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Chapter Text

I.

“My sweet, sweet Daenerys.”

The cry of an infant echoed in the dreary, forlorn stone walls of Dragonstone. The coo and hum of a dying mother whimpered through the storm that pushed sleet and rain to pound against the fortress of the Queen’s namesake. If stone walls could talk, they would repeat a history of longtime, tremulous suffering at the hands of men and women with too much pride and little honor. The maester worked to stop the bleeding, but it soaked through the furs and ran down the bed. Her hymn and singing began to die down, a slow —haunting hum that encased the walls as she clutched the babe closer to her chest. 

Her song muted the wars of the past, muted the loss, muted the sorrow of this world and what the Gods brought with it. 

“Your Grace—” he quieted when he besot the Queen slowly losing consciousness. 

Akin to the raging storm outside, the Princess cried at the clutches of the sad sea. The roar of the ocean cheered for the birth of another Targaryen. Perhaps the Gods were celebrating, readily deciding on the coin that would determine her life. Lightning thundered proudly amongst black, burly clouds that made the water and sky touch in an inky blackness, only lit up by a quick shot of light that attacked the dragon’s home.

“Please, Pycelle — please don’t let him hurt her,” she weakly begged the grand maester. 

Such a sad sight, but one so common.

“She’s Daenerys…Stormborn Targaryen…My sweet daughter.”  

And on that night where the sea sunk ships and the wind ripped through trees and forced the record keepers in Old Town to recognize it as the strongest storm in decades — the kind and ethereal Queen Rhaella died with her daughter beside her, the faint traces of her family’s song sweet on pale lips until nothing could be heard but the storm.

—

When the siege rang around the halls as a false report — The Mad King was quick to burn the men that he sought as liars. More men that proclaimed their innocence or travesty as a mistake would burn alive as five hundred men watched. No one spoke but, no one said a thing — but watched with tired eyes. After so many men with ear curling screams as the wildfire melted their skin, their faces blended together. 

At least, Jaimie Lannister felt as such. 

On the morrow, there were whispers that the Queen had passed giving birth to the princess. They would be back in a fortnight, choosing to wait out the storm.

When they did return, and King’s landing returned to a semblance of some normalcy, the last Targaryen babe was guarded at all hours. When he first laid eyes on her, she was in the hands of Rhaegar — she reached out to him, and her violet eyes bore into his soul.

Daenerys.

 The crowned prince covered the grieving loss of his mother with the happiness of his little sister. Yet — there was something else that brought him true sadness behind his incontestable behavior. He knew it all too well.

—

“Ser Jaimie,” came a soft voice from the gardens, “look what I picked for you!” 

At the age of five, Daenerys wanted nothing more than to spend her time amongst the lemon trees and rose bushes. Playing with her cousins Rhaenys and Aegon, the trio would run around laughing and tripping over themselves — and it almost befit a false narrative that the world wasn’t a forsaken mess. He would stand guard, watching and noticing the whispers among the men and women within the gardens. They were everywhere. Liars and schemers, spiders and webs.

He didn’t have the ire or brain to deal with the politics that came with court, but he supposed that watching the children beat watching men burn alive. 

The lion knelt before the small Targaryen and looked at the red flower she picked for him, “is this a red tulip?” he asked her, twirling it between his fingers.

Ashen, silver hair bobbed up and down in loose braids, “yes — it’s the color of your house!” 

He smiled, keeping the tulip and fitting it into the notch of his breastplate so it stood proudly against the gold of his kings guard uniform. “How does it look?” 

Looking so much like her mother, she reached forward to fix it for him. “Good!”

And then she was off, chasing her older cousins until Elia Martell gathered them — and he followed in pursuit, only until Ser Barriston cleared his throat behind him, “the King requests your service, Lannister.”

Waving bye to him, Daenerys followed after her family — and he sighed, what atrocities would he bear witness to today? 

—

Time went on like this. 

It was a miracle they didn’t lose Daenerys as she found herself fit to search and scrape over every corridor and hidden hallway within the castle. She held no sense of fear within her, and more often than not she would hurt herself in her proclivity adventures and have to take a visit to the maesters to get patched up. Whereas Aegon and Rhaenys were held firm by their mother and instilled with a sense of duty — without her brother Rhaegar present most days and Viserys keeping to himself and his own spoilt nature, Daenerys was astute to be forgotten about. 

So on this day, when the other kingsuard and her septa couldn’t find her, Jaimie took it upon himself to find the little dragon.

More often than not, she loved to play with the dragon bones beneath the Red Keep. Aerys kept the large bones of Balerion the Dread in the throne room for auspicious intimidation — marking the future of many of the men and children that died in there.  The ones in size similar to small pets were thrown in the cellars beneath the  Red  Keep— and Daenerys loved those. So unlike her father. And just as he thought, she was stuffed in a corner with a candle — telling the small bones about the story of their ancestors and lineage from the old lands of Valyria. 

Like a lion on the prowl, he crept around the corner and watched her pet the small dragon bones, animately speaking and giggling to herself. 

What an odd child.

He wondered if this was the beginning of her madness.

 The young kingsguard stepped forward from his corner, “you shouldn’t be hiding from your septa, Princess.”

Daenerys flashed a look at him once before resuming her story, “—and once, the dragons flew around the large buildings of Valryia.” 

“Your Grace—“

“Until the Doom killed all of the people within Valyria aside from those that fled with their dragons—“

“Daenerys.”

A hollowed look swept over her features, and she stopped herself to set down the minuscule dragon skull. Her candle burned brightly beside her, and absently she put her palm over the flame. Most would have jumped to save her hand, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t cry, and her skin didn’t burn. “Ser Jaimie,” the Princess voice was taught, “do you remember my mother? What was she like?” 

Like himself, she lost her mother to childbirth. Viserys cruelly liked to throw that in her face when given the opportunity, which was much like the dynamic of his family — and the unfortunately clear memory of his sister teasing and violently bullying Tyron for killing their mother forced him to sit beside her. She had grown, and each passing day she reminded him more and more of her mother, “she was a kind, sweet woman. Too kind for this world.” On some of his first nights being inducted into the kings guard, he was forced to listen to the poor Queen Rhaella submit to the vile man each night. It seemed to be each year, and especially since the Queen’s death — his madness only grew and grew. 

“Viserys says it’s my fault for her passing…”

“Ignore him,” the kingsguard bit out, “it was no fault of your own.” 

If only he could have mustered the decency to tell his youngest brother these words in their youth. Tired of witnessing her sabotage her own hand, he grabbed it from the flame and turned it over to inspect it, “does it not hurt?” As he thought, there were no burn marks. 

Daenerys clutched her hand to her chest, eyeing him widely in confusion, “…no, should it?” 

Dragon’s blood.

Somewhere in his childhood, he could remember the stories of Old Valyria and the dragon riders being able to withstand flames, part of him had phased the words out — only enticed to remember the tales of old Knights and kingly men. He had no interest in magic, of all things. 

“I don’t know,” he answered her, genuine in his tone. 

There were many men that would put the Targaryens to death, their reach and power was slowly diminishing under the rule of Aerys, and it was his death that would crown Rheagar as the King of the Realm and perhaps restore faith and power in the throne once again. Truly, Jaimie did not care. His worries were in his sword and protecting the people. He swore himself to the gold cloak so he could stay by Cersei’s side, and for a year now his family was back at Casterly Rock, leaving him to defend the Mad King. 

Pitying the young Targaryen, he continued with a few more stories of Queen Rhaella to the best of his memory, forgoing any of the atrocities the king inflicted on her mother. Jaimie Lannister told her of the times her mother would sing, rare but a true gem for a man that had to stand outside her door. He told her of her love for animals and the gardens. By the end of it, Daenerys had a calm, gentle resolve to her with tears wetting her cheeks. 

Perhaps no one spoke to her of Rhaella.

“Thank you, Ser Jaimie — You’re a true knight.”

No, he was selfish. A true knight would see the worth of his title, his only true attribute was his love for the sword and his sister. 

“Thank you, Your Grace.” 

—

Another year, and Robert’s Rebellion began. 

The rumbling of battles, the paranoia of the King, the calling of their bannermen. 

One day, Daenerys got too close to the throne room when Aerys lost his temper, and he jumped in to usher her back to her quarters. The other men of the kingsguard warned him to not intervene, and when Aerys found out — he demanded her presence alongside her brother’s to watch him burn thieves. 

He fidgeted when Daenerys stood near her father, and although they were kin — other than their silver hair and violet eyes, there was no resemblance between the two. Being sentenced to watch this familiar scene was customary to him, and he kept his eyes trained on the prince and princess — frustrated there was nothing he could do to stop this. 

“Bring him forth,” Aerys demanded. Ever compliant, the other men donning the gold cloaks brought forward a man trembling and crying. 

“—Please, please Your Grace! — I’ll do anything, I’ll wear the black! Please!” 

Pity, a man should take his death with grace.

But not like this.

Although keeping a strong resolve, he could see Daenerys nervously twist her hands in front of her. 

“Rossart—Bring me the wildfire.”

“Your Gr-Grace, no! Please!” 

“Silence!!” He roared, leaping out of his chair. 

The man, now sniveling on his hands and knees and realizing the short leash of his mortality sobbed like a man that lost his child  — it was enough to break the Princess in half. “Father,” she said brazenly, emboldened — she dare look at him, and it made Jaimie shift defensively. He wouldn’t let him harm her. He wouldn’t. 

Aerys II slowly looked at his daughter, anger sought and rigid in his aging body, “…do you—“

“Why not take his hands, instead?” She held it together, but his keen eye could see she was shaking, and the whole room ushered their credible silence. “He’s a petty thief, there would be no point in wasting the wildfire.” 

Even Viserys was stunned, he who normally never sought to be quiet was beguiled by his sister’s tongue.

Like a muzzle noosed in the throne room, the silence permeated the air. He waited. Gaze unwavering, he realized this would kill him — all the titles and lands that were already taken from his by his oath, truly everything would truly be meaningless. His only regret would be leaving before Cersei. 

The Mad King contemplated his daughter’s words, and he sat back down. Somewhere in the vile hive of his mind, he came up with a better plan to teach his youngest kin a lesson. Or so Jaime thought.

Instead, Aerys II motioned for Ser Iilyn Payne, and the executioner came forth from the crowd with his great sword. “My lovely Daenerys,” the King’s mouth trembled in unbridled trepidation, “you’re right — why waste wildfire?”

The entirety of the room held their breathe. Jaime realized he was right, and kept his hand obscurely hidden, ready to save the Princess. 

“…This man will still die today, and it will be under your command. And once his head is chopped off, you will help the maids clean up his blood — understood?”

Daenerys, for all her might in such a small body — kept her brave facade under the tight scrutiny of her father. Her defiance spoke volumes, but she couldn’t compete with the power her father held. Her attempt at a clean justice to save a life failed, and although she wanted to test the waters further to show compassion, she took a step back. 

“But-“

“Now,” he threatened, tone sick and gangly enough to make her waiver. 

In a display that surprised everyone in the room, Daenerys took a steadying breath and faced the petty thief. The man, having lost the glimmer of hope for his life being saved, sobbed uncontrollably as the executioner kicked him down into a kneeling position and lined up his sword. 

She knew the words.

Jaime knew she knew the words.

Violet eyes held a sympathy for a world she knew little about. This man could have been a raper as well as a thief, a drunk, or any of the God forsaken shithole men that lived in flea bottom — but she still held compassion in her heart.

“I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen sentence this man…To die.” 

The screams and pleading of the man clearly affected the young princess, but she kept a steel reserve. Ilyan Payne waited for her motion, and the subtle shift of her head was enough. The great sword came down on the man’s neck, and blood splattered across the room. Truthfully, this was the start of when the notoriety and repertoire began for Daenerys — as she didn’t flinch or cry in defiance of her father.

Hours later, when the maids were done and the throne room was clear — Jaime found Daenerys sitting in a corner with her knees drawn up to her chest. There was a long, forlorn look on her face. Her eyes never left the throne. Blood clung to her dress, and she didn’t greet him when he stood next to her — both stayed silent. 

After a few minutes, Daenerys let a single tear fall, “am I a bad person?” 

It was an innocent question, but there was no black or white answer, “…no, Your Grace.”

“Then why do I feel so awful?”

“Because death is awful, in all forms.” 

She looked up at him quizzically, like a learning pup that tilted their heads — trying to comprehend the words, “then why do you kill?”

“Because it’s necessary, Your Grace. Life and death coexist for a reason. It’s a shame you witnessed it first hand like this. That man didn’t deserve to die for such a petty crime, I’ll admit — but you saved him from the wildfire, and I think that’s enough.” 

By now, he had already seen men die at his hand, more than he could count.

If not by him, then by Aerys. 

He wasn’t a prophet or poet or philosopher, he was a man that was good with a sword and had a pretty family name, he didn’t care to get into the intrinsics of morality — because truthfully it made his head hurt and he didn’t care. 

So when the princess stood up and brushed herself off, she looked at the throne with a keen determination in her eyes, something he hadn’t ever seen before. It could rival that of the men in charge of large, proud houses. For someone so young, it made his mouth jut slightly in awe.

“One day I’ll sit on the throne, and I’ll give a true Queen’s Justice to the people in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

A child’s wish, really. 

He didn’t entertain it, but he would never forget it. 

“Come, let’s get you to your septa — she’s been looking for you.”

—

The sack of King’s Landing.

Robert’s Rebellion.

Death and pain and madness. 

Each day the rebels were getting closer to them, and from the people of flea bottom to the families trapped within the Red Keep, everyone knew of the Mad King’s anger. No one was safe from the wildfire, and his madness only grew and grew. A day ago news came of Rheagar’s death at the Trident, and with that Jaime slowly prophesized his death. He would die protecting the King and his family. It was his oath, and from the early age when he entered the Kingsgaurd, he knew that one day this would be a possibility.

He only truly hoped for his family and Daenerys safety.

On that morning, the gates were locked and the entirety of King’s Landing bristled with fear and contempt for the rebels. Jaime kept a calm facade, but internally he wondered where his father was. Why wasn’t he here? The bastard. Hiding out at Casterly Rock with the rest of his family. The Mad King made sure Jaime knew of his distaste of his father, and the threats were no longer threats and becoming reality that he would pay for his father’s absence. 

When time stilled and his father and large army of Lannister men swept through the city, he should have been happy, should have been relieved. Yet the cries and slaughter of the men and women and people allianced with the Targaryens echoed throughout the kingdom. They were murderous, and truly for once — he didn’t know what to do except follow his oath. 

Locked within the throne room, the vehement swallows and tyranny of the Mad King bellowed throughout the room, like an animal cornered — they would all be murdered.

“BURN THEM ALL!” 

Aerys II shook with a ferocity Jaime had not seen before, and he repeated it over and over and over. It shook his skull, made his ears ring — but the calamity within the castle and what his father just did caused such a panic, no one knew what to do. Elia and her children would be boarding a ship by now with Daenerys and Viserys in tow, and as Jaime and the rest of the Kingsguard readied themselves to die — he realized what was going to happen.

When he sent the command to Rossart, Jaime knew the city would burn.

Burn to the ground and all that would be left would be ash and tragedy. 

The faces of thousands of women and children flashed before him.

The other Kingsgaurd began to protect their liege and filtered out of the throne room, and his heart thundered into his throat. In a moment of clarity that beseeched even himself, the hard screech and call of the Mad King beckoned him.

For the safety of this castle, for the safety of the people within King’s Landing — and a deep, perilous part of him loathed the man, Jaime killed the firemancer — almost stunning Aerys out of his mad spell, but still the call to burn them all burned into his skin forever.

He ran, sword in hand as Aerys turned from him, not expecting his loyal kingsguard to best him through the back.

His sword entered the back of his King, true and easily. 

It all happened slowly, but the feral cry of the man he was swore to protect with his life began to cough up blood. It splattered the throne room, much like the hundreds of men that he killed. The hand on his sword didn’t waver, and he twisted it — once, twice until the gurgle of blood closing Aery’s throat made his last declaration a simmer of the man he once was. 

Jaime tossed him from his sword and stood over the dying King.

Amongst the chaos of the castle, it was the small gasp that caught his attention.

There, in the corner that would lead to the bones of the great dragons beneath the red keep, stood Daenerys with a hand over her mouth — trying to cover her small tremors of fear at him. His sword was dirtied with her father’s blood, and the look in her eyes reminded him of the boars and animals that knew their life was soon to end, petrified.

Guilt consumed him.

Not for killing him, not for breaking his oath, but for becoming a villain in her eyes.

The adrenaline pounded his heart between his ears, and he flicked his sword of her father’s blood, “I told you — life and death are the same, Your Grace.”

She stood there, shaking in her dress — blood on her clothes and terror in her face. She was rooted to the spot, and he began to laugh at the obscenity that would become his life. He wouldn’t die, he was sure of that. Though at this moment, with the world burning he wanted one thing — his sister’s cunt and the sweet cloak of death. 

Yet.

It was her scream as Gregor Clegane snatched and threw her ten feet that doused him in reality.

Without thinking, and the prowress as a legendary swordsman, he lunged towards the beast of a man. Her body was crumpled against the floor, and the man that was the Lannister dog had an obscene amount of blood on him.

“What have you done!” Jaime reeled, narrowly dodging the giant swing of Clegane’s sword. “Back down immediately!”

The man merely grunted, ignoring his command and brought the back of his elbow to crack into his face. The resounding pain that made black spots dance in his vision were unwarranted as Gregor pushed past him to get to Daenerys. The man’s sword would cut her in two, but Jaime shook the dizziness away and darted between them, using the entirety of his strength to fend off his sword.

Surely now, if someone were to see him defending a Targaryen child after breaking his oath — he could imagine the trial now. Insanity.

Jutting his leg out, he kicked in Gregor’s kneecap, causing the man to reel back and trip. The sound of his knee snapping from the ferocity of his weight gave Jaime ample opportunity to lunge his sword upward and under the armor of the burly man, and the satisfying squelch! of his sword cruciyfying his organs and jutting out the back of this man made Jaime coarse out a heavy roar and throw the man to the ground.

He sheathed his sword, he knew now that his place within this castle was to save Daenerys. Maybe it was the knight lore and valiant men that he looked up to, but it was more than that. He carefully picked up Daenerys, her body was light and her forehead was split open from when she was thrown, but he could only hope she would live.

Winding through the halls and taking the hidden paths through the castle where no one would see or follow them, he stumbled across a scene that would be etched in his memory. The grotesque, beaten body of Elia Martell who must have had the same idea as him laid strewn and tossed to the side. Obviously raped, with her dress torn — he swallowed the bile that burned his throat.

That fucking dog.

