  If only Moat Cailin were an option , he thought, not for the first time. The idea wasn’t a fleeting one, more of an idea he still pursued albeit loosely. In choosing Queenscrown for Jon’s lands, he’d considered the older fort. Having the castle rebuilt and adequately manned, as well as one of his sons establishing a house there would ensure the castle didn’t fall into disrepair. Any fishing and shipping done around the Stony Shore could easily be ferried up the Fever River to Moat Cailin and hauled overland to White Harbor.  Land travel fees and taxes would spike, but it would be easy to support and manage, as well as protect. The Kings Road would be easy to use for distribution south, but again, expensive. The gate of the North would be held by a loyal family member and they would only be stronger for it. In a perfect world, he thought.  

Eventually, reestablishing Queenscrown had taken priority.  He had resolved to have Moat Cailin manned, at least. Four hundred bow men had been sent to the Neck with two hundred cavalry and two hundred foot.  Solidifying a second seat for House Stark should the worst happen, as well as establishing a keep for Jon at Queenscrown won his full attention. No Southron enemy would brave the depths of the North, should Winterfell ever fall.   Though manning it until Jon returned and could handle it himself was a problem he would tackle later, rebuilding had already begun. Mayhaps Benjen would do it?  He hoped, wishing he could make his dreams reality with nothing more than will power and determination.   The thought was appealing enough, having his son and only living sibling somewhere safe, somewhere he could reach would relieve the constant tension he felt. But with no knowledge of where they were he could only rely on those same dreams and hopes.  He sighed and frowned, realizing he almost allowed himself to succumb to the endless guilt, anger, and shame before he drew himself up and closed his eyes. He focused on the mental images of the way his nephew furrowed his brow before he made a decision, it was something his sister did often as a child and it was enough to give him the push to stay positive.  

He opened his eyes and returned his thoughts to the Western shore.  The Stony Shore was essentially unmanned and uninhabited and not too far from the Wolfswood.  The Rills and a series of rivers provided a natural border and along with Saltspear, it would be easily defensible from the North, South, and East.  House Fisher, who held the location, was now extinct. Having submitted to the Kings of Winter hundreds of years ago made the land essentially theirs.  Establishing a new seat would take time and resources, but it was possible. A western keep with a small town and port with room to grow would help establish a Stark presence which in turn would help them claim, build, and manage any vessels they could.  A port would be paramount, though most likely harried by the Ironborn but since he had Theon he figured they wouldn’t do much. From that location, they could mine, fish, and produce lumber with the ease to transport it up and down the western side of Westeros! He smiled at his conclusion.  Their eastern shore already had White Harbor, and worst case scenario, East Watch. But… Gods, no matter what, we will need help.   He sighed, not defeated, but unsure for a moment.  Help meant reaching out to Southron Kingdoms. Help meant entertaining Southron ambition.  Help meant speaking to Robert Baratheon.  

“Help means convincing my Northerners that this is a good idea.”

“But it is, My Lord.”

Her voice startled him, “Gods Cat!” He jumped, nearly spilling the cup on the edge of the Table Map.    He breathed roughly, before gracing his wife with a small smile, brow raised. 

She smiled back, entering the room.  “Forgive me.”” She hid the mirth, forcing her lips from turning up.  “I went to your rooms, you weren’t there. Another dream?”

Ned nodded, turning back to the map with a sigh.  “The same one.” He waved it away, “What’s worse is that every time I come to this table I come to the same conclusion.”

Cat entered and stood beside him, looking over the table as well, falling into step with his thoughts.  “That you will have to speak to Robert?” She asked, although they both knew why he didn't want to. Eddard and Robert’s relationship had never truly been repaired since their disastrous falling out in the throne room of the Red Keep.  Instead of returning to King’s Landing after finding his sister, he made straight for White Harbor from Starfall with Lyanna’s remains, a injured Howland Reed, and a weeks old babe still angry at Robert for what happened to the royal children and their mother.  The raven waiting for him from Starfall telling of Ashara Daynes death had stolen what happiness he felt upon being received by Lord Manderly when he made port in White Harbor. Coupled with his grief and news of not one but two infant sons, he had little desire to speak to the King.  In retrospect, announcing news of his bastard through a letter to Jon Arryn had not been the best of plans, he stuck with it though, if only out of principal. He couldnt condone the murder of children, and the thought of Robert seeing Jon’s very purple eyes terrified him, even if everyone believed they knew who the boys mother was.    

Ned took a deep breath before blowing it out slowly, “At the very least Stannis. His knowledge as the Master of Ships would be imperative to this venture.  I will have to placate the throne, make them believe that I’m not planning another rebellion. That will mean entertaining Southron visitors and their retinue, and gods know what else.  The mummers show of the capital will try to find purchase here.” He sighed.  

“So your true task is convincing the Northern Lords that trade is in their best interest, opening themselves to expansion by means of Mining and Lumber production.”  She finished, making his smile deepen slightly. She remembered his ideas from when he returned from a ranging of the Northern territories. His excitement was palpable when he came home, a rare smile on his face as he listed off his thoughts.  “I doubt King Robert would assume you were attempting to rise in rebellion simply by increasing the amount of ships the North has. You were one of his staunchest supporters during his rebellion.” Ned grimaced slightly at that, but she continued.  “If anything it will help boost the income of the biggest kingdom in the Seven, further increasing our military presence and relieving us of so much dependence on other kingdoms.  You could tell him the Ironborn have become more of an issue. He doesn’t need to know the true reason.” That Jon and Benjen went missing and all of this is to find them, he thought distantly .

A rare, but true and genuine smile crossed his face as he listened to the woman speak.  There were moments he had questioned their relationship, moments when he wondered how the woman he loved so dearly could have ever shown anything but the steadfast love and endurance she portrayed.  This was not one of them. He turned and took her softly in his arms, kissing her on the forehead.  

“Now if only the other Lords had your mind.”  He said, against her forehead, having wrapped her in a hearty hug.  

She smiled before a content sigh escaped her lips as Ned’s scratchy beard moved over her forehead.  “I doubt you would enjoy that very much.” 

“But I would.  You understand the concept of progress.  My Lords are all very rooted in the idea that the North is fine as is.  It isn’t. I know that, you know that, many of the people of Winterfell know that…but nobody else. I mean nobody.  When I rode through our Kingdom, I realized just how separated we were. There were many that just learned the war was over, some only knew me because of my father and brother and the similarities we share.”

Cat nodded against his chest, softly pulling herself away as she looked up at him.  “I have all the confidence you will succeed Eddard. Break your fast with me?”

It was hours later, well after he and Cat broke their fast as they shared and broke down what information they both gathered, as well as her perception on the men and their wives as they arrived. Her better understanding of Southron ways taught her what to look for when gathering information, the rest he made up along the way or tried to recall from his time in the Vale. Ned took a step back crossing his arms as his eyes fell on each man within his staging room.  Only the Umbers and Mormonts knew of his reconstruction efforts regarding Queenscrown as they were helping him rebuild it, and even then only a select few family members knew of the plans in their entirety. At times he felt his conscience niggling him, telling him it was dishonorable to keep this a secret, but his unyielding desire to protect Jon won out. What is the point of having honor if it hurts those you love! He inwardly shook off Benjens harsh words. This would be his secret until it wasn’t, and if anyone learned of it, he knew where to start looking.  He called this unofficial meeting with his bannermen to speak on the North’s lack of infrastructure. Jon and Benjen’s disappearance had been a blow, not just to his confidence, but at his core, his sense of being.  His brothers impassioned words were a reminder of his glaring failures; and the lack of information as he rode across the North for months looking for them made one thing clear: The North was lacking. 

“We are spread far too thin as it is.”  His fingers moved over the map, landing on each keep as he spoke.  “We have one here.” His hand landed on Greywater Watch. “Several more keeps spread out between Winterfell and Moat Cailin.” He waved his hand between both keeps, first from north to south then east to west. The practiced words came out much easier than he expected them to.  “And then another three North East, but look at all of this area.” He drew a circle with his hand as he motioned to a massive expanse painted shades of green. “Part of it belongs to the Nights Watch, aye, but this is open land and mountains.” He moved his hand and motioned over the western coast along The Stony Shore, Sea Dragon Point, The Rills and parts of the Wolfswood. “No defenses.  Mayhap a small village, but little else. This is why we are so open on our Western shores. House Mormont’s suffers the Iron Born nigh daily, and Deepwood has to brace against the stragglers, we have to increase our support across all of our territory.” Both Robett Glover as well as Ser Jorah Mormont nodded their heads in silent agreement.

 “What you propose, My lord, requires gold, an amount I’m not certain we have.”  The Greatjon’s gravelly bass followed as he eyed Eddard knowingly. Ned knew he had to remain as impassive as possible, though having one ally certainly helped.  These men were stubborn at the best and downright arses at the worst. This had to be a solidified and unified idea that they all reached, one he didn’t force down their throat, but allowed them to condense into a plan that he would approve.  It was manipulation, but with what his house had been through and after many talks with Cat, he admitted that manipulation would have to be used, surprisingly the Greatjon agreed. He reminded Ned that the Kings of Winter and Lords of Winterfell before him had been, for a lack of better words, ruthless in their development.  Complacency had clouded House Stark for too long, his father had tried and failed horribly to expand the North’s influence but was quite frankly out of his depth, and it all culminated in the rebellion. They would have to play the game by the rules of the world and not theirs if they meant to expand and strengthen, and playing the game meant understanding and fostering that frowned on talent. 

Ned nodded in agreement, a tenuous frown creasing his cheeks. But gold wouldn’t dissuade him, or the lack of it. Preparation for an unknown threat drove him. A single minded passion to replace his always present feeling of loss. He’d been able to search for Jon and Benjen in secret, using the guise of summoning his bannermen to Winterfell and surveying the North-post wars. Initially they thought it strange, but his loose reasoning was enough to cast suspicion away. A lie here, a whisper there and they all but forgot about it.  The story was that Ben left for a tour of the free cities before he decided whether he would join the Watch or not, and since most knew of Cats’s dislike for his son, Ben had taken him with him.  The lie would work, but for how long, he could only wonder.  

“Perhaps, My lord…”  Lord Roose Bolton’s soft, almost willowy voice invaded the momentary quiet.  The man’s pallid skin shone with a gleam of uncomfortable sweat forming on his brow.  The Leech Lord leaned forward, stubbled chin resting on his intertwined fingers as he looked over the carved map.  He brought his head up and pushed from his seat, taking a step forward before his finger pressed on the map. “…trade.  The woods around Karhold, Winterfell, Hornwood and even Flints Finger in the Neck would be able to supply the North with a steady stream of gold were we willing to increase sales with the other Kingdoms and establish trade directly with Essos.  Braavos is not too far from White Harbor.” He smirked inwardly, eyes barely narrowing as he observed the Bolton Lord, a sneakier fellow there isn’t.  But, this was working in his favor.  He nodded.  

A chorus of ‘Ayes’ followed him as Ned watched his bannermen with eyes shimmering in silent resolve.  He inhaled silently before taking another step forward and leaned over the map and nodded; knowing this was the time to sell it, bring in his thoughts as if they were in addition to theirs.  “The White Knife, Broken Branch, and Last River are all close enough for us to be able to ferry timber to White Harbor, though I think Karhold may be too far North with no adequate port, save for Eastwatch and White Harbor.   The distance is too great.” He motioned west. “I propose we range Westward, survey the land around Stony Shore and north, and see what we can do there. Another port gives us more space, a new source of income for Northerners that need it, as well as a western hub for any wayward Northerners to flock to when winter comes, because I need not remind you all, Winter is Coming.”

He paused to look at the assembled men.  There were Glover and Mormont, they shared a simple hate for the Ironborn that reeved, raped, and pillaged their shores.  They wanted protection, some form of comfort against the habitual storm of men they were forced to endure. His eyes moved to the Umber men and then to his kin, the Karstarks.  Their presence in the deeper North was always contested by the wickedness of the Wildlings. The threat was life for them, a constant back and forth. He needed to offer them more.  Lord Bolton’s chilly gaze met his own before he tilted his head in questioning. The man was a snake, he knew this. His fangs always ready to sink in and poison what he could, claim it for himself..  The Red Kings begrudgingly knelt to the Kings of Winter, but his ambition could be used. Catelyn had made it her personal mission to understand the character of the men that served him, a feat he was growing increasingly thankful for. Lies came easy he realized, and Benjen’s words from that night had rung true.  His honor meant nothing if all his actions did were harm his son, his family.  

He took a breath, “What Lord Bolton proposes is wise.  Are you all in agreement?” At that confirmation he moved on.  “Lumber is well and fine, but with the surveil of the lands, I believe we must establish new quarries, mines, mills, and a few others.” Their decision was the obvious one, the one he’d initially thought of, but they needed more. 

“Can we not get stone shipped in? We have plenty of wood and iron and steel from the south.”  Lord Cerwyn protested. 

Ned shook his head, “We can, but why?  We are surrounded by mountains and have able bodied men.  We want to make gold, not spend it. Stone is a resource we have in abundance.  Though we will need masons, surveyors, and builders. Our mountains are untapped, the Mountain Clans swear their allegiance to House Stark.  I will speak to them personally.” He looked to his Maester, Luwin gave him a nod back. “I’ve already sent a missive to Lord Manderly to assist us in finding individuals that can survey the Lonely Hills and the mountains to the east of Bear Island.  If any of you know of anyone capable of it, I will need a complete survey of the Rills as well.” He paused. “I’ve also decided to contact Lord Baratheon…of Dragonstone.” He added forgetting their was more than one. “Stannis.” He added for good measure before continuing.  “Ship building will need to be approved by the crown so as not to be seen as a threat.”

It seemed everyone agreed as the murmurs became a little louder, each person mulling over the information on their own accord.  “I know how we all feel about the Southron Kingdoms, and I will endeavor to keep us the priority. But…” He was met with the same grumbling though now shifting towards him.  Shaking his head he continued, “Winter is Coming, those aren’t just my house words, but the truth. If we cannot provide for our people on our own, it is our responsibility to search for any possible options.  I do not mean to do anything too drastic at the moment, I’m only looking into our options should the worst become our life.” His gaze was hard, harder than most remembered it, and it was unanimously unsettling.  They had all heard of Ned’s fierceness during the Greyjoy rebellion, stories relayed from the northerners that had joined him, Ser Jorah Mormont at the forefront. Jon and Benjen’s disappearance became Winterfell’s great secret while the other lords were there; though the given explanation didn’t stop the jaw wagging.  

The small folk shared in Ned’s grief, remembering the happy little boy and the aptly nicknamed Smiling Wolf, Benjen. It was an instinctual act  for them, something Ned prided northerners for, the innate desire to protect their own shielding the family from the prying of the visiting Lords.  Ned excused them all with no preamble, saving no time to speak to the remainder of his bannermen as he found the easiest way of coping with his loss was to remain moving, to remain busy. 

It wasn’t missed on his men, who noticed the Quiet Wolf had become quieter…and harder.   

Robb Stark had long since come to the conclusion that he did not like Theon Greyjoy.  Not one bit. Robb was sitting astride his pony, his cheeks pink and auburn brows furrowed in frustration.  He hated this horse, it made him feel like a boy .  I’m not a boy he thought furiously as Theon pranced around on the back of his brown charger.  He was almost nine and Theon was two and ten, it only made sense that the boy would be allowed a better horse.  He’s bigger. He thought, that’s why, that was the only reason why. 

Robb thought him a very pale imitation of a sibling.  He was mean and rather rude and above all far too sure of himself, which was a decidedly uncharacteristic trait for any Stark he knew.  The horse bucked, just barely but in that moment Theon gripped the reins for dear life, More like full of himself he thought with a snort as he pulled on the reins of his pony and turned it, leaving the sons of the visiting Lords to enjoy what they called ‘play time’. It wasn’t enjoyable, not much of it was. Despite what his mother and father both said, he could feel that something was off. A shadow hung over his father, he knew it. Robb understood that he had a duty, a purpose, and besides the only person he had truly enjoyed spending time with was gone, had been gone for some time now. 

Similar to his father he’d carried a child’s sadness, thinking that his brother left because of him, but Lord Stark had convinced him otherwise reminding him then that they were children with only a handful of years behind them.  His eyes scanned the courtyard as his pony cantered in. His brother was always on his mind, as if he was right around the corner. He remembered just before his sixth nameday, the tantrum he’d thrown. He’d wanted his brother's room next to his in the family wing. He’d believed that if his room was closer he’d hear him come home. They’d done it, in fact his father had already decided it, but he was still angry.  That time Robb stopped speaking to Lady Catelyn for two moons, hiding in the nooks and crannies of Winterfell when he saw her. 

His father had taken it upon himself to keep the memory of Jon as alive as possible by including him in every decision.  If he made something for Robb he did the same for his brother all the while telling him stories of his own brothers, but very rarely his sister.  Some made him laugh, others made him wonder and think. A cloud of confusing emotions came over him as his eyes fell on his mother as she exited the main keep. He stopped to watch his younger siblings running around the training yard.  His mother had changed some, “ She’s no longer so driven by Southron notions of elegance and propriety. That’s what some of the washer-women say, Theon had said, chuckling, so proud of his lies, though others said it's really because of your bastard brother, the one that’s probably a slave in the free cities!” He remembered the fight with the Greyjoy prat afterwards, the memory still made him angry, but he tried not to let it show.  It wouldn’t do to be angry for nothing. Arya chased after Sansa into the Godswood, both of their hair windswept, cheeks red. Neither was dressed as a little lady, instead in riding leathers and a tunic which was a surprise, since his father’s bannermen had yet to leave. But his father had been insistent they be allowed to wear what they want. 

 “Robb.” He was dismounting as his father called him, the master of horse approaching him as well.  Robb released the horse to Hullen’s capable hands before turning to his father. 

 “Father.”

“Walk with me.” Ned said, flashing his son a brief smile before the boy approached his side.  The pair made for the Godswood as well. “Something bothers you?”

Robb gave a shrug, a less formal explanation there never was. Ned smiled, casting his gaze around the courtyard and bailey before falling on the issue. Theon and his horse, he must have realized. “You know, it was his sister that sent him that?” Ned nodded when Robb looked up at him, “Aye, it’s a beauty, but...” He stooped now, putting a hand on Robbs shoulder, turning him so they were facing each other. “...those Ironborn aren’t riders like we northerners. You’re aunt, Lyanna, she was half horse herself.”  Robb nodded, brows furrowed, unsure where his father was going. The mention of his Aunt was rare, so the information was if anything a blessed surprise. 

“She had an eye for horses.” Ned continued before kneeling down and drawing Robb in, looking around conspiratorially before speaking again, quieter. “She taught me a thing or two, and that horse there, it’s too much for him.” He smiled as Robb’s frown slowly turned into a smile. “You should also know, I have a surprise of the Dornish breed coming for your name day.”

Robbs eyes widened comically before settling on a toothy grin. His summation that his father was the best always played in the back of his mind. The man knew just what to say to his children. “Will you have one for Jon when he comes back?”

Ned smiled now, in truth, a full one that reached his eyes. The bond between the pair had barely been cemented, young as they were, but Robb never forgot his brother. “Aye, two of the best, one for you, and one for your brother.”

“Thank you.” Robb said as he followed his father and approached their mother.  She was holding Bran, the child fussed and whined and twisted and fidgeted, but Catelyn’s grip was firm, she held him with an ease that said ‘I’ve done this quite often.’ She was  sitting at the base of the Weirwood, the girls were running around chasing each other through the trees. Bran tried to jump into the small still, glass like pools of water, but Catelyn would not allow it, knowing they were deceptively deep. 

They looked the perfect image of a family, but inside he knew it to be the furthest from the truth. His mother’s serene smile and casual grace hid the hate in her heart well, he’d come to firmly believe. A rift between them had formed...a boy of nine under no illusion that his mother wasn't the reason for his brother’s disappearance. He’d gone to Septa Mordane the day he’d been told Jon was gone and asked her what a bastard was. She’d told him, and he’d asked his father...he’d never seen the Septa again. His father had raged at his mother for what felt like hours but was really only moments...he hadn’t understood then, but in the better part of five years he’d been able to form his own conclusion. 

“Wobb!” The silly pronunciation of his name drew his attention as little Arya ran to him. They had formed a bond, closer than the others. Her face was familiar to him, much more than the rest of his siblings, and a sense of pride in the girl had burgeoned. He knelt down and scooped up his little sister, twisting her in a circle as she giggled before he brought her to his hip. His father had strode on, leaving the siblings to themselves.

“Pway?” She asked, a stick in her hand. Robb nodded as he kissed her forehead, taking a moment to memorize the grey of her eyes and the mess of her hair, the purest example of his baby sister he could have. 

“Lets Play.” He nodded, setting his sister down before chasing after her with a mock roar.  

A cold wind blew in from the east, pulling billowy grey clouds that rippled through the sky.  Rain, Ned thought, looking up .  As if on cue the gentle pitter-patter of the falling drops found their way to his boiled leather, coalescing in a small pool of water at his back, where his cloak met his horse and poured over the side.  Men marched past him, hauling timber and equipment as they wove their way up the Kings Road and veered sharp west, plunging into the depth of the Wolf’s Wood. Timber production was simple enough, the real problem came in moving the equipment and conversely removing the felled trees.  A series of mills would be erected off the White Knife and adjoining waterways, a few processing plants easily accessible to the keeps around Winterfell. 

It only took several moons but agreements were made, contracts signed, and building started.  Men filed past, faces hard as each carried with them supplies of some sort. Wains rolled and bounced down the road, a slow pace, but continuously moving. The elements would not deter them though. Roads were the first to come up in that time, new pathways that ran West to East; one through the Wolfswood, near the tower his daughters named Tumbledown Tower and a second just south that would connect The Stony Shore to Barrowton and the Kings Road. Men were dispatched to range the distant lands for dangers before sending surveyors. Ned split his attention between the two efforts, with Winterfell being in between the two it was easier. Proximity allowed for Master Tallhart and Lord’s Cerwyn and Manderly to serve their Lord in the southron area of their construction effort, but he left the greater portion of the northern effort to Greatjon who was taking temporary residence at Winterfell while construction begun. Private missives to the Lady Dustin were sent, instructions and details sent by courier to which she agreed to, but declined to convene at Winterfell.  She still hates me, he thought.  

“My Lord?” Ser Rodrick’s voice drew his attention as he glanced at the man, who in turn nodded, eyes just over his shoulder. Ned heard the thrum of horse hooves as he turned to see who was approaching them. Cloaked in darkness at this hour in the morning the rider approached quickly. Obviously one of their men, since nobody made a move to intercept him. As he approached, Ned realized it was Jory.

“Lord Stark!” He called. “Lord Stark, a raven. Lady Stark said this should go to you immediately. It bares the royal seal.”

Ned frowned as he approached him, both on horseback. He took the raven scroll in a gloved hand, using his cloak to shield it from rain as he glanced over the royal Baratheon stag pressed into the wax. Breaking it, he unfurled the paper and read. As he finished the once over he smiled, the message was in Jon Arryn’s neat writing, so the prudence of the reply made sense.

“Good news my lord?” Ser Rodrick asked, glancing at Jory with a questioning look.

“Aye, it is. It means I can finally start to make good on my promise.”

The North: Solitude

The sound of metal on wood punctuated the morning activities.  Dull thumps mingled with scuffling boots and panting breath rounded it out.  “Good, but you want to use your weight.” He motioned as he stepped forward and dropped a shoulder, ramming it into a quintain. “I learned the hard way. Northerners fight rough, and tough.  We southerners weren’t expecting it.” Alliser finished as he stood up and motioned for Vaegon to stand in front of him. “Good, use a lower stance, and bend your knees. Step forward, overhead swing, pivot and ram with your shoulder.” As Vaegon did what was instructed, the one eyed knight let out a soft whistle of approval. 

“Did I do it right?” Vaegon asked.  

The former Night’s Watchmen nodded with the tiniest of smirks on his normally pinched thin lips.  “Aye, you did well enough.” A departure from the man that had once stood atop the greatest man-made structure of the known world.  He had the faintest bit of ire for anyone not of noble blood; that included the majority of the Skagosi and foreigners who had been hired to maintain their keep.  But Alliser’s drive was now fostered in the next generation of House Targaryen. The treason hadn’t sat lightly with the grizzled knight, it never would. But the rebellion stung worse, and a sense of purpose that went beyond an oath, a literal calling in his blood took him all those years ago.

He reached forward as if to brush dirt from Vaegon’s shoulder but easily pushed the boy to the ground, a frown on both their faces but for separate reasons.  “I didn’t tell you to stop and ask. No one will let you stop and ask them if you are fighting well. What did I say about drawing your sword?”

Vaegon sighed, rolling his eyes, “If it’s in my hand then I should always be ready for a fight.”

“And?”

“And always be at the ready. Vigilance means being prepared.  You can’t be surprised if you are always ready.” The boy was quite used to this method of training.  A grueling exercise in temperament, body mechanics, thought processes, and simple movement. He hated it, but couldn’t deny its effects.  Even at eight name days he was rather skilled. He rolled over and stood, dusting himself off before he turned to his mentor, slowly positioning his sword out, testing his body as he did before he gave a nod.  Their training resumed once more.  

An hour or so later, with a sheen of sweat on his forehead, Alliser signaled for the boy to finish, which he did with a triumphant hoot.  “Can we race to the western cliffs?” Vaegon asked as he moved to put away the blunted sword he claimed as his own. “You promised we would.”

Alliser, ever dour, flared his nostrils in resignation, eyeing the princeling wearily.  Not more than a few years ago he would have scorned raising a boy. But this one, “Aye, I did. Go saddle the horses.”  This one was a different sort. Alliser shook his head, face formed in a frown as he made his way around the training ring as Vaegon left, leaving the door slightly ajar.  A truly wondrous though simple thing Aemon and Rhaegar had planned for; a covered training yard. Alliser snuffed the last torch and closed the two shutters they opened. The quintains weren’t damaged, Vaegon had replaced their training weapons and armor, torches out, and shutters closed, he left the training yard.  

The cold hit him with a gust of chilly air, carrying the sound of activity with it.  Solitude had grown, considerably, now maintaining a small port with limited activity.  Mostly Skagosi, but a good number of the Essosi that helped build the keep had remained.  Fucking foreigners, he thought, as he made his way from the training room that was adjoined to the guard Tower that faced south. The adjoining breezeway hung over the port, the sounds of people cajoling each other, verbal sparring for the fish and seafood Benjen and Aemon established as their trade.  A few individuals were making the trade between finer goods: spices, fabrics, and salt. All of this he knew by sight, rather than hearing. Learning another language besides the common tongue was beneath him. He shouldered through the opposite end of the breezeway, coming out into the first ring wall that protected the Keep from the forces of nature, the great curtain wall glistening with seasalt and ocean spray.  

The courtyard was full of people, more than it looked, the movement belied reality.  They were no more than two hundred and fifty that resided on the island. Their port had no Inn, no brothel, and only one small area for people to go and drink. The port wasn’t big enough for larger trading vessels, so it wasn’t heavily used, and anybody that moored had to stay on their ships. There was a small village, sheltered by the keep on their northern side.  Safety was paramount, anonymity given by different names and simply staying behind the curtain walls and stone Rhaegar and Aemon had thought to build. Alliser had to admit though, the people of the island were fierce in their protection and loyalty…and their secret.  

Benjen and Aemon agreed that they owed the majority of their anonymity to the kindness of the Houses on the main island.  They could have easily sold the information of their whereabouts to the Nights Watch or any interested Stark men, but Aemon’s good faith and Benjen’s enduring kindness despite his rough manner at times earned them quite a bit.  His good friendship with the younger Umber, Smalljon was mayhap the most helpful this far north, thick as thieves they were, in on each other’s plans. Not to mention the sight of the little princeling, and his mostly Stark coloring helped nudge most in the right direction.  

“Took you long enough Alliser One-Eye!”  Vaegon yelled with a laugh at the knights displeased grunt.  Prince Vaegon was a good boy, the man commiserated as he watched him run around the horse, finished saddling and swing up with all the exuberance of a boy on the cusp of his ninth year.  The horse was tied to the inner stables of the keep, already saddled and ready. When Vaegon wanted to do something, he was quick. Alliser swung up after untying the reigns and pushed the horse through the northern gate and out through Solitown.  He thought the name stupid, but not enough to argue with the foreigners and displaced Skagosi. With one mighty motion, he whipped the horse forward, the creature galloping out, following his charge as Vaegon raced from the keep, following the path northward laughing.  

I’m almost flying, he thought as his horse raced along the northern road of their island.  The trees whipped by, but he dodged the low hanging branches with a duck here and there, tentative glances over his shoulder as he saw he had certainly left Alliser in his dust. Another laugh echoed through the trees as he whipped again, Warrior’s hooves thrumming and churning the earth below him.  He crested a small hill and broke out into a tiny field that led to the west, overlooking a rocky sheer cliff face, slowing to a trot before stopping. Out in the distance, between a copse of trees and a gully on Skagos, you could make out the eastern side of the Wall. It was faint, best seen on clear sunny days, but it was there. 

He smiled when he saw it, imagining that he was flying over it with ease, back and forth on the back of a dragon like his ancestors had.  He wondered, not for the first time, if anyone had flown north of the wall on a dragon. He supposed it really didn’t matter, but what a story that would make.  He turned as he heard the sound of hooves approaching

“You’re gonna kill yourself riding like that boy!”  Alliser yelled as he approached. Two of their Westerosi guard trailed behind them, always maintaining a decent distance, but tasked by Benjen with guarding Jon no matter where he went.  Jaron and Rowan they were called, brothers with the same father though different mothers both legitimate in the eyes of their father. They were Snow’s of House Stane, and had a soft spot for the young boy.  If not for their hair, Rowan was a ginger while Jaron’s was black, they would have been almost identical. Both just shorter than Alliser, clad in warm grey cloth and heavy furs making them look larger than they actually were.  They smiled and nodded at Jon, hiding their amusement awfully.  

“Uncle Benjen says I’m half centaur, I won’t fall.”  He said defiantly, though smiling as he dismounted, dropping down with a huff, pulling his charcoal dappled horse to a nearby tree where he tied it off and stood.  He was brimming with energy, the exhilaration of the cold northern winds and the hard ride still pushing adrenaline through his veins. He stretched, wiggling his fingers before stalking to the cliff face, standing no more than a foot or two from the edge, he squinted trying to make out the eastern edge of the wall.  Just there, he thought as the sparkling and obviously weeping wall caught the lights glimmer just right.  

“Did one of my ancestors really build it?” He asked, not turning.  

He knew the knight well now, Alliser most likely bit back a retort, but Jon was like that; a curious mind, though always seeking validation.  It wasn’t a conscious action, and it bothered most close to the child that knew why. Not the act but the reason for the action. Jon barely caught Alliser’s slight nod, “Aye, one of your ancestors built it. But some of the others went on to do greater things. Conquer Westeros, tame dragons, that’s the stuff of legends there.”

Jon smiled, eyes still searching the distance.  “You think I’ll ever stand on the top of it Ser Alliser?” 

“Not if I have anything to say about it.  The wall is no place for the last trueborn son of House Targaryen…”

“…and Stark. But I have a brother.” Jon added.

“…Aye, a Stark brother.” Cousin was always implied. The knight hid the smile that threatened to claim his cheeks at the boys unknowing rebuke, but one of the bastards was looking in their general direction.  It wouldn’t do for them to see his less unctuous side, he needed it, he thrived on it. Alliser’s narrowed eyes and slight scowl had them looking elsewhere, but they spoke to each other in the Old Tongue.  He snorted in disgust, turning back to the prince.  

“I want to visit it one day.”  Jon said, looking to Alliser. “I think its only right. Maybe my father will take me.  Do you think he would?”

Alliser made a strange face, before smirking.  He tilted his head to the side, staring at Jon through one hard black eye.  “Mayhap your uncle will take you one day.  But your father is long dead, Prince Vaegon.” Ever hard and blunt.  The boy knew Alliser had no true love for his Maternal side of the family, insisting on referring to Eddard Stark as nothing more than Lord Stark or his Uncle.  

Jon succumbed to a moment of reflection; he knew the truth.  He’d known the truth for as long as he could remember. He was a Stark and a Targaryen and proud of his heritage of ice and fire.  Though try as he might, he was only eight. What did he have to say that could make Alliser see that accepting him meant accepting both sides of his family?  The knight was friendly with Uncle Benjen, though the two did argue from time to time. He wondered what the difference was between his uncle and his father?  The only true explanation he could think of was their positions in the rebellion. There were times where it was simply too much to think about, this was one of them.  Shaking it off, Jon shrugged, knowing when to choose his battles. His uncle, Aemon had imparted on him just a bit of knowledge and sense, sense enough to know a losing battle when he saw one.  Call it Aemon’s old age or fascination with improvement, but it always seemed that everything was a lesson.  

“I’ll see it one day.”  He finally relented after a moment of silence as the four of them stood on the edge of the cliff, quiet, listening to the wind rustling the leaves and the sound of the waves splashing against the cliff face.  It was just them and nature, the serene beauty of the north, breathtaking with its windswept mountains covered in a blanket of white and the evergreens that dotted the mountainside with swaths of the deepest emerald.  That moment of blissful quiet was broken by the call of a gyrfalcon hunting off the coast.   

“You have lessons with your Uncle soon, Vaegon.  We best get back.” The knight said to the younger boy, placing a hand on his shoulder as he turned him.  “What say we race back?”

Jon nodded, a grin pulling at his cheeks as he shrugged off the knights grasp and ran to his horse.  “You’ll never catch me!”

Aemon watched from his seat on the balcony of his solar overhanging the biggest courtyard of Solitude as his cherished child road in with all the glory of youth.  He could see the mirth on his face, the smile brazenly plastered for all to see. He was envious, of Alliser and the others, they were free to enjoy life to its fullest with the child he loved as his own.

“You mean to give it to him?” An accented feminine voice asked, drawing his attention.  

“I do.  I think it's time, he’s old enough to understand what it is and the meaning and symbolism behind it.”  Aemon replied as he turned to Lady Elaenor Faenyr, the Essosi governess that found her way over from Braavos with the rest of the foreigners that stayed on the island.  Governess he mused, really it was the only word he could use to describe the woman.  At first her beauty made him think she was a courtesan, always in silks and linens despite the cold, hoping to get close to the young Lord Benjen; but her cleverness and learned words shifted his thoughts to a priestess of some sort.  Essos wasn’t too different from Westeros in respect to women, knowledge being imparted to those of a faith easier than a laywoman. But after a while he’d come to enjoy her presence and her odd cleverness. She was a spectacular reader and teacher, her bright amber eyes belying the depth of knowledge.  Of that he was grateful as she helped Jon with his studies. More so though was the small jeweled bracelet she’d gifted him, saying the fires within the well cut and polished ruby would sustain his life and give him a breath of youth he had been missing. Who the hells am I to turn down such a gift , he thought?  Especially one that would give him more time with the family he loved.  

He’d been tempted more than once to leave the Night’s Watch and the Order of Maester’s as a whole, to serve the family he loved, the last test being the most insurmountable, but in that release he gained a new perspective on life and what it meant to live.  The jewel would aid him in that, he didn’t need to know the specifics of how it worked, simply that it did. Magic is so wondrous, he grinned.  

Elaenor tilted her head, loose dirty blonde curls pulled back into a tail as she peered at the elderly prince knowingly, her amber gaze holding him there.  Such a peculiar woman… the old man shook those thoughts away, glancing at the ornately wrapped box on the table within the room.  The wrappings were striped black and red, while the bow was stripped white and grey. He ignored the exotic beauty as he heard the pitter-patter of small booted feet.  “And here he is.”

The door swung open as Vaegon came in, breathing hard, a smile on his face.  His black hair that normally hung just below his shoulders pulled back into a bun, a few strands clinging to the sweat on his forehead.  He was breathing deeply, hands on his hips, the grey doublet beneath his cloak sticking to his lithe frame. He was smaller and thin, but strong and agile.  In this light his indigo eyes looked black, but his Valyrian features were so pronounced, Aemon could never deny that the boy was indeed the progeny of the Dragon Lords.  

“ I…I made it !”  he spoke in High Valyrian in between pants, smiling as he doubled over for a moment breathing hard.  

Aemon nodded, “ You did, my boy .” he replied, speaking their true tongue.  At Lady El’s urging they implemented a mandatory few hours daily speaking only High Valyrian, the better to learn by , he thought.  She insisted it be at Vaegon’s urging, and they would respond, so as not to make the boy feel forced, but to impress the importance of responsibility.  

“Come, come, sit my son.” He reverted to the common tongue, the better for Vaegon to understand, cutting short the endless lessons he imparted on the boy.  

Vaegon did, crossing the room, just as Alliser came in.  The elder Prince nodded at the one eyed knight, who did the same.  Vaegon’s ever faithful guard took position on either side outside of the door before closing it as Alliser drug a chair to their side of the door, planting himself there.  Vaegon hugged Lady El before he slid into a chair across from his great uncle, his eyes wide in anticipation.  

His optimism never ceases to amaze me , he thought as a memory bubbled to his mind:

Vaegon was around seven name days, tired and sullen.  It hadn’t been a good day of training and he was upset with Ser Alliser, so as soon as possible he found his way to his Uncle Benjen who happened to be deep in conversation with his older uncle Aemon.  Benjen drew the dejected boy into the room, and sat him down while Aemon watched.  

“What is it?”  Ben asked his nephew.

“Are we stupid? Are Northerners stupid?” Vaegon asked softly, brow furrowed.

Benjen frowned, casting a sidelong glance at the older prince before facing the boy, tilting the child’s head back. Vaegon‘s eyes had always been an interest of Aemons’s, particularly their coloring. The color in Vegg’s eyes seemed to shift between violet and indigo, with ever present flecks of grey, the combination of the boys parents fascinated Aemon. This time though, he wouldn’t look either of them in the eye, his cheeks reddening as he jerked his head away from Ben.  “Why do you ask, Jon?” 

“Alliser One-Eye…” Both Benjen and Aemon stifled their reaction at the name Vaegon had taken to using for Alliser when he made him upset. “..said that Northerners were dullards, and that father was a fool for not taking the throne.” Vaegons pout deepened. “He said that northerners couldn’t do anything that great.  That they are no better than savages…” his voice faltered. “But I’m a northerner too. Why would he say that?”

Benjen worked his jaw to control his temper as Aemon’s lips pulled into a frown.  They’d had this conversation with the knight before. He was still bitter, bitter over a loss he couldn’t have changed even if he had the opportunity.  So bitter that he could only see half of the boy, only Vaegon and not Jon. Aemon used the boys birth name simply because it was their connection, something that they took pride in sharing, a bit of their heritage.  He was more than happy to accept him for who he was; a wonderful union of two very defiant and ill fated but good people.  

Benjen drew in a deep breath as it seemed his temper was reigned in, a soft smile pulling at his cheeks as he eyed his nephew with tenderness.  “Aye, the rest of the kingdoms see us as fools. Daft, dullards, and all the manner. But look around us, do you think we are fools?” 

Vaegon looked up at him, shaking his head gently.  “No.”

“Then that’s what matters.  Not what everyone else thinks, what you think.  I know you’re clever and your great-uncle knows you’re clever.  I’m fairly certain you think me clever.” He winked at the boy. “And there’s the Lady El, she thinks you're clever but you think she’s more than clever, eh?” He poked his nephew in the stomach, who in turn struggled to hide his laugh and reddening cheeks  as he pushed away, the doom and gloom forgotten for a moment.  

“Vegg?” Aemon spoke up.

Vaegon looked up, over Benjen’s shoulder at his great-uncle.  “Yes Uncle Ameon?”

“If northerners weren’t clever, I doubt you or I would be here.  Your father has fooled the rest of the realm for this long, hasn’t he? And do you remember what we talked about?  The Night's Watch and why uncle Benjen visits them?”

“Umm, I think I do.” Vegg replied.  Ben had moved over and taken a seat besides Vaegon.  

Aemon smiled, his grandfatherly face wrinkling kindly.  “I will remind you. Our deal with the Nights Watch, in particular, Lord Commander Mormont is maintained by the percentage of income we provide them as well as supplies from our trading and seafood catch.  So long as your uncle maintains his end of the bargain, they don’t report his trade information as well as location to any of the northern houses. Cleverness can come in the form of fiscal savvy as well as duplicity.”  He paused, realizing his words, his verbiage was well beyond the boy if Vaegon’s wide somewhat blank stare was anything to go by.  

He cleared his throat, Vegg’s eyes regaining their focus with a sheepish grin.  

“What I am trying to say Vegg, is that dullards couldn’t do what your uncle does.  Dullards couldn’t manage a trading business. Dullards couldn’t propose lucrative deals all while keeping their true names out.  Dullards couldn’t provide you with any of what you have.”

Vaegon smiled slightly.  His uncles had told him they would always speak plainly with him.  It wasn’t always simple, and at times he was forced to confront hard truths, but they supported him through it.  “The Lord Commander knows our secret?”

“He does.”  Benjen replied.  

“But how are we able to live here still?” Vaegon asked.  

Aemon tilted his head, raising a finger to make sure Ben  would allow him to answer this. “Because the Lord Commander knows what we need him to know.  He knows there are people here, and Benjen is minding them, but he need not know the rest. He understands the importance of making allies, and thus endeavors to maintain our secret because he profits so long as we profit.”  Aemon smiled as Vaegon nodded, catching on. Aemon didn't mention that the Lord Commander also had a sister he would do anything for as well, even if that meant hiding her son or daughter from a cold world that would hurt or use them.  

“So, he understands that Uncle Ben gives him more gold and food that he wouldn’t have without him.” Vegg said.  

Aemon nodded.  “Wouldn’t you say, it takes a lot of cleverness to see sense in that? And isn’t Lord Commander Mormont from one of the oldest houses in the North?”  At Vaegon’s nod, Aemon smiled and continued. “Then you see? Northerners aren’t dullards, they are clever, just like anybody else. Everyone may not be clever in the same way.” He straightened up, his face growing solemn.  “Now what did I tell you about our friend Ser Alliser…One-Eye?” He smiled at the end.  

 “Sometimes he can be bitter and mean and its best to ignore him when he is.” Vaegon frowned before continuing, very seriously. “But I’ll show him, Unlce Benjen, Uncle Aemon.  I’m a Northerner and I’m clever. So I’ll prove him wrong and make him see.”

Aemon smiled at the fond memory.  The ease with which the boy could pull himself from those moments of despair.  It seemed to be more often than not that they would catch him with a frown, thinking over something brooding on what he should do or how.  It seemed to be a familial trait as Rhaegar was oft said to do the same. Returning to the here and now he nodded to El and gestured to the gift.  The Lady brought it over and set it on the table between Vageon and Aemon.  

“I trust you’ve done well in your studies?”  He asked, looking to Elaenor with a knowing smile.  

She nodded.  “Mmm, the broody prince has done well in most of our subjects.  I’m very impressed by his knowledge of lore and histories. He knows quite a bit about his predecessor Daeron the First, though I wish he would spend more time on broader topics.”   Her voice was the perfect combination of Westerosi and some Essosi accent, just present enough to make you want to learn more. She winked at the prince who blushed deeply.  

“Good.” Aemon already knew his nephews fondness for the young dragon.  No doubt he saw some similarity between them. His overall progress was stellar, to say the least, Alliser’s updates were always good, Vaegon loved physical activity.  Though the boy wasn’t the most avid reader, he was more than capable. In all, he was indeed a very clever child. “Then I have no reservation about giving you your nameday gift early.”  

Vaegon’s eyes widened at the box as he reached forward but was halted by his uncles raised hand.  “I can’t open it?” He asked, slightly dejected.  

“Have no doubt Vaegon, you will.  But I must ask you what you know of a certain practice our family maintained decades ago.”  He paused as Vaegon furrowed his brows, thinking. “When our family had the means and resources to do it.”  Vaegon’s eyes widened in surprise as it seemed to click.  He looked at the box, hands now hesitantly moving away.  

“Is it…”  He didn’t finish the question as he looked up at his Great-Uncle.  Indigo eyes met lilac before they moved between the box and his elder as he hesitated.  

“It is.”  Aemon said with a somber nod.  Vaegon’s expression showed he didn’t actually need to tell him anymore.  Vaegon knew what was in it, if his wide eyes and obvious anticipation was anything to go by.  “There were said to be eight in total, but all the others were lost, mayhap destroyed, but this one persisted.  I fear corruption may have touched it, the black swirls and veins weren’t always present. But it is the last of the clutch from the mount of the Good Queen Alysanne, Silverwing.” He motioned for Vaegon to open it.  

Jon sat, still and motionless opposite his uncle.  His heart was racing, playing a melody against his ribcage as he gulped at the air like a fish.  He was vaguely aware of everything his great uncle was saying, vision focused solely on the box in front of him.  A practice our family maintained decades ago,  he thought as he noticed his uncle make a movement.  Oh I can open it, and he did, tearing at the wrapping, pulling the bow off as he  took off the top, staring down into the shaded depth of the box.  

As he reached in, he was stolen by a serene sense of dejavu, I dreamt of this mayhap ? He shook it off as he continued, palms connecting with the rippled and raised surface, patterned like overlapping diamonds of liquid silver, coating it like armor.  Tendrils of deep charcoal grey almost black shafting through like vines starting from the base of the egg up to the top.  

The beauty of it stole his breath.  But nothing more than the warmth he felt from the first connection, the acute sense and feeling that this thing was more than stone.  

This egg is alive.

Chapter Text

Westeros: Crownlands, Kings Landing

A cheer went up. 

And another.  

The thrum and churning of horse hooves mixed with the sounds of breaking wood and metal on metal, but it was the shouts of the men and women that permeated the late-morning air the most.  Another auspiciously chilly breeze shook through the painted canvas roofing, the same wind pulled at the banners that fluttered high above him, the banners and sigils of Houses Baratheon, Lannister, and Arryn; the first much higher and larger than the second and third.  Directly in front of him, on a lone gilded post, the banners of the Crownland houses did the same, reflecting all those that were taking part in the Princes seventh name day tourney.  

The luxury on show was stifling to be sure. A new pavilion with high back cushioned seats, smaller than the Kings and Queens, but no less lavish and decorated in black, gold, and red. Polished railing with painted gold and silver decorative work carved through it.  A proud prancing stag and roaring lion hewn into the wooden wall that made the base of the pavilion. Servants milled about passing out drinks and finger foods; cheese fritters, spiced dornish lamb-meatballs, shrimp with fennel seeds and other dishes he couldn't name slid between the lines of seated highborn.  The wine was steady flowing, as was the ale, leaving a great many drunk by noon. Luckily the exorbitant cost of this affair was being shouldered by the Lord of Casterly Rock himself, a clear attempt to sway the public’s perception of him. He offered it as a gift to his grandson, but he knew the truth, it was a way to indebt the crown further.  Jon Arryn knew Tywin Lannister was a crafty one, he’d just hoped he had less scruples about it. The courtiers false smiles and disingenuous words flew by easily, enthralling the royal family more than normal this day. Nothing far from unusual to be sure, it just didn’t hold the same splendor and magnificence it did so many years ago.  

Lord Hand Jon Arryn was old now, far too old for this perfunctory show of excess and waste but pride pushed him.  It forced his bones to endure and his patience to increase, it forced him to rethink the man he had once been and ponder the man he would need to be to maintain this façade.  For the veneer was breaking and the shadow of age was everywhere, nowhere more so than around his ever-dour faced wife and their babe of two. She clung to him, even now, where it was loud and cold for a summer morning.  He’d preferred for little Robert to stay in the tower with his nurse, but his mother insisted her sweet Robin would join them, Lysa at times was beyond reason and he didn’t have the energy to deal with it.  He’d thought to command her, as her lord-husband he would be well within his rights, but he held his tongue realizing that the verbal sparring would lead them nowhere.  Lysa was combative on the best of days, robbing her of her sweet Robin would only fuel her tirades unnecessarily, so he agreed all while wondering if Ned had as many issues with his Tully wife.  

Another cheer went up, a ripple in the sea of people shook the pavilion as the men and women reacted to the jousting knights. Across from them the small folk inhaled in unison waiting for the clash of man and horse.  “For the Prince or for the King and Queen!” He’d heard the contestants shout time and again. Said prince was leaning against the railing, eyes wide as he whooped at a passing knight. Golden haired, with piercing green eyes.  The boy would be dashing as he grew. His Lannister traits so pronounced you could hardly believe he’d been born of Roberts seed. The boy would have been sweet, could have been enjoyable, but Jon Arryn had seen it, a cruel and malicious streak in the child when he asked Joffrey where his new kitten was. “ Mother told me that cats always land on their feet.  I wanted to see if mine would so I threw him from the gate house” Jon hadn’t known what to do, the flippancy with which the boy said those words.  Mayhap it wasn’t that bad, but Joffrey turned to walk away, continuing on. “It does not seem she was right, because none of the cats I threw did. They all just went SMACK!” He shouted and clapped his hand for emphasis ending with a soft chuckle.  Jon had stopped, eyes wide, but before he realized what he was asking he was speaking, “How…how many cats?” Joffrey paused, turning to look at the Hand and shrugged. “I don’t know, five?”

That had rendered him speechless and more than bothered.  Robert's dismissal of his son was equally bothersome and did nothing but add to the endless weight Jon felt stacking on his shoulders.  He sighed and cringed as a knight took a rather brutal hit, the wood of the lance exploded on his shield and he was thrown to the ground hard.  As the dust rose and people sprang up cheering the victorious knight, Jon didn’t have the energy to waste on this, but endeavored to push through.  The realm was…tense to say the least. It seemed everyone believed this peace to be nothing more than a calm before a storm, a truly shit complacency everyone had fallen into. Something was coming, but nobody knew what. 

He could only agree. This tourney was such an example.  The amount of gold the royal family spent and loaned from house Lannister was enormous.  Rather than entreating allies and courting friendships they ate and drank and played at being merry.  The south, as cultured and learned as they claimed they were, were fast becoming true children of Summer whilst the North was shoring up its defenses.  

His mind wandered to his other son in all but blood.  Eddard’s overtures in the past years had been concise and pragmatic.  The letters that followed detailed how he planned to strengthen his kingdom and expand his presence.  He made few requests if any, even as a boy Eddard’s pride stopped him from asking for help in most cases.  So much so that when he received Ned’s raven, Jon could only agree. He named his son after me, he thought with a fond smile.  Besides being of a more serious nature, the missives allowed his mind a reprieve from the intrigues of court and royal affairs.  

It made him think of the time he spent around Eddard and Robert when they were younger, before the fighting, before the deaths, when they were but boys themselves and not shaped by heartache and misery.  Eddard was quiet and reserved, preferring to observe and collect information before approaching anything. He liked to make informed decisions, which made him seem like a boy with little imagination, but it’s that which set him apart.  Eddard wasn’t boisterous, he was practical, hells all northerners were. Their difficult lives pushed them to turn away from frivolity, and he admired that, so much so that he’d thought that fostering the Crown Prince in the North at Winterfell would be a good idea, but the reality was that that would never happen.  Cersei was likely to have him murdered than part with her boy, so he stayed his thoughts, saving them for himself and possibly his own son.  

That didn’t stop him from contemplating how different their world would have been had Eddard sat the throne and not Robert. For all of his hate of their house, it was Robert‘s Targaryen heritage that all but guaranteed his ascension, but he still wondered. He knew it was a treasonous thought, but that’s where it stayed, a thought.  He knew the reality of his situation, he would likely die taking care of Roberts duties. The man had set out to become king, but once he became it, he did a rather shit job at it. He’d hoped he had instilled more purpose, more drive in his charge, but it seemed he’d been lax somewhere in his duties. The pavilion shook again as horses came charging by.  The people were alive this morning, cheering louder than normal as Ser Jaimie Lannister took to the field, cantering back and forth to cheers of “The Lion of Lannister!” and “Ser Jaimie!”. Jon’s own son was bouncing up and down on their mothers lap as she whispered into his ear, the child laughing all the while.  

“I’m a lion too, mother, aren’t I?” He heard Prince Joffrey ask the Queen.  

“Of course you are my love.”  Cersei replied, sweetly. Her golden hair was pulled back behind her shoulders, curls spilling down her back as she leaned forward in the high back chair.  Her deep red gown was hidden by a satin cloak with a gold sash embroidered with the lion of Lannister and Crown Stag of House Baratheon. “The most fearsome.” She finished with pride in her green eyes.  

King Robert paid them no mind as he was talking to another courtier.  Jon though watched them avidly. The Queen’s gaze lingered on her son before flicking to Jaimie as the knight paraded about in victory.  It stayed there before moving back to her son and she began to clap politely, pursing her lips in satisfaction. Of course she'd be proud her brother won, but there was something there.  Something more in that look…

And it set him on edge.

Westeros: Narrow Sea, Port of White Harbor

“If the winds remain kind to us, we’ll arrive within the hour.” He said, a smile painted across his face.  The sea was his home, in truth and she always brought the brightest smiles but sometimes the thrill of arrival felt just as good.  

The day was balmy, requiring little more than a tunic, faded black breeches, some brown leather boots and gloves of the same make, and a thin brown roughspun cloak.  “Mi’lord, you ought to change. They’ll be lookin’ for a man of the Crown, not a sea-stained old captain.” 

The barb held the smile on his face, bitter sweet though it was.  He couldn’t help glancing down at his sweat stained tunic, picking at it with his right hand, the other supporting him on the railing of the starboard side of the upper deck as he looked forward.  His ship, Black Betha, made him into who he was today. “I think you’re right.” The lilt of a Flea Bottom accent pushed through before he chuckled, all the while considering his situation. The North was new to him, a territory of savages he truly had little dealings with.  It was warmer now, but the further north and inland they were he was certain the touch of Summer would not be as noticeable. He liked to consider himself a well-traveled man, prone to avoiding making snap decisions or carrying ill thoughts on people he’d never met, but it was a common misconception that the North was a barren wasteland, spotted by keeps full of heinous and sinful people.  

In all reality he knew it was a lie.  Of the Northmen he’d encountered in the capital, none looked much different from him.  Even White Harbor as it shone like a polished white stone in the distance, framed by milling boats of varying sizes and big bulbous white clouds on a sky that melted into the ocean looked to be like any other Southron port city.  He nodded to his second, his son Dale. Despite the boys youth, he was just shy of ten and seven, his presence on the sea travel portion of this journey had been nothing short of a boon. His other sons were too young, but Dale was of an age to master their craft and hopefully captain a ship of his own one day.  He also remembered their life before his change in station. His age notwithstanding, the boy was much more clever than he let on. 

Dale must have seen the hesitation on his father’s face, giving him his most assured smile before clasping him on the shoulder.  “You’ll do fine father, Lord Stannis trusts you. Just remember your courtesies. They may be Northmen, but were dealin’ with Lords, and you’ll be dealin’ with a Warden.”

He nodded, grasping the pouch that rested on the leather necklace around his neck.  Dale’s eye followed his father's movement smirking slightly. Davos rolled his eyes at his son and his unwillingness to believe that Davos’s left knuckle bones were anything more than that.  “They bring me peace.” He muttered.  

“You’re mad if you think they’re anythin’ more than bones, father.”

The same argument that would most likely have the same conclusion.  Davos shrugged, knowing it was a gesture a true lord wouldn’t have made but alas, he accepted his more than humble beginnings.  “Who is to say my son? Who is to say these bones aren’t the very reason we made it here sure and hale?” A brown brow rose in questioning as his sons frown deepened.  They shared a look before parting with a chuckle as Dale took over the ship, leaving Davos to return to his cabin to change but not before telling his father to wash up, “You can’t present yourself there smellin’ like the back side of a whore at sea.”

And it turned out to be for the best.  Within the better part of an hour he could hear the shouts from the deck.  His son was calling for their men to prepare themselves as they came into port.  He could hear the commotion as they obeyed his orders, the sounds of shuffling feet and snapping of rope coming next as the rigging was pulled and the sails drawn back to the masts.  The thud of chains and furling of the sails was like music to the mans ears as he left his cabin, buckling a grey cloak over his shoulders. After washing he’d forgone the tunic for a dark green doublet and black breeches over his small clothes, exchanging his gloves for a nicer black pair with false fingers on his left hand to mimic the ones Stannis removed.  He learned early on that deformities made Lords and the like uncomfortable, especially those they viewed as below them. Which most certainly see me as.   He finished his ensemble with polished black boots, a gift from his wife.  His doublet was emblazoned with the sigil of House Seaworth on his left breast, a black ship on a pale grey field, with a white onion on its sails; something that always brought pride.  A once smuggler with his own banner, imagine that. He patted the castle forged steel at his hip, hoping it never came to actually using it, it was more for show than anything else.  

The change in the air was noticeable, warmth leached away from him as he was greeted to the sounds and sights of what was surely to be his first of many stops in the Northern kingdom.  He paused simply to observe as the crew moved around, shifting their cargo to remove it easier. The place was alive, with more than what he considered to be the regular fair .  The amount of foreign galleys and carracks was a surprise to him.  He noted the sails almost instantly, ships from all over the Western side of Essos even as far south as Tyrosh were either sailing in or were already docked, unloading their haul as men moved back and forth from the ships. The regular fair was still there: ships from The Reach, some he recognized from King’s Landing, even a few from the Westerlands, though he noticed some odd galleys with a grey crab on half red and half black waves. Peculiar. White Harbor was said to be the only true Northern city, but he was realizing that was an understatement.  The immensity of it was breathtaking to say the least, immediately shaking his tenuous grasp on Northerners and their culture.  

“Are you ready Ser Davos Seaworth?” Dale called out as he approached his father.  

“I think I am.” Davos replied, preparing to disembark.  His son approached him, the pair embraced briefly before Davos stepped back and nodded.  “Wish me luck?”

“You wont need it father.”  Dale replied, his face somber.  The glint in his brown eyes shown with pride as he pushed away a few similarly colored flyaway strands of hair. “Just remember your courtesies.”

Davos shook his head, chuckling softly.  “I will. You remember to keep the books.  I’ll send a raven every fortnight, more if I can.”  He was glad his wife pushed him and the children to learn their letters, it would make them all the more desirable in their futures.  The father and son shared a moment, a brief embrace before they separated once more.  

Dale nodded, gesturing to the greeting party waiting for his father, a barely constrained laugh on his lips as he spoke.  “One of the Lords to-fat-to-sit-a-horse awaits.”

“Dale!” Davos grabbed his son with his good hand and shoved him away, wheeling around as he faced the railed ramp they extended down.  Taking a deep breath and composing himself, he brushed his clothing down before stepping forward, toward the greeting party.  

“Ser Seaworth!” The more than portly man called out cheerfully as they approached each other and clasped hands.  “I am Wyllis Manderly, my father apologizes but some last minute changes in schedule made him unavailable.”

Davos nodded solemnly, smiling in return as he grasped the man’s hand.  “Thank you my lord.” 

“No need for thanks good Ser. What say we get inside and get a drink?”  He slapped Davos on the shoulder, not unkind, before grasping it firmly.  “And welcome to the North, hopefully we aren’t as uncouth as you lot think we are eh?”

“Hopefully.” Davos chuckled, unsteadily as he was led to the New Castle.

Essos: Braavos, slightly South of The Purple Harbor

“…up, get up now!” Daenerys was confused, tired and confused.  Her mother's voice entered her mind in tune with her dreams. The last thing she remembered were leathery black wings stretching as far as the eye could see and a deep and unflappable sense of peace.  Warmth was the first real thing she felt as she shifted enjoying the feeling of the bedding and linen before she was being shaken awake, roughly.  

In that moment, her confusion doubled.  “Jaehaerys, stop!” She kicked off the offending hand as she finally sat up, mind still muddled, hair a mess and very annoyed.  

“Wake up Daenerys!” Oh… Her mama’s wide eyed and panicked face met her view as she rubbed at her eyes; her vision cleared and reality was finally discernible.  “Mama?” She questioned, the confusion returning and deepening. For a moment she thought she was in trouble, but that couldn't have been it, what trouble could she cause when she had been asleep?  She blinked slowly, only to realize that a lot was happening; the servants were running in and out of her room, grabbing belongings as they rushed back out. Her things were scattered across the ground, her bedding all but thrown to the floor.  She shivered as her mind exited the fog of sleep..  

“We have to leave, now sweetling.”  Rhaella’s voice remained soft, though with a strength that brokered no defiance.  Her lips were a thin white line as she stood and looked around the room, moving to grab a few things before she threw them on Daenerys’ bed.  “Get dressed, get your twin, and meet me in the courtyard.”

Dany shook, a finger of something creeping down her spine as it all came rushing back.  Horrible memories, terrifying dreams and ideas of being separated from her family threatened to consume her. It was back, the pit in her stomach, the feeling that they were in trouble but she didn't know how or why.  Her mother’s voice in her dream, the panic in her face. Not again… “They found us?”  

Rhaella stopped at the door and looked back at her daughter, a candle in hand.  She was dressed in all black, rarer even were the black leathers she wore. A black scarf was wrapped around her head, hiding their immensely noticeable silver-gold hair, black boots and a black tunic finished it off. She hesitated for a moment eyeing her daughter, her violet eyes were the only thing Daenerys truly recognized,and even then the candlelight made them look black at certain angles.  Mama’s scared , she thought.  “Meet me in the courtyard Dany. No questions.”Rhaella said before leaving the room in a hurry.  

Daenerys was left alone to get dressed, breaths escaping in slight pants as she struggled to contain the nerves. Her mind was trying and failing to process everything she knew and heard in those moments.  Out of sleep and fully awake, it was much louder. She could hear the servants rushing around, the bang of their things hitting the floor. Plates breaking, chests being shuffled and pushed, voices yelling in the courtyard.  Panic was everywhere. She finished getting dressed hastily, her mother must have prepared for this because Dany was dressed similarly. It was only then she realized that the hour must have been late, or early depending on how you viewed it.  The moon still hung high in the sky, no light of dawn in the distance. She wrapped her hair as she left her room, heading straight for her twin, fear made the short journey seem so much longer.  

Jaehaerys was just finishing dressing as Dany came in.  His eyes were wide with panic as well, confusion clear on his face.  She could tell by his puffy cheeks and bags under his eyes that he must have been asleep for longer than she.  “Mama said we have to go, what’s happening?”

Daenerys hesitated, “I don’t know.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

His face paled at her tone.  The pair could share so much without as many words.  They possessed something, a bond of some sort, their feelings generally aligned, and in that moment, as Jae looked into her eyes he knew.  “They found us again.” It wasn’t a question.

“Mama didn’t say, she just said we have to…”

“Daenerys! Jaehaerys! COME!” Oswell’s shout startled them both as they heard his heavy footsteps come running down the hallway. There was no reservation in his movements, only blunt action as he barreled into her brother’s room.  “What are you doing ?! Come, NOW!”  Even Oswell, normally calm and quick to joke however dark it was, was in a state.  He didn’t wait for them to say a word, glancing over them quickly before moving, grabbing both by an arm as he drug them from the room in a half run, half walk.  

The manse was in a state, their belongings everywhere. Rugs were flipped over, tables knocked aside, chairs everywhere and papers scattered about.  Anything of import had been removed, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. This was home, their home.  The only home she knew and the only home she could claim to have felt any warmth or love.  Tears came to the corner of her eyes as Oswell drug them down the stairs and through the foyer before pulling them into the cool nights air.  Six years of memories amounted to little more than nothing as she turned to view the house they called home. The red door stood open as they ran out and came to the horses, their mother close behind towing Viserys with her.  

“Daenerys, ride with me. Jaehaerys with Oswell and Viserys with Willem.”

“I can ride my own bloody horse!” Viserys yelled back, his petulance choosing now to rear its ugly head.    He yanked hard on his mother’s arm freeing himself as he stopped and planted his feet, crossing his arms and setting his jaw in defiance.  “I can ride on my own!”

“How! Hmm?  How Viserys? Do you see a spare horse?”  Rhaella paused, her eyes wide as their household clambered into the carts and climbed on the horses she looked around, her expression clearly saying they did not have time for this. “And if there was, you thought yourself too good to learn to properly ride a horse, so how do you intend to do that?” Her voice was unflinchingly calm, though cold and piercing.  Disappointment oozed from each word. “You can try to ride on your own, and then you will fall off or get caught. I need not tell you what will happen then, do I?”  She paused once more. “You will ride with Willem.”

Viserys to all of their surprise though, planted his feet once more and shook his head, defiance radiating from every inch of him.  “I will ride on my…” He never finished as their mother’s open hand connected with his face, sending him stumbling back. A red mark flourished across his cheek as Rhaella stood over him now, all Targaryen fury.    

“Get on the fucking horse Viserys or Ser Willem will make you.”

The knight in question shook his head before crossing the courtyard.  “We don’t have time for this you fool.” He said, before grabbing the boy by his arm and dragging him to the horse, roughly hauling him on. Dany heard a few shouts before warmth blossomed on her cheek, bright yellow/orange light illuminating their surroundings as she gasped. Fire. She could hear shouting in the distance, and then the clang of metal on metal as guards started fighting and bells begun to sound through the district.  Oh gods, our pursuers... 

“Why are we using horses, mama?”  Jaehaerys asked nervously as Oswell took the spot behind him, mounting the horse quickly and securing the prince.  There was fear in her brothers eyes, in his voice. She could see it, feel it even, the same questions and thoughts running through her mind.   

“They burned our canoes.” Oswell replied, her eyes widening as she realized just how close they actually were. “We were betrayed, but we don't know by whom.”

She couldn’t stop the tears as they came rolling down her cheeks. The Manse was well and truly on fire now.  Everything she loved, everything she cherished was burning. Her mother took her hand gently before taking her to the horse and helping her climb on.  “Ragmans Harbor!” She heard Rhaella yell to their men as their horse cantered in a circle before rearing up and galloping from the gates of their home, leaving the house with the red door burning in the night, the smell of charred lemons forever in her memory.

Westeros: North of The Wall

The wind blew much harder than normal, as if the cold didn't want her to reach her destination. Flurries of snow blotted the sun out, leaving the world in a mysterious white haze. Little life clung to the evergreens that fought for sustenance against the storms, pine needles mixed with snow and lanced through the sky, but went unfelt. Wizened trees creaked, their bare branches swaying like an old crones limbs clicking and clacking against each other with every gust. Summer did not exist here. The desolation was eerie, heightened by the immense old Weirwood that stood firm like a white beacon against the storm and winters ever present bite.  That it somehow managed to produce bright thriving blood red leaves was an homage to the state of its occupants, it’s protectors, forgotten yet thriving miraculously. The face carved in it seemed to be smiling at her, so naturally she smiled back. 

None of this made sense, and she was an ardent proponent of logic and order. She governed her existence and by extension all of her creations by it, so imagine her surprise when she lived when her world did not. Mundus, the plane that once contained her world, her first creations was interminably gone.  She’d watched, near powerless and bound, as life on Nirn was no more. Yet she was still imbued by a lingering presence of divinity, as unlikely in this world as it was, she persisted when Oblivion called to her. That was a problem. Power was not as tangible as it was on Nirn or the plains between this world and the other. Magic was still young here, or rather, in a state of rebirth. No, her Dovahsos gave her power in this world. The Dragon’s Soul within that gave birth to the Blood of her Blood, her second and most coveted creation.   

A lithe figure caught her attention, her narrowed gold eyes watched as eight more appeared. Oh they were brazen, no doubt protecting what was theirs to protect. Small though, barely taller than four and a half feet. Their skin was mottled, earthy tones, skin not too dissimilar from a man or woman; cloaked in what looked like heavy moss.  Bows with knocked arrows were trained on her own black cloaked and hooded form, of that she was sure. She heard something, mayhaps words, but it moved through the sky and around her as wind, smooth and almost unintelligible but hauntingly beautiful...and familiar. It wound its way through the storm, silent and everywhere like a Thu’um, dragon speak.  They were singing a song of protection, and she could hear it, feel it even. She took a breath, a soft one, and exhaled but her breath left no mist. Aedric divinity still clung to her...for how long, she didn’t know. 

The Dwemer, no you fool, Children she thought quickly approached her, nervously at first, spears and bows in hand. Like herself they moved over the snow lithely, no prints left in their wake and melted into their surroundings at will.  The cold did not harm them, it seemed, mayhaps a byproduct of their lives here? “I know you, but I shouldn’t.” It said to her in a voice deeper than she would have expected. It’s dark wide eyes searched the darkness where her face was. She lifted her hands to drop back her hood. Straight long white gold hair tumbled out, unperturbed by the storm that raged around them. Angled features, achingly beautiful and alien, but familiar. She smiled, her gold eyes moving quickly over each figure.

“I know you, Child. Dwemer, so far removed from Nirn and Tamriel, but still of the Mer. I would recognize you anywhere.” 

The child, frowned? She couldn't tell.  Its pupils constricted to slits like a cats, observing her and taking her measure before expanding once more after a brief pause where only the noise of the storm could be heard. “Come.” The Child of the Forest finally said. “I am Twig.”

The beautiful woman looked at her, “Twig?” She asked as she followed the Child to the gaping hole at the base of the Weirwood. The sounds of wind vanished once they broke the barrier to a tunnel that went directly below the tree. It was warmer here, much more than one would have expected this far north. 

“My name cannot be said in the tongues of man...Twig is, easier.” The Child of the Forest replied very placidly. Her face brokered no emotion. Strong and stern, but decidedly feminine. She turned to look at the beautiful woman. “And you?”

She waved it off, so casually that it almost caught the Child off guard. “I’d rather do this the once, like you, it’s easier that way.” The beautiful woman replied, her full lips quirked into a smile again. The warmth grew, she noticed. Still very interested in the why and how, because if it was magic she definitely wanted to know the details of that feat. She could have told them, then and there, her origin, her purpose but she had to see him first. Her Dovahsos thrummed as she got closer to him, an inborn recognition of their kind. Her soul yearned to be in the presence of another dragon or what remained of her soul placed into this mortal shell. The singing mellowed, becoming a gentle hum in the background, mixing with the gusts of wind, yet the Children around her all remained quiet, looking at her as they passed no doubt curious.  Even their steps went almost unheard. The tunnel expanded and branched out in different paths. More Children appeared as they entered, peering at her curiously. It was amazing, to see them here and alive, even if they forgot their roots. She was curious as to their numbers, she counted fifty, maybe sixty.  

Twig looked back at her before nodding and walking away, melting into the shadows and Children around them. Torches lit the expanse they poured into, as well as one central beam of light but she couldn’t figure out where the light came from. It shined to a pedestal of roots, no doubt the giant Weirwood’s, it was certainly big enough to have a system that reached this far.  Ensconced by the roots that wound themselves through the expanse of the great hall like room sat a man, though from where she stood he was barely discernible.  

“You look horrible.” She said, gazing at the barely recognizable wound of a man eaten by a tree.

Brynden chuckled, a dry brittle thing. It sounded like it hurt. She wanted to tell him to stop, but thought against it. “Indeed, I have looked better.” That was an understatement. He looked half a tree, branches and wood limbs going into him and coming out elsewhere. One red eye watched her, where the other should have been yet another branch came through and looped out and back into the dirt. His body was no better, ashen, legs unseen in the mess of dirt and wood. Each breath sounded like kindling rubbed against itself. 

“So this is what has become of the White Dragon?”

“A name I have not been called for the better part of a century.”

“I wonder why.” She replied, a disgusted frown on her face as she took a few steps forward, her gold eyes looking him over. ”Your house-our kin-falls to ruin, children of the blood, murdered and forced into hiding. My Dovahsos screamed for retribution, but I could do nothing but watch and wait, bound between realms when I should have ceased to be. Yet here you are, a dragon with clipped wings, watching and doing what?”

Bryndens eye widened, and his lips formed an ugly grimace, mayhaps one of the only expressions he could make, “Who are you to judge me?” His voice was soft but cold. She had touched a nerve.

“You feel it don't you? Your Dovahsos, your dragonsoul calls to me.  Like a dirge in your very heart, I can feel it in my bones, in my blood...though I doubt you even have blood.”  She shook her head. “I have gone by many names, Brynden Rivers. The men of Nirn named me Akatosh, the elves called me Auri-El, to your ancestors I was Arrax. ”  

If Bloodraven was surprised he barely showed it, or mayhaps he really couldn’t. “How?” Was all he asked.   

What a peculiar question , she thought.  She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in frustration, she wanted to ask him how, how their entire civilization ceased to be in the four hundred years since she last returned. How their empire broke and shriveled until it was left in the hands of a would be sorcerer bound to the Earth.  Surely he had looked? “I’m as old as the wind, older even than the bones of the mountains. I have seen the rise and fall of a world, and you ask me how I am what? Here?” She shrugged, in truth she had no idea. But what power remained guided her here, gave her the presence to send her guides into the world, to help her figure out what she did, what she changed. “I don’t know. But what I do know is that we have work to do Brynden. A lot of work. And it will require you to do more than sit.”

The man in the tree barked a laugh, that horrible scratching sound echoing around the auspiciously quiet cave like room.  “You are right, I feel it, but I never knew what it was, that call to my kin. I tried to find what it was but that knowledge eluded me.  I have felt it from others of our blood.” He sighed. “You claim divinity yet need help from me?” He eyed her warily. “I have been keeping vigil for longer than I can remember.”

“Yes, and leading our kin to ruin…”  He made to speak but she cut him off.  “I will not allow it. My flames must gain strength and you will help me Bloodraven…” she stepped forward, slowly. “Something has changed.  I exist when I should not. I need to know what happened, why, and what is to come.” She smiled, so beautifully it stole Bryndens breath. Bloodraven must not have noticed as she approached him, now standing less than five steps away.  From here she could see the tattered grey robe that covered bits and pieces of him, accompanied by a white beard. Surprisingly no smell came from the man, none that she could distinguish which led her to believe there was indeed some kind of magic at play, whether he knew it or not she would find out. He stared up at her through his long and withered white hair, red eye piercing.  “It is said that you have a thousand eyes and one. I mean to see through them all.”

Chapter Text

Island of Ib, Fortress of Ibben: Rhaella

A bright blue sky stole the scene with long clouds spread thin by the gentle, though cold breeze. Sunlight poured in through the tower windows.  Her rooms faced southeast; a litany of thick-glassed wood-framed windows set in carved stonework gave her an unobstructed view of the southern portion of the city itself, as well as the port, a sliver of the markets, some of the glass gardens, the southern gates, a portion of the great circular courtyard, and the people milling about the causeways and streets.  Ancient gargoyles, magnificent beasts she couldn’t name, and even dragons hewn from crenulated rock stood firm on the ramparts as the former Wind Blown, now House Targaryen’s burgeoning city guard and levies patrolled the streets so far below. Her elegantly braided silver-gold hair and red and black drapes danced with each gust, only two windows out of what she considered to be hundreds were flung open allowing fresh cold air in, the smells of the sea following it.  Gentle sprays of salt water battered the greying stone of the curtain walls surrounding the ancient fortress of Ibben and part of its port city. The beauty of the day was a deception, if ever she could call it that. The cold seemed to be ever present, ever consuming. Her thick blood colored cotton dress helped her fight the cold. Fringes of lace in maroon and burgundy accentuated her curves, a navy bodice fit snugly. A single brooch stood out, pinned just beneath her clavicle; a ruby three headed dragon of House Targaryen.  It was the first time she wore anything near her house colors, so brazenly and proudly since their escape from Westeros. She figured she would acclimate eventually, four moons just isn’t enough , she thought as she pulled her thick fox fur-lined navy and maroon cloak tighter around her shoulders. Her clothing changed drastically the further north they went.  They were much more reserved than their Essosi counterparts. Ibben was a strange yet oddly familiar place. Familiar because of her years of steady research into the lifestyle and culture, though at times it seemed that had paid off minimally.  

She sighed, fingering the crown crafted for her.  It was pretty, a diadem of gold, inlaid with rubies and diamonds high and erect with the image of two snarling dragons steepled on the front holding a single ruby the size of her thumbnail between their jaws.  The smiths and jewelers of the island had done a marvelous job, but it wasn't hers .  The metal was beautiful but cold, no warmth or memory, no history behind it.  At times she would find herself longing for her true crown. It had been a gift, given to her by Aerys at his coronation.  He’d taken the design from what was written of Queen Allysannes crown but added and changed where he thought the original was lacking.  It was beautiful and hers, blessed by their father before his passing but lost to them, of that she was sure. The crown was probably melted down by the Usurper, it served as the proof of her and her children's demise, the only proof she could offer without parting from life or limb.  She took the new one and nestled it atop her head amongst her braids and curls.  

With their occupation came certain caveats; one was acquiescing to a modicum of her subjects traditions, namely titles.  They served a purpose, she knew. But at times the titles could be very cumbersome and rather ostentatious. Her newest was both and in truth she abhorred it.  It made her sound full of herself, almost too assured in her right to rule. Though as a daughter of the blood, she was certain she had it , a right to rule that is.  How else could she have survived for so long without the aid of the Iron Throne, without the aid of a master-of-ships or a master-of-coin? She was blood of the dragon.  She was her own small council, her own whisperer and lord of her own spies. She did however endeavor to emulate a spider she once hoped to squash; weaving her own web, but not of deceit and falsity but of security and protection.   Rhaella Targaryen conceded that she was a walking juxtaposition, the common duality between what it meant to be a Targaryen conqueror and what it meant to love her family beyond anything.  

God-Queen Rhaella Targaryen, It made her cringe.  

As it was, life was too exciting at the moment not to accept the power that came with titles.  Her children meant too much to her not to. Every deception, every whisper, every death and every man and woman used to bring them here was for them.  She had come to realize some time ago that comprehending the intricacy of that portion of her life made everything so much easier to understand; her values and morals meant nothing if she had no one to live for.  Her violet eyes surveyed her territory.  Her world.  Her kingdom .  She was reminded of her passing hardships, that at times seemed insurmountable, and she was loath to admit still did. But, she had to master it, which somehow she did…She had found herself a common respite, an ease of existence she was still comprehending, but was fine with that.  

In short, she, a woman , had done it.  

Four years of peace they were given from the day she met with the banker from the Guild of Andos, four  years of maneuvering, conniving, and postulating. She hated it. Common knowledge meant she should have sought out help through marriage alliances, it’s what she was raised and taught to do, but the prospect of giving one of her children up was not something she was willing to do.  Influence was what she needed to foster as well as find a way to gain prestige with warriors, find soldiers of renown, people that struck fear with a name or commanded respect with their deeds. Unfortunately she knew from the inception of their plans that the Targaryen name truly only meant something to a very select few.  Aerys’ geopolitical efforts extended as far as finding a wife for Rhaegar, so friends were becoming more difficult to find. Oswell had proposed approaching the Golden Company, which she had considered. Their skill was known throughout all the realms and there was a certain amount of prestige that came with hiring them that could have lent credence to their goals and notoriety to their ability to bargain and command such battle hardened men.  

But, her pride still said no, never . Really, more so her anger and sudden vulnerability.  They will never cede to a woman, the thought played through her mind as she cursed herself then for being born weak and fragile.  She cursed the Usurper for wanting them dead, they were innocent of her husband’s crimes. She cursed Aerys for his madness and getting them exiled from their home.  She cursed her father for forcing her to marry her brother, and finally she cursed Aegon the Dragon for setting his eyes on that vexatious land, further wallowing in her doubt.  By then they were a year into their plans and the sly accumulation of their ships and forces had hit a snag and she was doubting her ability to continue their course. She wasn’t raised with the thought of battle in mind, her Lady Mother, the Queen Shaera taught her to be a Lady first.  Molded her to portray the image of beauty and sovereignty. Her mother trained her to mind her home, raise her children and provide stability for her family. But even in something she believed she had talent in, her failures planted the seeds of doubt that dug deeper with every interaction with Aerys when he lived.  The only good that came from their union was the children she’d loved and lost and the ones that still remained.  

Essos was a continent of skirmishes and constant back and forth she soon realized.  War was nothing more than a numerical value in some Magister’s ledgers. Lowborn saw war as an unfortunate way of life, but also as a practical if not dangerous way to earn a living; the highborn saw it as a means to make gold as well, but by using those same lowborn. It was a rudimentary way to think of it, but she knew it was true.  They didn’t have the gold to acquire any Unsullied and she wasn’t willing to place their fortunes on contracts with unknown companies. She and Oswell had argued on how best to approach sellswords; he told her his experience gave him the knowledge, he was a soldier. She couldn't argue with that and gave him leave to explore their options.  That was why the acquisition of the Wind Blown had been quite the boon. Ser Willem helped Oswell track down their commander after following his past contracts.  

“Here’s your gold.”  She remembered telling Oswell as he returned with a smile on his face, blue eyes winking in triumph and satisfaction. She rolled her own, chuckling all the while.  She’d wagered that his method would fail, and yet he returned a success.  

The Tattered prince held a certain level of respect amongst the smallfolk, freedmen, and nobility.  To them, he abandoned his life of luxury and opulence to fight and earn his way. They weren’t too keen on the specifics and the true reasons behind his abdication of power, they didn’t know of the political shackles that were meant to bind him and if necessary kill him had he accepted the role the magisters of Pentos demanded of him.  To them he was decent enough and just in his dealings, using his title and position as his soldiers shield and his birth as their sword and reason to lead them, but he didn’t let them forget that he was their superior; he understood hierarchy, without being too overt. He meant something to them, even most of his enemies spoke to the truth of his word.  And his desire was simple, he was tired of fighting; give him a home and they would have his sword.   

Yet it still wasn’t enough.  Loath to admit it, she had returned to Oswell’s proposal and truly considered it for a moment, contacting the Golden Company and proposing a tete-a-tete between herself and their Captain General.  “They were of the blood your grace, bastard born aye, but House Blackfyre is gone and the company is one of the best in Essos, if not thee best.” WIllem had offered. She knew her history well. She tried to rationalize that the once founders and leaders of the company and her own family were at one point one house, mayhap they could look past their enmity? 

It was Viserys single minded pride in her progress that forced her to push through her mental barriers and get some distance from that less than spectacular idea.  He had an ability to glean information that made her uncomfortable, but she wasn’t surprised. He snuck around, trying to include himself in their war preparations.  At times, it was simply easier to include him than have him eavesdrop. Surprisingly his hot and cold belief in her cleverness was the drive she needed to figure out a solution of her own without resorting to the use of Bittersteels company.  She admonished herself for allowing weakness to filter into her normally fortified constitution. Her children needed strength, her men needed a leader, and she needed to be a figure. Using the Golden Company would only cast a sizeable pall over their purpose, over their name.  Because in truth, that’s all they had.  

Words of the movements of the Golden Company came in sparingly, though it was generally good news, information regarding their locations and maneuvers as well as a few other sell-sword companies.  But without a Pretender to lead them, The Golden Company was only a band of sellswords with no true ambition outside of gold. They had no purpose and wouldn’t actually be a threat, Ibben was out of their typical range and if all went well the Ibbenese Shadow Council would be none the wiser.  It was all for the better, the enmity ran too deep there, for most if not all Targaryen’s.  Blackfyre. It was like a curse, whispered with seething hate for all they represented.  The beginning of the end of the fall of the greatest Dynasty since Old Valyria.  No, she had eventually thrown that idea out, chastising Oswell for his lack of faith in their ability to find allies,  but in truth she was really angry at herself for considering it.

“It's not safe Your Grace.” Oswell repeated himself for what had to be the twentieth time.  He was following her through their borrowed villa. It was late, much too late to be arguing and all three of her children were actually asleep.  She just wanted wine, but at her desk she’d come to a somber admission. “I know that Oswell. None of this is safe.” She turned and the pair faced each other.  “But it needs to happen. It's the only way to get more gold, gain more allies, and take everyone's measure.”  Her face needed to be seen to make their agreements, she realized that there was no more hiding, she had to expose herself to gain allies and doing so did just that.  Her first foray into the greater part of Essos went without incident as they ventured to Lorath and Norvos. Anonymity still played a factor, they were dead to Westeros and had to remain as such if they wanted their plans to come to fruition.  They all realized that leaving her home had become a necessity, generally at one or two moons at a time but their forces slowly began to grow once more.  

Bribing members of The Shadow Council was expensive and needed a silver tongue, with Jon Connington gone, it fell to her alone.  Religious figures and lesser guildsmen were much easier; promises of a brighter future and her ear did the trick. Many of the Islanders desired a return to the old ways, rule by a God-King once more.  The Thousand were easily manipulated, she was proof enough. They saw her as a potential figurehead, a puppet Queen, weak because of her sex. Using that to her advantage and preying on their discontentment was simple, even if it left a bad taste in her mouth.  Manipulation was becoming easier and easier. Though In truth, gold had been the decider, which was less of a surprise and more of an annoyance. Her relationship with the substance was inherently difficult, but that was the world of numbers and finance. With the funds she was financed through the Banking Guild of Andos and the help of a motivated Bravossi man named Ferrego Antaryon, who himself held the desire to rule as the Sealord of Braavos, she was able to source a few areas of income in order to recoup her losses from the bribes.  Ferrego had his fingers in quite a bit and with his help she invested their gold in various importing and exporting companies as well as a few less savory businesses; primarily those that dealt with brothels and the heavily frowned upon slave trade. The investments were a means to an end, and nothing she would continue to do once they reached their goal. Braavos maintained its autonomy based on the premise that all men were free, but like any City-State in Essos, its economy thrived off of the sale and trade of slaves, even if it was indirect.  With the gold earned from his help and the war galleys commissioned by herself and a ‘friend’ of the family the cheesemonger Magister Illyrio Mopatis, the Targaryen fleet took shape. Between Sers Willem and Oswell and the Tattered Prince, they were able to slowly find men to train and hire the sellswords they could as well as integrate the sellsails they found that would become a part of their growing Targaryen Armada.   

Almost three more years passed as their plans continued to take form.  The forest of Qohor served as their source for the needed lumber. Small but bloody skirmishes erupted around the construction sites as the ships and boats and siege equipment were built, but with the assistance of Ferrego, they were able to secure safe passage for their supplies and her children to their temporary home with future-dated trade promises. With Rhaella’s success, he understood how good a friend House Targaryen could be should they hold dominion of Ibben. She’d turned down his marriage proposal already, saying she had no use of a husband as her legacy was all but ensured with three heirs.  Though in truth, Aerys' ministrations had soured her at the thought of matrimony.  

The south end of the Axe served as their safe harbor and midway point. A bevy of abandoned mines hid their equipment and the growing force of soldiers inhabited the abandoned shanty towns as they trained and built.  They were thankful for the disputes over the land, it made it harder for them to be attacked. No one was willing to claim what was happening in the area in fear of furthering hostilities. War in the region was too costly, especially with the myriad of skirmishes further south.  Northern Essos was too remote, too hard to traverse without offending one person or another. It helped that the bay was protected on three sides with easy access to the forest. The old mines protected what was built, leaving time on the Shivering Sea as a test for their built ships and recruits.   

Her children were growing much too fast, in her honest opinion. The time apart felt like ages, and every time she returned they seemed older, prematurely aged more than other children.  It hurt her heart, realizing the worry they must have felt, but through it all she pushed on, reminding herself that it was all for them. Distance was forming between the twins and their elder sibling. Ser Willem reported intervening in fights between Viserys and Jaehaerys on more than one occasion, and the occurrences were increasing.  “It’s easier for him to rile up the Princess, but he favors poking at Prince Jae.” Willem told her. “But Prince Jae takes it and tries to ignore how much it bothers him so Long as Viserys leaves their sister alone which I think is why Viserys is so insistent on poking at his brother.” The older knight finished.  

It seemed Viserys often cited what he believed to be martial inadequacies or whatever he thought easiest to use at the moment, but that didn’t stop him from making Dany as miserable as possible; frightening the girl into  vivid nightmares of being his sister-wife. She didn’t want to believe it, what mother would? But the truth stared her in the eyes one late afternoon as she and Ser Oswell returned to their temporary home from their travels much earlier than anticipated, fatefully interrupting a rather vicious fight.  She had told no one of her return hoping to surprise her children with not only her presence earlier but with gifts and trinkets she found on her travels. Her happiness was shattered by the sounds of vicious shouting and breaking decorations. The things she heard Viserys say as she came to the room with the screaming had shaken her to her core.  The pungent smell of lilacs assaulted her as the dish containing the scented oil lay broken in a corner in front of a bookcase. The chair that normally sat behind the desk in the solar of their temporary dwelling sat toppled over across the room. Books were strewn on either side as if they had been thrown, shattered ceramic, clay, and porcelain littered the floor.  Small cuts and bruises peppered each child to a degree, obviously from little pieces of shrapnel. Jaehaerys right eye was puffy and black and blue, a bruise forming on the left side of his face where his cheek and lips met but he’d given as much as he took. Viserys bottom lip was split open bleeding as he grimaced in disgust or anger she couldn’t tell; dried blood caked under his nose, a bruise forming on the inside of both eyes.  Daenerys was on the ground stifling her pain and clutching her side, a red mark blooming across her cheek and bruises on her arms. Jaehaerys was standing protectively in front of her, teeth barred and clenched, looking every inch a little dragon as he stared daggers at his brother. His clenched fists were shaking, from fear or anger she didn’t know.  

What scared her the most and made the situation all the more ludicrous was the knife in Viserys’ own shaking hand. He was no longer left with Ser Willem and the twins without her presence.

Fortunately, they were all used to the constant travel now, life wasn’t any more difficult for any of them. Aside from the standard guard and servants,  Rhaella realized that with the constant moving, the children’s education was sorely lacking. Viserys was with her and Oswell so she took over his education until things settled down, but for the twins, she hired a tutor to help Ser Willem as she, Ser Oswell, and now Viserys resumed their travels, securing alliances and courting friends.  The tutor, Lady Xaurane Xahxzdos of Elyria, was well traveled and well learned, if her tertiary interview was anything to go by. Her appearance was almost too fortuitous, but she was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, once she was certain there was no danger to her family that is. And oddly enough she felt certain the woman wasn’t a danger.  The children took to her immediately, and it helped that she spoke a litany of languages and seemed to know her histories quite well.  In truth her initial desire had been a childminder if nothing else; her tough old Riverman, Ser Willem was getting older. It wasn’t fair to saddle him exclusively with the children, but surprisingly he didn’t mind it, in fact he preferred it.  The woman’s beauty gave her pause, hair so black it looked blue with knowing amber eyes all set in an angled face and slender body. Mayhap she would be a distraction? Her figure wasn’t too hard to imagine, if the Essosi clothes were anything to go by, but Ser Willem reassured her that his interests in women had long since passed.  The future of House Targaryen was his concern, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t sneak a look, she chuckled internally at the thought.   

A knock interrupted her ruminations, a slight yawn leaving her lips just as she spoke.  “Enter.”

The door opened almost quietly, but heavy boots and the clink of metal followed.  Oswell entered, armed from top to bottom. Mindful of his days as a Kingsguard, he chose polished silver steel plate this time, for his role as Queensguard, all layered over soft leather and black chainmail. The same glistening silver adorned his elbow cops, vambraces, gauntlets, knee cops, and greaves. The sigil of the Targaryen dragon was embossed on his breast plate, bright and enameled red. His helm rested under his right arm, a single black bat for House Whent proudly positioned above the Y shaped opening for his eyes and mouth poked out from just below his armpit.  A white cloak rested on his pauldrons which mirrored the image of black bat wings, matching his helm. A personal touch of flair, she thought.  He stood proud, his gauntleted hand resting on the onyx on the pommel of his long sword, dagger on the other side of his sword belt.  His blue eyes sparkled as he offered his Queen a quick nod and accompanying bow all with a small smile. “Your Grace.”

“Ser Oswell.”  Her reply was short, her brow raised in questioning.  She repressed the urge to smile back, realizing that decorum was required, now she would have to adopt a certain persona.  She was no longer just a mother and a lost Queen. She had succeeded where in truth she knew she was expected to fail. Things seemed to work almost too well when they found their groove, but she knew that not everything would be this easy.    

“The twins, My Queen, their ships have been spotted.”

Rhaella’s violet eyes grew wide, this time a smile capturing her face, elevating her beauty, if that was even possible.  Her heart skipped a beat, a feeling of contentment and happiness came over her as she rested her hand on her bosom. Her mind sped up as she processed his words.  Happiness to her meant many things, but above all, happiness meant having her brood with her, wherever home was. “They are close?”

“Aye, your grace, they should be here shortly passed midday.” 

Shivering Sea: Jaehaerys 

The days light barely made it past the shade of the porthole in their cabin, still though, it was a beautiful melody of scenes he’d never seen before. Sparkling blue water glistening so brightly that at points it looked silver. The monotony was broken every now and then by sprays of foam as The Sea Sword plowed through rougher waters.  The first few days of this leg of the trip the pair had been glued on deck peering over at the creatures they could see, whales he’d been told , all while fighting the ebb and flow of seasickness. The clouds languished almost bored in the breeze that propelled their one hundred and eighty oar galleon. The boat was well made, the glass in the port holes sealed tight, only the faintest whistles of wind coming from somewhere neither child could find. The northern portion of their world was alien to him, no Targaryen made the journey this far north of the Eastern continent. At least, none recorded. He’d checked, he found comfort in the surety of books and words; they were concrete, lending credence to a reality he could actually envision. Their tutor called him their scholarly knight.  The clever woman pressed upon them that the route to victory was sometimes hidden in the words and pages of the past, that life in many ways repeated itself. She said that existence was a great circle, and understanding the flow, so to speak, meant coming out better. It was all dizzying to be honest. He’d only seen nine name days, but he was a prince and it was expected he learn as much as he could. She had proven to be a difficult mentor, her ideas more than basic. She was knowledgeable, there was no denying that. Often times leaving him with questions that only persistent nagging, constant queries, and a book or two could help. He let the shade drop back down, blanketing their shared cabin in the yellow light of the torches as he turned on his knees and observed.

His sister was laying in their shared bed, knees up, perusing one of the many books she’d managed to take with them.  Their ship wasn’t terribly small, nor really that big. It had enough cabins for the twins to share, as well as Old Willem, their tutor, their assigned guard, soldiers and oarsmen as well as whoever else went on a boat. Jae didn’t know, he didn’t care, he was simply happy to be here.

“Have you ever heard of a glass garden?” Dany asked as her brother slipped down from the porthole and sat across from her on the other side of the bed.

Jae shook his head as he slipped into their shared linen and furs. The temperature had definitely dropped, their hot blood acutely aware. To be honest he wasn’t sure if he was cold, or just liked the feeling and weight of the bedding, regardless a bright smile crossed his cheeks as he tucked in, his face just visible from his nose up. “What are they?” He asked, voice muffled.

Dany smiled when she looked up at her brother, dug into their bed like a mole, a tuft of his otherwise long silver gold hair and deep-violet eyes staring back at her. She shook her head, setting the book down as she rocked forward and repositioned her pillows behind her. She tapped the book, looking so much older than a child of nine at the moment. “Agriculture & Farming: A look through the years since Aegon’s Conquest.” She said, very matter of fact. “In the north of Westeros, where it gets really cold, they use glass gardens to feed their people. Do you think we will have them? Mother said it snows at our new home. Surely they do?”

Jaehaerys shrug was almost indecipherable, though his furrowed brow wasn’t. “Why does it matter?” He asked through the thickness and warmth of his bedding.

“Because we have to help those people.“

Her words touched a subject Jaehaerys still pondered. Wouldn’t helping these people mean leaving them be? He voiced his views once before, his brother scolded him calling it his weakness while his mother declined to answer, stewing in her own thoughts. Without an answer, he resolved to find one on his own. Since their mother’s declaration, it seemed Jae’s only choice and chance to understand what was happening around him was to read.  If he couldn’t actively train with a sword because of the close quarters and constant moving, then the least he could do was understand the mechanics of war. If they went home, then they would have to fight and if they fought, he wanted to be useful. In truth, for a child it was a lofty subject that usually devolved into tails of the dragon riders and the Targaryen empire when it was younger.  Only recently did he actually begin to understand what he read, the histories making much more, visceral sense. The skirmishes they’d seen when their mother brought them to their staging area, the dead men along the road as they moved from manse to manse during their war preparations had driven home the concept of war and even more so, death. He feared for his mother and Ser Ozzy, even for his elder brother.  Despite their differences they were siblings. In truth, he would have preferred to stay in Braavos, in their little Manse where they could live and play and laugh, but this was his mother’s dream, so he resolved himself to becoming something she could use.  

