Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bran gasped. That was the Knight Jaime Lannister, a man of the King's Guard, making love to none other than Queen Cersei, his own twin sister. What the actual... Bran stumbled from shock, losing his grip on the wall and tipping back. But before he could plummet to his death, a hand reached out and grabbed his shirt, keeping him steady. Bran breathed a sigh of relief, only to still in fear when he came eye to eye with Jaime Lannister.

The blond man assessed him from head to toe. "How old are you, boy?"

"Seven," Bran lied, his voice shaky from the climb. At a stretch he could pass for a seven-year-old.

Jaime Lannister regarded him coldly. Then he smiled. "My sister has been rather naughty," he said with a chuckle. "She had to be spanked."

Bran swallowed, looking past the Kingslayer at the blonde woman on the stone floor. Her gown was disheveled, blades of dried grass stuck in her hair. She smiled nervously.

"You know what spanking is, right, boy?" said the man, drawing Bran's attention back to him.

Bran nodded. "Yes Ser."

Satisfied, Jaime pursed his lips. "Good. Stay out of trouble." With those words he raised Bran up in the air, and set him down on the stone floor. "Now let's go find your mother." Bran felt a stern hand on his shoulder push him through the door. And before he knew it, him and Jaime Lannister were walking down the stairs. Queen Cersei remained up in the tower.

They didn't find Bran's mother. But they did run into Robb in the courtyard. "Thanks for keeping him out of trouble," Robb beamed at Jaime, shaking his hand.

Jaime grinned. "No worries. I was myself a young lad once. Used to get myself into all sorts of stupid situations." He shrugged. "Boys will be boys." Then laughed heartily. Robb joined in the laughter.

Bran kept his head low until the Kingslayer had left. When he looked up at his eldest brother Robb, he wanted to tell him everything. But the moment he opened his mouth to speak, Theon joined them, right at Robb's side.

"You got caught climbing again?" Theon sneered.

Bran curled his lip. "At least I can climb the castle wall."

Theon shot out a hand to ruffle Bran's hair. "That's cause you're so tiny, a tree leaf could carry ya." Robb and Theon laughed merrily. Bran growled. Now he couldn't tell his brother about what happened. Not with Theon standing right there. The guy was a lousy snitch. Bran never understood why Robb liked him. Theon Greyjoy wasn't even one of us. His older brothers had killed Stark bannermen. Bran never understood his father's decision to let an enemy cub stay so close to their family. He always got an odd feeling whenever Theon was around: like it wasn't really safe. So he kept his mouth shut. And later at dinner that night, it was announced that Arya would apprentice with Brienne of Tarth as her squire.

Lady Catelyn Stark looked very much upset. "What? Ned, you can't possibly mean to send her away now. Don't you think it's too soon? She's still so young!"

Lord Eddard Stark turned away from his friend King Robert Baratheon, and addressed his wife. "Our eldest son Robb was twelve when he squired for Lord Jorah Mormont. And look how fine he turned out." Ned Stark motioned at Robb, who glowed at the praise as every face in the great hall turned to look at him. "Arya is nearly twelve years old." Ned went on, now looking at his youngest daughter, who beamed at him. "She has proven herself efficient with a sword. Born talent with the bow and arrow. She's her father's daughter. She'd be wasting away in a Lady's chambers learning how to weave and embroider. That's not for her. Besides, one need not worry about her being a young-lady far away from home. She shall squire for a woman. That should keep her away from mischief. Brienne is an honorable Knight. I trust her to keep our daughter safe."

Lady Stark worried her lip. "Of course, I do not doubt Brienne of Tarth, my love. I'm simply wondering if this does not come a little too soon. She can wait till her twelfth nameday, can she not?"

Ned nodded curtly. "That she could. However, Winter is at our doorstep. And with Winter, come harsher travel conditions. It would be better if she made the journey in the Summer. Tarth is South of King's Landing. That is a far way to go. She can ride with us to King's Landing. And I shall see to it that she is safely escorted to Evenfall."

A pause settled on the great hall, during which none spoke, while Lady Stark mulled the information over in her head.

"Theon will go with her." Ned Stark said with cold finality. Hearing this, Theon's eyes bulged out, he leaned forward in his seat and gaped at Ned Stark. Bran frowned. This was not right.

Catelyn Stark nodded solemnly. "Alright. I trust that Arya is in good hands."

No. No no no no no no! Bran wanted to shout, Bran wanted to scream. He had to put an end to this. But when he opened his mouth to speak, not a word fell from his lips. His throat had dried up. He could not utter a single syllable. The whole thing stuck in his throat and died there. The evening went on, and other matters were discussed, such as Ned's going to King's Landing: who would go with him, who would stay. Robb was to stay on at Winterfell, and take over from his father as Lord of Winterfell. That made him very happy. Bran and Rickon would stay with their mother at Winterfell, as they were too young to go. Arya's departure had been decided, as well as Theon Greyjoy's. Theon seemed overjoyed to finally be leaving this place. Good riddance, thought Bran. Although he did worry about leaving his sister in Theon's care. Arya could hold her own, but Theon was slimy and cunning. He could outwit her. That is what Bran feared the most. Arya was a hothead and easily influenced. If Theon set her up to something, she would get in trouble. And he would let her take the blame for it.

Peculiarly, the case of Sansa was discussed right there at the dinner table. Sansa had been making eyes at Crown Prince Joffrey all day long... And when the idea of their engagement was brought up, she blushed bright red, up to her very ears.

"What do you think of her?" King Robert asked his eldest son.

Prince Joffrey tilted his head from side to side, with a smirk on his lips as he 'evaluated' Sansa by looking her up and down. "She's okay." He finally stated, nodding at his dad with an approving smile.

King Robert suddenly looked pissed. "Just okay?"

Joffrey gulped, straightened up in his seat. His face took on a serious expression as he tried to calm his furious father. "Well you must forgive me, father. I have yet to see Lady Sansa in a fine silk gown. I'm sure she would look prettier than all the court ladies combined at King's Landing, when she's had a proper scrub, had her hair done the Southern style, and with a generous helping of perfume." Joffrey finished with a grin, sharing a look with his mother Queen Cersei, who smiled.

King Robert did not look amused. "Do fine cloths make a Lady?" He asked his son.

Prince Joffrey frowned in confusion. "I beg your pardon? It seems I do not understand, Father. Lady Sansa is very beautiful, indeed. But she's only thirteen. Do you expect me to wed a little girl? I will be a man in one year. That would hardly be appropriate. Don't you think?"

"I asked you a question. Do fine cloths make a Lady? If I put the finest silks on a whore, does that make her a Queen?"

Queen Cersei stilled. Her face went deathly pale for a moment, and she would not take her eyes off her King. Though he did not acknowledge her, did not comfort her, and kept on glaring daggers at Prince Joffrey.

"...No?" Joffrey cautiously said.

The King nodded, slightly satisfied. Some of the edge had fallen from his voice when he asked his son: "What makes a Lady?"

Joffrey searched his father's face for an answer. Not finding it, he decided to give it his best shot. "She must be high born. Of a noble house."

"Close, but not quite. I have seen poor maidens be raised up to Ladies, and some high born Ladies fall into disgrace." King Robert narrowed his eyes, and shared a look with Ned. Then he turned back to his son. "What makes a lady?"

"Her... purity?" Joffrey tried in a small voice.

"Every woman must guard her purity," King Robert replied gruffly, "not just Ladies."

Joffrey sighed. "I give up."

The King scrutinized his son from head to toe. "Are you stupid, Son?" He eventually said.

Prince Joffrey blinked.

The King groaned, then leaned toward Ned to complain. "See what the Capital has done to him? I tell ye, my son was better off with the governess over at Stagsden, than getting pampered by his mother." King Robert threw a dirty look at Cersei. He turned back to his friend, and started talking about Cersei, as if she wasn't even there. "Beautiful woman, perfect at court, the best Queen I could wish for, doesn't know the first thing about being a mother. She lets our kids walk all over her. Allows them everything. Spares no expense to please the little tyrants. And I have no time to raise my own sons when I must rule."

That's when Ned Stark said the thing no one expected him to say: "Well let Joffrey stay here awhile. Your son is always welcome in my house. He can get to know my son Robb. I'm sure they'll get along. They are close to each other in age. Robb is eighteen and your son Joffrey seventeen. And I... have another son, from a different marriage... Jon Stark. He is of Joffrey's age."

King Robert twirled a bit of his beard while raising a glass of wine. "Where is he now? I'd like to meet him."

"Jon is with his mother at The Twins."

"Ah," King Robert chuckled heartily, then downed his glass of wine. "You ended up marrying that Frey girl." He leaned over the table, and winked at Lady Stark. "Do your Gods allow it? A man having more than one wife?"

Catelyn Stark only smiled amicably. "We would not be here today if my husband did not find favor with the Gods."

"Forgive me, I am too rude." King Robert chuckled.

"That you are, my love." Queen Cersei put forth, as she clasped Robert's hand in hers. "But I love you anyway."

Liar, thought Bran. But he kept his thoughts to himself, and acted the part of the dumb little seven-year-old that didn't know what sex was. Because this act would keep him safe. Jaime Lannister had threatened his life today afternoon, Bran was certain of it. And seeing the King with the Queen now, it was obvious she did not love him. She never had. Perhaps he did not love her either.

It was decided that Prince Joffrey would stay on at Winterfell, to experience a real Northern Winter, the likes of which his father the King had seen. This would offer the Prince an opportunity to get to know Rob Stark better, strengthening the Stark Baratheon alliance for years to come. As for the engagement with Lady Sansa, that was put on hold. She was deemed 'too young' to be betrothed. Joffrey would spend more time at the castle, perhaps with time, they would grow close. The engagement could wait. Their fathers had more pressing matters to tend to.

Jon was scheduled to arrive at Winterfell in a fortnight. By then, his father would be long gone, off to King's Landing, along with Arya and Theon, and all of the King's entourage, minus Joffrey. A raven had informed Jon Stark of Prince Joffrey's extended stay at Winterfell. This is going to be interesting... Thought Jon, as he held a quill in hand, mulling over what to write back. He congratulated his little sister Arya for getting the apprenticeship with Brienne of Tarth at Evenfall, and congratulated his older little sister Sansa with getting the Prince. Jon smirked, thinking of what to write to Bran and Rickon, when he heard a knock on his chamber doors.

"Come in."

"Excuse me, I was told to go to you. Lord Randyll Tarly of House Horn Hill sent me to see your father, Lord Stark. He wants to negotiate a trade offer with the North."

The young lad standing in Jon's doorway was very... plump. No, plump was not the right word. Perhaps 'well fed', would be more descriptive of the guy's appearance. His cheeks were flushed with shame, as he hung his head low, and mumbled through full, pink, kissable lips... Stop it Jon. Just stop. Jon shook himself.

"And you are...?" he asked the stranger.

"Samwell Tarly, you can call me Sam, Lord Stark."

Jon shook his head, a little peeved by the young-man's grovelling. "I'm not 'Lord Stark', my father is."

Sam raised his head, and regarded Jon with some confusion. "But you are a Lord, and you are a Stark. Doesn't that make you Lord Stark, then?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. State your business. Are you aware that it is well past the dining hour now?"

"Sorry." Sam shuffled on his feet. "I rode here all day from Fairmarket."

"Alright, alright. What can I do for ye?" Jon put his unfinished letter to his siblings aside.

"Well, over at Horn Hill, we heard that winter was coming, and thought you might be in need of purchasing more food and grain to stock up your supplies. Our lands offer great quantities of wheat, and oats, and rye. We have enough for ourselves. We produce plenty. We might have enough to feed the North too. If you could only let me have an audience with your father. I've heard he is a kind man, and umm they told me to speak to you. As they say you're his favorite son and all that."

Jon leaned back in his chair and raised a skeptical eyebrow at Samwell. "Who says that?"

Samwell shrugged helplessly. "Everyone."

Jon responded with a shrug. "Well, I'm not. Robb is. You might have better luck trying with him."

Sam hung his head, guiltily avoiding Jon's gaze. "I have... already spoken with Robb Stark."

"Oh?"

"He has not answered a single one of my ravens." Sam raised his head and turned those large, puppy-dog eyes on Jon. Damn him to the seven hells. "I really need this trade deal, you see. My father thinks I'm a joke. If I can negotiate this trade, then he might see me as a man."

Jon shrugged once more. "He might. He might not. What of it? Do you need your father to tell you you're a man?"

"Well, no."

"Then what's your issue? Seems to me like the North needs this trade offer more than you do."

Sam was speechless for a moment. Then he whispered in a hushed tone of wonder. "Really?"

"Yes." Jon nodded decisively. "You know what your problem is, Tarly?"

Sam looked down at his feet. "That I'm fat."

Jon couldn't help but burst out laughing. "No, no, that's... not what I was about to say."

Sam lifted his eyes and looked warily at Jon.

"Your problem is you present your offer in a way as if we'd be doing you a favor. Ye sound like a beggar pleadin for a morsel of bread." Jon stood up, paced a few steps, then pointed at Sam's chest. His finger touched Samwell's brown robe. "You are selling the bread. So go on then, say it with confidence."

"Umm, we have a great trade offer for you?"

Jon smirked. "Better. But you've still got a ways to go before you can convince my brother Robb."

"Will you... help me?"

"Help you what? Sell grains to my family?" Jon spread his arms wide. "I'm not a salesman."

"No, umm... with my speech?"

Jon snickered. "Well that depends." He said, lowering his voice intentionally and cocking his head to one side.

"Depends.... on what?"

Jon smiled widely, clapping the shivering young-man on his shoulder. "How long are you staying with us? I'll ask my mother to reheat some leftovers for ye. Wait here."

Sam just stared at him in disbelief. "Your mother... cooks?" he finally uttered. "Mine is helpless in the kitchen, and relies on her cooks and maids..."

"My mother is a Frey." Jon announced proudly, turning as he stalked down the stairs, with Sam following after him. "All the Frey women know how to cook. My mother, Lady Carine Frey, is the best cook in The Twins."

"Carine... Frey? Not Stark? She kept her maiden name?"

Jon smiled without much joy. "My parents only got married for some stupid bridge. Father promised he'd marry her, so he did. Technically, they're separated. Though my mother has remained faithful to him, lives in a separate part of the castle, and is legally still married to him."

Sam rubbed his chin in contemplation. "Is that... allowed?"

Jon shrugged with a laugh. "It pisses off my grouchy grandfather. And that makes it worth it."

Chapter Text

Petyr Baelish never intended for it to happen. Which was unusual for him. Because if anything, Petyr was a diligent planner. And for the plans he made that fell through, he always had a Plan B, a Plan C, a Plan D, and so on and so forth. Petyr did not like surprises. He was not a spontaneous man. He did not believe in accidents. So when he found himself embracing Varys that night, he tried to think back to all their interactions which led up to this.

"You think too much," Varys whispered in the half light of the dimmed orange lamp.

Petyr smiled apologetically. "Forgive me. Men in our profession are not permitted taking days off. I'm not used to letting go."

Varys smirked. "Funny that you should say that. The man who runs most brothels in town."

Petyr chuckled for real this time, surprising himself with the genuineness of his own laughter. He looked deeply in those caramel brown eyes, sinking in their depths. "That is business. And as any good merchant who trades in addictive substances, I don't use my own merchandise. Too much fun on the job leads to bad business. Even a little bit of fun in my trade can lead to a full blown addiction. The slope is slippery." With those words, he touched Varys under the blankets.

"Few men have your self control," Varys remarked, placing a gentle kiss on the side of Petyr's stubble chin.

That was when Petyr realized it. "I have wanted you ever since I stepped foot in the throne room." He said earnestly, not breaking eye contact.

Varys raised an eyebrow with that amused little smile of his. "You only realize this now?" Petyr remained quiet, so in the silence, Varys continued while rubbing Petyr's chest. "Question remains: now that you've had me, would you care for a repeat performance?"

Petyr snorted, as the smirk returned to his lips. "I didn't take you for a sentimental man."

"This must be the first time you've referred to me as a man."

"You talk too much." Petyr leaned in, and silenced Varys with a deep passionate kiss.

They blew out the lights and resumed their night of passion in darkness. No one would ever know they had shared a bed. This would be their little secret. And should it so happen that Petyr saw Varys again, during the dark hours of the night, that changed nothing about who they were. What they were, who they were to each other. They were rivals first, hidden enemies second, coworkers third, dangerous men fourth, lovers fifth. The danger made this more exciting. The possibility of losing it all. This was not a romance. This was two old, spent men scratching an itch that needed to be scratched. And yet it was enough to set Petyr's heart aflame. He had been thirsting for this, in his cold lonely life. He lived for the mind games, the tricks, the riddles. And every time Varys threatened him, that alone was enough to make him rock hard.

On some days, Petyr forgot about Cat. Then he remembered. And he cursed himself for losing his grip on the plan. The one he had been working on for most of his life, ever since he was a scared little sixteen year old lad. But was it even worth it? Did he love Catelyn Tully? Most days he could not even recall her voice. Her face would have changed; she had grown older. How many children had she had? Was it five now? Five children with that savage Northman she called her husband... Children tended to age a woman. And she had had five. Would he even still be turned on by the sight of her? After all that he had seen, all he had been through. Was it still worth it? Twenty years for what? A privileged woman who broke his heart twenty years ago. A woman who thought she was all that, thought herself better than him. A spoilt woman who would not see him when he was at his prime, in the youth of his life. Oh she would pay. But first, he would bring that oaf of a husband to his knees. Where Ned Stark belonged, at Petyr's feet.

The thing that kept Petyr Baelish going was not his great love for Cat, nor his ambition. But the sheer ingenuity and elegance of his plan: it was beautiful. Inside his mind, his master plan with all its contingency plans, stretched out like a castle, shining in the sunlight. He kept going to materialize his plan. To give it real form and shape. So that everyone could witness this beauty of thought. And the genius part was that those idiots Lannister twins would take the fall for him. No one would question Petyr Baelish, not until he sat himself on the Iron Throne. And by then, it would be too late. But first, he had to set certain processes in motion. To force his enemies to rip each other's heads off. After all the violence, Petyr Baelish would be the last man standing.

Blisslessly unaware of Petyr's plans, Varys had plans of his own. And it just so happened that in one sense, their plans coincided. For when Varys were to carry out the first part of his plan, this would help Petyr set his plan in motion.

The materials needed for the plan of Varys were already in place. Hidden in plain sight, where no one would think to look. Not even Baelish was smart enough to see through this one.

Margaery Tyrell was a nice girl. Some would say 'too nice'. She made friends everywhere she went. She had no enemies. Despite her beauty, she did not arouse jealousy in her peers. All the court ladies respected her and admired her. The younger ladies all wanted to be like her. Nobody wanted to hurt her. She enjoyed support from every corner because she lived and breathed with love. At the age of twenty-two, Margaery was the beauty of the realm. Many people trusted her. Yet she trusted no one. She had no friends. No one she could truly call a friend. There was nobody Margaery confided in. She even kept secrets from her twin brother Loras, with whom she was close, as twin siblings usually are (although they never crossed that boundary as the Lannister twins had). And her parents had not seen it fit to give her any sisters. Margaery Tyrell was beautiful, gorgeous, likeable, and very much alone.

Her betrothal had yet to be announced. She was courted by many men who begged for her hand. With whom she spoke, amicably, without any promises. Besides this, House Tyrell was among the richest houses of the Seven Kingdoms, second only to House Lannister. The Tyrells controlled most of The Reach, which gave them access to the most fertile farmlands of Westeros. Only a small number of scattered houses of The Reach were 'independent': such as House Tarly, House Beesbury, House Meadows and House Bulwer. Those houses had no real power. House Tyrell of Highgarden had.

It came as no surprise, therefore, when certain influential people from King's Landing came to visit Highgarden, to speak with Lady Olenna Tyrell, Margaery's grandmother, head of their house, on the subject of the future of the realm. Olenna Tyrell was an ambitious woman who wanted to expand her family's influence over the land. What better way than to broker an alliance with the future ruler of the realm?

"She lives?" Olenna asked her cloaked guest, sipping on a cup of rose tea.

