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Chapter Text

It was never really cold in Thoros' chambers.

The wind tore at the walls without ceasing and howled around the corners of the small house on the edge of Flea Bottom where he had been living for several months now. King's Landing, though close to the Stormlands, rarely experienced violent storms, but when they came, they struck with such force and ferocity as if they wanted to tear the entire city from the ground. Still, it was warm in his chambers, even too warm for most. In his windowsill stood three thick tallow candles, casting flickering light into the darkness beyond the pane, keeping the terrors of the night at bay. A fire burned in the hearth, day and night. The first thing he had learned, the first thing he had internalized as a servant of the Lord of Light, was that the fire must never be allowed to go out.

He stood naked in front of the fireplace, gazing for a moment into the glowing flames. He wanted to take another sip from the wine carafe he held in his right hand, having dispensed with little things like using a cup hours ago already, but found that it was empty. Again. He looked around his small chamber – larger and more luxurious than any humble servant of the Lord of Light would have been entitled to, but smaller and simpler than the chamber in the Red Keep he would certainly have received had he had the King's ear – but found no more wine. He had run out of spirits early in the evening already. The only thing left was the naked woman in his bed. For a moment he tried to remember her name.

Larra? Or Mona? No, definitely something with L. Lisa possibly....

It didn't matter, though. The night was already late. Soon the sun would rise and then she would all by herself put on her clothes again and disappear from his chambers to return to her husband and children and her insignificant little life.

He turned back to the flames and for quite a while did nothing but stare silently into light and the heat. Staggering, he knelt down in front of the hearth and had to fight hard with his senses not to fall to the ground like a sack of flour. He closed his eyes and said a prayer to his God. He opened them again, looked into the flames, and waited for the Lord of Light to share his wisdom with him. He had not done so for years, though. He snorted a short laugh when, after a while, he still saw nothing but charred wood washed out by the heat and the dancing figures that the flames drew on the old stones of the hearth.

I, of all people, probably shouldn't talk about the insignificance of other people's lives, he thought bitterly. The Lord of Light would not grant him his favor tonight, just as he had not done the hundreds, now thousands, of nights before. Why had they chosen him to go to Westeros? He hadn't understood it then, but hadn't questioned the decision either, and still didn't understand.

They should have sent someone else to carry out the Lord's will. Taenela or Belos of Selhorys or Harano of Tyrosh. Not me.

He had been sent to the Sunset Kingdoms years ago to proselytize the last king, who had been said to have a strong fascination with fire and flames, for their faith. King Aerys, however, though indeed fascinated fire and flames, had not wanted to accept a new faith that could offer him and his bloodline nothing but submission to just another god. King Aerys had considered his bloodline itself to be divine, as did his son, the current King Rhaegar, and his children apparently as well. Aerys had wanted to be a god himself. Submission, even to the one, true God, had been out of the question for him.

"Hollow talk and empty rituals, constraint and submission I can already get from the damned Seven. What good is it for me to kneel to any other god, when I myself have the blood of gods flowing in my veins?" he had scolded and had him then thrown out of the Throne Room.

The king had allowed him to stay in King's Landing, but had never listened to him after that again. So instead of winning the king of all the Sunset Kingdoms over to the Lord of Light, the Heart of Flame, Thoros had begun wasting his time and indulging in his old vices again, doing what he did best. Drinking, fighting and fucking.

At some point, the sweetness of wine and the warmth between the legs of women had been more important to him than his god, and he had felt good about it. The more he had given himself to the worldly life, the more he had distanced himself from R'hllor... and R'hllor from him, it seemed. But was this really true? If he preached the only truth and sang of the glory of the one true God, how could it be that in years, decades, this God had not once granted him his favor, had not once shown him even the smallest vision in the flames? He was not a good priest of R'hllor, he was more than aware of that himself, but still he had done his duty, had served the Lord of Light as best he could. The doubts in his heart had taken root and had sprouted like weeds, though, had poisoned his soul and his mind, until at some point he had even dared to question the very existence of the Lord of Light at all. It had taken a powerful sign of the glory of his God to lead this lost believer back to the light, and truly there had been a sign.

He remembered well when, years ago, the bells of the city had rung in a mournful concert, announcing the death of the beloved Queen Rhaella. Three days later, according to the Valyrian tradition still practiced by the royal family, her body had been burned on a huge pyre in the center of the Dragonpit. Thoros, attending the ceremony like thousands of other commoners from King's Landing, remembered the sight, how small her body had looked on the huge pile of wood and straw, and how quickly it had disappeared in the blazing inferno of the enormous fire. That very night King Aerys had died as well. As the stories would have it, he had died of a broken heart after losing his beloved queen. Thoros, however, as superficially as he had been allowed to know the old king, knew better. That night, R'hllor had called the old king to him. Thoros was certain that this had been the price R'hllor had demanded for the grace of his glory, with or without the knowledge of both king and queen. The blood of the queen taken by the flames and the life of the king taken by the Lord himself.

It was said that the children of the newly crowned King Rhaegar, weeping for the loss of their grandmother, had slept snuggled together in a bed, tightly clutching the three dragon eggs Queen Rhaella had given them as a gift just some month prior. What exactly had happened, whether it had been the flames around the queen's body, the death of the king, the tears of the children, or perhaps all three, he could not say. Nobody could. That night, however, the eggs had hatched in the arms of the children, bringing new, sacred life into the world.

Thoros vividly recalled the excitement of the days that had followed when the stories about strange events in the Red Keep had begun to make the rounds. No one had really known anything, but everyone had had something to tell. The entire city had been on its feet for days and stories of all that had supposedly gone on in the Red Keep that night, one wilder than the other, had made the rounds in every tavern and brothel of the city and beyond. The brother of the new king, a boy of less than ten name days, had allegedly tried to usurp his brother and was now sitting in the Black Cells. King Rhaegar had allegedly taken two new wives and cast off his Dornish queen to procreate dragons and manticores in unnatural sexual practices with his new wives and other men and even animals. A demonic beast from the depths of the Smoking Sea had allegedly entered the fortress at night and devoured King Rhaegar's children with skin and hair. It had been three days for the truth to spread and before he himself had been able to catch a glimpse of the miracle that had taken place in the Red Keep, before he himself had first seen the little wonderous creatures circling around one of the Red Keep's massive round towers. Small as cats and colorful as the most beautiful birds they had been, but as distinctive as nothing else in the world.

Dragons.

On that day he had found his faith again. The dragons had returned to the world, and certainly this could have been nothing other than the will of R'hllor. For sure. Even after that, though, he had not been able to give up wine and women, but his faith in his God, the one true God, had been unshakable as never before. Yet R'hllor had never granted him his grace again, had never sent him visions again.

Please, Lord of Light, show me the truth. Just one more time, he pleaded in his mind. He just had to see something. Too many servants of their God had already proclaimed false prophecies because they did not see what the Lord had shown them, but saw what they had wanted to see. Too many faithful servants of the Lord of Light, the one true God, had unwittingly done the work of the Great Other in this way already, undermining the power and the truth of R'Hllor and weakening it in the hearts of the faithful. Soon he would see the king.

King Rhaegar had, even after years of absence and hundreds of attempts and petitions, still not allowed him to enter his sacred halls again. That did not matter, however. R'hllor had awakened dragons, had made this miracle happen, and he, a humble servant of the Lord of Light, would certainly have a role to play in the years to come. Of that he had no doubt. One way or another, his destiny would reveal itself to him, and certainly it would have something to do with the royal family. Why else would the Lord of Light have led him to this place, at the time when the dragons had returned to the world, if not to serve him here? And what better way could there be for him to serve the one true God than to advise the king in the way of the Lord and to convince him of the truth of his faith after all?

Thoros would be with the king, most certainly, and would be allowed to preach the truth of R'hllor to him and to the entire realm. He would see him and speak with him, he would probably even see his children, the instruments of the Lord of Light themselves. And for this meeting, this first, so decisive meeting, whether it would take place in one day and in ten years, he needed something to tell the king, to present to the king.

The king would hardly meet with him in private, probably more likely with half the court present, including the High Septon, false prophet of false gods that he was, and so his opportunity to convince the king of his words and his god would quickly pass if he did not take it. So he had to take this chance, perhaps the last one he would ever get. For a long time before but all the more since the dragons had returned to the world, the priests of R'hllor had courted the favor of the King of the Sunset Kingdoms, asking permission to reside in his court, to advise him, and to proselytize in his realm. After years, soon the time would finally come. Where he had failed with King Aerys, he would be given another chance with King Rhaegar and his children. He would be at His Grace's side and would be allowed to proclaim the truth of their god at court if he was able to convince King Rhaegar. But for this he needed the wisdom of R'hllor.

Please, Lord of Light, grant me your wisdom, show me your truth, he pleaded again in his mind.

Thoros needed something, anything, to say to the king, apart from the usual sermons with which he and his fellow believers had already failed in their attempt to convert King Aerys. For months he had made countless attempts every day to see an image in the flames or to hear a single word in the crackling of the fire or to find and prepare words of wisdom and truth that he could say to the king.

It was said that a good story was worth more than all the gold in the world to win over the heart of a man. So he had read the sacred writings of R'hllor again, for the first time in decades. In the end, he had chosen to tell the story of Lady Amandre and the three holy candles as it offered some symbols that might catch the king's attention, he hoped, and read it so many times that at some point he knew it by heart word for word. Three candles, three heads of the dragon. Candle flames that, in the story, burned away the terros of the night, as hot as a dragon's fire. Sacred blood, blessed by R'hllor himself, which had brought forth a sacred bloodline of great kings. But the more he had read the story, recited it to innkeepers and whores and anyone else who had wanted to listen, to be sure not to forget even a single word, the more ridiculous he had felt. The ear of a king could not be won with a children's story, sacred or not.

He was already about to rise again when suddenly... something happened. The flames, they... changed. Figures began dancing before his eyes, bright golden and fiery red, forming unrecognizable images and shadows, merging into formless shapes and dissipating as quickly as they had come. Small and hard to see at first, but becoming clearer with every moment, with every heartbeat. He didn't know how long he had stared into the dancing flames when they changed again. At first, he only saw red and yellow, then suddely twirls of green and blue, black and purple, began mingling in, fading away, and emerging again and again, swirling around each other in a wild dance. More and more colors, more and more shapes, more and more movements leapt into his eyes. Faster and faster, until everything became a wild swirl of shapes and colors, brighter and flashier with each passing moment. And then everything was... white.

He heard nothing but his own breathing and the beating of his heart, saw nothing but white. White wherever he looked. The sky, filled with white clouds over a white field, pointed trees covered with white snow, lit by a white moon, big and heavy in the sky as if it wanted to fall down to earth. Snowflakes blew about in rapid dance, like millions of tiny birds circling around themselves, each separately and yet still together, as if guided by an invisible hand. Clouds as pale as the skin of the fairest maiden drew up, hiding the moon behind a thin veil. The light became weaker, suddenly. The clouds, a moment ago faint and white and thin as silk cloth, seemed to grow denser, heavier, fuller, darker and darker with every beat of his heart. More and more of the moon's brightness faded, swallowed by now pitch black clouds, impenetrable as if made of stone. More and more darkness spread. The snow, however, still shone white, so brilliantly white.

Thoros tried to look around, to see where he was. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, except darkness and snow and more darkness. Panic seized him. He felt his heart begin to beat faster. In earlier years, when his faith had been as young as his body, his God had occasionally given him the grace to receive visions in the flames from him. They had been images full of warmth. There had always been a flame somewhere, assuring him that his God was with him, taking him into his heart and protecting him. But here... here was no warmth, no flame, no light. There was only cold and darkness. Cold and darkness.

Then he saw something. For a moment, Thoros thought he had imagined it. But that was impossible. The Lord let him see these images. None of this was imagination or deception. However, as quickly as it had come, so quickly it had disappeared again. Thoros concentrated, forcing his mind even deeper into the vision, into the darkness of the snow-covered forest before him. There it was again. Very briefly, almost invisible. Or was it not? Yes, most certainly. Coldness ran through him. Suddenly, as if by an invisible force, the warmth seemed to be mercilessly pulled out of his body. He froze, feeling his limbs tremble and numbness spread through his fingers and toes, hands and feet. Even the light from the fire in front of him itself seemed to dim. Then he saw them, clearly, as if they had been there all along.

From the darkness, eyes stared back at him, unmoving and unrelenting. Eyes, bright blue eyes, burning like ice in elegant ashen faces, pale as milk. First two, then four, then eight, then ten. Thoros had the feeling that he was being watched. But that was not possible. The Lord of Light sent him these images, it could not possibly be that these... beings could see him. It simply could not be. The eyes, however, shining like stars and yet unnatural and terrible at the same time, looked at him, stared straight at him, seemed to look through his eyes and his flesh right into his very soul, feasting on his doubts and his fear. With each passing moment he grew colder and colder, shivering all over his body by now. This was no right, this was wrong! They were not supposed to see him! There was supposed to be a flame! R'hllor was supposed to be here with him, guiding him, protecting him, but there was no flame and no warmth. Only cold and darkness... and those eyes, those terrible eyes.

With a loud cry, he leapt to his feet, stumbled back, and slammed against his bed. The warmth in his chamber was back, the light of the fire shining brightly again. His hands and feet were still cold and numb, however, he realized with horror.

"Why are you screaming like that?" the woman asked sleepily.

Thoros hurried over to the small chair where his robe, faded and stained, hung over the back. It reeked of sweat and cheap wine. He quickly pulled it on, slipping into his ragged sandals.

"What's going on?" the woman asked.

"I have to go to the king. Right now. The time has come. The time has come. By the grace of the Lord of Light, the time has come. I must go to the king."

"To the king?" the woman asked, leaning on her forearms and frowning. One of her breasts, full and heavy and wonderful, had slipped over the edge of his bed and hung down.

Lorna, he thought at that moment, looking at her nipple. Her name is Lorna. Why he hadn't been able to remember this until he saw her bare teat, he didn't want to think about that now.

"Yes, I need to see the king. Immediately."

No, not to the king, he then thought. To a temple. I have to go to a Red Temple.

He needed to confer with his fellow believers. What if this vision had been a trap by the Great Other to spread lies and falsehoods? He would be doing the work of the Great Other and that could not be. But if what he had seen was true... By R'hllor, the mere thought made him shudder again. He would travel to a temple, report his vision, and hear what his brothers and sisters in the faith had to say. However, it was not worth the effort to tell the woman about it.

"But of course. Surely the king will receive you at once. When you speak to him, please give him my best regards," she laughed as he hurried out the door.

Chapter Text

The air in his chamber was far too warm and sticky. Robb hated the heat. He was a northerner, with ice in his veins, who loved the cold around him, a chill wind in his hair and summer snow on his face. He was sweating under his thick doublet, and it itched so badly all over that he would have loved to just rip it right off his body again. Or maybe it was just his imagination. Robb couldn't remember ever being so nervous in his life. Maybe that was a good thing, though. If a man wasn't excited on the eve of his wedding, there must be something wrong with him surely. Still, he would rather have been anywhere in the world than here. For a heartbeat, the thought even crossed his mind to sneak out, get on a horse and just ride away. He could join the Night's Watch, like his Uncle Benjen, and become a ranger. There was honor in being a ranger at the Wall. But that was nonsense, of course.

He was the future Lord of Winterfell and he had a responsibility, to his family, to the North and to the entire realm. And not least to Lady Bethany, his betrothed. He barely knew her, had only been able to talk to her once at a small feast in her honor when her father, Lord Willam Dustin, had come to Winterfell with her two years earlier to officially announce their betrothal with his father. She was kind and smart, as far as he could tell, had an easy smile, a pretty face framed by full brown hair, and the tall, noble stature of her mother, Lady Barbrey. And yet... he did not love her. How could he?

"Everything all right?" his father asked, sitting on the bed by the side of the hearth and looking at him thoughtfully. Robb wasn't sure how long, but he must have gazed into the flames of the hearth for quite a while, silent and unmoving as if hewn from stone, judging from the dancing spots in front of his eyes.

"Yes, father. Of course," Robb said in as firm a voice as he could muster, but the expression on his father's face told him that he didn't believe a word he said. "It's just...," he continued. "I don't know. I'm just nervous."

"Is it about Lady Bethany? Is there something wrong with her?"

"No, it isn't. She's wonderful. I think."

"You're afraid because you don't know her."

"Yes, I think I am," Robb said after a moment, feeling as if he were a little child again and not a man on his way to take a wife.

"Don't be afraid, son. I know you don't love her, not yet, but... she's a good woman. Otherwise, your mother and I would not have chosen her for you. Love will come."

"Was it the same with mother and you?"

His father looked at him for a moment, then gazed long into the flames of the hearth, then back at Robb, before answering after a deep sigh.

"It was... different. After your uncle died, it was my duty to honor the agreement your grandfather had made with your mother's father. Back in the day, I only knew your mother little better than you know Lady Bethany now, but I very much knew she had been in love with Brandon. But even the strongest love cannot bring back a dead man. So I did my duty and she did hers."

"And love just… came?"

"Yes," he said simply, with a smile on his face that Robb couldn't tell if it was sad or not. "Give it time and everything will fall into place, son. I promise."

He knew that his mother had been supposed to marry his Uncle Brandon, had a sudden fever not snatched him from this world far too soon. It was said that within a few days the fever had burned through his uncle's body like wildfire. Those who had seen him in the prime of his life would have thought that he would live to be a hundred years old. But then he had fallen ill and died after less than two weeks.

He had always known that his parents' marriage had been a political one, as his was now. Like almost all marriages of knights and lords and even princes and kings. It was the burden of their rank to leave these decisions not to the heart but to the mind. Robb was happy, for himself and his parents, that this marriage had turned into the loving bond they now shared. Whether this love had already sparked at their wedding like a sudden fire in dry wood or had grown and matured as slowly as a delicate flower in the northern summer, he did not know. But he was encouraged by the prospect that even under such difficult circumstances as his parents', love had grown and taken such strong roots in their hearts. He could only hope that Lady Bethany and he would be able to accomplish the same.

Robb involuntarily wondered what his life would have been like had Lord Brandon not died so early of a fever. Would he have become the son of his mother and Lord Brandon, or the son of his father and another woman? Even as a boy, he had heard the stories told about his father, the Silent Wolf of Winterfell, of his supposed love for another woman, even though he had never been able to find out that woman's name. For a brief moment, Robb wondered if he should ask his father about the woman. Maybe there was nothing to the story and it was merely the gossip of servants, whose greatest joy in life often enough seemed to be to think up the most adventurous stories about their lords and ladies and to blow up every whisper into a little scandal. Maybe it was true, though, and his father had once loved someone else, had loved her enough to want to take her as his wife before his grandfather Lord Rickard had decided otherwise. Somehow, deep in his heart, Robb didn't want to know, though, and so he decided not to say anything.

In a way, Robb thought to himself, he could be glad that there was not yet a woman in his life to whom he had given his heart, whom he now would have to disappoint and leave behind to begin a loveless marriage with another. He had been with women before, with Carla, a knight's daughter on a visit to White Harbor with his father shortly before he learned of his own betrothal, but there had never been love involved. The next morning after his night with Carla, he had offered her to take her to wife, not wanting to dishonor her. His father surely would have understood. But she had only laughed in his face, and then had told him about the man she supposedly loved and was about to marry in a few weeks. He was a blank slate in that regard, open to letting feelings for Lady Bethany take root in him, and he could only hope that she felt the same way.

Of course, he would have preferred it to be between him and Lady Bethany as it had been between Sansa and her husband. Sansa, having spent the last three years in the Vale of Arryn learning from Lady Alys Arryn, had met and fallen in love with Lady Alys' nephew Ser Hubert Arryn shortly after her arrival in the Vale. At least that was how she had reported it in her letters. Whatever love might have meant in this case with Sansa. He had seen Ser Hubert only once, when he had accompanied his father Elbert Arryn to a small tourney at Riverrun a year ago, a young man with snow-white teeth, long straw-blond hair, and dimples so deep they almost looked like pockmarks, with fine manners and dressed in equally fine clothes. It had become immediately clear to Robb why Sansa had instantly fallen for him.

"It's time," his father said, snapping Robb out of his thoughts. The heat under his doublet had grown worse, and Robb was sure to be as red in the face as if he would burst into flames at any moment. Robb nodded and stepped toward the door. His father stepped up behind him and put his heavy wedding cloak around his shoulders, made of thick, fine cloth with fur trim and a large, elaborately embroidered direwolf of silver thread on it.

Robb took another deep breath, then opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. The air in the hallway outside his chamber was delightfully fresh in contrast to that in his chamber. He considered for a moment asking his father to open the window in his chamber to let fresh air in. Fresh air would certainly do him good on his wedding night. The thought of his upcoming wedding night immediately sent surge of panic through his body again that he almost believed his legs would give way under him at any moment. Robb barely noticed their walk through Winterfell, past bowing servants, broadly smiling kitchen maids, and earnestly nodding soldiers.

As if guided by an invisible hand, Robb put one foot in front of the other, walked out of the Great Hall into the cold of the evening air, followed by his father through the courtyard past the armory toward the Godswood. It had been raining heavily the last few days, but today the sky was clear, as if the gods wanted to give their blessing to this union. Robb could only hope it was true.

Walking through the muddy courtyard, Robb surprised himself at the thought that the deep mud would hopefully not ruin his new boots before he even arrived at the Godswood. It was a silly thought, yet he couldn't get rid of it until suddenly he was also aware of the dark green of the Godswood around him, the old, strong trees, lit in the pale light of the setting sun by countless torches and fires in small bowls. He saw his mother, Bran and Rickon and Arya, waiting to the right of the old heart tree. His mother was smiling but had tears in her eyes, Bran was looking as serious as if he were at a funeral, Rickon seemed to be having trouble as usual standing still and not fidgeting around, and Arya, for once squeezed into a dress that she had miraculously not yet soiled despite the damp weather and despite her being who she was, gave him a weak smile that probably meant "I'm happy for you, but please hurry." His Uncle Brynden was there, having accompanied Bran here from Riverrun. Rodrik and Jory Cassel had lined up, as well as Vayon Poole, Winterfell's loyal steward. At the very edge stood Theon, his father's ward, dressed in fine gray and black clothes with the golden kraken of House Greyjoy on his chest. He once again had his typical crooked grin on his face. Robb had no doubt that Theon was downright enjoying his insecurity. It did not surprise Robb not to discover Septon Chayle anywhere, at what he would have called this pagan, ungodly ritual.

On the other side of the heart tree stood his bride's family. Lady Barbrey Dustin was waiting to the left of the heart tree, tall and proud and handsome. She wore a gown of black and gold, ornately decorated with the crossed axes of House Dustin and the golden horse's head of her father, Lord Rodrik Ryswell. Inevitably, Robb had to think of how on his last visit to Winterfell, Lord Willam, deep in his cups, had raved about his lady wife's nakedness. Her breasts were enough, Lord Willam had blurted out, to make him wish he had never been weaned. At the thought of the breasts of his bride's mother, the blush rose again to his face, even if Robb secretly caught himself thinking whether things might be similar with Lady Bethany.

At their side were Roger and Rickard Ryswell, Lady Barbrey's brothers and uncles to his bride, Ser Corren Dustin, Lord Willam's eldest son and the heir to Barrowton and Ser Grandon Tyde, the captain of Lord and Lady Dustin's personal guard. A group of soldiers with torches in their hands, alternating the colors of the Starks and the Dustins, formed a ring around the group, leaving only a narrow gap through which Robb and his father now approached the heart tree. Robb looked into the heart tree's face as he walked toward it, unmoving and unchanged for thousands of years, like some pale giant frozen in time. The old tree's gaze seemed to be scrutinizing him, looking deep into his soul with its red, sad eyes. Robb's heart beat faster and faster with every step toward the tree, toward the face, and he couldn't help but feel that he was being watched, not so much by the people to the right and left of the old tree, but by something else, something older and wiser and... sterner. They reached the tree without anything happening, even if Robb couldn't tell exactly what kind of reaction he had expected from the tree. Still, he felt immensely relieved when he took up position next to the tree and turned his back on it, awaiting his bride.

It was not long before his bride also appeared in sight, stepping out from behind a large oak tree and a group of ash pines, on the arm of her father. Lord Willam Dustin, a mountain of a man with a thick beard of deep brown locks so full that other gods could have made a whole new man out of it, beamed at his daughter as he led her toward him. He then looked at Robb, still smiling, but with a clear expression on his face.

"Be good to her, or you'll have me to deal with," his eyes said.

That was exactly what Robb would do.

For the first time, Robb was now truly looking at his bride, draped in a fine dress of velvet and brocade in gold and red and black, with a high, stiff collar, over which hung a chain of silver, a pendant in the shape of a wolf's head on it. Robb had to smile as he recognized the shape of the pendant. She beamed at him, sweet and enchanting, and kept lowering her eyes shyly to the ground whenever their eyes met. She was adorable, gorgeous… and soon his.

She came to stand beside him, her father still close by her side, just as Robb's father stood by his, waiting. It took only a moment, a glimpse of one of her beautiful smiles, for Robb to lose himself fully in her eyes, those deep pools of beautiful green, as green as the godswood around them. As if through a veil, caught in his bride's gaze, he heard his father begin to speak.

"Who gives the bride?" his father asked.

"I, Willam of House Dustin, give the bride. Who takes the bride?"

It took Robb a moment to realize that it was now his turn to speak.

"I, Robb of House Stark, take the bride."

"Do you take this bride, a maiden, highborn and flowered?" his father asked.

"Yes, I take her," said Robb.

"And do you take this man, highborn and strong?" asked Lord Willam, turning to his daughter.

"Yes, I take him," said Lady Bethany, her voice tender and soft as fresh snow and as warm as a welcoming fire on a cold winter's night.

Robb took her hand and they both turned to the heart tree, knelt and began a silent prayer. Robb had never been a particularly devout person, having always said his prayers to the old, nameless gods of the North more out of a sense of duty towards his father and the heritage of his ancestors than out of genuine faith. Now, however, for the first time since childhood, he prayed seriously. He prayed for a good marriage. He prayed to be as good a husband to his wife as his father was to his mother. He prayed that he would learn to love her. He prayed that she would love him as well. He prayed for healthy children. He prayed for everything he could possibly think of. For a moment, he even wanted to pray that the gods would soon be with him on his wedding night, but then he stopped himself. Very soon, once the time came to bed her, he would want no one but Lady Bethany in his chambers, not even the gods.

When he was done, when he could think of nothing more to beg the old gods for, he opened his eyes and squinted to the side. Lady Bethany had already opened her eyes, squinted back at him just as cautiously, and seemed to be waiting for him. He took a deep breath before they rose together.

Robb took a step behind his bride, carefully taking the maiden's cloak from her slender shoulders. Lord Willam, from now on his good-father it rushed through his head, took the coat. Robb unfastened his own cloak, struggled for a brief moment with the clasp on his shoulder, and then carefully placed it over his bride's shoulders. Now she was his, now she was under his protection, now she was a part of his family, a part of House Stark of Winterfell. Lady Bethany turned as well now, looking at Robb, blushed and with a beautiful, shy smile on her lips. She took a tiny step toward him, placed one of her delicate hands on his arm, and stood on her toes in front of him. Robb leaned down a little toward her and for the tiniest moment their lips touched in a gossamer kiss. Immediately those present began to applaud. So it was done. He was married.

He took her on his arms to carry her to the Great Hall for their wedding feast and was surprised at how light she was. Her slender arms were wrapped around his neck and he couldn't help but look at her and smile the entire time. Robb was sure he looked like an idiot, but he just couldn't help it. With each look she returned, she seemed to blush a little more, her own smile a little wider.

They reached the Great Hall shortly after, where the guests were already waiting. He saw lords and their sons of all the great houses of the North and many from the Riverlands who had come to honor his wedding. Tully of Riverrun of course, Karstark and Umber, Bolton and Glower, Frey and Whent, Manderly and Mormont, Hornwood and Crowl, Tallhart and Wull, even men of the mountain clans were there. Robb carefully set his wife down in her place of honor in the center of the dais, right next to his own place of honor. A large banner with the direwolf of House Stark hung proudly above them. His father, his mother, and his new good-father and good-mother took seats on either side of them. Everything passed as if in a frenzy. He barely got a word of his father's speech about how grateful House Stark was for the presence of so many guests and how they all hoped and prayed for a good, fruitful marriage. He similarly heard scarcely a word of Lord Willam's speech praising the new, strong bond between their two families for the good of the entire North.

Servants brought in the food, all dressed in their best attire in the gray and white of House Stark. Huge loaves of fresh bread with nuts and plums were brought in and were sliced at the tables with long bread knives. The bread was so fresh and hot that some of the guests loudly burned their fingers on them. There were pies with codfish and clams, venison and mushrooms and rabbit meat and fresh herbs from the Glass Gardens, a thick soup with goat's milk and offal, and finally a whole roasted deer was brought in, stuffed with beans, leeks, onions and garlic in a sauce of heavy black beer. The meal was delicious and plentiful, but Robb brought down only a few bites.

"What's she doing?" he heard his mother's excited whisper. Robb followed her gaze, but didn't even have to look closely to know it was about Arya. He found his sister, laughing and grinning, after only a moment at one of the lower tables at the far end of the hall, where she was just taking the beer mug out of the hand of a young man with flaming red hair and seemed to be greedily downing its contents.

"Cat, let it go," his father tried to reassure his mother.

"Ned, she's embarrassing us! She's embarrassing our family and she's embarrassing Robb with this behavior. She is a daughter of Winterfell. She should be sitting here on dais with us, be quiet and look pretty. Just this one night. That's all I asked her for. Just this one night. Instead, she sits down there and drinks with the commoners as if she were a peasant."

"That's just the way she is, Cat. Tomorrow we will talk to her about it. I will talk to her about it. But today, let's just enjoy the evening."

His mother didn't look happy, but snorted a soft "Fine."

Robb needed two large mugs of strong ale before his anxiety seemed to gradually ease. His head grew dizzy, but the tugging in his stomach subsided. The soft voice of his bride beside him finally brought him back to the here and now, even if he hadn't understood what she had said. He looked over at her and noticed that she was looking at him. Apparently, she had asked him a question.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked. "Please forgive me, my lady, I... I was lost in thought." Her expression became uncertain, and only now did he notice that the gentle smile had disappeared from her face. Robb grew hot and cold at the thought of how many times she must have tried to talk to him that night already and he just hadn't heard her, just hadn't answered her. Suddenly he felt terrible.

"I said, I'm afraid I'm not a very good dancer. I hope you will forgive me for this, my lord. My septa always said that if I danced a little more klutzy, I'd look like an ox in the field."

Robb looked at her in amazement for a moment and then burst out laughing, ignoring the surprised looks of everyone else.

"I find that hard to believe," he then said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "But if it is true, you will certainly be the most beautiful ox of the evening. Besides, I'm not much of a dancer either, so you have nothing to be ashamed of, my lady. If there is any humiliation here tonight, we will humiliate ourselves together."

At last her smile returned.

"Now that I can hardly believe. You are so... strong and elegant, my lord," she said, abruptly turning red in the face again.

"Well, if you don't believe me, then allow me to prove it to you, my lady. And please, call me Robb."

"Bethany," she breathed, rising from her seat. Only now did Robb notice that the tables had already been cleared from the center of the hall and it was time to open the dance. He offered her his arm, which she accepted gratefully and with an implied curtsy, and led her down from the dais. Immediately, the knot returned to his guts.

Robb had always hated dancing. He wasn't good at it, felt silly and out of place, and had always been glad when it had been over and he had been able to sit down again – whether he had been dancing with a young lady, one of his sisters, or his mother. Now, however, here he was, standing in the middle of the hall, all eyes on him and his bride, and Robb knew he would not be able to escape this situation after just one dance. The music began, Robb approached his bride, who was waiting for him two steps away, and began to dance. His steps were unsteady and he was sure that several times he had not only failed to keep time but had turned in the wrong direction. Bethany seemed to have noticed this as well, because every time Robb spotted a mistake on his own part, the smile on her face got a little bit wider. It also did several times when Robb had thought he had done everything right, however. Bethany's smile became more and more a joyful grin with each beat of the music, her grin became a genuine laugh until she couldn't hold on any longer and laughed out loud with every movement, every turn, every even small touch of their hands. It was beautiful and so... liberating that Robb couldn't help but join in the glorious laughter, light and clear as the sound of a bell.

The world around him no longer mattered, the people staring at them no longer mattered, and whether his steps were right or not no longer mattered to him. Robb was caught up in the here and now, in the sight of his dancing, laughing wife. As suddenly as the music had come, it stopped, and for the first time in his life Robb was seriously disappointed that the dance was over. They stopped, applause erupting around them, and looked at each other. They were both out of breath, having danced so much faster than was really appropriate for the first dance of a noble wedding. Robb saw other men approaching his bride, her own father leading the way, to ask her for a dance, while several ladies had broken away from the crowd and were coming toward him. Before the first aspirants had reached any of them, Bethany took a quick step toward him, placed her hand, warm and soft and gentle, on his cheek, and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. Then she was already gone again, standing by her father ready for the next dance.

Robb had been so surprised that he hadn't been able to react at all, hadn't been able to return the kiss. There was nothing he would have liked better at that moment. He swore to himself, however, that he would make up for it as soon as possible.

Yes, with such a woman he could… he would fall in love. Robb was sure of that.

He danced first with his mother, then with Lady Alys Karstark and finally with Lady Meera Reed before he finally had his bride in front of him again. She was red in the face and visibly warm, but the smile on her face was so open and captivating that he didn't dare ask her if she might prefer to take a break. They danced two dances in a row together before Robb, looking at the drops of sweat on her neck and her cleavage, decided they both needed a rest. Bethany was just about to come to his side to let him lead her to their seats when he grabbed her by the arm, leaned down and kissed her on the lips. Immediately her hand darted back to his face, resting like a shield on his cheek as she returned his kiss.

"It seems we won't have to worry about the bedding later," Lord Willam blurted out beside them.

Robb paid no attention to him, however, but led his bride by the arm to their seats so they could rest and enjoy the rest of the evening. They took their seats on the dais again. His father and mother were still dancing, as were Bethany's father and mother. They drank some more ale and wine, looking at the guests below them. He even saw his little brother Bran dancing with the young Lady Eddara Tallhart, although the expression on his face already revealed that he was only doing it because Ser Brynden, whom he had been squiring for the past two years, had made him do it.

His father and mother rejoined them on the dais after a while, also drinking more wine and ale. Again and again Robb looked over at his bride, at his Bethany. Each time she shyly lowered her eyes, blushing ever so magically under his gaze, but just as quickly looked back up and returned his gaze. She smiled incessantly, biting her lip again and again. One of her delicate hands lay on his, her fingers intertwined with his.

"Where is she now?" he heard his mother ask. "She's gone. Ned, she's gone."

"Who's gone?" his father asked, his tongue clearly heavy from the ale.

"Arya, of course. She's gone!"

His father seemed to look around the room briefly, but judging by the slurred tone of his voice, Robb doubted he was seriously looking for her.

"Maybe she was tired and went to bed."

"Tired? Ned, this is Arya we're talking about."

"Cat, this is Robb's night. Just for once, let's not worry about Arya's nonsense tonight."

"She's gone, Ned. She just left the feast. We can't allow her to-"

Robb stopped listening, preferring to focus again on the sight of his Bethany. The feast went on for almost two more hours, until everyone was tired from dancing and especially the men in the hall were so drunk that the first ones had already fallen asleep on the benches at the edges of the hall or even on the floor.

"Bedding!" someone yelled from the back of the hall. It took only moments before others joined in. "Bedding! Bedding! Bedding!"

Before Robb knew what was happening to him, men and women had already rushed onto the dais, grabbing Bethany and carrying his loudly laughing wife out of the hall as they began to pull her dress off her body as they walked. Young women approached Robb, pulled him up from his seat, dragged him out of the hall as well, through another door, and began undoing the buttons and strings of his doublet and pants as he walked. The last thing he heard from the hall was Theon's voice.

"If you need help or don't know what to do, just call me!"

They dragged him along corridors and up stairs, more and more parts of his clothes lying on the floor behind them. The women and girls laughed and giggled, pulling and tugging at his clothes, pulling his boots off his feet even as he walked. Robb looked down at himself when they finally arrived at the door of his chamber and realized, wearing nothing but his socks anymore, that he was already starting to get hard in anticipation of his wife as the laughing and giggling ladies slowly, too slowly, moved away from him. Robb ignored the giggling, reached for the door handle and entered the room. Bethany was already there, in his... in their bed, the covers pulled up over her breasts. The remnants of her small clothes on the floor and her bare shoulders, however, told him that she was naked underneath, waiting for him. Robb, unsure and overwhelmed still standing at the door, felt himself getting harder and harder. Bethany's eyes traveled along his body, up and down, lingering on his manhood. She flipped part of the blanket so that the naked side of her body was visible, blushing again and gently biting her lower lip.

"Come to me," she breathed.

Without hesitation, he followed her command. Robb slipped under the covers next to her, immediately feeling her body pressed against his. She was warm and soft and her hair smelled sweet as summer flowers and and fresh as freezing rain. She leaned in for a kiss. Robb tasted the sweet wine and her even sweeter lips, willingly returning the kiss. He did not know for how long, but for quite some time the just lay there in his… in their bed, kissing each other, more and more passionate with each moment. Robb felt as if he could have spent the rest of his life like this.

Her hands ran up and down the rest of his body, along his chest and abdomen. At first Robb didn't quite know where to put his own hands, until Bethany finally took one of his hands and placed it on one of her soft breasts. They were wonderful, full and round and so incredibly soft. Her breathing quickened, Robb felt, as he began to knead her breast, firmer and more demanding. Her own hand now wandered lower, reaching his rock hard manhood and began to stroke it, up and down and up and down.

"Make me your wife, Robb. Please," she breathed into his mouth, kissing.

He moved over her and immediately she willingly spread her legs under him. Robb kissed her again, then got into position to take her maidenhead. He reached for his manhood and placed the tip at her opening. She was incredibly wet. Robb pushed and slid into her. Bethany let out a short cry as he disappeared completely inside her, but immediately wrapped her legs around his body and pressed Robb tightly against her.

"I'm sorry," he said, but Bethany immediately shook her head, her brown curls spread out like a fan on the pillow beneath her.

"Go on. Please, go on," she moaned as Robb began to move in and out of her. Quickly finding a beat, he pulled his cock out of her and immediately thrust into her all the harder again. Bethany moaned loudly under him, in tact with his thrusts into her warm wetness. As her body began to tremble violently and her moans grew louder and more ecstatic, Robb could no longer hold back.  With one, two, three final, violent thrusts, he spilled his seed deep inside her. Robb was sweating all over his body and completely out of breath, his softening cock still deep in her wetness. Bethany reached into his sweaty hair, pulled him down to her towards her face and kissed him passionately again.

Robb rolled off of her, then, flipping the covers back, breathing in and out heavily. Bethany lay down on his chest and immediately the scent of her hair rose to his nose again. She kissed him on the chest a few last times before her breathing slowed and she fell asleep.

Yes, I'm going to fall in love with this woman.

Bethany Stark

Chapter Text

The air was damp and smelled old and stale. The cellars beneath Storm's End, driven into the solid rock of Durran's Point, were deep and so dark that even the light of the oil lamps in their hands seemed barely able to dispel the blackness around them. Lyanna stood at the entrance to one of the countless stores, listening to Ser Lomas Estermont reading off the list of stored goods in the room, complaining at every other item on his seemingly endless list how little of this or that was left.

"We have eighty quarters of grain left, but only twenty quarters of beans. Besides, the wheat malt is running out. So if Lord Robert doesn't want to drink only water soon, new ones should be bought urgently," the man whined.

Lyanna was glad he couldn't see her rolling her eyes. If Ser Lomas went to Robert and told him he had to drink water from now on, Storm's End would certainly need a new castellan. Robert would throw the man over the ramparts with his own hands. For her husband, it would undoubtedly be better not to drink beer or wine for a while, at least for a few days, but asking Robert not to get drunk for a few days was like asking him not to breathe for a few days.

"Then why haven't you ordered new malt yet, ser?"

"The prices, my lady, the prices are downright obscene. I've tried to get some, but you can only get it at four times the normal price at the moment. We could get cheaper malt from Essos, but I wasn't sure about sending a ship out just for that."

"No, you did the right thing. We won't send a ship across the Narrow Sea for a little malt. Better send some letters to some lords of the Stormlands, not too far away. Offer them twice the normal price. There will surely be someone who has some malt left and wants to please his Lord Paramount."

She listened to how Ser Lomas talked for a while about the thankfully sufficient supplies of barley and oatmeal and before he then complained again about the shortage of salted meat and hams and the fact that there were only nine barrels of wine left in the cellars. She knew that even with full stores, there had never been more than a dozen barrels of wine in Winterfell, but then again, no one in Winterfell had ever downed as much of it as Robert did. Moreover, Ser Lomas went on, there was little vinegar left, about which the cooks of Storm's End supposedly complained to him every single day. The only really good news was that with nearly one hundred and thirty ox hides, they had so much leather in storage that they could easily sell a third of it without fear of a shortage in the near future.

"In any case, we need to figure out how to fund this," she heard Ser Lomas say, only now realizing that she had stopped listening to him somewhere between the bushels of mixed beans and the boiled sheep's milk.

"Hm? Fund what?" she asked, hoping it seemed like she just hadn't been able to hear him properly.

"The charcoal, my lady. We still have enough iron ore to last us the rest of the year, but since the last shipments of charcoal from the charcoal burners have failed to arrive, charcoal has become scarce. Garin the blacksmith already has only two out of four forges heating at all, and it's more likely to get even scarcer if we don't get new charcoal soon."

"Do we know why the supplies have stopped?" asked Lyanna, beginning to walk toward the exit. Ser Lomas followed her, apparently realizing that they would not be working through the last three pages of his inventory today.

"Various reasons. A village near Felwood burned to the ground half a year ago, and with it many charcoal kilns. Also, north of Fawnton, a couple of bandits have been roaming the area, killing or stealing some people, including, unfortunately, quite a few of the local charcoal burners. And apart from that, it seems that production has just been poor this year."

"Very well," Lyanna said as she finally reached the top of the steep stairs and pushed open the heavy oak door in front of her, stepping out into one of Storm's End's courtyards. "Without charcoal, the forges cannot be fired, and without hot forges, our smithies cannot produce or repair weapons and armor. New charcoal is a priority, ser. Get us some. I don't care where it comes from. Buy it in Essos if you must. Then you can buy large quantities of wheat malt directly from there as well, while you are at it. The way prices are right now, we might even end up making a good deal on it if we sell surplus."

"As you wish, my lady," Ser Lomas said, bowing to her and then disappearing nimbly like a weasel around the next corner.

The thought of how expensive this year would become was already giving her a headache, and yet not even half of the year was over. Robert and she would both still be celebrating their name days, and knowing her husband, he wouldn't miss the opportunity to use both as a reason to throw lavish feasts and maybe even hold another tourney. The income of Storm's End was actually quite high compared to what other great houses of the realm had to get by with, and if her husband could handle money a little better, she wouldn't have to worry about it either. The reality, however, was different. As quickly as the money flowed into House Baratheon's coffers, so eagerly did Robert spend it again with both hands. Lyanna sighed deeply as she walked through the courtyard toward the next courtyard, where she hoped to find Orys and Steffon.

If his handling of money was all that bothered me about Robert, I would be a truly happy woman.

She climbed a small flight of stairs onto one of the defensive walls that separated the courtyards. A soldier in black and yellow steel, the Baratheon colors, eagerly jumped aside to make way for her and greeted her with a quick "Good morning, my lady." She nodded back in greeting, but said nothing. Normally, she truly enjoyed talking to the men and women who served Robert and her at Storm's End, even preferred to spend time with them rather than with lords and knights and ladies, all of whom were here not for her sake but because they wanted something from Robert or her, just as she had preferred to spend her time with the sons and daughters of servants and soldiers and kitchen maids when she had been a child back in Winterfell. Today, however, she was in no mood for banter.

Long before she reached the eastern courtyard, she already heard the patter of horses' hooves. She passed a few more soldiers, who greeted her dutifully, and shortly thereafter reached the wooden platform, directly connected to the defensive wall, from which one could overlook the large inner courtyard. Years ago, Robert had wanted to reinforce the inner ramparts with additional watchtowers in order to be able to defend the individual courtyards even better, should an enemy actually manage to get past the outer curtain wall. However, the costs had risen to enormous heights within a very short time, and so all that remained were the wooden skeletons on the side of which the walls of the new towers should have been erected.

Lyanna had always liked the view from up here and was actually glad that the towers had never been built. Leaning against the platform's wooden railing, she reached up and pulled out the ribbon that held her hair in place. Immediately, the ever-blowing wind of Shipbreaker Bay reached into her hair, untangling the knots and braids faster than any handmaiden could have, leaving her brown mane blowing in the wind like a proud banner.

A loud bang finally drew her gaze down to the courtyard. Steffon had just broken his lance on Orys' shield, Orys' lance was still in one piece, both still firmly in the saddle. Still, she immediately heard loud clapping and the bellowing laughter of her husband, who was standing on the ground next to the newly constructed jousting square, watching her sons practice. Ever since the letter had arrived from King's Landing inviting the entire family to the celebrations in honor of Crown Prince Aegon's nine and tenth name day - celebrations that would, of course, include a grand tourney - her boys had talked about nothing but the jousting in King's Landing. Robert would have preferred it if their sons had taken an interest in the melee, as he did, yet instead the two had been reluctant to get off their horses for weeks.

Oddly enough, Lyanna was less worried about her sons than she was about Robert. Ever since he had revealed to her that he planned to compete in the Heir's Tourney in the melee, she had slept poorly. Her sons were a bit young but of suitable enough age, six and ten and five and ten, to participate in the jousting, both tall and of broad built for their ages and already with some experience gained in the tourneys at Mistwood and Bronzegate last year. Robert, however, was neither of suitable age nor in suitable physical condition for a melee. The last ten years had not done Robert any good. Where once he had been all pitch-black hair and mountains of muscle, the hair was now streaked with gray and the muscles had made way for rings of heaving fat. By now, her husband was even finding it difficult to hold himself up on a horse, so much had he grown in width. Her hope had been that Robert would simply abandon the idea as soon as he realized he no longer fit into his armor – any of his numerous armors – but that hope had been forfeit. Robert had simply had a new suit of armor forged to fit his expansive body, completely ignoring the cost and the silliness of this whole endeavor. He had been as proud as a little boy when he had presented his new armor to her, and at that moment Lyanna simply hadn't had the heart to tell him that it made him look less like a brawling knight and more like one of those Essosi war elephants.

Watching as Orys and Steffon rode toward each other again, this time breaking both lances but still both of her boys secure in the saddle, Lyanna thought of Jon. She wondered if Jon would also participate in the joust. She had not seen her eldest son in almost a year. After being fostered in Winterfell for a few years, he had stayed in Storm's End for less than a year before going back to King's Landing to join the royal court. No doubt he would take part. Jon was a close friend of Prince Aegon, she knew, and so he would hardly miss competing in the jousting at a tourney in the prince's honor. She couldn't wait to finally see her firstborn again. Surely she could have traveled to King's Landing during this last year to see him, but... it was King's Landing.

For years she had managed to avoid seeing, much less entering, the capital city, even though Robert had been there regularly, her good-brother Stannis served on the Small Council, and Houses Baratheon and Targaryen were so closely tied together. Now, however, she would hardly be able to escape it. She would go to King's Landing with Robert and Orys and Steffon. Seeing Jon again was the only comfort she felt at the thought.

She clapped her hands when she saw how Orys had managed to knock the one year older Steffon out of the saddle. Usually it was always the other way round, Steffon knocking orys out of the saddle. Her youngest tore his helmet off his head, rode triumphantly around the jousting field, and then, grinning broadly and leaping elegantly from his horse, helped his older brother back to his feet. Both waved to her briefly, then went back to their horses and mounted again. Ser Gawen Wylde, the master-at-arms of Storm's End, was already handing Orys a new lance, Steffon receiving a lance from Edric Storm, while Lyanna waved to them one last time and then turned away.

Her thoughts raced around everything and nothing, around the finances of House Baratheon and the Heir's Tourney in King's Landing, around Jon and her family in Winterfell, around the supplies of Storm's End, and the harsh icy wind of Shipbreaker Bay that ran right through her very marrow. She decided that she would ride out now. It would certainly clear her head. Maybe, she hoped, it would even ease her mind so much that she would finally be able to sleep through the night again. So she headed straight for the stables. She was glad she hadn't put on one of her better dresses this morning, but just a plain dress of black wool and gray linen. So she could do without having to put on her riding breeches and just ride out wearing her dress. The dress was sturdy and would certainly last the day. And if it wouldn't... then it wouldn't. She always wore boots suitable for riding under her clothes anyway, so she didn't have to worry about that either.

Hubart, the master of horse, a slimly built, always good-humored man with only half his teeth left, welcomed her with a broad laugh and a dramatically deep bow. Soon her favorite horse, a gray stallion with flowing white mane she called Old Man, was saddled and she and an escort of five soldiers were on their way out of Storm's End. Robert had gifted her the stallion two years after their wedding, when she had finally recovered from Jon's birth enough to be able to ride again. Maester Jurne had called it a miracle that she had survived the birth at all after all the blood loss. Being back on horseback had been her greatest wish during that time, more than a year that she had been bedridden, though. She had long forgotten Old Man's real name.

They rode along the wide road by the cliffs and down into the bay a mile from Storm's End, past Durran's Town and into the little forest where Robert loved to hunt. The forest was small, but the game surprisingly plentiful. After nearly an hour, she grew bored and sped up her ride.

"My lady, please don't ride so far ahead," she heard one of the soldiers from her retinue call after her. Ignoring his shouts, she gave Old Man the spurs again. She was a better rider than all those men combined and if there was one thing she didn't need, it was those men telling her that a ride through the forest was too dangerous for her. Moments later, the men, all clad in heavy armor and on their powerful but slower horses, had already disappeared into the dark green and brown and black of the forest behind her. Only a heartbeat later, the excited shouts of the men also disappeared from her ears, leaving only the quick trampling of Old Man's hooves and the rushing wind in her ears.

She thundered along the narrow path through the dense forest, past copper beeches, pines and maples. On one of the meadows, a small pack of deer was scared up by Old Man as they galloped by, and she heard the indignant screams of the birds as she broke through the undergrowth here and there, or small branches and leaves, getting caught in her hair or dress, were torn from the trees. She reached a small pond, hardly larger than her sleeping chamber in Storm's End, tied Old Man to a tree, and lowered herself onto a broad, flat stone that was half submerged in the shallow water. She took off her boots and dipped her feet in the cold water. It was pleasant, did her aching feet good, and for a moment she again felt like the little girl who had ridden out without permission on her father's horse to explore the woods around Winterfell.

The sun was already turning reddish when Lyanna decided it was time to return. It took her little less than an hour to find her way out of the forest and take the road back to Storm's End. When she arrived and rode into the castle under the annoyed looks of the soldiers waiting outside the main gate that she had lost in the forest, the sun had already almost completely disappeared behind the horizon and certainly she had missed supper with Robert and her boys.

She found the boys with Maester Jurne in his tower, thick books on the tables in front of them, quills in their hands and the loud cawing of ravens in their ears. Since they spent the days entirely training for the joust in the upcoming Heir's Tourney, they had promised to make up for their lessons with Maester Jurne in the evenings after supper. That fate had apparently caught up with them now. Grinning, she left them with the maester with looks of disappointed hope in their eyes that their mother might rescue them from this horrible fate. She looked for Robert for a while, but could not find him anywhere. Even at supper he had not been present, she learned from a servant girl. That was just fine with her, if she was honest with herself. She had fully expected to be scolded by Robert for not staying at the boys' exercises or riding alone without an escort through the woods nearby, or both.

Probably he's back with one of his whores, she thought bitterly. She would have gladly listened to any rebuke from her husband if she had known that he was no longer climbing into the beds of whores, maids, or tavern wenches in return. However, she knew him better than to hope for that change. That hope, if it had ever existed, had died and turned to dust long before their marriage already.

She had some leftovers from supper given to her, took a small carafe of wine with it, and retreated to the small Godswood of Storm's End. It was tiny compared to the Godswood in Winterfell, did not have nearly the same, almost magical aura of the ancient forest in her birthplace, but at least it had a real weirwoord tree. Especially here in the south, there were many castles and fortresses with godwoods where there were no weirwood trees and simple oaks or beeches formed the center of the godwoods. Nearby, one of Robert's ancestors had had a small stone bench built under an equally small but richly decorated canopy, where Lyanna liked to sit, eat, and think whenever she wanted to be alone.

The meal was good but simple, just the way she liked it. Roasted cod with herbs, boiled beets in a light broth with beans, accompanied by soft goat cheese and some dark, heavy bread. She had for once taken a cup of wine with her for supper, heavy and red and sweet, instead of the usual herbal tea, and now sat on the little bench, her plate on her thighs, nibbling on the remains of the dark bread. When she wasn't spending time with her sons or sitting on the back of a horse, there were few places for Lyanna in this world where she felt as comfortable and content, as at peace with herself as she did in this place. There was no place where she felt so at home, so connected to her family and her northern roots, as among these old, ever-silent trees.

When it finally became too cold for her, she tightened the way too thin cloak around her shoulders and made her way back to her chambers. The day had been long and she was exhausted. On her way through the hallways of the fortress, she briefly considered taking a hot bath before going to bed, but then decided against it. Two or three thick blankets would certainly warm her up as well and standing around waiting for the water to get hot was not something she wanted to do right now. It took her a little more than a quarter of an hour to reach the hallway where her and Robert's joint chambers were located. She passed the chambers once to look into the rooms of her boys a little further down the hallway. Both of them had already gone to bed and were fast asleep, she noted with satisfaction. A voice broke the silence in the hallway before she could turn around and go back to her chambers, though.

"My lady, I was hoping to find you here," she heard a soft voice say behind her. Lyanna did not turn around, but waited until the man who belonged to the voice had stepped forward and bowed to her.

"Lord Baelish," she greeted him curtly. Petyr Baelish was a small man, always clad in expensive fabrics of such bright colors that at times it almost hurt the eyes. He smiled kindly, as he always did, but his smile did not reach his eyes, as it never did. She did not like the man. His much too delicate voice, his always fake smile and his put-on friendliness always sent a shiver down her spine. He had never harmed her, had never behaved unseemly toward her and had always been helpful whenever Robert or she herself had needed a service from him, and yet Lyanna always had the feeling of being watched by a beast of prey when he was around. Not a wolf or a lion, but a small one, with tiny, sharp teeth, skulking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to tear out the throat of its prey while it slept. "That surprises me. How can I possibly be of help to you?"

"It should hardly surprise you, my lady. Everyone knows it is you who runs the castle, not so much your husband."

"So you sought me out to flatter me?" she asked. Lyanna had felt so good just then, but with each word he spoke, her happiness waned. She had no desire to play his games. For a brief moment, she wondered where he might have come from so suddenly. He had not been behind her in the hallway. Or had he?

"Of course not, my lady. As a matter of fact, I was looking for your husband, but could not find Lord Robert anywhere, and so I was hoping that you might be able to tell me where he is. I need to talk to him about some urgent matters."

"And about what do you have to talk to him at such a late hour, my lord, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"About the funding of the tourney that Lord Robert is planning for the end of the year."

"Tourney?" she asked, irritated.

"Indeed. After the upcoming tourney in King's Landing in honor of our beloved Crown Prince, Lord Robert is planning to host a tourney himself in honor of your son Steffon's name day, which is intended to eclipse the tourney in the capital in size as well as grandeur. I'm surprised he hasn't spoken to you about it yet. Anyway, some of your husband's wishes are a bit... ambitious, if I may say so. Financing is going to be problematic, to say the least. The elephants alone will eat up a fortune."

"Elephants," she snorted. "Of course."

Lyanna pondered for a brief moment, yet couldn't tell who she was angrier with now. With Robert for keeping this absurd plan of his own tourney from her, or with Lord Baelish for seriously trying to play this silly I-know-something-you-don't-know-game with her.

Robert. Definitely Robert, she then thought.

Petyr Baelish had been sent to Storm's End from the Vale some years ago by Jon Arryn to better the at that time more than precarious finances of House Baratheon. And no one could deny that Lord Baelish indeed had a talent for juggling numbers and coins. Since then, he slithered like a weasel through Storm's End and had his fingers and his nose in absolutely everything that he was not kept from with the greatest of difficulty. Lyanna, who herself was always trying to keep Robert's wastefulness in check as best she could, was reluctant to admit it, but without Petyr Baelish, Robert would have driven their family into ruin years ago already. Over the years, Lord Baelish had become a wealthy man himself through his work for Robert, at least judging by how much he liked to flaunt his acquired wealth. Lyanna knew that by now he owned more than half of all the brothels within a day's ride of Storm's End, possibly even more.

You probably have more to do with my husband through your whores than I do, she thought and had to restrain herself not to snort out laugh. And that you supposedly don't know between the thighs of which of your whores Robert is exhausting himself at the moment, I wouldn't believe you even for half a copper penny.

"I'm afraid I don't know where my husband is, my lord. So you will have to wait for his return, as will I and everyone else." She saw that he wanted to reply something, but continued quickly, not wanting to give him the opportunity to start the next round in the little game he must have been trying to play with her. "Now, if you will excuse me, I am quite tired from the long day and will retire to my chambers now. Good evening, Lord Baelish."

"Good evening, my lady," she heard him say, when she had already walked passed him.

She was glad when she found that a fire was already burning in the hearth in their sleeping chamber when she entered. It was warm and pleasant, so that she could quickly take off her dress and boots and be only in her nightgown without freezing. It was strange. She was a daughter of the North, a daughter of Winterfell. She had ice water in her veins, had always loved the cold more than the warmth, but not here. The cold in Storm's End somehow was... different. The cold of the North, her homeland, was icy and even deadly at times, yet also homey and caressing like a worn blanket or the embrace of an old friend. The cold in Storm's End was just that, cold. It went through marrow and bone, was damp and piercing and biting. When she was alone in their chambers, in this fortress, Robert drunk in a tavern somewhere or in the bed of one of his whores, she had often thought about what a depressing thought it was to be buried here one day. At some point she would have to talk to Robert about wanting to be buried in the North instead, in her home. When the day came, she wanted to go home. Because that's what Storm's End has never become in all these years.

She went into the small solar attached to their sleeping chamber, which she always had to herself, sat down on the chair next to the desk and looked out the window into the night sky. The night was clear and from the darkness of the solar she could see the stars shining above, watching over her. There was nothing of interest for Robert in this room and so he never came into the solar. Here there were only books, books and more books and to get Robert to read a book one would have to illustrate it with naked women and even then he would only look at the pictures. Here she would be undisturbed, even if he came staggering through the door later, probably swaying from wine or beer or both.

She had her handmaiden bring her another cup of hot spiced wine before she released her for the rest of the night and once again retreated into the solar, staring out into the darkness, wrapped in the thick blanket she had taken with her from Winterfell years ago. It had been her mother's favorite blanket, as her father had never tired of telling her, and so had eventually become her favorite blanket as well.

In the silence of the room, the thoughts of the afternoon came up again. She had to think about the tourney, about Jon, whom she could hardly wait to see again, but also about King's Landing and about... him. For a moment she wondered if she could find an excuse not to accompany Robert and her boys to King's Landing. If she were pregnant, none of this would be a problem. She could simply say that she was with child and could not travel and everyone would accept it. But after her three troubled pregnancies, each of them nearly fatal to her, Robert had rarely shared her bed. It could have been mistaken for thoughtfulness, had she not known that he simply took his pleasure from other women. Only when he was too drunk and had been rejected by some woman or girl shortly before, he came to her and demanded that she fulfill her marital duties, even though he usually did not do this with words but simply by removing her dress, taking her to bed with him and beginning to do whatever gave him pleasure at the moment. No matter how many times he professed his love for her, told everyone asked and unasked she was the love of his life, even a wedding vow couldn't change a man's nature. Her brother Ned had once believed that, but she had not and to her dismay she had been proved right.

No, she would not be able to avoid the journey to King's Landing. All that was left for her now was to cling to the good things that this trip would bring. Steffon and Orys would certainly have a great time, even if their chances in the joust were anything but good. They were good boys, tall and strong and skilled, but she knew all too well herself that it took more than that. Luck as well as experience. Luck they might have hopefully, but experience was only gained through years of hard work and harder failure. She would see Jon again, her firstborn. She promised herself that she would embrace him as soon as she arrived and not let him go until the end of the tourney. Ned would certainly come to the capital as well, perhaps bringing some of his children with him. No doubt he had received an invitation, and an invitation from the king to such an occasion was impossible for a Lord Paramount to turn down. Lyanna had no doubt that he would be only too happy to do so. Lady Catelyn, however, would surely convince him that he had to go. A woman who had been expected to marry Brandon certainly had a grip on Ned. Even Benjen may be there, if they were all a little lucky. She knew that lately letters had kept coming from Castle Black urging Robert to empty his dungeons and send all the criminals in them to the Wall. Thanks to the latest festivities Robert had organized, there were indeed quite a few thieves and robbers and rapists and even some murderers in the dungeons under Storm's End. No doubt the Night's Watch had sent similar letters to all the great lords of the realm, and - if the situation was indeed as dire as the letters claimed - they would not miss the opportunity to send one of the black brothers to King's Landing for the Heir's Tourney. So perhaps Benjen was there as well.

The one who would definitely be there, however, was... him. Rhaegar. She would see Rhaegar, would have to face him. She would be face to face with the one person she had avoided seeing as best she could for years. The thought alone made her heart beat faster. Immediately, however, she scolded herself in her mind for it. She was a married woman and she would be a better wife to Robert than he was a husband to her. She might not owe Robert this, but she owed it to herself.

The wine in her hand had gone cold by now. Not wanting to waste it, she drank the last bit in one quick gulp and then placed the cup on the small table next to her. For a while she just stared aimlessly out through the window, her head completely empty. Briefly, she wondered if she should go to her little stash. It was her greatest secret and at the same time her greatest fear. Robert had never noticed the loose floorboard here in the solar, fortunately. No one could have said what would have happened if he had, at least once in his life, shown an increased interest in this room after all. Her fingers itched to lift the loose board, take out the little box underneath and read them, the letters. For years she had not read the letters Rhaegar had written to her back then, in the months after her marriage to Robert, after their wedding night. After their night. The letters, with his vows of love and promises of safety and a good life that he had written after he had learned that she had been with child.

Lyanna then decided against it, however. The letters were safe in a place only she knew. That was where they had to be. It was better that way for everyone. She had never had the heart to burn the letters, even though she knew it would have been the better decision, the only right thing to do. Still, that was where they had to be and that was where would stay, where they were safe, where the world was safe from them and where no one would ever find them. No one but her, if her heart did indeed get the better of her mind again one day. Just like it had back then. But not tonight. It would do no one any good if she were to plunge that hot dagger through her own heart again. Unread and unheeded, the letters would at least not be able to do any harm.

Orys Baratheon

Steffon Baratheon

Chapter Text

She stood on the balcony of her sleeping chamber and held her favorite crown of roses in her hands, smiling widely, the first crown she had ever received. The crown was old, the roses dry and yet it was her most precious possession. She let her fingers run gently over the petals, thinking back to the moment when it had been placed upon her head years ago. Aegon had just won the tourney at Nightsong in celebration of his five and tenth name day. It had been a small tourney with barely more than a handful of competitors, but it had still been one of his proudest days. His first joust in a real tourney and his first victory. She had surprised him with her presence, had showered him with congratulations and kisses, and he had made her his Queen of Love and Beauty for the first time.

She put the crown on the wide balustrade of her balcony, smiling at the memories. She remembered the joy on Aegon's face that night, the soft touches and the even softer kisses at the feast and afterwards. When they had finally been alone in his sleeping chamber after the big feast and the exhaustingly long dance, she had rewarded him for the victory and her crown of roses, letting him take her maidenhead. It had been one of the most wonderful nights of her life and she still got a warm, comforting feeling in her stomach whenever she thought back to their first night of lovemaking. They had both been unsure what to do, but Aegon had been sweet and gentle and caring and everything had been just perfect.

In every tourney her brother had won since - big and small, important and unimportant - she had been by his side, cheering on him in every round, letting him crown her his Queen of Love and Beauty, and rewarding him - and herself with it - generously with her body in the nights afterwards. Last he had won the tourney in Darry about half a year ago, knocking Joffrey Tully off his horse in the last round with a blow so powerful that some people on the ranks had even feared for young Lord Joffrey's health. She had, as always, been with her Aegon that night, had sucked him off twice and, after she had sucked him hard again only the better part of an hour later, had let him fuck her from behind long and hard. He had grabbed her by the hair and fucked her wildly back and forth across the bed like a young mare that needed to be broken in.

It had hurt terribly, the hard slaps on her ass cheeks and his even harder cock, which he had been thrusting in and out of her ass again and again. The pain had been ecstatic though, and she had loved and enjoyed every moment of it. After being used so hard, almost violently, by her beloved, she had decided that she would let him use her even more in the future. And that she had done. Since then, their sex had not only become harder, but also much more frequent. Whenever he had wanted her, at any time of the day or night, he had only had to give her a sign or say a short word, and she had immediately been willing and ready for him. Often enough, even just one of his special glances had been enough to let Rhaenys know that he wanted to fuck her. She herself had been not only more willing afterwards, but also wetter than ever before. The feeling of being not only bedded by Aegon as his partner, but downright used almost as if she were his property, had pleased her more and more each time. More than she could ever have imagined.

A cool breeze brought her back from her thoughts into this fresh night. She had decided not to put on her light silk robe but rather to let the cool morning wind brush softly over her skin. The sun had not yet risen to warm her and so the cold immediately caused her nipples to grow hard.

Now she stood on her balcony, slightly freezing and naked as on the day she was born and looked down on the sleeping city, still feeling the warm glow in her buttocks and the fading pain in her lower bowels from their previous lovemaking just two hours ago. It was a pleasant pain, a beautiful reminder of Aegon's love. She began to freeze and was just about to turn around to go back to bed to her Aegon when she suddenly felt his strong arms wrapping around her from behind and his hands grabbing and kneading her full breasts in lust. She leaned back against his muscular body and enjoyed his warmth for a moment. His body was always warm. It only took a moment before she felt his already hardening cock in her back as he began to kiss her neck and her bare shoulders while his fingers and thumbs began to caress her hard nipples.

She moaned as he began to twist her nipples between his fingers and a brief pain ran through her breasts. She stretched her arms upward, giving him even better access to her tits, and reached behind her to bury her hands in his soft silver hair. At once the wetness returned between her thighs and she needed all her strength to resists the urge to bend over, offer him her backside and beg him submissively to take her again from behind here and now. She loved to submit to him, his will and his desires just as much as Aegon loved to make use of this, of her body and her submission. Some of the guards or servants who were still or already on their feet at that time would no doubt notice them, but the thought did not bother her at all. They had often enough been caught when they had made love. Apart from a little talk and some whispers, nothing had ever come of it. And nothing ever would.

A servant had caught them fucking on the large table in the Small Council Chamber once, a guard had surprised them doing it in the Throne Room in the middle of the night and a septa had undoubtedly suffered the shock of her life when she had found Aegon leaning on the altar of the Mother in the royal sept, Rhaenys on her knees in front of him with his balls in her hands and his cock in her mouth. How many handmaidens, coming to clean their rooms and expecting to find his or her sleeping chamber empty, had already stumbled upon them while they had been fucking and sucking like savages, she did not know, nor did she care. She was his and he was hers, entirely and forever, and as far as she was concerned, everybody was welcome to see it. They were made for each other, destined for each other. They were the two parts of a whole and it aroused Rhaenys to let the whole world know this.

"What are you doing out here, sister?" he said between two kisses, his lips finding their way up her neck all the way to earlobe.

"Just enjoying the cool morning air," she moaned. "Did I wake you, my love?"

"No, but I missed your body next to mine. You know you must never leave my side. I'm not complete without you."

His kisses became more passionate, more demanding and his hands now kneaded her breasts firmer. She felt that his cock was as hard as stone again, ready to fuck her in any way he wanted or she begged him to. His right hand now let go of one of her tits and wandered down her body, over her flat belly and between her thighs. She fervently hoped that her belly would soon no longer be flat and that Aegon would finally put a babe in her. She would stop drinking moon tea the very day they would finally be wed. She was so wet already that she thought she even felt how her juices were beginning to run down the inside of her thighs. His hand reached into her wetness and two of his fingers immediately pushed into her drooling cunt.

"And I'm not complete without you either," she moaned, heavily breathing. "Let's go back to bed, my love."

Aegon did not move however, holding her tight and continuing to kiss her, moving his lips and tongue along her neck and shoulders, enthusiastically massaging her tits with his left hand while fingering her further and further with his right. His movements became faster, his penetration more vigorous. His fingers were attacking her wet cunt harder and harder now, making her soaking wet lips smack with every movement. Her breathing became heavier and heavier the deeper and faster his fingers entered her. It did not take long for her to come heavily, for her whole body to be shaken by a violent orgasm. If Aegon had not pressed her firmly against his muscular body with his strong hands, clinging to her full tits and her soaking wet cunt, she would have collapsed in ecstasy before his eyes, when all her strength abruptly left her. She moaned and screamed so loudly all at once as she orgasmed, even hearing Meraxes screaming wildly in the distance, united with her in her ecstasy, that she was sure she had woken up everyone in the Red Keep with it, if not the entire city. Nothing could interest her less at that moment, though. He fingered her some more, slower and gentler now, almost caressing her excited cunt until her cramps and tremors finally subsided. He pulled his fingers out of her then and she, her eyes still tightly closed, could hear him licking her juices from his fingers with pleasure. He let her breathe for a few moments afterwards, before he turned her around, pulled her close again and kissed her passionately. She gladly opened her lips to grant his tongue entrance to her mouth.

He then took her on his arms, carefully carrying her inside and back to the bed like the world's greatest treasure. He lay down beside her, his cock stiff and hard as a rock. She snuggled against him, laid her head on his chest and slowly began to stroke his cock. Up and down and up and down. He loved it when she took her time, she knew. After a while, Rhaenys sensed from the way his abs tightened that he was close to the end. She gave him a quick kiss on the mouth, then moved down his body and quickly replaced the hand around his cock with her wet lips, enclosing it as tightly as she could, passionately sucking his length and playing with her tongue around the tip of his delicious cock.

Aegon let out a deep moan, grabbed her head and held it firmly in place while his cock began to throb in her mouth and his seed poured in over her tongue. Rhaenys loved the warm, salty taste in her mouth, the taste of her brother, the taste of his love for her. After he had come in her mouth, she cleaned his cock with her tongue and lips, sucking up and swallowing all the rest of his delicious seed, and then lay back on his chest, her arm firmly wrapped around his upper body. It took only a few moments for her to fall asleep, listening to his steady heartbeat while he was softly stroking her hair.

She awoke a few hours later, when the sun was already in the sky. It was still early in the morning, but Rhaenys decided that the day should better start early for her. She would finally be able to talk to her father, something she had wanted to do for a long time already and that had been delayed by him time and time again for this or that reason. For weeks, he had been announcing that he would finally decide on her and Aegon's future during the course of Aegon's tourney – no doubt also because, as she knew, their mother was putting more and more pressure on him to finally come to a decision – even though anything other than her betrothal to Aegon was absolutely unthinkable. So she was glad that her father had finally agreed to a meeting for this morning, and she certainly didn't want to be late.

Rhaenys rose carefully, not wanting to wake Aegon. Her brother was not an early riser, had never been, and never would be. He would certainly be present for the welcoming of the Baratheons who would arrive during the day – washed, well dressed and beautiful as always – but there was still some time before then and so Rhaenys decided to let her beloved sleep a little longer. Either a knight of the Kingsguard or some servant would certainly wake him up when the time came. She washed as quietly as she could in the small bowl next to the large mirror, then took one of her favorite dresses from the closet, a flowing robe of blood-red silk, laced some light leather sandals around her feet and quickly combed her hair. Like most mornings, she decided against forcing her hair into a style, instead letting it fall openly over her shoulders and down her back. Aegon loved it that way. She also dispensed with jewelry for the moment, since she would not have to impress anyone. And since her father himself was not particularly fond of finery and tinsel, it was always better to appear restrained when one wanted something from him. Besides, she wanted to break her fast before seeing her father and sitting at the table draped in gold, silver and precious stones was pointless. She gave the sleeping Aegon another gentle kiss on the forehead, then on the lips and then left the room, opening and closing the door as quietly as possible.

Ser Barristan Selmy and her uncle Lewyn stood guard at her door and greeted her kindly as she stepped out. Rhaenys returned the greeting and walked down the hallway toward the King's Banquet, the small hall in which her family always took their meals and where she would be breaking her fast now. Uncle Lewyn followed at her heels, while Ser Barristan stayed behind to guard the sleeping Aegon. Inevitably, Rhaenys wondered how long the two had been standing outside her door and how much of her and Aegon's nightly... activities they had overheard. Presumably, however, the two had spent most of the night in front of the door and had heard absolutely everything. The fact that Ser Barristan remained standing in front of her door, thus very much aware of the fact that Aegon was still inside, spoke for it in any case. Her uncle Lewyn, like most Dornish, had never been prudish. He had always been very open about everything, even about things happening between the sheets and even in the presence of his king and queen. Some of the best, most salacious stories and rumors Rhaenys knew, she had heard from him, after all. At that everyone in King's Landing knew about Lady Alexondra, his longtime mistress, who he visited almost every day and night whenever his duties as a knight of the Kingsguard allowed him to do so. So she was sure that uncle Lewyn would not be bothered by the noises he had undoubtedly heard. Probably they had rather amused him. Rhaenys was also sure, however, that Ser Barristan's face had blushed as red as a ripe apple at the sounds he had undoubtedly overheard from Rhaenys' bedroom that night, her load moans and wild screams of pleasure. She had to grin widely at the thought.

"Will you eat with me, uncle?" she asked as she sat down at the table.

"No thanks, I've already eaten."

"Oh really?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. "And when exactly did that happen? Yesterday at noon? You've been standing guard by my door all night, uncle. You must be hungry. Come now, eat with me."

"I'll eat something later, dear," he said, winking at her.

Rhaenys understood the hint and so left it at that. Soon her uncle would be relieved from his duty for the rest of the day, actually to rest and sleep before his next watch would begin in the evening. No doubt, however, he already had an appointment with Lady Alexondra for lunch and certainly for... more. Rhaenys had to grin at the almost childish anticipation on her uncle's face.

She ate only a little oatmeal with dried berries, nuts and honey, a small piece of fresh cheese that her father had recently purchased from a merchant from Braavos and some fresh fruit from the royal gardens. With it, she drank a sweet tea made from herbs and flower blossoms that grew in her late grandmother's gardens, which her mother above all insisted be preserved and tended. During the early years of her parents' marriage, grandmother Rhaella had been the greatest support for her mother, who had never managed to earn, if not the love, then at least the respect of grandfather Aerys. It had been hard years for her mother, as Rhaenys knew – partly from her uncle Lewyn's stories, partly from her own hazy memories – during which Rhaella had always been with her, supporting and protecting her as best she could from the late king's outbursts.

Rhaenys had only few memories of her grandfather, little more than a few vague images of an old man with too-long fingernails who was kind and generous one moment, letting her sit on his lap and singing with her, only to scream around like a savage in the next moment, insulting anyone who didn't make it out of the room fast enough, always making her mother cry. She didn't know for sure, since her mother had never been willing to talk about it, but she had long suspected that her father's lack of support for her mother in the face of grandfather Aerys had been the reason why the love between her parents, if it had ever really existed, had died years ago.

After breaking the fast, Rhaenys considered going for a quick ride before consulting with her father. She had not ridden out with Meraxes for almost a week, and for days she had been feeling her dragon's restlessness more and more in her mind and her heart. The bond between her and her dragon was strong and had only grown stronger over the years, just as it had with Aegon and his Balerion. Whenever her dragon got hungry, she felt it. Whenever her dragon got excited, she felt it. Whenever her dragon became restless, she felt it. Whenever her dragon was anxious, she even felt it. The other way around was the same, apparently. The almost earthshaking intensity of Meraxes' and Balerion's roars whenever Aegon and she brought each other to orgasm more than clearly hinted at that at least. She decided to postpone this ride until the afternoon or early evening, however, until they had finished greeting the Baratheons. Then perhaps Aegon would hopefully have no more obligations as well and they, riding Meraxes and Balerion, would be able to let all three dragons fly. With only one other dragon in the air, it was too dangerous to let Vhagar, who much to the displeasure of her father and uncle Viserys had never chosen a rider, fly alone. If the other two dragons were also in the air, though, Vhagar would not stray too far from the capital.

So Rhaenys, followed by her uncle Lewyn, made her way from the King's Banquet to her father's solar. King Rhaegar, even though he had enough other obligations as ruler of the entire realm, took at least one or two hours every day to read in one of his countless books, to try to translate this or that ancient text or to find clues to the future hidden in the mindless ramblings of some long dead self-proclaimed prophet. Rhaenys had never understood this devotion to ancient texts and predictions codified to the point of incomprehensibility, nor had Aegon. As a little girl, just to spend time with her father, she had tried to develop a fascination for these things herself, letting her father read these texts and prophecies to her and developing her own silly childish ideas about what this or that might mean. In the end, however, it had been an unsuccessful endeavor. Rhaenys had been terribly bored at every single moment. Where there was no natural interest, none could be forced. Her father had been disappointed, of course, that neither she nor her brother shared his interest, let alone belief, in things such as fate and destiny, but had accepted this early on.

"Don't be silly, my sweet girl. Nothing you do could ever disappoint him," her mother had once said to her when Rhaenys had told her she feared disappointing her father with her lack of interest. "Besides, it's nowhere near as bad as it used to be."

"It used to be different with his... interest?"

"Interest... yes," her mother had snorted, but quickly made it sound like a laugh. "It was more than interest. It was an obsession. When I first met him and for the first few years of our marriage, there was nothing else you could talk to him about but this prophesied fate of his children. And that was years before you were even born, sweet girl. Then it got quiet for a while, after Aegon's birth, when he realized that I would not be able to give him the Visenya he thought had to be coming for this or that prophecy to come true. Only with the birth of the dragons did his… fascination begin to blossom again, but fortunately not nearly as strongly as before."

She took the somewhat longer way through Maegor's Holdfast to her father's solar. She had no interest this morning in running into some of the young ladies and knights who had been swarming through the fortress for months already like gnats on warm summer nights. She had known from the beginning that it had been a mistake to allow the suitors for her and Aegon's hand into Maegor's Holdfast. Her father had eventually given in to the persistent whispers of his Hand, Lord Jon Connington.

Allowing suitors into Maegor's Holdfast was good, he had said. If she or Aegon were to take a liking to one of the suitors, a betrothal could be arranged quickly, he had said. It would be good for the stability of the realm, to have them marry a son and a daughter of a great house, he had said. That utter fool. They were Targaryens, the undisputed rulers of the realm, with real, living, fire-breathing dragons under their control. Nothing and no one could challenge their power, let alone seriously threaten it. They themselves were the best guarantor for the stability of the realm, no possible wedding with anyone, no matter from which house, who were not worthy of Aegon and her anyway.

When her father had informed them months ago that, on the advice of his Lord Hand, he would allow their noble guests and parts of the royal court to not only lurk around in the Red Keep all day long but also in Maegor's Holdfast, she would have loved to feed Jon Connington to Meraxes on the spot. For a tiny moment she had even feared that maybe Connington had somehow hoped for a royal match for himself – as if she had ever given herself to that man – until Aegon had said that the only royal match that could possibly make Connington happy would be with their father. Rhaenys had screamed with laughter.

She couldn't completely avoid meeting some of the ladies, though, who were wandering through Maegor's Holdfast – wearing their best dresses and the brightest of smiles on their lips – undoubtedly hoping to accidentally run into Aegon. She was able to escape most of the ladies she came across with a short greeting and her quick step, not even giving the idea that she might stop to talk to them. Only the ladies Desmera Redwyne and Margaery Tyrell managed, as Rhaenys had to admit, to position themselves cleverly enough in the hallway to make her to stop and have a short talk.

Lady Margaery wore, as always, a bright green dress with elaborate embroidery of golden roses, precious golden brocade and a neckline so low that she would certainly have been reviled as a prostitute for it in other parts of the realm. Since Rhaenys liked to dress in a quite revealing manner herself, she had decided some time ago already not to reproach her for this, however. Her hair had been coiffed into an elaborate tower, from which only a few lone strands of brown curls fell out onto her shoulders here and there, probably carefully planned over hours of work. Lady Desmera was dressed, as always, a bit more demurely, in silks of wine red and deep blue, and had tied her red curls into two thick braids that fell over her shoulders on either side. She looked cute, Rhaenys had to admit that much, even if the braids, along with her numerous freckles, made her look much younger and more girlish than she had undoubtedly intended.

These two would be the first ones Rhaenys was going to have thrown out of the Red Keep as soon as her betrothal to Aegon was finalized, she had decided a while ago already. She knew that the ladies Desmera and Margaery, friends since childhood, had long ago made plans to seduce Aegon, to get into his bed together, and thus both become his wives. Both ladies were certainly pretty enough in their own right to turn most men's heads, and the idea of having both of these two women in bed at the same time, naked and willing and begging for some cock, would hardly have made any man in Westeros hesitate for more than a heartbeat. She knew her Aegon better than that, however. These two obviously didn't and, only because Aegon was always friendly and polite to them, seriously seemed to believe they were just a finger's breadth away from Aegon's bed and the throne, even though neither had come close to either of those things. They were welcome to indulge in their daydreams, however, as long as they never had the foolish idea of getting serious about it. If either of them had dared to even touch her Aegon, she would have already scratched the bitch's eyes out.

A wife other than me for Aegon. Ridiculous.

"Princess Rhaenys, how nice to see you," Lady Margaery beamed at her, while Lady Desmera went into a deep curtsy.

She doesn't even curtsy to me, Rhaenys thought, glancing at Margaery Tyrell. She probably thinks that soon it will be me who has to curtsy to her. Or does she think we are friends? At least Lady Desmera still has some manners and decency.

"Lady Margaery, Lady Desmera, it's good to see you too," Rhaenys lied.

"You really must join us for tea today," Lady Desmera said, not wasting time with further pleasantries. Rhaenys liked her a little better than Margaery, which still wasn't much though. Her smile and kindness seemed more sincere, although of course this could also mean that she was simply a better liar. "My father sent me rolls of new fabric just yesterday, silk and brocade that he bought in Volantis and Lys in the most wonderful colors. Only the best and the finest, of course. I would be so pleased if I may gift you with some of the fabrics, my princess. Maybe you can arrange it to come to us today to have a look at them."

Come to us? This is my home, you imbecile.

"That is very generous, Lady Desmera. However, I am not sure how much time I will have available. The Baratheons will be arriving today, so I will probably have obligations all day."

"Too bad," chirped Margaery from the side. "Then your brother will probably be tied up all day, too? We were hoping to watch him spar later."

"I don't think he'll find much time to spar today."

"How unfortunate," Lady Desmera said. "But soon the tourney in Prince Aegon's honor will begin anyway. Then we will get to see the prince often enough, I do hope. I can't wait to cheer him on in the jousting. I definitely still need to choose the right fabric for a new ribbon, in case he asks me for my favor. Do you think he will win?"

"Without a doubt," Rhaenys said in all seriousness. "Aegon is a fine jouster. I think he has a very good chance."

"My brother Loras will also compete, of course," said Margaery. "He is also excellent with the lance. Many say he is as good as if he had been born with the lance in his hand. I hope you'll forgive me that I will be rooting for my brother then, of course."

"As will I," Rhaenys returned with the best smile she could manage at that moment. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I have to see my father before our guests from the Stormlands arrive."

"But of course, Your Highness," they both said in chorus, curtsying to her and then - finally - stepping aside.

She and uncle Lewyn had just turned the next corner, barely more than a dozen paces from the two ladies, when she heard him suppress a laugh, snorting softly. She looked at him and had to laugh as well, even if she didn't yet know why, actually.

"What?"

"You can't stand those two, can you?" he asked.

"I hate these hens from the very depths of my heart," she said honestly, making her uncle laugh out loud now. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only if one knows you, dear."

"Well then, they certainly won't have noticed."

"What's wrong with them?"

"Oh, just everything. They're running around here talking nonsense like they own the Red Keep. They want to marry Aegon. Both of them. Can you believe that?"

"Well, yeah, I can. It's not really surprising, is it? Every young lady in the Red Keep and beyond wants to marry Aegon, just as any young man in the entire realm would gladly sell his own mother if he could get your hand in return."

"Maybe so. I still don't like it. I can't wait until Aegon and I are betrothed. Then this charade will finally be over."

They had almost reached the hallway with the entrance to her father's solar when Ser Jaime Lannister approached them. He greeted Lewyn with a curt nod and her with a bow. Ser Jaime had changed, especially in the last few years, she noticed once again. He had always been a handsome man, but now the softness of his youth had given way to the experience of age. Perhaps by now he looked even better than before. At least she knew for a fact that among the ladies and women in the Red Keep, even among her own ladies-in-waiting, some were fantasizing about becoming his mistress, becoming for Ser Jaime what Lady Alexondra was for her uncle Lewyn. Ser Arthur's young cousin Allara Gargalen and Ser Willem Darry's daughter Jeyne would certainly have been the first to tear off their dresses more than willingly at no more than a nod from Ser Jaime. Much to Lord Tywin's displeasure, however, Ser Jaime still took his Kingsguard vows seriously and had even refused to be released from his vows when, years ago, the newly crowned King Rhaegar had made that offer to him after grandfather Aerys' death.

Apart from that, it would undoubtedly not have done Ser Jaime's health any good to get involved with either of the ladies. Ser Willem was excellent with the sword and, though he probably would not have defeated Ser Jaime, would undoubtedly have left him with some ugly scars on his handsome face. Ser Arthur, on the other hand, one of the few men better with the sword than Ser Jaime, would certainly have ensured that her father would soon have to name a new knight of the Kingsguard, had Ser Jaime ever even thought about dishonoring his niece.

"Good morning, my princess. Good morning, Lewyn."

"Good morning, Ser Jaime," Rhaenys said with an honest smile.

"Jamie," Lewyn said curtly with a nod and a smile to his sworn brother.

"I have come to relieve Lewyn as your personal shield for the rest of the day, and to escort you to your father."

"That's just fine. I was on my way to talk to him anyway."

"I'm afraid I've been instructed to inform you that your conversation with your father will unfortunately have to be postponed. His Grace hopes it is not too serious a matter that it cannot wait a little longer. Lord Baratheon has just arrived with his family, though, and His Grace wishes you present in the courtyard in front of Maegor's Holdfast to welcome them."

"I see," she said, struggling to hide her disappointment. If her father had decided that he would not be able to talk to her now, there was not much she could do about it. It had always been difficult, even for her as his daughter, to find an opportunity to speak with him in private, and with the most powerful and influential lords of the realm as honored guests at the Red Keep, who would be arriving in the coming days, it certainly wouldn't get any easier to find an opportunity. Here and now, however, she could do nothing about it. "Do you know if my brother will be there as well?"

"His Grace has sent Ser Gerold to fetch your brother."

"Very well."

Ser Gerold, the friendly cuddly bear that he was towards her, could be tough as nails when it came to reminding Aegon of his obligations. So when Ser Gerold was sent, one could be sure Aegon would be there.

"But then we must quickly return to my chambers, so that I can at least put on some jewelry. Who is going to recognize me as a princess otherwise?"

"You would be recognized as a princess even if you wore only rags, Your Highness."

"That is very kind of you to say, Ser Jaime, but I think a crown and perhaps an arm ring will still make a better impression," she said, laughing.

The walk back to her chambers was quick, not letting anyone stop her on her way this time either. Aegon was already gone when she entered her chambers. She grabbed the slim crown with the ruby splinters from her dressing table, slipped two golden bracelets over her wrists and hurried out again. When she arrived in the courtyard in the front of Maegor's Holdfast, where they would soon receive all of their honored guests, everyone else was already assembled. A host of servants in shining red uniforms stood ready to take care of their guests' horses and luggage. Soldiers were lined up in double rows, all in black and gold, their armor polished so that it shone in the sun. Countless banners with their family's dragon crest waved in the light breeze. In the front row, her family stood ready to receive the guests who were due to arrive at any moment. Her father stood in the center, dressed in all black and with his golden crown on his head. Her mother stood to his left, dressed in the yellow and orange of her Dornish homeland, also wearing her golden crown. Aegon stood to his right, dressed in all black as well, with a slim crown of silver and steel on his head. Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent had already taken up positions behind them. Jon Baratheon had also been brought in to officially welcome his parents and brothers to King's Landing. Quickly, but still as elegant and stately as possible, she hurried forward past the lines of soldiers and servant and took her place next to her Aegon, gently but firmly forcing herself between him and Jon.

"I was almost afraid you wouldn't come," Aegon whispered to her.

"I had to make myself pretty first," she whispered back, before they were silenced by a sharp look from their mother. Just a heartbeat later, the massive carriage with their guests was already clattering across the drawbridge between the outer and inner courtyard, across the square only a short time later up the serpentine road to Maegor's Holdfast. Soldiers in black and yellow armor, told apart from their own soldiers by little more than the dust of the road on their armor, rode into the courtyard in double lines in front of and behind the carriage. The carriage stopped about a dozen paces away from their family. Immediately one of the soldiers rushed to the door and opened it.

Out into the bright sunshine stepped one of the fattest men Rhaenys had ever seen. Robert Baratheon, red-faced from wine and sweating under his thick beard, grinned broadly all over his face like a little boy who had just been given his first practice sword. Even before his wife, the Lady Lyanna, had been able to leave the carriage, Lord Robert had already taken a few steps toward the royal family.

"Counsin Rhaegar, it's good to see you," Lord Robert bellowed loudly, spreading his arms wide and blithely ignoring all protocol as he took large strides toward his king.

Her father, unable to muster more than the faintest of smiles, surrendered to his fate, took a step forward as well, and allowed himself to be embraced by Lord Robert. Lord Robert went down the line and greeted them one by one, but without bothering to get down on one knee before any member of the royal family, though. At last he reached his son Jon, took him firmly in his arms and pressed him so tightly against him that Rhaenys was afraid for a moment that he might suffocate his own son. Rhaenys had thought that the most unpleasant part of the welcoming was now over, until she turned her eyes to Lady Lyanna. The Lady of Storm's End, flanked by her two younger sons, Orys and Steffon – apart from the beard and the enormous corpulence exact images of their father – still stood a few steps away from them in front of the carriage and waited until Lord Robert had finished misbehaving.

Seeing her standing there was one of the strangest sights she had seen in a long time. Most people, both men and women, could hardly take their eyes off their father when they faced him. Even married women rarely possessed enough self-control not to mentally undress their father with their eyes when they thought he didn't notice. Lady Lyanna, however, seemed barely able to look at him, her eyes all the time fixed either on one of her sons, on the queen, or somewhere in the distance, as if she had found something incredibly interesting there she just had to observe. Only when she could no longer help herself did she take a few steps forward and go into a deep curtsy before her king and queen.

"Your Graces," she whispered more than she spoke it. Orys and Steffon Baratheon dutifully sank to one knee, repeating their mother's words in chorus.

"Lady Lyanna, Orys, Steffon, welcome to King's Landing," said her father, whose voice now also sounded somehow... strange. Almost as if he was hoarse or had actually wanted to say something else, but then changed his mind at the last moment.

"Welcome," was all Lyanna received as a greeting from her mother.

The greetings between Lady Lyanna, Orys, Steffon, Aegon, and Rhaenys went as smoothly as they did quickly and easily. When Lady Lyanna finally reached Jon, she grabbed her son and held him in a tight embrace. For quite a while she held him tightly, murmuring over and over something like "I missed you so much" and "my wonderful boy" into his dark curls. At some point the situation became strange again, because she didn't seem to want to let go of Jon at all. It wasn't until Jon gently but firmly disengaged from her embrace that she stepped aside, wiped a tear from her cheek in one swift motion, and let her younger sons greet their older brother.

"Now don't make such a fuss, woman," Lord Robert laughed. "You're acting as if you haven't seen him in ten years."

At a curt nod from her mother, the gaggle of servants hurried forward past them, tending to the horses and grabbing the luggage and boxes from the wagons behind the carriage so greedily that one might have thought the things had just been gifted to them. Her mother led Lady Lyanna, who once again could hardly separate herself from Jon, away from the group, while Aegon and Jon were completely harnessed by Lord Robert, Orys and Steffon, who were desperate to persuade them to go hunting together in Kingswood today, or tomorrow at the latest.

Her mother signaled her to follow - she had probably had tea, refreshment, and a little meal provided somewhere in the royal gardens - while her father stayed behind alone, which he couldn't have seemed happier about. Her father was about to turn and leave, accompanied by Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur, when Rhaenys was with him in a few quick steps, holding him by the arm.

"Father, a word," she said softly.

"Rhaenys, now is not a good time. Let's talk another time when we don't have to-"

"No, father, now," she interrupted him, still softly but firmly. Her father had already postponed the conversation between them too many times. If she didn't take the opportunity now, she would have to wait who knows how long again. And with Aegon's tourney coming up and his cryptic announcement of wanting to make a decision in the course of this tourney, there was no time to lose. Quickly, she added a "please" after that.

For a moment, her father looked at her as if he was considering canceling again, but then nodded. He offered her his arm, she hooked under it, and together they walked, followed only at a proper distance by Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold, past the royal sept toward the serpentine road, out of earshot of servants and soldiers.

"What is it about?" asked her father when they were far enough away that no one could overhear them.

"My betrothal," she said. There was no point in beating around the bush. Her father looked at her again, as if considering refusing to talk about it. He considered, long, too long, looking around in all possible directions - to the Tower of the Hand, to the royal sept, up the ramparts to their right and to the patrolling soldiers on top of them, back to the entrance of Maegor's Holdfast, after her mother and Lady Lyanna - all directions but hers. He sighed heavily before finally looking at her again.

"Speak," he said at last.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, the capitol, the center of the realm, and the seat of the king... She still couldn't believe that she was actually here now. Their carriage had passed through one of the massive city gates, ornately decorated with countless gargoyles and massive frescoes in the shape of flying dragons, the better part of an hour ago, and still they had not reached the Red Keep yet. She gazed wide-eyed at the massive fortress, lurking like a predator over the city, growing larger and larger as their carriage worked its way up the winding road leading up Aegon's High Hill. The stone of the fortress was red through and through, she had learned that much from her lessons with Maester Luwin before, but now, in the midday sun, the fortress really shone in such a bright red that the Red Keep looked as if it had been smeared from top to bottom with fresh blood. Arya's stomach tightened at the thought, childish as it was.

The city itself had already been a sight Arya was sure she would never forget for the rest of her life. The city was a wild, chaotic mess of houses large and small, some crooked as old trees, others as straight as Robb's back when he was allowed to sit his father's seat and speak on his behalf, squares and plazas with loud market criers and even louder preachers of countless foreign gods from all over the world, gardens large and small, septs and temples, and above all, people. People everywhere. In her life, Arya had never seen so many people in one place. Even the appearance of some of the people almost made her eyes pop out of her head. Apart from the countless Westerosi peasants and merchants, craftsmen and knights, she also saw dark-skinned men and women with cloaks of brightly colored bird feathers that must have come from the Summer Isles, men with forked beards and colored hair dressed in the finest silks just as colorful, men and women taller than most people she knew with pointed heads and almond-shaped eyes, dressed in the most outlandish clothes Arya could not have dreamed of.

In cages on wide wagons she saw exotic animals that were also being transported – probably as gifts for the king – towards the Red Keep. She saw a magnificent lion with a bushy mane that was devouring the remains of another animal. In another cage were three large birds, two times the size as the ravens in Maester Luwin's tower, with colorful feathers of fiery red and bright blue and shining green, and in another cage was a horse the size of a donkey, but all striped in black and white from head to toe… or hoof in this case. The only thing she hadn't seen yet were the dragons. More than once, as they had made their way through the city, she had stuck her head out of the carriage window when she thought she had heard a scream or a loud roar, and each time had immediately been pulled back in by her father. She had not yet seen a dragon, but she would. She definitely would.

Arya looked over at her father, who was sitting across from her in the carriage, but who seemed hardly interested in all these countless outlandish things at all. For a moment, looking at her father, Arya even forgot about the wonders around her. He wore his best doublet of gray silk with a white wolf's head artfully embroidered on the chest, accompanied by fine, gray linen trousers and his best boots of black leather. A heavy coat with fur trim and the large, running dire wolf of House Stark on its back, fitting for the Lord of Winterfell but far too warm and heavy in the heat of the south, lay around his shoulders, making his face flush red and beads of sweat rise to his brow. The last time he had been so nobly dressed had been to Robb's wedding just a few weeks earlier. The last time before that had probably been Sansa's wedding in the Vale, even though Arya hadn't attended that one herself. But aside from that, Arya couldn't remember ever having seen her father in such noble attire. Arya wondered if her father expected to have to spontaneously go to some wedding and involuntarily had to grin.

"What is it, Arya? Is something wrong?" he asked when he saw her grin. Her father was restless, she noticed. He had been shifting back and forth in his seat for more than an hour, since he had sent a soldier ahead to announce their arrival when they had passed through the city gate, and his smile looked far too tortured to be genuine.

"Are you nervous because you're going to meet the king?" she asked.

"Yes, that too."

"Why else?"

"Because we are much too late. We should have arrived two days ago already."

"Maybe the king is nice and does not take it amiss. Maybe the king is even waiting for us," she said with a grin, although she knew it was silly.

She had heard a lot about King Rhaegar, about Rhaegar the Scholar, as Maester Luwin had once called him. He had had nothing bad to say about him, but that might not mean much, Arya had decided. What did a maester in Winterfell know of the things that went on in King's Landing? The fact that King Rhaegar was a better king than his father had been was… good, of course, but not much of an accomplishment either. All she knew of Aerys II was that during his life he had apparently fallen more and more prey to the Targaryens' madness, which occasionally occurred in their family.

"His coin fell on the wrong side," Maester Luwin had said once, sighing. Arya had not understood what that had been supposed to mean at that time, but had also been too uninterested to ask. Thankfully, that much she knew, the old king, though already plenty confused in his mind, had abdicated shortly after the birth of Rhaegar's own heir, leaving the crown to Rhaegar before his condition and decisions had gotten worse.

Her father snorted a short laugh, and for a moment the smile on his face was genuine again.

"Hardly, Arya. The king has obligations. He surely does not have time to just stand around waiting for us to finally arrive."

"But it wasn't our fault," she protested. "If the stupid wheel of the carriage had not broken-"

"Arya," his father interrupted her. "It's not a matter of fault. We are late, and for that I will have to apologize to the king. Simple as that."

"Do you think the tourney has already begun?" Arya asked, finally getting to a topic that truly interested her.

"No, the tourney is to begin tomorrow. So we are not completely late. Also, royal tourneys always begin a little later in the day with a speech from the king and the first rounds of the archery contest. But he city is still way too crowded. Too few people are jostling in one direction. If it had already begun, many more people would already be at the tourney grounds in the south of the city, or at least on their way there."

She could only hope that was true. It had been easy to lose track of time on their largely monotonous journey. She certainly didn't want to miss the beginning of the tourney, even if she had no particular interest in the king's speech. It would be exciting to experience such a spectacle, though. Already she was looking forward to telling Robb and Bran and Rickon all about the tourney, about the knights and the spectacular jousts she was about to see, about the knights of the Kingsguard who would certainly take part, about the mystery knight that would certainly be there as well in such a grand tourney and the overall spectacle she was about to witness. Robb had stayed home to take their father's place as Lord of Winterfell. There always had to be a Stark in Winterfell, after all. Bran had already traveled back to Riverrun the day after Robb's wedding with their Uncle Bryden, whose squire he was, and even though she assumed that the Tullys, as Lords Paramount of the Trident, were also invited to the tourney, she knew about how little Uncle Brynden thought of tourneys. So it was unlikely that he would show up with Bran. Rickon had left Winterfell just two days after Bran together with Lord Dustin to become the squire of Alaric Dustin, Lord Willam's younger brother, who was known for his masterful use of the axe. Whether the Dustins had been invited, she did not know, and what Ser Alaric thought of tourneys, that was whether he would make his way to King's Landing even if invited, she knew even less. She almost had not been allowed to experience this spectacle herself.

"A raven has arrived. From King's Landing," her father had said when they had been breaking their fast together, less than a week after Robbs wedding. Almost the entire morning, they had eaten in silence, interrupted only now and then by questions from Bethany to her mother, which Arya was sure she had asked solely to give her mother another opportunity to explain something to her again, as she was so fond of doing. For a moment there had been absolute silence at the table. "It is an invitation, signed and sealed by the King himself, to the tourney in honor of the nine and tenth name day of Crown Prince Aegon."

"Will we be traveling to King's Landing then?" Robb had asked.

"We can't all go. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. If anything, I'm going. But I'm thinking about declining anyway. There's so much going on here right now, with your wedding, and the Night's Watch needs my attention again, too... It just doesn't fit right now."

"You can't decline, Ned," her mother had said. "It's an invitation from the king. You can't possibly decline an invitation from the king, not because of a wedding that has already taken place and certainly not because the Night's Watch is complaining about their empty granaries again."

"It is not just about the granaries. The Night's Watch has lost quite a number of rangers lately. They are running out of good men. The king will understand."

"Will he? He is the king. For you, the concerns of the Night's Watch may be more important than a tourney in the capital, but certainly not for him. It will be the nine and tenth name day of the crown prince. No doubt his betrothal will also be announced at the end of the tourney. It's a wonder that hasn't happened already. As the Warden of the North, this is something you need to be present at, Ned."

"Yes, it's strange that it hasn't happened yet. There is certainly no lack of suitors. From the North alone, I already know of half a dozen lords who have offered their daughters for the crown prince. Good men with good daughters," their father had said into his nearly empty mug of tea. "No doubt, with so many to choose from, the king just hasn't been able to decide on a lady yet, or he hasn't been able to come to terms with Queen Elia about it. Either way, I can't leave."

"Ned," her mother had said again, an almost pitiful tone in her voice, as if she had had to explain something to a child, "it's an invitation from the king himself. You have to go, so don't even tell yourself otherwise."

Her father had seemed to think about it for a moment, his arms folded in front of his chest and his gaze fixed on the ceiling, as he always did when he knew his wife was right but didn't want to admit it right away.

"Aye, I guess you're right. I have to go, then."

"Can I come with you?" Arya had asked. She had been so excited that her whole body had felt like it had been on fire. A real tourney was going to take place, not one of those little ones between a handful of drunkards like they were held north of the Neck from time to time, but a real tourney, with hundreds of knights from all over the realm, with real swords and lances and an archery contest, and all in the capital city, too.

"Rickon and Bran are already gone anyway, and Robb will be the Lord of Winterfell during that time," her father had continued unaffected. Robb had looked at their father with a serious expression and nodded curtly, but Arya had easily seen that he had almost been bursting with excitement at soon being - if only temporarily - the Lord of Winterfell. "And Bethany can so long be the Lady of Winterfell."

"No," her mother had interjected. "I will remain that, of course. Bethany still has a lot to learn before she'll be able to run the household, and I will stay here and continue to instruct her."

"Can I come with you, then?" Arya had asked again.

"Then you want me to travel alone?" her father had asked, as if that were the most horrible thought that had ever crossed his mind.

"Can I come with you?" Arya had called out, the eyes of all present finally turning to her.

"No, absolutely not," her mother had said. "You're still sick."

She had indeed been sick lately, had almost missed the wedding feast the night before, but as quickly and suddenly as her upset stomach had come, it had thankfully also disappeared again.

"I'm feeling much better, and by the time Father has to leave, I'll be perfectly healthy again. Please. A real tourney! I might even see the knights of the Kingsguard! Please!"

"I said no. Who knows what you caught. Besides, the Lords Flint and Hornwood and even Blackwood, all the way from Raventree Hall, are coming to Winterfell again soon with their sons to meet you. I hope you haven't forgotten that, Arya."

"They might just as well come a little later," her father had said from the side, much to her mother's displeasure. "Arya is still young and will still be in half a year. Maester Luwin could send some ravens today with proper letters."

"Exactly," she had said gleefully. "The stupid lords with their stupid sons will still be here in half a year, too. But for me, this might be the last chance to see a real southron tourney, and in the capital at that."

"Besides, Jon will probably be there," Robb had said, "I'm sure he'd love to see father and Arya again."

"She already couldn't really enjoy Robb's wedding," her father had added in an almost pleading tone towards her mother. "Let's allow her that small pleasure."

"Small? It's a journey across the entire realm. That's hardly a small pleasure," her mother had protested, sighing deeply. "Well, all right then," her mother had finally agreed after a moment, visibly dissatisfied with not having found a single ally at the table. "But when you get back, you're going to be introduced to the heirs of Widow's Watch, Hornwood, and Raventree Hall, and then you're going to show your best behavior, young lady. You will be betrothed, a year from today. Are we agreed?"

"Yes," she had cheered. "Yes, we are agreed!"

She looked out the window again and up at the Red Keep, which was now so close that its high walls and wide round towers took up her entire view. Great banners with the royal coat of arms, a red three-headed dragon on black, hung from the walls. She counted fifteen alone on the part of the walls she could see, each of them wider than she was tall. They passed soldiers, armored in black and gold with dragon scales on their finely chiseled helmets, standing guard in front of and beside the massive main gate toward which they were now heading. Countless men and women, armored knights and ladies in fine dresses, but apparently also merchants and simple peasants, walked on foot or rode on horseback or drove in carriages through the gate in and out, like a torrential river of people flowing in both directions at once. Winterfell was busy as well when her father held court and people came to him with their problems and disputes, but nothing she had ever seen in Winterfell equaled this. She couldn't even imagine what all these people might have to do or deal with in the Red Keep.

"Theon of House Greyjoy, the heir to Pyke," she heard Theon say somewhere from the front to one of the soldiers guarding the gate. She stuck her head out of the window of the carriage again and saw Theon sitting on his horse a little further ahead, looking at the soldier and apparently waiting for a reaction from him. The soldier, however, seemed to have no interest in announcing his arrival anywhere or react to him in any particular way other than wordlessly waving him through like everyone else. She had hoped so much that Theon would not accompany them to King's Landing, but unfortunately her father and probably especially her mother had insisted. Arya had fortunately managed to stay out of his way as much as possible during the weeks that had been spent traveling first toward White Harbor, then on the ship, and finally the last bit on the Kingsroad. Theon had either lingered with the soldiers who had accompanied her father and her, or had sought out a bed warmer whenever they had made halts, tavern maids and girls from towns they passed mostly. Her greatest luck had been that Theon had decided against traveling with them in the carriage, preferring instead to ride on the back of his own horse, so that she had almost not seen him at all during the days and had only occasionally had to hear his voice or his spiteful laughter in the mostly large enough distance. She could only hope that she would be equally successful in avoiding him in King's Landing. Seeing how incredibly crowded and overrun the city and the royal fortress were, however, how much there was to see and to do, she didn't doubt that Theon would somehow manage to keep himself busy without annoying her. Surely he would try to find a bed warmer or two somewhere here as well, even if she already knew that his goals in that regard were far more ambitious.

"She's not betrothed yet. So who's to say I won't return to Pyke with a true princess as my wife," he had blurted out on their last night in Winterfell, deep in his cups already. Robb and Bethany had just looked at him somewhat incredulously, while Arya had spit her tea across the table with laughter.

"You and Princess Rhaenys?" Arya had shouted.

"Why not?"

"She's a royal princess and supposedly one of the most beautiful women in the world, Theon."

"Exactly. Just what I need, then. Who's to say she won't just fall for me? It's not my fault that I have such an effect on women."

"On whores and tavern wenches, maybe."

"You better watch it! I'm a Greyjoy of Pyke. We are an ancient house with a proud tradition, and at least I, as heir to Pyke, have something to offer. A name and a seat and lands to rule. Unlike some second daughter like you, horse face," he had scolded, not allowing himself to be dissuaded from certainly being a good match for a princess of the realm.

The carriage rumbled as it entered the courtyard of the castle through the massive Gate House with its enormous portcullis. The courtyard was as crowded and busy as the rest of the city. Men and women, peasants and soldiers, knights and ladies swarmed from all directions in all directions. Even here, small stalls had been set up, selling deliciously smelling food, expensive wines, exotic fruits, precious fabrics, fine jewelry made of silver and gold, or forged swords and all kinds of strange weapons Arya had never seen in her life. What a merchant or craftsman had to do to be granted the permission and the honor to sell his goods in the middle of the royal fortress, Arya could not even imagine. Their carriage drove on, past a massive building that Arya immediately recognized from the illustrations in some of Maester Luwin's books, the Great Hall with the Throne Room in it. A seemingly endless stairway led up the building to a wide, two-winged portal with heavy, bronze-framed wooden doors. Dragons and sphinxes were carved into the wood of the door and three enormous dragon heads cast from iron with small fires burning in their hollow eyes were emblazoned above the impressive portal. Arya wondered if they would be allowed to enter the Throne Room during their stay in the capital. She hoped so, as she could hardly wait to see the massive Iron Throne, forged from the swords of Aegon the Conqueror's defeated enemies. They passed more large buildings of red stone, each more impressive than the one before, that towered imposingly but of which Arya could not tell what they were. A fountain in the center of the courtyard, of course also decorated with stone dragons, splashed loudly and incessantly sent a light spray into the air like the finest rain and painting a thin rainbow in her view. Great statues of snow-white marble of dead Targaryen kings and queens lined the way their carriage followed. Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, Good Queen Alysanne, Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Daeron the Good were just a few Arya recognized as they passed.

Again their carriage rumbled as they drove over the wooden planks of a drawbridge and through another gate, into another, somewhat smaller but still immense courtyard. Here, abruptly, there were much less people to be seen, except for numerous soldiers and knights and a few men and women in precious dresses who looked terribly busy, rushing in this or that direction. They passed an enormous tower on their right and for a moment Arya was sure that such a large tower could only be inhabited by the king himself. A moment later she recognized it as the Tower of the Hand, though.

Their carriage drove even further, passing a drum shaped building to their right. Judging by the colorful windows of leaded glass and its seven slender towers decorated with glittering gold and shining crystals, this no doubt was the royal sept. The carriage drove through just another gate and up a wide winding path until they reached a third, even smaller courtyard, at the end of which Maegor's Holdfast loomed as majestically as it did menacingly, the drawbridge lowered and the portcullis of its gate raised like the open maw of a predator. Finally, their carriage came to a halt. The door of the carriage was opened by a soldier in black and gold, bowing to her father. Her father got out of the carriage then, Arya followed quickly. Theon, as she could see, had also dismounted from his horse and was now taking position next to her father, his usual grin on his face and looking around as if he owned the fortress. For a brief moment they just stood there, in the bright sunlight, and nothing seemed to happen. No one looked after them, no one seemed to care about their presence apart from an dozen soldiers lining up nearby.

Are we perhaps in the wrong fortress? she thought for a brief moment and had to grin. Arya let her eyes continue to wander back and forth, over the walls and towers, the waving banners all around them, the beautiful horses in the stables not far from the sept which she could see well from the elevated yard in front of Maegor's Holdfast, the shining armor of the soldiers. Arya began to feel silly, gazing around like a peasant open mouthed who had never seen the inside of a fortress, but just couldn't stop marveling at everything, even the most mundane things, as if seeing them for the first time in her life. Her eyes stopped wandering only when they were caught by two people, a young man and a young woman, coming towards them through the open gate in front of them.

The young man was dressed from head to toe in black linen and black leather, the young woman in flowing robes of yellow silk, which, with every step and every movement, always seemed to reveal just a little more skin than was appropriate for a tiny moment. She could only barely suppress a laugh and a grin at the thought of how deliciously fiery red Sansa would certainly have blushed at this revealing sight. Not far in front of them, the two came to a stop in the shade of the slender White Sword Tower behind Arya, her father and Theon, and Arya was able to get a better look at them.

The two people in front of her were easily the most beautiful human beings she had ever seen. The young woman had the smooth olive skin of the Dornish, a mane of full, dark locks falling over her shoulders and down her back like an obsidian waterfall and big, alluring doe eyes in the most lovely face imaginable. She was tall for a woman, slender yet womanly with curved hips and full breasts, her seductive form barely hidden by her exquisite dress of yellow and orange sand silk. Dainty sandals nestled against the woman's delicate feet, which made a faint sound with each of her graceful steps, as if someone were gently applauding her for her presence alone, something she could very well imagine happening. She wore a thin crown of gold on her head, decorated with countless tiny ruby splinters that seemed to glow and shine in the sun as if on fire, and a warm, friendly smile on her face.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, no doubt.

The young man at her side was the very image of a Valyrian prince, with light skin, silver hair tied into a loose braid and bright purple eyes. He was tall as well, taller than the princess, broad in the shoulders and slim in the waist, with the muscular build of a warrior. Yet, he had a friendly look in his absurdly handsome face that seemed to be stuck somewhere between an honest smile and a mischievous grin the entire time. He wore no crown, but a sword at his side, the hilt worn, in a scabbard of black leather with a pommel in the simple shape of a hammer head, which in its plainness seemed not at all to match his otherwise noble clothes.

Prince Aegon Targaryen.

A whole swarm of servants in red uniforms had lined up behind the prince and princess. At a nod from the princess, they hurried past them toward the wagons and carriages of their small entourage, cleared boxes and luggage, and began to unhitch the horses, leading them back down the serpentine path.

Their father took a small step forward and immediately sank down on one knee, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Theon dropped to one knee as well, but not without giving the princess another of his crooked grins, which he no doubt hoped she would find irresistible. Arya followed suit, going into the best curtsy she could manage. Inevitably, she looked at her own dress as she did so. She had never cared much for appearances, yet she couldn't help but feel ashamed of how she looked in the presence of the princess. This morning when they had left the little inn on the Kingsroad, she had not put on her best dress or cleaned her shoes, although she had promised her father otherwise yesterday before going to bed. This morning, however, having stayed up half the night exchanging stories with the son of the innkeeper about the knights of the Kingsguard she was soon to see, she had been so tired that she simply hadn't cared. Now she regretted it, looking at the stains and dust on her dress and the dried mud on her shoes. She had not even combed her hair, she now realized. Never in her life had Arya been so glad that her mother was not here to see her now. Otherwise, she was sure, she would not have been allowed to leave her chamber in Winterfell for years on end, for a decade at least.

"Lord Stark, please rise," the young man said, his voice warm as a summer day. "We are honored by your appearance."

"Your Highness, the honor is ours," her father said as he rose again. Arya and Theon followed quickly. He then turned first to Arya on his right, then to Theon on his other left. "Allow me to introduce you to one of my children, my second daughter Arya and my ward, Theon Greyjoy, the heir to Pyke."

Immediately, Arya attempted a curtsy again. This time she was more pleased with its form, though she knew, wearing the dress she did, it made little difference to her appearance. Theon took a step forward and also sank back to one knee, but just as quickly rose again, his gaze firmly fixed on the seductive form of the princess.

If his promised courting of her will be nothing more than greedy stares and goofy grins, I don't think the realm will have to worry about a Greyjoy marrying into the royal family anytime soon.

"Please forgive our father for not appearing in person to welcome you, my lord. He waited as long as he could, but unfortunately there was still an urgent matter that required his presence," Princess Rhaenys said. Had Arya been a man, the soft satin in her voice alone would probably have been enough to make her fall in love with the princess instantly. A quick glance at Jory and Fat Tom, after having dismounted still down on their knees in front of the royals, told her that she was in fact right about that. Jory seemed unable to lift his eyes far enough to even meet the princess' gaze, while Fat Tom looked at her with his mouth half open and his ears so red that Arya was sure they would glow in the dark.

"I am the one who must beg your forgiveness, Your Highness," her father said. "We were delayed on the Kingsroad and unfortunately could not arrive sooner."

"No need to apologize, my lord. The only important thing is that you are here now and we are glad and honored that you are," Prince Aegon said, a broad smile on his face. "You must be exhausted from your long journey. You will be taken to your chambers at once, where you can refresh and change," he said, and Arya was sure that his eyes had lingered on her dress for a tiny moment too long at that.

"A small meal will also be waiting for you in your chambers, but of course we hope that you and your daughter will dine with the king, the queen, and us later tonight," the princess now said again. Arya wondered if the two had practiced this greeting beforehand. She had to pull herself together hard not to laugh out loud when she caught a glimpse of Theon's face after he realized that he was not invited to this dinner and would not be invited either.

"We are honored, Your Highness," her father said.

"Wonderful. Then Harrin will now show you to your chambers, my lord, while your men will receive quarters in the barracks of the Gold Cloaks," she said, then briefly clapped her hands. Immediately a young man stepped forward, bowing to them ever so slightly. He was as thin and as straight as a spear, with dark hair and a widow's peak, also dressed completely in red with a golden dragon embroidered on his chest. The prince and princess nodded to her father one last time before turning and walking away. The young man, Harrin, then took a step forward and bowed once more.

"My lords, my lady, if you would please to follow me," he said, turning and walking off toward the open gate of Maegor's Holdfast, through which only moments before the prince and princess had disappeared. Her father, Theon and she followed at his heels.

"Will we not be led to our chambers?" her father asked, as they were about to enter Maegor's Holdfast through the large gate, passing soldiers with swords and halberds and countless manned arrow slits.

"Indeed you will, my lord," said the young man in a voice so tender that Arya thought it might break at any moment. "As Warden of the North, you will be among His Grace's most honored guests, and will therefore be given chambers within Maegor's Holdfast, where the Lords Arryn, Baratheon, Tyrell and Lannister are housed as well. Along with the royal family, of course. As your ward, young Lord Greyjoy will also be housed within Maegor's Holdfast."

"This... is a great honor," her father said, visibly unsettled.

"Indeed."

They walked in silence through the hallways of Maegor's Holdfast, always following Harrin, who seemed to have no interest at all in explaining to them where they were, where exactly they were going, or how they were supposed to find their way around here on their own later. Arya, however, could not care less at the moment. Instead, she looked with wide eyes at the rooms and hallways they passed. Every bit of the walls of Maegor's Holdfast seemed either hung with ornate paintings or portraits of Targaryen kings and queens in vivid Myrish style, large tapestries showing scenes of Valyrian history from before the Doom, or decorated with lifelike frescoes of dragons, basilisks, manticores, and all manner of other creatures. More than once, Arya was startled when they turned a corner and she found herself staring abruptly into the slavering jaws of a dragon's head.

"Stupid dragon," she said as she found herself spooked for the fifth or sixth time by one of the stone dragon heads. She looked to the side and saw Theon's sardonic grin next to her, who was obviously amused by her fright. She stuck her tongue out at him, but said nothing. Unfortunately for her, she did so at the very moment her father had turned to her, probably to soothe her.

"Arya," he said in an admonishing tone. "Has Lord Baratheon already arrived?" he then asked, addressing Harrin.

"Lord Baratheon, together with his family, arrived more than a week ago, my lord. Lord Robert, however, has been out hunting for several days and is not expected back until tomorrow at the earliest. Lady Lyanna is here, though. As are Lord Robert's sons, the young Lords Jon, Orys and Steffon. Do you wish word of your arrival to be delivered to either, my lord?"

"No, that will not be necessary. I will go to my sister myself later," her father said.

Arya's heart immediately beat faster when she heard the names of her aunt Lyanna and Jon. She had only had the chance to meet Aunt Lyanna a few times in her life, because as Lady of Storm's End she had other duties than visiting Winterfell of course. But it had been her aunt who had given her her first bow and shown her how to use it. Aunt Lyanna had been the first to show her how to ride a horse, and Aunt Lyanna had shown her how to use nothing more than an old fork to open the hem of a dress neatly so she could run around in it and climb trees. And Jon, during his years at Winterfell, had become something of a brother to her. It had been he who had given her Stitch, her first sword of her own. It had been tiny, small enough for a girl of ten name days, in Jon's hands barely larger than a very thin knife, and yet it was Arya's greatest treasure. She fretted that she had not been able to take it with her to King's Landing. By now it was too small even for her, but she would still have loved to show it to Jon, if only to let him know how much it had meant and still meant to her. Orys and Steffon she had met only once in her life so war, but if these two were anything like Jon, she was sure she would get along great with them.

They followed more, seemingly endless hallways around countless corners, up stairs and along more hallways, past more tapestries and paintings and frescoes, until they finally arrived in a long hallway lit by fragrant oil lamps and wide fire bowls. On either side of the hallway, some distance apart, were four doors, all twice as wide as normal, made of dark oak and studded with iron bands, into the wood of which the direwolf of House Stark had been carved. Apparently enough chambers had been prepared for them to accommodate the entire family, had they all come along.

"These chambers are for you, my lord," Harrin said, pointing to the first door. "These ones over there are for your daughter Lady Arya and those ones back for your ward Lord Theon. Your luggage has already been taken to your chambers and small refreshments await you. Baths have also been prepared should you wish to clean yourself. Should you need anything else or have a wish, just pull one of the red cords you will find in your chambers."

"And then?" asked Arya.

"Then a bell will be rung in the servants' quarters and a servant will immediately make his way to you to attend to your every need, my lady."

"Thank you very much," said her father.

Harrin bowed quickly and deeply, then turned and hurried around the next corner as quickly and silently as a weasel.

"I want to see more of the Red Keep," Arya trumpeted out, even before her father had been able to enter his chambers.

"Not now, Arya. I need to wash and rest. Just like you."

"You don't have to accompany me if you don't want to."

"You will definitely not go alone, Arya. Why don't you take a look at your chambers first? I'm sure they're impressive enough. There you can wash yourself and put on a fresh dress. Don't think I didn't notice that you weren't wearing your best dress today. You promised me something else, Arya. So go on, off to your chambers, into the bath tub and come out freshly washed and dressed. Tonight we dine with the royal family and for that, Arya, you will look perfect. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Father."

"I will also wash and change now and then visit Lyanna. When it's time, I'll pick you up from your chambers and we'll go together to supper with the royal family."

"Why is there no kraken on my door?" she heard Theon ask, who had already moved away from them and was now standing outside the door to his chambers.

"You are here as a member of my household, Theon," her father said, but he was clearly not at all interested in discussing this now.

"I am a Greyjoy and should be given the honor of bearing my own crest on my door."

"Didn't you hear? You are here as a part of our household. House Greyjoy is probably not even invited," Arya called out to him, sticking her tongue out at him again and pulling the door to her chambers shut behind her before Theon could say anything in reply.

That was probably even true. Theon's father, Balon Greyjoy, after news of the birth of the dragons had reached the Iron Islands, had called the banners, proclaimed himself King of the Iron Islands, and declared them independent of the rest of the realm. Her father had told her about the rebellion once, about how Lord Balon, after the death of King Aerys, must have hoped that Rhaegar's grip on the Iron Throne was not yet strong enough to crush his rebellion, and how he must have believed that this would be the last opportunity for freedom for the Iron Islands before the dragons, at that time no larger than a cat or a pup, would grow too large and the power of the Targaryens would once again become unassailable. He had been wrong, though. Within weeks, the entire realm, united behind King Rhaegar, had called the banners and crushed the Greyjoy Rebellion like a nut under the hoof of a galloping horse. Theon's father and sister Asha had survived the rebellion, but his two brothers, Rodrik and Maron, had not. Since then, Theon has been living in Winterfell as her father's ward, a hostage if one was honest. So if he had indeed not been part of their household, he certainly would not have been invited.

Arya shook her head, driving the thoughts of Theon out of it. If there was anything she didn't want to think about right now, it was Theon. Instead, she stepped further into her chambers and looked around at where she was accommodated. Her chambers were large, huge... enormous. An entrance room with a table, on it a bowl of fresh fruit, three richly decorated silver cups and a carafe of white wine, and more paintings on the walls, which for a change did not show members of the royal family, but moments in the history of the Seven Kingdoms after Aegon's Conquest, opened into three wide, open doors. Arya looked around quickly, taking a quick glance through all three doors. The chambers were even larger than her parents' chambers in Winterfell.

Behind the first door was her bedroom, dominated by a massive hearth, an equally massive bed, a wardrobe and chest - which undoubtedly already contained her clothes - and a row of tall windows decorated with stained leaded glass. She ran inside, threw herself onto the enormous bed, and immediately sank knee-deep into the soft bed and its numerous blankets and pillows. Never in her life had Arya lain so soft. She would have loved to never get up at all again. Behind the second door was a solar, with softly upholstered chairs, a desk with paper, ink, and quill at the ready, and ceiling-high shelves filled with books and folios, the upper half of which Arya would have to climb a ladder to reach, if at all. Not that she planned to spend much time reading old books. Finally, the third room was a bathing room, with a wide, stone tub in the center of it, set into the floor! Arya had never seen anything like it in her life. How the water was brought in and out of this tub, she could not imagine with the best will in the world, but decided to ask one of the servants about it later. The water waiting in it was hot, steaming invitingly even in the relatively warm air of her chambers.

She quickly went to her bedroom and opened the chest at the foot of her bed. After a brief rummage, she found a fresh dress in light blue and gray inside that she would wear. It was pretty, but plain. Before their supper with the royal family, her father would undoubtedly force her to change again, so she decided to put on a dress until then where it wouldn't be such a tragedy if it got dirty. Whatever her father had said, she certainly had no intention of sitting around in her chambers for the rest of the day - grand and luxurious or not - but instead intended to explore the Red Keep, perhaps find Jon and roam the hallways with him. She knew he had spent much of his life here and knew his way around. Who knew what secrets he knew about this fortress that he could share with her?

She hurried back to her bathroom, stripped off her admittedly completely dirty and dusty dress, then her shoes and small clothes, and carefully stepped into the hot water. It was milky and smelled gently of flower blossoms and honey, something Arya could well have done without. In a small bowl at the side she found soap and a soft cloth, with which she cleaned herself from head to toe. It indeed felt good to be able to wash off the dust of the day. She even washed her hair, even though she actually thought it would have been enough to do that tomorrow or the day after. She then got out of the water, which was no longer milky white but now grayish and brownish, and put on fresh small clothes and her blue-gray dress, along with a pair of light leather shoes. She brushed her hair briefly and then tied it into a quick braid with one of the ribbons her mother had packed into her luggage. She made sure to pick the right one so it matched her dress. Arya didn't like to pay much attention to appearances, but she certainly didn't want to look like a court jester or a traveling juggler either.

Oh gods, I'm becoming like Sansa, she scolded herself in her mind, pulling the ribbon out of her hair again and throwing it on the bed.

She opened the door to her chambers and carefully peeked around the corner, checking that by chance her father was not also coming out of his chambers at that very moment to visit aunt Lyanna. Her father, however, was nowhere to be seen, the hallway was dead silent, and so she slipped out, closing the massive door again behind her as quietly as she could. She tiptoed down the hallway until she had rounded two corners and was sure she could no longer be seen.

She wandered aimlessly along the hallways of Maegor's Holdfast, sometimes turning this corner, then that, sometimes going up some stairs, then back down again. Maegor's Holdfast was quite literally a maze, as she had to realize. If there hadn't been so much to see and marvel at - in addition to the paintings, tapestries and frescoes, she eventually found a gallery with impressive suits of armor, swords and spears, and all sorts of exotic-looking weapons she had never seen before - Arya would undoubtedly have begun to worry about how she was supposed to find her way back again later. As it was, however, she was far too fascinated by everything there was to see. Most of the time she was alone, encountering only a number of soldiers, servants or maids, who either quickly bowed or curtsied to her when they recognized her as the daughter of a lord, or simply ignored her and walked by as if she were thin air. After what must have been at least two hours, she reached the main gate of Maegor's Holdfast rather by accident and briefly considered turning around and going back. Not knowing how to find her way back to her chambers anyway, she then decided to go out, though. Some sun and fresh air would do her good and, as high as the sun was still in the sky, there would be enough time before the supper with her father and the royal family. She could always ask for directions later, when she had looked at some more of the Red Keep. So she left Maegor's Holdfast, ignoring the looks of the soldiers at the gate, and went back the way they had come a while ago, down the wide serpentines.

She reached the rear courtyard again, but now there was even less activity than before. There was nothing to be seen of their carriage, their wagons, their horses, or their soldiers, far and wide. The only horses and soldiers to be seen at all were clad in black and gold armor with the Targaryen crest on their chests. Then an idea occurred to her.

There were merchants in the front courtyard. Maybe I can buy something nice, she thought. The daggers from one of the merchants looked great, and for Father I'm sure I'll find a pin with a wolf on it or something.

She didn't have any coins with her, but if she told the merchants who she was, they would surely give her something and let her pay later. She walked with quick steps but without running through the rear courtyard, past more soldiers guarding the gatehouse and the drawbridge between the courtyards. One briefly tried to stop her, shouting something about an escort after her, but Arya ignored him. She was still in the middle of the royal fortress. Nothing bad would be able to happen here. Besides, since childhood, she was used to things other than knights, ladies, and a few merchants from her trips in and around Winterfell and Winter Town already. There was nothing in this fortress that she wouldn't have been able to handle. Again, she fretted about not having Stitch with her. With her own sword on her hip, as small as it would have been, she would certainly have been taken more seriously.

The front courtyard was still full of people. An enormous mass of men and women, some dressed in noble dresses or armor, others dressed poorly like peasants or at best like merchants, still others – mostly women – in old but colorful dresses just like the strumpets she had seen Theon sneak out of Winterfell with a few times, were moving in all directions across the courtyard. Arya walked through the crowds, looking at the people and the stalls and the goods that were sold.

She walked past stalls selling small trinkets made of all sorts of metals and decorated with all sorts of gems, but found none of them interesting. She could look for a gift for her father later. She passed stalls selling the finest fabrics, thick and cozy velvet, gossamer silk in all the colors of the rainbow, ornate brocade made from threads of gold and silver, and even a kind of wool, soft as sin, that supposedly grew on man-sized bushes in the plains east of Qarth. Arya, however, did not believe a word of the merchant's gossip. Wool did not grow on trees. She kept walking, for she was not interested in fabrics anyway. Sansa would probably have spent the entire day at this one stall. Other stalls sold armor and shields and artfully decorated helmets in the shape of animal heads, the next sold wines from Dorne and the Arbor, all kinds of sweet fruit wines with honey, and even persimmon wine from Slaver's Bay, exotic fruits that Arya couldn't even guess what they were called, what they tasted like, or where they might have come from. Finally she reached a stall selling small and large weapons. Most of them, decorated with gold and silver or even made entirely of it and set with precious stones, looked more like trinkets than real weapons with which to fight. Only few swords and daggers and here and there an axe or a war hammer looked like weapons actually forged for battle and war. She was about to leave when she eventually decided to push her way through a group of young men to take at least a quick look at what seemingly every man far and wide wanted to look at. She had to use her elbows to make room for herself and earned more than one curse or foul-mouthed insult from the men to her right and left. However, when she reached the display and got a glimpse of what everyone was jostling for, she immediately forgot about it.

Between two broad-shouldered guards with grim faces, lay a dagger on a cushion of deep red velvet, with a blade two handbreadths long made entirely of Valyrian steel and a handle carved from dragon bone.

Perfect, she thought. That would be perfect for father. Or for me, should he not want it.

"How much for the dagger?" she called out, but without anyone paying any attention to her. "How much for the dagger?" she called again, and at last the merchant, who was in the process of lecturing a young man about the supposed advantages of a knife with a blade mode entirely of silver, turned to her. His look was disparaging, his eyebrows raised, the corners of his mouth down.

"Don't bother me, girl. Get lost," he called to her and immediately turned back.

"How much for the dagger?" she called again.

Again the merchant turned, looking annoyed at one of the men standing guard to the right and left of the dagger. The man understood, took a step forward, and cut across the displayed goods at Arya. Arya easily dodged the half-hearted blow, pressing back a half step against the men behind her. She was about to protest, to tell the insolent guy who she was, who her father was, and that he had better serve her seriously now, when suddenly there was a commotion behind the group of young men. Immediately the crowd got loud, so Arya could only hear bits and pieces of what was going on.

"... the Great Other sends... no time to lose... holy fire of the one true… doom is our fate...," was all she understood, but could make no sense of it. Since she would not get the dagger now anyway, she turned and immediately pushed her way through the crowd in the other direction. On and on Arya pushed through the mass of people in front of her towards the man who seemed to be preaching to the crowd. The people around her grew louder and louder the closer she got to the preacher. With each step she seemed to understand less, the shouts and screams around her beginning to hurt her ears. Prayers to the Seven from women in tears alternated with wild curses and imprecations from men yelling something about blasphemy. Arya continued to push forward, again earning very creative insults as she stepped on the feet of some men and women, and pushed her back past the pedestal of a larger-than-life statue of King Jaehaerys I, until she finally arrived at the front and could see what was going on there in the first place.

On a wooden crate, barely knee-high, stood a fat man in a worn red robe, his face equally red, either from the wine or from his incessant roar, gesticulating wildly to the crowd. He looked angry, downright yelling at the people. If he was a preacher, it was the strangest preacher Arya had ever seen, quite unlike any septon or septa Arya had ever heard preach. So close in front of him, she could finally understand him better.

"That's exactly how it's going to be. Yes, laugh it up, you fools. Sheep you are, all of you no more than sheep. Bleating stupidly in your flock. But just wait. The Great Other is coming. In the flames I have seen it. The Great Other has sent his unholy followers to wage the last, the one decisive war against all life in the world, and the longer you chattering fools cower here and close your eyes to the truth, the more powerful will be the enemy of us all."

"Shut up!" and "Get the fuck out of here!" were still the kindest shouts Arya could hear as responses from the crowd. Other shouts made it very clear what some of the bystanders seemed to think of the preacher's mother.

"Keep your blasphemous lies to yourself, heretic," shouted one man, for whom the crowd willingly made room.

A septon, Arya recognized immediately.

"What do you know, stupid chatterbox? Your Seven are nothing but fairy tales for stupid children, but they will not save us from the Great Other," the red preacher spat back, obviously drunk, as Arya now recognized from the washed-out sound of his words.

"Heresy!" roared the septon, accusingly pointing a finger at the red preacher, who seemed rather amused by this, however.

"R'hllor has revealed the truth to me," the preacher continued, apparently unimpressed. "And you imbeciles will see that too. I pray for your depraved souls that you will yet see it in time. The Lord of Light will-"

A stone came flying from somewhere in the crowd, hitting the preacher above the eye and ending his sentence. He crashed to the ground, off his box, accompanied with surging cheers and loud laughs from the people around Arya. Only a moment later, however, the man was standing upright again, his face covered in blood. The shouting was now even louder, more foul-mouthed, the jostling tighter and rougher. Arya was thrown against the base of the statue, painfully feeling the back of her head hitting the hard stone. She fell to the ground, but managed to struggle back to her knees at the last moment before a pair of heavy boots would have caught her in the head.

She tried to get up, to move away from the crowd, but there was no direction she could have gone. Panicked, she squirmed around, spinning in place in circles, being pushed sometimes this way, then that way by the knees and bodies and elbows of the men and women around her. Like a small stick in the rapids of a raging river, she was tossed back and forth. She fought with all her might against falling to the ground again. She did not succeed. She fell into the dirt, holding onto the dress of a woman who was pulled to the ground with her. Quickly Arya jumped back to her feet, seeing at the last moment the frightened face of the woman, who also tried to get back up, but was immediately trampled to the ground again under the feet and boots of the crowd. In the next moment, however, her face had already disappeared behind the legs and bodies of the people, her screams drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

"Drive them apart," she heard a man yell. Only moments later, soldiers rushed up, crashing into the angry crowd and driving people apart in all directions. Arya was carried away, away from the septon and the fat man in the red robe who, she could see out of the corner of her eye, lay thrashing and hitting each other on the ground, covered in kicks and punches from the men and even women around them. Soldiers ran to them as well, shooing away the bystanders and pulling the two fighting men apart.

Arya tried to break free, trying to get past one of the men who was dragging her along in the mass. As hard as she could, she tried to push past the man, but before she could break free, an elbow hit her in the temple. She staggered, fell to the ground and felt the hard kick of a boot on her thigh as a man ran over her, not seeing her lying on the ground or simply not caring. Again she jumped up, slower this time and with pain in her leg. A soldier came up to her, grabbed her by the collar and roughly pushed her back into the crowd in front of him.

"Get this rabble out of the Red Keep," she heard the voice yell again. "No brawling in the royal fortress, you filthy swine."

"Stop, wait," Arya called to the soldier, whose hand still clutched her arm like iron pincers. "I am Arya Stark! Let me go!"

The soldier, however, did not hear her. Too loud was the shouting, ranting, and screaming of the other people with whom she was now being herded toward the main gate.

"I am Arya Stark," she tried again. "My father is the lord of Winterfell. Let me go."

"Stop lying, hussy, and get out," the soldier said now that they had arrived at the gate. "I'll only throw you out this time, but if I catch you here again, you'll end up in the dungeons."

"But I'm-," she was about to start again when another woman and a small group of men, all dressed like merchants, were pushed through the main gate with her. Only a heartbeat later, she already heard a loud creaking and scraping. She looked back at the gate and realized with horror that the two wings of the main gate slowly but surely closed before her eyes. With a final, muffled thud, the massive gate closed before her eyes, and she heard the latches and bolts on the back of the gate's wings being shut. The next moment, she heard a loud rattling and crashing as the huge, massive portcullis thundered down.

"Drive them away," she heard a man bark again from somewhere on the bridge above the gate. "Down into the city with them. If one of them dares come too close to the gate, he'll get a crossbow bolt in his ugly mug."

Chapter Text

"And have you spoken with them already?" Aegon asked as Jon entered the room, forgoing a greeting as he often did when they were alone.

With a silver cup of wine in his hand, he sat on the wide bench padded with countless cushions and looked at him as if he had only been waiting for Jon to finally having to face his questions. Rhaenys sat with him, still clad in the orange silk dress he knew she had worn to greet their newest guests, but now some of the laces were open, revealing considerably more of her ravishingly long legs. Her sandals were gone, too, her toes playing around on the edge of the table in front of them. She was leaning against her brother's side, his right arm resting around her shoulders, sipping a cup of wine as well. In her eyes, Jon immediately recognized that teasing expression she always had when she wanted to question him about something she knew would embarrass him. A slight smile played around her lips, but it might as well have been a hardly suppressed grin.

"With whom?" asked Jon back as he walked over to the small table by the wall and poured himself a cup of wine as well. Arbor Gold, as he immediately recognized from the color and the smell.

"Don't act a fool. With the Starks, of course!"

"No, not yet," he returned truthfully as he dropped into an armchair across from them.

"I would have thought you couldn't wait to talk to them," Rhaenys said, while she pushed a grape, lying alone and lost on the table, back and forth with an elegant foot.

"I'm excited, of course. I haven't seen them since I came back from Winterfell. That was..."

"Two years ago," Aegon said, nodding. "Aren't you in a hurry because Robb's not here?"

"Or because Lady Sansa isn't here?" Rhaenys asked with a barely veiled grin.

"Sansa?" asked Jon, frowning. "She's married and will soon be expecting her first child. What was I supposed to do with Sansa? "

"Sansa Stark is married?" wondered Aegon. "Since when? And to whom? I am the future king. I should be made aware of marriages between nobles that are important for the stability of the realm," he complained halfheartedly.

"To Hubert Arryn, Elbert Arryn's son and Jon Arryn's heir, around six months ago. You really should start reading the protocols Father sends us from the Small Council meetings, my dearest brother," Rhaenys said, turning to him with the most beautiful smile. Jon, however, knew Rhaenys well enough to know that this smile only meant that very soon she would simply be forcing him to read those protocols. Whether Aegon wanted that or not. Aegon probably knew this as well, since the corners of his mouth had visibly moved downward. However, he did not contradict, but wordlessly gave Rhaenys a quick kiss on the forehead.

"That's right. She is and you should," Jon said. "Besides, I didn't have much to do with her anyway. She was polite enough to me during my stay, but that was all. I spent most of my time with Robb and Arya, sometime Theon Greyjoy."

"We've already seen that one, too," Rhaenys said. "Is he always grinning like a fool, or did he make an exception today just for us?"

"Always. Theon only has three facial expressions. A dumb grin when he's trying to cover up the fact that he just screwed up something. An even dumber grin when he's trying to wrap a girl around his finger with it, and his everyday grin that he puts on in all other situations. Maybe he was trying to make a good impression on you, Rhae."

"Maybe. But that didn't work out at all then," she returned with a laugh, seeming to snuggle even closer to her brother.

"Lady Arya, then...," said Aegon, now also grinning broadly again as he downed the last sip of his wine.

"Lady Arya actually is here," Rhaenys said with a wink. "How old was she when you left Winterfell?"

"Twelve," Jon said.

"Hmm, that is a bit young indeed. Now she's four and ten, still pretty young," said Aegon.

"Pretty young for what?" asked Jon, who could already guess what they were getting at by the looks on their faces, however.

"Pretty young for you to bed her, of course," said Rhaenys as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Hearing it, however, was quite different from just guessing it. Jon cringed at the words and had to press his hand over his mouth in haste to keep from spitting his wine across the table at Rhaenys and Aegon.

"Pray what?"

"To bed her," Aegon repeated, as slowly and loudly as if he were talking to a particularly dimwitted child.

"No way," Jon protested. "I mean, even if she were older... no, no way."

"And why not? I have seen her. She's a pretty girl," Rhaenys said. "From what I've heard not quite as pretty as her sister, but still very pretty. I only hope that she doesn't always walk around unwashed like a beggar. Then one could certainly make something out of her. So why not?"

"Yes, the future Lord of Storm's End and a daughter of the Starks...," Aegon said. "Sure, the current Lady of Storm's End is already a Stark, but she's well liked by your father's bannermen, isn't she? No doubt no one would object if the wife of the next Lord Paramount of the Stormlands were a Stark again."

"I told you, no way," grumbled Jon, who had no interest whatsoever in letting either of them talk him into his love life. He knew the time would soon come when his father and mother would choose a bride for him, anyway. The last thing he wanted to do was think about exactly that and have these two, of all people, put any fleas in his ear. He was the heir to Storm's End, was already eight and ten name days old, and it was time for him to be married, he knew. But Arya Stark? A silly idea.

"Well, if not as a wife, then perhaps as a mistress," Rhaenys suggested. "You don't have to get betrothed right away, but if Lady Arya happens to be interested as well..."

"No way," he repeated, his tone now noticeably lower, like a growl. He knew, of course, that the two were just trying to tease him, yet he couldn't laugh at all at that.

"And why?"

"Because... well, because... I don't know. In Winterfell, we spent a lot of time together, Robb and Arya and me. We became closer, we grew together. Like siblings, you know? Arya is like a sister to me," Jon said, hoping to make them understand how he felt about Arya Stark. Bedding her was out of the question for him, even in his dreams. The wry grins on their faces, however, told him quickly and clearly that he had definitely chosen the wrong words here.

She is like a sister to me. Gods, I really should know Aegon better than to say something like that, he scolded himself in his mind.

As if to prove his point, Aegon's hand, just a moment ago still resting on his sister's shoulder, wandered unerringly downward and quickly disappeared into Rhaenys' cleavage. Jon could see through the thin fabric of her dress how he immediately began to caress her breast. Rhaenys, obviously more than taken with her brother's touch, leaned in closer to Aegon, allowing him a better grip on her breasts. She closed her eyes as she leaned her head against his shoulder, a satisfied smile settling on her face while a soft moan escaped through her closed lips.

"So you don't want to bed your sister?" Aegon asked, raising his eyebrows. "I know you won't listen to me, but I can only highly recommend it," he said, placing a kiss on his sister's head while his hand was still busy inside her dress.

Jon drank the last sip from his cup, then rose and went back to the small table to pour himself some more wine. Aegon and Rhaenys were like siblings to him as well, were even closer to him than his real brothers if he was honest with himself, and although he was kind of flattered that they were so open and informal in his presence, he would have preferred not to have to watch them making out in front of him every now and then. Those were things he didn't really need to see.

"But I'm not a Targaryen, Aegon," he said, his back still turned to his friend.

"And she's not really your sister."

He opted this time for the second carafe that was ready on the table, but immediately regretted it when he saw that it was Dornish Red. He didn't like sour wine and for a moment considered grabbing a new cup. He then decided against it, however. He turned around again wanting to say something, hoping to finally end the subject. When he looked back over at the two of them, however, Aegon had already pulled his sister into his lap, still firmly kneading her full breasts with one hands and holding her head in place with the other, while their tongues had already disappeared into each other's mouths. Rhaenys reached into Aegon's hair as well now, pulling him further towards her and pressing their kissing mouths closer together as she blindly began undoing more of the laces of her dress with her other hand. Jon knew when he was misplaced and this was just such a moment.

That's definitely one way to end the conversation, Jon thought with a grin as he put the cup back on the small table, turned away, and walked out the door, satisfied with at least not having to drink the dreadful wine now. Ser Arthur Dayne still stood guard outside the door, just as he had mere moments ago when Jon had arrived, and looked at him questioningly, probably wondering at the brevity of their meeting.

"The prince and princess... wish to be undisturbed for a while," he said with a wink to the knight, already hearing Rhaenys' laughter, light as a feather, through the closed door. Ser Arthur could not help but grin slightly, nodding in understanding but saying nothing.

He walked down the corridors of the Red Keep thinking about whether he should go to the Starks right now. He knew that, as some of the king's most esteemed guests, the Starks were among the few who had been given rooms in Maegor's Holdfast. Most of the king's guests had been accommodated somewhere in the city at the foot of the fortress, the nobler and more important guests in the guest rooms of the Red Keep, but only very few directly in Maegor's Holdfast, close to the royal family. He decided against going to the Starks just yet, however. He was eager to see his uncle again, to ask him about the journey and how Robb was doing, especially now that he was a married man. And he wanted to see Arya, wanted to ask her how she found the Red Keep and explore the hallways of the fortress with her, as he had promised her back in Winterfell. But the Starks had just arrived. Surely they were still too exhausted from their journey to bother with him now.

The thought of his mother's family brought a smile to his lips. But the thought of his family, of the Starks, and especially of what Aegon and Rhaenys had said about him and Arya, whether to tease him or not, also brought something else back into his thoughts. Again and again one word echoed through his head.

Betrothal. Betrothal. Betrothal.

He was no longer a child or a boy, he was a man of eight and ten. He should, indeed, have been betrothed to a lady of a proper family at least one, maybe even two years ago already, as he knew very well. If it had been up to his mother, a girl would have been put in front of him the day he had returned from Winterfell. One year he had spent with his mother and father in Storm's End after his return from Winterfell before he had been allowed to go back to King's Landing and live at the royal court again, where Aegon and Rhaenys had been waiting for him. He was thankful that their families had agreed early on that it would be best for the kingdom and their families' future if he, the future Lord of Storm's End, grew up together with the future king, bound by a friendship as close as between brothers, just as his father and his uncle Ned once had in the Vale of Arryn. In that one year in Storm's End, however, his mother had presented him more names of young ladies eager to be wed than he had expected to hear in his entire life.

He had written to his uncle about it, shortly after his return home. In the letter he had received in reply a few weeks afterward, his Uncle Ned had been deliciously amused that it was his sister Lyanna, of all people – a more than unconventional girl herself in her younger years, who almost had to be forced to marry his father – who was now pressuring him on the matter. It was only thanks to his father's intervention that he had so far been able to avoid being promised to a lady. Robert Baratheon was a man of many appetites, and even if he himself thought little of how openly his father satisfied these, women were certainly among those appetites. So his father had been more than understanding when he had told him he didn't feel ready for marriage yet and wanted to try himself out a little more first. He certainly hadn't planned on whoring around, but it hadn't been a complete lie either. He did, indeed, not feel ready for marriage yet. In any case, it had been enough to wring the promise from his father to give him some more time before they would talk about the matter again. Jon was no fool, however. He knew that his time was running out and now, with his father and mother and so many young, noble and unwed ladies in the city, it would be difficult to get around the subject again.

Long ago, he had thought that one day he would be given Rhaenys as his wife. The houses Baratheon and Targaryen had a long history since even before the Conquest and were closely connected in blood, so such a union would not have been unusual. As a young boy, he had even wished for it. Rhaenys was smart, smarter than most people he knew, strong and proud, had always been able to make him laugh, and was without a doubt one of the most beautiful women in the world. Even as a young girl, everybody had been able to see what kind of beauty she would one day become, and time had more than proved this right. It had taken him some time and effort to get those thoughts out of his head again once it had become obvious over the years that Rhaenys did not have those kinds of feelings for him and that she in no way had the desire to become the next Lady of Storm's End. Instead, she and Aegon had grown closer and closer. Much closer than would have been possible for normal siblings. But they were Targaryens and the rules of ordinary men did not apply to them.

For a while Jon wandered aimlessly through Maegor's Holdfast, unsure what there was to do for him now. He could have gone to his mother, but surely she would only talk to him about this or that unwed young lady again, or at least to wring from him the promise to ask a young lady for her favor during the tourney. He was going to do that anyway, he just hadn't decided on one yet and besides, even if he knew it was silly, he didn't want to be bound to his mother by such a promise, possibly even giving her the wrong idea that whoever he asked for her favor should become his future wife soon. Going to the Starks, he had already decided against as they were probably still tired and needed rest. His father was out hunting in the Kingswood for some days already and where his brothers were, he simply did not know.

For a brief moment, Jon even considered going to Elinor, but immediately dismissed the idea. For almost the entire last year, since his return from Storm's End, he and Elinor Tyrell had been lovers. She was smart and fair and witty and had been a delight in bed, more than just a little willing to try out new things. She had even suggested bringing in her cousin Alla, a shy but exquisitely pretty girl, with her to his bed once she had flowered. About a month ago, however, her father Ser Theodore had announced to her that she was betrothed to Alyn Ambrose and that they would be wed as soon as he was knighted. They had met in his bed a few more times after that, but it had not been the same anymore.

Maybe he should see where Minella Blackbar was? He knew that she was interested in him. She had shown up at every one of his spars lately and had even gifted him her silken handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead a few days ago after a particularly exhausting fight against Aegon. She had also been asking around about him, he knew, if he was going to participate in the melee or the joust, if he had already asked another lady for her favor and what his favorite color was, so that she could choose the appropriate fabric for a new dress and a new ribbon to hand him, should he indeed ask her for her favor. That much Rhaenys had told him. Immediately, however, he scolded himself for the idea. His father certainly would not have objected to such an idea. The thought, however, of what his mother and especially his Uncle Ned would think about it, made his blush rise to his face in shame.

If I want a whore, I should at least be honest enough to admit it, he scolded himself.

Instead, he decided to ride down to the city and pay a visit to the armorer to see if his new armor would be ready for the beginning of the tourney. Master Eder was an excellent armorer, known far beyond the Crownlands for his masterful work, and had promised him a new suit of armor in time for the beginning of the joust, the day after tomorrow after all, that would make the spectators drop their jaws.

At the price he is asking, that should better be true.

It took him about half an hour to leave the Red Keep on horseback, an escort of six men – three Gold Cloaks and three of his father's soldiers from the Stormlands – gathered around him, and almost twice that long again to actually reach the armorer's forge on the Street of Steel. As much as he enjoyed the excitement, the life, and the hustle and bustle of a tourney, if he had to fight his way through crowds far too large in streets far too narrow to get to his destination and if that took him twice as long as usual, he tended to quickly losing his enjoyment.

Master Eder, an older, stocky man with massive arms and a much too thick mustache, but only a few hairs left on his head, greeted him personally when he entered the forge. He was as friendly as ever, which did not match his always grim expression at all. His daughter Fryda, a pretty thing of five and ten or six and ten name days with long blond hair and big blue eyes, had ushered him in and was now standing wordlessly behind her father, her eyes lowered shyly but smiling all over her face.

"My lord, it is an honor and a pleasure to see you here."

"Thank you. I know the armor doesn't have to be ready until the day after tomorrow, but I still wanted to check on it already, if it's possible. Patience is not necessarily one of my strong points," Jon said with a laugh.

"But of course. Come, follow me, my lord. There are still a few minor things to be done to the adornments, but the rest is finished. Feel free to take a look at the armor."

With these words, he turned and, due to his expansive belly, staggered up a narrow flight of stairs. Jon followed him. They walked down a short corridor with a ceiling so low that Jon had to walk stooped to a small room where Jon knew Master Eder was putting the finishing touches, such as chasing and enameling, on the armor pieces when the actual forging was complete. The room was dark, but still bright enough through the half-open shutters to make out the masterpiece standing on an armor stand in the opposite corner, waiting for him. The armor was a dream, even more beautiful and better than he had imagined.

The armor was made of yellow and black steel from head to toe, with the coat of arms of House Baratheon proudly emblazoned on the chest, so large that it almost reached from one shoulder to the other. The details on the stag alone were a sight to behold. On the edges of each piece of armor were decorations in black and gold depicting dense forests and wild animals, deer and badgers, eagles and wolves, fish and foxes, and of course proud, all towering stags. Over the yellow and black steel, the armor was covered all over with small scales in various shades of gray that shone in the light and looked like the fur of a wolf.  Most impressive, however, was the helmet, also yellow and black and covered with gray scales, in the shape of a wolf's head, but with the magnificent, gilded antlers of a stag on the sides. Jon had never seen such magnificent armor before, and the thought that he would be the one to wear it soon made him feel anxious with excitement.

"The armor is wonderful, just perfect," he breathed.

"I feel honored that you like it, my lord."

Jon heard from the man's tone that he wanted to say something else. When he said nothing after a moment, however, Jon decided to inquire. Whatever it was, with a sight like that, it couldn't possibly ruin his day.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem, my lord. Well, not really. It's just... you know..."

"What is it? Just say it, master."

For a moment, Master Eder stood there, looking back and forth between the ground in front of his feet, the armor, and Jon, as insecure as a little boy who had just been caught with his hand in the honeypot. Then he cleared his throat long and hard before he began to speak again.

"Well, unfortunately, for the armor, I had to get some more materials and... well, the prices have gone up significantly recently. So I've had more expenses, if you know what I mean."

"You want more coin," Jon said.

"I'm afraid I must insist, my lord."

"And how much more?"

"Thirty more silver stags, my lord."

Jon pretended for a moment that he had to think seriously about this. Of course, he could have said no and competed in one of his other, older armors. However, it would have been a shame not to wear this masterpiece and let Master Eder sell it short to someone else. Also, he could have demanded that Master Eder's books be shown to him to prove him a liar. Jon suspected that there was no truth to his story to begin with. The man, as ingenious as he was with steel, could not handle money. That was well known. On the other hand, for all his weaknesses, the man was a good man and Jon by no means wanted him or Fryda to get into trouble. Jon knew from stories that Master Eder's father, an excellent armorer himself, had not been able to handle money either and in the end had only been able to pay his massive debts by giving his only daughter, Master Eder's sister, away to a brothel. This was, of course, none of Jon's business, but he had long since decided to ensure that sweet Fryda would be spared a similar fate.

"Agreed. You'll get the silver stags by tomorrow," he finally said, nodding. Master Eder obviously almost burst with joy and relief, but contented himself with a short thanks and a bow.

Jon also decided to talk to Rhaenys first thing tomorrow. Fryda was a simple girl, could neither read nor write, but was kind and attentive and hardworking. Perhaps Rhaenys could use another handmaiden in her service. In the Red Keep, in the service of a member of the royal family and with her own coins in her pockets, she would certainly have a better future ahead of her than with her father, always having to live with the possibility that one day she would be the one having to answer for his debts.

After that, Jon made his way back to the Red Keep. His armor was as good as ready and would be waiting for him in two days, when the joust would begin, in the great arena south of the city that King Rhaegar had specially built. The armor was truly perfect. He was a Baratheon and proudly displayed this with this armor, but he was also a wolf and honored his mother's family with itas well. He could hardly wait to see the looks on the faces of his parents and his uncle Ned when he rode into the arena in this gem. He took the longer way around Visenya's Hill, again followed by the six soldiers, got off his horse here and there and treated himself and his soldiers with some little things to eat or drink before he turned back onto the King's Way behind the Great Sept of Baelor and from there on took the direct way across the city to Aegon's High Hill.

Even from a distance, before the road began to rise, it was clear that something was wrong. There were virtually no people moving toward the Red Keep at all, just away from it, and the main gate had been closed and even the portcullis lowered. Clusters of people were coming towards them, dodging him and his soldiers on the road again and again, cursing quietly to themselves. Some of the men looked like they had gotten into a fight. This was not good. For months now, whenever things had been particularly lively in the fortress, there had always been trouble. Often it had only been minor disputes between merchants and craftsmen who had been allowed to offer their goods and services in the front courtyard of the royal fortress, getting into arguments about prices or the quality of their goods. Several times, however, there had been outright brawls and once even a stabbing. Fortunately, no one had been killed yet. Still, King Rhaegar had refused to close the Red Keep to the common people in order not to strain the close ties between the royal family and the people of King's Landing, but had, as Jon knew, given clear instructions to his soldiers to act with all necessary severity against such incidents, to imprison agitators instantly, and to remove anyone involved from the fortress. Obviously, as Jon realized with a quick glance at a particularly battered-looking young man's face, there had been trouble again.

"Ride ahead and announce my coming," he ordered one of his men. They would not open the main gate for him, but if they pulled up the portcullis again, they could at least open the portal in the main gate for him, a heavy and especially thick door reinforced with real steel just big enough for one man. Some of his men would then simply have to bring in the horses later, until the situation had calmed down again.

"Aye, my lord," the soldier returned, then gave his horse the spurs and thundered up the road to the Red Keep, much to the displeasure of the peasants who had to jump out of his way.

Making his way through the remaining people still standing around on Aegon's High Hill near the main gate, Jon only slowly neared the Red Keep. Quite a few men in fine and not so fine clothing stood around, cursing loudly, but not daring to come closer than two dozen paces to the main gate. Women, in fine but dirty dresses, held each other in their arms or sat on the ground in tears.

"My goods are still in there! Let me in so I can get my wines," roared a man with a round belly and a flaming red drunkard's nose.

"Please, open the gate. I'm a noble! You can't leave me out here with these… peasants! Please, please let me in," whined one of the ladies toward the gate, who seemed to be Lady Carellen Smallwood, which was hard to tell though because of her dirty dress, red eyes and the swollen face from all the crying.

"It's all that vile heretic's fault. What the hell were we supposed to do about it?" complained a young man with a split lip and a black eye, from the coat of arms on his chest apparently a knight of House Risley of Risley Glade.

Jon got off his horse, handed over the reins to one of his soldiers who would wait with the horses in front of the gate and followed the rest of his men through the crowd, who were now pushing the last men and women aside for him. Many of those waiting made a pitiful picture and Jon took it upon himself to speak to the captain of the guard right away to end this misery as soon as he would be back in the Red Keep. Those who still had goods in the fortress would be allowed to fetch them, and those who were of noble birth and had chambers inside the Red Keep would, of course, have to be let back in. Whatever had happened here was certainly no reason to strip the merchants of their goods and let the nobles spend the night outside the gate.

"He's here," Jon heard one of the men on the bridge above the gate call out, and immediately, loudly rattling and clattering, the portcullis was pulled back up so that the portal could be opened for him. Some of the men and women behind him apparently thought that they too would now be allowed back into the Red Keep and were about to rush after him when a few well-aimed crossbow bolts struck the ground at their feet from above, convincing them otherwise.

"Jon? Is that you? Jon! Jon!" he heard a woman's voice calling behind him.

The voice sounded young, but it was definitely not Elinor. He would have recognized her voice immediately. However, he could not think of another woman who addressed him as Jon, apart from his mother, Rhaenys and sometimes Queen Elia when she was in a good mood. Certainly, on various evenings, when he had sat in a tavern in the city with Aegon, drunk, he had offered one or the other tavern maid to call him Jon instead of my lord or Lord Jon, but he certainly could not remember the voices of these girls. No, he would definitely not turn around. Whoever called his name there would have to deal with this mess alone. He wasn't thinking of arguing here and now with some tavern maid he couldn't even remember about whether or not he could take her into the Red Keep with him.

"Jon! Jon!" he heard the voice still calling.

Whoever it is, she's pretty persistent. I'll give her that, he thought, as the portcullis was finally raised far enough and the clacking and scraping of the heavy bolts and latches behind the massive portal could be heard.

"Jon, turn the fuck around, you dumbass! It's me!"

Dumbass? Jon could hardly believe what he had just heard. He only knew one girl in the entire world who was cheeky enough to call him that, and publicly at that. So he did turn around, eyes wide and brow furrowed, and looked over the crowd until he spotted her in it, arms waving. He scolded himself for not recognizing her voice earlier.

Arya. It's Arya!

Her hair dirty, dressed in a plain dress, once probably blue but now completely gray-brown from dirt and dust, with only one shoe left, she stood there, shouting and waving her arms and shouting even more. She looked at him and when she noticed that he had seen her as well, the widest grin immediately spread across her face. Indeed, it was Arya.

"That girl there," he said to one of his soldiers, pointing at her, "get her here. Quickly!"

The soldier obeyed without asking questions, probably thinking that he was fetching his mistress for him, separated Arya from the crowd and brought her forward to him. On the last steps Arya tore herself away from the soldier, rushed towards him and fell into his arms. Jon returned the embrace, pressing her tightly against him.

"Arya, by the old gods and the new, what are you doing here? What happened? Are you all right?"

"It's good to see you, too, Jon," she said with a wide grin, ignoring his every question.

"Will she accompany you into the Red Keep?" a soldier asked through the now open portal.

"Yes," he said. "This is Lady Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North."

Immediately all color drained from the man's face and hastily he stepped aside to let them both in.

"My lord, we had no idea. I beg your pardon, my lord and my lady. Had we known who you were-"

"It's all right," Arya said. "It's just my dress that's ruined. I guess I'd better change. I'm probably too late for supper anyway."

"Are you okay?" asked Jon again as the portal closed behind them again.

"Yeah, I'm fine. There was a fist fight in the courtyard and I got thrown out along with everyone else. No big deal."

"Maybe you should finally get in the habit of dressing a little more ladylike, or at least have an escort around to keep an eye on you. I'm not saying this wouldn't have happened to Sansa, but this definitely wouldn't have happened to Sansa," Jon said, now also a broad smile on his lips. Arya tilted her head, seeming to think about it for a moment.

"Hmm, no thanks," she then said, bursting into peals of laughter. Jon couldn't help but laugh out loud as well.

"It's so good to see you," he then said. "Come on, let's take you to your father. I'm sure he'll be worried by now."

"No, we can't. We've been invited to supper with the king and queen. If I show up there like this, father will never let me out of my chambers again as long as we're here. And I certainly don't want to miss the jousting," she said, winking.

"The supper is with the king and queen? Well, the way your dress looks certainly is not going to make a very good impression. But that doesn't really matter now. I'm sure your father is worried sick already. He'll surely forgive you anything if he only sees that you're all right. And so will the king and queen. Come now. I know the way. I'll take you to them."

Chapter Text

The water was pleasant, even if he could have done without the scent and the milk in it – he assumed it was milk. A bowl of water with a soft cloth would have sufficed, but since the bathtub, an adventurous construction that seemed to be firmly anchored in the stone of the floor, was already full of hot water that smelled of flowers, then he might as well use it. Who would benefit if he ignored the prepared bath and let the water go cold? No one, least of all he himself. The weather was actually much too warm for a hot bath, but he had to admit that it did him good to soak his body in the hot water, enriched with whatever it was. He had spent most of the journey in the carriage with Arya, so he was not sore from riding. Actually, as a Warden of the North, it would have suited him better to ride into the capital on horseback, but he had agreed with Cat before their departure from Winterfell that it would be important to keep an eye on Arya most of the time, and since neither Septa Mordane nor she herself had been able to accompany them on this journey, this task had fallen to him.

Ned closed his eyes and enjoyed the all-encompassing warmth around his body for a while. Imagining that it smelled not of flower blossoms but of pine needles and old woods, he could almost believe for a moment that he was in one of the hot springs in the Godswood at the foot of Winterfell. Almost.

After a while, however, he left the tub, went back to his bedchamber and began to choose suitable clothes for the supper with the royal family. He had already worn his best doublet today at the welcoming ceremony, so he could not wear it again. It was dusty and, as he noticed, smelled unpleasantly of sweat anyway. His black doublet with the white wolf's head on it was noble enough for such an occasion, but he would not wear black sitting in a room with the Targaryens, who themselves would undoubtedly be dressed mostly in black. He still had a white doublet with blue and gray wolves, artfully embroidered along the seams into the woolen fabric, but somehow this did not appeal to him. Not today.

Ned ruffled his hair.

Cat would have already found the right one and I'm standing here like a fool, he scolded himself. So Ned decided to just go with his gut.

Undoubtedly there were courtly rules and customs according to which a suitable doublet had to be chosen for such an occasion, but neither did Ned know these rules nor did he want to know them. He was a man of the North, the blood of the First Men, considered by many to be simple and plain, but proud of his heritage, and his heritage was, after all, the North, which for millennia had managed without too much courtly ceremonial. He reached into the chest at his feet and pulled out a good but plain doublet of gray linen and gray silk. It was not embroidered or otherwise decorated, but Ned liked it. He liked to wear it and felt comfortable in it. More, he felt, could not be asked of a doublet.

He put on matching dark gray pants and black boots made of soft leather. Since it was so warm, he decided not to wear a cape or any jewelry. He pinned the small brooch to his chest that Cat had gifted him for his last name day, though, a direwolf of silver on a braided ring of gleaming copper and with eyes of tiny shards of dragonglass, forged and decorated with the finest craftsmanship. He knew that Cat had had the brooch made by a master silversmith in White Harbour.

Leaving his chambers, he briefly considered going to check on Arya. Ned hadn't wanted to be too hard on her earlier. He knew his little girl well enough to know that there had been no ill will behind her behavior. He decided he would talk to her later and let her take her bath in peace and enjoy the luxury of her chambers for now, though. Maybe he should look after Theon instead? The boy didn't know anyone in King's Landing after all, much less in the Red Keep, aside from Arya, Jon, and him. Perhaps it would be good to have him with him, to spend some time with him, before Arya and he would then go to supper with the royal family tonight, to which he would not be able to accompany them. It would not be fair to Theon to let him languish in his chambers all day. So he walked down the hall toward the chambers where Theon was housed, knocked on the door and waited. After a moment he knocked again, but got no answer.

"Apparently he didn't feel like languishing either," Ned muttered to himself.

"Excuse me, my lord, what did you say?" Ned was startled when he suddenly heard the voice behind him and whirled around. "Please forgive me, my lord, I did not mean to scare you. I thought you were speaking to me," a handmaiden, a young girl with raven-black hair, only scantily hidden under a firmly tied hood, said to him, eyes lowered shyly, carrying a tray with a pitcher of water and a half-full decanter of wine in her hands.

"No, it's all right. I have just been talking to myself."

"I understand, my lord."

Ned doubted this, but left it at that. The girl curtsied to him and was about to turn away to go back to her work when he took a quick step aside, half blocking her path. Immediately the girl's eyes widened and she lowered her gaze even further.

"Just a moment, girl. Maegor's Holdfast is a maze. Can you tell me how to get to the chambers of my sister, the Lady Lyanna Baratheon?"

Only now did the girl look at him, and he recognized relief in her gaze, as if a huge stone had just fallen from her heart.

"Of course, my lord. Maegor's Holdfast is confusing at first, but you'll get used to it quickly," she said, now even with a genuine smile. "Just follow this hallway until you come to a staircase. Go down one floor, then turn left. Behind the entrance to the guest library, you'll find a wide door to your right, leading to the hallway into the east wing. Then just turn left two more times and before the guard's rooms on the right, go the stairs up again. Then you're there already. That's the easiest way."

"The... easiest… way," Ned parroted. He'd already forgotten half of it, but didn't want to ask again. How complicated could it actually be, after all? Instead, he thanked the girl and went on his way. He reached the staircase, went down one floor and then to the left. After less than two dozen steps, he found the wide door the girl had spoken of on his right. The hallway behind it was surprisingly narrow and much lower than the other, more ornate hallways he had seen here so far. The girl would know the way, though. He walked down the hallway, encountering no one at first. The corridor led past countless doors and junctions, sometimes turning left, then sometimes right.

It would be easier to find my way around here if there were some windows.

He encountered a handful of servants in flaming red uniforms who immediately made room for him when they saw him. Ned ignored their confused looks. He probably shouldn't even be here, walking through this hallway of all places, but the girl had to know the way, after all. Ned didn't know how far he had already walked down the corridor when he was overcome more and more by the feeling that all this couldn't be right. At some point he should have reached the entrance to the library. Had it not been so? He also doubted that the entrance was on such a narrow, not very splendid corridor, which was probably more often used by the servants than by noble guests, let alone the royal family. Only when the corridor unexpectedly ended in a dead end after what felt like at least the better part of an hour was he sure he was definitely wrong here.

He walked back a bit until he came to another wide door that looked like the door through which he had entered this corridor. It was locked, though. He went back further, to the next wide door, but found it locked as well. The third door finally opened, but led him not into one of the wider, richly decorated corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, as he had hoped, but into what looked like a ballroom. The curtains of the windows to his left, which were more than five steps high, were almost completely drawn shut, so that Ned could only guess at the full extent of the splendor. But what little he saw, was already impressive enough. The room was large, its walls paneled with richly carved wood. Above his head, Ned saw the outlines of a gallery above the main floor hidden in the shadows. The high ceiling was decorated with ornate paintings and supported by wide stone pillars. Beaten silver mirrors hung behind the wall sconces, which, when the fires were lit, certainly offered an impressive sight.

On the opposite side of the hall was a large portal, wide enough for three or four men at a time and just as high. He walked toward it and exhaled in relief as one of the two door wings opened without resistance. He stepped out and flinched briefly as he looked into the open mouth of a giant dragon. It took a heartbeat for Ned to realize that it was merely a stone dragon, like the ones that had frightened Arya when they had arrived earlier. For a moment he felt silly to be frightened by such a thing. However, in a city where real dragons lived, this was excusable, he decided for himself. Ned finally looked around. At last he was back in one of the wide, high, decorated hallways, though he had no idea where in Maegor's Holdfast he might be.

Probably not near the Baratheons' chambers in any case, he thought.

Ned had always had a good sense of direction, had never had problems finding his way in unfamiliar terrain, neither in the deep and dark forests of the North, nor in the vast landscapes of the Riverlands or the trappy mountains of the Vale. Here, however, he felt as lost as if he were a peasant who had never left his village before in his life. It almost seemed as if Maegor's Holdfast was deliberately designed to be confusing.

Maybe that's exactly how it is. In the event of an attack, it would certainly be good if only the defenders really knew their way around here.

Ned walked along the hallway, encountering again not only servants, but also soldiers, knights and ladies, who greeted him sometimes curtly, sometimes friendly, but all of them looking insanely busy as they walked past him. Ned turned around various corners, sometimes in this direction, sometimes in that, hoping to somehow – with a little luck – come across something that looked like the entrance to a library. He even, when there was nowhere else to go, took a few flights of stairs, sometimes up a floor or two, sometimes down a floor. It didn't help, though. He found nothing of the sort.

This is silly, he decided. The next person I meet I ask for directions.

As if the gods had heard his decision and decided to play a particularly cruel game with him, it now seemed almost as if Maegor's Holdfast was completely deserted. No matter where he went, which hallway he turned into and through which open door he looked, there was not a soul to be seen anywhere. Briefly, he considered going back to the ballroom and walking back down the narrow corridor to where he had started. That way, he would at least be near the stairwell where his venture had begun. However, since he had to admit to himself that, first, he had no idea how to find the ballroom again and, second, even if he did find it, he didn't know which of the numerous doors in the narrow corridor was the one through which he had originally come, he immediately discarded the idea.

Ned was about to just stop and call loudly for help, however embarrassing that would have been, when he heard something behind him. He turned around and found an enormous cat on the ground behind him, black as night, its back raised into a hump, its tail puffed so much that it was almost as wide as the animal itself. The cat growled and hissed at him as if ready to jump at his throat at any moment.

"I have done nothing to you," Ned said to the cat, but at the same moment felt incredibly silly for even trying to speak to the animal.

"Balerion, be nice," he then heard a woman's voice say. He didn't have to turn around to know who that voice belonged to. Before he could turn around and look at her, Princess Rhaenys had already rushed past him, crouched down and taken the aggressive, almost bloodthirsty animal on her arms. As if the cat had been replaced from one moment to the next, the enormous animal now hung contentedly on the princess' arm and purred so loudly that it could certainly be heard across the entire fortress.

"Please forgive Balerion, my lord. He's the sweetest little thing in the world once you get to know him, he is just wary of strangers," the princess said with a guilty smile on her face.

"There's nothing to forgive, Your Highness. After all, it is I who trespassed into Balerion's territory," Ned said, attempting a laugh.

"Well, it often seems to me that we all are, and Balerion is merely generously allowing me and a very few other people to live in his fortress with him," she said, her laughter now as bright as the sun. Princess Rhaenys nodded and was just about to turn away to leave when Ned hurried to speak up.

"My princess," Ned said quickly. She stopped, turning to him once more. "It's a little unpleasant for me, but..."

"You have lost your way."

"Yes, indeed. How did you know?"

"Believe me, you are far from being the first to get lost in Maegor's Holdfast, and I suspect you won't be the last either. Where were you heading? It's a little early for the supper with my parents."

"I was going to see my sister."

"To the Baratheons' chambers? Oh, then you have indeed gone far astray there, my lord," she laughed, setting the cat on the ground. "Go on, fatty, catch yourself some mice or a dog or something. Come, my lord, I'll be glad to take you there."

Then she took a step to the side, gesturing for him to walk beside her.

"There's no need for that, Your Highness. Please do not trouble yourself. If you'll just tell me which way to go-"

"Then you will only get lost again, and in the end I will be to blame when my father has to name a new Warden of the North. No, no, my lord, I will not be bargained with. Come, I will bring you personally."

Ned saw that there would be no point in arguing with the princess anymore, so he surrendered to his fate and let himself be guided through Maegor's Holdfast by the princess personally. Here and there he asked a few questions, wondering about the meandering paths they took, and made comments when he noticed something that reminded him of Winterfell or was particularly different from it, listening attentively to the princess' patient explanations and in turn answering her questions about his home.

"Do you already have a favorite for the tourney, Your Highness?"

"Well, yes. My brother of course. And what about your daughter? Does she have a favorite yet?"

"No, not yet. At least as far as I know. Actually, knowing her, she is probably more dreaming of being allowed to participate herself than to cheer for some knight."

"She seems a bit small for the jousting, if I may say so, my lord," the princess joked.

"True enough. She's an avid archer, though, even if she almost drives her mother mad with it."

"Ah, I see. And will she be participating?"

"Excuse me?"

"Will she be participating?" she repeated. "Women are allowed in the archery contest, my lord. My mother insisted on it. So if you agree, your daughter can still be added to the list tonight. Feel free to sleep on it a little longer, though. The first round of the archery contest will begin in three groups, the last one not until three days from now. So Lady Arya can even be added to the list later if you are still unsure about it. There will be some excellent archers from Dorne participating, though, so her chances probably wouldn't be very good."

"Oh, no. There's no need for that. Really, no. Arya... is a little stubborn and... occasionally has a bit of trouble adhering to court etiquette. But that would… go a bit too far. My wife would certainly murder me if she ever were to find out."

"I see," she laughed. "But I do feel sorry for your daughter, if I may be so honest, my lord. As a young girl, I was an avid archer myself and desperately wanted to enter a tourney someday as well. My father, however, never allowed me to do so. In retrospect, it may have been the right decision not letting me, a princess of the realm, participate in such a contest, but at the time it felt insanely unfair."

For a while they walked side by side in silence, turning corners and greeting servants and soldiers who dutifully jumped aside and bowed or curtsied to the princess.

"So the cat's name is also Balerion...," he eventually said, breaking the silence.

"Indeed, but in my defense I must say that Uncle Lewyn gave him to me a while before the dragons were born already. At that time, he was really Balerion to me then, you know. Big and powerful and protecting me from all the evil out there in the world. Then the real dragons were born and Father insisted on naming them after the Conqueror's dragons. I didn't care back then, I was just a little girl after all. I lay awake for nights afterwards telling Balerion, the cat I mean, that he now had a fire-breathing brother. Silly I know."

"I don't think so, Your Highness. It is touching, if I may say so."

"You may," she laughed. "Do your kids have pets, too?"

"No dragons, certainly," he said, and had to grin.

"I suspected as much. Dogs, maybe, or cats?"

"My oldest son Robb has a favorite hound and almost all my kids have their favorite horses, but other than that, no."

"You should give it some thought. There's nothing better for a kid than an animal as a best friend. It teaches responsibility and to care for someone other than yourself. At least I like to think it's had that effect on me," she said, winking at him.

"I'm afraid my children are a little too old by now for me to give them any special joy or teach them a lesson with this."

"Yes, I suppose so, too. But I understand your son Robb recently married, and your daughter Sansa a few months earlier. So surely the joy of becoming a grandfather will soon be upon you. Perhaps you will think about it again then, my lord."

"Yes, perhaps," he said, and had to swallow. He had indeed often thought recently that both Robb and Sansa would soon have children of their own. But that this would actually make him a grandfather hadn't even occurred to him until now.

Grandfather Eddard. That sounds odd. Grandpa Ned. No, that's not it, either.

"Here we are," he heard her say, snapping him out of his thoughts. "The Baratheons' chambers. The two there on the right are the chambers of Orys and Steffon, Lord Robert and your sister Lady Lyanna are in these chambers right here."

"I thank you very much, Your Highness."

"You are welcome, my lord. Next time, just have a servant or a soldier accompany you. Believe me, there is no shame in losing your way in this fortress, much less asking for help. Now if you'll excuse me, I do have an appointment with my brother."

With those words, she turned away, giving him one last smile and floated gracefully back around the corner they had just come around together. Ned turned toward the door, taking a moment to process all that had just happened and what he had heard. He would be a grandfather, a real grandfather with real grandchildren. And Princess Rhaenys had offered to see to it that Arya would be allowed to participate in the archery contest. What he had said, however, was true. Cat would undoubtedly murder him if he allowed Arya to participate and she ever found out about it. He sent a quick prayer to the old gods that Princess Rhaenys not mention this later at the supper when Arya would be there. Arya had never been a real lady like Cat had hoped she would be, not like Sansa, and never would be. His little girl had the Wolf's Blood, as Lyanna has it and his own mother had had it, even if his wife had never really understood this. He agreed with Cat, however, even if he himself had more understanding for Arya's behavior than Cat, that it would be better, not least for Arya herself, not to reinforce her behavior further by approving of it and supporting her in her follies. When he had ordered his thoughts and finished his little prayer, he finally knocked on the door.

"Come in," he heard Lyanna's voice call from behind the door.

Ned opened the door and stepped inside. To his right, just as in his own chambers, a door led into a spacious and richly decorated solar, where Lyanna sat on a cushioned chair at a wide table, busy drafting a letter.

"Just put the wine down somewhere," she said, her eyes fixed firmly on the paper in front of her.

"I didn't know I had to bring wine, otherwise I would of course have-"

"Ned!" she cried as she recognized a voice, jumping up and falling around his neck laughing loudly. "Oh Ned, I'm sorry, I thought you were a servant. It's so good to see you."

"It's good to see you too, Lya. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"No, not at all. I was just writing a letter to Storm's End to see if the supplies from Essos have arrived yet."

"Supplies from Essos? Is there anything I can do?"

"No, everything is fine. Charcoal and malt are in short supply, but soon our ships will return. Then we'll have more than enough of both. But now enough of this boring nonsense and tell me all about Robb's wedding. I was so sorry I couldn't come. And which of my wonderful nieces and nephews did you bring with you for me? I hope all of them," she said with a grin that remined him so much of Arya.

"I only have Arya with me. Robb is taking my place in Winterfell, Bran and Rickon are squires now and are in Riverrun and Barrowton, and Sansa is in the Vale with her husband. But Arya is looking forward enough for all of them together to seeing you and Jon again."

"Well, I should very much hope so. She has a lot to make up for when I already can't see the other ones. My boys are looking forward to seeing you and Arya, too."

They sat down together on the cushioned chairs, then. Ned told her all about Robb's wedding and Lyanna almost asked him a hole in the belly about Lady Bethany. She wanted to know everything about Sansa as well, although he couldn't tell her nearly as much as Cat would have been able to, about her husband and when she would finally make him a grandfather.

Grandfather. There it was again.

Lyanna asked him about Winterfell, about the people she had not seen in so long, about the Glass Gardens and the Godswood, as if there had been any news to tell about the Godswoods in the last millennia. For her part, she told of Storm's End, of the friendships she had made there among nobles and servants alike, but also, unfortunately, of the sometimes difficult finances.

"Robert is not a bad man," she said, sounding as if that were the highest praise she was willing and able to give, "but he is not good with money. If it were not for Lord Baelish, we would have been ruined long ago."