It was in the next hallway that his already cynical and smug heart broke. 

The children he watched after for years now, little Aegon with his head smashed in and Rhaenys, he looked away in anger. He glanced down at Daenerys to make sure she was unconscious still. No child should see this. No human should see this.  Vehement anger at this world and the vileness of humanity, he wanted to do something. And while he was preoccupied by duty and honor protecting a man that would watch a city burn, he could have saved these children.

He could still do one thing with his time here.

His cloak following after his footsteps, he ran through the desolate castle with bodies crumpled everywhere, he made it to the lost hallways of the Red Keep. Maybe it was the dragon bones that woke her, but as they passed in utter darkness, Daenerys began to flail and cry in his arms, “let me go!” 

“Shhhh, Your Grace.”

It was his voice that calmed her, and she clung to his armor, “he- he killed them!” She sobbed, clutching onto him like a viper on a rat. 

“I know,” he ushered, “I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Where is he?!” She couldn’t see in the inky blackness, and it was only from searching for her so many times that he knew where to go. 

“He’s dead now, you don’t need to worry.” 

With a sure foot, he kept on their path, and her strangled sobs choked her throat, “you killed him?” 

“Yes,” he answered simply, trying to keep his composure. In the distance, he could see the faint glimmer of light. He would stow her on a boat, surely there was someone there that would have taken Elia and her children. 

“Y-y-you killed my father…” her voice was listless, like everything had been taken from her. Which in reality, she had nothing now. Absolutely nothing but her name. 

He couldn’t say anything, he had no defense. There was already so much tragedy in her life, and he didn’t want to leave her with any other impression than what he was, “I did. But I also saved millions.”

Bruises were already forming on her body, and he could only assume she escaped the hands of Gregor and ran to find him, it made his chest clench uneasily. Yet there he stood over her father’s dead body. She stayed silent and sobbed against his neck. 

Wounding through the back steps leading to the smuggler’s patch on the beach, as he assumed there was a boat with a cloaked figure waiting for her. “You’re going to get on that boat, understand? Then you’re going to leave and not come back if you want to live.”

She looked up at him, the harsh words clearly broke her, and she clung to him tighter, “no! Please… I’m scared,” She whimpered. A child’s whimper, it was almost enough to convince him to go with her. He couldn’t.

His ties to his family and the cloak were his life, and if he could count this one favorable act against his many sins, it only mattered that she would be safe. In the shadows, he tried to see who it was that controlled the boat, but without digging himself into a further hole that he would insufferably die in, he leaned down and set her on her feet, kneeling before her to ready her.

She didn’t want to let go, and truthfully — he had become attached to the kind Princess.

“Your mother,” he began quickly, knowing his time was running out to get her safely on that boat, “—was brave. Braver than any other woman I had the pleasure of meeting.” 

Her tear ridden eyes searched his face frantically, hoping and wishing he would go with her. But her ever curious nature made her calm down with struggling breaths to listen.

“When I was younger, before the Kingsgaurd and when I first met her — she was the sweetest woman. She protected your siblings and yourself from your father. She would want you to be brave, and you’re just like your mother — I, I promise one day all of this pain will only be a memory. You are one of the last Targaryens, carry your name and life as a shield. “ 

Her soft whimper, along with her valiant violet eyes that were searching his own, trying to understand his words, “—someday you’ll get your Queen’s justice.”

“Now go!”

Braver than even he might have been in that situation at that age, the princess ripped herself away from him and ran. With a heavy heart, he watched her ashen hair muddied with grime and blood trail after her. When she came into sight of the cloaked figure, they quickly ushered her safely onto the boat. 

In that moment, he felt a sword lodge itself into his shoulder. 

She turned in time to see the man that brutally murdered her family stab Ser Jaime.

Daenerys screamed for him, but they were already departing the shore. 

The cloaked figure kept her close, keenly watching the scene unfold.

Jaime fought, clearly registering the Princess’s screams for him in the fading distance. He dislodged himself from the large sword, finding his left arm completely lax. The pain thwarted his movements, but he turned and brought his sword to Gregor’s armor. The pleading cries of the princess were taken away by the sounds of the shore. Their swords danced, the metal clanging together in a piercing jolt of noise. It reverberated around them, and Jaime used his good hand to jostle around Gregor like a true lion. 

Although the man had strength, there was something dizzying about the way Jaime fought that gave him his reputation. Lunging forward, Clegane was already weakened from the previous fight and Jaime swiped at his leg, leaving both of his legs as useless.

Not before the mountain dragged him down by his limp arm. 

His face landed in the wet sand, and the mountain used all his strength the keep Jaime pinned to the ground, gasping for air.

Briefly, he looked beyond his lashes to see Daenerys still calling for him, screaming and flailing to jump off the boat.

Good.

At least she would be safe.

And what of him?

Part of him felt like he should give up, but he refused. His pride would never let him. Using his legs for strength, he pushed the mountain off of him. With the man paralyzed and unable to get up, Jaime kicked him in the jaw. 

Knowing that no one would hear him, and because he truly cared for those children, he watched the Mountain’s eyes light up in horror when Jaime brought the sword down on his throat. 

“For the children you murdered.” 

He kicked him again, effectively breaking his jaw.

When he noticed the life flickering from his eyes, he leaned down to make sure he would be heard, “I’ve always hated you, dog.”

Limping and looking back at the shore, the boat was gone.

And so was Daenerys Targaryen.

—

When Robert took the throne, and Jaime was labeled as Kingslayer, he gladly took that name that Ned Stark so kindly branded him. Alas, it was better than being known as the Targaryen savior. Word spread that Ser Gregor Clegane fought to stop the person who saved Daenerys. He became a hero within the court of the Baratheon and Lannisters after his untimely death. Jaime didn’t tell anyone, he would take the secret to his grave if need be, but something of a legend came about the mysterious person that was able to defeat the Mountain. Sometimes his sister would question him about the events of that day, and he would give her vague responses. She was too perceptive for her own good. Jaime would pull her back into bed when she began to piece together the day Daenerys escaped them. When she cheerfully rued the fact that the girl got to live, maybe it was then that his heart started to harden towards her, like the cooling of lava against the dirt -- millions of years creating a hard shell around his heart towards his dear sister.

However, how Ned knew he killed King Aerys but not Gregor Clegane was unknown to him.

Perhaps he witnessed him murdering his liege but also save the Targaryen girl. 

Ned was known for his honor, so it wouldn’t be out of character for him to keep quiet about the ordeal. The search for whoever saved Viserys and Daenerys stretched across the narrow sea, and a bounty that would make a normal man rich began a frenzy to find the last Targaryen siblings. 

Jaime was forgiven for killing Aerys at the suggestion of his father — and if not for his father’s last minute help with the rebellion to take King’s Landing and the sudden betrothal of his sister to Robert, he was sure he would have been put to the sword.

Yet the peering, judgmental eyes of Ned Stark never left him. 

Each day, and nearly everyday for the next decade — until he was sure that Robert’s wrath for any and all remaining Targaryen's simmered, Jaime wondered where she was. Rumor had it that they lived in Braavos for while, but that was it. As someone close to not only the King’s hand but also the Queen, he learned far too much — especially on the nights spent in his sister’s bed. 

And so time went on.

Every rumor that milled around the castle about Daenerys over the years was dismissed until she was to be wed to the Dothraki Khal. She would belong to the horde, and amassed a talented company of savages. Shame. Though it was a pleasure to see Robert's bulbous, peach-red face surge into a violent red when more news of her success reached the west. 

According to reports from the trafficker Mormont, she had Viserys killed. 

She was now truly the last Targaryen. He envisioned his last words to her — wondering if she remembered him.

When The Stallion who Will Mount the World bled into the hallways of the Red Keep, Jaime wondered when Daenerys grew into a woman. Though, it made his nose crinkle to think that beast of a man touched her. On that same day, he looked at Myrcella -- his own daughter, and prayed she would never have to fend for herself through her body. If Cersei and him could promise her a life with a partner for love, that's all he could hope for. Not alone on the other side of the sea in Essos.  

When the red comet lit up the sky, Jaime stood there idly — forgetting the tales that were told to him so long ago. He overheard his sister speaking to the council about such a rumor, and they declared it nonsense — not one would ever live through the red waste. 

More time, more rumors. 

Until she had garnered the Unsullied in her corner.

Higher and higher she climbed.

The more his family fell. While his family and sister dealt with tragedy and chaos in the west, she managed to gather dragons, two armies, and the love of the people in the east. Her name in rumor was becoming stronger, more well known, and a place deep within him was proud of her. She left here with nothing, and was on a trajectory to perhaps come west.

It didn’t scare him.

The pride of his house wouldn’t allow it though. His pride wouldn’t allow it. Still — His trials and humble adventures after meeting Brienne of Tarth changed something innate within him. The veil of hungry power, of  vicissitude loathing no longer blinded him. He knew his family, he knew the vile nature of his sister, and he knew the pain of losing a child. He knew too much now without the protection of Lord Twyin at his beck and call to save him. He knew what it was like to lose everything, everything important to him. His pride had been belted and beat until he was the barest hint of a man, like a caged lion pacing back and forth. 

She was no longer the child that he saved or that would bring him flowers.

Daenerys Targaryen was now a woman that was unstoppable.

Madness probably descended upon her, there was no other way those beasts would listen to a normal human. She was a weapon, something that threatened the very existence that the west should fear. She held the power of King Aegon I at her fingertips, and at her command she could burn the city just like her father attempted.

His gold plated armor glinted in the summer day. As a knight of summer, as a man of summer, he noticed the way the sun was setting sooner and a chill breeze was beginning to brush through the wind. It chilled him to his skin, but he surmised that it was merely his irritability being in charge of this caravan of loot in an open field. 

Bronn sat atop his mare beside him, feeling ire about their current standings. They needed to get the gold and grain to King’s Landing if they wanted a fighting chance  in this war with the Targaryen. The grimace on his face made Jaime scowl, “something isn’t right.”

“You bet shit something ain’t right, I can feel it.”

The sound crept on them, slow at first. It grew louder, the howls!, yips! and caws! of battle resonated in the distance atop the hill. There, in a large horde were hundreds upon hundreds of men and horses of the Dothraki. Jaime froze, for the first time in his career as a knight — he was beguiled by the sight before him. Above them, a shadow covered the sun.  The only creature that could made a daytime sky turn dark. It’s inky wings were spread afar, gliding effortlessly through the sky. 

For God’s sake, it’s true.

A dragon. 

A mighty beast so large that he found himself gripping the reigns of his horse until his knuckles turned white. 

And atop the gangly, disgusting beast was a head of ashen white — he could barely make out the outline of her in her armor. A black helm resembling that of her dragons sat atop her head, and she looked like the Targaryen warriors of ancient pasts. Aegon I reincarnated into a woman. He was in a trance, this couldn’t be the girl he saved so long ago.

It was Bronn who geared up his men as he was lost looking at the woman that made magic real.

“Ready the line!” 

“Hold the line!”

The missile of fire hit them first.

-tbc

Chapter Text

II.

There was a reason that the Targaryen dynasty ruled the seven kingdoms for a millennia. 

There was a reason that Aegon I took each battle with his dragons, melting his enemies and forging their swords into the iron throne. 

There was a reason that people feared the Targaryens and what they could accomplish.

Truly, Jaime Lannister now understood why the words of their house were fire and blood. 

Fire, true fire burned around him. Agonizing screams curled into the air, perforating with the smoke of the loot that burned into the sky. Billows of large, black smoke took over the field. With one missile of fire from her dragon, their line was sieged. Within their armor, his men melted. Their bones turned to char and ash, falling away into the ground. It churned his stomach, because although he knew men soiled themselves when they died — this, this was a mixture of burnt human debris and chaos.

Bronn wasted no time, he went to the line to fight against the Dothraki.

Jaime woke up when something cut through his armor, blinking back his daze — a Dothraki arakh cut into his shoulder. Wielding his sword with his good hand atop his horse, the pain nullified his shock. Jutting his blade forward, he used the momentum of their horse to stab into the dotharki’s back. 

So it began.

They weren’t equipped for this fight, not with one scorpion. One scorpion wouldn’t do shit against that dragon. It’s blood curdling screech echoed as she reigned down another bomb onto the last of their loot. “Bronn!” Jaime beckoned, riding atop his horse — the crunch of his men’s body beneath his horses’ hooves would be a sound that would live with him forever. 

Bronn, already covered in blood — knew what to do. Their only chance at surviving would be the scorpion. It happened all too quickly, all too fast. Dothraki men atop their horses shot arrows standing from their back, his men flying to their death from the accuracy of their aim. For every ten of his men, only one body from the horde would be on the ground.

More acquainted with death than most men, Jaime could see that they were going to lose. 

The anguished howls took over. His sword pummeled into the chest of another Dothraki, the sling of blood as he dislodged his sword nearly blinded him. They needed to keep fighting. He ran through several of their horses, nearly getting launched back himself. Above him, Daenerys and the black beast circled back — ready for another attack. “Bronn!” Jaime bellowed, the man was shaky atop the carriage, lined up with the beast.

There was little time to watch because someone knocked him off his horse, sending him tumbling to the ground. Standing off with what must have been one of their fiercest warriors, Jaime doubled back — attempting to knock his balance, his sword clanging down. The Dothraki spun around him, his arakh gripping onto his sword, catching and tossing it aside. Now without his weapon, Jaime could see his future — buried with the rest of the men that fought for his sister. 

At the very least, this nightmare would end. It would be quiet.  

Until the Tarly kid decapitated the dothraki in front of him, nearly severing the entire head. The body fell all the same, limp. Jaime nodded his thanks, quickly running to grab his sword and find his horse. Thick smoke made it hard to breathe or see the world around him, but his time in Robb Stark’s camp keened his senses marvelously. Quickly, he jumped back onto the white mare, a gleaming knight amongst the carnage left by the Targaryen.

By now, the battle was nearly lost.

It didn’t take much.

They weren’t ready, they were blindsided. 

Somehow, he watched Bronn release the scorpion’s arrow. It happened slowly, the arrow flew into the sky. If this missed, he would let them kill him. He refused to be another prisoner, refused to let them take his only hand. His pride was too great, his name too mighty for him to become another pawn within the cycling wars, the endless kings and queens that thought they deserved the throne. It tired him. The only source motivation he had was Cersei, but her vengeance was growing each day. Incessant on destroying her enemies. He could only bade by her to keep her terror from being that alike the awful men before her. 

Yes, death might be most pleasant. 

He would die on the battlefield like a true knight, just how the young Targaryen princess deemed him to be so many moons ago. 

Except the arrow hit.

Jaime held his breath, watching as the beast squalled in pain, losing it’s balance and catapulting to the ground. It spiraled, unable to fly. The kings guard ran forward towards Bronn. If this killed one of the dragons and ended Daenerys, the entire war would be done. It would all be done, and he could be with his sister. 

Though, some part of him watched in horror. 

A small, resentful place in his heart didn’t want to watch Daenerys succumb to death. It didn’t befit her. The lively smile she would parade around as she ran up to him, her youthful innocence and questions about her mother. The way she left him, bravely leaving King’s Landing so she could begin a new life, a sad life. So he looked away, unable to watch the final moments of a girl he saved so long ago.

It never happened. 

A shadow casted over him. 

“Lannister!” Bronn pointed towards the sky. 

The beast caught itself midair. It was gliding towards them, it’s wings clearly unaffected by the scorpion. Heavens, it didn’t work. “It barely scratched him,” Jaime murmured. Around them, the dothraki were headed their way. 

“Fuck this, are you coming with me?” Bronn jumped off the carriage to get onto his horse once again. “We’re either taken prisoner or killed. I don’t plan on becoming ash, come with me!” Bronn took off.

The dragon landed in the smoke. It screeched it’s victory cry, as if it knew what it had just accomplished with his mother sitting atop him. In the rubble, in the debris, in the blood that pooled around him, Jaime knew this was the last of him. Nothing was left.  Bronn disappeared into the black air around them. Perhaps he wasn’t such a fool, he was much smarter than Jaime ever gave him credit for. Daenerys sat straighter atop the dragon, surveying the damage. He could barely see through the dust that lifted itself from the landing. It’s tail whipped and cracked straight through their main weapon as if it were paper. 

A resentful beast, apparently.

Jaime noticed a large lance to his left. Quietly, he watched as the faux queen slid off of her dragon. It was large, much larger than he could have ever possibly imagined. It still wasn’t fully grown, and he didn’t want to envision a world where it grew to it’s full potential. They didn’t see him. He must have blended in with the dead. Something innate told him to not do it, to not even try it. 

If he could kill her, it would end.

It would all stop. 

He grabbed the lance tighter, allowing his mare to creep forward. 

In the shadows of the pain she created, Jaime emerged. 

‘You idiot, don’t do it.’

He was nothing, if not a fool.

The young woman was preoccupied with the dragon’s wound. She knew she won, why would she think anyone was left. The dothraki were already rounding up the rest of the survivors, he would be next once they noticed him. He kicked the side of his saddle, rearing the horse. Dragon and rider shook the drudge of war off of them, Daenerys stood there in her battle gear petting the fucking creature.

Most men would have marveled, but Jaime surged forward from the rubble. 

Jaime kept quiet, aiming the lance straight for her heart. 

Keeping his aim straight and pride as armor, Jaime was twenty feet away. Fifteen feet away. Ten feet away from stopping the madness that would claim this land once more. The dragon snarled, noticing him last second. Five feet. It’s behemoth body curled around Daenerys. The fire began to ignite within its jowls. His plan already failed, but clever as Egg the Knight, Jaime stood from his horse — sacrificing the animal. His launch catapulted him straight to Daenerys, the lance slipped out of his hand. 

Above the fire, he gripped onto the fiery woman. 

Using his momentum, he ripped her away from her child. Grasping onto her and ripping her into the water, the duo landed deep in the river beside them, the current too strong for them to fight against. Still, he held with his one hand onto her helm, his grip like that of a dead man. Together, they swallowed the water, a chokehold on their lungs. The dragon above them searched frantically for its mother, glass eyes scavenging the water. The sounds of the river filled their ears as it dragged them further under its rolling current. 

Too deep to touch the bottom, his armor was drowning him. 

Daenerys wasn’t fairing much better. 

They were too heavy to try and swim, but he needed them to stay under the water until they wouldn’t be found. He kept her head under water. Drowning wasn’t a painful way to go, but he couldn’t help the amount of water that he swallowed himself. What could have been minutes or an hour of them thrashing, barely leveling the water to gather air and the disappearing once more. They both tumbled onto a small sandbar, hidden in thick leaves and bushes, miles away from the battlefield. 

