Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bran sat in his chair, beneath the old oak in the godswood of the Red Keep.  The smokeberry vines had been cleared from the tree, letting it breathe again. He didn’t need to be here, but it helped him think more clearly.  He’d been spending a lot of time here since taking up the mantle of leader. Although he was young, time always seemed to be short, and there was so much to do.  He allowed his gaze to roam to the newly-built gates nearby. Sounds of work came from below, and to him, it was good. Right now, though, the progress on his home wasn’t his concern.  

He’d told the small council that he’d tried to find Drogon, and he hadn’t entirely been lying.  He didn’t know where Drogon currently was, but it wouldn’t take much effort to find him. He tipped his head back, letting his spirit soar into a flock of nearby ravens.  He joined them often, and they accepted him without argument. He took flight, heading east. It was the only thing he really knew about where Drogon might have gone.

He flew out past the Blackwater, noting the progress of rebuilding below him.  Euron’s ships were almost cleared away, and a path had developed through the wreckage to easily let the merchants and travellers through to what was left of King’s Landing.  If he could still mourn, he would have mourned the lives lost. It had been necessary for his ascent, but it was a waste. So much was wasted.

He turned from the city and towards Dragonstone.  There, he left the ravens and found a school of fish.  Easier to make the long journey in a school of fish. Soon, he wouldn’t need to jump from animal to animal to extend his senses, but for now, Essos was too far for him to get there directly.  He’d sent a ship though, and it would be remedied. He directed the school east until he got to warmer waters, where he slid into a pod of dolphins. They were smarter and it took a little more effort to make them accept him, but they eventually relented while being distracted by feeding.  

He let them finish eating, needing them to have the energy for their long journey, and then he turned east again.  Then south, through the Stepstones and the Broken Arm of Dorne, and out into the open water. Dolphins were a good choice for this journey, the could go far and they could move quickly.  And they were complex enough that he needed fewer of them to house himself. Rather than a murder of crows, a small pod was enough.

It took time, as it always did.  He went from pod to pod until he finally arrived at the Bay of Dragons.  No Drogon here, but he changed to a horse in Mereen and heard humans talking about the beast that had flown overhead days earlier.  They had barely had time to fix the pyramid, and they were glad that it hadn’t stopped. Strange to see it without its siblings, though.  And where was the queen? Would she return?

He turned from human gossip back to the trail.  Now that he knew Drogon had passed through here he knew he was correct in his suppositions about the dragon.  He found a riderless horse and turned north, into the great grass sea where the Dothraki used to hold sway. He didn’t care much for their people, they’d find their way again.  They weren’t his concern. So he ran as far as he dared into the sea, stopping to eat and drink along the way. He wasn’t likely to find anything else out here, so he needed to be careful.  He needed to live.

Finally, he felt it.  The great, burning mind on the edge of his awareness.  The mind he’d felt once before. Of course, he knew this would come to pass.  This need would arise. So he took hold of that mind and slid into Drogon’s mind.  A mount once ridden was easily ridden again, and this time Drogon didn’t fight him.  Not like he had before, when the dead loomed and his queen was on his back. They’d hurt him then, the dead.  But he flew into the sky with his brother and shook them off. Being in Drogon’s mind was different than other animals.  Drogon was too fierce to run and hide like Hodor had, and too smart to be fully subsumed.

He snorted, raising his head and looking around.  There was a horse nearby, and his stomach rumbled.  Mother would want him to eat. He started to shift, to take off, and something else caught his attention.  Another smell. Horses, yes, but also...men. Humans were coming. He stayed to guard his mother. From what, he did not know, but he was not ready for another rider yet with her so nearby.  So he waited in his nest in the Great Grass sea, and looked for the men.

They came out of the grass, on fire but not burning, men but not men.  They stood far back, not threatening. They’d known he was here. One dismounted and cautiously walked closer.  He screamed at them, warning them not to threaten his mother. He’d failed once, and he would not fail again. But they were burning and not burning and they were like him, they were fire.  Like calls to like and his mother had burned too. So had the other, the one from the cold. Burned and not burned. His brother’s rider. But these men, they all looked the same. They all wore their burning on the outside, wore clothes the color of his own wings.  

The human flinched, but did not back away.  He got closer, sniffling at them. They smelled of fire and warmth and all that was him.  So he let them pass, staying nearby. The man spoke to him, “We are sorry, young one. We know what they did to your mother.”

He snorted and lifted his wing, showing them where he was hiding his mother.  More came close, and he looked at them for the sharp things some men liked to throw at him.  They held none. No bits of steel in their hands, either. He rattled his frills, but he let them pass, too.  They stepped close to his mother, and he caught bits of their man words. The other in his mind knew what they meant.  

“She has not started to decay,” one man said, looking at his mother.  

“Yes, curious,” answered a woman, “It will make the job of our lord easier.”  

“It will.  Let us begin,” the other men stepped forward, surrounding his mother.  They started to chant man words that neither Drogon nor the other understood.  But he watched and they chanted and chanted. What good would man-words do? Would they help his mother? He didn’t know them and now he was confused.  He snorted, agitation and hunger making him jumpy. He shouldn’t have let them near his mother, he shouldn’t have let them say the man-words. They were food, that’s all.  

He hissed and got to his feat, screaming and thumping the ground with his wings.  But the men did not stop making the man words, and Drogon got distracted. Burning but not burning came from the chanting humans and surrounded his mother, disappearing into her.  She was burning but not burning now, just like before, just like his brother’s rider. He stopped stomping and making noise, and the men who’d been around his mother slowly backed off towards the horses that brought them.  One stayed near his mother. Drogon watched, steaming trickling from between his teeth.

Then he looked down.  Mother opened her eyes.  

Chapter Text

Home.  Finally, home.  The air smelled of salt and fish, and seagulls cawed and danced overhead.  It was raining, the same drizzle that seemed continuous on her damp islands, and fog hid Pyke from view.  She listened to the clomp of boots on the docks, and the shouting of people, and the sounds life in Lordsport continuing.  This was hers, now. Kingsmoot or not, she’d earned the Iron Islands with her blood and sweat. Her small boat bumped into the stone wall of the dock, and she grabbed the ring, threading the boat’s rope through it to hold it in place.  She hauled herself up onto the steps, climbed them, and stood on the edge of the wall.

“See you when I see you,” she said to the crew that was in the small boat with her, grabbing the travel sack they held up to her, “Don’t go far.”  

“You know where we’ll be,” answered Qarl, her first mate.  She nodded and turned, walking off to find a horse to take her up to Pyke.  No one had come to meet her because she hadn’t sent word that she’d be arriving.  She disliked it when people made a fuss, doing things for her that she was perfectly able to do for herself.  

She found a horse easily and started towards Pyke.  Soon, the sad, grey stones poked through the swirling mist.  It wasn’t like other castles. It lacked many of the comforts preferred by other nobles.  And now, in winter, it was cold as a well as damp. To her, though, it fit like a well-worn boot.  She liked that she could always hear and smell the sea, and the wind whistling through its halls and between the towards was a kind of music.  It was older than anyone knew, the names of its builders lost to time, and the age comforted her as well as all the rest. She had roots, here.  Tension she carried in her chest unwound just a fraction.

She rode all the way up the switch-backed path to the gatehouse on the headlands.  They let her in, and this is where she left the horse. Horses couldn’t cross the tall, arched bridge that connected the headlands to the Bloody Keep, so they were left here behind the curtain wall with the rest of the livestock.  The gate thumped closed behind her, and she started the walk towards the castle.

Her goal was the Kitchen Keep, and her rumbling stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten for hours.  But to get to the Kitchen Keep, she had to pass through the Bloody Keep and the Great Keep. On her way through the Great Keep, she changed her mind and turned from her intended path.  Instead, she walked through the Smoky Hall towards the twisting hunk of oily black stone that was the Seastone Chair.

It should have been hers from the first.  How many lives could have been saved if Euron had lost the Kingsmoot? His ambitions, her father’s ambitions, cost them everything.  They were a generation of overly ambitious men with no notion about what comes after. What would Euron have done after he’d married Cersei, had either of them survived the dragon queen? Would he have come home and peacefully sat his ass on this kraken? Doubtful.  Now, she saw, only his driftwood crown remained, looking a little forlorn on the kraken’s lap.

That shouldn’t be there , she thought to herself, frowning and picking up the crown from the seat nestled in the kraken’s tentacles.  It was surprisingly heavy for something composed of driftwood. Such a small thing to have caused so much trouble.  And, yet...she should have had one, too. Dany had promised her, but Dany was dead. So now they were still beholden to the rest of the six kingdoms.   Six kingdoms, because the north had declared its independence and King Bran had allowed it.  It put a bitter taste in her mouth, but not so bitter as the taste of blood. She was lucky there were even people alive on her islands, people to crew her ships.  She shook her head, and turned from the throne, resuming her walk to the Kitchen Keep.

She made one more stop on her way.  On the bridge between the two keeps, she took Euron’s crown and held it, pushing hard on the sides until the bent and broke, the wood crackling as it splintered.  She broke it into smaller and smaller pieces, each a shard for something she’d lost. For her father, for her uncles, for every man who’d had to die to take back the islands from Euron.  For her brothers, slain during her father’s rebellion by Robert Baratheon’s men. For her crew and her ships and all the Ironborn who’d had to break the drowned god’s commandments about spilling the blood of other Ironborn.  And for Theon. Always, for Theon. The tortured, imperfect man who’d given his life in defense of Bran the Broken. For the baby brother who’d barely gotten to live.

She tossed the pieces into the sea.  

***

“What do you mean, there’s no goats? There’s always goats,” Yara directed her question at the cook, who was offering only hardtack, an apologetic look on her face.  

“And no fish, and no onions.  There’s very little, my lady. After, well,” the woman’s voice trailed off and she shrugged apologetically.  Yara pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers and sighed.

“Fine.  Get me some salted hardtack.  Is there any cheese?”

“Some.”  

“Good.  Get me that, too.  Who is acting as steward?”

“Helya survived, my lady.”  

“Send her and maester Wendamyr up to my fath--,” wait, no, that wasn’t right, “to my solar.”  

“Yes miss.  A thrall will be up soon.”

“Good,” she grunted, leaving the room.  She headed to the furthest island, the path taking her across the rope bridge where her father had fallen during a storm, “Fallen.  Right.”

Despite that, she thought very little of crossing the dangerous, swaying bridge.  She’d been doing it since she was a child. That tower, with its salted white base, lichen-covered walls, and soot-covered crown, was as familiar to her as her own rooms.  She’d spent many hours with her father there. Although he, being miserly and bitter, only used a single brazier to warm it. She preferred something a little more substantial.  Fortunately, she saw as she entered, they’d sent a servant ahead to light the fireplace and several braziers. Dumping her travel sack onto the nearest chair, she crossed to the desk.  She’d left it quickly to go to king’s landing, having barely had time to begin sorting through the accounts after taking the islands back from Euron. .

It was a short time before Helya and Wendamyr arrived, along with the food.  She munched on a piece of hardtack and cheese, and gestured for the two of them to sit, “How bad is it?”

They exchanged a look, and Helya went first, “Plainly put, my lady, the castle doesn’t have enough provisions to survive the winter.  Euron’s men ate too much, and more was destroyed in the fighting.”

“The rest of the Iron Islands aren’t faring much better, and without a leader--”

“We have a leader,” she interrupted, “I am our leader.”

He brushed past her statement, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, “The reavers haven’t been raiding due to the war, and no new provisions have come in for months.”  

We do not sow , she thought to herself, “And the people?”

“They are fine, for now.  Many have not yet realized how dire our position,” the Maester answered.  

“That is a recipe for disaster.”

“As you say.  Once the food runs out,” he trailed off.  She knew what he was implying. The Iron Islanders were reavers.  They’d soon take to the sea again under the assumption that they could steal their food.  Yara knew better, though. She’d seen the damage done by the war. This winter would be hard on all of them, “Perhaps if we had a Lord Reaper, we could direct that energy in a more constructive way.”  

She eyed him.  He continued to deny that she was the Lady Reaper, that the islands were hers.  Helya, for her part, looked like she thought Wendamyr was an idiot for saying what he was saying.  And, yet...Euron brought back the tradition of the Kingsmoot. Mayhap she could give Wendamyr enough rope to hang himself.  She leaned back in her chair and eyed him, “And who would you suggest, Wendamyr? I am the last living Greyjoy.”

“Perhaps if you were to marry? There are several ship captains who--”

“No.  If I marry it will be in my own time and my own decision.  Never bring it up again,” her tone could have frosted the glass.  She would produce heirs, she did not intend to let her house die, but she would choose the man.  One who didn’t mind being powerless and sharing his wife with others.

“Those same ship captains could be Lord Reaper, if we held a Kingsmoot?,” he sounded a hair less certain.  She had no doubt that once he was gone from her sight he’d reassure himself as to his rightness concerning her ability to rule, and come back to argue.  He’d been doing it for weeks, “Your gods say that only one chosen can sit the Seastone Chair, and never a woman.”

“And yet here we are,” she abruptly sat up, “You want to hold another Kingsmoot, then? Have you found my uncle?”

Despite Euron’s assertion aboard his ship that they were the last living Greyjoys, There had been several people who had hosted her uncle since the battle.  However, direct contact with him proved elusive. He moved around the Iron Islands often, “I received a raven this morning from Ten Towers. He seems to be staying there for a time.”

“Ten Towers? Really? You should have led with that,” Ten Towers contained more books and scrolls than anywhere else on the Iron Islands.  Damphair may always have the drowned god’s hand up his arse, but he wasn’t stupid. Ten Towers was the home of her uncle Roderik. They’d always been close, and Roderik had helped her reclaim the islands from Euron.  What was Aeron playing at?, “Go. I have much to work out with Helya.”

“As you say,” the Maester rose and scurried off, probably to warn Aeron that she’d be approaching again.  

“That one is trouble,” Helya observed.  

“Aye, he is.  A necessary bit of trouble, given that we have no one else to serve as healer.”  

“Haven’t you got a fancy friend at the citadel now? Who might could send you a better maester?”

“I doubt it.  Friend would be too strong a word.  No, I think I’ll let him drown himself in his own net instead.  Now, where were we?,” they turned back to an accounting of the household’s resources.  It would probably be a long winter.

Chapter Text

Fire crackled in the fireplace behind her, adding to the warmth of the water running through the walls of Winterfell.  Her desk was covered in scrolls and papers, maps and petitions, and all the other brik-a-brak that came with ruling. But it was sorted into orderly piles so that she wouldn’t be driven mad by the incessant paperwork.  She was of the opinion that it should help her, not hinder her. Gods knew she could use the help.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair.  The Umber and Bolton lands had no lords, and all their remaining residents were down in the winter town outside of her walls.  They, and the rest of the living north. She hoped for a quick winter, because the army had eaten so much of her food stores, and the dead had destroyed even more.  She was in the process of setting up trade routes and securing the southern border, and a hundred other things that demanded her attention.

And she was alone.  Not a day went by when she didn’t consider sending for Jon to have him come visit her.  With Arya off gods knew where and Bran down in King’s Landing, she was short on friends.  There were advisors and hangers-on, of course, and she could always visit Robyn Arryn, but none of those options were what she really needed: a friend she could trust.  Even Brienne stayed in the south. Everyone else, well, they hadn’t made it through the long night. And on top of that loomed the question she was asked by her advisors every day: what of a consort? None dared mention the word king, no, that wasn’t what they seemed to want.  But the continuation of the Starks seemed to be important to everyone and, if she was being honest, she wouldn’t mind having a partner to help take some of the load.

She looked up at the candle on the corner of her desk, the one that marked time in hours carved on the side.  It was late, and none of these problems were going to be solved tonight, “Wylla!”

Her lady-in-waiting emerged after a moment.  The girl had been at Winterfell for a long time; betrothed against her will to one of the Freys after the red wedding.  She’d somehow survived all that had happened since. The two of them were of an age, and of a similar bent. Importantly, Wylla was also a Manderly, and the Manderlys were among the houses most loyal to the Starks.  Tall and willowy, she had long blonde hair that she’d recently re-taken to dying a bright, garish green. People sometimes made fun of the girl for it, but secretly Sansa admired her sartorial boldness. She liked having that small bit of whimsy in a life that had become so serious.  It reminded her of a time when she’d been younger and been more of a dreamer.

“Yes, your grace?,” she asked, her high, clear voice carrying easily through the quiet room.  

“It’s time for me to sleep,” Sansa answered, standing.  Tired. She was always so tired. Sleep wouldn’t alleviate that, but she needed it anyway.  

“I thought you might be ready for bad soon,” she replied, coming over and gently lifting the direwolf crown off Sansa’s head and laying it on its stand.  

“It seems to come later every night.  Thank you for staying awake with me,” she got up and moved into the open so that Wylla could help her undress.  Undressing was her favorite part of the day, because removing the tight leather bodices she’d taken to wearing always felt so good.  It wasn’t that they were uncomfortable, not exactly, it’s just that they were restrictive. It always felt good to be free.

“It’s no burden,” Wylla started removing Sansa’s jewelry and outerwear.  The process of changing didn’t take very long these days, as the two of them had grown comfortable in their routine.  They worked in comfortable silence, and soon Sansa was in her sleeping gown, sitting on a bench while Wylla brushed the knots out of her hair and wove it into a loose braid.  Engaged in her nighttime routine, Sansa was soon covering her jaw-cracking yawns with her hand while Wylla did the same.

When Wylla was finished, Sansa stood and walked to her bed after Wylla pulled back the heavy covers.  She got in and snuggled down under the warm blankets. She watched as Wylla doused the candles and banked the fire.  The girl moved quickly and efficiently, used to the task, her long green braid swinging down as she worked.

“Wylla.  Why do you dye your hair green?,” Sansa asked as Wylla was finishing her tasks.  The girl smiled at her, moving towards the door between their adjoined rooms.

“I am a Manderly.  I wear it to remind people who and what I am.  Mermaids are beautiful, but men should be cautious of us.”

That made Sansa smile back, “Yes.  Men should be cautious of you.”

“They always seem to underestimate us, don’t they?”

“Yes.  Yes, they do.”  

“Goodnight, your grace.”

“Goodnight, Wylla,” Sansa quickly fell into a deep sleep, then into a dream.  She’d had dreams like this as a child, when Lady had been alive, and they’d stopped on her death.  Recently, they’d started again. Tonight was no different.

She ran through the cold, clear night, the moon calling to her.  Her pack was behind her, well-fed and robust. The metallic tang of a recent kill was bright in her mouth, and joy sang through her as she ran through the snows.  Her pack had whelped again at the end of the fall, and grown in the process. Her descendants covered the riverlands, but that wasn’t where she was right now. There were fewer men here, and it was comfortably colder.  The south was too hot for her. Here, she could feel the cold winter air streaming through her fur as she ran. Her great strides ate the distance. North, she ran, ever north.

Then she caught the scent of something.  Something familiar. Something that reminded her of long ago, of her brothers and her sister.  She went towards the smell, curious. It was different, there was the smell of burning and death, and many more men than before.  But under that there was the smell of rich earth, horses, the working of man-claws, stone, and trees. And there, as she got closer, she smelled another smell.  One of people who were familiar. The people who she’d lived with once, who had fed her. It wasn’t her person, but one of the others. She was curious, and she went closer.  Her pack stayed behind in the nearby woods, not used to so many men. She was, though. She’d grown from a pup here.

The men were asleep, and so she ignored them, creeping silently among their homes towards the open gates of where she’d lived so long ago.  There were lights there, and the smell of horses was stronger. So was the smell of the people she’d known. One of her brothers had been here, but it was faint, so he was long-gone.  Her person had been there, too, but it was faint as well. But the smell of one of her human pack was bright and strong. She padded through open gates, and everything returned in a rush.  It was all familiar to her, the places she’d run and played when she was young. The big, red tree near the lake - frozen now, but spring would come eventually.

She smelled him before she saw or heard him, and she whipped around, growling.  A man, one she didn’t know, he stood with a torch in his hand. Fear filled her nostrils, and he started shouting in man-speak.  Another came and they had fire, too. She wanted to run, she thought she should run. She shouldn’t have come to this place of iron and fire, but its familiarity was a lure for her.  She’d been warm and happy here. The men were shouting and she was growling and she wanted to run.

Stay , begged the other, Please stay.  

Sansa woke up, sitting straight up in bed.  Outside she heard shouting coming from the direction of the godswood.  She tossed back the covers and grabbed her warmest dressing gown, yanking it on.  She shoved her feet into the nearest pair of boots, and left, running from the room and down the stairs.  She ran through the halls of her home, towards the godswood, hoping beyond any reason that her dream was true.  The noise from outside gave her reason to believe, but it was just a dream, wasn’t it?

When she got to the godswood she slowed.  There was a circle of guards there, some she recognized as frequently being on night patrol.  They had torches, and they sounded panicked. Under their voices she heard...growling. Yes, that was definitely growling.  Then, a loud bark.

“Move!,” her voice cracked like a whip through the cold, clear night.  The men turned and acknowledged her, but they were unwilling to expose their queen to danger, and they did not part for her.  She drew herself up, letting the mantle of queen settle around her. She was not a frantic girl run into the snow in her night clothes, she was the mistress of this castle and they would do what she said, “I said, move.”

They nodded, parting for her.  She walked through them and finally was able to see what was frightening them.  There, standing near the weirwood, was a huge direwolf. She was light grey, with darker grey sable on her back and in a streak down her face.  Glowing, intelligent eyes stared out at her from the night, and she smiled.

“Nymeria,” she moved closer and crouched down so that she was at the wolf’s level, smiling.  Nymeria wasn’t lady, but she was family. Sansa would accept her and love her as she did Arya.  She led out her knuckles to the big wolf. Tentatively, Nymeria stepped close enough to sniff them.  Her breath was warm on Sansa’s hand. She laughed when the animal licked her knuckles and came a little closer.  She reached out and scratched her behind the ears, sinking her fingers into the soft, thick fur, “I missed you, sister.  Are you alone? Do you have a pack?”

Nymeria just whined, but Sansa had seen this in her dream.  She knew there was a pack out there in the Wolfswood. So many wolves in the Wolfswood.  She liked the sound of that. She finished petting Nymeria and stood, turning to her guards, “This is Nymeria, and she is Arya’s direwolf.  That means she is family, and you will allow her to come and go as she pleases. She has a pack out there in the Wolfswood, and you will leave them alone, too.”  

“But, your grace, what if she hurts someone?,” asked one of the more frightened-looking men standing nearby.  

“She will not.  Feed them, if they want it, but they will likely find their own food out in the wild.  The pack must keep to the Wolfswood, but Nymeria will go where she wants,” Nymeria came to her side, sticking her face into Sansa’s hand, and Sansa scratched behind her ears again.  It was good to have a sister come home.

Chapter Text

“The prince of Dorne,” she snarled, hurling a golden vessel against the wall.  It hit with a loud clatter, chipping the tile. Another, more breakable, vessel followed, shattering, “I am my father’s oldest living heir! I am princess!”

“You have a strong arm,” Dorea observed, “You should have been taught to wield weapons as my sisters were.”  

Arianne dropped the next object in her hand, and sighed loudly, heavily falling into a chair next to her cousin.  News did not travel fast when ravens didn’t fly, and she’d been far from Sunspear after the sack of King’s Landing.  Her father’s plots had left her out of the action, and she hated being left out of the action. Now there was a pretender walking her halls.  She’d gathered all but one of the remaining Sand Snakes around her, initially to plan the future of House Martell. Now, she was glad of their presence.  She’d need their help to rally the other houses and get her home back. Elia, Obella, Dorea, and Loreza were equally as angry at the overturning of their uncle’s legacy and the murder of their mother.  All of them still nursed anger at the death of Oberyn. Arianne had simply chosen to not assign blame for her father’s death at the hands of their mother to them. They’d had no influence on her actions, and the older Sand Snakes were all dead.  There was no one left to blame for that.

“We all want vengeance for the death of our mother, Arianne.  We are with you, but we must do this carefully. Methodically,” Loreza, the the youngest of them at 12, was the most thoughtful and methodical.  She’d grown up largely away from the influence of Oberyn, Ellaria, and the elder Sand Snakes, and had a temperament much closer to Doran’s, “Which houses suffered least in the wars?”

“Our ships were largely destroyed by the Iron Fleet, and they had many of our soldiers.  All of the ones Ellaria promised to Queen Daenerys,” Arianne stood again, pacing while she thought out loud, “But that was the bulk of the Martell army.  The Daynes had a substantial force as well. The rest sent only tokens.”

“We can call the banners, visit some of the houses and rally them to our cause, and march on our home.  We can take Sunspear from them,” Ever ready for a battle, it was Obella who made the suggestion. The others were quick to agree.  

But it rang hollow to Arianne.  Dorne didn’t suffer from the effects of winter the same as the rest of the kingdoms, but it suffered all the same.  Their lack of good farmland meant they imported food often, and importing it from the northern kingdoms meant fewer tariffs than importing it from Tyrosh or Lys.  It meant avoiding the expense of the pirates in the Stepstones, as well. All of that made for cheaper food. Cheaper food led to well-fed people, and well-fed people were happier.  It was a chain of logic that the rest of the seven - no, six - kingdoms often seemed to forget. Arianne didn’t, though.

If I am to rule Dorne, I must learn from the mistakes of my past , she thought to herself.  She’d impetuously gotten in her father’s way, once, thinking him old, slow, and stupid.  He’d revealed a larger plan to her, and she’d learned that things weren’t always what they seemed.  She’d also learned that arms weren’t the only way to accomplish a goal. So she listened to her cousins bicker over troop numbers and the loyalty of different houses while she formulated another course of action in the back of her mind.  They concluded that Hellholt and the Yronwoods would be most likely to support our cause. They were not wrong in this; Ellia was a bastard of Hellholt and Doran had fostered with the Yronwoods for years.

“And of course the Manwoodys,” Elia observed, somewhat sarcastically.  It was Kingsgrave that hosted them, far from the reach of Sunspear. If the fool pretender had even thought to look for them.  This was for the better; here they were close to the prince’s pass and the rest of Westeros.

“We will not call the banners,” Arianne finally joined the conversation, “I think instead...I will simply ignore him.”  

All four of her cousins started to chatter at once, voicing protests until Arienne raised her hand, “He has returned to Sunspear, and there he stays.  And yet, Tywin Lannister created a position on the small council for my father and it remains empty. No word has come that it was eliminated, and the pretender’s inclusion in the council to choose the king shows that Dorne is still leashed to the rest of the kingdoms - no matter what the dragon queen promised Ellaria and your sisters.”  

“I see,” said Loreza, “You will claim your place on the small council.”

“Yes.  I’ll collect retainers from the houses most likely to be friendly to us, and take them with me to King’s Landing.  Perhaps the fire has killed some of the vipers in that pit, but I will still need protection.”

Arianne shrugged, “We are vipers, too.  We have spent long enough forgetting that.”  

“But what good will it do to be on the small council?,” Dorea was the least politically adept of them all.  She preferred it when people pointed her towards things and told her to smash them.

“It raises Arianne in legitimacy over the supposed prince of Dorne,” explained Elia, “The rest of Westeros is well aware that Dorne allows women to inherit as well as men.  The North has a queen now, too, so they should be well-familiar with the practice.”

“Women, women everywhere, and not a man to care,” Obella giggled in a way that sounded almost maniacal, and Arianne rolled her eyes.  

“Taking members of the remaining houses will show them favor, so I must choose them carefully,” Arianne was thinking aloud again, “But the houses you suggested are good ones.  We must not neglect the Daynes, either.”

“Which ones?,” asked Loreza.  

“Either.  Both,” Arianne shrugged, “I’ve a mind to take Darkstar.”  

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” the caution was clear in Loreza’s voice.  Her maturity was eerie, acting so much older than her twelve years, “Even I have heard the tales of him.  He is cruel.”

“And too ambitious by half,” Obella agreed.  

“Ah, but he is ever so pretty, and the scenery between here and King’s Landing will not be enough to keep me entertained.  And can you imagine a man like that at court? I can. Oberyn wasn’t safe there, and Darkstar is twice the viper he was. I’ll have need of his venom,” she walked to the side board and poured herself a glass of Summerwine, draining several mouthfuls before sitting with her cousins again, “Let us make a list.  Lord Dagos has many ravens, and I intend to use them.”

Chapter Text

“Torgo Nudho!,” a child’s voice was outside his hut.  They sounded frantic but, then, children always sounded frantic to him, “Torgo Nudho! Come see!”

“I’m coming,” he shouted back, leaning the broom he was using against the wall.  He stepped into the bright sunshine. His armor was stowed in a trunk near his bed, unused since he’d removed it on arrival.  Instead he’d adopted the dress of the Naath, his clothing loose and flowing to allow him to stay cool. He’d learned their language quickly enough; It wasn’t so hard, it was close to Valyrian.  

His home was a hut at the edge of the forest, near the long stretch of white-sand beach that bordered the ocean.  It was a lovely color here, a turquoise that he’d never seen before. He liked to row out and fish in the lagoon created by the hook shape of the island’s southern coast.  He could more easily keep an eye out for any who might threaten Missandei’s people. He protected them now, as he once had protected his queen. His men initially had followed him to the island, but some of them started to sicken and die from a fever.  The locals called it butterfly fever. It did not touch them, but it seemed to fell all who weren’t from Naath. Except him. He didn’t know why, but he kept Missandei close to his heart and honored her memory, and he thought that it was enough to protect him.  She was his talisman, and still his guiding star. All he did, he did for her people and their small paradise. As a result, the tension in his jaw had eased over the weeks. He’d grown darker from the sun, and peace had found some home in his heart. His men left after they started to fall ill, scattering to gods knew where.  The Dothraki left too, refusing to do more than leave the ship to take on water and supplies. They all knew of the curse of Naath. He hoped all of them had found some of the same peace he had.

He walked out, not bothering to put on shoes.  He found the children standing in a circle on the sand, near where the flowers of the forest started.  He joined them, “What have you found?”

A small girl he knew as Saathi grinned up at him.  Her smile was bright and gap-toothed, teeth white against her dark brown skin, “The babies have come.  See?”

She opened her hands, and inside them she held a few small caterpillars.  They were brightly colored, fat and squirming in her hands, leaf-green with pink and orange stripes that matched some of the flowers in the area.  Strange, as they grew to be black and white butterflies, “Ah, your protectors.”

“Yes,” she agreed, nodding vigorously, “These will grow and make outsiders sick.”  

“They are so fat and round!,” he pretended to be mystified, for the amusement of the kids.  

“It’s because they eat so many leaves!,” a boy named Rithin shouted, his enthusiasm plain, “My mommy says they eat their vegetables so they can grow into big, strong protectors.”

“It is known,” Grey Worm agreed, “So you must be like the caterpillar, and grow big and strong.”  

“And wise!,” added another of the children.  The rest nodded sagely, as if they were already grown.  The Naath did not fight, they were peaceful, as Missandei had been.  His heart ached at her final word, so violent. So different than who she was.  

“Yes, and wise.  Who would like to learn some more Valyrian today?,” he’d been teaching them the language.  They proved especially adept at it, as had the adults. Some of the adults, like Missandei, had already known Valyrian and one or two other languages.  It was another talent of their people. Sharing language with them made him feel closer to her, so he taught them what he knew.

“We already know lots of Valyrian, Torgo Nudho,” scolded Saathi.  She was the eldest, six precocious years old, and often spoke for the group, “Teach us more Westerosi.  We’ve just begun those lessons.”

“I see.  Well, ok.  Come to my hut and let’s get settled.”

“Can we bring the protectors?,” Rithin asked.  

“Of course, how else will we be safe?,” he answered.  They cheered, and ran towards the other side of his home, where the circle of logs and grass was set up for their use.  He followed at a slower pace, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on his skin, the smell of the ocean salt, and the sweet sound of birds from the forest.  

He’d just gotten them settled when he heard it.  The scream. He knew that scream, and it sent cold chills racing down his spine.  The kids just looked confused, but they sense his immediate change in attitude.

“Grey Worm...?,” the hesitation was clear in Saathi’s voice.  

“Children, there is a visitor coming for me, but it isn’t safe for you.  Run home and stay there, make sure your parents stay up in the mountains too,” he didn’t know why Drogon was coming to Naath, but without his rider he would likely be dangerous.  

“O--ok,” Saathi said.  It was a sign of their fear that none of them argued.  

“And don’t forget to put the babies back,” he added.  They could do that once they were already in the forest.  They all nodded, and scattered into the jungle. He retrieved his spear from his hut.  It would do little good against the dragon, but it comforted him. He walked to the edge of the water and waited.  

It wasn’t long before he spotted Drogon.  The dragon was even bigger now than he’d been in King’s Landing.  His queen had once told him that dragons never stopped growing. She told him of the great black and red dragon of her ancestors, Balereon the Black Dread.  That dragon had been large enough to swallow an aurochs whole with little difficulty. Given the size of Drogon, Grey Worm had no doubt as to the truth of the story.

The shadow passed over him as the dragon circled and then started to descend.  He held of a hand to shield his eyes, squinting. It looked as if Drogon had a rider, but that couldn’t be true.  The only person who had even any chance of claiming the dragon was the traitor, Jon Snow. The bastard was banished to the wall, so it could not be him upon Drogon’s back, but there was definitely a lump there between the shoulderblades.  An uneasy feeling started to gather in the pit of his stomach.

It seemed to take years for the dragon to make its way down to a place nearby on the beach, and he finally could see who the rider was.  He watched her scramble down from its back, and had the children not also heard the dragon’s cry, he would think himself hallucinating. There, looking tiny next to Drogon’s bulk, was Daenerys.  He watched in a stupor as she walked across the sands to him, a happy smile on her face. She took his hands in hers and squeezed.

“Torgo Nudho,” her voice was something he’d never thought to hear again.  He returned her squeeze of his hands, and then let go. She looked different to him, somehow.  Her silver hair shined in the sun, still long and intricately braided. Her skin was still the same pale, unmarked shade, and her eyes were still the same otherworldly violet.  But she looked lighter of spirit, and her dress was more what it had been when she was younger. Gone was the three-headed dragon brooch and chain that she’d worn before the confrontation with the Night King.  In its place was a travel bag that was slung over her shoulder and around her body. She wore the light, airy clothing she’d worn when he first knew her - a long, fluttering silken tunic over leather pants like those the Dothraki wore.  

“My queen,” he replied out of habit, “How?”

“I was found in the Dothraki sea by the red priests and priestesses.  They returned me from...wherever I was. They have undone what Jon Snow’s betrayal wrought,” the hardness in her voice at the last was familiar to him.  Her anger was plain, but not directed at him, “They took me to Asshai, and I have learned much.”

He was at a loss as to what to do or how to act, so he resorted to politeness, “Please, come inside and I will make you some tea.”  

She smiled again, easier than he’d seen her smile during the last weeks of her life, “I’d like that.”  

A few minutes later they were seated together at the small table in his kitchen, a plate of fruit between them, and glasses of cooled tea in their hands.  There was so much he wished to ask her, but his mind only settled on one thing. He looked at her so he’d see her reaction plainly, “Did you see her? Was Missandei there?”

She looked down, the sadness clear, “I remember nothing but blackness.  She could be there, she could not. Either there is nothing after death, or I don’t remember it.  I’m sorry, I know that’s not what you wanted.”

“It would be unfair of me to expect more.  I am glad you’re no longer dead.”

“As am I,” she took a few sips of tea, obviously thoughtful, “Tell me what transpired after I was betrayed.”  

“Drogon destroyed the Iron Throne, but the broken boy, Bran.  He rules your kingdoms now. His sister stays in the north, and they are their own country.  Jon Snow was banished to the wall for what he did to you.”

“He ended where he began, then,” she observed, “What of my people?”  

“Westeros rebuilds,” he shrugged; they were not his concern, “I am the only one on Naath.  The Dothraki return to their sea, and the other Unsullied have scattered. Some are on nearby islands so they can be close without subjecting themselves to the butterfly fever.”

“Butterfly fever?”

“The butterflies make outsiders sick.  It is how the god of the Naath protects them,” he didn’t add that the god and the butterflies had been asleep on the day Missandei was taken, “I know nothing of Mereen and the rest of Essos, but I have seen no ships flying the slavers’ flags and none have come to try and disturb the Naath.”  

“One lasting victory, at least,” there was a depth of sadness to her there that he could not place.  He wasn’t a king or a queen, and he’d never know what that burden felt like to carry. He knew loss, though, and he knew responsibility.  

“My queen,” his voice was gentle and coaxing, “Why have you come?”

“To see my last remaining friend,” she took a sip of her tea, and ate a piece of fruit, trying to distract her mouth from the words.  

“And that is all?”

“No.  To hear of my kingdoms.  I need to know where to start if I am to retake what is mine.”  

“Your throne is gone.”  

“Yes, the Iron Throne is gone, but there is still a king where there should be a queen.  Come with me back to Westeros and help me retake my throne.”

He sat quiet for a long time.  He’d never known peace before coming to this island, and so he’d never known what he’d been missing.  He thought back on all that had been lost, and he found his taste for more bloodshed to be lacking. More importantly, he still cared for his queen and didn’t want to her to risk herself again in what was likely to only end in more bloodshed, so he decided, “No.”  

She looked surprised, her back going stiff, “Think of it.  We could liberate the people of Westeros once more. We could cover the world, root out the evil that enslaves all men.  You are the last one I have left. Come with me, make sure that what happened to Missandei happens to no one else.”

“Your voice.  It does not sound as sure as it did before.  You have always known what direction you wished to go in, and you’ve always done what is necessary.  But your words are missing the conviction they used to have.”

“They feel stiff in my mouth,” she admitted, “I have had time to think on all that has happened.  Dying has changed me, and I feel as if a fog has been lifted. But what am I if I cannot be what I was born to be?”

“Whatever you want,” he replied softly.  He knew something about birth and destiny.  He’d come far from his birth, and chosen his path, “Choose for yourself.  Take Drogon, explore the world. Go back to Daario and see if his love for you remains, and be queen there in Mereen.  Do not be a slave to what your brother foisted on you from birth. Or do, but find another way. The world thinks you are dead, and so now you are free.”  

She was quiet, contemplating his words for a long time.  This was also a change in her. She was a creature of action, not one of silent contemplation.  He ate his share of fruit and drank his tea and waited on his queen. Finally, she looked back to him, “I don’t know.  I have never wanted to look back, only going forward towards my goals. But now I have no goals and only my past to get lost in.”  

“The past contains lessons.”  

“Yes,” she sighed and stood, “I shouldn’t linger too long.  I know the dangers of the island don’t wait long to defend its people.”  

He nodded, “A few hours, usually.  Just enough time to trade and leave.”  

“How do you stay without getting sick?”

“I don’t know, but some of the unsullied got sick in the beginning.  It has never happened to me.”

She smiled, “Missandei keeps you safe.”

“She must,” he agreed.  He walked outside with her and towards Drogon.  When they reached the animal, she stopped and turned to him.  

“There was one more reason I came to visit.  I’ve brought you a gift,” she opened her shoulder bag and dug into it.  She pulled out a dragon egg. It was a rich cinnamon brown, with whorls of dark brown, and flecks of molten gold that sparkled in the sun.  She held it out to him. He looked at Drogon, the question clear in his expression. Dany nodded, “Dragons are as changeable as flame, and when we were in Asshai, Drogon laid a clutch of five eggs.”  

“I...thank you, my queen,” he took the egg, the shell warm in his palm, and she reached for him.  He allowed her to pull him into a hug, “I will always remember your kindness.”

“And I will always remember your loyalty,” she replied, and let him go, “Thank you.  For everything.”

He had no words left for her.  He nodded, stepping back as she climbed onto Drogon.  He watched them take flight, standing on the beach long after they were nothing but a speck on the horizon.  

Chapter Text

It was a mistake.  

He knew that, now, that it had all been a mistake, and every day that passed on the wall made everything else hazy and dream-like.  Had he really gone south? Had Arya really killed the Night King? Had he really been to King’s Landing, had he really ridden a dragon, was he really a Targaryen, and...had he really murdered the only shard of joy he’d seen since leaving Winterfell years ago?  He was back here in the frozen north, staring at nothing but frozen tundra with a sour look on his face. He’d been so young the first time, and now he felt as if he were thousands of years old. Not a moment passed where he didn’t consider abandoning all of this and riding south for Winterfell.  He’d heard that Grey Worm had gone back across the sea, so what was really keeping him here? His duty, that was all, and it tasted of ashes in his mouth. He knew, sadly, what ashes tasted of as well.

His only consolation was Ghost.  And, sometimes, Tormund. After leading the Wildlings north of the wall, he’d had to return.  But Tormund visited sometimes, fresh with new unbelievable stories and sadness about “the big woman”.  That one, Jon thought, was part southerner. Jon wandered, too, and visited the new settlement the Wildlings were building.  They called it’s Baneton, after Tormund, who’d become something of a leader to them. Mostly, though, it was just Ghost. Ghost and the dreams that had become increasingly common since Jon’s untimely demise at the hands of the rest of the Night’s Watch.  

It was because of that betrayal that Jon mostly kept to himself.  He had no desire to lead again, and he wasn’t the Lord Commander. Instead, he’d taken to wandering.  He wandered the length of the wall, and so he saw what had become of the wall. Most of the castle were still abandoned, but some clung to life where there had been none before.  Some had rebuilt.

And then there was Eastwatch-by-the-sea.  It was mostly destroyed when the Night’s King used Viserion to destroy that section of the wall, but people were people, and they were defiant.  They’d dug out the remains of the wall, scavenged what they could from the remains of the Umbers’ keep, and started to rebuild. It was a sight to see, houses clinging to the jagged - but still sturdy - edges of the breech in the wall, and a ice ships coming and going from the port.  Buildings necessary for trade - inns, moneylenders, merchants, and the like - were all on the ground; but the people lived in homes that were built into the wall. They had an extensive system of elevators, ropes, bridges, baskets, and pulleys that all allowed them to move goods and people up from the ground to the homes high above.  The port town grew every day; it replaced Hardhome as the largest port city for the Wildlings. They’d renamed it Breach - something the locals said with a sardonic grin. A curse spit in the face of the creature that had almost taken all their lives. The resilience of the human race was something that Jon had become fascinated in since his return to the wall, and Breach was a thriving example of that resilience.  The Wildlings had learned from their time in the south, but still remained true to themselves.

But Jon himself didn’t take part in those communities.  Instead, he’d taken to spending most of his time north of the wall.  He’d placed two conditions on rejoining the Watch. One, he hadn’t re-taken his vows.  Once had been enough, and he’d fought hard to gain some measure of freedom. He’d do his duty, but he wouldn’t tie himself to them like that again.  His watch had ended years ago, and he wouldn’t be resuming it. Two, he be allowed to become a ranger rather than rejoining the stewards. He’d only been a steward to be groomed for leadership, and he wanted no part of that.  His leadership only got people killed, so he would defer to others now. Targaryen or not, he was no king. Not in the south, not in the Watch, and not beyond the wall. Now he roamed the north, checking in on the various camps of wildlines, checking in on the towns and castles along the wall, and testing his own limits.  He and Ghost shared kills, and slept under the stars, and saw others when they needed to. All of this to avoid another mistake. Another Dany. Another Rhaegal. Another war. Another death. There was only so much sadness he could stomach. So he wandered, instead.

Until today.  Last night he’d had a wolf dream, and in that wolf dream he’d smelled something familiar.  It was an old smell, deep under the snows, and crowded by other smells. Yet, the thaw was coming far too early this winter, so the remains preserved by the snow had started to come through.  He’d smelled many things, but one strongly. Ghost hadn’t known more than that the smell was familiar - he was a wolf, he didn’t use names, save his own. But Jon had known. He’d know that the smell was the same as the one Ghost had come to associate with the big, gentle stable boy back in Winterfell.  It was Hodor. The smell had brought something to the fore in Jon’s mind. What had happened to Bran up here? How had he gone from Bran, to the Three-Eyed Raven? Jon wasn’t stupid, he knew that the wolf dreams were warging. He took them for true, even if he hadn’t attempted it while waking yet. So he knew that if Hodor was there, Bran had been there too.  He had meant to try to follow Bran’s trail north, but when he thought of it he found excuses. It is too far, it would be too hard to track, it doesn’t matter.

And yet, the curiosity about it haunted him.  He could not understand how an entire personality could be scoured away by knowledge.  So he decided to follow Ghost’s nose. Now, though, he was lost. He stood in a cold, dark forest wool-gathering and hesitating.  He did that a lot since King’s Landing. He had nothing to do up here but wander and brood and second-guess his decisions. So mayhap it was time to do this, it would give his mind something else to ruminate on.  He was far to the north, long from any of the settlements. There was no one here to advise him one way or the other, and no one to help him find his way.

Ghost, however, was at home.  Ghost didn’t need mens’ directions, and he didn’t need to have a destination either.  Ghost roamed at will except when he was with Jon. He kept Jon warm and fed, and listened to his friend’s man-speak without judgement.  He understood very little of it anyway. He followed his nose, played in the snow, and generally enjoyed himself. He showed Jon where there were other men-things, and Jon used his soft human claws to scratch Ghost between the shoulder blades and in other places Ghost couldn’t reach on his own.  He considered it a good arrangement. Head scratches and a pack-mate, and all he had to do was share his meat. All of this was good and right. So he led his pack-mate to the other man, the one he recognized from the time he was a pup. He found the big, white tree, and the smell of fire. He showed his pack-mate where they were.  His pack-mate felt strange. Ghost didn’t mind, his pack-mate was always a little sad. Men’s emotions didn’t make a lot of sense to him, so he ignored it. So he frolicked in the snow outside the burning cave and he waited for his human to catch up.

Jon blinked, shaking his head to clear it.  He’d fallen asleep leaning against one of the trees and slipped into Ghost again.  It was the nearest he’d ever come to warging apurpose, and he found himself more frustrated by the need to sleep before shedding his skin than by the warging itself.  Perhaps he should try it while awake. He shrugged to himself, pushing away from the tree. He grabbed his long walking stick, shifted Longclaw into a more comfortable position, and started walking in the direction he knew Ghost was.  

It didn’t take him long before he came out of the forest at the bottom of a small rise.  Even in the watery, fading daylight this far north he could clearly see the giant weirwood atop the rise.  Its branches stretched in all directions, and Jon could see that some were damaged and dying. Others had new, tender red leaves hanging from them.  It was not dead, although Jon wasn’t sure why it should expect it to be. It was many times the size of the one in Winterfell, and so likely much, much older.  But this was not where Ghost was. Ghost was several more leagues to the north - at least another few hours of walking. At times like this, Jon wished for a horse.  He started north, keeping the cave in his memory. He knew, without being told, that this was where Bran had died.

It took him about four more hours of walking to reach the spot where Ghost was napping.  The huge weirwood was just visible still to the south, now a few leagues away. Jon was on the other side of the rise.  Ghost woke and looked up at Jon’s approach, his tail swishing against the snow. He yawned and stood, stretching.

Despite the time that had passed since the event, it was obvious something had happened here.  Bones littered the ground, sticking out of the melting snows. There was an open, yawning black mouth in the side of the hill.  The musty smell of death and damp earth and char came from it, and Jon frowned. Ghost was sniffing around, shoving his face into a snow-covered lump in front of the doorway, and pawing at it.  

“What have you found?,” Jon asked, coming closer.  Ghost whined and looked at the lump. Before he’d gone south, Jon would have ignored these signals from Ghost, but since spending so much time alone with the wolf up here in the north, he’d learned to trust Ghost’s intuition.  He stuck his walking stick into the mound of snow near where Ghost was pawing. Instead of hitting snow, he heard the muffled thump of wood on wood. His frown deepened, and he started to use the stick to push clods of snow away from whatever was underneath.  The slight melt made it sticky, so he removed large clumps with little effort.

So it wasn’t long before he’d uncovered what was clearly one side of a door.  The feeling of importance settled in his stomach, and he begun to dig around the edge of the door, removing the snow.  It took some time, but he got the whole of the wooden door exposed. It was cracked and splintered, and clearly covered in scratch marks.   This must be the back side of it , he realized.  It had fallen forward from the doorframe, and something else was beneath it.  Something large. The feelings in Jon’s gut intensified, and he looked at Ghost.  Ghost ducked his head, his red eyes watching to see what Jon would do.

“Should I lift it?,” his only answer was a small yip, which he took to be a yes.  Ghost hadn’t led him all this way, and hadn’t encouraged him to come to this spot, only to not find out what was under this broken door.  Sighing, Jon found an open place on one of the long sides of the door and dug his fingers under it. He lifted it fairly easily, and let it tumble into the snow on the far side.  Steeling himself, he looked down.

There were some rotting bones and scraps of clothing, the kind he associated with wights.  But, easily visible below that, was Hodor’s body. The snow and the freezing temperatures of the north in winter had preserved his body well.  He could have died mere hours ago, rather than more than a year or two ago. Such was the case in the north - bodies were often found frozen on the mountains, wearing clothing older than anyone could identify, or carrying weapons long-since having fallen out of use.  Seeing Hodor here was not surprising as much as it was sad. Jon stood, staring down at the body, thinking.

He wondered how it was that Hodor came to be trapped under a door.  It was almost as if he’d been leaning on it, and was overwhelmed. But Hodor wouldn’t have done that, he wasn’t brave or smart.  He wouldn’t have thought to hold the door closed against the undead, he would have simply run, or been overwhelmed. He couldn’t fight.  He mostly just did what Bran--

“--tells him,” Jon said aloud, the thought strong enough to escape his mind through his mouth.  Would Hodor even be able to do this? Even if Bran asked him to? Would Bran have asked him to sacrifice himself this way? He knew, from Sansa, that Bran had shown up in Winterfell with Meera and a sled.  Jojen was gone, Hodor was gone, and Summer was lost in the north as well. Bran had shared very little of his journey north and, in truth, there hadn’t been much time to ask him for the truth. Jon hadn’t even thought to do it.  His little brother was alive, and he hadn’t much cared to know how that happened. Seeing Hodor alone in the snow, scratches all over him, made Jon wish he’d asked more questions.

One of which would be, how had Hodor died? Jon couldn’t see any damage, aside from the scratches.  He started to pick off the remains of the wights to fling them away from the poor boy, and another thought occurred to him: why hadn’t Hodor been raised as a wight? If he’d been dead after the Night King came through, he would have been raised.  So did he die after? Jon remembered Bran saying that he was the Night King’s target, that the Night King had marked him. If Bran escaped through this door, as it seemed he might have, had the Night King simply moved on to chase Bran? Had Hodor been crushed by the weight of the undead charging over the broken door in their haste to get to Bran, then later died of those injuries?

Too many questions, and the one that most played in his mind was: why had Hodor stayed behind holding the door shut against the onslaught of undead? It was inconsistent with the simple man Jon had known at Winterfell.  Something nagged in the back of his mind, tugging on his subconscious with unpleasant, stinking claws. Something he wasn’t really ready to ask or consider just yet.

He stood.  He would like to bury Hodor, but the ground was still too hard and Hodor was simply too large for Jon to move on his own.  He could, however, build a cairne. He looked at the sky, squinting. There wasn’t enough daylight left in the day to do that, though, and he needed to set up camp.  So he would leave Hodor for the moment, and return to him after sleeping.

He made camp under nearby trees.  The cave was likely warmer, but he wasn’t ready to venture down into it and certainly wasn’t comfortable enough to spend the night there.  So he took the door that had covered Hodor, and he used the handaxe he carried to chop it into firewood. He was a little wet, but mostly only on the side that had touched the snow.  There was some steam from the fire, some popping and cracking, but it burned and it was a good source of wood. He made himself a warm dinner of stew from dried meat and some root vegetables he’d managed to come across a few days ago, and some other things he’d found in the forest.  He’d gotten much better at things like this since spending his time wandering the north alone. He ate, the sun went down, and he slept.

That night, the dreams were vivid.  They weren’t wolf dreams, those had a different feel to them.  They felt like the real world. These did not. These dreams were brought up from the depths of Jon’s own horrific memories.  The musty, dead smell of his uncle Benjen while Jon rode behind him on a horse that went nowhere. It rode and rode, and when Jon asked where they were, Benjen was silent and cold.  Jon fell from the horse, and kept falling. Clouds were above and the ground was below, Winterfell burning. A loud, familiar, animal scream pierced the night, and Jon knew he’d fallen from Rhaegal’s back.  

My dragon! He thought, Bring me my dragon! His dragon would save him.  They were bonded, like he bonded to Ghost.  A knife flew by Jon’s face, scratching his cheek, and he remembered.   Of course my dragon won’t save me.  I’ve killed him. I stabbed him .   He loved me and I stabbed him...her... silver hair came with a smokey laugh.  Violet eyes filled with hope and love. He closed his eyes and tried to cry, but the cold, rushing wind froze his tears on his cheeks.  He could not cry. He could not mourne. He could not let go.

The ground rushed up and Jon fell through it into a dark, soft place.  He stopped falling, but he could not see. There was a strange sound in the darkness, a cracking, snapping noise.  White roots came slithering out of the darkness, like grave worms moving across a corpse. White like bone, white like snow, white like Ghost.  He was alone and scared in this place, and he wanted to run. His mind shouted MOVE!, but he could not. There was nothing to grab with his hands to help himself move, and his legs were moving through thick, thick darkness.  The living roots came closer, and he felt the scratch of bark as the wrapped around his ankles. He screamed in silent agony as the wound themselves through and around him, piercing muscle and sinew and organs and tying him to them.  They fed him image after image, none of which he could focus on long enough to see. A great, burning tide that he fought. He could not swim in this river, could not stand in this fire. He withdrew into himself as tightly as he could, trying to shut his mind to the images.  Finally, they abated, but he could feel them at the edges of his mind.

Behind him, he heard the sound of a dragon’s scream and then angry, rushing fire.  The heat of it seared his pierced flesh, but he could not move to avoid it. There was only endurance.  There was only pain and dark. The dragonfire did not chase it away. He was breathing in great, heaving breaths.  Then he heard more sounds in front of him. This sounded like the cracking of ice underfoot, the twang and song of a barely frozen lake surface.  The scream and crunch when icicles were chewed. But the noises had rhythm to them, like a language. The sound got closer. Then, in the never-ending darkness of this grave, crystalline blue eyes.  

Chapter Text

At least it was warm.  That’s what she kept telling herself.  At least she was no longer freezing in the cold north, terrified of something she couldn’t negotiate with.  She was alone, here, in Vaes Tolorro. It wasn’t like last time. She wasn’t confused and young and vulnerable, depending on Jorah and hoping her small khalasar.  No, now she ate the fruit in the city and shared Drogon’s kills, and when she needed to fly, she flew. These crumbling white walls were hers, and she spent many hours exploring the ruins.  She still often thought about the child she’d been. The lonely, scared girl who found her strength with a people she hadn’t been born to, and with a husband she’d been sold to. She still missed her sun-and-stars, she still felt his loss keenly.  More, now, since the red priests brought her back from the dead. It was as he’d said - she remembered nothing of death but darkness. She was glad to be alive.

In some ways, though, she still was that scared, lonely young woman.  She had no army, though, no ships, no friends, no country. Nothing. She’d risen high, indeed, and fallen back to where she’d begun.  She knew that there was no iron throne anymore, and that Westeros was now only six kingdoms. Bran was king, though, even if the throne her family built was no longer there.  That throne, her birthright, had consumed her for her entire life. Now that it was gone, she was adrift. Who was she if she wasn’t a Targaryen? If she wasn’t the breaker of chains, the mother of dragons, the unburnt, Khaleesi of the great grass sea, or queen? She didn’t know, and so after leaving Asshai, she’d come back here to be queen of a crumbling, ancient city.  The dragon made people uncomfortable, even in someplace like Asshai. She hadn’t cared before, but she wasn’t ready yet to be Daenerys Targaryen, destroyer of cities, yet. So she left the curious, sad city and returned to the only place she thought might be safe from the outside world. The journey to Vaes Tolorro was difficult overland, but Drogon made short work of it.  

She’d taken to passing the time by reading the scrolls they’d seen when she was last here.  Although they couldn’t be transported, Dany found that if she was gentle she could unroll them.  They were cracked and damaged and missing pieces, but it had become a game to her. Some she could not read at all, because they were written in an ancient dialect that looked similar to the language of the Qartheen, but some were written in an older dialect of Valayrian.  There were even some words from the common tongue of the Westerosi hidden in the faded pages. It was evidence of a rich trade civilization, and of a city that was a vital piece of the old Qaathi empire. She’d found other things, too, that supported her suppositions. The dry desert heat preserved things well.  She’d even stumbled across some people, victims of the Dothraki that had naturally been mummified. She didn’t touch them, but what was left of their clothes was similar to what people wore in Qarth now. While she’d always cared more about the present and the future, delving into the past of this city gave her mind something to do while she worried at her other problems.  

Of course, translation was a tricky thing, and she was no scholar, but she’d found a scroll that contained four versions of the same proclamation.  On in high Valyrian, one in the common tongue of the Westerosi, one in the ancient language of Vaes Tolorro, and a fourth in a language she did not know.  But the fourth language wasn’t important, the importance of the proclamation lie in its usefulness in translating other documents. After she found it, she re-visited many of the scrolls she’d already attempted to read.  Mostly they contained accountings of trade, but sometimes she crossed clusters of other things. Stories about ancient gods, or gossip about neighbors. She guessed that they were educated, too, because they counted days and dates like the maesters of the citadel.  She’d even found one about dragons, although she’d been able to translate little of it. Only enough to know it was about dragons, and magic. She’d tried again and again, but she hadn’t been able to puzzle it out. So she’d hollowed out a branch and put a caps on the ends, one of which was removable, to make a case for that specific scroll.  She couldn’t take all of them, but she’d take that one with her when she eventually left. It wasn’t a purpose, really, she still didn’t have a goal, but it was...something.

The time to leave was fast approaching.  She could feel Drogon’s restlessness like tiny flames dancing under her skin.  He was bored, and truth be told, so was she. While she occupied her time and kept her mind sharp with the scrolls, they were ultimately a meaningless endeavor.  She needed something else. Moreover, she was lonely. She loved Drogon as her companion, but he wasn’t human. She hungered for conversation. That’s what had prompted her trip to see Grey Worm.  And he’d made a suggestion that was even now, days later, still playing in her mind. Her last friend, her only friend, was in Meereen. So it was that she resolved before sleeping that night to leave the next morning.  

They day dawned cloudy.  It was never cloudy in the desert, and the presence of the ominous steel-grey skies made her feel uneasy.   I should not be here , she thought to herself, I am living in a dead city.  I am not among them anymore. I should not be here.  

She gathered her few possessions, stuffing them into the pack along with the four remaining eggs.  She kept them nearby always, and Drogon seemed to not be interested in them. So she kept them near her and cared for them as she had cared for Viserion, Rhaegal, and Drogon.  That meant putting them into her only satchel alongside some food, water, a change of clothes, and the branch containing the scroll. She also had a map she’d brought with her from Asshai.  It made flying easier. The map was the first thing she consulted before she left. Meereen was a long flight to the northeast, but she should at least be able to make the Ghiscari hills and leave behind the Red Waste.  

She mounted Drogon and spurred him to flight, revelling in the feel of the wind rushing over her as he climbed high.  She held on tight to his frill, legs clamped down. It wasn’t like riding a horse, she didn’t have to direct him with movements of her body.  He understood words, and the bond between them gave them an intuitive sense of each other. So he flew higher, towards the storm clouds. She wasn’t afraid.  She was Daenerys stormborn, and she was on a dragon.

He flew almost to the height of the clouds, and turned north.  She stayed just below the clouds - much higher and it got too cold for her, and harder to breathe.  She’d lost the warm clothing she’d brought from Westeros, and it was just as well. She didn’t need the reminder of that day.  She was content to wear what she’d gotten from the red priests in Asshai, but it wasn’t much protection against the temperatures of the upper atmosphere, so she stayed here.  She could see the world from up here, the red waste filled most of the landscape. It was so vast that she couldn’t see the edge of it, and the Ghiscari hills were too small to be anything more than a green-grey smudge on the horizon.  They flew towards that smudge.

Hours later the smudge turned into defined, rolling hills.  They were once tall mountains, but they were so old that time had worn them down.  Now they were an easily passable boundary to the desert. They’d made better time than she’d expected, so she landed near a river to give Drogon some time to hunt.  There was game here, because the old mountains were topped in grass and forest, and the rivers made for fertile growth. Drogon found prey quickly, killing and eating several mountain goats from a herd.   He’s grown so strong , she thought proudly, he eats so well.  Dragons never stop growing.  Someday he’ll be as big as the Black Dread.  

They flew onwards, getting close to Meereen, and Dany started to have second thoughts, Should I land him outside the city? Come through the gates as a traveller? Or should I fly him to the Pyramid? Am I ready to be known to the outside world again? For if she landed in Meereen, it would not be long before word spread of Drogon.  One does not just hide and enormous black dragon. And he was so much larger than when she’d left.  She shook her head, trying to banish these insecurities, No.  I am the blood of the dragon, and this is my city.  I will not hide. After I return to rule them, they will learn to love Drogon as I do.  And if they don’t, well, they would not be the first city to suffer .  

These thoughts of blood and death came easily to her; they had a comfortable fit.  But they no longer stirred her heart. The only thing she felt was exhaustion and loneliness.  The house with the red door stood as brightly as ever in her mind, and everything that came with it.  Her tongue remembered the taste of lemon drinks and lemon cakes and the tart smell of the tree. Maybe she should turn from Meereen and go to Braavos.  Maybe she could find the house with the red door, and finally she could rest.

She recognized this pathway of thought.  She’d had it many times. The ending was only sadness for her.  Some part of her wished they’d left her dead. What am I without the throne? I have no home.  I have no family. I have no friends. Who am I without that quest? Must I always stand up again? Must I continue to chase the dreams of my father and brothers? Did I ever really want the throne to begin with? Round and round she’d gone in her mind.  She never had the answers, and her mood was changeable as flame.  Some days she wanted to scream at the sky, and at the gods, for placing her on the earth.  Leading others was in her blood, but it was also in her nature, and she was incapable of leaving well enough alone.  And yet...she had doubts, now. Destiny had abandoned her, and she was left to scabble around like all the rest. Even so, she didn’t think it was her lot to stay in the desert reading old scrolls and wool-gathering.  She was meant for more.

The great pyramid of Meereen loomed in the distance, and the storm clouds of the desert were far behind her.  The water of the Bay of Dragon’s glittered to the west, once again full of merchant vessels that looked like tiny, dark dots from this distance.  The only sound she could hear was the rushing of the wind and the creak of Drogon’s leatheren wings. The strength of them pushed her closer to the pyramid.  Closer to Daario, and closer to the rest of world. She hoped it would be home, the strange city she’d resided in for so long. Mayhaps this time she could become accustomed to the place.  She’d never quite gotten used to it last time.

Soon, the city was spread beneath her, the smaller pyramids and homes falling under the shadow of her dragon.  Images flooded her mind of another city that had fallen under Drogon’s shadow, red-roofed and far from here. Wheeling and dancing above it, a fog of rage clouding her vision.  Screaming people running, children burning, the smell of smoke heavy in the air. Her mind flung her back there, to the eerie green fire and heat of it mixing with the heat of Drogon’s flames.  Fire, so much fire. The snow mixed with ash, coating everything below her, smacking her in the face while she flew. Horses screamed, and oh, the anger. Bubbling, seething anger that reached every cell in her body.  How dare she? How dare Cersei use these people to hide behind? She’d rip her out, she’d make her pay for Missandei. Oh, gods, Missandei. Grief churned up her heart, and the anger was there behind it. Then the sharp pain in her chest.  Too much, it was too much. She could not...she could not...

Drogon screamed.  

It was not anger in his sound, not righteous fury, but distress.  She gripped his frill tighter, the rough surface digging into her hands.  She fought to drag lungfuls of air into her body, and it brought the smell of spices.   Meereenese spices.   No! I am not there! I am not in that place! I am here, in Meereen.  I am not in that nightmare anymore .  Slowly, far too slowly, the red receded from her vision.  She loosened her deathgrip on Drogon. She dragged herself into the present, and left the horrors of her past in the past.  The ghosts would visit again, she knew, but for now she’d fought them off.

She circled the pyramid, taking in the city, before landing on the terrace outside the audience chamber.  Drogon flew away and up to the top of the pyramid, wrapping himself around the apex to sleep as he used to when they’d lived there before.  After she watched him get settled, Dany turned and walked into the audience chamber. She didn’t know if that’s where Daario would be, but it was a good place to start.  

As it turned out, the chamber was empty.  She knew it would be difficult for anyone to have missed the presence of the dragon on top of the pyramid, so rather than search for him, she decided to wait.  She looked up at the dais, at the simple ebony bench she’d chosen to rule Meereen from, and considered taking that seat again. How satisfying it would be to sit so high again.  How much good she could do from up there. And who would stop her? She had a dragon. She had taken the city once without Drogon. With him, it would be easy. She looked up at it, deciding.  

The sound of boots clomping on stone made her turn from the bench to the door.  The response had been swift, indeed. It was only a moment before Daario arrived with his guards.  She heard the tail end of the guards speaking to him, one of them saying, “That thing is huge now, how are we supposed to get rid of it?”

She saw Daario first, and her gaze stayed on him.  He looked much as she’d left him, but he’d taken to dying his hair and outlandish shade of blue.  He stopped short, the man behind him nearly bumping into him, and stared at her from across the audience hall.  She smiled at him, “Daario.”

Because he seemed frozen, she walked to him, her smile hurting her cheeks.  She reached for him, and when she touched him, he jerked back, “You’re dead.”  

“I was,” she agreed, “I no longer am.”  

A few of the soldiers hissed and backed away, making a hand sign to ward off evil.  Daario stood his ground, but he didn’t reach for her, “How?”

“The followers of R’hllor.  They found me and brought me back, then they took me to Asshai to heal from...my wounds,” she was never ready to think about that part, she couldn’t even say the words.  

“Your...wounds...,” he was still dumbstruck.  

“Yes,” she didn’t elaborate, “Perhaps we should speak in private?”

He blinked, breaking his trance and nodded to the soldiers behind him, “Leave.”  

The one to his left said, “But the beast?”

“He will go where he likes,” she answered, injecting the cold steel of command into her voice, “And you will let him.”  

“I doubt we could stop him anyway,” Daario said, “We will be fine.  Return to your posts. My friend and I have much to discuss.”

“As you wish,” the soldier replied, and they filed out of the room.  

“Are you not happy to see me?,” Dany asked, frowning.  

“Not exactly, no,” she’d forgotten this about him.  His honesty could be cutting.

“Why not?”

“You broke my heart and left me to clean up the mess of the city.  Every time you come to Meereen, thousands die. Now you’ve brought Drogon with you.  I’m glad you’re not dead, Dany, but happy to see you? No. Where the dragon queen goes, death follows.”  

“I’m no queen.  Not anymore.”

Her comment just made him look sad, “You’re always a queen, Dany.  No matter what else you might be, you are that.”

“I’ve not come here as a queen.  I’ve only come to see a friend.”

“Oh? And how long until will you stay here this time before growing restless? How long until you use Meereen to raise another army?”

“I need no army.  I have a dragon.”

“Yes,” a shiver of ice entered his tone, “I’ve heard.  So has King’s Landing.”

The dangerous, fiery anger flared, “They deserved--”

“The children and innocent citizens deserved to die in pain? By being burned alive?”

“Cersei thought she could use them as a shield! I had no choice!”

“You did, Dany, and she should have been able to!”

“You have no right--”

“I have every right when you’ve brought your dragon to my city!”

“ Your city?”

“Yes, my city.  You left me here to do a job, and by all the gods I am doing it.  It’s awful, thankless work, but the city is better for it. The slaves are still free, and we have found other means of--,” he cut himself off mid-diatribe and sighed heavily, “What I am trying to say, is that you’ve always seen things that others haven’t.  The Dany that took this city found a way to do it without harming innocents. That is the woman you are. The woman who didn’t think she should sacrifice the lives of those she meant to free. That is why your people followed you, not the dragons. That woman would have found a way to free King’s Landing without burning it to the ground.”

She wanted to yell at him again, to find angry words to throw in the face of his accusations, but she thought back on the resources she’d had.  Arya, a faceless man with a grudge specifically against Cersei. Tyrion, who knew all the people in the city, and knew hidden ways in and out of it.  Varys, who knew every inch and secret of the Red Keep. She could have leveraged these things, but she didn’t because she’d wanted to exact her revenge on Cersei.  She’d wanted to hurt Cersei for all she’d done. She’d been so tired of him getting credit for the work she’d done.  Of being denied. Of death. She’d wanted an end to it, and she’d wanted to cleanse her pain with her dragon’s fire.  

“Oh gods,” she choked on a sob, stumbling backwards and letting herself fall heavily onto the bottom steps of the dais, “What have I done?”

Chapter Text

“I like the smell of books,” Sam said, looking up.  Dust swirled in the bright afternoon sunshine coming in the windows that lined the top of this particular library.  There were many in the citadel, but Sam liked this one. Lots of old books and lots of places to read, and usually not so many people.  The acolyte sitting next to him, a slight young boy with dark skin, curled hair, and a soft Dornish accent, smiled at him fondly.

“I couldn’t have guessed,” he replied, “With the amount of time you spend in the library.”  

“Well, I also like reading.”

“Yes.  I think maybe we all do.  That’s why you spend so much time here, I think, rather than in King’s Landing or Horn Hill.”  

“Well, I just get in the way at Horn Hill,” he’d been splitting his time, it was true.  Gilly had given birth recently to their child, a healthy little boy they’d named Dickon.  In time, Little Sam and Dickon would inherit Horn Hill, but for now it was a refuge for his healing woman.  His mother and sisters were there, too, although his sisters were almost of an age to be married; and it was supposedly his job to find them husbands. Sam didn’t like thinking about that, so he came to the citadel.  He still had many links to forge, despite being chosen by Bran as Grand Maester. Alleras, the boy sitting with him, had decided that Sam was a subject of great interest and had taken it upon himself to follow Sam around.  

“I see.  How is it that you have a son, anyway?”

How could it be that no one had explained this to the boy? The idea of it made Sam uncomfortable, but someone ought to be the one to do it, “Well, when a man and a woman come together, they--”

Another smile flashed.  The others called Alleras The Sphinx, and his quick smile was part of the reason for the moniker, “Not that part, silly.  You’re a brother of the Night’s Watch, and a maester besides. Two sets of vows that say you can’t have kids. Or lands, for that matter.”  

“Oh, that.  King Bran released me from my vows to the Night’s Watch on account of my father and brother dying.  Said I’d earned my freedom, and I hadn’t done anything wrong to begin with. As to the other, technically you don’t have to be a sworn maester to be Grand Maester.  Nothing in the law says so, it’s just a title on the small council. So I haven’t taken a maesters vows yet. I haven’t even finished my chain.”

“If that isn’t a fancy bit of rules-soliciting.”  

Sam ignored the comment, redirecting him, “Did you come in here looking for something?”

The boy’s dark brown eyes lit up.  Sam knew the look well by now. He’d found something interesting or noteworthy that excited his thoughts.  He tapped the heavy volume on the top of a stack next to them on the table, “Yes! I noticed something very interesting.  I am working on my bronze link, so I was reading A Treatise on Historical Weather and Climate Patterns volume 17--”

“A page-turning read, sounds like.”  

Alleras shrugged and kept on, “It could be worse.  In any event, Maester Garth mentions in it that he’d found an old text talking about the weather.  He was on the conclave and particularly educated on the seasons, you see, so he was interested in these things.  Some other texts say he was quite good at his job, so his obsession served him. He read that the seasons that during the Dawn Age the seasons were short and regular.  Predictable.”

Now this caught Sam’s attention.  Mysteries usually did. Mysteries in books were even better, “Did he find any other evidence?”

Alleras’s eyes sparked with interest and he leaned forward in his excitement, “He did.  He references it in volume 18, saying he wrote a whole other volume dedicated to the subject.”

“I think I see where this is going.”

“Of course you do, that’s why you’re Grand Maester,” Sam fidgeted and gave a nervous smile.  That was most assuredly not why he was Grand Maester, “It’s in the restricted section that I’m not allowed to study yet.”  

“And you want me to get it for you,” the best part about being Grand Maester was that Sam had access to any book he wanted.  

“Of course I do, but I haven’t told you the most interesting bit.”

“Go on then.”

“It’s in the section on mysticism with the other texts used in studying for the valyrian steel link.”

“What is a weather text doing in the restricted magical section?”

“I don’t know, but I knew you’d want to find out just as badly as I do,” Alleras was right, of course.  Sam was now well and truly interested.

“Right,” he stood, his chair scraping the stone floor, “Let’s go then.”  

Hours later the sun had come and gone.  They’d burned through several candles, and the books were piled so high on either side of them that they could barely see each other.  They’d had to move everything to a larger table to accommodate it all. The volume in question turned out to be slim, but well-referenced, and each subsequent book led them further and further into their research until they ended up in an entirely different place than they'd started.  A servant had come and gone with their last meal hours ago. Sam’s eyes ached and his brain felt overloaded. He was starving, tired, and he had to pee. But none of that mattered to him right now. Right now he was putting together the pieces of a huge, huge jigsaw.  It spanned centuries and cultures and myths. He’d gone through several reams of paper and three quarters of a pot of ink just taking notes. Alleras had two more scrolls’ worth on top of that.

Alleras rubbed his eyes and looked up at Sam, “How long was it, again?”

“Nothing specific, but it seems like the whole cycle roughly correlated with a year.  It’s so long ago, though. We can’t be sure. Virtually nothing survives from then,” a frustrating truth was the people didn’t always write things down, and some stories predated the written word.  Then there were kings like Baelor the Blessed, who destroyed as many works of Septon Barth as he could get his hands on. Septon Barth’s words were in Sam’s mind, because the fragments of his books that remained were among the pile on the table.  

“What’s the first thing we know for sure?”

“Evidence of regular seasons stops when the long night begins.  We know for sure that the others came during a long winter,” Sam shuddered at their mention.  He hadn’t forgotten that horror, and he never would.

“Yes, and then there’s,” Sam shuffled through his papers, looking for the note, “Maester Yonrey, who collected an oral tale from Qarth about there being a second moon.  Ah, yes, here it is ‘Once there were two moons, but one cracked and the dragons came. One day the other moon will touch the sun too, and the dragons will return’.”

“Right, but the dragons did return and we still have a moon, and it’s only an oral tale.”  

“Oral tales are notoriously accurate, though, Alleras.  Don’t discount them. People treasure stories told to keep the night at bay.  They protect them, and the Qartheen are an old people. They aren’t the only ones with a story like that.  There’s several mentions of red priests from Essos saying that there was a second moon, and that it cracked open. The moon didn’t crack when Dany hatched the dragons, but there was the red comet.”  

Alleras frowned and looked hard at once of the books, “Wait, I read in one of the astronomical books that sometimes comets are cyclical.  They come and go on regular schedules, like the planets do. But many, many times longer.”

“So a comet then, another red comet.  It came during a long winter, and this time it came during a long summer.”  

“Yes, and that’s the first time we hear stories of the others.  That’s when the wall was built and house Stark was founded.”

“Something doesn’t fit,” Sam frowned, thinking, and another piece dropped into place, “Barth says that the Valyrians created the dragons with blood magic, but that can’t be true.  The Freehold was founded several thousand years after the Long Night ended, which means the dragons predate the Valyrians.”

“So they are natural creatures, not magical ones?”

“Mayhaps.  I couldn’t say for sure.  It might just be that the bond between dragon and rider is magical, not the dragons themselves.”  

“It means that the other creation myth, the one the Valyrians told about the dragons coming from the Fourteen Flames, can’t be true either.”  

“When is the first mention of the dragons?”

“The stories of them coming from the second moon.  But little and less survives from before the Long Night.  Just because it is the first mention doesn’t mean that it is the beginning of them,” Sam was tired, but the thrill of the mystery was on him, and all of his aches were ignored in favor of the thread of the story.  

“The stories of the others, the dragons, and the erratic seasons all emerge at the same time.”  

“As far as we can tell.  There is another tale that tells of them coming from the Shadowlands.”  

“And there is a tale from Yi Ti that the Long Night, and the Others, came when an emperor called,” Alleras shuffled his papers, “The Bloodstone Emperor killed his sister and started worshipping a ‘black stone that fell from the sky’.”  

“Asshai is built from black stone,” Sam said, given a jaw-cracking yawn.  It was an offhand comment made by a tired mind, but Alleras seized on it.

“You mean, the city closest to the very place dragons are said to come from?,” there was a pause in their feverish conversation while they both digested the information.  When Alleras spoke again, his voice was quiet, “Sam, what if it’s not stone?”

“I don’t follow.”  

“When I was a child, my father showed me a small thing.  It was a token for luck, really, but he called it a dragon bone.  It was black and felt of stone, and was hard and strong as a diamond,” Sam couldn’t argue that point.  He’d seen the skulls in the basement of the Red Keep during the cleanup, and he knew what Alleras was saying was true.  Dragon bones were black and hard, and when polished, they looked like stone. Though where a bastard's father had gotten a dragon bone, he couldn't begin to guess, “And in my studies, I’ve seen some of the preserved skeletons kept at the citadel.  Animals, mostly. Some are poorly cleaned before they are preserved, and do you know what happens to them? They are greasy.”

“Oily,” Sam said, voice quiet, seeing where Alleras was leading, “Like the stone in Asshai.  You think the black stone is dragon bone? How could that be? It must be carved, it cannot be melted, and some of the ancient black stones are fused.”  

“Unless you had dragon fire.  The Valyrians had an abundance of dragons, and they had Dragonstone.  Dragonstone is decidedly similar to fused black stone.”

“Yes, but what does this all have to do with the weather?”

“Think on it, Sam.  If the stone is dragon bone, then the dragons have been on our planet for longer than anything else.”  

“But the seasons don’t start changing until somewhere around the time of the long night, when the Others arrived.”  

“And it got worse after the extinction of the dragons.  What if the control of the weather isn’t astronomical, it’s magical, and the others interrupted the magic that kept it in balance?”

“It’s an interesting theory, but it all hinges on this black stone being dragon bone.  It’s the only proof that dragons long predate other creatures.”

“If only there was some nearby that we could study, and someone with the authority to gain access to it,” the grin that split Alleras’s face was more roguish than Sam entirely liked.  Hightower, at the center of the city they were in right now, was built on a base of ancient black fused stone. It was older than anyone knew, and contained far more secrets than anyone was comfortable with.  Even the Hightowers didn’t know them all.

“Oh no, absolutely not.  That is far too much political maneuvering for a scientific endeavor.  Far too much red tape. Study is one thing, Sphinx, but we can’t just go to Hightower and start scaping bits off the wall for study.”  

“Of course we can.  Besides, we need to.”  

“No we don’t, we want to.  We don’t need to.”  

“Yes, we do.”

“And why is that? Tell me, oh wise novice,” Sam’s hunger and exhaustion were starting to make him cranky.  He was in no mood to beg his way into the Hightowers’ castle just to satisfy a curiosity.

“Because, Sam.  It's been months.  There is one dragon, and no Others, and no sign of spring.  So either we’re wrong, or...,” Alleras trailed off, knowing Sam was smart enough to reach the same conclusion he’d reached.  

“Or we didn’t defeat the others.”   

Chapter Text

The true punishment of being hand is having to climb all these steps so frequently , Tyrion thought to himself as he descended the tower of the hand.  Of all the tower in the red keep, one of the few Dany left standing was this one.  The dragon queen continued to make his life miserable, even after death. Being Bran’s hand wasn’t so bad, the alternative considered, but there were also drawbacks.  Waddling his way around the Red Keep was one of them. Of course, whenever he felt angry or sad, he pictured his father being given then news that Tyrion was hand and had inherited Casterly Rock, and he smiled again.  

He made his way through the castle, having to take a different route today than he had yesterday to avoid the workmen.  The restoration of the castle and city were a long, painstaking process that inconvenienced everybody, but he’d managed to turn it into a kind of prosperity for the city.  The docks were open again, and a city the size of King’s Landing was a fat purse for merchants from all over. Food came easily from Essos to supplement what they hadn’t managed to collect and safe and what had been lost in the war.  Some parts of Dorne and the Reach also stayed fertile, even in winter. The Arbor in particular had become an even more important trading partner. Giving Bronn Highgarden had been impulsive, but so far it hadn’t been a mistake. One of the few smart decisions he’d made in the past few years, really.  

He reached the small council chamber and hoisted himself up into his seat, sighing as he got to rest his aching legs.  The papers he required were already laid out by one of the stewards, and he flipped through them while he waited for the others.  It’d been months, and they still lacked a master of laws, whispers, and war. Too many losses in the wars made it difficult to fill the positions.  No one wanted to be the master of war. They were tired and sick of loss. In truth, this would have been an excellent position for Jon Snow; his grasp of strategy and hesitancy to resort to violence were a good mix.  But he’d been banished to the wall, and although Grey Worm was gone, Jon could not be convinced to return. The last anyone knew, he was wandering around north of the wall with that wolf of his. Master of laws sat empty because to have a master of laws, there needed to be laws, and Bran had not finished altering them yet.  Master of whisperers was a sensitive position, and none had come close to fitting it.  

People started to filter in.  Brienne, always on time, was first to arrive.  Samwell was away in Oldtown, so he would not be arriving.  Davos came next, and that left only Bronn. Bran didn’t usually attend small council meetings.  He preferred to serve his kingdom by holding audiences in the garden by the weirwood. It was a change, but so were most things since the dragon queen.  

Tyrion heard voices in the hall, and looked towards the door.  He recognized Bronn’s voice, but there was a woman’s, too. A moment later, he entered.  The woman on his arm was short, with the sun-bronze skin and black hair of the Dornish. It was long, tumbling in thick, looping curls to her waist.  She had full lips, and a pleasant voice that called to mind the way women spoke in dark corners of a brothel. That tone, he knew, was meant to separate you from your coin.  She had a familiar look about her, but he couldn’t place it, and her entry to the small council chamber was passing strange. On a second pass, Tyrion noticed the details - expensive, flowing silks, golden jewelry.  She was obviously well-fed, and her posture and carriage spoke of money and nobility. She turned to him when they entered, fresh from laughing at something Bronn said, and for a second Tyrion caught a calculating glint to her eye.  

“And who have you brought to visit us today, Bronn?,” he asked.  

“This, lads and Brienne, is the lady Arienne Martell,” this surprised Tyrion.  Arienne was among the nobility presumed dead in the war. No one had seen her, or the surviving Sand Snakes, for months - maybe even longer.  If this was her, then Tyrion was about to have a very, very large problem in Dorne.

“A pleasure to see that you are alive and well.  We’d thought you dead,” he replied, favoring her with a polite smile.  

“No, not dead.  Just busy elsewhere,” she gave Bronn an affectionate pat, and let go of his arm, “So, my lord hand, where shall I sit?”

“I’m sorry?,” Tyrion blinked at her.  

“The Member for Dorne sits on the small council.  As you might remember, your father created the position during his tenure as hand.  My uncle Oberon was gracious enough to occupy it. And as I am the last trueborn heir of Doran, it falls to me to take on the responsibility of representing Dorne.  So where shall I sit?”

Tyrion was taken aback.  She’d entered the city with no fanfare and no announcement, and now he saw that it was apurpose.  This was a political ambush, and he saw the implications immediately. If he acknowledged her, it was akin to de-legitimizing the current prince of Dorne.  If he did not, and refused Doran’s heir, he undermined the very structure of primogeniture. Her being a woman, in this case, made no difference. The Dornish didn’t rely only on the male line.  Women inherited the same as men. The Iron Islands and the North were also ruled by women, and so the rest of Westeros may soon follow the custom of including women in their lines. But then, by their laws - or what he knew of them, lacking a master of laws - Arienne was the legitimate heir and ruler of Dorne.  The prince was not. To deny Doran’s heir would be to deny the right to rule for many of the nobility, and it would make them no friends.  He could eliminate the representative to Dorne as a position, but that, too, carried risk. Simply showing up and claiming her place left the throne with little recourse.  Tyrion gave her a small nod.

“Here, my lady, across from Brienne,” he’d lost this round.  He knew it, she knew it, but at least she did not gloat, she simply took her seat, “I will, of course, require proof of your identity though,”  

“Oh, do you, my lord?,” she tilted her head, long locks swishing around her shoulders, “Are there many Dornish princesses showing up on your steps claiming to be Doran’s daughter? If so, show me to them so we may work out the truth of it.”  

Bronn smothered a snorted laugh and Tyrion glared at him.  Just what he needed, another smartass on his council. The gods kept finding new, creative ways to keep him humble, “No, of course not, but forgive me for my curiosity.  You were believed dead, and Dorne already has an occupant of Sunspear.”

“Ah, yes, my fool of a cousin,” oh, the acid that dripped into her smile.  A reminder of the association between the Dornish and snakes. Poison, “He warms himself and plays in the water gardens at my expense, and that will be dealt with.  But my claim is stronger than his.”

“Yes, if you are who you say you are.  You can see why we would need to be sure,” it had been some time since he’d been fooled by the smile of a pretty young woman, and it always had consequences.  He was determined to avoid being fooled by her smile.

“Yes, yes,” she waved her hand dismissively, “I had hoped you would take me at my word, but I did bring proof with me.  A gift for king Bran. If you’ll allow the indulgence, I’d rather save it to present to him later.”

“I don’t see why not.  If you aren’t what you say, then perhaps sitting through a meeting discussing the details of the kingdom will bore you into giving up the charade,” he signaled to one of the cup-bearers to bring some wine, and begun the meeting.  

***

Tyrion now sat at the right hand of the king, absent-mindedly watching the places at the table fill.  Bran, probably anticipating Arienne’s arrival, had arranged for a feast for dinner rather than his normal custom of a small, private meal in his room.  So they sat at the head of the table, the spaces and benches rapidly filling. And between the end of the small council meeting and now, he’d taken the time to read more about Dorne.  As it turned out, the gaps in his knowledge were legion. Dorne was a complicated web of alliances, families, and loyalties liberally spiced with their own brand of stubbornness. No one forgot how long it took to bring them into the seven kingdoms, and many were agitated by the attitude they’d espoused.  They made it seem as if they could leave the kingdoms as they pleased. Given Bran’s allowance of the North’s separation, they likely weren’t entirely wrong. Their loyalty seemed to be more to the Targaryens than the throne, and that was dangerous. Dorne was dangerous.  

The seats were full.  Banners hung from the columns around the room; a vivid display of color and pride.  It wasn’t an overly large crowd, this wasn’t an official state dinner by any means, but many houses were represented.  Bronn sat under his banners - he’d changed them after taking Highgarden, instead of a black flaming arrow on a grey field, it was now a green flaming arrow on a white field.  He’d given himself a name, too - Blackwater. Bronn of the Blackwater became Bronn Blackwater. An ironic name, given Highgarden’s role as the kingdom’s bread basket.

The Stark banner was there, too, hanging behind the king, but it was the only northern banner.  Tyrion chose not to display his banner. No one needed the reminder of the ruin the Lannisters brought, although they weren’t extinct.  Gendry was in the city for a time, and so the black stag on the gold field hung. He was here because he said Storm’s End was lonely, and he needed a wife.  Arya was clearly never coming back, so he came to court. The resurgence of shipping trade in the city meant that house Velaryon made themselves known at court with their silver seahorse on a turquoise field.  They looked too much like the Targaryens for Tyrion’s comfort, but they were passing useful when it came to ships. They’d been a major power on the water, once, and their heir was of an age to be fostered by one of the other houses.  The red horse of Bracken was there; Lollys Stokeworth had married Wyllis Bracken. After the war Jonos, the head of house Bracken, commanded Wyllis to stay at kings landing to help find husbands for Lord Bracken’s five daughters. That meant that elsewhere, the white tree and black ravens of House Blackwood flew on their red field.  There was nothing the Brackens had that the Blackwoods did not try to take or surpass. Bran was the embodiment of the old gods that house Blackwood still worshipped, and they were distant kin, so they came to court too. The Riverlands were a problem to be dealt with soon. Edmure Tully was a dense as a dragon’s skull, and he couldn’t be trusted to make good choices.  Some time during the war, old Walder’s newest wife, Kitty, had disappeared. No one knew if he’d gotten a child on her, or whether she was even alive. So the Twins sat empty and it needed an occupant. Edmure’s Frey girl had given birth recently, to a little boy, and that meant negotiation power for Edmure. The Twins were his by rights, but if it came to it, Edmure would never be able to stop the crown from gifting them to a new lord.  Besides, he had Riverrun. Both the Blackwoods and the Brackens had castles of their own, but they could see the power in owning the Twins.

There were numerous other small houses present, too, but they paled beside the newest banners raised to the columns: the sun-and-spear of House Martell and the white crossed sword and comet on purple that belonged to house Dayne.  That was most curious to Tyrion. If the Daynes had chosen to support Arienne, then he supposed the rest of Dorne might as well. He didn’t know enough of the politics of Dorne to say, but House Dayne was a strong, old house. Darkstar had a reputation even this far north of his home.  It also went a long way towards confirming Arienne’s identity. So did the women Tyrion noticed sitting next to her. He surmised via his reading that the four of them were what remained of the Sand Snakes. He frowned to himself; shouldn’t there be five of them?

Tyrion’s musings were interrupted by the ringing of the bell that called for silence.  Bran would say something, and then dinner would come. Tyrion’s stomach rumbled. He might not indulge in whores anymore, and wine was a hindrance to his responsibilities, but food hadn’t abandoned him.  Maybe climbing up and down those stairs all day wasn’t entirely a punishment.

The crowd of people quieted, and Bran projected his flat voice into the room, “Thank you for coming to my home and supping with me this evening on such short notice.  As you all have no doubt surmised, we have welcomed another visitor to the Red Keep. Arienne Martell, daughter of Prince Doran Martell, has joined us. She will be assuming the responsibilities of the Member for Dorne on the small council.”  

That caused some titters to move through the audience.  Arienne stood, a winning smile on her face. She was still dressed in the custom of Dorne, but now her clothing was much more revealing.  Tyrion found himself distracted by how buxom she was, “Thank you, your grace. May I approach? I have brought you a gift from my cousins and I.”  

“You may,” Arienne stepped out from behind the table where she sat, into the center of the room.  A man followed her from the Daynes’ table. He was of middling height, thin but muscular. He had shoulder-length silver hair with a black streak through it, and the purple eyes that ran in house Dayne.  His face had a sharp look to it, with high cheekbones, a thin, hooked nose, and a strong jaw. He was handsome enough, but his eyes were hard and mean, and he offered none of the warmth Arienne did. Tyrion supposed this was likely Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar.  More danger from Dorne. He held a dark, purple velvet-covered box in his hands. It was a flat rectangle a few inches thick, and wide enough that Darkstar needed two hands to hold it.

“This has been held in my family for generations now, and my father had me take it when I felt Sunspear before his death.  It has been precious to us, as it was precious to those who owned it before us. Now I return it home as a symbol of Dorne’s fealty to your grace’s new country,” she stepped to the side, and Darkstar stepped forward.  He held the box while she opened it, and when Tyrion saw the contents, he gasped with the rest of the assembled crowd.

Inside, on a bed of blood-red satin, lay a wide, dark circle of metal.  Darkstar was standing fairly close, and even in the dimness of the firelight Tyrion could see the tell-tale ripples of valyrian steel.  Evenly spaced around the circlet were large, square-cut rubies, winking in the flickering light of the candles in the room. Tyrion swallowed, a lump of apprehension in his throat.  He was hungry no longer. But, perhaps there was another explanation. He did not bother to stop the next words from flying out of his mouth, “A reproduction, surely?”

“It is not,” she said, gently lifting it from its place and bringing it closer, “It is the true crown of Aegon the Conqueror, lost by King Daeron during his attempted conquest of Dorne.  One of the three lost symbols of Targaryen rulership. I cannot give you Blackfyre, and I cannot give you Dark Sister, but I can give you this. It is a symbol of Dorne’s fealty to the six kingdoms.  That we freely join you, a conquered kingdom no longer, but a friend and equal.”

“Thank you does not seem to be an adequate word to convey what this gesture means to us, but all the same, we thank you for returning this to its rightful place,” of course Bran’s voice retained its usually tonelessness, but Tyrion had long since grown used to it.  He motioned to Brienne, and she stepped down to collect the gift. Around him, nobles cheered. Arienne looked entirely too pleased with herself. That one , he decided, will warrant closer watching .  He was not ready for the game of thrones - and its inevitable bloodshed - to resume, but she was a player all the same.  

Chapter Text

Jon looked at the opening in the mountain before him.  It was inky dark, with no light illuminating even an inch from the entryway.  It seemed to absorb the ambient early morning light. No wind came from the opening.  Behind him, the cairne he’d built over Hodor’s body was a grey hulk. In his hand was a thick branch with an oil-soaked length of cloth wound tightly around the top - a torch.  There was no reason to go in there, and yet...it drew him. The dark was a song, a sweet lover’s kiss, the comforting dark of the night. It was solitude and penance. Curiosity gnawed on him, and he knew there might be answers to some of his questions in there.  Hodor’s body meant that Bran had certainly been there, and maybe there was some way to return his brother. To let some of his brother’s light back into the three eyed raven. Certainly, he would be a better ruler if he regained some of his humanity, would he not? Jon paused in his brooding to look down at Ghost, standing silently next to him, staring at the door.  Ghost had fed last night; Jon could tell by the lingering bloody tang in his own mouth. The longer he was out here, the more connected he became to the direwolf. It no longer bothered him to admit what he was - a warg. But he still had yet to slip his skin while waking, there were only the wolf dreams.

“What do you think?,” he asked aloud, turning his sullen stare to meet those red eyes, “Should we go in?”

Ghost made no sound.  He never did. Sometimes, Jon thought on the noise he’d heard in the woods that day, the one that made him go back for Ghost, and wondered why he’d heard it.  Ghost was noiseless. The direwolf gave no indication of his thoughts, and Jon turned back to the ominous gaping wound in the mountain. In his gut, he knew he had to see what was down there.  He knew he had to had answers. And, in truth, there was little else for him to do with his time. So he gathered himself, and stepped forward, his hand on Longclaw’s worn-smooth pommel. The sword was a comfort, an old friend that had never failed him.  He entered, and Ghost silently stalked in beside him. The darkness swallowed them up.

Inside, it was dark, but the opening in the mountain did not disappear.  He could still see outside when he turned and looked. A part of him that he hadn’t realized was tense unwound knowing that his path of egress wasn’t closed to him.  He turned back and started further down the tunnel.

It was roughly carved out of the mountain, with rough, unpolished edges and deep gouge marks.  In some places there were chunks missing, as if the builders had needed to wrest every piece of rock from the grip of the mountain.  The floors were hard-packed earth. Once inside, he could feel the air moving through the coolness of the space, but the smell it brought was sour.  There was dirt, and earth, and coolness, yes - but there was burnt flesh and rot slathered on top of those comforting natural smells. Ghost’s nose twitched in seeming distaste, and Jon said, “I agree, it stinks down here.”  

Talking to Ghost was something Jon did when he needed comfort.  The wolf never answered, of course, but Jon thought he understood.  Their bond ran deep. Sometimes Ghost’s emotions came to him unbidden across it, and when they fought it was as one unit, like they knew each others’ moves and needs.  It was one of the few good things that had come of his time beyond the wall. With Ghost there, he felt less alone. The wolf’s instincts were good, too, and they’d saved Jon on more than one occasion.  So he made sure to pay extra attention when he was tense. Right now, Ghost seemed cautious, but not afraid. Not on alert. There was enough ambient light from the doorway behind that he didn’t light the torch yet.  Instead, he let his eyes adjust as they moved forward.