Baelish... the name sounded familiar to Ned. It took him a moment to come up with where he knew him from. Petyr Baelish had grown up in Riverrun along with Cat and her siblings, Lysa and Edmure, as wards of old Lord Hoster. After that, as much as Ned remembered, he had spent several years in the Vale with Jon Arryn, had supposedly multiplied Gulltown's finances within a few years. He didn't know much more about the name, though, except for one thing.

And he had been there when Brandon had fallen ill, Ned remembered. Years into their marriage, Cat had once told him about how Lord Baelish had cared for his feverish brother and for her, how he had supported and comforted her, had being there for her and had helped her not to lose hope to somehow save Brandon after all. In vain, though.

Last, of course, they got to talking about the tourney, in which her and Robert's sons were, of course, eager to participate. Steffon had apparently decided at the last moment not to compete in the joust, but in the melee, because he allegedly hoped to have a better chance of winning there. Lyanna suspected, however, that he only wanted to do Robert a favor, who had been devastated after Lyanna had talked him out of participating himself.

"Let him, then. He's always taken pleasure these things," Ned said.

"Oh Ned, Robert takes pleasure in a lot of... things. I'll let him get away with most of them. What choice do I have? But this is going too far. I'm not going to allow him to put himself in unnecessary danger doing such nonsense."

"In danger? Lya, it's a melee, not a real battle. And Robert is an excellent fighter. If you had seen him back when we crushed the Greyjoy Rebellion. A true demon he was on the battlefield. Robert would have loved to subdue the entire Iron Islands on his own, had the king not insisted that he leave something for the rest of the armies as well," he said, laughing.

"Maybe so, but that was a few years ago now, Ned. He didn't hold up quite as well as you did."

"What do you mean?"

"Wait until he gets back from his hunt. Then you'll understand," she said, reaching for her cup of wine. He knew his sister well enough to know that for her the conversation on this subject was now over. Time passed quickly and before Ned knew it, he had to leave again, if he didn't want to be late for supper with the king and queen.

"You wouldn't happen to know the quickest way to get back to my chambers, would you?"

Lyanna did know the way, though, seemed to know her way around this maze of a fortress as if she had been born in it, and led him straight back to his chambers without getting lost even once, quicker than he even thought possible.

"If you still want to change, you should hurry," she said.

"Actually, no. I was just going to pick up Arya."

"Ah."

"Ah? What does ah mean?"

"Ah means you're lucky that King Rhaegar himself has no particular fondness for finery. So with your, shall we say, modest doublet, you will certainly be well received by him. Go on, fetch Arya. I want to say hello to her before you both go to supper."

So together they went to Arya's door and Ned knocked. They waited for a while before Ned knocked again. Again nothing happened and Ned knocked a third time.

"Arya, it's me. I'm coming in now," he said and opened the door. He looked to the one side into her bathing chamber, but found it empty and clean. He could only hope that Arya had actually bathed and that the servants had simply cleaned everything again already. Quickly he looked through the door on the other side, but - unsurprisingly - did not find her in the high solar, filled to the ceiling with almost overflowing bookshelves, either. The last remaining door led into her bedchamber. Ned knocked again for safety, not wanting to accidentally surprise his daughter while she was changing.

"Arya, it's me. I'm coming in now," he said as he opened the door and entered. He looked around and felt hot and cold at the sight. No one was there. "She's not here," he said. "She's not here. Where is she? Where by the old gods is she?"

"Calm down, Ned. I'm sure she's fine," he heard Lyanna say behind him.

"I told her to stay here until I came for her so we could go to the king and queen's supper together. I told her so, Lya."

"And you really thought she would listen?" asked Lyanna with a slight laugh in her voice.

"This isn't funny, Lyanna. Arya's gone. We're invited to supper with the royal family and she's just gone."

"I was quite serious, Ned. You've written me so many times that Arya is like I was when I was her age. I, on my first visit to the capital, certainly wouldn't have just stayed in my chamber being bored and waiting for father either."

"But?"

"What do you think, Ned? I would have sneaked out and explored everything. She certainly did the same. Probably she's exploring Maegor's Holdfast and has lost track of time, or is sitting in some tree trying to catch a bird."

"But we must go to supper with the royal family."

"Then go to supper, Ned. It would have been boring for Arya anyway. If the king asks, just say she was still tired from the journey and needed to rest. He'll understand that."

"Very well," he finally relented. "But I'll still talk to her about that. She won't get away with this so easily. Can you maybe take me to the supper? I don't know the way."

Lyanna had to laugh out loud before she hooked up with him again and once more led him unerringly through the hallways of Maegor's Holdfast to a small hall called The King's Banquet. She said goodbye a short distance before the entrance to the small hall, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and, whilst walking, wrung a promise from him that they would watch the opening of the tourney together. Ned then walked towards the wide portal, which was flanked on either side by two soldiers in shining armor and on the right, additionally, by a servant in a red attire with a silver dragon on the chest.

"Good evening, my lord. The royal family is already expecting you," the man said so quietly that Ned could barely hear him.

"I hope I am not too late."

"Not at all, my lord. His Grace has only made a habit of arriving before his guests when he is dining in a small circle."

The two inner soldiers, without waiting for another word, finally opened the wide door and let Ned in. Ned stepped through the door into a hall that under normal circumstances might have seated three dozen people, but now contained only six chairs at a large, sprawling table. At the head of the table waited the king, seated in a large chair so broad and richly ornamented that in other kingdoms it would have sufficed as a throne. Indeed, he was dressed in a plain black doublet that had neither embroidery nor any other kind of adornment, wore neither jewelry nor a crown. Next to him on his left sat Queen Elia in an only slightly smaller chair, wearing a dress of yellow silk, but unlike the king, with her crown on her head. To the right of the king sat Crown Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. Prince Aegon was also dressed in black, but wore a doublet with a red dragon embroidered in fine thread over his heart. Princess Rhaenys had apparently changed her dress, now wearing a gown of red and black silk and gold rings in her ears and around her wrists. Neither, however, wore a crown on their heads.

Ned sank to one knee, his gaze fixed on the floor before him.

"Your Grace, I am honored to be here."

"Lord Stark, please rise," he told King. "Rise and take your seat. The honor is all ours. I would like to apologize for not being able to be present in person when you arrived."

"That is not necessary, Your Grace," said Ned, who had now risen again and sat down in the chair opposite the king. Immediately a servant hurried up from somewhere, placed precious, richly decorated silver cups in front of him, which must contain different kinds of wine. "Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys have more than duly welcomed us."

"While you are mentioning us, will your daughter Arya still be joining us as well?" the queen asked.

"Unfortunately, Arya is still a bit exhausted from the journey," he lied, silently praying they wouldn't notice. "She sends her apologies."

"Oh, we understand, of course," she said. " The long journey from Winterfell all the way to the capital, across the entire realm, must have been insanely exhausting for such a young lady. Then we look forward to making her acquaintance tomorrow, once she is certainly rested and the tourney begins."

"Certainly."

Servants brought in the various courses of food one by one while the royal family and he chatted about this and that in a surprisingly relaxed manner. The meal began with a thick, creamy soup with mushrooms, herbs and mussels, followed by small pies with venison, onions and dried plums. Crown Prince Aegon asked a few questions about Robb and whether he would like to come to the capital sometime, since he had heard so much about him from Jon Baratheon and was eager to meet him. Ned made no promises in this regard, but in turn invited the crown prince to come to Winterfell at the next opportunity.

"I'll take your word on that, my lord," he laughed. "And on the back of a dragon, the journey will even take only a few days."

"I hope, in that case, you have a chamber left for me then as well," Princess Rhaenys said in a tone in which she certainly could have asked absolutely anything from most men, taking the hand of her brother.

"It would of course be an honor to welcome you both in Winterfell, my princess."

King Rhaegar inquired about the finances of the North, for which he was promptly reprimanded by Queen Elia due to the tediousness of the subject, and the state of the Night's Watch, asking if there was anything he could do to help the Night's Watch in its important task. For a moment Ned was not sure if it was meant as a joke, but the king's serious face told him that he was indeed serious about it. Ned was more than happy and willing to answer all questions the king had about the Night's Watch and its current problems, about the scarcity of supplies, food, clothing, and good weapons, the lack of new recruits, even and especially apart from just criminals, and the high losses of rangers beyond the Wall in recent months. His father and grandfather before him had always complained, as Ned well remembered, that the southron kings did not care enough about the concerns of the Night's Watch, seeing it more as an easy way to get rid of criminals without having to execute them outright than as an important shield for the realm against threats from beyond the Wall. Ned couldn't be happier that King Rhaegar was obviously different in that regard. Benjen would certainly be thrilled when he told him in his next letter how invested the king was in the Night's Watch and its concerns.

"Have you made up your mind about the archery contest yet?" the princess then asked, as the servants just started carrying in desserts on silver trays, little cakes that smelled deliciously of fruits and wine and spices.

Oh, thank the gods that Arya isn't here now.

"The archery contest? What about it?" asked Queen Elia.

"Lord Stark and I spoke briefly today about whether his daughter Arya already had a favorite for the tourney, and Lord Stark said that his daughter would certainly rather enter the tourney herself than to cheer for someone else. So I told him that in the archery contest, women are allowed to participate and offered to have Lady Arya added to the lists."

"Thank you again," Ned said after a brief clearing of his throat, "but... well, I think-"

The crack of the door opening interrupted Ned, for which he couldn't be more grateful. Arya would not be participating in this tourney, but to refuse the offer again, in the presence of the queen who, according to Princess Rhaenys, had made a special effort to allow women to participate, would not have made a particular good impression. Ned's gaze wandered to the door and saw that a servant had entered, just like the young man named Harrin at noon today, with a golden dragon on his chest. He had already seen that the servants, although all dressed in red and black robes, had different colored dragons embroidered on their chests.

Probably some sort of ranking.

Tomorrow he would certainly see Jon. He could ask him about it, the boy had spent most of his life here, after all. The servant took just a short step into the room and bowed deeply toward the king and queen.

"Your Grace, Lord Jon Baratheon and Lady Arya Stark are here," he announced.

Arya? This late? It would have been better to stay away altogether then. And what was that undertone in his voice?

"Please, send them in," the king said.

"How lovely that your daughter is joining us after all," Queen Elia said, genuinely pleased as far as Ned could tell. "She must be hungry, that poor girl. Surely the servants can still serve her some-"

Queen Elia didn't finish her sentence when she saw Jon and Arya enter the hall together. Ned saw them too, looked up and down at Arya, frozen with shock, and felt himself getting hot and cold again. Suddenly the fabric of his doublet was much too thick, the collar much too tight. Somewhere he heard dropped cutlery jingle, noticing only afterwards that it had been his own cutlery that had fallen on his plate. A short "Huh" from Crown Prince Aegon was the last thing he heard before he jumped up from his chair.

Chapter Text

Robb lay in their bed, staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily. That was all he could do. The feeling that ran through his entire body was far too strong, far too ecstatic and at the same time paralyzing, for him to do anything but to lie there, completely motionless, and enjoy it. Bethany sat on his legs, massaging and fondling his balls while her head went up and down, taking his manhood in her mouth and throat over and over again as deep as she could. His breathing was fast and it only got faster and faster with every movement of Bethany's head, up and down and up until he couldn't hold back any longer. He grabbed her hair and moaned loudly as he spilled his seed into her mouth.

Robb was breathing heavily and panting as deeply as if he had just stormed up and down the stairs to the Library Tower a dozen times without a pause after he was done. Bethany then came to him, crawled up along his body, kissed him passionately on the mouth, and then lay down on his chest. Robb inhaled the scent of her hair as he began to run a hand along her naked back.

"You're amazing, wife," was all he could muster.

"That's right, husband," she said, and he could almost hear the grin on her face.

Four times now Bethany had pleasured him like this since their wedding, and each time had been an even greater experience than the time before. Before the first time, she had told him that she had read about it in a book, but that the maester of Barrow Hall had burned it immediately when he had found it in her rooms. It had been a shame, no doubt, but at least he hadn't told Bethany's father about it. She had been given the book by a friend, the daughter of Barrow Hall's master-at-arms, who had possessed far fewer virtues than she herself, with the suggestion that it might possibly be useful to her after her marriage. And it indeed had been.

Theon had once told him about something similar, a method with which the man could pleasure the woman, the Lord's Kiss as he had called it. At the time, Robb hadn't wanted to hear about it, not least because Theon's stories tended to quickly become ridiculously exaggerated boasts about his manhood. By now he regretted not having listened better to Theon on this of all things. More than once, he had already resolved to please his Bethany with this Lord's Kiss, to give her back some of the thrill and ecstasy she had bestowed on him in various ways in bed already. So far, however, he had been too reluctant to do anything. It had always been Bethany who had taken the initiative and wanted to try something new, mostly to give him pleasure. Robb, however, resolved to do something similar for Bethany by evening today when they would go to bed again. Maybe even this Lord's Kiss. If only he knew what exactly he had to do...

"The most important thing about this is that your tongue is always-"

"I don't want to hear your smut," he'd said back then, interrupting Theon at exactly the most important point. Something for which he could be slapping himself right now.

For nearly an hour they lay there, wordlessly cuddled together, Robb smelling her hair and stroking her back, before getting up together, dressing and starting the day. Bethany would spend most of the day with his mother and Septa Mordane again, having conversations Robb didn't really want to know what they were about and learning even more about what it meant to run a household as large as the one of Winterfell.

They broke their fast together before Robb met with Rodrik Cassel for some sword practice and Bethany disappeared with his mother into Winterfells sept for a prayer. While his mother was well aware of the fact that the Dustins – and thus Bethany – did not follow the Seven but the Old Gods of the North, she had insisted that Bethany should at least get to know the Seven properly, so that they could then better make a decision as to whether Robb's and her children should also follow the Old Gods or not rather be anointed in the light of the Seven. This was not seriously in question for either Robb or Bethany. However, his wife, smart as she was, had quickly realized that there were things that could not really be discussed with his mother without spoiling her mood and, by extension, the mood of everyone around her for days or even weeks. So every morning since their wedding, Bethany met with his mother, went to the sept with her, and joined her there in saying prayers to gods that were not hers, to at least make his mother feel there was a realistic chance they would have their children anointed in the face of the Seven.

The spar with Ser Rodrik was only short, but still made him sweat a lot and no doubt he would be left with some bruises that he would have to explain to Bethany tonight. More than once he was inattentive, taking hard hits to his right shoulder and even a painful hit to his left knee. It was the completely wrong place, he knew, but whatever he did, he couldn't get the memory from his mind of what Bethany had done for him again this morning, and the thought of what he would do for her - hopefully properly - in return tonight.

"What the bloody hell was that supposed to be?” Ser Rodik asked after having hit Robb against the shoulder again. "I expect more from the son of Eddard Stark. Or else we might just as well let this be. I certainly have better things to do than beat you bloody," Ser Rodrik railed.

"Forgive me, ser. I somehow haven't got my head on straight today."

"I don't care. Gods forbid you ever get into a real fight in a real war, son, but should it indeed happen one day, you can't just say sorry, I just don't have the head now and leave," he said, before lashing out once more, knocking Robb's sword aside and sending him sprawling backwards into the dirt with a powerful blow to the chest.

"I think that's enough for today," Robb groaned as he pulled himself back to his feet holding onto Ser Rodrik's outstretched arm.

"I think so, too. I want to see something better from you tomorrow, boy."

"I promise."

"Is something wrong?" his old teacher asked after a moment, already helping Robb undo them fastenings of his armor, a worried look on his face.

"No. No, it's all good. It's just all a bit much. I'm a freshly wed and now I'm also the Lord of Winterfell."

"Aye, it can be a bit much. Still, you've got to keep your wits about you, lad. You can't get distracted, always have to focus on the here and now, even if it's just sparring. If you're careless in sparring, you'll be careless in the important things."

"I understand, ser."

"I should hope so, boy. Someday that might mean the difference between life and death for you, and I certainly don't want to be around when the next Stark is laid to rest. With your grandfather and your uncle, I've seen enough of that in my life."

After taking off his practice armor and washing briefly, Robb took one more walk through Winterfell, checking on the hounds and the horses, before heading back to the Great Hall. Today he would have to hold court again to settle disputes, make decisions about defaulted taxes, or pass judgements. So far, on the days he had held court since his father's departure, only minor decisions had been necessary and minor disputes between people living in Winterfell or Winter Town had to be settled. Today, however, it would be different, as he knew.

Flanked by one soldier on his right and one on his left, he entered the Great Hall through the massive main portal, where the first supplicants were already waiting. Most bowed to him as he passed, others sank to one knee. Robb, his back as straight as he could and his head held high, walked the entire length of the hall, stepped onto the dais at the head of the hall, and sat down on the high seat of the old Kings in the North. The cold stone of the seat was smooth, polished by the many lords and – before the Conquest – kings who had sat and held court on it before him. Robb's hands clasped the seat's massive armrests, sliding his fingers along the heads of snarling direwolves carved into the ancient stone.

As soon as he sat down, Bethany, his mother, and Maester Luwin stepped out from behind the seat and took their places beside him. Bethany to his left, his mother and Maester Luwin to his right. Inevitably, Robb wondered how Bethany had managed to convince his mother to give her the seat of the Lady of Winterfell to the Lord's left. As it seemed, his wife could already handle his mother much better than he himself. He would ask her about it later. Robb had hoped to first settle some minor issues between some local peasants again before he would have to face the bigger task, but before Luwin could even announce the first supplicants, two men had already pushed their way to the front, got down on one knee before him side by side and, faster than Robb could have allowed them to stand up again and present their case, started talking, cursing and insulting each other.

"Lord Lucan Moss and Lord Payton Wells," Maester Luwin announced the two, who had long since been engrossed in their argument, however. Both were tall men, broad in the shoulders and with long curly beards that fell to their chests. Both carried imposing bellies in front of them and were dressed in thick wool and sturdy, worn leather. If they hadn't have such different colors – Lord Moss was a straw blond with light blue eyes, Lord Wells had dark brown, almost black hair and brown eyes – they could have been mistaken for brothers.

"My lords, be silent now," Robb said in a firm voice after letting them berate each other for a while. It took only a moment before they both actually fell silent. "Lord Wells, you have reported the dispute, so please begin by presenting your case to me."

"There is no case," Lord Moss immediately scolded. "The man was a murderer, and for that he was hanged."

"Man? What man?" asked Robb.

Wasn't this supposed to be a question of a border line?

"Of course there's a case," Payton Wells immediately blurted out, completely ignoring Robb's question. "Were your skull not as barren as your filthy land, you would know that-"

"And your head is as empty as the rigged barrels in which you sell your ghastly mead."

"Rigged? You take that back, scumbag!"

It took Robb several minutes and four of his soldiers to separate the two men again, who were on all but about to start a fistfight on the spot, and more than an entire hour to finally figure out - repeatedly interrupted by insults and threats from the two men toward each other - what this was all about in the first place.

It had indeed all started with a small dispute over a border line. Two peasants, a pig farmer living on the land of Lord Wells and a shepherd on the land of Lord Moss, had argued about the exact course of the border between their farmsteads. The dispute, apparently a matter that had been simmering for years since the old border river had changed its course after a small flood, had escalated at some point when, in the quarrel, the pig farmer had assaulted the shepherd's wife and had been beaten to death for it shortly thereafter. Normally, either Lord Moss or Lord Wells should now have dispensed justice and settled the matter. Instead, however, the dispute had escalated further, resulting in the loss of not one but two full flocks of sheep, about a dozen pigs, two plow horses, the house of a so far completely uninvolved peasant being burned down and the daughter of yet another peasant – however she fitted into this story – losing her left hand.

When the Lords Moss and Wells had finally intervened in the matter, however, they had by no means settled the dispute and dispensed justice in the name of the king, but had instead begun a dispute of their own about who now owed whom what coin for which loss. When Robb had finally understood the numerous problems and entanglements of it all, his head ached and throbbed as if someone had hit it with a hammer. Lords Wells and Moss were already back in their argument when Robb got up, walked around his seat, and retreated to his father's conference room where strategic planning took place in times of war, followed by Bethany, his mother, and Maester Luwin. He needed something to drink, perhaps a cup of wine or mead, to calm his head and sort out his thoughts.

"Are you not feeling well?" asked Bethany, immediately after the door had closed behind all of them.

"Yes I am, I just have a headache after the mess and all the yelling."

Robb went to the chair at the head of the large table in the center of the room and instructed the only servant in the room to bring him some mead. The boy returned shortly after and handed him a cup full to the brim.

"What are you going to do?" his mother asked without mincing words.

"First, drink my cup of mead to make the headache go away."

"You know what I mean. What are you going to do about Lords Moss and Wells? It's an old quarrel between them. This peasant's death or this girl's hand are just the latest excuse for them to hate and insult each other. It's a wonder they haven't killed each other yet."

"Your lord father had to deal with the problems of Lords Wells and Moss years ago already, as did your grandfather before him," Maester Luwin said. "The dispute between the two is a full grown feud, going back as far as to both men's fathers."

His grandfather... Robb had to think of his grandfather, old Lord Rickard. He himself had only few memories of the man, who had died shortly after his third name day. Robb remembered a tall man with a long, grey beard. He remembered a deep, raspy voice and large, rough hands. He didn't remember much more than that, however. The death of his oldest son, Brandon, had left him a different man, as Robb had learned much later, tired and melancholic. No father should ever outlive his children. So perhaps it had been a blessing for him that he had outlived his son by so few years only. No real explanation had ever been found for his grandfather's death, but more than a few said he had lost the will to live and so just… chose to die. Robb could not even imagine how difficult this time must have been for his father. Sure, a few years could make all the difference in a young man, yet Robb was terrified by the thought that his own father had been only a few years older than Robb was today, twenty and three compared to his ten and nine, when he had followed his father and had become the Lord of Winterfell, the title that should have been his brother's. Robb was grateful that his father was still so young and healthy and that he would have many more years to learn from him before he would finally have to take over the seat of the old Kings in the North and truly become the Lord of Winterfell.

"Maybe you should just wait until your father is back," his mother now said. "It's a silly problem with a far too long history. With things like this, you should wait for him."

"Wait for him?" asked Robb, hoping he sounded as incredulous about it as he felt.

"Or Maester Luwin will be so good as to send a raven to King's Landing and ask your father for his opinion on the matter. Then they'll simply have to wait a little longer for a decision. Your father is the Lord of Winterfell, after all."

"I am the Lord of Winterfell," Robb said now, again in as firm a voice as if he were talking to the squabbling lords again.

"I think you should make a decision. Whatever seems fair to you," Bethany now said, stepping up beside him and placing her delicate hand on his shoulder.

"Bethany," his mother began in the admonishing tone Robb knew all too well from whenever he had tried to reason with his father as a child, "I don't think you-"

"I want to hear what she has to say, Mother," he interrupted her. "Bethany is my wife and will one day be the Lady of Winterfell at my side. Her advice is important to me."

"One day. But not yet."

"Maybe not, but she is my wife already."

Robb felt Bethany's hand close tighter around his shoulder at his words. He looked at her and saw that she was smiling at him, weak enough to perhaps not be seen by his mother, but enough to let him know that she was grateful that he was standing up for her.

"I think," Bethany began again, "that you should make a decision. You are not your father, true, but you speak on his behalf. As their lord, you must show strength and resolve if you want your bannermen to respect you. Not making a decision would be the exact opposite of that. Nothing would make them lose confidence in you faster and this, if word were to spread, would be a burden that might haunt you and your reign for the rest of your life. Besides, even if your decision won't be perfect... what does it matter?"

"What does it matter?" his mother asked, horrified. "Is this the kind of advice you wish to give my son, Lady Bethany?"

"Yes, my lady, it is," she said. It had not escaped Robb's notice that they had abruptly returned to addressing each other as lady rather than by their first names. "Robb's decision need not be perfect, for as you and Maester Luwin have said yourself, this quarrel between Lords Wells and Moss is an old one, a feud Robb's grandfather had already had to contend with. So it won't matter what his decision will be, since either the two of them or their sons or perhaps grandsons will show up here again sooner or later anyway over some new trifle."

Robb had to stifle a grin as he looked into his mother's speechless face, frozen with surprise.

"I think it is time for a decision now," Robb said, rising from his chair without waiting for a reaction from his mother or Maester Luwin and walking with long strides through the high door back into the Great Hall. Those present, supplicants and soldiers, peasants and lords, had barely moved from the spot, kneeling again or bowing to Robb as he stepped back onto the dais and lowered himself into the throne of his ancestors.

"My lords," he began, giving the men in the hall, first of all Lords Wells and Moss, some time to give him their full attention. He could see both men growing restless. Lord Moss was stepping from one foot to the other the whole time and Lord Wells couldn't stop cracking the knuckles of his fingers. "I have thought through your case and have come to a decision. I have decided that we will have more maesters come to Winterfell from the Citadel in Oldtown. They will sift through all available maps of the disputed territory and, taking into account the old and the new course of the river, make new maps and set new boundary stones. You yourselves, my lords, will provide equal shares of coin to compensate the aggrieved families and assign them new farmsteads away from the borders of your lands, so that this unfortunate dispute may finally be ended."

Robb hadn't quite finished speaking when both lords began to grumble indignantly.

"Outrageous! I am the wronged party here! I demand redress," blustered Lord Wells.

"This is not a justice, this is bullshit," Lord Moss roared in the direction of the entire hall behind him, before turning around and facing Robb again. "I will not accept this nonsense, boy!"

"Neither will I! Only a green boy could come up with such foolishness. Coins for the peasants..."

"I'll come back as soon as your father has returned. Then we'll see what he decides."

"Yes, exactly. That's what I'm going to do as well."

Robb said nothing at first and let the two men finish their rant. They turned and were about to storm out of the hall, demonstrative and enraged, when Robb signaled to the soldiers behind the men. Immediately, first three, then four soldiers stepped into the path of the two lords, ignoring their complaints to be let through immediately.

"You are welcome to do so, my lords," Robb said, waiting until they had both turned back to him. "Go back to your lands, hole up in your castles, and wait for my father if you wish. You are welcome to present your case to my father again, once we come to you then, sleep you out of your castles like common thieves and hang you as oathbreakers. You may not like my decision, but I speak in the name of my father, make decisions in the name of my father, dispense justice in the name of my father. I am the Lord of Winterfell to whom you owe allegiance and obedience. So consider carefully whether you are really foolish enough to refuse my decision."

For a moment the two men looked at each other uncertainly, then looked again at Robb, sinking to one knee. When they rose again, there was nothing left of the loud bawling and yelling, and quietly and silently they left the hall. Perhaps they still would not accept his decision, probably even it was only a matter of time until their quarrel would flare up again for this or that reason. That did not matter, however. All that mattered was that he had made a decision, a decision that these two men, at least here and now, had accepted.

"I'm proud of you," he heard Bethany whisper softly beside him. "You go ahead and look forward to tonight. There was also this other book, you know..."

The rest of the day was less exciting. A couple of nearby shepherds were arguing over a ram that one had supposedly sold to the other, but then again had not, or had sold for too few coins. Robb decided that the man who had paid for it should get the ram. If the other shepherd had bargained too badly for the price, that was his own fault. However, he also promised to give him the coins so that he could buy a new ram at the next cattle market and gave him five years to pay off the debt again. Three merchants, two of whom had agreed on their prices for their goods, were arguing over said prices, and a tavern keeper from Winter Town was having trouble with a drunk who had been unable or unwilling to pay his debt for months.

After a short luncheon, Robb met with Maester Luwin in his tower to put his decisions in writing and to formulate letters to all his bannermen who needed to be informed of them. Fortunately, these were not particularly many, so the afternoon passed quickly. He considered spending the rest of the day riding, but then decided it would be better to give his still buzzing head some time off and retire to the Godswood.

It did him good to spend time alone, time in the Godswood where no one was but he himself with his thoughts and the Old Gods, watching over him. He hadn't slept enough lately, though he certainly wasn't complaining about the way Bethany had kept him awake. Still, he was tired, so terribly tired. And the little sleep he actually found seemed not to be restful at all. Lately, more and more often, he had been having these strange dreams again, of how he was scurrying through deep woods in the form of a massive wolf, hunting and killing. He was not alone in his dreams. He never was. His siblings were there, other wolves, direwolves, as big and huge as he was. They ran together, hunted and killed together, howled together. All but one, all but his white brother with the red eyes, who never made a sound. Robb had wondered more than once what these dreams might mean, but had never dared to talk to anyone about them. It would have been too bizarre to tell how, after having ripped out the throat of a stag in one of his dreams, he had woken up in the morning with the taste of blood in his mouth.

For a while, after Sansa had left them to live in the Vale of Arryn and Jon Baratheon had returned south, the dreams had grown weaker, had even stopped altogether. But now they were back, and more intense than ever before at that. It was as if something had changed, in himself or in the world, but he had no idea what it might be. He remembered his last dream, in which he had run as a wolf through the dark forests of the North, deer and stags and even shadow cats taking flight from him. He had seen the Wall, towering impossibly high and imposing before him, had sensed the smell of the black brothers of the Night's Watch who had kept watch on it. Even at such a great distance he had smelled them, the old leather and the old sweat.

Something had crashed to the ground some distance in front of him, shattered into countless pieces. The stench had told him that it had been cheap liquor. One of his sisters had tried to lick up the liquor, but had quickly shaken with disgust. He had looked around, the smell of the men in his nose, so far away from him and yet so clear, but had not seen a fortress anywhere. Only at that moment had Robb realized that in his dream he had been on the wrong side, the northern side of the Wall. The thought had been exciting, but also terrifying. Still, the desire to explore the endless forests and icy wastelands of the Land of always Winter along with his siblings had immediately gripped him.

Bethany had finally pulled him out of that dream waking him up with soft kisses and touches when, just before sunrise, she had felt a desire of a very different kind. As sad as Robb had found this at that moment, the naked body of his lustful wife had quickly comforted him over this small disappointment, however.

He did not know how long he had been sitting there, beside the small pond at the foot of the weirwood tree, enjoying the peace and all-encompassing tranquility of this sacred place, when just before sunset a soldier came to him and announced the arrival of a black brother of the Night's Watch. He was pleased to hear that it was his uncle Benjen. He quickly got up and made his way to the Great Keep. His uncle was already waiting for him in his father's solar, hugging him tightly as he entered.

"Robb, my boy, it's good to see you," he laughed.

"Uncle Benjen, it's good to see you, too. Why didn't you announce yourself sooner? We could have given you a better welcome."

"Actually, a raven should have arrived a few days ago. Probably the stupid critter got lost. Doesn't matter, though. It's just good to be here again. Don't be mad at me, Robb, but actually I was hoping to see your father."

"He's at King's Landing for the tourney in honor of Crown Prince Aegon's name day."

"Well, well, well," he said, slapping his thighs as if he'd just heard a particularly good joke. "I'd have bet my last pair of underpants he was going to duck that somehow."

"He wanted to, but Mother didn't allow him to," Robb said as he poured himself and his uncle each a cup of spiced wine. Benjen laughed out loud when he heard that, but Robb could tell by the look on his face that he wasn't here for the wine, a quick laugh or a courtesy visit.

"Maybe I can help you, uncle. It's only for the time being, but at least for the moment I am the Lord of Winterfell," Robb offered, even though he was sure that his uncle would not want to burden him with whatever problems there were. To his surprise, however, he then began to speak.

"Aye, maybe. Maybe not. But either way, it can't hurt for you to be in the know," he said, taking a hearty sip of the wine before continuing. "The Night's Watch needs help, Robb. Real help. We need clothes, food, weapons, and most of all, men. Good men, not just the scum the lords and ladies scrape out of their dungeons. And lots of men at that. It's not looking good. Every moon we lose more and more rangers beyond the Wall. Good and skilled and seasoned rangers, men I've known for decades who know the land beyond the Wall as well as the hairs on their balls, Robb."

"Wildlings?"

"Aye. More and more are being spotted heading south or caught trying to cross the Wall. Just recently we picked up a group of twenty men and women south of the Wall before they made it further south. And who can say how many have made it over the Wall undetected that we don't even know about? But… it's not just that."

"What else?"

Uncle Benjen didn't say anything for a while, just sat there with his half-full cup of wine in his hand and stared, entranced, into the flames of the hearth in front of them.

"I don't know. I know this sounds strange, but I just feel it in my bones that there's something more going on. The wildlings we picked up were given the choice of being executed or going back beyond the Wall, you know. Not a single one wanted to go back. They barely said a word, almost as if they were too afraid, but every single one of them, every man and every woman, chose to be hanged or beheaded rather than go back, Robb. There is something going on up there in the north, beyond the Wall."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Just… something. But whatever it is, is can't be good."

Chapter Text

"No! No, there's no way I'm going to agree to this!"

"Elia, please listen to me. We should at least-"

"No, never," she interrupted him. After pacing back and forth excitedly for nearly half an hour, she now stood almost motionless in front of the large window of her sleeping chamber, looking down on Blackwater Bay. He could hear the anger and her tears in her barely composed voice. Rhaegar sat in the chair next to the table where Elia always wrote her letters to her family in Dorne and looked at her wordlessly. She was breathing heavily and Rhaegar could clearly see how hard she had to pull herself together not to break into sobs again.

At some point, he wasn't sure how long they both hadn't spoken a word, he stood up, walked over to the small table next to the door and poured them both a cup of wine. It was Dornish Red. Rhaegar hated this wine. It was sour like unripe fruit, bitter like one of Grand Maester Pycelle's potions and scratchy in the throat like having swallowed sand. Elia, however, loved the wine of her homeland.

Just like Rhaenys, he thought, and had to smile. Our little girl is so much like her.

He walked over to her and held the cup out over her shoulder. Elia hesitated, but then grabbed it and took a sip, still not looking at him. Rhaegar came to stand beside her, also looking out the window. The view over the bay illuminated by the midday sun was beautiful, but at that moment Rhaegar had no eyes for such things. He had known how this conversation would go. Probably that had been why he had delayed it. After Rhaenys had come to him, he had intended to talk to his wife yesterday already, but had postponed it anyway. Had he done so, she certainly would not have allowed him to spend the night in her bed, laughing about Lord Stark's horrified face as his daughter had burst into their supper dirty as a stray dog, drinking wine together and making love again for the first time in more than a month. But now word was out and there was no turning back.

So soon I will certainly not be allowed to sleep here again.

"You cannot allow this," she finally said.

"Of course I can," he said. "They are Targaryens."

"They are my children, Rhaegar!" Her voice grew louder again, but also more shaky. "My children. You can't do that to them."

"I'm not doing anything to them! They came to me. They want this."

"They don't know any better. Please, Rhaegar. You must not allow this to happen," she said, as stubborn as a donkey.

"And what would you have me do?" he asked, his voice now raised as well, though he had firmly resolved not to let it come to that. "Am I supposed to forbid them? Just marry them off to someone else?"

"Yes! Yes, that's exactly what I want you to do! Give them someone else. There surely must be some Hightower or Lannister or Velaryon daughter available for Aegon, or maybe the Tyrell girl. She's sweet and smart. She'll make him a good wife, and certainly he'll fall for her once he gets to know her really. Or the Redwynes' daughter. Or both of them for all I care. And Rhaenys... a son of one of the old Houses from the Riverlands, maybe, or a Hightower. She is smart and beautiful. For Rhaenys we will find someone. For sure."

"Rhaenys has a dragon, Elia. To what other house should we give a dragon, if Rhaenys were to marry another man?"

"There are enough loyal Houses! Not every family is out to overthrow House Targaryen. You already sound like your father." Rhaegar looked at her for a moment. She looked at him as well, and he recognized the terror in her gaze at what she herself had just said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

"It's impossible," he said, doing his best to ignore her comment. "The dragons belong to House Targaryen. To marry Rhaenys to another man would mean the possibility that Meraxes would one day bond with one of her children after her death. I cannot allow that."

Elia turned away, took another sip of wine, and then walked over to the small table, her shoulders drooping. She sat down, took another sip, and sighed heavily.

"You promised me," she said after a while, so softly that Rhaegar almost missed it.

"What?"

"You promised me."

"What did I promise you?"

"That you would not marry them to each other. You promised me that, the night after Aegon was born when I almost died giving birth to your heir. You promised me that you would not marry them to each other."

Rhaegar looked at her in silence for a moment. He could hardly believe that she was now using this against him, against his decision.

"No," he finally said. "I didn't."

"Excuse me?"

"I promised you I wouldn't force them to do this, Elia. I promised you that I would give them a choice, that they would be able to decide for themselves. And they did."

Elia said nothing more, but let her face sink into her hands and began to cry again, her whole body shaken by her sobs. Rhaegar knew that it was time for him to leave. So he finished the dreadful wine, put down the cup and left. The door still open, he stopped for a moment and briefly considered whether he should say anything else. There was nothing he could say, however, to make things any better or easier, for neither of them. So he turned away and left the room, Elia still crying and sobbing, sitting at her small table. Rhaegar was sure that as soon as he was out of the room and she had her tears under control again, she would start writing countless letters to her family and old friends in Dorne, telling them about her sorrow. Tomorrow morning at the latest, perhaps even tonight, a whole flock of ravens would certainly leave for the south. If it made her feel better, though, he would of course not stop her.

Not that it would change anything. Surely she would complain to her brother Doran about it first, but it was unlikely that he, a political mind through and through, would oppose having with Aegon not only a son of Dorne become the next king, but also, with Rhaenys at his side, a daughter of Dorne become the next queen. Doran, whatever he might think about the Targaryens' tradition of marrying brothers to sisters, had long since made his peace with the idea. That much Rhaegar knew from his own correspondences with his good-brother.

Ser Gerold remained beside the door to Elia's sleeping chamber as Rhaegar left it and walked away while Ser Arthur followed him as he made his way through Maegor's Holdfast. They had just turned two corners when Arthur overcame the respectful distance between them with a few quick steps and walked beside him. Rhaegar knew what this meant. Now he was no longer Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning and sworn knight of the Kingsguard. Now he was simply Arthur, his oldest and best friend.

"So she didn't agree to the betrothal," he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"You have heard, then?"

"Only bits and pieces, but I know my Dornish queen well enough to know that there are very few things that could make her cry. Besides, I know about Aegon and Rhaenys. So it wasn't hard to figure out what it was all about."

"You know about them?" asked Rhaegar in surprise. "Since when?"

"Since always," Arthur said, and had to smile. Rhaegar didn't quite know if his friend was smiling about Rhaenys and Aegon, or about having known more than he did. "I am a knight of the Kingsguard. Of course I knew. We all knew. And it's not like they were trying to be particularly secretive about it, either. Maybe you should occasionally listen to the gossip that goes around in the Red Keep after all. You'd be surprised what you can learn."

"I never would have taken you for a blabbermouth," Rhaegar said.

"Neither would I, but it seems that when Lewyn Martell is your sworn brother, it doesn't completely pass you by."

"I see. So you knew about it. Fine. But... why didn't you tell me then?"

"As I said, I am a knight of the Kingsguard. I am not supposed to spread gossip about my king. Not about my current king and certainly not about my future king... Your Grace," he said, smiling broadly and mockingly, faking a bow while walking. "But I think you are right, for what it's worth. The two should wed."

"Thank you. Feel free to tell that to Elia."

"I'd rather forgo bringing the eternal wrath of my queen upon myself."

"So, what do you want me to do, Arthur? I need your advice as a friend. Of course, I can just make the decision. Aegon and Rhaenys would be happy, I would be content, the dragons would remain safely in the family... but Elia would never forgive me for this. Still, the future of House Targaryen should be more important than Elia's feelings, shouldn't it?"

"Of course. But it speaks well of you that she is worth so much to you that you must give it serious thought, old friend. If you want my advice, you'll get it. You'll never be able to convince Elia to accept a marriage between Aegon and Rhaenys."

"Uh-huh, thanks. So I should just marry them off elsewhere as Elia wishes? Disappoint Aegon and Rhaenys and just give some other family a dragon?"

"Of course not. I didn't mean it that way," Arthur said as they turned just another corner and headed down the wide staircase. "I meant that you will never convince her, but your children might. I think Aegon and Rhaenys should tell her themselves what they feel and what they want. Elia will never be happy with it, sure, but maybe she can at least make peace with it if she hears it from her children themselves."

They had already gone down two flights of stairs when they left the stairwell and turned into the wide hallway to their left. There were hardly any servants to be seen here now, but there were considerably more soldiers positioned. They walked a little further until they reached a heavy wooden door flanked by two more soldiers.

"Good day, Your Grace," one of the soldiers greeted him, then opened the door for him with a heavy key and stepped aside. Rhaegar greeted him in return with a curt nod, then continued on his way. The corridor beyond the door was dark, lit only by a few oil lamps that cast a faint glow on the dark stone of the walls and the damp floor. Soon they would be there. Just down this corridor, out of Maegor's Holdfast, then around two more corners and down another flight of stairs. Then they would have arrived at the dungeons.

"Elia had plenty of time to talk to them about it, if she'd wanted to."

"True. I guess she was just afraid of what she would have to hear. Elia clearly caught more of what has been going on between Aegon and Rhaenys than you did, my friend. But she has very successfully managed to close her eyes to the truth. I think when she hears it from your children that they want this betrothal too, she may be able to accept it."

Rhaegar thought about it for a while. Arthur was right, as he often was. How a man who was not wed and had no children of his own could only be so much more knowledgeable about such things was a mystery to Rhaegar.

"I think you're right."

"Of course I'm right," Arthur said, and had to grin. As quickly as his grin had come, however, it disappeared and his friend's face became serious again. "Best not wait too long with that, Rhaegar. It is always better if such questions are not left unanswered for too long and your family has been waiting for a decision on this matter for quite a while now. Settle it, quickly. It will be better for you, for Elia, and especially for your children."

That was true, of course. Right now he had a matter to take care of in the dungeons. After that, he would have less than two hours before he had to open the tourney in Aegon's honor and spend the rest of the day on the grandstand in the royal lodge watching the first round of the archery contest. He would have liked to stay away from the event, but as king he could not possibly avoid it. Just as Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon, who would certainly be there as well. The royal lodge during a tourney, however, was not a place where such a conversation could be held. Rhaegar did not expect, even if the whole family would be there, that they would be talking much anyway. But tomorrow, first thing, he would request them all to come to his solar and they would have this conversation. He would give their children the opportunity to tell their mother themselves what they wanted.

He briefly thought about whether he should ask Viserys to join the conversation. His brother and Elia had always had a special relationship with each other, he knew. They had both suffered under his late father, mad King Aerys, each of them in his own way, but Rhaegar knew that even if Viserys had been a child at the time, they had given each other strength during those hard years.

Something I should have done, as an older brother and as a husband.

He would have liked Viserys to be there when they would talk about it tomorrow, first thing in the morning. He then changed his mind, however. Arthur was right. Aegon and Rhaenys were the ones who had to convince Elia, not him and certainly not Viserys. On the other hand... Viserys himself had had experienced how hard it was to be allowed to marry the woman he loved. In the end, he had been lucky enough to convince Rhaegar to defy the lords of the realms as well as the Small Counil and to give him Arianne of Dorne as his wife. Perhaps from this experience he could speak well to Elia.

No, that is silly. Viserys has married the woman he loved against all odds. True. But that woman was not his sister.

Viserys wouldn't be able to help him here, and he didn't want to drag his brother into it either. He would see his brother, who had arrived here from Sunspear only two days ago, at the tourney, would spend time with him at the feasts and balls, and would simply be happy to have him by his side again. Nothing more, however.

But the matter had to be settled. For too long, Rhaegar had been able to convince himself that there was still enough time or that there were just too many suitors to choose from, but actually, if he was honest with himself, he had simply not wanted to provoke an argument with Elia about it, knowing what she would say and how she would react. The question of the betrothal of their children did not allow any further delay, though. He would make sure that tomorrow, right after breaking the fast, they would meet and settle it once and for all.

They reached the entrance to the dungeons, a heavy door made of thick oak with iron bands and three separate locks, guarded by five armed soldiers. The men made way for him and opened the door for him. Arthur and he passed through and walked down the steep staircase beyond. Immediately the air seemed to become stuffy, smelling musty and of sweat and human refuse. They went down two flights of stairs, the way only dimly lit by torches in forged holders on the walls, then turned right and walked down the long, low corridor.

"Did we get another letter from Oldtown?" asked Rhaegar, after one of the gaolers, a small man in leather and gray wool with the pointed face of a rat, had joined them wordlessly but with a short bow and was now walking ahead of them, opening some of the doors, also made of thick wood reinforced with iron bands, that separated the different parts of the dungeons from each other.

"Oldtown? You mean from the Citadel? Not that I know of. But the ravens aren't exactly my area of expertise, either."

"I know, I know," he said thoughtfully. "I was just hoping Archmaester Marwyn would have reached out again. I could use his advice. Especially now."

"Why don't you just appoint him to your court? You are the king. If you have use for his services, call him to you. No matter what the other maesters may think of him, they can't deny you that."

"He had asked me in his last letter not to do so, so that he could continue his studies in the Citadel for the time being. But he also warned me that the Conclave would try to keep him from writing to me. They are... anything but happy with him."

"I thought as much," Arthur said, laughing briefly. Rhaegar, however, did not feel like laughing at all. As a matter of fact, he could make good use of Marwyn now, better than in all the years before, when they had exchanged ideas by raven, when Rhaegar had sought his advice regarding the dragons, when he had told him of his dreams and fears and his latest findings in stories and legends and prophecies. Marwyn could be a... difficult man, certainly, but over the years he had nevertheless become a great help to him. Rhaegar remembered well the first letter he had received from him, so many years ago, only weeks after the birth of the dragons.

The glass candles are burning.

It had been the very first sentence in his very first letter, even before any form of salutation or apology as to why an archmaester would write a letter directly to the king without the knowledge of the Conclave. More than once, Rhaegar had pondered the ways in which he would be able to influence the Conclave to appoint Marwyn as the next Grand Maester once Pycelle would finally have passed on. Something all of King's Landing has been waiting for for far too long already.

"Of a letter from the Citadel I know nothing," Arthur began after a moment, "but of the letters from Casterly Rock I know very well."

"Don't remind me, please," Rhaegar said, feeling a headache coming on like an impending thunderstorm.

"The Lannisters are here now, Rhaegar. You know that Tyrion Lannister is here as well, and he himself will be significantly harder for you to ignore than his letters."

"Yes, I know that. I will... take care of it," he said, sighing.

"Certainly, my friend. I just didn't want you to possibly forget."

For years, Rhaegar had received letters from Casterly Rock. Tyrion Lannister, Lord Tywin's son, apparently possessed a special fascination with dragons and had taken it upon himself to write a kind of compendium on dragons in general and the dragons of House Targaryen in particular. At least three dozen times he had written to ask to be allowed into the Dragonpit to study the dragons up close, and at least as often he had asked to discuss the details of the birth of the dragons with Rhaegar himself. As if he would just talk about this to anyone who asked, like telling an old war story sitting by a campfire. The fact that he himself knew little enough about the exact circumstances that had led to the hatching of the dragons, he certainly wouldn't rub it Lord Tyrion's face. He had to admire this man's perseverance, though, albeit reluctantly. Even without ever having written a single reply, the letters had not stopped coming.

"I will take care of it," he said again. He would have to.

The gaoler finally unlocked the last door into the small room they had been heading for, then turned around with another, wordless bow and left. The others were already there, Rhaegar noted with satisfaction, stepping into the dark room behind the door. The room had no window, just some reeking tallow candles burning on a small iron holder in a corner of the room, bathing the walls and damp floor in a dim, flickering light. In the middle of the room was a small chair where the man he wanted to talk to was sitting, his brothers and sisters in faith, eight men and women in bright red robes, gathered in a half circle around him. Thoros of Myr looked ghastly. His formerly red robe, long since completely worn out, was even dirtier than usual, and it was very obvious that he had soiled himself only recently. He could barely hold himself upright on the chair and didn't manage to lift his gaze for longer than a heartbeat before dropping his head back down with a loud groan.

"Your Grace, thank you for your presence," said the priestess Melisandre, standing next to Thoros. Rhaegar had to pull himself together not to vomit immediately at the stench in the cell of cheap wine, cold sweat, old piss and not so old shit. The priestess Melisandre managed to pass over it surprisingly well as if she didn't notice anything at all.

Rhaegar's eyes lingered on the red woman for a moment too long, as he himself noticed. The woman was a mystery to him. Undoubtedly she was a beauty, with long hair the color of deep burnished copper, unsettling red eyes and pale, unblemished skin. She was tall and slender, but with full breasts moving invitingly with every breath she took. More than once Rhaegar had caught himself thinking of her in a… different way, an inappropriate way. He had thought about what it would be like to have this woman in his bed, to see and enjoy her body without this already barely concealing dress. He had no doubt that if he had asked more of her than her advice, she would not have refused him. So far, however, he had withstood her charms and his own desires.

"I felt my presence was necessary," Rhaegar said, trying his best to breathe only through his mouth. "Though there are many places I would rather be right now."

"So would I," Thoros blurted out without lifting his chin from his chest. Where the man, who had spent the night in the dungeons already, had gotten wine or spirits from – whatever could make such an experienced drinker so totally wasted – Rhaegar did not know. He decided, however, to get to the bottom of the matter later. The gaolers would soon have to answer some very serious questions from him.

"I thought I had made myself clear. I have welcomed you and your brothers and sisters in faith in my home, Thoros of Myr, and I have given my ear and my faith to your prophecies without asking much in return."

"Indeed, Your Grace," Melisandre said when Thoros did not seem to respond after a while. "For which we are exceedingly grateful. You honor us with your trust."

"Were your prophecies not in accord with my fears anyway, I can assure you that this would not be the case, Lady Melisandre."

"Certainly not, Your Grace. It is a blessing to all mankind then that you, in your wisdom, have recognized early on the truth of the threat posed by the Great Other and his unholy servants."

"Save the empty words, priestess," he said, annoyed. If there was one thing he didn't care for right now, it was the priestess' flattery. "I told you that you all may stay in the Red Keep and assist me with your advice to prepare the realm for the war to come, as long as your presence is not noticed. The awakening of the dragons has caused... unrest in the realm and beyond and the last thing I need right now is more tension because the lords and ladies of the realm fear that their king might turn away from the Seven."

"The Seven are nothing more than-"

"I am not interested in a sermon right now, Lady Melisandre. Your views on the Seven are well known to me. I only want to make clear how dissatisfied I am with this… incident. It was hard enough to find secluded chambers and trustworthy servants to keep you hidden for so long, but I certainly don't intend to waste my time cleaning up after you. All I asked was that you keep quiet and discreet."

"Indeed, Your Grace," Lady Melisandre replied again on behalf of Thoros. For a moment, Rhaegar wasn't even sure the man was still awake.

"Then tell me, Thoros, preaching in the courtyard of the Red Keep, insulting the people as dumb, bleating sheep, and then even having a fist fight with a septon under the eyes of hundreds of witnesses, do you consider that quiet or discreet?"

"It was certainly a mistake, Your Grace, but-"

"I have asked Thoros, my lady," Rhaegar now interrupted her. He had had enough of this charade. "So, answer me, priest. Do you think this was discreet?"

"No... No, Your Grace," Thoros finally said with a heavy tongue.

At least he's still awake.

Rhaegar sighed deeply. What cruel joke were the gods playing on him here? Thoros of Myr, a priest of R'hllor, sent to King's Landing more than twenty years ago to convert his late father Aerys to their faith was a total failure. Never in his life had Rhaegar seen a worse priest, no matter the god he prayed to. Yet, at least if the other priests were to be believed, he was the first to be blessed by R'hllor with a clear vision of this approaching evil. A threat was coming towards them, as great as mankind had not experienced in millennia. And this very priest, this seer and prophet, if one wanted to call him that, was a drunkard who drank and whored around more than even Aegon the Unworthy could ever have, publicly brawling with septons in the middle of the royal fortress. Yet secrecy and discretion were the order of the day.

The realm was not to know anything about what was coming. Not yet. It was important that everything went according to plan, that they would first inform the most important men of the realm and get them on their side before more would be made known about this threat. Certainly, no one would believe a whoring drunkard like Thoros of Myr. For this reason, and because his face was already well known in King's Landing anyway, he had allowed this man to walk freely through the city and the fortress, unlike the other red priests who, at least for the moment, had been placed in secret chambers in a secluded part of the Red Keep. More of such actions, however, would not only draw unnecessary attention to him but would also, when it would soon become important, cast doubt on his credibility. More than this was already the case.

"I expect," he began after a while, "that you will abide by our agreement, Thoros of Myr. Neither must the realm be thrown into turmoil by panic or religious delusion, nor must we risk your nonsense casting further doubt on the credibility of your words. Not until I have been able to convince the members of the secret council I will be holding during this tourney of the threat that is awaiting us."

That the lords and ladies of the realm must by no means believe even for a moment that he was possibly just as mad as his late father had been, he left unmentioned. But what else were they supposed to think when their king began to speak of a threat to all mankind at a secret council, relying on little more than the drivel of this drunken blighter reeking of his own piss? That this would weaken his rule and – depending on how soon they would have to face this threat – would also be a burden for Aegon's future rule would have been an understatement.

"I assure you that such a thing will not happen again, Your Grace," Lady Melisandre said after a short wait for a response from Thoros, which did not come. She had just finished speaking when Thoros leaned to the side and threw up with a choking sound right at the feet of one of the other priests, a man massive named Moqorro, more six feet tall with snow-white hair and skin as black as coal. The man, however, did not react at all and watched calmly as the fetid bile made its way across the stone floor toward his robe.

"It is important that the lords of the realm be informed soon," Rhaegar finally said, again trying to breathe through his mouth to avoid vomiting himself, "but it has to happen on my terms. Whatever threat awaits us, the realm must be united and prepared for it."

"If you would allow us to speak with the prince and princess-"

"No," he said with a serious look. "I want to keep my children out of it as long as possible."

"But they are the ones who have tamed the dragons, Your Grace. They are the chosen warriors of R'hllor, the weapons of destiny."

"Perhaps. But they do not believe in prophecy and the War of the Dawn. If we confront them now, without proof and strong allies, they will only be more difficult to convince." And they would turn away from me, certainly. They are my children, not weapons. I would never forgive myself if they thought that. And neither would they. "In a few days I will gather the secret council, which the most powerful men of the realm will attend, even if they themselves are not aware of that yet. Then the moment will come to convince them of the truth. Can you do that, Lady Melisandre?"

"We cannot force anyone to believe, Your Grace, but we will reveal to them the unending truth of R'hllor."

"That will have to do then," he said, hoping it was true. His stomach tightened at the thought.

If he was honest with himself, they had basically nothing in hand except ancient, barely comprehensible prophecies, visions of a drunk in the fire in his hearth, and reports about men of the Night's Watch gone missing beyond the Wall. For months, Rhaegar had hoped to find more evidence before the beginning of the tourney that would support his words and bring the lords to his side more easily, but had failed. What evidence could that have been anyway? If he were one of the men he would soon be talking to and trying to convince of a world ending threat from beyond the Wall, he probably would not have believed his own words either. The words of Thoros of Myr or some other foreign priests even less. However, time was running out for them. Ever since the Red Comet had appeared in the sky for the first time in so many years, and only weeks later Thoros of Myr had shown up in his Throne Room with the other red priests from Essos trailing in his wake, excitedly talking about the visions R'hllor had given him, there could be no more doubt. The last war, the war for mankind's survival, the War of the Dawn would be fought in their lifetime. Still, however certain Rhaegar himself might have been, he had nothing in hand but his words and his own beliefs. That would simply have to be enough then. He looked down at Thoros, who had finally fallen off his chair and was now lying on the floor in a growing puddle spreading from his crotch. "Thoros will remain in the dungeons until I command otherwise. Here he can sober up and hopefully pull himself together again."

"He will be of no use to you here, though, Your Grace."

"Perhaps not, but at least he will do no further harm here either."

Chapter Text

"We should try that one," Jon said, pointing to a small, black barrel in the far corner of the small stall. "Aegon told me about it. Comes straight from Qohor. A strong wine distilled from goat's milk and fish broth. At least if you want to call something like that wine."

"That sounds awful," his uncle said, laughing.

"It certainly is. Maybe we better stick with mead," Jon said, signaling the merchant to bring them two more cups.

It was good to finally be able to spend time with his Uncle Ned and even more so when walking with him around the tourney grounds, looking at the stalls with all the goods and drinking a cup of dark ale or chilled mead here and there. The tourney grounds around the massive arena, which had been built especially for this event, were already an experience in themselves. Merchants from all over the realm and beyond had arrived, had paid enormous sums to be able to rent stands and in return offered their goods, from fabrics and clothing to weapons, armor and shields to delicious or sometimes suspiciously smelling food, at almost outrageous prices. And there was drinking, lots and lots of drinking. Wines from all over the realm and the Free Cities, sweet and sour, light and strong, distilled spirits and sweet mead, fruit wines and ales in all colors.

"Are you going to stay in King's Landing for a while after the tourney?" Jon asked.

"I don't think so. As Lord of Winterfell, I don't have the time for that, unfortunately," his uncle said, even though Jon didn't really believe him the unfortunately. Anyone who knew his uncle for more than a heartbeat knew that he was a man of the North who barely couldn't wait to finally get home again. "You'll find that out for yourself soon enough, when you become the Lord of Storm's End one day."

"Well, that will be a while yet, I hope."

"I'm sure it will," his uncle said with a smile.

"But it will also certainly be a while before Robb will truly be the Lord of Winterfell. Hopefully a very long while. So perhaps Robb will feel like coming to visit me in the south after all, at Storm's End or here at King's Landing. My mother would love to see him again and Aegon and Rhaenys would certainly love to get to know him."

"Well, we'll see. If all goes well, Bethany will be with child soon enough. Robb will hardly be able to travel then."

"After that, then. In addition to his wife, Robb can then also introduce me to his son or daughter while he's at it."

"If the gods are good, certainly with pleasure," Uncle Ned laughed. "Speaking of wives and children, would it be uncomfortable for you if I asked you how you were doing in that regard, Jon?"

"Uncomfortable definitely, but I'd answer anyway," Jon said, forcing a smile. "To my own surprise, my mother has not yet surprised me again with the names of more young unwed ladies since she has arrived in the capital. I'm afraid it won't be much longer, though."

His uncle laughed briefly and gave him a pat on the back, but then immediately became serious again.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, son. Lyanna and Robert will choose a good wife for you. A woman who will make you happy. I'm sure of it."

"Yes, certainly."

"I think I can claim to know your parents well. So let me give you this one piece of advice. If there's a woman your heart is set on, tell them. If she's not a peasant of all things, I'm sure they'll be willing to talk to you about it."

"Thank you, but there is no one," he said honestly. Of course, there had been a few who might have been possible to be considered, but none to whom his heart had really been attached. They were silent for a while after that, waiting for their new mead, watching the crowds pass by on their way to the arena, the next stall selling cheaper wine or spirits, or one of the richly colored carts in the back rows where the whores offered their form of display.

"My lord...," he began once they had received their new cups of mead and started moving again to look at more stalls.

"You know you can call me uncle. Do me the favor, please."

"All right," Jon said, laughing. "So Uncle... I want to apologize."

"Apologize? For what?"

"For what happened with Arya. I was the one who talked her into bursting in at the supper with the king and queen. She wanted to wash and change first, but I told her she'd better go right away so you wouldn't have to worry about her longer than necessary. It was my fault, not Arya's."

His uncle stopped for a moment, looked at him, and then began to beam all over his face.

"Thank you very much, son. I really appreciate you taking this on yourself. That's very honorable. You don't have to, though. You wanted to do the right thing. You don't have to apologize for that, Jon. Never. Certainly not to me."

"Arya wanted to do the right thing, too."

"Aye, maybe she did. But too late, unfortunately. I told her to wait for me in her chambers. She didn't, instead she snuck out of her chambers first, and then out of Maegor's Holdfast as well, and that's why she got into this situation in the first place. I know she didn't mean any harm, but things like that just must not happen. She was very lucky that she met you by chance and that you took her back in. Just imagine what all could have happened if you hadn't been there. So I have to thank you. Without you, who knows what could have happened to Arya. You're a good man, Jon."

Jon felt the blush rise to his face. He would have liked to blame it on the mead or the two cups of ale he had already drunk, but knew better. His uncle's words made him proud. Still, the feeling of being responsible for Arya now not being allowed to leave her chambers until further notice refused to go away. He felt terrible, no matter how much he was flattered by his uncle's words.

"Besides," his uncle went on, "she can no longer just shrug off such silliness with a simple apology. She's not a child anymore, she's a young woman."

Yes, she is, Jon thought, but immediately felt strange about it.

"So Arya will be staying in her chambers?"

"For now, yes. Until I figure out what to do with her," his uncle said, sighing and running his free hand through his hair. "I know I can't just lock her up all the time, but she has to understand that what she did was wrong. Wrong and dangerous."

They walked on, flanked by some of the soldiers from Winterfell who had accompanied his uncle and Arya south. The men, clad in steel and heavy leather, their faces flaming red and sweating hideously, had so far dutifully refused every ale and mead Jon had offered them to refresh themselves. Glancing at Fat Tom, however, whose face and ears were so red that they seemed about to burst into flames at any moment, Jon was certain that it could not be long before the first of the men would give in.

"She may still watch the tourney, of course," his uncle finally said. "At least when I am here as well. If I'm in the stands, she gets to be there, too."

"Yes, I suppose it would seem strange indeed if the daughter of the Warden of the North were to spend the entire tourney imprisoned in her chambers," Jon said, laughing. "Half the Red Keep already knows about what happened anyway. Gossip spreads faster than a nasty rash in this city. Surely tomorrow the other half will know as well."

"Oh, by the old gods," his uncle sighed.

"Don't worry, uncle. In two or three days there will be nothing left of it and no one will care. People will quickly find something else to gossip about."

"I certainly hope so."

"I'm sure of it. That little... slip was far from the worst of the scandals that have already happened in this city. Probably not even the worst in the last two weeks," he said, laughing. His uncle laughed with him, finally sounding seriously relieved and lighthearted again.

"So, since I'm your daughter's savior," Jon said with a wink, "I'd like to ask you for something, Uncle."

"Of course, son, anything you want."

"Arya and I have become friends during my time at Winterfell and I... well, I missed her and would like to spend time with her. I could go to the tourney with her and watch the jousting if she likes. Then Arya also wouldn't have to sit around in her chambers all day. And you wouldn't have to watch her and worry about her all the time. I'll make sure nothing happens to her. If that's all right with you, uncle."

Again his uncle looked at him in silence for a moment, then began to smile and finally grin broadly. He patted him on the back again.

"Of course, Jon. Spend as much time as you want with Arya. I'll be glad to know she's in good hands as long as you look after her. I prefer to leave Arya's punishment to her mother anyway," he said with a grin and a wink.

They walked on, drinking a little more, laughing and talking about this and that, before his Uncle Ned finally took his leave to visit Jon's mother once again. Actually, he had also wanted to see Jon's father as well, who, however, was still not back from his hunt. Probably he had been held up in some tavern on his way back, whether by wine and ale or a girl, Jon did not know and preferred not to think about it either. Jon decided, however, not to say anything to his uncle about it. His mother would certainly not have approved if he had spoken badly about his father, in front of his uncle no less. Surely, however, he would return soon, as he assured his uncle. Tomorrow Jon would have his first joust and for Steffon the melee would begin. No doubt his father would not want to miss either.

"Will I see you at the joust tomorrow then?"

"Of course, uncle. I look forward to it."

"Me, too," he said. "I'm proud of you, Jon. Really. You've become a good man."

They shook hands one last time and then parted ways for the rest of the day. Jon, accompanied by two of his uncle's soldiers, since he had had no escort of his own with him, considered drinking another mead or ale somewhere, but then decided against it. Drinking alone had no appeal to him anyway and, as Rhaenys had once put it, drinking alone means you have lost control of your life. So instead he made his way to the northern part of the tourney grounds where his brother Orys and Theon Greyjoy would be waiting for him. It took him less than the better part of an hour to reach the stables of the horses for the joust and found, as he had hoped, his brother Orys and Theon Greyjoy there waiting for him as agreed. He was looking forward to spend some time with his little brother and to finally make him get to know his and Aegon's friends from King's Landing better. At the same time, he had made his Uncle Ned happy by promising him, while breaking the fast together this morning, that he would also have Theon Greyjoy with them, so that he would not just sit around alone and possibly get silly ideas.

It was only a pity that Aegon himself could not be there, but he knew - not least because he had seen him fly away on his dragon this morning - that he would take the last chance before the beginning of the joust and be out all day today with Balerion. Aegon had told him before how badly the dragons needed some fresh air under their wings again. He would make Orys and Aegon, who knew each other only briefly so far, better acquainted later, then.

"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about us, brother," Orys said with a wide grin as he embraced Jon. He laughed all over his face. The laughter of their father, Jon noticed. Sometimes, when he saw his little brothers and realized how much more they resembled their father than he did, he didn't even feel like a real Baratheon. He didn't have the black hair, the bright blue eyes, the strong chin, or the broad shoulders of his father and brothers and uncles.

As a boy, on one of his visits to Storm's End together with Aegon, he had told his mother about it, about fearing not being Baratheon enough. She had taken him in her arms, kissed him again and again, and had then forbidden him to ever say such a thing again. She had said that things like his hair color didn't matter at all, so he shouldn't worry about such trivialities. She had said that he simply took after her more than he took after his father, but that she was and would always be happy about it in a way Jon couldn't even imagine. He was his father's son, completely and utterly. At the time, that had comforted him, but those thoughts had never really gone away. Even now, looking at his younger brother, he could not help but feel these thoughts lingering in the back of his mind. Orys was two years younger than Jon, having just turned six and ten, but was already broader and taller than he was and seemed to be getting broader and taller every day.

"Can we go then?" he heard Theon Greyjoy say from the side.

"Theon, it's good to see you too," Jon said.

"Yeah, yeah. I've been sitting around here too long being bored, Baratheon. So if it's that important to you: good to see you, Jon. Are you all right? Yes? Great. Me, too. So can we go now? I'm thirsty."

They walked, Jon's arm around his little but still so much bigger brother and with Theon Greyjoy beside them, back through the bustle of the tourney grounds, pushing past men and women, peasants and knights, soldiers with and without horses, lords and ladies, until they arrived at the large tent guarded by two dozen Gold Cloaks just outside the main entrance to the arena. His uncle's soldiers, still following him, stopped in front of the entrance to the tent, with red heads and sweating as probably never before in their lives, and immediately sought themselves a shady spot a little to the side. Jon quickly gave the men some coins so that they could buy themselves something to drink, and even though the men loudly refused to drink during their watch, he was sure, looking at their increasingly red faces, that it wouldn't be long before they would take the coins after all and exchange them for an ale or two.

The soldiers guarding the entrance, the king's men, looked grimly at anyone who approached the tent. Next to the entrance, between the Gold Cloaks, there was also a servant from the Red Keep in bright red attire with a silver dragon on his chest. Jon knew that the man was trained to recognize any man or woman who was allowed access to this particular tent. Jon nodded to the man, who recognized knew him, greeted him by name, and made way for Jon, his brother and Theon. Inside the tent were several counters where new cups of wine or spirits or large tankards of ale were constantly being filled. Servants carried those to long rows of tables and benches where the king's noble guests could enjoy themselves outside the arena. On a small dais in the back corner of the tent, a singer sat on a small chair with a wooden harp, playing "A Cask of Ale." He had a wonderful, strong voice, even though he looked almost like a girl with his blond curls and boyish face. It was too bad that his father was not here now, as this was one of his favorite songs.

Myle Manning, Daman Whent, Hendry Mooton, Arron Qorgyle, Aidin Celtigar and Korban Sunglass were already waiting for them sitting on benches and laughing loudly in the middle of the massive tent, joking with some servant girls. As he could tell from their red cheeks, they had obviously been at it for a while already. They were greeted almost effusively, immediately given full or at least still half-full tankards of heavy, malty ale. Jon briefly introduced his brother, Theon, and his friends to each other, then sat down and listened to the rest of a joke about the too large teats of a butcher's wife Myle Manning was telling, but which didn't work without knowing the beginning.

"Where's your other brother? You said you would bring us one more Baratheon," said Daman in mock indignation. He was the youngest of them, even three moons younger than Orys, and Jon could well imagine that he would have been especially pleased to have someone new in their group who was even younger than he himself.

"Steffon is practicing for the melee," Jon said.

"The melee?"

"Yes," said Orys, "my brother has decided to forgo jousting and compete in the melee instead, to please our father. Now he has to practice, because of course he does not only compete in melee instead of the joust, but he also doesn't want to use a sword but a hammer."

"Does Steffon have experience using a war hammer?" asked Jon, surprised. He had heard about Steffon preferring to compete in the melee instead of the joust, supposedly because he hoped to have a better chance there. However, those who knew him, how much he had always sought their father's approval, saw through this immediately.

"Little."

That was not a good idea. Jon said nothing to that, however. Orys, he could tell that much from his brother's voice, was of the same opinion anyway. After one tankard of ale, Jon switched to chilled wine. It was sweet and cold, diluted with water and delightfully refreshing, though Jon quickly felt it going to his head. Drinking mead first, then ale, then wine, probably hadn't been his best idea. He still drank two cups, silently, while he listened contentedly to his friends talking to his brother and Theon about the joust, bragging about their brand new suits of armor, each claiming without a doubt to possess the most magnificent one.

"Your eyes will pop out of your heads when you see my armor," Arron boasted. "Fire-red and covered all over with black scorpions made of dragonglass."

"Mine is white," Korban said. "The stars on the chest and back are polished gold. Half my opponents will already fall off their horses because they are so blinded by it."

"As shitty as you joust, you probably need it," Hendry said from the side with a wide grin.

"Completely white?" asked Daman.

"Yeah, why?"

"You want to look like a Kingsguard knight so bad, or what?"

"What would be so bad about that? Maybe I do want to be a Kingsguard knight someday. My father would be proud and my little brother could inherit Sweetport Sound."

"But...," Hendry Mooton said, raising a finger thoughtfully. "That's not possible."

"What is not possible?"

"Well, that you become a knight of the Kingsguard."

"And why wouldn't that be possible?"

"Well because... only the best knights are accepted into the Kingsguard and you really suck."

The group erupted in uproarious laughter, but the spiteful laughter was quickly followed by encouraging pats on Korban's back and shoulders. Korban was not a bad jouster, was quite good with the sword, just had some trouble with the spear. When they were younger and had just begun to learn how to use weapons, Korban had indeed been the weakest of them for a while, a fact that their friends would never let Korban forget.

"How does your armor look, Jon?" asked Myle.

"Good," he said curtly.

"Good? That's all?"

"Yes, that's all. It looks good. I'm quite satisfied. You'll get to see her in the arena."

"Oho," said Arron. "If Jon's so tight-lipped, it must mean it's a real beauty. Come on, give us something, Jon. Anything at all. What does it look like?"

Jon's lips remained sealed, however. His friends' suits of armor would certainly look great, but he was sure that none of them could even begin to match his. So he merely shook his head with a barely suppressed grin, in defiance of his friends' disappointed groans.

"What about you, Theon? What about your armor?" Myle then asked.

"I don't have one," Theon admitted meekly after a moment's hesitation.

"You don't have one? A knight without an armor?"

"I have an armor, of course, but not a tourney armor."

"That means you don't participate at all?"

"Looks like it," snapped Theon, delving into his tankard of ale.

"Jon," Daman said, "that's not right. Why didn't you get your friend a suit of armor?"

Jon refrained from correcting him that Theon was certainly not his friend. Instead, he thought about it for a moment. It was true. Why hadn't he gotten Theon an armor, anyway?

"I didn't know he needed one," he said, and even to his own ears it sounded like a silly excuse. "But we'll get that sorted out. Theon, you'd better go to the tourney master today and get your name entered in the lists."

"But the first rounds are already drawn," Arron said.

"Fuck that," Aidin blaffed, who seemed to be getting drunker with each passing moment. "There are always some competitors getting signed up later. That won't be a problem. We'll go there together, Theon. Then this will all work out."

"Thanks, but I still don't have an armor and I'd rather not participate without one," Theon said.

"I'll take care of it," Jon said, "You'll get an armor in time. One of mine or maybe Aegon's."

"Sounds good," he said, which was probably the most thanks Jon could expect from him.

At some point Hendry and Daman started throwing women's names at each other and eventually they all started suggesting to each other which young ladies they could ask for their favors in the tourney. The broadly grinning Aidin Celtigar, as usual, could only think of the names of married women, and Jon was actually not sure whether this was all meant to be a joke on his part or whether he was really planning, perhaps to stage a small scandal, to actually ask this or that married woman for her favor. Jon knew most of the men whose wives Aidin was currently raving about, just as Aidin did himself, so he knew that with certain of these women, it would definitely not be a good idea to turn their husbands against him. At least not if he didn't want to find himself in a duel to the death soon.

"Who are you going to ask for her favor, Jon?" he heard Hendry Mooton ask.

"I don't know yet," he said truthfully. He had been thinking about it for a while, but hadn't been able to decide on a girl. Most of them were just too... indifferent for him, as he had eventually discovered.

"Come on, tell us. There's got to be one. Lady Elinor is off the market now, but I hear Minella Blackbar wouldn't mind to find your little Storm's End between her thighs."

The others laughed out loud, but Jon could only force a weak smile. He was thankful that the conversation quickly switched back to other ladies, who his friends were now proposing in turn to his brother and Theon to ask for their favors. Jon sat there, lost in his thoughts. He preferred not to take part in the conversation about which ladies his brother or Theon should ask for their favor because they were particularly easy to have afterwards. The excited and approving look on his brother's face, which only seemed to get more excited and approving with every name presented to him, did of course bother him, but this was neither the place nor the time to set his brother's head straight. Instead, he thought about whom he actually could ask. He had no intention of asking any girl just to get between her thighs, though. Whoever he would ask, had to be special to him. However, to his chagrin, as he realized after a moment's thought, there weren't really many women and girls who deep in his heart really meant something to him.

His mother meant a lot to him, obviously, but he could hardly ask her for her favor. It was not unusual for unmarried – unbetrothed even – young men to ask their mothers or, if available, their sisters for their favor in a tourney. He knew for certain, however, that this would have made him a laughing stock among his friends for the rest of his life and beyond, and he would rather spare himself being teased about being in love with his own mother even years later. Elinor Tyrell was betrothed, as good as wed, and thus really no longer an option, even if what had been between them had been more than what it actually had been. Of course, there was Rhaenys, who was important to him, whom he knew and loved like a sister. But Rhaenys, without even the slightest hint of doubt, would be asked for her favor by Aegon and would just as surely grant it to him.

Arya.

Without him wanting it, Arya's name popped into his head. Yes, it was true. Arya was important to him. At the thought of her, he immediately felt that feeling in his stomach again. He had gotten permission from his uncle to spend as much time as he wanted with her, to go to the tourney with her and watch the jousting with her, which would hopefully make up for him being responsible for her trouble. At least that's how it felt, even if Uncle Ned thought Arya had only herself to blame. Jon still felt guilty and wanted to make it up to her.

Maybe I can make it up to Arya by asking for her favor, he thought, but immediately scolded himself for it.

He knew Arya well enough to know that she was not a lady who would blush and smile delicately if a knight in gleaming armor stopped before her on his palfrey and asked for her favor. She was not like that. Pushing aside the thought of the girl he would ask for her favor, he thought instead about what he could do to make Arya happy. He couldn't think of particularly much, however, and the few ideas he did have he quickly discarded.

"Theon," he then said. "Theon," he repeated when Theon hadn't heard him the first time.

"What is it?"

"I need to ask you something," Jon said in as quiet a tone as the noisy environment would allow.

"Really? Well, the answer is no."

"No? You don't even know what I-"

"No, I'm not going to grant you my favor," he said then, grinning broadly. "Hey guys," he then called out to the crowd, "do you know what our good Jon just wanted to ask me-"

"Don't talk shit," he interrupted him, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him back to him. The others had fortunately not responded to Theon's nonsense, but were still engrossed in their own conversation.

"All right, Baratheon, hold your horses. What is it?"

"I feel bad about Arya getting in trouble because of me. Do you have any ideas what I can do to cheer Arya up? You've known her longer than I have."

"No, no idea," he said tersely, and was about to turn back around before Jon grabbed him by the shoulder again. "I have no idea, Baratheon. Okay? And I honestly don't care either. I never tried to cheer her up. Why should you have to make up for anything, anyway? I heard what happened. You really don't have to feel bad about that. If that hadn't happened, I guarantee you that horse-face would have found something else to make a fool of herself. She's good at that."

Jon felt the anger that immediately rose in him, clenching his hands into fists under the table, even though he himself was not at all sure why Theon's insolence had hit him so hard. He looked Theon in the eye, saying nothing, as he would certainly have become abusive otherwise, but his increasingly scowling expression obviously told Theon that he had crossed a line.

"All right," he finally said. "She... phew, she likes archery. Surely you remember that from your time in Winterfell, don't you? Maybe, you can take her to see the archery contest."

Theon then finally turned back around, grabbed a tankard, and emptied it in one go.

Archery. Of course!

He would watch the archery contest with her. She would certainly enjoy that. He drained the next cup of wine as he rejoiced at the idea, feeling his head beginning to grow even more dull.

No, even better. I'll get her a bow and we'll go doing some archery ourselves. She'd love that.

"Yes, women. I swear. Look at the lists," he heard Arron Qorgyle whine. "Women are allowed to participate in the archery contest. At the direct request of the queen. There are actually some signed up for tomorrow."

"That's absurd," Myle said. "What's next? Women in the melee? Or in the joust? Can you imagine?"

The thought hit him like a hammer blow.

Yes, yes, yes! That's it. Of course. Yes!

Immediately Jon jumped up from the bench, nearly knocking over a servant loaded with heavy tankards behind him, and fought his way between the benches to the exit.

"Hey, where are you going?" he heard one of his friends ask, but without having recognized who had asked.

"Sorry, I've got something to do," he called back over his shoulder as he left the tent with quick steps.

Fortunately, he still had some coins in his pockets. He quickly pushed his way through the crowds on the tourney grounds. His uncle's soldiers noticed him too late, jumping up frantically, leaving their not yet completely emptied tankards behind and trying with all their might to keep up with him. He would later see to it that Orys and Theon were picked up from the tent by some of his father's men. He passed stalls with delicious smelling food and exotic fruit, fabrics and clothes, jewelry and all sorts of other trinkets. Ignoring the loud shouts of a man touting his cheap spiced wine, he continued to fight his way through the crowds, passing carnies and puppeteers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw how a rather chaotic-looking group of mummers, amidst the laughter of the people in front of the stage, was trying in vain to put on a somewhat respectable performance of The King's Fire, the story of how King Rhaegar had supposedly resurrected the dragons in a secret magical ritual, which had become quite popular in recent years.

The man who played the king, however, a slender but small man with a ridiculous looking white wig, seemed too drunk to remember where on stage he was supposed to stand, let alone what he was supposed to say. Judging by the annoyed face of the male dwarf in the yellow dress, who was obviously trying to portray Rhaenys as a child, this was not the first time this had happened.

"So grant me, oh you long-forgotten gods, the grace of life and fire," a woman in the audience shouted to him after Rhaegar still couldn't come up with his lines even after various not so subtle whispers from backstage. As amusing as the failure of this troop would have been to watch for a while, Jon still walked on as fast as he could. His uncle's men had caught up with him, however they had managed that, and were now pressing through the masses of people together with him.

After a good bit of walking past more stalls, a fire eater and a group of jugglers wielding small axes and sharp knives, he turned left into a path that was finally a little less crowded. He passed the first stalls selling poorly forged weapons and cheap shields and headed straight for a stall where he knew he would get what he was looking for. The stall was smaller than the others, but richly decorated with carved figures in the shape of wild animals, elaborately painted tarpaulins on the sides depicting hunting scenes, and small flags rattling in the wind, reminiscent of the coats of arms of the great Houses of the realm. The man next to the stall scowled a bit at first, but then began to beam all over his face when he saw Jon, a nobleman with his own escort, approaching his stall.

"My lord, it is an honor," he said, seeming to almost choke on his own tongue with excitement. "What can I help you with? Are you looking for something in particular?"

He only had to look briefly through the display to find the right thing. His eye quickly fell on a short bow made of light elm wood with fish carved into the wood above and below the handle. He would have preferred wolves for Arya, but fish - her mother was a Tully, after all - would be fine, too. At least he hoped so. The Lady Catelyn, he knew, was vehemently opposed to Arya handling a bow and arrow, so perhaps Arya would like this little irony as much as Jon. After bargaining down the merchant as far as possible and paying his still completely outrageous price for the bow and a dozen simple arrows with his last coins, he quickly made his way back to the arena, where the horses from this morning were still waiting for him and his guards.

He made his way back to the Red Keep quickly, as quickly as possible through the crowded street of the city at least, and had a squire take the sweating horse back to the stables of the Red Keep and brush it off properly. Then he quickly ran the rest of the way out of the rear courtyard back to the main gate of Maegor's Holdfast and sought his way through the branching hallways of the fortress to where the Starks' chambers were. He could hardly wait to show the bow to Arya. He had just passed the entrance to the Royal Library and was about to turn right to take the shortcut past the rooms of the Gold Cloaks when the sound of a voice made him stop.

"Lord Jon, how wonderful to see you," he heard Minella Blackbar chirp beside him. Jon turned to her, gave her a quick bow and the slightest of kisses on her outstretched hand. She wore an elegant dress of black and gray velvet with bright yellow embroidery in the shape of animals and flowers and trees. Jon couldn't help but be reminded of his new suit of armor, even though it was actually impossible that Lady Minella already knew what his armor would look like. She had coiffed her blonde locks into an elaborate tower that was only barely held in shape by a delicate web of the finest silver chains. She did indeed look pretty.

"Lady Minella, it is good to see you, too," he said.

"Are you as excited about the tourney as I am? Oh, what am I asking. Of course you are. I can't wait to cheer you on at the joust, my lord. I'm sure you'll win."

"Well, the competition is strong. In a tourney this big, the best of the realm are competing. I don't know how good my chances will really be there."

"Oh, you are selling yourself short, my lord. I'm sure you'll be fantastic. Tell me, have you thought about which lady you want to ask for her favor already?"

"I have... someone in mind," he said, himself unsure to what extent this was true. "I haven't asked her yet, though. I'm still waiting for the right moment."

"Certainly when you ride your stallion into the arena. I'm sure you'll look impressive," she said, and Jon recognized the slight blush on her face.

I wonder if she can control that.

"Yes, indeed," he said, forcing a smile. "Asking a lady's favor too soon is bad luck."

"Oh, I see. We don't want that, of course. But say, you won't want to participate in the archery contest, my lord? That's more for peasants and hedge knights, don't you think?"

"In the archery contest? Why would I want to participate in that?" he asked, confused. Her raised eyebrows and a brief nod toward his shoulder finally reminded him again that he was indeed still carrying the bow for Arya. "Oh, the bow."

"Yes, the bow," she laughed.

"Oh, no. I'm not going to enter the archery contest. I just want to... practice a little. I haven't done it in a long time, but a knight should be able to handle any weapon."

"Oh, certainly, my lord," she said, though Jon could see in her expression that she didn't even begin to buy that explanation.

"Now, if you will excuse me, my lady, I have to leave. Otherwise it will be too late to practice," he said, bowing curtly to her again and then pushing past her cleavage down the hallway. He quickly turned the next corner and set off again with quick steps towards Arya's chambers.

Chapter Text

She died. Arya knew for certain that she died. Now, at this very moment, she was lying on her bed, feeling the last breath of life leaving her body. There was nothing, nothing at all, that she could have done about it. Her fate, her death was sealed. It was so bloody boring that she would certainly die any moment. She rolled around, looked briefly at the dice and the playing cards of Rats and Cats lying next to her on the bed, wiped it all away in annoyance, off the bed and to the ground. Her father had had the cards and dice brought to her so that she could keep herself occupied, away from her needlework, while she was doomed to wait for him here. For that alone she already hated this stupid game.

For a while she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for her life to finally leave her body. But the Stranger didn't come, did not free her from her agony. So she got up then, walked across the room, from the bed over to the window. She looked out briefly, but was tired of the view, however beautiful it was. From the window, she walked to the closet with her dresses. She opened the closet, looked inside, and slammed the doors shut again. There were still the same dresses hanging in it as the last ten times she had looked into it. From the closet she went back to the bed, considered lying down again, but then decided against it. So she turned and walked the into the anteroom, looking at the painting of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys, clad in red and black robes and shining armor, overseeing the construction of the Aegonfort, the wooden predecessor of the Red Keep with their mighty dragons flying through the air in the background. For a moment, she wondered if it had been a good idea to build a wooden fortress when you had fire-breathing dragons with you. She went into the solar, sat down on the chair at the small table, on which paper, ink, quill and a small knife to sharpen the quill were ready. As if she felt like writing letters. She looked up at the huge shelves, thought about taking one of the books and leafing through it, but couldn't for the life of her think of any book that she would have had the slightest desire to read now, at that very moment.

Gods, it was so boring.

After a moment she got up again, went back into the anteroom and tried to open the door out into the hallway. It was locked, just as it had been the last ten times she had tried. She jerked at the door a little harder, but of course it was hopeless. The heavy wood of the door was unimpressed. Frustrated, she turned around and went back to her sleeping chamber. She picked up the three dice from the floor again, sat down on the ground in front of her bed, and rolled the dice between her knees.

Two, five, four.

She took the dice and rolled again.

One, dragon, one.

Hmm, almost.

She rolled the dice again.

Two, two, dragon.

Damn dragon.

Dragon, dragon, four.

Groaning, she took the dice and threw them into the other corner of the room in frustration. Again she got up and wanted to go somewhere. But where? Her chambers were large, downright huge, but if they were all one could go to, one had quickly explored even such large chambers. Once again, she walked over to the window. She had quickly learned to hate the beautiful view, but at least there was a chance to see something new there. Anything.

Bran would certainly have escaped this prison long ago, she thought. Bran, but of course! Thank you, little brother. I'll just climb out the window. Just like Bran would do.

She might even just come back through the window later. If she were back in time, her father wouldn't even notice that she had been gone at all. The idea was brilliant. So simple and yet so brilliant. Quickly she ran back into the anteroom and put on her shoes, soft brown leather in which she could walk comfortably and climb well, rummaged out a few coins from the chest at the foot of her bed - one never knew what one could use them for - and hurried back to the window.

She took the handle and tried to open the window, but to no avail. The handle was cold and heavy, made of forged iron and wouldn't budge. She grabbed it with both hands and pulled on it again. At first it seemed as if it still wouldn't move, but then she thought she felt a small movement. She took another deep breath, grabbed it again with both hands and pulled as hard as she could. Then, finally, the handle turned, and with a loud creak, pulled back the latch between the window sashes. The window opened all the more easily for it, swung wide open, and was caught gently by the thick curtains behind it. Arya immediately rushed toward the open window, leaping onto the sill. Like an invisible hand, she was caught by a violent gust of wind, pulled even faster towards the window, and was only able to hold on to the frame of the second window sash at the last moment. She looked down, along the wall resembling a slope that had opened up under her window, and felt the sudden dizziness in her head. Quickly she pushed herself back so as not to fall over in front.

Her heart was beating up to her throat and for a moment she thought she could not breathe. It took Arya a moment to regain her composure. Slowly, she approached the window again, this time holding onto the sill more tightly, and carefully looked down over the edge. The wall below her window, stone as red as blood, led at least thirty or more steps into the depth and appeared as smooth as a mirror. There were no ledges, no openings, no visible joints - at least none where even one of her fingers could have fit in, let alone a whole hand or the tip of a foot. Again a wind came up, reached into her hair, and pulled at it as if it were a blowing flag.

If I'm trying to climb out there, I might as well just jump down, she thought. No, this way was impossible, would have been even for Bran.

She was about to step back and close the window sashes again, deeply disappointed by the failure, when she heard a tremendous roar in the distance. Immediately she hurried back to the open window and looked out, down on the city. In the distance, she could see that the roof of the Dragonpit seemed to be missing.

No, it is not missing. It has opened!

The next moment it happened. A dragon, a real dragon, black as night, shot up through the opening and into the air, sending it's bloodcurdling roar through the city like waves crashing against a beach. Faster than Arya could have imagined, the massive beast pushed itself higher and higher with powerful beats of its wings. In the next moment, the next dragon rose through the opening, silver as polished cutlery and with golden horns on its massive skull, much smaller than the first behemoth but still impressively massive. Only a heartbeat later, a third dragon followed, green as the ancient trees in the Godswood of her home. All three dragons screamed and roared so loudly and piercingly that Arya felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Just a moment later, the dragons had already disappeared from her sight and the roars seemed to fade away after the dragons had swiftly passed over the Red Keep.

For a while, Arya just stood at the window, open mouthed, looking out at the city, at the roof of the Dragonpit closing again, and at the sky above her, hoping that perhaps the dragons might be seen again. The dragons did not return, however long she stood there looking out, but still she felt her heart beating up to her throat, felt her excitement flowing through her veins like fire. She had seen the dragons. Only briefly and from a distance, but she had seen them. Real, living dragons!

She eventually closed the window again, went back into the small anteroom, and yanked on the door. It was locked, just like the last eleven times. So she went back into her sleeping chamber, threw herself on her bed and looked up at the ceiling again. Still she had nothing to do, but somehow her boredom didn't seem so bad anymore. She imagined what it must be like to ascend into the sky on the back of such a massive creature. The feeling had to be indescribable. Arya loved riding, racing on a horse through dense forests and over stalky hills and through shallow streams, feeling the wind in her hair and on her face, the feeling of absolute freedom. How it must have felt to race through the air at such an unimaginable height, faster than a horse could ever do on the ground, untouchable, unassailable?

She didn't even notice how her eyes fell closed.

Arya felt the wind in her face, icy cold and yet wonderful. She looked around, realized she was sitting on the back of a dragon, the world unimaginably far below her. She saw people walking through the streets of King's Landing, tiny as ants, horses barely bigger than beetles, houses and temples and septs as small as toys. She saw people on the ground looking up at her, pointing their fingers at her and her dragon in admiration. Only now did she really look at the dragon. It was neither black nor silver nor green, but white, with horns of dark brown and eyes of dark gray like a troubled ocean at night. It was an enormous beast, strong and yet lean, almost graceful. It was beautiful. She looked up at Aegon's High Hill then, toward which she was racing on the dragon's back. When she found the fortress in front of her, however, it was not red but completely gray. She recognized it immediately.

Winterfell. Home.

The cold wind in her face made her blink and instantly King's Landing was gone, replaced by Winter Town and the vast, dark forests of the North. She flew over Winterfell, past the Great Keep, and with a swift, elegant movement, through between the First Keep and the broken tower. Again she saw people on the ground looking up at her, their mouths open in amazement, but this time she knew these people. Mikken and Gage, Vayon Poole and his daughter Jeyne, Septon Chayle and Septa Mordane, Hullen and Farlen and Jory Cassel. In the next moment, the familiar faces had already disappeared again.

They flew on, always heading north, along the Kingsroad, which was little more than a worn out path between ancient forests and snow-covered meadows now. In the distance, a structure came into view, white as snow but shining bluishly like the ice of a frozen lake. It took Arya a moment to realize what she was looking at.

The Wall.

They flew on and on toward the Wall, growing larger and larger before them, higher and higher, seeming to stretch endlessly to the horizon on both sides. They gained height, pushed upward by the powerful beats of her dragon's wings. The Wall came even closer, so close that by now she could already see people, little men all in black, scurrying around in front of it and on top of it like in an insect nest. She could already see beyond the Wall, see the vast, endless, snow-covered forests, rolling hills, and high, sharp-edged mountains in the distance.

It hit her like a blow when the dragon suddenly, before it had even crossed the Wall, turned around and rapidly lost height, as if it had crashed into an invisible wall. Arya felt herself losing contact with her dragon, the hold of her legs loosening around her dragon's massive body. Arya fell, fell, and fell. She spun in the air. The dragon was nowhere to be seen, only the ground and the wall. All she saw was the ground coming closer and closer and the wall rushing past her faster and faster and again the ground coming closer and closer. No, this was not right. No! She wanted to scream, opened her mouth and wanted to shout out her fear as loud as she could, but no sound left her throat. The ground came even closer, racing toward her. At the last moment she squinted her eyes, not wanting to witness the moment when she would hit the ground.

She opened her eyes when, after a few heartbeats, nothing happened. She was on the ground, she realized. In the distance she spotted the Wall, so far away that it was barely visible in the thick icy fog. Her heart was beating madly, her breathing was rapid, and her whole body seemed to be on fire. It took her a moment to calm down again. Only now did she feel her siblings around her, close to her, feel them behind and beside her. Only now did she realize where she actually was. She was beyond the Wall!

She looked around now, saw her brother standing beside her, gray and large and imposing. He looked at the Wall as well as if searching for something, longing for something. He turned away then and she followed him. Her brother was leading their pack and so of course she followed him. Together they raced through the woods, after her big brother, who hurried between the trees and bushes like a gray wind. Her snow-white, silent brother was beside her, all the time, as if watching over for her. She saw him and it felt good. They ran on and on, for miles and miles through the dense forests, hearing startled game fleeing from them in the distance, thundering through half-frozen rivers and streams and over fallen trees. It felt good, so good, free and untamed. The feeling was almost like riding a dragon, only... different. She couldn't fly, but yet somehow it felt even… freer, more real.

Suddenly, her brother stopped as if rooted to the spot. She and her siblings did the same. At first she didn't know why they had stopped at all, but then she felt it. She felt a tingling in the fur of her neck, felt the hairs of her back stand up as she bared her fangs. She felt a threat, somewhere in front of her, without being able to say exactly what kind of threat it was. Nothing was to be heard, though. Nothing at all, she realized worriedly. No bird was singing, neither near nor far, no hare and no fox were jumping through the snow, no doe and no deer were running around, no mouse seemed to be crawling around anywhere. It was quiet, absolutely dead quiet. Only the gentle murmur of a tiny river and the wind that brushed through the leaves and branches could be heard. She sniffed the air, then.

People. Many people.

But there was something else. It smelled like... death. Slowly, her brother crept on, her and her siblings trailing behind him over the next hilltop, passing through between tall trees and dense bushes. Before them spread a small valley, bordered by a ring of flat hills and a rocky ridge to one side, crossed by a shallow stream, through which small ice floes were slowly and leisurely drifting. In the middle of this small valley she saw a village, simple huts of wood and straw, little more than a huddle of crooked shacks.

A wildling village, she realized.

She could make out several fireplaces, which had long since gone cold, however. And there were people, men and women and children. Some were leaning against the walls of the huts or against rocks or trees, others were lying on the ground, on their backs, on their sides, on their stomachs, arms and legs stretched far away from them or wildly crossed like a doll that had been carelessly thrown into a corner. Still others simply stood there, motionless like old trees, as if frozen in place. Arya held her nose in the air, sucking in the smells of the small village. She smelled the musty straw and wood of the huts, the cold ashes of the old fireplaces, leather and furs and sweat and... blood, old blood. Very faint, as if it had been spilled a long time ago and was now covered under snow and ice. But it was there, the unmistakable smell of blood. Human blood.

And it was cold. So cold. She was in the far north, beyond the Wall, so of course it was cold. But somehow this… this cold was... different. It was far too cold even for her with her thick fur, used to snow and ice. It was somehow unnatural, strange, menacing.

She was startled for a moment when something happened. At first she had not been sure what exactly had it had been. No, it was not she who was startled, but the wolf. Without immediately knowing why, she began to growl, baring her mighty fangs as she caught a movement. One of the men down in the village had moved, an old man by the smell of him. He had moved only slightly, but it was obvious to her keen senses. Then he moved again, first one foot, then the other, stomping on the spot as if he had forgotten how to use his legs properly. Slowly and unsteadily, as if sick or drunk, the man began to turn around, turning and lifting his head, looking up at her and her siblings.

Bright blue eyes stared at her, ghastly and piercing and utterly devoid of life.

"My lady," she heard a voice and jumped up in shock. She opened her eyes and felt her heart racing, looking into the face of a young girl in the attire of a handmaiden. "Please forgive me, my lady, I didn't mean to frighten you," she said, lowering her head and quickly taking a step back.

Arya looked around, confused. Where...? Hadn't she just been...?

It was a dream. Just a dream, she thought with relief. Thankfully, it was just a dream. Those eyes...

"No, it's all right," she said to the maid when she finally was able to breathe normally again and she didn't feel her heart beating so violently in her chest anymore. "I just had a bad dream. Is my father here? Can I finally leave this place?"

"I don't know about that, my lady, please forgive me. I was sent to bring you a little meal. I heard you making noises, like a growl or something, so I just wanted to quickly see if you were all right," she said, her eyes still lowered.

"So my father is not here?"

"No, my lady."

"I see. Don't you want to stay here? With me? I'd be glad to share my meal with you. Then we could talk a bit. What do you think of that?"

"Oh, that is... thank you very much, my lady, but I'm not allowed. I must... I mean... I have work to do," she said, setting the tray with the three small bowls on it down on the table next to the window and taking a quick step backward toward the door with each word.

"Wait, where are you going?" asked Arya as she jumped up from the bed to follow her. "You don't have to go. We can still-"

At that moment, the door was already closed again and she heard the heavy lock of the door being barred again from the outside. The next moment she was already at the door, pulling the handle and knocking against the heavy wood, but without result. It was locked, just like the last twelve times she had tried.

"Hey, are you still there? I just want to talk to you!" she shouted, but received no answer. "What was that about? I don't stink or anything," she muttered to herself. Only the gods knew what the girl must have heard about Arya if she practically fled from her chambers so quickly. Probably the girl had been forbidden to stay with her. She rattled the door one last time, in the faint hope of miraculously achieving a different result this time, but then turned away and went back into her sleeping chamber.

Again she looked out the window. How long she had slept, how long she had roamed the woods beyond the Wall in her wolf dream, alongside her siblings, she did not know. She remembered everything, as real as if she had really experienced it. That was the strangest thing about these dreams. She remembered the view of the Wall from afar, white and majestic, half hidden in the wintry mist, the feeling of fighting her way through the deep snow with powerful movements, faster than any man or horse could have done, the smell of the fresh, icy air, then the smell of people, the smell of death and blood, and then... the eyes. Bright blue, dead eyes, staring at her.

Thinking back to those horrible eyes, a shiver ran down her spine again.

She looked down at the city at the foot of Aegon's High Hill, which she could make out between the ramparts and massive round towers of the Red Keep. In the distance she could see the arena where the first day of the tourney was now taking place. And she missed this. She could slap herself for missing this, of all things. Countless flags with the royal coat of arms were flying in the wind on the high rim of the arena, only interrupted here and there by the banners of the greatest houses of the realm. She thought to recognize the rose of House Tyrell, the lion of House Lannister, the sun and spear of House Martell, the falcon of House Arryn. Somewhere the silver trout of House Tully, the direwolf of House Stark and the stag of House Baratheon had to be, yet she could not spot them from this distance. For a moment, she thought she could hear the loud cheers and shouts from the spectators in the arena, even though she knew it was impossible from this distance, windows closed.

She thought of her father, who must surely be down there somewhere now, on the tourney grounds or perhaps even already in the arena. He had not taken her with him, however. For a moment she wanted to be angry with her father, to blame him for the fact that she was now locked up here, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. It was her own fault and no one else's, after all. Then she thought of Jon. Maybe she could be angry with Jon? No, that didn't work either. Even less than with her father, she realized. He had taken her back into the Red Keep with him, had helped her, had made sure that she had not had to spend the night alone outside the gates of the Red Keep. She couldn't possibly be angry with him. Jon had to be down there somewhere, too.

I wonder if he's preparing for his first joust right now. No, that's not until tomorrow, she reminded herself.

That much she knew. With a little luck, her father wouldn't be so angry with her tomorrow, would allow her to see Jon joust. Certainly he would not forbid her to do so. Possibly, if she somehow managed to escape from her prison, she could also go directly to the king and queen, apologize to them personally. She was the daughter of the Warden of the North. Surely she would be allowed to see them if she were to request it.

She went back to her bed, threw herself on it again and closed her eyes. Maybe she should just go back to her wolf dream. In her wolf dreams she was free, freer than she could ever be as a human. It had been months ago, in one of those dreams, that she had been near Winterfell once, roaming the forest near her home in the form of the wolf. It was strange that her wolf had first been south of the Wall, now north. Even if it had only been a dream, it was still strange. She knew, however, that there had been direwolves south of the Wall in the old days. Perhaps there still were. And if not, then the wolves certainly knew a way, past the Wall or through under it. It did not matter though, as it had only been dreams. Still, she had enjoyed creeping around Winterfell and seeing her home through those special eyes.

She had made no sound as she had crept through between the trees. She had seen her father riding through the woods alongside Robb and some guards on their large steeds. She had watched them as they had hunted, picked up the trail of a deer, and after nearly an hour had placed and killed it. She had felt the wolf's excitement as she had watched her father and brother hunt, as she had smelled the blood and fear of the deer and had heard Robb's racing heartbeat as he had driven the spear through the deer's heart. She had felt the wolf's desire to poke out from the underbrush and thrust its massive fangs into the neck of one of the horses, to taste its warm blood. Had it not been for her father and Robb before her, she might even have given in to the urge. But even in her dreams, she would not have done this to her father and brother. Perhaps she could return to Winterfell in a wolf dream. That would be nice.

So Arya slipped off her shoes, threw them to the floor, and lay flat on her back in the middle of the soft bed, slowly sinking into it. She closed her eyes and thought back to the North, to the woods beyond the Wall, to her wolfish siblings, especially her big gray brother, the leader of their pack, and her snow-white brother who always seemed to be watching over her. She thought of herself, of the wolf in whose form she always roamed the woods in her dreams, hunting and killing.

After a while, her eyes opened again, against her will. Arya looked at the ceiling, inhaled deeply and exhaled again in disappointment. Again she forced her eyes closed, trying to think of her wolf and return to him. She thought of Winterfell and the wolf, the wolf and Winterfell, Winterfell and the wolf. She did not succeed, however. The wolf dreams did not come. Apparently they could not be forced. Arya noticed, however, that she was actually a little hungry.

She stood up and walked barefoot over to the tray that the handmaiden had left for her. Three small bowls of white porcelain stood on the silver tray. She took the lid off the first bowl and found inside small pieces of cut fruit – apples, pears, quinces and plums –and a downright tiny fork, also made from silver. She took the lid from the second bowl, which contained soup that was no longer really hot, though. She took the spoon that lay beside it and stirred the soup around. It was thick and milky, with herbs and small pieces of fish in it, smelling of cheese. It smelled delicious, truly delicious, but Arya had no appetite for soup right now. Finally, she took the lid off the third bowl and found brown roasted chicken legs swimming in a thick, brown sauce that smelled like red wine. That was more to her taste. She grabbed the bowl, squatted on the floor in front of her bed and began to eat. She ate two, three, then four chicken legs. They were crispy on the outside, tender and juicy on the inside, and the sauce was wonderfully spicy without being too hot. It was a feast, truly. She threw the bones back into the bowl, placing it on the floor beside her when she had eaten enough. Six chicken legs in total.

When she was done, she licked the remaining sauce off her fingers with relish. Somehow, however, they didn't seem to want to get clean. Arya stood up and walked over to the silver mirror that stood on the small dressing table. She looked into it and had to laugh out loud at the sight of herself. Not only were her fingers completely greasy and covered all over with sauce, but half of her face seemed to be covered in the brown sauce as well. She looked around for a cloth to use, but found none. She tried to at least get her mouth clean and wiped it with the back of her hand, but this only spread the sauce more all over her face and cheeks. Again she had to laugh.

So with water, then.

She walked toward the small anteroom to wash herself in the bathroom to the right. She had just reached the anteroom when she heard the loud clack of the door lock in front of her. She stopped as if rooted to the spot. The next moment the door opened and... Jon walked in. Jon! Immediately she beamed all over her face. Jon, however, stopped as well, also rooted to the spot, and looked at her as if she were wearing a fool's cap on her head. It took a moment before he began to grin broadly.

"You're astounding, Arya. Even locked in your chambers, you still seem to find a way to get yourself dirty," he said, taking a step toward her. She, in turn, took a quick step forward and was about to throw her arms around his neck when she remembered that she was still covered in sauce.

"Wait a moment," she said, holding him back with a raised hand. She quickly hurried into the bathroom, washed her hands and face in the shallow bowl of water that stood in front of the window, rubbing both dry thoroughly with the soft towel that lay ready on the half-height cabinet beside it. Then she turned again, ran back to Jon, who had remained motionless in the anteroom, and threw herself into a hug with him.

"Thank the gods you're here," she said into his doublet, her face pressed tightly against his chest. She felt him return the embrace, albeit somewhat hesitantly. His breath smelled faintly of wine and ale, but she could hardly care less at that moment. The rest of him smelled differently. Slightly of horse and somehow, even if she herself could not say how that was possible, wonderfully of summer snow. He smelled like home, she realized, so much like home that she would have loved not to let him go at all. "At least now I don't have to stay here all alone anymore," she said as she broke free of the embrace again.

"Actually," he said, "I was planning to take you with me."

"Take me with you? You mean out of here?" she asked, sounding as happy and incredulous as if he were trying to free her from years of captivity.

"Aye. Well, what else? And I have this," he said with a wonderful smile. Only now did she notice that he carried a bow and quiver over his shoulder. He took both off and held them out to her. "It... is a gift."

A gift? For her? This had to be a bad joke. She looked at the bow, speechless. The bow was beautiful, made of fine wood and decorated with intricately carved fish above and below the hilt. She couldn't help but think of the coat of arms of House Tully, her mother's family, a leaping silver trout, and how much she would hate that Jon had given this to her. Inevitably, she had to grin. Slowly, uncertainly, hesitantly, she reached for the bow. When Jon didn't pull it away, however, she took it, grinning even wider, balancing it in her left hand.

"This... is...," she stammered.

"So you like it?"

"Like it? It's fantastic. Thank you! Thank you so much!" she said, and immediately hugged him again. This time he returned the hug faster, tighter. She noticed how good it felt, how good he smelled. Quickly, she scolded herself for this nonsense and broke away from the embrace.

"Thank you, Jon. Really, thank you so much, but... I'm sure Father won't allow it. And I don't want to make it worse, you know."

"Don't worry about it. I've talked to Uncle Ned, and he's given me permission for us to spend time together, and for you to leave your chambers as long as I'm with you."

"Really?" she asked in a squeaky voice.

"Of course," he said, smiling again wonderfully. "We should just leave a note, so he knows what's going on. Then we can get going."

"That's wonderful, Jon. You're my savior. Again," she said, having to strain not to blush as silly as Sansa would have. "So, where are we going?"

"Well, I thought we were going to one of the courtyards to the eastern part of Maegor's Holdfast. That's where Aegon and I used to practice archery. They are a bit off, so no one will bother us there. We could get you some practice there. You need to be prepared, after all."

"Oh? Prepared for what?" she asked confused, unsure of what he was getting at.

"Well... you know... I felt bad about you getting punished. You didn't want to burst into your father's supper with the king and queen, but I talked you into it. So I thought I'd make it up to you. So... how would you feel about entering the archery contest in Aegon's tourney tomorrow?"

Arya couldn't believe what she had just heard. Had Jon really said that? With a cry of joy like that of a small child, she jumped into his arms again, her new bow and quiver clattering to the ground. She laughed, Jon laughed with her, holding her pressed against him. Again, she didn't want to let him go, so good did it feel. When Jon told her that maybe they should go, though, she did anyway. They quickly wrote a note for her father at the table in the solar, put the note on the bed where it would quickly be found, and headed out.

Less than half an hour later, they were already in one of the courtyards of Maegor's Holdfast. Jon had procured a target of wood and straw from somewhere and set it up at the far end of the courtyard. Arya took up a stance, the bow in her left hand and an arrow in her right. She put the arrow on the string, focusing on the target. She did not look to the side, but was sure to feel Jon's eyes on her, but was not sure herself whether this was pleasant or unpleasant. With anyone else, it would have bothered her, that much she knew.

Of course he has to look at me, she scolded herself. If I'm doing something wrong, he must be able to tell me, after all.

She drew the bow and let the first arrow fly, trying not to think about it further.

Chapter Text

From the moment she had opened her eyes this morning, she had been wide awake. The entire morning she had been unable to do anything but get dressed, feel uncomfortable, get undressed again, and put on another dress until she had worn every single one of her dresses at least two or three times. She had been so nervous that she just hadn't been happy with any of her dresses. Too closed, too revealing, too elegant, too plain, the wrong color, the wrong fabric... Finally she had chosen her dress of yellow sand silk. It was simply, but it was by far her favorite. She didn't know if her mother would like to see her wearing it today or if this would make any difference in the first place, but she felt good in this dress, felt like herself. Now she was sitting here and could feel her hands sweating with excitement, something that practically never happened to her. Usually, however, there were hardly any occasions that were important enough for her to be so excited. Last night, after the end of the opening ceremony of the tourney, her father had let them both know that they would meet here this morning, her father, her mother, Aegon and she herself, to talk about an important topic. There could only be one topic that was so important and for which they needed to be four. Their betrothal.

She looked to the side, to her Aegon sitting next to her in his cushioned chair, excitedly playing around with a thread that had come loose from the embroidered dragon on his chest. She knew that Aegon had not even managed to have a proper breakfast because of his excitement. In a strange way, it comforted Rhaenys to know that Aegon was just as nervous as she was. Now they were sitting here, in their father's solar, waiting for their parents to arrive so they could finally talk together about their future, their betrothal.

Aegon looked at her as well, forcing a smile onto his face. He took her hand and squeezed it gently, bringing it to his lips and giving her a soft kiss on her knuckles. Rhaenys forced a smile onto her face as well, but feared it hardly looked more genuine than her brother's.

"It doesn't look good, does it?" he finally asked in a whisper. "I mean, if father had wanted to have us wed, he could have done it a long time ago already."

"It's certainly going to be all right," she said, not knowing herself whether to believe it. A husband other than Aegon had never even occurred to her in her dreams, and yet she had to admit that he was probably right. If their father had wanted to have them wed, he could have done so long ago. Rhaenys was sure, however, that it was less due to their father's unwillingness and much more due to their mother's opposition that they were not yet betrothed, let alone wed. "I've been to see him, told him how we feel about each other. Surely he'll make the right decision."

"I talked to him, too," Aegon said, smiling honestly for the first time that morning.

"You too?" she asked, surprised.

"Of course. I wanted him to know. Do you really think I would allow anyone else to have you, my love?"

Rhaenys had to smile now, too, and felt the blush rise to her face. Aegon seemed to notice this, for his smile grew even wider. For a while they sat there, looking at each other and saying nothing.

"What will we do if our father decides otherwise?" she finally asked.

"He won't."

"But what if he does? What if-"

Her brother leaned forward, swift as a viper, grasped her head and ended her sentence with a kiss on the mouth. Willingly she opened her lips for him and let herself drown in the sweetness of his kiss and the warmth of his touch.

"I would never allow such a thing to happen, Rhae," he said, as their lips – far too soon – parted again. "I love you. Only you. There is no other I would ever accept. And most certainly I would rather die than allow you to be given another man."

"That's sweet of you. But... but we should talk about it. Seriously talk about it. What if father decides otherwise?"

"Then we have dragons," he said in a firm, serious voice.

Rhaenys had to laugh, but wasn't sure if her brother was serious or not.

"You would go to war against our father?" she asked, trying to sound cheerful.

"I would go to war against anyone who tried to take you away from me, Rhae. You should know that. I'd rather see the entire world in flames than you at another man's side. And if that's not what you want, my love, I can always abdicate as Prince of Dragonstone."

"What? Aegon, don't say that. You can't-"

"I mean it. For you, I would do it anytime. Let Viserys have the crown and the thrown after father. He would make for a good king. And we… we would take some gold and silver from the treasury, a good sword, and go to Essos. Just the two of us."

"Just the two of us?"

"Just the two of us."

Aegon had always had a soft spot for such romantic reveries and of course he knew exactly how to make Rhaenys get lost in sweet dreams. Rhaenys leaned further toward him, looking into his gorgeous, purple eyes.

"And what will we do there? Tell me about our life in Essos, my love."

Aegon smiled again, and for that smile alone she would have followed him to Essos right here and now. He leaned over to her as well, took her hand again, beginning to caress the palm of her hand with the tips of his fingers.

"Well," he finally began, "I thought we might buy us a boat. You know, one of those poleboats. Those are big enough for a little family and easy to steer. And then we'll live on that boat, sail up and down Mother Rhoyne. We'll travel from port to port, staying where we please. During the day, I will hunt or catch fish with our sons, while you go to the next town with our daughters to buy some good wine and whatever else we need. And in the evening, when we are all together again, we will roast what I have caught over the fire and drink wine together."

"And then?"

"Then... then we put the little ones to sleep, finish the wine, and go to bed as well. Just the two of us. And then I will rock you to sleep, each and every night, my love."

Rhaenys sighed. She was just about to reply something when the door opened and first their father, then their mother entered the room. Immediately they sat up straight in their chairs again. She saw the always smiling face of her Uncle Lewyn and the broad back of Ser Arthur through the door, who would stand guard in the hallway before their father closed the door behind their mother. Their parents walked around the large table at which Aegon and she were already waiting. Their father sat down in his big chair, which – like all his chairs – was more reminiscent of a throne than a simple piece of seating furniture. Their mother took her place next to their father, but did not sit down in the waiting chair.

"Rhaenys, Aegon, you know what this is about. So I will come straight to the point. It is never easy for a father to make this decision for his children," their father began to speak, his eyes fixed firmly on the table in front of him. "As you know, your mother and I have... quite different views on what is best for House Targaryen in general and for the two of you in particular. Since neither of us wants to force you to do anything you don't want, your mother and I have decided to make you… offers."

He looked first at her then at Aegon, apparently waiting for a reaction. Rhaenys glanced briefly out of the corner of her eye at her brother, whose brow was furrowed in deep creases. When neither of them responded or answered in any way, their mother took a small step forward and began to speak.

"Aegon, my boy," their mother said, "since you are the crown prince and will one day succeed your father on the throne, you enjoy certain... special rights when it comes to choosing a wife."

"Special rights?" he asked.

"Yes, you will be allowed to choose two wives. I have already given my consent to that," she said with a proud smile. "We have compiled a list of ladies from good families who are of suitable age and unmarried."

With these words, their mother pulled a paper from her sleeve, rolled it up, and handed it to him. Aegon took it in his hand and began to read the long list, his brow furrowed even deeper.

"You, Rhaenys," their father then said, "will not be able to choose two husbands, of course, but still there is of course a list for you as well. Here, please read it carefully," he said, handing her a similar piece of paper. "Each of these young men is of suitable age and from a good family. As the princess of the realm, you have the free choice."

Slowly, with trembling fingers, she took the list and began to read. Sure enough, there on the note were names of young men from the best families in the realm. Lannister, Hightower, Baratheon, Tyrell, Martell, Redwyne, Manderly, Grafton... She hadn't even gotten to read all the names of young men from the Free Cities yet. Again she looked over at Aegon, who still seemed to be studying the list. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. What if Aegon actually picked a woman or two right now?

No, that's impossible. My love would never do that to me.

She was about to throw the note back on the table when she heard Aegon's voice.

"No."

"No? What do you mean by no?" their mother asked.

"I mean no. That's an impressive list, Mother. Thank you. But the woman I want to marry is not on it. Rhaenys," he finally said when their mother didn't ask the question of who that woman might be. She would have loved to jump up with joy and fall around her brother's neck, but held back with the last of her strength.

"Aegon, you can't-" she began in a trembling voice.

"And my list doesn't mention the man I want to marry," Rhaenys said now, her fears wiped away. "Aegon."

"That... will... absolutely not happen," their mother said, breathing heavily. "This is insanity! You're brother and sister."

"Mother, we-" Aegon was about to say, but their mother interrupted him.

"No, Aegon. Just no. You must see reason. I beg you. You two could have any young woman and young man you want. Why does it have to be… this?"

"The heart wants what the heart wants, Elia," their father said.

"That's not helpful, Rhaegar," their mother hissed.

"We love each other," Aegon said then. "We want to be together, Mother. It… just feels right. Just the thought of marrying another woman and Rhae marrying another man makes my stomach turn. Please, Mother."

"No, no way. That's insanity. You can't decide that for yourselves anyway. You are still children and you obviously cannot see reason. That's why your father and I will have to decide for you. You are still too young."

"We are not children anymore," said Rhaenys. "Aegon is nine and ten, and in half a year I will be one and twenty. We are not children anymore, mother."

"Then at least wait a little longer," she said with a pleading look. "Look around, get to know other men and women. Maybe then..."

"When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody," Rhaenys said, "you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible. So why wait? Can't you understand?"

She had read this in a book once, or a poem. She couldn't remember.

"No, I can't  understand and clearly you can't decide that. No. Besides, it's not good for the stability of the realm. House Targaryen needs allies and allies are formed with marriages," she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest as if she had won the argument with that.

"The stability of the realm?" asked Aegon, and Rhaenys could already hear the mocking tone in his voice. "What is that even supposed to mean, Mother? We have dragons. For the first time in over a century, we have real, living dragons. The realm, our rule, is more stable than it has been in generations."

"I will not allow that. My children will not go along with this... this madness."

She saw how it was now their mother who had tears welling up in her eyes, barely able to hold back her sobs. She stood up, walked over to her and hugged her. Their mother let it happen, but did not return the hug. After a few moments, Rhaenys released her embrace, took a step back, and put her hands around their mother's tear-stained face.

She is so small. Almost like I'm the mother and she's the daughter. Why didn't I ever notice how small she is?

"This is not madness, Mother," Rhaenys finally said in her softest voice. "I know... I know this is hard for you. You are not a Targaryen. But... please believe me, believe us that it's the only right thing to do. Aegon and I, we love each other," she said, ignoring the muttered "no, no, no" from her mother. "Yes, mother. Aegon and I love each other, are in love with each other. We were made for each other, destined for each other. I know you can't possibly understand that, and you probably never will, and that's fine. But please know that this is just who we are. And if you can't be happy about it, can't you at least try to be happy for us? When Aegon and I get married, we marry the one person we truly love. What greater luck could there ever be?"

For a while they just stood there, their mother with in front of her with tears now freely running down her cheeks, Rhaenys with her hands still holding her face, before their mother turned around, walked to the window and looked out wordlessly. She felt Aegon's hand on her shoulder, who had gotten up and come over to her. Rhaenys turned to him, letting him take her in his arms before leading her back to their chairs. They were about to sit back down when their father began to speak.

"You may leave now, children. Thank you for your time. Your mother and I will continue to talk about this... difficult issue to come to a final decision."

Together, Aegon and she wordlessly left their father's solar without their mother giving them a final glance. They walked hand in hand down the hallways of Maegor's Holdfast, their fingers entwined, but not speaking a word. They had both known how much their mother disliked this match, how terrible this conversation would become. Imagining it and actually experiencing it, however, were two different things. Deep inside, she had hoped that their mother would finally recognize the depth of the love between her and Aegon and, leaving her doubts and misgivings behind, would be happy for them after all and agree to their union. It had been a childish hope, but nevertheless a hope that Rhaenys had clung to in order not to burst into tears even before their conversation. She didn't want to do this to their mother, didn't want to cause her pain, but even less did she want to give up on him, on her Aegon, and her life by his side.

It can't be any other way, she thought then, as they left Maegor's Holdfast passing soldiers greeting them, still hand in hand. We are made for each other. That's how it is and that's how it will be. Even if Mother will not be delighted by it. She will be, surely, once she holds her first, perfect grandchild in her arms.

To her own surprise, she now also felt that she was no longer afraid of their father's decision. Not at all. Just an hour ago, her stomach had cramped whenever she had thought that he could even possibly make a different, a wrong decision. But not anymore. Their father would do the right thing and finally allow them to get wed. It couldn't be any other way. Not after this conversation. She had seen it in his eyes. And if the unthinkable should happen and their father should indeed decide otherwise, then she knew, as surely as the sun rose in the east and set in the west, that Aegon would still never leave her side, that he would renounce his crown and his throne. For her. Just for her. For a brief moment, Rhaneys even wished this to happen as they mounted their horses and, flanked by two double rows of soldiers, left the Red Keep heading for the Dragonpit. For a brief moment she truly wished it, wished to live with Aegon on that poleboat and spend her life with only him on Mother Rhoyne.

Just him and me. Forever. Him and me. And our children.

This thought, however, was equally childish. She knew that Aegon had been serious about it and that if she were to be denied to him as his wife, he would simply wake her up one night, things packed, and take her to Essos with him. They could possibly even leave the dragons behind, let them stay here in King's Landing for the next generation of Targaryens who would need their power to secure their rule. It was childish, however, to wish for such a thing to happen. Aegon was born to be king, had been shaped to rule since before he could walk, just as she was born to be his queen. This was their destiny.

It took them the better part of an hour, due in no small part to the large escort that struggled to squeeze through the narrow streets at the foot of Aegon's High Hill, to finally arrive at the Dragonpit. The Dragonkeepers saw them coming from a distance already, clearing the last stretch of road ahead of them, their swords drawn and ready to throw themselves in the way of anyone who dared to hinder or threaten Aegon or her. Aside from a few confused looking septons in ragged, dirty robes on the side of the road preaching and screeching that the dragons were demons from the deepest circle of hell, nothing of the sort happened. The people of King's Landing had thankfully long ago stopped listening to the hysterical ravings of these deranged men, so that there was no one around to listen to their absurd sermons, much less act upon them. The black armor of the Dragonkeepers, covered with dragon scales on their helmets and down their backs, shone so brightly in the sun that Rhaenys even had to hold her hand protectively in front of her eyes here and there. The wide gate of the Dragonpit, heavy black wood studded with bronze bands and forged dragons of iron and copper, immediately opened for them, loudly creaking. Two huge stone sphinxes, one red as blood and the other dark green as old leaves, relics from old Valyria from a time long before the Doom, flanked the mighty gate on either side, silently guarding the entrance through which they now rode.

The dragons' expectant cries could already be heard as they dismounted from their shying horses and, accompanied by more Dragonkeepers carrying their large, leather saddles reinforced with heavy iron chains, walked to their dragons' lairs. Aegon gave her one last kiss on the temple before turning down the left corridor, she gave him another wide, beaming smile, turning right.

Meraxes was indeed agitated and restless, as she could sense from afar, and so she instructed the Dragonkeepers to stay back far enough so as not to get hurt. It had happened too many times in the past years that some of the Dragonkeepers had become careless after a few years of service in the Dragonpit, no longer thinking the dragons were as dangerous as they actually were. This was a fallacy, however, and mostly a fatal one. Dragons were not pets, not horses or hounds, not even lions or tigers. They were dragons, bound to only one person, and deadly as nothing else in the world to anyone else who dared to become careless in their presence.

When she reached Meraxes' lair, her dragon roared at the top of its lungs until Rhaenys' ears were almost ringing. Anyone else would have thought it a menacing roar, but she knew better. Meraxes and she were... connected and she sensed no aggression in her at that moment, no more than was usual in a dragon anyway, but only anticipation and excitement. She pulled the heavy saddle to Meraxes and immediately the massive dragon bent her back down to allow her easier access. She moved the saddle into position, tightened it a bit here and there, and then fetched the heavy chains with which the saddle had to be attached to the dragon's back and eventually she herself to the saddle. Only then did she mount, fastening the last leather straps around her waist and thighs, letting the heavy chain locks snap into place. She heard the blast of Aegon's horn some distance away, signaling the Dragonkeepers to open the barred gate in front of Balerion's and Vhagar's lairs. She then took the small horn dangling from the saddle and blew into it herself, letting the Dragonkeeper know that she was ready as well. The heavy iron gate in front of Meraxes' lair began to open shortly after and her dragon slowly started moving, crawling on all fours on the ground.

In the center of the dome, Aegon was already waiting on Balerion, Vhagar excitedly in a corner behind him. Vhagar and Meraxes were approximately the same size, distinguished only by their different colors. Meraxes had silver scales and golden eyes and horns, Vhagar bronze eyes and horns and scales as green as the deepest forest. Balerion, however, black as night and with eyes as red as fire pits, was a giant, almost twice the size of Vhagar and Meraxes, and he didn't seem to want to stop growing. Seeing her coming around the corner on Meraxes, Aegon blew his horn again and thus gave the command to the Dragonkeepers to draw open the large gate embedded in the ceiling of the Dragonpit's dome.

Loudly rattling, the chains and gears were moved, hidden from their sight in the deep cellars beneath them and behind the thick walls around them, and the massive roof of the Dragonpit's dome began to open, splitting in two and shifting to the sides. The dome was not yet fully open when Balerion already spread his wings and lifted off the ground with a mighty, powerful push. In the next moment he had already disappeared through the opening in the ceiling. Rhaenys signaled her dragon in her mind to follow his brother, which she did immediately and willingly. Vhagar followed shortly after, as she noted with a quick glance behind her.

The dragons quickly gained height, pushing themselves higher and higher into the air with their powerful wings, roaring loudly to make their presence known far beyond the borders of the city. The feeling of flying, of literally being so high above things, was absolutely indescribable. But the feeling that Meraxes shared with her at that moment, the pure, almost childish joy of finally being able to race freely through the air again, was even more indescribable, if such a thing existed at all.

Meraxes, having reached a height of several hundred feet above the city, turned out to the sea, continuing to strike vigorously with her strong wings. Now, however, not to gain height but to gain speed. All three dragons became faster and faster, shooting around each other in tight turns and wide arcs through the air. The air aloft was chill, the wind was pulling at her dress and hair, becoming so strong that it hurt her eyes. Rhaenys leaned forward, rested her head on the saddle, and closed her eyes, looking on through Meraxes' eyes instead. Through her dragon's eyes, she recognized Balerion nearby, Vhagar playing around him in a wild dance. She saw Aegon sitting in his saddle, his head still high and his back straight, as if he were parading through King's Landing on the back of his best charger. All at once the dragons swooped down, losing half their height in a few heartbeats and becoming even faster and faster as they, leaving fishing boats as well as large merchant ships in the bay of Blackwater Rush behind them, flew across the calm water farther out to the sea. Rhaenys and Aegon had agreed beforehand where they were going to fly with the dragons, so of course the dragons knew, sensed where they had to go. It took them almost three hours to finally reach their destination and land on the beach in front of the castle of Dragonstone, once again accompanied by the booming roar of their dragons.

The dragons, somehow sensing their connection to this place, loved Dragonstone, as did Aegon and she herself. Nowhere did the three of them have so much fun flying around freely, circling through the air and discovering ever new bays and gorges as here, on Dragonstone, their ancestral home. They decided to send the dragons away for now. Should they have their fun. Their dragons would not stray far off anyway. They never did.

Today was the first day of the joust, which was why Rhaenys had not wanted to fly out at all. Aegon had convinced her, though, that they as well as the dragons simply needed this. As crown prince and not least because the tourney was held in his honor, he should have opened the joust today. Aegon had, however, insisted on being picked by lot like all the other participants, resulting in him not having to compete in the joust until tomorrow. Instead, Ser Loras Tyrell of Highgarden would be facing Ser Henryk Malcolm of Old Anchor to open the joust. Therefore, they still had time for a ride today and Rhaenys couldn't be happier about it. They didn't talk much as they walked along the beach, again hand and hand and their dragons circling overhead some distance away. She had hoped that they would be alone on the beach of Dragonstone, that they would be able to spend time together, just the two of them, but that of course had been a childish hope, too. She knew the people of Dragonstone too well.

When the dragons came, so did the people. The people there, mostly simple shepherds and fishermen, loved their Dragonlords, even if they didn't see them as often as they used to in the old days. So it wasn't long before they were surrounded by a host of men, women and children asking to be allowed to touch them, that they might bless their children, or even, quite blatantly, offering Aegon their daughters or sisters or even wives in the hope that he might make them a bastard. On Dragonstone, having a royal bastard, a Dragonseed as they were called, was not considered unseemly, but a great blessing for the family, which even the cuckolded husbands had always rejoiced in the past. Looking around, Rhaenys noticed that at least one or two out of twenty men, women and children shared the silver-white hair or the purple eyes or even both with her brother. Their ancestors had definitely left their seed on this island.

Years ago, after it had become clear that Vhagar would bond neither with their father nor with Uncle Viserys, their father had tried to find a rider for Vhagar among the Dragonseeds, but without success. Some of the Dragonseeds had managed to get close to Vhagar without being threatened or attacked, a young girl with silver blond hair and pretty green eyes had even managed to touch him, but even the most successful had been nowhere near bonding with him. As it seemed, as even their father had to admit afterwards, there simply was no one for Vhagar. Not yet. Apparently, he was waiting for the next generation of Targaryens to find a rider for himself. Perhaps it would be Egg's and her first son or daughter that Vhagar would bond with. Maybe their first child would one day ride Vhagar instead of hatching his own dragon in his crib like the Targaryens of old.

Looking around now, she saw beaming faces of people who often enough looked so much like her own family, people who loved and worshipped them for who and what they were, for their blood that so many of them shared with them. When she had learned about it from her father years ago back when she had still been no more than a child, she had found it hard to believe, but for the people on Dragonstone, the members of House Targaryen, the last of the Dragonlords, was not just nobles or even royals but the closest thing to living gods. She had come to believe it, though.

So as much as Rhaenys had wanted some time alone with her brother, had longed for some soft touches or maybe a gentle kiss or two from her Aegon, she couldn't possibly be angry with the people here. Instead, she talked to them, listened to their stories, and touched more children on the cheeks and foreheads, which their parents took as a blessing, than she otherwise got to see in an entire year. Aegon did the same, even gave young girls – if he did not make them bastards – some light kisses on the cheeks here and there, whereupon they often enough burst into tears of happiness and immediately fell on their knees before them.

"We should head back," Rhaenys said when they were finally alone again and she could see the sun already turning reddish.

"You know, we could stay here, on Dragonstone, and then leave very early tomorrow morning. We would certainly arrive in time for my joust if we got up early enough. What do you think? A whole fortress just for us..."

Rhaenys had to laugh, threw herself around Aegon's neck and kissed him passionately on the mouth.

"There's nothing I'd like better, my love, but... you and getting up early? If we stay here, you'll definitely miss your joust."

"One night with you is definitely worth it to me, my love."

"I'm flattered, of course, but I'm going to have to disappoint you. I definitely want to become Queen of Love and Beauty, and if you miss your very first joust, that's unlikely to work out."

Aegon had to laugh, obviously trying to cover his slight disappointment, but agreed with her. If he missed his first joust, he would only make it unnecessarily difficult for himself to get through the group phase, depending on who he would have to compete against. And the heartbreaking disappointment of not being crowned his Queen of Love and Beauty was, of course, not something he wanted to do to her, as he said. So they called the dragons back in their minds then, which landed near them shortly after. They gave each other another long, deep kiss during which his hands were temptingly running along the sides of her body, mounted up and made their way back to King's Landing. The sea air that blew inland in the evening was at their backs, so they were even a little faster than they had been on their way to Dragonstone. Still, it was already dark when they left the Dragonpit again, their exhausted dragons contentedly sleeping in their lairs.

The streets of the city, apart from drunken and still celebrating folks coming from the tourney grounds and stumbling in or out of taverns and brothels, were largely empty, so that they quickly reached the Red Keep on horseback. They went straight into Maegor's Holdfast. It was not too difficult for Rhaenys to realize from the look on Aegon's face that he wanted to join her in her bedroom as soon as possible, though certainly not because he was tired and wanted to sleep. She herself could hardly wait as well. This would be the last night in which Aegon would sleep in Maegor's Holdfast before he would spend the nights during the tourney in a tent next to the tourney grounds on the banks of the Blackwater Rush, as tradition would have it, like all the other participants in the joust and the melee. Then they would not be able to see each other at night, would not have the opportunity to make love, and so they both wanted to take advantage of this last night together. Walking through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, hand in hand, she already felt the excitement in her belly about to be alone with Aegon soon, naked and willing, and to finally feel him inside her again.

"I swear it, Jon will do it," she heard a woman's voice say as they turned a corner together. Just a few steps away, Lady Minella Blackbar and her friend Allara Gargalen stood talking.

"My prince, my princess," Allara said as she noticed Rhaenys and Aegon out of the corner of her eye and immediately curtsied to both of them. Lady Minella did likewise.

"Lady Minella, Lady Allara," she and Aegon greeted the two in chorus with a curt nod.

"May I ask what this is about?" asked Rhaenys.

"Lady Minella is trying to convince me that Jon Baratheon is going to participate in the archery contest," Allara said, looking at Rhaenys with an incredulous expression while nodding in Lady Minella's direction. She had her mother's eyes Rhaenys noted not for the first time. And her beauty. Haunting purple eyes, big and bright and lovely, and the same pale skin, so unusual for a girl from the Red Mountains of Dorne, and the same gorgeously beautiful face with full lips and a smile as sweet as honey. She did not possess a mane of deep black, however, like the Lady Ashara, but a torrent of golden-blond curls, streaked with silver strands - the hair of the Daynes of Starfall - which, in Rhaenys' eyes, only made her more ravishing, however. Had Aegon indeed ever wanted to choose a wife other than her, Rhaenys would have made sure that this would have been Allara. Luckily, though, he never had.

Maybe it would make Mother happy if Aegon took a second wife besides me. Maybe then she could finally make her peace with me and Aegon. Maybe I could accept Allara in our bed, she thought, but immediately tensed up inside at the mere thought of sharing her Aegon with another woman – even with her best friend. No, that would not be possible. Allara would kiss her feet with joy and gratitude, certainly. However infatuated she was with Ser Jaime, Rhaenys knew that Aegon was her first love, and that she had only never tried to get close to Aegon because she knew about Rhaenys' feelings for her brother, not wanting to risk their friendship. She would undoubtedly be a wonderful wife for her Aegon, would give him beautiful children and would certainly be a delight in bed, always obediently servicing both Aegon and Rhaenys herself. She was sure of that. Yet... it was simply not possible. It would tear her apart from the inside to have to share her beloved with another woman and Aegon, for his part, would just never do this to her.

"I don't think that's likely. Jon is a good archer. Better than me, that much is for certain. But he never enjoyed it much," Aegon said, tearing her from her thoughts.

"I'm absolutely sure, my prince," Lady Minella said, and Rhaenys felt the heat rising in her as she watched how the little hussy was obviously trying to make eyes at her brother while very clearly holding her cleavage under his nose.

"And what makes you think that, my lady? Jon certainly didn't mention anything about it to me."

"I saw him, just a few hours ago, my prince," she said, and began to whisper as if she were entrusting them all with a particularly great secret. "He was sneaking through Maegor's Holdfast with a bow and a quiver on his shoulder. I asked him about it. Lord Jon gave me some story that he just wanted to practice with the bow, but I didn't believe him for a moment. The bow and quiver were brand new, looking completely unused. If he had only wanted to practice, he certainly could have taken any bow. I'm sure he bought this bow to enter the archery contest."

"As I said, Jon is not an overly enthusiastic archer, so I can't imagine that. Maybe he just liked the bow," Aegon said with a charming smile.

"Yes... yes, if you say so, my prince," Lady Minella returned, stammering, completely caught in her brother's eyes.

"Now, if you will excuse us," Rhaenys interjected, "we are exhausted and will proceed to our chambers."

Both ladies curtsied to them again, but not without Allara giving her a knowing wink. Then Aegon and she walked past them and continued on their way through Maegor's Holdfast. Rhaenys waited until they were safely out of earshot of the two before she said anything.

"Do you think there's anything to it?" she asked.

"To what? That Jon supposedly wants to enter the archery contest? No, absolutely not. He's good with a bow, but he doesn't enjoy it. So why would he want to participate?"

"But it's kind of strange that he'd buy a new bow for himself when archery isn't something he enjoys."

"Yes, a little," Aegon said thoughtfully.

"We should ask him what it's all about," she suggested. She couldn't wait to be alone with Aegon, to feel him and have him all to herself, but she knew that this silly little secret would give them both no peace if they didn't pursue it now.

"I think I know where we can find him," Aegon said, taking her hand again and leading her around the next corner to the left instead of the right. He led her through the long hallways of the fortress, lit by oil lamps, torches and fire bowls. It didn't take Rhaenys long to realize where they were going, however. They quickly reached the eastern courtyards of Maegor's Holdfast, just behind the large courtyard with the white and red marble dragon well. In these courtyards Aegon and Jon, along with their friends, had practiced archery in the past, as she herself had done when the opportunity had presented itself.

They found the first courtyard empty and deserted, the second one as well. Then, in the third courtyard, as they stepped out through the door, they already saw an erected target of wood and straw with half a dozen arrows stuck in it, lit by glow of some torches in the iron holders on the walls. They entered the courtyard, looked to the side, and actually found Jon standing at the far end, a bow in his hand. He noticed them immediately, but instead of being happy, he seemed surprised or... shocked.

"Rhae, Egg, what are you doing here?"

"We wanted to see how well you were doing with your exercises," Aegon said in a smug tone that left no doubt that they both knew full well that something other than target practice was going on here. "So, where is she?"

"Where is who?"

"The girl. I know you don't like archery, so if you're going to buy a new bow and hang around here on a night like this with said bow in hand, when you might as well be drunk in a tavern with our friends, then it's got to be about a girl. So who is she and where is she?"

"What are you talking... no, that's nonsense. I'm just-"

"It's Lady Arya, isn't it?" Rhaenys asked, interrupting Jon. "Her father told me she likes archery. Yes, it must be her!"

"Nonsense," Jon barked, "This has nothing to do with Arya at all. I just wanted to practice a little. That's all. Now, if you'll please leave me alone again... I want to let a few more arrows fly."

Aegon and she didn't move, however, finding their friend's ever-increasing nervousness quite amusing. Jon looked back and forth between them, and his gaze seemed to become pleading.

"Is it Arya?" Rhaenys asked again.

"I told you, this has nothing to do with-"

"You were right," another voice interrupted him, the voice of a young woman, coming from the door behind Jon. "It will go better with my hair tied up. The hair tie wasn't so easy to find, though, so I had to-"

The voice died away when the woman entered the courtyard and saw Aegon and Rhaenys standing next to Jon, stopped walking as if rooted to the spot. Rhaenys was not surprised to see that it was indeed Lady Arya. She was wearing a plain dress of blue wool and simple brown leather shoes in which she looked more like a kitchen maid than a highborn lady, but at least this time she was not dirty from head to toe and her hair looked clean and, tied together as it was, almost made. She had full, dark brown curls that fell all the way down her back, pale skin and a lean built. She was not a traditional beauty, but Rhaenys couldn't help but acknowledge that with her big, gray eyes and her hair tied into a loose braid, she actually looked quite pretty. It didn't surprise her in the least why Jon had such an interest in her, even if it seemed that he wasn't really clear about that himself yet.

"That... well...," Jon began to stammer.

"Are you going to tell us what's going on now?" Aegon asked.

"All right," Jon said, sighing. He looked at Arya, a sorry expression in his face, then back at Aegon and Rhaenys, and took a few deep breaths before continuing. "I felt bad because Arya... Lady Arya got in trouble because of me. So I wanted to cheer her up a little bit. We were just going to do some archery," Jon said, but from his tone Rhaenys could already hear that that wasn't all. If Jon had been a slightly better liar, she might even have believed him.

"Go on," she said.

"Go on? There's nothing more to tell. That's all."

She raised an eyebrow and looked at Jon, knowing without looking that Aegon had done the exact same thing.

"Fine. We want to practice for the tourney," Lady Arya finally said, coming to stand next to Jon, her slender body half pushed in front of him as if to protect him.

"For the tourney?" Aegon asked. "So you do want to... no, wait a moment. Oh, now I get it. You don't want to participate at all. She wants to participate!"

"Aye, that's right. And why not? Women are allowed to participate in the archery contest. Your mother has seen to that," Jon said. "Pray, don't tell anyone. Uncle Ned has allowed me to spend time with Arya and go to the archery contest with her. But only to watch. He certainly wouldn't allow her to participate, so no one must know. Please."

For a while, Rhaenys and Aegon looked at the two in silence and, even though it was mean, enjoyed watching them stew in their own juices. Then she heard Aegon start laughing next to her and couldn't stop herself from laughing any longer either.

"Don't worry, Jon. We won't tell anyone," Aegon said, catching his breath. The relief on the faces of Jon and Lady Arya was so intense that it almost seemed to be palpable.

"No, we won't," Rhaenys agreed. "But tell me, how do you plan to do that? I mean, so that Lord Stark won't find out about it."

"Well," Jon began a bit hesitantly, "Uncle Ned won't watch the archery contest. He's not interested in it. And since I have his permission for Arya and I to watch it together, it won't be noticed."

Rhaenys could only shake her head and saw out of the corner of his eye how Aegon buried his face in his hands.

"What? What is it?" asked Jon.

"Jon, my friend, you do realize that when a highborn lady enters the contest, a messenger is sent to her father or husband to get his permission?" Aegon asked.

"No, I… didn't know that," Jon said, but before he could say anything else, Aegon already continued.

"Well, then you two have just jumped from the brink of disaster. The moment Lady Arya's name is added to one of the lists, a messenger is already on his way to her father."

Rhaenys looked at Jon and could see how hard it hit him. He looked over at Arya with a sad, apologetic look. She was obviously sad as well, but forced herself to smile weakly.

"It's all right, Jon. I thank you anyway. And I have a new bow now, after all. A wonderful one. So at least we can do some archery here," she said, and it seemed like she was trying to cheer him up rather than needing to be cheered up herself. Rhaenys looked at the two of them for a while, then looked over at Aegon, who was also looking at her, and realized in his gaze that he had the same idea as she did.

"Well, then it's obvious what's going to happen now," she said.

"Is it?" asked Jon.

"Of course. Lady Arya must enter under a false name, as a peasant. No one will send a messenger anywhere because of some peasant girl."

Jon's eyes got as big as plates when he heard that and Lady Arya started grinning all over her face in disbelief, taking Jon's hand, as Rhaenys noticed out of the corner of her eye.

"It would probably be better if she were to enter as a man," Aegon said. "Women are allowed to participate, but there are only a few that actually do. Any woman who actually participates is going to stand out. So if she's not supposed to get caught, she's going to have to blend in with the crowd. And the only way to do that is as a man."

"For that, she will need a man's clothes. In her dress, however plain it may be, she definitely cannot participate. It must be men's clothing," Rhaenys said, enjoying the increasingly incredulous looks of her friend and Lady Arya.

"I could give her some of my old clothes," Jon said, so quickly he almost tripped over his own tongue.

"Yes, a peasant in the old clothes of the heir to Storm's End. I'm sure that won't be noticed at all," Aegon mocked. "I'll take care of the clothes."

"You mean the crown prince's old clothes are more suitable than my old clothes?"

"Hardly, but I do have something a little different," her brother said, beginning to grin. "Remember when we used to sneak out of the Red Keep to roam the city?"

"Well sure, we used to dress up as peasants then so we wouldn't be recognized. Cost me all my coin back then to have one of the Gold Cloaks get the things for us without him spreading the word all over the place right away. We'd pretend we were brothers and you always had to wear that stupid straw hat to cover your hair."

"But you don't look like brothers at all," Lady Arya said.

"We didn't care," Jon said.

"We felt like brothers. That was enough for us," Aegon said, smiling broadly, adorably, enchantingly.

"Don't tell me you still have those clothes, Egg."

"Well, not all of it, but some of the stuff I still have."

"But… why?" Jon asked incredulously, his smile growing wider and wider with each moment.

"I was keeping them in case we ever had to sneak out of the Red Keep again."

"That was years ago and we were almost still children back then. There's no way they'll still fit us," Jon said, laughing.

"I know. Maybe I just didn't have the heart to throw them all in the fire," Aegon admitted. "Anyway, they're still there and I'm sure some of it could fit Lady Arya. Probably will make her look hilarious, but it will do."

"She still needs a name, though," Rhaenys said. "Something simple, plain. Something that fits a peasant boy. How about... Arri. Arri Waters."

"Waters?" asked Lady Arya. "Why not Snow? I'm from the North, after all."

"I don't suppose you could get any more conspicuous than that?" asked Rhaenys back. "How many bastards named Snow do you think are running around this city? You can probably count them on one hand. It's got to be a name people around here don't pay attention to, and there's hardly anything better than Waters."

"By the old gods and the new, I'm really going to participate," Lady Arya breathed in Jon's direction, looking as if she was about to jump in his arms. For a moment, the way Jon looked at her, it seemed as if he would have loved to grab her, press her against himself and kiss her, but as quickly as that moment had come, it was gone again.

"There's one more thing," Aegon said, immediately catching everyone's eye. "You need an explanation for Lord Stark. He may have allowed you to watch the archery contest with Lady Arya, but it might still draw attention that he doesn't see her so often. And what if he does want to watch the archery contest after all and can't find you in the stands?"

"I'll take care of that," Rhaenys said. "I'll run into him first thing tomorrow, purely by chance of course, and tell him that I've spoken to Lady Arya and convinced her to spend time with me and my ladies-in-waiting occasionally."

"My father will never believe that."

"Oh, he will believe me. I can be very convincing," she said, smiling. "I'll tell him that I promised you that when watching the joust, you'll get better seats in the royal box next to me, and that this way you won't have to spend all your time in your chambers when Jon doesn't have time for you. For that, you agreed to have a cup of tea with me and my ladies-in-waiting every now and then and tell us all about Winterfell. That way, it won't draw attention if you're not around more often. When I meet him alone, you will be with Jon, and when he meets Jon alone, you will be with me. This way your father won't worry or look for you if he doesn't run into you in the Red Keep for a while."

"That sounds... perfect! Just perfect," she cheered, "Thank you, thank you, thank you so much."

"But there's one more thing," Jon then said. "What about her voice? Anyone who hears her talk will immediately recognize that she's a woman... a girl... I mean a woman."

"Don't make this more complicated than it needs to be, Jon," Aegon scolded him. "She's supposed to do archery, not recite poetry. It's best if she just doesn't speak at all, then it won't be noticed. If someone asks you something," he said to Lady Arya, "just don't answer. In archery, politeness doesn't matter. We should go now, my lady, to get the clothes. They are… a bit hidden and you'll eventually have to see what might fit you. So, follow me."

Aegon turned around, gave Rhaenys another quick kiss on the cheek as he passed – no doubt a promise of what would come later – and then left. Lady Arya immediately wanted to run after him, but then stopped once more, turned to Jon and, with a quick leap onto her toes, gave him a soft kiss on the cheek as well. Then she and Aegon were gone already. For a brief moment, Jon's face was as red as if he were about to catch fire, but as quickly as it had come, it disappeared again.

"You tell me again that there is nothing between you and Lady Arya," Rhaenys said, smiling and still looking at the door through which Lady Arya and her Aegon had disappeared.

"There's nothing. I told you. She's like a sister to me," Jon said, but she could hear in his voice that he was long past being as sure and decisive about this as he had been the last time she and Aegon had merely been teasing him with it. She decided, however, to leave it at that for now. Whatever there actually was, she certainly didn't want to burden it by annoying Jon too much.

"Whatever. I think it's very nice of you to do this for her, Jon. Really. I just wanted to tell you that."

"Thank you. And thank you for your help. Without you two, this would have become a complete disaster."

"You're welcome. But next time, Jon, do it right the first time."

"And how?"

"Come straight to us, to Aegon or me."

"I didn't know if that was a good idea. This whole thing... is a risk just begging to be discovered and cause more trouble should Arya get caught. I didn't want to drag you into this."

"I don't care about that, and neither does Aegon. We are not answerable to anyone but our father here. There are only very few people one can always and without reservation rely upon. That's especially true for people of our rank. But the three of us have to be those people for each other, Jon. When you talked about you and Aegon pretending to be brothers, for Aegon that wasn't just saying it. I can only hope that you feel the same way, but for my Aegon, this was more than a game. You are like a brother to him, Jon, and that makes you my brother too. We are family. Don't ever forget that. So next time, just come straight to us."

"I will... sister," he said with an honest smile and a wink.

Allara Gargalen

Chapter Text

Jon Arryn was wheezing and coughing so hard that for a moment Ned thought he was going to choke to death. Robert patted him on the back, laughing loudly. Ned couldn't help but laugh as well then, looking into the man's fiery red face and teary eyes, his father in everything but blood. Ned hadn't really wanted to do this to the old man, but Robert had insisted on pressing a cup of that ghastly Qohori wine into his hands. It took another moment for Jon to catch his breath and join in the laughter.

"I think I'll stick with wine from the Arbor," he gasped.

Immediately Robert took the brew from his hand and gave him his own cup, containing ale though, not wine. Jon smiled mildly, put his hand on Ned's shoulder to keep him from saying anything about it, and drank the ale. Ned knew that his foster father had never been a great friend of ales of any kind, but certainly he still preferred it to the swill from Qohor. Robert, however, downed the cup in one gulp as if it were light summer beer.

"So are you going to tell me about her now?" asked Ned, already impatient.

"I would have done so by now, if my boys hadn't just tried to poison me."

Their shared laughter was lost in the loud thunder of breaking lances as Ser Lothor Brune and Ser Aron Santagar met in the center of the arena. The people cheered loudly, thrilled at the sight of the lances splintering into countless pieces, even though both knights had managed to keep themselves in the saddle somehow.

"I can only say I made a good choice in asking you for your Sansa for Hubert. She's well liked in the Vale and if my sister Alys were a slightly more jealous woman, we'd have a problem now," Jon said with a laugh. "Certainly Sansa would be delighted if you came to visit her sometime. And I would be too, of course."

"Yes, I'd love to. If I can find the time," he said. He could tell from Jon's face that he knew this was just an excuse.

"I'll force you to do it someday, son. Someday. Sansa is going to be a great Lady of the Vale, Ned. You can be proud of her. All that's missing now is a child. But as enamored as Hubert is with her, that certainly won't be long now."

"No doubt it will be a strong son," Robert said, "just like his grandfather."

Grandfather Ned...

"Why didn't you bring the boy with you, anyway?" Robert asked. "I hear he's a pretty good jouster."

"That he is," Jon said, "but other than that, he's also Elbert's only son and my heir. He needs to learn that life isn't all feasts and tourneys, but also hard work and duties that can't be dismissed. Especially not when he will one day be Lord of the Vale. A lesson I obviously failed to teach you, Robert."

"Oh, Jon, it is not all duties. You also have to be able to enjoy life."

"I think you enjoy life enough for all of us combined," Ned said with a laugh.

"Not everyone can be like you, Ned, and fight tooth and nail against every bit of joy and pleasure."

"You know I love you both as if you were my own sons, just the way you are," Jon then said, "but every now and then it would be better for both of you if you could be just a little bit more like the other. Every now and then, just a little bit."

"I don't think that's going to happen anymore," Ned said, earning a pat on the back from Robert and another of his loud, barking laughs.

"It's unfortunate that your wife couldn't be here. I'm sure she would have been happy to see her brother and sister again," Jon then said.

"Lady Lysa is here too?" Ned asked, a little surprised. He had known that Cat's brother Edmure was here, even planning to enter the tourney, but he had seen neither his good-sister nor his good-brother until now.

"Yes, she came here with her husband. She's sitting over there," Jon said, nodding in the direction of the lower seats in the grandstand where the still noble but lesser guests had been placed. Indeed, he immediately recognized Lady Lysa by her red hair. She was seated next to her husband, Ser Mandon Moore, a knight from Jon Arryn's court, apparently trying to calm down her son, who seemed to be having a hard time sitting still.

His wife had never talked to him about why her sister, after all a daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, had not been able to get a better match than a simple knight from the Vale. Years ago however, on one of his visits to Winterfell his good-brother Edmure, deep in his cups already, had told him about it. As a young girl, before his own marriage to Cat, Lady Lysa had apparently given her maidenhead to a man of low birth, and had even made this known at her father's court, openly proclaiming her love for this man. The name of the man, however, Edmure had not wanted to give, had only called him a thieving peasant again and again. So at that time Lord Hoster, wanting his daughter far enough away from his court, had given her hand to a simple knight in the service of Jon Arryn, who had promised to take care of her and to immediately stifle any talk or rumor about his daughter, had it arisen in the Vale.

The years, as Ned could see even from a distance, had been considerably less gracious to Lady Lysa than to his Cat, though. Cat was still as beautiful as the day he had taken her as his wife, full of life and, despite their five children, still had the body of a woman ten or more years younger for which alone Ned had to thank the Old Gods every day. Lady Lysa, however, seemed to have met the opposite fate. As a young girl, she had been the spitting image of Cat, but today hardly anything remained of that. Her skin appeared pale, her cheeks puffy, and deep lines around her mouth painted a clear picture that this woman did not smile often. This was not really surprising, though. Lady Lysa had endured six miscarriages before finally giving birth to her much awaited son, Jon, her only living child. Ser Mandon had insisted on naming him after Jon Arryn, an honor Ned knew his foster father would have preferred to refuse, had been possible. The boy was thin and sickly, delicate as a girl. He was twelve name days old, but possessed the body of a boy half that age, and – if Robert's dissolute descriptions were to be believed – still clung to his mother's breast. Ned had not wanted to believe it at first, but when he saw the boy sitting there now, on his mother's lap and with his face buried in her cleavage, he was no longer so sure.

"She's been to Storm's End a few times with her husband and her weakling of a son. A horrid woman, I tell you," Robert said. "Littlefinger tried to talk me into taking Mandon Moore into my service. I had to decline, or that wench would have been skulking around my fortress all the time. No thanks. You certainly married the right sister, Ned."

"I'm sure I did," Ned said.

Even if it wasn't my choice.

Once again, the thunder of breaking lances rolled through the arena. Once again, the crowd erupted in thunderous applause. This time, however, though both lances were broken again, a mighty thrust from Ser Lothor Brune had lifted Ser Aron Santagar from his saddle and sent him tumbling in a wide arc to the sandy ground.

"Oh, did you see that? That thrust almost broke him in half," Robert bellowed as loudly as if Jon and he were sitting on the other side of the arena.

It felt good to see his brother in spirit again. Robert had not changed a bit. He was loud and cheerful, could hardly stop laughing, and he looked after every maid who passed by just as he had back in the Vale of Arryn when they had been young. Well, he had almost not changed. As a young man, Robert had been a force of nature, a giant made of little more than black hair, blue eyes, a broad laugh and mountains of muscle. He had been a giant, the dream of every young maiden from Dorne to Winterfell. Of this man, however, little had remained. His hair was now more gray than black, his eyes, though still blue, were strangely dull and seemed swollen, and though he still laughed and smiled the entire time, the muscles had given way to a body that looked misshapen and bloated. His belly was the largest Ned had ever seen, his beard barely concealed the rings of skin under his chin, and his hands, once as strong as the paws of a bear, were clumsy and fleshy, barely able to grip the mugs of ale he brought to his mouth the entire time.

Another maid was approaching them, carrying a tray with cups of wine in front of her. Ned noticed how Robert, as if he had a seventh sense for it, began to turn in his seat even before the girl had reached them, to get a better look at her. There were things about his old friend that he wished had changed. Many years ago, he had promised Lyanna that Robert would change once he had said his marriage vows, that he loved her with all his heart and that he would be a good and faithful husband to her. His sister, however, had known him better than he had at the time, it seemed.

"Love is sweet, dearest Ned," she had said, "but it cannot change a man's nature."

For a moment he had to think back to the letter Lyanna had written him two years after their wedding, after Robert had introduced her to his bastard, a boy named Edric Storm, and had announced that he would be living with them at Storm's End from now on.

"This man," she had called him in her letter, without once using his name, "has never loved me, Ned. There are only three things in life he truly loves. You, his wine and his cock. He wanted me for a wife not because he loved me but to make you two brothers, nothing more. I hope it does make you as happy as it does him, Ned, because it certainly hasn't made me happy."

Ned hadn't known how to respond to that and so he had done the cowardly thing and had simply never answered her to that letter at all. Ned had never thought of himself as a coward, but at that moment, he just had not known what to do or say. Later, whenever he had thought about why he had never answered her letter, he had not even been sure why he had not been able to answer her. Had it been because he had not known what to write or because he simply hadn't been able to admit to himself how wrong he had been about Robert? Had Brandon still been alive and had he received that letter, Ned had no doubt that he would have saddled a horse that very day, ridden all the way to Storm's End, and challenged Robert to a duel for Lyanna's honor.

Certainly they would have killed each other, Ned thought, and even though he had felt the urge to do the same thing the moment he had read the letter and learned of Robert's dishonor to his sister, he had not. Robert was Robert.

Apparently Lyanna had been right, much as he regretted it.

Ned quickly banished the thought from his mind, however. What was done was done, and it would do no one any good if Ned now spoiled their reunion with this. Robert had always been a man who had found it difficult to curb his appetite. Obviously, this had not changed. Looking at Robert now, sitting next to him and barely finding room even on the wide seats for the noble guests of the tourney, it seemed to him that this had become even worse with his old friend. And it wasn't as if he was the only lord of the realm who behaved that way. It was dishonorable, yes, and certainly his sister did not deserve such treatment, but even though Ned would never have done such a thing to his wife himself, there were worse things a husband could do to his wife.

Ned couldn't remember who, but he did remember that back when Robert and he had been fostered together by Jon Arryn in the Vale, he had heard someone say about Robert that he supposedly was after anything that wore a dress and had a heartbeat, and the heartbeat wasn't even strictly necessary. He hadn't found it funny then and still didn't find it funny now, yet he had never been able to get those words out of his head. Yes, there were worse things a man could do to his wife, yet it pained Ned to see his friend like that. It pained him for both Lyanna and Robert.

The maid reached them, trying to push past Robert to carry the wine to the guests who had asked for it. Robert, however, reached out courageously, grabbed the girl by her butt, and after a brief giggle of which Ned wasn't sure if it had been sincere or just out of embarrassment, sent her on her way again. Ned didn't have to look over at Jon to know what he must have thought of the way Robert was behaving here.

I wonder if he behaves the same way when Lyanna is with him.

"Where's Lyanna by the way?" asked Ned, but by the time he had uttered the words he wasn't so sure he even wanted to know.

"I don't know. With the queen, I think," Robert said, his eyes still fixed firmly on the maid's backside.

Ned looked to the side, to the royal box not too far away, where Lyanna might very well be, had she received an invitation from the queen. He found the king and queen sitting in the front, next to them Princess Rhaenys with some of her ladies-in-waiting, Lady Allara Gargalen and Lady Jeyne Darry. He saw Arya's dark curls blowing in the sifting wind, only sparsely held in shape by some colorful ribbons, next to the princess. She laughed and seemed to be having a good time. It still surprised him how Arya, with her previous behavior, had managed to make friends with Princess Rhaenys, of all people, so that she was now even allowed to sit with her in the royal box. In the end, however, the princess' influence could only be good for her and Cat would certainly jump for joy and pride as soon as she heard about it. He saw some knights of the Kingsguard, Ser Jonothor Darry, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent, striking and shining in their white armor. There was no sign of his sister Lyanna, however. Ned briefly looked over at Robert again and felt anger rising within him. Robert was now making very clear signs with his hands to another maid, several rows away, apparently not caring a bit that his wife was not in the royal box at all, as he had believed. Jon must have noticed his anger, putting a hand on his shoulder and looking at him with a knowing expression.

There were few people in the world that Ned loved as much as his sister and liked to have around him as much as his sister, but at that moment he was glad that she wasn't here, that she didn't have to witness Robert's behavior, and maybe also that he himself wasn't forced to find out if Robert actually acted that way around her, too. In the meantime, the next competitors had gotten ready for their joust, announced by the herald. Ser Barristan Selmy would joust against Ser Loras Tyrell. Aside from Crown Prince Aegon's first joust later, in which he would compete against Ser Robar Royce, this was for most of the spectators in the arena certainly one of the highlights of the day. Ser Barristan was known to be an excellent jouster, no matter his already advanced age. Ser Loras had knocked Ser Henryk Malcolm out of the saddle with just one lance the day before and impressively underlined his role as one of the favorites in this tourney.

He saw first Ser Loras, then Ser Barristan ride to the stands for the nobles to ask ladies for their favors. Ser Loras rode up to a pretty girl with blond hair, handing her a red rose and having her tie a blue ribbon around his right hand, before he turned around and got into position. Other girls surrounded the lucky one, screaming and giggling as if Ser Loras had just asked her for her hand in marriage. Ned did not recognize the girl. Ser Barristan followed. He rode past the royal box, stopping in front of the seats of Lord Tremond Gargalen and his wife, the Lady Ashara. He had seen Lady Ashara, a Dayne by birth, sister of Ser Arthur Dayne and childhood friend of Queen Elia, only once in his life, years ago when he had been in the capital shortly after the death of King Aerys for the coronation of King Rhaegar. Back then, she had been regarded by many as one the most beautiful woman in the realm. It had taken Ned only a quick glance into her haunting purple to agree to that notion. He could not see her well from where he sat, but, remembering her looks from all those years ago and how beautiful his own wife still was, he could well imagine that this was still the case.

Lady Ashara rose, graceful as if she herself were the queen of this realm, and granted her favor to Ser Barristan, tying a bright red and yellow ribbon around his arm. Her husband seemed hardly interested in all this, absorbed as he was in conversation with his son, Byrant Gargalen, seated beside him. The lad was almost a head taller than his father, dark haired with streaks of silver-white in it just as his mother, broad in the shoulders and, after all he had heard, excellent with a sword.

His uncle is the Sword of the Morning. He'd better be excellent.

Most of the faces or backs of heads, depending on where they sat, Ned did not know. Jon Arryn, who had spent time in the capital at the royal court many times, knew many of them, however, and whispered names into Ned's ear whenever his gaze was directed at this lord or that lady.

"Ah, I love this city," Robert enthused, as both knights got into position.

"King's Landing? Really?" asked Ned.

"Then why didn't you take the seat on the Small Council that the King offered you?" asked Jon. "I did everything I could to persuade him to do it, but Robert just passed that honor on to his brother," he then told Ned.

"Pah, the Small Council. No thanks. Stannis is a good Master of Laws, better than I could ever be. What do I know about laws?"

"It would have been a great honor, Robert."

"An honor that cousin Rhaegar is welcome to keep for himself."

"You were lucky the king didn't take your refusal as an insult, Robert. Other rulers would have reacted less well to that," Jon said, sounding slightly angry. Ned and Robert looked at each other briefly and they both knew he was talking about King Aerys.

"This city is too warm for me," Ned finally said, not wanting to bring up the subject of the Mad King in the first place. The later years of the last king's reign were not a pleasant topic and certainly not something to talk about too publicly in the capital, of all places.

"But that's just it, Ned. It's so warm," Robert began to enthuse again.

"I never would have taken you for someone who loves the heat."

"I don't. I really don't. But the girls do. The girls, Ned. When it's really hot in this stinking city, the girls swim naked in the river. Naked, Ned, naked!"

A horn sounded to announce the start of the joust, saving Ned from having to respond to Robert's remark, and both knights gave their horses the spurs. Ser Barristan, coming from the left on a magnificent white stallion, flitted past them like a white shadow, his white cloak waving behind him like a flag. From the right, Ser Loras approached on a chestnut mare, clad all in green with a bouquet of high roses on his helmet, made entirely of silver and gleaming in the sun, and a cloak that seemed to be woven entirely of flower blossoms flying behind him.

With a loud crash, the two men met in the middle, just in front of the royal box. Neither seemed to have any trouble staying in the saddle, yet Ser Loras' lance was broken, while Ser Barristan's lance was still intact. Ser Loras thus led by one to zero points. However, with two such excellent jousters as these two, that meant nothing. Both whirled around, getting into position again. Ser Loras, to the cheers of the masses, but especially the young women and girls in the arena, had a new lance given to him.

"Ser Loras is indeed excellent. He has a great technique," Jon said in sincere appreciation. It was a high praise from his foster father, who had never been prone to handing out praise when it hadn't truly been earned. Ned could only agree. Ser Loras seemed to be an outstanding jouster.

"Aye, Renly raves about him all the time as well, when he's not at Highgarden. Apparently the boy has a real fondness for lances," Robert spat. Ned, apparently like Jon, could do nothing with that comment and so they left it at that.

Again the horn sounded and the two knights thundered towards each other. Again they met in the middle with a loud crash. Again both men held securely in the saddle, but this time Ser Barristan's lance broke, while Ser Loras' lance slid past the white knight's shield.

"Mace Tyrell has been trying for years to get the king to agree to a marriage between Crown Prince Aegon and Ser Loras' sister, Lady Margaery," Jon began to tell. "In that case, it is said, Ser Loras would ask to be allowed into the Kingsguard the next time a place became available. A knight like Ser Loras would certainly be a worthy addition to the white knights."

"Certainly," Ned said. "But how do you know about Lord Tyrell and his daughter for the prince?"

"I don't live at the royal court, but I know people. I hear things. It would do you and the North good to stretch out your feelers a little farther south occasionally, Ned. I know the North likes to keep to itself, but you are part of the realm. Don't forget that, son."

Of course, Jon was right about that. The North had always preferred to keep to itself, to marry almost exclusively among themselves, and to stay out of the politics - and often the wars - of the South rather than plunge headlong into it in the faint hope of gaining power or gold or influence. Ned's own father had already recognized that in the long run it would be better, perhaps even necessary, for the North to leave this kind of disengagement as if everything south of the Neck was none of their business behind, to move closer to the South politically with friendships and alliances. Not least for this reason, he had seen to it that Ned had been fostered in the Eyrie rather than with one of his own bannermen, and why he had chosen the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands first for Brandon and then, after his untimely death, for Ned and the heir of Storm's End for Lyanna.

Ned did not like this idea. He had never been able to develop an interest, let alone a special love, for the courtly ceremonial of the South, for its intrigues for power and influence. The politics of the North were not always easy either, but they were straightforward, open and honest. Something that could hardly be said of the courts south of the Neck. In the politics of the North, one had to expect to face a drawn sword at any time, but at least one did not have to fear having a dagger thrust into one's back in the dark of night. Lyanna's letters, in which she told him about many of the things going on in Storm's End alone, were testimony to that. He was sure, though, that she did not even tell him half of what was really going on. What went on behind the scenes at other courts, not to mention the royal court, Ned preferred not to imagine. No, he didn't like the idea at all, even if he couldn't help but acknowledge that Jon was right about it, just as his father had been right back then. The North was a part of the realm after all, and if one did not want to stand alone in dire times, without friends and allies, then one needed just that, friends and allies.

"Do you think he will do it?" Ned then asked.

"Who will do what?"

"Will the king agree to it, to the betrothal, I mean. It is strange that neither Prince Aegon nor Princess Rhaenys have yet been betrothed, much less wed."

"If the King had wanted Lady Margaery for his son, it would have happened years ago. Yes, it is strange that the prince and princess are not yet betrothed. But I don't know the king well enough to pass judgment on that. What do you think, Robert? You know His Grace better than we do."

"Huh? What do I think about what?" he asked, as Jon's question brought his attention back from the voluptuous forms of a young lady some rows to their left.

"What do you think about Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys both not being betrothed yet?" asked Ned.

Another loud crash and the frenetic cheering of the crowds around them kept Robert from answering immediately. Ned looked down into the arena. Both knights had broken their lances on the other, both still sitting in their saddles. Ser Barristan, however, let his shield arm hang down limply, apparently in pain.

"I don't know. I once offered Rhaegar my Jon for his Rhaenys a few years ago, but he refused. Said something about not being the right time for such decisions. No idea what that was supposed to mean. He probably wants to marry them to each other, but is afraid his wife will eat him alive if he does. Elia looks frail, but believe me, she can become a force of nature if she wants to," he said with a laugh.

Ned and Jon both said nothing more about it, instead looking down into the arena together and seeing the joust first end in a draw due to Ser Barristan's injury, but then Ser Barristan withdrawing and granting Ser Loras the victory. Dismounting and then standing before the box of the king, both knights knelt before rising again after a sign from King Rhaegar, and Ser Loras, recognizing Ser Barristan's honorable withdrawal, raised his opponent's arm in the air in victory pose. Once again, loud cheers erupted. Ned briefly pondered Robert's words while he watched King Rhaegar taking his seat again. The Targaryen tradition of marrying brother to sister was something the royal family had brought with them from old Valyria centuries ago and had never abandoned. Ned supposed that when it came to keeping the bloodline pure, the blood of old Valyria that allowed them to tame and ride their dragons, it was a reasonable choice to do so. Still, the thought alone sent a shiver down his spine. Even the idea of having to marry his Robb to his Sansa with one another, for whatever reason, made his bowels twist and turn. How Queen Elia must feel about this, if it was indeed true, Ned didn't want to imagine.

"Now it's time," Robert said, excited as a little boy.

The herald, a short, chubby man in fiery red attire, did indeed step forward again and, after another short blast from a horn, announced the next contestants. Pages, nimble as mice, ran back and forth, hastily exchanging the hung banners of the last contestants, the plain white of the Kingsguard and the golden rose on green of Highgarden, for the coats of arms of the next contestants.

"In the name of His Grace, King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the First of His Name," the herald began to call out in a deep, firm voice, "Beric Dondarrion, the Lord of Blackhaven, will compete in the most noble discipline of the jousting against Jon Baratheon, the heir to Storm's End. May the Father give them strength and may the Mother protect them. Love live the king."

"Long live the king," a large part of the crowd repeated in chorus.

To the cheers of the people, Lord Beric rode into the arena to their right. The Lightning Lord, as he was called because of the coat of arms of his family, rode a wonderful black courser, wearing a black cloak with white stars over a suit of armor made of plain black steel. The only decoration on his armor was a forked purple lightning bolt on his breastplate, which could also be found on his shield. The cheers of the people grew even louder, especially the calls of the young women and ladies in the stands, as Jon rode into the arena from the other side. Ned looked to the left, from where his nephew would come.

He saw Jon riding into the arena on a proud black palfrey, his back as straight as a spear, but what immediately caught his eye was not the noble horse, but his nephew's suit of armor. It was almost shining in the sun, yellow and black, in the colors of the Baratheons, and the helmet was adorned with sweeping stag antlers covered in gold. None of this was surprising. However, Ned's breath almost stopped when he saw the rest of the armor's adornments and realized what they were supposed to represent. The helmet, despite the antlers, was shaped like the head of a wolf, and the armor itself was covered all over with grey and black scales that looked like the fur of a wolf. Ned heard Robert's barking laughter beside him, felt him pat him on the shoulder and say something about pride and finally having united their families.

Ned couldn't answer, couldn't find any words for what he saw and felt, could only sit and smile and watch as Jon rode into position and try not to let too clearly show how his chest was swollen with pride. Again, Ned realized how proud he was to call Jon his nephew. Lord Beric rode to the stands and asked Allyria Danye for her favor, which she, unsurprisingly, granted him, given that she was his betrothed. Jon remained in position, making no move to ride to the stands and ask anyone for her favor, but that didn't really surprise Ned. Robert, on the other hand, apparently was surprised.

"What's that boy doing? Surely he must be asking a girl for her favor! It's now or never."

"Then I guess it's never," Ned said, amused at his friend's lack of understanding. "Jon and I have already talked it over."

"Have you talked him out of it, Ned?" asked Robert, aghast. "Gods damn you, you and your honor."

"Don't talk like that, Robert," Jon Arryn admonished him.

"But it is true. My son could have asked every maiden in the realm for her favor and he would have gotten it. Instead, he just sits there on his nag as if he doesn't know what he's doing there in the first place. If I were that young again and down there now, I'd wear a dozen favors on each arm already. That much is certain."

"He doesn't do it because he's afraid Lyanna will make whoever he asks his betrothed right away," Ned said with a smile.

Robert looked at him for a moment, but then burst into uproarious laughter. Before either of them could say anything more about it, however, the signal to begin already sounded. Both riders gave their horses the spurs, immediately thundering towards each other. Lord Beric's horse was bigger, stronger, more massive, while Jon's horse was faster and more agile, picking up speed more quickly. Jon lowered his lance just as he whizzed past their seats. Only a heartbeat later, the loud crash echoed through the arena as their lances met each other's shields.

Both lances had been broken, yet both riders were still in their saddles. The cheering in the arena grew louder and louder still when Jon, on his way back to the starting position, raised his hand toward the stands and waved. Apparently each young lady thought she must be meant exactly. Both were given new lances and both got back into position. Again the horn signal sounded, again both thundered off on their horses. Jon's horse seemed to shy a little half a heartbeat before the crash, losing its track, and Ned could see that Jon was having trouble getting his lance into its final thrusting position at the last moment. He made it, but it was no use. As the crash of wood on steel rippled through the arena like a wave, Lord Beric's lance was broken, Jon's lance was still in one piece. Still both were firmly in the saddle, but now Jon was one point behind the Lightning Lord. For a brief moment, Ned thought he could even hear Jon's cursing through the visor of his helmet, but of course that was impossible at this distance and in this massive, loudly cheering arena. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a growl and at first thought it was a storm coming, but then, after a short look into the clear skies, recognized it as the distant roar of one of the dragons.

I'd rather have a thunderstorm, he thought, preferring to turn his attention back to Jon.

His nephew had meanwhile resumed his position and was waiting for the signal, while Lord Beric had his third lance given to him. It was only the group stage of the joust, so even if Jon lost here, he could still move on to the next round by winning his next jousts after that. Still, Ned rooted for his nephew, of course, hoping that he would make it after all. In this third round, he had to score. If he broke his lance on Lord Beric's shield without the latter being able to break his own lance, it would be a draw and they would be allowed one more lance. If he broke his lance on Lord Beric's helmet, he would even get two points for it and would have won, unless Lord Beric managed to do the same. However, such hits were extremely difficult to accomplish. Of course, it would be best if he simply knocked Lord Beric out of the saddle, but the Lightning Lord had sat so firmly in the saddle for the two lances so far, as if he had grown together with his horse.

"Come on, son," he heard Robert call from the side.

Ned remained silent, but could hardly stay in his seat with excitement. He had never cared much for tourneys, but sitting here now, in this arena, surrounded by thousands of cheering people, with his nephew about to ride his third and possibly decisive lance in this joust, he just had to be excited, had to be cheering along. The horn sounded again and immediately the riders sped off on their horses. They rushed toward each other with thundering hooves. Both lowered their lances just as Jon scurried past Ned and Robert and Jon Arryn. Ned now rose as well, coming to stand next to Robert, unable to remain seated with excitement.

Ned could see Jon turn his upper body slightly to the side at the last moment, elegant as a dancer, jerking his lance upward, much too high really for a powerful thrust. Both lances found their target, black wood crossed in the middle of the track, colliding with steel. The crash echoed through the arena like a thunderclap. One of the lances literally exploded in a cloud of splinters and fragments, the other slid ineffectively off the steel, flying out of the rider's hand in one piece in a high arc. Cheers erupted as, only half a heartbeat later, everyone realized what had just happened. Lord Beric had hit Jon's shield in the middle, but by turning his body Jon had managed to let the lance slide off. Jon had raised his lance at the last moment, attempting the almost impossible blow, and had been able to break his lance on Lord Beric's helmet!

"Yes! Yes, that's my boy!" Robert began to yell, turning to Ned and forcing him into a strong hug. "That's my boy," he said again, laughing loudly, "no matter if he looks like you, Ned. That's my boy!"

They all, even Jon Arryn, enjoyed another round of chilled wine as Jon rode first one, then two victory laps around the arena. Ned glanced up briefly at the royal box, recognizing Arya standing clapping and cheering next to a widely smiling Princess Rhaenys, applauding a well, although in a clearly more restrained manner.

"Sons, I'm tired," Jon Arryn said after Jon had finally left the arena, "I've had enough for today. I will return to the Red Keep and try to get some rest."

"Already? It's so early."

"Robert, when you're my age someday, you'll understand."

"Shall I accompany you?" Ned asked.

"No, please don't. I've got a couple of soldiers and a horse waiting for me at the exit of the arena. I'll be all right. You stay a while longer and enjoy the tourney. You clearly don't get to see enough of the good life up in the North," Jon said, smiling toothlessly at him. Ned nodded and sat down again. Instead, Robert now stood up.

"Let me at least walk you to the exit. Then I can get something to drink for Ned and me while I'm at it. I mean some of the good stuff, not that horse piss they're pouring out here."

Moments later, the two had already disappeared and Ned was left alone to watch the next joust, as alone as one could be in such an arena filled to capacity. Ser Meryn Trant would compete in the joust against Ser Sandor Clegane. It was a short lived affair. In the first round only Ser Sandor broke his lance on Ser Meryn's shield, in the second Ser Sandor knocked him out of the saddle with a massive thrust without Ser Meryn's lance even touching his opponent. Ned already considered leaving. He wouldn't have to worry about Arya, as it seemed, but he wasn't really having fun here alone either. Robert was not to be seen far and wide and Ned did not even want to think about who or what was delaying him now again. Ned was just about to get up and leave the arena after all - some rest and perhaps something to eat in the Red Keep would certainly do him good as well - when a man sat down next to him.

Ned looked at him, unsure what to make of it. The man was short and slender in stature. He had dark hair with threads of gray in it and a small, pointed beard on his chin. He was dressed in expensive clothes made of precious fabrics, obviously a man who had made a fortune and wished to show it. The man wore a slashed doublet of velvet in the color of overripe plums with a mockingbird embroidered with silver thread on the chest, along with pants of black silk, with decorative stitching in shades of cream. The man looked at him, with shining eyes green like that of a cat and smiling kindly.

"I have hoped to meet you for some years, Lord Stark. No doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me to you," the man said in a silky smooth voice.

Petyr Baelish, it flashed through his mind. That must be him.

"She has," he said with a chill in his voice. The sly arrogance of the comment rankled him. Still, Ned immediately scolded himself for his tone. This man had been there when Brandon had died, had tended him, had tried everything humanly possible to save his life, and, not least, had comforted Catelyn in her grief. He owed the man gratitude, not coldness. "I understand you knew my brother Brandon as well."

"Indeed," Lord Baelish said. "It was a tragedy to see him leave this world so soon."

"It was indeed. I... never got to thank you for what you did, Lord Baelish."

"Nor is that necessary, my lord. Your brother was a good man and did what I could when he needed me. It still pains me that he could not be saved. Anyone else in my situation would have acted the same way."

"I'm not so sure about that, Lord Baelish. So... I thank you. I owe you a debt of gratitude. Should you ever need anything from me, don't hesitate to ask."

Lord Baelish replied with a broad smile and a nod, then turned to the tourney field, where Ser Horas Redwyne and Harwin, a man from Winterfell's household guard, whom Ned had allowed to participate in the tourney, were just getting ready for their joust.

"I had hoped," Lord Baelish finally continued, "to find Lord Robert here."

"Robert is... not here," Ned said, feeling like an idiot.

He can see that for himself. Why would you say something like that?

"Well, it's probably better to talk to Lady Lyanna anyway. Your sister is the true ruler of Storm's End, as you no doubt know."

Littlefinger, it occurred to him. That was what Cat had always called him, a nickname her brother Edmure had given to the man when they had been no more than children. Whether because of his small stature or because he came from the smallest island of the Fingers, he did not know. He did know, though, that much Cat had told him, that he hated being called that. So Ned took it upon himself to make sure it didn't slip out by accident.

"I didn't know that," Ned said. He had already learned from Lyanna's letters that she took on many duties at Storm's End, including those that were supposed to be the lord's duties. However, that was all he knew.

"Lord Robert usually shows quite little interest in the daily tasks and duties of a Lord Paramount. The Stormlands are fortunate to have gotten such a dutiful and wise lady in your sister." Ned had already heard that the capital was full of fools and flatterers. He quickly realized to which Lord Baelish belonged. "Fortunately, your sister is here. So I can still talk to her today or maybe tomorrow. Had she actually stayed in Storm's End, it would have really complicated matters."

"In Storm's End? Why would Robert have wanted to leave Lyanna behind?"

"Oh no, please don't misunderstand me. Lord Robert was the one who persuaded your sister to come here in the first place. Lady Lyanna had been somewhat... hesitant and had originally preferred not to travel to King's Landing."

Why shouldn't Lyanna have wanted to go to King's Landing? Jon was here, Robert and her other sons Orys and Steffon were here, Arya and he himself were here... It didn't make sense. Perhaps Lord Baelish had misunderstood something. But before Ned could ask what it was all about, Lord Baelish began to speak again.

"You said earlier that I could ask you, should I ever need anything from you."

"Yes, of course," Ned said, hoping his surprise wasn't too obvious that Lord Baelish was so quick to ask him for something.

"Then be so good as to greet Lady Catelyn for me as soon as you are back in Winterfell. I have not seen so in so many years."

"I shall be glad to do so," said Ned, laughing.

Lord Baelish was a flatterer, smooth as an eel and with a voice far too soft for a man. Still, Ned found, maybe he wasn't that bad after all.

"In return, then, I will gladly greet your daughter for you."

"My daughter?"

"Yes, the Lady Sansa. I intend to return to the Vale of Arryn for some time soon, to visit some old friends. Certainly I will meet your daughter there. I am told she is the spitting image of her mother in her youth."

"That she is," Ned said proudly. "Catelyn herself says Sansa is even more beautiful than she ever was herself."

"Well, then, it will be my pleasure to soon see for myself."