Wretching up the entire contents of his stomach, Jaime heaved to collect some air into his lungs. They burned with the ferocity of the smoke and water he inhaled, his body caved over as his body tried to gain some semblance of normalcy.

Beside him, Daenerys turned over — her face purple.

Unconscious, lungs filled with liquid. 

Jaime panted, sat beside her fighting his own demons. He looked down at the pretty face, the pale blue of her lips — just like this, she looked so much like her mother Rhaella. A true beauty, it would be a shame to let her slip into death like this. Yet if he did this, this war would continue. He could take her to his sister, but it was all the same. She would die. Jaime thought of his men that were back there, of all the lives she just took. 

His body shook with the ferocity of his decision.

The war would end, countless lives would be spared.

Within him, sweet tales of knights bombarded his head. Like before, he couldn’t stomach the thought of her dying. Not the sweet, innocent child that made his time in King Aerys II court palatable. He leaned over her, heart a symphony of swords in his chest.  He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t let her die, not like this. Let his sister handle her.

His hands went straight to her chest, compressing on counts of three. 

His lips went to hers, blowing into her mouth. 

Panic began to set in when it wasn’t working.

“Daenerys!” he snapped, his one hand unable to push hard enough onto her chest. He needed two hands! His golden hand was only good enough to press down on her chest. Again, he held her nose pinched and breathed into her mouth — praying to whatever gods there were that she would wake up. 

Another minute dragged on. 

The young queen sputtered, gagging on water — her body lurching forward to throw up the water. She retched on her hands and knees, a relentless amount of water ejecting from her mouth. Jaime leaned back, watching her with a predatory eye. More than likely she held some sort of weapon, and without his sword he was as good as useless. The only thing left would be his wit, and Tyrion managed to take all of that for himself in their mother’s womb. 

Up close, she looked as pristine as the day he watched her disappear onto the sailboat.

Her hair long coiled back in wet braids took to her waist, glimmering skin kissed by the eastern sun. Her face remain unchanged by the trauma of her life, only hardened by her relentless reserve. Before him, an heir of grace shone through even though she was still coughing up water. A woman, that’s what she was. Gone was the child that he saved, now she was a woman — a powerful, damning woman. Her helm was tossed to the side, rubies adorning the magnificent piece made up of obsidian. Her amor — or what he thought was armor, was much lighter than he originally imagined. Made up of a thick leather and metal breast plate, it reminded him of a mixture of what her ancestors and the dothraki wore to battle. It protected her spots of vulnerability, yet gave her the flexibility of battle. The proud Targaryen sigil displayed for the world to see on her chest and backplate. 

A gossamer of materials made within the east adorned the rest of her body. Scarlet and black, fire and blood.

It took a lot to get him, Jaime Lannister impressed - it felt like she walked out of a tale of old Valyria. 

She gripped the sand, trying to regain her breath. More minutes drew between the duo before she spoke first, quietly reaching for something within her armor. Before she could lunge at him, he pinned her to the ground, cinching her wrist so that the blade fell into the sand. Straddling her, it took everything in his power to hold her down — being down one hand wasn’t easy when she flailed beneath him like one of the wild felines found high in the mountains by theVale. 

“Stop!” he pressed down further onto her back, forcing her to cough again — her lungs barely recovered from the onslaught of water.

“Get off of me!” Daenerys spat, half her face pressed into the sand. “They know where this river leads, Tyrion and the rest of the Dothraki will be here soon and you’ll be dead, Lannister!” 

“Ah — see,” he twisted her arm again, forcing her to hiss in pain, “that’s not going to work for me. Death and I have an outstanding relationship, and I don’t plan on letting that bastard win just yet.” 

Daenerys stopped moving, panting and huffing beneath him. She was so petite, it was a wonder she could control three dragons and two entire armies — but he knew it was more than that. Her other elbow reared back and hit him in the jaw. A black pain threaded through his skull, she almost managed to squirm away from him, but he caught both of her wrists with his good hand, her body now facing him.

Pinned beneath him was perhaps the most beautiful woman to walk within their world.

Her Targaryen blood ran through her veins. Dark, violet eyes matched the storm of emotions within her. Full lips reeled back in distaste, a pure hatred for him that were once filled with happiness.

“Let. Me. Go!” she seethed.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” He shifted his weight, his dead weight of an arm hanging limply at his side. His sword arm, the same arm that saved her during the sack of King’s Landing. 

Briefly, she looked at his golden hand — her face softening a fraction, “…I-“ words seemed to escape the normally self-assured Queen. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” 

The words perturbed him, he didn’t expect an apology for something that didn’t concern her, “unless you’re one of those turn cloaks, I don’t see why you need to apologize for something that isn’t your fault.”

There she was, the girl he remembered. Daenerys stopped her fight entirely, succumbing to this position, “yes…Well, your sword was your life. I remember-” she stated clearly — her words stopped at the unspoken ledge of I remember you saved me with your sword. 

It was a lifetime ago. Where her bottom lip was pressed to a thin line in hatred for him now, he last remembered that bottom lip quivering in fear. 

“It still is,” he reminded her.

“I would think it would be that vile sister of yours.”

Jaime somberly chuckled, “I don’t think you have room to talk when you just melted my men who have families. Or is your judgment only reserved for anyone that won’t kneel?”

Anger flickered in her eyes, she bristled unhappily much like her dragon, “this is war, Lannister. I see you didn’t have many reservations when Cersei blew up the innocent people of King’s Landing at the sept.”

Fair.

What he sacrificed his life and honor to uphold so long ago, his sister destroyed. 

It angered him, but they were all they had left. The normally well quipped knight had little to say in response, because his sister committed crimes that he would have killed other men for. He was no saint, held no seat to judge others, but killing innocent women and children in the masses made him feel ill. 

Daenerys analyzed his reaction, her confident gaze holding him firm, “I wish I had such a low moral margin to overlook something like that.” She shifted beneath him, a lifetime of anger harbored towards him.

He should have let her die. It would have made the world a better, safer place. There was no reason for someone to wield two armies, three dragons, the undying loyalty of people within the east, and a new cult following within the west. “One day I hope you’re never faced with the proposition of killing someone you love, because it isn’t an easy choice.”

Sadness burned into her skin, sadness mixed with an omniscience that no human should have. “Sometimes it isn’t a choice.”

Heaving her entire weight, she knocked him off of her and scrambled to grab her knife. With lighter armor than him, she was able to grab it and scramble away from him. Crouched in a fighting stance, he stood up himself — preparing for her to lunge at him.

It made no sense, had she been training? 

Without his sword, he was at a sever disadvantage. 

She wasted no time in lunging for him. Her lack of fighting experience was clear because he managed to take the knife from her, risking a cut to the throat. He grabbed her wrist, applying the right amount of pressure so that she dropped it. Holding her there, he drew her closer — her chest heaving in anger. “I applaud your attempt, but I need to deliver you to my sister.”

They needed to leave, now. This river wound into the forest. His only advantage was that he knew this land well from his travels with Brienne. Her army wouldn’t dare advance further into this territory without risking the deaths of innocent people. Tyrion would send an experienced party to find her, so that only allowed him half a day to get ahead of them. 

Surprised by his strength, she glared up at him, “Lannister,” she warned, “let me go, now.”

Jaime gazed down at her, their faces inches apart, “never again.”

With one single jab from his golden hand, he knocked her unconscious in his arms. Grabbing her helm, he collected her knife from the ground to stick it in his pocket — running with her limp body deep into the woods. 

—

Dragon Stone 

The wine tasted sour compared to the decadent wine in the east. His taste buds must have changed, because once upon a time Tyrion would have killed to have some good wine from the seven kingdoms. Beautiful women, good wine, simpler politics. Why did they ever leave? Sitting within the council room in Dragon Stone, the different, powerful faces sat present around the map. 

Primarily, Jon Snow sat clearly disgruntled by the fact that their Queen was missing. Wolf, flower, sun, kraken. It was all the same.  It really hurt their plans to stall things, but good plans took time — and until they found Daenerys, it would be no good to act out of premeditated vengeance.

“What ails you, Jon Snow?” Tyrion took another sip of wine.

“There’s an army of weight walkers coming, Daenerys is missing, and we’re no closer to gaining more warriors for the long night.”

“Ah, yes yes — all of that,” Tyrion stared at the map, Barristan Selmy standing beside him, all heads trying to concoct a plan, “you’ve always been the crutch of the seven kingdom’s worries. Even at the wall, you seemed to hold a torch of problems for someone so young. Have you ever not brooded?”

Jon sighed, hand covering his mouth in frustration, “there’s been no word from Jorah Mormont?”

“None. We have our best men looking for her, they’ll find her.”

“With all of the sells words and eyes that Cersei has? She probably already has her!” 

“She’s going to be ok,” Tyrion’s voice grew tighter.

“How can you calmly sit there as the hand of the Queen? Do you not worry for her safety?”

Tyrion’s lips pursed into a thin, taut line before he responded, “you’d be surprised how resilient our Queen can be. Though I’m surprised to hear you call her that since she gave you leniency in the North.”

Jon quieted then, but it was too late.

“Considering that she gave you clemency as King of the North, allowed you to pilfer dragon stone for dragon glass, and the use of her armies in a war that beset by your word alone — It’s a miracle you haven’t gone back to that dreary wasteland you call home.”

The King’s jaw clenched, “none of it matters if she dies.”

“Oh, right,” Tyrion tipped his glass towards the young wolf, “your urgency comes from a place within your heart. Or rather, is it your pants?” 

The room went silent. A chill as cold as the hardened walls of the Targaryen stronghold made the strong heads of the other houses look at the bastard for a response, “…that has nothing to do with it.”

It was no secret that the wolf and dragon met. A mutual respect came shortly after a tense first meeting. It didn’t take long for the two to warm up to one another. A month of gaining each other’s respect, another week and Tyrion could hear the familiar moans of his Queen stemming from her quarters.

At first the situation came with a noose of dread. Slowly, as the dragon glass was being excavated from her families’ home, he noticed the way they distanced from one another. It must have been a one sided decision to stop the affair between them, because Daenerys would retire early to her quarters, and the sullen Stark would trail his eyes after her, watching her leave with longing.

What transpired between them — for the life of him he could not figure it out. His queen broke many hearts, so he wondered if it was her decision to end things amicably.

Tyrion stood up, he needed time to think. “I may have some friends that have seen her. The only way that river leads is to Casterly Rock. We were planning on taking my homestead already, and I’m positive my brother will be heading there for safety amongst Lannister loyalists before taking her to King’s Landing. If everyone will excuse me.”

Jon Snow made no notion to stop him, neither did the familiar faces of those that wanted vengeance against his sister. Everyone wanted a solution. With Ser Barristan at his heels, Tyrion escaped to the outside steps — eyes pondering over the ocean as to where his brother took Daenerys. The high pitched squeals of her children flocked high above the clouds, anxiously circling one another  — “they’ve been doing that since she’s been gone. Do you suppose you know how to calm down three large dragons?”

Ser Barristan looked up to squint past the sun, “…Perhaps I should have gone instead of Mormont,” the renowned knight sighed.

“No. I need you here to keep these people calm. Especially Snow. At this time, he would love nothing more than to march the armies up north. Daenerys wants to deal with Cersei first before going on a suicide mission against the dead. We need him here to keep things peaceful with the north.”

“They’re all waiting,” Barristan said.

“Don’t remind me. With how well the dothraki did against my brother’s army — the time to attack would be now. We need get rid of my sister before she can conjure her next move. I’m stuck because I can’t do anything without the approval of the Queen.” Tyrion chugged the rest of his glass of wine, the stress souring his stomach.

Both men that were highly loyal and believed in Daenerys Targaryen stood together, watching the three beasts circle the sky. 

‘Where has my brother taken you?’

—

Much like her dragons, Daenerys had a beastly tenacity to her. 

Run down, hands tied behind her — she never held her head down or succumbed to the conditions of their trek. She bristled, waited, watched his every move like those damn creatures.

Sometimes at night, Jaime could have sworn her eyes glowed a brilliant purple. 

Seven days into their journey, he was feeling the fatigue himself. He managed to fish them some food while staying away from the main roads and following the river. According to his memory, which hopefully was still as brilliant as it once was, they should be three days from Casterly Rock if they continued on the pace they were at. Daenerys stayed mute, only talking when he would pry questions from her. By now, her gleaming silver hair was in turmoil — knotted and disarray. 

Still, she looked like a true queen. 

The chill of winter was beginning to roll in, a sobering wind would prickle their skin with goosebumps. They were taking a break deep in the forages before the rolling valleys and hills would lead to Casterly Rock. From there, he could send a letter to his sister and have a guarded party with him to escort her to Cersei.

Just a few more days.

Daenerys watched him, watched the way he splashed his face with the water — his untrimmed beard growing in once again. 

“You look a lot different than I remember.”

Jaime paused, cupped hand filled with water, “that’s what happens when ten years pass. I was twenty-five when you last saw me.” 

She held a look of contemplation. Their history was rich. Her childhood was filled with him, they held a whirlwind of memories together — whether it was her running around the red keep, or them living through the trauma of her father that he inflicted on them. Those memories reflected on her face, but she didn’t budge. Too much time passed, memories were that — memories. 

“I always thought you were too pretty to be my father’s Kingsguard. Everyone else was already hardened…” Daenerys swallowed, “now you look like them.”

Jaime chuckled, splashing his face. A million quips could have been said, but instead he stated, “that’s what happens when you’ve lost your identity and family.”

“That makes us one in the same, then.”

He shook his head, returning her gaze, “No…My dear, you will always be a Targaryen. A fretful one, at that.”

She sat a bit straighter, “and you’ll always be a Lannister.”

The subtle sound of the river beside them offered to soothe where this inevitable conversation was headed, “unfortunately. I might have served to have a simpler life had I not been born into this family.”

“Your name is your life. You’re pompous. The Jaime Lannister — a revered swordsman. I’m shocked that you continue to grovel after your sister when you would always tell me that you loved your sword more than life.”

Silence permeated him, he sat back to get a better look of her. Her words were akin to that of Brienne of Tarth, their journey served to change him forever. He knew by now that she was serving Sansa Stark, safe in the north. What he would give to have another conversation with her. “I did. Are you still the spoilt princess that would cry when Rhaenys didn’t want to play with you?”

The comment frazzled Daenerys, “don’t you dare speak of my family. If it weren’t for you usurper dogs-!” She paused, jaw clenching. That day would live with them both forever. He wished he could take what she saw at such a delicate age and keep it for himself. The many nights of sleep lost over the events of that day were just one of the many hindrances in his life.

“I had no knowledge of what my father planned.”

She tuffed, clearly not believing him, “then how did you know to kill my father?”

Jaime wanted to be angry, wanted to throw her into the river and be done with it — he couldn’t, “don’t lie to yourself. You and I both witnessed the same thing that day. Your father was going to blow up the entirety of King’s Landing!” His words were tossed into an emboldened whisper, “I don’t know what lies you spewed to yourself to keep you going, but you know I had to kill him. He was a monster.”

By the time he was done, he was nearly shaking. Of every soul that was there that day, she should know. His innocence would not be betrayed by the image of him she skewed in her head. 

The world may call him King Slayer, but he couldn’t live with himself if she believed that, too.

Like before, brief moments of her confident grace would fall, and the simple woman within her would reveal itself. The same girl that would recite stories of old Valyria to him. “After I tried to find my aunt and cousins…I,” she paused, her trauma resurfacing, “I watched him kill her. Her skull was smashed, but I could see her body still trying to fight for life, still squirming to live. Aegon was already dead in the other room with my aunt. I didn’t know then, but she tried to fight him. I didn’t see him rape Elia, but by the time he grabbed Rhaenys again…It only took one more hit before her body went limp.”

The hollow look on Daenery’s face was enough to keep him quiet. They shared an innate memory that led to the continuing, never ending, tumultuous events in their lives. One day, that was all it took.

“—I screamed then, and ran. Ran through the back corridors so he wouldn’t find me.  Everywhere, people were dead. People I grew up loving: my wet nurse, my septa, the cooks. I didn’t know if he was following after me, but I knew I needed to find you.” 

They shared a knowing look, one strong enough to bond them forever. 

“I kept looking for you, calling your name — crying. I knew I’d be safe with you. A childish thought, really. I could hear his screams from the hallway. I knew what it meant, but I didn’t want to believe it. I entered the throne room with your sword in his back.”

The image of the King dead before the throne would be burned with them forever.

From that point, there was no need to explain.

It made his stomach coil to think that she came to find him on purpose. At the very least, he kept her safe that day. “On my honor, I had no knowledge of what my father planned.” His skin paled with this conversation. Perhaps they should have held this conversation later. He knew their time was limited. By the time his sister’s guard would come for her, there would be no time.

“—I don’t believe in gods, but I preyed for your safety throughout the years. I truly wished for you to live a happy life.”

Anger still vibrated around her in an angry energy, but she relented to drop her gaze. 

“Then I suppose we both know the gods aren’t real.”

Unlike that of their past, he had little to say in response to the dragon before him. 

Another day passed with relative silence. It wasn’t safe enough for them to stop by an inn, nor for them to travel the main roads still. Surprisingly, his captive didn’t try to fight him or disappear in the night. Their time would be brittle, he was sure by now there was a team searching for her on their heels. Straying away from the river, once the land near Casterly Rock became more recognizable, he took the chance and pushed them further into the hills. His time hunting wild boar with his father as a child finally served a greater purpose other than to annoy him. 

“You understand that Tyrion will know you're headed for your home,” Daenerys goaded him on that early morning. 

Jaime didn’t respond, just trudged her along. 

“-Why haven’t you taken me on the main roads? Lannister bannisters are everywhere. Your sister is the Queen, surely it would have been easier to have me seen.”

Silence.

He felt the rope tug, his captive stopped — refusing to budge, “answer me, Lannister.” 

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but this land has cycled through several kings, multiple hands, and switches in power in the last decade that I myself can hardly keep track of. There is no such thing as loyalty. If we get seen by the wrong people, you and I will both be fodder.”

Daenerys saw right through him, “no. You’re stalling.”

The lion huffed, “must you be so dreadful? Be a good captive and stay quiet.”

The once innocent girl knew she could get the upper hand on him, “you don’t want to deliver me to your sister right away. You’d rather some other nameless faces cart me off to her.” Not only was she fearsome, her intelligence could rival that of his brother. Adept, keen to watch -- it unnerved him. What trials did she go through to make her like this?

“Stop it, Dae-“

“You know Tyrion will assume you’ll take me to Casterly Rock before King’s Landing. It’s safe there. It might just be that they’ll even be there waiting for me.”

Irritation prickled him, he took a threatening step closer to her, “don’t assume to know what I think.”