They pressed deeper and here Jon found evidence of a battle.  There were scorch marks on the wall, and deep gouges that clearly didn’t have years’ of built-up patina in them.  They were new, covering the walls, ceiling, and floor. As they went deeper into the tunnel, Jon stopped to light the torch.  The door wasn’t visible anymore. The light revealed human-shaped lumps that he dared not look to close at. The only time he stopped was when Ghost did, watching as he walked over to a smaller lump and sniffed at it.  He scratched the ground, looking back at Jon. Jon joined him to see what it was looking at.

It was clearly not anything humanoid.  In fact, as Jon looked closer, he realized he was seeing four legs, hips, a spine, and a charred skull with the wicked, sharp teeth of a carnivore.  A wolf, and he sighed aloud, “Summer.”

Ghost lowered his head, and Jon’s gut twisted at the thought of the same thing happening to Ghost.  He’d lost so much, and he knew he wouldn’t survive the loss of the last friend he had in the world. He scratched the ruff of Ghost’s neck, comforting himself by burying his fingers in that thick fur.  He stood, “We’ll take him with us when we leave, and give him a proper grave outside. He was our brother; he deserves better than this.”

They turned, going deeper into the cave.  It became more and more silent, the sounds of the world muffled by the tons of rock.  They started to see branches twisting in and out of the cave walls. Initially they seemed scorched by whatever had burned the hallway and the bodies behind him, but as they passed through the fire damage he noticed that they were white - weirwood white.  There were gouge marks in them, too, with red, oozing sap. Below these wounds the ground was dark with dried sap. As they progressed, there were more roots, more damage to them, more bloody sap dripping down the walls. Although Jon was used to weirwoods, in this context the resemblance to blood unnerved him.  

Eventually, the tunnel joined a much larger cave, and Jon could make out sunlight.  He went towards it, and found himself at the mouth of the cave. The scratch marks were here, too, and footprints were clear on the ground.  The cold, much sharper here due to the large opening of the cave, even preserved a few shards of ice. There was other evidence of people living there - racks of weapons, smashed pottery, furs, and bits of carved wood.  Snow had built up around the cave mouth, but it would likely be no large task for he and Ghost to dig a way out of the cave and leave. But Jon still hadn’t found the answers he needed, and he had the sense that he’d only begun to scratch the surface of the cave.  So he turned from the way out, looking to go deeper into the large cavern.

There were bones, here, so many bones.  Bones of creatures he could identify and some that he couldn’t.  Huge, thick skulls that could only be giants, each one of them staring at him in silent judgement.   You killed us.  You killed the last of our kind .  He could not chase the image of Wun Wun from his mind.  Only regret and death walked with them down the halls. Once, people had lived here.  That much was clear. But now there were only the aching, rotting remnants of their once-vibrant lives.  Yet, he kept walking, kept going deeper into the caves. He had found no answers yet, nor had he found the end of the caves.  The weirwood roots were ever-present, although less damaged here. Down the caves went, deeper and deeper into mother earth. Away from the cold of the cave mouth it warmed some, as all caves did, and this made Jon think that the cave itself was natural - even if the contents were not.  

It took hours of walking, but he eventually found his way to an even larger cavern.  Stalactites dripped in long fingers from the ceiling, and their partner stalagmites reached skyward to meet them.  In some places they met, making trunks of bubbled stone, some as thick as the tall pines of the Haunted Forest that surrounded the cave.  An abyss yawned in front of him, his feeble torchlight not chasing back even a particle of its shadows. Yet, Jon could hear a river’s song bouncing off the walls of the abyss, and knew it wasn’t bottomless.  There was a natural bridge across the abyss, and Jon carefully made his way across it.

On the other side there was what looked like a chair made from the twisting weirwood roots, and they wove in and out of the skeleton that was seated on the throne.  It was old, with scraps of rotting cloth clinging to it. The roots made their way through all the bones, including one of his eyes. Jon squinted in the flickering torch light, leaning closer.  There was damage to the skeleton, a large cut through the center of its body. The roots around it were cut, too, the sap oozing from those cuts. The image made Jon scowl in revulsion.

He stepped back from the tree corpse and looked around.  There was a second, smaller throne next to the occupied one.  It sat empty, disheveled furs discarded on the seat and around the ground.  There were gouges in the ground next to it, different than the ones he’d seen.  They were long, even marks, parallel to each other, and they went in the direction of the bridge and the tunnel.  Like something was drug across the ground. Hadn’t Sansa said something about the Reed girl arriving with Bran, dragging him on a litter? Yes, this could be that.  Jon looked to Ghost. The direwolf was interested in the furs, sniffing them and moving them with his nose, pawing at them like he’d done with Summer’s remains. Jon wished he was asleep so he could skinchange and know what Ghost was smelling on those furs.  He wondered if he could try, just this once. His thoughts lingered there, but he still felt that cold spike of fear that haunted him every time he tried or thought about skinchanging. Something about leaving behind his own body felt deeply unsettling to him.  So he stayed inside himself, and set about exploring the rest of this larger cavern.

There were tunnels upon tunnels, side caves, and pits in the floor.  Those, he discovered, often were climbable and led to the river below.  It ran clear and sweet, the water not making him sick, and it teemed with a blind, white fish that was easy to spot and catch in the torchlight.  He did not know how long he spent down there exploring those caverns. He slept when he was tired, ate when he was hungry, and had no sense of time passing on the surface.  Each day he went a little further than the last, but he always stayed within a few hours’ walk of the river. He found some mushrooms growing down here and learned that they were edible too.  It was too far down for Ghost to leave and hunt, so he caught extra fish so the big wolf wouldn’t go hungry. He made fires from the wood left behind by the cave’s previous occupants, and kept the fat from frying his fish as fuel for his torch.  He could leave when he wanted, but he still felt the call of something here. Something deeper, something he needed to discover.

He could not guess how long he’d been searching when he came upon a room filled with weirwood thrones like the one in the largest cave.  This one also had occupants, but they were much more freshly dead than the one above, and bore no marks of violence. Instead, they were impossibly thin.  Their skin color was impossible to tell this far after death, but they were small and their clothing was made from bark and bits of leaves entwined with their hair.  Their hands had only four digits instead of five, and their shrunken skin showed black talon-like nails. THeir ears were large and a little pointed at the tips.

“They’re so small,” Jon mumbled to himself, “Like...children.”  

As he said it, he realized that’s exactly what they were.  Children of the forest. Dead, but not long dead. The others had been real, and giants, and dragons, so why not children? Jon remembered the many tales of conflict with them.  Old Nan’s voice telling them stories about the ancient greenseers, about the wars between the First Men and the children. It was they that carved the faces in the weirwoods, not men.  Seeing them here unnerved him deeply. Too many legends were real. Too many of them were horrifying and terrible. The only lies in the songs were the ones of peace, comfort, and love.  The horrors, it seemed to him, were always the truth.

Had he been someone else, someone who hadn’t seen the fight for the dawn, who hadn’t ridden a dragon, who wasn’t a warg, who hadn’t fought alongside a giant, he would have quailed then and gone back to the surface.  But he had seen those things, and so he gathered himself and pressed deeper into this strange place.  It was a dichotomy: while unnerving and scary, the room also felt almost sacred, holy. It reminded him of the crypts beneath Winterfell, save the sense of otherness he’d always felt down there.  Distracting himself, he wondered if he’d still feel that way now, knowing he was a legitimate Stark and not a bastard. He’d likely never find out. He kept walking, and he checked all of the chairs as he passed them to ensure each was dead.  Ghost stayed a fair distance behind, but he followed.

As his light flickered over the last chair he realized something about it was different.  As he got closer, his mind still hadn’t figured out what he was seeing. It was so completely other that it took time for him to figure it out.  There, seated in a chair like the rest, was a small person - five-fingered, so not a child of the forest. The person’s skin was blackened and split, badly burned, but no clear fluid or pus leaked from the wounds.  Red, sticky blood, no - sap, leaked from them instead. The smell of roast pig hung heavy in the air, making Jon’s stomach turn in revulsion. The figure wore no clothes, likely they’d been burned away. He leaned closer, seeing a strange anomaly on the neck.  A large cut, he realized, with tiny weirwood branches grew through the wound like stitches to hold it shut. There was another wounds, too, vicious knife wounds on the body that were all held together the same way, but none had healed. Red sap-blood oozed from the places where the branches pierced the body’s skin, and from the wounds themselves.  Some was dried black, which told Jon that whomever this was, they’d been here for some time. The queerest thing about the body was that the skin didn’t seem to be rotted, it still seemed pliant. Well, as pliant was skin could be with burns this bad. Bone showed through in places, bright against the red and black of the corpse. It was disgusting, and yet Jon couldn’t turn away.  The wrongness of it drew him in.

Fast, too fast for him to move, he felt something clamp tight around his wrist.  He looked down, shouting as he realized that the corpse was holding him tight. He tried to yank his hand back, but those small fingers might as well have been stone.  All around him, the other corpses erupted in sound. A loud, singing wail bounced and echoed off the walls of the cavern, assaulting his ears. Even Ghost, ever silent, joined in wailing.  Jon’s mind slipped straight to panic, and the only word in his mind was undead .  A quick glance around showed him open eyes, burning ember and orange, coals in the dark cave.  No blue, just bright orange, even those out of range of his torch. He desperately tried to reign himself in, to control his panic.  

Not blue.  

They’re not blue.  

It didn’t matter how many times he said it to himself, they were dead before and now they were not.  He was back there on that night, during the desperate fight for Winterfell. The smell of rot and hoarfrost, the chemical smell of dragonflame during those awful moments in the courtyard, facing death.  Yes, he was going to die, he was going to die this night here in his former home. He faced the monster, the white dragon reborn, looming above him. His bowls were water, his heart pounding, and he desperately thrashed.  He couldn’t move, couldn’t dodge, couldn’t get away. The night seemed dark and unending and his senses were failing him. He could not see anything beyond the looming dragon.

Then a soft, feminine voice.   A dragon is not a slave, Jon Snow.  Dracarys.

He expected to die, expected to finally let the woman he loved have her revenge for his betrayed.  He would gladly walk into dragonflame, even now, even if it wouldn’t undo anything he’d done. He’d let the flame become like his guilt, and consume him.   I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry .  

And then, suddenly, he was someplace else.  Pale winter sunlight revealed a courtyard. Castle Black, he realized, but the normal sights and sounds were missing.  There were no men out practicing in the yard. No metal being forged by the blacksmith. No dogs barking, no men shouting.  No one milling about. There was no one, except the small boy standing in front of him. The boy was thin and short, but not so young as his height suggested, simply small.  He had messy, light-brown hair and moss green eyes. He looked familiar, as if Jon passed him in a crowd once and had quickly forgotten him. His expression looked slightly amused, as if Jon’s terror was funny.  

“Have you never warged before, Jon Snow?,” the boy leaned closer, looking confused for a moment, and then he frowned, “No, wait.  Not Jon Snow. Aegon Targaryen.”

Jon managed to find his voice, “Jon.  Jon is all I need.”

The boy nodded, “Jon, then.  Why are you in my cave, Jon?”  

Jon was too distracted to answer, two steps behind the boy in the conversation, “Warged?”

“Of course.  Into the weirwood,” Jon knew his face was nothing but a blank, confused look as he listened, “All magic demands a price in blood, and you have paid it, over and over.  You have soaked the roots of the weirwoods, prince, and they favor you.”

“With whose blood?”

“All of the men you’ve sent to die.  And the women. And the dragon,” the boy frowned.  

“Who are you?,” Jon asked, trying to get some handle on what he was seeing.  

“I have a name no longer.  I cannot remember it. But I think I was a frog, once.  I’m not sure. The singers sing, and they call me by no name,” he looked up, intensity shading the moss green of his eyes, “Why have you come here, Jon Snow?”

“I...,” Jon hesitated.  He really wasn’t exactly sure why.  He’d just felt drawn here. So he explained as best he could, “I think I’m looking for answers.”

“For answers there must be questions.”

“About Bran,” for a moment, the boy’s face was a complicated mixture of pain and sadness.  

“The three-eyed raven,” the boy replied.  

“Yes.  How did he become what he is?”

“He ate the blood of others, and the other raven taught him to fly.  I will show you,” the scene flickered around them, and Jon was standing back in the cave, near the throne with the damaged skeleton.  Only now, it contained a living man. He was unfathomably old, his skin as thin and brittle as parchment. His hair was bleached-bone white, reaching to the floor, and one red eye looked out of the withered face.  Branches dove in and out of the man’s body, much as Jon had seen them above, but the body was alive. One larger one wove itself through the socket of the man’s eye. A winestain mark marred the right half of his face.  Next to him, in the smaller throne, sat Bran. Not Bran now, no, not the cold shell his brother had become, but the stubborn boy he had been. He looked so young, so vulnerable, especially among the scattered bones on the floor of the cave.  Ravens fluttered about, and there was a small woman nearby. A child of the forest, Jon realized.

“Yes, but why ?,” Bran was saying to the man.  

“I’ve told you before, Brandon,” his voice was whispered and quiet, as if worn from too many years of use.  Even so, Jon could hear the edge of annoyance in it, “I do not possess the magic necessary to repair your broken legs.”

“What about the children? What about you?,” he addressed the small, brown woman covered in leaves and vines.  She cocked her head, blinking orange eyes. They had strange, slitted pupils, Jon noticed.

“You are a greedy boy, Brandon Stark.  The Last Greenseer has told you that you will fly.  Why would you want to walk, when you could fly?”

“ I can’t fly, the birds fly.  I only borrow them when they go flying.  Fix my legs!,” Jon had forgotten that about Bran, how demanding he could be.  A little lord. Bran seemed to remember himself, “Please, Leaf. Can you fixed me?”

Her body language was more viper than human, and if she had an emotion about the request, Jon could not see what it was just by watching her, “No.  Maybe once, but then you cut down all of our eyes, and stole our magic.”

A snarl of words.  Bran shrank back from her, clearly surprised by the venom in her tone.  The tree-man continued, “They have good reason to be angry at men. When I came here, one of my brothers was gravely injured.  I was the one they needed, and they would not help him, only me. Leaf and the singers are small, but they are not children. They remember what men did to them.”  

Jon was surprised by how sad the man sounded, and he turned to his guide, “He sounds...alive.”  

“He was.”  

“Bran he can’t...there’s no emotion in him.  He is not sad, he is not empathetic. That man was a three-eyed raven?”

“Yes,” the boy also nodded to confirm his words, “Brynden Rivers was his name.  Like me and the singers, he lived long after when he should have died.”

“And leaf?”

“She died when they came to the cave.”  

“Who?”

The boy looked at him, checking to see if Jon was being purposely ignorant, “You know who came here.  These questions are for your own curiosity, and I do not know how much time we will have together. Ask better questions.”  

On thinking about it, Jon did know, so he nodded, “This three eyed raven, he...he seemed to have emotion.  He sounded annoyed, and then sad. Bran, he doesn’t do that. He never has emotion.”

“Yes,” the frog-boy agreed, nodding, “It is strange.”  

“How did that happen?”

“That, Jon Targaryen, is a much better question.”  

“And the answer?”

“I don’t know.  I have the sight, but I cannot see all things.  I can’t see what happened to Bran, but--,” the boy cut off, his head whipping to the side, “You must go!”

“What? Why?,” Jon scowled, not ready to leave.  But then he heard it. The whispered cracking of ice that haunted his dreams of late.  Hoarfrost grew to coat the edges of the vision, creeping over root, and rock, and bone.  His breath fogged before him, and an all-too-familiar dread curled deep in his guts.

“You hear him.  You must go!,” the frog boy repeated, and Jon nodded, “Never return to this place.  Learn to use your gifts.”

That was it, the last words given to him by the boy.  He blinked and stumbled backwards, back in the cave with the bodies.  The body released him, its dead fingers curled in the shape where his wrist once was.  The singers were quiet once more, and Ghost was again mute. The cave felt colder and more ominous, and less like he should be here.  He’d found what he’d come looking for, and so he collected his belongings and his wolf, and started the long trip back to the exit.

Chapter Text

A fire crackled on the hearth behind her in the common room. Nymeria, well-fed on the scraps from breakfast and lunch, slept near the fire, her belly towards the warmth. She’d become spoiled since arriving in winterfell.  And, although she had the freedom to come and go, she often stayed where there was warmth and easy food. Her pack still roamed the woods, and she joined them sometimes, returning home with bloody jaws. Luckily, the wolfswood was so large that the pack could largely avoid the humans and the humans could avoid it. Game was becoming scarce, though, and there seemed to be fewer voices out there at night. Her people were becoming thinner, and there were many times when she wished for help and missed her family. Though it hadn’t gotten so bad that the old men offered to “go hunting” during a storm. Yet, anyway.

People surrounded her in the hall, councilors and cup bearers and stewards. There were more who’d come and gone.  It was mid-winter, and the time when Sansa was hearing petitions and meeting with her lords. It was going about as well as could be expected.  White Harbor wanted to impose new levies on food imports. Ostensibly, this was because they needed the money to maintain the ice-breaker ships that kept the harbor clear, but Sansa knew it was also a test.  She’d allowed the levies, but at half the amount they’d requested. Enough to maintain their fleet but not enough to squeeze the people too hard. She’d started making plants for the spring thaw, primarily to allow for the creation and repair of the roads.  Now that the Iron Throne wasn’t going to maintain the Kingsroad above the neck, she needed to figure out what was involved in doing that. It was vital those kinds of civil works projects be started as soon as could be managed. It would be easier to try and establish safer routes to and from various places in the vast north during the winter if the roads were in good condition during the summer.  

A raven had come today, too.  Though the Greatjon, Smalljon, and little lord Ned had all died, some Umbers had been found.  The Greatjon had three other children - one son and two daughters, and one of his daughters had survived.  And while Whoresbane and Mors had both fallen to the Night King, Mors had children who lived. A son and a daughter who had been sent to foster in houses further to the south that hadn’t been touched by the War for the Dawn.  Greatjon’s daughter had the better claim, but Sansa knew that old attitudes died hard, especially in the north. Just because they’d accepted her as queen, does not mean they’d accept a woman among them as a lord. Perhaps, though, if the right match was made.  Breach would have to be accounted for as well. She was pleased that the town had sprung up among the ruins of the wall, but it was close to the lands of the Umbers and had been raiding the empty keep for materials. The Umbers were notoriously prickly when it came to the Wildlings, and after the events in the last few wars their houses weren’t fast friends.  If she installed the Greatjon’s daughter at Last Hearth, who is to say that the poor girl’s cousins wouldn’t march on the castle and take it out from under her? Then she’d have a conflict between the Umbers and Breach on her hands and she did not like the thought of that. No, she’d much rather have peace in her lands.

I must meet the girl and take her measure , Sansa thought to herself, I must meet all three Umbers.  I do not wish for the seat to pass to one simply because they are next in line.  I want power to transfer to those who are most capable of skillfully wielding it - man or woman, it makes no matter.  

The Bolton lands were another matter entirely.  Not a scrap of Bolton blood was left, not even a bastard to legitimize, and the Dreadfort sat empty.  Sansa wasn’t too distraught about that. Aside from the hatred she bore for that family, a lack of heir meant that the Bolton lands were hers now.  She could keep them, or give them away. She had no real desire to manage the vast tracts of land that had once belonged to Roose, so she would give them to someone else.  A gift, perhaps, for service. Or when spring came, maybe chunks could be cut out of it. New houses created and given to those who would make good stewards of the land. Only to those who were loyal, though.  The Dreadfort was far too close to Winterfell to give to someone who couldn’t be trusted. Perhaps one of the Hornwoods. Their lands adjoined, and after Ramsay’s treatment of their lady, well...the thought made Sansa smile.  A final fuck you to the bastard of the Dreadfort.  Yes, that may indeed be a good solution to that problem.  

A knock on the large double doors at the end of the hall turned Sansa’s attention from the matters of her kingdom and do the sound.  She nodded to the guards by the door, and they pulled open the heavy wooden barriers. Three figures entered. All were short, but one was shorter than the other two, almost the size of an older child.  As the doors closed again and blocked out the sunlight behind them, Sansa could make out at least one of their faces, and she smiled, “Meera, welcome.”

She didn’t know the girl well, but she did know that if not for her Bran would be dead.  That was enough for Sansa to consider her a friend. When she’d visited Winterfell the first time she’d been a cheerful, kind girl.  When she returned with Bran she’d become solemn and serious, so Sansa’s smile was not returned. Instead, Meera and her companions came to stand in front of Sansa’s table, and bowed, “Your grace.”  

“I am happy to see that you survived your trip south.  Who is your companion?,” Sansa asked. He was small, and of average build.  His blonde hair was stick-straight, shaggy, and liberally peppered with grey.  He was growing a winter beard, also blonde and grey. His forest green eyes were deep set, with laugh lines carved into his face along their edges.  He had a long nose and a small mouth, but it looked like he smiled often. He looked kind.

“I am Howland, your grace.  Meera’s father, and--,” He’d spoken over Meera, and that grated on Sansa’s nerves.  He was her father’s close friend, though, and that meant another potential ally.  

“And fast friend of my father’s,” Sansa answered.  While she knew the Reeds had always been loyal, they were nowhere to be found during the Battle for the Dawn.  So she would give Howland a chance to earn her trust on his own, although Nymeria’s lack of response to the Reeds spoke well of them.  Sansa turned her attention to the third person. A woman, taller than Howland and Meera, with long, dark hair. A curious streak of grey in it, likely due to age, wove in and out of the braid it was twisted into.  She was a lovely woman, even at her age, with few wrinkles adorning her porcelain-fine skin, and thick lashes around her eyes. Eyes, Sansa realized with a start, that were a curious, engaging shade of violet, “Welcome to my hall.  Is this your lady wife?”

“Yes,” Howland answered.  He turned to her and smile, his expression going soft around the edges.  Even in that brief glimpse Sansa could tell that this was a love match, not an arranged marriage.  She took that fact and filed it away in her mind, wondering if there was some way it could help her when it came to installing rulers into the vacant castles and keeps.  Howland gestured with his hand, “May I present the lady Jyana Reed.”

Jyana inclined her head to Sansa and smiled.  There was something so graceful about her, something Sansa would not have expected from a Crannogman.  And her height - she was easily several inches taller than her husband. Why was she so tall? Questions for another time , she thought, “I am glad you have come so far.”

“We’ve come to swear fealty to you, your grace,” Howland answered, “It took a little longer than the others, but we had further to go.  To Winterfell we again swear the faith of Greywater. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lady. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command.  Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you,” he knelt, along with his wife and Meera, and they spoke as one, “We swear it by earth and water, we swear it by bronze and iron, we swear it by ice and fire.”  

Ice and fire, indeed.  The dragon queen and Jon flashed through Sansa’s mind, and she remembered that Howland had been at the Tower of Joy.  She didn’t know the whole story, but she knew that he’d saved her father’s life. And if Howland had been at the tower, then he’d known about Jon all along.  The pain that could have been saved with that knowledge, well, the thought overwhelmed her. Jon clearly hadn’t been able to stomach bedding his aunt, and if he’d known before falling in love with her, it likely never would have happened at all.  If Jon had never given up the north to the dragon queen. If she’d gone south to King’s Landing, first, and had three dragons rather than one, and a huge host. How fast the city fell with only one dragon; perhaps it would have been yielded even faster with three.  Perhaps Jon never would have gone north, and never would have needed rescue, and Viserion would never have fallen into the Night King’s hands. The wall never would have fallen. So many who would be alive. Sansa’s initial small flame of warmth towards them guttered out, and she stood, her chair scraping against the stone floor.  It was loud and jarring in the quiet of the room. She walked around the table to the trio kneeling in front of her.

“I think you have not come here for loyalty, my lord.  I think you have come here for absolution,” Sansa watched them carefully.  Meera looked confused, and Jayana’s face betrayed no emotion at all. Only Howland reacted, his eyes closing briefly, the sadness evident on his face, “Where were you? When the information you carried could have stopped the war? Where were you men when we faced the Night King?”

“I cowered in my swamp,” he said, his voice so quiet it was almost inaudible.  The statement drew a reaction from Jyana. Anger flickered across the mask of her features.  The anger of an old argument, of a path well-tread. Well, that is interesting, indeed , Sansa thought to herself.  

“Why? When we needed you so much, why?,” she asked, letting some feigned desperation and sadness into her voice.  She was angry, not sad, but he might be more easily guided by sadness. Let them think her soft.

“To protect my family.”  

“Yet you sent Meera and Jojen to us long ago, and lost Jojen in the process.  Those do not seem the actions of a man so afraid to risk his family.”

“We went without his permission.” Meera interjected, “Jojen had the green dreams, we knew we had to go.  He was going to come alone, but I...I wouldn’t let him. It was too dangerous, and I knew what he’d drempt.”  

This made Sansa view Meera with a new light.  She admired bravery and fortitude and the backbone to do the right thing.  She saw a little of herself in the other girl, and she decided that even if Howland was a coward, he wasn’t a traitor, “Rise, lord and ladies Reed.  Winterfell accepts your oath. You will stay here in the castle, and I will give you the chance to earn my trust.”

The three of them stood and Jyana dipped her head in respect.  There was something familiar about that woman, something that tickled an old, half-forgotten story in the back of Sansa’s mind.  She’d have to think on it. Jyana turned those violet eyes on Sansa and said, “Thank you, your grace.”

Sansa nodded and turned to the steward, “Find rooms for the Reeds.  Good ones with plenty of space. They’ll be here for a time.”

“Also, lady Stark,” Jyana said, “We have brought gifts with us.”

“Oh?”

“Food, your grace.  Wagon loads of it. It may not be the fare you’re used to, but we felt that it might go a ways towards easing the tax of our household on your winter stores.  We have no maester, but we have a grower for the winter months. We have brought him with us so that he can teach your household some of the ways we use to grow food in the winter.  Some of our hunting techniques, too.”

“I am very grateful to you.  I thought that the Crannogmen had a difficult time finding food in the swamps?”

A small half-smile graced the corner of Howland’s mouth, and he answered, “That is one of many falsehoods we allow to circulate to protect ourselves.”

“Why have you decided to tell me the truth?”

He shrugged and said simply, “It was time.”  

***

Later that night, Sansa sat in her study.  She was finished sorting through what, exactly, the Reeds had brought with them.  It was a large, and much appreciated, infusion of food into her stores. It went a little ways towards soothing the hurt of Howland’s negligence during the war for the dawn.  And their grower had ensconced himself with the maester Sam sent up from the south. Though no longer part of the seven kingdoms, Sansa had no wish to alienate her powerful neighbor, and so did not sever ties with them altogether.  It would only be beneficial to her people if trade and communication remained easy between the two countries, so she allowed passage through the border she’d established in the neck.

A knock on the door told her that the person she’d sent for was on the other side of it.  She looked up from her work and said, “Enter!”

Her guard opened the door, and in strode the lady Jyana Reed.  The older woman approached Sansa’s desk and bowed, “Good evening, your grace.”  

“Good evening.  Please, sit,” she gestured to one of the chairs in front of her.  She sent one of the servants to get fresh tea for her guest, “I apologize for the late hour.  I find myself up longer these days.”

“Running a kingdom is hard work,” a half smile, a flicker of knowing humor.  The tea arrived and they were both quiet while it was poured. Then Sansa dismissed all of the servants and guards from the room.  She wished to be alone with the lady Reed.

When they were gone, Sansa cut straight to the point of summoning the other woman.  There was no need to dissemble, here, she needed the truth, “I know who you are.”

This time, Jyana’s smile was wide and genuine, “I would have been so disappointed if you hadn’t figured it out.”  

“‘The beautiful maid with the haunting violet eyes’,” she quoted.  She knew the story her father told her, the story he’d allowed to be spread for years.  The tragedy of Ashara Dayne, who threw herself from a tower when she found her brother had died, “Shall I continue referring to you as Jyana, or do you prefer Ashara?”

“It’s been so long since anyone called me Ashara, I doubt I’d even know to answer to it,” she leaned back and took a sip of her tea, “You’d like the whole story, I suppose?”

“I’d like the truth of it,” Sansa replied.  

“After the rebellion, and after the Tower of Joy, your father showed up in Starfall with three things: a man, a sword, and a baby.  The man was Howland, whom I’d met at the tourney,” no need to explain which one. The tourney at Harrenhal was infamous, “After your aunt stood up for him, of course.  And we, well, we connected. So I was happy to see him again when he showed up with your father - his liege lord.”

“The convenience of it boggles the mind,” Sansa added, one corner of her mouth turning up.  

“Doesn’t it just? The one person who could grant us permission to marry.  My father was dead, and so was my brother. My sister yet lives, but she doesn’t know that I did not throw myself from a tower,” she rolled her eyes, and Sansa immediately liked her better, “As if I’d be so weak.  I’d never fainted once in my life to that point, and I’d endured the unwelcome attentions of near every man at court by then.”

This made Sansa laugh aloud.  She could not remember the last time she laughed, “Ah, you poor shrinking violet.”  

“Men always underestimate beautiful women,” a flash of understanding passed between them, and Ashara continued, “The sword was Dawn, the white blade of our family.  It had belonged to my brother, who was the Sword of the Morning. Many people don’t know this, but when we were younger, my father allowed me to train with Arthur. He felt it was a passing interest, and we are Dornish, so he allowed me to add those skills to my arsenal as long as my others weren’t neglected.  As it turns out, I was almost as skilled as my brother. We trained together every day until he left for the Kingsguard, and I’ve never let my practice of swordplay dull. So your father brought Dawn home and I took it for my own. I would have taken the title for myself, too, but...”

“Naming a woman the Star of the Morning is a step too far for even the Dornish,” Sansa understood.  She’d seen how they reacted to Arya, and Arya was just a young girl when she’d begun learning to use a sword.  Ashara was widely considered the most beautiful girl in the realm at the time, and none would have let a prize like that be wasted on swordplay.  

“Exactly.  I kept the sword though, and there is no one in my homeland who would be able to best me even now.  So you father brought me a husband and a weapon...and the most dangerous child in the whole realm.”

“Jon,” Sansa breathed his name.  

“Aegon.  Howland, Ned, and I were the only three who knew.  There was a wet nurse - Wylla - but she thought that he was a bastard fathered during the war.  We never spoke of his true parentage, but we all knew. So the three of us decided that Ned would keep the secret, and not allow Robert to murder the child.”

“I’ve been told of his hatred of Targaryens,” Sansa said.  

“And the way he believed he loved Lyanna.  To him, Jon would have been blasphemy. The highest kind of sin.  Lyanna explained that she and Rhaegar married, that Jon was now the legitimate heir to the Iron Throne - Rhaegar’s only surviving sun.  He had a better claim than the brother, Viserys.”

“Or the sister,” Sansa muttered.  Thinking about Daenerys still made her feel angry and bitter.  

“Yes,” Ashara nodded, “Marrying Howland was an easy choice.  We were in love, and no one would be able to follow me into Greywatch.  It took me from court, too, from people who would ask far too many questions.  Howland and Ned were both loathe to subject me to that, and to risk my life. Should the information about Aegon come out, I would be hostage to the Iron Throne.”  

“Yes.  I can see the risk.  I’ve...spent time there.  It’s a scorpion pit.”

“It always has been.  Too many people too close to power and too idle.”

Sansa grinned, “Perhaps they should all take up swordplay.”

Ashara laughed, her violet eyes sparkling, “Well, it certainly would make life more interesting.  We deemed court not worth the risk. The decision was easier than faking my death, but we still did both things.  We considered taking Aegon with us into the swamp - if he turned out to have the silver hair and purple eyes of the Targaryens, it could be explained by my own ancestry.  But Ned lingered long enough at Starfall that Aegon’s peach-fuzz baby hair started to fall out and his real hair started to come in. It was dark, almost black. His eyes turned from the blue of all children into the dark grey of the starks.  He looked like one of them, and so Ned took him home. The rest, you know.”

It was so much information to turn over in her mind, and she’d just begun to digest it when there was a knock on the door.  Sansa’s head snapped up and she frowned. Ashara whipped towards the door, hand going for a sword that wasn’t currently at her belt.  They exchanged a look, an understanding that flows between many women who clawed some amount of happiness from the world of men. Women like her and Ashara, they would defend that happiness to their deaths.  No one should be knocking on her door at this hour. Sansa let the mantle of queen cover the woman who had just been hearing a story about her father, and said, “Come in.”

The door opened and Sansa caught a glimpse of white fur and red eyes, and she relaxed, knowing who it was.  Jon entered with Ghost, his face set in the same grim, brooding expression he wore almost all of the time. He was thinner than when she saw him last, and still covered in the black of the night’s watch.  His hair and beard hadn’t been cut in an age, but then, Jon had never been very good at that. Part of her was glad to see him, her friend, her cousin, her adopted brother. The other knew he wouldn’t be here without reason.  Last she heard he’d been roaming north of the wall, likely stewing in his own guilt, and ranging for the Watch.

“Speak of the devil,” she said to him, by way of greeting.  A smile flickered briefly across his face, as if he was glad to see her but couldn’t say it through whatever it was that cast a shadow on his thoughts.  

“Hello, Sansa,” he sounded as she remembered.  His high born accent was tinged with the sounds of the low born of the north from the men he’d grown up around.  Being in the Night’s Watch only strengthened those tones, “Sorry to disturb you so late.”

She waved her hand dismissively, “You are my brother.  It’s not a trial. I was awake anyway. This is the lady Ashara Dayne.  She has taken a new name and married Howland Reed, so she is now the lady Jyana Reed.  Lady Reed, this is my brother, Jon Snow.”

Jon sketched a bow in her direction, and her voice was a barely a breath when she said, “Aegon.  I have not seen you since you were a baby.”

He frowned and looked at Sansa in question.  Sansa nodded, “Well, pleasure to re-make your acquaintance, then.”  

“Now that we are all introduced, I imagine you’re not here just to visit me,” Sansa said to him.  

“Sadly, no.  I’ve come to warn you.  There is something wrong, there is danger.”  

She sighed heavily, “Jon.  Just once, could you bring me good news?”

Chapter Text

“Come to!,” She yelled.  Salt wind blew, and the sun-faded direwolf sails flapped overhead as the crew furled them.  Ropes creaked and water splashed against the bow of the Stormlord as it cut through the water, slowing after her command.   You’re too sentimental , her first mate had said when she’d explained what the ship’s name meant, Will you name your next one after me if I fuck you right? , he’d teased.   If you’re better in bed than him, I might name two ships after you , she’d thrown back at him, laughing.  Imari was a huge Summer Islander only a few years older than her, but with a lifetime of experience on the sea.  She’d met him when they’d stopped in Tyrosh for provisions. She’d given the crew a few days’ shore leave before heading through the Stepstones, and she had gone to a tavern with several of them.  They’d all gotten into a fight with a group of Tyroshi pirates, and the only two left standing were her and Imari. He’d bought her a drink, and since then they’d been fast friends. He was the only one she’d met along the journey who had seemed as enthusiastic as she was about exploring westward.  

It was hot, so hot.  How was it so hot even in winter? She’d taken to wearing only her breeches and a thin linen shirt, having ditched her heavy winter furs and leathers as soon as the air started to warm.  King’s Landing was on the eastern side of Westeros, and it had taken weeks of sailing just to get around the arm of Dorne and head west to the Sunset Sea. Their last port of call was Old Town, where they loaded the ship up with food and other provisions.  Then they struck out west. After two weeks, a storm had blown them off course, and they still hadn’t recovered. They were too far south, stuck in a trade wind. The fresh food ran out quickly, but she’d made sure to bring plenty of dried meat. They caught fish every day to eat, and conserved the dried fruit Arya had been wise to pack into the holds.  Instead of eating it directly, it was used in the cooking and it went further. Water was still a problem though, and they were running low. It wasn’t to the point of crisis yet because they’d conserved, but soon it would be a problem. They didn’t have enough to get back to any known land, though, so she pressed forward.

“You’ve got that look on your face again,” she turned her head towards the voice.  Imari was ascending the steps to the helm. Where she wilted in the heat, he thrived.  His dark skin became even darker, until it was the color of moist, rich, newly-turned earth.  Until he disappeared against the dark of night, becoming a shadow with stars for eyes. For his eyes were light in color - some quirk of his ancestry had made them spring green.  He ate like a horse, but once they’d gotten out to sea, the activity had melted all the fat from his muscles and left behind a body perfectly honed for his work. He prowled the deck, never seeming to tire, wearing only his boots and breeches, his bald head always crowned in the sweat of a hard day of work.  

“Which look?,” she asked, turning back to her perusal of the horizon.  It was nearly dark, and the crew was beginning to settle for the night.  She stayed near the helm, though, liking to watch as the stars came out.

“The one that tells me you’ve been thinking to hard again.”  

“Better than not thinking hard enough,” a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.  

“Did someone teach you to brood like that?”

“My older brother,” no need to mention that Jon was her cousin.  She still thought of him as her brother, and always would.

“He must have been an adept teacher,” he came to a stop next to her, following her gaze out to the open ocean, “What has been troubling you this time?”

“The water.”  

“I see.  We could find land you know.  Some of the men have claimed that they saw gulls.”

“They could just be hallucinating, too.”  

“But there could be land.”  

Arya shrugged, “We’ll see.  Are you staying out tonight?”

He nodded, “It’s my turn.  You should sleep, your sparring session is early tomorrow.”  

“Everything is always early on this ship,” Sometimes, she missed the dark.  It was comforting to her, now, after Braavos. The nights were long in the north, and dark reminded her of home.  When it was dark, it was easier to find the god of death. She wondered, not for the first time, if they could become a ship that sailed at night and rested in the day.  Everytime she brought it up, Imari found a way to dissuade her. It was hard enough, he said, to keep the crew calm on such a voyage as this. It would not become an easier task if they were kept awake all night.  The sky was almost black, now. A shade of dark purple dotted with a few twinkling white lights. A break from the heat, too.

He looked at her, noticing how distracted she was, “Go, eat the dinner that’s in your cabin.  Sleep. Do whatever it is you do in there when no one is around.”

Her eyes flicked up at him, “I know what you’re implying.”

A quick, easy grin, “Do you now?”

“I do,” she replied, turning to leave before he could think of an answering jab.  She’d never really responded to his lewd jokes or flirting, not seriously, but sometimes it was difficult.  Her first impulse was to banter with him, to use her words like she used her blade. She enjoyed it. But flirting wasn’t something she excelled at and she didn’t want him to take her seriously.  

Although she didn’t precisely want him to not take her seriously, either.  

Her boots clumped against the steps as she skipped down them.  She said goodnight to any that crossed her path, and retreated into the calm dimness of her quarters.  As was her custom, the windows were open. She didn’t light candles in here, instead preferring to see only by what light came through the open windows.  Only on the darkest of nights did she conceded and light a candle.

She insisted on eating exactly as the crew did, and waiting for her was a bowl of stew, some bread, and some cheese.  She sat and tucked in, the flavors bursting across her tongue as she shoveled stew into her face. She could taste so many things in there, even the dried fruit that her talented cook managed to work into every recipe.  It never seemed out of place in the dish, and thus far none of her men had gotten scurvy. But she was terrible at stopping to appreciate the taste. She’d picked up the habit of eating quickly while travelling with Sandor, and never quite changed.  

Today had been especially busy and worrying, so after she finished her attempts to sort through some paperwork were stymied by her drooping head.  Putting the papers aside, she pulled her clothes off and flopped down on the bed face-first. It was too hot for clothes or covers. Too hot to even move.  She closed her eyes and listened to the waves and let the ocean rock her to sleep.

What was that smell? She blinked, looking around.  Snow? Why was there snow under her...paw? She scratched at the ground a little, inhaling the air.  Home. It smelled like home. The cold was so comforting after the stifling, wet heat of the ocean.  She hopped around, kicking up snow, her heart singing. Home! Cold! Snow! She stopped, looking around.  Nearby, the high walls of Winterfell curved away from her. There were homes around, people milling. Some of them were staring at her now, so she started trotting away from them.  She knew where she was - the winter village, outside her gates. She loped through the open gate, the guard barely sparing her a glance. She wondered at that. Why where they unafraid?

Other scents caught her attention.  Criss-crossing humans, so many that she didn’t know.  Strange foods that smelled like brine. But there, under it all, weaving through the tapestry, was the smell of her sister.  And, she realized with surprise, her brothers. The human brother and the wolf brother. Their smells were strong and new, and she followed them, wanting to see her favorite brother.  Across the bailey, into the main keep. Through the entry, and through the twisting halls towards the rooms where her sister lived. The rooms that used to house her parents. She knew the way, now, and upped her pace.  

She caught sight of guards outside the door, but if they were surprised to see a dire wolf running for them, they didn’t show it.  She stopped in front of the door, looking expectantly at the guards. They exchanged and expression with each other, and one shrugged.  The other looked down at her and said, “Shoo, wolfie. Your mistress is busy.”

She whined at them, and they ignored her.  She stepped forward, scratching at the door.  She could smell them beyond the door; her sister, her wolf brother, her human brother, and one other that she didn’t know.  She wanted to see them, so she whined again, scratching harder, pawing at the doorknob. Her paws couldn’t make it work right, and the men still wouldn’t help her.  The door shook at she scratched harder on it, and the men edged away.

“Willem!,” came her sister’s loud voice on the other side of the door, “Let her in!”

The guard, for his part, seemed relieved, and reached around her to open the door for her.  She huffed at him, gloating, as she walked past. She noticed the visitor’s eyes widen a fraction and the woman said, “Two of them? There’s two of them?”

A half second later, her human brother said, “Nymria is here?”

“I...forgot to tell you,” her sister replied, “She showed up about two moons ago.  I let her come and go as she wishes.”

Ghost padded over to her.  Her quiet, solemn brother. He didn’t look so good, scratches in his fur and one of his ears missing.  But he was still her brother, and they sniffed each other, tails wagging in greeting. They rubbed against each other, and she gave a few happy yips.  Her brother was, as always silent. She wasn’t even sure whether or not he could make noise. It didn’t matter to her, he was still her brother. After she greeted her wolf brother, she greeted her human brother, yipping and shoving her face into his hand.  He smiled, scratching her behind the ears. Greetings finished, she and her wolf brother found places in front of the fire. The humans lapsed again into discussion. Ghost fell asleep, but she wanted to listen, so she relaxed, her head on her paws, ears attentive to their words.  

“What do you mean, you were in a tree?,” her sister asked her human brother.  

“I think that’s where I was.  I can’t be sure. I was down there and one of the corpses grabbed me, and then I was someplace else.  I was in Castle Black, but it was empty. Sansa, I can’t explain it. There was someone there, and he showed me Bran talking to the three-eyed raven--”

“He is the three-eyed raven,” her sister retorted.  

“The one who came before him.  This was someone else, someone older.  He had white hair, and a red eye, and a strange birthmark,” she smelled a spike of fear from her sister, and from the purple-eyed woman.  

They exchanged a look, and the woman said, “A port stain birthmark? Large and on the right side of his face? In a queer shape, almost like a raven?”

“Yes,” her human-brother frowned, “How could you possibly know that?”

“Bloodraven.  One of the great bastards.  Septa Mordane taught us about them when we learned about the Blackfyre Rebellions,” her sister said, “How was he possibly alive?”

“Foul magic, I’m sure,” her human-brother said, “He was part of a tree.  It was growing through him.”

“Foul, indeed,” muttered the purple eyed woman, sinking back in her chair.  

“It’s worse,” her human-brother continued, “I had a guide while I was in there.  He was talking, and then he had to flee. Hoardfrost chased him from the visions, and we heard...sounds.  Like talking, but ice cracking instead of words. I’ve been dreaming about them, too, lately.”

“I’ve been having wolf dreams,” her sister said, quietly, “I haven’t had them since...since lady was alive.  But Nymeria has brought them back to me.”

“I have them too,” her human brother answered.  She restrained the desire to wake her wolf-brother by kicking him.  He always slept through the interesting things, “I dream that I’m ghost.  They’re not dream, Sansa. We can do what Bran can do. Or something like it.  We can skinchange.”

“Another thing to worry me, that’s what will make my night complete,” her sister’s sarcasm was cutting.  Her pride in her sister swelled, and if she’d been able to smile she would have.

“The guide told me to learn to use the gift,” her human brother said, “And I think he was right.  We should learn to use our gift. Because I don’t think it’s coincidence that we start having wolf dreams and I see frost and ice.  I think that the Night King somehow survived.”

The words, that name, woke terror deep inside her, and she ran from it.  Ran from Winterfell, from Nymeria, from all of it. Sailing back as the would passed under her in a rush.  Her ship was close, so close, but them something flickered on the horizon. Her attention caught, and she pulled towards it.  Bright, the thing was, bright. She got closer and she saw that there was more than one. They were flames, bright and happy, dancing and wheeling in the sky.  

Join us , they whispered, become us.  

She obeyed, pulling towards them, the sea rushing under her.  She reached for one, touched it. And her whole self was aflame.  It was so strong, this thing, so strong! It burned and burned and the pain was everywhere.  The pain was inside her, clawing at her with tiny fingers, melting her, consuming her. Too much, it was too much, and--

“Arya!,” Someone was shaking her, “Arya, wake up!”

She heard the voice, the familiar silk of it, and she opened her eyes.  Imari was there, worry splashed onto every feature, his hands on her shoulders, “Wha--?”

“You were screaming.  In your sleep. Loud enough to wake the ship,” she closed her eyes and groaned, her whole sweat-covered body ached.  

Whole Body.  

Shit.  

She was naked.  She opened her eyes, and Imari hadn’t broken her gaze.  Hadn’t looked anywhere but her face. Hadn’t touched anything but her shoulders.  But he was staring into her eyes very intensely, not blinking, almost like he was holding onto her gaze for dear life.  And the longer he looked, and the longer silence hung in the space between them, the further away her dream was chased. The more she relaxed.  They were still, the both of them, not letting a single muscle twitch. Unbidden, other thoughts came to her. The sight of the smooth curve of his spine down the middle of his broad back, muscles moving and working under dark skin and the bright sun.  His laugh, and his teasing words. The habit he had of shifting in his seat and crossing one leg over the other when they were alone in her cabin together. He couldn’t seem to keep still. His arms while he pulled on the ropes, helping the crew. The thin thread of fear she felt every time he climbed to the crow’s nest.  She thought of these things, and a different kind of tension coiled low in her belly. She’d loved Gendry, and she’d wanted to be with him, but it didn’t feel the same around Imari. She woke up around him.

And it terrified her.  The god of death couldn’t scare her.  The dragons only angered her. The undead challenged her.  But this? This terrified her. So when Imari’s expression changed, and his face came closer to hers, she gasped in a breath and shoved herself up and backwards, out of his hands, her back to the wall.  She grabbed her unused sheet as she went and wrapped them tightly around herself. His eyes never left her face, she noticed, didn’t leer at her the way Meryn Trant had. Didn’t stare at her with quiet, pregnant longing the way Gendry had.  There were no presumptions here, no expectations. Only Imari’s concern for her well-being, and the tight heat that always lurked under his teasing. It was just...him.

And she could not be made bare like that.  Nudity was one thing, but her soul? No, that belonged only to her.  She she forced her breathing to slow and said, “Thank you. For waking me.  I was...I was having a nightmare.”

He nodded and stood, filling a cup with water leftover from her supper.  He handed it to her, and she drank gratefully, “Are you ok?”

“I don’t know,” she said when she’d finished drinking, “I...saw things.  I was burning.”

That last was whispered so quietly he likely barely heard, “You were visited by your god of death.”

She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t talk about it, so she nodded and shrugged, fidgeting with the now-empty cup in her hands.  She didn’t know what to say, and she wanted him to go so that she could think about what she’d seen and heard. Wolf dreams. She hadn’t had one in so long, but she knew what they were.  She remembered from the nights in Braavos. Nymeria was in Winterfell, and something was going on. Something that made her stomach turn. It seemed the many-faced god wasn’t finished with her yet.  Or were these the old gods? Was she still no one? Could no one warg into a wolf? So many questions that she didn’t have answers for. And the burning, oh, the burning. The pain made her skin twitch, and she pulled the sheet tighter.  

Imari seemed to sense her discomfort, and he took the empty cup from her hand, placing it on the table beside her, “I’ll be up the rest of the night.  Go back to sleep.”

Safe.  She was safe.  She nodded at him, and he slipped out the door, closing it behind him.  She laid down, mind racing, and attempted to go back to sleep. The blackness found her, and the only thing that chased her through that soft darkness was the aching between her legs.  It chased her right into dreams of a different kind.

Chapter Text

Yara tossed the crumpled piece of paper in the fire, cursing softly to herself.  Helya looked expectantly at her, “Well? What did they say?”  

“They’re not willing to trade with us,” she forced the words out through clenched teeth.  The answer was the same from Banefort, The Crag, and now Seagard. She’d planned to open relations with them, because it would be easier to trade in goods coming across the neck through Seagard and Sisterton on the eastern side of the continent rather than sailing all the way around Westeros, but long years of being victims of Iron Born raiding made them resolutely opposed to opening trade negotiations.  That, in turn, made it much more difficult to turn her captains to trade rather than raiding. Already some of the stronger ones had started pillaging smaller towns on nearby coasts as rumors of food shortages spread. The captains were discovering what Yara already knew - there was little food to be stolen, “They’re sheltered fools who were kept too far removed from the war.”  

“They should be taught a lesson.  Reminded that you are the Lady Reaper of Pyke, not some little girl sitting on daddy’s chair,”  Helya had her feet up on a nearby table, half her attention on cleaning her nails with a knife she’d produced from somewhere on her person.  

“I’m hard-pressed to disagree with you,” she admitted.  The impulse was so strong. That way of life was all she really knew, and yet, “But it isn’t sustainable forever.  The rest of the six kingdoms could come and make war on us all over again.”  

“They’re too depleted for that.”  

“Aye, but they won’t be forever.  Spring will come, and then summer, and then they’ll start growing things again.  We will still be here on our island with our metal and our rocks. Euron lost most of our ships to the dragon queen; mad fool that he was,” his body had been found on the shore, gutted like a fish, and returned to Yara after the razing of the city.  She’d tossed it overboard on her way home, burying him at sea. Let the Drowned God take him. The sharks, too.  

“So we make more.  We make them better.”  

Something about Helya’s suggestion tickled an idea in the back of Yara’s mind, “Make them better.  Yes,” she looked up at Helya and grinned, “I think you may have found a solution to our problem.”  

“Oh?,” an arched eyebrow, and she looked up from cleaning her nails.  

Yara leaned forward, “The Stark girl, Arya, came south with the others and asked me to teach her about sailing.  So I took her on my ships for awhile when we moved the fleet. She told me that after her family was slain by the Freys, she went to Braavos.  The Braavosi, she said, can build a war galley in a day. Our fleet wasn’t the only fleet to be depleted in the years since Robert’s death. Maybe they won’t treat with us for iron, but if we can learn from the Braavosi, attract some of their ship builders, we could make ships they’d want.”  

“It’s not a terrible idea,” Helya conceded, “It doesn’t solve the immediate problem of food, though.”

“No,” Yara agreed, “But it is a start.  It’s something. It’s a way of showing that we mean it when we say that we would rather trade than reave.”  

“I don’t know that the other captains agree with you.” 

“I know.  That is why I haven’t tried to stop any of them from the small bit of reaving they’ve engaged in.  Let them keep some traditions. They can’t all be taken at once, or I will have a rebellion on my hands,” Iron Islanders had no qualms about showing their displeasure, even to their liege lord.  Sometimes especially to their liege lord, “Our only option is Lannisport.”  

“Tyrion agreed to that long ago, and since you negotiated the terms while you were in King’s Landing with him there wasn’t much to do before we got started.  But our sailors are finding it difficult to,” she hesitated, looking for the right words, “Function.”  

“What do you mean?” 

“They find that the inns are all full, or there is no dock master to check their cargo and let them ashore.  The brothels and taverns mysteriously are low on whores and serving wenches to bring them food and drink. Everyone already has all the iron they need, even when they’ve been advertising for it in the trade lists.”  

“Damn them!,” she pounded her fist on the table in frustration and jumped from her chair, pacing the room, “Damn them all; the people of Lannisport, the five kings, and every idiot fucking man that came before me who thought that killing and raping was a sustainable way of life! There must have been something before.  There must be something that we did before we turned to reaving that sustained us.”  

Helya, ever practical, pointed out, “I’m not sure it would matter if there was.  It’s been too many years and too much blood. If we can’t reave, we can’t take thralls.  If we can’t take thralls then we can’t work the mines. And you need to be careful with this talk, Yara.  You’re starting to sound like one of the green mainlanders.”  

The problem was an ancient one.  The soil of the Iron Islands was too poor to grow food in abundance, and the backbones of the Ironmen weren’t flexible enough that they’d deign to work in the mines.  So they raided, took thralls and salt wives, and forced the former into the iron mines. Slaves is what they really were. Slaves that they could scarce afford to feed.  And if the thralls couldn’t be fed, then they would die, and with them the iron mining and Yara’s last hope turning the ship of the Ironborn in a different direction. They’d be forced to return to raiding, as they had been before.  

This is too hard , she thought to herself, Too hard to keep this promise.  Tyrion should have asked for something else.  

That was one of the conditions of their negotiations, as it had been with the dragon queen.  Stop raiding. Stop killing. Stop raping and stealing and stop the bleeding they’d all be doing.  The war, Theon’s death, Euron...her taste for blood had lessened just as much as Tyrion’s had and so she’d agreed.  She’d naively agreed without realizing how difficult it would be. But she was Yara Greyjoy, godsdammit, and she had a spine just as strong as the rest of the Ironborn.  Stronger, even, for the extra challenge of being a woman and a captain and a leader. She could do this. She could find a way for her people to live that didn’t require that they resort to the old ways.  She’d paid the iron price for these islands, many times over, and she would not give up on them so easily. She chose the footsteps of her grandfather, not her father. Or mayhaps she was a bit of both.  

She walked back behind her desk, leaning on it with her fists, “Any news of my uncle?” 

“None that you haven’t already been appraised of,” he still was hiding somewhere in the islands.  Ministering to people and vanishing whenever she got close. She wondered what he was so afraid of, and what was he doing in those towns? Was her fomenting rebellion? Somehow she didn’t think so.  Damphair hadn’t so much as looked at politics since becoming a priest. But if he wasn’t doing something underhanded, why was he so resolutely avoiding her soldiers? Did he think she was Euron? Did he know of his brother’s death? She’d have no answers until she caught him and could ask.  She tightened her fists and stood again.  

“I’m going to walk.  I need to think,” she said, stalking out of the room.  

She let her mind wander while her feet did, mulling over her multitude of problems.  She had spent the last months, since King’s Landing, turning the same problems over in her mind with no solutions.  Every route she attempted to go down yielded the same ending - years of raiding by Pyke had made for no friends and bitter enemies.  It didn’t really matter that her grandfather had tried to bring peace, and had tried to un-do some of that damage. Her father with his two unsuccessful rebellions and her uncle with his madness had destroyed any progress her grandfather might have made.  

Her steps led her to the throne room and the seastone chair.  She stopped there, idly staring at it. She didn’t much like the thing - it was hulking and huge, made of oily black stone that was carved to resemble a kraken with a seat nestled in its tentacles.  She’d always felt uneasy around it. The strangeness of it, the otherworldly nature of it, made her feel as if ants were marching along her skin. Like the beast might come alive at any moment and wrap her in those tentacles and drag her down to the Drowned God’s hall.  When she was a child, she used to run through the hall as fast as she could. It made no matter to her that her brothers laughed at her, and took turns playing on the chair, pretending to be lord reaper. All of them were dead now, and she was not. She was now the future of their house, and the future of the islands.  

We do not sow , the words were whispered in her mind, clear through the jumble of thoughts and questions and problems.  

“We do not,” she whispered to herself, “But it does not mean we must destroy and steal to live.”  

We do not SOW , came the thought, queer-feeling in her mind, and she frowned.  She looked up at the chair. Had that tentacle always been at that position? The one at the top.  Surely it must have been. Stone couldn’t move. But there was something different about the chair, and she could not discern exactly what it was.  Just her mind playing tricks, no doubt. The childhood fear too deeply ingrained in her. She turned from the chair and continued on.  

She continued down the halls, moving quietly.  She liked to move quietly sometimes, because when people didn’t know she was coming they didn’t stop talking, and she could more easily hear things about her castle that she otherwise might not.  That was the case right now, as she heard voices from around the bend. She recognized them as belonging to two of her servants.  

“Did you hear about Jade and Derry?,” one said to the other, the delight of gossip clear in her mind.  

“I did not, but I’ve a guess,” the other said, the dry humor clear in her voice.  

“Well, I heard that she’d been letting him,” a sweet, girlish giggle, “You know, plow her field .”  

“The whole castle knows that.  Likely even the lady reaper herself,” it was true, Yara did know that, she simply hadn’t cared.  Let them do as they will, they weren’t thralls.  

“Yes, but,” there was a pause and a giggle, “The sowing of that fertile earth has yielded fruit, if you catch my meaning.” 

“I catch your meaning,” the second woman said, sounding marginally more interested, but Yara had stopped listening.  An idea occurred to her, something that might solve many of her problems at once. Something so simple that she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before.  She turned and hurried back towards her solar where she’d left Helya.  

She caught the other woman on the bridge between the Bloody Keep and the Kitchen Keep, and stopped her, “Helya, I’ve an answer to our problems.”  

“Oh? That was fast,” Yara didn’t even bother to roll her eyes at the tone.  

“Contact the captains.  Gather as much of the fleet as you can without leaving the islands unprotected.  Longships and trading vessels alike. Give them all flags of truce and command them to be raised at all times.  We sail for Seagard.”  

***

Helya’s efficiency had the fleet gathered at Pyke in short order.  It took merely a week for them to appear in the harbor of Lordsport.  All of the captains were given flags of truce and told to fly them. Some grumbled about it, but none disobeyed.  For now, they still had at least some faith or fear in or of the lady reaper. They took provisions for the journey, although not many were needed because Seagard was close, but Yara made sure that the trading ships carried useful cargo.  She sent a raven to House Mallister announcing her intent to visit, and sent it off the morning the sailed from Lordsport. It would precede their arrival, but not by long enough for the Mallisters to really muster any defense. Not that they’d ever been all that good at defending against the Ironborn.  In any case, she didn’t want them to take her announced visit as an opportunity to exact some revenge. She needed to talk to them, to be their guest.  

It was a short voyage from Lordsport to Seagard, and they passed quickly for Yara.  Too quickly, for she loved the sea and she loved her ship. She had forgotten what it felt like to hear the waves and feel the rocking of the deck beneath her feet.  She was wasted sitting in a solar on Pyke, and for a moment she allowed her brain to feel and process those doubts. She allowed them to come, and she allowed herself a few moments of worry.  Then she folded those worries away, acknowledging them, but not giving them power over her. She had set a course, and she would follow it unless it became obvious that it was the wrong course.  

They pulled into the harbor in the mid-morning and, to her relief, the great bronze bell did not ring.  It had been built centuries ago to warn the citizens of an attack by the Ironmen. The whole city, in fact, was built to keep the Ironmen at bay.  Colorful homes were built on terraces carved into the sides of hills, ringed by strong walls. The white-walled keep stretched above it all on the tallest part of the hills, a long causeway arching through the sky from it to the robust belltower out in the harbor.  It was like Pyke, in a way, to have built the belltower and a few smaller towers, on small, rocky spits of land that didn’t deserve to be called ‘island’. They, too, were stained by centuries of salt spray and eroded by the sea.  

All of the Greyjoys who visited Seagard have died , she thought to herself, I hope I do not join them .  She remembered the last time that bell was rung, and she remembered exactly why.  Her father sent her brother here to take Seagard many years ago during the Greyjoy rebellion.  The fight that ended with her two older brothers dead, one beneath the walls of Seagard, and her third brother growing up hostage to the Starks.  For the hundredth time, she wondered if this was all folly. If she should be here at all. Peace, she realized, can be just as risky as war. Trust is harder to stomach than running into a battle with a sword, and deceit a more difficult enemy to fight.  Her father, then, had been a coward through and through - too weak and proud to see that alliances bore more fruit than wars. She’d fought her share of battles, and likely would again, but she would try this first. Smarter to know which battles to fight, and which to avoid.  

She’d left Helya and Wendamyr back on Pyke, but she’d had other advisors and nobles join her.  She turned to Qarl, “Signal the other ships. We go ashore.”  

He nodded, acknowledging her command, “Am I staying or going?” 

“Going.  The others can go ashore, too, but they are under no circumstances to disturb the peace.  Tell any man - or woman - who does that they’ll be tied to the bow of the ship for the trip home,” she didn’t wait for him to do as she said; she knew he would.  Her first mate was as loyal and competent as he was pretty.  

Soon they were in the boat, rowing for shore.  The bay was calm, the water glassy and welcoming.  It seemed to almost be a different color here, a brighter teal rather than the angry browns and dark blues of Pyke and the Iron Islands.  They were in the open ocean, but Seagard was protected by the Cape of Eagles. So she watched the city as they approached, seeing the banners of the Mallisters occasionally rippling.  There wasn’t much of a breeze today, and it made the cold winter air slightly warmer. So the silver eagle stood proud and watchful on its indigo field, its eyes seeming to follow the boats’ movements.  

They rowed up to one of the white stone docks that stretched gracefully into the water, tying the boats up and climbing out onto the quay.  There was a group waiting to greet them. Armed, she saw, and armored. She wasn’t surprised; the enmity between their houses went back as far as the two had existed.  But , she thought to herself, we’d be stronger as allies.   She needed to ally with them, if she couldn’t, then the Ironborn would lose their patience and she’d have to lead them in reaving instead.  And lead them she would, because it would be the only way to limit the damage and direct their attacks to the right places. Otherwise they’d ravage the coast, and everyone would eat themselves out of house and home.  

“My lady reaver,” the man at the front said by way of greeting.  He was tall, and strong-looking, built well. He was handsome, with a strong jaw and deep green eyes.  His thick, brown hair was work slightly long, tied back at the nape of his neck, with some strands escaping.  His armor was well-made and cared for, she could tell, and his sword looked to be of good quality. There was no fear in his eyes as he met her stare, but a quirk at the corner of his mouth softened him a little.  Like he wanted to share some joke with them, to get past the formalities and onto the good time. She could appreciate the sentiment.  

“Lord Mallister,” she said, recognizing him as Patrek Mallister, heir to Seagard and Jason Mallister’s son, holding her hand out in greeting, “You’ve the look of your father.”  

He shook her hand, and some of the tenseness on both sides relaxed.  Hands weren’t as close to swords and some stares were broken, “Well, they do say I’ve a bit of my mother about my eyes.  Well met.”  

“Well met,” she was glad to see the man, because it meant his father was taking her request seriously enough, “Are we to go to the keep?” 

“Yes, but your men are to find rooms in the city.  You and your uncle and some others may come up to the castle,” Smart .  Get my men off the ships and scattered about the city so we cannot attack , she weighed her options, Yet some must stay or I will be robbed of all of my protection.   

“Some will stay on the ships to maintain them while we are here, but I will give the rest your instructions.  May I introduce my uncle, Lord Roderik Harlaw, and my first mate, Qarl. I’ve also brought Lord Tristifer Botley with me,” She motion to them in turn: her stern, older uncle, unassuming with his reading glasses in his hand and his average looks, but he was smart and she valued his council.  Qarl, with his thin build and his face so beautiful that he almost had the look of a woman, but he had earned his place by her side by being deadly with the blade he carried. And Tris, who was her friend and had long supported her, one of her stronger lords. He’d been abused by Euron, but she’d healed those wounds and returned what was stolen to him.  They’d known each other since childhood, when he’d been ugly and pimpled, but he’d grown into a handsome man, if too soft for life on the Iron Islands. All of them were friends, valued councillors, and loyal to her. Her uncle may gripe about her gender, but she was the last legitimate Greyjoy, so if he was still bothered by it, he kept his complaints to himself.  

Patrek gave them perfunctory nods of his head in turn to acknowledge them, “Seagard is glad to host you.  My father is particularly interested in making your acquaintance, lord Harlaw. He has heard of your library.” 

“He and everyone else,” her uncle was called The Reader, because of the amount of time he spent buried in her books.  It was said derisively by many, but Yara knew the value of the written word. She knew her uncle had learned much from his books.  

“Well, then, shall we?,” he didn’t bother introducing them men who were with him, so Yara wondered who they were, and if they were important.  She couldn’t really see their faces, hidden as they were behind their helms. Only Patrek had gone without one. He turned and started towards the looming, white structure above them, and she followed.  The guards fell in around her and the rest of her household. The clank of her armor added to her doubts about her decision to come here, and she hoped again that she wasn’t making the wrong choice.  

They were taking through a strong door near this dock, rather than through the open gates further down the waterfront.  Into the walls they went, and Patrek led them up a spiraling staircase that only allowed them to pass through single-file.  They didn’t talk as the ascended, the space being too small to be conducive to conversation. Up and up they went, passing several landings and doors, and Yara realized that they must be going up to the parapets.  

When they exited through a tower and out onto the top of the walls, she was shown to be correct.  The wall was wide, easily wide enough for horses to ride in both directions, with heavy artillery resting in the crenellations along the pathway, all pointed towards the sea.  She could see her ships from up here, looking like toys on a sheet of glass from this high. The sun shone down on them, warming the top of her head, and it was the warmest she’d been since returning from King’s Landing.  

“My apologies for the long climb,” Patrek said, walking to the battlements and gesturing out to the city, “But I wanted you to see the city from its best angle.  Come, look.”  

She joined him, turning from the sea to look at the city.  He was right, from far above she could see the bright colors hidden behind the high, white walls.  Clean, well-planned streets radiated away from the walls, snaking up the rolling hills into the neighborhoods.  Shops were open, people coming and going - and stopping to chat, even in the cold weather. The buildings were all made of the same white stone, but the colors came from the roofs - they were made of glazed, fired clay tiles.  The walls were painted, too, with bright, swirling, colorful designs decorating the buildings. And although winter meant bare trees and no flowers, she could see many bare branches and the well-kept gardens below them. It was everything Pyke was not, and it was everything that her family had tried to destroy over the years.  

“I can see why you’re so protective of it,” she admitted to him, and he laughed.  

“Your father hated what he could not have,” he said, gesturing to the city with his head.  

“My father hated a great many things.  Sometimes I think he hated everything.”  

“I’ve been told as much about him.  That he was angry and bitter to the end, and that your uncles are all mad.”  

“I can’t argue against it.  Euron was a madman, and Auron only cares for the Drowned God.”  

“And you?” 

She shrugged, “I care for what keeps my people fed.  I care for what moves us forward.” 

“Well, I care for wine and a warm bed,” the grin on his face was roguish, but it did not meet his eyes.  Not yet, but she saw no hostility in them either.  

“Worthy pursuits,” she intoned in a joking, falsely serious voice.  This time, he actually did laugh.  

They turned from the battlements and continued their walk along the walls, their retainers trailing closely behind them.  Patrek pointed out various things as they walked; here, the place where King Torrhen Mallister slew his brother when the latter tried to usurp the crown of the former.  There, the place where Lady Rysa Mallister wed Lord Lisson Stonehouse for love, in defiance of her father’s wishes. She’d done it in plain sight of his rooms, where he’d locked himself in protest and grief at the match.  He showed them the path that led to the great bronze bell that was rung when the Ironmen came. If she hadn’t grown up running across the swinging rope bridges on the Iron Islands, the thin, rail-less path and the long fall to the ocean below would have terrified her.  

He took them through the front gates and into the bailey, where the members of her household and guard that would be staying with her left with castle stewards to be shown to their rooms.  Qarl went with them, leaving her alone with her uncle and Tris. The silver eagle was everywhere - on livery, painted and carved into the stones of the castle, on tapestries, on armor, on silvery winged helms for the guardsmen, and on banners that hung from all of the walls that needed them.  That much silver and purple was suffocating. The only place Yara wore her colors was on her ship - the kraken swam on her sails, and stood on the banners that were tied to the masts. She wanted people to know she was coming, but she cared little for reminding them where they were once caught.  People taken to Pyke didn’t need banners to remind them who was in charge. There were banners near the gates, so old and faded that the black had turned to the grey of the stones they flapped against, and the salt had turned them stiff.  

He led them through the castle and deep into it.  Inside, rather than being built entirely for defense, it also held a kind of beauty.  The ceilings of the main areas arched far overhead, and windows high up let in sunlight.  The white of the walls reflected the light, making the whole interior bright. The floors, though, those were colorful and covered with mosaics in complicated pictures and patterns.  

When Patrek caught her looking up at the ceilings he said, “It also helps in the summer to keep it cool.  The heat rises into the vaults and stays up there. The windows have removable glass, so the doors are opened and the glass is removed, and the air flows up and out.  In some places we even have fountains, and the air rushing over the water in them cools us even further.”  

“That’s...smart,” she said, “It rarely gets hot enough on the Iron Islands to need something like that.” 

“Yes, you are rather exposed out there.  I admit, there have been days that I’ve been jealous of your closeness to the sea.  We leave near it, but you live in it, nearly.”  

“Or it lives in us,” she shrugged, “It rains a lot, too.”  

“Strange that the weather should be so different between two places so close together.”  

“Everything is different,” the only one among them who didn’t stand out like a dark smudge was Qarl.  He had a love for fashion that wasn’t suppressed by the taunts of the other Ironmen. It was easy to see why he’d become so good with his sword.  Being able to defend himself gave him a freedom that wasn’t possible for everyone.  

They passed through the halls, and towards Patrek’s father.  As they entered the throne room, Patrek laid a kiss on a stone in the lintel; a gesture that he clearly did without really thinking on it.  It was darkened by the touch of many hands, and under the dirt there were marks carved into it. When Yara gave him a questioning look he said, “The foundation stone for the the castle.  We kiss it for luck.”  

What a strange custom.  They are very attached to the buildings of this city , she felt the same urge her forefathers had felt: to take it from them.  To smash it, to break it. But unlike her forefathers, she tamped the urge down and followed Patrek Mallister into his father’s throne room.  

It wasn’t as large as she was expecting.  There was room along the sides and in the center for the nobles and anyone else who might need to see the ruler here, although at the moment it was mostly empty.  The architecture here was just as ornate, but there was no color save the white of the stone. All of the decoration came from carvings in the walls and pillars. Even the ceiling was covered, and there were reliefs in the floor, set behind thick panes of glass meant to be walked on.  There were, as to be expected, ornate fireplaces carved into the walls every few feet, several of them lit. It was winter, afterall, and the warmth was needed. At the back of the room was a throne - a great, carved eagle spread its wings from behind a stiff, white, smooth, stone chair that was barely more than a curved shape carved against the belly of the eagle.  But the head, and one of the wings, were missing and clearly smashed. Jason Mallister did not sit on that throne, but instead sat in a chair on the ground, in the apex of an arch of other chairs. Any that needed to speak to him would do it on eye level, and in view of his advisors. There was something that Yara respected about that. He didn’t place himself above his people, although his house words were “Above the Rest”.  

Patrek did no hesitate, and strode down the center of the room towards his father, bowing when he got there, “Father, I’ve brought the Lady of Pyke, Yara Greyjoy, her uncle Rodrik Hawlaw, and Lord Tristifer Botley, all of the Iron Islands.”  

Yara noticed that there weren’t many lords filling the seats, and she wondered if that was because of who she was or if they’d simply lost too many in the war.  Perhaps they had, perhaps Seagard wasn’t as untouched as she supposed. She stepped forward and bowed to Lord Mallister, “Thank you for allowing us into your home.”  

“Yes, yes,” his voice was dismissive, and she straightened to watch him, “It seems you’re more serious than I first surmised.”  

“I am, my lord.”  

“And you’ve come in person to beg an alliance from me?”   

She ground her teeth at the word beg, and shoved aside that small insult to her pride, “I believe that an alliance, an end to the long years of fighting between our houses, will be advantageous to us both.” 

“Ha, your ships were all destroyed by the dragon queen and ours were not.  Our city is whole and well-fed, and you are starving. You have nothing to offer me.”  

“Ironmen are always starving and targeted, and the only thing it’s ever done for us was make us very, very, hungry,” she emphasized the last word so he’d hear the threat in it, so he’d know that she wasn’t talking about food, “I am here because I believe that I can sate that hungry, and that in doing so it would make us both more...secure.”  

“You come here begging and then you threaten me?,” his voice was raised, his hackles up.  

“I come here as an equal, the ruler of one of the six kingdoms, and I tell you a truth you already know.  When the Ironmen lack something, or even when we’re simply bored, we raid. We attack, we raid, we steal, and we rape.  It’s how we’ve lived for thousands of years. Seagard is the closest and fattest target. You know it, I know it. Why equivocate?” 

He scowled at her, “You got your mouth from your father.” 

“And my brains from my mother, and my attitude from my grandsire.”  

“Your grandsire attempted peace, and failed.” 

“He failed because he grew old and died before his new ways could take hold, and his son had outsized ambitioned.  Conquer the seven kingdoms,” she rolled her eyes, “He would have been able to hold them or rule them. He was a foolish old man, and he died for it.”  

“And your uncle?” 

“He, too, is dead, and the other spends his day trying to suck the drowned god’s dick,” next to Jason, Patrek hid a laugh behind his hand, “The Damphair wants no part in the affairs of this world.” 

“It is true.  He flits around my island, bothering my people and covering them in seawater, as he has always done,” Roderick added.  Jason looked somewhat mollified.  

“Then what is it that you have come to ask me?,” Jason addressed the question to Yara.  

“I have a plan, my lord, and an offer, but it should only be heard by those you think are necessary.  I’ll leave it to you to decide whom you bring into your council.”  

He nodded, “Leave us.” 

The assembled nobles left, filing out of the room until only the lords Mallister, Yara, Roderick, and Jason’s Maester, Brandon, remained.  Even Tris left the room with the other nobles. After they were gone, it was time for Yara to make her proposal. She stood in front of Lord Mallister, back straight, and began, “My ultimate goal, in seeking an alliance with you, is to change how the Ironborn make our place in the world.”  

“Others have tried, you know.  Men greater than you have made the attempt at peace.”  

“They have,” she agreed, “And I have studied them and their methods.  I have listened and learned and I have captained my ship and led the fleet for many years now.  I have fought, but I have also spent much time with my uncle Roderick. You know how he values learning, and he passed that onto me.  I don’t enjoy reading as he does, but I have come to understand the real, true value of a learned person. He taught me about the failed kings and lords before me, and I have puzzled out the one thing all of them have done wrong.”  

“Oh, have you now?,” there was a hint of teasing sarcasm in Patrek’s voice.  

“I have.  They all sought to make the Ironmen stop sailing, stop raiding, to give up the sea without replacing it with anything else.  The Ironborn will never give up the sea, and they will never accept working in the mines, and we don’t have the land to tend farms.  But I will give them something else, something that won’t hurt their pride or take them far from the sea.”  

“And what is that?,” Jason didn’t sound an iota less skeptical than he had before.  

“Ships, my lord.  The dragon queen destroyed so many that it has stifled trade and crippled seaside defenses.  The Iron Fleet, the royal fleet, even the Redwyne fleet, have all been seriously depleted. I propose that an alliance between Seagard and the Iron Islands could position us to replenish these fleets.  Our knowledge and your resources would be a strong combination.”  

He hadn’t outright rejected her, and she could tell he was starting to listen, seeing the wisdom in what she was saying, so she continued, “Arya Stark told me of things she’d seen in Braavos, and how they have shipyards there that can build a ship in a day.  With the right agreements between Seagard and Pyke, we could lure away some of their ship builders and add their knowledge to our own. You have access to the Trident and the Kingsroad. We could establish a trade route overland between the east and west coasts of Westeros, right through the center of the kingdom.”  

“And what makes you think Edmure will allow an overland route through the middle of the riverlands?” 

“The Twins are empty, his land ravaged by the fighting, and his armies are weak.  He is weak. He will capitulate the first hint of profit. Edmure is not Hoster, Blackfish, or even Catelyn.  He will be easy to convince. Every town along the river, from here to Gulltown, would feel some benefit from an east west trading route.  And once we have replenished the fleets of Westeros, we will have established ourselves as masters of shipbuilding and seafaring knowledge.  That in and of itself becomes valuable.”  

She watched as Patrek and Lord Mallister thought it over, and Patrek’s eyes slid to his father, “It’s not a terrible notion.”  

“No,” his father said after a long silence, “It is not.  But I don’t trust your Ironborn as far as I could fling you.  What assurances can you give, what can you tell me to think you have any interest at all in maintaining this alliance?” 

In her mind, Yara tossed aside a hundred sarcastic responses.  She’d been expecting this, and she came prepared, “The same way the noble houses have trusted each other for thousands of years: Marriage.”  

Surprised flickered across Lord Mallister’s face, “For whom? Tristifer does not seem a large enough prize for the risk.”  

“Me, my lord.  I propose that we join our houses, and wed me to your son.  I am young and have many years of childbearing. I am the sole heir to the Iron Islands, as he is the sole heir to Seaguard.  Tristifer, yes, that is why I brought him. He can be wed to a maid of your choosing, but I offer myself to seal our bargain. We could end thousands of years of strife between our lands and create a vast fortune for both our houses,” she stole a glance at Patrek.  He was staring at her openly, thoughtfully.  

Lord Mallister gave a sharp not, “Go, find your rooms, you have given me much to consider.” 

Chapter Text

Bran wasn’t as hands-off a ruler as Robert had been, so he often attended the small council meetings, but he had no taste or talent for intrigue.  That was a good portion of the reason he kept Tyrion around. Gods knew he didn’t want to have to use his powers to stay aware of the plots-within-plots that characterized the court.  No, sparing Tyrion and appointing him hand had been a good decision that freed Bran’s time up for other things. Things that were more important than petty court drama, like the rebuilding of the city and the keep.  

He had new rooms carved out of the remains of Maegor’s Holdfast for him on the bottom floor so he wouldn’t have to be carried up the steps.  They were closer to the godswood, too. So close that he could see the grove from the windows of his solar. That was what he was looking at right now - staring out and searching to see if he could spot any splashes of red, yet.  Yes, there, maybe - when the wind rustled the branches.  

A knock on his door drew his attention from the window.  He nodded to Pod, giving permission to allow the maester to enter.  Future maester , Bran reminded himself, I must get better at keeping himself in the present .  People didn’t like it when he spoke of the future, and if they were uncomfortable around him it made all of his work much more difficult.  So Bran amended the statement in his head to Acolyte. Sam’s Acolyte, left behind to tend the ravens while Sam was at the citadel, likely carrying a message for him.  

“Hello Astor,” Bran greeted him.  The boy was young, only a little younger than Bran himself, but without Bran’s abilities.  He had featherlight blonde hair, blue eyes, and skin that needed to see the sun. He was tall and skinny, with the coltish legs of a teenager who hadn’t quite grown into their body yet.  His face was perpetually red from running around the castle, and puberty still had his face covered in tiny red pimples. His voice, though, had matured first, developing into a deep baritone that never cracked.  He sang in the sept sometimes when he thought no one was around, and the sound was sweet to Bran.  

“King Bran,” he sketched a bow.  They spoke often in Sam’s absence, and were familiar with each other, “I’ve today’s messages.”  

“Thank you, leave them in the usual place on the desk,” Astor hurried forward and pulled several small scrolls out of his pockets, neatly arranging them in order of importance on the desk.  

“It’s the usual stuff.  Requests from the kingdoms for food, trade arrangements, and the like.  Bills from the builders,” If Bran still could be worried, those would worry him.  Cersei hadn’t been kind to the kingdom’s coffers, nor had Robert before her. The throne was bankrupt and owed money to the likes of the Iron Bank of Braavos.  They hadn’t cared about the regime change, they wanted the money they’d given Cersei to pay for the Golden Company. Money the crown simply didn’t have. Bran, even before he’d become the Three-Eyed Raven, had never been very good at the business end of running his lands.  Adults had done it all for him, keeping him away from the details. Thus far though, Bronn had found ways to produce enough coin to allow the repairs to continue and minimum payments to the bank to be made. They had enough to keep the maintenance of the castle, too, but that was it.  He couldn’t pay men to patrol the Kingsroad, and bandits had started to crop up along it. The Goldcloaks were few and far between because the pay was bad, and so few of them had survived the sack. It was a high-risk, low-reward job that carried little prestige. The wretches that wore the cloaks now were the most desperate of men, and they couldn’t be trusted.  It would get better though. Once the repairs were done, it would be easier to start the flow of gold again. People could come back to the city to live and visit. If the city could be nursed through the rebuilding, both it and the crown’s coffers would recover.  

It wasn’t all bad though.  The workmen came to the city in droves, just as desperate as everyone else in the realm.  Bronn allowed them to move into empty homes for only the cost of the materials needed to rebuild the home, so long as the owners were dead and no descendants found.  It was a clerical nightmare, but the results were worth it. Entire districts had been revitalized, and much of the wood had come from the Kingswood and the money gone right into the coffers.  They brought a market with them, people who wanted to patronize inns and brothels and taverns.  

“And,” Astor continued, breaking Bran’s train of financial thought, “This strange one with your own seal on it.”  

Bran took the piece of paper that the boy held out to him and read the message.  New eyes have been opened in the Narrow Sea.  Their roots are well-watered and strong.   

Finally.  Months had passed while Bran waited for this exact message, and it was finally here.  He looked up at Astor, “Thank you, that will be all.”  

“Yes, your grace,” the Acolyte left, the door shutting softly behind him.  

“Podrick, I wish to visit the heart tree,” Bran tucked the tiny slip of paper into the folds of his clothing.  

“As you say,” Pod grabbed Bran’s heavy clothing from the wall.  Bran pulled on his gloves while Pod tucked the heavy blanket around his legs.  The cold wasn’t something he often felt, but he’d been told that was because of his broken spine and he needed to be careful to not get frostbite.  Just because he couldn’t feel the damage didn’t mean it wasn’t happening. The accidental touch of Pod’s hands while tucking him in set off a series of reactions in his legs, making the nerves spark and flare and pain shoot through them.  His left leg started to bounce uncontrollably and Bran grit his teeth, his fingers digging into the arms of his chair until it passed and the pain brought on by the incidental contact lessened. Pod, even after witnessing this for the hundredth time, still looked concerned.  

Bran knew there was an emotional response he should be having to Pod’s concern, or to his own physical ailment.  He remembered the boy Bran being so angry, so willing to lash out at anyone, but he no longer felt angry. He no longer felt anything.  Sometimes he thought his soul had been scoured away by the onrush of information he’d gotten when Bloodraven had been killed. Scoured away, or frozen and locked into some deep, deep place inside him.  Bran once again wondered why Bloodraven hadn’t been like this. Bloodraven had emotions, he was sad over the loss of his half-sister, he was angry when Bran did something he didn’t like, he was sympathetic when Bran had desperately wanted to reach out to his father in the visions.  Now, Bran was none of that. He wasn’t even Bran anymore, and he didn’t really know what he was. Moreover, he couldn’t rouse enough feeling to care.  

His chair rocked and creaked as Pod wheeled him outside and onto the smooth, stone pathway that led from Bran’s rooms to the heart tree.  That was a new addition, too, specifically for Bran’s use. Wheels didn’t roll well over grass and mud. Pod pushed him down the path, neither of them paying much attention to the dull, brown winter garden around them.  In the spring and summer it would be vibrant green, but now all of the trees were sleeping. The only sounds were the whispering of the branches in answer to Pod’s steps and the roll of Bran’s chair.  

They arrived at the heart tree.  It was an ancient oak, huge and regal, especially now that all of the vines had been cleared.  But it wasn’t right, for a heart tree, so the first thing Bran had done during the reconstruction was plant a weirwood near the old oak.  They watered it regularly, and it was growing strong. Pod wheeled Bran to his customary place in the grass between the two trees, “Thank you Pod.  I’ll be here until the scheduled trials.”  

Justice was part of a king’s duty as well.  Pod nodded and walked a few yards away to stand guard.  Bran sent his consciousness into the network of trees, his mind turning east.  It didn’t take him long to find what the raven told him about - new eyes were opened in Essos.  The ships he’d sent east containing thousands of weirwood saplings were starting to make their way into this strange land.  They’d been carefully planted and watered and they’d grown large enough to have small faces carved into their new trunks. Right now, most of the trees were in the wilds and there wasn’t much to see, but some were sold to nobles.  One was in the garden of the Sea Lord of Braavos, and it was the largest. Others he could sense were taking root, but they had yet to really grow and had no faces. No eyes for him to look through. No matter, they would in time, and his reach would grow.  He’d be able to see more and more.  

While checking on the far-flung saplings, he heard the song.  It was always there, this song, and it always attracted him. It was familiar and haunting with a sort of cold beauty, like the sun being split into rainbows by icicle prisms.  It had a sort of familiarity to it, something that reminded him of home. It almost made him sad, or it would have if he could still feel sadness. These qualities intrigued him, drew him in; but there was something deeply unsettling about the song and its singers, something that made him want to avoid it.  If he didn’t know better, he’d say that the strange loveliness of the song terrified him. The song was a thing of deep, terrible knowledge even someone like him shouldn’t have. The type of knowledge he shied away from, while knowing he’d eventually have to confront it. Every time he went into the world of the trees, he heard it, and it dogged his mind.  Here, in his domain, there were parts he avoided. Today, though, bolstered by the power of the new trees, he decided to go towards the song rather than away from it.  

He followed the allure of it, letting himself hear and feel the songs of crisp snow, feel the caress of the cold winds, and taste the ice on the air.  North, he went, north and north and north, into the lands of always winter. Back through the years, he watched them fall away, snowflakes on the wind.  He found himself standing somewhere that he recognized, the singing having faded some. This, he thought, was what he was meant to see.  

He was standing in a place he knew was at the bottom of a well in the kitchens of the Nightfort.  In front of him, a huge weirwood door with a face carved into it. The face looked younger than last he’d seen it, but no less strange.  It still had the same blind, white eyes, although there were far fewer wrinkles in the face. It glowed in the inky darkness of the night at the bottom of this well, but it cast no light.  Bran remembered how dark this place truly was at night, and how long it had taken his eyes to adjust. He remembered how terrified he’d been. All the time, his whole journey north had been nothing but fear and misery.  Now, though, he felt nothing and needed no light to observe the scene in front of him.  

He heard approaching footsteps and saw torches glowing further up the steps that led to the bottom of the well, like orange comets against the inky black.  When he’d last been here, the lack of roof on the kitchens let the moonlight in, but now there was a roof and the torches were necessary. The people were close, and sure-footed on the stairs, like they’d come this way before.  Bran wondered when in time he was to see the Nightfort in this condition. A stone in the pit of his stomach whispered to him, you know when.  You know who they are .  

The group reached the landing in front of the door, and Bran got a look at the leader.  He was a man of the Night’s Watch, shrouded in the black of their order. So dark, yet the glow of the door seemed to thrum in response to the presence of the man.  He was tall, and built stocky like Bran’s brother Robb had been, with the same inky black hair, and long face so common among the Starks. This man’s skin was pale, even in the torchlight.  He had an odd quality to him, young, but aged a thousand years within a short lifespan. And resting amid the tangled black curls was a crown of dark iron, spiked and dangerous-looking.  

The man stepped to the door without hesitating; clearly he was used to this.  He did not flinch as Bran had when the door came to life and asked, “Who are you?” 

“I am the watcher on the walls.  I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers.  I am the shield that guards the realms of men.”  

“Then pass,” the door replied, as Bran knew it would, as it had when Sam had said the same words.  Now, as then, the mouth of the door opened wider and wider, stretching beyond the size it should, until the mouth was nothing more than a ring of wrinkles around a hole in the wall.  Cold rushed from the hole, making the torches flicker. Bran couldn’t feel it, but he remembered the musty, icy smell of it.  

The man turned to the group behind him, and said, “My love?” 

They parted, shifting on the small landing to allow someone else through.  It was a woman, Bran saw, with skin as white as snow, and as smooth and flawless as ice.  She wore a long, blue dress, and no furs to guard her from the cold, although Bran could see the breeze from the tunnel ruffling the strands of her long, silver-white hair.  Her cheeks held no blush and her mouth was not pink. She looked strange and otherworldly, but still beautiful in a way that moved Bran for the first time since leaving Bloodraven’s cave.  He wanted her, he realized, and the feeling increased when she looked up and he saw her eyes. Bright blue, like flaming, cold stars. They drew him in, made him want her while the star-like heat in them repelled him.  

She looked up from the bundle she was carrying in her arms.  Bran had been so distracted by her face that he hadn’t noticed what she carried.  A baby - its tiny fist clutching her finger. She rocked it and cooed, smiling down, then looking up at the man in the crown, “I am here.”  

“Are you ready?,” he asked.  

“Always,” she came closer and gently placing the swaddled babe in the man’s arms, and giving it a final kiss.  A smile, unbidden, came to the man’s face when he looked down at the babe, “Be safe, my loves.”  

“We won’t be gone long,” he promised.  She leaned closer and he bent down, kissing her.  It wasn’t a gentle, loving kiss, it was one of passion and fire.  Tongues flickered in their mouths and their breath was sucked in hard through their noses.  They kissed and kissed, and the men who were still waiting on the stairs looked anywhere but at their lord.  It was the only sign of their discomfort, but when the man and woman separated, they seemed to look relieved.  

“I’ll be waiting here for you,” she said, patting his chest and giving him a final, quick kiss on the mouth, “Do tell my father hello.”  

The man nodded, and turned to the doorway.  He started down that long hall, and Bran followed.  There was not much of note about the hall. It was long and carved out of the solid rock on which the wall was built.  But this time, even though he was far away in time and space, Bran felt an odd tingle on his skin while he followed the man through.  It was not painful, just strange. Almost like all of his limbs had fallen asleep and were waking up. He wondered why he felt that way, but there was nothing he could do about it now.  

At the other end the man emerged into the night.  It was much brighter out here, with the full moon reflecting off the snow.  Behind them, the wall stretched into the sky, solid and shining in the moonlight.  In front of them were people. Six of them sat on horses, and one stood on the ground next to his horse.  They had the same look as the woman - snow-white skin, long pale hair, and bright blue eyes. Bran knew those eyes, they haunted his dreams both waking and not.  He knew the glow of them, but these men did not look like the others he’d seen. The others that came through the wall were ugly things, wrinkled and dead, with scraggly hair and mouths full of sharp teeth.  These men possessed the same kind of otherworldly beauty as the woman. The were one with the night, and one with the snow, and wearing armor that made them look as if they were shimmering when they walked. In the forest, they’d be nearly impossible to see.  On their backs or at their hips they had weapons made of ice so thin it could only be seen one one of them shifted and the moon reflected off the surface of it. Their horses, too, were different. White and beautiful, and very much alive. Their saddles and tack looked to be made of the same material as the armor.  

The man showed no fear of them, he simply walked to the man who was standing by his horse.  He inclined his head slightly in greeting, “Good evening, law-father. Your daughter sends her regards.”  

“She would not come?” 

“You know she cannot pass the wall now that she is on my side of it.”  

“I had hoped she would find a way around that.  No matter, let me see her. Let me see my granddaughter,” the voice spoke common, but sounded like the chill of winter.  It sounded like the comfort of the snow and the song of the crackling lake. Something stirred in Bran on hearing it, something almost like...nostalgia? Homesickness? That couldn’t be right, he hadn’t felt a fondness for anything, let alone a long-dead Other.  He pushed the troubling sensation to the side to focus on what he was seeing.  

“We have named her Moire.  Your daughter chose it,” he laid the baby in the arm of the tall, ethereal being in front of him.  

“It is of our kind,” there seemed to be a satisfied note in his voice, although it was hard for Bran to tell because the intonation was so strange to him.  It was like when Leaf had spoken to him, her voice was hard to connect to her mood.  

The man took a few steps back, “This fulfills our pact, then? One girl given for the one that was taken?” 

“Yes, but don’t forget our other bargain,” he replied, hoisting himself up on his horse.  

“The north remembers,” replied the man from the Night’s Watch, “But it will be my brother who fulfills those terms, not I.  Make sure your king knows that, and does not come here looking.”  

“He knows, human.  He knows,” the Other said no more, and turned with his guards, riding towards the forest with the swaddled child.  The man seemed to give it no more thought or attention, turning back towards the opening in the wall that he’d come from.  

Bran knew this was what he was meant to see because the song that always taunted him became louder again, more seductive.  It called him to the next place, the next time. He followed it, slipping from this time to somewhere further back.  

He stood outside of a small, wooden keep.  He was further south now, that much he could tell, but he wasn’t sure where exactly the song had brought him.  The ground was green and fertile, and forests rolled away on top of hills. Plumes of steam puffed into the air from somewhere in that forest, beyond this small keep.  There was a weirwood grove, too, rather than just one weirwood. There was something familiar about this place, but he could not place it, and while in the grip of the song he couldn’t peer through time.  He heard voices coming from within that grove, and he followed the hard-packed path into a clearing. There was a steaming black pond in a small clearing among the trees. All of the trees had faces, he realized.  All of them watched, their eyes in different directions. His eyes landed on one next to the lake, on a smaller, new tree. But, he realized with a start, he knew that face. It was the face of Winterfell’s heart tree, although now the tree was still young.  

Winterfell? I am in Winterfell? How far back in time must I be for it to have no stone keep, not even the First Keep.  This is before the wall, before the first Long Night, before Bran the Builder, before even house Stark.   

His attention then went to the two men standing on the shore of the pond, near a giant, ancient weirwood.  They had the look of each other, an older and younger. Likely a father and son. They weren’t wearing steel or carrying blades.  Instead, they wore bronze armor inscribed with runes Bran knew belonged to the first men. He knew that the swords that hung at their sides, though sheathed, would be bronze when drawn.  They wore little protection against the cold, and indeed, there was no snow on the ground. So, this decidedly placed this scene long before the wall went up. Probably before the white walkers, too, if it was this warm. In a time when true summer still came to the north sometimes. Who were these men that were arguing? He moved closer to them to see and hear them better.  

“They are our enemies!,” the older man growled, his voice raised.  Not in anger, but in heated debate.  

“They are our friends, some of them are family!,” the younger shot back, just as passionately, “They are kin to your people down in Cailin.”  

“That might be true, but they’ve still attacked.  We are closer kin to men, Joran, not the Children.  They aren’t men, and they practice dark magic. You know what they did to the lands down south!”  

“The arm? Well, wouldn’t you, if someone invaded your home and started to destroy it? Wouldn’t you do anything to drive them out, to stem the tide? If they started to flow over the walls right now, father, what would you do?” 

“Drive them back into the deep woods,” he allowed, “But these lands are no longer theirs.” 

“We share them.  They don’t attack us.  We have no reason to join with the southerners, who will retreat down south again after they have gotten us to help them, leaving us to clean up the mess,” the son’s face softened.  It was familiar to Bran, and he couldn’t remember why. The answer kept slipping from his mind, just out of his reach, “I know you miss her. So do I. But it was an accident.”  

“I can’t forgive them.  You know I can’t. Accident or not, they took her from us and I can’t make peace with them.  I can’t.”  

Joran sighed, his face full of sadness and the kind of exhaustion that only comes from a battle long fought, “Then you and Brandon will do what you think you must.”  

The older man didn’t answer, but his expression was the same as his son’s, “And what will you do?” 

“What I think I must,” he turned and left, heading straight for Bran.  It was then that Bran recognized him. The strawberry blonde hair, the dark eyes.  He’d seen the man once before - tied to a giant weirwood, gagged, terrified, surrounded by children, and having an obsidian dagger lodged in his chest.  

On that realization the song become louder again and the scene started to fade, but Bran no longer wanted to see more.  He wasn’t ready to face it yet. He wasn’t ready to see it. He didn’t know that he ever would be ready, but now he certainly wasn’t, so he pulled himself from the grip of the song and left it all behind.  He slipped from the skin of the trees back into his own and found himself back in the godswood in the Red Keep. Now, though, the kingsguard lined the path from the tree towards the keep.  