For a while they sat there, silently watching Ser Horas and Harwin ride the third lance in a row by now, without any of them breaking. Harwin was clearly the better rider, but somehow failed to get enough force behind his lance to be a threat to Ser Horas. Ser Horas, on the other hand, seemed to be able to put considerable force into his lance, but was not good enough on horseback and thus failed to land a clean strike. The people in the ranks grew impatient and began to boo and whistle. Finally, the undignified spectacle was ended with a tie. Ned looked around, fervently hoping that Robert would finally return after all, but still found him nowhere.

"Tell me, my lord," Lord Baelish began. Ned had had enough of the man, gratitude or not, but did not want to send him away. He didn't want to be that rude after all. "Do you bet?"

"Bet?"

"Yes, bet. On the outcome of the tourney. You can bet on individual jousts and even how many lances a knight will need to unhorse his opponent."

"No, I don't bet."

"Too bad. You can learn a lot about a man by watching him, what kind of man he truly is, especially in such ordinary things as placing a bet. You are not a man who likes to trust his luck, it seems."

"I am not a man who likes to throw his coins out the window."

"I see."

"Do you bet, then?" Ned asked, although he was not really interested in the answer.

"Rarely. Only when Lord Merryweather is around."

"Old King Aerys's Hand? What does Lord Merryweather have to do with it? Does he lend you the coins for it?"

"Oh, not at all, my lord. If anything, it's the other way around. I have only made a habit of always betting on the opposite of what Lord Merryweather is betting on. He is an amiable man, but not very capable, if I may be so frank. He was not as a Hand of the King, and not in any other way. He is, however, an experienced loser."

"I see, thank you. I'll keep that in mind," Ned said, but inwardly decided otherwise.

The crowd in the arena erupted in resounding cheers that almost hurt Ned's ears as once again pages scurried through the arena, hanging up the coats of arms of the next contestants. Once again the herald stepped forward.

"In the name of His Grace, King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the First of His Name," the herald began. "Aegon Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone, will compete in the most noble-"

The rest of his words were lost in the storm of cheers and shouts as Crown Prince Aegon rode into the arena on his night black steed in his equally night black suit of armor. Colored bands of red and orange and yellow were tied to his armor and to the saddle and harness of his horse and were shone through by the bright sun, making him appear as if he were entirely on fire. On his shield was the royal coat of arms, the red, three-headed dragon, as well as on the breastplate of his armor, and on his helmet was a figure of this same dragon, almost a foot high and with its wings spread to either side, ready to attack.

Prince Aegon rode one, two, then three quick laps around the arena, waving to the cheering people in the stands. Ned looked up to the royal box, where the royal family had now also risen from their seats to greet the prince with applause and radiant smiles. It did not escape Ned's notice how Princess Rhaenys, whenever Prince Aegon rode past the royal box, seemed to blow her brother a gentle kiss each time.

On the other side, Ser Robar Royce had now also ridden into the arena, wearing a suit of silvered steel armor with his family's coat of arms on the chest, filigreed in bronze with inscribed runes and a brown cloak with runes embroidered in black and white around the edges. He refrained from riding a few laps around the arena, however. Compared to Prince Aegon, the applause would certainly have been audibly more restrained, and so the young man probably preferred to spare himself this. A good decision, as Ned found. Ser Robar did not miss the opportunity to be the first to leave his position and ride to the stands to ask his young lady for her favor, however. Ned saw a pretty girl with brown hair in a dark blue dress tie an equally dark blue ribbon around Ser Robar's wrist before he rode back to his position. Ned did not recognize the girl, though. Then Prince Aegon rode forward, straight toward the royal box.

Princess Rhaenys stepped forward, smiling and as radiant as the sun itself, as she tied a silken ribbon of bright red around her brother's hand and breathed a soft kiss on it before the prince, smiling just as radiantly, closed the visor of his helmet and rode back into position as well. Maybe there really was something to what Robert had said and the prince and princess were to be wed to each other. Both of them, if that was the idea, certainly did not look unhappy about it at all. Ned was just watching Prince Aegon being handed his lance when he heard a voice beside him.

"Lord Stark, please excuse the interruption," he heard a man say. Ned looked to the side to find a servant from the Red Keep beside him, dressed head to toe in red attire with a golden dragon on his chest. At first he thought it was the young man named Harrin again, who had escorted them to their chambers when they had arrived. He quickly realized, however, that it was not Harrin. The man was older, with only a pale ring of blond hair left around his head, and was at least a head shorter than Harrin. Undoubtedly, he still had to hold a high rank among the servants, since, apart from Harrin, he was only the second servant with a golden dragon on his chest that he had seen so far.

"What is it?" asked Ned.

"You are requested to hold yourself at the king's disposal this evening, my lord. His Grace expects your presence at an important meeting."

"My presence? When and where? And what is this meeting?"

"I am afraid I have not been informed of that, my lord."

"And how then am I to know when to be where?"

"You will be summoned in time, my lord. His Grace just wanted to make sure you were informed and at his disposal tonight."

The servant bowed deeply before turning and hurrying away without another word. Ned wanted to shout something after him, wanted to ask more questions, but whatever he could have shouted would have been swallowed up by the rising cheer as the signal horn was blown and Prince Aegon and Ser Robar began racing toward each other with thundering hooves.

Chapter Text

The time had come. Finally. One day, many centuries or perhaps even millennia from now, this evening might be written about, sung about, and scholars would rack their heavy heads over what might have been going on in his own head or heart at that moment. This was a historic evening, he knew. Yet Rhaegar did not feel historic at all. All he wanted to do was turn around, take his harp and play it all evening until his fingers hurt, somehow hoping that this evening would end well without him. That was silly, of course. He had planned this evening, had summoned the men here and, not least, had arranged this gigantic, excessive tourney in order to bring together this group of men that he was now about to face in the first place. Turning around and going away were thus only things that weren't possible for him now.

The soldiers beside the wide door indicated a short bow as they opened the door for him and Rhaegar strode through. At his command, the Queen's Ballroom had been refurnished for the occasion. Tables and chairs had been brought in, forming something roughly resembling a large circle, so that he could speak equally to each of his guests and they to him. The only sign of his elevated rank as king was the chair he had had brought for himself from his solar, as large as a throne and with dragon heads carved into the backs of the chair. Actually, the room with its precious ornaments and all the pomp and splendor did not seem suitable for such a serious occasion to him at all, yet there were no other rooms of comparable size with comparably few entrances - the Queen's Ballroom had only three doors after all - allowing the room and its guests to be so alone and so well secured tonight in the Red Keep, let alone Maegor's Holdfast. Immediately, the herald who had been waiting for him on the other side, announced his arrival.

"His Grace, King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Immediately all those present rose from their seats. Rhaegar walked around the large circle of tables and chairs, noting to his satisfaction not only that all the lords whose presence he had requested were actually present, but that there had indeed been no wine or ale served, only water. No doubt some of those present had already complained about this, above all presumably his cousin Robert, but they needed a clear head for the things that would be discussed tonight. He would certainly survive a few hours without wine. He walked toward his seat, followed by four of his Kingsguard knights, Ser Gerold, Ser Arthur, Prince Lewyn, and Ser Jaime. Of course, four of the white knights were not necessary in this setting, but towering behind him and his wooden throne they would still make an impression.

"A king must always and for everyone visibly have the appearance of a king. A king who does not look like a king invites people to oppose him. You must not allow that, my son. Make sure that you are always seen as a king, and half of all thoughts of rebellion will be gone with just one look at you, without you ever having to draw your sword," his mother had once told him when he was still half a boy. He had never forgotten her words. He would give all his riches to have her here now, by his side, providing him with her council.

Rhaegar wordlessly sat down on his chair, his throne, and nodded into the round, whereupon the lords present took their seats again as well. He looked into the round, into the questioning faces of the men before him. The heads of the Great Houses were assembled, as were the Lords Paramount and representatives of the most influential families in the realm. Robert and Renly Baratheon, Edmure Tully, his master-of-whisperers Oberyn Martell, Tywin and Kevan Lannister, Eddard Stark, Owen Merryweather, his father's old Hand until Rhaegar had replaced him with his confidant Jon Connington less than a year after his father's death, Wylis Manderly, his master-of-coin Mace Tyrell and his son and heir Willas, Baelor Hightower, Roland and Tybolt Crakehall, Jon and Elbert Arryn, Marq and Gerold Grafton, Jonos Bracken, Anders Yronwood, Paxter Redwyne, Mathis Rowan, his master-of-ships Monford Velaryon, Leo Lefford, Yohn Royce, Alavin Darry, Alester Florent, Randyll and Dickon Tarly, Lewys and Lorgan Lydden, Quenten Banefort and Gulian and Donnel Swann had appeared. In addition, he had called upon the members of his Small Council who were not already part of this selected group, seated directly to his right and left. His Hand Jon Connington, Grand Maester Pycelle, Wisdom Rossart of the Alchemists' Guild as well as his master-of-laws Stannis Baratheon. Ser Gerold, being the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, now also took his seat a little to Rhaegar's right. Actually, he had wanted neither Rossart nor Pycelle here, but if he invited Jon and Gerold because they were members of the Small Council, then to his regret he had had to invite the entire Small Council. Every seat was taken. Eight and seventy eyes were looking at him, waiting for him to finally do or say something, to explain to them why he had called them together in this round. Well, seven and seventy eyes, since Lorgan Lydden had lost an eye in a duel with a petty hedge knight a few years ago.

Two times seven. Maybe the Seven are with me tonight. Maybe this is a good omen, even if Lady Melisandre would probably disagree, Rhaegar thought, before he cleared his throat softly one last time and then started to speak.

"My lords, I thank you all for your presence. I am aware that the invitation to this meeting, this council, if you will, came as a surprise to all of you. However, I can assure you, my lords, that the reason for this council is so urgent that there was no alternative."

Rhaegar was silent for a moment, waiting to see if one of the lords would say something, ask something, or perhaps even contradict him already. He looked into the faces of the men before him in turn. Some, like his cousin Robert, looked impatient, seemingly almost unable to wait to finally leave this room again. Others, like Lord Stark, seemed unsettled by what was to come or simply by the situation they found themselves in. Still others, like Lords Lefford and Swann, just stared blankly at him, seemingly nothing going on in their minds at all. At last, his eyes fell on Tywin Lannister. He was the man he had to convince. They all before him were powerful men, pillars of the realm, not least of his own power, whom he might or might not convince. But Tywin Lannister, the Old Lion of the Rock, he had to convince. Others, like the Lords Tyrell or Redwyne or Yronwood, might not believe what he had to tell them at the end of this council, but would still obey his orders. Lord Lannister, however, would defy him, perhaps not publicly by refusing his orders, whatever they might be in the end, but he would, if Rhaegar failed to convince him, defy him one way or another. Something that would then only encourage more men, lords and knights, to try something similar.

"I will choose my next words very carefully," he finally continued when the silence had already lasted too long, "so that you can be sure, my lords, that what I am about to tell you is meant seriously. As serious as it can be. A threat is approaching the realm. A threat that we cannot ignore, a threat that will destroy the realm, its people, and all of us, if we do not confront it with all our might and resolve."

"What is this threat?" barked Robert Baratheon. "Are the Blackfyres back?"

"Impossible," said Lord Rowan. "The Blackfyres are extinct. Maelys the Monstrous was the last of their treacherous line, and he died over forty years ago."

"Let them come. We'll drive them back into the sea if they dare set foot on our shores," Robert barked again, completely ignoring Lord Rowan as well as reality.

"It can't be pirates, either," Lord Monford said. "Sure, their numbers have grown a bit of late, but they're hardly a real threat to the realm. Should we be expecting a rebellion?"

"Who is supposed to rise in rebellion?" Prince Oberyn asked. "The rulers of all parts of the Seven Kingdoms are gathered here, along with many of their most powerful bannermen. No one not in this room could gather enough forces to be a threat to the crown."

Numerous smaller and larger conversations between two, three or four men had developed by now, each of them exchanging theories and ideas about what this threat to the realm might be all about. The dead silence had turned into a hopeless confusion of loud and quiet talking, mumbling and whispering.

"So what is it then?" asked Lord Alester to the group, with whom no one seemed to have wanted a conversation in private so far.

"Perhaps," Lord Tywin now said, all at once silencing the conversations around him, "we should just let His Grace continue speaking. I'm sure the king will then let us know what this threat to the realm is all about."

It took only a few more heartbeats for Lord Tywin's voice to silence the last of the men who were talking wildly among themselves. Rhaegar again looked silently into the round for a moment and hinted at a short nod in Lord Tywin's direction before he began to speak again.

Silencing the men would have been Jon's responsibility, Rhaegar thought. Perhaps, after Owen Meryweather, I should have offered this position to Lord Tywin again. But would he have accepted? Probably not. No, making Jon my Hand was the right thing to do. Jon is a good Hand, true and dutiful. And the last thing I would have needed after my coronation would have been to be rejected by one of the most powerful lords of the realm.

His eyes lingered a moment longer on the Lord of Casterly Rock. The man was as unreadable as ever, his face as hard and straight as if hewn from stone. The man's eyes, pale green like fresh leaves and yet cold as ice, were not directed at Rhaegar though, as he noticed, but at Ser Jaime, who had taken up position behind him. Rhaegar was not sure if this was a good thing and inwardly scolded himself for bringing Ser Jaime, of all people, here as one of his white knights. The last thing he needed was to turn Lord Tywin against him by rubbing his nose in the fact that he had lost his heir to House Targaryen.

Rhaegar took a few deep breaths, had to pull himself together not to clear his throat hearably. A sign of insecurity, a sign of weakness. Something he could not allow himself here and now. Then he rose from his chair and straightened himself to full height, hoping that it would give him a sufficiently imposing appearance. He wished Elia were here now to give him strength, or Myles or Richard, his friends. But they were not here, could not be here, at such a gathering.

Why can't I just be somewhere else, he thought.

He would give anything to be back in Summerhall right now, his favorite place in the whole world. Just for a few nights, perhaps, just him and his harp with the silver strings. It had been too long since he had been there, too long since he had felt the somehow strangely liberating heaviness and melancholy of the place. It was impossible to understand, even for himself, that this place, of all places, the place of his birth where the Tragedy of Summerhall had almost wiped out his entire family, was his favorite place. No one had ever been able to understand that, not his mother, not his friends Arthur or Jon or Myles or Richard, not Elia, not even he himself. Yet so it was. The place seemed to crush him whenever he was there. The dead seemed to look down on him, wanting to punish him for his very existence that had begun in that place. Yet there was no place in the world where Rhaegar felt as free, as himself, as he did in Summerhall. It was indeed strange.

More than once he had thought about leaving behind his fascination with prophecies and visions of the future, forcing himself to forget them and just live his life. Summerhall was the best proof of what could happen when a Targaryen became too attached to such things but misunderstood them. If only they had known back then, if only his great-grandfather Aegon V had known that the dragons would one day return to the world on their own. Well... almost on their own. So much death and destruction, so much suffering could have been prevented.

But what had happened, had happened, and there was nothing, least of all his own grief, that could undo things of the past. In the end, it had been a good thing that Rhaegar had not put down his work on prophecies and interpreting the future and left it behind. It had brought dragons back into the world, and now that the War of the Dawn was looming on the horizon, it had allowed them to prepare for it in the first place. No, it was right the way as it had happened. The gods had decided and so things had come as they had been destined to.

"The threat," he finally began, "is not the Blackfyres or pirates or a rebellion. The threat I speak of, my lords, is of an entirely different nature. There are two things I intend to prepare the realm for which, if ignored, may in themselves already spell our doom. I will not let it come to that, however. This first of these threats is the coming of winter."

"Winter? It's the middle of summer. Shouldn't there be an autumn before a winter?" asked Robert, laughing out loudly. Renly Baratheon, as well as several other men, began to join in after a moment's hesitation.

No, stop it. You are not supposed to laugh.

"That is true, my lord. However, I have been in close contact with the Citadel for a while now, and it looks like after this unusually long summer, we are in for an even longer, even harsher winter that will be upon us very soon. A winter so dire that it is likely to depopulate whole regions and thus threaten the very foundation of the realm."

"Your Grace," he heard Grand Maester Pycelle speak from the side. He had hoped that the old man had long since fallen asleep by this time, as he was always known to do during meetings of the Small Council, but to his chagrin he sadly was not. "I am in close contact with the Citadel myself and I have not heard of any-"

"Thank you, Grand Maester," Rhaegar said quickly, before the old man could make his lie obvious. "I don't think you need to repeat the disturbing information from the Citadel in detail."

"But Your Grace-"

"Thank you, Grand Maester," Rhaegar said, finally silencing the old man with a glance. "As the Starks say, winter is coming. Don't you, Lord Stark?"

"Indeed, Your Grace," said Eddard Stark, who also still seemed unconvinced by the whole affair, but refrained from objecting.

"I therefore plan to prepare the realm extensively for this winter, to invest large sums of coin to acquire needed supplies on a scale that will allow us to keep the people of the realm alive and ensure the stability of the Seven Kingdoms beyond the end of this coming winter. The Crown will immediately provide three million gold dragons to purchase the appropriate supplies in Essos with as many ships as are needed."

He heard some of the lords suck in their breath audibly at the sum he had just mentioned. Again he had to pull himself together, this time not to grin all over his face.

Good. I want them to know that I'm serious about this. Let them be shocked. That way it doesn't matter if they believe my story of the coming winter or not. With so much gold involved, none of them will want to stay out of it.

Mace Tyrell, his master-of-coin, turned as red as an overripe apple while all color drained from the face of his son. They almost looked silly sitting next to each other like that, one flaming red and the other pale as milk. Next to him, he felt Jon Connington tense up. He had actually wanted to let his Hand, one of his oldest friends, in on his plan beforehand, but had refrained from it. Jon was loyal to him to a fault, of that Rhaegar had no doubt. But as faithfully as he carried out his every order, he knew that Jon held no particular love for Rhaegar's devotion to everything that had to do with prophecy and the far future. He had therefore decided to inform Jon, as well as the other members of his Small Council, not until here and now, and to gain their support along with the support of the other lords of the realm.

Maybe I should have informed him after all. I should talk to him about it later.

"I plan to use this amount of gold to purchase and distribute throughout the realm, as necessary, all kinds of supplies that we will need for such a long and harsh winter. Clothing and furs, firewood and lumber, large quantities of food and seeds of course, tools and weapons, as well as everyday items such as candles, wax, wicks and lamp oil. I assume that all of you, my lords, understand the seriousness of my words and will contribute accordingly."

Again, wild murmuring broke out among the lords. Here and there he could hear a few scraps of words. Some seemed to agree with him eagerly while others, though decidedly quieter, seemed to disagree with him just as eagerly. He looked over at Lord Stark, who seemed to be engaged in conversation with Wylis Manderly and Marq Grafton. He had never seen a man so obviously uncomfortable in his own skin as his Warden of the North. This was not surprising. Lord Stark knew nothing of the winter that was supposedly coming so quickly, but it would be his lands, his bannermen, and his peasants who would be hit first and certainly hardest by this winter.

For a brief moment, Rhaegar felt bad about lying to these men on whose loyalty and support he, and in the end all of humanity, would depend. On the other hand, it was not a complete lie. Thoros of Myr, Lady Melisandre of Asshai as well as Moqorro and Benerro, the High Priest of R'hllor in Volantis, had seen it in the flames. Death and ice and a great cold were coming, a cold that would bury first the realm and then the entire world, stifling every life in agony, if they did not manage to prevail in the coming War of the Dawn.

"Your Grace," Tywin Lannister began to speak again, and once more his voice alone silenced the other men one by one, "you said that you intend to prepare the realm for two threats. This... winter is one of these threats. What exactly is the other?"

"Thank you for asking, Lord Lannister," Rhaegar said. Now came the hard part. If the lords before him had somehow believed his story of a completely unexpectedly coming, particularly harsh winter, it would now come down to convincing them of something entirely different. For a long time before this meeting, he had wrestled with how he could make them understand what was coming, but had not found an answer. Again and again, no matter what words he had prepared, he had come to the same place as before.

If I were one of the men before me, I would not believe a single word myself when I would hear about the Great Other and the War of the Dawn.

How on earth was he to convince these men to call the banners and march with man and mouse north to the Wall? He had entrusted himself to Elia, had spoken to her and asked her for advice. At first she had not wanted to talk to him at all, since the matter with their children was still simmering between them, but then she had come to him, listened to his problem, thought about it, and presented him with a solution. It didn't matter how angry she was with him, if he asked Elia for help, she was there.

I don't deserve such a woman, Rhaegar thought.

In the end, the solution she had presented to him had been as simple as it was ingenious.

"Tell them about the Others, and they'll just laugh at you. Maybe they won't laugh in your face, but they will laugh. Then you might as well tell them that snarks and grumkins are threatening to overrun the realm to chew off their toenails while they sleep. Stories like that won't get anyone to send so much as a single soldier north," she had said.

"But it's the truth," Rhaegar had protested.

"Maybe, but they won't believe you."

"And why not?"

"Because I'm your wife, and even I don't believe you, Rhaegar. In the eyes of these men, these are fairy tales, and you'll only make a fool of yourself if you start talking of any of this. You won't get anywhere with your obsession with prophecies, you won't get anywhere with a sermon from the red priestess, and you definitely won't get anywhere with the drunken ramblings of Thoros. If you want the lords to listen to you and follow your orders, give them a threat they can take seriously."

At first, Rhaegar had been startled that Elia even knew about Lady Melisandre. After a moment, however, the shock had passed as quickly as it had come. There had never been anything that he had been able to hide from his Elia, and to think that he would be able to hide a whole flock of red priests from her within the walls of the Red Keep had been downright childish. Her words, however, had impressed him in their clarity. And of course she had been right. He could not convince these men with ancient prophecies or visions in flames. It was mainly for this reason that, against the vehement protest of the red priests, he had not admitted any of them to this council. The threat he had to tell these men about and because of which he had to win their support had to be concrete, tangible, worldly.

"The second threat, the perhaps even greater threat from which we must all work together to protect the realm, comes from beyond the Wall," Rhaegar finally said. The backs of all the northeners in the room were instantly straight as spears, their eyes wide. "I've exchanged many ravens with the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch over the past few months, and apparently there's a new King beyond the Wall who has united the wildlings and is now marching south."

"Then surely it should be the responsibility of the Warden of the North to protect the realm from this threat," said Roland Crakehall. "So why hasn't the North prepared for this yet?"

"I… have heard nothing of a new King beyond the Wall," said Lord Stark, visibly unsettled.

"Certainly not. Lord Commander Mormont and I have agreed to keep this a secret until further notice, so as not to cause a panic in the realm," Rhaegar said, offering an explanation that Lord Stark did not seem to believe, but which, at least for the moment, relieved him of the guilt of having been indolent and therefore accepted it.

"Still, Ser Roland is right," Lord Tywin said. "It is the duty of the Night's Watch and the Warden of the North to defend the realm against the wildlings, Your Grace. Why should we have to take responsibility for this now?"

"You are right, my lord," said Rhaegar. "However, this threat is too great and too enormous to be placed solely on the shoulders of Lord Stark."

"I do wonder then how great this threat is, specifically?"

"This new King Beyond the Wall, from what Lord Commander Mormont has told me, has so far gathered at least two hundred thousand wildlings under his command and the numbers grow by the day."

This indeed had an effect. Most of the men seemed speechless, frozen with shock. Rhaegar had originally wanted to speak of more than four hundred thousand men, but Elia had urged him to be careful with that. The number had to be huge, but not too huge to seem unbelievable. Two hundred thousand wildlings was already an almost unimaginable number, but assuming how vast and virtually unexplored the lands beyond the Wall were, always winter or not, this was a number that could still be believed.

Rhaegar tried to look over at Lord Tywin as unobtrusively as possible. He saw that the man looked at him, searching and at the same time rigid and immobile like a statue, but said nothing. He recognized the doubt in the man's eyes, though. Tywin Lannister was many things, but a fool he certainly was not. Rhaegar had not the slightest doubt that Lord Tywin had seen through this tale of his from the first word on. Of course, he could not possibly know what was really going on, what this threat actually was, but Rhaegar had no doubt that the man knew for a fact that it was neither a sudden onset of winter nor an army of wildlings of unprecedented size. That the man said nothing, however, was good in this case. He thus encouraged none of the other lords to speak against him, and at least until he thought he knew enough, he would obey his orders like all the others.

"Such a force-," Lord Stark began, but was immediately interrupted by Owen Merryweather.

"Is probably composed largely of the old, women, and children. Not necessarily what I would consider a threat to the realm."

"The wildling women are fighting, too," Yohn Royce said.

"Pff, women with weapons," Lord Yronwood snorted, waving his hand dismissively. "Are you afraid of a few wenches, Royce?"

"Let's see if you'll still be talking big when a few thousand of those wenches have made it over the Wall and one of them slits your throat in your sleep at night, Yronwood."

"Do we know when this force will attack?" Lord Rowan asked. "I mean, to call the banners throughout the entire realm, not to mention marching the armies north to the Wall, will certainly take several months."

"We don't know exactly," Rhaegar said. "But we can hope to have enough time if we act quickly. The wildlings are just that, wild, chaotic, disorganized. So they won't be able to begin a coordinated attack on the Wall all that soon. But don't let that fool you, my lords, the attack will come and we would do well to prepare for it."

"Is not every man on a wall worth ten men on the ground?" asked Lorgan Lydden. "Surely that ought to be even more true of a wall as great as that one."

"So it is said, yes," Lord Stark continued, "but even the highest wall is of no use if it cannot be properly defended. Such a force, no matter to what parts it is made up of men or women, could never be fought back by the Night's Watch. The black brothers have to protect a wall that stretches from one coast to the other, but they have only a few thousand men left, spread over a handful of fortresses in such a bad shape that they hardly deserve the name anymore."

"As you see, my lords," Rhaegar finally continued, now himself bringing the excited chatter to a halt that had arisen among the men, "this is a threat we must face together to protect the realm. An army of wildlings of this size cannot possibly be fought back by the Night's Watch alone, not even with the help of all the armies of the North. I have therefore decided-"

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Lord Tarly said suddenly, interrupting him. Rhaegar looked over at him and considered scolding him for a moment for this behavior, but then left it at that. Randyll Tarly was one of the best soldiers in the Reach, probably in the entire realm. He was a hard, unyielding man who, that much was clear, possessed no particular love for courtly etiquette, but was as steadfast as a rock in his loyalty to the crown. This was one of the few men who would be able to make a difference at the decisive moment, one of the few men who he truly needed on his side to lead his armies in the war to come. Rhaegar therefore decided to let the man get away with this little impertinence and allow him to speak.

"Please speak, my lord."

"Thank you very much, Your Grace. I would never dare to doubt your words, Your Grace, but... how do we know that all this is true? The Night's Watch has been whining for as long as I can remember that it has too few men, too little supplies, too few weapons, too few coins. All this may even be true, and no more than your word, Your Grace, I wish to doubt the word of Lord Commander Mormont, but... is there any proof of this gigantic wildling army apart from a few letters?"

"The Night's Watch has been reporting a disturbingly large number of rangers being lost beyond the Wall for some time already," Lord Stark said.

"Maybe they're just deserters?"

"Some of them, maybe, but by no means this many."

"It may be that there is something going on, but that is still no evidence of a threat of such proportions. So before you call the banners, Your Grace, we should get clarity on what is really going on beyond the Wall."

"So what do you propose, my lord?" asked Rhaegar.

"An expedition," said Lord Randyll. "A group of good men going to the lands beyond the Wall, accompanied by a few rangers from the Night's Watch, to see with their own eyes what is going on there. Men whose word we can trust. If these men then return and confirm the stories, we will immediately gather the armies, march north and drive those wildlings back into their wasteland where they belong. If not, His Grace can still talk in depth with the Lord Commander about these letters he's been sending for months."

The man was right. The idea was so obvious that Rhaegar wondered how he hadn't thought of it himself. They needed, for different reasons than these men thought but still, clarity about what awaited them, about what was coming. They would send men out, men these lords here would choose together with him, whose word they themselves could then no longer doubt. Certainly many wildlings would flee south from what was going on beyond the Wall. So encountering large masses of wildlings would certainly work out. And maybe, just maybe, they would even be able to get some insight into what was actually going on there. If they could find some proof, or even a credible hint, of the existence of the Others, that would be even better.

"That seems like a wise idea, my lord," Rhaegar finally agreed.

"Won't that lose us too much time?" asked Lord Tyrell. "Even if we agree here and now on men to send beyond the Wall, it will take weeks even by ship to get them there and certainly months to get them back from this expedition, depending on how far north they have to go. If this wildling army is already on its way south, those months could be crucial."

"It's true," Lord Hightower agreed. "The journey is long and we would have to wait months to get clarity."

"Not with a dragon," Rhaegar heard himself say. "By dragon, the journey to the Wall will take only two days, three at the most. If we give the men another two weeks for the expedition, then, including the return to Kings Landing, we would have an answer in no more three weeks. This way, we can even wait for the tourney to end so as not to attract unwanted attention."

No one spoke aloud, but the men seemed to agree throughout. Without exception, he saw satisfied faces and nodding heads.

"So it's settled then," Robert Baratheon said. "As soon as the tourney is over, we will send men to the lands beyond the Wall to get some answers. Don't worry, cousin, my son will definitely want to accompany yours. House Baratheon has always stood firmly at the side of its royal cousins and will also do so now."

Wait, what? My son? Does he think I'm seriously going to send Aegon there?

Of course, Aegon would have to fly the dragon that would help the men get north to the Wall in time, but the idea had not been to put his own son in danger. That would definitely not happen.

"Surely my son will join in this task as well," Lord Stark said. "I will compose a letter for him so that he will not be surprised when he is picked up by a dragon from Winterfell. I will make sure he understands that no one is to know about this until further notice, Your Grace."

"Doesn't there always have to be a Stark in Winterfell, Ned?" Robert asked with a laugh, as if they were talking about a pleasure trip through the Free Cities.

"Indeed. I will also send a letter to Riverrun to urge Ser Brynden to return to Winterfell with Bran as soon as possible. He's still young, but for a while, a few weeks, he can take my place."

"I'll go as well," Rhaegar heard someone say before he could contradict that Aegon would not join in this expedition, of course. Rhaegar glanced to the side and realized that it had been Ser Dickon, Randyll Tarly's son, who had volunteered and was now earning a weak nod and an even weaker smile from his father in return.

Other men came forward with the names of their sons or brothers or nephews, their best knight or confidants, or even their own, until practically everyone present had given one, two or even three names of men who would be part of this expedition. Grand Maester Pycelle did his best to scribble all the names on a sheet of paper as quickly as possible with his shaky hands. Rhaegar suspected, however, that a good part would end up missing later.

"Of course, my son will be joining as well," Lord Tywin said.

Now it was too late, Rhaegar realized. If even Lord Tywin had already offered his son, he could not possibly withdraw Aegon now, crown prince or not. That would have been difficult to do anyway. House Targaryen had to take responsibility, could not simply pass such a task on to its bannermen, and so, for better or worse, Aegon would have to lead this expedition. Rhaegar decided to have four or five men of the Kingsguard accompany him to make sure he was save and at least one hundred gold cloaks, or even two hundred. The more, the better.

Maybe it's even a good thing if Aegon will be leading this expedition, he then thought. Yes, certainly it will be a good thing.

All his life Rhaegar had tried to gain clarity from prophecies, had thought more than once that he finally knew everything. He had thought himself to be the prince that was promised, and oh, how wrong he had been. Yes, the dragons had returned to the world, but not to him. To his Aegon and to his Rhaenys they had come. Aegon was the prince that was promised, for certain. He would be the one to lead mankind in its fight against the Others. So perhaps beyond the Wall was exactly where he needed to be to finally see and accept his role in this great game, to accept his destiny.

"I think which Knights of the Kingsguard will accompany the Crown Prince is a decision His Grace has yet to make," Jon Connington said in the direction of Lord Tywin.

"Not this son," the Lord of Casterly Rock said, nodding in the direction of Ser Jaime, "Tyrion, of course."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He may not be a fighter, but he is a Lannister," Lord Tywin said with so much iron in his voice that not even Jon dared disagree.

"So it is decided, then," Rhaegar said, more pleased with the outcome than he ever thought possible. "The crown will immediately begin buying food and supplies for the approaching winter for the promised three million gold dragons and distributing them throughout the realm. Meanwhile, my son will lead an expedition beyond the Wall to shed light on the threat from the north."

Now I just have to let Aegon and Elia know about this decision and hope that Elia won't murder me once I tell her.

"One question remains to be answered, however," Lord Tywin said.

"And what is that?"

"We have yet to agree on who will ultimately end up accompanying the Crown Prince. We already have more than sixty names on the Grand Maester's list. I doubt that your son's dragon, large as it may be, will be able to carry that many men all the way to the Wall."

Fuck, he is right. So I guess there won't be two hundred Gold Cloaks accompanying my son.

Chapter Text

He felt good, so incredibly good. The sensation that rushed through his body was like wildfire, unbridled and ecstatic and all-consuming. He had almost entered the tourney with a defeat, which would not have been a shame against an opponent like Lord Beric Dondarrion, a skilled tourney knight after all, but which would have made it unnecessarily difficult for him to succeed in the coming jousts. In the end however, after a truly fierce joust, he had won, having managed in the final round to yank his lance up just perfectly enough to break it on Lord Beric's helmet. A thrust that, with a lot of luck, succeeded in one out of a hundred attempts.

Yes, today had truly been a good day, a good day for them all. Aegon had knocked Ser Robar Royce out of the saddle with two lances in a much clearer yet also much less entertaining joust, and Myle Manning and Arron Qorgyle had both won on points against one Frey each, Myle against Ser Perwyn Frey and Arron against Ser Tytos Freys, while Aidin Celtigar had managed to earn a draw against Lord Jason Mallister, one of the secret favorites for the victory.

It was already late afternoon when they arrived at the Red Keep to meet with Joran, one of the royal armorers. They didn't have much time if they didn't want to be late afterwards, so it had been quite convenient for him that both his father and his uncle Ned had been picked up by a royal messenger to meet with His Grace. What this meeting was to be about, Jon had not found out, as apparently neither his father nor his uncle knew themselves. Either way, however, he had avoided having to get drunk with his father to celebrate the day. In fact, he wanted to do the drinking with Aegon and the others afterward.

"I hope this works out, Baratheon," Theon grumbled from the side as they rode into the rear courtyard of the Red Keep. "It's getting plenty late. Are you sure I can still enter the lists today?"

"Sons of noble families can always sign up later. That happens all the time," said Jon, who was beginning to really lose the desire to have to deal with Theon. He kept his doubts to himself, whether the Greyjoys of Pyke really had to be considered a noble family, though. "There are still enough participants who haven't yet ridden a joust. So you'll be competing against one of them tomorrow then, if we enter you in the lists today."

He had promised to see to it that Theon would be provided with tourney armor so that he could participate in the joust after all. Instead of thanks, however, he had so far only heard complaints from Theon that everything was going much too slowly for him. Ser Willem Darry had had one of Aegon's old suits of armor laid out for them, which they now had yet to bring to Joran in order to have it beaten out a bit more overnight and decorated to fit Theon, as the heir to Pyke would certainly not want to compete with the royal coat of arms on his chest. Apart from the fact that Aegon would certainly not have liked that either. He would not get any more help from him than that, however.

There were so many places he would rather have been right now, but he had agreed to take care of it and so, of course, he had to keep his word. No matter how hard the heir of Pyke was to bear. Without Theon, he could already be with Aegon and the others in their special place, pouring cool wine or strong ale down his throat and toasting their victories today. He could have some of the ladies in the ranks fawning over him, securing a dance of two on our of the numerous dances and feasts tonight, because even though he didn't plan to take any dishonorable advantage of it, it of course still felt good to be fawned over. What man did not feel good with that? Or he could be with Arya, ask her how she had spent the day with Rhaenys, how she had found his joust, and practice some more with her for the archery contest. Yes, he could be with Arya, laughing and letting some arrows fly.

Maybe she would even want to accompany me to one of the feasts and have a dance with me, he thought to himself.

After Rhaenys and Aegon had surprised them last night while they were practicing - and then surprised them even more with their help - he hadn't seen Arya again. He knew from Aegon that she had found some things among the old clothes he and Aegon had sneaked out of the Red Keep with as children that fit her reasonably well and in which she didn't look completely ridiculous. This morning, as he knew as well, Rhaenys had set up the accidental meeting with his Uncle Ned, then grabbed Arya and left early with her for the tourney grounds. Together they had looked for, and presumably found, a place near the stables for the jousting horses where Arya could safely deposit her disguise and change clothes unseen when she had to switch between being in the stands for the joust and participating in the archery contest. Afterwards, Rhaenys had made sure that Arri Waters had been added to the list of the last group of archery contest, with no questions asked by anyone.

Last night Jon had lain in bed and relived the day in his mind. He had felt like one of those nameless hedge knights from the stories, sneaking through a legendary fortress under cover of night and going to feasts and dances under a false name, only to end up uncovering a conspiracy against the crown all by himself and being the hero before disappearing into the sunset on his trusty horse. It was silly, he knew, but still it felt good to have this little secret with Arya, Rhaenys, and Aegon. He had also realized how much he had missed Arya after his return from Winterfell, though it had never been so clear to him before. Now, however, he somehow missed her in almost every moment she wasn't around. It was strange.

"So where is this thing now?"

Jon rolled his eyes as he led Theon past a briefly nodding soldier into one of the Red Keep's armories near the training yards, where the training weapons and the older suits of armor were kept.

"It's got to be here somewhere. Ser Willem has promised to leave one of Aegon's suits of armor waiting."

"Let's hope so. I've already asked four different ladies for their favors, and I don't want to have to disappoint the pretty ones."

Jon went further into the armory, which was only dimly lit by the small windows closed with heavy iron bars. There were a few suits of armor lined up against the walls, one of which Theon certainly hoped was for him. Jon knew, however, that they were the old suits of armor of King Rhaegar and his brother Prince Viserys, which had not been used for a long time. Prince Viserys was living in Sunspear for most of the year since his marriage to the Princess of Dorne, Arianne Martell, and had his own new suits of armor there that he used for his exercises. The king had not picked up sword, spear or lance for years since an arrow had pierced his knee during the taking of Pyke at the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion. While walking, nothing could be seen of it, but Jon had learned from Aegon that the king's knee had never fully recovered, and thus the king had long since ceased to be agile enough to fight. These armors, however, though long unused and dusty, were not something he was allowed to hand to Theon. Without exception, the suits of armor were made of jet black and bright red steel, decorated with the finest chasings, dragons and flames of gold or silver, dragonglass or ruby shards. Each of these armors was probably more valuable than the complete equipment of half the participants in this tourney. No, of these armors Theon would receive none, however large his eyes might grow.

They passed long rows of stands with spears and halberds, morning stars and war hammers, blunt and sharp short swords and long swords, bastard swords and mighty two-handers, bows and crossbows and various kinds of arrows and crossbow bolts, small round shields and bucklers, kite shields and heater shields, all adorned with the red, three-headed dragon of the Targaryens, some untouched and as new, others scuffed and hacked as if after a years-long campaign.

They reached the farthest corner of the armory, where Aegon's and his old suits of armor were kept, in which they trained or with which they had participated in past tourneys. They were considerably less magnificent than the suits of armor at the entrance to the armory, all scratched and dented, with only a few exceptions only crudely decorated with the dragon of the Targaryens or the stag of the Baratheons. The armors were on stands and were fastened to them with short, thin chains and small locks so that no one could tamper with them without permission. The suits of armor might be old and no longer beautiful, but a full suit of armor was still worth more than most peasants earned in a lifetime. One of the things his mother had drilled into his head over and over again was to appreciate the value of such things, the value of the privileges he enjoyed, and to never take them for granted.

Jon saw that one of the suits of armor was no longer locked to its stands. So Ser Willem must have considered this one for Theon. It was - unsurprisingly - black, with a red dragon painted on its chest and back, similarly red dragon heads painted on its shoulder plates, and a big, deep dent in its chest plate. Jon recognized it immediately. It was the armor in which Aegon had competed in the tourney of Ashford nearly two years ago. There they had met again for the first time after his time in Winterfell, feasting and celebrating together and enjoying life as they seldom had before. They had met in the semifinals of the joust, and the dent was a visible reminder of the violent thrust with which Jon had lifted his best friend out of the saddle and sent him into the dust that day.

"That thing there? Is that a joke?" Jon heard Theon say, having looked at the armor for a bit too long, lost in thought.

"Aye, why not? It's got a little dent, but otherwise it's in good shape."

"A little dent? That little dent is so deep, I could fit my whole head in there. What the hell did Aegon do with it? Did he jump off a tower and land on a merlon? I can't be seen with that, Baratheon. Use your head!"

"Prince Aegon," he said, emphasizing his friend's title, hoping Theon would realize he had no right to talk about him in such a familiar manner, "competed in a tourney in this. Wasn't exactly one of his better days."

"Was that you?" asked Theon, now grinning broadly.

"A true nobleman does not boast," Jon said with a wink. "All that matters is that the armor is still in good shape, except for that dent. Come, try it on. If it fits, we'll take it to Joran. He'll get the dent out again. If we hurry and ask him nicely, he'll certainly see to it that the armor's decorations will be changed to fit its new wearer. After all, red dragons probably aren't what you want to compete in tomorrow, are they?"

"No, rather not. Although Princess Rhaenys might like that."

Jon said nothing in reply, but wordlessly helped Theon take the armor off the stand and put it on to check its fit. He had already heard from Arya that Theon had apparently taken it into his head to win Rhaenys over - whether as an adventure for one night or more, Jon did not know. He did know, however, that Theon's attempts to get closer to Rhaenys had so far consisted only of staring at her from a distance or, when he had actually been close enough to be seen by her, smirking at her. With some of the girls in Winterfell this might have worked for Theon every now and then, with peasant's daughters or tavern wenches, but with Rhaenys he would fail with this silly spectacle. Even if she hadn't already had the feelings for Aegon that she did, a woman like Rhaenys couldn't be won over with a wry grin. Others had tried that before and had failed just as Theon would fail.

Jon sent a prayer to the old gods and the new that later, when they would meet Aegon and the others at their special place, Theon would shut up and not start talking about Rhaenys. There were only few things that could really upset Aegon, make him truly angry, but lewd comments about his sister was definitely one of these things.

The suit of armor turned out to be a little too tight here or too wide there, but still fit well enough for Theon to wear it in the tourney. The armor would certainly have fit him better if he had quickly grown some more in height and gotten broader in the shoulders, but beggars couldn't be choosers, so it would have to do. After a few exercises to test his mobility in the unfamiliar armor, he took it off again and then the two of them put the armor pieces, tied together with leather straps, into jute sacks that Ser Willem had fortunately also laid out for them.

They threw the sacks over their shoulders and trudged out of the armory one after the other, Theon muttering to himself why Jon didn't just call a couple of servants to help. The soldiers at the entrance grinned faintly as Jon and Theon passed them, but said nothing. They crossed the courtyard toward the Tower of the Hand, skirted the wide base of the massive tower, and carried the sacks with the armor pieces to Joran's forge, a plain, two-story building in the shadow of the massive Maegor's Holdfast higher above. Jon knocked briefly on the door, but did not wait for an answer before opening it and entering. The sack on his back wasn't too heavy, but the edges of the chest plate and leg braces pressed uncomfortably into his back.

Joran was sitting on chair next to his small forge, eating some bread and cheese, when they entered. He immediately rose from his chair and indicated a bow in Jon's direction.

"My lord, I almost didn't expect to see you after all," he said apologetically. Joran was an old man with a shaky voice and almost deaf, but with arms as strong as a young lad. He was an excellent blacksmith, with a special eye for the quality of his wares. His armors were not as fancy and richly decorated as those of the blacksmiths in the city, yet his armors were still masterful.

"We didn't make it earlier. Please forgive the delay, Master Joran," Jon said, placing his sack on the ground in front of him. Theon stepped up beside him and placed his sack next to it. Immediately Joran hurried forward and, first with Jon's help and after a clear look from Jon with Theon's help as well, began to place the armor on a waiting stand in the corner of the room.

"Ah, I see. The dent must come out. Yes, yes, certainly. My forge is still burning, I'll have to properly stoke the embers before I can straighten the breastplate, though. The armor should be ready tomorrow, no?"

"Yes, exactly. Tomorrow before noon Lord Greyjoy here will ride his first joust and needs the armor fixed by then."

"I see, I see. That shouldn't be a problem."

"And the dragons must come off," Theon said.

"Certainly, certainly. The heat of the forge will burn the paint off. There will be nothing left but bare steel."

"Good. Make them black and gray. Not all black. That's depressing. A little gold here and there would be nice. On the shoulder armor, chest and back, I want my family's crest. In gold color. And it better look good. It's a kraken, the ruler of all the seas, and that's the way I want it to look. Got that, old man?"

Joran's eyes had opened wider and wider with each demand from Theon. His mouth was open and obviously he wanted to say something, but could only stammer a "yes, my lord".

"How much will this cost?" Theon then asked.

"That... well, it..."

"Never mind," Jon intervened. "I'll cover the cost."

"All right," Theon said, turning and making his way out the door. "What is it? Are you coming?"

"Yes, I'm coming," Jon said, but stayed with Joran for a moment longer. "Don't worry about it, Master Joran. Take out the dent, dye the armor gray, and if you can still find time, brush a kraken on the front of the chest. Doesn't have to be golden. Yellow paint will do."

"But Lord Greyjoy-"

"Is a talker. Don't worry about him. Bump out, gray paint, and a yellow kraken on the chest. Can you manage that by noon tomorrow?"

"Certainly, my lord," Joran said nodding, clearly relieved and indeed with a faint smile on his lips again.

They had horses given to them and, accompanied by a dozen Gold Cloaks, headed straight across the city to the arena. As much as the tourney grounds had emptied after the end of today's joust, the city was now crowded all the more with people celebrating and drinking, so that it took them more than an hour to reach the arena, have Theon added to the list for tomorrow's joust – not without the help of three silver stags for the Master of Herolds, the one responsible for ensuring that only nobles could be added to the list – and then find their way back into the city to meet with the others.

"This is going to be an easy joust," Theon said when they had just passed through the Lion Gate.

"Why is that?"

"Come on, Baratheon. I'm competing against an old man. I've as good as won already."

Jon could only shake his head when he heard that. Ser Barristan had been forced out of the tourney after injuring his shoulder in his joust against Ser Loras Tyrell. In his place, Ser Jonothor Darry had entered the lists. Although another member of the Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister, took part in the tourney as well, it seemed that Ser Jonothor especially wanted to defend the honor of the older members of their brotherhood. So tomorrow, Theon would be facing Ser Jonothor in his first joust.

"He is one of the best knights in the realm," Jon said, which Theon only acknowledged with a loud laugh.

"Once upon a time, perhaps. Today he's an old man who probably needs help mounting his horse. Hopefully we won't have to take breaks between each pass because the old man needs to take a piss each and every time."

"You shouldn't underestimate him, Theon."

"And you shouldn't overestimate him, Baratheon, just because you're namesakes. No matter how good he once was with a sword, or maybe still is, with a lance on horseback is another matter entirely. You need to be young and strong and agile for that."

"Well, I will let myself be surprised," Jon said, realizing that there would be no point in arguing with Theon any further. Whether he was sincerely convinced that he would have such an easy time with Ser Jonothor, or whether he simply wanted to encourage himself, Jon did not know, but had no interest in finding out either.

They crossed the God's Way, turned left once and then right again, and finally turned into the Street of Seeds, which led them past the Old Gate after a good piece of way. Just beyond that, they turned right again into a smaller street that had originally been called Barley and Rye Road, but had long since ceased to be called that. The stores that had sold seeds for the various varieties of barley, wheat, millet, and rye from all parts of the continent and even Essos had mostly disappeared years before Jon had even been born and had often enough been replaced by a strange mixture of taverns and brothels on one side of the street and small septs or temples on the other side, so that it was now called Holy Tits Road by the people of King's Landing.

It was already dark when they finally reached the small sept Jon had been looking for, tying up their horses in front of the cheap tavern next to it. Loud voices and crooked singing could be heard from the taproom all the way out into the street. Jon gave some coins to the soldiers who had accompanied them, so that they could pass the evening in that very tavern. In it, Aegon's escort would certainly already be, and so the men could have a relaxed watch before he and Aegon would need an escort again to ride back to the Red Keep. They walked around the sept, past a burned-out and half-collapsed chimney, the last remnant of the building that had stood here before, through a narrow iron gate that squeaked so loudly with each movement that Jon was sure it would wake the entire city, and into the small garden beyond. It was little more than a meadow, but surrounded by old, knotty trees and dense shrubs as if by a fortress wall, and thus could not be seen from any side except from a single window of the small sept. The garden was tiny and neither particularly beautiful nor particularly cozy, but it was well hidden and practically unknown. It was their little secret, their retreat.

His friends were already there, sitting or lying in a loose circle on their capes or in the tall grass. Aegon was leaning against the small plum tree at the side of the garden, a wineskin in his hand, which he passed to Hendry Mooton after a hearty sip. He was the first to see them coming.

"There you are," he said with a broad smile. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about us."

"Why do I hear that so much lately?" asked Jon, laughing.

The others greeted them as well, making room for them on the grass. Daman handed him a wineskin, himself reaching directly for a bottle of suspiciously thick brown liquid that lay beside him. The wine was delicious, sweet yet fresh, not too heavy. The wine came from the small brothel across the street from the sept, behind which they were now sitting. It was significantly more expensive, but also significantly better than the swill one could get in one of the taverns nearby.

Still, he decided he definitely didn't want to drink much tonight, even if his friends would probably have little understanding for it. First thing tomorrow, however, the day would open with the third and final group of the archery contest, in which Arya would also participate. For nothing in the world would he miss this, even if his friends would be a little disappointed in him tonight.

"I heard you won your joust against Ser Perwyn," Jon said to Myle.

"Aye, it was a close one, but I made it."

"Too many Freys in this tourney anyway," Arron said.

"And did you still manage to pick a lady to ask for her favor?" asked Jon.

"Yes," said Myle tersely, while Aidin, Hendry, and Daman began to grin broadly.

"What's so funny about that? Who did you ask? Tell me."

"Lady Dania Chambers," Aidin said when, after a moment, Myle had not yet offered an answer.

Dania Chambers... the name sounded familiar to Jon. It took him a moment to place it, however. Lady Dania was the widow of Ser Wenton Chambers, a landed knight from the Riverlands, which in itself would not have been problematic had she not been his widow for nearly twenty years already. She was a handsome woman, no doubt, but even older than Myles' own mother.

"Isn't that the same one you asked for her favor at the tourney of Sow's Horn less than a year ago?" Jon asked, thinking he remembered something like that.

"Yes," Myle said.

"So, is there something going on between you two?" Theon asked, although he certainly didn't know who Lady Dania even was.

"We are in love."

"You are in love. You and Lady Dania Chambers," Arron said in a tone that made it clear how little he thought of it.

"Yes, do you have a problem with that? Can't a young man fall in love with an older woman?"

"Yes, of course you can," Hendry now said from the side with a grin that didn't bode well. Wine ran down his chin onto his doublet. "But you could at least have chosen a woman who hadn't lost her maidenhead before the coming of the Andals."

Hendry, Daman, Theon and Arron burst into peals of laughter, spitting wine and liquor all across the small garden. Aidin and Korban said nothing, just looked wordlessly at their wineskins as if they could miraculously refill them with this, while Aegon just shook his head slowly. Myle just sat there for a while, staring up at the dark night sky. After Hendry got his laughter back under control and was able to breathe normally again, he wanted to follow up, but a word from Aegon stopped him before he could even get a single sound out.

"I think that's enough," Aegon said.

The rest of the raunchy laughter quickly died away. Myle, however, looked hardly any happier, grabbing his wineskin and emptying it as quickly and greedily as if to wipe the last moments of the evening from his memory. Jon couldn't blame him, and from the look Aegon gave him, neither could he. If there was anyone who understood what it meant to love in a way that others had no understanding for, it was Aegon, after all.

"Why haven't you actually asked a lady for her favor?" Jon heard Aegon ask, and took a moment to realize that he had looked at him while doing so.

"I, uhm... didn't know who to ask," Jon then said after a moment's hesitation.

The others looked at him with wide eyes, looks as full of shock as if he had just opened up to them about wanting to spend the rest of his life as a septon or join the Night's Watch. Immediately a torrent of names rushed at him from ladies his friends would have considered suitable to ask for their favors and maybe get a kiss or two in return at one of the feasts later. Someone asked about Minella Blackbar, but Jon didn't know exactly who and had no interest in answering anyway. Even Theon, who knew practically no one in King's Landing, had already learned the names of a few ladies, whom he now spat out in turn. The only one who didn't say anything was Aegon. Jon looked at him and recognized the look he was giving him. Aegon smiled contentedly to himself, as if he was quite happy to know an amusing truth that the others knew nothing about. Jon, however, did not bother to ask him about it. It was probably better not to let it be said, whatever was going through Aegon's mind.

"What about you, Theon?" asked Korban slurring his words, obviously already heavily drunk. "Tomorrow is your big day. Have you picked one out yet?"

"Yes, indeed I have."

Oh no, please don't.

"And who? Come on, let's not beg," Arron said.

"I'll ask Princess Rhaenys for her favor," said Theon, his chest seeming to swell at the announcement of his choice, as if he had just proclaimed some great heroic deed. The others looked at him in silence for a while. Jon didn't dare turn around far enough to look at how Aegon might be looking right now. Myle, Hendry, Aidin, Arron, Korban and Daman, once they got over the initial surprise, quickly agreed that this was a stupid idea and joined forces to try to convince Theon to choose another, again showering him with names of young ladies. Theon, however, apparently found this unconvincing.

"I really don't know what the matter is with you guys. She's incredibly beautiful, she's unmarried, and I'm the heir to Pyke."

"Aye, a dead rock in the sea," laughed Hendry.

"Shut up, horse face," Theon hissed. The others looked at him in confusion for a moment, for if there was anyone, short and broad as he was, who certainly didn't have a horse face, it was Hendry. "She's the one. I can feel it. Just thinking about her legs alone... and that ass."

Jon knew that Theon, whenever he talked about a woman, tended to quickly become profane. So Jon didn't even have to look around to notice the heat emanating from Aegon. He knew his friend well enough to know that he was about to explode should Theon talk any further.

We need another topic, or we're about to have a dead man here.

"First, your armor needs to be finished, or it's all going to come to nothing anyway," Jon said quickly, trying to change the subject.

"Your old armorer said it would work out," Theon snapped, obviously not realizing that Jon was just trying to save him from Aegon's wrath.

"Who did you take the armor to?" asked Aegon, and Jon could hear how hard he was trying to let his anger boil down.

"Joran," Jon said.

"Then that'll work out. He's old, but he's one of the best in the Red Keep."

"What armor is it?" asked Daman.

"One of Aegon's old ones," said Jon.

"Then I hope it will bring you luck, Lord Greyjoy," said Aegon. "And since it's one of my old ones, I apologize in advance if it's a bit too wide in the crotch."

Immediately the round burst into peals of laughter again, except for Theon. Theon seemed to want to answer something, but was unable to drown out the laughter and the cackling. They passed the last of the wineskins around once more. Theon took a big gulp instead of sending another biting remark after it and even Aegon, again smiling to himself, seemed to be content again.

So we have just managed to avoid this disaster, Jon thought with satisfaction, and could see in Daman's, Hendry's, and Aidin's looks that they were thinking the same thing. Jon was about to suggest that someone - preferably Korban, since he had obviously drunk the most - go and get some more wine when he heard Theon speak again.

"You'll see. She'll say yes. Women want to be conquered and I'm really good at that, guys. That ass is going to be mine."

Immediately he felt the heat rising from Aegon's direction again. For a brief moment, he even thought he heard an angry, almost indignant roar coming from the direction of the Dragonpit, but wasn't really sure about that. Jon almost expected Aegon to jump up and lunge at Theon. He did indeed jump up, Jon being on the verge of putting himself between the two, but instead of heading in Theon's direction, he headed for the exit of the small garden.

"I'll get more wine," he said without looking back as he closed the gate behind him with a squeak.

For a while they sat in silence. Theon was about to start talking again, most likely to comment about Rhaenys, when Daman preceded him.

"Man, Theon, you must really have a death wish."

"Indeed," Arron agreed with him.

"Why is that?" asked Theon. Daman looked at him in disbelief for a moment before answering.

"Because you wouldn't talk about Rhaenys that way otherwise," Arron said. "Especially not with Aegon around. You're new in town and Jon's friend, so Aegon is trying to be a good host right now. Otherwise, he would have already broken you to pieces."

Jon refrained from correcting that he did not consider Theon his friend at all and was doing this solely to do his Uncle Ned a favor.

"He's welcome to try," Theon said, jutting his chin forward in challenge.

"No, I'm serious about this. Aegon can get really uncomfortable when it comes to his sister. We've been his friends since childhood, but neither of us would dare to talk about her like that. Do you think you're the first to notice how beautiful Rhaenys is? We've all been dreaming about her and thinking about what it would be like to ask her favor or dance with her or something. But we were never stupid enough talk about it that way, let alone to actually try it. You better keep it down once Aegon's coming back."

"You are welcome to keep dreaming, guys, but I am a man of action," Theon said, seemingly unperturbed by Arron's warnings. "I'm going to get myself a princess. You'll see."

"No offense, my friend," Hendry said, "but you'll sooner have a second cock growing out of your forehead."

"Jon, tell him about the squires," Arron said.

"Yes, tell him about the squires. Come on, Jon," Aidin rejoined.

"What squires?" asked Theon.

Jon was silent for a moment and sighed heavily. Perhaps this story would be enough to convince Theon that it was better to put Rhaenys out of his mind. It would be better for their mood tonight, better for their mood during the rest of the tourney, and probably even better for Theon's health.

"All right, all right," Jon finally began. "It was a few years ago, before I left King's Landing for Winterfell, that Aegon and I were sitting around in his chambers playing a round of Cyvasse. The door flew open and Rhaenys came in, crying and in tears."

"I would have loved to comfort her," Theon said with a wink, but didn't earn the laugh he probably had hoped for in return.

"Shut up, Theon," Jon said. "So she came in and threw herself around Aegon's neck. A couple of squires had apparently made fun of her, teasing her about her dark hair and insulting her for supposedly not being a true Targaryen. Aegon took her in his arms and stroked her hair until, after almost an entire hour, she finally stopped crying. He wiped off her last tears, gave her kisses on the cheeks, and then stormed out of the room without a word. Rhaenys and I expected him to go to the king and tell him about the incident," Jon said, taking a sip of is wine.

"But he didn't?" Theon asked, frowning.

"No, he didn't. Although it was four against one and all the squires were one or even two years his senior, Aegon was so furious that he ran directly to the stables, found them there, and beat them all bloody. The tallest of them, a giant fellow named Toland, even lost an eye."

"Well, I'm not a bloody squire, though."

"No, you're just an idiot," Daman said, earning a scowl from Theon.

"That's not all," Jon said. "Ser Jaime Lannister witnessed the whole thing. I asked him afterwards what exactly had happened after Aegon had stormed out of the room, and he told me that if he hadn't pulled Aegon off Toland while he was beating him in the face again and again, that he was sure that Aegon would have beaten him to death."

"And did the king say nothing about what his son had done?"

"The king never found out about it. Ser Jaime can be silent as a grave, and the squires, had they complained, would then have had to answer to the king for insulting his daughter. Only Jon Connington, the Hand of the King, found out about it but kept quiet. I don't know why, but I know it earned him some really big points with Aegon. So, Theon, if you don't want to lose an eye as well, just shut your stupid mouth about Rhaenys and get her out of your head. I can assure you that if you don't, you'll have Aegon's fists in his face before the next wineskin is empty. And I guarantee you that none of us will step in should Aegon decide to beat the crap out of you."

"Certainly not," Arron agreed.

Theon looked around for a moment, looked from earnest face to earnest face, and finally seemed to realize that this was indeed meant seriously. Talking about Rhaenys, especially in this way, was not for him to do, and if he didn't stop, he would find no help here against a furious Aegon.

"Fine," he finally said. "You can rest easy, girls. Just don't have your moon blood right away. I won't talk about her any more, but only because I'm a nice person, not because I'm afraid of Aegon."

Of course.

"I'm the heir of Pyke, not a fucking squire," he continued. "If Aegon were to lay a hand on me, his father would have another rebellion to deal with faster than he could blink."

The Iron Isands against the Targaryens' dragons and the entire realm because you sucker caught a black eye? Hardly.

"Doesn't matter anyway. Tomorrow I'll take care of the old knight," Theon said in a tone of conviction, as if the joust against Ser Jonothor was only a formality. "After that, I'll deal with Aegon once we meet in the joust. Women like strength. It's as simple as that. So once I knock Aegon out of the saddle, Rhaenys will fall for me all by herself anyway."

Oh boy, that's going to be some tough days.

Chapter Text

She was hot and Arya felt sweat running down her back. She was glad that the wide straw hat, as silly as it certainly looked, not only covered her hair, which she had tied into a simple knot underneath, but also kept off the sun. The clothes she had received from Prince Aegon clung to her like rags, swinging back and forth like tattered banners in the wind.

Probably the dirtiest banners in the world, she thought and had to smile. Even as a boy, Jon and Prince Aegon must have both been significantly taller and, more importantly, broader than she was today.

These are the clothes of Prince Aegon, probably. Jon is not so broad in the shoulders. He's more slender, more... elegant, she thought, but quickly scolded herself for it. Sansa talked such nonsense about men. She didn't.

She was glad there had been no mirror in the stables for her to look at herself in. The shirt was too wide in the shoulders, the trousers too long, and instead of a belt Princess Rhaenys, probably to make her appearance as a peasant more believable, had only provided her with a simple strap of boiled leather, old and brittle. Not even her shoes fit her, so she could not walk properly but stomped around like a goat with milking pails on her hooves. Certainly she looked like a fool. She knew that without having seen herself.

Besides, the things smelled like a mixture of old dust and fresh horseshit, which wasn't surprising. Jon and Prince Aegon had not worn these clothes for many years. For years they had lain in a small, dusty hiding place behind an equally dusty chest in an almost unused part of Maegor's Holdfast, and finally last night, wrapped only in a thin jute sack and some straw ribbon, they had been placed in the stables for the tourney horses in a no less dusty corner. She smelled something else in the clothes, however, the smell of a young man, faint yet unmistakable, that was surprisingly pleasant to her nose.

I wonder if this was Jon's shirt after all.

She hoped it. Somehow. The smell of dust and horse and the sweat on her back wouldn't have been so bad, though, if the straw hadn't pricked her skin from head to toe. When she had put on the clothes earlier in the stables and had hidden her dress, the simple green one made from linen and wool, in a corner, she had had the idea of stuffing her clothes with some straw. She had thought that maybe then the clothes would fit better. It was better to look fat than like a fool. However, that plan had failed. Instead of looking like a chubby boy, she had lost straw from every hole in the cloth with every step as if she were about to try to steal horse fodder. She had quickly taken the straw out again, but that hadn't quite worked either. Small pieces of straw had remained everywhere, clinging like burrs to the fabric of her clothes and now poking and stinging her like a swarm of hungry horseflies. Rarely had Arya looked forward to being able to get into a bath in the evening as much as she did at that moment.

Arya looked ahead at the targets that had been set up for the contest about fourty paces away, and which, before the next round of the joust would begin later, would be quickly removed again. Forty paces was quite far away, much farther away than the targets she had practiced with in Winterfell when her lady mother hadn't noticed. But she had also already hit targets even farther away. The targets were upright standing boards of light soft wood, as wide and as tall as a man, with large white circles on them and a black bull's eye in the center. Behind them were large haycocks, made of about two dozen shaefs, to intercept arrows that missed by a short distance, to provide a little more protection for the spectators behind the targets. Hitting the haycocks scored one point, the board scored ten, the white circle scored twenty, and the bull's eye scored fifty.

She looked around, saw the crossbowmen standing at the sides, ready to immediately spike the entire group with bolts if even one of them dared to point his bow and arrow even roughly in the direction of the stands for the nobles, especially for the royal family. She looked at the stands, recognizing Princess Rhaenys as the only member of the royal family along with Lady Allara sitting there in the royal box. But there was someone else in the royal box. She recognized him immediately, slender in build and with a mop of dark brown hair. Jon was there.

"Get ready," she heard a voice thunder from the side. She almost dropped her arrow on the ground in surprise.

She, like the other thirty or so participants, took a step forward toward the rope that had been laid out on the ground as a boundary that was not to be overstepped. She quickly pulled on the half leather glove that would protect three of her fingers from the snap of the bowstring. It was new and soft and a gift from Jon.

Jon.

To her left stood two large men, brothers apparently, with arms as thick as tree trunks, blonde hair as light as flax, and noses crooked and broken more than once. They were from the Stormlands, she had heard from their quiet conversation, and had fought as archers in the Greyjoy Rebellion under Jon's father, Lord Robert, she learned as the two had bragged towards other participants about how many ironmen they had brought down with their bows from the walls of Ten Towers and Castle Pyke. On the other side stood a young man, skinny as a stick, with freckles all over his face and flaming red hair, who seemed to be from Dorne and looked even younger than she herself. He had introduced himself as Anguy when he had complimented her on her beautiful bow, but then had not spoken to her anymore after Arya had not responded thrice, as recommended by Prince Aegon.

"Get ready," she heard the voice call again.

Arya tried to focus herself, to look ahead only at the target, as she had learned to do, to block out everything else, to breathe calmly. Now it really came down to it. In a moment, the command would be given to nock the arrow, then to draw and then to let it loose. Then she had to score. Arya inhaled and exhaled heavily a few times, blinked the last drops of sweat from her eyes, and looked ahead.

Oh, seven hells, which one is my target?

Shocked, she only now realized that of course one target had been set up for each participant and that she hadn't even counted off which target was hers yet.

I'm far to the left, so I'll start counting from the left, she thought in panic. A horn sounded somewhere, the final signal that the archery would begin at any moment. The crowd was already getting quiet. Now it was only a matter of moments before the orders would be given.

How many more are standing to my left? Five... or six?

"Attention," she heard the voice again. "Nock!"

No, no, no. Not yet.

"Draw!"

No, this is too soon. Just a moment more. Please, just one moment more, she thought as she placed the arrow on the string and pulled it, almost in a panic, her fingers shaking. She picked a target, hoping it was the right one.

Five. There are five next to me, she decided.

"Loose!"

With a short hiss, her arrow shot forward, just half a heartbeat after the other arrows. Some arrows flew too short, stuck in the sandy ground of the arena, others flew too far. The arrow of one of the brothers next to her had been shot with such force that it flew at least three or four paces over the row of targets, across the entire arena, and slammed into the wood of the stands for the commoners with a loud plop. A few panicked screams could be heard from women near the point of impact that the arrow almost killed and just a heartbeat later loud laughter from men and women next to the survivors echoing throughout the arena. Her own arrow had been better aimed, describing a shallow arc and hitting the wood, even if not the white circle. She was about to rejoice at her not excellent but still good shot when she noticed that there was another arrow stuck in the same target and heard the barking of one of the brothers from the side.

"What the bloody hell are you doing, you little shit?"

I guess there were six after all.

"Sorry," she mumbled, trying to calm the guy's anger but giving away as little of her voice as possible.

"I'll give you sorry, asshole. Because of you, my try won't count. Now I have only six arrows left to make it to the next round. Don't you ever get in my way again or I'll rip your scrawny arms off."

"Quiet over there," a man behind them scolded.

Arya did her best not to look over at the large, angry man. Fortunately, there were overseers who ensured peace and compliance with the rules, otherwise, Arya was sure, she would have been rid of her scrawny arms already. She looked to the other side instead and found wondering faces and outstretched fingers pointing at her. No, not at her, at Anguy. She looked ahead at his target. His arrow was stuck in his target, in the black of the bull's eye, as right in the center as if a maester had measured the point and stuck the arrow in by hand.

"Wow," she whispered.

"Thank you," she heard Anguy say, looking over at him for a tiny moment in his wide grinning face.

"Get ready," she heard the command again, followed shortly by the sound of the horn. Just a few heartbeats later, the orders sounded again.

"Nock! Draw! Loose!"

Again her arrow sped off with a soft hiss, this time hitting the right target. Again she hit only the wood, this time much closer to the white circle, however. Again, her arrow was not outstanding, but good enough. Much better than some of the other arrows, which again had either flown too short or too far, or had simply missed their targets by one or two paces. She looked at the target next to hers and found that Anguy had again hit the bull's eye, barely more than a thumb from his first arrow. The two brothers to her left had both hit their targets this time, one in the wood of the board, the other in the white circle.

"Nock! Draw! Loose!"

The third arrow was shot, this time with Arya's arrow landing only in the haystack.

"Nock! Draw! Loose!"

White circle. She didn't even dare ask what the score was. She was a good archer, better than Bran certainly. However, if she now saw that Anguy had once again hit the bull's eye....

I must not look at the others, she scolded herself. I have to do my best. That's all that matters. Either I'm good enough, or I'm not.

"Nock! Draw! Loose!"

White circle.

"Nock! Draw! Loose!"

Bull's eye!

Exactly in the middle. Seven arrows were shot per round and the seven best archers made it to the next round. One arrow was left, and then this round was already over. Arya would have loved to scream out loud because it would be over so soon. She knew she had no chance of moving on to the next round. Not when she was up against archers like this Anguy. How good the others in the group were, she couldn't say, but to hope that they were all as bad as the two brothers to her left, having only managed to get a total of six arrows into their targets so far, was childish nonsense. She would be allowed to launch that one more arrow, and then she would be out. But it didn't matter. This experience, as brief as it had been, had been one of the best moments of her life, and she would have to think of something damn great to thank Jon for it.

She looked up at the stands, at the royal box. Jon was now standing in his seat. She saw him clapping and shouting something, a big smile on his face. His lips moved, but his words did not reach her. Inevitably, Arya had to smile broadly as well and immediately pulled her straw hat a little deeper into her face to avoid being caught admiring the heir to Storm's End. That would be quite conspicuous for a peasant from the Crown Lands.

Admiring… nonsense, she thought, shooing the smile away from her face. She had to focus now.

"Nock!" she heard the command sound again, one last time.

Arya put her last arrow on the string and pointed the tip at the target. She took one, two, three more deep breaths before hearing the next command.

"Draw!"

Arya pulled the string back, far, but not too far. For a brief moment, she held the bow taut. She could already feel the slight pain in her arm that always came when you held a bow too long, when finally the third command sounded.

"Loose!"

The other arrows shot forward at the command as if shot by a single man. Arya held the bow a tiny moment longer, as if she could use it to prolong this experience, as if she could force this moment to never end. Then, after less than half a heartbeat, she finally let go of the string. With a soft whir, her arrow flew away, toward the target. The arrow again rose into the air in an elegant arc, descended, and struck the white circle, less than two or three finger widths next to the bull's eye.

Yes, very good, thought Arya. Certainly her points would not be enough, but this had been a good shot. She had ended her little tourney with a success.

She stood still for a while, looking up at Jon, who seemed to be smiling broadly at her again. From under her straw hat she smiled back, cautiously, but then turned away. Nimble as weasels, pages scurried past the targets with small clay tablets, noting each competitor's score, comparing distances and depth of penetration of arrows whenever two archers were tied from points. Arya let the wind blow around her nose, enjoying the air and the sun and the smell of sand and horse and the sweat of the other competitors, the smell of a real tourney. This was a moment she would never forget in her life. Then she heard the herald's voice ring out to announce the winners of this round, snapping her out of her thoughts.

"In the name of His Grace, King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the following contestants will be graciously allowed to compete in the next round of the archery contest. Anguy from the Dornish Marshes," he said, his voice as loud as a horn and as strong as old wood.

Of course. He was outstanding.

Applause rang out as the name was read. The people in the arena were apparently as convinced of the lad's accomplishments as Arya was.

"Tobin Waters," the herald continued to speak without waiting for the applause to die down. "Rickar, the cooper. Robart, son of Brennard. Wex Flowers. Desmond Flowers. Arri Waters."

So now it was over. So now she was...

Wait, what?

Had she just heard correctly? Had the herald just said… Arri Waters? Yes, yes, indeed he had. But that was impossible, because that meant… For a moment she seemed unable to breathe, her heart seemed to stop, she seemed unable to hear anything, to notice anything about her surroundings. She had made it. She had actually made it to the next round! She would have loved to jump and to scream out in happiness! She would have loved to immediately fall around someone's neck in sheer joy. No, not someone. Jon! She wanted to fall around Jon's neck!

I wonder if he has seen that I am in the next round, she thought. Silly girl, of course he has seen it. He is here after all.

Jon was in the stands, in the royal box. He had seen it all. The feeling was incredible, as if her whole body was on fire with happiness and excitement. She wanted to scream, to jump, to celebrate, to dance, all at the same time. But there was no time for that now, and this was certainly the wrong place for it. She had to change, immediately, as quickly as possible, and get back to the grandstands, to the royal box, to Princess Rhaenys and to Jon. Immediately, her heart seemed to beat even faster at the thought of falling around Jon's neck later.

She quickly took the small copper badge from one of the pages, waiting at the exit, with which she could prove that she was qualified to participate in the next round, and hurried out of the arena back to the stables. It was already late. The scorekeeping and awarding of the badges had taken longer than she had thought – or maybe she had just been standing around open mouthed a bit too long – so now she had to hurry to change and get into the royal box before the joust would begin. Before her father would arrive and get the opportunity to wonder where she was.

She pushed her way through the passageway underneath the stands, past knights and soldiers and commoners. More than once she had to hold on to her silly straw hat to keep it from being torn off her head. She exited the passageway at the sixth exit on the left, passing by the other archers without a word, who were relaxing on benches or already busy getting drunk out of frustration or joy. She took the second door on the right, walked down another passage underneath the southern part of the arena and stepped out into the small fenced yard lined on either side by the improvised horse stables, plain halls without real walls made of simple stalls with some straw in them. The soldiers guarding the horses were still at their posts, guarding the main entrance to this area so that no horses got stolen. Fortunately, they were not guarding the back entrance through which Arya had just entered. Quickly, and as quietly as she could so as not to draw attention to herself, she crept across the yard. Here and there the straw crunched under her feet, which was also spread on the ground in this courtyard. Fortunately, however, it had already been so trodden by the horses and knights and soldiers and squires that it hardly made any noise. None of the soldiers seemed to notice her.

She scurried past the stalls of two imposing gray horses, up a short ladder into the feed store, and past the harnesses of the horses, hung on stands and freshly rubbed with oil and wax. They gleamed in the pale light, decorated with intricate embroidery, sometimes showing trees and meadows and other horses, sometimes roses or lions, sometimes dragons or basilisks, sometimes just beautiful, intricate patterns. Arya would have loved to grab one of the harnesses, saddle one of the horses, and ride out on it. Of course, that was impossible. The last thing she needed now was to get into trouble with the soldiers at the entrance because she had stolen a horse.

She found the little corner behind some stacked boxes where, under a small pile of straw wrapped in the jute sack and straw ribbons, her dress and shoes were waiting for her. Princess Rhaenys had also put a small wineskin with water in it in the jute sack when they had together hidden her things there for her, of which Arya had not quite known what to do with before the contest. Now, exhausted and sweaty, she was glad for every drop of water she could get.

Now she had to hurry, though. She quickly took off the straw hat, undid the knot in her hair and took off the itchy clothes. She let her long curls fall over her back and gently caress her own skin. Naked as the day she was born, she stood there for a while, letting the light breeze that passed through the stables cool her skin, whether that shallow breeze smelled of horse or not. Then she took one, two, three big gulps of the water. It was warm, but plain water had rarely refreshed Arya so much. With the rest of the water, she quickly rubbed her body from top to bottom so that her skin would finally stop itching and maybe - hopefully - she wouldn't smell so much of horse and sweat and dust when she made her way back to the royal box.

Briefly, Arya wondered if she should keep some of the water to wash out the clothes that were prickling from the straw. There was not enough water left for that, however, not to mention her time. So she finished washing herself with it, put on her dress and shoes, and stowed the other things in the jute bag. She tied it with the straw rope and hid the bag and the straw hat together again under the small pile of straw in the corner behind the stacked boxes. She then went back to the small ladder and climbed down, walking again through the stables and past the two gray horses, and was just about to sneak through the yard between the stables as quietly as a mouse when she heard a voice.

"Hey, you there. Halt! Now!"

Arya looked to the side, hoping that maybe she hadn't been meant at all. However, the two soldiers coming toward her with angry faces told her that they had very well meant her.

"What the hell are you doing here, girl?" barked one of the two men at her, a big guy with shoulders as broad as an ox's back, a flat and crooked nose, looking as if it had been broken several times before, and only one eye. The other man, at least a head shorter but still clearly taller than she herself, looked no less angry.

"I...," she began, stammering. "I just wanted to look at the horses."

"You have no business here," the smaller of the two said in a raspy voice. "Wanted to steal something, huh?"

Arya cursed herself for having chosen such a plain dress this morning again. If she had worn one of her better dresses, perhaps the white one with the blue and red trouts or the blue one with the silver wolves on the hem, those two would have surely recognized her as a noble lady. Now they probably thought she was a maidservant or something. Yes, she should have chosen a different dress. The two of them would certainly never have mistaken Sansa for anything other than a most highborn lady.

"What would she be stealing here?" the one-eyed giant asked before Arya could deny it herself. "Straw and horse feed or what?"

"Shut up, Toland. Look at how skinny that thing is. I bet she'd even eat horse feed to finally put a little weight on her. How did she get in here anyway? We've been guarding the entrance the whole time."

"She probably snuck past you, stupid, because you were staring at the whores across the street the entire time."

"Fuck you! At least I still have two eyes with which I can look at the ladies."

"Ladies... ladies my ass," the giant said. "I don't care how she got in here. She has to get out or we'll be in trouble. So off with you, skinny rat, and don't you ever dare think about coming back, or I'll beat some more sense into your head."

She gave a quick curtsy, then turned and hurried as fast as she could to the small door that would take her back into the hallway below the southern grandstand. She would have loved to tell them who she really was, tell them that they couldn't talk to her like that. Mentioning her name, however, would only have drawn unwanted attention to her and that was something she really didn't need right now. She hadn't quite reached the door when she heard the shorter of the two call out something else.

"You're lucky our watch is still going on for a while, or I'd take you back to the straw right now. I would know a few more ways to get some sense into that pretty little head of yours!"

For the next round in the archery contest, she had better think of another hiding place for the clothes. She would have to talk to Princess Rhaenys about it in a moment. She hurried through the passageways under the stands, through doors and again past knights, soldiers and commoners, mostly servants, trying as best she could to braid a ribbon in her hair as she walked. When she arrived at the royal box, she would have to look good. Also but not only for her father, who would certainly see her. Somehow, however, it didn't quite want to work out. She left the passageways under the arena through a side exit near the main entrance, walked the short distance along the improvised road next to the arena, and found Lady Allara waiting for her outside the entrance, as promised.

"Lady Arya, there you are. How lovely. Too bad you missed the archery contest. It was truly exciting," she said with a wink.

Lady Allara accompanied her from the main entrance to the grandstand in the direction of the royal box, into which, looking again at her plain dress, she would certainly never have been admitted on her own. They had almost made the distance when her father suddenly appeared in the aisle in front of her.

"Arya, there you are," he said with a smile. "I've been looking for you."

For a brief moment, she wanted to fall around her father's neck, but then held herself back at the last moment. Her father did not know, could not know, why she was in such a good mood and if she had fallen around his neck out of nowhere, he would certainly have asked a few unwanted questions.

By the seven, the glove, it flashed through her mind.

At the last moment, before she arrived at her father's, she suddenly remembered that she was still wearing the new leather glove Jon had gifted her. That was why she hadn't been able to properly braid the ribbon in her hair. This glove would certainly have raised more questions, unpleasant questions. Quickly she slipped the glove off, panicking, thinking of a place to hide it. Suddenly she felt someone take the glove from her hand behind her back. She looked to the side for a moment and realized it was Lady Allara reaching for her glove. She let go of it and faster than Arya could follow her movements, the glove had disappeared into an almost invisible pocket sewn into her dress.

"Hello father," she finally said as she stood directly in front of him. "Sorry, I... had to go to the privy and Lady Allara kindly showed me the way," she lied, hoping her father would believe her and pursue the matter any further.

"Ah, I see. How was your day so far? I haven't seen you in a while," he said with a laugh. "Would you like to tell me about your day before you disappear right back into the royal box? Your mother's eyes will glaze over when she hears in whose company you've watched the tourney," he said with a smile and a wink.

"I'd best leave you alone for a moment then. Lady Arya, you know the way. My lord," Lady Allara said, curtsying to her father and then disappearing, the silk of her dress rustling like a shallow wind in the leaves of a tree.

"My day? What of it?"

"Arya, what do you mean by what of it? You spent the day with Princess Rhaenys. How was it? To be honest, Arya, I wouldn't have expected you to have fun spending the entire day with the princess and her ladies-in-waiting."

"Oh, that. Yes, that was... nice."

"Nice? That's it?"

"Yes, yes it was. We really had a lot of fun."

"Well, tell me then, what did you do all day?"

"We have...," she said, dragging out each word as if she didn't want to finish the sentence until late at night.

"We just had a wonderful day, my lord," she suddenly heard a voice beside her, soft as velvet and as warm a summer day. She looked to the side, where Princess Rhaenys had come to stand beside her, smiling all over her ravishing face. "We had tea and talked about Winterfell and the North. I can't wait to see your homeland with my own eyes, my lord."

"Thank you, your highness," her father said, visibly surprised by the princess' sudden appearance, indicating a bow. Arya recognized the relief in her father's eyes that she had apparently not made any nonsense. He said nothing of the sort, but Arya knew her father well enough to recognize that particular glance. "You are always most welcome to us, of course. We would be honored to welcome you at Winterfell one day."

"You had better tell your daughter not to enthuse so much about your homeland, or I'll take you up on that offer, my lord," she said with a bright, enchanting laugh. "The summer snows alone I would love to see one day."

"That can certainly be arranged, Your Highness," said her father, his chest seeming to swell a tiny bit at the princess's enthusiasm for their home. "I... also wanted to thank you, Your Highness."

"Thank me? For what, my lord?"

"For allowing Arya to be in your presence."

"Oh, no thanks are necessary, my lord. Lady Arya is most pleasant company. Lady Allara is quite taken with her as well. Now if you will excuse us, the joust is about to begin and your daughter and I have yet to take our seats."

"Of course, Your Highness," her father said, indicating another bow in the direction of the princess, who, after an elegant nod, turned and made the rest of the way to the royal box. Arya feigned a quick curtsy in her father's direction with a broad grin, then turned away as well and walked quickly after her.

"I thought it was all over now," she whispered when they were a few paces away and the noise in the arena surely drowned out her voice enough so that her father would no longer hear her.

"I have seen that," Princess Rhaenys said, again laughing loudly and adorably. "That is why I hurried to your rescue, my lady, even though that would have been more the task for a dashing knight. Do you perhaps already have someone in mind for that role, my lady?"

"No," she said in as firm a voice as she could muster, hoping to sound convincing, although she was not sure herself whether that was true.

As short a time as it had been since she had been in King's Landing, she had done and said and enjoyed a number of things that she would never have thought herself capable of. Perhaps she would like to be asked for her favor by some young knight. But who was to do that anyway? She briefly pondered the names of the knights she knew who were participating in this tourney. Most of the ladies would probably have passed out from happiness at being asked for their favors by Prince Aegon. He was nice, nicer than she had expected the crown prince to be, and Arya couldn't deny how absurdly handsome he was, yet even if he had asked, she would have had no interest in granting him her favor. She ran through some of the other names in her head, but in the end only the same name kept coming to mind. She quickly pushed the thought aside, though, feeling silly at the thought.

"Too bad. I happen to know of one or two young men who would be honored to wear your favor in this tourney. Others, though, probably don't know themselves yet that they would wish to do so."

Arya didn't know what to make of what the princess had just said, and was thus silent for a moment.

"You have made an impression on my father. That much is clear," she then said, preferring to change the subject. "How do you even know about the summer snows?"

"I've never been far north, but we certainly have books here in the south," Princess Rhaenys said, winking conspiratorially at Arya as she stepped past the Gold Cloaks and two white knights of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy and Prince Lewyn Martell, into the royal box, Arya immediately behind her.

Of course, Arya scolded herself for her stupid question. She has read about it. Don't ask such silly questions.

Arya attempted a curtsy toward the king and queen, who had arrived in the meantime, as she entered the royal box. She probably looked anything but elegant and ladylike, but Queen Elia still answered her effort with a smile and a curt nod, while King Rhaegar did not acknowledge her at all. They took their seats, Princess Rhaenys to the king's left, next to her Lady Allara and next to her Arya. Prince Aegon was not there, as he would have to compete in the joust later. Jon was unfortunately already gone as well. Arya was sad that it had taken her so long to wash and change, so that she had missed Jon. She firmly resolved to see Jon later, however.

There's so much I have to talk to him about.

The first joust of the day would unfortunately not be Jon, as she had hoped, but his brother Orys. She didn't know Orys well, nor did she have any real interest in it, though she wouldn't tell that to Jon of course. Orys, as little as she had met him or heard about him so far, seemed to bear as little resemblance to Jon as her own father did to Jon's father, Robert, who were like brothers in everything but blood. Just as Jon's other brother Steffon, Orys was tall, considerably taller than Jon, broader in the shoulders, with jet-black hair and always laughing, cheerful and friendly, but seemed as fond of drinking and feasting, not to mention women, as Lord Robert apparently was. She had even heard Lady Allara say that Orys, the youngest of the brothers, was said to have fathered some bastards already, at least one in Storm's End and another in Bronzegate. Whether this was true, Arya did not know to say, but she knew that such stories, even if they were not true, never came out of nowhere and always contained at least a grain of truth.

Orys, after being announced by the herald, accompanied by the cheers of countless young ladies and the enthusiastic shouts of some young pages in black and yellow, came riding into the arena on a chestnut mare in a suit of armor so bright yellow that it almost hurt Arya's eyes. His opponent followed shortly after, Ser Horas Redwyne, a man with bright orange hair and a square face that somehow seemed a little too big for his head.

"I'm rooting for Ser Orys," she heard Lady Allara say beside her.

"Do you like him?" asked Princess Rhaenys.

"No, I don't like him, but Ser Horas once touched me rather unseemly at a dance. Since then, I've always been in favor of anyone who competes against him."

"Well, all right then. I was afraid I'd have to disappoint you that he's no Ser."

"What is he then?"

"Well, a squire. He's still the squire of a certain Ser Gawen, whoever that is. He has not yet earned his knighthood."

"I'm sure that will come once he has finally knocked Ser Horas, that groper, off his horse."

Orys Baratheon rode his mare at a fast gallop to the stands for the commoners and asked a peasant girl with beautiful blond curls for her favor, a simple ribbon of gray cloth that he, however, wore around his fist as proudly as if it were the banner of a great house and she were his sweetheart.

She probably will be. At least for tonight, Arya thought.

Ser Horas also rode forward toward the stands for the nobles and asked the favor of a beautiful young lady with flowing brown curls in a bright green dress. The lady seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then granted Ser Horas her favor anyway.

"Lady Margaery Tyrell," said Princess Rhaenys, who had apparently noticed Arya's questioning look.

"Do you dislike her?" asked Arya in a low voice, having quite clearly heard the undertone in the princess's voice.

"I don't care about her at all," she said, but her voice betrayed that she meant the exact opposite. "She used to be… interested in my Aegon," she finally added, when she probably realized herself that Arya couldn't possibly have believed her first sentence. "That's thankfully been settled by now, though. She can have one of the Redwynes for all I care, or both if she wants."

Her Aegon…

Arya had to think about this choice of words for a few moments, sounding a little strange when said about the own brother. Had it been meant the way it had sounded? She didn't know, but caught herself thinking about how it would sound if she spoke of her Robb or her Bran.

My Jon... Does that sound less strange?

It certainly felt strange to her, even though it didn't feel bad at all… somehow.

The joust began shortly thereafter with a loud blast of the horn. Both riders gave their horses the spurs and thundered towards each other, the lances slowly lowering. Ser Horas was a sturdy man, tall and broad in the shoulders, but Arya could clearly see that he was not a good rider and kept his horse under control more poorly than not. ORys Baratheon was a very good rider, it seemed, and no less tall or broad besides. They met almost in the middle and Orys' lance burst with a loud bang on the shield of Ser Horas, while the latter's lance remained in one piece. On the second round, the result was the same. Orys' lance broke while Ser Horas' lance remained intact. The third round was thus Ser Horas' last chance to claim a victory here, having to knock Orys Baratheon out of the saddle. Much to Lady Allara's delight, however, the result was the exact opposite. Orys, as if it was not enough for him to win his joust only on points, thrust with his lance with such force, passing Ser Horas' shield and hitting his opponent's breastplate that he was not only lifted out of the saddle but also thrown backwards a few paces against his riding direction.

Orys Baratheon rode a victory lap around the arena, waved once more to the pretty blonde girl, and then left at a fast gallop. In the meantime, two squires had helped Ser Horas, who appeared to be slightly injured, up from the ground and had caught his shying horse. They helped the limping knight out of the arena, which was acknowledged by Lady Allara with a satisfied grin and by Princess Rhaenys with a no less satisfied clap. Pages scurried across the sand of the arena while this was going on, taking off the coats of arms of both participants and replacing them with the ones of the participants of the now following round of jousting. It was a strange sight to see some of the pages take down the stag of House Baratheon only to replace it with yet another stag of House Baratheon. This was a royal tourney, however, and so of course everything had to be done properly, as Princess Rhaenys told her with a wink, herself amused by the display.

Arya caught her heart beating faster, almost as if it was her turn to compete in the joust, as she realized that the renewed Baratheon banners could only mean that it was now Jon's turn.

Of course I'm excited. He's my friend, she told herself, feeling her ears turn red.

She quickly untied the ribbons from her hair and let it fall open over her shoulders to cover the embarrassing color of her ears, fervently hoping that her cheeks were not already just as red. Then the time had come. The herald, a short, bald man in bright red, stepped forward to announce the next participants. The shouts and screams in the arena immediately quieted as he raised his voice.

"In the name of His Grace, King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the First of His Name," the herald began to call out in a deep, firm voice, "Jon Baratheon, the heir to Storm's End, will compete in the most noble discipline of the jousting against Arron Qorgyle, second son of Lord Quentyn Qorgyle. May the Father give them strength and may the Mother protect them. Love live the king."

Arya immediately jumped up from her seat and began clapping and calling his name as Jon rode into the arena on his black mare. Princess Rhaenys and Lady Allara had also risen and applauded, though a bit more reservedly than Arya. She noticed a wry, yet pleased grin on the princess' face as Arya cheered for Jon, who first rode two laps around the arena and then took his position. Arron Qorgyle, for all she knew a good friend of Jon and Prince Aegon, also rode a lap around the arena before taking position. Ser Arron – if he was a Ser – rode to the stands first. He rode past the entire stands once, then turned his horse and rode back again, as if he had to examine all the assembled ladies carefully before deciding on one. He finally came to a halt in front of the royal box and lifted the visor of his helmet.

"Lady Allara," he said with a broad smile that showed two rows of perfect white teeth, "would you do me the honor of granting me your favor in this joust?"

Lady Allara stood up, a gentle smile on her lips from which Arya could not tell whether she was sincerely pleased by this request from the young knight or whether she knew he was playing a joke on her.

"But certainly, my lord," she said then, taking two steps forward to the parapet of the royal box and tying a bright red silk ribbon around his right hand.

I wonder who Jon will ask. So far, he hasn't asked anyone in this tourney. Maybe today he will, Arya thought, noticing how her ears, hidden by her dark curls, seemed to get even hotter and redder at the thought. What do I care?! That's stupid anyway, she then immediately scolded herself.

"So you and Arron Qorgyle, huh?" she heard Princess Rhaenys ask after the young man had ridden away and Lady Allara hd taken her seat again.

"No, absolutely not," Lady Allara said. "He is only the second son. Father would never allow that and I certainly do not have any interest in him anyway."

"But your father will allow you one dance with Arron tonight, won't he?"

"Yes, that certainly. But you saw Arron's smile. He will hardly be satisfied with a dance alone. But that is definitely all he will get."

"Well, that's his problem then," the princess said with a laugh, leaning forward to get a better look at Arya. "Who do you think Jon will ask for his favor, Lady Arya?"

"I... don't know, Your Highness."

"You don't? Well, I'd have an idea, but I don't know if Jon is smart enough to have it as well."

Arron Qorgyle, meanwhile, had moved back into position and the arena was now waiting to see what Jon would do. Arya looked over at him sitting there on his horse, elegant and proud with his back as straight as a spear. His armor, black and bright yellow, was beautiful, decorated with stag antlers and small scales that mimicked the fur of a wolf. She saw how Jon seemed to look around, how his gaze kept falling on the grandstand, on the royal box. For a moment it looked as if he was about to give his horse the spurs to come riding at them, but then he remained in place.

Surely he is considering asking Princess Rhaenys for her favor, she thought. She is so beautiful. What man would not love to wear her favor?

When, after a while, nothing happened and Jon, despite his gaze falling again and again on the royal box, made no effort to move from the spot, the signal finally sounded at the behest of the herald, announcing the beginning of this joust. Both horsemen lowered the visors of their helmets, had lances handed to them, and prepared to charge forward upon the next signal.

"Apparently he's not smart enough," she heard Princess Rhaenys say, and at the last moment was able to stop herself from contradicting her aloud.

The second blast of the horn sounded. Immediately the arena erupted in cheers and shouts as both riders gave their horses the spurs. Slowly lowering their lances, they thundered toward each other. With a tremendous bang, the two met in the center of the arena. Both lances broke, but both riders were still firmly seated in the saddle.

"Go on, Jon, take him down," Arya shouted.

A quick glance to the side showed her that the princess again had that slightly crooked smile on her face. Arya decided to ignore it, though. Lady Allara clapped her hands lightly, yet Arya wasn't sure if she was actually satisfied with the performance presented or if she even wanted Arron Qorgyle to win at all. She had not really understood how she and Arron Qorgyle stood to each other. It did not really interest her anyway, however. Jon and Arron Qorgyle took up their positions again, had new lances given to them, and prepared once more to charge toward each other at the sound of the horn.

Arya rose from her seat and took a step forward as the horn sounded again and the two once more thundered toward each other as fast as their horses carried them. Again the lances were lowered, again they smashed into each other with a loud crash, again both riders held on to their saddles. The cheers in the arena grew even louder as it became visible that Arron Qorgyle's lance had broken, but Jon's had not. Arya had not been able to see it, so quick had it happened, but somewhere she heard someone say that it had not been a clean hit and so the lance had slipped off Arron Qorgyle's shield. Both riders took up their positions again and Arron Qorgyle picked up a new lance. Jon was now one point behind. Everything was still possible, but it was difficult to score against a good, agile rider like Arron Qorgyle. Arya knew that much even without ever having jousted herself.

Arya felt her heart beat to her throat when, seemingly after only a tiny moment, the horn sounded again and both riders once more gave their sweating horses the spurs. The roar and the cheering in the arena seemed to be forgotten at once, Princess Rhaenys and the king and queen near her seemed to be forgotten. No sound reached her ears anymore. At that moment, nothing and no one mattered anymore except Jon. Nothing at all seemed to matter anymore in that moment, as Arya looked down into the arena and saw Jon riding toward Arron Qorgyle in his fantastic armor, his lance lowered and his gaze fixed firmly on his target.

"Jon, you can do it," she heard herself shout without having intended to.

The loud thunder of wood clashing against steel and a splintering lance jolted her back into the here and now. Once again, the arena erupted in cheers as Jon raised the stump of his broken lance into the air while Arron Qorgyle still held his intact lance in his hand.

"Yes, yes! That's it!" she shouted, ignoring the queen's startled look and Princess Rhaenys' loud laughter.

Three passes had been ridden and both riders had two points. From now on, each lance could be the decisive one. This time, Jon was handed a new lance after he had moved back into position, while Arron Qorgyle kept his still intact lance in his hand. Once again the horn sounded, once again both riders gave their horses the spurs, once again they thundered towards each other. The lances were lowered, the trampling of the hooves through the dry sand echoed through the arena like the beating of a war drum, faster and faster, louder and louder.

Then there was a boom, loud as a thunderclap.

Arya's heart seemed to stop as she saw how, both riders still in their saddles, Arron Qorgyle rode to the end of the course with an intact lance, while Jon once again held only a broken stump in his hand.

Yes, he won! By the old gods and the new, Jon has won! Yes!

Jon rode one, then two victory laps through the arena, the stump of his broken lance raised high. He tore his helmet from his head, beaming gloriously all over his face as he rode past the royal box, his gaze fixed firmly on Arya. He called out something that she could not understand, though. She herself could not stop cheering and calling his name either, while the pages were already busy scurrying around the arena like nimble mice, taking down the banners of the houses of Baratheon and Qorgyle and hanging up the white of the Kingsguard and the kraken of House Greyjoy.

Arya felt woozy, as excited as if she had just won the joust herself, could not stop grinning and smiling and laughing and didn't even really realize how Jon left and, after the herald's announcement, the next contestants rode into the arena, Ser Jonothor Darry and Theon.

"I'm going to get myself something to drink," she heard Princess Rhaenys say, as Theon was just taking up his position and, his eyes firmly fixed on the royal box, was getting ready to leave his position again in order to ask a lady for her favor.

Did he really think he could ask Princess Rhaenys for her favor, Arya thought as she saw the confused look the leaving princess left on Theon's face. She knew it was mean, still Arya couldn't help but grin.

Waiting neither for a signal nor for his opponent, Theon rode forward anyway, stopping in front of the royal box and opening the visor of his helmet. He looked silly. Up close, he looked downright ridiculous. Somehow the suit of armor didn't seem to fit him properly, being slightly too large and too broad, and beneath the crooked, piss yellow kraken on his chest, the shape of the three-headed dragon that must have once adorned the armor could still be seen.

One of Prince Aegon's suits of armor, Arya thought. No wonder it doesn't fit him.

The expression on Theon's face was confused, almost shocked, as he looked at Arya and began to speak.

"Where did she go?" he asked.

"Who, the princess? Got something better to do, I suppose," Arya said with a shrug, enjoying Theon's obvious horror.

"What do you mean? Tell me where she's gone already, horse face," he scolded.

"That is hardly your concern," Arya suddenly heard a voice say, cold as ice and hard as steel. It took her a moment to realize that it had been the voice of the queen. "Lady Arya is my daughter's guest, so I suggest you treat her with the respect she deserves."

Theon, his eyes widened in shock and all color drained from his face, as if he were only now realizing that the king and the queen were of course also present in the royal box, opened his mouth and was just about to answer something, possibly apologize or at least justify himself, but then the queen already spoke on.

"To a young man who does not know how to behave properly in the presence of a lady, as is evidently the case with you, young Lord Greyjoy, my daughter would never grant her favor anyway. So I also suggest you get back into position now and prepare for the joust against Ser Jonothor before I begin to think of having you removed from the tourney for your insolence. Indeed, the idea appeals to me more and more with every passing moment."

"Yes, Your Grace," said Theon, lowering his head like a beaten dog, jerking the reins of his horse around and riding away.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Arya said softly, unsure if the Queen had even heard her.

"No need to thank me," the queen said then, however, turning and smiling at her as kindly and warmly as if she were a completely different person and hadn't just made Theon Greyjoy almost sink into the ground with shame. "Such behavior should not be exhibited by any young man, and certainly not by the heir to a noble family."

"Theon always behaves like that. I have learned to live with that, Your Grace."

"That's very brave of you, Lady Arya," the queen said with a laugh, "but that really shouldn't be necessary. I will have to have a serious word with Lord Stark about how he let it get this far," she said, winking at Arya before turning back around.

Meanwhile, Ser Jonothor had also left his position and came riding towards the royal box. He came to a halt in front of it, opening the visor of his helmet as well, smiling broadly.

"My queen, would you grant me the honor of carrying your favor in this joust?"

"If my lord husband has no objection," the queen laughed.

The king just grinned and nodded, while the queen, to the frenetic cheers of the people in the arena, rose without waiting for his reaction and tied an orange ribbon of sand silk around the white knight's right hand. Ser Jonothor suggested a bow to the king and queen with a deep nod, then closed the visor of his helmet and returned to his position.

Arya looked over at Theon, who was waiting in position for the start. Of course, she couldn't see his face through the closed visor, but she still had the feeling that she could almost sense Theon's anger and disappointment and - hopefully - shame. They did not have to wait long for the signal to begin. The horn sounded and immediately both riders gave their horses the spurs, rushing towards each other. They met in the middle, both lances breaking under the cheers of the people in the arena, but both riders held tightly in the saddle. Theon's lance had broken on Ser Jonothor's shield, while Ser Jonothor's lance had broken on Theon's breastplate. For a brief moment, it even looked as if Theon was swaying in the saddle from the powerful impact, but then caught himself again. The riders got back into position, were given new lances, and waited again for the signal.

"Did I miss anything interesting?" Arya heard Princess Rhaenys' voice behind her. With soft, barely audible steps, she walked past Arya and Lady Allara and took her seat again as gracefully as if she were dancing.

"Indeed," Lady Allara said. "Her Grace the Queen nearly knocked Theon Greyjoy out of his saddle earlier, and without a lance to boot."

"Really? I would have loved to have seen that."

"I just wanted to clarify something," the queen said with a laugh, but without turning around. "I'm sorry if I robbed you of the opportunity to grant your favor to young Lord Greyjoy, my daughter."

"Oh, I think I'll be able to cope with that setback somehow," said the princess. "Too bad I just had to get something to eat."

"I thought you were going to get something to drink?" Lady Allara asked.

"Whatever," Princess Rhaenys said, waving it off, laughing. The signal sounded again and both riders thundered toward each other once more. "At least I'm still in time to see Theon Greyjoy actually get knocked out of the saddle."

With a mighty thunder, both riders collided again in the middle of the arena, again both lances broke, but this time, as if the gods had heard the princess' words, Theon could no longer hold himself in the saddle. Ser Jonothor's lance had slipped past Theon's shield as swiftly as a shadow cat, hitting him - as far as Arya had been able to see so quickly – right in the stomach, and knocking him sideways out of the saddle with a tremendous force. Cheers erupted in the arena as Theon landed in the dust, rolled a few paces through the dirt, and finally sat up, removing his helmet. Ser Jonothor refrained from taking a victory lap around the arena, instead bringing his horse to a halt and dismounting next to Theon, who was still sitting on the ground. He walked the few steps toward Theon and held out his hand to help him up. Arya saw Ser Jonothor's lips move, apparently saying something to Theon, but to which Theon did not seem to respond. Theon looked up at the white knight for a moment, then threw his helmet aside and stood up, ignoring the outstretched hand, and stomped out of the arena, his face distorted and his head red with anger.

Ser Jonothor waved a few more times in the direction of the stands, both the stands for the nobles and for the commoners, then bowed one last time to his king and queen and mounted his horse again to leave the arena as well. If the people in the arena were already loud and excited at this point, they now seemed to literally explode as the pages once again scurried across the arena, removing the white of Kingsguard and the kraken of House Greyjoy and replacing them with the banners of the next contestants, the brown bear paw of House Brune and the red, three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. She saw the herald step forward to announce the two competitors, but could not make out a single word over the loud cheering and shouting.

The knight of House Brune, a short, stocky man, came riding into the arena on a horse so ordinary in appearance that it might as well have been a plow horse. He wore a plain, battered suit of armor without markings or adornments, and a brown cloak, covered with patches, on which not even the crest of his family was visible. Had Arya not known who the man was, she would have thought him a cutthroat or, at best, a hedge knight. Prince Aegon followed immediately, noble and elegant in his black armor on his equally black steed.

"Couldn't the man have at least made himself look a little more presentable?" Lady Allara asked. "I mean, it's the tourney in honor of the crown prince and he is even competing against the crown prince. He could have at least gotten himself a new cloak and had his shabby armor dinged up a bit. Which of the Brunes does he belong to anyway? Brownhollow or Dyre Den?"

"This is Ser Lothor Brune, so by no means Dyre Den," said Princess Rhaenys, "but I have heard that not even the Brunes of Brownhollow accept him as one of their own. His father had no holdings of his own, and after his death he was not welcome in Brownhollow."

Ser Lothor had meanwhile ridden to the stands for the commoners and had asked for the favor of an apparently no longer too young woman with thick black curls streaked with gray and enormous breasts so large they almost seemed to be falling out of her dress. Prince Aegon waited in his position until Ser Lothor had returned before he too left his position to ask a lady for her favor. The shouts and screams of the girls and women in the arena were deafening as Prince Aegon's night-black horse finally began to move, heading straight for the royal box.

Princess Rhaenys rose from her seat, her smile so bright and radiant that it could have outshone even the sun, and walked forward to the parapet of the royal box before her brother had even arrived there to ask for her favor. Once again, her movements were as elegant as if she were dancing to a melody only she could hear. Prince Aegon reached the royal box and wordlessly but with an equally radiant smile held out his right hand to his sister, around which the princess wordlessly tied a silken ribbon in fiery red. She breathed a gentle kiss on the ribbon before letting go of his hand again. Prince Aegon then immediately turned his horse and rode back into position at a fast gallop, while Princess Rhaenys took her seat again, again without speaking a word. Arya tried to look her in the face as inconspicuously as possible, and thought she noticed that the princess' cheeks appeared slightly blushed.

Once again, the arena erupted in applause and deafening cheers as Prince Aegon raised his fist with the red silk ribbon in the air. Arya also briefly glanced at the king and queen, but discovered two entirely different expressions there. The king smiled contentedly to himself as he watched his son get ready for the joust. The queen, though still with a stately noble smile on her face, seemed as tense as a cocked crossbow.

Whatever this is between the prince and the princess, the queen is not happy with it. Not at all.

Arya was no longer really paying attention when the actual joust finally began shortly thereafter. She looked around the arena, hoping to somehow spot Jon in the crowd, but found him nowhere. Lady Allara seemed to notice her glances as, after Prince Aegon successfully broke his first lance at his opponent's shield and took the lead on points, she rose for a brief cheer along with Princess Rhaenys, but then sat down again.

"Are you looking for someone, Lady Arya?"

"I... no, I... it's all right. I'm not looking for anyone," she lied.

"If you're looking for young Lord Jon, he's probably still busy taking off his armor and washing himself. That takes a while."

"I know," she snapped, glad to tell from her smile that Lady Allara obviously didn't resent her tone.

"This is the last joust of the day. At least the last one we're interested in. After this, we'll head back to the Red Keep. I would suggest that you accompany us. Lord Jon will certainly be there," she said, her tone growing softer and softer with each word, until finally it was a whisper that Arya could barely hear in the din of the arena.

Arya was just about to object, to tell Lady Allara that she had not been looking for Jon at all, and even if she had, that it would have been none of her business anyway, when once again cheers erupted through the arena and Lady Allara, together with Princess Rhaenys, jumped to their feet, cheering and clapping, as Prince Aegon broke his second lance, this time on his opponent's breastplate, and was now leading by two points to zero. A third time the horn sounded, again only slightly louder than the shouts and cheers of the people in the stands, a third time the two competitors thundered towards each other. This time both lances broke, but both riders kept firmly in the saddle, so that Prince Aegon had won by three points to one to the enthusiastic cheers of his sister and Lady Allara. Prince Aegon rode past the stands a few more times, making first one then two victory laps of the arena, receiving a breathed kiss from his sister each time he rode past, before leaving the arena. Arya then immediately left with Princess Rhaenys and Lady Allara to return to the Red Keep, while the king and queen stayed behind to watch the last two jousts of the day, Ser Meryn Trant against Ser Perwyn Frey and Ser Henryk Malcolm against Ser Tytos Frey.

The ride in the carriage back to the Red Keep was fairly quick. It took them only little more than the better part of an hour to ride all the way across the city and into the Red Keep, protected by two double rows of Gold Cloaks, at least fifty men in all. The carriage drove right through the fortress, up the winding road, and came to a halt just outside Maegor's Holdfast.

"I'm going to freshen up a bit and change my dress to look good for my Aegon at the dance tonight," said Princess Rhaenys, who had been talking about nothing but her brother the entire ride.

As if you could look anything but beautiful, Arya thought, but said nothing.

"Will you be there tonight as well, Lady Arya?" she then asked.

"I don't know yet."

"I see. The day must have been quite... exciting for you," she said with a knowing grin. "I'm sure your father will be back soon, too, if you'd like to see him. Surely he would be pleased to hear how you enjoyed the rest of the day."

"Surely," Arya said, who could hardly wait to bathe, wash the rest of the itchy straw off her body, and then eat until she was bursting.

Together they entered Maegor's Holdfast through the open main gate past soldiers and servants who seemed only too eager to read Princess Rhaenys' every wish from her eyes. They said a brief but friendly goodbye as they reached a junction of the wide hallway where Arya had to continue straight ahead, but the princess had to turn left. After a few steps, however, Princess Rhaenys stopped once more and turned to Arya.

"If you don't feel like dancing tonight," she said then, again that gentle, knowing grin on her lips, "then I recommend one of the eastern courtyards of Maegor's Holdfast. They practice archery there during the day, but at night you'll be alone, and they're quite lovely in the moonlight."

The princess winked at her one last time, then turned away and disappeared around the corner, followed by Lady Allara. Arya thanked the old gods and the new when, after a short detour she was forced to take in the confusing mess of the hallways of Maegor's Holdfast, she arrived in her chambers to find not only a welcoming bath, but also a tray of fresh food and watered wine. As quickly as probably never before in her life, she tore the dress from her body, threw her shoes into the nearest corner and let herself sink into the no longer hot, but still pleasantly warm water. She scrubbed her entire body with a soft cloth and soap smelling of fresh blossoms, waiting at the ready, until her skin was glowing red, but at least it was no longer scratching or itching anywhere. Then she got out of the water and put on a fresh dress that she would be able to wear for the rest of the evening. The dress was blue and white with a black wolf's head embroidered on the chest and belly, made of linen, a little silk and a bit of brocade. It was more posh than Arya would have liked, yet not so constricting that she would have felt uncomfortable in it. Barefoot, filled with pure energy from excitement, she walked up and down in her chambers with a bowl of roasted pumpkin and small pieces of cured duck breast, reliving the whole wonderful day in her mind as she first emptied that bowl and then ate an entire plate of small cakes filled with herbs, goat cheese and chicken.

She still could not believe it. She had actually participated in a real tourney. And not only that. She had even reached the next round. Just thinking back to the moment when the herald had actually said the name, Arri Waters, made her almost burst with pride and excitement. She could still feel her heart beating up to her throat, as if it was about to leap out of her chest at any moment. And then Jon had also won in a great joust against Arron Qorgyle.

Jon. I must congratulate Jon. And thank him. Absolutely. Yes, I must thank him. Now.

She briefly thought about whether she should wait here for her father. But how long was she supposed to sit around here? She couldn't possibly know if her father wouldn't watch the remaining jousts or even have some cups of wine with Jon's father Lord Robert afterwards, maybe even attend one of the feasts or meet up with Aunt Lyanna. She could sit around here all night waiting for her lord father without him coming over. No, sitting around here was not a good idea. She would go to Jon, congratulate him on his victory, and tell him about her day and how much she loved all of it.

Does he even want to hear that? He jousted today and won. And he saw my few arrows fly, too. No, he'll definitely want to hear about it. I'm sure he will.

Arya was just slipping into fresh boots made of soft leather, which did her strained feet good, when another thought occurred to her.

Where am I supposed to find Jon? He could be anywhere. Still in the arena with the other jousters, at one of the feasts, or even in a dark corner with some girl, celebrating his victory and letting himself be rewarded with a few kisses.

Immediately, however, she scolded herself for this thought.

No, that's nonsense. He didn't even ask a girl for her favor. He's not going to disappear into a corner with just any girl. He is not like that.

For this thought, however, she scolded herself just as quickly.

And even if he did... what would I have to do with it? Nothing at all.

Still, she wanted to see him and thank him and talk to him. Just see him and talk to him. See him and talk to him, just be near him. She still had no idea where she could possibly find Jon, though. He could be anywhere. Jousting, feasting, dancing, drinking... The realization hit her like a hammer blow to the head. For a moment, she felt foolish for not understanding it right away. Then, however, Princess Rhaenys' words flashed through her mind again.

I recommend one of the eastern courtyards of Maegor's Holdfast... They're quite lovely in the moonlight.

Of course. That's where Jon had to be. There, where they had practiced archery together. Maybe he would even be waiting for her there! Quickly she tied the laces of her boots. Before she hurried out the door, she stopped briefly in front of the mirror. Her hair was not yet completely dry, hanging wild and unkempt over her shoulders and down her back. She quickly grabbed one of the silk ribbons lying in one of the drawers of the mirror table - in deep blue, so that it matched her dress - and tied it into her hair, so that it at least remotely resembled a real hairstyle. Immediately, she noticed the blush coming back to her face.

Why am I even doing this? I'm not Sansa. I don't have to look perfect all the time, and Jon won't care anyway.

For some reason, she still finished tying the ribbon in her hair and, when she was satisfied with the result, hurried out the door into the hallway. Maegor's Holdfast was indeed a maze, but fortunately she had inherited the sense of direction from her father, who as a young man had many times had to find his way through the vastness of the northern lands or the difficult paths through the Mountains of the Moon, as he had told time and again. She thus found the first of the eastern courtyards without much difficulty. Only two or three or maybe five times had she taken a wrong turn, had had to run back and take another stairway or another door after all. In the end, however, she had found the first courtyard. That was all that mattered.

She found the courtyard empty and deserted, however, so she walked on into the next courtyard, past a huge white marble fountain depicting flying dragons, half-naked girls, and all sorts of fantastic creatures of which Arya involuntarily wondered if they had ever really existed in Valyria. She hoped not.

The second courtyard, ringed by colonnades and with three small, knotty plum trees in beds bordered by jet-black stones, was equally empty. Princess Rhaenys had been right, however. The courtyard was beautiful, and Arya could easily imagine that in the moonlight it would be even more beautiful. She walked on under a bridge that connected two massive fortified towers and was so wide that the passage almost became a tunnel. She had not quite reached the other end when she heard the familiar sound of a bowstring snapping back from the third courtyard. She quickened her steps, stepped out into the courtyard, and saw him standing there, not far from her, with a bow in his hand.

Jon saw her, recognized her at the same moment, and immediately began to beam all over his face. Arya couldn't help but beam as well. For half a heartbeat she tried to pull herself together, to walk slowly and calmly towards Jon, not letting her joy get the upper hand. It was no use, however, and so she gave in to her feelings and ran as fast as she could towards him. Jon dropped the bow clattering to the ground as Arya reached him only a moment later and jumped into his open arms. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she pressed herself against him as tightly as she could. Jon returned the embrace, lifting her off the ground and holding her just as tightly.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," he said, laughing into her wet hair.

"Sorry, it took me a bit to catch Princess Rhaenys' hint," she admitted, laughing as well.

"So did you enjoy the day?" he asked as he set her back down, but left his hands on her arms. They were warm and felt comfortable.

"Enjoy? Did I enjoy it? Jon, it was the best day of my life!" It was true, and she nearly doubled over with happiness.

"I'm happy to hear that. I can't wait to cheer you on again in the next round."

"Really? So you... will be there again?"

"But of course. There's no way I'm going to miss that. You're in the next round, Arya! That's amazing."

"And you have won your joust. Congratulations. Of course, that needs to be celebrated as well."

"True enough. We really need to celebrate that," he said with a wink.

"I had thought for sure you'd be at one of the feasts, celebrating there and dancing with a girl or something."

"And miss the opportunity to toast her success with the best archer in the North? No way," he said, laughing even wider and pulling out a wineskin from a small bag lying on the ground.

"Gladly. Hand me the wineskin, then."

"No, not here. Come with me. I know a better place," he said, taking her hand and pulling her behind him out of the courtyard, leaving bow and arrow on the ground. Arya let it happen, following Jon without question, her hand in his.

His hand is so warm, she thought, feeling the heat rise in her ears again.

He led her through another courtyard, through a door and up two flights of stairs, along the top of a defensive wall and around a wide round tower. Behind it they went down another small flight of stairs and finally reached a wide terrace in the shadow of another round tower. On it stood a small wooden bench on a tiny platform. They sat down on it, still hand in hand, as Arya only now realized. She looked ahead and for a moment she could not close her mouth. The sight that presented itself to her was truly stunning. From the small bench, they overlooked half of the Red Keep to their right, looking past the Tower of the Hand all the way to the Throne Room. Behind it, in the distance, they could make out the western outskirts of King's Landing and the tourney grounds with the massive arena lit by countless fires. Immediately in front of them, the view opened up over Blackwater Rush and the royal harbor with countless ships from all over the world and the mighty warships of the royal fleet. Foreign sails with crests and letters from places Arya could not even imagine alternated with the coats of arms of the greatest houses of the Seven Kingdoms and powerful merchant families from the Free Cities. To their left, they looked down on the calm sea of Blackwater Bay, bathed in bright red and brilliant orange by the setting sun.

"This is beautiful," she breathed.

"Isn't it? Aegon showed me this place once. He and Rhaenys often come here when they want to be alone," he said and suddenly his face and his ears turned as red as an apple.

For a while they sat in silence, side by side on the small bench. Jon handed her the wineskin, Arya took a sip and handed it back to him. They drank the wine and looked down on Blackwater Bay together, as it was bathed in deeper and deeper shades of red and orange by the setting sun. They did not speak, but that was not necessary either. The view, the wine, the silence with Jon by her side were just… glorious and for the life of her, Arya didn't want to be anywhere else right now.

"Do you want to go to one of the feasts tonight and dance?" Jon suddenly asked.

"No," she said. "I just want to be here with you."

"Good, me too," he said, and she thought she heard the soft smile from his words.

Arya was again silent for a moment.

"Is there a feast tomorrow, too?"

"No, not tomorrow. The High Septon has insisted that there be no festivity on the Day of the Mother, if he already cannot forbid the jousting on that day. The day after tomorrow, however, there will certainly be another one."

"Would you then like to go dancing the day after tomorrow, perhaps? With me, I mean?" she asked and could hear herself almost losing her voice.

By the Seven, Arya, don't act so silly. You hate dancing! Why would you ask such a thing? Surely Jon hates it too. He'll say no. Of course he will. What else would he say?

"Yes, I'd love to."

"Me too," she admitted after a moment's hesitation, noting how good it felt. Again she felt her heart beating up to her throat, but this time in a completely different, wonderful beat. What was wrong with her? She took the wineskin from his hand and drank the last sip. For a while, Arya couldn't tell how long, they again just sat there in silence, looking out over Blackwater Bay, while her head slowly began to spin from the wine and her eyes grew heavy.

I have to go. Right now, she thought, suddenly realizing that her head had been leaning against Jon's shoulder and that she had snuggled up against his side like a cat on his lap for quite a while already. I guess I am more drunk than I thought after all.

Chapter Text

The stomping of his horse's hooves ran through his whole body like the sound of a drum. Ser Jaime had hit him hard on the right shoulder with his lance in the last round and now his whole side hurt as if a horse had kicked it. However, he was able to block out the pain, as a knight had to do in such moments. He had learned years ago to listen to his body, accept the pain, but not to let it control him. He felt the excitement and tension of his horse beneath him. Or maybe it was the other way around and the horse felt his excitement and tension. Aegon didn't know. He heard the cheers of the people in the arena only as a muffled rumble and murmur through his helmet, heard almost mothing but his own breathing. All he saw was his opponent in front of him, at the other end of the arena, Ser Jaime Lannister. Just him... and her. A quick glance to the side, to the royal box showed him her standing there, clapping, laughing, and as radiantly beautiful as nothing else in the world.

Aegon didn't really need this victory anymore. He had won both of his joust against Ser Robar Royce and Ser Lothor Brune, so he was safely in the quarterfinals. At least if he didn't let Ser Jaime push him out of the saddle now. In that case, the outcome of the joust between Orys Baratheon and Myle Manning would also matter. Aegon, however, had no intention of letting himself be unhorsed. So he did not need this victory. But he wanted it. He carried, as he always did, the favor of his sister, his beloved, his future wife around his right hand - even if their parents had not yet made that decision, it could not possibly come otherwise. For her alone, he had to try to win here. Two lances had Ser Jaime and he already ridden against each other, both times both lances had been broken. Ser Jaime was not one to back down, not even when he was up against his crown prince. It was one of the qualities Aegon valued most in him. A victory against Ser Jaime, whether in training or in a tourney, whether with the lance or the sword, had to be earned. It was not given as a gift. Never.

He gave his horse the spurs without having to think about it, when he heard - weak and dull through his helmet - the signal of the horn and saw how below the royal box the small flag, quartered with the seven-pointed star and the red, royal dragon, was waved. Immediately his horse thundered off, so fast and powerful that this alone could have almost made a worse rider fall out of the saddle. Aegon saw Ser Jaime ride off on his snow-white mare, a beautiful beast that he had received as a gift from his Uncle Kevan several years ago, probably even faster than Aegon himself.

Aegon again felt the pulling pain in his shoulder as he began to lower the lance toward his opponent, and he noticed how hard it was for him to keep it straight. For a fraction of a moment he had to restrain himself from looking over at his sister again, but keep his eyes fixed forward on his opponent. With the last of his strength, however, he managed to do so as Ser Jaime, clad all in the white of the Kingsguard on his white mare and with his white cloak waving behind him, came thundering toward him. Aegon tried to aim for the knight's chest, but could not yank his lance far enough across. With a tremendous bang and a painful jolt through his shoulder, the tip of his lance crashed against the knight's shield and Ser Jaime's lance against his in return. A powerful punch went through his entire body that, had he not been holding on so tightly to his saddle with his legs, would certainly have thrown him several paces through the air. He felt splinters of wood hit his chest and helmet as at least one of the two lances shattered into thousands of pieces. For a moment, Aegon didn't dare raise his head again so that the visor would open and he could see if it had been his lance that had broken. He didn't need to, though. He already felt from the lighter weight in his hand that his lance was definitely broken.

He raised his head, one, perhaps two heartbeats after the tremendous impact, and saw to his satisfaction that he was indeed left holding only a broken stump. At the end of the lane, he turned his horse, looked over to the other side, and saw that Ser Jaime's lance, however, was also broken. Aegon rode back to his side, Ser Jaime meeting him on the way to his own side.

"Lucky little prince," he heard him mock as they met halfway, and he could literally hear the white knight's grin under his helmet. Aegon had to grin as well.

"Was just about to say something similar, old man," he said, though unsure if Ser Jaime had actually heard him.

He rode back into position in a slow pace while pages scurried across both lanes to pick up the splinters and fragments of the broken lances, so that the horses would not hurt themselves on them in the next pass. Arriving at the starting position, he turned his horse and adjusted the shield on his arm a bit, the shield's leather straps having shifted a bit here and there in his grip. Ser Jaime had landed some pretty heavy hits with his lance today. He had strength, much more strength than one would expect from such an elegant fighter. One had to give him that.

Waiting for the pages to finish their work and a squire hand him another lance, he looked at his sister again, bathing his eyes for a moment in the sight of her perfection. Aegon had never been particularly godly. Not even as a child. If he had had to listen to the gibberish of old wrinkled virgins anyway, then he had preferred the gibberish of the maesters instead of the septons. The tales written in the Seven-Pointed Star had been nothing more than particularly boring fairy tales for Aegon, the tales written in the countless books of the maesters he had at least been able to experience for himself every day, if he had only looked out of the window and walked through the world with his eyes open. He had, however, come to believe in the divine, even if this had had little to do with what a septon or septa had preached to him. Yes, he had found the divine, had found it in his sister.

Nature could produce the most wondrous things. Birdsong more beautiful than any bard's ballad. Mountains and rock massifs in the most impossible forms, as no stonemason would have brought them to stand. Sunrises so beautiful that even a seasoned man's eyes welled up with tears at their colorful sight. But what nature was not able to produce, was perfection. The song of a bird was only beautiful until you were awakened by it for the first time far too early. The wondrous shapes of mountains and rocks were only pleasing to look at from a distance, not when you had to climb them at the risk of your life, and sunrises, beautiful every day anew, often enough had no real appeal if you couldn't share the sight of them with someone you loved.

His sister was different. She was not just gorgeous or beautiful. There were many a woman who were. Rhaenys, however, was unique. To Aegon, she was the embodiment of female perfection, as certainly only a god could have created her. It was the sight of his sister that made Aegon believe that there truly was something divine in the world. Yes, Rhaenys was perfect, from the tips of her flowing hair to the tips of her beautiful toes, which alone, thinking of kissing and caressing them, could set Aegon's loins ablaze already. Involuntarily, he thought of how it would soon be to finally be with her again, in his or her bed, and finally have her to himself again. He would smell the flowery scent of her hair, touch her silky smooth skin and taste the delicious sweetness of her lips, all of her lips. Immediately he felt himself getting rock hard between his legs and forcefully tore his gaze away from Rhaenys' beauty. Jousting required a sturdy lance, sure, but two was one too many, and the one between his legs, which had just begun to press uncomfortably against part of his armor, would be of no help to him here.

The pages were finally done cleaning the lanes and the arena around them almost exploded in enthusiastic cheers as the squires handed them their now fourth lance. They were tied on points and the usual three rounds were over. Now each lance could make the difference between victory and defeat. If they were to break both lances again in this round, however, the scorekeepers could also end this joust with a draw should they decide that they were both equally good and that no winner would emerge in a fair joust. A result that Aegon, with the pain in his shoulder growing stronger, would certainly have been able to live with. To do so, however, he first had to make it through the next round and break his lance safely on Ser Jaime's armor or shield.

Again he heard the blast of the horn only faintly and muffled under his helmet. Once again he gave his horse the spurs and thundered towards his opponent. The pain in his arm as he lowered his lance grew stronger and stronger, and halfway through he almost had the feeling he wasn't going to make it. Then, however, he noticed something. Ser Jaime's lance was also wavering, only slightly but unmistakable to the trained eye. Aegon must have hit him hard with his last lance as well. Only a heartbeat later, they collided in the center of the arena, lances meeting shields with mighty blows. A jolt went through Aegon's body again, and once more he felt like he was almost being lifted out of the saddle. He raised his head slightly again so that his visor could open and he could see his lance. It was broken. He pulled on the reins, turned his horse at the end of the lane, and looked over at Ser Jaime, who also held only a short stump in his right hand.

Once again, to the frenetic cheers of the people in the stands, they rode back into position and demanded new lances to be given to them. Briefly, Aegon stole a glance at his sister, who was standing excitedly on the parapet of the royal box, clinging to the back of their mother's chair. She smiled her most beautiful smile, but Aegon, even from this distance, could see the worry in her gaze.

Apparently, I didn't cover the pain in my shoulder as well as I thought.

The fifth lance was handed to him and Aegon noticed how the pulling pain in his shoulder became so strong that he could barely even hold the lance. He refrained from letting his pain be heard, however, and instead clenched his teeth so tightly that he thought they would break at any moment. A glance ahead, however, gave him new courage as he saw Ser Jaime, who was now also receiving his fifth lance, almost let it fall to the ground.

Aegon breathed heavily as he waited for the signal. Sweat poured down his forehead and into his eyes. Now, however, so close to what might be the final and decisive lance, he could not possibly remove his helmet to wipe away the sweat without indicating his withdrawal from the joust and thus his defeat. He blinked once, twice, thrice, until he could see reasonably clearly again. His eyes burned like fire, but he would deal with that. Even the pain in his arm, burning as if someone had plunged a dagger into his shoulder, he was able to block out as far as possible, until it was no longer a sensation that weakened and distracted him, but rather an old companion whose presence one simply accepted like sleeping in a worn-out bed in a field camp.

He didn't hear the blast of the horn this time, so loudly were the people shouting and cheering in the arena, but only saw the flag being waved in front of the royal box. He and his horse Maester, which he had named after the mule of his ancestor King Aegon the Fifth, hurried off. Of course, he was not a mule, but a night-black, noble destrier from one of the best breeds from the Westerlands. But since he could be as stubborn as a mule when he wanted to be, Aegon had found the name fitting.

With hooves beating loudly, as if to the beat of mighty war drums, Aegon thundered on Maester toward Ser Jaime. Aegon's gaze fixed for a heartbeat on the tip of his opponent's lance, which swayed back and forth suspiciously like his own, before he was able to tear himself away again.

Not on the threat, focus on the target, he scolded himself in thought, fixing his eyes on Ser Jaime himself.

This time he would not aim at his shield, but directly at his chest. It was the more difficult thrust, as he had to get past Ser Jaime's shield to do it, but if he succeeded, he would be able to surprise him with it. It took only three or four heartbeats for them to reach each other. At the last moment, Aegon jerked his lance around with the last of his strength, aimed the tip directly at Ser Jaime's chest, lowering his head to close his visor completely. When his lance hit its target, it tore at his shoulder so hard that Aegon felt as if his arm had been torn off. A tremendous blow to his shield told him that Ser Jaime had also hit his target. Aegon dropped whatever of his lance he still held to the ground to spare his battered arm, raised his head again to open his visor, and turned his horse at the end of the lane. He looked over at Ser Jaime, whose lance was broken just below the tip. More than half a step was not missing from the lance, but broken was broken.

Aegon was about to give his horse the spurs again to bring it back to starting position, for the sixth time already, when a squire stepped forward waving the quartered flag. The herald immediately stepped forward and began to speak in a loud, firm voice, so that even the people in the arena gradually began to fall silent.

"In the light of the Seven and in the presence of His Grace, King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, these valiant knights, Aegon of House Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone, and Ser Jaime of House Lannister, a knight of the most noble Kingsguard, have been proven to be equal and matched in their skills and their bravery. In the name of the Father and the Mother Above, this joust shall therefore now end, with no victor to crown and no loser to bemoan."

Aegon expected the people in the arena to start screaming and shouting, grumbling and cursing. A draw was never welcome, as there seemed to be nothing better for the masses than to see the high lords of the realm being knocked off their horses and landing in the dirt. To his surprise, however, the arena once again erupted in loud cheers. Apparently the people, as well as the scorekeepers, had decided that there were only winners and no losers in this fantastic joust. Aegon took off his helmet and enjoyed the cool air blowing around his sweaty head for half a heartbeat before trotting his horse down the lane to meet Ser Jaime in the center of the arena. Ser Jaime had also removed his helmet and approached him with a broad smile. Aegon returned the smile as they met right in front of the royal box and shook their armored hands.

"A good joust," Ser Jaime said, his typical mischievous grin on his face, "for a spoiled little prince like you at least. I would have knocked you off your horse with my next lance, though. Just so you know."

"Only if you hadn't fallen off your horse from old age first," Aegon returned with a grin.

Both dismounted from their horses, turned to the royal box and sank down on one knee next to each other. After a short sign from the contentedly smiling king, thereby confirming the judgement of the scorekeepers, they rose again, mounted their horses once more and rode out of the arena at a slow trot to the cheers of the people. Briefly, Aegon looked at his sister again, who was still standing next to their mother's chair, smiling broadly and gorgeously, now even with considerably less worry in her gaze. She threw him a quick kiss, which Aegon answered with an even wider grin.

As soon as he had left the inner area of the arena, he got off his horse again, gave the reins to one of the waiting stable boys and, after an affectionate pat on Maester's side, went into his tent in the square south of the arena on the banks of the Blackwater Rush where Lyman Darry, his squire, was already waiting for him. He helped him out of his armor and immediately hung it on the waiting rack in the corner of the tent. Lyman had already provided some food and watered wine, so Aegon could eat and drink in peace, while Lyman prepared a bath for him, constantly babbling about how great this joust had been and how he had never seen anything like it. Aegon said nothing, just let him talk while he tasted the wine, ate some cheese, and looked at his shoulder, which was already turning black and blue. He would have to keep it cool tonight, otherwise he wouldn't be able to move it at all tomorrow morning, which would mean the end of the tourney for him.

When the bath was ready, he slowly lowered himself into it. The water was so hot that Lyman jumped back when he accidentally touched it. It was just the way Aegon loved it. Rhaenys and he had always loved to bathe so hot that their mother had always joked that the water might as well be used to make a soup. He only briefly washed the sweat and dirt from his aching shoulder, but otherwise tried not to let it touch the hot water again.

"Lyman, run to one of the maesters in the sick tent and get me some grayleaf balm. That should help my shoulder tonight."

The lad bowed eagerly and then rushed out. Aegon could hear him apologizing just as eagerly to someone he had apparently collided with just outside the tent, and then he took off running as fast as if the Stranger himself was after him. Aegon closed his eyes and laid his head back, enjoying the warmth of the water for a while.

"That was not too bad," he suddenly heard a voice in front of him say. He didn't have to open his eyes to recognize it.

"Thanks, Jon. Saw your joust against Arron. Good technique. Seems you learned a lot from me," Aegon said with a wide grin, his eyes still closed.

"You wish," Jon said, and Aegon could hear him sink into a chair next to the bathtub. "How's your shoulder? Looks bad."

"Hurts like fuck. But at least my arm's still there and nothing's broken."

"Has a maester looked at it yet?"

"No, what for? It's a bruise. There's nothing more a maester can tell me that I don't already know."

"Rhaenys almost died of worry when she saw you were injured. I'm surprised she's not here yet."

"This is the field for the participants in the tourney, Jon. She's not allowed to be here."

"Like that's going to stop her, Egg. Be serious."

"I know," Aegon said, laughing, opening his eyes and looking at his friend for the first time now. "Probably some guard got in her way who doesn't know any better. Poor bastard."

They laughed together for a moment before Aegon began to speak again.

"Are you fit for your joust, then? You don't look well somehow, my friend."

"Aye, I'm fine. Just a little tired, that's all. I haven't been sleeping well the last few nights. Had weird dreams."

"I see," Aegon said with a grin. "Has thinking about a special girl kept you awake, perhaps?"

"No, nothing like that," Jon snorted. "The dreams were... I don't know… strange. Dreams like I used to have in Winterfell for a while back then. I told you about it, remember?"

"Oh, that thing with the wolves and all. You dreamed you were a wolf yourself, hunting deer in the woods beyond the Wall. Yes, I remember. Spent a little too much time with Lord Eddard, huh? Or rather with his daughter," Aegon said with a wink. "Maybe just don't drink any more wine before going to bed, Jon. It doesn't seem to be doing you any good."

Jon went over to the small table at the side of the tent and was just about to demonstratively pour himself a cup of wine, when the tent flap was thrown back, Rhaenys rushed into the tent and knelt beside the bath tub, taking Aegon's face in her gentle hands and kissing him all over his face.

"My love, are you well?" she asked between kisses, looking down at his blue shoulder. "I will have Ser Jaime sent to the Wall for this."

"I would have thought you would demand his head right away," Aegon said, laughing.

"Well, I'm a gracious monarch," she said, smiling now as well, softly.

"I'll go then," Jon said, who quickly poured himself half a cup of wine and emptied it in one gulp. "I'm about to joust against Aidin, and after that Orys rides in the joust against Theon. I definitely don't want to miss that. And then the melee of Steffon is already taking place as well."

"How is he doing?" asked Aegon.

"Steffon or Orys?"

"Theon, of course. Steffon hasn't had his turn yet, and Orys is doing well. I've picked up on that."

"Well, he won his last joust against Ser Meryn Trant, but before that he lost quite miserably to Ser Jonothor. So if he wants to move on, he'd better win now."

"And do you think he can do it?" asked Rheanys.

"If the gods are good, he won't," said Aegon, grinning and laughing.

Jon laughed as well, then nodded to them one last time and turned to leave the tent. He had already set foot outside when Rhaenys called after him.

"Jon, one more thing."

"What?" he asked, poking his head back through the tent flap.

"Promise me, please, that this silly charade will finally stop."

"What silly charade, then?" asked Jon, genuinely puzzled.

"That you won't ask a lady for her favor. We all know there's one you'd like to ask."

"I... don't know what you mean."

"Fine by me," Rhaenys sighed, caressing Aegon's face while she spoke. "Play this game some more and tell us this nonsense as long as you like, Jon, but at least be honest with yourself. You're not doing yourself or the lady any favors by denying this to yourself."

"Yes, Jon," Aegon agreed. "Your mother certainly won't drag you to the nearest sept the moment you ask a lady for her favor. You and... you know who."

"No," he said, and Aegon thought he could hear a shiver in his voice. "No, I don't know."

Then he was gone, and Aegon heard him trudging away from his tent with long strides. He leaned back in the hot water and let his Rhae treat him with some more of her delicious kisses. Her lips were as soft as rose petals and as sweet as honey, just as they always were. No medicine in the world could ever help him as much as a kiss from his Rhaenys.

"He knows exactly who," Aegon finally said when his sister's lips had once again parted from his. "I don't understand why he's making such a fuss about this."

Rhaenys leaned forward, rested her head on his healthy shoulder, and sighed deeply.

"Well, you know it and I know it, but... I guess they actually don't know it. Not yet. Not really, anyway. They just need a little more time."

"That shouldn't be too much more time, though. If he doesn't ask her for her favor today, it's going to be close. His next joust after today is already the quarterfinals, and things can be over pretty quickly there."

Shortly after, the tent flap opened again and a completely out of breath Lyman hurried in with a small clay pot in his hands. He almost tripped over his own feet when he suddenly found himself unexpectedly facing not only Aegon but also Rhaenys.

"My princess," he stammered with a bow.

"What is this?"

"I sent Lyman to fetch grayleaf balm for my shoulder," Aegon said.

"Hand it to me," Rhaenys commanded in her queenly voice. "I will tend to my brother's injury myself. And then leave us."

"Very well, Your Highness," he said, handing over the clay pot with trembling fingers and hurrying out again after a curt bow.

"Be kind to him, Rhae. He's a good lad."

"May be," she said as softly as velvet, the iron of the royal tone gone from her voice again as if it had never been there. "I'll talk to him again later, apologize for my tone. It's just that... I want to be alone with you, Egg. I love seeing you in tourneys, but having no time at all just for us..."

"I know what you mean," Aegon said, stretching his head forward a bit, a clear sign to his sister that he was demanding another kiss from her. Rhaenys eagerly complied with the request, their lips pressed together and their tongues entwined in a wild dance. Aegon quickly felt himself becoming rock hard between his legs for his sister, and had his shoulder not still burned as if a red-hot dagger were stuck in his flesh, he would have loved nothing more than to jump out of the tub, rip his sister's dress off her exquisite body, and take her vigorously on his little bed in the corner of his tent.

After a while their lips parted again and Rhaenys began to apply the balm to his shoulder and upper arm. It smelled horrid, but it literally sucked the heat and pain out of his body. It wasn't long before he could barely feel the pain in his shoulder anymore under the gentle touch of his sister. However, he still resisted the urge to undress his sister – even if only barely – knowing full well that the pain was no longer felt, but the injury was still very much there and if he overexerted himself now or made a wrong move, it would only get worse by tomorrow. So he would indeed have to wait a few more days, until the end of the tourney as they had agreed beforehand, before Rhaenys and he could finally enjoy each other again.

"This is not quite how I imagined our time together," she said after a while with a sweet smile, "you injured in a tub and me with this stinking grease on my fingers, but at least we're alone."

Aegon had to laugh, but felt the same as his sister. Other circumstances would have been nicer, but either way it was wonderful not to have to talk to anyone but her for a while and not to see anyone but her. He had friends, a family, loved to ride a horse and his dragon even more, loved to joust, loved to sword fight and to play Cyvasse, loved to drink and dance and read and all sorts of other things he couldn't think of at that moment, but never and in no situation was he happier than when he was just alone with his Rhaenys. When the small clay pot was empty and the balm completely spread on Aegon's shoulder, Rhaenys finally stood up, washing her hands in the small bowl of water next to the bed.

"I had better leave now and return to the royal box. Mother and father will be relieved to know that you are still alive."

"I hope you are, too."

"More than you can imagine, my love," she said with a seductive smile for which alone he would have gone through all the Seven Hells for her, gave Aegon one last quick kiss on the lips, and then left his tent.

For a while Aegon remained lying in the water, which had long since ceased to be really hot, relaxing his muscles. The last few days, though joyful and fun, had been exhausting and the most difficult jousts were still ahead of him now that the quarterfinals were approaching. He did finally rise and put on the clothes waiting for him, trousers of black linen and a thin doublet of black silk, artfully embroidered with his family's coat of arms above the heart. He stepped into high boots of black soft leather, and also made his way to the royal box.

Less than the better part of an hour later, he entered the royal box and found to his delight that not only Rhaenys, Lady Allara, his mother and father were present, but his uncle Viserys and his wife Princess Arianne were there as well. They greeted each other effusively, laughing and embracing each other again and again. It was good to finally see his uncle again. His time in Dorne at the court of Sunspear had done him good, and not just in terms of his healthy skintone. Viserys had always been more like Rhaegar than Aegon had been, being quiet and bookish and earnest, preferring to spend his time with a candle in a dusty library rather than with a sword in a muddy training yard. Now, at the side of his wife, he laughed loudly and without pause, appearing as happy and content as Aegon had rarely seen him in his life. Aegon was sure, however, that it was not so much Sunspear as the influence of Princess Arianne that made Viserys such a cheerful man.

Princess Arianne, despite her small height that made even many children tower over her, was a stunningly beautiful woman, with feminine curves in just the right places, full breasts, blooming lips, and dark doe eyes in a truly lovely face. This woman possessed a body made for the bedroom, for sure. She couldn't compete with his Rhaenys, of course, no woman in the world could, but still Aegon could imagine all too well why it was this woman who had managed to tear Viserys away from his books and his brooding.

As a boy, his uncle's love had been the sea, and everyone had expected that one day he would take a Velaryon or a Redwyne to wife, follow in the footsteps of men like Lomas Longstrider or Corlys Velaryon, and become a great seafarer himself, exploring the edges of the known world with nothing but a ship and a compass. Then however, he had traveled to Sunspear for a royal visit together with the rest of the royal family, had seen the Princess Arianne face to face again after years, who by the time had blossomed from a pudgy and flat-chested girl into a true beauty. Uncle Viserys had fallen head over heels in love with her, had prevailed in his decision for Arianne even against the doubts and protests of the Small Council to allow yet another Dornish princess to marry into the royal family and had taken the Flower of Dorne as his wife merely a year later. So instead of having become a great seafarer, he was now living in a palace in Dorne a few miles outside of Sunspear, one of the hottest and driest places on the entire continent. The irony of it all still made Aegon grin whenever he thought about it.

"You have missed Jon's joust," Rhaenys said as Aegon took his seat next to her.

"Damn, I really wanted to see that one. Did he win, then?"

"Yes, he did. Aidin was good, but Jon was better. A deserved victory."

"Good. And did he… follow our advice?"

Rhaenys turned her head toward him, smiling and her thick curls waving around her head. The scent of her hair rose to Aegon's nose and immediately the desire for his sister returned, flooding his loins and bathing his body in heat like wildfire. His sister of course recognized his expression and smiled at him regretfully, knowing that she would have to make him wait until the end of the tourney.

"No, of course he didn't," she said then. "I think he just needs a little more time, Egg. But he'll make it. Just wait and see."

"I wish I had your confidence," Aegon said, laughing, while the pages down in the arena were hanging up the banners of the next participants, the black stag for Orys Baratheon and the golden kraken for Theon Greyjoy. So far, nothing could be seen of the two men, however. Aegon leaned forward a bit to be able to see his uncle, who had taken the seat next to Rhaenys.

"It's a shame you won't be participating, Uncle. I know you don't like the joust so much, but in the melee I'm sure that with your spear you would have been quite a sight among all the swords and axes and hammers."

"Thanks, Egg," Viserys said with a laugh, "but I think I'll pass. I never understood this fascination of breaking each other's bones just for fun. You seem to have been injured in your last joust as well, didn't you?"

"Just a bit, uncle. Just a little bit," Aegon returned, laughing as well when, at these words, Rhaenys snuggled up to his side like a cat, resting her head against his healthy shoulder.

By the Seven, how he had missed his uncle. Aegon knew that Viserys, while of course trained in the use of weapons from a young age as befitted a prince, was a man with the mind of a scholar, not the heart of a warrior. Surely he would have become an excellent maester, just as Aegon's father would have, had fate so willed. As a child, whenever he had had problems with his lessons, whether with his letters or his numbers, or when he had not been able to remember the line of succession of the sons and daughters of any of his ancestors or the words of a minor house from the middle of nowhere, he had gone to Viserys. His uncle had always been there for him, helping him and teaching him a funny line or a little rhyme on literally any subject, no matter how silly, which had always helped Aegon through his next lesson with one of his maesters.

"I, for one, am certainly glad I don't have to treat my husband's injuries on a regular basis," Princess Arianne told them.

"Don't you want a champion for a husband, my princess?" asked Rhaenys, turning to their cousin. "It's a wonderful feeling to see your beloved win and know that he won that victory just for you."

"Oh, it's undoubtedly great to be the wife of a tourney champion," Arianne said, and Aegon could already hear by the sound in her voice the direction in which her sentence would continue. "But that means naught to me, Your Highness. My husband, even if he is not a great jouster, has... other qualities with which he regularly makes me cheer."

"Arianne!" their mother scolded her, stopping their loud laughter before it could really begin.

"What? It's the truth," Arianne said in a tone as innocent as a septa. "If you had any idea what Viserys can do with his-"

"That's enough," their mother snapped, much to the amusement of Arianne, Rhaenys, and Aegon, while Viserys looked as if he would like to sink into the ground with shame and their father was doing his best to pretend he hadn't heard a single word of the conversation at all. Like all Dornish, their mother had never been particularly prudish, but her years at the royal court, especially as queen, had made her noticeably stricter when it came to behaving according to court etiquette in public.

Shortly thereafter, Orys Baratheon and Theon Greyjoy rode into the arena to the cheers of the people. Orys received noticeably more affection from the crowd, but this was hardly surprising. The ironmen were anything but popular throughout the realm, and from Bear Island in the North to Salt Shore in Dorne were regarded more as robbers, bandits and pirates than as nobles. Theon didn't seem to mind the obviously more restrained cheering when he entered, however, grinning broadly all over his face.

Orys, not even waiting for the announcement from the herald, lost no time in riding to the stands for the commoners, asking the favor of not one but two young women at once, one with long brown curls, the other with short hair as raven black as his own. Each of them tied a strip of cloth around one of Orys' hands, laughing and giggling before he rode back into position. It did not escape Agon's notice that Theon briefly glanced in the direction of the royal box – no doubt at Rhaenys – afterward, but then, to his own luck, apparently decided against asking the princess of the realm for her favor. Instead, he followed Orys' lead and rode over to the stands for the commoners. Unlike the young Baratheon, however, he was apparently content with the favor of only one girl.

The herald then announced the names of the two participants, both were handed lances and made themselves ready for the first round. They did not have to wait long, as the horn sounded just a few heartbeats later. Quickly, both raced towards each other on their horses, the lances slowly lowering. With a crash, they collided in the middle of the arena. Both lances broke, but Orys, tall and broad in the shoulders for his age, considerably taller and broader than Theon, had apparently put so much force into his thrust that he lifted Theon right out of the saddle and sent him flying through the air in a high arc into the sands of the arena. The people in the stands exploded with cheers, clapping and shouting and applauding the young Baratheon.

"What happened? Was that it?" Aegon heard Arianne ask over the noise in the arena.

"Yes," was Viserys' curt reply.

Aegon grinned wider than he had in a long time as he stood up to applaud Orys for his quick victory and watched Theon, angrily throwing his helmet from him and tearing the pieces of armor from his body, stomp out of the arena with his head red with anger. Aegon even heard Robert Baratheon screaming frenetically, louder than even the enthusiastic cheers of the people, as Orys rode a total of four victory laps through the arena, himself cheering and laughing as if he had just won the entire tourney.

The changes in the middle of the arena for the subsequent melee were quickly done. Workers, supervised by a handful of servants from the Red Keep and three maesters, quickly dismantled the tilt between the two jousting lanes and staked out a circle in the center of the arena about thirty paces wide with quickly erected fences of wood and cloth and rope. In it, the melee would soon take place. Aegon looked at the grandstand to their right and saw that Jon had now also finally returned, freshly washed and newly dressed like he himself after his joust. He had joined his father, Lord Robert, his uncle, Lord Eddard, and Lady Arya in the stands, no doubt to his great disappointment, however, with his father and uncle seated between him and Lady Arya.

Trumpets and drums accompanied the fighters, who now entered the arena in a long line to compete in the melee. Aegon recognized only a few of them, as most of the men seemed to be sons of minor houses or even no more than hedge knights. He saw one of the Redwyne twins, though he could not tell which one, several men with the twin towers of the House Frey on their armor, Lord Yohn Royce, Ser Sandor Clegane, who stood out from the crowd like a tower just because of his size, a knight with the sword and the falling star of House Dayne on his armor, no doubt Ser Gerold from the Daynes of High Hermitage, and last but not least Steffon Baratheon of course in his bright yellow armor with the black stag on his chest and his warhammer in his hand. Seven times seven fighters competed in total and the best seven of them would make it to the finals where they would again be allowed to compete in a melee, at the end of which only one man was allowed to stand on two legs.

"That's how I heard it," Aegon heard Lady Allara whisper something to Rhaenys from behind him.

"I can't imagine that," said Rhaenys.

"You can't imagine what?" asked Aegon.

"Lady Allara says it is a pity that Ser Sandor's brother does not compete in the melee, for he is said to be even larger and stronger than Ser Sandor himself."

"That is true," her father said suddenly. "Ser Gregor Clegane is his name. A true mountain of a man, eight feet tall and stronger than any man I have ever seen."

"Then why isn't he here winning honor and glory, Your Grace?" asked Lady Allara.

"Because he no longer can, my lady. He fought for the crown in the Greyjoy Rebellion. The war was almost over when one of Balon Greyjoy's brothers, Victarion I believe, was brave enough to face him during the Battle of Harlaw, and big and strong enough himself to even hold his own against him for a while. Ser Gregor won in the end after a hard duel, cutting off Victarion's right arm with a mighty blow, but not without the iron man still driving a knife into Ser Gregor's right thigh. The wound got infected and a few days later the maesters had to completely remove Ser Gregor's leg in order to save his life."

"How sad to lose a great fighter like Ser Gregor due to such a trifle, Your Grace."

"Yes, indeed," said his father with a deep sigh, however, with a somehow odd tone in his voice as if there was more he just did not want to talk about. "Regardless, Ser Gregor returned to Clegane's Keep after that and never left it again."

The arena fell silent as the herald stepped forward again, as was customary before a melee accompanied by a septon muttering prayers, blessing the arena for the battle so that none of the combatants would be seriously injured. Aegon had seen enough melees, though, to know that prayers were of ridiculously little help against the blades of swords, even blunt ones, and the blows of hammers or morning stars.

"In the name of His Grace, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, these valiant warriors step forward in the face of gods and men to test their prowess and valor in battle, man to man as the gods will it. Do you give these brave men your blessing, Your Grace?"

His father rose from his wooden throne and stepped to the parapet of the royal box. Aegon felt Ser Gerold , Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan, standing to the left and right of king and queen, tense as the king stepped forward, out of their reach to protect him should anything happen now.

"I give these men my blessing for the battle to come," his father began to speak the traditional words. "Fight well and bravely, that you may win glory in victory and preserve your honor in defeat. May the light of the Seven shine upon you."

Immediately the arena grew loud again, as with these words the melee had officially begun. The fighters bowed one last time to their king, some even sank to one knee, and then took up positions at the edge of the staked battle ground. Again drums began to sound, giving a special tact to the coming battle, before a horn was blown, the signal for the fighters to finally begin. Rhaenys clutched his arm and pressed himself against Aegon's side again as the fighters left their positions and began to attack each other.

If I had known she would find a melee so exciting, I would have participated in one long ago, Aegon thought and had to grin, the seductive scent of his sister in the nose.

It took only a few moments for the first men to be defeated, disarmed or yielding. Ser Sandor defeated two Freys in the blink of an eye, one by disarming him and one by hitting him so hard in the chest that the man fell to the ground like a wet sack. Lord Royce was facing two hedge knights at once, thrashing at him together, but held his own against the two of them surprisingly well, while Steffon Baratheon first knocked down a knight in the colors of House Bolling and then charged like a wild boar into the middle of a group of hedge knights who had been fighting among themselves just moments ago. He saw Ser Gerold Dayne cut through the ranks of his opponents, elegant as a dancer, felling first a brutally large man with a morning star and then, with an elegant riposte, a man in the colors of House Wydman.

A loud scream was heard as a heavy hit from Ser Sandor Clegane broke both forearms of a man in green and red wielding a two-handed sword. Shortly thereafter, Steffon Baratheon's hammer struck the last of the Freys in this melee so hard against the helmet that blood could be seen spurting out through the visor as he went down, and powerful blows from Ser Gerold Dayne first to the leg and then to the head of a hedge knight as small as a mouse, with a blue and brown coat of arms on his shield, sent his opponent staggering through the arena like a drunk with an obviously broken knee. That the man was apparently no longer able to notice the certainly tremendous pain in his knee was not a good sign. A maester hurried to the fence around the battle ground, trying to call the wounded knight to him so that he could be treated. The knight, however, was still staggering back and forth with a ghastly twisted knee, stomping forward, backward, to the right and to the left, until at some point he simply fell over and lay motionless on the ground.

It was not even an hour before only eleven of the nine and forty fighters were still standing. To Aegon's surprise and, looking to the side, to the great delight of Jon and Lord Robert, Steffon Baratheon was one of those men. Four duels were still taking place down in the arena, which would determine the last combatants in the finals of the melee. Once again a horn sounded as the last of the duels ended with a victory by a hedge knight over Horas or Hobber Redwyne and the seven winners were ultimately decided. Ser Gerold Dayne, Ser Sandor Clegane, Steffon Baratheon, Ser Halmon Paege, and three hedge knights were still standing and would be allowed to compete again in the finals.

After the melee, there was some singing and amusement inside the arena for the commoners in the stands, jugglers and fiddlers and a mummers' play. The royal family, however, as well as most of the nobles, left their seats to return to the Red Keep for the evening festivities. Rhaenys, along with their mother and Lady Allara, rode up to the Red Keep in a carriage, while Aegon, accompanied by Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan, rode back to the city on horseback. Aegon took the Lion Gate instead of the King's Gate, as he wanted to make another small detour.

He took the shortest route, crossing the Street of Flour and the God's Way, then up to the King's Square and from there along the Street of the Sisters to the Dragonpit. He wouldn't be able to ride out on Balerion tonight - in fact, he probably wouldn't be able to until the end of the tourney - but he wanted to visit his dragon and spend at least a little time there, feeling how badly he could use some company. The ride through the city went quickly, as most people were either still enjoying themselves on the tourney grounds, were still busy with their day's work, or had already retreated to taverns and brothels. The streets, especially the wide Street of the Sisters, were so empty that Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan could ride alongside him without anyone having to move out of their way. He saw some men touting cheap wine and even cheaper whores, both supposedly freshly arrived here from the Free Cities, passed a stall with vials full of fragrant oils supposedly blessed by the High Septon himself, and a couple of septons in ragged robes standing on small crates, ranting and preaching that the dragons were demons from the deepest circle of the Seven Hells and that the abhorrent, unholy union between Aegon and Rhaenys, brother and sister, would inevitably lead the realm to damnation. It was strange, yet somehow Aegon admired the courage of these men to even shout their sermons of damnation and the abominations that Rhaenys and he were supposed to be in his face.

Years ago, their father had tried to ban and punish such slanderous talk. Back then, quite a number of septons had indeed been arrested and sent to the Wall. As if the Night's Watch had any use for such weak screamers at the Wall. At some point, however, the High Septon had interfered and discontent had grown noticeably among the people of the city about more and more septons having to take the black. In the end, since their father had had no interest in an open, bloody conflict with the Faith, and certainly had not wanted to become a second Maegor the Cruel, he had withdrawn the laws and agreed with the High Septon that such talk, provided it did not incite open rebellion, should no longer be punishable, so long as the High Septon made it clear that this was not the opinion of the Faith, and that the Doctrine of Exceptionalism of course still applied and would apply for all time.

As he had expected, Balerion was joyful to see him. As joyful as a dragon could be. He continued to eat away at the burnt carcass of an ox, seemingly oblivious to Aegon's presence, tearing chunks of black flesh from the dead body large enough to keep a man fed for a whole week and chewing with relish on the breaking bones and splintering horns of his meal. The bond between Aegon and Balerion was strong enough, however, that Aegon knew exactly how much Balerion enjoyed being in his presence. In a strange way, he was like a huge, enormous cat. A cat with scales and horns and wings that could breathe fire and swallow an entire warhorse in a single bite if he wanted to. But still, there was something of a cat about him. Cats loved their humans, loved having them around, but decided for themselves when and how much attention to give them.

No, he is better than any cat. A cat would never let me ride it into battle, even if it were big enough, Aegon thought, grinning, as he picked up a piece of the ox's foreleg that had fallen to the side and threw it back in front of Balerion's mighty mouth. The dragon looked at it uncertainly for a moment, then dipped it in a brief jet of black flame and gulped down the ox's leg, which had been burned almost to ashes.

Aegon spent nearly an hour sitting in the Dragonpit in Balerion's lair, watching his dragon alternately eating and sleeping. Later, when his beast had fallen into a somewhat deeper sleep, he made his way back to the Red Keep. It was getting late, and Aegon had to hurry to change once more for the evening dance, if he did not want to keep his sister waiting. And since a true knight never kept a beautiful lady waiting, he hurried to get out of the Dragonpit, mount his horse, and make his way back to the Red Keep along with Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan. Neither of the two had ever developed any particular love for the dragons and so always preferred to wait for Rhaenys or him outside the Dragonpit.

The streets were even emptier than before, the music from the taverns and brothels all the louder for it, so once again they made good time. Even most of the ranting septons had disappeared from the streets to wherever a street preacher went when he had done what he thought to be his day's work. They rode again a short distance along the Street of the Sisters, then turned left into the somewhat more spacious outskirts of Flea Bottom, crossed the road called Aegon's Way, rode past the Silk Blossom, the somewhat more exclusive brothel in which the High Septon used to spend most of his evenings, and shortly thereafter reached the Dragon's Way that would take them up to the Red Keep.

Throughout their ride, practically nothing happened, no one stood in their way or called out to them, and no beggar asked for a few coins, yet Aegon somehow had a strange feeling in his guts. More than once, on the Street of the Sisters already, then almost all the time in Flea Bottom and last even on the Dragon's Way he had the feeling of being watched by invisible eyes. He couldn't tell from where or by whom, but he had the feeling of strangers' eyes at his back.

"Ser Oswell, Ser Barristan, have you seen anything?" he finally asked. Immediately the hands of the two knights rushed to the hilts of their swords.

"No, Your Highness," they both said.

"Is something wrong?" Ser Barristan then asked.

"No, everything is fine. I just... have a feeling. Never mind, just ignore me. I'm probably just tired. That's all."

"Certainly, Your Highness," Ser Oswell said, though neither knight took his hand from the hilt of his sword.

Aegon looked around as they rode along the Dragon's Way, heading straight for the winding road that led up Aegon's High Hill to the Red Keep. At one street corner he saw a whore who was kneeling in the half-shade behind a tree serving a customer, in front of a house a man was lying in the gutter, asleep and snoring loudly in a puddle of his own piss, and a little further on the last of the merchants were just clearing their displays, leather goods, cheap knives and carved items made of wood, but nowhere did there seem to be anything conspicuous.

Then he saw the man, standing on a street corner, dressed in the worn clothes of a sailor, his eyes fixed on him as if there were nothing else to see in the world but him. He was tall, with a broad cheat and thick arms, a shaved skull and a red hawk tattooed on his chest. Aegon looked at him and his dark, expressionless eyes stared back as if turned to stone. It hit him like a punch in the face. He had seen the man before, earlier in Flea Bottom and already outside the Dragonpit! Yes, for sure. But how had he gotten here so quickly?

No, it's someone else, he realized. The one in Flea Bottom didn't have a hawk on his chest. It was something else. A snake or an anchor or something. And the one in front of the Dragonpit was smaller, much smaller.

Aegon continued to look at the man as he rode by, but nothing happened. The stranger made no movement, said not a word. He seemed to open his mouth briefly, but no words or sound came out, just absolute silence, as if the man were a mute.

What strange men are they? I wonder how many more of them there are. And how many I must have overlooked on the way here already. Maybe I should inform the Gold Cloaks to keep their eyes open.

The road began to wind its way up the hill shortly after, and as suddenly as the strange men had appeared in the streets, they now seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Aegon looked around once more, glancing down the Dragon's Way into the city as they reached the first bend in the winding road, but nowhere was there even the slightest hint of any of the strange men.

"Is everything all right, My Prince?" asked Ser Oswell this time.

"Yes, all is well," he lied, though the feeling in his guts said otherwise, seemed to literally screamed it out.

Aegon felt uncomfortably reminded of an incident several years ago when a band of pirates, hired by some wealthy slavers from Ghis, had tried to break into the Dragonpit and steal the dragons for them. His father had told him about it once, as he had been too young to remember at the time. Back then, the city had also been flooded for weeks with similarly strange men, stranger men than usually were here anyway. Some had been arrested and questioned as a precaution, but without getting any useful information out of them, as his father had told him. About two weeks after Aegon's sixth name day, the men had then tried to steal the dragons from the Dragonpit. They had overwhelmed the Dragonkeepers with a surprisingly coordinated attack and had made their way into the Dragonpit.

At that time the dragons had hardly been larger than horses, as Aegon knew, and so the men had apparently thought they could simply harness the dragons and take them with them like horses. In the end, only two of the thirty men who had dared to enter the Dragonpit had survived the carnage their dragons had wrought among the invaders with teeth and claws and fire. One of the two had shortly after succumbed to his injuries, the other had been extensively tortured and questioned. He had revealed the names of the Ghiscari slavers all too readily after a few days in the dungeons under the Red Keep, and had then been chopped into seven pieces on the orders of their furious father. The chopped up body, partially burned by dragon fire and disfigured from days of torture, was then sent to the rulers of New Ghis. The warning had been clear. Try something like that again and it will be you who will be burned and hacked to pieces. After that, there had never been another attempt to get too close to the dragons without permission.

Maybe this is a new attempt by the Ghiscari or whoever to get their greedy hands on our dragons, Aegon thought as they passed another bend in the road. Pray, let them try their luck. They couldn't steal the dragons when they were as big as horses. Today, they're bigger than those war elephants you go into battle with in Essos. So if that's your plan, good luck.

He decided not to pay any more attention to these men, even if they were up to some madness that could only mean their own gruesome deaths in the end anyway, and instead focus on the really important things, like extensively dancing with his sister tonight.

Arriving in his chambers, the new clothes were already ready for him, a pair of trousers made of red silk with black stitching and a doublet made of black silk with red stitching. He decided to wear high boots made of black leather, a thin chain made of iron with a small dragon head as a pendant and a thin crown also made of iron with seven small ruby splinters in it. He took another small sip of the wine that was on the table next to his wardrobe, fresh white summer wine with the flavor of blood oranges, then he left his chambers again and made his way to the Queen's Ballroom, where the festivities would be held tonight.

Before he could enter the hall, he saw his sister arrive from the other direction at the same time as him, followed by Lady Allara. Rhaenys wore a low cut dress of blood red sand silk from Dorne that made her look almost more tempting than if she were naked - almost anyway - two crossing chains of gold around her neck, gold bracelets around her slim wrists and a crown of gold on her head, a thin ring with finely engraved decorations, dragons and snakes and basilisks. She wore her hair loose, letting it fall over her shoulders and down her back like an obsidian waterfall. She shone as brightly as the sun as she approached him.

"Sister, you look ravishing," Aegon said. "Lady Allara, you do as well, of course."

It was true. Lady Allara, dressed in a dark purple gown with white stars on the hem, almost as revealing as his sister's, looked magnificent. She too wore her hair down, but apart from a thin chain of silver around her neck, she dispensed with jewelry. Lady Allara began to beam at his words, but said nothing, only curtsied deeply to him as she stopped behind Rhaenys.

"Thank you so much, dearest brother. So do you," his sister said. "Allara, why don't you go inside? I'll join you in a moment."

Lady Allara curtsied to them again, then turned away without a word and entered the Queen's Ballroom, the wide portal in front of her opened by two soldiers and closed again a moment later by two servants on the other side. When the doors were closed again, Rhaenys took another step toward him, coming so close that he could feel her warm breath, smelling of oranges. She put one of her soft hands on his cheek, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. Aegon returned the kiss, grasping her waist with both hands and pulling her closer to him, their lips tightly sealed together.

"How is your arm, my love?" she asked after taking her lips from his.

"Good, good enough," he admitted. The shoulder hurt a little, but the grayleaf balm helped and if he cooled it tonight there would be no problems. "I'll just have to be careful not to be hit there again. That's all."

"Only three more jousts. Three more jousts you have to win for me. After that, we can finally be together again."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"I should hope so," she said with a grin. "I can't wait to celebrate your victory with you, just the two of us. You know, we didn't get to use them last time, but... the ropes and the leather ties are still lying ready in my chambers. So if you win this tourney for me, then you may use them on me, if you like."

He felt her hand move down from his chest, lower and lower to between his legs, caressing his manhood. Immediately he grew hard again, and the desire to rip his sister's dress off right here and now grew stronger and stronger inside him until he could barely stand it. At that moment, with her warm breath on his face, the image of her naked body in front of him on his bed in his mind, and her soft yet firmly gripping hand on his cock, there was nothing he would rather have done than grab her, rip off her dress, and fuck her to sore. Rhaenys must have recognized it in his eyes, because at the last moment she took her hand off his cock and took a tiny step back, grinning widely.

"Say, dearest sister," he said, breathing heavily, "in a moment the dance will begin. May I hope to have the first dance of the evening with you?"

"You will get every dance of this evening with me, if you want," she breathed, giving him another quick kiss on the lips, and then disappearing through the wide portal into the Queen's Ballroom. Aegon took a few moments to take a deep breath and calm down again, not least since he had no intention whatsoever of showing up at the dance with a massive erection, before entering the ballroom as well.

The herald in the ballroom announced him as he entered and immediately half the heads turned to him. Lords and knights indicated bows, ladies began to beam and curtsy as he passed them. He found his sister standing not far from their mother at the other end of the hall, laughing and engaged in a lively conversation with Lord Monford Velaryon. His mother was talking to his Uncle Oberyn, only barely suppressing a grin and looking at him in feigned indignation at every other sentence. No doubt he was telling another of his famous stories from his time in Essos or spreading rumors about some of the lords and ladies present. Since Uncle Lewyn was also standing with them and seemed to add a few words every now and then, it was probably the latter. He could not see his father anywhere, what did not surprise him, though. Most likely he was still in his study and couldn't or wouldn't tear himself away from his books, as was often the case when it came to an evening of dancing and merriment.

To his great surprise, however, he saw someone else standing in a corner, lost like an orphan in the deepest forest and holding onto a silver wine cup with all his might. Jon was there, standing at the edge of the dance floor, looking as if he were waiting to be judged by the king for some crime against the realm. It was a strange sight to see his best friend like that. Jon, even though he was quite good at it, had never been an overly enthusiastic dancer. Still, this was far from being his first dance, and with a beautiful woman by his side, he had always enjoyed such evenings. Now, however, he seemed as uncertain as a little boy seeing a naked woman for the first time of his life.

Aegon was about to walk over and talk to him when he spotted someone else here, someone he had least expected to see. Lady Arya Stark had appeared at the dance. Aegon decided to go to her first instead.

"Lady Arya, how kind of you to do us the honor on this small occasion."

"The honor is all mine, Your Highness," Lady Arya said dutifully.

Aegon watched Lady Arya closely. She seemed tense and looked as if she wanted to flee from the hall at any moment. Apart from that, Aegon had to acknowledge that she fit in surprisingly well. She wore a light blue dress embroidered with black wolves at the hem and around the neck and precious Myrish brocade in black and white and silver. She had her hair pinned up in an elegant bun with only a few, probably carefully selected, strands falling loosely over her shoulders and - unlike about every second time he had seen her so far - she was clean and freshly bathed, with the scent of winter roses wafting around her. She looked... pretty, lovely. There was no other way to put it.

"My lady, you truly look beautiful tonight," he said after a moment of shared silence. Lady Arya then also looked at him, but her gaze seemed as angry as if he had just said the exact opposite.

"You don't have to lie just to be polite, my prince," she snapped, "I know that's not true."

"Why would you say something like that, my lady?" asked Aegon, seriously confused.

"Because I know my sister Sansa has always been the pretty one of us two. Not me."

"Well," said Aegon after a moment, "of your sister's beauty I have indeed heard. Since she married into House Arryn, quite a few bards and singers have already composed songs and poems about her. Not as many as about my sister, but still noticeably many. But that does not mean that you cannot be pretty as well, does it? My sister is the most beautiful woman in the world but still I have hope not to be an insult to the eyes myself. The one does not exclude the other, after all."

Now it was Lady Arya who looked confused, as if this was the first time in her life that someone had told her she looked beautiful. Sure, she was a bit too thin for Aegon's taste, and her brown hair and gray eyes in the long face so typical of the Starks, the face with which Jon also went through life as well, would have been too common for many men, especially if they were used to the classical beauties of the southern courts. Yet it was true. Lady Arya might not have been considered a classical beauty, but there was no denying that, much like her aunt Lady Lyanna, she possessed a wild and somehow... rough beauty and grace of her own, even if she didn't seem to be aware of it herself.

"Now, if you will excuse me, my lady. I believe my sister is calling for me," he said, indicating a short bow and turning away without waiting for Lady Arya's undoubtedly abortive curtsy.

Aegon walked over to the other side of the dance floor, which was beginning to empty for the dance that was soon to begin. Rhaenys was still standing with Lord Velaryon, but their conversation seemed to end just in time. The Lord of the Tides bowed to his sister with a broad smile, then again to Aegon when he was close enough, and departed with a quick "my prince".

"Here you are."

"Yes, here I am," Aegon said. "I had to quickly greet someone."

"Shall we then? The music's about to begin," Rhaenys said, wanting to take his arm and head for the dance floor when Aegon held her back.

"Wait a moment."

"Wait for what? The music is about to begin, my love," she said with a smile.

"I know. There's something I want to see first. Something I'm sure you'll want to see, too," Aegon said, his gaze fixed firmly on Jon. He nodded in his direction and Rhaenys followed his gaze. Then she understood, coming to stand beside him with an expectant smile on her beautiful face.

It took only a moment before Jon finished the rest of his cup, shoved it into the hand of a servant, and then made his way to the other side of the dance floor, where Lady Arya stood waiting. He said something to her, she answered curtly without Aegon being able to understand what it had been. Then she took his hand and let him lead her to the dance floor, where half a dozen other couples had already gathered to wait for the music. Only a moment later the music started and the couples began to dance, including Jon and Lady Arya. He had seen Jon dance with this or that lady many times and on all sorts of occasions, but this sight was truly a feast for the gods in its ridiculousness.

The two staggered around each other like ageing crab fishers in too high water. Jon, usually quite elegant in his movements, whether on horseback, with a sword in his hand, or dancing with a lady, was as stiff as a board. Lady Arya, for her part, though somewhat less stiff, seemed to be looking desperately in all directions except Jon's face. She couldn't seem to lift her gaze far enough to look Jon in the eye even once, and had Aegon ever lost sight of her on the dance floor, he would only have had to look for a lady with ears so red they certainly glowed in the dark. The two looked as if they had been forced to dance with each other under the threat of death and as if they couldn't wait for this torture to finally come to an end. They turned around each other a few more times in circles before the music and with it this first dance ended and Aegon was sure that the two would flee from each other as quickly as rabbits from a fox. To his great surprise, however, the two remained standing together, smiling at each other and speaking a few words. A short moment later, the music began to play again, announcing the beginning of the next dance. Aegon had to grin and almost laughed out loud when he saw Lady Arya grab Jon's hand again and let him lead her to a dance once more. This time they both seemed even a tiny bit less stiff.

"I told you they just needed a little more time," Rhaenys whispered in his ear. "Now come, my love. I want to dance as well."

Chapter Text

What a fucking mess this all was. Theon drank his fifth cup of wine in a row already, yet his thoughts just wouldn't move to any other moment than when that fucking Baratheon brat on his fucking donkey in that fucking arena had knocked him out of the saddle. Fucking mess. He had had a plan, a good plan. After his unfortunate defeat in his first joust against the old man and his victory against the Trant knight, he had wanted to enter the quarterfinals with a clear victory against Jon's stupid ox of a brother. With a little luck, he would have been drawn against Aegon in the next round, would have bumped the smug shithead off his horse, and, again with a little luck, would have already bumped his cock into the ass of the shithead's sister just a few hours later.

That ass should have been his. His alone.

Now, though, instead of fucking a princess, he sat on the edge of his bed in his chambers with his cup of wine in his hand, thinking about the entire day again and again. He hated to be here. The capital was shit, easy as that. Even his chambers were shit. They were ridiculously large for a single person and decorated as if the chamber were made for a woman and not a man, with colored fabrics and thick curtains, pictures of dragons and paintings of Targaryen kings and queens of the past, a much too soft bed and much too soft cushioned chairs for the much too soft asses of the much too soft lords and ladies of the south. He was an ironborn, with steel in his heart and salt water in his veins, and given the choice, he would have preferred to spend his time in the capital, if he had to be here at all, in a cot, fit for true warriors, or the bunk on a ship in the harbor, as befitted a Greyjoy. However, he had not been given the choice, and since the tents on the site for the participants of the tourney had all been taken and Jon hadn't made the effort to have a new one set up for him either, he had instead been put in these wenches' quarters.

Theon finished the cup and considered taking a sixth one, but then decided against it. Tomorrow, when he had had a good night's sleep, he would look for Jon and smash his stupid face in. He had to be in good shape for that. It was clear, everyone had been able to see it, that Theon had lost two of his three jousts because he hadn't been able to move properly in the buckled old armor he had been wearing. Otherwise, he certainly wouldn't have let some grandfather and half a child push him out of the saddle. He had never stood a chance because Jon Baratheon had given him rusty junk for armor, in which, of course, he could only lose. He surely had done it to spare his oh-so-good friend Aegon from having to face him later in the tourney. But maybe there was something else behind it and Jon wanted to face Aegon in the joust himself and thus, by cheating, get rid of his rival.

He probably just wants to fuck the princess himself.

He almost felt sick at the thought of this wimp riding the princess's ass, that unforgettably wonderful, perfect ass that he should have been riding, hard and harder and harder still. In the end, Theon was sure, she would have thanked him for it and begged him to do it again right away. He let the cup fall to the floor, looked out the window into the black night sky for a moment, and then turned around, looking into the bed behind him. At least the women in the capital kept their promises. The girl who had given him her favor had gone with him after his defeat anyway. She had literally thrown herself at him. No wonder, after all, he was the heir to Pyke, the last son and the heir of an old and most noble house, and she was just a hussy from the gutter. He had bought them both a few cups of wine, had taken her to his chambers in the Red Keep with him when she had already been in good spirits and then had fucked her senseless. Several times even.

The first time, when his anger about the unjust defeat had still been fresh and his blood had still boiled, he had taken her so hard that she had turned away from him afterwards and wept into the pillow. In the end, however, she had been quite brave, had stayed in his bed and had let him fuck her two more times without protesting, had even swallowed his seed the last time he had presented her his hard cock. He really had not expected that.

The bitch really can take a pounding, he thought, grinning, as he saw her lying next to him, naked and pretending to be asleep. Theon recognized it, though, when he was being fooled.

Her naked ass, still shining wetly in the light of the candles from the seed he had shot on it after the second fuck, looked inviting and for a moment he wondered if he should take her again while she was still here. She was pretty, though not a real beauty, with black hair and blue eyes, long legs and a firm arse but far too small tits for his taste. And she talked too much. At least at the beginning of the evening she had done so, even though she had been trying hard not to make a noise for quite some time now. However, talking to her was not what he was thinking about doing right now anyway. He looked at her body a bit more, her longs legs and her tight arse, then looked down at himself and noticed that his cock wasn't getting any harder from it, though. He had fucked enough for one night and probably had had too much wine anyway. So he stood up and got dressed, the next best clothes he could find in the trunk at the foot of the bed. Then he put on his brown boots made of deerskin – any other leather would have seemed inappropriate on this night of all nights – strapped the sword belt around his waist, took his purse from the table next to the window and went to the door.

"When I come back, you'll be gone," he said to the wench.

"Yes, my lord," she returned meekly.

I knew you were only pretending to be asleep, stupid cunt.

For a moment he considered punishing her for her deception, but then changed his mind. He would take no pleasure in hitting her now, when he wasn't hard anyway. As long as she was gone as soon as he got back, he would be satisfied.

Being tough in bed was certainly a quality not many women had. Still, he would be happy when she would be gone. He would not see her again, he would not bring her to his chambers again, and most certainly, as she had apparently hoped at the beginning of the evening at least, he would not take her to the Iron Island with him some day. He had promised her something else, but what did a promise mean to a cunt anyway? Even if he had quickly learned to ignore her tears after the first, hard fuck, they still bothered him and fucking a wench who just whined all the time was not something he had any lasting desire for. And if she was already with child after this night, she would come to him all by herself sooner or later anyway. Then he could still think about making her another bastard or two or chase her away in case she had gotten fat any ugly by the time.

He left Maegor's Holdfast, had the Gold Cloaks give him a horse, and rode out of the Red Keep, ignoring the questions about whether he needed an escort. One of the soldiers shouted something after him about the gates of the Red Keep about to be closed for the night and that he would not be able to get in anymore, but he ignored that as well. He would find somewhere to spend the night. Unlike the sissy weaklings in the south, he was an ironborn, the blood of legendary warriors and conquerors, and didn't need a soft feather bed every night to be comfortable.

Maybe, he thought, I'll even look for a better slut for the night. One with really nice big tits.

Yes, that would definitely lift his spirits and give him strength for tomorrow, when he would smash in Jon Baratheon's oh-so-pretty face. He rode down the shitty, much too long, winding road from Aegon's High Hill into the city, turned right into one of the first streets, and followed the clamor of drunks until he arrived at the first tavern. He dismounted from his horse, tied it to one of the still vacant posts outside the door, and entered the tavern. It was hot and stuffy and smelled of sweat, cheap ale, and vomit.

"I want your best wine," he said to the man behind the counter, a short guy with a bald head and a wide scar on his chin.

"Coins first," he blaffed over the shouting and wry chanting of the drunks.

For a moment Theon wanted to lecture him that he was the heir to Pyke, an ironborn, that he was lucky to be allowed to entertain him at all, and that he'd better watch out that Theon didn't pay the iron price for his ale and complete the scar on his chin all across his throat, but then left it at that and tossed him some coppers. This guy wouldn't be worth getting his blade bloody. Only a moment later, the innkeeper put a mug of ale on the table in front of him.

"I wanted wine!"

"Then go somewhere where they serve that," the man said, swiping the coins in his hand before Theon could take them away again. Theon took the mug and drank a sip. The beer tasted stale and old, like a bad blend of some already not very good ales that had been left out in the sun some hours or days.

"Don't you have anything better?"

"Arbor Gold is just out, noble lord," the man said mockingly, slamming a mug down for the man next to Theon, a giant with a bushy brown beard that reeked of goat shit. The giant took the mug and emptied it in one huge gulp. Theon sipped his ale a few more times, but it seemed to taste more ghastly with each sip.

He's probably pissing in his barrels to refill them. Couldn't taste much worse than that, anyway.

"You got any whores?"

"Does this look like a whorehouse?" the innkeeper said in an annoyed tone, his brow furrowed.

"No, a whorehouse wouldn't stink like this," Theon said with a broad grin. The man, however, didn't seem to get the joke, glaring at him angrily as if he was about to slit his throat. Theon decided not to waste his time with him any longer. He drank some more of the disgusting ale, then put the mug down and decided to look for another tavern. Or perhaps better yet, a whorehouse. He still had enough coppers in his pocket to make himself a nice evening somewhere, less smelly and with much more tits. He made his way through between the drunken losers to the door and left the tavern. Once outside, however, he found that his horse was no longer there. Some dirty bastard had dared to steal his horse. He quickly hurried back inside.

"Hey," he said to the innkeeper, "someone stole my horse!"

"Oh no, then we should quickly call the city guard, noble lord," he scoffed. "I'm sure the Gold Cloaks have nothing better to do than search the entire city for your crappy donkey."

The man laughed so loudly at his own insolence that two mugs of ale fell right out of his grubby hands.

"Now I've spilled my ale because of you little wanker," he then said, no longer laughing.

"Don't worry about that," said Theon. "It's for the better if nobody has to drink that pig's piss anyway."

To his great delight, his nose stopped bleeding fairly quickly again as he sat on the street outside the tavern holding the sleeve of his doublet to his face. The scarred son of a bitch had been lucky that Theon hadn't cut him open with his sword right away, after he'd hit him in the face and some of the drunks had thrown him out of the tavern. He would go to the Gold Cloaks first thing tomorrow and make sure the guy got his just deserts. Laying a hand on a nobleman was a crime and he would make sure that this scumbag would never forget it. One hand he had laid on him, one hand he would lose for it.