"Her brother keeps her in the city state of Pentos."

Olenna mulled this information over in her mind, before saying: "Will her brother give us any problems?"

Her guest smiled. "Not for long."

They shared a smile. "Good. When that business is done, bring her to me. My granddaughter could use a friend. You said she was seventeen?"

"Yes, and educated in all manners and languages of both Westeros and Essos, my Lady."

"Good. I have no time to educate her. Although I will instruct my granddaughter to teach her about the ways of Westeros. One can only learn so much from reading books."

"Do you think it wise to bring her into the Seven Kingdoms at this time? What if someone recognizes her?"

"No one will. Trust me, I know how to disguise a Lady."

The cloaked figure nodded slowly, then stood. "I mean this kindly, but I hope we never meet each other again."

Olenna Tyrell chuckled. "If you follow through with your end of the bargain, we never will."

Varys shivered under his black robes, even though it was summer, in Highgarden, which had to be the warmest place in Westeros, after Dorne. Olenna Tyrell was one scary woman. Enough to frighten even Varys.

It was decided that Daenerys Targaryen would cross the Narrow Sea without an army. She would sail by a small ship, as an ordinary girl from Pentos. It would be a ship headed for Sunspear, the capital of Dorne. This way they would avoid the Capital of the Seven Kingdoms, avoid King's Landing, a dangerous place for any Targaryen to be, and avoid the Stormlands that were controlled by the Baratheons. From Sunspear, Daenerys would take a ship across the Sea of Dorne, to Wyl. And from there, it would be a rather short journey by land to Highgarden. She would take the name Dagny Tyrell, for some time, and pose as a cousin of Margaery. A distant relative from an insignificant branch family of the Tyrells. That would keep her safe until the time was ripe to make the next move.

Illyrio Mopatis broke the news to Daenerys on her engagement day to Khal Drogo.

Daenerys frowned, confused. "But if I leave, what will Khal Drogo do to my brother? Viserys has promised him my hand in marriage."

"Precisely." Illyrio smiled. "You have a choice. Do you want to marry the Khal? Or do you want to go home?"

"But my brother..." Then it dawned on Daenerys. Her eyes went wide and her face turned pale with anger. "You set him up." She said, abruptly standing, and pointing an accusatory finger at her host Illyrio. "You wanted him out of the way, so you set him up to get killed by the Dothraki."

"Does your brother... treat you well?"

Daenerys stilled.

"You see, I would have extended the invitation to him. But I have been observing you two since you first got here. And from what I've seen, you would make a far better ruler than your brother could ever be."

Daenerys scowled. "Flattery will get you nowhere with me."

Illyrio shrugged. "As you command, my Princess. The choice is ultimately yours. If you value your brother, you can stay with him, and become part of the great Dothraki khalasar. Or, you could cross the Narrow Sea on one of my ships, and meet your allies in the West. Forge new alliances, make some powerful friends. But you cannot take Viserys with you. I'm afraid he is no longer welcome in Westeros."

Daenerys thought this over. When she spoke again, her voice sounded calm as stone. "You lured my brother into a trap. How can I be sure you won't do the same for me?"

"Your brother made his own bed when he repeatedly disrespected you."

"Oh, I..."

"A King fit to rule has better manners than that." Illyrio offhandedly said. "But no, you cannot know for sure that I will never betray you. It would be safer to trust no one. And don't let anyone know your name until it is time."

Daenerys sighed. Taking a lock of her own long silver hair, she twirled it in her fingers. "Sadly I cannot hide who I am. My own hair betrays me." She smiled though the smile did not reach her eyes.

"Hair can always be dyed."

Daenerys frowned. "What of my lilac colored eyes? How do you mean me to hide that?"

Illyrio waved his hand about. "Hardly anyone will look you in the eye if you pretend to be a nobody. And even if they do, can you recall the eye color of most people you speak with?"

"Most people do not have lilac eyes."

Illyrio squinted. "In this light, they look grey."

Daenerys hummed, then carefully looked at herself in the mirror. "I suppose you could procure a pair of glasses from Myr. No one would question my eyes if they thought I had bad sight."

Illyrio rubbed his chin. "The glasses would stand out."

"I would be posing as a Tyrell of Highgarden, surrounded by well known Ladies such as Margaery Tyrell. I am going to stand out, no matter what I do. The glasses might at least conceal my lilac eyes."

"Alright, alright. I will get you the glasses. You shall be wearing a veil for your first sea journey anyway. Start wearing the glasses when you arrive at Sunspear. They shall be made from burnt glass, to help shield your eyes from the sun."

And so it was decided. Meanwhile, back at Winterfell, the Lannister twins were blissfully unaware of the fact their secret was no secret at all.

"I hate him," Jaime whispered in his sister's ear, as they lay fully nude on a soft bed of hay. "I hate how he treats you. Father should have never made you marry that Fool."

Cersei stared up at the roof, watching a dove perch on a ledge, watching them. It's only a dove. She told herself. "I could never have married you. Even though I wanted it."

"But a different husband would have been kinder to you."

Cersei shrugged, holding Jaime in her arms as he traced a finger along her cheek. "A different husband would not have given us the Kingdom. Your sons will be rulers of the Realm."

Jaime scowled. "I don't care about that. I don't want power."

"But I do."

They stared into each other's eyes for a long time, each thinking different things. Finally Cersei broke the silence.

"Joffrey looks just like you."

Jaime smiled. "Myrcella looks just like you."

They both giggled and started tickling each other. As they did when they were both kids. Back before the tickle attacks turned into more. So wrapped up as they were in their hot pursuit of passion, they did not hear the door to the Stark stables open. They could not see the shocked face of King Robert Baratheon who was there to pick a horse for that hunting trip he wanted to go on with his best friend Ned Stark.

Chapter Text

Tyrion Lannister was twenty-four when his father Tywin Lannister demanded an audience with him. Tywin looked stern, and very unhappy at the sight of his least favorite son. But he spoke calmly without raising his voice this time around. Without calling Tyrion all sorts of names, without reminding him of how his mother had died giving birth to him. Something must be up. Tyrion remained wary until his father brought up the subject of succession.

"You can't mean to leave Casterly Rock to me. You hate me."

Tywin scowled at him. "Your brother Jaime has joined the King's Guard, vowed to never marry. He cannot continue the family line. He has no heirs. But you," here Lord Tywin made a face of disgust, "feasting and fornicating seems all you'll ever be good for. At least serve your family as breeding stock." Tywin waved his hand about carelessly. "The right woman, from a proper House, can clean up your wretched heredity." Lord Tywin heaved a great sigh, and stared up at the high ceiling of the main hall of Casterly Rock. "We will have to find a strong young woman in excellent health, and foolish enough to agree to marry you. But you will make the family name live on. It is all that lives on. Long after you are dead in the ground, your sons shall be living at Casterly Rock, bearing the name Lannister."

"What if I refuse this generous offer?"

Lord Tywin squinted and glared down at his youngest son. "This is not the time for jokes."

"Alright, I am honored. What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to stop behaving as if we pay you to make us laugh, and start acting as my heir. Show some dignity. Act like a Lord. You are one. Apart from Jaime's foolishness, you could learn something from him. He knows discipline. Your brother has self control, which is more than I can say for you."

Silence settled over the hall. Tyrion let his eyes roam over the adornments on the walls. "When shall I meet my betrothed?"

"When I find you one. Which you have made exceptionally difficult by your appearance in this world."

"Ouch."

"I am not talking about your short stature, nor your butt-ugly face. Many Lords are unpleasant to behold. They all have beautiful wives. Take that savage Ned Stark as an example: ugliest turd I have ever seen. Yet he wed the beautiful Catelyn Tully in his time. All a powerful man has to do is snap his fingers, and pretty women come running. Strong men command respect, regardless of our looks. Finding you a decent wife will not be as easy. I was referring to your attitude, which is more becoming of a court jester, than of a nobleman. Try and find a high born woman who will take you seriously."

"Challenge accepted." Tyrion smirked up at his dad.

"You think you can find yourself a wife? A Lady of noble descent?"

Tyrion shrugged, still smiling. "Watch me."

His confidence displeased Lord Tywin. "Since everything is a game to you, I will make you this offer. Should you fail to find a woman stupid enough to agree to be engaged to you within a fortnight, your birthright to Casterly Rock goes to your cousin Lancel." Lord Tywin smiled.

The smile fell off Tyrion's face. "Within a fortnight? But that's... madness. No one plans engagements in such short a time."

Tywin could not stop smiling. "But you will. Or you will give up your place as my heir."

That afternoon, Tyrion left the main hall furious. When he got to his chambers, he started planning parties and events he would host. That evening, he had fifty ravens sent out with invitations. The handmaidens and cooks were working away in the kitchens of Casterly Rock, preparing a great feast. The hall was being decorated. The guest rooms were cleaned. Tywin Lannister observed all of this with a smirk on his lips. At least he had finally put that lazy bum son of his to work. Tyrion was sweating and clearly stressing over this.

Two days passed, and the first guests started to arrive. Three days after the announcement, the party was in full swing. There was dancing, and there was good music, and wine, and delicious food. Ladies and lords from all the land came to Lannisport to join in the festivities. Tyrion danced with high born noble women of various great houses, but when he proposed to them, his offer of marriage was repeatedly rejected.

One week passed in feasting, and Tyrion could not find himself a wife. Lord Tywin seemed amused by all this, as he watched on from the sidelines.

Now there was just one week left before Tyrion's time ran out. As Tyrion sat at the great dining table, watching yet another beautiful high born lady prance through the hall with elegant dance moves, he realized he had gone about this the wrong way. He had invited these people to his father's castle, his father's domain. This place was not where he, Tyrion Lannister, found his strength. This was not the most favorable way to show his power. If it was true that the ladies flocked to powerful men, ...then he would have to appear powerful. And all he had done by throwing parties at his father's home was point to the greatness of his father. No, Tyrion could do more than that. So he had his manservants pack lightly for him, and the very next morning he set out on a journey by horse, without telling anyone where he was going. He only left a short note on his father's desk. It read:

Fortnight's not up yet. I will find her. A raven shall tell you of our engagement.

Signed, your loving son Tyrion Lannister, heir apparent to Casterly Rock and all surrounding lands.

Tywin chuckled when reading the note. Then he reread it, and stared at the piece of paper with an easy, satisfied look on his face. That, was his son. His plan had worked. And he admired the tenacity and resourcefulness with which Tyrion pursued his goal. Of course Tywin would never say that to Tyrion. But privately, he was proud to be his father.

Now Tyrion did not really have a plan. He knew he was good at making women laugh. So he would try that. And maybe he would aim for the less beautiful noblewomen this time around. He would try to charm the fat and ugly ones. As long as she had some title, who cares what she looked like. If he so happened to run into high born ladies during his travels. It seemed pointless to ride east, because all the good ladies from King's Landing had already been to his party. Just as pointless to ride north, because winter was coming, and Tyrion did not enjoy the cold. So he rode south, along the shore of Sunset Sea, and made it to castle Crakehall before sundown. He had not anticipated meeting a high born Lady so soon, when he happened to see one seated at the beach, watching the sun set in beautiful pinks and oranges, as the rolling waves took on the colors of the sky.

He did not recognize her at first. He only saw her from behind. So he boldly approached, as he intended to, and started with a little small talk. "The color pink is so dreadful, don't you think? It's so disgustingly romantic." Tyrion curled his lip with disgust, as he approached the noblewoman's beach seat, without dismounting his horse.

She did not even turn to look over her shoulder. Tyrion was about to make his horse trot away, when she spoke in a gentle but firm voice which sounded all too familiar...

"I happen to love the color. It's such a nice shade of pink, too. This would be perfect for a dress, or a painting."

Intrigued, but unable to place the sweet voice, Tyrion decided to continue the flirty conversation. "Really? Forgive me, I didn't take you for a hopeless romantic."

The lady laughed. This was going well. Tyrion congratulated himself internally.

"Neither did I," said she. "But here you are, on a white horse by the sea, watching a pink sunset with me."

"How can you tell the horse is white, when you have not turned to look at it."

The lady giggled. "Maybe I have eyes on the back of my head. Maybe I can warg into that seagull over there," she pointed, "and watch you through its eyes. Or maybe... I saw you riding this way. The beach is unforgiving in the sense that there's no place to hide. Everyone sees everyone from a mile away."

"Forgive me," Tyrion said, making his horse back away. "I did not mean to intrude." The woman sounded like she wanted to be alone.

The young woman chuckled again. "No, you're not intruding. Actually, I was quite bored, sitting here all day."

"All day? May I ask what dreadful inconvenience made you have to stay in such a place all day long?"

"My brother is the inconvenience." She said, her tone lighthearted. "He is attempting to learn how to swim. With no one but the sea to teach him." With her left hand, she gestured at the rolling waves. And there, sure enough, was a young man of about twenty-two, in his underclothes, fruitlessly splashing about in the shallow water. Tyrion tried to get a better glimpse of who it was, but facial features were difficult to make out at this distance. The lady spoke up again. "Do you know how to swim?"

"I was born knowing."

"Then maybe you could help my brother. If you would be so kind, Lord Tyrion Lannister."

Tyrion frowned. "You know my name?"

The lady shrugged, still not looking over her shoulder. Her voice though remained just as friendly, playfully teasing, and kind. "That's the disadvantage of being so famous. Everyone knows you, wherever you go. Hard to find a person who does not have a preconceived opinion of you. Rumors spread like wildfire. And before you know it, you have already become betrothed to seven different people, six of whom you have never even met."

A smile grew on Tyrion's lips. "You do sound familiar. Although I have trouble discerning from behind. Can I have a better look at you?"

The lady sighed longingly. "But then who will watch over my brother?"

"I will." Tyrion said decisively.

And slowly, the pretty little head turned. And it was a pretty little head indeed. Tyrion stilled in shock when he realized he had been unknowingly flirting with none other than Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden. A genuine smile was on her lips, one that matched her crinkled eyes.

"There's no need to be shy." She said. "We are both famous people." She patted the space beside her. "Come, sit. Did you grow tired of all the sycophants at your father's party? Is that why you rode here to relax?"

Tyrion got off his horse, and sat down beside Margaery. "No." He decided to be honest. If she said no, he could not afford to lose time. "I'm looking for a wife."

"Out at sea?" Margaery grinned. She was really enjoying herself now. Oh well, Tyrion didn't mind being the butt of yet another joke.

"Yes. I am considering asking Lady Hurley, Princess Mermaid of the Sunset Sea, to be mine. She sings so beautifully. I simply must have her."

"That is going to be difficult. I think my brother already captured her heart."

Just then, a bigger wave covered the brother, who must be Loras Tyrell, and he did not resurface. A few moments passed in hushed shock, as both Tyrion and Margaery stared in horror at the pink sunset. Then, not bothering with his coat and breeches, Tyrion began running. When he got to the water's edge, he jumped. Despite the shallowness of the waters close by shore, they still covered Tyrion whole, due to his height. So he swam. Took a deep breath, and dove under the surface to look for Loras.

The advantage of being in the seawater is that even a smaller person is very capable of lifting heavier weights. Tyrion would never have been able to lift Ser Loras Tyrell on land. But in the sea, he could.

When he found him, Tyrion easily pulled him up to the surface, bringing his curly head above water.

Margaery leapt with joy when she saw her brother and Tyrion resurface. She rushed towards them, but remained on the beach, as she too, could not swim. And they had all had a little bit too much excitement for the day. They didn't need her nearly drowning, too. Margaery helped pull her brother ashore, where Loras quickly coughed up seawater, and hugged Tyrion for saving him. Tyrion looked exceedingly uncomfortable by that hug. Margaery giggled. Now she knew. She knew Tyrion had no interest in men.

After some discussion, the trio finally made their way to castle Crakehall, where they were received as honored guests. Once most were distracted by their own conversations at the dinner table, Margaery Tyrell scooted her chair a little closer to Tyrion Lannister, who sat on her left, and inquired to learn more about his reasons for riding south.

"Hope I don't sound like prying if I ask whither you intend to travel."

Tyrion smiled apologetically. "When I started my journey I did not really have a specific destination in mind."

Margaery frowned, but kept smiling. It's as if her smile turned naughtier by the minute. "Did you mean to find a wife?" she asked, cocking her head to the side while raising one eyebrow doubtfully. "Without having a specific young lady in mind?"

"I'm not much of a Romantic." Tyrion shrugged, then he set his wineglass down on the table, and turned in his seat to face Lady Margaery. Likewise, she turned to fully face him. They both studied each other with interest before Tyrion spoke again. "Some men would start wars to sleep with the woman of their dreams. Some would forsake their vows, break his betrothal to his faithful bride to be, bring dishonor to his own family and the family of his betrothed by disobeying his mother and father who had arranged his engagement. Just so he could be with the one woman he loved, the one Lady he chose for himself."

Lady Margaery listened carefully, like she was analyzing Tyrion's every move. She neither smiled nor scowled. Her expression was entirely neutral, save for a slight crinkle in her brow, that showed she was deep in thought.

"Those men are nothing like me." Tyrion concluded. "I do not believe that 'true love' is so rare that one has to fight and kill for it. And if the right woman came along, a good woman, and my father told me to marry her, I would."

Margaery narrowed her eyes a little, and stared at him for a while. Then her face brightened and she put on a marvelous smile, eyebrows playfully arched. "Even if she was fat?"

Tyrion blinked in confusion.

With a giggle, Margaery tried again. "If the good woman your father made you marry was ...well... fat, and not so pretty to behold... Would you marry her, still?"

Tyrion shrugged, and made an unaffected face. "I don't see why not."

Here, even Margaery started to blush. She couldn't help herself. Still, she bravely spoke, not breaking eye contact. "Well, ...how would you... You know? ...Make an heir?"  She finished her sentence in a low whisper, so that no one else at the dinner table could hear. No one but Tyrion. "With a Lady that fat? Her... volume... might get in the way."

Tyrion chuckled into his hand. "Alright I suppose I understand what you mean. And yes, that would be so very like my father to arrange." He winked at her. "Although I can assure you, Lady Margaery, I'd make it work somehow."

The look she gave him next was quite different from the glances she had given him before. She looked somehow... warmer, while at the same time, more dangerous than ever before. "I never took you for an obedient son."

A crooked smile crossed Tyrion's lips. "We have our own battles to pick in life. If my father gives me a woman, what's there to complain about?" He spread his arms wide, took a sip of wine, set his glass down, and smiled in a sated, relaxed and carefree fashion as he leaned back in his seat. "I love women. I love it when there's a lot of woman."

They both laughed. Margaery had a lackey refill their glasses with wine.

"How come you're not yet married?" Tyrion asked. "There are hardly women above the age of nineteen without a husband. Certainly none of your beauty. Well, besides yourself, that is."

Margaery dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "You flatter me, Lord Tyrion." She took a sip of wine, then said, with a calculating look in her eye: "My grandmother is arranging a suitable betrothal for me."

Tyrion studied her movements for a minute. "Let me guess." He paused, and Margaery stilled. For that one moment, it felt like they were alone in the dining hall at castle Crakehall. Like it was just her, and him. "You have been betrothed before, long ago, still as a young girl." Tyrion leaned forward and didn't take his eyes off Margaery. And she seemed mesmerized by his stare. "It ended badly. He lost his status, so your family withdrew the engagement. But your grandmother does not want to see you wed to a man of lower status than the first one you were promised to."

"How did you know?" Margaery sounded bewildered. Quite surprised, but not upset by Tyrion's antics.

He shrugged. "Just a cold read." Then he let a small smile slip. "You do look like an obedient granddaughter."

Margaery snorted. She still looked positively amazed. "But the rest... It was so... accurate." She shook her head, closing her eyes, then looked Tyrion's way again. "I was betrothed once, when I was five. The betrothal lasted only a month before my family broke it off."

Tyrion frowned in thought. "Was he not... good enough for you? Was he too old?"

A melancholy smile crossed Margaery's lips. "He was my age."

"Your age?"

"Yes. We were set to be married when we'd turn seventeen. My family really wanted this marriage. They didn't even want to wait till we were both adults."

"But then... why did your family break things off?"