Six were there, and he knew the seventh would be soon.  He’d decided that it would be a good practice to choose one person from each of the remaining kingdoms, save the Iron Islands.  They did not make knights, and had no desire to be part of the Kingsguard. So in choosing his kingsguard he’d had some restrictions - no heirs, too many were killed in the wars.  No one who was married, or past their prime years. Bran would likely live a long time, and he wanted the members of his Kingsguard to stay with him for as long as was possible. And they must still be a knight, or someone Brienne felt was worth of knighthood.  

Brienne, being from Tarth, represented the Stormlands.  Pod was from house Payne, in the Westerlands. Bran thought that particularly lucky, because it meant he didn’t have to include a Lannister.  They were still numerous and prone to causing problems. Hoster Blackwood, already a knight, was the third son of Lord Blackwood and a veteran of the war of the five kings on the side of the Starks and Tullys.  Bran liked that the Blackwoods still worshipped the old gods, and favored them over the Brackens because of it. So Hos became the representative for the Riverlands. The reach had proven difficult, despite its size.  But one of the exiled lords of house Peake had survived Dany’s decimation of the Golden Company. They were exiled and the Peakes still controlled Starpike, so he was heir to nothing, but Bran’s father had told him many times that extending a hand to life a vanquished enemy can turn them into a fast friend.  So he’d given Torman Peake a place on the kingsguard and lifted the exile he’d inherited from his father. His family had proved grateful to be reunited with their kin, especially now that they did not need to figure out where he belonged in the order of inheritance.  

Jacelyn Bywater, a man born and raised in the Crownlands, had previously been the commander of the Goldcloaks.  He’d served the city loyally, and from the tales that reached Brienne’s ears, had helped as many as he could during the sack.  He was older than Bran would have liked, but Brienne insisted they needed someone with some experience and some connection to the commons, so he’d been given a place as a reward for his bravery during the sack.  A choice from the Vale had proven especially difficult because so many of the houses there had suffered and lost during the wars. Bran had even considered taking someone from the hill tribes, but Tyrion advised against it, saying that it would be futile anyway.  They’d never leave their mountains. Eventually, a choice had presented itself in the form of a young woman recommended by, of all people, Robin Arryn. Her name was Mya Stone, and she was Robert Baratheon’s oldest bastard. She was adopted into the Royces of the Gates of the Moon long ago, and taught to fight alongside the other skills she possessed.  Brienne immediately took a liking to the fierce, independent young woman and knighted her after assessing her skills. She was perhaps a little underqualified, but no more than Pod was, and they’d spent so long looking for someone from the Vale to fill the role that they’d overlooked it.  

The seventh member had been chosen on the recommendation of Arianne Martel.  She’d put forth Archibald Yronwood as a candidate from Dorne. He was the nephew of lord Yronwood, and he’d become an experienced fighter in Essos.  After he returned he’d gotten bored and prone to causing trouble. He was a bit too ribald for Brienne’s tastes, and a bit too stupid for Tyrion’s, but he was a skilled fighter and loyal besides.  So he’d been knighted, too. He also had the distinction of being largest, strongest person on the Kingsguard, and because of this Bran had him temporarily filling the position of the King’s Justice.  He wanted someone who was strong enough to perform quick, clean executions. Making the convicted suffer wasn’t something Bran wanted to do, and while he would have swung the sword himself, he was unable to.  Archibald, though, had agreed to perform the service on the condition that someone else be installed as soon as possible. He was big and strong but he wasn’t mean, and he disliked the black cells. He disliked executing people.  

Unfortunately for him, today was a work day for Archibald.  He entered from the far end of the grove, behind a man with his hands tied behind his back.  The man was thin, his brown hair long and shaggy, and his brown eyes hollow. He wore rough-spun pants and a cheap linen shirt, and his hands were tied behind his back.  He looked almost dazed to be seeing the sun again, and he kept blinking up at the sky and frowning. He made his way down the walk towards the king, but it was almost as if his feet were walking that way against his will.  Behind him loomed Archibald, six-foot-six and built like a barrel. The sun shined off his bald head, and a grimace was carved into his features. His white cloak fluttered behind him, accompanying the gentle scrape of the plates of his enameled white armor and the thump of his heavy boots.  A sword was at his side, but it wasn’t a Westerosi blade. He used a heavy, long blade that had a gentle curve to it. Not like the araks the Dothraki used, but one long curve. On the other hip he carried a warhammer. He favored the hammer for battle, but things like this required a sword.  

Aside from the sounds of the two men walking the path, the grove was silent.  Even the wind seemed to still, and the ravens that always crowded around Bran were holding their peace.  The prisoner looked more and more withdrawn as he walked closer, and it was obvious he’d accepted his fate.  What else could he do? He was thin and not that tall and had been in the black cells before and after his trial.  There were seven members of the kingsguard and a king who could slip his skin whenever he liked. There was no way he would be able to save his own life.  

When they arrived, they commenced the ceremony with little pomp.  They’d done enough of them that it seemed unnecessary, so Bran said the words, “Davyan, you have tried and convicted of murder.  The penalty for murder is death. So we gather here to execute that sentence. I give your flesh and your spirit to the will of the old gods, and the vessels they inhabit.”  

Bran nodded at Archibald, and he pushed Davyan down to his knees in front of the weirwood.  The man did not sob, or beg, he simply stared with the glassy-eyed look he’d had since he’d walked onto the path.  Archibald drew his sword, and in one quick motion it was over. The body fell forward, blood splashing the white flesh of the tree.  It watered the ground, sinking into the dirt, flowing in thick pumps from the stump of the man’s neck. Bran watched it spread, and he tasted iron, and felt himself grow a little stronger. 

Chapter Text

“Dany,” the voice of the intruder was soft and gentle in the way that people are soft and gentle when handling a weapon they fear will hurt them, “It’s been over a moon’s turn, and you’re still cooped up in here.”  

She turned her head to look at Daario.  She’d been staring out the window at the city of Meereen, but a change of view didn’t matter.  She wasn’t really seeing what was in front of her anyway. She only saw smoke and fire and she only heard screams, “Are you going to try and send me away?” 

He didn’t react to the sharpness in her voice.  He knew it was only an act. Instead he came and sat down opposite her, his face open and honest, “No.  I wouldn’t. I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Drogon still made his nest atop the pyramid, “But I think it might be time for you to at least talk to someone.  Talk to me.”  

“So you can taste my grief, too? So you can use it to betray me later?,” she wanted him to leave her alone with all of the filth in her soul.  

“No.  Because you need a friend.  You need someone who knows you to listen to you.  These thoughts, whatever they are, they’re a boil full of pus in your mind.  It needs to be drained so you can heal.”  

“I’m not meant to heal.  I’m not even meant to be alive.  I don’t deserve to be alive.”  

“A great many people don’t deserve to be alive, and yet...,” he trailed off.  He waited for her to reply for several minutes before sighing sadly and moving to get up after she returned to staring out the window.  

“Wait,” her voice was so soft that he barely heard it.  That one quiet word held a world of pain and isolation and grief.  He settled back down and waited. He stayed with her, quiet, waiting for her to decide to speak.  The sun moved in the sky and the shadows crept across the floor. He waved his stewards away more than once with a subtle shake of his head.  The afternoon came, sun blazing high in the sky, soaking the world in fiery heat. It might be winter, but Meereen was always hot. The heat seemed to give her strength and she spoke again, “I keep thinking about the prophecy.”  

“Which one?,” he asked, not moving.  He barely breathed, afraid that he’d scare her into silent grief once more.  

“‘Three fires you must light; one for life, and one for death, and one to love.  Three mounts you must ride; one to bed, one to dread, and one to love. Three treasons you will know; once for blood, and once for gold, and once for love’,” she quoted it from memory.  

“Who said those things to you?” 

“The warlocks in the house of the undying.”  

“They are charlatans who spend all of their time drugged--” 

“My family has a long history with prophecy.  I only live because Denys the Dreamer saw the doom.  I can’t simply ignore them. There were more. Quaithe told me ‘to go north, you must go south.  To reach the west you must go east. To go forward, you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow’.”  

“They’re just words, Dany, just--” 

“No!,” her voice was sharp, the pain in it was the edge of a blade, “I lit three fires.  One to life - my dragons. One to death - the Khals. And I set fire to...to...the city,” her eyes closed briefly as the pain washed over her, “For the love of Missendei.  Do you know her last words, Daario?,” her head snapped to him.  

“No,” he replied, plying her with patience and care.  

“Dracarys .  Burn them, she told me.  My sweet, peaceful Missendei.  She said to light that fire, in tribute to her.”  

“Do you feel you shouldn’t have listened?” 

“I don’t know.  There were so many other things I could have done.  Things that wouldn’t have killed so many innocents,” there it was, the soul-deep pain and grief that colored her every action.  She didn’t dwell there, though, she wasn’t ready to yet, “I rode my silver to bed, and I rode Drogon to dread, but when have I ridden to love, Daario? When have I ever been allowed to love freely?” 

She looked at him, wishing he had an answer, but he just looked sad and said, “I wish I knew.”  

“Never.  I could not love Drogo, because he was too wild to stay and love me back.  I could not love you, because I had to take my throne. I could not love the throne, because power cannot love you back.  I could not love Jon, because he was too afraid. And yet, all three of you, I love you all still.” 

“One doesn’t supplant the other?,” his voice was carefully neutral.  Whatever he felt on the topic of their failed relationship, he was keeping it to himself.  

“Love isn’t like that.  Not for me. I loved Viserys, and I hated him.  I loved Rhaegar, but I hated him for dying. I loved my father, but I hated him for being mad.  I hated him for the wildfire, because it only made what I did even worse. It exploded under the heat of Drogon’s flame.  Love has always been a duality for me. It always exists alongside something else,” she shrugged, “No mount to love, then.  The witch, Mirri Maz Duur, she betrayed me for blood. She took Drogo from me to avenge her people. Jorah betrayed me for so many reasons.  Barristan, too. Tyrion and Varys betrayed me, although I can admit that they thought they were doing the right thing. But Jon,” her voice caught, choking on his name, “that was for love.  I have wondered so often if it hurt him to do it. If he cried while he slid that blade between my ribs. How many women have opened themselves up to a man, only to die in his arms?,” her voice was thoughtful, far away in the landscape of her mind.  

“Too many,” Daario answered.  She could taste his sadness, too.  She didn’t know what put it there, but she knew that the regret she heard was personal.  

“I am one among many.  I have known too much betrayal.  Too much sadness. Too much grief.  And every success I have leads to more pain and suffering.  I've inflicted it, too.”  

“The world does not know how to make space for dragons.”  

She sighed, acknowledging some agreement with his statement, but returned to her train of thought, “I went to the north, but to get there I had to go south around Valyria.  Around my ancestral homeland. I went from beyond the wall, south to Dragonstone, and then back north to Winterfell. I moved forward, but to do so I had to go back to Dragonstone.  I’ve passed beneath the shadow, Daario. I’ve died and been to Asshai. It’s time I get to touch the light.”  

“And what is the light?” 

“I don’t know.  I have never,” she hesitated, gathering her thoughts, “I have always had a goal.  I’ve never had time to stop and look back and reflect, because when I do I become lost. I only consider my decisions long enough to know if they were the right ones, to know if I should repeat them if the situation arises again.  That is part of ruling - learning from your mistakes. But introspection has always seemed to me the tool of people who have no direction and no goals, and so I’ve only employed it in situations where it is absolutely necessary.”  

“At the risk of your anger, I am going to speak plainly.  Perhaps,” he still hesitated over his words, so Dany knew she really would not like them, “Prior to burning King’s Landing was the time for deeper introspection."  

She huffed a tiny laugh, the closest she’d come to a real laugh in weeks, “I’ve been having similar thoughts.  I’ve nothing inside me but grief. I’ve always had it. The grief of the death of my family, the loss of our homes, the loss of the throne...even Summerhall - that happened long before my birth, but it has marred my family’s joy since the day it occurred.  Every event in my life has been tinged with sadness, and I’ve never gotten the only thing I truly wanted: home. Peace.” 

“You could have...could...,” he closed his eyes, clearly not able to finish the sentence, and motioned for her to continue.  

“I’ve been thinking about my family and our legacy.  We only survived by depending on each other. We survived the doom because Aenar Targaryen believed his daughter Daenys when she told him that it was coming.  He believed her and sold all his Valyrian holdings and went to Dragonstone with his family. We lived there, content, in peace, until Aegon got it in his head to conquer the seven kingdoms.  He saw his dragons and thought of nothing but power, and the very first thing it cost him was Rhaenys. Not Visenya, who he married for duty, but Rhaenys - who he loved. That was the cost of the throne.  And we have been paying for that wretched pile of swords ever since,” she shouted the last thing. There it was, the fire, the Targaryen anger, the temper. But now it was aimed at a different target. It was aimed at all of the pressures and people who had turned her towards it.  At the man who built it with the power of the dragons, and at all the men who had sat their Targaryen asses on it ever since, and all of the things that had been done and lost just to keep it without making any true change in the world. Had any good actually come from Targaryen reign? The blood on her family’s hands would never come out.  Not of she somehow managed to birth a thousand thousand sons and daughters who did only good in the world.  Most of all, the anger was at herself for all she'd done to gain it.  

“Has it been worth it?” 

“No.  It hasn’t.  It wasn’t worth the cost of my life.  It wasn’t worth the cost of the thousands of lives lost,” she let the moments settle, let the seconds drip into the space left by her words, “I used to think that the power of a dragon was freedom.  If you’d ever flown, you’d know. It is freedom.  But how else would I, a woman who exists in a world of men constantly trying to undermine me, bully me, steal my accomplishments from me, look at something like true power?  You can’t force me to leave Meereen unless I want to go because I have a dragon. He is freedom. True freedom. And what did I do with it? Attempt to yolk myself to a thing that has only ever brought pain.  It’s time that I found some light. I don’t know what that means just yet, but it’s time I leave and seek it out.  It's time I try to set things truly right.”  

“May I make a suggestion?,” he asked.  She shrugged and nodded, “Go find him,” she opened her mouth to protest, “Wait, let me explain.  He inflicted pain on you that hasn’t healed, and I don’t think it can until you confront him. You don’t have to love him, Dany, but he is your only remaining family.  And I don’t think you can touch the light, whatever that means, until you deal with him face to face.  Until he deals with you, too.”  

“You know, you’re surprisingly wise for a sell-sword,” there it was, a little bit of herself.  A little bit of the old Dany.  

“I’m not wise, I just can’t afford to keep paying to feed the dragon sleeping on the roof,” he smiled so he’d know she was joking, and she smiled back.  

That night, after he’d left, she had her servants clean her and brush her hair until it shone.  She left it loose and down, and clothed herself only in a soft silken robe. She crept into Daario’s quarters, only to find him hunched over his desk, reading parchment by candlelight.  She missed him too much, then. A keen ache inside her in a place that was broken, and not ever repaired. He had been a piece of light in a long stretch of darkness. Everything between the house with the red door and her death was darkness, and a few comforting, shining stars.  Pieces of light to guide her.  

“Daario,” she said, her voice soft so it didn’t startle him.  

“Ye--,” he looked up and caught sight of her.  The way she was dressed and the way she was groomed.  The look of her stopped him short, and he couldn’t hide what passed through his eyes, or what he thought of her, “Dany.”  

She came closer, moving slowly, letting him drink in the sight of her, and then rested her hand on his shoulder, “I need to say so much to you.  Things like hello, I’m sorry, thank you, I...I love you.”  

“And goodbye,” he whispered, standing.  

“That too,” her voice was just as quiet, “But so many other things that I don’t have words for, and so I can’t tell you them.”  

“But you can show me?,” he stood in front of her, so close that she could feel the heat radiating from him.  She’d forgotten how tall he was, how much larger than her. But he never loomed over her, never made her feel smaller.  Never hurt her, never made her find forgiveness, never made her swallow her pain and anger because she needed him, never cut her and fill the wound with love.  

“I think so.  I hope so,” she looked up at him, taking away the masks she always wore.  They were habit now. Being queen made them too natural. She let him see under them, and hoped he understood.  His hands clenched at his sides as if he wished something were in them. Perhaps he was wishing she was in them, but he didn’t reach for her.  

“Why are you sorry?,” he’d picked that out of all the words.  That one.  

“For everything ,” she breathed the last word, raw and vulnerable.  

“Tell me.  Dany, I need to hear it.”  

“For the fire, for the blood, for the killing, for vengeance, for being so blind,” she took a steadying breath, “For leaving you the way I did.  For hurting you, for hurting Meereen. For cutting you, and making you plaster over the hole with love and loyalty and not being worthy of forgiveness.  For not telling you a thousand things and one that would have made it easier for you to love me.”  

He touched his forehead to hers, eyes closed, and cupped her face in his hands.  She leaned into it. She couldn’t help it. There was warmth and comfort in those hands.  Respite, “No, Dany. It was all too easy to love you. Bright, shining queen. Beautiful and vulnerable.  All too easy.”  

She waited.  He had to be the one to push forward, had to be the one to kiss her, because it was goodbye.  They both knew it would be.  They’d said as much. One, last, sweet goodbye.  She barely wanted to breath, she didn’t try to move.  She soaked up the feel of his closeness, the leather-and-spice smell of him, the warm summer of his soul.  Remember this , she told herself, remember that this is fire and warmth.  Never forget what it feels like .  

And then, she could taste him.  She could taste the summerwine he’d been drinking on his lips, the sweetness on his tongue.  She could taste the metallic tang that was just him , and feel his hunger.  She could feel the leashed power of his movements, the care in his handling.  Like she was glass, and so she grabbed him and pulled him closer. Closer, to spread the salt of his skin on hers.  

Drown me .  

Burn me whole, my summer sun.  

It was easy for them to find the bed, easy for them to lose their clothes.  Easy to feel the texture of him under her palms. They still fit together, the curves and planes of their bodies matched as they always had.  Easy to remember the little nuances of each other. There, the spot on his neck that made him groan when she ran her tongue over it. They way he liked the urgency of her teeth on his skin.  The way he touched her and tasted her and remembered where his tongue would do the most good. The way he feasted on the honey between her legs. The way his fingers danced and knew where to go.  This was a thing they remembered, a thing they’d always been good at. The slip of skin and the stick of sweat. She liked to watch him, she liked to look at how the light of fire carved his body into curves and shadows.  He was still well-honed, the ruling of the city didn’t make him neglect the physical training he loved so much. So she relished the sight of the muscles moving below his brown skin, and the silk of his hair between her fingers.  And when he was inside her, so deep and so full, he remembered how to move and how to hold her hips and how she liked it slow and then fast. He remembered how to make her come, how wring the dripping pleasure from her. He remembered how to take of her body, too, and it was easy for him to leave a piece of himself inside her.  Easy and good and sweet. Like summer.  

And they slept.  She slept in nothing but inky blackness.  No dreams woke her screaming, no worries kept her from falling to sleep, nothing.  She was only Dany, only herself, and she finally slept the whole night through.  

The next morning, she woke before he did.  The sun was just beginning to paint everything with golden light when she slipped back into her room to dress.  She’d gathered her things the night before: her eggs, the clothes Daario had bought her, and the gold he’d given her.  The wooden case with the scroll in it. All of it. She dressed in Dothraki riding leathers that he’d been kind enough to buy her to replace the rags she’d arrived in, and she made her way back to his room.  

He was still sleeping, and she laid her bags next to the bed.  She sat on the edge of it and the movement finally woke him, letting him turn to look at her with sleep-fogged eyes, “Is it time?”  

“It’s time,” she said, smiling at him, “Goodbyes require leavings.” 

“I suppose they do.” 

“You could come with me,” her heart ached, just a little, but it was a good ache.  The ache of want and feeling that she hadn’t felt in so long.  

“I would, but you see, I was given a job and my queen will be very angry with me if I don’t remain to do it,” she captured his sleepy smile in her mind, filing it away in the box that contained the red door and the lemon tree.  Things that made her happy. But she knew, deep down, that she’d stagnate here. That she’d stagnate and start to burn everything around her without an outlet. That it was too easy and too comfortable, and she needed a challenge and a goal.  She’d find neither in the peace of Meereen, so she would leave them here, knowing that the city and Daario existed in peace and prosperity and she had at least done this one good thing.  

“I have a gift for you,” she said, digging into her bag.  It was one of Drogon’s eggs. It was shades of lavender and purple, shot through with veins sparkling silver and gold.  She held it out to him, and he took it gently, reverently, “It’s one of a Drogon’s.”  

“Not a ‘he’ after all, then.” 

She shrugged, “Who can tell with dragons?” 

“Will it...will it hatch?,” she couldn’t tell by his expression whether he wanted it to or not.  She hoped so, because she thought the colors would make a lovely dragon.  

“I don’t know.  None have yet, but I don’t think that flying around in my bag is the best place to make a dragon hatch.  My family used to put them in the cradles of our babes to hatch, but I found a scroll in Asshai claiming that dragons are creatures of the natural world.  So they must have ways of rearing their young. It may hatch, it may not. Heat will help. Either way, whether it lives and becomes part of Meereen or simply a pretty rock you can sell, it is a way to pay for some of the damage I’ve caused.  It can’t fix everything, but keep it and remember me, even if you never see me again,” she stood, gathering her things.  

“And will I? See you again?”  

“Who knows where the winds of fate blow.  I can’t ever repay you for what you’ve done.  You helped me heal, Daario, and that is worth more to me than I can show.”  

“Where will you go now?” 

She looked out the window at the rising sun, “To find the light.”  

***

She flew overland to the west, across the Dothraki Sea, staying well north of Volantis.  She crossed the Rhoyne, and went into the Disputed lands towards Tyrosh. She encouraged Drogon to gorge himself when he could, because she needed him strong and healthy.  He grew on the trip, she could tell he was larger. She shared his kills and stayed fed that way, eventually learning some of the skill needed to cook for herself. She’d never had to do it before, but she found that she enjoyed it.  She liked creating something, and then tasting the real fruits of her labor. They flew at night because his scales were hard to see against the black of the sky, and slept in the day. They crossed the narrow sea at the Stones, staying as hidden has she could manage.  There’d be rumors, of course, of the great black dragon prowling the south of Westeros, but no one had spotted her yet to spread the news of her return.  

They flew north from the arm of Dorne into the mistwood, always keeping to the coast, and as far away from towns and cities as she could.  The hardest part was avoiding detection by Storm’s End, and by the merchant ships that once again came and went from Blackwater Bay. It got colder, too, forcing her to give up her Dothraki leathers in favor of warmer furs.  But finally, they made it to Dragonstone. They flew into the castle bailey under the cover of night, settling in the wide open space. No footprints marred the fresh-fallen snow, and Dany took that as a positive sign. Of course, living alone in a huge keep like Dragonstone would be a challenge she didn’t know if she was ready for, but it felt good to come home.  The smoke, salt, and sulphur of the castle were fused into her blood and they called to her.  

She left Drogon to his own devices, and entered the central keep with the huge stone drum tower.  Lighting a torch, she made her way inside. As she walked the halls, it quickly became apparent that no one had returned to Dragonstone after she’d left.  Debris had blown in through the windows, and no one cleaned it. Furniture and doors stood open, and in the positions where their previous occupants left them.  She heard rats skittering through the halls, just out of view. Her banners still hung where they’d been, limp and dusty, as Stannis’s banners had been when she’d torn them down.  She had a strange urge to pull down the black-and-red of her house, but she left it there for now.  

She climbed stairs until her legs were sore, and still there was more to the tower.  So she kept going, spiraling higher and higher, until she reached the landing for the top floor.  From there. The only thing up here was the room with the painted table, so the steps emptied directly into it.  It was under the roof, huge, with windows that pointed in each direction. In the center, the long painted table that resembled westeros shined in the light of her torch.  The figures from the last war were still there, in the exact positions she’d left them while they’d planned their attack on King’s Landing. In her mind’s eye she saw all of them, her allies and friends, even the ones who were gone.  Their ghost lived here, but they didn’t frighten her anymore. She could let Missendei rest, because Grey Worm was happy on his little island. She could let go of Tyrion and Varys’s betrayals because both of them had been right - she’d been too overcome with grief and anger and too blind to see what they’d been trying to tell her.  She could only see visions of the fire of her dragon burning Cersei where she stood. That old anger rose within her, now, looking at the figure of a woman inside the walls of King’s Landing. It curled and caressed her, tempting her with its song when she grabbed that little figurine. The song of flame and flight and blood. Of things that belonged to her, that she was owed, that she would take by any means necessary.  It made her blood run hot and her hand tighten on her torch.  

And then it passed.  She had a monster inside her.  Everyone did, but hers was larger and harder to wrangle.  Hers had a face and teeth and wings and claws. Hers was harder to master.  But master it, she had, and the anger settled back down inside her, a warm friend in her belly.  Friends, yes, that’s what she was. Friends with her own monster. Let the feelings come, let her feel them, and let them burn through her and cleanse her.  In their wake, there was quiet. She put the piece back on the the table. Cersei was dead, and it was useless to be angry at a dead woman. There were more immediate things for her to do.  

She went to the eastern window first, and took a good, long look at the ocean.  The sun was rising, now, and this had once been one of her favorite sights. She put that in the box with Daario and the house with the red door.  Sunrises viewed from the top of the tower in her home, the rays reflecting on a glittering sea. That made her happy. That was home.  

South was next.  Where she’d come from.  Go south to go north. And it was behind her.  

To the western window.  Towards King’s Landing; so close she could almost see it past Driftmark.  The wound she needed to heal. The light she’d figure out how to touch. Her biggest sin.  

Then she went to the northern window, looking towards Crackclaw Point, and beyond that the other lands of Westeros.  North and north, up to the wall. Up to him .  The man whose name she could not yet say, whose ghost she refused to see.  The one person she most hated...and most loved. Her only living family.  

“Jon Snow,” she whispered, finally letting herself say the words, mean the name, letting the remembrance and awareness of him creep over her skin.  If Daario was summer, Jon was winter. Daario was spice, and sweat, and leather, and summerwine. Jon was deep, rich ale, the oil and leather of his steel, the freshness of the forest, and so very, deeply male.  

“Aegon Targaryen,” she let herself say the other words.  The ones that destroyed them. The ones that ended with a knife in her ribs.  She couldn’t forgive him. Not when the thought of that knife was so fresh. But she couldn’t forget him, either, and she couldn’t ignore him.  

That night when she slept, there was no peace.  There was only dreams of him. Dreams of his dragon falling from the sky.  Dreams of them together, hard and urgent and rough, the wolf’s teeth in her shoulder and her neck, marking her.  Mine , it said.  You are mine. There was her own mark, the dragon’s teeth, her claws down his back.  And you are mine .  There was the kindness, the laughter, the challenge of him.  They tamed the wildness in each other. They were equals in a way no one else ever had been.  They claimed each other, body and soul, hard, and fast, and deep. And when she finally woke the next morning, her own wetness made her thighs slick, and her whole body ached with a need she couldn’t fill on her own.  

Love was patching the hole he’d made in her side, making her thread the edges together with forgiveness.  But had she excised the poison from the wound, first, or was she just sealing it inside?

Chapter Text

Fire crackled, logs burning merrily in the hearth behind him.  One of the servants had thrown some herbs on it, as they always did, and the smell of home suffused the room.  Warmth and light came from that hearth. Across the room, Sam’s son yawned and squeaked, sleeping in Gilly’s arms.  It was late, and Little Sam had been sent to bed hours ago. Dickon, though, was only a few months old and not yet in the habit of sleeping far from his mother.  Another Sam and another Dickon. Sometimes he wished he’d named his son something else, or that he’d had a daughter instead. Sam didn’t precisely believe in omens, but given The Others, he didn’t exactly not believe in them either.  He hoped that his sons had a better chance than he and his brother’d had.  

“What are you going to do?,” Alleras asked from his seat kitty-corner to Sam’s.  They were both staring at the hunk of black rock sitting in the middle of the wooden table in the dining hall at Horn Hill.  They’d gotten permission to retrieve a sample and look around under the High tower, and what they’d found had been disconcerting at best.  They’d come straight back to Horn Hill, completely eschewing the citadel. A messenger had been sent back, citing the reason as “family business”.  

“I don’t know yet.”  

“Can’t you just take it to king Bran?,” Gilly said, her voice quiet so as to not wake Dickon.  

Alleras watched Sam as he mulled it over and then said, “I don’t know.”  

“I think I have an idea,” Alleras’s voice contained something it didn’t normally contain - trepidation.  A lack of surety as to what he was about to suggest, “There is someone in King’s Landing who can help us.”  

“Who do you know in King’s Landing?,” the oily black stone on the table was momentarily forgotten as Sam focused on Alleras.  He looked at the youth, really looked at him. His dark eyes were troubled, dark smudges under them from a lack of sleep. They’d both been having nightmares.  Alleras was a bubbly, effervescent, and outgoing youth. Brave to the point of brashness. The exact opposite of Sam’s quiet strength and distaste for battle. But that had been dimmed since coming out of the place beneath the tower, and in this moment he looked even more unhappy.  Indecision was writ in every line in his posture.  

Finally, he closed his eyes briefly and let out a small breath, “If we’re to do this, there is something you must know, and I can’t tell you until we decide on a course of action.  Do we have other options?” 

“Well, I don’t think we should go to Bran.  We just don’t know if that’s safe. Going to Winterfell and showing queen Sansa would take too long, and going to castle Black even longer.  We can’t go to the citadel because then the Archmasters would just take it.” 

“Aren’t you in charge of them?,” Gilly asked, voice quiet so as to not wake Dickon.  

“Yes.  Sort of.  I can be stripped of my title and the archmaesters would be happy to do it.  They resent Bran’s intervention in forging my chain and appointing me in the first place,” Sam fidgeted in his hard, wooden seat, “It’s times like these I miss maester Aemon the most.”  

“Who was maester Aemon?,” Alleras asked.  

“The maester at the wall who I learned from.”  

“Sounds like a Targeryen name.”  

“That’s because he was a Targeryen.  Brother of Egg - King Aemon.”  

“Wow.  Lofty person to have at the wall.”  

Sam nodded, changing the subject back to their current predicament.  They had important information, they needed to tell someone, and they had no idea who to tell.  Sam would have liked to tell Jon, but he had no idea where Jon was. The north was a big place, and getting up there through the snows might prove all but impossible.  He didn’t know, he’d never been to the north in the winter, “We could tell Tyrion.”  

Alleras thought about it, and Gilly silently watch them.  Her gentle, steadfast presence always made Sam think more clearly.  He missed her a great deal when he was in the citadel. Alleras made a non-commital noise and said, “He’s a Lannister.  They scheme. He doesn’t need more information to scheme with.”  

“He still might be our best choice.”  

“Either road leads to the Red Keep.”  

“Your person is in the Red Keep?,” Sam asked, and Alleras nodded.  

“I have a...friend...who is highly placed at court.”  

“We’ll never be able to get into and out of the Red Keep without someone noticing.”  

“Why does that matter?,” Gilly interjected.  

“What do you mean,” Sam asked, looking at her.  

“Well it’s your job to go to the Red Keep.  We’ll just do what we always do when we visit, and you can talk to other people while you’re there.  It’s been a few months since you went to them council meetings anyways.”  

Gilly, as usual, had a special talent for seeing the simplest and most expedient solution to a problem.  Alleras and Sam exchanged a look. Sam shrugged, and Alleras said, “It’s not a half bad idea actually. You’ve been tutoring me for months now.  No one is going to blink if you bring an apprentice with you.”  

“Then I guess we’re going to King’s Landing.  Gilly, I know I just got home, I’m sorry to leave you again--” 

“You’re not leaving me.”  

Sam blinked, taking a moment to decide what to say, “Gilly, you just had a baby, you can’t go to King’s Landing with me.” 

“Samwell Tarley I made it all the way down out of the north to Winterfell and then through the fight with the undead and here with a baby at the breast, and that was only a few days after I’d had Little Sam.  I’m going to King’s Landing.”  

The thought of having her there, exposed to the dangerous scorpion pit that was King’s Landing, made Sam’s heart leap into his mouth.  But he recognized the set of her mouth, the straightness of her spine, and the flint in her eyes. She was fully prepared to dig her heels in on this, and truth be told - Sam wanted her along even with the danger of it.  He was always better when she was there, “Can we at least get a wetnurse for Dickon? I can think clearer if I know he’s safe here with Little Sam.”  

“I don’t like leaving him behind.”  

“Gilly, just because you came down from the north doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard.  I...I know I couldn’t give you this kind of help before, but now I can. You’re an adult and you can choose for yourself, but let me keep the children safe here.”  

She hesitated, but nodded, “But I get to choose.”  

“Well,” Alleras said, “that marital issue settled, I might as well drop this on you now.  My name isn’t Alleras, it’s Sarella Sand.”  

Sam blinked, the information flicking on several lights in his mind, “You’re a girl?” 

Alleras shrugged, “They wouldn’t let me study at the citadel otherwise.  But somehow I don’t think you’d kick me out for being a girl.”  

Sam shook his head, “Sand...so you are from Dorne, but that’s a bastard’s surname.  Who...?” 

“Oberyn and a Summer Island ship’s captain.  I don’t know her name, he took me with him when I was born.”  

“So your friend in King’s Landing is Arianne Martell,” Sam didn’t know everything that happened in King’s Landing, but Tyrion told him the important things via raven.  He knew Arienne showed up to claim her seat on the Small Council. She’d brought her cousins, “--Wait, are you one of the Sand Snakes?” 

The cocky grin that Sam had come to associate with Alleras spread across his - her? - face, “My sisters and I have been known to go by something similar when we’re in trouble, yes.”  

Sam remembered the stories - Doran Martell, prince of Dorne at the time, sent his brother Oberyn to King’s Landing for Joffrey’s wedding and to serve on the Small Council.  Oberyn brought with him his long-time paramour, Ellaria, and then promptly died while fighting the Mountain. He’d also been survived by eight daughters - the Sand Snakes. That was the end of what Sam knew about the Sand Snakes; Dorne had never been of much interest to him.  He wasn’t much sure what to make of this admission.  

“Should I call you Sarella then?,” that seemed the easiest question to ask.  

She shrugged, “In private, if you like.  I would not suggest it where others can hear, and never inside the bounds of Oldtown.”  

“What are the Sand Snakes?,” Gilly asked.  Sam had forgotten that she wouldn’t know.  

“One of the lords of Dorne - Oberyn Martell - he had eight bastard daughters.  They’re called the Sand Snakes,” he answered her.  

Gilly frowned, “I thought nobles didn’t like bastards.”  

It was Sarella who answered, “Dorne sees no difference between bastards and true-born.  We value all. Man, woman, inbetween, bastard or not, Dorne values them all.”  

“We should go there,” Gilly muttered.  

“Well, it’s also very hot, and very sandy,” Sam said, frowning.  He didn’t really want to go to Dorne, “And besides, we have another problem.”  

All of their gazes flicked to the stone on the table.  It was just a piece of misshapen slag, but it held important information.  Sarella’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the table and she sounded resigned, “To King’s Landing, then.”  

The next morning, they set about preparing.  Sam sent for, and found, several women to be Dickon’s wet nurse.  Gilly talked with them and selected one, while also overseeing the packing of their things for travel and leaving instructions for the household.  She’d really taken to being in charge of the keep, and found that she enjoyed the rhythm of life there. She knew everyone who worked for them by name, and was friends with some of the ladies in the kitchen.  Sam had no problems with this. When his father had owned Horn Hill, it had been a place constantly on-edge, fearing the displeasure of its master. Now it was filled with laughter and people, with children playing in the snow.  It was nearly idyllic, something Sam never would have associated with it before. Sometimes he still saw the ghosts of his childhood in the stones of Horn Hill, but those instances were becoming less and less as Gilly’s touch became evident all over the keep.  This was why he didn’t come home often - he had other responsibilities, and simply staying here in Horn Hill was more tempting than any of them. Every time he was here it became more difficult to leave.  

They were able to prepare for their departure quickly, as they were a small party.  It was just Sam, Gilly, Alleras, and a few of Sam’s guards and household. He brought a few servants that Gilly trusted because he knew they’d need them in King’s Landing.  The carriage drivers completed their party. The carriage was the one concession to comfort that Sam allowed because it made it easier to transport their belongings. It paid off - keeping the party small meant the preparations to leave were completed in a few days rather than the normal fortnite.  The last thing to be packed was the piece of black stone, and Sam tucked it under the seat, hidden away behind some bags and games they had to pass the time on the trip.  

They left the next morning, and as Horn Hill got smaller in the distance and they headed north towards where the road from their keep met the Rose Road near highgarden, a heavy, ominous, familiar feeling settled into Sam’s chest. 

Chapter Text

“Don’t forget your promise to me, little princess,” Gerold Dayne hissed at her.  His face wore his characteristic scowl, but the edges of it seemed a little sharper today.  Three of the five Sand Snakes were with them; she’d underestimated Gerold once, when she was younger, and she would not do so again.  He was dangerous, but a useful kind of dangerous.  

She didn’t show emotion in reaction to his implied threat, but inside she just wanted to roll her eyes, “I’ve not forgotten Starfall, Darkstar, but you have yet to finish your tasks.”  

“My tasks? My role here is to look threatening.” 

She crossed the room to him, gently placing her goblet of wine on a table as she passed, and ran a single finger down the line of his strong jaw, tapping his chin gently.  His scowl didn’t change, “Your role is to show the solidarity of house Dayne with the true heir to house Martell.  Your role is to ensure that I live to return to Sunspear.  I am not yet there, and so you are not yet finished.”  

He snapped forward and grabbed her hand, clenching it hard in his larger fist, just shy of producing pain, and taking her touch from his skin, “And yet you say nothing of how you will take it from the little lord Ned.”  

She shrugged and pulled her hand from his grasp and walked a few steps away from him, “I have a plan.  I’ll disclose it with you when I’m ready, and not before.  It would be foolish to give up the key to the only thing that keeps you from sticking your knife in my side.  Now go, my cousins and I have things to discuss.”  

She could see the muscles in his jaw working as he ground his teeth, and the anger flashing in his eyes.  He disliked being dismissed by her, “Fine, but do not take too long princess, or you will find yourself in need of another shield.”  

“Don’t I know it,” she said under her breath as he turned and left them.  When the door closed behind him, she dropped into a chair among her cousins.  It was leather, and she felt the cold of unoccupied leather seeping through her fine Dornish silks, “I hate it here.  It’s cold and damp and I own nothing to keep me warm.”  

The Sand Snakes ignored her complaint, for it was one she made often.  She could be dressed in furs and she’d still complain about the cold and the damp.  Instead, Obella spoke, scowling at the closed door, “He’s too dangerous by half - more so because he’s right.  You’ve no plan to take Starfall from Eadric Dayne.”  

“I’ve a few ideas.  It’s a problem I’ll fix when the bill comes due.  For now, I have other concerns,” a knock on the door interrupted their conversation.  Instead of waiting for a response, the person opened the door and entered.  

Loreza joined them, pulling off the ratty cloak she often wore while out in the city.  She, like Sarella, was more inclined towards learning than swordplay.  And unlike Sarella, or the rest of her sisters, she was young enough to pass unnoticed by most.  She’d used this to her advantage and taken her time in King’s Landing to learn its secret passages and entrances.  She often came and went without the others knowing how she left.  She found new passages every day, recording them in maps in her own secret language.  It was almost a game to her, although one with some very practical applications.  Moving through the city without King Bran’s ever-present ravens was, to put it mildly, useful.  

She came and stood among them, greeting them, “Sisters, cousin.  We have a problem.”  

“Oh good, another for the pile,” Dorea quipped.  

Arianne rolled her eyes, then signed.  Dorea wasn’t wrong, “Well, what is it?” 

“You were sent a raven this morning,” the most cunning and adept of the Sand Snakes in King’s Landing, Loreza read all of Arianne’s letters.  She liked to have the information, “And it contained some words in our cypher,” Arianne didn’t know the cypher, but all of the Sand Snakes did.  They’d taught it to each other as soon as they’d learned to read and write, “Sarella waits for us outside the city, and she has...guests...with her.” 

“Who?,” Elia asked, brows raised.  She was sitting on a couch with Dorea, her legs curled under her.  As usual, she wore her riding clothes and her black hair was pulled back into a long, thick braid.  Arianne wondered if she ever wore anything else.  

Fully divested of her cloak, Loreza plopped down onto the couch between her sisters, “Well, that’s the strange thing.  She has the maester, Sam, with her, and a small group of people.  She says she needs to come to the palace, but none of them want to be seen.”  

Arianne sat up straighter and said, “The Grand Maester needs secret entrance to the castle?” 

Loreza nodded, “That’s what the letter said.”  

“Can you do that?,” Arianne asked.  Her curiosity was piqued.  Even if he wasn’t to be trusted - and she’d heard much of Samwell Tarly’s character that said he actually was trustworthy - the strangeness of someone with such a high role needing secret access was almost too much for her to pass up.  Still, “Although I’m not sure we should.  It could be some sort of test from King Bran.”  

“And yet,” Obella said, obviously thinking aloud, “If it is not, having a friend in the Grand Maester would be very useful.”  

“It would,” Arianne agreed.  

“And I think I can get them into the city, although I’d need to wait until nightfall,” Loreza paused for a moment, thinking, “And Obella, you should probably come with me.” 

“I’m the better fighter,” Dorea protested.  

“You are, but you have all the subtlety of a boulder,” Elia teased, smiling at Dorea.  Dorea grumbled something under her breath, but shrugged, letting it go.  

Arianne nodded and sighed, “It’s times like this I most miss your sisters.”  

Silence coated the room at the mention of the three murdered Snakes.  Each woman missed them, and that shared grief often served as motivation.  Obela was the first to break the silence, “Doing this carries risk, but I think we should take it.  Sarella should be back with us.”  

After another moment of thought Arianne agreed, “There’s nothing about being here that isn’t a risk.  Loreza, bring them into the city as soon as you can.”  

“Tonight would be ideal.  The moon is a sliver and clouds have been gathering all day.  It’s been a few days since the last snows, so the streets are clear of snow that could give us away by our footsteps.”  

“Tonight, then.  Bring them directly to me in my rooms, I don’t care how late it is.  I’ll be waiting.”  

Chapter Text

It was evening, not yet dark, when Loreza left the castle.  She was clad in her typical outfit - rough linen clothes, worn boots, and travel-stained cloak - as she made her way to the nearest hidden door.  Finding it to begin with had been difficult, but the destruction had loosened some stones and she’d noticed the outline of the hidden door more easily.  Once she’d found it, she’d started exploring.  Some places were like that entrance - easier to access because they’d been ripped wide open or changed by the fire and the dragon - but others were impassable or broken.  It was a mixed bag, but Lorza knew that she was the only one who could find her way through the mess.  She’d read some of the history of the keep after she’d gotten here, and she knew what Maegor had done.  She liked finding the tunnels and making her way through them.  It was like an adventure, but one where she wasn’t really in danger.  She didn’t like danger, she liked books and experimentation.  She liked science and learning much more than she liked swords.  

It was dark and musty in the tunnels, but the smell was familiar to her.  The old one-eared black cat was in the same place he always greeted her, and he meowed at her as she passed.  She paused, gave him his treat, and patted his head.  She wondered, as she always did, how he’d survived the sack.  He hardly ever let her pet him like that, but he always demanded food as the toll for entrance into his domain.  She liked cats, so she fed him.  

She moved past him, and as the door closed behind her she drew her glowstone from her pocket and put it in the cage hanging from her belt.  She’d learned how to make these rocks recently in a very old book, and she preferred them to torches.  They were dimmer, and their blue light helped her eyes adjust to the dark.  They didn’t ruin her night vision like a torch did, nor did they cast a light so bright that it gave her away.  Anything that enabled her freedom to move about as she pleased was something she liked.  

So the glowstone hung on her belt next to the dagger her father had given her on her fifth nameday.  You are a smart girl , he’d said in the letter that had accompanied it, and you’ll be a smarter woman.  I see in you the same flame for learning that is in Sarella.  But to wander and learn safely, you must learn to defend yourself.  Joyous nameday, beloved, and learn to wield this well .  The dagger was well made, but plain.  Not something to draw attention to itself, just like her.  Holding the hilt always brought her comfort when she was scared or lost or confused.  

She stepped through the rubble and walked down the twisting halls.  The path she took was well-worn now, and she knew it well.  Down the spiral stairs, carefully treading on the planks she’d put to cover gaps in the stairs.  Falling stones from higher in the tower had damaged them during the sack.  She wound through tunnels carved from the bedrock below the castle, the blue light from her glowstone casting sharp shadows.  There were rats down here, and she heard them skittering about.  They didn’t run from the blue light like they did from torchlight, and sometimes they walked beside her in the tunnel.  They didn’t bother her, not really.  She’d seen scarier things than rats, and besides, the dead were down here.  Someone needed to clean them, and the rats could get to places that humans couldn’t.  

She ran across the large open space that she supposed used to be catacombs.  Now they were broken and the walls had fallen, filling in the pathways with rubble until they’d created one large, open area half-filled with stone.  She’d had to be careful at first down here not to twist an ankle, but she was light and quick and cautious, and she’d found a safe way through the rubble.  She hunched as she darted through it.  She was in no real danger from another person here, but the wind whistled through the stones in a way that was quite unnerving.  

She went down another hall, and in the side of it was a crack that hadn’t been there before the sack.  It was more than a crack, really, it was a large opening where the wall of the tunnel had collapsed.  Behind it was a natural cave, and she followed it to the exit.  As she got close, she could hear the waves and the wind whistling across the opening to the outside.  She could smell the salt-and-fish smell of Blackwater Bay, carried on the damp of the cave.  

It opened in the cliffside behind the castle, a rend in the side of the cliffs far above the water.  There was another opening further down, but she’d explored that and found it blocked by rubble from the castle.  This one emptied out further above the water, and a short walk down a natural path on the side of the cliffs brought her to a set of hand and footholds cleverly carved into the side of the cliff.  They went all the way up and down the side of the cliff, and at the top they led to a door that was so badly blocked with rubble that Loreza had no idea how to find it from inside the keep.  Instead, she followed them down, scaling the cliff face and ending up down near the bay and the blocked-off cave.  She’d left a horse down here for herself earlier, because she had too long of a way to go on foot.  Elia chose this beast for her - a sturdy but even-tempered gelding that was a common brown, with no markings that stood out.  It was an easy trip to the top of the path, and easier still to join the evening flow of workers leaving their jobs and making their way to taverns or their homes.  That’s why she’d chosen this time of day - there were streams of people in the streets, and she’d pass unnoticed in the crowd.  On the way back it would be dark enough to obscure their faces but early enough that they wouldn’t stand out.  

She kept to the docks in the south, easily finding her way to one of the many barges that ferried people across the Blackwater. Sarella and her guests were coming from the south, along the Roseroad, and she’d chosen an inn that was in the mass of homes and other buildings just on the other side of the river.  There were several of these small settlements outside of the walls, but after the sack the population of them had swelled with the displaced from inside the city walls.  The villages outside the walls, mostly empty of their people and not strategically important, had been spared most of the wrath of the dragon queen, and so were intact enough to support residents.  As a result, the flow of traffic to and from King’s Landing had been reversed: instead of coming in from the fields and markets outside the walls to homes inside the walls, they came back to homes outside the walls after working to rebuild the city.  This went double for the town on the other side of the Blackwater.  The queen approached from the north, and she paid little mind to what was on the other side of the river after destroying Euron’s fleet.  After the battle was over, King Bran had taken notice of the activities of the population and allowed a portion of the Kingswood to be used as material for the rapidly growing town.  The locals had taken to calling it the Little City.  At this time of day it was easy for Loreza to slip into the flow of workers heading back across the Blackwater to the Little City.  

She dismounted and walked the placid horse onto the barge, finding a place to wait out the ride.  It filled quickly and soon they were underway.  She stood, patiently waiting, watching the traffic on the river.  When they’d reached the center of the river, she felt the lightest of touches on her wrist, easily mistaken for an accidental touch in the press of the crowd.  Her eyes flicked to the side and she recognized Obella’s profile.  Her sister, as planned, had gone a different direction when leaving the castle and slipped onto the boat in the crowd.  She gave the smallest nod and didn’t turn towards her.  She relaxed a little, knowing that she was safer with Obella at her side.  

The boat soon bumped against the dock on the other side, and the passengers all flowed out, scattering into the streets of the large town.  She and Obella did the same; she on her horse, and Obella following behind discreetly.  She let herself relax into the saddle, swaying with the horse’s careful steps through the sticky mud of the streets.  They weren’t paved yet, as the work on King’s Landing had taken all of the people and materials that could have been used to do the work, but they were trod often enough that the cold hadn’t been able to freeze the mud solid.  

The roads were as bright as could be expected in a town that had grown so quickly without the appropriate infrastructure.  Mostly, it was the light spilling from the windows of buildings around them that lit the streets, and everyone had to step carefully in the dimness.  There was also the pervasive smell that accompanied this many bodies unable to wash due to the coldness and living close together without proper sanitation.  This, too, had been attempted - latrines dug and pits for excrement near the buildings.  This helped keep the waste off the streets, but it did nothing to help the smell.  Loreza had spent many hours in Flea Bottom and wasn’t particularly bothered, but she smiled a little to herself imagining the funny face Obella must be making.  She rarely left the castle and wouldn’t be accustomed to how the lower classes lived.  

It took them some time to reach the inn Sarella had directed them to.  It was small and near the outskirts of the town, its weather shingles identifying it as one of the small scattering of  buildings that had existed previous to the swelling in size of the town.  The sign out front had been recently repainted and showed a  rose winding its way through a crown - The King’s Rose.  It was small enough that it had no stables, just a line of hitching posts.  She dismounted and tied the gelding to it, alongside several other horses.  Then she headed inside, scraping the mud off of her boots on the boot scraper near the door.  

Inside, the inn was nothing remarkable.  Neither too cozy nor too uncomfortable.  There was a draft, but the fire overwhelmed the cold.  It was neither small nor large, and had a few people scattered about the tables.  It was not especially unpleasant nor homey; it simply existed to serve a purpose, and it fulfilled that purpose.  The crowd matched the inn: neither depressed nor raucous, they only filled about half the tables in the room.  

She lowered her hood and looked around, easily spotting her two sisters sitting at a corner table.  Obella had arrived first and was seated next to Sarella, the two of them smiling and talking animatedly.  Opposite them was a very large, fat man with longish dark hair, pale skin, and pale eyes.  He wore finely made clothing, although he didn’t seem to be terribly conscious of the state of it.  It looked somewhat worn and travel-stained.  This, Loreza knew, was Samwell Tarly.  Next to him was a pretty, small woman with brown hair and big, dark eyes.  She was smiling at the conversation happening across from her, idly listening while she leaned on the Maester’s shoulder.  

Loreza made her way through the other tables to the one they’d secured, and took the seat they’d left open for her.  She could see the rest of the room, and the fire was close enough to warm her.  Sarella swallowed a mouthful of ale, looking at her sister.  

“You’ve grown, little one,” she commented with a half-smile.  

She returned the cautious smiled; they didn’t really know each other, as Sarella had left when Loreza was very small.  But she’d been told all her life how much like her big sister she was, and she did harbor hopes that they could be friends.  She then shrugged,  reaching for a piece of bread from the cutting board in the center of the table, “As children do.” 

“I’m told you’re very smart--”

“Ass,” Obella interjected, “Smart ass .”  

“Then she is one of us,” Sarella smiled a little broader.  

“Obella likes to complain because she’s the slowest of wit,” Loreza bounced back.  

“I am not, I--,” Obella started, but Sarella cut her off.  

“Loreza, this is Grand Maester Tarly and his wife, Gilly.  Sam and Gilly, this is my youngest sister Loreza,” she gestured with her hands in turn, and then took another drink of her ale before signaling to the nearest serving girl to bring some for Loreza.  

“Pleased to meet you,” Sam said.  He spoke strangely, like he wasn’t sure anyone wanted to hear his words.  An odd trait in someone so highly placed.  Shouldn’t adults be more confident than that? 

“Likewise,” she nodded to both of them, even though Gilly hadn’t said anything.  

“So what news from our cousin? Obella wouldn’t tell me anything,” Sarella asked.  

“She’s...curious.  She gave me instructions to help you, and so I will.” 

“We sent our retainers on ahead of us,” Sam added, “They’re setting up my quarters as if I will be arriving soon.  Alleras...Sarella suggested that we enter the city quietly and speak to your cousin to gain more information about the state of the small council,” he was frowning like he didn’t really understand why that should be necessary, and Loreza guessed that intrigue wasn’t his strongest suit.  

“She made a good suggestion.  I’ll not speak of it here in public, but it was an excellent suggestion. She sent me because I am the best to show you the way.  Do you have horses?,” they nodded, and Loreza was quiet for a moment while she thought of how best to accomplish their task, “Good.  We’ll travel in groups.  I’ll go alone.  Obella will take Sam and Sarella will be with Gilly.” 

“It would be better if I went with Sam instead,” Sarella suggested, “It’s already well known that I am in training in the citadel, so if we are caught then it would be no trouble for him to claim I am his apprentice.” 

Loreza nodded, “Alright then.  Obella, if you are caught, you know what to do,” the sisters all had cover stories prepared for a variety of situations, and Arianne was careful to make sure that all of the Sand Snakes were seen carrying messages and running errands for her.  It would be no hardship to explain why Obella was with the Grand Maester’s wife, especially not if they’d already sent his household ahead of them, “I will finish my bread and drink, and then I will leave first.  The rest of you will leave together and say your goodbyes on the street.  Go opposite directions, but meet at the barges.  We’ll cross on the same barge, and you can follow me back at a distance.” 

They all indicated their understanding, and the serving girl arrived bowls of stew for them all and an extra drink for Loreza.  They ate together, catching up and speaking of idle things.  All the while, Loreza felt the press of time.  This needed to be correct...they needed to leave here shortly before the taverns and inns would start to empty of the first wave of patrons.  It was all she could do to not bounce, fidget, or repeatedly look out the windows and try to see the crowds.  It seemed to be hours before the first patrons started to finish their stew and trickle out of the tavern.  Now was the moment.  

“I must be returning to the city,” she said, wiping her mouth and standing.  They said their goodbyes and she returned to the street, hood pulled up against the cold.  Luckily, no one had touched her horse, and she untied him and mounted easily.  She worked slowly, not wanting to get too far ahead of the others, and once she was mounted she made sure the horse plodded carefully down the street.  

She’d been right about the timing.  The streets weren’t nearly as crowded as they’d been on her way here, but there were plenty of patrons leaving the taverns and people running early evening errands.  She arrived back at the docks to find that the barges back in the direction of the city ran at longer intervals than the barges coming to the Little City, and so she pulled herself off to the side to wait.  It wasn’t long before she saw Sam and Sarella enter the open area of the docks.  They, like everyone else, were wrapped in cloaks that hit their faces and protected against the cold.  She only knew it was them because of Sam’s size.  She wasn’t able to spot Obella and Gilly among the other travellers that milled about while waiting for the barge, and she counted that a good thing, even if it made her a little uneasy.  She’d have to keep moving forward and hope that they were simply skilled at blending with the crowd.  She’d told them what her horse looked like, and they’d seen her cloak, so they should be able to spot her even if she didn’t see them.  

The barge opened and the patrons filled in the space.  They waited a little longer until it was sufficiently full, and then started across the river.  A breeze blew from the south, and it carried the smells of the Little City: shit and humans, smoke and newly cut timber.  It dissipated as they got closer to Kings Landing.  She hadn’t been able to pick out Gilly and Obella on the barge either, but she hadn’t really been able to look around without being conspicuous.  If they hadn’t made it onto the barge, they’d just have to find their own way back, but Loreza hoped they’d made it onto the barge.  

She led the others through the city, using back roads and larger crowds to her advantage.  It took much longer than it would have if she’d been alone or taken a direct route, but she was confident in their secrecy when they reached the top of the path down to the cave mouth.  She started down without waiting for the others, and when she reached the bottom she tied up her horse and sat down on a rock near the mouth of the cave to wait.  

It wasn’t too long before she heard the sounds of horses on the path, and soon Sam and Sarella had joined her.  They also tied up their horses; a groom from their household would be down later when it was quiet to collect the animals.  She stood when they came into the cave, “Have you seen Obella and Gilly?” 

Sarella shook her head, “No, we just assumed that Obella was doing a good job of hiding them.  They went the longer way around to the barge, so they should be along soon.” 

They each claimed a stone to rest on while they waited for the other two women.  Loreza took note of the position of the moon and stars so she could track the time that passed.  She saw Sarella do the same and smiled at their shared habit.  Sam didn’t notice the stars and moon; he kept his gaze on the path.  

Minutes passed, and they waited in silence.  Sam couldn’t keep still.  He would get up, pace, and sit back down.  Sometimes he looked at them as if he wanted to say something, but then he turned back to the path.  After around twenty minutes had passed Sarella said, “They should be here by now.”  

“They could have missed the barge, we should give them more time,” Loreza replied, “Thirty minutes at least.”  

“If they missed the barge, longer than that.  Although I don’t see how they could have missed it.  They shouldn’t have been that far behind us even though they were taking the longer way around,” Sarella replied.  

“Do you think something’s happened?,” The worry was plain in Sam’s voice. 

Loreza and Sarella exchanged a look.  Yes, they did think something had happened, but what could they do about it? It was Sarella that answered, “We’ll give them more time.  Perhaps they’ve just been caught up somewhere.” 

Sam didn’t sit back down.  He paced until his breathing was heavy.  Sarella wondered how he’d make it up the cliff, but she didn’t say anything.  She didn’t pace, but she did keep a closer watch on the cliff.  If they’d missed the barge then they’d be far behind.  The barges came back and forth about once an hour.  Gilly was with Obella, who knew her way around King’s Landing almost as well as Loreza did, so once they were back across the river they could make good time.  It was still a long wait.  About an hour and a half from now.  A very long hour and a half.  

They made it around another forty minutes before Sam couldn’t hold his worry in any longer, “We need to go look for them.  They could be hurt or in trouble.”  

“Sam,” Sarella answered, “The barges go once an hour.  If they missed it then they’d just be making it to the shore now.  We still need to wait.”  

“No,” he insisted, “Something’s wrong, oh if something’s happened to Gilly I’ll never forgive--” 

Scraping on the path.  Sam stopped pacing, his eyes getting big and round in the moonlight.  He opened his mouth to call out, but Sarella silenced him with a sharp shake of her head.  She slid off her rock and drew her sword, prompting Loreza to climb down and draw her dagger.  They stood stock-still, quiet, and watched the foot of the path.  

Time slowed to a crawl while they waited and listened to the people on the path making their way down.  Finally, Loreza heard the call of a lark, and the pattern was familiar.  She relaxed and said, “It’s Obella.” 

“Gilly?,” Sam called rushing towards the bottom of the path.  

“Sam!,” she answered, scuttling the last few yards down the path to hug him.  Immediately Loreza noticed that she had a long tear in her cloak, and mud splattered all over her.  There was a scratch on her cheek.  

Obella came down the path after her, moving quickly and looking significantly worse for wear.  Her clothing was torn, soaked with blood in a few places.  Her cloak was entirely gone, and parts of her person were singed or blackened with soot.  Loreza frowned, a sinking feeling in her gut, “Where are the horses?” 

“Gone,” Obella was breathing hard and she stopped in front of Sarella and Loreza, “We were attacked by...things.  People? I don’t know.  They shouldn’t have looked like that...they got the horses....so savage...” 

As she trailed off Loreza noticed just how wild her eyes looked.  It was Gilly that explained, “Sam...Sam, they’re back.  The Others, they’re back!” 

“In King’s Landing?,” Sarella sounded skeptical, “They never made it this far to begin with.” 

“I know what I saw! I’ll know it for the rest of my days.  Once you see those blue eyes, it never leaves you,” Gilly snapped.  

“She knew what to do,” Obella added, her voice wan.  She sounded so young, so much more like the child she almost was, “We would have died if she hadn’t known.  I kept stabbing them and they wouldn’t die...there weren’t that many, just five or six, but they wouldn’t die ,” that last was hysterical, her head snapping up to look at her sisters, “She knew about the fire and that’s how I killed them.” 

“Shit,” Sam said with feeling, giving voice to what they were all feeling, “Shit.”

Chapter Text

“Land!,” Edward, one of her sailors, yelled from the crow’s nest.  He had a booming voice that carried far, and good eyes, so she frequently had him up there.  Even though she’d known they would be seeing land soon, her heart sank into her stomach.  

“You were right,” Imari commented, “and so was that old map.” 

They’d found an old map that showed three islands in roughly this area named Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya, “Yes.  At least we’ll be able to take on water.”  

“Why do you seem so unhappy about it?” 

“I don’t know.  Something about that dream last week stuck with me, I suppose.” 

“Maybe your death god is trying to tell you something.” 

She was quiet for a moment, and Syrio’s voice came to her, “Not today.  I can’t risk the crew for my feeling of foreboding.”  

“Aye, just don’t tell them about the feeling.  You know how superstitious they are.”  

“Them?,” she looked up at him and gave him a wry twist of her mouth, “All sailors are, and you’re just as bad.” 

“Of course I am, but my superstitions make sense at least.” 

“Really? So that’s why you piss over the same spot at the railing every morning?” 

“That’s just good sense.  Everyone knows that you claim your spot to piss so you don’t get someone else’s piss on you.” 

“Even when the headwinds change and you get splashback?,” she needled him.  Outwardly, her voice was calm and her expression unchanged, but inwardly she was grinning.  Moments like this the House of Black and White seemed far away, and the horror of King’s Landing and the Long Night were as far from this as she could get.  She felt like herself again when she bantered with Imari.  

“I would never,” he smiled his easy smile and leaned forward on the railing that they were standing next to.  Arya signaled to the helmsman to turn the ship to the island, and leaned onto the rail next to her quartermaster, “Out with it, my girl.” 

“When I was a little girl living in Winterfell we had pet dire wolves--” 

“Dire wolves? How in the summer sisters’ tits did you manage that?” 

“Do you want to hear the story or not?,” she made sure to glance around and make sure there were no eager ears nearby.  It wasn’t strange for she and Imari to spend time talking like this, and so no one paid them any mind.  

“I’m sorry, continue.” 

“And we found them in the woods as puppies, that’s how,” and we’re wargs, she added to herself, “I had a direwolf named Nymeria and I had to...let her go.  Sometimes I dream of her still, and the night you found me,” naked , “screaming in my sleep I’d been dreaming of her and of home.  I dreamt that my brother Jon was back in Winterfell and they were talking.  I was sleeping next to a fire beside Ghost - Jon’s wolf - and it was comfortable.” 

“Comfortable doesn’t sound like a reason to wake screaming,” his voice was soft and quiet, and his musical Summer Isles accent soothed the bad memories.  

“No,” she agreed, “It wasn’t.  I...left...Winterfell and was flying across the world back to the ship and something in the west called to me.  I followed it and then..there was fire and pain.” 

“That was when you woke,” she nodded, not looking at him, “But I think there’s something else that you’re not telling me.”  

Her eyes flicked to him and she saw nothing but concern and curiosity in them.  Did she dare say it aloud? She’d never admitted it even to herself.  But if Imari couldn’t handle it, then no one else would, “Come on, let’s go speak in private.” 

They turned from the rail to head below decks to her quarters, and as usual her crew made lewd remarks and yelled at them.  It was all blessedly normal though, and Arya wasn’t bothered by it.  They entered her quarters and he closed the door behind them and sat at one of her dining chairs.  She sat on the edge of her bed, gathering her thoughts.  There wasn’t much left in the world that scared her and, in truth, bravery had never been an area where she was lacking.  Magic, though? Magic scared her in much the same way she was scared to open herself to Imari.  Well, no turning back now, she supposed.  She looked up and met his warm green eyes.  

“In the north, sometimes people are born...different.  With a talent that others don’t always have.  How much do you know of king Bran?” 

“Some.  I hear he is a witch.”  

“He’s not.  He’s...something else.  Something of the north.  We call them Greenseers and Wargs.  Greenseers have the sight, and wargs can,” she struggled to find the words to explain it, “bond with animals.  Bran is both, but I...I’m a warg.” 

“You can bond with animals?” 

“Well, something like that.  Sometimes when I dream I go to Nymeria and I see out of her eyes, I can borrow her body.  She lets me - I don’t force her.  I would never force her.” 

“Stealing the body of an animal sounds evil.” 

“It’s not.  It’s a quirk of birth, not something I decided to do.  And it’s not stealing.  She and I, we’re bonded.  We’re like...partners, I guess.  I protected and loved her and she let me be a wolf sometimes.  Now Sansa protects and loves her and Nymeria lets me be a wolf again.” 

“Could you do this against the animal’s will?,” she hesitated, but then nodded, “And to a person?” 

“No! No, absolutely not!,” the idea made her stomach churn, “Never!” 

“But you could?,” he asked quietly.  

“I can’t speak for other wargs, Imari, but me? I never could.  Even if I knew how, I could never make myself do it.  Maybe an animal if I were in danger but a person? No,” and if there was anything Arya knew about limits it was that they were usually self-imposed.  How many times had she held herself back from advancing in the House of Black and White because of her own stubbornness? Many.  Not that she’d changed much in that respect.  Imari was a perfect example of that.  Maybe she could be happy with him, but her stubbornness and fear held her back.  

“And it’s not magic?” 

“No.  It’s just a trick of birth.  Something that runs in the northern blood.  I don’t try to be a warg, it just happens.” 

“And so your dream, that wasn’t a dream?” 

“No, and that’s what worries me about those islands.  There was something on them, Imari.  Something that burned my mind and made me wake screaming.  And I’ve seen too much to think that it was only my imagination,” he knew.  She’d told him of the war for the dawn, told him of the sack of King’s Landing.  He knew of those scars.  Knew why she almost never put down the valyrian steel dagger.  

“Well, then at least we’re prepared.” 

“I don’t know that we can be.  I don’t know what it was.  It was so strange.  It...it called to me, invited me.  Then when I tried to warg into whatever it was; burning.  Pain,” she closed her eyes briefly, remembering the sensation, “Whatever is on those islands will not be kind to us.”  

“I see.  And you can’t tell the crew you’re a warg--” 

“Imari, I never even admitted it aloud until now.  You’re the only person I’ve told.  Not even my brothers and sister know.” 

A sort of gravity descended on Imari’s features, and she’d never seen him look so solemn, “Then I will guard that secret jealously.  I see why you are hesitant now.  You can’t bypass the chance for supplies, but you can’t tell them how you know of the danger.” 

“Exactly.  And for all I knew the danger is only to me.  The old logs that were with the maps...they said that the crews had no problems coming ashore to repair their ships.  It could all just be too much caution on my part,” she didn’t believe that in her gut though.  Whatever was on those islands wasn’t going to be good.  

“Then we confront that when we get there.  We’ll--,” Imari was cut off by shouts from above, and the sound yelling.  

“Dragons!,” came the shout, “Dragons in the air!” 

They both bolted for the door, Arya managing it first, and pounded back up the steps.  The islands, so far away before their conversation, had grown closer while they’d been below decks and were now clearly visible on the horizon.  And there, flying towards them over the water, were three large, winged beasts.  King’s Landing, come again.  The burning, oh...the burning.  

But the shell shock hadn’t broken her then, and it didn’t break her now.  The dragons were flying low, in a tight grouping.  She’d seen Daenerys and Jon fly like that before.  But Drogon and Rhaegal had never flown like that without, “Riders!,” she shouted, “They have riders! Quickly, raise the flag of peace!” 

“Already?,” Imari asked.  

“Believe me when I tell you that there is nothing we can do against them.  Our only chance is for their riders to believe we aren’t a threat.” 

“We aren’t, though,” 

“Well, then it’s a good thing we’re telling the truth,” she gave him a small smile and ran onto the upper deck next to the helmsman, “Hold true to your course.  Don’t make any evasive or quick movements.  Hold steady, man, hold steady.”  

The men rushed to raise the flag.  Arya pulled her collapsible spyglass out of her pouch and extended it before holding it up to get a good look.  Even though they looked fairly small from this distance, when she looked at them up close she could tell they were as large as Drogon, Rhaegal, and then undead dragon had been.  And there, as she suspected, were riders on their backs.  These riders, though, they were different.  Daenerys and Jon simply sat on their dragons, holding onto the spines and directing them in a way that seemed almost as if the dragons could read their minds.  These dragon riders sat on what looked like a dragon-sized saddle that they were strapped into.  In the back of her mind Arya admitted that it looked far safer than what her brother and his queen had done, but what did she know of dragon riding? These riders also had tools in their hands.  As she watched she could see them using the tools to direct the dragons like you would with a crop and reins on a horse.  

The dragons themselves were differently colored, as well.  Drogon had been black with red wings, and Rhagal had been green with yellow wings.  The other...well, it had been white as snow, tinged with the blue of the Night King’s magic.  These, though, were not the same.  One was a deep blue, almost the color of the sea, with the blue of the sky on its wings.  The second was silver with white on its wings, glinting in the sun.  That had probably been the first thing Edward and the rest of the crew had seen.  The last was burnt orange, with brown in its wings, colors that reminded Arya of autumn.  All three had the wicked spines and wicked teeth that she’d seen before.  The riders were harder to see - they all wore the same leathers, covered from the crowns of their head to the tips of their feet in strong-looking riding clothes.  The lack of armor and weapons was comforting, although Arya supposed that the dragons were the weapons.  

The ship settled, flag raised atop the highest mast, clear in the ocean breezes, sailors returning to their duties while they kept a nervous eye on the approaching beasts.  They were much faster than the ship, and they approached quickly, their forms becoming larger on the horizon.  It wasn’t long before Arya didn’t need the spyglass to see them clearly.  They flew at them, slowing as they neared.  

When they reached the ship they, as she’d hoped, did not attack it.  Instead they circled overhead, not able to land in the water or on the ship.  Then one flew lower, racing by the side of the ship before flying out, wheeling around, and coming back towards them.  This time it passed over the center of the ship, and something small fell from the dragon’s back and landed with a thump on the deck.  Arya rushed down and picked it up.  It was a small leather pouch.  She opened it and inside was a piece of paper nestled in sand to weight the whole thing down.  She pulled it out and unrolled it, reading it to Imari when he appeared at her side.  

“You will hold your course and we will escort you to our harbor.  There, only your captain and one other will come ashore.  Throw this overboard if you agree to not provoke us,” she looked at him.  

“Interesting wording,” he commented.  

“Well, it’s not as if we could put up much of a fight even if we wanted to.  And we need provisions.”  

He shrugged, “They could also take our ship and cargo, murder us, and feed us to their dragons.”  

“Don’t worry Imari, they’ll cook us first,” she didn’t wait for an answer.  He was, of course, right, but there wasn’t much they could do about it.  Their only possible route to safety was to follow the instructions and see what happened.  She shoved the note back in the pouch, looked up to make eye contact with the dragon rider who’d dropped it, and tossed the whole thing overboard.  The rider nodded and settled back into formation with the other two.  

It wasn’t a long voyage to the largest of the islands.  The crew seemed to settle somewhat when the dragons didn’t attack, but Arya could still feel the undercurrent of fear.  Fear, she knew, made people stupid.  And stupid got you killed.  Her crew, who’d signed on to explore westward over the Sunset Sea, was braver and smarter than most.  All the same, dragons were unnerving, and people could be even more volatile.  Arya watched them wheel and dip, occasionally coming down to catch a fish in their claws before flying back into the air and eating it.  The dragons cooked their food with their fire before they ate it, and the whole crew could feel the heat of it.  Smart , she thought, feed them and remind us what they can do.  

As they slowed and entered the harbor to drop anchor, Arya said to Imari, “I am going to take Lucarys with me.” 

“The Boatswain?,” Imari sounded a little surprised.  

“Yes.  He’s level-headed, and since we’re here for supplies, bringing him with me will lend truth to those words.  And I need you to keep the crew from being stupid.  They’re nervous, but they’ll stay in line if you’re here to lead them, and I trust you.” 

“Alright,” he agreed.  The lack of argument from him meant that he saw the logic in her decision.  

“One tinder, Imari.  That’s all it would take, and we’d all die.  There’s nothing we can do to fight the beasts, and I don’t want to meet the god of death yet.”  

“Not today,” he repeated her sentiment from earlier back to her.  

She nodded, “Not today, my friend, not today.”  

Once they’d anchored, she sought out Lucarys.  Although he was all the things she’d said to Imari, she’d had another reason for bringing him.  Lucarys was a minor member of house Velaryon, and they all had more than their fair share of dragon blood.  While that, unfortunately, meant that he had the silver hair and violet eyes common in those of Valyrian descent, it also meant that he had more of a chance of being safe among the dragons than others.  Or, so she hoped.  Anyone who really knew the answer had died long ago.  

Lucarys was a tall, wiry young man, and he kept his silver hair long to protect his head and neck from the sun.  His face was thin, with a long nose, and the tell-tale violet eyes.  His were a light violet, clearly purple and not blue.  He was the kind of man who looked delicate and breakable, but Arya had seen him hoist plenty of heavy ropes in his time and she knew he wasn’t delicate.  She also knew he could fight reasonably well, although he wasn’t the swordsman she or Imari were.  

It took him only moments to prepare himself, and the only weapon he brought was his shortsword.  He brought the book he used to keep track of both the ship’s finances and their stores, and then he joined Arya in the small boat that would take them to shore.  Overhead two of the three dragons flew to the island and landed in a large clearing that looked to be specifically designated for the purpose.  Only the blue dragon stayed near the ship, making lazy circles in the sky.  The two of them said nothing, as Lucarys rowed them towards the dock.  

The dock was sturdy, but small, and the town adjoining it wasn’t large.  There was one street that led from the dock up into the homes and small shops that lined the hard-packed dirt road.  It was even hotter here than it had been on the ocean, and most people were wearing a loose wrap as their clothing.  They were on the largest of the three islands, the one that had the mountain, and even still there wasn’t much to it.  There was a single peak in the distance and a thick, green jungle beyond the town.  The people that milled about, appearing to be going about their day, had no one single look to them.  Some had dark skin, some had light skin, and all shades in between.  Hair colors, too, ran the gamut.  She even saw some Valyrian silver here and there.  Who were these people? 

Several of them were waiting at the dock.  There was one dragon rider, wearing the leathers save for the helm.  Now that Arya was closer she could tell that it was a woman of medium height.  Her skin was pale, or as pale as one could be when spending so much time in the sun, and her hair was a golden blonde.  She stood next to a tall man who had skin the color of terracotta, brownish and sun-kissed.  He had long, dark hair that he’d tied back with a strip of cloth, and he wore a white wrap with bright blue flowers on it.  The last person was another man.  He was shorter than the dragon rider, and also pale, with bits of dark hair peeking out from under a wide straw sun hat.  He, too, wore the wrapped, draped clothing the others wore, although his was a deep green.  

Arya was the first off the boat, although she waited for Aeron to join her on the deck before she introduced herself.  She didn’t know who was in charge, so she addressed them all, “I am Captain Arya Stark.  This is my boatswain, Lucarys Velaryon.”  

“We are Isolda,” the short man pointed to the dragon rider, “Robar, and I am Jaceyn.”  

“Well, hello,” she said awkwardly, unsure where to go from here.  Diplomacy wasn’t her strong suit.  Might was well just dive forward, “We were hoping to take aboard some provisions.”  

“Maybe,” Jacelyn said, “but we should speak first.  Come, follow us.”  

She nodded and then fell in behind them as they walked towards the small town.  The buildings here looked much more in the style of Westeros than she would have expected.  And, for that matter, why did they speak the common tongue? She listened to the idle conversations around her and they all also spoke in the common tongue, although they used slang she hadn’t heard and had an accent that she’d never heard either.  And there was, of course, the question of the dragons.  Surely if they’d been here when the islands were visited the first time someone would have made mention of it.  

They walked up to the top of the long street, near where it exited the town and ran into the jungle, and entered a large, simple home.  It had big windows that let the air move through it and was all a single room. There was a fire pit in the center, and a hole in the ceiling above the pit to let the smoke out, although right now the fire wasn’t lit.  Several stumps were arranged around the pit, and Robar gestured to them.  They sat, Arya and Lucarys on one side and the three locals on the other.  Once they were seated, a young girl brought them all a fresh cup of water poured from the same vessel. 

“Now that we have been introduced,” Jaceyn said, “I must ask, are you from Westeros?” 

Arya nodded, “We are sailing west, to see what lays on the other side of the sunset sea.  We were blown off course by a storm a few weeks back, and we’ve been caught in a tradewind ever since.  Although I did see these islands on a very old map.” 

They exchanged a look and Robar picked up the conversation, “We are the descendants of the Lost Westerosi.” 

He looked like he expected that to mean something to her, but it didn’t, and she frowned, “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.” 

“Our ancestors were thought lost in a storm, but their ship didn’t sink.  They landed here after their companion had already left.  The ship was beyond repair and they had no way to contact the other two ships, so they stayed,” Robar explained.  

“Other two ships?,” Lucarys asked.  Arya was starting to wish she’d paid better attention to her history lessons, “You mean one of the three ships that went with Elissa Farman?” 

“The names of the captains of the other two ships haven’t survived the years.  None of the ship that brought them here even remains save for a bit of hull with some letters on it,” Jaceyn said.  

“What are the letters?,” asked Lucarys.  

“They came here on the Tumnmo ,” Jaceyn replied.  

“No, no,” corrected Lucarys, “The lost ship wasn’t the Tumnmo , it was the Autumn Moon .”  

“Lucarys,” added Arya, “T-u-m-n-m-o are the middle letters of Autumn Moon .”  

“Damn,” he said, “That ship definitely was recorded as lost.  There’s a legend that it was consumed by a kraken.”  

“No Krakens here,” Isolde said, offering a toothy, hostile smile, “Only dragons.” 

“Yeah...about that,” Arya directed her question at Isolda, “Where in the seven hells did you get dragons?” 

Their hosts exchanged a look, and the two men nodded at Isolde, and she spoke, “Several years ago, during the time of the red comet, one of the girls from the village was playing on the slopes of the mountain.  She heard an animal crying in a cave and she went to investigate.  The mountain is a volcano, and the heat in the cave was immense, but she went on until she found them.  There were three, sitting in the shells of their eggs.” 

“I thought only those with Valyrian blood could ride dragons?,” Arya asked.  

Isolda shrugged, “Who knows how far the dragons spread their seeds? The dragons have been with us since their hatching and become accustomed to us.  We feed them by hand when they are young.  They choose riders.” 

“Why haven’t you flown back to Westeros?,” she was curious on that point especially.  Why had they stayed here? 

“Why would we leave?,” that was from Robar, “We have all we need here.  Food, water, warmth, and the dragons to keep us safe.  

It was a compelling argument.  She could see wanting to be away from Westeros and its politics, so she nodded in understanding and mused, “I wonder where the eggs came from.”  

“Who knows?,” Jaceyn shrugged.  

“There have been accounts of dragons that did not meet their end during the Dance disappearing.  It could have been one of those, or a wild dragon hatched out of Targaryen care.  Perhaps even some of the rumors of dragons after the death of the Last Dragon were true,” Lucarys stared off into space thinking, “There are possibilities.  Maybe they’ve always been there.  Maybe Elissa Farman stole more than three eggs.”  

Arya did not like that idea at all.  She didn’t like the dragons the last time she’d met them, and she wasn’t sure the world needed more of them.  It definitely didn’t need more of them under human care.  But what could she do? They had the power here, not her, and she was never going to be a dragon rider.  Now she knew, though, what had called her south and what had happened.  She must have tried to warg into a dragon.  It was not an experience she wanted to repeat any time soon.  No, she just wanted to get her supplies and get out of here.  Far, far away from those fire-breathing monsters.  

“Well,” she said, wanting to push the conversation forward, “As glad as I am to hear about all of this, we are not intending to stay long.  We’d like to take on fresh supplies and leave.  Water, especially, is useful.”  

“And how would you pay us?,” Jaceyn asked, “We don’t use coin here, we barter.  What do you have for trade?” 

It was a good question, because she’d assumed she could simply pay.  She couldn’t trade them the wine or the food because they needed it to get home.  They’d brought some trade goods with them for situations like this but she wasn’t sure what they’d like.  It was Lucarys who answered for them, showing the value of a skilled boatswayne, “I think most of what we have in our holds wouldn’t be useful to you, but we have a few rarer things that would be appropriate.  We’ve brought several books and maps I think might interest you.”  

“Yes,” Jaceyn said, and Robar nodded, “That could be interesting--” 

He was cut off by a commotion outside of the house, and a moment later another dragon rider stormed in the door.  This one was tall, with broad shoulders, and angry lilac eyes.  He had the silver hair, too, shining and plaited down his back.  His skin was as pale and smooth as any member of the nobility Arya had ever seen, and his riding leathers showed a perfectly muscled body.  There was no drop of dragon blood in this one, he looked like a perfect scion of old Valyria.  Some broken part of Arya, one of the many pieces that had been hurt in past years, shied away from him.  A Valyrian dragon rider? No.  Not again.  Especially not one that was as clearly angry as this man was.  

He marched right up to the circle where they say and growled, “You exclude me from this meeting? Bring an apprentice instead?” 

“Isolda needs the experience, and she is skilled enough to no longer be an apprentice.  It is only your pride that keeps her as one,” Robar chided.  Arya noticed that all three of them tensed up when this man stormed in.  

“I should be here, not here.  Without me I’m sure you’ve agreed to provision them and let them go?” 

“I see no reason to keep them here,” this was from Isolda, who seemed the calmest of the three.  If she was his apprentice, she was probably used to this.  Arya didn’t even need to wonder which branch of the Valyrian tree had spawned this jackass; with that temper he had to be a Targaryen.  

“Of course you don’t, because you never think ahead,” he spat, “If we let them go they’ll run back to Westeros and tell everyone we’re here.  They’ll come and try to take our dragons!”  

“How?,” Isolda’s voice was sharp and icy, the opposite of the man’s temper.  Arya wanted to say something, but she wasn’t sure what, and she wasn’t sure that interjecting was the best course of action.  This had the feel of an old argument, “They’ve all bonded riders, and we’re perfectly capable of defending ourselves.” 

“You don’t know, they could have ways of dragon slaying, they could--” 

“No, Maelys,” Jaceyn finally found his voice, and he stood up.  He didn’t come close to this man’s eyes, but it didn’t seem to matter to him, “We’ve chosen Isolda to speak for the dragon riders, not you.  Let this be a lesson to you to learn to control your temper.  Now leave, before I have to call someone to remove you.”  

Maelys looked like he wanted to do anything but leave.  He stood there, fists clenched, attempting to stare down Jaecyn.  It didn’t work, and Maelys broke first, turning and storming out of the house.  Jaceyn made their apologies and sat back down to resume negotiations, but Arya couldn’t forget the look on Maelys’s face.  She knew when men wanted to kill and that one was just waiting for an excuse. 

Chapter Text

The people of Dragonstone knew that the dragon queen was back, and they weren’t especially pleased about it.  At first, she’d spent a lot of time up in the map room thinking on that fact and looking out over the island.  The people of Westeros were her people, and although returning from death had changed some parts of her it hadn’t changed her feelings of responsibility towards them.  So, she wasn’t a queen in name now.  She was still a queen, and she would act in the way that she felt a queen should act.  It had taken her some time, but she’d come to some conclusions.  

First was that if they knew she was here, soon Bran would know.  Once Bran knew, he’d likely decide to do something about it.  If she was in his position, she would strike quickly before the other person had the chance to win back the people and build loyalty and thus power.  If there was one thing she’d learned in her struggle for the throne it was that birthright didn’t mean people handed you things.  No, had she never hatched the dragons, she never would have been queen.  She would still have been herself, but the dragons gave her the ability to put weight behind her words.  And that’s what mattered - the weight behind the words, or they were simply empty.  

So it was only a matter of time before Bran sent a force here, and the last thing Dany wanted to do right now was kill more people.  Here they already whispered of the mad queen in the tower of the keep, and how it was cursed.  How she’d destroyed King’s Landing and it was only a matter of time before she’d destroy them.  The worst of it was that she couldn’t even fault them for that logic.  She had destroyed King’s Landing, and what did they know of dragons? So she’d thought on it and she’d arrived at a plan.  Something that might change their feelings towards her and Drogon.  It was a small island, but if she could change their feelings towards her and their loyalties, it would be something.  The answer, of course, had been simple: food.  

Once she realized the difficulties they were having in feeding themselves, she’d started taking Drogon out and having him scoop great fist-fulls of fish from the ocean and leaving them at the docks for the people.  He could fly further and faster than the boats and was a more efficient hunter than humans, and so the task wasn’t difficult.  They already knew that he was here, so there was no sense in trying to hide.  They might as well be useful.  

Her flights with Drogon had become part of a very structured day.  She’d take him out, deliver the fish, and return to the castle.  Then she’d cook one of said fish for herself - that was something she was beginning to enjoy, and she was better at it now - with whatever greens she could scrounge up, and then she would sit down in the throne room.  She never really expected anyone to show up, but she wanted to be available should they do so.  Most of the time she ended up reading some of the books from Dragonstone’s library until she grew too hungry not to eat and the sun was setting.  There were no servants to light the great braziers and no money for fuel besides, so she kept to the lantern she carried.  There were plenty of candles stored in the castle, so she never had a shortage of those.  After she ate, she’d wander the castle.  

She’d felt like a ghost in her own past, but that feeling passed quickly once she became accustomed to the keep and its halls.  The first things she’d read from the library had been the histories of her family, and so she’d gone to see the places described in the books.  The rookery that once held the dragon eggs, the caves where the wild dragons had made their lairs, the places where Aegon and his sister-wives had been born, the rooms where Jaehaerys and Alysanne had been so happy during the early days of their marriage, the tower where the Rhaena Targaryen, the queen in the east, had spent her days with her daughter and close friends.  She even went to the courtyard to see the place where Rhaenyra had been murdered by her half-brother.  She spent a long time there at that spot, looking at those flagstones and thinking.  She finally had the time to learn about her family’s past, to stop and consider it and feel the weight of it on her shoulders.  She came to treasure this time of the day, to love these moments of quiet contemplation.  The past could be learned from, or it could be run from, and she was choosing to learn.  

For instance, she’d learned that if Rhaenyra and Aegon II united their claims that the family would have been stronger and the dragons would not have died out.  There was every reason to believe that the two could have ruled side-by-side, stronger together, but the enmity of Aegon’s mother prevented the match and led to the dance.  This, of course, led her to thoughts of the one person alive who had a competing claim to the throne: Jon.  

As time passed, and her resurrection was further and further in the past, her feelings about Jon grew more complex.  She was angry, yes.  So angry at his betrayal.  But then she would thing about the words she’s spoken and the actions she’d taken until she could no longer ignore the voice in her head that told her he’d taken what he considered to be the right action.  Jon had even more love for the people than she did, and a far larger streak of self-sacrifice.  He was loyal to the core, and if he’d taken that action despite the pain it would cause him, then he almost certainly believed it was the right action.  Of course, that knowledge did little to soothe the ache in her heart.  While the queen understood his actions, the woman was still deeply hurt by his betrayal and not yet ready to face the one confrontation she knew she’d eventually have to have.  

The complicated thoughts did little to stop the dreams and the dreams were simple.  Oh, they were so simple.  The dreams were just a bed and his skin under her hands and the feel of him inside her.  Those dreams were a betrayal of their own because they felt all too real.  When she woke from them she was even more confused.  Dragons are fire made flesh, and humans are never closer to fire than when they were with a lover.  She was still a Targaryen and still carried that flame inside her.  Her waking memories of their nights together, even of their days together - the flying beside each other, the way her heart had leapt into her mouth when she’d seen him in a sea of undead, the way he looked painted by firelight, his dry sense of humor - all of it threatened to overwhelm her pain at his betrayal.  For her, love was closer to flame and the cold distance provided by time could not stand against that fire.  She loved him still, and she wasn’t ready to give up and let go of the hurt.  To swallow her anger just to have what she wanted.  She wanted to diffuse the anger, not ignore it.  

It was all too complex for her to sort through in any meaningful way, and when those thoughts started to overwhelm her - as they did every night during her candle light perusal of the castle - she went to bed and slept.  When the sun rose, so did she, and her days repeated themselves.  

That is why she was seated on the throne, reading a book by a jester entitled Bastards of Flame , when they found her.  The sound of boots on stone made her head whip up and her book snap shut.  She was alone here, there were no guards and Drogon couldn’t get in here, but she knew the risk when she’d opened the doors of the keep to allow any who wanted an audience with her to come.  They’d just never taken her up on it before.  She looked up at them and noted, with relief, that the two people in the doorway carried no makeshift weapons.  

They were clearly farmers - their clothing was the tough homespun linen that common people wore, their shoes were sturdy but caked with mud.  The man had his hat in his hands and he nervously played with it.  The woman stood tall and straight, her arms crossed, but a nervous look in her eyes.  Dany stood and stepped down the dais towards them.  

“Please, come in,” they exchanged a look but did as she asked, walking into the room and across the black stone of the floor until they were close enough to easily speak, “May I help you?” 

Dany waited patiently while they worked up the courage.  It was the man who spoke first, “Begging your pardons, my la- your gra- um, ma’am, but we noticed you’d been leaving fish at the dock every day.  Were they caught by the, uh...the dragon?” 

Dany ignored his rough ways and answered, nodding, “Yes.  They were caught by Drogon.  I have little to give, but I do have him, and I thought it might help.” 

“It has.  People were nervous at first because, well...you know.  And....can I be honest with you?” 

“I prefer difficult truth to easy lies.”  

“Well, the people here on the island our ancestors lived near the dragons sure as yours did so we’re not nearly as afraid of him as mainlanders, but we all heard about King’s Landing and lots of people, well...they’re more scared of you than him.” 

Sadness filled Dany.  She’d known this but it was still hard to hear it stated aloud, “I know.  I thought maybe I could start to make amends with the food.  I didn’t know what else to do.”  

“Well, this is your family’s home and we know that’s why you’re here.  You seem to be more interested in helpin’ than hurting, which is what I told Christoff down at the farm next door, but he’s still a little nervous,” the woman, presumably his wife, cleared her throat, and Dany tried not to smile at the exchange, “Anyway, we have been doing some work around the farm - cleaning, mostly, to get ready for spring when it comes, and we could really use some help with some heavy things.  There’s a piece of land, you see, it would be good for farming but it’s got some boulders in it that are just too big and heavy for our horses to move, specially not when the ground is frozen like this.  Do you think you could bring the dragon ‘round and help us?” 

This was it - they’d come to her with a problem and a request.  This was the softening she needed, the chance to show that she wanted to help.  Moving boulders might not be the typical work of a dragon, but she knew deep down that both she and Drogon could have a purpose that wasn’t death and war.  She barely thought once before nodding and smiling, “Certainly.  Tell me where to find the field and I will meet you there with Drogon.  It’s still early, I suspect we could do the work today.” 

“I think we could too,” Although it was still the man that spoke, Dany noticed that the woman seemed less tense, “I’m Charlie by the way, and this is my wife Daniella.” 

“I’m pleased to meet you.  If you’d like, you can call me Dany.  If you’re not comfortable with that, my lady is fine.”  

“Thank you, my lady,” they chatted for a few more minutes and he gave her directions to their farm.  When they parted ways, Dany changed her clothing into something worn but sturdy in case she got dirty.  Then she headed for the cave where she knew Drogon liked to make his lair, and found him waiting.  When she flew to the field she circled above it and landed in an open place, making sure Drogon stayed near enough that she could call him but not so near that it would frighten the small group of farmers who had gathered.  

She joined them and was introduced to several of Charlie and Daniella’s neighbors, then they all took a handful of ropes and started towards the field that needed to be cleared.  Dany insisted on carrying her fair share, although she wasn’t all that strong.  It didn’t seem to matter to them though, they let her carry ropes too and seemed happy about it.  

When they arrived it turned out that “a few stones” meant “a field full of boulders at least twice her size”.  It didn’t matter, she knew none of them would trouble Drogon.  She followed everyone else to the nearest boulder.  They tied the rope around the boulder and Dany tied the other hand around Drogon’s foot.  Then she had him fly upwards, and the boulder easily came out of the ground.  He dropped it onto a hard slope nearby that would never be useful for farming, and then they returned to do it again.  

The day was longer than Dany expected, and over the hours she felt herself relaxing into the rhythm of the work.  She found other ways for Drogon to help, like using his warm breath to melt the snow and soften the ground around some of the more deeply buried boulders and using his claws to scrape furrows around those bounders.  She had him simply lift the boulders when they laid on the surface, and resorted only to the rope when they were too big for him to get his claw around.  But he didn’t seem to mind the work, and neither did Dany.  The villagers didn’t relax completely around her, she was the dragon queen after all, but by the time the sun sank to the horizon and Drogon started looking towards the sea to go hunt, some of them were calling her by name as she requested.  When they went their separate ways for the evening, Dany was covered head-to-hell in mud, exhausted, and smiling.  

The next day, she went to the throne room as usual, and another few petitioners showed up.  The day after that, there were more.  So it went as word of her deeds melted the bad feelings the islanders carried towards her.  She helped them with all of their requests - she and Drogon cleared more fields, becoming exceptionally efficient at it and creating more farmland than Dragonstone had ever had before.  They helped unfreeze the harbor to keep the boats coming and going, they helped to raise houses, and soften the ground.  On one occasion they helped a blacksmith forge his weapons that day.  That had been, in Dany’s estimation, the most interesting day.  Soon she was so busy that she asked if one of the townsfolk would help keep her time more organized, and she found herself with a young woman named Marla as a steward.  Though she didn’t have much experience, she could read and write and was smart and kind.  She reminded Dany of Missandei in that way.  That was a wound that hurt, but as time passed Dany grieved and began to heal.  She still made food deliveries in the morning with Drogon, but now sometimes there were children waiting to pet his snout and wave at her.  Her flight back after the delivery had become something of a signal that the castle was open for visitors.  Although sometimes she left the castle and went down into town to talk to her people, and when she did she was treated kindly by them, and called by her first name as she’d asked.  They started inviting her into their homes, telling her their stories, feeding her their cooking.  As their trust in her grew, she found herself healing.  She realized that this was the kind of queen she’d wanted to be in Meereen - one that knew her people, that was less removed, that used all of the resources she had to help them.  The fact that it happened on Dragonstone made it that much more fulfilling for her.  She kept a weather eye on the waters in the direction of King's Landing, but no ships appeared.  

The dreams, though, they only got more intense, and Dany knew that her confrontation with Jon and her past was coming closer.  

It was about a month after she’d cleared the field for Charlie and Daniella when she had to stop ignoring that part of her past.  It was evening, and she stood by a well she’d helped dig, wiping mud off her hands.  Drogon flew overhead, entertaining himself by snapping at seabirds.  He could catch them if he wanted, but sometimes he found it more fun to chase them.  It was moments like this that he reminded Dany of a large, scaly cat.  She watched him while she cleaned her hands, smiling to herself.  

“Lady Dany?,” that was what the children had taken to calling her because their parents wouldn’t allow them to address an adult too informally.  This was no exception; a teenage girl named Alsyn and the two boys she hung around with - Dane and Willem - were with her.  That wasn’t an oddity; those three went virtually everywhere together.  One of them must have had a drop of dragon blood, because he had the same silver hair that she did, albeit with brown eyes and light brown skin.  Dany nodded at them.  

“Hello, triple terrors,” she heard the affection in her own voice and was happy to realize it wasn’t an affectation.  