The Queen met him with her own step, head held high, “you’ve gone soft, haven’t you — Ser Jaime?” He may have wanted to kill her before in the midst of battle, but he couldn’t bring forth an answer. The gentle way she caressed her words in the same manor she did so long ago served to remind him that he truly cared about her once upon a time. 

Another step, her violet eyes bore into his own, “you saved me so long ago. You saved me from drowning. You’ve taken care of me. You’ve wished for me to have a safe life, so what does it serve you to have me killed now?”

Every word of hers grated his nerves, he couldn’t escape it. He couldn’t escape the truth that subconsciously now that she stood in front of him, alive and grown — her death would ail him. 

The normally snarky man couldn’t hold a torch to her words, so she took another brave step before him, closing their distance. Nose quirked upward because he stood a foot taller than her, somehow she still made him feel like she was looking down on him.

Her voice softened, a graceful touch on her incantations, “I’ve always believed you were a good man.” 

If he leaned down, their lips would meet.

Through thick lashes, Daenerys allowed her mouth to quirk upwards. Any ordinary man would have easily fallen, she held his gaze — captivating him, “I want to believe you’re still the knight that saved me so long ago.” 

The air corded with thick resolve between them. This was a testament to his character. The ethereal woman set her palm on his chest, her fingers gently splaying over the crest of the lion head. He lost the ability to breathe. Hundreds of outcomes weighed in his head. What kind of man was he? Jaime knew delivering Daenerys to his sister would not only mean her death, but a cruel, torturous death. One that Cersei had been mustering for years. All of the pain in her life would be besot onto the Targaryen.

It would be an ugly, wretched affair.

Could he sit through that? 

Her words tickled him, yet the images of his men burning to death sobered him up. He leaned forward, their bodies pinned in their proximity, “what other choice do I have?” he lamented into her ear, “how will you fight true injustice? Your words are fire and blood. ” His hand drew up to her silver hair, his fingers playing with the soft strand.

Daenerys turned her head, lips nearly touching his own, “I will get the Queen’s justice you promised me.”

-tbc

Chapter Text

TW: SA/Mentions of rape/abuse

III.

Vile.

Vile, vile men. 

In every continent, in every city. She would be a rich, loathsome woman if she counted how many men tried to use her whether for her name or body. Her true belief was that there were no good men, just ones with morals, untethered to their horrid tendencies. Like now, when she bucked against the usurper, thrashing about to help the women being dragged from their homes. 

What a lawless land, one she planned to fix.

His good hand clamped over her mouth, “do you want to get us killed?” Jaime breathed into her ear, her back pressed deeply into his bold chest, “-you help those women, we will die here.”

He kept her close, if not for the ties on her wrist - she would have been able to break free, “this is what happens when you bring war to this land. People become scared, men turn into beasts — this is the price of war.”

Her eyes bulged when the screaming in the nearby hills became a crescendo, the women’s pleas for help suddenly muffled by the dreadful laughter of men. It reminded her of traveling the vast Dothraki sea on her silver. When Drogo’s men would rape the sheep women. Over and over. Their value only lie between their legs. Not again. She learned the hardest lesson of her life due to her naive heart that wanted to help. The catalyst to her life spurned from helping Mirri Maz Duur in a situation akin to this one. Back then, she tried to save them all. Collected them all like gifts, in rudimentary righteousness that went against the old customs of the Dothraki. 

If I look back I am lost.

Bile rose to her throat, burning her tongue.

She stopped her fight, cheeks red from anger, “Cersei is laying waste to any fields, any valleys that will be of use to you and your army as you march to her from Dragonstone. Do you understand? She refuses to give you any advantage.” His words tickled her ear, he was so close. 

When he trusted her not to bolt, Jaime slowly let her go. 

The wailing continued. The pleas for help from the town set aflame left Daenerys feeling empty. That empty void cried out for the women and children pleading for help. She turned her head, jaw clenched to suppress the need to help. Without any weapons, without her children — what could she do? 

“This is your family’s warden. You’re a Lannister of Casterly Rock, yet your retch of a sister sister lay waste to the people in her charge!” Daenerys shivered from her anger, voice seething. 

They were atop a hill, one of the many that led to the Kingswoods, at the crutch of land that bled into Lannisport — they were now deep in the land he grew up in. One more night, they would be able to see the mighty siege of power. The true seat of strength in the west, Casterly Rock. Once, Jaime’s late father told him that his family needed to respect the rock, this land would be their legacy. Their name, and their land. 

That would all be that’s left of them.

If Cersei didn’t destroy them first.

 “Perhaps stroking a war with the Queen regent wasn’t what you thought it may be, Princess — but this is war. You’re not naive enough to think that it’s only the men on the field that lose their lives. Lose everything they care about.” 

Daenerys bit back the words as sharp as her children’s teeth, bristling — she could see that he truly believed the words he was saying, “have you no loyalty to your people? I am not the one burning this land. I’m not the one allowing thieves and rapists to run rampant! These cries are blood on your family’s land!” 

Jaime tightened the rope around her wrists, dragging her closer to him as he led them away from the madness, “coming from the woman who’s family’s words are fire and blood. My dearest brother is the witty one, though I find the irony in your statement laughable. Perhaps he’s been rubbing off on you. Or has he lost all of his quips after coming into contact with you?” 

“Do not talk about my hand.” Her words were slow, lethal.

The older Lannister brother scoffed, “he was my brother long before he became your hand. I’ll speak of him as I wish.” 

“I’ve made a promise to him,” her voice no longer carried the anger of her sigil, they were soft — almost sweet, honey on her lips, “that I will burn your sister once we’ve won the war. Quick, painless. That is all he’s asked of me, how does that sit with you? Your precious sister who’s legs you spread—!” 

If she wanted to anger him, she accomplished her goal. He grabbed her by the nap of her hair, tilting her head back to look up at him, her cheeks flush from the movement. “Let’s make a deal,” he seethed close to her face, eyes darting between her full lips and brilliant violet eyes, “I don’t speak of Tyrion, and you don’t speak of my sister.”

“Then say her name,” Daenerys baited him once again, “the unrightfully throned Queen Regent.”

Jaime wanted to speak, wanted to bear his sister’s name for all to hear. His chest tugged painfully tight.

“Say her name,” the Targaryen goaded, her eerie calm convinced he would cave. If he didn’t say her name…She would win, again. 

His lips parted, ready for the challenge — Daenerys lips tilted upward. 

The Kingslayer felt inclined to inch his lips forward, he waited there for what could have been an eternity, inwardly battling with himself. Instead pushed her away from him. Their only tether his hand on her arm. “We’re leaving.”

He pulled her away from the village. Across these fields, one more night. One more night. Both parties yielded the fight. The scrubs of exhaustion were beginning to affect them. Daenerys had gone through worse, survived worse. With the little food they were able to catch, living off of water from the streams and rivers, she knew they wouldn’t make it to Casterly Rock without eating something with substance.

Soon.

Hours passed, the sun beat down on them. It would be the last true heat until winter engulfed them. This was child’s play compared to the red waste in the east. When her lips were so chapped they bled. When she said goodbye to her silver, her bloodriders slaying the animal for meat. Her most beautiful gift from Drogo. Other than her children, other than the dreams of Rhaego — there was nothing of him to remember him by. As if to calm the emotions within her, her intricate braids swayed past her waist — the bells attached to her hair chiming to remind her that she was protected. 

Even in the west. Far from the vast Dothraki sea. 

When they finally settled in the lush, rocky hills — the sun was high above them. 

If Jaime noticed a change in her demeanor, he didn’t say anything — he did wonder why she adopted the odd customs of those barbarians. 

They walked for hours that day, her feet hurt— Daenerys closed her eyes. Willing Drogon. The welcomed fetter to her child tugged at her, it pulled at her heart. An invisible song that called to him. She toyed with her mother’s ring, wondering why the memories of her past were crawling at her back. For so long, she looked forward. She looked west, towards the throne. Towards her family’s right. Towards defeating the usurper. Towards avenging her family. Yet here she was, so close — a flight away. With two armies, nearly every noble house at Dragonstone kneeling for her.

Except now she was tied to Jaime Lannister. 

Being dragged away from her birthright. 

If Tyrion brought the army to Lannisport, they would lose weeks. Jon Snow did not have the patience to wait. His urgency to have their armies ready for the long night knew no bounds. Every day they spoke about it. Many times in her chambers he would speak to her in confidence. It was one peculiar night when his fingers combed through her hair, lips pressed against the back of her neck — when he asked her if she truly believed him. 

She turned to face him, violet meeting a stormy grey. “Did Eddard Stark have grey eyes?” After their initial time spent refusing to understand one another, it came to be that they got along quite well. In their late night talks with her dragons calling to them in unison, he held a sturdy — honorable view of the world. As did his father. She learned eventually.

“No, my mother did. I’ve never met her.”

“…I didn’t know my mother, either.”

“It may not mean much, or my place. I never intend to defend the repercussions of Robert’s war….My father has committed his sins, but he truly felt like your family should have been spared. My sister told me he stopped Robert Baratheon from killing you. That was one of his final decisions before his execution.”

Daenerys swiped her thumb over his thick beard, the black curls rough against her hand, “…thank you.”

Their decision to stop their budding relationship hurt. Political reasons, mostly. It was their mutual decision that the North would never follow a southern leader again. Perhaps, after the war — there may be a chance. There were too many enemies, too many lives to be saved. Their love could wait. It would be selfish, especially as they were so close to the long night. 

First, they needed to get rid of Cersei. Once the realm was united under the Targaryen banner — they could defeat the white walkers….For the first time, Daenerys wasn’t sure what the outcome of that battle would be. Her visions in the House of the Undying led her to the throne, snow adrift in the great halls her ancestors built. 

Winter is coming.

The man playing the harp.

The blue rose. 

The woman surrounded by blood. 

If I look back I am lost.

How long have those words carried her?

Daenerys shifted away from the gold cloak, praying her children would come. 

“Are you calling those beasts?” Jaime riled her, the steady sound of a river up ahead. There was a cluster of inns clear across the valley floor. Straying far off the main road, the possibility of running into anyone would be slim. Lush greens, trees heavy with the weight of vibrant colors introducing fall set a beautiful backdrop. If they hugged this ledge, they would be able to wind their way down to the river’s edge.

“They’re not beasts,” she held her chin high, “they’re my children.” The golden haired knight paused, weathering to say something in response. The slight fault in his step put her on edge. Their heated discussion the day prior stood firm between them. If he could understand just how it came to be that she birthed three mighty dragons, perhaps he would be in the same conundrum that most men found themselves in when in her presence. A man could never understand the wails of a child at a mother’s breast, and like human children, her children awoke to the flame at her breast. 

Even Tyrion, the cynical, intelligent bastard he was — fell at her feet. 

Naming him as hand was one of the best decisions she could have made. It wasn’t beyond Jaime that Tyrion saved the entirety of their family during the battle of Blackwater. He saved the entirety of King’s Landing, for that matter. Unknowingly, two hated and revered Lannister brothers saved an entire population, twice.

Perhaps they weren’t as different as their father made them out to be.

“There’s a waterfall beyond this hill.”

The Targaryen did not respond, simply followed. Her eyes were trained on his back, willing a hole to burn through his armor. The gold lion mocked her, taunting her. It’s claws gleamed with the light that peaked through the yellowing leaves. She lowered her brow, loathing their sigil. When they managed to make it to down the steep hill, Daenerys could hear nothing but the deafening roar of the waterfall beside them. The gleaming, emerald waters glittered in the gaps of sun that poked through the high canopy of trees.

She paused, allowing herself to take in the flourishing vegetation, the clear waters. They stopped at a ledge fifteen feet above the ensuing basin. They were both tired, this would be their last stop before they absolutely had to find some food. 

“Can you please untie me so I may bathe?” The grime on them both could rival the poor souls in Flea Bottom. Jaime surveyed the area around them, it would be a daunting task for her to escape at this point. If they kept a steady pace, they would be at Casterly Rock late in the night. From here it would be less of a hike. Trepidation sat in his gut. 

Daenerys kept calm, turning so she could offer him her wrists behind her back. She titled her head to look to the side over her shoulder, giving him a prolific view of her side profile. This was on purpose, as a woman she was no fledgling in knowing where a man’s eyes took him. Daario once told her that her side profile should be painted, kept in a museum for centuries for the world to see. 

“I won’t run, I have little idea where we are,” she added, waiting. 

“Convincing,” the Lannister mused through her options, finding that it would be a daunting task to escape him. If he lost her, she would run into his sister’s sentinels, or the traveling packs of rogue raiders. 

Slowly, he untied her with his one hand. Once free, Daenerys stretched her shoulders — the muscles and joints popping from the longevity of their awkward position. Her wrists were sore, branded a harsh pink from the coarseness of the rope. “Are you sure it’s wise to trust me? I’ve killed many men without so much as touching them.”

Jaime began the last trek towards the basin, “I witnessed it Princess, you burn them alive. It’s rather craven to hide behind the jaws of an ugly beast and claim those murders as your own.” 

Daenerys jaw ticked as she followed after him, “and yet when I do fight with my dragons, it’s me that is blamed. You need to choose whether it’s my guilt to bear or not for argument’s sake.”

The lion sighed, dropping to his knees to splash water and his face and drink with his cupped hand, “my brother is willing to argue semantics, Princess. You’ll find I’m rather droll when it comes to arguments of the tongue."

The cool water felt heavenly. It dripped down his neck, chilling his skin under the heavy armor. He sighed, wanting to wade through the water to wash the death and ash off of him from the battle . Though he knew he couldn’t take off his armor by himself. Daenerys sunk herself next to him, admiring the water. It was pristinely clear, one of the hundreds of pools of water within the acreage surrounding Casterly Rock. 

“No quip?” He retorted, deciding he didn’t like her unbidden silence. It was too eerie. A different type of silence. Unlike his sister, who’s silence was clear, thinly veiled anger that promised violence. 

“A wise man told me once that not all statement require a response.” 

“Smart man.”

After they both drank their fill of water, effectively quenching the dryness of their throat from traveling — Daenerys began to delicately uncoil her heavy braids. Meticulously, as if Missandei were doing it herself. Slowly, the bells were tactfully put on her lap. Her fingers deftly worked through her soiled hair. The grease from her hair after days worth of travel and sweat left her fingers slick. After some time, she sighed happily when her hair was unbound, cascading over her shoulders in thick rivulets of silver waves. She gently scratched her scalp, the tension from her braids easing from her forehead. 

Jaime watched in mild fascination. 

It wasn’t the same as the girls he grew up with who combed their hair wishing upon knights.

It was a cultural custom, another facet she must have picked up from the Dothraki. 

When he thought she would ask for him to look away, Daenerys began to strip of her leathers and armor, placing the bells from her hair on top of her clothing. She peeled the leathers off wide hips, pulling off her armor and setting everything beside her helm. Standing tall at her rather short height, he inadvertently turned his gaze away. He was used to seeing a woman naked, one woman. For the sake of her modesty, he refused to look. 

Daenerys kept a level gaze on him, taking a step towards the pool, “you can look, Lannister.” 

Jaime trained his eyes on the waterfall, “do they not wear clothes across the narrow sea? Most women are abashed to be naked around men, wedded or not.” To distract himself, he began pull at his armor — refusing to ask for help. The clasps needed two hands, not his pathetic single hand. 

The Targaryen strode over behind him, as naked as her name day. She began to help him undo his amor without his ask, “the Dothraki take one another in front of the entire horde,” she explained calmly. Her natural scent coiled around him. 

With slight work, she nimbly unclasped his back — pulling the amor from his shoulder on his right side, “as do beasts in the wild,” he responded, still refusing to look at her. 

Daenerys ignored the jab, “on my wedding night Drogo took me under the moonlight in front of his entire khal in a lake.” The memory seemed so distant, she would never forget it, yet each time she fondly remembered that night — it felt like a lifetime ago. A different girl experienced that night, not the woman she was now. 

He dropped his shoulder to pinch out his other arm, “romantic,” he drolled sarcastically — now free of the heavy metal on his body. In his breeches and chainmail, he rolled back his shoulders. Daenerys strode past him, giving him no other option than to look. 

In front of him, half waded in the water stood a Queen. Not a Princess, a Queen. 

Her body was delicate, yet hard from training. A slim neck led to dainty shoulders, the swell of her breasts trailed his vision to the softness of her stomach. Back dimples greeted him when she looked back at him over her shoulder, not at all ashamed by his leerful eye. In her leathers he already had an eyeful of her rear, quickly understanding why so many men fell in love with the damnable woman.

He shrugged off his chainmail, clearly annoyed. 

Daenerys ducked her head under the water, the grime and violence washing off of her. She held her breath, scrubbing at her skin and filing her nails through her hair. It could have been an eternity that she spent under the waterfall when a strong hand gripped her arm to hoist her up. 

Inhaling sharply, the defeaning noise surrounded them.

“I can’t allow you to kill yourself.”

Daenerys glared up at him, face to face with a broad chest. Not nearly as broad and muscled as Drogo’s, with less coarse hair than Snow. Soft golden hair tickled her chin, briefly she looked down to where the water lapped at his waist, that same forbidden trail of hair burning into her brain. 

His grip on her seemed to tighten, his knuckles white. The hard tips of her nipples brushed against his skin when she tilted her head up in a way that made him feel nothing like a Lannister, but a mere bug under her boot.

“I would never kill myself, Lannister. Not until I’ve come home to my birthright, not until I’ve broken the wheel our families have subjugated countless of innocent lives to awful circumstances.” Her voice cut through the waterfall. 

Her words lathered him in honey, their gaze never faltered. Two proud individuals caught in a snare of circumstance. Jaime broke their dead lock, his thumb running over her forearm as he looked down. Their thighs were touching, and for more times than he could count since their battle — he got the overwhelming sense to kiss her. If he shifted, his member would skim her stomach. She stayed deathly still, tempting him. Measuring him. For a moment, they both held their breath. 

Other than Cersei, the guile to kiss a woman never overcame him. Even then, it was her that always called him. This was different. It was the same feeling when he held his sword in hand, a freedom or tether that pulled him. 

So instead he dropped her arm, swimming into the deeper edge of the pool — allowing the cool water to stop the familiar ache in his loins. 

—

They arrived at the edge of Casterly Rock late at night when the moon hung over them. Her hands were tied again, but she held her head proud when the large Lannister flags bellowed in the sharp wind. So close to Lannisport, the air chilled her skin from the ocean’s breeze. Her hair braided once more, her bells chimed as a host of banner men arrived on horses — a large host, considering she was but one woman and they needed the lot of them to guard her to get her to King’s Landing. 

“Leave it to the Golden Knight to catch the last dragon, it’s an honor to see you alive Ser Jaime.” 