The mysterious smile on Margaery's lips deepened. "Remember what happened when I was five? The year you turned seven? That year... It was kind of big in the history books, ...to give you a hint."

A moment passed in a wine-cloaked haze until the thought struck Tyrion like lightning. His eyes went wide as he drank in Margaery's sad smile. "You were engaged to... Viserys Targaryen?"

Margaery did nothing but smile. There was a touch of sadness in her eyes. A sadness she was unable to completely hide. Despite her valiant effort at maintaining cheerfulness. She was alone, and always would be, until her grandmother Olenna Tyrell's ambitious urge to rule through her, would be satisfied.

Tyrion leaned back in his seat. For the rest of the night, he couldn't take his eyes off Margaery. He couldn't forget the sadness he found inside her soul.

To the North, late in the evening at Winterfell, Lord Eddard Stark was readying his hunting gear for tomorrow morning. Seeing as his best friend Robert Baratheon had wanted to go hunting and all. Ned Stark was just smoothing out his leather riding breeches, when none other than his unbidden second son Jon Stark entered the room.

Ned paused, leather still in his hands, and raised an eyebrow at his son. "You weren't supposed to be here till next fortnight. What brought ye?"

Jon grimaced, looking more at a point on the wall behind Ned. "Welcome home, Jon. Good to see you, son." He mumbled under his breath.

Still Ned Stark continued to stare him down with a frown. "Did something happen to your mother?"

Sighing, Jon sat down on the work bench between him and his dad. "Nothing happened to my mother. She feels fine."

"Well then why are you here?"

Jon laughed bitterly. "Can't I come here a few weeks early?"

Ned regarded him with a long calculating stare. "You want something." He finally said, roughly tossing the leather clothes onto the work bench.

Jon did not flinch, even as one leg of the leather breeches hit him in the side. "My friend has a business proposal for us."

Sighing heavily, Ned shook his head. "You Freys always want something."

Jon stood, making himself as tall as he could in front of his father. "This deal is great for Winterfell and the surrounding lands."

Ned Stark looked him up and down for a minute. "Oh yeah? Then why did this friend of yours send you to negotiate in his place? Why doesn't he approach me himself?" Ned shrugged, gesturing with his left hand. "Or he could easily speak to your brother, who is to be Lord of Winterfell when I'm down at King's Landing."

Those words stung, mostly because Jon had not been told that Robb was to inherit Winterfell so soon. He took a deep breath, and tried again. "My friend... is very shy. He means well. He is Randyll Tarly's firstborn son, from Horn Hill in The Reach. They want to sell grain to us, for a favorable price. The price they offer is better than what the Tyrells offer us now." Jon tried and succeeded in catching Ned's eye.

"So you want to involve us in a trade war between the Tyrells and the Tarlys? Is that it?"

"No! Father, but winter is coming, and don't you think we could use all the grain we could get?"

Ned rolled his eyes. "Alright. Randyll Tarly lowers his prices. Then he raises 'em again. I know him. I've dealt with the man. He's scum. What then?" Ned spread his arms helplessly. "We'd break our agreement with the Tyrells, to become wholly dependent upon the Tarlys? And should that fall through, you think the Tyrells would welcome us back with open arms again?"

"Why can't we trade with both? Both the Tyrells and the Tarlys? All we'd have to do is adjust the amounts we buy from each, to better fit the prices, and our needs. Then we won't burn any bridges. We can keep our alliance with the Tyrells, and form a new alliance with House Tarly."

Ned looked beyond furious, and was about to tell Jon why that was such a silly idea, ...when King Robert Baratheon burst into the room, looking ready to murder someone.

"Ned!" Robert sounded relieved as he called out to his friend. "There you are. I've been looking all over for you." His face was red with sweat, and there was a frantic urgency to his tone of voice. "I need your advice. I need it now. See? This only proves that I need you by my side, now, more than ever."

Eddard Stark nodded grimly, then turned to Jon. "Leave us."

As the boy pivoted on his heel and walked to the door, King Robert's voice yelled through the room. "The boy can stay. I want him to hear this. Besides your sound reasoning, I could use a pair of ears and a lad with some common sense."

Jon turned back to face the King. He bowed, then shared a look with his father.

Lord Stark sighed. "This is my son." He gestured towards Jon. "My second son, the one I told you about earlier: Jon Stark. He is the same age as your eldest."

"Ah!" The King smiled approvingly at Jon, personal crisis momentarily forgotten. "All the better. I've been wanting to meet you. My son Joffrey, the Crown Prince, is your age. I'm hoping you will get along well when he stays the winter here."

Jon's eyes widened, but he smiled, and bowed. He had not known the Crown Prince was staying at Winterfell. "It would be an honor to get to meet and spend time with your son, Ser."

"Oh, please." King Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't be so formal. Our houses are nearly family. Your father fought alongside me in the war. Now, there's a matter I'd like to discuss with you both. I trust that what I'm about to say will not leave the confines of this room."

Ned and Jon's faces took on grim expressions.

Robert looked quite apologetic as he continued, staring down at the floor. "I know I have failed my wife. I have not succeeded in being as honorable as you, my friend." He glanced at Ned, then looked down at the floor again. "There have been nights when I... lay with other women. I'm not proud of it, you see... But what happened, happened. What is done, is done. Just that, I never thought that she..." Robert broke down in a sobbing fit. Tears rolled down the great King's cheeks, into his beard. The King who ruled over Seven Kingdoms, had been destroyed... by one woman: his own wife. "I guess I only have myself to blame..." he muttered, cursing himself. "But he... and she... How could he?!  He is her own brother!"

Chapter Text

Shimmering azure waves spread out before Daenerys Targaryen as the sun rose behind her, warming her back, as strong winds pushed her hair out of her face, making it flow over her shoulders like a cape. Daenerys was supposed to lay low, keep the veil over her face, and remain below deck till the ship reached Sunspear in Dorne. But she couldn't help herself. She just had to take a breath of the sea air, had to experience this journey she had longed for, ever since she was little. Daenerys Targaryen was going home. She had climbed up onto the bow of the ship. Standing like that, just on the edge, felt like flying over the Narrow Sea. Just like her ancestors had ridden on dragons when entering Westeros, she would retake the throne that was rightfully hers.

Daenerys no longer worried about being recognized. Her hair was now a lovely warm shade of brown, with golden highlights mixed in. She had checked and double-checked the hair dye. It would not wash off for a while. And then, she could always re-apply it. The Tyrells could arrange for more hair dye. They certainly had the funds to import hair products from Essos. The shaded glasses she received from Illyrio turned out to help a lot with the scorching hot sun. Her eyes never grew tired watching the waves splash and reflect the golden sunlight in the water. She could look at it all day.

"Good morning," a tender male voice said behind her, barely rising above the sound of the waves.

Daenerys whirled around, to find a young man standing on the deck below her. She quickly fumbled with her veil, to put it back on, hiding her face from view. Her chin and lips still peeked out from under the green veil. Now that she got a better look at him, observing the man from behind her veil, she saw that he was about her age. Possibly a year older, since he was tall. She would put him at about eighteen or so. He already shaved, badly. The man had nicked himself while shaving, leading to small specks of blood on his otherwise clean-shaven cheeks.

"Sorry," he raised his hand palms in defeat. "I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Matthos Seaworth, I work on this ship. Keep the deck clean, and help out with little things here and there. Shall I help you down?" Matthos offered up his left palm for Daenerys to take.

She considered it for a moment, but eventually took his hand, and let him help her down, off the bow. When they both stood safely on deck, Matthos withdrew his hand, and shyly smiled at her. He didn't ask for her name.

"Thank you," Daenerys said at length, trying to perfect her Westerosi dialect.

"If the journey fatigues you, there's always room in the crew cabin. There's women there, too. Plenty women work on this ship with us: cooks, and maids. It's safe. You wouldn't be the only woman there. Not like I'm inviting you to my bedchambers or anything..." He paused, scratched the back of his head. "Sorry I... talk too much. Everyone says I should've been a scribe of some sort. With the number of words I produce daily. But yeah, we can get you something to eat and someplace to sit in the crew cabin. If the journey ever overwhelms you. Or if you feel tired, or bored. You can come hang with us. It's fun. We have game night on Fridays, and happy hour on Wednesday nights. Come around whenever you feel like."

With those words, Matthos left. Daenerys raised her eyebrows and smiled, watching him go. She had never been invited to a party before... Not like... a real party with kids her age. This was a bit weird. But she guessed it wouldn't hurt to go. She might learn something about Westerosi customs or Dorne etiquette that might come in handy later on.

That morning at Winterfell, Bran woke from a nightmare. It had been so vivid, so disgustingly real, it made Bran want to vomit when he got out of bed, and stumbled to his chamber pot. Having emptied most of his stomach, seeing the rests of dinner from last night swirl around in his pot, Bran felt sick again. He couldn't put the dream out of his head. Yet he had to. Because no one could know about this. He could tell no one.

In the dream, he had been in the stables. Perched on a ledge by the ceiling, he got a bird's eye view of the scene played out before him. Jaime Lannister was fucking his sister again. Pushing her head into the hay as he took her from behind. Both adults were naked. Cersei's golden hair spread out around her, covering most of her back, while Jaime covered most of her bottom with his own.

Bran wanted to look away. He did not want to see this. But the dream wouldn't let him. This stupid bird's eyes kept forcing him to look. And yes, he was a bird in his dream. A silly little pigeon or some sort of dove.

When "it" was over, Queen Cersei rolled over onto her back, exposing her small breasts, and gazed up at the ceiling. Their eyes met. Bran panicked. For a moment, he was certain she knew he was there. She knew he was watching them at it, again. Only this time, literally nothing was left to the imagination. Then the Queen focused her attention on her darling Jaime. The two exchanged disgusting tales of how all of King Robert's children were actually Jaime Lannister's. They fondled each other, rolled around in the hay. Their blonde hair just a shade deeper and brighter than the hay itself.

As if this wasn't bad enough, King Robert walked right into stables, and stopped, shaking with fury as he beheld the two lovebirds. The dream was so vivid, all in full color, that Bran thought it had to be real. It felt more like a memory, an experience, like something that actually happened. But when he got down to the great hall to enjoy breakfast along with everyone else, everything was normal. Everyone was acting the same. Like nothing had happened last night. Bran paused in the middle of the corridor, looking into the hall where his father was energetically eating, with the King by his side. King Robert chowed down on a leg of chicken, fully absorbed in his food, like nothing else mattered. Queen Cersei sat right beside him, deftly handling a fork, and bringing some fried egg to her lips, blowing on it, then carefully chewing. Ser Jaime Lannister sat with the knights, further down the great dining hall table, buttering a piece of bread.

Arya flicked Bran on the back of his head as she walked past him, into the great hall. "Don't just stand there, dork. You're in the way." She said it teasingly though, so Bran didn't mind.

Everything was all so... normal. He must have imagined that vivid dream he saw last night. Oh Gods, there really must be something wrong with him if he was secretly picturing the Queen and her brother naked. That dream had so much detail. Bran knew he would start having these... urges as he got older and hit puberty. His older brothers had told him so. But he hadn't known his urges would be this obscene. Perhaps actually seeing them at it for real up in that tower that one time, had triggered this madness. Bran still thanked his lucky stars that he could easily pass for an ignorant seven-year-old, due to his height. If there was one advantage to being so small and scrawny... He sat down to have breakfast and kept his head down, did not look at anyone as he ate. Then hurried up and scampered off to the Godswood to think.

Bran needed to clear his mind. Clearly, there was something not right with his head.

When he reached the Godswood, he found Jon Stark there, sitting under the Weirwood Tree. "Oh, hey Jon. Didn't know you'd be back this early."

Jon smiled up at him. "Didn't know I'd be back so soon either. I hear Robb's going to be Lord Stark soon."

Bran nodded, taking a seat beside his older brother.

"He seems happy," Jon said, taking a dead branch, and drawing patterns in the ground with it. Jon sounded jealous. Very jealous.

Bran sighed, staring up at the canopy of red leaves above their heads. He needed to ask. "Do you... have dreams?"

Jon laughed, still bent over his mud drawings. "No." He dropped the dead branch, then craned his neck to look at Bran, remaining in his hunched pose. "I always knew I would never inherit Winterfell. It just stings that Robb has to parade it around like that, and lord it over me, like he's better than me. He's just one year older. And he acts like he knows everything. He hasn't even had a girl yet."

Okay. Bran took a deep breath. This tirade was not what he had been expecting. He knew he had to cut in now, before Jon could veer off on yet another tangent. Now they were on the subject of women... "And, have you?" Bran asked his brother.

Jon raised both eyebrows, surprised by the question. Then he grew flustered. "No, but... I have..." Jon shook his head, and looked away, casting his eyes over the pond. "I really shouldn't be having these discussions with you."

Brain groaned. He would have to come clean? Wouldn't he? Well at least he could... leave certain details out. They did not matter all that much, anyway. This was about Bran's own twisted mind, not about Cersei's infidelity, nor the Kingslayer's dishonor. "I have been having these... dreams. Where I... see women... without their clothes on."

This made Jon pause. He looked over at Bran, and frowned deeply.

Bran continued. "What do I do about it? Is this normal? Did you have these dreams too? How do I make it stop?"

Jon seemed quite a bit puzzled. "I... guess all men have these dreams. But, ...they typically start at a later age." Then he broke out into a grin, and clapped Bran on the shoulder. "You must be an early bloomer. Welcome to the club."

"Ehm, thanks?" Bran smiled back. So this was normal then, nothing out of the ordinary. Jon had had these dreams too. Everything would be fine.

Jon turned back to his drawings, and started retracing the geometric shapes he had drawn in the mud. His mind was elsewhere. He tried to remember his own puberty. But every memory had been washed away by the tears that followed the beatings after father found out... Since then, Jon had forgotten how to cry. Nothing ever stirred that feeling in him no more. He still remembered the look of sheer disgust and revulsion on his father's face, right after Lord Eddard Stark had walked in on Jon kissing Pyp, the tanner's son. It was an innocent kiss. They had both been into it. Pyp had been eyeing him all day, and Jon had been making excuses to go check on the leather for his new saddle that was being tanned. Grouchy granddad Lord Frey didn't give two shits what Jon was up to. Same goes for Jon's mom: she mostly concerned herself with her own affairs, and ignored Jon whenever she could. She saw to it that he was fed, clothed, and clean. And Carine Frey did not bother with Jon's choice in clothing, nor his friends. She let him grow his hair out as long as he liked: he had to braid it now, to keep it out of his face. Lord Eddard Stark though... Father was visiting The Twins that day. He grew suspicious of Jon's many visits to the tanner: multiple trips in one day. It was only a twenty minute walk from the castle to the tanner's home. Jon did not know his father had tagged along behind, looking what his son was up to. He had been just fourteen back then. Pyp was fifteen. Father flogged them both, and sent Pyp to The Wall for that kiss.

"If you like boys that much, you might as well go live with them. Off you go." Lord Stark had said.

The memory still haunted Jon. He felt so guilty for having ruined Pyp's life. Even now, years later, he did not know if Pyp was alive, or dead... They were not allowed any letters. There was not enough parchment at The Wall for sending personal messages.

Since then, Jon had been more cautious. He never lay twice with the same lad. To avoid them being caught. He went years without having any. It was tough finding young men who were into that sort of thing. Most preferred the ladies. And it's not as if Jon completely did not understand, as he liked some ladies too... But it was rare that he felt like he wanted to do those things with them. And recently... he couldn't stop thinking of Sam. Those lips had been branded in his memory. They looked so soft, so kissable. And yet Jon knew nothing would ever come of it. Because it was so obvious Samwell was into women. And Jon was not a woman.

After staying the morning at castle Crakehall, Lord Tyrion bid his goodbyes to the Tyrell twins. He kissed Lady Margaery's hand, shared a deep and meaningful look with her.

"It pains me to see you go, Lord Tyrion."

He smiled up at her. "I too, was quite enjoying your company."

"What makes you leave so early, then? If I might ask."

"Urgent business leads me away. Although I promise to return to you, soon."

Margaery grinned. "Don't make promises. Just be there."

"Ser Loras," Tyrion nodded to the brother. Who smiled back at him and returned the gesture.

Without further ado, Tyrion got on his horse, and galloped away along the Ocean Road. With one destination in mind: Highgarden. He knew he wasn't expected at Highgarden, that no raven had informed Lady Olenna Tyrell of his arrival. But he would make her hear him. He would pull all rabbits out of his hat, employ all tricks of persuasion known to him, to get that old crone to listen. Tyrion now had more than just a dream. Tyrion had a plan. A marvelous, crazy and danger-filled plan. One that might cost many people their heads. A plan that could make both him and Margaery the richest people of the Seven Kingdoms. And if everything could be bought with enough gold... then why not the Iron Throne? It was big enough for both of them. He didn't mind sharing.

Chapter Text

The dark skinned young woman held four cards in front of her mouth and nose, spreading her cards like a fan. Her black kohl-lined eyes just peeked over the edge of the playing cards. Her brows were placid, showing no emotion. The rest of her face was framed by healthy black curls, that fell around her head in shoulder-length ringlets. "A card takes a card, the Seven takes everything." She said mysteriously.

Daenerys frowned, glancing at the four cards she was dealt. She had no Sevens. Earlier that night, she had taken Matthos up on his offer to join game night with the ship's crew. He had not lied. There were indeed, many women present. Three of whom had pulled Daenerys into a card game before she knew what was up. Now she tried to play, while hiding the fact she had no idea what she was doing. She didn't want to sound lame, like she had never been to any game nights before. And she didn't want to disrupt their game by making them teach her how to play. So she just... played along, and hoped she didn't suck too bad, and that she might learn by doing, maybe. Now all four of them sat in a circle on the floor.

The young woman seated right beside her, an olive skinned woman with two joined braids in her dark brown hair, and large brown eyes, threw one card onto the floor between them. "Kill." She said, looking directly at Daenerys.

"Kill." Daenerys decisively said, throwing one of her cards on top of the one that now lay between them. Then she looked at the curly haired woman.

"Let it go," said the woman hiding the lower half of her face with her cards.

The third woman, an older woman with sunburned skin and auburn hair, she had to be at least in her mid thirties, threw not one, but three cards onto the floor between them. "Smear the trick because I will win it." She said decisively, staring into the eyes of the dark skinned woman.

Daenerys blinked in confusion. She couldn't make heads or tails of this game.

The curly haired woman laughed at the older woman, then laid all four of her own cards on the floor. Daenerys, and the other two women present, gasped. All four cards were sevens. When Daenerys looked up at the dark skinned woman, she noticed that the previously concealed lower half of her face was just as pretty as the upper half. She was a very beautiful woman. While Danerys was distracted by her beauty, the other two women searched their purses for coins. The brown haired woman set two copper pieces on the floor, beside the cards. The auburn haired woman offered three. Now the black haired woman gazed expectantly at Daenerys.

"Oh! Sorry, I just..." Daenerys went through her own purse, and gave five copper pieces.

All three women raised their eyebrows at her.

Daenerys frowned. "What?"

This made the black haired woman smile, as she reached out to collect her winnings. "You're new to this game, aren't you?"

Daenerys blinked, taken aback.

The woman who had spoken left three of Daenerys her coins on the floor. "You only lost two coppers." She told her. "No need to give me five." The woman paused, stared deeply into Daenerys her eyes, through the glasses Daenerys wore... Then she winked at Daenerys. "Unless you plan to lose to me again, and this is you surrendering by default."

The other two women laughed.

Daenerys frowned, feeling the color rise to her cheeks. "Forgive me. I don't believe any of you have told me your names."

"Ah." The dark skinned woman smiled with satisfaction on her lips. She leaned back, relaxing against a crate of supplies that was behind her. Then she gestured at the older auburn haired woman. "This one calls herself Clarissa, she has lived thirty-six years on this earth. Blessed be the Maiden Made of Light, and her royal consort the Lion of Night."

Daenerys raised an eyebrow. This was a religion she had never heard anything about. Even after many years of school at Pentos where she had allegedly been taught all there was to know about Essos and Westeros.