Belying his internal monologue, he pushed it away, squashing the thoughts savagely. He was a dragon, Viserys made sure they all knew and remembered who they were; and dragons were never afraid. Such thoughts were better left to the sheep. “Mayhap they do?” He questioned. “They live in the cold all the time. I’m sure they know how to survive.” He finished, voice still muffled.

Daenerys frowned at that. “Well, if they don’t, I’ll make sure they build some.”

“I know you will sister.”

She smiled at him, a true gift if ever there was one. She was his rock and he hers, when either grew frustrated or Viserys was mean they supported each other through it all. Their tranquility resumed as they lapsed into silence, Dany returned to her reading while Jaehaerys daydreamed. The years had been kinder than they’d expected, considering their mother was planning an invasion.  The thought was an odd one for him to reconcile. His mother was gentle, kind, and sweet. He remembered her laugh and her soft voice, he remembered her tender kisses on his brow or her dainty hand on his back as he wallowed in defeat when he couldn’t finish an exercise. The idea of her leading men as a battle commander was hard to envision, he saw Queen Visenya when he tried, sitting atop her bonded, Vhagar.  Still though, he could only see the soft smile of his mother.

Her smile and tenderness made him think of The Dragonknight, Prince Aemon.  The man was a paragon of honor and virtue. He protected and upheld the age old tenants of a true knight.  At least that’s what the books said, he thought.  Regardless of his heritage he was still a polarizing figure, a figure many boys of a similar age to he hoped to emulate. It was Viserys' cruelty that opened his eyes to the way of the world.  The belief that an older brother was meant to protect his siblings had been shattered for him a long time ago. Strangely enough it was also Viserys who taught him what fear actually was. He absentmindedly rubbed at his arm where the scar from his brothers then new sword cut him.  

“Does it still hurt?”

“Hmm?” he responded absently, looking at what he was doing.  “Oh, no.” He frowned, “I’m just nervous is all.”

“Nervous about seeing mother?” She asked.  

He shook his head gently.  “No, nervous about being in a whole new place, surrounded by people we don’t know.”  He paused, “And…its been very pleasant without Viserys.” He finished, abashed by the admission.  

She nodded at that before replying “But, now we will have mama back, and Ser Ozzy, as well as Ser Rags.” Jae wrinkled his nose.  “He was kind, but very old and smelly .”  She continued, getting a smile from her brother.  “And we will be in a castle, our very first since our birth!”  Her eyes widened as she focused on her brother, her excitement palpable, the book all but forgotten.  They’d had this conversation before. He worried about their reception and she pushed him into it all the while trying to massage his fears away. Mayhap it wasn’t normal, but it worked for them. Certain difficulties were best mastered with another person’s help rather than alone. A child’s mind was a wondrous thing, coaxing fear from nothing and making worries greater than they were. They didn’t realize how much they soothed each other’s qualms. Without their mother’s presence they were forced to bond, especially during Viserys tirades, as he’d become increasingly malicious once their mother left. As she sat and leaned against the wall their bed was on she huffed out some air, looking around the room, all the while Jaehaerys was curious about her motivations, something in her eyes said she needed to move. “We’ve been in here too long. We should get on deck brother of mine so you don’t get in your head.” And there it was, the clever girl that at times couldn’t sit still.

She climbed over his prone legs and dropped down from their bed lightly and strode around the cabin, grabbing pieces of clothing with purpose. “Come on Jae, no more daydreaming.” He meant to smirk but was hit in the face by a black tunic. “Get dressed!” She snapped, drawing him to attention as he relented with a grunt and climbed out of the linens and furs. 

“It was so warm Dany.” He muttered as he dropped out of their bed, feet curling into the carpet beneath them, and stretched with a great big silent yawn; silver-gold hair cascading over his shoulders and stopping just below his upper back. They hadn’t had time to cut it, so their mother just let it grow. As it was he was certain most Targaryen’s wore it long, even his brother never cut his above his shoulders. 

“Here.” Dany said, handing him more clothing. “Don’t forget your heavy cloak, with the fur lining and our house on the breast. The ones Lady Xaurane made for us.”

Jae huffed this time, taking it all in stride. “I won’t mother.” That only earned him a quick swat to the head. “Hey!”

Dany turned away smirking as she went behind the partition in their room and changed. “I’m not your mother.”

“You could have fooled me.” He replied, though she couldn’t see his smile.

“Well, if that’s how you feel then I’ll stop.” She pouted, he could hear it her voice and knew she was putting on an act but he relented before it could become anymore. 

“Shut up. I’m not serious, you know that.”

She laughed again, though this time a soft giggle knowing she got her way and poked her head around the partition, a big smile on her face, soft lilac eyes glittering in the yellow light from the torches. “I do!” Her head darted back in as she resumed changing and Jae did the same. He put on what she gave him, knowing better than to doubt her choices. Their mother told him to let Dany help him, as he truly didn’t care for what he wore, so long as it covered his bits. But the cold here was more than he’d expected and the thick clothing was a welcome comfort. She gave him a woolen pair of grey pants to go over his small clothes, a white tunic and high necked sea blue doublet with small grey chevrons.  They both wore a pin with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen over their left breasts, their hearts. Dany stepped around the partition wearing an olive colored dress with grey lace. The color stood out on her otherwise pale skin, her lilac eyes bright. She approached her brother before turning around and dropping into a chair she had drug behind her from their shared desk. “Brush?”

He took the brush she handed him and slid it into his pocket before running nimble fingers along her scalp as he used his fingers to separate her hair and massage her head at the same time. He played with the almost-curl of her waves as she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. He smiled at her reaction, it was the same for him. Their mother often put them to sleep that way, alternating between rubbing her children’s scalps and playing with their long silver-gold hair. “Mama’s even better than me.” He muttered as he rubbed her scalp.

“Mmmmm, I’m not so sure.” She all but whispered her head swaying with the movement of his hands on her scalp.

“Ha!” He scoffed. “You say that now.” He stopped what he was doing, taking the brush from his pocket before he gently ran it through, starting at the bottom and moving up.

“Can you do mother’s braid?” She asked, knowing he knew what it was: a simple elegant plait.

“Dany.” he protested.

Daenerys at least had the decency to chuckle at her younger brothers reaction. “If you quit your whinging Jae, I’ll play with your hair tonight while mother tells us stories.”

Jaehaerys grumbled, eyes narrowing, but never looking away from the looking glass. “Fine.” He paused as he began the work, moving her hair around as he worked on one of the many braids his mother taught them both. “I doubt Aegon the Dragon braided his sister's hair.” He muttered as he worked the plait.

Daenerys smiled, kicking her legs gently. “I know he did. He loved his sister-wives more than anything.” She stopped her shuffling as Jaehaerys finished the plait, straightening it out over the back of her gown. She stood up and turned halfway around, looking over her shoulder as she did. With a satisfied smile and twinkling lilac eyes she turned to her brother, gesturing to the chair, her face going rigid, putting on her best approximation of what she believed to be their mother’s ‘Queen face’. “Your turn.”

Jaehaerys complied, realizing this was a fight he would lose. He sat with a frown, brows furrowed as she began, slowly running a brush through his hair. “You really must take better care of your hair Jae.” Dany opined bringing a strand up and looking at it through the light. It was soft like hers, but considerably more knotted.

“I’m not a maid.” He replied, clearly exasperated by her observation. He was already bothered by the fact that he was so pretty, at their age still easily confused for each other if Dany wore breeches, a tunic, and covered her hair or painted his narrow black stripe into her own. Only people that truly knew them could tell them apart, mostly by their eyes. Puberty had yet to touch them. Dany laughed at her brothers reaction as she finished brushing his hair before putting it in a simple utilitarian braid down his back, careful to expose the sliver of black that shot from his temple.

Jaehaerys stood, not doubting her work as he turned, an excited gleam in his eye as he continued their previous subject, “Aegon was a conqueror. He didn’t play with hair. Do you know how he conquered Westeros with his dragons and nowhere near the amount of men as the other kings? His weaponry. He studied the teachings of Old Valyria before all of their materials were lost to time. He had an arsenal that would make any King bend the knee.” His eyes met hers a truly excited smile painted on his face as he delved into a subject he enjoyed and understood: his family’s ancient history. “He had something called a carroballista. It shot bolt after bolt at his enemies much quicker than they could prepare. The bolts were three quarters the size of a grown man, Dany. He brought the kingdoms to their knees with his knowledge. He didn’t plait hair.” He swatted her braid playfully as he skipped around her, taking his black cloak from the bed as she followed him, taking her own grey cloak, lined with the same olive as her dress.

A moment later and with a bang, a shout, and some peals of laughter and the scent of flowers their shared door crashed open as the twins came running down the hall on the second level of the ship. Jaehaerys chased after Daenerys yelling about rose water and maidens, passing opening cabin doors of chuckling commanders and guardsmen who were very used to the young Princess and Prince. Jae followed Dany towards the stairs to the upper deck but they were stopped by a lithe frame wrapped in copious amounts of citrus colored silks and satins because she hated the feel of cotton and wool.

“And where do the two of you think you’re going?” Her lack of an accent was surprising at times, but her look was as exotic as theirs in a way. Her loose midnight blue curls swayed with her movements as she placed her hands on her hips, amber eyes narrowed and red lips pursed. “Even dragons must eat.” Xaurane paused before her austere gaze broke and she gave them a soft albeit stern smile. “Go, break your fast and meet me on deck, we must talk about our arrival.”

They left the galley of their galleon no more than ten minutes later, having inhaled their breakfast of fish, heavy brown bread, and very disgusting watered down wine. Jaehaerys followed his sister above deck, passing the guards, seamen, and soldiers that milled about as they nodded their heads and bowed ever so slightly in deference; mutters of ‘Your Highnesses’ or ‘My Prince and Princess’ in bastard and High Valyrian. The light of the late morning sun blinded him for a few moments, obviously Dany as well, as he bumped into her. The pair stumbled on deck, the sounds of the sea splashing and beating against the hull as the keel and beak plowed through the waves, birds chirping and squawking. The smell of the ocean and cold mist of the water sent a thrilling shiver down his spine, making him take an excited and deep refreshing breath.

“Come on.” Dany said, taking his hand as she led him to the quarter deck where their tutor and Ser Willem would be waiting.

The pair in question were both leaning against the inner railing flanked by two of their Windblown guard who all now sported a combination of plate pauldrons, gauntlets and half greaves; captains with plate breastplates over chain mail and foot soldiers and city guard in scale mail and boiled leather. All sported a combination of red and black, with circular shields embossed with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. Occupying The Axe was profitable as any purchased or looted ingots were immediately turned into something useful, primarily weaponry, armor, and ship parts. The mines were practically dry but for a few small patches that they had successfully taken advantage of.  Counting the figures was part of his and his sisters daily exercises, counting towards their growing understanding of numbers and sums.  

The Lady and Ser noticed their charges and beckoned them over.  Ser Willem stood as straight as possible, bald head glistening in the light, back slightly stooped but face strong.  His thick brown almost grey beard hid his chin but not his somber smile and brown eyes. He wore black and brown, the colors of his house.  A combination of steel chainmail on a brown tunic underneath a black doublet. Black woolen pants tucked into black boots with steel half grieves, gauntlets, and vambraces.  He was lightly armed, a short-sword and dagger on his hip. The sigil of house Targaryen was embroidered on the breast of his cloak. “Good morning Your Highnesses.” His deep voice called out as they approached.  

“Good morning Ser Willem.” Daenerys returned with a full smile as the twins approached.  Jaehaerys had moved to the side standing next to the Lady, eyes wide and face excited as he looked at their approaching new home.  

“We’re so close.”  He was almost breathless in his excitement, the growing tingle he couldn’t contain.  Despite his initial thoughts, that he’d rather they stayed in Braavos, he couldn’t deny the idea of exploring this land was a little more than thrilling.  Ser Willem had approached, gently moving Daenerys next to him as he stood on the other side. Lady Xaurane stood to Jae’s right while Ser Willem stood on Dany’s left.  “That we are my prince.” He agreed as the four of them looked out and ahead into the distance.  

“I expect we should be there in less than an hours-time.  I’m heartened you two roused yourselves.” Ser Willem paused as he looked over the twins.  The Lady must have told him she had run into them. Her face remained impassive as the man spoke.  “When we make landfall, you two will stay on the ship whilst we scout ahead and make sure it is clear…” 

“But Ser Willem!” Jaehaerys interrupted, turning to his elder.  

“No buts my Prince, your mother charged me with your safety and I don’t intend to fail.” The Lady agreed with a silent nod.  “Now, once we have made sure it is safe, we will ferry you to the shore and return with your horses. I expect you two will want to stretch your legs and explore a bit?” At their emphatic nods, he smiled resting a hand on Dany’s shoulder as they all turned back around. Earlier in the week, they had been told of the initial plans to make port at Ib Nor.  A storm assaulted them, pushing them off course, forcing them to make for land on the west side of the Island near the Bay of Whales. Jae had looked over a map endlessly, trying to make sense of it all. The world was so vast, yet this small island on the map looked so massive in person. It was almost a shock to realize this wasn’t his first time sailing away from one home in hopes of finding another, only this time he could remember it.  A soft smile crossed his lips as an unknown hope wormed its way into his heart, the smile compounded when Lady Xauranes arm wound its way around his shoulder.  

“Welcome home, my Prince and Princess.”

“Home.”  He repeated the word almost reverently, with hope. 

Island of Ib: Dany

Traveling had been a curious wonder that tantalized every aspect of her otherwise sheltered life. The thrill of freedom and limitless opportunity to indulge in anything she wanted was almost overwhelming at times. Once all of her lessons were done for the afternoon she and her brother would normally follow Lady Xaurane around the ship while at sea, question upon question tumbled from their lips only to be answered by the very learned women. She emanated an innate sense of knowledge and understanding. Daenerys was almost certain the woman would have an answer for anything she asked, no matter how outlandish and absurd, even questions about vaguely remembered dreams. Nothing could have prepared her for this though, no query, no nagging, no wondering. Her first breath on the island was a strained gust of air forced from her lungs as she leapt from the skiff, the puffs escaping in little white clouds. Surrounded by a half dozen smaller galleys their war galleon dropped anchor a ways off of the shore, all one hundred and eighty oars pulled in, their proud banners flapped and waved with a life of their own. The Targaryen sigil loomed in the distance like a harbinger of doom, the red three headed dragon displayed proudly on the black sails as smaller skiffs and landing boats were moving between the larger galleon and galleys delivering supplies and people. Their guard had moved out in parallel lines creating a human barrier of twenty men on either side as scouts moved past the shore and onto the mainland searching for hidden danger. Daenerys smiled, this day had been a long time coming and excitement bubbled just beneath the surface.

She pressed her booted toe into the sand below her with a small indulgent grin on her face before she knelt down and pressed a grey mole skin gloved finger in. As she withdrew her finger and the water rushed in she couldn’t help but laugh aloud before she began walking forward lilac eyes wide as she looked around. Her skirts trailed in the water when she stopped for a moment and waited for her brother who for his part took his time jumping from the skiff, his violet gaze looking around with curiosity as he ambled through the very low water and churned sand.

“It’s so cold.” Jaehaerys voice was soft as he looked around and she did the same, though he frowned for a moment before his eyes lit up. “Is that snow?” Daenerys followed his eyes, her own growing wide before her brother ran forward, grabbing her arm as he passed. “Come on!” The excitement was clear, neither of them had seen snow before, even if it was expected to be a common thing where they now were.

“Stay where we can see you!” Ser Willem yelled as the Prince and Princess ran away from them, excitement clear in the twins voices as they made a mad dash for the snow covered ground. The beach they had chosen to land on was on closer inspection relatively isolated, trees lined the near distance, likely no more than a few hundred feet away. In between, the sand led into higher northern grasses, clinging to life under the mild dusting of snow. This far North, and in the Shivering Sea no less, cold temperatures were bound to become their usual; though neither of them would be used to the occasional summer flurries they would no doubt encounter.

Daenerys followed after Jaehaerys, today very intent on not caring for modesty, the duties of a prince or princess be damned. They were free of their wooden prison, free to run, and play and be themselves. It was one thing she loved the most, the openness of her relationship with her twin. They could yell, laugh, have a fight, and ten minutes later feel like their world was breaking apart without the other. Twins in house Targaryen weren’t too common an occurrence, usually skipping generations or dying young, which only gave her ammunition for her belief that she and her brother were singularly special. She followed her brother, laughing as she did, but stumbled on a rock almost making herself fall.

Though when she righted herself, regaining her breath she stopped, realizing she couldn’t see her brother. A fleeting moment of panic gripped her heart. Where did Jae go ? She thought hurriedly. For a moment she was ready to succumb to the helplessness she’d felt in her dreams. “Dany!” Her brother called out, lessening the sudden emotions, until her head was rocked back...intense cold radiated through her face as she blinked with wide eyes.  Shock was the first feeling she was aware of, as she heard her brothers laugh before she reached up to wipe her face of the snow he’d thrown. Relief came next, quickly followed by acceptance, then the unrelenting desire for revenge. A noise left her throat, as she ducked a second snowball narrowly missing her.

What ensued was a snowball fight that Daenerys and Jaehaerys would describe as nothing short of delightful. Lady Xaurane and Ser Willem stood in the distance watching the pair run around, knowing the children would eventually tire themselves out. Their guard remained alert, the scouts returning to tell them that they were all clear.

She yawned as they made their way across an arm of land close to the southernmost tip of the island, headed further east and then north. They rode at the head of the train: eight guards in front, followed by herself and Jaehaerys, then Ser Willem and Lady Xaurane.  Their procession of two hundred: one hundred and sixty of which were armed men with half of those mounted made their way along the roadway to the main port. The remainder of the soldiers, their household, luggage, equipment and everything their mother ordered brought with them trailed into the distance behind her like a long red and black snake.  As they rode she looked out over the water noting the distant smaller islands as her horse slowly trotted on. It was called The Bay of Whales, she knew, for those great big creatures in the sea Captain Inigo Forrel told them. He was younger than the other captains they’d met, still old by a child’s standard at five and twenty, but he had a pleasant way about himself. He laughed, and Dany loved to laugh, so naturally they got on swimmingly. He told her to be mindful of the sea, for she was a wholly unctuous maiden. That had made her laugh, the sea was no maiden fair she’d retorted, it’s a sour bitter old man with horrible manners! ‘The Bitter Seas’ they’d taken to calling the water around them as they sailed, a small something just for her. Naturally she’d told her brother whom she brought to meet her new friend.

Jae’s horse cantered besides hers. “I still can’t feel my fingers. I should have worn gloves.”

Daenerys shook her head, for all her effort not to. “I told you it would be cold.” Emulating their mother to the best of her ability, she rose her right hand and wiggled her gloved fingers, clutching the reins with the other as she spoke. “Your failure to prepare will be your undoing.”

Jae huffed, “How old are you?”

The image broke and Dany laughed caught up in the rapture of being home, near her mother and Ser Ozzy; the ease of existence with her younger brother.  Not even the deceptive cold or nerves at seeing their elder sibling could stop her exhilaration. “You really are lucky to have a sister like me Jae, I’ll always watch over you.” Her voice was light as she reached into the inner lining of her cloak and pulled out a black pair of gloves similar to hers before handing them over to her brother.  

Jaehaerys blew air from his lips, turning his nose up as he looked away. “I’m almost a man grown.” Though he took the gloves, cheeks reddening as he mumbled his thanks.   

“...then I’m almost a woman grown.”

“No, you’re still a little girl.”

“And how does that work, My Prince?” Lady Xaurane spoke up, pushing her horse forward a bit faster so she could ride closer to the prince and princess. They passed under the shade of a few errant trees, the chill was still there but only just. The sun hung high in the sky, bright but giving little warmth. Birds they’d never seen before swooped from tree to tree chirping and singing, catching their attention like newborn babes. The air was fresh and clean, the lingering tang of sea salt in the air. It was easy to get distracted here, she was soon realizing.

She turned to her brother who looked like he was pondering an answer before he sighed and shrugged before replying reluctantly, “um…by royal decree?”

They all shared a laugh, the silliness of their conversation not missed by the adults as they continued their steady progression, all lapsing into silence. The ride would take at least two hours, that was the estimate they were given. Ser Willem had taught them to read the progression of time according to their location and the sun. It wasn’t as precise as the methods their tutor showed them, but it didn’t require them to be stationary and it was much better than guessing.  As the moments passed the snow gave way to grasses and shrubbery and thicker fuller trees the closer they got to civilization. Small cottages began to spring up, smallfolk watched them with curious eyes through surprisingly glass paned windows. She’d noticed in Braavos and Lorath that the smallfolk and peasants rarely if ever had windows with glass. Her mother told her it had to do with wealth and shipping distance, that the price was just too much for anyone to procure. Naturally occurring glass was cheaper, but required just the right circumstances whereas glass blowers could make it anywhere, but it was all the more expensive because their supplies were costly.  It made her think of her earlier conversation with her brother. If the small folk have glass in their windows, then surely they have the gardens?  If she were honest, she felt a bit put out, her hope for a contribution dwindling.  

The ruckus of horse hooves and a man’s voice drew her from her reflection as she looked up, lilac eyes narrowed against the higher sun.  The guards halted the train as Ser Willem rode passed the twins and towards the approaching riders. Lady Xaurane took up position in front of her charges as Daenerys frowned and Jaehaerys furrowed his brow. Four guards detached from the front of their train as four guards from behind the children moved around them to replace them, the entire procession shifted to accommodate the change in guard, at all time protecting the Prince and Princess.  From their position she could see Ser Willem meet some armored men on horses but wasn’t certain until two of the men kept moving as Ser Willem took up position besides them.  

As they came closer, she recognized the one in the middle immediately, her hand clenched around her reins tighter.  She took a deep breath and resolved herself to deal with this as best as possible as the three approached the group, she barely noticed her younger brother do the same as he straightened his back and steeled himself, his face unsure.  

“Sweet sister, dear brother!”  Viserys hailed them as he rode up on his chainmail barded white courser, the dragon of House Targaryen on either side.  He rose his arm in salute as he approached, waving the guards away with an irritated flick of his wrist. “Lady Xaurane.”  He nodded to the tutor who bowed at the waist from her horse as she moved out of the way for their elder brother. He approached them with a wide smile on his face, silver-gold hair pulled into a severe tail, his lilac eyes taking in the pair.  He must have been in a particularly good mood, no sign of issue on his normally scowling face. She admitted that he cut an image in his plate. Matte steel was the main color; gold dragon paws adorned his steel pauldrons, the image of a dragon’s head from above etched into his breastplate in the same gold but with rubies for eyes, over a steel and gold filigree gorget.  Filigree flames leaving the dragons mouth were embossed into his tasses highlighted by flecks of amber, his elbow cops and knee cops were gilded gold leaving his vambrace, cuisse and greaves all the same matte grey steel. As he took his reigns, she noticed that his gauntlets were also grey, but on the outside of each hand the three headed dragon of house Targaryen was etched in gold with fine lines down each knuckle that ended in claws at the tip of each finger.  His desire to look like a dragon ended with a black cape over his shoulders, a gold three headed dragon stitched into it.  

“I’ve come to escort you to our new home.”  He spoke louder than necessary, smiling all the while as he turned his horse around.  “Come, I’ll introduce you to the honor guard, I warn you now though having been sellswords…” His nose wrinkled as he spoke.  “…they can be rather uncouth.” He bade his horse forward, Daenerys followed with Jaehaerys close behind, neither having said a word.  

“Truly, it’s no surprise, the only form of royalty they’ve been around is the Tattered Prince.”  He continued.  “And he isn’t a prince, not like you and I.” he nodded to Jae.  “And I think our mother is the first Queen they’ve ever encountered.  Though her newest title is much more befitting of a daughter of the blood.  God-Queen Rhaella , it rolls off of the tongue, much like Crown Prince Viserys.” And there it was, the crux of his happiness.  Daenerys had wondered what made him so amenable.  

Their guard moved forward now, two flanking them as the Lady moved her horse behind the twins.  The train began moving once more as Ser Willem fell into place on Viserys’ right, as his personal guard rode on his left. “This is Ser Lucifer, of House Long.”  Her brother began, gesturing to the thin man to his left. He would have been unassuming in his black boiled leather and light silver plate with plain dark brown hair he wore in a tail at the nape of his neck and a strip of hair below his bottom lip, were it not for his piercing black eyes.  Ser Long nodded to them, lips a thin line. “A Northern house, but they served Aegon III and I believe he will serve me just as well.” Not them, not their mother, him, she noted. It had been almost two years since they’d spent any amount of time with Viserys unsupervised, and six almost seven moons since last they’d been in the same area even. Their brother continued talking as they moved on his voice droning into oblivion, the honor guard flowed into the rest of their men and the train resumed its course, following the path back to the port-city.  The scenery changed slowly as the smaller hamlets gave way to more established buildings, stone replacing wood. Small homes turned into multiple floor dwellings as open country and field gave way to the signs of city and life.

Viserys was still talking when she began to pay attention again.  “They aren’t a pretty people, but they have served us well and even honor us as the Dragonlords of Old.” He was saying.  The trees slowly vanished as they rode, the land became more densely populated as the twins were finally able to lay their eyes on the inhabitants of the island. They had both read as much as possible to prepare, their mother even explained to her that the individuals looked different from them, and while they did, it wasn’t terribly different.  The books described them as broad shouldered and broad chested with shorter and thicker legs and longer strong arms, which from what she could see seemed to be accurate. Most of them had dark hair though it seemed that varied as well but it looked thick from a distance. She assumed the books they’d read were old or incorrect, because they weren’t as short as the notes said, their height seemed to vary as much as any other race of man.  They had a humble appearance; with dark eyes under heavier brows and strong jaws.  

“Are they as hairy as the books say?”  Jaehaerys asked, causing her to snort unexpectedly as Viserys guffawed and Lady Xaurane drew up chastised.  “What?” Her brother asked, abashed, cheeks red.  

The guard around them tried to hide their laughs behind cleared throats and coughs, even Ser Willem.  “You mustn’t ask questions like that my Prince, it’s rude and impolite.” Lady Xaurane corrected, though she was smiling too.  

“He may ask what he wishes My Lady .” Viserys snapped, “He is a Prince of House Targaryen, these…savages, will be happy with what attention we give them.”

The Lady, knowing Viserys, nodded in agreement shutting her mouth.  At times it was easiest to acquiesce rather than forcing reason down an unwilling persons throat.  Viserys continued his description of the lands around them as the sounds of the city slowly increased.  A massive black and bronze gate loomed in the distance. “The Gate of the God-Queen.” Viserys said as they approached.  “It was obviously renamed once we arrived and our mother took her place.”

Jaehaerys and Daenerys looked at each other, both mouthing ‘obviously’ with a shared and knowing smile. The southern facing portion of the Port of Ibben was situated on a sloping hill that ended at an alcove that became the very famous harbour.  Mayhap the largest building she’d ever seen sat in the center at the top of the hill with the city spiraling outward from it. The fortress (for that’s what it had to be) was a massive stone structure with towers that reached into the sky. Gargoyles and dragons and lions and griffins, hewn from rough stone roared silently from on high, hanging over their ledges menacingly. More windows than she could count twinkled in the daylight as she barely made out the bowmen walking rounds along the parapets. It’s central location gave the structure an unobstructed view of the city as a whole. Their mother told them there were four black iron gates for each cardinal direction connected to walls that served as the first line of defense. Immense curtainwalls carved from the natural defenses jutted into the bay with two towers on either side, rows of ballistae positioned outward to rain destruction on unwanted visitors.  From where they were she could make out towers that ran all along the pier, mounted ballista visible as she imagined that they must have cast long fearsome shadows over the unseen walkway near the water and anchored boats. The gates were open wide, the street within lined with what she assumed to be city guard based on their armor. Smallfolk milled about out in the walkways watching and some surprisingly cheered. Every so often she saw a not so friendly face, but most looked…hopeful? She wondered at that, unclear of what it truly meant to conquer and inhabit. 

As she looked out towards the bay, the horizon was littered by black sails, only two ships flew the Targaryen banner, one of them was the ship their mother used during her conquest.  Thousands of eyes watched them enter the city to a bit of fanfare, though curiosity seemed to be the most prevalent feeling. The guards and Ser Willem spoke while she and Jaehaerys looked around curiously. There were few signs of fighting, which was a surprise. 

“Did the battle take place at sea?” Dany finally asked her elder brother, her curiosity winning as they approached the fortress.

“Oh no, there was fighting on land, but our attack was at night, a storm hid our approach and the majority of their forces didn’t see us, Ib Nor fell first. I made the suggestion to press forward through the storm.” Ser Long’s smirk and head shake weren’t missed on her, she’d have to ask her mother or Ser Ozzy. They crossed a second gate as they came into a massive open space with gardens cordoned off in shapes that matched the wheel shaped courtyard that surrounded the Fortress. Household guards were arrayed every ten feet along the inner wall of the keep, each wearing steel breastplates over chain-mail, helms, gauntlets and half-grieves with short swords strapped to their hips. Their livery bore the three headed dragon of house Targaryen on a half black and red field, pole-arms in their grasps. Halved red and black hooded cloaks protected them from the elements.

Their group split in two like a river redirected by a boulder with Viserys taking lead down the center and the remainder of their guard falling into position within the yard. He dismounted as he approached the receiving line, her breath hitched as her eyes fell on their mother who stood at the forefront of the line, Ser Oswell to her right and Ser Rags to the left. New faces mixed in with the ones she recognized, obviously soldiers, advisers, and courtiers she was certain they would all meet. Noise drew her attention as Jaehaerys’ horse broke their formation with a whiny moving through them all before he dismounted quickly. She did the same, not caring for Viserys shout as the emotion took her. Suddenly nothing else mattered as she dropped from her horse following her brother as her mother broke mask and cast propriety to the wind and rushed forward, sweeping her youngest son and then her daughter to her as she dropped to her knees showing a mother’s strength, and tugging them to her. A sob left her beautiful face as she pulled back and peppered them both with kisses.

Having changed from her dirtied gown after their emotional reunion, The Queen took Dany and her brother to spend some quality time together.  Their mother’s laugh echoed around the room like music to her ears. Every so often the scent of vanilla and rosewater wafted to her, their mother’s scent. She was amazed by how much she had missed her. “Oh, your brother just wants to feel useful.” Rhaella said softly. “Ser Rags...” she winked at her, because of the name she made up for the elderly man “...led forces that took Ib Nor while our ships attacked theirs just within The Bay of Whales. We had men infiltrate the walls and attack their own ships with their own ballista. They don’t have a standing military presence only a city watch and small policing force so really, only their ships were an obstacle.” Their mother told them after she asked her about Viserys comment. He had been there for the attack, but was relegated to his cabin during the fighting. Ser Ozzy and The Tattered Prince made the suggestion to use the storm it turned out.   “Oswell and his men led the push through the western gates and to the fortress.” Their mother finished explaining, thankfully it was sometime well after their emotional scene, and night had crept in on them. Their mother had commanded that they were to be left alone for the remainder of the evening with the exceptions of Viserys, their Queensguard and closest advisors.

“I’m sorry mama.” She said softly.

Rhaella looked up at her, a frown etching her angelic face. In that moment Daenerys was certain her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. “Whatever for sweetling?”

“Your dress.”

Rhaella’s eyes widened for a moment before she smiled and shook her head with a soft chuckle. “That old thing?”

They both giggled, Daenerys was laying on her stomach across from her mother on an overstuffed chaise, relaxed in a deep-purple cotton nightgown with a blanket tossed over her legs. Jaehaerys’ head rested on their mother’s lap as she ran her hands through the unbound length of his silver gold hair, separating the sliver of black and braiding it. He toyed with the ribbon around his wrist their mother gave him just after their fifth name day. Eyes closed, relaxed in his shirt and linen breeches, her brother smiled contentedly responding every so often just to let them know he was awake. They were on a very thick rug in front of the immense hearth, flames roaring, filling the room with warmth most would find stifling but they found moderate at worst. The room was perhaps the grandest chamber she’d ever been in, the size almost overwhelming in immensity.  Obviously the God-Kings thought highly of themselves, she’d thought when they were first shown around.  The entirety of the Royal Apartments were big, far grander than what they’d grown up with.  It was a blunt difference and really drove home what they’d lost during the Usurpers Rebellion, especially if their mother still believed that this place was nothing more than a stepping stone to their ultimate goal.  Westeros. “There’s nothing to apologize for my sweet, we were all overwhelmed. If it means seeing the both of you I’ll ruin every dress I have.” Rhaella said, a warm smile on her face as she pinned her daughter with a gentle look.

Dany nodded her understanding, pushing herself up as she stared into the flames. The fire danced and moved with a life of its own, capturing her thoughts as one flame jumped above all the others. “Mother?”

Rhaella smiled looking up once more, this time tilting her head, brow raised, obviously curious about her choice in words. It typically meant a question was coming, she knew, but her eyes were asking to what end? Dany noticed her mother looking at her as they made eye contact. In a small voice she asked, “Can we see...the dragon eggs?”

Jaehaerys eyes opened then, head turning to her before turning back to their mother. They’d spoken of the eggs in hushed voices, their curiosity often capped for fear of exposing their secret. Their mother told them never to tell anyone, and thus they did, keeping this secret above all else. Her brother sat up and turned around before kneeling on both knees, eyes wide and expectant. Their mother took a deep breath before nodding. “But you mustn’t tell anyone.” She said, neither of them aware that not even Viserys knew where they were.

Rhaella stood up and smoothed her simple crimson night gown down before walking away, across her massive room and vanishing behind a wall. A moment later she returned with a dark wooden chest with a large padlock. She set the chest down on a small table near the hearth taking a key out and opening the padlock. As her mother opened the chest, Dany and Jae stood up and approached their mother. Dany stood to her side as Jae looked over her shoulder before Rhaella moved him to the other side. The lid of the chest opened exposing soft black velvet over plush cushioning. The three eggs sat within, resting against the cushion, shining like glass and liquid metal. Rhaella nodded to them before Daenerys reached in, immediately knowing what egg she wanted, almost as if it called to her.

The warmth met her hands the moment she touched the black eggs glasslike armored surface, a smile crossed her face as something in her heart and mind seemed to click when she held it. It should have felt like a rock, cold and dead and looked like little else, she knew.  But the moment the three had seen them, they’d known they were different. A power none of them knew of bade them to grasp the eggs, hold them, at the very least feel them. It was one of the many reasons their mother told them she had hesitated in sharing the eggs. The pull felt like magic, yet magic was not meant to exist.  Daenerys traced one of the many jagged lines of blood-red that ran along the surface of the egg like veins. Her brother frowned for a moment, violet eyes looking over the eggs before reaching for the pearlescent creamy white and copper one. He held it gingerly, though at arm’s length, still frowning. “Does it not feel warm?” She asked. She was certain he’d told her that it did the first time they’d held them, unless he’d lied, which she was certain he didn’t. Her mother felt the warmth, she’d said as much when she presented them to the three of her children. Viserys claimed to feel the warmth as well, though he had looked more put out than Jaehaerys at the moment, making her believe that he had lied.

“It feels warm...” he paused before looking at her, “...just not right.” He put the egg back before sitting down with a scowl on his face.

“What do you mean?” Their mother asked him.

He shrugged, “I don’t know how else to explain it. I feel the warmth, just as I did before.” He stood up and moved back over to the eggs before placing a hand on the green one this time. “I feel it from this one too.” He said gently before turning to her, his frown deepened, he extended his hand towards the black dragon egg in her clutch and for the briefest of moments Daenerys was hit with a sudden and extreme possessiveness, a desire to keep the egg away from him. She didn’t though. Jae reached forward and placed his hand on the egg, pulling it away just as quickly with a grimace. She and her mother both flinched, though her mother reached for him, snatching his hand and looking it over.

“I’m fine.” He said, pulling his hand away.

Dany and their mother looked at each other before looking at him. “Then what was that?” Daenerys asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I did feel the warmth just like the others. It just felt...wrong.” He paused. “As if it wanted nothing to do with me.”

Chapter Text

The North: North of Moat Cailin

Davos

Cold winds blew in from the north, buffeting them with each step. It’s bloody summer , he thought. His horse made its way, albeit slowly up the Kings Road, a steady precession of guards, tradesmen, and aurochs-pulled wains behind him.  This was a departure from his life as a child; running the streets of King’s Landing, Flea Bottom in particular.  Long wisps of clouds streamed across the blue sky as birds fought the less than gentle breeze, almost getting a chuckle out of him. Almost . Davos huffed into another gust of wind as his cloak whipped wildly. He’d known weather on the seas, but not weather . The north was something altogether alien; beautiful, foreign, yet familiar and everyday he swore a child decided how it would treat them. Just the afternoon before, the sun had been high in the sky, beating them with heat just as it did down south. That day they had camped in the Barrowlands, twenty or thirty miles North of Moat Cailin on their return to Winterfell. It had been surprisingly dry for the last moon, with sparse rain and no snow. For that he’d been glad. 

Through the wind he could hear someone shouting, but that was normal with the amount of people marching and a supply train of this size.  He didn't pay attention until it was closer to him. “Ser!” The voice called, he yanked lightly on the reins as he turned the horse around.  Davos winced as dirt peppered his face with another gust. Despite the temperamental climate, he would be the first to admit that he actually enjoyed the North. He loved its lands. He enjoyed its people. And he held their sense of pride and duty in the highest regard. Everyone worked where they could when they could. Each person was a part of a greater mechanism all working towards one shared goal: survival.

“Ser, we make camp here.” The guard said as he approached Davos, nodding in respect as he glanced around.  

Davos looked around as well, first at the sky then his surroundings. He made a point to take a breath and straighten his back.  It was a show, something he’d seen more than one lord and knight do, and despite himself he wanted to prove his worth and ability to lead.  In all reality, he had only the vaguest idea of what he was looking for, was this even a good place to camp? He wondered, before turning his attention back to the guard.  One thing he could tell was the sun's height and location meant it would be setting in the next few hours.  He would never claim to be a learned man, let alone someone that could claim any knowledge of the outdoors away from the sea, so he agreed.  “Aye, let’s make camp here.  Winterfell isn’t far off, and if we need to we can make it to Castle Cerwyn.”  That much he knew after perusing Lord Starks maps, and it wasn’t until recently that he realized that he actually enjoyed open land, almost as much as the oceans.  

The soldier nodded as Davos dismounted his horse and stretched.  “We should make it by night tomorrow, I reckon.”  He muttered as Ser Rodricks horse came trotting up to him.  

“Ser Davos! We shall make our return to Winterfell by night on the morrow.” The other knight shouted, making Davos chuckle as the guard tried to hide his own mirth before moving away.  

In the two years’ time he’d been in the North, this was his first venture to the burgeoning new keep and port city on the Western Coast of Westeros without Lord Stark. They stuck with Stony Shore for the port, but decided Winterhold would be the name of the castle and central keep they were erecting, which all things considered was a rather apt name and stayed true to the Starks naming convention.  Ser Rodrick Cassel, Master Helman Tallhart and Lord Medger Cerwyn had accompanied him on this trip, leaving Lord Manderly and his own men to continue their supply runs as well as manage the foreign and domestic working crews from White Harbor.  The large man had a head for administration and sums, so his location worked in their favor.  Lady Barbrey Dustin had given them the least amount of supplies possible, but it wasn’t a surprise, Lord Eddard had forewarned him.  

Though he was absent this time, Ned Stark had a very good reason.  Slavery .  The word was bitter in Davos’s mouth and brought up a lot of conflicting thoughts.  His time traveling between Westeros and Essos allowed him to see the practice first hand.  He understood the hatred for those who practiced it, but withheld judgement himself.  Who was he to cast a stone at something he could neither quantify nor understand?  He wasn't ambivalent, he simply sought to learn before making a decision.  He knew he would never practice it, but had he been born on the other continent, would his view have been so cut and dry?  

It had been brought to Lord Stark’s attention that one of his bannermen had traded men and women for profit, and that simply couldn’t be allowed even if they were poachers caught on his lands.  It appeared to pain the Lord of Winterfell he remembered, especially considering the individual caught and accused was a member of a prominent Northern house.  He’d only met Ser Jorah Mormont the once, a few weeks after his initial arrival at Winterfell while they were restocking supplies to return to the Stony Shore. A bear of a man, with swarthy skin.  He was hairy, with a thick greying black beard, but his hair line crept further back on his skull leaving an increasingly shiny patch of skin. He remembered that they were of a height, but a hard physical northern life made him strong and fit with a barrel chest and large arms.  Davos remembered that Jorah had been a quieter type, his input minimal but counted on.  He supposed that was why it was such a shock to the North.  Word was the man had been a staunch supporter of House Stark, especially since the Greyjoy Rebellion where he stormed Pyke alongside Lord Eddard, earning his spurs in the process.  

Lord Starks very straightforward condemnation of the Former Lord of Bear Island’s actions endeared him to their Essosi counterparts, the workers from the free cities took it as a sign of his fabled honor and worked harder because of it, assured that they didn’t trade one hard life and possible slavery for another.  Davos took the reins of his horse and walked to a nearby tree before tying it off and stretching once more.  He casually turned to watch as the men and surprisingly women began the process of setting up camp.  He observed as people milled back and forth, talking and congregating, laughing and sharing jokes.  Despite their obvious differences in culture, people made do with what they could, and here company and laughter was enough.  

“It's as much a surprise to me as it is to you.” Master Tallhart said as he approached the ex-smuggler.  He was just shorter than Davos, which wasn’t saying much in his honest opinion, but he had the upright walk of a proud man.  Strong shoulders under a black leather cloak with thick brown hair and beard.  The sigil of house Tallhart on his brown jerkin hiding his ever present mail, three sentinel trees, green on brown.  Like everyone else, there was a weapon at his side, a short sword next to a dagger.  The man gave Davos a slight nod.  

Davos shared a chuckle with him.  “I remember when I was comin’ up here everyone told me, ‘Be careful around those Northerners.  The lot of them are savages, barely better than the horse fuckin’ Dothraki and the Wildlings with their Tree Gods.  They don’t much care for outsiders.” He nodded in the direction of the growing camp.  “That right there is proof enough they were wrong on more than one account.” 

Master Tallhart shrugged.  “They weren’t all wrong…”  He looked at Davos with a straight face.  “Our gods are tree gods.”

They both laughed at that before Master Tallhart slapped Davos on the back.  “You’re lucky Ser, you aren’t with the Greatjon, he’s with the rowdy bunch of foreigners, and besides, it's Summer.  We’re all fed, we're all gettin’ gold, and Lord Starks givin’ everyone ample opportunity.  There isn’t much to grumble about unless you're some ornery fucker with nothin’ better to do.” He paused as the pair began walking towards the camp as cook fires sprung up. “Wait until winter comes, then you’ll see a very different side of us. But by then, you’ll probably be one of us.”  

Davos laughed, not really opposed to the idea, because in truth it was a novel concept.  If you’d told him when he was a boy, he’d be rubbing shoulders with knights and great lords, he would have balked and told you to stop taking the piss.  

“Riders approaching!”

The shout drew them both from their conversation as they looked to the north, in the direction of the riders cloud of dust.  They shared a look before Master Tallhart led the way.  “Banners! Do you see banners?” Helman asked.  

“No.”  The guard said, though he hesitated squinting against the light as the sun had slowly begun to set.  “Uh, I do.”  He smiled through his unruly beard.  “House Stark mi’lord!”

The surprise was clear on both of their faces as they both squinted.  Sure enough, through the dust and amidst the gusts of wind, he caught the flapping banner and saw the grey direwolf emblazoned across the white.  “Emergency, you think?”  Davos asked Helman.  

“I’m as clueless as you.  Mayhaps were at war.” Master Tallhart took a deep breath, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as Rodrick and Lord Cerwyn approached as well.  Most of the camp was up, waiting for the riders to come near.  The group had formed a companionship of sorts during their time on the coast working.  The comradery was an odd sight, elucidated by Helman well.  Once sun kissed Essosi, but now almost as pale as the Northmen and barely discernible, except for by their accents; stood about in the same furs and leathers of the land, weapons at their side but ready to defend what was theirs and their associates.  They watched each other’s back in one way or another, especially during situations like this. Highwaymen were a threat, but surely none would be foolish enough to attack a group this size? His good hand rested on the pommel of his own sword, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t need to draw it, let alone use it.  

Two guards rode out to meet the group as they approached before turning around and riding up with them.  The tenseness abated as soon as they did, realizing that the unknown must have been known, and it certainly was as Lord Stark's imposing presence came into view.  They all sighed and relaxed, the camp resumed what it was doing: cooking, setting up tents, tying up horses and managing their equipment, livestock, and supplies.  

Lord Stark rose a gloved hand in greeting as he approached on a white destrier, his guards fanning out and mingling with the larger group, only Jory remained at his side.  He wore a brown gambeson with chainmail barely showing, brown gloves and brown boots; his breeches were grey with a white tunic and black cloak all with a light coating of travel dust.  Ice was strapped to the horse, looming behind him.  His hair was pulled back up in a bun, narrowed grey eyes swept over the group before locking on all of his Lords and knights, and then finally on Davos where he nodded, his lips set in a grim line.  Bad news , Davos thought.  

And it was.

“Fuckin’ coward!” Helman roared, pounding the table that was set up in the command tent.  They weren’t at war, but it didn’t harm to have a central meeting area to discuss the goings on.  The news was grave.  Lord Stark had rode to Deepwood Motte from which he sailed to Bear Island.  Upon arrival, Lady Maege Mormont greeted him with the news that her nephew had fled with his wife though it wasn’t clear where they were going or if they would stay together, the easiest conclusion was Essos.  Unfortunately Jorah had a lead on them and knew how to get through the North just as well as any of them, so finding him before he got to the Eastcoast and could sail out was unlikely.  There was just too much land to cover.  Lord Stark had hoped that mayhaps he would have unintentionally rode into their group, but knew it was a very slim chance.  As much as the rest of Westeros liked to claim, Northerners weren’t stupid.  

“Aye, he is.”  Lord Stark agreed, taking a breath to compose himself.  “His actions cast us in a bad light, but fleeing his punishment does his own name a greater disservice.  All ports in the North know to look for him, as do the keeps.  Missives have been sent to King Robert as well as his Hand, so Westeros as a whole knows of his crimes.”

“We should make sure Winterhold is notified as well.  It would be easy for someone to sneak through the supply lines and wains rolling in and out.”  Davos added.  

Lord Stark nodded, as did the other men in the tent before he sighed deeply.  “I apologize for my absence.  I would have preferred to be there with you all.  How go our efforts?”  He asked.  

The men around the table all perked up as each began telling him of their combined labors.  Construction was going well and was steady.  In the two years he’d spent in the North, the foundation for the castle was completed, the majority of the keep had outer walls, and the first thirty foot curtain wall along the coast was halfway built.  So far it was near eighteen feet wide, wide enough for ten men to stand abreast, with thick dark grey stones shaped and placed so well the seams were barely visible.  Braavos was able to supply them with a good amount of stone masons and laborers who were amazing at their craft, in turn for trade of lumber and other supplies.  Heather seemed to be the second greatest staple after lumber. The cold weather plant grew in abundance in the North, making it harvestable during every season but the worst of winter.   The castle was nothing on par with what the legendary Brandon the Builder had created, but Davos would be surprised if Lord Stark didn’t enjoy the amount of detail spent on the project.  The Northmen knew how to build a castle.  With the amount of laborers they currently had, they could finish the keep in roughly three more years.  

Small two story stone apartments and assorted buildings were being erected around the growing keep and port as several processing plants were established to help with lumber, slowly erasing the wooden Motte and Bailey for something much grander.  Ship building would begin once the port was near complete, but for now Lord Manderly oversaw that effort in White Harbor.  

“And the sewers?” Lord Stark asked.  “If you’ve ever been to King's Landing, you will understand why I ask.” He said very seriously.  

Davos chuckled, “Were workin’ on that.  We’ve sent a raven to the Citadel to help us.  I’ve also sent one to Lord Stannis. Dragonstone’s sewer system is the best I’ve seen or smelt.”

They each nodded, “Good, hopefully Lord Stannis responds soon.  I mean to return with you all on the next trip.” Lord Stark replied.  

They spoke for a few more minutes before Lord Stark dismissed them all but held Davos back.  The Lord reached into his pocket when the pair were alone before pulling out two pieces of paper.  “One is from your wife, she sent a raven to Winterfell.  The other is from Sansa, who hopes you haven’t been neglecting your letters and numbers.”  He said with a poorly hidden smirk.  

Davos shook his head and chuffed.  “Her and her studies.”

“Aye, best get it done then.”  Lord Stark followed up, a half smile formed on the left side of his face.  “So tell me the truth of it, how are things?”

It was strange to Davos, the sense of companionship he got from Lord Stark.  Though the man was younger than him, by a good amount of years and in all respect of better breeding, he still treated Davos as an equal; going so far as to tell Davos that false fingers were foolish.  They knew life was hard and it made people respect you when they knew the reason and that there was no reason for him to hide who he was, unless it was to protect himself.  It was one of the many reasons Davos strove so hard to prove himself to the younger Lord, who for his part trusted him based solely on the word of another.  He wouldn’t fail Eddard or Stannis because he had the sneaking suspicion that neither of their trust was easily regained once it was lost, they were alike in that way.  Both hard men, stone faced to most, but where Stannis wouldn’t or couldn’t, Eddard found the ability to be tender only for his family.  They were leaders and commanders, warriors tried and tested.  He did not want to fail either of them.  

“That’s the truth of it.  Few spats here and there, men will find any reason to fight, but they mend it up and continue workin’.  Lady Dustin’s been a right prick, sendin’ the fewest men possible with the excuse that she has border disputes to handle…but with who?”  Davos shook his head as he thought.  “All else is fine.”  

Ned nodded before looking back at the flaps of the tent and making sure there was no one there, only the pull of the wind stirred them.  The sun had dipped some, casting the world in pinks and oranges, but the fires in the command tent lit them in bright yellow light.  The guards he left posted outside remained where they were as Ned crossed the room to a bag he had brought leaving Davos curious by the Lord’s actions as he did everything with a measure of caution and suspicion.  He pulled something from the pack and brought it to the table before setting it down in front of Davos.  

“Ledgers?”  The Ser asked.  That was confusing.  

But Ned pointed to one underlined name on the Ledgers.  “Ryman Aekesh.”  He said.  “This name has appeared more and more.  The first name could be Westerosi, but his surname is most certainly not. “

Davos tilted his head, wondering what the point was.  “Does this have something to do with the Queenscrown efforts? Mayhap someone that helped Jorah Mormont?”

Ned shook his head.  “No, Greatjon is handling the Northern most construction ably.  Lady Maege has been communicating with Lord Glover and the Mountain Clans on my behalf and wasn’t there when her nephew did what he did.  No this has something to do…”  He paused and took a breath.  

“…with your son and your brother.”  Davos replied, nodding as he caught on.  He felt sympathy.  The man had let him in on the great secret of Winterfell, the disappearance of the Quiet Wolf’s son, the reason for the reconstruction of the north and his passion and drive.  He marveled in truth at the lengths one person could go to for someone they loved and cherished.  It was the difference between Lord Eddard Stark and Lord Stannis Baratheon.  Their fundamental variance in compulsion and drive.  Above all, love for his family seemed to color the majority of Ned’s decisions.  How could he ever face that and not feel for the man?  Not want to help him in this endeavor? Even if he was lying to almost everyone around them.  

“Aye, Ben and Jon.”  Ned replied, looking at the paper.  “Lady Stark manages the ledgers with Maester Luwin who received a raven from White Harbor.  Lord Manderly believes this individual is cutting into some of his business, which in truth I don’t care.  We never agreed that house Manderly would have a monopoly on all hauls caught off the coast.  If he can find the man, the two would have to settle this on their own; only if they couldn’t would I intervene.  No, the issue is that it's an unknown individual. Nobody knows who he is, where he came from, yet he claims his catch, everything he trades comes from the ‘Frigid waters of the Shivering Sea, around the North’ .”  Ned brandished another paper, with a strange banner on the title.  Black and Red waves behind a lone grey crab in the center, Davos thought, curious as to why that banner was distantly familiar.  He looked back up to Lord Stark who to his surprise was actually smiling. 

Ser Davos frowned, very confused.  “What do you think it means?”

“My brother. He would need gold, a keep, people to help him raise a boy.”  Ned replied with no hesitation.  “As a boy himself, he and my sister would try to write each other in code, mixing up letters and names that only the two of them knew how to work out. Bran and I tried, but failed.” He looked at the ledger again.  “An unknown name appears roughly a year after he vanished from Winterfell with Jon.  The colors of the banner.  I can't figure out the name and how it would relate to him, but it all makes sense.”  Lord Stark continued.   

“The colors of the banner?”  Asked Davos, “Red and black?” There were few houses that used that combination, and both were said to be dead and gone.  “That’s House Targaryen, isn’t it?”

Ned nodded, “Aye it is, but what better way to avoid suspicion if you’re a Stark trying to hide?  I know my brother, there is symbolism behind his actions.  The crab would represent the trade, but the color of it is his loyalty to House Stark.  The red and black would bring suspicion, even the name, but what if he had someone else helping?”  Lord Stark seemed to flounder for a moment, staring at the banner.  “Someone more clever than you and I?”  He looked at Davos, brow furrowed.  “I could be all wrong.”  He said softly.  “But…it's better than nothing, isn’t it?”

Davos remained silent as he watched the emotions play across the younger Lords face.  He couldn’t help but feel a pang of something as he saw the sadness form in the man’s eyes.  Lord Stark was grasping at anything to keep his hope alive, and if this was what he needed, Davos wouldn’t bring up the flimsiness of his conclusion.  “Aye it is.”  He finally replied, nodding as he leaned over the paper.  “We should bring this to your circles attention.  First we need to try to figure out who this Ryman Aekesh is and locate where he is based out of.  Could there be anyway he’s hidin’ in the north?”

Ned frowned but thought.  “I doubt it.  If he did he would have to make friendly with Wildlings and The Watch to live beyond The Wall.  The houses of Skagos would never allow outsiders on their lands without notifying me.  And neither House Karstark or Umber have notified me about any strange happenings off of the coast, only combating the unusually light number of attempted kidnappings from slavers.” 

“Then we know what we have to do.” Davos replied.  

“Find Ryman Aekesh.”  Eddard finished as they both stared down at the sigil and ledger.

The North: Winterfell

Catelyn

She set the papers down with a sigh before pushing it away.  Her hair hung in a single red tail, nothing extraordinarily beautiful about it, very utilitarian in its design.  She wore a simpler blue linen dress of her own making, the sleeves were rolled back very unlady-like, but she didn't care, she was abjectly tired.  Her hand rested on her belly, the previous night had been a long one.  It was hotter than normal and the babe in her womb had decided it would be as active as possible, pressing against her bladder at the oddest and most annoying of times.  This child and his or her late night somersaulting was draining all of her strength.  She’d thought she would have been used to it after birthing four others, but this one seemed to be the most demanding and active of them all.  

It was the second week of her forced isolation.  A bout of sickness had swept through the foreigners that stayed in Wintertown and in turn the inhabitants of Winterfell starting with their guards on regular patrols.  Of the children, Arya had succumbed first, but was already on the mend, so Catelyn was sequestered and forced to issue commands from her apartments after all of the children were quarantined for their safety, as well as hers.  At one point she would have loved this, total seclusion from the world, but now her body screamed for the openness of the Godswood at the very least.  

Catelyn Stark felt as if she was imprisoned, a startling contrast to the lady she was less than a decade ago.  Change was hard, she would be the first to admit it, but she couldn't deny that the change could indeed be good.  The day was surprisingly beautiful, especially since the wind storms of the past few days had finally passed, which made it all the harder to stay in her solar, a pregnant prisoner.  There were no clouds in the sky, but the sun beat down pleasantly.  Through the open windows she could hear children at play, men and women going about their duties, finding a way to make due with what changes she and her husband had implemented.  To say Winterfell was different would have been an understatement.  

She remembered it perfectly, the moment she realized she had to make a change, to fix the wound she had helped create.  There in her husband's son's tiny room as memory after memory of every dark emotion she felt and cruel words she had sent his way assaulted her, she clung to that simple drawing Jon had made of their family and wept. She wept for the pain she caused.  She wept for the husband that still had trouble looking her way.  She had wept because her eldest wanted little to do with her and even the smallfolk of Winterfell cast her sidelong glances, turning their noses up when she came and went.  

Her pride had balked at their consternation. But it was Jory that told her, a year after Jon and Benjen’s disappearance:

“The North Remembers, My Lady.”  He said softly as he helped her with a recent grain delivery.  Lord Stark was surveying the construction of new apartments and cottages in and around Wintertown, leaving her to handle shipments as they came.  Trade had boomed, especially once some of the recently arrived Essosi told Lord Stark of their usage of heather, as well as mint, thyme, chervil, and sorrel.  It was a great find, considering they were all ingredients and substances that grew in their cold environment.  The heather they even threw away or burned.  

“What does that mean?”  She asked Jory.  

The Northerner sighed as he hauled another bag of grain to a seperate cart marked for the Stony Shore.  “We Northerners have one thing many other Kingdoms don’t, long memories.  We remember Benjen, we remember Jon.”  he said, pausing as he took a breath and wiped sweat from his brow.  “Benjen was the Stark in Winterfell during the rebellion.  The smallfolk loved him, even though he was only a boy.  And Jon, well, even as a babe, Old Nan said he was a Stark through and through but for his eyes you would never doubt who his family was.”  He lifted another bag.  

“I never denied that Jon was Lord Stark's son, even I could see that.”  She replied a bit more terse than she would have liked.  Catelyn felt as though she had to defend herself.  Nobody spoke to her about this matter, not even Ned.  The fact that Jory would take his time out to explain to her the situation meant quite a bit to the lady and only added to her belief that he was truly a good person. 

Jory sighed as he deposited the grain.  “No My Lady, but if you excuse my boldness, you didn't make him feel as though he was.”

She paused and stared at him.  Part of her was taken aback by said boldness, but another part recognized the truth.  She wanted to tell him that it wasn't her place to do that, to make the boy feel loved or even wanted.  In the south, no woman would have been expected to endure her husband's base born shame.   But this wasn't the south.  Unfortunately, one didn't have to look that hard to see that she had gone through great lengths to separate the boy from his siblings.  

“I meant no offense, Lady Stark.”  Jory added as her silence persisted.  

She shook her head.  “None was taken.”  She couldn't smile to reassure him, thoughts pressed in on her, emotions she didn't quite know how to handle.  He was a bastard, a boy born of sin.  Her beliefs demanded his alienation.  She looked at Jory for a long moment, before airing those very thoughts.  “But he is a bastard.”

Jory shrugged.  “Aye, but still a boy.  A Stark boy, with Stark blood, and the Stark look, mostly.”  He deposited another bag of grain.  “There were many northern lord’s that would have married their second daughter to him, some even their first, simply because of who his father is and the chance to have Stark blood in their line.  And none here truly cared for his birth, there being so few Stark’s left.  A child is a blessing in the North, where life is hard and the cold kills with no mercy.”  

Forgiveness was a long road, and she was privy to that.  “The North Remembers.”  She said softly shifting in her seat and looking in the direction of the bookcase nearest to the open window.  Jon’s drawing was there, kept amongst some of her more cherished books she had collected.  She hadn't told Ned she had it, or even that Jon drew it.  Something possessive came over her, as if it was the foundation for everything she wanted moving forward from that day so many years ago.  As she straightened her back and stretched, the door to her solar swung open, startling her as it hit the wall with a bang and Arya came running in, her hair a knotted mess, Bran followed, both breathing hard.  

“Mama!” Bran yelled, launching into her arms.  

“Hello sweetling.” She replied with a smile as she pulled him into her lap.  

“Maester Luwin said we could see you!”  Arya said as she approached from the side where Catelyn pulled her in for an embrace, planting kisses on both of their foreheads.  

“Does that mean you're well and I’m not a prisoner anymore?”  She asked them.  At their emphatic nods she laughed.  “Good, because I can see and smell that someone has yet to take a bath.”  Her nose wrinkled as she poked Arya in the stomach who giggled.  “Did you run from Nan again?”

Arya had the decency to look guilty.  Rather than chastising her she cupped the girls face and looked her in the eye.  Gods do they look alike , she thought, not for the first time as Arya faced her.  She and Jon shared a likeness that was startling, so much so that from time to time she would feel a deep cloying guilt when her daughter looked her way, every bit the shade of the child she ran from this house. “You know better than that.  Go bathe and mayhaps when you finish I will have a surprise waiting for you.”  

Arya hesitated, grey eyes widening before she agreed and dashed from the room, leaving her brother with their mother.  Bran was still young enough for her to carry, the pregnancy didn't rob her of that.  Pulling the boy up as she stood, she placed him on her hip as she left her solar, her household guard falling into step behind her.  Since the arrival of the foreign helpers Lord Stark had made it a point to have them all guarded, regardless of their location.  The keep was safe, but with her pregnancy, Ned felt she was an even easier target.  She didn't understand his paranoia but felt she knew where it came from, so rather than arguing, she had settled with a lower number of guards on her and only while she was with child.  

“Mama?” The almost five Brandon began as he clung to her.  With her freedom she needed to investigate the kitchens and their current status.  Relying on others to do her counting and inventory for her was a grating trial she tried to avoid.  Her first thought was to investigate the new shipment from White Harbour; Eddard had asked her to keep an eye on who and where it came from after the suspicious name appeared.  Bran continued, oblivious to the myriad of household running thoughts that ran rampant in her mind.  “Whats a cunt?”

Her breath caught, every thought vanishing in moments.  Even the guards stopped short, surprised by the Lady of the House and her son, both men trying very hard to hide laughs behind their helms and cloaks.  That quite literally blindsided her as the echo of the clicks of her heels through the hallway stopped.  She paused mid step eyes wide, cheeks burning and slowly turned to the child in her grasp.  Her brows furrowed in concern, nostrils flared in indignation as she stared at him.  Brandon was none the wiser, he was waving a wooden wolf in the air, unperturbed by his mother's expression and intense stare.  There were so many thoughts she could have had, so many questions she wanted to ask.  But the one that came to the forefront made her grind her teeth. 

Theon.

Eddard

They’d returned to winterfell a sennight ago, and the duties of his immediate household took precedence.  This part of being a Lord, the supplicants and petitioners, the lesser lords and their grievances, men and women asking for help or some simply seeking advice; this part always strained his emotions, forcing him to resort to what his wife and now his children called his Lord's face. He would take a single breath before each person entered the great hall and approached. Then he would straighten his face into a solid mask of ice, his pupils would constrict into pinpoints, filling with a sea of polished steel grey as his jaw clenched but only slightly. Any movement on his lips would vanish leaving a line through his neatly groomed black and brown beard. Since Jon and Ben's disappearance he’d taken to pulling his hair into a simple bun, rather than allowing the shoulder length waves freedom.  With a face as hard and unforgiving as Ice he would beckon the next person forth. The greatsword itself was a constant staple, always within reach as well as the long sword he’d begun to carry since his failure of a win at the Tower of Joy.  The men had taken to calling it “Justice” as it was the sword he’d used to take Balon Greyjoy’s head. He’d lost Ice when his horse took an arrow through the eye, leaving him with Justice as his only weapon. One of the men had brought a tooth taken from Balon’s severed head and given it to Mikken who fashioned it into a small kraken he’d set inside a snarling black direwolfs mouth of blackened steel as a new pommel for the sword. The Kraken Slayer, some whispered.  He didn’t not like it.

The Quiet Wolf cut quite the image to the North these days.  He wore a grey brigandine over a white tunic. Black breeches and brown boots finished the ensemble. A dagger hung off the right side of his brown leather sword belt, somehow managing to fit through a slim hole on the side of the Lord's seat.  His cloak hung over his chair, the need for it supplanted by the fire the servants kept lit.  Each day that past made the man look in on himself and seek out his failures. He strove to undo them, and never feel that loss again. It’s why he found time for the yard, time to train with his men and, he was proud to say, his eldest son. The boy was sitting to his right at the moment. Auburn shoulder length hair resting freely. He was trying his best to recreate his own Lord's face but only ended up scowling on and off between his boredom. He’d told him he didn’t have to stay the entire time but Robb refused. “I’ll stay father. As heir I’ll have to do it one day. And you’ll need help teaching Jon when he and uncle Ben come home.”  He’d told him all those moons ago.  Ned had ruffled his hair with a fond smile as Robb pushed his father's hand away, but only slightly as the pair shared a moment. He was proud of his son, proud of his resolve, and proud of his responsibility and above all loyalty. 

He cleared his throat lightly as the one and ten year old began to blink his grey tinted Tully blue eyes slower and slower. His mask almost broke, but Robb straightened up, took a quick drink of water before offering his father a bashful smile and then staring forward. 

Ned called in the next supplicant, one of the small folk with an issue with the freedmen and women of Essos. Since Jorah Mormont escaped, many suspected he’d gone East. Some believed that the Essosi laborers helped him in his escape, which was in all reality a foolish notion. For many, unless you were wealthy, you typically did not delve into the slave trade for fear of becoming a part of it. He understood that. It bothered him that his people didn’t.  As the man was whinging about his problem’s Lord Eddard rose his hand and stopped him, mid sentence. “Mi-mi’lord?”  The man said, stuttering over his words as he paused.  He blinked, surprised by Lord Stark's actions, but held back any choice words he would normally have had had someone else stopped him in such a manner.  In the years since the rebellion, the people had come to understand Ned differently. The second oldest son of Lord Rickard was no longer the quiet boy fostered in the Vale. Death, pain and loss had reshaped him. He was stern and strong. But above all, he was ice. Cold when necessary, with eyes like a predator, little flecks of steel staring not at you, but through you. His hand rested on his son's shoulder as he looked at him once before looking at the man again.

“Unity.” Lord Stark said softly. “It’s what I’ve always told my sons is necessary for men and women to work together. A common purpose gives them that. It also helps provide, especially for those that can not provide for themselves.” He took a breath. “I ask you this, why would the Essosi help a known slaver when many of the men and women are fleeing slavery? No matter the coin, doing that negates their attempts for a better life.” He paused as he shifted in his seat and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “The laws are clear, if they helped they would be tried in lieu of and with. Anyone with news of Jorah Mormont that could be found has been dealt with accordingly.  Even the poachers he attempted to sell have been imprisoned or sent to The Wall for their separate crimes.  No others were found. Furthermore , I’ve noticed that attempts at bodily harm to some of the Essosi have occurred since some fools have been spreading misinformation. Things that would upset others, and break the unity I have worked for; enough to give me cause to route it out, viciously I might add. I need not tell you what will happen when I find the ones responsible, do I?”

The layman, for that’s what he was. A former soldier, mayhaps, bitter and angry about his lot. He reeked of piss and sweat, and ale and wine, most likely what he spent the majority of his coin on in between attempts to hold onto employment. He was one of the reasons the North was seen as it was, part of the reason Eddard tried so hard to help his people and allow them a chance for more. But there were always those that would sow discontent, and he dealt with that swiftly these days. Ice had tasted blood more than once in his tenure as Lord and he wasn't fool enough to believe it wouldn't again. Part of him counted on it.  The man stuttered in response, nervous and unsure. Bloodshot eyes widened for a moment before scowling and eventually looking down at the floor. He shook his head, his scruffy beard and hair moving with the motion.

“Good. Then I thank you for this conversation.” And with that they were done.

“Do you think I handled that fairly?” Eddard asked Robb since the room was empty save for them, six guards, and Vayon Poole who transcribed everything that happened. It was easier than having his Maester do it and then update the man. 

Robb frowned and then shook his head. “You made it sound as if you knew that he was one of the people you suspect. If you did, why didn’t you punish him for it?”

Ned’s brow rose in question, “Sometimes the threat of punishment works better than an actual punishment. But, I am still not certain about who has been doing what.  There is a chance after this conversation much of the threats and fighting with our foreign associates will cease. If it does then we know who to speak to to ensure it does not happen again.”

“Oh.” Robb said, thinking about it for a moment before looking at his father with only slightly narrowed eyes, “You make him think he is always being watched and he and his people may behave?” 

Ned gave him a brief flash of a fond smile before nodding. “A man shouldn’t have to be threatened to do the right thing, but there are those that need a bit more reason.” He finished solemnly. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was talking about himself just then. 

“Our doors are closed for the day My Lords.” Veyon called out. It must have been shortly past midday, he realized as the steward approached him, some unopened letters in hand.  “Maester Luwin brought these during the last session of court My Lord.”  He paused as he handed them to Eddard.  “And Lady Catelyn has asked to lunch with you this afternoon, before your ride.” He paused, nervously, which made Ned frown.  

“What is it?” He asked his steward.  

Veyon took a breath, pulling his lips back anxiously. “She seemed rather...distressed.”

Ned sighed, “I won't be going for a ride today Veyon.  Please tell Lady Stark I will meet her in an hour, I have a feeling these letters are going to take more time than I'd hoped.”  He had no idea what could have angered his wife so he focused on the letters in his hands. One was from House Umber, flame red wax with two chains crossed over each other, it was most likely an update from the Greatjon.  The other though, grey-green wax, a lizard lion pressed in it.  His old friend had been auspiciously silent during the past few years.  The responses to most of his missives had been direct, and usually penned by the Maester of Greywater Watch.  This though, the quick yet jagged lines of his name, neat in a peculiar way but compact.  It was Howlands scrawl.  

“Who is it from father?”  Robb asked, standing as he peered over his father's shoulder.  Veyon had left, leaving them alone, but for their guard.  “An old friend.”  He said quietly before looking at Robb once more.  “Go start your lessons with Luwin.  Mayhaps I can convince your mother to allow you on a ride afterwards.  All of us.”

“Even Sansa?”

“Especially Sansa.” His eldest daughter was a decent rider, but after her last fall she’d shied away from horses in general; even more so after Robb told her that true Northerners did not fall from their horse.  The little lady had taken it to heart, compounded with her very Tully looks she had despaired for a moon certain that she was her mother's bastard.  Of all of his children, with the exception of Jon’s eyes, she looked the least like him.  All of his boys had a mix of Stark features, be it a hint of grey in their blue eyes  or purple in Jon’s case or more brown in their ginger or black locks. Arya was the lone exception; a Stark Wolf through and through, with her dark brown hair with streaks of black and storm grey eyes. Mischief ran in her veins, the Wolfsblood ever present in her fiery temperament.  He and Catelyn convinced Sansa that she was trueborn, but Robb’s punishment was to give her riding lessons until she felt comfortable with riding alone.  It was taking some time, but she was getting back there.  Her younger sister was a different case.  Falling only made her try harder.  

Robb smiled wide, “Okay father.”  He turned and ran away, forgetting about the letter as he leapt down the stairs of the dias and left the hall.  Ned turned back to the letter from Greywater Watch before breaking the seal.  WIth pursed lips he read:

Eddard,

Did you forget the heritage of the North? Who my people are, your people, the blood that runs in our veins? Our houses especially? 

I know Ned. I saw .

Forgive my words, I speak as if you are my brother, because in many ways you are.  I commend you and your desire to strengthen our kingdom, but I know the truth of it.  You can't hope to fulfil your promise or restore yourself until you've realized and accepted that you made this mess.  This effort however noble it is perceived is a placeholder for the fear and loathing you've no doubt felt.  You made a promise to a broken woman with nothing but hope left and you broke that promise.   

As you have requested, light fortification of Moat Cailin has begun.  I will help where I can as you are my liege, but for now, I can not in good conscious leave Greywater Watch. 

He could have stayed here, Eddard.  He would have been safe. He would have been protected.    

Howland.

His jaw clenched as he finished the letter.  He read it over a few times, each time pausing longer to mull over the words.  Of course Howland would know the truth of it.  But why wait so long to address him directly? It puzzled him.  He figured it had something to do with his queer ability, the greensight that plagued or blessed some of his line, their lines.  Howland was a greenseer, at least that's what the man had told him so many years ago.  However vague the power was, it was within the realm of reason that he knew precisely when Benjen left.  Hell’s, he could have been helping Ben.   The thought had been there. Howland and his sister had been good friends and he knew the man was loyal to her and her memory, but he would never have sent this message had they been at Greywater Watch.  Their friendship was strained because of Ned’s inaction, but he knew that some loyalty remained.  He felt a fool at times, having vehemently denied the thought of Jon living with Howland, being raised by someone that wasn't him.  He hadn't expected Catelyn to react the way she did, which was stupid of him.  

In truth, it no longer mattered. He set the letter down before rubbing the bridge of his nose with a soft sigh. “That bad is it?” A voice he recognized asked.

“Aye, it unfortunately is.” He replied looking up as Davos entered the great hall from a side door. The last week had been hectic, full of appeasing and punishing. “Jorah’s actions have incited those that were already unhappy with the new order of things. It’s not as bad as when the Essosi first arrived, but it’s still an issue.”

Davos nodded as he approached with paperwork in hand. He extended them over to the lord as he came over. “Lord Manderly's tally’s.” He nodded to the seat besides the lord, Ned nodded in kind as Davos took a seat beside him. “If I may My Lord?” The knight began.

Ned frowned at his usage of his title, looking around and noting the guards, but admired the change in pronunciation before nodding. Davos was a peculiar man, he’d noticed. It seemed that the Southrons liked to remind him of his place, his birth and his beginnings. He’d surmised as much just by watching the man and his almost innate desire to appear proper. He'd told him early on that that wouldn’t do here. If asked, he preferred honesty over civility, but enjoyed both. Titles were for show or when necessary, for someone such as he, Ned or Eddard would suffice within the halls of Winterfell. He seemed to be coming around, but still hung on to some of his peculiarities. Since his arrival the children had gotten on rather well with the knight, especially Sansa who the man dotted on almost as much as he. His daughter had dedicated a few hours each day over the last few years with him to work on his letters and numbers. In return he told her stories of the world, it had the added benefit of giving her some truths of the world. The influx of Essosi and their nightmares of a life helped bring a bit more reality to their rather sheltered lives. Catelyn had protested at first, but come around as it seemed Sansa was learning.

“—ourney?” Davos finished. Ned's eyes widened for a moment before he realized that he had tuned the knight out and gotten lost in his own thoughts. Davos must have noticed as he chuckled. “I was saying that mayhaps a tourney should be held? Give the people something to celebrate and a moment to forget. Building has been going well. The Essosi can show their wares and the Northerners can do the same.”

Ned leaned back, taking a breath and crossing his arms as he looked across the hall at nothing in particular.  “We don’t hold tourneys in the North.  It's not something I want to introduce either.”  The undertone was ever present when Davos made suggestions that eluded to southron customs.  Most had no place north of The Neck.  Besides, it was a tourney that invariably changed all of their lives.  They had bad memories for him, most southron things did.  Even his time in the Vale was tainted by it.  But not everything.  

“Bolludagur, Sprengidagur, and Öskudagur.”

Davos’s expression was enough to make him chuckle softly.  “Old Tongue.” Ned said, actually smiling now.  

“Ahh.  I didn't know if you'd choked or sneezed.”  Davos straightened up.  “You're going to have to explain it to me My Lord, I haven't an idea what Boldaguur, Spregigar, and Oskundung are.”  

Ned forced some air through his nose as he chuckled.  Davos had a way about him that was disarming, easy to speak to.  It's why he let him in on his secret.  That and his sorted history gave him a wealth of knowledge and avenues he could put to use if necessary.  Ned took a breath and composed himself before delving into his explanation.  “The last we celebrated it was before my mother passed.  I think my father did away with it mostly because it was her favorite celebration, and it hurt him too much to continue to celebrate it without her.”  He smiled fondly, caught in the memory of his mother, his family, during a time when they were whole, or as whole as could be.  

He looked back at Davos, “The celebration usually occurs at the end of winter.  It's three or more days of feasting and drinking, and enjoying life.  Winter is harder here than for any other kingdom.  Survival is not guaranteed, and people wish to celebrate their survival.  On the first day, Bolludagur, you eat rolls filled with different jams or honey and if you're lucky enough a thick heavy sweet cream. My mother taught us to make small wicker brooms but normally children would beat their parents with a prettied stick...in jest.”  He added at Davos’ expression.  “All while saying, ‘Bolla! Bolla!’.  The children are given one roll for each ‘Bolla’ they can say before their parents stop them.”

Davos nodded, as he set a stopper of ink on the table in front of them and fished a quill from a pocket.  It was Catelyn and Sansa that told him to write everything down, so he could practice it later.  None seemed to mind when he did, Ned least of all. Being an ardent proponent of self improvement he saw no issue with it whatsoever.    “And the other two?”  The knight asked.  It was Ned’s turn to nod as Davos dipped his quill in the ink and wrote quickly before looking back up at him.  “On the second day, Sprengidagur, you eat salted meats and empty your larders of the last of the unused supplies.  The Lord would provide a majority of it, but smallfolk can join and bring what they have.  It's the day we feast the most. On the last day, Öskudagur, children dress in silly garb or as beasts and creatures of nature and walk from home to home in villages seeking sweets but they must earn those sweets by singing a song or telling a northern tale.”

“And this is only at Winterfell?”  Davos asked.  

Ned shook his head, “No.  All holds that are able to join in can at their respective keeps.  If the roads are clear enough to travel then invitations are sent across the North. But generally it's done independently.”

Davos nodded as he scribbled what Ned said. “It’s not a tourney, but that ought to do it.” He mumbled, more to himself. “Feasting and drinking is the same everywhere I think.” 

“Aye, it is.” Ned leaned forward, “I will speak to Catelyn, but this can be arranged. And you believe it will help build morale?”

Davos nodded, “Aye, giving the men shoreleave for a sennight always had them returning a bit more amiable.”

“Then we can prepare. Barring the weather, a fortnight should be sufficient.” Ned finished, pushing away from the table. He took a breath as he stood. 

“Duties never end, do they?” Davos asked as he stood as well and followed Ned as he left the great hall, two guards falling into step behind them. 

Ned chuckled softly before shaking his head, quickly looking at the letters in his hand and thinking of his wife and whatever bothered her. “Never.”

The North: Solitude 

Benjen

“Feels good to be off those boats!” Smalljon Umber proclaimed as they disembarked.  Benjen agreed, following his friend off the galleon as they returned from a trip to the eastern and western mainlands and a stop on Skagos.  Sailing was hard work, but he quickly learned he enjoyed it. The feel of the openness of the seas almost rivaled his love for the frigid lands of the North. He and Jon Umber had sailed off with his crews, to survey the hauls and methods for Aekesh Fishing & Trading co. It wasn’t the most glamorous of trips, a stop in Braavos where he heard tales of a skirmish in one of the districts near the harbor that ended with a home burnt to ashes, some said with Lyseni women and children still in it. And they call us barbaric. They’d sought to enjoy themselves for some time, but he and Smalljon decided it was time to leave once news of an army amassing outside of Qohor reached them.  Quickly collecting their salt and spices to trade back on Solitude, they sailed back to Skaggos for a quick stop and delivery before making port near Last Hearth at a small jetty they created for that purpose.  The She Wolf was black and grey with grey sails and no banner. It was bigger than a typical carrack but fast and made to move quick, the shallow waters closest to Last Hearth were perfect for a breakaway jetty.  “Off to see Katla?”  Ben questioned as Smalljon walked a few feet ahead of him, long brown hair pulled back as he laughed loudly.  “Aye, I am, a man needs a soft body next to him from time to time.”

Benjen shook his head, her body was not the first he would have thought of.  Katla, a wildling shieldmaiden, a surprise if ever.  Their passion was compounded by their love for ale, fighting, and fucking.  She made her way over to Solitude during the construction of the keep and the trade they were establishing.  She was one of the many mainlanders that found comfort and coin around the growing keep and village, outgrowing the age old trading her people were known for. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit that the North was changing, in ways he never would have guessed. The influx of Essosi worried him, if only because their secret was walking a fragile line. He didn’t know how to mitigate who came to their island but to force the majority to remain on their ships and only allow a select few to make land and trade.  Actual docking rarely occurred and typically only for their crews and those that lived in Solitown. Funny enough, Smalljon was the one that brought the news of his brothers changes to their kingdom. The Greatjon was handling affairs for the northernmost  reconstruction. He’d made his stance clear on this last trip: “Listen little Stark, I need not tell you what you should and should not do, but I don’t enjoy lying to my liege lord and friend. Talk to Eddard within the year or mayhaps he and I will be having a conversation.” The threat was clear and he couldn’t help but laugh at the Irony, the same ultimatum I gave Ned .   

He hated the position he’d placed House Umber in. As the closest to the Wall they considered themselves to be the most northern; physically, spiritually, and intellectually. In many respects they were right, but House Umber hadn’t taken well to their Warden marrying a southron, let alone the second son being forced into the marriage once the heir was killed. The north didn’t have as much hate for a bastard as the other kingdoms, with the exception of Dorne, most bastards of high birth could find a way for themselves and were typically legitimized. But the hate Cat had for the boy was well known in the cold kingdom, and not many could abide it. The boy was a son of the north. At the end of the rebellion when tempers were still high, The Greatjon believed Lady Catelyn ought to have felt lucky simply marrying a Warden after his brother passed. Once Hoster forced the marriage not many northerners cared for House Tully and the Riverlands as a whole, so when he was given the chance to show his defiance, he did albeit indirectly. He simply stayed quiet and allowed his son and heir to help how he saw fit.  Benjen was grateful for that, as he and Smalljon had built a lasting friendship over the years. He was more like a brother than anything else, enough so that his nephew called Smalljon uncle.  

Ben hadn’t changed much, but filled out some in the years since they struck out. His hair was still darker than Neds, wavier even, with slate grey eyes and a shadow of a beard rather than the scruffy length of facial hair most northmen seemed to prefer. He wore a warriors knot, his hair half up and balled up leaving the rest of the almost black hair resting on his shoulders. A sable cloak hung over his shoulders with a long sword at his hip.  Ben wore light black leathers over a black tunic; plate and chainmail would be too heavy to use at sea.  

“Uncle Benjen!”  He heard him before he saw him. “Uncle!” 

A blur of black collided with his chest, almost knocking the air from his lungs but hung on for dear life as Benjen stumbled back, choking out a laugh before hoisting the boy in the air and then dropping him.  “Oi! You been eatin’ rocks!?” He asked with a laugh, ruffling his hair and drawing him in for a hug before releasing him and taking a good look.  “You've gotten bigger.”

“I’ve gotten stronger too.”  Jon said with a triumphant smile, indigo eyes glittering with excitement.  Rowan and Jaron stood in the distance, both idly watching the comings and goings of the sailors and the dock workers.  They nodded to Benjen, as any would to a liege, which he was for the most part.  His respect was earned through engenuity and a willingness to be amongst the people, not simply telling them what to do.  He was the figurative muscle while Aemon was the brains, but that did not detract from the fact that he was clever as well, the trade was his idea after all, but they were a unit.  A  unit that worked very well together.  

“He’s been good then?”  he asked the Snow brothers.  

“Aye, the lad’s been a sweet little thing, hasn't he brother?” Rowan replied, laughing at Jons sodden expression.  The princeling gave them a look, narrowed eyes and pinched lips, all the while breathing through his nose harder than normal.  

“The sweetest little cub of them all.”  Jaron added, before ducking the driftwood stick that sailed at his head.  “Oi there Sweetjon!”

Benjen chuckled and ruffled his nephew's hair once more before dismissing the boy's guards with a nod.  The brothers were going home for a moon's turn, visiting their loved ones.  He could protect Jon well enough, afterall, he had made that his mission since the day his brother returned home from the wars and tried to pass off their sister's son for his own.  

“Sweetjon?” Ben asked as he and his nephew made for the keep.  Smalljon had already left, heading for Solitown and his wildling lover.  

Jon frowned, almost making Ben laugh.  The pout was good and deep, his cheeks reddened as they walked and he looked away.  “I picked some flowers for Lady Elaenor.”  he began, very softly, “And when I gave them to her, she said I was the sweetest boy she’d ever known and my face turned red…”

“And they've been calling you that ever since, eh?”  Ben finished, chuckling as his nephew nodded his head.  “They must be jealous.  You are the second best looking man in this keep.” He winked, gently pushing Jon before they both laughed.  “And you've been keeping up on your studies then?”  

Jon nodded, side stepping a wain and aurochs as the driver waved at the young lord and princeling.  “Ser Alliser says that I’m ready for live steel.”

Benjen frowned, That's not happening . He reminded himself to speak to the knight later.  He didn't want Jon having thoughts that were beyond his age.  Though a piece of him fought that idea.  Jon was skilled, incredibly so and there was no denying it.  Benjen wondered if it was natural aptitude or Jons simple tenacity.  The boy was driven when he found cause, and his swordplay was always cause enough for him to train.  His main cause at the moment was cajoling Benjen into a foot race the rest of the way to the keep.

After he passed through the main gates like a black blur, Jon slapped the proud wolf statue at the base of the steps leading into the main keep as he turned to look at his uncle who despite having purposely lost the race was smiling widely. Benjen and Alliser had taken it upon themselves to train some of the men on the island to be their household guard. They numbered at most one hundred but the growth of the island was startling. It was only a matter of time before they spilled onto Skaggos and their secret was no longer a secret. He’d done all he could to mitigate that issue with Houses Magnar, Croll, and Stane, gold and food did the trick for now. 

“How do you always win?” Ben asked. 

Jon shrugged as the household guard opened the door, both nodding to Ben and smiling at the princeling.   They had to make a few stops as Benjen was approached by six people at once. It only took a few moments for the young Lord to make his way to Jon after being swarmed with new information and requests.

“The Night Wolf returns.”

“Ha!”, Benjen said as Lady El entered the receiving room from a door off to the side.  Most of her hair was pulled back into a low tail, loose strands clung to the sides of her temples from a light sheen of sweat, he noticed, but she was as beautiful as ever. Today though she wore a smock over what he assumed were more of her Essosi garments, which were easy on the eyes but not very practical. “Night Wolf this time? It was Sea Wolf last time and Smiling Wolf the time before that.”

El looked puzzled for a moment, tapping her bottom lip. “I’m still not sure which suits you.”

“Do I have a say?” He asked. 

“You always do, Lord Benjy, it’s whether I listen to it or not...” she paused feigning a look of thought before winking at the Stark of Solitude. “Now I must take the broody prince back with me.”  Jon’s brow furrowed at the pet name, “We were in the midst of brewing when he was suddenly compelled to say hello to his uncle.”

“Oh, and what concoction are you making this time?”

She shrugged. “The elixir of life, what else?”

“Well that ought to make us a bit of gold.” He chuffed.

“And if I could actually brew that then we would all be the wealthier.” She wrapped an arm around Jon’s shoulders. “Batches of moon tea, for the careless ones.” She winked at Ben who flushed slightly, before gently tugging on Jon’s shoulder. 

“Oi, before you go, where’s Aemon?”

“His tower, speaking to Alliser.”

“Thank you.” He smiled before ruffling Jon’s hair one last time. 

“Tell me about your trip later?” Jon shouted back as he was led away. 

“That’s a promise little Wolf.”

Benjen was smiling as he turned away. He could still hear his nephew protesting, but he had to admit that learning to brew that would come in handy. He chuckled to himself. He had to learn not to prod his nephew's mischievous side, lest he end up with a plotter. He already had a few of those in his life. The way to Aemon’s tower was pleasantly clear, the odd maid running around cleaning, stopping to say hello before they moved on. It was a perfect moment to reflect, which he did. Life was both simpler and harder. The Night's Watch was but a memory, now replaced by a different kind of duty. He surmised that there would not be a whole lot of glory, but there was the odd chance to do good. Aside from fishing, their company dabbled in a different sort of piracy, running interference and attacking slave ships to free their captives and take their goods. It kept the slavers busy in the seas so as to leave the northerners along the coast alone. Smalljon had remarked on the lower reports, disappearances had decreased because of them, slavers no longer had a strong foothold. It helped gain people’s trust once they saw the She Wolf in action, and some came to Solitude because of their deeds. 

It didn’t take long for him to reach Aemons quarters. Two guards were posted outside of the door to his solar, they both nodded as Benjen came, knocked on the door, and then entered. The elder prince loved to read and since he’d been given his Myrish eye lenses it seemed to be his one constant. There was no denying the man's abundant cleverness. In truth Prince Aemon was more of a father figure than a maester, and his lessons were imparted to both Benjen and Jon as if he were.  His apartments consisted of his room, his solar, a massive balcony that overlooked the courtyard and an adjoining personal library where he stashed and hoarded his growing collection of tomes and scrolls. It was Benjens directive to bring back books from his travels. Aemon liked to stay apprised of the kingdom and world all together. 

Alliser was frowning when he walked in, which was far from unusual, but he wasn’t glowering which meant everything was okay. He took another sip of Ale before nodding in his direction.

“The Sea Wolf returns.” Aemon said with a smile, “...or is it something else today?”

Benjen chuckled, “Aye, Night Wolf this time.” He crossed the solar before taking a seat across from Aemon. He took out a small leather bound black booklet he kept on him, detailing anything of significance he came across during his travels. “Nothing of note seems to be happening south of the Neck. Petty squabbles between minor lords.” He took a breath before continuing. “But...my brother has been particularly busy. When we pulled into Whiteharbor you wouldn’t have believed the amount of foreigners there.”

Alliser grumbled, but said nothing else, most likely something about those very same foreigners. “That all makes perfect sense.” Aemon replied, “The North is vast, compared to the population, building would take a long while. That was clever of your brother to source cheaper labor, but I am surprised there wasn’t full scale rebellion. Northerners don’t care for outsiders much.” The elder prince finished. 

Benjen agreed, “You are right, but Smalljon Umber reports that his father and my brother and the majority of the Northern lords are onboard because, put simply, it’s lucrative. How my father or my father’s father never thought to do this, we will never know, but during surveys, Greatjons groups found iron, tin, and silver in the Northern Mountains.  We aren’t a mining people so he says my brother has had difficulty establishing the mines, especially because he will not speak nor share this information with anyone from the South. Aye, there’s new faces to deal with but with a new keep, comes more land and farms, more sources of income for the small folk. That means strength and something the north needs, wealth.  As a kingdom we never took stock of what we had to see if any of it was valuable to anyone outside of our borders. It was wise of Ned, but now it’s unfortunate for us because he’s taking inventory. He’s paying attention to who is in his kingdom and why. And soon he’s going to look further North, at the islands.”

“Get to it Stark, you want to meet with him.” Alliser cut in.

“Aye, I do. It’s the only course of action we have. Greatjon will tell him if I don’t, and if he doesn’t my brother could still find out about everything we have built. And if he finds out because he has been digging, it will not be pleasant for any of us, save Jon.  Honesty is simpler.” Benjen finished, and leaned back into the chair he’d claimed.

Aemon did the same, pushing his myrish lenses further up the bridge of his nose. He crossed his arms over his stomach, looking away as he thought. “Mayhaps the better part of ten years has been long enough?”

“We could flee? Use that cover story your brother made, and go to Essos. Gather an army and return, take back what the Usurper took.” Alliser added, flippantly, as he poured himself more ale before taking a swig. 

“That’s a foolish idea and I’d rather you not mention it again Alliser. Vaegon already shoulders our house's legacy as the last of our blood, forcing him to flee to build an army and take a throne he has no interest in would only harm him. Mayhaps that may change, but he is a boy, a child. Let us allow him to be one for as long as possible.” Aemon chided the knight as Benjen nodded.

“And stop filling his head with thoughts of live steel Alliser. He’s too young.” Benjen added.

Alliser shrugged, “Too young.” He scoffed “Aye he's a boy, a boy with more skill and talent than any of us at his age. He should have live steel. This place is growing, faster than we like, he‘ll need to protect himself.”

“He’s still too young. Can we not give him a tourney sword?” Aemon asked.

Benjen and Alliser looked at each other. “Aye, we can do that. But we would need to trade it out every few days.” Alliser said.

“Why is that?” Aemons brow rose.

Alliser actually chuckled before speaking, “Because he will sharpen it.”

North of The Wall

Darkness had crept on them, unaware, as they slumbered in their den. Evenings were proving more and more dangerous, hunts took them further from their home for longer.  The pack dwindled because of it, but still the natural order drove them. Mating ensured survival, and survival was life.  She could feel it, the pups growing within her. Making her hungrier, but more weary.  But it all changed and it happened so quickly; only one long warning howl split the silence of the night before a pressure came over her head startling her awake and she heard it. The voice of a human in her ears. Her first instinct was to fight it, fight this intrusion, but the wolf didnt know how.  There was more than one presence in her mind, of that she was certain, but how she suddenly understood what numbers or consciousness was, the beast wasn't sure, there was time for little else but action.  The unnatural quiet following the warning howl drove it home. 

Direwolves were clever, preternaturally so.  Their eyes looked at everything with an otherworldly intelligence that the Wildlings claimed was a gift from the Old God’s, and the greatwolves survived and thrived because of it.   “Move, MOVE!”   The voices shouted, getting a soft whimper from her. Sleep had robbed her of coherence as it took a moment for everything to catch up and the confusion to melt away.  She shook her head as she stood, still so tired and hungry, all four legs trembled slightly. Prey was harder to find in the snow and trees. Hunger was always around the corner.  Piercing golden eyes widened as she smelled it, blood . They smelled it, everywhere and then nowhere. Alarm rang through her, from her whiskers to her haunch...silver white fur caught the moon's faint light as fear finally forced her to move.

“Run!” The voices shouted again, “Run!” And she did.  As she shot from the den into the brush, the greatwolf turned her snout to the sky and inhaled deeply, something foreign yet frighteningly familiar was there. The reason for their longer hunts, less game, and the bitter cold that nipped at them endlessly.   She had smelled this before, death , everywhere; In the wind itself, consuming and devouring. Once, she had known no fear. The biggest of her litter, strong and powerful. She could duel the quietcats and often spooked the palefleshed men, but remained aloof. Their cold cruel teeth bit hard and oftentimes fast. Her litter mate, black as the night with red eyes and large as well, died by a man's cold shiny claw. She’d tasted that man’s flesh soon after. But this was different. This had taken her mate, brown and as big as her, mayhaps bigger, but not as fast.

The attack was swifter than any other palefleshes attack she’d encountered, a man claw plunged into her mates right flank. He limped on, growling and yelping furiously, but already mortally wounded if the amount of blood was any indication. The human voice came back and told her to run. And she had. Her mate had fallen dead as another unseen flying claw plunged through his throat spraying the ground with blood. She hated those ones. They came from the sky like birds almost invisible in the dark but she could hear them. She remembered that as she ran. Every muscle she had geared for flight, she ran hard, harder than she’d run for any hunt. Screeches, grizzly and abnormal sounds she’d never heard before cut through the night as the scent of death swallowed all others. She’d never known fear like this, ripping through the brush and snow at speeds she’d normally never attempt.