He decided to look for another tavern in another part of the city. Here there were only scum and thugs, not the right company for a lord. For a tiny moment he thought about going to one of the dances in the royal fortress. The main gates might already be closed, but if the son of Balon Greyjoy was at the gates, surely these golden busybodies would not refuse to open the gates for him again. No doubt there would be better drinks at these dances, finest wines from all over the realm and not that horse piss they served in Flea Bottom. But then he decided against it.

No doubt Jon Baratheon would be at one of the feasts and he really didn't want to run into him today. Theon wasn't sure if he would be able to restrain himself from punching him directly in the face for cheating him out of his victory with that shabby armor. Rhaenys would certainly be there too, waving her magnificent ass in front of his face all evening, the ass that should have been his. And certainly Aegon would be there too, strutting around like the pompous dolt he was. With him, too, Theon would hardly be able to restrain himself from punching him in the face. But beating the crown prince unconscious at a royal dance would only mean that it then certainly be he himself who would lose a hand.

He stood around on the street for a moment, unsure where to go. This city was just too fucking big. Around every corner there could be an excellent tavern waiting for him with delicious wine and ale, or an equally excellent brothel with the finest whores in town, or as far as the eye could see only workshops of craftsmen or stores of merchants or, even worse, septs and temples. Winter Town or Lordsport, as far as he remembered it, were big enough to have everything one could ever need or want, but not so big as to become confusing. Cities like this one, however, fat and lazy from all the gold and the luxuries, were only good for being raided, but not for living in them. Not for an ironborn anyway, not for a man like him.

Theon finally decided to follow his gut and headed towards the south of the city. To the south were the river and the harbor. Where there was a harbor, there were ships, and where there were ships, that's where a Greyjoy belonged. There would certainly be taverns and brothels where sailors got drunk, fucked the whores half to death and exchanged stories about their bride and their true love, the sea. There he would fit in better than anywhere else in this cursed city. There he would be respected, perhaps even feared, for being an ironborn.

The way was longer than he had expected. The city was just too fucking big and without a horse it was even fucking bigger. On the way he found a few taverns where he could rest his aching feet and drink a mug or two of ale before continuing on his way. These ales, however, tasted hardly any better than the pig's piss he had choked down earlier. How long he had been on the road before finally reaching the River Gate he could not say, but he was sure that soon the sun would rise. He trudged toward the River Gate, tall and locked.

"Open up!" he yelled. "Open up already! I have to get through there," he yelled again, feeling how his tongue was beginning to disobey him.

Damn tongue. What the fuck do I need you for if you don't do what I want, he thought. Oh yes, for the cunts. The cunts like my tongue.

He had to laugh at his own thoughts when, a little above him, the wooden shutter in front of one of the embrasures was opened.

"Stop yelling around here, drunken prick," a soldier yelled down to him. "Gate's closed, and we're not gonna open it again for a wanker like you. Now fuck off!"

"I am the heir of Balon...of Greyjoy of Pyke. I am Theon Greyjoy, heir to Pyke and son of Balon. Balon Greyjoy, I mean. And if I want to get through there, then you little pillow biter better open it for me!"

With a bang, the shutter slammed shut again. Only a moment later, a door was opened in one of the mighty defense towers to the right and left of the River Gate, and the pillow biter came rushing out. With long strides he hurried toward Theon, followed by two other soldiers, probably his sweethearts, Theon thought and had to grin.

"Oh, did I just interrupt you cuties cuddling? Sorry 'bout that. Now open the fucking gate."

Theon saw the man's fist already flying toward him when one of his sweethearts grabbed his arm.

"What the fuck?" the pillow biter asked.

"You want to lose your bloody hand? This is Theon Greyjoy," said his sweetheart.

"Bullshit! A drunken asshole, that's all he is."

"No, it's him. I'm sure of it. Saw him jousting today, getting fucked by the Baratheon."

"Jon Baratheon has been jousting against Aidin Celtigar."

"Not him. Orys Baratheon, idiot. Knocked the fucker here out of the saddle like a sailor did a wet whore after a month at sea."

The two looked him from top to bottom, over and over. Theon wanted to say something, but somehow his tongue obeyed him even less now than before. He felt it getting harder and harder to stand upright and see the two guys - or was it three? - clearly in front of him.

"And now what?" the pillow biter asked.

"We let him through?"

"Open the gate? Are you nuts?"

"Not the gate, idiot. The fucking manhole. We just push him through and close it again. If the fucker then drowns in the river, it's not our problem."

It all happened so fast that Theon didn't even know what happened to him, but just a moment later he was already standing between the large warehouses in the harbor, on the other side of the gate, hearing the manhole being locked behind him and spewing his guts out against the wall of the next warehouse. He stumbled, fell with one knee and one hand in his own vomit, but then managed to struggle back to his feet.

He stumbled on between the warehouses, breathing the fresh air of the harbor, and was relieved to find how much better he felt right after he had thrown up the ghastly ale from the first tavern.

"Tasted backwards almost better than forwards," he said to himself and had to laugh.

In a small puddle at the corner of a house, pleasantly warm, he washed the remains of his vomit from his fingers and then staggered further in the direction of the water. He did not seen any taverns or brothels here, however, just warehouses and warehouses and warehouses. And after looking around some corners and into some streets, he even found some warehouses. In what kind of wretched city were there no taverns or whorehouses for the sailors in the harbor? He walked on, one foot more or less directly in front of the other. From somewhere the smell of piss crept into his nose and no matter where he went, the smell seemed to follow him. What a shitty harbor this was. Every now and then he leaned against the walls of the buildings to his right or left, depending on which side of the street he had just staggered to, or propped himself up against a tree, taking deep breaths to suppress the feeling that he was about to throw up again. Throwing up once was good. It cleared the belly and cleared the head, throwing up twice was a sign of weakness, though.

He reached the docks in the harbor without finding a single whorehouse. His head was already beginning to clear and he found it easier to keep himself upright as he walked slowly past the rows of ships anchored in the harbor. He saw fat-bellied merchant cogs from Lannisport and Oldtown and the Arbor, from Sunspear and Gulltown. He saw galleys, sleek and elegantly decorated, and carracks, large and massive, with the emblems and markings of great merchant families from Pentos, Braavos, Tyrosh, Myr, and Volantis, some even from Meereen and Qarth. He even saw a swan ship from the Summer Isles, proud, with a huge bird's head of dark wood on the bow and even in the darkness of the night bright white sails. All along the harbor countless ships rested, tall masts rising like a forest from the dark of the night. Theon could hear their hulls creaking as they settled on the piers and on one another. He heard the keening of their lines, the sound of banners flapping. Beyond, in the deeper waters of the bay, larger ships bobbed at anchor, having found no more berth in the harbor for the night, grim shadows wreathed in mist.

He walked on, seeing the heavy war galleys and mighty dromonds of the royal fleet, if only from a distance, as the entrance to the part of the harbor reserved for the warships of the royal fleet was guarded by soldiers. He walked on, on and on, until he slowly arrived at the western end of the harbor, where smaller ships lay crowded at anchor, fishing boats, riverboats and smaller merchant ships that could not afford the harbor fees for one of the good berths in the eastern part of the harbor closer to the River Gate.

It hit him like a blow when he suddenly saw a completely different kind of ship lying in the harbor. Theon had to look twice to be sure his eyes were not deceiving him. What he saw there before him, only half an arrow shot away from him, was a longship from the Iron Islands. Yes, certainly it was. He would have recognized that shape anywhere, long and slender and with so little draft that one could have navigated with it even in a bowl of soup. In the darkness of the night, he could at first not make out more than that, but still the shape was unmistakable.

He walked closer, trying to make out a coat of arms or some other mark to see who this ship might belong to, but found nothing on the all black hull of the ship or on the sails, which were also black in the darkness of the night. It didn't really matter, though. He was the son of Balon Greyjoy, certainly the men aboard this ship would want to welcome him, whoever the captain of this ship was, drink with him or to him. Still, it was always better to know who you were facing than to have to ask your host his name first and so he went even closer in the hopes of finding a hint. He was now only about two dozen paces away and still he could see no sign that let him know under whose command this ship was sailing. He stopped, as did almost his heart, when he finally realized what ship he was looking at.

The ship was not black, as he had first thought. The darkness had played a trick on him. The bow of the ship was red, red like blood, and the only black thing about it was its sails.

Silence, it flashed through his mind.

Euron Greyjoy and his ship, Silence, were a legend on the Iron Islands, sometimes for the better, mostly for the worse. His father's brother had never given up the Old Way of the Iron Islands, not even for a day. His Silence, with its black sails and dark red hull, was infamous in every port from Ibben to Asshai, it was said, just as the man commanding it.

"Can that really be? Is that you, nephew?" he heard a voice behind him. "What a wonderful thing for us to meet here."

Theon turned and looked into the face of the man standing behind him with a broad smile. He had last seen the man when he had been a child, but he recognized him immediately, would have recognized him anywhere. Euron Greyjoy, his uncle, looked unchanged, just as Theon remembered him, just as he had the day his lord father's rebellion had ended and Theon had been taken away. He knew that Euron had always been the most handsome of Lord Quellon's sons, and as a boy Theon had been pleased to recognize himself in his uncle , or rather in the memories of his uncle.

The years had obviously not done him any harm. His hair was still as black as a midnight sea, without even a single white hair in it to be seen and his face was still smooth and pale under his neat dark beard. A black leather patch covered Euron's left eye, but his right was blue as a summer sky.

His smiling eye, as Theon remembered his uncle Victarion had always called it.

"I had expected a somewhat warmer greeting than mere silence, nephew. I've already got enough of that on my ship," he said with a smile, his lips unnaturally dark in the pale light of the moon, bruised and blue.

"Forgive me, Uncle," Theon said, pleased to be able to speak reasonably clearly again. Vomiting was truly a fine thing after all. "It's good to see you. I just didn't expect to see you here."

"You didn't?"

"No," Theon said. "You're a pirate. If they see you here, in King's Landing of all places-"

"Then nothing will happen, nephew. The harbormasters in the capital can be very reasonable men, very helpful indeed if one just drops a coin or two in their presence. With all the business they do skirting the royal coffers, they have little interest in the Gold Cloaks snooping around here. Besides, I am only a pirate if the royal fleet ever were to catch me raiding," his uncle said, winking with his smiling eye.

"But... You've been exiled." Theon didn't know much about how that had come about, only that his other uncle Victarion's salt wife had died and that Euron had then been exiled the very next day.

"I have only been exiled from the Iron Islands, not from the Seven Kingdoms. And that too, only as long as my beloved brother is sitting on the Seastone Chair. But let's not talk about such old stories. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in Winterfell licking Lord Stark's boots or wiping his wife's ass? Or was it the other way around?"

"I am the heir to Pyke. Of course I am invited to such an occasion."

"The heir of Pyke...," Euron said, two of his fingers playing with the leather of his eye patch. "Yes, that you are. That you are. So the king invited you here?"

"Well, no. I'm here with Lord Stark."

"As his hostage."

"No," Theon protested, nearly losing his balance.

"As his trophy, then, to keep the world from forgetting that he took my brother's last remaining son away, without good Balon being able to do anything about it. To show you off in front of the royal court, so all the fine ladies and lords can see how well he trained you."

"No, he didn't. I am here as his ward."

"As his hostage," Euron said after a moment.

"As his-"

"Hostage, Theon. Face it. No matter what Lord Stark tells you or what you tell yourself, you're a hostage. And such a well-behaved hostage at that, that you so obediently parrot the lies they've told you over and over again. Balon must be proud of you."

Euron took a few steps toward him, then walked around Theon as if he were a goat being inspected at a cattle market. Theon tried to follow him with his head, but the turning made him feel sick again. Only now did he notice the other men who had already gathered around him and Euron. They were sailors, Theon could tell that much immediately. Grim figures, by the look of them seemingly from all corners of the known world.

The crew of the Silence, he thought.

Men black as tar stared at him, and others squat and hairy as the apes of Sothoryos. He saw a small man with copper-colored skin and countless golden rings in his ears like a woman, and more rings in his nose, cheeks, lips, around his fingers, arms and wrists and in his nipples. He saw a shaven-headed man with a body like a barrel and arms thick as tree trunks, with a fiery red bird of prey on his chest, staring at him the way men stared at whores when deciding whether the copper was worth the hole or not. A few paces away, a young lad with raven hair squatted on a bollard, as pretty as a girl if not for his cruel eyes, with a large, black tear tattooed on his right cheek. Another, his skin as pale as milk, was only half the size of a normal man, with flies tattooed all over his face and two daggers in his belt that seemed almost to drag across the ground because of his short legs. None of the men said even a single word, were just staring at him as if watching prey about to be torn by a predator, hoping to scavenge a few scraps of flesh from the gnawed carcass.

I am no prey.

"What are you doing here anyway, uncle? I can't imagine that a famous pirate would have much business to do in the capital, of all places."

"What am I doing here, nephew? I'm just allowing myself and my men some respite from the hardships at sea. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of the dragons of our beloved majesties as well, but alas, I was not granted that. And, of course, I want to pay my respects to our beloved crown prince on his name day, even though I fear I will not be allowed to see him in person to congratulate him."

Euron reached to his belt and grabbed a tiny vial that was dangling next to a precious looking dagger. He pulled off the tiny cork and a moment later the air was already filled with a vile stench of spoiled meat and rotten flesh. Theon cringed at the stench and breathed quickly through his mouth, as discreetly as possible, so as not to vomit again right away. Euron grinned when he saw Theon's gaze, brought the tiny vial to his mouth and took a small sip. He closed his eye and sighed deeply as if he had just drunk the most refreshing summer wine, two of his fingers again playing with the edge of his eye patch.

"I will not stay much longer, though," he then said. "I have seen what I wanted to see and learned what I wanted to learn. Now it's time to set sail again. After all, that's where an ironborn belongs, at sea. Don't you think so, Theon?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. Where do you want to sail? To the Stepstones or further to the Free Cities?" Theon asked, although he didn't really want to know. The dizziness in his head was fading more and more, but now the tiredness and the headache were breaking through.

"No, I've been there long enough. It's time for me to return home at last. I'm sailing for Pyke. Would you perhaps like me to take you with me, nephew?"

"Pyke? You can't go to Pyke! You are exiled as long as my father sits on the Seastone Chair."

"Aye, you're right about that. That's true, of course. But it's still a long way home. It will take weeks to reach the Iron Islands. A lot can happen in that time. Maybe my brother will still be sitting on the Seastone Chair when I arrive and I'll lose my head, or maybe I'll be welcomed with open arms and flower garlands."

Theon didn't know what to make of his uncle's talk. Years at sea, driven from his home, had apparently left their mark on him after all. If not in his face, then in his mind. If he truly believed he was going to be greeted with anything other than the blade of an executioner's axe on the Iron Islands, his mind had long since become so addled that it would probably be the more merciful fate for him to simply end his life.

"I can't go with you," he finally said. "I have to stay with Lord Stark."

"Aye, you're right again, nephew. How could I forget? Lord Stark must of course not lose his little trophy. Especially when it's as obedient and well trained as this one." Theon wanted to contradict, wanted to tell him that he was not a trophy but rather had secured peace for the Iron Islands with his sacrifice. But what did that mean anyway? What did peace mean to the ironborn, to his people, a people of warriors and conquerors? "So, Theon. Would you like to come to Pyke with me? What do you say?"

Euron Greyjoy

Chapter Text

The air in the small garden was still fresh from the night, but the birds in the royal gardens, not far from the courtyard in the middle of which this garden had been laid out, had already been singing their song for hours. It would have been beautiful here if this weren't King's Landing, if this weren't the Red Keep, the one place in the world she truly didn't want to be. But now she was here and there was nothing she could do but endure it. So far, her stay had gone surprisingly well, however. She had managed to avoid practically everyone she didn't want to see the entire time, even… him. Unfortunately, she had this way been able to see very little of the tourney, but from what she heard, her sons were doing well.

"Drink, or the tea will get cold," Ned said. He was right. She didn't know how long she had been staring wordlessly at the cup in her hand, but not wanting to make it more conspicuous, she finally took a sip and put it back on the table. "In any case, you really need to read it first."

Arya acknowledged her father's words with a loud groan, but fell silent after a quick glance from him.

"If that's what you wish, then I'll read it," Lyanna said with a laugh. "Though I'm sure you should be old enough by now to write a letter to your wife yourself. After all these years, you really do still amaze me from time to time, Ned. You're fearless when you have to do your duty and sentence a man to die, you don't hesitate for a moment when your king calls the banners and you have to go to war, but a letter to your family leaves you insecure?"

"You know what it is about for me."

"Yes, about our wonderful Arya here," Lyanna said, receiving a wide grin in return, her niece's cheeks filled to bursting with cheese and cold meat pie, making Lyanna grin herself.

"I don't want Cat to think I'm allowing myself a joke with her when I write that Arya is now acquainted with Princess Rhaenys."

"Of course, Ned. Because, you are known far and wide throughout the North for your jokes, after all."

Now Ned had to laugh too, then drank the rest of his tea in one go and raised his hands in surrender.

"It's all right, you're right. I guess I'll be able to handle this myself."

"My brave brother," she teased him with a grin as wide as Arya's. "Now, let's talk about something interesting instead. So, Arya, why don't you tell your old aunt a little?"

"About what?" she asked, uncertain. "Do you want me to tell you about Rhaenys, too?"

"Princess Rhaenys," Ned corrected her. "However she allows you to address her when you are among yourselves, in public she is Princess Rhaenys or Her Highness, Arya."

Arya didn't answer but just rolled her eyes, making no particular effort to hide it from Ned.

"No, I don't want you to tell me about Princess Rhaenys. I'm sure there'd be plenty to talk about how courtly and elegant and well-mannered she is, but that's just boring," Lyanna said, earning a loud laugh in return from Arya and a warning look from Ned. She knew that Ned, or much more his Tully wife, did not approve of Arya being so wild, so little of a southron lady. But Arya, just like she herself at her age, was not from the South. Catelyn Tully had never developed an understanding of the wolf blood that flowed strongly in the veins of the Starks, had even tried to drive it out of the sweet girl, as Lyanna knew. One could not, however, take away a girl's own blood. Arya had it, Lyanna herself had it, Brandon had had it. Good Brandon. "Better tell me something interesting," she finally continued. "You've been following the tourney in the stands so far, haven't you?"

"Yes, I've seen almost every joust, and the archery contest."

"Oh my, I loved archery when I was your age."

"I love it too."

"Then we really should do it together sometime, don't you think?"

"Yes, definitely!"

"And at the tourney... is there perhaps a young knight who has asked for your favor? Come on, out with it, young lady. I want to know the names of all the young men who are fighting over you."

A servant came hurrying up, poured first her and then Ned new tea, and then disappeared again as quickly and silently as he had come behind one of the tall blueberry bushes that surrounded the small garden like the walls of a fortress.

"There's no one," she finally said after a moment, her eyes fixed firmly on the rest of the pie in front of her on the plate.

"No one has asked you for your favor?"

"No, but I don't care. I don't want this anyway. This is all silly nonsense. As if a knight would ride or fight any better because he has a gaudy piece of cloth wrapped around his hand. It's all stupid," she said, and Lyanna could hear the defiance in her voice.

A knight could of course become better if he received the favor of a young lady. It seemed absurd, but such a simple strip of cloth could indeed make all the difference, could give a young man new courage and motivate him to achieve feats that even he himself would not have thought possible. Here and now, however, was neither the place nor the time to discuss this with Arya. She would learn this early enough, for sure.

"You're right, dear," she said instead. "And don't you worry about it. Most young men only ask beautiful young ladies for their favors anyway because they hope to be let into their beds in return afterwards. You don't need such sordid men. So no one has asked for your favor yet…," she said, rubbing her chin as if she had to think hard about it. "Then I guess this tourney will truly go down in history."

"Why is that?" Arya asked, her pretty little brow furrowed.

"Well, because then this one will be the first tourney in the history of the Seven Kingdoms in which apparently only blind men have participated."

Arya began to smile again, looking a little embarrassed, while Ned smiled broadly and gratefully all over his face at Lyanna. Ned was a good man, an even better brother, most probably a good husband and certainly a wonderful father, but in such matters only women could give advice to other women. Lyanna decided to talk to Arya about the matter again another time, when Ned would not be around. She knew from her own experience how difficult it could be for a young woman from the North, especially one who did not meet the standards of the southron courts in appearance or manners, to get along at a southron court, let alone stand out among the nobly dressed and elaborately coiffed ladies of the South.

Her dear niece could deny it all she wanted, she was far too much like Lyanna herself to be able to plausibly deny that she actually wanted someone to ask her for her favor. As a young girl, she had probably even believed herself that she didn't want any of this and that it was just silly anyway, just as Lyanna had believed it when she had run and ridden through Winterfell as a child. But Arya was no longer a child, she was a beautiful young woman. So the only question left was whether Arya just wanted to be asked for her favor generally – an undoubtedly special moment for any young woman – or if she perhaps already had someone in mind from whom she wanted to be asked specifically. It was quite possible and of course Lyanna begrudged her from the bottom of her heart. Lyanna decided not to let the nice moment and the good mood fade away and quickly continued talking.

"When I was your age, I probably wouldn't have wanted to watch the tourney at all."

"Really?" Arya asked.

"You would have wanted to miss a tourney, Lya?" Ned said, his eyes open and his brows raised in disbelief.

"I said I wouldn't have wanted to watch it, not that I would have wanted to miss it," Lyanna corrected him. "I would of course have preferred to participate."

"Don't give her silly ideas, Lya," Ned admonished her, but could not keep a slight smile from his lips.

"It's all right, dearest brother. It's just that I'm not blessed with a daughter of my own to put silly ideas into her head, so I guess Arya will have to stand in for it," Lyanna said, grinning, then looking over at Arya again. She would give anything for Arya to be her child, her girl, her own daughter. "Tell me Arya, do you still love riding?"

"Yes, I do, very much," chirped her niece.

"Me too. Then I guess we should finally do that together again, too. Why don't you come visit me at Storm's End sometime? For a few months, maybe. We have good, fast horses and beautiful forests and coastlines that you can ride along for days without seeing even a single rock or a single tree a second time."

"I would love to visit sometime, Aunt Lyanna. Would... my cousins come riding out with me then?"

"Why, sure they would. Steffon and Orys love riding as well."

"And… what about Jon?"

"Well, Jon is at King's Landing, of course."

"Ah, I see. I'll think about it," she said, and Lyanna could see her niece's mood drop abruptly. That surprised her a little. She knew that Jon and Arya had spent a lot of time together during his time in Winterfell, that they had become good friends, and that they were spending a lot of time together now in King's Landing during the tourney as well. That a few months in Storm's End was so much less enticing to her without Jon, however, definitely surprised her.

"Perhaps you should ask permission first before you think about anything, young lady," Ned said. Lyanna knew, however, that he wouldn't forbid her anyway, but in fact would have just liked to be asked, whether by Arya or her.

"Yes, Father," she said without looking at him, finishing the rest of her tea. "Can I go now? I'm meeting with Rhaen... Princess Rhaenys."

"Of course," he said, nodding. "Maybe I'll see you tonight for supper? Then you can tell me about your day with Her Highness."

"Yes, perhaps," she said, jumping up from her chair and hurrying toward the exit of the small garden. "Goodbye, Aunt Lyanna."

"Goodbye, dear."

"One more thing, Arya," Ned said, at which she stopped as if rooted to the spot. "Have you seen Theon today? I wanted to see him before breaking the fast, but he wasn't in his chambers."

"No, I haven't. Last time I saw him was yesterday when he was rolling through the dirt in the arena," she said with a grin, then turned and left.

"I don't know the young Greyjoy well," Lyanna said after a moment, "but he didn't strike me as the kind of young man who handles defeat well. Surely he drowned his disappointment in wine and is now sleeping it off in some tavern in town."

"From your lips to the gods' ears," he said with a forced smile.

"Has he never been away for a night or two in Winterfell?"

"Yes, of course he has. But he was only in Winter Town then. This, King's Landing, is something else entirely."

"Yes, King's Landing is something else entirely. Indeed it is. There's a lot to see and do here, especially for young men. He's probably just overwhelmed by the possibilities."

"You mean by the whores and the wine?"

"I wanted to put it more subtly, but yes. So don't worry about him too much. He'll turn up again," she said, trying to reassure him.

"If only it were that simple. He's my ward, Lyanna. He's my responsibility. Theon being under my care secures the peace with the Iron Islands."

"Nonsense," she scolded him, and for a moment her brother looked seriously startled. "The king has burdened you with Theon to punish Balon. Easy as that. Theon does not secure the peace more than my smallclothes secure the peace. Do you know what secures the peace? The dragons do, Ned. You know that as well as I do. So don't worry too much about Theon."

"Maybe so, but he still is my ward and it is my responsibility to protect him."

"The king should have relieved you of that burden long ago, Ned. Theon's a grown man. You have certainly raised him well and he is old enough to take care of himself. If he can't, that's not your fault."

"But the king-"

"The king certainly knows that as well," she cut him off.

For a while they sat there and Ned really honored his nickname as the Quiet Wolf. It was strange that over the years they had had no difficulties writing letters to each other, letters so long that they had had to be delivered by messenger rather than raven, but now that they were finally sitting face to face again after years, they both found it difficult to talk to each other. They had in fact never been good at it and the years seemed to have only made this worse.

"You need to watch over her, Ned," she finally said, and her brother immediately understood who she was talking about.

"What do you mean?" he asked, but a raised eyebrow from Lyanna quickly answered his question. "There's no one there. You heard her, didn't you? Besides, Arya doesn't care about... things like that. She's never been a southron lady like her mother. She's… like you."

"I know my niece, Ned, and you have no idea how proud and happy it makes me to know how much like me she is. But I, too, began to be interested in things like that at some point, although I may have shown it differently than a southron lady. I never started giggling hysterically or swooning with rapture when a young knight asked for my favor, but at some point I still had no less interest in these things than any other girl my age."

Ned sighed, certainly knowing she was right. Whatever interests Arya had once had or rejected would certainly change now that she was beginning to see the world, to see men through the eyes of a young woman, no longer through the eyes of a child. Perhaps this had already changed and Ned just wasn't aware of it. Her dear brother, for all the many good qualities he undoubtedly possessed, had never been great at understanding women. Not her, not his wife from what she had learned, and certainly not his daughters. She reached for a fig on the plate of different cheeses from Dorne and bit into it heartily before continuing to speak.

"Jon and Arya have been dancing," she said then, letting her words sink in for a moment, barely able to stifle a grin when she saw his irritated look.

"Impossible," he then said.

"I wasn't there, but I heard about it. The two of them danced together and, believe it or not, they both seemed to have had great fun, from what I've heard. That's why I'm saying you have to watch over her. I heard that she looked particularly pretty at that dance. No doubt she caught the eye of other young men as well now. I'd certainly be surprised if still no one asks her favor at the next joust."

For a moment, her brother seemed to ponder this and reached for a fig as well. Ned, living in the North where figs were a rare delicacy, however, apparently had no eye for which figs were ripe and sweet and delicious and which would have been better left hanging on the tree for a while longer. He bit heartily into a fig that was not yet ripe, but bravely, or perhaps just stubbornly as he was, did his best to pretend that it was delicious, even though Lyanna could tell from the small wrinkles around his eyes and the corners of his mouth that it was anything but and that he would have liked to spit it right back out. If they had been in Winterfell or Storm's End and not in the Red Keep, surrounded by countless visible and invisible eyes of royal servants, he certainly would have done so. Here, though, he did not. So he chewed on it for a while longer and finally swallowed it, leaving the rest of the fig on the plate, however.

"Arya doesn't dance," he said then.

Lyanna was content to eat her very ripe and very sweet fig, grinning and letting Ned believe that it couldn't be. Lyanna had heard what had happened, from a source whose word she could trust. From Orys. So whether Ned believed her or not, it didn't really matter.

Surely the little she-wolf is keeping some other secrets from you as well, dear brother. I, at least, kept my secrets from our father. And some I still keep.

"How was your meeting with the king, by the way?" she then asked, in as casual a tone as she could muster. For a moment, Ned looked downright startled.

"Fine," was all he said then.

"Fine. I'm glad to hear that. Must have been about something important."

"What makes you think that?"

"Since I've been in King's Landing, I've sat here almost every morning to break my fast, almost every noon and take my meal, and almost every evening for supper, Ned. Look over there," she said, pointing in a southerly direction. "That old crooked thing back there behind the watchtower is the rookery. Over the past two days, more ravens have flown out of there than out of the maester's tower at Storm's End in an entire year. So many indeed, since your meeting with the king, that one might even think we were at war. Are we at war, Ned?"

"At war? No. No, we are not at war, Lya," he said, but Lyanna was not sure whether to believe his words. Ned was not a liar and had never been one, but he had also never been one to peddle unpleasant truths either, even when they were children.

Certainly, if they really were at war, there would have been more than enough other, more obvious signs for it than a few ravens. Besides, who would they have been at war with, with the most powerful and important lords and ladies of the entire realm gathered here? Still, it had to have been about something significant to warrant not only so many ravens in all directions but also such secrecy.

She had already asked Robert about it when he had come to her after the meeting, sometime during the night, staggering and drunk. There, however, he had managed little more than some stammering and mumbling. He had reeked of cheap wine, but at least not of another woman. He had come to her when she had already lain in bed, had pulled her out of bed, torn her nightgown off her body with such ferocity that it had fallen to the floor tattered and almost ripped in two, and then had thrown her back into bed right in front of him. He had taken off his clothes faster than she had thought him capable of, hard and ready for her. Robert had been wild and untamed when he had taken her, as wild as he had been in the first years of their marriage, and it had pleased Lyanna to be loved by him in this way again. First he had lain on top of her, laboring between her thighs, until she had whispered in his ear.

"Let me do something good for you, husband," she had whispered, turning Robert onto his back and first pleasuring him with her mouth, then sitting on top of him and riding him until he had poured his seed into her, loudly screaming her name.

She knew she wasn't too old yet, could still bear him a child if his seed were to settle inside her womb. She hoped that it would, so desperately wishing for a little daughter, a little girl of her own. When he had been satisfied, she had snuggled up to him, stroking his chest, and when she had realized he hadn't been completely done yet a short time later, had finished him off again with her hand. She had not taken this second seed into her womb, however.

"The second seed of a night is weak. No healthy children can come of it," a maester had once told her. Lyanna didn't know if that was true or not, but had preferred not to take any chances with her desire for a little girl of her own. The next morning she had asked him again about the meeting, without yet having any particular suspicion but in fact out of pure interest, but again had received no answer. He hadn't wanted to reveal anything, just mumbled something incomprehensible along the lines about how jealous he was of Jon, whatever that had been supposed to mean.

The fact that now Ned also didn't want to say anything about it really aroused her interest, though. She realized, however, that she would not get anything out of her brother either. If Ned had made a promise, to keep quiet about something for example, whether to himself or to someone else, then he kept that promise, come what may.

She ate another fig, then gave Ned a kiss on the cheek and took her leave. She still had a few letters to write and a request from Lord Baelish to decide on, which Robert had so far only answered with a snort and a change of subject each time she had brought it up. After that, the most unpleasant part of the day lay ahead. She had been invited by the queen to tea in the godswood of the Red Keep. Walking through the hallways of Maegor's Holdfast to her chambers, she almost wished that she might fall on one of the countless staircases and break a bone or that a sudden fever might come over her to escape this tea. Apart from such misfortunes, there was unfortunately no reason for her to decline after all.

Rarely had she been so reluctant to do anything as she was to spend the afternoon with the queen, but she was expected to be there and to give her best possible performance, just as the queen had no doubt been expected to invite her in the first place. It was not that Queen Elia had ever said anything inappropriate to her or done anything to her, but still she felt the woman's rejection of her as clearly as a twinge in her back after a full week on horseback.

Maybe I will find out what she actually has against me. Maybe that will make it easier to bear.

In her chambers, she sat down at the desk in the solar for a while, quill in hand and a blank sheet of paper on the table in front of her, wondering what letter to write first. None of the letters she had to write were due to friendship or politeness. They were letters she had to write because they had to be written and because Robert simply would not do so. She began, finally, with the letter to old Lord Cafferen, who had asked once again to be allowed to have one of his grandsons fostered at Storm's End. He – or rather his son, since for all anyone knew old Lord Cafferen was bedridden for years already and due to the remedies to his various ills was unable to even hold a quill, let alone write a letter – had suggested that young Franklyn Cafferen be sent to Storm's End to squire either for Orys or for Steffon. The fact that her two younger sons had not yet received their knighthoods was apparently no obstacle for Lord Cafferen. The proposal to let the boy squire for Jon, who had already earned his knighthood together with Crown Prince Aegon more than a year ago, when they had fought together with three knights of the Kingsguard against a band of outlaws in the Riverlands, had so far been ignored by the Cafferens in the letters that had followed. She would now make this suggestion to them one more time. If there was no reply again, this would be the last letter to Fawnton that she would bother to write.

After that, she wrote two identical letters to Lord Guilan Whitehead of the Weeping Town and Lady Mary Mertyns of Mistwood. The two, as ancient as they were stubborn, had been fighting for years about this and that, about the exact location of a border stone, port fees, prices for lumber or wool or turnips, or sometimes probably just about whose farts smelled better. The two, even if they would never have admitted it, loved to be fighting with each other. Actually, Lyanna could not have cared less, but now the situation had changed. Most recently, the dispute had escalated when Lady Mary had forbidden a group of merchants to take the road to the Weeping Town in order to offer their goods there at the market, and when they had refused to swear an oath not to go there, had their goods taken from them and had them all imprisoned for more than two months. One of the merchants, however, had been a cousin by marriage of House Whitehead, which had naturally caused trouble. Storm's End, unfortunately, had only learned of this silly fuss when a dozen men, knights and squires, from the Weeping Town had already been on the road to Mistwood, ready to do what Lord Guilan seemed to think was necessary. Lyanna had then immediately written angry letters in Robert's name to both Mistwood and the Weeping Town, threatening them with severe punishment if they were to dare breaking the king's peace.

Robert had never learned of this, otherwise he would certainly have mounted a horse that very day and ridden down there in full armor and with his war hammer in hand to end the matter with plenty of spilled blood and crushed skulls. This way, however, Lyanna had managed to bring the two back to reason to some extent with ink and paper alone, even though the conflict still smoldered between them. In these letters she now informed them of her decision, officially Robert's decision of course, that a daughter of House Whitehead should be given to the heir of House Mertyns and a daughter of House Mertyns should be given to the heir of House Whiteheads as a bride, in order to end this ridiculous quarrel permanently and to deprive them of any possibility of it flaring up again within the lifetimes of Lord Guilan and Lady Mary. Should they not comply by the next harvest at the latest, Storm's End would have to seriously consider reassigning some of both family's titles and lands elsewhere, to lords and ladies who cared more about the king's peace and the obedience to their liege than they did.

The last letter she wrote, was addressed to Ser Lomas Estermont, who, as castellan, had of course stayed behind at Storm's End. He had promised to report to her as soon as there was news of the three ships they had sent to Essos, a heavy cog and two dromonds for its protection, to buy large quantities charcoal and wheat malt. She had also given the order to buy at least thirty or forty hams and either eight hundred stockfish or thirty carcasses of salted meat, of which there were still enough in storage, but of which, on the other hand, one could never have too many. The prices were, as far as they had been able to find out beforehand, quite low, especially in Pentos, so that it was worth buying what was available. Ser Lomas, for all his faults like his habit of always telling the same four boring stories after just one mug of ale, was a very diligent, dutiful man. If he had promised her that he would keep her informed, she counted on him to do so. That she still hadn't received a raven about the ships, the charcoal and the wheat malt they so desperately needed, however, was at least unusual. Lyanna was not worried yet, but this was not an acceptable state of affairs either.

Finally, she picked up the letter that she could not keep waiting and about its request she still had to make a decision. In it, Lord Baelish asked to be released from his duties in the service of the House Baratheon at short term and until further notice. He had told her several times in the past already how much he would like to return to the Vale of Arryn for a while to visit old friends, even if Lyanna did not believe for a heartbeat that a man like Petyr Baelish had any friends to begin with. For some days now, however, since they had been in King's Landing, this seemed to have become especially urgent for Lord Baelish, as he had asked her about it several times in the past few days and had now even put his request in writing, without, however, being able to give her an exact reason why he was in such a hurry to get to the Vale of Arryn.

Lyanna knew that Robert did not care about it at all, thinking little of Lord Baelish as a person and even less of the work he was doing for them. Counting coppers, he always called it disdainfully. So Lyanna would have to make the decision, as she did so often. Of course, they had no way to hold Lord Baelish in their service forever if he didn't want to, being a lord of the Vale and not one of Robert's bannermen, after all. Still, he had put himself in their service, so he couldn't just disappear without Robert or Lyanna allowing it. However, if they wanted to hope that Lord Baelish would return his special talents to their service after a few months absence, it would certainly be good to honor his request. Lyanna therefore decided to agree and to release Lord Baelish from his duties, if he in return convinced Robert to abandon his idea of the tourney for one of the coming name days first. That way, hopefully, their gold would last long enough until Lord Baelish was back from whatever he was up to in the Vale of Arryn. Visiting friends, however, certainly not.

She quickly wrote down her decision, since Lord Baelish would undoubtedly be more satisfied with a written confirmation than a mere spoken consent, sealed the letter with the stag of House Baratheon in bright yellow wax, and was glad to finally be able to give her now aching fingers some rest. She washed the rest of the ink from her fingers and then handed the letters to a servant she had summoned to deliver the one letter to Lord Baelish and take the other letters to the rookery to be sent away, hoping that there were enough ravens left to carry her letters at all.

Breaking the fast had not been long ago, but Lyanna was already feeling hungry again. She decided to have a light lunch before meeting Queen Elia for tea later. Briefly, she wondered if she would be able to have the meal with her family. Robert and Steffon, however, were together in some practice yard where Robert wanted to show their youngest some more tricks on how to use his hammer better in the melee. Lyanna didn't really see the need for that, since he was already in the finals anyway, and had incidentally shattered a Frey's lower and upper jaw with just one mighty blow, so that he would only be able to feed on soup for weeks. She had visited the poor man at his bedside after learning of it, and on behalf of her entire family, had wished him a speedy recovery. In her opinion, Steffon had already mastered the hammer sufficiently well. Walton Frey, the King of Soups and Mashes, as he had come to be called already, probably saw it the same way. However, if Robert and Steffon wanted to spend time together, she certainly would not stand in the way.

Orys was out on the tourney grounds preparing for his joust in the quarterfinals, as she knew. He would be competing against Lord Jason Mallister, who would be riding his final joust before the quarterfinals today against... someone. She didn't remember. Since Lord Jason had already qualified, this was a mere formality, but Orys still wanted to watch him do it, hoping to discover a weakness in his opponent's technique. She did not doubt, however, that whatever he might or might not discover, he would afterwards douse with some wine or ale with some lads his age. There were plenty of those here during the tourney, after all. She couldn't blame him for his fun either, though.

Where her Jon was, Lyanna didn't know. He was probably out somewhere with Prince Aegon. So Jon was not available for a quick lunch either. Therefore, she simply had a servant bring something to eat to her chambers and ate standing at the window with a view down into Blackwater Bay. She had potted hare with mashed white beans and a salad of spinach, sweetgrass, plums, candied nuts, and violets.

When she had finished her meal, she sat down on her bed and looked at the selection of dresses she had shortlisted for tea with the queen. None of the dresses particularly appealed to her. The yellow one made of velvet with the black stags and brocade was elegant enough for such an occasion, however she would sweat terribly in it after a short time. The blue one of silk was airy enough, but she had not worn it for some time and it would surely no longer fit her well in certain places. Robert, as she had experienced just last night again, loved and enjoyed these certain places, especially her buttocks and thighs, but in this dress she would look as if she had borrowed it. The green one with the white embroidery was airy and elegant enough and fit her perfectly, it was only a few weeks old, but the skirt was so stiff that she could hardly sit in it. She therefore decided to choose the gray one made of linen and silk with the black, white and yellow embroidery on it. It was less noble than the other three, but hopefully she looked sufficiently elegant for the occasion and the company. And if not, the queen certainly would not demand her head for it.

She put it on and looked at herself in the mirror for a moment. Somehow it reminded her of the dress Arya had worn when breaking the fast this morning. It had been gray, too, with colored embroidery on it.

I guess we're even more alike than I thought. Maybe one day she'll become the Lady of Storm's End as well, she thought jokingly, and had to laugh.

Finally, she slipped into soft shoes of dark leather that matched her dress and tied some matching ribbons in her hair, black and white and yellow, so that her mane at least somehow resembled a hairstyle. She knew that with this way of tying her hair, she could not even begin to compare with the ladies at the royal court. It was important to her, however, to still be herself, to feel comfortable, as comfortable as she would be able to feel when meeting with Queen Elia, and she certainly didn't want to feel dressed up for that.

She left her chambers and made her way to the godswood. She found the way quickly, although she would not have minded if she had taken longer. Some soldiers guarded the entrance to the godswood, but stepped aside as she introduced herself.

"Her Grace is already expecting you, my lady," one of the soldiers said, his face hidden under a bushy brown beard, with a nod and an attempt at a smile.

She walked past them into the godswood, a little annoyed at not being able to take off her shoes right then and there in this admittedly beautiful garden to walk barefoot through the deep green, certainly wonderfully soft grass. She walked along the narrow path of sand and pebbles that led her deeper into the godswood, past elms, alders, and black cottonwoods.

She turned the last small corner, passing a stone bust of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator surrounded by a bed of goldencups and lavenders, when she already heard the laughter of the queen. A few steps later she came into view, sitting at a small table with tea and pastries in the shade of the heart tree. The heart tree of King's Landing, however, was not a weirwood tree, as there were practically no such trees this far south, but a mighty oak, covered in smokeberry vines. All around the oak, between the legs of the chairs and the table and the feet of the queen, beautiful red dragon's breath grew out of the green grass, the scent of which Lyanna could already smell even from several paces away.

Prince Viserys stood next to the queen, snatched a small cake from the table with quick fingers and then bid farewell to the queen. Lyanna cringed at the sight. She had expected that the queen would have her ladies-in-waiting with her, that Lyanna would be the unpleasant center of attention for a few moments when she arrived, but then would be able to get lost in the mass of clucking chickens. Now, however, no one was there, no one but the queen and her. Only two chairs stood at the small table, on one of which the queen was already sitting. So no one else would come either. Even Prince Viserys, of whom she did not know much except that he was said to be a quiet and pleasant man, left. He came up to her, greeted her kindly as he passed, and then had already disappeared behind King Jaehaerys' head. The queen now also looked over at Lyanna, who approached with small steps and immediately, as soon as she recognized her, the honest, broad smile disappeared from her face and made room for the put-on smile of a monarch. A smile that more than clearly said that she, too, would rather be anywhere else in the world than here right now.

"Lady Lyanna, how good of you to find time to accept my invitation," the queen said.

"My Queen, I am honored to have been invited," she said with a curtsy. She had never mastered a perfect curtsy, not as a young girl and not as a grown woman, but the queen seemed sufficiently pleased with her attempt, gesturing to the small chair across from her now.

"I did not mean to interrupt your conversation with Prince Viserys," Lyanna said after a moment of silence.

"You did not at all. I was merely seeking his advice on a... more than annoying matter."

"I understand, Your Grace."

"Do you?" the queen asked, one eyebrow raised. "But you don't even know what it was about. How could you possibly understand?"

"Please forgive me, Your Grace," Lyanna said, lowering her eyes.

This was not getting off to a good start at all. She had hoped to have to drink some tea and eat a few cakes, but otherwise just talk about trivialities a bit. This was not at all how she had envisioned it.

"It's all right. I know it was just a phrase. But perhaps you can help me with my little problem, Lady Lyanna."

"I'd love to," she lied, "What can I do?"

"I could enlarge the stables at Storm's End and take an elephant from us."

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace?" asked Lyanna, blinking, sure she hadn't understood correctly. But the queen simply waved it off without saying a word for a while. Then, finally, she began to speak again, her gaze somewhere off in the distance.

"I'm just thinking about what to do with the animals we received as gifts on the occasion of my son's name day. That's all. The striped horses are going to the royal stables. They are much too small for war or a tourney, but maybe someday they can be used for… I don't know… something. They don't eat much, so there's no harm in keeping them."

The queen gestured with her hand, and quiet as a mouse, a servant came hurrying up from somewhere, poured them both tea, and just as quickly and quietly hurried away again. The queen took a sip of the tea before continuing.

"The colorful birds, bitey as the beasts may be, are coming to the aviary in the royal gardens. We might even be able to let them fly around freely once we're sure they won't fly away. And if they do, so be it. Queen Rhaella once told me that there used to be birds like this in the royal gardens when she was a little girl. They fluttered around the gardens all day and lost their brilliant feathers everywhere. Surely it would have pleased Rhaella to know that we now have such birds here again. And the lion, the damned lion, we'll give as a gift to the Lannisters. Lord Tywin will surely like the thought of having a real lion in Casterly Rock again. Now we just need to know what to do with the elephant. It certainly cannot stay here. If we don't find anything, we'll just feed him to the dragons. If nothing else, it'll at least save us a few oxen."

Lyanna thought about this for a moment before answering. She couldn't even imagine what it must be like to receive a living elephant as a gift. Not for the first time, she was glad that the gifts for Robert, her sons, and for herself on their name days, were considerably smaller than those for the royal family. In the past they had received beautifully woven tapestries, life-size portraits in the lively Myrish style, her husband and sons had already received weapons and shields and armor, she herself had received jewelry, and occasionally they had been given a horse from a particularly good breed or, as only recently, a gyrfalcon. An elephant in Storm's End, no matter how much fun Robert would certainly have with it, she did not even want to imagine.

"A wise idea, no doubt, Your Grace," Lyanna finally said, reaching for her tea. She queen looked at her for a moment, then gave a short, barely audible snort and averted her eyes again.

They sat there drinking tea and eating small cakes, but spoke very little. The queen asked a few questions about Steffon and Orys, about Storm's End and the trade in the Stormlands, but seemed to barely listen to Lyanna's answers. In turn, Lyanna asked some questions about Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys and about the Queen's family in Dorne, but rarely received more than two or three words or a yes or no in response. The longer they sat there, the less they spoke, and the less they spoke, the more uncomfortable Lyanna felt. They had to sit there for at least two hours already, drinking cup after cup of tea and biting into a little cake of lemons, plums or apples every now and then, before Lyanna finally dared to ask what she simply had to ask. She took one deep breath, then another, before speaking.

"Have I done something to you, Your Grace? What have I done to incur your wrath, My Queen?"

The queen's head snapped around to face her, her dark eyes fixed firmly on hers. She didn't answer for a moment, and Lyanna was already expecting to get no more response, before suddenly the queen waved her hand again, all the servants near and far hurried away like mice from a cat and the queen finally began to speak, in a tone so poisonous that Lyanna was almost afraid to drop dead at once.

"Are you seriously asking this, Lady Lyanna? Because if so, I have to wonder if you are stupid or naive or just plain ignorant to seriously ask such a question." For a heartbeat, Lyanna was thunderstruck, almost startled by the tone of the queen, who didn't even try to deny it. "It is your first son. Jon."

"Jon? What about Jon?" she asked, feeling her voice begin to tremble. All at once her courage was gone, blown away like a snowflake in a winter storm.

"He has your eyes, my lady, your hair, your nose, your mouth. He looks like you, truly. Thank the gods he doesn't look like his father and Robert apparently never cared enough to take a closer look."

"I... don't know what you mean, Your Grace," she stammered. She felt herself getting hot and cold, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up and her guts began to turn and twist, making her want to throw up on the spot.

"Oh please, let's put an end to this silly game, shall we? He has your colors and your face, but in the little things, in his movements, in the way he speaks and sometimes just stares aimlessly into the distance as if waiting for something... In such things he is just like his father. Did you really think that I would not recognize my husband in another woman's child?"

Lyanna felt her heart stop. She couldn't breathe, had the feeling as if she was being choked to death by a huge, invisible hand, squeezing her throat so tightly that she thought her head would be severed from her shoulders at any moment. Panic shot through her like wildfire, seeming to set her whole body on fire. She wanted to jump up and run away, just never look back and certainly never return, but her legs disobeyed her. She wanted to say something, deny it, defend herself, assure the queen that she was wrong, but her tongue disobeyed her as well. For a heartbeat she felt dizzy and feared falling off the chair, but then caught herself at the last moment. Tears began to well up in her eyes, blurring her view. With all her strength left, she blinked them away. Slowly, ever so slowly, she managed to breathe again, sucking small amounts of air into her lungs at first, then larger and larger amounts, until finally she could speak again.

"How... How long do you know already, Your Grace?"

"Since the very first day. Since Lord Robert showed up at the royal court with a three year old boy by the hand, proudly puffed up like an old rooster, to present his son and heir," she said, snorting a bitter laugh. "And had I not known the truth at that moment already, then Rhaegar's longing gaze would have told me everything I needed to know at the latest. This look that only a father can have for his son."

"I... Well, he..."

"Then, a few years later, he even came to the royal court, your wonderful son," she spat, "to grow up with my Aegon, my perfect boy. Every day since, I've had him in front of my eyes, a constant reminder of what my husband, what both of you, did to me."

At that moment she felt as miserable as never before in her life. She had often lain awake during long nights, thinking about how it could have come to all of this, whether it would not have been better at times to come clean, to convince Robert to annul their marriage and simply be with him. She had, however, always quickly discarded the thought. To Robert, for all his faults but a good man at heart, she had not wanted to inflict this pain. To her family in Winterfell, she had not wanted to do the dishonor. To Jon, then having to tell him that the man he had called father all his life was not his father at all, she had not wanted to do this. And to Queen Elia, a good, loving and kind woman, as she had heard from many, she had not wanted to do this either. At this moment, however, she wanted to slap herself for, as often as she had played this idea through in her head, she had never thought of what she had already done to her, what pain she had already caused in this woman's heart. Lyanna had to swallow hard, feeling the lump in her throat as she tried to speak.

"I didn't mean... I mean, I thought-"

"No, you didn't. You didn't think, not even for a moment, and that was precisely the problem, Lady Lyanna. I don't know how exactly this liaison came about, whether my husband courted you or whether you two simply got carried away in a moment of lust, and neither do I care. But whatever happened between you and my husband, you were a grown woman and my husband was a grown man who could be expected to think for at least a heartbeat before pants were pulled down and legs were spread," she spat, as venomously as even a Dornish scorpion could not have been. "Did you know that Robert even asked for the hand of my Rhaenys for your son? The hand of my wonderful, perfect girl... As if I would allow my Rhaenys to be given to your bastard. The years he was in Winterfell, away from my children and my sight, were the best years in a long time," the queen said, sighing deeply.

For a while they were silent again, neither woman willing or able to look at the other. Lyanna looked at the ground, at the blossoms of the dragon's breath around her feet, bright red and beautiful. She studied the blossoms with such devotion, as if she hoped to find the answer in them. But to what question? She did not know, could not know. The whole time she felt like she was about to throw up at any moment. Her thoughts raced, to Jon, to Robert, to Rhaegar, to Ned, to Robert again, back to Jon, so fast that her own thoughts made her dizzy. She didn't know how long it had taken her to finally dare to say something again, but when she did, her throat was as dry as a desert.

"If the sight of Jon is so painful to you, Your Grace, why did you not send him away again?"

"Believe me, I didn't want him here, from the very beginning on, but Rhaegar insisted. Of course, he didn't tell me to my face that he wanted his bastard near him. He didn't have that much courage after all. Instead, he made up some nonsense about how important it was that his and Robert's heirs grow up together to rebuild the old bonds between the houses Targaryen and Baratheon for the good of the realm. And then, well, at some point, your son suddenly was my son's best friend. Suddenly they were as close as brothers, as close as the brothers they actually are. My discomfort at having to see him all the time no longer seemed important enough to take my dear boy's best friend away from him."

"That was very kind of you, Your Grace."

"It was indeed," she snapped. "Besides, it seemed wise to me to keep an eye on him. Should his ancestry ever become public... the gods alone know what will await us then."

"Your Grace, I assure you that Jon would never dare to try-"

"You can't possibly be that naive," she laughed, a mocking, almost mournful laugh. "He himself might not, but others would dare. Others would try. Others would see him as an opportunity to pressure Aegon with a rival for the throne, perhaps even to crown a man more agreeable to them than my son, should the opportunity present itself one day. Even the Golden Company could come out of their holes again, hoping to have found a new Blackfyre in your son, behind whom they can run into their doom again, as they have tried so many times before. And last but not least... you know your husband better than most. What do you think Lord Robert would do if he were to learn the truth? Disinherit Jon, send you away, embrace Steffon as his new heir, and call it a day? Hardly. Thanks to you and my husband, we're now all sitting on a barrel of wildfire, playing with burning tinder."

"And... and what are you going to do about it now, Your Grace?"

"The same thing I've been doing for years and the same thing I would recommend you do as well, Lady Lyanna. Keep silent and pray, keep silent and pray."

Robert Baratheon

Chapter Text

The silver of the rose-adorned helmet at the other end of the arena dazzled him almost as if he were looking directly into the sun. Ser Loras' armor shone in the sunlight as if an entire army of squires and pages had done nothing but clean it, polish it, and probably even lick it clean for the last few days. Jon wasn't sure that might not even be true. Ser Loras, talented as hardly anyone else but vain as a peacock, could certainly be trusted to do that. What Jon knew for sure, however, was that it was intentional. Of course, the armor shone like a mirror, blinding him. It was almost embarrassing that such a good rider and jouster as Ser Loras thought it necessary to resort to such tricks. That alone was why Jon had already decided for himself not to let him get away with this. That alone was why Jon had already decided to win this joust at all costs.

He watched as Ser Loras rode up to the stands for the nobles and asked a young lady, judging by the color of her hair probably Desmera Redwyne, for her favor. It was a strange sight somehow. Most ladies of the realm would have sold their own mothers to be asked for their favors by Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. Ser Loras, however, did not seem to want to do anything with this fact. Jon himself was not a man who, just because he had the favor of a lady, believed he was entitled to be invited to the bed of said lady, as many other young knights did. Such behavior was out of the question for him, but even he had occasionally let himself be rewarded with a shy kiss by a beautiful young woman after a won joust and had always danced after every single joust with the ladies he had asked for their favor. Loras Tyrell didn't seem to do any of that. He asked ladies for their favors for every joust in every tourney he participated in, though he seemed to ignore them completely afterwards each and every time.

He doesn't even want to dance with her, Jon wondered again, shaking his head, as Ser Loras rode back into position with the favor of – probably – Desmera Redwyne on his hand.

He himself knew he wanted it. Jon was sure of it. Asking her favor was the easiest way, the most obvious, the most direct. If she would grant him her favor, he could ask her to the dance again tonight without it being peculiar. But would she want him to? He did not know, could not know, could only hope. But he himself wanted it. He wanted to dance with Arya again. And the easiest way to secure a dance with her would be to ask for her favor now.

After their dance, or rather their dances, two days ago, he had not been able to sleep half the night, had lain awake staring at the canopy above his bed, but without really being able to remember afterwards the thoughts that had kept him awake. Then, when he had finally fallen asleep, he had had another one of those dreams that had been coming back to him more often lately. He had been a wolf, a direwolf even, hiding in a cave from a snowstorm, along with other wolves. His siblings, he knew.

Last night, after not having seen Arya all day, he had fallen asleep immediately, but the dreams had not disappeared. On the contrary, they had been even more intense than ever before. Once again he had been the wolf, still in that same cave with his siblings hiding from the still same snowstorm. A she-wolf had stayed with him, all night long, with gray fur and golden eyes. They had snuggled together, as they had the night before, warming and sniffing each other. One of his brothers had also tried to get closer to her, but Jon had bitten him away. This sister was for him. For a while she had fought him, playfully only, but Jon, having been fully merged with the wolf, had sensed, no, had smelled, that she had wanted it too. With wolves, siblings probably meant something different than with humans, because at some point, when the storm had passed and the sun had already risen again, she had stopped fighting him, had presented herself to him and he, caught up in the wolf and his instincts, had mounted her.

At first he had found it strange, unnatural, and for a heartbeat he had wanted to resist, to take control away from the wolf and not do it. Then, however, it had felt... right, somehow, and Jon had let it happen. Wolves rarely mated with their siblings, it was said, but direwolves were no ordinary wolves and rare was not never.

His sleep had been deeper than it had been in a long time, so deep even that he had almost slept through the beginning of this joust, had Aegon not woken him up in the last moment. A full carafe of water, cold as ice, he had poured on his face. Jon had screamed when he had woken up from it, wet from the water and wet in the crotch from the seed he must have spilled during his sleep and red in the face from shame, but Aegon had - hopefully - not noticed anything about that. He had then quickly washed, rushed to the tourney grounds and, just in time, had let Aegon help him into his armor.

He snapped out of his thoughts when he saw that the squire with the quartered flag was already about to step forward and the horn blower was already taking a breath to let the first round of the joust begin. He quickly gave his horse the spurs and rode off towards the stands. Immediately the horn blower lowered his horn again and the squire took a hasty step back. At this tourney, this was the first time Jon would ask a lady for her favor. He had done it countless times before, but now, at this moment, he felt like it was the first time ever. Panic flooded through him.

What if she says no? What if she doesn't want it at all? I'm going to ruin everything with this. For sure I will.

It didn't matter, though, because now it was already too late. He was already on his way and all he could do now was hope for the best, grit his teeth and just get it done. He approached the royal box, looked into the excited faces of the king, the queen, Rhaenys and Lady Allara. And then he saw her, entrancing and making him feel as light as a summer breeze, in a pale blue dress and with ribbons of pale blue in her hair as well. He came to a stop in front of the royal box, flipped the visor of his helmet back up and looked at her.

Arya looked at him as well, her eyes as big as plates, whether from joy or from shock he couldn't tell. He hoped it was the former. Jon forced himself to smile, which he hoped would hide his fear. He looked at Arya a moment longer, looked into her gray eyes, which were the same color as the churning, windswept sea off Storm's End. He looked at her wild brown curls, only barely held in shape by the blue ribbons. He would gladly have reached for them now, pulled the ribbons from her hair, and let her mane blow in the wind like a banner.

"Lady Arya, may I ask your favor for this joust?" he finally asked, his voice as rough as after a night of drinking.

Arya looked at him a moment longer, frozen motionless in her seat. The only thing that told him she was still alive and understood him were her ears, which turned as red as ripe apples. She then opened her mouth, but no sound came out, closing it again. She blinked once, twice, three times, until finally Rhaenys leaned over to her from the side as if to whisper something to her, but then pushed her from her seat with a sudden shove. Arya caught herself, looked angrily at Rhaenys for a tiny moment, but then immediately turned back to Jon.

Without a word, she approached him, hesitantly and almost tripping over her own feet, pulled one of the blue ribbons out of her hair - some strands falling wildly dancing down to her shoulders - and began to tie it around Jon's outstretched, armored fist, her eyes fixed firmly on his. For a tiny moment, her eyes seemed to change, seemed to glow, only in his mind, as golden as the eyes of the she-wolf in his dream. He thought he heard, far in the distance and yet very close in his mind, the breathing of a wolf, his wolf. But as quickly as it had come, so quickly the feeling was already gone again.

"Why?" he heard Arya whispered.

"Why what?" he whispered back.

"Why me?"

Now Jon didn't have to force a smile anymore, smiling genuinely all over his face.

"Who else?" he said, laughing quietly, before flipping down his visor again, pulling on his horse's reins and riding back into position. Only now did he notice the cheers of the people in the arena, who had of course been watching the entire scene. He heard the names Baratheon and Stark coming from the crowd, Storm's End and Winterfell, now even drowning out the calls for Ser Loras and Highgarden.

This time the squire and the horn blower did not wait long, giving the signal only a few heartbeats after Jon had received his first lance. Immediately he thundered off, towards Ser Loras. Jon had devised a tactic against Ser Loras and now he could only hope that it would work out. Many a man had already devised tactics against this opponent, however, and most of them had failed. Ser Loras was an excellent jouster and an even better rider, but everyone could be beaten in one way or another. Jon lowered his lance, matching his breathing and movements to the rhythm of the thundering beats of his horse's hooves. He saw Ser Loras lower his lance as well and, daring as he was, seemed to aim for Jon's head, the more difficult hit.

He wants to finish it quickly, he thought. Seems he doesn't like the fact that they called mine and Arya's name louder than his.

Jon didn't let himself get rattled, though. He had set up his lance to hit Ser Lora's shield, breaking his lance safely and starting this joust with a first, relatively easy point. He would stick with it, keeping the lance firmly aimed at its target. At the last moment, however, he quickly turned his head to the side. He felt a tremendous blow in his arm as his lance clashed against Ser Loras' shield and shattered, and an almost equally violent blow to the head as he was struck by Ser Loras' lance.

Damn, he's good indeed.

Just a heartbeat later, he looked around and realized that it had worked. Ser Loras had actually hit his head with an excellent thrust, a hit any other jouster would hardly have managed, but since his head and helmet had already turned, the lance had slipped off and stayed intact. Jon could almost smell frustration from the Knight of Flowers. And it smelled good.

He looked up at the royal box as he rode back into position, saw the king and queen, Rhaenys and Allara applauding nobly yet smiling, while Arya stood beside her seat, threw her arms in the air and shouted something at him that he could not understand. She was beaming wonderfully all over her face. The queen looked at her for a moment, irritated, but then turned back ahead, smiling contentedly while the king seemed frozen in place, unmoving as if he were hewn from stone.

Jon received his second lance, got ready and again the signal to begin quickly sounded. Again he gave his horse the spurs, thundered off. Again he had his target firmly in sight. Ser Loras, for all the talent he possessed, also had weaknesses. One of them was that, although he could have done differently, he never bothered much to hide where he was going to hit his opponent. Usually he didn't need to, since his hits were so precise and so powerful that an opponent could hardly do anything about it, even if he had known it days and not mere moments before the impact. Jon quickly noticed that Ser Loras was aiming for his shield this time. Obviously he wanted to land a safe point for now as well. Jon also aimed at Ser Loras' shield again and lowered his head at the last moment. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Ser Loras twist his upper body, but he wasn't sure anymore.

He quickly gained certainty, though, when, at almost the same moment, he received a powerful blow to his shield, but his own lance, without delivering a similar blow, still rested in his hand with its full weight. He raised his head again to look at the result and indeed his lance was still intact, while Ser Loras had broken his lance on Jon's shield.

He rode back into position, this time without looking up at the royal box. This round he had lost and for that he did not want to reward himself with a look to the stands. He was getting ready for the third pass when he suddenly heard a voice next to him. He looked to the side and realized to his surprise that it was not one of the usual squires standing there, but Aegon, in full armor and ready for his own joust after this one.

"Don't let him hit you," he said, loud enough to drown out the cheers in the arena.

"Oh, great idea. Wouldn't have thought of it on my own," Jon returned with a grin he didn't know if Aegon could even see through the closed visor.

"Don't let him hit you," he repeated. "I beat him once, at the tourney of Pinkmaiden. His weakness is not his technique or his strength, but his vanity."

It took him a moment, but then Jon understood. He nodded a thanks to his friend, made himself ready and waited for the signal to begin the third pass. The signal came, Jon gave his horse the spurs and hurried towards his opponent. He saw Ser Loras' lance lowering, aiming at his chest. Jon lowered his lance as well, aiming for Ser Loras' shield, the weaker but easier hit. The horses, snorting loudly, had almost reached the center of the arena when Jon jerked his lance aside at the last moment, sliding it along Ser Loras' shield without scoring a hit and turning his upper body to the side. Ser Loras' lance shot at him with incredible force, and Jon felt it hit him above his shield on the shoulder, but slid past him just as ineffectively. Neither lance was broken.

They rode back to starting position, both still with the same lances in their hands. Briefly, he looked over at Aegon, who was now standing off to the side at a distance, watching him. He grinned broadly all over his face.

Good, so I got your hint right, Jon thought.

Again the signal for the start was sounded and the quartered flags were waved. Again Jon gave his horse the spurs, thundering off. This time Ser Loras' lance was aimed at his shield, it seemed.

This time, he doesn't want to take any chances and wants to hit me no matter what.

Again the horses had almost reached each other when Jon jerked his lance aside, this time in the other direction. It crossed with Ser Loras' lance and, as Jon bent his torso back as far as his armor would allow, pushed it aside just far enough to hit Jon's shield but again scraped past it ineffectively. His own lance had gotten caught between Ser Loras' body and lance arm and had been ripped from his hand, but without even hitting Ser Loras' properly.

Again they rode back to starting position, meeting in the middle of the arena, and for a tiny moment he thought he could hear Ser Loras grumbling under his helmet. He had a new lance given to him and waited for the signal. Again he looked over at Aegon, who seemed to be having a lively discussion with the scorekeepers. Surely the scorekeepers wanted to end the joust now, since it seemed Jon didn't want to joust anymore, but Ser Loras couldn't defeat him either. Then the discussion was over and Aegon went back to the side, a satisfied expression on his face. He looked at Jon and nodded. Jon understood. Now the moment had come.

Jon gripped the lance in his hand tighter, straightened in his saddle once more and waited for the signal. The horn blast came and immediately Jon thundered off on his horse. Ser Loras came up to him as well, immediately giving his horse the spurs several times.

Seems you have no patience left. Your vanity is your weakness, Knight of Flowers. A man who is used to be the best, tends to forget how to deal with disappointments.

Jon lowered his lance as he came closer. Ser Loras lowered his lance as well. He saw it aimed at Jon's shield. Jon knew what he had to do. It was risky, but if he succeeded... At the last moment, aiming his lance at Ser Loras' shield, he turned his own shield aside, exposing his breastplate, and lowered his head to close the visor of his helmet. He felt his lance crash against Ser Loras' shield with a tremendous bang, bursting into a thousand pieces, while Ser Loras' lance, having been unable to aim it at Jon's breastplate in time, bounced off the turned shield. It had worked perfectly! After two missed lances, Ser Loras had been so enraged that he had forgotten his superior technique and just tried to knock Jon out of the saddle with sheer force.

Jon raised his head, a few heartbeats after the impact, and found that all that was left in his hand was the splintered stump of a lance. He turned his horse around at the end of the lane and looked to Ser Loras, who was still holding his intact lance. To the frenetic cheers of the crowd, Jon rode to the center of the arena, where he met with a visibly disappointed Ser Loras. They shook hands, but neither said anything. Then Ser Loras rode out of the arena at a gallop, while Jon, removing his helmet, rode a victory lap around the arena. He raised his hand in the air, the hand with which he had wielded the victory lance.

The hand on which I wear Arya's favor, he noticed again only now, and felt a sudden warmth rise within him. It was an entirely different warmth than the sweat in the armor. It was a pleasant warmth that seemed to come from deep within him.

He looked up at her, standing in the royal box at Rhaenys' side. She had risen from her seat, did not clap, did not shout anything, just looked at him, her face wonderfully flushed and beaming all over. He would have loved to jump off his horse and run to her, climb into the royal box and take her in his arms. He would have loved to hold her close and smell the scent of her hair, the earthy scent of Winterfell, of the glass gardens, of the godswood with the impressive heart tree, the scent of a campfire in the middle of a warm summer rain. He decided against it, however, not wanting to incur the anger of the Kingsguard, who probably would not have allowed even him, the heir to Storm's End, to approach the royal box and thus the king and queen in this way.

The hour after his joust passed as if veiled by a silken curtain, so little could he remember afterward. Somehow his horse had been led out of the arena by some squire and he himself had ended up in his tent in a hot tub, with a mug of ale in his hand and a plate of sprats fried in fat with lemons in front of him. He remembered that Aegon had been with him, but he had had to leave. He remembered that he had wished Aegon luck, since he now had to face Ser Sandor Clegane in the joust. He remembered that for a while he had just stared at the entrance to his tent, deep inside hoping that somehow Arya would rush in, as Rhaenys had done for Aegon. He felt his face turn red at the thought. Rhaenys had come in, gone to Aegon, and showered him with kisses. Was this what he wanted from Arya?

Of course not. She is like a sister to me, he thought, but somehow the thought sounded like a lie even in his own mind.

He tore himself away from the thought before he had been able to find an answer. Only now did it occur to him that he had lain in his bath tub so long - the water was utterly cold by now - that he had missed Aegon's joust and certainly the other duels of the quarterfinals as well, Ser Jonothor Darry against Ser Jaime Lannister and Lord Jason Mallister against his brother Orys. He quickly jumped out of the water, dried off, and reached into the chest in the corner of his tent to take out a new pair of breeches and a doublet. If he hurried, he might still be able to see his brother's joust.

He had just finished arranging his clothes on his small bed and was about to start putting on his pants when he felt a movement behind him and just a heartbeat later heard a voice speaking, the voice of a woman.

"Congratulations on your victory, my lord," the woman said.

Jon turned to her, somehow hoping that it was Arya who was speaking to him, even though he had already recognized from the voice that it was not her. At the entrance to his tent, draped in a gray and black dress with a plunging neckline that perfectly accentuated each of her forms, stood Lady Minella Blackbar. With a quick movement, she pulled a ribbon from her hair and immediately her blonde locks fell over her shoulders like a golden waterfall. She looked gorgeous.

"Lady Minella, how nice to see you," Jon stammered.

Slowly she approached him, her eyes moving up and down him and her grin growing wider and wider.

"You really do think it's good to see me, as I can clearly see," she said, grinning like a predator in the direction of his crotch. Only now did it occur to Jon that he was still completely naked, and Lady Minella's gaze must have been fixed precisely on his manhood. He quickly grabbed his pants and his smallclothes, made a dash for the back of the tub where she could no longer see his manhood, and slipped inside. "Oh, my lord, you don't have to cover up on my account. I was actually hoping for the opposite," she purred and began to undo the laces of her dress. Immediately, her breasts pushed forward a bit, seeming to want to jump out at Jon.

"What... what are you doing here, my lady? This is the area for the participants of the tourney. You shouldn't even be here," he finally said.

"Is that so? I must have totally missed that," she said in mock surprise. "How irksome. But now that I'm here anyway... as I said, I have come to congratulate you on your victory," she said, taking a step closer to him with each word, swinging her hips back and forth as elegantly as a cat on the prowl.

"Thank you, but no thank you," Jon heard himself say. Lady Minella stopped as if rooted to the spot and for a moment she looked at him as if she had not even understood his words, as if he had suddenly started speaking a foreign language. Then her eyes grew larger and larger as what he had just said seemed to get through to her. Her mouth opened, closed again, opened again.

"I beg your pardon?" she breathed in dismay, one of her delicate hands placed over her heart as if she had just endured the most hideous insult.

"Granted," Jon said, now struggling to stifle a grin.

Within a heartbeat she flung the ribbon she had pulled out of her hair earlier at him, gathered her skirts and hurried out with bouncing breasts. It took Jon a moment to understand what had just happened himself. He had sent her away, had waived her... congratulations. And somehow it felt right. So absolutely right. He knew the moment he came back to himself that his friends would certainly already know this tonight, one way or another. He could already imagine the jokes they would make about him for rejecting Lady Minella's admittedly beautiful breasts. He quickly grabbed his doublet, yellow with a black stag over the heart, slipped on fresh boots and hurried out of his tent. There were more important things for him now than a pair of tits. If he was lucky, he would still be able to see his brother jousting and if not - the thought hit him like a hammer blow to the head - if not, then the second round of archery contest was about to begin, in which Arri Waters would participate again. Immediately his heart beat a little faster as he hurried back into the arena, made his way through the dark corridors below the stands, and after a short detour out a side exit and back in through the main entrance, reached the stands.

He was startled when he saw how empty the stands already were. The jousting was already over. In the middle of the arena, the targets for the archers had already been set up again. So he had missed Aegon and Orys, but he would not miss Arya. Jon had to grin at the thought. For a little moment he felt like an idiot himself, but at that moment nothing could interest him less. He quickly hurried back to the royal box, where he found only Rhaenys and Lady Allara. Both turned to him as he entered, both smiling knowingly at him.

"You missed the joust, Jon," Rhaenys said.

"Aye, I took too long in the tub."

"Well, that's all right, then. We were afraid you'd taken too long with Lady Minella," she said with a wolfish grin.

"What? I... no, absolutely not. She... I mean, I sent her away," he stammered. How could it be that she knew about it already?

Stupid, it's Rhaenys, he scolded himself then, however. No one in the Red Keep is better informed then Rhaenys. She probably knew about Lady Minella's intentions before even Lady Minella did.

"All right, all right," she laughed, and Lady Allara joined in her laughter, bright and clear as the sound of a bell. "We saw Lady Minella coming back just a moment ago. Had she gotten what she wanted, she would hardly have been so fiery red in the face with rage."

"And certainly it would not have happened so quickly," Lady Allara added with a wink.

"We'll leave you now, Jon. There's a certain Prince of Dragonstone in the Red Keep with whom I'm about to dance again. You certainly want to stay and watch the archery, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," he said, now laughing again.

"Lord Stark has already left. Officially, Lady Arya is still with us," she said, now in a whispering tone. "I'll go see him right now and let him know that she's back with you now to watch the archery contest together. That should put his mind at ease."

Then both ladies, Rhaneys and Lady Allara, rose from their seats and headed for the exit where Ser Barristan and Prince Lewyn were waiting to escort them back to the Red Keep.

"Who has won, actually?" asked Jon when the two had already left the royal box.

"Aegon, Ser Jonothor, and Lord Mallister. I'm sorry, but Orys is out," Rhaenys said before turning back around and disappearing behind one of the wide, wooden pillars that supported the roof above the grandstand for the nobles.

For a moment, Jon was sad that his brother hadn't made it to the semifinals. But at least he had reached the quarterfinals, which was an excellent result for a lad of his age in such a large tourney with such strong competition. Orys could be proud of himself. Jon certainly was. Moreover, his elimination spared him the possibility of possibly having to compete against him himself. That would not have been a pleasant joust, regardless of the outcome. Had he won, he would have knocked his own little brother out of the tourney. Had he lost, he would have been teased for the rest of his days by his friends, Aegon foremost, for losing to his little brother, no matter how big and broad and strong that little brother actually was.

Drums sounded as the first archers entered the arena shortly after. The stands for the nobles were mostly empty, but the stands for the commoners were still completely filled. It was no wonder that even though the joust was clearly the main attraction of the tourney, the men and women of King's Landing were still crowding the stands, were those men and women down there in the arena, except for a few landless knights, some of them. Commoners, peasants, craftsmen, shepherds as they themselves.

Arya was not yet anywhere to be seen, but Jon decided he certainly wanted to be closer. He quickly left the royal box - it wasn't really his place to be here without a member of the royal family accompanying him anyway - and headed for the lower seats on the ranks for the nobles, closer the inner area of the arena. In the front row he took a seat three seats to the left of Ser Quincy Cox and four seats to the right of Ser Lymond Vikary, who looked at him, the heir to Storm's End after all, as if he had cut his nose out of his face before their eyes. Apparently they could hardly believe that a man of his standing would deign to watch the archery contest.

The last contestants now entered the arena, and he actually saw a small, slender figure with ill-fitting clothes and a ridiculous straw hat enter the arena, just behind the winner of the first round, a man from the Dornish Marshes named Anguy, and a small, pointy-faced man with gray hair so long that it fell almost down to his waist, but who Jon didn't know much more about than that he was from Flea Bottom. Arya took her position, almost exactly in the middle of the group, and he saw her looking around, searching. She looked up at the royal box and for a brief moment he found disappointment in her gaze. Jon waved at her, ignoring the irritated looks of the knights to his right and left. Her eyes found him and immediately an adorable smile spread across her face. Jon couldn't help but smile as well. He saw her pull her straw hat deeper into her face, covering her face and her sweet smile. As sad as Jon thought this was, it was probably for the best.

The beating drums now changed, became slower and also significantly louder. The First Overseer, who would give the commands to the archers, stepped forward. He inspected, together with the other overseers under his authority, the position of the one and twenty remaining archers – the seven best from each of the three groups – once again, to make sure that no one had stepped over the rope lying on the ground and was possibly too close to his target, then had some of the archers randomly show him their bows and some of their arrows, and then, when he was satisfied and that there was nothing amiss, went back behind the archers to the small platform from where he would overlook the event, give instructions to his subordinates and bark the orders for the archers.

The first command followed shortly after, and once again the drums took on a different, slower beat, the beat they would have in the field if the archers were facing not targets of wood and straw but enemies of the crown.

"Nock," the overseer's strong voice echoed through the arena.

"Draw!"

Jon looked back and forth between Arya and the target. Seven arrows would be allowed to be shot again, and again the best seven would move on to the next round, to the finals. The targets were now much farther away, so the challenge was all the greater. Whereas in the first round it had been forty paces, now the targets were already seventy paces away. In the finale, it would be one hundred paces. Before the overseer could give the final command, Jon's gaze quickly rushed back to Arya. She had drawn the bow, her whole body tense as the string of the bow itself, her back straight and her eyes fixed firmly on her target.

She looks lovely, Jon inevitably thought, no matter what ill-fitting clothes she wore, and for a moment he wondered how anyone could in all seriousness think Arya was a man. Probably no one is really looking too closely. Good for Arya, good for both of us.

"Loose!"

Almost at the same time, all the arrows hissed from the strings and rushed away. It took Jon a moment to find again which was Arya's target. Then he spotted it and found the arrow drilled deep into the wood, two handbreadths below the white circle.

"Yes, very good!" it escaped Jon. He quickly closed his mouth again, however, when he noticed the irritated looks of the men around him. He would have loved to jump up and cheer Arya so loudly that it could have been heard all the way up to the Red Keep. However, every too loud word and cheer from him only drew unwanted attention to him, and in the end, to Arya.

"Nock! Draw! Loose! Nock! Draw! Loose!"

Two more arrows were shot. Arya's first arrow of these two had only hit the haystack behind the target, the other again the board, but again outside the white circle. He looked at the hits of the other competitors. Two were clearly better, had hit at least the white circle with all three arrows, here and there even the black bull's eye. A few had apparently not hit anything yet. Most of the others hardly seemed to be significantly better or worse than Arya.

"Nock! Draw! Loose! Nock! Draw! Loose!"

Two more arrows were shot and again a similar picture emerged. Arya was getting better, had now hit the white circle with both arrows, while the top two rushed off on points with more hits into the black bull's eyes, some already helplessly behind, but most hitting sometimes better, sometimes worse.

Come on, one or two more good arrows and you can do it. Come on, Arya, Jon thought, clenching his hands into fists so tightly that he could hear his joints crack. It barely kept him in his seat as the overseer took another breath and was about to give the command for the sixth, the second to last arrow of this round.

"Nock!" he heard the man call.

Jon saw Arya place her arrow, the string in the notch. Her hands seemed to tremble, only for a tiny moment but still visible. Apparently she was aware that it could be close. Two of her competitors were uncatchable on points, Anguy from Dorne and a blond man named Hilbert from the Riverlands, three or four already lost without a chance. She, however, was somewhere in the great mass, could advance or be eliminated on points.

"Draw! Loose!"

Arya's arrow rushed away the moment the first sound left the overseer's lips. That had been a close call. Just a tiny moment earlier and her arrow wouldn't have counted. Jon's eyes tried to follow the arrow on its path, but lost sight of it in the first few paces, only finding it again just before it reached its target. It landed in the haystack behind the board.

Gods damn it, Jon thought, banging his fist against the wood of the balustrade in front of him.

His hand hurt and one of his knuckles began to bleed slightly, but he couldn't care less at the moment. Briefly he thought he heard a curse from Arya as well, but he could have been mistaken. Surely she had a good enough grip on herself not to be too loud, possibly revealing herself as a young woman with her voice. Jon quickly tried to get an overview of the other contestants' scores, with whom Arya would have to fight for entry to the finals. It would be close, damn close. She had one arrow left and this arrow had to hit. If she hit the bull's eye, the points would be enough to get her into the finals. Too few archers had hit the bull's eye at this distance, too low were most of the scores. If Arya hit it, she would move on. If she hit the white ring, she at least still had a chance. If she hit only the board or even just the haystack, she was out.

"Nock!"

Jon looked at Arya again as she placed her last arrow on the bow. She looked up at him and Jon smiled at her, hoping it gave her courage and confidence. Arya seemed to smile back for a tiny moment, but then quickly turned her gaze back to the target in front of her.

"Draw!"

She drew back the string, keeping the bow taut. For a moment she looked like a statue, as perfect and flawless as only an artist could have created otherwise. Then the final command was heard.

"Loose!"

The arrows of all the participants sped away. Jon's heart seemed to stop for a brief moment as the arrows raced past before his eyes, and only half a heartbeat later, almost all of them slammed into the wood of the targets with a loud thump. He looked over at Arya's target, found it, and found the last of the arrows that had hit it. It had hit the white circle, less than a hand's width away from the black bull's eye.

"Fuck," Jon grumbled.

"Bet on the wrong archer?" asked Ser Quincy from the side with a wry grin.

"Yeah, bet on the wrong one," Jon lied without looking at the man.

All over his body there were tingles, as if thousands of ants were crawling up and down his arms and legs at the same time, as he stood at the edge of the grandstand, holding on to the balustrade with white knuckles and watching pages hurrying back and forth with small boards, counting points, measuring distances between hits, correcting points, deducting or adding points. It seemed to him like an eternity, during which he could do nothing but stand there and watch.

Get on with it, he thought grudgingly. How hard can it be to add up a few numbers?

Finally, after what felt like half his life, the pages seemed to have finished their sums, hurried over to the First Overseer, and handed him the tablets with their scribbles. The man looked at the tablets, again with a calmness as if he had until next winter to do it, compared the results, and finally nodded with satisfaction. Jon's heart seemed to drop when the man finally stepped forward and the drums fell silent to let him announce the results without disturbance.

"In the name of His Grace, King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the following contestants will be graciously allowed to compete in the next round of the archery contest. Hilbert from town of Pennytree," he said, his voice sounding through the arena as if he were speaking with the voices of ten men at once.

That was obvious.

"Anguy from the Dornish Marshes."

No surprise there either. The two were just too good. Five more positions open for the finals.

"Patrack Towers."

Damn.

"Ser Bron Hamell from the town of Cuy."

Damn.

"Robart, son of Brennard."

I don't bloody care. Say the name. Say Arri Waters already. Say it.

"Desmond Flowers."

Please, say the name, please. There's one position left. Say it.

"And Olivar, the tanner."

Jon stood motionless for a while, feeling as if someone had hit him with an invisible fist in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't manage to think a single clear thought. This just couldn't be it. Arya had certainly moved on, Arya was in the next round. Most certainly. It couldn't be any other way. But the longer he stood there, staring aimlessly into the distance, the more the certainty dawned on him that it just wasn't so. Arya had been eliminated from the contest.

"I'm sure you'll have better luck next time, my lord," he heard Ser Quincy say, but did not respond.

Arya, it then popped into his head. I have to go to Arya. Surely she'll be devastated.

Quickly, he turned around and stormed along the rows out of the stands, ignoring the further blathering of Ser Quincy. He left the stands, hurried down the steps, ran as fast as he could out the main exit and toward the stables for the tourney horses. Rhaenys had told him where she and Arya had hidden the clothes, so he knew he would find her there. For a moment, ignoring the shouts of the soldiers guarding the exit that he would need an escort, he pushed his way through the crowds of people in front of the arena. Only a moment later he found the narrow path that led him away from the squares with the carts and stalls, the celebrating and drinking people around the arena. He had not quite reached the gated area guarded by soldiers for the precious tourney horses when he could already hear the soldiers from a short distance away.

"I don't care who your father is. You have no business here, m'lady," one of the men barked.

Jon looked through between the last men still in his way and indeed found Arya, already dressed again in a pretty gown of dark gray silk, standing in front of the soldiers and unfalteringly jutting her chin upwards. Apparently she had been caught by the soldiers after changing in the stables.

"Fine, I'm gone already. I just wanted to take a look at the horses," she said, sticking her tongue out at the puzzled gawking guy and turning away. She spotted Jon immediately, rushed up to him and threw herself into his arms.

"Oh, Jon, that was so... so...," she said.

"I know," he whispered into her hair. "I'm sorry, Arya."

She broke away from him then, took a small step back and looked him in the eye, confusion in her gaze.

"You're sorry? Sorry for what?" she asked.

"Well, that you dropped out."

"So what? It doesn't matter! It was just fantastic," she said, and immediately began to beam all over her face again, beautiful and gorgeous. "It was the best experience of my life!"

"Yes?" asked Jon, who now began to smile as well.

"Yes, of course! It was just fantastic to have been part of it. Thank you, Jon. Thank you so, so, so much," she said, throwing herself into his arms again. Jon reached out and pressed her against him, for a moment savoring the feel of her slender body against his. After a moment he let her go, but as soon as her feet touched the ground, she rushed forward to him and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you," she breathed again, and Jon saw her ears turn red. He only hoped that his didn't just turn the same color. "Oh, congratulations to you, too, of course," she then said.

"To me? For what?"

"For making it to the quarterfinals, of course," she said with a laugh. Jon had indeed completely forgotten about that in all the excitement. "We should celebrate that."

"We should," he agreed. "I was afraid you'd feel bad about dropping out."

"Bad? I feel great, Jon. I could sing and dance and drink and celebrate and all that at the same time!"

"Well," Jon said with a wry grin that he hoped didn't look like Theon's, "then that's exactly what we should do."

"Do what?"

"Well, everything. We sing and dance and drink and celebrate. You and me."

"You mean again at one of the festivities in the Red Keep?"

"I was thinking of something else," he said, taking her hand and leading her away from the stables, away from the arena, away from the wagons and stalls, and - on the backs of two horses they had the Gold Cloaks give them at the arena's main entrance - back inside the city. Jon sent their escort, four Gold Cloaks and one of his father's soldiers, away after they reached the part of the city he wanted to go to, tied the horses to a tree next to a sept, took Arya's hand again - soft and warm and so tender - and led her down the street, answering her questions, again and again interrupted by her increasingly loud laughter, about where he was taking her with only a smile.

From the sept it took them only a few minutes through the streets and alleys, once to the left, twice to the right, until they arrived where Jon wanted to lead them. They entered the tavern he had decided on, drank two, three, four cups of good wine, and Jon was only too happy to give three silver stags for the flute players at the entrance to play a few quick, happy luvs. They laughed together and it wasn't long before they were dancing together for the first time, first between, then even on the tables. If he had not known the innkeeper so well, they would have been thrown out by now at the latest. But as it was, they were left to it, and the men and women either joined them in wild dancing or banged a loud beat on the tables and benches with their fists.

They danced to Bessa the Barmaid first, then to Fifty-Four Tuns, and finally to The Bear and the Maiden Fair, and all the while Arya's laughter echoed through the tavern as brightly as the sound of bells as they spun around and around one another on one of the tables.

Arya's dark curls were sticking to her head with sweat, and Jon was more exhausted but also happier than he had been in a long time when, after one last dance to Off to Gulltown, they settled down on two chairs. Jon gave a sign to the innkeeper, who immediately brought them watered wine, cool and fresh and sweet, to drink. How many cups they had already had, he could not say. He had paid for at least seven or eight for each of them, but since they had both also spilled plenty while dancing, they had certainly drunk less than that.

"You know," Arya said in a whisper, putting one of her small hands on his arm and leaning over to him, "we should sneak into the Dragonpit. I'm dying to see a dragon up close."

Jon had to laugh and felt his head spin as he closed his eyes for a moment. Arya's voice was hazy, her tongue heavy with wine, and her eyes glazed over. He had no doubt that it was the same with himself.

"That's a great idea," he said then. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard a voice saying that this was anything but a great idea, that it was quite a terrible idea, but the wine made it easy for him to silence that voice. "I haven't been to Dragonpit in years," he said.

"You've been in there before?" asked Arya, her eyes growing so big they almost seemed to fall out of her head.

"Aye, Egg... Egg... Aegon took me there a few times when we were older. Younger, when we were younger."

Arya jumped up from her chair as quickly and suddenly as if an animal had bitten her in the butt, grabbed Jon's hand and pulled him to his feet as well. She almost fell to the floor in the process if Jon hadn't held her hand so tightly. She pulled him toward the exit, shouted another quick goodbye to the flute players and the innkeeper, and then pulled Jon behind her out of the tavern and onto the street.

"That's where we need to go," she said, pointing to the Dragonpit, which loomed dark and formidable against the evening sky, throned atop the Hill of Rhaenys.

"We don't have an escort," Jon protested weakly, but Arya didn't seem to be listening to him at all as she pulled him by the hand down the street. Jon decided not to insist. The streets were empty enough by this hour that there was hardly anyone on the road, and if necessary he would protect Arya. That would have been easier, of course, had he been wearing a sword on his hip, but it would certainly work out just fine. Somehow.

They walked down the streets together, turning here and there as the sky grew darker and darker. The first raindrops hit them as they had just crossed Cobbler's Square.

"The weather is getting worse. Maybe we should turn back," Jon suggested.

"No, please don't. I really want to see the dragons," Arya said and Jon couldn't help but continue walking with her.

The rain got heavier still long before the Guildhall of the Alchemists, and when they finally turned into Street of the Sisters, they were already so wet from top to bottom that Jon was beginning to feel cold. How cold Arya might have been by now, he preferred not to imagine, even if she did her best not to let it show. Arya pulled him along, pretending very bravely that she wasn't cold, but Jon saw her shivering briefly time and again and felt her hands getting colder and colder as her dress hung wet and heavy on her slender body.

"Maybe," Arya finally said hesitantly, as the road slowly but surely began to lead uphill, but they hadn't even made it past a fifth of Street of the Sisters, "maybe we should turn back after all."

They moved aside and stood briefly under the overhanging roof in front of a small store that sold cheap shoes and other leather goods at another time of day, but was now already dark and closed. The rain had become even heavier and by now was splashing so violently in all directions that even pressed against the wall of the house they were still being splashed up to their waists.

"How are we going to make it back to Red Keep in this weather without catching our deaths?" asked Arya.

"By hurrying," said Jon, trying a grin.

"The gates are certainly closed by this time, but they'll open them for you, won't they? You are the heir to Storm's End and the Crown Prince's best friend, after all."

The thought, which came to him only now, made Jon freeze for a moment. He had to take a breath for a few moments before he could answer Arya.

"Yes, they will. But then they'll let my father and your father know right away."

"No! Then we absolutely can't do that," Arya said, her eyes as big as plates in shock. "Oh, seven hells. But what if my father finds out I wasn't in my chambers tonight?"

"Then you have simply been with Rhaenys," Jon said quick as a flash, without having to think twice. "You were with her and spent the night in her chambers. No doubt Rhaenys will cover for you if we tell her about it in time tomorrow morning."

"I hope so."

"Absolutely," Jon said, smiling at her and gently squeezing her hand for encouragement. "Now, though, we've got to get out of this rain, or we'll really catch our deaths."

"But where are we supposed to go? They're hardly going to let us spend the night in the Dragonpit."

"I know where we can go," he said after a moment's thought. They hurried along the streets toward the Old Gate for a bit, then turned into a somewhat smaller alley and finally reached another tavern.

"Jon, somehow I'm not thirsty anymore right now," Arya said when she saw the tavern.

"Neither am I, but we can stay here. Arron, Hendry, and Aidin told me about this. The innkeeper also rents rooms under the roof for a night. They come here occasionally with... company, when they want to be undisturbed. The innkeeper is discreet and the beds are clean. We can stay here for the night if that's acceptable for you."

He received a smile in response as she entered the tavern even before him. Jon gave the innkeeper ten coppers for the night and for that, according to the innkeeper, they were given the best room with the freshest bed. The room was tiny, right under the roof, which hung so low that Jon had to be careful not to hit his head on the rafters, and it was hardly warmer in there than out on the street. At least it was dry, though, and as far as Jon could tell in the dim light of the flickering candle, the bed was indeed fresh.

"We have to get out of these wet clothes if we don't want to get sick," Arya said then, and Jon's jaw almost dropped to the floor in shock.

Out of their clothes? What exactly were they supposed to wear during the night then? Of course, Arya was right. He himself, when he had served as squire for Ser Barristan, had spent many a night out in the open, had more than once gotten soaking wet in a sudden rain while doing so, and if one didn't want to get sick, one did indeed have to get out of the wet clothes in order to get dry and warm during the night.

"You're right," he finally said. "There is a little rug here. I'll sleep on the floor and you'll sleep in the bed. That way we can-"

"No," she interrupted him with an indignation in her voice, as if he had just said something unprecedentedly stupid. "We'll sleep in the bed together. We need to keep each other warm. It's way too cold in here. If you're going to lie there on the floor, you might as well sleep outside in the rain."

"Aye, you're… you're right, of course" he said hesitantly.

"I know. Turn around, then," she said, when he just stared at her with wide eyes. "I want to take off my dress. When I'm done, you get undressed and come join me under the covers."

Jon turned away, feeling everything inside him turning and twisting. His heart was beating up to his throat and he thought he could even hear it, so violently was it hammering in his chest. What was wrong with him? He had seen a naked girl before, had even shared a bed with some, in a wholly different way than he would do now, out of necessity, with Arya. And Arya would not even be completely naked. Still, he felt as insecure as a little boy.

Get a hold of yourself, he then scolded himself. You were already acting like an idiot when you danced with her. And besides, it was her idea. So don't mess this up now. But what exactly do I not want to mess up? We'll just lie there to get warm. Nothing more. Just lie there… alone… in a bed… together… almost naked.

"Done," he finally heard her say. He turned around to find Arya in bed, the covers pulled up to her shoulders, where the edges of her smallclothes could still be seen.

Jon finally began to undress as well. He was glad that today, after his joust, when Lady Minella had visited him unasked, he had had the presence of mind to put on some smallclothes under his trousers. All the while he undressed, his eyes were firmly fixed on the laces and buttons of his doublet, his boots, and finally his trousers. He didn't dare to lift his eyes and look at Arya and for a moment, thinking about how she might have just watched him, he wasn't even sure if he actually wanted her to look at him or not.

When he was done, standing in the middle of the small room in nothing more than his own smallclothes, he quickly took the last steps toward the bed and slipped under the covers to her, moving only hesitantly until he felt her body against his side. Only gently at first, then more and more as Arya overcame her reluctance first and pressed herself closer to him.

"We need to warm each other," she said as if by way of apology as she half buried her face under the blanket.

"Aye, we need to warm each other," Jon said in a voice that sounded strangely husky even to himself.

Nestled against each other, they quickly warmed up and rarely had Jon welcomed the warmth of a bed as much as he did at that moment. The wine still made his head spin and his eyes grow heavy quickly. He wondered if he should say something, but he couldn't think of anything that wouldn't have sounded completely idiotic in this situation. So instead he stared at the wall opposite the bed and remained silent, while Arya, pressed tightly against his chest and right arm, remained silent as well, looking wherever. He thought he could still hear Arya breathing, already lost in sleep herself, as his eyes fell closed shortly after.

As if by a sudden storm on the open sea, before Jon even had a sense of being completely asleep, he was almost drawn into his dream, torn into the dark depths of his thoughts, until, just as suddenly, an almost infinite expanse of white opened up before him, shrouded in the deepest night and lit only by the pale light of the stars that made it through the thick clouds. He had no time to look around or catch a scent, yet he knew immediately what was going on, what he was, where he was. He was the wolf, the wolf beyond the Wall.

Immediately the comforting smell of his siblings rose to his nose, his brothers and sisters running through the night somewhere near him, close to him and yet almost invisible in the darkness of the forest, little more than ghosts and shadows, scurrying through between the night-black trees like the wind. Above all, he smelled the scent of his golden-eyed sister, his most precious sister, and without meaning to, he felt, the wolf felt, a desire rising within him. As he ran, Jon looked around, saw not far from them an immense wall of white and blue. The Wall. They were closer to the Wall than they had ever been in any of his dreams, but still far enough away that it would have taken a man on a good horse at least a few more days to reach it. They hurried between trees and thick, snow-covered bushes, over hills and rocks and across small, half-frozen streams. His brother, the big gray, led them a little north again, away from the Wall.

They passed the corpse of an elk, but it was rotting and had been gnawed off by smaller predators already. They left the remains of the stinking meat behind and continued on their way. In a night or two they would pass the small house, as Jon knew, as the wolf knew, where the old man, reeking of his own piss, lived with the many women. Now and then they had torn one or two of the women, as Jon knew, young things who had ventured too far out into the woods. The man, however, had never pursued them, as if he did not care for the women with whom he constantly shared a bed.

Jon didn't know how long they had been running through the forest, always chasing their big, gray brother, when they came to a halt just beyond a flat hilltop, the distant, pointed mountains to the east already in sight. It took him a moment to realize why his brother had brought them to a halt. Then he knew it, smelled it immediately.

Not far from them were humans. Humans with horses. They crept carefully over branches and twigs lying on the ground and fallen trees, so as not to make too much noise in the high snows, down the hill toward the men. Jon could not yet see them, but their smell grew stronger with each passing moment. They downright stank. They were men, as he now perceived very clearly. He smelled their sweat from a distance, smelled the mustiness of their clothes and the grease on their weapons. They might still have been at least forty or fifty paces away when Jon peered out from behind the trunk of a particularly broad pine tree, able to see them. Three men there were, all clad in black from head to toe, a young fellow scarcely older than he himself, and two old men, one of them with half a hand missing, it seemed. With his own eyes he would never have recognized this in the darkness, but with the wolf's eyes it seemed to him that he could make out every dirty stubble in their faces. They were mounted on horses that looked so thin and starved that tearing them apart would hardly have been worth the effort.

Jon sensed that the wolf had eaten only recently, half a day or a day ago, felt the weight of the meat in his belly, and even thought he could still taste the blood on his tongue. Surely, then, they would not bother to kill the three men to gnaw tough scraps of meat from the bones of their already emaciated nags. Today, they would let these men live.

They were about to move away again, taking a small detour around the group of men, when Jon felt his neck fur stand up. The wolf sensed something. He looked around and saw his siblings creeping back among the trees, tense as he was. A threat was near, though he didn't quite know what it was yet. All he could sense was that it was suddenly getting colder, colder and colder. Then he smelled something else, rose up in his nose so suddenly and violently that he wondered why he was only now aware of it. He smelled death. The pungent stench of death rose to his nostrils, the smell of dead men. Like his siblings, he now crept cautiously back, then turned and ran, as always again after his big gray brother, in a wide arc through the forest around the men in black, away from the smell of the dead.

They crossed another hill until the smell of the dead was barely noticeable, only the stench of the sweat of the men in black. Just past the crest of the hill, Jon stopped again when he heard something. He listened into the night. Then he heard it again, the neigh of horses, the clang of steel, then screams, screams of dying men and then... nothing. Only the smell of fresh blood was in the air now, however.

They ran on, moving away from the smell of sweat and blood and death. The sky behind them was already starting to brighten again when they found an uninhabited bear cave where they would rest and sleep for a few hours. He picked a spot a little further back in the cave, next to the old bones of the last meal the bear must have eaten here once long ago. His sister came to him, looked at him for a moment with her golden eyes, then curled up next to him, pressed tightly against his body. She felt warm and soft and wonderful, and Jon could already feel the desire rising in the wolf to mount her in the next moment. Surely she would not refuse him.

A bright light suddenly blinded Jon, painfully stinging his eyes. Jon didn't move, just cautiously raised his hand in front of his eyes. He blinked and found himself in a small room with low rafters, in a strange bed, and the warmth of a woman beside him. It took Jon a moment to understand where he was. He was no longer the wolf, no longer in his dream. He was Jon, just Jon.

He blinked a few more times to regain his senses. He immediately felt the blood rush to his face when he realized who he was actually lying next to. He looked at the young woman. Arya. His right arm was under her, wrapped around her, his hand on her lower back. She lay facing him, snuggled tightly against his chest, an adorable smile on her face. He heard her breathing, quiet and slow. She was sound asleep, dreaming what he hoped was a beautiful dream. Jon glanced at the small window at the front of the room, little more than a tiny recess in the wall. The sun seemed to be just rising. This had blinded him. After a moment, he looked back at Arya, enjoyed looking at her.

He felt strange with it, felt like he was doing something wrong, something forbidden, and yet he couldn't stop looking at her lying next to him in her smallclothes, barely concealed by the blanket that must have slipped to the side during the night. Two years ago, when he had set out south again from Winterfell, he had said goodbye to a child, but now he lay beside a woman. A young woman, but a woman nonetheless. His gaze wandered along the shape of her body. Arya was slender, almost wiry, but still so gorgeous that he couldn't help but enjoy the sight, no matter how much the blush rose to his face. Only now he also noticed the smell that was in his nose. Her smell. Inevitably, he took in the smell deeper, enjoying the scent of fresh snow and wet wood, enjoying her smell.

Jon knew that he had to stop looking at her, that he had to turn away, but as sure as he was of that, he just couldn't do it. His eyes wandered along her slender arms, further down the curve of her slender waist, her equally slender yet deliciously defined hips, down her legs to her feet, barely longer than the legs of a child and yet so much more feminine that he suddenly felt the urge inside him to touch those legs. Suddenly Arya moved, turning slightly away from him, but without opening her eyes. Only a heartbeat later, however, Jon heard the sound of her soft, slow breathing again. His gaze wandered up again, along her legs, over the curve of her hip and her flat stomach. For a tiny moment, his gaze lingered on her little belly button, tiny and perfect and beautiful. His eyes moved on, over her belly to her breasts, hidden under her smallclothes. Again his gaze lingered as he could see her nipples for the first time through the thin white fabric, rosy and certainly as delicate as rose petals.

Jon felt his own breathing grow heavier, faster, his heart begin to beat more wildly, and the familiar heat rise within him, blood rushing to his face and loins. Quickly and shocked, as if struck by thunder, he looked down at himself and recognized the distinct bulge in his own smallclothes, as he began to grow hard between the legs as if hewn from stone.

Shame overcame him and at last he managed to turn away. Carefully he pulled his arm out from under her light body, got out of the bed and began to dress. He was almost finished when he heard a whispered "Good morning" behind him.

"Good morning," he replied in almost as whispered a tone, but didn't turn around, instead waiting with his gaze fixed firmly on the small window, listening as Arya rose from the bed as well and put her dress and shoes back on.

It was time to return to the Red Keep, so they left the small room, rented two horses from the innkeeper for a few coppers, which he would have some Gold Cloaks bring back in exchange for a few more coppers later, and silently made their way up Aegon's High Hill to the Red Keep. They arrived at the fortress shortly after the main gates had been opened in the morning, when most of the people in the Red Keep - like, hopefully, his Uncle Ned - were still fast asleep. Certainly they were early enough that no one would notice anything about their nightly venture.

They handed the reins of the horses to a couple of soldiers and then, still silent, walked through the courtyards of the royal fortress to the main gate of Maegor's Holdfast, in which they both had their chambers. Together they covered most of the way through the maze of corridors, doorways and staircases until they reached the junction in the hallways where their paths had to part.

"I'll talk to Rhaenys so she'll cover you, in case your father asks questions," Jon said, his first words since they had wished each other a good morning.

"All right. I guess that would be better."

Then he nodded to her one last time, turned around, and continued his way down the corridor. After only a few steps, however, he again heard her voice behind him.

"Jon, one more thing," she said. He turned to her, already seeing her coming toward him. She literally threw herself against him, her arms wrapped around his neck. "Thank you. Thank you for everything," she said, her lips so close to his face that he could feel her warm breath. He was about to reply something, was about to tell her that it had been a pleasure for him, was about to tell her how much he had loved and enjoyed their time together, when he saw Arya's face dart forward and at the same moment felt her lips pressed against his. His heart seemed to stop, all air seemed to have disappeared from his lungs, and he could do nothing but stand there, his arm now wrapped around her slender waist as well, and return the kiss, bathing in the glorious warmth and sweetness of her lips.

In the next moment, the kiss was already over again. Jon couldn't tell if they had been standing there kissing for a heartbeat or a day. But that did not matter either. Arya eased away from him then, taking one, two then three steps backwards, smiling adorably and as red in the face as he himself undoubtedly was as well.

"See you at the tourney. I look forward to your next joust," she then said, turning around and hurrying away around the corner.

For a while Jon stood still, motionless, unable to move even a single finger. All he could do was stand there motionless, thinking about the kiss, the warmth and softness of her lips, the shape of her legs and the soft shade of her rosy pink nipples. Only when he again felt the swelling bulge between his legs tighten his pants did it jolt him out of his rapture. He turned back around and immediately made his way to his chambers. He needed a bath, a cold bath. Quickly.

Chapter Text

"Of course prayers do work. I prayed for your brother's success and he made it to the finale," Lady Alise said with a confident grin on her face, chin raised defiantly.

"So do you think Prince Aegon would not have reached the finale without your prayers?" asked Allara. "If so, then perhaps you should compete in the finale yourself and pray for your own victory beforehand. Surely nothing can go wrong then. Or at the next tourney, just let us know in advance who you're praying for and we'll make some easy coins."

Rhaenys could barely stifle a grin at the indignant expression on Lady Alise's face, while Arya, also suppressing her laughter with all her might, turned as red as an apple in her attempt not to spit her tea across the table.

"I think," Rhaneys finally said before Allara could say anything more to annoy Lady Alise, "my brother is already good enough on his own to reach the finale, but the help of the gods is always welcome, of course."

"As it should be," Lady Alise said with a nod and a satisfied smile in Rhaenys' direction.

She signaled to one of the servants and had some more fresh tea poured. Just as she herself, Allara and Arya held out their cups as well, while Lady Alise, as Rhaenys had hoped, declined with thanks, meaning that she was about to leave soon. Rhaenys had quite a number of ladies-in-waiting, far too many for her own taste, but she preferred to spend her time in select company whenever her courtly duties permitted it. She had originally wanted to break the fast only with Allara and Arya, but had asked Lady Alise to do so as well, at her mother's insistence. A mistake, as she had already expected. Lady Alise was friendly and polite and could even be quite funny at times, but could not refrain from reminding everyone at every possible opportunity how chaste and pious she was. Whatever political influence House Rambton, known for its strict following of the Seven, might have – economic or military influence it certainly was not – was by no means worth ruining even more mornings with some of Lady Alise's sermons in the future.

"If you will permit, my princess, I will now take my leave," Lady Alise said shortly after. "I have not yet visited the sept today, and would like to devote an hour to prayer."

"But of course, my lady," Rhaenys said, hoping that the relief could not be heard too clearly from her voice.

For a moment, Rhaenys and Lady Alise just looked at each other, and Rhaenys immediately recognized in her eyes that she was hoping Rhaenys would possibly join her and go with her to the sept. After a moment of silence, however, Lady Alise then apparently understood that this reaction would not come from Rhaenys, curtsied, and bid farewell to Allara and Arya with a brief nod. She then quickly disappeared from the small garden, the silk of her dress rustling behind her like wind in dry leaves.

"I was beginning to think she wasn't going to leave at all," Rhaenys finally said when Lady Alise was out of sight and hearing, and sat back down at the table with a deep sigh.

"I don't know," Allara said with a grin, "I always find her quite amusing."

"Don't lie," Rhaenys scolded her, herself with a grin on her lips. "You find it amusing to tease her. That's all."

"Lady Alise would probably be giving a sermon right now about how lying is a sin in the eyes of the Seven," Arya said with a laugh, and Allara and Rhaenys couldn't help but join in.

"I, for one, can no longer stand this pretending holiness," Rhaenys said. "If I want to hear quotes from the Seven-Pointed Star all the time, I might as well invite a septa to join us. Her prayers are just a sham anyway."

"You really think so?" asked Arya. "She seemed very serious to me."

"Maybe she does think so, but then she is only lying to herself. One of the very few wise words a septa has ever said to me was that whoever makes a habit of praying, that person's prayers are not sincere. But now enough about Septa Alise. What do you ladies think of the grand finale that's about to happen?"

"I can't wait to see it," Allara beamed.

"And you, Arya? Can you still wait for it? I mean, Jon's joust against Ser Jonothor was impressive."

"It was," she said, her eyes fixed firmly on the mug of tea in her hand.

Rhaenys had had particular fun when Jon had asked Arya for her favor again in his semifinal, and then even asked her to dance again at the evening's festivities. He and Arya, unfortunately as Rhaenys found, had not yet possessed enough possessiveness for each other to send Daman Whent and Lucas Roote away when in between they too had been requesting a dance with Arya. Still, the two were on a good path. The entire time it had seemed as if Jon had barely been able to restrain himself from kissing Arya while still on the dance floor. If her father hadn't taken her with him at some point, deciding that it was late enough for a young lady her age, that might even have happened. Surely Jon would ask her for her favor in the finale as well, though in this case Rhaenys hoped it wouldn't bring him luck. The finale would be won, had to be won by her Aegon. She was sure of that.

Jon had won against Ser Jonothor Darry in his joust in the semifinals, Aegon had, despite his injured arm, managed to unhorse Lord Jason Mallister. And so Jon and Aegon, best friends as close as brothers, would face each other in the finale.

"Forgive me, Lady Arya, but I will keep my fingers crossed for Prince Aegon," Allara said.

"You are welcome to do that," Arya said, "but I have a feeling that Jon will end up winning this tourney."

"You have a feeling?" asked Rhaenys, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes, I have a gut feeling about it."

"A gut feeling...," laughed Rhaenys, "Eat something and it'll go away." They laughed about it together for a few moments, drank some more tea, and ate some of the little cakes of fish and herbs and fresh cheese on the table in front of them before Allara then spoke on.

"I have a gut feeling as well and mine tells me that it will be our prince to win the tourney."

"It seems as if everybody has a gut feeling these days. So what does your gut feeling tell you about Merrell Florent, Arnol Staunton and Lancel Lannister?" Rhaenys then asked.

"Nothing, really. What about them?" asked Allara, confused.

"Well, there are stories going around the Red Keep that you recently have spent a few evenings with the young men, and even more than just the evenings," said Rhaenys, grinning into her cup. She looked at Allara, whose eyes grew as big as the silver trays on the table in shock.

"No! No, that's not true," she protested in horror.

"I know it isn't," Rhaenys said with a laugh. "Some maidservant certainly made up that nonsense to have something to whisper about under the blankets. Don't worry about it. I'll make sure this silly nonsense doesn't spread any further."

"Thank you," Allara said, drinking the rest of her tea as greedily as if there were spirits in the cup. "Out of pure interest, which of the three fools am I supposed to have been in bed with?"

"All three of them."

"Ha," Allara laughed. "Well, that makes sense. After all, put the three of them together and they almost make a whole man."

"I know there's nothing to it. Everyone who knows you knows that, Allara. So don't think about it anymore. I just wanted you to know. Like I said, I'll take care of it. But what I do know," she said after a brief pause, looking at Arya, grinning broadly all over her face, "is that someone else entirely spent a night outside the Red Keep recently, along with the heir to a certain Lord Paramount."

As if paint had been poured on his face, Arya's head abruptly turned red as fire.

"I... well, we...," she began, stammering. "Yes, we did. Jon and I did spend a night outside the Red Keep together. We did some dancing and celebrating and lost track of time. But nothing happened," she hastened to point out. "We just slept together."

"Oh, that's what they call nothing happened up in the North these days? A little more than I expected."

"No! No," Arya said in shock. "I just got wet and Jon took care of it."

"I should hope so," Rhaenys said, grinning widely. "I, for one, always take great pleasure in Aegon doing this for me."

Now Arya also seemed to notice what she had just said and her head became even redder, almost as if it was about to catch fire. Her eyes grew so big that Rhaenys feared they might fall out of her head at any moment.

"Seven hells, we got wet from the rain and Jon got us a room where we could warm up and spend the night. Without anything unseemly happening," Arya finally said, each word chosen slowly and carefully after taking a few deep breaths.

"Ah, I see," said Rhaenys. She actually felt a little disappointed that things had so far gone so… decorously between the two of them after all. On the other hand, it was probably for the best. They somehow just didn't seem to be ready yet.

"How do you even know about this?" Arya finally asked.

"Well, that's what I do. I drink tea and I know things," Rhaenys said, grinning again and taking another sip of the tea. It was strong and sweet, tasting of plums and honey.

"You'd better get used to that," Allara said now, turning to Arya with a smile. "Nothing happens in the Red Keep without Rhaenys knowing about it."

"In this case, though, it wasn't hard to find out," Rhaenys said. "Jon came to me the next morning and told me everything, so I'd be able to say the right things should Lord Stark ask me about it."

"He just told you like that?" asked Arya, startled.

"Well, he didn't really want to tell me much, but I warned him that if he didn't tell me everything, I would go tell Lord Stark the truth right away."

"So you extorted him."

"Only a little," Rhaenys said with a wink. "Of course, I would never have told Lord Stark anything, but I still wanted to know."

"So then you knew nothing had happened," Arya protested in feigned dismay.

"Of course I did," Rhaenys said, laughing. "I just needed to know if Jon had possibly hidden one or two details from me."

They laughed for a while, talking more about this and that, but Rhaenys avoided pressing the issue of Jon and Arya any further. Arya was visibly uncomfortable with this topic, at least for now, so instead she preferred to ask Arya some questions about the archery contest, noting to her relief that Arya was not at all disappointed despite her dropping out, but had indeed had a great time, talked about the upcoming finale in the joust, and teased Allara a bit about how Arron Qorgyle would certainly want to dance with her again at the grand feast after the finale. Rhaenys knew that Arron, even if he tried to hide it behind a mocking mask of wry grins and loose comments, was definitely interested in Allara. He had been for years already. Allara, however, did not at all return this interest, seeing Arron, if anything, as a friend rather than a possible lover, let alone a possible husband. Rhaenys decided to take care of finding a suitable husband for Allara as soon as possible. A woman of her beauty would have no trouble finding a husband, being able to choose among the bulk of unmarried men in the royal court and beyond, but the man who came into question for her, the man Rhaenys knew she dreamed of, was out of reach. This man belonged to Rhaenys, entirely and forever. And the man she at least harbored a little crush on was a knight of the Kingsuard, so he was out of the question as well.

Yes, she would find a man for Allara, a man who was worthy of her, someone brave and gentle and strong, someone who would make her truly happy. First, she had to take care of her own future, but as soon as this issue was settled, she would take care of Allara's.

"Rhaenys, do you happen to know where Theon is?" asked suddenly Arya, her expression turning serious.

"Theon Greyjoy?" asked Rhaenys, irritated. Why would she ask about Theon Greyjoy?

"Yes, you know so much of what's going on here. So I was hoping that maybe you'd know something."

"No," she said after a moment. "No, I don't know where he is. Is there something wrong?"

"I don't know. He's been nowhere to be found since his defeat in the joust, and my father is starting to get worried."

"Well, from what I've seen of him," Allara said, "your father will be lucky if he's gone and never to show up again."

Arya, however, didn't seem to find this funny at all.

"Yes, he's terrible, but my father still worries. Theon is his ward and my father is responsible for him."

"No, I'm afraid I don't know where he is," Rhaenys said in a serious tone, "and I haven't heard anything suspicious either. Does my father already know about this?"

"I don't think so. My father wanted to try to find Theon himself first, before setting the cat among the pigeons."

"I see," Rhaenys said, nodding into the rest of her tea. "I'll ask around, see what I can find out. Theon Greyjoy can't just vanish into thin air, after all. If anything happened, we'll find out," she said, reaching across the table, taking Arya's hand and squeezing it gently.

The tea was over shortly after, when Arya and Allara took their leave and, walking in separate directions, left the small garden. Rhaenys knew that Arya was going to meet her aunt, Lady Lyanna. Apparently, her father had promised her a ride with her aunt to finally see something more of King's Landing and the Crownlands other than the Red Keep and the tourney grounds. Allara was going to write a letter to her cousin in Starfall, and then she would meet with her seamstress to continue working on her dress for the grand feast at the end of the tourney.

Rhaenys headed back to the solar in her chambers to wait for Manly Stokeworth, the Lord Commander of the Dragonkeepers. The man, she knew, had been a confidant of her grandmother, though she had never been able to learn how the Commander of the City Watch had ever become a confidant, some said even a close friend, of the Queen Mother. Shortly after her grandmother's death and the birth of the dragons, when a new order of Dragonkeepers had been needed, her father had appointed him Lord Commander of the Dragonkeepers because of this very friendship, a post he had fulfilled with utmost devotion ever since. Lord Stokeworth was one of the few men in King's Landing whom Rhaenys trusted unreservedly, something she noted above all in the fact that the dragons trusted him as well, almost as if he were family. As a young girl, she had constantly tried to find explanations for this, at some point settling on the idea that it must have been the friendship between Lord Commander Stokeworth and her grandmother that made the dragons trust this man more and let him get closer to them than any other person outside their family. Whether that really made sense, however, she had not known and still did not know. This thought always comforted her, though, as it meant that in the dragons a small part of her grandmother had remained in this world.

As she entered her chambers, she hoped for a moment to find Aegon there. It would have been wonderful to have him here, to spend time with him, preferably undressed. Aegon was not there though, of course. No doubt her brother was busy on the tourney grounds, tending to his battered armor, to his still injured shoulder or practicing for his last joust, for the grand finale in which he would face Jon, of all people. The thought of this joust alone sent a shiver down Rhaenys' spine. Jon and Aegon both loved each other like brothers, but were always the fiercest rivals in jousts, practically equal in skill.

Surely Jon would again ask Arya for her favor, and somehow the thought of Jon winning and crowning Arya his Queen of Love and Beauty was quite enchanting. Not enchanting enough, however, to want to forgo being crowned by Aegon herself. Jon and Arya would have to find another tourney for that, she decided.

Rhaenys had not yet been sitting long at her little table, studying the half-finished letters she still had lying there, when there was a knock at the door and, after her invitation, Manly Stokeworth entered her chambers. The Lord Commander of the Dragonkeepers was a bear of a man, tall and wide as a barrel and a black beard so bushy that hardly anything of his face could be seen at all. If one did not know him, one could easily mistake him for a bandit spending his nights in the woods. He was tall, huge, dark and grim, but Rhaenys knew all too well that this was merely the outer shell. Manly Stokeworth was friendly and so kind-hearted that often enough, when she spoke to him, she tended to forget that he was actually a soldier, serving and protecting her, not some distant uncle. She remembered that, as a little child, she had even once called him Uncle Stoke.

"Lord Commander Stokeworth," she greeted the man with an honest smile, "please take a seat. Would you like some wine or something else to drink?"

"No, thank you, my princess," he said, tucking his dragonscale-adorned helmet under his arm and sitting down on the chair across from her at the table. The chair looked ridiculously small under this broad, tall man, almost as if made for a child and not a grown man.

"I must apologize, Lord Commander. I'm afraid my brother is not present."

"There is no reason for that, my princess. As long as the tourney is still going on, I didn't expect to find him here. There is not much to report anyway. All the dragons are healthy. A little restless perhaps, probably because they haven't been allowed to fly so much during the tourney, but they are fine."

"I expected as much, yes," Rhaenys said, pouring herself a cup of watered wine. She again offered Lord Commander Stokeworth a cup with a quick gesture, but he again declined with thanks and a shake of his head. "As soon as we have more time, we will be flying with the dragons again on a regular basis."

"I'll let them know. They dragons will certainly be happy to hear that," he said with a laugh, with complete and surprisingly white rows of teeth shining through his thick beard. Rhaenys laughed with him, then took a sip of the wine.

"Do they eat well?"

"Yes, very well. Balerion is as hungry as ever, Meraxes a little less so, but not so much to worry about her."

"And Vhagar?"

"Oh, he's really been digging in lately. Two entire cows in just one week. He's been pretty restless too, more restless than usual, so we haven't been able to measure him properly, but if my eyes don't deceive me, he's actually grown quite a bit as of late. He even looks a little bigger than Meraxes by now. Something seems to have given him a real appetite."

"Hmm, but healthy is he?"

"As far as I can tell, yes. He just seems pretty excited, but... in a good way, if one can say that about such a beast. Almost like a little child before his name day. It's been years since I last saw one of the dragons this excited."

So something like this has happened before.

"And do you remember which dragon that was? And when?" she asked.

"Oh, I remember that well. It was Meraxes, a few days, maybe a week, before you first took flight with her, my princess. It seemed then that she knew full well that her rider was near, about to claim her for good."

Rhaenys took another sip and thought about the Lord Commander's words for a moment. It didn't sound like anything to worry about. Apparently Vhagar was not sick. Not that much could have been done otherwise anyway. It was unlikely that there was any maester in Westeros or beyond who knew anything about the illnesses of dragons, let alone curing them. A new Targaryen, however, was not to appear either. Rhaenys knew that her mother would not have another child, so a little brother or sister was out of the question. She knew that Arianne and Viserys had tried unsuccessfully so far to get Arianne with child and she knew that she herself, unfortunately, was not with child either. No yet at least. So a new Targaryen who could claim Vhagar was nowhere to be seen. Not that a newborn could have done so anyway. That Vhagar nevertheless suddenly seemed to sense the presence of his rider, as if he had awakened from some kind of sleep, made the matter all the more suspicious, however.

I will better seek out a maester. Maybe I am with child after all, she thought, and had to smile. That would truly be wonderful. Aegon would certainly jump for joy.

"Lord Commander, what is the situation with new recruits? Aegon told me a while ago that there might be a problem there."

"Well," the man said, clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably in his chair like a little boy caught with his hand in the honey pot, "there are some minor difficulties, indeed."

"What difficulties exactly?"

"We have enough recruits, but most of the young men are... not suitable, to put it mildly. They're layabouts from Flea Bottom for the most part, so you can hardly expect much. They lack discipline, are unpunctual, drink and whore on their watch instead of guarding the Dragonpit. I have already made this suggestion to your father, but it fell on deaf ears, but perhaps it would be better if the Dragonkeepers consisted only of sons of noble families, my princess. There might be a bad apple here and there, but we would hardly have such problems as we have now."

Again, Rhaenys pondered the Lord Commander's words for a moment. The call to turn the Dragonkeepers from a mere guard for the Dragonpit into an elite brotherhood of young nobles had come up in the past already, not least in the Small Council, as she knew from Aegon. Surely for many third, fourth or fifth sons of lords and knights, who could not expect to ever inherit more than the mere family name, it would be a better prospect to swear their lives and pledge their swords to such an elite order in the capital of the realm rather than to the Night's Watch and spend the rest of their days freezing their toes and fingers off on the Wall. Thus, finding suitable young men would certainly be a much smaller issue then. Undoubtedly, the protection of their dragons would then also be better, since sons of noble families were already trained in the use of weapons from an early age and did not have to be taught from scratch.

Her father, however, had always rejected these attempts, considering it problematic to admit bastards and even peasants to join the Kingsguard at the King's discretion if they were suitable, but to have the Dragonpit guarded only by sons of noble houses. It would, she had heard him say once, cast a false light on our family if we let our dragons be guarded by better men than ourselves. One could get the impression that the lives of the dragons were worth more to me than the lives of my family.

"I understand," she finally said, finishing the rest of her wine. "My father will not agree to this, Lord Commander. We both know that. But something must be done indeed. The guarding of the Dragonpit must not be left to the disport and the proclivities of the Dragonkeepers, unless they can go a night without wine or whores. Sort out all the men you feel do not meet the requirements and recruit new ones. I will talk to my father about doubling the weekly pay for the Dragonkeepers. Better even triple it. With that, you should then hopefully be able to recruit better men."

"Certainly. Thank you, my princess."

After that, she bid farewell to Lord Commander Stokeworth and then went to her bedroom to pick out a dress for the rest of the day. The morning with Allara and Arya had been pleasant and the conversation with Lord Commander Stokeworth productive. But the important part of the day would follow later. She would meet with her mother, for tea and pastries, simply to spend time together, not to discuss anything specific. They both knew, however, that in truth this wasn't the case at all. Of course they would discuss the one topic that still needed discussion. How could they not? After some consideration, she decided on a dress of yellow silk that would show off her tanned skin and dark mane well. It was cut a little more demurely than most of her dresses, more restrained than the Dornish style she usually liked to wear, with red lace at the hems and gold brocade around the waist. It left her arms and shoulders bare, but had no plunging neckline, neither in the front nor in the back, and no slits for her legs.

Rhaenys had still plenty of time, certainly enough for a bath, so she had a maid prepare one for her and, while she waited, chose the jewelry and shoes for the meeting with her mother. That she would leave her hair down, as she preferred, she had decided already, so a crown was out of the question. Not that she could have impressed her mother with it in any way. She would wear the golden earrings that Aegon had given her for her second to last name day. Beautiful masterpieces in the shape of little suns that he had had made by a goldsmith in Lys. Small splinters of topaz were set into the little suns, making them shine and glitter beautifully in the light. To go with it, she would wear a necklace that her mother had given to her years ago. It was a simple chain of gold, without a pendant, but with the tiny coat of arms of House Martell on the clasp at the nape of her neck. She also decided to wear the simple sandals made of soft, light brown deer leather, with the lacing that reached up to her knees.

When she was ready, the bath was waiting as well. She refused the maid's offer to wash her back, since she was not actually dirty, but just wanted to relax a bit before meeting her mother, and after the maid had left and she had undressed, climbed into the hot water. For a while she just lay there, letting the hot water relax her muscles and trying not to think about anything. Of course, she didn't succeed and her thoughts flew back to her mother again and again, played out their coming conversation in her head over and over again, looking for things to say that she could use to convince her mother. She found no suitable words, however, none that she had not already said to her and that had not convinced her in the past. Her nervousness turned to despair as she couldn't think of anything to say, even after what felt like hours of thinking. At some point she felt hot tears welling up in her eyes, so she forced herself to think of something else. Her mind wandered to Aegon and she was relieved to notice how easy it was to let him fill her mind completely.

Of course it's easy, she thought. We are made for each other, destined for each other. He is the son of the Dragon, I am the daughter of the Sun. No woman could ever be as perfect for him as I am. And no man could ever be as perfect for me as he is. Together, we are perfect. We are the Blood of the Dragon.

With half-opened eyes, smiling at the thought of her beloved brother, she looked over at the door. For a moment she had the childish hope that the door would open and Aegon would come in to her, tear off his clothes, and join her in the hot water, taking her, using her, wild and unrestrained. She felt heat rising in her body, a completely different heat than the heat from the hot water though, as she closed her eyes and imagined how wonderful it would be if Aegon were now with her, inside of her. She imagined his strong hands grabbing her, gripping and massaging her breasts, his lips closing around her nipples and his heavenly tongue playing with them. Her hand traveled down her body, over her belly, underwater to between her legs. She quickly began to pleasure herself as she imagined Aegon being here now, his glorious, divine cock deep inside her cunt, soaking wet by now even without the bathwater, as he would hold her tight, press her against the wall of the tub, and thrust violently into her again and again with tremendous force. With her right hand she went on to pleasure herself between her legs, with her left she alternately played with her rock hard nipples, just as Aegon liked to do whenever he was fucking her. The movements of her hand and fingers became faster the more she thought about having Aegon inside her, faster and faster, and her fingers slid deeper and deeper inside her. Her breathing became erratic and she could feel the approaching explosion of ectasy building between her legs that would drive through her body at any moment.

She was on the verge of being torn apart by the wave on lust and literally exploding in a massive orgasm when a loud knock at the door jerked her out of her thoughts of her brother's hands and lips and cock.

"Your Highness, your mother awaits you in the royal gardens," she heard Ser Oswell's voice say through the thick wood of the door.

Immediately she let go of her pussy and her breasts and took a few deep breaths before answering.

So close, she cursed in her mind. So damn close.

The knights of the Kingsguard might already be used to hearing a lot of things coming from Aegon and her when they were together, but Ser Oswell overhearing her bringing herself to orgasm during a simple bath was not something she needed to happen now.

"Thank you very much, Ser. I'll be ready in a moment," she called out, still breathing heavily.

I really need my Aegon back with me. Hopefully this tourney is over soon, or my hunger for him will tear me apart.

She got out of the water, dried herself and then went to her bedchamber to dress. With such a perfectly fitting silk dress, she decided to wear smallclothes made of silk as well so that they would not show under the thin fabric. She fastened the laces on the sides of the brocade, closing them with small bows, and, having put on her sandals and fastened their laces below her knees as well, she grabbed the jewelry she had decided to wear, quickly leaving her chambers. Fortunately, she had not let her hair get wet, so that it now fell easily and perfectly over her shoulders and down her back.

Ser Oswell dutifully waited for her at the door when she stepped out, greeting her with an implied bow, a smile, and a brief "Your Highness", before making his way beside her to the royal gardens. Rhaenys threw the necklace around her neck as she walked, letting Ser Oswell help her close the clasp. Then she put on the earrings.

"Has my mother been waiting long already?" she asked when they had just left Maegor's Holdfast and thus were about halfway there.

"No, my princess. She has just arrived, but she sent me to fetch you directly. The queen has ordered Dornish blood orange cakes to be prepared, and those must apparently be eaten hot and fresh. As hot as if they came straight from the seventh hell, as she called it."

"Oh, how wonderful," she said and had to smile widely. "Yes, they must indeed be eaten hot. You will understand once you have tried one of them yourself, Ser Oswell."

"I am here to protect you, my princess," he said with a laugh, "not to fill my belly."

"Don't worry. They are quite small and absolutely delicious, sweet and sour and spicy all at the same time. And should indeed some bandit appear in the royal gardens all of a sudden, a single blood orange cake in your belly certainly wouldn't stop you from protecting me," she said.

"Then I will have to trust your word on that, my princess."

"Indeed, Ser Oswell, indeed. If it makes you feel better, just take it as a command from your princess to try a cake."

"As you command, then," he said, again laughing loudly.

They reached the entrance to the royal gardens shortly after. They walked, Ser Oswell now behind Rhaenys, along the narrow path, past an old and small, stone pergola, completely overgrown with berries and vines, and through the small orchard with apple trees, pear trees, plum trees and cherry trees. The gravel crunched under Rhaenys' sandals and every now and then she had to move her feet a little to the side as she walked, to fling out the little stones that had gotten into her sandals and under her feet. Certainly she looked absolutely ridiculous doing this, but Ser Oswell was fortunately restrained enough not to laugh at her for it. She knew that she wouldn't have gotten off so lightly with Ser Jaime or her Uncle Lewyn walking behind her.

Just before they reached the place where she knew her mother would be waiting for her – another small and completely overgrown pergola on the eastern edge of the Red Keep with a beautiful view over Blackwater Bay – they passed one of the meadows of wildflowers, and Rhaenys had to stop for a moment to admire the birds fluttering through the tall, green grass and among the even taller flowers and shrubs. They were large, larger even than the ravens of the maesters, and shone in the most glorious colors. Rhaenys knew that these birds had been a gift for the royal family in honor of Aegon's name day. A wealthy magister from Pentos, probably hoping to secure a trade contract with her father, had had them caught on the Summer Isles and brought here. They were beautiful, and if the books in which she had been able to read about them were to be believed, they could even be taught to speak, if only one spent enough time with them. Rhaenys doubted that this could be true, but decided to try it out soon anyway. It was probably a silly thought, but having not only dragons, but also speaking birds, could in the end only increase their family's prestige. And if it didn't work out, they still had dragons.

Her mother stood up and took the last few steps toward her when she saw Rhaenys and Ser Oswell approaching. Immediately she wrapped Rhaenys in a tight embrace, which Rhaenys gladly returned. Since the tourney had begun, and the capital, not to mention the Red Keep, had been virtually overflowing with lords and ladies and knights from all over the realm, they had just not been able to spend enough time together.

"There you are, my beautiful girl," her mother said, beaming at her.

She looked to the side and seemed surprised, almost indignant, for a moment as she saw Ser Oswell walk past them, grab one of the blood orange cakes without saying a word, and pop the whole thing into his mouth. He looked at Rhaenys and nodded in agreement before turning away and taking up a position a little distance away so he could defend them against whomever in case of need.

"He's just carrying out my orders," Rhaenys said to her mother, excusing him with a wry smile.

"I see," she said, laughing.

They sat down at the table, had water and chilled Arbor Gold poured for them, and then began to eat the cakes while they were still hot. They talked little, at first just a little about the progress of the tourney, then a little about the colorful birds that already seemed to feel at home in the royal gardens. It wasn't long, however, before they weren't talking at all anymore. Their mother seemed troubled, and Rhaenys, of course, knew exactly why. The issue that stood between them as high as the Wall and as massive as the Mountains of the Moon depressed them both, though for exactly opposite reasons.

For nearly an hour they sat opposite each other, looking out over Blackwater Bay or across to the colorful birds that shouted and cackled at each other like old hags, but hardly saying another word. Rhaenys saw her mother's mood tilt further with each passing moment, growing sadder and sadder, knowing full well that in the end she could not avoid the one topic she wanted to avoid for all the world. Rhaenys, for her part, felt for her mother and as much as she wanted to finally address the issue, as much as she wanted clarity and her mother's approval, it broke her heart to see how hard this was for her.

She doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve to suffer like this, Rhaenys thought, having to pull herself together to keep tears from welling up in her eyes as well. She deserves a son and daughter who will make her happy, who will marry someone she agrees with. She deserves to be happy and to have a daughter-in-law and son-in-law that she can look at without finding the idea atrocious and abhorrent. But don't we deserve our happiness too? Don't Aegon and I deserve to be with the person we truly, genuinely love with all our hearts?

For a while she just looked at her mother, who at first tried to avoid her gaze. After a few heartbeats, however, she realized that this was futile and looked Rhaenys directly in the eye. Rhaenys almost started to cry when she saw how close her mother was to bursting into tears. She pulled herself together, however, forcing a weak smile instead.

"You two really want this, don't you?" her mother finally asked.

Rhaenys said nothing, simply nodding at her in response.

"I see," her mother then said.

Again, Rhaenys said nothing, waiting to see if her mother would say anything else, if she would cry, if she would curse, calling her an abomination, or if perhaps she would simply give her consent. When nothing more followed, however, she slowly stood up, walked around the table to her mother, and squatted down next to her on the ground, taking her hands in hers.

"Yes, we want it, more than anything in the world," she then said. This time it was her mother who answered only with a nod, even though tears were still standing in her eyes. "It is the most beautiful feeling to know that you are half of a wonderful, perfect whole, mother. That's what we are, Aegon and me."

"I see," she said again, looking down at their entwined hands, only barely suppressing a sob in her voice.

"Please," Rhaenys pleaded, her voice little more than a whisper. "Please, mother."

For a few heartbeats, her mother again said nothing, silently looking up from their hands and simply gazing into her eyes. Finally she smiled again, weak and pained, but she smiled.

"Aegon will certainly win the joust for you, won't he?"

"Yes."

"Then it would indeed be wonderful if you could celebrate your betrothal on that day as well."

"Yes," Rhaenys said again, feeling her voice fail.

"You have my approval, then. And all my blessings, dearest daughter."

Chapter Text

"I think I speak for everyone here when I offer you our congratulations, my prince. Your accomplishments are truly outstanding," said Lord Tyrell.

"Thank you, my lord," Aegon replied with a smile, "but the tourney is not yet won. So you might want to save the congratulations for after the grand finale."

Rhaegar looked over at him, sitting to his right. His son had always been more of a political mind than he himself, had in this regard always been more like his mother than like him, even if so far he had often lacked the motivation to act on it. Aegon certainly took no great pleasure in the Small Council meetings, something Rhaegar could not blame him for, but by now at least seemed to recognize their necessity and importance and acted accordingly. Of course, he would rather be at the tourney grounds now, preparing himself for the finale, or out and about somewhere with his friends, but instead he was here, taking his duties seriously. More seriously than Rhaegar himself had done at his age. Yes, he could be proud of his son, even though Rhaegar did not doubt for a heartbeat that he owed this change of heart in his son primarily to Rhaenys' influence.

"I have more congratulations up my sleeve for this occasion, My Prince," Lord Tyrell beamed.

"That's not what I meant when I said we needed to talk about the tourney," Lord Stannis growled from the side. "There were three stabbings in the city last night, with two dead. There was a horse race on the Street of the Sisters in which a septa had both her legs broken-"

"Then hopefully that will teach the septa not to take part in horse races anymore," Prince Oberyn said from the end of the table, interrupting Lord Stannis, and biting heartily into his peach. Lord Stannis, however, continued unperturbed.

"-and in the pond behind the sept at the end of Street of Flour the head of a woman has been found. Who she is and where the rest of her is we don't know."

"In other words, you can't wait until the tourney is finally over," Lord Connington grumbled back, making no secret of the fact that he felt no differently.

"Financially, the tourney was... well, not a win," Lord Tyrell said uncertainly. "But then, that was not the aim. On the contrary, it was considerably more costly than we expected."

"How much more costly?" asked Aegon, and Rhaegar let him have it. It was good when Aegon would take the initiative in these meetings now and in the future. If one day he would preside over them no longer as Prince of Dragonstone, but as King, it would be easier that way for all present and not least for himself.

"Significantly more expensive, My Prince. Many more knights than expected participated in the tourney and had to be housed and provided for, the temporary shelters for the wild beasts gifted to the royal family were more costly to build in such a short time than expected, and due to the increased security in and around the arena, the cost of this has increased as well. Not to mention-"

"How much?" asked Prince Oberyn.

"All together... four thousand gold dragons and eight hundred thirty silver stags. Roughly," said Lord Tyrell. Everyone was silent for a moment. That was indeed a lot of gold. Gold that had not been budgeted for this purpose. Surely, however, this sum would not present the Crown with insurmountable problems.

"Very well, we all knew that this tourney would be expensive," Rhaegar finally said. "And I was happy to spend this gold for this wonderful opportunity, even if it ended up being a bit more than we thought. See to it that the outstanding balance is paid, Lord Tyrell. The Crown will certainly be able to bear this expense."

"Certainly, Your Grace."

"I can also," Rhaegar continued, "announce that Queen Elia has already taken care of most of the animals the royal family received as gifts. Only the elephant still worries us. In the Red Keep we have neither the room nor a use for such an animal, so I have decided to put the beast up for sale. I would prefer a loyal house in Westeros to take the elephant, perhaps as a war elephant, but if no one can be found, we can also offer it to some of the larger mercenary companies in Essos."

"A wise idea, Your Grace," Lord Connington said, and for a moment Rhaegar thought he saw in his eyes that he was considering taking the elephant himself, probably to do him a favor. As quickly as the thought seemed to have come, however, it was gone again from his old friend's gaze. No doubt Jon had briefly estimated how much it would cost his house to permanently accommodate an elephant. House Connington, above all Jon himself, was loyal to a fault to House Targaryen, but wealthy they were not, despite Jon's service as his Hand for so many years.

Rhaegar had discussed with Elia for a long time in the past nights whether they could not keep the elephant after all. Surely, in a city that could house three massive dragons, there would be a place for this elephant somewhere. Elia, however, had shown herself to be ironclad, more unyielding than he was accustomed to in this regard. In the end, when Elia had talked again and again about feeding the elephant to the dragons, Rhaegar had at least been able to persuade her to this compromise, that it was better to sell the animal than to simply kill it. He had, shortly after its arrival, looked into the animal's eyes, which had been so kind and gentle that he had found it hard to bear the thought that the elephant might die in agony in dragon fire. It was silly to think this way, and wholly unbecoming of a king at that, however Rhaegar could not help but feel sorry for the massive beast.

"House Tyrell would be lucky to have such an animal in its possession, Your Grace," Lord Tyrell said, snapping him out of his thoughts. "What price did you have in mind?"

Rhaegar pondered the question for a moment. No doubt Lord Tyrell was aware, as was he himself, that taking the elephant from the Crown was more of a favor to the Crown than a good opportunity for House Tyrell, which would henceforth have to struggle with feeding and housing the gray giant that, without proper training, had no real use whatsoever. He could thus not ask for too much gold, regardless of the actually pretty high value of the animal. Rhaegar was just about to make up his mind and give a number when Aegon already answered.

"House Tyrell has been one of the most loyal servants of the Crown ever since the days of Aegon the Conqueror, my lord. It would therefore of course be our pleasure to present you with this beast as a gift," Aegon said, and Rhaegar couldn't help but smile. Undoubtedly, Aegon had had the same line of thought as himself, only a little faster. In this way, making the elephant a gift, they were rid of it, but at the same time they were not in debt to the Tyrells.

"Fine, this is settled then. Are there any other issues on the list to be addressed, Grand Maester?" asked Rhaegar.

Grand Maester Pycelle seemed to be startled by the question as if he had just been woken from a dream with a slap in the face. Immediately he began rustling the sheets and slips of paper on the table before him, looked through the letters they had received by raven but about which they had already spoken, and finally cleared his throat as profusely as if he had not only a lump but a whole mountain in his throat.

"No, Your Grace," he finally said in a weak voice, "that will be all."

Not for the first time, Rhaegar thought he could hardly wait for the old man to finally clear his place in this world and especially on this council for a younger, certainly better man.

"Very well," Rhaegar said, not commenting on the Grand Maester's little performance. "So before we end today's meeting, I have one more announcement to make, which I am indescribably happy to make first and foremost to this select group, before making it to the assembled court at the end of the tourney in a few days." Rhaegar waited a moment, looking in turn at the expectant faces of the men before him, then at his son to his right, who began to shine as broadly as the sun. "It is my greatest pleasure, my lords, to be able to tell you first of the betrothal of my children. My son Aegon will take my wonderful daughter Rhaenys to wife."

"Hear, hear," said Oberyn, rising from his chair and beginning to applaud. The other men gradually joined in, though Rhaegar was sure that many of the congratulations now being loudly proclaimed were not at all serious. As for Lord Connington, he believed his joy, even though he was not a man who could show joy particularly easily. Lord Baratheon let himself be carried away to a light applause, but otherwise seemed as unmoved as if he had just announced what he had eaten this morning to break the fast. Lord Velaryon, probably one of the most understanding men of this ancient Valyrian tradition of marriage in the entire realm, smiled broadly and genuinely, patting Aegon on the shoulder in a surprisingly friendly manner. Prince Oberyn was obviously pleased as well, though he had less understanding for the tradition and was probably just happy that Aegon and Rhaenys were happy. Lord Tyrell didn't want to stop applauding either, but his smile seemed so fake and dejected that Rhaegar didn't have to think long to know what must have been going on in his head. It seemed that until just now he truly had hoped that Aegon might take his Margaery as his wife instead of his own sister. Wisdom Rossart forced himself to a weak smile, but was otherwise as immobile as a stone. Rhaegar had long suspected that the resurrection of the dragons was more than just a thorn in the side of the Alchemists' Guild. After the death of the dragons almost one hundred and fifty years ago, wildfire had been the weapon that had come closest to dragon fire in terms of its type and striking power, though of course it had always been miles inferior in direct comparison. Now, however, with new, wonderfully prospering dragons and heirs to the throne marrying each other, keeping the blood pure and thus guaranteeing that House Targaryen would be able to possess and control dragons in the future as well, the Grand Master of the Alchemists' Guild naturally feared that his brotherhood was in danger of losing more and more of its importance. An understandable fear, but one that Rhaegar couldn't care less about right now. Lord Commander Hightower congratulated Aegon warmly, even giving him a brief hug, and then stood next to Aegon with his chest so proud that one could almost believe that Ser Gerold was Aegon's father and not Rhaegar. The last of the group Rhaegar looked at was Grand Maester Pycelle, who clapped weakly with his gnarled hands and quoted some verse from another long-dead maester about the importance of a strong bond between two monarchs, but to which no one really listened.

He probably can't wait to finally leave the room to run to Lord Tywin, Rhaegar thought.

Elia had warned him about Pycelle years ago already, but what Rhaegar had dismissed at first. Again and again she had warned Rhaegar about him, until at some point she had presented him with clues that, though far from being hard evidence, he had not been able to ignore. She had warned him that Pycelle was Lord Tywin's creature, entirely and completely. The maesters might abandon their family names when joining the Citadel. Loyalties, deeply rooted in the heart, however, could not be so easily abandoned. Elia had never found out which house Pycelle was originally from, but had quickly realized that he was from the Westerlands and that his loyalty to House Lannister could not be surpassed by any oath in the world. Pycelle belonged to Tywin, had always belonged to him, and would belong to him until the day of his dying breath.

He is welcome to tell him. Soon we will announce the betrothal of my children to the entire court. Then everyone will know anyway.

Rhaegar called the meeting to a close shortly thereafter, leaving Aegon with Lord Velaryon, Prince Oberyn, and Ser Gerold, with whom he was engaged in joyfully animated conversation, while the other members of the Small Council quickly departed. He took a short detour past the kitchens to have a completely surprised maid give him a small bowl of soup. He had been terribly hungry all morning and, before his next meeting, wanted to have eaten at least a little something. He ate the soup sitting on a bale of straw in the stables for the royal horses, in the rear end of which several horse stalls had been cleared, joined and reinforced with iron bars, which were actually meant to reinforce doors and gates during a siege. In this new cage, the lion now paced nervously up and down, his eyes always fixed on Rhaegar. Had he not known better, he might have thought the lion wanted some of the soup.

"It's not the soup you're interested in," he said to the beast. "It's me you want a piece of, don't you? I'll have to disappoint you on that."

For a while Rhaegar sat there, eating his soup and looking at the beautiful beast of prey. When he had finished eating, he thought about riding into the city, visting the Dragonpit and going to see the dragons. If the lion was already imposing and commanding respect, the dragons were from an entirely other world, not only commanding respect but terrifying fear in a way that no ordinary animal ever could. He decided against it then, however. Lord Tywin would be joining him in his solar soon enough, and as much as he would have liked to, he couldn't possibly postpone this meeting. Besides, it was no good going to the dragons alone, without his children. The dragons were not his, none of them. They belonged to Aegon and Rhaenys. Except for Vhagar, which belonged to no one. For years he had hoped to be able to claim Vhagar himself. When it was clear that this would not happen and that the dragon would not accept him, he had hoped for Viserys, but his brother had also failed to do so. Lastly, he had hoped for Jon, but it seemed Jon was not Vhagar's rider either. If it were otherwise, the two would certainly have bonded already in the many years Jon had now spent in King's Landing.

Without wanting to, he suddenly had to think of Lady Lyanna. His Lyanna. At least she should have been his, had fate been more merciful to him. Rheagar remembered only too well how he had seen his Lyanna for the first time, only days before her wedding to Robert. A great tourney had been held at Storm's End, which Rhaegar had wanted to attend if the Small Council and his wife had not convinced him otherwise. This was Robert's day, they had said. It was not proper for a ruler to push himself to the fore, they had said, convincing Rhaegar with it. If only he had taken part. In another world, in a better world, he would have participated, would have won the tourney, and would have crowned the maiden Lyanna as his Queen of Love and Beauty. Who knows what wonderful things could have come out of that.

Since the beginning of the tourney for Aegon's name day, she had now already been in the city, in the Red Keep and in Maegor's Holdfast – one of the reasons why he had been so nervous before the tourney, but also why he had been so looking forward to it, childish as it might be – but still he had hardly seen her, let alone spoken to her, apart from a few polite phrases here and there. It was not difficult for him to realize that Lyanna was avoiding him. After she had stopped answering his letters at some point years ago and had avoided having to travel to the capital under this or that excuse whenever possible, he hadn't really expected anything else either. Still, it pained him. She was the mother of his son... one of his sons and he knew, knew it deep in his heart, that Lyanna was unhappy in her marriage. Many times he had thought about taking the initiative and simply making her his, acknowledging Jon as his son and taking Lyanna as his second wife. Each time, however, he had quickly dismissed the idea. This time was no different. What exactly could he do? Ask Robert to simply dissolve the marriage? Robert might be a bad husband, a man who did not deserve a woman like Lyanna, but he was her husband and the father of at least two of her three children. And he loved her. In his own weak and strange way, he did love her. Robert would crush his skull on the spot if he dared to even hint at such a proposal, regicide or not. Rhaegar was sure of that. Besides, he had decided years ago already that he did not want to inflict this pain on Elia. Elia was a good woman, a good queen, and she had given him two wonderful children whom he loved dearly and could be proud of. No, Elia didn't deserve to have to go through that pain, to be set aside for Lyanna, no matter how much the fire of their marriage had grown cold by now. And Jon... whatever role Jon would play in this world, he would find it, with Robert Baratheon or Rhaegar Targaryen as his father.

Probably none, though, he thought bitterly.

Of course, that wasn't true either. Jon, his son Jon, would one day become the Lord of Storm's End, one of the most powerful men in the realm and a pillar of Aegon's rule. Every now and then he felt bad knowing that he had foisted his own son on Robert, that the heir to Storm's End was not even a Baratheon at all. But was that really a problem? Orys Baratheon, the half brother and right hand of Aegon the Conqueror, had been a Targaryen bastard himself. So in a strange way, a way so absurd that only fate could have devised it, the next Lord of Storm's End to stand by the next Aegon on the throne would also be a royal bastard. Maybe it was just right that way, just had to be that way.

And would the young Lady Arya perhaps become his lady? It was possible. Of course, Rhaegar, whom Elia was only too happy to remind of not knowing even half of what was going on in the Red Keep, was not unaware that something was developing between Jon and Lady Arya. It was still gentle and tender and fragile like a young flower in the first days of spring. But who knew what would eventually come of it. Rhaegar would not interfere, but he would not stand in the way of it either. That the young Lady Arya was the spitting image of the young Lyanna had struck him at the first moment. It had almost taken his breath away the first time he had seen her with his own eyes.

Perhaps, he thought with a bitter laugh on his lips, my children will live the life I had wished for myself. My Aegon will ride a dragon and someday lead mankind into the great war for its survival, and Jon will have Lady Arya as his wife, just as I should have had Lyanna. Perhaps it is my destiny to see my own destiny fulfilled in my children rather than in me.

Rhaegar then tore himself away from thoughts of Jon, tore himself away from Lady Arya, tore himself away with all his strength from thoughts of his Lyanna, who was not his at all and never would be, and rather returned in his thoughts to the dragons, those wonderful, terrible beasts. So much he wanted to go to them now, wanted to just enter one of the cages, climb on Vhagar and claim him for his own. But that would not happen, and any attempt to force it would inevitably end in his death. No, he would not go to the dragons. Not now and certainly not alone, no matter how much he wanted to see them. The lion would have eaten him if he could have, but the dragons, without Aegon or Rhaenys to accompany him, would certainly have welcomed him with even less fondness than the big cat.

Less than half an hour later, he found himself in his solar, Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor standing guard outside his door, reading some of the letters on his table. Several lords and knights from the Crownlands, from the immediate vicinity of the capital, had already responded to the letters he had written to inform them of the wildling threat and the approaching winter. Unsurprisingly, besides the usual declarations of loyalty, they were mainly requests to get some of the big cake, to be supplied with food and equipment and weapons and, of course, preferably gold, to be able to prepare for the winter. As if the lords of the Crownlands, of all people, were the first to need better supplies. He decided not to react to these letters for the time being and to wait for further responses from the realm, even if these could still take some time. Promptly, there was a knock at the door and upon his permission, Ser Barristan entered his solar, Lord Tywin close behind.

"Your Grace, Lord Tywin Lannister is here," he said.

"Thank you, Ser, please send him in."

Lord Tywin entered, greeted Rhaegar with a curt "Your Grace," and, after an implied bow, sat down in the chair opposite him, following Rhaegar's inviting gesture.

"Thank you for welcoming me, Your Grace."

"I have to thank you for accepting my invitation."

"Let me first congratulate you on the betrothal of your children, Your Grace. The purity of the blood is undoubtedly more important than ever to House Targaryen given that you now once again have dragons to master."

"Thank you, my lord," Rhaegar said, looking at the man for a moment.

As slow as Pycelle usually creeps through the corridors, it's a bit surprising that Lord Tywin is already informed. But it probably would have been more surprising if he hadn't been informed yet.

"How may I be of service, Your Grace?" asked the Old Lion. Rhaegar could see how difficult it was for him to act so subservient. This man was used to having authority, used to others bowing to him, certainly not the other way around.

"I have a gift for you, Lord Tywin."

"A gift?" he asked, , raising an eyebrow in suspicion.

"Indeed. How would you like to possess a real, live lion in Casterly Rock again?"

"The lion you received as a gift for the crown prince's name day?"

It did not surprise Rhaegar that Lord Tywin knew immediately which lion it was. It wasn't hard to guess of course, but from the way he asked, Lord Tywin was absolutely aware that accepting the lion - and refusing a gift from the King wasn't really an option in the end anyway - was less something to be overly grateful for than that he was actually doing the Crown a service and the Crown should be grateful to him for it. Unlike Lord Mace Tyrell, who had allowed himself to be blinded by the fact that he had received the elephant as a gift, Lord Tywin was not so simple-minded as to believe that he owed the Crown any gratitude afterwards. No, certainly not.

"Indeed. We have no use for it in King's Landing, and so my wife thought you might like to have it. The lion is your heraldic animal, after all."

"Thank you for reminding me, Your Grace," Lord Tywin said. "Of course, I will gladly and gratefully accept the lion."

"Wonderful. Then the issue is out of the world," Rhaegar said with a smile.

"Then I would like to ask you a favor in return, Your Grace," Lord Tywin said, looking so deeply into Rhaegar's eyes that he feared he could see directly into his soul.

"A favor? I remember that I just made you a gift, my lord."

"Please, Your Grace, let's save this. We both know that it is I who am doing you a favor with the lion, and not the other way around."

For a moment, Rhaegar was speechless. Of course Lord Tywin was right about that, and Rhaegar had known of course that Lord Tywin was more than aware of that fact as well. However, the fact that he said this so openly, without any digressions or polite phrases, still surprised him. Thinking back to his father, he wondered for a moment how these two men could ever have been friends.

For such an answer, my father in his last years would have had him burned alive on the spot, he thought.

"All right, let's save it and not beat around the bush then, my lord. So what favor do you think I could do you?"

"A marriage," Lord Tywin said without a murmur.

"I don't quite understand."

"A union of House Targaryen with House Lannister."

"I myself am married, my brother as well, and as you already know that my son and daughter will marry each other, Lord Tywin."

"Indeed."

"Then... I'm afraid I'm not quite sure who in my family should marry someone in your family. If you expect me to directly break the betrothal of my children-"

"The first son from your children's union is to take a lady of House Lannister as his wife," Lord Tywin said, interrupting Rhaegar. "My daughter should already have become your wife as you know, Your Grace, had your father not been in such a... problematic mental state. And since in this generation a union of our houses is out of the question through the betrothal of your children to each other, I want such a union for the next generation. Your son's heir shall take my heir's first daughter as his wife."

Again, Rhaegar thought about this for a while, saying nothing. He had expected a lot, but certainly not an offer of betrothal between children not even born yet. No, it wasn't even an offer. Lord Tywin was offering nothing to Rhaegar, he was demanding it. It took a moment for Rhaegar to realize this, and to understand why the Old Lion's words had surprised him so much. It was not that such a union was outside the realm of possibility – even if in the coming generation a marriage between brother and sister, or at least with a house of Valyrian origin, would have been preferable – but the way Lord Tywin presented his request, not to ask for such a marriage, but to downright demand it, had indeed caught him cold. And that he had then so openly addressed the condition of his late father even...

He knows how much I need him, how much I depend on his support for the coming war and to prepare the kingdom for it, Rhaegar thought.

What surprised Rhaegar more than the demand itself, however, was the manner in which Lord Tywin spoke of his heir as a matter of course. After Rhaegar's coronation, Lord Tywin had repeatedly tried to wring the promise from him to release Ser Jaime from his vows and dismiss him from the Kingsguard so that he could once again become Lord Tywin's heir. Rhaegar had denied him this request each time, however, so as not to set a dangerous precedent. In the years since, the Old Lion had done everything he could to declare one of his nephews or grandsons - some son of his brother Ser Kevan, one of his daughter Cersei's sons with Lord Edmure Tully, or any other male Lannister - his heir. But this too had always been rejected by Rhaegar. The succession had to be preserved in the realm, especially when it involved such a powerful family as House Lannister. What could come out if an aging ruler tried to arbitrarily change the succession, actually or allegedly, could be seen very well with a look into the history books. The Dance of the Dragons and the Blackfyre Rebellions were just two examples from the recent past of Westeros where an unclear succession had had terrible, bloody consequences. Going back to the time before Aegon's Conquest, the examples of such were manifold.

No, Rhaegar had not given Ser Jaime back to Lord Tywin and had also forbidden him to set Tyrion aside, to unlawfully disinherit him in order to appoint a relative as his heir who was more convenient to him. For years, this had been a point of contention between the Crown and House Lannister, but now it seemed that the Old Lion had finally accepted the situation. Tyrion Lannister was his son and heir and nothing short of the death of the Imp or an oath to renounce his inheritance could change that, an oath Rhaegar was sure the imp would never take.

Rhaegar needed a moment to refocus, to return to the here and now with his thoughts and to find a suitable answer to the request, the demand of the Old Lion. He looked briefly to the side out the window, as if he needed to think about it some more before answering.

"As far as I know, my lord, your heir himself is also not yet married, not even betrothed," he said.

"Indeed. In this, of course, I hope for your support, Your Grace. A union between your son's heir and my heir's first daughter would, of course, be more advantageous to House Targaryen, if it could tie yet another great house to the royal family."

So he wants me to find a good match for his dwarfish son, to use my authority as king to force a lord to give him his daughter and condemn some poor girl to become the wife of the Imp of Casterly Rock. This is atrocious. If it were my daughter, I would rather send her to the Silent Sisters than give her to Tyrion Lannister as his wife, Rhaegar thought. On the other hand, if it were a lady of Valyrian blood, I could kill two birds with one stone. Perhaps it would be a good opportunity to please Lord Tywin, strengthen our family's position, and yet keep the Valyrian blood strong at the same time.

"I am not sure how much I can help you with that," Rhaegar finally said. "But I will gladly do my best to assist you in finding a suitable wife for your son Tyrion, my lord."

"Thank you, Your Grace. May I assume, then, that the union between our houses is also agreed upon? For this agreement I have already had a suitable document prepared," said Lord Tywin, pulling out a small piece of paper from a pocket of his doublet, at the end of which the red seal of the House of Lannister was already glowing. "All that is still needed is your signature and seal, Your Grace."

"As for that," Rhaegar said hesitantly, "there may be difficulties. You must not forget that the children we speak of have not even been born yet. What if my children have only daughters, or your son only sons of his own?"

"This risk always exists, of course, Your Grace. In such a case, surely another arrangement could be found."

"And if my children do not consent to such a union of their children, who will force them to do otherwise?"

"I trust that Prince Aegon, at this point then King Aegon, would be honest enough to honor this agreement between us and decide accordingly, Your Grace," Lord Tywin said, but Rhaegar heard in his voice that this was only half the truth. For a moment, Rhaegar felt a chill down his spine as he thought of what Lord Tywin would be willing to do to put his granddaughter on the throne, should there ever be any difficulty and he still be alive to demand that this agreement be honored.

"Well, I give you my consent to such a union, provided, however, that my children will also consent to it in due course."

"I understand," Lord Tywin said, his voice cold and impossible to read.

"Under these terms, can you live with my answer then?"

"I can, Your Grace," he said after a moment's hesitation.

Rhaegar knew all too well that this was not in the least the answer the Old Lion had wanted to get, but that was all he would get. Rhaegar would not make firm promises about his grandchildren before they were even born, and even more so, he would not make such promises behind Aegon's and Rhaenys' backs, whom, when it really came down to it, no one could force to keep those promises anyway. Assuming that his grandchildren would one day own and ride dragons themselves, no one but his son and daughter would be able to force them to do anything either. In this sense, a conditional promise was probably the best Lord Tywin could have achieved today. In fact, when Rhaegar thought about it, he thought he could see a certain amount of satisfaction on the old lord's face. But perhaps he was just imagining it. Lord Tywin then bid farewell, bowed much lower than when he arrived, and left Rhaegar's solar with quick, firm steps.

For a while, Rhaegar remained sitting at his table, looking over at the window without really being able to see anything behind it from the distance, trying not to think of anything. On any other day, he would now have had to return to the Throne Room to hold court and settle ridiculously meaningless disputes between lords, knights, merchants, craftsmen, or even just peasants. In his youth, he had been convinced that he was the Prince That Was Promised, had assumed that his life would be defined by waging a legendary war and saving humanity from annihilation. Now, however, his days consisted mostly of Small Council meetings to discuss taxes and port fees, or holding court and settling disputes over displaced boundary stones, unkept wedding promises, or prices for oats and turnips after poor harvests. He was grateful that he had decided early on not to hold court himself during the tourney, but to leave that to his Hand, Jon Connington. So today he didn't have to go to the Throne Room, sit on the hideous, iron monstrosity of a throne until his butt and back ached, or deal with tedious, sometimes downright laughable petitessen.

He left his solar and, followed by Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor, took a walk through the royal gardens. They were significantly smaller than the Godswood of the Red Keep, but Rhaegar preferred the royal gardens. They were more orderly than the Godswood, cleaner, clearer in their forms, giving here and there the impression of a naturally grown forest, but nevertheless carefully planned and considered down to the smallest detail. The Godswood, tended by the same gardeners as the royal gardens, in a sense enjoyed more freedom to grow as it pleased. Some distance away, the large, colorful birds fluttered through the gardens, plucking fruit from the trees cawing loudly at each other. He had not yet heard the beautiful songs of which these birds were supposedly capable. So far, their shrieks did not sound like music at all, being hardly different from the cawing of the ravens in the rookery of the maesters. If anything, they were even louder and more piercing.

"Your Grace," Rhaegar suddenly heard a voice beside him. A little reluctantly, not actually wanting to speak to anyone, he looked to the side. For a heartbeat he was confused, not seeing anyone at first where he looked, until his gaze wandered downward. Next to him, dropped to one knee, he found the ugliest creature Rhaegar had ever seen.

Tyrion Lannister was a dwarf, even standing upright barely half the height of Rhaegar himself. A pair of mismatched eyes looked up at him, one green like the eyes of the Old Lion, one as black as the bottomless pit of the Seven Hells. Thin hair covered his far too large head, so light blond that it seemed almost white, with a few dark strands interspersed here and there. He had the squashed-in face of a brute under a swollen shelf of brow. For a moment, Rhaegar could not help but stare at this creature in fascination. All that the gods had given Ser Jaime, they had denied him.

For this creature, I am to help Lord Tywin find a bride, Rhaegar thought. What does the Old Lion expect of me? I am the king, not a wizard.

"Lord Tyrion requested the honor of a brief audience, Your Grace," he heard Ser Barristan say from the side, clearing his throat. Only then did Rhaegar pull himself together and respond correctly to Lord Tyrion.

"Lord Tyrion, please rise. I did not expect to meet you here."

"Please forgive me for ambushing you like this, Your Grace," he dwarf said, rising from his knee, swaying and coming to stand on short legs as crooked as sickles. "I had hoped you would grant me a brief moment of your time."

"Well, I am here, you are here, and as of yet I have not had you forcibly removed by my knights," Rhaegar said as he turned away and continued his walk through the royal gardens. Immediately he heard the waddling footsteps of the dwarf behind him, who was obviously struggling to keep up. "You may safely assume, then, that I am willing to grant this moment of my time to you."

"Thank you very much, Your Grace. There is something I wanted to ask you."

"If it's about the matter I just discussed with your lord father earlier, I suggest you talk to him about it again first," Rhaegar said. Actually, he would have had no problem if Lord Tyrion had refused his help in finding him a suitable bride. However, it would be better if he settled this issue with his father himself. The agreement, temporary as it was, that Rhaegar had come to with Lord Tywin was by no means to his liking, but it was certainly better than having to live with the constant threat that House Lannister, and by extension all of the Westerlands, might refuse to obey him openly, or worse, behind his back.

"No," Lord Tyrion said hesitantly. "My loving lord father did not deem it necessary to inform me of any conversation between you and him, Your Grace."

So he doesn't yet know about his luck to fly north with Aegon.

"It is about something else," the dwarf continued.

Oh, please, not the dragons again.

"I wanted to take the opportunity," the dwarf continued, "of being able to speak to you in person, to ask your permission to study your family's dragons more closely."

Fuck.

"As you know, Your Grace, I have been working on a book about dragons for some time now, and without ever having actually studied dragons-"

"Don't you think, Lord Tyrion," Rhaegar interrupted him, "that there are already enough books about dragons?"

"Certainly there are many such books already, Your Grace, but especially the books made by the maesters of the Citadel in recent centuries are mostly little more than retellings of tales and rumors. Little more than children's books in highfalutin language."

Well, he is certainly right about that, Rhaegar thought reluctantly.

He himself had read practically every book on dragons he had been able to get his hands on in his life, and indeed most of the texts, even when written by highly praised maesters, often consisted of little more than rumors, half knowledge, and - more often than he had expected from the Citadel - outright propaganda about the unnatural and damnable origins of dragons that even the begging brother Shepherd could hardly have come up with better.

"And so now you want to write a book that is not just hearsay and halftruths?"

"Indeed, Your Grace. I have already gathered a great deal of reliable information from many sources, but the best source... well, is the dragons themselves. Of course, I do not expect you to allow me to enter their cages, Your Grace."

"No, certainly not. Otherwise I would have to explain the circumstances of your horrible death to your father, my lord, for that would be the certain outcome should you try to get too close to one of the dragons."

"Well, I certainly don't want to begrudge my beloved lord father that pleasure, Your Grace. If you would only allow me to enter the Dragonpit to study them from a safe distance, then-"

"That decision," said Rhaegar, "I cannot make, to my regret, my lord."

"I... do not... quite understand, Your Grace," the dwarf stammered. "You are the king, and the dragons belong to your family."

"I am the king and the dragons do belong to my family, yes, but I do not command them. They are my children's dragons. Well, two of the three of them anyway. If anyone gets to make that decision, it's them."

"Well, then, would you allow me to ask Prince Aegon or Princess Rhaenys to make this decision?"

"They are my children, Lord Tyrion, but they are no longer children. If you wish to ask them if you may come near their dragons, ask them."

You will accompany my son north, will ride a dragon with him to the Wall. Soon you will be much closer to one of the dragons than you probably ever imagined, dwarf, Rhaegar thought, not knowing whether to grin at that or worry that the support for his son in the lands beyond the Wall would consist of that creature.

"Thank you very much, Your Grace. Then I will ask the prince or princess about it," the dwarf said, indicating a miserable bow as he walked, and then stopped, leaving Rhaegar to go on alone.

For a moment, Rhaegar was relieved to be rid of him at last. He hadn't known Tyrion Lannister personally until now, had only been annoyed for months – or was it years? – by his constant letters asking for exactly the same thing, to be allowed to see and study the dragons up close. However, what he had now seen of him did not impress him. The man was even more unsightly than he had heard from stories about the Imp of Casterly Rock, and if even half of the rumors about him were true, then he was an unrestrained drinking whoremonger who – if there was no cheap whore to be found – even bedded animals every once in a while. Whether the last part was true, Rhaegar did not know and did not want to know. The first two things, however, he had no doubt, since no woman would ever willingly share a bed with such a man without being generously paid for it.

The next moment, however, he immediately felt bad again, since he had basically done nothing but pass on this annoying task of giving Lord Tyrion a simple no for an answer, and which had been bothering him for as long as a splinter of wood in his finger, to his children without even warning them. Of course, he should have known that once Tyrion Lannister was in the capital, he would present his request again in person, of course, he should have informed his children about this annoying creature long ago already, and of course, he, as king, should have made the refusal to his request to the dwarf himself long ago. But now it was too late.

Perhaps it will be a good exercise for Aegon to destroy Lord Tyrion's dreams and hopes as diplomatically as possible. As king, he will later have to do this many times. You can't make everyone happy, Rhaegar thought. No one can do that, and a king even less so.

Rhaegar continued to wander through the gardens for a while, feeling the eyes of Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor in his back, however both knights were restrained enough not to say anything. No doubt they were also hardly comfortable with the way Rhaegar had simply deflected Lord Tyrion's request onto his children, well aware that Rhaegar had been fretting about it for quite some time, but without ever having made a clear promise or refusal. If Arthur were here now, Rhaegar was sure, he would certainly get to hear something from his old friend.

After a while, after realizing that he had passed the same tree for the fourth or fifth time, he decided to return to his chambers. Tonight, as on almost every evening during the tourney, there would be another excessive dance. Rhaegar, however, would not attend. He had lost his desire for feasts and lots of people and dancing years ago, even if Elia resented him for it. And with Lyanna, even if she were to appear at the dance, he would hardly be able to dance. Not the way he wanted to. Not without having to give her back to Robert afterwards. Not without only causing himself unnecessary pain.

Shortly after, he entered his chambers and was startled for a moment to find someone inside. It took him a heartbeat to recognize the woman as the priestess Melisandre, standing in front of the window by a fire bowl that was burning despite the pleasant weather, spreading the scent of herbs and incense throughout his bedchamber.

"Your Grace," she said in a husky voice, turning to him and curtsying to him like a lady of the most noble house.

"What are you doing here?" asked Rhaegar after hastily closing the door behind him, forgoing pleasantries or even a greeting. "You could be seen! What if my wife had come in instead of me?"

"Her Grace the Queen is busy with the noble Princess Rhaenys and some of her ladies-in-waiting, Your Grace. There was no danger of me being seen."

"Still, you shouldn't be here," he said, immediately realizing himself that he sounded like a petulant child. "Why are you here anyway?"

Rhaegar walked over to the small table in the corner of the room and sank down on the chair in front of it. The priestess Melisandre walked across the room, away from the window but without heading straight for him, elegant as a cat on the prowl and at the same time seductive as sin itself. For a moment, Rhaegar couldn't help but admire her form, bath his eyes in the way her beautifully curved hips swayed back and forth with each step, her flat belly that was shown perfectly under her tight, fiery red dress, and her full, round breasts that seemed to almost try to jump out at him from that very dress.

Is her dress even more seductive than usual, or am I imagining it? I'm probably imagining it, Rhaegar thought. He had been feeling the fire in his loins again for a while, not least since his Lyanna was in the city but he couldn't have her. He was glad that Elia had finally agreed to the union between their children, Rhaegar however knew that she was still not really happy with it and that she partly blamed him for the fact that it had come to this. He didn't have to think long to come to the conclusion that she wouldn't let him into her bed again for quite a while, no matter how hot his fire burned. If, that is, she will ever let me into her bed again.

"If there is something I can serve you with, my king, you have only to say it," she chided, obviously aware of his stares.

"I beg your pardon? I don't know what you mean, my lady."

"Yes, you do. I recognize that look in men. Very easily, in fact. No need to be embarrassed, my king. If you want me, I am at your disposal."

"I... no, that won't... I'm a married man, my lady," he stammered, taken aback by the directness of her offer. He had already expected, secretly perhaps even hoped, that this would be an option for him. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't dreamed a few times already about ripping that damn dress off her body, throwing her into his bed and just never letting her out of it again. But to hear it, to be told so directly that he could have her if he wanted her, if he had a desire for her body, still almost staggered him.

"Being married is seldom an obstacle for men in these things, as I've have come to learn, Your Grace."

"Weren't you going to tell me why you were actually here?" asked Rhaegar after briefly clearing his throat.

We must finally talk about something else, otherwise you will really end up in my bed soon, priestess.

"Of course, Your Grace," she said then, turning away from him and walking back to the fire bowl, her gaze fixed firmly into the flames as if she had to search for her notes in them. "I am here for two reasons. One is because I wanted to ask Your Grace to release my brother in faith, Thoros of Myr, from your dungeons again. He has atoned for his deeds and I think that he can again serve you better if you would agree to have him released. Surely the Lord of Light will then once again grant him visions that can be useful for our cause, Your Grace."

"Agreed," Rhaegar said after a moment, nodding. "I will make the necessary arrangements so that he will be released from the dungeons in the morning. But I expect more self-control from him from now on. No more drinking and certainly no more brawls in the Red Keep, better yet in the entire city."

"Certainly. I thank you, Your Grace. My brothers in faith and I will take care of that."

"And the second reason?"

"The second reason for my presence is a cause for rejoicing, Your Grace. The Lord of Light has given my brothers and me visions as well of late, visions that have guided us in our course of action."

For a heartbeat, Rhaegar was excited like a little boy. Finally! Finally a new vision! Then, however, something began to bother him about what the priestess had said. At first he wasn't sure what it had been, but it gnawed at him like an itch in a place he couldn't reach. Within a moment, the itch got worse and worse, until suddenly the scales fell from his eyes.

"Have guided? Not will guide? Why have?" he asked.

"The visions were clear, Your Grace. The Lord of Light has given us clear signs that the time has come to proclaim His truth to the world and to let every man and woman and child know the danger that approaches them and that only the sacred blood of House Targaryen will be able to save them."

For a moment, Rhaegar's heart stopped and all air seemed to have disappeared from his lungs. He couldn't breathe and felt like the world was starting to spin around him. Yet he forced himself to clarity, forced his mind back to the here and now and his body to obey him again. Rhaegar then jumped up from his chair, rushed toward the red priestess with quick steps, and stopped so close to her that he could feel the heat that always emanated from her. For a tiny moment he wasn't sure if he should grab her and shake her or just rip off her dress, throw her on the bed and take her. He decided on neither.

"I thought I gave you orders to do nothing for now until my son returned from his mission beyond the Wall," he finally said, clearly too loudly.

"You have, Your Grace, but the orders of the Lord of Light are still above yours."

"What have you done?"

"My brothers and I have written letters in your name, Your Grace, and begun sending them by raven to some of the great houses of your realm, houses whose loyalty and obedience you yourself once described as questionable at best. It is essential to get these very Houses in line to be able to form a strong, united front in the war against the Great Other. The night is dark and full of terrors, Your Grace, weakness and dissension we therefore cannot afford."

No, please, no.

"What did those letters say?" asked Rhaegar, feeling his voice fail him.

"The truth, of course, Your Grace. That war against the Great Other is imminent, that the fire of R'hllor will guide us and protect us, and that House Targaryen has been chosen by the one true God to lead the fight against the enemies of all life, for the night is dark and full of terrors."

No, no.

"Only the truth will bring the righteous to our side, Your Grace," she continued. "There was no more time to lose. The signs in the flames were clear. And so we acted. Do not look so dejected, Your Grace. This is a day of rejoicing, for the truth has finally been proclaimed."

No, no, no, no.

Melisandre of Asshai

Chapter Text

Blood, there was blood everywhere. There was blood on his face, there was blood on his body, there was blood on his tongue. He could smell it and taste it and never in his life had he felt so ecstatic and so alive as when he, the wolf, had driven his teeth deep into the elk's neck, tasted its blood and its fear, and watched the light in the massive animal's eyes go out only a moment later.

Sweat drenched, Jon jumped up from his sleep, still with the taste of blood in his mouth and the smell of fresh snow and pine needles in his nose. Hectically, he looked around the half dark room and realized with relief that he was lying in his own bed, that he was in his tent on the large field behind the tourney arena on the banks of Blackwater Rush, outside the walls of King's Landing… that he was home. Breathing heavily, he dropped back into his bed and stared at the canopy above for a while. From gray and gold threads, a dragon was embroidered into the dark red of the canopy, entwined in itself like a Dornish sand snake, diving back and forth between silver clouds like a child at play.

Dragons, it's always dragons in this city.

He would have preferred a stag, or perhaps a wolf. But it was dragons. Always and everywhere in this city there were dragons. As a child, he had wished for a canopy with a wolf on it, but had never dared to express this wish to the king or queen. Right now he was glad that there was no wolf to be seen. Lately, since these strange dreams had been coming back again and seemed to get stronger and stronger with each passing day and night, he had no desire to see wolves anymore. Not that the dreams were unpleasant. He felt strong and free and untamed in those dreams, and he loved to roam and hunt with his siblings through the icy forests of the north, the forests beyond the Wall, living a life that consisted of nothing but the wonderful simplicity of sleeping and running and hunting. And every now and then, mating with the she-wolf with the golden eyes.

For a while Jon continued to just lie in his bed, breathing deeply and letting the sweat dry off his skin. Outside the tent, all around him, he could already hear the bustle of the knights and squires, who - even though there was only one last joust to go - were still living on these grounds in order to be able to enjoy the experience of this tourney for as long as possible. Jon smelled the salty smell of fresh stew and the mealy aroma of oatmeal, the scent of fresh tea and here and there the savory aroma of fresh bread. Immediately he heard his own stomach growl and decided to get up and break his fast. Whatever he ate as a wolf in his dreams, he himself certainly did not get full of it. The meat of a dreamed up elk would hardly fill his belly, after all. He was just about to grab his blanket to toss it aside and get out of bed when the flap of his tent was thrown aside and someone rushed in without waiting to be admitted. Startled, he quickly pulled back his blanket and covered his shame as Aegon hurried toward him with long strides.

"Finally rested? The day has already begun, sleepyhead," he beamed.

"I was just getting up," Jon said, still half-covered by his blanket and sitting on the edge of his bed. "Why are you in such a damn good mood so early in the morning?"

"First of all, my sleepy friend, it's not early in the morning anymore. Normal people have long since broken their fast by this time, and what you're smelling there is lunch. Second, I'm in a good mood because I'm going to knock you off your horse in the finals today and I can't wait to put the crown of roses on my Rhae's lovely head. And third, I'm in a good mood because...," he said, looking at Jon expectantly, probably hoping the latter would finish his sentence.

"Because?"

"Don't tell me you haven't heard yet?"

"Haven't heard what yet?" Jon asked, rubbing his eyes. It might be almost noon, but he felt nowhere near awake enough for such guessing games. Aegon looked at him for a moment, almost shocked, then he began to beam even wider all over his face.

"Our mother has finally agreed. At the feast at the end of the tourney tonight, Rhaenys' and my betrothal will officially be announced."

"By the Seven, Aegon, this is wonderful," Jon now beamed as well, jumping up from his bed and making a dash toward Aegon to give him a tight hug. Aegon returned the hug, letting himself be pressed tightly against his brother in spirit. "I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart, my friend."

"Thank you, Jon. Thank you. I'd only be even more grateful if you'd maybe put some pants on before you pressed yourself against me."

Quickly Jon took a step back again, fiery red in the face, reached for his smallclothes and pants hanging on a small chair not far from him and slipped into them while Aegon turned away, grinning broadly.

"Say, Jon," Aegon then said, and Jon could hear from the sound of his voice that his grin had only widened, "is this some kind of stunt of yours, holding your thing in front of everyone who enters your tent right away? If so, I'm sorry to disappoint you. You're a handsome guy, really, but unfortunately not quite my type."

"What, what do you mean? This was an accident. I don't do that at all," Jon protested as he threw on a tunic and rummaged a doublet from the small chest beside the table.

"Well, that's where Lady Minella tells a very different story."

"What? Seven hells, what did she-"

"It's all right, Jon. Don't get upset," Aegon said with a laugh. "Anyone who knows her can guess that it didn't go down quite the way she claims. You probably would have preferred Lady Arya to have entered your tent then anyway, wouldn't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean now?"

"Well, you have asked her for her favor and you've danced with her every night since, even though just some day earlier, when she arrived in the capital, you fought tooth and nail to even admit she was a woman and not a little girl anymore."

"That doesn't mean anything," Jon said, hanging the silver chain with the bronze stag pendant around his neck, sitting back down on his bed and beginning to slip on his boots and tie their laces.

"That's right, of course, yes. That's right. And the fact that you spent a night together outside the Red Keep doesn't mean anything either, then?"

"How do you know...?" asked Jon, the rest of the sentence sticking in his throat. A look from Aegon, one eyebrow raised, was enough of an answer for him, though. "Rhaenys."

"Of course Rhaenys. And even you two kissing meant nothing then, I suppose. Now don't look at me like that. Did you seriously think Rhae wouldn't find out? There is always a servant or a kitchen maid who happens to see or overhear something and they all know how grateful and generous my Rhae can be when they drop this or that little detail to her."

"We didn't kiss. Not really. It was just-"

"I don't care what it was, Jon," Aegon said, tossing the tent flap aside again and leaving the tent in front of him. "Just admit you like her."

"Of course I like her. I never said anything different. She's-"

"Like a sister to you, I know, my friend," Aegon said, waving it off. "If that's really the case, then you must definitely be the Baratheon with the strongest Targaryen blood in a very long time. I'm probably the only man in the world who also looks at his sister the way you look at your sister Lady Arya."

"Can we please change the subject?" asked Jon as they passed a large pot of soup bubbling over a small fire.

Jon had no idea what exactly was simmering into a thick broth there, but it smelled quite excellent. They stopped and immediately one of the squires, busily working to keep the food from burning and throwing in more herbs and peeled vegetables, handed him a full bowl of hot soup and a slice of dark bread.

"As you wish. I can only repeat, to end the subject then, what my wonderful betrothed has already given you the right answer about her being like a sister to you and all. Tell this nonsense as long as you like, but at least be honest with yourself. You're not doing yourself or Lady Arya any favors otherwise."

Aegon also had a small bowl of soup given to him, although, as he said, he was not really hungry. They walked a little way together across the area behind the arena between the tents of the participants. Most of the knights and squires indicated a bow towards Aegon, wishing him luck in the finale or, if they wanted to appear neutral, wishing them both a good joust and that the better man may win. They sat down at a tiny and old jetty nearby, where usually small fishing boats were moored, but which were not allowed to be here now because of the tourney, and ate the soup, looking out over Blackwater Rush. They spoke little, merely talking a bit about the tourney, discussing surprising victories or defeats.