Clarissa spoke up. "I am Clarissa Crane, originally from Westeros, like yourself. Don't worry Dear, I recognized the dialect. You must be from somewhere in the Stormlands? You sound like a Stormlander. I can hear it in your voice."

"That is correct," said Daenerys, now addressing Clarissa Crane. "May I ask what part of Westeros you might be from? Can't say I'm familiar with your dialect."

"You wouldn't be." Clarissa laughed heartily. "I was born a Lady to House Crane of Red Lake in the Reach. My father's home was north of the Reach, closer to the Westerlands."

A Lady? Daenerys her mouth fell open. "You were high born?" She couldn't help herself from asking. This was all so confusing. "Then what are you doing here, on this ship? Shouldn't you have married some Lord and lived in a castle, and had multiple children by now..."

Lady Crane only smiled warmly. "Aye, I was born to." Then something mysterious appeared in the glint of her eye. "But we do not choose our birthplace. Our path is up to us to decide." She shared a meaningful look with the other two younger women in their circle, then turned back to Daenerys. "As a girl, I was quite skilled at acting. So I decided to pursue acting as a career. That meant leaving my home and traveling all over Westeros to perform. That is how I ended up on this ship. I travel to Dorne to perform there, and I'm offering my cooking services as payment for the trip. So you see I am not actually part of the main crew, as my friends are." Lady Crane gestured to the young women, suggesting to introduce them, next.

But Daenerys still had a few questions to ask her. "Did you mother and father... let you go? Were they happy with your choice to become an actress?"

Lady Crane puckered her lips. "I didn't ask."

Daenerys blinked. "...How?"

The older woman shrugged. "One day I just left."

This struck a chord with Daenerys. It reminded her of how she had left her older brother Viserys, early in the morning at Pentos, in Illyrio's mansion, before sunrise. She had left him there to die. To be killed by an angered horde of Dothraki. The thought chilled her through and through. Daenerys had made a mistake. And she knew that one day she would pay for it.

The young dark skinned woman took this silence as an opportunity to introduce her friend, the brown haired olive skinned girl. "This one calls herself Irri, she lived only eighteen years on earth. May the Maiden of Light and the Lion of Night grant her many more years under the sun."

Irri inclined her head gratefully to the young woman who had introduced her. "I used to be in Khal Drogo's khalasar," she said to their new friend. And Daenerys her eyes went wide.

"How... did you end up here?" Daenerys asked with bated breath.

"I ran away." Irri said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. She nodded toward the dark skinned young woman. "Missandei found me in Trader Town. We have traveled together ever since. She taught me how to speak Aramese, the language spoken in Yi Ti, when we were there. She also taught me Low Valyrian, and the Summer Tongue, and the Common Tongue of Westeros, as the need arose."

Irri and Missandei smiled at each other. "How long has it been?" said Missandei.

"Must have been five years, and counting." Irri chuckled.

"You ran away from the Dothraki khalasar when you were just thirteen years old?" Daenerys couldn't believe her ears.

Irri turned back to her, no longer smiling. "Khal Drogo planned to wed me the week that I ran. So I ran."

"But you were thirteen years old. How could he wed you? You were but a child."

"I had already bled by then. Khals have no need for old khaleesi. The older women give birth to sickly babes. A Khal's son has to be strong and ready for battle. He needs a young mother who can survive childbirth and pregnancy on the road. Dothraki do not stop for their women to give birth. The khalasar rides on, and the khaleesi ride with the khalasar, are pregnant as they ride, and give birth on the ride. I once knew a woman who had given birth while on horseback. As her Khal was waging a war against the Jogos Nhai. Her son grew up to be a fierce warrior: Khal Drogo is his name."

Daenerys gasped. "You knew Khal Drogo's mother?"

"Yes. She spoke to my father and arranged for me to be brought before the Khal. His mother judged me worthy of producing him an heir. Khal Drogo has no use for older women. Only young girls are strong enough to carry a Khal's child, and survive to see the son fed."

Something about that statement irked Daenerys. Seventeen was not 'old'. And why had Khal Drogo agreed to marry her, if there were many thirteen year old girls in Vaes Dothrak, apparently ripe for the picking according to Dothrak standards. But she decided to keep that to herself. It would not do to reveal too much of how she felt. For that would give her identity away.

"Highborn girls wed Lords when they are as young as fourteen, in Westeros." Lady Crane put forward. "Sometimes, when an early marriage is desirable to secure political alliances. We are not that different. Lots of lowborn girls already have a child in them by the time they're sixteen. Although legally, the age of adulthood in Westeros is reached by eighteen, the High Septon can make exceptions with permission of the girl's parents. To allow her to marry before she turns eighteen. It happens. Not as unusual as one would think. Have you not had many sisters?"

Daenerys shook her head, keeping her lips sealed. Lest she reveal more of what she had intended to keep buried.

"Well, I had five." Said the Lady Crane. "I was the youngest. Most of my sisters were married before they turned nineteen. Only one... Melara, could not find a match until she was almost twenty-four. Not very pretty, my sister Melara." Lady Crane pursed her lips. "Eventually Lord Alester Florent agreed to marry her. It was for a political alliance with our House. He was forty-seven when they were wed."

Daenerys nodded solemnly.

"Sounds terrible, don't you think?" said Missandei. "They want to marry us off to old men. It is rare that a woman gets matched with an appropriate partner, close to her in age."

"Yes." Daenerys nodded. She turned to Irri next. "Is that why you ran away? Is Khal Drogo a very frightening man?"

Irri shook her head. "I was not afraid of him. Dothraki women do what we are called to do. The prospect of riding while pregnant and giving birth on horseback did not frighten me either."

Daenerys frowned. "Then why did you...? Why run, when you were engaged to become the equivalent of a Queen to your people?"

"I fell in love." Irri smiled sadly. "His name is Rakharo. He was fifteen, then. Only two years older than me. And he left the khalasar with me, for me. Khal Drogo would have his head if he ever returns. He lost his home, his family, his friends... all to be by my side."

"Where is he now?"

Irri shrugged. "Island Marahai... or Island Leng, or... he went into the Shadow Lands, as he always said he would. I have no way of knowing where his ship took him. He is a brave man. He loves adventure, lives for it. Fearless, even as a boy. We separated a year ago when I wanted to travel West, and he was set on going further East. Discovering the Unknown World, as Rakharo put it. I wanted to go with him, but I wasn't brave enough. Rakharo said we would not be safe in Westeros. He said Khal Drogo would never find us beyond the Shadow Lands, that the Tales we heard as kids were only myths to frighten slaves and other weaklings. That the Dothraki should be strong and we have nothing to fear in the Land of Shadows. That it was all rubbish told to discourage slaves from running away. Then I asked him if he thought the Khal a weakling. If we could cross the Shadow Lands, then Khal Drogo would cross them too. And he would find us, and kill us both. Rakharo had no answer for me. And so I left on a ship sailing West. Missandei and I found work aboard one of the ships. We clean, wash the sailors' clothes, and help out in the kitchen. That's been my life for this past year."

Daenerys stared in surprise. "This ship has been to Yi Ti?"

Missandei chuckled, shaking her head. "Not this ship. We switched ships a few times." She shrugged. "The crew was less friendly than here. I like it here. I think I'll stay." She shared a look with Irri.

"I'm not too sure. Mayhaps I might rest in Dorne for a few weeks. I've heard lovely things about the food in Sunspear. Don't you like to enjoy it?"

"I don't mind their food. But their company..." Missandei scowled. "Dornish men are not my cup of tea. I'd rather lie with one of the Great Fathers of Shamyriana, than disgrace myself with some commoner from Dorne."

"Why?" asked Daenerys, genuinely not knowing. "What's wrong with the men of Dorne?" Her schoolbooks had not covered this.

Missandei gave her a wink. "You'll find out soon enough."

Daenerys glared at her in response, to which Missandei laughed.

"Womanizers, the lot of 'em." Clarissa shrugged. "Dornish men have bastards everywhere they go. They lay with many women, but rarely marry. It is rumored that the Dornish see no shame in visiting whores, or a woman having child out of wedlock. Sadly their practice is not recognized anywhere else. So if a woman were to... leave Dorne, pregnant, she would not know an end to shame that would follow."

Daenerys shuddered, suddenly apprehensive of her long journey ahead.

"Oh don't you fear," Missandei reached out to touch her arm. "Dornish men don't bite. They seduce. You can always say no. They are among the few men to actually accept 'no' for an answer. Because they are well aware there will always be a woman who says 'yes' to them. All you have to do, is not be that woman."

Daenerys raised a skeptical eyebrow at Missandei. "And how would you know?"

"Oh I've been to Dorne before."

"Really? You don't look older than me. And from what I gathered, you've been in Yi Ti for the past five years. It took you a whole year to get here from there. So when were you in Dorne?"

"When I was fifteen." Missandei offered with a smile. "And I gladly rejected every Dornish man that approached."

"...How old are you?"

"Just twenty-one. My father was a trader from the Summer Isles. My mother and my siblings and I traveled with him. We were in Dorne, and in Lys, and Tyrosh. We sailed to Volantis next. My mother gave birth to more siblings, there. My father decided to stay in Volantis, and found us a house. I got work as an interpreter. Business led me to Yi Ti, where I met Irri." The two friends shared another look. "But you haven't told us your name." Missandei said with an amused smile.

"My name is Dagny."

"Just... Dagny?" Lady Crane asked, looking deep into Daenerys her eyes, through the glasses.

Daenerys felt her heart race. She willed herself to remain calm. "Just Dagny."

"How old are you, Dagny?" Irri asked, leaning forward.

"I'm seventeen."

"Interesting, very interesting." Clarissa Crane observed. "What is a sheltered seventeen-year-old girl from the Stormlands doing, traveling alone to Dorne, on a boat from Pentos?"

Daenerys glared at Lady Crane. "I'm not sheltered."

"But you didn't know about the ways of the Dornish men, and you've never played the card game Sedmice before. I don't know where you've been for the last seventeen years, but you sure seem sheltered to me. Or, very foreign. Not from these lands. You don't seem to have been around Essos much, either."

Daenerys sighed in defeat. "You asked what I am doing on this ship."

The three women nodded, eagerly leaning forward to hear her story. As anyone does, being on a ship for far too long, hungry for new stories.

Daenerys took a deep breath, creating a significant pause, as she watched the eager faces of her newfound friends. "I am going home." She finally said.

It was not a lie. She had told them the truth, without giving away unnecessary detail. That was all they were going to get out of her, during this journey.

Joffrey hated castle Winterfell. He hated the stone towers, and he hated the funny red-leaved tree in the Godswood, and he hated the Godswood, and he hated that smug son-of-a-bitch Theon Greyjoy who kept rubbing it in that he was leaving while Joffrey was staying. He hadn't met one friendly face there, in Winterfell, apart from that little girl who was obsessed with him, kept following him around the castle, even after he had begged her to give him a moment to himself. Sansa Stark was pretty, he could admit that much, but she was also so... so... In a way, Sansa reminded him of his own mother. And he did not like that.

Sansa and the Queen did not look the same, had a different form: Sansa had no hips nor ass, possibly due to her age. Though she was unnaturally tall for her age. Already tall enough to look his mother the Queen in the eye without craning her neck. Secretly, Joffrey worried Sansa might outgrow him. And be taller than him, one day. The thought repulsed him. But that was not why he likened Sansa to his own mother. They had differently colored hair. Sansa's was red. The Queen's was golden. They looked nothing alike, yet they felt the same. Both of them carried the same energy. And both of them were so obsessed with Joffrey, that they wouldn't leave him alone.

Whenever Sansa was not bothering him, his mother demanded his audience. Yet she refused to put in a word for him with Father. So one day, Joffrey turned his back to the Queen. He stood in his chambers, staring out of the single window, over the wretched lands of the North, as Queen Cersei, his mother, stood behind him.

"Mother," he addressed the Queen, still looking out the window, not looking at her, "if you will not speak to Father, and arrange for him to let me return to my home in King's Landing, where I have stored all my books, and my favorite clothes, and my riding gear, and my sword... the sword Uncle Jaime gifted me, that he made me promise to not take with me on this trip... the sword made of Valyrian steel..." Joffrey took a steadying breath, lowering his voice back to normal. "If you won't arrange for my return home, then I will no longer look at you. Furthermore, I shall no longer consider you as my mother. You will be just another random woman to me." He turned around to face her, taking in the shocked look on his mother's countenance. "Do you want that?" He asked her sternly, with no excess emotion infusing his voice.

His mother's face broke. And tears slipped from her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks in heavy rivulets. "Joffrey! You can't mean that!" she wept. Her voice sounded so dramatic, so over-the-top.

Joffrey scowled down at her. He had finally grown a head taller than his mother over the past year. And he intended to use all of his stature when speaking in a commanding tone. "If you refuse to take me seriously, I don't see why I should take you seriously." He told her plainly.

"I am your mother! I love you!"

Joffrey blinked, a little surprised by his mother's teary outburst. "Thank you," he said. Then he smirked. "I guess I shall treasure these grand words of your love, while I rot away here in the North."

The look on his mother's face turned murderous, and she reached out to slap him. But he deftly caught her wrist before she could. "You seek to strike the King's Heir? The Crown Prince of the Land... If anyone else had tried what you tried to do now, I would have their head for this. Don't forget, Cersei Baratheon," he spoke the name out slowly, pronouncing each syllable, "I shall be King one day. You are beneath me. You were born beneath me, and you always will be beneath me." He tossed her hand aside roughly. "Now get out of my sight. You are no mother of mine."

And having said those words, Prince Joffrey turned away from the Queen, vowing to never look her in the eye again.

"No!" Cersei flung herself at him, clutching at his coat, and awkwardly hugging him from behind. Placing her arms around his waist, burying her wet face in his upper back, crying.

Joffrey ignored all the sobbing until it stopped, until she let go, until she angrily stomped out of his chambers like a child having a tantrum. How could a silly woman, as immature as this one, dare to call herself his mother?

It wasn't long before King Robert Baratheon departed from castle Winterfell with his entire entourage, plus Ned Stark, plus Ned Stark's youngest daughter Arya Stark, and Theon Greyjoy, and a few of Ned Stark's bannermen, minus Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon. He watched them leave from the small window in his chambers. Arya Stark's horse galloped ahead, closely followed by Theon Greyjoy, who struggled to keep up with the little Lady. Joffrey rolled his eyes at them. Fools. Wasting their miserable lives serving a King who did not know how to lead. Prince Joffrey would show them one day. He would be King, and he would show them all who was the true Lord around here.

Joffrey knew he was more fit to rule than his father King Robert Baratheon ever was. Ruling was not in his father's blood. He had not been born into royalty. He had taken the throne with violence and bloodshed. Even the Queen called him a 'brute' when the King was not around to hear it. Quite often, Prince Joffrey felt ashamed to be this brute's son. He wished he had been born to a more cultured father. Someone with more intelligence, more finesse. On some days, Joffrey wished Uncle Jaime had been his father. He would have made a better father than the King, who ignored Joffrey on most days... and sent him away now. Regardless, he would prove himself worthy of ruling all Seven Kingdoms. One day everyone would see what a great man Joffrey Baratheon was. And no one would judge him again.

There was a knock on his door. It sounded too heavy to be a woman, too cautious to be a man. Joffrey raised an eyebrow, turning his back on the window. "Come in."

The bulky figure of Jon Stark stood in the doorway, not making a move to enter Joffrey's chambers. The two boys stared each other down. Jon was the same age as Joffrey, but quite a bit taller, and stronger, by the looks of it. While Joffrey had been trained in the use of a sword by his Uncle Jaime, and Joffrey did not doubt his own technique, he was not sure he had the physical strength and power to take on someone the size of this Jon Stark. Despite them being the same age. Still, this Jon Stark presented himself differently than his older brother Robb Stark. Jon Stark took up less space when standing, he hunched his shoulders, tended to look at the floor, and talked in a softer, gentle tone of voice. Also, his hair was long as a girl's. It came down to his waist. He kept it tied in braids, in part, in part loose. Overall, Jon Stark made a startling appearance. He didn't look like Ned Stark's son at all.

"Hey," Jon Stark said timidly, actually looking Joffrey in the eye, but not sounding all that confident about it. "Have you... had breakfast yet, My Prince? I was told you sent the maid away..."

"I'm not hungry."

"Alright," Jon inclined his head, breaking eye contact. "What would you think of a spar? I've been looking for a sparring partner, and Robb says he's busy. I've always found it easier to move on an empty stomach, My Prince." Jon looked back up at Joffrey. "You wanna practice?"

Joffrey shrugged. "I don't see why not." Some fighting would take his mind off things. "Though I do not have my sword with me. Could you find me a replacement?"

Jon nodded. "Yes, My Prince. We've got plenty of swords here at Winterfell."

"Perfect." Joffrey grinned. "Well, what are you waiting for?" He skirted around Jon, and walked ahead of him, down the hallway. He heard a cough that made him stop, and slowly turn around with a regal air. "Yes?"

"Umm, the armory is that way, My Prince." Said Jon, turning towards the opposite direction.

"I knew that." Joffrey clicked his tongue, and pouted. "I was only trying to go for the scenic route."

Jon Stark raised his eyebrows. "My sister Sansa hasn't given you enough tours of the castle by now, My Prince?"

Joffrey tilted his head left to right. "She has. Although she sounded quite dull when recounting the entire history of the place. I don't intend to live here. I don't need to know the place that well. And can you stop attaching 'My Prince' to every sentence? It makes you sound silly."

Jon chuckled, looking at the floor. "I will. Forgive me, My P-... Oh. Heh, old habits die hard. I've never really been much around Royalty before. My father's never taken me on any important trips, unlike Robb." Jon glanced up at Joffrey, then set his eyes on the floor again. "I'm not normally like this. I'm just... unaccustomed to the general rules at court, and... like I don't wanna disrespect ya or anything."

A true, honest laugh broke free from Joffrey's throat. Jon looked up to stare at him, as the Prince struggled to keep down his own laughter. When he finally got a hold of himself, he clapped Jon on the shoulder, and led the way in the opposite direction of where he had intended to go. "Come on Stark, show me what sort of weapons you have here. With the grand stories my dad tells me, House Stark should have plenty of interesting war trophies to play with."

Joffrey didn't know why, but talking and thinking about weapons, always put him in a good mood. Jon found him a suitable sword, and fifteen minutes later, they were sparring in the courtyard. The fighting itself... was not Joffrey's cup of tea. It exhausted him, the strenuous exercise, and made him feel tired and weak. He preferred talking about weapons rather than wielding them. But he knew he had to train to fight, if the men in his service were to respect him as their leader, and obey his every command. Prince Joffrey didn't have to become the best swordsman of the land. But he did need to prove himself at least somewhat capable with a weapon. He didn't want to become like his Uncle Renly: a joke at court, a man who could only talk, despite being healthy and strong, and in the prime of his youth. So Joffrey had to train and become as good with a sword as his father was. He knew he would never achieve the sort of sword mastery his Uncle Jaime had.

Lady Sansa came to watch their spar. She would longingly gaze upon Joffrey from a balcony high up, and shout praises whenever he got a hit in on her brother Jon. When they took a break from fighting, Joffrey turned, looked up at the balcony where Sansa stood, smirked, and blew her a kiss.

"She likes you," Jon whispered with an encouraging smile.

Joffrey smiled confidently. "Don't tell her I like her too. Girls get big egos when they know they are desired."

Jon chuckled. "Too late for that."

Joffrey raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because my sister Sansa already has an ego the size of the moon."

Lady Olenna wore a pale blue headdress that hid away all of her hair. Tyrion wondered whether or not she still had any hair left. Could that be the reason she was hiding away most of her head? He kept those considerations to himself as he sat down at the round lunch table before her. Lady Olenna sipped on her rose tea, barely acknowledging Tyrion's presence.

"I know why you're here." She said at length, still holding her teacup in a thorny grip. "You wish to marry my granddaughter."

Tyrion spread his arms with a smile. "Am I that transparent?"

"No." Olenna Tyrell set her teacup down. "I received a raven from Loras this morning. It arrived before you did." She gave him a candid smile.

Tyrion smiled back nervously. "What did it say?"