She was a predator. Queen of her territory. Bigger even than most males, but her mate had been bigger. And they’d killed him in moments. There were so few of her pack left.  Devoid of a natural superior they were the apex; but something was killing them, had been killing them.  It wasn't the quietcats, they normally left the direwolves alone, only tempting a fight for a recent kill.  Even then the direwolves' immense size made the shadow cats think twice unless they were desperate enough. Her teeth could maim and rip, they could tear flesh and break bone, she could kill in an instant. Fear was not an emotion she understood well. But it wasn’t fear for herself, but fear for what grew within her. She burst through the brush, dodging trees as she sprinted for a clearing but slid to a stop. The tree cover ended, she knew she would be exposed but she could hear them, smell them. That non-smell. That void of odiousness, the shadows that crept around her. The expanse of white in front of her led to a glistening blue white wall that even in the dark she could tell that she had no hope of climbing.  But there were cracks at the bottom she knew of.   She’d seen some as her pack ranged this direction and followed the dark palemen with their yapping and noisey mutts and the stink of weakness and fear. Her hackles were up, her body gripped by indecision.  The greatwolf looked behind her aware that something horrible had taken her kin and was coming for her, but ahead of her they could hurt her with their cold teeth.  She had no idea what was in the cracks, but the scent of death was too overpowering and she was willing to try anything to escape it.  If she ran hard and fast, she could make it.

One terrible screech much too close made her move, noises so alien they forced her to give up caution. She dashed out, through the clearing and ran, ran as hard and fast as she could. The whistle of the flying human claws that killed her mate made her sprint harder, she could almost feel their bite on her rear legs as she kicked up clouds of snow with her movement. The crack closed in, she was free...the greatwolf squirmed and slipped through the crack into the darkness of a hidden tunnel. Dank and musky, it smelled old. She could hear them, the noises she didn’t know. She could smell them, on the other side. Her lips peeled back as she let out a soft low growl. She was safe for now...inside this cold tunnel. “You are safe.” The voice came back, and this time she felt okay with it. “South.” It spoke once more before going quiet and she listened. Her heart slowed down as she padded down the quiet tunnel, breath misting as she panted...south was where she would go.

The North: Solitude 

Benjen

Benjen sat up, cold and shivering. His furs and linens were on the ground around his four poster. The hearth remained lit but just so, it was well into the night. The moon still hung high, but it didn’t matter. The shadows felt unforgiving, the darkness heavier. He was afraid, and he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t know how to make sense of what he’d seen, he had never hoped more that it was merely a dream. But it’s clarity, the copper scent of blood and death in the air...the cold snow under his paws, the fear that gripped his heart. The Wall. It had felt so real. Ben wiped his face unsure how long he'd been asleep.  His little nap had turned into a night's worth of rest if the assumed hour was anything to go by.  He groaned lightly, realizing that he never went back to meet with his nephew after his conversations with Aemon and Alliser.  He’d have to walk that line carefully, returning to Winterfell would have to be done quietly.  

His door creaking open made him reach for the dagger under his pillow, repositioning himself for an attack but he paused at the short shadow that stopped just at the opening.

“Jon?”

A moment of silence followed.  “I had a nightmare uncle Ben.” His voice was so soft, he could barely hear it. But Ben smiled, half asleep.

“Come on then pup.” He pat the left side of his bed.  “Try not to kick me this time.”

He woke to Jon sitting across his room near a brighter fire.  The windows were closed he realized as he looked around, noting the darkening clouds on the horizon.  A storm. That would work to help cover their approach to land.  Hopefully they wouldn't have to wait out a blizzard as well, that would lengthen the trip, a trip which he still had to explain away to Jon.  “That's not a toy.” His nephew's eyes were narrowed in thought; he was eyeing the long-sword leaning on a chair across from him, still sheathed but the depth of his stare said that was momentary.

He puffed a breath before looking at him, brows furrowed but purple eyes piercing.  “When can I have a real one?”  Jon asked.

“A real one?” Ben asked back, head tilting to the side but still half asleep.

Jon nodded, flared his nostrils and frowned before pulling something from the otherside of his chair which made Ben laugh silently.  “Alliser gave that to you?”

“Yes, last night.” Jon said.  “After you fell asleep.” he added for good measure.  

Ben shook his head, the stab of guilt worked. “ Yes ? Since when do you speak like a Southron?”

Jon chuckled.  “It does sound wrong, doesn't it?”  

“Aye, it does.”  Benjen sat up and stretched before continuing.  “You know the rules then?  Don't hit people with it.  It may be blunted but it can still hurt.  Once you draw your sword, always be prepared to use it.  And if you do use it, remember to stick them with the pointy end.”

Jon rolled his eyes but maintained the slightest of smiles, “Is that it Uncle Ben? That's all it takes to be the greatest swordsman ever?”  

“More or less.” Ben replied.

Jon was still at an age where despite his best effort a giggle would creep through his many masks every now and then, reminding Benjen just how young his nephew truly was. The boy's stoic countenance belied his age.  He must have left his apartments and bathed and returned at some point because he was dressed. A blue tunic and black breeches with a black sleeveless leather jerkin. At least there’s some color today.  His hair was pulled back into a bun, which was good since it hung past his shoulders now.  Were it silver he would have been the image of a Targaryen prince, indigo eyes with a ring of grey around his pupils and prettier than most of the maidens. Benjen joined in, chuckling before swinging his legs off of his bed and stretching once more.

“Right, go break your fast and come back. I’ll tell you about my trip and we can talk about my next one too.” He said through a yawn.  

“Don’t fall asleep again.” Jon replied, standing and leaving. He stopped and turned, a bashful smile on his face. “Forgot my sword.” 

Benjen chuckled as Jon closed the door behind him after retrieving the weapon. His rooms were large, an adjoining washroom, a small study not quite big enough to be called a solar and a decent balcony overlooking the southern side of the island.  His study was filled with maps of the sea as well as notes and documents from his journeys and for Aekesh Fishing and Trading. The Stark direwolf hung above the head of his bed, spanning the entire wall, with a few tapestries from around the world hiding the grey stone walls around his room.  His eyes traced a path back to the window where they lingered.  Bulbous white and grey clouds were pulling in from the North East.  A storm would be good cover for them approaching the shore and their breakaway jetty, there would be no need for a night approach. He just hoped the winds would be on their side and they wouldn’t end up near Karhold or further south. His ship was generally always ready to depart should they have a need to, preparations would be quick. I’ll have to get a message to SmallJon . Blowing air from his mouth noiselessly he stood and made his way to his study to pen a quick note to Jon Umber.  After beckoning one of El’s maids that happened to be cleaning the hall to pass on the note, he began his morning ablutions.  

Telling Jon he was leaving wasn’t the issue, it was lying to him. He’d done it once and the boy hadn’t spoken to him for the better part of a moon's turn, and he had been no older than six. Now, though...Benjen grit his teeth as he realized just how alike Jon and Ned were. The truth would be harder to tell than a lie but much better especially if Jon found out he had gone to Winterfell without him.  He sighed as he slipped into a tunic after drying his hair.  Fibbing came with the job he knew and understood, but wasn’t lachrymose about it, just hesitant.  He was not a good liar, hells planning his escape from Winterfell with Aemon and Alliser had been an achievement for him.  Like his sister, he was passionate, and every time he saw Jon as a babe he had the urge to grab him and run, that was evident by how botched their initial flight had been.  Even then he was acting on emotion, which he tried his hardest to control but at times it slipped through.  A knock interrupted him as he was fastening his belt, he bade them enter just as he slid into a chair to put on his boots. 

Jon came in, no different than before, his pale face was just a little pinker from running. This time, the tourney sword hung at his side, he noticed the new hilt and scabbard. Alliser must have replaced them. The thought of that wholly unctuous man doting on a child made him laugh from time to time. 

“Where are you going this time?” Jon asked Ben as he closed the door and strode over to the chairs he’d left a few hours ago.

Benjen was leaning over, lacing up his boots, still in thought. “To the mainland.”

“Oh, to Last Hearth?”

“No, Wint—” his eyes widened and he paused mid-word, shutting his mouth quickly. He didn’t want to look at the boy for fear of his slip up being caught, but his eyes darting to the side to catch what was in his peripheral vision confirmed that Jon had heard his misstep. Well Shite. He immediately forgot what he'd been thinking about.  He’d been so caught up in what to tell Jon that he wasn’t thinking of how to tell him and the words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. At least I'm not lying.  There was a pregnant pause, silence filled the space between them as Jon’s brows shot up and a smile threatened to consume his face. Benjen hated to do it, but he had to. He had to shut down that train of thought immediately.

“You can't come Jon.”

The growing excitement paused and were it any other situation Benjen would have laughed, the amount of emotions his nephews face went through in a matter of moments was amazing to say the least. His face settled and silence came between them again as Jon’s breaths started to speed up, he was on the cusp of anger, his brows furrowed but eyes wide. “What! Why?”

Ben sighed as he looked at his nephew after lacing his boots. “Because your father and I must talk. There is a lot between us and I’d rather have that settled than reintroduce you to a mess Jon.”

There was a pause as Jon processed what he said.  “But you promised. You said that the next time you go to Winterfell, I would go with you. You promised Uncle Ben.”

Benjen sighed, again. “I know I did. But you can’t this time. Next time, once matters are settled you can come. I promise.”

If looks could turn a man to stone, Jon’s would have. With pinched thin lips, narrowed eyes, furrowed brows and resignation capturing his face, his nephew's indigo eyes pierced Benjen through the heart, but with more than just anger, there was disappointment. “I don’t believe you.”

It wasn’t what Ben was expecting. None of this was. Jon stood still for a few more moments his demeanor on the cusp of righteous anger before he straightened his back, turned, and walked away, but not before slamming the door on his way out. “Gods…” Benjen muttered, sighing as he did before he dropped into his chair. He’d learned long ago not to chase after Jon. The boy was good at disappearing, finding nooks to vanish in.  He realized then they hadn’t even talked about his last trip which was always the highlight of Ben's return, his nephew's excitement brought life and wonder to some of the simplest of things. But not today, he only hoped Aemon or El would calm him down.

Vaegon

Liar!  

Uncle Aemon taught him, anger clouded judgement. It was better to allow that anger an outlet. He’d told him that many of his kinsmen before him had issues of their own; that when a Targaryen was born, the gods flipped a coin and the world held its breath to see how it would land.  Baelor the Blessed fought his demons by devoting his life and rule to the gods. Aemon the Dragonknight channeled his into duty, becoming the greatest knight there ever was. But it was the Old King, Jaehaerys I, who he idolized. He’d fought for rules and justice amidst the chaos his predecessors left him.  Where other young King’s could have taken advantage of the broken system of the divided lands, he brought order and unity. 

But Vaegon didn’t have a kingdom judging him, nor did he want one to.  His outlets were simple, when he wasn’t forced to study with his older uncle, it was either training, riding warrior, sometimes reading something enjoyable or if Alliser took him, hawking.  That was the most thrilling; sometimes he’d lose himself staring at the bird with the most wondrous sensation that if he closed his eyes really tight and concentrated hard enough he could feel and see through the hawk. But that’s not possible. And who’d believe him if he told them? He huffed angrily.  He’d learned to set up camp when he was seven, and fish and hunt the year after. Alliser taught him to track and even to navigate with nothing more than cues from nature. He’d been taught to make herbal poultices for ailments and maladies by Lady El. Hells he could speak more languages than Uncle Benjen and if he was being honest he was very skilled with a sword, less so with a bow but still better than most his age.  He wasn’t being prideful, just honest.

But, and this was a big but, he was only a boy; still shy of ten and two, with no ability to make any real decisions and he loathed it. There were other children on the island, wildling children, Essosi children, some children from Skaggos, but none were his family. He missed them , Ned and Robb, or what he could remember of them. When he thought of his father he really only saw an older version of himself with grey eyes. He saw Eddard.  It had all been confusing when he was younger.  He had known he was Ned Stark’s shame, so to be told that he was trueborn and in fact not Ned’s son had taken a while for him to reconcile.  Through the years it became easier, as he realized that while Rhaegar was his sire, he had died.  He was proud to be his remaining child, but Eddard had taken him in.  Eddard had claimed him, despite the shame it would bring his house and the strain it put on his marriage.  Eddard was the man he aspired to be like, him and Uncle Aemon, and Uncle Benjen, and even Alliser when he isnt being a right prick.   He snickered at his thoughts despite his anger.  Rhaegar was a mythical figure, an image he could only ever hope to imagine, while Eddard was tangible and real.  His Lady Mother was a whole different matter.  She too was an image, a picture in his mind but she was also just as real as Ned, a person he could see and stand before and talk to, even if it was only her bones. Her tomb was there, a few hundred miles away and with the knowledge of his birth and status his Uncle Benjen had promised that they would visit it, together, since he knew who he was, a Stark just as much as the others.  That little bubble of defiance started to grow.   

Vaegon had finally made it to his rooms.  They faced southwest with an upper most level exposed to the elements but perfect for stargazing when the clouds dissipated. Since his sixth name day they’d left a seeing glass out for him and from time to time Aemon would catch him fast asleep under the canopy late at night, his dragon egg either nestled under his chin or within arms reach.  He loved it out there because the height made him feel as if he was flying when he stood near the stone railing and let the wind pull at his hair.  There was also a decent sized balcony attached to his room where he could walk out and view the southwest side of the island. It was originally intended to be a wife’s watch. Uncle Aemon had insisted he be given this apartment as it was the rooms the plans showed Rhaeger intended to give to his mother.  The doors were closed then, but he knew what view was on the other side, ships, and their small port. 

The pit of defiance was growing with each passing second. 

“I can hunt, and fish, and fight.” He muttered angrily as he paced his room. The space was large, a heavy mammoth skin rug covered the greater area of the floor, partially underneath his four poster bed that could easily fit at least four people; a banner of the Stark direwolf hung on one side of the room with the Targaryen dragon on the other.  His eyes darted to the carefully built and intricately carved black chest Uncle Aemon had given him. It had a place of honor amongst his belongings, or rather what was in it did; proudly positioned on a low table near the hearth and his study chair. If his dragon were hatched none of this would be an issue. They would respect him, and he would be able to see his father in less time than it took a crow to fly. One day , he thought as he fingered the key and ring on a length of leather he wore around his neck. The key being for the chest and the ring being a gift from his uncle. A silver band with the Targaryen dragon, quartered.  The ring was the same one Aemon was given by his father, King Maekar I.  

With a harsh breath he stopped pacing. The defiance was gone, and in its place a plan was forming. His grey tinted purple eyes darted over his room, quickly taking stock of what he had and didn’t have.  He was clever, clever enough to figure out a way to board a ship without his uncle knowing or at least get to Skagos; he could cross the Bay of Seals on his own, though he had no idea just how big the bay was. He knew the She Wolf though, he’d walked her deck and inners more than once and knew with no certainty that it was likely being resupplied now. Of all the ships it would be the easiest to sneak onto, simply because it was always prepared to depart.  Uncle Benjen was particular and precise when it came to being supplied. He liked to be ready to leave at a moment's notice should something happen and they needed to vanish.   

A plan had formed.  He made his way to his desk before retrieving a piece of parchment, a stopper of ink and a quill to make a quick list of all he needed.  1. Travel pack.  2.  Leathers not breeches. 3. Thick gloves, mole skin and fur. 4. Mayhaps one or two tunics, my jerkin and my heavy cloak. 5. Food to travel.  With a look of contemplation he stopped and looked over his list before moving to the chest at the foot of his bed and tugged out an over the shoulder travel pack, quickly grabbing two sets of small clothes from his dresser, his dagger from Benjen that stayed under his pillow, and the water skin from Alliser that always rested on his desk.  Stuffing everything but the dagger and water skin into his bag he went to the dragonchest next and stopped. Should I? He hesitated, pursing his lips. Yes . With quick movements the chest was unlatched and the top flipped open.  There was always a moment, a second where he felt a particular shiver run through his body. The warmth that rushed through him left his skin tingling every time he touched his egg; an overwhelming sense of completeness as the egg felt like it knew him and enjoyed these moments as well. He took the egg and carefully wrapped it in a tunic before sliding it into his pack.

A knock at his door startled him, eyes widening as he turned to it. “Jon?” It was Uncle Benjen.

He took a calming breath.  “What!” That pit was back in an instant. The frustration that translated into anger that he had no outlet for. 

There was a pause. “I’m sorry Jon. I didn’t want to tell you like that.”

“So you were going to lie to me then? Like that would be any better?”

“No!” Another pause as he heard boots shuffling. “Well…”

“Liar!”

“Jon, I’m sorry. I just wanted to tell you that before I left. We push out early on the morrow so be good. We’ll talk when I return, and we can plan a return trip.” He paused as Jon heard an audible sigh. “I love you pup, be well.” 

And there it was, the guilt he’d hoped the anger would overcome. He stayed silent as he heard his uncle's footsteps retreat. Closing his eyes he took a breath before opening them again, calming himself before returning to his plan making. 

Is this a good idea?  No.   But, if he was being honest with himself, he didn't care, he wouldn't give this opportunity up.  There was a deep pain that came with knowing his family was a fortnight or less away.  Even more so after he'd heard of his father's expansion efforts.  He wasn't supposed to know, but unfortunately for them and thankfully for him, his Uncle Aemon had pushed Jon to learn Valyrian and some of its dialects.  He had overheard some of the more gossipy Essosi women talking about the trade established by the Northern Andals.  He wanted to be there, to see the north become strong, and besides, Alliser had always said that he was meant for great things, what could be greater than helping his father? He imagined it would be like watching King Jaehaerys I put The Seven to rights.

“No doubts Vaegon.” he said to himself, standing over his boots.  He eyed the three he had, stopping at the sturdiest pair. They weren’t the most worn-in pair, but was comfort the priority? They were thick heeled and reinforced as well as warm. His feet would be sore, but he’d still have toes when he reached Winterfell. He set them next to his trunk.  He found two pairs of gloves, worn but heavy as well as his fur lined jerkin and thickest hide cloak, but as he scanned his chamber his eyes landed on the sword. He puffed out a breath, “It’ll have to do.” He muttered, frustration worming it’s way in. As he stuffed a red tunic into his bag he paused. He couldn’t leave now, he’d have to wait until night and most likely stay in his rooms at supper which would mean he’d have to stop by the kitchens on his way out. He let out a slow breath, nerves overcoming him as the gravity of his plan made itself known as the pit in his stomach doubled in weight. It was a tall order he knew, but he’d do it. 

One way or another, he was leaving Solitude that night.

Chapter Text

Present

The North: North of Winterfell

The ground was still damp, the last rains passed by a few days ago, but another more brutal storm was on the way.  The sun remained unseen, a truly bleak Northern day, grey clouds obscuring any light leaving them in a perpetual morning. A breeze rippled through the trees, green leaves danced with each gust as the sounds of the forest were carried with it.  Birds twittering, the faint roil of a distant stream; light echoes of pants mixed in from a small clearing as two men rolled on the ground; followed by deep thuds as fists moved wildly again, striking where they could and grabbing and yanking and twisting anything else.  “Get…get off!” One of them managed to grunt, though you would never be able to tell who.

With a yell, they disentangled, falling apart in a heap.  Their weapons: daggers, swords and sword belts lay an equal measure apart, seemingly discarded in agreement; two sets of grey eyes stared at each other before one lay on their back.  “Gods Ned!”

Lord Eddard Stark was panting, hard, his dark brown near black hair hung loosely around his face as the bun that held it back had come undone.  He was in riding leathers, a newly formed hole on the right sleeve of his brown jerkin as he pushed himself up and sat; his cloak lay in a heap near his grazing horse. He pinched his eyes closed tight, and clenched his jaw as he took in three deep breaths and exhaled slowly; each time opening and closing his gloved hands. Calm yourself. It had become a problem, this anger. A problem he remedied by riding and training.  He had never expected his time alone to be interrupted so abruptly, and by his brother of all people. Benjen had never been aware of the moment of murderous intent  that shot through him when he thought his brother nothing more than a would be assailant, a danger.  A ragged sigh escaped him as he wiped blood from his lip before spitting some out and facing his brother.  “What did you expect?” His voice was low between his pants, surprisingly even, long drawn out breaths shaking his sitting form. “Seven years Benjen…I haven’t stopped searching for you, for him , for seven years.”

Benjen wasn’t any better, laying on the ground, chest heaving as he strained to catch his breath.  His eyes were closed, blocking out the grey sky, he’d already wiped the blood on his lip where a bruise was forming.  “So you attack me when I show myself?” He asked. 

“You were skulking in the shadows Ben…”

“You lot always did call me a lurker.”

That caught Eddard Stark off guard. Amidst the heat from the scuffle and roiling anger, he tried to quash the chuckle that came from his gut, but couldn’t stop it. Besides the anger, the pent up frustration, there was relief .  A tangible sense of ease came about him when he saw his brother and realized what this meant; Benjen was too easy going for something horrible to have happened, so this meant he wanted to talk.  Ben joined in now, and for a moment all felt well in the world.  

But it wasn’t.  “Why?”

“Couldn’t enjoy that for a moment longer?”

Ned ran a hand through his waves as he repositioned it and put it back in a knot at the back of his head. “Ben, why?” 

The younger Stark Lord sighed.  “Because he deserved better.  He deserved to be loved for who he was, because he wasn’t just another Lord’s bastard.  He isn’t your dishonor Ned, and letting him live with that shame was not the right thing to do.”  He paused, pushing himself up as he sat now, resting his arms on his knees as he found his brother's eyes.  “He was and still is innocent of Catelyn’s ire so I took him from that.  She would have had him grow up thinking that he was the great and honorable Warden of the North, Eddard Starks only mistake…the single blemish on your pure white vest, and believe me, after all I’ve heard you’ve done for our kingdom he would have been nothing but miserable. You’ve cast a long shadow brother.”

Ned sighed, heavily.  “Do you think I haven't thought of that?  He has been in my thoughts everyday since you two left.  Everyday.”

“Then you would have told him?”

The Lord of House Stark was quiet for a few moments before doing something he normally didn't; he shrugged, and sighed once more.  “Once we…”  he paused, brows knitting together, pondering the best way to refer to their last interaction.  “...finished arguing that night, I was certain I would.  But, less than half a year later I received words from the capital that made me very unsure.” 

Benjen frowned.  “What words and from who?”

“Jon Arryn.  His letter said that Robert’s assassins did their job.  Rhaella Targaryen and her three remaining children were murdered somewhere across the Narrow Sea. He said that Robert laughed and feasted the day they presented him with her crown.”  Ned felt something, a twinge of sorrow, a sadness from the depths of his belly.  “I remember when we took the capital. Even then I tried to counsel peace, but the hate in his eyes.” Ned sighed as he trailed off.  “And the babes…” he didn’t finish, it was quite literally the breaking point of their relationship. The reason he decided that Robert could never see Jon.  

Ben nodded in understanding, “I know why you did it Ned, I really do.  I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, but what’s done is done.  Jon didn’t deserve it, but neither did you deserve my ire, only Catelyn…”

“Ben…” Ned warned, though gently.

“What?  There is no hiding from this this time Ned.  I’ll say my peace, you can hit me all you want.”  His younger brother rolled his eyes, ending the matter there and then.

Silence filled the air between them for a moment before he felt the need to broach it.  “Is he well?” Ned asked in his deep tenor, suddenly very unsure.  

Benjen shrugged, “Define well.” As Ned’s brow furrowed he chuckled. “He is. I reckon he’s better than well. He’s clever Ned, so much so.  Stubborn like Lya.  Independent to boot too.”  Ben pushed himself from the ground now, dusting himself off as he spoke.  “I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve found him outside, just wandering.”  At Ned’s face Benjen put up both hands, “He’s safe.  Trust me Ned, of all the things in this world, Jon is safe. 

6 Days Ago

The North: Solitude 

Vaegon

Uncle Aemon had come to his rooms to talk to him, which they'd done, but on opposite sides of the door. “Benjen means well Vegg, though he sometimes doesn't say or show it as ably as you'd like.” His voice came through muffled.  “You may mislike me for this my nephew, but he is right this time.”  The elder Targaryen continued speaking through the thick wooden door.  He’d begun to feel guilty about his escape plan, until Uncle Aemon backed up Benjens words, “He must ensure it's safe for you to return.” His elder uncle finished before telling him to read if he was going to hold himself hostage in his rooms.  Prince Aemon bid his nephew a good day before shuffling off.  Vaegon struggled for the next hour between guilt and frustration.  His eldest uncle was always right. God’s they both are.  He’d stopped planning then and sat.  He could always wait, but then something would happen or a reason would arise that would make that impossible.  He stood then and began pacing.  “I have everything I need.  I could do it.”  He muttered as he walked a line in front of the foot of his bed before stopping, a determined look on his face.  For their families both Eddard and Rhaegar had ridden across the kingdoms and that was during war.  The North wasn't at war, and he was a Northmen, he was a Stark and a Targaryen.  If they could ride thousands of miles across war torn lands and brave bandits and highwaymen, he could stowaway for a few hundred.  What's the worst that can happen?  I have to show myself to Uncle Benjen once we're on the mainland.  He’d never make me go back then.   

Plans resumed, doubt gone, he was certain this was the right thing for him. Rowan and Jaron were on Skagos; every year they left for a moon‘s turn to visit their family which meant his guard detail was rather light and much easier to escape. Lady Eleanor had brought him supper, which he thanked her for as she winked and smiled slyly before sliding the tray into his room through the partially open door, leaving him befuddled. The amounts were more than normal, but he thought nothing of it except that it would help him avoid a trip to the kitchens. But I’ll still need to steal supplies from the pantries. He ate the vegetables then and there but wrapped the meats up in spare bits of cloth he had around his room. They weren’t dried and smelled of garlic and onions, but the meat would make for a fast morning and afternoon meal. He could get more and avoid hunting for a few days at least.  

It had been a struggle to stay awake. He wrote a letter first and left it on his desk, ’Uncle Aemon‘ was scribbled on the top. They would search his room he knew and find it and hopefully it would be enough to keep them from worrying too much. Once he left, the only way to communicate would be to send a letter to House Umber or one of the Houses on Skagos and hope it got to Solitude. He’d tried to send a raven to Winterfell years before but none were trained to go there. It had flown in a circle before returning to the rookery and his Uncle Aemon.  That was when he’d learned that every bird was trained and didn’t simply go where you shouted. He would have no contact with anyone he knew for some time since he intended to stay hidden on the ship.  After the letter he’d resorted to pacing at times, or reading, but that only helped to make him even more drowsy so he sat near the open window, knowing the cold would help. As the sun crept closer to the horizon casting the sky in shades of pinks and purples and oranges, anticipation made itself known by the steady tapping of his heel. As the colors slowly melted into one and day turned to night, he knew it was time.

Guard rotations worked like clockwork because Ser Alliser worked hard to maintain their schedule. Vegg knew every nook and cranny of Solitude. He’d essentially been an only child for a good portion of his life so he’d learned where to go and where not to go if he didn’t want to be found.  Without Rowan and Jaron, there would be a guard walking his hallway but if he climbed out of the palisade and down he could get to the roof of the breezeway that connected the training room tower to his own. But...It’s dark, and I could fall.   Instead, he crept to the door, now ready and dressed, pack over one shoulder and his bow slung over the other with the quiver nestled against the pack.  He shrugged his shoulders and twisted, arranging it better.  Throwing his cloak on, he wrapped his sword up to quiet it and carried it in his gloved hands. I’ll be warm. He said with a satisfied smile as he felt the trapped heat grow within the garments he’d layered.

Vaegon was ready. 

The door to his room opened slow and noiseless, but he watched through the widening crack. The hall wasn’t too bright, candle sconces every few feet. There was one guard that walked his loop, but Solitude was safe so they weren’t walking with purpose. They kept their eyes open but Jon had snuck down to the kitchens enough times to know his way around. There was an alcove immediately to the right of his door with a small statue of a wolf similar to the one at the entrance to the castle, but this Wolf was mid howl; it was wide enough for him to hide behind if he stooped. He saw a moving halo of light from a swinging lantern making its way down the hallway and away from him.  He took a breath and exhaled slowly before pushing the door open, sliding through and closing the door with a soft thunk.  He slid behind the wolf, kneeling, and waited for the guard to pass again.  The lanterns yellow light cast odd shadows from the Wolf against the stonework before the guard continued on. Vegg pivoted on his heel and peered around the statue, sword in hand he made his way to the steps.  

He walked along the inner edge on the tips of his toes, following the steps down until he reached the first floor and took a breath pushing himself against the wall.  He listened, and only heard the faint and ever present roar of the ocean.  Nobodys heard me .  It was times like this he hated how big the castle was. He’d given up trying to remember Winterfell's enormity, he was too young when he left and everything felt much too exaggerated.    As he left his tower and ran down the hallway he dropped to the floor suddenly, seeing the door open on the other side.  He heard a voice and something was said but that was it.  The door closed leaving him breathing harder than he’d liked. Gods. He pushed himself from the ground and ran, still crouched.  He ran through the entryway, ducking behind a statue of a singing maiden in the hall as a maid walked by, humming a tune he didn't know.  

Moving once more, through the great hall, and the kitchens, he reached the pantry, a grin of triumph lifted his cheeks before he heard a voice clear its throat.

“ And where do you think you're going? ”  A guard asked in bastard valyrian, holding a torch above him.  There was no way the light reached Vegg from where the man stood, more than twenty feet away, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t see me . His heart was racing, oddly enough he could feel heat in his ears as he slowly lost his composure.  

A laugh nearly made him yelp, startling him so much so he rocked on his feet almost losing his balance. “To my room, why, would you like to join me?” A female voice replied in the same tongue as he saw a woman cross the kitchen and enter the greathall, the door closed behind her as he heard a laugh and then voices retreating.  Vaegon took a deep breath and sighed in relief before resuming his mission.  He grabbed what dried meat he could fit, before stealing some cheese and hardtack.  Shoving it into the pack, he left the pantry, through the kitchen, back into the greathall and out of a side door that led to the courtyard through the gardens.  

The port was empty by the time he reached it, meaning it was later than he thought.  

Lanterns lined the Traders Wharf. He could see the She Wolf, moored and rocking with the waves, dark and ominous like a specter in the night. His heart was racing as he ran between the shadows, only stopping once or twice to look around. He could see moving lanterns onboard which meant that guards were walking the deck, but they were on opposite sides.  Sneaking past them was easier than he thought it would be as he made his way up the gangway and onboard.  The boat rocked gently as he crept to the stairs leading into the hold. The air in the bowels of the ship was thick and heavy, like the air before a lightning storm. In the dark, he groped around for a moment, touching the walls along the starboard wall before he found the hollow section his uncle made to hide things he didn’t want seen by any port authority. They didn’t think he knew about the piracy but he’d overheard Uncle Ben and Ser Alliser.  Pushing on the hidden door, it clicked and then slid open allowing him to creep in, making himself comfortable for what was definitely  going to be a physically hard trip.

Present

The North: North of Winterfell

Eddard:

It was surreal and had they not fought he’d have thought himself mad, seeing things, but his brother was standing before him.  Yes, he had much and more to say, but Ned smiled, for the first time since Ben and Jon left, a true and whole smile that pulled at his cheeks and brought color to his face.  Those last cherished moments he remembered were nothing more than faint and dwindling memories. He wanted new ones, he wanted to see the boy, learn everything about him, play with him, run and teach him about his history.  He wanted Jon and Robb to be the best of friends, to form a bond so deep and pure that it transcended any harm caused by his lie. But what if he hates m e.  And there was the fear that drove so hard.  The fear that the only peace of his sister that remained, hated him. “Does he…does he think ill of me?” It was a selfish question, he knew, but he had to ask.

Ben shook his head. “No, he doesn’t. He misses you and Robb.  His father and brother.  Because that’s what you are Ned, even now, even though he knows.  Story’s are well and good, but you are living flesh and blood.  He misses his father.”

Ned gave him the slightest of nods.  The feeling was refreshing to say the least.  Long needed to say the most.  How he missed the child, watching him and Robb chase each other through the yards.  Corralling them to attend the Maester for whatever lessons a child of four could manage.  He missed talking to the boy, telling him little bits of things here and there, teaching both of his sons.  Most of all, he missed Jon’s voice.  The tiny “Father?” The thought was bitter, but it was there.  It was always there.  

“Can I see him?” He asked the question before he realized he was speaking, a sudden sense of unease and bother worming its way into his stomach and heart.  It was foreign, almost new.  Nervousness ? It had to be.  The daunting realization that this was going to require more than he thought, it would require a conversation he was dreading. 

Benjen must have sensed his unease, his hand found its way to Ned’s shoulder.  “Aye, that’s why I’m here.  Why don’t we walk and talk?” He smiled at Ned.

“Aye, lets talk.”

5 Days Ago

The North: The She Wolf

Vaegon

“Ow.” He muttered, his voice soft, but teeth clenched. He was stiff and sore, cramped and was surprised to realize, he did not have sea legs quite yet. The meat from his previous night's dinner had yet to be eaten as he’d done little more than shift in his spot, try to sit more comfortably and occasionally swallow down any vomit that crept up. 

God’s, this is horrible .

His cheeks puffed up and nearly overflowed as another wave of sick came up but he forced it back down, quite literally feeling his skin attempt to wriggle away from him in repulsion. He closed his eyes and sighed, leaning back and trying to focus on the noises of the boat.  He heard his uncle’s voice every now and then, shouting orders.  He wished he could see it, but that would get him caught. His uncle's hidden compartment ran a good length of the hull, which allowed him to slide down and away from the door before making his way to the wood below and sitting on his cloak. His head rested against the wood, which was mildly refreshing since a few cracks let in a bit of cold air. I hate boats.  He groaned almost noiselessly before falling into a fitful sleep.  

It was a dull repetitive thunk that woke him. The boat swayed softly, but as he regained his bearings, eyes closed he could tell that they weren’t plowing through the water. We’ve dropped anchor. He thought. “We’ve dropped anchor!” He repeated, aloud this time eyes widening, quickly covering his mouth as he realized what that meant. They were there... shite, how long did I sleep? Despite himself and his obvious excitement he yawned and slowly stood. He could hear footsteps, but not as many as he’d thought he heard while they sailed. His uncle must have taken a skeleton crew. He put his ear to the compartment door and listened. There was nobody there as far as he could tell, so he pressed on the lock and slid the door open slowly.  

“You shouldn’t be’ere…” he heard a voice say softly. 

Vaegons eyes widened as they connected with a man, or boy, he wasn’t certain. The lantern he held made him look odd, but he looked as surprised as Vaegon felt. Big brown eyes connected with purple.  Vaegon could hear his heartbeat.

“Please, don’t tell anyone.”

“Who‘d I tell? We’re not even posed to be’ere” the man boy said, voice cracking. “Who are you? You look like Lord Ben.” His eyes started widening as realization took over. “Your Lord Stark's son.” He breathed. 

Vaegon stayed silent, but nodded once. He could do nothing in this position, still inside the insides of a boat. 

“Well...I ain’t seen nothin’” He shrugged. “Best get goin’ then.”

Vaegon hid his surprise well before nodding, “Thank you. I’ll find someway to repay you, I swear it.”

The boy, for he was certain he was a boy now, just bigger than him shrugged again. “I’ll hold ya to it. Your uncle saved me from going to The Watch as a boy, so least I could do is help his nephew.”

Vaegon smiled, slightly, stepping out of the compartment before shouldering his pack, quiver, bow, and swinging his cloak on and putting his sword on his stiff sword belt. He looked up and stuck his hand out, he was going to say his true name but thought against it. “My names Jon.”

The boy smiled back. “I think everyone knows that.” He took Jon’s hand and shook it. “Names Grenn.”

Present

The North: The Wolf’s Road

Benjen:

Returning was a combination of oddness and strong,  unexplored emotions mixed together, leaving his brow furrowed and his mind in a mild haze of confusion.  Benjen felt it in his core that it was a compoundingly dubious situation to return when his feelings were still a mess, especially after speaking to his brother.  But god’s everything is so different. He thought as they rode.  He had originally thought he would have to ride to the gates of Winterfell.  He’d tied his horse off a few hundred feet away to scout his approach, but instead had found his brother.  The god’s are on my side , he’d thought, emboldened by his luck as he snuck up on his elder sibling, unaware that Eddard was onto him, thinking him a danger.  He had ridden alone, for four days trying his hardest to beat the incoming storm.  The sight of the Wolfs Wood had made his belly flutter in nervousness.  Before leaving Ben asked the Umber heir to make sure a message was sent to Solitude telling them he was likely to be stuck on the mainland for at least a moon's turn with his ship mooring where it was or returning to Skagos to wait out the storm.  Smalljon had argued that he should take at least one other, but Benjen had done this ride with a babe in less time, but then he'd had an extra horse ready.  

 “The Wolf’s Road, you call it?”

His brother ran a gloved hand over his horses mane as they slowly rode on.  “Aye, we were able to rebuild Tumbledown Tower.  The vault still stood, and with the help of the other lords, the tower went up quick.  I’ve had it garrisoned and doubled the patrol of our men along both roads.”

Ben made a noise of approval, “But you've done more?”

Ned nodded as their horses cantered down the road headed east, back to the Kings Road and then south to Winterfell.  “Trade has been good.  Because of it we were able to have some of our surrounding hills and mountains surveyed.  The North may have mines but I don’t know if it will be worth the effort yet.  We may start with a few and measure their worth.  The Essosi are surprisingly good at digging through the dirt.”  Ned said with a dry chuckle.  “But Essos is a great big dirt patch.”  

Ben scoffed.  “So the maps say.” 

“So they do.” Ned finished.  Benjen smiled but it faded when he caught his brother's expression.  He could almost swear that chuckle earlier had been imagined as Ned's eyes moved over him, a flash of piercing silver before he looked forward, face like carved stone.  He’d have to figure out what that was about at another time.  He looked forward as well, having already heard most of this information from Smalljon, but he couldn't let that be known quite yet.  Ned started speaking once more, “The Stony Shore is being prepared for habitation.  We have the foundation and most of the walls on a new castle and work on a port is a quarter complete.  We finished the Rill Road that connects The Stony Shore to Barrowton and Barrowton to White Harbor.  I've also had four hundred men stationed at Moat Cailin at all times. They've done what renovations they can without builders, but it's fine for now.”

Benjen was surprised by that but didn't show it.  He saw it for what it was, a preemptive move, solidifying their hold on the neck.  Smart. He looked at his brother who held himself differently, he just couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was.  His back was straight, his countenance firm.  He’s a wolf.   Benjen realized, almost startled.  Ned had been so quiet and aloof; he’d never say reserved but certainly not peremptory.  The difference in his brother, his bearing, his voice, there was something officious about him, bordering on domineering.  He puzzled about it for a moment longer before taking a breath and deciding to ponder it later.   

“How far does The Wolfs Road go?” He decided to ask, actually curious about the details.  Saying so much was different was an understatement.  He knew of his brother's interest in The Stony Shore, but had no idea that his interest had become something real.  What have you been up to, brother? He frowned slightly, all the more curious about Ned.  

4.5 Days Ago 

The North: Bay of Seals

Vaegon

He didn't know whether to scream or cry.  

It had all gone to shit the moment he parted from the boy he met and disembarked only to realize he had slept much too long.  It was night.  And his uncle's jetty was just what he explained it to be; a hastily erected wooden mooring structure made to be destroyed quickly should it be necessary.  It swayed much more than he expected it to and compounded with the lingering queasiness from sailing over did nothing good for his stomach.  He’d run to the land and nearly dove to the dirt to embrace the ground like an old friend before he lay down on his left side.  Uncle Aemon had told him to lay on that side should his belly ever hurt, the body seemed to prefer that side on all men and women, or so the Maesters had recorded.  It had started raining as he regained his bearings on the rocky shore miles away from Last Hearth.  

He’d intended on leaving the ship but keeping his uncle within view.  He’d be his shadow, trail him from a distance.  I didn't think I was that tired. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, pushing away any worry he was feeling.  That would get him nowhere and both of his uncles agreed that keeping a calm mind was the only way to overcome a problem, and this is a problem, he thought.  

With a calmer stomach he stood and looked around. There was no cover he could see, so he did the next logical thing and started walking in the direction he thought south was hoping to find something to hide under for the night.  He wasn't as prepared as he thought.  How could I forget a tent?   With each step in the rain the boy cursed himself. “Gods damn it.” He ground out pulling the cloak and hood tighter around him and covering his face as best as he could. 

The night air was cold, and the rain was getting colder.  He had no idea what time it was but couldn't go back to the ship.  He’d disembarked with relative ease and was lucky enough to be caught by someone that didn't make a fuss, but doubted he could do it again.  There  was no road for him to walk on so he trail-blazed through the wild knee high grasses, ears open for snakes and other critters, but only the sound of rain and the crunch of dirt under his feet filled them.  The smell of the ocean receded as he walked further inland, replaced by earth and trees. His eyes were wide, a small smile on his face despite his discomfort. 

He sighed, but reassured himself that it was going to be worth it.  With a prayer to his father's gods, Vaegon Targaryen started his journey home. 

Present:

The North: The Kings Road

Eddard

The clouds had grown darker behind them as they blew south, following Benjens arrival.  Of course he’d bring bad weather. He thought as they rode, slowly, using idle banter and chit chat to fill the increasingly awkward tension between the pair.  At first he’d felt shock, and then anger, and then relief.  But now, as they rode and Ben asked him questions so flippantly he found himself getting angry once more.  Had this been anyone else, they would have been subdued and for taking his son , there would be no trial.  Mayhaps not even a stay in the cells of Winterfell, their head would have been separated from their body that very day.  He’d told Benjen to lift his hood to cover his face.  They didn't need to be stopped or interrupted or forced to explain anything unnecessary until they had truly spoken.  In answering his question he’d told his brother that the Wolfs Road went Further East and then south to Hornwood and west to Tumbledown Tower and on to Deepwood Motte.  He hoped to extend two more branches of the road, one to Widows Watch and the other to The Ramsgate.

As they drew nearer to Winterfell and Wintertown, the differences were much more pronounced.  Wintertown had grown, as had its population.  It was no longer a town only heavily inhabited during winter, but thrived with a growing though well maintained population.  Wooden buildings were replaced by stonework as new apartments and cottages were established.  He heard Benjens gasp in surprise when he saw a pale child clad in northern garb come running into the road following a ball, only to immediately stop and bow in respect, saying hello to Lord Stark and his companion in accented common.  

“Gods brother, what have you done around here?”  Ben asked, his voice low as they cantered into Wintertowns thriving populace.  Sound and movement was everywhere; people calling out in the common tongue as well as a number of Essosi languages.  Ned had done his best to learn what he could, but struggled still.  There were just too many dialects and his eyes and mind weren’t truly open until his adulthood.  I didn't know what we needed to survive on our own.   And to him that was an understatement.  Growth was necessary for survival, both for oneself and his people.  

They passed the town center, where a new statue of a beautiful smiling woman with long wavy hair stood.  She was looking at the child she clutched with a lifelike fondness that Ned had often found himself staring at.  The work was stunning.  Mikken had made a miniature woodwork that a master stonemason from Qohor had used as a model.  “Lyanna?” Benjen asked, his voice soft.   Ned nodded in response as they rode by, both of their eyes on the statue.  “The Winter Rose.”  Ned muttered, quickly pointing to the inscription as Ben's eyes followed, before nodding and sniffling softly as they moved on.  Guards hailed Lord Stark and cleared the path as the smallfolk moved out of the way.  Preparations for the celebration he and Davos had spoken about had begun, and people were excited with the announcement as the old northerners taught their new associates what the celebration meant to them.  As the gate drew nearer, Ned spotted Jory who was making his way towards him on horseback.  As he approached, the pair made eye contact, Jorys eyes moved to Benjen, puzzled, brows furrowed.  It only took a moment for it to register, as the shock was clear on his face.  Ned shook his head and nodded forward.  Jory understood the nonverbal cue and turned around.  

“Make way for Lord Stark!”  he shouted.  

Immediately, everyone on the path turned to look around, shuffling out of the way and clearing the road.  Eddard used his heels and tapped on his horse, clicked his tongue and picked up his pace.  Benjen did the same, following Eddard through the gates as Jory rode ahead and pulled off to the side, eyes wide as they followed Benjens figure.  Ben, for his part, smiled and nodded under his hood, tapping his head with two fingers in salute.  

“My Lord?”  Rodrick called out from the stables, Harwin following him out.  

“I am not to be disturbed for the remainder of the day.” He said tersely, pulling his horse up and stopping.  He quickly leapt to the ground, leaving the reins in Harwin’s outstretched hand.  The Master of Horse though was staring slack jawed as Benjen handed him his own reins.  “As I live and breath...Lord Ben?” He muttered, almost reverently.  

“Aye Harwin.”  He looked up at Rodrick, whose eyes were saucer wide, mouth agape.  “Ser Rodrick.” He nodded.

“Benjen Stark”  Rodrick muttered, a smile slowly creeping up his whiskered jowls.  

“My solar, now.” Ned interrupted, brusquely stopping the reunion in its tracks.  The moment was broken and everyone nodded returning to their duties in deference to their liege.  That wasn't missed on Ben who frowned for his part, but followed Neds lead.  “Tell nobody.” He finished before striding away.  Jory caught up at jog, his chainmail jingling as he fell into step behind Ben, hand resting on the pommel of his sword, a poorly hidden smile on his stubbled face.  

He leaned forward and whispered, “Welcome back, Ben.” 

2 Days Ago

The North: Somewhere between Last Hearth and Winterfell: 

Vaegon

I stole and was almost caught. He couldn’t stop thinking. Gods, I stole. 

But there was no room or time, or energy for remorse or pity.  Hells, there was barely energy enough to think.  He was cold, abysmally so and fairly certain he’d already crossed the Last River, any other river and he was likely too far south.  Then the hills I saw earlier were the Lonely Hills, he wagered, but only if he was remembering his uncles maps correctly.  The rain had stopped, but in its place snow had begun to fall.  First in little flakes that when viewed objectively, he found to be rather pretty, but now as it fell in sheets, gusts peppering his face.  Now, as the world was intermittently engulfed by endless white.  Now, as the cold seeped deep into his bones and his fingers were numb and he’d stolen canvas for a tent.  Now he was beginning to worry.  “But…” His teeth chattered, “unc--unc--” he stopped, too cold to continue.  Uncle Aemon would say that if I worried, I would make a poor decision.  He’d strung up the canvas and made a makeshift tent between two low trees and a third fallen log.  Using arrows to pin the canvas down to the ground and the fallen log as support, he had decent enough shelter, but warmth was still an issue.  

He knew he had to wait it out for the night.  He’d come across another camp while it was raining shortly after sunrise the day before.  The camp seemed older, even ripe for commandeering, but he felt it was far too exposed.  There were the remnants of a fire as well as some wood scattered about, broken fishing poles discarded around as well as supplies that he wagered an animal had gotten into; regardless it was clear to him that no one had been there in a while.  He’d moved quick, going for the canvas first before he heard a shout.  Not knowing where it came from, he'd abandoned the majority of the haul except for the canvas that he managed to ball up and run away with.    

That had been a day ago, and now as the snow fell, he wondered if it would have been smarter to get caught.  At least I'd be warm.  Lighting a fire would have to take priority.  With his supplies ready he struck the flint and steel together again.  “Come on.”  He ground out.  Striking them together once more, careful for his fingers.  Unfortunately he had to do this gloveless and numb fingers made for horrid tools.  He held them tighter, frustration worming its way in as he struck them together once more, anger building in his chest.  “Light, damn you.” He muttered, frustrated, before striking them together.  Nothing happened, again.  He panted in the cold, over the kindlng and wasted arrows, furstration and fear mingling as he cursed himself for this stupid plan.  “Please, just light.”  He pleaded with whoever would listen, taking some quick breaths before he grit his teeth and shouted “Light damn it!” as he struck them together once more. 

A spark ignited, brilliant white light that lingered for a moment too long to be natural.  It lit the space and cleared the snow, making the air shimmer before igniting the kindling and branches and bathing Vaegon in yellow, warm light.  “What was that…” he muttered, still in shock, but shook it off simply delighted to feel heat once more.  

Present

The North:  Winterfell

Benjen

“Welcome back, Ben.” Jory whispered to him, though the wide smile had faded, his eyes shown as if it hadn't.  

Ben kept his hood up, covering his head and a good portion of his face in shadow.  He spied Lady Catelyn once, as they cut across the courtyard and fought the urge to scowl, realizing how unbelievably immature it would be, especially when he knew he was on his way to being interrogated.  Whether friendly or not, it remained to be seen.  His thrill at returning and walking the cobbles and stones and halls of Winterfell was supplanted by his anxiousness at Ned’s change in demeanor.  The smiles and chuckles from earlier were gone, in its place a rigid mask he had never seen.  It was almost as if the Ned he’d encountered and the Ned he saw now was someone wholly different.  His back was straight, eyes forward, as he moved with purpose, dismissing anyone in their way with nary a look.  Again, that odd feeling was back. He frowned when he realized it was the same feeling he got when he was a boy being marched to their fathers solar to be punished.  Im a fucking man grown!

A resounding bang as a door crashed open echoed from ahead of them before a high pitched squeal followed by a triumphant laugh followed it.  “Father!” they all heard a little girl call, booted feet announcing her just as she came running around the corner of the hall.  “I won! I beat Robb!”  She jumped once before running to Ned, who for his part smiled, his entire countenance changing once more.   

“And what did you beat him in?”  Lord Stark asked politely, dropping to her level.  

“A foot race!” The little girl chirped, excited and panting. “Hullo Jory…” She only then realized someone other than his guards was with her father as her grey eyes moved over to Ben, her face shifting as curiosity claimed her features, her head tilted to the side, long tangled black streaked brown hair following it.  He didn't know what surprised him more, the obvious dirt on her face, her tunic and breeches, or the fact that she was a replica of the sister he'd lost.  He wagered the last as he gasped, startled by the fact that he even saw Jon in her long Stark face.  

She pursed her lips, looking up at him.  “Who are you?” 

Benjen couldn't help the laugh that escaped him.  Just as direct as Lyanna.  But before he could answer, his brother cut in.  “Arya, go find your mother.  You will meet him later.”

Arya, my niece , looked him over once more, eyes narrowed in suspicion before turning on her heel and running away, but not before shouting “I better!” as she disappeared down the hallway and around the same corner she had come.  

“A little windstorm that one, eh?”  Benjen asked with a smile, eyes still lingering where she had been.  “I'd wager she’s a copy of Lyanna at that age.” Not that he remembered, he was far too young. 

Ned nodded, before they resumed their walk which was short as they reached his solar moments later.    Eddard entered first as Jory took position outside.  Two guards had joined them on their walk falling into step as they crossed the courtyard.  Both took up position at the door; one patrolling the hallway as the other stood on the other side of the door.  The guard stepped in and closed the door behind Benjen leaving him with more questions about the abundance of security.  He turned, looking around as his brother sat behind the same desk their father sat at, shuffling papers and documents around.  “Not much has changed.” he said as he walked over to the bookcase nearest the window, perusing the titles. He scanned the bookends, his finger stopping at one “‘The Conquest of Dorne’ I’m surprised you would have that here.”

“It's good for the children to know the history of the seven.”  

“Aye.”  Benjen replied, turning to his brother before he crossed the Solar and deposited himself in a chair across from Ned.  He had never put his sword back on his hip after their fight, so he left it resting against the bookcase he had been standing in front of a moment ago.  “So, Arya?”  He began, leaning back.  He was unusually nervous about the situation.  He’d been so sure when he spoke to Aemon and Alliser, even more so when he told Jon Umber of his plans.  When had that changed? He asked himself, inwardly cursing his lack of confidence.   Is it Ned?   He had to admit that at that moment he felt a child; his brother's posture was even straighter and more severe than their fathers.  Eyes cold and searching; it brought him back to sitting in front of his father and explaining why he did whatever foolish thing he was caught doing.   

Oblivious to his inner turmoil Ned answered simply, “Aye.”

Benjen Nodded slowly.  “For our grandmother then?” He continued, realizing that his brother was not going to make this easy.  

Ned’s brow rose, before he nodded.  “I suspect as much but Catelyn gave me some rubbish about Lord Jon Arryn and Jon and the names being something more.”

“Well, that is quite a stretch.  “

“It was, but I admired the attempt.”  The beginnings of a smile formed on his face before he looked down and schooled his features, looking at his brother once more, straight faced.  “It was the first of many.” He finished eyes piercing.  “Now tell me Benjen, and tell me true.”  Benjens jaw clenched.   

“Where is my son?”

(The night Benjen and Eddard meet)

The North: Somewhere between Last Hearth and Winterfell: 

Vaegon

He’d grossly overestimated his survival ability. 

He wasn't scared. No, nobody could ever say that. Headstrong, yes. At times a bit irrational, mayhaps. Impetuous, from time to time. His uncles liked to say that he was clever, which he was, most of the time. But right at that moment he doubted it very much. No, Vaegon knew that this idea in theory had been a decent one, but in practice was horribly contrived and very ill advised. He shivered for the millionth time as he fought to remain calm; the last howl had been moments ago and didn’t sound too far away. If the situation were not dire, he would have laughed at the irony of being hunted by wolves , on the Northern mainland, on his father's lands. He knew how to hunt and how to fish, how to set up camp and start a fire. Besides that last one. He was good at telling directions by simple signs in nature. Hells, he was even good with animals, generally the default person to soothe a rankled horse or mule or even the odd unicorn back home. But in a snowstorm that all went out through the proverbial door.

His shelter hadn't lasted the night. A sudden gust caught it and snapped the impromptu arrow anchors sending his canvas shelter whipping into the night air. The fire he started the night before had been snuffed out by the cold and snow, but he was thankful for the warmth he’d gotten from it. It seemed to invigorate him; but that had been a day ago and he was dealing with far worse than finding shelter. The boy tugged on his cloak and hood as he heard another howl, this time so close it sent chills up his spine, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, whether frozen or from fright he didn’t know. Underneath the shivers, cold tendrils of sweat dripped down his back, heating and freezing him at the same time. He panted, his breath coming out as mist amongst the snow that beat at the pale exposed skin on his face.  His cheeks and nose burned furiously, the scarf he made by tearing the tunic that was wrapped around his egg was lost to the wind. He could barely see five feet in front of himself, let alone defend himself if something came for him. He had his short sword that Alliser had given him, but it was still dull, there wasn't enough time to sharpen it. The weapon was a boys toy besides, a far cry from a true sword. It would work in a pinch, but was really used to placate his foolish need to bare steel like all the other men. It was for tourneys and appearances. He cursed the weapon for all its uselessness, still not understanding why he couldn’t carry true steel.  He was good with arms, some even said he was gifted. But none of that matters when you're going to be picked apart by a pack of wolves, he thought morbidly.

Sword in hand Vaegon trudged through the blizzard and frozen trees, using his forearm to shield himself as he continued his march. He knew one thing, and one thing for sure: he was going south. With each step he swore he could see shadows moving around him. If he was being hunted he couldn’t stop, although a fire would have helped tremendously, one would never light in these conditions. He kept pushing himself forward, thoughts on abandoning his travelpack for speed crept through his mind, but that would mean parting with his egg which he would give a limb for.  He could hear the wolves' pants now, and see their shadows circling him, he caught glimpses of glowing eyes against the moments the moon peeked through the clouds and flurries. 

He finally stopped, shaking and cold, sword gripped by both hands as he looked around. The shadows wrapped around him, circling, using the snow storm as a natural barrier. They wove in and out of the darkness, fearsome, deadly teeth gnashing against the air. He was scared. He would not deny that anymore, but above all he was angry. This wasn’t meant to happen to him. He was meant to get to Winterfell, where they would greet him and whisk him into their halls. His father would see him and fall to his knees and hug him and all would be right in the world. 

Sword in hand, eyes narrowed against the snow, teeth clicking and body shaking from cold, he stood defiantly, staring into the dark as his hood fell down and his barely contained black hair whipped in the wind. “Come on then!” He shouted. All one and ten years of experience meant nothing in the face of fear. One of his earliest memories was of his father, it was of a story he’d told him but it wasn’t the story he remembered but the moral of the story.  His father had told him and his brother that a man could only be brave when he was afraid. Well, he was definitely afraid, but did not feel brave.  

The first lunge was quick and powerful. The wolf darted towards him, a blur of dark fur, pushing him to the ground amidst the snow. He tripped over something unseen and fell back with a huff losing his sword in all the white, but rolled to the right, instinctively drawing the dagger his uncle had given him. Eyes that looked black focused on the first wolf, knowing there were several others nearby and probably a dozen or more hidden in the trees. Another crept around him, he could barely see it.  Jon crouched down, centering his balance so as to take the attack but hopefully stab as well. 

But the attack never came.

Something else, something massive moved with unnatural speed. Something huge and overpowering, something that was as silent as the night but as foreboding as death itself. He couldn't hear the wolves but he could sense the air. Something had changed and all the beasts were backing away. Suddenly a lone howl rent the air around him, a deep guttural sound, ferocious and unforgiving. As he noticed the other wolves back away, one black one crept up, braver than the others, and moved to pounce, but as he did...he vanished , a yowl, fleshy tear, and a growl later, nothing remained. The wolves had all turned tail and ran, barking and yelping at each other. Under any normal circumstance he would have been happier, but he understood the way of the world, the way of nature. Something else had come, something bigger and meaner.

He had no weapon, save a small dagger. He was winded, half frozen and exhausted; he couldn’t run or fight and now as he stared into the darkness and it stared back he realized what he was facing.  The absurdity was...well he didn’t have a word for it. Lady Eleanor had told him stories that had given him nightmares. Tales of dead things that had once been men that refused to die but became malevolent and enslaved to an evil will.  Creatures that tormented the living and ate the flesh of men, women, and children with strength greater than ten people and rotten skin and exposed bone and flesh.  She called them Draugr and said that they would come at night when it was darkest and the cold was harshest to hunt and weaken their prey for their frozen masters: The Others. That was usually the point where she would pluck his toe and make him yelp when he was younger. But not this time. His imagination was playing tricks on him as he shifted, stepping back and straining his eyes to see what was before him.  It wasn't a creature from the seventh hell, that was certain.  Instead a different monster watched him; gold eyes stared at him carefully from the shadows at his height before raising up and staring once more but looking down at him. It stepped into a sliver of light, massive clawed paws moving over the snow covered ground near silently, grey almost silver fur covered its body, with teeth as long as his dagger. It’s head was easily the size of his torso or larger, he couldn’t tell through the snow and darkness as it stepped forward inching towards him.

A massive direwolf, bigger than his horse Warrior stood in front of him.  It’s face was solemn, as solemn as a direwolf could be but it was regal. Snow stuck to its reddened maw, soft pants left it’s cracked mouth. But those bright gold eyes never left him; watching him with a level of intelligence you’d normally only see from men.

The great wolf approached and he was proud to say he didn’t run, not that it would do him any good. The wolf could take one step and catch him.  But he would never tell his father, uncles, Alliser or Rob about the undignified yelp that left him when the great wolf licked his cheek.  He stood rigidly, indigo eyes wide, mouth a thin white line of barely controlled fear as the beast sniffed him up and down, its wet nose poking him as it did, surveying and inspecting him.  He lifted a shaky hand, hesitating for a moment before running a hand up the wolf’s snout and past its ear. The wolf closed its eyes, leaning into his touch.  Even through the gloves he wore he could tell it’s silvery coat was soft. Amidst the fear a small smile wormed its way up his cheek. “Thank you.” He whispered to the direwolf. “You saved me.”

The direwolf poked him harder once more, licking his cheek before turning and walking away. It stopped once to look back at him, an obvious indication to follow which he did. It wasn't missed on Vaegon, the absurdity of the whole situation as he pulled his hood back up. He had been running from wolves and now he was following one? He did as instructed, rewrapping himself in his cloak before they both started  trudging through the blizzard. Where are we going? He thought, knowing with absolute certainty that he was lost and likely to freeze to death before morning.  The massive wolf kept its head down as it pushed through the blizzard, periodically turning those golden eyes on Vaegon before continuing onward as if they didn’t need to find shelter.  But to his surprise the Wolf brought them to the ruins of an old steading, probably abandoned years ago.  “Is this where you’ve been living?” He muttered, more to himself than an actual question.   He didn't care, it had four walls and a roof and the windows were still shuttered.  The Direwolf and boy made their way into the remains of the cottage, where Vaegon immediately set to starting a fire, purple eyes periodically following the wolf. Luckily he only lost his sword, and his pack was still more or less complete, missing a tunic. He found some broken parts of a chair and a table, and with what little kindling he had he started a small fire, though no white flame helped him this time. As the fire came to life he sat and rummaged through what he had left, setting them besides him as he did. “Tack, meat, my cheese is gone.” He lay the egg gently in front of him, next to the fire. “There you go Sonikros.” He whispered, pushing it closer to the flames.  He’d already put on what he could for warmth.  As he counted the eight arrows that remained he sighed in comfort, feeling the heat make itself known.  It wasn't the greatest fire, but with a closed door, it made all the difference. He sat near it now, hands extended looking around, but always aware of the looming presence near him.  The great wolf moved slowly behind him, sniffing the air for anything amiss before it lay down and placed him in a semi-circle against its side, literally protecting him with its girth. 

A smile formed as he felt the wolf settle behind him.  If Uncle Aemon or Uncle Benjen could see me now , he thought as he leaned back against the wolf who to his surprise gently pushed against him.  It was unusual, but not unwanted, whatever connection he felt to the beast because he did feel something.  But it all felt so normal he didn't realize that he was falling asleep.  That night he dreamt of a white wolf, running beside him, talking to him and laughing with him.  It watched him, never uttering a noise but always listening.  He laughed out loud a few times in his sleep; the giant predator was ever watchful as it dozed protecting her new cub.  He was warm when he woke, the fire had gone out some time ago, but he was so pleasantly warm. He shifted slightly, hearing a muffled grunt he turned slowly feeling the fur and warmth. “Oh hello.” 

A great goldeye was watching him, almost smiling as they stared at each other. The wolf puffed as it lay somewhat on its side. Stretching and extending its chest and belly. Jon reached up and scratched, it was the least he could do as the wolf had saved his life. His eyes widened before he smiled noticing the bump in her belly.  The wolf was a pregnant she , realizing just then that he hadnt figured out the wolfs sex sooner.  In the morning light she was beautiful. A silvery grey almost white that when crouched against snow became virtually invisible. Even laying down Jon could tell she was by far the largest wolf he had ever seen. She was as large as a war horse with powerful legs and teeth and claws like daggers. A bit of blood had dried around her muzzle, she must have eaten at some point. He looked around, only to spot what looked like the remains of a small buck, three points on its antlers. There weren’t many but they looked sharp, sharp enough to gore even a direwolf.

Shaking that thought off with a frown he turned around and stood up, pulling his slightly longer than shoulder length curls and waves back into a knot before approaching the window and forcing the shutter open.  The storm had cleared, leaving a scene of pure white with spots of green here and there. “We’re going to have to find our way.” He muttered, turning back to the direwolf. She tilted her massive head, questioningly. He frowned for a moment as the pair stared at each other. “I can’t call you wolf, you need a name.” He smiled almost immediately. “Stormsong. Your howl in the storm was like a song of safety.” He said as he approached the still laying wolf and scratched behind her ears. “Hello, Stormy.”  

The sun always rose from the east, he knew. They prepared to leave the ramshackle remains shortly thereafter. Not having disrobed for warmth, it was easy to pack up. Stormy had pushed the remains of the buck to him, trying to get him to eat some of its meat.  She’s treating me like her pup, he realized, vividly remembering his Uncle Benjen's name for him.  That brought with it a pang of guilt as he realized that they certainly would have found his letter by now, and with the storm, who knew how much they were worrying.  “I need to get a letter to Solitude, girl.”  He muttered, blowing air from his mouth.  A bit of hard tack and dried strips of meat later, they were making their way across the snowy remains of what was most certainly a farm.  He’d given Stormy some as well before they left.

“They would have eaten me if you had not found me when you did.” He was saying as they trudged through the snow, he paused to puff out a breath, cold air misting around both of them as Vaegon looked around, deciding which direction was north. But it was difficult under a fresh new layer of snow. He walked to the nearest tree, about ten feet away and began to search its base, gently dusting it off as he searched for any moss that would have grown. With each dusting he got more and more frustrated seeing no moss before he swiped down hard with a grunt. He was panting, looking around. “You wouldn’t know which way south is, would you?” He asked the direwolf. If a wolf could frown he was sure she would have as her head tilted to the side. She sniffed the air around them, his own brow rising as he watched before she walked in a circle and then began walking forward in the opposite direction he’d been searching for moss. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more: the fact that he was instinctually right, the reality that the wolf knew what south was, or the fact that the wolf had understood him at all. 

He had to run through the snow to catch up to her longer strides.  She was nimble, despite her size, almost gliding across the freshly powdered surface.  She didn't sink in anywhere near as deep as him, which, if he were being honest made him fractionally jealous. He laughed at the notion, stopping and huffing.  Stormsong stopped as well, sitting beside him yet towering over him.  How big are you?  He thought to himself as she panted lightly.  “Dont lie, you're not even tired.” He gently pushed against the wolf who snuffed his hair with her snout, making him laugh softly.  “We probably make an odd sight, Stormy.”  He paused, taking a deep breath and enjoying the cold air before standing upright and looking around.  “We should get further south before night. It's really our only option, since I haven't an idea where we are.”

The North: Outside of Winterfell, North East of Wolfswood

Robb

It was cold. He huffed another breath, tugging at his cloak as he walked through the knee height fresh powder. A storm had rolled through the evening before, first near freezing rain and then a blizzard. Arya said that their father's strange visitor had brought the bad weather with him.  He’d thought to find out who it was himself, but after Jory told him his father was not to be interrupted he’d given up for the time being.  The world was a sea of rolling white, trees being the only observable thing. He hadn’t even seen animals out yet. The Wolfswood was still, only soft gusts of wind stirring the static view. He continued on though, pushing through the visible brambles and high stepping what he could see. He wanted to take a horse, but how could he leave Winterfell unseen with it? He’d have to explain why he had to leave at first light. But how could he explain what he felt, what he knew to be true? How could he explain that it was all because of a dream? A dream with a wolf that summoned him north. A dream that told him his brother wasn’t far?

He’d never hoped more that he wasn’t going round a bend, that his wits weren’t leaving him, or that he wasn’t addled in some way. I’m following the feelings of a dream I can’t even remember. Explaining this to his father and mother when he returned was most likely going to be the hardest thing he’d done. By midday they would know he was gone and Winterfell would be on alert, riders would be dispatched, guards would be searching their lands. Searching our lands for me . He sighed, but continued walking, bundled up in furs, with a thick fur cloak and gloves, sharp short sword at his hip.

“I really hope you’re out here Jon.” He said softly, turning and looking back behind him at where Winterfell would be before continuing forward, auburn hair hidden by his cloaks hood, grey tinted Tully-blue eyes determined.

Chapter Text

Ch.8

Essos: Ib - Fortress of Ibben

Daenerys

Two years of time passed by slowly since their reasonably quiet conquering of Ib. Her mother was solidifying her rule, making her way around the would-be politicians and officials of the island, quickly eliminating any potential issues as well as pressing upon the kingdom's populace the importance of her role. Their perspective and view was very narrow so her mother was facing issues stemming from simple stubbornness and belief that she was weaker than previous God-Kings because she was in fact a Queen. Ibben did not play the great game as the other city states and kingdoms did, they were very exclusive and rather xenophobic, with minor exceptions. But it gave her mother room to spread her wings so to speak, a chance for them to see who she was, and above all learn that even she-dragons were formidable creatures.  Her mother’s own stubbornness won out, but not without flexing her claws as she’d shown them that she was willing to be ruthless.  It seemed she was respected at the very least, though Dany thought it was mainly because of their blood, the blood of the dragon that the Ibbenese saw as near divinity. Since times of old they saw the dragons as gods descended from the stars they worshipped and any that could tame and commune with a god deserved to be considered a god as well.  It was a wonder they had never joined the Valyrian Freehold, but the books seemed to espouse Valyrian vanity, so in a way it made sense.  Having installed Ser Rags as the Magister of Ib Nor, she was making some headway, that much Dany knew. 

It was well into the night, some would even say early. How she’d gotten away with it, well, just like normal with some slight changes: this time, she was able to take advantage of her mother's duties and waited until she finished with the representatives from Saath and Morosh. They always ate dinner together in the evenings, a mainstay from their time in Braavos. Immediately afterwards when her brothers went their separate ways she would normally sneak out and vanish into the gardens until someone came searching for her.  Jaehaerys would usually leave to practice his sword work with Ser Willem or read with their new tutor Martyn. Xaurane’s duties had expanded, and she now consulted with her mother more often. She supposed that he was clever enough, but she missed her old tutor.  Besides, no matter how hard she tried, she didn’t like Martyns red stained teeth, it made him look ghastly and rather brutish. Ser Lucifer had said that it was because of a plant he chewed called sourleaf. It made his breath smell awful, and with his crooked nose and thick neck it made him frightening on first appearance; but he was short, with a warm voice and marvelous stories, so he was less intimidating to her. It helped that he was also nice and learned, as well as funny.  Viserys on the other hand would say that he was off to patrol  the city with the guards, when really, he was visiting the new pillow-houses her mother had approved of.

Tonight was different. She’d fallen asleep outside on a bench under the stars, this time near the observatory the Ibbenese had built to view the sky and constellations. From what she understood, they worshipped the stars as both their gods and the home of their ancestors' departed souls. It made her smile, thinking their eldest brother, the brother she never met, was somewhere up there watching over them. The observatory was on the highest tower completely exposed to the elements on the northside of the castle in between her and Jaehaerys’ suite of apartments and their elder brothers' rooms.  

She had been dreaming, a recurring dream of sand and blood. From the earth, a great dragon the size of a mountain, red and fearsome clawed its way out, breaking chains and bindings that lashed it to the ground.  It was covered in the viscera of the men that sought to bind it.  It’s fury was like a storm, it’s roars shook the world.  But a black dragon would answer its challenge, shattering the sky as it dove and met its foe in the air where they fought and dueled for supremacy. It should have terrified her, but for some reason she never felt that either of the dragons would harm her, or each other for that matter. The black dragon would never strike to kill and the red dragon never seemed to use all of its strength. As they fought they seemed to pacify each other, their fighting became a dance in the sky. It was perplexing, but what dreams weren’t? She startled awake, the dream all but forgotten, when she heard the wooden door scrape against the ground, opening. Her lilac eyes widened marginally, bleary from disuse and half asleep, a gentle breeze made her shiver. “Jae?” She asked softly, squinting, when she realized it was her brother. Oh, he must have come looking for me , she thought at first until she noticed he had walked out of the doorway a few feet and stood still, that same breeze whipped his loose hair around his face. 

She sat up slowly, draping the blanket around her shoulders, leaving it to drag on the ground as she approached her brother, cautiously. She didn’t want to startle him, but when she was standing besides him and he had yet to move, she realized he was still asleep. But his eyes are open. Those very same eyes were moving as if he were reading, but fast. Faster than she thought humanly possible. They were nearly black, with a ring of violet; his pupils were immense. It was then she noticed he was mumbling, his lips barely moving...until she touched him, her hand landing on his shoulder. He gasped, staring at Dany, taking deep breaths, before shuttering. Eyes focusing on her, he teetered before he seemed to regain his bearings. “ Mele .” He muttered, confused.  

It wasn’t the first time.

That time she caught him because of the clatter he created walking down the hall. He’d scared himself awake, yelling, and very confused; they’d only been on the island for half a year. Jaehaerys was terrified and said two crows, one black and one white told him to prepare, but he didn’t know what for. He’d just felt the urge to find a sword. Since that night he’d slept with a sword next to his bed.

She cupped his face with her hand and shushed him. Their eyes locked on each other as she breathed deeply, hoping he would mirror her actions which he did. “You’re alright Jae.” She said, her voice soft though laden with concern. 

He looked around, slowly before shivering again. “Sleep walking?” His voice was a tired whisper. 

Dany nodded, opening the blanket and extending her arm. It always surprised her when she remembered that he was taller than her now, by nearly three quarters of a head.  Her brother gladly slipped in beside her, giving her a small smile before she pulled him closer to her as they walked back to their conjoined rooms.  The entrance and exits to their apartments were heavily guarded, so they were given a modicum of freedom once in their family suites. The barbicans were always patrolled, and with soldiers walking the causeways and streets, Ibben was as safe as it could be for a Targaryen. “Did I say anything this time?” Jaehaerys asked her as they walked down the empty hallway, every other candle lit at this late hour. 

“Mhmm, you said Mele .”

He sighed.

“Do you think it's more than just a color?” She asked him. 

Jae shrugged as they reached their shared entryway. “My room?” He asked, and she nodded as she tugged the blanket from around him, and entered their shared parlor first, with her younger brother following. The door closed and they crossed to his rooms shutting that door before she dropped her blanket and they dashed to his large bed, four posters of dark wood shaped in snarling dragons, rather fearsome at night . She climbed in first with Jaehaerys following; both got comfortable pulling the linens and furs to their chins. Dany shivered, scooting closer to her brother for warmth. She always loved that first moment climbing into her or her brothers or her mother’s bed, when the linens and furs were still cold. For some reason it felt a little exciting and made her giggle.

“It’s always the same thing, isn’t it?” She asked after a few moments of silence. Her lilac eyes were focused on her brother's shadowed profile. In this light she saw their similarities, it made her feel warm thinking that someone looked just like her. Which meant, she wasn’t ever alone.  It was her secret, that fear of loneliness, of losing everything and everyone she ever loved, especially her mother and her twin, and even Viserys. She pursed her lips when she noticed her brothers frown. “Say something.” She pushed his shoulder gently.

“You’re right, it’s always the same thing. The shadows speak to me in Valyrian, but I can’t remember it.  Only mele se kasta .” He said softly. 

It was Dany's turn to frown. “And that’s all you can remember?” She asked. “Nothing more?”

“Red and Blue...that’s it.” He turned his head to look at her, his lips pressed together. Her eyes had acclimated to the darkness. Some loose strands of his hair had fallen over his eye and the bridge of his nose, she reached forward and pushed it back, tucking it behind his ear. As she did, she saw it, the concerned frown plastered to his smooth young face. 

“What is it Jaehaerys?”

He looked at her, his eyes darting away as he started speaking. “Don’t you ever wonder how it started for our father?”

Her hand stilled, just at his hairline, she had started to drag her fingers through his hair. Her wide lilac eyes focused on him. “What do you mean Jae?”

He still wasn’t looking at her, “He was called the Mad King for a reason.” Jae paused, his eyes turning to her, full of despair. “What if this is how it started?”

And then she realized why he was so silent. With no hesitation she pulled her younger brother to her and nestled his head just below her chin. She felt him sniffle lightly. “Is that why you’re so quiet?” When she felt his head nod against her she breathed gently. “You’re nothing like our father. I know that and I never met him. You're gentle, and kind, and strong, and you’re my favorite brother.” She kissed the top of his head. “And if mother ever made us marry, I know you would be a wonderful lord husband.” She felt his face crinkle against her and his muffled murmur of blegh before she giggled. 

They grew silent, and separated, but stayed near each other, foreheads almost touching. She found her brother's hand and wound her fingers with his, murmuring “I love you baby brother.” half awake. The last thing she heard before she fell asleep was her brother's voice faintly whispering “I love you too sister.”

Jaehaerys

At one and ten, he stood proud, a smirk on his lips as he twirled his training sword in his right hand, finally discarding the shield in his other. Despite the time he and his sister had fallen asleep he’d still roused himself at his usual hour. It was early, as he preferred, they were in the shade of the main keep of the fortress, facing the Dragon's Gate. His mother had erected a wall around a patch of the gardening for herself, but in the early mornings he commandeered it.  The cordoned off section contained something called a heart tree, with a litany of other smaller ferns and shrubs, and a delicate mosaic of flowers shaped into the three headed dragon of house Targaryen. She said that it reminded her of peaceful times in the Red Keep, since Dragonstone belonged to Rhaegar.  A line of sentinel pines ran along the three and half walls, giving the option for shade no matter the position of the sun. The air was crisp, no rain, no snow, just cold clean air that cut the morning like a sword, carrying with it the smells of the sea and bustling port city. 

“You don’t think you need that, My Prince?” Ser Long asked as the pair walked around each other, eyes focused on the other, taking their measure.

“I won’t.” Jaehaerys was confident. Confident in that he was fast enough to get into Lucifer's range and get him off balance. Lucifer would shuffle to his left, it’s what he always did, but Jaehaerys would mimic the behavior moving to his own left but forward and around leaving both of their right flanks exposed, but Jaehaerys wore armor for this purpose. A guard brace extended over his right pauldron, his elbow was protected by a thinner elbow cop, but the vambrace and gauntlet would take the sudden blow because he was much too close. There was no power behind the swing, but by then even if he lost his sword, a dagger would find its way into Lucifers gut. He’d dropped the shield to make himself faster. The metal and wood was cumbersome and loathe as he was to admit it, he just wasn’t strong enough to lug it around for a protracted battle yet.

He’d soon learned that training with arms was something he loved, nearly as much as reading or being mischievous with his sister. Almost as much as he loved when his mother played with his hair. 

As the actions played like he thought, he caught quick movement. Lucifer pivoted his foot and leaned back with Jaehaerys quick lunge as his dagger pressed against his belly but met resistance. “Not a weak point My Prince. You have to expect everyone to be wearing some kind of armor. “ he whispered, a sly smile on his face. “You should have kept your shield.”

“Or mayhaps I knew someone was watching my back?” Jae questioned, a smile worming it’s way up his cheeks. Ser Lucifers confusion almost made him laugh. “Like my twin with an arrow pointed at you?”

Lucifer sighed. “Well played, but stupid. You’d either be injured or dead, just like me.” He shook his head.

Dany smiled triumphantly, relaxing her arm slightly. “We fight as one Ser Lucy!” She jumped down from her perch on the wall, landing gracefully on a crate before she clambered down, training her bow on her quarry once more and slowly walked over.  “Do you yield?” 

“I yield Princess.”

Dany had proven rather horrible at using arms. She could stab you with a dagger well enough, his leg had felt that. Whether by accident or purpose he still wasn’t sure. But for some reason she simply could not wield anything longer. Though she wasn’t so stunted in martial skill as she’d bested nearly all of them with a bow. Quick Shot Daenerys, she’d earned her title by being fast with a sharp eye, almost a deadeye from her first pull of the string. It was truly remarkable. 

“Oh, clap, clap, clap, brother.”  Viserys voice cut above the others, announcing his entrance. He stood in the arch at the entryway, shadowed. The denizens of the fortress went about their business behind him as he looked over his siblings and their guard, like a specter clothed in black and gold. A black tunic with gold stitch work and black boots and breeches, over it a sable linen doublet with small dragons stitched in a diamond pattern across the front finished off his Princely ensemble. His sheathed sword made noise with each step, but went largely unused.  It was a rather beautiful piece of work; fashioned by a Qohorik armorer, the grip was black and red leather with a gold dragon head for its pommel, wings stretched out at the crossguard, inlaid with a single garnet at the center.  Viserys had wanted it to look as much like their lost ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Blackfyre, but still be something only for him. “It’s a pity you needed assistance. How will you serve in my Kingsguard if you always need Daenerys help?” A smirk was painted across his face, the same goading expression that matched the creases of his cheeks. His hair was half up, leaving the remainder blowing in the light morning breeze, but he swept it away with more flourish than necessary. 

Jae didn’t bother to reply, violet eyes watching his brother warily.  

“Tell me, Ser Long, do you enjoy minding children?” Viserys moved on, entering their sanctuary.  Tension followed him like a lover, everywhere he went, people felt it in their stomachs, their limbs.  He was still sore about Ser Long’s reassignment.  The knight had been tasked by Ser Oswell to maintain guard of Jae and Dany, going so far as to leave him in charge of their security.  Despite Ser Long's critical and sometimes hauteur guise, it seemed to Jae that he enjoyed his time with them more than he let on, his poignant black eyes were usually caught rolling from something one of the twins said or did, usually to hide the upturn at the corner of his lips. 

Ser Long stood and bowed, hiding his eye roll as he did.  “I’d like to say teaching more than minding, as they teach me as well as I them, Your Highness.  But I do enjoy my time in the Prince and Princess’ company.”

“Hmm.” Viserys scoffed, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.  “Teaching?”  He slowly walked forward, two guards following behind him.

“Hello Asher!” Daenerys said, a bright smile on her face as she waved, one of the guards accompanying Viserys nodded in her direction, mouthing hello.  He nodded at Jaehaerys as well, standing at attention once more before their elder brother could admonish him; he and Lucifer shared a look before refocusing on the Targaryen heirs.  Viserys dismissed his sister with a wave as he focused on Ser Long and Jaehaerys.  

“What does he teach you Jaehaerys?” His hand was stroking the pommel of his sword now, brow raised watching his brother, the smallest smirk making its way across his face.

He thought of an answer, tell him something, anything, just get him out of here.  But foolishly, Jaehaerys succumbed to his growing irritation.  “Go away.” he said softly. 

Viserys frowned, lilac eyes narrowing as he looked over the trio, silent for a moment. If you knew what to look for, you could see the tension in his neck; he did not like Jaehaerys answer. “Come now brother.” He began, almost too sweetly. “I want to learn as well. Why not show me what Ser Long has taught you and you him? Eh? Then I will go away .” His smile took a predatory edge, eyes narrowed and focused solely on his youngest sibling.

Jaehaerys sighed, realizing how easily he’d walked into that. “I’d rather not Viserys, I’m tired, and you have live steel.”

“True enough.” his eyes moved over to Lucifer, right hand extending “Give me your play sword, childminder .” He said, casually taunting. 

Lucifer knew better than to argue or deny Viserys in most things; but almost everyone knew this and it bothered Jae to no end. His claim was a title that his mother had given him, yet even at one and ten Jaehaerys knew his brother was far from kind and very undeserving. His general attitude regarding Viserys was simple, avoidance.  Avoid Viserys, avoid issues . He was the self styled golden dragon, with the pomp and air of a crown Prince of a mighty kingdom, not to mention the frivolity that came with it.  But they weren’t a mighty kingdom, not yet. He’d listened to their mother, this was nothing more than preparation, and he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his brother prepare for anything, unless you count the brothels. His temper was the last thing anyone felt like dealing with. 

Lucifer complied, and began to unlatch his sword belt. “I don’t need it’s sheath, just the sword.” Viserys griped, marching over to the guard, hand extended. 

Daenerys was watching the interaction raptly, eyes growing wider with nervous anticipation.  She took a step forward, but Jae did too, shaking his head and catching her eyes. One look, it said so much with no words, communication they hadn’t practiced but knew innately.  It was as if she heard him say it, Don’t! If she did something she would have to deal with Viserys as well. It was easier this way, to focus their brother on him. 

Viserys long fingers curled around the hilt of Lucifer's training blade, making it look much more sinister than needed; the image that came to Jaehaerys mind was a spiders long spindly legs curling around a fly, his own knuckles whitening as he gripped his sword.  The Crown Prince bid the man away as he palmed the blade, switching it between his hands and swinging it.  Jaehaerys assumed it was to test the sword, but in truth he had no idea what his brother was doing. He’d seen him handle a weapon a handful of times at most. The guards in the area cast each other sidelong nervous glances, halberds or swords and shields in their grasps, they stepped closer forming a loose shield wall as a perimeter around the brothers.  

“This will do.” Viserys said with a self indulged smirk, taking the blade in his right hand as he strode towards Jaehaerys rolling his shoulders; a queer look on his face that if the boy was reading right was meant to be intimidating.  It served a purpose though, disarming him enough for Viserys to take advantage.  He dashed forward with no indication that the spar had begun, chipped tourney sword cutting the air with a whistle, he’s not even wearing armor .  He heard a shout but tuned it out.  The strike came quicker than Jaehaerys would have liked; Viserys lashed out when he was unprepared leaving him with no time to back peddle and a sloppy guard.  The strike was ill formed and wild, but strong.  The clash of metal on metal shook his arm as he back stepped and switched hands, shaking his freed right hand out. From the corner of his eye he saw Lucifer shuffle forward but another quick shake of Jaehaerys head halted him, his black eyes questioning the Princeling.  

“You should always be prepared Jae.” Viserys goaded, circling his brother widely. Viserys was stronger than him, for now . But Jaehaerys was faster and he knew it. Beyond that he was a talented late bloomer, his skills truly burgeoning during his seventh year. Swordplay was becoming second nature. His brother's footwork was indicative of his own skill; sloppy and untrained, loosely maintained with useless energy wasting steps. Move fast. Come in low but strike middle to high and get back out of his range. 

And he did, quicker than Viserys could anticipate. I will not be bested by him.   He rapped his brother on the back of his upper leg with the flat of his sword, forcing him to stumble to one knee. Viserys cursed before standing once more, a snarl on his lips as he faced his younger brother. Nothing was said, the pair circled each other once more, lilac eyes pinned on violet.  This time Jaehaerys initiated, moving high to low,  sword flashing in the light as it cut an arc through the air, but Vsiserys managed to counter and forced his sword down, giving him time to step away.   The furious kiss of metal on metal rang around their impromptu sparring square.  Their blades met again, but where Viserys was hoping to end their spar quickly, Jaehaerys knew it would be easier to wear him out.  Dodging another ragged lunge, Jaehaerys wanted to laugh as his brother stumbled forward.  

“Stay Still!” Not one to lose with grace, Viserys shouted, silver-gold hair having come undone as loose strands fell over his eyes.  His face was red, sweat dripping down his temples.  He wiped his brow as he stood, flustered and breathing hard, obvious signs of his lack of preparations.  I was told to prepare.  

Jaehaerys had never felt surer, breath leaving him in a steady rhythm; the soft pit-pat of his heart like the beating of a war drum, marshalling his skill with cohesion.  Confidence wormed its way through his limbs as he embraced the moment, consequences be damned , he danced away in time to dodge his brother's strike, a bubble of laughter leaving his lips much to his brothers ire.  Blunt and forceful, that was Viserys’ technique, extraneous movement that winded him. Ser Willem taught Jaehaerys as he taught Rhaegar: patience. Patience when dealing with a foe allowed you to see their weaknesses, especially when they fought angry. Patience had been the downfall of many knights who believed the path to victory was with a killing blow, when in fact, all one really had to do was wait for their opponent to leave themselves open.

And Viserys did just that.

An overhead swing with all of his might pitched him forward, Jaehaerys blade flashed like a candle in the night, parrying and sliding away with a quick twirl, Viserys sword hit the ground with force, snapping his mouth closed on his tongue. He screamed out in a rage as Jaehaerys backed away, no longer hiding the triumphant grin that claimed his cheeks. 

“You should always be prepared, Vis .” Violet eyes widened in surprise when the taunt slipped out, but it didn't matter, he’d bested his elder brother and was proud of it.

His brothers eyes flashed, hate brimming, near unbound, as a sneer claimed his Valyrian features. Before Jaehaerys knew what was happening, a warm sticky substance hit his face and eyes, blinding him. Stumbling back he barely registered that Viserys had spat on him, before his head snapped back, he was quick to realise that it was a closed fist that collided with his left cheek, sending him stumbling. 

He cried out, falling back. “Who the fuck do you think you are!” Viserys was shouting as he rose to his full height, but Jae couldn’t see him. 

“Stay down you worthless shit!”

Lucifer shouted something but he didn’t hear it, he barely registered the throbbing in his cheek as he wiped his eyes off with the back of his hand and sleeves, vision clearing marginally; he could feel the scuffle and shifting of feet shaking the ground, the acute sense of pebbles digging into his palm; he felt hyper aware.  Daenerys shouted something, but the world had taken on an emphatically acerbic hue. A blooming hatred awoke in his belly and he saw red, his fingers and skin tingled, suddenly alive. A rage took him that he just then realized he was always holding back.   The lock was broken and a wrathful beast broke free of the ill fitting cage he’d pushed and stuffed it into.  It lashed out, uncontrollable and hot. He stood, grasping his discarded sword with a clear ring as it scraped across the ground.  His blunted sword sung through the air, “Wha-” His elder brother began, surprise registering on his face as Jaehaerys all but leapt up in one fluid motion, Viserys moved to block but his guard was weak and the force of the blade connecting made the crossguard hit Viserys on the brow, splitting it open as blood leaked from the wound. 

He screamed, falling down, dropping the sword with a clatter. “You could have killed me!” He shouted, terror and rage battling for supremacy as his lips floundered for what to say next.  He blinked, registering the red dripping down his brow; wiping the blood from around his eye and on his cheek and staring at it.  Jaehaerys stood still for a moment, reveling in his victory before he turned away, taking in the slack jawed surprise of the guards as Lucifer nodded to him, eyes questioning. The Prince puffed a breath calming himself, but in that moment Viserys made a terrible decision. 

“Jaehaerys!” Dany shouted.

Lucifer’s foot slid forward, hand reaching for his own sword only to remember he’d given it to Viserys.  “Don't do it!” The shout left his lips, but it was too late.  

The guards reaction was slower than most would have liked, but even if they had been quicker they would never have made it in time.  With his blunted sword discarded the Crown Prince scrambled to his true weapon.  Most warriors, young and old understood the dishonor in striking a man from behind, but the eldest of the Targaryen children cared little for honor, and more for appearance and pride.  He couldn't abide a loss, especially to his younger brother, even more so when blood was drawn, not once but twice.  Jaehaerys' otherwise tactically proficient mind understood that, but never did he think his brother would actually attack him from behind.  Viserys was able to reach the blade with three steps. He unsheathed the sword, sharpened edges glittering wickedly in the morning light as it sung through the air. 

It was instinctual, Jaes reaction. 

The small hairs on his neck raised, his eyes widened, and he stopped and pivoted on his right foot, swinging around with his own sword up to guard, just in time for the clash of metal and metal to be heard around the garden. Daenerys shouted something, so did Ser Lucifer and the other guards but Jaehaerys heard nothing...a veil had been put over his vision, and all he saw was an enemy. His sword moved with angry strength, dragging through the air and clipping Viserys over and over. The blunted weapon did more in Jaehaerys hand than a true sword in Viserys as he caught his elder brother with a quick and hard slash to the wrist, forcing the sword to the ground. 

But it wasn’t over.

As the world faded away and anger warped his vision, the last thing he remembered was feeling the rage in his heart; boiling, roiling, destructive and hot, fueling his fervor as his arm swung his sword with what would have been deadly proficiency. Memory’s flooded his vision; slapped to the ground because I out performed him in front of Ser Oswell and Ser Willem. Protecting our sister from his tirades and wrath. But what played in his mind, the one memory that repeated itself in a divisive loop was of the time shortly before they were separated, Viserys had told Jae that he was going to teach him the knights oath, it was something he did want to learn and even then there was still a desire to be his brothers friend. Viserys had told him to kneel, and present him his sword as a knight would, which, the fool that he was, he did. When Viserys grasped the sword he turned it on its sharp end and drug it along his brother's arm, only to scoff when the boy cried out and to tell Jaehaerys that he merely wanted to test whether the blade was sharp enough to break skin, and that Jae would never be a knight, he was too foolish to know when he was being played. 

He didn’t know when he came to, but he was panting and his vision was getting clearer. He heard shouting but couldn’t make out the voices until he felt himself being shaken, Daenerys staring at him, her eyes red and full of tears.

“Jae!” She was shouting, between tears. “Jaehaerys please!”

“What?” He asked, confused before looking around. It was then he realized he was on the opposite end of the garden and the shouting was coming from the entryway. “What happened?”

Daenerys sniffled but through the tears looked mildly confused, “Viserys…” she paused to breathe and sniffle again. “Viserys attacked you, but you stopped him.” Dany wiped tears from her cheeks. “It was amazing, but then, you attacked him and knocked him down, but you didn’t stop, and...and...” She trailed off staring at her brother through red rimmed worried eyes.

“What happened Jae?” Daenerys asked. 

His eyes were on the spot where his brother had been, his blood. A few short years ago he would have been terrified, worried sick of his brother's reprisal, but now, in this moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.  Prepare . He thought back to the very first dream he could remember, the first words planted in his memory. Prepare .  Prepare for what? My brothers hate? My mother’s anger? My punishment? But the fire that had been lit in his belly was suddenly tempered by caution, mayhaps confusion.  The rush was dying down, the energy and exhilaration that coursed through him replaced by reason.  He was far too clever to allow himself to give up reason to blind anger, but he could not deny that something was different. He realized then, or mayhaps he had always known it, there was rage in his heart and accepting that felt freeing in a way.  Jaehaerys' face was almost blank, but the callousness was mired with confusion, pupils a black pinprick in a sea of violet.  They moved to Daenerys, who hesitated to move closer to him. 

“I...I don't know.”

Daenerys

“And what were you doing!?”

Their mother was rightfully angry. Her violet eyes pinned Ser Lucifer to the spot. Hands on her hips, so lithe and beautiful yet powerful and commanding. Her hair hung in loose curls down her back with a small diadem resting on her forehead. Today she wore a flowing gown of crimson and bronze colored floral patterning. A necklace of office hung around her neck and shoulders, the same for everyone that remained In the room; Ser Oswell her Lord Commander in chainmail under a black surcoat, Lady Xaurane her Treasurer always clad in flowing silks, and Ser Willem who served as their ship master in the colors of his house, brown vest and black cloak with a three headed dragon pinned to his breast.  Ser Rags,the Magister of Ib Nor and temporary master of laws, was making his way around the island keeping the peace in the name of the Queen. Dany liked him, he smelled better nowadays. 

Rhaella dismissed the delegation as soon as she was informed of the fight, sweeping to their location in minutes, to take in the small amount of chaos that had ensued. 

Daenerys was crying, Viserys was moaning and cursing lightly. But Jaehaerys, it had been so odd. He stood still, staring at his brother as the healers were called down to collect him. Viserys was rolled onto a wood stretcher holding his wrist, blood still leaking from his forehead as the guards kept the castle occupants moving, abating curiosity with stony stares. She was certain he was bruised under his clothing, there was no way he couldn’t be. Jaehaerys' sword had moved like flashes of silver, relentless and unforgiving. 

“What happened, Daenerys?” Her mother’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.  

She was sitting on a chair in the Queen's private audience chambers. Her mind had been on the fight and how easily it could have been avoided.  She hated this position, pinned between her brothers, because in truth Jaehaerys had been protecting himself, and had Viserys simply let them be, they would be off to their lessons, rather than confined.  She didn't look her mother in the eyes, sniffling quietly.  

Her mother must have felt her distress, she slid a chair in front of her daughter and sat, tilting Daenerys' head up with a hooked finger.  “Dany?”

The Princess sighed, finally looking into her mother's otherwise violet eyes, though today they looked indigo.  “Ser Lucifer did not sherk his duty mother, we were in the gardens training with each other.  But as we finished Viserys came upon us and…” She hesitated, looking to the side where Ser Oswell was; if there was ever someone she would have considered a father it would have been he or Ser Willem, the knight nodded, encouraging her to continue with a friendly smile.  “He asked Ser Lucy...I mean Ser Lucifer...”  Her mother smiled at her slip up, but Dany continued.  “...If he enjoyed being a childminder and then asked for his sword.”

“And what else happened Princess?”  Lady Xaurane asked from the side.  

“Viserys began a spar with Jaehaerys without telling him, he just attacked, but Jaehaerys continued with it...until things got out of hand.”

“And how did they get out of hand?” her mother asked, eyes darting to Ser Lucifer and then to Ser Oswell before going back to Daenerys, who missed the interaction as she’d just looked down.  

“Mama, please don't be mad at Jae.”  She muttered, voice small and forlorn.  

“What happened Dany?”  Her mother persisted.  

Dany sighed again, “Jaehaerys outmaneuvered him, Viserys grew angry and then spit on Jaehaerys face and hit him.”  She looked up, eyes wide.  “I tried to stop them mama, I really did. But Jaehaerys was angry by then, and he’s better than Viserys with a sword.”

Rhaella cupped Dany’s cheek, a motion Dany realized just then she mimicked.  “It's okay my sweet.  Thank you for telling me the truth.”

Dany nodded slowly.  “Am I in trouble?”  She questioned.  

Rhaella shook her head, “Of course not, you did nothing wrong my dear.  Your brothers on the other hand?”  She paused and frowned, “They will have to be punished.”