He kept a tight hold on Daenerys, “did you perhaps believe I may die in that battle, Darland?” 

Daenerys kept her chin up, her jaw clenched. 

The hosts liege withered under Jaimie’s hard words, “of course not.” The stranger had all the physical markers of a Lannister, yet held none of the respect or bravado that Jaime conjured by a simple stance.

“How did you know we would be arriving tonight?” Jaime commanded. 

“Cersei has had a special guard surveying the area, considering your traitor of a brother would likely come to take Casterly Rock. We figured it would be tonight that you would arrive.”

“Rather fortunate guess,” Jaime surveyed the entirety of the group. Still not letting go, he planned to take Daenerys to the cells within his home, “I’ll be taking her — on the morrow you will—“

Darland Lannister cleared his throat, “under the command of Queen Cersei Lannister, we have direct orders to bring Daenerys Targaryen to King’s Landing unharmed.”

Of course, Daenerys knew the Queen would want her unharmed so she could inflict all the torture herself. She looked between Jaime — the man that once protected her with his life, and his fellow clansmen. 

“No,” Jaime punched once again, shoving with her past the large host of men. “I will be taking her to my sister myself. Or would you rather we discuss this with Cersei and how you’re disrespecting my orders? My sister has quite a few ways of dealing with those that don’t listen.” 

The man faltered, knowing that no matter what — Jaime would be the one person Cersei would ever listen to, would never harm. Except, it must have been a dawning realization for the twin when Darland grabbed her, many of the men conjuring their swords — pointed at the Kingslayer.

“She requests you stay here to take charge of Casterly Rock while we escort the usurper.” A piece of parchment folded from the man’s pocket.

“If you were to disobey orders, we are to arrest you.”

The color seemed to drain from his face, realizing that his sister no longer saw him as an ally — but as another body to dispose of. She no longer trusted him, it seemed. The madness struck her. The week of safely taking his captive  to Casterly Rock rang the same bells with the Queen as it did with Daenerys. If he wanted her dead, he would have handed her off to his sister’s men long ago. They would never hurt him, it would have been safe. They should have already been in King’s Landing. Daenerys’ head should have been on a spike covered in tar. Cersei must have suspected he would have a bleeding heart for the girl he took care of for so long. His sister was clever enough, and had an adept memory to perhaps realize Jaime was the one to kill Gregor Clegane on the day their father stormed the capital. Years knotted his alibi, years of his sister carefully crafting his lies into truth led to the most recent battle against Daenerys. He failed. That was his test. Jaime could feel the emptiness within him clench, that nothingness filled with more contempt for his sister. 

Like Tyrion once told him, ‘my dear stupid brother, Cersei knows you better than you think you know yourself.’

Coming to the rock bought him more time to make a decision. 

That time was enough to allow his sister to make her decision to kill him. 

There would be no way for Jaime to win this, they both knew. 

Daenerys tugged away from Jaime, who still refused to let go. They both knew her fate once he did. If Tyrion or Drogon didn’t appear in time and she reached King’s Landing before they did — she would be dead. A fate worse than dead, the idea of her would be gone. The Targaryens would no longer reside in this damnable world. Somewhere in their formidable eternity, there was a god laughing at the folly of her house. They watched her fear in her mother's womb, they brought her onto this land in a ruthless storm, taking her mother with it. The years of peace in her childhood were antiquated, long lost as the gods saw fit to wrangle the power of her ancestors. They gave them dragons, and took them again. Only to give her a destiny as the Mother of Dragons. The gods continued to enjoy her suffering. 

No longer. 

The Targaryen shifted, the bells on her head singing a low, fruitful song. 

“Let her go, Ser Jaime.” It was the final warning. 

There was a standoff, Daenerys caught in the middle. Never one to balk from a fight,  Jaime threw her to the side, retracting his sword and slamming it into his cousin. She fell hard, scrambling to stand when she bore witness to the infamous Golden Knight fighting his sister’s bannermen. Jaime clashed swords with his cousin first, others jumped off of their horses — a mesh of red clanging metal. It seemed sinful that someone as important as Jaime Lannister fight against his own people that admired him. 

Daenerys closed her eyes, calling for her children. 

Drogon, Drogon please.

Another hand yanked her upwards, throwing her onto a horse. “Jaime!” She called for him. With one hand, he killed his cousin — the sword impaled in his throat. His sword ran true with the dozens of men who surrounded him. He dodged and swung viciously, nearly buckling when someone hit him in the back.

Daenerys began to punch the man that held her on the horse — leading her farther away from him. She refused to be taken like this. She twisted until her foot came in contact with the man’s face, loosening his grip.

She tumbled off of the horse, a sickening lurch invading her stomach when her head hit the ground with a grotesque smack! 

She ran back to the fight.

It was instinct, something innate in her as panic tore through her. He was surrounded, and it was clear that as the hill of bodies grew — he couldn’t hold them off any longer. It took her back to that time when she was crying, refusing to leave him. When her whole world shattered, when he was the last piece of her childhood, his golden hair the last thing she could spot from when they were far off the shore. Watching him fight that damnable beast of a man so he could save her. 

They would die here, and everything she worked for would be for naught. 

Her armies, her alliances.

Daenerys closed her eyes, inhaling — praying, conjuring her children.

A large, shrill roar shook the earth around them.

A shadow loomed under the moon. 

Daenerys looked up, the tether to her children taut as two more shadows appeared. They swooped down, catching the attention of the men fighting her captor. More shrill roars, something inhumane. The men paused, looking up to the enlarging shadows. 

They had never seen a dragon.

Nor three at once.

Jaime took the opportunity to distance himself from them.

As if he knew what were coming next.

From her distance, she stumbled to the grass.

When Jaime was a safe distance away, Daenerys bore into the night. "Dracarys!" the lineage of all previous dragon riders hurled her voice into a timeless echo.

Three large, billowing flames lit up the cold night, the heat warming her cheeks.

The host lit up in flames, melted in their metal suits. 

All three of her children continued to burn the men, circling — feeding off the men’s screams. 

Jaime ran towards her, sword in hand. “Daenerys!” 

She was too enwrapped in her children, too relieved to notice the knight she left had come back for her. He grabbed her by her hair, yanking her upwards with a sword to her neck. As if he could feel the metal on his own neck, Drogon whipped in their direction. Viserion was quick on his brothers heels as they landed, large wings extended, making themselves even larger to intimdate the man shaking behind her. They both screamed into the night, teeth flashing — knowing the danger their mother was in. 

“You come with me quietly, you understand?” 

Jaime appeared in front of them, beaten and limping. 

“I will be taking her, you traitorous bastard. Have you no loyalty, Kingslayer?” The unknown knight kept his sword slick to her neck, “or was her cunt that exquisite?” 

The blade knicked her skin when Jaime took another step towards them. The sting led to a trail of blood down her neck, causing her dragons to squeal again — the scent making them manic. They inched closer. Drogon bared his teeth, roaring. Rhaegal landed behind them, mimicking his brother’s panic. Daenerys kept deathly still. The look on Jaime’s eyes flicked behind them, relief drawing forth a smirk to his face. It was fleeting. 

“You’re a fool. A worse fool than my sister.”

Confusion lasted for a second, before the man could slit her throat — an arakh landed in the back of the man’s skull. The sword and body fell together in a sick heap. 

Daenerys looked behind her to see her blood riders sweeping towards them on horseback. A small group, one that wouldn’t be noticed by Cersei’s guards excavating along the King’s road. It must have meant that Casterly Rock—

Tyrion appeared beyond the ancient walls of his forefathers.

With him, Grey Worm and a small portion of the Unsullied marched behind him. “They seized Casterly Rock…” she murmured to herself, her dizziness growing.

When her blood riders appeared beside her, making sure the knight was dead — all spears and arakhs pointed at her captor. 

Perhaps it was the ringing in her head that made her confused. Her vision was cloudy when she realized that the blood wasn’t stopping. Her fingers touched her neck, now covered in blood. She was slow to realize that he didn’t just knick her neck, he punctured a deeper wound close to her artery. 

She fainted, barely caught by Jaime who set her down, quickly tackled by her blood riders. They screamed in the Dothraki language. Grey Worm ran forward, putting pressure on her neck to stop the bleed.

Jaime squirmed in silent horror when the color drained from her pristine face. 

“Arrest him!” Tyrion bellowed the order.

Somewhere deep in the night, the last noise Daenerys heard was the Kingslayer calling after her, screaming alongside her children. 

-tbc

Chapter Text

IV.

Cersei

In the distance, her common folk were crying, begging.

She thrummed her fingers on the ledge of the window sill, the same one her son jumped out of. Her last son, her last child. A thick goblet of wine reflected the sun, the gemstones reflected the sunlight, creating a glittering rainbow effect on the window’s glass. The goblet’s contents were nearly empty.

The wine did nothing these days.

Not when the memories were reminiscent, alluding to her failure.

The satisfaction of killing those Tyrell brutes paled when she learned that Tommen’s body lay broken in a bloody heap on the concrete. The ash hadn’tyet  settled when she heard the news. Even when the silent sisters brought the body to her, she refused to let them fix him up before she lay eyes on his sweet, angelic face. Of her children, he was the best. Never angry, quick to appease.

Her labor with him was the easiest.

Cersei supposed his death was destined to be the most painless.

He didn’t deserve what Margery did to him.

That god forsaken wood witch told her this would happen, and for a time she believed that she beat the circumstances of prophecy. Her own naivety lulled her into a fall sense of security. For a time when things were quiet — before her late husband died, she really believed nothing would happen to her children.

Cersei threw the goblet out the window.

Eyes closed, she gripped the sill.

Of all her family, all that was left were her brothers.

One, a treasonous, disgusting imp. The other a gullible, noble fool.

She wasn’t sure which was worse.

At the very least, the imp never pretended to be something he was not. Unlike her twin, he was intelligent enough to understand the sense of repercussions of his actions. What he did, he did with a plan. She could respect that. For a time, she could marginally sympathize with the little demon. Jaime got everything on a silver spoon from their father because he was the chosen heir, and he squandered it. Threw it all away when he kneeled for Aerys Targaryen and bore the gold cloak. For her cunt! Of all things.

Idiot.

If only she had a cock.

Their family would be thriving.

Cock or not, Cersei knew what she needed to do.

With her last order, her twin would be dead.

For a long time she knew Jaime was kinder than her, had a gentle heart.  She had the cold heart to rule, to make the decisions that their father would be proud of. Even now, she held the power of the seven kingdoms under her thumb. Even with all knives, all the hatred pointed towards her throne.

She turned to leave, the screaming from the window began to annoy her.

Beyond the gates of Meagor’s holdfast, more small folk gathered at the gates — some crying, others yelling for her head. Her bowmen would kill one every so often to get them to settle down. As of now, King’s Landing only source of food was through Blackwater Bay, which was secured through Euron Greyjoy. She held an amicable respect for the man, his travesties and horror much obliged her. The Iron fleet would hold. Currently, the Golden Company were on their way from Essos.

Considering all the gold and loot were burned by those beasts, her newest problem arose on how to pay them.

If she couldn’t secure that army, it would be the end.  It all circled back to the prophecy. Which is why she knew Jaime would protect the little whore. If Cersei was anything, it was clever. Some might consider just as clever as her youngest sibling. Without the motherly instinct to protect her children, she no longer had to think of anyone else — including herself.

The caches of wildfire remained lurking beneath King’s Landing.

Like the dried skeletons of the dragon’s beneath them, the wildfire would burn everything. Nothing would remain. If she couldn’t rule, if she couldn’t prevent the prophecy — she would use every lick of power to undo it.

For her children. For her firstborn Joffrey, who she held as he choked on his own blood, his eyes turning a lustrous, sickening purple — begging for her to help him. For Myrcella, dying in her father’s arms half a continent away. For her sweet Tommen, his body no longer recognizable — even to her. The gruesome images would never escape her, even in her dreams. She wasn’t safe anywhere but in her righteous cloak of anger, willing her power to help her climb a mountain of vengeance.

One gale of dragon fire would ignite the hundreds of caches of wildfire she tactfully had the pyromancers lay throughout the city. On top of what she found from the days of King Aerys, it would be easy to dismiss all of the fire as the work of those dragons. Even if she died, the small folk would revolt — half of her armies would be killed, and then let those rumored white walkers the Starks groveled about for centuries devour the kingdom.

She would not go kindly, she would not  relinquish her power quietly. Nor with a sword in her back.

Valonqar.

Qyburn appeared before her as she walked through the halls, as silent as a shadow. Two Queensguard on her heels, they reached for their swords before realizing who it was, “Your Grace.“

Dressed in a long black gown cinched with gold accents and hints of crimson, she looked true to her sigil, though still in an eternal mourning for her children, “what is it?” Some would say she was dressed in the traditional Targaryen colors, though if any of the men and women at court thought of such, they dare not let it loose on their tongues.

“The small folk are continuing to gather at the gates—“

“Tell me something useful.” Cersei continued her descent to the throne room. She needed to knight several more men for her Queensguard and prepare herself for her meeting with the Iron bank.

“It seems that you were correct in your assumption that Ser Jaime would take the usurper Queen to Casterly Rock. I’ve word that Tyrion has seized your father’s castle, as well as Lannisport. The hosts we left there are dead. It’s good we decided to pull back our remaining men to King’s Landing.”

It didn’t pain her to know that her homestead now belonged to the Imp. No matter, it never truly felt like home. Only one question prodded at her, briefly. “Is Jaime dead?”

Qyburn paused a moment, giving her that assessing look. “Ser Jaime Lannister lives, Your Grace.”

Cersei looked ahead, at the halls that pinwheeled different Kings, different Queens, different lies, and different exchanged vows of power wrought through different fists. An emptiness resided in her, she shifted on her feet only a moment before continuing her trek to the throne room, “Qyburn, see to it that he is killed.”

A pause, she looked back at him, voice stern with anger, “I want a hundred scorpions secured within the next few days. Speak with the Pyromancers to make sure the wildfire is ready. We have little time before the usurpers are at our door. I need to come to an agreement with the Golden Company as the Iron fleet hosts them to King’s Landing. Also, see to it that the actors guild tells the small folk of the dothraki rapers coming to the city. Let them know the dragon whore burned all of their food I had coming to them — starving men and women have not much to do but listen to tales, I believe. Now leave me.”

Proud as a Lannister dipped in gold and glory, Cersei Lannister continued on with her day as half the kingdom lay in ruin.

—

Daenerys

Wind froze her cheeks as she soared through the skies. The fresh scent of salt caressed her senses, coaxing her back — lulling her to consciousness. The screech of her brothers calling to her, speaking to her in their tongue. She didn’t understand it, though she knew it was in concern for her. Her wings shifted, allowing her to catch the wind — suspended in air above Lannisport. Rhaegal cried out again, flying beneath her, his tail whipping near her affectionately. Beyond the sea, the clouds loomed even higher — beckoning the chill that regarded the land.

A storm was coming.

All three of them could sense it.  

Unlike the thundering, dooming storms at Dragonstone, this was different.

Even in the air, the scent of snow.

A forever cold.

All three brothers screeched this time.

An image of a land stuck in a long winter flitted through her vision. Her bones froze, her fingertips felt like they were lit aflame from frostbite. It engulfed her, unlike the gentle fire that consumed her, warmed her — brought her comfort. Another call from her brothers, an army in the night. She traversed through the Seven Kingdoms much like her ancestors before her, bearing the Targaryen sigil for all to witness.

It was the free fall into death that woke her.

The air being sucked from her lungs brought her back to her reality.

Daenerys gasped for air, clutching at her bandaged neck. Unable to breathe, violent coughs and gasps left her sputtering for water. A pitcher at her side, she feebly grasped for it. Above her, she could hear her children cry for her — they knew she was awake. She grabbed the pitcher with weak hands, needing water more than the air her body begged for.

Missandei rushed into the room. “Khaleesi!”

It all came back to her, the battle, traveling with Jaime, the impending war. How long was she asleep?

Jaime…

Jaime!

Daenerys spilt the pitcher, flailing around In her bed. She couldn't talk, why couldn't she talk? Water covered the floor. Missandei tugged on her shoulders, quickly pulling her thrashing body back to the bed as a maester ran into the room. The Targaryen queen thrashed against the familiar hands, needing to know what happened. “Khaleesi, please! Calm down! Your wound hasn’t healed yet!”

The maester grabbed another pitcher and filled a cup with water, easing himself onto his knees so she could drink. “Just drink this, Your Grace — it will calm your throat.” With feral eyes, Daenerys looked between Missandei and the unfamiliar face. Unsure who to trust after such a dream. Missandei gave a subtle nod of her head — the same one they always shared amongst themselves.

Slowly, Daenerys allowed the man to feed her water. Selfishly, she drank the entirety of the cup.

Her throat still ached, as if someone had stolen her voice.

Her eyes beckoned answered from her trusted friend. Missandei placed a loving hand on her forehead, dabbing away her sweat with the hem of her dress. One of the few people Daenerys considered family, she lulled into the comfort of her friend.

Her eyes pleaded for answers, although she could not speak.

Missandei understood, “you’ve been asleep for a few days to let the wound on your neck heal, Your Grace. You fainted at the gates of Casterly Rock. One of Cersei’s knights cut your neck with his sword. It was severe enough that Set Tyrion deemed it necessary to let you heal here.”

Her eyes frantically darted to the maester by her side.

“This is Maester Creylen, assigned here by the Citadel. He was left here when Cersei pulled her men from Lannisport—”

Daenerys eyed the stranger warily, finding herself too familiar with the Lannisters as of late.

“We found him locked in the dungeons, forgotten and left for dead by the Lannisters. He’s a Targaryen loyalist from the days of your father.”

Some comfort that was.

When she could speak again, she would be having words with Tyrion and his ability to trust the cloaked in red so easily. Though, she was perhaps no better than him. The thought of the man that saved her so long ago renewed her vigor for answers. Gods be damned, why couldn’t she speak!

“J-” she croaked out weakly, mouth hoarse.

Missandei frowned at her liege, perhaps hoping there wouldn’t be concern for her previous captor. Still, she answered without a tone of aptitude, “Ser Jaime Lannister is alive.”

Fitting, if they weren’t aware of the new circumstances.

Without words, Daenerys implored her friend further.

“He’s in the cells under heavy guard. So far, he has not tried to do anything. Tyrion has met with him a few times, waiting on further instruction from you. I will say…He has asked for your wellbeing quite a few times, Khaleesi.”

At the admission, Daenerys relaxed on her bed.

Remembering the night, the last thing she could hear was Jaime’s voice.