Olenna half-shrugged. "Among other things, that you saved Loras' life."

"Oh. The... uh... drowning?"

"Yes. None of my family learned how to swim when they were young. We are all quite an incompetent lot." Lady Olenna laughed at her own expense.

Tyrion did not laugh with her. He was feeling increasingly more uncomfortable by the minute, and starting to wonder if this had been a mistake.

"You have never been married before, is that right?"

"Yes," Tyrion nodded.

"And you wish to marry now... May I ask why? Why now? What prompts you to take a wife at your age?"

"Well, I'm only twenty-four." Tyrion smiled. Lady Olenna did not.

"That does not answer my question."

A heavy sigh escaped Tyrion's lips. "My father has seen me fit to succeed him as Lord of Casterly Rock. I seek a wife to help me perpetuate my Family name into eternity. Lady Margaery is the perfect choice for me. We are close in age, with her being only two years younger. We get along well, as evidenced by our brief encounter at castle Crakehall. We can talk with each other, and I feel she understands me better than most Ladies do. Lady Margaery is an intelligent woman of impeccable morals and grace. She is a joy to be around: she makes everyone feel good. So I want her to be my wife. And I promise that I shall do her justice as her husband. I shall treat her well, and not ask more of her than is reasonable of a husband to ask his wife. If she agrees to marry me."

There was no warmth in Lady Olenna's voice, only calculation. "Unlike most of her suitors, you have not spoken a word of Lady Margaery's beauty."

"I suppose her beauty is self-evident. Forgive me, Lady Tyrell, I'm not much of a Romantic. I cannot write Lady Margaery any love poems to declare how I feel, and I will be no good at singing songs about her striking good looks. What I can give her, though, is all the Seven Kingdoms."

Olenna raised her brows. "How do you plan on giving her the Seven Kingdoms when you are not even in line for the Iron Throne?"

"We can take the Seven Kingdoms," Tyrion said with confidence. "But we can only do this together. If the Lannisters and the Tyrells unite our Houses, when the Westerlands cooperate with the Reach, we can be an unstoppable force in the next five years."

"I am unconvinced." Olenna Tyrell stirred her cup of rose tea. "Do you plan to start another war?"

Tyrion smiled. "I was thinking of a simpler and more elegant solution. Perhaps more cruel, too."

Lady Olenna frowned, bringing the tea to her lips. She drank of it, then set her cup down. "What did you have in mind?"

"Before my father named me as his Heir, he put me to work as Bookkeeper of Casterly Rock. Perhaps that was his way of preparing me. While doing my job as Bookkeeper, I discovered that the Crown is trillions in debt to House Lannister. Now I know that a Lannister always repays his debts. But the same cannot be said about the Baratheons. King Robert is a Baratheon, and so is Crown Prince Joffrey, all Baratheons." Tyrion made a meaningful pause. "I do not trust a Baratheon to repay his debt. With the rapid way the Crown's debt to House Lannister has been growing in recent years, it is unlikely this debt will ever be repaid. King Robert does not have the means to repay his debts to House Lannister. If pressed to repay his debt, I believe he would issue a new law, to have all his debts annulled." Tyrion raised a finger. "That, is where you come in. When Winter is upon us, the most valuable resource in the entire Realm will not be Lannister gold, but Tyrell grain. Should the Crown refuse to pay their debt, or seek to annul their obligations to House Lannister, then House Tyrell can refuse to feed the Realm." Tyrion waved his hand. "No one can force the Reach to give up their crops. Trade agreements need to be signed by both parties involved. If you refuse to trade with the Crown, we can make them repay their debt."

A sly smile bloomed on Olenna's lips. "You would squeeze them like that?"

Tyrion shrugged. "Come Winter, House Tyrell will be the richest House of the Realm. You can be, if you so choose to be. You could demand a higher price for your produce. And simply refuse all who cannot pay the price. Not give any handouts to the poor. Only feed the rich, and take their wealth in exchange for keeping them fed. That may be cruel, but... So is the path to greatness. I merely wish to unite my House with yours. Because this is the most advantageous union to make, and the most politically shrewd."

Olenna nodded slowly. "And should King Baratheon attack? And seek to take our grain by force? House Tyrell does have armies at our disposal, but we are not the most trained warriors. Our men are farmers first. And we need our boys in the fields, harvesting our crops."

"House Lannister will offer you protection. We will use all our trained armies. And should the need arise, we will use our gold to hire more armies."

"You would bring in men from Essos to fight your battles for you? What if they turn against you, and side with King Robert?"

Tyrion smirked. "They won't. King Robert can't pay them. While the mines of House Lannister are still brimming with gold. I checked, and double checked. I went inside the mines. The Seven Faced God has blessed us for generations to come."

Lady Olenna hummed thoughtfully. "So there shall be... a war?"

"Not if we can avoid it." Tyrion shrugged, reaching for the teapot and pouring himself a cup of rose tea. "The Crown is trillions in debt. Winter is at our doorstep. If we time this right, and if we press them to repay their debt at the right moment, when they are at their lowest, King Joffrey's hand will be forced to sign over all the Seven Kingdoms to me and Margaery, as collateral for the debt he owes us."

"King Joffrey?"

"I believe negotiation can be more fruitful with Prince Joffrey than with King Robert. All we would have to do, is wait, till Robert's violent pastimes inevitably end his reign. The man is a tad too adventurous for his own good: with a taste for hunting wild animals barehanded. It's only a matter of time before one of his stags runs their antlers through him. Then Joffrey will be King. Joffrey is a smart boy, nonviolent, he knows what's at stake. He won't run any unnecessary risks, nor create losses he cannot afford. I know we can take all Seven Kingdoms without shedding a drop of blood. All we need is to play our cards right."

Lady Olenna Tyrell smiled back at him. "Lord Tyrion, you think like a Tyrell already. Your plan to take the Iron Throne without the use of violence fits perfectly with the motto of our House: Growing Strong."

"Is that a... yes?" Tyrion asked tentatively. "Do I have your blessing to ask for your granddaughter Margaery's hand in marriage?"

Olenna finished up her tea. "I see that you have a good head on your shoulders. Give me this evening to speak with my son. Tomorrow morning, you can officially ask Lady Margaery's father for her hand in marriage. He will give you permission. You can send a raven to Lady Margaery and call upon her. And propose to her properly once she's back at Highgarden. If she agrees to have you as her husband, you will be wed before Winter comes."

Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell did not have the time to babysit Prince Joffrey, who, being seventeen, acted more like a child than as a man. Lord Stark had a province to run. He was in the middle of talks with a certain... wide fellow of House Tarly, who was here to offer them grain in exchange for wild animal pelts and hides, and wool. Robb tried to explain to this... Tarly, that House Stark and their people needed the animal pelts more than House Tarly did. And that he might offer something else in the trade. When three men of the Night's Watch barged in, without even knocking.

Robb stood from his chair, glaring at the men in black. "I shall have you know, that you ought to wait outside, until I am done talking with our guest."

The oldest man of the Watch with them, a curly haired man with greying light brown hair, pushed one of his men forward. "Go on then. Tell him what you saw. Tell him what made you run back to castle Black with yer tail between yer legs."

The young man who had been pushed forward, a blond haired man of at most... twenty, set his pleading puppy-dog eyes on Robb. "The- the Whi-Wh-Whithe-White Walkers, Ser! They're back!"

Robb dropped back into his chair. Stunned. Beside him, he sensed the plump Tarly lad grow anxious. "But they... can't go beyond The Wall, right?" This Tarly chum spoke. "My father said so. The Wall will keep the White Walkers at bay."

The old fellow of the Night's Watch spoke up again. He directed his speech at Robb, who still sat there, silent, trying to piece the information together. "The situation is dire. Winter is nearly upon us and we do not have enough men to man The Wall." He poked the young lad again. "I took this one with me cause he's a direct eye-witness. He saw those things with his own eyes. It drove him mad. He's no use to us now. We've reassigned him as builder. Cause the boy is no longer fit to be a ranger. Look at him. Shaking in fear. That's what's going to happen to the lot of you, if the White Walkers get here. If we don't stop them in time. They've collected an army of wildlings. Dead men, marching to the beat of the icy white devil's drum."

Robb spread his arms. "And what would you have me do? We barely have any men to spare. Everyone is preparing for Winter. We need our men, here, with their families, to build and to hunt."

"And I need them, there. To help me keep that White Walker vermin out of your backyard. Do something about it. Contact your King, if you can. Have him send more men to us. We need those reinforcements now, before more of us join the undead army beyond the wall."

Robb growled at the old man of the Night's Watch. "Oh and what would you have me say to the King?" Robb put on a sneering tone, and drawled with sarcasm: " 'King Robert, send all of your best men to the Night's Watch. Cause some hairy old fart whose name I don't even know, barged into my chambers, with a sniveling boy who claims he's seen a White Walker.' Huh? Is that what I'm supposed to tell him? You think the King will honor this request?"

The old man of the Night's Watch stepped closer to Robb Stark's desk. "For the record, my name is Alliser Thorne. You're free to check my papers. It all checks out." He placed a hand on the lad's shoulder. "This here is Will. He used to be a ranger. A good ranger; until he went on a stake-out beyond The Wall, with three other rangers. Will here was the only one to come back from that mission. Do you want to know why?" Alliser Thorne made a dramatic pause. "Will was the fastest runner of the four. My men aren't armed to handle White Walkers. We do not have the funds to equip them with the right armor. Meanwhile, castle Winterfell is brimming with shields and weaponry." Alliser paused, then leaned over the desk to glare at Robb. He kept his voice low, but it was full of hatred. "You lot aren't even at war. What do ye need all those weapons for? To wipe yer arse with? Meanwhile we are holding The Wall for entitled cunts like you. So you can sleep easily every night."

Robb scowled back at Alliser Thorne. "You think your chances of receiving aid from me will increase, by you insulting me?"

Alliser shrugged, stepping away from the table. "If you feel slighted by me, or not... the White Walkers won't care. I'm here on behalf of the Realm. The North, and specifically your province, will be among the first ones hit, if we fail to secure The Wall. It is in your self interest to cooperate with our demands."

Robb Stark and Alliser Thorne held a staring contest for what felt like minutes, where neither spoke.

"Suppose I send you a hundred of our men, and I send a raven to my father. Relaying what you have now told me, with the request of more skilled fighters from the King. Would that be enough?"

Thorne grunted. "Doubt it will be enough. But it's a start. Do you have any skilled fighters in the region? I have enough peasants and farmers on The Wall. I don't need more. Don't send me more. Send me men that are tough, and battle-ready. I can't stand training incompetent new recruits. And we do not have the time for it."

Robb nodded. "Perhaps I shall journey to The Wall with you, myself. To assess the situation. I want to see the conditions you're working with."

Alliser huffed. "You don't believe me. You don't believe we need the men as badly as I say we do."

"Doesn't hurt to travel up there, and see for myself." Robb shrugged. "And I haven't seen my Uncle Benjen in awhile. I'll see the situation for myself, and send more ravens from there. If the situation is as bad as you describe, I shall join the war efforts myself." Robb stood, proudly puffing his chest up. "I am my father's son. I do not hide behind walls. If there is to be a battle, I shall fight alongside ya, on the front lines."

Alliser Thorne narrowed his eyes. "If reinforcements are not sent to aid the Night's Watch in our fight against the living dead, then everyone you know, everyone you have ever met, everyone will die."

Chapter Text

On the road to King's Landing, still in the North, when the King's entourage stopped in a town so their horses could get some rest, Arya Stark snuck off to a nearby patch of forest, to practice her archery. Theon Greyjoy found her in a clearing, pulling her spent arrows out of a tree. He rolled his eyes.

"Yo! Ground squirrel!" Theon called.

Arya jumped. She whirled around, glaring at him. "You scared me!"

He grinned, setting his hands on his hips. "Listen kid, I was put in charge to watch you. No more sneaking off without telling anyone. Can you do that for me?"

Arya only scowled at him. Then she stuck out her tongue, pulled the last arrow out of the tree, tossed it into the holster strapped to her back, and leapt into the thicket, disappearing into a maze of leaves. Theon groaned, glaring up at the canopy of leaves above. He was gonna have to go through that thicket, wasn't he? Ugh. Why did he get stuck with babysitting the troublesome little Stark girl? Only two months, and he'd be eighteen, and Ned Stark could no longer legally keep him here. Two months, and Theon could go home. He was counting the days till he could depart for the Iron Islands. As soon as he could go back to his real family, he would.

With great reluctance, Theon combed his way through the woods, looking this way and that, up trees, trying to spot the stubborn Stark child.

He was not the first person to find her. A strange small older woman stood beside Arya Stark. The woman wore a plain dress, but she had a garland of garlic in her dark brown hair, and vines of ivy threaded into her many braids. Theon approached with caution.

The woman seemed to be telling something important to Arya Stark, for the girl actually stopped to listen. When usually, little Arya listened to no one but herself. Once Theon drew nearer, he could make out the words of the weird old woman.

"You won't find glory on Sapphire Island, little squire," the woman said with a vulgar sneer. "But glory will find you in the East."

Arya frowned. "Isn't Tarth to the East? I don't understand..."

The weird woman clucked her tongue at the Stark child. "Destiny is not for us to understand. It is for us to live."

After this revelation, Arya simply raised her eyebrows.

"I will tell you one thing, child," the woman said, winking and nodding at Theon. Arya looked over her shoulder and saw him. "That one is the key to your fame and fortune."

Theon raised an eyebrow, pointing at himself. "Me?" He shrugged. "I'm only delivering her to the Knight she squires for. Then I'm out. No way I'm following this kid around, longer than I have to."

The old woman smiled, amused by something. "Perhaps she will follow in your footsteps, and find a treasure known to no man."

Theon huffed back a laugh, setting his hands on his hips. "If I find a great treasure, no way I'm sharing it with this midget over here." He pointed at Arya, who glared at him.

"Hey! Who you calling a midget? Squid boy." Arya balled her little fists. Theon only chuckled at her.

"It's not yours to keep." The woman said cryptically.

"Pardon?" Theon walked closer. If he had to estimate the age of this odd lady, he'd say she was about fifty years of age. Not more.

"The treasure," the woman clarified, "yours to hold, yours to love, yours to bed, and yours to spawn. Not yours to keep."

Theon felt bewildered. "Spawn? What sort of 'treasure' we talkin here?" He grinned.

"The kraken drowns in a hidden sea."

"But how can a literal sea monster drown ...in the sea?" Theon knew he wouldn't drown. He'd been swimming ever since he was a little kid. This old witch was talking nonsense. She didn't know him at all.

"There are scarier monsters in this world, than krakens."

Back at The Twins, Jon's mother Carine Frey had come down with a light fever. So she spent the day in bed, recuperating. As she stared up at the ceiling of her bedchambers, trying to get some sleep, she kept recalling her short, but useful marriage to Ned Stark.

Carine Frey was a small woman. She had always been rather skinny and frail, even as a girl. No matter how much she ate, she had not been able to put on much weight, something her sisters envied her for. Carine also failed to build muscles. She was physically weak. Her arms were quite slender and lady-like, which meant she could barely lift a pot full of boiling hot soup. She had her handmaidens do the lifting for her. Though she did learn how to cook, and she cooked well.

Her mother, Lady Sarya Frey-Whent, had died while giving birth to her. Prompting her father Walder Frey to remarry the very next month after he had buried his fifth wife Sarya. Carine was raised mostly by this stepmother, Lady Bethany Frey-Rosby, the sixth wife of Walder Frey, who loved her as her own, but also died of some unexplained illness when Carine had just turned fourteen. By this time, her father thought Carine ready to marry a nobleman, and help strengthen their family alliances in the Riverlands. The 'nobleman' her father picked for her, or more accurately, the boy, as he too, was still underage at the time, was Lord Hoster Tully's sole son and heir, Edmure Tully, who was just twelve at the time; two years younger than Carine.

They had a formal introduction at castle Riverrun, with their families there, and Carine actually got to meet the boy she was engaged to marry. She was horrified. Edmure Tully was not a bad looking young lad; he seemed charming enough upon first sight. But as they spent more time together that evening, while dancing, and talking over dinner, Carine discovered one well-maintained secret: Edmure Tully was a pervert. Even at the age of twelve he knew of things young Lords should know nothing about. His speech was lewd, when none of the adults were listening. And he wanted to do things to her... that Carine wasn't sure she wanted done to herself.

In the months following their engagement, Carine begged her father to reconsider. She did not desire this filthy-minded boy. But her father Walder Frey would not relent. House Frey needed this alliance to establish their family as a respected House in the Riverlands. Furthermore, her father insisted that Carine birth them a son.

"You shall do as you're told, and your son from that boy Edmure Tully shall rule castle Riverrun one day. You should be happy, child. You are marrying into the most powerful family of our Kingdom. And you are marrying the Heir. Think of that."

Carine thought of Edmure's crooked smile and leering eyes every night, and wept. It would not be forced if she consented to this marriage. But she could not choose to reject Edmure Tully. Because House Frey needed this alliance with House Tully, and she was the daughter closest to Edmure in age, and he had set his eyes on her. He wanted her. Her father wanted this alliance. Edmure's father wanted to see his son wed to a Lady, before Edmure lost himself and fathered a bastard with some lowborn girl. Hoster Tully knew of his son's perversion. There was an uncanny urgency to this union: both Walder Frey and Hoster Tully did all they could to speed up the wedding preparations, so their children could be wed soon.

Carine Frey dreaded becoming Edmure Tully's new plaything. She was also well aware that her worries would only begin when she was with child. Her body was small and weak: even at fourteen, she was smaller in height and skinnier than the twelve-year-old Edmure Tully. She already bled, yet she still looked like a child: her chest had barely grown. How was she to feed any child they had? And what if... what if she did not survive labor, as her mother had? She had always been a sickly girl, staying indoors while her brothers and sisters played in the sunlight. Her skin was ghostly pale from staying indoors so much. She could barely carry a pot of soup from the kitchen to the dinner table. How would she carry a baby for nine months? The very idea of being defiled by Edmure Tully, to then carry his son for him, and die, on the birthing bed, terrified her. She was a scared little girl praying to the New Gods and the Old, for this wedding not to happen. But she knew at some point she had to wed someone. Her father would not just let her live unmarried. Even if the Tullys pulled out of this engagement at the last moment, which did not seem likely, but even if they did, ...Carine Frey would have to marry a man one day, and have his child. She knew chances were high that she would not survive pregnancy. Yet that was her sole life purpose: producing an heir for some nobleman. And it struck her as odd that she had never really... desired any men nor boys.

When her sisters gushed over handsome squires and gallant knights in shining armor, Carine had never understood what the fuss was about. All those squires were just as grubby as her brothers. And the knights... were old, and strange. They seemed so obsessed with their swords, and lances, and violence in general. Carine never saw the appeal. Being married to one... was not something she looked forward to, nor fantasized about. When she overheard snippets of similar conversation among her brothers, about the fair Ladies of Westeros, ...Carine Frey was just as puzzled. The whole concept of love and romance was lost on her. Yet she was bred to be a bride. Having a magical wedding was supposed to be important to her. Still, she couldn't find it in herself, to care. She only agreed to marry Edmure, because she was told to. But she did not enjoy it. No part of the wedding preparations nor the choosing of the wedding gowns gave her any joy.

Carine knew she would be happiest if she did not need to marry at all. If she had to carry no one's baby. If she could just keep living as she always had, as Carine Frey. But she knew that could never happen. Not for her.

And then, Robert Baratheon's Rebellion happened. Something no one had anticipated nor seen coming. Robert Baratheon of the North, from his seat at Stagsden in the Wolfswood up North, took his armies and marched down South, along with his best friend Eddard Stark, young Ned. Who had just lost both his father and his older brother in a horrible misunderstanding after his sister Lyanna Stark had been abducted by Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Making the, then young, Ned Stark, the de-facto Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North.

Since Ned's older brother had been promised to marry Lady Catelyn Stark, young Ned took it upon himself to restore the Lady Catelyn Stark's honor by wedding her himself. Their marriage was consummated at House Winterfell, where the Lady Catelyn Stark had been staying, awaiting her betrothed Brandon Stark's return. When he could not come back, Lady Catelyn Stark was wed to his younger brother Ned instead. She was already with child when Ned Stark marched South to fight alongside Robert Baratheon in the rebellion started to avenge his own brother and father, and to rescue his sister from the clutches of Crown Prince Rhaegar.