They smiled at her, but it was shyer than usual.  They often were among the boldest of the children.  They seemed to have no fear of Drogon, sometimes going so far as to throw fish from the morning pile into the air and have him cook and eat them, cheering when he caught the food perfectly in his mouth.  Alsyn was the boldest of the bunch and now, as usual, the mouthpiece, “We want to, well show you something.  We’ve been talking about it and we think the right time has come to tell you about something we found.” 

“At first,” Dane added, “We were scared on account of King’s Landing and, well, dragons are a bit scary.  But now that we know you and all we think it’s a good idea to show you something we found.  Would you mind coming with us?” 

Dany looked at the rapidly darkening sky, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? We don’t have any lanterns and your parents are going to want you home for dinner soon.” 

Willem, the youngest by a few years, giggled and took his hands from behind his back and produced a few lanterns, “Our parents think we’re eating at each other’s houses and we always go down there at this time of day.”  

She chewed her lip, considering.  This could be a harmless bit of fun or it could be something their parents would not appreciate her condoning, but either way it looked liked they’d been doing it for some time.  There was no reason not to see, and if it turned out to be dangerous she’d tell their parents.  

“Alright,” she agreed, “I’ll come with you.” 

“Yay!,” that was Willem again, “I told you she would.” 

Alsyn rolled her eyes, “You did.  I’ll give you the carrots tomorrow.  Give us the lanterns.”  

Willem was holding three lanterns, and each child took one, so Dany walked between them.  The dusky light was still enough to see by, so none of them lit the lanterns yet.  They didn’t speak while they walked, but they did take turns giggling conspiratorially and being hushed by Alsyn.  

The four of them traipsed across the wide green field they’d been working in and towards the cliffs that bordered the edge of this part of the island.  They were close to Dragonmont here and on the very edge of the water.  The threesome seemed to be leading her there, and Dany wondered where they could be going once they got to the edge.  

Behind a huge boulder, as it turned out, and between another set of huge boulders.  This led to a fairly well-cleared and easy to follow path down the side of what were actually a short series of cliffs.  And the path led to the black sand beaches that were on the shores of most of the island.  She followed the children along the shores until they came up on one of the many caves that existed on Dragonmont, and that was when Dany started to get nervous.  She watched the children carefully light the lamps, and considered turning back.  Considered, but dismissed.  When Alsyn gestured to her and said ‘this way’, Dany followed.  

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the space, but when they did, her breath caught in her throat and she had to lean against the wall of the cave.  Flickering lamp light illuminated the tall, wide space of the cave and the sandy floor.  It also reflected off of familiar jade green scales.  There was a mess of scars on the side of the long, sinuous neck, a patch of uneven scales on his chest, and an older scar on his wing.  Eyes of molten bronze opened.  Rhaegal tipped his massive head to the side to look at her and the children.  Outside, as if sensing the overwhelming emotions of his rider, Drogon screamed into the night.  In the cave, the great beast stirred, and screamed back.  Dany’s past had finally caught up to her, and here was the reason that she could avoid him no longer.  Jon Snow's dragon lived, her child lived, and they would need to be reunited.  

Chapter Text

The loading of supplies had taken two days and Maelys had been hostile to them for precisely all of that time.  The other villagers had mostly just avoided those from the ship as they’d rotated on and off the island to give the men some time on dry land.  Robar, Isolda, and Jacelyn had been cordial but were clearly keen to see them gone.  And more than once Arya had come upon Isolda and Maelys in heated arguments about whether or not they should be allowed to leave at all.  Every time she saw Maelys, Arya’s gut feeling about him grew worse.  If she was home in Westeros she might consider bringing him the gift of death, but here? No, here it would be clear who’d done it and they were all still just one careful move from going up in dragonflame.  So she watched him and ensured the crew was on their best behavior, and wished the ship would load faster.  

That was why, when they left on the early tide of the third day, she was glad for it.  She’d be even gladder when the island was behind them and over the horizon.  Every bit of distance she put between them and the island was good distance, but she still stood on the deck to watch the island grow smaller.  It wasn’t until it was the size of a small hill that she looked away and back to the ship.  

“What’s that?,” Imari said, squinting in the direction of the island. 

“Shit,” spat Arya, grabbing her spyglass to confirm what she already knew.  Sure enough, the big orange dragon was winging its way towards them at high speed.  She only needed one guess to know who the rider was, “You know what it is.  Dragon!,” she shouted at the top of her voice, “Wear-to, put the wind at our back! To the guns!” 

“You didn’t think we could out run or shoot the dragon before, why now?” 

“I still don’t think we can do that, but I know we need to try.  Maybe we’ll get a lucky shot in.”  

“Right,” he grumbled under his breath, not taking his green eyes off the approaching threat, “Because lucky is definitely what we are.” 

“I thought this was why you piss off the same piece of railing every day and throw a copper in the water in the evening?” 

“Oh, it is, but clearly I’ve not been doing a good enough job.” 

“Try a silver next time.  Steady!,” she yelled as the carrack’s lines creaked in the press of the wind and their swift change in direction.  Salt was in the air and settled on her skin as the waves broke against the side of the ship and water sprayed.  If this stupid lizard was what took them down, then so be it.  They’d go down fighting.  

The dragon drew closer as they finished their turn and picked up speed.  It followed their change in direction easily, and it still gained on them.  Arya saw nothing but fire and death bearing down on them and she wasn’t sure there was anything she could do about it.  

Slow.  They were too slow, and the dragon flew too fast.  Fuck Maelys.  Fuck dragons.  She’d already done this once in her life, and once was enough for anyone.  She couldn’t take her eyes off the rapidly growing orange shape.  They were going faster - she’d been on the ship long enough to know how it felt - but it wasn’t faster than the speed of the dragon’s wings.  It would take all of one breath for it to destroy them.  If they didn’t get a lucky shot, they were done.  And they’d only get one shot - it would take too long for the scorpions to reload.  She couldn’t stagger the shots because she needed all of their power together to kill something the size of that beast.  

“Aim skyward and hold!,” she yelled, even as it got closer, “Wait for my command! The timing must be perfect!” 

If the angle was off, they’d never hit the thing.  The few scorpions they had were too low to the water, designed to fire at other ships and not flying lizards.  They were only based on Euron’s design, not copied.  There would be only a moment where the arc would be enough to hit it.  She waited and watched, needle pointed up in the air as a signal to her men to wait.  Wait for her command.  Her body grew tenser with each passing second, but her mind was clear and focused.  The waves on the hull made a pounding rhythm that seemed almost in sync with the flapping of the great wings.  The movement of the air, the speed of the ship, the angle of the guns, the height of the dragon, and its speed - all of these things melded into her mind and what could have been complicated calculations merged into instinct when her brain added it all up.  Another second.  One more.  Breath.  

“Fire!,” she screamed, knowing her aim was true.  The heavy strings of the scorpions snapped, and the thick bolts were launched into the air.  Her first mate was there, steady as the ship they stood on, and they waited and watched the shafts of wood arced through the air towards the threat.  

The aim was true, but the dragon was too far and had too much time to react.  It twisted gracefully in the air, and dodged the shots.  Arya knew that they wouldn’t get another shot, but she gave the command anyway, “Reload!” 

The winches started clicking loudly as the strings were pulled back, but it seemed to her that they were moving through molasses.  In her mind, she begged them to go faster, for all the good it would do.  She could hear the snap of wings now, and see the smoke dripping from the creature’s maw.  It was on them, scales gleaming in the sun, and the angry figure of Maelys small upon its back.  It was on them, and she could see the rows of sharp, black teeth as it opened its mouth to inhale.  

“Not again,” Arya whispered, staring into the dragon’s eyes.  Death is what she saw there on beautiful, bright wings. She was desperate to save herself, desperate to save her crew.  Instinct and fear took hold of her, and she knew there was only one thing she could try.  She’d never done it on purpose before, but she knew how it felt.  She pushed herself out of her body, aiming her mind at the dragon’s. 

It burned . Gods above and below, old and new, ever part of her was on fire.  She was not meant to be here.  But fear and willpower drove her, and she accepted the fire as the cost.  She might burn, but they would not.  The fire abated just enough for her to feel the mind below the magic.  It was more intelligent than she expected, but she couldn’t stop to muse about the minds of dragons.  She needed to take hold of the dragon.  She needed to merge with it as she did with Nymeria.  

No, not like Nymeria.  That was right and good.  A partnership of equals.  This was wrong and painful.  Dragons were not meant to be warged, but she knew of no other way to save them.  Yes.  Save them.  Save him.  Save Imari.  Save all of them.  Never again.  Not again.  No more, no more, no more...

There was a man on her back telling her what to do.  He was the problem.  No, he was...friend? Problem.  Friend.  Confusion.  She screamed her pain into the world, and her voice was so loud.  She twisted and bucked, and suddenly there was no more man.  She felt nothing but pain and confusion, but she held on because there was one thing left to do.  What now? What was happening? 

Home , whispered a voice she did not know, Go home .  

Arya let go. She fell back to the earth, back to herself, knowing nothing more than pain, and then the world was dark. 

Chapter Text

Of all the things king Bran had changed in King’s Landing, the constructing of the glass gardens was the one Brienne liked most.  As soon as he’d been crowned, Bran had brought in skilled makers from the north and set them to work.  The first thing they did was clear away the rubble of the destroyed sept from the top of Visenya’s hill. All of the stones were taken and reused elsewhere, and the marble plaza was pulled up to expose the soil below it.  All that remained of the old sept were a few flights of ruined steps.  The faith had returned to the Starry Sept in Oldtown and king Bran was resolved that they would stay there and not return in force to King’s Landing. 

Nevertheless, the people of the city and surrounding areas needed a house of worship, and so a much smaller sept was being built on the location of the old one. The land freed up by the smaller building and the removed plaza was given over to a new godswood and the glass gardens.  Most of them weren’t finished, but the first one had been completed several months prior, and that was where Brienne now stood.  

It was always warm in the glass garden.  It had dark, moist, fresh-turned earth filled with seedlings.  Gardeners, mostly smallfolk because they were the ones who knew best how to grow things, spoke quietly as they moved between the long rows of plants.  It was the only place in the city that smelled of home, and Brienne liked to spend her free time in their warmth and peace.  It helped her think.  

The new members of the kingsguard had all finally arrived and finished their training, and she was glad for it.  She and Pod only had so many hours in the day and she hadn’t slept a whole night since coming to the city.  Now that they’d settled, though, more regular shifts and she had more time to herself.  More time to rest, and she spent a not insignificant amount of it here among the plants.  

But it was, sadly, time to leave the gardens and go back to the red keep.  She turned away, let herself out, and began the long walk down the switchback pathway that had been built to allow access to the top of Visenya’s hill.  She found her horse at the bottom and mounted, starting towards the keep.  Around here the city was alive and buzzing, mostly with reconstruction work.  Old things were demolished and cleared, like the worst parts of flea bottom, and new things built in their place.  Things that had made no sense about the city were being moved or destroyed and remade in ways that better served the occupants.  Brienne liked to watch the people when she was out in the city.  They were working harder, but much had been done to ensure that they were at least fed and had work.  And the gold cloaks, whose leadership had been given over to a sellsword of Lord Bronn’s choosing, now spent more of their time actually keeping the peace instead of whoring, drinking, and taking bribes.  As much as Bronn lacked honor, he was a practical man and his choice for the captain of the watch was a good one.  It certainly didn’t hurt that Bronn had the coffers well in hand and the crown could afford to pay the guards.  They weren’t rich by any means, and from what Brienne gathered during the small council meetings, their hold on their finances was tenuous, but for the moment they were meeting their obligations.  Rebuilding continued apace.  

This was true even of the red keep.The red stone it was built from was not so easily quarried now, and there was plenty of rubble that could be repurposed.  And so it had been, with the walls now rising again built from a patchwork of colors.  What could not be built with was used as filling in the rebuilding of the large outer walls.  It still rose high above the city, and its shape was still more reminiscent of Harrenhall than its former glory, but it was looking more whole every day.  The king had expanded the godswood and a weirwood grew at its center.  A face had not yet been carved, but it was likely only a matter of time.  Brienne liked the patchwork nature of the new walls.  To her, they spoke to resilience and healing, but she’d heard some say they were ugly.  Well, she knew something about that.  Ugly, but strong and firm.  

She entered the keep and left her horse with a groom in the bailey, striding into the keep proper and up towards the throne room where she knew the previous shift was awaiting her arrival.  She and Pod always attended the king during his public events, and he was hearing complaints from the citizens today.  She walked towards the drawing room where Bran would be waiting on the change in guards.  

Mya Stone and Archibald Yronwood were standing outside the door, fully armed and armored.  On taking command of the Kingsguard, Brienne had made some changes to that uniform.  She’d returned the armor to a slightly older look, adding white scale mail with silver clasps, and having the plate enameled white.  The cloak was still the same snowy white, but down at the hem she’d had them all dip-dyed crimson.  It was symbolic of the blood of those who had been lost during the sack, Cersei’s brutal reign, and to the white walkers.  A visual reminder of what they really guarded.  

Mya smiled when she saw Brienne approaching, her blue eyes lighting up.  Mya had something of an attachment to Brienne.  Both tall, strong women who didn’t quite fit their assigned gender roles, they’d become fast friends after Mya had joined the kingsguard.  She’d been a perfect choice, too.  She was of the Eyrie, but she was also one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards, and so adding her to the kingsguard sent several messages at once.  She was a hardworking girl, and she’d taken to fighting quickly once Brienne had started tutoring her personally.  

Despite Mya’s size, she looked tiny standing next to her partner on watch.  Archbald was a giant of a man, almost as large as the mountain had been.  He had a body like a keg, with thick arms and legs, and a thick neck.  He wore his helm for the moment, but Brienne knew that under it he was bald as a stone.  He hadn’t been her first choice, or even her fifth, because he enjoyed his vices a little too much, but she had to admit that he was doing a fair job so far.  He was also the kind of man that others thought of as slow, and he was fine with letting them think that.  Brienne knew better.  He was Dornish, and they were always a little bit more dangerous than they seemed.  He didn’t look as happy to see her as Mya did, but he gave her a respectful nod.  

“Pod’s inside,” Mya said, tugging off her helm.  Her coal-black hair, a gift from her sire, was pulled back in a tight braid to keep it out of her way.  

Brienne nodded her thanks, “Anything I need to know?” 

“No,” Mya replied, shaking her head, “It’s been boring.” 

“You’re free to go then,” Mya thanked her and headed off, but Archibald hung back, so Brienne asked, “Do you need to speak to me?” 

He shrugged his big shoulders, “Might be nothing, but...the Martell girl has been spending more time than usual with the king.  She seems alright, but she hangs around with Dayne.  The Martells are vipers all on their own, but that one? I know that one on account of the Yronwood not being too far from High Hermitage.  He’s too pretty, too mean, and too ambitious. I don’t know what either of them are doing, but I’d bet a week’s wages that it isn’t good.”  

Brienne nodded.  If there was one thing she hated about being the Lord Commander, it was the necessity of keeping abreast of court politics.  The sack and the bloodshed hadn’t reduced the nobility’s lust for power in the slightest, it had just reduced the number of them around to play the game.  So she’d do with this information what she did with all such information - she’d discuss it with Tyrion when she next took a meal with him, “Thank you for telling me.  I’ll take it under advisement.” 

It might have been a sarcastic comment coming from anyone other than her, and so Archibald nodded and started down the hallway she’d just come down.  Then she knocked on the door and entered.  Inside, Pod was standing beside Bran’s chair.  The king was, as usual when his attention wasn’t required in the present, somewhere off in the network of trees or stealing some animal’s body.  Brienne was particularly uncomfortable with that part of his powers.  

When the door closed behind her, his eyes returned to their normal deep brown.  He shifted in his chair a little and said, “I am ready.” 

“Yes, your grace,” Brienne replied, and walked to the door that separated this room from the throne room.  She knocked on it, a specific pattern letting the gold cloaks on the other side know that the king was ready to enter.  Pod pushed the king’s chair up behind Brienne, and they waited for the door to open.  It took a few moments, and then the double doors were pulled open.  

Brienne entered first, her practiced gaze taking in the room.  The throne room, like much of the keep, had suffered extensive damage, but it was one of the first things to be repaired.  The tall pillars were still there, strengthened by the same patchwork of stones that existed elsewhere in the castle.  They held up a newly repaired ceiling high above their heads.  For now, the ceiling was unpainted, but there were plans for murals to be added later.  The floors were cleaned, and the stones smoothed and repaired so as to not be difficult to roll the king’s chair over.  This had been done with some of the red stone rubble from other areas of the keep, in remembrance of what had happened.  Some stones were even burned, cleaning having not been able to remove all of the scorch marks.  The wall behind the dais had been repaired, but was now made mostly of colored glass to let the light in.  The dragon skulls were back, brought up from the cellars and hung again on the walls.  Now, though, they were a warning of a different kind.  They weren’t to show the power of the Targaryens, they were to remind the ruler of the weight of what had come before and the weight of what had happened.  To that end, banners of all the houses who had members currently at court were hung from and between the pillars.  Bran did not fly the direwolf anymore.  Instead, he’d had a new sigil made: a white-and-red weirwood on a black field.  To Brienne’s eyes, it looked too much like the three headed dragon of the Targaryens.  Fire burns , she thought, but cold can kill just as readily.   

The largest of the skulls, that of Balerion the black dread, had been installed behind the new throne.  The dais had largely survived, and its main alteration had been the addition of a ramp to allow easy access for Bran.  A new throne was built, this one with a removable seat as Bran did not need it.  He was simply wheeled into the empty space left by a lack of seat.  Behind him was the twisted, melted remains of the iron throne, placed inside the open jaws of the permanently installed head of Balerion.  When viewed from afar, the open jaws looked as if they were about to consume the throne and its occupant.  This, too, was a reminder of all that had passed.  Lastly, a table had been once again added to the space near the dais for the small council to is.  

Brienne’s eyes took all this in, and the people currently occupying it.  Nobles seated above in the gallery.  Knights, landed gentry, and those of the nobility who wished to speak to the king stood below in the space between the pillars.  The crowd was light today, likely only those who were either interested in court politics or who had some kind of vested interest in the proceedings.  Brienne started forward and heard the creak of the king’s wheels behind her as Pod pushed him.  She took her place at the foot of the dais while Pod got the king settled and joined her.  Then the doors at the far end were pulled open and the first petitioner entered.  

The first few people were from the riverlands, all of them wanting the same thing - help with bandits and restitution from the crown.  It wasn’t surprising, as Edmund Tully was nothing if not completely incompetent. He also had suffered greatly in the war, more than most, and many of his vassals had been wiped out.  The Twins still stood empty still, and the stragglers from the Brotherhood Without Banners, the Mountain’s Men, and the Bloody Mummers were said to be haunting the area.  Brienne knew there were also stories of a giant wolf prowling with a large pack, but no one had been able to find them as of yet.  Now with trade being more and more frequent between the six kingdoms and the north, the kingsroad was rapidly becoming heavily travelled once more.  The Eyrie could offer no help to their neighbor - they were in chaos, and Robyn Arryn was still far too young to get it in hand.  The crown had its own problems, as did the Westerlands, although Tyrion helped where he could.  The reach was too focused on restoring their farmland and putting things to rights under Bronn.  Lord Tully’s niece ruled the north, but she refused to help him, claiming that winter was not the time for her to get involved in the politics south of the neck.  Her portion of the Kingsroad was safe, and it was up to them to get their affairs in order.  

All of this meant that people were being hurt while travelling in the Riverlands.  Bran did what he could, but it wasn’t much.  He offered them a choice of a few crowns to restore their farms, or a place in the city to live and a job doing restoration work or gardening.  Most chose the crowns, but some had moved to the city.  These took the crowns.  After they departed, it was a parade of craftsmen and other tradespeople from the city, most of which were handled by the small council from their table.  Normally, this would have been a job made easier by a master of laws, but their current lack of one meant that more petitions were heard by the king and council.  Tyrion, in particular, had often complained about the balance of power in the trade guilds that represented the workers.  

As usual, one of the few remaining pyromancers attempted to gain permission to rebuild their guild and buildings, and once again they were refused.  The city was sick to death of fire, and they were nothing but bringers of death.  They were fanatics, besides, and that made them especially dangerous.  Brienne always paid closer attention to things she felt were dangerous.  

The last petitioner of the day was a tall, thin man. He was pale, but not sickly, with light blonde hair and eyes of a middling blue.  He was a common man, but he was not poor, and his clothes were plain but well made.  A long dagger was strapped to his belt, but he didn’t carry himself with any kind of tension that would hint that he meant to use it.  In short, he was an average person, unremarkable except for the words that came out of his mouth.  

“Your grace,” he said, after an acceptable but unpolished bow, “My name is Jessen. I am a groom in the service of house Velaryon. I make my home in Hull.  Driftmark is in easy view of Dragonstone. I have trouble sleeping, my lords, and taken to walking along the shore at night.  Because of this I have witnessed things that make me...uneasy,” he stopped and looked around, and dread started to build in Brienne’s gut, “I have sighted what can only be a dragon, your grace.  I’ve not seen it in the day, but during the full moon last month I saw the light on its scales.  I saw a plume of fire that can’t have any other source.” 

The shocked silence lasted only a few moments, but soon those gathered began to speak, and the buzz of voices filled the room.  Behind her, king Bran was silent. If she felt it safe to look, she was certain she would see that his eyes had gone white.  Her job was to look outward, though, and she did not turn from the crowd.  She heard the man, his voice nearly lost in the cacophony, say, “I am sorry to be the carrier of poorly received news--” 

He was cut off by Bran, “Did you bring the dragon to the island?” 

The crowd quieted to hear the king and Jessen looked surprised by the question, “No, your grace, I--” 

“Then do not apologize.  I have been seeking the last dragon for quite some time now, and if you are correct you have delivered him to me.  Stay in the city while I conduct my own investigations into the presence of Drogon on Dragonstone. If he is there, you will be rewarded.  Now, I will retire to my grove to conduct those investigations,” Brienne kept her gaze on the crowd while Pod went to the king and removed him from the throne.  Once she heard his wheels on the ramp, she followed them down.  

As he’d told the crowd, Bran went directly to the godswood.  Pod put him near the small, but thriving, weirwood that now lay at the center.  Bran placed his hands on the tree, and his eyes went white.  Brienne shivered.  She was certain it was her imagination and her discomfort with magic, but she always felt as if it got a little colder when he did that.  She waited for a few moments, but when he didn’t return quickly she knew they would be here for some time.  Bran either found what he wanted quickly, or was lost in the tree for hours.  

Pod new the same thing, and once it was clear to him that Bran would not be returning quickly, Pod said, “My lady, does it seem that the king has been a bit...strange...lately?” 

Most of the time Brienne liked Pod.  But sometimes, the things he said gave her an immediate stress headache.  This was one of those times, so she sighed heavily and replied, “Pod, he’s right there.” 

Pod looked at Bran and strugged, “He can’t hear me.” 

“You don’t know that.  Don’t speak so...casually...in front of him.” 

“Sorry, Lady Commander,” he shifted on his feet, but continued, “Does it seem to you that his grace has not been himself as of late?” 

Brienne squeezed her eyes shut in the hopes that this conversation would end, but she knew it wouldn’t, so she opened them up again and asked, “Pod, his grace is different than we are.  Who is to say what is out of character for him and what isn’t?” 

“We are, for one.  We spend all our days around him.  Tell me he hasn’t been even more distant. Spends more time in the tree and the animals.  Rarely sleeps.  And he had all of his winter blankets changed for spring ones, even though it’s cold as a witch’s tit out still.”  

Pod was right about that, it was still the dead of winter and likely would be for at least a few more years.  Especially given the damage to the castle, it was cold inside the keep at night.  Still..., “He’s from the north, Pod.  Winter is far harsher up there.  Kings Landing probably seems warm to him.” 

“I’m telling you, something isn’t right,” he insisted, “At least tell me you’ll keep watch to see if I’m right.”  

If it was anyone else, she would have just shrugged him off.  But one thing she’d learned over time was although Pod wasn’t the most eloquent in stating his thoughts, he had good instincts and he was observant.  And there was that gut feeling that’d shown up during court today and hadn’t left, even after learning of the dragon.  So she nodded, “Alright.  I’ll watch if it’ll make you feel better.” 

He visibly relaxed and looked at the king, “How long do you think he’ll be this time?” 

She looked up at the sun to judge the time.  Mid-afternoon, “At least past supper.” 

Her stomach growled and she sighed again.  It was going to be a long evening. 

Chapter Text

Bran didn’t need to touch the tree anymore, but he did it because something about it felt right.  The texture of the bark below his hand reminded him of the north, and it let him feel how strong this tree was growing.  It was well-watered and well cared-for, and its roots were going deep.  Soon it would be time to open its eyes and truly be born.  He knew the ceremony well, as he’d gone back and witnessed it on many occasions.  He would do this thing in the old way - the way the children had done it before the First Men had come and broken Westeros.  

That was a concern for another day.  Today’s concern was Drogon.  Most of his court did not realize how much of his ruling was done via the trees and the animals.  Usually court was more for them than it was for him, but today had been different.  That man brought the first hint of the dragon he’d heard in months, and he meant to follow it.  The problem with Dragonstone, though, was how few trees there were on the island.  It had some arable land, but not much, and most of the trees were removed to build with long ago.  Only a few large windbreaks remained, and it was not enough to give him a proper view of the island.  He checked, of course, but found nothing.  

So he turned to the animals.  Dragonstone was rife with them, and he rode them easily.  He flew with them, using their wings to carry him around the island.  They were down by the water, swallowing scraps of fish.  He let them finish eating, and then flew upwards.  Towards the mountain he went, soaring above the scattered farms and staying well clear of the sharp obsidian cliffs.  The mountain seemed more restless than usual, smoke rising into the sky.  It might have even been visible from Kings Landing.  He avoided it and climbed higher, towards the great fortress that the Valyrians built into the mountainside long ago.  Its magic was old and deep, and he disliked the way it made him feel, but he pushed through it and found a place to land on the ramparts.  

The only place in the keep itself that was large enough to hold a dragon was the courtyard.  If the dragon was in the keep, that’s where it would be.  There were plenty of other places on the island that dragons could, and had in the past, hide, but this was the easiest and most obviously first place to look for him.  

Luck was with him.  The flock settled on the walls around the courtyard, looking down.  There, curled in the center, the sun making his black-and-red scales shine, was Drogon.  It had been nearly a year since he’d flown from the red keep, and he’d grown much in that year.  It was clear that, given time, Drogon would reach at least the size of the Black Dread himself.  Bran considered warging into him, but discarded the notion.  He’d done it one time, and it was an intensely painful experience with little payoff.  He was loathe to repeat it unless strictly necessary, so he stayed with the seagulls and watched the sleeping dragon. 

Time passed.  

Seagulls had no real comprehension of time as men did. They knew wind and salt and the call to eat.  But they knew the sun, and it was much lower in the sky.  It was time to hunt, time to eat, and then sleep.  They would have done it already if not for the man in their minds.  The sun lowered, and they stayed and let the time pass.  

And then the dragon woke.  Not suddenly, but slowly.  It opened its great red eyes and blinked, then yawned.  Some of the seagulls wanted to flee, most of them, in fact, but Bran would not let them.  He needed their eyes.  Drogon stretched, flexing his wings and his long neck, and rattled his frills. He stood, and swung his huge head towards the opening into the courtyard.  

A monster entered.  Or so it looked to Bran’s thousand eyes.  It was a creature, its shape roughly that of a small human.  It walked like a man, but its body was made of swirling flame.  It was bright, so bright...too bright to look at directly.  The orange and red and white of the flame all swirled together, dancing wildly, reaching for anything else to catch on...and yet, it did not bring light to the early evening gloom of the courtyard.  It was no fire, Bran supposed, but what was it? He collected himself, but he was unnerved.  He didn’t understand the reaction his mind was having to this being.  Run , some part of him screamed, it is the enemy, run!  

He did not listen.  He stayed, and he watched.  The creature crossed the courtyard, its movements surprisingly graceful.  It went directly to the dragon, and the dragon dipped its head to allow the creature to stroke its snout.  

“Hello, my lovely.  I see you’ve just woken up.  Will you be fishing for yourself and your brother?” it said.  The voice was more tender then should be used with a beast like a dragon, but that was not what Bran thought of.  The creature that was Bran knew that voice, knew it well, and loathed it.  He knew now what the creature of fire was, but it frightened him.  It startled him, and the shock of feeling that emotion sent him reeling.  He let the seagulls go, fleeing from them.  He did not run back to the body, but instead fled furthur on the winds of the realm that kept his mind when he was not in his body.  North and north he went, seeking something familiar, some comfort.  Seeking the cold indifference that he’d lived in for more than a year.  It protected him, kept him from all of the horror and pain that he’d otherwise need to feel.  

Come back! , he thought, running towards the cold north.  Passed the neck, passed the castle where he grew up, passed the wide open north and the remains of the wall. He fled and fled, skating over the forest and the open wilderness, and the cave where he’d been made.  Into the lands of always winter, into the arms of the protective cold.  It didn’t scare him as it had when he was a young boy, right after he’d fallen.  Now he sank into it and it welcomed him.  He felt the pain and anguish freeze inside him, felt it get further away.  He felt the small voice inside him that cried all the time get quieter and quieter, until he heard nothing at all.  The cold welcomed him, strengthened him, and set his mind to rights.  He stayed there in the cold womb of the north until he could think of the flaming creature and feel nothing.  No fear, no anger, and no need to turn from it.  Having done this, there was one more task to complete before returning to his body.  

He looked for his cousin.  Aegon was elusive, and Bran had never needed to check in on him before.  Never wanted to, because being around Aegon was too uncomfortable.  Physically and mentally, although he’d never cared enough to work out why.  Now Bran suspected he knew the reason and wanted to confirm it.  So he checked the places Jon might have gone.  He checked beyond the wall, and checked the new city being built in the remains of the wall.  He checked the remaining castles of the Night’s Watch, and the ruins of the wildling towns.  He found no trace of the ranger, and went further south.  Moles’ Town had returned, but was empty of a man and his dire wolf.  

It was at Winterfell that he finally found Ghost and his master.  Bran did not slip into Ghost, as he did not want his presence to be known.  Instead, to his surprise, he found Arya’s wolf padding through the snow next to Ghost.  It was Nymeria that he took for himself, and suddenly he was behind the eyes of a wolf again.  If he could feel, he’d have missed Summer, but he no longer had these feelings after refreshing himself in the north.  

He took the wolf from her task and set her to finding Jon Snow.  It was not hard to catch his scent.  He followed it through Winter Town, and noticed that it was full to bursting with men.  It was evening, and so their forges were cold and silent, but he could hear their noise inside the inn and tavern as he loped by.  He ignored them, but took notice of their numbers.  

He followed the scent into the gates of the keep.  It was strong, and deeply pressed into the fabric of the environment.  Whatever the reason Jon had come to Winterfell, it had kept him there for some time now.  So Bran followed the smells through the familiar buildings, picking out the strongest thread from the rest.  After a moment he realized where the trail was taking him, and was unsurprised when he ended up in the main hall of Winterfell.  If Aegon was here, Bran needed only a moment to confirm his suspicions, and he would not stay longer than that.  

The guards outside the doors meant that his sister must be inside as well.  They opened the doors for the wolf, and she entered. Bran raised her head and looked at the raised bench where his sister and cousin sat.  As soon as he did, he knew he was right.  He saw Sansa seated next to a vaguely man-shaped creature of fire.  This one wasn’t as bright as the other had been, but it was there all the same.  Bran let the wolf go, knowing it was time to return to the body.  He was not fleeing from the flames.  No, no he was not.  

Returning was easier than coming here had been.  He let his spirit fall, and he was back in his body.  He opened his eyes, and the sky was dark, stars scattered across blackness.  There was no moon tonight, and the godswood was inky black around him.  Pod and Brienne stood nearby.  They straightened when they noticed that he’d returned.  They didn’t ask him what he’d seen, because they knew he’d tell them if it was necessary.  In this case, he believed that it was.  

“The man was right,” he heard his own voice, and it was comfortingly deadpan and smooth, “Drogon is on dragonstone.  And I believe his rider is with him.” 

“How?,” Brienne asked, frowning.

“The red priests returned her to life.  It is one of their magics,” he declined to get into the mechanisms, both because of a lack of knowledge and a lack of comfort with the subject, “She has returned and brought her dragon with her.” 

He gave them a moment to respond, and it was Brienne who spoke, “How has she gone unnoticed for so long?” 

“Intentional stealth, I suspect.  It would not be the first time a dragon has hidden itself on Dragonstone,” something she’d said came back to him, “She mentioned his brother.  I fear Rhaegal may not be as dead as we believed.  Rouse the small council, there is much to discuss.” 

Chapter Text

This was the night that seemed to never end.  Loreza hadn’t returned yet, and Arianne was the only one still awake and waiting.  The others had gone to bed, thinking that it would be better to be rested if they needed to be awake later.  Arianne was tired, and so she felt no guilt in scowling down at the pages who had arrived moments ago.  Pages, plural, because apparently there were two messages for her that could not wait until morning.  One wore the livery of the king, his weirwood on a black field, and the other wore the sun and spear livery of her house.  She looked at the king’s page, crossing her arms over her chest.  

“You first.”  

He gave a fast bow, his fine brown hair flopping over one green eye.  He pushed it back in place with a gesture that was clearly unconscious.  He looked about as tired as a child awake at a late hour would be expected to look, “My lady, his grace summons you to an urgent small council meeting.” 

“Did he say what it was about?” 

“No, my lady,” he looked almost afraid of her reaction.  Well, it was King’s Landing, so she could not blame the boy for that.  

“Tell his grace I will be there once I am more appropriately clothed,” she’d changed into her dressing gown in case this very thing happened.  There was no reason to telegraph to potential surprise visitors that she was doing anything aside from sleeping, “You may go.” 

“Yes, my lady.  Thank you, my lady,” he turned tail and hurried out of her chambers.  Then, she turned to the page from her house.  Unlike the boy, she knew this young girl well.  Her name was Dyanna Blackmont, younger sister to two of Arianne’s childhood friends Jeyne and Jynessa.  Bringing her to court as part of Arianne’s retinue had been the way in which she’d cemented the loyalty of the Blackmonts.  The girl had turned out to be a boon, and she was bright, observant, and most importantly - loyal.  She and Loreza got on entirely too well, even if feeding two growing girls might tax Arianne’s finances to their limits.  They both ate as much as horses.  

“Would you like something to drink?,” Arianne asked the girl.  She was always kind to the members of her household.  Kindness better assured loyalty than venom, especially in children.  

“Yes, please,” she replied, looking relieved.  She was quiet while Arianne filled the cup and gave it to her, and she took a long drink.  

“Slowly, little one, you don’t want to choke.  Draw the action out if you want to attract notice,” lessons that would help her in womanhood were part of the reason the girl’s parents had wanted her at court with Arianne.  

She slowed some, but she was obviously too tired and too thirsty to obey.  Arianne allowed it on account of the late hour.  Once she was finished, Dyanna placed the cup back on the tray herself and turned to Arianne to deliver her message, “I think that this will not make you happy.  Your cousin, he has called his banners.  My parents sent the raven as soon as they received word.  They think he means to come to King’s Landing to...to get you.” 

Arianne closed her eyes and clenched her fists.  She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  She let the fury build, but fury was a tool, and she would not waste it in an outburst at a young girl who was delivering a message, no matter how unpleasant that message was.  She opened her eyes and found a smile for the girl, “You’ve done so well.  Thank you for bringing me this news, and so quickly.  You may go to bed now if you’d like, I know it’s late, and I have to go to the small council meeting.” 

“Yes my lady,” she curtseyed, “Thank you my lady.” 

“And remember, messages are private.  You are always so good at that, though, but it’s especially important this time.  You talk about this to none but myself and the sand snakes, yes?” 

She had the grace to look mortally offended for a moment before she did her childish best to rearrange her face into a more neutral one.  It barely worked, and Arienne had to work just as hard to keep her features serious, “I would never!” 

“Not even the king?” 

“Especially not the creepy old king!,” this time, Arianne did laugh.  The girl was right.  Bran was a little creepy.  She’d tried flirting with him anyway, but it seemed to have gone unnoticed.  

“Good, good.  You know where the coin is.  You may take two this time.” 

“Thank you!,” she grinned and yawned, rubbing her eyes, and ran off towards her room.  

Arianne stood for a moment thinking, and then went to wake Elia.  She passed on the information to her cousin, and went to her room to put on a more appropriate gown and have her hair brushed out.  She didn’t bother with jewelry or a complicated hairstyle, but she looked presentable.  She left Elia with strict instructions to stay awake and in their rooms until Loreza, Sarella, and herself had returned.  She did not want to be informed of their return immediately, as it would alert the rest of the small council, but she did not want them going to sleep until she’d spoken to them.  After that, she gathered herself and left, taking a single member of her household guard with her.  Normally she was attended by the sand snakes, but they could not come, and she disliked the idea of walking the empty halls of the Red Keep on her own.  

It took a few moments for her to make her way through the castle to the room that was currently serving as the small council chambers.  Podrick Payne and Jacelyn Bywater stood guard outside, which meant that the king was attending this meeting.  It wasn’t wholly unexpected, as a middle of the night summons was usually important.  She nodded at them, and they let her into the room.  

The rest were here, even Bronn, who was usually last to all their meetings.  She took her usual seat next to him, and favored him with a smile.  He returned it, but he was clearly too tired for pleasantries.  Once she was seated, Bran spoke, “I’ll not waste words here.  I’ve confirmed through my own methods that the dragon has returned, and is on Dragonstone.  Further, it seems likely that he is not the last dragon, and Rhaegal survived his encounter with Euron and has been convalescing on the island.  Lastly, and most perilously, like my cousin Aegon, Daenerys Targaryen has been returned to life by the red priests and is with her mount on Dragonstone.” 

A night that never ended, indeed.  There was silence while they absorbed the news, save for a quiet and sincere ‘shit’ uttered by Bronn.   The fire crackled in the hearth, and the castle was quiet outside the door and windows, but inside their thoughts were almost loud enough to be heard.  Arianne thought you could almost feel the fear seeping into the air from the other people assembled.  Bronn started fidgeting, while Tyrion went very still.  Davos tugged on the queer empty pouch he kept ‘round his neck, and Brianne unconsciously gripped the golden hilt of the valerian steel blade at her side.  The king, as usual, sat passively in his chair.  

“Well,” began Tyrion, “That is...unexpected.  Do we know what she is doing on Dragonstone? It remains standing so I suppose she’s not there to raze the place to the ground.” 

Arianne watched Bran carefully while he replied, “I haven’t seen yet.” 

If she hadn’t been spending so much time with him lately, she would have missed it.  A shift in his chair, a tightening of his eyes.  He was annoyed.  Interesting.  Arianne commented next, “I find myself wishing we’d moved faster to fill the empty seats on this council.  I suddenly feel very vulnerable without a Master of War.”  

“I can’t help but agree,” Tyrion answered.  She’d give a lot of gold to know what he was thinking right now.  She wondered again, briefly, if she should try to seduce him.  He’d had a reputation before the wars, but now...well, now she wasn’t so sure.  She certainly wasn’t attracted to him, but of all those on the council he had the sharpest mind and the most information.  Then again, considering what had happened with Lord Tywin and the rumors about the dead whore who may have been found in his bed, well, she wasn’t sure enough to risk it just yet.  

“The best we can do,” she said carefully, “Is try to prepare for the eventuality of her arrival.” 

Bronn scoffed, “That worked out well last time.”  

They remained silent, each with their own thoughts, because Bronn had the right of it.  She hadn’t been there, but the condition of the city was enough of a testament to what one dragon could do.  But two? No, it wasn’t something that could be dealt with.  She shivered, feeling cold at the prospect, and rubbed her arms for warmth.  

“There were no signs of an amassing army,” the king continued, “No signs of ships, nor anything else that would be necessary for an invasion.  If she comes, it will be for revenge, not conquest.”  

“How long has she been there?,” Brienne asked, her plated gauntlet ringing as she smacked the table in frustration, “Right under our noses.” 

“I do not know,” Bran answered and again, Arianne saw annoyance, “Recall Samwell from the citadel, we will need him back here.  I will find you a master of war, since you have failed to find one yourselves.  We will do what we can to prepare, but for now the information stays in this room.  It will eventually spread, but hopefully it will be seen as little more than rumor for a length of time.  I will announce tomorrow that I have confirmed Drogon’s presence, but no more than that.” 

“I agree,” added Tyrion, “The last thing we need is another bread riot.  The city is damaged enough, and this would undermine our reconstruction efforts.”  

“I’ll make my way to Dragonstone,” Davos, the grizzled master of ships, added, “I should be able to go unseen, and I can get answers to some of our questions.”  

“I have a few individuals I was vetting for a possible master of whisperers,” Tyrion agreed, “And I will send one with you.  To see how they perform.”  

Davos inclined his head in acknowledgement.  She always paid attention when Davos spoke, because as quiet as he was, he was almost always right.  He was a steady man, and the first many she’d met in a long while that made her feel safer rather than more vulnerable.  If he’d been a few years younger...well, best not to dwell on it.  He wasn’t a few years younger, and he was married besides.  He was too old and too honorable.  Arianne spoke up again, “And if it comes to war, Dorne stands with the crown.” 

“Does it?,” Tyrion’s tone changed, “Last I knew your cousin still held Sunspear.” 

“I have my allies as well, my lord hand,” now was not the time to ask for men to fight her cousin, even if he was calling his banners.  That request would need to be timed perfectly, and this was not the time, “And they will happily join against the dragon queen.”  

Not that the matter was a secret - she was the heir to Sunspear, Doran’s daughter rather than his cousin.  Manfrey Martell did not deserve Sunspear, nor was he entitled to it, and she would die before she gave it to him.  But if there was one thing she’d finally learned from her father, it was that timing was important.  Careful planning had its rewards, and so she’d learned to temper her impulses with some of his caution.  It was how she kept his memory.  

“There is no more we can do to address the matter tonight,” King Bran said, “you are released to your normal duties or your beds, whichever calls you.”  

One by one, they rose and filtered out of the room.  Usually they remained after the meetings to discuss various things, but they were all too tired and too shocked to bother.  And, in Arianne’s case, she had other work to be about.  She collected her guard and went back to her rooms.  

When she arrived, Loreza had finally returned.  The other Sand Snakes were awake now, and all of them were in the common room.  Her smile on seeing Sarella was genuine, and she embraced her cousin.  Greetings finished, she turned and finally noticed Samwell Tarley seated on one of the couches.  Next to him was a small woman with long, brown hair.  She was pretty enough, but in a sort of unpolished way.  She looked young and almost innocent, although from what she knew of Samwell the woman was likely Gilly, and Gilly was far from naive.  No one who’d lived through the war in the north was innocent or naive.  Even Arianne, far from that battle, knew that.  

Arianne inclined her head to them in greeting, “Grand Maester.  I am glad to meet you finally.” 

“Likewise,” he answered, a tinge of Riverlands accent in his words.  He looked at Gilly and smiled, “This is my wife, Gilly.”  

Arianne tipped her head to Gilly, too, “I’m Arianne Martell, princess of Dorne.  Grand Maester--”

“Sam, please,” he interjected, “Just call me Sam.”  

“Then I will be Arianne,” she smiled at him, “Sam, your timing is...well, you missed quite the small council meeting.”  

“That’s why we came here first,” he replied, “Your cousins said we should come to you and learn the disposition of the small council before properly returning to the city.” 

“That was a wise decision on her part, as we have much to discuss,” she didn’t bother dismissing her cousins, as there was nothing she did not share with them, and dismissing them meant that she’d need to share the information twice.  She did, however, take a cup of wine and seat herself in her favorite chair.  The leather was, as always, cold, and it seeped through her robes.  The fire was close enough to warm her skin though, and she took a drink of her wine before she answered, “The king will have sent a raven by now, but he is summoning you back to court tonight.  That means we have precious little time to speak privately.”  

“Once the raven returns from the citadel or Horn Hill telling the king that you’re no longer there, he’ll know you’re here - Horn Hill knows when we departed,” Sarella explained.  She stood nearby, a cup of wine in hand, leaning lazily on the mantle of the fireplace to absorb its heat.  The fire painted her in gold and orange, making her mass of dark curls glow and her brown eyes shine.  

“Exactly,” Arianne continued, “One of yesterday’s petitioners was a man from Driftmark claiming to have seen a dragon flying from Dragonstone.  The king confirmed it, and also found that the dragon queen - raised like Jon Snow - was also on Dragonstone.  That first will be discussed in public tomorrow, but we’re not to discuss the presence of Danaerys.”  

Her cousins either cursed or stayed silent in their shock, depending on their various inclinations towards cursing in general.  Arianne gave them a moment to process it.  Sarella had a thoughtful look on her face, and in that moment Arianne realized how much she’d missed her clever cousin.  She loved all of the Sand Snakes, but next to Tyene, Sarella was the one she’d bonded most closely with.  They were very different, but Arianne respected Sarella’s quick wit, sharp mind, and hunger for information and learning.  And as the oldest remaining Sand Snake, she was also the last to have had the time to fully be taught by Oberyn.  The others had simply been too young when their father was murdered, which made Sarella the most dangerous of them now.  

Gilly and Sam exchanged a look, and Gilly nodded, prompting Sam to speak, “It gets worse.  On our way back tonight, Gilly and Obella were assaulted by wights.”

“Wights?,” Arianne asked, frowning.  

“The dead,” Gilly answered, “The dead controlled by the Night King.” 

The answer shocked Arianne into silence.  The first thing she could think to say was, “But...Arya, she killed him.  How?” 

Sam shook his big head, “We don’t know,” he fidgeted for a moment and then continued, “A few weeks ago I met Alleras - sorry, Sarella, in the library.  She told me about a curiosity she had concerning the weather.  She’d read a passage in an old book that spoke of the seasons, and said that once upon a time they’d been regular and tied to the position of the planet around the sun--” 

“That sounds false,” interrupted Doreza.  She was sprawled in one of the other chairs, arms crossed over her breasts and a grumpy scowl marring her face.  Well, scowling was Doreza’s perpetual expression, no matter how hard Arianne tried to get her to look sweeter.  

“That’s what I thought, too,” Sarella answered, “I thought it was just a curiosity.” 

“But it wasn’t?,” Arianne guessed.  

“Not at all,” Sam continued the story, “We read...many...books.  Did you know that Dorne used to be a wetland? Because I didn’t, but I found this trease on--” 

“Sam,” Gilly interrupted gently.  

“Right.  It wasn’t a curiosity.  Your cousin and I figured that the dragons were around before the Long Night, and that the Long Night was when the seasons were thrown off.  We realized that if we were right, then the seasons were somehow connected to the Others.” 

“But it’s been winter for a year already,” Arianne replied.  

“Exactly.  We also reasoned that the black stone the Valyrians built with wasn’t stone at all, but the bones of dragons.  We visited the hightower to see if we could find any evidence of it and, well...,” He dug around in the pockets of his robes and produced a hunk of what looked like rock.  It was long and smooth on one side, and the other was a congealed mess of greasy black stone, “We found this.  Well, we found much more than this, but we brought this as proof.  It’s a dragon bone, see?,” he pointed at the straight end.  Now that he pointed it out, she could see the resemblance, “It was midway through the process of being turned from bone to building stones.” 

“You see, cousin,” Sarella picked up the thread, “The base of the Hightower is made of the same material Asshai-by-the-shadow is built from.  Many think this is different than the material of, say, the keep on Dragonstone but we don’t believe it is.  We believe a change in the process by the Valyrians made it lose its oily quality.  In any event, it is no matter. There are dragon bones in the bowels of the base of the Hightower, and they were used to build it.  That tower is far older than the Long Night, which means dragons are older than the long night.  So either two dragons aren’t enough to restore the balance of magic to the world, or--”

“Or the Night King lives,” Arianne finished for her.  

“There’s more,” said Obella.  Her voice was quiet and strained, a quality Arianne had never before heard in it.  She sat as close to the second fireplace in the room as she could, at the opposite end of the space from the rest of them.  Now that Arianne took a moment to look at her, she realized that her cousin was wrapped in a blanket, her knees drawn up to her chest.  She was staring into the flames, and did not move when she spoke, “On our return to the castle from the inn across the Blackwater, we split into two groups to be less noticeable.  Loreza, Sam, and Sarella made it back without incident.  But Gilly and I? We were attacked.  By...dead...they wouldn’t die...I hacked and hacked, and they didn’t die until Gilly set them aflame.  Their eyes...Arianne...their eyes .  They were so, so blue.  Unnaturally blue, like ice lit from the inside.” 

“They were the dead controlled by the others,” Gilly confirmed, “I’ve seen them enough to know what they were.  The Night King lives, and he is close enough to control the dead.”  

Arianne sat in her chair, still as a stone, all of it processing at once.  The city was full of the dead from the sack.  Some were buried, some were still in the rubble, but there were thousands.  Thousands of bodies for the Night King to raise and control.  And not only that, but if he needed to be close to do it? Then he was undoubtedly here in Kings Landing.  The Night King in Kings Landing, the dragon queen on Dragonstone, and her cousin preparing for war.  For the first time in her life, Arianne felt lost and drowning.  She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where to start.  

And so she made a rash decision, “Sarella.  You will depart tonight and go to Dragonstone.  Tell Daenerys Targaryen that her enemy has returned, and that he is in the heart of her kingdom.  Ask her to bring her dragon, dragons, whatever she did to defeat them the first time...fly to retrieve Arya Stark, I do not know.  You must leave now, because on the morrow Davos Seaworth departs for Dragonstone to confront her, and you must beat him there.  Go, and take none with you so you are not found.  Sam, you must stay here.  If you cannot be found to answer the King’s summons, then we will need to create a reason why.  The rest of you must stay, or I will have to explain your absence.” 

“I will go with Sarella,” Gilly said, “She shouldn’t go alone, and the queen knows who I am.  No one knows I’m in the city, and it won’t seem strange for Sam to arrive without me.  Even if Horn Hill tells them that I departed with Sam, it won’t be hard for him to explain my absence away.  Maybe I got interested in something along the way, or decided I missed my child too much and returned to Horn Hill.” 

“Gilly, no,” Sam’s worry was clear.  Arianne was learning that he hid nothing, and it was a strangely endearing quality, “Coming to Kings Landing was dangerous enough, but Dragonstone? Where there’s a Dragon ?” 

His tone had gotten higher the more he spoke.  Gilly touched his cheek and smiled warmly at him, “I’m going, Sam.  I wasn’t brave before, but you made me feel safe enough to be brave, and now I’m going to do what I can.  I need to go with her.” 

He closed his eyes and touched her hand, “Send a raven when you arrive?” 

“If I can.”  

“Then it is settled,” Sarella said, “We leave for Dragonstone to get the dragon queen.” 

Chapter Text

Dany had dirt under her nails.  

And on her clothes, and smudged on her pale, flushed cheeks, and in the soles of her boots.  She smelled of sweat and rain and good earth and sawdust.  Her belly was full, and her dragon was napping peacefully in the courtyard while the other one flew overhead.  He was stronger now, much stronger.  Proper care and the presence of his brother had restored Rhaegal quickly, and now he was almost completely healed.  All of them were content, and there were days that Dany thought she should paint the door to Dragonstone red.  

In the weeks since she’d used Drogon to help remove the stones from the field, she’d found many other uses for her dragon.  There were many large rocks on the island, and he seemed to have grown fond of smashing them into small bits with his tail.  She always helped clear the fields, and today she’d been helping to build a house.  Her hands were tough, and she went to bed tired each night, fed by the wives of the towns.  She allowed them to come and go from the keep as they would, as she was only one person and she did not like being alone.  She simply locked rooms she didn’t want them in.  Maria, her self-appointed steward, spent the most time with Dany, but the others came often.  

They’d become accustomed to Drogon, and some of the children - fearless, and often dragonseeds themselves - had taken to playing with him.  This was Dany’s favorite thing to watch.  Her big, strong, dangerous dragon would calmly allow them to pet his snout and play hide-and-seek under his wings and tail.  She never allowed it while she wasn’t around, but Drogon didn’t seem to mind.  Rhaegal, lacking his rider, was a bit more skittish, but he allowed the children who’d been feeding him while he’d been hurt to get close.  He trusted them, even without the bond and presence of a rider.  

For the first time in her adult life, Dany felt like she was home.  She’d been on Dragonstone a few months now, and every day that passed she felt more like herself.  More peaceful, more in control. The red haze that’d driven her attack on Kings Landing faded until it was almost nothing, and she’d grown to love Dragonstone and its residents.  There were worries, but she let them sink to the back of her mind and simply enjoyed her contentment and her time here, for she knew she would eventually need to leave.  

That was the way of it for her.  Her life was not to be one of peace, no matter how hard she tried.  Eventually, someone would notice her here and news of her return would spread.  Eventually, someone would spot the dragons and she’d have to decide whether to confront the problem or leave.  And she hadn’t stopped having dreams.  Some were awful, full of fire and blood and death.  The rotten-egg smell of wildfire and cooked meat lingered in her nose when she woke from those dreams.  Some were nonsense, in the way of dreams, and these nights she treasured for their normalcy.  Other nights...more than she cared to think on...she dreamt of Jon and the way he looked in soft firelight.  The way he held her, and how he felt inside her.  She woke from those, aching and wet, and pleasured herself until she cried.  There was nothing for it...there would be no resolution of that complicated ball of emotions until she had him in front of her.  She knew she’d have to seek him out, and she knew she’d be discovered, and so she savored this time of peace while she could.  

There was one more task before she could wash and retire for the night.  She woke Drogon with a gentle pat on his snout, and climbed on his back.  She flew every night, high in the sky where she was less likely to be noticed.  She did it both for the pleasure of it and to keep an eye on shipping traffic in the Gullet and out into the Narrow Sea.  Few ships came and went from Dragonstone because the population was too small to warrant much shipping traffic, but she saw those ships coming and made sure to keep Drogon and Rhaegal hidden when they were here.  

Drogon pushed off into the air, his great wings snapping open and his legs pushing hard to escape the ground.  One of the leatherworkers on the island had devised a clever sort of saddle for her, and she always marveled at how much easier it made handling Drogon and staying on, especially when he took off.  A few heavy flaps, and they were soaring above the keep.  It receded in the distance as the ascended, growing small.  Dany saw the glittering lights in the homes of her people, spilled like stars on the land, and smiled.  Then she turned her attention to the sea, flying in ever-widening circles out over the waters around her island.  

There were a few ships.  Some were going towards King’s Landing, and all of them flew merchant flags.  That wasn’t strange; merchant ships had been coming and going from King’s Landing the entire time she’d been on Dragonstone.  There was a ship, a small one, that was coming from Essos and headed for either Dragonstone or Driftmark; it was still too far out to tell.  Either way, it was no cause for alarm.  

After she made two more loops out, she spotted something strange.  A small merchant ship, moving quickly over the water, was heading from King’s Landing towards Dragonstone.  Landing on Driftmark from King’s Landing required a completely different heading than Dragonstone, and so unlike the ship from Essos, this one was clearly heading towards her home.  Judging by its speed, it was likely on its second day out from their port, and would arrive tomorrow.  Ships from King’s Landing were rare, and almost always contained building materials that they lacked on Dragonstone.  Ships carrying building materials were large, and low in the water.  This one was not, and so it probably wasn’t carrying building materials.  She didn’t know what it was carrying, but she knew that tomorrow would be a good day to keep the dragons out of sight.  She pulled Drogon around, and winged back to Dragonstone.  That ship could be nothing, but her gut told her otherwise, and she needed to think.  

She slept fitfully that night, and never deeply enough to dream.  She stopped trying once the grey light of dawn started to filter through the windows, and rose to stoke the flames in the nearby fireplace.  It was one of a thousand things she’d learned to do for herself in the absence of servants to help her, and she had to admit that it was one of the more pleasurable things.  She liked coaxing a flame from the coals and nurturing it until it burned brightly.  She liked to sit on the rug nearby and watch it grow until it filled the room with warmth.  She was a creature of heat, afterall, and the dancing light soothed her.  She took her time with it this morning, soaking in the feel of it as it warmed up.  She watched those flames for a long time before she decided how to handle the ship.  She’d already sent Rhaegal to his cave, and he would stay there.  It was his habit, and he was shyer than Drogon.  Hiding him was easier, as she simply left him in the courtyard behind the high, gated walls of the keep and bade him to stay.  He disliked it, but he listened.  

Then she dressed in clothes she’d been given by the people in the town.  A simple brown dress and a white woolen shirt.  Wool gloves and a wool cloak would keep her warm and let her observe the ship without being seen.  There were plenty of dragonseeds here, and hers were far from the only purple eyes and silver-gold hair in the settlement.  It was one of the few places where her hair and eyes didn’t set her apart.  As she dressed, she laughed a little at herself; there was a time where she never would have dreamed of hiding or blending with a crowd.  Why hide when you have dragons? She could very well behave the same now if she liked, but she could see the benefit of stealth at the moment.  

She ate and made her way down to the docks.  The sun was up now, shining brightly in a cloudless winter sky.  The fishermen had returned while she was getting started for the day, and they hawked their catch to crowds of people.  Bakers were setting out their bread for the day, and the smell of freshly baked bread battled with the smell of fish.  It was easy to become one of the crowd, to stop and greet those she knew, and make idle chatter with them.  All the while she scanned the harbor for the sails she’d seen the night before.  

They came into view while she was discussing chickens with one of the farmers.  He was telling her how to get the best yield, “You must put fake wooden ones, you see? Makes the hens lay more.” 

“I will have to remember that when spring comes and I try my hand at it.  Will you still give me some of your chicks?,” she replied, trying not to look distracted.  

“Oh, aye.  I wouldn’t have room for so many if you hadn’t helped make that space.  It’s the least I can do, so long as you promise to keep coming to supper every so often.  May would kill me if she didn’t get to test out her cooking on you anymore.” 

Despite her preoccupation, she laughed.  She liked May, and her cooking, “I promise I’ll come to supper so long as I am able,” she paused for a moment and looked out at the harbor again, “Nikolai, do you know that ship?” 

She pointed it out to him and waited for him to spot it, too.  He looked for a moment and shook his head, “Looks like a merchant from King’s Landing by the flag, but I’ve not seen her before.  Seems small for a merchant.” 

“I thought so too.  Well, thank you.” 

“Well...I might as have something that’ll help you, but you need to keep it to yourself, eh?” 

“Of course.” 

He looked side to side before furtively pulling a collapsed spyglass from his pocket, “It gets boring during the day, you see? I spy on the ships to keep myself entertained, but I don’t expect they’d like that much, so I keep it to myself.”  

She suspected that he, like all of the smallfolk, loved nothing more than gossip and rumors and was using the spyglass to keep an eye on things that weren’t the ships.  The thought amused her, and she smiled affectionately at him, “I’ll keep it to myself.  May I?” 

“Yes, yes.  Come back around behind the stall.  There you go.  I stand right here as to not be seen,” he indicated a spot behind some stacked crates, and she stood there.  She extended the spyglass and looked for the ship.  

She’d never used one before, and it was a little stranger than she expected.  There was more area to scan when you viewed it closer, and so it took her a moment to properly focus on the ship.  It was closer now, and seemed to be heading for an empty slip.  People mostly stood at the bow looking towards the harbor as the sailors down below rowed it into port.  Dany looked at each person in turn, looking for some sign to tell her who was on the ship.  

It only took her a moment or two to find it.  She spotted the woman first, and she recognized her as the wildling girl Samwell Tarly was with.  They hadn’t spoken much, but she still knew the girl’s face.  Gilly, Dany believed, was her name.  She was standing at the railing next to another woman.  A girl, really, younger than Dany and Gilly both.  She was tall, with burnished brown skin and dark brown hair.  She looked like she hailed from Essos or Dorne.  There was no way that Gilly coming here with an Essosi or Dornish woman was a coincidence.  Someone knew Dany was on the island, and these were visitors for her.  She stepped away from the barrels and collapsed the spyglass, handing it back to the rotund farmer.  

“Did’ya see who it is?” 

She shook her head, “I didn’t see anyone I recognized.  Probably just a merchant then.” 

“Aye.  I hope they’ve brought something interesting.  May’s nameday is soon, and I’d like to get her something nice.

“I’m sure you’ll find a fine gift,” she stepped out of the stall and back into the area for the customers, “Thank you for sharing your secret.  I’ll tell no one.” 

“I trust ya.  On with you then,” he made a shooing motion at her, and she stepped passed the newly arriving customers and out into the crowd.  

She left the quay and the market and started back up to the keep.  She had enough time to beat them back home, even if they borrowed horses once they landed.  Once she arrived she went back to her chambers and started searching for some of the clothing she’d left behind when she marched for King’s Landing.  It was here, but she hadn’t had need for it since returning.  She hoped it was still in wearable condition.  

She found what she was looking for in a wardrobe in the adjoining maids’ room.  Most of it was either too light to wear in the winter, or heavy furs meant for the north.  But buried in the back she found one outfit that seemed suitable.  There were many pairs of fine doeskin pants for her to wear, and she tossed a black pair out onto the floor.  She tugged the outfit free; it was the one she’d worn the day she’d landed on Dragonstone for the first time.  A dark, charcoal grey dress that fell to her shins, with pointed shoulders, embellished with beads to resemble dragon scales.  The front was a deep V, lined with a warm silk to make the neckline higher.  There were slits up the front, too, to allow her to ride Drogon easily.  There was a cloak attached under the shoulders, and when she pulled the garment from the wardrobe it unravelled and she heard a heavy thunk of something hitting the floor.  

She looked down and dropped the dress in favor of what she saw.  There, lying at her feet, was one of the many dragon-head sashes she’d had made.  She picked it up and stood slowly, her gaze focused on the likenesses of her three children.  A stab of pain, sharp but muted, lanced through her as it always did when she thought of Viserion.  It was a heavy thing, more than a portrait of them.  A symbol, a reminder of who she was and the position she claimed.  This was a thing of the dragon queen.  This was a thing of the last Targaryen monarch, of the person who’d thrown the seven kingdoms into chaos to claim what was hers.  This was the badge of a person who had the rights to the country built by her ancestors.  She ran a finger down the bridge of the nose of the tiny likeness of Drogon.  Then she closed her eyes and let the feelings find her.  

The anger came first.  How dare they murder her after all she’d done? She’d saved them from the army of the dead, brought them men and food and lost her dearest friends in the bargain.  She’d put her own quest on hold to help these people and all it had earned her was a knife in the ribs.  How dare that? No one murdered Aegon for making an example of Harrenhall.  She should take Drogon back and finish burning that wretched city to the ground so she could climb over the rubble and take what was hers.  Fire and blood were her birthright, too, and she’d...

What? 

She’d...what? Kill more people so she could claim a chair that, by all accounts, no longer existed? So she could rule the ashes? So she could be beholden to people who hated her and would never, ever acknowledge any good she ever did? And for what? An accident of birth? Was that what she really wanted? She was clenching the dragon heads so hard that the metal of their spines bit into her palm.  Pain , she thought, All I’ve ever gotten from my birthright is pain.   She threw the piece back into the wardrobe, where it smacked into the back wall of it with a muted thump.  Another time, maybe, but for now she’d face them as something else.  No the version of herself that she’d crafted here, the most true version, but not the queen who burned the city, either.  

She dressed, pulling on some boots and pulling her silver-gold hair into a long braid.  It needed a trim.  Perhaps she’d ask Gia to take a look at it next...well, no.  In her heart, Dany knew it was unlikely she’d be here next week.  So she braided it and pulled on a set of gloves, and started down the steps.  

She made her way onto the ramparts to watch for visitors from the dock.  It wasn’t long before she spotted the two women making their way to the imposing gate at the bottom of the switchback path that led to the keep.  They rode, and they were moving quickly.  She watched them dismount and tie up their horses at the gate, and start making their way up the path.  She left her place on the ramparts and climbed down into the courtyard where Drogon was resting.  Here, she left the small door in the main gates standing open.  This was something she always did to allow the people of Dragonstone to come and go - although none were here today.  She stood by Drogon, back straight, hands clasped in front of her.  If they’d come to kill her again, they’d have to get past her dragon to do it.  

It wasn’t long before she heard footsteps, and voices.  Then the women themselves entered.  Both stopped short when they saw her standing by her dragon, but Gilly scowled at him and made a sign against evil.  The other stared, something akin to wonder in her expression.  Dany had seen both reactions before, and ignored them, allowing the silence to hold for several beats.  

“Well?,” she said, her raised voice cracking like a whip and splitting the silence of the courtyard.  It’d been some time since Drogon had heard her use that tone, and he raised himself up onto his wings, looming over her and staring down at her visitors, “Have you come to murder me again?” 

Gilly shook her head and visibly steeled herself, taking a few steps closer.  Smoke trickled from Drogon’s nostrils, but he held still, “Do you remember me?” 

“You are Samwell’s woman.  Gilly, yes?,” Dany answered.  She’d always been good with names.  One of the few useful things she’d learned from Viserys was a trick for remembering names.  

Gilly nodded and relaxed slightly, “Yes.  This is Sarella Sand.  She is Oberyn Martell’s daughter.” 

“Oberyn,” Dany replied, digging up the memories, “Ellaria’s dead paramour? Brother of the former prince of Dorne?” 

“That was my father, yes,” Sarella answered, “But Ellaria was not my mother.  I am the eldest of the remaining sand snakes.”  

Dany nodded in recognition, “And why have the two of you been sent from King’s Landing? I presume the Stark boy has become aware of my presence here?” 

“Yes, that would be a fair assumption,” Sarella said, “Although our purpose here is more...complicated than that.” 

The two women exchange a look that Dany couldn’t interpret.  Gilly picked up the thread of the conversation, “We did come to warn you that the king is sending his master of ships and a spy to see what you were doing here on the island.  But we weren’t sent by him.” 

“Prince Doran, the former prince of Dorne that you mentioned - my uncle - had more than one child.  His daughter Arianna Martell had her seat usurped by her father’s cousin, and is now in King’s Landing to serve the crown and rectify that wrongdoing.  She is the one who sent us after receiving some disturbing news,” Sarella continued.  

And then Gilly, as if they were purposely taking turns in the conversation, almost speaking over one another in their haste to get their message out, “The dead have been seen in King’s Landing.  They attacked me, and I saw their eyes.  I know who controls them, and so do you.  We came to you for help.” 

She raised a brow, her expression placid, “If that is true, what help do you expect from me? Clearly I wasn’t as effective as I thought the first time.  And it was Arya Stark that struck the final blow.” 

Sarella looked unsure how to answer that, but Gilly had a response, “I would have asked Arya, but she’s somewhere in the west on a ship.  I’d have asked Jon, but he’s far up in the north, and we’ve no idea where.  You are, close at hand.  You have a dragon --” 

“And a history of alliance between our houses,” interjected Sarella.  

Dany almost laughed, but managed to keep her face neutral, “Rhaenys Targaryen, was she an ally when Dorne shot down her dragon? What about King Daeron I, murdered by the Dornish, his crown stolen?” 

“Come now,” Sarella answered, “We have had far more successful alliances than unsuccessful ones.  Baelor the Blessed’s first act was one of unity with house Martell.  Your own sister-in-law was Dornish, as were your niece and nephew.  You allied with Ellaria, and you are more than aware that we share blood.  Elia wasn’t the first marriage of a Targaryen and a Martell.”  

“That might be true, but you still have not told me why you have come seeking aid from me.  As you can plainly see, I no longer have an army.” 

“But you do have a dragon, and dragonfire killed many of the dead in the battle of Winterfell,” Gilly reminded her, as if she needed reminding of that horrific night, “You, Sam, and I are the only ones in the south who have fought the dead before.  We need your experience and your dragons if we are going to be forced to fight the dead again.”  

Dany needed time to think, “I will think on it.  Go and find someplace to stay in the town, and return for supper.  I’ll have an answer for you then.”  

“Daenerys--,” Sarella started. 

“No! I have given you my answer.  Now leave, and return later!,” The two women nodded, and turned, leaving the way they came.  

Dany turned and stormed back into her home.  She made as if to go to the throne room, but thought better of it and climbed the steps all the way to the top of the highest tower.  She lit all of the braziers and the fireplace, and turned to the centerpiece of the room: the carved map of westeros commissioned by Aegon I before the conquest.  She used to come here often to think, but she’d mostly avoided the room and its memories.  But returning here today felt right.  She sat in the big chair that overlooked the map, deep in thought.  

She’d planned to return to the north after Rhaegal was strong enough, but if she was being honest with herself, he’d been strong enough for some time now and she was avoiding that confrontation.  If the Stark King knew, though, it was only a matter of time before word reached Jon.  She should leave and go to him now.  And yet...they’d asked for her help in King’s Landing.  She’d surmised from their words that the king did not know of their presence here, and that was an interesting piece of information.  She wondered how they were planning to explain the dragon when they showed up.  She didn’t want to go there, there was no reason for her to do so and too dangerous besides.  She wanted to say no, and use Jon Snow as an excuse.  But what of her island? It was so close to the city, and if there were dead in the city, there would be dead on Dragonstone.  She talked herself in circles, but by the time the sun sank and her guests returned, she had an answer for them.  She invited them in and fed them, but once the three of them were seated, so wasted no time addressing their request.  

“I will not be going to King’s Landing,” she said.  Both opened their mouths to protest, but she held up her hand to silence them, “I will help you, but we’re not going back to King’s Landing.  That might be where the dead are, but you’ll need more than just myself.  We’ll need people, and more than that, we need knowledge that can only be found in one place.  Eat well and prepare yourself, for tomorrow we leave on dragon-back for Winterfell.” 

Chapter Text

Jon was tired.  The kind of tired that sank into your bones and made its home next to the cold that wouldn’t leave until the winter ended.  He could sleep for a thousand years and he wouldn’t feel rested.  He couldn’t sleep behind the walls of Winterfell because there were too many ghosts and not enough iron swords in the world to keep them in their graves.  It had been over a year, and they still hadn’t managed to clear away all of Viserys’s bones; although most of them were gone and only the largest remained.  Unfortunately, that meant that there was a grinning dragon skull in the courtyard that couldn’t be avoided.  The dragon skull led him down the path to the living dragon he’d ridden, and the queen who’d flown beside him.  Especially lately, although he couldn’t fathom why.  After he’d started honing his skill with warging, dreams had come aplenty, and they were only ever about two things: the Night King, and Dany.  

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and blinked, looking up at Sansa where she sat across from him, “I’m sorry, what did you say? My mind wandered.”  

“I said, the preparations are coming along apace.  Howland’s methods have been surprisingly effective, and we’ve no shortage of food.  We’ll have a long supply chain when we march south, but the lands between here and there aren’t particularly hostile to us, so we should be ok.” 

“Agreed,” there was the exhaustion again.  Making plans to march south, although this time it was to offer aid and not to march to war.  They needed to see Bran, and there was no sense in leaving behind resources and men that would be needed if he was right about the Night King.  And he was right.  He couldn’t explain how he knew, but he did.  

“The blacksmiths have been working hard, but we received a large shipment iron.  Yara sent it to White Harbor, and--”

“Did you hear that?,” Jon interrupted.  There were voices outside.  They were getting louder.  Sansa stopped talking and listened.  

“No, I don’t--,” A scream interrupted her this time.  Not the scream of a man.  A scream that Jon had hoped never to hear again.  A scream that played over and over in his nightmares.  

Dragons.  

He and Sansa locked eyes and rose together, chairs scraping across the stone of the floor.  Jon’s tipped backwards, cracking loudly against the hard floors.  Her pupils were dilated, her breath coming faster.  Her hands flexed and clenched.  Jon’s hand went to Longclaw’s handle, his fingers tightening until they were white.  

“No,” she whispered, frozen, staring at him.  The scream came again, closer and louder.  He could hear the flapping of wings.  The sound snapped both of them out of their moment of inaction and they rushed to the door.  Jon went first, drawing his sword.  

Their feet smacked against the stairs as they ran down from Sansa’s office in the central tower towards the closest outside door.  Jon was taller and faster, but he checked his speed, wanting to be close enough to protect his cousin.  They cut through the nearest rooms, and then out through the kitchens.  Finally they burst through the door and out into the practice yard.  Neither of them had remembered to put on any furs, and wind cut through the yard, swirling snowflakes and cutting through the thick wool of the gambeson he wore when he thought he wouldn’t need his armor.  They looked up.  

There, overhead, two dragons made lazy circles around the keep, just out of range of the bows.  The first, the larger of the two, was a black so dark it almost seemed to drink the light.  If it was not for the shining texture of his scales, the darkness would be pure.  The sun was high today, and the sky clear.  It filtered through wing membranes that were a deep, blood red. And although it was too far away to see the details, he knew which dragon it was.  Drogon , he thought to himself, there can be no other.   But why were the two flying in circles, as if directed? Dragons didn’t do that without riders.  Had another with dragon blood claimed Drogon? What about the other beast who flew with him? That one was a deep jade green, and the sun sparked off of bronze flecks buried among the green.  He’d spent hours on the back of his dragon, mesmerized by the sheen of those scales.  Only Rhaegal had looked like that, but could it be? His dragon was dead, murdered by Euron, and when he’d been told it had wounded him as deeply as losing Ghost might have.  

As if thinking of wolves summoned them, Nymeria’s howl came from the bailey, and Jon’s head whipped towards the sound.  Sansa was right there with him, and said, “Let’s go.”  

They were off and running again, cutting through the yard, the next two towers, and spilling out into the large, open space of the bailey.  Here it was chaos, guards and commoners alike running around in a panic.  Some were attempting to shoot the dragons, although it was plain to see that the arrows could never reach the two flying monsters.  

Jon’s long years of training kicked in and overcame his shock, and he tore his gaze from the circling dragons.  If they were going to attack, they would have.  Something else was going on.  He stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, the loud, sharp sound cutting through the din.  Those who heard it stopped and looked towards Jon and their queen.  Those that hadn’t heard, noticed what their fellows were doing and also stopped.  Sansa nodded in thanks to him and spoke, “Clear the yard! Take cover where you can.  They are drawn to blood and chaos, let’s not give them any reason to strike!” 

“And stop shooting arrows at them!,” Jon added, “It’s a waste of the ammunition that we cannot spare! Even if they could reach, they’d do nothing against the hide of a dragon.”  

The chaos subsided fairly quickly once they’d received orders from their leaders. Civilians found places further into the keep and out of sight, or ran back out into the Winter Town.  Soldiers along the ramparts retreated to the towers.  The only armed men who stayed were some of their house guards, who refused to leave their queen to face a dragon.  

Rhaegal descended first, slowly as if he was trying to be non-threatening.  The idea of a dragon being non-threatening was ludicrous, but Rhaegal was attempting it nonetheless.  When the huge animal landed nearby, Jon still felt the vibration.  He stepped forward and reached out cautiously.  Was Rhaegal still his? Could a bond like that be broken while either party lived? He didn’t think so.  

Rhaegal pushed his face forward, pressing his snout against Jon’s chest, and huffing.  Jon could feel his dragon’s happiness at seeing him, and he smiled, pressing his face against the warm scales, scratching them.  He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Rhaegal until they were reunited.  Then, Rhaegal’s face was gone, his gaze snapped skyward.  Jon looked up too, and saw that Drogon was descending too, but much faster than his brother.  The dragon was on the ground in seconds, and the sound of his huge body landing made Jon jump.  Now that he could see more than just the belly, he looked to see who the rider was.  

He caught nothing more than the sight of silver-gold hair and purple eyes before he realized who it was.  He was dimly aware that Drogon carried three riders, but only the first took his attention.  His breath left him all at once, clouding in front of his face in the cold.  Longclaw fell, useless, from nerveless fingers and bounced on the ground.  He watched, wordless, as she carefully climbed down.  She stood next to her dragon, her hand on his neck, and her eyes locked on Jon’s.  Her back was straight and her expression was clear, but her fingers tapped on Drogon’s scales.  She only fidgeted when she was nervous.  

“ Dany ,” he breathed.  Time refused to move forward, and he took a step, then another.  He was slow and careful, moving very deliberately, as if any sudden movement would make the fantasy shatter and she’d float away into tiny pieces, leaving him alone again.  His chest felt tight, his heart beating hard, the weight of his emotions pressing against his ribs.  There were too many steps between them, and too few.  The bailey was too large, and not large enough.  If she turned to dust when he touched her, he wanted to savor the sight of her before it happened, and there was no amount of time that would be enough for that.  

Then, she was in front of him, her eyes having never left his.  He could see that she was breathing hard, too.  Her fingers stopped tapping, “Jon--” 

It was her voice that did it.  He never thought he’d hear it again, and the sweetness of it was almost painful.  He reached out, quickly pulling her to him, hugging her tightly.  She was real.  Small but sturdy, her hair against his cheek was still softer than any silk.  She smelled the same; of the spiced perfume she always wore, of the rain clouds that caught in her hair when she rode her dragon, and of the human smell below it that was distinctively hers.  She was solid.  She was real.  She was alive .  

And for a moment, she melted against him as she used to do.  Before he’d made the mistake of listening to Tyrion, before he’d been wrongly caught up on their relation - they were Targaryens.  It did not matter.  For a moment, she was his again and he felt her move to wrap her arms around him, too.  

The moment passed.  She shoved him, and he let go, stumbling back, still dazed.  Fire and anger sparked in her eyes, and she hissed, “No.  No .  Not yet, Jon Snow.  Not yet.”  

He nodded dumbly, the sound of his soul cracking audible only to him.  He clung to the word ‘yet’ and the way she’d softened for a moment.  He met her eyes and there was anger, yet, but he could see the shine in them, like she was trying not to cry.  So he swallowed hard and asked the first thing that had come to his mind, “How?” 

“The same as you.  Red priests in the waste.”  

Of course.  He’d been so stupid.  How hadn’t he thought of that? Why hadn’t he considered it a year ago? Why hadn’t he tried to bring her back himself? Ygritte’s voice floated through his thoughts: You know nothing, Jon Snow .  Some day he’d stop doing things like this.  He acknowledged her answer with a nod.  Another person stepped up, and it was someone he knew.  Gilly rolled her eyes at him and shook her head, “Still the same, I see.”  

He liked Gilly.  He liked that she made Sam happy.  So he tore his gaze from Dany and smiled at Gilly, giving her a friendly hug, “Gilly.  It’s good to see you.  How are the children?” 

“Perfect,” she smiled, thinking of them, “Sam is well, too.”  

The third rider slid gracelessly from the back of the dragon and stumbled to the side in the dirt.  She bent over and was promptly sick in the mud.  Gilly rolled her eyes at the woman and said, “She does that every time we stop, and once while we were still in the air.  That’s why she rides in the back.”  

The woman glared at Gilly and spat, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and taking a swig from the waterskin she carried, “I’m taking a horse back south.  I don’t care if I miss everything that happens.  I’m riding home.  On the ground.  Where people belong.”  

Gilly lowered her voice, “I think Dany cut the turns and dips a little too tight and went a bit faster than necessary just to mess with Sarella, but I liked flying.  It was fun.”  

Jon couldn’t help but laugh a little, “I like flying too.”  

Sansa joined the conversation, and the smile she wore when she sighted Gilly was small, but genuine, “I’m glad to see you’re well.”  

“Thank you, your grace.  It’s good to see you,” she gestured to the sick woman, who was swallowing down some more water, “That is Sarella Sand.  She’s one of Oberyn Martell’s daughters - the Sand Snakes.”  

“Oh? I didn’t realize any of them still lived,” Her gaze went to Dany next, and as soon as it landed, her friendly smile fled and she turned impassive and stony.  Queen Sansa was the only face Sansa had ever shown Dany.  He’d disliked the attitude before, and he disliked it even more now.  

He gently touched her arm, his voice calm and steady, “She’s here for a reason, and I don’t think it was to open old wounds.” 

“He is right, your grace,” Dany’s use of the honorific surprised Jon, and it seemed to surprise Sansa, too, “We have much to discuss.”  

A short time later they were all in Sansa’s formal drawing room.  Howland and Ashara, having become something of advisors to Sansa, joined the other five.  Wine and food had been brought, and they all sat.  Nymeria had stayed outside, but once Ghost had spotted Dany he’d trotted up to her, shoved his face in her hand, and refused to leave her side.  Not that Jon blamed him, but now the dire wolf sat next to Dany’s chair while she idly petted him and Jon felt a silly kind of jealousy.  Dany was refusing to look directly at him for the moment, so he mouthed the words lucky bastard at his wolf.  Ghost opened his mouth and let his tongue loll out.  

“It’s been about a week,” Gilly was saying when Jon tuned back into the conversation, “A few days to get to Dragonstone, and a few more to fly here, since it happened.  Sarella, Sam, and I were being taken into King’s Landing by her sisters.  It was late, and Sam thought it would be safer if we snuck in, so we did.  Loreza seems to know every passage in the Red Keep.  We split up to make our way from the Blackwater up to the keep, and Obella and I were attacked on the way.  By White Walkers.”  

Jon wished her words surprised him, but they didn’t.  They just made him sad.  He sighed heavily and leaned back while she spun the tale out to them.  Sarella was a colleague of Sam’s at the citadel.  She’d been hiding there, pretending to be a man.  Jon’s attention drifted while Sarella described the intricacies of what they’d been studying, and landed on Dany.  He couldn’t stop looking at her, drinking in the roundness of her cheeks, the curve of her chin, and the fullness of her lips.  Her face was so familiar to him, but he was surprised to realize that her memory had already started to fade.  He’d forgotten about the two small moles on her cheek, the way her lashes fell when she closed her eyes.  How had he forgotten? He memorized all of it.  He used his study of her features to distract himself from the rise of feelings he never thought he’d have to deal with.  

It was a year, and he’d believed her dead, and yet seeing her in person made one thing clear: his love had not dimmed even a fraction.  And as he watched, he realized that she seemed different than when he’d seen her last.  She was calmer, clearer - more like she’d been when he met her.  She still moved and held herself like the queen she was, but she also had her hair pulled back in a simple, single braid rather than the complicated ones he’d seen her wear.  She’d come with next to nothing, just a pack full of clothing, some food and water, and the other two women.  This was the part of her he loved, the clever, considerate woman genuinely cared for those around her.  He’d missed her, by the old gods and the new, he’d missed her dearly.  

There was the matter of their familial relationship.  When he’d first learned of their relation, the fact that she was his aunt bothered him.  Yet now that seemed more like an excuse than anything else.  Intermarriage of that kind was common in all the noble houses, and especially in house Targaryen.  Dany was the product of siblings, and so was Jon’s father.  If his father had lived and won the war, there was every chance that he would have been married to his half-sister Rhaenys, or even Dany herself if Rhaenys had been married to Aegon.  It bothered him little and less now that he’d had time to sit with the idea.  He should have married her.  Why hadn’t Tyrion convinced him of that, rather than suggesting murder? So many things about those months made little sense.  

He’d let his mind wander again, and he passed a hand over his face, forcing himself to listen.  He’d always had a hard time concentrating when Dany was in the room, and he was out of practice at it.  Sarella was speaking, “My cousin, Arianna, suggested we seek out Dany’s help after the king told the Small Council she was living on Dragonstone.  She was there the last time.” 

“Well, clearly what we did didn’t work,” Jon muttered.  

“That’s what Dany said,” Sarella replied with a smirk before addressing the group again, “And there is one further complication.”  

“The prince of Dorne?,” Sansa guessed.  

“Exactly,” Sarella said with a small nod, “Arianne showing up and being allowed to take the Dornish seat on the council is tacit support of her cause by the crown.  She sealed their relationship by returning the crown of Aegon the conqueror,” here eyes flicked to Dany as she said that, but Jon noticed no change in her aside from her spine straightening even more, “He has called his banners, and we can only assume he’ll take them through the Prince’s Pass to King’s Landing.  Arianna is, as we speak, rallying the supporting houses and attempting to gain the king’s support, but resources are thin and everyone is sick of war, so we cannot say what help she will garner.”  

“We need to go south,” Ashara declared, staring directly at her husband.  

“Love, we’ve talked about this--,” Howland replied, looking tired.  

“No.  Arienne is liege lord to house Martell.  You are a representative of both the children and the old gods.  You hid last time and we failed.  This time, we’re going.  This is why you came and pledged yourself to her grace.  And I know what you did at the tourney hurt you badly,” Tourney? That was new to Jon, “but it helped bring us together, and it is time for you to do it again.”  

Howland was, if nothing else, a thoughtful man and he took his time in replying, “You’re right.  If Jojen and Meera went north to do their duty, so can I.  But we are sending Meera home.”

Ashara nodded in agreement, “That is a fair price.”    

Sansa looked at Jon and said, “Tell them.  They need to know.  Tell them everything.”  

“Alright,” he took a deep breath and began relaying the tale of his trip to the cave, his discovery that the Night King lived, even that he and Sansa were wargs and they’d been honing their skills.  Howland and Ashara already knew all of this, but it was new to Gilly, Sarella, and Dany.  He summed up by saying, “So I’d like to talk to Sam and see what he makes of all of this.”  

“There is one thing none of us have suggested or considered.  Why haven’t we taken this to Bran?,” Her question dropped like a stone into the still pond of the room’s thoughtful quiet, the ripples altering the expressions of each person in turn.  It was a good question.  And, deep down, Jon knew the answer.  In this moment, he had to say it aloud, because a better chance would not come.  

He met everyone’s eyes in turn, lingering on Dany’s.  He’d forgotten how lovely that shade of purple was.  It was such a rare color, and a different shade than Ashara’s, “Because.  We’re all thinking the same thought: we’re afraid he and the Night King are one and the same.” 

Chapter Text

She made it through the arrival.  She made it through the long conversation that followed.  She even made it through supper.  And now it was night, and she was alone.  While on the one hand it was a relief to be away from the weight in Jon’s eyes, on the other it was a kind of loneliness so keen she’d forgotten what it felt like.  The scar in her side where the knife went in twinged when their eyes met, but Dany knew it was nothing but her own mind reminding her.  There was a rightness to being around Jon, a safety that she knew no where else.  A steady calmness that cleared her mind.  She wanted that again, she wanted him again, but there was so much lying between them.  She stared into the fire and thought.  

A soft knock came on the door, and she knew who it was.  In a strange twist, she’d been placed in the same rooms Jon had used when they’d last been in Winterfell.  And this time, he was coming to her.  She stood, making sure her dressing robe was tied, and answered the door.  

As she’d expected, Jon Snow stood on the other side.  Jon Snow and his dark, deep grey eyes, his raven-black mess of hair, and his complicated issues.  She let him in without a word.  Before, she might have sent him away, or yelled, or any number of reactions to the ember of anger and betrayal she still felt.  Her scar twinged, and she ignored it.  She was older now, and her mind quieter.  She realized she’d followed his example there, adopted some of his solemness.  

He entered, and she shut the door behind him.  She didn’t know if she wanted to fuck him, or fight with him, but she suspected at least one of those two things would happen.  And, gods, how she’d missed him.  Just the smell of him was a balm.  The leather and furs he almost always wore, the freshness of the cold air and snow outside, and the warm, comforting smell that was uniquely him.  She almost breathed deep as he passed her on his way in, but stopped herself.  He stood between some of the chairs and the fire.  The warm glow of it softened any hard lines he had.  He was wearing a thin wool shirt, soft doeskin breeches, and heavy boots.  He carried no weapons, and for that, she was grateful.  She stepped closer to him, crossing her arms and holding her elbows with the opposite hands.

He took a sip, a breath, of the laden, awkward silence between them, “Dany, I’m--” 

“If your next words are ‘I’m sorry’, I will feed you to my dragon,” it was no idle threat.  She wanted to hear no apologies from him.  Not one so hollow as ‘I’m sorry’, anyway.  

“Then I won’t say it,” he shifted, leaning against the mantle.  The light filtered through the material of his shirt, showing the outline of his body, distracting her momentarily.  Why couldn’t he be wearing more clothing? 

“Why?,” that was what she really wanted to know.  That was the first of her thousand questions, “Why! I trusted you, how could you...,” She cut herself off, closing her eyes briefly, and spoke quietly this time, “Explain it to me.  Make me understand.”  

“Dany,” the way he said her name had always made the butterflies flutter, and now it was no different, but now her anger was rising and she ignored the way her name on his lips made her feel, “You killed thousands of innocents for no reason--” 

“No!,” her words were sharp, and the cut across his excuses, “Tywin Lannister, who never did a single thing that didn’t elevate his corrupt, cruel family, killed the Raynes and Tarbeks man, women, and child and destroyed their homes for daring to challenge him.  He was lauded, rather than punished.  The greatest commander of the realm, he was called.  Aegon the Conqueror ripped out the Harrens and Gardeners root and stem, yet he was a good and fair king.  It was the cost of building a kingdom.  I did nothing that a hundred men before me haven’t done for far less noble reasons, and so I can only conclude that you either don’t respect me because I am woman, or you are lying!” 

“I do respect you, and I’m not lying.” 

“No!,” she shouted, and then quieted, controlling the anger this time, using it to strengthen her words, “I have always been open with you.  I have shared with you, I have talked honestly and been vulnerable with you.  I have even begged you.  Begged you not to do the exact thing that led to my death, and you ignored me.  You will lower your walls this time, Jon Snow, and tell me the bald truth or you will leave and not return.”

He turned and stared into the fire, leaning forward onto the mantle with both hands, letting his graceful body rock with the motion.  He stared into the flames, the brooding look he often wore plain on his face, “I was afraid.” 

“Better.  Keep going.”  

He turned to look at her, and she could see the flood of emotion behind his eyes.  The truth of his words, this time, “You are so determined.  So...good.  You have a core of nobility that leads you right almost all of the time, and you use that core of goodness to build a special relationship with those who follow you.  It is why they follow you.  But you never learned to master your anger.  You never learned to temper the impulses that made a thousand Valyrian dragonlords before you turn their dragons on innocent people and burn them into cinder.  You stood in a city of ash, your dragon with you, and told everyone you were going to do it again - you were going to rebuild old Valyria, but this time for the right reasons.  For freedom.  Death isn’t freedom, Dany, and I was afraid because you could do what you said, and I saw a hundred more smoking cities smelling of ash and cooked flesh, innocent mothers and children paying the price for what you thought of as freedom and I couldn’t stomach it.”  

He paused to gather his thoughts and she stayed quiet, listening, “I went to Tyrion.  I’ll not blame him for my decisions, but he was the one that gave voice to my worst fears and agreed with me when I told him what I thought you might do.  He told me it was the only way and I...I was scared, and hurt, confused, and overwhelmed, and I listened when I might otherwise have not listened.  And I have regretted it ever since.”  

“You regret everything, it is in your nature.” 

“No.  I second guess myself too much, that’s true, and I don’t always see the best way forward - but once I make a decision, regret is a waste of time.  But that? I regretted that nearly as soon as you slumped to the floor.  And to do it while you were in my arms? It was the least noble thing I’ve ever done.  I forgot honor in that moment.  Drogon burned the throne, and I wished he’d have burned me with it.  The price for that cursed lump of iron was far, far too high.  In the year since then I’ve thought of a hundred other things I could have done, a hundred other ways I could have acted,” his fingers tightened on the mantle and he exhaled, closing his eyes, “Anything would have been better.  I left us both alone in the cold and the ash.  I abandoned us both when we needed it most.”  

Dany’s eyes ached with the tears she wanted to shed, because he was right.  The grief and loss...it had twisted her, made her something she’d never wanted to be.  She’d lost sight of her people and who she was, and he was right, but it still hurt.  She spoke, their next exchange coming out rapid-fire.  

“You lied to me.” 

“I did.” 

“You stabbed me.” 

“I did.” 

“You said you loved me.” 

“I do.”  

That was what did it.  That was what broke into the poison and let it flow out.  The anger, the pain...logic couldn’t do that, but knowing Jon still loved her? That was what she needed.  She shoved him bodily against the fireplace, and yanked on his collar, pulling his face down to hers.  He didn’t need to be told twice, and when they kissed he didn’t hesitate.  The taste of him, oh...the taste.  One moment of his mouth on hers, and every ounce of unspent passion burst through her veins, the heat of it burning away any lingering anger and resentment.  She grabbed fist-fulls of his dark waves of hair, holding his mouth to hers.  She’d needed this, and she would take her fill.  

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He didn’t push her away as he had before.  Instead, his hands cupped her ass and his strong arms had no trouble lifting her up.  Her legs went around his waist, because that was where they belonged, and this was where she belonged.  Not in an empty bed, not in a hot Meereenese pyramid, not anywhere but in this room and by his side.  He walked them to the nearest flat surface.  A desk, Dany thought, and used one arm to hold her while he used the other to sweep off all of the objects.  They crashed to the floor, and Dany barely registered the noise.  His mouth felt too good against hers, and it’d been too long since she’d been this close to him.  She squirmed, rocking her hips against him, rubbing herself over the thickness she could feel pressing against her core through his pants.

“Jon!,” she broke away for a moment to plead with him.  

He put her down on the desk and tugged the belt of her robe apart, the silk making a soft sound as he pulled it apart.  He spoke with his mouth on hers, kissing her, their air mingling, “Let me taste you.  I need it.”  

She tugged his shirt out of his pants and they both lifted it over his head.  Her answer was a smell, groaned, “Yes!”  

He pushed the robe back, and it hung against her arms, leaving her bare to him.  The mouth that had paid such careful attention to hers broke free to visit other parts of her and leave its mark; her cheek, her chin, a long, lingering time at the spot on her neck that he knew drove her crazy.  Her collarbone and her chest, and his hand slipped up to cup and mound her breast so his questing mouth and tongue could become reacquainted with the small, hard pebbles of her nipples.  

And there, just near the inside lower curve of her left breast, the dark, thin red line of his betrayal.  He stopped, and she watched as he stopped and looked at it, and gently brushed his thumb over the raised flesh.  She’d have to face her biggest sin - King’s Landing - soon, but he was facing his now.  She let him look.  He buried his face against her sternum, and hugged her tight around the waist.  

“Jon,” she said, running one hand through his hair.  He looked up at her, eyes shining with unshed tears, “I forgive you.” 

A single sob escaped him and he squeezed her tighter for a moment before letting her go.  He kissed her scar and ran his tongue over it, then kissed down her stomach.  She watched him, the warm light painting his black strands with a golden glow and throwing the hard muscles of his shoulders and back into shadowed relief.  Say what you would about violence, but swordplay made men into works of art.  

He pushed her thighs apart and scooted her to the edge of the desk in one smooth motion, draping her legs over his shoulders.  Sometimes he teased her, made her feel his breath on her wetness and his kisses on her thighs, made her beg him to finally taste her, but tonight neither of them had the patience.  He parted her folds with tongue, finding her clit easily, and her eyelids fluttered as she leaned her head back, her hair dripping down behind her in mass of silver-gold waves.  She’d forgotten how good he was at this.  His kindness and consideration blended with his desire to please and be skilled at the things he put his mind to. The same drive that made him a skilled leader, fighter, and dragonrider made him skilled at this, too.  And he remembered.  He remembered that if he moved his tongue just that way it made her back arch and her hands grip his hair.  He remembered that if he sucked her clit in just the right way, she cried out.  He remembered how much the pleasure made her buck and move her hips, and he held onto her thighs to keep her just where he wanted her.  And he remembered how slipping two fingers inside her when she was close would push her over the edge, making her wail and drip sweetness onto his tongue and down his arm.  He did not stop, did not let her rest, and instead kept going until he’d tasted that sweetness again.  

Dany was breathing hard, a thin sheen of sweat making her skin glitter in the flickering light.  He had not let up between her legs, but she wanted to touch him, she wanted more than just his tongue.  She tugged on his hair, “Jon.”  

He stopped and looked at her, “Hm?” 

“Come here,” He grinned and stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  

“You want more, don’t you,” he leaned down and kissed her again, and easily boosted her up off the desk and into his arms again.  

She let the dressing gown slide down off of her arms, leaving it behind, “I always want more.”  