Missandei gave the maester a look. This man was thin framed, white hair strewn in a million different directions. Thin rimmed glasses framed his sunken face, enlarging his eyes to the point of almost comical. Could he be trusted? Her blood riders and Tyrion wouldn’t allow a stranger in here alone, and her faith in her hand settled her contempt. He bowed and made his leave, “I will need to rewrap your bandages in a few hours. With some honey milk, you should be able to speak by the morrow, Your Grace.”

When the door shut, Missandei got on her knees by her side. The calming smile reassured her that for now, everything would be ok. Although her dreams spoke of horrible prophecy, the chill through the window didn’t go unnoticed. Was it always this cold here?

Her friend let out a slow sigh of relief, tears swelling in her eyes. “Khalessi…I’ve never been more afraid for your safety. You were missing with the Kingslayer. Rumor had it you drowned. Drogon refused to eat. For a time —” the tears fell then, “all three of your children cried out. I was so sure that meant something happened to you.”

How did she deserve such a sweet friend?

As best as she could, Daenerys gripped Missadei’s hands — lacing their hands together. The difference in the warmth of their hands was startling. It forced her friend to warm them. Like her dream, it felt as if her hands were cold. In her eyes, Daenerys conveyed the love she harbored for her. Weakly, her voice caressing a whisper— she said,“v-valor morghulis.”

Missandei smirked then, their hands intertwined — an unbreakable bond between two sisters, “but we are not men.”

—

Tyrion

He entered the well lit cell hall late at night. Beneath Casterly Rock, the dingy cells smelled of rot and salt. Unlike that of the high, open walled cells in the Eyrie, he wasn’t sure which was worse. The stench down here made him want to gag. He’d lost count of how many men died in these suffocating walls. They were empty as of now, aside from one body heaped in the farthest corner.

A somber walk brought him to the bars holding his brother. Once upon a time, their positions were changed. Once upon a time, Jaime wore the gold cloak of the Kingsguard. One of the most coveted and prestigious positions to have in the seven kingdoms.  Somehow, through all of their travels and trials, they were both still alive. The brotherly bond and last name Lannister was of the few things they shared.

Apparently, an affection for the last remaining Targaryen also bonded them.

His sister would be wise to share the sentiment someday.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Jaime dully asked.

Tyrion set his lips in a firm line, normally he held a sharp tongue for every conversation — but this was different. As hand, he had to put his namesake behind him. “I don’t like seeing you in this position,” Tyrion lamented.

A soft chuckle echoed in the cell, “my sweet little brother — this isn’t a new position for me. As lovely as the Starks were, these accommodations are much more favorable than the cold forests and sitting in pig shit.”

The wheel continued to turn. The war of five kings felt like several lifetimes ago. Now here they were, back in their ancestral home. Except — they were the only Lannisters here now. Tyrion pulled a flask from inside his pocket, handing it to his brother through the cell bars. “Drink.”

Jaime looked at the flask, clearly measuring whether or not to accept it. “If you’re planning to kill me, I’ll drink it. If not --”

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

“And of the princess?”

Ah, yes. Of course he would still refer to her as that.

“Her Grace woke up earlier. That’s all I can tell you. Though — it’s considerably noble of you to return her in one piece, helm in tact and all.”

Jaime leaned against the wall, posturing himself proudly. He did this every time he convinced himself of a lie. Unfortunately for him, Tyrion could read his brother like a children’s book. “I planned on taking her to Cersei.”

“You’re lying.”

His older brother scrutinized the situation, perhaps determining what direction he wanted his life to go. Annoyance crept into his tone, “If you don’t believe that — then free me, little brother.” He stood to his full height, clearly at odds with the demons wreaking havoc in that pretty head of his.

Tyrion took a swig of the wine himself.

“You brought her here so it could delay what would have been my Queen’s inevitable, horrendous death. At any point in time, you could have taken her to the King’s road. Lannister loyalists are still everywhere. Perhaps you’re fearful the turn cloaks would find you again and take your other hand — that’s believable. Up until you surpassed Clegane’s territory. They are still fielded with Cersei. You and I both know your trip would have been cut short and she would have been taken in chains. Instead—” Tyrion handed him the flask again, which Jaime relented and drank from. “You chose to bring her to Casterly Rock on the whim that there were still men stationed here. And what do you do? Continue to delay. I may not have seen everything, but I witnessed the great Jaime Lannister fight twenty Lannister men one handed.”

Another gulp, a sarcastic shrug. “They don’t make good warriors like they used to.”

They both chuckled.

“As it be, the book of your life continues to write itself. Your heroics continue to grow, and you saved the woman our sister loathes. I don’t know what occurred on this journey of yours, but I know you well enough that as cruel as Cersei made you, without her — who are you?”

That riled the Kingslayer.

“I should have let her suffocate you when I had the chance.”

Tyrion leaned against the bars, “I would have lived a much better life if you had.”

Silence stretched between the two brothers.

“Why didn’t you kill her? You made your life indefinitely more difficult by bringing her to a safe harbor.” Tyrion needed answers. “I know this, and Cersei certainly knew. Well enough to tell her men that if you disobeyed orders, they were to kill you.”

The sharpness of the truth looked like it physically cut Jaime. He backed away from the bars, a dry, rueful laugh making his shoulders shake. He put his face in his hands, groaning. “It seems I’m disposable just like everyone else.”

Truly, Tyrion felt for his brother.

Not enough to comfort him.

“Why?” He prodded again.

“Because I felt like it!” Jaime snapped, “why must I ascertain a reason for it? I’m a knight! I help the weak and broken! Is that what you want to hear? Or are you assuming I want her cunt like every other man that meets her? I came here because I couldn’t stomach the thought of the little girl I took care of for years swinging and decaying from the gates!” His voice shook from the velocity of his yelling, until his words came in a thin, quivered whisper. “—I didn’t want to see her raped, or brutalized, or whatever demented torture Cersei could conjure. If I couldn’t stop it, then I could give her a few more days.”

Tyrion assessed his brother. He could count how many times the normally proud, egotistical, yet entirely simple-minded man before him allowed his anger to ripen him like this. Beneath it all, he grew a moral compass. One that only held a faint lantern when Tyrion was the one jailed. “Drink.”

The simple command forced Jaime back to his sitting position. He drank the entire flask.

“My Queen worries for you, years would make someone wonder if her heart sharpened to the woes of men, and apparently they haven’t.” This time, Tyrion’s voice sharpened. A lethal calm that felt foreign to his normally sarcastic demeanor.

“If I’m correct, and I always am — you get to live through this. Without Cersei, you’re palatable. I’m going to assume it’s the work of Brienne of Tarth that offered you a moral conscience. As Hand for Queen Daenerys, it’s in my best interest that she wins this war. I can’t allow my foolish brother to change the decisions that have already been made. At the end of this, Cersei dies. I hope you understand that.”

Jaime kept a careful eye on Tyrion. “How little do you think of me?”

At the end of the day, they were both raised by their father.

“I know that you once said you would die at the heel of my sister. That Cersei is all you truly care about in this life. Is that still true?”

“You don’t trust me, then.”

“Did you trust me when I was being kept at the Red Keep?”

“I didn’t.”

“Good. So you understand my position.”

Jaime kicked the flask back towards his brother. “We need to stop doing this dance, don’t you think?” The brothers shared a deeply tired, resolute look. Years of fighting, years of battling their father. Each with different reasons for their contempt for him. Between the two of them, they traversed throughout the seven kingdoms, weaving in and out of the land like an expert spinster.

It was too much.

Tyrion sighed and grabbed the flask, nobly knees creaking as he bent forward through the bars.  He turned his back to leave, through with this discussion. “Once again — death eludes you. I don’t know how you do it.”

—

Sansa

The Lady of the North sunk herself deeper into the steaming water, her skin tinging a bright red. It hurt, it hurt a lot. The hot springs were deep within Winterfell, though even their warmth they provided against the frost outside seemed to be waning with the growing coldness that lingered in her bones.

She would never complain about the cold again.

Her furs and cloaks gave her a sense of comfort, it brought her closer to her parents and lineage.

If she ever had to wear an open bodice, lightweight dress again — she would vomit.

This spring specifically used to belong to her parents. It connected close to their quarters, heating the walls and halls surrounding it. The coarse walls built by her ancestors dripped with the sweat water, collected at a basin that ran along a vein  back into the spring.  A long time ago she could remember chasing Arya into the bath, the cretin had fallen in the mud and refused to bathe after and dare sit on her bed with all of her grime.

She put her head beneath the water for only a moment. Every orifice on her face felt like it may melt off. Sansa emerged from the water, clawing at her skin — partially hoping it would fall off. If she could scratch off the last few years from her skin, she would.

‘Sansa — did you know that the hot springs within winter fell are heated by the breath of a dragon that lives beneath Winterfell?’

‘Father, that’s a lie.’

Ned laughed, ‘very good. I suppose  you’re too big to believe false tales like that anymore.’

She nodded primly, astute and a good girl — just as she’d always been.

Just as they did everyday, the fond memories caressed away her pain. Now at home with no intention of ever leaving again, everywhere she went — she saw the ghosts of her parents and siblings. Happy with the way her skin hurt, she left the hot springs. A quiet shadow entered the room, “Lady Sansa?” A timid voice calls out.

“Come in, Jeyne.”

Her childhood friend entered with a towel. Although Sansa didn’t want her to attend her like a handmaid, Jeyne wanted to be near her at all times. After Cersei took her friend, it seemed they both went on a tumultuous, horrid journey to come back to Winterfell. They both left happy, giddy young girls.

They both returned hardened, resourceful women.

Which is why Jeyne got to stand close to her when Arya executed Littlefinger. They both watched, entirely vindicated to see the man slowly clutch his neck as he fell to the floor — him pleading her name as if she were her mother. When the room cleared out and all that remained was a puddle of blood, Sansa let the smile break free.

To this day, she refused to let the maids clean the stain.

She wrapped the towel around herself and smiled at her, “have you seen Arya? I need to speak with her.”

“She’s training,” Jeyne murmured, eyes flashing briefly to the harsh scratches on her skin. They shared a knowing glance.

Sansa sighed, “of course she is.” The one thing she appreciated about her best friend was that they didn’t need to speak about the atrocities they experienced. They just knew.

“Lavender helped me,” Jeyne offered when Sansa gripped at her own arm again, “one of the ladies at the brothel told me to find a scent that reminded me of my childhood. I remember once your mother gifted me a lavender oil for my birthday. It was the best smelling thing I owned…And perhaps one of my most precious gifts. Since then, I’ve always kept a vile of it to help with the memories.”

They hugged briefly. A wordless thank you.  Though Sansa didn’t think a simple scent of anything could erase how badly she wanted to rip her skin off.

“Please tell Arya to meet me at the Godswood, I’d like to speak with her.”

Jeyne left, leaving Sansa in the steaming room.

As much as she enjoyed the quiet, she needed her sister.

When her hair dried and she wrapped herself in the comfort of her cloaks and furs, she headed towards the ancient weirwood trees. When she was younger, she could never understand her father's staunch dedication to praying in the snow -- surrounded by these trees with horrific, gaunt faces carved into them. Rob once told her that the trees watch, that the trees protect them. The lofty, omniscient tree before her now brought a sense of home in her heart. Here, she could hear her father and mother praying together. Here, she could see her family at supper, arguing in their youth or trying to behave for their parents. Now, the rich history of every Stark before her spoke to her through these trees, and she felt guilty for ever doubting her father's prayers.

So now, Sansa got on her knees and prayed. Maybe there was no use in it, as the Gods saw fit to annihilate most of her family, but it felt nice to keep a semblance and mimic how her father used to come out here. She spoke of the dead, muttering to herself. Night after night in King’s landing she prayed — yet more tragedy befell on their family. No matter how much she prayed to the old gods and the new, nothing happened.

Although she held little faith in such gods, she murmured the names of her family she missed like a mantra. “Father, mother, Rob, Rickon, Septa Mordane—” she said the names so fast and so low with her eyes closed she didn’t notice the quiet shadow kneel beside her.

Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin she her sister finally made a noise. “You scared me! Gods, how are you so quiet?”

“What were you muttering just now?” Arya tilted her head, assessing her.

Embarrassed, Sansa stared forward until she lamented the truth, “just a list. A list of the people I miss…There’s many of them.”

“I have a list, too.” They both looked towards the god tree. “Except of those I will kill.”

Sansa didn’t judge the bold statement. Their journeys were different. Years ago she would have laughed and rolled her eyes at the callous statement, but she respected the ruthlessness within her sister. They were both ruthless, just in different ways. “…Have you killed anyone from that list?”

“Walder Frey,” she said, crisp and clean. A simple statement. As if she asked her what she had for breakfast.

“So that was you,” Sansa confirmed, thinking of how the news of Walder’s throat being split open reached the Seven Kingdoms within a day.  “He’s the reason Rob and mother are dead.”

“I know. I was there.”

Sansa’s eyes would have bugged, but she was used to her sister giving her small doses of what she’s gone through, the things she had to do to come home. Nothing surprised her anymore. “Did you…See it?”

She almost regretted asking her, but Arya shook her head. “No, but I did see Grey Wind’s head atop Robb’s body. I knew then that I would kill Walder for what he did one day.”

They both milled over the image. Neither grimaced or cried, he was gone — and at least he got to reside beneath Winterfell with them.

“If no one else has yet, thank you for killing that horrendous old man. I pray it was not without pain.”

Arya smiled, leaning her shoulder into her. Sansa rested her head on Arya’s, closing her eyes. They enjoyed the simple moment until a small laugh pulled from them. If they could cherish the time they had left before the white walkers came, they would. “Who’s next on your list?” Sansa questioned.

“Cersei.”

Sansa kept quiet, knowing that no matter what she said — her sister would want to leave. “So you’ll be leaving?”

It had been a month of having her sister back, almost a month since Jon had left. They missed each other by a few days. To see her sister at the gates of Winterfell…She made a promise to herself long ago she would never mistreat her sister again if she could just see her one more time.  She made a million promises, and she intended to follow through if the Gods permitted her any sort of happiness.

Arya pursed her lips, staring intently at the weirwood tree. “Soon. Have you received a letter from Jon?”

Just the thought of her brother brought a sense of peace. With Jon, anything was possible. He saw to mining the dragon glass at Dragonstone. It wasn’t beyond her that him and the Dragon Queen could possibly have their own tryst. Rumor had it she was one of the most comely women to set foot on their western land. Call her perceptive, but his letters regarding Daenerys Targaryen went from stringent and business, to describing her in a softer light. He praised her ability for change.

As King of the North, she did not make him kneel.

The North would keep their sovereignty as an independent governance.

For that, Sansa could respect said queen.

And anyone wanting Cersei dead could be a friend of hers.

“Just this morning. They found Daenerys at Casterly Rock. She’s currently recovering…There’s no date on when they start their march to King’s Landing. However, Jon is requesting our people  begin mobilizing this week to go south.” Which left them  partially defenseless if the white walkers broke through the wall. Currently, there were no reports from the Night Watch. Though how long did they really have?

Arya stood abruptly, once again startling Sansa. “Then I leave tomorrow morning. I need to beat Jon and Daenerys.”

Sansa only wished she could know why. “…Will you come back?” She hated the small quiver in her voice. With Arya and Jon both gone to war, it would leave her and Bran at Winterfell. It felt reminiscent of when she was stuck in King’s Landing. Except this time there would be no praying in a foreign city, she would be home.

As small as she was, Arya pulled Sansa into a tight hug. This was still foreign to them. Not hating one another.  “…When the white wind blows and the lone wolf dies—”

Sansa gripped her sister harder, inhaling her wooden scent. It reminded her of their father, of home.

“The pack survives,” Sansa finished.

It was a promise.

—

Jaime

“Is she not the cutest?” Elia Martell asked him, the bundle in her arms slept quietly. The mop of wild silver hair barely kept at bay with the swaddle around her. Jaime chanced a look at Princess Daenerys. She arrived a month after Rhaella passed away. The bell chimed for three days in remembrance for the beloved Queen. Everything happened so suddenly. These past few weeks were the beginning of the end. Gods, he wanted to leave for a day.

After a full morning of Aerys torturing a court fool, he felt like his stomach was going to invert on itself.

Jaime welcomed the distraction.

When he peered past the blanket, there lay the last child of the late Queen. This child had no chance of ever becoming Queen herself, but she would be loved and surrounded by the remaining Targaryens until she died. A small sense of comfort came with the thought that he would see the children grow. He didn’t care about the Targaryens, but he was no monster.  He would be held here until he died. His vows held him hostage. They chained him to this family, to his King. 

His only salvation came from being near Cersei.

Just then, the babe cried. She woke from her slumber, amethyst eyes blinking. Elia rocked the child in her arms, “I better get her to the wet nurse. Would you mind following me, Ser Jaime?”

“Of course,” he murmured — watching the child. For a moment, she stopped crying. Daenerys blinked up at him, those dizzying and sometimes offending Targaryen eyes made his skin crawl. They reminded him of Aerys, of how his eyes seemed to bleed that same purple when he became manic.

Her only saving grace was that they were the softer violet that befit her mother.

As they walked, he refused to look down again.

The babe didn’t look away.

---

‘Wake up!’

It echoed, the words ripped him from his dream. How long had it been since such a vivid dream accosted him?

When he remembered his surroundings, adrenaline shot through him. In front of him two of those eastern savages were unlocking his cell. Tyrion stood in the middle of them, he would have looked rather out of place — but his brother was known to align himself with heathens.

“I’m sorry to disappoint, but Our Queen requests to speak with you.” Tyrion motioned for the Dothraki. Both of the large men entered his cell and hoisted him up. Jaime had all of two seconds before chains were decorating his wrists and neck.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Tyrion?” Jaime struggled against the neck chain. Collared like an animal, one of the Dothraki men grabbed the end of the chain, hoisting him back to make sure it worked.

Jaime all but fell backwards.

If his brother felt bad, he didn’t show it. “Apologies. Your prowess is known around the Seven Kingdoms. Can’t have you fighting back, now can I?”

His armor and sword gone, shirt used for his sweat — he felt akin to a circus freak.

As naked as he felt...There was a small, indulgent part of himself that craved to see the Dragon Queen.

tbc~

Chapter Text

V.

Jon

“We can’t wait any longer.”

“You men are too quick to violence,” Olenna Tyrell mused absently. She stared outside the gaping mouth of a window within the war room of Dragonstone. The large map of Westeros divided the room, it ate the space up. Jon toyed with a grey wolf miniature, the wood smooth against the pads of his callous fingers. Jon sat back in his seat, his patience wearing thin with the people within the room. How could they wait any longer? They were done mining the Dragon glass, and now the northern army would begin its march south. Ravens were coming by the hour delivering him news, where they would be stationed, and when to make the journey. As soon as the northern army sniffed southern air, Cersei would be waiting.