The Rebel Forces encountered problems at The Neck. Their path South was blocked from all sides: the West and the East. So the only way to march South was to go through the middle: over the bridge held by Lord Walder Frey of The Twins. Ser Howland Reed proposed a marriage alliance between the Freys, and a nobleman of the North. To which Walder Frey agreed, wishing to be rid of one of his daughters, and seeing some potential in the young hotblooded Northmen. And, mostly because Walder Frey knew that Lord Jon Arryn of The Vale would persevere, break through the Crown's defenses, and surround him from the South, while the Northeners would back him into a corner from the North, ...should Walder Frey refuse to cooperate and let the Northmen pass. So the old man Frey offered any of his daughters in marriage to a high ranking Northern nobleman: they could have their pick of any Frey girl they liked.

But Robert Baratheon felt a great faithfulness to his bride-to-be, Lyanna Stark, and vowed to take no wives, until he held her in his arms. Howland Reed had some fertility problems... that he was getting treatment for. But who knew how long that would take. So again, the young Ned Stark, ever the honorable man, took it upon himself to do the deed no one wanted to do: to marry one of Walder Frey's daughters. He already had a wife, but the Old Gods of the North allowed men to take multiple wives. So Ned Stark did. He did so with no joy, purely out of duty to his Bannermen.

The night before the 'Choosing', it happened that Ned Stark mistakenly entered Carine Frey's chambers, while looking for his own, and getting lost in the castle. He apologized profusely, and was on his way out, when he noticed the Frey girl weep.

"Have I frightened you, my dear?"

Carine shook her head profusely. "No, no. It's nothing you did, my Lord."

"May I ask who made you weep, Lady Frey?"

Carine blinked back tears. No one had referred to her as Lady Frey before. She glanced up at the tall, nineteen-year-old Ned Stark, and felt nothing for him.

"I doubt you could do a thing about it." Carine mumbled.

Ned shrugged. "I could try."

So she told him everything. It did help to talk about her problems. Even if she would still have the same problems tomorrow. Still helped to get it all off her chest. Never before had she told a living soul about how she dreaded being intimate with a man. How she didn't want it. And yet it was expected of her, as a highborn Lady of House Frey. It might have been expected of her even had she been lowborn. But then she might have joined the Sisters of the Seven, and become a Septa. This possibility was barred for her, now. Ned listened respectfully, he let her speak, and really heard everything she said. The very next day though...

Ned picked her to be his second wife.

Carine Frey fainted in her sister's arms. She came to, to a lot of arguing between her father, and Ned Stark. Lord Walder Frey began convincing Ned to make a different choice, saying that this daughter was already betrothed, that he could choose another: any daughter, but not this one. Ned insisted on Carine, or he would take no Frey girls at all.

Robert Baratheon laughed loud, and decided that Ned must have fallen in love with the Frey girl.

Carine felt her heart beat rapidly in her chest, from fear of this big man... who knew all of her secrets. Because she had been foolish enough to tell him. At least Edmure did not know about her fears. This man knew everything she felt, and now he would make her marry him, and bed her. She willed her eyes to remain dry all throughout that gathering, then bawled her eyes out when she got to her chambers. Their wedding inevitably took place just two days later. Carine shuddered from fear when Ned lifted her veil to kiss her.

His lips were rough and tasted of saliva.

Due to the Rebels being at war, they could not stay for long at The Twins. The wedding ceremony was cut short, and Carine was told she would be riding with her new husband's army. So they could consummate their marriage while pushing further South. Not only did she risk losing her life in childbirth, Carine now also faced the possibility she might be killed in battle. The poor girl shook and shivered, fearing for her life, as she rode South on her wedding day, surrounded by fierce warriors from the North.

Three days later, after a major battle that helped them rejoin with their allied forces in The Vale, Ned Stark shared their tent with her for the first time.

But instead of sleeping on the same bedroll as she had expected him to, he made himself a smaller bed on the other edge of their tent, and lay there. The night passed in silence. And come morning, Carine asked him why he had not shared their bed with her.

Ned said he never would.

Carine was shocked. "But- but they'll know! And my father will know! He will have our union annulled. There must be a child. Everyone will know I have not been with child, and... and..."

Ned calmed her down by stroking her hair gently. "There shall be a child. You do not have to lay with me for there to be a child, my Lady." He looked deep into her eyes.

Carine frowned, confused. "Do you suggest I lay with another?"

He shook his head. "We are at war. There are hundreds of children who have lost both their parents. It will be no trouble finding a child."

Carine's mouth fell open, but no sound came out.

"A child that looks like you, ...or like me." Ned shrugged, but his eyes looked stony and cold, defeated by the realities of war and bloodshed. "What does it matter he looks like. You shall have a son, and your father shall be pleased to have a grandson named Stark." He looked her in the eye, and spoke with a deep commanding voice. "And we shall never speak of this again."

Thus Jon Stark was 'found' among the many orphans of the war started by Robert Baratheon, the war that made him King. And Carine Frey returned to The Twins, with child. Jon Stark grew up traveling from Winterfell to The Twins, and back. He spent about half the year with his mother, and half with his father. Lord Walder Frey was unhappy with this arrangement. But technically, there was nothing he could reasonably complain about. The marriage of his daughter to Ned Stark had strengthened his family's alliance with The North. And Carine Frey was happy with her situation, and with her child: a strong healthy boy that looked more Northener than Riverlander.

The only ones slighted by this arrangement were the Tullys, who took personal offense to Lord Walder Frey pulling out of their marriage deal at the last minute. So much so, that they refused to marry their Edmure to any of Walder Frey's other daughters. And as long as Carine Frey had her son Jon, she could not be considered a worthy candidate for a marriage to any nobleman.

Overall, Lord Walder Frey was satisfied. Because an alliance with the Warden of the North was far better than an alliance with House Tully. But his strange Northern grandson did disturb him sometimes. And as Jon grew older, and looked less and less like a Frey, and started resembling those bloody Northeners, Lord Frey grew more and more frustrated with him. Which delighted Carine Frey. Lord Frey gave up on trying to teach little Jon Stark manners. The boy was too wild. Always getting into mischief, and drawing attention to himself in the oddest ways possible.

As Carine grew up herself, even as an adult, she noticed she still had no desire for men. Nor did she have any desire for women. She was content being on her own, unengaged in any romantic affairs, and sharing her life with her friends, her sisters and brothers, and watching over her son Jon Stark as he grew to be a strong and capable young lad. Just as her stepmother had raised Carine as her own, Carine mothered over Jon, as though he were her own blood. It didn't matter that she hadn't given birth to this child. He was her son. And everyone thought he was of her blood, because she had been away from home for over a year before she returned with Jon in her arms.

Even Ned's Bannermen were none the wiser. When Ned rode South to Dorne, where his sister Lyanna Stark was rumored to be, he took Carine with him: to protect her. His best friend Robert Baratheon remained in the Stormlands, fighting off the remaining Targaryen Loyalists. Carine pretended to be pregnant before they left for Dorne. Somewhere in the sunny Southern Kingdom, Ned found the orphan newborn child he took in as his and Carine's son Jon Stark. And ever since Carine set eyes on her adoptive son, she had loved him as her own.

Jon Stark frowned, inclining his head and staring up at his older brother from under his brow. "You are... leaving Winterfell in my care?" It was all just so hard to believe.

Robb shrugged, leaning back in his chair, as his clasped hands rested on the edge of his desk. "There's some urgent business at The Wall. I have to go and see for myself, before I can report back to Father. You will be the oldest Stark in Winterfell. You're nearly an adult. You might as well get used to having some adult responsibilities."

Ah, that was the catch. Of course Robb wasn't gifting him Winterfell. Jon was merely doing Robb's job for him, with no reward. He was keeping Robb's seat warm for him. That's all this was. More 'adult responsibilities', more unpaid work Jon got to do. Just cause they were brothers. Fantastic. This already sounded like so much fun. Robb was getting a nice little vacation, while Jon got saddled with all the actual work of managing the province during the busiest season: as Winter was on its way.

"When will you be back?"

Robb shrugged. "Within the fortnight, if the reports turn out to be exaggerated." He scratched at his stubble chin. "If the reports turn out to be true..." A long silence followed.

"If the reports turn out to be true, ...?" Jon repeated, holding his brother's gaze.

Robb sounded very somber when he said: "I will ask you to come join me at castle Black."

Jon's eyes went wide. "May I ask why?"

Robb Stark exhaled, shutting his eyes. "White Walkers." Is all he said.

"What?"

Robb opened his eyes. "I will need the best Northmen to fight alongside me." He gestured at his younger brother. "I do consider you one of the best. If it comes down to it, our job is to help protect the North from attack. Of course I'll send word to Father, and ask for more men. But we have to go, you and I. And I'll call upon all our Bannermen: Karstarks, Baratheons, Umbers, Manderlys, Glovers, Boltons, Tallharts, Flints, Mormonts, Reeds, Cerwyns, Dormunds, Dustins, Ryswells. We should be able to get at least a hundred decent fighters from the North. We'd be supporting the Night's Watch for as long as they need us. You'd be fighting under my command. Or, under our Father's command, if he gets back up here. Depends." Robb shrugged. "That's only if the situation is as dire as the reports say. Which I doubt. So I think you'll be seeing me in a week, tops. I don't really look forward to wasting my time with the Night's Watch. When we should be preparing for Winter."

Jon nodded. "I'll try to get Winterfell as ready as the castle can be."

"Good. Maester Luwin will help you with that. If you have any questions, just ask him."

The brothers nodded to each other, shook hands, and Robb gave Jon the Keys to castle Winterfell. Having done so, Robb retired to his bedchambers and began preparing for his possibly long and dangerous journey to The Wall and... possibly beyond. Jon sat at his brother's desk for over an hour, staring at the smooth wooden surface. When the candle to his right had nearly bled out, a knock on the door startled him.

"Come in," Jon said, nervously shuffling in the chair his older brother had just vacated, refocusing his attention on whoever needed his assistance at this hour of the night. As substitute Lord of Winterfell, it was his duty to hear his father's people, and offer them any support he could.

"Lord Stark," a familiar voice started. The voice was soft, gentle, yielding and pliant, but definitely a man's voice. Something stirred in Jon's loins before he saw Samwell's large form round the corner of the door. "...Oh." Samwell smiled nervously, looking at him, then looked down at the floor, biting his pink lips. "Jon, sorry."

A wide toothy smile grew on Jon's lips. "That's alright. My brother Robb left me the Keys to the Castle." Resting his elbow on the desk, he dangled the keys from one of his fingers, wearing the keyring as a ring on his middle finger. His eyes met Sam's, as his friend glanced up to face him. "You're speaking to Lord Stark. What can I do for you Sam?"

Sam nearly choked on his own breath. He turned red in the face with shame, trying to cough the spittle from his lungs. When he finally came to, breathing heavily, he set his eyes on Jon's, and did not look away.

They stared at each other in silence for what felt like an hour, but must have been a lot less, taking each other in. Then the candle to Jon's right went out. The room plummeted into a warm, cave-like half dark, lit only by one candle to Jon's left.

Jon stood.

Samwell did not move from his spot.

Jon walked around his brother's desk, still wearing the Castle Keys on his left middle finger. He walked up to Tarly, and stopped when they were less than a foot apart. They were about the same height, but different in build. Jon was more muscular, and had longer hair, darker hair. Sam was a bit wider, softer, with short dark-blond hair. Under the light of a single candle, they stared at each other, neither daring to make a move.

Two young men from prominent Houses, one of them Heir to his House; the other holding the Keys to his Family Castle. They both knew that if either of them was mistaken, ...both had so much to lose.

Jon was about to lean back, smile friendly, clap Sam on the shoulder, and lead him out his brother's office... About to restore the mutually agreed upon friendly distance between them, about to deny himself the pleasure of this moment, when Sam leaned in, and gently kissed him on the lips, while threading his fingers in Jon's long dark hair.

Feeling the warmth of the caress, Jon leaned in to the touch, placed his own hands on Samwell's back, and pulled him in closer, so their hips connected. Jon groaned. He kissed back with passion, feeling fire in his veins.

Their tongues touched in precious moments, and before Jon knew what was happening, he found himself pressed up to a wall of his brother's study. Both young men groaned, flushed against each other. Sam's kisses trailed lower, as he buried his face in Jon's neck, leaving suckle marks there.

Jon chuckled, playfully ruffling Sam's dark-blond hair. "Possessive, are we?"

Samwell huffed against his neck. The man's breath was pleasantly warm. Jon wanted to feel more of it. But Sam leaned away, putting some distance between them. Sam turned his gaze down, directed at the floor. He looked and sounded ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry!" he began apologizing. "I don't know what got into me. Please forgive me Lord Stark, I meant no disrespect. I swear!"

Jon hummed skeptically, tilting his head right and left. "Oh I don't know," he said casually, leaning back against the wall he had been pressed up to. "Perhaps there is a way you might make it up to me." He finished with an amused smile, watching Sam grow redder and redder in the face.

"Anything you ask!" Sam blurted out, misreading the mood, cause he was still looking at his own feet, not daring to look Jon in the eye.

Jon raised both eyebrows. "Anything I ask?" he worded cautiously, still with an amused smile on his lips.

Sam nodded heartily while keeping his gaze glued to the floor between them.

Jon grinned. Launching himself off the wall, he approached Sam, held him by the shoulders, then whispered in his ear: "I want you, in my bed. Just you, Samwell. No one but you."

Sam's eyes went wide, and their gazes connected. All of Sam's nervousness momentarily forgotten. "Are you sure?" He asked Jon seriously.

"Very."

They kissed all the way up to Jon's bedchambers, somehow avoiding being seen by anyone in the Castle. Maybe everyone else had already gone off to bed. There, in Jon's room, Samwell pushed him onto the bed, then climbed up on top of him, and would not let him go until the morning.

When Jon washed his own face the next morning, he found kiss marks all over his neck, and parts of his upper chest. Sam still slept. Jon had to get up early to do his duty as Lord of Winterfell, in case anyone needed their protection or support. He covered his neck in thick fur pelts, and, blushing, made his way down to Robb's office, where he organized Robb's papers, read the new letters they had received by raven that morning, and called upon Maester Luwin to discuss the Winter preparation plans for their province.

Maester Luwin gave him a funny look.

"What?" Jon raised an eyebrow.

The Maester shook his head, smiling. "I hope you at least used salve."

"What are you talking about?" Jon frowned.

Maester Luwin blinked at him. "Do you truly know nothing? Or are you playing dumb, boy?"

For a split second, Jon felt terrified. Then he realized that the Maester had not hastened to alert his father, nor sent any ravens to Robb... "How did you know?" Jon settled on asking, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

The Maester touched the right side of his own neck, smiling sadly. "Those fox pelts don't cover as much as you think they do."

With wide eyes, Jon touched his own neck on the right, only to feel skin connecting with skin. He cursed.

Maester Luwin chuckled. "I hope you had a good time last night. Alright, now let's get back to work. The Hornwoods say they have sixty flock of sheep they can't find room to house. I was thinking we could make room for half of them in our stables. The other half..."

Grenn panted, hiding behind a snowy rock. He was a mile away from The Wall. His legs hurt like crazy: all his muscles were howling for him to stop.

There was no stopping now. Not if he were to report back to castle Black. These damned ice devils. Grenn shook his head, steadying his breath. He clutched his sword, straightened, and ran, keeping his sword low, by his side, ready to lash out at anything that might jump him.

An earth shattering screech made Grenn's blood run cold. He gasped, glancing over his shoulder to see the... thing closing in on him. It was a woman. A woman with ice white skin, and blue eyes like sapphires, sparkling in the half dark. Her hair was a mess of broken branches and uncombed grey tresses. She missed most of her teeth. Instead of human words, a high pitched screeching came forth from her throat.

Grenn was bathed in sweat under his black cloak as he ran, no longer feeling the pain. The White Walker lady was closing in on him. How could she move so fast??

Tears lined Grenn's eyes. And he wasn't proud of himself, but with no one around to see, it didn't really matter. Did it? As long as he survived. As long as he made it back to castle Black, and reported what he had seen. They had to know. Grenn blinked the tears away, weaving his way through the snowy forest, hoping to outsmart the White Walker after him. He chanced another look at the woman, and grimaced. It was horrible what had become of Craster's daughters.

Grenn shook his head. Nothing to be done about it. He forged his way ahead, ran up a hill, and stopped in shock.

Another of them, this one a small woman with clean white hair, white skin, sparkling blue eyes, stood right in front of him. They had surrounded him. They had hunted him down, and led him into a trap. Grenn couldn't help it. He screamed with fear as he swung his sword at the White, knowing it wouldn't make a difference.

The young White Walker woman lunged at him, barely feeling the cut of his sword. Grenn screwed his eyes shut and let out a loud scream. He hoped death would be quick and painless. He hoped he would have no knowledge of his actions as an unwilling pawn in the Night King's undead army. He didn't want to know.

Moments passed, and Grenn felt no pain. He heard shuffling, fighting, grunting around him. Fearful, uncertain, Grenn slowly opened his eyes, and his mouth fell open, but no words came out. Grenn stared as a red-haired woman, human, very much alive... her hair the color of fire, danced around him, lunging out at the older White Walker, holding a long spear with a primitive-looking black spear-point.

The young White Walker lady that had attacked him... lay unmoving on the ground. Grenn blinked. He beheld this red-haired beauty with awe.

Eventually she got a hit in on the older White Walker. The White plummeted to the ground, and the human woman drove her spear right through the White Walker's heart. The monster croaked, let out her final breath, and moved no more.

With a manly grunt, the beautiful red-haired woman withdrew her spear from the White Walker's body. The spear-point had no blood on it. It looked icy cold: covered in crystals of ice and snow.

"You saved my life." Grenn whispered in hushed awe, staring at the red-haired wildling woman.

She turned to face him slowly, keeping her chin up. From where she stood, a little higher up on the hill, she stood tall enough to look him in the eye.

"Thank you," Grenn whispered, still in awe. "I will do anything you ask."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "Anything?" Her voice sounded crackled from the cold, and quite deep for a woman's voice, strong.

Grenn nodded vigorously. "Anything you ask."

She smirked. "Okay I'll keep that in mind. For now we have to burn the bodies." She kicked at the fallen corpses of the White Walker women she had killed.

Grenn searched his pockets, and withdrew two fire stones.

The red-haired woman responded with a crooked smile. "Oh nice. Looks like you Crows have some use, after all. I was beginning to think you were totally pathetic when I heard ye screaming like a little girl."

Sweat started rolling down Grenn's forehead again. This time not out of fear, but out of shame. "You heard that?" He asked, feeling the color rise to his cheeks.

The woman grinned. "How'd you think I found ya? Go on then, set 'em on fire!" She seemed a little... too delighted to see another woman burn.

But then again, Grenn reminded himself, those women were no longer human. Even if they had been Craster's daughters... once. It didn't matter. He was North of the Wall now, and the rules were different here. The conditions were a lot harsher. The humans left here... were just doing what they could to survive.

He set the White Walker corpses on fire, and they sat by the fire, enjoying its warmth. The red-haired woman sat close by him. Their legs were touching. "You have anything to eat?" She asked him.

Grenn shook his head, staring at the flames.

His new companion sighed. "Right. We'll hunt in the morning. Try to get some sleep." With those words, she shut her eyes.

Grenn frowned. "You think it's safe?"

The woman raised, and set down her spear, that she was still holding onto. "I've always been a light sleeper." One had to be, North of the Wall...

Grenn pressed his lips together. "I have a better idea."

"What's that?" The woman asked him while keeping her eyes closed.

"I'll take you to castle Black. We can sleep in a proper bed. Without fearing for our lives."

The woman's eyes shot open. In no time at all, she had switched her spear to her other hand, bringing its blade awfully close to Grenn's head. "I thought Crows weren't allowed no women."