He walked to the large bed and tossed her onto it, making her laugh.  She looked up at him, and he smiled at her, toeing off his boots.  That smile was so rare for him because he took on the cares of the whole world as if they were his own problems to solve.  But here? With her? He let himself smile, and she let herself drink in the sight of him.  He wasn’t a large, heavy man as her sun-and-stars had been, but he was finely built, with finely honed muscles and broad shoulders that tapered to a deep V at his hips.  The constellation of scars that told the story of his sacrifice for the watch and the people in his care.  They’d healed some since she’d seen him last, although they were still angry and red.  They’d never bothered her, and never taken away from her attraction to him.  

“You’re staring,” he said softly.  

She smiled, “You were staring at me all day.  It’s my turn to look a little.” 

“Couldn’t help it.  Probably won’t stop.” 

“Neither will I,” Watching Jon as he unlaced his breeches was the nourishment her soul had needed since her return to life, possibly even longer.  He went slowly, drawing it out for her.  Jon was a stoic and private person, but when they were together he was confident in both his body and his abilities, so he didn’t shy away from her gaze.  She loved watching the way he moved, the grace in every line of his body.  So she watched as more of the cut of his hips was exposed, and then the dark trail of hair that got thicker the lower the waist of his breeches got, the curve of his thigh, and the thickness of the cock that was heavy and hard for her.  That last made her press her thighs together, feeling the slip of the wetness between her legs.  It took too long, then, for him to finish peeling off that soft leather, and too long for him to advance on her, “Jon! I’ve no patience for waiting tonight.”  

He put his knee on the end of the bed, and they moved backwards until they were far enough onto the bed that there was room for both of them.  He knelt down, holding himself up on all fours above her, and leaned down to nuzzle the side of her face, and the low growl of his voice settled low in her belly, “Tell me what you want.  Say it, Dany, say it out loud.”  

She looked up at him, being sure to catch his dark, dark eyes with hers, “I need to see your face.  I need to watch you, I want to see what you look like while you’re inside me, so that I’ll never forget it again.  A year is too long.”  

He kissed her, then, a deep, sucking kiss that made her arch towards him, feeling the gentle tease of his cock head brushing against her clit.  She reached down between them and wrapped her hand around the too-thick organ, and dragged the head through her wetness, pressing it against her aching clit, and notching it against her opening, “And I want this.  I want you inside me, and I want to feel how much you missed me.”  

“I did miss you,” he was as serious as ever, but it was love that pressed the words out, “Every day.  Everything I did between then and now was to escape the lack of you beside me.” 

She brushed the looping curls back from his face and smiled up at him, “I missed you, too, but I’m here now, and I promise - I’m never leaving.  Not again.”  

“Me either,” he bent to kiss her again, although their height difference made it a bit awkward.  Then he pressed forward with his hips, and the pressure of his cockhead stretching her made her moan, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks.  

“Yes,” she hissed.  He was going slow, but it wasn’t because he was teasing her.  He was thick, so thick her fingers didn’t touch when they wrapped around him, and having him in her mouth made her jaw ache.  He was instead being gentle, letting her adjust to him so that it was pleasure rather than pain that she felt.  Well, a little pain was alright.  A woman who’d stepped into fire more than once was no stranger to pain, and the only pain she felt from his cock was the warm ache of feeling him enter her.  But he hated hurting her, and unless she asked, he was going to go slow.  He pressed in a bit, and then pulled back, coating himself with the slippery wetness dripping from her too-primed body.  She’d come twice from his mouth, and she wasn’t tight, but size difference was size difference.  

He pushed a little deeper each time he pulled out, her breaths becoming shallower and shallower as he made room for himself inside her.  His hands were on either side of her head and he held his chest up on his forearms, cradling her between them and gently stroking her cheeks with his thumbs.  They never broke eye contact as they became one, and he whispered, “So good, Dany, so good.”  

He was fully inside her, deep and impossibly thick.  She could feel the ache of it even though he wasn’t moving.  He dragged himself out, and slipped the full length back in, making sure that he could move without hurting her, “Yes....Jon....yes...”  

His hips rocked, and she felt every inch of it, groaning as he found his rhythm,  She hooked her legs around his thighs, and her arms around his ribs.  He pushed in hard and pulled out slow, rocking her against the bed, watching her responses intently.  He went faster when she started to writhe under him.  The sensation of him was too much and not enough all at once, and she felt full to bursting with his cock and with the joy of their reunion.  

He reached down and grabbed one of her knees, pushing it up and holding her leg.  It made her hips twist and push up, and his cock rubbed against the spot inside her that was a direct line to her clit, making her groan deep in her throat, her hands tightening on the muscles of his back.  But still, they did not break eye contact.  She wanted to.  She wanted to close her eyes and enjoy the feeling of it all, but she didn’t want to lose sight of him.  

“Yes,” she gasped, “More...please, more!” 

He went faster, abandoning the slow, dragging part of his stroke.  Faster and harder, their bodies smacking together, moving up and down on the bed to the rhythm of their dance.  She could hear her body’s acceptance of him, the wet crackle of his cock sliding through her wetness over and over.  He went fast enough that the sensations blended together and the world narrowed to the feel of his cock inside her.  She held onto him, her nails leaving deep half-moon marks on his skin.  They both could do nothing to hold back the sounds of their pleasure, their moans and gasps mingling almost as if it were a song.  She was close, so close...

“Jon!,” she cried, desperately trying not to break eye contact as her orgasm took over.  She felt the pleasure radiating out from her core, the tight pulses drawn out by the thrusting of his cock.  A few more strokes and he followed her over the edge, pushing himself as deep inside of her as he could, filling her as she squeezed him.  Too much, too good, too overwhelming...fuck, fuck, fuck...she had no words, only sensations, and the anchor of Jon’s eyes.  Together.  They were lost to their pleasure, but they were together, and the overwhelming joy and madness of it was reflected in his face.  

He stayed inside her, not moving except for the twitching pulses of the aftershocks that they both felt.  He let his head drop down next to hers, and let her leg drop, mumbling, “Couldn’t last too long.  Love you.” 

“Can’t talk,” she mumbled back, giggling.  Then, in a quiet whisper, “Love you too.”  

After they laid in comfortable silence for a few moments before he finally pulled out of her with a wet noise, and looked up at her, “Sleep?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, giving him her most demanding Queen Face, “Only once? Jon Snow, I expected better of you.  I told you to show me how much you missed me.” 

He laughed and she smiled at him, running her fingers gently through his hair, “I was just trying to be considerate! I was thinking of how you get when you haven’t slept,” he pushed himself up again, and grabbed both of her hands, holding them to the bed by her wrists, “Because if you truly want to see the full....expression...of my sentiments, you’ll not be sleeping much tonight.”  

“Sleep is for the weak,” he bent down and kissed her.  

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later, they laid under warm furs, facing each other.  The fire had burned low and although it was still late outside, the ravens could be heard cawing at the oncoming sunrise.  His hand rested on her hip, and hers on his chest.  They spoke in the quiet, private voices of sated lovers.  

“I keep thinking I’m asleep, or seeing this through the trees like Bran does.  That I finally cracked and started imagining you’d come back,” Jon said.  The dragons were waking, too, and they could be heard outside chittering to each other.  

“Neither are true.  I’m here.  I’m real.”  

“I meant what I said, you know.  I don’t want to be parted again.”  

She smiled softly, “Do you remember the story I told you about the house with the red door?” 

“The one in braavos?” 

“Yes, with the lemon tree.  That is home, for me.  When I came back I was in the Dothraki sea, in Drogon’s lair that he’d made.  Red priests standing all around, chanting...and I was so confused.  Well, you know what it’s like.  You know how disorienting it is.  How it changes you,” he nodded, listening intently, “So I searched for the familiar.  I went to Vaes Toloro, and then to Meereen and Daario--” 

“Daario?,” he scowled.  

“Yes, and I’ll tell you all about it later.” 

“Fair enough,” he quieted again, listening to her speak.  

“I visited Grey Worm on Naath before I finally made my way to Dragonstone.  And all the while I kept it in my mind and in my heart, the red door of home.  A touchstone to help me along my path and keep me centered on what it was I truly wanted.  But I’d never stopped to think on what I’d want to find inside the house.  Now, I know.  I’d want you on the other side of that door, Jon.  You.”  

“Yes,” he answered, and fell silent for a moment, “Promise yourself to me.”  

She frowned, “What?” 

“There were a million ways I could have done better before, and that’s one.  I know this one night doesn’t fix everything.  I know we’ll argue again, or disagree, or have trouble adjusting to each others’ petty annoyances, but I don’t want to do these things with anyone else.  I don’t want to pass by what I should have just done from the beginning - unite us.  Strengthen our bond rather than letting it fade.  Promise yourself to me.  Marry me.”  

She laid her hand on his cheek, gently stroking it with her thumb.  She should have thought of it before, long before.  When they found out about his true parentage, she should have sought to unite them.  How many monarchs got to marry for love? Not many, and although she wasn’t a monarch anymore, she wasn’t passing up this chance, “Yes.  Not until we deal with the south, but yes...although, your sister is going to hate it.” 

He grinned and pulled her to him, rolling them over and kissing her neck, “My sister will have to get over it.  I’ll not be putting up with her attitude this time.”  

Dany laughed, and then...then, he made her moan. 

Chapter Text

There was something...strange.  She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she felt wrong.  Things were filtering in slowly; the bed under her was the familiar one in her quarters, the hushed voice nearby was Imari’s, and the smell was still the salt of the ocean and the spice of Ed’s cooking, but something was different.  As more of her awareness returned, she realized what it was - the ship was still.  It wasn’t moving forward and it wasn’t rocking on the waves.  She cracked her eyelids, and it took more effort than she’d expected.  She felt like she’d been asleep for a million years.  Everything hurt.  She groaned, and Imari’s voice went quiet.  She heard footsteps and saw his legs move into her small field of vision.  Gods, everything hurt.  Why did everything hurt so badly? 

“Arya?,” he said softly.  She squinted, blinking, and turned her head to look at him.  There was concern written all across his features, and the line in his forehead that he got when he was worried was deeper than usual.  

“Yeah,” her voice sounded like dust, and he poured a small glass of water, placing it on the table.  

“Let me help you sit so you can drink.  Slowly,” as if she could do anything fast right now.  She flopped onto her back, the effort making her breath come short.  Slowly and carefully, he helped her sit up, propped against the pillows.  She took a few sips of the water and let it settle.  Her stomach felt empty and unused, a concave ache in her core.  He waited patiently for her to get settled and drink the water.  

She leaned back with a sigh and looked at him, “What happened?” 

He slumped backwards in his chair, looking almost as tired as she felt, “The dragon tossed its rider and fell into the sea.  We did not see it come back out.  After you fell to the deck you couldn’t be roused, and the men gave me an ultimatum: return to Westeros, or die to mutiny and return to Westeros anyway.” 

She scowled, “Traitors, all.” 

Imari shrugged one big shoulder, “To tell the truth, I didn’t feel comfortable going west anymore with you in the condition you were in.  Days passed and you didn’t wake.”  

“How long...?,” 

He looked her in the eyes, “Long enough.  Weeks? We’ve been keeping you alive with broth.  You seemed to swallow it down easy enough.  We headed back east, with the idea of going back to Old Town.  There was a storm, though, and we got pushed off course, much further north than we intended.  We didn’t realize how much further north until we saw the kraken sails on the horizon.  They’ve decided that the waters between the Banefort and Pyke are theirs, and they claim there’s a toll to cross those waters.  Well, we didn’t have the money to pay, and once they were on us we couldn’t leave to go south.  So they’re taking us to Seaguard.  Almost there by the reckoning of the man who just came down.” 

A harbor and a slow-moving escort explained why the ship felt so still.  Arya thought his words over, planning her actions.  She should be the one to handle this, so she was going to have to get out of bed.  The weeks of not moving and the minimal nourishment explained the hunger and pain she felt.  I’m NEVER warging a dragon again , she thought.  Fucking dragons.  Every time she saw one of them something shitty happened to her, “Bring me a bowl of thicker broth and some bread.  I’ll be talking to the Iron Islanders.”  

Imari looked skeptical, “You couldn’t even sit up a minute ago.” 

“That’s what the soup and bread is for,” he knew better than to argue with her once she’d set her head on something, especially when he knew she was right.  It didn’t take long for the food to come, and Arya ate slowly, taking small sips of broth and small bites of bread that were dipped in the broth.  It wasn’t the best meal she’d ever had, but she knew better than to try and shove her fragile intestines full of food when they hadn’t seen any in weeks.  She wanted to take care of this issue, not spend the next hour in the privy.  

After she’d eaten and made some more small talk with Imari, she leaned back and let the food settle.  It didn’t feel great, but after some time she was fairly certain it wasn’t going to come rushing out of either end of her digestive system.  After an hour, she felt a bit better.  More alert.  That was when things started coming together, and a question emerged.  Why were ships from the Iron Fleet taking them to Seaguard? Why hadn’t they just...robbed the ship? The Ironborn were basically pirates, and extracting tolls seemed just a little too legitimate for them.  If she remembered right, Seaguard was the home of the Mallisters, and they didn’t get along with the Ironmen.  Well, she was never going to find out what was going on if she couldn’t walk.  

She flexed her muscles, stretching her legs as best she could, and then stretching her arms.  It felt good to move them, and she could feel that she hadn’t lost as much muscle as she’d expected.  She stretched her back, cracking it in the process, and afterwards she felt much less stiff.  Imari watched her passively, ready to help if she asked.  She might have to ask.  

She moved slowly, watching for dizziness, but there was none as she turned and swung her legs over the side of the bed and onto the rug-covered planks of the floor.  She wiggled her feet, stretching and digging her toes into the carpet.  Leaning on the posts at the foot of the bed for support, she managed to get herself into a standing position.  Imari sat with his eyes closed, a smirk on his face, while he watched her.  

“What?,” she asked.  

“You’ve the strength of a newborn babe, and you’re going to climb all those steps from the harbor up to the fortress, eh?” 

“Don’t be stupid,” she said primly, “I’m going to make it halfway, pass out, and make you carry me.” 

He laughed, and the sound of it made Arya smile, “If you make me do that I’ll be calling you ‘my lady’ the whole time.” 

“Try it,” she grinned wider, “I’ll make you eat Ed’s salt tack for a week.” 

“Aye, captain, but it would be worth it.” 

“You don’t think I can make it?” 

“No.  You’re strong, but you’ve been knocked on your ass in that bed for too damned long.”  

“A bet, then,” Arya was incapable of backing down from a challenge, “If I don’t make it, and you have to carry me, then you get to use all the stupid honoriffics you want for a week.”  

“And if I lose, and you do make it?” 

“I told you.  You’re eating hardtack for a week.”  

“I’ll take those terms.”  

“Great.  Now, uh...I need you to help me get dressed,” he raised one black eyebrow and his smirk told her what he was thinking, “What? Waste not want not.  I’m conserving energy.”  

“Uh-huh.” 

She sighed in frustration, “Just get me my smallclothes, my pants, a shirt, and my gambeson.  And Needle.”  

He didn’t reply, but he did as she asked while she sat on the bed.  She was wearing a loose nightgown, and she managed to pull her smallclothes off from under it and pull on the new ones he handed her easily enough.  He held her pants out for her and she managed to get them on her feet and most of her legs, but she held onto him for balance while she pulled her pants up and tied them.  He helped her pull the nightgown over her head, doing his best to not stare at her bare breasts.  

The ship rocked, and Arya hadn’t gotten her sea legs back yet. She stumbled and fell against Imari.  The strong man easily caught her.  She suddenly found herself, topless, pressed against him and in his arms.  He held her, looking down at her, both of them seeming a little dazed by the combination of her nudity and their closeness.  They held on a little too long, until Arya broke the moment by muttering an awkward, “Sorry.” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he gently stepped away, putting a bit of space between them.  Arya looked down and noticed the tell-tale bulge in his pants, and quickly looked away, heat in her cheeks.  He grimaced, “Sorry...it just....happens around you sometimes.”  

“I get it,” she replied lamely, absolutely NOT imagining what was behind those pants in all-too-vivid detail.  I will not fuck my first mate, I will NOT fuck my first mate , she repeated to herself, as if that was going to ward off the growing slickness between her legs.  To his credit, he made little of the moment, letting it fall into the well of other similar moments between them.  He bunched up her shirt and helped her get it over her head and tucked in.  Then he helped her get her gambeson and sword belt on, and the entire time she tried to avoid glazing at his crotch.  That bulge was NOT going anywhere.  

After she was dressed she took a few steps around the room.  The clothes helped her feel more solid, and her muscles felt strong, if stiff.  The main problem was the lack of energy from living on broth for so long.  She sat on the bed, grabbing a piece of bread to nibble on.  They heard shouting above, and Imari moved towards the door, but hesitated.  

“Go,” she nodded her head at the door, “Help them dock the ship.  I’ll be up soon.  And thanks...for everything.”  

“Of course,” he replied, and left her cabin.  

She nibbled on that bread and tried very hard to shove her thoughts about Imari into the back of her brain where they belonged.  She’d almost succeeded by the time the ship stopped moving and was tied up.  After that, she made her way up onto the deck.  Her crew didn’t clap or cheer, but she could tell from their smiles and their “Ey, captain’s that they were glad to see her up and about.  She borrowed a walking stick from one of the sailors, and by the time the Ironborn boarded their ship to take them ashore, she was ready to go.  Imari looked at the stick and rolled his eyes.  

“What? We said you weren’t supposed to carry me.  We said nothing about walking sticks,” he snorted, but couldn’t help his laugh.  

“Whatever you say, my lady,” he snarked under his breath.  She whacked him on the shoulder with the stick.  

“You haven’t won.” 

“But I’m gonna.”  

“We’ll see,” she said the last so primly she might have been Sansa.  

Sansa.  

It would be good to see Sansa.  And Jon, for that matter.  Maybe she would go to Winterfell now that she was back in Westeros.  It hadn’t been the plan, but well...she didn’t think that putting out to sea again would be the best idea.  Hell, she didn’t know if the crew would stick around for that.  They looked happy to be back home.

She and Imari followed their Ironman ‘honor guard’ to the end of the docks, where they were passed off to some other guards wearing the silver on purple eagle of house Mallister with nary a curse or insult passed between the Ironmen and the Mallister guards.  The men made little conversation while they all trudged up the switchback steps of the cliff face.  Imari was very nearly right about her passing out from the exertion, and by the top the only things holding her upright were the stick and her own stubbornness.  She drank water, though, and enough of it that when they reached the top and started on level ground, she regained some strength.  

She followed the guards into town, but when they started walking away from the main keep, she spoke up, “Where are we going?” 

The guard that answered looked at her like she was stupid, “The gaol.  You didn’t pay the toll.”  

She and Imari exchanged a look and she answered, “You saw the Direwolf on my sails?” 

“Aye, the Ironmen said something about it.”  

“And you’re taking me to the gaol anyway?” 

“I don’t see how you being from the north makes much difference.  You don’t pay, you go to the gaol.”  

“I’m...not just from the north.  I’m Arya, house Stark,” the guards just gave her confused, annoyed looks, “Heir to Sansa Stark? The queen in the north?,” until she gets her ass in gear and starts having babies, anyway, “King Bran’s sister?”  

“Oh, aye, and I’m the prince of Dorne,” one said, laughing.  

“You don’t look much like a lady,” another remarked.  

“And I hear she sailed west.  Likely dead now,” a third added.  Arya gave them names in her head: Pimples, Square-Jaw, and Tubby; for their obvious physical attributes.  

“Almost,” she grumbled under her breath.  Why were guards always stupid? Why did this keep happening to her? So what, she wore pants and had short hair.  She couldn’t possibly be the only noblewoman who did that, “Listen, I saw Ironmen so I’m going to take a leap and guess that Yara is here somewhere?” 

They were almost to a building with more Mallister guards on it that looked suspiciously like a gaol.  Tubby answered her, “Never you mind about lady Yara, that’s none of your concern.”  

“Just tell her I’m here.  We’ve met, she knows what I look like.  I don’t think she’d want you throwing me in the clink with the others,” 

“I don’t think we’ll be doing that,” Pimples added.  They reached the building and Arya’s hands flexed on her staff.  If she wasn’t so weak, it wouldn’t have been that hard to disable a few guards.  But she was weak, and she was pretty sure Sansa would be less than pleased if she started beating up guards working for one of the noble houses of the six kingdoms.  She went inside without a fight and Imari followed.  Inside, their names were written in a big book by a spindly old man with even more spindly handwriting.  The guards that brought them here left, and new ones took their place.  Arya and Imari were disarmed, their weapons thrown in a pile with others.  

Before they were dumped in their cell, that gaoler said, “You get to send one raven if there’s someone who can pay your debt for you.”  

“Good.  You won’t even need the raven, I expect.  Give me a piece of paper and a pen,” he did as she asked, although he seemed skeptical that she could actually read and write.  Well, her penmanship wasn’t as good as Sansa and Robb’s, but she could certainly write.  

Yara - come tell these idiot gaolers to let me out.  ~Arya Stark , she rolled it up small, and handed it back to him, “Go bring that to Yara Greyjoy, wherever she is.”  

He looked even more dubious, “Lady Mallister isn’t--” 

“Just bring it to her.  You think you can manage that? Gods be good , why does this always happen to me?,” she muttered that last to herself.  And lady Mallister? If Yara had married a Mallister, that would explain a lot.  

“Fine, ya wee bitch, I’ll bring it to her - if only for the laugh I’ll get when she throws it in your face,” he flicked his fingers at the guards and they shoved Arya towards the cells, where she and Imari were summarily dumped.  

He looked at her, plopping down on a flat of dirty-looking straw in the corner, “So you really think that’ll work?” 

“I hope so.  Not sure what other choice we have,” she lowered herself gratefully to the pallet next to him.  

“Well...it’s not the first time we’ve ended up in the gaol together and I don’t think it’s going to be the last.”  

“Don’t you know? They give you a free gift after you’ve been jailed with wayward nobility ten times.” 

“Oh, so that’ll make it worth it.  At least this place has a pot to piss in.” 

“Uh-huh,” now that she was sitting her eyelids were getting heavy.  

“You’re about to fall asleep and leave me board, aren’t you?,” Arya didn’t answer.  She barely heard the question before dropping into sleep.  

A loud bang sounded nearby and Arya jumped up, “Whattafuck!” 

A snort of laughter made her scowl.  Yara stood nearby outside the bars, clearly having just banged the handle of her dagger against the iron to wake Arya up, “So it really is you.” 

“Yep.  It really is.  Lemme out.”  

“Weren’t you threatening my life the last time I saw you?,” Arya didn’t like the mocking look on Yara’s face.  Not that she could really blame her, she’d probably think this was funny if their roles were reversed.  But since it was Arya’s stiff limbs sitting on a dirty pile of straw, she refused to acknowledge the humor.  

“I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that,” Arya muttered, “Look, you know I’m good for it.  Just send the bill to Bran or Sansa and let me go.” 

Yara leaned against the bars and crossed her arms, “I don’t think I will, actually.  Why not just pay the toll?” 

“Cause I don’t have that much gold on my ship,” she did have some, but she’d had to give a fair amount of it away to get their supplies on the three sisters.  

“Seems like you have a problem, then.” 

Arya recognized an extortion attempt when she saw one, “Alright, what’s it going to take?” 

“I just want my toll money...and a meeting with Sansa.  I’ve been trying to establish diplomatic ties with White Harbor for months, and they won’t even speak to me.  But...if their queen tells them to, well, that’s a whole other story.”  

“Since when do the Ironmen trade ?,” she scowled deeper.  

“Since I took over.  If you want to get out of here, you’ll go see your sister and arrange a meeting for me, and get the gold you owe.  I’ll even give you supplies and lend you some silver for the trip.  But just to make sure you and your friend come back...I’ll be keeping your ship and your crew here.” 

In truth, it didn’t seem like that bad of a deal on the surface.  She’d have to ask Sansa for money and a favor, but even that wasn’t so bad.  In the end, the only thing she’d lose is time.  Having her crew trapped on the ship didn’t seem fair though, “Fine, but with one adjustment.  It’s not fair to my crew to keep them cooped up on the ship.  You know the problems that can cause.  Let them off.  Not all at once, I guess, but a few at a time.  To blow off steam.”  

Yara thought for a moment, but eventually nodded, “Fine.  They’ll have guards to make sure they don’t run off, but fine.”  

“Great, now, uh...you mind if we sleep at yours for the night?” 

“Just don’t piss on the carpets, wolf,” she raised her voice, “Jack! Let them out.”  

It took a minute, but he got the keys and got them out.  Arya caught his eye and stuck her tongue out at him.  She heard Imari stifle a laugh next to her, but they were soon reunited with their weapons and on their way to the keep of Seaguard.  

The next morning, as promised, they were given horses, supplies, and money, and turned out at the easternmost gate.  They started down the road, following it northeast towards the Kingsroad.  That would take them through the riverlands and north to Winterfell.  It was only then that Arya realized how much of the riverlands they were going to have to pass through, and exactly where they were going to have to cross the Green Fork of the Trident.  Arya spent the next two days stewing in her slowly building dread.  They were going to be riding through hell, and she wasn’t ready.  

***

They came on it midday of the third day of riding.  It was a grey day, with rolling clouds of fog, and the bite of snow on the air.  She was much stronger now, and eating full meals rather than water-softened bread and fruit.  She missed the salt of the ocean and the deck under her feet, but she was glad Imari was with her.  Especially now.  She’d never wanted to come here again, but here she was, watching the fog swirl around the dual towers that made up the twins and wishing she didn’t need to do this.  But the Twins were the only crossing for hundreds of leagues, and she needed to get across.  

The Twins were a set of two squat, ugly keeps, one on either side of the Green Fork, with a bridge stretching between them.  The keeps were identical in every way, down to the last grey stone.  In the center of the bridge was a third keep, smaller than the other two, meant for guarding the center.  There was a moat around the keep on this side, and Arya suspected there was a similar one on the other side.  It stunk, the natural flora and fauna of the river having begun to reclaim the moat, turning its water to reed-choked sludge.  Her horse shifted under her, sensing her distaste for the place.  

“I don’t understand,” she could sense his impatience, but he didn’t say anything, “Why does it make you so nervous? You said it was empty.  That the Freys were dead.”  

“They are dead,” This, she knew better than anyone else, “but I lied when I said it was empty.  It is full of ghosts.”  

“Ghosts aren’t real,” he scoffed, but he quieted when she turned to him and he saw how solemn she was.  

“They are when you are the one who creates them,” she looked at the sky and checked the position of the sun.  She did not intend to get caught in this awful place after dark.  They had plenty of time, and she couldn’t put it off any longer, so she motioned her horse forward, “Let’s get this over with.”  

They stepped onto the gate that lay over the moat together and in silence.  The gates and portcullises were all open, presumably to allow free crossing of the river, but there was no one around right now.  The wind blew, pushing against her fur-lined cloak, and whistling through the empty towers.  It didn’t take long to cross the moat and enter the keep proper.  Luckily, the passage was almost like a tunnel built into the keep to allow separation of the residents and the travellers, so she didn’t have to go into the rooms and halls of the place.  Had anyone even cleaned up the dead? She hoped so, but she wouldn’t be surprised if they hadn’t.  Imari, not knowing her history of the place, and always curious, was looking around the place.  

“I wonder what lord owns it,” he said, “it seems odd that it’s empty.”  

“My uncle,” was all she managed to reply.  

“Sister to a queen, a king, and niece to a high lord.  Do you have any other relatives in important positions?” 

She thought about it for a second and shrugged, “My cousin is lord of the Eyrie.”  

“You know, I wasn’t expecting the answer to be yes.”  

“ Technically , the hand of the king and the lord of Casterly Rock was my brother-in-law, but the marriage was dissolved.  Oh, and my other brother....cousin...it’s complicated... should be king because he’s the last living Targaryen, but we decided otherwise after the war.”  

“You were there?” 

She nodded, “That’s where I met Yara.”  

“I see, and--” 

“Oh, and the first man I slept with is the lord of Storm’s End now because the dead bitch with the dragons legitimized him over dinner at our castle one night.”  

“...is that everyone?” 

“I think?,” she squinted, trying to remember, “I’m not related to anyone in Dorne.  So...yes, that’s everyone.”  

“You led a complicated life before we met,” they were coming to the end of the first keep, with the interminably long stretch of the bridge beyond.  The ring of the horses’ hooves on the stone echoed in the enclosed space, and every single time it sounded like a hammer blow in her mind.  

“It didn’t seem that complicated to me.  Just...hard.  And sad,” she looked up, as if she could see her sins through the stone.  

“Do you know who used to live here?” 

“The Freys,” she kept her answer short, hoping he wouldn’t press for more.  Knowing him, though, he’d have her spilling the whole story before the end of the stupid bridge.  

“And they’re gone now?” 

“Yeah, dead,” they crossed out into the weak, grey sunlight.  Puffs of fog tumbled across the span, obscuring and revealing it in turns.  She hated this place so much.  But, oddly, Imari’s questions were distracting her from the overwhelming feelings trying to drag her down into the river.  

“Hm, must not have been many of them if they died so quick.  This place doesn’t look like it’s been abandoned long.” 

“A couple of years, give or take.  And there were...a lot of them.  I’m not sure how many, but a lot.”  

“Did you know any of them?” 

She nodded, “My uncle is married to one.” 

At the red wedding .  She still didn’t remember much from that night.  Just pain, and screaming, and fire, and death.  So much death.  If she’d just gotten there sooner, maybe she could have....

What? Could have what? Died with the rest of her family? She’d been so young at the time.  15.  She was almost 20, now, and it felt like she’d lived an entire life between then and now.  She and Imari were similar that way - he was 22 and he’d also crammed a lot of living into a small amount of time.  He’d probably understand if she told him the story.  She just...couldn’t do it here, not in this place.  She couldn’t open herself at all while she was here.  She turned her attention to the bridge, telling herself she was watching for thieves and bandits.  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been caught by them.  

“What were they like?” 

She shook her head, “It doesn’t matter.  They’re all dead.”  

“What happened to them?” 

“War,” she sighed, looking towards the tower in the center of the bridge, “They were on the losing side.”  

“I see,” he was quiet and she could sense his shrewd gaze, “In my experience, all sides are the losing sides.”  

They lapsed into silence, and finished crossing the bridge.  As soon as her horse’s hooves touched the packed earth of the eastern bank, Arya started to feel better.  And then, every step they took away from that cursed place lifted her further out of her dark thoughts.  Not completely, though.  She knew she wouldn’t be able to shake the feeling for awhile, and that night she made them go later than normal before they made camp. 

Chapter Text

The fire cracked and popped in front of her, and she stared into the flames.  She wasn’t the red witch, she saw nothing, but her mind wandered.  She felt cold to her core, and although the fire was burning hot and her furs were tight around her, she still couldn’t shake the dampness and blackness of their trip through the twins.  Imari, sensing her mood, had taken it upon himself to do the cooking while she took care of the horses.  Brushing them out and caring for them usually relaxed and focused her, but tonight it hadn’t helped.  She’d been silent most of the night, only answering his questions with the bare minimum of conversation.  Now he sat across from her, watching her through the flames.  

Finally, he broke the silence, “Tell me.” 

She shook her head, “You don’t want to know this about me.” 

“Maybe not, but you need to tell someone.”  

“It’s horrible.”  

“Then I will trade you: one horrible story for another.  You tell me about that castle back there, and I’ll tell you about the scar.”  

“Which one?”

“You know which one,” she did.  She’d seen it on his shoulder many times.  It had a queer shape - a series of lines that looked almost like letters but weren’t.  She’d asked him about it before, and he’d always refused to answer, and when he boasted of fights he’d survived it was never included in the tales.  

She gave a hesitant nod, “Alright.  Well.  How much do you know about the last ten years in Westeros?” 

“I know that you had a kind who died, and his hand got his head chopped off.  I know there’s a half-man, and a war with five kings, and I know that a year or two there was...darkness.  And the dragon queen came.”  

“The hand...that was my father.  And my sister, Sansa, she got trapped in King’s Landing, but I got out.  My brother, Robb, was one of the five kings in that war,” the flames flickered and the wood snapped and popped.  It was the first time she’d said his name in years, “There was a knight.  He...well, it’s complicated, but he took care of me after I’d left King’s Landing and left the person who got me out of the city.  He took care of me because he knew who I was, and he knew my family would pay dearly for me.  So he took me to the last place he knew my family was - The Twins.” 

“That’s the name of the fortress?  Makes sense.” 

“I guess.  My mom and my brother and lots of my family - the whole army of the north, all the northern lords and Stark bannermen - they were at the twins for the wedding of my uncle Edmure and his Frey wife.  That’s the one I told you about earlier when you were asking about who I was related to.  They were there with the Freys, and they’d been given guest right.  And old lord Frey...he broke guest right.  He slaughtered my mother, my brother...his wife, his bannermen...everyone...while they were full of his food and drunk and they...they...,” she swallowed, trying hard not to cry, “They cut off his head, and they cut off his direwolf’s head, and sewed them together.  A sick trophy for a sick, stupid family.”  

“Arya, that’s--” 

“I’m not finished.  There’s more.  I was there the night they did it.  We tried to get into the Twins so he could sell me to my family, but we were turned away just as the battle started and I saw...the men outside were murdered, everything was on fire.  They shot Grey Wind full of arrows.  I don’t remember much, most of the night is a blur, but I do remember THAT.  We left, he grabbed me and we left,” she paused and he didn’t fill the silence, “I used to have a list.  A prayer of sorts.  Joffrey.  Cersei.  Walder Frey.  Meryn Trant.  Tywin Lannister.  The Red Woman.  Beric Dondarion.  Toros of Myr.  Illan Payne.  The Mountain.  The Hound.  Polliver.  Rorge.  Everyone who’d hurt me.  Some names I crossed off myself, and some were crossed off in other ways, but they’re all dead.  Every last one of them.  I added all of the Freys to the list that night, even though I didn’t know their names,” It’d been a long time since she’d recited the list, and the names tasted strange on her tongue.  Relics from another time, “Eventually, I made my way across the sea and to the House of Black and White.” 

Imari’s eyes widened, “The Faceless Men? Are you one of them?” 

“I was, for a time.  They trained me, and they helped make me what I am.  But I will always be Arya Stark, and so I cannot be No One.  I can’t be one of them.  So I left, but I took the skills with me.  I came back to Westeros, and to the Twins,” she stared at the flames, still, her face slack and emotionless.  The cold expression she wore when she sacrificed to the Many Faced god, “I made a gift of the sons of Walder Frey - Black Walder and Lothar - to the Many Faced god.  Then I had them cooked into pies, and their wine poisoned.  They were celebrating the ruination of my Uncle, another round of wrongs that they’d done to my family, and I served them their brothers and their poisoned wine.  All except the lord Frey.  Him, I saved from the poison, so he could watch his huge family die.  And when they were all dead, I changed my face to my true face - this one - so he’d know I was Arya Stark.  I told him that the last thing he’d ever see was a Stark, and then I cut his throat,” she finally looked up from the flames to meet Imari’s eyes.  She didn’t know what she was expecting there.  Anger? Disgust? The only thing she saw was intensity while he listened to her tale, “And then I went home.  So you see? The ghosts in the Twins are mine, and they are probably not quiet.”  

“Ghosts,” he replied quietly, “Are not real.”  

“And what of yours?,” her eyes went to his scar, but for once she didn’t try to hide how raw the story made her, “Are they false as well?”  

“Yes.  But they are much further away,” he shifted, leaning back on a log and taking a swig from his water skin, “When I was a little boy I felt the call of the sea.  I would spend my days in it, swimming, or on a boat, and I wanted nothing more than to see all of the sights of the world.  ‘I will bring you lace from Myr and arbor gold from far across the world’ I used to tell my mother.  So my parents apprenticed me on a merchant vessel as soon as I was old enough.  It was, of course, hard work, but I was happy and the captain taught me well.  I stayed with him for years, seeing all of the cities in Essos.  We even sailed past the Smoking Sea once,” he paused, and Arya could see the pain of the past rising in his eyes, “We were making our way from Tyrosh to Pentos, and that meant going through the Stepstones.  At the time, the pirates there were plentiful and bold, and they boarded our ship.  They killed most on board, but they took me with them because of my age.  I was young enough to be molded, they said, and big enough to be useful.  So they branded this symbol on my arm and kept me alive.  I was with them for years, after that, doing...well, exactly what you’d think pirates would do.  Killing, stealing, reaving.  I started to see them as brothers, and the Stepstones as our own kingdom, away from the oppressive regimes of other countries.  So you see, I made a few ghosts too.” 

“Why did you leave?” 

“I’d like to tell you that I came to my senses, but I didn’t.  I just...got bored.  I got into a dispute with my captain over trying to expand past the Stepstones, and we parted ways.  I went back to Tyrosh to find honest work.  Coming back to the real world made me realize what a fool I’d been, so when I had the chance to go back to the Stepstones and fight my former brothers in arms, I took it,” He fell silent, but Arya could see the hunch of his shoulders and the slight hang to his head.  The actions he’d taken when he was younger weighed heavily on him.  

“You’re right,” she finally said, “Ghosts aren’t real.”  

There was nothing else to say, really, and so they cleaned up their meal and laid out their bedrolls in silence.  It was a quiet, relaxed silence, and although Arya hadn’t wanted to talk about the twins, now that she had she felt a little warmer.  So they slept side-by-side as they always did, but tonight, in the quiet stillness before they fell into the abyss of sleep, Imari held out his hand.  She took it, strung her fingers between his, and they both held on tightly.  

The next day passed uneventfully, and they made slow progress through the snow and the grey towards the Kingsroad.  They passed few other travellers, as most people stayed home in the deep of winter.  Besides, after the wars, well...there simply weren’t as many people to fill the inns and roads.  So they filled the time with story-telling, each more outlandish than the last.  It was comfortable, and Arya smiled often; a strange contrast to the last time she’d been travelling through here.  She and the mountain only had two ways of communicating: arguing and fighting.  Other than that, it was silence.  This was better.  

The day after that , however, did not pass uneventfully.  They were still a few days’ ride from the Kingsroad, riding through a fairly thick patch of trees.  The road had a curve here, and they followed it around.  The last few days of quiet caused them to lower their guard a bit, which is why the men were able to take them by surprise.  They came out of the trees and the low brush on the sides of the road.  They wore layers of dirty clothes, and tattered cloaks.  Clearly, any money that they stole went right into the weapons that were pointed at Arya and Imari.  There were six men in the road, and three that Arya spotted hiding in the trees.  Those men had crossbows, two of the six in front of her had halbers, one had a decent enough looking sword, and the rest had axes.  

“Nice and easy,” one of them said, his accent rough, “We’ll be takin’ those horses, and anything else you’ve got on ya.”  

Arya looked over at Imari, and they gave each other a slight nod.  They flung themselves off of the horses, and the quarrels whistled through the air where they’d been, their weapons out before they landed.  They had a few minutes while the crossbows reloaded, and they went for the other men first.  A pikeman stabbed at Imari, thinking he’d be slow and easy to pick off, but despite his size, Imari was quick.  He dodged the strike and snapped out his hand, grabbing the haft of the weapon before its owner could pull it back, and yanked on it.  The man stumbled forward, and Imari drove his sword in.  Arya also went for the pikeman first.  He was faster than the other one, and more skilled, but not as fast as Arya.  Men always misjudged where she’d be because she was so much smaller than they were used to fighting, and it made it easier for her to dodge their strikes.  She got in close, behind the weapon’s reach, and sent Needle between his ribs and into his heart.  

The other bandits caught up, spurring themselves into motion and charging at their foes.  Groups were easier for Arya because they had more feet to trip over and they always thought they had an advantage.  She’d take a group of bandits over a skilled swordsman any day.  Except Brianne.  Brianne was fun.  She thought back on their sparring and grinned, feeling her muscles start to warm to the fight.  She twirled and spun, mindful of the horses and Imari, poking holes in the graceless and slow bandits.  Their water leaked out, nourishing the ground below.  A final click from the trees to her left registered, and she grabbed the nearest bandit, spinning him so the bolt landed in his chest, then letting him fall to the ground.  The bandits fell in short order, and she heard crashing through the brush as the others ran in fear.  She didn’t bother to follow them; they wouldn’t be returning.  

She walked over to the other side of the horses who, mercifully, hadn’t panicked at the commotion and smell of blood.  They were well-trained, it seemed.  Imari stood over his dead foes, wiping the blood off of his word before he sheathed it.  Arya did the same, resolving to clean it more thoroughly when they stopped for the night.  He stepped over the nearest body, and now he was close enough that Arya could smell him.  The adrenaline surge from the fight was swirling in her veins, and her senses were alert.  She inhaled deeply, the clove oil in his hair and the scent of his sweat mingled with the fresh bite of the cold and snow.  She looked at him, not bothering to stop herself from taking in the sight of his broad chest and thick waist.  Sex and violence were two edges of the same sword for both of them, and seeing his deep breaths and the swell behind his breeches was almost enough to make her reach for him.  Her fingers twitched, and a different kind of tension was thick between them.  

No, Arya.  He is your first mate.  You cannot.  It doesn’t matter how much you like him, it doesn’t matter how wet his body makes you.  You cannot.

The excuse of their personal relationship seemed flimsy right now, and her breath caught when he took a step towards her, but she curled her hands into fists and brought herself under control, stepping away before he could touch her.  If he touched her, she wouldn’t be able to stop.  The man who listened to her across the fire was the same man who made her body ache for want of him, and nothing good would come of it.  He would want to tie her down, same as Gendry had.  

Would he though?, the small voice in her head whispered, You are so alike.  He is your equal in so many ways.  Maybe everything good would come of it.   

She was having a harder and harder time squashing those thoughts, and being alone on the road with him wasn’t making it easier.  But she did it anyway, swinging back up into the saddle of her horse.  He did the same, and the continued on, leaving the men on the path behind them.  And as they rode, Arya realized that she might have stepped away from him, but that did nothing to lessen the throb of desire that hummed low in her belly, and it no amount of shifting uncomfortably in her saddle did anything to keep the thoughts of Imari from her mind.  

They stopped near sundown, making camp by the side of the road as they always did.  They took care of the horses, they cooked, and they ate, as they always did - but there was a tension there.  It wasn’t unpleasant so much as it was confusing, and Arya didn’t like things that confused her.  She liked things to be much simpler and preferred her problems to be the kind she could stab with a sword.  This was not that kind of problem.  They laid their bedrolls down and she tried to sleep.  

She was not the type to toss and turn when she couldn’t sleep, but instead laid still with her eyes closed, practicing breathing exercises and paying attention to the sounds around her.  Usually it calmed her enough, but tonight? Tonight her blood was still up from the fight and from the nearness of Imari and it wasn’t helping.  It was late in the night, and she still wasn’t asleep, but her breathing was slow and steady and she laid on her side in stillness., facing Imari.  She noticed a strange sound, close to her.  A sort of rhythmic sound of skin-on-skin, and Imari’s breathing changed.  She opened her eyes just a little, not moving, and looked at him in the dimness of the fading fire.  

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She knew men pleasured themselves, she also did it from time-to-time, but she’d never seen it before and she couldn’t help but stare.  She could see his hand moving rhythmically under the blanket down near his hips, and she knew that’s what he was doing.  There was an undeniable rawness to it, a carnality that she couldn’t turn away from.  She felt her clit swelling and she pressed her thighs together.  The look on his face was what drew her in the most - his brow was beaded in sweat, his eyes closed, and his hand in his mouth to quiet his small sounds of pleasure.  Now that she was watching, she knew that she’d wanted to see that look on his face for a long time, and she knew that she didn’t have the willpower to back away this time.  She wanted to see that look there for her, not his fist.  

“Imari,” she said, her voice the merest brush of sound in the dark.  He stopped and opened his eyes, taking his hand out of his mouth.  His ink-dark eyes met hers, and whatever he saw there made him resume the stroking of his hand, slower this time.  Lazily, his expression growing darker with desire.  She was close enough that she didn’t have to move towards him, and instead she reached out, placing her hand on top of his as it moved under the blanket.  She didn’t want to just watch him, she wanted to feel it, wanted to know what his touch felt like.  

He reached out with the hand closest to her, his left; the one that had been in his mouth, and gently took hold of the hand she had on top of the blanket.  He moved it under the blanket and laid it on his thigh, close to his arousal, but leaving the final choice up to her.  She slid her hand around the thick curve of his thigh, feeling the smoothness of his skin under her fingers.  He stopped stroking himself and let go, freeing himself for her to touch.  She took it for the invitation that it was, and pressed her hand along the underside before taking him in her fist.  He wasn’t especially long, no more than any other man she’d been with in the last year in the ports they’d stopped in before heading west, but he was thick.  Her fingers didn’t touch when she had him in her fist, but she stroked him anyway, twisting and holding tight.  He was so hard, there was no give to him at all, and slickness dripped from his slit.  

She wanted more than just stroking him, though, and she was wound too tightly for much foreplay.  Now that she had him in her hand the only thought in her mind was what he’d feel like inside her.  She worked her shoes off with her toes while she let her hand move up and down.  She finally had to let go for a moment, wiggling out of her pants.  He saw what she was doing, and opened his bedroll to her, letting her slip in beside him.  She wanted to be on top of him, to look down and see his face as he slipped inside her, to see what she did to him, and so she moved, sliding her leg over him and settling on his hips.  It took a moment of rearranging - it was too cold not to make sure they stayed covered in their blankets - but they managed.  

He felt good between her thighs.  He was so big that he filled the whole space, and she was on her knees with much effort.  She pushed up a small amount, looking down at him, and moved backwards so that her wet cunt was pressed against the base of him.  She used her hands to nestle him in her folds, and she watched him as she rocked her hips, sliding her wet pussy up and down his length a few times, grinding her clit and spreading her slickness on him.   Fuck, he was going to feel so good.  She rocked forward, letting his cockhead settle against her opening, and she looked him in the eyes.  

“Yes?,” she asked.

“Finally,” he replied, grinning at her.  She rolled her eyes and smiled, “Yes, Arya.  Please, yes.”  

She pressed down, letting him push slowly into her.  She rocked forward and back, making a bouncing movement that pushed him deeper and deeper.  It ached deep inside her, even burned a little, but it was a good ache and her eyelids fluttered, and she sucked her lip between her teeth, groaning in her throat.  She let herself savour the moment, let herself feel every single inch as he filled her, because when he’d said ‘finally’ he’d been right.  How many times had she imagined this moment? Hundreds.  Sometimes without even realizing she was thinking about it.  Now that it was here, she would take the time to feel every sensation.  Now that she’d made the decision, she was going to enjoy it.  

He was much bigger towards the base than at the end, and so it took her a moment and more than a little rocking back and forth on him before she managed to take him in, but she managed it.  He was in deep, but not so deep that it was painful.  His thickness, though, she could feel him when she moved, when she tensed even a little inside, when she moved at all.  But it was good, so good, to be this full.  And for her, a woman who had experienced so much suffering in her life, pleasure and pain had become entwined.  If it didn’t hurt, was it even real? No, she needed a bit of pain, wanted it, relished it.  

But Imari didn’t know this, and he saw her struggle to fit him inside her and reached up to touch her face, “Are you ok? Is it too much?” 

“It is exactly enough,” she looked down and smiled at him so he’d know she was teasing, “Let me enjoy your cock, ya idiot.” 

He laughed and rocked his hips a little, making her suck in her breath and bite back another groan.  He pulled her down to him and kissed her, although he had to sit up a bit to reach because he was so much taller.  His kiss was all she hoped for - gentle and deep in turns, nipping and sucking her bottom lip, savoring her.  The strength of his kiss while having him inside her was too much, and she rocked her hips, sliding forward and back on him to make him move inside her.  He laid back down when he felt her moving, looking down to where they were joined.  

“I wish I could see.  I want to see my cock sliding in and out of you,” She sat up a little, pushing the blankets down and letting the light of the dying fire in so he could see - just for a minute or too, but it was worth it.  His breath caught and he watch as she moved, his cock was coated with her wetness and the light made the mess of her shine while she moved, “Yes...fuck, yes...you look so good with me inside you.”  

“Feels good too,” she mumbled.  She let go of the blanket so she could concentrate, leaning forward on her hands so she could slide her hips back and forth, slipping along his length and grinding her clit against his pubic bone.  She closed her eyes, letting herself get lost in the physicality of it.  He held her hips, pushing with his hands in time with her strokes, helping her move while he watched.  She went faster as she got wetter and her climax got closer.  Her hands tensed, her nails digging into his chest.  

“That’s it, Arya...use me to make yourself feel good,” his voice was low and urgent, lust stretched over the tightness of it, “Let me feel you come.”  

Faster and faster she moved, the strength of his hands helping her, pulling her back and forth while she ground on top of him.  Her breath came harder and faster, and she went so fast she was almost bouncing off of him when she landed.  Closer and closer, until her loud cries echoed out into the night and she fell over the edge, her body tightening hard around his, pulsing and writing the pleasure from her body while they moved together.  She stopped moving, dropping forward and laying on his chest.  It took her a moment to realize he was still inside her, and he was still rock-hard.  

She lifted her head and looked at him, frowning, “You didn’t...?” 

He grinned, “Oh, I’m not done with you yet.  What kind of lover would I be if I only wanted to see you come once? No, now it’s my turn.” 

They shifted and re-arranged so that she was below him, lying on her side.  He pushed her top leg up so it was bent, her knee near her chest.  The other leg was pointed out straight, and he straddled it.  He slipped back inside her with ease this time, pushing in deep to the hilt in one stroke.  He pulled out slowly, letting her get a feel for the new position while he moved inside her.  

“Good?,” he asked, watching her reactions, and she nodded vigorously.  He was leaning over her to keep the blankets wrapped around them, his arms a cage on either side of her, holding her close to him.  She’d never been with anyone as tall or broad as him, and she found that she liked it.  She liked how much of him there was, and how they fit together.  She also liked how safe it made her feel, but she shied away from that thought.  It wasn’t hard to ignore her thoughts when he moved a little faster and it felt so good.  

“Yes.  More, Imari,” He went faster and harder, slipping easily through the wetness that dripped from her.  She writhed under him, the feelings of pleasure too much to keep still.  She tipped her hips a little to the side, rolling a bit more onto her stomach, and the angle hit the perfect spot inside her and she gasped out, “There...oh...oh, gods...right there!” 

It felt like his cock was somehow stroking her clit when he moved, but different, deeper and more satisfying.  She wrapped her arms around his closest forearm, holding tight while he used his strength, his precision, and his grace to make his rhythm fast, hard, and steady.  It wasn’t an in-and-out motion anymore, it blended together into one rich sensation of pleasure.  He pushed her to her breaking point, higher and higher until she burst again, muffling her loud cries against his arm.  The sensation was different this time, pleasure of a kind she’d not felt before, and she felt wetness...so much wetness.  It was everywhere, all over both of them.  And this time, when she returned to her thoughts she felt him pressed deep, twitching and spasming inside her, his seed filling her when he’d followed her over the edge.  So, she’d have to get some tansey tea in the next town they passed through, but it would be worth it.  So, so worth it.  

He fixed his pants and got up, retrieving a cloth for her to clean up with before she put her pants and smallclothes back on.  Then they fell asleep, side-by-side, wrapped tightly around each other.  And Arya slept easily, warm for the first time since leaving Seaguard.  

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The next morning they woke and she was unsure of how to act.  Did he enjoy it? Did it want to do it again? Did this change anything between them? She hated this part, and this is why she’d held out for so long.  She liked the way they were together and she didn’t want to sacrifice that.  Besides, feelings were stupid and confusing.  But...she made water that morning and felt the slight remembered ache in her body and she couldn’t help but smile to herself.  

She still gave Imari shit, thought, “Hey.  Your cock is too thick, I’m gonna be sore all day.”  

He laughed loudly and smirked at her in the way of a man who knows he’s satisfied his woman, “Ah well, next time I’ll only use my fingers.  I’m sure that will satisfy you just as well.”  

“Next time?,” she teased.  

He stepped closer and put an arm around her waist, yanking her to him and pressing their bodies tightly together.  He bent down and kissed her as he had last night, desperate and deep and hard, until she felt him rise and press against her belly.  He pulled apart, keeping their foreheads together, “Next time.  We’re stopping at an inn tonight, because I’ll see all of you, Arya Stark.  Every single inch of skin, and I’ll feast my eyes and my cock...next time.”  

Fuck.  Fuck .  Arya was in so much trouble.  They’d be lucky if they made it to the King’s Road instead of spending the next fortnight naked and rolling around in bed.  Why couldn’t he have been a shitty lay? Why did he have to be good? Gods save her from Imari and his beautiful, deep eyes. 

Chapter Text

When he’d been sentenced to being hand as a punishment, Tyrion did not think it would be much of a punishment for him.  Now, he thought differently.  If having open seats on the council and the mess with Dorne wasn’t enough, now he had this to deal with.  

“What do you mean, she wasn’t there?,” Davos sat kitty-cornered to him at the meeting table in the small council chamber.  Everyone else occupied their seats, and Sam had returned from the citadel a few days ago.  He’d been on the way back when ravens had been sent for him.  

“Just what I said.  She wasn’t there.  No dragons, no Daenerys, nothing.  There were some dragon droppings that didn’t seem too old, but the locals were playing dumb.  If she was there, she’s gone now,” Davos repeated.  

The lack of a master of whisperers continued to plague him.  Bran could keep himself flush with information, but he didn’t always pass on the relevant bits, and Tyrion disliked depending on magic for information.  A spy network, the trees were not.  He missed Varys, that was the problem.  No one would ever be as good, and no matter how hard he searched he’d yet to find his like.  He wondered if he should contact Illyrio and see if the man knew anyone else.  Tyrion shoved his frustration down, and pressed his palm into the tabletop, looking around at the rest of the council, “We need information, and I am tired of attempting to run a kingdom with half of this council missing.  We will fill these spots today, and we are not leaving this room until we’ve chosen a master of laws, whisperers, and war.”  

Three hours later the table was covered in reams of paper, empty wine cups, plates of half-eaten food, and several very frustrated people.  Tyrion looked down at the paper and rubbed his eyes, “So we will make the lady Genna Lannister the master of war, and lord Rodrik Harlaw master of law, we are agreed?” 

“I still feel that two Lannisters on this council is a mistake,” Brienne’s voice was steady, but he could hear the annoyance in it. 

“But you’ve not made a better suggestion,” Tyrion replied, “My aunt isn’t like my father or the rest.  She’s not ambitious in that way, but Jaime trusted her judgement enough to include her in his war councils.  And a seat on the council will go a long way towards quieting my Frey cousin and his demands for the Twins.”  

His aunt had been married to the heir to the Twins - and briefly Riverrun - before the massacre of the Freys.  He’d had several Frey cousins, and all but one was in the Twins when they were poisoned, along with his aunt’s husband.  Bran had restored Riverrun to house Tully and Edmure, but it hadn’t sat well with the young Red Walder Frey nor with his mother; and the continued refusal of Edmure to give the Twins to Red Walder would have been a powder keg at any other point in history.  As it was, though, house Frey was so depleted and the Riverlands so scarred, that neither could field much of an army with which to fight.  Giving Gemma a seat on the small council might put some balm on that wound, especially considering that Red Walder was still far too young to be considered himself.  The fact that she was the closest thing Tyrion had to a mother was secondary, but he’d still be glad to have her around.  

“True,” Brienne sight, “I don’t like it, but we’ve been through every option on the list, and I see no better candidates.”  

“Any other objections? We are agreed?,” five nods, “Excellent.  And Lord Harlaw?” 

That choice had been a little easier.  Lord Harlaw was in Seaguard with Yara following her marriage to Jason Mallister, and was notorious for his scholarship.  The fact that it would tie the Iron Islands more tightly to the rest of the kingdoms was an added bonus.  In truth, Tyrion didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him sooner.  No one protested that choice, and it had been the first one they’d agreed on.  Again, five nods confirmed it.  That left the master of whisperers.  They all knew it, and none had come up with an idea.  The candidate he’d sent with Davos had failed utterly, and considering how easy it should have been to scrounge up information on something as large as a dragon, that was saying something.  Tyrion felt like his brain was going to crack like an egg.  They’d been over and over the lists of nobility, and no one fit.  Although, in truth the master of whisperers didn’t have to be a member of a noble house.  Often they weren’t, and it was the only role that had been often filled by women in the past.  Master of whisperers wasn’t normally filled like this - they seemed to just turn up at court and start their work.  

“What about a warg?,” Sam threw the suggestion into the tired silence of the room.  

“A warg?,” Arienne looked skeptical.  

“Well, King Bran finds all his information because he wargs into animals and sees through the trees.  Same as Bloodraven.  It seems to me that we might look for a warg of our own to do the same.  Jon knew one in the wildlings and he did a similar thing,” Sam explained.  

“It’s...not a terrible idea,” Tyrion replied, frowning in thought, “But even if we could find one, they’d have to be brought from the north.  They wouldn’t be one of ours.”  

“Varys wasn’t even Westerosi,” Bronn pointed out, “And that fucker was the best spy I ever saw.”  

“He wasn’t the first master of whisperers to be from Essos, either, so you have a point,” Tyrion answered, “How would we find one?” 

Sam looked at them, “Well, we all know one.”  

“No,” Tyrion said too quickly, “Jon Snow is banished, and subtle as a brick besides.  Absolutely not.  He’s too much like his father.”  

The discussion of previous people who’d filled the position triggered a memory for Tyrion.  Something Bran had told him during their conversation before the battle of Winterfell.  Bran had been mentored by Bloodraven, and Bloodraven might be remembered for being a Targaryen bastard, but he was also a Blackwood bastard.  A Blackwood who was a warg and a greenseer.  A face floated up in Tyrion’s memory; a young woman here at court.  Slim, with hair as dark as a raven’s wing, and eyes of forest green.  She was one of the young women Gendry was courting, in fact, and now that Tyrion thought of her he remembered the cat that seemed to always be in her company.  And now that he thought on it, he realized he’d seen that silver tabby all over the red keep, alert and watching with a twitching tail and amber eyes.  It could be a coincidence, but...no, something about it made sense to him.  Pieces clicked together.  

“Bethany Blackwood,” he said, suddenly, “She’s here at court, and she’s of the same first men blood as Bloodraven was.  And she always has that silver tabby cat with her.”  

“A little girl?,” Bronn protested, “She’s barely seventeen, and you think she can be mistress of whisperers?” 

“Think on it, Bronn.  How many times have you seen that cat sitting on the windowsill outside this very chambers and thought nothing of it?” 

That quieted him some, “I give it a treat every morning.”  

“We’ll bring her here.  It’s still mid-day, so she should be around,” he summoned one of the pages and sent him on the errand.  While they waited, they tidied and used the privy, but as it turned out it took her less time to arrive than he’d imagined it would.  

The guards let her in, and she had the small cat trailing behind her.  She smiled directly at Tyrion and said, “My lord, it took you far too long to figure this out.  I was beginning to fear I’d be married and carted off to Storm’s End before you came around.  Poor Missy finds that windowsill in the hall to be dreadfully dull.”  

“Missy?,” Tyrion asked, “You named the cat after Bloodraven’s mother?” 

She laughed, “I thought it was fitting.”  

They were going to have their hands full with this one, but she was perfect.  He looked at the others, “Unless any of you have an objection, I believe we have found our new mistress of whisperers.”  

“She’s 17,” grumbled Bronn.  

“Never fear, my lord, I shall be eighteen soon.  I flowered four years ago, and if I am old enough to be bedded and wedded then I am old enough to serve on this council.”  

Adrianne grinned widely, “You and I will be fast friends.  I vote yay, just to see the grief she gives Lord Tyrion.”  

The rest agreed, even Tyrion, and the girl took her place at the table, the cat jumping up next to her.  Well, he supposed that the cat was just as important as the rest of them in this case.  It took some time, but they brought the girl into their confidence.  Much of what they told her she’d already know, and it showed Tyrion her efficacy.  And in fact, when they touched on the subject of Daenerys, she had additional information.  

“I haven’t been able to follow past the riverlands or so, because admittedly I’m not yet as skilled as his grace, but she took her two dragons and flew northwards,” she gently scratched behind the cat’s ears, “I followed her with a raven for a bit, but as I said...my reach only extends so far.”  

“Tyrion,” Bronn said, and Tyrion knew what he was going to say next, “There’s only one reason for that girl to be heading north.” 

“Agreed.  She’s going to pay Jon Snow a visit.”  

“She’s Queen Sansa’s problem, then,” Arienne said, with a shrug of one graceful shoulder.  Tyrion had an automatic rise in his annoyance every time she spoke, although he hadn’t quite figured out why.  

“Is she?,” he snapped, “Because I fear that no good can come of Jon Snow and the dragon queen reuniting with their dragons.”  

“It seems passing strange to me,” Davos drawled, “that Daenerys was on Dragonstone, with the dragons barely hidden, and the people were unwilling to speak of her.”  

“I have heard some speak of her,” Bethany added, “And it sounded almost...fond?” 

“Fond speech and an unwillingness to speak of her to the crown tastes of loyalty,” Davos was more than familiar with that, Tyrion thought.  It was one reason he was so trusted.  He was open, honest, and loyal.  

“You might be right,” Tyrion agreed, “And if so, then we’re in more trouble than we thought.” 

“There’s more,” Bethany chirruped, “I am warg, but king Bran is a warg and a greenseer.  Thing is though that greenseeing is a fancy word to use for those of us who are very, very good at warging trees.  I’m not - there’s something about it that I cannot get right.  But I do practice, and I can manage it here and there for short periods of time.  The trees are like....doorways.  They all speak to each other, and time doesn’t pass the same for them.  Time, in their minds, is more of a lake than a river.  Greenseers can swim to the bottom with no trouble, but cannot go past the surface.  Wargs can play at the edges, but if the water tastes wrong or feel slick between your fingers, you can still tell.  And something in the trees feels wrong.  I don’t practice with them as much as I used to because of it.  It just seems dangerous.  And if the king is swimming in dirty water, he’ll get sick too.” 

“Are you saying there’s something wrong with his grace?,” Brienne asked, clearly alarmed.  

“I don’t know,” Bethany answered, “I’m just saying we should be on our guard and pay attention.”  

“I lunch with his grace regularly,” Arianna said thoughtfully, “And he has seemed rather strange lately.” 

Bethany nodded, “One last thing.  It was hard to tell for sure through a crow’s eyes, but it seemed like Daenerys had riders on Drogon’s back with her.” 

Tyrion noticed Sam’s cheeks were very red.  The man was a terrible liar, “Sam? What did you do?” 

“I didn’t break any rules!,” he said in a rush.  

“You never do,” Tyrion’s voice was dry.  Sam was what you might call maliciously compliant with the rules.  

“I was going to tell, I swear, I just didn’t know if it was the right time.  There’s something I have to explain first tho.  It’s important,” after that, he launched into an explanation of some curious things he’d found in the citadel’s library concerning the weather.  About how it used to be on a yearly cycle, and from what he could tell it should have gone back to that with the defeat of the Night King.  He showed them a hunk of bone, melted on one end, and told them it was one of many he’d found in the base of the high tower.  It proved that dragons came before the Long Night and the breaking of the weather.  They were part of the balance of the world.  If there were two, then the weather should have gone back to normal, but they were still in the deep of winter.  The only conclusion he could draw was that the Night King still lived somehow.  Then he started to stammer, and something interesting happened.  

Arianne stilled him with a hand laid gently on his arm, “Sam, I’ll take the blame for my part.  He and my cousin, Sarella, were the ones that figured this out.  She brought him to me in the city, under cover of darkness, and he told me this tale.  This was the night the king summoned us and told us of the dragons.  So I made a decision, and sent Sarella and Gilly to Dragonstone.  Daenerys and Jon Snow are two of the last living people to know anything about the battle to defeat the Night King, and I knew we needed them.  Davos would have brought her back here in chains if he could, because he is too honest by half, and if we’re facing this kind of threat then their knowledge is more important.  I’ve taken steps to protect this city and all inside it.”  

Tyrion looked around and was glad to see his own anger reflected on their faces, but the Dornish woman was not yet done, “And I’d planned to present this next bit today, to ask for help, but since it has come to this and we have been derailed by the choosing of people to fill our empty seats, I will say it now.  My cousin, the usurper of my seat in Sunspear, has finally figured out that I am here and called his banners.  Presumably, he will gather and head for the Prince’s Pass.  I have sent word to my allies as well, but it is too soon for me to have heard from the,” 

Tyrion slammed his fist down on the table, anger leaking into his voice, “This council CANNOT function if we keep these kinds of secrets.  You knew there was an army setting to march on King’s Landing and you did not see fit to tell us?” 

“I just did tell you.  I wanted to be sure I’d sent word to my allies, first,” her eyes flashed and her arms were crossed.  Her temper was rising quickly, and for a moment her uncle came to Tyrion’s mind.  

“Do not act as if I, and the others, do not have reason to be upset with you and Sam.” 

“King’s Landing, the court, and this council, have always been dangerous and unworthy of trust.  So forgive me for exercising some of the caution my father attempted to ingrain in me,” she replied, “You can help or not, but I have put my family at risk to bring us the help we need if we are correct about the Night King.  So I waited until I felt it safe before saying anything.”  

Tyrion took several deep breaths to calm himself, “So be it.”  

Silence fell in the room after the argument.  None wanted to be the first to break it, but eventually Bronn did, “I don’t see what difference it makes to what we’ll do.  We’ll send for your aunt and lord Harlaw, same as we would before.  We’ll keep this to ourselves and not tell the king for now, in case Bethany is right.  We’ll prepare for Dorne the best we can.”  

Tyrion grumbled something to himself and then said, “I hate it when you’re right.” 

“I know,” Bronn smirked.  

“Alright.  I’ll send the ravens.  Sam and Bethany, you’ll sup with me tonight so I can gain a better handle on the, ah...magic.  Davos and Bronn, you start with the more temporal preparations for Manfrey’s arrival.  The truth of that is that we accepted this as a possible outcome when we let Arianne sit in that chair.  Brienne, I need more information about the king’s behavior and you’re the best person to get it for me.  Arianne, you work with Davos and Bronn.  Tell them what you know of your cousin and his strength, and what you expect yours to be,” they all nodded in turn as he gave them their responsibilities, “Now leave me, I need to go contemplate the meaning of punishment.” 

Chapter Text

There was a knock on the door and Brienne looked up from the book she was reading, “Come in.”  

Two men entered.  The first was in his early forties.  Still tall and straight-backed, with a square jaw, dark, deep-set eyes, and salt-and-pepper hair he kept cut short.  He wore the plain, black armor of the city watch, and the long, gold cloak.  The second was thin and short, younger than his companion, with a long, gold braid of hair and a thin face, with sparse brows set above wide brown eyes.  He wore black, fitted wool breeches, a brown wool shirt, and dark, black boots; but he wore the chain of a maester, and despite how young he looked, it had a fair few number of links.  She’d seen him before - he was one of the three maesters Sam had selected from the citadel to serve Bran.  Both of them gave a quick dip of their heads in greeting and the Goldcloak said, “Ser Brienne.” 

“Captain Bywater.  Come in and have a seat,” she gestured to the empty chair on the other side of the desk she was working at.  

“I’d rather stand, if that’s alright,” he replied.  She noticed, then, that he looked troubled.  She tried to maintain a good relationship with him, because she thought it was important to keep an eye on the city watch.  They’d become incredibly corrupt under past rulers, and she didn’t want that to happen again.  This was a job that the hand had specifically asked her to do, and she intended to do it well, but the presence of the maester was concerning.  

“As you will.  What brings you here this afternoon?” 

“There have been some strange,” he hesitated, clearly unsure how to describe to her what he needed to discuss, “deaths in the city lately.”  

After the discussion in the small council a few days ago, her stomach dropped and her guts tightened in anxiety, “Can you elaborate?”

“We’ve been finding bodies, but they look different. Oh hell...,” he gestured to his companion, “This is maester Kallec.  He’ll do a better job of it than I will.”  

“Ser,” the maester said, stepping forward.  He had a quiet voice, but it was not weak.  More like the tone one would use in a library, “We have found bodies that are burned, but significantly more degraded than they should be.  What’s more, the burning seems to happen after the decay.  I’ve seen the same in bodies that have been cremated poorly.  Then there are the others.  We’ve also been finding bodies that have been, well,” he struggled a little with the bluntness of what he needed to say next.  Brienne noticed that some men struggled with this when speaking to her.  They couldn’t shake their habits when speaking to women, “disturbed.” 

“Maester, I’m going to need you to be more specific,” she said.  

“Just tell her, man.  She is no delicate flower, she is captain of the Kingsguard,” Brienne shot the captain a quick, grateful look.  

“They’ve been torn apart.  Reduced to so much meat in some cases.  Impossible to identify in most cases, except by the location of missing persons reported to the guards.  In some cases there’s only copious amounts of blood, and no remains to speak of,” the maester shook his head in disbelief, “I’ve never seen this level of destruction before.  It’s brutal, and disturbing.”  

Brienne’s blood was running cold in her veins.  Sam had told them of the wight that had attacked Gilly and the sand snake she was with at the time.  She’d hoped it had been a one-off, but that was wishful thinking.  Not now , she thought to herself, we’re just starting to make good progress on returning to normality.  And with Sunspear marching this way? We can’t handle this right now.  Lady Lannister cannot arrive fast enough for my liking.   The lady in question had accepted the assignment immediately, and left for the city the next day.  Lannisport was closer than Sunspear, and she was travelling with a light retinue, but Manfrey had a lengthy head start and it would be a near thing.  They’d acted as if they had all the time in the world to fill those spots, and now they were like to pay dearly.  

That, however, was nothing Brienne could change and worrying about it wouldn’t make Genna move faster or Manfrey move slower.  She would deal with what was in front of her, so she said, “Can you show me any of the burned remains, or have they been disposed of?” 

“There are several sets of remains in my laboratory.  But...it is gruesome,” the maester answered.  

Brienne rose, shifting her cloak so that it fell behind her and out of her way.  Her armor made a quiet metallic noise as she moved, but her sword didn’t get caught on her chair or bang on the desk.  She wore it so often it was like a part of her body, now.  She looked at the shorter man and said, “Trust me, maester.  I’ve seen worse.”  

“So be it,” he nodded, and the three of them left Brienne’s quarters.  

The maesters’ laboratories and quarters had been one of the few areas of the keep spared nearly undamaged during the sack.  While the tunnels and part of the black cells had been heavily damaged, the area allotted to the maesters was in a different part of the keep, well away from most other parts of the castle.  Their experiments were occasionally dangerous, and often objectionable to the other residents of the castle, and so during the construction of the keep the areas purpose-built for their use had been constructed underground and further away from the main areas of the keep and thus had survived the flames.  Brienne had never had cause to visit them before, and so she trailed behind Maester Kallec as he led their trio onto the bowels of the castle.  Down and down they went, until the windows became few.  They stopped and retrieved a few lamps left in these sections of the castle for this purpose, and continued into the murk.  The air took on the cold, damp smell of stone, water, and earth.  Brienne much preferred to be outside.  Finally they arrived, and their guide opened a heavy wooden door and let them into the space beyond.  

It was neat and orderly, with several heavy wooden workbenches and a wide, open space in the middle.  The floors were surprisingly clean, as were the tables.  There were long shelves on nearly all the walls, full of bottles and jars, some full and some simply empty glassware.  All of them were labeled, and all of them were free of dust.  The large room was well-lit, too, with candles and lamps on the walls and hanging from the ceiling.  It smelled of a strange mix between acrid chemicals and harsh lye soap.  

“I keep the remains in a smaller chamber when I’m not working on them.  I have ice blocks delivered to keep the room cold, as I find the bodies decay slower when they’re cold.  I read a treatise once on how bodies in the north are kept in the wall to keep them from putrefying until the spring thaw comes and applied the lesson,” he led them through a clear path between the tables and through another, smaller, heavy wooden door in the back wall of the room.  Inside there were several tables on wheels, neatly arranged in long rows and covered in muslin sheets.  It was dark in here, likely to keep it colder, and their lamplight flickered off of a stack of large ice blocks along the back wall.  To Brienne’s surprise, it was significantly colder in here than it had been in the larger room outside.  The cold also seemed to suppress the smell, as it was full of the dead but the only scents were the faint iron tang of blood and a smell that was disturbingly close to that of cooked pork.  It wasn’t, though.  Brienne knew that smell, and her stomach turned.  

It was a tight fit for the three of them in the narrow aisle between the corpses, but they managed it.  Kallec pointed left and then right, “Burned bodies here, mutilated ones there.  Which would you like to see first.”  

Brienne counted nine burned bodies and six mutilated ones, and Brienne found that ratio to be incredibly disconcerting.  The small noises that they made seemed to echo in this room, especially that of the metal armor.  Their footsteps seemed louder, and even Kallec’s voice amplified in the stillness.  Brienne didn’t know if it was her mind, or some trick of the room, but she lowered her voice when she spoke anyway, “Burned, please.”  

Kallec nodded and pulled back the muslin on the body nearest to him.  The body was grotesque, and clearly degraded.  One arm was missing, and the other was missing the forearm, with the upper arm missing most of its flesh.  The skin of the chest was tight, all of the fat and muscle gone, and white bone showing under flaking, paper-thin flesh.  The face was sunken and hollow, the hair burned completely off, and the eyes reduced to desiccated sockets.  The teeth were white, though, as if the fire could not damage them.  The damage to the body left the lips burned and pulled back in a horrible approximation of a smile.  

He showed them all of the burned bodies.  Some were in a similar shape to the first, and some were even more degraded, blackened skeletons that laid out in the correct order by Kallec.  Some had a little more flesh, but none resembled the newly dead.  Brienne began to hope that perhaps these were old remains, burned for ritual, or burned in the sack of the kingdom and just now found.  

That is, until the last.  Kallec stepped up to it and said, “This one is confusing for its difference.”  

He pulled back the sheet to the waist, and Brienne could see immediately what he meant.  This one was also burned, but the flesh clearly remained on its bones.  The damage was horrible - it had been ripped apart from its lungs to its hips, its burned organs reduced to charred lumps of flesh.  The edges of the hole where its guts had once been was ragged and torn as if by claws or fingers, but certainly not the clean wound left by steel.  It had bite marks up and down its arms, deep ones that broke the skin or took chunks, and they’d been exaggerated by the shriveling of the flesh when it burned.  Its lips, like the others, were stretched right across undamaged teeth.  It too had its hair burned off, but its eyes had popped and the jelly stuck to its cheeks like obscene tears.  Its hands had been burned into claws, curled and grasping, with sharp nails on the tips.  It was too disfigured to tell anything about who it had been, but Brienne could tell even without the training of a maester that the wounds had happened before the burning, not after.  

Kallec still confirmed it for them, “You see the bite wounds? The flesh shrinks when burned, and these are shrunken and stretched, the edges burned.  They were inflicted before burning.  The same with the belly wound - if it had occurred after the burning the organs would not have been burned.  Someone inflicted the damage, and then burned the body.”  

Brienne was not someone with a particularly guarded face, and so she was not surprised when the captain said, “You know something.”  

“I...suspect...something.  I need more information.  I am going to speak to the hand about this immediately.  Gentlemen, I would ask you to stay nearby and accessible, and please...keep this to yourselves at least until I summon you.”  

“I can do that,” Kallec said.  

“As can I,” added Jacelyn.  

Something else occurred to her, “Captain, have you heard any strange tales from the people? Things you would normally discount?” 

“Well, you know how smallfolk are, they always have tales to tell.  But there was a woman...a week ago.  It stayed with me because she was so upset.  She went to one of my guards and wouldn’t let him rest until he’d brought her to me and I’d heard her story.  She told me her husband had been dead a week gone by.  She’d been walking home that night, and passed by the mouth of an alley.  She heard some noises and turned to look...well, she swore up and down that she saw her dead husband, another person in his hands, turn to look at her.  She said that stranger still, when he looked at her his eyes were so blue they nearly glowed.  Blue as stars, she said, and they’d been black before.  Poor woman was so upset, but I think her grief was making her see things.” 

Brienne thought she might be sick, and she gripped the handle of Oathkeeper tight to keep herself steady, “Thank you for bringing this to me.  I’m going to speak to the hand.  You’ll both hear from me before tomorrow.”  

She said her goodbyes and rushed from the chamber, nearly running to the hand’s tower in her haste.  Court was not being held today, and so she knew that in the absence of court and the absence of small council business, he stayed in his chambers and made people come to him rather than the other way around.  It took her some time, and she was breathing a little heavier by the time she made it up the tower.  The guards outside nodded to her, well familiar with her, and she banged on the door a bit more loudly than she intended.  She didn’t wait for an answer before she opened it and entered into the private audience chamber he worked in.  

The sun streamed through the windows, but it did nothing to lighten her mood.  Tyrion sat behind the heavy wooden desk, reading a scroll.  He didn’t look up from it when she burst in and said, “Why hello, Brienne.  Certainly, you may enter.  What a lovely afternoon we’re having.”  

“I have no time for your glib remarks, my lord hand.  We must speak,” she’d never understood why he felt the need to make jokes in even the most serious of moments.  

“Really? Because I thought you’d barreled your way into my private chambers in order to tell me that you’ve fallen deeply in love with me and we should run away together,” he looked up at her and caught the look on her face and sighed, putting down the scroll, “Have a seat.”  

She sat, numbness keeping her from the madness of what she needed to say.  She shouldn’t be this surprised.  She’d known about the previous attack.  And yet, she’d hoped Gilly and Obella had been wrong, “I’ve just come from speaking to Captain Bywater and one of Sam’s new maesters - Maester Kallec.  We have a problem.  The guard has been finding old bodies, burned to nearly nothing, and new bodies that have been reduced to so much meat by something unidentified.”  

The wind seemed to leave the small man in a slow stream, as he leaned back in his chair, “Tell me everything.”  

So she did.  She told him about the bodies in the basement, and the one that had been burned but looked fresher than the others.  She re-told the story of the upset woman.  He listened to her in that quiet way that he had, weighing all of her words, his mind working rapidly behind his tired blue eyes.  When she was done he said, “Well...we knew they were here--” 

“I think we’d both hoped that they were wrong.  That they’d seen things and remembered them wrong.”  

“Yes.  But the burning...some would know how to defeat the wights, and some would not.  Still...,” he lapsed into thoughtful silence again.  

“Something about it is wrong.  This is not how the wights acted before.  They swarmed, they didn’t skulk in the shadows and feed themselves, or leave their kills behind.  There are so many dead in this city...the pits alone...,” there were hundreds after the sack that were too burned by dragonfire to be identified, and they’d been put in mass graves.  Once full, they’d been covered with soil and turned to parks.  Others had been buried according to their families' traditions, but nearly all the dead from the burning were buried somewhere in the city.  They hadn’t been able to cremate so many, and they’d believed they’d defeated the Night King besides.  Why waste valuable wood when they could be buried just as easily? 

“This is almost worse.  Stories like the one that woman told don’t stay where they start, and I promise you that the winesinks have already heard that gossip.  It would be one thing if she was wrong, or making it up, but we know she’s not.  Those bodies in the cellar will keep mounting, and soon enough we’ll have chaos,” he said.  

“I’ve asked the captain and the maester to keep it to themselves for now, but if we let the guards and people face something like this in ignorance? Their deaths will be on us.  The city will fall - for good this time.”  

“Dammit,” Tyrion spat, “We simply don’t know enough.  I’m beginning to think that Arianne was right to send for Jon and Daenerys.”  

“There is one other option,” Brienne said quietly, “Someone else who can give us answers.” 

“No.” 

“It’s time Tyrion.” 

“Tell me, Brienne, how is it that all of us have figured all of this out and our king - who is near omniscient - has said nothing to us about it.  To the people who he personally charged with keeping the kingdom safe and running smoothly.  Arguably the greatest threat Westeros ever faced and our all-seeing, all-wise king has not cottoned on to the fact that we did not defeat it.  Or if he has, he’s not seen fit to share the information with us.  We have to face reality, Brienne--” 

“No.” 

“--Bran is involved somehow.  Through his own choice or by being forced, I do not know, but the risk of telling him what we know before we figure out his role in this is too high.” 

Brienne took a deep breath and let it out slowly, “I hate it.  I hate it, but you’re right.  But we can’t just let the city suffer, and the people be unprepared.”  

“We’ll summon the others, the maester, and the captain.  Together, we’ll decide how to best address this.  And we might not be able to avoid involving the king, but if we can, we will.  And we will decide how best to prepare the city’s people for the return of the dragons and their riders.”  

She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, feeling older than she had an hour ago.  She looked up and met Tyrion’s eyes, “Tyrion.  I don’t want to do this again.”  

“Neither do I, Brienne,” he said with a quiet sigh, “Neither do I.” 

Chapter Text

Every night she found herself in the same spot.  Sleep proved difficult, despite the fact that she’d ceased having wolf dreams when Nymeria and the great wolf pack had gone south with Jon, Daenerys, and their army.  She was used to ruling, and used to the difficulty in making important decisions, but staying here had been one of the most difficult she’d ever made.  In the end, she’d stayed because there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and she was that Stark.  Despite knowing she’d made the right choice, sleep no longer came easy.  So she stood here, on the ramparts, in her warmest clothes.  The wind was especially cold tonight, sweeping south out of the mountains and bringing with it the bitterest of northern elements.  It turned the stone beneath her fingers to hard ice, but she’d covered herself in wool and fur, and those things were as effective as they’d always been.  She was careful to breathe through her nose, and savored the smells of evergreen, cookfires, and snow.  There was something about the way the north smelled that cleared her head, especially on the coldest and brightest of nights.  The moon made the ground glitter for miles in each direction, until it painted the trees of the Wolfswood in dancing white sparks.  The peace was what Sansa sought, and up here on the cold, dark ramparts she usually found a measure of it.  

Heavy footsteps on the stone signaled the arrival of yet another interruption, but she wasn’t surprised by this one.  He always seemed to find her up here.  The big redhead with his bushy, wild beard and curling hair.  Jon had said to him ‘make sure my cousin doesn’t die’ and Tormund had taken it upon himself to act like a personal guard.  She’d tried to send him back to Baneton half a hundred times, but he always pretended not to hear her.  So she found her way to the ramparts every night, and he found a way to join her.  

She didn’t turn to look at him, “Still keeping your promise to Jon, I see.” 

“Has nothing to do with that,” he shrugged massive, thick-furred shoulders.  

“Oh? So you came down from Baneton on your own recognisance, and not because of the raven Jon sent asking you to?”

“I came and brought the others because he sent for us, but I didn’t stay because of a promise.” 

“Then why do you still haunt my halls and stalk me like a crass, red shadow?” 

“You’re a ruler.  So am I.  This isn’t the first time we’ve had dealings, and it won’t be the last.  I figure if the time comes that you do need the help, and I’m the one to give it, that you might be grateful.  Things are more expensive in the winter, and I aim to get good prices on the food you’re growing.”  

Her eyes slid to the side, and she found him staring off as she’d been, leaning all of his weight on the stones of the wall, “That’s very shrewd of you.  Southern, almost.”  

“Was a time it wouldn’t have even occurred to me.  You see things different when people depend on you. Being in the good graces of the queen in the north won’t be a bad thing.” 

“Hm.  Well, following me everywhere when I have plenty of my own guards isn’t going to earn you any favor.”  

“Yah? And where are your fancy guards now? Seems to me you slipped away without their notice - again - and are wandering the castle in the dead of night.”  

She resisted the urge to protest his tone, and only ignored the bait because she knew he was trying to get a rise out of her, “You’re right, I test their readiness regularly.” 

“Oh?,” he smirked at her, grinning wide and wolfish, “And do you find them...ready?” 

Her spine stiffened, “Obviously not.”  

“Well, I’ll show you ready--,” 

Her cheeks turned the same red as his hair, the same as they always did when he was lewd, and she cut him off, “I believe I will retire to my chambers now.  Goodnight, Tormund.” 

He laughed, although he wasn’t laughing at her so much as he was laughing at her propriety, “Aye.  I’ll see you to your door then.”  

She turned and started down the path towards the door to the north tower, “You don’t have to do this every time.  I’ve lived here since I was a child, I know the way.”  

“Then think of it as we’re going the same way for awhile,” they entered the tower, and flickering orange torchlight filled the space.  It was markedly warmer in here, and although Sansa enjoyed the sharpness of the air up on the ramparts, she wasn’t about to complain about the warmth of the tower.  

Tormund, as usual, was incapable of shutting up, “Have I ever told you about the time I fought a polarbear dog?” 

She sighed heavily, eyes on the steps so she wouldn’t trip as they descended, “That’s not a real animal.” 

“Sure it is. They’re huge, ten or twelve feet tall at the shoulder  White so you can’t see ‘em in the snow.  Teeth as long as daggers and claws shaped like sickles, and twice as sharp,” Sansa didn’t reply, and he took that as permission to keep talking, “They live way up north, in the lands of always winter.  I was up there lookin’ for the horn to bring down the wall.  They’ve got floppy ears and tongues like dogs, y’see? The giants take the pups sometimes and raise ‘em to ride like horses.” 

“Yes, Wun-wun was definitely riding around on a giant polar bear,” Sansa muttered under her breath as they exited the tower into the small yard below it.  To her left was an inner wall with a tall archway that led to the lichyard and the crypts, and to her right was the same, with an archway that led to the glass gardens and the new crops that the Reeds taught them to grow.  Howland and Ashara had decided to go south with Jon, but Meera stayed behind in Winterfell.  Sansa, despite initial reservations, liked her.  She was smart and tough, much like Sansa herself, although much rougher around the edges.  

Sansa’s mind wandered while she and Tormund trudged through the mud and snow in the yard towards the wall in front of them where a third archway led to the Godswood.  She’d cut through it and to the armory so she could take the covered bridge back to the great keep and her rooms.  Her worries would follow her, she was sure, but Tormund could not.  She strode forward confidently, and into the dimness.  The godswood was dense, even in the winter, with the branches of soldier and sentinel pines full and heavy with snow far above their heads.  It mostly blocked out the moon, and wrapped them in soft, heavy silence.  At least there was less mud here, as the snow didn’t make it to the ground as easily through the trees.  

“He swiped left, and I dodged, rolling, and cracked my ribs on a rock--” 

Crack.   

Sansa stopped in her tracks.  There were no animals in the Godswood, leastways not any that would cause the cracking of branches in the middle of the night.  Something didn’t feel right to her, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.  Something was wrong.  She put her hand out and said, “Tormund, be quiet.”  

He, mercifully, fell silent.  She heard it again.  Crack.  Crack, crack. Then shuffling.  To her right, she thought, in the direction of the weirwood.  The big wildling heard it too, and she felt the change in his demeanor.  The quiet in the godswood, normally comforting, seemed menacing and oppressive.  They stood stock-still, and her breathing was so quiet and shallow that she only saw the barest wisp of it in the air.  

They came from the sides of the path, blocking the way back to the keep and help, and they were as awful as she remembered them being.  Bits of sinew and leather clung to dusty skeletons, clothes long rotted into ragged strips that hung from a body that moved with impossible quickness and strength.  Their horrible mouths, teeth blunted and cracked in their heads, gaped open.  In the dim gloom under the trees there was only the unearthly sound of their screaming emanating from a dark void in their face.  These were too old to still have eyes, but she knew if they did, the eyes would shine like blue stars in their dead faces.  

She took a step back, stumbling, and smacked into the wall of Tormund’s body.  He put a heavy hand on her shoulder and said, “Behind me, not in front.” 

She quickly obeyed.  She had no skill in arms, but Tormund did, and she knew he still carried the dragonglass weapons.  Indeed, she caught sight of them as she scooted behind him.  The three shambling corpses screamed and rushed them.  Sansa wasn’t a fighter, and even if she was, she was only carrying a small utility knife.  She could do nothing but watch, and hope that Tormund could hold them off.  

“Over here, ugly!,” he bellowed back at them in response to the unholy screams coming from the monsters.  And they seemed to have just enough cognizance to know that he was the bigger threat, rushing and trying to pile on him.  He dispatched the smallest one first, grabbing it by the neck and slamming the dragonglass into it.  It went down, becoming a pile of lifeless dust in the dirt once again.  The largest one was proving to be more of a challenge for him; it was about his size, and as with all the dead it was stronger than a thing with no muscles ought to be.  They fought with no finesse, thrashing, scratching, and biting at their victims.  Tormund wore no armor, but this deep in winter he was covered in heavy clothes that their teeth and nails couldn’t get through.  Tormund was knocked to the ground by the writhing heap, rolling and struggling on the soft floor of the godswood.  

Godswood , she thought to herself, the gods were never in this place.   

There had only been three of the creatures at the start, and they were both struggling with Tormund.  For the moment, the path was clear again and the creatures didn’t seem to notice her.  

Run.  Go get help .  

She stood frozen in place, too terrified to leave Tormund to his fate.  The moment of hesitation cost her, and the medium-sized creature noticed her.  It abandoned Tormund and lept at her, snarling and wailing.  She got her arms up just before it collided with her, knocking her down.  She wasn’t a large person, and the dead thing was easily stronger than her.  Its weight bore them down, its limbs flailed and its teeth snapped.  The scrabbling legs kicked her in her stomach, knocking the wind from her.  But she had her arm up under its chin, keeping the clattering, ruined jaws away from the soft flesh of her face.  It howled in frustration, sharp nails trying to find some gap in her heavy clothes that it could use to get at her skin.  Another hard kick to the side and she felt something crack in her chest.  She would have screamed, but the first kick had taken her breath and with it her ability to scream.  Dust dripped from the creature’s face into her eyes and mouth, and when she sucked a shallow breath through her nose she smelled cold, musty earth, and the ghost of decay from its mouth.  It was everything she could do to keep it from biting her, but the nails found purchase in the soft skin of her exposed face, and it ripped burning red tracts down her pale, white cheeks.  

Then it was gone.  She heard a roar from Tormund, and a loud crack, and the creature was gone.  She rolled over and coughed into the dirt and leaves, fingers digging into the ground.  Dark drops appeared on the leaves, and she knew it was her own blood.  She felt Tormund’s presence next to her, kneeling in the dirt. She stayed still, her stomach roiling, and waited for the adrenaline to fade.  Once the pain set in, she knew she was calming down.  

“Sansa? Sansa?,” his voice pitched an octave higher every time he said her name, “Gods, your brother is going to kill me.” 

“Cousin,” she gasped out, “He’s my cousin.”  

“Well, yer arguing with me so you can’t be that hurt.”  

“Help me stand,” she held her hand out to him, and he took it.  It was rough and calloused, but warm and steady, and her mind was drawn back to another man she’d once thought of as a monster.  Always monsters , she thought, Tyrion, Gregor, Joffrey, Ramsay.  Why are all the men around me monsters of some kind? Of course, only two of those men had the souls of monsters.  The other two had been good.  Tormund was as ragged as any other Wildling, but he was good.  And what’s more, he didn’t try to scoop her up and carry her to the keep.  He took her hand and let her lean on his arm while she stood and appraised her injuries.  Her side ached, and the pain was worse when she took a breath. . Her cheeks were starting to burn and ache in pain, “Well...you’re still a terrible storyteller, but I find myself increasingly glad Jon had you stay behind.”  

He laughed, “You have no taste in stories.”  

She settled on her feet and looked him over, “Are you injured?” 

He shook his head, “I’ve had much worse.  Hell, I’ve had much worse fighting the dead.  That was just a bit of a warm-up, really.”  

She nodded, and they set off towards the armory.  She could feel the aches and bruises blooming, but one does not make it through a marriage to Ramsay Snow without learning to deal with pain.  She’d been delicate, once, but delicacy was something she could ill-afford as queen.  She sent for her maester and for Meera, and they met her in her rooms.  

Maester Gallen was, like most maesters Sansa had met, getting on in years.  Gilly had helped Sam pick Gallen from the available maesters after the peace had been signed, reportedly saying something along the lines of a queen is different than a king, Sam, and too many old men are letches.  I might not know who’s the smartest, but you pick a few and I’ll decide who isn’t a letch.   Sansa had been grateful for it ever since, especially in moments like this.  Gallen reminded Sansa of many other men from the north; strong, and big, with grey eyes and a thick salt-and-pepper beard.  His touch was always gentle and clinical, never invasive, and never inappropriate.  After all she’d suffered, she’d had a hard time learning to trust him, but he was so gentle with her that she eventually came around.  Now, when he had her remove her dress so that he could examine the place on her side where the wight had kicked her, she didn’t even flinch.  Outside the closed door, she heard the up-and-down cadence of Meera and Tormund talking.  Good, let him explain to her what had happened so that Sansa didn’t need to.  

“Alright, your grace, please put your dress back on,” She obeyed while he continued to speak, “One of your ribs is broken, so we’ll have to keep you bandaged to help you not move as quickly.  It will hurt, but you must breathe deeply or you’ll fall ill.  Be sure to stay in warm air as often as you can - time in the glass gardens will be good for you - and if you cough up any blood you come to me immediately , yes?” 

She wasn’t stupid, and she’d seen too many foolish men die for ignoring maesters and denouncing them as ‘southern bookish men’, so she nodded, “Thank you Gallen.  What about my face?” 

“Have you looked at it yet?” 

“No.” 

“Good.  Let me clean the wounds, and we’ll see what’s under all of that blood,” he took some alcohol out of his bag, and some clean linen bandages, and set to work.  He was painstaking in his work, but it was still painful.  She’d had worse, but there was something about the pain of wound cleaning that Sansa loathed.  As soft as those bandages were, they felt like sandpaper coated in fire peppers and she hated it. She did her best to contain her noises to small whimpers, and tried to keep still.  

When he paused for a moment Sansa asked, “Will it impede your work if I call Meera and Tormund in?” 

“As long as you don’t speak when I ask you not to, it should be ok.  Some of these wounds will need stitches, and I don’t want to end up with uneven lines,” Gallen was meticulous with his stitches and, unlike other maesters, he used silk in place of catgut.  She’d seen the results and so she wouldn’t argue with his methods - especially because the wounds were on her face.  

She called for Meera and Tormund, and they entered.  Sansa was glad of it, because it gave her something to concentrate on aside from Maester Gallen threading his needle.  She watched them carefully to gage their reactions to her injuries.  Meera winced and covered it quickly, but Tormund grinned and said, “You’ll have scars.  You’re a proper woman, now.” 

“Facial scars,” she said drily, “Just what every woman wants.”  

Meera laughed a little, but it was uncomfortable.  She asked, “Is it only the cuts on your face?” 

“My ribs are broken.  Well, at least one of them anyway.  Enough of that, though, I’m assuming Tormund told you what happened?,” Gallen doused his hands in alcohol, and then swirled the needles in it too.  He was such a strange healer.  If his methods hadn’t worked so well, she’d have sent him back to the citadel and derided Sam for his jape.  But, no.  Illnesses and wounds healed faster in Gallen’s care, so he stayed.  

“He did,” Meera nodded, clouds in her normally bright green eyes, “The last we heard of the dead walking was the news Daenerys, Gilly, and Sarella brought from King’s Landing, right?” 

Sansa nodded, and Gallen said, “Alright, your grace.  Hold as still as you can.” 

He began, and the pulling of the thread was more painful than the needle in her skin.  And although Sansa hadn’t had time to embroider in longer than she could remember, she still was able to recognize the skill in his method of stitching.  Still, it hurt, and she winced, sucking in a breath and slowly letting it out.  When he finished the first few stitches and tied them off she said, “Tell me your thoughts.”  

Her two visitors exchanged a look and it was Meera that spoke, “Then I think--” 

“--What in the old gods balls are the dead doing here ?,” Tormund burst out.  Meera shot him a dirty look for interrupting her.  