In his dreams, a white raven would appear. Not unlike the black crows that would desperately squawk at him, filling him with urgency. If he knew this would happen…If he knew how long it would take, he could have sailed back North to settle the armies, and figure out a plan once the white walkers began their descent south. He should have argued with her, should have convinced her otherwise. 

Varys and Tyrion were the final nail in the coffin to wait and fight the whites after taking the Red Keep.

“A unified kingdom will fare much better against the…Undead. Don’t you think, hm?” Tyrion said.

“How are we to trust a newly appointed king? One that is taking a precarious, sacred resource, with nothing to offer other than his word?” Varys’ question was enough to douse any hope that Daenerys would move her armies north.

It still made no sense to fight Cersei first, but Daenerys reasoned with him in the comfort of her quarters.

The thought of the woman left him…Hollow. If there were a word for her sudden departure, her sudden need of cessation for Cersei’s gold and grain made him look at her differently. Not necessarily bad, because he deeply respected the Dragon Queen and her decision to help the North. She held no alliances with them, no love for the North, no need to potentially lose her armies to the dead — on a whim that he brought forward to her. Unlike some of his own men that Jon still felt were dissuaded by what he had seen.

An endless night. An endless army. One that would decimate the living. She believed him whole heartedly, confessing that if any other man were to bring her this information, request something so huge from her — she would have turned them away, but it was him. And she believed him.

A bastard.

“I understand the need to secure King’s Landing, but if word comes from the wall—”

Olenna interrupted him, “Would you stop your brooding. I’ve never met a man more keen to sulk about the path chosen than a northern man. If word comes from the black that an army has amassed at the wall, you will sail north and fight them, protecting the North as many Starks before you have. But there hasn’t been, and we’ve only just heard word that Daenerys is alive.” Her reprimand reminded him of Cately— Lady Stark. The sharp words that cut through him. Made him feel insignificant. Yet, if his brothers…If they had listened to her, their family would be together still.

The familiarity of her name on the old woman’s mouth didn’t go unnoticed by Jon.

Jon ground his teeth, scratching his beard to ease some of the tension in his neck, “it won’t matter in the end if they breach the wall and overrun the north. Cersei will die either way. I have just as much a want to see her dead as everybody else in this room-”

“Do you?” Yara Greyjoy pressed him, ice in her voice. “Seeing as you’re keeping your sovereignty as King of the North, you only have to worry about the North. It’s large enough to feed your people, there’s enough trade.  Your folly will be your grain storages, but I’m assured that you have the protection of the cold to embed your safety against the the southern regions. It’s easy for you to sit in your impatience when there is a foreseeable future for your Kingdom. You won’t need to worry about the south, nor the Iron Islands. ”

Jon stood up, “there will be nothing left! Once the North falls — it won’t matter who is sitting on that throne!”

The women bristled. Ellaria’s smooth voice curled around him like a viper, “so you suggest we go against the established plans we made prior to Her Grace leaving. You suggest treason because of your impatience?”

There was that word. Treason. The same one that killed him. A blade to his heart, cold. The nothingness after. The darkness he swam in beyond death furled around him like a fur coat. He sat back down, grip so tight on the wooden wolf Jon thought he might break it.

A pause to assess him, Yara continued, “don’t let the North’s entitlement fall on our ears. We need a United Kingdom under Queen Daenerys if we ever hope to survive past the war with the white walkers — to which we still are only believing based on your word. Her Grace has been benevolent enough to have us also believe you. Believe in the word of Stark. Your only grace is that Ned Stark was a noble man, up until the day he died.”

Jon never thought that him being the bastard born son of Ned Stark would curry favor for him. In this room with women — he realized that the world was changing. His last name of Snow didn’t make people’s noses raise in disgust. When he told Daenerys, she didn’t blink or so much as question his heritage. 

“Yet you’re still a King, one your people have chosen. Bastard or not, they chose you. That’s what matters.” She smiled up at him, a brilliant — radiant thing that made his chest lurch.

The memory gave him pause. How he missed her.

They all agreed under Daenery’s discretion to aid in the fight against the white walkers after the battle with Cersei. He remained quiet, looking from Ellaria Martel — to Olenna, then to Yara. Great women that controlled their regions, and they all watched him, monitoring him in the way they grew to learn to watch men - carefully.

He bristled much like his wolf, his hackles raised. “I don’t mean to instigate a fight. I understand the terms that were agreed upon,” he lamented, but it didn’t help. All of the women were aghast their ire, clearly. They saw something in his demeanor that negated anything he could possibly say right now. Without the protection of Daenerys, he felt small in this room, title of King of the North be damned.

There was a reason he didn’t want it.

In opportune fashion, Davos entered the room — quick to bow, “we’ve received word from Lannisport, Your Grace.”

All heads swiveled in his direction. Without an invitation, Jon dismissed himself from the room. “Forgive me,” was all he could offer the group, he never wanted to affront any of them. Yara’s sharp words made perfect sense. Which annoyed him.

When they disappeared into the hallways of Dragonstone, Jon slapped a grateful hand on the Onion Knight’s shoulder, “thank you for getting me out of there. I was beginning to feel like a petulant child.”

“Strong women have a way of making most men feel small. You were accosted in a room with some of the most strong-willed women in Westeros. I should have waited to enter and let you squirm a bit more.” They both loosed a laugh. Davos handed Jon the letter, primly sealed with the Targaryen sigil. Jon looked down at the three-headed dragon. An odd emptiness made the air thick in Dragonstone. Weeks of looking up at the three dragons circling the sky became a new normal for him. Without them, Dragonstone felt…Barren.

Without Daenerys it felt like he was walking the halls along with the ghosts of her family.

Jon opened the letter, praying that there would be news of Daenerys’ recovery. When they received word that she was taken by the Kingslayer, they were sure he would take her straight to Cersei. It took Olenna’s wisdom and Davos calm demeanor to keep him here in Dragonstone.

“She’s well!” he breathed, clutching the parchment in shaky hands. Davos dipped his chin, gaze still intent on Jon’s reaction to the news. “Tyrion says that the North shall move in three days time…” His eyes roamed over the words written in the pristine, intelligent print of the Hand, “we will secure all of the Dragon glass and send it north. In a fortnight, we sail to King’s Landing with the Unsullied and Dothraki.”

Davos’ face became grave, “that’s too much time. Cersei will have secured the Golden Company by then.”

Jon frowned at the scroll before he pocketed it, “I may have been wrong in my judgement for her to ambush the loot train, it seems that they took whatever gold was heading for Cersei. She has nothing to pay them with.”

The two men walked their way outside. All along the coast and far onto the island,  encampments of Unsullied and Dothraki were strewn around. Flags of the Targaryen banner flapped in the wind, the three heads of the dragon proudly displayed in black and beastly red.

“Ser Davos, begin preparations for bypassing Euron’s battalions. Now we wait for direction on where to land the Dothraki and Unsullied.”

The flags contrasted with the grey, dreary sky. Jon felt his mind go elsewhere, felt the mark of his ancestors yelling at him to do the right thing. Like his ancestors before him, he would comply with a Targaryen. Davos nodded knowingly. They would commence the plan to take King’s Landing. A Targaryen would be returning to her ancestral seat. “Yes, Your Grace. Moreover, do you believe a fortnight will be offering Cersei too much time to retrieve the Golden Company?” The worry was worth repeating. 

The wind made his nose chill, “I don’t think she means for the Golden Company to come at all,” Jon deduced. Both men shared a look, a knowing one.

Davos bowed, “I understand, Your Grace. If you need to find me, I’ll be with Yara tracing Greyjoys’ sailing routes.” He dismissed himself quietly.

Jon made it to the edge of the cobblestone path outside of the stronghold, what was once barren land was now filled with the entirety of two armies. He leaned against he stone railing, silver eyes aghast at the amount of life now held on the island. Life she brought forth, as her ancestors once did. 

The smell of lamb meat honeyed the air. The laughter of the Dothraki culled the sharp wind.  Their foreign words and loud customs were jarring at first, but their aptitude for simple pleasures were that — simple. To their legacy, the Unsullied still trained in quadrants of fifty. They sparred so effortlessly, their movement quick and crisp compared to the Dothraki. Both groups couldn’t be more opposite of the other, yet both violent. She managed to bring them together to fight for her. Willingly. They were not slaves, and she was their savior.

He turned to look at the sea, the sun was beginning to set over the westward horizon. The sun reflected magnificently off the clouds and glimmering water. Within the bay, a hundred ships sat idly, waiting for command. Again, the proud sigil of the Targaryen banner beaconed hope to her ancestors. As if the west were waiting for her.

Within him, something innate tugged at his soul.

It was the same sensation he felt with ghost.

Since meeting her, a new…Inclination drew him in.

Jon couldn’t figure it out for the life of him.

—

Daenerys

By now, Daenerys should be used to old, forlorn castles haunted by ghosts. Wherever she went, the ghosts followed her. Fresh death welcomed her. It would be her bitter destiny to follow the scent of death, of women screaming. Since leaving Magister Illyrio’s haven overlooking the sea, since leaving her home with the lemon tree, it seemed her path was meant to witness the tragedies within the world.

“I apologize, Khaleesi — We’ve tried to gather as many dead as we could.  There is no one left to clean…The entire castle has been pillaged by Cersei’s sentinels before they abandoned the rest. We’ve brought down the bodies that were hung. We didn’t want you to see that upon waking up. We will finish by tonight, Your Grace. ” Missandei explained softly. Bless her heart for still sympathizing to her opposition for violence against the weak.

The Targaryen placed a tender hand on Missandei’s arm, their familiarity of touch an extraordinary amount of comfort. “Don’t apologize, please.”

After another two day of rest, Daenerys refused to be in bed. Maester Creylen did exemplary work on healing her. She could speak now, albeit weak, but there were matters to attend to. The only vestigial of her wounds were the bandages wrapped tenderly around her neck. “It’s cruelty,” the Queen said. 

They walked through the enclosed garden in the center of Casterly rock. Beautiful, large wisteria trees swayed, their long tendrils dancing in the wind. They passed by the overarching trees, the wispy ends brushing against her face.

The sweet, fresh scent did little to hide the decay that littered around the castle. Blood made what should have been a beautiful garden a horrid sight. Bodies were strewn throughout the castle, obviously blindsided by the soldiers that killed them.  Cooks, maids, kennel masters, stewards — even the remaining Septa did not escape the wrath of the sentinels that left the Rock.

Daenerys stopped to survey the gore, her eyes distant. A century ago she walked alongside a cobble path, slaves crucified along the Mareen ports. Their bodies blistering in the sweltering sun, too weak to take the water she offered. The memory made her jaw tight. “I understand cruelty to enemies. But these people were loyal to her. Why would she desecrate what remains of her ancestral home?”

Missandei had no answer, and for that she was grateful. Daenerys continued her trek to the empty main room where she would speak with Jaime. She needed answers. Greyworm followed in suit behind them, refusing to let her out of his sight. When she first came out of her room, she was greeted by the welcomed presence of her most trusted soldier.

Behind him, two of her blood riders.

If she craved privacy before, she would never get it now.

The party wound through the dizzying halls filled with red and gold. Large, ethereal paintings adorned the walls. Portraits showed a legend and history of all previous Lannister heads. Grand pianos, vases from the finest glass blowers in Essos, drapery that would cost the small folk a lifetime of repayment covered nearly every window. What windows weren’t covered had magnificent views of the western oceans.

Such wealth she had only seen once before in Qarth. This castle…Was decadent.

The Lannisters were truly worth their name in gold.

In her studies as a child, she learned of the gold mines beneath Casterly Rock that provided the opulent wealth the Lannisters utilized to become Wardens of the West. Not unlike the wealthy slavers of Mereen who used slave labor to amass their titles, Casterly rock and Lannisport used indentured servants to amass their wealth until Aegon I came and eradicated the practice. Part of her was amiss to wonder about the resplendent tourneys her family would host at their height of power. Such grand affairs would have men and women crawling to King’s Landing for the bustling trade that would occur.

Her thoughts were jilted when they passed a few more corpses that were in a library. One belonging to a child. Her stomach soured. The boy could not have been older than five, his lifeless eyes and mouth slightly hung ajar. Even as his body began the decaying process, she could see the tear stains on his pale cheeks.

Beside him, Daenerys presumed his mother tried to shield him. For it, her head was no longer on her shoulders. Bile rose to her throat, she swallowed it. The Dragon ground her teeth, her rage for that evil woman reignited. Somewhere near a tower, Drogon’s screech echoed around them.“Greyworm.”

He stood to attention. “Please gather what men we have to finish collecting and burning the bodies. Once you build the pyre, tell me. I can’t let them rot here.” Her voice held no room for waver.

Without pause, the Unsullied soldier shared a beat of a glance with Missandei. As much as he may not want to, he left her in the care of her Blood riders. Daenerys looked back at the mother and child. A boy and his mom.

Elia. Rhaenys. Aegon.

A sudden wave of dizziness forced her heartbeat into her eyes, the blackness pulsating at the ridges of her eyesight. Missandei caught her arm, righting her upwards, her Blood Riders lunging forward to help. “Khaleesi!”

Daenerys shook it off, taking a steadying breath. “I’m alright…I just-” In the deep recesses of her memory, this was Elia Martel and her cousins. The memory assaulted her. Of Aegon screaming — his skull making contact —

‘Please! Please! Stop!’

Of Elia screaming for her children to be spared as The Mountain lay atop of her, body moving gruesomely against her, his hands tight around her throat. Daenerys didn’t understand it then. She bit back the memory that hadn’t touched her in years.

The Queen  burled forward, the same family that ordered the brutal execution of her family did this to the people in their own home. How could Cersei order them to carve innocent bystanders in the home she grew up in? Because they might speak? Such a beautiful castle, left in ruin. The ghosts called to her. They screamed, the fire within her curling — up and up and up until she could think of nothing else but retribution. For the people that Cersei cruelly murdered, she would get the Queen’s Justice.

She turned to Missandei, without words Daenerys didn’t have to ask for privacy. She wanted a moment to herself before her next quell of speaking burned her throat, “when Tyrion brings Jaime here, make sure he sees what his sister did.”

The only place free of violence was the throne room. The stench of blood did not sully the air. In the main room, Daenerys clawed at the bandages on her neck. Everything felt…Heavy. The ghosts’ screams throughout the castle rang in her ears. Large, stain glass windows brought brilliant refractions of blues, greens, and yellows.

Daenerys stood in front of the Lannister throne.

Another throne that she would drape herself over.

Not the Iron throne.

At the dawn of Aegon’s I reign, her ancestors defeated Loren the Last at the Field of Fire. He surrendered his crown to Aegon, not knowing that if they had taken their men and retreated into the Rock, the dragon fire might not have touched them. Actually, the wise maesters in Old Town concurred that the dragon fire would not have touched them. They would have been safe. Though that fateful decision brought the gold to the Lannisters who excavated the Rock. The once superfluous, mundane house Lannister procured great wealth and respect among Westeros. Thanks to the Conquerer, that day brought forth their reign over The Rock. Her fingers caressed the golden throne, so exemplary that one might think it surpassed the Iron throne. She tapped her mother’s ring against the metal, and the throne sang of excellence, of exuberance.

It wasn’t right.

She stared at it, understanding that she would be the first Targaryen to sit in this seat.

And so she did.

It was not long before Jaime entered.

Missandei, her blood riders, ten Unsullied, and ten dothraki stood within the throne room. The tension was palpable, thick as dragon smoke.

Tyrion led his brother in, a distasteful, grim look on his face. Daenerys eyed the way her Hand walked straight to her side, noting that it was the same peculiar look he held when he wasn’t fond of a decision of hers. Lest he speak on it. Surely he had little idea of what she might do with his brother? She refused to discuss it with him when he presented his questions to her in regards to the Kingslayer the prior morning. She wanted true answers from her Hand, not a rehearsed speech amongst the two of them.

The Dothraki holding Jaime’s chains pushed him to the ground onto his knees. He looked worse for ware, not the sparkling knight she knew so long ago, without a hair out of place. This man before her…Bearded, wisps of grey salted his blond hair, less a hand. He looked up at her with brilliant, jaded green eyes.

  “Jaime Lannister, you stand before Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons,” Missandei proudly finished, the titles sharp on her tongue —  glaring at the man who stole their Queen.

A thick pause took the air in the room. Jaime chuckled to himself, “that’s quite the introduction. Is it supposed to incite fear into me?” Here on his knees, collared like a dog in a kennel — He wore the Lannister attribute of pride like armor. He refused to be intimidated. In fact, he looked bored.

Yet he watched her.

Tyrion cleared his throat, “you stand trial in front of Her Grace, today. I’d suggest you take this seriously for a man that may not see the next hour.”

“Then kill me,” the older Lannister sighed at his little brother. “I know my charges. I kidnapped your Queen, not a fortnight ago we stood as opposition in the Reach.” Jaime moved to stand, but one of the dothraki kicked him back down onto his knees, eliciting a painful grunt from the knight.

“Dragon fire is a blessing compared to the hell that will be my life, so please — let’s not waste anymore time. Daenerys?”

“Queen. Daenerys.” Missandei chastised him.

“Ah, yes.” Jaime smirked, ready to laugh at the absurdity that became his situation. “Queen Daenerys Targaryen,” his tongue rolled over the syllables of her name. A pleasurable shiver made the skin on her arms pimple.  “…I don’t think a Queen has ever sat on my father’s throne. Sculpted with the gold mined beneath this castle. It took a decade to create that seat, a hundred miners lost their lives mining the gold to astute that throne — rather beautiful, is it not?”

Daenerys did not speak.

“My father’s bones are probably quivering at the fact that less a Targaryen is sitting on that chair, but a woman.”

Tyrion looked ready to pop a blood vessel.

Slow moments rolled by, her blood riders were eager for blood. The man with his chain tanked on his collar. Before her, a decrepit man bore his teeth. So she would bear hers. The Queen finally spoke, her voice still hoarse from injury. She stood up, “Lannister, accompany me — will you?”

All heads in the room swiveled to her, clearly bespoke by her words. It looked as if a horde of  ghosts caught their tongues. Daenerys stood up, grabbing the rustles of her skirt so she wouldn’t trip over the obsidian colored fabric. Dressed in an empire waistline black dress, a sheer red overlay of fabric and fine silk gave her silhouette a whimsical, youthful appearance. Contrary to her fighting leathers and helm, this outfit fit the societal politic of the West.

“Your Grace —” Tyrion interrupted.

With the turn of her head, Daenerys gave command to her Hand, “Tyrion, stay here and prepare a meeting so we can discuss what’s to be done next in preparation for King’s Landing. Varys is to reach port tonight, yes?”