"How are you?" asked Aegon suddenly in a serious tone.

"I'm all right. Why?"

"Tell me the truth, Jon. You're sleeping late, even though you've always been an early riser, and you seem as exhausted as if you haven't gotten any sleep in weeks. If you're sick, you should see a maester."

"I'm not sick, Egg. Really, I'm not."

"The dreams?"

"Yes."

"I understand," Aegon said, and Jon honestly believed him. Jon remembered well how Aegon had felt when he had bonded with Balerion so many years ago. For weeks he had had strange dreams as well, dragon dreams as he had called them, had been unrested and sickly, as if something had awakened inside of him that, to grow and prosper, had robbed him of his strength. Only when Aegon had taken flight with Balerion for the first time, when their bond had been fully established, had it stopped. Aegon had been able to sleep normally again from one day to the other and had even been stronger and fitter afterwards than ever before. It had of course been the same with Rhaenys when she had bonded with Meraxes, although Jon had seen much less of it at the time.

But the dragons were real. Balerion was real and was only waiting for Aegon to claim him. Meraxes was real and was only waiting for Rhaenys to claim her. But I'm hardly going to bond with a direwolf beyond the Wall that I made up in a dream, Jon thought.

"Then perhaps you should still see a maester," Aegon said after a brief silence. "That can't be healthy, Jon. Do me the favor and at least ask a maester about it. You don't have to give him details about your… wolf dreams. Just see if he might be able to give you something to help you get back to sleep normally again."

"All right. I'll do it. We still have a few hours before the finale. Before that, I'm going to see a maester at the Red Keep. Wish me luck finding one other than Grand Maester Pycelle."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed for you, Jon. Pycelle will probably only make things worse with one of his ghastly remedies," Aegon said, laughing.

For a while longer they sat together by the water, laughing together and eating the remains of their soup, before Jon said goodbye to Aegon, congratulated him once again on his betrothal with a tight embrace, and then headed off to the Red Keep to find a maester.

The gods really must hate me, Jon thought as less than an hour later he was already sitting on a small chair in the Red Keep, in the middle of a small chamber, and Grand Maester Pycelle was shuffling up and down through the room, his old eyes fixed firmly on the completely cluttered shelves in front of him overflowing with small vials and jars, pots and boxes. Two maesters he had found, but the first one was lugging a stack of books and folios through the Red Keep for His Grace King Rhaegar, and the second one, though he had agreed to help him, had done nothing but to immediately surrender him to Grand Maester Pycelle. Jon took it upon himself to remember never to ask this particular maester for help again, ever. Now here he was, in the presence of the one man whose help he had not wanted, watching the old man try to keep track of his own stockpiles of remedies and ointments and herbs. Pycelle rummaged clankingly among the small jars on various shelves, picking up this vial then that, trying to read the scribbled labels, until finally he reached for a small and dusty bottle, half filled with an oily reddish liquid.

"Ah, there it is. Half a spoon of this in your tea before bedtime will certainly help you."

"And what is that?"

"Dreamwine, of course. It should help you with your problems falling asleep, my lord."

"I don't have problems falling asleep," Jon said, not for the first time.

"But... but you came to me about problems with your sleep, my lord," the Grand Maester muttered, turning and looking at Jon as if he had just told him to his face how much of a fool he thought he was.

"I sleep enough, Grand Maester, but the sleep does not refresh me."

"Then the sleep is not deep enough. Dreamwine or sweetsleep should be able to help you get into deep sleep."

"My sleep is very deep, Grand Maester," Jon said, also not for the first time. "It almost takes the roar of a dragon to wake me up once I'm asleep. But when I wake up then, I feel like I almost didn't sleep at all. And I have… dreams."

"I should hope so, my lord. Anything else would be highly disturbing."

"Aye, but these dreams are different. They somehow are... more real than normal dreams. They are... intense, seem to drain me."

"Your dreams are draining you?" the old man asked in a tone so incredulous that he might just as well have accused him outright of lying.

"I can't explain it any better than that."

"If your dreams are so disturbing, I suggest you read a good book before you go to sleep. It will distract your mind and give you more pleasant dreams."

"I didn't say my dreams were disturbing," Jon said, but realized directly that the Grand Maester was not even listening to him.

"I can highly recommend Maester Elwyn's treatise on the plants of the Dornish marshes. It is very vividly written. If you are more interested in history, then I have a very insightful writing on the life and death of the early Storm Kings of House Durrandon, from King Durran Bronze-Axe to King Erich the Sailmaker."

"Thank you, but I don't think a book will help here. I need something else."

"What you need, my lord, is deep and sound sleep without disturbing dreams to occupy your mind too much. I can give you some dreamwine if you want. That should work well for your problems falling asleep."

"I don't have...," Jon began, but then didn't finish the sentence and instead, sighing, reached for the small bottle in the Grand Maester's hand. Thanking him with a brief nod, he then disappearing from his chamber as quickly as he could. Jon was glad to be able to breathe fresh air again just a few steps out the door, unsure what had actually smelled worse, the countless herbs and ointments and remedies everywhere in the room or the Grand Maester himself.

Jon made his way back to the tourney grounds, accompanied by a handful of Gold Cloaks, as he had been on his way into the Red Keep. He pondered for a moment whether he should go back to his tent and try to get some more sleep before the grand finale of the joust would begin in little more than an hour. Aegon was no doubt already in his tent, preparing his armor for the joust with his squire. Jon never took very long for these things, however, so he decided to take another short detour with the soldiers to enjoy the last day of the tourney among the drinking, dancing, and celebrating people.

The square in front of and around the arena was filled to bursting with people who, if they could afford it, were enjoying themselves at all kinds of stalls selling food and drink. Here and there he heard commotion and appalled shouts when a seller of wine or ale, grinning broadly and satisfied with his day's work, announced that he had sold all his wares already. Even in front of the wagons and tents of the whores in the back rows, queues of men formed who could hardly wait for their turn. Jon was just reaching the turnoff again that led to the stalls with the weapons and armor where he had purchased the bow for Arya, when he heard loud shouts approaching from the front.

"Make way! Make way for the princess!" the thunderous voice of a Gold Cloak echoed over the heads of the people.

Most people immediately jumped to the side, others were roughly pushed away if they did not make way quickly enough. Only a moment later, the large escort surrounding Rhaenys also came into view. The Gold Cloaks, approaching them from the front, greeted the men escorting Jon. The ranks of men parted for him, revealing Rhaenys, who, surrounded by a dozen of her ladies-in-waiting, tried to catch glimpses of the stall displays between the broad backs of the soldiers on either side. Lady Allara clung to Rhaenys' right arm tightly like a sister, smiling beautifully, while two or three other ladies seemed to be fighting over getting into a similar position on her left arm.

"Jon, what are you doing here?" asked Rhaenys, smiling, when she noticed him ahead of her, only a few more steps away. He was about to answer when another lady caught his eye, also accompanying Rhaenys, beaming broadly and joyfully at him.

Arya. Of course Arya is with her, Jon thought, feeling his heart begin to beat faster.

Like a flash, the memory of their last encounter twitched through his mind, the memory of the quick, tender and yet so wonderfully sweet kiss she had given him. Jon looked at Arya and had to smile as well. He looked into her face, into her eyes that looked at him I return, followed the course of her nose, small and cute, to her shyly smiling lips that had been so tender and tasted so sweet. Why did he suddenly have the smell of fresh snow and pine needles in his nose again?

"I just wanted to stretch my legs a bit one last time before the finale," he finally replied.

"Well, you shouldn't be doing that for too much longer. The finale is about to begin in little more than half an hour. We'll make our way to the stands quickly now, so we don't miss anything. You'd better do the same."

"You're right. I should be on my way, too," he said, unable to take his eyes off Arya, who seemed to be blushing more and more with every heartbeat, but without stopping to smile at him.

"Good luck," he heard Arya say, just as he was about to turn away from the group.

The next moment she had already disappeared in the group of ladies, once again surrounding Rhaenys like a flock of birds. Jon smiled even wider in farewell, sure that he himself had also blushed like a maiden on her wedding night. With quick steps he moved away from the ladies, hoping that no one had noticed. Jon reached his tent shortly after, where a squire and a page were already waiting for him.

Aegon had taken Lyman Darry into his service as his squire shortly after receiving his knighthood, an eager if somewhat too submissive boy for Jon's taste, who would one day become the Lord of Darry and thus one of Aegon's most influential bannermen. Jon had so far decided against having a squire for himself, even though he had received his knighthood together with Aegon and had regularly been offered the sons or grandsons of this or that knight or lord. He was content not yet to have the responsibility of training such a young boy, and so instead had just had a squire and a page assigned to him at the beginning of the tourney, as he always did.

"You are late, my lord," said Wilbur Swygert, the squire.

"I was delayed," Jon said curtly, though he felt strange justifying himself to a squire who was not even his.

"Your armor is ready, and your horse is being saddled as we speak."

"Very well, Wilbur, now help me with the gambeson and armor. And you," he said to the page, "give my boots and helmet another quick shine."

"Yes, my lord," both boys answered in chorus.

Jon could already hear the rising cheers from the arena as he had finally donned his armor and was waiting for Wilbur to close the final clasps on the harness and shoulder plates. Sure enough, the banners of the Houses Targaryen and Baratheon had just been raised in the arena. He left his tent, mounted his horse, and took his helmet from hands of the page – Jon promised himself to learn the names of both boys who helped him at the next tourney. Again there was a roar of cheers. Surely the king had just risen from his seat and said a few words to open this finale. Protected by a dozen soldiers, Jon rode his horse through the southern entrance into the arena, one of two entrances directly opposite of each other, large enough for a horse that also led directly into the interior of the arena, and again heard loud and ever louder cheers erupt. Sure enough, the herald had now stepped forward and announced the two finalists, Aegon and him, in a firm voice.

His heart beat to his throat as the wooden gates opened before him, the afternoon sun bathing him in its warm light and revealing the view inside the arena. Immediately Jon gave his horse the spurs and rode into the arena, beaming broadly, to the deafening cheers of the people. He waved in all directions as he rode a lap around the arena, to the stands for the commoners as well as the stands for the nobles. He glanced up briefly at the royal box as he rode by and found that, to his relief, apart from the members of the royal family, the king, the queen, Prince Viserys and Rhaenys, only Princess Arianne, Lady Allara and Arya were present in the royal box. The rest of Rhaenys' ladies-in-waiting, who no doubt had also hoped for this honor, had apparently been disappointed by Rhaenys and sent to the stands for the rest of the noble ladies and lords.

He couldn't help but look at Arya again for a tiny moment, immediately captivated by her eyes on him.

Pine needles. Pine needles and fresh snow, he thought. Where does that keep coming from? Maybe I should have asked Pycelle about that instead. Then again, I then probably wouldn't be able to smell anything at all now.

Jon steered his horse to his starting position and waited for the gates opposite him to open and Aegon to ride into the arena. He did not have to wait long before the wooden gates opened and Aegon, clad in all black on a black stallion, rode into the arena. Behind him flew a black cloak with a huge, fiery red three-headed dragon on it, as if he had draped himself with one of the gigantic banners that usually flew high on the spires of the Red Keep. The cheers of the people, especially of the women and girls, noble as well as common, swelled once more, and if the cheers for himself had already been deafening, Jon now had the feeling that the thunderous cheers for Aegon might well take away his hearing permanently, so loud and almost painful was it. Aegon rode a lap around the arena as well, waving to the people in all directions. When he reached Jon, he slowed down. He steered his horse toward Jon and held out his hand. Jon took it with a firm grip, their hands wrapped around the others' wrists. It was an expression of respect between two opponents that had sadly fallen more and more out of fashion in the last hundred years. All the more meaningful, Jon knew, was this moment for them both.

"May the better man win," Jon said.

"Don't worry, my friend. I will," Aegon said with a grin before giving his horse the spurs again.

Aegon, his helmet also still tucked under his left arm and smiling broadly, rode another lap through the arena before coming to a stop opposite of Jon on his starting position. From a distance, he saw his smiling friend nod to him.

He lets me go first. Nice, though this isn't going to help him, Jon thought, grinning grimly.

He put on his helmet, as it was customary when asking a noble lady for her favor, and rode his horse over to the royal box. His eyes were fixed on Arya, who was looking at him, her face and ears as red as a ripe apple, but grinning so broadly that she seemed almost to burst with excitement.

She is feeling the same as me, he thought with relief.

Jon's gaze also briefly wandered to Rhaenys, sitting next to Arya, who was looking at him with a beaming smile so smug that he could almost hear the "I told you so" from her. Arriving at the box, he brought his horse to a halt and flipped up the visor of his helmet with his right hand. No doubt he was grinning like an idiot at that moment, but for the life of him he could not stop it. He did not care, however. He knew that all eyes in the arena were on him. They were welcome to see how excited he was, how happy he was at that moment.

"Lady Arya Stark, may I ask for the honor of wearing your favor in this joust?" he asked.

Without saying a word, Arya rose from her seat. In her hand she already held a ribbon of gray silk that perfectly matched her dress of the same gray silk, decorated with embroidery in black and white and yellow. Jon stretched out his right arm and Arya tied the ribbon around his wrist, around the yellow steel of his gauntlet. He looked at it for a tiny moment and realized that it looked… moist?

How long had she been holding it in her hand already?

Jon had to grin even wider at the thought.

Pine needles was the last thing he thought before he then saw them all around him. All around him were high pines and dense bushes, covered in fresh white snow, so fresh that it blinded his eyes. Jon, the wolf, narrowed his eyes and hurried on through the forest, accompanied by his siblings. They hurried over a flat hill, through deep snow and he almost lost his balance, if he, if the wolf was not such a skilled hunter in these woods, perfectly used to this harsh terrain. Where were they hurrying so fast? Were they hunting? Or were they fleeing?

In the next moment it was already over again. Jon looked at Arya's uncertain face, then to the side at Rhaenys, whose expression seemed to become increasingly pressing with every heartbeat. Puzzled, he briefly looked to the other side as well, into the face of the king, who was also looking at him, confused or... worried? It took him another heartbeat to regain his composure, for the wolf to leave his thoughts again. He looked at his hand, around the wrist of which hung the gray silk ribbon, then at Arya, then at the ribbon again. Finally, a broad smile returned to his face, which he gave solely to Arya, before he flipped his visor back down, turned his horse, and gave it the spurs again.

What in the seven hells was that? Now I'm already having daydreams. I really seem to need a real good night's sleep. Right tonight I'm taking the damn sweetsleep.

Jon watched as Aegon now rode over to the royal box as well. Rhaenys rose even before Aegon arrived there. The queen smiled, and even though Jon could still see a certain amount of sadness in her gaze, her smile seemed genuine through and through. He had come to read her that well over the years. The king smiled broadly and contentedly, thoroughly happy, just as Prince Viserys and Princess Arianne did, but even those smiles were nothing compared to the radiance on Rhaenys' face, which was so bright that it would have outshone even the sun. Aegon also flipped up his visor and held out his right hand to Rhaenys, who immediately tied a fiery red ribbon around it. Instead of breathing a gentle kiss on the silk, however, as she usually did, she suddenly made a movement forward, grabbed Aegon's cheeks and pressed a deep kiss on his lips, whereby the cheers that erupted all around seemed to almost tear the arena apart. Their kiss ended after a long moment and Jon wasn't sure for which of the two this was more painful. He knew Rhae and Egg well enough to know that they both would have had no problem spending hours more kissing each other and keeping the people in the arena waiting, if it weren't for that pesky little tourney that needed to be finished.

I can't blame them, Jon thought with a smile. If that were Arya and me...

Trumpets and drums sounded, interrupting his thought, as Aegon now also took up his starting position again and, like Jon, was handed his shield and his first lance. Jon once again checked his grip around the handle of the lance, balanced its weight in his hand, and then prepared himself in his mind to finally open this finale. Shortly thereafter, the trumpets fell silent again, the drums fell silent again, the people in the arena fell silent, eagerly waiting for the final, decisive signal to sound.

Then the time had come. At the same moment that Jon saw the quartered flag, two red seven-pointed stars on white and two red three-headed dragons on black, being waved below the royal box, he heard the horn signal, the signal to begin.

Jon gave his horse spurs, letting the stallion's unbridled power run free as he thundered away to the front. At incredible speed, but at the same time seeming to him as slow as if it took hours, Jon and Aegon hurried toward each other. Jon saw Aegon lower his lance, aiming straight for the center of his body. Jon lowered his lance as well, doing the same as his friend. For half a heartbeat, a fraction of a moment, he looked to the side one last time, over to the royal box, to Arya. It was wrong, he knew he was not supposed to do this, he had to keep his focus on his opponent in front of him, but his gaze was drawn over to Arya as if by an invisible force. She was sitting there in her beautiful dress, her full brown curls held in shape with only a few colorful ribbons, smiling at him so enchantingly. He looked at her and for a tiny moment was completely caught up in the gorgeous gray of her eyes.

For a moment, Jon was blinded by the bright sun in the white snows all around him. The wolf stumbled as he hurried across a frozen stream, and with a false step placed his hind paw not on one of the flat stones sticking out of the ice, but on the ice around it. Jon caught himself at the last moment, however, managing to stay on all fours with a quick step of the other hind paw. He made one last leap and had crossed the small creek as well. His big gray brother was waiting on the top of a small mound in front of him, his other siblings just about to climb this very mound. Halfway up, he saw his sister with the golden eyes, who seemed to be waiting for him, looking at him as if she wanted to call him to come to her, to be near her and stay with her. As if he had ever done anything else.

They left the small stream behind and hurried on, over the mound, through a shallow valley, and over another mound. Jon felt the cold on his face, on his nose and in his eyes and on his tongue as he ran on and on. He didn't know how far they had run when they finally paused, but he clearly felt the burning in his muscles, the fatigue in his limbs, the hunger in his stomach. His gray brother, the leader of their pack, scaled a small rock at the edge of the clearing where they now were standing, overlooking the flatlands spreading out before them, with tall, sharp-edged mountains towering behind them some distance away. Jon still didn't know if they were just running somewhere fast, if they were hunting, or if they were possibly fleeing from someone or... something. The fur on the back of his neck stood up at the thought alone. The memory flashed through his mind like a lightning bolt, the memory of the humans he had seen, men and women and even children, cold and dead, yet moving and with eyes as blue as the sky on a winter morning. Yes, they had moved, even though they had thoroughly reeked of death, had moved closer and closer to the men in black as if they themselves were wolves on the prowl. It was impossible, but Jon remembered having seen it through the eyes of the wolf. He remembered that night, the stench and… the eyes, these horrible eyes.

"Hey, hey, take it easy," he heard a voice say as he jumped up, startled.

Jon looked around, blinking and unsure where he was... who he was. He found two faces next to him, both with worry lines on their foreheads. Aegon sat next to him on a small chair next to the bed and Ser Arthur Dayne stood behind, towering over his friend. It took Jon a small moment to realize that he was in his chambers in the Red Keep, in his bed. Slowly he sat up, took the small cup from Aegon's hand, and took a sip. It was weak tea.

"You feeling better? You gave us all quite a scare," Aegon said, forcing himself to smile.

"Aye," Jon said, unsure if it was true. "Aye, I'm fine… I think. What happened? I don't even remember the joust anymore. You really must have hit me hard, Egg," Jon said, now smiling as well. Immediately, however, the smile on Aegon's face disappeared again.

"Jon," he began after a moment's hesitation and an unsure glance at Ser Arthur, "I haven't hit you at all. You... you just fell off your horse before we even met." For a moment Jon just looked at him, waiting for Aegon to burst out laughing, to tell him that this was all just a cruel joke. But this did not happen. Instead, his friend continued to speak in a serious voice and with an even more serious expression. "Arthur and I, along with a couple of Gold Cloaks, brought you out of the arena, back into the Red Keep. The others are on their way here and should be arriving shortly. A maester was already here checking on you and no, don't worry, it wasn't Pycelle. He didn't find anything to worry about, though. You are not sick or injured, apart from a few bruises from your fall. Apparently it was just a faint, the maester says. Fortunately."

"A faint?" asked Jon, half relieved and half confused. "A knight doesn't just faint," he said firmly. "Ladies faint when they see blood, but surely not a knight in the middle of a joust."

"I would of course never argue with you there, young lady," Aegon said, unable to stifle a laugh.

"Can't the maester come back and examine me again? Maybe he can come up with a more manly explanation," Jon said, feeling a weak smile returning to his face. It comforted him to see Aegon grinning as well now, broadly and honestly, and that even Ser Arthur couldn't help a weak smile.

"Well," Aegon began with an ever widening grin, "I'm sure that it was a very, very manly faint."

"Thank you, you're a great help as always, Egg," Jon said with a wry grin as well.

With a bang, the door suddenly flew open and his father, mother and brothers rushed into the room. They all spoke excitedly over each other, asking him if he was all right, confirming to each other that he looked healthy and unharmed, only to ask again if he was all right directly over and over again. Aegon took a step back, grinning gleefully at the sight of Jon being swarmed by his family like an injured kitten without being able to say a single sentence, let alone free himself from this siege. Jon did his best to assure them that he was all right, without mentioning the word faint, however. It took him almost half an hour to calm his family down enough so that they, especially his mother, stopped fearing for his life.

"Give it a rest, woman. The boy fell off his horse and hit his head. It's not that bad. Happened to me often enough as a lad his age."

"That was probably just from you being drunk on your horse half the time," his mother snapped, and Jon was startled for a brief moment at her biting words, especially in the presence of Egg and Ser Arthur. His father looked at her silently, almost shocked, for a moment before bursting out into peals of laughter.

"True enough! Now give the boy a rest. If that fall didn't finish him, your whining certainly will," his father said with a wink in Jon's direction. Whatever his father actually thought about him falling off his horse just like that, he realized that being tended to by his mother like by an old mother hen was just not what he wanted or needed. "Let's leave the boy alone for a bit. I'm sure he'll be fine tomorrow. Won't you, Jon?"

"Yes, Father. I'm sure I will," Jon said, grateful for the rescue.

"Aegon," his father's voice thundered through the room, and again Jon was startled for a small moment that his father simply passed over Aegon's title. Then again, he did the same thing with the king all the time, so why should it be any different with the crown prince? "Be a friend to Jon and get you both some wine or ale or better both. That has always helped me in moments like this."

"Robert, no, absolutely not," his mother said, but his father simply waved it off, his eyes fixed on Aegon in anticipation.

"Don't worry, my lord," Aegon said with a faint smile, "I'll see to it later that your heir doesn't die of thirst."

"Hahaha, good boy!"

His mother wanted to contradict, but a "just a little sip so he can sleep well" from his father ultimately silenced her. His father then led his mother and brothers, who once again wished him well from whatever it was, out of the room until only Aegon remained. The door seemed to be just closing behind his family when he heard his father and mother briefly talking to someone in the hallway and only a moment later Arya and Uncle Ned entered the room.

He Looked Arya in the eyes, which for a moment looked almost fearful, smiled at her and immediately the fear disappeared from her gaze. They both greeted Aegon, who was standing a few steps away from the bed, with a short bow and a "My prince" before joining Jon at the bedside. His uncle was just opening his mouth to say something when Arya beat him to it. Any other lady would have been slumped beside his bed at that moment in tears, holding his hand and telling him she would be praying for him, but Arya was Arya.

"Jon, don't you ever scare us like that again, you jerk," she said, hitting him on the arm with her fist.

Arya is Arya, he thought. She's different, so wonderfully different, and that's what I love her for. For a heartbeat, Jon was shocked at his own thought.

"Ouch. You have my word, my lady," he then said with a grin, rubbing his arm.

"Arya!" her father admonished her before turning to Jon. "Jon, I hope you're all right. What happened?"

"Aye, I'm fine. I don't know what happened, really," he said, at least not completely lying. He had decided not to tell anyone about his weird dreams, his wolf dreams for now. He would talk about it with Aegon later, who knew about those dreams already, but with no one else. Who would be able to understand this anyway, let alone believe him? And even if he were to tell his uncle about it, he himself did not even know what these dreams were about, where they were coming from or what they meant in the first place. Given that they actually meant anything. So, from that point of view, it was true that he didn't really know what had happened. "I blacked out and then I woke up here."

"Hmm, well we're just glad you're fine and didn't get hurt. Your fall looked bad."

"I've got a pretty bad headache, actually," Jon said, forcing a smile.

"Then we won't bother you any longer. I'm sure you need rest now."

"Father, can I stay? I'd like to stay with Jon to stand by him," Arya said.

Yes, stay. Please stay.

Jon looked at her, looked into her eyes that, despite the question to her father, had not lost sight of his. They were gray like the stormy sea off Storm's End, and he would have loved to drown in her eyes at that moment. His gaze wandered lower, just a little, to her softly smiling lips and as strongly as rarely before in his life he was suddenly overcome by a desire, the desire to kiss her. He felt childish at the thought and it felt wrong to want this, but then again… at the same it felt so right. So completely and utterly right.

Please stay, Arya.

He looked into her eyes again and in them he could see that she wanted it too.

"No, Arya," his Uncle Ned then said, however. "Jon needs rest now. Tomorrow maybe we can check on him again. Come on now, let's go so Jon can get some rest."

Chapter Text

"You really shouldn't do that, my prince," he heard Ser Gerold say behind him, keeping pace with Aegon as best he could in his heavy white armor.

Aegon did not answer, instead walking on wordlessly with long strides through the winding hallways of Maegor's Holdfast. Anyone else would have gotten lost in this maze half a dozen times along the way, but Aegon had grown up here, knew these hallways as well as the back of his hand, and knew exactly where to walk along and where to turn to reach his destination without anyone possibly stepping in his way. He doubted, however, that anyone would have even dared to try. He had heard often enough that he – tall and strongly built and with the almost glowing violet eyes of his ancestors – looked imposing in a way that was almost frightening when he was angry. And now, at this moment, he was angry, really angry.

It was almost absurd how quickly the world could turn upside down, from a moment of terror at Jon's fall in the finale of the joust to one of the greatest evenings of his life when Rhae's and his betrothal had officially been announced at the feast afterwards to the next moment of terror when Rhae had woken him up the morning after their extensive night of lovemaking to tell him what she had learned before breaking her fast from a maid from the lower kitchens. Nothing happened inside the Red Keep without his Rhae knowing about it. Aegon had already joked a few times that, were she not to become his queen one day, she would certainly have become an excellent Master of Whisperers.

He finally reached the door of his father's solar. Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell stood guard in front of it, seeing him approaching from a distance, and for a moment they made an effort to block his path. When they both saw the furious look on his face, however, they both refrained. Ser Oswell was content with a half-hearted "His Grace does not wish to be disturbed, my prince," before ultimately stepping aside.

Aegon threw open the door, which crashed so violently against the wall behind it that one might have thought it was about to be torn off its hinges. His father was sitting at his desk, Thoros of Myr and a red priestess standing behind him, studying some letters he had on the table in front of him, when he startled and looked up at Aegon in shock.

"What is the meaning of this?" his father began. "I said I don't want to-"

"If you're going to send me on such an idiotic adventure," Aegon roared, interrupting his father, whose expression was growing more indignant with each passing word, "then I would have liked to be the first to know, not the last after every stable boy from Winterfell to Dorne already learned about it."

"How do you know...," his father began to ask, but did not finish the sentence.

For a moment his father looked at him and seemed to think about his words before he sighed heavily, gestured to Ser Gerold, who had stopped at the entrance, to close the door and rose from his chair. His initially angry look was gone and what remained was the face of a tired man, somewhere between a boy caught in the middle of doing something stupid and a man who believed himself to be in the right and seemed to have no interest in justifying his actions. Again, his father sighed heavily before straightening up to his full height – still a few fingers smaller than Aegon – and putting on his serious, regal face.

"You're right," he then said. "I should have had you involved from the first moment on. I didn't, though, and I'm sorry for that. I didn't want to burden you with this, I wanted to allow you to enjoy these days and this tourney without worry, but I know that it was wrong. But this idiotic adventure, as you call it, is anything but. It's about more than you can imagine, son."

"You mean about something like a wildling army large enough to cross the Wall and overrun the North?" asked Aegon, venom in his voice. His father had so often spoken of how proud he was of his children, how happy he was to know that the realm would one day be in their hands, but how serious could such declarations be if he just left him out when it came to such menacing threats to the realm, and was only willing to tell him the truth when there was no other way?

Father always wanted another child, Aegon thought bitterly. Mother told me. Maybe then he would have had a son whom he trusted enough to actually let him in on his secrets.

"My Prince," the woman then began to speak with so much velvet in her voice that other men would certainly have fallen on their knees before her at once, "if you will permit me to explain-"

"I will not permit it," thundered Aegon.

"Aegon, be polite," his father scolded him, but left it at that. "Perhaps I should introduce you first. Aegon, these are the priests Thoros of Myr and-"

"I know who this is," Aegon interrupted him, again earning an appalled look from his father. "This is Thoros the drunkard, and this must be Melisandre of Asshai. I better spare the nickname that would come to mind for her."

"Indeed," the woman said, curtsying so deeply that Aegon could have peered from her cleavage all the way down to her belly button had he wanted to. His father looked at him in surprise.

"Did you really think you could hide a whole gaggle of those red nutters inside the Red Keep without anyone knowing?" Aegon asked, addressing his father.

"Who else knows about this?" his father asked tonelessly.

"I know it from Rhae, but mother has certainly known since the day this bunch arrived here." His father looked deeply shocked. Apparently, he had honestly thought that surrounding himself with these strangers was a well-kept secret of his. "Would you then, my most gracious king, perhaps now be so kind as to share with me unworthy subject how I can be of service to you beyond the fucking Wall?"

For a moment, his father looked at him again in silence, and Aegon could tell that he was struggling with whether he should get angry and loud himself because of Aegon's rudeness and insolence, or whether he should just let it go and finally tell him the truth. Apparently, after a moment's consideration, he decided on the latter, as he sighed deeply once more, rubbed his temples, and then began to speak in a quiet, calm tone.

"Where did you hear about all this? Ah, never mind. I can already guess. It doesn't matter anyway," he then said after a moment. "Wherever you got that from, it's only half the truth."

Aegon remained motionless, his arms folded in front of his chest, looking at his father, waiting for an explanation. His father nodded, sighed again, and then walked around his desk to a small table next to the window. He poured himself and Aegon each a cup of wine, coming back over to him and holding it out to Aegon. When Aegon did not take it, he placed it on the table in front of Aegon and went back to his chair. The two red priests, Thoros of Myr and Melisandre of Asshai, dressed so provocatively that one could almost have taken her for a particularly expensive harlot, had not moved from the spot in the meantime, but had either followed his father with their looks, or had looked at Aegon from top to bottom, as if they had never before seen a Valyrian in their lives.

Why are they staring at me like that? Do I have something on my face?

"This is about a different threat than just the wildlings," his father finally said after a tiny sip of the wine, his eyes fixed firmly on his cup. "You know I've always believed there's more to this world. Good as well as evil, something that goes beyond our simple, human understanding."

"You speak of your prophecies."

"They are prophecies, Aegon, not my prophecies," he lectured him. They had had this discussion before, never with a satisfactory outcome for either of them. "But yes, I am speaking of the prophecies. I believe... no, I am convinced, firmly convinced, that the time has finally come."

"The time for what?"

"For everything, my son. The end time. The time when the Prince That Was Promised will arise and will lead the realms of men against the enemies of all life, through a second Long Night, in the great war, in the final war of mankind, the War of the Dawn. And the visions that Thoros of Myr and Melisandre of Asshai and their brothers in faith have been having for some time have confirmed me in this conviction."

"I see," Aegon said, trying not to sound quite as aghast as he felt.

His father, even though things had been less dire in recent years than they had been in the past, he knew that much from his mother, had never been able to completely let go of dwelling on prophecies, had never been able or willing to completely abandon his belief in fate and predestination. For a heartbeat, Aegon considered leaving it at that and better asking his father for more details about what he thought was waiting for him beyond the Wall. He then decided against it, however. Whatever those red priests whispered into his ear could not be good, and he, as crown prince and even more so as son, had to at least try to get his father to question this nonsense.

"Father," he began cautiously, "don't you think that these red priests are just telling you what they think you want to hear?"

His father looked at him, startled.

"Excuse me? No, of course I don't believe that. Aegon, what good would that do?"

Aegon forced himself with all his strength not to shake his head in utter dismay. His father, an actually intelligent man and wise ruler, could not possibly be so blind as not to see the obvious.

"To gain influence over you, of course, father. They've already tried to gain influence over grandfather and to proselytize him to their faith, to win him over for their red god, and now they're trying the same with you."

"R'hllor is not just our god, he is the god of us all, my prince. The one true god," Melisandre began to speak. "He is-"

"I have no interest in a sermon," Aegon said firmly, without dignifying the woman with a glance, silencing her.

"I appreciate that you care, Aegon. I really do, but you're just going to have to trust me on this one. The signs are clear," his father said.

"What signs? The visions those red charlatans claim to have? Or the convoluted words of half-mad prophets and dreamers in ancient texts that hardly anyone can still understand today?"

"Have you looked out the window today already?"

"What? I... no. Why would I?"

"Then please do so now. Come, let's go out on the balcony and have a look up at the sky, together, as father and son."

For a moment Aegon wondered if this folly was supposed to be some kind of trick. What was there supposed to be out there for him to see in the sky? But when his father went off without another word, opened the wide doors to the balcony on the north side of his solar and stepped out, Aegon eventually followed him, keeping silent. His father was waiting for him on the balcony, smiling as if he had a special surprise for him, positioned himself next to him and pointed high into the sky. Aegon turned his gaze upward and immediately found what his father was so pleased to see there. A few scattered stars, remnants of the fading night, were still visible in the sky, resisting with their last strength to be outshone by the bright sun of the day. One star, however, stood out, so bright and brilliant that the sun would not be able to outshine it, would not be able to silence its call. Red it was, so bright red, the color of blood and flame and sunsets. A long tail trailed behind it, so long that it seemed to cover half the sky.

"A comet," said Aegon, captivated by the sight. The sight was indeed as beautiful as it was rare, but Aegon failed to see anything supernatural in it. The maesters had taught him as a child already that there were things like that, stars with a tail, lost in the sky. It would soon disappear, Aegon knew, never to be seen again in their lifetimes.

"It's more than just a comet, Aegon," his father said, excited as a little boy. "It is a herald. A herald that proclaims the beginning of the War of the Dawn, but also the coming of the Prince That Was Promised. Your coming, my son."

"So this comet and the chatter of the red priests is what-"

"It's more than that, Aegon," his father interrupted him, clearly not amused that Aegon didn't want to recognize these things as the signs his father apparently saw in them… or wanted to see in them. "Look around. It's not just a comet in the sky. It's appeared out of nowhere, red as a flame. And what about the awakening of the dragons? Do you have an explanation for how these creatures could come back to life from dead stone? Do you?"

"No."

"No, you don't. But I do have an explanation. It happened because it was meant to happen, my son. Because it was supposed to happen this way, it had to happen this way. All this, the dragons, the comet, the visions, are all signs, Aegon. Signs that have been foretold, thousands of years ago already."

His father turned around then, walking back into his solar with quick steps, and began rummaging through one of the many book shelves. Aegon followed him inside, certain that his father would want to show him something. Then he apparently found what he had been looking for, opened a book on a certain page, and held it out to him.

"Here, read this," his father said to him. "It is the original prophecy of the Prince That Was Promised. I wrote the translation next to it."

"I actually can read High Valyrian, thank you," Aegon said, taking the book from his father's hands. He read the lines as carefully as he could without throwing the book into the nearest corner with exasperation. It was true, some of the things written in the prophecy coincided with what his father wanted to be taken as clear signs. Other things he could not find anywhere in the recent past of their family or the realm even with the best will in the world, and still other things did not seem to make any sense at all.

This is all pointless, he thought then and could only barely suppress a tired sigh.

His father saw what he wanted to see and these red priests only encouraged him in his belief. For a moment, he let his eyes fly over some of the lines again, rereading this and that word, wondering if some of the Valyrian runes might mean something else in this or that context, might be making more sense than what was obviously written there if interpreted differently. Apart from some semantic subtleties however, which made the text sound sometimes a bit more lyrical, sometimes a bit more mundane, there was not much to be done, at least with the understandable parts that actually seemed to possess a certain degree of meaning. The entire rest, for that matter, could mean anything and nothing.

It's all pointless, he thought again. Silly and pointless.

"That doesn't even rhyme," Aegon finally said. He had wanted to give his father an honest, serious answer, but after this silly charade he just couldn't help but answer like this. "All good prophecies should at least rhyme, shouldn't they? And you're all up in arms about something any charlatan at a fair would be ashamed of."

"I'm serious, Aegon," his father thundered.

"So am I," Aegon thundered back. "You want to send me beyond the Wall just like that to look for who knows what. And as if that weren't dangerous enough, you want me to do it while a gigantic wildling army is marching toward that very wall. And all this is supposed to happen because there is something written in an old book in an even older prophecy that can be vaguely applied to some things in the recent past, father. No, I have no explanation for how the dragons could come back to life, and no, I don't know where that comet in the sky suddenly came from or what it means, if anything, but that doesn't mean that therefore this stupid prophecy and the silly chatter of those red bastards must be the right explanation. Forgive me if I sound cynical, but that's a bit little for me to risk my life for."

"You don't want to understand," his father said, resignation instead of anger in his voice. "Very well. I'm sorry about that, but I can't do more than present what I have. If you want to see proof, something irrefutable, then I must disappoint you. I have no such proof. That's exactly why I want you to go on this mission, Aegon, to find that very proof and bring it to me, so that I can use it to convince not only you but all the rest of the realm of the truth. The truth that mankind's fight for survival has long since begun. I am sorry that my words are not enough for you, my son. But if you will not go beyond the Wall out of conviction, then I suppose you will have to do so because your king commands it."

Aegon looked at his father in silence for a moment. Apparently, there was no way to dissuade his father from this madness. Aegon would fly north with Balerion, would make his way beyond the Wall, and in the best case, if he managed neither to freeze to death nor to be slain by wildlings or eaten by direwolves or shadow cats, would return with empty hands. There would be nothing more for him there.

"When do I leave?" he finally asked.

"First thing tomorrow, as soon as you have chosen who will be accompanying you. I would have preferred to give you more time, my son, more time to enjoy your victory in the tourney, more time to spend with your sister, but unfortunately... we don't have time to waste and since you now know of it anyway…," his father said. Aegon noticed how his gaze flitted to the red priests for a tiny moment, but then immediately returned to him. "Here is a list of men who are eligible. Pick whoever you want. They are all at your disposal."

"Thank you so much. How generous," Aegon spat, taking the note from his father's hand together with a small charcoal stick to be able to make your own notes on it later. His father did not respond to his tone, however.

"You'll probably have to limit the number, I suppose. The dragons are strong, but there certainly won't be enough room for that many men on the three dragons. Even though I personally would rather have even more men than-"

"Two," said Aegon, interrupting his father. "We have two dragons," he followed up after seeing his father's irritated look. "Only two dragons have a rider. Vhagar has not been claimed, so he can't carry anyone north. Unless, of course, you want to try your luck with him one more time."

"But… with Rhaenys and you around, Vhagar stays calm, doesn't he?"

"Calm, yes, but he would still never tolerate anyone climbing his back. Only his rider will one day be allowed to mount him. Whoever else would try would be as good as dead. A dragon has a rider and a rider has a dragon. It is as simple as that. And without a rider, Vhagar would rather tear the Dragonpit to pieces than allow anyone to mount him. So we only have two dragons for this fun little adventure. And what about my Rhae anyway? I seriously hope you don't expect me to allow her to just wait for me at the Wall, surrounded by cutthroats and rapists and who knows what else?"

"No, of course not. She will accompany you north, carrying as many men to the Wall on Meraxes' back as possible. There, she will have a few words with the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch on my behalf, but will then, on the same day, make her way back south."

"Well, at least that," Aegon said, folding up the paper and shoving it into one of the pockets of his doublet together with the charcoal. He saw that his father still wanted to say something, Aegon did not wait for it, however. He did not want to wait for a dishonest apology for what his father was asking of him and the danger he was willingly exposing him to. He did not want to wait for the honeyed words of a fatherly encouragement, which he did not mean seriously anyway, since his father's thoughts were only focused on the nonsense he had read in his prophecies and had let the red priests whisper into his ear, and not on him, his only son and heir. He turned away and left the solar with quick steps before the first word had left his father's lips.

Aegon stormed off without waiting for Ser Gerold, who again did his best to keep up with him. He marched aimlessly through the Red Keep, so fast that some of the soldiers and servants barely managed to jump out of the way in time. Briefly he considered going back to Rhaenys, but decided against it. He was angry, sad, and furious all at the same time, and in that state he didn't want to go to Rhaenys and risk making her suffer from his bad mood even more than she already was. Besides, he would have had to say something to her then. And what could he have said to her that would have reassured or comforted her? What she had learned had been true. He would fly north and go on a life-threatening mission beyond the Wall. The details, however, that his father was demanding this of him not because of any alleged wildling threat but because the red comet in the sky told him that his faith in ancient fairy tales was true, would hardly make things any better for his sister. Even if this wildling army didn't exist at all, the lands north of the Wall were a dangerous place, a deadly place. And the fact that their father was willing to risk his life because of this nonsense would only make matters worse, because it meant that their father was gradually beginning to lose his mind as well, just as had happened to their grandfather. No, there was nothing he could have said to Rhae at that moment to reassure her, to comfort her. He would go to her later, would press her to him, kiss her, make love to her all night long, and give her his word that he would return to her safe and sound. He would tell her nothing more, however.

At some point, without knowing exactly when or why, he lowered himself onto a flight of steps leading up to one of the fortress's mighty defense towers. For a while he just sat there, ignoring Ser Gerold, who was waiting nearby at a respectful distance. Lost in thought, he let half the day pass by, his gaze transfixed on the small courtyard he could see from the stairs, where servants, squires, and pages went about their work, tending horses, scrubbing rust off of chain mail with rough brushes and large buckets filled with oil and sand, carrying supplies, food, and drink back and forth, bringing dirty laundry to the washerwomen, and picking up clean, wet laundry from there in return.

At some point he took the piece of paper from his pocket in his hand and began to read the names written on it over and over again. The wind became stronger, then weaker, then stronger again, and each time it seemed to want to pull on the sheet of paper and snatch it from him as if to prevent Aegon from reading the names again, to prevent him from making a decision. For a brief moment he felt cold. It had indeed become fresher in the last few days, but Aegon was sure that the chill that ran through his body now had nothing to do with the wind that penetrated his clothes. He took the sheet in both hands and again began to read the names carefully, one by one. They were the names of good men, loyal men. Good and strong knights, sons and heirs of powerful lords. Some he knew only by hearsay or a brief greeting at this or that feast, other men he knew well, and few were as close to him as family. Some even were.

How am I supposed to choose who to accompany me? Of course I want my friends and family with me, but whoever I take with me, I expose to an enormous risk. Is it right not wanting to endanger the lives of people who are close to me, if in return I put men in mortal danger who follow me only because I am their prince? Is one man's life worth more than another? To me, it is, but to the world? This is probably another one of those moments when there is no right or wrong decision. Are there any other moments for princes and kings at all?

For a moment, Aegon considered asking Ser Gerold for advice. The white knight had served in the Kingsguard for most of his life, had served his grandfather faithfully, now served his father just as faithfully, and, if the gods were good, might even serve himself one day. Ser Gerold was a close advisor to his father, and had his counsel not been relied upon, he would certainly never have become that. Aegon then decided against it, however.

He would probably recommend that I simply take the entire Kingsguard with me, Aegon thought, and had to smile. Rhaenys would certainly see it similarly. But she would insist that the Kingsguard be increased tenfold beforehand, he thought and his smile, thinking of his sister, widened.

Eventually, however, Aegon forced himself to come to a decision. Once again, he took the piece of paper in his hand and carefully read all the names on the list to make sure he hadn't overlooked anyone. He weighed some of the men against each other. Some were younger than others, would perhaps be able to bear the hardships of the journey better. Others were still too young for his taste, little more than children. Some were good men, loyal friends and companions, others were known to be better with the sword. Finally, he reached into the pocket of his doublet again and pulled out the small stick of charcoal. He crossed out some of the names directly, marked others with a dot, and others he was sure he wanted to accompany him with a small star. Then he finally went over his picks one last time, made the final decisions, and began to write down on the back of the paper, in as neat a script as the stick of charcoal allowed him, the names of the men he wanted to have with him.

"If you can hide in the lands beyond the Wall as well as you do here, at least we won't have to worry about you getting caught by wildlings," he suddenly heard Jon's voice behind him. "We'll just have to make a real effort to find you back then, in case you actually do get lost."

Jon descended the last few steps to Aegon and sat down next to him.

"So you heard?"

"My father told me. After your... conversation with His Grace, I guess he didn't see the point in keeping it a secret from me any longer. You've made quite a few waves with your yelling at each other, Egg," he said with a faint smile after a questioning look from Aegon.

For a short moment, Aegon wondered how Jon had learned of their encounter so fast, but of course the king and the crown prince yelling at each other was quickly carried halfway across the entire fortress by the grapevine. Aegon had no doubt that after little more than an hour, everybody in the Red Keep was already aware of what had happened, even if they did not know all the details. And since he had been wandering through his home and sitting around here for… he had no idea for how long, it came as no surprise that Jon knew as well.

"So, we're leaving tomorrow already, I hear?"

Aegon turned his head to his friend and looked at him silently for a moment.

"You don't have to come with me, Jon. I wouldn't order you to."

"I know. But I'm coming anyway. I would have come with you even if my father hadn't decided it for me. What kind of friend would I be if I left you to have this fun all by yourself?"

Aegon looked at him again for a moment, began to smile broadly, and put his arm around his friend's shoulders. He wanted to say something, to thank him for his loyalty and his friendship and just everything he did and was for him, but then said nothing. Words were not enough for that and looking into Jon's now also smiling face, feeling his best friends' arm now around his own shoulder as well, Aegon knew that he didn't need words to let Jon know everything he needed to know.

"So who's going to accompany us?" asked Jon after a moment.

"Accompany us? I actually thought you and I were enough for a couple of wildlings," Aegon said with a wide grin.

"Oh, absolutely. I'm sure we are," Jon returned, now grinning broadly as well. "But if you have some space left on the back of your dragon anyway, it wouldn't be a bad idea to maybe take someone along who can carry our tents and gear for us. Not to mention the fine food and all that even finer wine, which I'm sure you won't want to do without."

"Yes, you're right, of course. Just because we're wandering for weeks through the wilderness beyond the Wall, we still shouldn't have to give up the comforts of a noble birth, I think."

"I knew it," Jon said, laughing out loud. "But seriously now. Who do you want to take with you?"

Aegon took one deep breath and then took one last look at the piece of paper he still held in his right hand before stuffing it back into the pocket of his doublet.

"I was thinking about Daman and Aidin. Both are good with the sword and would probably never forgive me if I didn't take them with me. There were already a few names marked on the list I got from my father that I think are supposed to come with me no matter what. Oswell Whent, Uncle Lewyn and Uncle Oberyn, and I assume Jaime Lannister."

"You assume?"

"The list only had the name Lannister on it, underlined a few times. So it must be Ser Jaime. Who else would he mean? There aren't that many Lannisters in town and I highly doubt the Old Lion will climb on Balerion's back himself. Then I thought about Byrant Gargalen, Dickon Tarly, Garlan Tyrell, and Robar Royce. Robb Stark will also be waiting for us in Winterfell, according to a note I found on the list, and will be joining us there. So we will rest there briefly, but only for a few hours, not overnight."

"Sounds good," Jon said after a moment's consideration. "Anyone else?"

"I have a few more names in mind if any of the others refuse, but that's about all we'll get on the backs of two dragons. Including me, eight will ride Balerion, and including Rhaenys, five will ride Meraxes. We'll decide which dragon to put Robb Stark on once we arrive at Winterfell. Depends on how tired they are then."

"What about Vhagar?"

"No rider."

"So what? No one is supposed to bond with him, after all. But if Balerion and Meraxes allow it, maybe Vhagar will let it happen and carry a few men north."

Aegon looked at his friend again for a brief moment and then burst out laughing. It took him a moment to regain his composure and, ignoring Jon's puzzled expression, to reply.

"That's pretty much what my father said, too. You'd almost think you were his son and not me," Aegon then said. "That's not how it works, though. Without a rider bonded to Vhagar, he won't tolerate anyone on his back. Anyone who tries to mount him is a dead man. So Vhagar is out, unfortunately."

"I see. I can't wait to see what it feels like to be sitting on Balerion. I'll give you that," Jon said after a moment.

"Well, I'm afraid that feeling will be a long time coming for you, Jon. I want you to ride on Meraxes, right behind Rhaenys."

"Aha, why is that?"

"Because none of the men who will be coming along are a septon or a maester, and you are the only one I will allow to be so close to my Rhae for two days straight and hold onto her without wanting to challenge him to a duel afterwards."

Jon had to laugh at that and Aegon joined in.

"I see. Then it will be an honor to be her sworn shield, my friend."

They sat next to each other in silence for a while longer, looking down into the courtyard together, before parting with a firm embrace and going their separate ways.  Aegon suspected that Jon, instead of immediately packing his things, would probably first try to use his chance to say goodbye to Lady Arya, if he could make it past Lord Eddard that was. The fact that Jon, Aegon could still see as much, purposefully took the path that would lead him not to his own but to the Starks' chambers, confirmed him in his assumption. Again he had to grin.

He himself then made his way, again followed by Ser Gerold, to his sister's chambers. They would not have much time together before he would disappear in the lands beyond the Wall for quite a while, and it was important to make the most of that time.

"Have you decided who will accompany you, my prince?" asked Ser Gerold halfway there.

"Indeed, ser. The names are listed on the back of this paper," Aegon said, reaching into his pocket and handing the folded paper to the White Bull. "Could you please take it to my father at once as soon as your watch is over?"

"Certainly, my prince. I will bring it to him as soon as I have escorted you safely. May I hope to be one of the men in this select group?"

"I'm afraid not, Ser Gerold. I would have liked to have you with me, but if I decipher his terrible handwriting correctly then my father has already decided on who of your sworn brothers is to accompany me."

"I understand," said the knight, struggling to hide his disappointment.

"You have my word that the next time I am sent on a mission beyond the Wall by my king, I will definitely take you with me, ser."

"I will take you at your word, my prince," Ser Gerold said, indicating a slight bow as he walked. Aegon could see that while he was still far from happy about not being able to accompany him, he now couldn't help smiling faintly himself. "Still, I think it is dangerous and, dare I say, reckless of His Grace not to have a man at your side in me who can help you and support you and protect you if need be, but instead to burden you with this Lannister," he said, spitting out the name like an insult.

Aegon looked at the knight for a moment, confused.

"I didn't realize that you were holding a grudge against Ser Jaime."

"Ser Jaime? Oh no, not at all. He is a good man, loyal and skilled with a sword. He would without a doubt be a great addition to your group. I am speaking of the Imp, of course."

Immediately Aegon stopped as if rooted to the spot, an expression of such disbelief on his face that he probably looked like an idiot. Had Oswell just told him this, he would have immediately believed it to be one of his nasty jokes and burst out laughing. Had his great uncle Lewyn told him, he might have believed it to be a joke as well, depending on Lewyn's mood. Gerold Hightower, however, for all his many qualities, was unfortunately not necessarily known for his dark sense of humor.

"Are you saying the Lannister on my father's list is not Ser Jaime but his dwarven brother? My father can't possibly be serious about that."

"Forgive me, my prince. I thought you knew. I learned of it myself only yesterday during a conversation with His Grace. Your father, probably at Lord Tywin's insistence, has decided that his son Tyrion should accompany you on the journey north. For what purpose, I'm afraid I don't know."

"Well," said Aegon after a moment and a deep sigh, "from what I've heard of how the Old Lion feels about his second son, he's probably sending him with me to die beyond the Wall."

"I'm afraid you're probably right about that, my prince," said the old knight. "Perhaps you should speak to your father again. Perhaps he can-"

"My prince," Aegon suddenly heard a voice from the end of the hallway in which they stood. Aegon looked in the direction from which the voice had come and could not believe his eyes.

This can't possibly be true. The gods must be joking with me, he thought and could just suppress an annoyed sigh, as he saw the small figure of Tyrion Lannister waddling toward him on bandy legs.

"My prince, ser," the dwarf said again as he reached them, greeting Aegon with a bow and Ser Gerold with a nod. "May I request a moment of your time?"

"Of course, my lord. I can already guess what this is about," Aegon said.

"Certainly you can. Your father has no doubt already spoken to you about it. So if you would give me permission, I would be honored to dedicate the book to you."

For a moment Aegon looked at him in silence, confused and wondering what he had missed again now. For the life of him, however, he couldn't think of any mention of a book, let alone any kind of permission.

"Book? What book?"

"The book I'm writing about dragons, my prince. That's what I want to study the dragons up close for. To learn more about them than what can be read in children's stories. Your father said that only you and your royal sister could give me permission to approach the dragons in the Dragonpit, so I wanted to ask you for that very permission now. What did you think I wanted to talk to you about?" the dwarf asked in surprise, and Aegon thought he could smell the wine on his breath.

Aegon glanced out of the corner of his eye at Ser Gerold, who seemed as surprised as he was. Apparently, Lord Tywin had not yet seen fit to inform his son that he would be leaving tomorrow for a potentially deadly journey north to the lands beyond the Wall with him on dragonback.

Was he simply going to have one of his soldiers drag him out of bed tomorrow morning and tie him to a dragon? I wouldn't put it past the Old Lion...

"Never mind," Aegon finally said, forcing himself to smile. "Very gladly I will grant you the opportunity to get to know my dragon up close. First thing tomorrow."

"First thing tomorrow already? That... That's wonderful," the imp said with an ever-widening grin. "Thank you, my prince. Thank you so much."

"Oh, better not thank me yet. A dragon can seem considerably less interesting and fascinating up close than much more nightmarish and frightening if you're not used to the sight. I promise you that tomorrow, when the day is over, you will wish you had never gotten close to Balerion," Aegon said, and could literally feel Ser Gerold stifle a grin.

"Well, my last real nightmare was as a child. While I haven't gained much height since then, I do trust myself to see a dragon without peeing my pants."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed for you in that regard, my lord. And if you want to thank anyone for this opportunity, you'd best go back to your lord father right now and thank him. He alone has seen to it that you will be given this opportunity tomorrow already."

Lord Tyrion looked up at Aegon with his uneven eyes as doubtfully as if he had just offered him to be the new crown prince of the realm in his place. For a moment, the imp looked as if he was unsure whether he had heard correctly or whether Aegon was perhaps trying to play a joke on him, whether he had possibly drunk too much this evening already or by far not enough yet.

"Then I'd better go to him right now. Thank you again, my prince. You will not regret it," said the dwarf, bowing again and then waddling away as fast as his short legs would carry him.

I may not regret it, but you certainly will, Aegon thought, and could not help but feel sorry for the imp. With all the benefits and privileges that life as a son of a noble house offered, such a status always brought with it downsides, duties and necessities. And as a deformed dwarf, having a man like Tywin Lannister for a father certainly ensured that Lord Tyrion's life consisted more of the downsides than the benefits.

After a brief moment of silence, Aegon and Ser Gerold finally moved on, wordlessly walking the rest of the way through the hallways of Maegor's Holdfast and reaching Rhaenys' chambers shortly after, guarded by Ser Jonothor. Aegon bid a farewell to Ser Gerold, whose watch was over and who would now deliver his decision to his father, and went in to join his sister. Having closed the door but before he could even say a word, she already threw herself at him, her arms wrapped around him as tightly as a vice, and showered countless kisses on his neck, cheeks, and mouth.

"There you are finally. I was getting worried, Egg. Tell me everything," she said between a few kisses, and Aegon could hear the trembling in her voice.

She has been crying, it flashed through his mind.

Aegon now also put his arms around Rhaenys and, before he said a word, began stroking her hair and back. Immediately he felt how Rhaenys began to relax, letting herself sink into his embrace, yet without allowing herself to be released from it. Aegon brought his sister over to her bed and lay down next to her. Immediately she laid her head on his chest and wrapped herself around his body like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood while he continued to stroke her lovely soft hair. Then he began to tell.

Aegon told her of the wildling army that he was to find at their father's behest, of the danger the wildlings would pose should they attack the Wall before the realm was ready to prepare its defenses, of the good and faithful men who would accompany him and the rangers of the Night's Watch who would undoubtedly be with him as well. He did not, however, utter a word about prophecies or comets. For a long time Rhaenys said nothing at all, just listened to him and clung to him tighter and tighter. When he was done talking, they just lay there for a while, listening to the silence around them, while Aegon soaked up the sweet scent of her hair, the color of her skin, and the shape of her body nestled against him, like a man dying of thirst who's been offered a sip of water.

The sun was already beginning to set when his sister finally lifted her head, looked Aegon in the eye and, without saying a word, moved up along his body. She placed one of her tender, warm hands on his cheek and pressed a deep, passionate kiss on his lips, which Aegon was only too happy to return. Their lips opened to each other's tongues and it only took moments for Aegon to impatiently start undoing the ties and laces of her dress while she did the same with his tunic and his breeches. His grip on her underdress and her smallclothes became rougher, more wanting and demanding with every moment, and when he couldn't pull them off her body as quickly as he wanted, he simply ripped the thin fabric in two with a quick jerk and tossed the remnants aside so that he could finally bathe his eyes in her perfect nakedness. He then grabbed his beloved, threw her next to him and rolled on top of her, his lips quickly pressed firmly back onto hers and his tongue disappearing into her mouth.

Greedily, his hands reached for her naked tits and began to knead them, while his thumbs played around her nipples, already hard as if made from steel. Only a moment later he felt Rhaenys, moaning heavily into his mouth, sliding her hands down his body, seeming eager to touch each and every of his muscles one by one, and gripping his hardening cock. She started stroking his cock with one hand, up and down and up and down, while her other hand reached even deeper and started massaging his balls, gently and tenderly yet firmly.

Aegon broke away from the kiss, ignoring Rhaenys' indignant sigh, and moved down along his sister's body, sucking on her glorious tits as she began to moan louder and louder, wrapping her slender legs around his body. Aegon continued to kiss his way down along her belly, letting his tongue slide briefly once into her belly button, earning a half startled, half ecstatic moan from his beloved. Aegon continued kissing his way down until finally the scent of her sweet wetness rose into his nose. The delightful smell between his sister's legs alone almost made him spill his seed. Hungry for his sister, he buried his face into her crotch, dipped his face into her wetness and began to play around her lower lips and her little pearl with his lips and his tongue, tasting her delicious juice.

It didn't take long before Rhaenys began to cry out loud for the first time, burying her clawing hands in Aegon's hair, her body shaken by ecstatic cramps. Aegon grabbed her thighs with both hands and pressed them apart with all his might, spreading her legs as wide as he could so that the soaking wet holes of his Rhaenys remained fixed under his face. He now began to push first one, then two fingers into her. In and out and in again. With the fingers of his other hand he then began to do the same at the tight entrance of her magnificent ass. In and out and in, sometimes faster, then slower again, sometimes less deep, then all the deeper in. Her moans became louder, deeper and louder still, until they sounded almost suffering.

"Please, Egg, give me your cock," she moaned, her voice so distorted with lust and passion that the words could barely be understood. "I want your cock in me."

He kept going however, on and on, letting her suffer further in her sweet lust, tasting her sweet juices and kissing and licking her, fingering both her holes, until moments later she was shaken by the throbbing cramps of an almost violent orgasm again and screamed out her pleasure, no doubt waking up the entire Red Keep. In the distance, Aegon heard the bloodcurdling roar of a dragon breaking the falling evening silence.

Meraxes, he thought with satisfaction. Soon Balerion will also have a reason to roar.

She breathed heavily as her third, all the more violent orgasm finally subsided. Aegon looked up along her perfect body, watching her belly and soft, inviting tits rise and fall with each breath. He pulled his fingers out of her then, licking the rest of her juices from them with pleasure and began to crawl back up along her body, kissing her tits once more and sucking on her nipples before Rhaenys grabbed his face and pulled him further toward her, her mouth already slightly open for the passionate kiss she wordlessly begged him for. Aegon gladly gave in to her wordless plea, moving the last bit back to her face and allowing their lips and tongues to meld into a deep kiss. Again, while their mouths were sealed in the kiss, her hands traveled down along his body to his cock, grasped it and began stroking it, up and down and up and down. This time, however, Rhaenys guided him directly to her wet cunt, brought the tip of his rock hard cock into position right before her longing entrance. Aegon didn't wait any longer, couldn't possibly wait a moment longer, to finally fuck her. So he brought himself into position above her and thrust into her as deep as he could. Rhaenys was so wet that he slid his entire length into her with almost no resistance. Again she screamed and moaned into his mouth as he drove into her, pulling back out of her right after, only to thrust his entire length into her again.

He quickly found his pace, fucking her hard and fast and deep. The smacking sound of her wet cunt and the slapping of his balls against her pelvis sounded more beautiful to him at that moment than any music in the world. With each thrust he got a little faster, thrusting a little harder, trying to penetrate her a bit deeper. It did not take long before he already felt his beloved sister's fingernails on his back, marking him as hers with fine, crimson scratches, a sure sign that her next orgasm was not far away. The thought made Aegon thrust in even faster and harder, fucking her almost violently now. All at once, Rhaenys broke away from their kiss, threw her head to the side, and screamed out her orgasm, so loud that it would have almost hurt his ears had it not sounded so beautiful, so marvelous. Aegon felt her glorious cunt begin to spasm around his cock, massaging it with her own ecstasy. At that moment he couldn't hold on any longer, pressing his face into her thick, soft hair with a loud moan and spilling his seed deep into her. He breathed into her hair for a while longer, his cock still deep inside her, and only released himself from her and out of her long after his cock had stopped throbbing.

They fell asleep quickly afterwards, cuddled together as they had done so often as children, now however unclothed, embraced in a completely different kind of love and with his seed inside her. The night was short, though, as Aegon was awakened by Rhaenys with a kiss on the lips before sunrise. Only slowly and reluctantly did he manage to move out of bed, while Rhaenys, apparently already awake for quite some time, had already begun packing their things for the journey. Whether they were traveling to Dorne to visit their family or to some feast or wedding or tourney somewhere in the realm, Rhaenys insisted on packing their luggage herself instead of having servants do it for her. He didn't know why, but it was one of those little quirks that he, again without knowing exactly why, loved about her so much. Aegon then washed, got dressed – for the flight, he dressed himself in thick wool and sturdy leather, just as Rhaenys had – and then helped his sister pack the last of the things she insisted he take with him into sacks that could easily be tied to the back of a dragon.

Extra socks and gloves, a black doublet she had embroidered for him a year ago on his last name day with two red dragons tightly entwined on the chest, two daggers, the good sword his father had had forged for him two years ago – or was it three years already? – and finally the Valyrian pendant that Rhaenys herself usually loved to wear around her neck on festive occasions, a tiny dragon of Valyrian steel, barely bigger than a gold coin, on a thin braided strap of black and red leather.

"Bring it back to me," she said as she hung it around his neck with a breathed kiss on the cheek.

Aegon knew how much she loved this pendant, for Grandmother Rhaella had given it to her as a gift shortly before her death. It was a good luck charm, Aegon knew, and at the same time a reminder of who was waiting for him here, should he at some point lose himself in the endless white expanses beyond the Wall. Not that he seriously would have needed anything to remember his beloved.

"I will," he promised her, and meant it.

Together, flanked by Ser Arthur and Prince Lewyn, who had already been waiting for them outside Rhaenys' chambers, they made their way to the Dragonpit. They were silent for a long time. Only when they had already passed the main gate of the Red Keep on horseback and were making their way along the winding road down Aegon's High Hill, the city bathed in the blood-red light of the rising sun spread out before them, did Rhaenys begin to speak again.

"I wish I could go with you."

"But you do go with me, my love," said Aegon, bringing his horse closer to hers and taking her hand in his.

"Not just to the Wall. I mean all the way. Beyond the Wall, too. I don't like the idea of leaving you alone."

"I will not be alone, Rhae. I will have good men at my side."

"Perhaps, but none of those men could keep you warm on the cold nights as well as I could, love."

"That's definitely true," he said with a laugh. "Still, that would be far too dangerous for you, Rhae. And uncomfortable. I don't think you'd be doing yourself any favors."

"But I could at least wait for you at the Wall. Then maybe you'd have more reason to come back quickly."

"I don't need more reason for that, Rhae. Wherever you wait for me, at the Wall, here at King's Landing or even at the other side of the world, there can be no better reason for me to come back as quickly as possible. Besides, I wouldn't be comfortable with you at the Wall. The Night's Watch is almost all murderers and rapists and even worse, and inside Castle Black, not even Meraxes could protect you."

"I know," she said with a sigh. "Father said the same yesterday."

Aegon had to laugh out loud at that. He was not surprised that his sister had already had this conversation with their father. He looked at her, her glorious face bathed in the morning glow, as they rode through between the houses and stores and septs of the Street of the Sisters toward Rhaenys' Hill and the Dragonpit. At that moment he would have liked nothing better than to simply turn around, go back to bed with Rhaenys, and never rise from it again. He could have spent his life in bed with his Rhaenys and he knew it wouldn't have been a wasted life. His sister turned her head to him, now also looking at him. He looked into her worriedly smiling, yet still incredibly beautiful face and immediately realized that she must feel the same way. However, that was not possible, as he knew, as they both knew.

Aegon looked ahead as they approached the Dragonpit, the massive stone dome, the home of their dragons and the very center of their family's power. He immediately spotted the crowd that had already gathered in front of it. His companions were already there, surrounded by their fathers and brothers, and in some cases even their mothers and sisters, wishing them a safe journey and every success. With a quick glance he found Jon in the crowd, Aidin and their uncle Oberyn. Jon was surrounded by his father and his brothers, wildly talking at him, probably giving him advice for his time in the North and wringing promises from him to do honor to their name and, above all, to get back to them safely. A woman was there as well, clinging tightly to his arm and throwing herself at him again and again, in a dark green dress, slender in stature and with long, wild brown curls that fell all the way down her back. For a brief moment, he thought it was Lady Arya until she finally turned around and Aegon realized that it was his mother, the Lady Lyanna. Aegon now also spotted Lord Stark standing next to Lord Robert, talking to Jon with such a proud look on his face that you could have thought he was his father, not Lord Robert. Lady Arya, however, was nowhere to be seen. Aegon saw Aidin talking to a cousin of his who had come to bid him farewell while his uncle Oberyn, holding his paramour Ellaria in his arms, was engaged in what appeared to be a conversation with Lewyn as relaxed as if this were just about a short ride to the next town.

One by one, he now also found the others who would accompany him in the wild confusion of those waiting. Dickon Tarly, clad in simple grey steel and looking as earnestly as if they were about to go into battle. Oswell and Daman Whent, engaged in conversation, constantly comparing the big black bats that adorned their helmets. Byrant Gargalen, standing right in the middle of the group in a yellow robe with his family's red cockatrice on his chest, not talking to anyone but inspecting his sword as if to make sure that even the last speck of dust had disappeared from his blade. Garlan Tyrell and Robar Royce, talking with their families and apparently receiving small good luck charms from their mothers or sisters… or perhaps sweethearts. And finally, standing a little apart all for himself and wrapped in clothes so thick that he looked like a particularly fat child, Tyrion Lannister, a bag on his back that was almost ridiculously large for his small stature.

Then Aegon also spotted his father and mother in the crowd, dressed in their best robes as if for a feast or a wedding, both with their crowns on their heads. At that moment, Aegon finally realized there was no turning back and for a brief moment his heart seemed to stop. Whatever he did or said or wanted to do or say, whatever objections he might still have, in a moment he would mount Balerion and head north, he would head to the Wall, he would head to the end of the world.

Jon saw him now as well, nodding at him with a faint smile as he tried to break free from being besieged by his family. He was grateful that so many good men would accompany him, would risk their lives for him, but most grateful he was that Jon would be by his side, his best friend and brother at heart. When Aegon finally reached the group, waiting for him and Rhaenys in front of the Dragonpit's main gate, and climbed off his horse, he could already hear the excited roar of the dragons through the Dragonpit's thick walls, all three dragons.

Chapter Text

He was cold and his clothes, though he had been standing in front of the fire for nearly an hour, didn't seem to want to dry properly. Pyke was as cold and windy and damp as he had remembered. No, it was even colder and windier and damper.

My lord father once told me that hard places make hard men, and hard men rule the world, Theon thought. He had said as much to the daughter of the captain who had brought him to Pyke after his uncle Euron had dropped him off on Great Wyk. He could only hope that this was true.

"Surely you will rule the world someday, milord," she had chirped at him, with her broad smile that had made her look so stupid after he had had her in his cabin for the first time. If she hadn't had such heavy breasts that had danced so delightfully in front of his face whenever he had let her ride him, and if she hadn't come to him so willingly, he wouldn't have taken her. But as it had been, he had made the most of the opportunity. He would not have done it, though, had he known that, after every single time he had spilled his seed into her, he would have had to turn her away with her pleas and her begging that he may take her with him, that he may take her as his salt wife.

"My father will punish me for having come to you, milord. He will beat me, milord. Please take me with you, milord," she had whined to him again and again. As if he would have cared. He had enjoyed the sight, however. She had knelt before him whenever she had begged him to make her his salt wife, naked most of the time and always with his seed still inside her or running down her teats or over her face. The thought of her body almost made him hard again for a brief moment. The thought of her voice and her smile, however, made this brief surge of lust fade away again immediately.

If only Euron had just dropped me off directly in Lordsport. Then I would have missed a few nice fucks during the passage here, but at least that stupid goose wouldn't be running around somewhere with my bastard in her belly. Surely the bastard will be as stupid as her, he thought.

"I'd love to take you straight to Lordsport," Euron had told him over dinner the last night aboard the Silence, "but you know about my somewhat difficult relationship with your father, my beloved brother. Besides, I have some business to attend to, but if it is at all possible, I will be glad to visit you on Pyke afterwards. As soon as I can set foot on my home again without risking my head for it."

When they had arrived at Great Wyk, Theon had been glad to get off the Silence. The voyage had taken far too long. Except for his uncle, none of the crew had spoken a word to him. Just as if they had all been mute. This had only made the trip seem longer to him. At first, he hadn't cared, having nothing to talk about with the men anyway, and had quickly given up trying to hear exciting stories from them about their journeys and their raids under his uncle's command. But after days and days and days without even a single word, he had been almost driven mad by their constant silent stares. He had been sure that some of the men - Gawkers and Nose Ring he had called them, since he had not learned their real names from them - had even looked at him in a way that men should not look at other men. The thought had made his hair stand on end whenever he had seen one of them or heard a noise somewhere in the dark of night. Always those stares, but never so much as a single word.

At some point even his dreams had been silent, absolutely silent and mute. He had no longer possessed a tongue in his nightmares, had been on his knees scrubbing the blood-red deck of the Silence and mending its night-black sails together with his uncle's crew of mutes. And the only voice, the only sound at all in those dreams, had been the voice of his uncle, always laughing and cheerful and yet so ghastly and so threatening that his blood had frozen in his veins.

"Drink with me, nephew," his uncle had always said in Theon's dreams. He had worn a shirt of iron scales, black as night, and a cloak of blood red silk. His eyepatch had been red leather, his lips blue. This was what he had dreamed of most all those nights, lips as blue as summer sky, as blue as his right eye, his smiling eye.

Lips shouldn't be such a color.

He remembered that the lips had looked black in the dim light of the night when he had met Euron in the harbor of the capital. Now he knew better, not black but blue.

As if that made it any better.

He had tried to get drunk every night on the wine Euron had served at every meal so he wouldn't have to dream. The wine had been a ghastly thing, though. Sometimes it had appeared sweet as a fruit of the south, sometimes sour as vinegar, then bitter as bile, seeming to change its taste from one sip to the next. Theon was sure that his uncle had blended the wine with something, but had not dared to ask, let alone complain about the taste. And then, to make matters worse, it had not even helped against the nightmares. On the contrary, it had almost seemed to Theon that the more he had drunk of the horrible wine, the worse the dreams had become.

His last dream came back to him, the last dream after the last meal with his uncle Euron before he had left the ship. Again he had scrubbed the deck of the Silence with a rag and a bucket filled with moldy seawater, though red as blood. In that last dream he had also seen Euron, as he had seen him in every one of his dreams on board the Silence. In that last dream, he had also been mute, as he had been in all of those dreams. But even more than just his tongue, he had also had not eyes and no manhood anymore, only empty sockets, burned and scarred, and a cunt where his cock should have been, just as scarred and dripping with blood and piss. At least he had hoped that it had been piss. He had danced naked before Euron, had had to dance to amuse him, to unheard music as silent as he himself. Euron had sat on a throne of blood and iron and bone, of rotten bodies piled wildly on top of each other, men and women and children, naked and defiled. Some of the bodies looked as if they had been found on a shore after days or weeks in the sea, pale and bloated, others were burned almost beyond recognition, still others were hacked to pieces and covered with bloody wounds. Some were fresh, as if they had just been struck down, others were half rotten and riddled with maggots, crawling and squirming under their skin.

His uncle had sat on that disgusting throne, looking down on him, and had laughed and laughed and laughed. His face had been hideously distorted, however, looking more like a beast of the sea than a man, with the arms of a kraken dangling from his chin and the eyes of a shark, dead and without mercy. Theon had felt silly being scared by dreams like a child, and yet the memory of his dreams aboard the Silence made him shudder for a moment, made him feel even colder.

Theon took a small step closer to the fire, but the cold and dampness just didn't want to leave his bones. He had always thought that Winterfell and the North were the coldest places there were, but here and now he was taught otherwise. Pyke was colder, much colder. As cold as the welcoming he had been given. He was the son of Balon Greyjoy, the last son of Balon Greyjoy, but he had been received like a beggar. At Lordsport, none of his family's soldiers had wanted to escort him to Pyke, as would have been appropriate and befitting his station.

"That way," one of the soldiers with the Greyjoy coat of arms on his pot helmet had simply said, pointing a finger in the direction of the castle as he had ordered them to escort him. He hadn't gotten more than that answer and a lump of snot spat right at his feet from the men before they had turned back to their ale and their dice. Theon had resolved to teach the men some manners as soon as he was their lord, and sooner or later he would do just that. Even if he didn't know their names, it certainly wouldn't be hard to find them out.

These bastards will spend the rest of their lives scraping shells off ship hulls and their sons and the sons of their sons as well, he had thought. He had then bought a horse at one of the stables, little more than a donkey at an almost outrageous price, and had traveled the miles along the cliffs to Castle Pyke alone, only to find the main gate of the castle closed and locked. Had his uncle Aeron, the Damphair as he was called, not happened to show up and recognize him, those drunken, stinking ruffians outside the main gate wouldn't have even let him into his own castle.

My castle.

The thought still terrified him. He had missed his lord father's burial. Only by a few days, but still he had missed it. That pained him more than the actual death of his lord father, when he thought about it. Why, though, he could not say. How could he have been here on time anyway, having only learned of his father's death from his uncle Aeron when they had already been standing in this very hall shortly after his arrival in front of the Seastone Chair, dark and empty and deserted? Still, he had missed it. The gods did not care about such excuses, though, and the Drowned God certainly even less so. His uncle Aeron had said nothing, had not reproached him, and yet he had felt it gnawing at him and his mood. Theon had been his father's last surviving son and his heir. It would have been his duty and his honor to give his father to the sea so that he might feast and drink in the watery halls of the Drowned God. Instead, his sister had been there, his uncles Aeron and Victarion had been there, speaking the old words in his stead and giving the body of his father to the sea, sending him to their god beneath the waves.

At the other end of the hall, long and dark and smoky, a door was opened and then immediately closed again. Footsteps approached Theon, but he did not have to turn around to immediately recognize the rapid pounding of small boots as the strides of his sister. When he had arrived on Pyke and she had greeted him, he had not recognized his sister at first. For half a heartbeat he had looked at her the way a man looked at a young woman he found pleasing, and in his mind he had even already begun to free her from her clothes. Until he had suddenly heard her name, that was. If the Damphair had not immediately greeted her by name, he probably would have thought her the daughter of a thrall or something. So plainly she had been dressed, in simple wool and worn leather. Theon had thanked the gods that he had not gotten the chance to say something inappropriate to her before he had learned who she was.

Asha had changed over the years. A lot, in fact. The skinny girl with knob knees and a face full of pimples had become a slender woman with long legs and watchful, dark eyes. Her nose was still a little too big for her small face, but her wicked grin certainly made up for that. She was not a classic beauty, far from it, but Theon could not deny that there was something special about her still. They had spoken only a few words to each other then, about him and Winterfell and his time with the Starks, and somehow Theon had felt he was being tested by her. The joy of their reunion had been short-lived, however, as Asha had lost no time telling him what she thought of his sudden return and that, having lived away from the sea most of his life, he better not imagine he would be welcomed here as a true ironborn, let alone their new lord.

Theon did not look at her as she crossed the hall, merely listening to the sound of her boots on the hard stone. He expected her to say something to him, to insult him, as she had done several times since his arrival. She said nothing, however, walking wordlessly past behind him.

Probably no fun for the bitch if no one is around to laugh at her stupid jokes, to laugh at me, he thought bitterly. But I am the rightful Lord of the Iron Islands, the new Lord Reaper of Pyke, and once the lords of the Iron Islands have sworn allegiance to me, we'll see who laughs last. I will find her a husband, old and fat and ugly, and when she has to lie under him every night, she will regret having tried to make a fool of me.

After a while of absolute silence, Theon looked around for his sister after all. She wanted something from him, certainly, otherwise she would not have come to him and disturbed his peace. He saw her standing a few steps away from him, in front of the dais on which the Seastone Chair throned, big and black and impressive. Her eyes were fixed at the Seastone Chair. His chair.

"You don't have to stare at it so greedily," Theon finally said as he turned wholly and took few steps toward Asha. "This is my place."

"Brother, surely you are mistaken. Your place is at Winterfell," she said, looking at him with a smile so sharp you could have cut with it.

"I am an ironborn and-"

"You were born here, yes, but you're not an ironborn. Better not even tell yourself that. You've been away, Theon, far away from our home and our ways, far away from the sea. A very long time indeed. You are no more an ironborn than any merchant having anchored here once in his life."

"It was not my choice to leave," Theon said, noticing his voice grow louder.

"No, no more than it was my choice to have been born without a cock. But you have to make the best of what you've been given, and today I'm more Balon's son than you'll ever be, Theon. More than a dozen years a wolf and you land here and think to become the new lord of the islands just like that, but you know nothing and no one. Why should men fight and die for you?"

"I am their rightful lord," Theon said stiffly.

"By the laws of the green lands, you might be. But we make our own laws here, or have you forgotten? Anyway, as fun as it may be to teach my little brother a lesson in our ways of living, that's not why I'm here."

"But?"

"But to let you know that the last lords have arrived now. You might want to greet them and welcome them with bread and salt. Isn't that what they do it on the green lands?"

Theon looked at her silently for a moment. It was true. On the mainland, the green lands, he corrected himself in his thoughts, it was customary for a lord to welcome his bannermen personally, offering them bread and salt when he received them in his castle. However, he could not remember his father ever having done this when he had lived here.

If it is also customary here and I do not do it, they will not respect me because I did not show them respect. But if it is not customary here and I do it, they will respect me even less because I am acting like one of the weak lords from the green lands, he thought. She's setting a trap for me, obviously. Little bitch.

"Pyke is not that big," he finally said. "If they can sail across all the oceans of the world, they will certainly be able to find their way from the gate to their rooms on their own."

Asha looked at him and smiled, not as sharply as before, but hardly less disturbingly.

Was that the right answer now, and does she feel something like pride for me, or is she gloating because I made the wrong decision?

For a while longer, he looked at his sister in silence as she gazed up at the mighty black Seastone Chair. It was his right, his legacy, and yet Theon had not dared to sit on the Seastone Chair so far, not until the lords of the Iron Islands had sworn allegiance to him. He watched Asha as her gaze traveled along the stone of the ancient throne, and suddenly the thought occurred to him that she certainly would not hesitate to place herself on it if she wanted to. But that was nonsense. She was a woman. She might dress in leather and iron, get drunk and carry a dagger at her side, but she was only a woman and a woman could not hope to rule the Iron Islands, never had and never would. For a brief moment he had to grin as he imagined this. For that brief moment he hoped that she would actually try to take his place, to usurp him, only for him to feast on the look on her face when the lords of the Iron Islands would of course still choose him over her and chase her away in disgrace. Yes, that would be a sight truly worth the trouble. The Seastone Chair was his by right, and if he wanted it, he just had to take it. No one would oppose him and if someone did dare, it still wouldn't matter.

He was just about to move toward it, putting one foot in front of the other, when he held back in the last moment. No, now was not yet the time. The lords of the Iron Islands would declare him their new Lord Reaper of Pyke, would pay homage and swear allegiance to him. Then the moment would come when, witnessed by his bannermen, he would solemnly take his place.

"I will now change for the feast," Asha said out of nowhere, giving Theon one last smile and turning to leave the hall. The smile was so sweet that he could almost forget what a little bitch she was. Almost. "It won't be long before the lords get hungry and thirsty," she said as she walked out. "So you'd better change, too. Fine gowns of velvet and silk take longer to put on, I suppose. Also, you should wash. You still stink of the arse of that whore you fucked on the passage here."

With a bang, the door slammed shut behind her and Theon was left alone in the hall again. In the cold, damp hall. He looked after her for a moment longer, annoyed at not having thrown another insult after her. There was nothing more to see there than a locked door, however. He then turned away, taking a last look at the Seastone Chair, so enticing and imposing, seeming to call to him, and again took a step closer to the brazier for warmth. Unsuccessfully, however. Only a moment later, though, other doors flew open and servants, thralls as they were called one the islands, came rushing in, carrying in tables and benches to prepare the hall for the upcoming feast.

Theon then left the hall and made his way to his chamber, which was, however, not even one bit less cold and damp than the entire rest of the castle. He had already had Helya, the steward of Pyke, a bentback old woman, lay out clothes hours ago that he would be able to wear at the feast and now sent the servant Alber, a just as old and also half-blind man, to draw him a bath. Perhaps the hot water would finally drive the cold from his bones. It took so long for the bath to finally be ready that Theon could almost have done better to draw it himself, and when he finally lay in it, he had to realize that Alber and he apparently had completely different ideas of what really hot could mean. The water was as tepid as a cup of stale tea and so Theon had the feeling to freeze even more than before when he got out of the water again shortly afterwards and began dressing himself.

His clothes were simple, black wool, grey linen and some leather, decorated only with a handful of iron studs here and there and a small kraken of brown thread on his chest. Gold thread had apparently not been available. When he had arrived on Pyke, he had only had with him the clothes he had worn on his body and, in addition, some worn things in a smelly jute sack that Euron had handed over to him during the journey. Where the clothes had come from and whose clothes they had been, Theon had not asked, nor had he cared. After his arrival, he had instructed Helya to buy or sew better clothes for him, but the supply of good and fine cloth was apparently even smaller on Pyke than the supply of good tailors. The doublet and trousers, plain as they were, nevertheless fit him surprisingly well, and what Alber had made with only a rag and some wax out of the completely filthy boots he had worn almost continuously since his escape from King's Landing was really something to behold. They weren't exactly like new, but they would suffice for a simple revelry, which this feast would certainly become tonight.

Before leaving his chamber, he looked around briefly, searching for some ornament to put on, a pin or a ring or a necklace or something similar. He found, probably from his father's possessions, an old gold ring and an iron necklace with a pendant in the shape of a kraken, also made of gold, and put both on. On the ring was a coat of arms, six flowers on a shield that had probably once been blue, but the color was completely worn away. The coat of arms of House Cuy, as Theon immediately recognized. So the endless hours with Maester Luwin in his stupid tower, in which he had forced him to learn the coats of arms of all the houses of the realm by heart, were finally good for something after all.

No doubt a relic of one of my father's raids, Theon thought, and felt himself filled with a strange sense of pride as he put on the ring.

He heard the laughter and the music from afar already. Apparently they had begun the feast without him, which only lowered his spirits even further. Only a part of the long, smoky hall was occupied by his lord father's lords and captains, now probably his lords and captains. They had all come to his father's burial, lords and captains of all important and less important houses, but only the most important had stayed afterwards and were now gathered here. Dagmer Cleftjaw had returned from Old Wyk only a few hours ago, bringing the Stonehouses and the Drumms back with him, who had left Pyke the very day of his father's burial as if in a hurry. Now they were here again and were already sitting half-drunk on benches off to the side, pouring ale into themselves and throwing a few dice across the table. Theon doubted, however, that their little game followed any real rules. The thralls poured plenty of ale and wine, and the music was so loud and wild that it almost hurt their ears, flutes and skins and drums. For a moment Theon stopped at the entrance to the hall, waiting to be announced by a herald. There was no herald, however, and when neither the drinking men nor the thralls seemed to take any notice of him, he instead walked to the dais at the end of the hall with long strides on which the Seastone Chair was waiting.

A sword had been placed on the Seastone Chair. His lord father's sword, Theon assumed, though he did not know for certain. It was old and plain and ugly, wrapped in seaweed and all sorts of other dirt that his uncle Aeron had no doubt found on the shore or fished directly out of the sea.

So for now it is still for my lord father to watch over Pyke, Theon thought. It is not yet for me to sit on the Seastone Chair. Only when the lords have sworn allegiance to me will it be my place.

So instead of taking his rightful seat, he took a seat on one of the four chairs that had been lined up in front of the Seastone Chair. Asha and his uncles Victarion and Aeron were already seated on the other three, leaving only the outermost chair at the very edge for him. Theon regarded his sister and his uncles as he came closer. Asha had dressed up in a simple dress of green wool that, along with her cheerful, carefree smile, would have made her look almost lovely if he hadn't known what a bitch was stuck in that dress.

His uncle Aeron, as sour-faced as always, sat in the middle of the three, dressed as always in his rough spun robe of green and blue wool, worn and washed out. Under his arm, as if he feared someone might steal it from him, he held the waterskin full of seawater with which he blessed men in the name of the Drowned God. He had also wanted to bless Theon when he had arrived here, but then Theon had refused to kneel in the dirt before his uncle. Before the lords and captains would soon swear allegiance to him, however, he would better make up for it, Theon had decided. His uncle's hair and beard, so long that they fell in his lap, he had apparently found unnecessary to comb, as it still looked as disheveled and unkempt as earlier in the day.

At least he replaced the old seaweed in his hair from this morning with fresh one, Theon thought with amusement. I guess this is what it looks like when he's getting ready for a big feast.

When he looked at his uncle Victarion, however, Theon was startled. He remembered Victarion Greyjoy as a tower of a man, with broad shoulders and arms like tree trunks. Now, however, there was not much left of the man Theon remembered. His uncle had become an old, crestfallen man, with more gray than black in his hair, and though he still possessed the broad chest of a bull, he somehow seemed to have grown smaller, haggard like an old wench, with the hunched back of a man who was only waiting for the redeeming death. His face and his nose were reddened, obviously from constant drinking, and his eyes were empty and bloodshot. In his left hand he held a large tankard, which he emptied so quickly that the thrall waiting behind him could hardly keep up with refilling it. His right arm ended at his shoulder, though.

Theon had heard the story of how Victarion, during his lord father's rebellion, had faced Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, in battle. He had almost defeated the Mountain in a fierce fight, but then had taken a hard blow from Ser Gregor's broadsword that had taken his right arm clean off at the shoulder. Still he had managed to severely wound Ser Gregor, even nearly killing him. For most ironborn, such a thing would have been a story to spin into a legend. His uncle Victarion, however, had been broken by it.

"You come late, Theon," Asha said with a satisfied grin when he arrived at the steps of the dais. Theon ignored her, instead climbing the dais without a word and sinking down next to Asha on the chair at the very edge.

A thrall hurried over, two jugs in his hands.

"Pour already," Theon barked at him as he remained wordless and motionless beside him.

"Maybe you should first tell him what you want, wine or ale," Asha said, holding out her tankard to the thrall, who quickly filled it with new ale.

"Wine."

"What took you so long? Is it no longer considered rude in the green lands to keep your guests waiting?"

"How was I supposed to know it would begin so early?" he hissed back, knowing full well that Asha was only asking the question to provoke him.

"An ironborn should know that real men can't hold back on feasting and drinking for long. Tell me, the first time you go on a raid, after all my little brother has never done that before, will you stay on board as well and wait until the warriors are already feasting on the riches and having their way with the women and girls before you join them at some point?"

"Shut up," Theon said, but only earned a loud laugh from his sister in return.

He drank the first cup of wine in one gulp, then the second. On the third, he decided to stop counting. For as little use as the thralls were, at least they were quick with keeping his cup filled. Theon sat on the dais in silence, trying hard not to dignify his sister with a glance as he looked down at the feasting crowd. Fifty or sixty men were gathered, perhaps a little more, drinking and singing and playing the finger dance. Somewhere further back in the hall, he had heard as much from the loudly shouted conversations, old Maron Botley had already lost a finger of his left hand to loud applause.

Such an old man should no longer play this game anyway, Theon thought.

The feast was a meager enough thing, a succession of fish stews, black bread, and unspiced roasted goats. The tastiest thing Theon found was an onion pie, half-burnt and also barely spiced. After nearly an hour of listless eating, Theon finally grabbed a loaf of bread and hacked it in two, hollowed out a trencher, and summoned a cook to fill it with fish stew. The smell of the thick cream made him a little ill, but he forced himself to eat some. He'd drunk enough wine to float him through two meals.

"Was it like that when father gave a feast, too?" asked Theon more to himself. Asha, however, seemed to have heard him and answered, even though he didn't really want her to.

"Father didn't take much pleasure in feasts anymore. He didn't have the belly for drink in the last few years. A gruesome thing when a great man grows old."

"Our lord father was but the father of a great man," Theon said. He had plans, big plans. Well, no plans in the sense of knowing exactly what he was going to do, but at least he had some rough ideas of what he wanted to do. But still, once he sat the Seastone Chair and ruled over the isles of his ancestors, his lord father and his failed rebellion would soon be forgotten.

"A humble lordling you are," Asha said.

"Only a fool humbles himself when the world is so full of men eager to do that job for him."

It took almost another hour before the food was finally consumed and the men in the hall turned entirely to drinking. In a particularly boisterous finger dance between two heavily drunk oarsmen, one lost the thumb of his right hand and the other his left ear. Wine and ale kept flowing long after the food had been finished and the thralls had put away the empty kettles.

None of this drunken lot will swear allegiance to me today, it suddenly flashed through Theon's mind, stirring his anger again. Just at that moment, the Damphair rose from his chair. Finally, Theon thought. It didn't take long for the conversations, the yelling, and the bad singing in the hall to die down.

"We are here today to honor a great man," his uncle Aeron began to speak. "Balon Greyjoy was that man. My brother Balon made us great again, which earned the Storm God's wrath, sending him to his death in one of his unholy storms. He feasts now in the Drowned God's watery halls, with mermaids to attend his every want. It shall be for us who remain behind in this dry and dismal vale to finish his great work. Balon had been reborn, blessed with salt, blessed with stone, blessed with steel. So he is not dead, my brothers. For what is dead can never die."

"What is dead can never die," intoned the crowd.

"What is dead can never die," Aeron repeated, "but rises again, harder and stronger. However, as many of you know, we are also here for another reason. Thus, we will now begin."

As if at an unheard command, Balon Tawney, Gorold Goodbrother, Rodrik Harlaw, Baelor Blacktyde, Waldon Wynch, Wilmar Stonehouse, Sawane Botley, Harrin Sunderly, Meldred Merlyn, and Dunstan Drumm wordlessly rose from their benches and began to follow the Damphair out through a side door. His uncle Victarion also rose from his seat and slowly and staggeringly joined in behind as well, followed by Asha.

What is the meaning of this? All they are supposed to do today is to swear allegiance to me, Theon thought. What the fuck is going on here?

Since no one seemed to deem it necessary to inform him about what was going on, he too rose from his chair now and followed the group out of the hall at a short distance. They walked along some poorly lit corridors, exited the Great Keep through a guarded gate and crossed the stone bridge to the Bloody Keep. Night had fallen long ago, it was windy and apparently it had been raining for hours. The stones of the bridge were wet and slippery, the ground barely visible in the darkness, and more than once Theon nearly slipped and fell. How his uncle Victarion, so drunk that he could apparently barely stand on his feet, managed to cross this bridge without breaking his neck was a mystery to him. His uncle Aeron led them unerringly through the Bloody Keep as well, up two flights of stairs and out the other side. They crossed the next two bridges, also made of stone, until they reached the third bridge, made from seemingly brand new rope and fresh wood, swaying wildly back and forth in the wind of the night storm. Theon still remembered the old bridge, also made of ropes and wood, musty and mended numerous times, that had once hung here. He remembered how he had been afraid to cross it as a child. However, this bridge no longer existed.

This must be where my lord father fell to his death, he thought. The storm must have torn the old bridge to pieces just as my lord father was crossing it.

Theon held on to the ropes at the sides, clutching them as tightly as if they were Asha's neck to keep from falling. Once again he felt like he couldn't stay on his feet, but the disdainful look Asha gave him from the entrance of the Sea Tower when she had already crossed the bridge with a safe step made him struggle forward.

"Didn't think you'd make it," she said to him when he finally reached the other side of the swaying and heaving bridge.

They entered the Sea Tower, round and high and crooked, and struggled up some more twisted stairs until they arrived in front of a door of old, dark wood. Rusty iron hinges cried out as his uncle Aeron pushed the door open and one by one they entered the room, which Theon immediately recognized as the solar of his father, the solar of the Lord Reaper of Pyke, his solar now. The room was small, cold and windy, just like any room in Pyke apparently. A brazier burned in the center of the room, spreading a faint warmth, yet it was no match for the damp and biting cold of the room. A few chairs had been placed in a crooked circle around the brazier. Apparently, this gathering had been planned for quite some time, which made Theon even angrier. Why hadn't he been informed? He was their lord. Whatever was to be discussed here was certainly his business first. Immediately, the men settled on the chairs. Theon quickly grabbed another chair, standing at the small desk in the corner of the room, pushed it between Sawane Botley and Rodrik Harlaw, and sat down as well.

"Theon, it's good that you're here too. What we have to discuss concerns you as well as all of us," said the Damphair. Theon did not bother to ask why he had not been told about this gathering, if it concerned him too, and waited to hear what his uncle had to say. Inwardly, however, he was seething with anger. "We have come together, as you all know, to discuss how we should now proceed after Balon's death and who should rule the Iron Islands in the future. I thank and praise the Drowned God for guiding you all here today so that we can discuss this matter before any needless bloodshed occurs among our kind."

"A little bloodshed has never been a bad thing," said Rodrik Harlaw. "Or do you really only have sea water left in your veins and forgotten what it means to be ironborn, Damphair?"

"I am Balon's heir," Theon blurted out. What was this nonsense about? He was Balon's last living son, the rightful heir to the Seastone Chair and of course the future Lord Reaper of Pyke. There was simply no other way.

"You are," the Damphair said, "but for quite some time there have been... other voices on the islands, from Blacktyde to Salt Cliffe, voices that have called for a change."

"Who wants to deny me my birthright?"

"This is not about you, Theon," Aeron said. "These voices could be heard since before your father's death already. Many are dissatisfied."

"Then let them be dissatisfied. I am the rightful heir of House Greyjoy, the rightful Lord Reaper of Pyke, and whoever wants to deny me that is breaking the King's Peace."

"Breaking the King's Peace," Waldon Wynch echoed him, pitched high like a girl. "A fine little greenlander they've made of him at Winterfell. He's supposed to rule over us? Don't make me laugh. What do we care about the peace of some king a thousand leagues away?"

"It'll certainly interest you when he shows up here with his dragons," Asha said from the side. "The last time my father thought he could challenge the Iron Throne, I lost two brothers and half an uncle. And the Targaryens didn't even have their dragons then. Do you really want to find out how hot dragon fire burns?"

"Don't interrupt, girl," Dunstan Drumm barked at her.

"I am the child of my father's body. I have every right to speak here, old man."

"Your father made the mistake of letting you think you were a man. Otherwise, you'd know better how to behave."

"That's funny. Your father apparently made the same mistake," Asha hissed back.

Old Drumm was about to jump up from his chair in a rage, when Victarion grabbed him by the arm with his left hand and pulled him back onto his chair with a powerful jerk. Theon watched the spectacle for a moment, regretting that old Drumm hadn't actually beaten some manners into his sister. But if he were lucky, than that might still come soon.

"To shed the blood of our enemies does please our God," Aeron said. Immediately, all eyes turned to him. "To shed our own blood in battle in his honor does please him as well, but when his children begin to slaughter each other, it does not please the Drowned God at all. We must find a solution before the impatience among the men of the islands becomes too great and their blood too hot."

"I am Balon's heir," Theon said again. Surely they had to see it that the Seastone Chair was his by right. There was nothing to argue about, so why this charade?

"You are indeed his heir and according to the laws of the green lands, you are the heir to the Seastone Chair, Theon. But our kind has always had its own laws, has always followed the echoing call of the Drowned God and not the weak whimpers of the Seven or the rustling in the trees. We are ironborn, the sons of the sea, chosen of the Drowned God. For generations we have had to accept the laws of the green lands, but the ire and the hunger in our blood cannot be suppressed forever. Too long have the ironborn listened to the chain-neck maesters prating of the green lands and their laws. It is time we listen to the sea again. It is time we listen to the voice of god."

Theon thought about this silently for a moment as the conversation of the others continued past him. It was true. The ironborn of old had always settled the question of succession differently from the weaklings on the mainland. Anyone who was not strong himself could not hope to rally men behind him and therefore could not be a leader, let alone a ruler, no matter from whose loins he had sprung. More than once in the history of the Iron Islands, rule had therefore passed back and forth between the great houses. Perhaps this was another such moment.

No, the Seastone Chair is mine and I will sit it, he thought resolutely. If I want them to respect me, then I must respect our ways of dealing with such things. So I have to let this wash over me, but in the end I will sit the Seastone Chair. It can't be any other way. My lord father was a strong lord, a respected lord and I am even stronger and will be more respected surely.

It took him a moment before, now turning his attention back to the conversation, he could tell what sides had quickly emerged. His uncle Aeron spoke in favor of Theon, supported by Balon Tawney and Sawane Botley. For all the Damphair waffled on about the old ways of the ironborn and the will of their god, he apparently still believed in Theon and the strength of his blood, the strength of their family's blood. Theon would have liked his uncle Victarion to support him as well, yet the latter sat silently in his chair, his bloodshot eyes gazing into the embers of the brazier as if he were a thousand leagues away in his mind.

Rodrik Harlaw, Dunstan Drumm, and Baelor Blacktyde openly advocated deposing House Greyjoy, which amounted to nothing less than open treason. Theon took it upon himself to make them pay once he sat in the Seastone Chair and ruled over the isles. With or without help from King's Landing, he could not and would not let them get away with such a thing.

"House Greyjoy can no longer rule over us, Damphair. Just look at what's left of it? A one-armed drunk and two wenches," Rodrik Harlaw said. Theon was about to speak back, was about to tell him to his stupid face that he was welcome to try out with sword in hand which one of them was the wench, but by then the insolent fellow just kept talking. "That bauble around your neck, did you buy it with iron or with gold?"

Theon touched the golden pendant. He had forgotten. It had been so long... In the Old Way, the way of the ironborn, women might decorate themselves with ornaments bought with coin, but a warrior wore only the jewelry he had taken off the corpses of enemies slain by his own hand. Paying the iron price, it was called.

"Gold," Theon answered, feeling his voice fail him. The old man, however, did not seem to listen to his answer at all.

"And the ring on your delicate little hand," Rodrik Harlaw continued. "I know that one from your father. He took it off a Cuy bastard when we first sacked Sunhouse together, as young men. So not only does our new lord drape himself in gold like a whore, he also adorns himself with the deeds of another."

"Where is it written that our lord must be a kraken?" blaffed Dunstan Drumm. "What right has Pyke to rule us? Great Wyk is the largest isle, Harlaw the richest, Old Wyk the most holy. When the black line was consumed by dragonfire, the ironborn gave the primacy to Vickon Greyjoy, aye... but it need not be so to the end of all days. What has been given can also be taken away again."

The three of them agreed that House Greyjoy had already ruled too long and had grown too weak to lead the Iron Islands to new greatness. However, the men disagreed on who should succeed House Greyjoy. While Rodrik Harlaw spoke out for himself, supported by Baelor Blacktyde, Dunstan Drumm felt there could be no better man than he himself, of course. Dunstan's speech about the proud history of House Drumm, from Dale the Dread to Gormond the Oldfather, was so boring, however, that it did not take long for Asha to interrupt him. For the first time, Theon was glad to hear his sister's voice.

The joy did not last long, though. It didn't surprise Theon that the bitch didn't speak up for him. What did surprise him, however, was that she had the gall to claim the Seastone Chair for herself. Theon's jaw nearly dropped when Meldred Merlyn then even sided with her, claiming that Asha was more Balon's son than Theon, and that if the rule was to remain with House Greyjoy, it should be with the eldest son.

She's probably fucking him. Or at least he hopes that one day she will.

"What about Victarion?" asked Waldon Wynch out of nowhere, looking over at Theon's uncle. "He is a great warrior and a respected man, the brother of Balon and certainly the men would follow him."

Victarion, however, did not respond, just continued to stare dumbly into the glowing coals.

"Once upon a time, perhaps," Asha said, "and if the Drowned God should one day decide that to rule one needs as few arms as possible, then I will gladly bend my knee to him. Until then, however, Onearm can better keep drinking himself into an early grave and leave the Seastone Chair to me."

"No woman will ever rule the ironborn, not even a woman such as you, Asha," the Damphair said. "We obey the wishes of the Drowned God, and our god has not meant for women to rule."

"What do we need a lord for anyway?" asked Harrin Sunderly then. "Whose ever arse is sitting on the Iron Throne doesn't care about our islands. They never have. Aegon the Dragon only took the islands because he could, not because he really wanted them. But King's Landing doesn't give a shit about us so, we might as well give a shit about them."

"There always has to be a Lord Reaper," Waldon Wynch said.

"Says who? What good does some other house's coat of arms on the sail of my ship do me when I'm raiding thousands of leagues away? Nothing at all. It does not make my men stronger, nor does it make my enemies weaker."

"Yes, it does," Waldon said. "The sight of House Greyjoy's kraken strikes fear into the hearts of the enemy, as it has done for centuries. And that fear weakens them."

"Yes, fear weakens the enemy, but it is fear of our swift longships on their shores, of our sharp swords plunged into their bellies, of our heavy axes splitting their skulls and of our hard cocks shoved deep in the cunts of the green landers' wives and daughters. No one cares about the fucking coat of arms, whether it's a golden kraken or a rosy kitten."

The voices grew louder and louder, turning the conversation quickly into a wild roar. Only when the first death threats were uttered and drawn daggers waved did the Damphair rise from his chair. As before in the hall at the feast, it took only moments for the voices to quieten, for the men to sit back in their chairs and look up expectantly at the priest of the Drowned God.

"Obviously, there can be only one solution that will bring us unity and please our god. This is the conclusion I have now come to." For a moment Aeron was silent, looking around the room from one face to the next, before continuing to speak. "A Kingsmoot."

Immediately, the uproar was back. Words and insults, whispered as well as yelled, burst upon the Damphair like a sudden downpour. Some of the men jumped up in horror, others turned pale and seemed almost to fall off their chairs. Even Theon's uncle Victarion now raised his eyes for the first time, his face drawn into lines of worry. Theon himself could hardly believe what he had just heard. A Kingsmoot? Was the Damphair really going to have a new king of the Iron Islands chosen? This was treason and whatever solution for the succession he had had in mind before, in this case they could be sure of a reaction from the Iron Throne. A reaction in blood and steel and dragonfire. Theon grew hot and cold at the thought. Aeron raised his hands and again it took a moment longer for silence to settle over the room. Before he could again say anything, however, Waldon Wynch beat him to it.

"A kingsmoot? Is this some jape, or do you mean it truly?" Waldon asked.

"Of course I mean it truly. Do not think that I have forgotten how it ended the last time we rose against the Iron Throne. But this time it is different."

"How?"

"Last time my beloved brother Balon crowned himself king and this arrogance angered our god. That is why we have been driven off from everywhere, pushed back to our very own islands. That is why our ancient kingdoms have crumbled into dust time and time again, even before the dragons came to Westeros and Harren the Black and his line were consumed by dragonfire. Because we no longer followed the holy way of our god, because we were weak and arrogant. But not this time. This time we will choose our king, this time we will follow the Old Way of the ironborn, and for that our God will give us his blessing. He will give us victory and freedom. A kingsmoot is the only way."

"Have you lost even the last bit of your mind now?" Asha now yelled at him.

"Mind your tongue, Asha. I am speaking with the voice of our god and if you mock me, you also mock the Drowned God. You are here only because Balon would have it so, but never forget your place. You are a woman and have no voice when men speak."

"A kingsmoot," she said, shaking her head. "The Drowned God must have shoved a pricklefish up your arse. And even that thing would have enough sense to know that this is madness."

"Asha, dear niece, where have your manners gone?" they suddenly heard a voice from the direction of the door. All eyes turned to look at the man leaning there against the doorframe, dark and handsome, with the faintest smile on his deep blue lips. "That's no way to talk to your uncle, and certainly not to such a holy man."

How did he get in here without the door squeaking, Theon thought for a brief moment. Before anyone could say anything, however, the Damphair already began to roar, his face as flaming red as if he were about to burst.

"What are you doing here? You have no right walk in these holy halls," Aeron thundered. "Be gone."

"Crow's Eye," Victarion said, the voice rough and hoarse.

"King Crow's Eye, brother," Euron said, smiling his handsome smile. 

Have I ever seen him not smile? I think not, thought Theon. In my dreams he is always smiling. Smiling and laughing.

"You are no king. We shall have no king but from the kingsmoot." The Damphair stood. "No godless man-"

"May sit the Seastone Chair, aye." Euron glanced about the room. "As it happens, I sat upon the Seastone Chair just today. It raised no objections."

His smiling eye was glittering.

"Heretic! Only a godly man may sit the Seastone Chair. You, Crow’s Eye, you worships naught but your own pride. You are a vile and godless creature."

"Godless? Why, Aeron, I am the godliest man ever to raise sail," Euron said, walking into the room, his hands outstretched to the faint warmth of the brazier. "You serve one god, Damphair, but I have served ten thousand. From Ib to Asshai, when men see my sails, they pray. How about you, Victarion, my dear brother? Have you no other greeting left for me after all these long years? Nor you, Asha? How fares your lady mother?"

"Poorly," Asha said. "Some man made her a widow."

Euron shrugged.

"I had heard the Storm God swept Balon to his death. Who is this man who slew him? Tell me his name, niece, so I might revenge myself on him."

Asha got to her feet so quickly that Theon thought for a moment she was about to jump at his neck with bared teeth.

"You know his name as well as I. For years you were gone from us, and yet the Silence returns within days of my lord father's death."

"Do you accuse me?" Euron asked mildly.

"Should I?"

The sharpness in Asha's voice made Theon frown. He had been away from his home for most of his life, but he still knew that it was dangerous to speak so to the Crow's Eye, even when his smiling eye was shining with amusement. 

"The Silence was at sea when my brother fell to his much too early death. And if you don't believe the word of an uncle, feel free to ask your brother. He was on board with me, after all."

"Enough of this nonsense," Victarion growled. "You are not welcome here, so get back to the other side of the world where you belong."

"I had hoped for a somewhat warmer welcome, Lord Captain, after all I am your brother and your future king."

"You are no king," Aeron spat back at him. "Neither now nor in the future. Were Balon still here, you would long be hanging on a gallows from one of the towers of Pyke. Balon would have-"

"Balon is dead, Damphair. You'd better remember that," Euron said, and for the first time his voice became as sharp as a blade.

"You will never be our king," Aeron said stubbornly. "The ironborn will never make a creature like you their king. No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair."

"That word again. Godless," Euron said, his voice soft as a featherbed again and his handsome smile back on his lips. "Who knows more about gods than I do? Horse gods and fire gods, gods made of gold and with gemstone eyes, gods carved of cedar wood, gods chiseled into mountains, gods of empty air... I know them all. I have seen their people garland them with flowers, and shed the blood of goats and bulls and children in their name. And I have heard their prayers, in half a hundred tongues. Heal my withered leg, make that maiden love me, grant me a healthy son. Save me, succor me, make me wealthy... protect me! Protect me from mine enemies, protect me from the darkness, protect me from the crabs inside my belly, from the horse lords, from the slavers at my door. Protect me from the Silence."

Euron laughed so loudly that even through the storm outside the walls it could certainly be heard through half the castle. The priest raised a bony finger as if trying to admonish a misbehaving lad.

"They pray to trees and golden idols and goat-headed abominations. False gods..."

"Just so," said Euron, "and for that sin I kill them all. I spill their blood upon the sea and sow their screaming women with my seed. Their little gods cannot stop me, so plainly they are false gods. I am more devout than even you, Aeron. Perhaps it should be you who kneels to me for blessing."

"Enough of that," Aeron now thundered again. "I will summon to a kingsmoot. In a month's time we shall meet, every one of us, on Old Wyk, the holiest place of our god, to receive his blessing. Then at last we shall place the driftwood crown once more on the head of a High King of the Isles, a godly man, worth the blessing of the Drowned God, and you, godless creature, shall get what you deserve."

With Aeron angrily stomping out of the room, the gathering then quickly ended and less than the better part of an hour later, Theon was already back in his room, lying in his bed, freezing and staring at the ceiling. He had pulled two woolen blankets and a sealskin over himself, but the cold just would not leave his body. Three times he had already turned to his side and spit the contents of his belly onto the floor, half-digested fish stew, sour wine and stinking bile. He already felt again from the pain and stirring in his guts that it would happen again soon. Theon couldn't remember ever having felt so miserable in his life. He could not tell, however, whether that was because of the poor food, too much wine, or what had happened in his father's solar after the feast. He suspected what the cause was, however.

In a month's time, there would be a kingsmoot. The first in hundreds, maybe thousands of years. Then there would be war, and at the end of the war, perhaps even at the end of the kingsmoot already, he would either be king or dead.

Chapter Text

With narrowed eyes, Robb rolled over once more in their bed, reached for his Bethany, and pulled her close to him with a determination as if he could drive the morning sun out of their chamber with it. It felt good to feel her naked body against his. She was warm and soft and wonderful and smelled as lovely as certainly no other woman in the world. Robb felt himself already getting hard again at the thought of what the two of them could do together now, naked and in their marriage bed, before the day would have to begin. His wife, however, seemed to see it differently.

"Nothing I would rather do, my husband," she said as he began to rub his swelling manhood against her butt. "The day has already begun, though, and today of all days we shouldn't be late. There is still plenty of work to be done."

With those words, she turned her head toward him, gave him a quick kiss on the mouth, and scurried out of bed as nimbly as a deer on the run taking to the underbrush. Robb watched her getting dressed and even though the idea of being inside her again this morning before getting up had apparently died, she seemed to take an exceptionally long time covering up her naked, magnificent body. He looked at her forms, her slender legs, the round, firm buttocks, the full, soft breasts and, last but not least, the slight bulge of her belly that had begun to appear, and could not help but thank the gods – and his parents – again in his mind for having given him this woman as his wife.

When he had first noticed it, little more than a week ago, he had not wanted to share a bed with her at first after that. Bedding a pregnant woman couldn't possibly be good for the child growing inside her, for his child, and as much as he wanted and desired her, there was no way he had wanted to risk the health of his first child. Bethany had laughed when he had told her why he hadn't made love to her in days. For when his wife had realized she was with child, she had spoken to Maester Luwin about exactly that immediately after he had confirmed her pregnancy. It was not dangerous, he had assured her. There was absolutely nothing preventing them from continuing to fulfill their marital duties, he had assured her. Even if this duty consisted mainly of fathering a child and they had already fulfilled this duty. At first, Robb had been anything but happy that she had spoken so openly with Maester Luwin about this topic of all things.

"Don't be silly, love," she had then said to him with a loving laugh. "When the time comes for me to bring our first child into this world, Maester Luwin will have to do considerably more than just talk. So there's little need to be embarrassed about a few words exchanged in good faith."

Of course, she had been right. Still, it had seemed odd to him.

"Besides," she had continued with a soft purr in her voice, "you should thank me for that rather than be ashamed. That way we now know it's not dangerous and you won't have to hold back when we share the bed again. Don't think I didn't notice how you turned away every time you got hard feeling my body next to yours."

Her promise that she would think up a few new… positions for them both, in which he would be welcome to take her without straining her belly, had finally convinced him. After that, Robb had bedded her even more often than before, as he himself had noticed. Every night he had been in her since and most of the time again in the morning. Sometimes he had even summoned her to their chambers in the middle of the day with this or that silly excuse and had taken her, made use of her. The slight hint of a belly swollen from their child and the mere knowledge that she was already carrying it only seemed to make his Bethany all the more tempting and alluring to him. Something he had not even thought possible before.

After he got dressed, a black doublet with a white direwolf embroidered on its chest, gray pants of thick wool and the heavy coat with the trim of fox fur over his shoulders, he ate a little something in the Great Hall, still cold and damp from the icy morning air. He wasn't particularly hungry, however, and the oatmeal, so bland in taste that he might as well have been eating wet scraps of paper, didn't exactly help to whet his appetite either. Robb had decided to wear his good clothes all day already, to ensure that he would be ready and presentable as soon as the prince and princess arrived on their dragons, along with their companions. Once his soldiers would spot the dragons, there would certainly be no more time to change clothes. After all, a dragon traveled significantly faster than a horse or a carriage, let alone a whole retinue, with which their guests usually came here, with which normal guests usually came here. Bethany had already told him in bed last night, however, that he better not mention that he did not consider the prince and princess normal in their presence. Such remarks could easily be misunderstood at southron courts.

"We are not in the South here," he had said to her, but had known at the same moment what a weak argument it had been.

"No, but they are from the South, husband," Bethany had said. "So as long as they are here, you should act as if this is as deep a southron court as you can imagine, so as not to put your foot in any mouths. I know Winterfell has little enough to do with King's Landing usually, but you wouldn't want our royal guests to tell that the people of the North are little better than wildlings once they get back to King's Landing, now would you? There are enough of those tales going round in the South already."

Of course she had been right, as she always was. So Robb had decided to follow her advice and behave as southron as he could without feeling like a fool. Winterfell was no southron court, never would be, but Robb was determined to make such a good impression before Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys that there would be nothing that could somehow make the reputation of the North stand worse in the South at all.

I wonder if they will bring Theon back north with them. No doubt they have enough of him in King's Landing already and will be glad to dump him back with us, he thought and had to grin.

"My lord?" he suddenly heard a voice beside him. A maid stood there with wide eyes, looking at him uncertainly. She was young, slender, with flaxen hair and pretty blue eyes. He had never seen the girl before in Winterfell and for a moment was irritated not to know her, until he remembered that Bethany had brought some maids and servants here from Barrowtown with her.

"What is it?" he asked, trying to sound as friendly as his undoubtedly irritated expression would allow.

"I asked if I may clear the table, my lord."

Robb looked down in confusion for another moment at his half-eaten bowl of oatmeal, cold and unwanted on the table in front of him. He nodded with a smile to the girl, who eagerly grabbed the bowl and immediately disappeared with it in the direction of the kitchens. He liked the girl, he found. With a little time, she would certainly do well here in Winterfell and as far as he had heard, some of Winterfell's servants and soldiers even had set their eyes on some of the prettier girls from Barrowtown already. Surely she was one of them. He knew, however, that his lady mother had spoken out against hiring any more staff, which would certainly not make things any easier for the newcomers. He knew his lady mother too well to assume anything else.

"We have enough servants here," his lady mother had said in a determined voice. "What do we need more clumsy girls for to break our dishes?"

Robb had, when his lady mother had first complained to him about it, already known that her dislike of it had had nothing to do with the new servants and maids themselves. His lady mother, as silly as the thought might be, somehow seemed to feel threatened by Bethany, as if it were no longer a matter of many years or - as Robb hoped - even decades but of days before he would finally one day become Lord and Bethany thus the Lady of Winterfell. Robb had decided, when Bethany had told him only two weeks ago how his lady mother had taken over the monthly control of the supply chambers below Winterfell and the care of the Glass Gardens, not to stand by and watch this any longer. If such a thing occurred again, he had decided, he would have a talk with his mother about it, would have to have it. To feel threatened by Bethany was silly, almost childish, and it didn't help anyone if his wife, the future mother of his children after all, and his lady mother warred with each other and fought over rights, duties and tasks instead of running the castle together. Even if the two didn't want to work together, Winterfell was so huge that there was certainly enough work so that neither woman had to feel bored or useless.

"Winterfell is well prepared, my lord," Maester Luwin said as Robb sat with him in his father's solar only an hour later, his solar for the moment, and as long as he would be traveling beyond the Wall, Bran's solar.

The thought left him with an ache in his gut. Bran was a good boy, smart and dutiful, with good and faithful advisors at his side, Maester Luwin, their uncle Ser Brynden, Vayon Poole, Rodrik Cassel, their lady mother and, should she allow it, last but not least even Bethany. One day, he would be a good man, a good lord once their lord father – or he himself – had given him a castle and lands to rule over. And yet he was too young to have to bear this responsibility. As much as Robb had looked forward to taking the seat of Lord of Winterfell in his father's absence, even he himself had felt too young for it. Years ago, his lord father had once told him a phrase that had run through Robb's mind over and over in the weeks since his father's departure, by now clearer in its meaning than ever before in his life.

"Many will come to you when you sit in my seat one day," his lord father had said. "They will be kind and friendly, humble and some even submissive to you and you will be more tired than you have ever been in your life. It is terribly exhausting to know that almost every time someone comes to you, almost every time you receive a raven, someone wants something from you. Very few will come to you because they like you."

Now, having sat in the high seat of the Lord of Winterfell for barely more than a few weeks, Robb was indeed more exhausted than he had ever been in his life. Many had come to him in this time, not a few as he suspected because they had hoped to have better chances with him to wrap him around the finger than with his lord father. Peasants and merchants, knights and lords, men and women from seemingly everywhere in the North had come to him and all had wanted something from him, all had wanted to wring this or that promise from him or to push him to this or that decision. How Bran might be doing now and in the weeks to come, and how he might be feeling, despite all his declarations that he was doing well and was looking forward to taking the seat as Lord of Winterfell, Robb could not even imagine.

"So what do the supplies look like?"

"Well, thanks to Lady Catelyn's very detailed summary," Maester Luwin began, glancing at his records and smiling faintly, "we can be sure that during your and your lord father's absence we will have no trouble to expect. We have enough wood and charcoal, winter wheat and barley, beans and dried meat for at least two years. Also there is so much wine, ale, hams, salted fish, and beets and turnips in vinegar that we could have another wedding feast right away without getting into trouble, my lord."

"So Winterfell will not starve to death, I suppose."

"Hardly, my lord," Luwin said, now with a broad smile.

"According to Mikken, iron ore is running low. It is unlikely to last for more than three months. However, he has already forged a good supply of ore into iron and good steel and the armory is already well stocked. And you certainly don't want to stay beyond the Wall longer than those three months, I take it?"

"Not if it can be avoided," Robb said, now forcing himself to smile as well. Actually, he hoped to be back in less than one months. The sooner, the better.

"Ser Rodrik asks your permission to take two dozen new recruits into Winterfell's guard, my lord. He fears that the soldiers your father took with him to King's Landing have left the guard too weak in case of an attack," Maester Luwin said, stifling any further comment, but Robb could hear from the sound of his voice how silly he found the thought. Robb also could not imagine that twenty men could actually make a noticeable difference in the strength of Winterfell's guard, even if his lord father had taken some of their best soldiers with him. He kept that thought to himself, though.

"Twenty men short is twenty men short," Robb said after a moment's thought. "We don't know when my lord father will return with the men, and if Ser Rodrik is convinced we need more men, then I trust his judgement. He has my permission."

"Very well, my lord."

It was unlikely that in the time of his absence an attack would come, from whomever, but as in most things in life, especially when it came to defending a castle, it was better to be safe than sorry. His father's letter, which they had received only three days ago, the day before Bran had arrived with their Uncle Brynden already, had hinted at a threat from wildlings, but without saying anything more specific. But if his lord father even felt compelled to send him along on this venture beyond the Wall and to set Bran up as Lord of Winterfell for this time, then it had to be something serious. The fact that the Crown Prince would personally lead this expedition also spoke, despite all the doubts of his lady mother, Maester Luwin, and Bethany, for the fact that this was by no means just a poor joke. Not that his lord father was known for joking around all too much to begin with.

"Is there anything else to discuss?" asked Robb.

"Indeed, my lord, one more thing. Vayon Poole asked me to remind you that the treasuries are not well filled. It is not yet a concern, but large expenses should be avoided over the next few months."

"I will let Bran know then that, while I am away, he should please not order the building of a new castle," Robb said, laughing. Vayon Poole, as good as he was at his duties, was even better than Ser Rodrik at always dramatizing the situation. His reminder of the amount of gold in the treasuries – or the lack thereof – would certainly not have been any different had all the gold under Casterly Rock suddenly appeared in Winterfell's courtyard.

"Certainly a wise idea, my lord. That will be all then," Maester Luwin finally said. Robb took one heavy but relieved breath as he left the maester's little chamber. His heart was still beating up to his chest and he was glad that Maester Luwin had not brought up the conversation between him and Bethany that they had had behind his back. Of course, his wife was right and there was nothing for him to be ashamed of, really, but the thought of Maester Luwin, a man he had known his entire life, talking to Bethany about the things they did in their marriage bed still unsettled him somehow.

Robb then went back to his chambers and checked one last time that he had packed everything important for the journey. Warm clothes – he didn't possess any others anyway – and a thick blanket made of goat's wool, a good knife, a small bag with some dried meat and fish in case the provisions they would receive from the Night's Watch would be even more meager than he already feared, and in a skin so small that it could almost be mistaken for a toy, some spirit that he had received as a gift from Bethany's father on the day after their wedding. It may not have been essential for survival, but it would certainly warm him on particularly cold nights. In a second, smaller sack, which Ser Rodrik had prepared for him the very day the raven from King's Landing had arrived, were his harness and gambeson, bracers and greaves, his helmet and sword, all gray steel, gray linen and plain leather, decorated only here and there with his family's coat of arms. When he was satisfied with his choice of things, he left his chambers and went to the armory, where Ser Rodrik was already waiting for him.

Robb refrained from eating anything at noon after the repeated and very detailed inspection of the armory that Ser Rodrik had insisted on before Robb would take his leave. He was not hungry yet and as soon as Their Graces would arrive on their dragons, he would have to dine with them shortly after anyway. Instead, he went to the stables to Storm, his favorite horse, a piebald gelding. He would have liked to make use of the time left to ride out with him a little before the weight of the situation would catch up with him, but unfortunately there was no time for that. Instead, he fed Storm a rock-hard but apparently tasty enough winter pear and talked to him a little.

Of course, he didn't expect an answer from a horse, let alone sound advice, but it still felt good to be able to talk to his faithful animal, if only to free his mind a little. Robb would have preferred to be able to travel on Storm beyond the Wall, if he had to do so at all. But in the short time available, even his best rider would not have been able to get the gelding to the Wall in time to wait for him there.

"Robb, a word, please," he suddenly heard his lady mother's voice behind him. He bid farewell to Storm with a pat on the horse's strong flank, then turned to his lady mother and left the stables with her at his side.

"Of course, mother," he said as they walked together through the large courtyard of Winterfell towards the Library Tower. Robb's gaze briefly wandered upward into the cloudy sky, as if he hoped to spot the dragons there somewhere. Of course, that was nonsense.

Don't be childish, he scolded himself. When the dragons approach, my scouts on the towers will let me know in time.

"Is there anything else to discuss before Their Graces will arrive?"

"Yes, indeed," she said and fell silent for a moment. "I want to ask you not to go, Robb."

"You know that's impossible, mother."

"It isn't," she said, and Robb immediately recognized the defiant tone in her voice that she also always used whenever she tried to talk his lord father out of something she deemed a folly. "It is dangerous beyond the Wall, Robb."

"I know that, mother. I am a man of the North. I know very well how dangerous the North can be."

"But north of the Wall is no longer the North, Robb. Not the North you know. You will not be a lord there, not the son of a lord. No one will kneel before you, or invite you into his house when you need a rest. The wildlings are a dangerous lot, Robb, robbers and thieves and don't even get me started on the animals that roam the woods beyond the Wall."

"I know that, mother. Don't treat me like a child."

"Then don't act like one," she scolded, but noticed her inappropriate tone immediately. "Please forgive me. I didn't mean... I just want you to be safe, my son. And going on this venture is the exact opposite of being safe."

"I'm aware that it's dangerous, mother. Very aware, in fact. But father has promised the king that I will accompany the crown prince, and I certainly will not make father a liar by disobeying him. And if matters were not truly serious and important, father would certainly not have decided this way either. I trust his judgement, mother, and so should you."

They walked a little further side by side, keeping silent, and now Robb noticed how his lady mother also looked up into the sky now and then, as if she were looking for something there as well.

At least I'm not the only one who's a little childish, Robb thought, and a strange form of relief filled him at the sight.

"I talked to Bethany about it," his mother finally said when they had already passed the Library Tower and were just reaching the entrance to the Godswood. It struck him immediately that his lady mother had been talking about Bethany, not Lady Bethany as she usually liked to do. "She agrees with me. You shouldn't go."

Robb had to grin, which his lady mother acknowledged with an irritated look. Of course she didn't understand, couldn't possibly understand. Shortly after his marriage to Bethany, when Robb had noticed that his lady mother had been becoming more and more dismissive of his wife with each passing day, he had begun to think about how he could reconcile the two of them, so that his lady mother would finally accept Bethany as part of their family and that Bethany would finally feel part of that family, feel at home in Winterfell. That now this venture of all things, a possibly life-threatening expedition beyond the Wall on the King's orders, had brought the two of them together and had made them stop fighting each other, if only for the moment, was too absurd for him not to grin at.

"What's so funny about that?"

"Nothing," he said, trying to push back his grin. "It's just that... nothing." Again, his gaze briefly wandered to the sky, gray and dreary from one horizon to the other. It probably wouldn't rain today, but if the weather kept worsening like this, it wouldn't be long before snow fell again. "I'm going to tell Bethany the same thing I'm telling you, mother. I will not make father a liar by disobeying him. It is my duty to follow his wishes and orders and I intend to do my duty as a son should. Besides, as long as father is not here, the North is my responsibility and should there indeed be a wildling threat beyond the Wall, then that is my responsibility as well. One day the North will be mine entirely, and I will not become a respected lord if I shirk my duties and cower as soon as things get serious."

He looked at his mother for a moment and saw that she wanted to say something more, but then did not. In her gaze he recognized the worry and the sadness that she had been wearing on her face since the arrival of the raven from King's Landing, but now he also recognized something like... pride in her eyes.

They walked a little further through the courtyard, past the Guest House, until they finally arrived back at the armory. His lady mother bid him farewell, saying that she wanted to check on the preparations in the kitchens before Their Graces would arrive, obviously dissatisfied with the outcome of their conversation. Robb stayed behind at the armory and decided to watch Bran practice his sword for a while. Initially, Robb had wanted to insist that Bran also spend the entire day already dressed in his best clothes to be ready for Their Graces' arrival, but their Uncle Brynden had insisted on the daily exercises.

"If the prince feels offended because I want to make a good knight out of the lad, that's his problem," Ser Brynden had said, which had settled the issue for him.

Now Bran and their Uncle Brynden stood in the small, fenced-in practice area outside the armory. Bran was in full armor while their uncle wore only his woolen pants and doublet with the black fish on the chest. The two circled each other ready to attack, the Blackfish seeming to move as elegantly as a cat despite his years, while Bran, his armor not perfectly fitting, lurched back and forth as if he were stuck in a wine barrel. Uncle Brynden tried desperately to teach Bran a riposte, but more often than not it ended with Bran getting a blow from Brynden's practice sword, either to the chest, to an arm, or to the butt, making him land on the latter shortly thereafter every time.

Still, it was impressive to see how stubbornly Bran fought his way back to his feet each time to continue the fight against the Blackfish. Robb knew Bran was making a special effort to get better, since some Kingsguard knights would probably be accompanying Crown Prince Aegon north and he was hoping for a chance to practice with one of them. Robb also knew, however, there would be no time for such things before they would have to continue their journey to the Wall, Robb being one of them then, once Their Graces would arrive here shortly.

Robb had the feeling of having circled Winterfell at least half a dozen times when, nervously roaming along the outer fortress wall again and again like a wolf in a cage, the call was finally heard shortly before sunset.

"Dragons! Dragons!" one of the soldiers shouted excitedly from the wide round tower next to the South Gate. Immediately the small bell from the roof of the tower sounded as a signal that what must be the most unusual retinue in the world was about to arrive.

Robb immediately hurried back to the courtyard where the rest of his family, Bethany, Bran and his lady mother, surrounded by Ser Brynden, Vayon Poole, Maester Luwin, speton Chayle, Rodrik Cassel, were already waiting for him. Robb took his place in their midst. The main gate had been opened for their royal guests, even though it was unlikely that the dragons would land outside Winterfell. Yet they stood there now with their eyes fixed firmly on the wide-open main gate, as was their custom, full of anticipation. For a while, nothing happened, and Robb feared that the soldier on the tower might have made a mistake. Then, however, something changed, everything changed. It surprised him that he could hear the dragons before he saw them, but even before one of the mighty beasts came into view, he heard the beating and rustling of huge, leathery wings in the wind.

"I can hear the dragons," he heard Bran whisper. "I can-"

A mighty scream silenced Bran as a dark shadow, at least three times the size of those hairy mammoths from beyond the Wall, skittered over them fast as a lightning bolt. The roar was so bloodcurdling that for a tiny moment even Robb's blood seemed to freeze in his veins. Only half a heartbeat later, a second shadow flitted over them, smaller and entirely silver like a frozen lake, but not a bit less impressive.

Robb looked to the sky, trying to follow the beasts with his gaze, but the dragons had already disappeared again. A heartbeat later, however, they were back, enormous creatures of black and red, silver and gold, monsters of nightmares, circling two or three times in the air above the courtyard and then coming in for a landing. The black one was the first to touch the ground. Its hind legs hit the ground with a thud almost as if someone had thrown a dead horse from the highest tower. Then the beast bent forward and its forearms with the massive wings touched the ground. The impact was so violent that Robb thought he could feel the ground tremble beneath his feet.

The beast stretched its head forward and for a tiny moment it seemed as if it was going to spit fire, burning them all to ashes, skin and hair, in an instant. But then another roar rang out, again so loud and powerful that Robb could feel it vibrating in his guts.

Here I am, the dragon seemed to roar. Behold and witness me.

When the second dragon had also landed, Robb finally dared to take a few steps forward. The watchful eyes of the creatures, red as blood and golden as the sun, looking at him piercingly as if in warning not to come too close to their masters, however, kept him from taking any more steps. Dead silence reigned in the courtyard as a number of people climbed off the dragons' backs, as small as a child's toys that had been placed on a horse's back. Robb was surprise that, among them, he spotted the shape of a man only half the size of the others.

Do they have a child with them?

A man broke away from the group and approached Robb first, dressed all in black with a hood pulled low over his face. Next to him followed a woman, as could be seen from her form but not her clothing. Both wore high boots, trousers, doublets, and thick cloaks, all of black wool and black leather with only a hint of red here and there. The man was the first to take off the hood, revealing his shoulder-length, silver-white hair.

Crown Prince Aegon.

The woman now pushed back her hood as well, revealing a full mane of thick, black curls. Robb looked at her for a brief moment, looking into what was probably the most beautiful, flawless face he had ever seen.

Princess Rhaenys.

Immediately he sank down to one knee, his family and the entire assembled household following his example.

"Your Graces, it is our honor to welcome you to our halls. Winterfell is yours."

"Rise, my lord," he heard the prince say.

Robb did as he was told. Once again, all followed his example. At a sign, a servant hurried up and offered bread and salt and a cup of wine to the prince and princess. They ate and drank from it, then passed it to their companions. Robb was about to begin introducing his family and the most important members of his household when a man stepped out of the crowd, pushed carefully past the crown prince with a broad grin, and fell into Robb's arms.

"Jon! It's so good to see you," Robb laughed into the frost-covered fur trim of Jon's cloak.

"It's good to see you, too, cousin," Jon said. He broke away from the embrace and took a small step back. "Life as Lord of Winterfell seems to be treating you well. You've got fat."

"You're lucky you've already eaten of the bread and salt or I had you thrown straight into the dungeons for that," Robb joked, but then tore himself away from the sight of his cousin and began introducing his family and household to his royal guests.

After that, the crown prince in return began to introduce his companions. In addition to his sister Princess Rhaenys and Jon, some of the best names of the realm were among the men who lined up behind their prince like a small host. Tyrell, Royce, Celtigar, Whent…

Prince Aegon had just introduced Prince Lewyn of the Kingsguard and now turned to the second man in the group who was dressed in white from head to toe. Robb didn't need to hear the name to immediately recognize him by the black bat he wore prominently as adornment on his helmet. Ser Oswell Whent, a distant cousin of his own lady mother. The knight was apparently still engrossed in conversation with another companion, but then heard his name from his prince's mouth.

"All I'm saying is that next time I want to sit somewhere else," Ser Oswell said before stepping forward and indicating a bow in Robb's direction.

"And I say you chose this seat," said another man, lean and tall, with a sharp nose and a widow's peak and the colors of a salty Dornishman. "Surely you'll survive the little rest of the ride up to the Wall, won't you?"

"My uncle, Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne," Prince Aegon immediately introduced the man.

"I nearly fell off a dozen times before we even passed the Gods Eye," Ser Oswell protested. "I can't hold on to the man in front of me at all."

"I sincerely beg your forgiveness that my stature has caused you such inconvenience," the little man, whom Robb had originally mistaken for a child, now said. The man, wrapped so thickly in wool and leather that he could barely walk, now pulled his hood off his head as well. Robb looked into what must have been the ugliest face he had ever seen. Again, he didn't have to wait for Prince Aegon to introduce him to know who this was. Tyrion Lannister, the Imp of Casterly Rock.

"I will forgive you," Ser Oswell said. "This time. But until we fly on, please grow a little more."

"I will do my best," said the Imp.

"Good, then that problem would be out of the way if Lord Tyrion is true to his word and just grows a few more inches. Now I just need someone to save me from the whining of the little girl behind me."

"What girl?" asked the man Prince Aegon had introduced him to as Dickon Tarly.

"He's talking about me," said Prince Lewyn. "I was sitting behind him and mentioned once, maybe twice on the way, that so high up in the air I was a little cold on the dragon's back."

"If to you mentioning means howling incessantly in my ears like a little girl who's been spanked too hard, then that's even true," Ser Oswell said. "I for one found the beds worse than the cold."

"I told you we should have stopped at Harrenhal and not in the middle of nowhere," Daman Whent said. "We would have been regally hosted, just as befitted our prince and our most gorgeous princess."

"Harrenhal was too close to King's Landing. It would only have lost us time," Ser Robar said.

"Ah, but the Eyrie would have been better, yes? That would have been so far off our route that we might just as well have made a trip to the Free Cities," Ser Oswell said.

"Riverrun would have been on the way," Robb heard someone in the group say.

"Yes, but we wouldn't have been happy with that," the Imp said. "My sister Cersei is the lady of this castle. She probably would have strangled me in my sleep, and you would have had to take my dear nephew Joffrey Tully as a substitute."

"And that would have been a bad thing?" asked Ser Oswell.

"Oh, Joffey is a decent lad, but the influence of my dear sister does him no good. She's the most miserable woman in the world. I mean, she loves her children. There's no denying that. Probably her only redeeming quality. That and her cheekbones. Still, she does the boy no good. Fortunately, he has inherited his father's soft heart, so my sister's poisonous claws shouldn't do too much damage. Unfortunately, however, I fear that he has also inherited his father's soft head," the Imp said, but immediately fell silent when he noticed the look on the face of Robb's lady mother, whose eyes seemed to throw silent lightning bolts at him.

"I think that's enough," Prince Aegon said in a firm voice, immediately silencing his men. "I hope you don't take offense at my men's rude behavior, Lady Stark. Two days on dragonback can wear away the manners of even the most noble of men."

"No offense taken, Your Grace," his lady mother said, but Robb could hear in her voice that she was far from forgetting Lord Tyrion's words.

"Please forgive our late arrival, my lord," Princess Rhaenys then said to Robb. "The dragons took a little longer hunting this morning, so we were not able to depart until noon."

"No need to apologize, Your Grace," Robb said. "Whenever Your Graces arrive, is the right time."

The better part of an hour later they already found themselves in the Great Hall, which was by now well warmed by the fires in the half a dozen burning hearths. Since the day was already well advanced and the Prince and Princess would rather not fly through the dark and cold of night, it had been decided to spend that night still in Winterfell and only make it the rest of the way to the Wall tomorrow at first light. Robb was grateful that Bethany and his lady mother had been thoughtful enough to have chambers prepared for their guests, just in case. Tables and chairs had been carried into the Great Hall and a small feast had been improvised from the deer and the hares from the last hunt. The men as well as the prince and the princess seemed to enjoy it, despite the haste with which it had been prepared, laughing and talking loudly and boisterously.

Princess Rhaenys, having no suitable dress for a feast with her, had decided against wearing a borrowed dress. The dresses of Robb's lady mother did not fit her because of the princess' much more feminine shapes and the dresses of Bethany were apparently too short for her, since the princess was a considerable bit taller than his wife. She was thus still dressed in pants and doublet as she sat on the dais at the head of the hall, Bethany and Robb's lady mother next to her, and was talking as animatedly as the men before her, laughing, asking questions and answering just as many. Prince Aegon had been given the seat of honor in the center of the dais with his sister to his right. Robb had taken the seat on the other side next to the prince, Bran in turn next to Robb. Robb had expected that his little brother would certainly talk incessantly and ask questions about the Kingsguard, life in the capital, or anything else he could think of, but Bran had already been silent all evening, staring as if entranced at the crowd of men before him in the hall. Robb knew exactly whom he was watching there so intently.

"Where did you actually spend the night, Your Grace?" asked Robb, as he had just signaled a servant to pour Prince Aegon another cup of the dark ale they were brewing in Winterfell. "I heard from Ser Oswell earlier that the beds had been poor."

"We followed the Kingsroad and then spent the night at Lorton Castle, a small castle south of the Green Fork. Well, castle is perhaps too much a word. It's more like a watchtower, four small rooms and a wall around it so low that even a man with only one leg could jump over it. Ser Roger Lorton, however, was very hospitable. He was kind enough to provide us with rooms and beds for the night, even though he couldn't stop babbling about how the dragons would surely eat up all his supplies in a single night. So we sent the dragons out to hunt. Not that the dragons were hungry, but this way Ser Roger at least stopped talking about it. They did get a few deer and at least one stag, though."

"And how do you know this, Your Grace?"

"My sister and I could tell by the remnants of antlers we had to remove from the dragons' jaws before continuing our journey."

Robb had to think back to the dragons, to the deadly claws and the even deadlier jaws, with fangs as sharp as swords and almost as long, and for a moment he thought about what it must feel like to reach into the mouth of such a beast to pull something out from between its fangs. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

"Well, I hope the beds at Winterfell are more comfortable than the ones at Lorton Castle."

"They certainly are, my lord," Prince Aegon said with a laugh. "Don't take Oswell's talk too seriously, though, please. The beds were perfectly fine. He just loves to complain, that's all."

"Well, I'm reassured then."

For a moment, Robb wondered if he should now make the official announcement, in the presence of the prince and princess, that Bethany and he were expecting their first child. It would be, with such a high visit, a good opportunity and his lady mother would certainly, so Robb hoped at least, burst into tears of joy. Bethany and Maester Luwin had both told him, however, that much could still happen at such an early stage of pregnancy. It was not uncommon that, for reasons unknown, even with the best care and diet, a woman could still lose the child at such an early stage. For this reason, Bethany had asked him to wait before making the announcement. Robb thus again decided, as he had already done when Bethany had asked him to wait, to comply with his wife's wishes and remained silent. He would prefer to have his father present in person again on this occasion anyway rather than having him learn about it only from a letter.

"What about Greywater Watch?" Robb now heard Bran ask beside him. "It's on the way, and it's bigger than this Lorton."

"It certainly is," Princess Rhaenys, who must have heard Bran's question, now said with a laugh as bright as the sound of a bell.

"But apart from not knowing how we should have found it, we feared that fire-breathing dragons might not have been too welcome in a floating castle made entirely of wood."

"Speaking of the dragons...," Bethany then said. "Forgive me, Your Graces, but... where will the dragons spend the night? Horses we could shelter in the stables, but the dragons will hardly fit in there. Besides, the men and women of Winterfell are afraid of the beasts."

"We didn't expect otherwise," said the princess with an understanding smile. "Please don't worry about that, Lady Bethany. My brother and I will go to them again in a moment and untie the belts and the chains with which the saddles and the bags of supplies are strapped to them. The dragons will then leave Winterfell and find a place to sleep nearby. Some clearing in the woods around the castle. The dragons will not be noticed at all, I assure you. They will not return until tomorrow morning, before we leave."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Bethany said. "That sounds very reassuring."

"Just please make sure no one approaches the dragons while my sister and I are not around," Prince Aegon said. "The dragons are... calm and under control as long as we're near, but if a stranger were to approach them without us, there could be an incident."

"We'll let everyone in Winterfell know, Your Grace," Robb said, "but I don't think anyone would dare approach your dragons anyway."

The feast did not last very long, only little more than two hours, as Princess Rhaenys as well as most of their companions were tired and exhausted from the journey and could not wait to get into their beds. Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, accompanied by Ser Oswell and Prince Lewyn, quickly went outside once more and removed the saddles and the bags from the dragons' backs and indeed, as Robb could see through the open portal of the Great Hall, the two beasts immediately took off into the air and disappeared into the darkness of the night only half a heartbeat later. Bethany and Robb's lady mother then escorted Princess Rhaenys to her chambers while the others were led out by servants. At the princess' remark that they were certainly in no danger in Winterfell, Ser Oswell and Prince Lewyn reluctantly agreed to retire for the day and sleep it off as well. Prince Oberyn, who had begun bantering with one of the maids shortly after their arrival already, also withdrew, though he did not seem to be tired at all. Robb suspected that he had no intention of going to sleep yet, although he did not doubt that he was quite ready to go to bed. The thought that Prince Oberyn apparently mistook Winterfell for a whorehouse did not please him at all, but he preferred not to express this to a guest. He would certainly be able to tolerate the prince's behavior for a single night and he would be able to have a serious word with the maid on another occasion.

Before he withdrew himself, Robb offered Prince Aegon to join him for a small nightcap in his solar, which, to Robb's surprise, he accepted. Robb was grateful that Jon was also not yet very tired and gladly joined them at a word from the prince.

"And how do you like it?" Jon asked Prince Aegon when he had taken a sip of the spiced wine Robb had handed them as a nightcap. They sat on wide, cushioned chairs in Robb's solar and looked into the crackling flames of the hearth. Robb glanced briefly over at the prince, but could not read his face.

"Strong," the prince said with a wry grin. "But good."

"Look at that," Jon said, now grinning as well. "It's way too sour for most southerners. And too strong at that. Probably Egg is just too polite to say anything," he then said, turning to Robb.

"If you don't like the wine, Your Grace, I'll have something else brought right away," Robb said, and was about to jump up from his chair. The prince, however, waved it off.

"No, it's fine. Really. I'm used to Dornish reds, and those are so sour that you can pickle turnips in it. I just didn't expect it to be so strong, though I should have expect that from a nightcap, I guess."

They talked a little about this and that, expensive horses and good hounds, the condition of Winterfell's roofs as well as the state of King's Landing's city walls, before Robb finally dared to ask about what was truly on his mind.

"So, how is my lord father doing in the capital?"

"Fine," was Jon's curt reply. Only after a questioning look from Robb did he continue. "He's doing fine. He was glad to see my father and mother again. But I think he's already counting the days until he can finally return to Winterfell."

"I believe that. I could also hardly wait to get away from there again," Robb said, but immediately cringed at his own words. Bethany had warned him to watch his words in the presence of the prince and princess after all and this had been exactly one of those things that he had tried to refrain from saying. "That is just because we Northerners don't usually do well this far south," he quickly added. "That wasn't meant to say-"

"It's all right," Prince Aegon said with a laugh. "I know what that meant."

"You don't have to be afraid of Egg," Jon said. "He can be a spoiled little brat at times, but most of the time he's actually a decent guy for all that."

"Oh, thank you very much," Prince Aegon said with a wry grin. "How nice to hear you don't hold my birth against me, my friend."

They laughed together, and for the first time that evening, Robb's laughter was sincere. He could not yet relax in the presence of the prince, despite his cousin's words, but once they had been traveling together beyond the Wall for a while, perhaps that would change. Prince Aegon did indeed seem to be a good man. In fact, Robb noted, he was even looking forward to getting to know the prince better, even if he would have liked different circumstances.

"And how is Arya? I was kind of hoping for a letter from her, but haven't received one. Apparently she's having a good time in the capital if she can't even find the time to write to me."

Robb noticed the grin on Prince Aegon's face widen abruptly, while Jon sat as still and motionless as if he had swallowed his tongue and forgotten to breathe.

"Yes, Jon, how is Lady Arya? Do tell," said Prince Aegon. "You spent quite some time with her in King's Landing, after all."

"I hope my sister didn't drive you too crazy," Robb said, "She can be exhausting."

"No, no," Jon said quickly, his eyes fixed on the flames in front of him. "She wasn't exhausting. It was very nice to see her again. Really. Very nice."

"She did keep you on your toes, though, didn't she?" asked Prince Aegon, still grinning broadly. For a moment Robb wondered what he was trying to get at, but said nothing.

"Yes," Jon then said curtly, his eyes now on Prince Aegon and his eyebrows furrowed in small, angry creases. This did not seem to dampen the prince's spirits, however. Only now did Robb notice how fiery red Jon's face was.

Is it too hot in here? Are we sitting too close to the flames? If the prince is too hot as well, I'd better open a window, Robb thought, but found no trace of such redness in Prince Aegon's face.

"All right, since our good Jon doesn't seem to want to say it, I'll just do it now," Prince Aegon said after a moment of silence.

"Egg, please, let me-," Jon just started to say, an almost frightened expression on the face, but the prince just kept talking.

"Our good Jon here has gifted your sister Lady Arya a new bow and has then conspired with my sister to allow Lady Arya to enter the archery contest of tourney under a false name. And all this without your lord father knowing about it."

Robb looked in Jon's face, across which so many emotions seemed to fly at once that Robb couldn't even begin to tell what was possibly going on in his cousin's mind right now. For a moment he thought about the prince's words, hardly able to believe what he had just heard. Jon and Princess Rhaenys had smuggled Arya into the tourney at King's Landing without their lord father's knowledge, let alone his permission? Could that be true? Robb certainly trusted Jon to do something like that. During his time in Winterfell already, he had always had a soft spot for Arya, for her wild, unusual and anything but ladylike nature. And that Arya would not shy away from such a folly was beyond question. That Arya wouldn't behave well in King's Landing all the time, even being a guest at the royal court, and would certainly put her foot in this or that mouth, he had expected that to happen anyway. Everyone in their family had expected that. He had not expected something like that, however, and that Princess Rhaenys, a princess of the realm after all, would even join in on such mischief was something Robb could not even begin to fathom.

"Is that true?" he asked in a serious tone.

"Yes, it is true," Jon said, and Robb could see he was caught somewhere between guilt and pride.

Again they were silent for a moment before Robb then burst out in peals of laughter. Jon and Prince Aegon joined in, toasting with Robb to Arya's success in the archery contest, having made it to the second round after all. Robb then poured each of them another cup before he let them tell him more about the tourney. He wasn't really interested in tourneys, having inherited his father's indifference to such games, but it was fun to listen to the two recount the events of the tourney, especially the joust, with an almost childlike excitement.

"So Theon took part, too," Robb said at one point.

"Aye, but got kicked out right away," Jon said, making no effort to suppress his gleeful grin.

"So how's Theon doing in the capital? Better or worse than my sister?"

"Not at all," said Prince Aegon. "He's not there anymore."

"Not there anymore?"

"Not there anymore," the prince confirmed. "Just disappeared one day during the tourney."

"Maybe something happened to him," Robb said.

"Possible, but unlikely. Even in a city as big as King's Landing, that wouldn't have gone undetected forever. Had he been lying dead in some gutter, he would have been found. No, he probably ran away."

"He'll turn up again," Jon said, "I don't think we're going to get rid of him that easily."

"I'm sure he will," said Prince Aegon. "Anyway, enough of that meat sack and back to what really counts. I ended up winning the tourney after our good Jon here was overcome by… a sudden faint," he said, his voice mimicking that of a girl at these last words, "and just fell off his horse like a wet sack."

"You just fell off a horse like that?" asked Robb. "Jon, are you sick?"

"I don't know what it was, but I'm fine now," Jon said, visibly uncomfortable.

"Let's hope so," the prince said. "Beyond the Wall, it's going to be exhausting enough without us dragging around a damsel in distress with you who needs to be rescued all the time."

"What exactly are we supposed to do beyond the Wall anyway?" Robb suddenly blurted out.

He had not wanted to ask this question, trusting that his lord father, if he did send him on such an expedition, would have serious enough reasons for it, as would Lord Robert with Jon and not least the king with Prince Aegon. Now, however, tongue loosened from the wine, he just had to know. And if there was anyone who could tell him about it before they would already be beyond the Wall, it would certainly be Prince Aegon.

"Looking for wildlings," Prince Aegon said simply. Robb could see that this was not all, that the prince still had words on the tip of his tongue, but apparently dared not speak them out. "My father has received reports from Lord Commander Mormont that a wildling army is said to be moving toward the Wall, large enough to actually overcome it."

"And we are to search for this army now?" asked Robb, keeping his doubts to himself as to why the Crown Prince, of all people, had to personally participate in such an undertaking.

"Yes, search for it, estimate its size, return to the Wall, and then inform my father in King's Landing. Should the threat be as great as he fears, he will then call the banners."

For a moment Robb could not speak, could hardly breathe. The king was actually going to call the banners? Mobilize all the armies of the realm, send hundreds of thousands of men under arms to the Wall to fight off a few wildlings? How big did His Grace think this army was then?

"For this reason," the prince continued after a short pause, "my father has also ordered the North to strengthen its defenses in case a larger number of wildlings actually does make it south over the Wall. Also, more supplies are to be stockpiled to withstand longer sieges."

Sieges? Robb had never fought against wildlings himself, but had read and heard a lot about them, not least the stories of his uncle Benjen. Every now and then, a handful of them made it over the Wall. They robbed and murdered, raped or pillaged, before eventually being seized and executed. Sometimes they would steal a girl, noble or lowborn, and take her back over the Wall if they managed to escape. Several times in history, there had indeed even been a King-beyond-the-Wall, who had then rallied armies around them and marched south. Yet even these armies had rarely been more than a disorganized, undisciplined band of raiders and murderers. Sometimes they had even managed to cross the Wall, but they had never been such a great threat that the North could not have dealt with them on its own. Robb had never heard or read of them ever forming anything even resembling a real army, whether in terms of manpower or discipline, capable of besieging a castle.

"Our storages and our granaries are well stocked," Robb said after a moment's consideration.

"Doesn't matter. My father wants them filled better, no matter how much is in them already. I understood from the maps of the North I have seen that there are hardly any defenses between Winterfell and the Wall?"

"That's right. Just a few ruins of small castles, more like watchtowers, that once protected the Gift but have not been inhabited for generations. Of many, little more than the foundation wall is likely to remain. More defense was never necessary, the enemy always came from the south," Robb said, biting his tongue again. The prince ignored it, however.

"Before we leave tomorrow, orders must be given to rebuild and man these castles or watchtowers or whatever they are as best as can be done in the short time available. No expense or efforts must be spared, at my father's request. The Crown will, of course, defray the undoubtedly enormous cost of this. A ship with eighty thousand gold dragons for the treasuries of Winterfell is already on its way to White Harbour and another with the same amount will be sent out by the end of this month."

"That's very generous, Your Grace," said Robb, his breath caught again for a moment.

This sum, even these eighty thousand gold dragons, would not be enough to cover all the expenses that would be incurred by His Grace's wishes and orders, nevertheless it was a tremendous sum. The gold from both ships, if they were indeed on their way, would certainly be enough. It frightened Robb for a moment, however, with which ease the king was apparently ready to spend such enormous sums. Had Robb still had any doubts about His Grace's seriousness, they would have vanished by now at the latest.

"I don't think so. If my father insists on rebuilding old watchtowers in the middle of nowhere, then he ought to pay for it," Prince Aegon said with a grin. He then drank the rest of his spiced wine in one gulp and stood up from his chair.

"I'm in dire need of some sleep. So I'd better be on my way. After all, I still have to find the way to my chambers first. I wish you both a restful night," the prince said before leaving the room and, without waiting for a reply, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind him.

"The way to his chambers," Jon said with a snort and a smile a moment later, his eyes back on the flames. "As if."

"What do you mean? Don't you think he'll go to bed?"

"Yes, he certainly will. Only not to his. I suppose you've had separate chambers prepared for Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon?"

"Of course," Robb said. How could it be otherwise? After all, guests, especially royal guests, could hardly be expected to share their chambers like peasants in some tavern down the road.

"Well, that was unnecessary. Aegon will definitely go straight to Rhaenys."

"To his sister," Robb muttered, earning a hearty laugh from Jon in return.

"Aye, to his sister. If it makes you feel any better, the two of them have officially been betrothed as of a few days ago. I suppose the raven with the royal notice about it hasn't arrived here yet."

Robb was silent for a moment, irritated by what he had just learned. Of course, it was not unusual for the Targaryens to marry brother to sister. It was one of the few, but all the more... unusual traditions they had brought with them from Old Valyria. Somehow, whenever Maester Luwin had taught him about how royal siblings had been married in the past, Robb had assumed that most of them had been forced to do so, however. Who would want to marry – and thus bed – his own sister after all? That Jon had told him, however, that Prince Aegon would now climb into the bed of his own sister as a matter of course, as if they were ordinary lovers, made Robb's bowels knot.

Maybe it's just in their blood, he thought, and drank the rest of his wine. He stood up, poured himself another half cup, and with a curt gesture offered Jon to fill his cup again as well. Jon, however, declined. Probably the wiser choice. We'll need to be rested in the morning, and I've already drunk too much.

"I guess we can't choose who we love," he then said as he lowered himself back into his chair. Immediately Jon's head snapped around to him.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Jon in a surprised, almost nervous tone.

"I meant the prince and princess," Robb said, and could see his cousin's face immediately relax again. "Brother and sister. But if they really love each other... guess we have no say when our hearts decide."

"Aye, that's true. We can't choose who we love," Jon said, suddenly all thoughtful and brooding. They both sat in silence next to each other for a while, until Jon suddenly jumped up from his chair and marched directly to the door. "I'm going to sleep now as well and so should you, Robb. Tomorrow is going to be an exhausting day. And the day after that, too. And the day after that, too. And the day after that, too."

Then, before Robb had even been able to answer anything, Jon was already gone, the door was locked again, and Robb was alone in his solar. For a moment he again looked at the fires in front of him, then drank half the cup of wine in his hand in one gulp and decided to follow Jon's advice and go to sleep as well. The coming days, probably even weeks, would indeed be exhausting. And besides, until his return, this would be the last night he would be able to spend at his Bethany's side. The best thing he could do now was to make the most of these few hours.

Bethany Stark

Catelyn Stark

Chapter Text

The wind had been fiercer than she had expected, the ground frozen and hard as stone, and the fine snow and ice, swirling through the air in cold cutting gusts, had made it almost impossible for her and Meraxes to see anything further away than an arm's length. In that light, it had been almost a miracle that she and Aegon had managed to get their dragons to the ground without injuring themselves or others, or tearing down half the castle in the process. Not that that would really have been a bad thing, truth be told. Castle Black was a miserable place, cold and shabby and unfriendly. Rhaenys could hardly wait to get away from here again. How anyone could voluntarily come here, swear himself to the Night's Watch, and spend the rest of his life here was absolutely beyond her comprehension. That murderers and thieves and rapists were often only given the choice between the Wall and the gallows was one thing, but quite a few of the men here, as she had learned from Lord Commander Mormont, were here by choice, not least the Lord Commander himself.

"Are you certain that you must leave us so soon, Your Grace?" the Lord Commander asked her. "We would be honored to host you here for a while longer."

"Past certain, Lord Mormont," Rhaenys replied. "My father has given me clear instructions to speak with you along with my brother and then return to King's Landing immediately. If I am late, he will wonder where I am. In the end, he may decide that you have convinced me to take the black."

That both her father and her beloved did not want her to stay here even a moment longer than necessary, since the Night's Watch, as they had both said, consisted almost entirely of murderers and rapists, she left unsaid.

"Would that I could. Sure, you're a woman and a princess at that. That would not make it easy to call you a brother of the Night's Watch, but you're a smart woman, it shows right away, and you have a dragon to boot. We have need of your sort on the Wall."

"Well, the black would certainly dress me splendidly, but I hope you understand that I must still decline, Lord Commander. Perhaps you will have better luck with my dear brother," she said, throwing Aegon a smile that was as mischievous as it was, she hoped, seductive. Aegon had to laugh.

"I don't think Lord Mormont will have any luck with that," Aegon said.

"I didn't expect that either," said the Lord Commander. "Besides, even if I could convince you, my prince, I don't think it would increase the chances of getting help from His Grace the King if I took away his only son."

"Probably not, no," said Aegon. "I hope we can somehow ease your disappointment."

"You can," Lord Mormont said bluntly. "You are the crown prince and princess, your father is the king. Speak to him for us. Tell him of our need here. You have been here only a few hours, but you see it for yourselves. The Night's Watch is dying. Our strength is less than a thousand. Six hundred here, two hundred in Shadow Tower and even fewer in Eastwatch, and only a scant third of them fighting men. The Wall is a hundred leagues long. Think on that. Should an attack come, I have three men to defend every mile of the Wall."

Three and a third, Rhaenys thought, but said nothing. She was tired from her days on Meraxes' back, but still had her senses together enough not to complicate the Lord Commander's words. Even as it was, she could see how difficult it was for him to beg them.

"I sent Benjen Stark to search for Yohn Royce's son, lost on his first ranging. The Royce boy was green as summer grass, yet he insisted on the honor of his own command, saying it was his due as a knight. I did not wish to offend his lord father, so I yielded. I sent him out with two men I deemed as good as any in the Watch. More fool I."

"Fool," the raven in the corner of the room agreed. The scream came so suddenly that for a moment Rhaenys' heart almost seemed to skip a beat.

"We never heard from those three again. So I sent Benjen Stark out with some men to look for them, but since then there's been no trace of them either." He sighed deeply. "Who am I to send out more men to look for them? Last year I turned seventy. Too old and too weary for the burden I bear, yet if I set it down, who will pick it up? Alliser Thorne? Bowen Marsh? I would have to be as blind as Maester Aemon not to see what they are. The Night's Watch has become an army of sullen boys and tired old men. I have twenty, maybe thirty in the entire Watch who can read, and even fewer who can think, or plan, or lead. Once the Night's Watch spent its summers building, and every Lord Commander raised the wall higher than he found it. Now it is all we can do to stay alive."

He is dead serious, Rhaenys realized. She felt bad and ashamed for the old man. Lord Mormont had spent a good part of his life on the Wall since his son had brought dishonor to the family, and of course this man needed to believe that these many, hard years had meant something, that he had accomplished something, something other than just stewarding the decline of this once-proud brotherhood.

"You are both still young, Your Graces," the old man then continued. "How many winters have you seen?"

"Four, five. I don't remember exactly," Aegon said.

"All of them short," Lord Mormont said. "When I was a boy, it was said that a long summer always meant a long winter to come. The last summers have all been long and warm, but the winters short and mild. The next winter will come and when it does, it will be a winter that makes up for what the last winters missed. The days are already getting shorter. The end of summer is staring us in the face." Lord Mormont leaned forward and grasped her hand, squeezing it. For a moment she was startled by the sudden touch, but still let it happen. "Please, you must make the king understand. I tell you, Your Graces, the darkness is coming. There are wild things in the woods, direwolves and mammoths and snow bears the size of aurochs, and I have seen even darker shapes in my dreams."

"In your dreams?" asked Aegon.

"The fisherfolk near Eastwatch have glimpsed While Walkers on the shore." Nobody said a word for a heartbeat or two and Rhaenys expected Aegon to start laughing out loud at any moment, knowing what he thought about creatures from nightmares and fairy tales, but before that could happen, the Lord Commander spoke on. "Denys Mallister writes that the mountain peoples are moving south, slipping past the Shadow Tower in numbers greater than ever before. They are running, Your Graces… but running from what?" Lord Mormont stood up and walked to the window, staring out into the cold white. "My bones are old, but they have never felt a chill like this before. Please tell the king this, Your Graces, tell him and make him believe. I pray you. Winter is coming and when the Long Night falls, only the Night's Watch will stand between the realm and the darkness that sweeps from the north. The gods help us all if we are not ready then."

For a while, there was an almost eerie silence in the room.

"Our father is well aware of the situation of the Night's Watch, Lord Commander," Rhaenys then said. "And he has some concerns of his own about possible threats to the realm from beyond the Wall. Please, read this," she said, pulling her father's letter, sealed with the royal sigil, from one of the pockets of her doublet.

Immediately Lord Commander Mormont returned to the table, sat down and took the letter from her hand. Carefully, almost as if he feared the letter was only a dream that might burst like a bubble if he moved too quickly, he broke the first seal and untied the ribbon that held the wax paper closed. He took out the actual letter and broke the second seal as well then.

The Lord Commander took his time studying their father's letter, reading it at least three times, as far as Rhaenys could tell from the movements of his eyes, before folding it neatly back up again and placing it on the table in front of him. Rhaenys didn't mind waiting. Sitting here, in the chamber - she would rather not call this room a solar - of the Lord Commander, where it was warm and she was not stared at incessantly by the black brothers, she did not mind and so he was welcome to take his time.

She had always loved the attention of the men at court and even – or perhaps especially – the looks of the knights of the Kingsguard, who always made every effort to look everywhere in her presence, except at her body. It had always given her a sort of pleasure to confuse men and to feel their eyes on her as she was soaring through a room. Desirable like no other woman in the world yet forever out of reach for every man except one. But the looks of many of these men had sent a cold shiver down her spine.

"Corn," the raven suddenly screamed. "Corn, corn, corn."

Without looking up from the letter, the Lord Commander reached into one of the pockets of his doublet, took out a handful of kernels, and held out his hand. The raven opened its broad wings and fluttered to onto the shoulder of its master, beginning to pick up the grains from the old man's hand. In a strange way fascinated by the sight, she watched the big old animal eating the grains one by one, lifting its head every now and then, seeming to look back at Rhaenys equally fascinated then. The raven's eyes were beady, and somehow she thought she recognized a special cleverness in them.

Yes, he is clever, she thought. Too clever for a raven maybe.

"I trust you are aware of the contents of the letter, Your Graces?" Lord Commander Mormont then asked, snapping her out of her thoughts.

"Yes," said Aegon, while Rhaenys only nodded. She had not read the letter, but knew, partly from her father, partly from Aegon, what it said.

"I have never been a very devout man," the Lord Commander began after a brief silence. "Never prayed much, never put much faith in gods, neither the Old Gods of the North nor the Seven of the South, but this letter from His Grace...," he said, waving it around like a small banner. "This letter must be a sign from some particularly gracious god."

"It is good to hear that our father's message is so welcome to you," Aegon said.

"Welcome is hardly saying enough," the Lord Commander said, a slight smile now creeping onto his lips. "For months I have been writing letter after letter to all the great and small houses of the realm, asking for help, for and men and support and coin. That now His Grace himself, of all people, should hear my plea..."

"If I may, Lord Commander, what were those letters you sent about? In King's Landing we did hear that you lost some rangers beyond the Wall, but hardly more," Rhaenys said.

"Lost some rangers," he repeated. "That sounds like you're talking about misplacing a knife or some boots, Your Grace. We lost men, good men. And lots of them at that."

"Please forgive me, I didn't mean to offend."

"As I said, something is going on beyond the Wall," the Lord Commander said then, ignoring Rhaenys' excusing words. His gaze wandered to the small window at the side of the room, its half-frozen panes revealing the almost shining white and blue of the wall. "More and more men getting lost, the stories of the fisherfolk, the reports from Eastwatch… I don't know what, but something is going on. Whatever it is, though, it can't be good. There is a King-beyond-the-Wall again that needs to be taken care of, true, but there is something else. We find whole villages abandoned, without even the slightest trace of where they might have gone or why. It is normal for a King-beyond-the-Wall to gather men and women to fight for him, but never the old or children, never entire villages."

"What have you done about it so far, Lord Commander?" asked Rhaenys then.

"I have been trying to gather as much reliable information as I could to convince the lords of the realm that the threat is real. That the new King-beyond-the-Wall must not be ignored and that there are darker things to come. Whatever my men may have discovered, though, has been lost with them beyond the Wall."

"Well, I guess we'll see if the expedition my father commanded has any better luck finding anything tangible, Lord Commander," Aegon said. "May I hope, then, that some of your men will accompany us and guide us in the lands beyond the Wall?"

"But of course, Your Grace. I have some good men to take good care of you."

"I don't care who will be guiding my brother through the wilderness," Rhaenys then said, taking Aegon's hand in hers, "just please make sure I get my brother back safe and sound, Lord Commander."

"You have my word, my princess."

"While we are away beyond the Wall," Aegon then said, "can you, Lord Commander, please comply with our father's request and make as accurate a report as possible on the current state of the Night's Watch? Manpower, weapons and equipment, supplies and stockpiles, condition of castles along the Wall, anything that might be relevant to our father. The king intends to reinforce the Night's Watch as best he can, with whatever is needed and whatever he is able to provide, be it men, weapons or gold, and for this he will of course need as much detail as possible to know where to begin."

"Of course, Your Grace," Lord Mormont said and Rhaenys could hear that he still couldn't really believe what was happening here, that his prayers, if he had said any, seemed to have been answered.

"Prepare the report in two copies, please. One you will send to King's Landing by raven as soon as it is ready, and the other I will take south with me on my dragon when I return. With a little luck, I will be faster than the bird."

"As you wish, Your Grace."

"Very well, Lord Commander," Aegon said with a smile. "Then there is only one more topic we need to discuss with you now at our father's request."

The conversation did not last long after Aegon had presented their father's proposal to the Lord Commander. Fortunately, it hadn't taken him long to agree, even though Rhaenys had felt that he had done it more out of practical considerations and for fear that a refusal might anger the king and risk the promised support, but was far from happy with the idea itself. Aegon and she then left the Lord Commander's Tower together and stepped out into the courtyard of Castle Black, while the Lord Commander stayed behind to immediately begin the preparations for the report to the king. Without walls protecting Castle Black to the east, south and west, however, it was not really a castle at all, but rather a loose assembly of stone towers and timber keeps. The snow already lay knee-high and so, as she had learned, it would not be long now before the paths between the buildings would be impassable and one would only be able to get from one building to the other through the underground tunnels that connected the whole of Castle Black like a spider's web.

"What do you think?" she asked after a few steps, sure that no one was in earshot.

"That it hasn't done the man any good to sit around in this miserable cold for so many years."

"I mean it, Egg. Don't you think it's strange, too, that the Lord Commander is talking about a darkness from the north, White Walkers and all, just when our father is convinced there's a threat coming from north of the Wall?"

"What, you think it's all true?"

"No, I don't. But I think it's strange. Maybe too strange for a coincidence. Isn't it?"

"Yeah, maybe," he admitted after a moment. "I don't know what's going on north of the Wall, but it's going to take more than father's prophecies, a comet, and the talk of an old man who's desperate to get men and coin from our father to convince me that we're in for another Long Night, my love. I believe him when he says something is going on there. But I don't believe in monsters from fairy tales."

"Neither do I, my love. Still, please promise me that you'll be careful. That you will come back to me. It doesn't take a White Walker for something terrible to happen. The fangs of a direwolf or the arrow of a wildling is enough for that."

"I know, Rhae," he said, coming to a halt and looking deep into her eyes. "I know. And I promise you that I will be careful. I promise you that I will come back to you. No force in the world or beyond could keep me from returning to my beloved."

Rhaenys had to smile, knowing that her Aegon meant every single word. She gave him a quick kiss, then let him take her in his arms and together they continued their walk. Between the armory and the small forge, weapons training was apparently underway for the Night's Watch's newest broterhs and recruits. Ser Alliser Thorne, who had been introduced to them on their arrival as the master-at-arms of Castle Black, was currently busy insulting a couple of men and boys, some already gray and wrinkled, others barely older than ten or eleven name days.

Her brother's companions stood together in a small group next to the forge – Rhaenys guessed since this seemed to be the only reasonably warm spot in Castle Black due to the heat of the forge – and watched the men and boys get taken down by Ser Alliser. Aegon took her hand and led her to the others with a smile on his lips. At that moment, she wished he would just never let go of her hand. She knew, however, that things would be different. Soon, this very day even, she would be heading south again while her beloved would be heading in the other direction, north, to search beyond the Wall for wildlings and figments for their father.

They joined the others and watched the young recruits practice their swords for a while longer. Some did quite well, others – even Rhaenys with her untrained eye for swordplay could tell that much – could only hope that they would not become rangers but builders or stewards if they were hoping for a long life in the Night's Watch. Laughter could be heard all around the courtyard as Ser Alliser now pointed the tip of his sword at one particular young man with dark hair and pale eyes, picking him out for the next round of drills.

"Ser Piggy, your turn," Ser Alliser said with a wicked grin, then nodded to another man, tall and muscular, who also grabbed a practice sword and stepped into the middle.

Rhaenys looked at the young man, who approached the center of the courtyard waddling like a duck, and could hardly believe what she was seeing. He had round, drooping shoulders and his head pulled so low between them as if he feared his head might fall off if he moved too fast. What really surprised her, however, was the shape of his body. Without a doubt, this was the fattest young man she had ever seen, with a face as pale and round as the moon.

"Oh no," she heard a voice behind her. She looked around and found an expression of horror on the face of Dickon Tarly, who shook his head violently.

At another sign from Ser Alliser, the practice fight between the tall one and the fat one began, though it lasted only a brief moment. The fat one barely managed to fend off the tall one's first blow, but then immediately dropped his sword to the ground, following it only a moment later. The tall one glanced briefly over at Ser Alliser, who merely nodded, whereupon the tall one began to thrash at the fat one lying on the ground with the flat side of his sword as if to strike him dead.

"It would seem they have run short of poachers and thieves down south. Now they already send up pigs to man the Wall," Ser Alliser laughed. Most of the recruits laughed with him, some louder than others. It was not hard to guess what they feared would befall them if they did not.

"That's enough," she then heard Dickon Tarly say, pushing his way through the group, stepping into the middle of the yard toward the tall one, still lashing out at the fat one. He grabbed the tall one's arm and delivered a powerful blow against his elbow, whereupon the latter also dropped his sword to the ground with a loud cry. The scream ended immediately, however, when Dickon Tarly struck again, hitting him right in the face, and the tall one went down unconscious like a felled tree.

"What exactly do you think you're doing, boy?" asked Ser Alliser angrily, his head running high red.

"That's enough. He can't fight," said Dickon Tarly. "You've proven that to everyone now. But I will not stand by and watch you let my brother be beaten to death."

Rhaenys could almost feel the shock and surprise going through everyone in the group as if they were struck by a lightning bolt. She herself felt no different. It was true that both young men, Dickon Tarly and the fat one on the ground, had the same dark hair and the same pale eyes, but apart from that they could hardly have been more different. Dickon Tarly was tall and strong, skilled with a sword and, as far as she had heard, bold and brave in a fight. He had already made a name for himself a few years ago, much like her Aegon, when he and a few knights at his side had hunted down and slain a band of robbers who had been wreaking havoc in the Reach south of the Westerlands. Why such a young man had not yet received the knighthood, however, she did not know.

Dickon Tarly was man she was glad to know would accompany her Aegon beyond the Wall. His bulky brother, however, who only now dared to slowly rise and struggle back to his feet on shaky legs, each one thicker than both of his brother’s legs put together, apparently possessed none of these qualities. Neither was he tall nor strong, he could not fight, as had just been demonstrated enough, and when she thought of how quickly he had dropped to the ground to crouch there like a frightened whelp, he also seemed to be anything but brave.

At least the right brother will be with my Aegon, should things get serious.

"Your brother," Ser Alliser said. Only slowly did his head seem to return to a normal color. "You are the brother of Samwell Tarly? Then you are-"

"Dickon Tarly, son and heir of Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill."

"Too bad. Apparently the wrong brother has joined the Night's Watch. Be that as it may. This one," Ser Alliser said, and immediately his ghastly grin returned to his face, again pointing his sword at Samwell Tarly, "Ser Piggy, is no longer your brother. He has said his vows in the face of the Seven. He is a man of the Night's Watch now, and we are his brothers. And I will teach one of my brother how to sword fight as I see fit."

Rhaenys did not know exactly how Ser Alliser had ended up at the Wall. She knew that he had once lived in King's Landing, had served their family and had apparently been one of the unfortunates who had somehow incurred her grandfather's displeasure in one of his worse moments. One wrong word or even just one wrong look had been enough back then, her mother had once told her, to bring a man to the gallows. Or worse. Seen in this light, Ser Alliser had probably still been lucky that he had only ended up at the Wall and not with his head on a spike. Now, seeing how he treated the boys and men who were under his command, she was glad that this man no longer lived in her city.

But maybe he only became like this here, she thought then. He had been loyal to our grandfather, to our family, and probably because of some nothingness he is now doomed to spend the rest of his life in this icy void wearing the black.

"You have made your point, ser," she suddenly heard her brother say beside her. "Surely you will have another opportunity to teach young Tarly the beauty of a well-wielded sword. But perhaps you will be so gracious as to allow two brothers in blood a moment to themselves?"

"Certainly, Your Grace," Ser Alliser growled, before he began yelling at the rest of the men and boys again, ordering the next two into the center of the courtyard to let them beat each other bloody. It was more than clear how little Ser Alliser felt like letting go of Samwell Tarly at this point, but even a man like him could not refuse a request from the crown prince. Dickon Tarly, meanwhile, helped his battered brother the few steps to the side, lest he be drawn into the fight of Ser Alliser's two new chosen after all.

"Tha... thank you, Your Grace," Samwell Tarly stammered as they walked over to the two brothers. Up close, it looked even more unbelievable that these two men should really be of the same blood. Aegon just nodded, a slight smile curling his lips. For a moment, Rhaenys looked at Samwell's face, recognizing not only the fresh wound from just a moment ago, but also the remnants of earlier injuries, the shadow of a black eye, pale scars from cuts and only recently healed bruises and scratches.

This wasn't the first time Ser Alliser had him bloodied, Rhaenys realized. More than before, she was glad that Ser Alliser was no longer lucky enough to live in King's Landing. Whatever life at the Wall had made of him, he must have been a cruel man before already to feel anything but indifference or even delight at such a thing. Such a man did not deserve a life in the warm south.

"Is it always like this?" Dickon asked, his voice low.

"No, not always. Sometimes it's worse," said Samwell, apparently trying with all his might to force himself to smile.

"I never understood why you chose the Night's Watch, Sam. Even if you didn't want to inherit Horn Hill, you certainly would have been better off in Oldtown. You never gave me the impression that this kind of service was something your heart sought."

"Why not?" asked Rhaenys, suddenly feeling completely out of place. Dickon and Samwell, however, did not seem to mind.

"My brother has always been more the bookish type. He has the mind and heart of a scholar, not of a warrior. Are you doing well here?" Dickon then asked, turning back to his brother.

"Yes, I'm fine. A little cold, but otherwise I'm fine. At least when I'm not having to go to practice my sword. Speaking of which, I'm afraid I'm going to have to head back in a bit. Ser Alliser doesn't like to wait, and least of all for me."

Dickon just nodded and gave his brother a pat on the much too low, much too round shoulder. Samwell was about to turn away when Rhaenys spoke up again.

"What's your task here, Samwell?"

Samwell looked at her with such wide eyes as if they were about to pop out of his head, apparently overwhelmed by even this bit of interest in his person from a royal princess.

"I... I am a steward, Your Grace, and....  and… and I'm helping Maester Aemon in the library and with the ravens, Your Grace."

"Then surely you can show my brother and me the way to Maester Aemon, can't you? We haven't gotten around to visiting our dear great uncle yet, and we have some urgent business to discuss with him."

"Great uncle?" asked Samwell, puzzled.

"Yes, indeed," said Aegon. "I am surprised that this is not known. Maester Aemon is one of us, was the brother of King Aegon the Fifth. So actually he is not our great uncle. He's our grandfather's father's uncle. I don't know what that makes him to us. But he is family and that's all that matters. So would you be so kind as to escort us to him? And if Ser Alliser complains about it afterwards, he's welcome to address that complaint to me personally."

They found Aemon in his chambers, a stout wooden keep below the rookery, sitting at a table with another steward beside him, reading to him from a book. Apparently it was the records of another maester about the life and service of another, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. The descriptions were, Rhaenys realized after only a few moments, so dry that it was a wonder that neither Aemon nor the other steward had fallen asleep long ago. Only when a new day began in the records and the maester seemed to begin this new day by commenting on the shape, color, consistency, and estimated weight of the Lord Commander's morning stool, did Rhaenys feel compelled to finally clear her throat. She considered herself to be quite patient, but there were things she really didn't need to hear.

Immediately, the steward jumped up from his chair startled while Aemon just started laughing.

"I just wanted to see how long Maester Hurman's scribblings could be endured," he said in a shaky voice. "Perseverance is a virtue after all. You can go, Chett. And you too, Samwell. Let me speak to my family alone."

The two named immediately disappeared from the room, while Aegon and Rhaenys moved closer to the table. Aemon was a small man, bald and wrinkled, shrunken and bent even when sitting by the weight of over one hundred long years of life and service. He was thin as a blade of grass, age spots covering his hands and his head, and his blind eyes were as white as milk.

"How did you know-" Aegon was about to ask, but was immediately interrupted by Aemon.

"Who is there? I'd recognize Samwell Tarly anywhere. The boy is clever, but a coward the likes of which have rarely been seen. So much so that he's even afraid of his own shadow. And being in the presence of two members of the royal family certainly didn't calm his nerves either. He reeks of fear a mile to the wind."

"You smelled his fear?"

"Well, no. He also breathes incredibly loudly. Probably because he's so fat. That's how I recognized him. Or did you mean how I knew it was you, dear children? I heard the dragons coming long before they landed. And since no one else rides dragons but my family, I knew it had to be you. Besides, you smell of your dragons."

"Dragons don't smell," Aegon protested weakly.

"My eyes have long since forsaken me, but my other senses are better than ever, Aegon. I pray to all the gods that you never have to experience how a dragon begins to smell once the gods have taken away your sight. Oh, the gods are truly cruel to let me live until at last the dragons have come back into this world again, only to take away my sight from me beforehand, so that I may not see them. It is wonderful that you are here, dear children," he then said and began to smile again.

"It's good to see you, uncle," Aegon answered with a smile. Rhaenys said nothing, instead taking a step toward her great uncle, or whatever he was exactly, and wrapping him into an embrace. Aemon was surprised, almost seeming to gasp a little, but then laughed and returned the embrace with his weak, thin, shaky arms.

"Your hair," he suddenly said.

"What's wrong with my hair?" she asked as she broke free of the embrace.

"Wrong? Nothing. It just smells. It smells so sweet, just as the hair of my sisters Daella and Rhae always did," Aemon said, his toothless smile widening even more. "It reminds me of my youth, of the beautiful, warm days of my youth. That's all. Thank you for this, dear child."

They talked for a while about this and that, about King's Landing and their family first, then about politics and the Night's Watch. After the better part of an hour, Rhaenys told him about their betrothal and Aemon congratulated them almost effusively, telling them how happy he was for them and their entire family, telling them how good it was that they had each other, because a Targaryen alone in the world was such a terrible thing. Had he still possessed the strength to jump up from his chair, Rhaenys was sure he would have immediately fallen around their necks.

He's been alone most of his life, Rhaenys thought, and became sad for a moment.

She didn't get to say anything about it, however, before her uncle changed the subject and seemed to suddenly become cheerful again. Most of the time Aemon then asked them questions about the dragons, how big they were, what and how much they ate, the span of their wings and the length of their teeth, the nature of their connection with their dragons and the colors of their scales and horns and eyes. With every word they told him about their beasts, his eyes seemed to brighten a little more, seemed to fill the old man with a little more life again.