Dany looked down, a feeling of guilt worming its way into her gut.  Part of her wanted to tell her mother that it was all Viserys fault, but that wasn't true.  Yes, Viserys was the instigator, but Jaehaerys had gone too far, hadn't he?  Worry made her stomach hurt.  Her mother turned back to the adults in the room and began listing what she wanted done, but she wasn't paying attention, her mind caught up in what had just transpired. 

Guilt gnawed at her, even after she was dismissed and making her way through the great stone halls of The Fortress of Ib.  Theyd always stood together, and even though she hadn't lied, she still felt like she betrayed her twin brother.  

I just hope Jae doesn't see it like that.  

Jaehaerys

“Come My Prince, let me see your hands.”

Jaehaerys huffed, pressing his lips into a thin line before speaking. Only the slightest bruise formed on his cheek.  “I’m fine.” He rolled his eyes but did as requested while Martyn looked over his form. “I didn’t really get hurt.”

“You did the hurting, is it?” Martyn chuffed.  “I’ve heard tales of a silver Prince that was as graceful as a dancer with a sword, who would have thought there would yet be another?” 

Jaehaerys reddened despite the comparison, violet eyes looking away. He felt ambivalence towards his dead eldest brother, something the story’s couldn’t reconcile. “I’m better than he was.” He muttered, knowing in reality he had quite a bit more training to go to match Rhaegar in skill. 

“Mayhaps you are Jaehaerys, but is beating your elder brother bloody the way to show it?”

Jaehaerys eyes narrowed. He was sitting in Martyn’s study, he called it his workshop, where he speculated over the mind and body and whatever he considered to be higher learning. His accent was most certainly Westerosi, and he was clever, very clever with a dry sort of humor. He dropped himself into the chair opposite the Prince, smoothing his grey doublet over his matching tunic, the sleeves of which were rolled back. 

“I don’t like him.”

Martyn sighed. “But he is your brother, as well as the Crown Prince. Surely you knew that wouldn’t end well?”

Jae scowled, “But he started it.”

“Yes, and you certainly ended it, didn’t you?  Isn’t it odd that the aggressor never gets caught? You must be wise, young dragon.”

Be wise , he thought. “Viserys is cruel . How can being wise overcome cruelty?” his eyes found Martyn. “He is a mean person, yet he is next in line for the throne. I’m one and ten and I know this, I’ve known since I was little . Our father was cruel, and here we are because of it. What happens next time Martyn? When a cruel Targaryen sits on a throne?” We all die .

It must have been surprising to hear a boy speak so plainly, but worrying for one’s life and family aged a child. Martyn watched him for a few more moments before speaking. “Then be better than him, Jaehaerys. Be better than any Crown Prince before him and show your mother her error. God-Queen Rhaella is exceptionally clever, I have seen it. Show her how a Prince ought to live and mayhaps she will see the deficiencies in Viserys.”

“Easier said than done.” He muttered after his checkup, walking down a reasonably empty hallway, boots muffled by the endless rug. Their household guards were aligned at every archway, one on either side; hard faced Essosi and Ibbenese men, eyes hidden under silver helms with T shaped openings.  Every soldier was armed in silver plate with black and red breastplates. All wore black chainmail and leather underneath, giving them a uniformed appearance. A short sword hung from each sword belt, a halberd in their right hands and a black shield with their families insignia in their left.  The red Targaryen dragon was embroidered into their black cloaks, marking them as separate from their levies. 

He continued down the hallway, in thought. He still hadn’t spoken to his mother, though he was fairly certain he was going to be punished. A part of him wanted to fight back against that too, why should I be punished for protecting myself, but another part had taken what Martyn had said to heart. Confliction made his head hurt.

“Are you alright?”

His eyes narrowed at the intrusion as Dany crept around the corner a few feet ahead of him where he meant to turn right to return to his rooms and await punishment. She was fidgeting with her dress, eyes still puffy from tears. She sniffled and looked up at him, a deep frown marring her face. He knew that look. “What did you tell mother?” 

“The truth.”

“That he struck at me first and I retaliated?” He stepped forward, brow pressed together.

“Yes.” She hesitated before continuing. “And that I tried to stop you after, but you wouldn’t stop.”

He stepped back, surprised. “Dany, I don’t remember that.”

“Viserys wrist is broken.” She continued.

“I...I. I didn’t mean to. He just made me so angry . And how many times has he poked at you , or hurt you , or said something just because he's bigger than us?” He stood straighter, a bit more indignant. “How many times has he hurt us and laughed about it? He bloody well deserved it!” That admission surprised them both. But he pushed on, “And you know what, Daenerys, I'd do it again if it meant he was taught a lesson!” She must have been surprised by his use of her full name, it was rare, and her widened eyes showed it.  He leveled his gaze on her, “You are supposed to always have my back. No matter what. You’re my twin.”

“Jae, you hurt him seriously. I couldn’t lie.” A part of him understood that she was right, but that didn't dissuade him.  She was his sister.  Yes, they were all siblings, but they had shared a womb, and with that, a bond that transcended normal siblings.  Their births were separated by moments, and to him regardless of the logic behind it, the sound reason, it still felt like a betrayal.  We are twins, born between peels of lightning and titled as such.

“Right...traitor.”

“Jae...” She frowned sadly, eyes widening. 

“Daenerys...you’re my twin sister, not his . I always defend you from him.”  He deflated.  “Just leave me alone traitor.” His eyes dropped to ground as he stormed past her. 

Rhaella

“God’s why must there always be fighting amongst siblings in my house?” She was frustrated, without the faintest idea how to mitigate royal feuding brothers. 

Willem guffawed, which had her staring at him irritatedly.  “Your Grace, It is their hot blood.  Jaehaerys is a growing boy, soon to be a man, and he has true skill.  The change is on him and mayhaps it's time Viserys understood that. He isn't some whelp to be beaten at his leisure, and forcing the boy to hold it in would have caused more harm in the future.”  Rhaella did not disagree.  “I’m surprised he made it that long without lashing out.”

Rhaella puffed a breath before unceremoniously dropping into a chair in her private solar.  Ser WIllem, Ser Oswell, and Lady Xaurane remained with her as she’d cancelled any further meetings, allowing the delegation freedom for the day.  There was far too much on her mind now.  A knock drew her attention, bringing with it the call of a maid, whom she promptly bade entrance.  Two silver haired Lyseni girls came in delivering a tray of snacks and refreshments.  Devilled eggs, cubes of goat cheese, and slices of cured pepper ham accompanied by a bitter ale she was still struggling to choke down.  Thankfully wine was served with it; Ferrego had been kind enough to send her a few casks, with it another marriage proposal she promptly denied.  You’d think the man would take the hint.

She thanked the maids before they left with polite curtseys.  “Plans seem to be working well, Your Grace.  With the amount of Lyseni invited to the city they will certainly help draw attention away from the children, and you never know, Viserys may find himself a wife.” Oswell commented, taking some cheese and ham, having already poured himself a mug of ale.  

“I would rather curb that than reinforce it.  He’s being sloppy, and were we not careful we would have ourselves a bastad or two.”  She wasn't averse to grandchildren, she would have simply preferred for them to be brought into the world legitimately, and if not that then at least out of love, not simple whimsy.  That made her brow raise, “Infact, I mean to.  When Viserys wakes I will speak to him about his dalliances in the city. The Lyseni serve our household, not his pleasure, and the pillow houses are unbecoming of a Prince of the Blood.”  

“A man, even a Prince, has his needs Your Grace.” Xaurane added, after nibbling at a deviled egg.

“Rhaegar didn't.” It slipped out, though it shouldn't have, she knew.  You cannot compare your children. She’d admonished herself for doing this many times before.  The three of them fell silent, Oswell and Willem sharing a look.  Xaurane knew of the fallen Prince, but not like the other two men.  

“I know, I shouldn't compare them, but it is rather hard not to.”  She placed a cube of cheese in her mouth rather than face them. 

“So long as you're aware of it, Your Grace.” Willem said, softly, his voice a balm.  She offered him a small smile.  

Oswell cleared his throat.  “You are wrong though.  Princess Lyanna was his one need.”

Rhaella smiled fondly, distant memories of a grey eyed beauty who captured her son's heart at their first meeting. Harrenhal feels a lifetime ago.   She remembered how sad Oswell had been when the news of her death circulated the kingdoms.  And the little dragon never to be. “Mayhaps you're right.” She said, a touch sheepishly.  

“But the Queen is right.”  Oswell continued.  “Pursuing a High Born Lady is one thing, endlessly visiting brothels is another.”

Another knock interrupted them.  “Yes?” Rhaella called out.  

“It is Martyn, Your Grace.” The stocky man called out, before being allowed to enter.  Willems eyes narrowed as he did.  He was suspicious of every new person that wasn't a woman.   Martyn carried himself with a familiar air, and his accent was equally familiar, though she could place neither with clarity.  She knew he was Westerosi, and presented himself as especially knowledgeable of her house, and in reality most great Houses of Westeros, which would help quite a bit when their preparations to move began.

He bowed when he entered.  “Your Grace.”

Rhaella smiled, his reddened teeth left something to be desired, but the man was pleasant enough.  “How is my baby boy?”  

Martyn placed some sourleaf in his mouth before pocketing the rest.  Rhaella motioned for him to sit, which he did.  “The young Prince is well, if not a bit angry.  He finds Viserys undeserving, and I told him to act as a Prince he would find deserving.”

Rhaella didn't know whether to smile or frown, proud of her son and dismayed at his words.  From the mouths of babes. Her mother used to say when a child made an astute judgement.  She finally decided to smile, despite the brutal manner of his comeuppance, he had in fact stood up for himself in a spectacular manner if Lucifer was to be believed.  She feared the prospect of having another warrior for a son, but couldn’t deny that swell of pride that bloomed in her heart. His fervor reminded her of Rhaegars, that drive to master every aspect of something.  

“And you believe he will do that?”  Rhaella asked.  

“Yes, Your Grace, I do.”  He shrugged.  “If anything else he will try to be better than Viserys.”

“Which is saying a lot.” Willem muttered.  Rhaella shot him a look, to which he promptly looked away, sipping on his ale, foam forming on his beard.  

“Mayhaps I should let them be for the evening?  Allow them all to rest and trust that cooler heads will prevail later tonight or early on the morrow?” She looked at Xaurane, who nodded.  She truly enjoyed the company of another woman, not that Oswell and Willem were terrible company, it just served her well to have a like minded individual around.  

She drew in a breath before standing, which prompted everyone else to do the same.  “Right, I suppose that is enough for now.  I wish to be alone.”  She smiled as everyone nodded and began filing out of her solar, “Lady Xaurane, would you have a bath drawn in my rooms, i’ll be in there shortly.”

“Of course Your Grace.” She said, closing the door behind her.  

Rhaella tarried for a few moments, collecting her documents and shuffling the paperwork that was on her desk.  She read over some of the trade agreements they would speak of on the next day, absently looking over the numbers.  They moved across the page like small stickmen, swimming in a canvas colored river before she pushed them away.  “I need a bath and some wine.”  

With that she stood and retreated to her rooms,exiting through the door opposite of the one that led out to the greeting area of her private apartments.  Her desk in her solar was pushed up against the outer wall, windows behind it allowing for plentiful natural light when cloud cover wasn't an issue, but a storm was rolling in, blotting out the sun.   Closing the door to her solar, she immediately began unlacing her dress, thankful the maids finally understood her desire for absolute privacy.  They had been taught to serve under whips, and politeness was foreign.  It hurt her heart, especially when some of them could easily have been her daughter, had she died on the birthing bed.  

The bath had been drawn quickly.  Ib was cold, she accepted it, but they knew how to quickly prepare hot water by keeping their furnaces constantly boiling from a central point.  Snowfall and rain occurred often enough to keep the aquifers filled.  Finally down to her small clothes, she pulled the string that held them up before shrugging it all off and standing naked in front of the looking glass.  She admired her shape, momentarily, accepting the marks across her belly and bosom.  Badges of honor , she called them, the honor of having carried and birthed a child, living or not .  She was still shapely, and beautiful, even she could admit that, but desire had left her a long time ago.  She tore her gaze away from her form and made her way to the tub built into the ground, but stopped, remembering her chest.  She went back to it, just to the side of the looking glass; the wood was near black, and it was simple, but what was within it made her heart stutter with its beauty.  She opened the latch and took the green egg from its spot, taking it with her to the immense bath.   It was large enough to fit herself and all her children, which she wished they were still young enough to willingly do.  The thought made her smile as she sunk into the steaming hot water, the feeling like a summer breeze on her Valyrian skin.  Oddly enough, the egg always felt alive near heat, its liquid metal surface near humming with warmth that only she and her twins felt.  

This was not the life she imagined they would live when she wed Aerys.  Banished and admittedly resentful, but she was flesh and blood.  She was flawed, she was allowed her resentments and moments of anger.  She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of rosewater with the faintest hint of vanilla, before she sank into the water and sat on the interior bench, the dragon's egg sitting on the ledge beside her, glittering like a gem hewn and polished by a master jeweler. A portion of her could understand now why Aerys had been so closed off, but the greater piece didn't understand why he never shared these duties. We would still rule. She had concluded that some years ago.  She was surprisingly well suited to being an active Queen.  Watching her husband's failures helped her seek out her own, and being a woman left her constantly underestimated which was easier to work with.  Being underestimated left her with no option but to succeed which would have felt like pressure, if it were not viewed as a test.  Succeeding here lent credence to her ultimate goal: Westeros.  Endearing the people had gone well, she allowed them time to see her, and opened the court to the common citizen for a set of hours weekly.  Rapers were no longer tolerated and were gelded.  That surprised many of the men as they didnt see taking a woman by force as a problem, a sentiment she was disappointed to learn Viserys agreed with.  

The establishment of pillow houses helped to alleviate their anger as continental Essosi were able to see the men and women of Ibben were not as ghoulish as the old books made them out to be.  Fostering increased trade between the cities was going well, she lifted her embargo once New Ibbish accepted her rule and allowed them a modicum of freedom, serving as a fiefdom.  Guests had appeared, by explicit word of Ferrego Antoryn.  She knew eventually word of her host would reach the Usurpers ears, and with it they would incur his wrath, she meant to be ready then and show the stag what a dragon could truly do.  And to believe we are cousins.  

Her door opening and slamming shut drew her from her thoughts.  “Who's there!”

“It's me mama.”  Dany said, meekly looking around the corner.  Her eyes were puffy once more, the Princess' obvious distress forced a frown on her face.  

“Oh, my love, what's wrong?” She asked, captured by her daughters tears, gathering at the corner of her eyes.   

She sniffed once, “Jae and I fought, and he called me a traitor and I didnt mean to get him in trouble mama, I promise, I just didn't want to lie to you and…” She began rambling.  

Rhaella had left the bath, hair half wet, grabbing a robe and sliding it on before moving to her daughter and embracing her.  Dany gasped and sniffled, softly sobbing on her shoulder before she pulled her daughter away.  “Sweetling, you two will be right as rain tomorrow. I swear it.”

She sniffled and looked at her, nose and cheeks reddened, lids puffy but lilac eyes so hopeful.  Her daughter was beautiful already, even in the midst of tears, she would only grow more so.  She wiped the tears from below her eyes and smiled.  “We've never fought before.” She mumbled.  

“Well, then you certainly shouldn't worry.  I promise, by tomorrow morning, all will be well.” 

Dany sighed, rubbing her nose before giving her mother a timid smile.  “I apologize, that was unlady-like and I interrupted your bath.”

“Nonsense!” Rhaella smiled.  “Would you care to join me?”

Dany’s eyes widened, a full smile instantly lighting her face. She didn't need to be asked twice, as she stripped off her boots and dress and small clothes before jumping into the water, propriety be damned.  

Daenerys

That night she dreamt the same dream, of blood and sand.  But, it wasn't the same, the sand was coated in deep dark blood, making it akin to mud.  Fleshy tearing, a screech followed by a roar that shook the ground and her bones.  Dust clouded her vision as she stepped through the bloody sand, her dress weighted by the mess that clung to it.  She shielded her head with her arms, protecting her eyes from the storm of debris that pricked her face with millions of painful pebbles, making her hair dance wildly behind her.  Another roar so close nearly toppled her to the ground, the dust suddenly vanishing as if a giant took a quick breath.  Her heart tripled in speed, fear lacing its way through her body as she froze.  The Red Dragon broke free of its binds and tormentors, roaring its displeasure; but pinned beneath it was another dragon, weakly writhing and withered but its color shone through, cream and copper with a bronze nearly as bright as the early morning sun.  This one was new.  Its screeches and roars reverberated with pain as the red one gnawed at its limp left wing at the joint, pulling at the limb and gouging out chunks of flesh and sinew; the blood that pooled into the ground came from the creature pinned to the earth below it.  The Red Dragon lifted its head, massive and armored, black horns curved and tinged with gold and crimson glistening wickedly.  Its sulfuric eyes found her so far below it, briming with acidic hate and hunger, the roar from its cavern of a mouth shook the earth as it its head snapped forward faster than she could react, but just as quickly it halted, the motion shaking the air around her; its body wracked by trembling before it coughed, deep rumbling sounds that forced her to the ground, arms covered in bloody sandy mud.  

It was no longer fear that claimed her, but concern.  An anguished roar of the familiar and immense Black Dragon pulled her eyes upwards, the one she had an affinity for, as it‘s great black wings, with its pooled-blood like membranes snapped open shadowing them all and buffeting her with gusts of wind from furious flaps. The dragon roared, its matching horns mirroring its ominous appearance.  She didn't exactly know what distressed it: herself knelt in the blood and sand, the cream and copper dragons sorrowful roars, or the great red dragons coughs that shook the ground below her.  She felt the distinct pull of alertness yanking on her, she was beginning to wake...but she didn't want to.  She had to see this through, to the end.  But, alertness pulled at her, interminably hard, too hard to fight.  

Before she knew it, she was sitting up, silver gold hair in a tangled mess around her.  Her pillows and cushions lay rumpled and thrown about in her oversized fourposter.  It wasn't too chilly-a-night, her hearth had died down to faint embers, leaving mostly silver light from the crescent moon outside to filter in through the fluttering drapes.  It was still a marvel at times to imagine the turn their lives had taken, and most of the time it was wonderful, but then there were days like this.  Days that had her wondering if it was all worth it.  Oddly enough, her dreams had become much more vivid once they arrived on Ib, her twins as well.  Her heart had slowed down, no longer claimed by fear, but in its place a deep foreboding sense of despair. The dreams usually left her with more questions, but this one had just left her feeling dreadfully sad, and she couldn't make sense of it.  

Sleep eluded her. She lay on her bed, staring at the canopy, still pondering the most recent dream, even as it vanished from her memory. She still felt off, as if the day had never truly been completed and there was something she still had to do; the desire for reconciliation had begun to grow from the moment Rhaella told her all would be okay. 

Her door creaked open, starling her, lilac eyes wide as she struggled to see who it was in the darkness. “Who is it?” She asked, meekly.

The intruder remained silent before answering just as softly. “Jae.”

She hid her smile, thanking whatever greater power was listening just then for sending her this boon. It was much too fortuitous. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry.” He muttered. “You’re my other half, and I shouldn't have said that to you.” She heard him sigh. ”You aren’t a traitor.”

He couldn’t see it, but a small smile had claimed her cheeks. “I’m sorry too.” She finally replied. “Come on, let’s go back to sleep.”

The dream was forgotten as Jaehaerys entered and closed the door behind him, crossed her room and climbed into her bed.  Once nestled in, they turned to each other, “Night Dany.” Daenerys smiled before crossing the threshold and kissing his forehead.  “G’Night Jae.”

Morning came much too quickly, the sun's bright light found the perfect corner to slip through.  It was too much, blinding her through closed lids.  She puffed, drawing her linens up and over her head.  She heard her brother laugh, before blindly shoving him.  

“Hey!”

“It's too early to be laughing.” She groused, voice hoarse from disuse.  

“Whatever you say, grumpy-gills.” He poked her on the side, making her jerk around, hitting him in the middle, to which he promptly began laughing.  She sprang up then and turned, eyes narrowed before attacking him with a roar, her hands poking and prodding his belly and armpits as he struggled and flailed against her, laughing near hysterically.  Tickling was his biggest weakness, he had no defenses, and thus was putty in her hands.  

“Do you yield?”  She shouted.

He gasped for breath, laughing, “Never!”

Dany continued, now with more fervor as her linens and furs and pillows fell to the ground around her.  They were both laughing as she and her twin struggled in battle, until he started coughing.  Then she stopped, giving him leave to calm down with a couple of laughs.  But he continued coughing, the laughter vanishing as the coughs shook his form, his face turning red.  

“Jae?” Enjoyment turned into fear, as for a brief moment she thought he couldn't breathe, until he finally did, taking a deep gasping breath.  She moved to his side and rubbed his back softly.  He stayed hunched over though, breathing hard.  “Are you okay?”

He took a few more breaths and then chuckled.  “I’m fine, I just laughed too hard.” He looked up at her giving her a winning smile.  “Let’s break our fast?” He asked, springing up and throwing his legs over the side of the bed before leaping down.  

“Yes, lets.”  She muttered, a concerned frown on her face as she followed him, unaware of the small amount of bloody spittle from his coughing still on her linens.  

Rhaella

She’d gone to bed later than normal that evening. After enjoying some time with her only daughter, she’d retired to her apartments and lay on her chaise. Maids and house servants bustled in and out, cleaning her rooms and preparing her gown for the next morning, she was just starting to get used to the flashes of silver hair, which was close enough to hers and her childrens that in the beginning it was a touch confusing.  The Tattered Prince had  arrived while she was with Daenerys bringing with him mostly good news.  The Island was peaceful. The maroon liquid that warmed its way down her throat and pooled in her belly brought a gentle murmur of delight. Wine, just sweet enough . Setting the glass down, she’d read over reports coming from the mainland, as well as some minor news from Westeros which was just that, minor and of little consequence. The only news that piqued her interest was the Lannister’s efforts to rebuild Summerhall. To what end? It’s nowhere near the Westerlands. Anger would get her nowhere, another home and more memories desecrated by the Usurper and his retinue. Any news of Westeros came courtesy of a combined effort between Ferrego Antaryon and Ballar Nahios, she still didn’t care for the leathery man, but even a rat had its uses and information gathering was one of them. 

Her children were a quandary she had yet to comprehend. In the year they’d barricaded themselves in Dragonstone near the end of the Usurpers rebellion, she’d gone from two children to one, and then one to three. She was a lone Targaryen raising the future of her house with no one to give her aid.  How does one raise royal children? It wasn’t a new question. She had lived as a Summer Queen and mother, having only faced two winters and war from a distance.  Rhaegar had been so easy, his bouts of melancholy or flights of fancy were the worst she had to deal with; he was otherwise studious and well mannered, gentle, so many things his father didn’t care for.  She wasn’t ashamed to admit that the day he’d decided to wield a sword she’d never felt more fear. His talent came too naturally for it to be coincidence. How the gods had proved her right. She didn’t want to think like that with her youngest, his skill with a sword had bloomed in the last two years, she wasn’t blind. I can not lose myself to fear of what was.  She missed her mother most at these times. The sweetness of the wine in her mouth, warming her belly as she sipped it pulled her back from her own gloomier thoughts. 

How does one raise royal children, plan an invasion, rule, foster alliances, and stay sane?   She blew a stray strand of silver-gold hair from her face, her twins were like minded in most things, but if today was any indication her babies were growing up and would soon be much more separate entities, no longer bound together as a consequence of youth.  They both were already showing so much promise.  Viserys was his own man now, and that isn't saying much, she conceded.  I fear he is more his father's son than I had hoped. She remembered the younger Aerys , who'd been so promising.  If only… it wasn't the first time she had that wish.   Laying in bed that night, she’d come to a conclusion about her children. She would talk to them together and make sure they understood that they were a family. Fighting each other would only embolden their enemies. Surely they can understand that? We must stand together if we ever hope to take back what is ours by blood and rights. She resolved that she would spend more time with each of them, before falling asleep.  Unfortunately it felt like a few short hours before she was being woken by light rapping on her door; it was Xaurane, who had in turn been woken by their guard and a frazzled courtier. 

“I apologize for the hour Your Grace, but there is a visitor making their way to the fortress, someone I think you would like to meet.”  Rhaella sighed from the confines of her great bed as the faint light of early morning made its way into the room. “Ok.”  She murmured before sitting up slowly, hair a sleep tussled mess.  

“You will help me prepare won't you?”  She asked, a soft smile on her sleepy face.  

Xaurane nodded, “Of course, Your Grace.”

Who would be allowed within the bay at this hour? She thought, moments later as she was washing off the haze of sleep.  The hot water was invigorating, waking her quickly.  She ran a finger over her green egg as she exited her wash room, clean and smelling of lilac this morning.   Xaurane immediately began helping her braid her lengthy locks, silver-gold flashing like fire in the morning.  

An hour later, she was prepared, and today looking every inch a Targaryen Queen.  Black and red was her scheme.  A solid black dress, high necked, with red stitching and a red corset.  Two small and petite silver pauldrons with rubies arrayed to follow the curve of the metal in a thin line, followed by flecks of onyx beneath it matching the pattern.  A series of chains connected the pauldrons together, anchored together by a brooch in the shape of the Targaryen dragon.  Her sleeves as well as the remainder of the gown remained somewhat form fitting, though the corset extended down, feigning a tasset, leaving the dress to gradually flare out and extend to a train behind her.  

She looked as if she was ready for battle, the crown of The God-Queen resting on her neat quaf of silver-gold curls and braids.  Her eyes were striking, glittering like violet stones.  

The visitor was here now in the throne room of the God-Kings, now Queen.  A dark room hewn from volcanic stone, its archways were massive, high windows letting in light, but the storm blotted out the sun, leaving only the yellow light of the numerous sconces and great hearths.  Statues of dragons, and gargoyles, and mythical beasts lunging out from alcoves every few feet gave it the feeling of a predator always watching you, as the high stone chair that sat the previous God-Kings stood at the end of the hall, on a pedestal that was raised above the remainder of the room.   Their household guard stood every ten feet, leading to Lady Xaurane, the Tattered Prince, Ser Oswell, Ser Willem, and Martyn, as well as the heads of the delegations from Saath and Morosh, Sallio Aenerah and Phenora Stassys respectively.  

Nobody looked happy to be here this early, though she didn't miss Oswells narrowed eyes and smirk.  She rolled her eyes, struggling to hide the smile that threatened to claim her cheeks. 

Lysyrio, her younger court herald stood at attention once he saw her descend the staircase nearest her throne, flanked by four guards, though she stopped at the opening before he offered her a deep bow and retreated to the floor at the base of the throne.  She heard the fifteen foot solid wood door, well kept but blackened by age, close with a deep thud.  Once the door was closed she heard footsteps approach the pedestal, but halt.  Her herald quickly took his position and cleared his throat:

“I present to you, Rhaella of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, God-Queen of Ib.” Her herald hesitated but she saw The Tattered Prince of all people nod at him, this addition was new. “The True Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. The True Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, and Blood of the Conqueror.”

She exited the opening, the guards moving to flank the throne, two on either side, leaving Oswell, Willem and The tattered Prince on her right, with Xaurane, Martyn, and the two delegation members on her left.  The guards stood at attention as the herald turned to the man and spoke.  

“Who comes before Her Grace?”  he asked.  

The man offered them a gracious smile, though from where she was she couldn’t tell if his teeth were yellow from the light of the candles, torches, and hearth or a byproduct of a life of indulgence.  “Your Grace.”  His voice was surprisingly smooth, the slightest hint of an accent in his common.  Hands adorned by jeweled rings resting on his enormous belly, he stepped forward and offered them a deep bow, every inch of his body jiggling with the motion.  How he righted himself so easily, she did not know, he was...well, he was fat with breasts like an old woman that sagged like sacks of suet.  His green and white tokkar was expensive, of that she was certain, fine silks and satins that echoed prestige.  Combined with his big cheeks, small eyes, and forked yellow beard he made a sight.  A true symbol of exorbitance and decadence with no restraint.  His similarly yellow colored hair shone oddly in the light, cheesemonger indeed.

She took a breath, brow rising marginally, “So we finally meet one of our gracious benefactors after so much time.” Rhaella began, having sat in her throne, every inch a God-Queen, face as unforgiving as the stone around them.  

“I welcome you to Ib, Magister Illyrio Mopatis.”

Chapter Text

The previous evening 

The North: Winterfell

Benjen:

“Where is my son?”

The juxtaposition was eerie, so reminiscent of a conversation they’d had years ago. Only now they were older, and admittedly more stubborn. It was his brother who felt the Wolf’s Blood this time. It had gotten marginally darker, the kiss of twilight overcoming the brightness of day; in a few hours they'd need more torches and wood in the hearth, the crackles of the flame were far too faint and the storm was near upon them if the cold fingers of wind coming from the window was anything to go by.  The odd things you notice during a tense moment , he thought realizing then that his heart had started beating faster.  The solar was quiet, deathly so as they stared at each other. Benjen took a breath before Eddard began once more, cutting him off. “And do not lie, what happens next will be decided by your words.”

Benjen frowned, brows knitting together, was that a threat? He shifted in his seat, suddenly very restless, that queer feeling from earlier returning.  Ned’s stare was severe, steel daggers threatening him with an invisible edge. Ben wanted to stall for time but his own words came back to haunt him. “Honesty.” He muttered.

“What was that?” Eddard asked, inclining his head forward.

“I said, ‘honesty’. It’s what you want, well, it’s what Jon needed. I’ll not treat you like a fool Eddard, I know you've been searching for us, I always knew you would.” 

Eddard nodded, a clear indication for him to continue. 

“The truth is, we haven’t been far.” He looked up in time to see Ned clench his jaw and his nostrils flare.

“And...” his elder brother paused, eyes narrowing. “Where has that been?”

Benjen shook his head and sighed. “Here, in the north. Near the Bay of Seals, the island on the other side of Skagos.  We call it Solitude.” He said with a fond smile. “A ca—-“

Ned stood, quickly and suddenly, cutting him off as the chair he was in toppled over behind him. The anger on his face made Benjen flinch back in surprise, eyes like polished steel. Ben’s hand reflexively moved to his dagger, but it wasn’t there. Ned had changed, but he didn’t know how much. Ben's eyes darted to the bookshelf just out of his view where his sword belt and weapons were still resting. Shit .

But Ned did nothing more. He stood stone still breathing roughly, eyes pinning Benjen to the chair.  “All this time...” he started, his voice low. “I’ve searched for my boy, and you were here in the North.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Aye.” Ben replied, softly, nodding as well. “The North will always be the safest place for a Stark, even a Targaryen with Stark coloring.”

Ned flinched at the name but otherwise kept his face blank, only his eyes gave away his emotions now, still drilling into Ben. 

“Jory!” He called. Bens brow furrowed as the Captain of Guard stepped in, clad in black boiled leathers and chain mail. 

“My Lord?”

“Get another guard and please escort Benjen to the Winterfell cells.”

“What!?” Benjen asked, surprised, standing quickly and rounding on Jory who looked at him stunned, mouth agape, eyes questioning. He looked between his Lord and Ben once more before facing Ned and nodding. It only took a moment for him to grab one of the guards that were still patrolling the hallway. 

“Eddard, you can’t mean this?” Ben questioned.  The shock was clear, his grey eyes saucer wide and his voice imploring as he looked between the door and his brother. 

Lord Eddard Stark looked at his brother for a moment. “I can’t imprison you for kidnapping my son and hiding him on Northern lands, MY lands? Were you anyone else, you would part from your head this day, but you’re my brother.” He finished, nodding at Jory who approached Benjen with the other House Stark guard and took Ben by the arms.

“I’m sorry Ben.” Jory whispered as he escorted Benjen to the cells.

Ben sighed, knowing there was no point in fighting. “I am too.”

The previous evening

Eddard

He’d stormed out of his solar, Ice in hand, the day before and made it known that he needed to be left alone. The training yard was too crowded so he went to the Godswood and had the gates closed and guarded. Instead of sharpening his blade by the still pool of water and allowing the morbidly quiet ambience to cool his temper, Eddard removed his gambeson, and stretched, before retrieving Ice and beginning a slow and steady pace through his sword forms. He’d done that for nearly the remainder of the afternoon, delving deeper into the solitude and quiet as he sought to control his anger and think; he wanted to avoid an overreaction because he’d finally admitted to himself and his Maester that there was anger in his heart, and at times it felt all consuming. 

As coincidence would have it, it was Luwin that found him as he finished his paces, planting Ice in the soft leaf covered earth, he wiped his forehead with his rolled up sleeve, and rolled his shoulders.  “I’ll feel this in the morning.” He muttered as he faced his Maester who approached him quickly, face concerned, bordering on bothered.  Eddard took a deep breath, immediately knowing he knew .  How the entire North didn't know Benjen and Jon were actually gone without his leave or were still in the North he hadn’t the slightest idea, they were horrible at keeping secrets.  

“I assume you know then?” He asked as Luwin approached, and bowed his head quickly.  

“I do, My Lord, but do you think it wise?” Maester Luwin was learned, and as far as Maesters went, he preferred him out of all the others he’d come across. The man listened, and above all respected their ways. He’d even gone so far as to try to learn the old tongue and put some northern stories to paper. “I’m certain that you know that news of your brother's return will not stay a secret for long.  They will question why he is in the cells, which will lead to questions about Jon and where he is.”

Ned drew his lips into a line, exhaling slowly through his nose before he turned away and retrieved his gambeson.  “He took Jon, Luwin.  No matter what flowery words we use to color his actions, he abducted my son.” He pulled his arms through the holes of the gambeson and laced it up before turning to Ice.  Retrieving the sword and putting it in its battle scabbard, he rested the blade on his shoulder, before nodding to Luwin.  “The punishment fits the crime and a crime of love is still a crime. Brother or not, I am the Warden of the North, and he is beholden to the laws of the Seven.”  He paused and sighed again, the edge in his voice abating, “I’m angry Luwin. But that doesnt mean Benjen will rot in a cell.”

Maester Luwin nodded, but still looked unsure.  Being one of the few that knew the truth he understood the Maesters wish to keep up the story that they had established.  Ned knew, Ned understood, but he was angry.  Regardless Luwin had little other recourse than to listen to his Lord's words and acquiesce.  Ned walked ahead, leaving the Maester to follow him out as he left the Godswood; Jory and another House Stark guard fell into step behind him.  “Maester Luwin, do you know where Catelyn is?”  

“Her apartments, My Lord, her feet were sore and I recommended she rest and elevate them to alleviate the pressure.” The Maester replied, his quick scuffles heard amongst the clicks of their hardened leather heels.  Ned nodded, night was quickly approaching, with it Winterfell’s occupants milled about cleaning and putting things away.  The smell of cookfires was in the air, which meant supper was being prepared.  Dogs barked and ran about chasing children as their parents shushed them and drew them away.  He heard the kennel master whistle, calling the hounds back as guard rotations shifted.  Rodrick was putting a group of recruits through their paces in the yard.  Night drills.   Eddard stifled a smile, remembering how much he hated them as he crossed through the courtyard, a nod here and there as most people smiled at their Lord, maintaining distance as he pressed on.  

Once in the main keep he gave Ice to Jory to return to its place in his rooms, before bidding Maester Luwin and the other guard away to get their own supper and enjoy the evening to themselves, “Should I have need of you, I will call on you.” He said before departing, mind elsewhere.  He made the rest of the way to the family suites alone .  A maid was leaving his wife's rooms as he approached.  He asked her to bring them dinner to her room before knocking gently at the door and pushing it open slowly.  

Catelyn was sitting in a chair, legs up on a stool diligently writing as he entered. “A storm is coming. You should make sure the Greyjoy boy knows it’s his duty to muck out the stables, the pig pens, and the goat pens. With no help. As well as sweep the snow from every doorway once it’s fallen.” Her lips were pinched, blue eyes narrowed, but she was still beautiful. The fire in the hearth made her hair look aflame, kissed by fire. He smiled, she was still angry with Theon.  

“I doubt he’s forgotten. You can be rather frightening when you choose to be.” The smile abated, only slightly as he closed the door. 

“Good.” She set down her notes, her eyes darting to the empty chair across from her. “He taught my son a swear word. The foulest of swear words.” She sucked at her teeth before taking a breath, finally a smile lifting her cheeks, before her head tilted to the side, her beauty marred by a frown. “Something is wrong.”

Ned gladly took the seat before doubling over and unlacing his boots. He sighed and looked up at her while he did, “Benjens back.”

Silence filled the space between them, only the flames in the hearth were heard, lapping at the wood hungrily. A pop from the wood, caused by resin most likely, startled Catelyn back to life. Her eyes had grown distant, as if she was no longer in the room. She looked at him, blue eyes wide, nervous; so very unsure. “Is Jon with him?”

He watched her actions. She sat up slowly, tossing her braid of hair over her shoulder and moving the stool from her path, before standing with little effort. She was wearing a simpler grey gown, loose in the belly, that barely skirted the ground. Cat went and stood by her window, overlooking the castle grounds. “No, he isn’t. But he’s in the North.” Ned responded when she grew still. 

She closed her eyes and sighed, almost relieved before turning to him, face serious. “Then tell me everything Ben told you, starting with where they were.”

Present

Benjen

He could deal with quite a bit, and nearing three and twenty, had dealt with quite a bit. He’d gone hungry for a spell, the first time he went north of the wall. A storm forced him off his path, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont gave him leave to go range with a few others before he joined, a test of his ability so to speak. He was skilled at tracking, and even better at hunting.  With keen grey eyes, he felt at home amongst the trees; but in a blizzard, his skills meant nothing, were nothing. He’d been separated from the group for five days with no food, only ice and snow. He understood hunger, that wasn’t an issue, he was well acquainted with discomfort too, he captained a ship, had slept in a bunk in Castle Black, hell’s...he'd lain with a whore from Moles Town and then again in White Harbor and only Aemon knew how to deal with that discomfort, but this ? This odious stench that wafted up and around and over and through him, unfortunately riding the current of blessed warmth that kept the blizzard raging outside away?  This smell ...it was slowly eating away at who he was.  There was something about having a keen nose that was a boon and a curse... it’s a fucking curse, that’s what it is, he thought as he rolled over on the hard stone floor. 

The innermost cells were warmed from the labyrinth of pipe work built into the stone to funnel heated water from the natural hot springs deep in the earth through the castle. But the rushes below him were rotted, green and grey, molding over, he tried to push as much of it away as he could.  But with no airflow, the odor just lingered like a fog of stench mixed in with mildew and dried blood. How often did one clean a cell? He wondered, realizing that they likely had never cleaned theirs either. He was still clothed, but relieved of all his niceties. His small clothes, boots, pants, and a tunic, that’s all he’d been left with. Jory had told him on their walk down that criminals and the like rarely spent time in the cells these days, Ned dealt with them swiftly, not caring to allow them comfort or time to formulate a lie; expediency in judgement. 

The clink and rattle and fussing of metal on metal forced his eyes open as the outer door to the cells were opened with a groan and a bang. He heard the shuffle of boots, and then steps as someone, most likely a guard walked down and towards his cell.

The boots stopped at his door, he heard the familiar clink of a key sliding into a lock and then opening before the creak of the door was heard. 

The familiar sigh told him who it was. “I know you’re awake, get up. Your old rooms have been prepared, your belongings are in there. Go bathe and meet me in my solar, we will break our fast there.”  Eddard finished.

“So I’m free?”

“The door was never locked.”

Benjen turned away from the wall he’d been facing, threadbare blanket wrapped around him, holding onto his own arms to keep from touching anything.  He pursed his lips before pushing himself up, “You lie.” he dropped the blanket and left it where it was. 

Eddard nodded. “I am lying, but I knew that would make you turn around.”

Benjen rolled his eyes before shaking his limbs out and stretching with protracted turns of his waist. He dusted himself off as Eddard backed out and turned on his heel, walking away. Ben followed him out, rubbing his neck as he did. 

“Do you...remember the way?” Eddard asked awkwardly, his head tilted almost imperceptibly towards him, keeping his pace a few steps ahead as they exited the cells. The door slammed shut behind them, two guards fell into step as they made their way through the dungeons and then the uppermost bowels of the castle.

“Aye.” Benjen muttered, lapsing into silence though still rubbing his sore limbs as they came to the ground level.  He watched his brother, face betraying nothing. 

“Good. There are things I must tend to, you will meet me in my solar in an hour.” Eddard replied after a lengthy pause, he turned back to Benjen, “Try to be quiet and remain unseen, the majority of the castle is asleep still, your nieces and nephews included.” The corner of his lip curled up, “Brandon is my youngest. Before you ask, you know you’ll meet them, once we’ve talked. You, myself, and Cat.”

Ben must have made a face because Eddard shook his head. “She will be there, because she is my wife, your sister by law, and above all the Lady of Winterfell.” 

“I’ll say my peace.” Ben said, eyes narrowed.  “And my peace will be the entire truth.”  

Eddard shook his head, brow raised before releasing a breath through his nose. “I see you’re still as stubborn as an Aurochs, but I will consider it.” He did something then that made Benjen flinch back, which he caught and hesitated for a moment before persisting. His right hand rested on Ben’s shoulder, “Welcome back brother.”

And just like that Ned turned and walked away, leaving him with a shocked, though warm smile before he slowly made his way through the darkened halls of Winterfell. 

There were so many new faces running about, new maids, new guards, sun-kissed faces lightened by the cold summers of the north. Essosi and northern women rushed around the castle working with no qualms to prepare the keep as if they’d always been here. Roughspun dresses, smocks, or aprons on as they moved around, sweeping or wiping something or carrying buckets of water to and fro. They smiled politely and muttered ‘Mi’Lord’ when they passed him.  He was used to hearing ‘ nuha aeksio’ which was the Valyrian greeting often used on Solitude.  He finally stopped a woman he walked by, politely tapping her shoulder, startling her. 

“I apologize.” He smiled, a roguish thing that had the young maid blushing, she looked no older than seven and ten, black rough spun dress, blue apron over it, black hair braided back. She was pretty, but his time abroad didn’t allow him to miss the small brand on her jaw, a slavers mark .  He bit back that pit of fury, staring at the girl for a moment before he brought himself back. Her hands were free but that was only momentary, she was in the process of cleaning the hall just before his room in the family suites. She shook her head and moved to proceed to her destination before Benjen stopped her, hands up. “I did not mean to frighten you.” His head tilted to the side. “I’m curious, how long have you been here?” He asked in bastard Valyrian. She was almost pale enough to pass as a northerner. 

The maid's eyes grew wide before she looked down, seemingly nervous. “I mean you no harm, I swear it.  Lord Stark is my brother.  I have not been home in a while and curiosity got the better of me.” her eyes weren’t as wide, but she still looked nervous.

“Umm, three years.” She replied hesitantly, though a cautious smile crept up her cheek.  

“Thank you.”  He nodded his head in appreciation, standing aside to allow her to continue her work with red cheeks and a small smile. Continuing on to his rooms he arrived at last, thinking about the girl. Three years, and she seemed comfortable, if not a bit nervous. How did you do it Ned?

It wasn’t that he didn’t think it was amazing, he simply never expected his brother to reach across the Narrow Sea for aid. And I’m the Aurochs . The south must have been even less appealing to Eddard than he knew, hells it was unappealing to most northerners. But the effort it would have taken to work the contracts and trade negotiations, meet with the Northern Lords and convince them, trade letters with the crown and make assurance; he shook his head conceding that he, Aemon, and Alliser had done it, but Eddards efforts were on a scale that surpassed theirs several times over and they had the benefit of using contracts that were skillfully established by Rhaegar and Aemon and it was all hidden from the Usurper.  When did I start calling him that?   Benjen knew he was lucky to have the older prince and Elleanor to handle most of their administrative duties.  After seeing Eddard, he doubted his brother left those tasks to anyone but himself. 

The door to his childhood room opened near soundlessly, it was surprisingly bright, the sunlight reflected from the snow outside, and almost as he had left it. His bed was straightened, that was different, but the cloak he left sitting on the chair was neatly folded on his desk. The banner he’d strung along the wall looked barely any older.  He smiled as he walked to the three bookshelves before the study conjoined to his room, running a finger along the trinkets he’d left behind: four small wood wolf carvings with an initial under each for each of his siblings, a wooden soldier he’d carved while Eddard was commanding the Rebellion, and a wolf head shaped teething carving his father made for him when he was a babe. He chuckled as he walked around, peering in the washroom opposite the study before standing in the center of his rooms, marveling and reminiscing on the hours he spent within these walls.   I was sure Ned would have repurposed them.  He crossed the room and sat at the base of his bed.  His chest was pushed under the Window next to his dresser with the cloak he arrived in hanging on a peg near the door.  He saw his sword next to the hearth’s mantle and shook his head. Why did I think Eddard would leave me in there? He continued shaking his head.  

Benjen hadn't known what to expect when he saw his brother, he certainly didn't think his first night in Winterfell would be spent in the cells, but as he lay back on his bed and sunk into the furs, the very same bed he’d slept in the night before he vanished with his nephew, he couldn't help but admit:

“It's good to be home.”  

Catelyn

Silence had captured her for the remainder of the evening.  Even as Eddard left the room to bathe for the night, leaving her to ponder his words and push her supper around her plate. The blizzard finally rolled in, windows shuttered and hearth roaring she’d lost herself in thought, sipping tea, having given up on eating.  That Benjen and Jon had been in the north the entire time had not been as much of a surprise as she expected it to be; but on an island she knew nothing of, on an area Eddard had initially dismissed simply because of its odd location and what he perceived to be sheer inhabitability, that had been the surprise.  Where there is a will there's a way. She’d rationalized that they were most likely with another friendly Northern house, the Starks were synonymous with the North and a promise of a betrothal and Stark blood in their lines could have secured them safety.  But Benjen had always been clever, she readily admitted that. But clever enough to do all of that alone?  She knew there was more to the story.  

That night she’d slept fitfully, lapsing in the strangeness between awake and asleep, vividly aware of Neds movements beside her yet reluctant to actually get out of their bed.  The maids had come in and out of the room, quietly, stoking the hearths flame but she feigned sleep.  Her head had been spinning with thoughts and questions, though her body screamed for rest, the babe in her womb had other ideas. Jon had always been there, in her mind somewhere.  Her last memory of the boy's face was of defeat and longing, she’d shooed him to the Godswood so as not to anger their high-born visitors during Robb’s name day feast, his bastardy had clouded his innocence to her then.  His chin had trembled and tears formed in the corner of his purple eyes before he sniffled once, straightened up, and quietly walked away, every inch Ned’s solemn shade.   

She remembered it vividly, just as vividly as each child's birth.  It was the last time our home knew real peace. Eddard had changed after, Robb had grown further from her, and everyday her sins were shown clearer and clearer than before.  She’d thought she made peace with her demons, understood the toll of her misplaced hate, but with Benjen’s appearance and the fact that soon she would see him, she realized she hadn't.  She didn't know how to face him, or Benjen.  They had not seen her change, because she had, she knew that. Her daughters spent as much time outdoors as they did indoors learning their duties. Septa Mordane was replaced with Septa Anska, a northerner trained in the ways of the seven from White Harbor.  She understood the Northern traditions in a way Mordane never had and respected them as much as she respected the Seven which proved to be a font of knowledge for herself.  

From the moment Arya could walk she had been near impossible to wrangle, she wanted nothing more than to be free in the Godswood often with Bran toddling behind her or listening to Northern ballads and tales from Old Nan. For the most part she was inclined to allow her, which Anska agreed.  She was too young to understand the importance of, or to endure needlepoint, or read lines from The Seven Pointed Star for hours at a time, that was reserved almost exclusively for her eldest daughter. Sansa walked a line between a lady and a free spirit though as of late she'd noticed a reticence grow in her as she shifted to her more ladylike pursuits.  Ned had explained that she'd taken a tumble off a horse and Robb had poked at her for it.  Her eldest child treated her with as near as much indifference as a boy of one and ten could.  She’d thought it would change and he’d grow out of his anger, but they'd somehow settled into a strange routine for a son and mother.  She hoped he would smile and walk with her, yet was left disappointed as he would treat her politely, as a son should but no more and no less.  

Sleep finally claimed her hours past her usual time, if she were pressed she would have ventured that her eyes closed well into the hour of the bat.  It was the silence that woke her, the silence and distinct lack of warmth as she rolled over only to realize that Eddard was gone.  “And so it begins…” she mumbled as she turned back over and closed her eyes, dreading leaving her bed because leaving her bed meant leaving safety.  It was bound to be an emotionally taxing day.  

She looked around as she sat up.  The windows were closed but the shutters were partially open.  She could tell by the brightness that snow had fallen.  Theon had better be awake and sweeping. She groused, slowly dropping her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the cold hit her exposed skin.  Goose pimples made their way up her legs and arms as she stood and stretched, groaning from the weight of another life pressing on her insides.  She relieved herself a moment later, returning to sit in front of the hearth.  The fire was already lit, a warm glow emitting as she sat and drew her legs up to her side and stared at the flames, losing herself in thought.  Benjen has never been fond of me, he will likely question everything.  He has been absent for so long and for so much.  His memory of me is set in stone.

Soft knocking on her door drew her attention before she beckoned the maids in and asked them to prepare a bath and bring her toasted bread and butter and tea and honey.  The Essosi women amazed her, if she was being honest.  After hearing of the brutalities they’d endured, she couldn't help but feel some sympathy.  Regardless, they rivaled the Northerners in their effort.  She’d even noticed a similarity in some customs to Southrons, like tea times and the handling of women's issues.  Mayhaps it was more of that change she’d sought that allowed her to see similarities rather than differences. She near inhaled the bread and butter when the house girl returned, only sipping on the tea to wash it all down.  She was hungry, or rather the little wolf in her belly was hungry.  

An hour later, as she sat and finished her braid looking into the looking glass she paused and took a deep breath.  She held her own gaze before closing her eyes, taking yet another.  My family will be whole again. She released the breath she’d held, very aware of the butterflies in her belly, nervousness choosing now to make itself known.   

She stood, feeling the weight of the light-blue thick, though soft embroidered woolen dress. She ran a finger along the fine grey and white stitch work on her arms that led into an intricate design of two wolves heads stretching across her bosom before she smoothed the front as best as possible over her round belly, glad for a seamstress that was so amenable. She collected herself, high-necked gown in place and hair neatly plaited before leaving her rooms, head held high, dignified, and ready for whatever the day brought.  

Benjen

He’d finished bathing near half an hour before and sat quietly, lounging in his rooms as he collected his thoughts.  His brother would want to know everything, every detail, every minute issue they'd come across, literally every aspect of the last seven nearing eight years.   He would require a full accounting for Jon and knowledge on everyone that had contact with him and who knew their secret, who helped mold his son, and who was caring for him now.  Fucking hells, Alliser.  That was an issue for another time, and he was certain it was going to be an issue.  Aemon would be excused, he was sure of it, he shared blood with Jon and was equally protective, they all shared that in common and that would have to be how they established any sort of unity between themselves. 

Were it any other authority, he would have had a lie on the ready, but this was Ned.  The only brother he had left and the man that Jon viewed as his father.  He remembered when his nephew was younger, nearing his sixth name day, “ Will you be my papa now?” Jon had asked him.  It had been difficult explaining to the boy his parentage, but he and Aemon, as well as Alliser had agreed, it was best for Jon to learn the truth of who he was while he was young so he could reconcile it rather than having his life upended as a man.    

He was still confused then, so Benjen sat him down and told him that while he viewed Jon as a son, he was and always would be his uncle.  Jon asked if Lord Stark was still his papa and Benjen had said:

“ Yes .  From the moment Eddard saw you and our sister, your mother, placed you in his arms, Ned has loved you as if you were a piece of him; hells he probably loves you more than he loves me.  He just didn't know how else to protect you. But to him you are his son and I reckon he’s very displeased with me for abducting his baby boy right now.” Little Jon made a face, “I’m not a baby.” he said, before a small smile claimed his reddened cheeks and they continued their walk around the island on that day so long ago.  

“God’s Eddard…” He muttered, pushing himself from the bed as he fought back the memories.  He stood and made his way to the door before pausing.  Honesty , he thought.  Yet again the irony wasn’t missed on him.  For the better part of ten years Benjen believed that honesty would have avoided this entire situation.  Taking a breath he opened the door and left his rooms, headed to their father’s solar, Ned’s now.  

It took him all of a few minutes as he strode quickly, greys eyes taking in all the change; his black leather breeches with a thick white wool tunic ruffling with each step.  It was against his brother's wishes, not laying low, but if anything he was his own man.  Luckily there were few people out, and those that were didn't recognize him as they moved about the castle, pursuing their morning activities.  Jory was posted at Eddards solar door as he approached.  “Benjen!”, he called as the younger Stark came upon him.  

“Morning Jory, my brother in there?”

“Aye, he is.”  The captain-of-guard nodded before turning away, knocking quickly and pushing the door open, keeping his hand flattened on its surface.  “Benjen, My lord.”  He said, sticking his head into the opening.  

“Send him in.” Ben heard his brother say before Jory stepped aside, letting Ben in before taking the door knob and closing it quietly, leaving Ben and Ned alone in the room.  

He saw his brother true now in the bright morning light; Eddard was lean, it seemed he had not skimped on his training regimen as he stood straight as an arrow, strong broad shoulders hidden under his black gambeson. All seven and twenty years culminating in the visage of a true Stark.  It was still a sight to see so much of Jon on his grey eyed countenance, but there it was. He chuckled.

“What?” Eddard asked. 

“You two wear your hair the same.” 

Neds brow furrowed, head tilting very slightly before it clicked and he smiled. “Jon?”

“Aye, his hair is long. I reckon longer than either of ours, but a bun at the back of his head is normally how he wears it.”

“Clever lad.”

“Like father like son.” Benjen continued as the pair chuckled. Now this was the Ned he remembered. He still saw the weariness of a direwolf behind his silver gaze, but the warmth was something he’d missed dearly.  There was a platter of sausage and blood sausage as well as eggs, he spied potatoes and fried tomatoes and some toasted bread besides a boat of gravy.  He’d almost forgotten the heartiness of Northern fair, having subsisted almost entirely on seafood and Essosi cuisine with a light speckling of northern foods when he visited the mainland.  Their island was the product of mass integration and he had no problem with it, but gods did he miss the food of home.  Eddard must have noticed as he inclined his head.  

“Have at it.”

And Benjen did, dropping himself on the settee nearest the table and took a dish before scooping helpings of the food onto his plate, a huge grin claiming his face as he did; he hadn’t eaten the night before. Ben paused and looked at his brother who shook his head.  “I’ll eat once we get this over with.”  Benjen shrugged and continued shoveling food on his plate only pausing to drown it all in gravy before forking several large helpings into his mouth.   Ned shook his head, an amused smirk on his face.

The door opening did stop him though, as Catelyn entered, dressed in blue with the image of his house stitched across her chest in white and grey.  He admitted that she was a beautiful woman, red hair aflame in the morning light and skin almost glowing.  He assumed it was the babe in her womb, her hands in front of her stomach protectively.  She paused as they made eye contact, his food all but forgotten as nerves finally made themselves known.  

He stood slowly, looking between the pair. “My Lady.” He said softly, bowing his head.  

She did the same, “My Lord.”, as she entered the room in full and made her way to the high back chair opposite Eddard's desk chair before sitting in it slowly and elegantly.  She carried with her the faint scent of lemon, most likely from oils in her baths.  

“Right…“ He finished what he was chewing before looking down at his plate, suddenly no longer hungry.  He pushed it away as he slowly sat down again as Eddard joined them now, leaving his spot by the bookcase near the window to take a seat across from Benjen. 

He took a breath, “So since we're all here, let’s talk.”

Catelyn

They look so much alike. She thought, when she hesitated. The room was suddenly very warm as two sets of grey eyes moved to her, something she wasn’t at all used to coming from any family members outside of Eddard and Arya. She sat, dignified and ladylike although she felt as clumsy as an elephant sipping tea. The food smelled...divine, she could hear her stomach grumbling, but whether actually hungry, nervous, or gassy, she was uncertain. We’re I not pregnant at least one of those options would be eliminated. She refocused on the pair in the solar as silence reigned in. 

“So since we are all here, let’s talk.” Benjen began after a lengthy pause and a sigh. 

“Aye.” Ned replied, he shifted his position and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “I still have my feelings about your actions, but what’s done is done. You’ve said Jon is safe, so I am trusting you.” His eyes moved over to her and she nodded her assent. “You said you were on an Island on the far side of Skagos. I know what land you speak of, but I’ve never been, I thought it was uninhabitable?”

Ben shook his head. “Far from it.”

“What do you eat? How do you survive? Where do you live?” Ned continued. “How did you do all of this without my knowledge, you were half a boy?” He still is, she thought.

Benjen flushed. “I was a man grown, and it started during my time at The Wall. I met the Maester and told him some information .”

Eddards jaw tightened but he said nothing, she raised a brow but Benjen continued. “There was a castle that King Jaehaerys I commissioned for the Nights Watch but it was never completed. Planning was left to the Maesters of the Watch and hadn’t been touched in years.  Prince Rhaegar found the archives down south and wanted to continue the plans to have a place to visit with his Uncle.  His plans changed, and he wanted the castle to be for someone else, but we know how that turned out. It wasn’t too hard to use some friends down south to get more help.”

Friends down south? Catelyn felt as if she was missing something until a distant memory came to her. “The Maester of Castle Black was a Targaryen correct?”

They both looked at her, Neds eyes widened slightly but Bens narrowed and grew cautious. “Aye, but he’s gone. He’s most likely been replaced by now.” Benjen replied, lips pursing.

“But you completed it? The castle?” Eddard pushed forward.

Benjen nodded, “Aye.”

“How?” Catelyn asked, “You would need gold, a lot of it and how did you staff it?”

Benjen shrugged, “The gold to build it wasn’t an issue, Essosi builders are good and fast.  It was the gold to maintain it that became a problem. As for the staffing, much the same as you lot.” He nodded at Ned. “The majority of builders were former slaves and decided that they would stay. Once Jon helped…” Ben stopped, eyes growing wide.

“Jon helped what?” Ned asked, his eyes narrowing. “Which Jon?”

Ben flushed, again.

“Benjen, do the Umbers know where you have been?” Eddards eyes flashed as he leaned back when Benjen looked at him sheepishly.  Her husband ran a hand over his face, clenching his jaw again. He muttered something about insubordination before he took a breath and stared at his brother, motioning for him to continue.

“Well, you’ve heard abductions are low, much lower.” 

Ned shook his head, though this time a small smile was on his face. “You’re a pirate?”

“Not really.” Ben replied. “We only attack slave ships and give the people the option to return home or come back with us.  I’ve gotten to know the western coast of Essos rather well. Solitude has grown, especially with trade taking off. We help feed the majority of Skagos and through our trade we’ve been able to arm and train our fighting men.”  Trade?   She thought, He’s said that more than once, what trade? But she didn't air her thoughts, deciding to remain on topic.  

“And what of Jon?” Catelyn asked, realizing that was likely the first time he’d heard her say his name.

Ben's eyes snapped to her, brows knitting together, “What of him? You want to kick him out of there too?”

“Enough of that Benjen, we’re here to talk.” Ned cut in.

But Ben continued, “Aye, and I said I would say my peace. Why is she even here? She doesn’t care for the boy, nor does she want him around.”

“Enough!” Neds voice echoed around the room, startling both she and Benjen. They were both standing now, each breathing just a bit harder, passionate about the very child she had so loathed.  They sat, quietly, Ben fumbling with his fork as Ned stared at his younger brother, willing him to quiet down and calm.

She decided she would break the silence.  “Why do you hate me so?” She asked Ben. 

The younger Stark looked up at her, frowning, before sighing, tapping his fork and then running a hand through his unbound hair.  “I don't hate you, but neither am I fond of you.”  he took a breath, brows furrowed.  “My eldest brother was meant to marry you, but he died and your father forced that issue on my other brother.  You knew little of each other and rather than ingratiating yourself to us and our people, you came here, to the North and decided everything must change to suit you.  You wanted the love of the people without even giving them the respect they deserved.”  Their eyes met, grey and blue.  “And then you mistreated my nephew, who is innocent.”  He pointed at Eddard.  “You mistreated his blood, our blood , and I knew that you and I would not get along.  Your misguided Southron ideas about birth and sin. That shite belongs south of The Neck, not up here.”  He spat on the ground.  “A child is innocent of their mother and father's sin.”

Catelyn couldn't keep her eyes on him, Eddard had said much and the same.  Her gaze dropped to the ground as she flinched with every word he said, their weight hitting her like a physical blow, but Benjen continued, “Why does Lady Catelyn hate me?” She Jerked her head up.  

“Pardon?”  She asked him, confused by the change in topic.   

Benjens lips flattened into a line.  “He asked me that.  Not in those words, he was all of four. But a boy of only four years aware of hate?” Ben shook his head.  “I knew I had to get him out of here.  Eddard was in an impossible situation,  between the two of you, either way he would have lost with some of the most important people in his life. I did the next best thing and removed my nephew from your contentious path.” Eddard gave him a look then, forcing him to lower his voice, she expected it though; Benjen was always very passionate; she did remember that.   

Ben sighed, leaning back on the settee. “Mayhaps I should have planned it better, spoken to you all, but none of you here would listen then.  So I took my nephew, my blood, and left. Jon is clever, cunning, and if he wanted to be, exceptionally dangerous.  If he had stayed here, with you to dog his existence, he would have grown bitter and hateful.  A day of reckoning would have come, and I’m inclined to believe that Jon would have been the only one left standing.”  It was the truth, The Wolfs Blood and The Dragons Blood was an explosive combination, and while slow to get there, Jon’s anger was very real.  But Catelyn knew none of that, her time with Jon was limited and even then it was nothing more than nasty looks and curt and hurtful words.  

She looked up at him, her eyes blurry from the tears that were forming.  “You're right.”  Her voice was low, tight.  Benjen’s eyes widened as he looked to Eddard and back to Catelyn, surprised, “Everything you said is right.”

Eddard had heard all of this before, he reached over and took her hand, gently stroking the outside with his thumb, his solemn grey eyes searching her face, the irritation from before gone.  She smiled, slightly before pulling her hand away, wiping her eyes off and collecting herself.  She nodded a thank you to Ned, none of it missed by Benjen, but looked back to her goodbrother.    

“A man or a woman should accept and understand when they were wrong.  I learned that Benjen, among other things.  I should have been kinder, as a mother to him, and blaming how I was raised and what I was taught would be an excuse.”  She sighed, looking at Benjen, finding his eyes with her and hoping that he could see that she meant it.  The eyes are the window to the soul. “Jealousy can be an awful thing, it can make you act and do things that go against who you are. But understanding can be learned, if you have a heart that is willing.  I was wrong, Benjen, and I am sorry. Without you and Jon, this family is not whole, it can't be whole .  I can not change what I did, but I hope to show you that I am a different woman.”  

“She even prays in the Godswood.” Eddard added, his northern brogue thicker than normal.  

Benjen raised a single brow, “Well, I have my reservations, but so long as you…”

“Ben..”Ned warned.  

Benjen frowned and sighed but finally nodded.  “I apologize as well.  I may have been a right arse, but I love my family, even the ones I don't know yet.  I’ll always do the hard thing for them, even if it means vanishing for nearly a decade again.”

“I’ll shackle you in your rooms if I so much as think you plan on taking another child from Winterfell without telling me.”  Ned's eyes were narrowed and Cat couldn't tell if he was serious, but there was a coy smirk on his lip.  The brothers shared a look, a lasting one as if they were speaking in their minds.  How they could have been separated for so long but that sibling bond remained so tight she didn't know.  The pair finally agreed it seemed as Eddard stood, his face a bit paler as he walked to the window.  

“You have to, if you want to see Jon again. You know it and we agreed on it.”

“I know!”  Eddard snapped, eyes flashing angrily, before he raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. Benjen had all the leverage in this matter, she was aware, and it bothered Eddard to no end, despite how hard he tried to hide it. “And I didnt agree to it, I said I would consider it.”  They stared at each other for another moment before Eddard sighed, “But you’re right, I have to.”

Catelyn's blue eyes moved between the pair.  “What is going on?”  She asked, mildly confused, though it was as if she wasn't in the room as the pair remained silent.  

Eddard returned to his spot and sat slowly, brow knitted together as he mulled over his thoughts.  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he stared at the ground.  Catelyn was suddenly very worried.  Eddard was acting oddly and that previous little interaction between the brothers did nothing to assuage the worry that was slowly building.  “Eddard, what is it?”  She asked, her voice softer, laden with concern.  She looked up at Benjen who looked back solemnly, almost with pity.  But why?

Eddard sighed before sitting up, his eyes locking onto Benjens before nodding once.  Benjen reciprocated with a nod of his own before Eddard looked up at her, silver eyes full of nervous energy as they met hers.  “Catelyn…”  He began slowly, tentatively.  She was immediately on guard.  “I never meant to hurt you.”

Oh. 

“Eddard, I forgave you years ago. We are here to move forward not reopen closed wounds.”  She smiled warmly, but it did nothing to ease her heart as Eddard seemed to deflate a bit more.  How is it these great warriors grow so fearful around their wives?  She thought for a moment as Ned inched closer to her.  He shook his head, “There's m--”

The door to the solar burst open, slamming against the wall behind it, startling the three as Eddard and Benjen shot up, pivoting on their heels and facing the door but it was Jory. His face was red, eyes widened in panic.  

“My Lords, My Lady, its Robb!”

Her stomach dropped.  

“What is it man!” Ned shouted.  

Jory looked at them all, his eyes landing on her.  “He’s gone.”

Her heart sank, a pit of fear replaced it. Is this how Eddard felt all those years ago? SIlence claimed them as it took a moment to register before all eyes fell on Benjen.  He looked between them, grey eyes wide and hands up in submission, “It wasn't me, I was in a cell all night.”

The North: Somewhere between Last Hearth and Winterfell

Vaegon

He blew a long breath of cold air that misted in front of his face. It was well into the morning, nearing midday. They’d passed the Long Lake at least an hour ago, if he was remembering his maps correctly, and he was certain he was since it was the closest lake to Winterfell. 

Persistence my nephew. Patience and persistence, and of course determination! But a few things any great leader needs. “But aren’t persistence and determination the same?!” Vaegon muttered angrily, reciting his Uncle Aemons words as they ploughed through the snow and around the trees, all in search of the King's Road; not to use it, but to affirm his location. Everything was white and silent; cold crisp invigorating air coursing through him with each breath.  If he didn’t have Stormsong or a grasp on direction it would have been easy to get lost. Despite the last few nights he had to admit that he’d never been more pleased with himself. 

He’d survived for near a sennight on his own; despite the hunger, the cold, and mounting weariness there was an underlying exhilaration that pushed his feet forward, that and the great big wolf that panted softly at his side, her gold eyes watching him when she thought he wasn’t aware. He’d realized earlier on that the great she-wolf thought of him as her pup, circling back to nudge him when he slowed down, and sniffing the air, alert for any danger when they stopped to catch their breath.  She would disappear for a few minutes at time, most likely scouting their immediate area.  Stormy was cautious, and very, very aware. 

He stopped short, a sudden thought coming to his mind as he looked at the Wolf, brows furrowed and questioning. Was it coincidence that he’d had strange dreams a week ago, dreams of the moon, dark clouds and falling snow? Dreams of cold blue eyes chasing him through the trees, screaming horrible unnatural noises? Dreams full of fear and terror and loneliness, but above all the will to live? His eyes narrowed as Stormy’s head tilted to the side, surprisingly reminiscent of a puppy.  He shook his head, frowning at the same time, “That’s just mad Vegg.” But the thought was still there even as he turned around and resumed his march. 

Uncle Aemon told him to view the world with equal parts curiosity and suspicion; not to accept something as an irrevocable truth because it happened once. He’d had dreams before, strange ones that often had him waking up very perplexed, but none had ever made him feel the depth of fear he’d felt that night. He shrugged it off, stopping once more to look around. If it happened again, then he would bring it up to his uncles or Lady El, maybe even father.  That brought a smile to his face as he envisioned everyones reactions, before the smile faded.  I’ll likely get a tongue lashing from Uncle Benjen, he thought while frowning already resigned to his fate , and from Uncle Aemon and even Lady El when we return.  A chuckle escaped him, Alliser will likely pat me on the back and tell me good on me. That made the worry go away.  The knight believed that experience was what ultimately taught a man; he realized then that this was the longest time he’d been away from his Uncle Aemon since learning about his birth.  I miss them , he thought sadly, footslogging around a bush. 

They continued on, Direwolf and boy, pushing through the snow.  Vaegon had no idea what he was looking for but was certain he would recognize a road when he saw one, or so he hoped.  The last time he’d traveled the Kingsroad he’d been too young to remember any specific details and Uncle Benjen told him they had fled in the night.  His eyes were darting this way and that, looking for any sign, A mile marker, a post, gods anything! He groaned in frustration and looked up only to realize that at some point Stormy had vanished on another one of her scouting missions. He was amazed by her stealth, she would quite literally slip from his view and vanish into the trees in the time it took him to take a deep breath. He could confidently say that there was something exceptionally mysterious about the creature and its hauntingly clever gold eyes. 

Jon stopped when his feet went through the snow only to crunch on gravel. A smile lit his face before a triumphant laugh left him, echoing around the stillness of the woods as relief flooded through him. His eyes widened, “Probably shouldn't have done that.” He muttered, but crouched down nonetheless. The smile grew brighter when he realized that he found what he was looking for as he reached through the snow to the gravel and packed dirt beneath, it was still too cold for it to melt, thank the gods . He turned in a circle, looking north and then south down the widened snow laden path. “I think this is it.” He breathed, standing with his hands on his hips, unaware of the two figures quietly creeping through the brambles. 

“And wot do we ‘ave ‘ere? A runaway?”

The voice startled him, purple eyes widening in surprise.  Vaegon turned towards it quickly, kicking up snow as he did. Two men emerged from the bushes, clothing indistinguishable from dirty rags and matted furs. Both wore sneers, showing missing and broken teeth; neither of them looked like they had bathed in weeks. The man before him clutched a rusted maul while the one behind him palmed a chipped short sword.  “Looks like it.”  The one in front of him said, chuckling as he took a step forward.  He stood near his uncle Benjen's height, but his gut was quite larger, with more hair on his face than his head, and all of it a knotted brown mess. Vaegon cursed his luck, “Where are you Stormy?” He muttered as the highwaymen took positions opposite of each other. First wolves, now Bandits? He thought, remembering that he had heard a shout when he stole the tarp. He hoped these weren’t the same people looking for revenge and that somehow they had already gotten to Stormsong.  The man behind him took a step to the left, pushing his knit-cap up to expose one brown eye and a hole where the other should have been, all surrounded by a black beard, and bushy brows. 

“He doesn’t look like one of those fucking foreigners.” Bigbelly said, dark eyes squinting as he paused and extended his free hand, “Give us that pretty cloak and your bag and we're like to let you live, boy.” He spoke better than the other, and although his accent was Westerosi, it was certainly not of the north, which immediately disproved his first assumption, Wildlings. He palmed his only weapon, the dagger, wishing he had the tourney sword on him, if anything it would work to block.  He hoped he would be able to defend himself long enough for the Direwolf to return.  

“Put that down.” Bigbelly chided disparagingly, gloved hand gripping his rusted and terribly kept maul.  Vaegon gripped the dagger tighter, causing both men to chuckle.  “You don't speak boy?”

The other man grunted.  “Fuck’it, kill‘im and be done with’it.”  He stepped forward, forcing Vaegon to shift his position, keeping them both in sight.  

“Ahh, come on boy.”  The leader, he was now certain of it, whistled.  “You should have just gave me the cloak and bag.”  He whistled again, waiting for a moment longer before looking past Vaegon and over to knit-cap.  “Whered the others get to?”  He questioned his accomplice.  “I told’em to wait behind the trees right?”

“Aye, yeh did.”  Knit-cap replied, turning around and looking about before shrugging.  Vaegon relaxed his position slightly, realizing then that these men were terribly organized.  

The leader shook his head before exhaling hard.  “Fine! I’ll kill the boy myself.”  He began to trudge through the snow, booted feet high stepping as Vaegon shuffled back, drawing the dagger in front of him and pivoting on his right foot so as to use it to block, but Bigbelly and Knit-cap laughed.  Vaegon’s eyes narrowed, “Looks like we got us a mute fighter.”  Bigbelly chuckled taking another step, but a sudden and shrill shriek from the depths of the wood had him stopping eyes widening as he and knit-cap looked between each other and then to Vaegon.  “What was that?”

Vaegon knew what that was as another scream echoed through the trees.    

Bigbelly spun around as yet another terrified shout came from the woods, this one closer to them, just as a silver blur darted from the treeline, a shot of fir and a snow-cloud later and Knit-cap was gone with a grunt.  Vaegon flinched at the sudden brutality, a few drops of blood left in his wake as the horse sized wolf claimed her victim.  He was breathing hard, his blood pumping furiously through him.  She was a demon in the shadows, her strong jaws and dagger like claws ending her quarry with such speed and precision that not even a tear of flesh was heard.  

Bigbelly turned back to Vaegon, it felt like minutes, but it was only a few moments as terror captured his face.  “What are you playing at boy?” He whispered voice trembling, clutching the maul with both hands, dark eyes scanning their surroundings.  “Where the fuck is Rigmor?”

“I think he’s dead.”  Vaegon finally spoke, the tension and nerves dissipating as his own companion made herself known.  There's nothing to fear.  She prowled from the bushes, parting the leaves and branches quietly as her stallion sized form came into view, hackles on end, teeth bared and gold eyes flashing hungrily.  Her pupils were pin pricks, malevolent and furious, blood dripped from her parted and reddened snout.  No noise left her as she crept behind Bigbelly, massive paws skimming the snow.  “And I think you are too.”

Bigbelly froze, eyes widening as he saw the telltale mist of breath in the cold surrounding him, but it wasn't his own.  One scream, a single note, that was all Stromsong gave him before her massive and terrible teeth clamped around his skull with a sickening crunch.  

The North: North of Winterfell

Robb

He’d been marching along, determined and with purpose.  He was still confused by this compulsion , but nothing would change his course or his mind, not even being caught, which he was sure he was by now.  He’d run for a time but the layers he had on proved too cumbersome, combined with long strides that were difficult when also high stepping through snow that went above his knees, he’d tired much too quickly.  Quiet surrounded him, only his steps through the snow and the occasional chirp of a bird accompanied his breath, before a clear and frightening scream made him stop short and look around wildly, his hands moving to his sword in an instant.  

“Who's there!?” He shouted, following the scream as what few birds had taken cover in the snowstorm were startled from their roosts and sent chirping and twittering away, causing clumps of snow to fall around him.  His breath left him quickly as he fumbled for his sword, spinning around, eyes searching his immediate area.  “Show yourself!”

He heard movement and saw snow shift to his right as a small figure slipped from behind a tree, cloak bunched up in the front where it was grasped closed and the hood was up, but its head was down shielding the person's face.    

Robb was breathing harder, he turned slowly his sword up and pointed at them.  “Who are you?”  He tried to sound braver than he felt.

The figure released their cloak before dropping their hood, exposing hair a brighter shade than his, more on the redder side of auburn, whereas his was more brown.  “I’m sorry.”  Sansa said softly, her very Tully blue eyes studying the snow with red cheeks, all the while fussing with her hands.  

Robb released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.  “Gods Sansa!”  He sheathed his sword before trudging through the snow and standing two feet in front of his sister.  He knelt down slightly and looked her over, before standing upright again.  “You’ve been following me?”  He asked, suddenly very irritated while his younger sister fidgeted with her dirtied dress.  Mother is going to murder me.  He slapped his forehead in frustration.  “Sansa, what are you doing ? Was that you that screamed?”

She nodded abashed, “Snow fell on my head when a bird was frightened by that other scream.”  She pouted, finally looking up at him, her pale cheeks now a rosy pink.  

So there was another scream.  He shook the thought away before looking around and sighing.  Well, she’s made it this far.  “When did you see me and did you make sure nobody else followed you? Like Arya or Bran?”

She nodded emphatically.  “I did.  I promise.”  Sansa paused, “Please don't make me go back alone.”

“I won't.”  He sighed again, “I cant.  If mother and father found out that I made you walk back on your own?”  He shook his head hard.  “No.” he looked around, lips pressed together.  His direction was north and the only option he had was to take her with him.  “Come on then.”  He relented, extending his hand to his sister who gladly took it before they continued their march.   

After ten minutes of silence it was Sansa that broke it, “I was going to the Godswood to pray when I saw you leaving.” 

He smiled.  “Well that explains why you're dressed so warm. Did you tell anyone you’d left your rooms?”

She shook her head, red pig-tails moving with the motion.  

He had to resist palming his forehead again.  “Sansa, half of the North is going to be looking for us by the time we return.”

Her eyes widened.  “Mother and Father are going to be furious.”

“Aye, they are, but at least we got to go on an adventure before we're locked in a tower till the end of our days.” He bumped her gently, making her smile brightly.  She was fond of the idea of grand adventures.  After Jon left, he’d bonded with her over reading stories, her favorites back then were of Ser Duncan the Tall and King Aegon the Unlikely, surprisingly.  Their mother said it was very unladylike, but Septa Anska told them her favorite tales were of the Northern Kings of old so it was fine for Sansa to enjoy stories of a more brutal nature as they did not define her.  And his sister had, until recently, as she’d started to find enjoyment in pursuits he could never fathom, Like needlework, he thought , shaking his head as they trudged along and Sansa smiled happily looking around.  Florian and Jonquil replaced the story’s of Targaryen Kings as pretty things began to replace rough housing. 

Robb was walking in front of her now, blazing a path through the snow to help his younger sister.  “Robb?” he looked behind himself, pausing for a moment to make sure she wasnt getting too far behind.  

“Where are we going?”

He stopped and turned to her, frowning, “You’d think me mad if I told you.”

“Why?”  Sansa asked, so innocently.  

Robb turned around and puffed out some air before gesturing for them to continue.  “Because, I’m not so certain I’m not.”

Sansa laughed then, a soft noise before she covered her mouth remembering to be ladylike, “You're not mad, Robb.”  She giggled.  “Silly and smelly, and boarish…” She counted off using her fingers.  

“Do you mean boorish?”  He said as they walked, he pushed aside a branch and waited for his sister to pass by before continuing.  

“Yes! Boorish!”  They both laughed as they walked, but Sansa continued.  “But you aren't mad.”

Robb chuckled softly, “If you say so little sister.”  He stopped then, using his right hand to stop her as they stood at the northern treeline of the Wolfswood with the Kingsroad no more than a hundred feet or so ahead of them.  He’d forgotten the exposed patches of the wood, the open plains between copses of trees.  There is no cover for us. He thought, irritatedly. If he were alone it wouldn't be as much of a risk, but he wasn't.  We’ve come too far to turn around.  He looked at his sister, who looked back up at him.  “Alright Sansa, if we're going to do this, you must listen to everything I say, okay?”

She bit her lip, blue eyes wide, before she nodded her head.  “Okay.”

Robb extended his hand to her, which she took with no fuss. “You still haven’t told me what we're doing Robb.”

He looked at her, hand clasped around her own, “Were going to bring our brother home.”

Vaegon

He was watching Stormsong as she panted alongside him, walking amiably as if she hadn't just bit through a man's head and tore it off like it was a peace of cotton.  It was frightening, terrifying , the power she possessed, and she is with pup, he thought, imagining what she could do were she not.  The wolf moved as quietly as a shadow, and was deadlier than anything he’d seen before, but now as she loped at his side, eyes squinting against the sun, and jowls only a slight pink she looked as innocent as a giant pup.  He’d given up traveling in the woods, hoping that someone that could help get him to Winterfell faster would come along, but with the remains of bandits scattered about far behind them and a giant wolf at his side, he doubted anyone would come anywhere near him.  

He was quickly realizing that he was tired .  The exhilaration from the attack was wearing off and in its place remained nothing but endless and mounting weariness.  The past sennight was catching up to him and he was keenly aware of the cold; his finger and toes had gone numb some time ago.  The wolf must have noticed his pace slow because she whined, before moving closer and nudging him softly.  He couldn't deny that despite her murderous capabilities, she’d saved him twice and he was quickly realizing that she was more than just a wolf to him, he'd begun to care for her.  “I’ll be fine.”  He said softly, running a gloved hand through her thick coat just behind her ear.  She leaned into him, her ears pulling back in relaxation before they perked up, and her head jerked with it, staring ahead of them, gold eyes suddenly alive and assessing.  Vaegon turned as well, hearing a voice in the wind.  He closed his eyes, not more bandits. He turned back in the direction of the voices, drawing the dagger once more, but Stormsong hadn’t moved, and if anything seemed to only relax at his side.  

”Jon!”

His purple eyes widened.  He wasn’t dreaming, he knew it, he’d been awake for hours…

“Jon!”

...But maybe he’d never woken up, and instead he’d fallen asleep in the cold, and he was dreaming now. Maybe everything: the wolves that hunted him, the bandits that just attacked him, the strange white fire, and Stormy had all been part of an exceptionally detailed hallucination and somewhere, deep in his sleep he’d died in the storm and that the mysterious direwolf at his side was his guide and this was the afterlife. That would make more sense .  It’s the only way he could explain the auburn haired boy  and red haired girl high stepping and stumbling through the snow, calling his name and waving their arms. A boy that looked like a ball of grey fur and a girl that looked on fire, hair flying around her.  It was the ice cold nose of the giant wolf and the nip she gave his ear that startled him and made him realize that he was very much alive, and the ball of fur was indeed his brother and the flaming head of hair was his not-so-much-a-baby sister. 

“Robb!” He shouted. “Sansa!” The snow had never felt deeper as he struggled and trudged through it.  His weariness was forgotten, he was suddenly empowered, cold meant nothing, nor could it shake the smile that split his face. It didn’t matter. His heart was racing as the siblings stopped, a few feet from each other panting.  Robb was smiling wide, but it faded as he and Sansa’s eyes followed the giant wolf at their brother's side, its head tilting curiously.   

…

…

“ That’s a direwolf.”

Chapter Text

Davos

“Fucking weather…” he muttered as his horse plowed through the snow.  This wasn't a surprise occurrence, he knew it was coming.  Northerners had a penchant for predicting a storm, and his fingerless knuckles always ached when it got truly cold.  As divined, the blizzard blew through, dumping a few feet of snow over them all, despite how much he’d hoped they were all wrong.  The muted landscapes, so quiet and muffled save for their breathing and the horses plotting through the snow, did have a way of filling his first few hours with a new sort of wonder and curiosity. Snow was a rare occurrence in the south.

Davos grumbled, pulling his cloak tighter and stifling a shiver.  Not around these tough bastards.  His southern blood still wasn't accustomed to the cold.  The knight travelled North West on Lord Stark’s behest, braving the dropping temperatures.  He was collecting the current census of Houses Mormont and Glover since Ser Jorah and his wife Lynesse fled Bear Island. The growth of the Northern population was important, especially since Queenscrown and Winterhold would need small folk.  It wasn’t in Lord Stark's favor that Galbart, the Master of Deepwood Motte and head of House Glover did not believe that Bear Island could be held by a woman, especially in light of Ser Jorah's actions.  Tensions were high in the area, and House Glover was still disquieted by their Essosi counterparts.  Stubborn fools, he thought .  They can’t see that their Lord is guiding them towards success.  Eddard had given him the task of ensuring that House Glover understood their part in the greater whole.  House Mormont agreed to all of Lord Stark's commands, if only to save face but also to show complete loyalty and deference to their Warden. Part of this trip was to also ascertain the current conditions on the Wolfsroad and Kingsroad, but with all the snow it was a pointless task now.  

“It's not as bad as it could be.” Robett Glover said from his right side as they made their way east on the Wolfsroad, just past Tumbledown Tower. He rode leisurely in a dark red cotton surcoat, a sable fur-lined cloak hung from his shoulders, clasped by a silver mailed fist brooch. “I’ve traveled through snow as tall as a man.”  He finished as their horses cut through the snow at a steady pace; fifteen guards trailed behind them, ten Stark men and five Glover guards, as well as a builder, a stonemason, and his apprentice. The younger of the Glover brothers was traveling to Winterfell to petition his Great Lord to foster his newborn son when he was old enough. The knight thought it much too early, but in truth had no idea how any of that worked.  If asked, he was interested in the details. Mayhaps someone would foster one of my boys? He thought it less than likely, given his humble beginnings. 

A shrill scream pulled him from his thoughts and stopped their horses in their tracks, just as Lord Robett raised a gloved fist and shouted, “Hold!”

“What was that!?” The stonemasons apprentice asked in a trembling voice just as another scream echoed through the trees, making the horses' whinny and bray, stamping on the snow nervously. 

“The sound of a man dying…” a guard responded grimly as it grew silent once more.  Just as Davos took a breath another scream made his horse buck, nearly throwing him as he shouted in surprise. Every man around him grasped the hilt of their weapons, before realizing what happened and breathing lighter. Some chuckled nervously as Ser Davos cheeks reddened and he muttered a hasty apology.

“You alright Ser?” Robett asked. He wasn’t looking at Davos though, his eyes were narrowed, scanning their surroundings. 

“I am.” Davos replied. He gripped the reins of his horse tighter.

“Guards, form up. Three of you with the knight and I. The rest of you protect our passengers and the wains.” He drew his sword now, nodding to Davos’s own that hung at his hip. “You’re like not to use it, but best be prepared, Ser. Stark lands are normally safe, but men get bold when they’re desperate.”  

“Hope I don’t have to.” Davos muttered as he drew his own short sword. 

Robett turned back as the guards shifted and moved around. Two Stark guards and a Glover came forward, leaving the remainder to protect the builder, the mason, his apprentice and all of their supplies and tools. 

Robett nodded to a guard before they began their procession once more, slowly down the Wolfsroad. The Kingsroad wasn’t too far off, and as they came to the crossroads, the intersection of the Wolfsroad and the Kingsroad all looked as normal as could be; snow-laden with animal tracks crossing through. The path leading further East had begun and currently ended near the White Knife. The road would be finished in a year or two, so long as snow doesn’t stop us, he thought grumpily. His usually optimistic demeanor had been sorely tested by the whole journey and the level of cantankery he was forced to endure from the Glovers. Though luckily it seemed Robett was slightly more amenable than his brother. He figured it had something to do with his position or lack of it. No matter where he went, there would always be someone that judged him. He tried to shake it, but the snide Sers and backhanded comments had finally proved irksome. 

“Lord Stark has recalled his working crews?” Robett asked as they came to the intersection, looking around. His sword was placed across his lap. “He should be working the foreigners, not resting them.” Glover finished with a smirk.

“He’s recalled them for the fest,” Davos said.

It wasn’t the first time he reminded him, it likely wouldn’t be the last. Lord Robett Glover and his brother were far removed from the rest of society where Deepwood Motte was located. To a point, he could understand how change could frighten them but house Mormont was adapting well enough.  Sooner than later, reticents would not be a good enough explanation.  Coming from the south and being a ship captain allowed him the time and ability to see what others could offer. He shrugged it off as they began heading south, now on the Kingsroad.

Animal tracks crossed over each other, life is resuming here. His breath still misted around him as they cantered down.  The men relaxed and some guards had even sheathed their swords.  “Have you ever celebrated Bolludagur, Sprengidagur, and Oskudagur, Ser Davos?”

A chuckle escaped him, “No, My Lord.  This will be my first.”

“You’re in for a treat Ser Davos.  The last we celebrated, I was a boy.  Well before the war--”

“MiLords!” one of the Stark guards ahead of them interrupted. 

Every weapon was drawn once more as the guards shifted again.  Two more drove their horses forward spraying them with snow and dirt.   “What is it?”  Robett asked tersely, looking around.  But Davos saw it, between two guards on prancing horses, a slumped form was on the ground, a glimmering pool of red around it. Blood.  

“Body, milord.  Fresh by the looks of it.”

Robett’s lips pressed into a thin white line through his dark brown beard.  “Looks like you might have to use that sword, Ser Davos.”  He looked around now, “Press forward, but prepare to fight or flee at my word.”  He finished and Davos nodded as the guards pressed forward once more.  

“Another one MiLords!” A guard behind them shouted.  “In the bushes.  I see tracks though.”

“What tracks?”  Robett asked. “Can you tell?”

“I see tracks too.”  The mason's apprentice replied.  Davos looked over his shoulder.  The boy was leaning over the side of the cart.   “They're big.  I-I don't know milord.”  Jory had told Davos that wolves were common enough.  Bears could be found, but typically stuck to tree cover and closer to the mountains.  They were recluses, and more often than not, frightened of men.  Mountain lions were, well, in the mountains so it was highly unlikely they would encounter one.  Davos was no tracker, but as they passed the first remains, he couldn't see how anything but a bear could tear a man in half.  He heard the stonemason say something to his apprentice but was too focused on the body as they neared it.  

“Gods, another.”  A guard muttered as they pressed forward.  This one’s head was a mangled mess, too much of a mess to actually be considered a head at all.  

“What could have done that?” Davos asked as they rode by.  

“I don't know, and I don't want to find out,”  Robett replied.  “We will report this to Lord Stark, he will see to the bodies.  We would be best served getting to safety before the sun sets.” The tracks were clear near this body.  “Those aren't bear tracks,”  Robett muttered as they rode by, brow furrowed.  He grasped his sword and stopped his horse before dismounting and stepping through the snow.  He knelt down and studied the tracks.  “I do not know what these belong to.” He sounded unsure as he looked up and around.  “But there's more. Smaller ones that meet these animals, headed south. A boy or girl, or half-man.”  He looked up at Davos before standing and mounting his horse.  

“Prepare yourself.  I don't know what is ahead of us.”

They resumed moving forward, slower now as every man was on high alert.  Whatever creature was traveling the Kingsroad, it was dangerous, even more so if it was controlled by someone.  That is what he alluded to, isn't it? Davos questioned, looking over to Lord Robett who remained as stoic as any northerner as they moved slowly down the Kingsroad.  The tree cover would end soon, he saw, leading them to open plains.  They followed the tracks, which brazenly made their way through the center of the Kingsroad.  Their path led up the north side of a small hill that they couldn't see over.  “Hold!”  Robett shouted, once more.  

“We have two options, send one man over to assess and hail us or crest as a group.”  He looked over his shoulder, back to where the dead men were.  “By the looks of those men, they were picked apart one by one.  I say we come over the hill together and slay whatever beast awaits us rather than risk being torn asunder like those unfortunate souls.”

The guards nodded in agreement, voicing their concurrence as some murmured amongst each other, but all of them prepared.  Davos drew his sword once more and nodded his ready, taking a deep breath as he wrapped the reins around his left hand a few times, gripping them tighter.  “I’ve never fought on horseback, so this may be a sight for some of you.” 

“There’s always a first mi’lord.” a Stark guard said, he remembered him. 

“That there is Tom.” he replied with a nod and what he hoped was a kind smile before reminding himself to scowl ever so slightly as he turned back to the task at hand.  FatTom, if I’m remembering right.  

Lord Robett pointed his sword forward, “Men, we march.” Robett nodded ahead before turning in his saddle.  “You lot wait for our signal. If there is none, then you know we are done for and the best you can hope for is a swift death,” he said to the group accompanying them.  What more can be said, Davos thought. He turned his head and nodded to the stonemason who nodded back, ashen-faced and resigned.  

“Ride!”  Glover shouted, and they did, though Davos had wished they could move forward a bit quieter, he followed, heels in his horses' sides.  Their mounts lunged ahead, struggling against the snow as they rode up the Kingsroad in a loose line with Davos shoulder to shoulder with Robett and FatTom.  

One Glover guard broke their formation and took the lead coming over the hill ahead of them, crying out as he did.  “By the God’s!” he heard Robett exclaim as he followed.  The sun's light reflected from the snow blinding him as he came over the hill forcing him to squint, and allow his eyes to adjust to the burst of brightness; and as they did he was forced to behold the most astounding, and astonishing; heart-stopping scene he’d ever been witness to.  

A great silver beast had sprung up and crouched down menacingly.  Its size was... its enormous . Clearly it wasn't a creature of this land. Or this world. For how could it be?  Wolves were not the sizes of horses, for that's what that was, isn't it?   It bore the tell tale signs of a wolf, just on a much grander scale.  Its muzzle was reddened by blood, and dagger sized teeth were barred. The image of the torn man and the mangled head flashed in his mind's eyes.  The sunlight caught its narrowed gold eyes, as the beast crouched down lower, massive muscled shoulders rippling as it rolled them in anticipation, its tail a rigid line and silver fur fluffed up in an intimidation tactic.  Consider me adequately intimidated, he thought as the creature continued to watch them malevolently, willing harm on them should they make a foolish move.  It moved, subtly and the wind carried with it a spine chilling, deep, throaty growl and even with the distance between them, Davos could feel its presence. The beast shifted its position once more, likely to the men beside him and that's when Davos realized, It’s protecting something .  He saw a familiar hint of auburn and a flutter of grey cloth.  His hand began to drop, “Something is off about this.”

“Aye, you fool, that's a fucking monster!” Robett snarled.

He heard agreement, but not from the Stark men.  From the corners of his eyes, he saw them; they looked not frightened, but nervous. “Tom.”  Davos said, softly.  “Tom, what is it?”

“I think th--”

“Doesn't matter what it is, kill that beast!” Robett shouted.

“Don’t!” Tom and Davos returned, the knight on sheer instinct.  But it was Robett’s gloved fist that met his defiance, as he tumbled from his horse, blood spouting from his nose.  He saw nothing as he fell.  He hit the ground hard, forcing the air from his lungs and sending him sputtering.   Davos rolled over and away from the riderless horse and scampered and crawled through the snow and dirt, gasping for air.  As life returned to him, he heard the peculiar thwang of a bow as an arrow was loosed.  He rolled over in time to see the missile fly through the air, aimed at the beast.  

“No!” The voice of a boy he did not recognize shouted, darting from behind the wolf and standing in the arrow's path. “Oh gods,” Davos whispered.  He closed his eyes, he couldn't watch a child die.

But surprised gasps and muttering is what he heard.  He opened his eyes and the boy was still standing.  Wisps of smoke trailed through the air and ash sprinkled to the ground.  The smell of burnt wood met his nose, even through the blood.  He spat out a mouthful of reddened phlegm, “What just happened?” he asked, confused, as he stood up.  The arrow was gone.  In front of the creature stood a little boy, equally as surprised as them, but no less defiant.  “J-Jon?” He heard FatTom ask before two other children ran around the beast, two children he did recognize.  

“Seven hells...Robb and Sansa?”  This entire situation was becoming more and more ludicrous.   If he heard FatTom correctly, then that was Eddard Stark’s other little boy.  The missing one.

He heard a horse move behind him, and turned to it.  Robett Glover pressed his lips together and scowled at him before looking on, wide-eyed and nervous, the full extent of what could have happened hitting him.  “Told you not to do it.” Davos said, returning to his horse. He could be angry at the man but would settle on Eddard’s reaction, which was bound to be much more severe than his own.   He wiped his face off and touched his nose.  It was tender, but not broken, so far as he could tell.  He’d need to see the Maester when they returned.  He remounted, and patted the worried horse, thanking the Stark guard that had taken his mount's reins.  

“Right, Tom, you seem to be more knowledgeable than me, so tell me what is it?” Davos asked, narrowing his brown eyes at an abashed Lord Glover.  

“It's a Direwolf m'lord, any Stark man and true northerner could tell you that.” The guard replied, shooting a withering glare at the Glover guards.  Nothing was said about the strangeness that occurred.  What could be said? An arrow was fired, a child should have died, but did not.  There would be some anger, but ultimately happiness rather than a funeral and a potential massacre.  He did not want to think of what Eddard would have done to Lord Robett should his son have been struck. Morbidly, House Reyne came to mind.  He shook his head, there was nothing left to explain amongst them. Don’t lie to yourself Seaworth, something queer just happened, and like it or not questions will be asked.  He pushed all of those thoughts aside focusing on the group, channeling his inner Eddard and Stannis.  