“As I was saying, they shouldn’t be here.  Last time, the Night King had to be physically close to raise the dead, but he’s not exactly subtle.  We’d know if he was here.  And besides that, why raise only three? There are so many dead, even though you burned most of those who died in the battle of Winterfell.” 

Sansa waited for Gallen to finish this line of stitches before answering, “You’re right, and I don’t know what to make of it.  But we’ll do what we can.  Bar the door to the crypts, and seal up the archways to the lichyard as best we can.” 

“It all makes me uneasy,” Meera replied, “I wasn’t here last time, but this doesn’t sound much like what you all told us about.” 

“Just as unnatural though,” Tormund muttered, “At least he doesn’t have a dragon this time.” 

“And we’ll keep it that way,” Sansa said, “tomorrow we’ll speed up work on dismantling Viserion’s corpse, and then I want that skull hung in the great hall.  If the Night King seeks to return, I wish him to remember exactly what happened the last time he was in the north.” 

They all stayed quiet with their own thoughts as Gallen finished up a few more stitches and tied them off, “There, your grace, all finished.”  

She gingerly lowered herself off of the table she’d been sitting on while he’d worked on her face, and crossed the room to the mirror, “We’ll do our best to set up some defenses around the Winter Town so that they won’t be as vulnerable.  But most of the dead are here in the castle, so it would be prudent to keep them separate.  And we’ll send a few ravens to Jon and the dragon queen.”  

“How’s it look?,” Tormund asked as she stared into the mirror.  

She turned her head from side, examining the wounds and Gallen’s barely-visible stitches.  There were six wounds in all, three on each side.  Long, red marks from below her eyes to her chin, angry and red.  They were like the tracts of tears, but although they’d scar, she thought they’d likely heal alright.  

“Could be worse,” she muttered mostly to herself.  Afterall, her body had many scars, even though these were the first that would be visible to all, “It could be much worse.” 

Chapter Text

Snow crunched under Jon and Dany’s boots as they made their way outside of the camp to where the dragons were waiting for them.  Cold air snapped at Jon’s warm winter clothing, but he knew that would change soon enough.  The dragons put out heat enough to keep their riders warm.  He adjusted his riding gloves while he continued the conversation they’d been having all morning, “I don’t understand it, Dany.” 

“What’s to understand? I get cold,” there was a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.  

“You’re a human furnace.  You could keep us both alive at night naked north of the wall.  Why in the seven’s name do you need to steal all the blankets?” 

“Have you considered that we simply need more blankets?” 

“Many times.  We just don’t have any extra blankets.” 

She pretended to be thinking and she looked over at their mounts, “We could sleep beside the dragons.  They’re plenty warm.” 

“Absolutely not,” they reached the two beasts in question, and stood between them.  

“Why not? They aren’t horses, they don’t smell,” Drogon snorted and shook his head, frills rattling. His? Her? Jon didn’t know.  Dany had shown him the eggs, but Jon had also seen certain parts of Drogon’s anatomy that would seem to indicate male.  He didn’t like thinking about it, so he turned away from the huge animal and back to Dany.  

“Because,” he slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close against him and dipping his head down to thoroughly taste her.  He kissed along her jaw and down her neck, relishing the ways she arched into him now and didn’t pull away like she had when she’d first gotten back.  Drogon snorted again, and Jon knew from experience that the dragon was giving him what amounted to a death glare, “If they witnessed the things I’ve been doing to you at night, they’d burn me and eat me.” 

Dany laughed and pushed him away, but it was playful, “You’d probably deserve it.” 

He smiled back, and they separated, moving to mount their dragons, “You say that, but if Drogon eats me , then who’ll eat you ?” 

She groaned at his terrible pun and climbed onto Drogon’s back.  Jon did the same on Rhaegal, settling on his hard, scaled back and holding tight to the spikes on his neck.  Surely , he thought for the thousandth time, there must be an easier way to do this.  A saddle of some kind , “Letch.” 

“You’re just angry because you’re a tad saddle sore.” 

Teasing her was fun.  Fun, and natural, and easy.  She gave as good as she got, and trading pot-shots had become a kind of foreplay.  Not they needed any encouragement.  They spent their days chasing each other through the clouds and their nights trying - and failing - not to wake the rest of the camp.  Dany was different now, and Jon thought it was for the better.  She seemed more comfortable, more relaxed.  He could tell there were still things she was fought with, moments when the anger threatened, and she struggled to hold her tongue. But now she seemed to stop herself, to come to the edge of the red haze and back away.  She was still Dany, but something that’d happened since her return had cleared the madness from her mind.  Or hidden it, he supposed, but if that was the case then he’d deal with it when the time came.  For now, they’d both earned these moments.  And they both still had nightmares, but now when they had dragon dreams or wolf dreams, they had each other.  

“How far are we going today?,” she asked.  He had a better head for maps than she did, although in his estimation they were near evenly matched.  This far north though, he knew the land better and took the lead.  

“Pretty far south.  I mean for the army to make it through the neck today, so at least down to the road that heads west to The Twins.  The scouts said it was badly blocked - storms downed some trees further south, so we’ve got a lot to do today.”  

“Good,” she clicked her tongue and muttered some words to Drogon in High Valyrian.  He snapped open his huge wings and pushed off, climbing into the sky.  Jon used the same command, and in seconds Rhaegal’s strong body was moving them into the air.  Leathren wings snapped, wind rushed, and they were airborne.  Drogon was the stronger and larger of the two, but Rhaegal had proved to be a much more agile flyer once he had a capable rider.  Not that Jon considered himself capable, but he was enthusiastic, and that seemed to make up for his lack of experience. A dragon wasn’t a horse, and Rhaegal was much more responsive, almost seeming to sense where Jon wanted him to go and what Jon wanted him to do.  There was a small piece of it that felt to him like warging, but he never left his body like he did when he warged Ghost.  He and Rhaegal were simply...joined.  

He easily raced ahead of Dany to where they’d left off yesterday, and swooped down, flying low and level with where he knew the road was.  From the air it was much easier to spot, even under several feet of winter snows, and he could tell that the road was empty.  He lined Rhaegal up and said, “ Dracarys !”

He felt Rhaegal’s mouth yawn open, and felt the bellows of his lungs expand.  Hot, roaring flame shot out of the dragon’s mouth and skated down the length of the road.  Snow melted down to the ground, and then the ground was baked hard by the oppressive heat of dragonflame.  This was the other reason why it was easy to keep warm on dragon-back, even in the winter.  He pulled Rhaegal up and wheeled around, seeing Dany and Drogon take the next pass down the road.  The sections that Drogon could clear were much larger than what Rhaegal could do, but two still made the work go faster than one.  So it went, the two of them checking the road for people and then using their dragons’ breath to clear and dry it.  It was somewhat boring work, but Jon still much preferred it to what he’d used Rhaegal for in the past.  It had been Dany’s idea to move the army like this; she had a whole host of ideas for pragmatic tasks the dragons could perform rather than military ones.  There had been other uses, too: freeing stuck wagons, hunting for food when the wolves had ranged too far out for Jon to use them to find meat to supplement what Sansa sent from Winterfell, and even helping one unfortunate family who’d been stuck in the snow and unable to return home.  It made Jon wonder what Westeros would have looked like had previous Targaryens chosen to use their mounts in this way, rather than for violence.  

It took several hours for them to finish clearing the last section of the neck, and they’d ranged well ahead of the army.  So far, in fact, that they’d reached a section of the road that was starting to look as if it had been travelled.  Flying overhead on his next run, Jon squinted, looking to see if the road was empty.  Mostly, it had been, but here it was not.  There were two figures on the road, both dressed heavily and on horseback.  He couldn’t tell much other than that one was large and one was small, and they were heading north up the Kingsroad from the direction of the Twins.  

Probably a father and his daughter , he thought to himself, They’ll be easily impressed by the dragons.  It should be no trouble to get them to move for a few moments. He whistled loudly, signalling to Dany that he was going to descend to speak to the people.  

He guided Rhaegal down towards the muddy tract in front of the people, and chose an open spot.  When he got closer, the horses got the scent, and he saw them start rearing and spinning while their riders tried to get control.  Not war horses, then.  He let Rhaegal land a little too hard in the road, making the ground shake and splattering mud.  Even though he was within easy earshot and sight of them now, they were dressed so warmly that he could still see very little of them aside from their size difference.  

“Hail, kind folk.  Might I ask a favor of you?,” he didn’t bother getting off Rhaegal.  It was faster and easier when he didn’t.  

“ Jon ?!,” yelled a familiar, annoyed voice, “You stupid idiot, I nearly killed you!” 

The smaller of the two pulled back her furred hood, but he knew the voice and didn’t need to see that long face, grey eyes, and brown hair to know who the small woman was.  He was smiling and sliding off his dragon before she even finished pulling back the hood.  She slid off her horse, and they met in the middle, hugging each other tightly.  First Dany and now Arya. Any more good luck and Jon would think he was like to die.  

“Arya,” he said, pulling away as her companion joined them, “You are a long way from the sea, sister.”  

“And you’re a long way from the wall,” she looked beyond him and to Rhaegal, “And you’ve brought a friend.  I wish I’d been wrong.” 

“Wolf dreams?,” he asked.  She nodded briefly, and turned to the tall man.  This close, Jon could see how big he was; several inches taller than Jon, broad through the shoulder with a barrel chest, legs like tree trunks, and the rolling gate of a sailor who hadn’t quite shaken off the sea yet.  The man pushed his hood back some, and Jon saw the night-dark skin of a summer islander, a squire jaw, high cheekbones, a wide, flat nose, a thick mouth, and deep-set light green eyes.  

“This is Imari,” Arya said by way of introduction, “My first mate.  Imari, this is my brother, Jon.”  

“The one who taught you to brood?,” he clasped hands with Jon, “Well met.” 

“Likewise,” he looked at Arya, “I taught you to what, now?” 

“Nothing, I--,” she broke off as her gaze went to the sky, and Jon didn’t have to look to know what was about to happen.  Dany, likely wondering what had happened to him, was about to land behind them.  

“Arya,” he warned, his tone slipping quickly into pleading territory, “Don’t you dare.” 

He felt Drogon land and saw the anger and murderous intent steal over Arya’s features.  Somehow, that valyrian steel dagger was in her fist, and she was moving towards before Jon even knew what was happening.  He grabbed for her, but Imari was quicker and grabbed Jon’s arm, holding him back.  Arya was across the road and barreling into Dany just as her feet touched the ground.  They went sprawling, rolling across the mud, and horror flashed through his guts.  He struggled, but Imari was huge, and now had an even better grip on Jon.  

Seconds.  Seconds was all it would take, because Dany couldn’t defend herself with weapons very well.  Drogon and Rhaegal easily could, though, and would do so without hesitation.  One singular moment of surprise and he was going to lose the two people he loved most in the entire world.  

“Let me go!,” Jon shouted, to no avail.  He threw his head back hard, and felt it crunch into Imari’s face.  The big man loosened his hold just enough for Jon to break free and sprint towards where Arya was rapidly gaining the upper hand in what was sure to be a brief struggle.  Sure enough, they rolled to a stop, Arya astride Dany, knife angled at her throat just as Jon reached them.  He didn’t think, he just grabbed Arya and tossed her bodily away from Dany, putting himself between them and drawing Longclaw, holding it lowered but at the ready.

Arya easily rolled and stood, settling into a fighting stance, Imari taking up a similar posture next to her, his weapon out.  Normally Jon would be happy that she had someone so loyal, but right now it was an inconvenience, “Move out of my way, Jon.  Let me finish what you started.”  

“No,” he didn’t take his eyes off of her for a second.  His sister was faster than any snake, and twice as deadly.  

“Why?,” her voice dripped with disdain and disbelief, “You’ve already killed her once, let me have the honor this time.”  

“Because I made a mistake.  I shouldn’t have done it the first time.”  

“You’re wrong.  That was the best decision you’ve ever made.  Make it again and get out of my way.”  

“No.  I just got her back, and I’ll be damned if I let you take her,” he heard Dany stand up behind him, but he didn’t turn to look at her.  

“Dragons are nothing but trouble! She’s done nothing but bring pain and suffering to the world!” 

“Not to my world.”  

Her eyes flickered with some emotion he couldn’t name, and her dagger lowered a fraction, “She murdered all of those people!” 

“Yes,” Dany interjected, her voice the one Jon associated with Queen Daenerys, “But how many men have done the same before me? How many did Theon Greyjoy kill when he took your home? How many did Stannis Baratheon kill during his futile war to usurp the Iron Throne? How many did Tywin Lannister murder in cold blood before Tyrion solved that problem? How many, Arya?” 

“You’re not making me want to do this less,” Arya spat, and Dany stepped around Jon.  His heart was in his throat, but if she’d wanted him to protect her she would have stayed behind him, and Daenerys Stormborn did not hide.  Not behind her shields, not behind her dragon, and certainly not behind her lover.  

“I know I’ve done atrocious things, but I grew up in Essos.  I know of the House of Black and White.  I know the faceless men, Arya.  I know of the god of death you are sworn to.  I fed him well that day.  Can you truly say you’ve not done anything as I have?,” Jon couldn’t see Dany’s face, but something in her expression made Arya lower the dagger, and he relaxed some.  There were ghosts in Arya’s eyes, and for a moment she looked far older than he knew she really was.  

“How do you know?,” Arya asked, scrunching her nose the way she did when she was annoyed.  

“Jon told me about your time in Essos.”  

“Traitor,” she mumbled, but there was no real heat to it.  She sighed and sheathed the dagger, and Jon sheathed Longclaw, “I suppose it was fortunate we ran into you.  I was on my way to Winterfell to see Sansa.  Why are you down here, anyway?” 

He and Dany exchanged a look, “It’s a long story.  Let us carry you back to where we’re to meet the army to make camp tonight.” 

“What about the horses?,” Imari asked.  Jon looked at the sky, judging how long it would take to reach the campsite by horse, and how many hours were left in the day.  

“There should be enough time,” he said, finally, “I don’t suppose you have a map?” 

“A small one,” Arya shrugged, and knelt down, digging it out of her pack.  Jon took it and found the spot where they were going to make camp, and marked it for her, handing the map back.  

“If you’re not there by sunset, look for us in the sky,” he said.  

She visibly shuddered, “We’ll ride quickly.”  

“See you soon, little sister.”  

“And you,” he and Dany went back to their dragons, abandoning road clearing for the day.  They’d done more than enough, so they had to fly a bit further than they expected to find the campsite.  The army was barely visible on the horizon from the sky, still hours away, but they took the dragons and dried out the camp anyway.  After they finished, they flew back to their army and used the dragons to scout ahead and help haul some heavy loads from the supply lines.  By the time that was finished, the people were pouring into the site they’d cleared and setting up camp for the night.  They stayed in the air, making lazy circles above the camp, until it was nearly sunset and they saw Arya and Imari entering the camp.  They landed and let their dragons go to fly freely and hunt.  

Jon slipped into Ghost briefly to see where his direwolf was and was pleased to find that both Ghost and Nymeria were near enough to the camp, and so he quickly guided them home.  They met Arya and her first mate, and Jon smiled at his sister, giving her another hug, “I’m glad you’re here.”  

“I wish I could say the same,” she answered, hugging him back briefly, “But in truth I’d rather be back on my ship.  It is good to see you again, though.  I never expected to.”  

Jon sensed Ghost padding into the clearing and turned, holding his hand out to the huge wolf and saying, “To me.”  

Ghost bypassed Jon entirely and shoved his face into Arya’s hand, rubbing his body against hers, licking her fingers.  Arya laughed and buried her fingers in his thick fur, scratching behind his ears and making noises at him.  A loud bark made her lift her head, and she caught sight of the other wolf who’d entered into the clearing a moment or two behind Ghost.  Jon watched as she slowly pushed away from Ghost and whispered, “Nymeria?” 

Jon knew how she was feeling; likely much the same as he had when he’d seen Rhaegal.  He stood by quietly, and his sister approached her wolf slowly, and then held out her knuckles.  Nymeria sniffed them tentatively, and then sat in front of Arya.  Her fingers gently skated over the big animal’s fur, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.  Jon barely heard her mutter, “I’m so sorry I threw rocks at you,” before she wrapped the wolf in her arms.  There was a rightness to it, just as there was between him and Ghost.  They should have their wolves.  

Imari stepped up next to Jon and asked, “What... is that? It’s the biggest wolf I’ve ever seen, and you have two of ‘em?” 

“They’re dire wolves.  We got them years ago, before...well, before the world went to shit.  They’re the only two left to us.  This is Ghost,” he patted Ghost’s neck for emphasis, “And that’s Nymeria.”  

Recognition dawned on Imari’s face, and Jon realized Arya must have told him the story, “Oh, so that is Nymeria.”  

“I can see my sister has told you much.” 

“Yes,” the other man didn’t elaborate.  He kept Arya’s secrets, which was another thing Jon could admire about him.  Arya returned to them, her wolf at her side.  

“Come with Dany and I.  We’ll show you where you’ll sleep, and get you some food.  We all have much to discuss.”  

Jon saw Arya and Imari exchange a look, and Arya gave him a subtle nod.  He said, “We’ll only need one tent.” 

Jon’s eyebrows rose, “Apparently we have more to discuss than I thought.”  

Arya rolled her eyes, “Shut up and feed me.”  

Later, after they’d talked long into the night, Arya and Imari stumbled out of Dany and Jon’s tent to find their beds.  Jon laid in bed, drowsing on the perfect mix of warmth and ale, naked and comfortable under their blankets.  Dany spoke as she got ready to join him, “An entire island full of dragons.” 

“And people,” Jon amended, giving her a goofy smile.  She smiled back, yanking off her boots and tossin them in a corner.  That was another thing that changed about her, too.  She was far less fastidious than she’d been.  He didn’t mind.  

“And people,” she agreed, “It concerns me.”  

“It concerns me too, but not any more than any of our other problems.  They’re very far away,” he watched her as she pulled her loose shirt over her head, leaving her breasts and stomach bare.  The candle light flickered, the shadows teasing every curve of her.  Her hair was down, too, and it shimmered when she moved, a silver-gold curtain around her face.  From afar, it looked like white gold, but he knew that up close the color was a mix of silver and gold strands, “You’re so pretty.” 

She smiled ruefully and shook her head, “I’m glad you think so.”  

“Don’t you?,” Her belt snapped as she pulled it out of the loops of her pants and threw it onto the shirt, and started wiggling out of her pants.

“Let us say this...I am aware that I’m attractive, but I’m not attracted to myself...especially not after a few weeks on the road.” 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He laughed softly, and she divested herself of the last of her clothes, blew out the candles, then climbed into their palette next to him, pressing her soft body against his.  He loved the feel of her against him, and was happy to have her sleep tangled around him.  They were not very affectionate with others around them, but they made up for that by holding on tight in bed.  So she draped her leg over his hips, snaked her arms around his ribs, and tucked her head under his chin.  Her soft hair tickled his nose, and he smoothed it out with his hand, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the tent.  

“Tonight you’re the warm one,” she said softly, her breath whispering against his neck.  

“It’s the ale,” she kissed and licked his neck, sucking gently at first, but then a little harder when she felt his body start to react to her closeness.  She reached between them, wrapping her hand around his rapidly stiffening cock.  

“I see the ale hasn’t affected other things,” she squeezed him, pumping her hand slowly.  

“Dany, you get closer than three feet and that happens.  It’s like being fucking thirteen all over again and getting a hard cock when the wind blows.” 

She laughed low in her throat, and Jon loved the sound; loved that he made it happen, “Poor baby.” 

“Somehow,” he swallowed hard and stifled a groan, “I don’t think you’re all that sympathetic.” 

“I’m not.  Tell me what else makes you hard,” she shifted, pushing him onto his back and started kissing her way down his chest, licking and sucking.  He still had bruises from her mouth, and he hoped she never stopped giving him marks.  

“When you use the Queen Voice,” he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but he had a hard time concentrating between the ale and her hand on his cock.  

“My being queen turns you on?,” she sounded confused and he shook his head.  

“No.  Your....strength.” 

“Oh,” she still sounded confused, but then his meaning dawned on her and a wicked smile crossed her face and she sat up, her hand still tight around his cock, “ Oh .  Would you like to play a game, Jon Snow?” 

“Yes,” he felt a quiet urgency, a tension boiling under his skin.  He very much wanted to play whatever game she had in mind.  

“Alright.  You make so much noise when we fuck, it wakes the camp, but I can’t have your sister knowing so much about what we’re doing,” command crackled in every word, and it made his cock tense and jump in her hand, “You are mine, and I’ll do what I like to you, and if you make a single sound that can be heard outside this tent, I’ll stop, and I’ll leave you this hard until I’m good and ready to relieve you, do you understand?,” He nodded vigorously, and there was an edge of fire to the lust on her face that made his belly tense in anticipation.  She let go of him, leaned down, and kissed him so gently that he almost couldn’t feel it, “And, my love, you’re not to come without my permission.” 

He groaned as softly as he could and pulled her closer, kissing her deeply, his hands tangled in the silk of her hair.  Her tongue flicked into his mouth, tasting him, and she sucked on his bottom lip as she pulled away from him and he let his hands drop onto the bed.  Her mouth made its way down his body, each touch of it leaving a searing burst of pleasure behind it.  Down and down she went, her mouth finding the gentle hills of his stomach and her tongue tracing the sharp V of his hips.  Each touch of her mouth brought the smallest intake of breath from him.  The anticipation made his cock drool, slick liquid dripping from its tip onto the skin of his abdomen.  

“Open your legs,” she commanded, when she’d gotten low enough.  He did it, and she settled in place between them, kneeling and leaning forward before issuing another demand, “You’ll keep your eyes open and watch me as long as you can.”  

“Yes,” he nodded. Her mouth was close to his cock, her hand cradling it, and the breath of her words was the lightest of caresses.  Then she took her tongue and licked a line along the underside of it, from the base to the tip, where she swirled it around the head.  They made eye contact while she cleaned him with her tongue, licking up every salty drop that escaped, and then put the head into her warm, wet mouth.  She had to look away, then, but he didn’t.  He watched as she took more and more of him into her mouth, using her tongue to wet his shaft and make it easier to slide her mouth on him.  What she couldn’t fit she gripped tightly in her fist, keeping her hand close to her mouth while she moved up and down on his aching cock.  She couldn’t fit him all, but it was an impressive amount considering his size.  He watched her move faster and faster, wanting so badly to cry out, to moan, to tell her how good it felt.  Then she made eye contact with him again and used her free hand to reach between her own legs, rubbing her clit in a circle.  He wanted to watch, he really did, but she’d also told him not to come, and the visual was too much.  He closed his eyes, tilting his head back.  

Then he was left with only the sensations.  Her mouth, warm and wet, with her skilled tongue.  Her hand, tight around him, fingers not really touching around his thickness, but feeling like heaven all the same.  Even the silk of her hair, the movement of the hand he knew was between her legs, and the wet sound as she sucked him added to it.  He bit his lip to keep from crying out, but it was going to be too much, and his balls got tight.  

“Stop...stop, I’m gonna...,” miraculously his voice only came out as a strained whisper rather than the pleading shout he thought it should be.  Immediately she let go, and everything stopped.  He kept his eyes shut, his cock was full and throbbing, aching with the need to come.  He had to get control, had to master himself.  He forced himself to breathe deeply.  If he could master swordplay, he could do this.  She told him not to come without permission, and he wouldn’t, but his fist was clenched so hard that he knew he was leaving marks in his palms.  

When he finally opened his eyes and looked down, he saw that his swollen cock was an angry red, and even the movement of air in the tent made it twitch.  Dany’s smiling face, only visible because of the brightness of the full moon outside and the lanterns of the camp around them, was beyond it.  A wicked smile decorated her reddened mouth, and when she saw him open his eyes, she kissed the inside of his thigh and said, “Good boy.”  

It did something to him.  He wasn’t sure what, but it was a kind of praise that made him want to crawl to the ends of the earth for her and fuck her into the bed all at the same time.  He’d think about it later, though.  Now he had enough on his mind, because his woman, his beautiful silver queen, was crawling up his body on all fours.  Her hair dripped from her shoulders, the tips dragging along his sensitive skin as she crawled.  When she got close he reached up and cradled her cheeks in his hands, gently brushing her skin with his thumbs.  

“Dany,” he breathed.  

She swallowed, gripping his wrist, “Jon.”  

Their mouths came together again, her body a solid, warm weight on his chest.  The longer they kissed, and the more deeply they tasted each other, the more he wanted to be inside her.  He was slick for her, and he could feel the wet heat of her where she straddled his stomach.  He involuntarily pushed up with his hips, but she was too short and her hips weren’t close enough for him to reach.  She pulled away from him, her pale skin filling his vision.  She smiled at him, whispering.  

“You want to be inside me, don’t you,” it wasn’t a question.  

“Yes,” she turned, running a sharp nail up the underside of his cock; not hard enough to give him pain, but just enough that he could feel it.  Just enough that it made him suck in a sharp breath.  

“You want to watch while my body makes room for your thick cock? See it wet from being inside me?” 

“Yes!,” his voice was still quiet, but it was urgent and tight with lust.  

“Hm.  Well, you did such a good job earlier, I suppose I’ll let you make me come.  Would you like that?” 

He groaned quietly and nodded, watching as she sat up and scooted backwards.  She went up high on her knees and gripped him, holding him up while she notched him against her opening.  She pushed down, slowly, and he watched her body cover his, feeling the slickness of her grip him, and her heat envelope him.  She exhaled, tilting her head back, letting her hair flow over her shoulders and down her back.  

“Fuck,” she whispered, “You always feel so good.” 

“So do you,” he murmured, hoping he wasn’t too loud, because if she stopped now he’d probably just die in this stupid tent.  

“Look at us,” she demanded, and he did.  Their bodies were flush, the lips of her snug around his shaft, her wetness coating them.  She drew up, slowly letting him slide out of her, his shaft shining with the sweet honey of her body.  He licked his lips, remembering the taste of it.  Next time, he thought, next time I’ll be the one to feast.  

She pushed down again, taking him into her again.  She leaned forward, her palms on his chest, and rocked her hips.  He let his hands rest on her hips, using his strength to help her move.  She hummed deep in her throat, his cock sliding in and out of her, her thighs gripping his waist, and her clit grinding on his public bone.  That, he couldn’t really feel, but he knew that’s what she was doing.  She went faster, her breathing coming quicker, her eyes fluttering shut even as she tried to keep them open.  He bit his lip again to keep from crying out, sucking hard on it, and trying not to burst until she said so.  

That moment came surprisingly fast, considering how little he’d touched her before he’d been inside her.  He didn’t know how long she’d been riding him, but it seemed all at once to be too long and not long enough.  If she made him come with her, then he’d have to leave that warm, wet heat, but his cock was so hard it was nearly painful, and he wanted to claim her, to moan and yell and growl, and fill her with his seed.  

“Aegon,” she gasped.  She never called him that, but he found that in this moment he didn’t mind.  It was the truth of him, a private truth, and it could be spoken between them in this moment, “IiiiiIiiiiii...,” Words had left her, as they so often did in these moments, but she looked down at him and nodded, “Yes...yes.”  

He waited even then, waiting until her nails dug into his chest hard when her fists clenched, the muscles inside her gripped him tighter, pulsing, and her breath left her in a series of shuddering gasps.  Then, he let himself follow her over the edge, pushing her hips even faster, pushing up against her with his own hips, their bodies smacking together while they took their pleasure from each other.  He came deep inside her, filling her, cock jumping and his balls tight.  It was all he could do not to shout her name, tell the world of their pleasure.  He didn’t care how anyone looked at them, it wasn’t a secret.  They satisfied each other, and there was no shame in that.  

She drooped forward, but instead of letting herself rest on top of him, she climbed off of him and laid next to him.  He laid his head on her chest, pulling the blankets up around them.  Now that they were finished and the candles were out, the cold would find them.  They settled and she held him, running her fingers through his hair until his heartbeat slowed.  They shifted, then, wrapping around each other again, her back to his front.  

“Do you know what makes me wet?,” she asked quietly into the dark of their bubble.  

“Many things,” the smile was plain in his voice, “And I’m glad for it.  Tell me, though, Dany.  I always want to know what you’d like.”    

“When you use your voice to command people.”  

“Like...the way I talk to my officers?” 

“Yes,” she shivered a little in his arms, and Jon didn’t think it was from the cold.  

“Then next time it will be my turn, and I’ll use that voice on you.”  

“Mmmm,” she yawned, “Good.”  

“Love you.  Night.”  

“Love you too,” her words were soft and slurred from sleep, but they were only for him, and they were sweeter than any she said in their games. 

Chapter Text

Her lips tasted of salt, and the wind snatched the strands of brown hair from around her face, whipping them about.  The wood of the rail was smooth beneath her hand, and she could hear the waves slapping against the hull of her new ship, the Black Eagle .  It was a gift from Lord Mallister to mark her marriage to Patrek.  It was a fine thing, with black sails bearing both the kraken of house Greyjoy and the silver eagle of house Mallister.  And, at the moment, it was heading back to the Iron Islands.  She’d been away longer than she intended.  It was an unusually clear day, and she could see the black parapets of Pyke looming in the distance.  Footsteps nearby stole her attention, and she turned to Patrek as he joined her at the railing.  

“So that’s Pyke, huh?,” he said, motioning with his head towards to rapidly approaching castle.  

“On and the same.”  

“It’s less...imposing...than I was expecting.  The way father goes on about the ironborn, I was expecting something else.” 

“How so?” 

“Bigger, I suppose.  Less barely clinging to a pile of rocks.” 

She shrugged, “It suits us.”  

“I suppose it does, at that.  Any news from the Stark girl?” 

“No, but we didn’t leave behind many birds that could come to the ships.  There might be something at Pyke, though I’m not sure it matters much,” the day after Arya had set off for the Riverlands, a raven had come from White Harbor telling her that Queen Sansa had purchased all of the iron.  It made her deal with Arya nearly pointless.  

“Well, one load of iron does not trading relations make,” he bent down some, leaning his forearms against the railing. There was an easy grace to Patrek’s movements that Yara admired.  Not for the first time, she found herself glad that he was neither old nor ugly.  It had made the bedding much easier, and his exploits prior to their marriage meant he wasn’t completely inept in bed.  She’d made a good choice with him.  

“True, and with uncle Rodrik called to King’s Landing, it would be useful to have another link to the other kingdoms.” 

“You’ll surely feel his loss.” 

“I will, but I’m hoping our alliance will allow us to let more good men into our council.” 

“True enough,” he shrugged and changed the subject, “The first of the shipyards must be finished by now.  They were days from completion when we left Seaguard.”  

“Yes, I’m also hoping they’re finished.  The ship that sold the iron to Sansa will be stopping Braavos on its return, and hopefully they’ll be able to hire some shipwrights away from the Braavosi shipyards.” 

Patrek smiled, “What is it they say? Just so.  How long until we land?” 

“A few hours.  We’ll dock at Lordsport, and ride up to Pyke from there.  We should be home before nightfall.”  

“Home.  Yes, I suppose it is for the time being.” 

“Fortune willing, a long time given that your father isn’t giving up Seaguard until he dies and passes it to you.” 

“He’s an old man.  I don’t like thinking of his death, but it can’t be that far off.”  

“True, but it is still the problem of another day.  The problem of today is making it safely to port,” she leaned down next to him, “I like to watch from the deck when I return.  To see it grow larger on the horizon.” 

“It sounds as if you love Pyke, although it seems a difficult place to love.”  

“Love would be a strong word, but it sheltered me, and it grew me to womanhood.  I understand it, I respect it, and I value it.” 

“Strange,” he paused for a beat, “I love Seaguard.  I love the keep, the town, the people...all of it.” 

“Well, Seaguard is beautiful and rich.  It’s easy to love.  Pyke is...rough.  Covered in sharp edges.  It’s by turns dark, damn, and cold and sometimes all three at the same time.  It’s never quiet because the sea crashes against the bottom of the islands that hold it up. At the same time...I love the sea, and I can stand on Pyke and watch her power in a storm, or watch the waves roll in when it’s calm, and smell the salt.  It’s home, and it’s messy.”  

“You know, you’re awful poetic for an Ironborn.” 

“Shut up,” she smiled a little and rolled her eyes.  They settled into comfortable silence and watched Pyke grow ever closer.  

Yara was right.  They pulled into Lordsport and docked, disembarking to find Helya waiting with horses.  They rode for Pyke, and made the headlands just as the sun was sinking below the horizon.  She watched it as it sank, and saw a green flash.  Patrek evidently saw it too, because he asked, “What was that?” 

An ill omen, she thought to herself.  Out loud she said, “You’ve never seen them at Seaguard?” 

“No.  We might not be far enough out to sea.  Or maybe I just never noticed.” 

She turned from the sea, pushing it from her mind, “A trick of the light, nothing more.  The sea does strange things to the sun at the end of the day.  I’ve seen it a few times on my ship, as well.”  

“Hm, well, just one of the many things I suppose I’ll have to adjust to.” 

“Indeed.  I need to go over things with Helya.  Will you join me or get settled?” 

He looked tired, but he squared his shoulders, “I think I should go with you.  I’m the lord, now, and I’ll need to get my feet under me.”  

“When you put it that way, it sounds strange,” the three of them left their horses and started across the bridge to the Great Keep. 

“Put it what way?” 

“When you say you’re ‘the lord’ of Pyke.” 

“Well, I am.  And when my father dies, you’ll be the lady of Seaguard.” 

She felt herself pale, “Seven hells, I hadn’t thought of that.”  

“Well, don’t look so enthusiastic, people might think you enjoy the greenlands.”  

“Look at this one,” Helya interjected, “already giving you shit and sounding like an Ironman.” 

“Don’t let my father hear you say that.  He’d shit himself in rage,” Patrek grinned at Helya.

Helya laughed... laughed .  That wasn’t something Yara saw often.  They made their way into the Great Keep, and started through the hall that ran the length of it.  It was lit only by the sconces on the walls, and at this time of night the high ceiling was obscured by the smoke that constantly collected in the huge room.  The seastone chair loomed at the other end, seeming to twist and change in the light of the torches.  This was the room that felt least like home to her.  She disliked it, and preferred to do her work in the solar.  

Their footsteps echoed in the near-empty chamber, and as they neared the great, black Kraken, Patrek said, “I presume that this is the seastone chair?” 

They stepped for a moment in front of it and Yara said, “The very same.  Near as old as the base of the Hightower itself, coughed up by the Drowned God before the cliff of Pyke fell into the sea,” Yara gazed at it for a moment, watching the colors dance on the oily surface, her voice softening, “My uncle says that only the worthy can sit it. It is not for women or the unworthy.” 

“You’ve never sat on it?”

“I’ve never wanted to,” she looked up at him and his face was arranged into a skeptical frown, “It’s a queer thing, and it makes me uncomfortable.  I’ll sit on it in my own time.” 

“I wouldn’t have thought you were superstitious.” 

She huffed and turned, brusquely walking from the room, “I’m a sailor; we’re all superstitious.”  

The other two hurried after her and they made their way out of the great keep, and through the rest of the towers.  Yara pointed out the Guest keep, the Kitchen keep, and several other smaller towers.  Finally, they crossed into the tower that held her solar.  Patrek managed to cross the bridge without dying, but his face was paler than it ought to have been.  But he said nothing, only did as he needed, and Yara thought that the action did him credit.  A fire was lit when they arrived, and supper was laid out for them.  They settled in and ate, setting themselves to the long, boring task of running their kingdom.  

The moon was past its zenith when they finally finished.  Yara’s eyes felt like lead, and she thought she’d fall over if she had to read one more table of sums or listen to Helya tell her about one more merchant route.  They had more food now, which was good, but their men were still having issues with Lannisport.  It was Patrek who offered to solve that problem, as Mallister relations with the Lannisport Lannisters were much stronger than her own.  She hoped he could make good on his promise to bring them around.  Regardless, it wouldn’t happen tonight, and she wanted nothing more than to find her bed.  

She stood up, and the other two stood with her.  They all practically staggered on their feet. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and blinked, nodding at her castellan, “You have my things.  I’m once again grateful to have chosen you for this job.”  

Helya shrugged, “Beats cleaning horse shit, or whatever else I would have ended up doing.” 

“I’m too tired to even argue with you,” they donned their cloaks and headed out into the dark of the night.  Patrek seemed to do better on the bridge this time, but he still gripped the rope railings very tightly.  Helya broke away from them in the Guest keep to find her own bed, but they continued on to the Great keep where their rooms were.  They avoided the hall and the stair altogether, and trudged up the steps.  

Although the Lord Reaper’s chambers were split to allow husbands and wives their own private rooms, they’d taken to sharing a room for several reasons.  Chief among those was the need for an heir, although they were both so tired that there’d be none of that tonight.  Patrek was good company, though, and the nights of winter were cold, especially on Pyke.  So Yara didn’t mind overmuch that they shared, even when they weren’t attempting to make a child.  They entered together, and started undressing in silence.  

Then, Yara noticed something out of the corner of her eye.  A flickering where there shouldn’t be one.  She looked up from removing her boots and squinted at the window, muttering, “What in the seven hells...?” 

Fire.  Fire in the direction of the central-northern tower along the high curtain walls of the headlands.  She moved closer to see better, not sure if she was right.  But, yes, there it was.  It was distorted by the heavy leaded glass, but it was clearly there.  Her eyes widened and she swore. 

“What?,” Patrek’s head snapped up, reacting to the alarm in her voice.  

“There’s a fire in one of the towers along the wall!,” she was already grabbing her cloak and rushing to the bells that would call the servants and calling to the guards to raise the hue and cry.  

Patrek followed closely behind her, joining his battlefield voice to hers, shaking all of their people from sleep.  Fires were dangerous in the best of times, and although the keep was stone, the buildings on the headlands were not and the livestock was far too important to risk.  Every hand in the castle would be needed, and she made sure every hand was what she got.  It took time to rouse everyone, and by the time she did the flames had spread to the next tower.  People were on the other side of the wall, having come from Lordsport to help put out the flame.  They collected all the buckets they could, forming a chain of hands from the purpose-made casks of seawater up to the flames.  Yara and Patrek joined, organizing people, hauling water, and moving flammable objects out of the path of the fire.  If it only had stone to consume, it would not spread.  

The sun had dawned behind steel-grey clouds before the last of the flames was out.  Yara found Patrek leaning against the wall in a hallway in the walls outside the burned tower, his head and arms resting on his knees.  She slid down next to him, too exhausted to move.  Her hands were blistered, her hair singed, and every muscle hurt.  Her eyes burned from the smoke, and she closed them, letting the moisture of her eyes rim her lashes. 

“I’m going to sleep right here, in this spot, because I can’t move,” Patrek groaned.  

“Mouth still works though.” 

“Smartass.” 

She slumped against him, laying her head on his shoulder, “I’m going to sleep for a month.” 

“Or until Helya shows up in our room with the bill for this mess.” 

Yara groaned, “You best not say her name until I’ve at least had a nap.  Or the word ‘bill’, or for the matter...all talk of money is banned until I have some.”  

His jaw cracked as he yawned, and she followed suit, “Seriously, I’m just gonna fall asleep.” 

“Me--,” a noise from the burned-out room caught her attention.  It was a wet crackling, then some shuffling and a sound that was almost like disjointed footsteps.  

“Did you hear that?,” he asked as she lifted her head off of his shoulder and looked into the doorway.  

“Yeah...,:” she squinted, but between her exhaustion, her burning eyes, and the weak sunlike barely filtering into the windows, she couldn’t see what made the noise.  Then it came again, but more rhythmic this time.  A thump, and then a sound like something was dragging.  Her heart started to pound, and her battered body attempted to drip some adrenaline into her veins.  Something was wrong.  There shouldn’t be noises coming from a burned-out shell of a room, “Patrek.” 

“I feel it too.  It’s...it’s to cold ,” he was frowning at the door, “I think we should stand up.” 

They both managed to haul themselves off the floor and leaned against the door, watching the gloom.  

Thump, drag.

Thump, drag.

A shape appeared out of the gloom.  She frowned.  It almost looked like...a man? It took another step forward, and into a shaft of grey morning light that was coming through a burned out window.  It was a man, battered and half-burned.  Most of his skin was black, cracked and burned like an over-cooked pig, blood oozing from the burn.  One of his legs was twisted and broke, dragging uselessly behind him as he shambled towards them.  His face was the worst, burned so badly that perfectly white teeth gleamed against burned, flaking flesh, and the jelly of one eye followed the crackled surface of his cheek.  But the other? The other burned blue with hatred, focusing on them.  It shuffled faster. 

“Shit!,” she cursed, “Shit, shit, fuck...” 

Patrek was frozen, knowing nothing about the War for the Dawn nor about the dead. Yara herself hadn’t been up north, but she knew what it was all the same.  He couldn’t step staring, “What is that?” 

“That,” Yara said, grabbing his arm, and pulling him down the hallway away from it, “Is the reason for the fire.  Come on, we have to find some more.” 

He finally turned from the thing, “More what?” 

“Fire! Unless you have some Valyrian steel or dragonglass somewhere that I don’t know about.” 

“Nope.” 

“Come on.  We got lucky, they’re usually much faster than that one,” they moved as fast as their exhausted bodies would let them, down the hall and towards one of the doors that would let them out into the large bailey behind the curtain wall.  

They finally found one and burst through it; Yara scanning the open space for a source of fire.  There, a brazier near one of the animal pens, and a pile of unlit torches nearby.  She grabbed one and thrust it into the flame, silently begging it to catch fire quickly.  She heard the commotion behind her as the dead man stumbled into the daylight and the small cluster of people milling about. Finally, the torch caught and she spun, easily sighting the thing.  

“Move!,” she screamed, “Get out of the way!” 

Patrek did his best to herd the few onlookers away, and she ran towards the thing, finally reaching it and smacking it with the lit end of the torch.  Despite being newly dead, the thing burst into flames and stumbled around, screaming, until it dropped to the ground, burning to ash in a matter of moments.  Turned away from it and doused her torch in the nearest trough, ignoring the obvious questions of the crowd.  Patrek caught up to her.  She must have looked dazed or shocked, because he pulled her into a hug, and she let him.  She didn’t have the energy to protest.  She didn’t let it last long though, and pulled away, looking up at him.  

“We’ll sleep, but we can’t rest long.  This is too important for a raven, but King Bran must know.  Ready the fleet, we’ll leave on the tide in three days.” 

Chapter Text

“So we’ve gotten no replies at all?,” Dany frowned, her attention on Howland.  

“None,” he replied.

“And how many ravens have we sent to King’s Landing?” 

“At least twenty,” Ashara answered, “In fact, we’ve received no ravens at all.  None from Winterfell, none from King’s Landing, none from your uncle, and not even any from the Vale.”  

“We’re too far south for this,” Jon observed.  He was right, they were nearing the High Road that went to the Vale of Arryn, and the Crossroads Inn.  They were sending warnings to the other Kingdoms that they came as allies, that they were passing through the land and not looking to fight.  They flew the rainbow banner of peace next to the banners of their houses.  They did not move silently.  Already they’d encountered far more people then they’d seen north of the neck, and the roads were clear enough that Dany and Jon no longer needed to use their dragons to make way for the army.  They were, indeed, too far south for this much silence.  

“We’ll need to go visit them,” Dany sighed heavily.  She hadn’t wanted to leave their army, but it seemed that it was their only choice.  They could not have the high lords thinking that queen Sansa was invading.  Everyone was too depleted for another war, they needed to know that this force was peaceful.  In truth, Dany had argued that the army shouldn’t come at all, but Jon had said something along the lines of ‘better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them’.  When thinking of the last Long Night, she couldn’t help but see his logic.  

“Agreed,” Jon added.  His arms were crossed, and he stood with his feet planted.  He was uncomfortable, nervous...readying himself for something he didn’t want to do.  Well, that was no surprise.  Jon was far less comfortable with battle than she was.  Both of them viewed it as an unpleasant necessity, but their definition of ‘necessity’ varied.  He looked at his sister, “Come with us.” 

“Me? Why?,” she seemed almost surprised that anyone had noticed her.  She’d sat in on councils before, but most people tended to forget she was there.  

“Because Riverrun makes the most sense for us to visit, and Edmure is your uncle.  

“Yours too,” she said weakly.  It wasn’t true, there were no blood ties between Jon and Edmure, and that was a fact Edmure was unlikely to forget.  Jon didn’t bother to address the comment.

“I’d ask Sansa to do it, but she’s not here.  We’ll need you to come to the Vale, too, and see your cousin,” he continued.  

“Howland and Ashara, you should take the rest of the army to the Crossroads Inn and stay there until we’ve dealt with the nearby lords paramount,” Dany instructed, “Take extra precautions when forming up the camp.” 

“Yes,” Jon agreed, “Ditches all around, spikes - wooden, so they’re easy to light.  We’re much closer to King’s Landing now, and there are far too many dead buried in the Riverlands.  The War of the Five Kings was not kind to it.”  

“And hunt what you can from the area, but be judicious about it.  The people have been hurt, I do not wish for them to starve and suffer more than they have to.  If they come seeking help or wishing to join us...do your best,” Dany added.  They’d picked up quite a few followers and extra soldiers as they’d made their way south.  The long supply chains to Greywater Watch and Winterfell were precarious, at best, but Dany couldn’t stand to see people suffering like this.  They were so starved...why was Bran letting this happen? Why hadn’t he imported food from Essos, and had the reach grow more? Why hadn’t he set up distribution centers and cleaned up the roads? Arya had told them of Yara’s efforts in the west, and the opportunity it presented Bran to set up new shipping lanes and supply lines, yet Yara was struggling to gain access to ports in Westeros.  Didn’t he care at all ? When they got to King’s Landing she’d be having several conversations with her successor.  The more she learned of him, the more she knew they’d made the wrong choice.  That man spent too much time in his tree and not enough time paying attention to the running of his kingdom.  There was only so much Tyrion could do, as skilled as he was, without Bran’s intervention.  

I’d have done a much better job , she thought to herself.  Normally she pushed these thoughts away, but this one stuck.  She wasn’t queen, and she didn’t think she even wanted to be after what had happened, but this was a different kind of thought.  It wasn’t angry, it was simply true.  Bran was a poor ruler who cared nothing for his people.  Not surprising, as he seemed to care for nothing at all.  

“We’ll fly,” Jon stated, “We don’t have time to ride, and I don’t trust Edmure to let us into Riverrun if we don’t arrive on the backs of our dragons.”

“I’ve never met the man, so I’ll defer to your judgement,” she replied, “When do we leave?” 

“As soon as we can.” 

“That still doesn’t account for King’s Landing,” Ashara pointed out.  

“We’ll send Gilly and Sarella ahead of us.  Give them the supplies they’ll need, of course.  But Sam will be looking for Gilly and I think Sarella can get them back into the city safely,” Jon’s posture relaxed some, as it always did once he’d worked out a problem in his brain and was taking steps to solve it.  He disliked sitting with inaction.  

“Yes, they’ll be able to get our message to the right people,” Dany agreed.  

He looked up and met her eyes, “Ready the dragons?” 

“Yes,” she nodded, “We’ll leave quickly. 

They were in the air within the hour.  Arya rode with Jon and Imari, who’d refused to let her go alone, was with Dany. They flew high and fast, dancing in and out of the clouds.  Dany took the chance to exercise Drogon’s agility, looping and twirling, and flying circles around Jon.  Rhaegal was the faster, to be sure, but Dany was a more daring flyer.  But he did join her in some of the dips and loops, and Arya held on tight behind him, whooping and laughing.  Imari held on tight, too, but he seemed curiously neutral on the entire experience.  

They followed the lines of the River Road and the Red Rush, and the devastation of the wars was obvious.  Torn ground and burned homesteads were just as plentiful as intact ones, although it was hard to see under the snow.  Only one in every three chimneys boasted smoke though, and that was enough to tell Dany how much the Riverlands were suffering.  The road could definitely use some clearing, and it’s not as if they had anything else to do on their way.  She signaled to Jon, and they fell into the same easy rhythm they used when clearing the roads in the north.  

The work made the time pass quickly, and soon the walls of Riverrun were visible.  The white stone of the keep was still stained grey with grime and the ash of fires and time, and the blue roof tiles were speckled black with missing or broken tiles.  Vines climbed up the walls, unhindered by the activities of the residents within.  If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought the place was empty like the Twins.  As they came closer, they could see that the walls were lightly garrisoned, and the drawbridge raised.  Riverrun was at the tip of an arrow of land where the Tumblestone and the Red Fork of the Trident met.  Two sides of the triangular keep were bordered by the river.  The third side of the castle, where the entrance was, faced the land.  Under the drawbridge there was a moat that ran from one side of the land to the other, capped on either end with a sluice gate.  In times of peace, those gates were closed and the moat was dry.  Now, though, they were open and the moat was flooded.  

Dany signaled Jon, and they landed near the end of the drawbridge, where the debris of a siege engine loomed above the scattered debris of a broken encampment.  It had been nearly four years since Jaime’s siege of Riverrun ended, yet the detritus of the army persisted.  The four of them dismounted, and Dany walked to Jon, remembering to bring the rainbow banners with them.  

“This is not a good sign,” she commented, surveying the wreckage.  

“No.  If nothing else, I’d think they’d have found a use for this wood rather than letting it rot.”  

“Something isn’t right,” she agreed, “I’m glad we brought the dragons.”  

“For once,” Arya said, “I agree.”  

“Announce yourselves!,” boomed a voice from across the moat.  They all turned and walked to the edge of the road where it would connect to the drawbridge.  A large man with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard stood on the crenellations, his blue-and-red livery clearly visible over his plate armor.  Next to him was a smaller man also dressed in Tully colors.  Their banners hung limply against the dirty castle walls.  Dany looked at Arya and nodded, leaving room for her to step forward.  

“I am Arya Stark,” she called, as loudly as she could manage, “I bring with me my first mate Imari, of the Summer Isles, and my allies Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen.  We wish to see my uncle Edmure, lord paramount of the Trident.”  

The guard exchanged a look and some words they couldn’t hear, and the big one said, “Is there a reason we should let you in?” 

“Well,” she said bluntly, giving the dragons a pointed look, “I doubt you could keep us out.  We’re choosing to approach in peace.” 

Dany handed the banner to Imari, as he was much taller, and he held it aloft for the guards to see.  They conferred with each other again, and then the same man yelled, “Lower the gate, let them in.”  

It took some time for the gate to lower, and the rusted metal screeched most of the way.  Dany and Jon commanded Rhaegal and Drogon to fly rings above the castle, just out of bowshot, before the group started across the bridge.  By the time they made it to the other side, the man had come down from the crenellations, and stood in the now-open doorway waiting for them.  He introduced himself when they entered, “Ser Robin Ryger, my lady.” 

He addressed Arya, ignoring Jon and Dany.  Arya frowned, “I thought you died in the siege of Riverrun?” 

“I could say the same of her,” he finally looked at Dany, who gave him the politest smile she could manage.  He shook his head as if to clear it, and turned back to Arya, “Not dead, just waylaid in Maidenpool.” 

“I see.  Has someone told my uncle of our arrival?” 

Ser Ryger nodded, gesturing for them to follow him, “Although it’s been some time since we’ve had guests.”  

“And how is my cousin?,” Arya asked.  Ser Ryger’s body language changed, and a true smile lit his face.  

“The little lad grows larger by the day.  He’s a strong one, and your lady aunt is with child again.” 

“The only Frey worth a damn,” Arya muttered under her breath.

“It’s not for me to argue with someone so far above my station,” Ryger said politely.  

Dany looked around as they walked, tuning out further familial smalltalk. The keep looked as poor from the inside as it did from the outside.  The walls were barely cleaner, and the animals looked thin and ragged.  It could have been the grey, cold day, but people moved quickly from task to task, never stopping to talk.  There were no smiles in this place, only hurried steps.  It was no better in the castle proper, where servants hurried past, their eyes lowered and their steps quiet.  There was no laughter, and barely any warmth.  Weak sunlight came through the windows, and only every other sconce was lit.  The place wasn’t dirty, exactly, but it was smudged around the edges.  Corners weren’t cleaned, windows weren’t washed well, and only many surfaces needed dusting.  Dany’s feeling of unease grew, and she straightened her back, letting the queen show through.  Jon noticed her change in demeanor and reached over, gently squeezing her hand.  She squeezed back and let go.  Then they came to the main hall, and two more guards in tully colors let them into the open space.  

It was smaller than the great hall in Winterfell or Dragonstone, but then Riverrun was a smaller place than either of those strongholds.  The ceiling was lower, and painted tully colors.  Black soot stained it, and the paint was chipping and dull.  There were trestle tables, never removed from the last mealtime, and the dust covering some of them showed that they hadn’t been moved in some time.  There were several hearths in the room, but only two were lit, and it wasn’t nearly enough to keep the space warm.  The floors were, as might be expected, covered in rushes, but only some of them were changed regularly.  Why keep the unused rushes and tables? She thought to herself, It doesn’t make sense.   At the head of the room was a small dais and a carved wooden chair.  The seat was tall and straight-backed, with trouts on the arms and legs, and two leaping trouts creating an arch on the back.  In it sat Edmure Tully.  

She’d never met the man, but she knew who he was.  Catelyn Stark’s younger brother, and the man who was married at the Red Wedding to a young Frey girl.  Jon mentioned he’d been at the Great Council held after she’d been killed, but she’d been wandering around Essos at the time.  He was reasonably tall and well-built, but he looked older than she knew he was.  He wore a leather jerkin over a wool shirt, and the leaping trout of the Tullys adorned all of the ties of the jerkin.  He had strands of grey in his fine, brown hair, and a somewhat ragged salt-and-pepper beard.  He had lines around his eyes, but it was the suspicious look in them that caught Dany’s attention.  This was an unhappy man living in a damp, dark castle far from any of the other lords paramount and great houses.  Judging by what Jon said, he was a soft, somewhat dim, man, but not cruel.  Dany had met many cruel men in her life, and something of Edmure called them to mind.  Sometimes, sweet but prideful men went sour when not given the respect they felt they were owed.  

“Hello uncle,” Arya said, keeping her voice calm.  She obviously sensed something in Edmure, too.  That was not really a surprise, given Arya’s skills as an assassin and spy.  

“Niece,” Edmure replied, not coming down from the dais to greet her, “You have brought me a dead queen and your Targaryen cousin.”  

Arya ignored the barb, as it was true and she did not know how to respond.  Instead she asked, “We have sent ravens.  Many of them.  Did you receive them?” 

“I have not been given any messages from my maester from any of you.  So I can only assume that the army you’ve brought is my other niece’s attempt at an invasion.”  

This was not going well, and Arya might be his family, but she wasn’t nearly as well-equipped to handle this kind of thing as Dany was, so she stepped forward and interjected, “Not at all, my lord.  We seek only to pass through your lands unmolested to lend aid to King’s Landing.” 

“And what would King’s Landing possibly need from Sansa, or from a dead queen and the traitor? No, this is a ruse.  The queen in the North seeks to take my lands from me and expand her territory, I know she does!” 

“Do you truly believe Sansa Stark would place me at the head of an invading army?,” that seemed to knock a drop of sense into him.  Sansa’s distaste for Dany was well known, “Some things superseded territorial concerns.” 

“What are you referring to?,” his brows furrowed, the suspicion growing clearer. 

“The dead walk again,” Jon stated quietly, “They’ve been seen in King’s Landing.” 

Edmure laughed without any true mirth, “So you mean to tell me that after all of your efforts in the north, niece , you still failed?”  

Jon’s temper flared, his protectiveness of his little sister coming through, “Have you ever fought the embodiment of winter and death, Edmure? No? Then your commentary is not necessary. We have two dragons, my lord , and this visit is a courtesy.  We will be passing through the Riverlands, and we would prefer not to spend more lives on the endeavour.”  

“I’ll have you beheaded for that threat,” Edmure hissed, standing, “Guards! Take them--” 

Dany’s last shred of patience with him flew out the window, “Try it, you foolish man! We will have our dragons burn down Riverrun and end your line for good and all.  You are a failed lord; you sit here allowing this great keep to crumble around you while your people suffer outside your gates.  There is nothing here but faded glory and ghosts, and you have done nothing to solve any of these problems.  You cannot even clean up the mess outside your front gates.” 

“You dare? You presume to know better than I do? To know what I’ve been through? You burned King’s Landing to--” 

“Yes, I did.  I burned King’s Landing to the ground with Drogon, and I am STILL a better leader than you.  Take our warning, lord, or don’t, but it will not change what is about to happen.  We will pass through your lands, and we will do so unmolested.  And when we get to King’s Landing, we will ensure that you are no longer allowed to let your people languish as they are.” 

“Fine,” Edmure spat, “Pass through the Riverlands.  See if you can convince my nephew to finally send the help I’ve been asking for, and good luck to you.  Now get out.” 

The four of them turned and left, escorted in silence by Ser Robin.  They did not bother exiting the castle, rather they called their dragons to land in the bailey and left from there.  There was no racing nor practicing of maneuvers on the way back, although they did finish clearing a few sections of road that they’d missed.  They made good time on their way back to the army, landing shortly after sunset.  Howland and Ashara met them in the largest of the rooms of the inn, where they’d set up their command area.  

“He’s an utter fool,” Jon spat, pulling off his gloves and tossing them on the table.  He gripped Longclaw’s hilt until his knuckles were white.  

“Oh?,” asked Ashara, one perfect eyebrow arched.  Not for the first time, Dany wondered where in the Dane line the purple eyes had come from.  They were a bit darker than Dany’s own, but both of them had eyes that were a shade of violet.  

“He refused to believe that we’d not be sent by Sansa to annex the Riverlands,” Jon rubbed his eyes, as if he could scrub away the memory of the visit.  

“And by the way he neglects his lands and his,” Dany continued, “I believe that had that been our goal, it would have been no issue.  I cannot believe he allows them to suffer like that.”  

“That will make it easier for us to pass through,” Ashara observed, if somewhat coldly, “It’s difficult to convince starving men to fight.” 

“He won’t attack us,” Arya said, “He is too craven.” 

“Did you receive his assurances of that?,” Howland asked.  

“Yes,” Dany answered, “For all the good it is worth.  He did say something queer as we were leaving though.  He said ‘see if you can convince my nephew to finally send the help I’ve been asking for’.” 

“That was strange,” Jon agreed, “Do you think Bran’s been neglectful of his lords paramount?” 

“I’m not sure,” Dany replied, “It’s obvious the Riverlands are in a sad state, but Edmure was dancing so close to the edge of madness that it was difficult to tell if the neglect comes from him or the Iron Throne.”  

“Tomorrow you’ll be flying to the Vale, correct?,” Ashara asked.  

Dany nodded, “To see Robin Arryn.”  

“He’ll be able to tell you more.  He’s a child, so he’ll have advisors around him who can tell you if the king is being neglectful,” Ashara stared at the map on the table in front of them, although she wasn’t really seeing it.  

“We’ll have more answers tomorrow, then,” Howland said, “What did he say about the ravens?” 

“That none had reached him,” Arya answered, “He sounded as if he didn’t believe we’d sent them.”  

“That explains why we hadn’t received any back,” there was something there, Dany thought, she just couldn’t put her finger on what.  

“And still none from Winterfell?,” Jon asked.  

Howland shook his head, “Nor from anywhere else.  I begin to worry about them.  Ravens are lost often, but all ravens? From everywhere?” 

“It’s passing strange, even for winter, and I’m not sure what we can do about it,” Jon stretched his neck from side to side and shifted on his feet.  They’d all had a long day.  

“We can’t fly to every keep we’ve sent ravens to.  Riverrun and the Eyrie are closest, both an easy few hours on dragon back.  We’ll see what Robin says tomorrow, and go from there,” Dany linked her fingers and stretched her arms, “For now, let’s get some rest.” 

“Agreed,” Arya yawned, covering her mouth with her hand.  They all said their goodbyes, and sought their beds. 

Chapter Text

The air down here was warm and dry, despite being on the ocean.  To their west was the arm of Dorne and Sunspear; to their east, Tyrosh and the disputed lands.  Both were deserts, and hot winds crossed the ocean.  Yara much preferred the passage through the Stepstones to the Shivering Sea or anything else north of King’s Landing.  If only they didn’t have to worry about pirates, then it would be perfect.  

“Sails!,” Yelled Red Jack Kenning from up in the rigging, passing the message down from the crow’s nest, “Starboard side!” 

Yara turned to look, a sinking feeling in her stomach.  Sails in the Stepstones were dangerous more often than not.  The metal of her spyglass was cool against her skin when she lifted it and saw the ships in the distance.  There were ships, yes, almost an entire fleet’s worth.  The sails were mismatched, flying the sigils of many houses from both sides of the Narrow Sea, and the hulls were painted in a riot of different colors.  She scanned the ships until she landed on the lead ship, and on seeing it her blood ran cold and she felt sick.  

Kraken sails flew from the masts, and the hull was painted a dark red.  The figurehead was a slim, high-breasted maiden with no mouth; and although she couldn’t see it from here, she knew the eyes would be mother-of-pearl.  The words slipped from her mouth unbidden, “That cannot be...it was destroyed.” 

“What is it?,” Patrek was next to her on the deck, where he always was, and the concern was clear in his voice.  

“The Silence .  My uncle Euron’s ship.  It was destroyed by the dragon queen on the Blackwater after he killed one of her dragons.”  

“I thought your uncle’s body was found? Killed by Jaime Lannister?” 

“It was,” she kept looking through the spyglass, not believing that she was seeing the ship, “Perhaps my uncle was so evil that the drowned god’s hell spat him back out.” 

“What, and crewed his black-sailed ship with the damned?,” Patrek joked. 

“As if we haven’t fought the damned,” she replied drily, “Something doesn’t look right about those sails.  The Kraken...it looks painted on, rather than sewn.”  

“May I see?,” he asked, and she nodded, handing him the spyglass, “You’re right.  It does look painted on, and rather crudely at that.  Do you think it’s someone taking advantage of Euron’s reputation?” 

“Could be.  That is a lot of ships for a mummer’s farce though,” he handed the glass back, and she looked out again, “They’re moving fast, too.”  

“We’re close to Sunspear.  Maybe turn around and make for the harbor?” 

“We’d be going against the wind, and there were only a few ships there besides.  You saw it as well as I did when we stopped for supplies - It’s not well protected enough to deal with a pirate fleet that size.” 

“It begs the question: how did it get so large this close to Dorne? Why hasn’t the prince of Dorne done anything about it?” 

“A question for another day, I fear.  We aren’t going to be able to outrun them, although I’m still going to try. Qarl!,” she yelled to her first mate.  

He handed the wheel to the man next to him and came over to her, “Yes, Yara?” 

“Send a raven to the Red Falcon .  Tell them to break off and head for King’s Landing with all speed, and if it looks like they’ll be caught to make anchor and continue overland,” the Red Falcon was a fast, small ship with no treasure on it that she kept at the front edge of her fleet for exactly this reason, “ The message must get to King Bran,” she didn’t need to say in case we don’t .  The fleet bearing down on them was more than a match.  Euron had lost the bulk of the Iron Fleet’s warships when he’d incurred queen Daenerys’s wrath by killing her dragon and siding with the mad queen Cersei, but he’d left some behind to defend the Iron Islands, and Yara had added to that number in the intervening time.  She’d put many of those longships to trading, and so could only float about thirty warships.  She’d left ten behind in the islands, ten were in various places protecting her merchant ships, and ten were with her, excluding the Red Falcon .  Of her ten, she had seven longships, two dromonds, and the galley she named the Black Falcon .  Not nearly enough to deal with what was coming at them across the water, even if every Iron Man was worth ten Greenlanders.  But that flagship...she couldn’t help the foreboding in her gut, “Ready the crew.  We’re going to try and run or hide, but there’s a good chance they’re going to catch us, and we need to get ready.”  

Qarl went off, shouting to be heard over the sound of the waves crashing against the bow.  Her crew was well-trained, and they responded with calm coordination.  The ship turned to fully catch the wind, speeding up, and behind her she saw the rest of the fleet do the same.  More detailed instructions were sent via ravens, and Yara saw the Red Falcon quickly outpace the rest of them.  It already kept a substantial lead on the fleet, and it quickly shrunk in the distance.  A ship broke off from the other fleet, but even at this distance Yara could tell it was slower than her own ship.  After that, she focused on what was bearing down on her.  

They were east of the broken arm, Grey Gallows to the east, and the next of the islands ahead of them.  If they could make their way around it before the other ships caught up, then they might be able to hide somewhere along the coast, or even make it to Estermont or Shipbreaker Bay.  The shallow draft of her longships wouldn’t be nearly as at risk there, and it was far too close to the mainland of Westeros for Stepstone pirates to dare venturing.  The pirates might dare Sunspear if it looked lightly guarded, but Storm’s End? Never.  Her hands tightened on the rail, knuckles turning white.  

“You can do this, Yara,” Patrek said just loudly enough for her to hear, “You faced down the dead after fighting a fire all night.  There’s nothing on that ship that’s worse than that.” 

“From your mouth to the Drowned God’s watery halls,” She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed affectionately, “For what it’s worth, you faced down the dead, too.”  

He smiled, “I suppose I did.  Even your uncle isn’t as scary as walking corpses.” 

“You never met him,” the comment was sarcastic, but under that there was truth.  Euron had barely begun to be the nightmare she knew he was capable of being before he’d been killed.  

Things moved quickly for her after that.  The hours passed in a blur of motion and tension.  The ships grew ever closer, not giving up their chase, but the mountains of the next island drew ever closer, until she could see the trees on their slopes.  She led the fleet around the curve of the island and towards open waters, and Estermont.  She should have been able to relax some, but she couldn’t.  She didn’t know why, but that red-hulled ship made her instincts scream.  It couldn’t have been Euron, it just couldn’t be, and yet...why would anyone use those colors, mimic that ship? It beggared belief.  

They sped past the curve and the harbor, and were passing the island entirely, when Yara found out why she’d been right to be afraid.  The northern tip of the island was a small peninsula, a high cliff that jutted out into the water.  As they drew even with it, another - smaller - fleet of ships rounded it from the other side, drawing out into the water only a league away.  This fleet had the same riot of banners and colored hulls, but some flew that same painted Kraken as the other fleet.  There was no way to outrun these ships, they’d be on her in moments.  She had no choice but to fight, and she gave the order.  

“Pirates starboard! Hard in and slow us down! Show them the bow!,” the men in the rigging obeyed, and in moments she felt the ship turning.  They were going too fast, and it was a slow thing, and the first arrows started flying before they’d fully turned, and certainly before the other ships had turned.  She trusted their captains, and there was nothing she could do now.  Any ravens she tried to send would be shot down, and they were too far for shouted orders.  She’d just have to hope that they fared ok.  Because there was no doubt now that they would be boarded; she was evenly matched to this fleet, but they weren’t there to destroy her, they were there to keep her busy until the main body of the fleet caught up.  It was a clever plan, and she was angry she hadn’t thought of it.  But what could she have done if she had? Stayed closer to the coast, maybe, and not have sailed so close to the island trying to get out as fast as she could.  It was stupid, and Iron Men were about to start dying around her.  

The ship finished turning, and the others did as well, and they rushed towards each other over the short stretch of water.  Salt sprayed, and her own scorpions fired.  Men died on the other ships, but there was no escaping the Drowned God’s wrath for her men either.  A scorpion bolt flew past her, crashing through the railing and sending splinters flying.  Gods below, this thing was brand new! A scorpion took the man on the closest gun through the eye, his head exploding in a shower of gore.  The deck ran red with his blood, but the bolt had missed the gun itself, and Patrek ran down to the gun, shoving the man’s body out of the way and taking his place.  

If we make it out of this, that man is going to have the best night of his life , she thought to herself, before shaking her head.  Where had that come from? Taking him to her bed was her duty, not a pleasure.  Although...he hadn’t hesitated before taking that man’s place, not even for a second.  The thick string snapped, and Patrek’s bolt flew, hitting home on the other ship and blasting a hole right under the water line.  It would be listing in no time.  She turned from him, pushing her distraction to the side.  He’d live or he wouldn’t.  The other fleet was close enough to see the men on the ships now.  Close enough for flame.  

“Spitfires!,” she shouted, “Loose!” 

Flame poured from the mouths of the tubes attached to either side of the bow, and the nearest ship caught fire.  More men screamed and died.  All Yara could see were wasted lives.  Clouds of black smoke billowed as one of the enemy’s sails caught fire.  A silver seahorse on a teal field of house Velaryon was eaten by flame.  She saw another of her ships tangling with a gold-and-crimson lannister vessel, and they were evenly matched.  The air smelled of burning pork and wood laced with iron.  She stopped to take stock.  Their fleet was smaller, six to her ten, and three of them were on fire.  Two were listing.  This engagement had seemed like seconds to her, but it must have taken longer because the second fleet was rounding the curve of the island.  They’d win this battle, but two of her ships were on fire.  None of the holes that she could see were below the waterline though.  Well, that would make sense.  Clearly they kept the ships they boarded, and why destroy something that you wanted to keep? But this was going too much time.  They would win, but they hadn’t yet, and as long as there were living men on the other ships to fire scorpions, the battle wasn’t over.  

It was too late.  The other fleet arrived.  They were overwhelmed in moments.  Yara never gave the command to surrender, but it didn’t matter.  There were simply too many.  She watched her ships be boarded, one by one.  The Kraken’s Bitch almost managed to free herself and flee, but a flaming scorpion sliced through the sails, setting them ablaze.  The air was thick with smoke and screams, and when her ships were boarded, her Ironmen fought bravely.  Fought ferociously...and died.  

The ship that looked like the Silence lined up with hers, spiked planks crashing into her sides and locking them together.  She could see now that its decks were the same color as the blood spilled on them.  Men poured onto her ship from it, but no sounds came from them.  If any mouths opened, they were red and empty, and the only sound they made was a sad, gurgled attempt at a scream of victory.  It was a victory.  The silent men died around her, but there were too many and eventually they were overrun.  Eventually, the fighting stopped, and the only sounds were the creaking of ropes, the slapping of waves, and the groaning of stressed, tangled wood.  

She was being held on the bridge by several men, her wrists tied. Qarl and Patrek were with her.  Qarl seemed uninjured, as usual, but Patrek had a split lip and a rapidly blossoming bruise on his jaw.  He grinned at her, and she could see he’d lost one of his front teeth, too.  She remembered his words.  They’re not worse than the dead.  They’ll kill us or enslave us, but they aren’t the dead.  It wasn’t long before heavy steps and the straightening of the men around her announced the arrival of the Silence ’s captain.  

His black hair and beard were shorter than the last time she’d seen him, curling around the neck of his armor.  Armor that seemed to ripple and move in the sun, covered in a strange pattern akin to Valyrian steel.  His blood-red cloak had his personal arms on it: two crows holding aloft a black crown over a red eye.  Together with the black eyepatch he wore over one eye, Yara mistook him for Euron reborn.  But, no...this man was thinner, gaunt almost, with blue lips and his eye was black where Euron’s had been the blue of a summer sky.  She squinted and he stood, watching her think.  

“Damphair?!,” she cried when she finally recognized him.  He’d cut and dyed his hair, and taken to dressing like Euron and wearing his personal arms.  Together with the blue lips the entire effect was deeply unnerving.  Fear, true and cold, grabbed hold of her belly and thrust her heart into her throat.  How had her uncle Aeron gotten to the Stepstones? Hadn’t Rodrick said he was stirring up trouble on Harlaw, but admittedly those had been rumors.  No one had seen the Damphair since he’d crowned Euron.  

“Ah,” his voice was a dry hiss, “The Abomination.  Finally,” he smacked her hard across the face, the sound cracking against the deck of the ship, whipping her head to the side.  She spat and turned back to him, baring her teeth, tasting blood.  

“You’ve gone mad, uncle.” 

“I’ve gone mad? No, the Drowned god commanded me to take up where my dear brother left off, and I..,” he leaned back and grinned, almost swaggering in the way that Euron had done, “I listened.” 

“The Drowned god is a false god, and you are hearing the voices in your own head, Damphair ,” she didn’t know why she was provoking him, but she couldn’t help it.  It was in her nature.  If he was going to kill her, she would go down fighting.  

“Silence, Abomination, or I’ll cut out your tongue and force you to join my crew.  A woman polluting the Seastone chair cannot be allowed to stand.  I saw it in my dreams...the Drowned god shows me horrible, fantastical things.  I am his servant and he protects me.  He brings me gifts....gifts like you and the son of our enemy,” Yara’s eyes flicked to Patrek, “Yes, niece.  The Mallister boy.  The Drowned God told me you would come, and now you finally have.  Oh, you and I, Abomination...we will bring the world to its knees, we will shake the Drowned God’s hall.  You are mine, now, Yara Greyjoy.” 

Chapter Text

They woke when the first rays of pink sunlight chased the purple from the sky.  Jon, as usual, woke before she did.  He didn’t leave their bed though, and instead slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her tight against him.  He kissed her shoulder in the soft, sweet dawn light, curling around her and hugging her from behind.  

“I always want to wake like this,” he said quietly.  

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“Mmmm,” she agreed.  She could feel his morning-hard cock pressing against her and she wiggled her hips, pretending to stretch.  He laughed softly.  

“That too,” he ran his hand along her side, from her shoulder to the curve of her hip and back again, reaching around and under her arm to cup her breast, gently kneading it.  She had to twist a little, but she managed to turn her head back enough for him to kiss her.  He let go of her breast and slid down her ribs to her stomach, nudging her thighs open before running his fingers through the hair between them and finding her sensitive clit.  He rubbed it in a circle, the way he knew she liked, and stopped kissing her to say, “You’re mine, Daenerys Targaryen, and I’ll do what I want to you.  Would you like to try something...different today?” 

She nodded vigorously, fully awake now, and he continued, “Mm, good.  I want you to remember that it is me that brings you pleasure, me that makes your body sing.” 

“Always,” she gasped out, his fingers sliding in her wetness, the rhythm perfect.  Gods, she wanted him inside her.  

“We are going to draw this out today.  We have tasks to accomplish, but we’ll be doing them together.  So whenever I say ‘dragon’, I want you to remember this.  Remember my hand on you, and know that when I say it, I am thinking of you.  I’m thinking of how sweet and slick you are for me, how good you feel when I’m inside you.  I’m thinking of the way the light makes your hair shine when you have it down at night, how you arch your back when you can’t stand being unjoined another second, the way your face looks when I make you come.  Picture all of the things I’ve ever done to you when I say that word.” 

“Y-yes,” the mounting feelings made her stutter a little, and the imagery pushing her even closer.  His fingers left her clit, slipping down and inside her, drawing a deep groan from her.  

“Mine, Dany.  Only I can bring you pleasure today and,” he paused and slid his fingers out of her, “I am choosing to make you wait.  To draw out the sweetness.  But I promise, you’ll not go to bed unsatisfied.” 

The groan that left her mouth had a different quality to it than the previous ones.  Her clit throbbed, and her frustration bubbled, but...she could end it at any time.  She knew if she asked Jon to end any of their games, he would.  So she pushed through the aching and instead rose to the challenge, “You just want to watch me squirm.” 

“I absolutely do, my love,” he dropped a kiss on her temple and got out of their bed, letting in a rush of cold air.  She watched him walk to their clothes, his cock hard and red, bouncing when he moved.  She could see the tell-tale drop of wetness at the tip, and she knew that she wouldn’t be the only one aching today.  

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She followed him out of the bed, pulling on a set of clean smallclothes, pants, and a woolen top as quickly as she could, “I miss summer.”  

“Don’t we all, although sleeping in a bed was nice,” he replied.  He smirked at her, watching her dress, “Dragon.”  

She rolled her eyes, “Already?” 

“Always.  Here,” he handed her the black overdress she typically wore while flying.  It shamed her to admit it, but sometimes she missed the clothing that came with being queen.  A steward brought their breakfast, and they ate quickly.  On went her fur overcoat, and Jon’s furred cloak; then they made their way back to the meeting room.  It was unlikely to be a long meeting this morning, but they needed to retrieve the gloves Jon had left behind the previous night.  The room was empty, so Dany took a moment to look over the map while they waited for Ashara and Howland.  Soon they’d need to cross the trident, and she wondered if it might be worth stopping for a time to rest at Harrenhall.  Mayhaps, mayhaps not.  It would depend on their supply lines and how their people were doing.  There were a lot of towns between here and King’s Landing, and that meant entirely too many chances for conflict.  They’d need all the peace banners they could find, and--

Jon moved close to her, breaking her train of thought, and kissed her cheek.  While he was close, he whispered, “Dragon.” 

“What, now?,” she blinked her purple eyes at him.  

“I like watching you work,” his smile was soft and intimate, the one she liked best.  The door opened, and they looked up to see Howland and Ashara enter.  

“Good morning,” Ashara greeted them, “Did you sleep well?” 

“We did, yes,” Dany answered, “It was a nice change to sleep indoors.”  

“I like the outdoors,” Howland commented, shrugging.  

Dany noticed that he looked dressed to travel and frowned, “I didn’t think you were coming with us.” 

“I’m not, but I do need to leave for a while.  We’re nearing Harrenhall, and I have a task that needs doing.”  

“What task?” 

“I’d prefer not to say just yet, but I will share when I return.  I shouldn’t be gone more than a few days, a week at most.” 

Dany nodded, “Good fortune, then.  Ashara, are you to accompany him?” 

“No, I’ll be staying behind with you. He doesn’t need my help in this task, and I can be of more use here.  I’ve been spending a lot of time sparring with your troops to help hone their skills, and there are some very promising talents among the rabble.”  

“Have there been complaints on account of your sex?,” Jon asked.  

Ashara shrugged, “Some, but seeing me wield a greatsword usually closes their mouths and ends their complaints.”  

Dany laughed, “I imagine it does.  Alright, well, then Jon and I will see you when we return from the Eyrie.”  

“Are you taking Arya?,” Ashara asked.  

Dany shook her head, “We didn’t see the need.  They might be cousins, but Robin Arryn is still in his minority, and his advisors are unlikely to care whether it is his cousin who comes to see him or a stranger.”  

“Excellent, then I can enlist her help with the soldiers.”  

“Alright, then we’ll be on our way,” Jon said.  

“I’ll see you when you return,” Ashara answered.  They all said their goodbyes, and Dany exited the inn with Jon, finding the area of open ground given over to the dragons.  It didn’t take long before they were winging towards the mountains, following the track of the High Road as it snaked through the grasslands below them.  They’d made sure to tie on the peace banners before they left, as there was no choice but to land directly in the Eyrie.  

It took an hour or two before the first of the gates into the Vale appeared below, but the Bloody Gate was not their destination and offered no challenge to a dragon.  The moon gate came next, and although it was called a gate, it was more like a castle.  It was larger than the mountain pass it was built in, and filled the chasm completely.  In other circumstances, they might have chosen to land there out of politeness, but they did not wish to waste the time, and so they continued onward, staying high in the sky.  

After passing the Gates of the Moon, and all of the smaller castles along the path to it, they spilled out into the valley.  Even in the winter, it was clearly a lush, green place.  The mountains ringed a long, narrow valley filled with homes and orderly farmland.  She could see the sun reflecting off of snaking rivers and tranquil, frozen` lakes, and smoke puffed from most of the chimneys.  The isolation and strong defenses here meant that it had been nearly untouched by the war, and Dany wondered if the rest of Westeros had been as peaceful as this spot.  The Eyrie watched over it all from a high peak of the Mountains of the Moon, its slender white towers standing out against the backdrop of the Giant’s Lance, blue sky, and a waterfall that had frozen into icicles thrice as tall as she was.  This, Dany knew, was a place she could love.  Somewhere that was safe and prosperous, whose people hadn’t been nearly as ravaged as the rest of her nation.  

She and Jon winged higher into the sky, looking for the Eyrie’s courtyard.  Finding it, Jon landed Rhaegal while Dany flew circles overhead.  If they both were down there, then they ran the risk of capture before they were able to speak their case.  If he went down alone, then she could remain free if anything happened.  So she flew in slow, lazy circles while Jon talked to men in sky-blue livery with a sky-blue falcon on a white moon depicted on the breast.  That, she knew, was the sigil of house Arryn.  She couldn’t hear the words so far away, but she knew Jon’s body language well.  He didn’t have his hand on Longclaw, although he was tense.  That was to be expected, given the possibilities.  The peace banners and his words seemed to have worked though, as he signaled Dany to land.  She did, sliding off of Drogon and joining Jon.  The dragons stayed where they were, and laid down to await the return of their riders.  

The man Jon was speaking to was older, with thinning white hair, slate-grey eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a barrel of a gut under his plate armor.  He was tall and had the carriage of a proud man.  He inclined his head slightly to her and said, “My lady Targaryen.  I am Yohn Royce, Lord Robin’s Regent.” 

“Well met,” she inclined her head in return.  You are no longer queen , she reminded herself, he need not address you as ‘your grace’, and the Arryns have been no friend to the Targaryens in recent years, besides.  No matter that you share blood, be on your guard , “I trust lord Snow has informed you of our need to meet with lord Arryn?” 

“He has, and given the nature of your mounts I’ve no choice but to accept.” 

“We come under a banner of peace, and--,” she started.  

“Hang your banner and hang the both of you.  I’d throw you from the moon door if I didn’t know your dragons would scoop you up before you hit the ground! I know what you did to King’s Landing, and you’ll find no friends here.” 

“You need not be our friends, only hear our words.  What you do with that coin is no business of ours,” she let a little fire leak into her words, holding herself straight-backed and stern.  She would not be bullied by a man who was, for all intents and purposes, a minor lord.  

“Aye, I suppose that is so.  This way,” he led them into the keep from the courtyard.  

The inside of the Eyrie was as beautiful as the outside and the valley below.  It was built from blue-veined marble, with tapestries and rugs aplenty.  Unlike the gloom of Riverrun, the Eyrie was clean and open, with sunshine pouring in through spotless windows.  They passed through a gallery on their way to the High Hall, and the view from it took Dany’s breath away.  This, she thought, is the closest thing on earth to being on dragon-back .  

They entered the High Hall, and it was as impressive as the rest of the castle.  It was large and round, with a high ceiling, and high, arched windows that let in the sunlight.  In the center of the room was a short, circular half-wall around a covered hole in the floor that Dany assumed was the moon door.  At the head of the room, on a high dais with two curved staircases leading up to it, was a throne carved from a dead weirwood.  The Arryns had tried to grow one for their godswood, once upon a time, and had been unable to do so.  She guessed that the chair was the remains of that tree.  Upon it sat Robin Arryn, his maester standing next to him.  

Robin was a young man nearly out of his minority; nearly 18, Jon had said.  He was thin, but far from the frail, sickly lad he’d been described as.  He had a long face, an aquiline nose, and thick, black hair that fell to his shoulders.  He was wearing velvet, a blue-and-white brocade surcoat trimmed in gold over black breeches and a dove-grey woolen shirt.  A sword was in his lap, the naked steel bared in a clear signal that they were not welcome in the Eyrie.  Best to be brief then.  

Yohn Royce ascended the steps past several guards in blue-and-white livery, all with the hawk and moon sigil of house Arryn on their armor.  Their helms stood out to her; they all had a large set of wings worked into the steel, and wings on the hilts of their swords.  When Ser Royce reached the top, he said, “My lord, I present Lord Jon Snow and Lady Daenerys Targaryen.”  

“Lord Royce,” she said, voice firm, “If we are to be so formal, you should announce me with the proper titles.” 

He paled a little, “You are no longer queen, and I’m afraid I don’t know--” 

“Daenerys Stormborn of house Targaryen,” Jon cut in, “Lady of Dragonstone, Kahleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, the Reborn, and Mother of Dragons.”  

His eyes flicked to hers briefly on that last, but she gave no outward sign that she knew there was a double meaning to the word.  Lord Royce looked more uncomfortable with each word, but he managed a stiff nod, “As you say.”  

“Do they not hand out titles for destroying cities?,” there was a sneer in Robin’s voice, but it was the sound of a coddled highborn teenager aping the actions of the adults around him.  

Dany sighed.  They were wasting time that could be better spent elsewise, “Enough of this.  We have come as a courtesy as we received no reply to our ravens.”  

“None were received,” Lord Robin confirmed their suspicions.  

“We were afraid that was the case,” Jon replied, “None of the ravens we sent to Riverrun have made it through, either.”  

The maester spoke up, “There has been a dearth of ravens lately, lord Arryn.  I thought it was strange, but not strange enough to warrant special attention.  There have been winter storms lately.”  

“We have had much the same problem,” Dany agreed, “It was one of several things we wished to speak to you about.” 

“I hope one of those things was the northern host you’re parading through the riverlands and past our doorstep,” Yohn’s tone was dry.  

“That too,” Jon agreed.  

“Have you been receiving aid from the Iron Throne? It will be a tough winter, but the Riverlands seemed to lack any kind of guidance, royal or otherwise.”  

Yohn shrugged, “We don’t need the Iron Throne.  Even though Littlefinger took many of our men north, we still had plenty of time to complete our harvests.”  

“And you’ve shared none of it with your suffering neighbors?”

“I see no reason why we should,” again, the youthful arrogance dripped from Robin’s every word.  Dany wasn’t surprised to hear of it, but she was surprised Bran hadn’t stepped in and negotiated something between the Riverlands and the Vale.  Yohn, at least, had the good grace to look uncomfortable with this line of questioning.  

“No, I don’t suppose you would,” Dany shook her head ruefully, “We have come to tell you that we’ve been sent south under the auspices of your cousin, queen Sansa, on a peaceful mission to aid King’s Landing.” 

“That’s rich,” Robin actually laughed.  Dany gritted her teeth through the disrespect.  She’d heard worse, “ You , helping King’s Landing? I think you’ve helped them enough.”  

“We will give you the same warning we gave Riverrun: the dead walk once more, and we travel to King’s Landing to put an end to them for good and all,” Dany explained.  

“Why King’s Landing?,” the Maester interjected.  

“What do you mean?,” Dany asked.  

“When the dead last walked, it was in the north.  The dead are a northern problem.  That is why the wall still stands and the watch - which you were supposed to have been banished to, Lord Snow - still exists.  Why have you come this far south in search of the dead? What are you not telling us?” 

She exchanged a look with Jon, and he shrugged, so she kept speaking, “We have allies who have fought the dead in the city.  As far as we know, they have appeared nowhere else, so we believe the source of them to be in King’s Landing.”  

“The Night King needs to be close to his victims to cause them to rise,” Jon added, “if the dead are in King’s Landing, that’s where he’ll be.  And the last time we fought him, we had an army much larger than this one, and it was still a near thing.”  

“How tragic for King’s Landing.  It appears they’ll soon no longer be a city,” Robin laughed at his own cruel jape, “I see no reason to allow you to stop that.  I’ve a mind to make you fly today.”  

“We’ve already flown, my lord,” Dany said, cocking her head and looking at him.  She was a dragon, and he was a mouse, “Or had you forgotten?”  

The reminder of the dragons revealed naked greed on his face, “I’ll toss you out the moon door and take your dragons for myself.”  

“Ah, because that has worked out so well for others who have tried it in the past,” Dany took a few steps forward, a cat playing with its food, “But plainly I can see that you’re worthy.” 

“Of course I am,” his nose could not get any further in the air, and Yohn was looking more uncomfortable by the second.  

“My lord--,” Yohn started, but Dany cut him off.  

“Drogon or Rhaegal would be foolish not to accept you...as a passenger.  Lord Snow or myself could certainly be convinced to allow us the honor of flying you around your realm.” 

He licked his lips, knowing he shouldn’t be tempted, but he was still too young and impetuous to say no, “What will it take?” 

“You let us pass through unmolested--” 

“Done.” 

“--and you share your bounty, only as much as is reasonable - I am not suggesting your own people go hungry - with your neighbors in the Riverlands.” 

“My lord, no, we cannot--,” Yohn started, but Robin cut him off.

“You worry too much.  It is only some grain,” he turned back to Dany, “They shall have it.” 

“Swear it, my lord.  By the old gods and the new.” 

“I, Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and the true Warden of the East, do swear to share the bounty of the Vale with the Riverlands and allow the northern army to pass unmolested, by the old gods and the new, and by the soul of my mother Lysa do I so swear it.”  

Yohn groaned, knowing there were too many witnesses to renege on the promise.  His lord had just given away hundreds of gold dragons worth of food for a ride on a dragon.  So much for shrewd council; it was obvious no one had ever managed to take the spoiled child in hand, and that the spoiled child was growing into an unwise man.  

“Excellent, my lord.  Let us adjourn to the courtyard so you may choose a dragon to ride upon,” she hoped Jon was ok with this move, were Robin to choose Rhaegal, “Be sure to dress warmly.  It can be cold in the air, especially in the winter.”  

“Yes, yes.  Send for my heaviest cloak, and meet us in the courtyard,” he was already up and descending the steps, the winged guardsmen and his advisors falling in behind him.  The boy moved quickly in his eagerness, and they shortly found themselves back in the courtyard.  

Jon stepped up to her, touched her hand lightly, and said in a low voice, “Dragon.” 

She looked over at him, and the look in his eyes made her cheeks pink.  She felt exposed, but only to him, and she squeezed her thighs together under her overdress.  A small smile touched one corner of her mouth, and she stepped away from Jon to ask Robin, “Which do you prefer?” 

He turned back to them, excitement clear on his face, a servant settling a heavy cloak about his shoulders, “Which one is yours, Lord Snow? Surely it must be the larger and fiercer of the two.”  

“The larger is Drogon, and he is bonded to the lady Targaryen.  The smaller one is mine, and his name is Rhaegal,” Jon put out his hand and gave Rhaegal’s nose and affectionate pat.  Rhaegal huffed in return, shaking his head a little.  Drogon just looked bored by the whole affair, but that was fairly typical of him.  When he wasn’t eating, sleeping, or flying he was bored, “Make no mistake, he might be smaller, but he’s quicker and more agile.”  

“Who would win in a fight?,” Robin edged closer to Jon, and Rhaegal’s frills rattled a little.  

“Shh, it’s ok, he’s a friend,” Jon calmed the beast with his words, “It’s hard to say.  Drogon isn’t so much bigger, and he’d have to catch me first.” 

Drogon face looked almost offended at the notion that his brother would have a chance at winning, and Dany laughed, “I don’t think he agrees with that sentiment, Lord Snow.”  

“Well, we’ll never find out, because I don’t intend to let them fight any time soon.  But do you see this scar right here?,” he pointed at a healed gash on Rhaegal’s chest.  Even completely healed, two years after the injury was inflicted, the severity of the wound was clear, “That was from the only dragon fight he was ever in, and the only one he’ll ever BE in.”  

“Wow,” Robin said.  He reached out to touch it, but Rhaegal hissed at him.  The boy had enough sense to take his hand back.  He noticed the one on Rhaegal’s neck, “And that?” 

“Some Squid’s arrow.  Which dragon would you prefer?” 

“Yours!” 

Dany watched Jon mount Rhaegal and pull Robin up behind him, explaining to him how to keep hold and how to steady himself.  Next to her, Yohn fretted, “My lord, you shouldn’t do this, what if you fall off?” 

“I’ll not fall off, it’s perfectly safe,” Robin rolled his eyes with that special sort of derision only teenagers could manage.  

“At least get us a cord to tie you with...” 

“Master Royce, you have my word that he’ll be returned whole and hale,” Jon said, his voice full of calm command.  

“Just...be careful,” Yohn sighed in resignation.  Jon nodded, caught Dany’s eyes for a smile, and lifted off into the air.  Drogon curled back up in a patch of sunlight and closed his big, red eyes.  

“They’ll be fine,” she assured him.  

“Says a Targaryen.  Did you tell King’s Landing they’d be fine, too?” 

She let the barest trickle of anger show through in her face and voice, “No. I told them I’d burn their city to the ground if Cersei forced me to do it.  Tell me, Yohn Royce, how many times did Tywin parley with the Reynes? What do you think he would have done if it was him at the battle of the bells instead of Jon Connington?,” she turned to face him, meeting and holding his gaze, “How many offers of peace did Aegon give Harren the Black? One, as I recall.  How many times did he raze Dorne, only for it to finally be added to the realm 184 years later? Tumbleton was razed not once but twice during the Dance and nobody cares.  Nobody cares until it is a woman using violence to achieve political goals, and nobody cares until it benefits them to be righteously angry.  Lord, you do not care about the people of King’s Landing, you care about using it as a cudgel to beat me with.  And that? I have no more patience left for that.”  

Several moments of silence passed, and they watched Jon fly around the valley, almost too far for them to see.  Then he said, “How many chances did you give her? To surrender?” 

“Many.  And instead of listening, she betrayed me in the war for the Dawn and murdered my best friend in front of me before tossing her off the walls of King’s Landing.”  

“How did you earn the title ‘breaker of chains’?” 

“The chains of slavery in Essos.  Mereen remains a free city, and the others will follow over time as per their agreements.”  

“And in King’s Landing? What chains were broken there?” 

“I think that is a question you should ask the Tyrells.  Or perhaps everyone who died when Cersei blew up the Great sept of Baelor.  O, the Martells could tell you a good deal about chains, as well.  Ellaria sand was last seen chained to a wall in the red keep.  Or the young women that she’d been so generously providing to that butcher of a failed maester who created a monster from The Mountain.” 

“Gregor Clegane was already a monster.” 

“You take my meaning, then.  I never wished to hurt people or destroy anything, but sometimes we make the wrong decisions in the moment.”  

“That was one decision with very disastrous consequences.”  

She shrugged one shoulder, “That is the crux of it.  That is the part that I have to live with.  I cannot afford outsized negative emotions, because I have a dragon.  That was a costly lesson.  And yet, I like to think that the things I did before, in Mereen, in the North...that they counted for something.  That there are people who are alive because I exist.  I cannot abide suffering, Yohn, even when I am the cause.” 

“Yes, that I believe.  It was deftly done, getting Robin to give you the food.”  

“Not really.  Sweetrobin has all the flaws and foibles of the stripling he is, and more besides.  You should take care to do a better job with him.” 

“It’s been...difficult, to say the least.  He was born weak and sickly, and his mother’s smothering love did him no favors.” 

“He seems healthier now.” 

“He is.  His shaking illness has receded, and he eats like a normal teenager should.  He’s managed to master the basics of swordplay and archery, although I doubt he’ll ever have any great skill with arms.  He’s come a long way with other skills, too, finally learning to read and write...you have to understand, his mother coddled him.  He was ten and still suckling at her breast when the lady Lysa died.  Gods protect her, but it was the best thing to ever happen to him.”  

“Sometimes that is the case.  I used to be so angry about the Kingslayer ending my father’s life, but now? I’m not angry anymore.  I believe it is better this way.  My father was mad, and he would have nurtured that part of me.  I would have been Maegor returned.”  

“I believe,” he said, taking his eyes from the speck that was the dragon at the far end of the Vale, “That I may have misjudged you.  Will you accept my apologies?” 

She laid a gentle hand on his arm, “Of course.”   

“I see no issues in giving the grain to the Riverlands, but I could use some help in the mountains.  Some of the mountain clans returned, and Lord Baelish took so many men north with him that we’ve not had much luck taking them in hand.  We could use the help transporting it safely.” 

She nodded, “I think we can spare some men.  I will send them from the inn when we return.  Enough to make it safely through the mountain pass.” 

Rhaegal was growing larger in their view, and soon Jon was landing, and Yohn Royce helped an overjoyed Robin down from Rhaegal’s back, his cheeks flushed and his smile wide.  Jon dismounted behind him, joining them.  

“Did you enjoy yourself?,” Dany asked.  

“Flying is the most wondrous thing I’ve ever experienced!,” Robin let out a whoop of joy, “Return whenever you like, so long as you’ll take me for a ride.”  

“I’m pleased to hear it, my lord,” Jon said, “Sadly, we must be returning to our army, but could we prevail upon you for a room where we might refresh ourselves before we leave?” 