"Uh." Grenn raised his hands in defeat. "That's... not how I meant it." He shook his head. "We'll both sleep in beds. Different beds, in different rooms." He pronounced slowly.

The woman raised an eyebrow, disbelief all over her face. "And your Crow friends would let me over The Wall? A free woman from the North? Last I checked, your people did not like us."

"You saved my life." Grenn tented his brows. "I mean it. No harm will come to you. Let me help you. Without those Things after me, I can make it back to castle Black in less than an hour. Trust me. You could sleep in my arms, I can carry you."

The woman lowered her spear, then an actual laugh tore from her throat.

"What?" Grenn asked when her laughter wouldn't stop.

"You plan to carry me in your arms?" she got out, barely holding back laughter.

"Yes." Grenn said seriously. "Don't worry. I'm strong enough to carry you."

She shook her head with a smile, not breaking eye contact. "Oh I don't doubt it."

"Then why you laugh?"

The woman snorted. "You don't realize how romantic that sounds?" She put on an even deeper 'manly' voice: " 'You could sleep in me arms, I can carry ye home.' "

Grenn glared at her. He knew he was blushing hard.

The woman giggled. "Oh, what the hell. Can't be worse on The Wall, than here." She raised her arms, and looked expectantly at Grenn.

He stood, brushed the dirt off his breeches, approached a bit closer, then awkwardly placed his arms under her legs and back, cradled her against his chest, and pulled the red-head up into his arms. They left the fire burning behind them in the snow. And Grenn marched back to castle Black. Halfway there, the young woman fell asleep in his arms, still clutching her spear.

And only then did Grenn realize, he didn't even know her name.

Chapter Text

Daenerys had not expected the colorful flower gardens at Highgarden. After her long journey, she was finally comforted by the sight of so many wonderful flowers in the gardens owned by House Tyrell. A young and handsome curly haired Knight had met her in Wyl, and escorted her over land, on his horse, all the way to castle Highgarden. He said he recognized her by her glasses, that he'd been sent by her Allies in Westeros. Throughout their journey, he referred to her as My Lady. Daenerys played along with the charade, calling him Ser. Once at Highgarden, the gates opened for them without question. The mysterious Knight rode up to the central garden, got off his horse, helped her down, and offered her a tour of the place. By the end of this tour, Daenerys had a blue rose in her dyed brown hair, and a taller young woman, about the same age as the Knight, approached her. This woman had long, flowing golden brown hair, with a garland of orange nasturtium flowers woven into her locks.

"Welcome home, Dagny," this young woman said, enveloping Daenerys in her arms.

After they hugged, the Lady introduced herself as "your cousin, Margaery".

"You probably don't remember me." Margaery smiled warmly. "You were only a child when you were sent away. We are all so happy you finally recovered from the greyscale, Dagny. I'm glad the exotic treatment in Essos worked. Grandmother should have never sent you away." Margaery emphatically said. "I was worried sick." She sighed, looking out over the gardens. "But you know how she is." Linking her arm through the arm of Daenerys, Lady Margaery led her up some stone steps, into the central part of the Castle. "Come, let's get you cleaned up. You must be tired from your journey. I'll help you do your hair. Don't worry," Margaery smiled her naughty smile, "we can keep that blue rose Loras stuck into your braid."

Daenerys returned the smile. So that was Ser Loras Tyrell, huh. The stories checked out. He looked as dashing and graceful as she had imagined. "Your brother was quite kind." Daenerys acknowledged. "He insisted on pausing every three hours, so I could stretch my legs."

"That does sound like Loras." Margaery grinned. "Come, let me put that blue rose in a vase." She extracted the flower from Daenerys her hair, without needlessly pulling on a single hair strand. Margaery's grip was so gentle, Daenerys barely felt her hand at all.

The girls spent the rest of the day together, rejoining their family at dinner. Loras was there, and so were his and Margaery's parents, and the 19-year-old Knight Ser Celestin Ashford, a Bannerman of House Tyrell. Raising his wine, Ser Loras Tyrell spoke out a toast on the beauty of his cousin Dagny Tyrell. During this short speech, his eyes met Celestin's across the table. Both young men shared a secretive smile.

Noticing this, Daenerys lifted a bit of tablecloth, and took a quick peek. Under the table, Celestin's feet were touching the feet of Loras.

Daenerys quickly looked away, acting like she hadn't seen a thing. She thanked her 'cousin' Ser Loras for the compliment, and took a sip of her own wine. The rest of the evening was spent engaged in small-talk, bringing Dagny up to speed on the new developments in their family. Margaery was newly engaged. She would be wed soon, here, at Highgarden. Apparently to some obscure Lannister whom Daenerys had never heard of. This wasn't surprising, as there were many Lannisters aside from the main branch, who did not rise to prominence.

It was not until three days had passed, that Daenerys actually got to meet the real head of House Tyrell: the old and frighteningly intelligent grandmother of Margaery... Lady Olenna Tyrell, the first person in Westeros to address Daenerys by her real name.

"Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name. She lives."

Shocked and worried, Daenerys held her breath. She glanced furtively at the empty seat between them, the table with refreshments. "...You know who I am?" she asked, still not daring to sit at the old woman's table.

Olenna smiled easily. "I'm the one who suggested you come here. It's high time you got a taste of Westeros politics, my dear. For you are to rule the Seven Kingdoms one day. You will need all the lessons in class, respectability, finesse, and grace you can have." Lady Olenna made a disapproving pout, stirring her own tea. "There's no need for you to cavort with Dothraki savages. You're better off here, at Highgarden, learning how to hold yourself as a Lady, befitting of your station."

"Oh." Daenerys fell into the empty seat, momentarily speechless. She was grateful, but she didn't know how to convey that. Lady Tyrell seemed like a very proper woman, one who observed the rules of etiquette. And while Daenerys had been instructed in Westeros manners, her educators in Essos hadn't been as fastidious. Back then she'd been able to get away with using the wrong fork to slice a pie. Now, here... Daenerys knew much more would be expected of her. She inclined her head deferentially.

Lady Olenna smiled warmly in response. Then an amused smile appeared on her lips. "Of course I expect you've already been taught the basics of good manners and proper etiquette. Don't worry dear, we'll smooth out those small mistakes while you're here. Such as your slouch."

Daenerys frowned. "My slouch?" She asked incredulously, staring Olenna in the eye.

The old woman sounded completely serious when she said: "You slouch, Dear. That is unbecoming of a Lady. A Lady must always keep her head up high, her back straight, and push her chest forward. No matter what happens. No matter how hopeless the situation is, a Lady must never give the impression that she has surrendered or lost her sense of self-worth."

Daenerys looked more closely, and saw that all those could be observed in Lady Olenna, even in the way she drank her tea.

Lady Olenna's voice took on a note of gravity. "The years living with your brother Viserys have made you feel small." She said, and the truth of the words sent a shock-wave through Daenerys. "It will be my task to remind you of the greatness you possess, Lady Targaryen. I will not let you walk these halls slouching like a scared little handmaiden."

Daenerys her voice came out shaky. "You knew? Of my brother, the way he spoke to me, ...the things he had me do."

Olenna sounded calm, but very sad. "Why do you think your brother is no longer welcome in Westeros? Your brother Viserys was originally promised to my granddaughter Margaery in marriage. They are the same age. Had he been a proper gentleman, I would have wished for their wedding to take place, but..." Lady Olenna shook her head, exhaling. "I am very sorry for what your brother has done to you. Had I the power to prevent it, you would never have known your brother's cruelty. Let me at least try to repair the damage he inflicted upon your heart."

Tears streamed down Daenerys her face and she had not the power to stop them.

"Oh dear." Lady Olenna sighed, refilling her own cup of tea. She looked upon Daenerys as a builder might look upon a fractured Castle he was hired to renovate. Olenna shook her head. "I see we have a lot of work to do."

Lord Tywin Lannister looked across the great dining table of Casterly Rock with a proud, slightly amused smile. "Men have been trying to wed Margaery Tyrell for years." He remarked with an impressed tone. "Yet she kept saying 'no'. This girl has rejected offers and betrothals from men as illustrious as Edmund Ambrose, and Jory Cassel, and Erren Florent, and the famous Renly Baratheon, ...even the handsome knight Arys Oakheart before he joined the King's Guard. And yet she said 'yes', to you." He looked pointedly at his youngest son. "How did you do it?"

Tyrion grinned. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. "You are impressed." He said gleefully, watching mixed emotions wash over his father's face.

"I am more so... puzzled. I more than half expected you to return home with an overweight young Lady of House Frey, who would be at least a noblewoman. Yet here we are..." Lord Tywin spread his arms.

"Here we are." Tyrion grinned, resting his elbow on the table, and his cheek in his hand.

Something then occurred to Lord Tywin. He frowned. "You are in love with her." He stated, more than asked.

His son Tyrion did not deny it. "How can I not be? She is so beautiful."

Tywin sneered. "You've been with plenty of pretty women before, and loved none of them. There's something special about this Tyrell girl... something beyond her beauty."

Tyrion shrugged, removing his elbow from the table. "All I did is follow your advice, Father. And it worked. Women like men who look powerful and strong. You were right about that." He smiled. "I ought to thank you for the fatherly advice you gave me. You helped me find the love of my life."

Lord Tywin looked thoughtful for a moment. "And the wedding is to be had at Highgarden? Why not here?"

Tyrion drummed his fingers over the table again. "My bride-to-be Margaery always dreamed of a wedding full of flowers." He gestured at the bare walls around them. "Flowers are more easy to be found at Highgarden, Father."

Lord Tywin snorted. "Has she turned you into a sappy romantic, your bride-to-be?"

Tyrion smiled slyly. "No. My thinking behind the decision to hold our wedding at Highgarden, was quite strategic. I have no use for an unhappy wife. If it takes a few flowers to hold the peace, who am I to tell her she can't have her dream wedding? As you say, the girl has waited long enough. She's supposed to be married by her age."

Tywin hummed, looking sternly. "Is she... still, a girl?"

To this, Tyrion spread his arms with a smile. "Well technically, I'm not a 'boy' either." He left an intentional pause, that made his father quite uncomfortable. "An innocent girl wouldn't be a match for me. Now, would she?"

Lord Tywin nodded slowly. "Have you invited your sister to the wedding?"

"Yes, but I doubt she'll come."

"Oh, I shall see to it that she will. And bring her pompous ass of a husband with her."

Tyrion wagged his pinkie. "Careful now, that is his Highness the King Robert Baratheon you speak of."

Lord Tywin huffed. "And? What of it? He's my son in law, and a bloody fool if you ask me."

Tyrion chuckled into his hand as his father went on a lengthy rant about how he disapproved of his daughter's married life to this rebel King that did not deserve her. How he regretted ever arranging that marriage. But how his daughter Cersei had wanted to be Queen so bad, that Lord Tywin had arranged this marriage to a usurper who had taken the Iron Throne from his own best friend, despite his better judgment. "I knew all along, that ass did not deserve my daughter Cersei."

"Well father, it will not be long before changes happen to this country."

"...What do you mean?" Lord Tywin paused, frowning.

Tyrion smiled mysteriously. "I will make House Lannister great again."

One fine morning, Lady Margaery and Lady Daenerys were taking a morning walk through the flower gardens at Highgarden, when Daenerys spotted a bright orange butterfly with white spots on its outer wings. In some shades of the sunlight passing through the leaves, the butterfly almost looked pink. So gentle were its hues. Daenerys reached her hand out, and patiently waited till eventually, the white spotted, pink-orange butterfly rested in her palm.

"Dione vanillae," Margaery said softly, not disturbing the tiny creature.

Daenerys her eyes went wide and she stared at her. "Do you know the names of every creature?" She whispered back, impressed.

Lady Margaery shook her head. "Just the ones common in our province of the Reach. The animals you can see around Highgarden." She shrugged easily. "I see them so often. Seemed natural to have a name for them."

A small smile of embarrassment appeared on Daenerys her lips as she tried to hide her blush. "I used to... give them my own names, well... names I made up. Whenever I... ran into some creature I didn't know the name of."

But instead of the mocking she anticipated, the way her brother Viserys would have reacted. Or the disinterested disdain Daenerys had experienced many a time when trying to befriend girls met in Pentos... Margaery's face lit up with joy, and she actually stepped closer, looking delighted as she pulled Daenerys into a half hug with one arm around the other girl's shoulders. In this process, the butterfly got spooked, and flew away. But Daenerys didn't care. She was more so pleasantly surprised by Margaery's positive reaction.

"How creative!" Margaery exclaimed, not hiding her enthusiasm. "I could never think of any names." She laughed at herself. "It's so hard picking a name for something or someone," she shook her head, making the curls in her hair bounce about. "I'm not looking forward to that part of motherhood. I can totally understand mothers who choose to name their child after another prominent person in their life. Let's see... I shall name my firstborn son Loras Lannister the First, and my next son after that shall be Loras Lannister the Second. If it's a girl, I'll name her Loretta Lannister. And her sister after her, shall be named Loretta Lannister the Second, and so on. Gosh, I'm gonna be a horrible mother ain't I? With the names I pick for my kids... No way they'll ever escape getting teased for their silly sounding names." She giggled. "You should help me!" Margaery placed her other hand on Daenerys her upper arm. "Please help me come up with unique names for my children."

"You are expecting?"

"Not yet. But, with the way my husband-to-be has been eyeing me." Margaery winked. "It's bound to happen before the Winter is over. Which is good, because I've heard that children born in Winter are stronger than those born in the Summer."

Daenerys frowned, walking with her arm linked through Margaery's, looking about the beautiful sunny garden full of flowers. "It doesn't feel like Winter is coming, does it? I mean... isn't it supposed to get... wet and ugly? All the leaves would lose their green and fall to the earth. I've heard... even the flowers, die."

Margaery shrugged. "I haven't seen a Winter yet, but from what I've heard, it doesn't get as cold here in the Reach. The type of weather you describe can mostly be observed in the Riverlands, during Winter. And the Westerlands get some of that, too."

"The lands of your husband, the Lannister?"

"Yes." Margaery smiled at the mention of her betrothed. She truly did look quite enamored by him. Daenerys wondered what he looked like. She pictured a strong handsome blond man of nearly thirty, with a big chest and muscled arms, a sword in his hand. "I've heard Winter gets real dreary on the Iron Islands," Margaery continued, her smile faltering, giving way to a depressed pout. "Nothing but hail storms, all winter long. Men spend weeks repairing their sails, only to have a hail storm wreck those sails again. And the clothes women hang out to dry, the clothes remain wet, soaked, for weeks."

Daenerys tented her brows. "That sounds terrible."

"Oh and that's nothing compared to what the Vale gets to experience. When the Mountains of the Moon are covered in snow, it is said that men lose their eyesight, by staring at the glittering white plains."

"No!" Daenerys exclaimed with horror.

"I once spoke with a man who had traveled across the Mountains of the Moon in Winter, long ago. You might know him." Margaery said with gravity. "Maester Aemon Targaryen of the Night's Watch, your Great Great Uncle. He is blind. He tells me he lost his sight early, at a young age, because of his Winter journey through the Vale."

Daenerys her mouth fell open from startled shock. "Nobody told me... I have a Great Uncle." She managed to get out.

"It's alright." Margaery found them a bench to sit, and she patted down Daenerys her shoulders, as the tremors ran through Daenerys her back. "You couldn't have known. I'm sorry I brought it up so carelessly. But I think you ought to know. You're not alone Dagny, even if it feels like it. People still hope and pray for your return."

"Is my... Great Uncle still... alive?" Daenerys hiccuped, barely holding back the tears that lined her eyes.

"I think so, yes. I met him in Old Town, ten years ago. That is a city in the Reach, quite a bit down South from here, by the sea, in the bay area of Whispering Sound. He was there to meet with the other Maesters. They have a Citadel within the city of Old Town, a portion of the city where no women nor girls are allowed." Margaery sneaked a smile. "I simply happened to run into Maester Aemon at the bakery. He looked like he could use a hand, carrying all those loafs of bread, so I offered." Margaery chuckled into her hand, remembering the moment. "I was twelve, you see. And the Maester could not see me. Nor could he establish my gender by my voice. He must have thought I was a boy." Margaery shook her head, laughing. "I got stopped at the gate of the Citadel. The Order of Maesters refused to let me any further. Afraid I would steal their secrets or something. Me, a twelve year old girl." Margaery rolled her eyes.

All this talk, and the normalcy of it, and how Margaery was not making a big deal out of it, actually calmed Daenerys down somewhat. She too, laughed along with her friend, feeling the tremors subside.

"But he did tell me a whole lot on the way to the Citadel, your Great Great Uncle. Like how he lost his sight, climbing the snowy Mountains of the Moon in the Vale, during Winter. That's how I know of the horrors of Winter in the Vale."

Daenerys frowned. She almost didn't want to ask. "Did he... speak of me? My brother...?"

"He did, actually."

Daenerys sat up straighter, and stared Margaery in the eye.

Margaery's face turned somber. "He told me how difficult it was for him, hearing the news of what had happened to his family... Not being able to do a thing. Being both blind, and old, and a Brother of the Night's Watch."

Daenerys worried her lip with her front teeth. "The Order of the Night's Watch won't let men live their lives, right? It's like a dog tied to a tree. Sometimes the tree changes, but the chain can never be broken."

Completely solemn, Margaery nodded. "They give up their lands and titles. It is as joining the King's Guard, but colder. Maester Aemon... regretted not being there for you. He said he had failed you, Dagny. But he hoped and prayed you were still well. And that you might persevere, in spite of those who were against you. He said he... he knew your mother Rhealla."

Daenerys her breath caught in her throat. "He did?!" She leaned closer, bringing her face up to Margaery's.

"Yes. Not very well, but... they had spoken a few times. He was her Great Uncle, and he had been invited to her first nameday, her eleventh nameday, and her wedding to King Aerys. He told me she... asked him a lot of questions, your mother, when she was a little girl." Margaery smiled fondly. Her smile dropped. "And after her wedding, she seemed moody and closed off."

"Oh." Daenerys tented her brows. She knew that her father had been a difficult man. But she hadn't known much about her mother. Viserys hardly told her anything. Every time she asked, he would get emotional. So at some point she stopped asking.

Margaery placed a calming hand on her shoulder. "Royal unions are often this way. People marry to appease neighboring countries, or to control the Realm. I'm sure your mother was happy, in her own way." Margaery smiled encouragingly. "It is said that she loved her firstborn son, Rhaegar." She pressed her lips together in sympathy. "And she did everything she could do to bring you into this world. She loved you, Dagny. You are her final project and her reason to have lived."

Daenerys stared and stared. She had never heard her mother's death described this way before. Viserys used to blame her. He used to say that it was Daenerys her fault, that their mother was no longer alive, as their mother had died, giving birth to her. But the way Margaery phrased it... This put a whole new spin on the sacrifice her mother had made for her. This was a different perspective Daenerys hadn't considered. And it made sense. Because why would her mother Rhaella Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, have suffered for nine months, have labored to give birth to her, ...if she wasn't important? If she wasn't loved.

Of course her mother had loved her. It struck Daenerys that she had missed this important detail about her life. She was loved, she had been loved, all along. Why else would her mother have given up her own life, self-sacrificed like that, to give birth to Daenerys, her only daughter. Why else would her mother have given her a name, have acknowledged her as her own flesh and blood, a Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen.

Because she was loved. Because she had been loved from the moment she stepped foot in this world. And she would always be loved because her mother was watching over her, even in death. Daenerys knew it, she had felt her mother's presence before. And it explained how she had survived against insurmountable odds, despite powerful rulers of Seven Kingdoms wanting her dead. But she had never understood why. Why her mother looked out for her. And now she did, she understood. Now everything made sense to her. She was only baffled why she hadn't considered this perspective before.

Maybe it's because... I don't think like a mother, ...she thought to herself. That could be it.

"Thank you, Margaery, thank you for telling me about my Mother and my Great Great Uncle."

The two girls hugged. Disentangling herself from Margaery, Daenerys wiped her tears away with a handkerchief, as Lady Olenna had taught her. Margaery gave her some space.