“And a Direwolf is the sigil of House Stark, so if it needs killing, it should be Lord Stark that decides.”  He looked around at the men, “Are we all in agreement?”

“You do not command me, Southroner.” Robett growled.  

“With all respect, My Lord.”  he’d never been more thankful for the little Lady’s lessons than then.  “In this matter I do.  I am Lord Stark’s chief naval advisor, on loan through The Crown of the Seven Kingdoms, under the direct authority of Lord Eddard Stark himself.  We are on Stark lands, with Stark guards.  Not to mention, that the entirety of the North is Stark lands as your Warden and Great Lord.”  Davos cleared his throat and furrowed his brow.  “I was given a duty, and the safe return of his children coincides with that duty.  Lord Stark will decide what happens to that direwolf, and if you choose not to listen to me, these Stark guards will be forced to ensure you do.” His voice was firmer than he felt, but a few years in the north and he’d learned a thing or two about standing on his own.  To his relief, the Stark guards moved forward and around forming a semi-circle around Lord Glover and the five Glover guards.  

“Will you respect my command, Lord Glover?” Davos asked.  

Robett looked around, nostrils flaring as he nodded tersely.  “Aye.”

“Thank you, My Lord. Sheath your weapons and knock your arrows.  Lord Stark will not be pleased to learn that you fired on three of his children.”

“Three!” Robett's eyes widened. It was common knowledge that Lord Stark had one other son, with dark hair and purple eyes, but as far as the North knew he was across the Narrow Sea. “ That is the bastard?” Some of the Stark guards sucked air through their teeth, others eyes widened, all in surprise.  Even some of the Glover guards who had sheathed their weapons and fallen in line, looking ashamed and nervous, made shocked faces.  

“You forget yourself My Lord, that is Jon Stark.”  The lilt of his flea bottom accent peaked through.  “Legitimized by King Robert, the First of His Name, and decreed by the Lord Hand Jon Arryn and thus trueborn son of Lord Eddard Stark.  Best not to forget that again My Lord, it will be seen as a deep offense to the boy and his house; your liege's house.” It had the intended effect as Robett looked away once more, doubly abashed. Eddard had seen to all of it some years ago, and he himself had delivered the royal decree signed by the King and The Hand. Davos turned to Tom, “Send a rider ahead, to Winterfell, tell them to bring Lord Stark along.  There are some wolf pups on the loose, and don't forget about our friends at the base of the hill.”

“Aye, mi’lord.” FatTom said, nodding to one of their guards and relaying the message, sending him ahead, before commanding one of the Glover guards to return down the hill and retrieve their passengers. 

Davos turned his horse, “Come on then, we have some children to rescue.” He pressed his heels into the side of his mount, trodding down the gentle slope.  His horse began to fight his command, alarm rising the closer they got to the direwolf.  “It's alright girl.” he muttered softly, “Scared or not, I'm sure if that beast wanted it, we would be dead before we realized what was happening.” No pretty words could prepare him or the horse for such a creature.

“Robb, Sansa?”

Benjen

“Do we have a trail?” Eddard asked, voice a low gravelly tenor, barely contained rage deepening his northern brogue, his eyes flashed as they rounded a corner headed down a south leading hallway.  

“Jory said they found a point of exit and two trails leading away from Winterfell, through the Huntersgate and into the Wolfswood.” Benjen answered. 

“We must be quick, fresh snowfall can be misleading.” Eddard finished in a hurry as he rushed down the hallway, sable fur-lined cloak billowing out behind him. Benjen kept pace; several House Stark guards sticking close to them. Their hands were on the pommels of their swords and their lips thin white lines. Most of their faces were hidden by beards and a chain mail hood with a half helm.  Dark eyes watched for danger to their lord and his younger brother.  

Guard detail increased when it was found that Sansa was missing as well. Catelyn suffered a fainting spell upon the news from Septa Anska who’d been waiting for her for prayers, and the smashed chair in the family suites entryway bore testament to Eddard’s sudden fury; a fury Benjen had never seen before. The children had been corralled around a pale and still comatose Lady Catelyn and worried Maester Lewyn before thirty of their best guards were left to protect their family as Eddard swept through the main keep and Benjen rushed to keep pace, surprised by his brother's swiftness. Pupils a pinprick in a silver deluge, Eddard rammed the great oaken doors ahead of him open, shouldering through to a myriad of sounds and a yard full of moving men and women. The cold northern air bit at their exposed faces; horses neighed and brayed as the stable hands led them out and hounds barked in the background. Rodrick was standing amidst a handful of armed men shouting orders and forming the men up, his gloved hands moved this way and that as he pointed and gave directives, though all fell silent as their great lord came out. Hundreds of eyes fell on Eddard, most widening in surprise by the sight of his slighter shadow in the form of Benjen.  Shocked murmurs at the sight of the young lord sent ripples amongst the collected people of Winterfell. 

“Lord Ben.” He heard. “Rickards youngest has come home.” Someone else said amidst the whispering and murmuring. The castle was awake, but most had been caught in their morning rituals and victuals. They couldn’t leave the keep unguarded. If someone were targeting members of their house they would need the guardsmen and Stark soldiers to combat the threat, but the numbers here would be enough to send a search party. 

His brother wasted no time, “Robb and Sansa are missing.”  There was muttering, suspicious eyes looked around and whispers were heard as the message met its mark. “We do not know that they were taken, but we must act as such. Hounds will lead the way, followed by riders going north, east, south, and west. Rodrick will lead the party going East. Jory will lead the party South. Hallis and Alyn will go West. Benjen and I will track North, thirty men to each group. We will return to the statue in Wintertown center by sunset.”

A chorus of agreement met him as everyone began to separate, forming into groups as Ned walked through the center. “You think I had something to do with this, that’s why you want me with you, isn’t it?” Ben asked. 

Ned paused and looked at him, he could see the worry in his elder brothers' very grey eyes, “I have very little reason to trust you right now Ben, but I am. And as you said, you were in a cell all night.” He breathed, before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let us find my son and daughter, and then we can talk about reestablishing trust.” 

Ben nodded, “Aye.” To bring Jon home, they had to start somewhere. 

Ned led them to the stables, the men made a path, humbly offering deference to their liege. “Here you are mi’lords.” Hullen said, offering them the reins of two fresh stallions. “Ben and I will take lead--”

“Do you think that wise mi’lord” an off duty member of his cavalry interrupted. His brown eyes grew wide under his helm when he realized what he had done, his cheeks flushed.  “Beggin your forgiveness, mi’lord.  I only meant for your safety.”

Ben chuckled as Ned replied, “No forgiveness needed.  My face is known in the North, no matter where I am I am a target.  If my children are under duress, I want them to see a face they will immediately recognize, rather than cause more panic.”

The men murmured in agreement.  “Some of you may never have met my brother, this is Benjen Stark.” He put a hand on his shoulder now. “You will listen to everything he says as if the command were mine. Is that understood?”

A chorus of ayes and head nods met Eddards command before he told them all to mount up.  Swinging onto his saddle was as familiar to him as eating, hunting, fighting, or fucking.  Though this time the nerves in his gut, the wriggling worms were not from excitement, but a gnawing worry, and for the life of him, he hadn't the slightest idea why.  At times he was convinced he had a sixth sense, a peculiarity that he could never rely on and typically made him feel like he needed to shit, but a sixth sense nonetheless.  

“We make our way through the Northgate and Wintertown and then on to the Kingsroad and continue north.  I want us to spread out, and be careful in your approach.  Don't push your horse unnecessarily.” Eddard's horse cantered in front of theirs before he pulled the reins and moved to the northern gates, the echoes and clicks of horse hooves grew louder as they met stone.  He remembered this sight vividly, though it was night then and much less populated.  Jon was crying on his lap, bundled up tight in a cloak much too big for him.  He’d been scared, unsure, especially once he sent Hodor on his way; the gentle giant.  I need to check in on him.  The gates opened, the drawbridge lowered, the looming towers even more imposing than he remembered as they made their way between Winterfell's curtain walls, his eyes finding the blackened murder holes above him; but a shout drew their attention.  Eddard stopped his horse and rose a gloved fist.  “Rider Mi’lord!” A guardsman that stood on the parapets above the gatehouse shouted down.  Well obviously, he thought.  Another shout, this time frantic as the rider became visible, snow and dirt flying around him as he drove his steed forward.  He couldn’t hear what the man was shouting, but whatever it was, he was in a state. Eddard looked to Benjen, both coming to an agreement before they spurred their horses forward, the men following closely behind.  

“Hail! Rider!” Benjen shouted from his brother's side as they approached.  The man's armor gave him away, one of ours.  

“Lord…”  He paused, confused, taking deep breaths and looking between Benjen and Eddard for a moment before shaking his head and coming to some unknown decision. “Lord...I mean Lord’s Stark?”  It was more of a question neither of them were sure how to answer, though what surprised him was the fact the man knew who he was, yet he did not know him. The worms in his guts wriggled more.   “I was with the group that rode to Deepwood Motte and Bear Island.”

Eddard’s face paled, “Aye, with Ser Davos.”  Who’s Ser Davos? Benjen thought .  He looked the Stark soldier over, just as Eddard did the same.  There weren't any outward signs of injury, but if they were set upon they may have sent a rider ahead.  “Gods what’s happened?  Only you’ve returned?” Eddard asked.  

The soldier leaned back in the saddle and to their surprise, he chuckled, “No mi’lord. We ran into a bit of trouble, and came upon quite a sight.”

Eddard and Benjen shared a look, “My children?”

“Aye my lord, but--” The soldier began, but Eddard interrupted him.  

“What’s happened to them?”

The rider shook his head, “They are...” he hesitated which immediately made Benjen wary. “They are well m’lords.” The guardsmen looked between them once more, peculiarly calm.  “I reckon It’s best if you follow me.” 

Vaegon

“...That’s a direwolf.” Robb said matter of fact as he approached them unafraid.  Sansa remained where she was, wide blue eyes on the wolf.  

Vaegon nodded,  “Aye, Stormsong, but I call her Stormy.” he said, looking to Sansa and continuing, “She’s kind. At least to me.” The wolf invaded their space, getting a squeal from his sister as she stumbled back but caught herself on Robb's arm just as the direwolf jabbed Robb in the chest and stomach with her snout getting some laughs from the boy before she tussled his hair and then returned to Vegg’s side, gold eyes now on Sansa as she stepped forward.

“Can I...pet her?” Sansa timidly asked.

Vaegon shrugged “You can, but you must remember she is a wolf, not a dog.”  Sansa withdrew her hand before the direwolf lowered its massive head to the girl's height, allowing her to cautiously approach, only to hesitate when Stormy moved closer.  A smile lit her face when her hand found the fur. “She’s beautiful.”

Robb took a breath as the pair faced each other, silence swallowed them as the trio took each other in before he spoke. “Been a while, brother.”

Vegg nodded, face solemn. “Aye, it has.” He’d imagined this moment hundreds, if not thousands of times as he fell asleep.  So many scenarios passed through his head, but now, standing here, he felt very unsure.  Does he know? He questioned it then, their bond, because in truth it was built on a lie.  A mound formed in his stomach and suddenly he was the Bastard of Winterfell again, the purple-eyed curiosity.  The shame of House Stark,  Jon Snow.  He felt his chest tighten,  I hate that name.  It was his shame, the name he associated with hatred he couldn’t understand and tears he didn’t want. The name of a boy that was forgotten, the name of someone without an Uncle Aemon, or an Uncle Benjen, or Lady El or Ser Alliser...the name of a bastard.  I'm not a bastard, he had to remind himself . He swallowed, he’d forgotten this feeling and truthfully didn't know he could remember it.  He extended his hand, slowly. Robb looked down, brows furrowing before pushing it aside, and before Vaegon knew what was happening, he’d fallen over as his brother's solid form collided with him sending them sprawling into the snow.  

The feeling was gone, replaced with surprise and then relief as Robb rolled off of him and Sansa giggled at her brothers, embarrassed for them, her cheeks a rosy pink as she sniffled.  Vaegon took his brother's extended hand, a small smile on his face now as Robb helped him stand.  Stormsong had leaped up, tongue lolling out of her mouth and panting; her tail wagged, gold eyes watching the Starklings.  “A shake of our hands? Seven years and you give me your hand?”  Robb shook his head.  “Seven years Jon.” Robb muttered, wiping snow from himself.  He looked up at his brother, and despite his tone, he was smiling.   

“What are you doing out here?” Vaegon asked, as he stumbled back but caught himself.

Robb looked up, perplexed for a moment before mimicking his earlier action and shrugging.  “Bringing my brother home.” And the smile on Vaegon’s cheeks grew. 

“It's very cold, can we go home now?” Sansa asked, making the brothers chuckle before they pulled Sansa between them as they turned to march home.  Robb looked over to him, grey hued Tully blue eyes excited, “What was Es--”

He heard the horses before he heard the voices, and anger replaced his happiness and excitement. Not again.   Stormsong had spun around and crouched low, teeth bared in the direction they had come from.  Her girth blocked most of their view north, but the swirls of snow rising above the hill told him all he needed to know.  “Bandits.”  

Robb's jaw tensed and Sansa gasped and whimpered, her eyes wide in fear.  “Stormy and I dealt with them earlier, I thought she finished them all.”  He cursed his luck for the millionth time.  He was so close, yet there was always something in his way.  Frustration seeped in as they all crouched behind the snarling direwolf.  Robb pulled Sansa behind them both when they heard someone shout.  From underneath Stormsong and between her legs Vaegon could see that the men had formed a line at the top of the hill.  Alliser had told him that it was best to have the high ground, you could rain hell on an enemy for hours if you were provisioned correctly.  If these bandits had any clue, then he knew what their formation meant, they all have bows or there’s an archer.   

His brother must have come to the same conclusion, “I could shout for them to surrender?” Robb asked, his voice was surprisingly calm despite Sansa’s panicked breathing, “Tell them who I am?”, but Vaegon shook his head.  

“No, they're highwaymen, they likely wouldn't care, wouldn't believe us, or will ransom us.”  The direwolves' deep tremulous growl reverberated through them all.  She was like a silver wall of living flesh, built for murder. I wouldn't be the first Targaryen to be ransomed, he thought, thinking of Viserys II just then , but they wouldn't know that.  He could see the horses but not the men.  They shuffled strangely before he saw one rear and a man hit the snow.  There was some sort of scuffle amongst the bandits, a shout he thought and then he heard the sound he’d feared.  The whistle of an arrow shooting through the air forced his legs to move of their own accord.  

“Jon don’t!” His brother shouted, reaching for his cloak to stop him, but Vaegon scrambled around Stormsong, panic lancing through his body, muscles burning with nervous and frightened energy as he stumbled around her mass and threw himself in the arrows path; arms outstretched, he closed his eyes and shouted with all of his might, “No!” he knew how foolish of a decision this was, he fully expected a surge of pain to shoot through his body.  

But a bloom of warmth erupted in front of him, and his eyes opened in time to see the tail feathers of the arrow swallowed by a wisp of white flame as the missile was rendered to nothing but ash and smoke on the wind. “Again?” He questioned, his arms dropping to his side as he stared ahead, confused by this second occurrence, liking it even less as this time he’d been observed doing something peculiar.  It was silent for a moment before Robb and Sansa came around Stormsong, who relaxed, marginally, but was still crouched down, ready to act should she need to.  

“What happened!?” His brother asked as he came to him, Sansa’s hand in his. Their sister looked terrified, working her bottom lip.    

He didn't know, nor did he know how to explain that he didn't know.  So instead he ignored the question altogether, “I’m okay, I think.”  he looked himself over and patted himself down, looking around once more.  “So is Stormy.”

“Robb, Sansa?” A man on a horse shouted as he came down the slope garbed in a thick brown outer cloak.  He’s the one that fell , he realized, by the stains on his cloak. He saw no sigil that he recognized, and Uncle Aemon and Lady Elaenor had ensured he memorised many.  His horse fought him the closer he got to their group, the direwolves' presence inviting the fear.  She was a predator and it was prey, the horse understood this, but so far as he could tell, the man did not.  But the rider stopped and waved to them, some twenty feet away as Stormsong prowled to Vaegons left. Mayhaps I was wrong, he chuckled inwardly.  The rider was older than Uncle Benjen and Father, but not so old as to be an old man. He smiled what would have been a kind smile, had he not had a red stained face and blood in his otherwise brown beard.  “I’m assuming then, that you...are Jon?” 

Vaegons purple eyes narrowed in suspicion, he was unaware of Robb’s growing smile before he felt his brother's arm wrap around his shoulders.  “Aye, Ser Davos, this is my barely younger brother, Jon Stark.”

Eddard

Affecting a face of calm and neutrality was at times the hardest thing he could do.  It took control, control that he wasn't always certain he had.  Thankfully as he was in front of all but one man, control wasn't necessary.  Each line in his face was etched with worry, a deep worry, mixed with an underlying anger and frustration.  His usually silvery grey eyes were like thunderheads under his furrowed brows.  Robb loved his brother, even after all these years.  He’d always threatened that one day he would leave and go find Jon.  Eddard had thought it all talk, talk that made him proud because their bond remained but talk nonetheless.  He'd never thought to bring these words to Catelyn because he earnestly believed they were the words of a boy that desired adventure.  

I should have known Robb would do it.

He’d sworn never to allow his anger to erupt around his children, but Bran had seen him, as had Benjen, when it was learned Sansa was missing as well. His son was already scared enough, but the surprise in Benjens eyes startled him back to himself.  Benjen had to speak to Jory, for the fury Eddard had felt was much too raw. His captain-of-guard shouldn’t have been the one to blame, but who else could he assign fault? Robb was stubborn, sometimes to a fault.  I’ll need to apologize , he conceded, once more thinking of his eldest son.  Left to his own devices the boy had vanished on more than one occasion only to be found where he ought not to be.  He’d found him deep in the crypts once shortly after his fifth nameday searching for his missing brother, and another time at the highest point his little legs could reach in the broken tower doing much the same.  

Since Benjen and Jon disappeared he’d taken a deep interest in his children; something not many lords, greater or minor, regularly did.  Oftentimes he would observe them in silence, sometimes finding himself waking in the night and roaming the quieted halls of Winterfell, checking on each and every one of them.  Theon Greyjoy had been given Jon’s old rooms after his last fight with Robb, so he no longer went that far.  The Iron Islander had told Robb that his bastard brother was probably a slave by now, and as such he deserved the room they spared for him in the family suite.  No one will speak ill of my brother, least of all a hostage! Robb shouted after.  Three lashes, a stern talking to, and from that night on Theon spent the night in the room Jon had once slept in as punishment because that is what those rooms were, i just did not recognize it, an undeserving punishment he’d immediately sought to remedy .   That was almost two years ago now, he thought as his horse galloped through the snow, still following the Stark rider.  

And remedy it he’d tried.  It was no more than a moon later that Davos arrived with the declaration of Jon’s legitimization.  Though his boy was not there, the least he could do was right a wrong that he should have righted long ago.  With the declaration of Jon’s status and title change, as well as renaming came his own quiet and less verbal command that Jon was no longer to be referred to as the Bastard of Winterfell or whatever other monikers they had come up with for him around the castle, because in truth Eddard hated it.  Jon was a Stark, with his blood and now his name.  Whispers and whisperers be damned, he deserves that and more.

The guard's horse began to slow and he followed suit, drawing himself from his thoughts.  “Around this bend Milord”  He said, slowing to a trot.  

The Wolfswood cleared, leading out to an open field of white with snow-capped bushes and another copse of trees that sprung up in the distance.  He knew the land well, even blanketed in snow.  The Kingsroad wound its way up and then down a hill to the northeast and then wrapped back around resuming its northern path back into the remains of the northernmost Wolfswood until the Wolfsroad intersection. But this time, it wasn't the beauty of the snow and windswept North that caught the air in his lungs, but the sight at the base of the hill.  

He heard his brothers gasp just as his horse whickered next to him.  “God’s.” Ben breathed, “Ned, is that--”  

“--A direwolf.”  Eddard finished, nodding, eyes as wide as saucers.  

“There hasn't been a direwolf south of The Wall in hundreds of years,” Benjen said, just as amazed and mystified as he was.  Even from a great distance, Eddard could tell the wolf was big.  

“Aye, milords.” The rider said.  “We thought you ought to decide what happens to it, but..”  He pointed, “That's not it.”

Ned squinted, brows furrowing before he realized what that meant.  He drove his horse forward at a slow pace, raising a hand to keep the men where they were.  Benjen stayed at his side as they approached. “Lord Stark!” Davos' very recognizable voice called to him.  It was then he saw his daughter, and a sense of relief washed over him as their horses approached, some of the tenseness abating.  They stopped some ten feet away from the wolf, eyes never leaving the creature, before dismounting just as Robb’s head popped around the side of Ser Davos, a wide smile on his face.  “Father!” He called, stepping to the side just as Davos did the same. Benjen gasped again, drawing his attention once more before he realized why.

…

…

He’d never truly understood tears of joy, why would anyone weep to show happiness; but up until then, he could count on one hand how often he’d had them.  Were he true to himself he wished the ones he felt now hadn’t escaped so openly; but the overwhelming succor and sudden happiness, the confusion mired by frustration, all with the ever ebbing sense of worry receding into the nethers of his mind, was worth being seen by his men at the moment if what he was seeing was true. His breath faltered and his heart stopped and he was forced to blink, more than once and with purpose.  “Jon?” He whispered, swallowing hard, just as the boy's so familiar indigo eyes widened.  There was a moment of silence, where Ned looked to Benjen, both of them so utterly and profoundly confused by the situation before the boy with the indigo eyes opened his mouth, “Papa?” And before he knew it, he was falling back as a small dark-haired blur collided with his chest.  He only then realized that at some point his legs had carried him forward, and he was very close to the direwolf.  But there was no fear, he was laughing, he realized as he sat up, covered in snow, only for Robb and Sansa to join him on the ground in a very un-Lordly display of affection for his children.  

He pulled Jon in for a hug and held him tight, his nose resting on the top of his head.  He took a shaky breath before releasing him and holding him at arm's length, eyes still wide.  “Wha-what are you doing here?”  He looked over at Benjen whose face was a cloud of confusion, his lips pursed and eyes narrowed despite the moment. 

“That's what I’d like to know?”  Benjen said, jaw tensing as he crossed his arms.  

Ah, he realized. This wasn't planned.  Jon had the decency to go red and look away, abashed, “I wanted to come home.” he muttered, but was saved from answering by Robb pummeling his Uncle with his weight.  “Uncle Benjen!” He shouted, his younger brother laughing as he hoisted his nephew up in the air before dropping him down, turning to his niece, and scooping her up into his arms despite the dirt and muck that stuck to her cloak and boots.  

“...and then she found me in the woods.” Jon said. All those around him were curious as to how a boy of one and ten came to be in the company of a direwolf. 

Ben shook his head, there was no way he could punish him or question him fully at the moment, there was no way he could even broach the subject without giving away that Jon hadn’t been in Essos. With Lord Glover in their returning party, Ben explained that they had been in the North, with House Umber having docked at Eastwatch to see The Wall.   It was partially true, and Eddard understood that the best lies held a grain of truth.  From there they made their way to Last Hearth and then Winterfell. Jon seemed to catch on as his story started from Last Hearth. Robett said nothing, though he couldn’t look Eddard in the eye which troubled him. The Glover guards seemed tense around this many Stark men, their hands never left the pommels and hilts of their weapons. Why are they so wary? He thought, noticing the group surrounding their lord awkwardly. It surely couldn’t be because of the direwolf? All three of his children were comfortable around it. I’ll get a better report from Ser Davos , he thought. Eddard was oblivious to the dark glances and questioning looks Lord Glover and his guards gave Jon. 

They were returning to Winterfell now; himself and Benjen, Ser Davos, Jon, Robb, Sansa, and the group Ser Davos had ridden with as well as the thirty men that had accompanied Eddard and his brother. They rode slower this time, the immense direwolves gait matching their horses at a gentle trot. He was mesmerized by the creature. Even as Jon told them of his last sennight, he couldn't take his eyes from the wolf who he only just realized was pregnant, which brought with it a whole slew of problems he didn't want to think about.  Oddly, he had the most irritating feeling he’d met her before, but for the life of him couldn't place it.  The problem being that if he’d seen a direwolf at any other time, he was certain he would remember it. Especially one like her.  But that suspicion never left, nagging and pestering him as a horsefly would.  Why do I know this wolf? He kept asking himself.

“Aye, we saw the body’s.” His brow furrowed as Davos replied to something Jon said.   

Ned turned his attention back to his son, though the wolf was still within view.  “How many were there?” He rode with Jon. Robb rode with Benjen and Sansa with Ser Davos, she trusted the knight. 

Jon looked over to the wolf as she padded alongside them. “I’m not sure, father.” He said softly. “They caught me unaware, but Stormsong saved me, again.” He looked at the wolf once more, still amazed. Jon could easily ride her, he thought, mildly amused.

“She sounds like a good companion, and surprisingly tame around horses and men.” He told his son.

Jon seemed to ponder that for a moment, “I think she’s been around men, North of the Wall.” What did Jon know of north of the wall? He sincerely hoped it was merely a byproduct of his life on this Solitude. It was becoming clearer and clearer that he was going to have to go there himself.

Eddard nodded, “Mayhaps you’re right.”

“Or the Old God’s speak through her.” Benjen called, echoing a thought he’d had moments earlier. Robb was chatting his ear off as they rode, and Sansa had drifted off to sleep against the knight. He’d expected Jon to be more talkative but the boy remained relatively quiet, now that he’d finished telling his story; he was looking around, his purple eyes taking everything in as if it was the first time he’d seen it. Eddard was certain he’d have to hear the tale once more and in greater detail because he was sure quite a bit had been left out; there were too many lengthy pauses and some of it didn't add up.  If Benjen didn't know he was here, then how did he get over from the Island?   

They were less than a mile outside of Wintertown, the sun only just setting when Eddard spotted the riders approaching. The banners outed them as House Stark men before Jory came into view, Theon Greyjoy riding at his side. Two guards rode behind them, one carrying the banners the other as surly as any man forced to spend their day chasing a pointless trail. His captain's face broke into a grin at the sight of the group before they moved to the wolf and he drew his horse up suddenly.  The mare balked, nearly throwing him off before he recovered and rode in a circle with the three behind him stopping short, hands-on their weapons, in Theon's case, a bow.  

“It's a Freak!”  Greyjoy exclaimed.  

Jon tensed, “It's a direwolf you bloody squid!” but it was Robb that replied.  

Theon’s cheeks reddened, but with Ned there he had sense enough to stay quiet.  “Robb.”  Ned said, but could feel Jons shaking as he struggled to hide a laugh. Theon's eyes narrowed as they focused on Jon, but he looked away rather than saying anything more.  Eddard shook his head, doing much the same as Jon but he successfully channeled it into a frown.  It was hard to escape the good feelings he felt, especially since his family was now more whole than it had been in almost ten years.    

Robb sighed, “Sorry father.”  

“The gods must be smiling on us!”  Jory laughed, though he stayed where he was, wary of the direwolf.  

Eddard nodded, “I think they are.”  He pat Jon’s shoulder before their horse resumed its trot, Jory’s group falling into line with his.  “Have any of the men returned besides you?”

“Aye, My Lord, Hallis and Alyn await you at Wintertown Square.  We only await Ser Rodrick.”

“Send a few men in his direction.  Let them know the search is over and they may return, Robb and Sansa are safe.”  he looked down, “And tell him my son has returned home.”

“Aye My Lord.” Jory pulled away from their group and rode back to the men he’d come with, leaving Theon with them, but Ned paid him no mind.  

“How are you feeling Jon?”

His son looked up and yawned, making Eddard chuckle as Jon's cheeks reddened.  “Tired.”

“Your journey was long and it sounded as if rest was not an option.”

Jon shook his head, “It wasn't.  I forgot the supplies for a tent.”

Eddard scoffed, “Gods what is my brother teaching you? You forgot supplies for a tent?”  They both chuckled.  “That is essential to any journey, even ones you shouldn't take alone.”

“I’m sorry father,”  Jon said, remorsefully.  

Eddard smiled, “It's not me you should apologize to, but Uncle Ben.”  

Jon nodded against him, but Eddard continued, “I missed you, Jon.” 

“I missed you too father,”  Jon said softly.  

And Eddard realized just then how much he truly missed his son, not his nephew. As a babe, he hadn’t understood why no nursemaid besides Wylla could silence him, and she had only remained until they arrived at Starfall. At first he thought that the babe was grieving in his own infantile way.  Taking him for a ride, just like he did now or holding him and walking Winterfell’s halls was the only way to calm him; it wasn’t until years later that he learned no nursemaid dealt with Jon for very long out of fear of Catelyn.

Wintertown came into view, with it the signs of life: smoke billowing from chimneys, children running back and forth across the walkways and streets.  People began to bunch up along the main roadway as the guards sounded their approaching horns, signifying their Lord’s return.  “There are so many people,” Jon muttered in astonishment.

“Aye.”  Ned replied, their horses cantering along.  “Much has changed, the North is growing.  The wars struck us hard my son.” He nodded ahead of him.  “It struck our people even harder. Men and boys died long before their time, and we needed help.”  He couldn't explain the other half of his motivation. That he wanted no part of the South and their politics; his intent was to keep his family safe, keep Jon safe, and so long as Robert remained King, his son’s life depended on it. 

“The Freecities have men and women that are searching for a way to live.  Many of them are capable tradesmen that would find life difficult in Essos because of their past in slavery. Here, markings on their body mean nothing. They have a chance to truly be free and never worry about enslavement again.  Here they can work for their keep, find a home, work their land, and live.  Trade directly across the Narrow Sea also happens to cost us far less than trade with the Southrons.”

Jon pondered that for a moment. “Uncle Ben trades across the Narrow Sea and Westeros.” He paused. “Sometimes I count the figures for my lessons.” That interested Ned.

“Uncle Ben didn’t find you a tutor?”

Jon opened his mouth to speak just as they crossed into Wintertown but paused, distracted by the people coming out of their homes. They watched wide eyed and curious, muttering in common, as well as bastard Valyrian. He didn’t press his son, he’d learned early on from Robb that was a fool's errand. It was as they neared the center of Wintertown that he heard Jon’s surprised breath.

“Is that?”

Eddard nodded, “It is.”  He said softly so that only they could hear. “The Winter Rose of Winterfell and her little dragon.” My cub, he thought. He could say no more around their current company but hoped the subtle nod was enough acknowledgment of his true parentage for the moment.

Jon looked up at the statue, eyes wide. “She’s beautiful.”

“Aye she was. We can visit the crypts this evening once you’ve bathed and rested or we can go on the morrow.”

Jon looked thoughtful for a moment, “Can we go tonight?” He asked, Eddard nodded and Jon smiled just barely, “Thank you, father.”

He pulled their horse away from the statue and cantered to the group, giving an appreciative head nod to Hallis, Alyn, and the remainder of the riders.  “I thank you, men, for your haste.” He looked them over. Robb with his uncle, an unfamiliar but not unwelcome toothy smile lighting his face. The grey in his eyes was even more pronounced than normal. Sansa with Ser Davos, bundled up under the knight's cloak, and finally Jon, sitting astride his horse in front of him. “House Stark thanks you.” He finished, nodding before turning his horseback, facing the main gate.

“Let us go home, what say you, Jon?”

His son's face lit into a smile, matching his brothers. “To Winterfell!” He shouted, the men behind them matching him “To Winterfell!” 

Robb laughed and Sansa giggled as the horns sounded once more, announcing their impending return. 

Arya

“No!”  Arya stamped her foot, face pinched tight. “I wanted to go too!”

She’d woken up in quite a state. Not only did her head hurt but for all of her tiny life she couldn’t understand why she’d been forced into her mother's rooms. It had been the better part of the day now, and a child could only nap for so long. She stomped to the chair nearest the hearth and threw herself into it, arms crossed indignantly. She held her scowl.

“You’re brother and sister are missing.” Maester Luwin said softly. “Your father wanted you to stay here whilst he searched for them.” Mother was still silent and Bran was fast asleep, but he was still half a baby so that wasn’t peculiar.  Their mother had woken earlier in the day, pale, but had not said much, not even to her and Arya didn't care for that either. It’s better than needlepoint , she thought, turning back to scowl at the oblivious Septa that sat with her mother. 

She puffed out some air and squirmed in the chair. Everything bothered her. The velvet wrapped around the cushion of the seat. The warmth of the fire. This silly dress. “I could have helped.” She said listlessly, frowning before sighing deeply as she sank into the chair, staring into the flames. 

“Oh dear girl.”, Luwin smiled as he took the seat across from her, “You are only a child. This is something the adults must tend to. What would happen were you to get lost as well?” He paused and leaned forward, waiting for her reply.

She shrugged, “I would be searched for?”

“Yes, you would. And who would be here to protect your Lady Mother and younger brother?”

Arya grumbled at that. “Okay.” She pouted, finally giving way to reason. Luwin smiled, it was hard for her not to enjoy the old man. He was patient with her and never told her to go away, or that what she wanted to know was wrong. She gave him the tiniest of smiles, it was the least she could do. “Will we have supper here?” She asked, her stomach voicing its desire at that moment. She only just then realized she hadn’t eaten since midday and it was now sunset.

“We shall.” Her mother replied, making her and Luwin turn in her direction. She made her way over to them, still pale, but life was returning to her. A hint of a smile was on her face as she placed a cool hand on her daughter's cheek. “Thank you for being our protector today.”

Arya's cheeks turned pink, “You’re my mother.” She suddenly felt bashful with Anska and Luwin in the room. “And Bran is hal—”. She began to echo her elder brother's words once more but was interrupted by the sound of horns coming from the open windows. Her eyes lit up, hunger, and everything else forgotten.

“Fathers home!”

Catelyn

She swept through the castle as fast as her pregnant body would allow, her hair dancing behind her like a fluttering flame. It was cold, her breath frosting in front of her thicker than earlier in the day; she pulled her cloak around herself tighter, ignoring the all too inviting scent of burning wood and its accompanying warmth.  The maids and servants made way as she came through the doors leading out of the Great Keep. The snow had been swept away or packed down, leaving near-frozen mud as the castle grounds grew relatively silent, their people awaiting their lord. She heard whispers and chatter, some wondering the same as her: were they successful?   

There were frightened yelps and shouts as the people of Winterfell spilled into the courtyard, she hadn't an idea why.  The smallfolk coming in and out of the northern gates and the guards, servants, and household members and attendants gave her deference as she made her way out. Arya had dashed ahead of her, much quicker than she could hope to keep up, though she was certain her daughter was somewhere near the front.  A missing heir and firstborn daughter were no laughing matter, and since Jon’s disappearance, Eddard had been extremely protective.  She watched as they came in, first the house Stark guards, Jory followed them with Greyjoy close behind.  Her heart grew lighter when Benjen cantered in, Robb riding with him. Ser Davos was right behind them, Sansa in his lap.  It was as Eddard came in that a collective gasp left those around her, and the shouts and yelps were explained. A beast of a wolf walked at her husband's side, startling the Northerners followed by whispering and hushed words as the Quiet Wolf cantered in on his horse, face not a stoic mask of resolve, or the icy visage of his Lords Face, but a smile, a wide one as he rode behind a young boy with eyes the clearest shade of indigo she’d seen in her life.  

Jon.

The sun was setting, the light fainter, but she could see them even from where she stood. Eyes as breathtaking as his mother’s, she thought. She hadn’t meant to stop, but the sight of him made her forget what she was doing. Their eyes locked and for a brief moment, she could see fear replace what happiness made them so bright. They became dark, almost black as his smile fell, and he looked away. It wasn’t what she wanted, nor was it what she expected, but she couldn’t blame him. It’s what they had known. 

It was Old Nan that broke the moment and made the courtyard go silent as she hobbled her way through the throng of people that gathered around the recently arrived young lords and lady. Her old eyes watched the wolf the entire time, approaching it silently and reverently, mouth agape and eyes near twinkling with tears. 

“The Old Gods walk among us.” She muttered, her northern brogue ever-present and thick. Catelyn had made her way through the congregation searching for Arya and quietly listening.  The area broke into whispers at her proclamation; the north’s beliefs went deep, forged by murderous cold and tempered by sheer defiance and grit. It’s what gave them the ability to persevere. “They walk among us.” She repeated as the area hushed once more. Old Nan closed the gap between herself and the direwolf, wrinkled hands up as she approached the great beast.  The wolf had moved forward, massive paws making no noise. It lowered its head allowing the shortened lady to rest her wizened hands on the wolf’s mane, gold intelligent eyes watching all the while as if it understood what was happening. 

Nan took a deep breath before she opened her eyes and smiled, a wide smile showing all of her teeth or at least those that remained before she dropped her hands, and looked around finding Lord Stark. “ Þat munu munu, Eddard .”(It is meant) she said in the Old Tongue. The fact that she used his given name and not his title, or that she’d spoken the language most associated with their gods, claiming her known role as the elder amongst them was not missed on the people of Winterfell; even the former Essosi knew it was a moment of significance. She was their spirit, the keeper of their ways, and knower of their history. Lord Stark nodded, eyes moving back to reverently watch the living image of his house stand, the horse neighed lightly, disapprovingly moving and stamping its hoofs as the direwolf came back to their group, nudging Jon with its snout. 

She found Arya, finally, the little girl turned to her very perplexed. “Who’s that with papa?” She asked brow furrowed just as Eddard looked down at Jon and frowned himself. 

“That, Arya, is your second eldest brother.” 

Chapter Text

Vaegon

My barely younger brother, Jon Stark.

Robb’s voice repeated in his head as he rode with his father and answered their questions.  Winterfell’s immense walls and towers loomed behind the busy town like a grey giant's fingers reaching through the earth, high into the sky as they rode into a Wintertown he certainly did not recognize. Mayhaps I’m really tired, he thought, yawning, but not as wide as earlier.  He tended to have less focus and daydreamed more when he was sleepy, he’d been scolded enough to recognize when his mind was beginning to wander. It didn’t take much to notice that the small town wasn’t as small as he’d imagined, nor was it as empty as he thought it would be. “Lord Stark.” He heard his father's name, again and again.  Uncle Benjen told him that Wintertown was mostly inhabited during winter, but that obviously wasn’t the case anymore. Smoke billowed from chimneys and different cooking smells permeated the air. Stormsong casually sniffed as she loped at their side, the tip of her tongue just poking out. Essosi from all over the Eastern continent, as well as northerners, stared up at them as they rode by. Children halted their play and mothers shooed them inside for supper, eyes never leaving the wolf. 

It wasn't until the statue of his mother that he’d been drawn from his thoughts.  “She’s beautiful.” He said softly, eyes pinned on the lifelike expression of happiness on her stone face. How was he supposed to feel? Confusion won out until his father spoke and he’d heard the silent admission.  Is that how we would have looked, had she lived? He still had so many questions, but they would come in time.  Uncle Aemon’s studies almost always had an underlying lesson in patience, though at times he forgot his lessons, he still tried his best to make his Uncle proud.  An explosion of emotion would do nothing for any of them here.  

Jon Stark.

He had yet to say it out loud, not even alone in his rooms on Solitude; but he’d thought it. Repeatedly. Endlessly even. He’d wondered what his life would have been like had he been born a Stark, with the Stark coloring. Grey eyes and all. Or Blue, a little voice whispered in the back of his head.  He imagined sleeping in the family suites and Lady Catelyn waking him with a fond smile and calling him son because he was trueborn. He imagined sitting at the high table at feasts and greeting the visiting lords with his family. He had a mother and knew who she was, but stories and memories were no substitute for living flesh and blood. 

But he wasn’t a Stark, not really. And his eyes were neither grey nor blue. Lady Stark was not his mother and she was certainly not fond of him. They will see me as a pretender, he concluded.  Isolation so far north had not dulled his mind, if anything, he was all the cleverer for it.  Aemon and El were far from easy taskmasters and expected him to learn quickly.  It was still difficult to understand why, but Uncle Aemon taught him how bastards were viewed, especially for those like Lady Stark; staunch believers in the Teachings of The Seven,  which he was sure a lot more people in Winterfell were by now. Seven years was a long time, especially at his age. 

“Let us go home, what say you, Jon?”

His eyes darted up, and he had to force a smile on his face. His stomach felt like it was being twisted around, over and over, but he’d made this decision himself. Face your fears Vaegon. Uncle Aemons voice filtered into his mind. Nobody will face them for you. 

“To Winterfell!” He shouted.

And they responded in kind. “To Winterfell!”

The ride across the bridge between the two curtain walls was the longest few moments he’d experienced in his young life. Was it always this long? He thought, feeling dwarfed by the ancient grey stones around him. He searched his mind for any memory of the night they left, but nothing readily came forward, only sadness.  The horses' hooves clattered on the wood and metal before meeting stone and echoing all the louder as they came through the northern gate. There were surprised shouts when they filtered into the courtyard and the direwolf was spotted. The smallfolk scrambled away in fear as Stormsong passed, only his father's ease kept them from true fright. 

Winterfell went quiet as their horses trotted in.  He hoped it was because they saw Robb, but knew that the silence followed by the whispers and murmuring, was because of him. “It’s okay Jon.” His father said. He only just then realized he’d been clenching his jaw and sitting rather rigidly. 

He nodded, just barely, releasing a shallow breath. Face your fears. And he tried, circumspectly looking around, taking in the confused and questioning faces. The children he’d never met and the curious glances and muttering. He didn’t remember what Winterfell looked like, but it was imposing, to say the least. He could barely imagine what climbing the towers would be like and was already planning a route up as he looked around.  What happiness he’d felt upon returning was almost instantly leached away from him quickly and violently, when he and Lady Stark locked eyes.

All thought left his mind and he forced his eyes away, feeling like a child of four name days again.  He was saved from looking back in that direction by Old Nan as she stepped into the courtyard. When she spoke, Vaegon listened, but only partially as he was far too interested in the direwolves reaction.  “ Þat munu munu, Eddard .”   He looked up at his father, who remained silent with a contemplative look, though he bade his horse forward after the old woman's proclamation as the small folk wondered aloud. Eddard cleared his throat, recapturing the courtyard's silence, “A direwolf has not been seen in hundreds of years south of the wall. She is the Sigil of my house, and as such is befit the privileges of a member of my house. Respect the direwolf and any of its offspring as if they were an extension of myself and my children.“ Vaegon heard some muttering and others speaking quickly in bastard Valyrian, his father gave everyone a moment to understand before continuing. “The Old Gods have given us a great many blessings today.” Lord Stark pat his shoulder, “Remember that they are wolves, do not antagonize them.”

With that Lord Stark dismissed the congregated mass before pressing his horse forward. Their group cantered to the stables where a hand was already waiting. “Is that...” the man swallowed as a few stable hands came running out to help the others.  “Is that little Jon?”

And once more discomfort wormed its way back in.  He was keenly aware of the few that remained in the courtyard, their eyes still on them, assessing and judging.  “Aye Hullen, Jon is home.” Lord Stark said before dismounting, the stable-masters eyes still glued to the boy.  Vaegon's face was slowly pinking, even as he leapt down from the horse after Ned, his skill clear by the ease of his dismount. “Hullen.” Lord Stark said, clearing his throat before ushering Jon out, he paused and turned back to the master of horse, “Get it together man.” He muttered, snapping Hullen out of it who looked down embarrassed. 

“Apologies milord.”  Hullen began, though he hesitated but invariably continued.  “It's just, a direwolf and your brother and the lad return.  It's a bit, amazin’ milord.  The gods truly are smiling on the north.”

“Father, can I show Jon his rooms?” Robb Interrupted the moment his boots touched the earth.  

Lord Stark chuckled, “Aye, they are Hullen.”  He turned to his son as the horse master took Benjens reins and led their mounts away.  “They will likely need to be prepared. Don't mess about, show your brother his rooms and then bathe.  We will feast tonight.”  A cheer went up among the men around them, and some clapped each other on the back.  Jon smiled too, a mix of emotions swirling within.

“We need to talk.” Uncle Benjen said as the men dispersed, leaving only their guard.

“We will.” Lord Stark replied, coming to them. “But first I must tend to Lord Glover and Ser Davos.” He turned to Jon and knelt, before bringing him in for another hug.  

“Welcome home my son.”

Eddard

The walk to his solar was mostly silent.  Men had been sent to handle the cadavers they spoke of on their ride in and the remainder of the guards but Jory and Alyn were dismissed. Ser Davos spoke to him quietly as they walked, relaying his ride from Deepwood Motte; giving greater detail to his story once he heard the screams of dying men. With each word, he could feel his ire rise.  He wanted to dismiss Glover’s actions as sheer recklessness, but this day had already been full of that.  He decided judgment would be based on how this all went. Robett trailed behind, with one of his guards with him until they reached Lord Stark’s solar, and the soldier stopped and stood opposite of Jory and Alyn outside of the door.  Night was upon them, every candle was lit, and the hearth had a small though comfortable fire giving them warmth.  They sat in his solar, silently. Benjen was to his right, seated on the same couch he’d been on earlier in the day, his face an indecipherable storm after Davos had recited an abbreviated version of the story.  The knight sat to his left, in another armchair but angled off of the corner of his desk, a cup of water in his hand. It was Lord Glover that had the seat of honor, opposite his Liege Lord. 

Eddard remained motionless, jaw clenched as he ingested the information he’d been presented with. Benjen had a nebulous look of incredulity and anger, wafting between the two like a flickering flame in the wind. “You could have killed him.” He said, his hands opening and closing. “And then I would have killed you .” He finished. Lord Glover tensed at the admission, looking away as his nostrils flared, but his brother was right. Something terrible would have happened, he was man enough to admit that. 

He’d seen Benjen angry, truly angry, only once and he’d left with Jon that very night. This though, this was something altogether different. There was a predatory edge to his brother's eyes, they looked darker because they were, his pupils were so wide they almost completely enveloped the grey. His jaw was clenched but where Eddards was like a steel wall, his was a living blade, sharp and dangerous. “You’ve always been a fool Glover, even as lads.” Benjen continued, and Eddard allowed it. 

“I didn’t know they were with the beast,” Robett said after a moment of silence, lips pinched and face a bit more red than normal. “And I didn’t know your bastard would try to save the creature.” He spat the word like a curse. It took everything in Eddard's power not to reach across the desk and slam the man's face down on it using his beard, but he was the Warden; Benjen on the other hand had no such compulsion and reacted as Eddard had wanted to. 

His closed fist moved like a snake, fast and almost invisible and before any of them could react, Robett was on the ground, chair upended over him, mouth and nose a bloody mess with Benjen standing over him. Eddard and Davos jumped when Robett shouted and fell, with Ned coming around the side to restrain his brother. “Call him a bastard again Glover and it won’t be a fist!” He struggled against Eddard. “Let us make a square and I’ll see him within it!”

“Ben.”  Eddard tried, but his brother had every reason to be angry.  Jon had the Stark name, but his absence had not helped reinforce it.  He hoped that would come in time.  Nevertheless, Benjen's outburst had the intended effect as Robett looked up, aghast.  A square meant one thing, Benjen meant harm, true harm; lasting harm.  “Go Robett.  See the Maester, we will conclude this conversation on the morrow when cooler heads can prevail.”  

Davos knelt down to help the man but Lord Glover pushed him away.  “Get off me Southroner.” He muttered standing, wiping his face and then retreating with a terse head nod.  Once the door was closed and their guards resumed their duties, Eddard released Benjen.  “A square Ben? Everyone will know that you challenged him in a fortnight.”

“Aye, and they will call him the worst sorts of names for not greeting my challenge.  The fool.”  he feigned spitting on the ground. “I piss on Glover.”  Eddard had no doubt that Benjen was far deadlier than he put on, his eyes told him as such.    

“Well, I doubt he will ask you to foster his son when the time comes,” Davos said.  

Eddard shook his head and took a seat once more behind the desk.  “I’m certain that if he doesn't ask, then his brother will.  I will deny it, I’ve had enough of fostering.”  He thought of Theon then.  But a hostage would work to ensure their cooperation , he shook the thought away with the hope that he would never need to resort to that with his bannermen.  

“They are a cantankerous lot, those Glovers.”  Davos continued, having taken his seat once more.  “Complaints-a -plenty.  Galbart believes that a steward should be appointed to maintain Bear Island until Lady Maege remarries and births a male heir, or her daughters bear a son and they give him the Mormont name.”

Benjen smirked, “Lady Maege is as fierce as any Northerner.”

“Aye, she is.  I don't care what Galbart thinks, Lady Maege is the Lady of Bear Island and head of House Mormont until she decides otherwise or passes on.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Eddard spoke again. “Jon’s story had holes Ben, I’m sure you’re aware of that?”

Benjen sighed. “I’m going to need to send a letter to Last Hearth and hopefully one of our ravens will be there, otherwise we will have an angry…” he stopped, his grey eyes falling on Davos. “An angry minder, teacher, and guards.”

“It was a surprise finding them there and with that direwolf. Your son was suspicious of me, but I looked a mess with blood all over myself.”

Benjen chuckled, “Jon is suspicious of anyone he does not know. He hid from his tutor for the first moon of his lessons with her.”

“That still does not explain how he got here,” Eddard added. 

Ben reddened, and dropped his head into his hands and grunted. “I know how he got here.” He laughed into his hands before leaning back against the back of the couch. “We had a plan, in case we were found and had to escape quickly. My three flagships have false walls through the lower belly of the ship along the hull. Jon and his tutors, could slip in there and hide until we were out to sea.”

Eddard listened, but noticed Ser Davos grin, making him arch his brow in question. Benjen paused when he saw this, “What is it?”

Davos chuckled this time, “That’s a smugglers trick there.” 

“Or a pirate,” Eddard added.

Ben shrugged. “I cause no harm, so my mind is at ease.” 

Eddard shook his head before glancing at Davos who shrugged as well. “Benjen, you mentioned trade.” Davos brow furrowed for a moment before realization came upon him as he caught on to Eddard's train of thought. Ned paused and opened a drawer, retrieving a few sheets of paper rolled up and bound together before sliding it in Benjen's direction. His brother looked perplexed as he took the papers, slid the string that bound it off, and unrolled the sheets. He read in silence, a small smile coming over his face, a very familiar twinkle in his eyes. 

“You figured it out, did you?”

Ned looked at Davos before looking back at his brother and nodding. “You’re my brother, and I never stopped searching for you both. You left too many clues that I could not ignore when they reminded me so much of what you and our sister would get up to” He shook his head again, realizing that with his brother home he was likely to be doing that quite often. “And the name? Ryman Aekesh?”

“All letters from our names.”

“Ahh,” Davos said. “So no one person is Ryman Aekesh, you all are. Which makes it harder to catch an individual man in a time of crisis. You’d make a decent smuggler, my lord.”

Ben waved him off, “Benjen or Ben is fine Ser Davos, we are all friends here.”

“Then you should call me Davos, no need for the Ser.” they nodded to each other.

“Good, we're all friends.” Eddard began, “Your source of income has caused issues with House Manderly.” Ben rolled his eyes, but Ned continued.  “But at least this saves me a lot of effort.”  He paused, eyes narrowed. “Tell no one of your business.  I’ve been looking into who Ryman Aekesh is, I thought it may be you, but knowing that it is may work to our advantage.  We should keep this quiet then, and you should continue what you're doing BUT...”  Benjen smirked at his brother's tone.  “I will need all of your ledgers and information.  I will also need to see where you've been living with my son and no more smuggling. I understand the piracy and it is a noble venture but it too must stop.”

“So you want me to stop helping people?”

“I didn’t say stop helping them, I said stop the piracy. Remove whatever banners you have and fly Stark banners. Show you are under the authority of House Stark.”

Davos smiled but Benjen looked even more confused. “The north has been working towards having a naval force, and with you, one has been started. We could build off of it, in secret, of course.” The knight added, and the confusion began to clear from Benjen's face.

“We will reveal it in due time. But it can easily be explained that Benjen was learning to command his own ship as well as teaching Jon a possible trade and future as a Stark.” Eddard smiled inwardly when he realized spinning a tale didn’t have to be full of deceit and fancy. 

“And that is partially true,” Ben added, looking thoughtful. 

“Would you be willing to be our primary distributor? A majority of our trade is done directly across the NarrowSea now. Fishing can still be a minor source of income, but you would be directly under house Stark.”

“And that could help a lot,” Ben said. ”But I don’t work for Solitude alone, I also help feed Skagos.”

“Including House Manderly in your fishing routes would get them off of your back. We can detail the specifics and ensure that a portion of their hauls are dedicated to Solitude and Skagos.  With the numbers you were pulling that should be fine, and nobody loses income and you gain authority in this venture that you didn’t have before, using your true name and status.”

Benjen looked pensive before finally speaking. “Well brother, it seems you have a plan that may work.”

“It will,” Eddard said, truly confident it would. “...but as I said, I still need to visit Solitude.”

Vaegon

“You’re mad, Jon” Robb was saying as he led the way through the Great Keep. Their father and uncle left to handle matters with the visiting Lord and the knight he didn't know.  Two guards trailed behind them, assigned to him as they left the stables, on uncle Benjen's recommendation.  He’d figure out a way to shake them eventually, once he had a chance to explore.  He and his brother were talking of his journey and of the wolf’s he’d narrowly escaped.

Vaegon shook his head, ”Not mad, determined.”

His brother laughed, “Or it’s the Wolf’s Blood.” He turned back, “Father says Arya has the Wolf’s Blood.”

“Who’s Ar—”

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot.” Robb chuckled cutting him off, “We have another younger sister and a brother. And mothers with child, again.”

“What’s our brother's name?”

They came to a crossway and turned left, “Brandon, like our Uncle. Arya’s older though, she's seven, and Bran is half a babe.”

Jon couldn't help but smile, the thought of more siblings not an unwelcome thought until he remembered Lady Stark.  “There must always be a Bran.”  They shared that laugh finally coming to a stop at a door in a hall he did not recognize. It took him a moment to realize that his brother had led him to the family chambers. “This isn’t my room.”

Robb’s face peeled into a toothy smile, eyes glittering with excitement. “It is! After you and Uncle Benjen went to Essos, father made our Aunts room your room.” He opened the door, but paused and pointed to the right, “Mine is just down the hall.”

“These are m-, our Aunts old rooms?” Robb stepped in and Jon followed, looking around in the darkness. The light from the candles in the hall only made it a few feet in, leaving the remainder of the room in a murky grey.  “Aye, they are. It’ll need to be cleaned, but it’s yours now brother.” 

“I, I don’t know what to say, Robb.” Vaegon was left speechless, but his brother likely thought him overwhelmed by the room. 

Robb shrugged. “It’s only right. You’re a Stark, you ought to be in the family apartments.”  He took one more look around, “Come on, I’ll take you to the guest rooms while your room is being prepared.”

Jon shook his head. “No, it’s fine Robb, I can clean it myself.”

His brother gave him a queer look but shrugged again. “If you want to.” He turned to leave, but stopped “I’ll come and get you for supper.” He paused and Vaegon could see his brother's cheeks turn pink. “It’s really good to have you home Jon.”

“Aye,” he nodded, “it is.” But he wasn’t sure he fully agreed.

Robb walked away but kept the door open. Vaegon immediately went to the hearth and began lighting a fire. With his pack already with him and dry wood, it was much quicker and easier. “No magic fire?” He muttered as the flame lit and he basked in its warmth for a moment. He stood and stoked it and then prodded the fire before finding a candle, lighting it, and making his way around the room to the remaining sconces and hanging torches. With more light in the room, he closed the door and turned, standing in the entryway. 

“This was my mother’s.” He said softly, taking in the grey stone. The room was no bigger than his back on solitude, but it had a lived-in quality that the newer castle didn’t have. The stones had seen generations of Starks, his mother included and he couldn’t help but look around. Grey, white, and blue curtains framed the row of windows that ran along the wall ahead of him.  The washroom connected on what he believed to be the eastern wall, though he wasn’t certain and hadn’t paid attention as they walked.  A very fine layer of dust coated the desk that sat beneath the windows, with a plush high-back chair pushed under it. A table sat in front of the hearth with three more chairs, but these only had cushions, and no arms. Several bookshelves were arranged around the room, though they remained bare.  He spied matching ironwood nightstands, on either side of a matching bed.  Unlike his, it didn't have four posts but looked like a big sled with wolf heads on each corner and a chest at the foot.  There were no decorations on the wall, no banners, only smooth stone, with a hook here and there.  It made him wonder how the room looked when his mother was in it.  

He went to the chest at the base of the bed and unlatched it unsure of what to expect when he opened it, mayhaps a piece of his mother, but it was empty.  He closed the chest before sliding his pack over his shoulder and setting it down on the table but was drawn back to the door when he heard scratching.  He grinned when he opened it, Stormsong’s golden eyes stared back at him.  “Hello, girl.”  Vaegon marveled at her size once more as she padded by, licking his cheek before turning in a circle and dropping to the ground near the hearth.  He wiped the wolf's slobber off with a grimace before making his way to the table to figure out a place to hide his egg but was stopped once more, this time from a knock at the same door.  

Unlike Stormy, this person didn't wait for his answer before walking in, only to stop and yelp in surprise at the sight of the massive wolf laying near the fire.  Shouldn't just walk in. Suppressing a smirk, he puzzled for a moment, drawing a blank on a name, while the Septa stared at the wolf with wide eyes.  “I did not think it would be here.”  She whispered, taking a step back.  Vaegon smiled, “I didn't think she would come to me either.”  his head tilted to the side, “I’m…” he hesitated and for the first time in seven years said the name aloud.   “I’m Jon, who are you?”

Catelyn

She was pacing when he entered, wringing her hands together. Robb had rushed in, hugged her, and ran back out all in the span of a few moments. And of his own volition.  She hadn’t even a chance to harangue him for the mess he’d created. His happiness was such that it caught her off guard, utterly, and she found herself standing there wide-eyed and confused. 

“Catelyn?” She started, never having noticed Eddard enter the room. Her blue eyes focused on him, hands finding their way to her belly. 

“Jon is home.”

He nodded.

“He saw me, and I saw it, Eddard. I saw his fear.” Her eyes immediately welled up with tears. “I never meant to make him feel like that .” She clutched her stomach, and looked down at her swell, thoroughly confused by the sudden emotion she’d thought she had gotten past. 

“Robb ran in, and he was happy.  He hugged me, so tightly and it was as if my world was finally whole for that moment.  I haven’t seen a smile on his face like that since his fifth name day.” She frowned. “Not even when his other siblings were born.”

Eddard sighed, “He and Jon were as good as twins. They did everything together and then with no warning they didn’t. I never thought it would affect him as deeply as it did, but I also didn’t realize how much it affected us all.” He’d approached her and now stood in front of her. His rough and calloused hand found hers, and he laced their fingers together as he placed the other gently on her pregnant belly. “Much has changed Cat. I’ve seen it, so will Jon and my brother.” Those hands could be so tender and gentle. He wiped the beginnings of the tears she had a way, and then leaned forward and gave her a chaste kiss. “Our family has a chance to be whole, let us not squander it.”

She looked up at him and searched his grey eyes before nodding and letting her head rest on his shoulder as he pulled her towards him and wrapped his arms around her. She sighed and melted into his embrace, feeling his whiskers rubbing on her face. “Our family.” She said softly.

He nodded against her. “I’ve ordered the great hall prepared for a feast. The citizens of Wintertown will be filtering in and out.” 

She smiled as he spoke, forgetting the flip-flop of her own emotions. There was a lightness to his voice, actually to his person altogether. The tension she always felt was receding. Catelyn pulled back from his embrace, just barely and looked at him. “You’re happy.” She said softly, and his emotions were infectious. She smiled slowly, seeing that glitter in his eyes, the anger and tightness vanishing slowly. Eddard did something she hadn’t seen in a long time, he grinned, swooped down, and lifted her up. Catelyn yelped and clutched his shoulders as he turned in a circle once before depositing her back and smiling down at her. “I am.”

She breathed lightly, putting a hand on her bosom as her cheeks reddened. The little wolf in her belly made his displeasure known as it kicked her insides, her eyes widening marginally. She sighed, “I should prepare.”

And prepare she had, but it eventually devolved to pacing once more. Eddard had quickly pointed out that it would be best to reintroduce Jon to his family before they announced his return, which sent her into a tailspin of worry. Arya was bouncing about her chamber having snacked on nuts roasted in honey with Bran toddling behind her waving his wolf wood-cutting and howling. 

“Wolf, wolf,” Bran said in between each howl. 

Arya stopped her lap around the table and looked at her mother, “Are we gonna meet that boy?”

Catelyn paused in her pacing, eyes on her daughter, before beckoning her over. Arya came, with a confused frown while Bran jumped from the bed to the ground and back to the bed. ”Yes, you are. And I want you to remember, that boy is your older brother, Jon Stark.”

Arya shrugged before resuming her laps around the room with Bran following her. At least she’s in a dress, Catelyn relented, returning to her looking glass to finish the last touches of her dinner preparations. It would have been so much quicker with handmaidens but that was a thing of the south, and after everything that happened in the last decade, it was an unnecessary and unneeded change. 

She smoothed her dress down and put her braid over her shoulder just as a knock sounded at the door. The individual didn’t wait, and the door opened immediately after, Eddard's head ducking in with a smile as he entered. “I’ve sent Robb to fetch Jon.” He didn’t close the door completely as he entered and came to her. 

“Papa!” Bran shouted, running as fast as he could to his father. Eddard scooped him up and placed him on his hip.

“Hello, little one. Are you a direwolf today?” Bran nodded his head emphatically and howled once more, his blue-grey eyes wide with excitement. Eddard turned back to her and approached, setting their son down to resume his play. His touch was like a soothing balm, kneading it’s way to her harried heart. She sighed, closed her eyes, and leaned into his hand when he cupped her cheek. “You’re fretting.”

She opened her eyes and stared at him for a moment, “I am.”

That same excitement was still in his eyes, “You needn’t.”

“I do. I have so much to apologize for.”

“You won’t be able to make him understand in one night. You’re setting yourself up to fail. But you have time, we have time. Jon is still young, as are all of our children. Time is your friend in this Cat.”

There was another knock on the door, “Mother?” Sansa’s little voice came from behind it. 

Eddard made his way to the door and opened it fully. He looked back at her and mouthed Jon, which immediately set her heart to racing. She didn’t know what to do with her hands so she smoothed her dark green dress as best she could over her round belly. She toyed with the grey chiffon lining at her neck and pulled her braid over her shoulder once more, before dropping it back over, and then bringing it back up over her shoulder and finally leaving it alone realizing she was fussing with herself like some blushing maiden. 

Sansa came in first, dressed similar to her in lighter shades of green. No cloak rested on her shoulders and her cheeks were pink. She ran with Robb . Despite her attempts at being a lady, Sansa was still a Stark at heart. Her daughter made her way to Bran, dutifully taking control of her younger brother. Robb followed her, walking in backward and gesturing wildly. “Hello, mother.” He said, voice chipper and a smile not too different from his father's on his face. Septa Anska had dressed him in blues and blacks, black trousers blue tunic, and black gambeson. Robb became somber when their eyes met. 

Arya stopped in her play just as he stepped in, eyes cast down and hands opening and closing at his side. She’d noticed Eddard, Benjen, and Robb do the same though at different times. Just how similar were they? She thought, curiously. Where Robb normally wore his loose or half up and down, Jon’s hair was longer and pulled back into a bun not too dissimilar from Ned’s, but some strands had come loose at the base of his neck, and she could see the typical stark curls and waves. He seemed turned in on himself, nervous, and had yet to look up until Eddard's hand rested on his shoulder and he looked up at his father.

She gasped silently as he did, now seeing him in brighter light.  His face was long, like the average Stark, but his features were refined in a way a northerner ought not to be. His eyes were a vivid indigo with a ring of grey just around his pupils. The details you miss when you don’t care . But now she did, and she could admit, that the boy was a comely youth. He looked around nervously before their eyes met once more and he looked down, shuffling rigidly. She smiled when she noticed his cloak, the Stark wolf embroidered into the leather straps. He had on a gambeson, a bit oversized, but it still looked good on him. The tunic underneath was grey, in an attempt to draw out the color in his eyes no doubt. She caught Eddard's eye, his pleading look as he nodded to her, hoping she would breach the gap between them.

She nodded and accepted his silent plea. With a shaky breath, Catelyn Stark née Tully did something she never thought she would have to do when she married her husband. She pushed aside her trepidation and looked past what she was taught. She searched within herself and remembered her family’s words, her promise, l must always try harder . She saw him then, a frightened little boy, in front of a woman that gave him no other option but to be. He stepped back as she approached, which made her hesitate but she pushed past it until she was in front of him.

Everyone was quiet, even Arya who had been the most curious about him. Their eyes watched their mother intently, waiting for her reaction. With slight effort, Catelyn knelt to his height, “Hello Jon.” Her voice was as soft as she could make it. 

He swallowed, looked at his father, and then back to her. “H-Hello, My Lady.” He gave her an awkwardly stiff bow, before stepping back, cheeks red. 

“I’m glad you are home. Robb and Sansa missed you terribly.” She hesitated, “As did your father...and I.” And it was the truth, Jon meant her family was happy, and without him, that wasn’t possible. He looked up at her, and this time it was meaningful. He searched her eyes before giving her a pensive almost smile.

Arya chose to make herself known then, sidling beside her and staring up at him. “Would you like to meet your younger brother and sister?” She asked when she felt her youngest daughters hand clutch her skirts. Jon nodded slowly as Catelyn stood awkwardly, her pregnancy throwing off her balance. 

“You look like me,” Arya said, her face breaking into a toothy grin. “I’m Arya.”

“And this is Jon, your elder brother,” Eddard said.

“But I’m still the oldest,” Robb added.

Sansa gently pushed Bran forward, “This is our other brother Jon.” She said. Bran tried to hide behind her, his cheeks a rosy red although his eyes were alive with curiosity. 

“Hello,” Jon said. She’d become increasingly aware of the signs of an overwhelmed child, and saw them in Jon. 

“Come.” She interrupted a smile firmly on her face. “This is a lot to take in on his first night back in Winterfell. House Stark has much to celebrate tonight. Two sons have returned and we certainly don’t want to keep our people waiting, do we?”

Eddard agreed with a warm smile directed at her. “Thank you.” He said softly as they shuffled their children ahead of them. Our children, she thought as Eddard moved Jon and Robb to stand beside each other in front of him. 

She sighed inwardly. The anticipation and nerves she’d felt earlier slowly receded when she realized that the entirety of House Stark was in Winterfell once more. 

Jon 

It was loud, louder than anywhere he’d been before, he readily admitted that. There was laughing, drinking, and shouting. So much shouting . Men and women sang and danced and clapped. His father said that they were celebrating his and Uncle Benjen's return, but Uncle Benjen had told him that Northerners could find any reason to feast, in times of plenty of course. A chorus of hurrahs drew his attention as men had crowded around his Uncle, laughing and drinking and boasting. He felt oddly exposed without Stormsong, not even aware of his deepening bond with the direwolf but she had remained in his room, curled up in front of the fire. Only a few people had stopped to say hello and welcome his return. Jory clapped him on the back, and Ser Rodrick told him that he expected to see him bright and early, to assess the young lord's skills, of course , he’d said after Uncle Benjen boasted of his skill with a sword and a bow. Alyn had said hello, as well as Jeyne Poole and her father Veyon. He didn’t remember them. Hallis and his father Hullen said hello again before vanishing among the revelers. 

His Lord Father had brought him before Old Nan who promptly told him she would be waiting to hear his knowledge of their northern sagas and epics. With no other option, he’d complied, and eked out a sennight for preparation.  His father laughed and said that he hoped he didn’t have to present in front of people as Bolludagur, Sprengidagur, and Oskudagur began soon.  He'd paled at the thought, but a promise was a promise.  He’d been guided to the high table shortly after and sat down with his family on the dais, between Robb and his father. Three quick wraps of metal on wood interrupted the festivities and stopped the minstrels and bards mid-song as everyone turned their attention to Lord Stark. 

“I don’t know a time where House Stark has ever been so whole.” He paused and looked around and found Uncle Benjen in the crowd below. “Not since before the rebellion.  We have Benjen to thank for today. For keeping my son safe and returning hale and hearty” He nodded to Uncle Ben who did the same back.  “Some have questioned Benjen and Jons absence. Know that Ben has worked hard for House Stark these past years and will continue to do so however the North needs him to.” 

Jon looked up when he felt his father's hand on his shoulder. “We feast for more than just my son and brothers' return, for more than the reunification of House Stark. We feast for the adversity we have overcome, and the unity we have displayed. It is easy to fall victim to pettiness and harsh words, but I look upon you now and remember that Northerners have never walked the easier path. We are built of sturdier stuff.” His father paused and looked at him. His cheeks turned red almost instantly when he realized everyone was doing the same. “But we must always remember that when winter comes and the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives and Jon Stark is a part of that pack. Let it never be said that Jon is anything less than a son of House Stark, with my blood and my name.”

“Here here!” Jory called from the crowd, getting a chorus of replies. He saw his Uncle vigorously pound the table he was sat at and chuckled, still looking around; his brother joined in. Their off duty guards were cheering and laughing, some had even turned their cups in his direction. His youngest sister and brother were chasing each other up and down the aisles as nearly every man laughed at their antics.  He chuckled as Arya threw a carrot at the Greyjoy boy, but missed. It was surreal to think that he had more siblings, cousins, the little nasty voice of self-doubt in the back of his head corrected. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, that odd feeling of being watched tickled his spine and he looked for the offending eyes amidst the revelry.  The glowering form of Lord Glover, seated, hunched over a mug of ale with his brow furrowed stared back at him when he found his eyes, he’d been seated at a lower table, lower even than the Knight he had yet to officially meet.  A defiant part of Jon said stare back, but then he noticed that the Lord’s guards were doing the same and he did look away. They saw , he realized, thinking of what he’d come to call as the incidents. He was suddenly very aware that more than just Lord Glover and his retinue were looking at him and muttering under their breath. 

“Are you okay?” Robb asked.

Jon nodded, “Yes.” He muttered softly. His brother gave him a look before returning to his food and eating with a fervor Jon wished he had just then. But he didn’t, he was far too aware of the eyes on him. Lord Glover leaned over and said something to a passing servant, but his eyes never left Jon, leaving him feeling increasingly disturbed.  

“Jon Stark.” He heard his name said and looked around.  “Aye, he was The Bastard of Winterfell.” Someone else said. “Lord Stark leg-“ he tuned the rest of it out, clenching his jaw and pushing his food around his plate. Choice cuts and the best picks of anything couldn’t rid him of the bitter taste of self-loathing. He couldn’t help but hear the word pretender and false in between all that was said. 

“Never heard of a Stark with purple eyes.” That’s because he isn’t. The same little voice replied when that statement filtered through. 

Rather than react he took a breath and looked around. Robb was with Uncle Benjen and his father and Lady Catelyn were nowhere that he saw.  Not waiting to be excused, he made up his mind; now was as good a time as any to visit his mother. 

Should I have come? The question was multi-faceted, like a gem or diamond. He swallowed thickly, staring at the statue. This one was even more detailed than the one in Winter Town. So detailed that he had to touch the hem of the stone garment to assure himself it wasn’t real. His uncle Brandon was down here, as well as his other grandfather, Rickard, but he only had eyes for her at the moment. Sneaking out of the feast was easier than he’d imagined.  Everyone was deep in their cups and his brothers and sisters were all over the great hall.  With no Lord or Lady Stark, he hadn’t bothered to excuse himself.  He was certain he was missed by now but didn’t really care. His father would likely know where he was. 

After slipping away from the high table, he’d made his way to the crypts, pondering what tomorrow would bring when he walked the halls as Jon Stark.  Winterfell was far larger than Solitude, and the shadows even greater.  Sneaking about was no issue, with so many doorways and indentations and statues and old armor displays that avoiding anyone he didn't want to see, which was everybody, was much easier than he’d expected it to be. Stark guards littered the grounds but they had no reason to be looking for him.  

 All of this was suffocating, he’d realized, very uncomfortable under the multitude of gazes and whispered words.  It didn't matter that he’d been given the name, or that he sat at the high table beside his siblings, it didn't matter than when Lady Stark looked at him she smiled and it was not unkind, which was odd in and of itself; he knew what they saw especially when they looked into his very purple eyes, his very un-Stark or Tully eyes, A Pretender.  A tunic under a gambeson couldn't bring out the grey enough to hide that.  

If that wasn’t bad enough, he’d also been bathed, bathed! That he most certainly did not like.  The women chattering and fussing and poking and prodding.  They even washed my bits. He thought, frustrated by it all.  Was this what it was like to be a trueborn child?  Constant attention? Solitude was different, to say the least.   His sworn shields, Rowan and Jaron, were there for one.  And while there were servants and maids, he was afforded a certain freedom.  So long as he returned for his daily lessons, he could run about the castle and its grounds at his leisure.  He willingly admitted that taking a bath was an ordeal, but a man didn't need to bathe everyday Uncle Benjen had told him once, which in retrospect was a silly thing to do as Uncle Aemon, Lady El, and even Ser Alliser had all agreed that they would all bathe at least once a day if at all possible, with force if necessary.  

He sighed, staring up at the statue, fidgeting with the collar of the gambeson he'd been provided.  He’d been stuffed into a newly stitched cotton tunic, originally meant for Robb.  It was dark grey, which brings the grey out in your eyes, the Septa had said when she’d come around to check on him while they all prepared for the feast.  After the bath, he’d wished Stormsong had eaten her instead.  His brother came to get him not long after he'd finished dressing, but not before presenting him with another gift, a cloak with the Stark direwolf stitched into it.  

“Jon Stark” he said it out loud, sounding out the words.  Jon Snow he knew, Jon Snow he understood, even if he didn’t like it. But who was Jon Stark?  Vaegon was his name, his true name, given name.  He still didn't understand why of all the Targaryens to be named after, his mother had sought that name.  But he didn't care, it was his name.  He sat down in front of the statue of his mother, having lit a candle and placed it in her palm and pulled his knees up to his chest.  As he wrapped his arms around them, eyes closed, he dropped his head down, sighing into his leg.  

“I don't know if Winterfell will ever be my home mama,” he muttered softly.  Because you aren’t a Stark , the little voice echoed and it was only then he noticed the voice sounded suspiciously like Ser Alliser of all people. 

Tears pooled in his eyes.  He missed his eldest Uncle terribly right then, he always knew what to say.  But Uncle Aemon had also told him that he could be far too brash and hot-headed, that at times he didn’t think about the consequences of his actions. Seeing his father and brother and sister and even his younger siblings was worth the journey.  But was becoming something he wasn’t worth it. Could he forget who he was, cast aside all that he’d learned, and forget the other half of himself? And did he even want to? He’d often wished that being a Targaryen wasn't a crime, so he never had to be called a name he hated, or hide under false pretense, and suffer hate and indignity for something he could never control.  He sniffled lightly, unaware of the eyes on him. 

Catelyn

She’d been watching him all night. He was quieter than she remembered and timid.  But she owed that to essentially being somewhere new, although it wasn't.  He was polite and well-spoken.  He has been educated,  she reasoned, which was far from abnormal.  As a son of a great lord, bastard or not, his education was important.  But he seemed disquieted, as she watched him fidget with his collar and push his food aside.  Robb tried to engage him in conversation, to no avail, which made her all the more curious.  They’d been bound at the hip from the moment they left the stables Eddard had told her. 

It was shortly after that that she saw him sneak off, his father busy speaking to Ser Davos.  Catelyn had stepped away to relieve herself and decided that when she returned she meant to ask him what was wrong.  Although they had yet to speak or say more than a handful of words to each other, they would need to do it sooner or later, and she elected for it to be sooner.  She watched him search the Great Hall from his seat before sliding off and disappearing through a side door. She kept a fair distance, wondering all the while where he was going because it became apparent soon that he wasn't going back to the family suites.  

Guards had been assigned to the children, Eddard's paranoia getting the better of him. But at a feast they were unneeded and Jon must have noticed that. She lost him, several times. He was quiet and agile and knew how to vanish but it had become increasingly obvious where he was going. The Crypts. What could you possibly want in the crypts?

It’s a Stark thing , she thought. She’d heard Benjen mention his trip down. Jon paused at the great door and hesitated before leaning against it and pushing it open. There was normally a guard there, but the feast had brought him inside most likely. It became black as pitch before a small flickering light appeared, going down the passageway and into the crypts. Where had he gotten a candle from?  She wondered as she entered, pressing her hand against the wall and feeling her way down in the darkness. She could still see his light moving down and ahead of her before meeting level ground and vanishing once more. 

She saw him once she’d gotten to level ground as well. Some stone had crumbled here and there but Eddard took great care to ensure the tombs of his siblings and father remained untouched. The first level of the tombs was the best kept, though some pillars had crumbled and been replaced. Jon placed the candle in his Aunt Lyanna’s extended palm and then stood and stared.

She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but saw him move around, touch the statue and then retreat to stare at it once more. He looked so small she realized before he turned and she had to hide.  Her heart was racing thinking she’d been caught, but Jon only slid to the ground below. He curled in on himself and she thought she could hear a sniffle. 

She slid closer, willing herself to make no noise as she did.  “-terfell will ever be my home mama.”  And her world changed forever. 

The force with which reality hit her, left her stunned and short of breath as she turned away and pressed her back against the wall. She didn't care about how dirty she was getting, she didn’t care if he heard her.  Her hands found her pregnant belly and she breathed, clutching at her unborn child as guilt washed over her in endless suffocating waves. It was there that she understood it now and it was gut-wrenching.  

It had to be done now, she realized. She wasn’t going to be able to wait, with the truth right there, she simply had to know, have it verified.  “Your mother was Lyanna Stark, wasn't she?” She asked, stepping out of the darkness and into the faint light. Why else would he call a statue his mother?

Jon jumped, scrambling to his feet, and wiping tears from his eyes.  “Forgive me Lady Stark, I’ll leave.”

She had to stop the frown before it formed.  She shook her head, “No, you have as much right, mayhaps even more right than me to be here.”  They stared at each other for a moment longer, Jon relaxed marginally, eyes still wary, but she persisted.  “Your mother, she was Lyanna?”

Jon stayed silent, his eyes darting about, most likely looking for an exit but she was standing in the only one and she was with child, which meant she was far too delicate to bowl over, and she knew that.  However duplicitous, she used that to her advantage, standing in his way.  “Please Jon, if you know, please?”

Something in him seemed to wilt, his shoulders slumped.  “Ned Stark is not my birth father.”

“Because Rhaegar Targaryen was.”  Eddard's voice startled them. Catelyn whirled around, unsteady for a moment.  Eddard took hold of her hand, steadying her before sighing.  “I had hoped to speak to you alone about this. But I suppose it's best done here, under her gaze.”  

Eddard released her hand and stepped around her, walking to Jon before he stopped and turned to the wall and slid down and sat.  It was something she admired about him, his ability to forget his station and drop to his children's level.  He patted the ground next to him looking at Jon, nodding at an alcove with a weathered and nearly crumbled stone bench for her.  Both of them took their seats.  She heard shuffling only to see Benjen step out of the darkness.  He nodded to them all, before leaning against the wall opposite Eddard and Jon, closer to her “I found my sister in Dorne, the north end of the Prince's Pass in the Red Mountains.  The place was called the Tower of Joy, but there was little joy to be had.  When I found her, she had just birthed Jon, but death was already claiming her.  She had tears in her eyes, she was afraid, but there was happiness.” 

Eddard took a breath, wrapping an arm around Jon, silver eyes never leaving her.  “She wed Rhaegar on their journey south, they stopped at Harrenhal at the God's Eye and wed in front of the Weirwood trees.  she wouldn’t have lain with him otherwise. She said they were in love, that she wasn’t abducted, but fled on her own.”

“Not on her own, I helped,” Benjen said.

“Aye, you did.” Eddard paused brow furrowing before collecting himself and continuing.  “But even as life left her she blamed no one but her own foolishness for believing a letter could confer the breadth of her deed, a letter I never received.” Benjen nodded at that.  He looked up at Catelyn whose face was white as snow, contrasting with the dim light of the candle.  

Their eyes found each other, and she struggled to not look away.  His anger over Jon was never because of Ashara Dayne, but Lyanna.  The pain in her husband's eyes was far too real for her to ignore, and her own stung from the effort of holding tears at bay.  Guilt outweighed the anger and she found her resolve weakening. She turned her head to wipe away the tears that finally fell before looking back.  “She asked me to protect him,” Eddard said, taking a long breath. “She asked me to keep him safe because she knew what would happen if Robert found out.” Catelyn's jaw tensed but she wasn’t breathing any harder, her eyes were alive, weighted by tears in the corner.  Eddard sniffed, taking a ragged breath. “She was my sister Cat, and that baby boy was all that was left of her.  Targaryen or Stark, Vaegon or Jon, he is my son, he has my blood and I’d sooner lose my life than any of our children”. 

A few tears rolled down Benjens face before he wiped them off. Two sets of grey eyes, tainted by sorrow and a quiet misery found Catelyn.

After a lengthy pause, she spoke, voice soft and eyes downcast, “I understand.” 

And were this any other time where Jon had never been spirited away and she had never seen the depth of misery she put the boy through, or the hate in her own heart, or gained a truer understanding of her family’s words, she would have been surprised by that admission but she truly did. She thought about it often, how harsh she had been, without ever considering the state of House Stark after the Rebellion.  They had been devastated, a father, son, and daughter all dead within moments and months of each other.  If Lysa had asked her to do the same, or Edmure, there would have been no hesitation was she in Eddard's position. Despite the risk, the possibility of a storm of fury, her house words spoke an irrevocable truth she had come to recognize in the past few years. Family was everything. She looked hard at Eddard and Benjen, and then Jon, studying their faces and wondering how she’d never seen it before. But he was a babe. ..that stung, remembering how young he was when Benjen took him away. She remembered the promise she’d made, I must always try harder . She breathed rougher than normal, closing her eyes to calm her emotions.  She felt fragile just then, and open, exposed to everything and everyone and she needed a moment to collect her thoughts.  

Jon had always been an adorable child, she reflected, able to admit that now.  Long lashes, hair somewhere between curly and wavy, and even as a babe with his pudge his features were still refined in a way a babes ought not to be.  He was simply a beautiful child, even with his longer Stark face.  She’d dismissed it then, especially knowing the rumors of his parentage, who his mother was.  Not to discredit Eddard, but he had a rough and rugged look, comely in his dark colors but Ashara was beautiful, all of Westeros had known it, and she’d owed Jon’s comeliness to her.

But now, as hairs came loose from the bun at the back of his head, and his purple eyes shown black in the flickering candlelight, she saw it and finally understood his words from earlier in the day. He never meant to hurt me . 

There was anger, certainly. But it was tempered by guilt and the solemn admission that she could have been in a similar situation had she only gone a little bit further with Brandon, years ago during the Tourney at Harrenhal. “You could have told me.” She finally said, and the brothers shared a look. “Well obviously not Benjen he was a boy, but you are my Lord Husband, Eddard.”

Ned nodded. “And I wanted to, but you made your dislike known. You are right, I should have told you immediately, but…”

“We didn’t know each other. We’d been forced to marry and only knew second-hand knowledge of each other through Brandon.” She answered her own question as Ned nodded. “Did you fear I would put him in danger?” She asked, hesitant because she feared she knew the answer.  

Eddard paused, his lips drawing into a line before he nodded once.

“Now do you understand why I didn’t go back to King’s Landing? Now, do you understand why I could not forgive that man for condoning and applauding the murder of the brother, sister, and good mother of my boy?”

She stared at the ground but nodded realizing the enormity of it all. It never made sense to her why Eddard didn’t return to King's Landing. She had originally dismissed it as his desire to return home, but presenting a very purple-eyed Jon to a grieving King Robert may not have gone so well. She was angry at Eddard and Benjen for never telling her the truth, but not at Jon. When he left he’d been none the wiser. But after all these years, anger would get her nowhere. The truth was out, the only thing to do was to be more honest going forward, but then something came to mind.

“If Jon is the only Targaryen...” She paused putting it together. Her eyes widened when she looked at Eddard and then Jon.  “But then that would mean that he would have been the he-“

“He wouldn’t.” Eddard interrupted, his jaw set firmly, she noticed his free hand open and close. “When it was believed that Rhaegar's line ended, Prince Viserys Targaryen became the Crown Prince. Queen Rhaella saw to it.”

“None of that matters.” Benjen interrupted. “If you speak on this further we risk being heard. And besides, there are no Targaryens in Winterfell, only Starks.” He looked at Jon expectantly, whose frown only deepened.  

“This is important,'' Eddard added. ”If anyone were to find out, even a hint, Jon’s life would be in danger, all of our lives would be in danger. It is very important that we all understand that so long as Jon is in Winterfell, we can say nothing about his true parentage.” He paused, pulling a reddening and clearly embarrassed Jon closer. “You have known Jon as my son, because he is, in all the ways that matter to me. And that is how he will remain, so long as he is safe and protected from those that would harm him because of his heritage.”

She looked at her husband and then Jon and suddenly realized the position she was in. She held a modicum of power and could wield it however she saw fit, mayhaps to learn even more? “No more secrets then,” she said, turning to Benjen. “ We are a family and we must stand with each other and that means no more secrets.”

Benjen's brow knit together, “Why are you only looking at me?”

“Because I want to know, and I’m certain Eddard does too; where have you been living and with who? Where has Jon been raised, because I've noticed that he is well taught and well mannered.”

Benjen blanched his eyes darting to his nephew, she hazarded that Jon looked similar. 

“The former Maester, Aemon Targaryen.”

They all looked at Eddard, Benjen, and Jon utterly shocked, and her not understanding the reason why. “How?” Benjen began but Eddard shook his head. 

“Aemon's death was too convenient. He passed not long after you and Jon left. It was a good plan, but could only work if someone didn’t have all of the pieces. I knew you had told him something, I just didn’t know what, and you weren’t here for me to ask. It was the only thing that could make sense at the time, and aside from us Aemon is his only living blood relative.” 

“Hmm.” Was Benjens only reply as he frowned, likely miffed at how much of his plans his brother saw through. Cat vaguely remembered the letter all those years ago about the passing of the Maester at Castle Black, she remembered Eddard's nervous reaction and it now made much more sense. Silence captured them, giving her a chance to peek at Jon who had leaned against his father, eyes half-open.  He yawned prompting Eddard to look down.  This is good. She thought, her eyes never leaving them as she watched her husband give a lopsided smile.  Eddard and Robb, needed Jon as much as Benjen and Jon needed them.  

She took a shaky breath; all of her promises meant nothing if she could not say the words she had practiced and with the truth exposed, now seemed like the best time to start a new chapter in their family's book.  I must always try harder, she thought, before focusing all of her attention on Jon .  

“Jon?” She waited as he blinked and looked at her.  “I ask for your forgiveness. You were a babe, and are still only a boy. You did not deserve my hate for something you could not control.” She paused and nodded to both of the men.  “Your father and Uncle should have told me sooner but with my behavior, I understand why they did not. One day when you are wed and have a wife you will understand my anger but not once did you deserve it. It may take some time for you to  believe my words, but If you would have it, I would be as a mother to you.”

Chapter Text

Maidenpool, an ancient dwelling, famous for being where Florian the Fool first spied on Jonquil and her sisters bathing. The town was situated along the South-Eastern side of the Bay of Crabs, before Crackclaw Point. The historic seat of House Mooton, it had fallen under the dominion of many king’s. Monfryd the Mighty of House Durrandon first defeated the petty kings of House Mooton, before annexing the location into his realm. It was taken once more during the Andal invasion and the death of Florian the Brave. It passed from ruler to ruler for a time, first House Justman and then House Teague, before returning to House Durrandon and then once more falling, but this time to House Hoare of Orkmont.  That all ended when the Dragons came to Westeros and ended the black bloods at Harrenhal. 

Yet now, the descendants of those same Dragons sought to end each other. 

Many believed that he cared little for pursuits of the mind; that he was nothing but a headstrong warrior, an impatient rogue, or a lecherous vagabond.  But history, especially Westeros’ history in relation to his family, always piqued his interest.  ”Come Caraxes.” He said, voice peculiarly somber. The sounds of the town were muted from their height, up on the roof of one of the tallest and certainly the structurally strongest of the towers, Jonquils Tower; one could almost believe that there wasn’t a war raging outside their walls. The dragon grumbled a deep gravelly noise.  He was perched precariously, dwarfing his rider in his shadow, deadly hind claws gripping and gouging the parapets of Maidenpool; the stone walls looked pink, whether natural or caused by the sunrise, it didn’t really matter.  He enjoyed himself while he was there, and now it was time to put it behind him. Blood dripped from the dragon's jaws as he crunched on bones, the last remnants of his meal with Sheepstealer vanishing when he threw his head back.

They ascended the tower early in the morning to speak in private and tend to their mounts unperturbed. It was the only one strong enough to support their dragons; her silent departure was expected lest she desired death.  The smaller brown dragon screeched once more as she and her rider Nettles vanished into the clouds.  Caraxes clicked a farewell, the sound coming from his throat before leaping from the parapet to the rooftop and landing on outstretched wings, jagged iron-black claws sheared out chunks of stone. He was certain the people below were none too pleased.

“Fool of a woman.” He muttered, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath through his nose.  His eyes opened and he looked at the parchment the maester had handed him, silver brows furrowed.  The sigil of Queen Rhaenyra stared back accusingly, rage evident in her penmanship; his wife would be the death of him. Caraxes lowered himself, angling his shoulder and extending his wing for his bonded to climb, shaking the ground with a deep grunt. “I know.” He said, “You enjoyed their company, as did I.” And there was the problem, the rumors that followed him had spurred this course of action. At this point, he wished he had lain with the dragonseed.

Their sojourn in Maidenpool came because of the fruitless search for his nephew through the Riverlands.  The old town gave him and his compatriot quick and painless access to the region.  The girl was like him in many ways, brusque, foul-mouthed, and wily. He had been drawn to that, not what was hidden betwixt her legs; Rhaenyra proved more than enough in that area, and although he was prone to do what he wished regardless of another’s feelings what purpose was there in angering his royal consort? He certainly did not know why he allowed Nettles to escape; Mayhaps honor and guest right had something to do with it, or it was a passing whimsy? He was a rather vindictive soul, after all. Rhaenyra should know this.

Daemon concluded that duty would have been so much easier had he not had the soul for adventure and rebellion. He ignored the little voice that added spitefulness to his summation. 

He checked his saddlebags and ensured his armor was accounted for.  Darksister was in her scabbard at his side, and minimal supplies were needed as he knew what holds remained loyal to Rhaenyra. In the worst case, Caraxes could hunt for them.  Once Daemon was in the harness, he patted his dragon's neck, leaving his hand resting on the warm scales. This was likely to be their last flight. He’d only recently accepted that he would not sit the Iron Throne, but my blood will . The foresight, mind's eye, dragon dreams , or whatever it was called was a misleading bitch swathed in caricature and bundled in mystery. Perhaps it was hubris and pride that made him see his own acclamation. That the Step Stones was his path to glory, but it was not his prestige or renown he foresaw but the preeminence of his descendants. He would pave the way but they would see his ambitions realized, and then lost, but hopefully realized once more. For through him, all the future Targaryen King’s would descend.  All there was that was left was bloody revenge and mayhaps even a sliver of honor. 

Caraxes muscles tensed and grew taught beneath him, the dragon shifted and lunged for the edge landing with a tower shaking thud before extending out and over the city below.  When his jaws opened and he roared out his cry, crimson flames followed.  His scream echoed through the city shattering windows down the entirety of Jonquil's Tower, sending glass raining on the terrified small folk below them.  

The Blood Wyrm would earn his name. 

So in sync were he and his mount that he merely thought it and Caraxes mighty blood-red wings stretched to their limit before buffeting the tower stone with his furious strength. Caraxes is faster but Vhagar is bigger. She’s seen countless battles since the time of Visenya and her siblings, but I am the superior swordsman. Caraxes flapped once more, propelling them forward before banking south and then East, away from Maidenpool and to the Gods Eye.  He would let his crimson scales sow terror into their enemies once more.  

Lord Mootons fastest outriders and loudest town criers would spread the message he desired; short, simple, and direct: Prince Daemon, Protector of the Realm awaits you at Harrenhal, Aemond Kinslayer. Come and see.  Once the one-eyed churl grew bored of terrorizing the smallfolk and minor lords and burning the Riverlands he would have to greet his challenge or face being named craven. All there was to do was wait. He had a while now to enjoy the flight. The yellow and orange light of early morning filtered through the clouds. This was certainly the greatest part of being born a Targaryen, he thought for the millionth time as the wind pulled through his hair and the sun kissed his cheeks. 

“A dragon only has one bonded at a time, passengers must be accepted.” He said against the wind, but his voice was unexpectedly clear as if they weren't flying at all.  “Every Targaryen knows that.”  He and Caraxes were flying over Quiet Isle, angling north-west towards the Trident, they would double back south once more, back to Harrenhal.   Daemon turned back in his saddle, amethyst eyes twinkling in the light.  He rose his brow, curiously.  

”What are you doing there, boy ?” 

Jaehaerys jerked awake panting.  He touched his face and hair and looked around frantically.  It had all felt so real, as if he was there, on the shores of Westeros.  The pink walls of Maidenpool, the dragon's warmth, even the sunlight.  I felt it, he thought.  Jaehaerys could still taste the salt of the sea air even as his rational mind came to life, mayhaps it was just home he sensed, they were on an island after all.  “It was a dream.” He reminded himself, checking his wrist for his mother's band and running an idle hand through his hair, all the while looking around his tent.  Jaehaerys groaned when he remembered exactly why he was in a tent.  The makeshift bed beside his was empty, which meant Dany had woken before him.  

“Can't we just go home?” He groused sitting up and rubbing at his eyes.

“You are home.”  A deep voice replied, he heard the crunch of gravel and saw the shadows of the guards move aside before Ser Willem’s bald and bearded head popped through the tent's opening.  “You're just finally seeing the rest of it.“

Willem

It was a surprisingly warm morning, given the region.  The summer sun cut through the morning haze, burning away the low hanging clouds. As a myriad of flowers bloomed and the earth grew warmer, the air was left fragrant, little birds and bees flitted about; a night of cold rain swept through and cleared the sky of any taint.  Cold was barely a thing these last few weeks, and usually, at night, he knew that acutely as he shifted in his leathers and used a piece of cloth to wipe sweat from his bald head. “Ser Willem!” His second, no, third charge, Jaehaerys shouted pointing and running ahead of them, kicking up dust as he did. 

“Stay where I can see you!”  Willem returned, but alas, the boy didn’t. Instead, the knight watched as he vanished around a boulder along their dirt path off of the main road from the port city to Ib Nor.  Jaehaerys climbed over the massive rock like a lizard, fingers deftly finding every crack on its surface and scampering up the side and over before vanishing at the topmost lip, only to lean over and poke his head back out with the sun behind him, giving him a halo of silver gold light shining through his hair as it fell about his face. He smiled, brightly, his eyes animated and alive with excitement. ”Come on Ser Will!” He called out, panting, “You’re much too slow Dany!”

His shadow fell over them as he stood, “If you're going to ignore me and climb, tell me all you see when you return. And be careful.”  Willem called out just as Jaehearys vanished again. He was unlike Rhaegar, and nothing like Viserys, Will learned early on. Jae enjoyed a book well enough if no other option was available, but he yearned for movement and freedom like running through the halls of their citadel since Queen Rhaella never allowed them within the city. Or playing naughty little tricks all over, most of the time with his sister right there with him giggling away. That was why everything had to be a lesson.  Survey your terrain, then tell me all that you can see. Those had been his unsaid words when he’d sent the princeling off.  Jaehaerys was apt in tactics for a boy of his age. He owed it to the cyvasse he’d been forced to play during their war preparations. 