"We are here for a reason, here with you I mean," Rhaenys finally said after Aegon had told him about their first flight to Dragonstone. "A reason other than just wanting to see you."

"And what reason might that be?" asked Aemon.

"How would you like to come back home?" asked Rhaenys then. "Father has made an offer to the Lord Commander to release you from your vows so you can come back to King's Landing with us."

"No," he said simply.

"No? Just… no?"

"I am a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, dear child. I chose to serve here a long time ago, have sworn an oath to serve until my last breath, and so I do."

"Uncle Aemon, you have served the Night's Watch longer and better than probably any man ever has. You deserve to spend your last years at home, where it's warm, with your family, with us."

"And what could an old, blind man at King's Landing possibly do all day, then?"

"Enjoying the warmth," said Aegon. "Having books from the royal library read to you. No doubt you've read through every single book in Castle Black twice already, haven't you?"

"More like a dozen times," laughed Uncle Aemon.

"You could just spend time with your family. And if you need something meaningful to do, uncle, you could certainly provide good counsel to father. Certainly you would advise him well."

"Certainly I would advise him very shortly. I am old, Aegon. So old and so tired."

"I don't think that," said Rhaenys. "If you go on like this, you will certainly still be around to advise Aegon one day, once he takes the throne. You will probably outlive us all."

Again Aemon laughed his adorable, toothless laugh.

"May the gods save me from that fate, Rhaenys," he said, before becoming serious again. "I appreciate the offer, dear children, but I can't do that. I've made my decision and I have to stand by that decision. It's a matter of honor as much as a matter of duty. We all do our duty, when there is no cost to it. How easy it seems then, to walk the path of honor. Yet soon or late in every man's life comes a day when it is not easy, a day when he must choose. And I have chosen. Besides, the Lord Commander would never agree to that. He's a man to whom honor means a lot, everything. And to dissolve a sacred vow just like that-"

"He has already agreed," Aegon now interrupted him in his turn. "Father has promised him three new maesters from the Citadel and five hundred trained men. Men who know how to wield a sword and how to use a bow. Father has already discussed this with the Citadel and has already recruited the men. All you have to do is to agree, uncle, and you will be flying home with Rhaenys today."

For a while, their uncle Aemon looked confused, just as if he couldn't believe that Lord Commander Mormont had actually agreed to such a proposal. In one moment he looked incredulous, then downright indignant, then uncertain again. But when Aegon mentioned that he would fly with Rhaenys, his wrinkled face immediately brightened again and, toothless as he was, he began to beam like a little child on its first name day.

"Flying?" he asked, his voice even shakier than before.

"Yes, on Meraxes, uncle," said Rhaenys, grasping his bony, wrinkled hand. It was cold and so thin and feeble, as if he were already dead. "With me. You will fly on a dragon."

It was nearly three hours before everything was packed and the brothers of the Night's Watch, except for the men who were currently on duty on the Wall watching out for wildlings, had gathered in the courtyard of Castle Black to bid farewell to Maester Aemon. Lord Commander Mormont stood on the small platform leading up to the elevator and said a few words to the assembled men in appreciation of Maester Aemon's many years of service. Rhaenys, however, could only understand every sixth or seventh word of it over the loud and excited breathing of her dragon.

She heard something about honor, about a life in service to a higher cause, about sweat and blood, about wisdom and brotherhood. She could not understand the true meaning of what the Lord Commander was saying about their Uncle Aemon, however. But it was safe to assume that it was high praise and that Lord Mormont no doubt had many words to say about how much they would miss him here on the Wall and, hopefully, equally many about how much their uncle deserved to be sent back home.

Aegon helped her tie her saddle and what little luggage she would take back south to Meraxes' back, while four brothers of the Night's Watch were busy placing Aemon, wrapped thickly in blankets and furs to the point of immobility, behind her saddle and in front of the luggage. More than once he almost slipped down because the men did not dare to get too close to her dragon, let alone climb on the dragon's back to fasten the ropes and chains and leather straps tightly enough. Actually a wise attitude, but not very helpful in this case. After the better part of an hour, they had finally done it and tied the loudly laughing Aemon so securely that he would certainly not fall off when Meraxes was about to rise into the air soon.

"What will happen now?" she asked Aegon in a low voice when they were done.

"You'll fly home with Uncle Aemon, my love, and I and the others will stay here one more night and then head north with some men of the Night's Watch on the morrow," Aegon said. "And then I will return as soon as possible so as not to keep my beloved waiting."

"Hurry, please."

"I will," he said. "And should indeed something go wrong, always remember our father's words. Everything we do and endure, we do for the greater good," he said with a wry grin.

"I'm about to become your wife, my love. I'm the greatest good you'll ever get. So whatever you have to do for it, just come back to me."

"I will," he said again.

He grabbed her by the waist then and pulled her to him, pressing his lips to hers. She opened her lips to him, enjoying the warmth of his wonderful tongue in her mouth. Rhaenys knew that the view of them was blocked by the massive body and one of the great wings of her dragon, that no one could see them, but she could hardly have cared less at that moment, even if it had been otherwise.

"Are you ready to leave then, Your Grace?" they heard the deep voice of Lord Mormont sound as their lips had just parted again.

"Yes, I'm ready, and I think Uncle Aemon can't wait either," said Rhaenys, pointing to the broadly grinning, loudly laughing Aemon on Meraxes' back, of whom nothing but the face was visible in his cocoon of blankets and furs.

Aegon held out his hand to her, helping her up, as she then grabbed the leather of the saddle and mounted her dragon, swinging her legs quickly and elegantly over her dragon's back. She could already feel the excitement of her dragon, the desire to feel air under her wings again, and the longing for that to hopefully become warmer air with each passing moment as they moved south.

Meraxes finds it as dreadful here as I do, she thought. Or does Meraxes only find it dreadful here because I find it dreadful? Or maybe the other way around?

One last time she looked around, looked into the partly grim, partly dead faces of the men who stood in the icy cold, knowing that they would never be allowed to leave this place again.

No, that's not it. It's just horrible here.

"If you don't mind my asking, Your Grace, are you sure that the other dragon will follow you as well?"

"Balerion?" asked Aegon in surprise with an almost amused expression on his face. "No, certainly not, Lord Commander. Balerion will stay here and wait for me. Rhaenys couldn't get him to follow her south even if she wanted to. But you need not worry about him, Lord Mormont. Once we are beyond the Wall, he will find himself a place to rest and sleep nearby, and he will hunt and provide in the woods for himself if need be. As long as the your men leave him alone, he will leave them alone."

"As you say, Your Grace," said the Lord Commander, obviously not really happy with the prospect of having a dragon without its rider roaming the woods around Castle Black.

At Aegon's signal, all the men made room for Meraxes to spread her wings, while Balerion only watched the scene with interest from a distance. Rhaenys looked around again for her Aegon, quickly finding him among the waiting men in black. Jon and Robb Stark stood beside him, Uncle Oberyn on the other side. Uncle Lewyn and Oswell stood behind him, the only men in almost blinding white in a sea of black with only a handful of colored spots. She smiled one last time to her Aegon, a push prayer to all the gods on her lips to protect her beloved and bring him safely back to her, before finally signaling Meraxes in her mind to rise into the air. She could see Aegon smiling back at her, before her dragon began to flap its massive wings, shrouding the entire courtyard of Castle Black in a tiny snowstorm.

"Hahahaha, I'm flying," she heard Uncle Aemon laugh behind her. "You see that, Egg? I'm flying!"

Chapter Text

It took a few heartbeats for the biting fog of snow and ice to clear and reveal the view of the silver dragon, which gained height quickly with powerful beats of its wings and moved away so fast that moments later it was already no longer visible against the gray of the cloud-covered sky. Jon thought he had still heard the laughter of the old blind maester as Meraxes had risen into the air, surprisingly elegantly for such an enormous creature. Then the dragon was gone, the maester's laughter was gone, and for a while Castle Black was shrouded in an almost eerie silence.

An almost longing roar from Balerion after his consort finally snapped them all out of their stillness.

Lord Commander Mormont, the Old Bear, as the black brothers called him behind his back, immediately began barking orders again. Ser Alliser, obviously impatient to finally be able to torture someone again, did likewise. In no time, the assembled men dispersed and returned to their day's work.

Jon went with Aegon and the others to the common hall of Castle Black, the only room that even roughly resembled the Great Hall of a real castle and the only room in which a fire was constantly burning. No food was served to them, since in a few hours they were supposed to dine together with the brothers of the Night's Watch. However, the Lord Commander had apparently not spoken out against something to drink. Robb was talking with Robar Royce when Jon entered the hall, standing next to the door. Aegon, seated on one of the tables and already holding a cup of wine, was surrounded by Byrant Gargalen, Tyrion Lannister, and Garlan Tyrell. The rest of their group had spread out across the room, talking quietly about this and that. Prince Oberyn, Prince Lewyn, Ser Oswell, and Daman Whent had also sat down at a table a bit further away and now began to roll the dice along with two black brothers, Edd and Grenn.

Jon briefly considered joining the dice game, but from a distance did neither recognize the rules nor the stakes. The enthusiasm with which Princes Oberyn and Lewyn played, however, did not bode well. He briefly considered climbing the Wall to look down from its top. The view was incomparable, he had often heard and read. However, since he did not want to climb half-iced stairs for hours and possibly break his neck, and he also did not know whether the elevator was available to him at all, he decided against it. Besides, he had spent the last few days on the back of a dragon. Whatever view the Wall might offer from the very top, Jon found it hard to imagine that it could match the view down from the back of a flying dragon.

Out of the confusion of voices, he eventually heard Aegon's voice, but couldn't make out exactly what was being said. For a moment he looked over at the group playing dice, but judging by the faces of Prince Lewyn and the two brothers of the Night's Watch, Prince Oberyn seemed to be on a roll, as he often was when playing with men who either didn't yet know his tricks or played so poorly that they still didn't respond properly. Jon didn't want to push his luck, however, so he decided to walk over to Aegon and the others. He sat down between Garlan Tyrell and Byrant Gargalen, and had a steward who was wandering around also give him a cup of wine.

They drank for a while, talking and laughing about this and that. It took a good two hours for the brothers of the Night's Watch to gradually arrive in the hall and find seats. As the highest ranking guest of honor, Aegon was seated on the dais at the head of the hall, between Lord Commander Mormont and the First Builder Othell Yarwyck on one side and the Lord Steward Bowen Marsh and Ser Alliser Thorne on the other, while the rest of their group had been given seats at one of the front tables, along with only a few, probably handpicked black brothers.

They were served crabs cooked in broth, which had arrived here only a few hours earlier from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea on a horse-drawn cart, packed in large barrels full of snow and ice. They were succulent and flavorful and truly delicious.

Say what you will about the Night's Watch, but the rations don't seem so bad, he thought. One look at the black brothers near him, however, and with what enthusiasm they also gobbled up the crabs, made him doubt that these men were always served so well here. Probably we were just damn lucky and arrived here at the right time. Otherwise we'd be eating oatmeal or dried meat with vegetable gruel.

"I'll make sure that from now on there will be crabs served in Winterfell on a regular basis," Robb said next to him with his mouth half full.

"You'd best buy them directly from the Night's Watch, then. They'll be fresh and you'll also be doing the Watch some good," Tyrion Lannister said from the side. "In Casterly Rock, we often had crabs, but they were never as big as these."

"Then you had better reconsider, Lord Robb," Ser Oswell said with a grin and a glance at Tyrion. "Apparently too many crabs are not good for growth. You don't want to risk your son having trouble reaching the doorknob one day without having to stand on his toes."

"Crabs are definitely beneficial for the mind, though. At least I know how to use a doorknob properly and don't always have to test with my head which way a door will open," Lord Tyrion said with a no less broad grin.

They had all laughed heartily when Ser Oswell had wanted to leave the hall in a hurry an hour ago, looking for the nearest privy, and had slammed his skull against the door with a loud bang because he had pushed instead of pulled it. To Jon's relief, however, Ser Oswell immediately joined in the laughter around the table, playfully rubbing his head.

Jon looked up briefly between two crabs to the dais where Lord Mormont was talking animatedly with Aegon. The Lord Commander picked up a crab claw and cracked it in his fist. Old as he was, the Lord Commander still had the strength of a bear. One chair on the dais had been left vacant. No doubt the chair of Maester Aemon. Jon had already learned from Aegon before Rhaenys' departure that the five hundred men and the three new maesters from Oldtown were already on their way here by ship, would arrive in Eastwatch tomorrow or the day after, and would be here in less than a week. Apparently, His Grace had had no doubt that Lord Mormont would accept his offer for the good of the Watch, even though the latter had undoubtedly had to fight hard with himself to let Maester Aemon go.

In the end, and this had probably tipped the scales, Lord Mormont had only agreed to the matter after Aegon and Rhaenys had refrained from having him release Maester Aemon from his vows to the Night's Watch and instead declared him a sort of permanent envoy of the Night's Watch in the capital. A position it didn't need, but one that had allowed him to let the old maester go home without setting too dangerous a precedent with it.

Just don't let anyone get hurt now, Jon thought. With a broken bone, a week can be a hell of a long time without a maester around.

After the meal, the black brothers left the hall as quickly as they had come and either went to their sleeping cells or returned to their duties. Jon heard the Lord Commander offer Aegon another cup of hot wine in his solar, which he gratefully declined though.

Instead, Aegon came over to Jon and invited him to take a walk through Castle Black. While there wasn't much to see here, the air in the hall had become plenty stuffy by now, and so Jon was glad to be able to get some fresh air together with his friend. They walked through the courtyard, up some wooden stairs, then down again, and quickly they had visited most of the old castle without having to climb one of the higher towers or descend into a cellar. At some point they settled on the flat roof of one of the small towers at the edge of the courtyard between two battlements and looked south over the tops of the lower firs.

"I miss her already," Aegon said, and Jon of course knew who he meant. He noticed how Aegon touched the small chain he wore around his neck. Jon had recognized it before as one of Rhaenys' already.

"I can imagine."

"Yeah, I bet you do," Aegon said, but didn't look at him. "I haven't even asked you this yet, but... why wasn't Lady Arya there to see you off when we left King's Landing? That was kind of weird, wasn't it?"

Jon hesitated for a moment. Right now, at this moment, he didn't really want to talk about Arya, didn't want to stir up feelings that would only have confused him. Aegon had a habit of teasing him with Arya in the presence of others, making ambiguous comments that Aegon knew brought blushes to his face every time as sure as eggs was eggs. Jon knew Aegon, his friend Egg, well enough to know, however, that it was only because he wanted him to finally make a confession, not because he meant any harm. Aegon wanted him to publicly admit his feelings for Arya because he thought it would be best for Jon and Arya if they finally did.

Jon wasn't even sure that might not be true. Rhaenys, Jon knew as much, had a very similar opinion on the whole matter, and there was little that Rhaenys was wrong about when it came to matters of the heart.

If only I knew for myself what I feel, Jon thought.

"I asked her not to come," he said at last. "I'm not good with goodbyes."

"Oh, I know that." Jon looked at him for a moment, confused. "Don't you remember when you left King's Landing for Winterfell to be fostered there? You asked my father to let you leave really early in the morning so that Rhae and I wouldn't be there to make a scene."

"Aye, I remember," Jon said, grinning. "Rhae found out just in time, and then you rode after me, with half the Kingsguard in tow, all the way outside the city walls to say goodbye."

"Yes, we did," Aegon said with a thoughtful smile on his lips.

"I went to see Arya the night before we left. Said goodbye to her in person and then asked her not to come. She understood. Apparently she's not good with goodbyes either."

"And?" Aegon asked and Jon could already hear the expectant smile in his voice again.

"And what?"

"And how was the... goodbye?" he asked with a wink.

Jon snorted, then took a handful of snow from the battlements beside him and threw it in Aegon's wide grinning face. Aegon startled for a brief moment, then spat out snow that had landed in his mouth.

"It was nice," Jon then said. "My uncle Lord Eddard happened to be there as well, and he was really pleased that I came by in person to say goodbye. Very decent of me, he praised me."

"Ah, I see," Aegon said then, wiping the remnants of snow from his forehead. "So you had a chaperone."

"Sort of," Jon said, and now he had to grin himself.

He had no idea if the goodbyes – a brief talk, half a dozen embraces, and twice as many promises to come back safe and sound – would have gone differently had his uncle not been there. He had to admit, however, that he had been disappointed to find him there, in Arya's chambers of all places, at that moment of all moments. Of course, he would not have taken any dishonorable advantage from finding Arya alone, but... a kiss… maybe? Would a farewell kiss have been dishonorable?

No, he decided, himself surprised by how quickly he had been able to make this decision. When he came back, he would get that kiss, he then decided, and immediately felt the blush rise to his face again.

By the old gods and the new, don't act like a little girl, he scolded himself. This is about a kiss. Just a kiss. Nothing more.

The thought, however, of how badly he wanted that kiss, how badly he had wanted it that night, how badly he would want it now and would want it once he returned to King's Landing, surprised even himself. For a little moment, Jon wondered if he should tell Aegon this. As much as Egg liked to play his little jokes, Jon knew he could be serious when he felt that Jon was serious as well. But what was he supposed to tell him? That he had feelings for Arya? Aegon already knew that. That he wanted to kiss Arya? That was silly. Kissing was certainly not what Egg expected he would want to do with Arya. He would only make himself a fool. Still, he now knew for sure that he wanted to kiss her. Absolutely. Not just let her kiss him, but kiss her himself.

"I know what you're thinking about right now," Aegon said suddenly, snapping him out of his thoughts of Arya's soft lips.

"Don't talk crap. You don't know that," Jon said, noticing for himself how snotty he sounded.

"Watch your tongue, boy," Aegon admonished him in mock indignation.

"I humbly beg your pardon, Your Highness," Jon said, grinning broadly and indicating a bow. "So please be so gracious as not to talk such filth. Surely you cannot be aware of it, Your Grace."

"There you go," said Aegon, now grinning just as broadly. "Was that so hard now? And I still know what you're thinking about."

"Oh, and how?"

"Jon, my friend, your ears are shining so brightly that it can probably still be seen all the way in Winterfell. Maybe you finally should-"

A sudden noise interrupted him. High above them, on top of the Wall, one of the watchmen must have spotted something and was now signaling. Jon heard the deep, throaty call of the watchman's great horn, calling out across the miles. A single long blast that shuddered through Castle Black and through the woods around them, through the trees and echoed off the ice and snow covering the land as far as the eyes could see.

UUUUUUUOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo.

The sound faded slowly to silence. One blast meant rangers returning, Jon knew. At first they remained sitting, looking further out into the snow-covered lands before them. Only when more and more black brothers gathered in the courtyard of Castle Black, buzzing with excitement, did they decide it might be worth a look, climbed back down from the small tower, and began to blend in with the men.

The men in black stood silently around an improvised sled made of sticks and ropes, looking with deadly serious faces at what was on it. Jon and Aegon moved closer to get a better look at what the mess was all about. Only when they had managed to push past the front row of black brothers could they see what lay there. Jon was startled for a moment. Two dead men lay on the sled, dressed in the black of the Night's Watch.

"Othor," Ser Jaremy Rykker announced, "without a doubt. And that one is Jafer Flowers." He took a step closer to the corpses and pushed against them with his foot, turning the dead onto their backs. Jafer Flowers fell off the man named Othor with a thud. The dead white faces stared up into the overcast sky with blue, blue eyes. Jon felt a cold shiver run through his entire body.

Those eyes. Just like in my wolf dreams, he thought. Quickly he pushed the thought aside. They had only been dreams, and blue eyes were not uncommon. But this blue... this blue is… different.

"They were Ben Stark's men, both of them," Ser Jaremy continued.

My uncle's men, Jon thought numbly.

Jon looked around briefly, finding Robb standing one row back in the group. His cousin was trying hard to look composed, but Jon could see how hard this news was hitting him. Jon himself liked his Uncle Benjen well, had met him only a few times during his time in Winterfell, though. Robb, however, was closer to him, much closer, and the thought that something might have happened to him...

"Gods have mercy," the Old Bear muttered. Where the Lord Commander had come from so suddenly, Jon could not say. But all of a sudden he had been standing beside him and Aegon.

"We had to drag them here ourselves. The horses shied as if the Stranger himself was after them. Even the hounds wouldn't go near them," said Bass, the kennelmaster. Jon looked at the big, massive beasts huddled together some distance away like frightened whelps. Even now they were still snarling and whimpering by turns.

"Would have been easier if Ser Piggy had helped a little," Ser Jaremy scolded with an angry glance at Samwell Tarly, who was standing nearby. His round fat face was the color of curdled milk. Jon did not ask the question what a steward was doing beyond the Wall in the first place. This was not the crucial issue at the moment. Probably, however, he had been given other tasks until the new maesters would arrive, whom he could then assist. Jon had no doubt that it was largely due to Ser Alliser's… caring efforts that Samwell Tarly now had to go ranging beyond the Wall for the time being. In this respect, Samwell had actually been lucky that they had apparently not come very far until this discovery and had had to turn back again directly, even if he did not look at all pleased.

"Where did you find them?" asked Lord Mormont.

"In the weirwood grove," said Ser Jaremy. "Lying right in the middle of it, as if on a platter."

Again, those hideous blue eyes caught Jon's gaze. He didn't want to look into them, but couldn't avert their gaze either. He knew that blue and it scared him to the bone.

That's nonsense, he told himself then, they're just dead men. I've seen dead men before...

Besides, they had only been dreams. Nothing more. The Targaryens were known to have had prophetic dreams from time to time, but he was a Baratheon, not a Targaryen. Sure, every Baratheon had some dragon blood in his veins, too. Orys Baratheon had been the brother of Aegon the Dragon, after all. The bastard brother, but that probably made little difference here. And Jon's own great-grandmother had also been a Targaryen, Princess Rhaelle. Still, he was no Targaryen. The dragon blood in him was too weak for him to have had prophetic dreams. No, he was a Baratheon, a Storm Lord, not a Targaryen, not a Dragon Lord. Dreams. They were just dreams.

"Ser Jaremy," the Old Bear asked gruffly, "Ben Stark had six men with him when he rode from the Wall. Where are the others?"

Ser Jaremy shook his head. "Would that I knew."

Plainly Mormont was not pleased with that answer.

"Two of our brothers butchered almost within sight of the Wall, yet your rangers heard nothing, saw nothing. Is this what the Night's Watch has fallen to? Do we still sweep these woods?"

"Yes, my lord, but-"

"Do we still mount watches?"

"We do, but-"

"This man wears a hunting horn." Mormont pointed at Othor. "Must I suppose that he died without sounding it? Or have your rangers all gone deaf as well as blind?"

Ser Jaremy bristled, his face taut with anger.

"No horn was blown, my lord, or my rangers would have heard it."

"How did they die?" Jon heard a voice ask. It took him a moment to realize that it had been his own voice. Ser Jaremy looked at him, rather astonished for a moment, but at a nod from Lord Mormont, he then squatted down next to the man he had called Jafer Flowers and began to take a closer look at the body. Ser Jaremy grasped his head by the scalp. The hair came out between his fingers, brittle as straw. The knight cursed and shoved at the face with the heel of his hand. A great gash in the side of the corpse’s neck opened like a mouth, crusted with dried blood. Only a few ropes of pale tendon still attached the head to the neck.

"Jafer's arm seems to have simply been ripped off. The rest, however... this was done with an axe," he then explained.

"Aye," muttered Dywen, the old forester. "Belike the axe that Othor carried, my lord."

Jon could feel the crabs churning in his belly, but he pressed his lips together and made himself look at the second body. Othor had been a big ugly man, obviously, and he made a big ugly corpse. No axe was in evidence. Silently, they all looked down for a moment at the dead bodies, white all over like milk or fresh snow. Jon had never seen skin so white, either on a living or a dead. Othor's hands caught his eye. They were of a different color. His hands were black as coal, as were Jafer's.

Frostbite? But if so, why only on the hands and not on the ears and nose?

He had, during his time in Winterfell, already seen people who had frozen to death when he had gone hunting with Robb and Theon after a few particularly cold nights. They had found a group of young men in the woods who had not survived the night. But these men had looked different.

Jon forced himself to look at the bodies a little more closely. The sight was ghastly, disturbing, and yet he sensed that something was wrong with it. Something about these bodies caught his attention, even if, apart from the nightmarish eyes, he didn't know exactly what it was. Blossoms of hard cracked blood decorated the mortal wounds that covered both bodies like a rash, breast and groin and throat, neck and face. Yet their eyes were still open. They stared up at the sky, blue as sapphires.

Ser Jaremy stood.

"The wildlings have axes too," he said.

Mormont rounded on him.

"So you believe this is Mance Rayder's work? This close to the Wall?"

"Who else, my lord?"

"Who is Mance Rayder?" asked Aegon now, his brow furrowed deeply.

"The self-proclaimed King-beyond-the-Wall, Your Grace."

"And you think this Mance Rayder did this?"

"Yes," Ser Jaremy said. "Yes, Your Grace," he then corrected himself. Yet Lord Commander Mormont gave a snort.

"If Ben Stark had come under wildling attack a half day's ride from Castle Black, he would have returned for more men, chased the killers through all seven hells and brought me back their heads."

"Unless he was slain as well," Ser Jaremy insisted. "The forest is vast, my lord. The wildlings might have fallen on him anywhere. I'd wager these two were the last survivors of his party, on their way back to us... but the enemy caught them before they could reach the safety of the Wall."

"No," Samwell Tarly squeaked.

Jon was startled. This nervous, high-pitched voice of all voices was the last he would have expected to hear.

"I did not ask for your views, boy," Rykker said coldly.

"Let him speak," Lord Mormont said. "If the lad has something to say, I'll hear him out. Come closer, boy and say what you have to say."

Sam edged past some other black brothers he had been hiding behind, sweating profusely.

"This... this is all wrong," Sam Tarly said earnestly.

"Death never seems right to us, Tarly," said the Old Bear, who, however, seemed to have no interest in comforting Samwell. "But that doesn't just-"

"That's not what I mean," Samwell interrupted him. Immediately his eyes grew as big as palms as he apparently realized that he had just interrupted the Lord Commander. Now, however, there seemed to be no turning back for him, so he continued speaking. "The blood... there's bloodstains on their clothes, and... and their flesh, dry and hard, but... there was none on the ground where we found them. With those... those... those... " Samwell made himself swallow, took a deep breath. "With those wounds... terrible wounds... there should have been blood all over. Shouldn't there?"

"Is that right?" the Old Bear asked, turning to Ser Jaremy. "Was there no blood?"

"Aye, it's true," the latter admitted, albeit hesitantly.

Dywen sucked at his wooden teeth.

"Maybe they didn't die in the weirwood grove. Might be someone brought them there and left them for us. A warning, as like." The old forester peered down suspiciously. "And might be I'm a fool, but I don't know that Othor never had no blue eyes afore."

Ser Jaremy looked startled.

"Neither did Flowers," he blurted, turning to stare at the dead man. "I still won't fall in love with his corpse, though. Anyway, the attack can't have happened far away. The corpses are still fresh. These men cannot have been dead more than a day…"

"I don't think so," Tyrion Lannister said suddenly, pushing past several men of the Night's Watch, nearly twice his size, and bending over the dead bodies with an interested look as if inspecting a particularly well-crafted piece of art. He did not seem to mind the horrible sight at all.

"And why not, my lord?" grumbled Ser Jaremy, apparently anything but happy that now the next one was already stepping forward to contradict him.

"Just look at the blood," Tyrion said, his gaze still fixed on the dead man.

"Blood," Mormont said. "What of it?"

"Look at the stump where the arm was torn off," he said. When no one said anything after a moment, he sighed deeply before continuing. "The stump didn't bleed. In my youth, my lord father, Lord Tywin, was kind enough to let me share whenever he returned from a hunt with fresh kill and he had it dressed. In a fresh kill, the blood still flows, Lord Mormont. Only much later does it become thick and clotted. These wounds, however," he said, pointing a finger so close as if to poke straight in the dead bodies, "are crusty and dry."

Jon saw at once what Tyrion meant. He could see the torn veins in the dead man's shoulder, iron worms in the pale flesh. His blood was a black dust. Jon looked over at Aegon, who nodded slightly with an appreciative smile on his lips. Yet Jaremy Rykker was unconvinced.

"If they'd been dead much longer than a day, they'd be ripe by now, my lord. They don't even smell."

Dywen sidled closer to the corpses and took a whiff.

"Well, they're no pansy flowers, but... my lord has the truth of it. There's no corpse stink."

"They're not rotting," Tyrion said. "Look, there's no maggots or worms or anything. They've been lying there in the woods, but they haven't even been chewed or eaten by animals. They're kind of like fresh, except they're not. They're..."

"Untouched," Jon said.

"Yes, untouched," Tyrion agreed with him.

"We should burn them," someone whispered.

"Yes, burn them. We should burn them," others agreed in equal whispers. Old Bear gave a stubborn shake of his head.

"Not yet. Take the dead to the maester's cell," Lord Mormont then barked. Immediately all calls for burning the bodies died away. "As soon as Maester Aemon's successors arrive here, they will take a closer look at the bodies. I want to know what happened to them. After that we will burn and bury them, but not a moment sooner."

Some commands were more easily given than obeyed, though. The dead, only scantily wrapped in black cloaks, remained lying on the ground for a moment, untouched, before reluctantly, and only after loud curses from Ser Alliser, some black brothers finally found their hearts to follow the Lord Commander's orders.

The rest of the day passed as if in a dream. Jon, after seeing the two ghastly corpses, could no longer tell who he had talked to about what or where he had been. Aegon had been with him, as had Robb. He remembered that much. Shortly after sunset, he then finally retired to the small chamber in the Lord Commander's Tower he had been assigned to for the night. He had hoped for chambers for them all in the King's Tower, after all they had the Crown Prince with them, but that had apparently been badly damaged by a storm some months ago and was now unusable, so they had all now been given cells below the Lord Commander's chambers instead. It was not too late yet, but Jon was exhausted and just wanted this day to end. The chambers for all of their group were in the Lord Commander's Tower, yet like all rooms in Castle Black, they were cold and drafty, and the only light was provided by a flickering, musty smelling tallow candle on a small stool next to the narrow bed. Jon went straight to bed, hoping sleep would come quickly.

Somewhere beyond the Wall was whoever or whatever was responsible for what had happened to rangers Othor and Jafer and possibly even his Uncle Benjen, and yet Jon, staring wide-eyed and wide awake at the ceiling of his cell, wished that they were already on their way beyond the Wall. That they would not have had to wait another day to get a few extra men from the Night's Watch. The faster they left, the faster they would be back, after all. There wasn't much to prepare for these men anyway, aside from packing some rations, an axe or sword each, and probably some spare black underpants. So Jon would have preferred had Aegon insisted on leaving immediately. However, since he hadn't wanted to push the Lord Commander, he had agreed to wait another night. Whoever or whatever was beyond the Wall, it could hardly be worse than having to be near the corpses with the blue eyes.

Again and again he had to think back to those eyes, those ghastly blue eyes, the eyes he remembered from his dreams. Although, of course, he knew it was impossible.

My mind is playing a cruel trick on me, he thought. Somehow.

Unbidden, he had to think back on the tales that he had heard Old Nan tell to little Rickon during his time in Winterfell. He could almost hear her voice again, and the click-click-click of her knitting needles.

"In that darkness, the Others came riding," she used to say, dropping her voice lower and lower. "Cold and dead they were, and they hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every living creature with hot blood in its veins. Holdfasts and cities and kingdoms of men all fell before them, as they moved south on pale dead horses, leading hosts of the slain. They fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children..."

Jon banged his fist against the wooden wall next to his bed, hoping that the brief pain would dispel these silly thoughts. He blew out the candle next to his bed and decided to finally close his eyes now. He hoped for a dream that would show him something other than dead people and pale blue eyes. For a moment, he thought back to Arya. He imagined that she was here now, with him. He imagined them holding each other, warming each other against the dark cold of the night. He imagined the scent of her hair, the earthy smell of summer snow in the woods around Winterfell. His mind wandered on and suddenly he thought of... other things. He thought of her brown curls, which had fallen so gorgeously over her bare shoulders when they had woken up together that one morning in the tavern in King's Landing. He thought of the fairness of her skin, so delicate and flawless. He thought of the shape of her legs, slender and wiry, of her buttocks, small and firm, her flat stomach, and the color of her nipples, tender and rosy, which he had been able to see through the thin fabric of her smallclothes.

Immediately he felt a warmth inside him, as if remembering a particularly beautiful moment from his childhood. However, he also felt that with every moment he continued to think of her, that warmth moved around in his body, deeper and deeper, until it finally reached his crotch.

What would I say if she were here now? Or… what would I do?

Nothing, he heard a voice in his head say. You would do nothing, because that would be the right thing to do.

Everything, he then heard another voice in his head say. You would kiss her, rip her clothes off her body, and throw her on your bed, because that would be the right thing to do. Right for both of you.

Frustrated, he rolled around in his narrow, hard bed. Again and again he rolled around, trying hard not to think of Arya, of her legs and her breasts and her hair and her eyes and her lips. The lips he wanted to kiss so badly. Just like the breasts, it flashed through his mind. Again he hit the wood of the wall with his fist, again hoping that the pain might clear his head and relieve the hardness between his legs. He then tried to adjust the pillow filled with worn out feathers. Maybe then he would finally be able to fall asleep. He did not succeed, though.

A wolf dream wouldn't be too bad right now, Jon thought.

The wolf dream did not come, however. Almost as much as Arya, had begun to miss the she-wolf who had always been with him in his dreams. As silly as that might be. And if he couldn't be with Arya and she couldn't be with him right now, he wished he could at least be with the she-wolf, if only in a dream. In his wolf dreams he had lately always had this strange feeling, as if the she-wolf was in some way, one he could not explain, a reflection of Arya. In his dreams, the she-wolf had been just as fearless as Arya was, just as wild and untamed, and yet, in some moments, she had been just as close to him, had opened up to him in a strange way, not only when he had mounted her, and had seemed to look at him with her shining golden eyes just as Arya had always looked at him recently. The longer he thought about it, the sillier Jon felt, so he pushed the thought of her gray and golden eyes aside and tried to just dream of a hunt, rushing fast and free through the woods beyond the Wall. The wolf dream still did not come, however. As bad as they had last been in King's Landing, he had not had such a dream since they had left the city.

I will not sleep tonight, Jon thought. Yet he must have dozed. When he awoke, the blanket had slipped off his legs and he was freezing worse than before. Yes, he must have dozed. Something had woken him up, though, even if he couldn't say what it might have been. Very briefly, he thought he heard something, a sound like a crack or the breaking of a branch. But when he then listened into the darkness of his cell, everything was silent.

Perhaps just a dream, he thought.

He tried to crawl all the way under the blanket again, but his legs were stiff and cramping from the cold. Slowly, Jon pushed himself to his feet. Some movement would do him good, if only standing on two legs for a moment, so that the blood would begin to flow through his legs again. That was when he heard it, the soft scrape of a boot on stone, the sound of a latch turning. The sounds came from above. From the Lord Commander's chambers.

A nightmare this might be, yet it is no dream.

He was shivering uncontrollably, wishing he had his sword with him. His sword, however, lay with the rest of his belongings, neatly stacked in front of the gate through which they would pass beneath the Wall tomorrow, making their way north. Three quick steps brought him to the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled it inward. The creak of the hinges almost made him jump.

The black brother, assigned to guard the chamber of the Crown Prince next to his own and mere moments ago still patrolling up and down the narrow corridor, was now sprawled bonelessly across the floor, looking up at him. Looking up at him, even though he was lying on his stomach. His head had been twisted completely around.

It can't be, Jon told himself. This is the Lord Commander's Tower, the Crown Prince is also sleeping here, it's guarded day and night, this couldn't happen, it's a dream, I'm having a nightmare.

The guard's sword was still in its sheath. Jon knelt and worked it free. The heft of steel in his fist made him bolder. He moved up the steps, slowly. Shadows lurked in every turn of the stair. Jon crept up warily, probing any suspicious darkness with the point of his sword. For a brief moment he thought he heard something behind him, but didn't dare look back.

Suddenly he heard the shriek of Mormont's raven.

"Corn," the bird was screaming and the shrill sound made him almost jump out of his skin. "Corn, corn, corn, corn, corn, corn."

Jon stopped in the doorway to the Lord Commander's chambers, blade in hand, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. Heavy drapes had been pulled across the windows, and the darkness was black as ink.

"Who's there?" he called out.

Then he saw it, a shadow in the shadows, sliding toward the inner door that led to Lord Mormont's sleeping cell, a man-shape all in black, cloaked and hooded... but beneath the hood, its eyes shone with an icy blue radiance...

The blood seemed to freeze in his veins for a moment. Spellbound, unable to move, he could do nothing but look into those cold, blue eyes staring at him out of the darkness. Then the shadow turned, back toward the door to Lord Mormont's sleeping cell. Only now could Jon move again, walking cautiously and unsurely into the deep black of the room, sword in front. Immediately, Jon felt as blind as Maester Aemon.

Then he heard something again. Boots on stone floor and the sound of the door, yet hidden in the black too much to see anyone. He briefly thought he saw another shadow in the darkness. Then he heard two bodies slam into each other, crashing to the floor. Someone or something crashed into a chair, knocking over the table laden with papers next to it. He heard a groan, the sound of punches and kicks. A fight. He had to do something. Now. Lord Mormont's raven fluttered excitedly around the room.

"Corn, corn, corn," it screamed again and again.

Keeping the wall to his back, he slid toward the window and ripped down the curtain. Moonlight flooded the solar. He glimpsed black hands buried in white hair, swollen dark fingers tightening around Aegon's throat. His face was red, looking almost black in the pale moonlight, his eyes wide in terror. Aegon tried to free himself, to escape the merciless grip of the black hands around his throat, but he could not break free.

Jon had no time to be afraid. He threw himself forward, shouting, bringing down the longsword with all his weight behind it. Steel sheared through sleeve and skin and bone, yet the sound was wrong somehow. The smell that engulfed him was so queer and cold he almost gagged. He saw arm and hand on the floor, black fingers wriggling in a pool of moonlight.

Aegon wrenched free of the other hand, pushed the massive body off of him, and crawled away, panting and gasping for air.

The hooded man lifted his pale moon face, and Jon slashed at it without hesitation. The sword laid the intruder open to the bone, taking off half his nose and opening a gash cheek to cheek under those eyes, eyes like blue stars burning. Jon knew that face.

Othor, he thought, reeling back. Gods, he's dead, he's dead, I saw him dead.

He felt something scrabble at his ankle. Black fingers clawed at his calf. The arm was crawling up his leg, ripping at wool and flesh. Shouting with revulsion, Jon pried the fingers off his leg with the point of his sword and flipped the thing away. It lay writhing, fingers opening and closing.

The corpse lurched forward. There was no blood. One-armed, face cut near in half, it seemed to feel nothing. Jon held the longsword before him.

"Stay away!" he commanded, his voice gone shrill.

"Corn," screamed the raven, "corn, corn."

Dead Othor slammed into him, knocking him off his feet.

Jon's breath went out of him as the fallen table caught him between his shoulder blades. The sword, where was the sword? He'd lost the damned sword! When he opened his mouth to scream, the wight jammed its black corpse fingers into Jon's mouth. Gagging, he tried to shove it off, but the dead man was too heavy. Its hand forced itself farther down his throat, icy cold, choking him. Its face was against his own, filling the world.

Frost covered its eyes, sparkling blue. Jon raked cold flesh with his nails and kicked at the thing's legs. He tried to bite, tried to punch, tried to breathe...

And suddenly the corpse's weight was gone, its fingers ripped from his throat. It was all Jon could do to roll over, retching and shaking. He heard a loud crash, turned his head to see what had happened. Aegon had torn the corpse off him, flinging it across the room. Othor had crashed into the wall next to the door. An iron nail, the Lord Commander's black cloak still hanging on it, had pierced through his back, sticking out at the chest.

"What the hell is that?" cried Aegon in panic.

"Othor," gasped Jon, unable to say more.

The corpse began to move again, looking at them with its blue glowing eyes. Jon expected to see anger in them, rage and hatred. None of that, however, was to be found. His eyes simply looked at them, empty and absolutely indifferent, as the corpse slowly pushed itself forward, pulling the nail out of its flesh with a ripping and smacking sound.

A door opened next to Jon. Immediately he whirled around, ready to hit whatever new enemy was there as hard as he could, but at the last moment recognized the angry face of Lord Commander Mormont. Naked and groggy from sleep, the Old Bear was standing in the doorway with an oil lamp in his hand, looking in disbelief at the scene that presented itself to him.

Quickly, without thinking about it, Jon snatched the oil lamp from the Old Bear's fingers. The flames flickered and almost died.

"Burn," croaked the raven. "Burn, burn, burn!"

Spinning, Jon saw the drapes he'd ripped from the window. He flung the lamp into the puddled cloth with both hands. Metal crunched, glass shattered, oil spewed, and the hangings went up in a great whoosh of flame. The heat of it on his face was sweeter than any kiss Jon had ever known.

"Now!" he shouted to Aegon. His friend immediately understood.

Jon and Aegon rushed forward a step, plunged their hands into the flames, grabbed a handful of the burning drapes and whipped them at the dead man.

Let it burn, he prayed as the cloth smothered the corpse, gods, please, let it burn.

At that moment, more men rushed into the small room, drawn swords in hands. In the red and golden shine of the flames, Jon recognized the white of the Kingsguard and the black of the Night's Watch. There was wild talking and shouting, and somewhere the raven was cawing something to itself. Jon and Aegon, however, just stood there, side by side, staring wordlessly into the flames.

Ser Oswell and Prince Lewyn came to them first, seeing if they were hurt. Apart from their aching hands and throats, however, they found no wounds. Jon felt numb, unable to do or say anything but just stand there and enjoy the sight, noticing almost nothing of what was going on around them. He did not want to notice anything and he knew that Aegon felt the same. He heard the questions they were asked, but without understanding the words. Everything other than the golden light of the flames was meaningless. All there was in the world for him at that moment were the flames in front of them, so bright and warm and wonderful.

"How come you were here?" Jon asked after a while.

"Couldn't sleep," Aegon said with a shrug. "Heard your door and thought I'd see what you were doing."

The Lord Commander, by now dressed in a nightgown and his black cloak wrapped around him, began barking orders, black brothers rushed in and out. A bell was rung, somewhere, excitedly bringing the castle to life. At some point, someone began rubbing something on their hands and bandaging them with thin cloth, while they still stood silently watching the burned, smoldering corpse being carried out of the room.

"Too bad it is burned," Aegon then said.

"Too bad?" asked Jon in surprise.

"Yes. If we had returned to King's Landing with this thing, we could have saved ourselves the trouble of letting his undead friends kill us beyond the Wall."

Chapter Text

The night before had been long and had Ned had a choice, he would have gone to bed earlier. But when the king began to play on his harp with the silver strings for the entire court, one did not leave the Throne Room earlier. The music had been beautiful, strong yet delicate, as Ned had to acknowledge, even if this kind of courtly music was not really to his taste. The ladies of the court, however, had apparently disagreed. Queen Elia had seemed to enjoy the music, even if she had not been quite as moved by it as some of the other ladies, alternately heaving a sigh or a sniffle. King Rhaegar had first played Let Me Drink Your Beauty, then Fallen Leaves. When he had come to The Vow Unspoken after a few other songs that Ned hadn't recognized, even Lyanna hadn't been able to hold back her tears entirely, he had noticed out of the corner of his eye.

When His Grace had finally started to play his latest song, a sad little tune that he had said had come to him on a warm summer night in the ruins of Summerhall, Ned had seen more ladies crying than at most of the funerals he had attended.

Now he sat in the Small Hall in Maegor's Holdfast, his head heavy from the tiredness, clutching his mug of tea with one hand. Robert had let himself be served a cup of wine already. How Robert was able to drink this so early in the morning already, especially since he had also drunk considerably too much last night after His Grace's concert, was a mystery to Ned. Ned knew, however, that his friend had always been able to do this. When they had been boys and young men, had been fostered at the Eyrie together, Robert had been able to drink half the night, and while Ned had barely managed to open his eyes the following morning, Robert had already been laughing again and greeting the day with a cup of wine or a mug of ale in his hand. Now it was hardly different. Ned would have given all the gold in the world to be back in his bed now, if fortunately only from tiredness, not because of an aching head, while Robert sat there laughing, eating, drinking, and loudly bantering with the maids.

I must remember to talk to Vayon about Winterfell's coffers when I return, he thought, and despite the sorry subject was glad to be able to occupy his mind with his home again, at least for a moment. They haven't been well filled lately and whatever awaits us next winter, mere snow and ice or even wildlings and who knows what else, we will need every coin we can muster to prepare for it. However much gold the king wants to spend, I doubt too much of it will ever reach Winterfell.

"But I'm absolutely sure," he heard Lyanna say, as he again was listlessly stirring the stew of barley, goat meat, and wild herbs from the Dornish Marshes in front of him. The stew was delicious, considerably better than the oatmeal that got served most mornings in Winterfell, but his appetite just wouldn't settle. "That music would have brought even you to tears, dear," his sister continued.

"Uh-huh," Arya said in a disbelieving tone, her brows furrowed in doubt.

"It worked for me, anyway. And that is not an easy thing to do."

"That's definitely true," Robert thundered with a loud, throaty laugh. "Tickling a tear out of that woman is like trying to make a rock cry."

Ned knew that was probably even true. Lyanna had never been one to cry quickly. As a child and as a young woman, she'd often enough scraped her knees or her elbows or her chin, had come out of the Godswood with a bloody lip, or had singed her own hair, but never had she cried. The only time he had seen her cry at all was when the news of Brandon's death had reached them, if he remembered correctly. Still, he would have preferred it if Robert had not spoken of his sister, his own wife after all, in public like that. Before he could say anything about it, however, Lyanna herself had already spoken up.

"I will not sit here and be insulted as an insensitive rock by an insensitive rock," his sister said in - hopefully - feigned indignation. Ned saw Robert reach out to her, but before he could touch her, she had already jumped up from her chair and in turn extended her hand to Arya. "Don't you want to come with me, Arya?"

"Where to?" the latter asked.

"Well, I may have gotten us a small escort and some horses, so we can ride out for a bit, if you like. See something other than just that damn castle for a change. Your father has already agreed," she said, winking at Ned.

Ned had by no means already agreed to this, had himself learned about it only at that very moment, but the joy and the excitement that abruptly spread across Arya's face was something he couldn't possibly take away from her now. Something Lyanna had known just as well. And as long as they had an armed escort with them, certainly nothing would happen. So he only forced himself to a nod and a weak but hopefully convincing enough smile as Arya jumped up from her chair, grabbed Lyanna's hand and ran out of the hall with her like two little girls on their way to their first dancing lesson.

"Did you receive a letter yet?" asked Ned after a moment, when Lyanna and Arya were just out the door.

"What letter?" asked Robert, looking discontentedly into his nearly empty cup.

"From Jon, of course. Whether he arrived safely at the Wall. I haven't heard from Robb yet."

Robert looked at him in silence for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"Ned, my Jon and your Robb probably just arrived at the Wall. It would take a raven weeks to reach King's Landing. Probably Rhaegar's girl and her monster will be back here far sooner. The boys are doing fine."

Rhaegar's girl... You are talking about the princess of the realm, Robert.

"Aye, I suppose you're right. It is silly."

"It is," Robert said, again with a broad grin. He held the cup out to one of the maids, who immediately took it and returned only a moment later with a freshly filled one. "You're starting to sound like your sister. Ever since they left, she's been nagging me about whether Jon's all right, and whether he's made it through the trip safely, and whether it's not too dangerous beyond the damned Wall. Pah," he snorted, taking a big gulp of the wine. "The boys will have their fun, I tell you. I'm truly jealous of them, you know!"

"Jealous?" Ned asked, hardly able to believe what his friend had just said.

"Aye, you bet I am. Our sons are having an adventure that should have been ours, Ned. Imagine that. You and me, beyond the Wall, you with a sword and me with my hammer, wildlings and direwolves all around us. Oh, what fun that would have been."

"Fun? You've never been this far north before, Robert. It's not an adventure," he said, resolve in his voice. For a moment, it puzzled him that a man who had been married to a northern woman for so long still had no sense of what the North actually meant. How dangerous the North could be to all those who underestimated it.

Tall and strong he may be, but he is a man of summer. He has the warmth of the South in his blood and no real sense for the cold of the North. He will never understand the North, Ned thought, and for a brief heartbeat he pondered whether he understood Lyanna just as little.

"The North is dangerous," he then continued. The thought of the state of Robert's and Lyanna's marriage was too sinister to bear now. "And it's even more dangerous north of the Wall."

"Oh," Robert said, waving it off. "You and your worries. The North is as cold as a septa's cunt, but otherwise no more dangerous than the Stormlands or the Reach or any other place in the realm. There are bandits and robbers everywhere, Ned, whether you call them wildlings or whatever. And damn wolves too. So don't get too cocky about your North."

For a while they were silent. Robert drank his wine, Ned drank his tea. His tiredness made it impossible for him to argue with Robert here and now. What good would that have done anyway? Moreover, he felt a headache coming on.

"Let me tell you a secret, Ned," Robert suddenly continued, his voice so low he almost whispered. "More than once, I've dreamed of giving it up."

"Give it up? Give what up?"

"Everything, Ned. Just everything. Storm's End and the damned responsibility, my name and all the obligations, just everything. Taking a ship to the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spending my time warring and whoring, that's what I was made for, Ned. Not for this. There, in the Free Cities, I would have been a king in my own right. The Sellsword King they would have called me and, oh, how the singers would have loved me, Ned."

Ned didn't know what to say to that. He knew his old friend well enough to know that he had always felt most comfortable in armor with his hammer in hand. In the melee in tourneys he had felt truly at home and in war, Ned had experienced this himself during the Greyjoy Rebellion, he had been as alive as he had practically never seen him at any other moment in his life. But would he really have done that? That Robert would have thanked the gods had he somehow been relieved of any form of responsibility his birth entailed, Ned did not doubt that for even a moment. Robert, even when they had still been fostered together by Jon Arryn in the Eyrie, had never shown any interest in ruling one day, not the Stormlands, not Storm's End, not even a kennel. But was that truly enough? Would he truly, had the opportunity presented itself, one day just have left behind his family, his sons, not to mention Lyanna, to be killed by some stranger in a war not his far from home in Essos? Ned did not know, and the fact that he could not clearly deny it frightened him more than he himself had expected.

Ned opened his mouth to say something, himself still unsure what exactly this would have been, when a servant approached, coming to a halt next to Ned. The man, dressed in a scarlet robe with a copper dragon on his chest, stood so stiffly beside him that one might have thought he was carved from wood or hewn from stone, his back straight as a spear.

"Lord Stark, I have been instructed to convey a message to you," he said in a voice far too soft for a man.

"A message? From whom?"

"Ser Jory Cassel, my lord."

Instantly Ned's own back was as straight as a spear as well. Jory was, along with Hallis and Harwin, one of the men he had sent out to search all over the city for Theon Greyjoy. So, if Jory now sent him a message, they had either finally found Theon, or at least a trace of him, or had turned the city completely upside down and there was nothing more they could do.

"He's not a ser," Ned corrected the servant, though he couldn't say himself why that seemed relevant to him at that moment. "What is this message?"

"Ser Jory sends you word that they have not found any trace of the little shit, not in the entire cesspool," the servant said, visibly uncomfortable with even mouthing a word like shit and cesspool.

"I see," said Ned, sighing.

The little shit was of course Theon Greyjoy, and by the cesspool Jory could only mean King's Landing. He would have preferred had Jory not used such terms in his message, certainly not towards a servant of the royal family. If Jory had to express his dislike of Theon Greyjoy and the capital at all costs, he should do so when he was alone with the other men from Winterfell. More troubling than the fact that Jory had, only thinly disguised, just insulted the capital as a cesspool in the face of a royal servant, however, was the news itself. Theon was nowhere to be found, not even the slightest hint of his whereabouts. He had to talk to the king and tell him about it. As soon as possible.

"I must go," he then said to a surprised Robert, rising from his chair. Turning to the servant, he continued. "I must see the king," he said. "Please deliver to His Grace my request to see him. This very day. It is of the utmost importance that I-"

"Lord Stark," the servant cut him off, "I apologize for the interruption, but His Grace has already commanded you to come to him. Aside from the message, I have also been sent to summon you, my lord," the servant said.

For a heartbeat, Ned was speechless. The king had ordered him to him. So either he already knew about Theon's disappearance and had already thought of a punishment for his failure, or something else entirely was at stake. Which prospect of the two he found less disturbing, however, Ned could not say.

Ned nodded and followed the servant out of the Small Hall with quick steps, ignoring the questions of the still puzzled looking Robert. The servant walked so swiftly that Ned almost had trouble following him at times. He led him down some hallways and around some corners, down two winding staircases, and down more hallways, until they finally stepped out through the main gate of Maegor's Holdfast, beneath the heavy, iron-barred portcullis, and across the wooden drawbridge in front of it. Without stopping, the servant walked on, then took a small door on his left, through which Ned followed him, and went down more winding stairs. The staircase was narrow, the steps steep, and the only light came from a few flickering torches in iron holders on the walls. More than once, Ned had nearly fallen on the steep stairs and when, after what had seemed like half an eternity, they finally had even ground under their feet again, he thanked all the gods who would listen to him that his feet and legs were still unbroken. They passed through another heavy wooden door, guarded on both sides by soldiers, and stepped out into the rear courtyard of the Red Keep.

"I thought we were going to see the king," Ned said as they walked just past the Royal Sept.

"I am tasked to show you the way, my lord," was the servant's curt reply.

Does the king want to receive me in the Throne Room? So that the entire court can learn of my failure directly?

They walked on, around the Royal Sept, and towards the foot of a large tower, the entrance also guarded by soldiers. The Tower of the Hand, Ned recognized immediately. Before he could ask the servant whether they would actually meet the king in the Tower of the Hand, they had already entered it and were now fighting their way up the long staircase, step by step. They passed numerous heavy doors of dark oak with iron fittings, small windows of stained glass, and only slightly larger windows of clear glass, which nevertheless allowed for an amazing view of the Red Keep. Ned, however, did not get a chance to enjoy the view, lest he lose touch with the servant still hurrying lightly and swiftly up the steps. He could already feel the heat under his doublet, the sweat running down his neck, when they finally reached a large and impressive double-winged door, decorated with a bronze hand larger than many a shield he had seen in his life. Once again, soldiers waited to the right and left of the door.

They opened the door and bade him enter, while the servant bid him farewell with a brief nod and immediately made his way back down the stairs. Only when Ned already entered the room did he notice that the room had been guarded only by soldiers.

If the king were here, it should have been knights of the Kingsguard, should it not?

The grim face behind the wide desk, the only one in the room to greet him when he entered, gave him the answer immediately. The Lord Hand, Jon Connington, sat alone in the room, quill in hand and piles of papers in front of him, from which he seemed only too unwilling to look up.

Ned still remembered the man from the Greyjoy Rebellion so many years ago. His hair had been so fiery red then that it had shone in the wind like a banner. Now not much of it remained. His beard, short and neatly trimmed, was still red, but the hair on his head, though still full, had mostly turned gray like old snow. He had been a good commander in his day and to his credit, as Ned had noted several times, he had done his best to protect innocent life and keep it out of the slaughter of a war. More than once, several lords had tried to pressure the newly crowned King Rhaegar to burn down entire towns and villages on the Iron Islands, with men, women and children in them, to force the iron men still raiding in the Reach, the Arbor and the Westerlands to return home so they could be forced to a decisive battle. Lord Connington had always opposed such drastic measures and, thank the gods, had also always managed to keep His Grace from agreeing to such atrocities.

The last time he had seen him was the evening before, when, of course, he had also been present to listen to His Grace play his harp with the silver strings. However, there was now nothing left of the contented, almost dreamy face of yesterday. Lord Connington looked at him as if he were thinking about separating his head from his shoulders any moment. The Lord Hand certainly was a good and loyal man, but what he was not, was friendly and likable.

"Lord Stark, please sit," he said, gesturing with a curt nod to the chair on the other side of his table, and then turning back to his papers.

Ned did as he was told and sat down on the chair. For a while he just sat there, watching the Lord Hand write letters, sign papers and put wax seals under them, or make little notes in seemingly arbitrary places on giant, confusing looking lists. Ned did not doubt, however, that there was nothing arbitrary about anything the Lord Hand did. Ned didn't know how long he had been sitting there, silent and doing nothing but watching the Lord Hand do his work, but with each passing moment he felt more like a little boy who had been summoned before his lord father after being caught doing something stupid.

This is how Brandon must have felt whenever he was brought into Father's solar with a bloody nose or a busted lip, Ned thought, and for a brief moment he had to smile at the thought of his wild brother. A sad smile, but a smile nevertheless.

Lord Connington seemed to have noticed his smile, for immediately his expression became even more scowling and grim. Something that Ned would not have thought possible only moments before.

"Why am I here, my lord?" Ned finally asked. "I was told that the king wished to see me."

"I wished to see you," said Lord Connington, without looking up from his papers, his letters, and his lists.

"But I was told that the king-"

"I speak in the king's name, Lord Stark. So when you speak to me while His Grace is not personally present, you are speaking to the king. What a Lord Hand is, I don't have to explain to you, do I?"

"No, Lord Hand," Ned said, again feeling like a little boy after a stern admonishment.

"Good."

"Will you tell me now why I am here?" he asked after a moment of waiting, during which Lord Connington again did not acknowledge him with even so much as a glance. Only now did he put aside his quill and look at him with his pale blue eyes.

Cold Eyes. Even if they were dead, they could hardly appear colder.

"I take it you have not found him?" asked Lord Connington. For a brief moment, Ned was confused by the question. Before he could even begin to sort out his thoughts and answer, however, the Lord Hand was already speaking on. "Theon Greyjoy. I take it that you have not found him."

"No...no, we haven't. How do you know-"

"This city has eyes and ears, Lord Stark. More than you can imagine. Did you really think it had escaped our notice that your... ward was gone?" he asked, emphasizing the word in a way that left no doubt that Theon had been anything but a ward. "You and your men started looking for him during the tourney already, so conspicuous and loud that even the dead must have overheard what you were doing. Don't look so surprised. It's like I said. This city has eyes and ears, Lord Stark. So, you haven't found him."

"No."

"Unfortunately, neither did we."

"You were looking for him, too?" Ned asked in surprise.

"Of course. Theon Greyjoy was the crown's best means of keeping his traitorous father from further treasonous follies. Now he's gone and sooner or later His Grace will have to turn his gaze back on the Iron Islands. Without Theon in our hands, it's only a matter of time before these unwashed savages will try some nonsense again."

Ned was silent for a moment, not knowing what to say. Briefly, he scolded himself for not directly recognizing the obvious, how much it was in the crown's best interest to keep Theon as his ward, as his hostage. Briefly, he was soured by the way Lord Connington spoke about the iron men. Even though he himself could not muster much love for the iron men and their way of life as well, they were a part of the realm, possessed the titles and honors of knights and lords and so it would have been only right and proper if Lord Connington had also spoken accordingly about them. He didn't even want to imagine how Lord Connington must have talked about him and the Northeners when Ned wasn't around.

"I would like to speak to the king to apologize for my failure," he then said.

"I have told you before, Lord Stark, I speak in the King's name. If you speak to me, you speak to His Grace. Your apology, then, is hereby noted."

Ned frowned, unsure what to make of it. Indeed, it was true that the Lord Hand spoke in the king's name. For this reason, it was not uncommon for the Lord Hand to sit on the Iron Throne and hold court whenever people of lower rank sought to be admitted to the king with their concerns, but which the king could not or would not take care of himself. He, however, was not of low rank. He was a lord of the realm, a Lord Paramount and the Warden of the North. Certainly, he did not have a right to be received by His Grace in person, but when it came to such an important matter, he would still have preferred to discuss it with His Grace personally and apologize to him personally rather than sit unwelcome before the Lord Hand's table like a misbehaving boy.

"At least there is a trace of the young Greyjoy, though," Lord Connington then said, quill already in hand again.

"Is that so?"

"Indeed. A while back, a longship from the Iron Islands anchored in King's Landing for two nights. Timewise, this coincides with the lad's disappearance."

"Then he went on that ship?"

"His Grace suspects as much, anyway. And as we have no other clues, we assume that this is what happened."

"I see," said Ned, unsure what more there was to say.

For a while Lord Connington went on writing, putting his signature and the seal of the Hand of the King under letters and decrees, making notes and entries in tables that seemed to grow longer and longer with each moment. Then he looked up again, almost something like surprise on his face to find Ned still here before him.

"As I notice, you are still here. Is there anything else to discuss?"

"No, my lord," Ned said.

"Then you may now leave, Lord Stark."

Ned rose from his chair without saying another word. He turned to leave the room. Arriving at the door, he paused once more and turned back to Lord Connington.

"I feared the worst when Theon suddenly disappeared," he said. "Now at least there is a clue. I thank you, my lord, for the trouble you have taken to find the lad."

"If you truly do feel the urgent need to thank someone for taking over your duties," Lord Connington said sighing, but without looking up from his papers, "then may I suggest you thank Princess Rhaenys for it at the next opportunity. It was she who, after your daughter asked her, found out about the longship."

"Princess Rhaenys? You mean the princess has-"

"You may now leave, Lord Stark," Lord Connington interrupted him, thus ending the conversation.

After leaving the Tower of the Hand and finally being able to breathe normally again after the almost equally exhausting descent down the countless steps, he went searching for Jory, Hallis and Harwin. He found them, as expected, in the barracks of the Gold Cloaks, where his men had been quartered for the duration of his stay. He had them give him a brief report in person, although there was not much to report apart from the names of all the taverns and brothels they had turned upside down in search of the boy, and then informed them of what he himself had just learned from Lord Connington.

He had to strain to overhear the insults his men found for Theon, even though he could certainly understand their feelings. Traitor was still the kindest word that crossed Jory's lips. On the other hand, could the boy really be blamed for finally wanting to go home after all the years he had lived in Winterfell and seizing the opportunity that had presented itself? Not really, Ned thought. How things would proceed now was out of his hands, but he doubted that His Grace would simply let it go at that. Theon had become his ward at the king's command to force the Iron Islands into a permanent peace, and without a royal command to undo this, he had no right to simply go where he wanted. So if he really was on the Iron Islands now, the king would certainly order him to return to Winterfell immediately. The gods alone knew how far His Grace would go if Theon did not comply with this royal command.

He was surprised to find Arya in his chambers shortly after, having come to have lunch with him after her ride. She had really been enjoying the ride with Lyanna, as she told him, and wanted to ride out with her again later. The horses were so good, she said, that it would be a shame not to make more use of them. Lyanna had apparently managed to find some Dornish sand steeds somewhere, small and tough, but fast and agile like no other animal. So far they had ridden north along the coast and then back via two small villages nearby. After noon they planned to ride south, along the far bank of the Blackwater Rush, and make a detour into the Kingswood. For a moment he was displeased that she again apparently did not think it necessary to even ask his permission, but then left it at that. Ned was glad that Arya felt like spending time with her Aunt Lyanna. That way, at least, he didn't have to worry about her. Not too much, anyway.

A maid served them a soup with mushrooms and herbs and a braised piece of wild boar, rosy and juicy, with roasted chestnuts in a thick sauce of red wine and cloves. The maid offered to serve them a suitable red wine for the meal, but Ned declined and had her bring some herbal tea with honey for Arya and him instead. For a while, after Arya had told him about her ride and her and Lyanna's plans for the afternoon, they were both silent. Only when they had already finished eating did Arya begin to speak again.

"And...," she began, "have you heard anything yet, father?"

"Heard? What would you like me to have heard?"

"I mean about Jon. And Prince Aegon and the others, of course. Have you heard anything about them?"

Ned had to laugh.

"No, Arya, of course not. They've only been gone a few days," he said with such obviousness as if he hadn't asked Robert exactly the same question just a few hours ago.

"I wonder if they've arrived in Winterfell yet?"

"Well," he said after a moment's thought, "I would think so. I don't know how fast a dragon can fly really, but His Grace seemed convinced that they could complete the distance to the Wall in only a few days."

"So they're already there. At the Wall, I mean," Arya said, chewing on the spoon she had used to scrape the remains of the sauce from her plate.

"Probably, yes. But we will most likely not know about that until Princess Rhaenys is back. No raven can fly as fast as a dragon, so she'll probably be back here sooner than any raven that might have been sent here from Winterfell or Castle Black."

"Hmm," she said, looking over at the distant window as if searching out there for a sign of the princess's dragon, and then was silent again for a while. "Do you think he… they're all right?"

"Yes, I'm sure they are fine," he said with a little smile.

"It's cold up north. Do you think Jon's clothes are thick and warm enough?"

"Yes, definitely."

"Are they well equipped? Do they have everything they need?"

"Yes, most definitely, Arya," he said again, grinning.

"Are you sure? Did you see that Jon had everything important with him? What if he forgot-"

"Arya," he interrupted her, "everything is fine. Jon is well equipped. He's traveling with the Crown Prince, so they have everything they need, and they'll definitely get everything else from the Night's Watch if anything turns out to be missing. Nothing will happen to them. You'll see."

After that, Arya was silent, even though the expression on her face looked anything but satisfied. Ned looked at his daughter for a while, still chewing on the spoon, lost in thought. It was adorable the way she worried about Jon. If this had been Sansa talking like that, he would have gone to Robert that very day to propose a betrothal between his daughter and Jon. This was Arya, however, so he did not make that mistake. His little she-wolf would probably scratch his eyes out for the idea alone.

Shortly after, Lyanna appeared in his chambers to pick up Arya again. He would have liked to talk to her for a moment, but Lyanna seemed to be desperate to grab Arya and ride out with her again, almost as if every moment she had to stay within the walls of the royal fortress was pure torture for her. She hadn't had more than a brief greeting and an equally brief farewell for him when she had literally dragged Arya out of his chambers, laughing and giggling loudly, and slammed the door shut behind her. Briefly, Ned wondered if he should have another bite to eat. The wild boar had been delicious and whether he would have another warm meal today was not certain. He then decided against it, however, and instead made his way to Jon Arryn's chambers.

Jon had already let him know last night, right after His Grace's music had ended, that he would like to see him in his chambers later today. There was something important to discuss, he had said, but without being specific about what it was. So Ned made his way to the chambers of Jon Arryn and, much to his own surprise, found them quickly and without getting lost in Maegor's Holdfast.

He knocked on the door, decorated with an elaborate carving of the falcon of House Arryn, and stepped inside to a barely perceptible "Come in". Jon Arryn sat hunched far forward at a wide table that had been set up almost in the middle of the room. The bed, wide and richly decorated, had apparently had to be pushed aside for this purpose. Ned had to smile when he saw this. His foster father had always been such a hardworking man that, even when Ned had been a boy at Eyrie, he had slept in his study more often than in his bed. Even now that he was here in King's Landing visiting the king, that didn't seem to change. Ned took a step closer.

"Jon, it's good to see you. But your message sounded anything but good. What is there that is so important that you must discuss with me?"

"There are… certain difficulties we must deal with, my lord," Ned suddenly heard a voice from the side and almost jumped out of his skin in shock. His head whipped around and his heart almost stopped when he realized who had been speaking to him there. Immediately Ned sank to one knee as the king approached him with slow steps, a silver wine cup in his hand.

"Your Grace," he said, his face turned to the ground. "Please forgive my words. I did not know you would be here."

Why was there no Kingsguard knight at the door?

"Please, rise, my lord," the king said as he passed, quiet as a cat, and joined Jon Arryn at the wide desk. "What we have to discuss is not for everyone's ears, and in King's Landing it is not easy to find a place where such words can be safely exchanged. Surely you have noticed that I am not accompanied by the Kingsguard?"

"Certainly, Your Grace."

"That is because I am down in the city right now with my dear brother and some knights of the Kingsguard to inspect the Royal Mint. You understand."

"So when you are in the city now, no one here will be looking for you inside this castle or trying to eavesdrop on you, Your Grace."

A cold shiver ran down his spine at the thought of what it would be like not to be able to express himself freely in Winterfell, in his home, and to have to stage such a spectacle in order to do nothing more but be able to speak openly with two of his bannermen.

"Exactly," said the king. "Please, step closer, and we'll get right to your question of what there is of such importance that Lord Arryn and I are anxious to discuss with you."

Ned stepped closer to the table, littered with letters and all sorts of other writing, but scattered about in such a mess that Ned couldn't really read any of them in a hurry. As he stood in front of the table, a thought occurred to him.

Now is the time. I certainly won't get this close to His Grace anytime soon if I have to get past Lord Connington every time to do so, he thought.

"Your Grace, before we begin...," he said.

"Yes, what is it, my lord?"

"Your Grace, Lord Connington has certainly already conveyed my words to you, but I would still like to apologize again to you personally for my failure."

"Failure? What failure?" asked His Grace, his noble brow furrowed.

"For Theon Greyjoy, Your Grace. For his disappearance. I will, of course, take full responsibility. Whatever punishment you deem appropriate, I will of course accept," he said, lowering his gaze again.

"I appreciate the gesture you are making, Lord Stark, but that will not be necessary," His Grace said. Ned could hardly believe what he had just heard, but before he could say anything and express his relief, the king was already speaking on. "It was not your fault that the young Greyjoy disappeared. The lad wanted to go home and when the opportunity presented itself, he took it. He was long old enough to be sent back anyway. After all, I could not expect you to hold him forever. Otherwise I might as well have sent him to the Wall. Just tell me this, Lord Stark, has Theon Greyjoy turned out to be a good man?"

"I did my best to make him a good man and to teach him honor and loyalty, Your Grace."

"Hmm," said the king, seeming to ponder this for a moment. "A clever answer, my lord. Not a denial, but not a clear commitment either. A clever answer indeed. Then I suppose all that remains for us to do now is to wait and see if your tuition has borne fruit, Lord Stark. At least as soon as Theon Greyjoy shows up again somewhere. As long as Balon Greyjoy is still alive, the iron men will keep quiet. The Old Kraken has learned what it means to challenge the Iron Throne during his last rebellion. He lost two sons then, and he knows that his line will end should he attempt anything like that again. When he dies someday, the situation will have to be reconsidered. Certainly there will be a power struggle for the Seastone Chair then, and whether Theon will emerge victorious on it is written in the stars. But until then, we will hardly have to worry about the Iron Islands."

The king took a deep sip from his silver cup, decorated with Valyrian runes and small, elaborate images of dragons and sphinxes.

I wonder if the king always carries his own cup when he visits someone in his chambers, Ned thought but then scolded himself for it. This is his home. Surely the cups in almost all chambers look similar, he thought, and for a moment he was sorry not to have taken a closer look at the cups in his own chambers.

"But now to the reason for your presence, Lord Stark," the king said, nodding toward the countless slips of paper and letters on the table. "Lord Arryn has received certain letters from the Vale. And these letters were not sent by raven but reached him through... other ways, secret ways. Messengers who delivered the letters to more messengers, more messengers and more messengers. Lord Arryn here, however, was wise enough to tell me about these letters."

"It was my duty, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said now, and Ned was startled to hear how weak his foster father's voice sounded.

"Indeed," the king said, "but by no means would every lord of my kingdom have fulfilled that duty. You have, and for that you deserve my thanks and my trust."

"These letters, what's the matter with them, Your Grace?" Ned then asked.

"These letters are… problematic, Lord Stark," said the king as if this were any useful explanation. "To say the least."

"Apparently," Jon said, "there has been some... misunderstandings among my bannermen as to the nature of the threat from beyond the Wall and the measures His Grace intends to take against it."

"Misunderstandings? A wildling army threatens to overrun the realm," said Ned. "What could there possibly be to misunderstand about that?"

"Well, there were letters sent in my name from the capital to some lords of the realm," said the king, returning to the small side table to pour himself some more wine, "mostly to lords in the Vale, but not from me, and containing... confusing information. Information and statements that made the lords of the Vale doubt the seriousness of the situation."

"Someone sent forged letters in your name, Your Grace? That's treason," Ned said.

"Yes, one could certainly call it that," the king said as he joined them back at the table. "Do not worry about these... traitors, however, Lord Stark. Their identities are already known to me and appropriate steps have been taken to prevent anything similar from happening again."

"Then let the Lords of the Vale know this, Your Grace. When they learn of the treason, they will certainly no longer doubt."

"I'm afraid it's not quite that simple, my lord."

"Some of the letters I received," Jon continued, "speak of not sending soldiers when His Grace orders them to the Wall."

"That would be treason as well," Ned said. "But if you would just tell the lords of the Vale all about those forged letters and how they came about-"

"I'm afraid that's not all," Jon said, silencing Ned with a raised hand. "Other lords have... have urged me to depose His Grace and crown Prince Aegon king. In these letters, I have been offered to secretly have soldiers shipped to King's Landing in order to ensure the success of this and to… stifle any possible resistance in the bud."

"What? This cannot be. Surely that is not possible."

"I'm afraid it is," the king said, turning his gaze toward the nearby window, overlooking one of the large courtyards of the Red Keep. "The damage done by these letters is greater than you can imagine, Lord Stark."

"Apparently," Jon said hesitantly now, "there are voices in the Vale calling His Grace..."

"Say it, my lord. Speak it out," said the king.

"Calling His Grace as mad as his late father. Some have even gone so far in their letters as to suggest that House Targaryen be deposed altogether, to make sure that Prince Aegon is not the next mad king to follow a mad king who has followed a mad king."

For a while there was absolute silence in the room. Ned wanted to say something, but was far too horrified by what he had just heard to find any answer. Without saying a word, he now also went over to the small side table and poured himself a cup of wine as well. It was a red wine, strong and spicy and as sweet as if it had been blended with honey. He took a hearty sip before returning to the table.

"Your Grace," he finally began, "this can all just be a big misunderstanding. These lords... certainly they don't understand the situation, and I can assure you that Lord Arryn had no part in this-"

"It's all right," the king interrupted him. He turned back to Ned and to the latter's surprise found a faint smile on his noble features. "I do not blame Lord Arryn for this mess and, offended as I may have been at first, neither do I blame these lords. I am well aware of my family's past as well as the contents of the letters they received, and believe me, I probably would have reacted similarly in their place."

"That is very generous, Your Grace," Ned said.

"If these men swear to obey my orders and to refrain from any thought of rebellion against me and House Targaryen, if they swear to burn the letters they received immediately, and if they swear to do their duty to the crown and the rest of the realm in the war to come as we fight against the threat from beyond the Wall, then they shall be pardoned. No one shall be punished. It will be as if these... misunderstandings never happened."

"That is very generous, Your Grace," Ned said again.

"It is."

"I do not understand, however, what this has to do with me when-"

"For that reason," King Rhaegar continued, again interrupting Ned, "Lord Arryn will return to the Vale as soon as possible, clear up these misunderstandings, and restore peace and order there. And this is where you come into the picture, Lord Stark."

"The messages I have received from the Vale," Jon began to speak, and Ned could hear from the barely suppressed tremor in his voice how difficult it was for him to maintain composure, "are indeed most disturbing. Some of the lords are very... extreme in their attitudes and views. I fear that I alone may not be able to restore order, Eddard. Some of these men, even within my own family, have been increasingly less and less sympathetic to the... mannerisms of the royal family in the past," he said, emphasizing the word mannerisms as carefully as if he were walking with bare feet over razor blades. "I'm afraid they won't follow me this time. Not all of them, anyway. Not without force, if I publicly defend His Grace and remind them of their duty."

For a moment, Ned was speechless. It sounded absolutely impossible what he had just heard there. The lords of the Vale were fiercely proud of their ancient, unbending loyalty to House Arryn, and when Ned thought back to his time there, he couldn't imagine any of those men actually openly opposing Jon. And what did he mean by men even in his own family? House Arryn, old and proud as it was, had not been a large family of late. The last few generations had been little more than unfortunate successions of deaths in wars, deaths from accidents, deaths from disease, lost sons and daughters to attacks by the Mountain Clans, and countless miscarriages of almost all the late Lady Arryns, having left little more members of the family than Jon himself, his sister Lady Alys, his nephew Elbert, and his great-nephew Hubert. At least if one did not count Lady Alys' own children, Waynwoods by birth, who, however, were exclusively girls, since Lady Alys' own sons had all also either been miscarriages or had not survived childhood.

He knew Elbert, Jon's nephew and heir, from his youth. He did not have, as far as Ned knew, the same sense of politics as Jon, but he did have the same strict sense of honor that he, like Ned himself, had been taught by Jon. Elbert was as true and loyal as a hound. Treason, rebelling against the crown, was out of the question for a man like him.

Hubert, of course, Ned knew much less well, having met him only half a dozen times so far, half of them when he had been barely more than a babe, however. But would Hubert, a through and through good and honorable young man according to Jon, truly rebel against his king and oppose his great-uncle, his lord, because of a few letters? True, he was still a young man, and young men, no matter how steadfast in their loyalty and honor they otherwise were, tended to be all too easily persuaded to do foolish things. So if there were lords in the Vale who were willing to stand not only against the crown but also against Jon Arryn, they might indeed have persuaded him to do something foolish. However, even without knowing more, Ned found it difficult to dismiss treason as an act of foolishness of the youth.

"That is why I ask you to accompany me," Jon finally continued. "The North will be the first to feel the attack of the wildlings if we fail to stop them at the Wall. And you still have friends in the Vale, Eddard, men who respect you and hold you in high regard. Your word will carry weight. If a man like you supports me, then my lords will certainly listen to me."

"Then of course I will accompany you, old friend," Ned said, placing a hand on his old foster father's shoulder. Jon smiled his toothless smile and Ned could see relief wash over him.

Like I would have ever let him down, he thought with amusement.

"That's wonderful to hear," King Rhaegar said, and briefly Ned was startled to hear his voice, having almost completely forgotten that His Grace was also present. "Then please prepare to depart, Lord Stark. You will take a ship of the royal fleet that will bring you and Lord Arryn to Gulltown as quickly as possible."

"When do we leave, Your Grace?"

"First thing tomorrow at sunrise. I know this is a very short notice, Lord Stark, but ships are not as fast as dragons, unfortunately, and we have no time to lose if we want to prevent this... misunderstanding from taking on a life of its own and possibly making even higher waves. This problem must be sorted out, my lords, before the war breaks out. The dragons will give us an advantage in the coming battles for the realm, but even House Targaryen's full-grown dragons cannot protect the entire length of the Wall, a hundred leagues, all by themselves. We need the support of all the great houses of the realm, the fullest support. Did I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Jon and Ned answered both at once.

Robert Baratheon

Chapter Text

"No! I'm definitely not going to do that," Arya said so loudly that it was almost a scream.

"The decision is made," Ned returned, seemingly unmoved, but Lyanna could see how little he liked it. "His Grace has asked me to accompany Jon Arryn to the Vale, and I will. And you will accompany me, of course."

This was certainly not how Lyanna had imagined the evening with her brother and her niece. Arya and she had ridden out that day, twice even, had explored the villages and the woods around King's Landing, had - against the urgent recommendation of the commander of her personal guard - even stopped in one of the villages to talk to some of the townsfolk there. Now they had wanted to end the evening together with her brother Ned in his chambers with a cup of wine and some delicious cakes filled with fish and crabs and herbs or cheese and lamb meat. They had hardly entered her brother's chambers, however, when Ned had surprised them with the announcement that he and Arya would leave the capital tomorrow already to travel to Gulltown at the request of the king. Arya, though, had reacted anything but well to this. What Ned had probably hoped would be a very brief discussion had now turned into a grown quarrel, and Arya seemed not to have even the slightest intention of being persuaded to accompany Ned to Gulltown. As much as Lyanna hated being in the capital, Arya seemed comfortable here and didn't seem to want to leave at all.

I guess we two must differ on something, she thought with a quick smile.

"But Father," she said almost pleadingly, "I cannot go. I must-"

"You must do your duty, young lady."

"No," Arya said, stubbornly like an old donkey. Lyanna, however, could see that she was struggling hard to hold back her tears. "I have to stay here. I have to wait for Jon."

"Arya," Ned began again, "you must realize that I'm not just going to leave you alone here in King's Landing of all places."

"But I can stay with Aunt Lyanna, can't I? Then I wouldn't be alone," Arya said, looking at Lyanna for help.

"Oh, my dear girl," Lyanna said now, taking Arya's hand in hers, "nothing would make me happier, but I myself will also be leaving King's Landing in just a few days."

For a brief moment, Lyanna herself was surprised by her words. Yet they were true. She had, just at that moment, made the decision to leave. King's Landing, for all the distractions and entertainments it might offer, was not her place. From the first moment she had entered the city, she had felt hemmed in and trapped. The city was too big, too crowded, too noisy, and... too close to him. Above all, she couldn't stand being so close to him, and the messenger who had come to her this morning with another letter bearing his personal seal had only confirmed her in that conviction. Yes, she would leave King's Landing, as soon as possible, and hopefully never return.

"But you're more than welcome to come with me to Storm's End," Lyanna then continued quickly, however, when she saw her niece's disappointed face. "It's not far from the capital. There you would quickly learn when Jon is back and we could immediately return to King's Landing then. What do you say?"

"Yes," said Arya, beaming all over her face. "Yes, father, I will go to Storm's End with Aunt Lyanna."

"I can't allow that, Arya," said Ned, however, now as stubborn as a donkey himself. "I can't possibly put that responsibility on your aunt."

"But that wouldn't be a problem for me, Ned. I'd be happy to spend a little more time with my favorite niece," Lyanna said with a smile in Arya's direction.

"I appreciate that, Lyanna," Ned said, but didn't manage to look that way, "but it's just not possible."

This is about something else, it suddenly occurred to Lyanna. It's not about him not wanting to put it on me. But about what?

"Then I'll stay with Rhaenys," Arya said. "With Princess Rhaenys," she quickly corrected herself. "She won't mind. I'm sure she won't. I can-"

"Princess Rhaenys isn't back from the North yet, Arya," Ned said with a sigh that made clear how little he wanted to continue this discussion. "And even if she was, there's no way I'd ask her to play guardian for you. Besides, you haven't exactly earned a reputation for being reliable and trustworthy, I'm afraid. With Sansa, I might have agreed. Moreover, your mother would not forgive me if I let you get away with this folly. Remember what you promised her, Arya. You were allowed to accompany me to King's Landing for the tourney, but in return you promised your mother that you would show your best side to the sons of the Flints, Hornwoods, and Blackwoods afterwards. You should be thanking me, Arya."

Of course, it's about a betrothal. I should have known.

"Thanking?" Arya asked, almost something like bewilderment in her voice.

"Yes, thanking. You will accompany me to the Vale of Arryn, and that will give you a small, final respite before you return to Winterfell and your mother begins making wedding plans for you. So either you come with me or I send you straight back to Winterfell with some of my guards. But since you, I assume, do not feel the urge to meet the heirs of Widow's Watch, Hornwood and Raventree Hall as soon as possible, you will accompany me. The decision is made. Tomorrow morning we leave. You had better go to your chambers now and pack your things."

"But-"

"At once, Arya," said Ned in a tone that brooked no further contradiction. It was one of those rare moments when she recognized their father in Ned, not dear, kindhearted Ned, not her gentle, quiet brother, but the lord he had become. Lyanna looked at her niece, looked into her flaming red face, and realized how hard it was for her not to either burst into tears or burst with anger.

That's how I felt back when I was promised to Robert, Lyanna thought. I know how you feel, poor child.

Quick as a whirlwind, Arya spun around and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her with a loud bang. Ned followed her to the door and Lyanna could hear him ordering one of his soldiers to follow her, to make sure she really went to her chambers and packed her things instead of… something else. Anything else. With a heavy sigh, he then settled back into the cushioned armchair across from Lyanna and reached for his cup of wine. He sipped it listlessly a few times before putting it back down and looking at her with a furrowed brow.

"I was hoping for some help," he finally said.

"From me? You should have known better than that, dear brother," Lyanna said with a smirk. "I think it's adorable how Arya cares about Jon. Truly adorable. Don't you?"

"Yes, of course it is. He's her cousin, after all. Family has always been important to Arya. As it is to all of us, Lyanna."

"That's not what I'm talking about, Ned. I don't think being cousins is the important thing here."

"What do you mean?" asked Ned, his brow furrowed.

"Ned, I know that you and Lady Catelyn mean well, and that you only want what's best for Arya. It's certainly not up to me to tell you what to do either. Especially not when it comes to your daughter's betrothal, but... have you ever considered that there might be better candidates for Arya's hand than the heir to Hornwood? Candidates whose eye Arya would catch all by herself, if only you would allow her to have a word in the matter?"

"A word in the matter?" asked Ned in an almost startled tone. "Lyanna, this isn't about Arya's dress or how she wears her hair, it's about her betrothal, her future. She has no say in that."

Just like I had no say in it with Robert?

"If it were up to Arya, she would never get married at all," he continued. "I just can't wait for her to meet a man who she will not only accept, but who will also accept her as she is, Lyanna. Besides, I don't see what this has to do with Jon."

Lyanna looked at her brother and had to smile. It was a sad smile. Ned was a good father, of that she had no doubt, but he was still as blind about certain things as he had been when he had promised her Robert would change once he had spoken his marriage vows and become a good, faithful husband to her. Apparently her dear, blind brother hadn't noticed the way Jon and Arya looked at each other, the way they had danced with each other time and time again and how Arya literally began to glow whenever she talked about Jon. For a brief moment, she considered simply suggesting a match between the two to Ned. The names of several Storm Lords spontaneously came to her mind who, hoping to wed their daughters to Jon themselves, would be appalled if the next Lady of Storm's End would be just another Stark, but what did it matter? Robert would agree, and that would be the end of the matter.

Before the first word left her lips, however, she decided otherwise. More than a few would say that it was not her place to suggest such a union, but she did not care about that. What she did care about, however, was Jon and Arya. What if she had misread the signs? What if she had enjoyed her time with Arya so much, wanted a daughter - even a good-daughter - so much, that she had seen things that just hadn't been there?

Lyanna finished her wine and then said goodbye to Ned so that he too could pack his things for his departure tomorrow. The evening was not very late, but still she was tired. Robert would arrive in their chambers in a few hours at the earliest, if at all. She didn't feel like looking for him, however, not least out of concern about where and in what company she might find him, to tell him that she would be leaving the city in a few days as well, and so she decided to take another short walk through Maegor's Holdfast. Of course, there was the risk of running into His Grace, but even if she didn't feel desire for his company, she felt even less desire to hide from him. For that, she was too proud. A daughter of Winterfell did not hide from a man, especially not when there was nothing to fear but having to talk to him.

She walked down a few hallways, stopping briefly at this or that window. For a while she enjoyed the view down into the dark, evening bay, where she could see the lights of the lanterns on the bows of the merchant ships dancing across the black water. From another window she gazed at the Red Keep, lit by the glow of countless fires and torches on the walls and lanterns in the hands of patrolling soldiers. At the last window she paused longest, looking down into one of the courtyards of Maegor's Holdfast. Ladies in fine dresses walked through the courtyard in one direction, then another. She recognized some of the ladies from last night, from the King's concert, but could not recall their names. One lady, however, stood out when Lyanna saw her. Lady Ashara Gargalen, the Star of Dorne, floated through the courtyard as elegantly and regally as if she were the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, surrounded by other ladies who had obviously done their best to keep up with Lady Ashara's looks and radiance. In vain, however.

For a moment she considered going down the few flights of stairs and joining the ladies around Lady Ashara. Wherever they went, there might be something interesting or entertaining to see or experience. A distraction would have been fine with her, so she wouldn't have to go over the conversation in her mind all the time already that she would have to have with a completely surprised Robert tomorrow, informing him about her plans to leave the city.

However, she decided against it. Wherever Lady Ashara went, the queen could not be far away, and Lyanna strongly doubted that it would be a particularly pleasant evening for her or Queen Elia if she simply forced herself on them. The more than displeasing glances the queen had given her last night when His Grace had played his harp in the Throne Room had already been enough to make Lyanna want to sink into the ground.

"Lady Lyanna," she suddenly heard a man greet her from behind her, tearing her form her thoughts. Lyanna turned to the voice to return the greeting.

"Lord Stannis," she greeted back, fearing for a brief moment that she would now have to converse with him. Just a heartbeat later, however, she felt ridiculous for it, looking into the quickly passing face of her good-brother, tight-lipped and dour as ever. The man had no love for her and obviously had not the slightest interest in talking to her. Another heartbeat later, Lord Stannis had already disappeared around the next corner.

He not only has no love for me, she thought. Stannis has no love for anyone.

There was a time, in the early years after her marriage to Robert, before Stannis had become the master of laws in His Grace's Small Council and had still lived with them in Storm's End, when she had pitied the man. Never had she met a man as sullen and, she believed, deep down as sad as Stannis Baratheon. The better she had gotten to know him, however, the more she had understood that there was nothing to pity the man for. Maybe apart from his receding hair. Stannis' miserable life was of his own choosing. He was the second son of one of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms, a respected lord and a powerful man in his own right, and yet for some reason he had chosen to renounce all joy in his life and go through it as sour and angry and bitter as an old septa.

What great men would have come out of this had Stannis been a little more like Robert and Robert a little more like Stannis, she thought with amusement. Even with the half bald head I could have lived well.

Thinking about it, however, Stannis had seemed even grumpier than usual in that brief moment when he had scurried past her as if she were a stranger to him. His gaze had been even grimmer and had the corners of his mouth had hung even lower, he surely would have tripped over them.

His wife is probably coming to visit him tonight and he'll have to bed her again for a change, Lyanna thought with a grin and had to restrain herself from laughing out loud. Seems as if the year already over again.

Lyanna had not seen Stannis' wife Lady Cercilia, a Swann by birth, in King's Landing so far, but that didn't have to mean anything in such a large fortress in such a large city. Surely, Lyanna suspected, if she was indeed here, she had just arrived from Stonehelm, where she lived with her family except for a few days each year.

If I had a sourpuss like Stannis waiting for me in my marriage bed, I'd rather spend my time with my family, too, Lyanna thought.

Lady Cercilia was a quite comely woman, Lyanna knew, though not a true beauty. Still, she had been desirable enough in her youth. And so for Lyanna, even if apparently making love with a fair woman was only duty and not enjoyment to Stannis, it was still astonishing that not at least one child had resulted from this union. Lyanna had suspected years ago already that Lady Cercelia had used all kinds of herbs, potions and remedies to avoid getting with child, so that she would not have to live her life permanently at Stannis' side. She had never known this for sure, however.

Lyanna walked some more through the hallways of Maegor's Holdfast, trying to let her mind get as tired as her body already felt. The day with Arya had been wonderful, the rides with the small, fast Dornish sand steeds as pleasurable as exhausting. Arya, her wonderful, wild niece. She could go to Arya, she decided, to say a proper goodbye to her, should no suitable opportunity arise tomorrow.

Indeed, the soldier Ned had sent after Ara was standing outside Arya's door, scowling a bit when Lyanna told him she was going to see her niece now. It did not surprise her, however, that when she then entered Arya's chambers, she did not find any neatly packed luggage but an unholy mess of shoes and boots and dresses and smallclothes, scattered on the bed and floor and even the chairs in the small adjoining solar.

"Do you need help, dear?" she asked.

Arya sat silently on the bed in the middle of the large pile of fabrics and brocade, nodding sadly. Lyanna could see by the color of her eyes and nose that she had been crying, but decided to pretend she hadn't noticed. She herself would have appreciated not being called on such girly things at Arya's age. Arya was not a child anymore, but not a grown woman either, yet.

Together they managed to create something resembling basic order out of the mess, neatly folding most of the dresses - at least those that weren't dirty - and placing the shoes and boots in boxes in such a way that they could even be closed. Lady Catelyn would certainly not have approved of this at all, since the order they had created was little more than a makeshift that barely ensured that none of Arya's clothes had to be left behind, but it would be enough for the journey to Gulltown. Even her bow, a beautiful piece with carved decorations in the shapes of fish and plants, they had - wrapped in a thin sheet – managed to store in one of the boxes. Where she had gotten it from, Arya had not wanted to reveal, but since it looked as good as new, Lyanna already had a guess.

"You'll see, Gulltown should be fun," Lyanna said as they sat side by side together on the edge of Arya's bed, finally done packing.

"It won't," protested her niece.

"And how would you know?"

"Because... because..." Because Jon isn't there? "Because I just know."

"Well, you'll just have to find something nice to do in Gulltown."

"Like what?"

"Riding or archery, for example. I heard that even in the Vale they have horses and surely Gulltown will have a practice range somewhere."

"They won't allow me that in Gulltown. In the Vale, everyone is so courtly and ladylike and so perfect," she said, obviously and quite well, Lyanna had to admit, imitating her lady mother's voice.

"Well, do it secretly, then," Lyanna said, winking at her. "When I was your age, I had to accompany my lord father a lot, too, to the Flints and the Umbers and the Tullys and the Manderlys, and I always found a way to practice, always found some hidden place where no one was looking for me. You can do that, too, Arya."

"Hmm, yeah maybe," Arya finally said, her mood seeming to lift at least a bit. "You know, I've actually gotten really good with the bow, Aunt Lyanna. Way better than last time you visited us in Winterfell. I'm not good enough yet, but I'm sure I will be," she said, but then bit her tongue as if she had just almost revealed a big secret. Lyanna didn't quite understand what her niece had possibly meant by not good enough yet, but left it at that. "Maybe we can do some archery together sometime soon."

"I would love that, dear," Lyanna said. "Can I ask you something, Arya?"

"Of course."

"Have you ever thought of practicing how to wield a sword?"

"A sword?" asked Arya, her eyes growing so big they almost seemed to fall out of her head. "Father would never allow that."

"Oh, who knows. My dear brother wasn't thrilled, certainly, but at least he didn't betray me to our lord father when he caught me practicing with your Uncle Benjen, either."

"You practiced using the sword with Uncle Benjen?"

"Aye, I did," Lyanna said laughing at her niece's incredulous face. "But if you shout any louder, my lord father will certainly hear it even in his tomb. I'm sure your father will allow you if you behave well for some time and ask him nicely. It's your mother I'd be more worried about."

"Even if father were to agree, mother would never say yes to it. It is not at all becoming for a lady," she said, again in the voice of her mother. Again Lyanna had to stifle a grin.

"Maybe not," Lyanna said, gently stroking Arya's hair. "But she doesn't have to know, does she? So, my dear, behave well, show your father that you can be reliable and trustworthy," she said, trying her best to imitate her brother's voice, "and I'm sure he'll find a way."

She was glad when she saw Arya laughing about it.

"You really think so?" her niece asked.

"I'm sure he will. And if not, just come visit me at Storm's End soon and I'll practice with you. I promise, dear."

The gleam in her niece's eyes was so bright it could almost have turned night into day. In that moment, Lyanna knew. Yes, she would speak to Robert and suggest that he send a letter to Winterfell to propose the match between Jon and Arya to Ned. But not yet, though. She would ask Robert to do it as soon as the king had no more use for him here in King's Landing and he would come back to her to Storm's End. Ned also had to focus on his task in the Vale right now, whatever it might be exactly, and could not distract himself with Arya's betrothal.

Besides, there was still more than enough time. Even if Arya could not escape being introduced to sons of the Blackwoods, the Flints, and the Hornwoods as soon as they were back in Winterfell, negotiations about a possible betrothal would still take months, many months. And if both Jon and Arya would then still have such shining eyes for each other as they seemed to have right now, the negotiations between Ned and Robert would then certainly be a quick thing.

Half an hour later, Lyanna found herself in her chambers, lying on the bed and breathing heavily. She was exhausted, now finally mentally as well as physically, and was more content with herself than she had been in a long time. The day, especially her time with Arya, had not only been wonderful, but it had also brought her a special, delightful insight. She now knew what it would take to make several people she cared about happy at once. Arya wouldn't say no to Jon, she was sure. And her little tips on how to deal with good Ned would certainly help her get through the time and to endure being introduced to this or that heir from somewhere in the North. And Jon... as little time as she had been able to spend with him in King's Landing, she had still seen it in his eyes. With Arya at his side, even Jon, her wonderful, dutiful, quiet, brooding Jon would find that one special happiness that so few people were ever granted in their lives.

Even Lady Catelyn, with whom she had had a more than just a little difficult relationship from the very first moment, would definitely agree to the betrothal of the two. Lady Catelyn had never been able to muster any understanding, let alone affection, for her. Just as the other way around. Even when Lady Catelyn had still been betrothed to Brandon, during her brief visits to Winterfell, had she not been able to refrain from criticizing Lyanna's behavior, sometimes openly, sometimes through the grapevine, and from sending disdainful glances in her direction whenever she had done or said something that had not met her high standards for ladylike behavior. So it had come as no surprise to Lyanna, many years later, that she had been equally unable to muster any understanding for Arya, the little she-wolf.

She is from the south after all, Lyanna thought, not for the first time. She will never understand the wolf blood in our veins. Poor Ned.

But the opportunity not to have to ship Arya off to some of Ned's bannerman to just somehow marry her off, but to make her the next Lady of Storm's End was certainly too tempting for an ambitious, through and through southern lady like Catelyn Tully.

For a moment she felt bad, felt the gnawing of guilt, because in a few days she would simply leave and return to Storm's End instead of waiting here for Jon's return, as was her duty as a mother. Then, however, she put the thought aside. Jon was a grown man, no longer a child whose hand she had to hold. He would be fine, and as soon as he was back from beyond the Wall, she would hear about it in Storm's End as well as here in King's Landing.

Maybe I can even talk Robert into sending Jon to Storm's End for a while after his return? It would be lovely to be able to spend some time alone with him.

Lyanna felt herself finding it harder to keep her eyes open with each passing moment, and before she risked falling asleep fully clothed, she forced herself to rise from her bed one last time to at least remove her dress and kick off her boots. She had already put the boots aside and had just begun to untie the laces of her dress when she heard a knock at the door. A little irritated, she waited a moment, listening to see if she might have misheard.

Who would be knocking on my door at this hour? Certainly not Robert. He would just barge in. Arya, wonderful Arya, probably would too, she thought with a grin. And Ned... Ned has other things to do right now than run after me for whatever reason.

Then, however, she heard the knock again.

"Come in," she said.

The door opened and a royal servant stepped in, a golden dragon on his chest, almost glowing in the light of the hearth. In his delicate, much too thin fingers he carried a silver tray on which lay a letter. She didn't have to go and look at the letter to know whose personal sigil was on it, who had sent her this message.

Fool, she berated Rhaegar in her mind. If Robert had been here now...

The thought alone made her blood freeze in her veins for a small moment. The servant's voice, however, as delicate as his girlish fingers, then snapped her out of her thoughts.

"My lady, I have the honor of delivering a message from His Grace for you," he breathed.

"I have no interest in this message," she said.

The servant's startled look alone was worth all the gold under Casterly Rock.

"My… my lady," he began, stammering, "it is a message from His Grace."

"Yes, I heard that. And that's exactly what I'm not interested in. Feel free to bring it back to His Grace, but I have no use for it. You may leave," she added after a moment's hesitation, during which the servant had stood absolutely motionless, as pale in the face as if all blood and all life had been drained from his body from one moment to the next.

Rheagar, you utter fool, she thought again. Had Robert been here now, he would have rushed to you like a winter storm and killed you on the spot. And probably me, too. Even the Kingsguard wouldn't have been enough to keep him away from you then. What do you think you're doing? I have not answered your letters for years. I already rejected this very letter this morning and then you just send it to me again tonight? You utter, utter fool.

The servant disappeared from her chambers as quickly and silently as he had come. He would bring the letter back to Rhaegar now. Perhaps this repeated rejection, this repeated disappointment would finally make His Grace understand that what he wanted, what they had both once wanted, was impossible for them to have. Maybe he would finally let go of her.

Rhaegar was a great man, a wonderful man, of that there was no doubt in Lyanna's mind. Wise and friendly, just and gentle and beautiful... He was the man many a woman dreamed of all her life, he was the man Lyanna had dreamed of for so long. Yet he was not her man, not her husband. Whatever chance they might have had in another life, there was no such chance for them in this life. The heart might want one thing, but the mind would only allow another. And it was the responsibility of a lady and a lord, above all of a king, to know when one had to grant the mind the upper hand over the heart. Lyanna had understood that by now, and Rhaegar would understand it too. At least she hoped so. He just had to.

At that moment, she made another decision. She had known from the beginning that it would be difficult, even dangerous, to be so close to him. For this reason, she had not wanted to travel to King's Landing at all. So now there was only one thing she could do and that was to leave as soon as possible. To return to Storm's End as soon as possible. Not someday, not in a few days, but tomorrow. Tomorrow she would let Robert know bright and early that she would be leaving the same day. She would find an explanation for him, if he would want one at all. It was for the best. For all of them.

Then Lyanna untied the last laces of her dress, threw it over the crate at the foot of her bed, and snuggled under the blankets and furs on her bed. It had gotten chilly the last few nights. She was almost lost in a dream already when she heard the roar of a dragon in the distance. Then the roar of another dragon, closer than the first. Apparently Princess Rhaenys had returned on the back of her beast. That was good. At least she would be able to find out tomorrow, before she left, if Jon had arrived safely at the Wall.

He certainly has, she thought, before a dream finally enveloped her. A sweet dream of a beautiful man and the daughter she had with him in her dream. A daughter with brown curls and purple eyes.

Chapter Text

The weather was wonderful, sunny yet not too warm. On any other day, especially at home in Winterfell, Arya would have enjoyed this weather, would have gone out riding, with or without permission, would have looked for a secluded courtyard or hidden somewhere in the Godswood with her new bow and a few arrows to practice using it, would have climbed trees, no doubt completely ruining her boots and dress, or would have crept through the fortress to discover new, interesting places, dirty and dusty and long forgotten. Today, however, she did not enjoy the weather. Instead, she sat on the edge of her large bed and looked out the window, not enjoying the weather at all.

Servants had already hauled her packed belongings, all the chests and crates, out of her chambers, and were now somewhere busy taking them down to the harbor on horse drawn carriages to be loaded onto the Wildwind, one of the fastest ships in the royal fleet. If the winds were good, she had learned this morning from an incessantly chattering servant girl already, the ship would take them all the way to Gulltown in as little as a week. The entire time, the girl's eyes had shone as if she had spoken of the most wonderful place in the world. Arya could find nothing wonderful about it, though.

It also didn't necessarily help that she had slept so poorly since Jon's departure. The nights had been restless. She had woken up again and again and then tossed and turned in bed before the tiredness had eventually overtaken her. She could not remember the dreams of these last nights, but she knew for sure that she had had no more wolf dreams. She had always been able to remember her wolf dreams as precisely and vividly as if they had been memories. Since Jon was gone, however, her wolf dreams were gone as well, just as if they were gone with him. Lately her wolf dreams had been... weird anyway, to say the least. In her dreams she had lately been mounted again and again by one of the other wolves, by her brother with fur white as snow and eyes red as blood. Why she should have dreamed of such a thing, Arya herself did not understand, but that was how it had been. She had been hunting, running through the forest with her pack or... had been mounted by the white wolf. But as strange as these dreams had been, and as embarrassed as she had been when she had thought back to them after waking up, in her dreams she had always let it happen. Arya knew that she had always had the choice and she had always let it happen. No, she had not just let it happen, she had even… enjoyed it, she realized not for the first time and again the blush rose to her cheeks.

Now Arya sat on the edge of her bed in her nearly empty room and watched the two sweating servants haul the last chest out of her room. She didn't even know what was in that chest. It was decorated with stags and deer and wolves and all other sorts of animals of the forest, scurrying through dense undergrowth and between pine trees. Did it even belong to her? She couldn't remember bringing this chest with whatever was in it from Winterfell to King's Landing. No, this chest did not look familiar to her at all. She briefly wanted to say something about it, about this chest having to stay here because surely it was property of His Grace, but she didn't really care at that moment, so she kept silent and watched the men hauling it. The two servants had just left the room and Arya was about to finally jump up from the edge of her bed when her father entered the room. He looked at her and smiled, but Arya could see that he had to force himself to smile.

Her father came to her, without a word, and sat down next to her on the edge of her bed. Together they looked for a while over at the large window that was on the opposite wall, still without a word, and which normally would have given a great view over the Red Keep. Today, however, Arya hated this view.

"I thought you were in the harbor with Lord Arryn," Arya then said at one point.

"That's where I'm going in a moment. I just wanted to look after you one more time."

"Look to see if I've run away already?" asked Arya. For a moment she tried to force herself to grin but couldn't. She felt her father's gaze on her but didn't look back at him. She was grateful he didn't say anything about it, unsure which answer, a yes or a no, she would have been more unhappy to hear.

"Princess Rhaenys is back," she suddenly blurted out. "If you would just let me talk to her, then she surely would allow-"

"Arya," her father said, and immediately she recognized the admonishing tone in his voice, the tone that said more than clearly that he would not argue with her and would not tolerate dissent. "I know you don't want to come with me," he continued after a moment, his voice again as warm and soft as it usually was, the voice of her father, not of the Lord of Winterfell. "You want to stay here, wait for Jon. I can understand that, and I think it's wonderful that you care so much about your cousin." My cousin. "But that's just not possible, Arya. I can't leave you here alone. You are my daughter and until you are married one day, I am responsible for your protection. Do you understand?"

"Sansa was also allowed to live alone in the Vale," she said, but knew in the same moment that it was nonsense. Sansa had joined Lady Arryn's household, had had duties, and in return had enjoyed the protection of House Arryn. Her father's look, loving yet pitying, told her that he would not even answer that.

"You'll like Gulltown," her father then said. His voice was cheerful, almost enthusiastic. "You'll like the Vale. I'm sure you will, Arya. And we'll certainly be able to visit Sansa while we're in the Vale. You'll see your sister again."

"Great," Arya said, making no effort to hide how little she was looking forward to this of all things.

"And whatever news there will be about Jon from the Wall," he continued, unimpressed, "will certainly also reach the Vale as surely as King's Landing. Probably even sooner. After all, it's much farther north."

"Yes, certainly."

Certainly she would hear about Jon. Certainly. She would hear that he had arrived at the Wall safe and sound and that he was now traveling through the wilderness on the other side of the Wall. Then, at some point, she would hear that he had returned just as safe and sound and was making his way, presumably again on the back of a dragon, back to King's Landing. And then, a few days later again, she would hear that he had arrived back in King's Landing, safe and sound. But she would not be there then. The other girl, however, the oh-so-fine lady from the Reach, would be here then. She was a Blackbar, Arya had learned.

Minella. What a stupid name.

House Blackbar wasn't a particularly important or noble house, but she knew Jon didn't really care about such things. Normally she thought that was one of the many wonderful things about Jon, but at that moment it just gave her a stomach ache. Minella would be here when he returned, would be here waiting for him, and when he was finally back in King's Landing, his home for so many years, and his blood still hot from the adventure he'd had beyond the Wall, surely she'd be shoving her downright obscene cleavage in his face at the first opportunity. Who was to say if Jon wouldn't weaken at such a moment? And if so, could she really resent him for it then?

Surely the bitch will try.

The night after Jon had departed, she had overheard her talking to some other ladies from a distance, about Jon. In a side corridor near the Queen's Ballroom, they had stood and chattered like a flock of hens.

"I think that's so impressive," one of the chattering hens had said. "With what calm and dignity you bear it, Minella. So impressive."

"Don't you ever get jealous?" another hen had asked.

"Jealous? Of this... girl? Why, no," Minella had said, smiling patronizingly. "Jon finds her fascinating, no doubt. And no wonder. A lady who acts and dresses like she grew up among wildlings... who wouldn't be fascinated? But I certainly don't get jealous of her. After all, I don't get jealous of a horse or a hound that Jon takes a liking to either."

"But what if he beds her?" the first hen had asked.

"I don't care about that. Let Jon have his fun with her while it lasts."

"And you really don't mind? Truly impressive, Minella."

"No, I don't mind. Of course I don't. It's Jon, and he is who he is. I wouldn't want him any other way."

"Why not?"

"Because then he wouldn't be my Jon."

Her Jon. Her Jon. Her. Jon.

At that moment, Arya would have loved to go to her and spit in the bitch's face. She had not done it, however, and now, thinking back on the moment, she almost regretted it.

"Don't look so grim, sweetheart. Everything will be fine. I promise you," her father said as he rose from the edge of the bed, tearing her out of her thoughts. He then gave her a kiss on her hair and went to the door. "Don't sit here too long, Arya," he said while still walking. "The ship is due to sail before noon, and I don't want to have to send one of my men back to pick you up here."

Arya waited a moment after the door had closed behind her father. He had always had this habit of leaving a room only to come back a moment later for this remark or that half-sentence. More than once, Arya's carefully laid out plans had been ruined because she had been too impatient and, for example, had started climbing out the window to play in the Godswood instead of going to her needlework lessons with Septa Mordane too quickly, not waiting to make sure that her father had actually left. More than once, only moments after leaving a room, he had already caught her in the act as a result and had personally delivered her to the septa afterwards. This time, Arya was more patient, remaining silent and motionless on the edge of the bed, waiting and waiting and waiting.

When, after a time that felt almost like an eternity to Arya, nothing happened, she finally felt safe enough. Quickly, she jumped down from the bed, crouched on the floor and, stretching her arm as long as she could, reached under her bed. She pulled out the small bundle she had stowed under it late last night and threw it on the bed in front of her. She quickly untied the ties around the bundle, flipped back the plain brown cloth, and unwrapped the clothes she had bought from one of the Red Keep's maids for a full two silver stags.

Someday she would pay the coins back to her father, she swore to herself.

Arya took off her boots of soft brown deerskin, pulled her dress over her head and removed the ribbon she had tied more badly than well into her unruly curls this morning. She threw her clothes on the rag of brown cloth and tied it tightly. Then she slipped into the plain dress of the maid. The dress was almost as colorless as the brown rag in which it had been wrapped, made of undyed linen and worn sheep's wool. It smelled musty and Arya was sure that even the maid had not worn it for quite a while. Nor did it fit as well as Arya had hoped. The maid had been of similar stature to herself, just a bit taller, but this dress was too wide on her hips and chest, and at least half an ell too long.

Was the dress even hers? She probably sold me an old tatter of her mother, Arya thought.

The plain and shapeless dress was accompanied by a pair of equally plain shoes, made of pigskin, old and gray and brittle. The shoes fit even worse than the dress and for a moment she considered whether she should not better keep her good deerskin boots on. In the end, however, she decided against it. The overall look had to fit and a maid in the fine boots of a noble lady would draw too much attention to herself when she would sneak out of the Red Keep soon. She still didn't exactly know where she was supposed to go. She only knew that she could not stay here, because staying in the Red Keep meant taken onto the ship to Gulltown. So where could she go? It would certainly be too far for her to reach the Wall. Besides, the journey would take her months and Jon would certainly be long gone by the time she finally got there. She could go to Storm's End, to Aunt Lyanna. Her aunt was leaving the capital herself in a few days and she said that she would be happy to welcome her in Storm's End. But would she be willing to hide her, or would she not send her directly to her father? Aunt Lyanna had always been sympathetic to her, more than anyone else, but would that be the case in this instance? In the end, when it had come to her marriage to Lord Robert, even her aunt had done her duty. Surely, she would expect the same of Arya. Maybe she could-

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she suddenly heard a voice behind her. Startled, she wheeled around.

In the doorway to her chambers, whether it had somehow been opened completely silently or whether Arya had simply overheard it, there suddenly stood a young woman, so beautiful that for a moment it was impossible for her to say anything. Not for the first time, Arya was captivated for a brief moment by the sight that met her eyes there.

"Rhaenys," she said, still breathless with shock. "What wouldn't you do?"

Rhaenys, without saying a word, however, just arched one of her perfect eyebrows. Only now did it occur to Arya that she was standing in front of the princess in the dirty, musty, worn clothes of a maid that didn't even fit her properly, so there was no point in pretending she wasn't up to anything.

"I have to go," Arya finally said.

"I know," she said, stepping into the room, her perfect hips swaying just as perfectly from side to side with each step. She wore a dress of yellow silk in the revealing, Dornish style that accentuated her flawless body in a way Arya would never have dared to wear even in her dreams.

"Then you understand?" asked Arya.

"Yes, I understand that you have to go. To Gulltown. With your lord father."

"What? No... no, that... I have to... go," she protested, "But not to Gulltown. I can't go to Gulltown."

"You can, you just don't want to, Arya. There's a difference," Rhaenys said in a voice soft as velvet. She walked over to Arya's bed and sat on the edge, in the exact spot where her father had sat before. "So where else do you want to go?"

"I... I don't know," Arya said, frowning. "Anywhere, but not to Gulltown."

"What's so terrible about Gulltown that you don't want to go there?"

"About Gulltown? Well, nothing I guess. But if I go now, I'll have to go back to Winterfell afterwards, where I'll be introduced to some stupid sons of some stupid lords."

"Then it's not Gulltown that's the problem but Winterfell?"

"No, of course not. Winterfell is... my home. But I can't go to Gulltown. I have to stay here."

"I see," Rhaenys said, smiling one of her bright, adorable smiles. "So you're determined to stay and to do so, you want to run away. Somehow that doesn't seem well thought out to me, dear."

For a moment, Arya was speechless. She felt stupid. Of course, Rhaenys was right. Arya didn't want to travel to Gulltown, wanted to stay in King's Landing to wait for Jon. And to avoid having to leave, she wanted to run away, out of King's Landing. That was stupid.

"I have to wait for Jon," she finally admitted. "I just need to know if he's okay."

"He is."

"You can't know that," she protested weakly.

"That's true, I can't. But you just have to believe that. That's exactly how I feel about my Aegon, you know. I just hold on to the fact that he's fine and that he'll come back to me safely and in one piece. Everything else would be simply... unthinkable. If I allowed myself to think anything other than that for even a moment, it would tear me apart."

Arya sat down on the bed next to the princess. Immediately Rhaenys wrapped one of her arms around Arya's shoulder and pulled her to her like an old friend. Her hair smelled softly of honey and spring flowers, and Arya felt the warmth emanating from her.

"Your lord father is right, Arya. You must go with him. Running away is not a good idea. It's far too dangerous, even for a stubborn one like you," Rhaenys said then with a wry grin. "Even outside the walls of the Red Keep, in King's Landing, it's already dangerous. What could happen to you on the roads and in the woods outside of King's Landing, I don't even want to think about. And even if by some miracle you don't get taken away by some bandit or hedge knight... what if you get hungry, for example?"

"I've taken care of that," Arya said proudly. She reached into the small pouch she had attached to her dress at the hip and poured the contents into her hand. Triumphantly, she held out some silver coins to Rhaenys. "If I get hungry, I'll just buy something."

"With this, you mean?"

"Aye, why not?"

"Because these are silver stags, Arya," Rhaenys said with a laugh as bright as the sound of a bell. "I admit I have no experience with this myself, but Egg and Jon used to sneak out of the Red Keep often enough to have whatever little adventures they could in the city, and from them I know that a meal in a shop or a tavern that serves girls dressed like you are right now costs half a copper. One copper if you want some bread and ale to go with it. And if you don't want the bread to be old and the ale to be stale, even half a penny more."

"So?"

"So if you show up there, dressed as you are right now, with a handful of silver stags, everyone will think you're a thief. You'll probably lose your hand on the spot before they drag you back to King's Landing then. And that too only if you're lucky. Men who don't have much often have little sympathy for thieves who take other men's hard earned coin. If you are unlucky, you won't end up back at King's Landing with one less hand, but on the next tree with a noose around your neck."

Arya thought about it for a moment. She didn't know what she had expected to happen when running away. With a few silver coins in her pouch and determination in her heart, she would get along somehow, she had thought. Traveling to the Wall or to Storm's End, staying in King's Landing or not, reaching Jon or waiting for him. She hadn't really had a plan, she had to admit to herself, but somehow she had still thought that whatever she was going to do would work out somehow. But Rhaenys' was of course right. It was dangerous. Too dangerous to even consider it.

Stupid child, she scolded herself. I had imagined it to be like in some adventure story, but only children believed in such stories. Stupid child.

Another thought occurred to her then, a thought that – somehow – frightened her even more than Rhaenys' words of how she might lose a hand or even her life. It took her a moment to be able to express this fear.

"So you think I should just give up?" asked Arya after a moment of silence. "Give up on… him?"

Rhaenys' head snapped around to face her, her brow furrowed in deep creases and an expression on her face as confused, as incredulous as if Arya had just asked her if she didn't think it was a good idea to cut her nose out of her face.

"Give up? Why would you even think... Let me tell you something, dear," she said, taking Arya's hand in hers. "I love my brother. I know you love your brothers too, but I love my brother in a way that makes me want nothing more in my life than to one day be his wife and the mother of his children. I know you can't understand that, Arya, no one can. But that's the way it is, that's the way I feel, the way we feel. Very few lords and ladies of the realm accepted it just like that. Our own mother was against it, even wanted to forbid us to be together. But no matter who opposed us, even with our own mother, I never, never in my life, considered even for a moment giving up on him and possibly letting someone else have Aegon, my Aegon. No matter how great the resistance, no matter what obstacle we face, we must never stop fighting for something we truly believe in. So no, Arya, I don't want you to give up."

"But what else do you want me to do?"

"Come with me," Rhaenys said and stood up. Arya stood up as well and took the princess's outstretched hand.

She led her out of the chambers and down a hallway. Only now did Arya notice that a knight of the Kingsguard had apparently been standing next to her door the entire time and was now following them down the hall at some distance. For a moment, she felt a blush rise to her face at what Ser Arthur Dayne had undoubtedly overheard. She scolded herself for not thinking of it sooner.

She is a member of the royal family. The princess and the future queen. Of course, she is accompanied by a white knight, Arya thought, hoping that Ser Arthur would be as discreet about her secrets as he was about all the others he certainly overheard every day.

It took Arya a moment to recognize where Rhaenys was leading her. Then, however, she realized that she was taking her in the direction of the royal chambers. They walked down another hallway, around several corners, and finally up two flights of stairs. At the end of yet another hallway, wider than the hallway her chambers had been on and decorated with yet more ornate paintings and statues of kings and queens, knights and maidens, dragons and sphinxes, half hidden in the shadows of wide alcoves embedded in the walls. Almost at the end of the hallway, they reached a wide, double-winged door with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen carved into it, so large that standing in front of it Arya would probably not even been able to reach the top of the three heads.

Rhaenys pushed open the wings of the door, which opened silently, and led Arya inside. The chambers beyond were enormous, at least twice the size of her parents' chambers in Winterfell, Arya estimated. The main room they entered was dominated by the largest bed Arya had ever seen. On it, as well as on the cushioned chairs on the side of the room, on the chests, and on the pillowed bench in front of the wide hearth, dresses in every color of the rainbow lay scattered about. Boots and shoes and sandals were spread all across the room, scarves and shawls, as well as pants and doublets, obviously belonging to Prince Aegon.

Arya had to grin when she saw the gigantic mess in the room, for which she herself, had her lady mother come across something similar in her chambers in Winterfell, would have had to do week long punishment work with Septa Mordane and Maester Luwin.

"What are you grinning at?" asked Rhaenys but couldn't help grinning herself either. " I don't like servants cleaning up our chambers and digging around in our belongings. So I prefer to do it myself, although not quite as often as I probably should. If anyone ever asks you, you've never seen this. Understood?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Arya said, giving an exaggerated curtsy.

"I know the curtsy wasn't meant seriously, but in fact, that was the best one I've seen from you so far. Just saying."

Arya had to laugh and Rhaenys joined in.

"Why did you bring me here?" she then asked.

"You wanted to know what I wanted you to do. Because of Jon, I mean. I actually almost forgot and I apologize for that. But I have something for you. From Jon. He asked me to give it to you before we departed from Winterfell to Castle Black already. It is… a message of sorts and it should let you know what I want you to do."

"From Jon?" she asked, feeling her heart begin to beat faster.

"Yes, from Jon. He wanted me to give you this," she said, reaching into a bag lying on the enormous bed, pulling out an oblong object and holding it out to Arya. For a moment, Arya looked at the object in irritation before reaching for it.

"An arrow?" she asked.

"Yes, an arrow," said Rhaenys expectantly. Again, Arya looked at the arrow in her hand for a moment, unsure what to do with it. It was a soldier's arrow, she realized, a simple arrow of ash wood with an iron head and trimmed goose feathers at the end. Arya had never seen a more ordinary arrow in her life. True, she was not a lady who valued gold and precious stones or expensive fabrics and she was glad that Jon knew her well enough not to gift her things like that but... an arrow? "The arrow is a promise," Rhaenys finally said, apparently having recognized Arya's questioning look. "A promise that Jon will do archery with you again."

Arya had to smile, but at first produced little more than a weak snort.

"I don't think he'll be able to do archery with me if he's back here in King's Landing and I'm in the Vale and then get betrothed to some fool from Hornwood or Widow's Watch."

"I'm disappointed," Rhaenys said, and suddenly her voice was serious, hard, almost angry. "Apparently you're not listening to me at all."

"Yes, of course I am, but-"

"No, not at all. Otherwise you'd remember what I said about giving up. Besides, I would think you should know Jon better than that. With this arrow, Jon made a promise to you, Arya," she said, and immediately her voice became warm and soft again. "The promise is not just that he'll do archery with you again, but that… he'll find a way, Arya. A way to you. And the one thing I know about him for certain is that Jon is a man who keeps his promises. Now come. We should get back to your chambers, so that you can redress again. Surely you do not want to appear before your lord father in the old clothes of a maid. And then I'll get us an escort and take you to the harbor. Your lord father will already be wondering where you are. And we certainly don't want him to get the idea that you ran away," Rhaenys said with a wink.

Once again, Arya took Rhaenys' hand and let her lead her out of the chambers, and as unlikely as it was, she felt calm and just… good. Truly good.

He will find a way. Yes, he will.

Chapter Text

"I don't know, father," said Rhaenys, "I have never seen him so upset before."

"What can we do?" asked Rhaegar.

"Do? We can do nothing."

"But there must be something."

"And what? We can hardly just pour a few barrels of Milk of the Poppy into him, after all. Vhagar is a dragon, not a feverish child."

A servant approached and poured them all some more wine. Rhaenys, like her mother, Viserys and Princess Arianne, chose a strong and sour Dornish Red, while Rhaegar preferred to be served some more sweet Arbor Gold. Aemon declined altogether, preferring instead to ask for another cup of strong tea with goat's milk and honey. For a moment, Rhaegar felt uneasy about pouring out such copious amounts of wine at midday already, but the small ceremony they had held this morning had indeed been a cause for joy and merriment. His great uncle Aemon was now officially the permanent representative of the Night's Watch here in the capital, a position that allowed him to remain true to his vow to the Night's Watch and still spend the rest of his days here with his family.

Rhaegar had even had a masterful jeweler from the Street of Steel make a new pin for this purpose, a small black sword carved from dragonglass over a wall of polished silver, which Aemon proudly wore on his black robe. Now, however, attached to the robe of a man so small and sunken in from a hundred years of faithful service, the pin seemed almost absurdly large. For a moment, Rhaegar considered simply taking it off the robe of his great uncle again and having it replaced as quickly as possible with another, smaller pin. Aemon, however, even though he had not been able to see the pin with his own eyes, had laughed so happily and heartily when Rhaegar had ceremoniously handed it to him that he simply did not have the heart to take it away from him again.

"Whatever is wrong with him," Viserys said, "it should be investigated still. Perhaps something can be done for the poor creature after all. Not to mention that we would be doing ourselves and the people of King's Landing a service with it, too. His constant roaring has kept me up all night lately."

"Oh please, Uncle," Rhaenys said with a nod toward the entwined fingers of Viserys and his Dornish beauty, and Rhaegar could see from the faint smirk on her lips what kind of comment was about to follow. "Somehow I doubt it was the roar of a dragon that kept you from sleeping. Your enchanting wife told me a very different story there, anyway."

"Rhaenys," Elia admonished her.

"Even though that story also involved loud roars and screams," she continued unaffectedly. "Only not from a dragon but from the two of you."

"Rhaenys," Elia admonished her again, louder this time.

"A true knight does not speak of such things," Viserys said, now also with a grin on his face. Viserys briefly looked over at his wife Arianne, and Rhaegar could almost see the conversation the two were having without words.

Why do you tell Rhaenys such things, Viserys seemed to ask.

Because it is the truth, Arianne seemed to reply, smirking. Rhaegar had no doubt that it was indeed just so.

"I, for one, wouldn't know of anything we could do," Rhaenys continued after a short, apologetic glance at her mother. "As I said, Vhagar is a full-grown dragon, not a feverish child. Besides, who exactly would we ask to come take a look at him? I doubt the maesters of the Citadel know particularly much about healing sick dragons. That is, if he's sick at all."

"What else could it be, if not a sickness?" asked Elia now, who had been suffering the worst from the sleeplessness of them all. Rhaegar looked at her for a moment, studying her pale face and the dark circles under her eyes, only scantily covered with powder. Indeed, his wife and queen did not look well at all, tired and sickly as he had not seen her in years.

"I don't know. He doesn't seem sick, anyway. He's just... upset. Whatever about," said Rhaenys, shrugging her shoulders. The shoulder of her dress, bright red sand silk from Dorne, briefly slipped down a bit as she moved. Rhaenys, however, pushed it right back up.

Has she lost weight? Rhaegar wondered. She doesn't look sick, thank the gods. No, she looks healthy. Healthy and as beautiful as ever, my wonderful girl. Perhaps the long journey on Meraxes was simply exhausting. Aegon would know if there was something wrong with her, he thought, but then quickly scolding himself for it and banishing the idea that there might be something wrong with his daughter from his mind. She is well. Certainly, she is well. It was just the journey.

"Uncle Aemon, what do you think we should do?" asked Viserys.

Immediately all eyes moved to Aemon, who, sitting next to Rhaenys at the table, had been clinging wordlessly to his mug of tea all this time so far but had not yet spoken a word. For a brief moment, Aemon silently moved his bald head, covered with age spots, back and forth, as if his blind, milk-white eyes were looking into the faces of all of them in turn. Rhaegar knew, of course, that this was impossible. Still, he noticed how he immediately began to straighten his back a bit more under the seemingly scrutinizing gaze of his ancient great uncle.

"Forgive me for being so silent until now," he began in a voice that was weak and squeaky at first, but then grew firmer with each word. "It's just been so long since I sat at a table with my family and just… listened. I loved to do that when I was young, was lost in memories for a moment. That's all." He took a sip from his tea and for a moment Rhaegar feared the old man might choke on it, as greedily as he drank. But then he continued to speak, completely unimpressed. "It's true what my dear Rhaenys says. Dragons are not sick children so you cannot treat them like children. You cannot even treat them like animals because they're not that either. Dragons are creatures of magic, through and through. How else could they have been born from dead stone all those years ago? Dragons are fire and magic made flesh, my dears, and if there is truly something wrong with one of these magnificent creatures, only magic can help."

It was true. Dragons were creatures of magic, born from dead stone so many years ago, on the funeral pyre of his beloved mother. Rhaegar remembered that night well, every detail both terrible and wonderful. He remembered how the flames, shining brightly like the sun itself, had enveloped his mother's body. He remembered the weeping of the women and even men who had been present in the Dragonpit at the loss of their beloved queen. As much as the people had feared his father, they had loved his gentle mother. He remembered his little Rhaenys crying so heartbreakingly, not understanding why her grandmother would no longer be able to sing her to sleep every night. He remembered his own tears, burning hot as molten steel on his cheeks, seeing his mother disappear in the flames for good. He remembered the look on his father's face at the sight of his tears, looking down at him from the top of the Iron Throne, full of anger and disdain, who had not thought it necessary to leave the Red Keep even for the funeral of his own sister and wife. Then, he remembered the look on his father's face when the light in his eyes had gone out that night and how relieved Rhaegar had felt. And he remembered how he had run into Rhaenys' and Aegon's nursery the next morning, toward the terrified cries of the maids, when they had found the miracle that had happened during the night, curled up in Rhaenys' and Aegon's little beds, sleeping peacefully beside his children.

Dragons.

"I'm afraid we're a bit short on real mages in King's Landing right now," Viserys said with a wry smile, tearing him out of his thoughts. His brother earned a jab in the ribs from Arianne for it in return as he was just about to take another sip of wine. Aemon, however, only laughed, cheerful and toothless like a little child.

"I suppose that's true, my dear son. I suppose that's true. Since the Doom of Valyria, there are no more mages with such knowledge and skill in the world."

"So what do you suggest we do, Maester Aemon?" asked Elia.

"Please, we are family," said Aemon. "I would be very happy and grateful if you would call me Aemon, dear child. At least when the family is among themselves."

Elia looked puzzled for a moment, probably because no one had called her dear child for so many years, due to her age as well as her being queen. Then, however, she began to smile, reached across the table and patted Aemon's hand.

"I'd love to," Elia said, smiling even wider, and though Rhaegar knew Aemon couldn't possibly have seen this, the latter's face seemed to brighten even a little more. "So what do you suggest we do, Aemon?"

"I know Rhaenys thinks we should just do nothing, but there has to be something," Rhaegar then added. "You are officially my advisor as of today, great uncle, so… advise me. What do you think we should do?"

"Listen to the dear child," he said. "Listen to my dear Rhaenys here. No one knows dragons better than a rider, and if she says that Vhagar is not sick, I believe her without reservation."

"But something is still wrong with him," said Rhaegar.

"Maybe," said Aemon. "Maybe not. Maybe there is nothing wrong with him, and we are simply misreading the signs this wonderful creature is giving us. Until we know that there is something at all we can do for the poor creature, we should do nothing. And now, my dear children, someone must help me to my feet and to my chambers. I'm tired, and I'm afraid I don't know my way around the Red Keep quite as well as I did when I was younger."

"I'll take you to your chambers, Uncle Aemon," said Rhaenys, rising from her chair in an elegant motion. "Perhaps we could take a little detour to the royal library? It's on the way to your chambers anyway, and then I could read to you afterwards if you like."

"You are truly a wonderful child," Aemon said, before he, clinging as tightly as he could to Rhaenys' arm with his skinny hands, slipped out of the Small Hall alongside Rhaegar's daughter.

The rest of the day went less pleasantly for Rhaegar. Lately, he had been happy to leave many of his duties to Jon Connington but had decided to hold court himself again today for a change. As convenient as it was to leave such matters to Jon on a regular basis, he was, after all, the king. Back in the day, his own father had himself left these tiresome duties to his own former Hand, Lord Tywin, for a long time, until at some point one could hear the chatter in every street and every tavern that Lord Tywin was the true ruler of the realm, not King Aerys. And even if Rhaegar would have given nothing to such gossip - it had always made his father so angry that more than once people had had to die for nothing more but a wrong word - it was better if the realm saw that indeed he not only wore the crown, but also ruled. At least from time to time.

However, as determined as he had been when he had settled on the massive monstrosity that was the Iron Throne, he quickly regretted his decision. Aegon the Conqueror, his ancestor, had made sure that one could never sit comfortably on the ugly thing made of the thousand swords of his defeated enemies. A king must never sit easy, had been his principle, as everyone knew.

So it didn't even take the better part of an hour before his backside began to ache and Rhaegar started to slide back and forth uncomfortably on the seat of the throne. The cold iron of the throne and the fact that he had to support himself with one leg on the top step of the throne all the time in order not to sit with his rump directly on one of the sword pommels below him also did his knee no good. The weather in the past few weeks, at first sweaty hot and now rapidly becoming cooler and cooler again, had already caused his old injury to make itself known again, and the pulling pain in his knee had returned. Lately, he had only been able to sleep at all some nights because he had one of the young maesters who were helping Pycelle give him dreamwine. More than once, he had already played with the idea of having a pillow made ready for him whenever he sat the Iron Throne personally but had then always decided against it. Aegon the Unworthy had, in his later years, always had the throne upholstered with blankets and furs and pillows, and how this particular one of his ancestors had gone down in history for this, among other things of course, was not how Rhaeger wanted to be remembered one day.

The silly trivialities that Rhaegar had to deal with for half the day didn't exactly help make it more bearable for him either. Two landed knights from the Crown Lands were arguing over whether or not the son of one of them had already received his knighthood from the other, whose squire he had been, since said son had been promised the other man's daughter as his wife when he actually received his knighthood. Two other knights then stepped forward as well, claiming that they had also been promised said daughter's hand in marriage. It only became somewhat exciting when suddenly, to the amusement of the entire assembled court, it turned out that the girl, however, was already married. Twice even, with both men still alive. Rhaegar ultimately declared the first marriage valid, the second invalid, and the daughter born of the second marriage, whose existence had only come up when it had come to the issue of the validity or invalidity of her marriages, a bastard. The girl's father, who had not only promised his daughter to several men at once but had also married her off to at least two men at the same time to secure for himself and his family some crude - and of course invalid - claim to the men's lands and titles, was sent to the Wall to take the black. The son was spared the same fate, even though Rhaegar did not believe even for a moment that he could not possibly have known about the whole affair. He should, Rhaegar decided, still inherit his father's small lands and even smaller titles, given that, should her first husband not want her back and annul the marriage, he take care of his sister and her bastard daughter.

The next petitioner was a merchant from the Free Cities, dressed in colors as bright as the feathers of the exotic birds in the royal gardens and with a nose as big and crooked as their beaks. His long beard, forked into four spikes, was dyed green, his teeth deep blue, as could be seen from his unbroken, broad grin. No court jester could have looked more ridiculous, but Rhaegar refrained from saying anything of the sort aloud. Yet, as amusing as the sight of him was, his petition was as dry as old parchment.

A competitor of his had been blown off course in a small storm some weeks ago and had thus docked his fully loaded cog in Duskendale instead of King's Landing. There, however, he had had to pay somewhat lower harbor fees than in King's Landing. Now he was seriously demanding that Rhaegar charge his competitor for the savings in harbor fees, so that the latter could not take what he called a blasphemous advantage from the blessing of the wind god. Rhaegar was not willing to decide anything of the sort, however. King's Landing might have been the preferred destination in the Crown Lands for almost all merchant ships, making survival difficult enough for competing ports and cities, but to make it even more difficult for said ports and cities by punishing anyone who anchored anywhere but in the capital was not something he wanted to decide. Instead, he gave the man the choice that either he could withdraw his petition, or Rhaegar would indeed tax his opponent belatedly, but only if he himself would in return pay, as compensation, the costs for transporting the goods on ox carts from Duskendale to King's Landing that his opponent had suffered.

After that, a few other decisions were still to be made, mostly to settle small disputes or clear up minor unclarities about unpaid rents or bills or taxes, where Rhaegar wondered, not for the first time, why the king of all people had to worry about such trivialities. However, nothing interesting happened and so, after almost four hours on the Iron Throne, after which his butt hurt as much as if he had spent a whole week on horseback and the pain in his knee had become as terrible as if it were on fire, he decided to end holding court for today and not to let any more petitioners come forward.

After that, he spent almost an entire hour signing decrees that Jon Connington had already prepared and that needed only his signature and seal, and then an additional hour, feeling trice as long however, having Grand Maester Pycelle read to him some messages that had arrived by raven today and dictating a few curt responses into his shaky hands. It did not escape him how extremely displeased Pycelle was about the fact that his great uncle Aemon - as maester of the Citadel actually obliged to spend his entire life in the castle to which the Citadel had sent him - was now living in the capital again. Rhaegar, however, decided not to dignify the mumbled, yet barely concealed complaints with a response.

Should he ever dare to complain about it publicly, I will make sure that the Citadel sends him to Castle Black for the miserable rest of his days, Rhaegar thought as he left the Grand Maester's small study, hearing the old man's muttering in his back.

He was glad that he had already had the meeting with the Small Council in the morning, right after breaking the fast, so this was no longer waiting for him as well now. There hadn't been much to discuss, but after the hours on the throne, in the small chamber with Pycelle, and especially with the pain in his knee, any moment he would have had to sit in the Small Council Chamber now would have been pure torture for him. Stannis Baratheon had introduced a proposal for a new law whereby the price of wheat should no longer determine the price but rather the weight of a loaf of bread, and the price of ale would be directly linked to the prices of wheat, oats and barley. The idea was good, the discussion on the topic accordingly short, and so Rhaegar quickly agreed to the proposal.

The day only got better for him when he, as agreed, met with his brother in his chambers shortly thereafter. To his delight, Myles Mooton was also there. Both men were already sitting in broad, cushioned armchairs on the wide balcony of Viserys' chambers, drinking wine, when Rhaegar joined them, immediately receiving a cup from Myles as well. His joy grew even greater when he recognized by the color that the wine could not possibly be Dornish Red, and there was almost no end to his joy when he recognized the wine in his hand by the smell as Arbor Gold.

Viserys informed them that they had at least a few hours before his wife would return so that he could devote his full attention to her again. At the moment, however, she was still out somewhere in the Red Keep with her aunt Elia, several of her ladies-in-waiting, and about half a dozen of Arianne's bastard cousins, all of them daughters of Prince Oberyn, only by different mothers. Viserys made a big point about how much attention his wife demanded of him day and night, even if Rhaegar doubted that he, head over heels in love as he and Princess Arianne were, actually minded nearly as much as he claimed. On the contrary, it always seemed that he couldn't wait to have his beautiful wife back by his side when they were separated for more than a single heartbeat.

"At least your wife is still talking to you," Rhaegar said with a wry grin, hoping it sounded at least a little funnier than he felt at the thought. Indeed, whenever they were alone, Elia hadn't spoken a word to him in days. If he hadn't heard her speak whenever she was fulfilling her representative duties as queen or in the presence of their family, he might have thought she had lost her tongue.

"I hope that doesn't seriously surprise you, brother," Viserys said, frowning.

"But of course it does. What on earth could I possibly have done to make her not want to talk to me anymore? Not to mention… other things."

Viserys and Myles looked at each other for a brief moment with puzzled expressions.

"Firstly, I please don't want to hear anything about how things are going between my older brother and my dear Elia in terms of their… marital duties. Secondly, how long has this been going on?" asked Viserys.

"For a few days now. I'm not entirely sure," Rhaegar said truthfully. The fact that he didn't even know exactly when Elia had stopped talking to him embarrassed him, but he said nothing about it. Viserys was and had always been an observant man who had never had to be told such things directly for him to notice. The wry look he received from his younger brother told Rhaegar that this was the case here as well again.

"And you don't happen to think," Myles now said, "that it might have something to do with the absence of a certain crown prince, old friend?"

"You sent Aegon, her only son, on a potentially life-threatening journey beyond the Wall, brother. Of course she's not talking to you," Viserys said, his face wavering somewhere between serious concern for Aegon and an almost childlike amusement, probably at how obtuse Rhaegar had apparently been. At that moment, Rhaegar would have liked to slap himself in the face for not immediately understanding why Elia had been so dismissive of him. Before he could say anything about it, however, Viserys continued. "I know you believe in the supernatural, brother, so you better pray to all the gods whose names you know that Aegon will return safely. Not only do I not want to lose my favorite nephew and the realm does not want to lose its crown prince, but Elia would undoubtedly slit your throat in your sleep if anything happened to her boy up there."

"You are a good king, my friend," Myles said now, "but a terrible husband."

"I'm not afraid of Elia," Rhaegar said, again forcing himself to grin wryly. "Rhaenys is the one with the dragon. If Aegon comes back with even so much as a scar on his pinky, I'll be dragon fodder."

"Maybe you should have sent more knights of the Kingsguard with him," Viserys said. "Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy, for example. Or Jaime Lannister. Maybe that would have eased Elia's mind a bit more. Two knights seems pretty few given where Aegon is right now."

"Don't give me that," Rhaegar said, waving it off. "I have sent two of my Kingsguard with Aegon, and since then all I hear from the other five, day in and day out, is that they would have wanted to accompany him as well. As if I wouldn't have wanted that. If there had been enough space on the dragons' backs, I would have given Aegon all seven knights of Kingsguard and all the Gold Cloaks on top of that. All three thousand of them."

He had indeed heard little else from Ser Barristan and Arthur for days except small comments and even smaller pointed remarks about how unhappy they were that he had not allowed them to accompany Aegon instead of some of his other companions. Ser Jaime had even requested that he be allowed to take a ship north to White Harbour or maybe even Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and follow Aegon and the others on horseback. Ser Jonothor and Ser Gerold had spoken little in the last few days, as always, but the sullen looks he had received from both of them over and over again had made it more than clear that they felt hardly any differently than their sworn brothers.

"You shouldn't have sent Aegon there in the first place," Myles said. Rhaegar did not look at his friend, had no desire to see the reproachful expression in his eyes. Myles had never been shy in expressing his opinion, not even towards Rhaegar, neither as his friend nor as his king. It was one of the things he appreciated most about him and, apart from his close friendship, was one of the reasons why he had repeatedly offered him a seat in the Small Council. At that moment, though, it was getting on his nerves. After a long, hard day, he had hoped for a relaxing evening with his brother, not a lecture from Viserys and Myles about what he had all done wrong lately.

"I had no choice," he finally said, taking a big gulp of the Arbor Gold. "After Tywin sent his own son, I couldn't possibly do otherwise."

"Perhaps you are not such a good king as our dear Myles thinks you are after all," Viserys said with a wry grin, and as soon as he had finished the sentence, became abruptly serious. "Of course you had a choice, brother. You are the king, even if you seem to forget that occasionally. Whether Tywin sent along his misshapen son, his favorite horse, or every single male heir of House Lannister, you had a choice. So don't hide behind your... respect for Tywin Lannister and claim otherwise," Viserys said, and Rhaegar was glad he hadn't said something else instead of respect. He could tell by the look on his brother's face that it had been on the tip of his tongue. "If you had decided differently, no one would have had the right to question your decision. No one. Not even the Old Lion."

"Then I'd better not tell you that Lord Tywin got me to agree to help find a befitting wife for Tyrion once he returned with Aegon from beyond the Wall," Rhaegar said.

"Oh brother-"

"And that I have agreed that Tyrion's first daughter will marry Aegon's and Rhaenys' first son."

His brother said nothing in reply, just looked at him shaking his head, which was worse than anything he could have said. For a while they sat in silence, looking down from the balcony at King's Landing, visible behind the massive round towers of the Red Keep, only sipping their cups of wine now and then. Rhaegar wanted to say something, felt the desire, the pressing urge to justify himself, to tell his brother and his friend that he simply had to do it to secure Tywin's loyalty. However, he couldn't bring himself to do it, fearing that one of the two would make him realize again what a folly he had done. Not a word left his lips. Myles was the first to speak up again after a while.

"Clever he is, the Old Lion. I'll give him that. For Tywin, the situation is ideal."

"What do you mean by that?" Rhaegar asked.

"Well, think about it. Everyone knows Tywin hates his son, the small one I mean. A rusty knife in his guts he couldn't possibly hate as much as he hates Tyrion. The imp might die beyond the Wall, then he would finally be rid of him. In this case, Tywin would probably even demand that you release Ser Jaime from his vows to the Kingsguard since his beloved heir died on a mission on your behalf. Or Tyrion comes back and then Tywin finally gets the royal wedding he's wanted for House Lannister for so long. Tywin has nothing to lose and everything to gain from this story. A clever bastard, indeed."

"And have you decided yet which poor girl you will condemn to this fate of being given to the Imp of Casterly Rock?" asked Viserys.

"No," Rhaegar said with a sigh, "I have not. It is not at all easy to find a proper wife, even if there were not then the tiny problem of having to convince the girl's father. I don't even want to imagine the titles and lands it will cost me."

"Hmm, it certainly won't be easy. She must come from a good house, an old house, a house with influence. Otherwise Tywin won't accept her."

"As if he has any serious choice in finding a bride for this creature," Myles threw in. Viserys ignored it, however, and continued speaking.

"But if you don't want the Valyrian blood in our family to become too weak – something I wouldn't recommend since, after all, your great-grandchildren will also have dragons to ride one day – then the girl should have Valyrian blood as well. And the gods know there aren't many of those in Westeros."

"Have you thought of a lady from Volantis or Lys? Valyrian blood wouldn't be a problem there," Myles said.

"Yes, of course I have," Rhaegar said. "But with what would I convince any nobleman from Volantis or Lys to give me his daughter for Tyrion Lannister of all people? There's not enough gold in all of Westeros to do that."

"So it has to be a young lady from the Seven Kingdoms after all. But considering all the poor girl has to bring with her as a dowry, the choice really isn't all that great," Myles said.

"I would know someone," Viserys said after a moment's thought. "Her father is an important lord in Dorne with close bonds to the Martells. And through her mother, the girl does not only possess the blood of the First Men, but also the blood of Old Valyria."

"That sounds almost too good to be true," Rhaegar said. "And who is it?"

"Allara Gargalen."

"Her father will never agree to that," Myles said with a snort. "I know Lord Tremond well enough. He would sooner send his daughter to the Silent Sisters than to the Imp's bed. Allara Gargalen is young, she is a maiden, and she is at least as beautiful as her mother was at her age. The girl could have any man in the Seven Kingdoms, and Tremond is more than aware of that."

"I know Lord Tremond as well," Viserys said, pouring himself some more wine, "and as proud as he is, more than anything, he is fiercely loyal. To the crown and especially to House Martell. If both his king and Prince Doran asked him, I'm sure he would agree to the matter. And you better not forget, my friend, that Tremond is also a quite ambitious man. The main prize, Aegon, is off the market due to his betrothal to Rhaenys. So the chance to make his daughter the next Lady of Casterly Rock would be a most welcome consolation prize."

"I doubt that the girl will see it that way," Myles said with a furrowed brow and a large gulp of his wine.

"So you think I should send a raven to Prince Doran first?" Rhaegar asked.

"If Lady Allara is indeed the unfortunate girl of your choice, then yes. You will definitely need Doran's backing to convince Tremond of all this."

For a while, the three of them sat on the balcony and drank wine but did not speak much. They all knew Allara Gargalen, a girl who was gentle and smart, kind and beautiful beyond measure. In fact, Allara Gargalen was the only girl he had ever thought could almost match the otherworldly beauty of Rhaenys. Almost, at least. And Rhaenys' best friend she was to boot. Years ago, Rhaegar had toyed with the idea of giving her to Aegon as his wife and had Aegon and Rhaenys not insisted on marrying each other, he probably would have done just that. To condemn this sweet girl now, if he could persuade her father to agree, to not being given to Aegon, tall and strong, kind and beautiful, but to the almost opposite fate of having to marry the Imp of Casterly Rock, was certainly not something that was suitable to let a nice chat arise between the three of them.

Myles then took his leave shortly after, saying that he still had an appointment with some woman whose name he preferred not to tell, though. Whether this was true or whether he simply wanted to escape this situation, Rhaegar could not say. He guessed the former, however, since his old friend would certainly not have minced his words if it had been otherwise. Rhaegar hoped, as he looked after his leaving friend, that the woman Myles was about to meet was not already betrothed or even married. It would not have been the first time that he had engaged in such folly. But a duel between Myles and some lord in the middle of the Red Keep about the honor of his betrothed or his wife was not exactly something he needed at the moment.

Viserys brought them both some more to drink, sweet and strong pear brandy from Tyrosh, then was silent for a while. Rhaegar noticed how his brother kept looking over at him before he eventually began to speak again.

"What's on your mind, brother?" Viserys finally asked.

"You mean apart from the extent to which Tywin Lannister outsmarted me and what I now have to do to that poor girl?"

"Yes, apart from that."

"Nothing," Rhaegar said, but his brother's raised eyebrow told him that Viserys, of course, didn't believe him for a moment. "Almost nothing. It's complicated."

"Is it about the situation in the Vale?"

"How do you know about that?" asked Rhaegar, shooting up in his chair as if a dragon had just bitten him in the butt.

"Well, from where do you think? From Aunt Elia, of course. There should be no secrets within the family, big brother, I've told you that many times. That's how Elia sees it too, and since you've never been able to keep anything secret from your wife..."

"Who else knows about this?"

"Only me. Elia hasn't told Arianne, if that's what you fear. She's family, but she's also a terrible gossip," Viserys said, laughing.

"And how does Elia know about this?"

"I don't know," Viserys said with a shrug. "I'd suggest you ask her about it yourself, but until Aegon is back safe and sound, she certainly won't tell you since she is not talking to you to begin with. So you'll have to wait a while for that secret to be revealed."

"If you know about it anyway," Rhaegar said after a moment, sighing, "you might as well give me some advice on what to do."

"At the moment? Nothing," Viserys said, shrugging again.

"Nothing? That's your advice, little brother? I've heard that way too often today for my taste."

"Well, there's nothing you can do right now, so nothing is exactly what you're supposed to do. I'm sure the ship with Jon Arryn and Ned Stark has arrived in Gulltown by now, but it could be weeks before you hear back. You'll just have to be patient. Acting too quickly, too rashly, could only make matters worse."

Hearing this made Rhaegar smile. Viserys had always been smart and literate but had never been a truly political mind. His time in Dorne, however, at Prince Doran's court, seemed to have done him good in that regard. He had changed, that much was clear. Apparently, he had learned a lot and would one day make a good prince consort for Princess Arianne once she followed her father as the ruling princess of Dorne.

"Just have some faith in the two," Viserys continued. "As for Eddard Stark, for all his fuss about honor and family, his head may be filled with sawdust, but Jon Arryn's certainly is not. If he believes that he can clear the matter with the help of the sallow northerner, then you should trust that this is true for the time being."

"You're probably right," Rhaegar said, taking a deep sip of the brandy in his hand. It burned like wildfire as it flowed down his throat and Rhaegar had to work hard not to cough immediately. Viserys also took a sip, but without flinching even a bit.

"Well, when I said nothing, of course I didn't mean nothing entirely," Viserys then said. "You should definitely prepare yourself for the possibility of things going wrong. If only in theory. If Arryn and Stark don't manage to settle the matter, you know what will happen. There will be war. You know I don't believe in all these prophecies and supernatural things like you do. What I do believe in, though, is the danger of a rebellion. There have been far too many of those in the history of our family's rule to just dismiss that possibility. So before you start worrying your head about whether Jon Arryn and his lapdog will succeed, you'd better start thinking about how to win this war, should it indeed come."

"I'd rather not have those thoughts, actually."

"I believe you that, brother," Viserys said, "you've always been a dreamer. That's what I admired about you the most when I was a kid. Did you know? Everyone around us was always so... political, so serious. But you weren't. You always lived in your own world, a world of songs and stories, tales and prophecies. But now you're no longer the dreamy crown prince, you're the king. So have these thoughts, Rhaegar, even if they sour your stomach and keep you awake at night. If it comes to war, you must be prepared for it. And if not, if the two of them actually do make it, then it was just a very messy mind game. It's always better to be safe than sorry."

Of course, that was as simple as it was right. Rhaegar nevertheless took the time to think about it for a while. War was a messy thing. In the books of the maesters, it often seemed so clear and simple. One side was fighting the other. The noble king, the laws and the gods on his side, fought the treacherous usurper and prevailed in the end, hailed by the good people of the realm. There was a battle in this town, then in that, then this castle was taken, then that. Occasionally this lord or that lord would switch sides, but by and large, wars were a clear, straightforward affair. Rhaegar knew, however, that history was written by the victors. In reality, wars were rarely that simple.

"So what do you advise?" asked Rhaegar after a moment and another sip of brandy.

"The obvious first," Viserys said, pouring himself another small sip in his cup. "Think about who your allies are, who your opponents can or will be, and who you're not sure about. You probably won't like the outcome, but you need to be sure, before the first sword is drawn, who you can rely on no matter what, who is likely to become an enemy and who might need a little... persuasion to stay true."

"Well, to begin with, the Crownlands are mine. I think we can agree on that."

"No doubt, but you won't get many soldiers from here alone. The Reach will stand by you as well. Many of the reacher lords are proud of their loyalty to the crown, and the Tyrells, even if Mace Tyrell is not happy that his little daughter was not considered as a wife for Aegon, know that they owe everything they have to House Targaryen alone. So the Reach should stand behind you united. Dorne will of course stand by you as well. But be warned, brother, even in Dorne there are people who would prefer to see Aegon on the throne sooner rather than later."

"You think there would be opposition to me in Dorne?"

"Well, not an open rebellion by any means, but I have my share of contacts in Dorne by now and... it didn't please the Dornish at all that you put Aegon, a son of Dorne after all, at that risk and sent him beyond the Wall."

"You found out about that pretty quickly, though."

"Yes, the Dornish are pretty displeased with it to say the least, and some of them, home in Dorne and here in King's Landing, make no secret of it."

"I think you worry too much, brother," Rhaegar said, trying to force himself to a little bit of optimism. "Even if there were to be a rebellion, the Vale would stand alone. It takes more than a few unfavorably written letters to spark a rebellion throughout the realm. This...  revolt would quickly be put down."

Viserys looked at him for a moment, completely aghast.

"Please tell me you don't really believe that, Rhaegar. You can't possibly be serious. The situation is much, much more dangerous than that. Yes, so far all voices you hear calling for a rebellion are from the Vale, but whether they would really stand alone is another matter entirely. Ned Stark may be loyal, but if there's anything he's even more loyal to than the crown, it's his family."

"His family? What are you talking about?"

"His eldest daughter is Hubert Arryn's wife, Rhaegar. One day she will be the Lady of the Vale. You should know that. So if Hubert Arryn is one of those who want to rebel against you, what tells you that House Stark and the North won't side with him?"

Rhaegar was startled for a moment. He had actually not thought about that. Rhaegar had never been particularly interested in the dynastic ties between the great houses of the realm, something for which Elia and Jon Connington had more than once rebuked him behind closed doors. Also, he had never doubted Eddard Stark's loyalty, but what Viserys had said was of course true. When a man had to choose between the loyalty to his king and the loyalty to his own blood, there were few who would remain steadfast in their allegiance to the crown.

"And Eddard Stark's wife, Lady Catelyn, is a Tully by birth," Rhaegar continued the thought. "So Edmure Tully might well call the banners in support of his niece, which could drive large parts of the Riverlands to the side of the rebels as well."

"Indeed. House Darry would stand by you. They would never even think about going against House Targaryen. The Whents are loyal as well, but Lady Catelyn's mother was a Whent. It's hard to say which side Lord Walter will take when he has to choose. You'll need the Whents, though, because of the number of their swords and Lord Walter's full coffers. With the Freys, it's a different story already. If Lord Edmure makes a good enough offer to the Freys early on, one of his three yet unbetrothed children for a son or daughter from Lord Walder's extensive brood let's say, I'm sure they wouldn't hesitate to turn on you. And last but not least, please don't forget that Robert Baratheon's wife, Lady Lyanna, is a Stark by birth. No matter how good friends Aegon and Robert's first son are, when push comes to shove, Robert Baratheon will be calling the banners in the Stormlands for whichever side the Starks are on, whether that's for us or against us."

"Then I would have the Crownlands, Dorne, the Reach, at least parts of the Riverlands and the Westerlands on my side. Still a superior force."

"The Westerlands? Come on, Rhaegar, what did I just say about marriages and blood ties?"

Rhaegar thought about it for a moment until the shock of sudden realization passed through him like a bolt of lightning. Lord Tywin may have made an agreement with him about the betrothal of a child yet unborn from a marriage that had not yet been sealed to another child yet unborn from a marriage where the bride had not yet even been determined, but… Tywin's only daughter was Lord Edmure's wife and the mother of his children. The prospect of a royal wedding in twenty or more years may be tempting to the Old Lion, but Cersei was his daughter and the heirs of House Tully were his grandchildren. He would never go to war against them. At best, the Westerlands would remain neutral, but even that Rhaegar found hard to imagine.

"So I better not count on the Westerlands," he finally said with a heavy sigh.

"Better not," Viserys agreed.

"Then we still have dragons," Rhaegar said, although he could hear himself that he sounded as stubborn as a petulant little boy.

"That's right. And how, exactly, do you intend to use them? Aegon is, on your orders, off somewhere beyond the Wall for who knows how long. So Balerion won't play a role in this war, should it come, until Aegon hopefully returns at some point. Vhagar has no rider, so he's useless too, unless of course you mean to win this war by letting him feed on your enemies' sheep and cattle. And Meraxes... Rhaenys is a wonderful young woman, smart and kind and she will make a fantastic queen one day. Of that I have no doubt. But what she certainly is not, is a warrior. She's far too gentle for that, Rhaegar, you know that as well as I do. Do you really want to send Rhaenys of all people out on Meraxes to burn tens of thousands of men alive on some battlefield, or to turn entire castles or cities to ash with men and women and children inside? Should you demand that of her, she would certainly do it, but it would break her."

It was true. Rhaenys, his wonderful daughter, was incredibly smart and strong and brave, but a warrior she was not. Years ago, when Aegon had been just old enough to go hunting with some knights of the Kingsguard, she had once witnessed the slaughter of a pig that had been to be served at a small feast that evening. The squeal of the dying pig had made her burst into tears and afterwards she had cried so badly the entire evening, locked in her chambers, that Rhaegar had had to unceremoniously cancel the feast. After that, she had not wanted to eat pork for months. Forcing her to fight in this war, to kill men, soldiers or not, and possibly even women and children, would tear her beautiful soul apart. No matter what happened, he could never do that to his perfect girl.

"So we do not have dragons," he said with another heavy sigh.

"No, at least not at the moment. And the other houses, the ones you might have to wage war against, know that probably just as well as you and I do."

"So what do you think I should do?" Rhaegar finally asked.

"Hope and pray, brother. Hope that Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark succeed, and pray that, whatever happens in the Vale, your son comes back safe as soon as possible."

It was cold when Rhaegar entered his solar shortly after. He had said goodbye to Viserys, officially to do some more work, but actually to allow his brother to spend time with his wife, whom Rhaegar had known would have to return from her afternoon with Elia shortly thereafter. He had indeed run into Princess Arianne in the hallway not far from Viserys' and her chambers. Her cheeks had been flushed, so obviously she had already been a little drunk, and Rhaegar knew from the little hints Viserys gave him from time to time that she was always quite... demanding when it came to his marital duties once she had had a little more to drink.

Rhaegar had a servant stoke a fire in his hearth and bring some more wine before he sat down at his table and tried not to think of anything. The warmth spread slowly in the room, but the wine, strong and spicy, helped him to pass this time. For a while he sat with his eyes closed, rubbing his temples, unsure what to make of everything that had happened today. The situation was actually worse, much worse than he had originally imagined, and he could already feel a severe headache coming that would certainly keep him awake for half the night.

Only when he felt the warmth of the fire in his hearth finally reach him did he open his eyes again and look around, though completely unsure of what he hoped to find. There were enough books in his solar that he could have spent an entire year in it, reading, without reading a single line in a single book a second time. Yet none of the books was likely to lift his spirits. There were countless books about prophecies and stories, mostly in some connection with the Prince That Was Promised, and about the end of the world of men and the next Long Night. There were dusty books and brittle scrolls about the history of Valyria, books with stories, little more than tales actually, about the Great Empire of the Dawn or about the last Long Night. And there were confused manuscripts with references to translations and interpretations of texts and writings often lost for centuries already.

His gaze finally fell on his desk, the only place he hadn't looked at yet, and lingered on the letter lying on it. The letter was still unopened, the seal on it, his personal seal, unbroken. At that moment, he felt like he wanted to cry, to scream, to smash something, but the emptiness that came over him like a tidal wave and washed all the way through him to the bone made it impossible for him to do any of it. He could only sit and stare at the letter in silence.

She had rejected it, his letter. That was the worst of it. Had she simply not answered it, as she hadn't for so many years, he would have been able to endure it. But this... this was so much worse.

She rejected it. She rejected me, he thought. Again he felt like crying, but the tears did not come. We would have been perfect for each other, Lyanna. Perfect. Why can't you see that? We could have come to an agreement with Robert. I'm sure of it. Robert has heirs, everything he's always wanted from you, and he doesn't even love you. Not really. Not the way I do. Surely we could have come to an agreement. Robert would have had his whores and his wine and we would have had our love and our happiness, Lyanna. I'm sure even Elia would have agreed if we'd explained it to her. Why were you so opposed to our happiness? We could have given each other everything we ever wanted. Why did you throw our happiness away like that? Lyanna. My Lyanna.

Rhaegar stood up. He got up from his chair, his head heavy with wine, and reached for the letter, not knowing for the first moment himself exactly why. He took the letter and walked over to the hearth. For a little moment he hesitated, but then he crumpled the letter in his hand and threw the small, round wad into the fire. He saw how the flames first melted the wax of the seal, made the proud dragon fade away like snow in the Dornish sun, in the same way the feelings in his heart for his Lyanna had to fade away now that she had finally rejected him. Shortly after, the paper began to turn brown at the edges, then black, then fade into flames and embers. It took only a moment for there to be nothing left of his letter.

"A good deed, Your Grace," he suddenly heard a voice from the door. He didn't have to look to realize that it was the priestess Melisandre who had spoken. How exactly he did not know, but the woman had a habit of entering a room as quietly as a cat. More fascinating to Rhaegar than the question how she had managed to open the door without a noise at that moment was the question of what the priestess may have said to Ser Gerold, who stood guard outside the door, to make it past him. Then, however, looking at the priestess, he pushed the thought aside.

"What was a good deed?"

"That you offered this letter to the flames, Your Grace," she purred. "You laid your heart into these lines, but if what you expressed in them is not answered, it is better to offer the letter, with all the devotion you put into it, to the one true God in his holy flames."

"You have read the letter?" he asked, shocked. No, that was impossible. The seal had been unbroken.

"Of course not, Your Grace. But I have had the honor of dwelling in your presence for quite some time now, and so certain things become apparent."

Rhaegar snorted, then turned away and returned to his desk. For a moment he considered drinking more wine, but then decided against it.

My head will hurt enough in the morning. I don't need to make it worse.

"I didn't even know there was a holy flame burning in the hearth of my solar," he said instead. The red priestess came to him and smiled.

"But of course," she said, "every flame and every fire are a tribute to the one true God and a temple to his infinite glory."

"How convenient," said Rhaegar. The priestess, however, did not answer, merely looked at him with her otherworldly red eyes and a smile for which other men would have gone down on their knees before her. "Why are you here?" he finally asked.

"To check on you, of course, Your Grace. We have had little opportunity to speak in recent weeks, and so I just wanted to see if you were well."

"Not at all," he spat. "And I owe that in no small measure to you and your brothers in faith. Those letters you sent have done greater damage than I could ever have imagined."

"If that is the case, then-"

"There is talk of rebellion against me, against my family," he continued, without letting the woman finish. He had no nerve for her excuses now. "The realm is in danger of breaking up in a civil war before the real war for the survival of mankind has even begun. Your letters, priestess, have brought us closer to defeat in the war ahead than you could imagine."

"We regret what has happened, Your Grace," she said in response.

"Oh, do you? I thought you regretted nothing, for after all you were only doing the work of your God."

"We thought so, indeed. But if our actions had such consequences, it was not the work of God, but certainly a feint of the Great Other, to lead us away from our righteous path. The night is dark and full of terrors, Your Grace, and it seems that even the humblest servants of the one true God forget this simple truth from time to time. We will be more careful in the future, Your Grace, I promise you."

"You and your fellow brothers, priestess, will not do anything at all in the future without my consent. Is that clear?"

"Of course, Your Grace," she said, humbly bowing her head. Rhaegar looked at her for a moment, wondering if perhaps this humility was an act after all. He pushed that thought aside as well, however, as it would do no good to start doubting her now. What had happened, had happened and to have a fight now and possibly be divided in a time were unity was paramount, could not undo it. Yet he resolved to be more careful about the priests of R'hllor in the future.

Again he closed his eyes and began rubbing his temples. His headache seemed to come even sooner than he had feared. Suddenly he felt a warmth on his hands, gentle and caressing, and it took him half a heartbeat to realize that it was the hands of the priestess that she had placed over his. He took his hands down again and allowed the priestess to continue massaging his temples. Her touches were gentle and warm and so wonderfully soothing. They seemed to almost pull the pain out of his head. Rhaegar opened his eyes and saw that the priestess had moved closer to him, her face only a little more than a hand's width from his.

"You worry too much, Your Grace," she breathed. "Give yourself fully to the Lord of Light, trust in him and his mercy, and simply let the weight of worry fall from your noble shoulders, my king."

"I don't know how," he said. He looked into her eyes, blood red and yet... ravishing.

His gaze traveled lower, over her rosy cheeks, along the shape of her lips, full and blooming. Deeper and deeper, along the shape of her long, pale neck, over her collarbones that showed so delightfully under the red fabric of her dress. The dress that covered everything, yet still showed so much of her exquisite form that Rhaegar could feel the heat rising in his loins. He had felt this heat at the sight of her before, perhaps even in the very first moment he had seen her already, but only now did he allow himself to really be aware of it. His gaze wandered further, all the way into her neckline, revealing and welcoming, where her full, round breasts seemed to be waiting for him, almost seemed to beg him to grab them, to enjoy them.

"Yes, you do," she breathed again. "You know it. The Lord of Light approves of his chosen children lying together. Surrender to the fire in your blood, my king, for every fire is a temple of the glory of the one true God."

Rhaegar felt his mouth go dry. He wanted to say something, but no word passed his lips. He wanted to step back from her, to move away from her, but his legs did not obey him.

The fire in my blood, he repeated her words in his mind. Fire and blood.

The next moment he grabbed her, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him, pressing her warm and soft body against his. He pressed his lips on hers and his tongue demanded entrance into her mouth. She returned the kiss, willingly and passionately. With an almost forgotten wildness he pulled her around, pressing her against his desk like an animal that needed to be cornered, grabbing her dress and pulling it off her body. He heard the seams rip in a few places but could not care less about it at that moment. Her breasts fell towards him, as pale and full and soft as he had imagined them to be. Even more gorgeous, in fact. He grabbed them with both hands and began to kiss and suck them, while the priestess began to strip the rest of her dress from her body. Only when she was completely naked, leaning on the edge of his desk and her thighs open invitingly for him, Rhaegar began to undress as well. He quickly pulled his doublet over his head, untied the laces of his trousers and slipped them off.

He entered her fast and hard. Her insides were even softer and warmer than he had imagined. It had been a long time since he had felt so good, so welcome inside a woman, and for a brief moment he was angry that he had not made use of the priestess much sooner. He heard her talking as he began to fuck her, something about fate and the blessing of R'hllor, about flames and light and shadows, but paid no attention to her words.

He thrust hard and fast into her as her slender legs wrapped around his body, his mouth once again sucking on her delicious nipples. It didn't take him long before he spilled his seed into her. He still managed a few last thrusts, quick and deep, before collapsing on top of her. Breathing heavily, he lay on her for a while, still with one of her nipples in his mouth and kneading the other heavy breast with one hand. His other hand had found its way around her body, between the cheeks of her butt, round and delightfully firm. At that moment he already knew how he would make use of her next time.

After a while he rose and pulled his manhood out of her, wet and dripping. For a brief moment he wondered what her crotch might taste like when it was so wet and juicy, but then decided to find out another time. He pulled his trousers back up and put his doublet back on as he watched the priestess slip the partially torn remnants of her dress back over her gorgeous body. The dress now hung only loosely on her body, but she didn't seem to mind in the slightest. She smiled at him one last time before wordlessly turning away and walking back to the door to leave the room. At the door she stopped short one last time, turning to him once more, the expression on her face now as calm and composed as ever.

"I told you that you know, Your Grace," she said, and then disappeared through the door, leaving Rhaegar behind, wondering if this had actually been a good idea.

Chapter Text

The pouring rain beat into Jon's face as he spurred his horse across the swollen stream. To his left rode Lord Commander Mormont, incessantly tugging at the hood of his cloak and muttering curses about the weather, as if either of those two things could bring the rain to a halt. In the first few days, Lord Mormont had still taken the trouble to apologize for every curse he had uttered in the presence of any of their group. After a while, he had just nodded apologetically at whoever might have heard him. By now, he even did not do that anymore. Not that Jon would have minded. To his right rode Robb, more composed and controlled in his gloom than the Lord Commander, yet after six days of incessant rain already almost as brooding and grouchy as Aegon said he himself could be at times.

Jon moved his hand a little, stretched his fingers a few times and then clenched them into a fist again. The skin still felt a little strange here and there where it was healing, but at least it was healing. Aegon and he had suffered burns when they had hurled the flaming curtains over undead Othor. Himself more than Aegon, but fortunately nothing that would not heal. At worst, he would be left with scars on his hand and forearm, but considering all that could have happened, this was a small price to pay. The pain hadn't been too bad either, thanks in no small part to the ointment Samwell Tarly had retrieved from Maester Aemon's chambers and applied to Aegon's hand and his own. Several layers of silk were now wrapped around his hand and fingers under the black, leather glove, and Jon couldn't tell if the tightness was from the silk or his healing skin.

Jon turned around in his saddle, searching for his friend's face, but found it nowhere. He knew Aegon was riding a little behind him, along with Prince Lewyn, Oswell Whent and Robar Royce, but under the hoods, all looking alike, all black and all pulled deep into their faces, one of the men looked just like the other. Shapeless black shadows, heads and shoulders hanging low, half hidden behind a seemingly never-ending curtain of freezing rain. Never in his life had Jon seen a more pitiful, a more sorrowful sight.

Lately they had hardly made good distance. The trails through the Haunted Forest – more like the Drowned Forest, he thought not for the first time – were hardly more than narrow, barely recognizable footpaths even in fair weather, but the rain of these last days had washed away most of what little path there had been and had made the ground treacherous, all soft mud and hidden stones. It was almost a miracle that none of their horses had broken a leg so far.

Jon briefly looked over at Lord Commander Mormont again and saw that the Old Bear was once again muttering a curse under his breath, quieter than before, but still impossible to miss. However quiet and discreet he thought he was, he was not. Jon would have had to lie, however, had he wanted to claim that his mood was significantly better. His neck and shoulders ached terribly from the weight of mail and armor and sword. Even sleeping close to one of the meager fires every night had not properly dried him or his clothes off in the last few days. He was freezing almost incessantly, and the wet wool of his clothes clung to his body, sodden and itching. His own clothes and armor would have fit him better, would have been softer and more comfortable, but Lord Commander Mormont had insisted that they all go beyond the Wall in clothes of the Night's Watch only.

"Should anything go wrong and any of you fall into the hands of the wildlings, it is better that they take you for brothers of the Night's Watch, and not for the sons of high lords or even the son of the king," he had said. "As little as the wildlings think of titles and kings, some are smart enough to recognize an opportunity when it presents itself. Mance Rayder certainly is."

"Why should that be better?" Prince Oberyn had asked. "The son of a lord, especially the son of the king, the wildlings will want to trade in. A crow of the Night's Watch they will just kill on the spot."

"A brother of the Night's Watch," Lord Mormont had then grumbled, "can still pretend to turn cloaks and then escape in the dark of night. But a valuable hostage would be so closely guarded that he couldn't even go for a piss without half a dozen wildlings surveying the color of the spray."

Ser Oswell, Prince Lewyn and some of their companions had still argued against it, had tried to convince Aegon not to give in to the Lord Commander's demand. Aegon, however, had not been able to disagree with the Old Bear's logic, even though Jon knew he missed his own clothes and armor more and more every day as well. Not that his clothes would have kept out the rain and cold any better after almost an entire week, though.

"It can't be far now," the Lord Commander suddenly said after a while. Jon could only hope that was true. Lord Mormont had spoken to him only, yet Jon could hear relieved sighs from the men in black behind him as well.

None of them want to be here, he thought. Neither do I.

After what had happened in the Lord Commander's Tower, however, the Old Bear had decided to ride beyond the Wall in full force. Two hundred men from Castle Black and another hundred from the Shadow Tower, with whom they would meet and join forces somewhere in this barren wasteland. The great ranging, he had called it. And he had decided to lead this great ranging personally. Some of the officers of the Night's Watch had tried to argue with him, to convince him not to go personally or to abandon the whole thing altogether. Whatever was going on beyond the Wall, the Wall was their best protection and so they had better stay there and wait it out, one had said. He himself was too old, another had even dared to suggest. Lord Commander Mormont, however, had not heard any of it.

"I'm not going to sit here meekly and wait for the snows and the ice winds to come. We must know what is going on. The Night's Watch will ride in force against the King-beyond-the-Wall, the Others, and anything else that may be out there," he had announced, ending the discussion before it had really begun.

"I can only hope so," Jon finally answered the Lord Commander. "My clothes are so soaked that I'm probably already growing moss between my toes. A proper fire and a roof over my head would be more than welcome."

He had heard quite a bit about this man they were heading for now, Craster, and his keep over the past few days. Mostly stories and rumors that their companions had picked up from the brothers of the Night's Watch. How much of it was true was impossible to say, but these rumors all had one thing in common. They had all sounded anything but inviting. Supposedly, the man was the bastard of a brother of the Night's Watch, lived with his family in a small keep somewhere not far from here, and was as dangerous as he was crazy. Whether he was dangerous or not, Jon could not say, but anyone who spent his whole life in this miserable solitude was bound to go crazy at some point, he was sure. So he could well believe that part at least. It was said that he had at least a dozen wives, all of them his own daughters, after he had run out of sisters to marry years ago.

Aegon, when Aidin had told them about this two days ago with his eyes wide in shock, had only shrugged at the fact that the man had taken his own sisters for wives. He would eventually do the same very soon. However, when Aidin had then said that this Craster was also marrying and bedding his own daughters, even Aegon had his face twisted in disgust.

Still, it was inevitable that they would seek out Craster. Only there would they finally be able to find answers, if any. During the first week of their journey, in search of answers, they had visited every wildling village and settlement between here and the Wall but had found nothing. No answers, no wildlings, absolutely nothing. The last village they had been to just before the ghastly rain had begun had been named Whitetree, according to the maps Samwell Tarly had dug up somewhere in the library of Castle Black. The maps had been old, brittle, and the ink so faded that hardly anything could still be made out on them, but they had been all he had found.

Whitetree had hardly been a real village, however. Four tumbledown houses, consisting of only a single room and built of unmortared stone, huddled around an empty sheepfold and a well that had been little more than a hole in the ground and might just as well have been the only privy of the village. The houses had been roofed with sod, covered with dirty snow and ice, smelling old and of mold, the windows shuttered with ragged pieces of hide.

The only remarkable thing about the village had been its namesake weirwood tree, located only a dozen steps west of the village and so gigantic and monstrous that its pale limbs and dark red leaves had cast the entire village in perpetual shadow. Jon, having grown up in the south, did not have much experience with these trees, but even Robb had noted, awestruck and deeply impressed, that this, with its trunk nearly eight feet wide, was by far the largest weirwood tree he had ever seen. The face of the tree, however, cut deep into the bark and wood of the trunk, had deeply disturbed Jon. And judging by the look on his face, Robb as well. Especially the mouth had been ghastly, not a simple carved slash, but a jagged hollow large enough to swallow a sheep.

To make matters worse, large amounts of ash and charred bones had lain in the nightmarish mouth. Robb had been the first who had dared to step closer and reach in. He had pulled out a skull, black from the fire and gray from the fine ash that had covered it, and shown it to Aegon, Lord Mormont, Jon, and some of the officers of the Night's Watch. It had not been the bones of a sheep, however.

For a while they had stood in a circle and looked wordlessly at the burned skull, from its size probably the skull of a small woman or child, before Aegon had taken it in his hand and thrown it back into the mouth of the tree. Small clouds of ash had rained from the mouth. The Old Bear had been the first to recover his voice.

"Would that bones could talk," he had grumbled. "This girl could have told us much. How she died. Who burned her, and why. Where the wildlings have gone. The children of the forest could speak to the dead, it's said. But I can't," he had sighed, before sending some of his men out to search through each house, to make sure they hadn't missed anything.

Jon had voluntarily joined the searching men, paired with a dour man named Eddison Tollett, a squire grey of hair and thin as a pike, whom the other black brothers called Dolorous Edd. Aegon, probably unsure of what to do himself but too restless to just stand around, had stomped after Jon, but without really seriously joining in the search.

"Bad enough when the dead come walking," Dolorous Edd had said as they had crossed the village, entering one of the houses, "now the Old Bear wants them talking as well? No good will come of that, I tell you, my lord. And who's to say the bones wouldn't lie? Why should death make a man truthful, or even clever? The dead are likely dull fellows, full of tedious complaints — the ground's too cold, my gravestone should be larger, why does he get more worms than I do…"

Jon had grinned when he heard this, and a glance over his shoulder had told him that Aegon had was well. He had said nothing about it, but had instead just silently searched the empty houses. They had found nothing in them, however, except for long cold fireplaces and simple beds of rotten straw. They had then started moving again, towards a small lake some three hours north of the village, where the Lord Commander had finally ordered their camp for the night to be set up.

Almost a week had passed since then and in all these days they had seen or found nothing. Absolutely nothing, except trees and more trees and masses of rain. No more villages, inhabited or otherwise, no wildlings, not even game to hunt, so that for days they had eaten only salted meat, salted fish or bread and cheese, both as hard as stone. Jon adjusted his cloak as he rode along under a tree whose leaves sent a particularly strong torrent of rainwater over his head. Not that this mattered much now. After all, he couldn't get any wetter.

"Corn, corn, corn," the raven on Lord Mormont's shoulder croaked. The Old Bear ignored the animal's cry, however. The raven had puffed itself up, appearing almost twice its size as a result, and was as wet as all of them. One could almost feel how unhappy the animal was with its situation. Even the expression on its face, if ravens could have such a thing, looked as sour and sullen as that of the Lord Commander. The raven had not fluttered around for days and instead had perched incessantly on the Lord Commander's shoulder or the head of his poor horse, eyeing every man in the vicinity with a skeptical gaze and screaming and squawking every now and then as if he himself were the Lord Commander and giving the orders here. Why Lord Mormont had taken the old beast with him in the first place, Jon did not know. To send messages back to Castle Black, they had taken other ravens with them, supposedly the strongest and smartest from the rookery. Samwell Tarly, who had chosen the ravens and was now taking care of them, had not really been able to tell which were the strongest and smartest without the help of Maester Aemon, though. Most likely, the Lord Commander had not wanted to take the critter with him at all, but, stubborn as the bird apparently was, he had simply followed him without being asked.

Up ahead, a hunting horn suddenly sounded a quavering note, half drowned beneath the constant patter of the rain. Still, the Lord Commander's face immediately brightened as if they had just returned victorious from their mission and the Wall was finally back in sight.

"Buckwell's horn," the Old Bear announced. "The gods are good. Craster is still here."

Jon had heard plenty about Craster and his keep over the past few days, and now he would see it with his own eyes. After a total of seven empty villages, they had already feared finding Craster's keep as dead and abandoned as the rest. But it seemed they would be spared that.

Maybe now we'll finally get some answers, Jon thought. And if not, at least we'll be out of the rain for a while.

"He's a wildling, this Craster, isn't he?" asked Robb.

"Aye, he is," replied the Lord Commander.

"Is it safe then to set foot into his keep?"

"Craster is a... difficult man. There's no denying that," Lord Mormont returned hesitantly. "But he is a friend of the Watch. Never has he denied a Ranger from his fire. And he has no love for Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall, which is good for us. He will give us good counsel."

Lord Mormont then quickly sent for Aegon and told him that it was better not to reveal his identity and that of his companions. Craster might be a friend of the Watch, but his trust apparently did not go so far as to serve him the king's son or the sons of influential lords of the realm on a silver platter. Gritting his teeth, even Ser Oswell could be convinced not to address Aegon as Your Grace or My Prince while in Craster's presence. It was agreed upon not to mention any names at all, if possible, and should Craster still begin to ask questions – Aegon's silver-white hair and purple eyes were a sight impossible to hide after all – that Aegon was merely the bastard of a Valyrian family from Dragonstone. It was unlikely that Craster knew what Dragonstone even was, let alone where it was and whether there were many Valyrians there, but it was important to tell a convincing story and not contradict each other so as not to arouse suspicion.

It still took them the better part of an hour before they actually reached Craster's keep. Jon had never thought to find a stone castle so far beyond the Wall, but he had at least pictured some sort of motte-and-bailey, with a wooden palisade and a timber tower keep. What they found instead was a midden heap, a pigsty, an empty sheepfold, and a windowless dauband-wattle hall, hardly worthy even of that name. It was long and low, chinked together from logs and roofed with sod. The compound stood atop a rise too modest to name a hill, surrounded by an earthen dike. Brown rivulets flowed down the slope where the rain had eaten gaping holes in the defenses, to join a rushing brook that curved around to the north, its thick waters turned into a murky torrent by the rains.

On the southwest was an open gate flanked by a pair of animal skulls on high poles. A bear to one side, a ram to the other. Bits of flesh still clung to the bear skull, Jon noted as he joined the line riding past. Within, the scouts and the men from the van were already setting up horse lines and struggling to raise tents. A host of piglets rooted about three huge sows in the sty. Nearby, a small girl pulled carrots from a garden, naked in the rain, while two women tied a pig for slaughter. The animal's squeals were high and horrible, almost human in their distress. Some of the hounds of the Night's Watch barked wildly in answer, snarling and snapping despite the kennel master's curses, with a pair of Craster's dogs barking back.

Well, at least thirty of us will be warm and dry, Jon thought once he’d gotten a good look at the hall. Perhaps as many as fifty. The place was much too small to sleep two hundred men, so most would need to remain outside. And where to put them? The rain had turned half the compound yard to ankle-deep puddles and the rest to sucking mud.