Tyrion made no notion to interrupt her again, his shoulders slumped — his telltale sign of his rare incompetence.“Yes, your Grace. I also…Have a surprise for you, if you’d be so welcome.”

Inwardly, Daenerys knew he must have done something that could procure her ire. She gave him a look, their unspoken agreement among them. “How generous,” she mused softly. The  Queen turned on her heel, her skirts brushing past the Kingslayer, “come. Nivvo, Okharqo — bring him.”

They bowed their heads forward.

“Blood of my blood.”

—

Jaime

Unlike when he held her captive, the Dothraki were none too kind in the way they shuffled him after their queen. They shoved at his shoulders, the one that wasn’t holding his chains kept his arakh out, the half-scythe bumped into his side. If he slipped, the blade would puncture him. The cool metal made his abs constrict instinctively. Whenever his body relaxed, the other — Nivvo, was his name? Would yank on the collar around his neck.

Starved, chained, grimy, in his own home?  A younger version of himself would have scoffed that this could have ever happened to him. If not for his time well spent in the Starks military camps, he wondered if he would be angrier than he was now. His eyes lazily drilled holes into the back of the Dragon Queen. Her hair was intricately braided again, the soft chime of the bells in her hair echoed in the walls of his ancestral home.

To have Dothraki here, headed by a Targaryen woman.

If this were not reality, no one would believe it to be true.

Though when they put him on his knees before her, it clicked within him.

In his father’s throne, the aura around her pulsated to life. Like the beginning heartbeat of a babe in the womb, he could understand why these people chose her. Even with the bandages around her neck, the softness of her was held together by vines of authority and haggard experience that created a beautiful, blossoming flower.

If he were to put a word to what he had just seen, it would be hope.

Or maybe he’d surely, undoubtedly lost his mind in those dungeons the last few days.

The fresh sea air slapped him. The smell of salt, of blood, of the wisteria flowers. Jaime refused to look at the carnage his sister inflicted on their home. He witnessed some of the violence when they dragged him to the dungeons. He noticed how Daenerys walked slower when they got close to the pyre being built. The bodies were lined up neatly, covered in whatever linens her people could find. They left towards the courtyard, veering outside of the large walls that protected Casterly Rock. More bodies appeared, these ones uncovered as a few of her Unsullied soldiers were carefully setting them down.

He paused in his step when he noticed a pretty black haired woman, the fault in his step made his captors push him forward — but Daenerys stopped to look back at him curiously. Dead bodies did nothing to rouse him, but a deep...Pit within him made his stomach churn mournfully. The woman had multiple lacerations across her arms, her torso, and nearly had her leg cut through the bone. What killed her was the grotesque angle her neck lay.

Daenerys took a step towards him, following his gaze to the woman. “Someone you know?”

The collar around his neck tugged away from their Queen.

“A long time ago.” By the decomposition of her body, she must have been dead a few days prior to the genocide.

Jaime took the liberty to walk towards the woman. Daenerys must have allowed it, because he led them to her body.  A beat of silence. “Her name was Isla…A simple cook’s daughter. She and I became close friends when we were young. My sister didn’t think her worthy of a threat, so she didn’t mind when we would hang out. Eventually we got old enough, and she confessed to me. I told her I loved another, and had for a long time. She knew it was Cersei, even then when we kept it a close secret. I didn’t think anyone knew.” He could feel those amethyst eyes carefully studying him.

All roads lead back to my sister. “After that, we became even closer. Cersei caught me giving her flowers for her birthday. Completely platonic — she had her seized and whipped and told father the cook’s daughter was attempting to seduce me. She would have died the following day had it not been for my father sending Cersei away. I promised I would no longer speak with her, and that comforted my dad enough to let her live. I haven’t seen her since.”

“She was tortured…The poor girl.” Daenerys sighed, a sad sigh that could only commiserate the plight of a woman.

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “She tortured her before they left. Cersei remembered her…From so long ago. And had her killed before she ordered the execution of the rest of the castle.”

A vitriol, anxious anger simmered beneath his skin.

Thankfully, Daenerys said nothing as they left once more to the winding paths and hillside beside the castle.

Jaime knew he had to come to terms with what would happen between himself and his sister. The thoughts swirled around him; made him dizzy, made his heart pound in his ears. His thoughts were about to consume him when a loud, vicious shriek took the thoughts from him. The world shook around them, the call of her dragons bringing the hair to yield on his skin. He took a defensive step back, the memories of his men flayed in their suits reminding him of his recent failure at battle.

The first to notice them was the paler, creamier one. The overgrown lizard  beat its mighty wings towards them, redirecting itself to descend. “If you mean to have me burnt, then I kindly request that you bury me beside my father and Cersei’s children.” Tywin Lannister’s bones were in the royal cemetery of Casterly Rock, proudly displayed with a statue that was commissioned by a dozen Lazarene sculpture artists. Carved out of white marble, Cersei made sure the statue would be the most grandeur for the next century. It looked nothing of his father, truth be told. A shame such a man will never be remembered correctly.

It surprised Jaime with how easy Cersei allowed Myrcella and Tommen’s remains to be shipped to their ancestral home. It still made him wonder why she didn’t put up a fight when it was suggested. In hindsight, Jaime understood that being away from her children allowed her to make uglier decisions without their ghosts haunting her. Joffrey’s remains were kept with her, buried in the crypts with a dynasty of Targaryen kings. Fierce dragons and one spoilt lion. 

The dragon descended closer.

“Do you fear death?” Daenerys asked.

“I fear death as much as I fear a babe bringing me flowers.”

I am outside, and the sun is on my face.

It was becoming alarming how many times that simple pleasure brought him peace. Still, a chill air cut to his bones, one that was new to the Rock.

That made Daenerys look at him, her high posture faltering. It made him smirk, and he understood now why Tyrion loved to ruffle the feathers of those above him, “they were red tulips, no? I would fasten them in my armor. Several of the other Kingsguard would call me a Tyrell whelp.”

By now the dragon landed behind her, the ruffled growls echoed from it’s chest, waiting for it’s mothers direction. “You remember that?”

Jaime looked beyond her, his anger for these animals insurmountable. The beast must have read his thoughts, because it’s spines bristled unhappily, that growl just loud enough for the larger black one to notice them and also begin its descent. “Of course I do. I may have made many mistakes in my life, but that time in my life guarding you, your cousins, Elia Martell. It was peaceful.”

“Until you killed my father, Kingslayer.”

Jaime. My name is Jaime.

“Until your father’s actions almost resulted in the death of thousands! Must we have this conversation again?”

Daenerys stood straight again, her braid thrown over her shoulder. “As it be, you do not fear the Stranger? I see no reason to keep an oath breaker alive.”

Behind him, the black beast landed — the air around him moved, the gust nearly knocking him off of his feet. The Dothraki guard made sure to keep him up with the chain around his neck. Jaime began to laugh. Finally. Finally. He would die as the Kingslayer, but he wouldn’t have to think anymore. Wouldn’t have to decipher his sister, wouldn’t have to remember the tight face of his father. The dragon loomed over him, casting a shadow over and in front of him. The large beast blocked out the sun. The two dothraki moved out of the way. By stubborn ambition and habit, he took a glance at the weapons his captors held. He could possibly disarm them, possibly kill them and run, but he would never outrun three grown dragons.

I’ve done enough. This is enough. 

He looked ahead of him, that beast’s rancid breath hot on his back. Fluffy clouds drifted past, the sun warmed his skin. Her bells chimed with the wind. A sweet serenade for his death; if only a bard were here to sing with the chimes of his fate. 

What a beautiful day to die.

“I will ask you one question, Jaime Lannister.” Her voice felt ethereal and strong around him, edged with a softness that his sister could never fake.

Of Cersei’s children, he wanted to see Myrcella the most.

He closed his eyes. He was ready. 

The Queen must have noticed his resoluteness with death. Her question came out clipped and sharp. “How did you know there would be a boat for me that day? ”

The question didn’t come as a surprise to him.

“Don’t ask me that.”

Like her Dragons, the Queen fumed. “You save my life, sent me on a boat to meet with my brother as a scared little girl, and I demand to know how you knew there would be a boat waiting for me!”

Jaime snapped. 

“Because it was always the plan! Your father knew he was mad! In fact, I don't think he was mad at all. He knew what he was doing. Is every murderer mad? Aerys didn’t care! Do you know how many caches of wildfire are beneath King’s Landing? I would listen to him murmur to himself all day!” His words came in a choked fury, his voice a tight whisper. “The walls closed in on him. He would murmur of boats of escape, and also of killing you and your brother after Rhaegar was defeated! His final plan was to evacuate you guys if King’s Landing were to be taken! I would hear him, all day. All day! — “ He yelled, righteous with anger.  “Whispering of what he would do to everyone in the city. Whispering about people betraying him. Whispering that you and your brother didn’t deserve to live. That the Targaryens would die with him! It was different each day. I think on that morning he flipped a coin and chose for you both to get on that fucking boat. So I took you there because I refused to let an innocent girl die!”

Drogon bore his teeth behind him. A shrill purr made his back shiver. He could feel the heat radiate from the dragon’s jowls. A noise he couldn’t dare explain elicited from deep within the dragon’s mouth. It brought forth more heat. 

Daenerys opened her mouth to speak, but paused.

A small gush of wind made the bells chime erratically, all at once - no longer his song. 

 His skin was beginning to singe. His captors let him go, he was a feast for the beast now. It burned. Gods it burned. The creamier one screeched, ready - ever so ready and eager to please its mother.

The final dragon landed a carriage length away from them.

“Release him.”

—

Tyrion

From the war room within his father’s castle, a large window verberated with the dragons afoot so close to this tower. As a child,  Tyrion could only lose himself into the world of dragons and the Targaryen dynasty, like most children. For so long a minuscule part of him only dreamed of dragons. In the far east, in the other side of the narrow sea that he traversed to find his Queen, the dragons made sense. But here? In his ancestral home? It didn’t make sense. It was a wonder to Westeros, and he’d be a fool to ignore that the childlike wonder he felt for the mythical creatures that were lost three hundred years ago still made him look among the creatures with morbid fascination.

As did the woman yielding them in front of his older brother.

He was alone with Missandei, both of them watching the scene unfold outside.

Until the quiet woman of Naath cleared her throat, “Lord Tyrion,” she turned to face him.

Tyrion pulled his gaze from the window, unsure how his brother wasn’t a dragon’s roast by now. His intuition told him that his clever brother would survive this. Their Queen was gracious in that way, but it pained his stomach to think that he would be in close quarters with his brother sans Cersei for the first time in years. He didn’t want to delve into that relationship. The last time Jaime was with him alone and granted him a small amble of trust, he murdered their dear father. “Mm, yes?”

“Are we to…Trust your brother?” Missandei glanced back outside with speculative eyes. Surely in speculation out of care for Daenerys. He admired the way the two women held a bond akin to sisters.

She knows Daenerys won’t kill him. This woman knows our Queen better than us all.

He chose his words carefully. “My brother may be an oathbreaker, but he is loyal. He once made a commitment to guard the royal family with his life. From what I can gather Jaime had several opportunities to kill our Queen.” He paused, his hand itching for a wine glass. “Instead, he carefully avoided the Kingsroad, safely brought her to Lannisport and single-handedly fought my sister’s banner men so they wouldn’t take her.”

“He tried to kill her in their last battle,” Missandei reminded him. “If not for Drogon-”

“We must not doubt her judgement.” He reinforced the notion. He didn't know to whom. Tyrion looked out the window, all three dragons circled the two. He clenched his hand, a million outcomes burning through his head. “I trust that she will make the right decision. My brother has nowhere to go, and I have good reason to believe that he’s the reason why she escaped the day my father sacked King’s landing.”

Missandei turned to look at him in shock. Her shock was short-lived when Drogon roared into the air. One bite — one bite was all it would take to kill his brother. They both held their breath and inched closer to the window when Drogon opened his mouth, rearing himself to burn Jaime. Perhaps they were both wrong.

I can’t watch this, not Jaime.

Tyrion almost looked away, but both of their concerns were confirmed when the dragons lifted back into the air a minute later  — the duo upon the hill watched the beasts beat their wings, propelling them into the crisp sky. His sharp eye noticed the way they took a step closer to each other. He held many reservations about her decision, but he would not voice them — not until they were alone.

“Jaime saved her?” She asked gently. “I didn’t know this.”

Tyrion scratched at his disfigured nose, a habit of his when he put his thoughts together. “I’m not positive, but it would make the most sense. I always wondered why Jaime kept that day so aloof when he explained the Princess’ escape. I would hear him try to explain it to Cersei and it never made sense. My father questioned him once about it — everyone was barred from the room so who knows what came of that conversation. Robert Baratheon threatened to exile Jaime to the night’s watch for allowing Her grace and her brother’s escape that day.”

The sweet woman’s reserved silence felt like he could pull the story together. She nodded knowingly, as if envisioning the horrid day. She avoided the obvious. “Why didn’t he?”

“Because my father arranged the wedding between my sister and Robert. It would be an affront to shame a member of the Kingsguard by enlisting them in the night’s watch considering Jaime is her brother. Smart of my father, truly.”

Missandei gave no indication whether she could agree with such a notion. She turned one last time to see Jaime and Daenerys making the climb back. “He’s a skilled warrior?”

“One of the finest.”

“And he will protect her?”

He wondered where these questions were coming from. She did not execute this type of interrogation when Daenerys chose to open her arms to the North in the form of a brooding Stark. He eyed the pretty woman from Naath. “…With his life.”

She knows something that I don’t.

“I see. I need to tend to the pyre Lord Tyrion. Please excuse me.” She gave the smallest bow before leaving the room — allowing him to garden his thoughts.

The pair began their trek back to the castle. From here, their queen stood out. The silver of her hair shone brightly against the green grass, her dress swaying in the wind. There was a lot to discuss now that the business of his brother was done. He surveyed the once bustling castle — now an empty shell with a thousand souls lost to his sisters violence.

He needed to prepare her for the good news.

—

Daenerys

It was dusk by the time she wanted to emerge from her chamber. It felt odd to sleep in a place that just went through a massacre. She wanted to leave back to Dragonstone, but there was no time. She could fly on Drogon — reconvene their plan to take King’s landing, but that would leave Tyrion and the host brought here without direction. She needed her hand. They needed to make a decisive move. Soon. Missandei got to work on hiring people from Lannisport to restore the great castle. Tyrion worked tirelessly the rest of the day in conjunction with Greyworm on their next move.

There was elegance everywhere within the castle. Eloquent, dreamy gold drapes decorated a bed bathed in red covets and silks. It didn’t feel right to be in this chamber with the colors of house Lannister. A gentle knock on her door brokered through her thoughts, “come in.”

Two of her Unsullied guards opened the door, Tyrion appearing within her chambers.

“Your Grace, if we could gather for dinner. I know you must be tired, we can discuss everything that you’ve missed over dinner — and I would like for you to meet someone.”

“Of course.” She gathered her cloak off of her bed, the chill within the castle walls cut through her skin. The Queen noticed her Hand lingering and turned towards him, “you could have sent someone to fetch me. Is there something that bothers you?” She held such a soft spot for her clever Hand. She looked at the scar across his face, looked at his mis-matched eyes. 

Tyrion took a few more steps into her room, “I would like to thank you for sparing my brother. He’s committed many sins, but I do hope he can stay here in our ancestral home. It is due to me killing my father that so much strife has come to Casterly Rock.”

The Dragon Queen finished fixing her cloak, her anger riled. “It’s due to your sister that there has been so much atrocity brought to your home. Not you. No man is perfect, but I refuse to believe that you killing the man that orchestrated the annihilation of my family deserved anything less. You made your decisions for a reason.”

“Some would think much differently than you. Though it enlightens me to know that My Queen would never doubt me. Even with my past. Being here…I was never allowed in my father’s quarters. It’s quite odd to be here now. ” How unfortunate. To be born to the wealthiest family in Westertos, only to be seen as a nuisance for being born unlike others. To be granted the right to wear his houses sigil. They weren't so different, she was the sister to the Beggar King. The two of them shared a bond that couldn’t be compared with anyone else. Exiled, hunted. They spoke of their fears many a night over several glasses of wine.  With him, she felt a sense of peace. Peace with a man that didn’t want her in their bed later.

Tyrion stared beyond the large windows and balcony. No tears, but his eyes were rimmed with red.  Daenerys knew that look, it was the same one she had when she landed on Dragonstone. Her first time touching the sand of Westeros since she was a child. So many lives of past lineage lived in a place that belonged to you. The blood of ancestors ran thick. And to feel like a foreigner in your own home - It could be overwhelming.

She laughed, a gentle laugh that few could earn from her. “If I turned away and doubted every disposed man from Westeros, I would be wasting my days in the Dosh Khaleen. Or I would be dead.”

The Lion offered a soft smile, “we should add collector of exiles to your Titles. And I couldn't imagine a world without you, Your Grace. We would all be worse for it." 

Daenerys needed him to trust her decisions, just as she believed in him. “It seems that since we’ve landed in Westeros you’ve become more docile. It’s unbecoming of you. Your father was a fool to squander an asset such as yourself.  I’ve never doubted you as my Hand, I stand by my decision. ”

Before he could speak, she cut in. “-You told me you were a cynic to ever believe in anyone or anything. You told me you believed in me. You’ve been a faithful advisor, Tyrion. And a loyal friend. Continue to be my friend in the West too, please.”

The Hand gripped his tunic, absently he touched the broach on his chest. She walked over to him, letting him stew on her words. The Lannister looked conflicted, as if she proved him wrong somehow.

He bowed low before he stood straighter. Tyrion cleared his throat, a feign attempt to regain his composure. His eyes were still red. “Of course, Your Grace. We’re in the Great Game now, as I once put it. I’m here to make sure you go home to your birthright. My counsel will forever be yours. I promise you. ” He bowed his head, his voice breaking. “And you’re possibly the first to call me a friend without my coin being involved.” 

Tensions had been high between the two since her decision to give the North clemency without speaking to him first. When she brought up the King in the North, he didn’t approve of her relationship with Snow. When she claimed it would be good to earn his trust by allowing him to mine the dragon glass, he didn’t approve of that either.  Their unspoken apprehension for one another came to head one evening several days before she was to head to the reach with Drogon. He outright refused the decision. They broke out into an argument that left Daenerys questioning if he still believed in her. His silence in the moment spoke volumes. The last two nights before she left for battle left them with tight, clipped conversations. A few words. She couldn’t look at him without anger.  She felt like he was plotting behind her back. She hated it.

A soft hand touched his cheek. “As for your brother, I have different plans that will involve him.”