The Princess puffed beside him, cheeks red and silver-gold brows knit together in frustration. “Where does he get the energy for this?” Daenerys asked, blowing loose strands of hair from her face and looking up at Will who couldn’t help the sardonic smile that captured his own,  “You speak as if you're ancient, Princess.” The former master-at-arms and recently promoted Ship Master said, before gently pushing her forward. “You’ll only be ten and two in the turn of two moons, that's still too young to be huffing and puffing. Come, I think your brother is half-lizard, we can find another way around.” He took a deep breath and followed behind the princess. 

Jae and Dany were, more or less, explorers with a penchant for finding what they ought not to; but that was most children. Their journey North was taking longer than the Tattered Prince said it would, merely because the twins were drawn this way and that by the new sights they saw.  They’d ran themselves ragged before they set camp the night before and both children fell asleep within moments of completing their tent. Dany managed to persist for a bit longer but finally fell asleep after he’d assured her there were no spiders under her cot.  It was a new fear, as a maidservant had died from a spider bite and Daenerys heard about it. 

During the day, that fear seemed a thing of his imagination as he watched the pair run about, enjoying their freedom. It is beautiful , he admitted. Flowers he couldn’t name, birds they'd never seen, a random deer or three; their curiosity was piqued the moment they left the Northern gate.  He didn't blame them, this was the most freedom they ever had.   He remembered when Daenerys was all of two almost three name days and she came toddling from Oswell’s room clutching his dagger babbling nonsense and in her own childish words asking the younger knight to tell her what it was. Everyone near lost their minds, the shouting and scolding Oswell received from himself, Rhaella, and even Connington, well suffice to say he learned his lessons about keeping weapons in reach of the young ones. Less than a few moments later the knight was commanded to stay in the yard for the day when they found Jaehaerys with his thumb in his mouth attempting to draw his sheathed sword that lay on the ground. Willem breathed a bit harder at the memory, a grown man scolded and punished. He admitted that Oswell had taken it as best as he could, shrugging off the giggles of the maids as they watched the Queensguard mope about, complaining about the heat. 

Memories like that were what he lived for, what he would always fight for.  House Targaryen had given him a purpose, and he would give them his life if need be.  He rolled his shoulders, more and more aware of his age.  Though he stood straighter than many thought he could, it would have been a lie to say that there wasn't any pain included.  The nights always ended with something for the aches and something to keep him asleep, usually, the remedy was one and the same.  “Be quick Jaehaerys, we should return to our escort soon.”  he called to the wilderness sure the boy heard.

They’d broken camp a few hours ago, but the twins' eagerness forced them to stop so often that Will had finally told their group to halt and rest whilst they ran about for a time.  A small army marched behind them, three hundred men, one hundred for each child, which he believed to be a gross misappropriation of their men; but he understood her reasons. Rhaella took every precaution when it came to her brood, loath to even leave them, but the Magister's surprise visit had pushed her to it.  I mislike him, Willem, She had said.  Take the children, anywhere, survey the Island, take them to Ib Nor, just keep them from his view, and he had. The next morning he’d woken both Prince’s and the Princess up and told them about their grand adventure, though Viserys was given the option to stay back.  

“How much farther? My arm hurts!”  The eldest of the siblings said.  

He exhaled harder than normal, closed his eyes to center himself, and turned, “You should have stayed at the castle Prince Viserys.”

“And be left behind whilst those two go on some grand adventure with the amazing Ser Willem, the master-at-arms that trained Prince Rhaegar?” The Crown-Prince drawled with all the sarcasm that came with his age and position before scoffing and raising his bandaged and splinted arm. “If you trained him as you train me, it’s no surprise he lost to the Usurper.”  Or mayhaps you have fuck-all skill, and your brothers are just better than you? Don’t think like that Will. Viserys was still sour about the fight, the same fight he’d instigated with his younger brother and lost.  

“It's far from a grand adventure Prince Viserys.  And you didn't have to come.”  He reminded the boy. He had placed emphasis on that part.

“Why did you come?” Jaehaerys questioned.  He wasn't sure when he had climbed down from the rock.  I’m getting too old for them. He thought as the prince approached ever light on his feet, brow knit together and a deep frown marring his face.  A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead and his braid was a tangled mess; hairs stuck to his temple and he breathed hard but looked no worse for wear if only a bit dirty. He coughed into his hand, getting a frown from the older man. 

Viserys eyes narrowed, “ I wanted to, after all, I am the Crown Prince.  And last I checked, I didn't answer to you, little brother .”

Jaehaerys rolled his eyes as one of their guards approached them extending a waterskin.  “Your Highness,” he muttered.

“Thank you.”  The prince said, turning away from his elder brother shaking his head.  

“We don't need to fight.”  Daenerys said, “Can we not be friendly?”  

Friendly will thought and sighed as Jaehaerys said nothing and instead returned to his horse. Something had changed in them, and it was noticeable. They spent more time apart than together these last few days, but he owed it to Viserys constant presence. It was hard to believe that the fight happened only four days prior, the tension when the siblings were together made it seem much longer.   “Are we all set, My Lord?” Ser Lucifer asked when they returned.  Their horses were tied off on a low branch, with the remainder of their men milling about and eating their midday meals. 

“Aye, I think they are.” He said. He hadn’t cared for the sellswords all that much in the beginning, but some had made the transition into soldiers rather well. Lucifer was one of them.  “Get the men, let’s saddle up.”

Ser Long bobbed his head and walked away to rouse the men. “Dany, Jae, mount up and let us be on our way. Hopefully, we can make it by morning.”

It took them the better part of an hour to get their train moving once more. “Ser Willem?” Daenerys began, she rode beside him with Jaehaerys behind them.  Viserys rode ahead, where Ser Lucifer led their party, declaring it was his place. 

“Yes, princess?” He replied as they rode leisurely.

“Your house, House Darry, is in the Riverlands?”

Ser Willem nodded, “Aye. My family’s home is Darry, just West of the Salt Pans and near enough to the ford.” He cared little for the name given by the Usurper. “Why do you ask Your Highness?”

She shrugged, “Is it like this?” She asked. “I would imagine so.” 

”Like what?”

”Warm and so very green.”

He chuckled, she was deceptively charming. “I would say that it’s colder here, with the exception of the last moon or two. But as it is right now, yes, I’d agree.” he paused, “But not quite so many trees, and a few more rivers and lakes or it would be called the Treelands.”

The Princess laughed, “And that sounds silly.”

“House Darry of the Treelands.” He chuckled, “I don’t know, it has a nice ring to it.”

Daenerys laughed aloud, the humor of children well beyond him, “I don’t think so.” She sounded so sure he couldn't help the guffaw that slipped out. 

“If you say so, Your Highness.” He winked at the Princess who quieted down and stared ahead. She worried her lip for a moment and looked over her shoulder, “What is it, princess?”

She mumbled something that he didn’t hear, her face down all the while. “What was that?” Willem asked.

“I said that I wished my brothers would be less hostile towards each other.” Her voice was soft, she didn’t want to be heard by her twin.  He looked over his shoulder as well, Jaehaerys wasn’t paying attention to them. He looked lost in thought observing the scenery.  

“Have you ever thought that your expectations may be a bit high?”

She looked at him, puzzled, “What do you mean?” 

He thought about it for a moment, “What if you were to ask for less? What if rather than expecting friendship you endeavored for civility?” She pursed her lips, thinking it over before sighing, deflated. He felt bad, “Daenerys, your brothers are very different. They always have been, mayhaps with age, their tempers will cool but for now, we should try to at least be cordial.” He earnestly felt that forcing a friendship between the two would do the opposite. 

“Be cordial,” Dany repeated. Reality was often difficult but she was resilient. They lapsed into silence, her curiosity seemingly sated for the time. The girl was a dutiful sister and daughter but woefully sheltered, like her twin brother. That had changed some, but her mother would soon need to find her more company besides her male siblings. He wasn’t certain if she would continue the tradition of marriage between brother and sister, but if her experience was any indicator, she likely wouldn’t. He looked up when the sound of hooves approaching drew his attention. 

“Being around children ought to be more enjoyable than those dullards,” Viserys said as he rode up and wheeled his horse around to join them. 

Willem nodded but sighed inwardly.  You weren’t supposed to have favorites when you served a house, especially when you minded your lieges children. But if he did, Daenerys was it with Jaehaerys coming in a close second. He looked over his shoulder in time to catch the youngest yawning before they made eye contact. 

“How are you faring?”

Jaehaerys shrugged, “I’m fine. Bored.”

Viserys scoffed but said nothing more, Willem was glad for that. He pulled on his reins, “If you’re bored Prince Jae, why don’t you tell me what you saw?” The old man clicked his tongue and slowed his horse, moving it between the trio, acting as a barrier with the twins on his left and Crown Prince on his right. He rode near enough to the younger ones to hear them.  

The boy pondered for a moment before looking to his right and pointing.  “We’re in a valley.”  he gestured back and forth.  “A valley would be favorable for defense, to force an enemy to follow a path of your design, with minimal casualties if you're able to use your environment. The terrain doesn’t allow for great mobility, so lightly armed foot soldiers would be preferable. Cavalry would be useless because they’d be forced to march single file like us, as would rows of archers, rather you’d want your archers firing independently. With the river to the east of us, you have a natural barrier allowing you to flank them in a pincer maneuver.”

“But what if the river was their point of entrance? Would you push them back to their ships and allow them to retreat?”  he replied.  Jaehaerys looked puzzled for a moment.

“But if I suffer no casualties and I force the invaders away, wouldn’t that be a success?”  

“I suppose it’s a gamble,” Willem replied. “Unfortunately, much of war is a gamble. You hope you’ve outmaneuvered your enemy, while they hope they’ve done the same.”

“Well, I call it weakness.” Viserys cut in. “You ought to slaughter your enemies. Never allow them to return to challenge you.”

“You would do that. It’s not as if you would even be fighting.” Jaehaerys said. “If you followed that plan you risk losing men as well as any advantage you had. A good leader knows when to retreat and when to press forward.”

“Of course you’d retreat. It is the safe thing to do.” Viserys scoffed. “Losing a few hundred men is worth crushing your foe.”

“Certainly, when you risk nothing yourself, the lives of your men mean even less. A true leader would be fighting by his soldiers' side; you’d just stay in some tent and hide.” Jaehaerys said quickly, his frown turning into a scowl. But that earned him a smile from the knight, though he didn’t see it.  

“Ha!” Viserys, uncharacteristically replied. “Yes, fighting by your men’s side, it’s so very honorable. Rhaegar fought by his men’s side and where did that get him? Crushed in the mud by the Usurper, his carp, his gull, and his dog!”

“Viserys!” Daenerys shouted.

The Crown Prince's head whipped in the direction of the Princess, “Shut up!”

“No, you shut up!” Jaehaerys defended, “At least Rhaegar wasn’t a gnashgab and a mewling coward!  Already a man grown, yet so easily bested by his youngest brother!”

Viserys face reddened and he scowled, his lip quivered for a moment before his face relaxed, “Better a coward than a dead man, wouldn’t you say brother?” Viserys smirked and rolled his eyes. Willem clenched his jaw.

“Enough.” He began.

“Do not presume to command me Ser.” Viserys cut across, “I’m returning to the front. Or should it be the back, eh Jaehaerys?” He snickered snidely, before driving his horse forward a smug smile on his face.

Willem wiped his own face and left his eyes closed for a moment longer, of all the things the boy could choose to poke at. When he opened them, Dany was staring at him pointedly, a mixture of sadness, resignation, and anger in her plum-colored eyes.  He smiled dismally back before she looked away, knowing full well what that look had been for. She doubted even being cordial would be an option. 

Daenerys

They rode for a while longer. She wasn’t sure how long but it couldn’t have been more than an hour, mayhaps two. If they were at home, her mother would likely be holding court, which would mean it was shortly after midday. She could have used the shadows from the trees, but Jae was better at that. She looked over her shoulder at her younger brother. 

“What?” He asked. 

Her eyes narrowed and she slowed her horse. Willem nodded but kept his pace allowing her to fall back in line with her twin. When her horse was in step with his she spoke, “You have been quiet.”

Jaehaerys shrugged, “I know.”

“What’s wrong?” 

“Silence doesn’t always mean something is wrong.” His face remained stoic for a moment longer, and then the facade broke and the corner of his lip lifted and he gave her a clever little smile. “Nothing is wrong, I just don’t believe Ser Willems story of taking us to see Ib Nor.”

Her lips flattened into a line, and her eyes darted quickly to Ser Willem before looking back at her brother and nodding her head, “I don’t either, but can’t we enjoy it?”

“I am enjoying it, I just don’t like being lied to.” He paused. She knew when he was collecting his thoughts, he became focused, and his brow furrowed; A frown creased his face and he turned back to her, his violet eyes so intense. “We’re not babes anymore. I’m almost a man grown, and you a Woman. In a few years, we will set sail for Westeros and war. We’ve been through so much already, but now we’re carted off in the wee hours of the morning with a mummer's tale.”

“Mayhaps something gave mother cause for worry?” She replied.

“If so then we should have stayed, and dealt with whatever worried her together. I can fight and so can you.”

She smiled, “I know.”

“Or Viserys could have gone and we could have stayed,” Jaehaerys said. 

She laughed aloud, Ser Willem looked back at the pair and rose a brow in question. He chuckled and turned away, “if only.” A sigh escaped her, “Jae, could you do something for me, please?”

Her twin's eyes narrowed, he eyed her suspiciously. It was funny to see and notice that he was right, he was becoming a man before her. His pudge was leaving him, and in its place, a comely young man was taking shape. “What?” He asked, drawing it out. 

She thought about what Ser Willem had told her, “Could you try not to antagonize Viserys? Could you be cordial?”

Suspicion made way for a frown, “Really? That’s what you want? First, I never antagonize him; in fact, I never bother with him. Second, Daenerys, you can’t be cordial with Viserys, he’s a cunt.”

“Jaehaerys!”, she tried to sound affronted, but it was weak and she still smiled. He’s not lying , she thought. 

“Fine. But, if he starts then I will fight back.” He said. She nodded, but in truth, was surprised. Where had her timid little brother gone?  Pushing that aside she took a breath and relaxed, the first part of her mission was complete. 

“I’m going to speak with Viserys too.”

“Don’t.” Jaehaerys cut her off. 

“Why? It’s what mother would do.” 

“And you’re not mother Dany, don’t bother.” He replied. “You’re just making it easy for him to hurt you. He’s a bully Dany, just don’t.”

She looked at him and nodded. She knew full well what her brother was, but still, she thought otherwise. Nobody could deny that Daenerys was persistent, she would speak to Viserys that very evening. 

The next few hours flew by.  They passed widely spaced steading’s, the majority of which looked as if they were built into the ground, but the Ibbenese were not traditional farmers. She saw livestock, but not too many fields of crops, or none that she could name. It made her curious as to where they purchased the fortress's produce. It wasn’t long before Daenerys and Jaehaerys became ensnared in a game of naming something they saw whilst the other guessed what it was.  Dany was winning, she chose harder objects, frustrating her barely younger brother.  

“Be more imaginative.” She laughed.

“More imaginative? You keep choosing tiny objects or birds that only stay in one place for a moment.” Jaehaerys pouted, “I name you a cheater Daenerys of the House Targaryen!”

She gasped, mock incredulity painting her features, “how dare you Ser! There is only one way to settle this…”

“A race!” They shouted in unison. Daenerys kicked her horse into motion just as Jaehaerys did the same. The pair lunged past Ser Willem and onward, getting a shout from the older knight when he realized he needed to keep pace with the twins. 

They passed Viserys and Ser Lucifer in a blur of color, horseflesh, and dust. The knight kicked his horse into a gallop leaving the Crown Prince behind as the youngest Targaryens raced ahead of their train, laughing with rumbustious abandon. 

“Woah there!” Ser Lucifer shouted. “Your Highnesses! You shouldn’t leave your escort behind! These are wilds!” 

“Oh we’re safe here Ser Lucy,” Dany called out. She slowed her horse anyway. 

Jaehaerys did the same, “She’s right, who can harm us out here?” Jae wheeled his horse around and cantered over to his sister and the knight, “It really doesn’t matter anyway, I won.”

“Only because you left first!”

Jaehaerys turned his head up indignantly, “We left at the same moment.” Daenerys shook her head as she approached. 

”Without letting anyone know, I'd wager?” Ser Lucifer interrupted them, his voice disapproving. “Well, if either of you is hungry or tired I think this would be a good place to camp.”

Ser Willem came trotting up, he looked only mildly perturbed when he reached them. “You shouldn’t do that.” 

“But Ser Willem, we couldn’t say no to the race.” Daenerys began. 

“Certainly not, our pride was on the line.” Jaehaerys followed up. 

The grizzled knight made a noise and shook his head. “I was telling the prince and princess that I think this is a good location to camp My Lord.” Ser Lucifer said, scanning the area with squinted black eyes. “Freshwater is just over that ridge,” he pointed to their left which was east. “And the trees there help protect us from any winds.”

“Aye,” Ser Willem agreed, “We camp here tonight.”

Their camp sprang up quicker than the last few times. The main pavilion came up first, followed by cook fires and then their tents and all the others. Soon it was a sea of black and red. Jaehaerys and Daenerys shared one tent between them, with Ser Lucifer’s across from theirs and a fire pit between them. Viserys’ tent was opposite the pavilion, closer to the river than theirs. Ser Willem’s tent was opposite his. Men walked in pairs and triplets as guard rotations were put in place and they helped one another with their nightly routines. She was amazed by their order and speed, this was the most amount of time she’d spent outdoors, and was loving every moment of it. 

Her brother was in their tent while she knelt down and tended the fire. ”What are you doing?” Jaehaerys asked, stepping through the flaps and back out.  

”Being helpful unlike you.” She said.

“Sure, to me it looks as if you’re trying to light a fire, but going about it all wrong.” He walked over to her, “Give me that.” He took the fire starting steel and squatted down closer to her. “Let me show you,” he arranged the wood in the pit in front of them. .

“I can do it you know.” She tilted her head and gave him a look.

“Right, of course.” He looked around, “Then where are your flint and tinder?”

Dany reddened, “I don’t know.”

Jaehaerys rolled his eyes and stood, disappearing into the tent for a moment before returning with a small brown wooden box. “You should always be prepared, Daenerys.” He set the kit down between them and squatted before the fire pit once more. “Get your tinder, I have cotton balls in my firebox, but really any dry bark or dry leaves, even dry grass can work.”

She smiled as her brother explained what he was doing. “And it must be dry?”

“Of course.” He said, “I mean, you can try with something that’s damp, but that’s why you always make sure you have your kit and supplies.”

She watched as he placed a cotton ball over dry leaves and wood. “You strike the flint and steel together.” He showed her, striking the objects together. “Just keep goi- ah-ha!” He exclaimed when the cotton ignited, the kindling underneath following it. He got closer and blew on the weak fire, stoking it and smiling as the flames took and the wood slowly caught and darkened. 

Daenerys stood and looked around as the camp came to life, feeling somewhat accomplished. She turned and watched her brother rummage through the underbrush. I'm going to have to brush his hair later , she thought, taking note of how unruly the braid had become, an exasperated sigh escaped her. “I’m going to change.” She announced. Her brother shrugged before returning to the fire, poking it with a stick he’d found. 

“Want to explore later?” He asked just before she slipped into the tent.

A brilliant smile captured her face when she turned to her brother and nodded emphatically. “Yes, but can we get away?”

“It’s Ser Lucy.” He said, knowingly. “He’ll just go with us.”

“Ok.” She agreed. 

“Wear your leathers.” He told her.  He was already wearing his own. Soft black leather breeches, a grey tunic with red stitch work around his collar, and a matching black leather coat and boots with a silver buckle. 

She made a noise of agreement before slipping into the dim light of their two-person tent. It was spacious enough for two children of their size. A rug over a tarp protected them from the earth with two cots sat on either side, loaded with linens and furs.  A single table and chair were placed between them with an oil lamp on the table. Their shared chest at the foot of Jaes cot was her destination, she’d packed it herself, and was proud of it.  It made routing through and finding what she wanted quick.  It wasn’t long before she had disrobed her traveling dress and slipped into leathers. Black like her brothers, but her own tunic was a beautiful sky blue cotton. She twirled in the shirt, smiling as it danced in the air and tickled her belly. Daenerys slipped on her boots and placed her circlet in the chest, beside her brothers before leaving the tent once more. 

Dany joined Jae, seated on the earth, cross-legged before the fire. She saw Ser Lucifer and Ser Willem in the distance, directing their escort. Her brother was prodding the fire, “This should last a while.” He said. 

“You’ve always been good at building fires.” Dany said.

Jaehaerys chuckled, “It’s in our blood.” Dany smiled, before shifting to her knees and reaching forward, towards the flames, “What are you doing?” Jae asked, brow furrowed. 

She gave him a sly smile, “Just watch,” she said and rolled back her sleeves. 

Daenerys reached out but hesitated before plunging her hand into the flames and plucking a lone coal from the fire. She smiled, the sensation was just as she’d remembered. A warm breeze brushing against her flesh. It was almost invigorating. They were alone for the moment, she’d looked around and made sure, “It doesn’t hurt, and I don’t burn.” Her eyes glittered with excitement.

With no preamble, Jaehaerys pushed back his own sleeves and reached into the fire to pluck out another coal. Dany's eyes widened, excitement replaced with shock, “It doesn’t hurt you either?” Jae shook his head, peering at it as it cooled down. 

“It tingles.” He grinned and looked at her. “We should put coals in Viserys cot.” 

Her eyes widened and then she thought before speaking, “Well, first, the cot would light on fire and also, that would be cruel, we don't know if he can do this too.”

“He’s our brother, we share the same blood so why not?”

“Well,” Dany hesitated and looked around once more making sure nobody had gotten closer in the last few moments, “I don’t think he feels what we feel from the eggs.”

Jaehaerys' grin widened into a smile, his eyes shone mischievously, “You can't tell him you know!”  She realized why a moment later, it was ammunition.  

“Why not?

“Because it’s mean, and it’s his secret.” She knew she was right when Jaehaerys smile faded, “You’d hate it if he knew about any of our dreams.”

“Fine.” He said, standing.

“Thank you.” She said, standing as well, “I’m going to find Ser Willem and Ser Lucy.” She turned and walked away from him. “I’ll meet you for supper.”

Slipping away wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be, she’d convinced herself Jaehaerys would secretly follow her. He wouldn’t want me doing this , she thought.  They were like-minded in most things, but he’d made his stance clear. She’d walked a loop around their camp saying hello to their family’s soldiers as she did, before veering back to the pavilion certain she wasn’t being followed

Now, at the flaps of her eldest brother’s tent, she was nervous. 

“Um,” she swallowed nervously, you could never be sure what mood he was in, “Viserys?”

A few heartbeats of silence greeted her before he answered, “What? What do you want?”

She worried at her bottom lip, “May we speak?”

Silence greeted her for a few moments before Viserys spoke again, “Come in then.”

And she did, hesitating at the flaps but pulling them back and stepping in. The tent was just as dark as theirs but slightly bigger. Where they had two cots, Viserys had one and a table on the other side. “What do you want Daenerys?” He asked her, brow raised and curiosity clearly written on his face. He stood by the table, watching her, barefoot, his injured arm already in a sling. He must have recently bathed; his hair was damp, and he wore a linen shirt and black breeches. 

She hesitated, but he waved her along before turning and tossing the brush in his free hand on his cot, “I was hoping that on this trip, we may enjoy our time away from the castle. That we could be cordial with one another?” She sounded weaker than she’d hoped. 

He scoffed, “Cordial? Is that a new word you’ve learned?” He turned back to her, brow raised. “And how do you propose we be cordial?”

Her hands felt sweaty, “We- we don’t have to fight all the time.” She swallowed, feeling her courage slip away around him like it always did. 

“Oh, is that it Daenerys?”

When did he get closer to me? She blinked in surprise and thought, as he stood above her, lilac eyes drilling into her own. He had an odd smile on his face. “You sound like our mother.” He stepped closer, “She’s always going on about brotherly love. What does that even mean? She asks me to remember Rhaegar, but why? Father was right about him, you know? Tender and weak, he ran away with a whore and ruined our dynasty. I suspect our father would feel the same about our younger brother.”

He moved faster than she expected and gripped her face with his good hand. “You’re hurting me.” She whimpered, clutching his wrist and pushing at his chest. 

A queer smile crept up his lips, a smile she’d never seen on him before; it cooled her insides, “I’ve grown rather tired of your condescension. You and that brother of ours. Would you respect me the way you respect him if I put a blemish in my hair?” His fingernails were biting at her skin, “Who the fuck do you think you are, hmm? Be cordial? I’m the fucking Crown Prince!” Dany whimpered, but his hand pressed even harder. “I’ll do what I want, when I want, with who I want.” He spun them both and pushed her against the table in his tent, forcing her to bend backward oddly and painfully; the edge of the chair was pressing into the small of her back. “Mother has spoiled you far too much, allowing you to train in the yard or ignore your lessons. You should have been learning your place, your role.”

“Vis-“

“Shut up! “ he hissed. “Shut your fucking mouth.” She was terrified, tears trailed down her face. She’d given up fighting against him, he was too strong. Her breath escaped raggedly, and she fought the desire to kick him or hurt him in fear of making him angrier.  Jae was right.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to breathe out.

His smile became predatory, “Oh are you? Show me how much.” He released her and took a step back. Dany clutched at her face, sure there would be bruises. How would she explain them?

“Come on then, show me how sorry you are.”

“What?” She didn’t know what he meant.

“I said, show. Me. How. Sorry. You. Are.”

She was confused, “What do you mean?”

“Aye, what do you mean?” Both of their eyes widened. The flap to the tent closed and Daenerys had never been more glad to see her younger brother. 

“Get out of my tent.” Viserys snarled through his teeth.

“No. Tell us what you mean.” For a boy not yet ten and two, his face held the wroth of an adult. Angry violet eyes stared down their elder brother, Jaehaerys mask threatened to break, the dragon beneath was ready to strike. 

Viserys scoffed, “You know what I mean. Unless you wanted a turn with her first? Is that what this is?”

And then his meaning became crystal clear and Daenerys couldn’t help the shiver that climbed her spine as she stared at her eldest brother, aghast, more so, utterly mortified. “He didn’t...”

“She will be my wife one day, what’s the harm in starting early?” 

Shock and repulsion clouded her features, but fury captured Jaehaerys. For the briefest of moments, the flame in the lantern flickered red making her blink in surprise, and in one fluid motion, her younger brother pounced on her elder, rolling with him, flipping them both over and pinning Viserys to the ground with a jaw clicking thud. She didn’t know where the dagger came from, but Jaehaerys held one. One knee was on Viserys chest and the other on the ground for support. He pinned their brothers' good hand above him, with the dagger in his own free hand. 

“You, Viserys, are a vile blaggard. A loutish, monstrous excuse of a brother.” His hissed, venomously, “I would say Maegor comeagain, but you don’t even have one-tenth of the skill with arms. You’re worse, The Scab King.”

“Don’t you dare!” He struggled against their younger brother.  Jaehaerys was deceptively strong, but their brother was also weak. His face contorted as he fought to get free, spittle escaping with each grunt. 

“I know all of the names they gave our father. Mad Aerys, The Mad King, King Scab. Do you know he often had shit under his nails? He was fouler even than you.” He pressed the dagger against Viserys’ throat, their brother breathed and jerked in surprise. The motion caused Jae’s arm to slip.

“Oops.” Jaehaerys said, blood was drawn.  Jae held the dagger at his throat, pressing harder, just along the cut. Their brother grit his teeth and hissed at the pain, but his eyes could no longer hide his worry.  

“I hate you, Viserys. Everyone hates you. I could kill you here and the only person that would mourn would be our mother.  I may be younger than you but I see, and I know that you are worthless. Unlike you, I am the clever brother and I swear that you will never be king. So long as I live. Even if I have to cut your throat myself."

Viserys grit his teeth as the knife pressed against the cut, he shook as sweat beaded along his brow, “You would be branded a kinslayer?”

A small smile ticked across her younger brother’s face, “No, because nobody would know but Daenerys and I. I’m sure Ser Lucifer knows how to be rid of a body, he would tell me or I would make it look as if misfortune befell you. Mayhaps I’ll cut your throat while you sleep and make it look like assassins sent by the Usurper? Do you think the guards care? They’d be glad to be rid of you, they’d likely help me.” Jaehaerys did not blink or look away.  The coolness of the night air was met with the cold indifference of his tone.

Viserys eyes widened, “The gods would curse you!” His voice shook as he spoke.

“And why would I care?  We are Targaryens, we answer to neither gods nor men.”

Her elder brother said nothing, but his face drained of color. “If you touch Daenerys again, or me for that matter, I won’t kill you immediately, I’ll start by cutting off your sword hand and your bollocks. The lords of Westeros would never accept a king that couldn’t fight or make heirs.” He pushed off of Viserys and stood over him, a look of profound disgust on his face. He turned to walk away but paused and turned back, “Come on Dany.”

She blinked and complied, inching around their prone and panting brother. Viserys shifted and she yelped but Jaehaerys gave him a swift kick in the leg. Their elder brother grunted and cursed, but turned away from them, nursing his new injuries as they made their way out of the tent and across the pavilion, back to their own tent and the relative safety within. It was getting darker and cook fires were only just lighting up around them. 

“I told you not to do that!” He began, rounding on her the moment they were in their shared tent. At least he waited to shout at me until we were alone, she thought as his voice faded away. There was some humor to it, she’d gone with the intent of being like their mother only for Jaehaerys to sound like her now. 

“-ened if I hadn’t arrived when I did?” Her mind traveled elsewhere for a moment and she lost track of his words. Jaehaerys was staring at her, his violet eyes near black in the dim light. Daenerys sniffled once, and rather than saying anything, the tears started again. Silently the sobs came and before she knew it, her brother's arms were wrapped around her, as she wept into the crook of his neck. She cried out the fear she’d felt as he guided her to her cot and sat her down. 

“I’m sorry.” She muttered, sniffling. He wiped the tears from her face with his sleeve, all the while offering her a lopsided smile. 

“Don’t be.” He sighed and pulled her beside him, wrapping an arm around her shoulder while she rested her head on his. “You may be older, but I’ll always protect you Dany. I’ll get stronger and make it so that Viserys will never be king. You can be queen after mother, and then I can be king after you.”

“We could rule together?” She added, pushing her hair away from her face to get a look at his reaction better. 

As expected the face he made set her to giggling, despite the tears that had just been dried, “Blegh! We would have to be wed!”

Once she reigned herself in, Daenerys shrugged, “Better you than him.” She muttered softly. Thoughts of marriage had been whimsical, she and Jaehaerys, much like any other children their age, had played The Old King and The Good Queen many times, pretending to be upon dragonback, visiting the keeps of Westeros, and spreading good tidings and fortune. But that had been when they were younger. Before she’d become aware of her changing body, before I bled she thought.  But mama was an early bloomer too , She remembered her mother telling her only a fortnight and a half ago when she’d woken in a panic, her nightgown and linens bloodied. Now marriage meant something different, and it terrified her at her age. Dany had yet to tell her brother, but the comfort he gave her now was enough to forget about it, if only for a while, “You’re my best friend Jae.” She reached for his hand and intertwined their fingers. 

“Well, I’m glad I followed you, you nit.” He head-butted her gently. “I know you Dany, you’re my not so sneaky other half.”

She laughed softly and righted herself, wiping his shoulder of any of her tears before turning to her brother and taking both of his hands in hers. He looked at her confused, she took a breath, “I bled.” 

His brow shot up to his hairline, “Oh, okay?”

“If ever I am forced to marry, will you run away with me?” His eyes widened, surprise painted his features, but just as quickly determination replaced the surprise and he gripped her hands and nodded.

“Always and forever.”

“Always and forever.” She repeated. “I feel as if it should be the other way around. I’m the older sister.” She pouted. 

He released her hands and smiled, “But I’m bigger and stronger.” Jae pushed off the cot and stood. “I’m going to find our supper.” He drew his dagger and handed it to her, “This is yours now.”

She looked at it and smiled, “I love you, Jae.” She said just before he stepped through the tent flaps.

“And I love you Dany.”

Jaehaerys

He stepped out and his smile faded. 

This isn’t normal , he thought. They were not yet ten and two, worries of marriage, for women may have come sooner but for him they felt far off. He knew the basics of it , he felt his cheeks warm up when he thought about it . But he knew what men and women did once they were wed, how they produced children. He knew it included the man's bits and the women's unmentionables as Martyn explained to him.  It came after Jaehaerys told him of the sudden and unexplainable emergence of a very strange sort of excitement and a new slew of feelings he’d had when spying on a bathing maid one afternoon when he was roaming the castle alone. He’d been on the cusp of one and ten at the time and felt uncomfortable approaching his mother with such curiosities. Being his primary tutor, Martyn had seemed the obvious choice, but before soothing Jae’s worries, the man laughed but had otherwise been rather forthright with his knowledge, almost too much so. Jaehaerys eyes remained wide as saucers for a sennight after one particular anatomical lesson when he learned that women did not in fact make water from their bottoms and what the c-word, as Dany calls it , actually was. 

But none of this was normal. Then again, who was he to question what constituted normalcy? Nothing about their lives could have been considered conventional, so was he truly a good judge? The one thing he did know, the one thing he did understand was that their brother was a shameless monster. He hadn’t lied when he said that he knew what all of Westeros had said of their father.  And if what Ser Oswell had told him, his brother wasn’t far off.  The truth hurt, but it was also liberating. There were no blinders on his eyes when it came to his father, just as there were none when it came to his elder brother. 

He grit his teeth when he remembered Viserys foul words; the fire sputtered but he was too lost in his thoughts to notice. The terror in Dany’s eyes had caused him to move, yet even now he was still surprised by his actions. And where was Ser Willem , he thought for the first time, realizing then that they were woefully unguarded. He clenched his jaw and grunted his displeasure. This whole damn trip was a mistake!  Jaehaerys needed a moment to collect himself before he set off. The dreams, his brother's obvious shortcomings, and now his sister's worries, they all felt like so much to be dealing with at his age but he understood above all that it was his duty. As a prince of the blood, the words echoed in his mind. 

With age also came greater understanding, besides the vexing external influences he knew that within him was an angry fire, and every time he became even minutely irritated or felt the slightest bit threatened, more fuel was added to that fire. The only problem was ensuring that it didn’t explode again by accident, because it was becoming more and more apparent that rage was his demon. 

He took one last shallow breath, unaware of the flames in the fire pit dimming as he exhaled. Their color and pitch faded from a faintly reddish hue to the normal yellow and orange you’d expect to see of fire, cloaking his immediate world in a sepia veil. 

“Supper.” He reminded himself, looking around the camp. Night was upon them, lanterns were hung and cook and campfires were lit and roaring. The air was fragrant with Essosi spices now as pots of stews and skewers of meat were prepared. He could hear the laughter of his family's men, they seemed to enjoy their life here. Were I one of them , he thought for a moment wondering what life would have been like had he been lowborn. He set off to find Ser Willem and Ser Lucifer a moment later. 

Night made armored soldiers look near identical, he realized with a frown.  Jaehaerys wove his way through the camp and around cook fires and men that greeted him, nodding or saying hello to every “Your Highness” or “My Prince” he heard.  He saw Viserys, sitting amongst a group of men.  They were all laughing but he remained scowling and stared at the fire.  He thought about starting a fight with him but that would only serve to get him punished.  

It wasn’t until Jaehaerys walked near the eastern perimeter that he saw Ser Willem, accompanied by Ser Lucifer and one other serviceman.  “Ser Willem?”

“Oh, there you are.” Willem smiled through his beard. “I was going to come to gather you and Daenerys for your dinner.”

Jaehaerys gave them a wan smile and slight nod, “No need Ser. Dany and I would rather take our dinner in our tent this evening.”

Willems' smile turned into a frown, “Is everything okay?”

Jaehaerys nodded once, “Yes.” He replied tersely. 

Lucifer looked between them, “Come Your Highness, Snow, and I will show you the way.”

Willem looked on, mildly put out as Ser Lucifer steered him away, “Asher.” Jae said to the man accompanying Ser Lucy. 

“My Prince.” He replied, a quick nod followed but he remained quiet after. 

Ser Lucifer walked beside Jaehaerys, with Asher walking a few steps behind them, holding a lantern. Once they were a fair bit of distance away from Willem, Lucifer turned to Jaehaerys though he kept his stride, “Are you certain everything is okay?”

He pursed his lips, following Lucifer’s lead as they made their way back to the central cookfire and adjoining tent.  “Viserys.”  He need not say more.  Lucifer caught on and shook his head, but otherwise said nothing, his brows pressed together. 

“I’ll station Asher outside your tent.”  He finally said, pushing aside a man-at-arms for the prince to pass.  The men parted and made way, still laughing and cajoling each other just as Jaehaerys stopped at the perimeter of the cookfire, rather than forcing his way through.  It only took a moment for Lucifer to walk away and return with a tray with silver covered platters, a carafe of watered-down wine, and two goblets. The knight's brow arched as he approached, “What’s wrong?”

“If I asked you a question, would you tell me the truth?” Jaehaerys answered with his own question.  The knight nodded.  

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

Jaehaerys looked at the knight as they walked back to their tent, Asher still trailing behind them a few steps. “Alright,  then, why are we here? Why are we on this trip?” 

Lucifer sighed, their section of the camp was nearing.  “To tell you the truth Jaehaerys, I haven't an answer for that.  All I know is that the morning we left was the first I heard about this merry jaunt we've been on.”  His lips flattened into a line and he rolled his eyes, “ Ser Oswell and Ser Willem asked me to round up some of our trusted captains and form up a small unit to march North.”

Jaehaerys nodded along, expecting as much.  

“If I learn more, I will tell you, be assured.”  He gave the prince a rare almost smile as they reached their tents, “Eat your supper, Your Highness, we can train with a sword and bow before we pack up tomorrow morning.” He gestured with his head for Asher to take position.  “Snow will be on guard detail while I’m on patrol duty.” He gave the tray to his charge before nodding once to Asher and walking back into the darkness.  Jaehaerys did the same, nodded to Asher before stepping through the flaps of his tent, back first and turning, only to find Daenerys fast asleep on her cot.  

He set the tray down on their shared table with a sigh and lour, all the while shaking his head, “What happened to exploring or eating Dany?”  He muttered.  He had half a mind to wake her but decided against it.  Her evening had been difficult enough. “I’m on my own then.”

He sat on his cot, the creak of the wood and canvas pronounced in the silence of the night. He could hear Danys soft breaths, and Asher’s shifting just outside of their tent. Beyond that, he could hear the men laughing, some singing, but regardless they were making noise.  And just then he realized, they were all otherwise distracted. I could sneak away if I wanted to. And he could, with little effort he could cut a hole in the back of the tent. Stealing a torch wouldn't be that hard, they were after all distracted. He smiled to himself, satisfied that plan would do for a midnight jaunt. 

“Success!” He declared in a whisper, a toothy smile smeared across his now very dirty face; there would be no hiding this without a bath.  He wiped his brow with his forearm and dusted himself off as he crept away, crouched down, unlit torch in hand.  They’d had several prepared, near Asher but just out of his sight enough for Jaehaerys to steal one. They were meant for emergencies or trips to make water in the night, but he thought this reason enough. 

He tried his hardest to make no noise, but as with any forest or woods, it was really up to chance since he had no light and clouds hid the crescent moon above him. He flinched every time a twig snapped, pausing for a few moments to listen for pursuers before repeating the process until he felt far enough to crouch down, set the torch on the ground, and fished the steel and flint he’d brought from his pocket. It caught a spark on the second strike before he stood with it in front of him. 

The world was so very different at night and outside of the castle walls. It felt like he walked for hours but it was most likely only moments. Trees swayed on the ocean breeze, he dodged low hanging branches and stepped around what he could see, painfully aware that his torch didn't give much light.  Its halo only went a few feet around him, showing only what was immediately near him.  Minutes passed while he walked, aimlessly, his eyes wide and searching for nothing in particular.  Mayhaps freedom, since they were forbidden from entering the city, or mayhaps even a moment to himself, away from everyone, was that too much to ask for? 

Jaehaerys only then noticed that the crunch of gravel had replaced the near silence of dirt.  I’ve found a path, he realized, angling the torch downward.  Curious .  He looked around once more before walking onward. He noticed broken pillars as he made his way up the poorly kept footway, surrounded by looming shadows.  The further he walked, the taller the pillars were, though most were in pieces, having fallen or crumbled and what remained standing was covered in vines and patches of moss.  The neglect was obvious, old greyish-white stone that faintly resembled weathered figures lay broken around him as he navigated around and over them.  “This is a ruin.” He realized, turning in a circle.  He stopped and thrust the torch forward; the path continued onward into the darkness ahead of him, and he followed it, even as he reached a set of battered stairs and climbed them, breathing harder than normal once he reached the ruined archway at the top.  

Jaehaerys huffed a breath and hesitated at the top of the worn stairs, staring into the bleak emptiness beyond the archway, a faint drip echoed from somewhere unseen.  Whatever room lay ahead, it seemed large.  With a breath he plunged into the darkness, the torch lighting his path.  Lichen, leaves, dead vines, and branches littered the ground.  Shapeless stone, most likely collapsed statues stood ominously in the flickering shadows of his torch as he made his way further into the stale darkness.  He looked up to realize that there once had been a roof, but it too had crumbled, explaining the lumbering odd-shaped fragments around him.  He stumbled on a rock he didn't see, but caught himself, only to notice that the light of his torch reached the base of a raised dais or platform he hadn't seen before.  It continued up about three feet before taking shape as he approached.  

Jae stood at the head of a worn sepulcher, torch in hand. Time and the elements had eroded what recognizable features the image carved in had once had, but it was clear, the carving had been of a man. “It’s a tomb,” he muttered softly, silver-gold brows knit together as he walked a circle around it.  But, it was the first he’d seen on the island. On the opposite side of him, opposite of the entrance he came through another tunnel led out of the tomb with the crumbling roof. 

The prince left the tomb and entered the tunnel, following the deteriorating path.  The walls had once borne stone reliefs, he could feel the carvings as he ran his hand over them, but the elements had worn away any fine details.   The tunnel ended coming out in a grove of some sort, hidden by a natural ring of stout sentinel trees.  “Where am I?” There was no wind here, only the strangest feeling of sentience, as if this area was alive, and knew he was here.  He gulped and took a step out, into the strange garden, amazed by its stillness.  It felt almost mythical, saved from the touch of men by a force he had no understanding of.  He wondered if this had been a holy place; the mercurial quiet made it feel like it was.  He walked down the last set of steps and stood on the earth, eyes distracted by the blood-red leaves that lay scattered on the ground.  He reached down to get one and held it in his hand perplexed before looking around and gasping when he saw the owner of the leaves.  

“What manner of tree is this?”  He said aloud, approaching it tentatively.  It was big, and strong-looking, with a wide, wide trunk; though its crimson leaves made its white bark look ghostly, almost sinister.  Dropping the leaf he walked to it, amazed by its size.  Long, pale white branches, thicker than even Ser Willem’s waist, snaked overhead, blocking out the moon with its crimson foliage, dancing unnaturally calm in an almost nonexistent breeze.  

The fact that he’d snuck out was forgotten, this thing, was calling to him.  

He approached the tree but paused when he was an arms length away.  Something told him to touch it, but he hesitated.  A white tree with red leaves was far from natural, he knew this.  Mayhaps it was his curiosity or even stubbornness that forced his free hand to lift.  His lips pursed just before he touched the trunk, What's the worst that can happen, he thought, as he rested his palm on its cool white bark. There was a peculiar twinge before he felt a thump like a heartbeat that made his eyes widen in alarm.  He didn't even have time to yank his hand away, his body suddenly went rigid, his muscles tightened and he clenched his jaw.  He was faintly aware that the torch had dropped and rolled away.  Pain erupted in his mouth, he’d bit his tongue, but it was too late.  He was falling, the last thought he had before the ground rushed up to meet him, was, I shouldn't have touched it .  

Chapter Text

It was the morning of the fifth day of the Magister's stay. She sat quietly, silver-gold hair braided back from her temples and meeting at the back of her head in a set of intricate braids tumbling in loops down her back and over her samite gown, a deep maroon with black and gold thread; all of it capped with her crown nestled comfortably on her head. The gown was ostentatious and gaudy and she hated that she loved it, but it made a statement and that’s what she wanted to do. The statement was that they were not in need of help. That she was far from weak.  And of course that there was nothing for him here. What dealings did he have with Aerys? She thought of what he’d told her when first they met, of how he’d learned of them, and why he supported their cause. If anything his inquisitiveness during his stay had made her doubly insistent on his departure, however silent her protest was. She hoped her pensive half-smile didn’t overtly portray her desire to be anywhere but there. At least I’m not alone.  

“Our friend, Fereggo, quite the blowhard, though very agreeable. He simply could not stop maundering your successes here.” He said. 

“Indeed, he is quite the talker.  But what is that old adage?  Loose lips sink ships.” Rhaella replied.  She and Fereggo would have to speak. What had the fool told this man? They sat opposite each other in Rhaella’s official meeting chambers.  An oval table took the center of the room, teak wood, etched with symbols and images of antiquity along the rounded edges.  The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen had been carved into the center, with the words Perzys Ānogār (Fire and Blood) written in filigree at the base.  Like the throne room, she sat higher than the others, a high-arched back with three dragon heads staring down anyone that looked her way.  The outer twos tails led into the armrests with the chest and legs of the center dragon as the base and backrest. Ser Oswell was seated to her right, with Xaurane on the left and the Tattered Prince to the Lady’s left. 

She’d escaped this conversation for almost five days. The thousand, which were truly more like the Few Hundred, had proposed a meeting to speak on New Year celebrations, as well as road reform and the construction of ships. It had taken three days to negotiate how much gold she would invest and how much they would in turn contribute and another day to proceed with the customary royal inspection of the construction sites. Naturally, the funds were to pay for supplies as well as the workers as they did not condone slavery; but she knew they pocketed some. She needed a true Master of Coin, she needed a true Small Council. She needed the Iron Throne. 

Illyrio Mopatis sat across from her, today he wore a blue tokar with a yellow sash. An odd choice as she believed him to be Pentoshi, his forked beard said as much, but she conceded that it was a rather warm day, as the cloud cover and fog had burned away. He ran a thick hand over his mustache and down his forked beard before setting both of his meaty hands on the table. Ballar Nahios sat to Illyrio‘s left, beady eyes inscrutable from where she sat. His ugliness hid their agenda. And she knew they had one, she’d been told by enough people that the bovine of a man had been asking questions. Nothing too intrusive, but off-putting nonetheless. She and Oswell had men watching them. 

“You must forgive my absence, I’ve been harried by the court for some time now.”

Illyrio gave her a genial smile, “You are a Queen, no forgiveness needed.”

Nahios, alone was no issue. But Mopatis, he was an enigma. It angered her that he’d been allowed within the bay without her knowledge, she hoped her forces were not attainted, she couldn’t afford to restructure her armies. Rhaella would have preferred time to prepare for this man and whatever verbal spar they were about to enter, but fortune wasn’t on her side.  At least she was confident that her children were well and out of his sight.  By her estimation, they ought to have arrived at Ib Nor by now. Though she was fairly sure her twins would waylay them with their curiosity, it would do them well to leave the confines of the castle. Her conversation on family unity would have to wait for their return. 

“I must admit that I am also rather impressed, Your Grace. You’ve done so much, and in private but surely, the Iron Throne will learn of your accomplishments. Do you have a plan for that?”

Not that I would tell you. Something about the cheesemonger set her on edge. Am I being paranoid? He had a motive, she just didn’t know what. But he would not be clever if he gave it all away so easily. She cursed him and his doublespeak, his obvious dubiousness. No one did anything for anyone not of their blood from the kindness of their heart. 

“I do have a plan for that.” She gave him a wan smile, “To take back what was stolen from my family, with Fire and Blood.”

“And I have no doubt that the people of Westeros are raising silent toasts to their rightful Queen.”

How, she thought. They should all believe we are dead.  She smirked, his flattery would get him nowhere with her. She barely registered his eyes narrow when she said nothing back.  

“Tell us, what news or information do you receive about Kings Landing or the Usurper?” It was Oswell that spoke. There were no smiles on his face, deep blue eyes stared hard at Illyrio. He trusted the man just as much as she, so not at all. “Ships, men, current movements? Are there tensions in the capital? What of Dragonstone or the other Valyrian houses? Is there anything we can take advantage of? Our information is old or takes moons to get to us. Being in Pentos must make it easier?”

Illyrio pondered Oswell for a moment, “My contacts could help me provide that information, naturally for a price.” 

“Naturally.” She replied aloud. Gold, the first motive explained, she thought. What’s next?

“So you’ve come all this way with nothing? Just flattery and useless words?” Oswell said, bitingly. 

Ballars thick face contorted as if he were going to say something but Illyrio was faster, “Certainly not, I come bearing gifts, for Her Grace and the children, and of course the Crown Prince.” His eyes lingered on Oswell. 

“They are away from the castle,” Oswell replied. 

“Well, more's the pity. Tell me Ser Whent, what can you provide the Queen?“  He ran a hand over his beard, brow arched. “The North has struck up trading routes directly to and from Essos, by way of Braavos and White Harbour eschewing previous trade routes. The Warden of The North, Lord Eddard Stark himself negotiated the terms.”

That caught her, well really all of them by surprise. He noticed, she saw, but he continued “From my understanding, Lord Stark has never traveled further south than The Neck since the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion and before that the end of Robert's own rebellion. The relationship between the Warden of The North and his King is strained. The north of Westeros has never been more isolated, forcing the southerners to increasingly look elsewhere for goods they would normally provide. It’s not necessarily a blockade or embargo, but it is nearly as good as. From my estimation, trade with the south has decreased by ten percent in the last five years. It's almost as if they were preparing to secede.”

Which would anger the great houses in the south, the north becoming self-sufficient would hurt their ledgers.  They rely on the north to produce lumber and purchase produce at the very least, she assumed, hoping her lessons as a child were still practical. Xaurane leaned forward, the Lady knew most of the details surrounding the events of the rebellion, but not afterward.  This tension was news to them, “That is a grand assumption. So why?”

“Why? Lord Stark was rightfully aggrieved at the outcome of the Sack of King’s Landing, so much so that he called for the heads of the perpetrators and the Lord responsible, but when that did not happen, he cursed the capital and everyone there and departed never to return. Many believed the direwolf would do more than quarrel with the stag. Suffice to say that no overtures or attempts at reconciliation have been made, so far as my contact knows.”

This contact, he or she is within the Red Keep, surely, to know so much. It was the only way, she concluded, even more wary of the man. She was almost certain that the information flowed both ways. Rhaella returned her focus to his words, she knew what Lord he spoke of. Tywin. He would be dealt with personally. But try as she might, she could not find it in herself to hate Lord Stark, mayhaps at best she felt the slightest indifference and at worst a flaccid dislike, but not hate. He was a reminder that there were always two sides to a conflict. His family had suffered a fate near as bad as hers, at the hands of her own husband. His reaction was expected, who wouldn’t have called their banners after the murder of their father and brother? 

But the others, they would never be forgiven. House Arryn did their duty as the Stark lord's foster father, but the overreaching of House Tully would never be forgotten. It was said that time heals all wounds, but there were some that remained unwilling. The murder of her grandchildren and good daughter was one of them. Her violet eyes bore into Illyrio for a moment, Oswell’s narrowed and darted to her before looking back. “Be that as it may, nothing came of it I assume? There have been no wars, at least none that we’ve heard of.” Oswell said. 

“Of course not, but it may be important when you decide to set sail. Knowing who remains allies, what friendships are frayed, whose broken what promises. That is what I offer Ser Whent.”

Oswell looked nonplussed but nodded all the same. 

In the span of a few words he’d taken control of the whole fucking conversation, and he knew it. He smiled at her, sure in his knowledge, “I know I’ve given you and your counsel a lot to consider. Mayhaps we should speak further at another time? To allow you all to confer.” He ran his hand over his beard once, before pushing away from the table. 

She nodded, allowing him and his associate to stand and bow. Ballar smiled smugly having never said a word. She wanted to snatch the smirk from his lips but feared he was as greasy as he seemed. Her guards closed the door with a solid thunk after they left her meeting chambers. 

“That man is a snake. ” The Tattered Princes’ deep voice reverberated around the room in flowing High Valyrian. 

She startled everyone when she slammed her fist on the table. “He could play us and we would be none the wiser.” Her jaw was sore, she’d been grinding her teeth more and more lately. “All of that-” she gestured around, “-whatever it was, was simply to show us that he has access and reach we could only hope to have. We have no information network outside of this Island. Mayhaps it wasn’t a secret, but if so, then how did Fereggo not know this?” 

“And if he did, why not tell you?” Xaurane added. 

Rhaella nodded and leaned back in her chair, arching her back slightly. It was uncomfortable, but because she was petite compared to the average man, they insisted. You must be imposing, Willem stressed. She called it asinine, but then they asked her to remember her father upon the Iron Throne and she had agreed. It was the most imposing throne she could think of, though Dragonstones came a close second. Her eyes found Xaurane’s “Yet another reason to speak to the man.” She rested her head on the backrest and closed her eyes. 

“As much as you don’t want to Your Grace, we must begin preparations, and constructing a timeline could help,” Oswell said. The Tattered Prince nodded in agreement. 

She sighed and opened her eyes, “I want to Oswell, I simply fear uprooting my children once more. I want to be certain of victory before I cart them halfway around the world. I will not suffer the same fate as the first Daemon Blackfyre and leave my children to the mercy of lickspittles like them or worse, our enemies.” 

The door off to the side of the room opened allowing Martyn in. He bowed before closing the door. “What did you learn?” She asked him as he approached the table. 

He pursed his lips in thought, setting his hands on the table, “Magister Mopatis has been seen leaving a brothel every evening, though what he does while he’s there, one can only assume.”

Oswell shivered and pantomimed retching, “God’s how much gold do they charge him? All that flesh?”

Rhaella stifled a chuckle but still made a face, “I imagine his breasts are larger than most of the whores.” 

Xaurane snorted and Oswell laughed, even the Tattered Prince couldn’t help the smile that cut through his white and silver beard.  Martyn chuckled some but continued, “He has also made inquiries into the habits of the royal family. Specifically Crown Prince Viserys. They seem innocuous enough.”

“And so the sniffing begins,” Oswell said. Xauranes brow arched in question. ”Courtiers would chase after Crown Prince Rhaegar as well, hoping to court favor and hold a position of honor during his future reign.” Oswell explained. 

It was inevitable, she knew. Were they in Westeros, many lords would be doing the same, attempting to secure their future, their positions. Many would want to learn his habits, how they could take advantage, or play to her son's good graces, and with his temperament, it wouldn't take much but flattery.  That worried her.  An easily manipulated king was no good for any realm. 

“Marriage is always an option, Your Grace,” Martyn said.

Her eyes narrowed, “For who? Me?” He ought to have known her mind on that matter, she would have none of it.

“No, Your Grace. I meant for one of the children. Betrothals are powerful tools.” But unfortunately, he was right. She considered him for a moment, ever curious about the man.  She and Oswell had a running wager as to who would figure him out first.  She concluded that he was maester trained but likely left the Citadel before forging his links. Oswell believed him to be a second or third son from a Reach house that decided to try their fortune across the Narrow Sea.  Either way, he had proven trustworthy time and again, regardless of his secrets.  We all have them.

“While you are right, what alliance would serve me well in Essos but will not blowback in our faces the moment we set foot on Westerosi soil?” she looked at them all, “We are too far removed from the city-states to judge the individual Essosi families' worth and influence, nor do we know what houses have had children within my children’s age range.  It is unfortunate, but we must keep our options open for the future. Betrothals amongst the high lords of the seven kingdoms. I will never remarry, but the option must be available for Daenerys, Jaehaerys, and Viserys.” She paused, “Especially for Viserys, as the Crown Prince, who he is wed to may shape the foundation of our war.”  

“Why not return to the root of the Targaryen dynasty? Marry Valyrian to Valyrian?”  Oswell said, surely he didn’t mean marry Daenerys to Viserys? But he continued, “The other Valyrian houses, Celtigar and Velaryon?” She breathed lighter. 

“And what do we know of them? Sons or daughters? Their strengths? Their weaknesses? No, they will side with us when we return.  We share too much blood for them to willfully ignore.” At least she hoped. Loyalties could always change. Or be bought. 

“The Queen is right.” Martyn spoke, “Mayhaps in a generation or two, marrying back into the Valyrian houses can be an option, but for now every match must be made with the intent of courting allies and rule consolidation.  You will have a king, a prince, and a princess. Should Viserys not have an heir by the time he assumes the crown, then according to the ruling of the Great Council of One Hundred and One, Jaehaerys would be Crown Prince, and his betrothal could be just as important as Prince Viserys.” Martyn said. “Unless of course, Daenerys would assume the title and duty as the elder?”

Rhaella’s eyes darted to Oswell and back to Martyn, Maester trained. Rather than smiling at that thought, she worked her lip for a moment, “Let us not ponder matters so far down an unseen path.” She replied, “Let us worry about how long we will remain in Ibben because although the shadow council is gone, the thousand have grown aggrieved as I’ve proven less of a puppet than they’ve hoped.”

“Who will keep the rule of Ib when we do leave?” Martyn asked.

“My long term goal was to have this location serve as a proving ground for future rulers. Mayhaps leave Daenerys and Jaeherys here to learn to be leaders whilst Viserys and I dealt with the Usurper. They would be under the guidance of the Tattered Prince and Ser Willem.” She trusted both of the older men. Ser Rags nodded his head. He spoke rarely, but when he did it was with purpose and never in the Common Tongue. 

“It is men that will be the issue.” The older man said, “We do not have enough to launch an invasion.”

They all agreed, allowing silence to capture the room while they thought. ”What of the other sellsword companies?” Xaurane asked. 

Oswell shook his head, as did the Tattered Prince, “Why not?” Xaurane asked.

“Because their price will be too steep to cross the Narrow Sea. We were quite fortunate with the Wind Blown. Fortunate in that their leader sought to end their wandering lifestyle, and give his men a home.” Oswell said. Ser Rags grunted in agreement.  

“What he says is true, many companies will want an exorbitant amount, and lands, as well as continuous incomes. Incomes our reserves can not shoulder.” Ser Rags followed. 

“Then what are our options?” Rhaella’s fingers strummed the tabletop. “I do not trust Magister Mopatis with any of our plans, nor do I want to rely on him to supply us with men.  I mislike him.”

“I have another option, but it would mean leaving here for a time, as well as flouting one of your rules,” Xaurane added looking around at the group. Rhaella inclined her head, brows arched. “Unsullied.”

The Tattered Prince sucked air through his teeth, “ Slaves, eunuchs!? Abominations! ”

“Abominations or not, they are some of the world’s most renown soldiers,” Oswell said, though his face looked uncomfortable with the idea. 

Unsullied, she thought. Who in the East and even most of the West hadn’t heard of them? They were known the world over; a force equal to, but some believed, greater than the Ghiscari lockstep legions of old because of one thing: they were slaves, devoid of a will of their own.  Young boys, chilren really, robbed of their manhood, beaten viciously, and trained beyond inhumanely; all of it in the hopes of creating a near-perfectly obedient human weapon.  

“Slave Soldiers?”  She looked into Xaurane's amber eyes, willing herself to glean her sincerity in the notion.  The idea had merit, their skill was legendary, but she would have to be swayed to it.  She did, however, remember a story her youngest child, Jaehaerys, had told her about the Three Thousand Unsullied of Qohor after reading about them.  That legion of Unsullied successfully defended the Free City from a khalasar numbering fifty thousand.  They were whittled down to six hundred in the end, but in an unbelievable display of tactics, precision and resolve, they killed seventeen thousand of the Dothraki raiders, who only stopped when their Khal was killed.  In tribute, the new Khal led their khalasar before the remaining Unsullied, throwing their cut braids at their feet in defeat.  

Xaurane nodded her head, slowly, her eyes never leaving Rhaella. “Yes.” 

“I have forbidden slavery, yet you would have me not only condone it but partake?” Her eyes narrowed. 

“Would it be partaking? Or liberating?” Xaurane finished brow raised. 

Rhaella smirked, “Semantics.  You would spin my words to soothe my ego. I am not stupid, a slave is a slave, whether you purchase or liberate them.” She shook her head, if that was Xaurane’s attempt then she would need to return to her desk and rethink her approach, “I’m done with this for today. Let us convene, I’m sure we all have something to tend to.”  She looked at the Tattered prince, “Have some of your most unremarkable men watch Mopatis and Nahios, allow Martyn to return to his duties.  I will formulate a timeline and when we meet tomorrow, we can share what we have each come up with.”

Her chair grated back, with the assistance of Ser Oswell, before she stood, the rest of them following suit and bowing as she left.  Oswell fell in line a few steps behind her as the door closed with a heavy thunk. “It’s a good idea.”

“I know it is.” She said, above the echo of the guard's armor that trailed behind and ahead of her. The gardens were her destination. “But are we so desperate that we must now resort to purchasing men? We must exhaust every other option before we go down that route.”  When you crossed one line it became much easier to cross others.  They walked through the great halls of the fortress of Ibben, Rhaella set a brisk pace, cutting past the few Ibbish courtiers that remained in the castle. Theirs was a strange habit, where the citizens that equated nobility stayed in villas within the city, nearer to their ships. The greater the family was, the greater their ships. Seafaring was Ibbens greatest trade and their ships reflected that. Immense black-bellied behemoths that dwarfed a typical Western galley, their construction bore testament to their centuries-old skill at their craft. 

The guards ahead of them opened the large dark wood doors that led outside; fresh air hit her face and the day's bright light blinded her for a moment before her eyes adjusted. She took a deep breath, inhaling the sea air, never breaking stride.  The stillness of her garden would allow her thoughts to flourish. Shed hoped to make a statement, and she did, but he’d made one of his own and it was clear: You Need Me. Queen Rhaella sighed, it seemed when one problem was surmounted a slew of new ones replaced it. 

Jaehaerys

He was falling, from a great height. How he came to be falling he wasn’t sure but knew it was almost certainly because of the white tree with the blood-colored leaves.  The world had been black as pitch. Dark and terrifying. Smoke and shadow and ash surrounded him, making his eyes watery and useless, so he screwed them shut and clenched his jaw. The screams of men and women drowned out his thoughts. People were dying all around him. There was no rational thought, no rhyme nor reason; only the acrid scent of sulfur and death.  He burst through the darkness, falling faster and faster, brilliant light greeted his eyes as he struggled to open them; tears had nearly sealed them shut. He could feel the wind on his face and in his hair, pulling at his sleeves and pant legs. The world stretched out endlessly around him, blue sparkling water that touched the horizon. Clouds rushed past him, their moisture licked his face as a speck of brown and black and green earth far below gradually grew larger. 

“Every dragon must learn to fly on their own at some point.” The voice came from everywhere, nondescript but curious. He managed to fight the wind enough to look to his side. Two birds sleek and agile dove by his side, one solid black and the other white. He recognized them, but couldn’t place them. They’d been in his dreams before. Their wings were tucked to their side, matching his fall with an avian grace. “Even you young one.”

With no warning, the birds spread their wings and began to circle him, blocking his sight before catching the air and pulling away. The clouds around him vanished, replaced with waves of red and blue fire that he could feel. That wasn’t right, he shouldn’t have felt the flames heat so intensely. Panic gripped his heart. He was falling into the fire, “Help me!” He screamed to the bird remembering that he had a voice, but they laughed, cawing from above him. 

“Imagine a dragon being burned by his own fire.” The white bird said, it sounded feminine, but how was he to say? “Do not fear your own flames, child.” Its eyes were gold and alive, and like it’s voice, they found humor in his current plight. Panic started to set in. But this is a dream, he could control it, he had to. 

“You could try to control it,” The black bird cawed once getting his attention. “Or, mayhaps you should just wake up now?”

“What, why?” This was a very confusing bird, first, it told him to fly and now he needed to wake up? Should he have taken it seriously? He didn’t know whether to be afraid or to double down on the confusion. 

The white bird laughed at him. “Why? Silly boy, you’ve been falling all this time and I’d wager the ground hurts, even in a dream.”

“--aerys!”

His left eye crept open.  The world was bright, much too bright for late at night and the musty scent of moss and lichen hung heavy in the air.  His back twinged in pain, arms and legs numb and mind reeling.  I feel unwell, his head was heavy and muddled.  

“Aerys!” 

He made a noise, mildly offended, my name isn't Aerys. He opened his other eye slowly, allowing the world to come into focus.  Sunlight filtered through the red haze above him and a soft morning mist covered the grove or garden, or whatever this place was.  How long did I sleep?  He could hear the chirps of birds, but they sounded far away, reminding him of the cryptic crows from his dream.  And why couldn't I remember them? Jaehaerys turned on his side and exhaled, blowing dust into the air. What had he seen?  Flashes of smoke and death, and screaming.  The world shook and it was as if the sky itself had shattered and he was falling with it. It was so unlike any other dream. He’d seen and heard so much so nauseatingly fast all while spinning and plummeting. His head hurt terribly and the ground felt as if it would give way any moment, so he stayed laying. 

“Prince Jaehaerys!” The voices were so much closer now. He realized his name was what they had been shouting the entire time, he’d only heard the tail end.  His head was still spinning, so he closed his eyes hoping to center himself. Something happened when he touched the tree, of that he was sure.  He didn't understand what, nor how it had occurred.  “Jaehaerys!” A man shouted. He propped himself up slowly and leaned on his elbow, groaning. His head felt like it had been forced through the tip of a needle and then reshaped by a simpleminded sculptor. He could hear his family’s guards' armor making noise as they searched for him. The clatter of greaves and tap of booted feet echoed down the same hallway he’d come through before he heard muttering and exclamations, most surprised.

”There,” someone shouted.

He heard a gasp, “Jaehaerys!” It was Daenerys, he opened his eyes in time to see his sister running towards him, still in the previous night's leathers, with tears in her eyes. She must have panicked when she didn’t find me in the camp.

“By the gods,” he heard Willem say just as Daenerys reached him. She fell to the ground beside him and pulled him to her, gripping him tightly and sniffling into his hair. 

“What were you thinking, sneaking off on your own!” She chastised, but his eyes were focused on the soldiers as they filtered out. It was Willem and Asher that had his attention, with Lucifer coming up behind them, all three with wide eyes.

“What is it?” He asked any of them, his voice hoarse.

Asher Snow swallowed, eyes wide, and looked past him, “it-it’s a Weirwood Tree. An old one.”  He looked more confused than Jaehaerys felt. 

“But,” Willem paused, following after the younger man-at-arms. He walked past Jaehaerys and looked around its wide bone-white barked trunk. “It has no face.”  Willem sounded befuddled. 

Daenerys turned away from her brother, “Why would a tree have a face?”

“Where I’m from,” Asher answered, drawing everyone’s eyes to him, “The Weirwood trees are the embodiment of our faith. The children of the forest carved the faces into the trees, the faces of the Old Gods of the First Men.”  He tore his eyes away from the Weirwood and back to the group, “I didn’t know they existed here, I thought only in the North and Harrenhal. All the Weirwoods further south were cut down.”

“The Gods Eye,” Jaehaerys muttered, Asher looked at him and nodded, but Jae was no longer paying attention to the man. The Battle Above the Gods Eye, It’s where Daemon died. The Dance had captured his attention like no other Targaryen conflict because in his eyes it was the beginning of the fall of their legacy. He knew it, inside and out, from the Hightower Queen’s betrayal of the true heir Rhaenyra in favor of her son Aegon II, to Aegon II’s foolish decision to feed the true Queen to his dragon Sunfyre and strike her title from their history; which he found ironic as his own legacy ended with him. He knew it all. The last of the great dragons died prematurely, and their empire suffered because of it. Did they have something to do with each other? The trees were worlds apart. That’s impossible. But he had always wondered why Daemon chose the God’s Eye. It had sent him on a search for any tomes on Westeros, where he’d learned of the grove of trees, but there were no pictures, and the text gave no description beyond their religious and hypothetically magical significance. He felt Danys hand rest on his cheek and turned to her. She frowned, looking at him contemplatively. 

“You’re clammy.”

He yanked his mind away from those thoughts, his dreams would send him on a tailspin if he questioned everything about them, “I don’t feel well.” He said quietly. And it was true, he felt, off, strangely lethargic and his chest hurt as if he’d been breathing smoke all night. He was light-headed and very aware of his heartbeat, it was slowing down but still felt erratic.

Their men filtered into the grove and fanned out, searching their immediate area for any dangers. Ser Lucifer nodded to him, brows creased in concern, “You don’t look well My Prince, we should get you back to camp.” His eyes met Daenerys. He frowned before approaching and helped her get her brother standing. 

“I’m fine,” Jae grumbled, pulling away.

But Daenerys grabbed him again, just as he teetered, “No, you’re not. Let me help you.”  They both proceeded to dust him off, while Lucifer moved forward, towards the tree to investigate further. He stood before it with his hands on his hips before moving on and approaching Ser Willem, Jaehaerys watched as he did, they began speaking in low voices, both of their brows furrowed.  Lucifer gestured in his direction.

“They’re talking about me.” He muttered.

Daenerys sighed, “Of course they are, you snuck out Jae, alone. You should have woken me.”

He didn’t say anything, instead, he watched as Ser Lucifer and Ser Willem spoke before they parted. Ser Willem led the way back with Ser Lucy a step behind him, “Let’s get you back to the camp Prince Jae, rest up, then we can decide what to do.” The older knight said. Lucifer bobbed his head in agreement, brows still pressed together. 

Dany took his arm, “Come.” She led the way back to their camp, her plum-colored eyes never straying far from him. He didn't need to meet her gaze to feel her concern.

Daenerys

She followed the same path they’d followed in, rays of light shot through the interstices in the roof, scattering in the morning mist that clung to the air around them.  Her eyes were glued to the time ravaged tomb as she made her way through the ruin, gently gripping her brother's upper arm. It was the first she’d ever seen.  Their same escort from the day before trailed behind them with their captain leading the way, he nodded to her when she turned back while his men looked around the sepulcher, poking and prodding through the overgrown vines, mayhaps for hidden treasures, she wondered. Viserys was waiting at the base of the steps when they came back out, arm still in a sling with his usual smirk plastered on his face. She heard her younger brother mutter something but wasn’t sure what he said, he stopped at the top of the weather-beaten stairs and despite being obviously tired, stared down as imperiously as possible at Viserys, violet eyes heavy and worn. She only just noticed the whites of his eyes were yellowish.

“I can walk on my own you know?” Her brother said.

She frowned and released his arm, walking by his side. “Promise you won’t sneak off again?” 

Jaehaerys exhaled softly, “I promise.”

“We ought to put you in chains, so you don’t wander.” Their elder brother said as Jaehaerys marched past him.  Jae paused, but she placed her hand at the small of his back and pushed him on, which he reluctantly did. 

“Leave us be Viserys, you weren't asked to come along.” Knowing her younger brother needed her gave her the backbone she needed just then. She stared him down as she passed, a few steps behind Jae. Viserys stared back, but said nothing, electing for silence as he followed behind them. She was realizing that he was too much of a coward to do anything in public. Their guard came from the tomb a moment later, their grieves and boots crunching on gravel gave them away. They were chattering in common and broken Valyrian about the curious tree they’d happened upon.  It bothered her that there was never anyone around to stop Viserys when either of them needed it.  

The way back looked very different under calmer circumstances, duress painted the world in vividly different shades.  When she’d woken to find her tent empty and her new dagger gone, two plates of cold food with one picked at, and a tear in the back of their tent, she’d feared that Viserys had done something to Jaehaerys in the night, in retribution. Panicked didn't come close to describing how she’d tore through the camp, waking everyone as she shouted both of her brother's names, only for a very bleary-eyed Viserys to come stumbling angrily from his tent.  It was then she’d concluded that her brother had snuck out, but never returned which caused even more alarm.  A fifth of their party joined in on their search, helmed by herself, Willem, and Lucifer while the remainder doubled their patrol, afraid an abductor may yet have been at work. 

Thankfully it was nothing of the sort.  

Jaehaerys shuffled ahead of her, gingerly turning his head from side to side and rubbing the back of his neck. She looked him over from the corner of her eyes, trying to hide her inspection. He’s filthy, which wasn’t a word she would normally use to describe him. Like any boy his age, he was active, but unlike most boys, he enjoyed a literal steaming hot bath and tended to err on the side of cleanliness. But even filthy barely described his current state. Dirty riding leathers. Pieces of leaves and broken twigs stuck in his braid, his normally beautiful silver-blonde hair dirty and matted, though his birthmark looked the same as ever. 

Beyond that though, his pallor was odd, sallow and pale, his eyes distant and distracted, with heavy bags under them. He coughed every so often and looked as if he was in pain, with a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.  She owed it to sleeping fitfully outside all night. But she had the sneaking suspicion he hadn’t told her everything. I can pry later, she concluded. 

“Do you have water?” Jaehaerys' voice broke through her thoughts.

Daenerys shook her head. “No,” she said before she slowed her pace to see if she recognized any of the guards behind them. 

“Here,” Viserys said from behind her, handing her a water skin before she could fully turn back and ask. She stared at him quizzically for a moment but took it, eyeing it suspiciously once in her hands. Was he trying to make amends? If so it was a piss poor attempt. 

“Thank you.” She finally said, if anything she could at least be cordial. Viserys shrugged and waved it off, Dany raced ahead a few paces and caught her brother, handing him the water skin.  Jaehaerys thanked her and drank it like he hadn’t drunk water in days. He drained the skin, thanked her once more with a nod, and resumed their walk back to the tent. They said nothing as they marched back. Her mind wandered as they did; Why was he on the ground? Why is he coughing? What happened to him?   

They reached their camp in what felt like moments. “I’m going to sleep,” Jaehaerys mumbled. She nodded and followed him to the opening of their tent. 

“I’m going to speak to Ser Willem, call me if you need me.”

Jaehaerys grunted a response before vanishing into the dim light of their tent, leaving her standing outside, perplexed and concerned. 

The din of the camp and the men moving around resumed now that her focus wasn’t solely on her sibling. “How’s he faring?” Lucifer asked as he approached, Willem just behind him. 

She’d noticed since the fight, Lucifer had taken to keeping more of an eye on her baby brother. She was sure it was out of concern and guilt, but she admitted that it was a relief to know someone was watching her brother's back when she couldn’t. Daenerys shrugged, “He just wanted to sleep. He said nothing more.” She looked up at him just as they stopped. 

“Did he tell you anything more as we walked back?” It was Willem this time. 

She shook her head, “No, but he looked tired and sore.”

“Sleeping on earth and stone can do that.” Lucifer gave her a small reassuring smile. “I’m sure he’ll be right as rain when he wakes.”

She took a breath and nodded.

“Come, let’s break our fast.” Ser Willem said, tilting his head back to the cook tent, before leading the way there. Lucifer posted the captain of their escort by their tent, only this time he was told to walk a perimeter and keep an eye out for sneaky little boys. 

The cook tent was cleared out for Willem, Lucifer, Daenerys, and Viserys to break their fast. Their guards and soldiers resumed their duties, walking the camp and keeping an eye out. Asher Snow made his way in last, muttering something about latrine duty as punishment. She assumed as punishment for letting Jae slip past him. She wrinkled her nose at the thought, knowing she’d rather jump into boiling oil than deal with other people's poo.

Ser Willem went about setting portions of food on her plate.  A rasher of bacon and sausage with soft boiled quail eggs and small cubed potatoes and onions.  It was far too much and far too hardy, but Ser Willem insisted on it.  He said it reminded him of home, of the Riverlands and King’s Landing.  She preferred Essosi cuisine, with its spices and delicateness.  Daenerys looked it over glumly when the plate was set before her and picked at it with a frown, taking the crispiest bits of potato first while the adults spoke.

“Snow,” Willem began, “You and Lucifer will guard the Princess and Prince. Keep an eye on them this time boy.” Asher had the decency to go red.  “That will be your assignment for the remainder of the trip.” Dany’s brow creased.

“And who is to guard me?” Viserys asked.

Willem thought it over before speaking, “You’re the Crown Prince and a man grown, you can choose your own guard so long as it doesn’t interfere with my assignments.” 

“Good, I choose that fellow, Gerrold.”

“Redback?” Lucifer asked, brow raised. “The captain of their escort?” he continued, tilting his head to Dany.

Viserys nodded, jabbing a piece of sausage. “The fellow guarding Jaehaerys now.”  

So that’s his name, she thought. She’d have to thank him for the water skin the day before, and likely the one from today. She doubted Viserys gave his own. “We’re continuing?” Daenerys asked, looking between Willem and Lucifer. 

They grew silent around her.  Willems brow furrowed. “You don’t think we should press on Princess?”

Daenerys shook her head. “No, I think we should return.” She wanted to return to the safety of the castle.  Ib Nor could be explored with their mother at some other time.  

“Gods Daenerys,” Viserys said, exaggeratedly rolling his eyes, “Why? Because Jaehaerys is tired?”

Her own eyes narrowed irately, she would have thought after their altercation the night before he’d be more reserved in fear she would tell them, but she wasn’t surprised to see that life for him continued as if all was normal.  She glared at him and made a point to touch her cheek when she pushed stray strands of hair from her face, “It’s more than that Viserys, he was acting strangely.” Now that she thought about it, she’d seen him cough before but never put too much into it.  Viserys lips flattened into a line when he noticed her touch her face before he pushed away from the table. It had not bruised like she thought it would, but it caught his attention nonetheless.  

“I’m going to go get my guard.” He stared at Daenerys as he stood, his eyes boring into her as if trying to will her mouth shut. 

“That was an odd choice, but it makes it easier for us.” Ser Lucifer said once her brother left the tent.   

“Why is that?” Willem asked. 

“Gerrold Redback is an adequate enough fighter and captain. Claims to be Westerosi, a bastard if he is. Not friendly, but not unfriendly. Though I wouldn’t have taken him to be the type Prince Viserys would want for a guard.” Lucifer said, scooping a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth. 

“So long as he bows to him Viserys won’t care,” Daenerys said, remembering that once upon a time Viserys had tried to make Lucifer one of his men. 

Willem sighed and shifted in his seat resting his elbows on the table, gloved hand scratching at his chin somewhere under the bush he called a beard, “I think the Princess may be right.  I was thinking the same as we walked back.  When Jaehaerys wakes we can prepare for our return.  So long as we have no more detours,” he looked pointedly at Dany then, “We ought to make it back in a fraction of the time it's taken us to get here. We don’t want to be found wanting mid-march. I'd rather have him looked over than assuming he’s okay.”  

“Right,” Lucifer agreed, “I’ll get a messenger pigeon back to the castle.” He stuffed a piece of bacon in his mouth before standing.  “Get over to their tent Snow, Redback should have been relieved by Viserys by now,” he said, grasping his sword by its scabbard since he’d removed it to sit down.  

Dany popped up and scrambled over the bench, “Can I go with you?”

Lucifer considered her request, eyes moving to Willem who only shrugged, “I don't see why not Princess.”

Dany smiled and followed him, leaving Willem in the tent and Asher to head to her tent to guard Jae.  They walked in silence for a moment, before Lucifer looked to her, never breaking stride, “You want to talk to me, don't you?”

Daenerys nodded her head.  

“Jaehaerys told me about Viserys.” He continued, her eyes widened at the admission, “Worry not Princess, I will say nothing, yet.  But should it happen again, I will say something then, to the Queen.  Your younger brother should not have to worry about protecting you as well as himself from his older brother, that ought to be our job.”

“A brother shouldn't hurt his siblings.”  She muttered.  

“That too.” He put a hand on her shoulder and led her around another tent before kneeling to her height.  “But that's not what you wanted to talk to me about?”

She bit her lip, “Promise not to tell anyone?”  Lucifer nodded, brows furrowing.  “He hasn't said anything to me, but I think Jaehaerys is ill.”  She felt like she was betraying his trust, but knowing her sibling, he was unlikely to tell anyone.  “He was coughing, a lot.”

“How long?”  Lucifer asked.  

“I’m not sure, but for at least a sennight.”

Lucifer nodded and considered her words. “Well, it may just be a chill, but we should watch him on the ride back, and when we return we can inform Martyn and the Queen.  How does that sound?” She agreed, it sounded like a decent enough plan, if loose and only tentative, but what else could she do? Lucifer stood and took lead once more, making their way to the carrier-pigeons pens to pen a letter back to the castle.  

Rhaella

Sometimes silence was her friend, and at others it felt like a jilted lover or a mortal enemy, slowly clawing away at her attention.  How does one keep their mind focused, she mused as she stared out of the massive windows overlooking the port city from her rooms.  The conversations they had earlier in the day still ran rampant through her mind.  She was at her desk, staring at a sheaf of parchment, her quill resting in a stopper of ink.  It was truly a magnificent day, and she longed to waste it away in the gardens, but alas, the time for idle thoughts was gone.  There was a snake in her garden, and she needed to suss it out, but first, she needed to formulate an itinerary.  A plan of action.  A timeline, as Oswell called it.  

Her children needed safety, so that was where she would start.  Leaving them on Ibben was now a contentious idea considering how easily Illyrio was able to bypass their safety precautions in the bay and sweep in as if he was a member of their very family.  Would it be possible to house them on the mainland, in one of the free cities with a sizable guard until the wars are over? But who could she trust with her twins? Willem will have to stay, Oswell will march with me. She took the quill and began writing her thoughts, brushing the feather under her chin with every pause.  

After what felt like some time, Rhaella stared at what she’d written, her left hand tapping the desk as she reclined against the backrest and hummed idly. I will have to take Dragonstone, she concluded, after listing out her options. But who holds it? Traditionally it was the castle of the crown prince and his family but their last reports said that the Usurper had eschewed centuries-old tradition and gifted it to his brother. Little cousin Stannis. Her brows creased, No matter who holds it, they will have the full support of the iron throne.  Our strike must be fast and hard, and we will have to establish a blockade at the mouth of the Gullet. It was becoming apparent that they would need a sizable force. Trickery wouldn’t work.  We will have to find a way to make overtures to the other Valyrian houses. Her armada would need to swell and the Velaryon fleet was just the fleet to help. Surely they will answer my call? She hoped that should Velaryon answer Celtigar would follow suit. And with them, those that desired the return of the dragons would come as well, but first, she would need to give them a reason to join her, some way to ensure victory. 

"Your Grace?” She heard Oswell's voice call for her through the door. 

Rhaella yawned as she set the parchment on her desk, “Enter Oswell.”

She stood and turned to face the door just as her Lord Commander stepped in, sweating, he’d run over she guessed by the redness of his face. He took a deep breath and fanned his leather riding coat out to get some air circulating through it. He gave her an apologetic look before taking one more breath, “Ra-pigeon, Your Grace.”

She forced down what was sure to have been a guffaw. It sounded pointedly awkward, her entire core group thought so. But the birds served a purpose and were rather good at it. Martyn believed that the maesters may have even learned to train ravens from their Essosi carrier pigeon training counterparts. “Catch your breath, Oswell.” She finally said, a curious smile playing on her lips. 

“Forgive me,” he said, shaking his head, “Far too many stairs.” He took one last breath and walked over to her, the guards posted outside of the door shut it, just as he handed her the letter.

She looked it over, eyes widening marginally, her jaw tensed, “Jaehaerys is ill?” She looked up at him, face creased with concern. 

Oswell nodded, “Aye, Ser Lucifer writes that they will be returning as soon as possible.”

“Where is the rest of the letter?” She asked, noting a portion had been torn off. 

“I think it may have been damaged in flight or mayhaps the bird was attacked by another bird. It didn’t look worse for wear but, I can’t say I know much about pigeons. Martyn all but said the same.”

Her previous thoughts were gone, replaced by worry, two-fold now. For all their young lives, she couldn’t remember a time any of them had been ill, but Rhaegar did have the pox once, she remembered.  “It could have been something he ate, but even that is worrying.” Oswell nodded. She sighed, trying her hardest to will her concern away, but it was impossible. Her eyes met Oswells, and she could see that he shared her concern. Her second worry was still lingering in the castle.

“I will ride out and meet them.” Rhaella decided.

Oswell's brows shot up, “Is that wise?” 

“No, but they are are my children. I’ll leave Xaurane and the Tattered Prince. I don’t want to make a fuss about this, we will leave as quietly as possible. Make sure we know where Mopatis is, I want to keep him away from them as long as possible.” Her efforts to keep her twins from the politics of the realms were crumbling. It seemed almost inevitable, but if she could stall it for as long as possible, she would certainly try. 

Chapter Text

Arrax and Brynden

Fire. 

Wind whipped her hair in a flurry, beautiful waves of spun white gold and platinum, almost alight in the sun. She breathed very softly and tears fell from her auric eyes to her cheeks, further down and over her lips; they were trembling. Some made it to her chin before falling and vanishing into the aether, the primordial flow of existence that Brynden had come to call the Weirwoods River.  

Fire was all she could see. 

Bursts of color, orange and yellow, a gout of blue, a flash of white, bolts of red and then all-consuming black, but fire was everywhere. The first volcano didn’t erupt, it exploded sending out a shockwave of destructive force she felt even from her distance and snuffing the lives of hundreds of dragons before setting off the others in a earth shaking though oddly contained conflagration of pure devastation. Mountainous waves of water washed away the coastline, shattering rock and stone as if it were little more than sand. Fire spewed from below, the ground moved like sifted silt and plumes of death reached high into the sky; malevolent fingers smothered everything in a terrible heat, a heat not even a Valyrian or a Dragon could withstand. Ornately gilded towers as tall as The Wall cracked and tumbled down, beautiful buildings made of pure obsidian melted to slag and runoff.  No magic they wielded could save them from the devastation. 

The ground shook, for tens of hundreds of miles, and her people screamed as the once looming spires crumbled and warped under a scalding pyroclastic cloud. Magic sparked and flickered, igniting the very air to temperatures that scorched the lungs. The same magic ripped and tore through her kin, murdering with abandon and mutating the fleeing earthbound creatures and avians just outside of the explosions but within reach of the pungent and fetid waves of raw darkness and magic; distorting once beautiful creatures and mocking the very notion of life. Unbridled and untenable power rampaged in the streets...arching light snuffed out life as the powers that created her people, now destroyed it. This was not meant to be... She knew it, because she had engineered it. She had walked her sons and daughters down a path of greatness giving them access to power that would rival a lesser daedric or aedric being. When did they stray?

The Doom was just what Brynden said it would be. Terrible to behold. Devastating and gut-wrenching. Every fiber of her being ached, and she wept as she heard the last dying breath of Valyria. Never had she felt so powerless. But she had to see it for herself. Even hundreds of miles away, on a rocky crop of shattered islands some four hundreds years in the past. In the years to come these islands would play a role in the lives of her blood-kin that remained. The Grey Gallows, The Stepstones, Bloodstone…

From the eyes of a flock of fleeing doves she could see it, the blackness that swallowed Valyria, the cloud of shadow and smoke that erased the once greatest people this land had ever seen, yet she was still no closer to finding out why.  She drew in a deep breath as her gold eyes opened and she returned to the world. “I still do not understand.”

They were beneath the Weirwood tree once more. The low hum of a song of protection broke what would have been utter silence, interspaced by breathing and the occasional drip of water from somewhere; rather eerie , she conceded. 

The Children flitted about, on silent feet, going about their daily routine; the goddess-that-wasn’t was no longer a curiosity but a normal part of their existence now. Brynden was across from her, bones under loose skin, sitting on a mossy stone. He leaned forward, looking more whole than he’d been in a century and stood slowly, stretching and twisting his limbs with a grunt before turning back to the former goddess, single red eye resigned. “Neither do I.” Making him more man than tree had taken a few years of concentration and exertion, but it was worth it as he was able to claim more of his sanity, and besides at the present moment, their minds did most of the heavy lifting. 

She sat upright, rising off the cot at the base of the Weirwoods roots, a small bowl of opaque paste near her head. “That it all happened at once, the explosions, the wild Magics, leads me to believe that it originated at the same point and caused a chain reaction.”

This wasn’t a new conversation, in between all of their meddling they’d tried to uncover the root of a few greater mysteries neither understood in full. Bloodraven agreed and nodded his head, “Whatever exploded out and caused that reaction turned back inward. It became a void for a time. Devouring the magic in the world until it simply fizzled out and vanished leaving our world bereft. Magic has lingered faintly since, but nowhere more than Valyria. Yet, it is returning.“

The aged bastard was proof enough.  He looked at his hand, no doubt refamiliarizing himself with the sensations of life. It must have felt more unnatural than he’d looked when she’d first beheld him, more tree than flesh after a century of sitting on a throne of roots. Still, he wasn’t lying, the air under the Weirwood was abuzz with energy she hadn’t felt upon entering so long ago. Coincidentally enough, the storms also seemed to increase, cold permeated the air like it hadn't even a year before. The magic of the Dwemer...Children of the Forest, strengthened as well, but the cold was there like an unsaid threat. 

There’s more at work, and none of it is in our favor. She sighed and ran her hand through her hair, “My flames are stubborn, but they will thrive. It is unfortunate what they will have to endure, but we must do our part and learn what happened, why rather than dying my power persists.” The air shimmered around her hand as she swept it over her head, disrupting the growing magical charge around them before looking at him knowingly, “...and this cold, Brynden. It grows, if that’s even possible.”

Brynden said nothing but drew his lips into a line, his beard couldn’t hide just how gaunt and skeletal his face was. “I know. I’ve always known.” He shook his head, mane of hair tousling with the movement.  “One catastrophe at a time. You fear what happened in Valyria will happen once more?”

“I do, and Brynden I do not believe that they are separate events. The earth can shake, and tremors occur afterward. Something binds them, mayhaps not in the past but now. A darkness I do not understand but can feel .” She could have mocked herself then, pleading with a child to trust in her feelings. He stared at her and slowly nodded his head, whether he agreed or not she still didn’t know. 

He made a noise but said nothing more instead Brynden turned and stared at the roots of the weirwood, “I have always believed that understanding the past will give you a greater grasp on the future. I agree, something more is at work, you are evidence enough. But they are all stubborn.  The world is different. Their eyes remain closed, you’ve seen. They barely react to our suggestions and when they do most brush it away as nonsense. It took tragedy and limitation to awaken them before. Isolation and contempt, hope and honor, yet most perished and the elders long before their brood. They all had a desire to be more than the gods ascribed to them. You and your dead kin ascribed to them. But there is none of that now.”

He’d argued his point over the first six moons they’d shared together. Difficulty and adversity created strength, and she agreed. But there also needed to be hope, and love to temper the frustration that came with a difficult life. “They are all younger now, prone to disbelief yes but consequently more accepting of the unnatural, more malleable and susceptible to our persuasion.”   

She knew how to prod him, where to poke to get a reaction. “Come now, you are Bloodraven, former Hand of The King and enforcer of House Targaryen. Master strategist and brilliant archer. Are these children beyond even your persuasion?”

It was Brynden’s turn to smirk, “I know what you are doing. And because I’m agreeing does not mean it worked.”

She smiled, “Of course not.” and then winked, “Use subtlety. More of them live. Touch the elders to reach the younger ones this time around. You are more adept at diving through the strands of existence and time than I.”  Brynden shook his head. “What? It is true. You dawdled and searched for answers while all fell to ruin. Your previous course required years of degradation and very little time with their bonded. The youngest was barely younger than my flames when you decided your influence was necessary. The majority of the elders had no hope of surviving. This time, time is on your side, our side.”

He shook his head, “Time has never been my friend.”

“Ah yes, the whole pendulum thing. Time is a river and you a stone within it never to interact but to exist, blah, blah, blah.” She mimed speaking with her hand. She was done with the veiled words, “My flames need your wolves Bloodraven, just as much as you need me. I feel the interminable chill in the air. Something sinister stirs, and I fear that something is tied to The Doom and The Others. Brynden, the dragon must have three heads”

Brynden’s jaw clenched like it did anytime she made direct mention of any aspect of The Long Night. “You’ve alluded to that, but I still say it’s impossible. The Long Night and The Doom were millennia apart and in completely separate regions.”

“Yet there is no reason to think the catastrophes can not coincide. Death is death.”

“That is...reaching.” Ever the skeptic, he looked at her questioningly. 

She sighed, “I know, yet I can not help but feel that I have something to do with it.”

“Just like a Valyrian god to believe themselves the center of attention,” Brynden said, she smirked in his direction. 

“I wish I were lying.” He looked at her, brow pressed together. Her tone had changed. “I had a son, eons before I gave birth to your ancestors.” 

“Gods having multiple children is nothing new.” He said, but his tone was questioning. He sat back down once more, very slowly, in his moss-laden spot. He made a point to move his antique bones every few moments, in fear of stiffening once more. 

She chuckled, the mirth in her voice gone, “Were that it was that simple. When the world I originated from still existed, dragons were fragments of my oversoul, shards of time and existence given a presence in the mortal plane. In this world, dragons are the embodiment of my blood, a fusion of fire and flesh, wyrm and wyvern, given a new form and presence and sentience to rival men. I blessed them and by extension all Valyrians with a portion of my Dovahsos and my blood. In that way, you are all my actual children. My bloodkin, you can commune with each other if a bond is made. You can also manipulate the magic here just as I can, because of your Dragon Soul. For whatever reason, I learned that without the same force that fuels magic in my world, our Dovahsos could do it adeptly. Anything can manipulate magic here, but none so easily as a dragon.” She paused and took a deep breath, her gold eyes staring at nothing.

“But Alduin,  he was aetherial intent and star pocked oblivion given form; more of a cosmic force than a living being. If you as a Valyrian are a piece of my flesh then he was a piece of my existence.  A piece that was given an explicit purpose. And he served it well until he didn’t.” She looked at him then, her eyes dagger-sharp, “A will is a dangerous burden Brynden.  Alduins will caused him to lust for power, that lust drove him to enslave the mortal races and warp his purpose. Rather than being the greatest aspect of time and existence, he became fear itself, the avatar of chaos and destruction, he became The World Ender, The World Eater with only one desire, to obtain the power to end it all. I believed my interference was unneeded, and he was banished...but then my world did just that, it ended. 

His brow furrowed and his single red eye narrowed, “You think it caused the doom? That the Valyrians summoned it to this world?”

“It’s possible he followed me or learned of this world on his own, as I did. The bane of men is drawn to life with the explicit desire to end it.”

“Would you not know if he were here?”

She scoffed, “Brynden, have you heard nothing I’ve said? We’ve been here together for half a decade and I still don’t even know how I’m here.”

He stared at the ground, silent, digesting the information she’d provided him. Arrax knew he was reticent to begin so soon, but she hadn’t worked so hard to restore him for no reason. What he was thinking, she had no idea.  She remained quiet even as he looked up, limp strands of white hair covering the hole where his eye should have been and fading into his chest-length beard. He looked old, in his leather rags and tattered and faded black cloak, “Well then, we’ll be needing more Weirwood paste.”

Aemon

Wind beat against the darkened grey stone that made Solitude.  Sheets of ice-rain and sleet mixed in with snow whirled around their castle as polar winds battered their small island into submission, making the fast-approaching night seem even more perilous.  Through the thickened glass panes he spied a man running across the courtyard shouting into the wind about something and gesturing wildly towards the stables, mayhaps about a loose horse or unicorn, he couldn't actually hear.  But within the thick stone walls, life continued mostly happily; still, some found themselves consistently angry, despite the warmth and overall sense of well being.  Prince Aemon decided that some men would always be easily vexed, regardless of their circumstances as he watched Alliser pace back and forth in his solar, single eye periodically glancing at the parchment in the Prince's grasp as he seethed and raged.  Yet this particular time, his anger was justified. 