“Of course, of course.  I’ll have some food sent up.  Follow me.  Robin, I believe it is time for your afternoon lessons, is it not?”  

“It is,” the boy looked forlorn at the thought of leaving the dragons, but he said his goodbyes nonetheless.  Yohn took them back into the keep, into a large receiving room in the shape of a crescent moon.  There was a fire burning , and no windows, making it warmer than the other rooms they’d been in.  Yohn shut the wooden doors behind them, and they found themselves alone.  

Jon stepped closer to her, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips, “You didn’t need to help the Riverlands.”  

“Yes I did,” she looked up at him, putting her hands on his chest, brushing her gloved fingers over the direwolves on his gorget.  

“Yes...you did,” he captured her hands with his, stilling them, “And you did it for a song.”  

“No, for a dragon ride,” she smiled at him.  

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Even better,” he stepped to her, crowding her space, filling her senses with his closeness.  He bent down and kissed her, a gentle brush of the mouth at first that quickly became deep and thorough.  As he kissed her, his tongue plumbing the depths of her mouth, he walked them backwards until she felt the wood of the door pressing against her back.  He backed away then, and too both of her hands in one of his, drawing them up and pinning her wrists to the door.  She sucked in a sharp breath, but she wasn’t afraid.  Not of Jon.  His free hand started at her hip and brushed up her side to cup her breast, and he pushed his thigh between her legs, pressing it tightly against the apex of her thighs.  

“Jon,” his name was a whimper on her lips, a request.  

“Are you still mine, Dany?,” what he meant was, ‘are we still playing our game? Are you ok?’

“Yes,” she breathed, wanting to push forward and taste him again, but she didn’t do it.  She held herself to the door.  

He gently squeezed her breast, just enough that she could feel it through her riding coat.  The servant would be there soon with the food, and she couldn’t find it in her to care.  He came close, running the tip of his tongue along her upper lip, “All I can think about is how you taste.  The softness of your skin,” he let go of her breast and slid his gloved hand lower, moving in firm circled down her front towards her abdomen, “When we get home tonight, I’m going to peel every piece of clothing off of you, and lay you out on the bed with a hundred candles burning.  I want to see every single inch of you when you’re spread for me, waiting, begging, your breaths coming in those cute little gasps that make me want to kiss you and fill you.  I will eat my fill, licking and sucking every drop of sweet honey that you make for me.  I will make you hold tight to me and pull my hair and tell me where you need me, until all of you shakes and you sob for me to stop because you cannot take the pleasure anymore.”  

Her breaths were ragged just listening to him, and she ground herself against his thigh, desperate for some friction to alleviate some of the tight wanting she felt.  She knew he could do it, too.  It wasn’t an empty promise.  They’d learned much of each other in the weeks since leaving Winterfell, “More.”  

“I can feel you grinding against my thigh.  Is it because my words make you wet, my queen?” 

“You know it is.”  

“Good.  Because after I’ve made you beg for me to end the pleasure, I will make you beg to have my cock inside you.  Beg to be claimed,” his hand moved lower, crossing the waist of her pants, caressing the triangle just above her clit.  

“Queens do not beg,” she challenged, relishing every second of his filthy thoughts being spilled against her lips, knowing he wanted her as much as she wanted him.  

He smiled, and it was sharp, full of wicked promise, “This one will.”  

There was a knock on the door, Jon let her go and took a step away, looking entirely too pleased with himself on seeing how flustered she really was from the encounter.  She was so slick she could feel it when she walked, and the muscles inside her pulsed with her arousal.  Jon opened the door and let the servant in.  

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a young woman, and she took a moment to lay out the food for them before curtseying and leaving.  Dany expected Jon to pick up where he left off, but he didn’t.  He sat down in the chair closest to the food and started to eat, that self-satisfied smirk still on his face.  She glared at him and he laughed, and the sound felt like an intimate caress.  Focus , she told herself, you’re acting like a girl with a crush.   Nomatter that it felt so good to give into this world she and Jon were building.  She lowered herself into the opposite chair with a measured grace, sitting properly with her legs demurely crossed.  They ate in crackling, full silence, and drank their fill.  When they were finished, they had a guard escort them to the courtyard where their dragons were waiting, and they mounted up.  

The dragons lifted up, Rhaegal first, and Drogon not far behind.  They raced towards the pass, not slowing an ounce as they entered the chasm, tilting and wheeling through the tight space.  Dany laughed, relishing the feel of the wind rushing over her and the feel of Drogon’s strong wings snapping.  Dany felt more delight in flying through the pass with Jon, rocks rushing by so close she could nearly reach out and touch them, then she ever had at the head of any army.  

But it felt so good to negotiate this small thing for the people, even though it wasn’t difficult.  In truth, it was something any good ruler should have realized and remedied.  Bran and the small council were making a poor job of it if this is what the heartland of their kingdom was like.  She wouldn’t have let them suffer.  She didn’t let them suffer.  She wanted home and comfort, yes, and she wanted a life with Jon...but she also wanted fulfilment.  Something that would last beyond her.  She couldn’t have children before, and certainly she couldn’t now, and should her last act really be the sacking of King’s Landing? This kind of neglect did nothing to allay the fears that Bran had some connection to the Night King, and if he was? He could not be allowed to rule.  What then? Who would rule then? Who would be best for the kingdom? Not Tyrion, who made a better hand than a ruler.  Not Sansa, who cared nothing for the south.  There was no one.  No one except her and Jon.  He had the right of it - they should marry.  They should have done it long ago.  They should combine their claims.  

Dying had not changed so much of Dany that she no longer felt the connection to her people.  She’d chased the Iron Throne before, but for foolish reasons.  Birthright, anger, power...simply because she could do it.  She was the only one who’d had the ability.  She still HAD the ability.  But she’d made mistakes before.  Mistakes she wouldn’t make again.  Something had changed when she’d been brought back.  The fog of anger and sadness had lifted.  Those emotions still existed, to be sure, but now they were sharper and clearer.  She could be angry and still reason.  Jon tempered here, too.  Left to her own devices her temper might still get the worst of her, but when they were together he centered her.  She decided then, on the back of the one thing in the world that gave her complete freedom, that she wouldn’t chase the Iron Throne, but if there was a need for it...she and Jon were the only ones who could appropriately fill that need.  And what could the kingdom be if they led? Jon’s honesty and sense of justice made for a strong compliment to her intuitive grasp of what the people needed.  If her path led to the Red Keep, she’d follow it, but only if she didn’t have to tread that path alone.  Because she knew one thing above all else: she was, at her core, a woman who wanted a home.  

They shot out of the pass and arced into the air, climbing so they could cover ground more quickly.  They danced today, their dragons whirling and racing through the air. They went so high Dany could almost forget about their problems.  But all too soon, the inn and their army came into view in the distance.  They flew down, landing in the area set aside for their use. Jon dismounted, but Dany stayed on Drogon’s back.  When Jon looked at her quizzically she said, “I want to do some scouting.  It’s a nice day, and I’ve not had my fill of flying yet.”  

“I’ll make my way to the practice yard then, and get a few hours sparring in while you’re gone.  Ashara planned to be out there all day, so I should have someone to spar with.” 

“Good.  I’ll be back before full dark.” 

“Be safe.  I’ll be thinking of dragons the entire time you’re gone.” 

She laughed, “You better think of fighting, too, I’d hate for Ashara to cut off anything important.”  

“I’ll do my best,” he smiled at her and waved, and she took to the sky.  

She circled out from the camp, mostly keeping away from areas she’d already flown over when she went to Riverrun and the Eyrie.  So it was south that she ventured, not really having a destination, but desiring to see more of the state of the Riverlands.  So she headed south, towards Harrenhall.  As far as she knew, it sat empty following the death of its lord at the hands of Arya Stark.  It had large lands, and with Edmure Tully the only lord to watch over them, she expected them to be in a sad state.  So when she passed farms that seemed unattended and homes with no fires, she was not surprised.  She saw plenty of people, which was a good sign, but she knew the Vale could not feed all of these people.  Food would need to be imported from across the Narrow Sea, or brought north from the Reach.  King’s Landing could be fed, in part, with the game in the Kingswood.  If not, none of these people would make it through the long years of winter.  

She passed over the castle proper, its blackened towers reaching up towards her.  She saw the smoke from cookfires rising from several places in the castle.  Squatters and those whose homes had been destroyed by the wars were taking refuge inside.  She turned and flew briefly over the God’s Eye.  This is the lake where her ancestor Daemon Targaryen had slain Aemon One-Eye during the dance.  Their mounts, Vhaegar and Caraxes, had fallen with them.  The only remains never found were Daemon’s.  She’d heard many things about what had happened to him; that he died from the fall, that he lived and ran away with the sheep girl Nettles, that he lived and went to Essos, that he’d been rescued by the children of the forest that some said lived with the Green Men on the Isle of Faces in the center of the lake.  Whatever the truth of it, Brandon Stark was the only one who could really answer that question.  And although she was curious about her family’s past, that was not the question he’d put to him were she to get the chance.  She did wonder if the Green Men really still lived on the island.  It was said that Addam Velaryon visited them during the dance, but it had never been proven one way or another.  

She turned away from it.  History could not help them now, and she was wasting daylight thinking about it.  She flew around the edge of the river and northwest towards where the lands of the Blackwoods and the Brackens lay.  Neither house had lost much in the war, and she hoped they’d been able to better shepard their people through this difficult time.  She made a wide arc, towards Pinkmaiden and Acorn Hall, intending to sweep northeast again to see Stone Hedge and Raventree Hall.  She kept to the east of the line of tall hills that that held these places, seeing Acorn Hall below.  It was exactly as it was named - a hall, wooden, with curtain walls.  A small, homey looking place.  She flew on, and the sun sank lower.  She had another hour or so before full dark, she thought.  Perhaps a bit more.  

Just past Acorn Hall she saw a curious looking hill, tall and set apart from the others.  Atop it was a perfect ring of white tree stumps.  What were weirwood stumps doing this far south? Her curiosity piqued, she brought Drogon lower, landing him just outside the circle of stumps.  She dismounted, a strange sense of unease creeping over her.  Beside her, Drogon huffed and fidgeted, smoke curling from his nostrils.  She patted his neck and quietly comforted him, “It’s alright, sweet boy, it’s alright.”  

“A dragon is not a ‘sweet boy’,” a voice said behind her.  It was old, like the sound of turning pages in a leather-bound book, “A dragon is death, and you have brought it here to my place.”  

She whipped around towards the sound.  A small, shrunken woman sat on a stump at the far side of the circle.  She looked like a dwarf, but she had skin as pale as the stump she sat on, and white hair that brushed the ground.  Her eyes were red, watery, and rheumy.  Dany stood straight and faced her, “Who are you?” 

“An old woman, child of flame,” her eyes narrowed, “You should not have come here, and brought that monster to my place.”  

“What is this place?” 

“The hall of grief, the place I live, the crown of ghosts...others call it High Heart.”  

Dany sighed.  People who spoke in riddles rarely had anything useful to say, and they almost always were miserly with the knowledge they did have, “I will take my dragon, then, and leave you to you...stumps.”  

“No, pray, stay a moment or two.  If you pay me I will tell you my dreams.  They never cease.” 

“A fortune teller living alone on a tall hill of weirwood stumps? I think I’ll keep my silvers, thank you,” she turned and made to re-mount Drogon.  

“Rhaegar was a strong child.  I was there when he came into the world.  Better if he hadn’t, but then your beloved Aegon would not live, would he?,” Dany stopped.  It was common knowledge that Jon was a Targaryen.  His true name, though, there were few people who knew that.  And certainly, an old woman on the top of a lonely hill should not be one of them.  She turned back to the woman.  

“You knew my brother?” 

“I was there when he was born, although I never think on it.”  

“At Summerhall?,” Dany’s throat tightened.  No one had survived Summerhall.  The woman’s gaze looked off into the space between them, unfocused, but there were tears.  

“Aye, at Summerhall.  Where the likes of you stole my Jenny from me.” 

Dany frowned, thinking about what she knew.  There had been a woman named Jenny.  She’d married prince Duncan, and he’d paid the price of the throne for it.  She’d brought a friend to court, a small, shrunken woman that she claimed was a child of the forest.  Dany’s breath caught.  Her grandsire had arranged her parents' marriage at the behest of this woman, if her words were to be believed, “How?” 

“Don’t ask it of me.  I cannot bear to think of it.  But I stayed at Summerhall for so long...your brother’s grief was strong.  I taught him songs, and he wrote one for me.  Sing it for me and I’ll tell you my dreams,” she looked at the hulking, dark form of Drogon, “I saw him born on the red waste.  I knew you’d come.”  

“I’m not a skilled singer,” Dany protested.  

“It’s no matter.  Sing the song of Jenny, with flowers in her hair.”  

Dany knew the song.  Viserys had known it, and he’d taught it to Dany.  She’d always wondered why that song, but if Rhaegar wrote it, then it made more sense that Viserys had known it, “I...suppose I can sing it.  High in the halls of the kings who are dead, Jenny would dance with her ghosts.  The ones she had lost, and the ones she had found, and the ones who loved her the most... ” 

Dany sang the song, and sadness filled her as it always did when she heard the lament.  To her, the song echoed the sadness she felt at not having a home.  Oldstones had been Jenny’s home, and she’d left it to wed her Targaryen prince, only to die at Summerhall.  So many people died at Summerhall.  If she’d been alive, even SHE might have died at Summerhall.  Her family had suffered so much.  All for the ugly iron chair.  

When Dany finished, the woman took a shaky breath and said, “You are not so bad a singer, I think.  You are what your family wanted.  Egg, he was trying to hatch dragons in that pyre at Summerhall.  Sometimes I wondered if he saw what others had.  A woman, stepping out of a pyre with three dragons.  And one there sits before me.”  

“The dragons never should have died,” Dany commented, “It was wasteful.”  

“Aye,” she agreed, “The world cannot be healed without them.  The long night will come, and the humans will die.  Protect them well.”  

“I’ll do what I can,” the sun was sinking lower in the sky, and if she didn’t leave soon she’d return too late and Jon would worry for her.  The wind snatched at the stray hairs in the braided crown around her head, and pulled at her clothes with invisible fingers.  It was cold up here, high above the clouds.  She wanted to be on dragonback, flying back to Jon, “I’ve paid what you requested, and --” 

“--Now you want what you paid for.  I cannot say you will like it, but I will tell you all the same.  I have dreamt of a wolf who runs in the sky, with eyes as blue as the stars, red hands are his crown.  I’ve dreamt of white faces with blue eyes, and from their mouths a river of blood flows.  I’ve dreamt of flames in the shape of people; they danced together and lit a candle, and the candle will light a thousand-thousand fires.  I dreamt that a pair of Krakens swam, entwined, in bloody water, and where they danced corpses rose from the depths.  I saw the sun, Targaryen, and the sun cracked open and poured life into the world.”  

Dany let the words settle in her, doing her best to remember them, but she frowned, “What do your dreams mean?” 

“I stopped trying to guess after Summerhall burned, and I was left alone with my grief.”  

Dany ran her hands up and down her thighs and stood, “Thank you for your words.  I must return home now.”  

“Home? Yes, I suppose he is.  Begone with you,” with that said, the woman abruptly stood, and waddled down the opposite side of the hill.  Dany mounted Drogon and flew straight for the inn, more than a little discomfited.  Her thoughts spun as she flew.  A wolf who runs in the sky.  Jon, perhaps? Although his eyes aren’t blue.  None of the Starks had blue eyes, save Sansa.  Flames in the shapes of people? It’s all nonsense.   She’d believed in prophecy before, and where had it gotten her? Dead, that’s where.  She could not be guided by dreams and visions.  By the time she’d returned to camp, she’d banished the gloom of High Heart from her mind.  She focused on Jon, and the evening he’d promised her.  

The sky was purple when she landed, the first stars showing in the dark.  Rhaegal was sleeping on the grass, tail draped over his nose, when they landed.  He roused some, blinking his big, yellow eyes at them.  He yawned and stretched, and when Dany dismounted the two of them took off into the night to hunt.  She left the grassy area that they made their nest in, and made her way to the inn, where she hoped Jon was.  

Light, happy and golden, poured through the windows into the gathering night.  Stark and Targaryen banners hung from poles in the front of the inn, flapping in the gentle night breeze next to the 7-tailed peace banner.  Two guards wearing the direwolf head of the Starks stood at attention next to the door.  Rickard and James, if she remembered them correctly.  She tried to remember the names of the guards.  There was no reason not to, and she would never understand nobility that refused to become acquainted with their own household.  They nodded at her, and opened the door for her.  No music flooded out, but the sound of voices did.  She entered, glad of the warmth, and the guard shut the door behind her.  Ashara was seated at a table with Arya and Imari, and Dany smiled at them, walking over.  

“Hello,” she said.  

“Ah, you’ve returned from your tour? How did it look?,” Ashara asked.  

“As bad as the rest of the Riverlands.  Bran...could do better,” she replied.  

“You don’t know that it’s Bran,” Arya scowled at and then at whatever was in her cup.  

“If it’s not your brother’s fault, I don’t know who to hold responsible.”  

“Yourself?,” Arya spat back.  Oh, she was spoiling for a fight.  Dany had had a long day, and she wasn’t going to give her one.  

“Your thoughts are your own, Arya.  I’ll not try to dissuade you,” her tone was dismissive, “Have any of you seen Jon?” 

“Upstairs,” Arya waved her hand and took a long swig of her drink.  

“Then I think I’ll join him.  Have a pleasant evening.”  

“You too,” said Ashara, a small, knowing smile on her face, “I softened him up for you.”  

“Aaah, Ash,” Imari laughed, “ softened is not what she wants of lord Snow.” 

Arya choked on her drink, coughing behind her hand, and Ashara laughed.  Dany’s cheeks heated and she stumbled a little, “Well...good evening.” 

She turned and left before she had to be subjected to additional bawdy japes.  She didn’t know why it embarrassed her, because it wasn’t as if they were subtle about it.  Somehow discussing it directly was different, and she never had liked being teased.  Well, except by Jon.  He teased her and he was never laughing at her, but instead trying to get her to laugh at herself.  She left the others behind and ascended the stairs to their room.  

When she entered, the room was bright and warm.  A fire was merrily burning in the hearth, the wood occasionally popping and cracking.  And there were candles...so many candles.  True to his word, Jon had put them on every windowsill, sconce, shelf, and free square of space he could manage without threatening to burn down the building.  The big bed was made, the covers neat and smooth. It was clean, too, the normal brik-a-brak of life stowed for the moment, and the floor freshly swept.  

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon stood over the wash basin in front of the mirror, stripped to the waist and rubbing a cloth over his face.  His hair was wet from washing, little drops of water tracing lines down the defined muscles of his back.  Dany swallowed, watching him for a few seconds before remembering to close and lock the door behind her.  When he heard it shut he finished washing his face, and tossed the cloth into the basin of water.  It landed with a wet plop, splashing little bits of water onto the mirror.  He looked at her, one corner of his mouth curling upwards.  His posture changed subtly, shifting from relaxed to the self-assured way he carried himself when he wore his armor and sword.  His tone was deep and firm, exactly as she’d asked him days ago in their tent.  

“Hello, Dany.  Did you have a good flight?” 

“Yes,” their eyes didn’t stray from each other, although Dany wanted to look down and drink in the sight of him bathed in the candle light.  

“I’ve saved some supper for you.  Why don’t you sit and eat?,” he gestured with his head to the small dining table that was near the hearth.  

“I’d rather--”  

“Dany,” the thread of command was there.  He hadn’t used it once all day, no matter how often he’d teased her.  And even in the Eyrie he’d used his hands and his body to show her what he wanted from her, not his voice.  It was...effective, “Sit.  Eat.  Drink your fill.”  

She didn’t scramble, no, she was far too much of a queen for that, but she did nod in acknowledgement and gracefully lower herself into one of the chairs.  There was fresh bread and hard cheese, butter, thick rabbit stew, and a few pieces of preserved apple in a dish.  Jon came over and placed the pitcher from the wash bin near the fire to warm, and then stood next to the table, his arms crossed.  He watched her take the first bites.  He looked impassive and unaffected, but she could tell from the lump in the front of his pants that he most definitely was not. His eyes watched her mouth as she ate and drank, and she exaggerated the movements.  The silence stretched while he watched and she consumed her fill, eating more than she had in days.  She tried to eat as little as possible; every slice of bread she didn’t eat was a slice that stayed in the stores to feed the army.  Jon disliked the habit, and this was his way of filling her belly for at least one night.  When she was done, and had eaten enough to satisfy him, she wiped her mouth and sat patiently in her chair.  He nodded and uncrossed his arms, 

He walked to the back of her chair, and turned around, “What--” 

“Face forward, love,” she did as asked, although she found it hard to follow directions rather than give them.  But she’d asked for this, so she’d see it through.  

His hands were gentle.  They gently brushed over the braid around the crown of her head, finding all of the pins and taking them out one by one.  He dropped them on the table next to her so they wouldn’t get lost, but eventually she closed her eyes and relaxed into the sensations provided by his hands working her hair.  When all the pins were gone, he unwrapped the long braid from her head and took the tie out of the bottom of it.  He unwove the braid until he reached the nape of her neck, and untied that as well.  She sighed happily, feeling the weight relax off of her scalp.  He produced one of her combs and started using it to work the tangles out of her hair.  He combed it until it shone like beaten silver in the fire light, paying special attention to her scalp.  His fingers slid through the strands, and the tiny tugging sensations relaxed her and made her shiver pleasantly.  Then his fingers brushed the shell of her ear, tracing the curves.  

“Stand,” his voice was softer, but no less firm.  She was too relaxed to bother arguing anyway, so she stood.  Her shoulders, thighs, and fingers ached from flying so much today, and she saw his eyebrow raise when he noticed her small grimace of pain, “What’s that?” 

“Sore from riding,” she answered, “As usual, I suppose.” 

In truth, it was something she barely noticed.  After the early weeks riding with the Khalasar, she’d never noticed riding pain again.  But Jon nodded, no doubt filing the information away.  He took hold of her right hand, lifting it and untying the laces at the arms of it, loosening them.  He repeated the motion with the right one.  He went to unfasten the closure in the front and she stopped him, “You don’t have to do that.  I’m not so sore that I can’t undress.”  

He took one of her hands in his, and used the other to hold her chin with his thumb and forefinger, making sure her violet eyes met his black ones, “Dany, I will always enjoy caring for you.  Even moreso because you rarely allow me to do it.  But tonight? Tonight, I want you to remember who you belong to.  I want you to be drowning in soft, sweet pleasure before I make you ache with sharper need.”  

Seven hells, where had he learned to talk like that? She should have asked him to command her sooner.  She pressed her thighs together and swallowed, nodding as much as his hand would allow, “Undress me, then, if you’d like.”  

He let go over and went back to his task, unfastening her charcoal woolen overdress and pushing the halves apart before he worked them over her shoulders and off of her arms.  He carefully laid it over the back of the chair.  He bent down, collecting the hem of her loose, sheer, pleated underdress in his hands and working it up her body and over her head and raised arms.  Next came the tighter woolen shirt she wore under the overdress for added warmth in the frigid winter.  He worked it up and over her head, and she felt her hair brush her hips when it fell free of the shirt.  He knelt in front of her on one knee and had her balance by putting her hand on his shoulder while he removed one boot and then the other.  Her pants came off next, his fingers trailing tantalizingly along her skin while he worked them off of her legs.  Last were her smallclothes, removed just as gently as the rest of it.  He stood and faced her, kissing her gently on her forehead, his hands resting on her upper arms.  She laid her hands lightly on his hips, feeling like the attention was almost too much.  She’d done nothing in return, so she went to unfasten his pants.  He stopped her by letting go of her arms and taking her hands in his, kissing her fingers.  

“Jon, let me return some of your kind attention.”  

“No,” his tone was firm, but not mean, “You never let me do this.  You’ll receive until I command you to give.  I will touch you as I like, where I like.  Now go, stand near the fire, I don’t want you to catch a chill.” 

She didn’t know why, but she obeyed.  It made her uncomfortable to be the subject of his attention.  Almost as if she needed to return it or he’d grow disinterested and be unsatisfied with the encounter.  But he’d said that wasn’t true, so she must needs take him at his word.  She leaned back against the smooth stones surrounding the hearth, soaking up their warmth with a smile.  

Jon chuckled low in his throat, “I don’t know how you can stand to touch those rocks.  They burn me.”  

She shrugged, “The same way I was safe in Drogo’s pyre, the same way I could touch braziers and not be burned, and the same way I survived the fire that made me the only Kahleesi.  I am a Targaryen.  So are you.  You can stand the heat better than you know, I think.”  

“I have always enjoyed bathing in the hot springs at Winterfell.  Nothing else ever seemed hot enough,” he bent down and picked up the pitcher with the water and dipped in the clean washing cloth.  

He started at her face, wiping off the sweat and grime of the day.  Across her brow and eyelids, down her nose, cheeks, and gently across her lips.  Ears and then her neck, to her shoulders and decolletage.  He dripped hot water down her body, letting it swirl in thin streams down her stomach.  His face was a mask of concentration as he used the cloth to clean under her arms and breasts where sweat seemed to collect often.  He was gentle and thorough, stopping to kiss her belly before washing her legs and gently between them.  That sent small shivers of pleasure through her, mixing with the relaxation that she felt at the intense attention.  He had her turn around, and he careful lifted her hair out of the way and poured the water down her shoulders and her spine, letting it curve down her hips and the soft, round landscape of her bottom.  

She felt him stand, and heard the wet plop of the cloth into the pitcher.  She could feel his presence behind her and she leaned back against him, tilting her head back and resting it on his shoulder, “Thank you.”  

He kissed her temple, and wrapped his warm arms around her, “It is the least of the things I want to do to you.”  

“Promises, promises,” she muttered with a lazy smile.  

“Go sit on the bed,” he let her go so she could obey him, and she walked away.  She turned to make a joke, but it caught in her throat when she saw the look in his eyes.  Gone was the softness, replaced by possessive hunger.  She was suddenly reminded of all the time he spent warged into Ghost, and she swallowed.  She sat, her feet flat on the floor and her hands resting lightly on her thighs, her eyes locked on his.  He walked towards her, his posture the kind of casual grace he adapted when he wanted to be ready to swing his sword.  It was a warrior’s resting post, with his hands clasped behind his back.  His muscles moved as he walked, defined by the candlelight, and the firelight behind him wreathed his dark hair in an orange glow.  She swallowed, excitement thrilling through her, “Tell me, Dany.  Of all the things we’ve done together, to each other, what has been your favorite?” 

“You mean outside of this?” 

The ghost of a smile pushed at one corner of his mouth, “Yes, outside of this.”  

She closed her eyes briefly, filtering through all of the memories she had of them.  The first that came to her mind was the day he’d claimed Rhaegal.  She’d known then, on some level, what he was, but couldn’t see how it was possible.  She’d just felt the unbound joy of watching him climb on Rhaegal’s back, of them taking off together, buzzing the castle walls...whooping happily as she urged Drogon after them.  The graceful dance through the chasm, the sweet fantasy of simply being together as Jon and Dany.  It was the height of their happiness before...well, before it had all come apart.  Before Sam Tarly had given Jon the news of his parentage.  Before the dead had come, and everything else.  The thing was, though, they’d flown even higher since then.  Together.  They’d had more time to discover each other, to learn and grow.  So there was only one answer to his question.  She opened her eyes, “The time yet to come.”  

His eyebrow raised, “That’s not what I was expecting.”  

“I was thinking of the day you claimed Rhaegal and how good it felt to finally have found an equal.  But since then...we have all of this precious, almost stolen, time.  We get closer and try new things...and I finally look forward to what’s to come.  So, Aegon Targaryen, the next piece of our future.  Our next height.”  

He smiled for real then, “There she is.  There is the queen.  There is the woman I love.  The one who states her truth and takes the vulnerability of doing so and turns it into a strength.  The one whose honesty is a shield and a sword.”  

With a shock, she realized he was right.  That ever since she’d returned she’d been floating and lost.  That she’d stepped back and allowed others to have power over her because she felt she owed it to them for King’s Landing.  That she constantly needed to beg for forgiveness.  And she did, but it wasn’t forgiveness from the nobility that she needed, it was forgiveness from the people, and the only way she was going to get it was to use her skill, her leadership, to make their lives better.  She shouldn’t be queen because it was a birthright.  She should be queen because she knew what it was to be hungry, hunted, poor, and afraid.  Because she had the strength and the ability to lift them out of that; to make their lives better.  This was who she was.  And she would lay that in front of the only person she knew was truly her equal, the one who made her finally feel worthy again.  She leaned back on her arms and spread her legs.  

“I am yours.  Only yours.  We are worthy of each other.  I trust you.  What would you have of me, my lord?” 

“Everything,” he growled, bending down and pushing forward in one quick, graceful movement.  He caught her mouth with his, and his kiss was feral, as if his body could not contain his desire.  His weight pushed her backwards on the bed until she was laying down, and he let go of her mouth to kiss a trail down her body.  He licked and kissed the line of her collarbones, and then kissed down her sternum, stopping to suck and tease each of her nipples to hard peaks.  Then down her stomach, and lower still, past the soft tuft of silver hair at the apex of her thighs.  He licked up her seam with the tip of his tongue, from her opening to the top, and then pushed into her folds to lick and suck her clit.  She draped her legs over his strong shoulders, letting her body move and writhe with the pleasure he was giving her.  

He found the pattern that made her breath come fastest, that made her back arch highest.  She didn’t bother to contain her moans and cries tonight, as the walls of an inn were much thicker than the cloth of the tent.  One hand gripped the coverlet, and the other was tangled in his soft, black hair.  Her thighs gripped him harder the closer he pushed her to the edge, but he didn’t seem to mind.  Closer and closer his skilled mouth got her, the extended teasing and waiting making it happen faster than usual.  She was close, so close...

And then his mouth was gone and she gave a screech of protest.  He kissed the insides of her thighs and said, “Turnabout is fair play.”  

Her violet eyes darkened with lust, “Then you’d better take off your pants.” 

“Not quite yet,”  He stood up from between her legs and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, “Kneel over there, facing the wall.” 

The bed was more than large enough for the two of them, but it was pushed against the wall.  So she got up on her knees, her body wanting nothing more than for him to finish what he’d started, and turned to face the wall.  She felt the bed dip as he got on behind her, and his hands wrapped around her wrists.  He lifted her hands and laid them flat against the wall, and spoke quietly, making sure that the lengths of their bodies touched while he spoke, “I will pleasure you as long as your hands stay on the wall.  If even one comes off, I’ll stop.  So hold on for as long as you can, my beautiful queen.”  

“And may...,” she took a deep breath, the asking of it feeling strange to her, “May I come?”  

“Have I given you leave to do so?,” she shook her head, “Then you may not.  Just as I wasn’t allowed to finish until you allowed it, you’ll get no completion without me.  But you will get it.  I don’t make empty promises.”  

“No you do not,” she pressed her forehead against the cool, smooth plaster of the wall and pressed her hands flat, spreading her fingers, and moving her knees apart some.  He didn’t move away from her, and instead he curved his arm around her and pressed a fingertip between the halves of her slit, finding the slick, swollen nub within.  He moved in teasing circles, his touches lighter than she wanted them, but not so light that they didn’t make her push her hips against his hand.  He added a second finger, and more pressure, and then his other hand came up and cupped her breast, kneading it and teasing her sensitive nipple.  Her hips rocked and she pressed back against him, feeling only a thickness behind those cursed pants he wore.  She felt a drop of wetness slide down her thighs, and were they pressed together she knew they’d be a slick mess.  The muscles inside her clenched, wanting to have something to clench around.  She was too empty.  His fingers found an especially pleasurable spot and she cried out, “Yes! Right there!”  

He obliged, but her over-aroused body was skating too fast towards an orgasm she didn’t have permission to have, and her breath caught.  She was too distracted to form the words but Jon seemed to realize how close she was, and he stopped, taking his fingers away and holding her close until she cooled off enough to nod at him to continue.  His fingers found their way back between her legs, although he switched hands to vary the sensation.  Closer and closer and then...she forgot herself.  She felt too good, and reached behind her to grab for Jon.  She realized her mistake the second she was making it and her hand only came a few millimeters off of the wall, but it didn’t matter.  Jon stopped touching her and she cursed a blue streak, and he only laughed quietly, pulling away from her.  

“I really thought you’d make it longer than that.  We’ll have to practice some.”

“I’m going to feed you to Drogon,” she rasped, her words ragged and forced out around the lust.  

“If you still want to feed me to Drogon when we’re done, you’re welcome to it.  Until then, turn around and sit up against the wall, with your legs bent and your knees open,” her thoughts were scattered, and every inch of her felt primed to come at the slightest touch from him, and she didn’t question his command, she simply obeyed.  She didn’t have the wherewithal to question how exposed she felt as she normally might have, so she leaned back against the smooth plaster and pulled her knees up, opening her legs to him.  

There was nothing but desire on his face as he watched her.  She could feel the intensity of it, even though he stood a few feet from the bed to look at her.  She looked back, through the haze of endorphins that coursed through her.  He toed his boots off and her eyes widened, hoping that he was finally taking his clothes off.  Next came the woolen socks, and then finally he undid the ties for his pants, hooking his fingers under the waistband.  He slid his pants and smallclothes off in one motion, his hard cock nearly getting caught in the waist.  Dany giggled a little.  

“Oh yeah, laugh,” he said with a smile, pulling his pants off of his feet, “It’s your fault it’s like that.”  

“Poor baby,” she teased, “Better let me help you out then.”  

“You stay right where I put you,” he straightened, and let his gaze roam all over her exposed body, “It’s not often I get to see you like this,” they couldn’t have light inside the tent when they made love because it made their silhouettes visible to all who cared to look.  

Their eyes met and, despite their teasing, the air grew thick between them. Dany’s chest rose and fell, and she felt every breath, everything movement of air in the room across her skin.  Jon stood up straight, shoulders back, and prowled back to the bed.  He looked at her from the crown of her silver head down to the tips of her toes.  Every single inch of her was exposed to him, ripe for his perusal.  Time slowed as she waited for him to say or do anything, but he took his time committing the sight of her to memory.  

“Roll onto your stomach in the center of the bed, and put that pillow under your hips,” the demand was quiet, but his tone was firm and there was no room for argument.  She did what he said, and he helped her get the pillow in the right place.  Then she felt the warm weight of him settle across her upper thighs as he straddled her.  He leaned forward, balancing on one hand.  Then she felt the tip of him press against the divot where her ass met her thighs.  She was so wet that even that was slippery, and he was easily able to push against the soft flesh and against the warmth below.  But instead of giving her what she so desperately wanted, he found a way to nestle himself between the lips of her pussy and rub himself against her clit.  She groaned into the bed, pushing her ass up and opening her thighs so he could get a better angle.  

He moved with slow, firm strokes, grinding as much of the length of himself against her clit as he could manage at this angle.  Just once , she thought Please just slip once and push inside me.  I want you inside me.   But he didn’t, he only increased the pace of his strokes.  It was all too much for her already-sensitive clit and soon she was barely holding on from going over the edge.  

“Jon,” she begged, her voice scratchy with need, “I...” 

“Daenerys,” his voice was so strained that he nearly snapped, “Give me what’s mine.  Give me what I’ve earned.”  

“Yes!,” she cried, rocking her hips.  She stopped trying to hold on and let herself tumble over the edge.  The intensity of it made her whole body shake, the clenching and pulsing rocking her with wave after wave of sweet release.  And then, at the height of her climax, Jon slid into her.  She groaned into the bed, pushing her hips back to get him into her even faster.  He was so thick that it made her ache, but the pain was sweet.  He moved with her, inside of her, pushing her to higher heights.  When it passed she reached out and grabbed the wrist of the arm he was using to hold himself up, her hold tight and her nails digging into his flesh.  

“More,” she growled, “Please...please, more.”  

He pushed himself up some, and then used his hand to cup her jaw and force her to arch backwards against him.  His thrusts got harder and deeper, pushing against the spot inside her that made her come hard and messy.  Holding her in place, he went hard and fast, using all of the muscle he’d earned fighting in the yard and in battle.  She was not some delicate thing to him, she was strong - and equal who could handle him.  And the angle...the angle of his cock inside her was perfect, the friction inside her exactly what she needed.  

“Yes, yes, yes,” she moaned the word over and over, in time with his thrusts, like a prayer, until she was begging him not to stop.  

He didn’t.  Thank the gods, he didn’t stop.  He guided her to another release, this one deeper and messier than the first one.  Her body clenched hard around him, hard gushes of honey soaking the bed under them and coating her thighs in mess.  And she didn’t care.  Neither of them did.  He waited until the last trickle, the last tight grip of her around him, and then he let her go and pulled out.  

“Get up against the wall again,” she scrambled to obey, even though she thought she wouldn’t be able to hold herself up nearly as long as she had before.  Luckily, it wouldn’t come to that.  He laid crossways on the bed, putting his head under her spread thighs.  He licked and kissed and sucked, tasting the mess that had come from her before he urged her to settle on him.  He held her hips, and she leaned forward onto the wall for support.  This wasn’t the same careful, controlled administration of pleasure that he’d started with earlier in the evening.  Now he set to work like a man starved, feasting on her, licking and sucking and tasting every drop that he earned with his mouth.  She couldn’t control her body’s response, nor did she want to try.  She let herself go, let herself float on the sensations he brought.  She didn’t remember what she said or how she sounded or even how many times he brought her to her peak.  She only remembered the shaking of her thighs, and the pure, distilled joy that suffused her body.  Finally, when she thought she could take no more, she let herself fall sideways, her legs tangling around his upper body.  

He got up, wiped his face, and knelt over her, looking almost concerned, “Dany?”  

She nodded, “I can’t come again.”  

A wicked grin crossed his face, “One more time, though.  I know you can do it one more time.”  

She was limpid with pleasure, and she turned her body in the way he asked: on her side, with one leg bent up and one stretched out on the bed.  He entered her again and closed his eyes, a deep sigh leaving him.  She reached up, touched his cheek, and said, “I love that sound.”  

“Which?” 

“The sigh when you slide home.  Like you’re where you’re meant to be, finally.” 

He leaned down and kissed her, stealing her air, tasting her, “I am.”  

There were no more words after that, only the rhythm of him inside of her, the sounds of their lovemaking filling the room.  It took longer for her to come this time, but neither of them minded taking a little longer to climb those heights together.  And when she came, clutching him tight and leaving deep red marks on his back, he followed her a few quick strokes later, pushing deep and filling her.  They stayed close, locked together, until their heart rates came down.  Then he slipped out of her and got up, going to the wardrobe to pull out of heavy, warm blanket.  They pulled the messy one off the bed and wrapped themselves in each other and the clean, warm blanket.  The fire had burned low since they’d started, and the candles were low too.  So they laid in bed and watched them sputter out, one by one, until darkness came and sleep claimed them. 

Chapter Text

“You know, Bronn, I should have had them install an elevator,” he griped as his aching legs carried him to the top of the walls.  It was worse in the winter, and this winter was only two years along.  Although, if Sam was correct, it should have been over long ago.  He filed that away in his mind alongside problems for another time.  

“Maybe you can hire someone to carry you up and down,” his friend replied, his dry humor lacing every word. 

“Really? Is that in the budget?,” just one more flight and he’d be there.  

“As soon as you sacrifice some of the wine budget I’m sure we can make room.” 

“That was cold, Bronn,” in truth, he’d missed this.  He rarely had time for friends anymore, and especially these last few months, “How goes Highgarden?” 

“You already know the answer to that.  You read the invoices yourself.” 

“I meant, for you.” 

“I’m here most of the time, but it’s better than being a sellsword,” he shrugs, “I’ve a mind to take a wife, soon.” 

“The lord of Highgarden will marry well, I expect.”  

“Aye.  Having a whelp or two won’t be so bad.  Highgarden’s a better place than most for that sort of thing.” 

Tyrion nodded in agreement, thinking through eligible women in his mind, “The reach is sadly short on eligible maidens.  House Bulwer has a daughter who is of an age to be married.  Her name is Alysanne, I believe.  There are a few surviving minor Tyrells, including a young woman named Megga.  It might help secure your hold over the reach to marry a Tyrell, as few of them as are left.” 

“I’ve a mind to set my sights a bit higher.  Arianne is who I’m after.” 

Tyrion laughed, “I wish you luck in that, friend.  May as well marry the Mad Maid of the Hightower.” 

“Why’s that so funny? We get along.” 

“Arianne will make any man she finds useful sing her praises.” 

“I know.  That’s why I like her.”  

“Well, may the gods bless your quest, then,” they reached the top of the steps, and Tyrion took a moment to catch his breath before walking out onto the rampart.  He looked up and noticed an old, mangey, one-eared black cat sunning itself on the stones a few feet away and wondered if his mistress of spies watched them.  

They stood above the Gate of the Gods, at the northwestern side of the city.  The King’s Road entered here, and the walls and gate here had been extensively damaged during the sack.  It was one of the first places they’d had to repair, and the repairs showed clearly.  The stones were no longer the same red sandstone they’d been, and instead were built with whatever had been close at hand.  It made for a strange motley effect, but they were still strong.  

His aunt stood at the ramparts already.  She was a large woman, in both height and weight, and it made her intimidating to many.  She had left her gowns behind in her rooms and instead wore a red-enameled chain shirt over a gambeson and riding leathers.  She had a tunic on, too, and it was the scarlet red of her house with the lion of Lannister picked out in gold thread on the breast.  Her tooled leather sword belt hung from her substantial hips, and a bastard sword in a red leather sheath was at her side. Her helm sat on a crenellation next to her, showing the long braid that she had tamed her golden mane into.  She looked every inch a Lannister, and Tyrion knew it wasn’t just for looks.  Genna Lannister was his father’s sister, and though she’d been forced to marry one of Walder Frey’s many sons long ago, she hadn’t let that stop her from doing whatever she wanted.  She was the only one of his father’s siblings that had truly liked Tywin, even when they quarreled.  Despite that obvious personality flaw, she’d been like a mother to Tyrion and the twins, and she was an easy woman to like.  She was gregarious and cunning, quick to laugh and honest with her words.  She’d been less than pleased when the crown had restored Edmure Tully’s lands to him, but that anger had been somewhat assuaged when Tyrion made her grandson the his heir.  The teenager would inherit Casterly Rock when Tyrion died, and was even now living there and learning how to be the lord of a keep from Tyrion’s Castellion and, until recently, Genna.  

“Aunt,” Tyrion said by way of greeting when he joined her at her post.  

“Tyrion,” she replied, acknowledging him.  

Below them the fields surrounding the city stretched out in all directions, bisected by the King’s Road.  This far south any snow that fell melted quickly, so the fields were devoid of white.  They’d been churned to mud by the battles, though, and with winter upon them the grasses had yet to recover.  Not that it mattered so much, as the prince of Dorne had finally arrived.  The gates were closed to him, but his camp sat on either side of the road.  Arianne’s cousin was not a military man, and the camp showed that.  Tywin would have been disgusted by the lack of organization and the weak defenses.  It wasn’t a proper siege, not really, because Martell lacked the ships to block the Blackwater, but it wasn’t something they could ignore either.  

“It should never have come to this,” his aunt said, still looking out over the host at their gates, “You could have sent a force to meet them at the mouth of the prince’s pass, or kept them on the opposite side of any of the four rivers between Dorne and our gate.  You’ve known they were coming for months, Tyrion, and yet you never called the crown’s banners or your own.”  

She was right, of course, but Tyrion had his reasons, “After the wars, I haven’t then men in the Crownlands nor in the Westerlands.” 

“Then you have your lords paramount carry the burden.  Have the lord of the reach,” she pinned Bronn down with a withering look, “Harass them, block their way.  Something , nephew, instead of allowing them to reach your gates.”  

“My men are too busy feeding the rest of the realm, or have you forgotten that the Reach is the only place warm enough to farm right now?” 

“It wasn’t worth the sacrifice,” Tyrion agreed, “Not when we were so depleted.  And besides, we may not have to deal with them at all.”  

“Ah yes,” Genna sighed, her tone like a knife coated in honey, “The other army you’ve allowed to progress unimpeded.” 

Tyrion knew his aunt didn’t understand or believe in the army of the dead.  Well, she would, because the problem was going to get worse before it got better, “I know Jon Snow, and I know Queen Sansa.  If they are travelling under a peace banner, then they mean it.  Lord Snow doesn’t know how to lie.”  

More was the pity, if he was being honest with himself.  Some trouble could certainly have been spared two years ago had Jon Snow found it in himself to lie.  Genna shook her head, her golden braid swaying gently, “Everyone lies, and they have two dragons.”  

“They do.  And how many dragons does Manfrey have?” 

“None,” Bronn supplied.  

“I am willing to extend a bit of trust to Jon, which means that the dragon army might well be allies.  I’ve seen what they can do, and I won’t make the mistake of making enemies of them twice,” the entire thing still haunted him, as it did most people who’d lived through the queen and her sack.  

“The dragon bitch might be a problem though,” Bronn spat.  

“Yes,” she was the one thing Tyrion couldn’t account for.  Sometimes Daenerys acted honorably, and other times...other times she killed innocents, “If she decides to sack the city again we can do nothing to stop her, and I won’t waste lives trying to do it.  If she’s coming for the throne, though, she has a strange way of doing it.  Travelling with Sansa Stark’s army under a peace banner with Jon by her side.  It’s strange enough to give me pause.”  

“Still no ravens from them, though,” Genna commented, shelving her complaints for the moment.  

“Ravens have been sparse as of late from all over.  The winter seems to be treating them especially poorly,” he replied.  

“The great bloody lot of them here seem to be managing just fine,” Bronn hated birds in general, and saw the pigeons and ravens that overran the city to be nothing more than rats with wings.  

“They’re useful, Bronn.  Let it go,” it was a conversation they’d had all too many times.  Tyrion complained about his legs, and Bronn complained about...well, anything, really, but of late it’d been the birds.  

Genna turned them back to the issue at hand, “Well, he’s here now, so we need to deal with him.  Has he told you what he wants? Requested parlay?” 

“He will, soon,” a fourth voice interjected into their conversation from Bronn’s far side, and Tyrion nearly jumped off the ramparts in surprise.  Genna smiled and shook her head, but Bronn had his sword halfway out of its sheath.  

“Bethany! Mercy’s tits, girl, how many times have I told you not to do that? Sneak around this castle like a damned rat, nearly murdering a man with a heart attack.”  

“If you stopped being so funny, I’d stop doing it,” there was a smile at the corner of the young woman’s mouth.  The wind tugged at her dark hair and her black cloak.  Her tabby, as always, was nearby, and it jumped up onto the crenellation.  She petted it absently as she looked down at the army, “He will send a page tomorrow morning with a request for parley.  He knows he can’t siege the city, but he will certainly harass us given the chance.  ‘I will bust open those pretty new walls and drag Doran’s snake out by the roots of her hair if they don’t give her to me’, he said.”  

“Well, that’s what we suspected he’d want,” Genna said.  

“Indeed,” Tyrion had known from the first that it would come down to Arianne.  

“Arianne called her banners.  They’re at Starfall,” Bethany continued.  

“Bringing them here by ship would certainly give us more swords should we need it.  It would get them here faster, too,” Tyrion mused.  He made a mental note to go find Davos later.  Right now he was where he’d been for days - at the docks organizing the evacuation of anyone who wished to cross the Blackwater and leave, or any who wished to enter King’s Landing from the New City.  

“I assume we’re not giving him Arianne?,” Genna asked.  

Bronn shook his head, but it was Tyrion that said, “She’s Doran’s rightful heir.  I might not like her much, but she has the truth of it.  She has from the beginning: denying her aid undermines the system of inheritance, and may go so far as to cause Dorne to leave the six kingdoms.  Their connection has always been tenuous at best.  Arianne is the demon I know, and Manfrey is doing nothing to convince me that he’d be a better choice of ally.” 

“Every day you let him squat outside the gates is a day that shows how powerless the throne has become,” Gemma leaned forward against the crenellation, her fingers tensing against the stones, “You better pray that lord Snow is what you think he is, and that he gets here soon.”  

“Bethany,” Tyrion asked, “Can you see so far as their camp?” 

She shook her head, “I’m not as strong as the king.  But there is no need, two messengers are close.  They’ll be here soon.  I heard them use their names; Gilly and Sarella.”  

Tyrion sighed in relief, “Finally, some good news.  Gilly is the grand Maester’s wife and Sarella is the eldest of Arianne’s cousins.  They’re the ones she sent to Dragonstone ahead of Davos.”  

“Ah,” Bethany said and nodded, “I saw them on the road last night.  They’d only be a few hours' ride if Manfrey wasn’t in the way, but they’ll have to sneak around him and find a different way into the city.”  

“I’ll tell Arianne,” Bronn offered, turning from the crenellations, “She might be able to have one of the other Sand Snakes help.  One of the younger ones knows this city better than Maegor did.  You ever met Loreza, Bethany?” 

“No,” the cat jumped down and rubbed against Bethany’s legs.  

“You’ll get along like a house aflame.  Come with me and I’ll introduce you.”  

“Alright,” she, as usual, didn’t bother saying goodbye and started down the steps they’d come up.  

“I’ll find you later,” Bronn said to Tyrion and Gemma, and followed Bethany down the stairs.  

“That child is unnerving,” Gemma commented.  

“I’d like to say you get used to it, but I never have.  Despite that, I’m fond of her.” 

“Yes.  You always have liked people who were different.”  

“I have not had the chance to say it yet, but thank you for coming to the city.”  

“I could not turn down the chance to be the master of war.  And I wanted to check up on you.”  

Tyrion smiled at her, “How is my cousin doing back at Casterly Rock?” 

“He’s taken to his teaching admirably,” She looked down at him, “You still are of a mind not to marry?” 

“Yes.  It is for the best.  My duties keep me here, besides.”  

“I’m of two minds about that.  I like seeing my son as the lord of Casterly Rock, but I’d always hoped...I think you would have made a much better father than Tywin, despite how alike the two of you were.”  

That surprised him and he blinked stupidly, “Are you saying you’d like for me to have children?” 

“You’re the last of Tywin’s line.  And if you were to have children, I see no reason why a girl could not marry Ty or a boy marry one of my granddaughters.  My daughter-in-law is pregnant again, but her oldest is a sweet girl.  She and Lyonel are still young and will make more children.  Either way, Casterly Rock stays in my family.”  

“I confess, aunt, I had not expected you to want me to marry nor have children.  I...appreciate you saying so,” it was rare that he was truly stunned, but he had no real response from her.  He hadn’t even considered re-marrying for a third, and hopefully more successful, time.  He met his needs through coin instead.  And children? He hadn’t thought of children since he was much younger.  But she was right.  Casterly Rock was his, and he could remarry.  He shook his head to clear it.  Of all the issues in his life, this was the least pressing.  He had an heir, and that was good enough for now.  

She seemed to sense his change in thoughts and was kind enough to change the subject, “What will we do about them? We can’t just rely on Jon Snow to clear them out with a dragon.” 

“I confess, aunt, I am sick to death of war and loss.” 

“Ah, there it is.”

“What--?”

“You did not meet them at the prince’s pass because you could not stomach the fighting, not because you don’t have the men,” her hand dropped to his shoulder and she squeezed gently, “I understand that feeling, but you can’t listen to it.  You’ve endangered all of us.  Call your banners, Tyrion.  Make what army you can.  Send a raven to Yara Greyjoy.  The crown has the strongest relationship with the Iron Islands it’s ever had.  Use it.”  

He nodded, knowing she was right, “You’d like Yara, I think.  She has a good head on her shoulders.  She’s been turning the Iron Born to ship building and trading rather than raiding.  She went so far as to marry Lord Mallister’s son to get the raw materials and port access she needed.”  

“She sounds competent.”  

“She is,” Tyrion looked out at the field again, “Two armies descending on us.  The dead walking again.  I’ve even heard the odd story about trouble in the Stepstones.  It’s as if we learned nothing.”  

“It is the way of men.  You’re all great fools.  Perhaps you should have let the woman with the dragon have the throne after all.”  

“It was supposed to be different under Bran.” 

“And where is our exalted leader? I’ve not yet met him.”  

“Who knows? He withdraws for days at a time, and when we can find him he’s usually in the Godswood doing seven know what, but when he’s...like that...we can’t talk to him.  Rarely comes to small council meetings anymore.  For all intents and purposes, I am king.”  

“Ah, well, you’ve a good mind for it.”  

“I never wanted to be king.  I am better when I can work freely as an advisor.”  

“When did this weakness enter you, nephew?” 

“When I saw thousands die in the cold at the hands of dead men.  When I watched thousands more die to dragonflame.”  

“I ask you again, what will you do about the men at your doorstep?” 

“You are master of war, what would you suggest?” 

“Parley with them.  See how loyal his men really are.  If they are loyal, you’ll need to call the crown’s banners.  We need men, and the city watch won’t be enough to defend us.  If their loyalty is...suspect, or can be bought with a well-considered marriage, well, we’ve four sand snakes and a princess.  There’s no reason for Manfrey to continue drawing breath.  Frankley, if that Dornish girl is as clever as you’ve said, I don’t see why this didn’t occur to her sooner.”  

“My guess would be pride.”  

His aunt made a noise of disgust and shook her head, “Such a mess you’ve all made of things,” She picked up her helm and held it with her hand through the eye sockets, “I will take my leave of you, Tyrion.  I’ve a master of law to chivvy into line.”  

He nodded absently, “Good afternoon.” 

She left down the steps and Tyrion was alone with his thoughts.  How had he let it come to this? All of his experience and resources and he’d missed so many things, done so many things wrong.  He’d been too focused on rebuilding, and on feeding the people, that he’d let the politics catch him by surprise.  He constantly felt as if he couldn’t see far enough, couldn’t get his mind around the whole picture, like he was half in the dark.  He took on too much responsibility, he knew.  He should trust more to his advisors, but that’s not who he was.  In any event, it was Bran who should be sharing this responsibility more fully with him.  Bran, who knew all things but shared so little he might as well share nothing at all.  Bran, who spent all of his time watching the past or flitting from animal to animal.  Bran was supposed to be an objective observer.  Someone who was capable of seeing the current plight in the context of the rest of history, but that was not who he was.  He was absent and negligent, only superior to Robert in that Robert had spent money like water.  His patience with Bran’s behavior could only be stretched so far, and it was time to admit that their decision was the wrong one and Bran was an ineffective ruler.  

He took one last look at the army and left the walls, making his way back to the castle, his guards in tow.  On return to the Red Keep, he had his supper made and ordered it sent to his rooms, then he started his climb to the top.  It took longer than he wanted, and his whole body hurt by the time he made it, but when he opened his door it turned out that the kitchens had been quicker than he was.  His food was laid out.  His guards took their places outside his door, and he closed it behind him, sinking into his place at the table with a groan of relief.  

He lifted the lid and the steam filtered up towards his face.  Roast mashed radishes were drowning in butter and seasoned with salt.  Grease dripped from the thick slab of ham, and several heavy slices of bread waited for him.  He ate with relish, finally alone for the first time that day.  He down three cups of wine and felt none of it beside the warm meal in his belly.  When he was finished, he sank back in his chair, tilting his head back and letting his eyes drift closed.  The warmth of the fire, the comfort of his chair, and his full belly coaxed the exhaustion to the surface.  He felt the blackness of sleep slowly claiming him, and he decided to do nothing to stop it.  

Thump.

Tyrion opened his eyes, confused as to where the noise came from.  He sat quietly, listening for another noise.  There, scratches on the other side of his door.  No , he thought, you’re going insane.  It’s not that.  You’re just hearing things .  

Another, quieter set of taps came from the other side of the door.  He looked around for a weapon and grabbed the closest thing - a poker from the fire.  He crept towards his door, holding the poker in front of him like a sword.  He got closer slowly, and heard another scratching noise.  Taking a deep breath, he reached for the knob, turning it slowly.  

His aim had been to open the door slowly, but it flew open and the weight on the other side of it tumbled through.  He dropped the poker with a clang, attempting to catch the woman who fell into his quarters.  He was too small, and he couldn’t support her weight, but he managed to slow her fall some.  

Arianne Martell laid on her back in his doorway, her brown hair spilled across the floor and her orange silk dress fanning out in a pool around her.  Her breathing was harsh, and there was blood around her mouth, but her eyes were open.  Her mouth moved uselessly, trying to speak.  

“Guards! Find a maester! Send for Sam,” Guards? Where were they? His eyes frantically searched the hallway, but there was no one.  

Her fingers plucked at his tunic and he looked down again.  She met his eyes and took a deep, rasping breath, “Dark....star....” 

She coughed, blood splattering in his face.  Her fingers went still.  Arianne closed her eyes. 

Chapter Text

“How many are there?,” she attempted to sound calm and collected, but the whole situation unnerved her to her core.  

“We’ve lost count, your grace,” the current captain of her guards, Robett Glover, stood before her, grey head slightly bowed.  After she’d ascended the throne she’d needed someone who she knew was loyal, experienced, and was not an heir.  Robett was already head of his house and had spoken for her queenship on several occasions so, despite his decision not to fight alongside Winterfell in the Great Battle, she’d taken him into her service.  It seemed, however, that he’d not been able to escape that particular war.  

“And our supplies of Dragonglass?,” she asked.  He looked up and shook his head.  

“We’ve tried to make the arrowheads as small as possible, but it isn’t helping.  We’re burning through the stuff faster than expected.”  

She stood, and her guards stood with her, “Take me to the watch point and show me.”  

“Again?” 

“Yes, again.  Every time you say it is worse rather than better,” She stepped down from the dais and he fell in step beside her.  Tormund, her shadow, led the way.  She didn’t really need to be shown to the watch point, but she’d prefer the escort all the same.  

They crossed from the main keep across the bridge and through the armory.  From there, they descended and went through a small hallway that connected to the guards’ building.  They passed through the main hallway of that building, much to Sansa’s distaste.  The windows that typically made this building much brighter had been completely boarded over, leaving torches as the only light.  They cast flickering shadows on the wall, and illuminated little but the worn stone walls.  To her left, the boards shuddered under the weight of the bodies on the other side, and Sansa could hear their muffled cries.  She ignored them, walking forward through the gloom, but she couldn’t help the unease that crept up her spine.   

There was a newly built passage from the guard tower to the base of the old first keep, meant to be a line of defense should the boards on the windows give out.  It was no longer possible to enter the First Keep or the Guard’s Hall through any route but the one they’d just used.  It was much the same on the western side of the courtyard that contained the Lichyard and the entrance to the crypts.  The passage from the Lichyard to the small courtyard near the north gate had been blocked as well, although that had been less difficult.  All of the archways that punctuated internal walls had doors or gates, but they’d taken the time to carefully reinforce the heavy iron gate and it showed nary a crack.  After the night she and Tormund had been attacked returning to the keep the dead hadn’t stopped coming.  It had been a trickle at first, which had given them time to seal the windows and erect the barriers, but now it was a flow and more of them came out of the ground every day.  There were thousands of years’ worth of bodies in this ground, and so there was no shortage of walking dead.  

She crossed into the First Keep, the squat, round drum tower that had been built long ago by Bran the Builder.  It was still in passable condition, and as it had been turned into an observation point and makeshift war room, the men had taken the time to reinforce any weaknesses.  They’d also covered all the windows and doors in the first three levels, leaving the door from the Guard’s Hall as the only way to get in and out on the ground.  There was one other door, but it led out onto the walls near the broken tower.  All of this had served to make a sort of pit in which to contain the dead and allow archers to shoot them down.  Wood was in no short supply, but the obsidian was becoming a problem. Fire would work, too, but they’d been cautious, not wanting to set Winterfell itself alight.  Thus far, the only dead had come from the lichyard and the crypts, and the people in the Winter Town were safe. 

The inside of the First Keep was also lit by torches, but here there were more people.  The kitchens of the keep had been cleared and put to use again so that the soldiers, guards and craftspeople handling the problem would not have to go far to be fed and watered.  The old hall had been cleared as well, and tables dragged in from the Great Hall to give them a place to eat.  They all slept and worked in shifts, and so people were always coming and going.  Few lingered on the ground level, though.  The sounds of the dead floated down the halls, muffled by the thick wooden boards covering openings.  It occurred to Sansa that this wasn’t the first time some of those voices echoed down this hall.  In life, this might have been their home until the Great Hall and the Great Keep were built and the First Keep was abandoned.  The thought made her distinctly uncomfortable, and she hurried through the hall towards the steps.  

They came to the staircase, a smaller back one usually used for servants.  There were many flights of stairs, but most had been too unsafe to use, and once this one was selected the rest had been blocked off and the doors to them shut.  She started up to the next level, her hand running along a new railing.  Under her feet she felt the depressions worn into the steps by thousands of feet.  This was her home, too, no matter how old it was.  It’d been built by her family and it was part of Winterfell.  So up she climbed, nodding politely to anyone she passed.  She didn’t go through the door to the second floor when they reached that landing, as she had no reason to visit the people who were making arrows.  The third floor was skipped as well.  It contained the rooms that had been cleared and refreshed for the use of the people who didn’t normally stay inside the walls, or who had been living in the guards hall.  The dead were quieter here, the sounds of their fury fading until she couldn’t hear them at all.  Up and up she climbed, seeing more people as she ascended towards the war room.  

At the top of the stairwell the heavy wooden door stood open.  Tormund entered first, followed by Robett.  Sansa was in the middle, her two guards trailing behind.  The room at the top was large, taking up the whole floor.  She suspected that at some point it had been rooms for the kings and queens of winter, because flecks of paint from a mural still clung to the gently domed ceiling, and there was a worn mosaic in the center of the floor depicting the direwolf of her house.  Four heavy carved pillars were on one side of the room, as if they’d been the posts of a bed, and across from them was a large, ornate fireplace.  There were thick lines on the floor too that looked to be the remains of inner walls, but if there’d been any rubble up here from those walls falling it was removed when they’d started boarding up the windows and making the keep more habitable.  A heavy table had been brought up, as well as an assortment of chairs and small tables, and it was now covered in papers and ink.  There were arrows stacked around the edges of the room, and a few racks of bows and arrows.  There was a fire in the fireplace, and most of the windows, while not boarded, were shuttered against the cold.  It might as well not have been burning at all, because Sansa could still hear the wind rattling and feel the chill, and the furniture did nothing to make the room feel more comfortable.  Meera, who’d refused to return to Greywater Watch when her father had tried to order her, sat in one of the chairs in front of the fire, dark curls pulled back in a leather thong, and her furred cloak wrapped around her.  A cup of something steaming sat on a table next to her.  

When Sansa entered, Meera stood and smiled, “Your grace.”  

“Hello Meera,” Sansa liked Meera well enough, but she couldn’t bring herself to return the smile, “Show me the dead, if you would.”  

When Jon left he’d taken nearly all the good men left in the north with him.  Some had joined them on the way south, as he hadn’t waited for them all to arrive before he went racing south on his dragon.  That meant that he’d left behind greybeards and green boys, and very few of those had any skill with a bow and arrow.  Meera, on the other hand, was especially skilled and so she spent the bulk of her time atop the ramparts.  Sansa was deeply grateful for it, even if she had difficulty showing it.  

There was a door in the far wall that led out to the tall inner wall that separated the lichyard from the rest of Winterfell.  It looked older than the other walls, with lichen-covered crenellations and smoothly worn stones underfoot.  That, she thought, was dangerous in the snow.  She stepped carefully, and felt salt and sand crunching beneath her boots.  Nearby was the broken tower, so named for the crumbling top.  It had been struck by lightning more than a century ago, and the stones were still black in places from the damage.  Ravens roosted in the top.  That’s where Bran had been going when he...well, she didn’t like to think about it.  The ravens still made their home up there in the broken eaves, and many of them came down to hop around on the ramparts, staring hungrily at the mass of dead below.  When the dead caught sight of her, they doubled their screaming and scrambles, rushing this section of the wall in an attempt to get at her.  This happened every time she came out here, and she wasn’t sure why.  Perhaps because she was queen, perhaps because she was a Stark, or perhaps because her bright auburn hair made her stand out.  None could really say.  

Sansa leaned her hands on the old stones and looked down.  Below, in what she’d come to think of as the pit, the dead were sprawled out, bodies bristling with arrows, each one having a dragonglass tip, “Meera, how many shots are required to kill one?” 

“One,” she paused, “If you can hit the head.”  

“Ah,” she replied.  Few of the archers could do that, which explained the waste.  If only they could be retrieved.  There were piles of bodies, most just bones and sinew.  That last was lucky for them - it kept the smell from being overbearing.  The numbers of them still moving were high, which explained why they’d been so loud downstairs, “Why are there so many still alive?” 

“Because of the shortage,” Meera explained, “Do you see how the bodies are piled against the walls? They run for the wall and die, and we can’t clear them.  The rest of them run directly for the highest pile and fling themselves atop it.”  

“They’re...purposely trying to breach the walls?,” Sansa could not keep the horror from her voice.  

“They always have been,” Tormund interjected, his gruff voice carrying an uncharacteristic note of seriousness, “But once they realized they couldn’t break through our barriers...” 

“They started doing this,” Meera finished for him.  

“I still think we should put them all to the torch,” Robett sounded annoyed by the entire thing.  Sansa knew he was annoyed that he had been handed this problem as part of his charge.  He wanted to guard the living, not fight the dead.  Coward.  

“I’ve explained this before,” Sansa replied, letting the frost of winter seep into her tone, “We’ve boarded all of the windows in wood, and the dead go up like torches.  I know, I’ve seen it,” she pinned him with a pointed stare.  Her message was clear.  She’d faced this before and he had not, “The fire would consume the barricades and then the rest of the buildings.  We’d be lucky to contain it to the guard house and the First keep,” she felt oddly sad at the thought of that, especially with its restored function.  She was the first queen of Winterfell in over three hundred years.  Perhaps when summer came again she would take up residence in this part of the keep...should they all still be here when that occurred, “It could easily spread to the godswood and to our food.  We don’t have the resources to deal with a fire like that.”  

One of the ravens hopped closer, looking at Meera and tilting its head.  ‘ Corn? Corn?,’ it asked in its strange voice-like caw.  

She absent-mindedly fed it a handful of barleycorn from her pocket.  Clearly she’d been doing this for awhile, and it made Sansa smile inwardly, reminding her of when Bran was a child and he’d enjoyed the same thing.  Bran, as he was before he went to that cave up north, must have liked Meera.  Now...now, he didn’t really like anything.  That was another thing she tried not to think of.  She had too many problems in front of her to muse on her own sadness.  

“So,” Meera picked up her train of thought from earlier, “We only shoot them when they get too close to the piles.”  

“Fire, dragonglass, valyrian steel,” she muttered to herself, “If only there was another option for killing the dead.”  

Dead, dead , cawed the raven before going back to its pile of corn.  Several more swooped down from the tower to pick at the walking buffet below them.  What kind of raven ate corn when there were bodies, anyway? 

“Robett,” she said, after a moment’s thinking, “You’re free to attend to your normal duties.”  

“Your grace,” he acknowledged, bowing.  She could tell he didn’t like the dismissal, but she didn’t care.  She needed to be alone with people who she could actually talk to.  He left them, closing the door behind him.  

“Alright, out with it girly,” Tormund grunted.  He’d become especially adept at reading her lately, and she wasn’t at all fond of it, but she knew he could be trusted and she knew he’d answer her honestly.  

“We don’t know enough.  There HAS to be something else we can do, some way we can help ourselves.  We have this contained,” she gestured to the mess in the pit, “But for how long? And what about the Winter Town?” 

“We could replace the wooden barriers with stone...,” Meera didn’t sound serious, but it was the first thing that came to her mind.  

Sansa shook her head, “The mortar won’t set right in the winter, and the fire could claim the roof besides,” she sighed heavily, “I am not made for this.  I’d sooner wrestle with the vipers in King’s Landing than with this.  I can’t swing a sword, nor fire a bow, and I’m not...I’m not like Bran.  I’m not smart enough.”  

“Sansa,” Tormund was as serious as she’d ever heard him, “none of that matters.  You have to be strong enough, and you’re strong as any wildling woman.”  

She chuckled, knowing he meant it as a compliment, “Thank you.”  

“You should go to Maester Gallen and ask for his help.  He has more skills than just healing,” Meera suggested.  

Bone, Bone , cawed the raven.  That was strange...it wasn’t repeating what they said.  She flicked her gaze down to it.  It cocked its head and blinked.  Then, something occurred to her.  She stepped around Meera, moving slowly so as to not scare it.  It pecked at its corn but it didn’t move.  Could it be...? She didn’t know.  She edged closer and looked down at it, and it didn’t look away.  It was behaving strangely and...yes, it seemed to have a sort of intelligence behind its eyes.  She held out her arm to it and it hopped on.  It was heavier than it looked, but she had no trouble with the weight.  

“Bran...?,” she said, hesitating, looking at the large bird.  She felt a fool even attempting this, but she knew what her brother could do.  She’d been trying to send him messages for weeks, but none had come from King’s Landing.  

Bran, Bran!, it cawed, hopping excitedly.  

“I can’t believe this,” she sighed heavily and looked towards the sky, “Seven save me from the machinations of my magic-using brother.  Alright, out with it.”  

Bone! , it repeated itself, Bone! Bone Bone!

She frowned, “The pit is full of bones, how is that supposed to help me?” 

Bone! It cried, loud and clearly more distressed.  

“Bone....,” Meera said thoughtfully, “Wait, do you mean dragon bone?” 

Bone! Bone! Bone! It sounded almost happy, and turned in place on Sansa’s arm.  

“Well, we have plenty of that,” Tormund stated the obvious.  The bone had been cleared but they still had it in storage, unsure what to do with it but not wanting to discard something so rare.  

Down! Cawed the raven.  

“You want me to put you down?,” she started to move to the crenellations and it screeched loudly.  Clearly that wasn’t what it meant.  She looked at it and it made eye contact, not blinking.  Then it took off from her arm and flew down into the pit.  She watched as it briefly alighted on the entrance to the crypt before flying back to her arm, “Oh, down .  I guess it might be a bit hard for a raven to say ‘crypt’.”  

It bobbed on her arm as if it was nodding.  She closed her eyes for a moment and smiled sadly, “You could have just sent me a message, Bran.  Why haven’t you sent a raven?” 

Tra-- it’s word was cut off in the middle, and it froze in place on her arm for a second, its claws digging into the thick wool of her dress.  Then it let out a loud, strangled scream that sounded almost human in its terror and pain.  It’s wings flexed and it tried to fly, falling to the ground and flapping wildly.  The three of them took a step back, watching, horrified, as the poor creature struggled and screamed on the stones.  It seemed to gain its wits for a second and tried to fly, but it took off as fast as its wings could carry it and smashed head-first into the crenellation.  The crack of its neck breaking was louder than it should have been and the silence that followed was louder still.  Sansa swallowed hard, deeply shaken by what she’d just seen.  She could hear Meera and Tormund’s ragged breathing and knew they were as disturbed as her.  

“That’s not right,” Tormund near-whispered.  

“Obviously,” Meera’s tone was acidly sarcastic.  

“No,” Sansa turned to look at him, and he shook his head, “I knew skin-changers before...well, before your brothers.  I knew a man named Varamyr Six-Skins, on account of the six animals he could skin change into.  I saw him once, he got into it with another skin-changer over an animal they wanted.  And we...we didn’t know what was going on until we heard the noise.  It was a cat they were fighting over, and the thing went wild, just like that raven.  The poor thing screamed and clawed until it bashed its head into a tree and neither of them got it.  He used to tell that story and laugh, but I was there when it happened and there was nothing funny about the way that cat screamed and ran around.  Nothin funny about how it died, either.” 

“Well he sounds lovely,” Meera quipped.  She was the first of them to relax a little, and she walked to the bird, picking the poor thing’s limp body off of the stones, “I’m going to burn it.”  

Sansa nodded in agreement.  They all knew that animals could be controlled just as easily as people, “Tormund, I’m going to talk to Robett and Maester Gallen.  I assume you’ll be tagging along?” 

He nodded.  He hadn’t left her side for a moment since the incident in the godswood.  He even slept on the couch in her drawing room.  She tried to get him to go multiple times, to go north and check on his people, but Jon had made the request and Tormund refused to let his friend down.  She’d been annoyed at first, but by now she’d grown used to him, even finding his presence...comforting.  And lately, it seemed as if he was the only one who could draw a real smile from her occasionally.  So she stopped fighting and accepted that he’d be her shadow.  

“Good, then let’s go find Lord Glover,” they went back inside, leaving Meera out on the rampart with the bird.  

Robett wasn’t hard to find.  Her captain of the guard had made his way to the floor where the arrows were being made, and was lecturing someone who looked to be about thirteen years old and ready to piss themselves.  Sansa stood straight and donned the mantle of her crown, “Lord Glover, I require your attention.”  

He stood and scowled, not pleased at the interruption, and she wondered for the hundredth time if she’d made the right choice with him.  He gave the teenager one last withering look, and joined Sansa, “Yes, my queen?” 

“I’ve had an idea I’d like to put to the test, if it is possible.  Can arrowheads be made from Viserion’s bones?” 

Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that, and his expression changed to one of genuine contemplation, “I’ve never worked with dragon bone before, but I’ve heard tell that it’s not so different than stone.  I don’t see why the attempt couldn’t be made.”  

“Excellent.  Please have the fletchers make a few dragonbone arrows for Meera to try, and come get me when they are ready, if you would.”  

“As you command,” he bowed his head, and she left, Tormund and her guards trailing in her wake.  She made her way back to the Great Keep and up to the tower where the maester’s quarters were.  She knocked lightly and waited for him to answer.  

She didn’t wait long.  There was some shuffling on the other side of the door, then a bang and a loud curse, and then footsteps.  Maester Gallen opened his door a moment later.  He looked her up and down and said, “Your wounds are healing nicely, your grace.” 

It was the same thing he said to her every time he saw her.  The scratches under her eyes had, indeed, healed nicely.  They were thin, pink lines now and he’d told her that in time they’d likely fade to the lighter color of an old scar.  For now though, Sansa’s vanity still disliked the pink lines.  They looked like the tracks of especially macabre tears.  But she thanked him all the same and said, “May we come in? I’d like to discuss something with you in private.”  

His demeanor changed somewhat and his eyes flicked back and forth between them, “Of course.”  

“It’s not that,” Tormund gumbled, and Sansa frowned, not understanding.  

He opened the door to his study and let them in, leaving the guards outside the door.  He gestured to the seats in front of the fire and asked, “Would you like some tea? I put a kettle in the fire and it should be hot enough by now.” 

“Yes, please.  It’s so cold,” They sat and Sansa absorbed the heat of the crackling fire, calmed by the ordinary sounds of the maester preparing tea for them.  Leaves from a tin into sturdy-looking pottery cups, the squeak of the hook that held the pot of tea in the fire when the maester turned it out of the flames.  The clink of metal when he lifted it off of the hook, wrapping a thick cloth around the handle to protect himself.  The smooth sound of the water being poured, and the quiet sizzle of the hot water meeting the dry leaves in the cup.  The gentle tap of the spoon stirring the tea.  She felt immeasurably better, and even more so when she inhaled the fragrant steam and took a tentative sip.  Tea was so much better for warmth than sitting by the fire was.  

“You look like you’re feeling a hair better,” Maestern Gallen commented quietly, after letting her drink for a few moments.  

“I am,” she replied, “Thank you.”  

“I suppose you likely didn’t come to see me just for my excellent tea making skills, though.”  

She favored him with a soft ghost of a smile, “No, I did not.  I know that most of your skills lie in healing, but you are the most learned person here and I have come as far with this problem as I can on my own.”  

“I assume you mean the problem in the lichyard?” 

She nodded, “The very same.  The last time this happened, Bran, Jon, and Sam were here and they knew so much more than I do about...any of this, really.  They made the decisions.” 

“And yet...they failed,” he observed.  

“I had not thought of it in that light, but yes.  They failed.  There’s something else,” she hesitated, still not comfortable with magic.  It was politics that she knew, not magic, but now she was being forced to wrestle with walking corpses, “I still have trouble believing that the old tales are true, but the evidence cannot be denied.  My brother he can, ah...take over animals, you know?” 

Maester Gallen nodded, “The old practice of skin changing.  That is a wildling word.  I believe the northerners called it warging.”  

“Hm.  Yes.  My brother is a warg, among other things.  There are ravens up in the broken tower, and we were on the ramparts near the tower earlier.  One of them flew down to us, and after some time I realized that it was not just a raven, but a visit from my brother.”  

“That sounds...disconcerting.”  

“It is.  But it could be no other,” she shrugged, “He told me that he believes there’s something in the crypts that could help us.”  

“That seems a lot for a bird to say,” he smiled a little.  

“It was more that he showed us...,” Sansa left out the part about the bird’s demise.  It was disturbing enough without that, and it had no bearing on the message he’d delivered, “I have no idea what he meant, but I trust him.  I know he’s likely delivering some wisdom from the past, but I don’t have the knowledge to sort out what he means.”  

“Ah, I see where this is leading,” he leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his tea, obviously thinking, “The citadel knows little of the crypts, as your family has kept its secrets well over the years.  It is as least as old as the wall, which means that it came before any who could write down its secrets.  There is one thing that has always struck me as somewhat strange, though.  Why would men, the old kings of winter who knew the others were real and knew what they could do, bury their bodies rather than burn them?” 

“We burn ours,” Tormund replied, “We always have.”  

“So do some of the other northern clans,” Gallen replied, nodding.  

“So do the Targaryens, and they never encountered the dead,” Sansa countered.  

“We don’t know that,” Gallen said, “Valyria came many years after the long night and the fall of the Great Empire of the Dawn.  Some say the Valyrians are the descendants of those long-dead emperors and empresses.  We’ll never know the truth of it, but some customs are very, very old.  It could be that ‘Fire and Blood’ was a prayer and not a promise.  Fear moves men to do the worst of things.”  

Sansa wasn’t all that interested in the blood of Old Valyria, especially not with her cousin riding around on a dragon.  She shook her head a little, “That still does not explain the crypts.”  

“Yes,” Gallen agreed, “And I’ve made a point of sorting through what survived the library fire several years ago and what did not.  There isn’t much that was left intact, and certainly nothing that would explain the crypts.  I confess, I have been in contact with the Night’s Watch to try and rebuild some of the tomes, but there are few that they’re willing to part with.  Luckily, though, most of their library was intact.  The Night King came through the wall nowhere near Castle Black.  But other than here in Winterfell, the only answers to be found will be to the north, in their library or in their older keeps.”  

Sansa took a long swallow of her tea while she thought.  There was no one she could north for her, not that she trusted, and she could not go herself.  Even if she could make the journey, she would be useless at reading old books and traipsing through ancient castles.  With the possibility of the dead getting free, Gallen could not be spared to make what was a fairly long trek.  The best she could do was send a raven or two and hope that something came of it.

“Do what you can.  Send ravens in my name, and ask for their aid.  Hopefully they have some stewards who have knowledge for us,” she requested.  

“I will send them, but messages returning have come to a standstill.  We haven’t had a raven in some time now.” 

She nodded, “I’d forgotten.  Well, do what you can.”  

“There is one more thing I feel I ought to show you.  I’m not certain it will come to anything, but with all this talk of magic...well, it can’t hurt,” he got up and went into the adjoining room.  He returned a few moments later with a plain wooden box about a foot long, and placed it on a table next to his chair.  He set about unwrapping whatever was inside, saying, “This was given to me by the grand maester before I left.  He said it was something he’d picked up in the Night’s Watch and he wanted to return it to the north.”  

He turned and handed her the object.  It was a black horn about the length of her forearm.  There were brass bands around it covered in old runes, and a brass rim around the carved end of it.  It had a crack on one side, which made it useless for sound, but it was an interesting old object.  Sansa turned it over in her hands, liking the smoothness of it beneath her fingers.  She looked more closely at the carving on the wide end of it.  Mostly trees, but she spotted a weirwood among them, and a direwolf among the trunks of the sentinel pines.  She was about to hand it back to Gallen when she noticed something else depicted.  She’d almost missed it in the intricacy of the carving, but now that she looked she was sure.  It was a sight she knew well: the entrance to the crypts. 

Chapter Text

The cry of a horn woke her from a deep sleep.  Imari was next to her, sprawled on his stomach.  The horn hadn’t woken him.  One blast - someone important returning.  She closed her eyes again, trying to get back to sleep, but she couldn’t.  There was an anxiousness in the pit of her belly that wouldn’t let her relax her mind.  What had she been dreaming about that made her so uncomfortable? She sat up and, knowing it took all too much to wake her sleeping first mate, didn’t bother to be careful about it.  She sat with her knees drawn up, her forearms resting on them.  Nymeria was out with Ghost and the great pack of wolves that she’d collected over the years she’d prowled the Riverlands alone.  That’s what Arya had been doing.  She’d been having a wolf dream.  She had them every night, now that she was close to Nymeria.  She didn’t mind them.  Jon had taught her about being a warg and slipping her skin, and she found it just as easy as donning a new face, only she didn’t have to be no one first.  She could just be Arya, and the more she ran with Nymeria, the more she felt like Arya.  

That wasn’t just it, though.  It wasn’t just that she’d been having a wolf dream...no, it was something in the wolf dream.  She couldn’t remember it, and she felt uneasy, so she did what she always did when she felt uneasy.  She reached for her weapons.  The Valyrian steel dagger she kept under her pillow and always at her side.  The dagger that had slain the Night King, or so she’d thought.  She couldn’t see it in the dark of their room, but she ran her hands over the familiar curves and ridges of the dragonbone hit and gold edging.  She traced a finger around the big ruby on the hilt.  She’d never given it a name before, but tonight Jon’s words were in her mind: All the best swords have names .  Well, that had been in happier times, before...everything.  For a moment, her heart hurt and she wanted to cry.  Wanted to go home and be Arya Horseface.  Make fun of Rickon, and beat Bran at archery again.  Even fight with Sansa over something stupid.  See her father and mother again.  That hurt the worst.  The memory of that day was still one she couldn’t touch without pain.  She doubted she’d ever come to terms with that loss.  She knew, now, that she’d never be no one.  She couldn’t be with so much pain inside her.  She let out a shaky breath, pulling herself back from the edge of memory.  

The rising of her past was probably due to where she was.  They’d come as far south as they could without entering the Crownlands, and made camp with the army at Harrenhal.  Both Jon and his woman refused to go into the Crownlands without word from King’s Landing.  It was sensible, but being back in the gloomy, sprawling castle put all of Arya’s nerves on edge.  She had hated it here the first time, and she hated it still.  Her fist tightened around the hilt of the dagger.  

“You’re not a sword, but you should have a name,” she whispered to herself in the dark.  She wanted something that would honor its deeds, and her family.  After a few moments it came to her, “ Kingsbane .”  

It felt right.  She held it in her hands and closed her eyes, leaning her head on her forearms.  She slipped her skin and joined Nymeria out in the land surrounding Harrenhal.  Hunting was good here, and she had no problems keeping her pack fed, even with the great fiery beasts in the sky.  They smelled like sulfur and metal and she disliked how loud they were.  Her brother was indifferent, but everyone was loud when you never made noise.  

The girl with the good smell, the one from when she was a pup, had returned.  This time she hadn’t asked Nymeria to leave her pack, and that was good.  She liked the girl.  She liked the big man who smelled like the sun and the sea and looked like the night.  Life was easier down here in the south, although she missed the deep snows and clear air of her home.  At least it was easier to run in the flat, grassy land.  They caught rabbits and deer, and shared it with the men who followed them.  So many men and horses, but none of them seemed to mind the wolves.  A few even offered warm places beside the fire, next to the man-wolves.  Sometimes they didn’t need to hunt - the men fed them.  

That is not where they were tonight, though.  Tonight they ran in the fields along the edge of the big, black lake.  The man-house was behind them, looking like false mountains, darker than the black of the sky.  Nymeria sniffed at the wolves around her, knowing all of the small cousins she kept close.  They were her family, now.  Her brother, too, and he was near her now, his white fur glowing in the full moon.  She could taste the iron tang of the kill she’d just eaten on her tongue.  She sniffed the air.  Grass and water and the blood-trees far away over the lake and...something else.  She stalked closer to the edge of the water, her hackles on edge without knowing why.  It smelled like cold here.  Too cold for the damp, muddy south.  Like winter’s bite, like the air before a bad snowstorm.  Then there was something else below it.  Death, like a kill left too long, something she couldn’t eat.  Next to her, Ghost’s hackles were on edge, his lips pulled back in silent growl.  There was something wrong here.  Something very wrong.   Too wrong.  Ghost set off running, and she followed.  She trusted her brother, and the pack trusted her.  They followed their two leaders, racing towards the man-house.  A strange, loud horn blew once.  

Arya picked her head up, and turned, shaking Imari, “Get up! Get UP, Imari!” 

He rolled over and sat up, registering the panic in her voice.  A second horn blast.  Human foes, but Arya knew it would not be the last cry of the horn.  Jon had told them all, every man, woman, and child what the horn blasts meant.  Imari rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, “What’s the matter?” 

“Get dressed,” she was already out of bed and digging around for her smallclothes, “Arm yourself.”  

A third blast of the horn, and Imari’s eyes went wide.  He tossed the covers aside and jumped for his clothing.  The two of them were armed and armored in moments.  They rushed out of the room in search of Jon and all the rest, Arya sprinting down hallways.  She still knew Harrenhal well, and it served her in this moment.  She found Jon’s door quickly, but his guards were gone, which meant both he and Daenerys were somewhere else.  A servant came towards them down the hall and Arya stopped her, “Have you seen Jon?” 

“Yes, my lady.  He’s in the throne room with all the rest.”  

“Good.  Stop what you’re doing and find everyone you know - everyone who can’t fight, and hide yourselves in a sealed room with a strong door.  Lock it and bind it until you hear four horn blasts, understand?” 

“Y-yes, my lady.” 

“Now run,” Arya did as she’d commanded the maid to do, and ran for the main hall, Imari hot on her heels.  If only this castle wasn’t so cursed large .  It took forever to get there.  

They entered through a connecting door towards the back of the room, but it was empty.  Of course, Jon would have heard the three blasts himself.  The main doors stood open, and their boots pounded on the hard stone as they made for that door.  From there, they spilled out into the main bailey just in time to see Jon and Daenerys taking to the air on the dragons.  Ashara and Howland stood on the stairs, and Arya caught herself up next to them, breathing a little faster from her frantic dash through the keep.  Another three horn blasts sounded in the distance.  

“Glad to see you,” Ashara said.  Her sword was out, and she stood in front of Howland.  

“Likewise.  Do we know where they are?,” Arya asked, drawing Needle and Kingsbane.  

“No, not yet.  But I suspect that they’ll be coming from the lichyard first.”  

“That’s near the south gate,” Somehow Arya knew in her gut that it wouldn’t just be the lichyard.  Nymeria had been near the water when she’d smelled something wrong, and so many people had died in that lake over the years.  

“Howland, go north.  Stay safe, my love,” Ashara looked at her husband and yanked him close, and took a breath-stealing kiss from him, “You must be able to tell us what you learned on the island.”  

He hesitated, but everyone knew that fighting wasn’t Howland’s strength.  He nodded, “I love you.  Come back safe.”  

“Lord Reed,” Arya said quickly, “If they do come, use fire.  Don’t hesitate.  There are a lot of people here that can’t fight...” 

“I’ll collect who I can and see them to safety,” he nodded his thanks.  

“Arya...,” it was Imari this time, “I’m going with him.”  

“What? No...” 

“I have no Valyrian steel and no dragonglass.  He needs someone who can protect him.  You and Ashara go to the Lichyard.  I’ll make sure he can get people to safety.”  

She considered for half a second, but realized he was right.  She nodded, letting her emotion show in her eyes, “Don’t die.” 

He smirked, “Not without you.”  

She smiled and shook her head, and the two of them took off in the opposite direction.  Arya looked over at Ashara and her milk-white greatsword and asked, “Is there anything special about that blade?” 

“Not that I know of.  I’m hoping to do enough damage that there won’t be enough of them left to move around.” 

“I can respect that.  Let’s go,” they ran towards the lichyard, and it wasn’t long before they met their first undead.  They came screaming out of a broken section of wall, four or five of them.  Arya too the two closest to her with Kingsbane, but the others were out of her reach.  

Ashara brought the greatsword down on the skull of the first, and as soon as it cracked through the skull they learned where Dawn had gotten its name.  The blade turned from milky white to a glowing, brilliant white, and the corpse it touched fell to the ground and stopped moving.  Arya saw Ashara’s face in the white glow of the blade, and a grin of pure pleasure blossomed.  Ashara yelled and hacked the other one down, cutting its head clean from its body.  She spat on it and growled her house words, “We bring the light, motherfucker.” 

“Did you know it could do that?,” Arya asked, the thrill of battle rising in her.  She didn’t know Ashara well, but she was starting to like her a lot.  

“No.  It’s ancient though, so I’m not surprised it holds secrets,” she replied, and a blast of dragonflame from outside the gates sent them running that direction again.  Jon and Danaerys could see the field from above, and it was a clear night with a full moon.  Wherever they were was where the dead would be.  

The closer they got to the south gate, the more dead they found.  All the dragonglass they’d been able to find had been distributed to the soldiers and guards, and so they weren’t helpless, but Arya took out enough fresh corpses with blue eyes to be nervous.  Many were smallfolk who couldn’t fight and had just been taken into the household by Daenerys, but a fair number were wearing armor.  The bright glow of Dawn filled the passageways and halls of Harrenhal with a harsh light, and seemed to drink the splattered fluids and blood that landed on its blade.  Ashara fought like a demon, wielding her longsword as if it was an extension of herself, and Arya learned why she’d been deemed worthy of being sword of the morning.  

They finally fought their way to the lichyard and found a number of soldiers there, trying to keep the dead contained.  It was a good strategy, but it wouldn’t last for long.  They needed something more extreme, so she gave the command, “Burn it.  As much as you can, burn it.” 

“If it spreads?,” One of the soldiers asked.  

“Our food stores are on the other side of the castle, far from here.  There’s hardly any wood in these buildings.  It will be alright,” Ashara said, bolstering Arya’s command.  

“Put pitch on the arrows,” Arya said, “Light them on fire.  Use torches.  Whatever you can find.  Send those who cannot fight to the north end of the keep where they can take shelter.”  

“Look for my husband and a big summer islander.  They’ll help the people find safety,” Ashara added.  

The guardsman nodded and yelled, “You heard them! Light the torches!” 

“Try to funnel them into choke points there, there, and there,” Arya pointed to buildings near the entrances of the lichyard, “It’ll give you some cover and make them easier to deal with.” 

A group of dead came at them, the sound of nightmares erupting from its throat.  Arya and Ashara steadied themselves, and the other soldiers fell in around them.  When the dead arrived, they were cut to ribbons.  Some went up in flames, still reaching towards the hot blood of the living.  Kingsbane sang its bloody song, and Dawn shined like a beacon in the night.  Time, as it always did in battle, became meaningless.  It was reduced to the butchery, if it could be called that.  Fire exploded outside the walls and the dragons arced overhead, screaming.  There was a pause, and in the lull they heard screaming from the direction of the gate.  Arya looked at the captain here and he nodded to her.  

“Go, we can handle this,” he confirmed.  

“Good.  And remember, captain.  If someone is wounded and you know they will die in time...give them the gift yourself.  Do not be surprised by the enemy within your ranks, understood?” 

He clearly didn’t like that, but he nodded.  She and Ashara made for the gate.  When they arrived, they found it shut and barred.  It was held by a handful of soldiers, but it was holding strong.  Their formation was good, and there was no need for Arya and Ashara’s help.  The screams came again though, and now that they were closer they could tell that the screams came from the other side of the doors.  Ashara was looking up at the top of the walls.  

“Come on, we need to see what’s going on,” she said.  

“Agreed,” Arya replied, and they made for the guardhouse.  They could hear the soldiers above; orders being shouted and boots clomping on the floor.  They climbed the steps, and Arya hated how long it took to reach the top of Harrenhal’s great curtain walls, but she knew it meant they were safer as long as the lichyard stayed contained.  

They spilled out onto the ramparts and easily found the gate’s captain.  Even up here, he had everything well in hand, yelling, “Don’t forget, men, pitch and fire first! Save the obsidian!” 

“Captain!,” Ashara called, sheathing Dawn for the moment, “How goes it?” 

“The gates are all holding for now, but the worst of the fighting is here.  See for yourselves,” he gestured to an open spot on the wall and they stepped up to it.  

It was chaos outside the gate.  Harrenhal was so large that even with their army it wasn’t fully garrisoned, which meant that they hadn’t need to set up a camp outside.  That meant that only a few men had been caught outside when the gates closed.  Those unfortunate souls were the source of the screams, and were in a tight knot outside the gate.  Their fellows were attempting to help from above, but it wasn’t going well.  The rest of the field wasn’t much better.  There was a sea of dead, although not so many as had been at Winterfell.  Pockets of it were on fire, but they kept filling with more.  Arya could see the surface of the lake in the moonlight, and it looked to be boiling with undead.  She’d been right - that’s where they were coming from.  Even with the dragons taking out tens of them with every pass, they had a long battle ahead of them.  In the distance, wolves bayed and Arya had an idea.  She stepped back from the edge and pulled Ashara aside.  

“I need your help.  I don’t have a lot of time to explain but...you’re aware of what Bran and Jon can do, I assume?,” Arya asked.  

“Yes,” Ashara’s purple eyes were intense as she listened to Arya’s words.  

“I can do it too, and I need to do it now, but my...self.  My body? It will be vulnerable while I do.” 

“And you need me to keep watch over you.”  

Arya nodded, “Can you do that?” 

“I’m married to Howland Reed.  This is not my first brush with magic.  Let’s find a place in the gatehouse,” she turned to the captain, “We’re going to move to a different vantage.  We’ll be close.”  

He waved his hand dismissively, as he had it all in hand.  They went back into the tower and found a small guard room facing out towards the field.  Arya sat in a chair and took a deep breath.  

“Can I get you back if I need to?,” Ashara asked.  

“You can try, but I’ve been told it’s nearly impossible.  I won’t be able to hear you.  Keep me safe, or I’ll be living a second life in a wolf.”  

“I can think of worse places,” she grinned, “Go, I’ll be here.”  

Arya closed her eyes and slipped her skin and found herself on the other side of the battle.  Her brother ran beside her, and the pack was close too.  Man-fire and man-claws weren’t the only thing that could kill the dead -  the anger of nature could do it, too.  Nymeria’s girl was back, and their blood sang in the night, jaws aching to tear these abominations apart.  They lept on one, tearing its head from its neck.  Her brother did the same, and the wolf pack followed their leadership.  She bayed loudly, and her cousins all answered.  Her brother stared with his big, red eyes.  Nymeria and her girl set to their work. 

Chapter Text

He did not have time to dwell on comparing this battle to the last battle he’d fought from dragon-back.  He didn’t have time to worry about Dany, Arya, or anyone else.  He hadn’t even had time to find Ghost, and he hoped his wolf was ok.  The moon was bright above them, and they could see the squirming, wet bodies of the hordes that spewed forth from the dark waters of the lake.  He made another strafing pass, with Rhaegal as Dany finished her pass with Drogon.  She sailed up into the clouds to position herself to follow him.  He dove down, leveling Rhaegal, aiming for a tight cluster of dead near the walls.  

“ Dracarys !,” he screamed when they were in position.  Rhaegal’s sides expanded with his deep breath, and death erupted from his mouth.  Now that he was older, his flames had changed.  They were brighter, more yellow, with flickering rivers of green.  They were hotter than they had been before, too.  He could breath flames for longer, and the knot Jon was aiming for went up, a bright fireball in the night.  Smoke hung over the field, but it was easy enough to see through.  Eventually the dragons wouldn’t be any help.  They’d be too much of a danger to their allies.  