Jon, along with Robb, Byrant, and Ser Garlan, went to Aegon's side as they followed Lord Commander Mormont into Craster's hall. Prince Lewyn and Ser Oswell were just behind them, hands on the pommels of their swords. Both were trying their best to look inconspicuous, but never let more than two arm's lengths come between them and Aegon and, searching around for any possible threats, looked as grim as if they were on their way to their own execution.

Subtlety certainly looks different, Jon thought, and for a moment had to grin.

The door to Craster's Keep was made of two flaps of deerhide. Jon shoved between them, stooping to pass under the low lintel. Two dozen of the chief rangers had preceded them and were standing around the fire-pit in the center of the dirt floor while puddles collected about their boots. The hall stank of soot, dung, and wet dog. The air was heavy with smoke, yet somehow still damp. Rain leaked through the smoke hole in the roof. It was all a single room, with a sleeping loft above reached by a pair of splintery ladders.

Craster sat above the fire, the only man to enjoy his own chair. Even Lord Commander Mormont must seat himself on the common bench, with his raven muttering on his shoulder. Jon tried to take a look at Craster as discreetly as possible as he stepped closer to the fire. The man's sheepskin jerkin and cloak of sewn skins made a shabby contrast, but around one thick wrist was a heavy ring that had the glint of gold. He looked to be a powerful man, though well into the winter of his days now, his mane of hair grey going to white. A flat nose and a drooping mouth gave him a cruel look, and one of his ears was missing.

So this is a wildling, Jon thought. He remembered the tales he had heard Old Nan tell little Rickon of the savage folk who drank blood from human skulls. Craster seemed to be drinking a thin yellow beer from a chipped stone cup. Perhaps he has not heard the stories.

"Well, look at that. These really look like real fighters for a change, Lord Crow, and not like those scrawny rats you usually surround yourself with," Craster said with a nod toward Ser Oswell, Ser Garlen, Prince Lewyn, and Dickon Tarly as they stepped closer to the fire. "But what in all the hells is that? White hair," he said, looking at Aegon now. "How come you have white hair, boy? You don't look like an old hag, so why do you have hair like one?"

"He's a bastard from Dragonstone. There's a lot of Valyrian blood there, men and women and children with white hair, no matter the age," Lord Mormont quickly said.

"Hmm, well. If you say so... Pretty he is, I suppose. Pretty as a girl. Prettier than any of my women, that's for sure. But let me get one thing straight. Keep your pretty, white-haired girl away from my wives, Lord Crow. If he lays a hand on any of them, he'll lose that hand."

"Your roof, your rule," said one of the rangers, a man named Thoren Smallwood, and Lord Mormont nodded stiffly, though he looked none too pleased about the threat against the crown prince. Jon didn't even want to imagine the looks on Prince Lewyn's or Ser Oswell's faces right now. He sent a quick prayer of thanks to the Old Gods and the new that Prince Oberyn had ridden with the rear guard and was not yet here. Whether the infamous Red Viper could have remained silent at that moment, Jon doubted it.

Craster took another sip of the thin beer, half of it running out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. He was just wiping the beer from his beard with the back of his hand when suddenly his eyes grew as big as plates.

"What in all hells have you brought into my house, Lord Crow?" he asked. Jon followed Craster's gaze and saw that Tyrion Lannister had just entered the hall. Just as he had been on the dragon's back, he was so thickly wrapped in leather and wool that he could hardly walk in it. The water that had soaked into the wool did not make it any easier for him, and so the little man now staggered through the door on unsteady feet, dripping and swaying like a child who had been given a whole wineskin to drink. "What kind of monster is that?"

"Tyrion Lannister, my pleasure," the latter said with a mocking bow. Jon could tell by the sour expression on the Old Bear's face that he would have preferred had Tyrion not given his real name. Lannister was one of those names known even north of the Wall.

"Had one of my children come out that way, I would have drowned it in the nearest river. And the mother right along with it."

"His lord father had no use for him," said Lord Mormont, "so he had only the Wall to earn himself some honor, my lord."

"Honor, pah," Craster said, spitting into the flames before him, his eyes still fixed firmly on Tyrion. "But in the Night's Watch you have use for such?"

"He will never be a warrior, but he can read and write, and that is more than I can say about most of my men."

"Not that I care," he grumbled. "But if your Wall is now to be protected by such creatures as that, you might as well open the gate to Mance Rayder and let him march through right away."

"Can you tell us about Mance Rayder, my lord?" asked Lord Mormont, and Jon couldn't help but notice how ridiculous it seemed to address this man of all people as my lord the entire time. "We passed through more than half a dozen villages on the way here, all completely empty and deserted."

"That Mance Rayder," Craster spit into the fire. "King-beyond-the-wall. What do free folk want with kings?" He turned his squint on Mormont. "There's much I could tell you of Rayder and his doings, if I had a mind. These empty villages, that's his work. You would have found this hall abandoned as well, if I were a man to scrape to such. He sends a rider, tells me I must leave my own keep to come grovel at his feet. I sent the man back, but kept his tongue. It's nailed to that wall there." He pointed. Jon looked in that direction and indeed found something hanging on the wall on a rusty dagger buried deep in the wood of the beam, looking like an old piece of rotten leather. He did not doubt, however, that it was what Craster claimed. "Might be that I could tell you where to seek Mance Rayder. If I had a mind," Craster smiled. His teeth were brown, broken ruins, as rotten as everything else in this place. "But we'll have time enough for that. You'll be wanting to sleep beneath my roof, belike, and eat me out of pigs."

"A roof would be most welcome, my lord," Lord Mormont said. "We've had hard riding, and too much wet."

"Then you'll guest here for a night. No longer, I'm not that fond of crows. The loft's for me and mine, but you'll have all the floor you like. I've meat and beer for twenty, no more. The rest of your black crows can peck after their own corn."

"We've packed in our own supplies, my lord," said the Old Bear. "We should be pleased to share our food and wine."

Craster set his cup aside, beer dripping from his beard on his jerkin, and wiped his drooping mouth with the back of a hairy hand again.

"I'll taste your wine, Lord Crow, that I will. Had no good southron wine up here for a bear's night. I could use me some wine, and a new axe. Mine's lost its bite, can't have that, I got me women to protect. Do you have a man who can draw a map?"

"Aye, we do," Lord Mormont told Craster, before turning to one of the officers. "Send Samwell Tarly here after he's eaten. Have him bring quill and parchment. And find Tollett as well. Tell him to bring my axe. A guest gift for our host."

"Who's this one now?" Craster said, looking at Jon for the first time. "He has the look of a Stark."

"Not a Stark. A bastard from the Stormlands, my lord," Lord Mormont said.

"Seems like you've gotten yourself a lot of new bastards, Lord Crow, and somehow none of them seem to be able to speak, huh?"

"I can speak," Jon said. At the same moment, he knew it had been a mistake. Craster, he knew this much, was a man not to be provoked, especially if one wanted something from him, and raising one's voice in his home was certainly not something he would simply pass over.

"Well, well, well," Craster said. "It really can speak. And then it's almost as pretty as that little sweetling with the white hair at that. You better behave yourself while you're under my roof, crow, or I'll make you one of my wives, too."

"He didn't mean to offend, my lord," the Lord Commander quickly jumped in. "He's just nervous because we're looking for Ben Stark and he's learned from him for many years."

"I've not seen Benjen Stark for three years," Craster said. "And if truth be told, I never once missed him." A half-dozen black puppies and the odd pig or two skulked among the benches, while women in ragged deerskins passed horns of beer, stirred the fire, and chopped carrots and onions into a kettle.

"He ought to have passed here last year," said Thoren Smallwood.

"Ben was searching for Ser Waymar Royce," the Old Bear said, "who had vanished with Gared and young Will."

"Aye, those three I recall. The lordling was no older than one of these pups or the sweet bastard girls you have there. Too proud to sleep under my roof, him in his sable cloak and black steel. My wives give him big cow eyes all the same." He turned his squint on the nearest of the women. "Gared says they were chasing raiders. I told him, with a commander that green, best not catch them. Gared wasn't half-bad, for a crow, I'll give him that."

"When Ser Waymar left you, where was he bound?" he heard Ser Robar ask from somewhere behind them.

Craster gave a shrug, not caring who had asked.

"Happens I have better things to do than tend to the comings and goings of crows."

He drank a pull of beer and set the cup aside again. He gazed around at his scurrying wives, barking at some of them to bring him new beer and meat and a mug for the southern wine he was about to taste. Jon looked over at Aegon, who gave him a quick nod. Then he went to the door, Ser Oswell at his back, and Jon followed him out. The rest stayed behind in Craster's hall by the fire. Jon could not blame them, yet he was glad not to have to be near this man anymore. At least for a while.

"So what do you think?" asked Aegon when they had walked a few steps.

Around them the brothers of the Night's Watch had begun to pitch their black tents, but the ground was so wet and muddy and deep that they might as well have been lying on the bare ground. A few small fires, smoking far too heavily, burned around them, casting a pale light over what was called Craster's Keep. It was no match for the fading sunlight, however. At least the rain had become less, even if it had not completely stopped.

"About what?"

"About our honored host, of course."

"I'll be glad to sleep under a roof tonight, maybe near a fire that won't be drowned by the ongoing rain half through the night. But I already know I'll be just as glad to get out of here quickly tomorrow."

"Me too," Aegon admitted after a moment. "Something is not right here."

"There's a lot of things not right here. This man is taking his own daughters as wives."

"That's not what I mean."

"Then what?"

"Seven villages we passed on the way here. All of them were empty. And the rangers Lord Mormont sent out reported the same thing about the other villages and settlements they found. But he, Craster, is still there. Whatever caused the wildlings to disappear from these villages... why doesn't that seem to worry Craster at all? How does he protect himself and his men?"

"How does he feed himself and his men?" Ser Oswell now asked. "I have seen hardly any crops, and the few meager pigs and puny carrots that grow here can hardly feed the man alone."

"Good question," said Aegon. "How does he feed his men?"

"I haven't seen any men," Jon said. Aegon stopped, and so did Ser Oswell. His friend looked around and only now seemed to notice that what Jon had just said was indeed true. "There are no men here. Just Craster and his wives and a few little girls. I wonder how he is able to hold this place? His defenses were nothing to speak of, only a muddy dike."

"And if he's breeding more and more wives with his own daughters," Ser Oswell said, "how come there isn't a son among his children every now and then? And if there is, where are those boys?"

"As I said, something is not right here," Aegon said.

They walked a little further through the deep mud around Craster's Keep, looking around, but without discovering anything interesting or suspicious. Then they finally went back inside. The night would be short enough and, even with the fire in the middle of the hall, it wasn't sure if there would be enough time for their clothes to really dry and for the cold to leave their bones. They looked for places to sleep a little away from the fire. Closer would have been preferable for all of them, but with the officers of the Night's Watch also in the hall, it would only have drawn unnecessary attention to them if they had let them have their way by the fire.

They ate some of the roasted pig Craster's women had slaughtered when they had arrived, drank a little of their own ale - the swill Craster called beer they preferred not to drink - and then went to sleep. Jon slept poorly, as he had on all nights since their departure. The ground was hard, the air stank and was sticky, and the sounds coming from the loft where Craster slept with his wives did not help find him nice dreams either. Craster, heavily drunk on his own beer and the wine from the Night's Watch, first spent some time choosing which one of his wives he wanted to have that night. Then, when he was done with her - fortunately quickly - he began to snore as loudly as a snuffy dragon. But at least it didn't rain on Jon's face all night, so he got at least a few hours of rest.

Once again Jon wished for a wolf dream to fall asleep. The wolf would have carried him away from here, still somewhere beyond the Wall, but at least far away from the hideous Craster and his keep. In fact, something like a wolf dream came to him. In this dream, Jon had the feeling of walking around in the body of a wolf again, prowling, lurking. But this dream was different. He knew that right away. The wolf dreams had always taken him far away, to somewhere in the vast, untamable wilderness. He had been free, racing through endless forests, over hills and mountains and through valleys and rivers. This dream, however, was different. He did not see any of his siblings in this dream. Somehow he knew they were there, near him, but he did not see them. Not even his sister with the golden eyes. Nor had this dream taken him away, not to somewhere in a seemingly endless forest full of game, not to the top of a mountain or the middle of a snow-covered, almost enchanted-looking valley. He was here, at Craster's Keep, in the one place he certainly did not want to be.

In his dream, he crept around Craster's Keep, taking in the smells, the sweat of the horses, the dung of the pigs, the smoke of the fires, the moldy scent of clothes of the women, the men's piss in the bushes, and the blood on the battered feet and legs of some of the black brothers. The rain had stopped, but Jon, the wolf, felt the air getting colder and colder and colder. The dogs barked at him in his dream, made the men in black search the forest nearby again and again, but without ever finding him. If the wolf didn't want to be found, he wasn't found. And whenever he came close enough so that the dogs could actually see him, they fell silent or crawled away, yipping and whimpering. He saw one of the brothers of the Night's Watch, a small man, sitting in the branches of a tree, sleeping. He saw a particularly fat man in black who would have made a delicious prey for him in his siblings, scribbling notes on maps and parchments with shaky fingers. Only at second glance did Jon understand that the man the wolf had wanted to snatch and feast on its abundant flesh for a moment was Samwell Tarly.

He crept away, suppressing the urge to fill his belly. Reluctantly, but Jon knew that this would have been wrong even in a dream. He then saw Tyrion Lannister stagger out of the hall in the dead of night, almost as drunk as Craster, and piss into a bush, unaware of how close he had come to the wolf and that he had almost pissed against his massive flank. Jon continued to skulk around Craster's Keep, watching and... keeping vigil. Somehow he felt he had to do just that, even if he felt silly doing so even in his dream.

Later that night, the sun not yet visible but the sky beginning to turn purple in the east, he saw Samwell Tarly again, talking to a girl, a thin, pale thing with a gaunt face, dark hair, and big brown doe-eyes. As little as he knew him so far, Jon doubted that Samwell Tarly could ever actually talk to a pretty girl in real life. It was indeed a strange dream.

A short pain finally woke him from his strange dream, when one of the men of the Night's Watch stepped on his hand on the way out. Jon cried out briefly, but the man, still half asleep, apparently didn't think it necessary to apologize. Jon rubbed the sleep from his eyes, moved the fingers of his right hand a little, and then looked around. Aegon was still asleep, strangely twisted between Ser Robar at his feet and Dickon Tarly's butt behind his head. Surely after this night he would have a backache like never before in his life.

Jon rose, slipped on his boots, wrapped himself in his cloak, which had thankfully largely dried, and stepped out of the hall. The rain had indeed stopped, just as in his dream, and it had become noticeably colder, also as in his strange dream. As he stepped out, his breath misted in the cold morning air. He looked around and found the whole forest turned to crystal.

The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on every branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emeralds, every drop of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a light brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of the men of the Night's Watch were enclosed in a fine glaze of ice.

So there is magic beyond the Wall after all.

He found himself thinking of Rhaenys then. Why he could not say. She would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it. He then had to think of Arya and he knew how different she would react. Arya, his Arya, would run out laughing and shouting, wanting to touch it all. He had to grin at the thought.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he suddenly heard Aegon say next to him.

"Up already? I was expecting we'd have to strap you to your horse asleep and you wouldn't open your eyes until noon at the earliest."

"Yeah, I had that in mind, too," his friend said with a wry grin, "but somehow I didn't sleep so well. My back is aching horribly. Once we get back to King's Landing, I'd best sleep a couple of nights in the torture chamber under the Red Keep. On a rack, it can hardly be more uncomfortable than this."

"Come," Jon said, "we'll stretch our legs a bit. It'll do your back some good, and when we get back, I'm sure someone will have some hot tea and some fried bread for us."

Together they walked between the black tents. Many of the men were already awake, and judging by the expressions on their faces, they had had an even worse night than Aegon and Jon. A few small, smoking fires were already burning here and there, shrouding Craster's Keep in a fine mist. Somewhere he heard some brothers of the Night's Watch talking excitedly about fresh tracks they had found all around their camp.

"A wolf, I tell you," one man said.

"Nonsense. It must have been a bear. No wolf is that big," said the other, waving it off.

"Have you ever seen a bear prowling around a guarded camp at night? Without stealing anything or attacking right away at that? Besides, bears sleep in this weather."

"And have you ever seen a wolf with paws as big as a bear's? That beast would have had to be the size of a horse. No, you haven't, so don't talk shit," barked a third.

For a moment Jon felt the urge to go to them. Tracks of a wolf? Around their camp? As big as a bear's paws? It was impossible, he knew it was, but at that moment, a thought occurred him. A thought that was so outlandish, so insane, so absurd and yet… He had indeed had a strange dream last night, truly strange, but still...

No, he scolded himself immediately. This is silly. I'm not a child anymore.

"Lord prince?" he suddenly heard, soft and meek.

Immediately they both stopped and turned around. Crouched atop a rock was a girl, slender and pale and with big brown doe-eyes, the girl he thought to have seen in his strange dream last night, wrapped in a black cloak so large it drowned her.

Samwell Tarly's cloak, Jon realized at once. Why is she wearing his cloak?

"The fat one told me I'd find you here, my lord prince," she said. "Is it true, my lord? Are you the son of a king?"

Jon looked at Aegon and recognized the shock on his friend's face. No one had been supposed to know that the sons of great, influential lords were with them, and even less had anyone been supposed to know that the Crown Prince, of all people, was among them. Yet this girl had just addressed Aegon as Lord Prince, something Jon and Aegon could hardly take as anything other than a failed attempt at etiquette. She obviously knew who he was and, judging from the huge cloak she was wrapped in, it was also clear who had told her.

"Yes," Aegon finally admitted. To deny it would have been silly. "My name is Aegon Targaryen and my father is Rhaegar, the First of his Name, King and Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. But you probably already know that."

"Yes, lord prince," she said softly.

"Who else knows about this?" hissed Jon in a sharper tone than he had intended.

"Only me," she returned, spooked like a little rabbit. "That is, if the fat one hasn't told any other women about it."

If he has, then he will lose his tongue for it, Jon thought. If not his life. Lord Mormont will be furious, Ser Oswell and Prince Lewyn will be seething with rage, but Prince Oberyn will eat him alive if his loose mouth causes any trouble here.

"No one was supposed to know," Jon said then, trying to sound extra nice so as not to scare the girl even more. "So please, don't call him lord prince anymore."

"What do you want from me?" Aegon asked at last.

"The fat one, that Sam, he told me to go to you." So Samwell Tarly did talk to her last night. Like in my dream. What in all the Seven Hells...? "He gave me his cloak so I wouldn't stand out so much among the men here."

Jon looked at the girl from head to toe for a moment. She was five-and-ten, maybe six-and-ten name days old, pretty in a common, peasant way, and looked like Lord Mormont's puffed-up raven in that far too large cloak. Even with a fool's cap on her head, this girl could hardly have stood out more among the men of the Night's Watch.

"Won't Craster be angry with you? We were told you women must not speak to us and we must not speak to you," Aegon said.

"My father drank overmuch of the Lord Crow's wine last night. He will sleep most of the day." Her breath froze in the air in small, nervous puffs. "They say the king gives justice and protects the weak." She started to climb off the rock, awkwardly, but the ice had made it slippery and her foot went out from under her. Jon caught her before she could fall and helped her safely down. Immediately the woman knelt down on the icy ground in front of Aegon. "My lord, I beg you-"

"Don't beg me for anything," Aegon said. The expression on his face was hard, as hard as His Grace's expression always was when he had to sentence a man to the gallows. Jon had seen it often enough. But Jon also knew his friend well enough to know how hard it was for him to reject her. "Go back to the hall. As I said, you ought not to speak to us, and we ought not to speak to you."

"You do not need to speak to me, my lord. Just take me with you when you go. That is all I ask."

All she asks, Jon thought. As if that were nothing.

"I'll... I'll be your wife, if you like. My father, he has nineteen wives. One less won't hurt him."

"When I return home, my betrothed will be there waiting for me. I have no use for a second wife."

Jon was glad that Aegon didn't mention the fact that a wildling girl wouldn't even have been considered as a bedmate for him, the crown prince, let alone a possible wife.

"Then I'll be your wife, if you like," she said, looking at Jon out of wide, hopeful eyes. "I can cook and sew, and I am still young. I can give you many children, my lord. And Nella and Dyah say that none of Craster's other wives can gut a pig as clean as I can."

Not exactly what I had hoped for in a wife, Jon thought.

"I am the son of a lord," Jon said, trying to look as hard as Aegon, knowing full well, however, that he was unsuccessful. "My father will give me a woman as my wife someday, to forge an alliance between our families to strengthen my family's position. That's how nobles do it in the south, don't you know that? Besides, we are guests in your father's hall."

"Not you," she said. "I watched. You slept by his fire but you never ate at his board. He never gave you guest-right, so you're not bound to him. It's for the baby I have to go."

"I don't even know your name."

"Gilly, he called me. For the gillyflower."

"That's pretty," Jon said, earning a warning glace from Aegon. He remembered Rhaenys telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl and she was far from a lady at that, but perhaps the courtesy would please her. "Is it Craster who frightens you, Gilly?"

"I must leave for the baby, not for me. If it's a girl, that's not so bad. She'll grow up and then he'll marry her. But Nella says it's to be a boy, and she's had six and knows these things. He gives the boys to the gods. Come the white cold, he does, and of late it comes more often. That's why he started giving them sheep, even though he has a taste for mutton. Only now the sheep's gone too. Next it will be dogs, till…"

She lowered her eyes and stroked her belly.

"What gods?" Aegon asked, and immediately Jon had to think back to the conversation with him and Ser Oswell yesterday. It was true, there were no boys and no men in Craster's Keep here. Just him and his daughters-wives.

"The cold gods," she said. "The ones that come in the night. The white shadows."

And suddenly Jon was back in the Lord Commander's Tower again. Dead fingers, cold as ice, pressed mercilessly into his throat, deeper and deeper, forcing the life out of him. The body was torn from him, flung against the wall. The dead man, however, remained on his feet, blue eyes shining in that gashed and swollen face. Ropes of torn flesh hung from the great wound in his belly, yet there was no blood.

"What color are their eyes?" Jon then asked her, his voice little more than a whisper.

"Blue. As bright as blue stars, and as cold."

She has seen them, he thought.

He looked over at Aegon then. Together they had fought hedge knights and bandits in the Kingswood and the Riverlands, had earned their knighthoods from Barristan the Bold himself for it. They had seen death, the slaughter of a battle, had killed themselves, but never before had he seen his friend so deeply frightened. Never before had he been so frightened himself.

"Will you take me with you? Just so far as the Wall-"

"We do not ride for the Wall," Aegon said. "We ride north, after Mance Rayder and these Others, these white shadows and their wights. We seek them, Gilly. Your babe would not be safe with us."

Her fear was plain on her face.

"You will come back, though. When your warring's done, you'll pass this way again."

If any of us still live then, that is, Jon thought.

"We may," he said instead. "That's for the Lord Commander to say, the one you call the Lord Crow. He commands this ranging."

Jon wanted to say something else, wanted to reassure her, tell her that maybe, if they, eventually, came by here again, he would try to help her. Somehow. Maybe. Before the first word had left his mouth, however, she had already whirled around, dropping the cloak to the ground, and, nimble as a deer, had hurried away between the tents of the men.

"We should see to it that we get out of here. Quickly," Aegon said, his arms folded in front of his chest and a grim expression on his face. "And then we'll have to have a serious word with Samwell Tarly."

"Indeed," Jon said, before they turned and walked back to Craster's hall.

They drank some tea handed to them by one of the officers, quickly ate a small piece of fried bread, and then packed up their things. They both, despite their saddle sores, could hardly wait to be back on horseback and get out of here. The others seemed to feel little different. Both knights of the Kingsguard had packed their things and saddled up as swiftly as if they were on the run. Robar Royce, Dickon Tarly, Aidin, and Robb even dispensed with the bread, drinking only some hot tea to warm themselves before heading to their horses. Only Lord Tyrion, his head heavy from wine and beer, did not manage to pack his things alone as quickly as the Lord Commander would have liked. Two men of the Night's Watch finally took over for him, lacing his bundle onto the saddle of his horse, and Jon couldn't help but think that this had probably been exactly his plan.

Throughout the morning, Jon, Aegon and Robb rode side by side, just a few paces behind Lord Mormont, but barely spoke a word. They were making good time, yet the distance they had put between themselves and Craster still just didn't seem enough for them to finally feel comfortable again. Jon had, before they had departed from Craster's Keep, suggested to Aegon to tell Robb what had happened, and so they had told him, as briefly and sensibly as possible, what they had seen, heard and experienced last night and this morning. Robb had been startled but had not doubted their words. The sky was cloudy and so Jon couldn't tell for sure, but it had to be close to noon, perhaps an hour before their next halt, when he and Aegon, agreeing only with a nod, finally got around to speaking to the Lord Commander. They caught up with him quickly, Robb following them.

"My lord," Jon said as they had just crossed a small frozen creek and were now struggling on their horses up a small hill on the other side. "Craster has no sheep. Nor any sons."

Mormont made no answer.

"At Winterfell one of the serving women told us stories," Robb said. "She used to say that there were wildlings who would lay with the Others to birth half-human children."

These had been stories for little children, of course, but after what they had been through in the Lord Commander's Tower and what they had now learned, Old Nan's spooky stories suddenly seemed a lot spookier than Jon had ever thought possible.

"Hearth tales," Lord Mormont said, waving it off. "Does Craster seem less than human to you?"

"In half a hundred ways," Aegon said with a wry grin. Jon was sure, however, that his words had been quite serious. The Lord Commander did not reply, though.

"He gives his sons to the wood," Jon said.

A long silence followed, growing longer and longer, before the Lord Commander finally found his voice again.

"Yes," the Lord Commander finally replied.

"Yes," the raven muttered, strutting. "Yes, yes, yes."

"You knew?" Aegon asked, aghast.

"Smallwood, one of my rangers, told me. Long ago. All the rangers know, though few will talk of it."

"Did my uncle know?" asked Robb.

"All the rangers," Mormont repeated. "You think I ought to stop him, my lord. Kill him if need be." The Old Bear sighed. "Were it only that he wished to rid himself of some mouths, I'd gladly send Yoren or Conwys to collect the boys. We could raise them to the black and the Watch would be that much the stronger. But the wildlings serve crueler gods than you or I, Lord Robb, and certainly much crueler gods than you, my prince. These boys are Craster's offerings. His prayers, if you will."

His wives must offer different prayers, Jon thought.

"How is it you came to know this?" the Old Bear asked him. "From one of Craster's wives?"

"Yes, my lord," Jon confessed. "She was frightened and wanted help."

"The wide world is full of people wanting help, Lord Jon. Would that some could find the courage to help themselves. Craster sprawls in his loft even now, stinking of wine and lost to sense. On his board below lies a sharp new axe. Were it me, I'd name it Answered Prayer and make an end to the man."

"Still, there must be something we can do," Robb insisted. "My lord father taught me that some men are not worth having. A bannerman who is brutal or unjust dishonors his liege lord as well as himself."

"I wish there were more men like your father, Lord Robb. The world would be a better place for it. I truly believe that. But Craster is his own man. He has sworn no oaths to us. Nor is he subject to our laws. The laws of the Seven Kingdoms end many miles south at the icy foot of the Wall. Your heart is noble, Lord Robb, but you better learn a lesson here. We cannot set the world right. That is not what we are here for. The Night's Watch has other wars to fight and, it seems, so does the rest of the realm. At least if I understood my king's intentions correctly."

Aegon only replied with a nod, but it was clear that he was as disappointed with the Old Bear's answers as were Jon and Robb.

"So we can't help the girl," Aegon finally said after a while. "Has the stay with Craster, apart from the nice company, been at least worth while?"

"It has indeed," Mormont said with a sigh, and Jon could see his face darkening with certainty. "Caster said much and more last night, confirming enough of my fears to condemn me to a sleepless night on his floor. Mance Rayder is gathering his people together in the Frostfangs. That's why the villages are empty. It is the same tale that Ser Denys Mallister had from a wildling his men captured in the Gorge, but Craster has added the where, and that makes all the difference."

"Is he making a city, or an army?" Robb asked.

"Now, that is the question. How many wildlings are there? How many men of fighting age? No one knows with certainty. The Frostfangs are cruel, inhospitable, a wilderness of stone and ice. They will not long sustain any great number of people. I can see only one purpose in this gathering. Mance Rayder means to strike south, into the Seven Kingdoms."

"So my father was right about that, as well," Aegon said. The annoyance that the king had been right both about the wildlings and, more seriously, about the Others, was unmistakable in his voice. For a moment, it seemed to Jon as if this annoyed Aegon more than the fact that they would soon have to fight a war to save the realm from being overrun by wildlings, even more than the fact that the dead were actually rising from their graves. It was inappropriate, he knew, but Jon couldn't help but grin for a small moment.

"Wildlings have invaded the realm before," Robb said and Jon knew that his cousin was of course right. He himself had heard the tales in his studies with the maesters in King's Landing although he did not remember them as well as he would have liked to. "Raymun Redbeard led them south in the time of my grandfather's grandfather, and before him there was a king named Bael the Bard."

"Aye," said Mormont, "and long before them came the Horned Lord and the brother kings Gendel and Gorne, and in ancient days Joramun, who blew the Horn of Winter and woke giants from the earth. Each man of them broke his strength on the Wall, or was broken by the power of Winterfell on the far side… but the Night's Watch is only a shadow of what we were, and who remains to oppose the wildlings besides us? Even Winterfell might not be able to fight off the wildlings this time, should this army be as large as I fear. And the king… the king has promised us help, the strength of the entire realm at our back, but there is a difference between a word and a deed that could not be greater. And even if His Grace is serious about it, the question remains how many of his lords will follow him when he orders them to the Wall. The only proof for an army of wildlings so far is the word of Craster, a wildling. And for the other thing... for the other thing, we don't have anything in hand at all yet. That will hardly be enough for His Grace. All we had burned to ashes when the two of you saved my life, my prince, Lord Jon. The wildlings may never again have such a chance as this. I knew Mance Rayder. He is an oathbreaker, yes… but he has eyes to see, and no man has ever dared to name him faintheart."

"So what will we do?" asked Jon.

"Find him," said Mormont.

"And then?"

"Then we'll see. We'll fight him if we can. Stop him if we can. If not, we'll rush back to the Wall as fast as we can. But if we return without proof, proof of the cold darkness that is coming, for the white shadows in the night, then we might as well let Mance Rayder kill us all."

Chapter Text

When he opened his eyes, the smoke in the air burned as if someone had poured sand into them. He looked around, saw thralls and salt wives scurrying back and forth, stoking new life into the embers in the hearths and gutting fish so that the lords and captains could soon break their fast. His back ached terribly, even more than his head. He had apparently fallen asleep in his chair at the feast last night, the girl still on his lap. Briefly he had to think, then it came back to him.

Falla was her name. He hadn't even asked for the name of her family. It would have been in vain anyway. She was a thrall girl and had certainly hoped that Theon would make her his first salt wife. Perhaps he still would. She was pretty, if not beautiful. Her hair was brown, but so dark it was almost black, as were her eyes, and her skin had a bronze glow. Surely someone had stolen the girl from Dorne years ago when she had still been a child.

Last night, he remembered, she had reminded him of Rhaenys, the princess who should have been his. He looked at her as she lay slumped on his lap, leaning her head against his shoulder. Yes, she was indeed pretty, but no match for his princess. Far from it. But that was probably how it was with all women in the world. One of his hands was still in her cleavage, firmly holding one of her tits, too small for his taste, much smaller than those of his princess, but still firm and young. They were nothing special, but they would be enough to keep him amused in cold nights. His other hand was under her brown, ragged dress, between her thighs, but not far enough up to feel whether she might have dreamed of him and longed for him in her sleep.

The sun had not yet risen, as he could see through the small windows of Castle Drumm's Great Hall. It could not be much longer now, however. He would have to hurry if he wanted to meet the Damphair at the beach on time, as agreed.

So he pushed the sleeping girl off his lap and stood up. She fell to the ground, landing with her butt at his feet. She looked around, confused and sleepy, then looked up at Theon and scowled at him for a tiny moment before realizing who had just pushed her away. Immediately, she lowered her gaze again and crawled away from him. For a moment, Theon considered to grab her, feeling her young body again, if only for a moment, perhaps kissing her. Not a kiss of love, of course, but of desire, a promise of what would await her in his bedroom tonight once he had been elected king at the kingsmoot soon. Then, however, he refrained, letting the girl crawl away and devote herself to her work.

He had one of the thralls hand him some water and bread to get rid of the taste in his mouth and settle his stomach a bit, and quickly gulped both down on his way out. Castle Drumm was small enough to find the way out quickly. The sky above him was black, not a single star could be seen, and no sooner had he walked a short distance from the castle on the narrow road that he was as blind as if his eyes had been gouged out. Only the sound of the waves told him in which direction he had to go.

I should have brought a torch or an oil lamp, damn it, he cursed in his mind as he left the narrow road and stumbled his way down the sandy dunes.

He heard the loud roar of the waves now directly in front of him, felt the spray and the fine sand of the beach whipped up by the morning wind in his face, but still saw nothing. The sea in front of him was as black as the sky, the horizon as hidden as everything else around him in the perfect sea of black that was his world.

Why in all the Seven Hells couldn't Aeron meet me in the castle? Or maybe after sunrise? What's so hard about not being a stubborn fool, at least for a moment?

Theon trudged along the deep, damp sand of the beach, pulling his cloak tighter around him. The morning wind was cold and damp, just as everything here was cold and damp. He froze, forcing himself as best he could not to shiver, until he realized how silly that was, since no one would be able to see him in this complete darkness anyway. After his first few nights in Castle Pyke, he had decided that the first thing he would do with his family's gold would be to rebuild the damn castle, to finally, finally get it truly warm and maybe at least a little dry inside. Into the treasuries of Pyke, however, his soldiers - his own soldiers - had refused to let him enter. Not until after the kingsmoot, they had said.

Damn bastards.

So how much gold he would be able to spend on turning this cold and damp misery back into something resembling a real, proud castle, a castle worthy of the Lord Reaper of Pyke, no, worthy of the King of the Iron Islands, he didn't know. However, it didn't really matter either. Once he would wear the Driftwood Crown on his head, the first thing he would do anyway would be to set out with his men on a great raid. Well, it wouldn't be quite the first thing he would do. The first thing, of course, would be to feast and drink himself senseless and sire a bastard or two with some of the thrall girls that had caught his eye yesterday. Falla would be one of them, that much was certain. Aye, he definitely wanted to find her heavy with child when he returned from his first raid.

After that he would attack the Stepstones and take the gold and jewels of some rich merchants from Essos on their fat cogs on the way back to Myr or Tyrosh or Lys from Blackwater Bay. In King's Landing, he had seen that much, enough of those puffed-up oafs had strutted around in their colorful robes, had looked like particularly ugly wenches in particularly badly tailored dresses. But they had not looked like warriors. Not at all.

Perhaps they would even sail to Essos, he and the Iron Fleet, and plunder one of the Free Cities directly. It had been done before, albeit hundreds of years ago for the last time, so why not begin his reign by writing his name in the history books? Sure, in the Seven Kingdoms there was gold and silver and gems as well, not to mention pretty girls with maiden wombs only waiting for his seed, but Theon was no idiot, after all. Proclaiming himself King of the Iron Islands would inevitably bring on the Targaryens, and in the end even the Iron Fleet was just made of wood, woefully ill-suited for a war against fire-breathing dragons. If even Harrenhal, the stone monstrosity of Harren the Black, had been unable to withstand the heat of dragon fire, how could he hope to stand against it with axes, shields and wooden ships? But if he left the Seven Kingdoms in peace, only raiding and pillaging far from home shores about which the Dragon King wouldn't care, he might let him be. Back in the day, Theon's lord father had made the mistake to not only challenge the power of the Iron Throne by declaring himself King of the Iron Islands, but also to force a response from King's Landing with his attacks on Lannisport, the Reach and the Arbor. However, if you gave the Iron Throne no reason to care about what happened on the Iron Islands, why should the crown care?

He had learned, boring as the lessons had been, a great deal about King Rhaegar, the Scholar King, as Maester Luwin had always called him with dreamy eyes. Old fool. He had indeed learned, more than the old maester might have thought. With the might of all the other kingdoms, King Rhaegar had brought Balon Greyjoy to his knees, aye, but that did not make him a warrior. Theon still remembered vividly how Luwin had spoken again and again of how the oh-so-noble king's heart had bled when he had been forced to go to war against Balon. How he had written letter after letter, had sent raven after raven, to dissuade Theon's father from this folly and to keep the peace. No, Rhaegar Targaryen was no warrior, and if Theon gave him the chance to forgo war against the Iron Islands, this weakling would do so as surely as the sun rose in the east and set in the west.

Perhaps, he thought, he would even try to bring the Iron Islands back into the realm with a peace offering, with a bond by blood… such as a royal wedding.

With a wife like Rhaenys Targaryen in his bed, he might even refrain from taking salt wives. How could he enjoy other women when such a body was waiting for him at home in his bed, naked and willing and more often than not swollen from the many children he would make her? The thought made him smile.

Theon looked around and noticed how he finally was beginning to see something again. He was still surrounded by little more than gray shadows in a sea of black, but he could see that the first light was finally stealing into the world. He walked on and on, unsure how far he had actually walked. He felt his legs aching from the heavy walk through the deep sand, but for that the cool morning air had driven the pain out of his head. Once he recognized the first shapes around him, things began to change fast and the faint idea of morning light quickly turned into a glimmer that brought the colors back into the world. The black sky began to turn gray like slate, the black sea became a landscape of gray and green, mountains that piled up foaming and then collapsed again in a loud thunderous roar. Far back on the horizon, he could now even already make out the black mountains of Old Wyk. Hardly more than sharp shapes, angry and ugly, but still they were there.

"Bless me," he suddenly heard a man's voice somewhere in front of him.

He could not see the man, hidden behind the slope of a particularly high dune, but he knew to whom he had spoken and whom he would find there. There was only one man on all the Iron Islands whom people asked to bless them. His uncle Aeron the Damphair had to be up ahead somewhere. Theon quickened his pace and sure enough, in the pale, dim morning light, two shapes began to peel out of the darkness once he walked around the dune.

His uncle stood at the foot of the dune in the knee-high beach grass, dressed in his roughspun robe of gray and green and blue, faded and scuffed and covered with white stains from the salt of the sea, pouring sea water over the head of a man kneeling before him from the waterskin under his arm.

Fool, thought Theon. If he wanted to get wet, he could have just walked the few steps further into the sea. But probably then he would have missed the fun of kneeling in front of an old, unwashed man with seaweed in his hair.

A group of his acolytes stood around the two, Drowned Men as they were called, and began beating their wooden cudgels against each other as the man rose, wet and apparently blessed as he now was. Theon looked at the Drowned Men for a moment. They were all, like the Damphair himself, barefoot, clad in plain robes that only with a lot of good will could not be called rags, and their cudgels were crooked things, brittle and broken, apparently made of driftwood. Banging their cudgels together, they quickly fell into a steady beat, growing faster and faster, which then however died away as suddenly as it had begun.

"What is dead may never die," his uncle then intoned.

"But rises again, harder and stronger," added the Drowned Men.

The wet man bowed to his uncle one last time, then turned away and, a grateful grin on his face that made him look like an idiot, hurried up the dune as fast as he could. Theon walked closer and now his uncle noticed his presence as well. Theon had hoped for a smile, anything other than the scowl his uncle always wore on his face, but was disappointed.

"Theon, it's good that you are here now," he said.

Oh, really? Judging by your sourpuss face, you don't seem to think so at all, Theon thought.

"Good morning, uncle. It feels good to be here, too," he lied. In fact, had someone asked him, off the top of his head he could have thought of at least two dozen places he'd rather be right now. His uncle, however, did not ask.

"Good, good. I had hoped that you would also feel the presence of our God, so close to the sea, to his holy watery realm. I am pleased that you feel it too, Theon."

"What did you want to see me about? Here, of all places?"

"To bless you, of course," the Damphair then said, as if Theon had just asked a particularly stupid question. Perhaps he had. "No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair, Theon. That's the way the Drowned God ordained it. You have been away from your home too long, away from the islands, away from the sea. The men of the Iron Islands must know that you are one of them, that you are a godly man, if they are to support you. Only if they accept you as one of them can you even hope to have them choose you as their king. And you must become their king, Theon. Anything else would be our undoing."

Theon looked down at the ground in front of him, all rocks and sand and dirt.

"Uncle, I-"

"It is the will of our God, and it is not for you to question His will. So kneel, Theon, or are you too proud for that, a little lordling of the green lands come among us? Kneel," he said again. The priest's manner was cold, so very different from the man Theon remembered form his childhood. Aeron Greyjoy had been the most amiable of his uncles, feckless and quick to laugh, fond of songs, ale, and women. "Tell me the truth, Theon, are you praying to the wolf gods now?"

Theon prayed seldom enough at all, but that was not something you confessed to a priest, even your own father's brother. He had indeed prayed before the heart tree in Winterfell, as well as in the small sept, but these prayers had been just as unanswered as all those he had made to the Drowned God already, whether close to the sea in his childhood or far from the sea in Winterfell, in his prison.

"Ned Stark prays to a tree. No, I don't care for the Stark's gods."

"Good. That's good, Theon. Now follow me."

"Follow you? I thought I was supposed to kneel so as to-"

"Follow me," his uncle barked again, turning his back on him and stomping away, toward the gray and green waves.

So Theon followed him, surrounded by the Drowned Men. It was true. Theon had been away a long time, had forgotten much about his home and of the Old Ways of the ironborn. Many certainly saw him as his outsider, a stranger. He had to be one of them, however, if he truly wanted to hope to wear the Driftwood Crown.

"Take off your boots," said the Damphair without turning to him as he stepped out into the waves. "You've been gone a long time, Theon, far too long," his uncle murmured. "You will need more than a simple blessing to lead you back to the Drowned God, to make you a godly ironborn again, a man worthy to sit the Seastone Chair. I can see that now. Come."

Theon did as he was told, took off his boots and followed his uncle out into the sea. The water was cold, icy, biting into his skin, and the small and large stones and the broken seashells were painfully digging into the soles of his feet. Immediately his feet began to ache as fiercely as if someone were driving red-hot nails into his flesh. But Theon kept walking, while the Drowned Men around him again began to beat their cudgels in an uneven beat. Theon went on and on, following his uncle into the cold water. It stank, rotten and rancid, of dirt and dead fish, Theon said nothing to it, however. When the water reached his stones and his manhood, he hesitated briefly, but kept walking as fast as he could when he noticed how the men around him seemed to ignore the pain without batting an eye.

Maybe the bastards' balls have frozen off already, he thought grimly. If I have to wade around in here for too long, mine will probably as well soon.

Still, he walked on. He had a purpose here and might need Aeron's help to achieve it. A crown was worth getting some cold feet and wet breeches, he supposed. When the water was already up to Theon's belly button, his uncle finally stopped and turned to him.

"What is dead may never die," he said with a serious face.

"But rises again, harder-," Theon began, but before he could finish the sentence, he felt himself being grabbed by the Drowned Men and pulled backwards, losing the ground under his feet and his head being pushed under the water. The salt of the seawater burned in his eyes, wide open with shock, and in his nose. Immediately his mouth was filled with water. Theon wanted to scream, but nothing came out of his mouth but bubbles and air and fear. He tried to fight back, but the Drowned Men held him tightly as if with iron vices. Theon struggled, trying to lash out, kick, bite, do anything, as he felt the air in his lungs grow less and less.

They're drowning me, he thought in panic. They're drowning me like a mangy mutt.

Frantically, his eyes searched for a way out, for someone to help him, for anything other than the men around him who were pushing him underwater. Theon tried to get his feet back on the ground, but the Drowned Men held his legs up no matter how hard he tried to kick. He tried to free his arms, but their grip was so tight that he felt as if chained to the bottom of the sea. He tried to gasp for air, to force his head up enough to feel the cold air against his lips. To no avail. Without his wanting to, his body suddenly tried to breathe. Immediately he felt the horrible acrid pain as the icy salt water filled his lungs. He felt himself begin to cough, but with each cough only more water flowed into his lungs, burning like fire. In front of him, above him, separated from him by nothing more than the washed-out mirror of the churning water's surface, he saw his uncle's face. So close and yet infinitely far away. He reared up one last time, resisting with the last of his strength, before it too left him.

I don't want to die, was the last thing he thought before the darkness embraced him.

His entire body was shaken with cramps as Theon opened his eyes again. The strength in his arms, free from the relentless grip of the Drowned Men, returned only slowly, but it was enough for him to turn his body to the side and, choking and coughing, force the water from his lungs.

"Let Theon your servant be born again from the sea, as you were," he heard his uncle say. "Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel. What is dead may never die but rises again, harder and stronger."

Theon looked around, trying to rub the salt from his aching eyes with the back of his hand. He was lying on the beach, just a few steps away from his boots. In front of him stood his Uncle Aeron, looking down at him with a satisfied expression, his Drowned Men in a half circle around him.

"Welcome back, Theon. The Drowned God has granted you his blessing," he said and for the first time since he was a child, he saw his uncle smile, even if only faintly. "Now stand, Theon. Stand as a man of the sea, stand as a servant of the Drowned God, stand as an ironborn. Now you are truly one of us."

"You almost killed me," he screamed as loud as he could, but immediately realized it was little more than a pitiful croak. His lungs burned like fire with every word.

"We gave you the very highest blessing of the Drowned God, Theon. It was painful, I know, but it was necessary to wash the weakness of the green lands from your heart. Now come, there is a king to make," he said, turning away and beginning to trudge up the dune, followed by his acolytes.

Theon watched him go for a moment. He wanted to scream, to yell, to draw a sword and cut their smug looks from all their stupid faces for what they had done to him. He didn't have a sword, though, and even if he had, he wouldn't have had the strength to wield it. He looked around, breathing deeply, savoring every breath. The cold air eased the pain in his lungs, if only a little. He also looked after the Drowned Men with their driftwood cudgels in their hands, silently trudging behind Aeron like ducklings, and decided to remember their faces.

One day I'll drown those bastards, but without dragging them back to the shore afterwards. They'd probably be glad about that, though, he thought.

Only now did he realize how cold he was, that he was shivering. He quickly grabbed his boots and pulled them over his freezing feet. Then he struggled back to his feet and followed the Damphair up the dune. Once they reached the top, there were horses waiting for them, more Drowned Men holding on to the reins.

How many of these fools are there?

Aeron mounted one horse, Theon another, after one of the fools handed him the reins. They rode off along the narrow path behind the dunes, and Theon didn't have to ask where they were heading towards. He was still freezing, now even worse in the biting wind that blew across the dunes onto the island, but forced himself not to shiver.

"You could have warned me," Theon said.

"Would you have followed me out into the sea then to receive the blessing? No, you wouldn't have, Theon," the Damphair said without waiting for an answer. "When I was young and vain, our God took me to him, deep beneath the waves, and drowned the worthless thing that I was. If someone had told me I would drown that day, I would not have gone out to sea. But I did, and the Drowned God called me to him. He gave me eyes to see, ears to hear, and a voice to spread his word, that I might be his prophet and teach his truth to all those who have forgotten. When he cast me forth again and I rose from the waves, I was a truly godly man, as you are now. As a man must be who wants to sit the Seastone Chair."

"Then why don't you claim the Seastone Chair for yourself?"

"I was not made to sit upon the Seastone Chair, Theon... no more than Euron Crow's Eye. But I hear the voice of our God, hear his will and his command that a man of our blood shall have the Seastone Chair. A man who has his blessing, a godly man. And that man must be you, Theon."

Theon did not know what to answer. He had never put much faith in gods, not in the Seven, not in the nameless gods of the North, not in the Drowned God. But the thought that a god had chosen him to rule all the seas as the new King of the Iron Islands was… quite appealing to him. So he would certainly need the Damphair's help to become king. His claim as the last son of Balon would bring him some supporters, the discord among his rivals perhaps some more, but his uncle's confused ramblings of the Drowned God, of his will and his commands, held weight in the Iron Islands and, if all went well, would bring him more supporters than his name ever could.

Then, after nearly an hour, as they rode around a bouldery rise and past a crumbling watchtower, Nagga's Hill finally came into view in the pale morning light. To his right, waves crashed against the rocky beach with a loud roar, like war drums announcing his coming. On the crown of the hill four-and-forty monstrous stone ribs rose from the earth like the trunks of great pale trees. The sight made Theon's heart beat faster.

Here is the place, he thought reverently. Here is the place where the ironborn crowned their legendary High Kings. Here is the place where I will be crowned.

Theon had never been to the place in person before, but of course knew the stories. Nagga had been the first sea dragon, the mightiest ever to rise from the waves. She had fed on krakens and leviathans and had drowned whole islands in her wrath, yet the Grey King had slain her and the Drowned God had changed her bones to stone so that men might never cease to wonder at the courage of the first of kings. Nagga's ribs became the beams and pillars of his longhall, just as her jaws became his throne.

Theon now looked past Nagga's bones, surveyed the hills to his left, and immediately found the hundred banners of all the important houses of the Iron Islands flapping in the wind. He saw the silver fish of House Botley, the bloody moon of Wynch, the dark green trees of Orkwood. He saw warhorns and leviathans and scythes and everywhere the krakens great and golden. Proud banners of even prouder men.

Men waiting for their new king, he thought. Men waiting for me.

They rode into the camp where, under open tents and simple huts, men slept and snored on cots and benches under blankets and furs and sealskins. Thralls and salt wives were already scurrying back and forth here, too, preparing tea and fish and stews. They dismounted and sat down on one of the benches, watching the men awake from their sleep, throwing aside the blankets and skins and calling for the first horns of ale of the day. More men were now arriving at the camp from the other side who had been feasting with Theon in the Great Hall of Castle Drumm the night before.

"Drink," he heard Aeron say beside him in a low voice. "Drink deep, for we have God's work to do."

"Is everything ready?" asked Theon.

For a moment Aeron didn't answer, and Theon already feared the worst, before he then turned to him, looked him in the eyes, grimly, and nodded.

"Of course," he finally said. "The Drowned God has dealt my brother Victarion a hard lot, but he is doing his duty, to his God and his family. He has taken care of everything."

Then his uncle got up and walked toward Nagga's Hill. When he reached the place where the entrance to the hall of the Grey King must once have been, at the foot of nine steps hewn into the stony hill, he stopped, turned toward the sea, and sank to his knees. Then he reached for the waterskin under his arm and took a sip. Theon hoped it was wine, though he knew better.

"We were born from the sea, and to the sea we must return," he began, quietly at first, then more and more strongly. "I hear the ceaseless rush of the waters, and in it I feel the power of the god who lurks beneath the waters."

The hesitant conversations of all the men around him died away, and Theon noticed how the men turned to Aeron and began to listen to his words.

His words do indeed carry weight, Theon thought in amazement.

"You sent your people to me," his uncle continued. "They have left their halls and their huts, their castles and their keeps, and have come here to Nagga's bones, from every fishing village and every hidden vale. Now grant to them the wisdom to know the true king when he stands before them, and the strength to shun the false."

One of the Drowned Men suddenly appeared from somewhere beside the Damphair.

"Is it time?" the man asked in a low voice.

Aeron gave a nod.

"It is. Go forth and sound the summons."

More Drowned Men appeared from behind the hills and dunes, tents and huts. The men took up their driftwood cudgels and began to beat them one against the other as they walked down the hill. Others joined them, and the clangor spread along the strand. Such a fearful clacking and a clattering it made, as if a hundred trees were pummeling one another with their limbs. Somewhere kettledrums began to beat as well, boom-boom-boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom-boom-boom. A warhorn bellowed, then another. AAAAAAooooooooooooooo.

Men left their cots and benches and their little fires to make their way toward Nagga's bones, the ruins of the Grey King's hall. Oarsmen, steersmen, sailmakers, shipwrights, the warriors with their axes and the fishermen with their nets. Some had thralls to serve them, some had salt wives following like hounds. Others were attended by maesters and singers and knights. Theon noticed his uncle's disdainful look whenever one of them walked past him to gather under Nagga's ribs. The common men crowded together in a crescent around the base of the knoll, with the thralls, children, and women toward the rear. The lords and the captains made their way up the slopes. Theon saw cheerful Sigfry Stonetree, Andrik the Unsmiling, the knight Ser Harras Harlaw. Lord Baelor Blacktyde in his sable cloak stood beside The Stonehouse in ragged sealskin. Then he found his uncle Victarion in the crowd, completely changed from the last time he had seen him. He wore armor of heavy gray chainmail over black leather and a cloak of gold with the kraken of House Greyjoy stitched on it. His uncle loomed above all of them save Andrik and had he not been missing an arm, Theon would have thought him an impressive sight, a formidable warrior despite his greying hair. Even the look in his eyes was changed, no longer blank and dead as it had been in Pyke, but watchful and grim.

Had he still both his arms, Theon thought, surely he would be the one to become king today.

When the Damphair finally raised his bony hands the kettledrums and the warhorns fell silent, the Drowned Men lowered their cudgels, and even the last remaining voices stilled. Only the sound of the waves pounding remained, a roar no man could still.

"We were born from the sea, and to the sea we all return," Aeron began again, softly at first, so men would strain to hear. "The Storm God in his wrath plucked Balon from his castle and cast him down, yet now he feasts beneath the waves in the Drowned God's watery halls." He lifted his eyes to the sky. "Balon is dead! The iron king is dead!"

"The king is dead," his Drowned Men shouted.

"Yet what is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger! Balon has fallen, Balon my brother, who honored the Old Way and paid the iron price. Balon the Brave, Balon the Blessed, who won us back our freedoms and our God. Balon is dead... but an iron king shall rise again, to sit upon the Seastone Chair and rule the isles."

"A king shall rise," the Drowned Men answered. "He shall rise!"

"He shall. He must." Aeron's voice thundered like the waves and for a moment Theon was almost captivated by his uncle's words. If it was always so when he preached, Theon could understand that men followed him and believed his words. "But who? Who shall sit in Balon's place? Who shall rule these holy isles? Is he here among us now?" The priest spread his hands wide. "Who shall be king over us?"

Silence settled over Nagga's Hill, broken only by the sound of the sea at their backs. The silence was so absolute that it seemed almost ghostly. Even the seagulls seemed to sense it, resting silently on the tips of Nagga's bones and looking down in awe at the men below them. Theon looked around. He was impatient, wanting to step forward and stake his claim, to receive the tributes and courtesies of the men around him, as was his right. But he did not move, did not say anything. His uncle had already told him that under no circumstances should he speak first.

Perhaps Uncle Euron will speak first, Theon thought.

The Crow's Eye had never been patient, Aeron Damphair had told him. Mayhaps he will speak first. If so, it would be his undoing. The lords and captains had come a long way to this feast and would not choose the first dish set before them. They will want to taste and sample, a bite of him, a nibble of the other, until they find the one that suits them best.

Euron must have known that as well. He stood with his arms crossed amongst his mutes and monsters, leaned against one of Nagga's mighty bones. Not Euron, nor any other man stepped forward. Only the wind and the waves answered Aeron's call.

"The ironborn must have a king," the priest insisted, after a long silence. "I ask again. Who shall be king over us?"

"I will," came the answer from below.

At once a ragged cry of "Gylbert! Gylbert King!" went up. The captains gave way to let the claimant and his champions ascend the hill to stand at Aeron's side beneath the ribs of Nagga. Theon looked at the man and had nothing but disdain for him. How could someone like that dare to challenge his rightful claim to the Seastone Chair? This would-be king was a tall and haggard man with a face so sad it looked as if he had never smiled in his life, his lantern jaw shaved clean. His three champions took up their position two steps below him, bearing his sword and shield and banner. They shared a certain look with the tall lord, and Theon took them for his sons. One unfurled his banner, a great black longship against a setting sun.

"I am Gylbert Farwynd, Lord of the Lonely Light," the man told the kingsmoot. Lord Gylbert waited a moment, apparently hoping that his unimportant name alone would earn him some recognition. When no one said anything, no one rose, and certainly no one began to proclaim him king, Lord Gylbert began to speak. He told of a wondrous land beyond the Sunset Sea, a land without winter or want, where death had no dominion. "Make me your king, and I shall lead you there," he cried. "We will build ten thousand ships as Nymeria once did and take sail with all our people to the land beyond the sunset. There every man shall be a king and every wife a queen."

Theon looked at the man a little more, looked into his eyes. They constantly seemed to change color, twitching back and forth incessantly. They were the eyes of a fool. The vision he spoke of was so childish and stupid that no one in their right mind could fall for this nonsense. Theon remembered the name Farwynd. The family ruled Lonely Light, an island eight days at sea from Great Wyk. He didn't know much about them, but vividly remembered how his father, when Theon had been a child, had always made fun of them, saying that they were queer and strange, and that they would lie with seals because the women on their islands were even uglier than those beasts. The offerings that his men spilled out before the kingsmoot included sealskins and walrus tusks, arm rings made of whalebone, warhorns banded in bronze. The captains looked and turned away, leaving lesser men to help themselves to the gifts. When the fool was done talking and his champions began to shout his name, only the Farwynds took up the cry, and not even all of them. Soon enough the cries faded away to silence.

Aeron Damphair then stepped forward once more.

"I ask again. Who shall be king over us?"

"Me!" a deep voice boomed, and once more the crowd parted. The speaker was borne up the hill in a carved driftwood chair carried on the shoulders of some young, strong men.

His lovers? Theon thought and had to grin.

He was a great ruin of a man, probably twenty stones heavy and at least ninety years old, cloaked in a white bearskin. His own hair was snow white as well, as was his huge beard that covered him like a blanket from cheeks to thighs, so it was hard to tell where the beard ended and the pelt began. It took Theon a moment to recognize the man. Then, however, the name came back to him. Erik Ironmaker this was. Once a truly great and feared warrior, now just a mountain of flesh and hair and rotten teeth, barely worthy of even being heard.

Erik Ironmaker then began to speak of what a great warrior he had once been, how many hands he had smashed with his mighty hammer, how many skulls he had crushed with it, not noticing at all that he was speaking of deeds that went back longer than some of the men before him had even been alive. One of his champions, at a sign from the meat mountain, then took out his hammer from one of the large crates at his feet and held it high above his head with all his strength. It was a nasty thing, huge with a head as big as a loaf of bread.

Erik Ironmaker himself was the first one the begin the cry.

"Erik! Erik Anvil-Breaker! Erik King!" he shouted. The men around him joined in, getting louder and louder. Shortly after, more men, sons or cousins by the look of them, came forward with large chests on their broad shoulders. When they upended them at the base of the stone steps, a torrent of silver, bronze, and steel spilled forth. Arm rings, collars, daggers, dirks, and throwing axes. A few captains snatched up the choicest items and added their voices to the swelling chant. But no sooner had the cry begun to build than a woman's voice cut through it.

"Erik!" the woman called out. Theon immediately recognized the voice of his sister. He looked around, seeing men making way for her to pass. "Erik, stand up," she said with one foot on the lowest step. A hush fell. The wind blew, waves broke against the shore, men murmured in each other's ears. Erik Ironmaker stared down at Asha.

"Girl. Thrice-damned girl. What did you say?"

"Stand up, Erik," she called. "Stand up and I'll shout your name with all the rest. Stand up and I'll be the first to follow you. You want a crown, aye. Stand up and take it."

Elsewhere in the press, the Crow's Eye laughed, loud and bright and cheerful. Erik glared at him as well, but the Crow's Eye remained unimpressed. The big man's hands closed tight around the arms of his massive chair, made of driftwood and iron bands. His face went red, then purple. His arms trembled with effort. Theon could see a thick blue vein pulsing in his neck as he struggled to rise. For a moment it seemed as though he might do it, but the breath went out of him all at once, and he groaned and sank back onto his cushion. Euron laughed all the louder. The big man hung his head and grew old, all in the blink of an eye. His men quickly carried him back down the hill.

Dunstan Drumm came next, another old man, though not so old as Erik.

These old men want to see fresh blood on the throne, strong blood from a younger House, Theon thought. Yet it must be the other way around, strong blood from an old house in a young man. From this, great kings are born.

The Drumm climbed the hill on his own two legs, at least that, and on his hip rode Red Rain, his famous sword, forged of Valyrian steel in the days before the Doom. His champions were men of note: his sons Denys and Donnel, both stout fighters, Theon knew, and between them Andrik the Unsmiling, a giant of a man with arms as thick as trees. It spoke well of the Drumm that such a man would stand for him. Whatever good impression these champions had made, however, was immediately undone by Dunstan Drumm himself. When he began to talk, the same boring nonsense that he had already uttered on Pyke in Lord Balon's solar, it was not long before the first men turned away. Theon himself soon stopped listening and didn't even really notice when his speech had finally ended.

It wasn't until his champions opened the chests of gifts and masses of bronze, ugly jewelry and dull knives, bracelets, plates and even used tools poured down the hill that Theon looked again. He couldn't help but grin as the ironborn begin to laugh and sneer at the cheap trumpery Dunstan Drumm was daring to offer them.

Theon then looked at his uncles, Aeron first, Victarion second. Both looked at him with a serious expression, nodding at him slightly. Now it was time, Theon knew. Theon rose from his seat and, pushing his way between the men in front of and beside him, walked toward the hill. At first he was annoyed for a moment that he himself had not donned his armor, but his doublet was noble enough to make an impression. And with Victarion at his side, he probably would have looked rather pathetic in armor anyway, two arms or not. Fortunately, he had worn a good doublet to the feast yesterday, newly sewn for him and embroidered with a golden kraken on the chest and had not spilled his guts. That he had been wearing it since last night would hardly show, since after his... blessing in the sea a few hours earlier, it was covered with salt stains everywhere anyway.

Every salt stain is a witness to my blessing. Every stain is a symbol that I am an ironborn, he thought proudly as he made his way up the hill.

"Uncle, give me your blessing," he said when he reached the top. The faint smile he found on his Uncle Victarion's face told him that he had done the right thing. He knelt down and bowed his head. Theon had, for his taste, received more than enough blessings today already, but he knew that this was expected of him. He had seen the Drowned Men sneaking through the rows of men earlier, certain that they were spreading the word that Theon had already received the Drowned God's blessing this morning, but he knew how important it was that they all see it for themselves once again.

His uncle Aeron then uncorked his waterskin and poured a stream of seawater over his brow.

"What is dead can never die," the priest said.

"But rises again, harder and stronger," Theon replied.

When Theon rose, his champions arrayed themselves beneath him. Had Victarion laid claim to the Seastone Chair, these men would have become his champions. But as it was, they stood up for him, whether they knew him or not. Theon himself knew the men only by sight, having heard their names only a few times in the past few days, Ralf the Limper, Red Ralf Stonehouse, and Nute the Barber, but he knew that they all were noted warriors. Stonehouse bore the Greyjoy banner, the golden kraken on a field as black as the midnight sea.

"Men of the isles, men of the sea," Theon began. "I am Theon Greyjoy, Balon Greyjoy's last living son. I will not bore you by saying that by law I am my father's heir. After all, Lord Drumm has bored you enough for a lifetime," he said and, as he had hoped, the men in front of him began to laugh. "Moreover, I will tell you nothing of laws, for these are the laws of the green lands," he said, and saw some of the men begin to spit on the ground in front of them. "But these laws are not our laws, for we are ironmen, born of the salt of the sea, the stone of our isles, and the steel with which we have taught the green lands to fear since the beginning of time. What I give you, men, captains, lords, is what my father has given you before me. I give you what my father gave you when his fleet sailed into Lannisport to singe the lion's tail. I give you pride, I give you freedom, I give you the Old Ways of the ironborn. That is all I have to say."

Theon took a step back to show that he was done. He had had another speech in mind, another speech entirely, had had other ideas of what he could have said and promised the men. He had intended to speak of the deeds he had done already, the fights and battles he had won, but to have finished off a few robbers, poachers, and timber thieves alongside Robb Stark, his captor's son after all, was not something that would have impressed the men at his feet. The Damphair had made that very clear, and in the end Theon had had nothing to say against that.

His champions immediately began to shout. "Theon! Theon! Theon king!"

Below, his men were spilling out his chests, a cascade of silver, gold, and gems, a wealth of plunder, taken from his dead father's treasury, no doubt. Captains scrambled to seize the richest pieces, shouting as they did so. He saw Norne Goodbrother dash forward, stuffing the pockets of his doublet with gold and gems and immediately joining in the shouts of his name. Last night at the feast Theon had talked to Norne and had drunk with him. After the sixth or seventh horn of ale, the man had begun to slur in his ear that it should actually be House Goodbrother who rules over Old Wyk and not House Drumm, whose glory had passed away centuries ago already. What glory exactly House Goodbrother should have won lately that exceeded that of the Drumms, Theon had not cared to ask. However, after pointing out that Old Wyk might indeed get a lord from another family if he were elected king, Norne had promised him his support. Theon was pleased to see that the man kept his word.

Theon looked around. His champions were calling his name, over and over, accompanied by more men with full pockets joining the call. Uncertainly, he looked over at his uncle Euron. He still stood relaxed and motionless, leaning against one of Nagga's ribs, a satisfied smile on his lips.

Will he speak now or let the kingsmoot take its course? Please let him be silent, Theon thought.

Orkwood of Orkmont was whispering in the Crow's Eye's ear. The latter, however, said nothing, did nothing, just stood there smiling and listening. More men joined in, and Theon already expected to hear his uncle's announcement that he was the new King of the Iron Islands the very next moment, when the shouting was abruptly interrupted. It was not Euron who put an end to the shouting, though, it was Asha. She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, a sharp shrill sound that cut through the tumult like a knife through curds.

"Brother, brother, brother," she said with a sigh as she approached the steps.

She snatched up a twisted golden collar and bounded up the steps. Nute seized her by the arm, and for half a heartbeat Theon was hopeful that his champions would keep her silent, but Asha wrenched free of the Barber's hand and said something to Red Ralf that made him step aside. As she pushed past, the cheering died away. She was Balon Greyjoy's daughter, and the crowd was curious to hear her speak.

"It was good of you to bring such generous gifts to my queensmoot, little brother, but you didn't have to take an escort just for that," she said to Theon with a nod to her uncle Victarion. "I promise I won't hurt you." She then stood at the edge of the hill in front of Theon, turned and spoke to the assembled captains. "It is wonderful to see you all cheering so loudly for a son from House Greyjoy. House Greyjoy has ruled these islands for centuries and should continue to do so. But do you really want to make Theon your king? A boy who has spent most of his life far from the sea?"

"No," Theon suddenly heard some voices in the crowd say. He wanted to intervene, wanted to say that it had not been his fault and not his choice to have grown up as a prisoner of the Starks. But before he could say anything, Asha was already speaking on.

"Do you really want to make a boy your king, sweet as a girl, who looks as if he will bear rather than father children?"

"No," he heard again, this time from other men from the crowd at his feet. "No, we don't." Laughter accompanied their words.

"Besides, there is someone, one of Balon's sons, who has a better claim to the Driftwood crown. And that's me."

"There is only one of Balon's sons left," Ralf the Limper shouted. "All I see when I look at you is Balon's little daughter!"

"Daughter?" Asha slipped a hand beneath her jerkin. "Oho! What's this? Shall I show you? Some of you have not seen one since they weaned you." They laughed again. "Teats on a king are a terrible thing, is that the song? Ralf, you have me, I am a woman... though not an old woman like you. Ralf the Limper... shouldn't that be Ralf the Limp?" Asha drew a dirk from between her breasts. "I'm a mother too, and here's my suckling babe!" She held it up. "And here, my champions." They pushed past Theon's three to stand below her. Qarl the Maid, Tristifer Botley, and the knight Ser Harras Harlaw. "Theon says he'll give you the same of what my father gave you. Well, what was that? Gold and glory, some will say. Freedom, ever sweet. Aye, it's so, he gave us that... and widows too, as Lord Blacktyde will tell you. How many of you had your homes put to the torch when Rhaegar came? And that was before he had dragons at his will. How many had daughters raped and despoiled? Burnt towns and broken castles, my father gave you that. Defeat was what he gave you. Theon here will give you more. Not me. If Theon became half as good a king as he already is a talker, he could give us some victories, aye. He knows the North after all, better than the sea for sure. We could take Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen's Square or, if the Drowned God is on our side, maybe even Winterfell. But against the power of the dragons, we could never hold these."

"Once we took it, we would not give it back," his Uncle Victation said now, the expression on his face grim. "What the Kraken grabs it does not lose, be it longship or leviathan."

"And what would we have grasped with all those castles and their lands, Uncle?" asked Asha. She beckoned and more men stepped forward, sailors by the look of them, large chests of oak and iron on their shoulders. They pushed aside or simply walked over the gold and silver and gems still on the ground as they walked up the hill to Asha's right and left. "I give you the riches of Stony Shore," she said, and the first chest was upended. An avalanche of pebbles clattered forth, cascading down the steps, grey and black and white, worn smooth by the sea. "I give you the riches of Deepwood," she said, as the second chest was opened. Pinecones came pouring out, to roll and bounce down into the crowd. "And last, the gold of Winterfell." From the third chest came yellow turnips, round and hard and big as a man's head. They landed amidst the pebbles and the pinecones. Asha stabbed one with her dirk. "Many of you are warriors, ready to fight and die for glory and riches. Many of you have sons, just as willing to die if it's worth the price," she called to the crowd. "If you want to trade all those lives for turnips, shout my little brother's name."

"And if I shout your name?" Harmund Sharp demanded. "What then?"

"Peace," said Asha. "Land. Victory. I'll give you Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore, black earth and tall trees and stones enough for every younger son to build a hall. We'll have the northerners too... as friends, not enemies. The North is too vast, its coasts too long for too few people who live there. If we talk to them instead of killing them, the Starks would agree to give us lands, good lands with good soil, without paying for it with your lives and with the lives of your sons, once the dragons come to take it all back. Your choice is simple. Crown me, for peace and victory. Or crown my brother, for more war and more defeat." She sheathed her dirk again. "What will you have, ironmen?"

Theon had to grin when his stupid sister took a step back and came to stand next to him. The men there in front of them were ironborn, men of the sea and of war, who conquered, took what they wanted and did not ask for it like beggars. Promises of peace and of talks with the Starks would not convince anyone here. Yet suddenly, Tristifer Botley was shouting for her, with many Harlaws, some Goodbrothers, red-faced Lord Merlyn, more men than Theon would ever have believed... for her!

"You will not be a king," she whispered to him, "because no one will follow you. You are just not one of us."

"I have received the blessing of the Drowned God. I-"

"You can wet yourself all you want, Theon. It won't change a thing. You are a stranger on these isles. The men do not know you."

"Many have called my name," he spat back.

"Yes, a few. But do you honestly think you'll be king of the Iron Islands because you promised Norne Goodbrother, the old fishwife, the lordship of Old Wyk? Yes, I know about that, Theon. Don't look so surprised. But you don't have enough castles and lands to promise to get all the men on your side. You have nothing to offer them, Theon, nothing but your name and your big mouth."

"And what can you offer them? Certainly no more than I can."

"Life, Theon. Those men down there, they love to revel in stories of great deeds, love to talk of raiding and plundering and raping and writing their names in the history books. But what is a song about his great deeds worth to a man if he is too dead to hear it? I can offer them and their sons and their daughters a life, Theon. And if that is not enough, I can still convince them with what I have between my legs. Or at least make them dream of getting there one day. I'm a beauty, you know."

Theon looked down at the men, who were still shouting his sister's name in growing numbers. "Asha! Asha Queen!" they shouted, stomping on the floor and hitting the wood of the benches under their asses. He turned to her, wanting most to punch her in the face or yell at her that what she was doing here was wrong. He was the son, the last son, of Balon Greyjoy. The islands, the crown, the men... all that was his. He did not get to do it anymore, however.

Sharp as a swordthrust, the sound of a horn suddenly split the air. Bright and baneful was its voice, a shivering hot scream that made a man's bones seem to thrum within him. The cry lingered in the damp sea air.

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

All eyes turned toward the sound. It was one of Euron's mongrels winding the call. Theon remembered him from his journey aboard the Silence. A monstrous man he was with a shaved head. Rings of gold and jade and jet glistened on his arms, and on his broad chest was tattooed some bird of prey, talons dripping blood. He remembered this man well. He was one of the men who had always looked at him in that way that had made Theon's blood run cold, the way that one man should not look at the other.

aaaaRRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

The horn he blew was shiny black and twisted, and taller than a man as he held it with both hands. It was bound about with bands of red gold and dark steel, incised with ancient Valyrian glyphs that seemed to glow redly as the sound swelled.

aaaaaaaRRREEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

It was a terrible sound, a wail of pain and fury that seemed to burn the ears. Theon covered his. He looked over to his uncles. Victarion had one of his ears covered as well, his face twisted in pain, while Aeron seemed to mutter something, a prayer no doubt, a prayer to the Drowned God that he raise a mighty wave and smash the horn to silence, yet still the shriek went on and on. The cheeks of the tattooed man were so puffed out they looked about to burst, and the muscles in his chest twitched in a way that it made it seem as if the bird were about to rip free of his flesh and take wing. And now the glyphs were burning brightly, every line and letter shimmering with white fire. On and on and on the sound went, echoing amongst the howling hills behind them and across the waters of Nagga's Cradle to ring against the mountains of Great Wyk, on and on and on until it filled the whole wet world.

And when it seemed the sound would never end, it did.

The hornblower's breath failed at last. He staggered and almost fell. Theon saw Orkwood of Orkmont catch him by one arm to hold him up, whilst Left-Hand Lucas Codd took the twisted black horn from his hands. A thin wisp of smoke was rising from the horn, and Theon saw blood and blisters upon the lips of the man who'd sounded it. The bird on his chest was bleeding too.

Euron Greyjoy climbed the hill slowly, with every eye upon him.

"Ironmen," said Euron Greyjoy, his voice clear as glass and hard as stone, "you have heard my horn. Now hear my words. I am Balon's brother, Quellon's eldest living son. Lord Vickon's blood is in my veins, and the blood of the Old Kraken. Yet I have sailed farther than any of them. Only one living kraken has never known defeat. Only one has never bent his knee. Only one has sailed to Asshai by the Shadow, and seen wonders and terrors beyond imagining..."

"If you liked the Shadow so well, go back there," called out pink-cheeked Qarl the Maid, one of Asha's champions. The Crow's Eye ignored him.

"My little nephew would finish Balon's war and claim the North. My sweet niece would give us peace and pinecones." His blue lips twisted in a smile. "Asha prefers victory to defeat. Theon wants a kingdom, not a few scant yards of earth. From me, you shall have both. Crow's Eye, you call me. Well, who has a keener eye than the crow? After every battle the crows come in their hundreds and their thousands to feast upon the fallen. A crow can espy death from afar. And I say that all of Westeros is dying. I saw that dragon king and his brood, and all I saw was weakness. Those who follow me will feast until the end of their days. We are the ironborn, and once we were conquerors. Our writ ran everywhere the sound of the waves was heard. My nephew would have you be content with the cold and dismal North, my niece with even less... but I shall give you Lannisport. Highgarden. The Arbor. Oldtown. The Riverlands and the Reach, the Kingswood and the Rainwood, Dorne and the marches, the Mountains of the Moon and the Vale of Arryn, Tarth and the Stepstones. I say we take it all! I say, we take Westeros." He glanced at the Damphair, his smile even wider. "All for the greater glory of our Drowned God, to be sure."

For half a heartbeat even Theon was swept away by the boldness of his words.

We shall sweep over the green lands with fire and sword, he thought, and make it our own. From the trees of the woods we shall build more ships. The furrows in the fields our thralls will till for us while we shall till the wet, willing furrows of the women and the girls.

"Crow's Eye," Theon then heard Asha call out, "have you left your wits in Asshai? If we couldn't even hold the North if we were somehow to take it – and we can't against the combined forces of the realm, much less against the might of the dragons – how can we even hope to win the whole of the Seven Kingdoms?"

"Why, it has been done before. Did Balon teach his girl so little of the ways of war? Theon, your sweet sister has never heard of Aegon the Conqueror, it would seem. Have you heard of him?"

"Aegon? Of course I have," said Theon.

"I know as much of war as you do, Crow's Eye," Asha said. "Aegon Targaryen conquered Westeros with dragons."

"And so shall we," Euron Greyjoy promised and his smile turned into a grin, sinister and mean. "That horn you heard I found amongst the smoking ruins that were Valyria, where no man has dared to walk but me. You heard its call and felt its power. It is a dragon horn, bound with bands of red gold and Valyrian steel graven with enchantments. The dragonlords of old sounded such horns, before the Doom devoured them. With this horn, ironmen, I can bind dragons to my will. Three dragons there are in the world and they will all answer my call and submit to my will. Surely that is worth a driftwood crown."

"Euron!" shouted Left-Hand Lucas Codd.

"Euron! Crow's Eye! Euron!" cried the Red Oarsman.

The mutes and mongrels from the Silence threw open Euron's chests and spilled out his gifts before the lords and the captains, gold and silver and precious stones, more than Theon had ever seen in his life. Then it was Hotho Harlaw Theon heard, as he filled his hands with gold. Gorold Goodbrother shouted out as well, and Erik Anvil-Breaker. Theon looked over at his uncles. Aeron stood there with a frozen face, while Victarion grumbled darkly, but then sank to one knee and bowed his head before his insane brother. Theon looked to the other side then, but Asha was nowhere to be seen anymore.

"Euron! Euron! Euron!" The cry swelled, became a roar. "Euron! Euron! Crow's Eye! Euron King!" The call rolled up Nagga's hill like thunder sent out by the Storm God himself. "Euron! Euron! Euron! Euron! Euron! Euron!"

Bend the knee or die, Theon suddenly heard a voice in his head, low and yet so certain that he could not help but acknowledge the truth of these words. Bend the knee or die.

And so Theon also dropped down to one knee and bowed his head before his king.

Chapter Text

As cold as the evenings in King's Landing had been lately, it was nothing compared to the chill that had welcomed her when she had come back to Storm's End some days ago. Lyanna hurriedly threw a thick, heavy cloak over her shoulders as she crawled out of bed. It was as cold in her chambers since there had no fire been burning in her hearth for almost half the night. She would have to remind the maid to provide more wood tonight when she went to bed, so that the flames would not go out again in the middle of the night.

Not even an hour later, she had already broken her fast and, constantly shifting from one foot to the other, was once again standing with Ser Lomas in the cellars below Storm's End, checking the goods they had received during her absence. She scolded herself for not having put on her wool lined winter boots.

Ser Lomas had reported to her with a proudly swelling chest on the very day of her return that the ship he had sent to Essos had successfully returned with large quantities of charcoal and wheat malt and salted meat. Prices had been high, but not as high as they would have been in the Seven Kingdoms. Of the wheat malt, they would now even be able to sell at least half at a profit, while the charcoal would easily last into next year. His chest had almost burst with pride afterwards when he had told of how he had good relations with Dorne through his brother's wife, a Santagar by birth, and so had been able to acquire seven additional barrels of wine and two full barrels of vinegar for the kitchens. The wine was Dornish Red.

Robert hates Dornish Red, she thought, and couldn't help a quick grin. If you think Robert will thank you for seven barrels of Dornish Red, Ser Lomas, you are sorely mistaken. He'll drink it, sure, but no matter how drunk he gets, he won't stop ranting for a moment about how you got him into this.

"That's wonderful," she said instead, however. "I can't wait to see Robert's face when you tell him about it."

"Has Lord Robert made any decision yet about the open questions regarding the tourney in honor of your name day, my lady?" asked Ser Lomas as they made their way back outside.

Lyanna frowned and had to think for a moment before answering.

"There will be no tourney, ser," she said. "That was decided before we left for King's Landing already, wasn't it?"

"Forgive me, my lady, but the letters Lord Robert sent me from the capital spoke of the opposite. My lord still insists on this tourney."

Lyanna sighed, though she would have preferred to scream. She had, with the help of Lord Baelish, convinced Robert before they had left not to have this costly nonsense and, if anything, rather have a big tourney next year on some occasion, one of their name days or maybe to announce the betrothal of one of their sons, if he really so desired. Apparently, though, Robert had simply changed his mind during their stay in the capital and hadn't thought it necessary to inform her about this. Instead, he had sent letters to Ser Lomas in Storm's End behind her back and ordered him to begin the preparations for this costly folly.

"Whatever my husband has written to you, please do not pursue the matter any further for now until Robert is back and I have spoken to him. We can't afford a tourney as big as Robert probably has in mind right now, especially now that Lord Baelish is no longer here," she eventually asked him.

Together they then made their way to Ser Lomas' study. They passed the sept in one of the eastern courtyards of Storm's End from which the chanting of the septas and some ladies could still be heard from the morning mass. Not for the first time, Lyanna was glad that she didn't pray to the Seven and thus wasn't obligated to sit around in a sept every morning, even before breaking the fast, singing boring songs or thanking the gods on her knees for their graces... or whatever it was that one did in a sept for what felt like half a day.

Arriving at Ser Lomas' study, she had a servant bring her a hot tea, with plenty of milk and sweetened with honey. Shortly thereafter, as she had ordered, Ser Lothor Brune appeared there as well. Lyanna remembered having seen the man briefly at the tourney in King's Landing, where he had quickly been eliminated, however. Somehow, he must have ended up in the service of Lord Baelish after that, who had then sent him to Storm's End to take over his duties during his absence.

"Lord Baelish wishes to assure you that he intends to return to Storm's End as soon as his affairs in the Vale of Arryn are settled, my lady. Until that is the case, Lord Baelish has tasked me with his duties and responsibilities here at Storm's End, if my lady agrees," Ser Lothor had said when he had introduced himself to her the day after her arrival, the book with the household accounts of Storm's End already under his arm.

Lyanna had agreed, assuming that a man whom Lord Baelish had personally chosen and deemed fit to perform his quite demanding tasks and duties could not be a bad choice, even if he and Petyr Baelish could hardly have been more different. Both were of small stature, but that was where the similarities ended already. Ser Lothor, apart from his title, seemed to be a simple man who, by the way he dressed and spoke, might as well have been a common soldier or a mercenary. He was not rude, as far as he seemed to know etiquette, and yet he had the rough demeanor of a brute about him. And while Petyr Baelish seemed to try everything in his power to hide his not too noble birth behind colorful clothes made of the most expensive fabrics, perfumed waters and precious trinkets, Ser Lothor seemed to have no interest in such a game of hide-and-seek at all. Ser Lothor wore the same brown breeches and plain brown boots, along with a weather-beaten leather jerkin every single day. He also seemed to lack either the interest or the coin to get himself some other, better clothes. Also, to Lord Baelish's ears, there seemed to be no sound more beautiful than the sound of his own soft voice, while Ser Lothor's voice was hard as stone and rough as sand and he seemed so reluctant to speak that Lyanna almost felt guilty whenever she asked him a question after all. The biggest difference, however, was the skills of the two men. Lord Baelish had a natural talent for handling coins but was certainly no great fighter. Ser Lothor, on the other hand, looked like a fighter through and through and, when he had introduced himself to her, had even carried his sword and a dagger on his hip, much as if handling numbers was a fight to the death for him.

Over the past few days, she had checked his work over and over again with Ser Lomas and had been appalled, to say the least, at what she had seen. Whatever talent Ser Lothor might possess that had led Lord Baelish to take him into his service and, to make matters worse, to send him here, it certainly had nothing to do with coins or numbers.

Lyanna had decided, however, not to send the man away just yet, but to give him some time to learn the ropes. Maybe he would still get his act together and become a valuable servant. There must have been some reason why a clever man like Lord Baelish had chosen him to take over his duties here after all. Even if she neither liked nor trusted Lord Baelish all that much, she had never found fault with his work and there could be no doubt that Lord Baelish was a smarter man than most she had ever met in her life. As unlikely as it seemed to herself, part of her couldn't wait until Lord Baelish was back in Storm's End so he could take over his duties again. For the time being, however, it was Ser Lomas and her who had to fill the household books, making the new entries and also correcting Ser Lothor's numerous mistakes. So, assisted by Maester Jurne, they spent several hours every day for almost a week filling the books. They had received the quarterly reports of income from all parts of the Stormlands by now, and so now they had to list them and balance them against the expenses.

With the oxen of the cow herds of House Baratheon, good profit had been made recently, as well as through the pig tax. The profit from the farmsteads providing crops had been lower due to the bad weather of the last two months, but they had almost completely made up for that – though not really a reason to rejoice – through the high fines that had been collected for hunting game and cutting wood without permission in the lordly forests. Lyanna was pleased to learn that only a few of the poachers had been unable to pay the fines and had been sent to the Wall instead. It was never good to thin out the number of peasants too much because of such things, for if such a man did not yet have a son of suitable age to take over the land, not only did a family lose their home, but Storm's End also lost a working family that paid taxes. There had been quite a few such cases over the years, and it had soured Lyanna more than just a little that she had had to be the one to pass the harsh judgments because often enough Robert would simply have let many of the men go unpunished. At that time, she had been grateful that Lord Baelish had offered to settle with at least some of the families and pay the fines himself in exchange for sons and daughters of those families entering his service. What kind of work Lord Baelish had to do for which he needed such a number of young men and boys, women and girls, Lyanna had not known at first. Only when she had learned how many wine houses and brothels all throughout the Stormlands were in Lord Baelish's possession, had she been able to guess.

They had taken in little from mills, bakers and brewers, but more than in previous years from bridge tolls. The hay harvest had been good and plentiful, but the felled timber had turned out downright meager. Storms and pests had destroyed many trees of suitable age and rendered their wood mostly unusable. Fortunately, however, torches and firewood and even a good number of shingles could have been made from the remains to compensate for the losses. To some extent at least. Still, quite a few of the foresters' families would end up beggars on the streets this year. So they would have to spend more coin on the poor if they didn't want too many of the men to become bandits and too many of the girls to become whores. The harvests of millet, flax, hemp, fruit and nuts had hardly looked any better. Only the turnip harvest and the yields from the fish ponds had been plentiful, so that they at least did not have to fear hunger in any part of the Stormlands. The numbers of hides, furs, and horns collected, the quantity of honey, wax, fat, tallow, and soap, and the number of barrels of blackberry wine and mead produced were in line with the average of recent years. Only apple wine had been produced less, as apparently many of the apples they had received from the Reach had been rotten or infested with worms.

Only the cobblers, rope makers and the saddlers had brought in a conspicuous amount, while so few taxes had come from the shield makers that one could almost think they had all suddenly fled the Stormlands. The tin and lead mines had also done well but were so small and few in number in the Stormlands that, on the whole, these incomes made little difference.

"The cloth for the poor still has to be paid for, my lady," Ser Lomas said on the last day of this tedious work, when they had finally finished with all the lists and the figures in the books finally added up. The income had been quite good overall, even if it still seemed considerably worse than anything Lord Baelish had always been able to conjure from comparable numbers in previous years. It was a mystery to Lyanna how he had been able to do this. "As you requested, I have bought three hundred ells for the poor and added fifty furs from the stocks of Storm's End."

"Why is anything given to the riffraff at all? Who doesn't work shall freeze," Ser Lothor growled from the side. "I wasn't given anything in life either, and I still made a living."

Lyanna ignored his words, however, not interested in discussing the benefits of benevolence with a man who had certainly never been benevolent even once in his entire life. Instead, she hurriedly replied to Ser Lomas before Maester Jurne, who she knew held a very similar opinion, was able to say anything.

"Take the coin for it out of my private purse, and then order one hundred ells more and increase the number of furs to sixty. Also, please make sure that there will be more loaves of bread for the poor. And this year not only bread that is already a week old," she said. "The weather is getting worse quickly. I feel it in my bones. Winter is coming, and we want as few people as possible to freeze or starve to death when it arrives."

"As you wish, my lady," Ser Lomas said with a smile and a bow.

Only an hour later, the sun had not even fully set, she was already lying in her bed, arms and legs stretched far from her. Her head ached, full of numbers of turnips, wine barrels and ox hides, and her feet were almost killing her. For days she had been in her warm boots, running from this shelf to that shelf in Ser Lomas' study, picking up this cash book or that household ledger and taking it away again. Even her back ached from it by now. But if they had waited for Maester Jurne to carry the books for them and put them back on the shelf – a man who certainly knew the word hurry only from hearsay – they would not have finished the work within a week but would certainly have spent the entire next month with it.

Actually, Lyanna had wanted to take a bath to drive the cold and the pain out of her body, but now she was too tired. She still managed to take off her dress and crawl under the blankets and furs on her bed. Nothing more, however. She was so tired, so utterly tired. Even if she never saw another row of numbers in her life, it would still be a hundred years too soon. And still the pain in her back and feet seemed almost to kill her. If Robert were here now, she could let him knead her aching feet until the pain subsided. Surely then, if he made a little effort, she would also feel desire for her husband and she had no doubt that Robert would be more than happy to comply with this.

She did not know exactly when she had fallen asleep. In her sleep, she suddenly felt hands on her feet, gentle and tender yet strong and demanding, kneading them and driving the pain out of them. She knew it was only a dream, but at that moment could not care less. She enjoyed the feeling, real or just dreamed, as the strong hands gently drove away the pain, as the fingers, tender and elegant, pleasured her feet, and even lips, soft and sweet, caressed her toes with kisses. In her dream, she raised her head, looked down her body. She was naked, she realized, but not ashamed of it. Not a bit. Nor of the fact that the man who was currently pleasuring her was not Robert. She looked at him and he looked up at her, a mischievous smile on his perfect lips and in his beautiful violet eyes. His kisses now moved away from her toes, along the soles of her feet, over her heels, and up along her legs, over her knees, higher and higher.

Lyanna now saw that he was naked as well, saw his lean but strong body, saw the muscles move under his pale skin as he crawled up along her body. As he leaned to the side to plant countless sweet kisses on the outsides of her thighs, she also saw his wonderful, hard manhood between his legs. An impatient desire, an anxious hunger, a burning lust took hold of her. She felt his hands beginning to push her thighs apart as his kisses again approached her center. She gave in to the gentle pressure, moaning and murmuring his name in joyful anticipation of soon feeling this perfect man inside her. His name, so foreign and yet so wonderfully familiar. At that moment, in her dream, she wished to whisper that name every night into the ear of that perfect man when he took her.

Rhaegar. Oh, Rhaegar.

His kisses continued to travel up her body, over her belly, while his hands gripped her breasts, small and round and firm as they had been in her youth. She cursed for a brief moment as his kisses avoided her willing wetness and her lover laughed at that before his lips reached her belly button, his tongue caressing it, and his strong body pushed between her thighs, positioning himself to soon be entering her. Her hands reached out for the man and her fingers sank into his silky, silver-white hair. She could smell him now, she realized. Lightly, he smelled of the smoke of a warming fire in starry night, at the same time sweet as honey and yet manly austere like the good black soil of her home. The scent of his hair mingled with the scent of her own wetness and it was delicious and ecstatic. Again she moaned his name as his kisses now reached her breasts and his lips enclosed her hard nipples. Her thighs closed around his body, pulling him closer to her until she felt the head of his hard manhood at her entrance. Her legs tightened further, pulling him closer and closer to her until she finally felt–

"My lady," she heard a maid's voice as she snapped her eyes open in shock. It took Lyanna a brief moment to realize where she was, that she was lying in her bed in Storm's End, under blankets and furs and not under the body of her lover, but still wet between her thighs. A handmaiden had apparently come into her chambers to wake her. She looked at the window, but saw nothing, for outside it was darkest night. "Forgive the intrusion, my lady, but Ser Lomas thought you would want to know."

"Want to know what?" asked Lyanna, angry and still confused. Again she looked around for a moment, but the man she had longed to have inside her was gone.

A dream. He was just a dream, she thought and for a moment felt an almost stabbing pain in her heart.

"That Lord Robert will be arriving soon, my lady," the girl said. She was young and pretty, her hair as black as raven feathers, her eyes as blue as a morning sky. She knew those eyes, of which there were far too many in Storm's End. "Scouts have sighted a retinue under Baratheon banners, and a messenger brought word that Lord Robert will arrive here in less than an hour. With the young lords Orys and Steffon, my lady."

"I'm coming," Lyanna finally said. "Lay out my yellow dress for me, the good boots to go with it, the ones with the fur trim, and then prepare me some tea. With lots of honey."

"At once, my lady," said the girl, curtsying quickly, and then disappeared from the room.

Lyanna remained in her bed for a moment longer, motionless under the blankets and furs, and waited until the maid had certainly disappeared and devoted herself to her duties. Only then did she get up and walk over to the small water bowl next to the door, naked as she was, washing away the wetness between her thighs. After that she left her bedchamber and put on the yellow dress that the maid had taken from the large closet in the antechamber and placed on the wide chest together with her boots.

The scouts had been proven right. After less than an hour, the retinue arrived at Storm's End, with Robert, Orys, and Steffon at its head. Storm's End's household had been gathered to welcome their lord back to his castle. Robert laughed when he saw them lined up there, but she saw in his face how his legs and back ached as he dismounted from his horse. Her sons didn't seem to mind the burden of the ride, certainly more than a week on horseback, at all. Her two boys swung off their horses as light-footedly as if they had mounted only moments before – as light-footed as Robert had once been, she thought with a sad smile – and came toward her, smiling broadly.

They hugged her and immediately began to chatter about their last days in King's Landing, what a pity it was that she had not been there anymore, who they had met and what else they had experienced. Orys told of the sons of some lords from the Vale with whom he was now friends, while Steffon told similar stories, yet she thought she had overheard the name of a girl somewhere in that torrent of words. She wanted to know more about it, but her youngest stiffly claimed not to have mentioned a girl's name at all. Tomorrow morning when breaking the fast, she decided, she would get to the bottom of it. Now, her boys needed something to eat and then a good night's sleep.

Robert then came to her as well, embracing her tightly in greeting. She was glad that his breath didn't smell of wine or ale when he kissed her and his hand went down her back to her butt. His hair was not silver-white, his eyes not violet, and his body not lean and muscular, and yet she was glad to have her husband with her again. Again she felt, less than a few hours ago but still clearly, the slight pain in her feet and decided that Robert would be allowed to take care of it later. After that, she would certainly be ready for him and if Robert made an effort and did well with her aching feet, she could still close her eyes and imagine the other man on top of her and inside of her, the man whose name she didn't dare to speak out, not even think of, except in her dreams.

When Robert was finished and rolled off her merely an hour later, her feet still hurt, though not as badly as before. She was sure that Robert could have tried harder if he had wanted to. Still, she was more or less satisfied. It had felt good, even if it had ended a little too quickly for her taste, and she felt his warm seed inside her. She hoped that the seed would take root in her. She wasn't too old yet, she could still give him children.

For a brief moment, her thoughts wandered to the daughter she had recently dreamed of again and again, with brown curls and purple eyes, but this daughter Robert would not be able to give her. Only the other man…

"Ask already," he said as he rose from the bed and poured himself a cup of wine.

"What shall I ask?" asked Lyanna as she pulled one of the blankets over her naked body.

For a moment, she considered throwing the blanket back again. If she presented herself to Robert naked and now especially wet from her own juices and his seed, he might feel lust for her again. This time, perhaps he would then hold out long enough for her to reach her peak as well. She hadn't had that in a while, except in her dreams, and she was craving for it. Then, however, she decided against it. Robert had groaned so much from the pain in his legs and back earlier when he had been inside of her that she feared he wouldn't be able to finish at all. Should he get hard again now, she would certainly have to bring him to the end with her hands or her mouth and she just didn't feel like that at all right now.

"I saw the look on your face when I rode into the courtyard, woman," he said. "You were downright shocked to see me."

"Robert, that's silly. I-"

"You think I should have stayed in King's Landing, don't you? Steffon has been nagging me about it all along. The King demanded your presence, he kept saying, and you just left." She didn't like it at all that Robert sounded like a little girl as he mimicked their son but refrained from saying anything about it. "As if I'd deserted from the bloody Wall. You think so too. I saw it in your eyes. So ask. Ask why I'm here already."

"Fine," she said with a sigh. "Why are you here already, Robert?"

"Because I wanted my wife back by my side," he said with a smirk. She recognized the smirk. It was the look on his face that she had always found hard to resist, tempting and mischievous. She was glad to see that he still commanded that particular smirk, and that he still gave it to her of all women. "Rhaegar asked me not to go." Rhaegar... you mean King Rhaegar, Robert? Your king? "But he didn't want to order me to stay, so I left."

"You left just like that?" she asked, horrified. Even if His Grace hadn't ordered him to stay, Robert just must know that a request from the king had to be the same as an order for every lord of the realm.

"Of course not. I told him that I would make preparations to call the banners, to prepare the Stormlands for war, should it become necessary, and that those preparations best be made from here, from Storm's End," he said with a laugh.

"And will you do that?" she asked, although Lyanna already knew the answer. Still, she hoped that she might be wrong. She was not.

"Of course not," Robert blurted, his wine cup in his hand, standing naked in front of the window. "I'm not going to call the banners in the entire Stormlands because Rhaegar had a bad dream again. I'm not going to make a fool of myself. It's bad enough when my dear cousin is so keen to do that."

"Robert," she admonished him. "You're talking about your king."

"So what. I've known Rhaegar all my life, and he has always loved to talk such nonsense. Still, I always hoped he had more sense in his head than his damned father. Apparently not. But that doesn't matter. Nothing will come of it anyway, I tell you. It's all nonsense."

"What is nonsense?"

"Just everything," he said, his arms spread wide. "Rhaegar had half the realm show up in the capital, and for what? Because some unwashed wildlings with wooden clubs are beating the war drums beyond the Wall. As if they would ever make it over that ugly thing. And even if they do, Ned will take care of them. Or his boy, should Ned still enjoy himself in the Vale with Jon Arryn."

"I don't think you should take the threat of the wildlings so lightly, Robert," she scolded him, but her husband wasn't listening at all, as she quickly realized. Robert finished his wine in one big gulp and poured himself another cup right away. For a heartbeat, she was annoyed that he didn't even ask if maybe she wanted a cup of wine as well, but then returned her thoughts to the actual topic. "So what are you going to do now?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said, shrugging. "What am I supposed to do? I'm going to stay here, in Storm's End, where I belong. I'll go about my day's work, and in the evening I'll get into my wife's bed and fuck her sore," he said with a grin, but this time considerably less tempting than he might have thought. Robert seemed to notice this as well, because immediately his grin disappeared and he could only force a slight smile onto his face. "You and I will do exactly what we can do."

"And what exactly will that be?"

"We'll wait here until Jon and Rhaegar's boy return from their little adventure. Once they're back and report that there's nothing beyond the Wall but snow and ice and more snow, it'll all blow over anyway."

"Adventure? My son is on the other side of the Wall, Robert. That's not an adventure," she said, clearly louder than she had intended. Right now, however, she was not at all in the mood to apologize to Robert for it.

"Oh, don't you start me on that too. Ned's already been all over me about how dangerous this cold-ass wasteland is. Sure, if you're afraid of trees and snow, I bet it's awful up there."

"Don't talk about it like that," she hissed, "Jon's in a-"

"Shut up already," he said, so loud and thunderous that Lyanna knew it wasn't a request. "He's my son, too. And don't you dare to tell me about danger, woman. I've been to war. I know what danger looks like and I also know what a nice little adventure looks like in comparison. Because that's what Jon has right now, an adventure. Nothing more, nothing less. And once he's back telling you all how bloody boring the bloody North is beyond that bloody Wall, you're going to feel stupid for making such a fuss about it. Now," he said, setting aside his once again empty cup with an even broader grin, "put that damn blanket away and turn around. I'm your husband, and I'm not done with you yet."

Chapter Text

The air was sticky in the small chamber, but the maester had insisted that Jon needed rest and warmth, and a larger chamber, with large windows and servants and maids constantly coming in and out to stoke and keep alive a costly fire, would certainly only be detrimental to his recovery. Ned waited until the maester, a young, slender man named Gillen, had changed the bandage around Jon's head. Cautiously, he looked over the man's shoulder, but immediately regretted it. Since their arrival, the maester had washed out the wound several times with vinegar and rubbed it with an ointment of crushed deer antler, pepper, incense and birthwort, but the redness and the swelling had not eased. By now the wound even seemed to be oozing and two days ago Jon had also begun to fever, against which another ointment, green and stinking like a dead dog, had not helped either.

Only this morning the maester had done a bloodletting and had then given Jon an enema made of a herbal decoction, white wine, some precious oils and, as he had proudly announced, fresh boy's urine. His fever had only gotten worse, however.

Ned's stomach turned at the sight of his old foster father. It wasn't the wound itself that made him uncomfortable but rather seeing the old man in such a terrible state. Their journey north on board the Wildwind had been rough all along, but it was only in the last few days that it had become truly dangerous. Two men, experienced sailors, had broken their necks falling from the rigging on the worst night of their journey, and a third had been swept overboard. Ned had not been there when Jon had fallen, but, hearing the excited shouts in the corridor below deck, had immediately stormed out of his cabin and helped to carry the bleeding Jon back to his bed. They had then secured him with ropes to the bed so that the swaying of the ship would not throw him out again. A maester had no longer been on board, however, since this had been the man who had been swept overboard, so some of the sailors had had to do their best to tend Jon's injuries.

They had kept him alive for two days, but according to Maester Gillen, Jon would hardly have survived another night at sea. Seldom in his life had Ned been so relieved as in the moment when, in the morning light of the third day after Jon's fall, the harbor of Gulltown had peeled out of the thick fog. When Ned saw his old foster father lying there now, however, pale and weak and feverish, it didn't seem as if the young maester's treatment was improving his condition at all. The young maester was not the maester of Castle Grafton but had arrived here as part of the retinue around Elbert Arryn and, according to his old friend, was a very capable man. Ned could only hope that this was true. He knew that Maester Gillen also treated Sansa regularly to make it easier for her to finally conceive, but that, to his regret, had not worked so far either.

Maester Gillen had just finished closing the new bandage around Jon's head when Jon was already ordering him out of the room in a rough tone, waving his thin, bony hand. The young maester immediately jumped up from his chair and, at Jon Arryn's words, rushed out of the room as if threatened with the gallows or the Wall if he didn't hurry. Even in this state, Ned found with a faint smile, his foster father was still a lord through and through, an impressive man who commanded respect from anyone who met him.

"Will you go now?" he asked in a weak voice.

"Yes," said Ned, "they will soon come together in the Great Hall. Yet I would feel better if you would come with me, old friend."

"I'd love to," Jon Arryn said with a laugh, "but that would require you to carry me there, and that would hardly strengthen our position if you carried me in your arms like a little child. Just give me some days to recover, Ned. Just some days," he said in a weakening voice, his eyes opening and closing more and more slowly as if he were about to fall asleep. Ned took the damp cloth from the small water bowl beside the bed and dabbed the sweat from the old man's forehead.

"You should get some sleep now. I'll go and meet with the lords."

"Ned," Jon said, his eyes wide again. He felt Jon Arryn reach for his hand, trying to squeeze it though he was too weak. "Ned, you must keep them from making a horrible mistake. A rebellion against the crown over a few letters... It just must not happen. They will listen to you, Ned, they respect you. Please, make sure that this does not happen."

"I will," he said, even though he had no idea how he was supposed to do that. Even if the men he was about to meet did indeed respect him as much as Jon said, he was still not their lord, not even a lord of the Vale. He was not one of them, no matter how many years he might have spent here in his youth.

"Ned, just make sure things don't get worse. As long as they fight among themselves, nothing will come of it. As long as there are enough men who are steadfast and loyal to the crown, the others will do nothing. Just make sure it doesn't get any worse until I'm strong enough again to speak to them myself."

A sudden fit of coughing interrupted his words. Immediately, as if he had just been waiting outside the door, the young maester rushed back inside, dug a small vial out of a hidden pocket of his gray robe, and poured it into Jon Arryn's mouth. The coughing quickly subsided and Ned saw his old friend sink instantly into sleep.

"His lordship desperately needs rest now, my lord," Maester Gillen admonished him without even looking at him.

"I see," said Ned, turning away and leaving the small chamber.

Briefly, Ned considered checking on Arya and Sansa. Sansa had arrived here as part of the retinue around Lord Elbert and her husband Hubert Arryn as well, merely a day before the Wildwind had dropped anchor in the harbor of Gulltown. It had been wonderful to see his eldest daughter again, blossomed into womanhood and just as beautiful as her mother had been at her age, perhaps even more so. So far, however, they hadn't been able to spend much time together, as Ned had spent most of his time at Jon Arryn's bedside. He was glad that Sansa had been understanding about that and that instead she and Arya, along with some of Sansa's ladies-in-waiting, were spending time together. So he decided to make his way to the Great Hall instead. Most of the other lords, following the urgent invitation Jon Arryn had sent to the Vale the night before their departure from King's Landing, had already arrived or were expected to arrive this very day.

It certainly can't hurt not to be the last to arrive in the Great Hall, he thought as he set out. I will succeed. The lords will listen to me. I speak in Jon's name. And they don't want war. Some may believe that right now, but really they don't want this. I will succeed.

Castle Grafton was not particularly large, but due to centuries of steadily growing wealth, it had grown into a tangled mess of new buildings and annexes and rebuilds like a knotty old tree. It took Ned a while to even find his way out of the Silver Tower, the guest house for honored guests where he and Jon, and of course Arya, Elbert, Hubert and Sansa alongside some of the most important, most influential lords of the Vale, had been quartered. To now find the entrance to the Gold House, the castle's main building that also contained the Great Hall, from the courtyard where he now stood was a challenge in itself.

He entered the various buildings surrounding the courtyard one after the other, stepped through some doors, found others locked, turned around again, went around this corner, then around that corner. In the end, however, he always ended up either in a dead end, in front of a locked door, or back in the courtyard from which he had originally come anyway. Due to the preparations for the meeting, the Council of the Upright, as he had already heard some soldiers of the Redforts and the Templetons call it, almost all the servants had also been excluded from the inner parts of the castle for security reasons, so he did not even meet anyone he could have asked for directions. Even the soldiers of House Grafton, he knew, were either already posted in the Gold House to guard the Great Hall, patrolling along the outer walls of the castle, or had been sent to the harbor to reinforce the defenses there. Whether they were meant to protect the harbor from possible enemies from the outside or the inside, Ned had not been explicitly told. The loyalty of House Grafton to the Crown was widely known, however, and so Ned assumed that these soldiers were more a barely concealed warning to some of the other lords than a genuine defense against a potentially hostile fleet.

Stand against the Iron Throne and the Vale will lose its fleet, the soldiers in the harbor meant.

The only soldiers he encountered at all were his own men, Tomard and Alyn, and some men of Jon Arryn's personal guard, all housed in the small barracks next to the Silver Tower, who did not know their way around Castle Grafton any better than Ned himself, though.

I can't even remember the last time I was this lost, he thought with a wry grin.

He tried to remember the last time he had felt this lost and, indeed, some moments came to his mind. Ned thought back to his days as a young boy in Winterfell, when he had once lost his way on a horse ride with his lord father through the forests surrounding Winterfell, one of his earliest memories of him. After that, he remembered a deer hunt with Robert in the Mountains of the Moon, where they had been caught in a storm and, trying to find their way back, had tried to follow a river to the nearest castle, only to find that, after three full days and nights, they had followed the frozen river in the wrong direction. Only then did he remember that not so long ago he had also been totally lost in King's Landing and had had to be rescued by Princess Rhaenys and her monster of a cat as not to get lost forever in the red maze of corridors that were the Red Keep. He then quickly pushed the shameful memory aside, however.

Ned eventually decided to climb one of the inner defensive walls that rose behind a flat building with an almost absurd high number of chimneys – either the castle's kitchens or its forge, he assumed – hoping to get a better sense of direction from up there and perhaps a rough overview of the castle. The heavy oak door in front of the first staircase leading up to the wall, reinforced with thick iron bands, was locked, the second one however was open, thankfully.

When he reached the top of the wall, he first took a look toward the city that spread out before him. Castle Grafton, connected to the city wall on the north side only by a narrow stone bridge from one tower to the other, was completely enclosed by the city. Gulltown had nestled around the castle over the centuries like resin around a nail driven into a tree. Ned looked toward the harbor but could see little more than a few of the tallest masts of the largest ships. Although the castle was protected by high walls and higher towers, some of the mansions and warehouses of Gulltown rose almost as high into the sky, adorned with small statues and frescoes and all sorts of other ornaments that would even have been precious enough for most castles of high lords. Richly decorated stepped gables formed the golden crowns of the wealthy merchant families of the city.

In the distance he saw a building that stood out even among the ornate houses of the wealthy merchant families of Gulltown. It was more a tower than a house, taller than the buildings near it, surrounded by its own wall and three smaller buildings of similar look like a small castle, and with a banner on its spires and battlements that looked all too familiar to Ned. A falcon. This falcon, however, was not blue on a silver moon on blue, but gold on a silver moon on blue, the coat of arms of House Arryn of Gulltown. The Arryns of Gulltown, a small cadet branch of the family, had married frequently into the wealthy merchant families of the city in the past, making them richer than most other families in the Vale but also earning them a reputation for being uncouth and no longer true Arryns, weak of blood. From the very beginning of their branch, since the days of Lord Joffrey Arryn during the reign of the first King Jaehaerys, there had been bad blood between the Arryns of the Eyrie and the Arryns of Gulltown. Ned could even recall a moment, he had been living on the Eyrie with Jon Arryn for just a few months, when there had been an argument between Jon Arryn and Lord Arsten Arryn, head of the Arryns of Gulltown. It had been over a trifle only, if he remembered correctly, but the dispute had been carried on with such fervor, fueled by so much old loathing between the two branches of House Arryn, that in the end Jon had even threatened his distant cousin with forbidding House Arryn of Gulltown from continuing to bear the Arryn name and falcon in its coat of arms in the future. Ned could recall three, at most four, occasions when Jon Arryn had ever raised his voice in anger, but this had been one of them.

On the opposite side of the city, less than a mile outside the city walls, he found the Gull Tower, the seat of House Shett. The Shetts were a knightly family only, but over the years had acquired a not excessive but still respectable wealth. At some distance in the bay that formed the harbor of Gulltown, he finally saw a small, stony island on which he could see a group of simple, gray buildings. They were all small and flat, the roofs covered with lead as gray as the stone of the buildings as well as the entire island. The only building that stood out, white as fresh snow and ringed with seven crystal-embellished towers, was a sept. It was all surrounded by a man-high wall of gray stone, behind which fruit trees towered as thick as a forest. The Motherhouse of Maris, he assumed.

"You look lost, Stark," he suddenly heard a voice behind him. "If you need someone to show you the way, I will gladly offer myself."

Ned turned around and saw Lord Petyr Baelish coming toward him, wearing a doublet the color of overripe plums and with a mockingbird of black thread embroidered over the heart. A cloak of yellow satin hung over his shoulders, held by a silver clasp and waving behind him in the faint wind, so bright in color that the man could certainly still be seen in the harbor on the other side of the city.

"Lord Baelish," said Ned, "I... did not expect to see you here."

"Did you not? The Vale is my home, my lord. Surely you know that. If you mean here in Gulltown... well, I had the honor of joining the retinue of Lord Elbert, your good-son Lord Hubert and your lovely daughter Lady Sansa here. But if you mean here in Castle Grafton, on the day of such an important gathering, then of course you are right to be surprised."

"I meant no offense," Ned said quickly.

"No offense taken, Lord Stark. It's true, after all. House Baelish is indeed too small and far too insignificant for its only son to even be allowed to serve as cupbearer at such a… most noble event. However, I am fortunate to be in a somewhat privileged position."

"You are?"

"Yes, indeed. You see, I am well loved in Gulltown, and have some lordly friends of mine own as well who value my presence and my opinion. Follow me," he then said. "We will make our way to the Gold House together or, judging from the numerous wrong doors I've already seen you take, the meeting of the lords will certainly take place without you."

Ned followed the man back down the stairs, even though he would have preferred not having to rely on his help. They went around one of the flat buildings and through a door that Ned was sure had been locked only a moment before. Or maybe it was simply because all the doors here seemed to look the same. They took a narrow corridor together, which after a while took them past some empty sleeping cells of servants, went first to the left, then to the right, then to the left again. Ned felt as if he had passed a couple of the rooms and crossroads earlier some other way, wasn't absolutely sure about it, however. At some point, they had just crossed another courtyard and had reached the battlements of another wall via the stairs of a watchtower, Ned had completely lost his orientation already. A little distance away, however, he could finally see the Gold House. It was actually not a house, but a massive tower, the keep of the castle, built of yellowish stone, precious and from outside the Vale, Ned knew. The keep was almost as tall as some of the towers of Winterfell, making Ned wonder once again how anyone, especially he himself of all people, could possibly lose sight of this structure and lose his way.

"I hope you are well prepared, my lord," Lord Baelish said as they just passed under an archway decorated with frescoes of ships and gulls and mermaids.

"I know what I have to do," Ned said, trying to sound as confident as possible.

I will succeed. Of course I will. Nobody really wants a war. I will succeed.

"I should hope so, for all our sakes. The idea of war began to take root in the Vale a long time ago already, and it has fallen on fertile ground here. It will not be easy to change the minds of some of the men who have already collected their steel, whether only in their minds or in reality."

"Are you suggesting that the lords of the Vale have been planning a rebellion for some time already? That's a bold claim."

"I did not say that. But the lords and knights of the Vale, the finest knights in all the Seven Kingdoms, as I'm sure you'll agree, have long dreamed of a great war, Lord Stark. Against the mountain clans, against the Riverlords, against the Targaryens, against whomever. That's a truth anyone can see if one spends a while in the Vale with eyes open. The lords of the Vale are proud men, proud of who and what they are, or who and what they think they are, and when such pride becomes too strong, men eventually feel the need to prove to themselves and others that they are justly proud."

"Proud," Ned snorted, "yes, that they are. But they are men of honor above all else, Lord Baelish. And as a lord of the Vale yourself, I would have expected you to know them well enough to know that."

"That is certainly true, Stark. It changes very little, though. If these men believe that what they are doing is best for their families, for their children... then they will be hard to convince otherwise. Men of honor will do things for their children that they would never consider for themselves. I'm sure you'll agree, my lord. So you'd better not count on them abandoning the idea of a just war only because honor demands it."

They crossed another courtyard, passing horse stables, a stout building secured with thick iron bars at the windows and the first two soldiers he had seen in a while in front of its door, probably an armory, and the workshop of an arrow maker, and then turned to the right. Immediately the Gold House disappeared again in the other direction behind one of the inner defensive walls and the broad roof of a large granary. Briefly, Ned wanted to protest that they were obviously moving away from the Gold House again, but then said nothing. He did not know his way around this castle, and if Littlefinger took this route, it would certainly be the right one. At least, he hoped so.

"The preparations are already very far advanced, you must know."

"Preparations for a war?" asked Ned.

"Let someone say that you northerners are slow witted, Stark," Littlefinger said with a smirk. "The Vale is indeed preparing for a war, and not only since yesterday. Many of the lords of the Vale have even refrained from selling their grain as they usually do at the beginning of autumn, you must know. If they were only doing this to push up prices, then I would even have a certain amount of admiration for this… merchant boldness. They are not, though. They are stockpiling, arming themselves for campaigns and sieges, and at the same time weakening the rest of the realm. There's not much sign of it yet, but once the Crownlands and the Stormlands and the Westerlands start running low on their own grain, they'll notice."

"Even if some lords wanted to rebel against the Crown, why would they want to weaken the Stormlands and the Westerlands? That doesn't make any sense," Ned said firmly.

"Oh, it doesn't? Well, then I must be wrong, my lord," Lord Baelish mocked. "In fact, it makes a lot of sense. As long as the lords of the Vale don't know who might be on their side in a war, they'd rather starve the entire realm. Peasants starving by the thousands have made many a lord reconsider his allegiance."

"Even if all this were true," Ned said with a sour expression, "it doesn't necessarily mean anything. There can be many reasons for storing grain. Perhaps poorer harvests or a longer winter are expected for the coming year and so more is being stored. And that these men you speak of, men of honor and integrity, should seriously believe that a war against the Iron Throne is best for their families is laughable at best."

They don't want war. Certainly they don't want one.

"I don't want to sell you a false truth like some woods witch, Stark," Littlefinger said then. "I only want to help you. For the sake of your wife, whom I love like a sister, and your adorable daughter. Unless you know exactly what is awaiting you, you will have little chance of accomplishing anything here."

That might even be true, yet Ned didn't like at all what he was hearing from the man the entire time. It just couldn't be. He knew these men he was about to talk to, knew who they were, even though he hadn't seen them in many years. Men of honor, true and loyal lords, did not simply become warmongering traitors from one day to the other. Still, he felt his guts begin to twist.

"If that be so, Lord Baelish," said Ned, tired of the conversation and more and more angry about the accusations this upstart was making against some of the most noble lords of the realm, "then I thank you for it. Still, I have my doubts. The lords of the Vale are good men and have been fiercely loyal to the crown for centuries."

"You mean House Arryn has been loyal to the Crown. Lord Jon is fiercely loyal and Lord Elbert will surely one day be following the example of his uncle, being just as fiercely loyal. With the rest... it may be a little different here and there."

"What do you mean?" Ned asked, although he really did not feel like hearing any more of it.

"Take a look in the history books, Lord Stark. House Arryn has always been loyal to the Targaryens, that is true. Apart from the loss of the kingship, they have benefited greatly from Aegon's Conquest, after all. Only a few families of the realm without Valyrian blood can boast the rare distinction of multiple times being deemed worthy of marriage with the blood of the dragon. House Arryn is one of these few families. For the rest of the families of the Vale, however, this has brought them little, except that, after thousands of years of isolation, they suddenly had to deal with the politics beyond the Mountains of the Moon and were involved in wars not their own. House Arryn has been loyal to the Targaryens since the days of Aegon the Conqueror, yes, and the other houses have followed House Arryn in that. But their love and loyalty has always been to the falcons, never to the dragons. And for some, not even that."

And for some, not even that...

The words echoed through his head, without Ned being able to say at first why exactly this disturbed him so much. He knew that, as in all the Seven Kingdoms, there were old grudges that always lurked beneath the surface, despite hundreds and even thousands of years of loyal service. Just as House Bolton had fought House Stark for control over the North thousands of years ago or the Yronwoods, to this day still calling themselves Bloodroyal, had vied with the Martells for the rule of Dorne, there were ancient houses in the Vale that had vied for power with the Arryns before they had become Kings of Mountain and Vale and then, after the Conquest, the Defenders of the Vale and Wardens of the East. But that such things, long forgotten except in history books, should cause one of the lords of the Vale to rise up against Jon Arryn, against the Iron Throne, was absurd.

Then, so suddenly as if struck by a lightning, the scales fell from his eyes. Lord Baelish had spoken of Jon Arryn and Elbert Arryn being fiercely loyal to the Iron Throne, but not of Hubert Arryn. Suddenly the words of Jon Arryn came back to his mind again, the words he had said to him when His Grace and Jon had told him about the forged letters sent to the Vale in the king's name. An icy chill ran through him and for a moment Ned felt as if all the blood had drained from his body.

Some of these men, even within my own family… even within my own family… within my own family…

This could not be. Hubert Arryn, his own good-son, the husband of his Sansa, could not possibly even think of treason. No, there was no way this was true. Surely this was all a misunderstanding. Hubert was a fine man, a bit vain maybe, as young men often were, but good of heart, and he would certainly one day become a good lord, loyal and honorable.

I have to convince them. All that must not be true. I have to succeed.

"I wish you good luck, Stark," he heard Littlefinger say. Ned looked around, and only now did he notice that they had already reached the Gold House, via paths Ned couldn't even remember. He walked ahead through the wide door, still not quite in control of his senses again, and tried to get his thoughts in order as he followed the corridor lined by rows of soldiers to the Great Hall.

The Gold House, as usual for keeps and towers, was nowhere near as wide and deep as it was high, so the corridors were short, the rooms small and the roofs high. He thus reached the Great Hall quickly. The wide, double-winged door, adorned with a more than man-sized coat of arms of House Grafton, deeply carved into the old wood and elaborately painted in bright colors, stood wide open as Ned entered the Great Hall. A herald announced his appearance, but the lords present were so engaged in loud and quiet conversation and sometimes even heated arguments that no one seemed to notice him at first. Tables and high chairs of dark wood had been arranged in three large squares enclosing each other, at the head of which, opposite the pompously decorated entrance, were three even larger, almost throne-like chairs, in the backs of which the coat of arms of the House Arryn was artfully embroidered.

For Jon, Elbert, and Hubert, Ned thought. If only I knew where I am supposed to sit....

From the ceiling, at least nine or ten steps high, hung the banners of the most important of the assembled houses above the tables. However, he could not make out any particular order, apart from the fact that the banner of House Arryn was at the head of the hall. He saw the banner of House Royce of Runestone and, of course, the banner of the hosting Graftons. He saw the nine black stars of House Templeton, the six silver bells of House Belmore, and the three black ravens, hearts in their claws, of the Corbrays. He saw the broken wheel of the Waynwoods and the silver arrows of the Hunters, the red castle of the Redforts and the winged chalice of House Hersy. Besides the sun, moon and star of House Egen, he saw the green vipers of House Lynderly, the rusty anchor of House Melcolm and even the three women's heads of House Sunderland. How all these lords and ladies had made it here in time without ruining their horses was a mystery to Ned. Then again, perhaps they had done just that. Above it all, however, above all the banners and flags, even the oversized banner of House Arryn at the head of the hall, hung yet another banner, larger than all the others and so intricately embroidered that it could almost have been a tapestry. A three-headed dragon dominated the hall, red on black, with the words of the Targaryens beneath it.

Fire and Blood.

So again, as he had done with the large number of his soldiers guarding the harbor, Lord Grafton made no secret of his loyalty.

Ned looked around for a moment and, because of his brightly colored clothes, could easily spot Lord Baelish in the throng of lords and ladies. He was standing at the right edge of the hall behind the farthest of the three rows of tables and seemed to be talking to a lady in the foremost row. She was slender with graying brown hair and a plenty of wrinkled skin hanging down below her chin. Only when she moved to take her seat after a firm yet somehow dissatisfied looking nod in Lords Baelish's direction could he see the broken wheel embroidered from beads of jet on her dark green coat.

Lady Anya Waynwood, Ned then recognized.

Ned found the lined face of Lord Yohn Royce in the crowd, towering over the men that surrounded him, and heard his booming voice all the way over to where he stood, even if he couldn't make out most of the words. A man with the coat of arms of the Shetts of Gull Tower stood beside him, nodding with a serious expression, while Lord Yohn was talking to a man Ned recognized as Ser Lyn Corbray, second son of Lord Lester Corbray of Heart's Home. Ser Lyn's hand, Ned noticed, rested incessantly on the hilt of his sword, his fingers playing around the pommel, as if he feared being engaged in a fight at any moment. Suddenly Ned felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning around, he looked into an all-too-familiar face.

"Eddard, it's truly good to see you," Morton Waynwood said with a broad smile.

What his mother Lady Anya had always lacked in cheerfulness and warmth in her face, Morton, her eldest son, had received all the more for it. Ned knew the man from his youth and was glad to see that he seemed to have changed little. His broad and honest smile seemed as immovable as if it were carved into his face, and still a shock of brown curls fringed his head like the mane of a lion. Only the small wrinkles around his eyes and the sun-tanned skin, extending his forehead up to half of his skull, testified to the years that had passed.

"Morten," Ned said, now smiling broadly himself, enclosing the man in a tight embrace. "It's good to see you, too."

"Lord Jon always told me that he invited you to the Eyrie, again and again, but somehow it seemed you never had time for it. It's good to finally have you back in the Vale. It would only have been better had it come to that under better circumstances."

"True. I wish it had, too."

For a moment they stood side by side, looking into the round of assembled lords and ladies and knights. Morton Waynwood, only a few years younger than Ned himself, had himself spent a number of years at Jon Arryn's court in his youth and had been a good friend to him.

"So what's the story in all this?" Ned finally asked after a moment. "Rebellion against the crown? Against Jon? And all because of a few letters?"

"There's more to it than I'd like, my friend. I assure you, but it has little enough to do with the letters. They were only the last straw. In the Vale, the mood among the lords has not been good for quite some time. Many no longer believe Lord Jon still has a grip on the Vale. They consider him too old, would like to see him step down and let Elbert rule finally. Some would even prefer Hubert. Didn't exactly help that Jon named Hubert his heir some years ago, bypassing Elbert. The gods alone know what he was thinking. Lord Waxley was anything but happy that now his sister would not become the next Lady of the Vale but only the good-mother of the next."

"I can see how that caused some unrest," said Ned, who still couldn't understand why Jon Arryn, of all people, could be considered too old to rule because of that. Sure, he didn't have any teeth left in his mouth, but he hadn't for years, and he wasn't good on his feet, but he was wiser and more righteous than any other man Ned knew.

"The clans have gotten bolder as well, you know," Morton then said. "And the older Lord Jon has gotten, the bolder they've gotten. They've been coming down from the mountains more often lately, plundering and robbing, stealing cattle and grain and girls alike. If it were up to me, I'd take a hundred men up into the mountains, root them out of their fastnesses, and teach them some sharp lessons."

Ned thought about it for a moment. It was true that the mountain clans of the Vale had always been a problem. Unlike the mountain clans of the North, the clans of the Vale had never become part of the nobility, had never received the honors and titles of true lords, and thus, because of their ancient way of life, had never been considered anything more than thieves and bandits that needed to be fought or, if possible, brought to heel. For a heartbeat, Ned wanted to say something about this, even if he didn't know what. The opinion of the lords and ladies of the Vale on the mountain clans, even that of a man as good as Morton Waynwood, was as strong as the Mountains of the Moon themselves and would hardly change over a few words from him.

"That may be so, but what is this to do with the Iron Throne and the Targayens?" he then asked instead.

"Little enough," Morton said, shrugging his shoulders. "That's not even necessary, though. About the Targaryens, many are unhappy for other reasons. Many fear the madness of the Targaryens, that it seeps more and more into their bloodline. With Aerys, they could just ignore it. He was the king, true, but had things gotten too ugly with him, they would have just retreated behind the Bloody Gate and sat it out. Now Rhaegar sits on the throne and hardly seems any less mad than his father, even if he hasn't begun burning people alive yet. Only, now the Targaryens suddenly have dragons again. Dragons against which the strength of the Bloody Gate, the number of ships in the fleet at Gulltown and even the height of the Eyrie cannot protect them."

"You mean-"

"I mean, Ned, that many see this as their last chance."

"Their last chance for what?"

"To finally getting rid of the Targaryens, of course. Once and for all, before they have a whole stable of dragons and dragon riders again and will be undefeatable for the next thousand years. Should the madness truly take hold in their family, not even the gods would be able to protect us from what the Targaryens could do to us with their dragons in the future."

A loud knock suddenly ended their conversation, as well as the other conversations around them, echoing like thunder across the room and back again. The herald had positioned himself next to the throne-like chairs at the head of the hall and had begun to strike a slow beat with his heavy staff on the stone floor.

"I guess we'd better take our seats now. It's beginning," Morton said. "Before you ask, your chair is that one," he added at Ned's uncertain look, pointing to a chair in the front row, just a few seats away from the chairs for the Arryns.

Ned thanked his old friend with a smile and a nod, then walked over to his chair and sat down. Why did he suddenly feel like his guts were twisting and turning inside him? To his left, seated between him and the chairs for the Arryns, were Lord Marq Grafton and his son, Ser Gerold. To his right, a man with the coat of arms of House Hunter on his chest sat down, while two other men with the same coat of arms, brothers by appearance, spread out around the room, just as if they could hardly bear the presence of their own family. Ned saw Hubert and Elbert Arryn taking the two outer of the chairs, but leaving the middle one vacant.

Jon's chair, Ned thought. Briefly, he regretted not having had the opportunity to speak with his old friend Elbert, whom he also knew so well from his time at the Eyrie, before the beginning of this meeting. After the meeting, however, he would then hopefully get a chance to speak with him, maybe spend some time with his old friend, and hopefully laugh at the good outcome and the resolution of this terrible misunderstanding of an alleged rebellion of the Vale over a cup of wine or two.

I have to succeed. I simply have to. Only how?

When all lords and ladies and knights had taken their seats and all soldiers and the few remaining servants had left the hall, the small doors at the sides as well as the large entrance portal closed behind them, Lord Elbert nodded to Lord Grafton, who then rose from his chair again. Immediately all eyes were on him.

"My lords, my ladies, it is my honor to welcome you all here, to my halls," he began. Lord Grafton was not a particularly tall man, and his once blond hair had turned white from his many years, but he was still of sturdy build, with broad shoulders and strong arms, and a voice so thunderous that he could have rivaled even Yohn Royce in it. "We have all gathered here at the invitation of our beloved Lord Jon. Unfortunately, Lord Jon has not yet fully recovered from his accident on the journey over here from King's Landing, and so unfortunately cannot be with us today. However, the matter to be resolved is so pressing that Lord Jon has insisted on having the meeting begin today nonetheless. The reason for this so urgent meeting, my lords and ladies, is extremely disturbing rumors of a possible planned rebellion in the Vale against the Iron Throne and our rightful king."

Lord Grafton's voice had grown louder with each word, until at the end his voice had thundered so threateningly through the hall that it would hardly have surprised Ned if the soldiers had stormed back in at the same moment to arrest everyone present or lead them all directly to the scaffold. No sooner had his words faded than murmurs immediately began to rise all around the room. Each conversation by itself was quiet and incomprehensible, but together they filled the room like the rustling of the wind in the dense leaves of the Wolfswood on a particularly stormy day. The murmuring ended abruptly, however, when Lord Yohn Royce also stood up from his chair and raised his voice.

"You call these rumors disturbing, Lord Grafton. What I find much more disturbing is what we hear from King's Landing. And alas, these are hardly rumors. We all know that His Grace, even as a young man, has always been rather... unusual in his character. And kingship doesn't seem to have driven that out of him at all. On the contrary. It is said that he is even more mad than he was in his youth. And as for these rumors, Grafton, they can hardly be rumors, when even the letters Lord Jon received in King's Landing from some upright lords are at hand."

"Then you admit it, Royce?" thundered back Marq Grafton. "Do you admit that you were among the men who wrote those traitorous letters?"

"Yes, I admit it," Yohn Royce thundered back. "I admit that I am concerned. Concerned, for the future of the realm, the future of the Vale, and the future of my family. Who wouldn't be, given what's happening in King's Landing and who's sitting the Iron Throne?"

"I'm concerned as well," Ned then said in a calm voice, surprised himself by his boldness to speak unasked. Immediately all eyes turned to him and for a heartbeat Ned regretted opening his mouth. Now, however, it was too late for regrets. Some of these men might be unhappy with their king, but there were more pressing matters to discuss than the king's beliefs and it seemed that Ned was the one who had to remind them of that. "For those who do not yet know, His Grace has just recently opened to us at a council in the capital that apparently a wildling army is marching toward the Wall, larger than anything we have ever seen, threatening to overrun the Seven Kingdoms. Moreover, winter is coming, and in winter we cannot fight, while the wildlings feel at home in it. I am worried, my lords and ladies, because if this army does make it over the Wall, the North will take the first blow. But it will not be the last. This I assure you. If the wildlings manage to cross the Wall, the Mountains of the Moon will not stop them either."

"Forgive me, Lord Stark, but who tells us that this wildling army even exists?" Lord Royce then asked. His voice was also calm and collected again now, his tone respectful, but the expression on his face made it very clear how little he was willing to acknowledge the wildling threat to be real. "The realm, all of us, have suffered from the Targaryens' madness too many times. Aerys was already mad, murdering people by the dozen because the voices in his head told him they were all traitors. Thank the gods he had enough sense to abdicate in time before he could do worse. Now his son sits on the throne and is obviously no less mad. "

Ser Andar, Lord Yohn's eldest son, now also rose from his chair and looked at Ned so defiantly that it seemed almost like an accusation.

"What tells us that he didn't just see this wildling army in one of his dreams? It would not be the first time," said Ser Ander. "So what should convince us? Hardly the letters from the Night's Watch. Lord Commander Mormont is singing the same tune as His Grace, but the Night's Watch has always been doing little else. If we had kept all the letters my family has received over the centuries from Castle Black begging for more men and coin and swords and grain because of some ominous wildling threat, one could cover the entire Vale with them. I, for one, am not inclined to take the word of a madman lightly. Not when it comes to calling the banners and sending thousands of our knights to the Wall to freeze their hands and feet off for nothing."

No, no. This is wrong. I wanted to remind them of the true threat to the realm and instead I gave them an opportunity to make His Grace look even worse, Ned scolded himself. I have to correct this. I have to succeed.

"You can't seriously compare His Grace with his late father. King Rhaegar doesn't arbitrarily murder people. He's a good king who has brought stability and prosperity to the realm, even if his beliefs may be a bit unusual," Ned said, earning a loud "Indeed" from Gerold Grafton in return.

"That's right. He's not killing anyone," Lord Royce said. "Not yet, anyway. And he's a good king, but so was Aerys in his youth, kind and generous, and we all know how that turned out. Who knows what will become of Rhaegar Targaryen if he is allowed to stew in his own madness much longer?"

"Even if all this is true, Lord Royce, it is still irrelevant," Ned now heard a voice from the side. He looked over and found that it was Elbert Arryn who had spoken. Immediately he felt incredibly relieved to finally have a member of House Arryn openly on their side with Elbert if Jon couldn't be here in person. "Just because you fear that His Grace may one day fall to madness does not give you the right to rise in rebellion against the Iron Throne and the man who sits upon it. Rhaegar Targaryen is our rightful king and it is neither for you, my lord, to question this nor to pass a judgment on him."

"Hear, hear," said Marq Grafton. Gerold Grafton knocked his knuckles on the tabletop in front of him in agreement. Some of the men in the room joined in, but most remained silent and motionless.

On the opposite side of the hall, Ser Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars, now rose from his chair. The man was tall, with cold blue eyes, a large beak nose, and a pointed black beard on his chin that somehow made him look like a villain from a tale, Ned thought. He had the proud air of the old nobility of the Vale, and yet, except for the small coat of arms of his family on his chest, he was so plainly dressed that he could almost have been mistaken for a maester or a septon.

"It may not be for Lord Royce to judge the king," he began to speak. He even sounds like Septon Chayle, Ned thought. "It may not be for you to judge the king, Lord Grafton. It may not be for me, nor for anyone else in this hall, to judge the king. But it is for the gods, my lord, for the gods to judge him."

"So what do you suggest, ser? A trial by combat between you and His Grace maybe?" Lady Anya now asked.

"Not at all, my lady. I don't think that will actually be necessary anymore. The case is clear."

"Is that so? Would you then please be so kind, good ser, as to let us in on the secrets of which you are aware?"

"It is by no means a secret, my lady," said Ser Symond, now looking at Lady Anya directly for the first time. "Many of us have received letters from our king," he said, spitting out the words as if they were bitter as bile in his mouth. He then reached for a small, neatly folded sheet of paper in front of him on the table. A letter, Ned realized. Ser Symond unfolded the letter, cleared his throat briefly, and then began to read. "In the name of the one true God and protector of all mankind, R'hllor, the Lord of Light, do I, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, King by the grace of our Lord, beseech everyone who reads these lines to rally with me in the light of our God for the fight against the Great Other, the enemy of all life. Only his holy flame will light the dark, only his holy fires will burn away the terrors of the night." Ser Symond then ripped the letter to shreds and threw the shreds from him, sinking to the ground in a wild dance like snowflakes. "Blasphemy," he yelled. "Nothing else are these lines. Blasphemy. Can you really believe, Lady Anya, that the Seven still hold their protecting hands over Rhaegar Targaryen after you have read and heard these lines? Rhaegar Targaryen worships a false god. He has turned his back on the Seven and so of course the Seven have turned their backs on him. I, for one, will not call a heretic my king."

Immediately, unrest broke out. Some cursed the king, calling him a heretic as well or even worse, others even began to pray, while some – too few – tried to argue in the king's favor.

No, no, no. I must not fail.

"The letters are forged," Ned then said, his voice as loud as possible without yelling it. It took a moment for lords and ladies to quiet down and finally fall silent again. Again, all eyes rested on him. "The letters are forged," he then said again.

"And where exactly did you get this knowledge, Lord Stark?" asked Ser Symond.

I must not fail.

"His Grace has informed Lord Jon and me that there was a traitor in the Red Keep who sent these letters in the King's name. But the traitor has been found," he still tried to say, but his words were already drowned in loud protest and raucous laughter.

"Of course he claimed that," Ser Symond said. "Most likely King Rhaegar wrote down the truth about his heresy in those letters, and when he realized that the lords and knights of the Vale are upright men, steadfast in their belief in the Seven, he wanted to row back quickly with lies and deceptions. I expect nothing less from a heretic."

"You yourselves pray to the gods of the North, do you not?" Ned then heard someone ask from the side. He looked around and found the face of Lord Benedar Belmore, the Lord of Strongsong, looking directly at him.

"Aye," Ned said.

"Then please forgive my frankness, Lord Stark, but why should I believe the word of a man about the heresy of the king, who himself prays to trees and to false gods?"

"Are you questioning Lord Stark's honor, Lord Belmore?" he heard Elbert Arryn ask.

"Not his honor, only his loyalty to the Seven. After all, he himself just admitted that he prays to false gods. So why should he care if his king also prays to false gods and then lies about it to deceive us?"

"Not his king, my lord, our king," Lady Anya said. "I don't think anyone here has the right to doubt Lord Stark's words. If he reports that His Grace has told him and Lord Jon that the letters are forged, then I believe him. And I can only implore you all, my lords, to follow my example."

Ned thanked Lady Anya with a quick nod, but wasn't sure if she had even seen this, as quickly as she had sunk back into conversation with her son.

"That Lord Stark is telling the truth I would never dare to doubt," Ser Symond said now. "But that does not mean the king was telling the truth as well, and that these letters are indeed forged."

"It doesn't really matter anyway, though," Lord Belmore then said. "Rhaegar Targaryen might as well pray to the Black Goat of Qohor or the Horse God of the Dothraki for all I care, for only worse will await us after him, even if these letters were truly forged."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Elbert Arryn.

"I am speaking of his children, of course. Prince Aegon will very soon take his own sister to wife. By force or not, and I don't even know which I would find more disturbing. Brother and sister shall lie together, my lords. This is an abomination! An abomination, I say, to which I will never bend the knee!"

"Lord Belmore is right," Ned now heard Hubert Arryn speak for the first time. At the words of the Young Falcon, the hall immediately fell silent.

No, thought Ned, no, no, no. Don't do this, son. Please don't.

"The good lords and ladies of the Vale have endured the madness and the atrocities of the Targaryens in silence long enough," he continued. "But now it must be enough. They are abominations we should never have tolerated in the Seven Kingdoms to begin with. So why should we kneel to the dragons any longer, when all they do is constantly breaking the laws of gods and men and all they give us are nightmares about what will happen once the next of their abhorrent line, as mad as his predecessors, ascends the throne?"

Shouts went up, approvals and disapprovals and curses in all directions. Here and there Ned thought he even heard threats.

"Why we should kneel before them?" he heard Lady Anya ask, loud and clear as a bell, silencing the room again. "Because the Targaryens are our kings. That's why. Lord Jon has bent the knee to them and sworn them fealty in the name of House Arryn, as did his father before him and his father's father before him, all the way back to the days of Aegon's Conquest. Why do you now believe, Lord Hubert, that you are no longer bound to this? And when it comes to the Seven… The Doctrine of Exceptionalism is surely known to you, is it not, young lord? If not, I have a copy of it in the library in Ironoaks. Had I known that this was to be a reading circle, I would have brought the copy with me. The High Septon himself has reaffirmed this doctrine already with his approval of the betrothal between Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. Or are you seriously suggesting that you, Lord Hubert, or you, Lord Benedar, or maybe you, Ser Symond, know the will of the Seven better than the High Septon?"

"I know the Seven-Pointed Star," Lord Belmore now said, so loudly it was almost a shout, "the holiest of all books, that says that incest is a sin before the gods. That's enough for me to know."

"Hear, hear," Ser Symond said.

"The Targaryens are an abomination, their blood is foul and poisoned," Hubert Arryn spat. "You are no knight, Lady Anya, so of course you know nothing about tending wounds. So let me tell you this. The Targaryens are a boil in the flesh of the Seven Kingdoms, and when flesh begins to rot, you cut it out so the rot doesn't poison your whole body."

"A knight I am not, true," Lady Anya said, her gaze iron and unimpressed on Hubert Arryn. "But I do know this, young lord. No matter how rotten the flesh, even a knight would hardly think of cutting his head from his shoulders or his heart from his chest. For that is what the king is to a kingdom, he is the thinking head and the beating heart."

"I do not assume the right to speak in the name of the gods," Ned now heard Lord Horton Redfort speak for the first time. "But there can be no doubt about one thing. Lord Royce is right about Rhaegar Targaryens being mad. And only a madman would follow the orders of a mad king. I certainly will not. Rhaegar Targaryen must go. Whether he is thrown into a dungeon or he takes the black, I don't care, but he has to step down from the throne or be removed from it, if need be. He is mad and the kingdom cannot bear another mad king. And anyone who is truly firm in his belief in the Seven should better get down to his knees and pray that his dragon-riding son isn't just as mad."

"We have no right to judge him," said Ned. I must not fail. "Even a mad king is still a king."

"Aha," he heard the resounding voice of Yohn Royce. "So you admit that Rhaegar is mad, Lord Stark."

"No, that's not what I meant. I only meant-," he began, but immediately his words were drowned out again by loud roars, by prayers and curses, by angry shouts of "traitor" in one direction and "heretic" in the other.

"Aegon will bed his own sister. Of course he's mad as well," he heard someone shout. He believed it was Hubert but was not sure in the loud confusion of voices. Somewhere someone was urging to immediately call the banners, and Ned thought he heard Marq Grafton threatening to immediately imprison anyone who dared to even suggest this in his halls again. The confusion of voices then suddenly became shrill, startled. Ned looked around and now saw that Lyn Corbray had drawn his sword and was pointing it, across the hall, at Gerold Grafton.

"Call me a traitor again, Grafton, and it will be your last word," Ser Lyn threatened. "My lady has a thirst. Whenever she comes out to dance, she likes a drop of red."

"You dare draw bare steel in my hall against my son, during a parley no less, Corbray?" thundered Marq Grafton. "I should have you hanged on the spot, boy, and I would even have the law and the gods on my side for it."

"Put that away," Yohn Royce barked at Ser Lyn. "Your lady must go thirsty if you don't want her to be led by a less dead man soon."

"Council of the Upright. You should better have called yourselves Flock of Old Women," Ser Lyn mocked to Lord Royce, but then slid his sword back into its scabbard.

"I sincerely apologize for this on behalf of this young knight," Lord Royce said.

Young knight? The man is only two years younger than me, Ned thought. A man of his age, an anointed knight no less, ought to control his temper better. Lord Grafton said nothing to this, however, but only acknowledged the apology with a nod.

"Perhaps," he then said, "we had better end this meeting for today. I suggest, my lords and my ladies, that we reconvene here in three days from now so that tempers can cool a bit, hopefully then with more arguments and less bare steel. If the gods are good, Lord Jon will then be with us at last, and then we will finally be able to put an end to this hideous spectacle."

After these words, the doors were opened again and the hall began to empty. Ned then wandered aimlessly through Castle Grafton for a while, trying to clear his head. He lost his way again after only a short time but didn't care at that moment. There would be plenty of time later to ask anyone for directions. The situation was indeed even worse than he had feared. Much worse. Some of the most powerful and respected men in the Vale really wanted to depose King Rhaegar, by force if need be, while others, including his own good-son Hubert, wanted to remove House Targaryen from power entirely. What his good-son thought was to be done with the members of the royal family, he preferred not to imagine.

Jon Arryn's words suddenly echoed through his head. The memory of what he had written about Hubert in his letter when he had proposed the betrothal to Sansa. He was a good man, Jon had written, a man of honor, filled with a strong sense of duty to his family and deep loyalty to the crown. A man who would make a good husband to Sansa and a worthy good-son to Ned. Now it looked as if this man of honor was well on his way to plunging the realm into a war in which the Vale could only be on the losing side against the might of dragons. And if it really came to this, what was he supposed to do? They had no children yet, but Sansa was Hubert's wife, the future Lady of the Vale and soon surely the mother of his children. He did not want to go to war against his rightful king, not in an unjust, treasonous rebellion, and certainly not when he knew that the real threat was coming from beyond the Wall, but he could not possibly abandon his flesh and blood either.

For some of these men, the letters allegedly sent on behalf of the king had been just another bone of contention. For others, they had been the final straw. How he was to straighten out this mess, without Jon's help to boot, Ned had no idea. Worse even, the more heated the discussion had been and the more drastic measures had been demanded against House Targaryen for this or that reason, the threat posed by the wildlings had faded into the background altogether. No one had spoken of how to meet this threat to the entire realm anymore, and he doubted that any of these men would be willing to send so much as a single soldier north through the Bloody Gate should the wildlings attack tomorrow. Some out of opposition to the Iron Throne and the king upon it, others out of fear of those very traitors to the Crown.

At some point Ned stopped, leaning against one of the battlements of one of the inner walls, closed his eyes, and tried not to think of anything that might worsen his headache even more. A voice to his right, however, snapped him out of his thoughts after only a moment.

"Even a mad king is still a king," Littlefinger said. "Wiser words have rarely been spoken, Stark." Ned opened his eyes and looked at the man who was coming towards him with a smile. He had no strength for another conversation with Lord Baelish and so he sighed heavily instead of answering, hoping that Lord Baelish would understand the hint. He either did not, however, or he simply ignored it. "If Lord Jon has asked you to win over even more lords to the idea of a possible rebellion and make matters worse, then I would like to congratulate you on your great success."

"I did what I could, so say what you want to say, Lord Baelish, and then please leave me alone," was all Ned said.

"You certainly did, Stark, only unfortunately it was the wrong thing to do. To claim that His Grace's letters about this red god were forged, only to then brag about not praying to the Seven yourself-"

"I wasn't bragging," Ned said, but didn't get in the way of Littlefinger's gush.

"-and then to admit that you also think the king is mad was not exactly helpful."

"I didn't say that, Baelish," Ned protested, his voice noticeably louder now.

"No, you didn't. I know that, but that's exactly what will stick with many lords and ladies and exactly what certain men who desire a war will tell about this meeting. Your word carries weight in the Vale, Stark, surely Lord Jon has told you that. And today, unfortunately, you have thrown your word into the balance on the wrong side of the scales."

I have failed, it suddenly flashed through his mind.

"But nothing is lost yet, so don't worry too much," Lord Baelish continued. "Some may wish for war, but the lords of the Vale certainly do not want to go to war with each other. They are so convinced of their own knightly prowess that they are, in a sense, afraid of themselves. So nothing will happen here until there is a strong majority for one of the sides. Peace, deposing King Rhaegar, or wiping out the Targaryens altogether. No one has the upper hand here yet, since the meeting fortunately ended just in time. No thanks are necessary, by the way."

"Thanks?" asked Ned, confused. "Thanks for what? I have seen you, Lord Baelish. You have been sitting there listening all this time, but not saying a word. If you had wanted to help, you could have spoken on my behalf, on behalf of the king, on behalf of peace."

"And you think that a word from me, of all people, would have made even one of the lords change his mind? I rather not think so. Still, you should thank me for saving your little quest. If the meeting hadn't ended at that very moment, there probably would have been bloodshed and some of the men would have called the banners this very day."

Ned pondered for a moment what the man was talking about. However, it all made no sense at all.

"Ser Lyn misbehaved," Ned finally said. "That was our good fortune."

"Oh, quite the opposite, my lord. He behaved exactly right."

"Are you saying that you instigated him to draw his sword?"

"Instigated... That sounds like two little boys talking each other into stealing cakes from the kitchens," Lord Baelish said, his smile only widening. "I didn't instigate him, my lord, I paid him."

"Impossible," Ned said, shaking his head. "Ser Lyn may be a hothead, but he would never engage in such a charade."

"Even the most honorable man needs a friend occasionally, a friend with coin, a friend with influence, a friend to help him keep a secret. I am such a friend to many a man."

With these words, Lord Baelish turned aside and began to walk away, and for a reason that Ned himself didn't really understand, he followed him.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Lord Baelish then asked. "Never mind. Just remember this. You could turn the entire realm upside down without finding a single man with a mockingbird sewn over his heart, but that doesn't mean I'm friendless. I am a friend to many and therefore have many friends as well, even if you don't see them right away. And as long as I am your friend, my friends are your friends, Stark."

Ned thought about that for a while. Could all this really be true? Of course, men were by no means always as honorable as they liked to present themselves. There were liars and cheats, there were men with strong names but weak characters. The Vale was certainly no exception in this regard. Perhaps, however reluctantly Ned considered it, Lord Baelish was right in the end. Maybe he should give his words more credence, more attention after all. And if nothing else, he was a childhood friend of his Cat, had done him a service he would never be able to repay when he had cared for Brandon in his last days, and was now here, at his side, had helped him end this meeting before anything worse could have come of it. Somehow, at this moment, he no longer doubted at all that Ser Lyn had indeed been paid by Lord Baelish to end the meeting with this little scandal.

Petyr Baelish was, at first glance, a man for whom he usually could feel nothing but contempt, but when he looked and listened more closely, then... yes, then he had indeed helped him. He was one of the few men, it seemed, who actually wanted to help him. As little as he might have liked the games the man was playing here - hiding in the shadows, behind others' backs, buying men with gold instead of convincing them with arguments or appealing to their honor and loyalty, Petyr Baelish was a man he would need as an ally, maybe even as a friend.

"Lord Baelish, I must apologize, and I sincerely hope that you will accept my apology. Perhaps I was wrong to distrust you," he finally said.

"Oh, Stark," Lord Baelish said with a smile, "distrusting me was the wisest thing you've done since you climbed off that ship."

Chapter Text

"How nice to see you've been practicing, Arya," Sansa beamed at her. "Your stitches have gotten so much better."

Arya knew that smile too well to believe her words, though. She knew that her stitches had not gotten better. Rather the opposite, truth be told. It was the smile her sister had practiced all her life, her lady smile, to appear pretty and friendly and courtly no matter who she was talking to and about what. For a moment, Arya wasn't sure if she should be happy that Sansa didn't admonish or make fun of her for her crooked stitches, as she had done all the time when they had been children in Winterfell, or if she should be angry because Sansa, just because she now bore the name of another family, treated her almost as if she were a stranger.

Arya looked down at her needlework and couldn't help but despair. She had wanted to embroider a wolf and a heart tree, but the shapeless something of gray and white and red she now held in her hands bore no resemblance to either.

Briefly she looked over at Jenye Poole, who was sitting next to Sansa, as pretty as she had been when she had left Winterfell with Sansa years ago. Maybe even prettier. She still had her big brown eyes, full brown curls, and a flawless smile of perfect white teeth, but she had grown wider in the hips, making her look more like a woman than a child now.

Arya immediately recognized the small, fleeting grin on Jeyne's face as she looked at Arya's stitches, which she then quickly stifled, however. She expected Jeyne to neigh like a horse at any moment, as she had always done in the past to annoy Arya. She expected that at any moment she would call her Arya Horseface again and start laughing at her, as she had done so often when Septa Mordane or Sansa had admonished her for her crooked stitches. But nothing happened. Once again, Arya wasn't sure whether she should be happy or angry about it.

Why should I be? I couldn't care less about what Jeyne Poole, of all people, thinks about me, Arya then thought, putting aside her needlework.

She looked at the needlework in Sansa's hands, a magnificent falcon in blue against the gray shape of what looked like a mountain under a light silver moon. It was most likely the mountain on top of which the Eyrie stood. Her stitches were clean and just perfect, her needlework so beautiful it could have been sold for coin. Arya would have loved to shove the stupid cloth down her throat at that moment.

"What do you think of my stitches, Arya?" Sansa then asked.

As if she doesn't know they are perfect. The perfect stitches of perfect Sansa. It's all so perfect, it makes me retch in my throat, she thought.

"Oh, a falcon. How unusual," she said instead, however.

"Not really," Lady Myranda threw in from the side.

Myranda Royce, Arya had learned, had been one of Sansa's ladies-in-waiting here in the Vale for a little over a year now, and was so far the only bright spot for Arya. Randa, as she liked to be called, was a daughter of House Royce and outwardly almost as perfect a lady as Sansa, but unlike her or any of the other hens who constantly fawned over her, had a habit of being honest and even funny every now and then. Arya suspected that the Arryns had an interest in keeping Randa's father happy, otherwise Sansa would certainly have insisted that Randa be sent away as often as she blushed in shock or shame at one of Randa's comments.

"Lady Sansa has stitched so many falcons since she's been with us in the Vale that one could easily cover the entire Eyrie with them if they were sewn together into a single blanket," Randa continued.

"Hubert likes my falcons," Sansa said, almost dreamily looking down at the half-finished needlework in her lap.

"Oh, I'm absolutely sure he likes your falcons," Randa said, emphasizing the words in a way that left no doubt that she hadn't been talking about birds or Sansa's needlework at all. And if that hadn't been obvious enough, Randa began to grin as brightly as the sun all over her face. Arya couldn't help grinning herself either as she watched her sister, expectedly, begin to blush as red with shock as an overripe apple. "While we're on the subject," Randa continued unapologetically, "have you been doing the exercises I recommended, Sansa?"

"The... I... no, I haven't," Sansa stammered, and Arya's grin widened. "I also don't think that this is something we should discuss in front of-"

"You should do it," Randa interrupted her. "The exercises are good for the muscles in your pelvis. It will help you in childbirth once you are with child. And your husband will like it as well. I promise you that. I mean, what man wants to stow his dagger in a quiver after all?"

Immediately Sansa turned so red, much redder even than before, that she looked like she was about to burst into flames at any moment. Arya had never seen her sister so embarrassed. It was such a glorious sight to see Sansa stammering and gasping for air. Yes, she liked Randa. She really liked her.

"Arya, why don't you tell us some more about King's Landing?" Jeyne then threw in. "Lord Hubert so wanted to attend the tourney as well, but the duties of the future Lord of the Vale take precedence, alas. Don't they, my lady?"

"Yes, they do," said Sansa, her face much lighter again, but still meek and without having regained her normal color.

So Arya began to tell of the jousting she had seen. She told of the great arena that had been built outside King's Landing and the jumble of wagons and stalls around it. She told of how she had seen Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister joust and of the wild mess that had been a melee she had seen.

For a moment, she even considered whether she should also tell of how Jon and Rhaenys had smuggled her into the archery contest and how exciting it had been to have made it to the second round. But then she decided against it. Sansa wouldn't believe her anyway, and if she did, she would run to their father the same day and tell him everything. Jeyne would only encourage her, and as much as she liked Randa, she already knew she was a talker who shouldn't be trusted with anything. At least not if one didn't want this anything to be known all over the Vale by the end of the week.

She was just about to tell about how Theon Greyjoy had made a fool of himself in the joust, when she looked into Sansa's face, who seemed to be barely able to stifle a yawn. Irritated, she stopped speaking.

"What?" she asked after a moment. "That was great! You should have been there, Sansa."

"What do I care about jousting?" asked Sansa, frowning. "I was hoping you could tell us a little more about the festivities, about the feasts and the fine dresses of the ladies and the dances that are fashionable at the royal court at the moment. But they probably didn't let you participate in those anyway. There are tourneys here in the Vale, too. I know what a joust is like."

"We do have those here indeed," Randa said. "Only recently Lord Royce held a tourney. A small one, just for squires, that my father took me to."

"Lord Royce?" asked Arya, confused. "I thought that was your father."

"I meant Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone. My father is Lord Nestor Royce, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon. We are another branch of the Royces. Well, anyway, Harrold Hardyng won that tourney and was knighted for it. It was a farce if truth be told, hardly a merit worth a knighthood, but now I suppose he is Ser Harrold. Anyway, my father offered Lady Alys my hand for Ser Harrold. He's her grandson, so the decision is up to her."

"And has Lady Alys agreed?" asked Jeyne excitedly.

"Not yet. She has asked for some time to think it over, my father said."

"Harrold Hardyng," said Sansa thoughtfully. "Forgive me, Lady Myranda, but... hasn't Harrold... Ser Harrold already fathered two bastards?"

"Two that I know of, yes. But I heard that he already has another girl with child. So that makes three."

"Three even," breathed Sansa, startled. "And that doesn't bother you?"

"No, why should it? He only fathered them on common girls anyway and besides, I'm not entirely unused myself."

"You're not what?" asked Arya, as both Sansa's and Jeyne's blushes rose to their pretty faces again.

"I'm a widow, you must know, Arya."

"Oh, I'm very sorry to hear that."

"No need for condolences. I killed my husband myself, after all. But don't worry, he was old anyway. He died on me in our wedding night. Or in me, to be more precise. And he didn't even have the decency to make me a child before he passed. And now here I sit, widowed and almost unused, waiting for a knight with three bastards to accept me as his wife whose greatest deed so far is to have knocked a three-and-ten-year-old out of the saddle. At least with Ser Harrold, it seems like I would not have to worry about possibly ending up without a child again. His lance seems to hit the mark quite well," Randa said with a wink and a grin.

Randa now put her needlework aside as well, on which Arya could see nothing special, however. It was so plain, a simple pattern of red and white squares, that even Arya could have done it. She was sure of that. Then Randa turned to her and leaned over, speaking in a low, almost whispering tone, just as if she didn't want anyone to overhear her, but still loud enough for Sansa and Jeyne Poole to be sure they understood every word.

"Tell me, Arya, are you still innocent?"

Abruptly, Arya felt her ears turn red and so hot they could have been used to start a fire. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out.

"Of course she is," Sansa answered in her place.

"How can you be so sure, Sansa?" asked Randa. Arya would have been amused at Sansa's piqued expression that Randa always just called her Sansa, while Sansa herself was scrupulously careful to address Randa as Lady Myranda the entire time, had she not just then preferred to sink into the ground with shame. "Arya is a young lady, of suitable age for a husband. Or of suitable age for... certain experiences, if it doesn't have to be marriage vows right away."

"She is my sister, Lady Myranda, a daughter of Winterfell," Sansa protested. "She will, of course, remain innocent until her marriage night."

"Sansa is right," Jeyne Poole now said. "Arya will remain innocent. For a very long time still, I'm afraid. For anything else, she would first have to find a man interested in her, after all."

"And you're quite sure of that? She's a sweet thing," Randa said, winking at Arya again. Arya, however, found the conversation about her innocence anything but amusing. Shame began to give way to anger and rage and resentment. Yes, she was still innocent. But because she wanted to be, not because no one was interested in her.

"There are men who are interested in me," she finally blurted out.

"Oh yeah, who?" asked Jeyne with a smug smile. "Cooks and stable boys, perhaps, like they were back in Winterfell?"

"No, squires and knights asked me to dance with them when I was in King's Landing," she said, loud enough that the septa in the next room had certainly heard her. "And so did the son of a lord. An important lord."

She had to pull herself together to keep from yelling Jon's name out in Jeyne's stupid face. It wouldn't have done any good, though, so she mustered all her strength and forced herself to stop talking.

"Really?" asked Jeyne, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. "The son of a lord had his eye on you?"

"Yes, I've heard of that, actually," said Sansa.

"You have?" asked Arya, breathless and incredulous. How could that possibly be?

"Indeed. I've heard that Brynden Blackwood, the heir to Raventree Hall, is already quite taken with you," she said, laughing aloud. "And that's despite he doesn't even know you yet."

"Or just because he doesn't know her yet," Jeyne interjected.

"Our Lady Mother has written to me that you will be formally introduced to him as soon as you return to Winterfell. Raventree Hall isn't the Eyrie, but it's better than nothing, I suppose. After all, I always expected you to get no one at all and end up an old maid like Old Nan."

"I hope you like the smell of onions," said Jeyne, now also laughing aloud, "because I've heard Ser Brynden is quite fond of them in his food. And apart from his beloved onions, some rye and rock-hard pears, there's hardly anything else growing in Blackwood Vale anyway, is there?"

Blackwood Vale, as Arya knew, was on the contrary very fertile and rich in crops and fat livestock. Arya, however, could restrain herself just in time from correcting stupid Jeyne in this. Any word, especially any good word, from her about Raventree Hall or Blackwood Vale would only have made matters worse, she knew.

"I'm not marrying Brynden Blackwood," Arya instead said through clenched teeth.

"That's not for you to decide," Sansa said, the laughter gone and now again in the voice of the future, imperious Lady of the Vale. Arya wondered involuntarily if Hubert Arryn had really known what he had gotten himself into with his pretty wife. "Soon it will be your five-and-tenth name day, Arya. You can't have forgotten that, have you? It's the perfect age for a betrothal, and I know from our lady mother's letters that she won't let a single more day pass than is necessary to find a husband for you."

The words hit her like a blow. It was true. Soon would be her five-and-tenth name day. She would probably still be in the Vale at that time instead of back home in Winterfell, judging by what she had heard from her father about the course of his negotiations so far. Whatever it was all about, it didn't seem to be going well so far. Yes, she would be spending her name day in the Vale, with Sansa and Jeyne Poole of all people, since their father would probably have little time for her.

Wonderful, she thought glumly.

Where she would spend that day, she didn't even care, truth be told. But with whom she would spend it, she did care. She remembered well Sansa's five-and-tenth name day. In Winterfell, their father and mother had held a great feast in her honor, with plenty of good food, dancing, and music. Arya had never been overly interested in such things, but thinking about it now... It would have been nice if there had been such a feast for her, too. It would have been nice if she could have danced again on this special day. With Jon. Only with Jon.

Randa's voice finally pulled her out of her thoughts.

"There are always other options for a young lady," she said. "Maybe there's been some young knight in the capital who has his eye on Arya and who is serious about it. Like I said, she's a sweet thing."

"If anyone at all in the capital has had his eye on her, it was at most a stable boy when he tried to saddle her because he mistook her for a horse," Jeyne said, beginning to laugh loudly, almost hysterically.

Arya looked into the face of the dumb idiot, saw her perfect teeth shining in her oh-so-wonderful laugh. At that moment, there was nothing worse and more disgusting to her in the world than Jeyne Poole's laugh. Without really thinking about what she was doing, Arya reached for her needlework, pulled out the needles, and hurled it as hard as she could into Jeyne's face. The thin wooden frame hit her just under the left eye and abruptly her stupid laughter stopped. Jeyne screamed, as loudly and painfully as if she had just had a hand cut off, as Arya jumped up from her chair and stomped to the door in a rage. She heard Jeyne screech something about Arya now apparently being fully mad as the door flew open and a soldier in the colors of the Arryns entered the small chamber.

She pushed past the man, who stood in the center of the room, sword drawn and looking confused. Sansa shouted something else after her, telling her that they were supposed to stay in the room and that she should come back immediately to apologize to Jeyne, but Arya didn't respond, kept walking out of the room and forcefully slammed the door shut behind her.

We're not little girls to be cooped up in a room all day anymore, she thought. If Sansa really wants to sit around in there all day with Randa and stupid Jeyne and be bored, she's welcome to do it without me. Stupid Jeyne.

Arya paid no attention to where she was going. She just went on and on, down countless corridors, past servants and maids who quickly jumped aside, through a courtyard and into another building. In Winterfell, she would have retreated into the Godswood now, would have climbed a tree, and would not have come down again until her father had come to fetch her for supper. But whether there was a Godswood here at all and, if so, where it was, she did not know. So she just kept walking, this way and that, until she slowly felt her anger begin to subside.

She didn't even know, when she thought about it, what she should be angrier about. About the fact that stupid Jeyne was still making her stupid jokes about her, as she had always done as a child already, or about the fact that Sansa, no matter how much she pretended to be a grown-up lady by now, still couldn't bring herself to stop her and be there for her like a sister ought to be. Somewhere, deep inside, she felt that Rhaenys would not have allowed this to happen and would have had Jeyne's guts as garters. But maybe it was silly to think such a thing.

She decided, when she finally let herself sink onto a large, round stone at the edge of a small flower bed, that it didn't matter anyway. She wasn't going to fret about it anymore, she decided. Jeyne was stupid, had always been, would always be, and if Sansa didn't stand up for her but instead laughed at her stupid jokes, then she was just as stupid.

Jeyne will be surprised when one day she is married off to some landless knight and I am the Lady of Storm's End, she thought. Immediately she felt the heat rising in her ears again as she caught herself thinking that.

She quickly looked around to distract herself from the thought. She found herself in one of the western courtyards, bordered on the north side by the large round tower with the copper roof and on the south side by the stables for the horses and mules that were often used in the Vale to climb the mountains. Behind her there was a somewhat larger house with quarters and a small kitchen for the personal servants of the members of House Grafton, and opposite to it was one of the gates that led out into the outer forecourt of the castle's defenses.

Castle Grafton was a wild confusion of merging courtyards and buildings, winding corridors, walls and towers built, removed and rebuilt again. She had already heard from Randa that quite a few people got hopelessly lost on their first days in Castle Grafton and that many, even after days and sometimes weeks, only found their way through it with the help of personal servants who knew the castle for years already. Arya, however, didn't find it all that difficult. Once one could identify the largest and most important of the buildings and had a rough idea of the course of the castle's inner and outer walls, it was actually quite easy to find one's way around. How one could still get lost here, especially after several days, was a mystery to her.

She rose from the round stone and began to walk further. Once again, she had no clear destination, but she didn't want to sit around here all day either. She entered the house with the kitchens and cells for the servants. No one was to be seen, however. Since so many important lords were guests here, most of the servants had been banished from the innermost parts of the castle. She walked past cold kitchens and some locked doors, behind which were certainly storage rooms. She walked around a corner and down another corridor until she reached the opposite side of the building. The courtyard beyond was at least three or four steps lower than the one she had come from, and so she looked down from above into a narrow, oblong courtyard, in its shape reminding her of a fat blood sausage. In the center stood a line of small, knotty apple trees with benches beneath them. Tiny songbirds hopped back and forth on the ground, pecking among the cobbles of the ground for something to eat. On the south side of the narrow courtyard stood a crooked, somewhat taller building, not quite yet to be called a tower, with a flat roof and a rookery on top.

The house of the maester of Castle Grafton, she thought. If I sneaked in there, I could send a letter to Jon.

Immediately, however, she scolded herself for the idea. Jon was traveling beyond the Wall. No matter where she sent a letter, Jon wouldn't have received it. Besides, what exactly was she supposed to write? There wasn't much particularly wonderful to report, and the last thing she wanted to do was write him just to share her bad mood with him.

Jon...

"...will get used to it," she suddenly heard someone say. "He's not the first maester to share his chamber with a fellow brother of the order."

She looked around briefly and then heard a door slam on the north side of the maester's house. Immediately she took a step back into the shadow cast by the wide window arch above her. Actually, there was no reason to hide, but somehow she still didn't want to be seen. For a heartbeat, she considered stepping forward again. If they did see her, she didn't want to give the impression of eavesdropping on anyone, but her legs didn't seem to obey her.

"We won't be here long anymore anyway, if all goes well," she heard the same man say. "How is our lovely flower faring?"

"My treatment is taking effect," Arya now heard another man say, a chain jingling with each step. "There is nothing to worry about."

A maester, she thought. Of course, stupid. Who else would come out of the maester's house?

"Good," said the first man. "The boy's seed must not be allowed to sprout."

"It won't. I assure you, my lord."

She took a tiny step forward now, squinting cautiously over the edge of the window. In the courtyard below her, she saw two men walking along. One wore the robe of a maester with a relatively short chain around his neck. He appeared to be young, slender, and spoke in a voice so soft that it could almost have been mistaken for that of a woman. The other was slender as well, but considerably smaller with dark hair with hints of gray in it. The only thing that stood out about him were his clothes, which shone so brightly in all colors that one could have mistaken him for a court jester at first glance. He somehow looked familiar to her, but without Arya being able to say where she knew him from. She quickly took a small step back again to retreat into the shadows.

I didn't want to give the impression of eavesdropping on anyone, and now that's exactly what I'm doing. Well done, she thought, and couldn't help a quick grin.

"How long... is this to go on, if you don't mind my asking, my lord?" asked the maester.

"Not much longer," said the first man.

"Do you think the wolf will follow the falcon?"

The wolf? Father, maybe. Certainly. And falcon? That must be Lord Arryn. But of course, Father will stand by Lord Jon. What's the meaning of this?

"Depends on which falcon. Some side he'll choose. He'll have to, once the stag starts losing his mind." The voices grew quieter now, moving away from Arya, harder to understand. "A few more... still waiting for word from storm... all the pieces in..."

She heard another door open and close again. Then the voices were finally gone and Arya was alone again. For a moment she remained at the window, silent, her heart pounding up to her throat. What had she just overheard? Should she go to her father with this? Not now. Now he was still in the meeting with the lords of the Vale. She couldn't possibly barge in there. Maybe tonight at supper then? But what exactly was she supposed to tell him? That a man who looked distantly familiar had been talking to a maester about flowers and animals? He would think she had gone mad. Or maybe not...

Lost in thought, unsure of what to do, she walked back the way she had come, across the house with the kitchens and the servants' cells, out through the same door, back to the round stone at the edge of the flowerbed and settled down on it again. Her thoughts raced, crisscrossing her mind in a wild mess, without her getting a clear grasp on any of them.

She looked over to the stables and briefly had the idea that she could go for a ride to clear her mind, but quickly dismissed the idea. Without soldiers to protect her, she would certainly not be allowed to leave the castle, and the soldiers of the castle, with so many important lords and ladies present, were all already busy enough guarding the castle and the harbor, as she knew. An escort, just so she could see something other than the inside of the castle, would probably not be given to her. At that moment, a familiar face left the stables.

A girl with raven-black hair, clad in boots and riding leathers, stepped out of the building, tapping remnants of hay from her clothes. It was the bastard girl named Mya Stone, whom Arya had already met the day she had arrived. She had been part of the retinue around Sansa, Jeyne, Randa and her father Lord Royce – Nestor, not Yohn as she had now learned. However, no one had been able or willing to tell her whose bastard she was. It didn't really seem important enough to Arya to push the matter any further, though.

"She could be pretty if only she dressed like a girl," Arya had heard Sansa say about her. It was true. Her black hair was pretty but would have been even prettier if she had worn it longer. And she had a lovely form, tall and slender as she was, as her tight-fitting leather gown revealed. The most beautiful thing about her, however, were her eyes.

Since Arya had nothing else to do anyway, certainly wasn't planning on going back to Sansa and stupid Jeyne, and since Mya seemed nice as far as she knew her so far, Arya jumped up from the stone and walked over to her. Mya now looked over at her as well and smiled, but immediately lowered her gaze when she noticed Arya approaching. She had truly beautiful eyes, Arya noticed again, clear and as blue as the sky on a warm summer day. She reminded Arya of someone, though at that moment it didn't occur to her of whom.

"My lady," Mya said as Arya reached her and tried a curtsy, which was even worse than her own, however.

"You can just call me Arya," she said.

"As you wish, Lady Arya."

"Not Lady Arya, just Arya. That's fine."

"As you wish, Arya," Mya said, visibly unsure.

Surely she thinks I'm a second Sansa, Arya thought. No wonder she's afraid of doing something wrong.

"So... you take care of the horses?" asked Arya after a moment.

"The mules, my... Arya."

"And are they good animals?"

"If you know how to handle them," Mya said, visibly unsure what this conversation was supposed to be about. Arya had the feeling that Mya was nice, however, they seemed to have surprisingly little to talk about. In Winterfell she had never had this problem with the servants' sons and daughters, she wondered.

"I don't know much about mules. In Winterfell, we only had real horses and a donkey."

"I suppose that's the way it is in many castles," Mya said. "But mules are better for going up into the mountains."

"Is that so? And why?"

"Well, they are as sturdy as donkeys, much sturdier and more resilient than horses, but not as stubborn as one," she now began to tell, and at once, as she was able to talk about her animals, her eyes almost seemed to begin to shine.

Arya listened to her talk for a while about her mules, about the difficult climb to the Eyrie, which was dangerous for people and absolutely impossible for most horses, but on which, she proudly told, none of her mules had ever fallen since she led the trails.

"Aren't you afraid that you might fall someday?" asked Arya after a while.

"No," Mya said firmly. "I've done the climb a hundred times. Mychel says my father must have been a goat for sure."

"Mychel?"

"Yes, Mychel's my love," Mya explained. "Mychel Redfort. He's squire to Ser Lyn Corbray. We're to wed as soon as he becomes a knight, this year or the next hopefully."

Arya doubted that would happen. Mya was a fine girl, yet still a bastard, and she knew well enough from her lessons with Maester Luwin that the Redforts were among the oldest and proudest families in the Vale. Lord Redfort would never allow one of his sons to take a bastard girl as a wife, no matter how pretty and capable she might be. However, she decided she would rather say nothing about it. The sound of clashing steel and wood on wood suddenly caught Arya's attention. Mya seemed to notice it.

"That's just the squires practicing their swordplay," she said.

"Can we watch?" asked Arya.

"I... I suppose so. Yes, why not?!" said Mya with an ever-widening smile.

Arya wondered involuntarily if she was smiling now because she realized that Arya wasn't a second Sansa and they might get along well, or if she was just looking forward to watching Mychel Redfort practice, since he would undoubtedly be there too. She did not know, but it was not really important either. Mya led them out of the courtyard, through the bakehouse and past a smaller granary, while telling her along the way that her Mychel was said to be one of the best young swordsmen in the Vale.

They found the squires just one yard away, separated from the front yard they had come from by no more than a three-step high wall, the bakehouse and a small garden with plum trees. A dozen boys and young men were practicing swordplay with swords of wood or even steel – unsharpened, but steel nonetheless – overseen by an older man with gray hair, a giant mustache that fell all the way down onto his chest, the broad shoulders of a warrior and a grim look, whom Mya told her was Ser Arton Shett, the master-at-arms of Castle Grafton. A little further back in the courtyard, she saw some boys, barely older than seven or eight name days, practicing with bows and arrows. For a while she watched the young swordsmen, especially a young man with blond hair and blue eyes, from whom Mya seemed unable to avert her eyes.

That had to be Mychel Redfort, Arya assumed as they sat down on a small bench at the side of the courtyard. He was indeed good with the sword, very good even. One moment he seemed engrossed in an evenly matched duel, the next, however, his opponent was already lying in the dust, yielding, the dull blade of Mychel's sword at his throat. Another fellow, almost a head taller, tried his luck as well, but was quickly disarmed. A third opponent, faster and more elegant in his movements and more cautious in his approach, seemed at first to be able to hold his own against Mychel, but then, after a quick sidestep and an even quicker spin from Mychel, was hit so hard in the head with the flat side of Mychel's sword that his helmet was torn off and flew a few steps to the side, while he himself slumped to the ground, dazed.

"How many times have I told you fools to tighten the chinstraps of your helmets properly?" barked Ser Arton at the still dazed boy as two of his friends reached under his arms and pulled him aside. "If I see anything like that from you again, Elmar, you'll be mucking out the horse stables for a month before you're even allowed to look at a sword again!"

After that, they watched the other squires and pages for a while, as they - the chinstraps of their helmets now pulled extra tight - thrashed at each other, but without Arya seeing anything else that would have impressed her. She thought of how her brother Robb had fought at that age and was sure he could have disarmed any of them here with ease. Well, anyone except Mychel Redfort, probably. The longer the exercises lasted, however, the less she really looked and the more she was fascinated by the exercises with bow and arrow that were still taking place further back in the courtyard. When she saw how the young boys sent arrow after arrow past their targets and how many of the already few arrows that made it into the target at all were shot so weakly that most of them didn't even stick properly, she immediately felt like grabbing a bow herself and showing these boys how to handle a bow properly for once.

Why not? I don't have to practice in front of these boys, but... yes, I should practice, she thought. After all, I want to be better when I see Jon again.

"Say, is there any place to be undisturbed around here?" she asked Mya.

"Undisturbed? I... well, yes, but...," she began to stammer. Only at that moment did it occur to Arya that being undisturbed sounded like something entirely different from wanting to practice with her bow, and that Mya now probably thought she was asking her about where she always met with her Mychel when they wanted to be alone.

"I want to do some archery myself," so she quickly followed up. The shocked look on Mya's face quickly disappeared after that, making way for her familiar, pretty smile.

"Oh, I see," she said.

"I'm not like my sister," it then blurted out of Arya, to which Mya immediately began to laugh.

"You certainly aren't, Arya," she said. "That's what Randa... Lady Myranda told me already. So the best place to practice undisturbed is probably this very courtyard here. Once the squires are done with their exercises, they leave it for the rest of the day. I've been to Castle Grafton with Lord Nestor enough times to know the routines by now."

"And here one is undisturbed?" asked Arya, looking around in disbelief. She had hoped for a backyard, surrounded by a wall or hidden by a few dense trees. Here, however, there were so many windows looking into the courtyard from all directions that it seemed impossible not to be seen.

"Oh, yes. That house over there is the library, but there's never anyone in there. Only the castle's old maester, but he doesn't care what goes on here. The house on the other side is one of the guest houses, but the lords and ladies will still be busy with their talks the rest of the day, so no one will be looking out of a window there either. To the east there is only one defensive wall, but the soldiers on it have to guard the castle in the other direction, so they don't really care what happens in the courtyards. Ser Arton has drilled into them not to get distracted while standing guard, so they don't dare turn their eyes anywhere but outward. And to the west is only a warehouse for old furniture and the winter clothes of the Graftons. So unless it suddenly starts snowing, no one will come out there either."

"That sounds great. Thank you so much," Arya said with an honest, wide grin. "Would you like to maybe practice with me a little? It's fun."

"Oh, it certainly sounds like fun. I'd really like to, but I'll have to check on the mules later. One had a little sore on its hoof that I need to take care of. And after that, I still have... other duties."

"I see," Arya said. She was sure that Mya's other duties consisted mostly of meeting somewhere with Mychel Redfort but said nothing about it. It was sad enough that the two of them would have no future anyway. At least they should enjoy their time while it lasted.

It was not long before the squires were finally finished. Mya then said goodbye to Arya to take care of the mules and attend to her other duties, though Arya was not at all unaware of the looks she sent Mychel Redfort as she walked out of the courtyard. Arya stayed behind for a while longer, watching the pages gather back the arrows they had shot and hauling their bows and arrows, along with the squires' armor and their swords and shields, to the nearby armory. Once she was sure that all work was done and none of the squires or pages, much less Ser Arton, would return, she jumped up from her seat and ran as fast as she could, but not so fast as to attract too much attention, back to the guest house where she and father were housed.

She quickly found her chambers again, hurried inside and lowered herself to the floor in front of the wide chest that she knew contained her bow. She quickly found the bundle, unwrapped the bow and tried the string once. It was taut and seemingly just waiting to finally be drawn by her again. She reached into the chest again to take out the arrow, which she had hidden in a separate bundle under the bow. When she then held it in her hand, however, she hesitated.

That's the arrow from Jon, it flashed through her mind. This is not just any arrow. It's the arrow.

What if it broke or flew over the wall or got stuck somewhere and she wouldn't be able to get it out again? No, she couldn't risk that. She couldn't risk losing the arrow or breaking it. So she needed other arrows. But where was she supposed to get those from? The soldiers of House Grafton had arrows, of course. Obviously, this was a castle after all. Somewhere thousands of arrows had to be ready in case of an attack. But she, a young lady, would certainly not be given any just like that. At least not without first asking her father for permission. And as sure as she was that he would allow it - after all, Aunt Lyanna was even sure that he would allow her to wield a sword if she would only behave well enough for a while - her father had other worries right now. Undoubtedly, it would not make a good impression, the opposite of behaving well, if she bothered him with this now.

So where to get the arrows? She knew where they were, of course. As in any castle, a certain number of arrows were always kept ready in the guardrooms in the defense towers, but she would hardly be allowed in there. Most of the arrows were stored in the armories, of course, but she was even less likely to be allowed into one of those. She could not even break in either. The doors were thick and strong, as she had seen, the windows small and reinforced with iron bars, and, unsurprisingly, the armories were heavily guarded throughout the day and night.

In Winterfell, none of this would have been a problem. In the courtyard behind the Great Keep, where the exercises with bow and arrow always took place, there was always a bow and a few arrows lying around somewhere, mostly because Bran and Rickon had not brought them back to the armory after their exercises, as they should have done. And if there was nothing to be found there after all, it was easy enough for her to get into the armory in Winterfell since it was almost always guarded by Fat Tom. And Fat Tom was always easy to fool. The solution that occurred to her at that moment was as obvious as it was ingenious.

Fat Tom! Of course, why hadn't she thought of that directly?

Her father's soldiers, though actually unnecessary in the midst of Castle Grafton, had been allowed to keep their weapons and gear out of respect for her father. This meant that the guards from Winterfell also had to have at least a few arrows with them. That's where she would get some.

"Yes," she rejoiced as she gave the arrow in her hand a quick kiss on the tip and then hurriedly stuffed it back into the chest under parts of her clothing.