The Lady Elaenor on the other hand found this all very amusing, to Alliser’s chagrin. “Why are you laughing!” The knight fumed.  They'd received a raven within the last hour.  The poor bird had barely made it, such was the storm that raged outside of their walls.  

“Because she helped him Alliser.” Prince Aemon said, voice soft against the crackling fire. He sat calmly, in stark contrast with the irascible knight.  He’d only just come to his conclusion before re-reading the small sleeve of parchment:

V-J found, tired, first ranging. Stormy front, howling trees.  Red knows, Peace? Named a wolf. Winds blow, more storms coming. More later. 

If he understood it all correctly, it meant that Vaegon was safe but tired after his journey through a storm and that Lady Catelyn knew the truth of his birth. Benjen still had his doubts, but he’s never been fond of the Lady. But the most surprising was the naming bit, had Lord Stark petitioned to have him legitimized? Comprehending a myriad of shorthands came from his time as a Maester, but understanding Benjen’s was like second nature after the years they'd shared raising Vaegon.  Aemon pushed his myrish lenses up the bridge of his nose and looked at the knight with a bemused expression, returning his attention to the pair.  

Eleanor had been especially calm, despite how much she doted on his dear grand-nephew, and even through his terror he found her complacency suspicious, “Am I correct El?” His lilac eyes moved to the Lady, white and silver brow arched.  He scratched at an itch on his chin, toying with the fuzz that grew.  Since he’d relinquished his chain he’d decided that a subtle change was necessary, and in the years that passed, he'd taken to growing a beard every few moon-turns.  Was it too much to ask for the gods to grant me a few more years of hair on my head? He mused, admittedly jealous of the mops of hair everyone else seemed to take for granted. 

Elaenor shrugged while Alliser stared, aghast at the idea that she would have helped Vaegon subvert their command.  “Oh come now, Ser Knight,”  She said, “We all knew he was going to go there one way or another.” She paused and her face became rather serious,  “Although I did assume he would be caught by his uncle, and not have to trek there alone through a storm.”

“What!” Alliser shouted, were the situation not as dire as it had been, and had Aemon not had heart palpitations of his own this would have been rather comical, but it wasn't, “You thought? You fucking thought?”  Alliser guffawed, “There are only two Targayrens in this world, and you let one of them run off without a damn care.  Woman, he could have died or been captured.  Do you have any idea what the Usurper would have done to him had he been caught?”

Prince Aemon was positively livid when they'd discovered Vaegon’s disappearance and his damned note and then immediately terrified.  Ravens were dispatched to House Umber, hoping to reach the SmallJon, but this storm's precursor blew in so they could only hope that the letters had arrived and the birds hadn't been blown completely off course or killed. Since this recent letter said nothing of the other it was safe to assume it had indeed perished. Regardless we have trained him the majority of his life to survive, in fear of the Usurper.  Alas, I should calm him,  Prince Aemon thought.  

“But he wasn't Alliser.  I understand your concern, more than any person, but we have all taught him how to survive and because of that he arrived whole, if not worn out.  I’m sure Lord Stark and Ben will punish him sufficiently, but when he returns, you can punish him as well if it suits you, of course.”  Alliser nodded tersely, still angry but soothed for the moment.  He grunted and sat in the chair he’d shoved across the room.  

“You could have at least told Benjen,” Alliser said, adjusting his eye patch for his scowl.  

El frowned, “And he would have made him stay here.  This is good, the truth is known and the family may heal.  The boy needed his brother and father.”

Alliser glared and then looked away, sneer forming into a frown, “Don't know why. Honorable Ned is good for nothing.  Had I still held my titles and lands and known who Vaegon was, I would have died to put him on the Iron Throne, and what does he do with the power he has?  Name the boy a bastard and then try to correct it by forcing his name on him.”  Alliser stood suddenly, “Eddard fucking Stark doesn’t deserve Vaegon’s admiration.  He’s a fucking cunt.”  The knight stormed out of the solar, slamming the door shut behind him.  

Eleanor stared at the door for a moment longer before looking at him. “He’s not fond of most members of House Stark, Vaegon and Benjen seem to be the exception,” he said.  

“He worries for the Prince.”

Aemon nodded, “At the end of the Rebellion, he did not bend the knee to King Robert.  For that, he was banished and sent to The Wall.  The last thing he thought would be that he would be raising a young boy, least of all a Targaryen boy, neither of us did. But the gods had other plans, and in the process, the cold embittered Ser Alliser Thorne has grown to care for our young Vaegon. It’s only expected.”  He sighed, “But I do fear that in his mind the Rebellion never ended so long as a Targaryen lived.”

Elaenor frowned and shrugged.  “Even if he thinks that he will never act on it.”  She slid a chair closer to the Prince and sat, “But I have been wrong before, so I can only hope.”

“No, I believe you are correct.  His visible disdain is a farce, he takes pride in Solitude and I doubt he would disrupt our peace on a fool's errand.  That is not what I see to be an immediate issue.”  He looked at the parchment once more.  “But this,” He looked at her, his brow pressed together, “Naming Vaegon a Stark may not have consequences now, but it may in the future. Where does he stand in the succession? What do the other Northern lords think, what would happen should he decide to make a claim for the throne?” They shared a look. 

Elaenor’s amber eyes found his, “You think he would?”

“I do not know. He is a child now, but should he change his mind later?” He let his words hang in the air.  

“But why would he change his mind?”  She asked, “He has cared little and less about the throne. There’s no reason to believe that should change.”  And had this been a moon ago, he would have agreed.  Prince Aemon glanced at the shut door, a single guard was likely on the other side, standing sentry patiently.  A freedman with no reason to conspire against them, but he had to be cautious.  

Elaenor’s confusion shown for a moment before he spoke, “But there is.”  Aemon stood from his chair and shuffled over to the fireplace and grasped a fire poker before plunging it into the flames to shift the logs.  He set the poker back on its peg before stooping down on tired bones and leaned forward, only to grasp a burning log. The lady gasped and leaped from her chair, rushing to his side but stopped when he showed no signs of pain.  The flames licked his hands but nothing else.  

Their eyes found each other once more, amber and lilac, ”I have not always been able to do this.” He lifted his other arm allowing the sleeve to fall and expose his forearm and the burn scar on it. “I was two and thirty when last I purposely put flames on my flesh in hopes that I was immune like the dragon lords of old, not to mention the numerous accidental burns since. Something has changed, I do not know what nor why nor if we should fear it.” He couldn't help but wonder what Vaegons egg felt like now. 

Catelyn

The stone was slick under her feet. Her cloak was pulled tight, but the cold still found her. Mournful gusts of wind blew through the snow-laden leaves, scattering fine white dust into the blue-black predawn sky. With rosy cheeks she made her way into the Godswood of Winterfell with a slight nod to the guards at the entrance, her hood at least showed her face.  

She woke to an empty bed. It being Bun Day, the first day of their festivities and feasting, combined with their decision to press forward despite the snow had woken Ned early, she knew. They’d talked the previous night, about his concerns over their construction efforts in the west and further north and how this unseasonable and sudden cold streak and unpredictable weather would hamper construction. He hoped the storms weren’t as bad further south, but prepared for at least another sennight of cold. 

The wind accompanied by her footsteps and her breathing was all she could hear, interspaced with the groaning of the trees around her. Yet the giant in the middle stood firmer than any tree should have. It was beautiful, yet alien, she admitted. The ancient Weirwoods white arms stretched further than any other, its ominous blood-red leaves resisting the very same pull of nature that the other trees were incapable of doing. It is through the Heart Tree that they speak to their gods. She’d marveled when she first arrived at Winterfell, amazed by the sheer amount of forest within the castle. Ash, chestnut, elm, ironwood and so many others she’d never taken the time to learn; an endless copse of green offering shade and adventure without ever leaving the safety of the castle. And indeed for her children, that’s what it had become, a second home within a home; but for her...the Weirwoods bloody weeping eyes and woeful face seemed to stare at her as if she was a trespasser. 

It was only in the last year that the Heart Tree stopped sending a chill down her spine. 

She made her way on the rarely used though swept stepstone path, piles of snow as high as her waist on either side. Cold flakes peppered her face. The Winterfell hot pools steamed in the cold and glistened like black mirrors dotting the otherworldly landscape. The snow melted around them, leaving sloping drifts. She paused, surprised as she reached the Heart Tree, white clouds of breath puffing before her. She was not surprised to find Eddard there, no, but she was surprised to see that Jon and Robb were with him so early in the morning. 

The three of them were knelt, before the tree, heads hung low and near identical fur lined cloaks draped over their shoulders. Their eyes were closed, but it was curious, the closer she got to the Weirwood, the less she felt the grasp of the cold, the wind seemed to abate and a transcendent peace was nearly found. A few steps away from them and even the snow seemed less harsh and cold, more packed, and firm enough to kneel on without sinking in. There was a small cut of tarp under their knees, though, sparing them from the wet. 

She stopped and stared for a moment, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth, until Eddards hand darted out and beckoned her over, but his eyes remained closed and his head still bowed. Her brow pressed together but she acquiesced and walked over, before stopping and standing at Robb’s left. Jon was on his right, with their father on Jon’s right. 

Ned was speaking, “We ask for your blessing in the coming days, and are thankful for the blessings you’ve already visited upon us and we humbly ask that you give Stormsong the strength she needs at this hour.” Eddard’s hand rested on Jon’s shoulder as he finished, took a breath, opened his eyes, and looked at Catelyn, the boys did the same, though Jon stiffened some at her sight. She gave him the softest smile she could, the distance between them was still there and she hoped to breach it.  

“Mother!” Robb said, much more alive and energized than normal as he pushed himself off the packed snow with a grunt. He‘d taken to wearing his hair in a bun the last few days, much like his father and brother wore daily. When they were near each other, and especially around their father, their shared Stark features were present enough for them to pass convincingly as siblings, a fact she’d missed when they were younger. 

Eddard followed Robb with a polite ‘My Lady’ and Jon, a very quiet ‘Lady Stark’, she fought the growing frown as he still wouldn’t look her in the eyes. It was her own fault, his clearest memories of her were foul, and a sennight was nowhere near enough time to prove that change had happened. However bitter a taste that admission was, she swallowed it nonetheless. 

“I expected to find you, but not the boys as well.” 

“Apologies My Lady, our boys were already awake, harassing each other and the guards.” His lips flattened into a line, but she could see the twinkle in his eyes despite the dim light. It was getting brighter, the sun slowly crept above the tree line and with it, she could see that Eddard was happy. 

“Sorry father,” Jon said with a remorseful sigh but the creeping smiles on his and Robb’s faces said they were anything but. 

Catelyn shook her head, “Boys will be boys. Come, it’s far too cold for them out here.”

“And you as well,” Eddard said, just as she looped her arm into his and the boys led them away from the Heart Tree and through the Godswood. “I prayed for the storms to abate, and for our unborn child, as well as Stormsong and her pups.” His voice was soft, his other hand found hers on her round belly and rested on top of it. 

“Do you believe the gods heard your prayer?” Because she was sure her gods had never heard hers. In fact, in the past ten years, she’d begun to doubt her own faith. While the south’s religion had a structure and overarching themes and ideas on morality and sin, never had she felt their presence like she felt the north’s gods. Be it nervousness or intimidation, she felt them. They seemed to live in the very wind itself, her best example being just then as the winds seemed to die down around them, and the rising sun showed a grey sky with breaks of blue. 

He smiled, looking East at the coming sunrise, “I do.”

The sun rose, high and bright. Light broke through the cloud-cover giving most of the day a dream-like quality, but she hadn’t the time to enjoy it. The smell from the kitchens wafted through the whole keep: different loaves of bread and sweet buns, meats, onions, and mushrooms being cooked into pies, troughs of gravy, potatoes, and carrots, sliced boar, urns of mulled wine, casks of mead, and all the while Stormy was whelping. Catelyn earnestly thought it would be her giving birth first, not the wolf. It seemed Eddard’s gods had heard his prayer and their plans did not include her quite yet. 

“Please, ensure you start with the older meats and work your way forward. Lord Stark will dispatch hunters on the morrow,” She said to a scullery maid with a slight huff of annoyance. 

“Aye, milady,” the lowborn young girl nodded her head demurely and shimmied back to the cooks with a tray of raw and salted meats and Catelyn's very blue eyes boring into the back of her skull. Pregnant or not, the duties of a Lady never stopped. She had just finished looking over their diminished supply of spices and southern produce in the kitchens but tarried much longer than expected, she’d hoped to check on Ben and the wolf. 

With the unanticipated squall and subsequent treacherous roads, their last shipment of goods from White Harbor was late.  Eddard told her not to worry, but that was her job, so as tedious as it was she found herself in there nearly once a day, going over the ledgers and recounting everything. The grey stone and rune’d archway framing the heavy ironwood door was as much a fixture in her memory as her children’s faces these days. 

She breezed from the kitchens and through one of Winterfell’s many hallways, a flash of red set in a grey and white dress, skirts gripped tight in either hand, brows, and lips pressed together in concentration as a flurry of thoughts raced through her mind; Ensure the feast is prepared, look in on the children, prepare the guest rooms, find Eddard and the kennel master, look in on Benjen and the wolf, and finally rest. Maester Luwin’s instructions echoed in her mind. Winterfell made way for its lady, which was good as she was too distracted to pay attention; her throbbing, swollen feet didn’t help her either. 

Thankfully it isn’t too late, she thought, the daylight shining through the windows told her as much. The further away from the kitchens she got, the less noisy and populated it was. With the walkways and halls near empty, she paused under an unlit lantern and leaned against the wall to catch her breath. Feeling flush and warm she closed her eyes for a moment before righting herself and continuing onward, forgoing preparing the Guest House and heading directly for the Great Keep and the family’s suites within. She could always issue commands from her rooms. The way to the great keep was reasonably empty, she passed a few guards on patrol and maids in the process of cleaning. A stable hand led a horse across the courtyard, but it was the sound of laughter that drew her. Two of the children came running in from the yard, eyes alight with energy and voices echoing, until they saw her. 

“Have you finished your lessons?” She asked as Jon and Sansa approached her, their pale cheeks pink. She held her bemusement at bay, Sansa was trying her hardest not to pant and Jon wasn’t faring any better, standing awkwardly with flared nostrils, she was curious where their siblings were. 

“Yes mama,” Sansa replied and Jon said an almost imperceptibly quiet aye. 

“Good, I need your help, if you’re all finished running about?” She smiled then as Jon and Sansa realized she’d seen them. Sansa gave her a lopsided grin and Jon relaxed once he realized no punishment was coming so she continued, “Jon, I need fresh linens brought to your father’s solar, and if you can find him, fetch Luwin. Sansa, will you find Arya and Bran, please?” Her daughter nodded emphatically, cheeks pink and eyes excited before departing. She turned to face Jon, “First, please check in on your uncle, find out what he and the wolf need, I desperately need to rest.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Jon answered and she took a deep breath, watching him retreat away before exhaling forcefully. It would take time before he felt comfortable calling her anything but that. She’d had years to reconcile her feelings towards him and knowing the truth of his parentage made accepting him as one of hers that much easier. 

She ran a hand over her hair, trying to tame the flyaway strands.  It was only past midday and she was already so weary. The last week was, for a lack of better words, odd and tiring. The revelation changed her outlook on much as well as explained Jon’s reservedness around adults and Eddard and Benjen’s desire to keep attention away from him, and she understood why. 

Ours is a secret that could start a war, a war that Eddard and Benjen would fight with every ounce of their being. 

Ned’s reticence to return to King’s Landing, his not quite visible aversion to all things King Robert.  Even the address of his missives, always to Lord Hand Jon Arryn and never directly to the King. It was now so much easier to understand why that friendship dissolved, even if Eddard was the only one aware of that. But even with the truth known, it was still hard to believe at times. In countenance and bearing, Jon was Eddard's mirror with purple eyes.  He was quieter than his brother Robb, but equally as active, and just as mischievous. But above all, he was dutiful. Anything he was asked to do, he did it with a stoic eagerness. She knew it stemmed from a desire for acceptance, and her heart hurt for it.  Jon dashed back down the hall behind her before pushing his way outside and across the courtyard, a faster albeit dirtier way to his father’s solar where the direwolf retreated to whelp her pups.  The wolf took a liking to Eddard and ventured between Jon’s rooms, the rooms she shared with Ned, and the Lord's Solar.

She watched as he entered the castle once more and vanished from her sight before grasping her skirts again, her destination being the warmth of the fireplace and comfort of the chairs and footstools in her rooms.  She reminisced on her youth, at Riverrun, where she’d helped whelp a few litters of kittens, and one basset hounds pups.  It can't be too different? But of course, it could, this creature could rip her arm off with nary a flick of its head if it felt so inclined. 

At first, she’d been afraid of the beast, unsure of its knowing golden gaze. Ned took to calling her a clever girl, and after watching it for some time she too was convinced. It was as if the direwolf understood everything that was said around her, Stormy’s eyes and head would follow a conversation like any man or woman.  From time to time Stormsong would approach her, which was unsettling in and of itself as the wolf’s head was of a height with her, and that was only sitting.  The direwolf would sniff her pregnant belly, regard her curiously and then retreat away, massive paws silently moving through the halls of the castle. 

But after a sennight of watching it meander through Winterfell, sniffing and prodding everything before trailing behind Jon or Eddard everywhere they went she realized that for a wild beast, she was rather tame. Its pup filled belly had to be the reason for its calm and demure behavior. Farlen, the kennel master, thought as much noting that for a direwolf she made no attempt to assert her dominance on the other dogs, rather she stayed inside and left only once in the last week to hunt. “She’ll be birthing those pups soon, m’lord and lady.” He told them only two nights ago, and it was this morning after they left the Godswood that they found her whining and panting in the Lord’s Solar.

Winterfell was abuzz with activity. Bolludagur was here and the good spirits of the festivities permeated the air; even she wore a smile for most of the day. In retrospect, this was precisely what they needed. Their people laughed and sang, they drank and ate. Minstrels played music in the Great Hall and the sound filtered through the hallways and out into the courtyard. 

And still, a new generation of direwolves would be born south of the wall once more. A fact both Benjen and Eddard reminded her of several times already. 

Her booted heels clicked over the stone and various rugs as she made her way towards the Great Keep. “Mama!” Arya chirped from behind her, making her smile as the little lady ran towards her. 

She fought a sigh as her youngest daughter caught up to her and kept pace by her side. Able to see her up close, Cat battled with the frown setting in. She quashed the desire to send her daughter to her rooms with Septa Anska and some maids, such was Arya’s state. Hair a knotted mess, pants wet from the knee down, and untucked tunic near as filthy as her muddy boots. She’d been outside for some time then; instead, Catelyn found herself mimicking Ned, her lips pulled into a line as Arya excitedly told her of her day.

“Jon’s faster than Robb, did you know Mofer?” Arya said through her lisp, she’d lost her front two teeth a few days before the celebration, “We played hide and seek. Robb couldn’t catch him, so he got me instead.” Arya pouted for a moment before her face broke into a holey smile. “But I fink Jon let me catch him.” And that time Catelyn smiled. She’d already giggled at Arya’s situation once and it sent her daughter into a sulking fit, speaking without your front teeth was rather difficult, she’d conceded ruefully if only to placate Arya.  

“Are you enjoying your brother?” She asked. Rather than continuing her course, she navigated them towards the nearest rooms she could find, in search of a table and some chairs and quite possibly even a fireplace. With a castle of Winterfell's size, there was plenty, it was just a matter of finding their way through the people that walked to and fro, though most moved from her path. 

They made their way into the Library, it’s utter silence perfect for a brief mother and daughter chat. Thankful for the diligence of the castle's keepers, she relaxed when the warmth of the fireplace hit her as they found a place to sit. Corralling Arya proved near impossible with her pregnancy, so she took what she could get when she could get it. 

Arya nodded, emphatically while sitting. She kicked her dangling legs back and forth, “Mhmm. He’s nicer than Robb and more fun than Bran and Sansa.” She stopped and took a deep breath, her eyes widened, “Don’t tell.”

Catelyn laughed lightly, “That will be our little secret then.”

Arya grinned again before leaning forward, her eyes narrowing suspiciously, “Can I tell you anofer secret?” Her daughter asked, voice low. Arya looked around once more, making sure no one was around them. 

Catelyn leaned forward as well, joining in on her daughter’s conspiratorial demeanor, “Of course.” She whispered back. 

“Promise not to tell?” Arya asked, no longer kicking her feet. 

Catelyn nodded, “On my honor as Lady Stark, I promise.”

Arya accepted that and nodded back, albeit slower, before looking around once more. She got on the chair with her knees and leaned across the table, as close to her mother’s ear as she could, and whispered, “I fink he’s my favorite brofer.”

Jon

“I need water!” Uncle Benjen shouted as he rounded the corner, acknowledging the one guard on duty with a respectful nod while he stepped through the doorway of his father’s solar. His eyes found Jon, worry and excitement shone through, “Where’s the Maester?”

The question caught him off guard and for a moment he drew a blank, but his mind caught up and as coincidence would have it, Lady Catelyn had asked him to find the same man that his uncle was asking for.  He stopped just inside the entry and shrugged, “I don’t know, last I saw him was in the Library Tower for lessons, but I’ll go find him.” Jon said with a soft breath to calm himself, he’d run all the way there.

Uncle Ben nodded absently, “Make sure you bring back warm water.” His attention was solely on the direwolf, Benjen was on the ground petting Stormy and rubbing behind her ears while she lay on her side, panting and squirming uncomfortably. The low table in the middle of the room was turned on its side and moved against the far bookcase for more room. The windows in the Solar were shuttered, making it warm and stuffy, Jon knew it was for the coming pups but that didn’t make it any less unbearable. His uncle had stoked the fire until it burned with some strength, and the candles filled the room with soft light. He hoped she was finding what comfort she could, she’d become one of his closest friends since they’d met. There were blankets under her, and fresh rushes beneath those, he’d put them there. He’d helped her nest, strangely, he felt as if he could understand her nonverbal cues; a flick of an eye or a soft grunt told Jon more than even he could properly explain. 

Jon thought back to earlier, a few days into his return, when the pair were able to sneak out together, for himself to explore and for her to hunt; unfortunately, father caught them and since then Alyn had been his constant shadow, until today, he thought, mischief already on his mind.  He preferred his own sworn shields, Rowan and Jerron, at least they played along in his exploits. 

“Watch it!” Someone warned as Jon ran back into the hall nearly colliding with a maid. 

“Apologies!” Jon shouted running away, he heard her titter as he vanished unsure of who he’d run into. It didn’t stop his hammering heart and the brief moment he expected a curse or something vile to be shouted at the bastard of Winterfell but it never came. 

It was all so odd for him, nothing was the same, yet so much was. It’s similarities to Solitude were astounding, the sound of Bastard Valyrian spoken in the bailey and yard and the words of common and the laughter of Northerners mingling with it comforted him in a way he only felt back on the island. Put plainly he didn’t remember the diversity, and that difference was probably the most amazing to him. Northerners are a stubborn bunch, Ser Alliser told him more than once, but here it didn’t seem to be as true. 

Water, he reminded himself. Warm water .  Jon ran through the halls making his way to the kitchen but taking the long route past the Great Hall. He dodged guards and shimmied around the smallfolk that were let within the castle walls.  Wintertown sat under a few feet of snow, he, Robb, Arya, and Sansa saw that from the walls of the keep before they chased each other through the courtyard and Godswood after their lessons. He hoped this was the last of the summer storms. 

He passed serving wenches the closer he came to the Great Hall, their arms laden with trays of drinks and finger foods, humming to the tune the minstrels beat. The children of Wintertown ran in and out, laughing and begging for what remained of the sweet rolls.  It didn’t help that the smell of the food was reminding him just how hungry he was. But for Jon, there was simply no time to join in on the play. Water and Maester Luwin , he reminded himself again staring at the sticky sweet buns the other children munched on longingly, he felt a pout forming before he turned away and continued his search. 

A breath later and his eyes were narrowing as he spied his brother, not too far away from the doors to the Great Hall, the auburn of his hair easily noticed in the sea of blacks and browns. Robb stuffed the last bit of a bun in his mouth before he licked his fingers.  A note of jealousy bloomed in Jon’s hungry belly but it was pushed aside, he could pilfer one of his own when he got water. “Robb!” He called, “Where’s Luwin?” 

His brother looked around, wiping his lips off before his eyes found him and he shrugged, “I don’t know.” He pushed his way to Jon, through the people that moved about Winterfell. Guards were stationed at the entry of the family suites and private areas ensuring privacy for House Stark, but the remainder of the castle had to be opened, to allow the influx of people from Wintertown. Bolludagur, Sprengidagur and Öskudagur had started that very morning, but the pups in Stormsongs belly had other ideas. 

Robb’s face was clearly excited, wide bright eyes alive. “Is she okay? How many do you think she’ll have? Gods Jon, more direwolves.”  He finished with a huff. It was all he could talk about, and he couldn’t blame him, there was something grand about it. Father had told them the last direwolves born within the walls of Winterfell were hundreds of years ago, before the Kings of Winter knelt and became Lords of the North. 

Jon smiled, still not quite believing it himself. The last week had been spent in such a rush to prepare for the festival despite the storms that he hadn’t really stopped to think on it. He found himself stuck, still trying to find his bearings and figure out who Jon Snow had been, who Jon Stark would be, and where Vaegon Targaryen fit into it all. 

“We need warm water and cleans linens, lots of them. And Uncle Benjen asked for Maester Luwin. Also, where’s father?” 

Robb was flummoxed, but his brow shot up at Jon’s last question, “I think father rode out to make sure the roads were clear enough for the small folk and their wains.”

“Bugger!” Jon said and Robb snickered. Jon grinned, cheeks a bit red, he’d already been reprimanded for cursing more than once, father thought it was a bad habit he learned from Uncle Ben. He resumed his search for Maester Luwin now with his brother in tow. 

It was hard to move quickly with so many people, but his Lord Father decided that the celebration would continue, that no summer storm could stop the men and women of the North and while Jon agreed, his inner self did not like the constant attention. “Have you looked in the Maesters Terret?” Robb asked just as they turned a corner, making their way back out to the yard. 

But Jon paused and groaned, palming his forehead, “No, I didn’t, but I should have.” The only other maester he knew was his uncle, and he’d removed his chain before Jon could even remember.

Robb belted out a laugh before grabbing his brother’s arm and leading him in the opposite direction, “Come on, I’ll race you to it, but first, another bun?”

Jon’s eyes widened and his lips peeled back into a grin, he was hungry, after all, “Aye, you’re on!” 

Eddard

The gods are ever fickle , he was sure of that thought. Storms had all but halted the construction of Winterhold, thankfully they were ahead of schedule. A fortnight would not set them back too long. 

Ned's breath misted before him, he’d ridden out with twenty-five men that morning. His main purpose, to ensure the roads remained clear for travel to and from Winterfell. Unlike his wife, this cold was a part of him; invigorating almost. Black cotton tunic and pants, a leather gambeson, moleskin gloves, hard-soled boots, and a hide and fur cloak protected him from what most southrons would consider cold, but for those with the blood of the north in their veins, this was nothing but a common triviality of life. 

Alyn, Jon’s guard, was currently among his company as well as FatTom and a few others. Ser Rodrick and Veyon remained at Winterfell, to help Cat where they could. Their horses moved in place and dug their hooves into the earth while they waited for the remainder of their party to join them, whickering softly and growing all the more agitated by their continued delay. The bodies of the men that Stormsong killed were disposed of the week before, leaving them to route out any other bandits or brigands that hid in the forests and nearby hills but fortunately, they found none. It seemed the deaths of a score of men were enough to change their minds and drive them from Stark lands. 

A horse's whinny drew his attention, “North, East, South, and West. The roads are all traversable My Lord,” Jory said as his steed cantered up to him. Greyjoy trailed behind him a few paces, face sullen, and a muddy mess. Eddard’s brows met and he gave Jory a look, who scoffed before continuing “The lad here,” he used his gloved thumb to point over his shoulder at Theon, “Was thrown right off his horse, into an embankment. Girls never seen snow this deep and was scared to go deeper.  But he’s alright.” 

“It’s too much horse for the iron born,” someone said and the men around him began to laugh, but tapered off at their Lord's lack of reaction. Theon’s cheeks pinkened and some of the men around him still muttered and chuckled making the Iron Islander scowl and grouse under his breath while he wiped at his face with the inner lining of his cloak. Ned shook his head before he spoke, “We‘ll have Luwin look you over Theon.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” Theon said but Eddard moved on with nary a nod.  He didn’t despise the boy, he didn’t even dislike him, but his words and actions towards Robb about Jon had forced him to establish distance. Theon Greyjoy was a prisoner, a child meant to hold a rogue kingdom in-line.  There was once a time when he thought to raise him as he would one of his own but it was Catelyn and Rodrick that reminded him of the boy's purpose in Winterfell, and it was that very same boy's words and comments that cemented it into his mind. Theon Greyjoy was a hostage first and a ward second. 

A breeze stirred around them whilst Eddard reached within his cloak, into a pocket just on the inside of his gambeson and slid a folded piece of parchment from it. He looked it over without unfolding it, grey eyes imploring before he looked back up towards the horizon. It was well into the afternoon and travel would only get more difficult as the sunset. He grasped the letter in his closed fist and puzzled for a moment, “They ought to have been here already.” He muttered. 

“The roads must be harder to travel on further north,” FatTom said, and Eddard had to force himself from rolling his eyes and telling him he’d already guessed that.  The man had a penchant for stating the obvious. But while not the cleverest he was among the most loyal, but before he could dismiss his men and return home the thunder of horse hooves in the distance drew all of their attention, subtle movements guided their horses to face whoever approached, but as they came into view Ned's face split into a smile. The parchment was stuffed back into his inner pocket before he clicked his tongue and navigated his horse northward, getting her into a gentle trot. 

Ser Davos and his banner carrier came into view first, his guards followed.  The knight left with Robett Glover two days after arriving to escort a new group of builders and apprentices back to Deepwood Motte and then on further West. He no longer trusted Robett after their near-disastrous arrival.  Davos also planned to escort more travelers back to Winterfell but this time from Bear Island, though he‘d told him those bunch certainly didn’t need escorting. 

Eddard saw the rest of the banners behind Davos before he saw their accompanying lords, the wind stirred the flags, but they were clear enough.  “A black bear on a green field, a roaring giant on fire red, and a white sunburst on black. They’ve made it.” Eddard said. He’d received their ravens the morning that Davos left. The folded parchment in his pocket was the very same letter telling him of their journey and detailing when they were traveling. 

He gripped his reins and whipped them once, setting his horse into a quicker trot towards the new group. His men fell into step, their horses kicking up mud and dirt. 

“Eddard fuckin’ Stark!” The GreatJons voice boomed across the distance as his destrier drove through the snow ahead of the others, a grin cut through the shag of fur he called a beard. Davos had to pull his mare aside as Lord Umber charged ahead. Big didn’t describe the man, near seven feet tall of muscle, iron, and ale.  GreatJon was more than a friend, he was a brother. Their time traveling the north before the reconstruction began cemented their relationship. 

His input became vital, especially in establishing a seat for his Jon at Queenscrown. That far north, there was no one better to consult. But Jon Umber proved to be more clever than he let on and rationalized that no lord would give this much to a bastard, even one they loved when their very wife disliked the child.  He’d even offered to have Jon foster at Last Hearth, but Ned said no, Jon’s place was at Winterfell.  Had he known the events to come, he might have accepted Jon Umber’s offer.  Nonetheless, he was a tenacious arse, and drunkenly stumbled upon the truth one night just north of Long Lake, while concocting outlandish stories to explain the birth of his son, who his mother was, and Ned’s change in demeanor since his return from Dorne. 

Lord Umber sobered right up after learning his campfire speculation was in fact the truth. That Lyanna was never taken and in truth loved the Prince and birthed for him a secret child. She died in the birthing bed, leaving that child to be rescued by none other than Ned, who killed two Kingsguard to reach his beloved sister, but found her lifeless and with a weeping babe instead, and in his despair, Ned promised to protect the child and raise him as his own. He’d never clenched his jaw harder, and for the briefest of moments found himself sizing Jon up and wondering if it would be possible to sink a body of his size to the bottom of the lake before sunrise.  The thoughts surprised him, and he pushed them away, leaving the pair to sit in silence until the fire dimmed that night, and Eddard told him how much of the story he’d manage to guess. Ned was even more thankful that Jon insisted they traveled alone, for speed. He most certainly would have had to kill anyone else.  

A blood pact and personal oath ensured his silence, but the idea of being co-conspirators in something of this magnitude forged in them a deeper bond. He trusted the man nearly as much as his own brother, which was why despite the fact that Lord Jon Umber knew where his son was, he couldn’t help but smile in return. 

Eddard rode ahead of his men, meeting Jon a moment later, amidst whining horses and stamping hooves. “GreatJon Umber!” Eddard called as their horses approached and the pair clasped arms. Even on a horse the Umber Lord towered over him in his mail and riding leathers, and with his bearskin cloak hanging over his back he came close to looking half wildling, but Ned would never tell him that. Like ice, Jon Umber's own great sword was strapped to his horse. It was a wicked looking piece of blackened metal, meant for one thing and one thing only, killing. It was Jon that helped Ned master his own family’s blade, and if he was being honest he was looking forward to the coming sparring matches. 

Ser Davos followed with the remainder of the group, “Davos, safe journey?” Eddard asked.

The knight chuckled, “Aye, a quiet one on the way. Lord Glover said nary a word.”

“And he had us for the return.” Lady Maege said, he chuckled at her reply. 

“I’ve never felt safer than with the She Bears of House Mormont.” Davos replied, getting a guffaw from Lady Mormont. She slapped Davos on the back, rocking the knight who failed to hide his wince getting a chorus of laughter as the Lady approached her lord. She hadn’t changed much in the years, an otherwise handsome woman, with laugh lines in her face. But the spiked mace that hung from her hip and well oiled ringmail that covered her told another story. Lady Maege was a warrior, through and through. What she lacked in stature she made up for in ferocity and strength, and Eddard already knew he was in for a handful of trouble once Arya saw a lady that openly carried a weapon. He counted two of her daughters amongst her retinue of eight, but was unsure which ones they were. 

“Ned,” her face grew serious, “We heard about Robett and Benjen, did your brother really call for a square?” Everyone grew silent, even Davos as Ned nodded. 

“Aye,” Eddard said gruffly, shaking his head. As he’d expected, news traveled fast. It had to have been one of the Glover men with loose lips, he thought. He was confident none of his would share matters outside of Winterfell to just any passersby. Theirs was a tight-knit community, almost secretive. 

“Well, if he’d fired on one of my own, I woulda done the same.” Lord Rickard Karstark said, his eldest son Harrion rode behind a few paces, beside the SmallJon Umber. Eddard realized just then, that this was going to get confusing fast. Three Jon’s in one keep, he thought sighing inwardly. He counted the combined total of Umber and Karstark men to be ten and two. Five Karstark men and three Umber’s, with their Lords and a son each; all big burly men, though the Umber Lords were just a touch larger and never let the Karstark‘s forget. 

Eddard and Rickard clasped hands, “Cousin, how was the ride?” Ned asked, nodding to Harrion who smiled cheerily and nodded back.  But his eyes narrowed briefly when they fell on the SmallJon, who looked away abashed, suddenly unable to look anywhere but up. They’d talk about his involvement eventually. 

Eddard suppressed a chuckle, returning his attention to Lord Karstark who seemed none the wiser, “Easy enough journey. Met the rest of this lot on our ride down. Umbers took their sweet time to get to us, reason why we’re late.”

“Fuck off Karstark, storm hit us the worst.” GreatJon’s gravelly voice cut in.

“Storm hit us the worst,” Rickard mocked, “Listened to him whinge the whole ride. Youda thought he was one of Mormonts daughters.” 

“Watch it Karstark,” Maege said, “Not even my daughters griped as much as him.” And their group broke into laughter, even Jon. The ease with which they made themselves a part of one another’s group spoke volumes for their ability to work together. The men, and women, all differed to Ned, as was right.  

Once the laughter died down and the men and women mingled, Eddard raised a closed fist, gaining everyone’s attention, “Our company has arrived safely, let us return to Winterfell and break bread  and salt.”

“Aye, and then we can break open a cask of mead,” GreatJon said, to Ned's chagrin. 

Be merry my hearts, and call for your quarts,

     and let no drink be lacking,

We have gold in store, we purpose to roare,

     until we set care a packing.

Guest right was observed, food was served, wine and ale were poured and Winterfell enjoyed Bolludagur.  SmallJon belted out a chorus in the middle of the great hall. He stomped his feet and sloshed ale down his front, but his laughter, like his fathers boomed over everyone else. Harrion and Alyn hoisted their drinks in the air, laughing at the younger Umber lord's antics and Davos, Rodrick, and Veyon watched them all from an outer table, beguiled. SmallJon climbed on a bench using a Stark  man's shoulder to stabilize himself before continuing, the minstrels picked up the tune and the men and women around him joined in on the singing.

Then hostis make haste, and let no time waste,

     let every man have his due,

To save shoes and trouble, bring in the pots double

     for he that made one, made two.

Eddard and the other lords retreated once the drinking and singing began in earnest, leaving the SmallJon and Harrion in the Great Hall with the Mormont girls and all the other revelers. He was sure that between Rodrick, Davos, and Veyon they would be able to manage the hall in his and Catelyn’s absence.  With his solar currently occupied by his children, Stormsong, younger brother, kennel master, and Maester they’d had to move to the rarely used War Room. A dark room with only two ways in and out. There were no recesses, nor alcoves to hide in and gather information. No way to sneak about and eavesdrop. It was made by his ancestors for one purpose, to plan their dominion of the north. But since the dragons conquered the seven, this room had little use other than a storage space for his wood map carving and numerous rolls of parchment and books on war and military campaigns. 

Eddard sat on an old rickety wood frame chair opting to give his wife the better one.  She could have stayed with the children and rested, but Cat was stubborn and insisted on staying, which was one of the many things he loved about her. Rickard stood hunched over the map, tracing where the new roads would be had the map been updated. Jon was plying himself with ale and meat pies, and Lady Maege polished off her pint of mead before setting her tankard on an end table next to the upturned crate she used for a perch. “To have avoided us for that long, your brother is clever Eddard. You oughta use that in some way.” Maege said. 

“Aye, he’s wasting that talent ferrying former slaves and harrying pirates,” Rickard added, looking up, brow furrowed. He’d pulled out another map and unrolled it, showing the southern half of Westeros, or at least what it looked like a hundred years ago. “Look at this map, look at the south.” He pointed along the coastline, dotting a few keeps and towns. He’d stuffed his greying black beard into his tunic so as not to get in his way. Eddard chuckled inwardly as he followed Rickards actions, they all did. 

“All of these keeps, towns, what have you have one thing we don’t. Ports. If your brother is proficient in his craft, and with Davos’ help, we ought to do the same.”

Maege stood up and walked over to the map, “You going to sail Rickard?” She asked as she stood over it. 

“Never,” He said that with a tone of finality, “But my sons, hell’s, all of our sons…”

“And daughters,” Maege added.

“Aye,”  Rickard chuckled, “And daughters can learn. If the north is to have a navy, then it’s only right it’s lords take a turn on the seas. What’s more, we can put a port south of Karhold, another in the bay of seals for House Umber, and expand on Bear Islands.”

Eddard finally stood and joined them at the table, gently resting his hand on Catelyn's shoulder as he passed her. “I never thought of that.” 

“You’re not the only one with thoughts cousin,” Rickard said, chuckling. 

Eddard did the same before continuing, “But you’re right, a proper navy will need more than two or three ports, one south of Karhold and another near enough to the Last Hearth will eliminate the need to drop anchor at East Watch.”

“The Night's Watch will be able to remain neutral, as they should.  Their provisions aren't meant to stock a burgeoning Navy and our increased trade will pay for it all.” Catelyn added, to which they all nodded. The GreatJon joined them at the table, arms crossed and towering above him. 

“My boy does enjoy the seas.” The Umber Lord said. 

“Mayhaps that is where I should have started?” Ned said, pressing his brows together. 

Rickard made a noise, “We learn as we go.”

“Rickards right Eddard,” Maege said. “And all of this will take years besides. We know what we must do moving forward.”

“Aye, but none of this will be possible without Winterhold, so that must be completed first. White Harbor and Winterhold will be the seat of the navy, where shipbuilding will occur. They will be the hub of Northerner trade.”

“And Queenscrown?” Catelyn surprised them all with her question, “We can't forget about that. Our Jon will need a keep and smallfolk of his own.”

It warmed his heart to hear her call him theirs and not just his, “Queenscrown will be complete by the time Jon is ten and six, we have time.” Eddard said with a smile. Jon and Maege shared a look and Rickard barely hid his surprise. The GreatJon had made his discontent known very early on, especially once Jon disappeared. The truth of his birth and the circumstances around his life struck a chord in the giant of a man who'd seen the face of many children orphaned in wildling raids.  Eddard figured that was why he’d remained silent on his son's whereabouts. It was hard for them to forgive the ill-treatment of a northern son, but they had each come around in their own time. Having his son home helped some, but seeing the change in her ways must have confirmed it. 

“Speaking of, where is that pretty lad?” Maege asked, to which Catelyn guffawed and Eddard chuckled. The Lady looked between them confused, “What?”

“Don’t tell him that,” Catelyn said. “Theon did during their morning training and ended up in the mud because of it.”

GreatJon laughed, and hard, “That’s the boy I know. The temper of a wolf that one, SmallJon and Ben have told me enough stories of your Jon’s form of retribution. Horse shite in pillows and fish under mattresses.” He shook his head.

Eddard started, wide-eyed for a moment before shaking his head, “What is Benjen teaching him?” And where is Aemon in all of this, he thought. 

“How to be as naughty as possible,” Catelyn answered. 

Rickard chuckled, “And now he’s got brothers to share all of that knowledge with.” He winked at Catelyn who took a deep breath and closed her eyes, all while shaking her head.  She was more than aware of that.  

Eddard smiled, thinking of his childhood and the mischief he and his siblings got into, before Brandon and I began fostering , and then a thought came to him. “They can foster, as I did. But rather than leave the north, they can spend time at all of your keeps. A grand tour of our Kingdom. Karhold, Last Hearth, Bear Island, and Queens Crown.  Timing will be important, but it can conclude at Winterhold, which should be built by then.”  Mayhaps I can reach out to Howland? There was merit to the thought. 

GreatJon nodded as Ned continued, “My two eldest can learn from all of you, as well as expose themselves to the rest of the north. Jon was only just made aware of his legitimization, but he will have to make himself known. I can think of no better way for Robb to learn of his future subjects, and for Jon to learn to rule a Northern keep properly.”

“And if one of them strikes up with my Alys, I wouldn’t be averse,” Rickard added, getting a soft chuckle from Eddard.  

“Shoulda had more daughters Karstark,” Lady Maege said with a half-smile, “But I agree with Eddard and would be happy to open my hearth and home to your boys.”

“As would I.” Jon cut in, not one to be upstaged, “If they are to tour the north, they ought to see the True North.”

Rickard harrumphed and rolled his eyes, “We share blood, so you know you and yours are always welcome at Karhold.” He smirked in Jon’s direction.  

Eddard took in a deep breath before standing to his height, “I believe that’s enough planning for today. We can finalize our plans in the coming days. Let us depart, you lot can return to the Great Hall if you feel so inclined, Catelyn and I must tend to our children.”

“And direwolf.” Catelyn added for good measure. 

“Aye, and a whelping direwolf.” He knew it to be a significant moment, but aside from that he still wasn’t sure what to make of it.  He’d taken a liking to her and her solemn ways, almost immediately, but that didn’t stop him from having moments of doubts. How many more would there be? Would they all be as even-tempered as Stormsong? Was she even-tempered or was it a byproduct of this stage in her pregnancy? He shook the thoughts away, there was no point worrying about it now. If his children had anything to say, then the direwolf and its pups were already as much a Stark as they were. 

Rickard and SmallJon opted to return to the Great Hall and join their sons, while lady Maege decided to retire for the night, her mail needed tending after their long ride and she could do for some quiet before she fell asleep for the night. He agreed, their celebrations would go on for a few more days, a night's rest would do him well. 

“That went well,” Catelyn said once they separated and she led them back to his solar.

Eddard nodded, “I expected it would. They’ve been my eyes and hands where I could not travel. Outside of our immediate family, I trust no one more than them, and Davos now.”

“And only House Umber knows?” She asked, and Ned nodded, knowing exactly what she meant, the truth of Jon’s birth. 

“Only the Great and Small Jon Umber. But I hope fostering will help establish both Robb and Jon, so if the truth is ever learned it will be tempered by their fondness of our sons.”

Catelyn agreed, but remained silent, mulling over her own thoughts leaving Ned to reflect on earlier in the week, when he, Jon, Catelyn and Benjen decided that as the future lord of the North and his brother, Robb had a right to know. That decision didn’t surprise Ned, that was just how Jon was.  Robb's reaction to Jon’s truth hadn't surprised Ned either.  

They’d sat in his rooms one evening after supper and told him the truth of Jon’s birth. His son's blue-grey eyes narrowed and his auburn brows pinched together, he thought it over for a time before looking up at his brother and finally speaking.  “ So, Jon is half Targaryen and half Stark? ”  Ned nodded, while Jon looked down, nervously.  

“And I’m half Tully and half Stark.  So why does it matter? “ Jon must have been surprised as his head snapped up then, staring at his brother with wide pleading eyes, acceptance , Eddard realized, he wants his brother's acceptance .  Robb continued speaking though, “ Jon’s my brother and you love him like your son, so it shouldn't matter.” Robb paused, “ No, it doesn't matter.  Jon has the Stark name too .”  Robb shrugged and looked at Jon, “ You're my brother, you always have been and you always will be.  But that doesn't mean you always get to be King Daeron now. ”  Both of their faces lit up in a smile and for Robb, it was settled, that was that and there was no room to question his decision.  Jon Stark or Vaegon Targaryen, it didn't matter to him, their relationship would never change.   

“Eddard?” His wife’s soft voice reached him, “Where were you?” She looked at him, her blue eyes searching his face. She was beautiful. 

“Thinking.” Ned finally said just as they reached his solar. The guards on either side of the door nodded and opened it, allowing their Lord and Lady to enter.

Heat hit them first, stifling warmth that made him cringe, “God's Ben!” He exclaimed, noting the raging fire and closed windows and shutters. 

“I know, I know, it’s hot.” His brother sat on the floor, in nothing but linen pants and a sleeveless tunic. His hair was pulled back into a tail and sweat beaded on his forehead. “Farlen and Luwin say it ought to be warm for the pups on their first few days.” He gestured to the fire, “that’s why that is so big.”

It was certainly warm, he thought.  Ned and Catelyn looked around, “Where are the children?” His wife asked, he’d only just then realized none were there. 

“Their rooms, it’s late. I told them I’d wake them once Stormy went into labor.” Eddard agreed with that decision.

“I think I’ll join them,” Catelyn said through a yawn, “Wake me should anything change?”

Ned nodded, and she pecked him on the cheek while he let his hand rest gently on their unborn child before she turned and walked away, closing the door behind her. His eyes moved to his brother, “We have a lot to talk about.” He said, moving to remove his gambeson and boots. 

“I expect we do,” Ben replied. It was time to get comfortable as Ned knew he was going nowhere for the night. Despite the weariness, there was an underlying excitement. Plans were forming and direwolves were coming, how could he sleep through any of that?

Jon

He was walking through the empty halls of the castle. He was alone, no noise, nothing. It was utterly silent. 

“Father?” Jon called out, looking around. Everything was as it should have been, but it was wrong. Light entered the windows, as he passed them, but he could see nothing through the glass. 

“Robb?” No answer. 

He walked onward, curious as to why Stormsong hadn’t made her way to him already. Where is she? He asked himself, concern worming its way in. Uncle Aemon had always told him to be mindful, aware of himself and his feelings. He felt fear overcoming the concern but tried his hardest to hold it at bay, although he knew even if he succeeded it was only temporary. Acknowledge your fear Vaegon, and then overcome it. The words faded into the aether just as they were spoken. 

Cracks formed along the walls and through the thick stone floor, sonorous rumbling surrounded him and the windows shattered, Winterfell crumbled away, leaving him exposed and alone. Whatever tenuous hold he had over his emotions loosened. Jon tried to scream but was drowned out by a deafening roar. A two-headed dragon towered over him, one head a deep and bloody red and the other a blue so dark it looked black growled menacingly, purple flames writhed in their cavernous mouths and a jagged black crown sat on either head. It roared defiantly and menacingly, rolling its shoulders under its thick armor-like scales, it was guarding a bleeding ruby the size of an island, sulfuric eyes burning with umbrage. Three women knelt before it, one with hair painted like a rainbow the other dark like his, and the last with hair fairer than any he’d seen before. When it breathed fire, the purple flames spilled over a lush green earth. A snake the color of the sun made of sand and stone rose from the earth and bit at the dragon's leg, but it did nothing more than infuriate the beast, flames erupted from its mouth and devoured the serpent. 

Another dragon, this one with three heads, one white and copper and bronze, one emerald green and gold, and the last a black darker than a moonless night roared and took flight, a crown of gold and a crown of silver sat on the head of the green and black dragons heads respectively. An iron chain dangled uselessly from its leg as it soared above him, drawing the red dragon's attention. Though smaller, but barely, the red and blue dragon's sheer savagery more than made up for it as it launched into the sky. Everything else seemed forgotten, even the other two dragon heads as the red and blue attacked the white and copper head, all but ignoring the other two that nipped at it lamely, almost in fear. 

He felt a growl shake the ground, coming from behind him. It was another beast, but this one was different. It was shaped like a dragon, massive and silver, but its head looked remarkably like a wolf.  Its glowing red eyes focused on him before the beast threw its head back and howled into the sky.  Jon fell back and stared up at its massive form while its great silver and white wings surrounded him protectively.  The sound of the other dragons fighting was still heard, and the sky was alight with flames of so many different colors. 

“That wasn’t exactly subtle.” A voice said. 

He heard a deeper chuckle answer before speaking, “I’ve never been known for subtlety.”

“Who are you?” Jon asked, still unable to see. 

“Oh, so he hears? Do you hear me boy?” It was certainly a man, Jon was sure of that. ”You can’t see me, because your eye isn’t open. Because your eye isn’t open, you won’t remember this, will you? A sightless boy with no memory for what’s important.”

“What are you...what are you talking about?” Jon shouted, this was a dream, but since when did his dreams respond to a question? Was it possible to feel panic in a dream? Was it possible to know you were dreaming?

“I’m not a part of your mind boy, you’re not going round the bend. Panic is a part of the mortal condition, whether your sleeping  or dreaming, and aye it's possible, but what’s it matter if you won’t remember this brief glimpse into what may come?”

“Why won’t I remember?“ he was realizing that this was more than any of his other dreams. 

“Because you can’t see Vaegon!” A separate voice answered, “Your eye isn’t open. Find your bond mates and mayhaps it will.”

Bond mates? None of this made sense. “And it won’t,” the voice of the man said, “When you remember these words, your eye will be open.”

“My eyes are open,” Jon shouted, “But I still don’t see you.”

”Oh my silly little dragon, your third eye, child.” The same voice from earlier, a woman he was sure, said with sadness tainting her voice. “I was once told that prophecies do not begin from the relative safety and well-being of a castle. Desperation, betrayal, and a looming threat of overwhelming force and impossible odds, those were the makings of a prophecy. Yet here you are, and you will face it all boy. Now wake up, you will soon meet one-third of the puzzle that is Vaegon.”

His door creaking open stirred him, bleary-eyed he ducked back under the linens, “Jon, Jon wake up.” Jon’s eyes opened slowly, and for the briefest moment he was confused, until he heard his brother's voice again, “Jon, come on!”

He sat up slowly in his bed and rubbed at his eyes. He stared at Robb, the feeling that he’d just forgotten something important overcoming him. His brother stood at his cracked door, candle in hand. He could barely make out his face and if he was seeing things right, Robb was smiling. He chanced a glance at the window and saw no light coming through, it was still dark out. 

He groaned, “It’s still night Robb,” and he was so, so tired. 

“So? Wake up, Jon!” And this time Robb came into his room and stood at the foot of his bed, bundled up in a robe. The candle and holder in his hand bathed his face in yellow and orange light, his brother wasn’t just smiling, he was excited, he was breathing hard with a wide grin. 

“What?” Jon asked.

If it was possible, Robb’s grin grew even bigger before he whispered excitedly, “The pups are here!”

Chapter Text

Westeros

King’s Landing

Jon Arryn

He could hear a whistle of wind coming through a window somewhere.  There was no gentle ocean breeze this evening, but the bitter bite of a false winter; snow had fallen in the Vale, as far down the mountain as the Bloody Gate, Lysa’s last letter told him. 

The Tower of the Hand could be drafty if its minders left any windows ajar.  Lord Jon Arryn stood reluctantly and crossed his solar in search of the offending window, found it, grasped the handle of its shutter, and pulled it into its fitting with a sealing thunk. He stood and stared out at all of the dots of light shining through the hundreds of windows or moving through the roads in the city below, cognizant that every one of them represented a person, a person he was partially responsible for. “Hmm.” He grumbled as he arched his back with his hands on his hips,  all while trying his hardest to ignore the pops and cracks he heard.  Jon was alone for the first time in the day, no more visitors, no more meetings or inspections, just him, his ledgers, reports, documents to update, and King‘s business to tend to. A cold plate of untouched food sat on his desk, capers and roast duck with fennel and onion and garlic on a bed of rice, delivered to him by his cupbearer, a little Lannister boy whose name he couldn’t remember, Lancing, Lancelot, Lancel? It mattered not, this was a temporary introduction to court and soon the lad would begin squiring for Robert as Jon had his own squire he’d dismissed hours ago, young Hugh of the Vale. 

Night was upon them and with it a chilly breeze that crept through the busy streets of King's Landing.  The smallfolk rushed around finishing their daily chores before the less-desirables slinked and slithered back onto the streets once it was dark.  He was spared from the brunt of it by the softly burning fire in the hearth and the aged pock-marked walls of the Red Keep.  It wasn't so cold as to need to fish a cloak from his garderobe, but it was enough to find a seat closer to the fire, which he did.  Jon hefted the ledgers and notes to the end table near his plushest armchair.  This was not a matter he could pass on to anyone, not even their Master of Coin. Sort it out Jon, I don't care how, just sort it.  And he was trying, but Robert’s proclivities were amounting to too much, so much so that it was becoming an issue to sweep it away.  Sooner or later someone will see what is plain for all. Robert has bastards, many of them. He thought of Mya Stone, the first bastard of Roberts he knew of, and then Edric Storm, the second but only acknowledged bastard, and then he thought of all the others and the price they would pay were their identities learned of, especially if it was the Queen that came upon that knowledge, or Lord Tywin, or Ser Jaime for that matter.

He exhaled hard and leaned into the backrest of his armchair while unbuttoning the topmost button of his sky-blue surcoat.  “The King’s right hand.” He said aloud, a derisive snort escaped his nose followed by a humorless chuckle before he closed his eyes and let the weariness weigh him down for a time.  If ever he could beg off his duties, he would, but that was not him and as much as he wanted to join Lysa and his son, nestled safely in the stone arms of the Mountains of the Moon and beyond the fortresses that guarded the path to the Giant's Lance, he could not. But one thing was certain, neither could he continue this course.  Torn between resentment and ambivalence, finding himself loathing his duties and time around a man he considered his son in all ways but blood.  His tenure was ending, he felt it in his bones, in his muscles, even in his very heart.  Though he looked hale and hearty, he did not feel it, and if time was running out then he would spend it with his family.  

Oh, Robert. That conversation filled him with anxious dread.  How does one tell their King that they are done?  Their fiery king? Their temperamental king?  Their increasingly withdrawn and detached King...and what would be the repercussions?  He could only wonder and hope about who would be chosen to replace him. 

This was not how he saw the twilight years of his life, mayhaps comfortable with many children chasing each other through the halls of the Eyrie; not tending to ill begot boys and girls fated to a horrid life he had no control of.  He looked down at the ledger once more, bringing it up to his line of sight, and squinted as he read through a line.  His mind was put to ease when he remembered something, that despite his desire to be anywhere but in King’s Landing, he still had a heart, a heart that cared too much sometimes. “Gendry,” he said softly, running a finger across the line.  He’d have to check in with the smith and see for himself how the boy was faring, ensure that the funds were being used wisely and for his care.  

No, he realized with that thought.  He couldn't simply abandon his post, so to speak.  Not with this and the other issue that plagued his thoughts.  His eyes wandered in the direction of his desk, and to the locked drawer on the right and the priceless tome within, The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.  

He had yet to open the book, and in truth probably wouldn't. Unless the situation changed drastically, ignorance was bliss.  Peace was upon the kingdom, even if it was tenuous. Who was he to shake it up?  A decent and honorable man. The thought echoed through his mind in a voice not of his own, though familiar.  “I need an escape,” he muttered.  Jon needed time to think, away from the keep and the endless courtiers and unnecessary small council meetings. Silence and quiet, the type of silence not even the Eyrie could provide.  Another steady mind would help, a person known for his calm.  He recognized the voice now, it was Eddard's. 

He smiled, “I will escape,” Jon said, “to Winterfell.” And this was a trip even his Lady Wife would be pleased to make.  

Essos

Ibben

Rhaella

It had been so long since she’d ridden, let alone at this pace and speed. She breathed in the evergreens and moss as they kicked up dirt along their pine needle path. The sky was on fire with the sun setting in the west, shadows and light danced over her and her horse as they raced through the forest. Clouds stretched through the sky, and the blue of day was gradually replaced with the black of night. The scenery rushed past her, a blur of color; mostly the dark green of the leaves, but flashes of others, earth tones, the brown of tree bark, the darkening sky between the leaves and branches, some reds she assumed to be birds or fruit, and the violets and pinks of budding flowers. She wished she’d decided to venture out earlier for leisure, she could easily spend hours outside admiring what was around her.   

The horse surged ahead, and she gripped it with her knees, as tight as she could, raised off the saddle, and hunched forward. Minimal barding protected the equine, allowing for speed. She tucked her head down, her braids and sable cloak whipping wildly behind her. Black leathers hugged her form, the ruffles of a crimson linen tunic poked out just at her collar bone. Her worry for her children far outstripped her concern for her safety. Oswell rode behind her, and a group of ten more guards with him. 

Triumph, her mare, galloped north on the same well-worn dirt road her children should have been on, so long as they hadn’t deviated from their path. That was the least of her problems, she knew she’d find them. Their party was large, she’d intended that, for their safety. She counted on the sheer number of eyes to dissuade dubious actions.

Rhaella found herself breathing to the rhythm of the horse’s gallop. It was an almost soothing motion in a way, something she’d missed and in those moments her mind began to wander. For the life of her, she could only remember one time a child of hers had been ill, and even then it was a fleeting thing. A frog in his throat, stuffiness of the nose, and an ache of the head were all Rhaegar complained of and it lasted all of three, mayhaps four days at the most. It was amazing, her children’s resilience when one took into consideration her birthing history. Of her multiple pregnancies, three were miscarriages, two were stillbirths, three more lived only long enough for their deaths to hurt all the more, and another had been premature, a grotesque disfigured thing with wings and scales, a part of the Targaryen curse she’d hoped to avoid. 

It didn’t escape her notice that Daenerys and Jaehaerys were born hale and hearty, away from the capital and Grand Maester Pycelle. Viserys had been healthy and beautiful but small. She’d never told anyone but in her birthing haze, she was sure that she had seen the surprise on the old Maesters face. But why? She questioned and had an answer almost immediately Because Viserys wasn’t meant to live. This was not the time for conspiracies, she knew and she pushed aside that thought, it would be there as that suspicion always had. 

Her heart was in her throat, be it from the excitement of the ride, the open nature, or her worry she wasn’t certain; it could have been equal parts of all three. The last time freedom like this had been hers was well before the rebellion, before the destruction of Summerhall, when she was able to ride her pony through the green and fertile fields of the Stormlands and the Reach and rest under the tree cover of the Kingswood, near enough to the safety of the Crown Lands and their levies that her mother couldn’t complain. 

A lifetime ago…

Her horse's harsh and increasingly labored breath bullied through the haze of thought and reached her ears. Triumph was ever faithful, had been for the last four years. Rhaella eased back into her saddle, and gently pulled on the reins. She raised her right hand as her mount slowed its pace. 

“Your Grace?” Oswell called as their horses came to a trot behind hers. He’d chosen boiled leather and minimal plate adornment; his greaves and his gauntlets, with his white cloak of the Queensguard. Also, for speed. Her accompanying guard was fully armored and she could tell that they and their horses were strained from the ride. Regardless of her need to reach her children, it would do her no good if her guard was worn ragged. 

“Our horses need rest Ser Oswell, as do my guard.” She nodded, gesturing behind him and Oswell turned his horse.

“Apologies my Queen,” He said, “Their sand steeds are ill-suited for fully armored men.”

A guard shook his head, “There's no need to tarry for us. Milord,” he looked to Ser Oswell, who nodded allowing him to continue speaking, “We should be rid of most of our armor and return for it on the ride back. We’ll be fine armed as Lord Commander Whent, we worried we would be ill-prepared to protect you, Your Grace, but we can see that speed is more important right now.”

Oswell’s brow arched and he looked at her and shrugged, “I’ve no problem with that.” He said and she nodded in agreement.

As the men dismounted and disarmed, she did the same, taking her horse by the reins. “There’s a slow-flowing river to the east. Once they disarm we can ride over and let the horses drink,” Oswell told her.

She ran her gloved hand along Triumph's neck, “That is fine, but we must be quick.” Rhaella looked up and around squinting, “I had hoped to reach them before nightfall, but I doubt that’s possible.”

Oswell’s head bobbed in agreement while their guard removed their pauldrons, breastplates, vambraces, culets, inner fald, and tassets leaving them with their leathers, greaves, gauntlets, helms, and weapons. Once their arms were safely wrapped within their cloaks and hidden under a tangle of bushes and brambles, they remounted and Oswell took the lead, slowly plodding their way through the forest and around the low bushes and pine shrubs until they reached an animal trail and the babble of water was heard.  She spotted the river soon after, or what looked to be a branch of it. Nevertheless, it was good enough for their mounts. They all dismounted once more and brought their horses closer to the water. 

Lord Commander Whent approached from the side with a distant look, his sword made noise with each step he took. Oswell took a deep breath and crossed his arms, the blue of his eyes looked darker in this light, a familiar sadness framed them. His beard was longer, she noticed on closer inspection, it made him look all the more dignified and older, she thought.  “The last time I rode like this was when I was trying to get to King's Landing.” Her eyes widened marginally, he rarely spoke of his flight from Dorne to Dragonstone. Be it anger, sadness, or whatever lay between, he’d never shared more than a few words on what transpired, what he’d dealt with, and all the emotions he’d felt during that journey of his. 

Silence and the rustle of leaves and their guards moving around filled the space between them before she replied, “It is fortunate we are not at war this time.”

Oswell chuckled, dryly, “Aye, true.” He turned his head slightly, to the west, “But there will be, soon. You know as well as I that it’s only a matter of time before the Usurper learns you and the children were never dead.”

Her face quickly schooled itself into the practiced guise of a Queen, superiority, and aloofness in equal parts. “I knew you’ve had more to say.” He’d had a look since they’d met earlier that morning, a look that said much was on his mind. 

Oswell took a breath and pursed his lips while he collected his thoughts before looking at her, “I worry that leaving the twins here is not a wise option, Your Grace. But neither is taking them. Nor is leaving them with anyone on the mainland, so long as men like Illyrio Mopatis exist.”

She fixed her violet gaze on him, hoping that despite her austere guise he could see that she shared his concern, “There is nowhere safe for my family Ser Oswell,” the list sitting in the top drawer of her desk surmised as much, “And very few options to remain as such. You know this as do I. But you are right, the Usurper will eventually learn of us, I know. And what should we do then? Beseech him to be kind to us?  To leave us in peace, so that we may grow old and fat here on this island? He will show us the same mercy he and his lions showed to my grandchildren and good-daughter.”

“No, Your Grace,” He sighed and looked away, “You're like to have more luck training an aurochs to dance than seek mercy from the Usurper.”

“Then what Oswell?” She asked, voice softer. He had a way of diffusing tension inadvertently, be it a joke or silly comment, but Rhaella continued, “Robert Baratheon chased us across the narrow sea, even years after my son's corpse was defiled and left to rot in that field, he sent assassins that you and Willem and Jon had to kill.” Rhaella paused and turned to him in full, “The Iron Throne is safety, it is protection, it is resources and alliances we could never make on our own. The Iron Throne is infrastructure, something that we are sorely lacking. But above all the Iron Throne is my children’s birthright, my birthright. It is the legacy of House Targaryen and it was stolen from us. Even now as we speak they further desecrate my family’s name and memory. They've rebuilt Summerhall...” And for a moment the anger was clear to see, “I can no more stop thinking about it than I can stop missing the younger Aerys, the Aerys that would have shared this burden with me.”

Oswell’s eyes widened, her guard shifted uncomfortably. The Mad-King’s name was known, even this far east. “The Iron Throne is my family’s legacy, Oswell. As is Aerys II Targaryen. The kingdom my forefathers fought to unify and the kingdom my brother and husband shattered and lost.” Oswell opened his mouth to speak, to offer a rebuttal more than likely but she shook her head. “He did Oswell, the cracks may have already been there but it was Aerys that finally broke it. All of the infighting, the Dance of the Dragons, the Blackfyre Rebellions, Aerys abduction. It all culminated to this,” and she waved and looked around her. 

Silence filled the space between herself and her Lord Commander while she considered what he’d said. She agreed, it was obvious that they would have to travel with her, but will they travel the entirety of the way or can I find them safe lodging? War was no place for children, but is being separated from their family any better? Rhaella was left to ponder while a guard came over and took their horses to the slowly flowing water, leaving them standing in the temporary serenity of a sunset over a river. 

“The dragon must have three heads,” Oswell said, so abruptly and nonchalantly that had she not been a Targaryen, and not only a Targaryen, but one of the House members to have heard those words originally spoken, she would have shrugged it off as another strange thing Oswell said. The shadow of a smile played on his face as he looked away from her, eyes distant like he was caught in a memory. 

That wasn’t the case for her, like being dashed with a bucket of cold water, she was brought jarringly back to the here and now, “Where did you hear that?” She asked, more than surprised at his sudden segway. She’d read enough letters from her eldest son to have those words permanently branded into her memory, and I hate them. She didn’t know her son had confided in Ser Arthur and Oswell.

“It was something Rhaegar would say, I never understood it. He too spoke of destiny and birthright often, usually waxing poetic as he was oft to do. Arthur would just chuckle and Ser Gerold would grumble, but we knew the Prince was much more learned than we were, and in truth, I just thought it meant he needed to have three children.” No, she thought with a silent sigh as her horse was led back to her, It was so much more.

Rhaella remained silent, her silver-gold brows pressed together, even as Oswell looked at her expectantly. There was nothing to say, Aerys, Rhaegar, and Aegon were dead, and with them, the prophecy of the Woods Witch, and her cursed Promised Prince. “Let us return to the path and resume our ride, I am anxious to reach my children.” She wouldn’t fall down that hole of mournful memories, and the creeping bitterness that came with them. She quickly mounted her mare. 

Oswell opened his mouth to speak but decided against it and soberly nodded.  He followed her example and mounted his horse as well. The knight trailed behind her, silently, the only noise being their mounts occasional whickers and steps through the underbrush.  The guards followed behind him as she made her way back to the same animal track they’d followed in. Keen to close the distance between her and her children, she prodded her horse into a trot once the road north was visible, and nudged it into a full gallop the moment Triumphs hooves met the packed earth. 

Daenerys

She avoided his glances, casually at first, it was hard not to feel some guilt. But why should I? She’d question, which was immediately followed by a smoldering frustration that outweighed the guilt for a time. Her glances became glares after a while.  And then she would simmer and stew in irritation. That had been her battle their entire return ride thus far. Princess Daenerys rolled her neck, before shifting her cloak to drape over her shoulders. She fidgeted in her clothes which were slightly too big.  Dany found a clean set of her twins' black leathers in their shared chest for their return ride, but her dark green silken tunic beneath did little in the way of providing her warmth.  It was getting colder, and there was no camping this evening, they’d all agreed to continue their march even into the night. Dany caught the violet of his eyes lingering on her skeptically from time to time, but he always turned away when she looked back.  She’d never given him reason to mistrust her, and if worrying for my brother is reason to mistrust me then sod you Jaehaerys, she thought stubbornly, silver-gold brows pressed firmly together. 

But the guilt would return when she thought of her lie from earlier. Upon waking and as camp was broken down, Jaehaerys asked her what happened while he was asleep. She’d answered and told him a version of the truth that didn’t include her message home, but I’ve never been a good liar.   Eventually, the defiance would smother it and at some point, they’d catch each other looking at the other and quickly look away before continuing their ride in an awkwardly ambivalent silence. The situation was an anomalous one, as it was Viserys that rode closest to Jaehaerys, and pretended to be an elder brother. It escaped her notice that the feelings she felt were jealousy, as never in her wildest dreams had she thought she would have to share her twin, least of all with Viserys. 

“Worst of all.” She grumbled, finding little and less reason to mind her tongue. 

Be it the dejection, frustration, confusion, anger, unacknowledged jealousy, waffling guilt, or some combination of them all, she found her overall mood souring the longer they rode. Not even the pretty birds and colorful flowers could distract her.  With each jarring trot of her horse's hooves she was brought a new thought; 

Clip, Why is Vis so intent on riding with Jae? 

Clop , They almost fought again, a day ago!

Clip, Viserys is far too smarmy, but to what end?

Clop, To turn us against each other! 

Her suspicion should have caused her some grief, they were all siblings, but Viserys had proven to be conniving and duplicitous, even if she didn't fully understand his schemes.  If anything came of this almost trip, it was her resounding belief that Jaehaerys had been right all along, Viserys could never be trusted.  Her eyes narrowed further, this time she focused on her elder brother, willing him to feel her disquiet.  “Are you okay, Princess?” Willem’s voice cut through her focus, startling her.  She gripped her reins and took a breath before nodding in their knight's direction.  

“I am, though I’m tired of being on horseback.”

Ser Willem made a noise, a deep one that sounded like a grunt, but when she looked at him he gave her a genial smile through his tangle of grey-brown beard, “I’m sure we all are, but it’s what was agreed upon. We have no more than a few more hours before we’ve returned to the fortress.”

She let the beat of the horse’s hooves be her response, and stared ahead in stony silence, stealing glimpses of her brothers. If Ser Willem was put out by her lack of a response, he made no outward show of it and continued to ride quietly near her. She watched as Viserys said something and motioned to a sword at a guard’s hip with a laugh. Jaehaerys though, looked positively bored, serves him right. He’d regained his color, and the whites of his eyes were actually white again. She only noticed that he coughed from time to time and drank quite a bit of water, but he looked considerably healthier than when they’d found him under the Weirwood. Ser Lucifer’s hawk-like beady black eyes rode just behind him, a silent sentinel in the growing dark. 

It could have been a moment or it could have been an hour, once night fell and the lanterns were lit and swinging around them she had no way of knowing what time it was. The trees became black giants swaying in the evening breeze, and the light of the half-moon was sporadically broken up by slow-moving clouds. She fidgeted in her saddle hoping to batter away the discomfort by sheer will. The warmth of their dragon eggs and her bed and the relief that four stone walls and a roof provided felt so far away.  She understood now why her mother said many ladies in Westeros preferred wheelhouses. “Princess,” She glanced back at Ser Willem who nodded ahead and looked up to see her younger brother breaking away from Viserys. Ser Lucifer followed him, a lantern attached to a pole from his horse's saddlebag. Ser Willem had changed their guard assignments just before they left, he preferred the more experienced of them to guard herself and her twin. 

Dany kept her face forward, even as Jaehaerys drew level to her, and Ser Lucifer fell in beside Ser Willem. She caught him look at her and then look away, his brow furrowed with his lips pressed together. 

“You’ve been ignoring me,” Jaehaerys finally said. 

She took in a silent breath and pursed her lips angrily, ” I’ve been ignoring you?”

Jae nodded. 

“Truly, you believe that I was ignoring you? You, who have been ahead of me looking back at me but I’ve been ignoring you ?”

Jae nodded, again, “I kept waiting for you to rescue me from him.” 

Daenerys scoffed, but she could have smiled then, a sense of relief pushed past the mounting frustration. He’d never been angry with me at all, through all the introspection and self-castigation, Daenerys never considered an explanation so simple. He was trapped by their elder brother and held hostage to his ego and bravado. “Is that what you were doing?” 

Jaehaerys rolled his eyes, “Yes, what do you think I was doing? I’ve been trying to get your attention all day.” He huffed, “He talks about fighting a lot. About what he will do to the usurper and his dogs.”

“That must have been exciting,” she said as drolly as possible, her tone belied the amused smile playing at the corner of her lips. “If he hopes to do anything, he’ll have to learn to beat you first.” And that earned her a laugh.  Viserys still wore the sling, like some badge of honor, unbeknownst to him most of the guards and soldiers laughed behind his back.

”That would require work,” Jaehaerys began once he finished laughing softly, “a lot of work, and training.”

“Neither of which suit our dear brother,” Daenerys said. The frustration from earlier was already a thing of the past.  Order was restored to the world, she rode beside her twin and they made light of their current situation.  

She peered at him, “You look better.”

“I feel better,” he said. “My chest is sore but I don’t feel like I did when you found me.” He took a deep swig of water from the skin he’d been given by their brother. “I do wish we'd kept going though. We wasted so much time riding out.”

“You wasted time, I just followed along,” Dany said, to which Jaehaerys shrugged.  “But mayhaps you're right.”  She was doubting her decision to return to the fortress, now that she was beside Jaehaerys and able to see that however he was feeling may have just been a momentary thing.  Sleep really is all he needed.   Control wasn’t something she was used to having, decisions were made for her which made her all the more sure that she’d been wrong. There was nothing for it, now that they were well and truly on their way home. 

They lapsed into a companionable silence. Bits and pieces of conversation filtered past her, but it was otherwise quiet in their section of the train. She could hear their elder brother’s raucous laughter, he was more than likely drunk, which meant he’d be even more unbearable. It was good Jaehaerys separated from that group when he did.  She looked over at her twin in time to see him finish a yawn, which caused her to do the same, “Are you ti—“

“Riders!”  A shout from the front cut her short and their party halted, guards shifted quickly. Ser Lucifer and Ser Willem promptly drew their swords and drove their horses in front of herself and her brother. Viserys guard did the same, Gerold Redback took position in front of the Crown Prince as they all looked ahead, “They bear The Queen’s standard!” She recognized the shouter, it was Asher. Dany’s stomach flipped when she saw the banners, a red three-headed dragon with gold wings on a black field, her mother’s personal standard. 

“Make way for the Queen!” Ser Oswell ordered them, appearing from the darkness, her mother just behind him, with more guards behind her.   

Three hundred fighting men shifted in unison and for a moment she was fascinated by their coordination. Shields were brought forward, heads were bowed and they separated down the middle, forming an empty lane for her mother and personal guard to approach them. She heard the horses' hard breaths and heavy hooves beating the earth, her mother’s banner flapped gently in the breeze, two in total and each held by a guard behind her. Two others carried lanterns, with Ser Oswell baring a third strapped to his horse in a similar manner to Ser Lucifer. Their mother took the lead, head raised regally, and made her way through the line as the men that marched knelt in place, and those mounted bowed from their waste. 

“Mother,” Viserys slurred, she could see him, lantern light poured over his pink cheeks as he sagged forward besottedly and then sat upright with a small amount of effort. She saw her mother’s tight smile, her eyes roved over her elder son, equal parts shrewd and displeased. She can see he’s drunk, Dany thought. 

“My Heir.” She said, voice uncharacteristically acerbic, and nodded to her son, who frowned at the cold reception. The Queen prodded her horse onward, undeterred, eyes locked on Ser Willem.

Both knights sheathed their weapons and bowed their heads, “Your Grace,” Ser Willem said, “We were not expecting you.”

“I know, but when a mother receives word that one of her children has suddenly taken ill, how could she not ride out to meet them?” Her face broke into a warm smile when she looked at Daenerys and for a moment she forgot about everything that happened. Her mother was here, and they were safe. “My daughter,” The Queen said, once more sounding like their mother and not The Dragon Queen as some of the men called her, “it may not have been long but I missed you terribly.” 

And then she turned to Jaehaerys, and so did Dany, “And you, what am I to do with you?” She threw her leg over the saddle of her horse and dropped gracefully to the ground. Sers Oswell, Willem, and Lucifer moved to help her but she waved them off, having closed the gap between herself and her youngest; she swiftly mounted her brother’s horse behind him.  Daenerys saw Jaehaerys nostrils flare and his cheeks went red as she looked away, she could feel his stare on her. 

She tried not to look, but their eyes finally met and it was like a bee sting to her heart.  Equal parts betrayal, embarrassment, and anger played across his face but his violet eyes pierced through her. You lied! They screamed. She heard a scoff and turned her head slightly to see Viserys laugh mockingly as he turned away. She turned back to her mother and twin, Jaehaerys worked his jaw as their mother pulled him closer, resting the back of his head on her bosom, she pulled the glove from her right hand and rested the outside of her bare palm against his forehead, “You don’t feel too warm, but we are outdoors,” the Queen said, a frown pushing her silver-gold brows together. 

“I’m fine mother.” Jaehaerys protested, but their mother was having none of it. 

“Of course you are, your trip was forestalled simply because your guard wanted to return home.” Their mother rested a hand on the side of her brother's shoulder, “Whether you feel fine now or not, I’d rather be certain, and bring you to Martyn. It would ease my heart, as well as your sisters.” 

“Since she told,” Jaehaerys muttered, his lips pressed together tighter than she’d ever seen, a white line across his increasingly scarlet face. His nostrils remained flared, even as their mother took the reins of their now shared horse, his violet eyes never left her. The Queen issued her commands in quick succession, and the men regrouped, forming up into marching lines as they began their return journey, and still, her twin’s eyes never left her until she looked at him and he squinted and looked away. 

There was more to that action she knew, her younger brother could get angry a lot quicker than her. “Princess Daenerys,” Ser Lucifer approached her as they resumed their ride home. Her mother and twin were slightly up ahead. The knight rode to her right, matching her horse's gate with his. “You did the right thing, Prince Jaehaerys will understand that in time.” He said, before slowing his horse down to ride behind her once more. 

Daenerys looked ahead, she hoped so, because right then even though they were only a few horse lengths away, the way he looked at her made her feel like they were much further apart. There was a phrase she’d heard her mother repeat occasionally. Dany thought on it for a moment, bringing her horse to stride without thought, and then she remembered, “One step forward and two steps back.” 

Jaehaerys

Upsetting, that was the word he’d finally settled on, near an hour after they’d resumed their march. They were at the front of the train, Viserys and his guard dropped back almost to the end, avoiding mother because he’s drunk, Jaehaerys deduced. Daenerys was a few horses behind them, Ser Lucifer and Ser Willem riding on either side of her, with himself and his mother upfront. Ser Ozzy led the way, with Asher Snow and five more guards with him, his lantern swung lazily with each step.

In the night the road looked very different, the homesteads were nearly invisible in the dark, but he could tell they would be reaching the fortress sooner than later. The tree cover was spreading out, slowly being replaced by bushes and shrubs the closer they got to the port and the road became firmer, better tended with fewer divots and potholes. The scent of the ocean was everywhere, but became stronger the longer they rode. What took them a few days on their journey out, mainly because he and his sister were drawn to every sight and sound like babes with eyes and ears that could see and hear for the first time, took them at most one day to traverse, with minimal stops to make water and the like.  He added humiliation to the description when the horse made a jarring movement and his mother’s arm snaked around his waist to hold him against her, for his own safety he knew, but damn it, I’m nearly a man grown.

Her hold on his middle loosened and the horse trotted onward. Needless to say, he was very vexed. Why hadn’t Dany told him? The lie felt almost unnecessary and did nothing but make him cross. Because she worries for you, the little voice in his head said, and knew were you awake you’d never agree to go back home, you’d say it was unmanly. He hated his propensity for self-reflection and introspection, it would almost be easier to remain ignorant and angry. “You’ve relaxed,” His mother’s soft voice reached him through his thoughts. 

Jaehaerys shrugged but said nothing. He felt his mother’s chin rest on his head, “My mother would ride like this with me, you know?” She said softly, before kissing the back of his head, just above his single braid. “It's one of my fondest memories of her. She taught me to ride, like a lady and like a man, even to shoot a bow mid gallop though it was for show more than anything.” Jae's eyes widened and he turned ever so slightly, he heard and felt his mother breathe a noiseless chuckle. “So I see I have your attention then?”

“Mayhaps,” Jae said and that earned him a snigger.  

“Mayhaps?” Mother echoed, “and why only mayhaps?”

Jae shrugged, again, but he missed his mother’s rueful smile.  The Queen wasn’t finished, without warning her fingers worked their way to his tickle spots, making him squirm. He tried his hardest to fight it, but a very undignified yelp escaped his mouth. “Mother!” He whispered harshly, realizing that some guards were looking his way and were trying their hardest to hide their laughs, Oswell chose just then to turn around and their eyes caught, the knight chuckled and turned back, leading them home once more. His mother relented, an unseen smile still hung on her face. 

She ran her ungloved right hand over his forehead and drug her fingers through his tangled silver-gold mane. “Once we’ve returned I want you to see Martyn and then come to my apartments, I need to wash your hair.”

“I can do it myself,” he protested feebly, but she knew his weakness. His eyes became heavy while she played with his hair. 

“I know you can do it yourself, but I would like to do it for you.” His mother said. The Queen remained silent for a beat, the rise and fall of her chest with every breath combined with her hands shifting through his hair lulled him into a semi-coherent stuper. “You shouldn’t have wandered off like that, and to do it so late.”

Jaehaerys sighed, uncertain how much she knew of their trip, but uncaring, “I know.” He muttered, violet eyes opening to look up.

His mother rested her chin on his head once more, “if you knew you wouldn’t have done it. Did you eat anything different that would make you ill or do you think it was sleeping on the cold and likely damp ground?”

He honestly didn’t know, he'd felt fine, and then he’d felt ill, and then he’d felt almost fine once more. He couldn’t remember any sort of progression, so he shrugged his shoulders again. “Well then, you will definitely be seeing Martyn.”

And what could he do but agree? He nodded his head against her fingers and felt his mother press her lips to the top of his head once more. “Thank you for not fighting me. Now rest.” She said, and she gently pushed his head against her. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but couldn’t right then; so many things he couldn’t make sense of and questions he wanted to ask.  Too much of what happened in the last day made him question his sanity; the mood swings, the anger, the desire to hurt when threatened, the voices in his dreams, the flicker of red fire; the shadow of an unknown father loomed over his head. That dread that made itself known when it was quiet and he was alone, the question that sometimes rattled around when his mind was quiet and left to wander dangerously close to the bad thoughts, am I like my father?

“Alright lad,” Martyn said, “Take one last deep breath.” 

And Jaehaerys did, but not without making a face, Martyn’s whiskers scratched the soft skin of his chest. The scent of hemlock, sage, and mint saturated the healer and tutors tower.  Open books sat on untidy counters, scrolls on top of those, and dozens of stoppered bottles were racked on shelves that hung perilously from the stone walls, yet surprisingly it was not dirty, simply messy.  He’d spied notes and odd drawings on the man's desk before being ushered to the examination table.  He was curious about Martyn and had been since his first lessons with him.  

“Your breathing sounds fine enough,” Martyn said, using a cloth to wipe Jaehaerys chest where he’d pressed his ear against him to listen to his organs. He gestured for Jae to open his eyes wide to inspect them, and then made an ‘Ahh’ sound which the prince copied, despite struggling not to gag on Martyns horrid sourleaf breath.  With an approving nod, the older man gestured for him to put his tunic back on. “He looks and sounds as healthy as any boy on the cusp of ten and two. Whatever ailed the Prince has certainly passed by now, Your Grace.” He looked between Jaehaerys, his mother who sat across from him, and finally, his sister who looked on very seriously while repositioning himself on his examiner’s stool. 

At his words Daenerys' smile split her face, her eyes twinkling and shining multiple shades of purple, “Finally!”

That was wonderful news to them. Dany was up from her seat beside their mother, already inching toward the door.  Jae scooted from the edge of the examination bed and dropped to the floor, he exhaled excitedly ready to follow his sister out, but his mother beckoned him over and handed him his burgundy tunic, “You may need this,” She said, one brow raised in question but otherwise amused.  He smiled sheepishly as he took it and slipped it over his head, pulling his arms and head through and lastly drawing his braid out and draping the length of his hair down his back.  

“Thank you, mama,” Jae said a small grin on his face.  

“I assume then that he can return to his normal activities?” The Queen asked Martyn, her violet eyes focusing on the healer; she had a pleasant look on her face, but Jaehaerys could tell that the feeling didn't quite reach her eyes, and he knew why.  The last sennight and a half he'd been restricted to the castle once Martyn realized that his prescribed bed-rest would never work.  He was asleep by the time they’d arrived at the fortress that night but Martyn was able to examine him once Oswell delivered him to his rooms.  After being held by his mother most of the ride home there was nothing that could embarrass him any more than he'd already been.  On inspection, his irregular breathing and increased thirst had been a concern for the healer.  Martyn told the Queen that he was unsure what was ailing Jae, but that bed-rest would help him the most.  Naturally, Jaehaerys took to resting as a cat took to water, and so his mother forced him to attend to her every day whilst he recovered.  He’d become her little hand, so to speak, sitting in on most of her meetings and taking lessons in her apartments with Dany.  Jaehaerys knew that she would miss the amount of time they had shared.  

Martyn nodded, “So long as he takes care not to overexert himself and returns should he feel amiss, I do not see why the prince can not resume his regular activities.” 

Relief washed over him, not that he didn't enjoy spending time with his mother, he just preferred the option to leave when he was bored.  He could admit to enjoying the change of pace and learning what it meant to rule and listening to his mother negotiate, but truth be told, he was eagerly looking forward to grasping a sword and shield again. The walls of the castle felt much too confining now that the outdoors was literally a few doors away,  “You have lessons in my apartments later, do not forget.” Their mother said as the twins made their way out.  

“Okay mother,” Jaehaerys said, his hand already on the door handle with Daenerys in tow.  

But their mother continued, “And Dany, make sure your brother returns on time. I must stay and speak to the Mae-sorry, Martyn.”

“Yes, mother”, his sister chirped. Jaehaerys made a face, but no one saw him.  I can mind myself, he thought.

The door to Martyn’s turret swung open and Jaehaerys emerged, fresh-faced, with an excited grin emblazoned on his cheeks, “Hello Ser Lucifer!” He said exuberantly to the knight standing to the right outside of the door, he turned to the left, and repeated himself, this time to his mother’s Lord Commander who chuckled, “Hello Ser Ozzy!” 

“Martyn gave you the okay then?” Oswell asked. 

Jaehaerys nodded, “Mhmm,”  His eyes moved between the knights, “We can resume my training.”

“And here I was just healing from my bruises.”  Ser Lucifer said, winking to Oswell.  “By your leave Lord Commander, I will resume the Prince and Princess’ martial training.”

Oswell nodded, “I’ll be joining you lot this time around, once court is concluded for the morning.  If what you say is true, and our little dragon here is skilled, then its best to start putting him through his paces, and mayhaps even begin squiring .”  Before what he said registered in Jaehaerys mind and his excitement threatened to envelop them all, the knight’s face turned serious, “But remain in the eastern yard, away from the city walls and main gate.”  His eyes met Lucifers and he gave him a brusque nod before turning back to Jaehaerys, “Go on, I’ll see you all in a bit.”  The seriousness was gone and Ser Oswell’s blue eyes shined with his usual mirth, leaving Jaehaerys and Daenerys both very perplexed.  

It wasn't until their mother’s sworn shield was out of sight, and they were making their way through the fortress to their rooms to change that Jaehaerys turned up and looked at Lucifer, violet eyes calculating, “Are we to remain hidden because of that fat man?”

The stutter in Lucifer’s step was all he needed for confirmation, but he remained silent watching the knight.  Lucifer treated him differently; he treated him with an uncommon level of respect, even for his station.  A third son was given the consideration his father or mother’s position required, but he was commonly looked over.  He was told what was pertinent, but nothing more.  He stood to inherit the least, and by extension was expected the least of, even the third son of a King was often looked at less favorably.  Barring any awful circumstances, Jaehaerys' likelihood to sit the throne was slim and he'd come to accept that and even enjoy it because his future was his.  But Lucifer gave him the same level of respect he gave his brother and even his mother.  He did not mince words, and often helped steer Jaehaerys out of his anger and negativity.  He’d even helped him get over what lingering anger he’d felt towards Daenerys by confirming what he had thought; he would have likely insisted they continue and for all they knew he would have become iller for it.  Jaehaerys would go so far as to say that Ser Lucifer acted more like an elder brother than Viserys, and it made the prince enjoy his company all the more.    

Ser Lucifer's pace slowed; Jaehaerys eyes darted to his sister who was just out of his sight and back to the knight. “The fat man is Illyrio,” he said, slowing his pace more.  “He’s a magister from Pentos, wealthy, and supports your family’s cause.  But Ser Oswell does not trust him.” Lucifer paused abruptly and turned to them both making Jaehaerys stop suddenly which caused Daenerys to bump into him, she made a surprised noise and both of them stared at the knight in question.  

They were near their tower, in the family suites.  Guards patrolled the outer hallways, but within the heavy wood doors, the walkways were bare, left to be patrolled by their sworn shields when the royal family was within their chambers or tended to by the maidservants.  Beveled windows lined the hallway, framed by thick red damask drapes pulled back to bathe the hall in natural light.  Different Valyrian effigies, taller than him but shorter than Ser Lucifer and carved from a multitude of stones from across the mainland stood spaced every few feet under crenulated arches between the windows. A black rug with two red lines and a single gold line through the center lined the hall, sparing them from the cold stone beneath.  

Lucifer's jaw tightened before he spoke, “I don't trust him either, none on your mother’s council do.” His face remained severe, the tightness of his jaw espoused by the prominence of his cheekbones and furrowed brow.  He stared them down, nostrils flared and eyes darting between the twins as if there was something he wanted to say; he released a breath, coming to a decision, “He’s up to something, but none of us are quite sure what.  But we know this, he brought slaves to your mother's court and she was none too pleased, so stay away from him and that fellow Ballar.”

“Slaves,” Dany echoed from beside him, wide-eyed. Jaehaerys eyes lingered on Lucifer for a moment longer, was there more?

Lucifer’s face relaxed, “Aye, slaves, now go get changed. We’re going to the yard and I doubt the Queen wants you out there in your fine clothes.” But he said nothing more on the matter and instead opened the door and stood on the outside until Daenerys and Jaehaerys entered and stood in their shared foyer.  He closed the door, and remained in the hallway, leaving the twins to slowly make their way to their separate rooms.  

Jaehaerys paused at his door and looked at his sister who did the same, “I don't think he’s telling us everything,” She said.  Brows furrowed, he nodded in agreement, despite his appreciation of Lucifer’s candor, he too felt as if there were more being hidden from them. 

Jaehaerys sighed, “When do they ever?”

Chapter Text

Rhaella

“I’ve come to a conclusion,” Rhaella said, facing her council.  “Daenerys and Jaehaerys will travel with us.”  She looked at Oswell who nodded in agreement.  It was shortly before midday, the sun was high in a cloudless sky and they were beginning their second hour of this particular assembly.  She’d made her way over shortly after leaving Martyn’s tower, Ser Oswell led with the healer in tow; Willem and Xaurane were waiting for her since the Tattered Prince returned North to govern in her name and the emissaries from Saath and Morosh left two days after her return.   She had questions for Martyn about birthing, specifically her birthing history and what poisons could harm an infant but not the mother or if that was even possible for a poison to do.  The idea remained, even long after she’d tried to force it from her thoughts, and a portion of her hoped Grand Maester Pycelle lived long enough to see her return so that she would finally be able to lay this conspiracy to rest.  

She’d made the decision to bring her younger two earlier in the week. Rhaella was especially disquieted after Magister Mopatis’ attempted the gift of two ‘freed’ Dothraki slaves the morning after her return; she'd have thought he would have quietly left after being reproved so thoroughly, but instead he remained in the city doing gods knew what.  It would be too difficult to have someone monitoring his every move without being caught.  Illyrio’s faux pas was enough to make her rethink much and she realized that her heart felt better when her twins were a shout away.  Leaving them on another continent, unsure of their health would drive her mad with worry.  “To ensure their preparation Jaehaerys will begin squiring for Lord Commander Oswell and Ser Lucifer will resume Daenerys archery tutelage, though I doubt she will need it, it will keep her occupied while I attempt to find a godsworn to finish her education in Essos.  Daenerys must be prepared to assume her place as a Princess of the realm once she comes of age.”

“There are details of a Westerosi nobleborn’s tutelage that I am not particularly versed in.”  Xaurane said, when everyone's eyes turned to her, “We should begin our search in Braavos and Pentos, mayhaps even as far south as Myr, the port cities. The faith has a few places of worship for weary travelers from Westeros and potential converts.” Lady Xaurane finished.  

Oswell leaned forward, “Do not forget that we need men. The Tattered Prince’s recruitment has been forestalled.  With no real presence on the mainland, we have no way of bringing in potential soldiers. Aside from this island, we are vulnerable. We will have to court allies.”

“House Darry is loyal, I know it,” Willem said. 

“And I don't doubt that, but how do you propose we reach House Darry in the middle of the Riverlands?  A seafaring ship will never make it up the Trident, it would be too cumbersome. You'd have to make land at Maidenpool or the Saltpans and then travel by foot,” Oswell replied, “You would then have to pass any and all port authority, as well as the multitude of Houses that are loyal to the Usurper.  Remember, the Tully’s are the overlords of the Riverlands, and they are wed to two of the Usurpers most ardent supporters, Stark and Arryn.  Beyond that, how many men can House Darry field? Five hundred, possibly a thousand at the most? No, at that rate we would have to court all of the smaller houses.”

Willem harrumphed, “Did that Magister not say that House Stark has all but self-isolated?”

“Aye,”  Oswell said, “But I don’t trust his words, and if what he says is true do you think they would remain isolated should they learn we have begun our march? The easiest way to unite them is to give them a common enemy.  We should stay away from the Riverlands, The Vale, and The North for the time being. It goes without saying that The Westerlands are not an option unless there is a house that wishes to defy the Lannisters.  I hate to say it, but our most assured option would be Prince Doran, House Martell, and by extension Dorne.”

“I have considered it, but I am not so sure he would want to tie his family to mine.  Not without a clear path to victory.” Rhaella said. It didn’t help that she didn’t trust Doran or his younger brother Oberyn. 

Martyn cleared his throat, “You would be underestimating his desire to see his blood on the throne.” 

Oswell agreed, silently nodding, “That is true your grace, if anyone despises the Usurper as much as us it would be him.”

Rhaella remained silent, mulling it all over, “But he is crafty.  A snake of his own kind. There was no love between Doran and Aerys, and I may have inherited that sentiment.” She thought for a moment longer before coming to a decision, “We need victories.  And for that to happen, we will need to leave this island.  To that end, I have decided to give us a time frame,” She raised a lone finger, “one year.  One year to prepare and make our way to the mainland.  In that time we will make ready our current forces, figure out a way to supplement our numbers, and come to a decision about who we will contact.  My children will need to be prepared for betrothals. But we have tarried too long here in this veritable paradise.” She paused and looked around the table, “Agreed?”