Jon flew around and turned in time to see Dany make another pass with Drogon.  His flame had changed as well - it was black, now, shot through with streaks of red.  It was hotter than Rhaegal’s, and more of the dead fell to it.  Jon wanted to see more of what was going on, so he flew to the edges of the horde.  There was something strange here at the back of the mass, and he flew towards it.  

It took him a moment to make out what it was from so high up, but when he did, he smiled.  It was Nymeria’s great wolf pack, ripping and tearing at the dead from behind.  Nymeria was in the center, and next to her was Ghost.  He couldn’t warg into Ghost from dragon back - it was far too dangerous - but he trusted the big wolf to know what needed to be done.  He bade Rhaegal to climb higher, and made his way around the outside of the walls.  He picked off any stray clumps of dead that had made their way here, but the bulk were to the south where the walls were closest to the lake.  The other gates held.  The lichyard was under attack, but not overrun, and the quarters were too close for Jon to use Rhaegal’s flame to any effect.  For the moment, it held, and that was the best he could ask for.  A quick survey of the rest of the keep showed him that the dead were coming from the lake to the western gate, too, although in far smaller numbers.  

He hovered for a moment, keeping Rhaegal in place so that he could see what was going on.  The dead were rushing the gates and the walls, and they were too many for the archers to make quick work of them.  Next to the gate, they were piling atop each other, trying desperately to get to the people on the ramparts.  Jon knew what he had to do, and he put his warhorn to his lips.  He sounded the notes that would tell those on the wall to take cover, and saw them duck behind the crenellations.  The dead screamed louder, thinking they’d made the living hide from them, and the howling made Jon’s skin go cold.  

Bringing Rhaegal around, he flew down low near the ground, heading straight for the wall and the pile of bodies.  He waited...closer, closer....and screamed, “ Dracarys! ”  

Rhaegal’s mouth opened and his terrible, hot breath spewed forth, rushing towards the pile of clawing, screaming bodies.  The flame hit them, tearing through them and crashing against the walls like a great, green wave, curling up and cresting.  Jon pulled Rhaegal up hard, barely missing crashing into the wall, and he grinned to himself.  Drogon couldn’t do that , and he was going to tell Dany all about it later.  He whipped skyward and wheeled around to survey the damage.  There was nothing left of them but burning body parts and a greasy streak up the stone of the wall.  He blew the signal for safety and the archers re-emerged.  Next, he came around and laid down several passes of flame between the lake and the castle to slow the dead and give his people time to react.  That problem contained, he winged back to the south and the main area of the fighting.  There was more to be done.  

The sky was purple streaked with grey by the time they’d finished their work.  Great plumes of smoke curled into the sky from the devastated battlefield, but the dead all burned.  He knew the lichyard had exhausted itself long before the lake had, and those that had defended it had done well, but that was all he knew.  He hadn’t seen Dany and Drogon for the last ten minutes or so of the battle, and he wasn’t even sure where they were.  So he turned Rhaegal towards the bailey and the entrance to the main hall, and landed.  He dismounted, and Rhaegal made his way back to the battlefield, likely to feast.  Crows and dragons were, apparently, both carrion feeders.  

He made his way back into the place Harren the Black had made to be a throne room and pushed his way through the heavy oak and iron doors.  They shut behind him, and he realized he could barely even smell the smoke in here.  The battle had been too far away and never even come close to this part of the keep.  He walked towards the front of the long room with its 30 hearths and high, vaulted ceilings, his sound of his boots echoing off of the black stone.  Who builds a castle out of stone like this? He wondered, Even Winterfell seems warmer.   

Ashara and Arya were waiting for him at one of the tables towards the unused dais.  They’d procured some ale, bread, and cheese, and were eating in comfortable silence.  Plenty of cups and plates were scattered on the table.  Ashara had a bruise blossoming on her cheek, ashes on her skin, black blood splattered on her arms and the studded leather breastplate she wore, a bit of...something...in her braided white-streaked black hair, and she looked tired; but there was a contentedness about her.  The peaceful quiet of a battle well-fought and won.  Jon hadn’t won all his battles, but he had won some, and knew the quiet well.  Her greatsword, Dawn, leaned unsheathed against the table next to her, obviously needing to be cleaned before she returned it to its sheath.  But it looked...different...than before.  Brighter, somehow, almost as if it had some sort of faded glow.  She looked up at him and smiled in acknowledgement, and returned to her food.  

Arya, by contrast, was relatively clean.  Her dagger and Needle were both sheathed at her side.  Her hair was sweaty, but free of most of the grime that covered Ashara.  She had a few drops of blood here and there, and some ash on her cheeks, but she was mostly clean.  She did, however, look as tired as he’d ever seen her.  She stared off into nothing, eating slowly, obviously deep in thought.  She didn’t acknowledge Jon when he sat next to her, except to push the bread and cheese towards him.  The ale was already in reach.  Howland, Imari, and Dany were nowhere to be seen.  The captains from the gate and the lichyard would be here soon, he knew, as he’d seen at least one of them making their way here from their post as those places were secured.  

“You ok?,” he asked Arya, ripping off a chunk of bread.  She shrugged.  

“She’s fine,” Ashara confirmed, swallowing a mouthful, “She’s just tired.  You should know what she did before the others get here, though.  The wolves...the ones from our flank? It was her.  She was directing them through Nymeria.”  

As if saying her name had summoned her, the big wolf padded through a side door, Ghost at her side.  They joined their masters, Nymeria dropping onto the floor near Arya and closing her eyes.  The massive she-wolf was large enough that Arya didn’t even have to bend to sink a hand into her thick fur.  

“Good girl,” Arya muttered earnestly, “The best girl.”  

Ghost did the same near Jon and he gave the pale wolf a large hunk of cheese saying, “I’m sorry Ghost...I can’t fly and join you at the same time.  You did good, boy.  Very, very good.”  

“They fought like demons,” Ashara confirmed, “You could see it, I expect, from the air.” 

He nodded, cutting off some cheese with one of his cleaner daggers and taking a bite of the cheese and bread, making sure to chew before he replied, “I could.  I thought they might be attracted to the noise and fire, but I could see Ghost down there so I thought perhaps they were following him and he remembered from the last battle at Winterfell.  I didn’t know...well, I hadn’t realized you’d come so far in your warging, sister.”  

She shrugged, “I’ve been practicing.”  

“And thank the seven for it,” Ashara said.  

Jon switched the subject, pouring himself some ale and motioning towards her sword with his chin, “What happened to Dawn? It never looks like that when we spar.”  

A wide grin split her face after she finished gulping down a few mouthfuls of ale.  If Jon didn’t know better, he would have said she almost looked wolfish, “It turns out that the old girl had a few secrets in her.  I killed one of the undead and she lit up like a star.  The more dead I killed, the more she drank their blood and the brighter she glowed.  She’s just now starting to fade.”  

“What are your house words again?,” He asked, something about all of it tickling an old tale from his childhood.  

“We bring the light, motherfucker,” Arya said, grinning for the first time since he’d entered.  

Ashara groaned, “You’re never going to let that go, are you.” 

“Nope!” 

“It was the heat of battle! Surely you’ve said some dumb things while fighting!” 

“Yeah, but no one was around to hear them.” 

Jon chuckled to himself while listening to their banter, but he was thinking about a story Sam told him once about the Last Hero and his magic sword.  Dawn was older than anyone knew, so he wondered...could it be? Could Dawn be the sword of the Last Hero? He didn’t know, but he certainly would ask Sam the next time he saw him.  They lapsed into silence while they ate and waited for the others.  The captains trickled in one by one.  The old man Hugo Wull of the mountain clans, who’d held the southern gate and commanded most of the mountain men, was the first to arrive.  He nodded in greeting and seated himself at the bench.  He refused the bread and cheese but took some ale.  His squire, a young man from clan Norrey that Jon didn’t know, was with him.  Hugo sent him to the kitchens to find servants, and more food if he could.  

Next was Brandon Norrey and Jason Burley.  Jason was the younger of the two, and also looked far worse for wear than old man Norrey.  Jason was the man who’d been stationed nearest the Lichyard, and Jon suspected he’d been the one to hold it, while Lord Norrey had been stationed at the northern gate.  Both took their seats and eagerly reached for the proffered food and ale.  Sigorn, the Magnar of Thenn who’d married the lady Alys Karstark and become the lord of house Karstark, had been at the eastern gate and it had seen many of the dead who’d managed to get past the mess near the southern gate, and so he joined them dirty and covered in ash and bits of the dead.  A rag was tied around his upper arm, but he looked otherwise whole.  The last of the captains to join them was a woman named Sigyn.  She was Tormund’s daughter, kept away from the fighting and raised by her mother, she’d emerged after the war for the dawn and joined her father in rebuilding the north.  Tormund had sent her with Jon to command the wildlings.  Although there were few wildlings with him, as most had either refused to come or hadn’t been able to make their way to Winterfell before he’d departed, she’d proved to be smart and capable.  She was the last of his captains to arrive, and she’d been posted at the western gate.  Some of the dead had left the lake on that side of Harrenhal, but she’d done a good job keeping them from entering.  

Imari and Howland joined them a few more moments later, taking their places beside their respective women.  Arya promptly slumped against Imari and closed her eyes.  Howland kissed the top of Ashara’s head, deftly dodging the hunk of goo, and sat next to her.  She gave him a soft smile and squeezed his arm, clearly glad to see him unharmed.  The squire they’d sent to get food arrived with some smoked meat and more bread and cheese, and told them that the servants were still hiding so he’d had to take the food himself.  He seemed annoyed by that, but Jon ignored it and dismissed him.  This wasn’t a conversation that should be attended by those outside of command.  Dany, however, was still not there.  Jon waited for her, but when they were all nearly finished eating and she still hadn’t arrived, he knew he had to start without her.  

“Lord Norrey, how went the battle at the Northern Gate,” Jon asked loudly, silencing the gentle hum of the more private conversations that had been happening around the table.  

He shrugged his thin shoulders, and sat up a bit straighter, “The north gate was kept secure.  We saw few of the dead, and didn’t lose any of our men and women.  The archers likely killed the most, and the dragons weren’t needed, so the arrows used on the dead should be salvageable when we clean up.”  

“Good,” Jon grunted.  The obsidian arrowheads were always worth retrieving, “Sigorn?” 

The man’s accent was thick and hard to understand, but Jon had grown used to it in his years around the Wildlings.  There was blood on his bronze armor, but his receding, greying hair was still neatly tied back and his war paint wasn’t all that smudged, “We had no troubles.  Only a few were lost, but we used too many arrows.  The gate was...damaged.  It,” he searched for the right word in the common tongue, “It opened a little and then we closed it.  That is how I got the scratch.”  

Hearing that the gate hadn’t held up didn’t make Jon happy, but Harrenhal was so old that there were bound to be some problems, especially in parts of the castle that weren’t often used, “I’ll set some people to fixing it immediately. Sigyn?” 

She had the flame-colored hair of her father, and it was pulled back in a series of braids.  Ash colored her cheeks, but she looked otherwise unscathed, “The western gate held, and it is still strong.  The dead...they piled on top of each other against the walls.  It was...strange.  They moved faster than I expected.  But we lost no one.  They never breached the walls.  The fire from Rhaegal was enough to slow them and let us handle them.”  

“Your father will be pleased that I managed not to get you killed,” Jon smiled to soften the joke.  Dany still hadn’t arrived, and he couldn’t help the increasing worry that balled in the pit of his stomach, “Jason?” 

The big man just sounded tired, and he looked worse than he sounded.  The only one of the captains that hadn’t had a wall to defend, he had obviously taken scratches and killed many, “I wasn’t at the lichyard when it started.  They sent someone for me, and it was a bloodbath when I arrived.  They’d gotten a hold of too many of the smallfolk, and there weren’t many fighters.  I managed to collect about thirty of my men and women, and get them organized by the time lady Dayne and lady Stark came through.  They gave me some advice for dealing with the dead, and helped us mow down some more, but I fear we lost too many.  Three-and-thirty were counted after the butchery was done.  Most weren’t fighters, but we lost twelve we were on their way from the barracks and five from those who I managed to round up.”  

Jon was surprised.  He’d expected to be told that nearly all of those soldiers had been lost.  It seemed....lucky, somehow.  They’d collectively killed thousands of the dead, and yet...so few of their own had died.  It could be the walls had done their job, or that the lichyard hadn’t had enough to rise, but...that didn’t seem right.  

“Lord Snow,” Howland took his turn, although Jon had not asked, “Imari and I encountered almost none of the dead.  One or two that he dispatched for us, but that’s it.  The smallfolk were scared, but they knew to do as we’d said, and most were locked in until they heard the all-clear horns.  None of our stores were burned, even though some of the fires from the lichyard almost got out of hand and the fires from the dragons still burn.”  

The sound of the heavy door to the hall opening interrupted Howland’s thought, and Jon’s head snapped towards it.  He saw the light of the torches illuminating Dany’s slight figure and lighting her silver hair.  The knot inside him released, and the door closed behind her as she made her way to where they all sat.  

When Dany entered, she always took all of Jon’s attention at least for a moment, but there was something about the solemn look on her face that captured the attention of all at the table.  She went and stood at the head of it, briefly meeting Jon’s eyes and smiling before saying, “I’ve flown out beyond the castle.  I wanted to know if the attack was here, or if there were more.”  

“And?,” Lord hull grunted.  

“It’s just us.  What are our losses?” 

Jon answered, “About forty fighters, and near enough to thirty smallfolk.  One gate was damaged.  None of our supplies.  We damaged the land some with our dragonfire, so it’ll make hunting a little more difficult for a bit, and we lost a few of the wolves, but otherwise...” 

“We’re fine,” she nodded, “My lords, I believe this was a test of our forces.”  

“Aye,” Brandon Norrey said, nodding,  “I agree that it felt like a probing attack.  Our losses were too light for anything else.”  

Jon couldn’t argue with that evaluation, “The last time I fought the dead they did seem more...wild.  They weren’t all that stymied by the walls of Winterfell.”  

“They did have the Night King with them,” Sigyn pointed out.  She hadn’t been there, but Tormund loved to tell stories so she’d obviously heard the details, “And a dragon.  And all of the Others.  These looked like they were all just wights.”  

“They’ll return,” Hugo added.  

“Perhaps,” Dany gave a shrug of one shoulder, “But the lichyard is empty of the dead, and we have the time to fix our gate and retrieve our arrows.  Cleanup outside the gates must be our priority.  Retrieve as many arrowheads as we can; dragonglass doesn’t burn.  If they do return, they’ll have to come further than before.  The wights from the lake slowed before the sun rose, and that means that their supply of dead in the lake waned.  If they come again, it’ll be because they marched.”  

“And that will be worse,” Ashara emphasized the point, “We really could use more dragonglass.”  

“The closest source is Dragonstone,” Jon replied, “We could fly there and retrieve some...but we can only carry so much.”  

“We could make hundreds of arrows from what you could carry,” She replied.  

“We will make a few trips,” Dany decided, “But it’s easier to get pitch.  We’ll need as much of that as we can collect.”  

“We’ve been preparing the pitch for weeks now, my lady Targaryen,” This time it was Brandon that spoke.  

“Prepare more,” Jon knew that tone.  She was exhausted and her patience was running thin.  She took a breath and steadied herself, “However much you think we have, it will not be enough when the hordes come.”  

Jon cleared his throat and shifted in his eat, “Fortunately, even if the wights and the Others were inclined towards sieges, it would be impossible with the dragons.”  

“Not impossible,” Dany sounded sad, “Do not forget Viserion.”  

He nodded, “Of course.  But Viserion did not have a rider.  Rhaegal and Drogon have us.”  

He was right about that.  Dragons without riders were far easier targets than those with riders.  Less tame, too.  Dany nodded to acknowledge the truth of his statement.  After all, a second spear had been thrown and she’d easily evaded it.  She sighed heavily and said, “Find your beds, if you wish.  You’ll need the strength.  We’ll continue the cleanup after some rest.”  

Jon realized that he was desperately tired, and rose with the rest to grab Dany and find their bed.  Howland’s quiet voice stopped him, “You should stay, Lord Snow.  You and the lady Targaryen.”  

Arya was nearly asleep, but she roused herself enough to ask, “Not me?” 

“If you’d like, it need not be kept a secret from you, but you can seek sleep and be none the worse,” he replied.  That was all she needed to hear.  She got up and left with Imari, Nymeria trailing behind them.  Ghost remained with Jon; his even breathing and closed eyes meant he was asleep.  

After it was just the four of them, Dany took her place next to Jon on the bench and got herself some bread, cheese, and meat.  Jon poured her a cup of ale as she tore into the food.  That settled, he asked Howland, “Where did you go?” 

“To the Isle of Faces.  I’ve...been there before.  I returned to take counsel with the order of the Green Hand.,” Howland explained.  

Jon was surprised, “The Green Men exist?” 

Howland nodded, “Yes.  They’re, shall we say, cautious concerning outsiders.  But they know much and more of history and of greensight, and I believed they had answers we might seek concerning the Others and the wights.”  

“Strange,” Dany said, “That the dead should attack on the night you return.”  

“Not at all,” he replied, “The Night King knows who is on that island, and knows the ruin they might bring him if we should speak to them.”  

“And he cannot touch them?,” Jon asked.  

“No.  There is magic that keeps him from them.”  

“What did you learn?,” Dany was gnawing on a piece of dried meat while she listened to Howland.  

“As much as I always do.  The Green Men...they don’t speak to outsiders often and they are difficult to understand.  They seem to speak in riddles, although I suspect that to them it makes perfect sense.  They told me that the Night King was not destroyed.  That he was made with magic, and a dagger to the heart would not unmake him.”  

Jon’s breath caught, “So we were right.  He was not defeated.”  

Howland nodded, “He merely paused while he regained his strength.  He...lives a second life.”  

“What does that mean?,” Dany asked.  Ashara stayed silent, listening to her husband, but Jon could see the worry in her violet eyes.  

Howland shifted uncomfortably, clasping his hands on the table and leaning forward, “When a warg dies, they can live a second life in another creature.  One they may have warged before.”  

“The Night King wasn’t a warg,” Jon argued.  

“They showed me much on the isle, Jon Snow.  He was a warg, long ago.  A powerful warg, a son of house Stark.  The children took him to the north, before there was a wall, before the Lands of Always winter were frozen.  He was stolen from the Starks by the Children, because he’d committed the sin of warging another human.  So they took him, and they worked a powerful magic on him.  I saw it...I saw him tied to a tree, and I saw them press a thick dragonglass dagger into his heart, and I saw his magic twisted into the unnatural thing you’ve seen.  He was turned into a weapon, and the Children thought they could control him, to use that weapon to stem the tide of the First Men.  And...they were right.  They used the threat of him to force the Pact, there, on that very island.  But when they made him, they didn’t know that he was also a greenseer.  For a time, he was beholden to the magic of the Children, but he eventually found a way to use his greensight to free himself from their control.  He was angry...he brought winter with him...” 

“The first Long Night,” Ashara said quietly.  

“Yes,” Howland nodded.  Jon couldn’t hear a sound in the hall beyond Howland’s voice.  Even the crackling of the fires seemed to go quiet while he spun his tale, “And it wasn’t only the children who felt his rage.  They had magic for him to reckon with, but men...men were helpless.  Well, you know the rest of the story.”  

“Why did the Long Night end?,” Dany asked.  

“They were less specific about that.  Something about another pact, this time between the southerners and the Others.  The Wall...it had something to do with that.”  

“That was thousands of years ago,” Jon pointed out, “Why return now?” 

“They didn’t know,” Howland replied, “They couldn’t even explain much of what they did know, and the most I could understand was that the terms of the second pact were broken, and so now they claim what they think is theirs.”  

“That’s interesting and all,” Dany interjected, “But if we need to unmake him, how do we do that?” 

“They were even more cryptic about that.  They simply told me to bring the father and the daughter to the island with the caretakers.”  

“I hate riddles,” Ashara groaned.  

“I only know who one of the people they spoke about are.  The father is the Night King.”  

“How will we bring the Night King to the Isle of Faces?,” Dany asked, “He has no physical form anymore.”  

“When a warg dies they can live a second life,” Howland repeated, holding Jon’s eyes, and Jon suddenly knew what would come out of his mouth next.  He knew, deep down, the horrible truth that Howland was about to bestow on them, “There is only one vessel that the Night King would choose to take for his second life.  Only one that he’d find worthy.  A warg and a greenseer like himself.  Another scion of house Stark: Brandon I, king of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.  Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and protector of the realm.  Bran the Broken, a warg and greenseer, is now the vessel for the Night King.” 

Chapter Text

She was asleep for the first time in days when the pounding on her door woke her.  It wasn’t all that strange to be awoken late at night, and she was a soldier besides, but the voice sounded a bit...young.  She forced her eyes open and groaned, calling out, “A moment, please.”  

The pounding stopped.  She hauled herself out of bed, sitting on the edge and rubbing the sleep from her eyes with the heels of her hands.  Another moment and she stood, pulling on the dressing gown she kept next to the bed for exactly these occasions.  The fire was banked and there were no candles lit, but the moon was bright in a clear night sky, and it streamed in through the windows leaving pools of silver light on the floor of the lord commander’s chambers.  She pulled on a pair of slippers and made for the door.  

On the other side, standing in the dark of Brienne’s sitting room with only a candle in a lantern to guide her way, was a girl.  She was small and slight, with pale skin, dark hair, and wide brown eyes.  She was wearing the livery of a page for house Martell, so she must be one of Arianne’s girls.  She looked up at Brianne, obviously upset, and gave a small curtsy.  

“My lady...lord...commander--,” she started.  

“Ser is fine,” Brianne didn’t have the heart to be rude to children, “take a breath.  Calm down and tell me why you are here.”  

She did as she was asked, clearly trying very hard to settle her little nerves.  She nodded to herself and spoke again, “I am lady Dyanna Blackmont.  I am a member of the lady Arianne’s household.  I need you to come at once to the tower of the hand.” 

Brianne frowned, “Why the late hour? And why didn’t Tyrion send one of his messengers to fetch me?” 

The little girl got antsy again, “Because I’m...not supposed to be out.  I couldn’t sleep, and Loreza is always wandering the castle and I....I...thought maybe I could too.  That’s what my wet nurse had me do when I couldn’t sleep...run around until I tired myself out.  I saw Arian--Lady Martell come out of a room near the hand’s tower.  She walked a little and then looked like she was going to be sick.” 

A stone settled in Brianne’s gut.  There was no way this was going to have a good ending.  Late-night visits never did, “It’s alright.  Tell me the rest.”  

“I followed her, and she went to the hand’s rooms.  She started banging on the door, and when he opened it she...she...,” the little girl sniffled for the first time, “He started yelling for a maester and I ran.  I’m scared of the fat maester,” Brienne almost laughed at the idea of Sam being scary, but she supposed to a young girl he was rather large and intimidating, “but I’m not scared of you.  You’re a white cloak.  It’s your job to protect the king and the hand.”  

“Ah, little one, it is.  You were right to come to me.  Wait here, I need to change.  I’ll only be a moment,” she ducked back into her room and discarded her sleeping clothes.  In a moment she had on a plain white tunic and brown pants.  She pulled on her boots and belted Oathkeeper around her waist, just in case.  She pulled open her door, “Alright lady Blackmont, show me--” 

Brienne cut off when she realized the room was empty and the girl was gone.  Perplexed, she opened the door that led to the staircase to the lower floors, but no one was there.  Well, she didn’t imagine the girl, and she might have been lying about something going on in Tyrion’s rooms, but Brienne wasn’t going to take the chance that the girl hadn’t been lying.  She closed her door behind her and started down the steps.  She passed through two floors containing her sleeping brothers and sisters, save Sers Torman and Archibald, who currently guarded the king.  She exited the stairwell into the common room at the base of the White Sword tower, and crossed the room past the weirwood table carved into the shape of a shield, and the white book resting quietly on its lectern.  She exited the tower and hastened her pace, making for the Tower of the Hand.  

When she arrived, the door still stood open.  In it, Tyrion Lannister knelt, the head of Arianne Martell’s lifeless body in his lap.  Blood ran from her nose and mouse, and her eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling.  Dead.  A member of the small council was dead in Tyrion Lannister’s lap.  

“Oh, Tyrion,” she whispered, “Oh, no.”  

“I didn’t do it,” his voice was quiet and firm, with no sign of upset, “You must find Gerold Dayne, Brienne.  Find him and arrest him.  That was her last word: Darkstar, and I CANNOT,” the last was shouted, loud and wild, before he took a breath to steady himself and continued in the same flat affect, “I will not pay for another man’s sins again.  Find Darkstar and arrest him.”  

“Where are your guards, my lord hand?,” Brienne asked quietly.  

Tyrion shook his big head slowly, “I don’t know.  They were gone when I opened the door.”  

“I suggest,” Brienne coughed and cleared her throat, “I suggest that you stand, my lord, and move away from her.”  

“Yes...yes,” he said, not moving, “I should do that.  I definitely should do that.”  

He sat, though, staring down at the dead woman.  Brienne stepped past them and gently took his arm, and he followed, letting Arianne slide off of his lap and onto the floor.  After he was standing, he went to sit in a nearby chair easily enough, although he still stared at the body.  Brienne closed the poor woman’s eyes gently, but Tyrion was still clearly too shaken to act.  That meant she’d have to do it.  

She carefully lifted Arianne’s body, barely noticing the weight, and laid her on one of the couches.  Next, she used the summoning bell to call a messenger.  She waited outside of the closed door until the young man arrived.  He’d clearly been awake, and his livery was in order, his black hair slicked back and neat.  He gave her a perfect bow.  

“My lady commander, how may I be of service.”  

“I need you to find the grand maester and Genna Lannister, and send them both to the Hand’s tower.  And...it’s best to summon the eldest of the Sand Snakes, whichever one that is.  I heard Sarella returned to the city last night, so she’d be the best if you can find her.  And send the first guards you pass to me.  At least six of them.”  

“As you command,” he took off at brusque pace down the hall and was gone.  Not five minutes later, two groups of guards came rushing down the hallway, gold cloaks flickering in the gloom of the dark hall.  There were eight of them, which was better than Brienne expected.  She checked the markings on their cloaks and looked at the one with the highest rank.  

“Who was stationed outside the Hand’s door tonight?” 

“Aaron Rivers and Ryan Sand,” he answered without hesitation.  That calmed her nerves somewhat; at least he was competent enough to know who was assigned where.  

“I want you to send two men and have them found immediately.  Choose two more to stay at their abandoned post here in the hand’s room.  The rest of you go find Gerold Dayne and place him under arrest.  Wake the castle if you have to, I don’t care.  Wake the other Kingsguard if you feel it necessary, or your captain.  Find him, and find him fast.  His rooms are nearby, only a few hallways away.”  

“I was there a few nights ago,” A younger, pock-marked man with flaming red hair said, “I’ll go with that group and show them where to go.”  

She gave a sharp nod, “Yes.  Go, and report back to me here in no more than an hour, even if you’ve not found him.  I’ll be here the rest of the night, like as not.”  

“You two,” the high-ranked man said, pointing at a blonde man and a small, mean-looking woman, “You stay here at the Hand’s tower, and if I find out you’ve left you’ll hear from the captain.” 

“Yes, sir,” they both replied, taking up their spots on either side of the door.  The rest dispersed to do as Brienne commanded.  She looked these two up and down.  

“No one is to come in and out without my permission, do you understand? The grand maester, Genna Lannister, and one of the Sand Snakes will be arriving and I give you leave to allow them entry.  No one else, understood?” 

They acknowledged her command, and she went inside, closing the heavy wooden door behind her.  Tyrion still sat on his chair, staring at the spot where the body had been.  There was a small pool of blood there, but she knew better than to touch it before it could be shown to Sam.  She sat beside Tyrion, and waited.  

The lady Genna was the first to arrive.  Despite the late hour, her hair was smooth and fell in a long braid down her wide back.  She was a heavyset woman, as boisterous as she was big, with a gift for strategic thinking.  Brienne didn’t enjoy the woman’s loudness, but she couldn’t fault her wit.  They hadn’t known each other long, but in that short time they’d come to share a mutual respect.  

When the door closed behind her she asked, “Why have you brought me here in the middle of the night, Tyr--oh, hello, lord commander.”  

“I thought it best that Tyrion have a member of his family.  I found him holding that,” she nodded towards the couch Arianne’s body laid on, and Genna turned.  

She was silent for a moment, then said, “It’s good that you summoned me.  Who else knows?” 

“Her killer, for one,” Tyrion interjected.  

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be happy to speak up,” his aunt retorted.  Tyrion snorted derisively, “Tell me what happened.”  

“I was eating my supper,” he began, his voice pained, and his eyes staring, “And I fell asleep.  I heard a commotion at the door.  It was like someone was knocking, but not quiet.  No voices.  I opened it and...she fell through.  I yelled for the guards, but none were there.  She was bleeding.  She said ‘Darkstar’, and then she was gone.”  

“Did you see a young girl?,” Brienne asked, remembering the person who’d summoned her.  

He shook his head slowly, “No.  No one else.  I looked for anyone...there was no one.”  

“And so, the three of us know of the death,” Genna replied.  

“And a young girl.  She came to my quarters and woke me.  She said her name was Dyanna Blackmont.” 

“A Dornish name,” Genna commented.  

“Yes, she wore Arianne’s livery.  She even told me she was one of Arianne’s household.  I sent the messenger to summon you, Sam, and one of the Sand Snakes.  And the guards, although none of them saw the body.  I moved it and closed the door before they could.  But they’ve been sent to find the missing guards and Gerold Dayne.”  

Genna nodded, “House Blackmont is of the stony Dornish if I recall correctly.”  

“You recall correctly,” Tyrion seemed to be perking up somewhat in the presence of his aunt.  There was a knock on the door, and a moment later Sam entered, Sarella trailing behind him.  He looked around at them and spotted the body easily.  

“Sarella--,” he began, a moment before she saw her cousin.  

“No!,” she rushed to the couch, kneeling beside it.  She shook the body, as if to wake her up, but the body was starting to cool.  Soon it would stiffen, but it was obvious that she was gone.  Sarella’s face fell, and her hands dropped to her lap.  Brienne didn’t know how close the two of them had been, but she obviously cared for the dead woman.  She’d known loss in her time, and she didn’t envy what Sarella felt.  They were quiet as the young woman knelt next to the couch.  She was silent for a time, and then she took a deep breath and looked up.  

“What happened?,” she asked.  Tyrion told the story again, his tone gentle.  She nodded in acknowledgement, “I have no doubt he has done this.  I even recognize the poison.  It is Demon’s Dance.  A small amount in the food makes the blood run thin until it becomes too thin and the victim bleeds.  If he put it on the head of a pin and pricked her skin, well, it would have acted within minutes.”  

“Do you know a girl?,” Brienne interrupted, “About eight or nine.  Skinny, pale skin, dark hair, and dark eyes? She was wearing the colors of house Martell.”  

Sarella nodded, standing.  She found a seat nearest the couch her cousin laid on, “There is a girl like that in our household.  Dyanna Blackmont.”  

“Yes, that is the name she gave me.  She roused me from sleep and told me to come down here, but when I was finished changing out of my nightclothes she was gone.  She claims to have seen Lady Martell leaving rooms nearby and looking ill before she ended up outside of the hand’s door.”  

“I haven’t seen her since I’ve returned, but I’m sure she’s about.” 

“I know it’s not the best time, but I take it your return means you bear a message?,” Tyrion asked.  

“I do.  Jon Snow and the lady Daenerys have been sending ravens to the city, and none have gotten through.  They mean to tell you that they know the dead have returned and they’ve come to help.  The peace banner is true.”  

Tyrion sighed heavily, tipping his head back against the chair, “Well, that’s one less problem to deal with I suppose.”  

“Replaced by a larger one,” Genna pointed out, “Arianne was Doran’s last trueborn child.  House Martell died with her.” 

“Not quite,” Sarella stated quietly, “In Dorne, we care not if a child is trueborn or a bastard.  By the laws of the Six Kingdoms, Dorne would pass to my father, were he still alive.  He is not, and so the claim of his next eldest living child should be honored.” 

“Who is the eldest Sand Snake?,” Brienne asked.  

“Me,” Sarella replied, “I’m the heir to Dorne, and do Arianne’s seat on the council.  Legally, and by Arianne’s wishes.  She...she knew what she was coming to when she came down here.  She had legal documents naming me the heir.”  

“We’ll find Gerold Dayne,” Brienne promised, “We’ll have a trial.”  

“I appreciate the effort, but I suspect you’ll find him outside the city walls by now, breaking bread with Manfrey.” 

“If that is true, he’ll be taken by the gold cloaks,” Brienne leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees, “What a mess.  We are agreed that Tyrion has not done this thing?”  

They all nodded and Sam said, “Unless Bran decides to hold a trial, he won’t be held responsible.”  

“This is exactly what I was speaking of earlier, Tyrion,” Genna said, “We have an invader at the gate, and now a kinslayer as well.  And the crown has yet to rouse itself to deal with the issue.  It is past time to call on your allies.”  

“And I told you that our allies are occupied with surviving after all the wars we’ve already fought.  They cannot simply amass--”

Sarella held up her hand, “That may not be necessary.  Manfrey has made a grave mistake in removing my cousin.  Arianne, well, she has never met the dragon queen.  But I? I’ve ridden on her dragon.  We will summon her here to the city, her and Jon Snow both, and ask them to mediate a parley between us.  Jon is a subject of queen Sansa, not of king Bran, and Daenerys...well, the lady Targaryen has dragons.”  

“None of this will matter if the king does not support your claim and clear Tyrion’s name,” Genna pointed out.  

“I see no reason why he shouldn’t,” Sarella replied, “And if he refuses to, I’ll leave the city and go to Daenerys myself to request her help.”  

“She’s not queen,” Tyrion said quietly.  

Sarella looked confused, “I don’t understand...” 

“You called her ‘dragon queen’.  She is no longer queen.”  

“Tell that to the people of the Six Kingdoms,” Sarella retorted, “During the journey southward she did all that she could to help the smallfolk.  She negotiated a compact between the Eyrie and Riverrun to get food to the people in the Riverlands who are starving.  Something, I might point out, that should have been done by King Bran.  She clears roads and moved stones from fields.  Once she used Drogon’s claws to dig a hole in the frozen ground for a woman who’d died in the snow.  She feeds the people, Tyrion, and she helps them.  They flock to her and call her queen where they think none can hear it; although she has yet to take the title for herself.  She has made them forget what happened here two years ago, at least outside the city.”  

“And how many has she burned on a whim?,” the bitterness in Tyrion’s voice was clear.  

Sarella met his eyes and held them, not allowing him to look away, “None.  She won food from Sweetrobin for the price of a dragon ride.  Jon snow is always beside her.  The last two Targaryens, and the people love them.”  

“Yet another problem, but that one is for the king,” Genna grumbled, “And he seems not to see fit to rouse himself from his trees.”  

“You walk dangerously close to treason, aunt.  Do not forget our king sees all,” Tyrion warned.  

“‘A thousand eyes and one’,” Brienne quoted, and an uncomfortable silence descended on them all.  A knock startled them all from their private thoughts, and Brianna went to answer the door.  On the other side was the goldcloak she’d tasked with arresting Darkstar.  She stepped out into the hall to deal with him, “Well?” 

He shook his head, “We’ve searched the entire floor so far, including his rooms.  He’s nowhere to be found.”  

“Keep looking, although I suspect he is long gone.  Tell your men not to touch anything they find in his room.  We’ll want to look through his things,” Brienne replied.  

The man nodded, “As you wish.”  

“And come find me in the white sword tower, I suspect I’ll be leaving the hand’s quarters soon,” he nodded and she sent him off, re-entering the room.  When she returned to her place, the conversation had returned to the problem at hand.  

“I’ll take care of the body,” Sam was saying, “unless you want the Silent Sisters to tend to it.”  

“No, I’d much prefer you cleaned her up,” Sarella confirmed.  

“I called you to see if you could figure out what happened to her,” Brienne explained, “but I did not know Sarella was so well versed in poisons.”  

“I’m Dornish,” she shrugged dismissively, and stood, “I will take my leave of you, and go find my sisters.  They will want to know what has happened here.”  

The rest of them picked up their tasks and went their separate ways, save Genna, who stayed to comfort Tyrion.  Brienne went back to the tower, mind churning, to await the morning and the next report from the gold cloaks.  It was sure to be a lengthy night. 

Chapter Text

This was the time of day she most felt as if she were wasting time.  With the dead in the pit piling up, conducting audiences as normal felt...wasteful.  But she knew it was important for the functioning of the kingdom, and her people came first, and so she kept doing it.  Merchants from White Harbor came with food and other goods, and were allowed to stay in the Winter Town.  Reports from her messengers about the conditions of the roads were positive, too.  Jon and Daenerys cleared several of the major ones before they left, including going a fair bit up to the north, to the southeast to White Harbor, and even a bit to the east and northwest to the godswood.  Winter kept the bandits in the hovels, and the snow on the roads had become manageable after the initial clearing.  Of course, shipments from White Harbor usually came by river, but still...travel was easier.  Trade with the wildlings in the north was easier, too, and as Breach became larger it became busier.  Tormund still insisted it would run fine without him - ‘Free folk aren’t like you kneelers’, he’d said, ‘we don’t need someone to tell us what to do all the time’ - and stayed here in Winterfell with her.  Food went south to Jon, along a lengthy supply chain, but the addition of supplies from Greywater Watch had been a welcome relief, and Moat Cailin was much improved for the extra human traffic.  That was one area where she worried less; one of the few things she could trust the Targaryen woman with was the proper use of the supplies.  They’d not be wasted, even if some went to the smallfolk.  And once they were further south, some of the money Sansa provided could be used to buy food from the Reach.  For all Sansa knew it already was, and she’d simply not received word yet.  Ravens hardly flew anymore more, and with the loss of that system communication had slowed to a trickle.  The only spot of brightness was the discovery that dragon bone did, indeed, work on the undead.  

Which was why, when the doors opened and two black brothers strode in, she was surprised.  She looked up at them as the steward announced them, “Dareon and Alexi, stewards of the Night’s Watch.”  

They came forward but, as black brothers, they did not bow.  They were dressed, as one might expect, in head-to-toe black wool and armor, and black furred cloaks.  One was tall and thin, with brown skin, dark hair, and small, black eyes.  He had a sour-looking mouth, a sharp beak-like nose, and high cheekbones.  His jug ears were made all the more noticeable by the way his hair was cropped short.  The other was shorter and stockier, with a rounder face and a wavy mop of sandy brown hair.  He had deep-set eyes and a cleft in his chin.  Both appeared to be around the same age as Jon.  Alexi was the tall one and Dareon was the shorter one.  

“Hello.  I welcome you to Winterfell, and offer you bread and mead,” the sword she kept near her throne stayed sheathed.  She knew not how to use it, but all in the north knew what it meant of she drew it and laid it across her lap.  She hadn’t had need of it thus far.  She nodded, and a servant came forward with chunks of bread and a cup of mead for each of them.  They ate and drank, Dareon finishing his and Alexi taking the traditional bite and sip before nodding to the servant and placing the bread and mead back on the tray, “Please, you may freely speak.  Tell me why you’ve come.”  

They exchanged a look and Dareon nodded his head at Maester Gallen in his chair to Sansa’s left, “We are delivering the texts he asked for.”  

“That is excellent news,” Gallen said, “I sent many ravens, and I assumed none of them made it.”  

“The maester at castle black received several from you, many months ago,” Alexi explained, “He sent us to the Nightfort to see what we could find in the library there.” 

“What did you find?,” Gallen asked.  

Dereon shrugged, “Not much.  A few old texts, but most of what we brought are copies that were kept in Castle Black.  Before he left Maester Tarley made some progress in sorting through the oldest of texts.  The Lord Commander sent us with a number of them.  They are being moved to your chambers as we speak.”  

“We are pleased that you have brought this to us.  Maester Gallen will set to work on them immediately.  Be welcome here, and I bid you stay for a time,” Sansa said, “Now tell me, how skilled are you with a bow and arrow?” 

As it turned out, not very.  The two black brothers were stewards, not rangers, and they had only passable skill with a bow.  Sansa assigned them rooms in the great keep, but they were not assigned shifts on the wall.  Instead, she put them to work with maester Gallen, who immediately set to the task of sorting through what they’d brought.  All day her mind wandered to the problem of the dead, the mystery of the horn, and what secrets may have come with the black brothers.  After her day had ended, she decided she would check and see if they’d made any progress.  She made her way to Gallen’s rooms in the maester’s tower, Tormund and her two guards following behind her.  She again thought to herself that she ought to choose a queensguard, or something like it.  But this was the north, and she was loath to copy southeron customs, even if half of her blood was Riverlander.  

When she entered his rooms, Gallen was behind his desk, a mess of papers and scrolls covering the surface.  The other two were set up on another table, sorting through the pile of books and scrolls they'd brought.  Books and scrolls that, Sansa noticed, covered nearly every surface in the room.  Tables and most of the chairs, the desk, the working surfaces...all of it was covered in paper.  The smell of dust and old books hung in the room, and Sansa found the smell rather comforting.  

The two black brothers stiffened into formality when she entered, but she waved dismissively at them, “I stand less on formality in private, especially in maester Gallen’s chambers.”  

They nodded, although Alexi gave her a look that might have been disapproval.  Gallen, however, smiled at her when she entered, “Ah, your grace.  I was hoping you’d come by.”  

“Oh? Have you found anything interesting?,” she crossed to the fireplace and picked up the horn from the stand on the mantle where ke kept it.  She always did this, although she did not know why.  She found the sensation of it in her hands was comforting, and it helped her think.  It hadn’t been repaired yet, but that was mostly because neither Gallen or Sansa knew how to repair it and and restore the magic, and did not want to damage it further.  

“Some.  I’ve been going through the oldest material first, so I’ve been reading a lot of opinions on the pact with the children.”  

Sansa didn’t know much about magic, but she knew much and more of politics, “Do you know what I have always found strange about the pact?” 

“What’s that?” 

“That the first men signed it at all.”  

“Why?,” Gallen asked.  

“Because they were winning.  We speak of the war with the children as if it were horrific for both sides and weariness is the reason they stopped fighting, but I don’t think that’s true.  The children, despite supposedly having magic powerful enough to break the arm of Dorne, could not stop the advance of men.  Bronze was far more effective than obsidian, and they could not stop men from burning their weirwoods.  Men were winning , and you do not stop winning unless you are forced to.”  

Gallen carefully lowered the scroll he was holding and peered at her, “That is...an excellent observation.”  

She gave him a sharp look, “You sound surprised.  I’m not stupid, Gallen, I am simply a different kind of intelligence.”  

“I know you are not stupid, your grace.  Forgive me if I sound surprised...it is that I am surprised that has not been pointed out to me before now,” He leaned back in the chair, “What do you suppose forced the Children and the first men to stop fighting?” 

“It wasn’t simply that they stopped fighting,” she said, “It’s that they made peace , and that is a very different thing.  They carved the trees on the Isle of Faces in celebration.  The Age of Heroes began with the pact, and that was a golden era.” 

Dareon, interested now, added, “And the children gifted the watch a hundred obsidian daggers every year.  I read it in one of the books maester Sam left at Castle Black.”  

“That seems a strange gift in a time before the others,” Gallen pointed out.  

Dareon shook his head, “It was after.  Remember? The watch did not exist before the Long Night.”  

“That’s not precisely true,” Alexi spoke without looking up from the book he was looking through, “Another of maester Sam’s scrolls had an old list of the lords commanders.  It lists six hundred and seventy-four.  The current lord commander is the thousandth lord commander.  Edison Tollett and Jon Snow had short tenures, which is unusual.  An average of fifteen years would be more accurate, I think.  Lord Mormont, for example, served for eleven years.  But let us use a lower average, say, ten years.  Nine-hundred ninety-seven lord commanders multiplied by ten years, is...” 

“Nine thousand nine hundred and seventy,” Gallen supplied.  

“But the long night only came around eight thousand years before Aegon’s conquest,” Dareon frowned, “That would mean that the order was created nearly two thousand years before the Long Night.”  

“I thought your order was created to battle the Others,” Confusion laced Sansa’s voice.  

“We were,” Dareon shrugged, “Or I thought we were.”  

“That pact was signed around ten thousand years ago, or near enough,” Gallen supplied, “But why would men be needed to fight the Others before they even existed?” 

“Because they DID exist,” Sansa shifted her perspective on the issue, from magic to politics, “If two nations are at war, and one is winning, a weapon of great power would force an end to the conflict.  What if...the Others were a weapon? Created by the same people who had magic enough to break the arm of Dorne?” 

“It’s logical enough,” Gallen said, “But why not use the weapon immediately?” 

“Jon once said to me ‘sorcery is a sword without a hilt.  There is no safe way to grasp it’,” Sansa stared down at the horn in her hand as if all the answers could be found within its carvings, “It could be that they feared their own weapon.  And knowing what the Others could do...that is a weapon so fearsome that even the threat of it would be enough to end conflict.  Perhaps they saw the Others and saw the power of the old gods and they chose peace.”  

“And they created the watch as peacekeepers,” Alexi had abandoned his work and come to join them at Gallen’s desk.  

“As wardens of the pact,” Dareon agreed.  

“But Winterfell and the Wall came later,” Sansa reminded them.  

“If we’re right that the Watch and the Others came long before the Long Night, Winterfell, and the Wall, why did the Others choose to wait two thousand years before they attacked? And the First Men fought alongside the Children, which implies that the Children were not safe from their own weapon,” Gallen mused aloud.  

Sansa shook her head, “I don’t know.  But it is clear that whatever happened at the end of the Long Night ended the coming of the Others but did not kill them.”  

“It’s as you said earlier, your grace,” Alexi replied, “What ends a war when one side is winning so completely?” 

“A weapon,” she supplied.  She looked down at the horn in her hand and she knew, in her gut, that it somehow was connected.  Something she only remembered faintly tickled at the corner of her memory, “If you would be so kind, would one of you repeat your oath for me?” 

It was Dareon who did it, “Night gathers, and now my watch begins.  It shall not end until my death.  I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.  I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.  I shall live and die at my post.  I am the sword in the darkness.  I am the watcher on the walls.  I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the--,” he swallowed hard, staring at the object Sansa held, “--the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.  I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.”  

They were silent.  They’d all heard it there, in the words.  They hung in the air and echoed in their ears.  

“There’s...there’s more--,” Dareon began.  

“Hush, that’s not for them to know,” Alexi cut him off, but Dareon frowned and shook his head.  

“They need to.  This is our job, Alexi.  It’s alright,” he looked at Sansa, “The oldest castle - the first castle - on the wall is the Nightfort.  That is why we went there looking for books and scrolls when we received your maester’s raven.  With the Wildlings coming through the wall they’ve been fixing some of the old castles, and that one’s not so far gone that we tore it down.  There’s a well in the kitchens, and at the bottom of a well there’s a weirwood door.  A huge, ugly thing with a face.  Maester Sam, he liked to write things down, you see, and he wrote about the door.  Only a sworn brother can open it, and when we do we only say the second part of the vow, not the first part about the lands and kids and such.  I thought...well, it’s passing strange that the whole vow isn’t needed.  Then I remembered that the Nightfort had a king.  Once, and only once.  And I thought...well, maybe they changed the vows.  The part the door doesn’t need to hear...that bit matches up with the tales about the Night’s King.”  

“So it does,” Gallen muttered.  

“The Night King lived in the Nightfort?,” Tormund’s voice was loud, and Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin.  He’d been quiet the whole conversation.  

Alexi was scowling again, and didn’t look at Tormund when he answered, “Not the Night King, the Night ’s King.”  

“What’s the difference?,” Tormund asked.  

“You know the Night King as the leader of the Other’s.  The Night’s King was merely a man.  The thirteenth lord commander of the Watch.  Most of the information about him was burned, carved out of any records...”  

“Old Nan used to scare us with stories,” Sansa added, “The Night’s King.  A warrior who knew no fear, and it was his downfall.  He saw a woman from atop the wall, a cold woman with white skin and eyes like blue stars.  He gave her seed and his soul, then they ensorceled the Night’s Watch and forced them to commit horrible atrocities.  But...the story is just a myth.  All of the stories Old Nan told us were myths.”  

“Not the Others,” Tormund pointed out.  

“No, not them,” she agreed.  She turned the problem over in her head, wishing for the first time that she could see through the trees like Bran.  Perhaps...she did have the wolf dreams, and as much as she tried to ignore it, she knew what that meant.  But no...no, she was of the North, but she could never do that.  Instead of focusing on the magic and how it functioned, she thought about the politics of the Long Night.  Who were the realms involved? The Others, certainly, were on one side of the conflict, but who would be on the other? Men, the Children, and the Night’s Watch.  Uneasy allies to be sure, especially the Children.  If three realms came together to defeat another realm, all three would still take pains to protect their own interests.  If sorcery was a sword that had no hilt, then no matter what the weapon was and its intended target, it could still be used by any one of the sides against the other.  And a weapon strong enough to stand against the Others? That was powerful, indeed.  If she was in the same position, a weapon too strong to be trusted to any single member of an alliance, she would find a way to ensure that all three of them would be necessary to use the weapon.  If that was true, she’d have a problem.  All the Children were dead.  Words, bits of things that she’d heard over the years, they all were clicking together in her head.  

The horn that wakes the sleepers...

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.  

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, “Gallen, please send someone to fetch Meera Reed.”  

He did as she asked, and she sat in front of the fire in silence, staring into the flames with the horn resting in her hand, thinking.  It was all too much.  Too unknown, too far in the past...she couldn’t possibly be right.  She wasn’t smart like this, she knew nothing of magic.  She was too southeron.  She could not do this.  Why had Jon left, taking all of their fighters, leaving her with no defense but this?

Meera arrived, and entered with a confused look on her face.  Sansa stood again and crossed to her, “Meera, you have made promises to me.”  

“Yes...,” she looked desperately confused.  

“And you will hold to them? Even if I ask you to do something you may not want to do?” 

“Yes,” Meera stood a hair straighter.  

“It is well known that the Crannogmen have their own magic.  The magic that keeps Greywater Watch hidden.”  

“Yes,” her tone was a little more cautious now.  Everyone knew that the crannogmen held tight to their secrets.

“And you are all so small, so different than the rest of the north.  Northmen are big and stocky, built to do well in the cold.  But you...you are all so small and slight, so different.  And your brother and father both had those strange green eyes.  You hunt and fish better than anyone in all of the seven kingdoms.  You live in the deep swamps and forests, and no one is more adept at hiding than a Crannogman.  Tell me, Meera.  Where does that come from?,” Sansa suspected she knew the answer, but she needed it confirmed.  Needed to know for sure, and no one knew their own lineage better than the noble houses.  

“I...I can’t.  I’m not supposed to...,” Sansa could see the battle of loyalties happening in Meera’s mind.  

“You pledged the faith of Greywater,” she pushed the young woman, “Hearth and heart, you said.  Your hearth is Greywater and your heart is magic.  I need to know.”  

"Why?," She asked, clearly hoping to find a way out of giving up her secrets.  

"Because we have no other option.  My cousin has taken all the fighting men in the north.  The dead in the pit pile higher every hour, coming closer to breaking free of their confines and overrunning the castle.  You know we don't have enough archers to keep them at bay, and we cannot burn the bodies nor retrieve them while the crypts continue to spew forth their contents," Sansa let herself be vulnerable for a moment, let her fears come through, "And what of the rest of the north? With the ravens refusing to fly or being lost, we have no notion of the happenings in the rest of the north.  What if they are as overrun as we are, and it is only a matter of time until we face another army? I need a way to protect the realm, and I cannot see another besides this magic.  And to know how it works, I need to know what you are and how your magic works."  

Meera let out a long breath, clearly having been swayed by Sansa's argument, “Alright.  But the men of the Watch must leave.  If you choose to break faith and tell them, that will be your choice, but I will not.”  

“Gallen and Tormund?,” Sansa asked.  

“They are bound to you even more tightly than I am,” Meera answered, and Sansa nodded.  

“Gentlemen, if you would? Please wait downstairs,” It was a command, although she was kind about it.  They left, closing the door behind them.  

Once they were gone, Meera sat next to the fire, and Sansa took the chair opposite her.  Staring into the flames, she began, “We are of the Children.  So are you...greensight and skin-changing are the gifts of the Children, but we...we’re something else.  Something closer to them, closer to the old gods.  The truth of the founding of our house is lost to time just as much as the founding of all the houses is, but we have our own Bran the Builders and Lan the Clevers.  Ours, though, are all Children.  After the pact, when they were given the deep forests, they stayed in the woods near the swamps of the Neck.  The swamps are a midpoint, you see, between men and the Children who lived in those forests.  When the Flints arrived at Flint’s Finger, the whole peninsula was said to be deep forest.  The Flints defied the pact, cutting down the trees.  The Children knew they could not defeat these first men, but the tales say that they were loath to also break the pact.  So there was one, named Red Acorn.  He knew the people living near the swamps, and he formed an alliance with them to beat back the Flints.  It worked, for a time, until the Andals came.” 

“And this alliance, it involved intermarriage with the children and the humans?,” Sansa asked gently.  

“Yes.  Well, it must have, because ever after the Children were referred to as cousins.  And there are stories, things written...even after the Andals came, there were Children among us.  Until there weren’t, anymore.  But their blood stayed with us, and their magic stayed too.  It was passed down from one Reed to another.”  

“How does it work?,” Sansa asked, not sure she’d understand any of it.  

“In some respects, I’m not sure.  I say the words and I do the actions.  Sometimes it works for me...sometimes it doesn’t,” her smile was soft and wan, “Jojen was much better than I.  He had the green dreams.  The only magic that always works is the magic that hides Greywater Watch.  As long as the spells are cast and the offerings made, it always works.”  

“Offerings?,” Sansa asked.  

Meera looked up, eyes shining in the fire light, “Don’t you know, Sansa? All magic is blood magic.  From the Shadowbinders of Asshai to the Valyrians to the Children.  All magic is blood magic. And we feed our weirwood the blood it needs regularly.  It is one of the strongest in the world, and it has never failed us.”  

“Gallen,” Sansa turned to the maester to find him sitting quiet and still behind his desk, “Can you read the runes on the horn?” 

“After a fashion.  The runes are just letters, your grace.  I can tell you what the letters are and repeat the words for you, but the language is probably the Old Tongue and it is lost.  I’ve had the horn for some time, and I’ve already done this, but I’ve no notion of what the words mean.”  

Tormund coughed into his hand and cleared his throat, looking almost embarrassed, “I can speak the Old Tongue.” 

All three of the other people in the room turned to stare at him, blinking.  Gallen was the one who broke the silence, “You can’t possibly--” 

“I can.  The Thenns speak nothing BUT the Old Tongue, and if you wrinkled old kneelers ever bothered to come out of your white tower long enough to consider the Free folk as people, you’d know that.  I can speak to the Thenns.  I had to learn, so I can speak the old tongue, but uh...I can’t...read.”  

“And if I read it to you?,” Gallen asked, “You could correct my pronunciation, and tell me what the words mean?” 

Tormund nodded, “Aye.  I’m not all that smart, but...I’m good at talking.”  

“Gallen, if you’d retrieve the translation, I will let our friends back in,” Sansa stood and nodded to Gallen, making for the door.  She heard him rifling through the drawers of his desk.  By the time she’d let Dareon and Alexi back into the chamber, Gallen had the paper in hand.  Sansa asked the two crows, “Did you know the Wildlings speak the Old tongue?” 

Alexi nodded, “The Thenns do, although we’ve never bothered to learn it.  There’s no reason to speak to them.  There are a smattering of smaller clans who also speak it.”  

“Hm,” she answered, unsure of a reply.  She disliked his attitude though.  The north was one now, and the Wildlings were as much her responsibility as they were Tormund’s, “Come, Tormund is helping Gallen translate the runes on the horn.”  

It didn’t take Tormund and Gallen long to translate the words of the message, although the meaning wasn’t altogether clear.  When they were finished, Gallen held the paper and said, “Are you sure that’s the right meaning?” 

“Mostly,” Tormund replied, “But it’s the best I can do.  If one of the Thenns were here, then they’d do better.  It is close enough, I think.”  

“What does it say?,” Sansa asked.  

“‘One of dark, one of the green, and one of snow.  Touch of three, blood of three, breath of three, and three of mind’,” Gallen read.  

“I was right,” Sansa whispered.  Only Meera heard her.  

“Right about what?,” she asked.  

“I was thinking,” she looked around the room, trying to explain the reasoning she’d gone through earlier, “If I was one of several realms who came together to create a powerful weapon, I’d make sure to guard my realm against the weapon.  The best way to prevent the weapon from turning on any single member of the alliance is to require that they all work together.  Give them a reason to be allies.  And at the time of the Long Night, the Others were the enemies, and there were three political groups working together: The Watch, humanity, and the Children.  Whatever this horn does, it only does it when you have one of each present.”  

“So we are the dark,” Dareon said, and fear laced his words.  

“ There must always be a Stark in Winterfell ,” Sansa said the words aloud this time, “I am the snow.”  

“I am the blood of the children,” Meera added quietly, leaving her chair by the fire to join them, “I am the green.” 

Despite all her stress, fear, and reservations, Sansa was excited.  She was intrigued.  She looked at the two black brothers, “One of you, take the horn.” 

They exchanged a look.  Alexi shook his head and Dareon rolled his eyes and said, “I’ll do it.”  

He picked up the horn, holding it around the smallest of the bronze bands.  Sansa turned to Meera, “Place your hand on the second of the bands.”  

“I’m not sure...,” Meera said, body tense.  She swallowed hard.  

“You said yourself yesterday that if we did not find some way to deal with the pit that we’d soon be overrun.  We must try this.  It could be that nothing happens.  It’s old and broken.  But we must try, and I will be there next to you.  I will take the same risk you will.” 

Meera looked up at Sansa and paused for a moment, but nodded.  She placed her hand on the horn next to Dareon’s, holding it around the second of the bands.  Sansa went last, reaching towards the runed stripe of bronze.  The tips of her fingers crackled before she even laid her hand on it, and time seemed to slow.  Then she grasped the horn.  At her touch, it was as if something clicked into place.  There was a low thump that she felt more than heard.  A small gust of wind flew from their triad, rustling papers and stirring their hair.  

And then it burned.  

It felt like cool bronze, and then suddenly it was not.  It burned so hot it felt cold, and the palm of her hand felt as if it was aflame.  She cried out, as did the others, and they dropped the horn.  It dropped to the floor with a hard crack, and Sansa saw the runes glowing for half a second before they faded and the horn went cold again.  She looked at her palm where she’d held the horn.  There, burned into her skin, were the runes that encircled the horn.  The same words that Gallen had read earlier.  But the wounds did not bleed, and they were already white, as if the burns were years old.  She held up her hand to the others, and they did the same.  All of them had the same marks.  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  

“Well.  We’ve started down the path, and we won’t be returning,” She bent down and picked up the horn from the floor.  It looked the same, save one small thing: the crack was gone.  The horn was repaired.  She held it up, showing everyone else, “ Touch of three , indeed.” 

Chapter Text

She jumped over a low stone wall screaming, the rest of the crew at her side.  To her left, a fire started to burn, quickly licking up the walls of the hut and consuming the straw of the roof.  People ran, but it would do them no good.  A man came at her from the right, and she swung her sword.  A sharp pickaxe was no match for good steel.  His skull cracked and blood went flying.  She yanked her sword free and went to the next.  It made no matter if they yielded or if they did not, all of the men died.  The crew took salt wives and the children would be taken to be raised on the ship and eventually made to crew them.  Fires sprang up like blossoms after a heavy rain, and she knew when this place saw the back of their ships it would be nothing more than a grey smudge on the horizon.  

She tried not to be sick.  These people were smallfolk.  They would want nothing more than to raise their crops and their ships in peace.  Sometimes they raided the towns for meat and mead or gold, but most times it was to slake her uncle’s bloodlust.  This was exactly the practice she’d tried to put an end to.  She tried to block out the cries of the salt wives, but she knew that in the dark of the night she’d hear them loud enough.  She’d never stop hearing them.  And she pulled no strength from her attack, did not try to spare them.  She would go to the Drowned God’s hell for that, but she did not value their lives above their own, and that was the truth of it.  These small villages were nothing, they had nothing, and still her uncle took it.  It did not take long.  

They did not linger when the thing was done.  It was back to the rowboats, and soon she was back aboard the Silence , and standing in front of her uncle.  He rarely looked her in the eye, which she was glad of, but he liked to make her stand and listen while he spoke.  She’d spent hours here on the deck, quietly listening to him rave.  At first she’d argued, but he was beyond listening.  He simply threatened to feed her to the drowned god, took a sip of sea water, and resumed speaking.  It was no different now.  

“Another glorious feast for the drowned god.  More salt wives and little ones for us.  The strength of the old ways cannot be denied,” He was smiling today.  That was not a good sign.  He smiled when things were going his way, and his way was madness.  She tried not to smell the smoke drifting from the shore.  It smelled like pork.  She’d never be able to eat pig again.  He turned and looked at her, his gaze sweeping from head to foot, “It’s a pity you were born without a cock.  You’re a passable fighter.”  

She knew better than to point out that she was an excellent fighter, the best in his crew, and that it hadn’t required a cock, but she resisted the urge and instead replied, “Thank you, uncle.”  

He turned back to gazing at the sea, “The Tyroshi could not stop us, and neither could the Myrish, though their attempts were pitiful.  Their coasts burn, and soon the Pentoshi will break themselves upon the prows of my armada.”  

“Of course,” she agreed, the words feeling foul in her mouth.  The reason they’d only offered token resistance was that they’d still not recovered from the devastation Daenerys Targaryen had wrought on their cities and their fleets, but she’d not point that out.  If it made Aeron calmer to take credit for the dragon queen’s victories, then she’d not argue it.  But her hands still itched for a blade to plunge into his throat.  None would come to hand, though.  She’d been disarmed again as soon as she’d set foot in the rowboat.  Her uncle used her, as he used everyone.  And besides, it did not matter who destroyed all those ships; this was the largest armada in the world.  He had more than a hundred ships that he’d seized while pirating in the Step Stones.  Ships of all shapes and sizes, of all manner of design, bearing the sails of realms and houses the world over.  She still had no notion of how he’d managed to do that with no one taking notice, especially the all-seeing king of Westeros.  

“And after we sharpen our swords on Pentoshi bones, well...then we make for our true future.  I have seen it, niece, I have seen it in my dreams.  Have you not seen it, too?” 

He forced her to drink the horrible drink that turned his lips blue.  Shade of the evening, it was called.  Sometimes it stained her mouth, but he claimed it would be a waste to force it on her as often as he drank it, and so he only gave it to her every few days.  Her dreams were horrible, but she doubted they were the same as his.  She lied, “Yes, uncle.  I’ve seen your glory in my dreams.”  

All she’d seen was horror, although to Aeron horror and glory were the same, she supposed, “Of course you have.  I will find the dragon queen and take her dragon.  I will make her my mate, and we will conquer all.  All of the lesser gods will bow to us; the seven will be the first, and then the red god, and the shadow god, and every one of the old gods too.  Then the Drowned God will rise, and take me for his vessel, and the krakens will follow...” 

She’d heard the same ranting half a hundred times.  She believed none of it.  Wind and words.  Daenerys had been dead and gone for two years.  There’d been rumors, of course, but they were simply rumors.  People didn’t come back from the dead, and she wasn’t an exception to that rule.  Aeron, though, seemed to believe every rumor he heard of her.  The dragon queen was on the Dothraki sea, no, Meereen, then Dragonstone.  The next rumor would have the woman showing up on the Silence , Yara was sure of it.  And Aeron believed them all.  

“...all will worship me, and the drowned god, or I will feed them to the Krakens.  Can you see it, niece? Can you see their writhing? See the blood flowing into the sea?” 

“I can,” but it was only the blood of the smallfolk they’d killed, “Which sea will run red?” 

“All of them! All belong to the drowned god! All will bow before him and his glory! All will drink sweet sea water, and be drowned and given the kiss of life.  All will have the chance to rise harder and stronger!” 

“What is dead may never die,” she answered out of habit.  He once again had answered her question without giving her any hint of his true plans.  

“Too true,” he must have been feeling particularly forthcoming this evening, because he continued to rant, “Did you know that I’ve been to old Valyria? That is where I got this armor.”  

“Truly?,” she doubted it.  He had the armor, and no other had a suit of valyrian steel, but there were half a hundred places he could have gotten it, especially if he’d been raiding in Essos.  

“You go too far to question me,” he scowled, and Yara moved to recover his mood.  He would be cruel when his mood turned, and she didn’t have the stomach to watch more people die tonight, or worse....no, she wouldn’t think on it.  

“Please forgive me, I only meant to show interest in your tale,” once, Aeron would not be moved by flattery, but this man was broken.  He was the shade of two of her uncles, never really himself nor Euron, but the worst of both, and Euron had liked flattery.  

“Well, who would not long to hear tales of the Smoking Sea? Of Oros and Tyria? Of Valyria itself? The sea boils and the mountains grow larger all the time, red rivers flowing from their tops.  Some day, the peninsula will be reborn, and Valyria will return.  I’ve seen it in my dreams.  I will be there, flying above it all on a dragon.”  

Yara didn’t know what to say, so she replied with something safe, “It will be glorious.”  

“ I will be glorious.  I will be all the Valyrian gods reborn, and none of them.  Something new,” Yara stayed silent, having no more words with which to encourage him, “You are silent, then? Well, it is past time that your day be finished.”  

Two of the larger crew members came closer at a gesture from Aeron, and she took their arrival for the dismissal that it was.  She knew where they were going.  At first, she’d gone kicking and screaming, making them fight every step of the way, but now...now she’d accepted that it made no matter how much she kicked and screamed, the result was the same.  There was no reason for her to waste the energy and endure the beating that always came when she acted out.  So she went below decks to the berth she was kept in.  

She entered the dim, windowless room, and heard the heavy door shut and lock behind her.  A candle was lit in the lantern and a plate of food awaited her.  Well, half a plate of food.  The other half had already been eaten.  Patrek looked over at her from where he lay in his hammock, “How bad was it this time?” 

She sat down on the small stool bolted to the floor near the stump that passed for a table.  Patrek was the reason Yara tolerated anything her uncle did.  As soon as Aeron figured out that she didn’t hate him, he’d become her whipping boy.  Every time she refused to do something, it meant pain for Patrek.  She hadn’t been able to let that happen.  She wouldn’t have let it happen even if she hadn’t grown fond of him; he represented the only chance of a future for the Iron Islands.  She had no idea how or if she would get away from Aeron, but she’d only take her chances if Patrek came with her.  So he became leverage for her uncle.  

“Bad enough,” She tore off a hunk of bread and dunked it into the lukewarm stew.  Their cook was surprisingly good, but Yara tried to ignore that the fresh provisions came from the raiding they did, “There were a lot of children this time.”  

He winced in sympathy, knowing that the kidnapping was the hardest part for her to witness, “He seemed in a good mood today.” 

Yara nodded, “That means he’ll be a terror tomorrow.  We are close to Pentos.”  

Patrek never was allowed outside the room, “Does he mean to attack the Pentoshi?” 

She took a bite and then swallowed, “I think so, but it’s difficult to tell.  He just rants and raves all the time and refuses to let any real information slip free.”  

“I wonder what he thinks you’ll do with that information.” 

“I don’t know, but I would do some thing, so he’s right to keep it to himself,” She downed a few mouthfuls of stew.  

“And still no notion of whether the messenger ship got through?” 

She shook her head and swallowed the last of the stew, “If they have, no aid has shown itself on the horizon.  Not from the north OR the south.” 

“Yes, the empty harbor of Sunspear still troubles me, as well.”  

“It’s passing strange, you know.  No ravens have come in days.  At first I thought it was Aeron’s doing, but he grows more and more frustrated with the lack of them.  All of those he sent never return, so if he has spies in the greenlands they’ve not been able to report to him.”  

The click of the lock was the only warning they received before the door opened.  One of the tongueless mute that crewed the ship entered with a cup.  Yara groaned internally, knowing exactly what was in it.  She hated drinking it for all the nightmares it produced, but still took the cup.  Inside was the inky blue liquid Aeron forced on her once or twice a week.  She raised the cup to her lips, and as always, the first thick mouthful of it nearly made her gag, but she knew it would get better, so she swallowed.  The taste changed when she swallowed; salt and sea, good cheese and ale, her favorite strawberry tarts.  If sunset had a taste, it would taste like the inkwine.  This was what she hated the most about the stuff...that she liked to drink it, even though the visions were terrible.  It was hope in this dark place, and hope was something she could ill afford.  Not this kind anyway.  No, the kind of hope she entertained was the kind that led her to plan, not the kind that led her to daydream.  

She handed the empty cup to the mute, shame churning in her guts and burning in her chest.  Or was that the draught? She could never tell.  Patrek took her hand and they held on tight.  She looked at him, and he did what he always did when they made her take the wine.  He spoke of good things.  Things they loved, “When we get home, we’re going to the best brothel in Seaguard, you and I together.  We’re going to drink ourselves stupid and sing ribald songs until our throats hurt.  We’ll empty my father’s best wine casks, we’ll drink arbor gold until it makes us sick of the sweetness.  I’ll take you to the woods, and we’ll find some fine young hawks and train them together.  You’ll see.  We’ll go back to the Iron Islands, and we’ll grow fat and rich from all the trade and wealth.”  

As always, she let the cadence of his voice sooth her, and let his images into her mind.  They never lessened the nightmares, but she didn’t think it hurt either.  Sleep crept up on her, making her yawn, “It’s time for me to seek my bed.”  

“Yes.  That stuff always does this to you,” he smiled softly at her.  

She smiled back and stood, making her way to her own hammock.  She laid down and pulled the blanket over her and looked over at him, yawning again, “I’m grateful that you’re here.  I wouldn’t wish my uncle on anyone, but...I’m glad I’m not alone.”  

“As am I.  I suppose we weren’t poorly matched after all,” those were the last things she heard him say before sleep claimed her, pulling her down through its blackness and into turbulent dreams.  

It began as it often did.  Her mad uncle stepping ashore, twenty feet tall, dark tentacles following him.  She never knew where it was they landed, and she wasn’t sure that it mattered, because the result was always the same.  Death.  People ran, walking, living corpses.  Not the shambling blue-eyed monsters of the Night’s King, no, but bloated, rotting people, running from him, not realizing they were already dead.  The poisonous smoke choked the air, filling her lungs until she could barely breathe.  

“This is paradise, niece,” he sang, an unhinged smile never leaving his face.  His teeth were white and sharp, filed to points.  He lifted his eyepatch and black sea water flowed forth, drowning all but her.  

The blackness pulled her down, water filling her lungs, but she could still breathe.  Down and down she went, sinking, falling.  Things moved in the water, things she would not look at.  She knew what they were, monsters and merlings and all manner of creatures, all of whom would gladly claim pieces of her sanity.  Her ears popped and bled and still she sank.  She struggled to swim, but in the strange way of dreams, she could not.  The water claimed her, she belonged to it. She fell free of it, landing on a black stone floor that rippled with the reflections of the waves that hovered high above.  This was different, but then...all of the visions were, even when they began the same.  

She struggled to her feet, soaking wet, dripping with water that was as thick as honey.  It turned to ink as she watched, dripping to the floor and disappearing.  She heard a crack, and turned towards the sound.  A thousand thousand driftwood crowns were piled together, reaching halfway to the watery ceiling.  One had fallen, and bounced its way down the mountain and rolled across the floor, hitting the tips of her boots and falling at her feet.  She picked it up and realized it was the crown Euron had made, the one she’d broken and thrown into the sea.  

“No!,” she screamed, her voice echoing in this strange place.  She threw the crown into the dark.  

“I will take what you discard,” her uncle was back, and he was larger.  The crown was atop his head, but the tentacles still trailed behind him.  They dripped sea water, skin rough and loose atop strong muscles.  The suckers pulsed and searched for something to grasp, even as the tendrils at the ends wrapped around her uncle’s limbs and neck.  He paid them no mind, the too-wide smile still on his face.  When he walked, sea water dripped like blood onto the stone, and the tendrils moved in time with his steps.  There was a throne for him, and he sat upon its bone-white seat.  Jaws and teeth rose behind him like a corona, long as his own arm, and wickedly sharp, “I have killed all the false gods and taken their strength.  I am a god, Yara.  And I will make you a goddess.”  

It was a threat, not a promise.  She said nothing.  Behind him she saw the seastone chair looming over him in the flickering gloom, at least three times as large as it was in life, the arms of the Kraken moving and dancing.  The oil on its surface shined and dripped, splattering on the white of the teeth surrounding Aeron.  A drop the size of a child landed on his huge head, and he did not notice, not even when the slick oil oozed down his skin and into his never-faltering smile, painting the white teeth black.  As she watched, one of its arms pushed down and into his head, through the back, and out the eye he kept covered with an eye patch, squirming grotesquely.  He never acknowledged it, he simply spilled forth more of his ranting and raving.  The words washed over Yara as the ocean had, and she ignored them.  

The ceiling fell and flooded them all.  She could barely move again, and she knew what lurked in the darkness.  Aeron was death and rot, and he would bring his monsters with him.  She swam as hard as she could, and knew that he chased her.  The creatures of the deep fled before him, never bothering Yara.  There was a loud sound behind her, roaring as if the entire sea was angry.  A wave like none she’d felt before took her, swirling and tumbling her under the sea.  She could not see it, there should not be waves this deep...currents, yes, but she knew the difference.  She was helpless in its grasp, and somehow she knew it was the doing of her uncle.  

She broke the surface, riding the huge wave against her will.  She rose into the air on the back of it as it grew taller and taller.  It had found a harbor.  In front of her was a city, and she could not tell what city it was.  She could not remember any city she’d ever been to.  It could be Seaguard or old Valyria and she would not be able to tell the difference.  The wave, her wave, crashed ashore and flooded the city.  The dead lived here, as they had in all of the other dreams, and they ran from the wave only to be swallowed up by the ocean.  Overhead, she heard the cry of a dragon.  

So many people dying.  So many people hurt.  She was sick to death of senseless death.  But night after night, that is all she was ever shown.  She hated these dreams, and hated her own powerlessness.  She was a passenger in the visions, nothing more.  Her own powerlessness choked her, stole her breath, made her weaker than even the deep ocean had.  She despised it...but not herself.  She despised the power of the drug she was given, and the strength of these visions.  How dare they use her own mind like this? How dare they assume she was beaten? 

NO.  

She held tight to her anger, let it fuel her, let it burn through her, and she... pushed .  She didn’t know against what, and didn’t know what would happen, but anything would be better than night after night of horrific visions.  This was her own mind.  She refused to let others make the decisions for her.  So she fought and pushed and strained against the weight that dragged her body down, against the bonds that kept her mouth shut and kept her from speaking any word that wasn’t ordained by the dream.  The wave surged, and the dragon screamed again, its cry desperate.  No one commanded Yara Greyjoy when she did not allow it.  She might be trapped while waking but not here, not in her own mind.  This was a violation she would not tolerate.  

“NO!,” she screamed.  The vision shattered.  Everything went black. 

Chapter Text

“Sansa.  Sansa!,” Meera rushed to keep up with her quick, determined steps, following her through the barracks and into the First Keep, “Slow down for a moment and listen , please!” 

“I will listen, but I’ll do it while we walk,” Tormund, the Black Brothers, Gallen, and her guards all trailed behind them.  

“You don’t need to do this.  We don’t need to use magic,” they started up the stairs, “We can find another way to solve this problem.  Light them on fire, or hold them off a bit longer.  We know the dragon bone works, and we have more than enough.” 

“How long do you think it will be until they pile their bodies high enough to breach their confinement? What then, Meera?” 

“How long do you think it will be until the crypt runs out of bodies? It’s not infinite.  The flow will stop.” 

“Winterfell is eight thousand years old.  There are eight thousand years of the dead down there,” they reached the landing where the arrows were being made, but Sansa ignored it and continued upwards.  

“It makes no matter.  The bones are dust, and even the Night King cannot raise dust.”  

“Meera,” Gallen said gently, “Not all bones turn to dust, and this far north it takes much longer.  There have been bodies found in the ice that are older than the wall.  The wall itself holds some of them, frozen within.”  

“We’re not at the wall, Gallen,” she snapped.  

“Sansa is right,” he replied, “The crypts will not exhaust themselves any time soon, and certainly not before they breach the walls.”  

They spilled out into the large circular room at the top of the tower, and as they crossed over the direwolf on the floor, Sansa felt herself jerked to a stop by Meera’s hand on her arm, and spun around.  The fury in her eyes made Meera drop her arm.  Sansa let her voice be as cold and sharp as the winter wind, “We will all soon be in real mortal danger.  We have seven and twenty fighting men, maybe thirty, and that includes you, Tormund, the Black Brothers, and my guards.  We have no idea if this is happening around the rest of the north, or even further south.  If you have another solution I would love to hear it.”  

“It is as I said.  All magic is blood magic, and all blood magic has a price,” she replied quietly, “The Valyrians paid with their lives.  Bran isn’t... Bran anymore.  Jojen died.  My father...has paid.  Magic hurts everyone it touches.  I am asking that you slow down and think.”  

“Jon and Daenerys live by magic, and what was the price they paid? Who paid to bring them to life?,” Sansa paused and watched Meera carefully for an answer, but none was forthcoming, “I have been thinking for weeks, Meera.  I never stop thinking about this problem, nor any other.  I have held this problem to the light of my mind and twisted it in place for longer than anyone else has.  And a thousand other problems, besides, because that is what it means for me to be queen.  I don’t like magic.  The truth is that it makes me uncomfortable and I’d rather listen to my castellian talk about wheat supplies than take the next steps inscribed on this horn, but I can see no other option.  I want my people to live, so whatever the price is? I consent to paying it.  Because that is what I will do to keep the North safe.  What will you do to keep Greywater watch safe? To keep your fellow bannermen safe? To keep your mother and father safe?”  

They stared at each other for many long minutes, but it was Meera that looked away, “As your grace commands.”  

Sansa’s gaze snapped to Dareon, “And you?” 

He looked uncomfortable, “I...take no sides in the wars of the seven kingdoms.  It’s not my place to say.”  

“‘ I am the horn that wakes the sleepers ’,” she quoted, “‘ The shield that guards the realms of men .  What did you think you were protecting it from? Snarks and grumpkins? Poor people trying to come south for some decent farmlands? You’ve not had to do your duty for near-on eight thousand years, since the wall was raised--” 

“That’s unfair.  The Night’s Watch fought with Jon Snow at the battle for Winterfell,” he protested.  

“Yes, you did,” she replied, “But it seems that this,” she held up the horn, “was your real duty.  Will you be forsworn?” 

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on the object in her hand, but shook his head, “I’ll not.”  

She turned to the rest of the group, “Anyone else?” 

They all seemed rather frightened of her in that moment, but not Tormund.  He stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder, “Do it.  I’ll make sure these kneelers don’t get in the way.”  

She gave a soft smile, the barest lift of one corner of her mouth, and lowered her voice, “You know they kneel to me, don’t you?” 

“Aye.  And if it was someone other than Jon, it ought to be you,” she covered his hand with hers and squeezed gently, “Besides, it’s been a time since I’ve added another story to my collection.  This might be good.”  

“Or nothing might happen at all,” Gallen looked at the horn and walked closer, “We don’t know that it will work.  We don’t know that we’ve gotten any of this right.”  

“If you’re right, then we’ll do what we must when the time comes,” She looked up, “Dareon, please join us.  You must go first.”  

He came closer, and Meera shifted so that they all stood in a triangle around the sigil in the floor.  She drew a dragonglass dagger from her belt and handed it to Dareon, “Black goes first.”  

“Right.  Blood of three,” he wiped his hands on his pants, and rolled up one black sleeve, “Where...do I put the blood.”  

“I’m not sure,” Gallen answered, “All three bands bear the same sigils.  Let it drop all over, I suppose.”  

“Alright,” He raised the dagger and, flinching, cut the arm that had the sigils on the palm.  Not deep enough to cut any of the important vessels, but deep enough that he bled freely.  Sansa untied her sleeve as she watched him drip the blood on the horn.  It didn’t react until the dark splotches painted the bronze band that he’d held when they’d touched it.  The blood soaked into the metal and the sigils flared for a moment, then flickered and sputtered out.  

“I...think it needs more,” Sansa said, looking up at him.  

“Lovely,” he muttered, but he squeezed his arm to make the blood flow faster.  It dripped from the cut in steady rivulets, flowing almost like wine, and when it started to clot the cut was made again.  More and more the horn drank, and the sigils shined brighter.  First white, then yellow, then orange, “I...I’m starting to feel a little woozy...”  

“Catch him if he falls,” Gallen said to Alexi.  The tall man was standing as close to the door of the room as he could, white as a sheet and a sour look on his face.  She could tell he didn’t like what they were doing, but he’d kept his mouth shut and that was the best she could ask for.  He came and stood behind his brother.  

Finally, the glow deepened to a rich red, and when he moved his arm away, the glow didn’t sputter out, but instead shined brightly.  Gallen handed Dareon one of the bandaged he’d brought from his chambers when they’d left to come here, and the younger man pressed it gratefully against the wound and handed the knife to Meera.  She had her arm out, and she made her cut quick and cleanly, with barely a flinch.  She held it steady over the band, letting the blood flow until it, too, glowed red.  If she felt the loss of it, as Dareon had, she did not say anything.  She took her bandage and handed the knife to Sansa.  

Obsidian, she knew, was sharper than that sharpest steel.  The knife would part her flesh with no trouble.  She drew it quickly across her flesh, giving no outward sign that she felt the sharp stab of pain or the burning sting that came after it.  If they could do this, then she certainly could.  What was a little pain when weighed against the safety of all she loved? It was nothing.  She flexed her arm and watched her blood flow.  She felt the horn taking it.  It almost pulled the stream from her, and she knew she would never be able to break what bound her to this object.  When she needed to re-cut herself to start the flow of blood again, it was almost paintless.  And the third time felt almost like pleasure.  

The horn took what it wanted, and when it was sated she removed her arm and held it out to maester Gallen, who tied the bandage around the wound.  The other two had stopped bleeding while she’d been taking her turn, and they both had their bandages tied on their arms as well.  She looked at tham, “The final step.” 

“I think...,” Meera began, “we should hold the band of bronze that has our blood in it when we take our turn.  It feels right, somehow.”  

Sansa nodded, because Meera was right - it did feel like that was what they should do.  She handed the horn to Dareon, who raised it and said, “Seven preserve me.”  

He held firm to the band that held his blood and blew hard into the horn.  The sound was louder than it should have been for such a small thing, sweet and clear.  It cut through the cold winter air, and out the windows.  Down below, Sansa heard the dead scream.  Tormund heard it too, because he went to the window and opened it so that he could see down into the Pit.  He gave a mad cackle and grinned, “They did NOT like that.  Do it again.”  

That made even Meera smile, and lowered the tension in the room some.  She took the horn from Dareon, holding the middle band tight in her burned hand.  She gave Sansa one last, heavy look and took a deep breath.  She raised the horn to her lips and blew.  The horn was louder, and the note deeper.  It thrummed through them, vibrating in Sansa’s chest.  Outside, the dead screamed louder.  She could hear the sound of their bodies smashing into the wall in their fury and frenzy to reach the horn blowers in the tower.  Meera handed the horn to Sansa.  Tormund cackled again and yelled, “take that, ye ugly beasties!” 

The band of bronze felt warmer than it should, but not so warm that it was painful.  Instead, it was almost comforting.  Sansa met the eyes of the other two one last time, took in a breath, and blew hard into the horn.  

She did not hear the note.  She did not hear the dead, nor the living.  She could hear nothing, but she felt herself...pulled.  It felt almost the same as when she had a wolf dream, but she was awake, and she hadn’t done this on her own, it was the horn that had pulled her from her flesh.  It flung her away, dropping her down and down and down.  At first there was nothing, and it was simply dark, but then there was firelight, broken crypts, stone faces.  Down and down and down she fell, through layers and layers.  Each one slowed her fall for just long enough that she could capture a glimpse of her surroundings, and then she was falling.  Stone direwolves.  Long faces.  Hundreds of Starks, thousands of them.  Kings of winter and their direwolves and she knew, in her heart, that all had been like she and Bran were.  All had been wargs.  Now she could hear, but it was only their voices.  

“Too red,” said one.  

“A woman,” sneered the other.  

“Too southeron,” whispered a third.  

“Too WEAK,” taunted another.  

Faster and faster the lies came, battering her, but she’d heard worse and she ignored them all.  What were the opinions of dead men next to the pain she’d been through in King’s Landing? Next to what Ramsay had done? Words were wind.  

“BOLTON,” roared one, hot hatred spilling into her mind.  

Others took up the call, “Bolton, Bolton, Bolton.”  

“Ancient foe,” hissed another.  

“He does not deserve a Stark daughter,” she could feel the anger of the nameless men.  

“A Stark queen,” came another from the rabble.  

Down through the dark she fell, she couldn’t stop it, and couldn’t slow it.  She could feel the things scrabbling in the darkness.  Things that were deep in the collapsed part of the crypts, trying to escape the rubble.  

“THE DEAD,” this was louder than their cries of Bolton had been.  

They’d been angry before, but rage burned in her mind as they all took up the cry.  A thousand-thousand Stark kings screamed their long-held fury into the darkness of the tombs as her soul fell through eight thousand years of men.  Then the screams and the anger stopped, and she fell through cloying silene.  

It was getting warmer.  She had not the body to feel, but somehow she knew it was.  Then came the brightness, and it startled her.  A cave , she thought, A huge cave.  The bottom is miles below .  At the bottom lay red, molten rock, bubbling and churning and throwing plumes into the cave.  In the center there was something...bright.  It shone blue, but it was too far away for her to see what it was.  It looked almost...human? That couldn’t be right.  

And suddenly, she fell no longer.  Something that felt like a tether snapped, and she was pulled upward again, flying through layers of rock and stone until she heard the voices again.  Louder and louder they grew, until they crowded her mind.  It was so overwhelming; she wanted to cover her ears but she had no hands.  She wanted to scream but she had no voice.  It was too much, too loud, and she couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t find herself, couldn’t do this...couldn’t...couldn’t...

Sansa.  

She knew that voice.  She heard it in her dreams, and sometimes in her nightmares.  

Sansa.

There it was again.  She reached for it, stretching, focusing, pushing out all the other voices.  

Here, Sansa .  

Safety.  The voice was safety and love.  Warm summers and old leather.  Her first taste of lemon cakes.  If she could cry, there’d be tears on her cheeks.  She fought her way towards the voice, forcing herself to stop rising without direction and instead move towards the sound of home.  

And then she stopped rising, stopped moving.  She tried to gasp, to breath, but she couldn’t. She was drowning, she was suffocating, she would die if she couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t she breathe? She shouldn’t have blown the horn. It was wrong it was wrong she couldn’t move she was lost...

Peace , came the voice.  It was close by, now, You will not die.   

She had longed to hear that voice again for so long.  He would set everything right.  She could lay down her burdens and let him take over.  She wanted to cry, to sob in joy, but she had no eyes and no tears.  

You do have eyes.  You need only open them.   

She’d been able to see while she was falling and rising, but she saw only darkness now.  Could it be that she did have eyes, but had not realized? She could try, it was such a simple thing to open her eyes.  She thought of how it felt to wake, how it felt to open her eyes after savoring the taste of meat on her tongue, how it felt to squint against the glare of the sun on the purest of white snowfalls.  Yes, she could open her eyes.  She did that.  

Molten panic surged through her.  She was in the crypts, down deep at the end, but there were torches lit.  Why were there torches? No one had been down to the crypts in weeks, and surely they must have burned themselves out.  And why was she so tall? She was perhaps twenty or thirty feet off the ground.  Mayhaps it was the magic of the horn? The horn! Panic unravelled the delicate thread of curiosity she’d been spinning.  She cried out in her mind to the voice, I’ve done something I shouldn’t have done! I’ve done magic! 

It’s alright, my little love.  You were born to do magic.   

No, that’s Bran, she thought.  

And you.  All of you were born to it.  I was, too, and my father, and his father...and back and back.   

I am not alone?

You are not alone.  We are here, in the stone.  

The voices? 

Yes, the voices.  

I have missed you. She needed to speak to him, to hear his words.  Nothing meant more to her than that.  

You have grown up strong.  

I’d rather have grown up safe.  I’m sorry.  I’m so, so sorry, I never should have...

You were so young.  You could not have known.  I should have done better.  

They are all dead now.  All of them.  

So am I.  So is your lady mother.  So are your brothers.  

Not Bran and Arya.  

Yes, he agreed, not them.  They are not here with us.  

Are Robb and Rickon...here? , and as soon as she asked the question, she got the answer.  She could feel them close by, but they could not speak, not yet.  Not as he could.  The three of them were kind to her, but the others? Oh, there was no word for the fury they felt.  Stark kings and lords, all trapped.  

Am I trapped too? , she asked.  

No.  You yet live.  You leave when you choose.

I don’t feel as if I’m choosing to stay.  

There was a feeling of sadness and...fondness, Are you not?

Are you real? 

Yes.  This is the fate of all those whose likeness lies in the crypts.  

Is...is aunt Lyanna...? 

Yes, but she speaks not.  She is the only woman.  But sometimes she sings.  

Sings?

Yes.  The song for her son.  

You knew of Jon? 

I knew. She felt his shame, aching and painful.  The blight on his honor.  

Why am I here? 

To wield the weapon.  Reach out, feel for the others.  Feel where you are.

I...I don’t know how.  I’m not Bran, I can’t do magic...

You can.  Think of the wolf dreams.  

She did.  She remembered what it felt like to ride with Nymeria, to move with her legs and see with her eyes and smell the rich smells that coated a wolf’s world.  She concentrated on that feeling, remembering it, holding it close, and she tried to move, just a little.  It took more effort, certainly.  This was no creature of bone and sinew, nothing living, but it was a small movement.  Just a finger.  

CRACK.  

She could move her finger.  Now she had the trick of it, she tried the next fingers, and her wrist.  They cracked and snapped, the unnatural sounds adding to her discomfiture, but it did not hurt.  It was not painful.  There was a loud clatter as something fell forward, rattling all the way to the floor.  She moved her arms and the cracks became low booms, and grinding that she felt deep inside her.  Finally, she could move her head, and she looked around.  

She no longer doubted where she was.  She was in the crypts.  She held up her hand and it was...stone? Well, that would explain the cracking.  She looked down and realized she was standing on a stone plinth, and laying on the floor was Ice.  No, that’s not right.  It wasn’t Ice, Ice had been melted down.  This was the greatsword that had been forged for her father in death, made to look like Ice.  It had been in her hands.  She could no longer deny where she was, and she started to panic again.  

Sansa. His voice was more stern this time, You need not do that.  It will not serve you.  

He was right.  She was in no danger.  She tried to bend her leg, and found that she could.  She bent the other one.  The crackling of stone was so unnatural she almost shied away and let go of the magic.  Yes, there, she could feel her hold on the magic.  She followed the thread and found that it tied her to all of the statues.  Down and down into the crypts, all of them were tied to her.  How was she so strong? Even Bran could not control so many.  Then she remembered the last part of the inscription on the horn: three of mind.  Oh, no.  She hoped, for their sake, that it was merely their strength that was bound to her by the horn and that they had not been flung from themselves down into the crypts, for they would find no kind voice to guide them.  She tried to feel them the way she could feel the spirits of her family, but could not.  

She needed to learn how to use this stone body that she borrowed.  She carefully lowered herself, to take a step off the plinth, wishing there was something to hold onto, but made it to the ground.  She took one step, and then another.  She fought and pushed, and the stone felt so heavy.  

It will get easier as you go.  Magic is like a muscle in that way.   

She offered a silent thank you, and pushed herself to do a few more steps.  It did not get easier, but it was workable.  She would not be fast, but she did felt more sure of herself.  If she didn’t think about it so much, it was easier.  She made to leave, but remembered what had fallen.  She turned and picked up the greatsword.  It was longer than Ice had been, made to fit the huge stone statue of her father.  

I don’t know how to use this , she said into the darkness of the statue’s mind.  

I do. He replied.  Call the others.  They come at your command.  

Which others?, although she was afraid she already knew.  

The lords and kings of winter.  

They scream at me.  They are so angry.  

They have lain unmoving in the dark for many years.  The oldest is near on eight thousand.  

And they have not gone mad in their solitude? 

Some have, some have not.  Some found solace in family.  Some sleep and try never to wake.  Some have grown angry.  They are the ones you will most want.  Let them take their anger out on the things that plague you.  

I will try , she felt for that thread, the one that was the magic that connected her to the horn and to all of the statues.  It was like a web that she couldn’t see, shining strands that she merely felt, but she knew that she held all of those threads.  She sent a single command to them: 

RISE.  

At first, nothing happened.  Then, around her, she heard small cracks and pops, and pebbles snapped and bounced to the ground.  There was no other sound, as the likenesses could not speak, but it made no matter.  The sleepers woke, and the ground trembled beneath her feet, a great roar of stone and earth that heralded them.  The horn of Joramun had done its dark work.  She could feel each of them as they woke, until there were too many to count.  Their spirits were hers to command, as was the stone that passed for flesh.  The magic grew and grew until she could no longer pick out an individual, and instead carried a tapestry.  

And with this magic, with the discovery of it, she started to feel a kind of joy.  This was power, this would make her adversaries kneel before her.  She was the Queen of Winter, and none could stand before her.  She was born for this.  She was a Stark of Winterfell and this was her birthright, she’d--

You won’t, this time it was not her family.  This was....Meera? I won’t allow it.  

Nor will I, Dareon’s words lent strength to Meera’s and in that moment, Sansa understood why the three of them were needed.  Not just for strength, but for balance.  The power was as seductive as it was dangerous.  

Thank you , she thought to them, although she didn’t know if they could hear it.  She looked around her at the statues that now crowded the room.  Below them, in the caved in seconds of the crypts, the dead scrambled for freedom.  She knew what she should do.  Gathering her will, she imposed it on her powerless ancestors: 

DESTROY THEM.  DESTROY THE DEAD.  

Some of the kings felt a surge of battle lust, some felt joy, and others fell into a black rage.  It did not matter.  They would still serve their purpose, and so would she.  She looked down the long, dark hallway, through the waiting shapes of her family, and walked towards the door.  The pit awaited its queen.  

It took longer than it would have were she walking as a person.  The stone was still heavy and hard to move.  But soon she emerged into the sunlight, and into the mass of dead that were stolen from the crypts and lichyard.  

They were as fierce as she’d ever seen them.  As soon as she stepped from the crypt, they surged towards her and the others who’d come with her.  The screams alone made her wish to free herself from the stone, but that would not save Winterfell.  That would not save the North.  That would help no one.  She stayed in her statue, and instead said, Lend me your skill.  

You need no finesse.  Tear them apart.  

She grabbed the nearest one, and her oversized hand easily wrapped around its neck.  How fragile it felt to her, how little it weighed.  She grasped the head...and tore.  It felt like pulling a drumstick from a chicken, but easier.  The strength in her was immeasurable.  There was a little spark, a little sizzle akin to putting out a candle with her fingers, and the body stopped moving.  She set the others to their task, and around her the dead began to die for good and all.  She felt them fall, a hundred candles all being snuffed out.  Some, she set to the task of clearing the great mounds of bodies, moving them to the center of the lichyard and far away from the walls so that they could be safely burned without concern for the whole of the castle.  It felt as if it took no time at all, and while they worked, Sansa realized the dead had ceased to come from the mouth of the crypts, and ceased to rise from their graves in the lichyard.  

He sees you and runs from you, came the observation in her mind.