She heard a strange sound of cutting and tearing as she pressed the tip between her clothes and some of her smallclothes but didn't care at that moment at all. She quickly jumped up and ran out of her chambers. Her father's guards were housed in quarters in a barracks south of the Silver Tower, as she knew. The way was easy to find and not too long. She was just about to turn the last corner, beyond which there was the entrance to the small barracks, when she stopped one last time. Whatever she would tell Fat Tom, it could not possibly be the truth, so if he would see her coming with a bow in her hand, not even Fat Tom would be convinced by a lie, no matter how good it was. So she quickly stowed the bow in a corner behind the bust of a long dead Lord Grafton, standing in a small alcove a few steps back down the corridor.

Then she walked on and turned the corner. She found Fat Tom even easier than she would have thought. Just outside the entrance, he was sitting on a wooden stump, a tiny table in front of him, which looked more like a chair where the back had broken off, however. Arya looked at the wooden stump he was sitting on as she walked towards him and couldn't help but feel uncomfortably reminded of an executioner's block. Fat Tom was entirely alone, engrossed in a game of dice with himself, while from inside the amused, laughing voices of Heward, Alyn, and Desmond could be heard.

She walked closer without Fat Tom noticing her and looked at the handful of cyvasse pieces he had neatly lined up in front of him on the broken chair, simple things carved from wood, painted red and black, two dice of old bone rolling between them. Arya immediately recognized the game as Seven-knights-and-seven-maidens. The game had little to do with cyvasse, except for the pieces that were used, and was more a game of chance than strategy. Some soldiers, however, liked to play it, as she knew, fancying that it was almost as difficult as real cyvasse. It was not. In this game, you didn't have to fight battles or plan campaigns ten or more moves in advance. You didn't have to do anything more than rearrange the cyvasse pieces by rolling the dice and putting them in a certain order. The game was simple, so simple that even little children could learn it within less than a day. Arya quickly realized, though, that Fat Tom obviously didn't know the rules at all. For a moment she just stood silently beside him, watching him try to somehow place the red king next to the black elephant, shaking her head.

"That's not where the king belongs," she finally said, after watching Fat Tom fail for a while.

"Ah!" he cried, startled, jumping up from his little wooden stump, knocking over the improvised table in front of him with his game on it. The pieces flew through the air like a swarm of plump butterflies and then scattered all around them on the ground a few paces away. Fat Tom looked at Arya with his eyes wide open. Only when he realized who was standing there in front of him did his eyes regain their normal size, mostly hidden behind his massive drooping eyelids, and a reassured smile settled on his face.

"Arya, Arya Underfoot," he finally said, still breathing heavily. "It's you."

"Yes, it's me," she said, unable to stifle a grin. "Tom, I urgently need some arrows. Can you get me some?" she then asked as she helped Fat Tom pick up the pieces.

"Arrows? What do you need arrows for?"

"I'm supposed to get some for the squires' and pages' exercises."

"Really?" he asked, trying to raise one of his eyebrows. His brow, as soft as the rest of him, just wouldn't furrow, however. "But the squires have long since finished their exercises. Saw them coming back earlier already."

"Not all of them," Arya said in as convinced a tone as she could muster. "Some of them, especially the pages, were so bad that Ser Arton ordered them to practice some more. But now they've run out of arrows."

"Ser Arton," he said thoughtfully and Arya could see that he was confused that she even knew that name. "And then they send you, a noble young lady, to get them some stupid arrows? Somehow that doesn't seem very knightly to me."

"Well, I offered it to them. I want to be a good guest, that's all. Besides, they really need to practice, as bad as they are."

"And you expect me to believe that, do you?"

"Of course," Arya said. "Just like I'm supposed to believe you were just standing guard and not playing dice."

For a moment Fat Tom still looked at her doubtfully and uncertainly, and Arya could practically see the thoughts moving back and forth in his head. The fact that his lips were involuntarily silently mouthing the conversation he was having with himself in his head the whole time didn't exactly help hide his thoughts either.

"Alright, young lady, I'll give you a few arrows. But just a few. If these squires are as bad as you say, though, I don't think those few will make any difference."

With these words he turned around, disappeared through the small door in his back and returned after a few moments with some arrows in his hand. He gave them to Arya, who quickly grabbed them and ran away with a grinning "thank you". It wasn't even a dozen arrows, but it was better than nothing. Arya then quickly retrieved her bow from its hiding place behind the old bust, and then hurried as fast as she could back to the courtyard where the squires and pages had been practicing earlier.

The courtyard was indeed so empty and deserted that one might have thought there was not a living person left in the entire castle. Fortunately, the targets were still in place, so Arya could directly get in position on the marker and begin.

The first two arrows directly hit the wood, one in the middle ring, one in the outer ring. Pretty good for a start, but not outstanding. She was aware of that.

If I want to impress Jon once we meet again, I'll definitely have to do better, she thought.

She let two more arrows fly in quick succession. These didn't even hit the wood, however, but both got stuck in the straw bale next to it.

Damn it, she cursed to herself. Jon shall see that I have practiced with his bow. That I've gotten better, not worse.

She pulled the bowstring taut again and let another arrow fly, but it missed the target completely and bounced off the wall behind the target with a loud clack.

I don't believe it.

She took a few deep breaths before picking up the next arrow and nocking it on the string.

Come on, she said to herself. For Jon. I want him to be proud of me. For Jon.

She drew the bow and set her sights on the target. For Jon. Then she held her breath, as Ser Rodrik had always tried to teach Bran, to steady her hand. For Jon. She aimed along the shaft of the arrow at the target. For Jon. She let go of the string and let the arrow dart away.

She wouldn't have had to look at all to know from the renewed loud clack that the arrow had not hit the wood or even the straw but had instead flown almost an arm's length beyond the target and hit the stone wall behind it.

The more I think about him, the worse I get. He's distracting me too much, she thought, immediately feeling her ears getting red and hot again. I cannot focus when I think of him, but I have to focus. Otherwise, he's surely going to be so disappointed with my archery that he'll turn around and leave the very moment we meet again. So, don't think about Jon, don't think about Jon, don't think about Jon. All that matters is the arrow and the target, the arrow and the target, the arrow and the target.

Again she took a deep breath before picking up the next arrow. The arrow and the target. She nocked the arrow and pulled back the string. The arrow and the target. Again she held her breath and aimed along the shaft of the arrow. The arrow and the target. Then, when she was sure the arrow would find its target, she let go and the arrow darted away. Again, she heard a clack, but this time from an arrowhead that pierced deep into the wood of the target. She looked and found her arrow stuck in the middle ring, but no more than a thumb's width from the black innermost circle.

"Yes, that's how it's done," she cheered, but then quickly lowered her voice again. There might be no one around, but if she shouted too loudly, she would still be heard surely.

After that, things went much better, even if not all arrows hit as well as this last one. She collected her arrows five times to shoot them again. Most of the arrows hit the wood of the target, three times even into its black center. Some still flew past the target every now and then, getting stuck in the straw or bouncing off the stone wall behind it. She didn't know how much time had passed when her arms finally hurt so much that she decided to stop for today. She didn't have many arrows left anyway. Two arrows were stuck in gaps in the stone wall so high she couldn't reach them, four had their heads broken off when she had pulled them out of the wood, and one arrow had disappeared altogether. She suspected it had bored so deep into the straw that she simply couldn't see it anymore. But maybe a grumkin had stolen it, she thought with a slight grin.

In the end, she held only four intact arrows in her hand as she looked around the courtyard one last time. The sun was already setting and she could hear noises coming from the guest house to her left. The servants were obviously already busy preparing the chambers for the noble guests. So the meeting had to be over soon. Arya thus decided to quickly return to her chambers to safely hide her bow again together with her newly acquired arrows.

Only now did she realize how hungry she was. After all, she had not eaten since breaking the fast in the morning. Her stomach growled so loudly as she quickly walked through the smaller courtyards and corridors that she feared she would attract the attention of half the castle by this alone. Arya reached her chambers without meeting anyone who paid her any special attention. Arya only encountered a servant and a kitchen maid, but they were so engrossed in their work that they did not even pay her a glance. This was just fine with her, however.

She quickly placed her bow back in the chest at the foot of her bed and slipped the arrows into another chest between her fur-trimmed boots and the smaller chest containing her leather belts and gloves. She then took off her dress and began to wash in the small bowl beside her bed. Surely her father would want to have supper with her tonight and there, since she hadn't spent the day with Sansa, she had to at least be pretty and clean so he wouldn't think she had been up to nonsense. She was surprised herself, after washing her hands and face, at how dark the water suddenly was. A glance at her dress, whose light blue color was barely visible anymore under a thick layer of dust and some stains that looked suspiciously like horse manure, then offered an explanation, however.

"How in the seven hells did this happen again?" she asked herself.

Sure, she'd been running around in various places instead of quietly and ladylike sitting in a chamber with Sansa, Randa, and stupid Jeyne doing boring but clean needlework, and had even climbed onto the roof of a small shack to retrieve one of her arrows that had missed the target, but she hadn't expected this level of filth.

Then for the better part of an hour, after a servant had fetched her from her chambers at her father's request, she sat at a table with him and Sansa and ate supper. They had heavy, black bread with nuts in it so hard you could hardly chew it, boiled cabbage with turnips, and a whole fish for each, head and fins still on, swimming in a thick yellowish sauce that Sansa raved about as if it were the most delicious meal in all the Seven Kingdoms, but which reminded Arya more of a bowl of snot. She suspected that it was Hubert's favorite meal. Why else would Sansa make such a fuss about it? At least stupid Jeyne wasn't there.

"We were really worried, Arya," Sansa began after the supper, not for the first time that night. "Running away just like that was sheer folly. Who knows what could have happened to you."

"You're not mother," Arya retorted, also not for the first time.

"Still, I was responsible for you. You're still a child, I'm a grown lady."

"I'm not a child anymore."

"But you're not married either. Not yet. So you're more a child than anything else. Isn't that right, father?"

"Huh? Oh, yes, of course, Sansa. Of course," their father said, not even half awakened from his thoughts. Their father had already been lost in thought all evening, brooding over his food more than eating it. Sansa didn't seem to mind, however, but instead appeared to take her father's half-hearted reply as serious confirmation. Her smug smile only grew wider, at any rate.

"I expect better behavior from you tomorrow, Arya," she continued. "You're lucky that Jeyne wasn't seriously hurt when you lost your temper earlier. In any case, you'll apologize to her first thing in the morning. And then I take it that this childish nonsense will have an end, Arya. I don't want you to embarrass me like that in front of Lady Myranda again."

The only one embarrassing you is yourself, Arya thought.

"But of course," she said instead. She made no effort to sound convincing, which apparently hardly escaped Sansa's notice, judging by the expression on her face. At least she still seemed to know her well enough to understand, though, that she wasn't going to get anything more than that from Arya today, so she left it at that.

"Father, didn't the talks go well?" asked Arya finally, before Sansa could change her mind after all. "You look worried."

Their father now seemed to truly awaken from his thoughts for the first time that evening. He looked at them both in turn, then forced himself to give an unconvincing smile.

"Everything's fine, Arya. Yes, yes, it's going well. The topics of the talks are just very... tedious and dry," he said.

 "Don't concern yourself with that, Arya," Sansa said. "Such things are best left to the men. A lady has other cares and duties. Father will succeed, no matter what it may be about. Whatever our lord father wishes to accomplish, my Hubert will certainly stand by him. I am sure of that. And Hubert is the future Lord of the Vale, so the lords and ladies will listen to him."

Arya noticed her father's head snap around the moment Sansa mentioned her husband. His furrowed brow didn't look like he'd received too much support from Sansa's Hubert so far. Her sister, however, busy nibbling in ladylike little bites on one of the lemon cakes they'd been served for dessert, didn't seem to catch any of that. As quickly as the irritated expression on their father's face had come, however, he was already forcing it away.

Should I tell him now about what I overheard, she suddenly thought. No, not yet. Sansa will just babble nonsense and know everything better. Whatever I heard, Sansa will say it was silly and will make fun of it, and then father won't listen to me at all anymore. He never had much interest in listening to Sansa's and my quarrels. I'll wait until she's gone and tell him then, she decided.

Arya was relieved when Sansa took her leave shortly afterwards to retire to her chambers, where her Hubert would certainly be waiting for her already. She could imagine why Hubert would be waiting for her there. Sansa, for all her faults, was a beauty. There was no doubt about that. What was much harder for her to imagine, however, was how Sansa might do this without sinking to the floor in shame at having to undress in front of a man, even her own husband. Involuntarily, Arya had to grin at the thought that she would certainly insist on being allowed to keep her smallclothes and probably even elegant dress on when Hubert climbed into bed with her.

Jon, it suddenly shot through her head. Why do I have to think about Jon now of all times? Seven hells.

Her father had a servant bring him another cup of spiced wine and, to Arya's surprise, her as well. The words "you're of age now" was all he offered as an explanation in response to her questioning look. For a while longer they sat at the table, drinking their wine together, sweet and heavy and as red as blood, and not speaking. Nor did they have to. They had never had to, when it had just been the two of them, to feel comfortable.

Now is the right time, she thought. Now I can tell him.

She was just about to open her mouth to tell him about what she had overheard today when her father suddenly began to speak.

"How was your archery?" he asked. "Did you hit anything?"

Arya froze in shock, her mouth half open and the cup halfway to her lips. Startled, she looked at him. How on earth had he known? He couldn't possibly have seen her. It took her a heartbeat to realize. Fat Tom. He might be slow of foot and even slower of mind, but he was faithful and loyal as a hound, and if her father had asked him if anything important had happened during the day, of course he had told him the truth.

"Don't worry, I'm not angry," he said.

"You're not?"

"No, of course I'm not. Leaving your needlework to shoot a few arrows through a courtyard isn't something I'm going to send you to the Silent Sisters for, Arya," he said with a warm smile and a laugh. "But you could have asked me."

"You've been busy all day."

"Would you have asked me if I hadn't been?"

"No," she admitted after a moment of silence.

"Good, you're being honest with me. I appreciate that, Arya. I really do. So as far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to keep practicing with the bow a bit if you like. I've already told my men the same thing, should you need new arrows. But still try to be discreet, please."

"I will! I promise," she beamed at him.

"Well, have a good time, then. And you see, it's no use trying to hide anything from me. Your old father knows more than you think," he said with a wink.

But clearly less than you yourself believe, she thought with a smile, and had to think of Jon again. It took only a heartbeat for her mind to be filled with nothing but Jon.

Chapter Text

Lord Commander Mormont's personal steward, a young man named Pyp, handed him a cup of hot wine, then handed the second cup to Lord Mormont and, at an approving grunt from the Old Bear, disappeared from his tent. Aegon took a sip, a robust red that tasted exactly the same as the night before. He had already noticed that the Lord Commander was quite particular about his hot wine. So much cinnamon and so much nutmeg and so much honey, not a drop more. Raisins and nuts and dried berries, but no lemon. Lemon in wine was what he called the rankest sort of southron heresy. The wine had to be hot enough to warm a man properly, the Lord Commander insisted, but must never be allowed to come to a boil.

One evening, some three days before their arrival at the Fist of the First Men, Pyp had let the wine get a little too hot and had overdone it a bit with the cinnamon, whereupon the Lord Commander had had him digging latrines the entire rest of the evening. A punishment rather popular with the Lord Commander on this great ranging, as it had become clear. This time, however, Pyp had mastered the wine to Mormont's satisfaction.

"And you truly do approve of this, Your Grace?" asked Mormont, not for the first time. "I certainly don't want you to feel treated unfairly."

"Don't worry about it, Lord Commander. After all, we have already talked about it and I agree with you completely. It is the right thing to do."

"As you say," he said, but Aegon could see that his worries were by no means eased. "Bring Lord Jon here. At once," he barked toward the tent flap. "He's not supposed to be eavesdropping, but I know the boy well enough to know that he did anyway," he said then, answering Aegon's questioning look.

Some moments and a few sips of the hot wine later, the flap of the tent was pushed aside and Jon came in. He seemed surprised to find only Aegon and the Lord Commander in here, and then came to stand so stiffly in front of Lord Mormont's small table, covered with incomplete letters to Castle Black and a poorly scribbled map that Samwell Tarly had made following the descriptions of that ghastly man Craster, that one might have thought he feared being ordered to dig latrines at any moment as well.

"You wanted to see me, Lord Commander?"

"I did. Are you well, Lord Jon?"

"Well," his raven squawked. "Well."

"I am, my lord," Jon said. Anyone who didn't know him as well as Aegon might even have believed him. "And you?"

"I am an old man. My bones ache from the long ride, the cold only makes it worse, and a dead man tried to kill me. How well can I be? How is your hand, Lord Jon? Better, I hope. The last thing the Watch needs is to lose a friend in Lord Baratheon."

Aegon could only barely keep from furrowing his brow in surprise, and he saw that Jon was no less surprised by these words. Of course, it was true that Lord Commander Mormont did well not to make enemies among the lords of the realm, especially the great and powerful ones, by sending their sons back from this great ranging as scarred cripples. That Robert Baratheon, of all people, should ever have been a special friend of the Night's Watch so far, however, sounded more like the Lord Commander's wishful thinking.

"Healing," Jon said, clenching his hand into a fist a few times. They had both been lucky indeed that the burns on their arms and hands when they had hurled burning curtains at undead Othor had not turned out worse. Aegon's hand had been aching for a few days and the skin had been red, but otherwise not much had happened. Jon's burns had been worse, with small painful blisters on and between his fingers and bleeding tears in the burned skin. He had had to apply a smelly ointment every day for two weeks so that the tears would stop bleeding and allow the skin to heal without his sword hand losing its flexibility. "I might suffer a few scars, but otherwise my hand will soon be as good as it was before."

"Corn," the raven cried. "Corn, corn."

"Oh, be quiet," the Old Bear told, but then reached into his pocket. The bird recognized the gesture, immediately fluttered from the back of the chair on which it squatted onto Mormont's outstretched arm, beginning to peck the kernels of corn from his hand. "Can you use your hand again, then?"

"With a sword in it, you mean? Yes, I can. I've been practicing a bit with Aegon, Ser Oswell, and Dickon Tarly over the past few days. The skin still tightens a bit, but otherwise it goes smoothly."

"Good." On the small table between them, Lord Mormont then placed what he had had Jon summoned for. A large sword in a black metal scabbard with silver bands. "Here. Then you are ready for this now."

"My lord?"

"I wanted to give you this much earlier, even before we left Castle Black, but... the fire melted the silver from the pommel and burnt the crossguard and grip. Well, dry leather and old wood, what could you expect? The blade, now... you'd need a fire a hundred times as hot to harm the blade. It took a little time to get a new pommel made, though. I wanted it to be in the shape of a stag's head, but the antlers kept breaking off. Now it's a wolf's head, your mother is a Stark after all. I hope this is to your liking." Mormont leaned forward and shoved the sword a little way across the table toward Jon, to the edge of the small table just before it dropped. "Take it."

"Take it," echoed his raven, preening. "Take it, take it."

Awkwardly and carefully, Jon took the sword, almost as if he feared it was made of glass and that he might break it. Aegon, who already knew what awaited him inside the scabbard, knew, however, that Jon could have spent the rest of his life trying to break this blade without getting so much as a nick in the steel. Jon then pulled the sword from its scabbard and raised it to a level with his eyes.

Jon waved the blade back and forth a bit, letting the light from the fire bowls in the corners of the tent glide across the steel. Immediately one could see the ripples in the dark steel, where the metal had been folded on top of each other, hundreds of times, and where the ancient, long forgotten magic had been beaten into it.

"This is Valyrian steel," he said then, tonelessly.

"It is," said the Old Bear. "It was my father's sword and his father's before him. The Mormonts carried it for five centuries. I wielded it in my day and passed it on to my son when the time had come. But my son brought dishonor to House Mormont. At least he had enough grace to leave it behind when he fled. My sister returned it to my keeping, but the very sight of it reminded me of Jorah's dishonor, so I put it aside and thought no more of it until we found it in the ashes of my bedchamber."

Aegon knew that Jon, when they both had been little boys, had always dreamed of doing great deeds. Saving a noble maiden in distress, storming a castle, protecting his father and mother from harm... The dreams they had told each other about before going to bed the next night had always been different, but each time Jon had wielded a sword like this in those dreams. Valyrian steel. Once, Aegon remembered, he had shared with him that Dark Sister had been that sword in his dreams. On one of his visits to King's Landing, Lord Robert had apparently told him, drunk, that Dark Sister should have been the sword of House Baratheon, since Orys had been Aegon's half-brother. So, had House Targaryen not claimed both Valyrian swords for itself at the time, Dark Sister would now be their family's sword, would probably be in Storm's End, waiting for him to come of age, and not lost somewhere along with that bloody bastard Brynden Rivers.

"My lord, you honor me," Jon said, "but-"

"Please spare me your buts, Lord Jon," Mormont interrupted him. "I would not be sitting here today if it were not for you and Prince Aegon here. You fought bravely... and more to the point, you thought quickly. Fire! Yes, damn it. We ought to have known. We ought to have remembered. The Long Night has come before. Oh, eight thousand years is a long time, to be sure... But if the Night's Watch doesn't remember, who will?"

"Who will," chimed the talkative raven. "Who will."

Aegon saw Jon frown and close his eyes for a moment. He himself tried not to do exactly that at that moment. Just talking about the Lord Commander's Tower brought back the memory. He only had to close his eyes, day or night, to see the thing staggering across the solar again, crashing into furniture and flailing at the flames. The face was what haunted him most. Surrounded by a nimbus of fire, hair blazing like straw, the dead flesh was melting away and sloughing off its skull to reveal the gleam of bone beneath. Whatever demonic had force moved Othor that night had been driven out by the flames. The twisted thing they had found in the ashes the next morning had been no more than cooked meat and charred bone. Yet in his nightmares he always faced it again and again. As did Jon, he knew.

"A sword is a small payment for a life," Mormont said.

"You honor me, Lord Commander," Jon began again, "but this is too much. Besides, Aegon was there, too. He fought just as I did and saved you as well."

Jon looked at him now, for the first time since he had greeted him with a brief nod when he had entered the tent, and Aegon could see in his gaze what was going on inside him. He was the crown prince. If anyone should be given such a kingly gift, it should be him. Aegon, however, smiled at Jon and shook his head.

"No, it's the right thing to do," he then said. "The Lord Command and I have discussed this. Yes, I was there, yes, I also fought Othor, and yes, I set him aflame with you, but... it was you who heard him. It was you who followed a noise and walked into the dark chambers of the Lord Commander, fearless. I actually just staggered after you, half asleep. And it was you who came up with the idea to kill Othor with fire. You deserve this, Jon. Take it."

"Indeed," Lord Mormont added. "You deserve it indeed. Now take it, Lord Jon, and then I will hear no more of you not wanting it. That is an order. You may be the heir to Storm's End, but I am the Lord Commander and on this great ranging my word is law. Understood?"

"Yes, my lord," Jon said, bowing his head to Lord Mormont so low that Aegon thought he was trying to break it off his own shoulders.

"I want no courtesies either," said Mormont, "so thank me no thanks. Honor the steel with deeds, not words."

Jon nodded.

"What name does it have?" Aegon then asked. Such a sword simply had to have a name already.

"It's called Longclaw," growled the Old Bear, "but of course Lord Jon is free to find a new name for it."

"Longclaw is an apt name," Jon said, his gaze fixed firmly on the dark steel in his hand. "Wolves have claws, as do bears."

The Old Bear seemed pleased with that.

"I guess they do. You'll probably want to wear it over your shoulder, I imagine. Even with tall men, a sword like this can touch the ground when worn at the hip and I better not see you dragging it through the dirt. You hear me? And you will also need to work on your two-handed strikes. Ser Endrew can show you some moves."

"Ser Endrew?"

"Ser Endrew Tarth, a good man. He is one of the men coming from the Shadow Tower. As soon as they arrive here, I will arrange that he show you how to use a sword like this."

"I think," said Aegon, "my uncle Prince Lewyn will also be able to help him. He wields a longsword and knows his way around such large weapons."

Aegon then quickly finished his wine and accompanied Jon out of the tent. The air outside was refreshing, not so sticky from the fire bowls or so heavy from the smell of the hot wine, yet so cold that it burned the throat when breathing. Last night, it had furthermore begun to snow and had not stopped since, so that the entire camp was now dusted with a thin white layer, almost completely hiding the black of the tents, making the fires not burn so well. Smoke drifted through the camp in thick wisps like the ghosts of dead men walking among them.

Aegon and Jon did not get far before they were already surrounded by Daman, Aidin, Byrant, Robb Stark and Ser Robar. They had heard, from some brothers of the Night's Watch as Aegon suspected, several days ago already that the Lord Commander would be giving Jon this gift. For half a heartbeat they had still pretended to be absorbed in their sword practice with Oswell and his uncles Lewyn and Oberyn, but then their curiosity quickly won them over as they surrounded Jon like a pack of wolves would a wounded deer. Everyone wanted to see the sword, best to be allowed to wield it even. Jon, however, did not hand over the blade, for which Aegon could not blame him. Byrant and Robb Stark held back the most, also admiring the blade, but contenting themselves with congratulating Jon on it and patting him on the back.

No wonder, thought Aegon. Robb Stark will one day inherit his father's Valyrian steel sword. Ice was his name, he knew. And Byrant... if Byrant keeps up like this, he may one day follow Ser Arthur as the Sword of the Morning and wield Dawn, no matter if he goes by the name Dayne or Gargalen.

Oswell had also taken a few steps closer, but had said nothing, only scowled when Jon had had to hold the blade up into the sunlight again and again at the request of their friends and companions. Aegon knew that Oswell was greatly displeased that Lord Mormont had not given the sword to Aegon after all, no matter how many times Aegon had told him in recent days that he did not want it and that he also felt that Jon deserved it. Ser Garlen and Dickon Tarly stood a little aside, also looking over with interest, but then delved back into their exercises.

"If I had known that the Lord Commander gave out such swords as gifts," Lord Tyrion then said from the side, looking up from one of his books for the first time since they had left the tent, "I would have been more than happy to stand guard outside his chambers. My father would certainly have burst into tears of joy if I had brought a sword of Valyrian steel back to Casterly Rock from this venture."

Lord Tywin probably wouldn't smile, much less burst into tears of joy, for as much as a heartbeat even if you turned the whole Rock into Valyrian steel, Aegon thought, but said nothing in response. Oswell however, didn't let the opportunity pass him by.

"I don't think there is a sword, especially not one made of Valyrian steel, small enough for you to carry on your hip without having to walk on stilts, Lord Tyrion. Although, yes, there is. It's called a dagger, I think."

Aegon then grabbed Jon by the arm and pulled him away before they ended up getting involved in their looming quarrel. As much as Oswell and Lord Tyrion enjoyed teasing each other, neither had a sense of when to let it go. So it was only a matter of time before one of them would say something that the other wouldn't find the least bit funny anymore. So Aegon pulled Jon aside to one of the larger fires and they sat down on the small log that had been used to improvise a bench next to it. They had Pyp, who was waiting outside the entrance to the Lord Commander's tent, bring them some food – fried bread, some cheese and a rock hard black sausage each – and ate. The cheese was hard as a plank of wood and the sausage was terribly bland and fat. They had had no more fresh meat and for almost a week and had not seen any game that they could have hunted either for even longer.

Meanwhile, excited voices could be heard from the Lord Commander's tent. Aegon recognized the voices by now as those of the officers of the Night's Watch, even before he had understood the first words. Apparently Lord Mormont was conferring with Thoren Smallwood and half a dozen other officers.

"Shouldn't you be in there?" asked Jon.

"Yes, I suppose," Aegon returned. "I was invited by the Lord Commander but I thought it best not to attend."

"Why's that?"

"Well, the officers didn't seem too thrilled about me being there last time. I don't think they like me. Huh? What was that?" he asked.

"I didn't say any-"

"You're right. It can't be that," Aegon interrupted him with a wry smile. "I mean, who in the world would be able to dislike me, of all people? That's absurd. Probably they're just uneasy because I'm actually above the Lord Commander in rank."

"Yeah, that'll be it," Jon said, now with the same wry smile on his face.

They finished their bread and cheese, threw the inedible sausage into the fire, however. Then they listened a bit to the conversation from the tent. Even if Aegon didn't feel like attending the meeting, it still couldn't hurt to know what was going on. He conferred regularly with Lord Mormont, at least twice a day, but he had quickly noticed that the Old Bear tended not to tell him everything, but only what he deemed relevant to Aegon's ears.

"The easiest road up into the Frostfangs is to follow the Milkwater back to its source," he heard someone say. He thought he recognized the raspy voice to be Jarman Buckwell. "Yet if we go that path, Rayder will know of our approach, certain as sunrise."

"The Giant's Stair might serve," Ser Mallador said, "or the Skirling Pass, if it's clear."

"I would not go to the mountains at all," said someone in a thin, impossibly exhausted sounding voice. "The Frostfangs have a cruel bite even in summer, and now... if we should be caught by a storm..."

"I do not mean to risk the Frostfangs unless I must," Mormont said. "Wildlings can no more live on snow and stone than we can. They will soon emerge from the heights, and for a host of any size, the only route is along the Milkwater. If so, we are strongly placed here. They cannot hope to slip by us."

"They may not wish to. They are thousands and we will be three hundred when the Halfhand reaches us."

"If it comes to battle, we could not hope for better ground than here," declared Mormont. "We'll strengthen the defenses. Pits and spikes, caltrops scattered on the slopes, every breach mended. Jarman, I'll want your sharpest eyes as watchers. A ring of them, all around us and along the river, to warn of any approach. Hide them up in trees. And we had best start bringing up water too, more than we need. We'll dig cisterns. It will keep the men occupied, and may prove needful later."

"My rangers–," Thoren Smallwood began to say.

"Your rangers will limit their ranging to this side of the river until the Halfhand reaches us. After that, we'll see. I will not lose more of my men."

"Mance Rayder might be massing his host a day's ride from here, and we'd never know," Smallwood complained.

"We know where the wildlings are massing," Mormont came back. "We had it from Craster. I mislike the man, but I do not think he lied to us in this."

A while after the officers left the tent, following a grumpy-looking Thoren Smallwood, Jon and Aegon then took part in the sword drills, take turns fencing against Byrant, Oswell, Ser Garlan, Oberyn, and Lewyn five rounds each time. Ser Garlan was excellent, as Aegon again noted. He clearly won two of their five duels, Aegon won two, and one ended in a draw, though Aegon was sure that if Ser Garlan had been serious, he could have won that one as well. Both Oswell and Lewyn Aegon knew well enough from his daily drills with the Kingsguard to be able to hold his own against either. He won three out of five duels against each.

Oberyn was a challenge of his own, fast and precise and – in a true fight – deadly in his attacks like the red viper whose name he bore. However, after an initial defeat, Aegon quickly discovered that his uncle, despite his speed, had difficulty being clad in multiple layers of thick skins and leather and chainmail, which made him much heavier than he was used to be. It made him slow down quickly in a fight when he could not secure a quick victory. In the end, Aegon had won trice and once they had parted in a draw. In his duels against Byrant Gargalen, however, he found he had no chance at all. Byrant was almost as fast as Oberyn, although he was just as broad in the shoulders and about as tall as Aegon. With sword in hand, it did not seem as if he were straining, but as if he were dancing, light-footed and elegant, clad in layers of wool, leather and armor or not. In a single duel with Byrant, Aegon barely managed to secure himself a draw. The others went so clearly to his opponent, however, that compared to him Aegon felt like a poorly handled puppet.

No wonder his children are Lord Tremond's pride and joy, Aegon thought. If Byrant had another brother who might one day inherit Salt Shore, there would be no better candidate for the Kingsguard in all the realm than him once a position becomes available. He had no brother, however, only a handful of cousins and his younger sister, the Lady Allara. What Lord Tremond, though Dornish, thought of the idea of a woman inheriting his seat, however, was widely known. So that would never come to pass. And Allara… Allara is so fair that some say she can even rival Rhaenys in beauty.

Aegon was not quite sure about that, even if it was undoubtedly true that she was indeed an exceptional beauty. Allara was the only one for whom he could ever have imagined developing feelings similar to those he had for his sister. Had Rhaenys not returned his feelings and had he thus been forced to turn his eyes and thoughts and feelings – not to mention his longings – to another woman, his choice would have been her.

To save themselves another disgrace in a duel against Byrant, and because it was better than sitting around uselessly, Aegon and Jon then volunteered to take over the watch near the camp. Oswell and uncle Lewyn then declared that they would of course accompany them, always staying in eyeshot of them both to be able to intervene in case something actually happened.

Together Aegon and Jon trudged through the dense forest down the hill for a while, then up again, then down again. Their walk through the woods down the hill, through brush and over loose stones and rocks, hard to see under moss, ferns, and patches of fresh snow, was treacherous and anything but pleasant. It wasn't long before Aegon was annoyed at having volunteered for this folly and couldn't wait to finally get back to a warm fire, sitting around uselessly or not. Jon on the other hand seemed to almost enjoy the march through the woods. He trudged between the trees with long, sure strides, looking for tracks, peering into the distance, listening for suspicious noises.

If he likes it so much, maybe I should suggest he take the black, Aegon thought. Lord Commander Mormont would be thrilled to welcome such a capable young man into their select ranks, and Jon has two younger brothers who could inherit Storm's End. It would work out perfectly.

The thought of Jon actually joining the Night's Watch, renouncing everything and everyone, and living out the rest of his days a miserable existence in some ancient ruin, Castle Black or the Shadow Tower or Eastwatch, with no reward other than the crude notion of honor the Night's Watch was so fond of touting, was so absurd that it made him smile for a moment. No, this was no life for his friend. This was not a life for any man with a sound head on his shoulders and a healthy dick between the legs.

Aegon now looked around a bit as well but saw little other than a seemingly impassable forest in front of them and the hill behind them. The hill had been given its name, Fist of the First Men, by the wildlings, as they had learned when they had first arrived. And rightly so. The hill jutted above the dense tangle of forest, rising solitary and sudden, and indeed it looked like a fist, Aegon had thought when he had first seen it from afar, punching up through earth and wood, its bare brown slopes knuckled with stone. The entire hill was steep and rocky, and at its summit loomed a chest-high wall of tumbled rocks that looked like a shattered crown. A broken ringwall of weathered grey stones with white patches of lichen and beards of green moss were all that remained of the old castle from the Dawn Age, built by the First Men and torn down again by time and weather and who knows what forgotten enemies. In this ring of stones, the Night's Watch had made camp and taken up positions to defend themselves. For even if it had more holes in it than a wheel of Dornish goat cheese, there was nothing far and wide that came closer to a defensible position than these meager remains of a wall.

They found something that might have been a large fragment of the old wall or maybe the remains of a fallen watchtower, about three dozen large boulders, which surprisingly still hung together due to the ancient mortar, lying on the western slope of the hill, having tumbled down the hill many decades or more ago, and climbed it to get a better view. From its top, they could now see over parts of the dense forest ahead, found scattered clearings and aisles in the distance, where small streams and rivers meandered through the forest, but most of what was beneath the treetops remained hidden in the gathering darkness under a sea of green and white. Together they looked toward the setting sun, finding the Milkwater farther to the west, on whose surface the fading sunlight shimmered like hammered gold. Upriver the land was more rugged, the dense forest giving way to a series of bare stony hills that rose high and wild to the north and west. On the horizon stood the mountains like a great shadow, range on range of them receding into the blue-grey distance, their jagged peaks sheathed eternally in snow. Even from afar they looked vast and cold and inhospitable.

I hate it here, Aegon suddenly thought and felt relieved to have finally admitted it to himself, even if he hadn't said it out loud. No matter how beautiful it is to look at. Anybody could be moving under that sea of green and white and more green, creeping toward the ringfort through the dark of the wood, concealed beneath those trees. Anybody or… anything. How would we ever know in time?

For a while they stood side by side in silence, looking out into the landscape. Aegon looked over at Jon, who was once again engaged in his favorite pastime, staring and brooding. Not for the first time, Aegon wondered how it was possible that these habits had passed so much from his father to Jon during his years in King's Landing, but not to him. Not for the first time, he wondered how it was possible that Jon, apart from his looks, had so much more of his father than he did and so little of his own father, Lord Robert.

"What's on your mind?" he finally asked.

"Nothing," Jon said after a moment, but Aegon could hear that wasn't true. "I've been having dreams again," he then said, hesitantly.

"Wolf dreams?"

"Yes, but somehow those were... different. But maybe not. I don't know," Jon said with a deep sigh. Aegon was silent, waiting. "Those dreams, the wolf dreams, were always just that. Dreams. No matter how lifelike they seemed. But… what if they weren't?"

"What do you mean?"

Jon sighed again, then took a few deep breaths.

"When we were at Craster's Keep, I had another one of those dreams, you know. I dreamed that the wolf was prowling around Craster's Keep instead of roaming the woods. I didn't think much of it, was just glad not to have had a nightmare of the Lord Commander's Tower again for once. But then, the next morning, I heard some men of the Night's Watch talking about finding tracks of a giant wolf. And, maybe my mind was just playing tricks on me there, but I could swear that in my dream I saw Samwell Tarly talking to a girl that night."

"Which he did," Aegon said, thoughtfully, with a nod.

"Which he did," Jon agreed. "What if that wasn't just a dream after all? What if... ah, no. You probably think that I've gone mad."

"What if you really were the wolf, you mean?" asked Aegon, also with a deep sigh. "I'm a Targaryen, Jon. Anyone else might consider you mad, but... there have been enough men and women in my family who have dreamed up things that in the end had come true. Prophetic dreams. Dragon dreams. Daenys the Dreamer, Daeron the Drunken, the second Daemon Blackfyre, even Aegon the Conqueror."

"Aegon the Conqueror?"

"Yes. Well, at least I suppose so. I've read some of the texts he wrote. You can hardly call them a diary, but they are from his hand. My father has a small collection of those writings in his library, but he doesn't usually give them a glance. A shame, if you ask me. In his writings, Aegon occasionally mentions things he saw in his dreams. Things that were important to him and that seemed to have influenced his decisions. And don't forget that Rhaenys and I had such dreams ourselves, back before we fully bonded with Meraxes and Balerion," Aegon said, looking over at his friend. Jon was still looking out into the wilderness, however, as if he was hoping that somehow somewhere out there the answers to his many questions were waiting for him. "When I ride Balerion today, there is a connection between us that is... deep and intense. It's hard to explain. I feel what he feels and he feels what I feel. I can even see through his eyes and he trough mine if he wishes. That's why Balerion always knows what I want him to do, without me having to command him with words or reins. He just knows. But still, we are always two separate beings, two separate minds, however closely connected. In those dreams, though... in those dreams, I was Balerion, if that makes sense."

"Yes," Jon said excitedly, his eyes wide. "Yes, exactly! I feel exactly the same way about the wolf. In my dreams, I am the wolf. So… you believe me?"

"Of course I believe you," Aegon said, frowning as if doubting his words was the most ridiculous thing in the world.

"But I'm not a Targaryen. So where would these dreams come from?"

"Well, you are a descendant of Orys Baratheon, the half-brother of the Conqueror. And your father's grandmother was a Targaryen as well. So you do have the blood of the dragon, Jon, though it may be some generations old. Besides, from your mother you also have the blood of the First Men. When it comes to magic, to the power that runs in blood, we like to think of the Valyrians of old, of House Targaryen, of the blood of the dragon, but... who knows what ancient magic may be contained in other bloodlines as well? It is said that the Rhoynar used magic to control the river, to summon waves and floods when they waged war against ancient Valyria. Not that it done them much good. Who knows what long-forgotten magic was... or is... contained in the blood of the First Men? The Valyrians may have perfected the mastery of magic, but they didn't invent it, after all."

"Magic," Jon repeated, more breathing than speaking.

"There's more going on in this world than we realize, Jon. I've become convinced of that. I know I've always dismissed my father's ramblings about magic and prophecy and fate as silly and foolish and absurd, but now I am feeling all the more silly and foolish for it. But... dragons waking from dead stone, wolf dreams, dragon dreams, dead men walking, and who knows what else... Something is going on. Something big is looming on the horizon. Big and terrible. I feel it now. Something is coming our way."

"Coming our way? What if it's already here and we just don't see it yet?" asked Jon, and at these words, spoken softly and yet as hard and clear as fresh steel, a cold shiver ran down Aegon's spine.

"Your Grace," Oswell's call interrupted them. "We should get back to the camp. It's getting late and the sun will be gone soon. You should not be out here at night."

"He's right," Jon sighed, "we should go back."

So they climbed down from the boulders again and made their way back to the camp, Oswell and his uncle Lewyn at their backs. The way back up the hill was even more unpleasant than the way down, and after only a few dozen steps Aegon's thighs burned as if they were on fire.

They heard distant laughter, the plaintive sound of pipes, as the four of them trudged back through the camp little more than half an hour later. A great blaze was crackling in the center of the camp, and he could smell stew cooking. They drifted over toward the fire. They found Byrant, Aidin, and Daman near the fire, along with some of the brothers of the Night's Watch, huddled around a small bubbling cauldron, while Lord Tyrion leaned against a tree trunk not far away, one of his books in his lap again.

"Warm yourselves while you can, my lords," said a man, Dywen his name, with a leathery face and wooden teeth, just as they arrived. With one hand, knotty like old roots, he stirred the small cauldron while burying the other under his cloak. Frost and snow shimmered on the black of the cloak like a thousand tiny stars that had fallen from the sky. "We have not found much dry wood. The night is getting cold, and without large fires, the next few nights will be even colder."

"Wonderful," Oswell sighed as he sank down beside Aegon on a felled log. "If need be, we can always burn some of the books Lord Tyrion has so generously allowed our horses to haul."

"Why does it not surprise me that you have no use for the written word, Ser Oswell?" asked Lord Tyrion without looking up from his book. "But do not fret. Should we return from this venture in good health, I will be very happy to teach you to read and write, ser. And until then, your little secret is safe with me."

"I'm perfectly capable of reading and writing," Oswell growled back. "I just don't really see why we had to carry packs of books, heavy as a man, out here into the wilderness with us, when a few swords and axes would probably have served us much better."

"Everyone fights with the weapons he has been given. My mind is my weapon. You have your sword, I have my mind... and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge."

"My old septon always said that books are dead men talking," said Eddison Tollet now, staring into the flames with tired eyes. "Dead men should keep quiet, is what I say. No one wants to hear a dead man's yabber."

He then took the bowl of the thick steaming stew that Dywen held out to Daman and began to eat, muttering something about worms and spiders. Aegon looked over at Lord Tyrion, who already seemed to be engrossed in his book again. It was a large tome that seemed almost absurdly huge on the little man's crooked legs. Should Lord Tyrion particularly appreciate this book, he would soon certainly experience a disappointment, judging by the considerable damage already done to the book by rain, snow and frost. A closer look at the cover then told him that it was Maester Elfren's work The Lands of Always Winter - An evaluation of the Free Folk, their customs and practices and their potential as a threat to the Seven Kingdoms.

Aegon didn't know the book well but he remembered having read a few chapters of it years ago on the instructions of the maesters who had been educating him and Jon in King's Landing. It was dry and boring, not exactly what one would call an exciting read before bedtime, and was, in the light of day, little more than a collection of stories and rumors that Maester Elfren, who had never left Oldtown all his life, had picked up somewhere, probably in some tavern or brothel. Nevertheless, among more than a few maesters of the Citadel, it was considered the standard work on the wildlings, he knew.

If Lord Tyrion particularly appreciates this book of all books, thought Aegon, then he is probably beyond help anyway.

"I've been asking myself the same question, though," Aegon then said, addressing Lord Tyrion. "What do you want with all these books beyond the Wall? Aside from keeping your mind sharp, they don't seem to have any particular use for us. And you could probably accomplish that even better, if you drank a little less."

"Oh, I've often enough told myself that I need to drink less, my prince," Lord Tyrion said.

"Then why do you not?"

"Because I certainly won't listen to a drunk who talks to himself," Lord Tyrion said with a broad smile. It hardly made him any prettier, however.

"If you weren't drunk all the time, or reading one of your books," Oswell then said, "you could at least make yourself useful. Tend the horses or the hounds, perhaps, or stand guard."

"Stand guard? I doubt that I, of all people, would be much of an obstacle if the wildlings suddenly decided to attack, ser," Lord Tyrion said.

"Probably not, but perhaps they would be so terrified at the sight of you that the rest of us would have enough time to form up to defend ourselves. They've certainly never seen anything as small and twisted as you before."

"Then why don't you stand on the wall, pull down your breeches, and hold your cock out into the night, ser? They've certainly never seen anything as small and twisted as that either."

Aegon, grinning, stopped Oswell from answering Lord Tyrion again with a shake of his head. The two had already had their fun teasing each other today, and twice in one day was just too many times for Aegon's liking. Oswell, thankfully, kept silent, even though Aegon immediately recognized the impish grin on the knight's face, certain that a no less biting comment had already been on the tip of his tongue.

"So what about the books now?" Jon then asked, apparently not in the mood to listen to the two of them fighting again either. "If we actually spared a horse for the books, just so you could kill some time with them in the evenings, then I guess we really had done better to pack more swords and axes, or a few more supplies, something other than dried meat and hard cheese."

"It is by no means just a matter of killing time, Lord Jon," Lord Tyrion said. "All those books that one of the horses so bravely and diligently carried are books about the lands beyond the Wall. For the most part, however, written by men who have never even set foot in these lands. I want to know how much of what is written here is true and how much is not."

"So it's a bit of an intellectual exercise? Still sounds suspiciously like killing time," Aidin said.

"It's much more than that. In any war and any battle and any fight, knowledge about your enemy and the potential dangers that lay ahead is at least as important as a strong sword arm. Is it not so?"

"So it is," agreed his uncle Lewyn. "To know your enemy is to defeat him."

"Thank you, my prince. And to gain knowledge, it is not enough to just read a few books. You must also be able to know what you can believe and what is better enjoyed with a grain of doubt. This is even more important the less you know about your enemy. And as little as we know about the wildlings, there is hardly an enemy we know so little about as the one who tried to kill Lord Mormont. So knowledge of what awaits us will be crucial when the war comes that His Grace is expecting."

"If the war comes," Aidin said.

"Not if, just when, young friend. Or do you seriously believe that this… force, whatever it was, that sent the fat, undead bastard to kill the Lord Commander in his sleep just wanted to take a look and see what the world south of the Wall is like? And then it decided to let it go because one of his wights burned to ashes? This war, against whom or whatever, will come. A few weeks ago, I would have thought the king as mad as his late father for making this claim but today… not anymore," Lord Tyrion said.

He slammed the book shut on his lap, threw it aside carelessly and then stood up. With the light of the fire behind him, he looked almost imposing, Aegon found. Lord Tyrion then looked into the round and Aegon couldn't help but stiffen for a moment under the pure determination in the little man's gaze, as unsightly as his face may have been.

"We all saw what happened in that tower that night at Castle Black," he then continued. "Or at least we all saw the remnants of it. Prince Aegon and Lord Jon even saw it up close, fought it, killed it, as far as you can kill something that is already dead. Can anyone still seriously doubt that the threat is real? Certainly not. We all know that this war is coming, and as it stands now, we are not only terribly ignorant of our enemy, but also hopelessly unprepared for the fight. And the only thing that can help us to prepare ourselves, perhaps in time after all, is to acquire as much knowledge about what is coming as we possibly can."

"I still don't understand-," Oswell began.

"I know you don't, ser," Lord Tyrion interrupted him. "And that, to my regret, is not likely to change in my lifetime. Here's the thing, though. Whatever we find here in these endless woods beyond the Wall, we're going to have to frame it properly in order to respond to it appropriately. And books can help us do that. Books are voices from the past, the memory of our ancestors. But they can only do that if we also know how far we can trust them, which parts are true, which parts are false and where to look for more, for a hint or a hidden meaning, that might save us one day."

"Then we should head back to the Wall as soon as possible. The Wall is our best protection, is it not? There, you can read all you want, my lord," said one of the black brothers of their round, a tall lad with a thick neck. "So why not turn around and go back? Tonight at best?"

"I know this wood as well as any man alive," Dywen then said, before spitting into the flames before them, "and I tell you, I don't care to be out in these woods tonight. I don't like it."

"You don't like what?" asked Eddison Tollett.

"Well, the smell. I don't like it. Can't you smell it?"

"All I can smell is the shit of two hundred horses. And this stew. Which has a similar aroma, now that I sniff it."

Grumbling, Dywen filled Jon's bowl from the kettle, who accepted it but looked anything but happy down into the gray mush. He filled another bowl and handed it to Oswell, who however passed it directly to Aegon. Aegon was glad he made no comment about the fact that he, as crown prince, should have been the first to get his stew served. By now, although he still didn't like how little some of the men sometimes paid attention to his rank, Oswell had begun to cut them some slack when they misbehaved in his presence. Most of them were commoners, robbers or thieves or just spare sons of innkeepers or whores, and few of them had ever seen the inside of a castle. So they could hardly be expected to know court etiquette. Apart from at least trying to be careful to address Aegon and the others by their correct titles, they obviously did not. Aegon now also looked down at the hot mush in his hands, not too happy as well. The stew was thick with barley, carrot, and onion. It would fill his belly and warm him, but he would probably have to work hard to ignore the taste as best he could.

It looks like mortar, he thought, and smells like it, too. With my luck, it probably even tastes like it.

"What is it you smell, Dywen?" someone then asked.

Dywen sucked on his spoon a moment. He had taken out his teeth, which made him look like an old hag while eating.

"Seems to me like it smells.... well... cold," he finally said.

"Your head's as wooden as your teeth," one man said. "There's no smell to cold."

There is, thought Aegon, remembering the night in the Lord Commander's chambers. It smells like death.

A glance over at Jon, who was scowling at him out of his gray eyes, spoon in hand but not eating at all, told him he was thinking much the same thing as he was. They sat near the big fire in the middle of the camp for a while but spoke little. The wind was now beginning to cut more sharply, the air growing so cold it felt like burning on the skin, as the sun had fully disappeared behind the mountains and the sky turned as black as the cloaks they all wrapped themselves in. The night would get even colder, Aegon knew. Dywen, the old hag with no teeth, was right. This night would be ghastly and the coming nights would hardly become more pleasant.

I must not forget to thank father for this unique experience once I get back to King's Landing, he thought grimly as he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The first thing I'll do when I get back is to take a hot bath. Really, really hot. For hours. And Rhaenys will be with me. Naked, as she should be. In my bathtub. Once I'm back, I'm going to lock us in our bedroom and forbid her to wear any clothes at all for at least a week.

Before he could sink deeper into the pleasant, warming thoughts of his sister, however, Dickon Tarly's excited voice snapped him out of them again.

"Has anyone here seen him?" he asked, as he came toward them, looking around as anxiously as a little boy on his way into the sept to confess his childish sins.

"Who?" asked Jon.

"My brother, my brother Samwell. He's not in the camp. He's not back from digging latrines yet."

Aegon remembered that Lord Mormont had wanted to punish the fat lad for his loose tongue and thoughtless babbling at Craster's Keep. Samwell Tarly, though expressly forbidden, had told around that the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and the sons of some influential lords belonged to their group, apparently to impress a girl, one of Craster's younger wives. Fortunately for them and himself most of all, nothing had come of it, so Lord Mormont had left it at what he called a little lesson. This little lesson, however, digging latrines in the woods outside the ringwall deep enough to last for at least a few days for the whole two hundred men, had begun before noon already. Even if he had tried to dig these latrines with his bare hands and not with a shovel, he should long have been done with it by now.

"Must have deserted, the fat coward," said one of the black brothers. Dickon Tarly gave him a murderous look but said nothing.

"No way," said the tall fellow with the thick neck. "The forest is full of fresh snow. It would be far too easy to track him and hang him from the nearest tree as a traitor. Sam is as cowardly as they come, but he's not stupid."

"Then we should go find him," Aegon said, rising. He didn't really feel like stomping through the night-black forest in this freezing cold, but he felt even less like sitting on his arse the entire night. Also, he hoped that a little movement might drive the chill from his bones if he couldn't warm himself with thoughts of his Rhaenys anyway.

"Your Grace, this is far too dangerous," Oswell said.

"Oswell is right," his uncle Lewyn agreed with him. "You should stay here, inside the ringwall. We'll help look for the boy."

"No, we'll all go," Aegon then decided, however. "We'll probably just find him standing in a hole in the ground with a shovel in his hand, but if anything has happened, we need to know. As soon as possible. And the more eyes are looking for him, the faster we'll find him."

After brief but respectfully muffled protests from Aidin, Daman, and Lord Tyrion, they then rose from their seats, got some other men to join them and, divided into four groups, set out. Aegon, Oswell, uncle Lewyn, Jon, and Lord Tyrion took over the western side of the hill, Dickon Tarly, along with two black brothers and Ser Garlan took over the eastern side. Robb Stark and Ser Robar, accompanied by three more black brothers, went to north, while Byrant and his uncle Oberyn, also three black brothers trailing behind them like some ducklings, went south.

Aegon could hear the wind whistling through cracks in the rocks as they neared the ringwall. A voice called out a challenge and Aegon stepped into the torchlight.

"We're looking for someone, one of your brothers," he called to the man in the trees.

"Go on, then," the guard said. "Be quick about it."

Huddled beneath his black cloak, with his hood drawn up against the wind, the man didn't even seem to have listened to what Aegon had actually shouted to him. As long as an answer had come, he probably assumed that it wasn't a wildling that was skulking through the night here.

Had the wildlings already come this close, his stupid shouting wouldn't have done him any good anymore anyway, Aegon thought.

Oswell slipped sideways between two sharpened stakes, Aegon followed, then uncle Lewyn, then the others. Some torches had been thrust down into a crevice, their flames flying pale orange banners when the gusts came. Oswell snatched one up as he squeezed through the gap between the stones, his uncle Lewyn took another. In a line they went down the hill, the torches high above their heads as they made their descent, softly lighting the ground but not blinding their eyes. The camp sounds faded behind them quickly. The night was black, the slope steep, stony, and uneven. A moment's inattention would be a sure way to break an ankle… or a neck.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, he thought as they picked their way down.

The trees stood beneath them, warriors armored in bark and leaf, deployed in their silent ranks awaiting the command to storm the hill. Black, they seemed… it was only when the torchlight brushed against them that Aegon glimpsed a flash of green. Faintly, he heard the sound of water flowing over rocks.

They walked on, passing between the trees and struggling through thickets that seemed to tear at their boots and clothes like icy claws, hands that tried to hold them, not wanting to let them pass. Oswell and his uncle now held the torches so low that they could see the stones on the ground that threatened to trip them at every step, the thick roots that seemed to reach for their feet, the holes in which a man could twist his ankle with just one false step.

They began to call for Samwell Tarly, at first only every now and then, then more often, then at last with every step, but the nightly wind was swirling amongst the trees, whistling, almost as if screaming and wailing, drinking in the words.

This is madness, he thought as they plunged deeper into the trees. We could spend the whole night in this nasty cold, freezing our hands and feet off, without finding even a trace of the lad.

He was just about to give the order to turn back when Jon, a few steps ahead of them, suddenly called out.

"There's something there," he called out. "I saw movement."

Probably a branch in the wind, thought Aegon, scolding himself more and more for this stupid idea, pulling his coat even tighter around his shoulders. Or maybe a wild animal. With our luck, probably a bear, hungry and not yet in winter sleep. A few strong, meaty men would certainly come in handy for such a beast. If so, the bear will probably only eat Lord Tyrion, though. If we have to flee, he is certainly the slowest of us. Let's just hope he will sufficiently fill the beast's belly and it will leave us alone afterwards.

Jon walked a little ahead, the others following him, the light of the torches at his back. Time and time again, Jon, like all of them dressed entirely in black, seemed to merge with the dark forest around him. Again and again he disappeared between the trees, only to reappear a moment later. Finally he stopped amidst the scrub, thorns, and tumbled rocks at the base of the hill. Beyond the torchlight, the dark pressed close. They were standing in a small hollow, Aegon realized, where the wind was not blowing and whistling so hard.

A noise made them all turn to their left. They moved toward the sound, stepping carefully among boulders and thornbushes. Behind the roots of a giant fallen tree, towering higher in the air than even the Lord Commander's big tent, they then suddenly found Samwell Tarly, with his shovel in his hand and his whole head drenched with sweat, standing next to a small mound, hardly more than two hand width high.

He was supposed to dig a hole, not pile up a mound. Doesn't he know what a latrine is? And even if not... That can't possibly be all he got done throughout the entire day, Aegon thought.

"Samwell, here you are," Jon said. Samwell Tarly gasped in shock at Jon's voice and looked at them as frightened as if the Stranger himself was standing in front of him. He had raised the shovel in his hands as if to protect himself, but not high enough for a truly powerful blow. He probably wouldn't have had the courage for that anyway. "Your brother was getting worried. He's been looking for you."

"Prince Aegon, Lord Jon, and… and the others… I… I found something," said the sweating, fat boy. His round face, framed by nothing but black night, shone in the torch's glow as pale as the moon on a clear night.

"And what?" asked Aegon, freezing.

"I'm… I'm not sure. A grave, of sorts. I think," he said. "I... I've had to spend quite some time looking for a suitable place for the latrine, a place without roots and stones, where I can dig deep enough. And that's when I found this."

So you actually haven't been digging latrines all day, but rather strolling through the woods. Then what exactly do you have to sweat so much from? Walking? Breathing?

Oswell now stepped closer and lowered his torch, bathing the small mound in a warm light. There was not much to see, however, except a small heap of black soil, covered in frost and some fresh snow here and there. Jon now knelt on the ground beside it, inspected the heap for a while, and then began to dig into it with his bare hands. He made quick progress, as Aegon saw. The ground seemed loose, sandy. Jon pulled it out by the fistful. There didn't seem to be any rocks or roots. Whatever was here had been put here recently, he suspected.

Jon had quickly dug the small mound into a hole about two feet deep. Aegon was about to wonder why his friend didn't take the shovel that Samwell Tarly still held in his bloated hands, when he suddenly stopped digging and backed away.

"What is it?" asked Aegon.

"I touched something," Jon said. "Cloth."

Aegon knelt on the ground beside Jon, now also inspecting the hole Jon had dug. Together they carefully dug some more, exposing more of the cloth. They both then brushed the loose soil away to reveal a rounded bundle perhaps two feet across. Aegon had been expecting a corpse, fearing a corpse, but that bundle was hardly large enough for an upper body without its limbs and certainly not large enough for an entire corpse. A head and a few chopped off hands and feet maybe...

Oh please, no rotting head, he thought. Not when I've just choked down that awful stew. I really don't want to have to taste it backwards.

He and Jon then pushed against the fabric here and there and felt small, hard shapes beneath, unyielding. There was no smell, no sign of graveworms, thankfully. Jon then jammed his fingers down around the edges and worked it loose. When he pulled it free, whatever was inside shifted and clinked.

Treasure, Aegon thought in the first moment, but the shapes he had felt under the cloth were wrong to be coins, and the sound was wrong for metal.

A length of frayed rope bound the bundle together. His uncle Lewyn unsheathed his dagger and handed it to Jon, who immediately cut it, groped for the edges of the cloth, and pulled. The bundle turned, and its contents spilled out onto the ground, glittering dark and bright. He saw a dozen knives, leaf-shaped spearheads, numerous arrowheads. Aegon and Jon picked up a dagger blade each, feather-light and shiny black, hiltless. Torchlight ran along its edge, a thin orange line that spoke of razor sharpness.

"Dragonglass," Aegon said, puzzled.

"Obsidian," said Lord Tyrion, who had now pushed his way between them, also looking at their little treasure. "That's what the maesters of the Citadel call it. It's formed when volcanoes erupt and the lava cools quickly enough."

"There are no volcanoes that far north," Lewyn said.

"There aren't today, but there might have been in the past," Samwell said. "Volcanoes can die and in time become almost indistinguishable from ordinary mountains if one doesn't know what to look for. Besides, in relation to the size of the entire continent, Winterfell isn't that far away."

"Winterfell? What does Winterfell have to do with this?"

"There are hot springs underneath Winterfell," Lord Tyrion now threw in with an appreciative glance at Samwell Tarly. "And that heat has to come from somewhere."

"You mean Winterfell was built on a volcano?" Lewyn asked.

"There is plenty of it on Dragonstone. Plenty of dragonglass I mean," Aegon said, still admiring the blade in his hand. "Or obsidian, whatever you want to call it. The caverns under the fortress are full of that stuff. And you can find it in the walls in the tunnels that lead deep into the heart of the mountain."

"Tunnels? What tunnels?" asked Oswell. "I never heard of such tunnels."

"They are a secret. Well, sort of. Their existence is not so much of a secret. There have even been books written about them. But only our family knows where to find them," said Aegon. He turned the blade a little more in his hand, letting the light of the torch travel along the edge. He remembered how he and Rhaenys had played hide and seek in these tunnels as children, whenever they had resided on Dragonstone for a few weeks during the hottest summer months, and then later had shared their first, gentle kisses in these same tunnels. "I still don't get it. What would be the point of making weapons out of dragonglass? It is sharp, yes, but so fragile that it could never pierce through real armor. A good doublet of hardened leather would probably be enough already to break the blade."

"Maybe it is an ornament," Lewyn said. Aegon only hummed as an answer.

"That's an awful lot of ornaments in one pile, buried in the woods," Lord Tyrion said.

"Could be from a merchant. Got attacked and quickly buried his treasure here rather than have it taken from him," his uncle said.

"Do the wildlings even have such things as merchants?" Oswell asked.

"There's something else in that hole," Lord Tyrion then said. He reached over and pulled out an old war horn from under the pile of dragonglass, cloth and dirt. It was made from the horn of an aurochs and banded in bronze. Tyrion shook the dirt from inside it, and a stream of arrowheads fell out. He let them fall and pulled up a corner of the cloth the weapons had been wrapped in, rubbing it between his fingers.

"Good wool," he said, "thick, a double weave, damp but not rotted. Can't have been in the ground here long."

"And it is dark," Jon said. He now reached for the cloth as well and held it closer to the torch. "No, not dark. Black. The cloak of a brother of the Night's Watch."

Chapter Text

The wind was so icy that it cut even through his cloak, the two layers of leather separated by his chain mail, and the woolen doublet underneath as if Jon were wearing little more than a silken nightgown. For days now, the weather had been getting worse and seemed to only get worse and worse with each passing moment. There seemed to be little else left but thick snow or even thicker, frozen fog that enveloped their camp like a woolen blanket every morning. Standing at the western edge of the camp on the stump of a tree that the builders had cut down yesterday for the great fire in the center of the camp, he could look over the crown of the ringwall but saw nothing but white. The forest, a few days ago still composed of the white and gray of old snow and a seemingly unending number of different shades of green, broken only here and there by the red of a wild weirwood tree, had disappeared completely under a layer of fresh snow, shining so white that it hurt the eye. The sky had not been cloudless for days, a single, seemingly endless mass of black and gray, and the air was so full of snow, dancing and swirling around like countless tiny birds, that not even the Milkwater to the west was still visible. Even the foot of the hill, if one looked high enough over the ringwall, was already out of sight, hidden behind an impenetrable curtain of snow and ice.

His hands had stopped aching by now, so cold were they. The leather of his gloves, lined or not, kept off the biting cold even worse than the many layers of the rest of his clothing, of course. It had, however, helped at least a little to keep his hands busy. He had been carving all morning, as he had been the rest of the evening yesterday, making plain wooden hilts for the obsidian knife blades and distributing some of them among the men. They had turned out anything but beautiful, and in the end Jon had not even bothered to remove all the bark from the wood anymore when he had fitted the blades into the small notches in the wood. However, they would certainly serve their purpose. What purpose they could possibly serve, he had absolutely no idea, but somehow he felt in his guts that these weapons had not been buried here without reason.

Aegon had been given such a knife, Robb as well, as had Samwell Tarly and Prince Lewyn, who had even asked for it explicitly. Some of the men of the Night's Watch had also wanted such a knife, and Jon had gladly given them to them, even if the black brothers seemed to think of them less as real weapons and more as something like lucky charms. Now that he was finally done with a knife for himself, he pocketed his carving knife, examined his latest handiwork, and stowed his obsidian dagger in the small holster on the front of his doublet. The hilt was anything but beautiful as well but it was the best he could do now, numb and stiff as his hands were.

Jon knew that it was now time to head back to the great fire. If not even his sword hand hurt anymore, then it was high time. The burns had almost healed and aside from a few small scars on his hand and his forearm, probably nothing would remain. His sword hand was still fiery red, day and night, but so was his left hand, and so it was impossible for him to tell if the redness was still from his injury or from the cold. It really didn't make a difference anyway, though. The ointment he had been given to treat the burn had run out days ago, not to mention clean silk sheets. So, as far as that was concerned, there was nothing for him to do anyway but try to keep his hands warm and hope for the best.

He thus climbed down from the tree stump and set off. The great fire in the center of the camp, fed every day with the wood of an entire tree or more, rising three, four sometimes even five steps into the sky when it raged properly, was the only fire in the camp that burned day and night.

Mormont's Torch he had heard the men of the Night's Watch call it. A fitting name.

Jon tried to stretch a little as he walked to try to get the pain out of his joints and his back but did not succeed. Whether the pain was from the armor he wore every day, the mail he wore even night and day, the hard ground he had been sleeping on for weeks, or something else, he didn't know. All he knew was that he hadn't slept well for a long time, and by no means only because of the hellish cold. For some time now, since they had left Craster's Keep, he had not had any wolf dreams, and after his conversation with Egg about dreams and visions and dangers looming on the horizon, he wasn't even sure if he should be happy or worried about it. Egg had said something about his own dreams, the dragon dreams he had had as a child, that had stuck with Jon ever since.

The dragon dreams had stopped when he had fully bonded with Balerion, as if those dreams, growing stronger and more intense with each passing night, had led him right to it. But could such a thing even be the case here? What should Jon's dreams, his wolf dreams, lead him to? To bond with a direwolf to then ride into battle on its back? Hardly. It simply did not make any sense. And why had his dreams been so strong in Winterfell back in the day, only to suddenly disappear again, and then come back some time ago in King's Landing, only to disappear again now? No, it all made no sense.

Jon tried to think of something else as he stood by the big fire, Mormont's Torch, and stretched his stiff hands toward the heat. Some of the men nearby were still unknown to him. That morning, before sunrise, the man named Qhorin Halfhand had arrived with almost a hundred more men from the Shadow Tower, men with stern faces behind bushy beards, looking as if they had spent not a few weeks but a few years in the wilderness, half-frozen and dead tired. He had heard that the men had run into a wildling named Alfyn Crowkiller on their way here and had taken him and his companions out. Some had escaped them, though. It had cost them the lives of four brothers, a dozen were wounded, but the Crowkiller, apparently a downright legend among wildlings and Night's Watch alike, would no longer be able to trouble the realm. Jon supposed that was a good thing. As far as he knew, this Alfyn had been one of the bloodiest raiders of the wildlings, taking his name from the many brothers of the Night's Watch he'd slain. Whatever war they would soon have to fight and against whom, it would be good not to have to worry about such a man, neither when having to fight against him, nor when having to count on his loyalty in battle against a common enemy.

Jon had also heard from Egg that this Qhorin seemed hardly able to wait to leave the safety and relative warmth of the camp again to go on an expedition to find the wildlings in the Frostfangs. Whether his men were also so eager to get back out into the cold to roam through the Frostfangs, an even more deadly, even more unforgiving wilderness than this one, and possibly run right into the arms of the wildlings, he dared to doubt. The men near him, who had been standing so close to the fire for half the day that one could think they were about to crawl into it, at least did not make that impression on him.

Jon had, after Egg had returned from and told him about his meeting with the Lord Commander and the Halfhand this morning, even thought about possibly accompanying the man. Maybe he would find something that they could then take back to King's Landing as evidence. Then at least they would finally have a reason to break camp and head home. Aegon had forbidden him to do so, however, and Jon had sensed that he had been quite serious about it.

"However we survive the next days and weeks," he had said, looking at him urgently with his striking purple eyes, "we're more likely to make it if we stay together. I need to be able to rely on you, Jon, just as you can rely on me. Besides," he had added with a deep sigh after a brief pause, "I have the uneasy feeling that we'll soon have more evidence of all sorts of things than we'd like."

"A dragon dream?"

"No, I haven't had one of those in years. Just this... feeling. In my bones. We sit around here and wait for something to happen. Something will happen eventually. But I doubt that it will be something good."

So Jon had abandoned the idea of volunteering to accompany the Halfhand into the Frostfangs after that. He knew Robb and Robar Royce had been thinking about it as well, though. Robb wanted to search for their uncle Benjen, Robar for his younger brother Ser Waymar, who had disappeared beyond the Wall some time ago. Last they had learned from Craster that Ser Waymar, along with two experienced rangers of the Night's Watch, had made camp in his so-called keep for a single night. After that, however, their tracks had been lost. About uncle Ben, not even Craster had known anything. Jon had eventually been able to convince Robb, with words similar to those he had received from Aegon, not to go. Robar, however, seemed determined, which Jon could hardly blame him for.

Jon walked along the edge of the great fire and looked around in their camp. Some distance away, he saw Aegon, Prince Oberyn, Prince Lewyn, and Byrant Gargalen practicing with the sword, warming up by physical labor rather than the fire. Against the young Dornishman, however, all three seemed to have trouble holding their own. It was impressive with what ease the man seemed to dance around his opponents with the blade in hand. Only Prince Oberyn, who seemed to be able to hold his own for a longer time mainly due to his swiftness, seemed to be almost on a par. In the end, however, he was also defeated in more duels than not. He himself had last tried his luck yesterday against the nephew of the Sword of the Morning but, not yet familiar with his new blade, had clearly lost every single duel against him. The dominance with which Byrant had also defeated Aegon in almost all their duels, however, left Jon in strong doubt that his old sword would have brought him better luck.

Jon then saw Tyrion Lannister sitting near the fire on a small chair that looked suspiciously like he had stolen it from the Lord Commander's tent, once again a book on his lap and a steaming mug in his hand. The brothers of the Night's Watch near him, crowded around a small, bubbling cauldron of the usual pale stew, glared at him so grimly that Tyrion, had he paid attention to their gazes, would undoubtedly have feared for his life. He did not, however. Jon assumed that the cup in his hand was not filled with stew, but rather with hot and certainly good wine, which might be one of the reasons why the black brothers seemed to almost stab him with their glances.

A little farther away, he finally found Samwell Tarly sitting on the ground, his back leaning against a tree stump and wrapped in his huge black cloak, which no longer seemed as huge around his broad but much too round shoulders as it had around the shoulders of the girl in Craster's Keep. Jon had expected to find him drawing a new map for Lord Mormont or examining some of the strange weapons made of obsidian – dragonglass, as Aegon had called it. Instead, he was sitting there with a book on his thick legs as well, which he had no doubt borrowed from Tyrion Lannister, inspecting the broken horn they had found among the strange blades and arrowheads.

They had presented their find to the Lord Commander that same evening, who had also identified the black cloth as a cloak of the Night's Watch. He had been equally unable to make sense of the obsidian weapons, however, and had thought the horn to be no more than garbage.

"No doubt whoever buried these things there had had no other vessel for the fragile blades than this horn. Nothing more," the Lord Commander had said, wanting to throw it into the fire. Samwell Tarly had cried out like a young girl frightened by the sight of a naked man for the first time and had begged him to let him keep the horn. With a displeased growl, the Old Bear had agreed. "As long as it doesn't keep you from your duties, Tarly," he had said, "you can play around with it all you want."

"Ser Samwell," Jon greeted him as he stopped in front of him.

"Lord, lord, lord Jon," he stammered as he looked at him, startled. "I am not a ser, my lord. So Samwell will do."

"All right. Then Jon will do as well," he said with a smile, hoping it might dispel the shock that still seemed to run through the young man's bones. "May I?" he asked with a nod to the empty spot across from Samwell.

"But, but of course," he said.

Jon lowered himself to the ground and again pulled his cloak a little tighter around his shoulders. The warmth of the fire barely reached him here, and he inevitably wondered why Samwell, not necessarily giving the impression that he was coping well with the freezing cold, had sat down so far away from the fire. He had already noticed several times, however, that Samwell did not necessarily enjoy the greatest reputation among his sworn brothers and could therefore already guess.

"And have you had any luck with the horn? When are we going to hear its call, then?"

"Never, I guess," Samwell said, shrugging his round shoulders. "I cleaned the horn, as best I could anyway, but it's broken and splintered around the edges. I tried to sound it a couple of times, but nothing came out. The damage is too severe, it seems."

"So Lord Mormont was right. It's just garbage after all."

"Oh, no. Not at all, my lord," Samwell protested. "It's the horn of an aurochs, and the bands are bronze. Nothing special so far. But I did find something. Take a look at this spot. Right there," he said, handing Jon the horn and pointing to a specific spot on the inner edge of one of the bronze bands with one of his chubby fingers. Samwell had indeed removed most of the dirt and gotten the horn surprisingly clean, but this had hardly made the horn any prettier. Jon took the horn and looked closely at the spot.

"You even got the green off the bronze," Jon said appreciatively. "How did you manage that?"

"Oh, that was easy," he said proudly. "I thinned the juice of some of the lemons that the Lord Commander usually takes in his ale in the morning with a little water. It makes the patina come off easily, my lord."

"Patina... that's what it's called?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Impressive. But then you'd better pray to the Seven that the Lord Commander won't miss those lemons any time soon. Otherwise you'll certainly be doing nothing but digging latrines for not just a day, but an entire month," Jon said with a faint grin. Samwell's face suddenly turned pale, as if he hadn't thought about that at all. "Don't worry about it," he then said, trying to calm down the frightened young man again. "Should Lord Mormont notice, we'll just say I took the lemons. He wouldn't be happy of course, but he certainly wouldn't let the heir to Storm's End dig latrines either. And please, call me Jon already. So what am I supposed to see there?"

"If you look closely, my... Jon, you can see fine lines there, little engravings. I think they're runes, maybe in the language of the First Men. The wildlings still speak the Old Tongue to some extent, but they no longer have a written language as far as we know. So that would mean that this horn is at least some hundreds, maybe even thousands of years old. I cannot yet make sense of how it would have survived so long, but maybe these runes can give us a clue as to what kind of horn it is, who it belonged to, or why it was buried there along with the knife blades and the arrowheads. As soon as I am able to decipher the runes, anyway. So far I've only been able to make out one rune and that one means horn or rhyton. So no big help so far."

Jon now held the horn closer to his eyes, looking at the spot again. He turned the horn a little in the pale light of the sun, struggling to break through the dense clouds, and the golden glow of the fire at his back. Indeed, he now discerned fine lines in the bronze of the band. All he saw were scratches and small nicks in the ancient metal, though. Runes he did not find there. Jon, however, refrained from sharing his assessment with Samwell Tarly, not wanting to spoil his enthusiasm.

"Looks good," Jon said but immediately feeling silly for not having come up with anything better. "Let me know as soon as you find out anything else," he then said as he handed the horn back to Samwell and rose from the ground. His legs had already begun to ache in the uncomfortable position and his butt was ice cold from sitting on the frozen ground. Some warmth from the fire and perhaps one of those cups with hot wine, like Tyrion Lannister had had one, would do him good.

The rest of the day passed surprisingly quickly, even though afterwards he couldn't say exactly what he had been doing all that time, except circling the big fire, Mormont's Torch, over and over again, checking on the horses, and avoiding any more duels against Byrant Gargalen. They had, to their own surprise, not yet lost any of the horses, neither to the cold nor to hunger, but as skinny and freezing as the pitiful animals looked, it would hardly be long before they would be able to enjoy some fresh meat again, horse meat. Small fires, the only ones other than Mormot's Torch, had been lit near them, and the horses were wrapped in more blankets and furs than most of the men, it seemed. However, this hardly seemed to help. With some of the animals he was not even sure whether they would not do them a favor to end their suffering and cut their throats, quickly and painlessly. However, they would need horses if they wanted to remain fast and mobile as soon as they encountered and possibly fought the wildlings – or worse. And so the men had to make do without fresh horse meat and the animals had to continue to freeze. Jon had then watched as the Halfhand and two other officers had left the camp again with four other men each, fortunately without Robb and Robar Royce, to scout the three only ways into the Frostfangs. Jon had then gone back to the fire to keep himself warm, as he had done for most of the day.

To his surprise, some black brothers who had spent the day patrolling near the camp outside the ringwall had found the freshly killed carcass of a deer. They were greeted like returning war heroes by their brothers as they carried the dead animal out of the forest and into the camp. So finally they would get fresh meat again, even if only a little. From the trained eyes of the men, it was the prey of a shadow cat or a pack of wolves. Some of the men disagreed, saying that the bite wounds were too large for a wolf and that it was more likely a bear that had killed the deer. Jon felt a cold shiver run down his spine when he heard this but said nothing. He did, however, notice the look Aegon gave him at these words. Why the beast of prey, whether cat or wolf or bear, had killed this deer without eating it however, none of them had been able to answer. The men, however, lost no time and quickly began to cut up the deer and cook soups and stews from it in large cauldrons to make the largest possible meals from the little meat the small animal offered.

The amount of meat Jon ended up finding in his bowl then, was – accordingly – downright ridiculously small, but at least the flesh of the deer had given a somewhat savory flavor to the stew he was now eating, so that the thick gruel of carrots, onions, turnips, and some wild herbs they had found inside their camp seemed almost like a feast to him.

"I'm telling you, we should have been there with them," he heard Robar Royce mutter as he and Robb sat down next to Jon and began to eat as well.

"Where should you have been?" asked Jon.

"At the meeting between Prince Aegon and the Lord Commander," Robb said, looking around briefly, much as if to make sure the prince wasn't around to hear Robar's complaints. Egg, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"It's unbelievable," Robar spat. "My brother is out there, alone and on his own, and I'm just supposed to sit here. Is this His Grace's idea of what it means to be there for each other, to be loyal and true? Our prince doesn't have a brother. He probably doesn't even know what those words even mean."

"That's enough," Robb warned him.

"It wouldn't have made any difference had you been there anyway," Jon said. "The Lord Commander is right. The lands around us are just too vast to find anyone here. It is easier for one man to find three hundred than for three hundred men to find one. From the ringwall we can hardly see to the foot of this hill, but the light of our fire, Mormont's Torch, can be seen for miles and miles and miles, even through to snows. If Waymar and Benjen are out there, alive and free, they'll see the light of that fire and then they'll find their way here."

"Let's hope you're right," Robb said, but seemed anything but satisfied with that.

"I, for one, am not going to just sit here and wait for my little brother to stumble into our camp on his own. Neither the Lord Commander nor Prince Aegon can ask that of me. We should go and find them," Robar said, louder this time. "If we leave immediately, we're sure to catch up with this… Halfhand. And if not, it doesn't matter. Then we'll just fight our way through the woods alone."

"And where will we go?" asked Robb. "Jon's right. We don't even know where to start looking, do we? The lands beyond the Wall are too vast. We could spend a lifetime here without finding so much as a single footprint of your brother or my uncle."

Robar looked at Robb, dismay and disappointment and even disgust in his gaze, as strong as if he wanted to spit in Robb's face at any moment. Instead, he tossed his bowl of hot soup into the flames in front of him and jumped up from where he sat.

"If your uncle isn't worth even a few days alone in the woods to you, Lord Robb, then I'll go alone," he spat, stomping off before any of them could say anything more. Ser Garlan and Dickon Tarly also rose from their seats and followed Robar to talk him out of the nonsense and bring him back, as they said. Jon wasn't sure what Dickon would be able to do to convince him, but he knew that Robar had by now developed great respect for Ser Garlan, at least. If there was anyone who could convince him, it was certainly him.

For a while Robb and Jon sat by the fire alone, surrounded only by a few silent brothers of the Night's Watch, their serious, weather-beaten faces fixed firmly into the great fire or into one of the numerous, bubbling little cauldrons, before Egg, sweaty from his last sword practice, accompanied by Aidin and Daman, equally sweaty, joined them. They too had bowls of stew handed to them but were hardly more enthusiastic about the only marginally improved taste than Jon had been.

"So this is the deer stew I was promised?" asked Daman, letting a little of the brownish mash drip from his spoon back into the small bowl in his hands. It was thick, like overcooked oatmeal, and had the color of loamy earth.

"It's stew and there's deer in it. So what are you complaining about?" asked Aidin.

"About everything else," said Daman, dripping down another spoonful without eating any of it. Jon looked at him, frowning. Daman had never been picky about food. If it had been warm and filled his belly, Daman had eaten it. Aegon apparently noticed his questioning look.

"Our good Daman here is just pissed because he lost some rounds of Loser-tells-the-Truth," Aegon said with a grin.

"Loser-tells-the-Truth?" Robb asked, confused.

"For every fatal hit with a sword in a training duel," Jon began to explain, "the person hit has to truthfully answer a question asked to him afterwards. Any question."

"Ah, I see. And that's fun?"

"Not for the loser," Aidin said with a wide smirk.

"So what did you guys find out?" asked Jon.

"That's really not necessary," Daman wanted to say, but Aidin interrupted him.

"Daman's in love."

"Yeah, so what? I'm not ashamed of it."

"Then why have we only found out about it in Loser-tells-the-Truth?"

"Because it's just none of your business," Daman said, starting to shovel the stew into his mouth as if that would end the conversation.

"And who is it?" asked Jon.

"We left that little secret to him," said Aegon, now beginning to eat as well. "At least until next time."

"We don't know the name, but Daman fell in love when we were at the tourney in Nightsong," Aidin proudly told. "Since Nightsong is in the Stormlands, it's probably Renly Baratheon."

"Ha ha ha," Daman scoffed. "Aidin is just making fun of it to distract from the fact that he's never truly fallen in love in all his life and probably never will."

"Daman, old friend, I, like you, have spent most of my life in King's Landing. Beautiful women grow on the trees there. I've truly fallen in love at least once a day."

"See? He doesn't even know what love is," Daman said, hurling a spoonful of the stew at Aidin.

"It's certainly true that you could use a little help when it comes to women," Aegon told Aidin before the latter could object. "At least if you ever want to find one to stay with you for more than one night."

"What do you mean?" asked Aidin indignantly.

"Stop your whining while you're screwing," Egg said with a straight face. It took half a heartbeat before Daman burst out laughing. Coughing, almost choking on his stew he finally caught his breath after a few moments.

"Whining? I'm not whining," Aidin protested.

"You sure are. Remember when we were all together at the tourney in Harrenhal for Daman's name day? Your tent was between mine and Daman's. Do you remember, Daman?"

"You bet I do. I won't forget those sounds for the rest of my life."

"You took that handmaiden into your tent, Aidin, and you two had some fun. Well, you did, at least. She probably didn't. All the while you were whining like a little girl who got her ass beaten red and blue. I thought we would have to rush into your tent at any moment and save you from the girl, that's how whiny you sounded. So if you can't say anything nice to the girl while you're doing it, at least shut the fuck up so you don't sound like it's you who's losing your maidenhead and not her."

All of them, except Aidin, laughed heartily. Jon saw that even Robb, of whom he knew was reluctant to talk about such topics, let alone joke about them, couldn't help but laugh out loud. The others then generously decided to leave Aidin in peace as Egg turned the conversation to the new falcons his father was planning to buy in Essos. They talked for a while about falcons, the advantages and disadvantages of falcons from Norvos and Pentos and Dorne, then about tourney horses from the Reach compared to those from the Vale and the Riverlands. Jon stopped listening at some point when the conversation, however this had happened, began to turn to which shoemaker in King's Landing was making the best boots.

Robb and Jon drank some more tea together before wishing the others a good night and then heading to their tent together. Since the nights had gotten so cold and the numerous tents of the nearly three hundred men could not all be close enough to the fire to catch any of the warmth, the Lord Commander had decided that from now on two men should always sleep together in a tent to keep each other warm. No one had been particularly enthusiastic about this prospect, but there had been no real opposition either. Since Prince Lewyn and Ser Oswell had decided to take turns sleeping in a tent with Aegon, one sleeping while the other was standing guard, something his best friend had given in to but which he was anything but pleased about, Jon had partnered with Robb.

The sun was still quite high in the sky. It would be almost the better part of an hour before it would even begin to dusk, and certainly another two full hours before it was truly dark. Still, it was better, as they had learned over the past few nights, to go to bed early in their tents and fall asleep while the sun was still in the sky and could warm the inside of the tents at least a little. Shivering made it hard to fall asleep.

"You've been so quiet all day today," Jon said as they walked. "Are you all right?"

"Aye, everything's fine. I just can't wait to get back home. Back to Bethany, back to my wife."

"Yeah, me too," Jon said, cringing at the words that had slipped out of his mouth. In his mind, he scolded himself for opening his mouth at all, hoping that maybe Robb had overheard his words. He had not.

"You too? Back to your wife? You're not even married, Jon," Robb said with a laugh.

"No, I'm not. No. I meant I can't wait to get back to my family, father and mother and my brothers," he said, hoping it sounded believable enough.

"I get that," Robb said, obviously convinced. "I miss my family as well. I hope my father will return to Winterfell soon. Maybe he's already back once we return. It will be good just to be his heir again, not the lord. I wouldn't mind waiting a few more years for that. But most of all I just want to watch Bethany's belly swell, you know. Every day a little bit more. I can't wait to see her again."

"I believe you," Jon said and had to smile. "I didn't have enough time to really get to know Bethany when we stopped at Winterfell, unfortunately, but she seems nice. And she's lovely."

"Aye, she is," Robb said.

For a moment, Jon imagined the feeling of having a wife, too, watching her belly grow fuller and fuller, the child inside her, his child, growing more and more every day. He had to smile as he imagined that and thought about how he would do nothing but to kiss that beautiful belly for hours on end.

"I doubt that you'll be able to spend too much time alone with her, though," Jon said then. "Even if only half of what we fear actually happens, there will be a war and we will have to fight that war to hold the Wall and protect the realm. That's why we have to find evidence for what's going on here beyond the Wall. Whatever that may be. Once we have that, we can finally head back and you can go back to Bethany, if only for a while."

"Actually," Robb said after a moment, "I don't think so. We know and we've seen what's coming, even if we haven't found the wildlings yet. We can swear this threat is real."

Oh, Robb. You can't seriously think that the lords of the realm are going to empty their coffers and march their armies to the Wall just because you and I swear an oath, Jon thought.

"Somehow I doubt that this would be enough," he said instead.

"No one would have the right to doubt our word."

"No, but they would still do it."

"No honorable man would doubt the word of another honorable man just because he doesn't like what he hears. And if he does, Winterfell and the entire North will still stand ready to hold the Wall. So will Storm's End and the Stormlands," Robb said, pride in his voice.

Jon refrained from objecting that it was not at all certain that his lord father would be persuaded to call the banners in the entire Stormlands and march north, no matter what Jon told him afterwards. His lord father, as Jon knew only too well, thought little of His Grace's fears and concerns, and even less of the threat posed by the wildlings, whom he always dismissed as nothing more than club-wielding yokels. What he would say or do if Jon were to tell him that, even worse, he would have to fight undead men and White Walkers, enemies from stories and tales, he would rather not even imagine.

"And lastly, the Iron Throne stands ready to fight by our side as well," Robb went on. "After all, it was King Rhaegar himself who ordered this expedition in the first place. With the North, the Stormlands, and the dragons of the Targaryens, we will hold the Wall, Jon. I am sure of it. Who should be able to stand against such a force? And then, when all this is over and I am back with my Bethany, His Grace can take care of all those lords who have not honored their vows of fealty and hang them as the traitors they are."

But then there won't be many lords left alive in the realm, Jon thought bitterly.

What gave him even more of a headache, however, were the thoughts he had about the dragons and how much Robb seemed to rely on them to be decisive in the battle for the Wall. It was understandable that he thought so. On every battlefield, dragons were the most powerful weapon one could think of, even more so when it came to fighting enemies who were vulnerable to fire like the wights apparently were. At least at first glance. Jon was hardly convinced they would be too much of a help for them in this case, however. Nor was Aegon, as he knew. Egg had told him, after their arrival at Castle Black, of how much he had had to wrestle Balerion into carrying them so close to the Wall in the first place. The dragon simply had not wanted to come close to the Wall at all. Jon doubted, from what Egg had told him about it, that a dragon could be made to cross the Wall, whether the war for the survival of all mankind was raging on the other side or not. So how were the dragons supposed to help them, regardless of whether they were fighting wildlings or White Walkers, to hold the Wall if the enemy had to cross the Wall first for the dragons to attack them? He decided, however, to keep this doubt to himself for the moment.

"But let's talk about something joyful while we still can," Robb said then, putting an arm around Jon's shoulder. "I hear you're well on your way to being betrothed to a young lady yourself."

"What? Who says that?" asked Jon.

"No one, but Prince Aegon has hinted at it from time to time." Aegon, you stupid ass! "He probably thought I wouldn't notice." Or he thought you'd catch on to it a lot sooner. "So, who's the lucky girl? If I understand correctly, you've fallen hard for a young lady and now you still have to convince your lord father and lady mother of the match?"

"That's nonsense," Jon said gruffly.

"What is the problem? Is she of too low birth for the heir to Storm's End? I know how that feels. I had my eyes on Jeyne Poole once, years ago. You remember her? Sansa's best friend? But the daughter of the steward of Winterfell would never have been an option for the heir to Winterfell."

"So you and Jeyne Poole?" asked Jon, laughing. He remembered Jeyne Poole, whom he had met just before she had left for the Vale of Arryn with Lady Sansa. She had been pretty, with dark curls and a bright smile of perfect white teeth. That was about all he could remember, though.

"There was nothing," Robb said quickly. "We were just children and I didn't even dare say anything to her, but for a while I just couldn't take my eyes off her."

"Then thankfully, when we return to Winterfell, I won't have to deliver the bad news to Bethany that her husband is in love with another woman," Jon now said, grinning broadly. "But that's not how it is with me."

"Then she is not of too low a birth?"

"No," he said, immediately biting his tongue again.

"Ah, then there really is someone." Fuck. "So who is it? Just tell me the name, Jon. I don't know anyone south of the Neck personally, so I don't know her anyway."

If you only knew.

"I'll tell you her name as soon as things are decided. Then... I'll be waiting anxiously to hear what you think," Jon said with a sigh.

"Hmm, if you say so," Robb said, frowning.

They reached their small tent, wiped off the fresh snow to allow the sun to warm the black cloth a little more before they would fall asleep and then immediately lay down in it to get some sleep. The night would be cold, very cold, and probably Jon would only get precious little sleep again. With Robb lying next to him, though, he couldn't even in good conscience hope for a dream to keep him warm, not of the she-wolf with the golden eyes, and certainly not of her... of Arya. No, not with her brother beside him in the tent.

Jon looked around one last time before joining Robb in their tent. Yes, the night would be cold, deadly cold. He could already feel it with every breath he took. And the thick, frozen fog that was already rising, slowly beginning to creep over the ground from the dense woods into their camp, heralded a night that would only get colder.

Chapter Text

Robb's back and shoulders ached as if a rusty dagger were stuck in them when he opened his eyes. He forced himself not to make a sound so as not to wake Jon, who seemed to be fast asleep next to him. His cousin was muttering something to himself in his sleep, but without Robb being able to understand what it was. Robb blinked the sleep out of his eyes a few times but saw nothing but blackness around him. The sun had already set some time ago and so there was nothing around him but the black cloth of his clothes, the black cloth of Jon's clothes, and the black cloth of their tent in deep black night. For almost a week the sky had already been so cloudy that there had been no moon in the sky to give at least a pale light. At night, it seemed, all light and warmth and life had disappeared from the world.

It took Robb a moment to realize what had actually woken him up until he found that it had been his already painfully full bladder. Inwardly, Robb cursed himself for a moment for not having relieved himself before going to sleep, just a few hours earlier.

Briefly, he considered just remaining on the ground and enduring it. He had heard from some of the men of the Night's Watch, days before the nights had become as bitingly cold as they were now, that some of their brothers would rather soil themselves than leave their tents in the dead of night. At least, as they apparently thought, their piss was warm, if only for a while. But Robb wasn't quite ready to pee himself yet so as not to have to get up. Not by a long shot, icy cold or not.

When he did not rise immediately, his eyes fell shut again for a moment. He found himself listening to the wind whistling through the cracks in the wall, the branches of the trees, and past the frozen cloth of the tents. The wind sounded like a wailing child, and from time to time he heard men's voices, a horse's whinny, a log spitting in the fire. But nothing else. So silent was the night. In the darkness of the tent, he found Bethany's face floating before his eyes, sheer as shimmering glass, yet as warm and lovely as ever.

I miss you, he wanted to tell her. So much. Your warmth and your smile and the scent of your hair. When I'm back, I'll pick you flowers, my love. Wild roses in shining red and winter roses in the most wonderful blue. As many as I can carry.

His heart was thumping like a drum, so loud he feared it might wake the camp. He shook the thoughts of his wife out of his head, forced himself to open his eyes and sit up. Briefly, he rubbed his face to really wake up and noticed the ice that caked the beard all around his mouth. Since their departure from Castle Black, he had not shaved, and a still short but quite dense beard had begun to grow around his mouth and jaw. Robb wondered if Bethany might like his new beard.

Bethany.

He would see her again, return to her. But not yet. They still had a duty to perform here and he would not be doing himself any favors if he caused himself pain with thoughts of his wife. Involuntarily he wondered if Jon might miss his love as much as he himself missed his Bethany. His cousin had not wanted to talk about who the lady of his heart was, and Robb had decided not to speculate about it. He would find out sooner or later, either as soon as Lord Robert and his Aunt Lyanna agreed to the match and the betrothal was officially announced, or as soon as Jon, with or without his parents' consent, decided to let him know after all. Robb hoped for the former. If Jon really loved the girl, this way it would take a better outcome for his dear cousin.

He left the tent as quietly as possible so as not to wake Jon. The cold that waited for him behind the frozen cloth of the tent flap smacked him in the face like a fist. For a heartbeat, it almost seemed as if Robb couldn't even breathe. Then, however, his lungs became accustomed to the icy air, if only under painful protest. He was glad that, despite his aching feet, he had chosen to keep his boots on inside the tent. Otherwise, they would certainly be so cold from the inside that he would lose a few toes before the leather and the fur lining could give him even a little protection and warmth.

Outside the tent, Robb finally got to his feet. His legs were stiff, and the falling snowflakes turned the distant torches to vague orange glows. The snowflakes were huge and thick, their fall dense. He felt as though he were being attacked by a cloud of pale cold bugs. They settled on his shoulders, on his head, they flew at his nose and his eyes.

It's gotten even colder, he thought gloomily. How can it be that it can get even colder?

He remembered how just a few hours ago, two or three hours at most, he had walked through the camp, wind and snowflakes blowing in his face, thinking that it couldn't possibly get any colder. Compared to the cold in which he now found himself, the memory of the cold before going to bed seemed almost pleasant and warm.

He quickly reached into their tent one last time and pulled out the cloak he had been using as a blanket, throwing it around his shoulders. Briefly, he looked around to search for his sword on the ground next to their tent but did not find it. He remembered that he had leaned it against the shield waiting for him next to the tent, but it was nowhere to be seen there. The wind must have blown it over before the snow had it covered and hidden. He looked around some more, but without finding even a trace of it. The ground, apart from the fresh snow, was covered in such a thick, icy mist that he might as well have been standing knee-high in milk.

The pressure in his bladder suddenly came back to him painfully, and so Robb decided to walk to the nearest latrine without his sword. The Lord Commander had ordered that they all be armed at all times, but before he wet his pants at any moment, he would rather ignore that order for once. On the way to the latrine he would probably not encounter any enemies anyway. Besides, as he noticed when he tried to close the clasp of his cloak, his fingers were so cold and stiff that it would certainly have taken him an hour to properly buckle the sword belt.

Involuntarily, he asked himself how he was supposed to manage to relieve himself soon without unintentionally soiling himself after all with hands so stiff and clumsy. He pushed this thought aside until he reached the latrine, however.

"One problem at a time," Maester Luwin had always told him whenever he was in danger of failing in his lessons with a larger, more complicated exercise. "It's no use worrying your head about what bait to use to catch a fish before you even have a fishing rod in your hands. A journey always begins with the first step, not the last."

He started walking, carefully pushing his legs through the thick, milky mist more than walking, toward the somewhat smaller latrine behind the lines of horses, near the ringwall. There, in the glow of some of the torches that Lord Mormont had had spread all over the ringwall like a crown of fire, he would be easily seen relieving himself, but at least this spot was more sheltered from the wind than the other latrines. The largest latrines, where one did not feel so observed, had been dug outside the ringwall directly next to the stone of the wall, but Robb had no desire to fight his way through wind and cold and darkness now.

"If the bloody wildlings dare try to get over that wall, we'll let them wade through our shit first," he had heard a man of the Night's Watch laugh as the man had dug and dug and dug in the freezing wind for half a day.

Robb reached the latrine without trouble. He held his hands out to the glow of the torch directly in front of him for a brief moment, absorbing the faint yet incomparably pleasant warmth of the fire, before daring to undo the fastenings of his breeches and relieve himself. Through the dense mist on the ground, he could not see where exactly he was aiming, but hoped that he would hit the latrine. It probably did not really matter, however, since his water would have frozen hard long before he would have reached their tent again anyway.

On the other side of the latrine, facing away from the horses, the hounds of the Night's Watch were crouching on the frozen mud, huddled together like a single misshapen creature of shaggy fur. For a heartbeat, Robb was half tempted to crawl in with them. He heard them whimper, some even growl. Throughout the day today, some of the men of the Night's Watch had tried to hunt with the hounds, but apart from the long-cold trail of a bear, had found nothing, much less killed anything. Robb looked at the pitiful critters as he quickly fastened the laces of his breeches again. With each heartbeat, the animals' growls seemed to grow louder, as did their whines. Neither of them seemed to be directed at him, however.

Probably a brother of the Night's Watch is nearby, he thought. Patrolling outside the ringwall. He had seen, after the men had returned from the unsuccessful hunt, how some of them had kicked the hounds as if the absence of game had been their fault. He couldn't blame the hounds for either hating or fearing the men. In Winterfell, Farlen never kicks the hounds.

He turned around to head back to their tent. In the days since their arrival at the Fist of the First Men, they had done little more than practice with the sword, patrolling near the ringwall, cutting wood, sitting around, eating and sleeping, yet they were all terribly exhausted. The cold and the meager food sapped their strength and waiting for the things to come, wildlings or worse, without being able to do anything themselves sapped their nerves just as much. The days were short and harsh, the nights long and even harsher and the sleep was hardly restful. After each cold night on the hard-frozen ground, back and shoulders, arms and legs, hands and feet hurt almost as much as before. So he had to make the most every little bit of sleep he could get.

He did not need to walk far, however, to realize that he had already lost his way. The entire camp was covered in a thick blanket of snow that left of the tents little more than soft, rounded molehills. The milky, knee-high mist, seemingly getting even thicker still, hid the ground from his eyes, so that Robb couldn't even follow his own tracks back.

Great, lost on my way back to bed, he thought with a wry grin. When I tell him about it, father will certainly laugh at me. Father always had such a good sense of direction and I get lost in our own camp.

He decided to make the detour past the big fire in the middle of the camp. From there it would be easier to find his way back and maybe he would even be able to warm up a bit as he passed. Any bit of warmth would be welcome to him. So he trudged past snow-covered tents toward the large fire that, although only a handful of men had gathered around it, still burned nearly two steps high. Briefly, his foot caught on something that clanked, he stepped on a shield and nearly fell when his foot got caught in one of a tent's frozen guy ropes for a tiny moment before he was finally close enough to the fire to see where he was stepping. Near the flames and its warmth and light, the mist had lifted, and Robb finally could see the ground beneath his feet again.

For a moment he stopped by the fire and enjoyed the warmth on his face. Not far away, a few men sat around the remains of the stew from earlier, talking quietly among themselves. Robb had no intention of eavesdropping, but not yet able to tear himself away from the fire again, the words reached his ear nonetheless.

"The wood's too silent," said one. Robb thought it was the man with the wooden teeth. Dywen, the forester. "No frogs near the river, no owls in the dark. I never heard no deader wood than this."

"Them teeth of yours sound pretty dead," said another.

Dywen clacked his wooden teeth.

"No wolves neither," he said. "There was, before, but no more. Where'd they go, you figure?"

"Someplace warm," said a third. "That' s where I'd go if I could, anyway."

"Have you heard what news Thoren has returned with?" the second man now asked. "Has reported to the Lord Commander that the wildlings are on the march, following the course of the Milkwater, down out of the mountains. Thoren believes their van will be upon us three days hence. Their most experienced raiders will be in that van, led by Harma Dogshead, the poxy bitch."

"And he told you that? Don't talk shit," the third man barked at him.

"No, Thoren only told the Old Bear. But Kedge Whiteye was with him and told me and a few others. The man always reminds me of my old mother."

"Your mother?"

"Aye, stupid bitch never could keep her stupid mouth shut either."

"How many wildlings are there in all? Did he say anything about it?" a fourth man now asked.

"Twenty, thirty thousand, he said. More than half are women and children. Harma has five hundred in the van, every one ahorse."

"Horse shit," the second man now spat again. "A dozen wildlings on horseback is a lot, but five hundred..."

"That's what he said. And Bannen said the same thing. Smallwood sent Kedge and Bannen far around the van to catch a peek at the main body. There was no end to them, Bannen said. They're moving slow as a frozen river, four, five miles a day, but they don't look like they mean to go back to their villages neither, he said. Have with them everything they own. Horses and pigs and sheep and goats. Sleds full of all their goods. And he swears he's seen other things as well. They have giants riding mammoths in their host, he said."

"Aye, and snarks and grumkins, too, I guess," someone mocked.

"Did Bannen also say what the Old Bear is planning to do now?" asked the fourth man now.

"No. Some officers want to talk him into attacking, some to stay here, some to rush straight back to the Wall. Seems the old man hasn't made up his mind yet."

"Probably waiting for our noble princeling to give the order," the second man spat. "Probably hasn't decided how best to lead us to the slaughter."

"Shh," someone made, and Robb was sure that now one of them had realized that it was he who was standing there by the fire. Immediately the talk fell silent. He didn't pay the men a glance, though, pretending not to have overheard their conversation, and instead turned away. He was at least a little warmed up and decided it was now time to finally go back to sleep. What he had heard would certainly make it hard enough for him to fall asleep again, so he didn't need to shorten his night unnecessarily.

Thirty thousand wildlings... he knew the stories of the wildling attacks of old, in the days of his grandfather's grandfather and even earlier. Such numbers, however, no King-beyond-the-Wall had ever been able to unite under his command. Not as far as he knew. Raymun Redbeard, slain by Artos Stark on the shores of Long Lake, had crossed the Wall with five thousand men. Seven thousand some said. But not ten thousand, not twenty thousand, and certainly not thirty thousand. Nor had he had giants riding mammoths in his host.

Surely, even thirty thousand wildlings, more than half of whom were women and children, inexperienced in field battles, disorganized and ill-equipped, would be no real threat to the combined forces of the North, the Stormlands, and any additional armies His Grace would be able to send north. Not to mention the fiery might of the dragons. Still, what he had heard made his guts twist. No one knew exactly how many wildlings really lived in the lands beyond the Wall. Maester Luwin had always said that it could be thousand just as well as hundred thousand. Maybe more. Nobody knew, not even the wildlings themselves. And furthermore, no one could know for sure whether Thoren Smallwood's report was to be believed. He did not doubt the man's word, but whether he had really seen the entire force, had correctly estimated their numbers in their vast camp, or maybe whether even more camps, perhaps even larger than that first one, had not been hiding from his eyes somewhere nearby, nobody could say.

And then, apart from the wildlings, there was still the other thing. The threat, so terrible and yet at the same time so absurd that he could hardly think about it without either wanting to laugh out loud or to smash his head against the nearest tree.

The Others. The Others and their undead wights.

Robb tried with all his might not to think about what this meant, tried not to hear the old stories of Old Nan echoing through his head that he had loved so much as a child. The stories of the Long Night, thousands of years ago, when the Others had last risen, riding on the corpses of dead animals, horses and stags and elks and bears, hating all creatures with hot blood in their veins, and leading an army of the undead that fed on the blood and flesh of the living. Until a few weeks ago, until the night the Lord Commander's Tower had burned down, all this had been nothing more than that, stories and tales, told to make little children shiver. Now he himself shivered often enough, and not just from the cold.

Robb continued walking in the direction he knew the tent was, feeling his heart pounding in his chest just as if it was about to break through his ribs and leave his body. He looked around, searching for something, anything, that would help him tear his thoughts away from undead horses and ice spiders, from the Others and their wights, but found nothing but white snow, dimly lit by the glow of torches disappearing behind countless snowflakes and the deep, ominous black of the sky above.

The only thing that stood out from his surroundings was the huge mound of black and white he suddenly saw beside him. It took him a moment to realize that it was Samwell Tarly, the older brother of their companion Ser Dickon, buried under layers of blankets and furs and a layer of fresh snow almost a hand's width thick, protected from the snow not by a tent but only by a simple windbreak, fastened between the cages for the ravens and an old tree stump.

Robb had seen the lad earlier today during the day, when he had been practicing with bow and arrow in the woods not far from the ringwall. A worse archer Robb had never seen. How a man of his birth, undoubtedly trained in the use of weapons since childhood, could have so little skill with something as basic as a longbow was a mystery to him. Some of his sworn brothers had tried to help him with his exercises, others – like the ugly fellow with the boils on his face who had constantly kicked the hounds – had just stood there and laughed at the fat fellow.

The Night's Watch is supposed to be brotherhood, Robb had thought when he'd seen it. If not in blood, then in mind, bound by their vows, their duty, and their honor. Brothers should not treat each other like that.

However, he had said nothing about it. Such quarrels had to be settled among the men and if that did not succeed, then the Lord Commander had to intervene. It was not up to him to take care of this issue. Either way, Robb hoped that it would never be Samwell Tarly's use of the bow that they would have to rely on in the battles to come, against whomever or whatever.

Three arrows had stuck in the ground in front of him as he had stood in the woods with the longbow, tall as himself. His face, round as the moon, had been red, whether from exhaustion or fear of his approaching failure, Robb had not known. The first arrow, held so long on the taut string that his arm had begun to tremble, had disappeared into the green thicket of the forest. His friends among his black brothers had still tried to cheer Samwell Tarly up and explain it with a sudden wind. Robb, however, had known better. It would have taken the storm of the century to make an arrow fly so far past its target at such close range. The forest, however, had been almost windless.

The second arrow had not flown so far to the side, but at least ten steps too high above its target and had made its way, clacking and cracking, somewhere through the branches of the trees. His friends had continued to encourage him, simply ignoring his constant whining that it was all far too hard for him. Finally, on the third arrow, he had held the string taut only briefly and had let the arrow fly off quickly. He had probably done so more because he had lacked strength than out of an understanding that even the strongest man could only hold a bow taut for so long before his arm became unsteady. Either way, the arrow had hit its target.

It had not been a good hit, certainly not at that short distance, but Samwell Tarly had nevertheless been so surprised by his own achievement, and so proud of it, that Robb had not been able to help but smile. Had it not been a tree, but a real enemy, sword or axe in hand, out to kill him, he would hardly have stood so still for so long to be patiently pierced by his third arrow after two so pitiful attempts. Robb had refrained from saying anything about it, though, so as not to spoil the good mood.

Robb wanted to walk on, but then decided against it. Instead, he walked up to the sleeping Samwell and squatted down next to him. In any other situation, he would have walked on and let the sickness that the lad would certainly have caught be a lesson to him. Here and now, however, so far from the nearest real bed, the nearest maester, the nearest hearth fire, let alone the nearest hot bath to drive the sickness and cold from his bones, this could very easily be the lad's death. Here and now, it was better to help him rid himself of the snow before the dampness and the cold seeped too deeply through his clothes, and then to fix the windbreak so that he would not be snowed in for the rest of the night again. So Robb reached out to him.

He would try to find Samwell's shoulder somewhere under the numerous blankets and furs and shake him awake and then-

Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.

He stopped in the midst of his movement as the sound of the horn wafted through the camp, faint and far, yet unmistakable. Hoping nothing more would follow, he listened into the night. One blast of the horn meant that rangers were returning. Jarman Buckwell, one of the rangers searching for leads about the wildling host, had perhaps returned from the Giant's Stair. Or possibly the man named Qhorin Halfhand, whom Robar Royce and he had originally intended to accompany into the Skirling Pass, hoping to find some clues to the whereabouts of his brother Waymar and Robb's uncle Ben, had come back with news, good or bad.

The large hill in front of him suddenly began to move, snow and ice, blankets and furs pushed aside, and Samwell peeled out from under it like a mole from its mound. He sat up puffy-eyed and stared at the snow in confusion. The ravens were cawing noisily, and Robb could hear the dogs baying at a distance. Half the camp was already awake and on its feet, he saw, waiting and hoping just as he was that no more sound would be heard. The first blast still echoed softly through the camp and the forest, thrown back by hills and mountains and rocks invisible in the night. Motionless, he waited for the sound to die away. But no sooner had it gone than it came again, louder and longer.

Uuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooo.

"Gods," he heard Sam Tarly whimper, lurching to his knees, his feet tangled in his cloak and blankets. He kicked them away and reached for a chainmail hauberk he'd hung on the rock nearby. As he slipped the huge tent of a garment down over his head and wriggled into it, he finally noticed Robb standing next to him.

"Was it two?" he asked. "I dreamed I heard two blasts…"

"No dream," said Robb. "Two blasts."

"Two blasts to call the Watch to arms," Samwell said. "Two blasts for foes approaching. No, no, no. That's too early, much too early. The scouts said the wildlings would not be here before-"

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

The sound went on and on and on, until it seemed it would never die. The ravens were flapping and screaming, flying about their cages and banging off the bars, and all about the camp the brothers of the Night's Watch were rising. Some stood around stiff with shock, looking about in disbelief and seemingly unable to move as much as a finger, others were hurrying along, donning their armor, buckling on swordbelts, reaching for battleaxes and bows. On the faces of all the men, however, Robb saw a fear such as he had never seen in his life. Samwell Tarly now also stood, shaking all over his body, his face the same color as the snow that swirled down all around them.

"Three," Samwell squeaked, "that was three, I heard three. They never blow three. Not for hundreds and thousands of years. Three means-"

"Others," Robb said in a toneless voice.

All blood and all warmth and all strength seemed to suddenly escape from his body, and for a brief moment nothing remained in his thoughts but a terrible, white void. He wanted to do something, to run, to scream, to arm himself, to say something, to give an order, anything, but his legs did not obey him, his voice did not obey him, his mind did not obey him. He stood there as if frozen to stone, his eyes wide open, looking into the pale moon face of Samwell Tarly. He was almost knocked off his feet when a man of the Night's Watch, half a dozen spears three or four paces long in his hands, rushed past behind him and knocked him aside. He caught himself at the last moment, reaching for the cages of ravens with both hands. Before he could pull his hand back, a raven bit him in one of his fingers. Blood ran hot over his hand, steaming in the cold. Only now did he regain his senses. Only now did he also feel his own legs and his arms and his mind starting to work again.

My sword, I need my sword, it shot through his mind.

Quickly he turned around, took a swift look over the tents and found the tent where he had been sleeping in together with Jon. His cousin was already standing in front of it, strapping on his own swordbelt over his mail, Longclaw's hilt over one shoulder. His own sword was waiting for him there as well, he knew. He ran, ignoring Samwell's mutterings about ravens and messages.

Jon already had his sword in hand and handed it to him as he arrived at the tent.

"Here," he just said.

"Thank you," was all Robb could reply. He quickly buckled the swordbelt around his hips, put on his hauberk and his spaulders, closing them with a few skillful grips, and picked up his shield from the ground. The leather of the grip was cold as ice and frozen hard. He could not find his helmet anywhere. Where by all the gods was his helmet?

"Bow and arrow, quick," Jon said. "We've got to keep them out as long as we can. Maybe we can fight them off until dawn."

That's still hours away, Robb thought, but said nothing.

He followed Jon through the camp, running fast past the horses and the hounds, past tents in front of which black brothers were still busy donning their armor, past piles of supplies, past the big fire. They reached one of the larger supply tents and a man of the Night's Watch handed them each a bow and a quiver with two dozen arrows in it.

"Over there, over there! Come on! Come on," one of the officers barked at Jon and a few other men. "And you over there, to the south wall. Get going, you bloody dogs," he barked at Robb and a few more men in black. For a heartbeat, Robb wanted to protest. This man, officer of the Night's Watch or not, had no business giving him orders. Then, however, he said nothing, but followed the men south. Certainly the officer had not recognized him, clad in black from head to toe like everyone else around him. Besides, he knew from his father's lessons how important it was to maintain order in a battle, and for that there could be only one source of orders to which all had to adhere, one commander who commanded. Men running around the battlefield as they pleased, listening to no one's orders, was the exact opposite of order.

"An army without order is not a pack of wolves, but a flock of sheep, no matter how large their fangs," his lord father had told him often enough. Their fangs, however, were anything but large, as he knew. Still, he would not become a sheep, Robb decided. He would be a wolf, in a pack of brothers in arms.

Along with the men around him, he ran to the south wall. A dozen men had already lined up behind it, waiting for orders. Robb lined up with them, leaning the quiver with his arrows on the ground against the wall in front of him, barely waist high. He looked around, searching for familiar faces that might have given him courage and comfort, but found none. All the men around him were strangers, men of the Night's Watch from the Shadow Tower under the command of a ranger named Blane, he knew.

"Here they come," he heard someone shout.

"Notch," said Blane, and twenty black arrows were pulled from as many quivers and notched to as many bowstrings.

"Gods be good, there's hundreds," a voice next to him hushed.

Robb now turned his gaze forward for the first time, away from the men on his left and right. He looked out into the darkness, into a sea of black. He saw no snow, no ground, no trees, no bushes, no branches and no leaves, no sky. All he saw there in front of him was pitch black darkness... and the eyes. Hundreds of eyes that all seemed to stare at him and him alone. Like hundreds of little flames of ice, clear and bright and blue like frozen stars, shining in the absolute blackness, they came at him, step by step by step.

They don't blink, he suddenly thought. They would be less horrible if they did. But the dead don't blink.

"Draw," Blane said. Robb did as he was told, as did the men to his sides. "Hold," Blane commanded. Robb and the men of the Night's Watch stood behind their torches close to the much too low ringwall, waiting with arrows pulled back to their ears, as the horrible eyes came up that dark, slippery slope through the snow. "Hold," Blane said again, "hold, hold." And then, "Loose."

The arrows whispered as they flew.

Robb tried to follow his arrow with his eyes, but immediately lost sight of it as it left the faint glow of the torches and merged with the black of the night. The pair of eyes he had been aiming at, however, disappeared. As did dozens of eyes left and right of them. A ragged cheer went up from the men along the ringwall, but as quickly as it had come, it died away. After no more than a heartbeat, the eyes were back again, looking at him again, cold and dead and lifeless. Wherever their arrows had hit them, it didn't seem to stop the creatures from continuing their way up the hill. Step by step by step.

"Nock, draw, loose," Blane commanded again. "Nock, draw, loose." Two, three, four times he gave the order. Arrows flew off into the black night. Shining blue eyes disappeared for a moment, closed or fell to the ground, but opened again, stood up or just crawled further over the ground only a heartbeat later.

Don't get up again, he thought as he sent his sixth arrow on its way. Please, by all the gods, just don't get up again.

His arrow hit its target, just below another pair of those hideous blue eyes, where the chin or throat must be. The eyes fell to the ground, but his prayers were not answered. Only a moment later, the creature had already risen again, and the blue eyes came closer and closer.

"They're not stopping, my lord," a man said to Blane, and another shouted, "More! Look there, coming from the trees," and yet another said, "Gods have mercy, they're almost here, they're on us!"

"Fire arrows," the Lord Commander roared behind them suddenly, when he appeared astride his horse, "give them flame."

The Lord Commander looked huge in fur and mail, just as Robb in his childhood days had always imagined the legendary Kings of Winter to look like, Brandon the Breaker, Rickard the Laughing Wolf, Walton the Moon King or Edrick Snowbeard. Behind his black iron visor, his eyes were fierce. It was then he noticed Robb amongst his men.

"Lord Robb, you are too far ahead! Get back! I don't want to have to explain to your lord father why heir was one of the first ones to die," he shouted. Lord Mormont did not wait for a response, though, but turned his horse and trotted around the ring, shouting, "Fire! Give them fire!"

Robb leaned the bow next to the quiver against the wall and took a few steps back. Immediately the gap was filled by men of the Night's Watch, rushing up from behind him, bows and spears and axes and swords in their hands. Robb drew his own blade now, though not knowing exactly what he was supposed to do with it here and now. He would follow the orders of the Lord Commander, but running away and hiding under some stone, he certainly would not. He had seen the blue eyes, though, coming closer and closer and closer. Step by step by step. It could not be long before they were too close for arrows. He looked around, saw men with torches and swords, shining in the glow of the flames, running back and forth. Excited, panicked shouts echoed from one end of the camp to the other. Some men ran to the horses, great shields and lances with them, others carried more quivers of arrows to the ringwall, still others sat on the ground, weeping. Robb wanted to go over to one of the men, grab him and shake him, and tell him that he had to fight and do his duty, for this was the only chance for them all to survive this night. The very next moment, however, he saw the man pull a knife from a holster and cut his own throat, letting the blade glide deep through his own flesh. Blood, steaming hot in the icy air, shot from his throat and mouth. Then he collapsed, gurgling and twitching.

Robb turned away in horror.

He saw that fire arrows were now being shot over the ringwall in the north and the east and the west of their camp as well.

"Loose, loose, loose," a voice screamed in the night, and another shouted, "Bloody huge."

A horse shrieked and the hounds, still tied to the ground between men, screaming in panic and sending volley after volley of fire arrows into the night, were barking like mad. There was so much noise and shouting that Robb couldn't make out the voices anymore.

They are attacking from all sides. We are surrounded, he thought, and felt his heart beating up to his neck.

Suddenly Robb found a familiar face in the crowd. Jon had apparently also been ordered by the Lord Commander to retreat and was now standing, surrounded by several men of the Night's Watch and Robar Royce, Dickon Tarly, Oberyn Martell and Aidin Celtigar, a few paces behind the front line, forming a second line of defense, spears and swords in his hands. Robb ran over to them and fell in line. The archers in front of them were still sending fire arrows over the wall.

Jon looked over at him briefly as Robb fell in line, smiling at him. Good to have you at my side, the smile said. Then his face became serious again and he turned his gaze forward. Robb also looked ahead again, to the archers with their burning arrows. Volley after volley of arrows they sent in the direction of their enemies.

Good, the longer they can keep the wights at bay, the better, he thought, but at the same moment he saw the men's faces lit up brighter and brighter by the flames beyond the ringwall. They can't be far off anymore, he thought. Soon they will reach us, and then-

At that moment he saw the eyes again. One of the creatures suddenly appeared between the men of the Night's Watch, right in front of the ringwall. A man with an arrow stuck in his throat, the skin cheesy and pale even in the glow of the flames, his flesh decaying and hanging in tatters, partly burnt but not aflame. The only thing about him that wasn't brown or gray or black were his eyes. His eyes, so ghastly and dead and cold. So bright blue. The wight reached out and grabbed one of the archers by the neck with both hands. The man screamed loudly. His brothers drew their swords, tried to cut off the arms of the wight, but only a heartbeat later the man was already lifted off his feet and torn over the wall into the darkness with one mighty jerk. Then his screams stopped. More eyes appeared, more and more. Arms, little more than skin and bone, thin as spider legs, crawled over the ringwall. More and more now.

"They've broken through," he heard someone yell. "Swords! Swords!"

Screams and the sound of blades cutting through chainmail reached Robb's ears from the left. He looked over, past Jon.

They've gotten past the ringwall. They are here, he thought as he saw Robar Royce and Aidin Celtigar slashing with their blades at two undead who were staggering directly toward them. Dozens of their ghastly kind behind them, who would immediately take their place when they fell. Men of the Night's Watch still tried to hold the ringwall but were buried under a flood of wights like pebbles on a beach at the onset of high tide. Most of the wights were almost naked, dressed only in remnants of furs and simple fabrics.

Wildlings, he thought.

Some, however, were dressed in black as well, as he now saw, clad in chainmail and cloaks of the Night's Watch, good swords and axes in their bony hands.

Rangers. Dead rangers.

"Look out!" someone yelled beside him. Not someone. Jon.

Robb looked ahead and jerked his sword up in the last moment. He hit the wight in the face, who staggered back a half step. He was only two arm's lengths away. How had this nightmare gotten so close so quickly? Robb lunged, slashed, and split the wight's skull in two with one mighty blow. The creature went down. He had no time to rejoice over his small success, though. At the last moment, a spear shot past his face, splitting another skull and, with a quick, powerful twist, severing the head from the shoulders of another wight.

Prince Oberyn's spear, he recognized. He nodded briefly in thanks to the prince, unsure if he had even noticed, and then was already fending off the next wight, who staggered towards him with greedy hands of bone and skin, half of his face missing.

With loud thunder, horses suddenly rushed past them, lances out in front, riding down at least three or four dozen of the wights like dry grass. Robb almost got caught under the hoofs of one of the horses himself, stumbled backward a few steps. Bones broke and splintered, shields and armor were shattered, leathery skin and rusty chainmail torn apart like parchment. To Robb's horror, however, the dead simply kept walking and crawling, pulling and pushing forward with shattered limbs. Severed arms dragged along the ground with bony fingers, legs torn from bodies by the force of shod hooves twitched around madly and wildly and aimlessly, and ripped off heads snapped incessantly with their jaws, brown and black and yellow teeth clicking together in a vile beat, as if hoping their prey would come to them on its own.

The only thing worse than the clicking of the teeth, however, were the eyes that still looked at them, shining bright blue.

"Come with me," he heard Jon's voice beside him. "We've got to form up. If we stay here, we're dead."

More wights had already crawled over the ringwall, passing between the flames of the torches, followed by more and more of their kind, and were coming toward them. A creature, creeping over the ground towards him with its legs torn off, had almost reached him and was now grasping at his boots like a man dying of thirst would grasp at a skin full of cold water. Robb struck with his sword, cutting off head and hands. Neither hands nor jaws stopped moving, but this way, severed from the body, they were at least no longer a threat to anyone. Robb then quickly followed Jon toward the great fire. One of the men in their line did not follow, engrossed in a duel with a wight at least seven feet tall, with arms like tree trunks and a bushy black beard across his chest from which the hilt of a dagger stuck out.

"Retreat!" he shouted to the man. He did not hear him, however.

For a heartbeat, Robb wanted to rush forward, help the man cut down the huge wight, but it was too late already. A mighty blow from the wight hit the black brother right against the chest. The man stumbled backward, dropping his sword. He fell to his knees, breathless and dazed, looking up at the bright blue eyes. He pleaded, yielded, even tore off his thick black glove and threw it to the ground in front of him as if it were a gauntlet.

"Mercy, mercy," he pleaded. He was still shrieking for mercy as the wight lifted him in the air by the throat and near ripped the head off.

The dead have no mercy.

A fire arrow, shot from somewhere in the back rows, then suddenly hit the huge wight right in the head. Whether on purpose or by accident didn't matter. Within a moment the creature's head burst into flames, then his body, then his arms and legs. Immediately the wight fell to the ground, dead and unmoving. Dead and unmoving as it should be.

At least they burn well, Robb thought grimly as he joined Jon in a new defensive line. It wasn't long before the first wights had broken through the front lines, staggering past the few and fewer still fighting men of the Night's Watch or simply climbing over their dead bodies. Soon these dead bodies will join them in their fight against the living.

Robb struck as the dead once again came closer. Jon beside him did the same. The Valyrian steel slid through bone and armor like a red-hot knife through fresh butter. His own sword, good but simple steel, got stuck more than once, bouncing hard against unyielding bone or sliding off old pieces of armor. Some distance away, he saw others of their group fighting and killing. Prince Aegon, his silver-white hair shining in the glow of the great fire, with a half-dozen men at his side, tried to close a breach the undead had made at the northern ringwall. It did not look, however, as if this would succeed. No more than they themselves would succeed in holding their positions much longer. Too numerous were the wights, almost endless their stream of new warriors, ten, twenty or more for every one that was felled.

And then there are the men that we have lost. They are still lying there, but who knows how long before they open their eyes again. Blue and cold and horrible.

Again and again Robb struck, severing heads and arms and legs, but the waves of attackers seemed to have no end. Some wights consisted of little more than bones, draped with the rotting remains of cloth, hides, leather, mail, certainly dead and buried for years or even decades already. Others still looked almost alive, appearing to have been dead for little more than a few days or weeks.

How many men and women may have died beyond the Wall in the last ten years alone, he wondered. Who knows how long the Others have already been amassing their forces.

Robb felt his arms grow heavy, his shoulders begin to ache. It didn't matter how many wights they slew, there were still more and more and more coming. Everywhere he looked he saw blue eyes shining in dead faces, wights swarming over the men of the Night's Watch like the locusts of the south over ripe crops.

He had just cut the head from the shoulders of a woman, draped in furs and certainly no more than twenty years old, when he was suddenly grabbed from the side. Robb tried to whirl around, the blade of his sword raised before him, but the bony arms held him gripped, tight as vices, pulling and tearing at him. He screamed, struggling and lashing out, but the force of the dead sinew and muscle, cracking under the old skin, seemed beyond human. He felt himself losing his footing as more arms grabbed at him, tearing him away from the lines of his brothers in arms. He hit the ground hard and felt himself being pulled away, felt the scraping of rocks and branches and frozen ground under his back. He felt his sword slipping out of his hands, tried to grab it again, but in vain. Panic seized him. More than before even, more than ever before in his life.

He had seen what happened to men the wights got hold of and dragged into their midst. He had heard their screams, seen their insides tossed about from ripped open bellies as the undead mauled them with bare hands and teeth, had heard their screams fall silent.

I don't want to come back. Anything but that, he thought as he tried one last time to break free from the wights' iron grip, the clicking of their jaws already in his ears. I don't want to come back.

A blade, dark as smoke in the night, suddenly passed just above his face, cutting the wright that held him in two. Again the blade descended, slicing hands and arms from dead bodies, until Robb felt the pulling and tearing cease. A hand darted down to him. Robb grabbed it.

"Let's get out of here fast," Jon said as he pulled him back to his feet with a powerful jerk.

Quickly he hurried forward, at Jon's side, back into the ranks of the men who were still standing tall and fighting. At his feet he found a dead man of the Night's Watch, his head twisted impossibly far back and bite marks on his arms and hands and throat. Robb reached down and took his sword from the dead man's hands. Just as he was about to turn, to face again the terror that was rushing at them from all sides, he heard the warhorns sound once more, calling the Watch to horse. Two short blasts and a long one, that was the call to mount up, he knew. Mounting up meant abandoning the Fist of the First Men, and it only took him a quick glance around to realize that the battle was indeed lost.

Robb looked around, searching for horses they could use. A horse came toward them, riderless but panicking, with bloody wounds on its flanks and legs.

Scratch marks, Robb recognized in the glow of the fire. Bite marks.

Robb tried to reach for the horse's reins but couldn't quite get a hold of them as it rushed past. He followed the horse with his gaze and found Ser Ottyn kneeling on the ground not far from them, staring at the chaos around them with a blank stare until the horse reached him, spooked, and smashed his face with a hard kick.

"Here," he heard the voice of Aidin Celtigar, sitting atop a horse and pulling two more behind him on the reins.

Jon's and Prince Aegon's friend, he thought with relief. Of course, he wouldn't let Jon down. Jon wouldn't do that either. The second horse was certainly meant for the prince, though.

Robb looked around briefly but found the prince nowhere near them. Aidin rode toward them, a ghastly bleeding wound on his face. Quickly Jon and Robb sat up beside him.

Screams suddenly echoed, louder and shriller even than before. Something Robb would not have thought possible just a heartbeat ago. With a loud crash, the ringwall was breached some three dozen paces from them. Stones flew through the air like toys. Then something came through the opening in the wall. A tall, pale figure on four massive paws charged in.

A bear. An undead bear.

The creature ran into their camp, thrashing and snapping at anything in its path. The archers nearby covered it with fire arrows, but none was able to set the bear on fire entirely. Soon the archers ran out of arrows. When they tried to tackle the beast with spears, the tips covered in burning rags, they sealed their own fate, however. Now within reach of the bear, they were torn to shreds by its claws and teeth. Arms and legs and hands were torn from bodies with tremendous, merciless force. Some, the lucky ones, immediately lost their heads or were cut open by the long claws from the hip to the neck, dying quickly. Others were less fortunate, lying on the ground screaming and bleeding and maimed until the bear or a nearby wight finally brought their suffering to a barely less grisly end.

"Let's go," he heard someone beside him shout, whether Jon or Aidin Robb could not tell.

The horns were still blowing, so he kicked the horse and turned it toward the sound. In the midst of carnage and chaos and blowing snow, he found the Lord Commander sitting on his garron, sword in hand and barking orders. It was no use, however. The chaos was absolute and hardly any of the men fighting for their lives were even listening to his orders anymore.

"They are over the wall to the west and north, my lord, and to the east our lines will break any moment," Thoren Smallwood screamed at Lord Mormont as he fought to control his horse. "I'll send in the reserves..."

"No!" Lord Mormont had to bellow at the top of his lungs to be heard over the horns. "Call them back, we need to cut our way out." He stood in his stirrups, his black cloak snapping in the wind, the fire shining off his armor. "Spearhead!" he roared. "Form wedge, we ride. Down the south face, then east!"

"My lord, the south slope's crawling with them!"

"The others are too steep for the horses," Mormont said. "We have-"

His garron screamed and reared and almost threw him as the bear came staggering through the snow toward them. The bear was pale and rotting, certainly dead for months already, and half its right arm burned to bone, yet still it came on. Only its eyes lived, bright and blue and horrible. Thoren Smallwood charged, his longsword shining all orange and red from the light of the fire. His swing near took the bear's head off. And then the bear took his.

"Ride!" the Lord Commander shouted, wheeling.

They were at the gallop by the time they reached the ring. Robb had never enjoyed jumping a horse, unlike Jon and especially Arya, as he knew, but when they reached the low wall and the horse carried him over it, it was the most wonderful feeling in the world. He looked to his left and found Jon still riding beside him, so close behind the Lord Commander that he could almost have touched him. The joy, however, was short lived. Aidin Celtigar, riding to his right, came crashing down in a tangle of steel and leather and screaming horseflesh, and then the wights were swarming over him and the wedge was closing up.

They plunged down the hillside at a run, through clutching black hands and burning blue eyes and blowing snow. Horses stumbled and rolled, men were swept from their saddles, torches spun through the air, axes and swords hacked at dead flesh. In the faint, flickering glow of the few torches, he suddenly saw a whole group of wights before him. Six, seven, eight men, dead and half rotten, staring at him from their ghastly shining eyes. Any moment now he would crash into them.

My horse won't get through there, he thought, terrified. That's too many at once. I'm dead.

As quickly as they had appeared before his eyes, however, they disappeared. Robb couldn't tell what it had been - another horse, another undead bear, whatever - but something suddenly had darted along in front of his horse, knocking the wights off their feet and tearing half of them apart with tremendous force. The next moment his horse had already dashed past the wights, crushing another undead man with its hooves, and whatever had saved him – a pale shadow, a gray wind – had already disappeared into the black darkness again.

Robb struck now without pause again, severing heads from shoulders, splitting skulls, cutting hands from arms where fingers would dig into his saddle, his legs, or even the flesh of his horse. His horse struggled its way down the steep slope, stumbling more than once over rocks and branches and the breaking bones of wights that got in its way, but somehow it managed to charge on and on without slowing down. It was a miracle that it had not broken a leg already.

It seems that the gods are with us after all.

Robb could do nothing but cling to his saddle with all his strength to keep from falling off and protect the flanks of his faithful horse as best he could with the sword in his hand. The wights stood their ground and were ridden down and trampled underhoof. Even as they fell they clutched at swords and stirrups and the legs of passing horses.

Then, suddenly, the trees were all about them, and Robb was splashing through a frozen stream with the sounds of slaughter dwindling behind. He looked around, breathless with relief, but saw no more wights to his right and left, only men in black on their horses, lit by the faint glow of a few torches, bloody and exhausted, but alive. Jon still rode beside him, his expressionless gaze fixed firmly ahead.

It's over, he thought, and had never felt her so relieved in his life. We really made it out of that hell. It's over.

They rode on and on, through the dense forest, over hills and through hollows, passing frozen streams and small rivers, never stopping, never looking back. Robb could no longer tell how long they had been riding when the Lord Commander finally gave the order to stop so as not to fully ruin any of the few horses they were left with. Robb dismounted, sinking knee-deep in fresh snow, and looked around. In the east the sky was already beginning to clear, pushing out the black of night with the glorious, beautiful reds and oranges and purples of a new day. Only weakly at first, but a little more and more with every heartbeat. Never had Robb seen anything more beautiful.

With a quick glance he found some of the men of their group near him. Daman Whent was sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree, Dickon Tarly and Byrant Gargalen were standing next to him... Even fat Samwell Tarly, crouching on the ground in the high snow, weeping and sobbing, had miraculously survived. Next to him, as if the gods had been playing a joke for their own amusement, lay the deformed figure of Lord Tyrion Lannister in the snow, silently gazing up at the sky, blood running down his face, but alive. Where the others were, the others except Aidin Celtigar, he did not bother to look for them at that moment. He let himself sink into the snow as well now, fresh and soft and almost warm compared to the deadly cold of last night, and did nothing but breathe in and out, in and out and in and out.

Suddenly Jon came running in his direction, hurrying past him to the Lord Commander.

"He's not here. I've looked everywhere, but he's not here," he said to the Old Bear in a panic.

"Who is not here?" asked Lord Mormont, tired.

"Aegon. Seven hells, Aegon's not here."

Chapter Text

The wine was sour and strong, not at all to her taste, but at least the notes of blackcurrant and plum and cinnamon she had been promised Lyanna could actually taste. Lady Cerlina might imagine herself to have the most exquisite taste in wines, but whoever's favorite wine seriously was Dornish Red could either have no wits or no tongue. A tongue, however, she certainly had. Lyanna knew that for sure from the fact that she almost never stopped talking. Even when she was drinking, she seemed not to stop. An ability that she had certainly acquired over many years of hard work and practice.

Lyanna suspected, however, that her fondness for Dornish Red resulted more from her affection for her Dornish homeland and less from the fact that she actually thought the wine was delicious. Lyanna also felt an affection for her homeland, but her love did not go that far as to reject some sweet wine from the Arbor or the Reach. She remembered well how proud Lord Locke had been when, many years ago when she had still lived in Winterfell, closer to being a child than a woman, he had presented his very own wine to her lord father. He had ordered a strange looking building to be erected a few miles outside of Oldcastle, inspired by the Glass Gardens of Winterfell as he had said, so that he could grow his own wine despite the cold, harsh climate of the North.

"True northern wine for true northern men, strong and honest," he had bragged and had then spent half the evening talking about how his idea would soon make the North independent of wine imports from the South or from Essos and would also open up a completely new source of income for House Stark.

The wine, however – she remembered that her lord father had let her try a little sip – had been dreadful, weak in taste and as sour as vinegar, so scratchy in the throat that she might as well have swallowed a handful of nails. It had therefore been a blessing that the crops had not survived the next, even quite mild winter and the building, as if by a sign from the gods, had burned down completely before a possible next planting could even have been thought of. What had actually caused the fire, she no longer remembered, but she still liked Brandon's explanation most that the vintner, whom Lord Locke had let come all the way to his lands from the Arbor, had burned down the building himself out of shame over what he had been forced to produce there. The day the raven had arrived at Winterfell with the news of the fire had been one of the few moments she remembered having seen her lord father laughing at the top of his lungs. Lord Rickard, a loving man in his own way, but always earnest and stern, had never laughed much. On this day, however, he had laughed so hard that his face had turned almost as red from it as the wine she was now holding in her hands.

Lyanna tore herself away from her thoughts and looked at Lady Cerlina again, who, deeply absorbed in her own chatter, had fortunately not noticed that Lyanna had not been listening to her at all for some time already. Cerlina could claim to love Dornish Red all she wanted, but Lyanna couldn't help noticing how her face always twisted a tiny bit with each sip, and not at all into a savoring smile. She was obviously trying to keep it down, but her freckles weren't lying. They never were.

Like many sons and daughters of House Santagar, Cerlina's face was covered with countless adorable freckles, though not as many as in that of her niece Lady Sylva. Lyanna had met the young lady once, some years ago, when she had accompanied her childhood friend Princess Arianne and her newly wed husband Prince Viserys on a journey from Dorne to King's Landing and they had made a stop in Storm's End for two days. The girl had been nice, prettier than Cerlina and, above all, quieter. She had almost seemed shy whenever Princess Arianne or Prince Viserys had not been around and as hard to read as a book in a foreign language. Only when either of them had been around had she blossomed and talked almost as much as her aunt Cerlina. Lyanna well remembered wondering, as vividly as Lady Sylva had been around Prince Viserys, whether he might be bedding her as well, alongside his wife. She had of course not dared to ask about it directly, however, and had not been able to find out otherwise either. As unfathomable as Lady Sylva had been, Cerlina's freckles, at least, made it easy enough for Lyanna to see every little emotion in her pretty, just a little too feisty face.

She hates Dornish Red, Lyanna thought with a triumphant grin as she saw the freckles twitch again, immediately forcing herself to take another sip as to not let her triumph show.

The freckles on her ever cheerful face were undoubtedly Cerlina's greatest asset, but unfortunately also her greatest weakness, as she knew. Mostly because her husband seemed to have taken a special liking to those freckles. She had often enough overheard Ser Lomas call his wife my wild kitten whenever he thought he was out of earshot, probably both because of her freckles and because of the fact that the Santagars' coat of arms was adorned with a spotted leopard. Ser Lomas was a good and diligent man, there was no doubt about that, but his pillow talk was truly hard to bear. The thought that, after such tepid chatter, Cerlina would have to give herself to her husband had sent a cold shiver down her spine every time she had overheard him say anything like it. And that had been far too often already.

Robert, for all his faults and his over the years ever more swollen girth, still had a way about him that made it hard for Lyanna to resist him when he wanted her lying on her back with her legs spread. To even imagine that Ser Lomas, strong as straw and manly as warm oatmeal, could possibly bring about something similar had made Lyanna spit an entire cup of tea across the table the first time the thought had occurred to her. Fortunately, no one but Robert had been there to whom she would have had to apologize for it.

She remembered that day well and the night that had followed even better. She had shared her thought with Robert, after apologizing for spitting tea all over his doublet, and together they had drunk wine half the night, laughing at the absurd thought of how Ser Lomas must have been trying to get Lady Cerlina in the mood by whispering in her ear about her freckles.

"No wonder she's not with child yet," Robert had said, wine running down his chin in laughter. "After such talk, Lomas would certainly need arms like a blacksmith to get her thighs apart. And even then, I'm sure she's as dry as the bloody Dornish desert."

That had been mean, she knew, but still Lyanna had laughed so hard at that that she had completely spilled her wine, ruining the second dress in just one day. After that, she hadn't bothered to put on another dress at all anymore. It had been a truly wonderful night. The night she had conceived Steffon. She wasn't absolutely sure about that, as Robert had still slept in her bed more often back then, but she still liked the idea and held on to it.

She bid farewell to Lady Cerlina shortly thereafter under a pretext. She liked her, she truly did. Cerlina Estermont to her was the dearest of all the ladies who scurried around in Storm's End day in and day out like chickens in a henhouse, but even her best friend, if she could be called that, Lyanna could only enjoy in moderation.

Besides, I know that Lomas has no more important tasks for the rest of the day, she thought with a grin as Lady Cerlina then left her solar. I'm sure he'll want to come to you and whisper about your freckles again.

Lyanna quickly changed after that, putting on a nice yellow dress of a somewhat thicker fabric to better protect herself from the wind and the increasingly cold weather, and then left her chambers. She herself also had no more tasks for the rest of the day, at least unless she wanted to meet with Maester Jurne to discuss the letters they were going to send tomorrow in response to some of the ravens that had arrived here in the last few days. She didn't want to, though. She had tried to talk to Robert in the days since his return about some of the things that needed to be discussed. Mainly pleas and petitions from his bannermen about trifles that she would be able to handle herself in case of doubt, but also renewed requests from lords of the Stormlands, some even from the Reach and the Crownlands, to be allowed to send their daughters to Storm's End. Officially as companions for her, the lady of the castle, but actually in preparation for proposals of betrothals, hoping that one of their daughters might catch the eye of one of her and Robert's sons. Robert, however, how could it be any different, had shown little interest in all of this and had postponed it to the next day each and every time she had tried to speak to him about it.

She took a short walk on the western outer wall of the fortress, enjoying the view over the wide landscape, before she then took an escort and went for a short ride on Old Man, her favorite horse. The bad weather, cold and windy and rainy, quickly spoiled the pleasure of being on horseback however, and so she returned to Storm's End after not even two hours. The fact that she had also had to ride out alone had not made it any better. In King's Landing, as little as she had wanted to be there, she had ridden out with her adorable niece. Arya had enjoyed riding as much as she had, had been fearless and adventurous as they had ridden through the woods and through small rivers and streams, across fields and through villages. Perhaps she should have asked Ned to allow Arya to accompany her to Storm's End after all. Surely they would have had a wonderful time together here.

She had to smile when she thought of Arya and with what enthusiasm she had swung herself onto one of the horses that Lyanna had arranged for them. Dornish sand steeds they had been, small but fast and robust and good-natured.

Just like Arya herself, Lyanna thought, and had to grin. Except that she isn't from Dorne.

She brought Old Man back to the stables, asked Hubart to rub him down, handing him the reins, and to then give her faithful friend a special little treat, an apple perhaps or some carrots. She had already seen some lying in the corner when she had come in. No doubt, then, Hubart had expected her to ask him for this.

"Then we might as well throw away the bows altogether," she heard a soldier grumble as she passed the armory in the northern courtyard only a moment later. Actually, she had intended to look for Steffon and Orys, wanting to ask them if they wouldn't like to join her for supper tonight. She knew that her boys had gone hunting before sunrise today and had returned with a pheasant and two particularly fat field hares. Even if the two had certainly hoped for a bigger prey, a deer or even a stag perhaps, she herself loved hare and would be happy to eat something her boys had hunted.

Instead, however, she made her way to the armory, in front of which stood a group of soldiers in Baratheon colors, loudly cursing at each other. One of the men held a couple of soldier's bows in his hands, simple yet sturdy weapons, but then threw them to the ground in front of him. The strings snapped and the bows sprang apart like startled game.

"See? That's all shit!"

"What's the meaning of this?" she asked in a firm tone as she came to a halt right beside them.

The men turned around and scowled at her for half a heartbeat. Then, however, they recognized her, falling silent and indicating a bow each.

"I beg your pardon, my lady," the soldier quickly said, apologizing. She recognized the man immediately. Wilfren was his name. He had served in the watch of Storm's End for as long as she lived here, probably longer, though. His dirty brown hair had turned gray over the years, his belly had grown larger, but his stature was still that of a warrior. "Please forgive my tone."

"It's all right," she said. "Now tell me what this fuss is all about and why you think these bows serve House Baratheon better on the ground than in the armory or in the hands of soldiers on the walls."

"These bows, my lady, these bows are absolute junk. With those, we couldn't even defend Storm's End against an army of kittens."

Lyanna looked down at the bows lying on the ground in front of her feet. They looked no different than the bows their soldiers normally used. And they certainly didn't look new.

"Are these bows different than usual?" she asked. "If the bow makers sold us bad goods, you should have come to me with them instead of making such a fuss here."

"It's not the bows, my lady, it's the strings. The new strings we have been given... they just won't hold. They must have gotten wet a few times, my lady. They stretch way too much, slip out of the notches easily. See? I dropped them and all the strings came loose. There's no way we can protect Storm's End with this, my lady."

Lyanna squatted down and grabbed one of the strings. She rubbed it between her fingers, slowly running her thumb over it. The string actually seemed far too soft. Bowstrings, made from the gut of sheep and pigs mostly, had to be kept dry so they wouldn't stretch too much. If they did get wet after all, they had to be dried slowly and carefully so that they would hold their shape and at the same time not become brittle. These strings here were old and, just as Wilfren had said, had apparently gotten wet several times already. It was true. These strings were junk.

"I see," she said as she rose again. "I will see to it today that new strings are purchased from the bow makers in Slayne. I was told that these are of the best quality. Do we have enough other bowstrings in the armories to protect the fortress in case of need?"

"Yes, my lady, at least unless you expect a prolonged siege," Wilfren said, smiling and baring the ruins his old teeth.

"Good, then sort out these strings here and only use the good ones. Best burn these directly so that none of these useless ones end up among the good ones after all. I'll make sure we get new ones as soon as possible. Still, I'm surprised Ser Lomas let himself be talked into buying such filth. He has always kept an eye on prices, but never at the cost of quality."

"Oh no, that wasn't Ser Lomas, my lady," Wilfren said.

"What do you mean? Ser Lomas is in charge of buying supplies and provisions," Lyanna said, frowning.

"Yes, my lady, but these bowstrings have come from Ser Lothor."

"Ser Lothor? Lothor Brune?"

The furrows on her brow must have been so deep by now that one could have hidden a gold dragon in them.

"Yes, my lady. Bought them in King's Landing for a good price, he said."

"Good price? Hardly. For crap we can't use at all, even half a copper penny is still not a good price. What business does Ser Lothor have with buying bowstrings anyway?" she asked, noticing her voice grow loud and angry.

"None, my lady. But as far as I know Lord Robert has given him permission for it."

"I see," she said, nodding to the soldier one last time and then storming off.

It was simply unbelievable! Lothor Brune, the supposed substitute for Petyr Baelish, was about the worst thing that had happened to Storm's End in years. After he had failed so miserably in keeping the household ledgers, and she and Ser Lomas had had to not only correct his mistakes but also do all the rest of the work themselves, she had seen to it that he had been relieved of nearly all of the duties he had wanted to take over from Lord Baelish. She had wrestled long and hard with herself, first to take anything away from him for fear she might misjudge him, then later to leave him any tasks at all for fear he might not understand even the simplest issues. Had she not known better, she might have thought sending him here was an act of sabotage.

To prepare for a war against the Stormlands, it would indeed be a smart move to fill as many positions in Storm's End as possible with men like Lothor Brune, she thought grimly. If this were not put to an end, then by the time these dolts had done their work, an army of two men with a total of three legs could certainly take Storm's End by force.

That was silly nonsense, of course. Lothor Brune was almost absurdly incompetent, it seemed, but Lord Baelish, a man who had inherited nothing from his father but an unimportant name, a crumbling tower on a lonely island, and a flock of meager sheep, she knew, could not possibly be planning a war against Storm's End. Still, the anger at this insolence of Ser Lothor, not only to find himself new tasks, unasked and without permission, but also not to come to her for it but to go directly to Robert, left a taste in her mouth as bitter as bile. Or perhaps it was the fact that with each of Ser Lothor's mistakes and failures she wanted less and less to believe that Littlefinger could have thought him an apt substitute for himself.

Littlefinger…

For years she had avoided calling Lord Baelish that name, even in her thoughts, but now it was back. She had heard that as a boy, when she had visited Riverrun with her father as the betrothal between Lady Catelyn and Brandon had been negotiated, Lady Catelyn's brother Lord Edmure had given him that name. Partly because he was from the smallest island of the Fingers, and partly because of his small stature. She knew that Lord Baelish hated that name and so, out of courtesy and respect for his abilities, had always avoided using it. She also knew, however, that the name had somehow made it here to Storm's End, whispered by maids and soldiers, servants, cooks, and stable boys behind his back, though she could not say how this mocking name had found its way from Riverrun all the way to the Stormlands.

Lord Baelish's nickname, however, was by no means her concern at the moment. It was Ser Lothor who not only seemed to be incompetent but, to her displeasure, seemed to be making himself right at home at Storm's End now. Only this morning while breaking the fast she had overheard what a maid, serving her tea and oatmeal with berries and honey, had whispered to another maid about him. Last night he had been prowling around in the horse stables, she had said, looking at saddles, rummaging through bridles and horse rugs as if all of it was his and he only had to take whatever he wanted. A kitchen maid who had been in the hays with one of the blacksmith's sons had seen him, she had said. The maid had been sure that Ser Lothor had been there waiting to meet with a girl himself, perhaps the blonde daughter of Arnulf the cook or the brown-haired maid with the pretty smile, who had arrived here from Bronzegate only a few months ago. Lyanna wasn't so sure about that, although she had no real idea what Ser Lothor might have been up to late at night in the horse stables instead.

It was at any rate not the first time she had heard that he had strolled around in places in the fortress, apparently without purpose and goal, where he had actually had no business to be. While the stables for the horses still seemed to be a somewhat plausible place for a knight, it was more peculiar that the washerwomen had already seen him wandering around in the cellars among the dirty laundry, Maester Jurne had found him searching the shelves in the library, and Olivar the gardener had seen him sneaking around the old trees in the middle of the small garden of Storm's End, which Lyanna from time to time used as a weak substitute for the Godswood of Winterfell. Ser Lothor, however, did not do his own laundry, nor had he ever struck her as a man who liked to educate himself with books and tomes, and, coming from the Crownlands, he did not pray to the Old Gods of the North either, at least as far as she knew. At first, she had excused this by thinking that now, relieved of most of his duties, he didn't have much left to do throughout the day anymore and thus simply tried to keep himself busy somehow. Only a few days ago, however, she herself had caught him in Robert's and her solar. Supposedly he had wanted to wait there for Robert to discuss the route for the next hunt with him. That Robert had needed someone to show him on a map where he should ride along and where not before a hunt was, however, preposterous nonsense and such an obvious lie that she had almost felt insulted by it. Especially since Ser Lothor had not even carried a map with him. Yet he had not wanted to give her a better explanation or at least a more believable lie, let alone the truth. Instead, he had awkwardly bowed to her and then quickly fled the room.

So it had not surprised her to hear, as the girls had whispered on while she had been eating her oatmeal this morning, that the servants, calling Lord Baelish Littlefinger behind his back, had by now begun to call Ser Lothor, lurking through the fortress almost the entire day, Sneakyfinger most of the time. She would have to take care of Sneakyfinger. That much was certain.

She quickly went straight back to her solar then, actually Robert's solar, and began writing down orders and permits for Ser Lomas to make new purchases, bowstrings above all, with coin from the coffers of House Baratheon. She refrained from summoning him directly to her, fearing that, after the silly thoughts she had had about him again in Lady Cerlina's presence only some hours ago, she would not be able to keep a straight face at the sight of him. Besides, he would not be able to arrange the acquisition of new bow strings for the watch of Storm's End before tomorrow anyway, so it would not have sped up the process to call him away from his wife right now. She decided, after the orders had been put together and the messenger with the sealed writings had been sent on his way to Ser Lomas, to speak to Robert again about Ser Lothor. This man simply had to be sent away.

About a week ago she had tried to convince him of this for the first time. She had pleasured him, with her hands at first, then with her mouth, and finally she had let him take her on all fours, the way he liked it, to put him in a more compliant mood before she had brought the issue up. It had been of no use, however. Robert, stubborn as the ox he sometimes was, had flatly refused her, had even forbidden her to take any kind of action against Ser Lothor.

"Lothor is the better man," he had said as he had risen from her bed, naked and sweaty from the love he had made to her only moments before, downright outraged by her demand that he dismiss the man from their service. "Baelish need not come back at all for all I care. Lomas or Jurne can count coppers as well. But Lothor, he is cut from the right cloth. Lothor is the better man, I tell you."

It had not been hard for her to guess why Robert had raved about the man so much. She knew Robert got along well with him, more often than not drinking with him halfway through the night, sharing wineskin after wineskin. She just hoped they didn't share the same whores as well. If she were any other woman, she would certainly have despaired over it. After all, hadn't she given him everything, and wasn't she even still doing so? Strong and beautiful sons and heirs, her body whenever he wanted it, even her love. As much as she could muster for him, anyway, which was more than a man deserved who treated his wife like that.

Whenever she thought about Robert and his escapades, a saying came to her mind that she had once heard from her mother shortly before her death. They had talked about how his future wife would certainly not have an easy time with Brandon, who himself had been rather fond of indulging in the charms of young ladies when the opportunity had presented itself.

"The only woman who knows where her husband is every night is a widow," her mother had said in that hard accent of the Flints of the mountains that she had somehow inherited from Lyanna's grandmother. That might even be true, but what kind of woman did it make her to not know where Robert was on any given night? No, being Robert's wife was not a pure pleasure and his behavior, especially towards her, was more often than not hard to bear.

She would have understood had she not been able to give him sons or had she refused him in their marriage bed. None of this had ever been the case, however. What else could a man like Robert possibly expect from a woman? She pushed the thought aside. Robert was not a good husband, not at all, but it could have been far worse for her. She had told herself that so many times in the years since their wedding. Every now and then it had even been enough to dispel her sadness and disappointment, at least for a while. This time it wasn't. Now, however, there was something else she had to worry about, something to occupy herself with and perhaps distract herself from Robert's many shortcomings.

Lothor Brune had gone too far. He may have talked Robert into thinking he could provide new supplies for them better than Ser Lomas, certainly an adventurous claim considering the good work Ser Lomas had been doing for House Baratheon for so many years. These bowstrings, however, mere junk that could be used for nothing more than making fire, were not only a waste of money but, had their poor quality not been immediately noticed, could even have posed a real danger to Storm's End as well. A castle, even one as large as Storm's End, could not be defended properly if the archers had to throw their arrows over the walls with their hands instead of sending them off with tautly cocked bows. And if there was one thing Robert couldn't take a joke about, it was being ready for war. Making Storm's End a sitting duck in the event of a war, unlikely as that was, because of something as simple as poor bowstrings, and possibly being the first Lord of Storm's End to fail in holding the ancient fortress was something that was definitely out of the question for Robert.

Storm's End had never been taken, had never fallen to siege or storm in its long, very long history. Even Aegon the Conqueror had not taken the formidable fortress in battle. The Stormlands had only been brought to heel after King Argilac the Arrogant, the last Storm King, had been slain by Orys Baratheon in battle. Something Robert, a descendant of both Argilac Durrandon through his daughter Argelle as well as Orys himself, was fiercely proud of. There was no way Robert, no matter how much he might like the man, would risk breaking that long, proud line of strength.

Lyanna went back to their chambers to wait for Robert. Supper, which he certainly would not attend, would not be served for another few hours, and not wanting to trouble her sons with her bad mood, she refrained from looking for them. Instead, she would be in their chambers, waiting, perhaps doing some reading, and already thinking about how best to present the news of Ser Lothor's latest failure to Robert. She knew that before Robert would disappear again tonight to get drunk somewhere, probably accompanied by his new friend Ser Lothor, and enjoy himself with some maid or tavern wench, he would return to their chambers to change. During the day, at least, he dressed appropriately for a man of his standing, something Lyanna had had to beat into his head during the first years of their marriage, but in the evening, once he began to drink more and lose all sense of proportion, he always wanted to be dressed in something he could feel comfortable in, he had once told her.

Sitting in their chambers, a fresh cup of tea and some pastries with plums in front of her on the small table she had a maidservant bring her, she finally began to do some reading. Robert would be busy for some time inspecting the woods north of the fortress – apparently there had been increased number of poachers and timber thieves and Robert had decided to inspect the extent of the damage personally – and then giving permission to some of the peasants from the lands around Storm's End to marry, one of the more joyous tasks of a lord that he preferred to undertake himself.

Reading, however, did not make the time pass as quickly as she had hoped. The only books she had been able to find in their chambers were Joyous Dreams and lovely Thoughts, a collection of poems she had been given on a visit some months ago by a niece of Lord Guilan Swann, little more than unimaginative descriptions of meadows, clouds, and either sunrises or sunsets, a critical but ghastly dry commentary by Maester Jurne on Archmaester Vyron's Triumphs and Defeats, which he planned to send to the Citadel and on which he hoped to hear Lyanna's opinion beforehand, and, though she had no idea why, The Knight and the Beet, one of the children's books with little rhymes and stories from the Stormlands from which she had often read to her sons when they had been little.

She decided, even though she knew she would hate herself for it, to read Maester Jurne's script. Sooner or later, she would not be able to avoid reading it anymore anyway. In a moment of weakness, she had promised him to do so, and she would stick to that promise, even if it hurt. As if the subject, the final form of Storm's End and the question of whether the core castle was actually a relic of the First Men or had been built anew after the coming of the Andals, had not been boring enough, she was also horrified to discover that Maester Jurne possessed a very special talent she had so not known about. She knew that the man was boring and long-winded in absolutely everything he could possibly talk about. Apparently, however, he possessed the talent of being even more boring and long-winded in the written word. Every sentence bent around at least three or four corners and every word, no matter how simple – tower, wall, battlement, portcullis – was buried under notes and comments about its origin, first known use, translations and possible derivations from other languages. The text was as boring as it was illegible. It wasn't long before she noticed how she was already beginning to yawn and each new paragraph seemed to her like an obstacle, high as the Mountains of the Moon, she had to climb. Blindfolded. Walking on her hands. Backwards.

She finally put Maester Jorne's writings aside when, close to nodding off, she realized with renewed horror that she had barely managed to read five pages of them while another seventy-eight pages were still waiting for her attention. The fact that Maester Jurne, when he had handed her the pages a few days ago, had already let her know that it was of utmost importance to thoroughly study the numerous and very detailed tables after about one third of the text, otherwise the rest of his argumentation would not be understandable, did not necessarily inspire her with anticipation either. If there was one thing she had seen enough of lately, especially since the arrival of Lothor Brune, it was endless and very detailed tables.

Lothor Brune, the scourge of Storm's End and its household ledgers.

Lyanna decided to instead think about how she could best convince Robert to finally send the man away. Certainly the folly with the bowstrings would convince her husband, but since he himself had given Ser Lothor permission for the purchase and was thus, strictly speaking, at least partly to blame as well, it was still important to approach him in the right way. If she stressed too much that he was not entirely innocent of this disaster, he would only become petulant and brush off any further words from her, she knew. The last time, she had spoiled him and, cuddly as a kitten, had literally thrown herself at him to make him bed her, trying her best to bring him in the right mood.

This, however, had not worked out the way she had hoped, obviously. Of course, he had bedded her and his mood had been excellent afterwards, at least until she had begun talking about Ser Lothor. However, now that she thought about it, she knew what her mistake had been. As much as Robert liked to make love to her, he didn't like to be given gifts. Sure, he was pleased when, from time to time, Lyanna came to him on her own to welcome him in their bed and in her body. But more than anything, Robert was a warrior who wanted to conquer. He thus didn't want her to throw herself at him, not always anyway, but he wanted to conquer her. So this was exactly what she would have to offer him when he would come here later. She would have to be tempting for him, alluring and enticing, so that he would not be able to grasp a single other thought than to bed her here and now. She would then refuse him of course, allowing him to conquer her with one of his charming smiles and a few sweet words, not too many but not too few either, not making it too easy for him, so that he would feel he had already won a victory before he would even push into her.

And after that, when she had let him take her – she decided this time not to take the initiative herself, but to let Robert use her however he wanted and let him enter wherever he wanted – he would be in such a good mood that she would be able to ask anything of him. Sending Lothor Brune away, the man who had endangered the security and defensibility of Storm's End with his incompetence, would then truly be a trifle only.

It took her the better part of an hour, standing in front of the large, open closet and the three equally large, open chests containing her numerous dresses, to decide what to wear to make Robert want her immediately. She considered wearing the black dress of silk and precious brocade with the stags embroidered on it in gold thread. It closely resembled the dress she had worn on their wedding feast and she knew Robert liked seeing her in it. However, it was difficult to put on because of the numerous laces, impossible without the help of a maid, and even more difficult to take off again. So not exactly the thing to wear now. Certainly Robert, if she played her cards right and he was overwhelmed by his lust, could have just torn it off her body, but she definitely didn't want to ruin the fine and quite expensive dress. Not because of Lothor Brune. Besides, it was clearly too precious and noble to wear when she was supposedly doing nothing but sitting in their chambers and reading. If her little trap was supposed to bite, then Robert was of course not allowed to notice that she was trying to make him hungry for her.

She then looked at the yellow linen dress with its embroidered floral tendrils and beaded trim around the hem. Robert had bought it for her on a visit to the Reach a few years ago. It was beautiful, not too precious, and Robert had some fond memories with it. However, she hadn't worn it for at least four or five years and wasn't entirely sure it would still fit her right away. She did not have the time to have it fitted by a seamstress, though. For that, she would have had to hatch this plan at least two or three days earlier. She would certainly be able to postpone it, but she wanted to get the matter out of the way as quickly as possible.

At last she reached for the blue dress, also made of linen, which she found in one of the chests under a green wool dress with the fur trim on the sleeves. She knew it fit her well, having worn it just a few weeks ago. It was simple, without a lot of lacings and buttons, without a bulky undergarment. And Robert liked it. He had once told her that it reminded him of the dress she had worn when they had first been introduced, a few months after their betrothal had been decided upon. She herself could not remember at all what kind of dress she had worn then, but had found it charming that Robert apparently still could. Briefly she considered putting on this dress, but then decided against it as well. As much as Robert liked it and as easily as he would be able to tear it off her body without ruining the dress, it was too ordinary, far too plain and he had seen her in it too often to attract his attention and especially the attention of his manhood.

In the end, the solution was as ingenious as it was obvious. She had to be dressed. Sitting around here naked or maybe even lying in bed already would have been much too conspicuous. It had to be something that would not arouse Robert's suspicion, something that was comfortable for her, but at the same time made her look so seductive to him that he immediately felt the urge to take off his pants. It was so simple. She would wear a nightgown.

She quickly stuffed the other dresses back into the closet and chests and opened the other, smaller chest with her nightgowns in it. She quickly decided on the gown made of the finest silk from Naath, precious and as soft as sin itself. Robert would not recognize the kind of silk, so would not suspect anything, but she knew that even though the nightgown had no neckline to speak of and reached all the way down over her feet, he would not be able to take his eyes off her. The silk was so thin that the light of a single candle was enough to shine through it. If she would wait for him here, sitting at the small table and pretending to read in Maester Jurne's papers by soft, warm candlelight, she would be able to give him a perfect view of her body, of every little detail and particular that would set his loins ablaze. She would be more tempting for him than if she were naked.

She already heard the call from the soldiers from the walls, announcing Robert's return, as she was slipping on the nightgown. Quickly she positioned the candle on the small table in the right place – the light had to hit her at an angle from the front, so that, seen from the door, it would shine through the silk in the best possible way and accentuate her nakedness underneath – spread Maester Jurne's papers in front of her and got into position. She quickly pulled the ribbons from her hair so that her curls could fall freely. Briefly, she considered tossing a few strands of hair over her shoulders. Robert loved her curls. But then she decided against it and let them fall down her back instead, almost as soft as the silk she was wearing and as deep brown as a torrent carved from oak. Robert might love it, but she couldn't allow her hair to block his view of her nipples under the nightgown when he would come in soon. For the first time, she was glad that lately it had gotten so cold in the Stormlands and so in Storm's End as well, despite fires in the hearths. Even now the air was chilly in their chambers and as a result her nipples were so hard that she could almost have stabbed someone with them, exceptionally well seen through the gossamer silk.

She sat and waited, sat and waited, without anything happening. Again and again she looked at the door, but it did not open. Nor were there any footsteps to be heard in the corridor outside their chambers. So she sat and waited, sat and waited.

Maybe he is bringing his horse back to the stables personally, she thought as she sat and waited, but immediately scolded herself for the silly thought. As if he had ever done that in the last twenty years.

She sat and waited, looking at the papers in front of her, then over to the door and back again. After a while, she even caught herself actually reading some of what was written on these papers. As boring as it was, it was better than simply staring at the wall. Though not much. She looked to the candle as she sat and waited, having already burned down a good bit, then back to the papers, then to the door, and back to the papers again.

The next time she lifted her head, the candle had already burned down and it was pitch dark in their chambers. She must have fallen asleep, even though she couldn't remember resting her head down on the table. Lyanna was freezing. She rose, walked over to the door, and called for a servant to stoke a new fire in the hearth across from the bed so she wouldn't have to freeze when she finally went to sleep now. The fire crackled comfortably as she buried herself in bed under blankets and furs. For a moment she wondered where Robert was and why he hadn't come to her, but it didn't take her long to figure it out.

This time he probably didn't even change but went straight to his wine and his whores, she thought bitterly.

She tried to push the thought aside and squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn't that she had necessarily wanted Robert at that moment, but still she felt a stab in her chest, the pain of betrayal. It took her a moment before she found something for her mind to cling to, something less depressing than the idea of where Robert probably was right now and, most importantly, what he was doing. She thought again of her adorable niece, of Arya. Arya had always been so very dear to her, from the first moment she had seen her. Her other niece, Sansa, had been a beautiful and well-mannered girl, certainly, but there had never been any special closeness between them. Nothing that had gone beyond how a bond in the blood normally felt. On the few occasions she had met her, she had had the feeling that not even that had been between them truly.

She's too much like her mother, she thought. She is too much a riverlander.

With Arya, she had always felt connected in a way she had only ever thought possible with a sister or a daughter of her own. She imagined that Arya was here with her now in Storm's End, perhaps as her niece, perhaps as her good-daughter. It didn't matter in her little dream. They would go riding through the Stormlands together and practice with bow and arrow together, and maybe even how to wield a sword if Arya wanted to. And then, someday, they would be sitting in front of a hearth, reading to her grandchildren from The Knight and the Beet together. She finally sank into a deep and comforting sleep as Ser Tumtum had just scared the wild boars away from the village of Windyhut.

Kaapooooom!

A loud bang woke her. Lyanna jumped up and sat upright in bed before her eyes were even fully open. She looked around and found that the door to their chambers had been thrown open and had crashed against the wall behind it violently. Her heart, in very first moment feeling as if it had completely stopped, was now beating as fast and violently in her chest as if it were about to burst out at any moment. It was still dark outside. The sun had not yet risen and the fire in the hearth had almost gone out again, spending only the faint memory of warmth but no more light. The darkness around her was almost absolute. At the other end of the room, however, emerging from the glow of the torches in the corridor, she could now see a figure standing in the open doorway, leaning against one of the posts. She recognized Robert immediately by his form, even without being able to see his face.

At first she wanted to yell at him whether he had completely lost his mind now to rumble in here like that, but then decided against it. Robert was drunk, as she could smell even from this distance, and no matter what they would now throw at each other, he wouldn't be able to remember anything in a few hours anyway.

Annoyed, she let her head fall back onto her pillow and turned away from the door, staring into the darkness on the other side of the bed as Robert came stomping into the room. She heard him take off his boots and drop them to the floor, clattering. Then he began to undress, dropping his clothes to the floor as well. He joined her in bed then, shifting around and rolling back and forth until he was finally buried under blankets and furs to his satisfaction. She immediately felt one of his hands reach for her. Before she could have said anything, before she could have objected, he already had grabbed her and, with a strength she had nothing to oppose, pulled her to him, pressing her against his body.

One of his hands quickly grabbed one of her breasts and began to knead it fiercely, almost painfully, while he was pressing his manhood, hard as stone, against her butt. She was sure that if he wanted to fuck her now, he would just pierce through the thin silk of her nightgown with his cock. Again, she considered for a moment whether she should pull away from him, try to push his hand off her breast, move further away so he couldn't press his hard cock against her anymore. He shouldn't even get the idea that he might still be welcome inside her tonight. But maybe she should just let it pass her by. It would certainly be over quickly. Before she could have come to a decision, however, she already felt the kneading of her breast slowing down, the force in his hand and his fingers weakening as he held her breast and played with her nipple. Only a moment later she heard his breathing growing louder and louder, which he always did while falling asleep.

She refrained from waking Robert when she awoke the next morning and, still caught in his grasp, struggled to free herself to get out of bed. She dressed, choosing a simple gown of gray and yellow wool, and left their chambers. In the Small Hall, the maids were already busy preparing the food for breakfast. Some of the maids, while carrying plates and bowls, mugs of tea and watered wine, and loaves of fresh bread, looked well rested regardless of the early hour and did their work quickly. Others walked around with their eyes almost closed and seemed barely able to stay on their feet. Lyanna suspected that, if not all at least some of these same girls had certainly been present last night wherever Robert had gotten himself drunk. She would have to keep an eye on them to see if any of them would soon be with child. If so, she already had an idea who the father would be.

It wouldn't be the first time and, knowing Robert as well as she did, it wouldn't be the last. She had grudgingly bowed to his wishes years ago to have his bastard Edric grow up here at Storm's End. Edric Storm, the spitting image of his father at a young age beyond even how much Orys and Steffon could be, had turned out to be a good boy, honest and polite, and had never done anything she could have reproached him for. Most of the time she had even been glad he was here and even more glad that he had become a good friend to her sons. Two of her sons at least, since Jon, having grown up in King's Landing, practically didn't know the boy at all.

More bastards, more evidence of what a miserable husband Robert was, more evidence of how little he respected and cared for her, her honor and her wellbeing, however, were not needed. Not within her own castle. Eight maids had she sent away from Storm's End in the past twelve years, all of them heavy with child from Robert. As angry as she had been each time, however, she had hardly been able to blame the girls. They had been stupid and naive, letting Robert wrap them around his finger, as she herself still did often enough, even after all these years and countless disappointments. She knew how convincing Robert could be when he really wanted something, especially when that something lay between a woman's thighs. And so she had always seen to it that the girls had been given work as maids for some other lord. Still in the Stormlands but far away so that they or their bastards would never cross Robert's path again.

She had, of course, always made sure that the children had been taken care of as well. The children had been innocent of the circumstances of their fathering and so, of course, she had not wanted to punish them for the fact that their father was a whoremonger. The sons had been given as wards to landed knights or lesser lords of the Stormlands to one day hopefully become knights themselves and the daughters had been raised to become maidservants. Lyanna knew that one girl, the daughter or the pretty kitchen maid named Shella, had even become the companion of the lord's daughter to whom she had been given. With a little luck, at some point, perhaps the son of a landed knight would have an eye on her. If so, the girl would be fortunate indeed.

Still, she had neither been able nor willing to simply accept this behavior, either from Robert or from the girls. She had given the clear and explicit warning years ago already that any woman or girl who would let Robert put a bastard in her would be driven out of Storm's End, never to return as long as Lyanna lived. That's what would happen to these as well, should any of them give birth to a child with black hair and blue eyes in a couple of months.

Orys and Steffon, also anything but well-rested, came into the Small Hall shortly after to break the fast. They greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and sat down at the table, pouring tea and water into themselves as if they had just crossed the Dornish desert on foot. Apparently her boys had had a long, boozy evening as well, and knowing them, it wasn't unthinkable that one or maybe even both of them hadn't spent the night alone. The prospect of her sons beginning to behave like their father at such a young age was anything but welcome to her. They themselves may have seen it differently, but to her they were still boys. For the time being, however, it was just fun and fooling around. They were still young enough that a betrothed, a good and pretty girl, might be able to get these ideas out of their heads. She could only hope so.

Maybe the maids have spent the night with Orys and Steffon and not with Robert after all, she thought. It wouldn't have been perfect, but it would have been the more pleasant alternative. I should ask them about it later, just to be sure. I certainly won't be able to tell by the color of the hair of any children that may come from it.

To her surprise, not even half an hour after Orys and Steffon, Robert also followed into the Small Hall. He was in a good mood, laughed and greeted their sons with strong slaps on the shoulders and her with a loud smacking kiss on her hair. Lyanna didn't respond, didn't dignify him with a glance as he sat down across from her.

While her boys were still silent, trying to counter their obviously aching heads with water and tea, Robert just chattered away. He first asked their boys how yesterday's hunt had been, but received no response from either of them that consisted of more than three words. Then he asked Lyanna how her night had been. Unfortunately, he said, she had already been asleep by the time he got to bed. Lyanna did not answer. He asked how she was doing and what her plans were for today. Lyanna again did not answer. After a moment of silence, looking around irritated and obviously not at all being aware of why she was not talking to him, Robert then asked her if she had heard from Ned in the Vale or from Jon at the Wall already. Still Lyanna did not answer.

Orys and Steffon, lacking appetite and obviously very aware of the tension in the air, quickly drank their last cup of tea, rose from the table, and took their leave. After that, Lyanna and Robert were alone in the Small Hall, except for one of the fortunately well-rested maids who brought them new cups of hot tea and another bowl of fresh berries. It only took a brief, severe glance in her direction, however, for her to curtsy to them both and then flee the room as if her life depended on it.

As she had expected, Robert couldn't stand the silence between them for long.

"All right, woman, what have I done wrong again?" he blaffed. "Oh, you know what? I don't give a shit. If you want to give me that crap, go ahead and do it. I don't care. If you don't want to talk, then I'll talk. So hear this. I came to a decision yesterday. Storm Tower has been empty since the days of my grandfather. It can't stay that way, I think, so I have to give the fief to someone. I will offer the land and title to Lothor."

"What?" she asked, shocked more than surprised.

"Ah, so you can talk after all."

"Lothor Brune? You can't possibly be serious, Robert."

"I, Lyanna, I am the Lord of Storm's End," he thundered. "And if I deem Lothor Brune fit and worthy to rebuild Storm Tower, then I'll give him the fief, dammit."

"That, Robert. Exactly that," she spat. "You asked earlier what you'd done wrong again now. That's exactly it, Robert. Such decisions. Lothor Brune can't run a fiefdom and he certainly can't rebuild Storm Tower."

"He's a good man, and you'd know that too if you weren't so blind with disdain for him."

"I'm blind? I, Robert? It is you who is blind. Willfully blind because you don't want to lose your new drinking buddy and you're afraid he'll disappear as soon as Little... as soon as Lord Baelish comes back."

"Littelfinger. Go ahead and say it. I don't mind, and if that weasel minds, he has no place here anyway. He doesn't have to come back at all on my account."

"Robert, please, you must see reason," she pleaded with him. "Storm Tower? There's a reason the castle has been empty and decaying for more than five decades already. The tower is a ruin, little more than a few crumbling walls and rotten wood, and the lands no longer yield enough coin to maintain a castle, even one as small as this, let alone rebuild it. And Lothor Brune? The man can't write two numbers in a household ledger without making at least three errors. The bowstrings he bought-"

"He bought them on my order," Robert thundered. "Lothor saved us a lot of coin with them, because he got them cheaper from a friend than anything Lomas ever procured. You like that, don't you? Saved coins in our coffers? That seems to be all you're after, anyway."

"I'm trying," she said tonelessly, "to keep Storm's End and House Baratheon from being utterly ruined, because you don't seem to be doing it yourself, Robert. You spend more gold every year than we can earn in two."

"Then you should be pleased that Ser Lothor has saved us some coin. What's your problem then, woman?"

"Lothor Brune has not saved us a single coin. On the contrary, because the bowstrings he bought for our money were nothing but junk. I've already sent instructions to Ser Lomas to buy new bowstrings to replace the junk that's clogging up our armories thanks to Ser Lothor and you. And now you want to give him a fief too, just like that, when there are plenty of good, able men who have served House Baratheon faithfully for years and even decades, waiting for a fief but not getting one. And why? Because they don't regularly go drinking and whoring with you."

"Enough!" he roared. "I've made my decision and it's not for you to question me, woman. Now get out of here and do some needle work or whatever it is you do all day long. You're getting on my nerves with your constant bleating."

Lyanna set the mug of tea on the table in front of her and silently rose from her seat. She had lost her appetite. Robert was still scowling at her, his arms folded in front of his broad chest, when she walked out the door, still without a word, her head held high. She went back to their chambers, sure that Robert would not appear here again all too soon. Maybe even for a few days. He had done that before a few times when they had fought. Lyanna was just fine with that. This way she would at least have her peace from him for a while. At least until he couldn't stand her silence any longer and, some shiny, golden trinket in his hands, would show up and awkwardly try to apologize to her. She knew this game and it bored her.

Unsure of what to do now, she sat down and reached for her needlework, which had been lying untouched in the corner for weeks even before they had left for King's Landing. Noticing that this was exactly the nonsense Robert had told her to do, she flung the fabric and needles back onto the small table, annoyed.

"He's making a fool of himself," she grumbled to herself. "Storm Tower. Don't make me laugh. He might as well try to have Ser Lothor rebuilt Summerhall while he's at it. And why not the Broken Arm of Dorne as well? A new land bridge to Essos would certainly be great for the trade with the Free Cities."

Lothor Brune. Storm Tower. Lothor Brune. Storm Tower. Lothor Brune as the new lord of Storm Tower. She still couldn't believe it. She would have to talk to Robert about it again, even though she already hated having to listen to his yelling that would inevitably follow. But she had to sort it out. It was still just a floating idea in his head. No damage had been done yet. Nor had he made an absolute fool of himself with this silliness.

Ned had always believed that there was a great lord in Robert, if only he was set on the right path by a good woman. Pushed a little, perhaps. She knew Robert better by now, however, than her dear Ned apparently ever had, and she knew that it would have taken a push from a war elephant to even put Robert anywhere near the right path. Hadn't she been a good wife to him, then? Apparently not. Not good enough at least.

Years ago, she had also believed that there was more to Robert than he was showing. Had hoped so, at least, but Robert had managed to snuff out that tiny flame of hope, that delicate glow, so absolutely that it would never flare up again. Lyanna knew by now that inside Robert there was no great lord just waiting to burst forth and lead House Baratheon to new glory. Inside him was just a man, a man with the self-control of a little child but the thirst of ten and the constantly hard cock of twenty grown men. Not more. Not for the first time, she thought it was a blessing to the realm that Robert was a lord and no more than that. Better still, he would have been a peasant, without the power to do any harm except to himself. But it could have been worse. He had the blood of Orys Baratheon in his veins, the half-brother of the Conqueror. How different history might have been had Orys ridden Balerion instead of Aegon then and had Orys been the one to forge the Iron Throne and the first to ascend it.

Robert would be king today, she thought, and had to smile for a tiny moment at the absurdity of that notion.

Ned could love him all he wanted and as dearly as he wanted, but Lyanna knew that Robert did not have it in him to become a Jaehaerys the Conciliator. If anything, he had it in him to become an Aegon the Unworthy. Robert was not interested in his duties as a lord, never spent more than half an hour each month ruling but could spent days hunting in the woods. He drank half the day and the rest of the day he fucked whores and all other women who let him have his way with them. Rhaegar would never have hurt her like that, would never have humiliated and disgraced her like that, she knew. Where the thoughts of His Grace had suddenly come from, she did not know. She gladly allowed them to come, however.

Even on his worst days, Rhaegar is a better man than Robert could ever be on his best, she thought bitterly.

For a while she sat there, staring at the wall, trying to stifle her tears. She didn't want to cry, had never been quick to cry. Not from bloody knees or scratched hands, not from bruises or cuts, not even when she had twisted her ankle after falling off a horse as a child. But those had all been physical pains. The pain that Robert had done to her again and again, and still did to her whenever he wasn't with her at night but with someone else, was different. This pain made her cry as it had made her cry so many times before.

If only I had accepted the letter, she thought as she felt the first tear run down over her cool cheeks, burning like molten steel.

The letter. Rhaegar's letter. She did not know what it had said, but she could imagine it. Tears came to her eyes again, but this time from anger at her own stupidity. She would have loved to jump up from her chair and smash her head against the wall until either the wall or her head gave way.

You would deserve it, you stupid child, she scolded herself. You could have at least read the letter once.

Rhaegar's letters, even if she had never answered them, had always given her a feeling of warmth. The feeling of a deep comfort that she had too rarely ever felt from Robert, even when the man who had written the letters had been more than three hundred miles away in King's Landing and Robert had been snoring just a few rooms away. She would not have had to answer this letter either, just as she had never answered his numerous letters that he had secretly sent her over the years. But perhaps she had. Maybe this would have been the letter she would have answered for the first time. But would she have had the strength and courage to do so? She did not know. She had always prided herself on being fearless, as her lord father and brothers had always told her she was, yet she had never summoned the courage to do something as simple as to answer a letter.

Lyanna looked around but found that there was no wine in her chambers to soothe her beating heart and aching head. She didn't feel like having a maid come to bring her some, though, so she just sat in the chair and tried not to think about Rhaegar. Nothing good would come of her thinking of him. It was impossible. Simply impossible.

Lyanna closed her eyes to try to drive the pain out of her head, but to no avail. She tried not to think of anything, not of Ser Lothor, the disappointment made flesh, not of Robert and his childish nonsense, not of Rhaegar, especially not of Rhaegar, with his wonderful words and his beautiful smile and his gentle touches. However, the more she tried to drive this wonderful man out of her thoughts, the less she succeeded. She opened her eyes briefly, realized that the absence of wine had not changed, of course, and closed them again. Immediately, however, he was there again, in her thoughts, filling them so completely that there seemed to be no room for anything else or anyone else in them at all.

She opened her eyes again and jumped up from her chair. She walked over to the window, pushed the little lever aside and yanked the window open.

Some fresh air will do me good, she told herself.