And her council did, though her confidante Xaurane raised her hand, “Since Saath and Morosh recognize your sovereignty, I will begin writing a letter to them, mayhaps they would be willing to back us in our march.  Being a friend to the Queen of Westeros would be a boon for any city-state.  The delegates only recently left so I will give it a moon's turn to allow us to consider what to write.” Rhaella agreed, thankful for the woman's forethought.   

As they departed her meeting chambers, Oswell close by as always, Martyn cleared his throat again and approached The Queen, a speculative look etched on his whiskered face. He looked apprehensive as well, reluctant, “What is it?” She asked standing near the table. 

He waited until the door was shut and it was just the three of them, “Your Grace, it’s regarding what you asked me earlier. About your history; it made me think and I honestly do not know why I did not consider this before.”

Her caution melted into concern, “Martyn, what is wrong?” 

His usual candor was gone, straight-faced he looked between the Queen and her Lord Commander, “Your inquiries gave me pause and I was forced to reevaluate my thoughts. In regards to Prince Jaehaerys, while he may have been ill, I did not consider another...more nefarious assertion.”

Her brow creased and for a moment nothing but the three of them existed; her chest felt tight, but she knew where he was going. Rhaellas hand found the backrest of the chair nearest to her and she gripped it to steady herself, “Poison,” she heard herself whisper.  Martyn nodded and Oswell cursed, but she barely heard him over the rhythm of her heartbeat and the feeling of welling dread that began to consume her the moment Martyn began speaking.  

Rhaellas face must have lost some of its color; goose pimples erupted down her arms and she felt a pit form in her belly. She could see worry crease the healers' features, but she couldn’t hear him over the words that shot through her mind like a loosed arrow; one sentence made itself clearer over the others, Someone is trying to hurt my children.  It seemed the game of thrones had finally reached them.  

Jaehaerys

It was very rare that he was alone, and usually, it was not for long.  Training with Lucifer went well enough but Oswell never came down which was a mild disappointment; he really wanted to know when he would become a squire, he just hoped it was for Ser Oswell or Ser Lucifer.  It wasn’t that serving as a squire to Ser Willem wouldn’t be an incredible experience, it would, after all, he was the same man that trained his eldest brother, it’s just that even Jaehaerys knew the knight was past his prime. That wasn’t to say that Jaehaerys wasn’t fond of him, Ser Willem was likely the closest thing he would ever have to a grandfather.  He puffed out some air, lessons were soon, but he had a mind to skip them after his mother told Daenerys to watch him like a babe.    

Jaehaerys gripped a crevice with the tip of his fingers and pulled himself up, the wall he was climbing was pockmarked with little divots and chunks of stone missing, making it all the easier to scale. He took in a deep breath before grasping the topmost lip and hoisting himself upward. The boy scrambled over the ledge with little difficulty before standing on the top of the wall and looking down, beaming in triumph, the shadow of the fortress stretching over multiple partitions of the gardens and yard.  

Freedom came at great effort, and most of the time he was discovered within the hour, but when he succeeded he was given a glimpse of what life without a station was like.   A toothy grin, much like the one he wore now, would split his face and he could run about without care; but today wasn’t so much about running as it was about being anywhere but within the fortress.  That was what he missed most when he was confined to the castle, the feeling of the wind in his hair, the lingering tang of salt sprayed into the air as waves crashed against the rocky shore, not that he could see it, and the mind-clearing effect physical exertion had on him.  His worries, his questions, whatever distractions rattled and echoed in his head vanished when he was in motion.  

The prince carefully dropped to his bum, straddled the wall, and leaned back on the stone, resting the back of his head on his arms.  His hair was in a tight bun, pulled out of his face for his sparring sessions. He’d rolled the sleeves of his black tunic up but left his jerkin on the tree he’d used to get purchase on the wall.  Jaehaerys could hear the rush of water as it flowed through the moat a distance away; he focused on it, losing himself in the act of doing nothing.  It was rather easy to get lost staring at the lingering clouds and making objects out of their odd shapes; it was still before midday because the fortress hid the sun from his view.  Jae’s legs dangled over the partition separating this section of garden from the rest.  With little effort, he could crawl along the top to the inner wall and get a good view of the city across the moat and outer wall.  

The sounds of the Port of Ib were the perfect distraction for an active mind like his, the distant shouts of fishmongers and merchants haggling over prices in the city market, barking stray dogs or a distant cat's angry hisses and meows, even other children running through the alleys laughing and playing, they all played a part in emptying his mind.  But the yards were clear today, normally courtiers would be making their way across the gardens carrying on idle conversations he could eavesdrop on, but only the guards made their rounds, which was easy enough to avoid.  Jaehaerys drew his legs up and crossed them, closed his eyes, and patiently waited for his sworn shield to come storming in.  

But a door slamming shut and the curse that followed it was what startled him awake. 

Jae wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but the sun was higher and making its way to the other side of the fortress. He blinked away the languor and rubbed at his eyes all while looking around, somewhat surprised that neither his sister nor guard had yet to track him down.  A soundless yawn slipped out, just as he noticed the figure that woke him.  Dark cloak with the hood up in the middle of the afternoon seemed much too conspicuous, especially as their linen-clad portly form did not look like anyone he recognized.  

Jaehaerys listened, most of the time, but on some occasions, curiosity won out.  Just like then. Who are you and what are you up to? He questioned, getting into a crouch and following the figure along the top of the wall.  He crawled as fast as he could, trying and failing not to send pebbles and broken and loose stones spraying below before pushing himself into a crouching shuffle when the figure put space between them. He was confident in his footing, this wasn’t even the most perilous of places he’d climbed; the parapets of his tower and Dany shouting for him to come down came to mind. 

He crossed the intersection of the wall but paused when he realized where he was being led; the main gatehouse was off-limits, so naturally, it was the place he’d be drawn to.  The figure paused before the gate and looked around, thankfully they didn’t look up or he would have been caught. Six guards patrolled above the gatehouse, minding the ropes and winches that lowered and raised the drawbridge and portcullis leaving four more below, two on the inside and two on the outside.  The figure made to walk under the portcullis and across the draw bridge but was halted by one guard, the other stood at the ready, wearily watching as the hooded figure brought their hood down. 

Ballar, he’d recognize the ugly man anywhere. The banker said something to the guard who motioned to the others above him to open the gate. The drawbridge remained down through the day and was only raised in the evening.  Ballar said something else and then drew the hood of his cloak over his thick leathery head once more.  A slew of questions bubbled to the surface of his mind as he watched Ballar cross over the bridge and through the other raised gate before vanishing in the throng of moving people. 

Jaehaerys was at a crossroad, he could come down and follow him or give it up and return. He’d already learned the fat man's name, Illyrio, so that was no longer a mystery, but he'd only seen him once, two days after their arrival and even then it was an accident and must have been after he’d presented their mother with slaves; Jaehaerys was meandering to the kitchens to break his fast when they crossed paths but Ser Oswell gave them no chance to interact, he grasped Jaehaerys arm and pulled him away, jaw tense and nostrils flared.  His blue eyes burned with anger as he all but drug Jaehaerys to the kitchens in stony silence. It was shortly after that that the prince noticed his mother kept him and his sister away from the man, out of his sight and it made him wonder, Who is he?  

The exchange with Lucifer in the halls of the family suites came to mind, the knight seemed hesitant like there was more to say but he couldn’t or wasn’t allowed to say more, that must have been why his explanation was so simple. It’s possible wherever he’s sneaking off to may have some answers. Jae thought because that’s what Ballar was doing, sneaking. Much like you, the little voice in his head niggled.

Mind made up, it was now a matter of finding a way down the wall without going back and putting more distance between him and Ballar than he already had. There weren’t many options, he leaned over the inner edge and looked down, bushes ran along the inner wall with bushes on its outside just before the slope into the moat.  The drainage system connected to the sea, so fresh ocean water sloshed in and out, alleviating any stench from standing water.  He could jump in, but where would he get out? 

No, he looked around, “one, two, three--nine guards,” He counted, patrolling this section of the yard; the fact that they hadn't seen him yet left something to be desired but that wasn't his issue at the moment.  Jaehaerys had half a mind to shout to one of them but decided against it realizing that the longer he waited, the further Ballar got away.  Decision made, he turned around and backed over the edge, clinging to the walls gravelly yet porose top, and slid down swinging his legs until the tips of his booted toes found purchase.  He barely made it a third of the way before he slipped and fell into the bushes below him.

Air was forced from his lungs when he hit the ground.  Jaehaerys lay in the underbrush for a moment, eyes screwed shut, “That hurt,” he groaned.  He was definitely scratched and dirty but tried to pay it no mind as he rolled from the brambles and stood, brushing the broken branches, leaves, and dirt from himself.  He rolled his shoulder and looked around; no one spotted him yet, but that was about to change when he approached the gate.  

He knew he looked a state, dirty, worn, and probably bruised and scratched from the fall.  But it wasn't as if he could run back in and change.  Apprehension reared its head as he walked into the open yard, in full sight of any guard.  There would be questions, he was sure, so what would he say?  He was surprised to find that no one paid him any attention as he slipped between running and speed-walking before deciding on approaching them as dignified as possible, head held high.  His stomach was in knots as he reached the guards though, standing near the portcullis and gatehouse, it was all he could do to keep up the pretense.  Neither had yet to notice, engrossed in what, he couldn’t say, but he thought of what Viserys would tell anyone that stood in his path as he came upon them. 

“You there, open the gate,” he commanded as imperiously as possible.  What he considered to be a look of disdain and superiority plastered to his face.  It must have worked as his voice startled both guards into attention, their halberds tapped the ground as they stood rigidly.  

The guard nearest to Jaehaerys hesitated his ruddy cheeks flustered, looked at him, and then looked away once more, “Y-your, Highness?”

“Raise the portcullis, your Prince commands it.” He sounded much more sure than he felt.  His top lip and the small of his back were slick with nervous sweat and his palms were warm; he fought the urge to open and close them, so instead he flexed his thumbs.  Hurry, he thought.  All they had to do was wait long enough or send for either Ser Oswell or Ser Lucifer and this whole jaunt would be over.  

The guard swallowed visibly but nodded and turned, his beaten steel shield caught the sunlight and blinded Jae for a moment, “Raise the gate!” he shouted in common, his words heavily accented.  A solid thunk and rattle of wood followed by the groan of metal on metal was their response.  

A single breath escaped him, his eyes darted to the opening and he was gone, “Thank you!” He shouted, surprising the guard he’d spoken to who watched him dash by, clearly befuddled by his behavior.  

Either for fear of being caught or questioned any further, Jaehaerys was under the gate before any of the guards could respond and before it was finished being raised.  He raced over the bridge, the sound of water rushing below him meeting him, and under the next gate, but stopped once he was outside of the exterior gates and well past the guards who watched him run by, equally as bewildered as their counterparts; what a confusing site I must have made.  Jaehaerys didn’t know what he was expecting, especially considering this was his first venture into the city unaccompanied; as he doubled over to catch his breath he took a moment to look around. 

“Damn it,” people walked quickly and even less paid him any mind. Mother doesn't let us outside of the castle. And the longer he stood there, eyes widening with each new thing he saw, he began to understand why.  It was overwhelming.  

With the better weather trade was booming. Men and women cajoled each other and haggled over prices. Traders set up temporary stands to show the wares they’d collected during their travels. As he slowly began to walk around, in search of his quarry he spotted a building with women standing outside of it. They're barely clothed! High-slitted skirts and dresses, some even bore a bare breast, their tunic pulled down or robe open to expose their entire front including their bits.  He fought the urge to stare.  They smiled and moved in ways that made his heart beat faster.  Some called to the men that passed, and others even shared his coloring. Whores, he realized, his cheeks turning red as he resumed his search. He began to understand why no one was paying him any mind, his coloring wasn't rare here.  Jaehaerys fingered the strip of black that shot back from his temple, unconsciously tucking his reverse dragon-stripe behind his ear.

The city was much noisier than he’d ever thought, and busier too.  He heard and saw other children playing, Ibbenese children but they looked at him, laughed, and continued what they were doing ignoring him altogether.  Jaehaerys continued his hunt, more and more sure that not only was he lost, but he’d managed to lose Ballar as well, and to make matters worse he was almost certain his family would be looking for him. Though no bells had been heard and there were no guards running about and shouting in search of him, surely his absence was noticed by now? 

Do not panic. He told himself, taking deep breaths.  The light that filtered through the buildings seemed brighter, the voices and noises somewhat muted.  He tried to swallow but found his mouth dry; pressure was overcoming his chest.  

An alley, he thought, making his way over to it.  In the shadow of the alleyway, Jaehaerys found a broken bucket, flipped it over, and took a seat.  Calm down. He told himself again, succumbing to panic would do him no good.  You got yourself here, now get yourself out. Jaehaerys grit his teeth and closed his eyes.  He leaned over and placed his head in his hands trying to overcome this sudden and overwhelming fear of being lost that up until then he’d never known he had.  People walked by him, some spared him a quick look but otherwise kept to themselves.  He could hear a world of tongues, Common, Ibbenese, High Valyrian, Bastard Valyrian. Think of anything else, he told himself, focusing on the words he didn't understand until he felt calm and his breathing evened out once more.  He was unsure how long he sat there, but the clatter of a bottle forced his head up.  

“--women, the other two are useless.” An angry voice whispered harshly.  

Another man made an angry noise before answering just as sternly, “We both know that, but surrounded by guards and soldiers how do you propose we reach either of them? Hmm? Our options are limited to what can not be seen.”

“Steel would be more efficient,” The other one answered.  

“Bah!” The other responded and to his surprise, Jahehaerys recognized the speaker that time.  Ballar!  He shook out his hands as if to rid himself of his nerves and then slipped from the upturned bucket and got to his knees.  The owners of the voices were just around the corner at the end of the alley, and by some luck, he managed to keep Ballar within hearing range.  One hand in front of the other, he half crawled half crouched to the corner as quietly as possible fighting the urge to recoil at the dirt and muck on his hands and knees.  

Reaching the outer edge of the wall, he poked his head around the corner and wiped his palms on the wall's surface.  Ballar stood to the side in the adjacent alley near a closed door partially obscured by the shadows of the buildings but his hood was down and his right side was to Jaehaerys, he had an ugly sneer on his face and his arms were crossed over his chest and resting on his belly.  He was blocking his view of the other man, but from the bottom of the stranger’s cloak, he could see the gold-tipped scabbard of a longsword and armored shin guards above his boots.  Whoever it was he was a soldier, possibly even a knight.

“Yes, steel would be more efficient, but would also be an assured death,” Ballar continued, “Why is your superior not here hmm? Why did he send you?” He looked around suddenly, forcing Jaehaerys to duck away.  

“He trusts me,” the unknown man answered.  

“Then Toyne is a fool.  You've shown the depth of your cleverness, Paymaster,” Ballar said mockingly, shaking his meaty head all the while.  

“There are far too many moving pieces for you to contain. You've enlisted the prince’s help, but can he take care of this, and when the time comes can you take care of him?” This ‘Paymaster’ person replied, nonplussed, but he continued, “We’re the fools, yet your face has been seen, your name is known, and purchases can be traced. Your methods have yet to work. You're playing with fire Ballar and it will burn you.” He finished, bitingly.   

So much vague speech left him clueless as to what they were speaking of so he focused on what he could understand.  What Prince, Jaehaerys thought.  Gods, there were three of them on the island, and he was sure they weren't speaking of him.  Was it the Tattered Prince or mayhaps even his brother?  No, Viserys is a bully, but he’s also a coward which only left one other, Ser Rags.  It could certainly explain why he left so soon after his mother’s return to the fortress and it was no rumor that this had been his consolation prize; even Jaehaerys knew of the Tattered Prince’s desire to rule Pentos as his own.  

The Paymaster scoffed, “This entire plan is likely to be bollocksed, you know it as well as I.”

“I’ve ensured that he has assistance.  Do not worry, when the time comes, all will--”

A shout escaped Jaehaerys mouth as he was yanked back by his arm.  He fell to his bottom, heart racing, and turned up to see Asher Snow of all people crouched behind him with a puzzled look on his face, “What are you do--” but he didn't get to finish, Jaehaerys‘ hand clamped over his mouth.  The prince mouthed for him to stay quiet, but Asher shook his hand off just as Jaehaerys pulled his hand away and scrambled up to his knees to look around the corner once more, but Ballar and the Paymaster were gone.  

“Shite!” Jaehaerys mumbled, standing up and rushing into the alley.  He turned in a circle, splashing in a muddy puddle; he was already dirty, his black pants and tunic had smudges across them so why would he care about a bit more?  “Damn it!”  He ground out, turning to face a very confused Asher.

“What are you doing out here?” The young man at arms asked while he followed Jaehaerys into the alley and looked around. He noticed Asher wasn’t armed and had never seen him like that, dressed as a civilian in boots, pants, and a tunic. I could have walked right by him and never noticed him. 

The prince had to swallow the bubble of anger that threatened to become more when his eyes finally met Asher’s, “Learning, or I was until you interrupted me.” Jaehaerys took one more quick look around, his brows pressed together in anger. “Where’d they go?” He mumbled to himself.

“Where’d who go? God’s look at you.” Asher stepped forward to inspect him closer but Jae matched his step, but backward;  Asher frowned, “You look as if you fell from a tree,” Which isn’t far from the truth, the prince lamented, unconsciously rolling the shoulder that braced the majority of his weight when he fell.  “What are you doing out here? Where’s your guard?” Asher continued, he asks a lot of questions, Jaehaerys thought irritatedly. 

“They’re in the castle, so that makes you my guard now,” He said with a shrug, voice deadpan and smirking at Asher's look of agitated surprise. “I’ll ensure you’re rewarded.” Jae followed up.

Asher grumbled and crossed his arms, “I’m meant to be off duty.”

Jaehaerys’ head cocked to the side, “And I didn’t ask to be interrupted, but you saw fit to do it. So I can return on my own and let it slip that I encountered you or you can guard me on my journey back.” Jaehaerys said, turning and leading the way from the building shaded walkway essentially giving Asher no choice. He didn’t mean to be rude or condescending but the agitation of almost learning what they were speaking of was grating on his nerves.

“You don’t know how to get back do you,” Asher asked with a soft chuckle. He caught up to Jaehaerys just before they left the alley. The prince paused, but said nothing, he was right. He battled the twinge of embarrassment, especially once Asher saw through his false confidence. 

“What are you doing out here?” Jaehaerys asked as Asher took the lead. The whores from earlier came to mind as the older boy led them around corners and other streets and paths he didn’t recognize. How far did I walk? Jaehaerys asked himself, looking around curiously. The sun was firmly in the west now, past its zenith, and wouldn't be in the sky for much longer. Many of the traders and peddlers and potential clientele had packed up, leaving the streets only a third as busy as when he’d left the castle. 

It took him a second to realize that Asher Snow hadn’t responded, his arm shot out, barring Jaehaerys from walking further. Wha—, he thought bumping into it and taking a step back. A figure stood in their path, one he didn’t immediately recognize but by Asher's reaction he did, “Redback?” The usual good-natured smile Asher wore was gone, Jaehaerys felt the mistrust from his frown. 

His brother's sworn sword stood in the middle of their path, armed in his household soldiers armor yet Viserys was nowhere in sight, “Where’s my brother?” Jae asked, growing increasingly more wary of the man; it was made easier by the fact that Gerrold had never once seemed friendly, and always wore a disagreeable look. 

The soldier looked him over, his nondescript face forming a sneer, “He’s...in the castle,” he replied, his voice gravelly but his pause made Jaehaerys suspicious, “Where you ought to be.” His sneer gave way to a frown, his red brows pressed together. Jaehaerys figured he was named for his fiery mop of hair. 

“Aye, and I was taking him there,” Asher replied, Jaehaerys was aware that he’d slowly made his way in front of him and placed his body between them. 

“You? Why not Lucifer?” Gerold asked.

“Ser Lucifer,” Asher said, “Titles mean something, and he’s indisposed at the moment.” Asher Snow’s eyes narrowed and darted from side to side. He’s looking for a way out. Jaehaerys did the same. 

“Well then,” Gerold answered, “there’s no need for you boy, I’ll take him. Orders n’all that.”

“Orders?” Jaehaerys muttered.

Asher turned his head slightly, never breaking his line of sight with Redback, and spoke over his shoulder, “Nobody knew you were out here, did they?” 

“No,” Jaehaerys said.  

“Then wh-” Asher started, “What are you two whispering about?” Redback interrupted, but Asher continued, “-what orders is he talking about?” He finished. 

Jaehaerys shook his head and shrugged ”I-I don’t know.”

“Alright, enough whispering. Let’s go.” Redback continued speaking despite them ignoring him; both boys oblivious to his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 

“I don’t like this, Prince Jae.” Asher said, “When I tell you to run, run North, towards the fortress. Do you know what way that is?” 

Jaehaerys didn't know what to say, he could only nod and agree. The fear he’d felt earlier, overcome with no small amount of difficulty, returned with force. He was frozen by a sinking feeling, a weight in his gut that rooted him to the spot as a flash of the conversation he’d heard echoed in his mind, the other two are useless. His violet eyes met Redback’s brown and it was like he gave some unknown confirmation, I’m one of those other two. Suddenly feeling the panic he’d thought he’d cast aside, Gerold Redback must have noticed they were up to something, “Don't do anything stupid. It’ll be easier for us all.”

“When you run, run down that alley,” Asher gestured to the right with his eyes, “Cut back north towards the gate. Shout, make as much noise as you can but run.” Asher's voice was firm, belying the youthful boy soldier Jaehaerys knew. 

“What are you going to do?” Jaehaerys asked him, voice pitched from fear.  Just a moment ago he’d been angry at Asher and now he was well and truly relying on him for his safety, how quickly situations could change, “I-I can't leave you.”

“I serve your household Prince Jae, not the other way around, you can, and you will,”  Asher said tightly, balling his hands into fists. 

Jaehaerys took a step back, “But you have no weapons.” He wasn’t sure if he was pleading selfishly or not. 

“I’m a Northman, we learned to fight with more than just steel.” Asher grinned and paid his full attention to Gerold.  “I’ve never trusted you Redback, I name you a liar!  You’ve had the look of a scoundrel playing at a soldier. I think you're up to something.”  

“You’re a fool boy, who cares what you think?” Redback snarled, and this time they saw him grip the hilt of his sword and take a step forward, “Come here Prince Jaehaerys, I'll see you home.”

“Run,” Asher said, so softly, that Jaehaerys almost thought he'd imagined it.  

Time seemed to slow around him, Redback made a vicious snarling sound, face contorted in anger as the metal of his blade sung from its scabbard and he dashed forward, heavy steps thundering down the alley. Asher Snow reacted, he pivoted back on his right foot and lunged forward, low. For a moment Jaehaerys was rooted to the ground, fear paralyzed his legs. The only other sword he’d faced outside of training was his brothers, and that was dull. I’m going to die. The words rushed through his head. 

“Damnit Jae, run!” Asher shouted, backstepping a ragged swing that hit the wall. The boy laughed, and Jaehaerys knew why, the long sword wasn’t meant for such close confines. The spark and sound created from metal hitting stone shocked him long enough to regroup. He felt his legs once more, and with one last look at Asher, whose fist just collided with Redbacks jaw, he ran. 

Fear moved him, his muscles hurt but he didn’t care. He’d already forgotten to make noise, the only thing he could rely on was sheer raw ability. He needed to run, get back to the fortress. He came to the end of yet another one of these godsforsaken walkways, the bright light at the end of his path just a short distance away. He doubled over to catch his breath before standing upright and looking behind him to ensure he wasn’t being followed. Dusky darkness met his eyes, the buildings around him shaded his path in perpetual twilight, but he was almost there.  Jaehaerys began a slow jog and started to speed up once he felt his breath had returned…

...and then he saw stars. His head exploded in pain, the clatter of something wooden hitting the ground met his ears, and for a moment after he crumpled to the ground but before he was claimed by unconsciousness he made out an ugly leathery face smiling from above him. “You’re not as sneaky as you think you are.” Ballar taunted as he faded into oblivion. 

Swaying, that's what he felt first as he came to.  His violet eyes flickered open and closed while he tried to orient himself.  “You must release the boy Ballar.” A deep baritone reverberated against him.  The voice sounded nothing like the Paymaster nor did it sound familiar, but whoever it was they were strong. The confusion of being carried over someone’s shoulder, the ground above with the sky below could be jarring but somehow he managed to stay still. He could hear the slosh of water and below him, there wasn't stone or cobbles, but wood; they were on Ibben’s docks. He could smell the brine and seaweed.  

“Quiet, you do not think, you serve,” Ballar said, he quickly recognized his voice.

“This is foolish Ballar.” The hooded man said, his accent was thick and reminded him of Asher’s. Asher! His name forced its way through the haze, was he still alive? 

“Enough!” Ballar said with force, “You Westerosi doubt too much.  First the paymaster and now you Andal?  You do your part and you will receive what you want. Now put the boy in the boat.” Jaehaerys could feel a throb forming where he’d been struck. He felt nauseous and woozy and jerked when the hooded man grasped him around his waist, their words not quite registering.  

“You’re awake,” he muttered, but Jaehaerys didn’t reply, he was struggling enough to keep his eyes open and stay upright; the musk of sweat and old wine and ale didn’t help. The blow to his head made him unstable, and although it was sunset, the light was absurdly bright but smudged as if he was looking through a haze and a lantern was right in front of him.  Oddly enough his chest hurt like it did on the ride back a week ago, but the pain was twice as bad and made breathing a terrible chore.  

“You’ve struck him too hard!” The deep-voiced man said, with a small measure of concern. But why?   

Ballar made an agitated sound, “I may have struck the whelp, but it isn't the blow.”  Jaehaerys eyes opened enough to see a snakelike smile on his unpleasant face.  “I told them we had unseen methods for reaching the royal family, a pity it was wasted on the spare. Put him on the boat! And here,” he grasped the other man by the arm before pushing something into his palm. “Give this to the crew, tell them to finish the job his brother was too daft and cowardly to complete.”

The man with the deep voice remained silent as he looked at what he’d been handed before cursing under his breath, “Your master will not be pleased.”

“Our master,” Ballar corrected, and for the briefest moment lucidity was Jaehaerys, and his heart began to race. 

The big man's grasp on his arm tightened before he heard a long sigh and hastily muttered, “I’m sorry.” 

For a moment he was released, and through the nauseous blur, he saw his captor and their accomplice.  A big man, face hidden by a hood and Ballar Nahios with a cruel smirk on his face. “Your mother was a fool to play her games while so vulnerable. Call this cause and effect.” He nodded his head and the big man grasped Jaehaerys once more and roughly pushed him backward before turning him around and throwing him onto the gangway of a waiting ship where dirty-handed men grabbed him by the collar and pushed and shoved him into the hold of the boat. 

Jaehaerys fought as best as he could, but what strength did a boy have against grown men? He cried out despite the pain it caused his head, and screamed, he punched and kicked and grabbed wildly hoping to find the handle of a blade, but what met him was a swift strike to the face and all he saw was black. 

Daenerys

Training bow in her grip, Daenerys maneuvered her way through the fortress from what would be considered the back of the castle to the front. Her brother had dashed away as soon as Ser Lucifer said he was done with his morning training. Jae was dismissed much earlier, but it was for the better as his attention had been squarely on Ser Lucifer’s time as a squire. She understood why, it was exciting news for him, news he’d been hoping and waiting for. Jaehaerys was supposed to return to his rooms, wash up for their lessons, and read until she was finished; but her training had gone longer than normal and she knew her brother better than anyone. He’s somewhere outside.  

“Your Highness,” the guards posted on either side greeted as she came in through the open doorway, Ser Willem trailing a short distance behind. He relieved Ser Lucifer in between her mother’s meetings.  Mother had canceled their lessons explaining why they were relieved from their martial exercises but couldn't bring herself to complain because it meant they were free to do what they wanted for a time. A little delight, her mother’s courtiers called her whenever she skipped merrily through the castle saying hello to everyone she could, but that was Daenerys, outgoing and friendly. She left most of the mischief and sneakiness to Jaehaerys to plan for them. But today, she wanted nothing more than to plan their fast-approaching name day. 

So it was a surprise when she came out to the yard, to what was typically his spot to find it empty.  The not-so-secret door leading out shut behind her, leaving herself and Ser Willem looking around in question.  “Looks like he’s not here Princess,”  Willem said to which Daenerys sighed and walked around peeking through the manicured courtyard and searching the gardens full of flowers and neatly trimmed hedges. She made her way to the tree nearest to the wall, the one Jaehaerys normally sat under.

“He was here,” She said, spotting his hanging jerkin from a branch.  Daenerys went to retrieve it, brow knit together and lips flat. 

Ser Willem smiled, “He’s likely gone back in.  We should find Ser Lucifer, mayhaps Jaehaerys is with him.”

Daenerys shrugged but acquiesced, allowing Willem to turn her back to the door.  He was right, she should have just started at their rooms.  Grasping her younger brother's jerkin she followed the knight back.  

"--he gates!” Someone shouted, their voice ringing with alarm, halting them both.  

“What's going on?”  Willem said aloud, sharing a look with her; he turned to the door and then back to the opening.  From their spot in the gardens, not much could be seen but they could hear the commotion.  Ser Willem made a decision and led them away from the door and under the archway that separated the sections.  Her household men rushed towards the gates, the hammer of boots and bang of metal everywhere as armor and weapons shook and rattled.  Hands were on swords, polearms at the ready, men had their shields before them and all of it juxtaposed with the sound of the grating metal and groaning wood of the main gates made her skin prickle in nervous anticipation.  A sinking feeling grew in her gut.  

“Make Way!’ Ser Willem shouted as they made their way through the mass, the men parted without question, forming a line to allow them through.  A gasp must have left her, she felt Ser Willem’s hand rest on her shoulder.  Asher Snow was being escorted in, supported by one of her house guards, “What happened,” Ser Willem breathed from beside her.  She saw red, so much of it, and the closer he got, the more she realized why; his tunic and breeches were covered in his blood.  A gash split the hairs of his young beard, from his left cheek to his chin, and bled profusely; red lines trailed down and into the hem of his tunic.  His right eye was near swollen shut, a motley of color surrounded it but his other looked around feverishly.  Something is broken. Asher clutched his right side, his teeth bared in pain, but it did little good as blood seeped out, leaving a red right shoe print with every limping step. A slew of other cuts riddled his form, each bleeding and no doubt bringing him an untold amount of pain, but he marched on with aid.    

She took a nervous step forward, but Willem’s hand stopped her from going further, “What happened boy?” Ser Willem growled, frightening her.  The lines in his face were deeper than she'd ever seen them, and he looked tense, his eyes bore into Asher.  

“Jaehaerys, where?” Asher replied ignoring the question, his good eye still searching.  “Where!”

They were all taken aback by his tone, “Not here.” Ser Willem said, but the feeling in Danys gut began to take form.  

“Its...It's Jaehaerys.” Asher took a deep pained breath, “Redback alone. Dead...attacked us.” The pain claimed him and for a moment he ground his teeth and rode it out.  “Find Jae, find Crown Prince. Both...in…” and he trailed off as unconsciousness claimed him.  

A moment of empty silence filled the air around everyone as the words he'd said registered and then it was like a cannon was fired as everyone broke into motion.  So much seemed to happen at the same time, “Get him to Martyn, now!” Ser Willem shouted, so very unlike him.  Authority oozed from the former master-at-arms, “Take the Princess to the Queen's chamber and alert Lord Commander Whent. Double guards and lock down the fortress and harbor. Send for Ser Lucifer and give him a report.” He spoke quickly, gently moving her to the side. 

She stared, at what she couldn’t say. The words were still rattling in her head, her cheeks were warm and her eyes stung, “Find my brothers, please.” She turned to Ser Willem, begging him. She’d never felt so small, so pathetic and vulnerable. 

Ser Willem nodded, “I will,” he turned away from her “You lot, co---.”  But what he said was lost in the buzzing that started to fill her head.  Guards surrounded her and Asher Snow, pulling them away within the castle, leaving the shouts and sounds of scrambling scabbards behind them as the heavy wood doors were shut.  

Ser Willem

He was no tracker, and not the greatest of hunters, but he could fight, that much Willem was sure of. Four guards followed behind him as they ran through the port town. They were on the cusp of twilight, swinging lanterns hung over taverns and he could hear laughter and music as men and women got deeper in their cups. “Right, we can’t search for them clustered together. You two go that way, you two over there and I’ll press forward to the docks. If you find either of the princes return to the castle immediately.” 

The guards at his command separated and vanished down the many walkways and streets.  Ser Willem continued on alone, brandishing his short sword slowly, it was better to be prepared. Taking guards and performing a city sweep was something he was familiar with, but felt a dismal pang when he remembered why; he’d had to do this in search of Rhaegar often, but then the boy would be found with Ser Arthur singing to an enraptured crowd. Nothing would be a miss, nothing but the tears of women, and some men, captured by his voice, words, and the melody they created.

What people he crossed paths with took one look at him and his drawn sword and turned the opposite way. It was a far cry from Braavos, at least here not every man took it as a challenge. A crowd of three had formed in the walkway ahead of him around something on the ground. One was squatted down and the other two stood over it. “You there!” Ser Willem called, but the three shouted something in Ibbenese and ran in different directions leaving Willem smirking as he made his way over to what they were investigating.  The body that Asher told them of was before him, lying prone and bleeding from his gut, his head was to the side staring at nothing with lifeless eyes and a broken jaw.  “Traitor,”  Willem muttered, kicking him for good measure as he passed the corpse.  

The closer he came to the docks, the fewer people he saw. The night could be dangerous on the open seas, so most fishermen docked by twilight.  It wasn’t much further, he breathed a sigh of relief when he came out of the city and onto the wooden pier, his eyes roving for anything out of place. He passed a beggar who jumped and ran in the opposite direction at the sight of his drawn weapon, but Will slowed to a stop when he heard voices, talking quickly and angrily. 

“And my family? They will be safe, they will be spared?”

A voice he recognized responded, “So long as you have played your part, they will remain out of harm's way Ballar Nahios. But even one misstep and your sons will be killed and your wife and daughters sold to the first passing khalasar.” That was Illyrio Mopatis; he was sure of it.  

“I have, I will,” Ballar replied, his voice desperate. 

It was silent for a moment and then Mopatis spoke, “That remains to be seen. The castle is now on full alert, guards will be searching for the princes and you only have the one. The deed is not done until both are gone.”

From his vantage, Willem could see the banker.  Ballar seemed to wilt in on himself. Who do they have? Will thought, his heart hammering in his chest. Am I wrong for hoping it is the Crown Prince? A single treacherous sentence that would have him sent to the cells were it spoken aloud. He felt wrong for it, but couldn’t deny himself that perfidious hope. Jaehaerys was still young, still innocent, and untainted by the horrors their father committed after Duskendale. The boy couldn’t be allowed to follow a similar path and Willem would die before letting that happen again. 

The boat was there, he could see it. But how many men are there? Do they have archers? How many can I  fight through? All questions that lanced through his mind. Suffice to say, he could at least cut his way through Mopatis and the banker. Mayhaps even make enough of a commotion to draw attention and hopefully help. The Queen could hand justice to Mopatis for whatever trickery he was up to, all he had to do was stop them. He steeled himself for what he had to do.  

“Mopatis!” Will shouted, stepping out into the dim light. All his life he’d wondered why there were always crates on a dock, but right then he’d never been more thankful for them. 

Ballar started but Illyrio turned to him casually, stroking his beard, “Ah, Ser Willem Darry. To what do I—“

“Shut it. I heard you, and I won’t let you leave here in anything but shackles.” The older knight said, gripping his sword tighter. 

But Illyrio's posture did not change, if anything he relaxed further, a gleeful smile parted his lips, “You have it all wrong, my dear knight.”

Willem heard the scuffle of boots and crunch of dirt, he turned at the heavy thuds of feet running on wood paneling in time to narrowly dodge the swing of a longsword. He hit the ground hard on his left side, short sword leaving his hand and sliding a distance away.  “Finish him quickly, and do as instructed.” Illyrio said, stroking his beard once more before slithering away, proud in his scheming only to stop again, “I fear this may be the last time we see each other Ser so please do remember, what I do, I do for the good of us all.” 

“Fuck off, you enormous cunt!” Willem spat, and Illyrio chortled, hand on his belly. He shook his head and left, leaving Nahios standing near the boat, the hooded man stood opposite him, sword in hand. Not waiting for either of them, Ser Willem pushed off the ground and dashed to his left, grunting as his bones and joints fought the action painfully. His hand was on his sword in time to stand up and lunge at Ballar. The banker wasn’t a fighter, he had no experience but the other one did. It would be quicker to end Nahios and return to the other.  

Willem cursed, Ballar’s hand rose to protect him instinctively, stopping the blow from being mortal. The banker screamed as blood spurted from what remained of his hand, now a stump and a flailing thumb. He’d managed to cut off only his fingers.  

The fighter's heavy steps alerted him once more, in time to parry a strong overhead strike as Ballar was given the chance to escape. The banker ran back into the city, cursing and holding his bleeding arm, to where Willem could only wonder. Questions would be asked about his state, so he couldn’t return to the castle, and if he’d heard right Mopatis had ensured his silence by threatening his family. All he needed to do was get through the fighter; but the problem was he was good and strong, and if he was to guess, younger with broad shoulders and a basic but effective form.

It was taking more and more effort to keep up with his strength. Curse my age, he screamed in his head as he brought his sword up to deflect a coming blow. The swords glanced off each other leaving Willem enough time to back step and press an opening he saw. 

“Too slow old man.”  The stranger's deep voice said, easily dodging a tired lunge by Willem. His age had finally caught up to him and the gaps in his guard had led to numerous smaller nicks and cuts.  Blood dripped down his brow, stinging as it trailed into his swollen eye and down his cheek. Fucker has one hell of a fist, Willem thought wearily, trying and failing to ignore the throbbing in his cheek and jaw as the pair circled each other.  For a moment as they stared each other down he was stricken with the sudden and very real thought of his mortality.  He’d given in to the idea of growing old and dying with the closest thing he’d have to a family, the Royal family he’d served for the majority of his life. Someone from the boat shouted something and he heard the splash of water but couldn’t take his eyes off of his enemy. Rumination would get him killed as twilight already hampered his vision, the light of the lanterns was far from strong enough to overcome the shadows. 

The hooded man lunged at him, he was faster than Willem and had the stamina to match. His blows rained harder and harder, each block felt heavier, until he couldn’t move in time, and felt the steel bite at his flesh. He shouted in frustration, and with the last of his strength grabbed at the man's hood and scarf, yanking it away.

Willem gasped, thick beard, receding head of black hair, his vaguely familiar fighting style, “You're Westerosi.” 

“Aye, and you’ve seen my face,” The man struck with his sword too quick for Will to parry, so he dropped his and grasped it with both hands, shouting out when the metal tore through his skin and flesh as he stumbled back and they fell against a stack of crates. He fought the man's weight, even as he pushed down on the sword and the blade gave way, cutting his palms to the bone. Pain flourished from his gut, as the Westerosi fighter pierced him with the blade, his life’s blood staining his shirt.

“Mormont, the ship is setting sail!” Ballar shouted, Willem, was unsure when he’d returned, “Finish your task and disappear you fool guards are coming!”

“Mormont...” Willem gasped between the waves of pain, “A northerner...”

The northerner looked down at him and nodded once before he felt a sharp and sudden pinch that bloomed into more from his side. Mormont had knelt and he looked at his hand, the hilt of a dagger stuck out of his palm, explaining the pain.

“Die well, old man,” Mormont whispered, painfully yanking both blades from his flesh. He could hear the shouts of men, but from where he couldn’t tell. Mormont stood over him, a frown on his face before turning, drawing his hood, and fleeing the docks. He could hear the splash of water, methodical and repetitive, and boots, many of them thundering towards him. 

“There!” A voice accented like one of the Ibeneese that joined their cause shouted. How do I know that he thought, giving a wet wheeze of a laugh. Willem had never paid much mind to their differences, just their loyalty and fighting skill; not much else mattered to a soldier.

“Gods,” another muttered; from his voice, Will guessed he must have looked a sight, “We need to get him to a healer!” The knight felt their hands on him, moving him gently as his vision faded in and out. “Use your shields.” Another voice commanded and they did. He felt the metal on his exposed skin, but it wasn’t as cold as he expected it to be. He had so much he needed to tell them, Mopatis can’t be trusted, one of the boys is still on the boat, he opened his mouth to speak but was met with the taste of metal and a gurgle of blood replaced his voice. 

The anger and fear faded away and he felt as if he was slowly sinking into warm water. His breath came shallower, and his chest felt heavy. Weariness washed over Willem and settled into his bones, numbness was taking his muscles and blotting out the aches in his joints, the wounds felt like a distant reminder of his discomfort and his eyes, they’d never felt heavier. He tried to say something again but a wet cough and a spray of red replaced it. “Hang on S—”, but the voice faded out, he wanted nothing more than to rest, so he closed his eyes and exhaled a ragged breath. 

Ozzy can mind the royal family while I close my eyes for a bit... 

Chapter Text

Westeros

The North: Winterfell

Eddard 

Cold light pierced through the shutters and cotton drapes framing the windows as his eyes cracked open to a bleak northern morning. A very distinct lack of warmth let him know the hearth had died and the bed was empty beside him, but that wasn’t a surprise, what with a newborn he fully expected Catelyn not to be there. He yawned through the sleepy smile that warmed his cheeks; a litter of direwolves and a healthy baby boy.  Combined with Jon and Benjen’s return to the family and the newfound unity in the household; Winterfell felt different but in a good and whole way. Catelyn gave birth almost ten days after the direwolves came into the world, only another in a recent string of joyous moments for House Stark. 

Eddard stretched and sighed, but started when the bed sagged deeply on the corner and Stormsongs huge silver-grey form curled up where his wife would lay. “Good morning girl.” Ned muttered, voice hoarse from the night's sleep as he reached over to the giant in his bed curious as to when she’d been allowed in, Catelyn must have opened the door for her when she woke. A huff of air was the reply he received as her gold eyes turned and focused on him. “Pups with their chosen?” He asked her with the same sleepy smile, and she answered with another huff; he ran his hand through her fur fondly, could it already have been a moon's turn since Jon returned? 

The direwolf pups were already three weeks old, and Rickon, named for Ned and Ben’s father Rickard, was nearing a fortnight. God’s, he lamented wishing he could slow down time, even for just a moon to catch up on rest, and spend time with his brother, his wife, his children especially Jon and the babe. Moments like this, few and far between as they were, made him wonder what Lyanna would say to him were she here now. Don’t lose my son again, Ned! I’ll come back for you if you do. Stormsongs great gold eyes seemed to agree, giving him the lingering suspicion that she could hear his thoughts. Tales of wargs and woods witches came to mind, tales for children, not Lord's Paramount.

The massive wolf stared at him with that knowing look, gold eyes intent, ”Fine,” Ned said reluctantly and braced himself for the nip of cold before he threw his linens and bedding off of him and over his direwolf.  Theirs was a fast bond, one that he didn’t understand nor realize they’d formed until one morning before the Weirwood, after his prayers, he opened his eyes to find Stormsong laying solemnly beside him; she’d followed him through the castle on occasion, but this was different. It was as if they inherently knew where the other was because, from that day forward she’d accompanied him every morning for his prayers, Ned would sometimes wait for her to finish feeding the pups, or she would come find him in Rickon's nursery or his solar, but without fail they always made it to the Weirwood together.

Moments later, after splashing his face with cold water he was shrugging into a clean linen undertunic and searching for a shirt and gambeson he could put over.  Stormsong lept from the bed and stretched her back with a throaty grunt, following her bonded Stark. Bonded he thought, the word Old Nan used to describe their relationships with the direwolves. It was true, Ned didn’t feel like Stormsong’s owner, rather her partner, her friend, her bonded …he chuckled when he noticed the wolf sitting on her haunches and panting. “You ready?” He asked her as he sat down to slide on his boots, her tail happily sweeping the stone behind her was enough of an answer. 

Running a hand through her fur, he passed the Direwolf once he was finished with his boots and draped a cloak over his shoulders. She licked his cheek with ease, her size making her near unstoppable. And soon there will be even more horse-sized wolves running about, he thought with a somber grumble, wiping his face off. “Come on,” he said to his wolf and left their rooms. 

”G’morning, Lord Stark,” Jory was already waiting outside of his door, the recently polished rings of his chainmail gleaming in the faint morning light. ”And Stormy,” he added with a wry smile as the direwolf sauntered out behind Ned. 

“Jory,” Ned nodded to the man, he’d need to see about having him knighted, it was well past time and he deserved that honor, even if knighthood wasn’t common in the North. “Sleep well?” He asked, as he closed the door and strode through the family apartments his direwolf behind and to the left with Jory to his right. 

Jory nodded, “I did My Lord,” he reached into the inner lining of his left sleeve and produced a small roll of parchment. “Letter came in the night, Maester Luwin asked me to bring this to you first thing.”

Eddard took it and paused, he was halfway to the nursery, but took a moment to glance over the wax imprint, “Arryn.”

“Aye, it’s from the Lord Hand, Maester Luwin did not think it appropriate he read this on your behalf,” Jory said. 

Ned nodded his appreciation, the shadow of a smile playing at the corner of his lips as he broke the seal and unrolled it, reading over the lines quickly, his eyes widening marginally before giving Jory a meaningful look. “It seems Lord Arryn will be traveling north.”

Jory didn’t hide his surprise, “Well that’ll be a problem if we are to travel to Solitude with Lord Ben as you planned.” 

“Aye,” Ned sighed, “But that journey North from King’s Landing takes some time and he means to meet Lady Arryn along the way, not to mention they will be waiting for our response. Thank you, Jory, could you have Maester Luwin pen a letter, confirming our acceptance.  Have him say nothing about Solitude or my plans.  I’ll speak to Cat and Ben later and figure this all out, and if you see Veyon along the way can you tell him to meet me in the yard in an hour's time?”

“Aye My Lord,” Jory said, bobbing his head before departing quickly, headed to Maester Luwins turret leaving Ned and Stormsong to make their way to Rickon's nursery alone. He was so deep in thought about the letter that he reached the door before he realized it.  It couldn’t have come at a worse time. On one hand, seeing his foster father and conversing about the state of the whole kingdom would help him improve upon the plans for their children and the North he and the other northern lords had both enacted and devised, but on the other, he also had a duty to his Jon; he needed to see Solitude for himself, and my son's minders. 

His grey eyes found the direwolf’s gold, “What should I do Stormy?” He wondered aloud, the direwolf’s head tilted to the right. “I don’t know either.” There was nothing for it at that moment, it would be best to update and consult Cat before making any decisions. 

With his mind preoccupied, Ned wasn’t prepared for what he would see when he opened the door, a moment he wished he could capture in time, forever. For the space of a breath, his shifting plans were forgotten; The serene image of his wife and newborn fast asleep in a rocking chair, bundled up in thick linens near a waning hearth was enough to fill his vessel until it ran over. At first, they were both disappointed that Rickon wouldn’t claim a direwolf of his own, but he was too young and there was always the chance that there would be more in the years to come. He hadn't the heart to wake them so he shut the door as softly as possible.  

Stormsong made a soft whining noise and jabbed him gently with her nose, “Aye, let’s go,” he said, turning away and petting her as he did. The Godswood was his next stop before his day could begin in earnest.  

Cold refreshing air hit his face as he stepped through the door, his and Stormsong’s breath misting before them. The morning was clearing up, cloud cover parting and the morning mist burned away as the sun climbed higher in the sky casting the yard and bailey in shadow. It wasn’t as cold as it had been, the snow melted a while ago, leaving the North green once more. A few of the citizens of Winterfell moved about quickly, preparing for their day, and some, like the guards on duty overnight, were just ending theirs. 

“Good morning My Lord,” Davos called. Every day the man looked and sounded more and more like a northerner; his beard growing thicker and accent slowly warping, no doubt due to Sansa and now Bran’s influence.  His son had only recently taken an interest in reading if only to know the stories we won't tell him, he proclaimed to them all one night while sitting to eat.  Ned smiled inwardly as Ser Davos strode over, a hand full of letters. “Maester Luwin received a Raven. Wife and children wrote to me so I’ve got myself some light reading for the journey north.” 

Davos would be traveling with them to Solitude, he could tell them more about establishing trade routes and building sister ports with the island serving as a sort of hub than anyone Ned knew. “Plans are being changed. We have a visitor coming from the south.”

Davos frowned and looked at him questioningly, “The Lord Hand.” Eddard said before he could ask. 

“Ah,” Davos began, “Just like a southerner to think the world is about us.” He finished sarcastically but not unfriendly. 

Ned chuckled, “Aye, we’ll meet in my solar later this morning, I’ll send someone to find you. I have my prayers, children, and direwolves to tend to before.”

“Very well My Lord,” Davos nodded, “I’ll begin preparations for departure and ensure movement between Winterfell and Winterhold aren’t interrupted while we’re away,” he said, petting the top of Stormsongs head before striding off.  It never struck Ned as odd that he was one of the very few outside of his family that had been allowed to do that; everyone else was greeted by an intense gold stare and changed their minds.  

They parted ways with Davos going wherever he was going and Eddard making his way to the Godswood accompanied only by the immense form of his direwolf, the need for guards admittedly less necessary than before. It was still early enough that not that many were out and about and so he decided to cut through the courtyard rather than go around.  Though the people of Winterfell had become mostly accustomed to the direwolves' presence, the sight of a massive shadow stalking quietly could cause some alarm; which he tried his hardest to avoid.  

“Again!” 

But the easily recognized voice of his brother, albeit sterner than he was used to, distracted him. What’s going on over here? He wondered, pausing and turning just before the library tower. It was silent once more.

“Again!” His brother shouted, voice echoing over the courtyard, making Eddard frown as this time he followed it, Stormsong staying close behind. As he approached, two figures stood opposite each other, the difference in their height made him smile as he realized who his brother was with.  Benjen stood rigidly, arms crossed, sable cloak fluttering in the faint morning breeze exposing his black doublet, black tunic, and black breeches, as well as his black boots.  If he hadn't known better he would have sworn his brother took his vows, and Jon with him, “Get to it,” He said to Jon who matched his uncle, save for the leather padding he wore and his lack of a cloak.  He twirled his tourney sword effortlessly and turned with a huff, crossing the yard and taking position once more. 

The Godswood was all but set aside. He’d hardly the chance to watch him, and did so now, giving Jon his undivided attention even if he didn’t know his father was there. He remembered Ser Rodrik's report, and it was glowing. The knight told him he was surprised by Jon’s capability and overall martial maturity.  

“Watch your stance and check your elbows, you’re not swinging an ax,” Ben said.

Jon nodded tersely and swept some errant strands of hair out of his face. He was only ten and two, but the difference between the quiet and solemn boy he’d come to know and this dagger-eyed swordsman he was watching was vast. 

He set his jaw and took position, bringing the sword up and to the outside, his right elbow bent above with his left before him. Angling the tip of the sword downward ever so slightly, he held it for a moment, rigid and taught like a wolf ready to strike, eyes dark and shadowed. Jon pivoted on his left leg with his right behind him and drew his leg around, swinging in a slow arch before maneuvering around and mirroring the stance, but on the opposite side. If he learned anything from this impromptu demonstration it was that Jon was fast developing the air and gravity of a warrior. 

His movements were fluid, it was obvious he’d been at it for years, a frown crossed Ned’s face when he questioned the reason. A swirl of dark thoughts shadowed his mood like a sudden storm on a bright day when he considered why Jon was so skilled, but just as quickly they were pushed away by the sight of his son's clean and precise movements. 

“He’s good, father,” Ned turned at the crunch of gravel and Robb‘s voice as his heir made a path towards him, tourney sword in one hand and padding under his other arm. “I thought I was, but then Jon came home,” he said; but Robb wasn’t jealous, the grin he’d had on his face for the last moon widened, setting his eyes twinkling.  A yip brought Ned’s brows together and had him look over his eldest as Greywind, Ghost, and Garmr loped behind him, all paws, fluff, and floppy tongues and ears. “You followed me out, did you?” Robb said happily, squatting down as the pups rushed over panting and fussing with each other. Stormsong padded to them, greeting each with a lick or sniff.  Ned was still amazed at their size and development in such a short span. You have to grow up fast, north of the wall, he rationalized as they were already the weight of the kennel masters hound‘s pups at two moons of age. 

It was Stormsong that set her litter with their respective Stark a few days after they opened their eyes, which was also extraordinarily fast since normal wolves took nearly a fortnight to open theirs.

“Come here boy,” Robb said; he immediately took to the bold smokey grey, yellow-eyed direwolf pup he named Greywind that was currently gnawing on his knuckle as he plucked the pup from the ground and cradled the wriggly fur ball with a laugh. Originally the runt and still the quietest of the litter, the white as pure snow, red-eyed albino direwolf Jon named Ghost followed behind Greywind, his growth the most spectacular of the six pups as he was making his way to being the largest. And the most energetic of them all, the green-eyed black ball of fur, Garmr, bullied his way past his mother's attention to sit with Ghost under the fence to wait for his bonded, panting excitedly. Ned laughed, it was apt for Ben to receive the most aggressive and excitable of the pups. 

That left the yellow-eyed Lady; the direwolf Sansa claimed and swore it was because of their similar hair color. He’d had to point out that Lady was mainly grey with hints of auburn, and if the gods were good she wouldn’t go grey for some time yet. He doubted Arya and Nymeria were in the castle though. His youngest daughter's direwolf, much like his youngest daughter, had the tiresome ability to disappear, be it at will or not, such was the grey of her fur. It matched the stones of Winterfell.  Thankfully, her piercing dark gold eyes gave her away; that and her inability to stay still. This meant that in all likelihood, Bran and his yet-to-be-named, silver-grey pup were still fast asleep, curled around each other.  

“Lurkers!” Benjen shouted, humor in his voice. He was walking towards them, Jon not far behind, breathing hard and sweating. 

“Wasn’t my intent,” Ned said with a grin, making his way to the opening in the fence. Ghost and Garmr went under the fence towards Jon and Benjen, Stormsong followed behind him, with Robb and Greywind after. “Headed to the Godswood when I heard your voice. How long have you been at it?”

Ben kneeled down and scooped up his pup who immediately did his best to climb up Ben’s beard and lick his face. “Sunrise, it was Jon that woke me. Said he couldn’t sleep and asked if we could get back to normal training.”

Eddard frowned, looking past Ben as Robb had joined Jon and set Greywind down, the pups were playing and the boys watched in amusement as Stormsong oversaw it all. “What’s normal training?”

Ben frowned and looked back, before kneeling and releasing his squirming direwolf who immediately ran to join his wrestling brothers, “Ser Rodrik's instruction is too simple for him as it is and he doesn’t want to tell him in fear of the codger making a big deal of it.” 

Eddard made a face, “I know, I know, some old habits die hard. It’ll take time for him to get used to being publicly acknowledged as your son and a Stark as well as understanding that nobody would hold it against him were he to say something was too simple. He’s not used to that treatment here, but he’s coming along.” Benjen said. 

And yet he went to Ben with all of this and not me Ned thought somewhat dejected. “You’re right.”

“I know I am,” Ben said. He slapped Ned on the shoulder and pointed with his thumb behind him.

Eddard followed his brother the short distance to the boys, “If I had known you had such skill, son, I would have had Rodrik increase his regimen with you. I thought you’d have to catch up to your brother.”

Jon shuffled his feet, “Sorry father.”

Eddard smiled, “There’s no need to apologize, just as there is no need to hide your skill or talent. None of us, least of all your brother, wants you to bury your ability.” He’d talk to him more later, he wanted nothing more than for Jon to be comfortable with this new chapter in his life. 

“He’s the next Cregan Stark,” Robb said, pushing his brother's shoulder playfully. “But I’m still better with a lance!”

Jon nodded very matter-of-factly, “He is. I can ride a horse fast but give me a lance and I don’t know what I’m doing.” he looked puzzled for a moment, making Eddard smile. 

“Then there it is, you two should help each other when you have the chance. Your brothers and friends. But I will speak to Rodrik and we can adjust your lessons. In the future, promise me you won’t hide your talent for fear of overshadowing anyone.” Eddard said, but Robb frowned.

“Father’s right Jon, I'm your brother, I won’t be mad if you’re better than me at something.” He stared at his brother intently who looked down bashfully, giving his attention to the direwolves. 

“Ok,” Jon muttered, a timid half-smile creeping up the right side of his face. “I’ll show you what I can do with a sword and you do the same with a lance.” 

“That’s a promise.”  Robb proclaimed, “Now pad up, we have to go meet Ser Rodrik and the squid.” Both boys made a face.

“None of that,” Eddard warned with a disappointed frown, but to no avail, as Jon and Robb scooped up their direwolves and ran off laughing; they wouldn’t be able to do that for too much longer if Stormsong was any indication of their potential size. 

Benjen snatched Garmr by the scruff before the pup could run off and cradled the feisty wolf, “Oh you’ll be alright without them for a little while.” He said soothingly, before looking back at Eddard, brow raised, “What is it? You’ve got that distant look you and Jon often get, brooders the lot of you.”

Eddard shook his head, a slight smirk on his face, “Letter from the south. The Lord Hand will be journeying North. He believes it would do Lysa and their boy some good to be around family.” He didn’t mention that he suspected there was more to this journey.  Benjen’s face morphed into one of realization as Eddard finished. 

“Ah, so we need to replan,” Ben said, and Ned nodded. 

“If Catelyn is awake we may as well do it now, while neither of us is preoccupied.”

Benjen nodded and followed Eddard from the courtyard. He made a note to return to the Godswood later in the evening, maybe with Jon so they could talk and have their prayers together. The elder Stark brothers made their way back to the castle accompanied by their direwolves, Benjen’s still in his arms, gnawing at his leather-bound finger and Stormsong shortly behind. They greeted those they crossed paths with politely, the reactions to the direwolf pups much different from their larger mother.

It didn’t take long and luckily they crossed paths with Winterfell’s steward, Veyon, as well as the Captain of the Household Guard, Jory.  He split from the rest of them with Stormsong padding behind him, instructing the others to continue on to the solar and asking Veyon to fetch Davos. They would fill Ser Rodrik in after his lessons with the boys; he went to get Catelyn. 

Rickon's nursery was empty when he entered, the previously lit fire little more than smoldering embers, so he moved on to their shared rooms. The guard positioned outside of their door let him know she was in there. He nodded as he entered, and smiled as he crossed the threshold waiting for Stormy to enter before shutting the door. The room was warm and the air moist, very different from when he’d woken. The hearth and candles burned, filling the room with soft light. “My love?” He whispered, inhaling the fresh scent of rose and lily water as well as a hint of lilac and foreign soaps; trade was going well. 

“Over here,” Catelyn called from the washroom, surprising him because he thought he needed to be quiet. He spied a tuft of auburn hair poking from the bundle in the bassinet near the open washroom door and peeked in to see Rickon's tiny face fast asleep, curious about what babes dreamt of. 

His wife had just finished bathing and was toweling herself off, one foot on the side of the wolf paw, clawed tub. He breathed heavily, reminded just how beautiful she was, especially in the nude, “I could ravish you, my lady,” He said, voice husky.

Catelyn's cheeks reddened as she tied the towel around herself and pulled her red hair up to drape it over her shoulder, “Had I not recently given birth I would question why you haven’t yet.” 

Eddard crossed the tiny distance between them and took her in his arms, kissing her deeply and releasing her in one swift motion. Catelyn's laugh filled the washroom as they left it, Rickon still fast asleep. “Can sleep through a war that one.” 

“Of course during the day. But at night he wants nothing to do with sleep,” Catelyn complained. He sat near the hearth and watched her walk around their room collecting clothing before finally deciding to delve in.

“The Lord Hand, his wife, and child will be traveling North soon.”

Catelyn paused, bright blue eyes turning to him, a sardonic smile forming as she did, “My sister is coming north?” 

Ned nodded.

“ My sister is coming…north?” she questioned again.

Eddard chuckled, ”Aye, as well as Jon and their boy.”

Catelyn sat down in her underclothes, “Whatever for?” She worried her bottom lip, puzzled for a moment before meeting his eyes with hers, “And what of Solitude?”

“That’s why I came to you. Benjen and Davos are in the solar waiting for us, so we can make the necessary adjustments.” He paused and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “And I thought you would be happy with this news, the last you saw your sister was at Riverrun when we were wed.”

“No, I am.” She said, “But I doubt she will come, Ned. She’s none too fond of the cold…” Catelyn trailed off, looking past him as she braided her hair.  

But she didn’t have to say anymore, old wounds healed slowly. “That whole nonsense with Bran and that boy, your father's former ward?” He asked, impassively, sighing all the while. He’d almost forgotten that little show.

“Man now, Petyr Baelish, but yes.” She shook her head, and despite it all smiled, “Gods, we were children then.” 

Ned agreed, “With the smell of summer still on us.” 

Catelyn stood back up and continued moving around the room, dressing as she did and periodically checking on Rickon before his nurse came to watch over him, giving her time to herself. His wife had been much more at ease after the birth of their fifth child. 

Several quick raps on the door told them Rickon’s minder arrived, “Will you join me, My Lord?” Catelyn asked, standing near the door, adjusting her pale blue skirts. Septa Anska was ushered in, offered Ned a soft good morning as she made her way to the bassinet and took the sleeping infant back to his nursery.  Stormsong stood up silently and took position near Cat waiting for her greeting rub, which his wife gave her with a smile, allowing the direwolf to saunter through the still open door first.  

Stormsong took the lead, guiding them back to the solar, Eddard unaware of their growing bond as he’d never actually given her a command; he followed behind her, “How much of the royal court will travel with him?” Catelyn asked, but he read between the lines, will any of the royal family be coming?  

“My Lord,” Jory said as they reached the solar, he nodded to his captain and looked at his wife, “From what I could gather, none. A Lannister is like to come to Winterfell as willingly as a Stark would go to Casterly Rock and Robert couldn’t be bothered.” 

They paused as Jory opened the door, “Everyone’s here My Lord.” He mentioned quickly, allowing Lady Catelyn in first with a polite nod.

“Good morning good-brother, Ser Davos,” Catelyn said as Jory shut the door to the solar after Stormy entered and remained on the outside, as vigilant as ever. 

Davos nodded politely. 

“Good-sister,” Ben replied, pup fast asleep in his lap. His own direwolf found a spot near the hearth and lay down, gold eyes moving from person to person.

“Sers,” Eddard said in greeting and looked back at Cat, “We’ll know more once he writes us back. For now though let us get to the topic at hand,” he looked at Benjen as he took the lord's seat, behind his desk looking out. Benjen was already seated opposite him and to his right, Catelyn took the chair on his left and Ser Davos stayed on the couch.  

He slid the message out and unrolled it, laying it flat on his aged wood desk, “This changes some things.”

“And I’ve thought of that.” Catelyn interrupted, making his brow rise. She looked at them all, her eyes hesitant when they reached Benjen before settling on him, “We all know that there is history between Jon and I. I would like to move past that and with my pregnancy and Rickon’s birth I have not had the time to interact with him as I would like.”

Benjen's brows shot up, “Are you suggesting you go in Ned’s place?” 

Catelyn took in a steadying breath and nodded, “I am. Rickon is yet a babe, and we have a wet nurse I am not averse to leaving to care for him. Septa Anska is here as well as you, his father.” She motioned towards Ned.

“Pardon me my lady, but won’t the Lord Hand be traveling with his wife? Your sister?” Davos asked.

Catelyn turned, partially, but her eyes remained on Eddard, “She won’t come. Jon may ask her to but she will deny his request. She’s like most southrons in that respect.” In all respects, Eddard thought, but he kept it to himself. He and his brother shared a look, but it said much; is she serious, are you okay with this, I don’t know if I’m okay with this. Nothing needed to be said between the two, it was as if the years apart had never happened.

The silent conversation ended with Ben’s shrug, “It’s fine with me, so long as it’s fine with you.” He nodded in his direction.

Eddard strummed the surface of the desk, “I had questions I wanted to ask. But Catelyn can see to that. I should be here to greet Jon Arryn. Ser Davos can just as easily scout the location for what’s necessary to turn it into a hub for trade and expand on the port you currently have.” 

“Right, then plans don’t need to change that much. An explanation as to why your wife, heir, and second son are gone will be needed, but that’s your problem.” Benjen said mildly, with some amusement and snark. 

“Then I will tell Jon,” Ned said, his usual grim expression replaced by the beginnings of a smile, “I had not expected that to be so quick and concise, so please resume whatever it is you were doing. I will make sure all the necessary parties know of the change. ”

Davos stood “My Lord,” he said with a nod, and Ben followed, cradling Garmr and making his way out behind the knight. The pup yawned and flopped over but otherwise remained asleep as the door shut behind them,  leaving Ned, Cat, and Stormy in the solar.

“You’re not sure of this,” Catelyn asked him, her clear blue eyes twinkling with curiosity.

Ned tried to hide his irony-laced smile, “No, I’m not. It’s normally me leaving and you staying here. But it’s a good idea, I had just hoped to spend that time with Jon myself.”

Catelyn's face softened, “I understand. I’m sorry for this turn of events, but at least something good is coming from it. You will learn more about the kingdom from the man who truly rules it, and I can inspect where they’ve been raising our Jon with a mother’s critical eye.”

“True,” Eddard said, thankful that his wife was so amenable.  “You’ll need to know who will be waiting for you.” Ned paused again, “Jon’s great-uncle, Prince Aemon Targaryen, a knight, Ser Alliser Thorne, and Jon’s Tutor, an Essosi named Elaenor Faenyr. Ben has asked for me to find a way to pardon Ser Alliser for all he has done for Jon, but…a man that can break his oath, I’m not sure I want him around Jon. I had hoped to take his measure, but that will be left to you now.”

Catelyn took in the information in stride, “House Thorne, a minor southern House in the Crownlands if my septa’s teachings still hold true.” She leaned forward, taking Ned’s hand in hers, “You needn’t worry. It will all be fine. You learn what you can from Jon Arryn, particularly why he’s decided to travel North so abruptly, and I will do the same and learn as much as I can about our son's minders.”

A sense of relief washed over Eddard and he smiled in earnest. Hearing her call Jon theirs was a testament to how much had changed in the years. He wound his fingers through hers, “So it’s decided, you will travel in my stead. I’m sure nothing of note will happen.” Who else could he trust, but his wife?

Essos

Ib: Fortress of Ibben

Oswell

He’d never looked so peaceful in life. 

”I’m sorry old friend.” There was a familiar ache where his heart was and he felt his eyes moisten and quickly tilted his head back to stop the sudden tears; his neck felt tight and for a moment it was hard to swallow.  Oswell stared at the great dome roof in what he called the sept of the Fortress; for that’s what it reminded him of. A great room with steps in between carved stone benches with a raised dais in the center and a lectern at the head of the sept. He’d counted fourteen great windows, beaming shafts of muted light to the ground, spraying over artistic recesses and carvings and runes across the many surfaces. He had no idea who the carvings and statues were of; the Ibbenese gods most likely. On any other occasion, he would even say that the room was beautiful. Hanging tapestries of stunning primordial scenes, crystal sconces breaking light up into a rainbow, even hymns and proverbs carved into the walls that he couldn’t understand and a hazy cloud made by burning incense filled the area with its sweet scent. Yes, it would have all been beautiful, were it not for the form of his dead friend laying on the dais under a sheet with stones on his eyes.

Oswell looked back down, half expecting Will to take a sudden breath and laugh it off. Martyn had done all he could to preserve the body and clean the wounds, there were no Silent Sisters here. Soon Willem would be taken to the cold rooms down below so they could prepare his funeral pyre. Oswell reached for Willems upper arm but hesitated before dropping it to his side once more. There was so much to do, wallowing in sadness wouldn’t get him anywhere, and the last thing Will would want was for Oswell to mope while one of the children was missing. 

“I’ll find him, Will, on my honor, I will find our little dragon.” Oswell took a deep breath, set his jaw, and stared at his old friend once more before turning around, his white cloak swishing behind him. 

He pushed the door to the sept open, the sounds of soldiers moving around and shouting orders greeting him as he stepped into the faint morning light, his recently polished armor gleaming. “Interrogations will begin shortly, Lord Commander, The Tattered Prince has arrived.” 

Lord Commander, he repeated in his head. It still sounded odd to him, Lord Commander Oswell Whent, when he put on the White Cloak, he‘d never envisioned that he would be the one to carry on the noble tradition; the cunts currently occupying the White Sword Tower are little more than pretenders and kneelers, serving a drunk, he thought grimly, the majority of his hate saved for two in particular.    

“Ser?” The soldier prodded, drawing him from his thoughts with a few tired blinks; he’d been at it through the night. Two guards were posted on either side of the septs door, with his own attendant standing and waiting patiently.  The city was abuzz with activity and motion, men in armor patrolled the walkways and alleys and questioned anyone they encountered, leaving nothing unseen.  The citizens were afraid; the evidence displayed clearly on the faces of the few he’d seen brave enough to venture from their homes right now.  The townspeople's windows remained shuddered, though he’d seen curious eyes peering out from time to time.  

Oswell nodded and rolled his neck, tilting his head from side to side, his eyes heavy and forlorn. He wiped his face and rubbed at his beard.  

“Let’s go,” Oswell said, probably more gruffly than necessary, but he didn’t care he was tired.  He strode with purpose, his presence heightened by the sound of heavily armored steps. The mood was grim, Viserys was…sequestered and Queen Rhaella and Princess Daenerys were inconsolable; tears, fury, and all that lay between. He had no idea how to soothe them but to act, the compartmentalized memory of Ser Gerold sending him from the Tower of Joy tried to surface, despite the layers of self-loathing he’d hid it under.  The circumstances were different, but the helplessness of it all was almost exact, “Have any of the scout ships returned?” 

“No Mi’Lord,” The man-at-arms said with a lisp, “None as of yet.” 

That wasn’t good, Oswell stopped and stared at the bearded ginger for a moment. Five ships were dispatched as soon as it was known that Jaehaerys was taken, but that was four days ago now. “Alright Jack, lead me to The Tattered Prince, we need to make Ballar speak.”

Jaw clenched, he followed Ginger Jack back to the fortress, mind buzzing with thoughts.  He’d hated the wait for The Tattered Prince, but knew it was necessary.  The company torturer had traveled with him to Ib Nor, and it was said they could stretch a man's death for months.  While that wasn’t necessary for this occasion Oswell knew having one could come in handy in the future. Nonetheless, he was fully prepared to inflict as much pain on the banker as necessary, he wouldn't allow him to die anytime soon.  

The Prince's party marshaled in the yard just after the moat and gate, seven men in total. Ser Rags had dismounted, but that did little to diminish his stature. His great warhorse, barded and readied for battle, kneaded the ground beside him as his men milled about, removing their gear and releasing their mounts into the fortress’ stable boy's hands. Straight as a rod Ser Rags stood, grey-silver hair parted down the middle and a grim frown slashed across his similarly colored beard. They were of a height, but donning their complete armor made Oswell and Rags bigger. The different colored twists of cloth he’d worn for a cloak were replaced by twists of red and black, with two Targaryen pins to keep it on. 

The pair clasped hands, “I wish there were better circumstances bringing you here,” Oswell said.

The Prince sighed deeply, “ As do I. Come, my friend, let us get to this brutal business. ” He replied in High Valyrian, voice deep and somber as he followed Oswell into the castle.  

“ Have you kept everyone on the island?” Ser Rags asked as they made their way through the fortress, the rugs beneath them doing little to mute the clatter of their armor and arms.  

Oswell nodded, helm under his arm, “No other ships aside from the five we dispatched have been allowed to enter or leave the bay. I assume it’s the same in Ib Nor?” 

“ Yes,” Ser Rags replied, making him smirk in amusement.  Oswell thought it curious that he understood the common tongue perfectly well, yet made the decision not to speak it in return. He supposed he did the same; he understood High Valyrian and its Dialects well now, but speaking them, well a wordsmith he was not. 

But The Tattered Prince stopped, halting their entire party abruptly as Oswell and Ginger Jack kept leading for a few more steps before he realized he wasn't being accompanied.  Oswell looked at Jack questioningly before approaching the older man, cautious and curious.

Ser Rags brows were pressed together firmly, “ And the Magister? ” 

Ahh, Oswell thought, lips flattening. “Nothing. He claims he was in his manse in the city and was preparing to make his way to the castle when he heard all the commotion. Nobody has said they've seen him, the only ones seen for sure were Snow, Ridgeback, Will, and the banker.  Some children said they saw a boy that matched Prince Jaehaerys description, but nothing in regards to Mopatis.  He’s tried to see the Queen twice but she has allowed no visitors. Why do you ask?”

The Tattered Prince’s expression darkened, and Oswell was certain it meant more.  They stood in the hallway, facing one another, Ser Rags eyes looked distant and steely, alight with a faint fire. There was something personal there, some degree of hate, but he returned and focused on Ozzy once more, “ Because he is an unknown entity and an associate of Ballar Nahios.” The Tattered Prince lied almost smooth enough that his younger self may not have noticed, but age proved a good teacher and he caught it, he hates Mopatis, but why? Ser Rags continued, “We must learn how he entered the bay without the Queen's leave and pursue that line of questioning .”

Oswell agreed with his sentiment, and they continued their journey through the fortress, greeting soldiers and nervous maidservants along the way. Ibbenese courtiers watched them timorously, questions about the increased military presence and armored men making inquiries about their activities in the last few days. Only a handful knew what happened as Queen Rhaella did not want this news to leave the island without her knowledge, but it would eventually. 

“Nahios was found hiding in a crate, yes?” The Tattered Prince asked. 

“Aye,” Oswell said as he led them through the fortress to the Black Gate, an iron lined aged wooden door that served two purposes, barring the deep ice storage chambers and blocking the less savory portions of the castle; a certain level of authority was needed to enter, and even then most avoided it, for fear of learning what happened in the chambers not used for storage.  They halted long enough for Ginger Jack to fish a set of keys and unlock the four separate locks as Oswell lit two torches.  He kept one for himself and handed the other to the last person in their group before leading them down into the bowels of the fortress, a blast of cold air making the flames flutter as the door opened, “His hand was all but cut off, Will's work I assume. We’ve worked him over but he won’t talk. Lucifer mentioned your former company torturer?”

The Tattered Prince gave him a grim smile, “Meris.”

Someone from behind them cleared their throat and dropped the hood of their cloak, revealing that it wasn’t a man, but quite possibly the ugliest woman he’d ever seen, clad in mail with a crossbow slung over her shoulder. He saw them then, her scarred cheeks and the slits where her nose used to be; if these obvious signs of the pain once inflicted on her was any indication of her own capability, then he was certain Nahios would have a grand ol’ time.  Oswell bit the inside of his cheek, stopping himself from making an improper comment.  

He looked amongst the group, the shadows from the lantern stretching and warping their faces and making the darkness of their raised hoods that much blacker.  He felt his nostrils flare as his piercing blue eyes found The Tattered Prince, “I need to know you are loyal.”

They stood on the steps heading downward, their group paused inconveniently in the stone hall; Oswell was tired, tired of being cautious, and worrying, never knowing who they could trust. Ibben was supposed to be the starting point of their re-conquest, but now it just seemed as if they were further from their goal than ever before. Ser Rags nodded his head slowly, eyes never leaving Oswells, “ To the death. I have nothing but my loyalty to offer.  It was one of my men that turned his cloak, and I will atone for it. No mother should outlive their child.”

Anger, a wave of sudden and violent anger flared its hot head, but just as quickly he swallowed it, “He’s not dead, just missing.” He said, icily, turning with a flutter of his cloak. Years of training were almost eroded by how tired he was.

Ginger Jack gave him a wide berth and The Tattered Prince must have noticed, “ Apologies,” Ser Rags said, “ I meant only to convey my sorrow .”

“It’s fine, just don’t say it around the Queen,” Ser Oswell replied, “She’s struggling enough as it is.”

They embraced the silence as they delved deeper into the fortress. It seemed the Men of Ib and Brandon the Builder were of a mind when the wall and the fortress were constructed, despite their leagues in distance and age of erection. The deeper cells were cold, ice cold. Cold enough to store the ice that they were able to harvest and serve a dual purpose as torture in and of itself. The cold bit at him, through his armor and the cotton and linens under. He could feel his skin prickle up as his breath began to mist in front of him, his armor became slick as the air grew colder. 

They reached a small entryway with two separate doors, the one on the left led down to the fortress's ice storage chambers with the door on the right leading to the ice cells. They were guarded by a set of soldiers bundled up in heavy linens, fur, and leather. A few candles burned around them with a small stone fireplace set between the doors giving them a decent amount of warmth, “Lord Commander.” One said as the other moved to unlock the door. 

He stepped aside and allowed his party to enter the cold cells of Ib. Besides the cold, the smell of blood and shit, assaulted them, mixing with the putrid stench of bile, fear, and piss. There were twelve cells in total, meant for suffering and a painful death. A separate iced-over hall led to the information extraction cells. Wicked devices hung from the walls, pliers and tweezers, hammers, saws, and tools he couldn’t name; none of them were clean, guaranteeing some sort of infection.  

There was a separate, more humane jail, located nearer the barracks up on the surface, but that was not where he deserved to be. Oswell led them to the last cell, where Ballar Nahios was kept. He felt a very familiar twinge in his gut, anger, and hate making itself known but magnified. He slammed the back of his gauntleted fist against the iced-over metal pole, the sound echoing loudly. 

The banker jumped and shouted, hoarse voice echoing and flabby body shivering. He was left in the cells for half a day at a time, in little more than his underclothes. His cooperation bought him less time, but the bruises and lacerations that littered his flesh were a testament to his unwillingness to cooperate. “Wake up you little shit,” Oswell ground out, their group halting around him. 

Ballar shook in the corner, knees pressed tightly to his chest with his arms around them, the reddened mess of a hand bandaged haphazardly, but he managed to spit on the ground, “Fu-fu-fuck y-you.” He chittered out, earning a laugh from the men that stared at him.

“Meris will enjoy this,” The Tattered Prince said softly from beside him.

The woman in question made a noise of agitation, “Can we get out of this cold first? I work better if I can feel me fingers and my teets aren’t frozen solid.”

“What teets?” Ginger Jack asked, earning him a quick swat from Oswell. 

“Don’t disrespect a Lady in front of me.”

“Apologies, Lord Commander.” Ginger Jack replied, rubbing at the back of his head. 

“I’m not a lady,” Meris muttered, but because of the scaring Oswell wasn’t completely sure the red he saw was a blush. 

“Okay,” Oswell said looking at the shivering form of Ballar, brows angled and angry. “We will bring him back up and leave him in your capable hands then.” He tapped the bar once more, “You hear that Ballar? You’re going to make some new friends today.”

Rhaella

“Your Grace?”

The echo of a gentle knock followed, so faint that they were nearly swallowed by the flames in the hearth. 

“My Queen?” She heard the words, but they failed to pierce the fog clouding her mind.  Her eyes focused on the rippling of blood-colored wine in her goblet. My goblet? When did I forgo a glass? She wondered, heavy-lidded eyes watching as she listlessly swirled the liquid, each motion slow and deliberate. 

“Your Grace?” There it was again; the thought of throwing her goblet at the door bubbled to the surface, but then she’d have nothing to drink from so she thought otherwise. Rhaella commanded she be left alone, save for her daughter, Lady Xaurane, and Oswell, no one was to be allowed near the family suites. The door creaked open and she hadn’t the care to look. “Your Grace?” Ahh, it is Xaurane. She sounded much more timid on this side of the door, voice soft and demure. She could hear her footsteps on the rugs as they approached from her left side. 

Violet eyes peered from beneath a veil of silver-gold hair fraught from tears and sleepless nights. “I said I did not want to be disturbed.” Rhaella opined, voice clipped and short. She was surprised she didn’t slur the words, so deep in her cups, no you fool, goblet, so deep in her goblet she was; a half-empty carafe of wine sat beside her on an end table near the chaise she’d claimed for the day. 

“My Queen,” Xaurane said, voice soft. “The Princess has fallen asleep and The Tattered Prince recently arrived with the torturer from Ib Nor. They are bringing the prisoner up before information is,” She paused, “is coerced from him.” Rhaella turned to see the shadow of some emotion on her face. 

“Do you not approve, Xaurane?” Rhaella asked, hearing herself slur with a grimace.  

Her handmaiden swallowed but looked her in the eye. “It is not my place to approve, Your Grace. I did not mean anything by my tone. My mind has yet to comprehend how we could have reached this place. I worry for you and the Princess, especially considering what you must deal with after.”

She felt her choler rise, and her breathing deepened. The goblet met her lips once more and she tilted it back, swallowing a deep swig of the sweet Lyseni red and savoring the lingering tang as it washed down her throat, “Viserys.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

She tilted her head back to rest on a pillow, eyes closed. “I will need your assistance.” She said softly, haphazardly righting herself. Her feet found the rug below and Rhaella steadied herself on the edge of the chaise, her knuckles were white where she gripped the wood frame. She closed her eyes again and breathed deeply; the full headiness of the wine felt once she sat up. She opened her eyes only for them to fall on a small wooden sword left on the rug, and a shaky breath escaped her lips before a mournful sob.  

Within moments, Xaurane was by her side as Rhaella felt the tears; they bubbled up and leaked out, flowing hot and freely as her friend cradled her head. ”I-I’ve lost another son.” The pain ran deep, paralleled with Rhaegar and she felt herself slipping down a dark hole. It was like this every day, something would remind her of her son and the pain would overwhelm the anger and defeat and she would weep, for hours on end until she drank herself to sleep once more. Never had she been more thankful for Xaurane and her continued care for Daenerys. 

The constant emotional battle was taxing. Waxing and waning between fury and despondency. A black fist clenched around her heart constricting and loosening of its own accord. She had no idea when her breath would leave her, her emotions were near uncontrollable.  Finally, the tears dried up and she took several gulps of air, pulling away from her handmaiden and sitting upright. Eyes puffy, she sniffled and wiped at her nose, “Forgive me for that,” she muttered, clutching the frame of the chaise once more before pushing herself up, standing with a teeter before righting herself.

Xaurane followed, “No apologies are needed your Grace, I am here should you need a shoulder.”

Rhaella forced a smile, thankful for her kindness, but Xaurane continued, “I will have a bowl of crushed ice brought up.”

Rhaella scoffed, despite the situation, “Do I look that terrible?” She shook her head, “I don’t care.  Let them see.  My pain is my armor and every tear is a link on my chain of office.  I have no need to hide neither my fury nor my sadness...they are my fuel, the foundations of all my desires now.   I will not hide it.”

Wine was a curious substance to her. It gave her confidence she never had before yet conversely made her feel a depth of emotion she wasn’t prepared to feel. Xaurane silently guided her to the bath, but not before she grabbed her goblet.  She had to numb herself for what was to come. More wine was added, even as maidservants were ushered in, and they bathed and washed her. Steam wafted from the water, but its heat was barely felt. She drank while they rubbed scented waters on her and massaged fragrant oils into her hair as they dried it, and drank some more while Xaurane chose what gown she would wear. Even as her gown was laced onto her, a goblet remained in her hand, half hooded eyes staring at nothing. 

“I would wear my son's cloak,” she said as the women moved around her, cleaning her apartments. Xaurane nodded, braiding the queen's hair from behind her. The Lady dismissed a maid to fetch it, while the rest hovered about cleaning the mess made from her bath. She stared out of the window she was facing; the Queen was no longer there, she was far away, behind red stone walls and sick with fear.  Her heart was in her throat, her hands trembling, in them the letter that signaled the end of their reign; the death of her son and the fall of House Targaryen.  

She blinked slowly when she felt hands on her shoulders and looked down, Jaehaerys cloak was clasped around her shoulders, its weight a comfort. She smiled and felt tears well in her eyes; the smell of smoke from a campfire, grass, and outdoors, the slight musk of sweat from activity, it was his scent, my baby. She balled up a portion of it into her fist and pressed it to her face, breathing in her son's scent like he was a newborn. Her hand shook, and where her eyes had been, tears now stained the cool cloth. 

She lifted the goblet in her other hand, but rather than drink it she held it up, “it is time we descend.” The goblet was taken by a maidservant, and Lady Xaurane helped the Queen to her feet. Rhaella balanced herself and smoothed the front of her gown. Today was a matter of state, beyond formal, judiciary in truth though one would think she was mourning. Her hair was simple, one braid resting between her shoulder blades with her crown on her head. She pulled Jaehaerys cloak around herself and led the way, Xaurane following closely behind. She’d dressed her almost entirely in black, except for highlights of crimson lace. A high collar forced her head up, so despite her inebriated state, she was able to feign dignity. 

“Have they been assembled?” Rhaella asked, relieved she hadn’t slurred. 

“Yes, your Grace.” Her handmaiden said, following with deft strides, ready should the Queen stumble or fall. “The banker is being escorted up and the former Crown Prince is still held In the barracks cells. Magister Mopatis could not be dissuaded from attending this, but as it is his associate I could not deny him.”

“Hmm,”  Rhaella intoned, “And we have questioned him?”

“Yes, Your Grace, and so far as we can tell he was in his manse.”

The Queen nodded but said nothing.  The remainder of the walk to the throne room was a moment of quiet surrealism. She thought of her place in all of this, how to move forward, what to do, and mayhaps it was the drink, but her thoughts were a jumbled mess, and every step pushed her into the fury that always followed the weeping sadness. This time though, she knew why. Rhaella paused at the God Queen's entrance to the throne room, its heavy doors looming ahead of her. Once she stepped through, there was no going back. Judgment had to be passed, it could no longer be avoided. 

Ballar’s fate was sealed, but Viserys, well she couldn’t very well kill him.

The doors opened slowly, very slowly. She could hear the scrape of stone on stone as the hall's attendants pulled on the heavy handles. The throne room was not full, nor was it empty; soldiers stood at attention, in full armor, helms on yet visors open. Only a select few courtiers were allowed in, the heads of the merchant families on the island. She was certain Mopatis would be among them, whispering what have you. The Tattered Prince was right, the man was a snake. As the door opened with a deep reverberating thunk, the household guard stood at attention. In unison, they all stamped a foot as Xaurane slid forward and ahead of Rhaella to announce the Queen's arrival.  

Her personal guard flowed around her, men chosen by Oswell, though the thought brought little comfort as she’d trusted them with her son as well. The court herald was replaced by lady Xaurane, who disappeared from her sight before she cleared her throat and announced her entrance, “I present to you, Rhaella of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, God-Queen of Ib. The True Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. The True Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, and Blood of the Conqueror.”

How hollow they feel, she thought of her titles, hollow and unearned. A Queen unable to protect her children, even from each other. She hesitated for a moment, her head swam but she was able to push it away, and enter the throne room with dignity. 

A silence fell over everyone as she made herself seen. The click of her heels sounded louder than before, the people in the room bowed their heads in unison as she took her position and looked out over the throne room. Xaurane took Oswell's position and stood to her right while the guards streamed out and positioned themselves around the Queen. 

When Xaurane raised her hand, every soldier stamped a foot once for attention, the sound louder now that they were in the room. “Shall we proceed?” The Queen said once she was sure all eyes were on her.  Her own gaze lingered on Illyrio who nodded, and did some kind of semi-bow, hand pressed on his ample belly. For whatever reason, everyone was wearing black, as if they were mourning. The anger that misplaced the sadness found something else to latch on to, my child is not dead!  

The Queen was unaware how tightly clenched her jaw was, or to the fact that her anger was very clearly written on her face. The courtiers silenced, Illyrio had yet to say a word, but the fifty to sixty citizens watched the Queen warily. Every one of them supposed supporters, but she would show them she was far from broken. She was thankful for the wine then, her font of courage. 

“Some know why you are here, others do not. You will learn in time, but I do trust that what is seen and heard here remains amongst us.” She heard the muted agreement and saw the head nods, “Bring in the prisoner.”

The guards moved into position descending into the small crowd to make a line. Some mutters were heard as the high-folk were moved and bustled around, much to their annoyance. Once a lane was made the massive main entryway to the throne room opened, revealing another group of armored men, though the one in the lead she recognized immediately. Oswell stood, helm under his arm, silver and white enameled armor catching the faint light of the candles around them. She could see the form of The Tattered Prince behind him. 

The group marched in and everyone turned to watch. The Tattered Prince followed Oswell, also wearing full plate, though she noticed the tatters of cloth he used as a cloak had been replaced to emulate the black and red of House Targaryen. More soldiers followed, though one, in particular, held her attention, because of who they were gripping. The clatter of their armored steps ended at the base of the throne of the God-Queen, her Lord Commanders' face hard to read, “The Prisoner, My Queen.”

The soldier gripping his arm released him and shoved him forward, Oswell grasped him by the same arm pushing the banker into the view of the Queen before kicking out the back of his knees and forcing the banker to the ground with a teeth-chattering thud. He hissed in pain and glared at Oswell, preparing to say something but Rhaella did not give him the chance.

“Ensure that everything you say is worthwhile, ensure that everything you say has meaning and purpose, words become unintelligible once pain reaches a certain point. I know, I’ve given birth.” Everyone was surprised by her candor. 

Ballar, despite the precarious situation he found himself in, the man smirked, “Valar Morghulis,” He said once and stared at the Queen defiantly, his body littered with bruises and cuts. 

Magister Mopatis cleared his throat and stepped through the crowd, stroking his beard. He stopped near the front, well in view of Ballar and bowed, gripping the hem of his robes, “I did not know the depths of his treachery, Your Grace. It shames me to have brought him into your company, but rest assured, I will make sure his ilk suffers for the undue pain they have caused you.” His beady black eyes turned to his former associate who stilled and stared at him, mouth somewhat slack. It seemed he had expected the Magisters' beneficence in its entirety.

Rhaella nodded regally towards the Magister, but couldn't help the malign and somewhat vindicated smile that forced its way on her face as she stared at Ballar, “It seems we will test your mettle against your words.” The anger gave way to a desire, a cruel one, she wanted him to feel pain, the type of pain she felt, “You may remain silent, it does not matter.  Soon enough you will speak, you will scream, and you will tell us all of your secrets as you suffer Targaryen justice. Valar Dohaeris, Ballar Nahios, I mean to inflict harm on you, sir.”

She stared at the man, wishing it could all end here, but there was one more task to take care of. Her insides writhed like a pot of snakes, and her nerves felt numb. The anger stayed but slowly morphed into something else, she wasn’t sure, but what she was sure of was that it was very similar to the feelings she got when she was forced to spend time with Aerys in his later years. Ballar was escorted silently from the hall, still stunned by Illyrios portent rebuke as Oswell made his way up the steps to take his position by her side with an encouraging partial smile. 

She looked up at Xaurane, who nodded back, before staring forward, “Bring in the next prisoner, bring in Viserys.”

Chapter Text

Somewhere in the Shivering Sea

Jaehaerys

One very vivid memory kept making its way to the forefront of his thoughts, he wasn’t even sure if it was real. It was from shortly after his sixth name day, after taking more than one tumble during his first lessons with a sword and finding himself more and more put out and frustrated; rather than help him, Willem crossed his arms and told him to stand up and shake it off.   The old knight said to him, pain is little more than weakness leaving the body, My Prince, embrace the effort it takes to rid yourself of that weakness.   Were Jaehaerys being honest when he’d first heard the phrase, he would have admitted that it never made sense, but he’d been eager to please, and so had nodded along, and pushed aside the questions that arose.  What did that mean for the pain I felt when I fell while running up the manse’s stairs? Or the pain I felt when I stubbed my toe on mother’s table? If that was the truth then he must have been much weaker than he'd ever known, because he didn't know if he could embrace the pain he felt now. 

He hurt; everywhere. Sore, tense, bruised, and simply tired. His body felt nearly as broken as his heart. His throat, chest, and gut pained him fiercely, like a growing fire trying to burn a way out, and even the slightest cough came with the coppery tang of blood.  Jaehaerys opened his eyes to the ever-persistent darkness of the underbelly of what he came to learn was a slave ship; his eyes heavy and red and cheeks tear-stained. With morbid humor, he remembered Martyn’s examination and the confusion his symptoms caused the healer.  He’d never been ill, no, only poisoned. And by your brother no less, the voice that had always been there whispered; but this time he realized two very worrying things, the voice wasn’t his own and it was much much louder than before.   

Will I die? He asked it, but no response came. The thought brought more relief than fear, especially if he was going round the bend, as he was certain he was.  He moaned and struggled to raise himself, but felt a hand rest on his shoulder, making him jerk away nauseatingly quick, eyes wide and fearful.

“Shh.” The owner of the hand said as he felt cool fingers press against his forehead. “Your fever persists. We did not see this, but even he can’t see everything. For now, you must rest, little one,” she said, the hint of an accent he couldn't recognize. The kind woman, Vara, she’d called herself .  He breathed a sigh of relief, he’d almost forgotten that he shared a stall with someone. She was the first person he encountered when his eyes opened after his abduction.  Her unexpected compassion almost too fortuitous; something he would have noticed had he not been questioning his own sanity then.  The perpetual twilight in the ship's hold hid most of her features, so he hadn’t any idea what she looked like in any great detail; but her voice was soothing and the lack of ire in her touch relaxing and at that moment, at the unanticipated tenderness he’d wept on her as this unknown woman comforted him and hummed songs he didn’t know until weariness claimed him. 

There was no reason for him to feel any comfort around her, on this strange ship, bound for pain and misery, but he did. Mayhaps it was from a sense of finality? The realization that this was the last moment of peace he would have if whatever they’d forced down his throat didn’t kill him? He breathed shakily and coughed into his arm before settling down once more, his eyes growing heavy. Jaehaerys found himself slipping away again; fatigued was his state of being, combined with the heartache he felt enervated him of what little energy he had left and he drifted to sleep, memories of his last time with his sister swallowed by anomalous and bewildering dreams. 

When his eyes opened again, very slowly,  he was somewhere altogether different. The hot and clammy underbelly of the slave-ship was gone, replaced by a cold breeze and the smell of damp moss, blooming flowers, and freshwater. He held his hand up, and flexed his fingers, unsure whether this was real or not, what is happening? Jaehaerys thought, arm dropping to his side as he spun in a circle.  Vara, the boat, and the ocean were gone and in their place great stone towers took shape around him, reaching high into a brilliant blue cloudless sky.  As they reached into the heavens, the towers began to bend, their great parapets crumbled and warped until they looked like the broken fingers of a giant clawing itself free from the earth or many massive candles partially melted and leaning over. He was transfixed, looking around himself at the rolling fields of green that seemed endless. 

“I see you there boy,” Jaehaerys’ eyes widened as the castle finished taking shape around him. He recognized that deep, surly voice, “You were with me over Maidenpool. Now tell me, do you ride on another’s dragon uninvited often and then skulk and watch them in the shadows?” A sly and mildly smug smile crossed Daemon Targaryen’s roguish face as if he already had an answer. “Little boys ought not to sneak, lest they get caught, wouldn’t you say?” Dream or not, vision of the past or some very real hallucination, Jaehaerys felt his heart quicken. How did a dead man know that? And why is the little voice in my head his? Jaehaerys stared, dumbfounded and lost to his thoughts, oblivious to Daemon's inquiry as he became more and more sure that he’d crossed over in his sleep.

Daemon frowned while rolling his eyes, “No, you’re no more a ghost as I am a living man.” And then he stood, but he didn’t. Rather, he split. An image of himself remained leaning against the opening of a stone wall separating them from what his mother and Ser Oswell described as a Godswood, his arms crossed, Dark Sister resting in her scabbard beside him; but a replica or echo of himself stepped away from his physical body leaving it standing like a sculpture, contemplating his coming battle with Aemond the Kinslayer and approached Jaehaerys.