Some time passed in companionable silence as Daenerys gazed out over the flower gardens, taking in the scents. "I like it here," she finally said. "And I do understand why you love this place, why you don't want to go live at Casterly Rock." She twirled a strand of her own hair between her fingers. Her hair was not naturally curly or wavy like Margaery's, though it did flow in waves after being braided overnight. Now it was a muddy brown, a color it had never been... And Daenerys hardly recognized herself when she looked in a mirror. She let out a deep sigh, enjoying the scent of Winter roses. "But, I feel out of place, here. Like I don't truly belong. Not in Westeros," she added quickly, "but here, at Highgarden. Your family castle is a lovely place, but it's not... me. It feels foreign to me, somehow, and I... I feel like there is only one place on earth where I truly belong."

Margaery gave her a warm smile. "Is that King's Landing?"

Daenerys turned her head and stared at her friend in amazement, impressed by Margaery's ability to understand. She nodded. "Yes. I'd like to go there." She hung her head, looking down at the beautiful skirts she was wearing: a green dress decorated with embroidery of flowers, snapdragons, Lady Olenna had said. They suit you. And they did. This dress looked very nice on Daenerys, the skirts and the bodice fit together real good. The Tyrells had great taste for clothing, adornments and fashion. Daenerys traced a line over the embroidered snapdragons, moving her fingers over the fabric. "But I can't go there, can I? King Robert's men are waiting for me there... They would take me prisoner, and execute me. As they did to my eldest brother Rhaegar." Daenerys puckered her lips, frowning. "That's the whole reason I had to make that round trip through Dorne, to avoid King's Landing, and the Stormlands, a region originally controlled by my family... Now taken over by House Baratheon." She winced. "It's not safe for me in King's Landing."

Margaery hummed, agreeing with her. "Not now, but soon, very soon, you will be able to visit your home, Dagny. A few arrangements have to be made. But I promise you, we will see King's Landing," she took both of Daenerys her hands in hers, causing Daenerys to look up at Margaery's face, "together." Margaery offered her an encouraging smile.

Daenerys nodded. "Together."

And to this, Lady Margaery responded by clasping their joined hands a little tighter. "We will grow strong, together."

New hope bloomed in Daenerys her heart. She had traveled to Westeros alone. Now she had a friend in Lady Margaery, and people who supported her claim to the Iron Throne. There was a chance... she was finally, actually coming home.

Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon was upset. He'd been in a foul mood since morning at breakfast, when a raven arrived from King's Landing. It was from his Father the King. Written in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS. Father was pissed. The letter went a little like this:

YOU LITTLE SHIT,

I ALLOW YOU TO HAVE A SLEEPOVER AT MY BEST FRIEND'S CASTLE, I OFFER YOU THE GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY TO GO AHEAD AND MAKE SOME NEW FRIENDS, FRIENDS THAT WILL ACTUALLY PROVE USEFUL TO YOU IN THE YEARS TO COME, WHEN YOU SHALL TAKE OVER THE REALM IN MY STEAD. AND YOU... YOU!!! YOU CURSE YOUR MOTHER INSIDE MY OWN FRIEND'S HOME. WHEN I FOUND OUT I WAS FURIOUS. FURIOUS!! YOU ARE LUCKY THERE WAS ENOUGH DISTANCE BETWEEN US WHEN YOUR MOTHER TOLD ME WHAT YOU HAD SAID TO HER. WE WERE ALREADY IN THE RIVERLANDS, AND IT WAS TOO FAR TO JOURNEY BACK TO WINTERFELL AND GIVE YOU THE WHOOPING YOU DESERVE.

YOU ASKED FOR YOUR BOOKS, AND YOUR CLOTHES, AND YOUR FAVORITE RIDING GEAR, AND THE FOREIGN SWORD YOUR UNCLE GAVE YOU. I HAVE SENT ALL THESE ITEMS TO YOU, BY ROYAL CARRIAGE. THEY SHOULD ARRIVE WITHIN A FORTNIGHT.

YOU WILL NOT GO BACK TO KING'S LANDING UNTIL YOU HAVE SPENT SOME TIME WITH THE STARKS, GOTTEN TO KNOW THE STARK SIBLINGS A BIT BETTER, AND BLOODY LEARNED SOMETHING UP NORTH.

I EXPECT YOU TO RETURN A MAN, NOT AS A USELESS MANCHILD THAT PLAYS AT BEING PRINCE.

EARN YOUR TITLE.

YOUR DISAPPOINTED FATHER,

KING ROBERT BARATHEON, FIRST OF HIS NAME, PROTECTOR OF THE REALM, AND ONE SPLIT IMPULSE AWAY FROM TRAVELING UP NORTH, BACK TO WINTERFELL, AND WHOOPING YOUR PATHETIC SORRY ASS, AS I DID WHEN YOU WAS A BABY.

The letter from his Father angered Joffrey. It made him want to destroy something. So he did as he normally did whenever he was in a shitty mood. He went down to the armory, grabbed the finest looking weapon, and threw himself into battle exercise. Joffrey was all red in the face, sweat dripping down his forehead, underneath his tunic and into his underpants, when Lady Sansa Stark found him in the courtyard.

She turned up her nose at him, but didn't bring up the fact that he smelled. They both knew it. "Are you practicing for when you meet the White Walkers?" Sansa said, curiously looking at the battle axe in Joffrey's tired, tremoring arms. His muscles were so exhausted, that his arms involuntarily shook from the exertion, even when he wasn't swinging the axe around.

Joffrey scowled. "The White Walkers aren't real."

Sansa shrugged, walking around him, stopping just behind him, and peering over his shoulder. "Prove it."

With a confused frown, Joffrey gracelessly dropped his axe to the ground, and turned around to face the Lady Sansa. She had a cool, icy kind of unimpressed look on her face. Joffrey raised an eyebrow at her. "How do I prove that something which doesn't exist... doesn't ...exist?"

The girl shrugged again. "Figure it out." She said, and turned to leave when Joffrey grabbed her by the wrist. Sansa turned her head and glared at him in silence.

Joffrey glared back. "Just because your brother Robb is obsessed with fantasy quests and being The Hero that saves the day, doesn't mean I am."

The girl's anger disappeared and her face showed chilly indifference. "This is not about Robb." She said coolly. "This is about you. Prove that you can swing that axe at something that can fight back."

Crown Prince Joffrey blinked, taken aback. His grip on her wrist loosened, yet he still kept his hand there. Moments passed in silence, and he shifted his fingers, so they were now holding hands. "You have seen me practice with your brother Jon," he said finally.

Sansa smiled. It did not reach her eyes. "Aye, I have."

"So then..." Joffrey returned the cold smile, not getting her point. "What's there to prove?"

"I want you to kill a White for me." Sansa spoke, still smiling.

Joffrey frowned, as a pout appeared on his lips. "But how would you know... I had killed one... if..."

"Robb sent for our Bannermen to come join him at The Wall. Our Bannermen will arrive shortly. They'll stay with us at Winterfell, then journey North up to castle Black, and meet up with Robb. Jon is going. You should go, too. Jon will tell me if he saw you kill a White Walker."

Prince Joffrey narrowed his eyes, tightening his clasp of Sansa's hand. "And if I kill a White Walker, ...then what?"

Lady Sansa grinned, stepping closer to him. Their faces were just inches apart now. Sansa stood on tiptoe, bringing her lips close to Joffrey's. Close, but not quite touching. Joffrey's deep green eyes stared into Sansa's deep blue. And this was wrong, he felt, because she was only thirteen, while he was seventeen... But she was tall for her age, and when she looked at him like that, like he put the moon and the stars in the sky, Prince Joffrey felt invincible.

"If you kill a White Walker," Sansa whispered, and Joffrey felt her breath on his lips, just a ghost of affection, a hint of it. "I will help you get back to King's Landing." She smiled victoriously as Joffrey's eyes widened. "You hate it here at Winterfell," Sansa continued. "I can tell." She winked. "Let me let you in on a little secret: I hate it here, too. I wish I could live down South, in the lands of eternal Summer. Where the Ladies get to wear dresses of silk, and get to bathe themselves three times a day. We can't afford that luxury up in the North. I don't want to live here anymore. If you kill a White Walker, I can talk to my Father, and arrange for us both to travel back to your home at King's Landing. I could put in a good word for you. I could say you looked heroic and gallant, protecting me from those monsters. But I won't do it if you can't even kill one White." Sansa shrugged, stepping away, and pulling her hand out of Joffrey's now completely loose grip. She shook her head, pouting. "You've got to at least kill one of them." She batted her eyelashes. "Do it for me."

...That same day, same afternoon at Winterfell, resting on a log in the Godswood, staring up at the canopy of red leaves that wouldn't fall, even as Winter was coming, Bran considered the dream he'd had last night. It had been different from his usual dreams. The first thing he noticed as odd was the murky green hue surrounding everything in the dream. And he was in the South, in his dream, at a wedding... Bran Stark was wearing a light grey tunic made of thin fabrics, cut in the Southern style. Just as all the other wedding guests were wearing Southern clothes. A beautiful young woman with curly brown hair was marrying an unpleasant looking, blond homunculus. That was the only way Bran knew how to describe what he saw in the green dream.

Among the wedding guests, was a girl of Jon Stark's age: brown hair, tiny waist, wearing dark glasses. She was doing her best to hide from King Robert and Queen Cersei, who were also there, as guests. Bran didn't know how he knew this. He just had this feeling, his intuition told him she was trying to avoid being seen by the King. But why? He did not know...

Then the groom climbed a ladder to cloak his bride in a cloak of red and gold, the Lannister sigil emblazoned on it. And the couple was wed to each other.

Moments later, Bran saw the bride, now wearing the Lannister cloak over her shoulders, stand on a flowery balcony, turn her back to the crowd gathered below, and blindly, not looking where, she tossed her bouquet of white roses over her shoulder. Bran's eyes widened when he saw both his sisters, Arya and Sansa, catch the bouquet together.

Oddly enough, Arya actually had a real dress on. Her long hair was done up like a Lady's. Not as she normally wore it: ponytail in the back as their father did. Arya had purple foxglove flowers braided into her hair. Her silk dress was mustard yellow in color, with black stag antlers embroidered on the hem of her skirt.

Sansa's dress was all black. Decorative peacock feathers were arranged around her bare shoulders. She wore a pair of beautiful sodalite stone earrings. One single black dahlia flower was in her red hair.

Sansa Stark fought her own sister Arya Stark for the bouquet. Bran stared, transfixed as Arya tried to kick Sansa in the stomach, and Sansa screeched out Prince Joffrey's name.

"I shall be Queen!" Sansa yelled.

Arya put on a deep frown of her own, furrowing her dark brows, and barked back: "No! I shall be Queen!"

The two Stark sisters growled at each other, wrestling over the bouquet, and fell to the ground, fighting. Scratching each other with their nails. Kicking at each other, biting.

The dream ended when someone tapped Bran on his shoulder from behind. "You're not supposed to be here." A boyish voice said. The voice sounded stern, foreboding.

Bran turned around to find a boy of about his own age, blond, freckled, green eyed, dressed for Winter... as someone from the North would clothe themselves. He was dressed differently from all the other wedding guests. In the dream, the boy was shorter than Bran. Though he did not look younger. There was something strikingly intelligent about the grim look on his face. Like he knew things. Knew things even Bran did not know.

Just as Bran opened his mouth to ask this stranger a question, the green dream dissolved into nothingness, and Bran woke up. Forgetting the question that had been on his lips in the dream.

Both Joffrey and Sansa were in a bad mood at breakfast. A letter from Arya had arrived. It was addressed to Bran. The letter was short and sweet, and told him that she'd arrived at Tarth, met Brienne, the Knight she was to squire for. That the squid boy Theon was still with them, and Arya's training as squire had begun. All in all, the letter said that all was good with Arya. Which relieved Bran greatly. Still the dream kept haunting him all morning. He secluded himself in the Godswood to have some space to think.

Nothing was making sense to Bran.

Nothing at all.

It was a dark and moonless night. Jon was looking through the books, making a list for Lady Catelyn Stark. She was to watch over castle Winterfell while both he and Robb were at war. Seeing as Bran was still too young to take charge of Castle affairs. Lady Stark would teach her younger sons how to keep the books and manage the land, bit by bit. Jon sighed. It might be years before he returned to Winterfell. He thought of his own mother at The Twins. He had already written her, she knew what was up. His older brother Robb said he had to go, so he had to go. And that was that.

Father had urgent business to attend to at King's Landing, is what the last raven from him said. Jon had forwarded the message to Robb at castle Black.

Jon sighed, collapsing in Robb's desk chair, raking a hand through his dark brown tresses. He reached for Robb's letter, the one he had received a week ago.

Dear Brother,

Forgive me for dragging you into this. The reports from the Night's Watch are true. I have seen them myself. The monsters that attacked us. It's all very real. A small group of Wildlings joined us in the fight against the Living Dead. We have made peace with the Wildlings, as long as they promise to go back North of The Wall, once all of this is over. A few Wildling men and women have stayed with us to fight.

I need a hundred skilled Northeners, battle ready men. Send word to all our Bannermen. Let them send all the men they can spare. And if they have any swords made of the steel of Old Valyria, or ancient weapons forged from Dragonglass, let them bring that, as well.

All is good, and I love you Jon. Send my love to Mom, to Rickon and Bran. Tell Sansa I shall do all in my power to protect her honor. If you can reach Arya, encourage her to learn and train. We will need all the fighters we can get, North of The Wall. Who knows how long this Winter will last.

Send word to Father. Ask him to ask King Robert for an army.

We cannot do this alone.

The North needs our Allies, now, more than ever.

Signed,

Your Dutiful Brother, Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of The North.

A knock on the door startled Jon. "Come in," he drawled with a tired voice, slipping in a yawn. He was surprised to see Sam. Jon frowned, standing from Robb's desk chair, and resting his hands on the paperwork, half leaning over the desk. The two candles flickered as Samwell Tarly stood in the door, hesitating about taking a step forward. "You're not going South?" Jon asked him.

Samwell bit his own lip. "I received a raven from my father. He congratulates me on the trade deal with House Stark."

Jon made an offhand gesture. "Well that's great. You got what ye came for."

The other young man's eyes went wide, his lip trembled. "Jon why are you being so cold?" Sam said, his eyes watering.

"Why aren't you packing your stuff? And heading down South, where it's nice and warm."

"Do you want me to go?" Samwell's voice nearly broke.

Jon sighed, letting go of the desk, and straightening himself. He raked a hand through his hair. "Sam," he started, much softer this time. "I've never..." Jon Stark took a deep breath, looking into the candle fire. "Before you, I've never been intimate with the same person longer than one night." He brought his eyes back to Sam's, tenting his brows. "I'm not built... for this. I don't know, ...what you expect of me. Look. My brother orders me to march on The Wall. That is no place for someone like you. You should go home Sam, I mean it."

Samwell Tarly looked on the verge of crying. He stepped inside Robb's office, and shut the door behind him. "No place for someone like me, huh. Is it because I'm fat? Are you tired of me?"

"No. Sam, Gods, no!" Jon moved so quick around the desk, before he knew it, he stood in front of his lover, both hands firm on Samwell's shoulders. "I want you to be safe. And happy. There's nothing good waiting for you at The Wall. Nothing but war and destruction."

"That's not true." Sam spoke firmly. His voice was filled to the brim with emotion. "You will be at The Wall." He said without taking his eyes off Jon Stark's face.

Jon frowned, confused, before Sam kissed him gently on the lips.

"You have been good to me, Jon."

In that moment, Jon was speechless. Sam kissed him again, and Jon kissed back, wrapping his arms around him. They kissed, and when Sam leaned back, he had a certain, determined look in his eye.

"Lord Stark, if you let me, ...if you let me stand by you, I vow to never leave your side."

Jon gasped, staring into hopeful, honest eyes. No lover had ever loved Jon like this before. It almost felt like a marriage proposal with the earnestness of it.

"Sam..." he started, his voice cracking with feeling. "I don't want to leave you."

A triumphant open-mouthed smile grew on Samwell's face. "Then don't. I can go with you, to The Wall." A chuckle fell from his pink lips. "Keep you warm in the long night."

Now they were both laughing, and staring at each other in wonder. Sam approached closer, and kissed Jon gently but firmly on the lips. He took hold of Jon's shoulders and maneuvered Jon toward the desk. With one reckless swipe of Sam's hand, all the papers, and all the books were on the floor. And then Jon was on the table, Sam's lips on his, moving with passion.

Margaery was overjoyed when Tyrion arrived at Highgarden a week before their wedding. They exchanged a restless smile before Tyrion leapt into her arms and covered her neck with kisses.

Lady Margaery giggled. "Hush Yon, we still have to pretend and act like we haven't yet consummated our marriage."

Tyrion stole a naughty glance down her cleavage. "Oh I think your grandmother already knows, and does not care." He smiled up at Margaery's face, staring longingly into her half-lidded brown eyes.

She pinched his nose playfully.

"Ouch! Gaery, that hurt."

Margaery snorted at him. "No it didn't. You liar." She shook her head with a smile, unable to take her eyes off him.

Tyrion raised both eyebrows. "Quite true though. I am a great liar."

"The greatest liar of liars." Margaery grinned, then kissed him passionately, biting his upper lip.

Tyrion bit her bottom lip. And part of her tongue. They both had visible kiss marks on their faces and necks when they rejoined the older adults in the Great Hall of Highgarden. Tyrion helped Margaery into a chair, then took a seat himself, seated right beside his bride-to-be. Margaery's father, Mace Tyrell, glared at Tyrion. Margaery blushed, and avoided looking at her parents. Lady Olenna had yet to arrive. Loras Tyrell smiled approvingly at Tyrion Lannister.

"Welcome back to Highgarden," Lord Mace Tyrell told his new son-in-law, not sounding welcoming at all.

Tyrion took it in stride. He spread his arms, inclined his head, and thanked his father-in-law for the hospitality.

Then Lady Olenna walked in. She shut the door behind her, making certain no servant remained inside the room to eavesdrop. She turned her attention towards her family, their guest, and smiled cordially, taking the head seat at the long table. "So, in a week you two love birds will be man and wife." She clasped her hands together, looking satisfied with herself, and the match she had brokered for her granddaughter. "Now, there are certain practical matters I'd wish to discuss. We will tend to the organizational matters of the wedding planning later. I'd like to begin with our more strategic plans." Lady Olenna paused to look everyone pointedly in the face: her son Mace, her daughter-in-law Alerie Tyrell-Hightower, her grandson Loras, granddaughter Margaery, and grandson-in-law Tyrion Lannister.

"You may proceed, Mother." Lord Tyrell inclined his head.

Olenna gave him a tight smile. "Why thank you for your permission." She said sarcastically.

Mace Tyrell sank into his seat like a chastised little boy.

While the Lady Olenna Tyrell set her gaze on Tyrion. "We have another guest among our midst who will prove quite useful in furthering our long term goals."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Do I know... this guest?"

Olenna smiled. "You do not. But fear not, you shall be introduced. I hope I'm clear that what I'm about to say cannot leave this room."

Tyrion nodded slowly, only partially understanding. They were plotting to overthrow King Robert's son, after all.

"Good." Lady Olenna took a deep breath. Then she spoke, shocking Tyrion with her revelation. "We have the one and only legitimate Heir to the Iron Throne on our side: Princess Daenerys Targaryen. Her and Margaery have grown quite close in these past few weeks. I reckon they're nearly sisters, or, they shall be, at any rate. Once Loras here weds her." She gestured at her grandson.

Loras gave her an awkward smile.

Once Tyrion was able to get the words out, he asked his grandmother-in-law: "Do I hear this right? The daughter of King Aerys the Terrible is now in your Household? She... lives with you?"

Lady Olenna responded with a self-satisfied grin.

"But... isn't that... dangerous? King Robert will be a guest at our wedding. What if he... finds out?"

"Oh he won't find out." Olenna sounded too self assured. "The girl is learning proper Court manners. It's time she got used to the game of politics. We can't keep her sheltered forever."

Tyrion's frown deepened, his eyes grew wider. "You have known about her for years?" He whispered incredulously.

"So have you." Olenna pointed out. "Just that you all thought her dead."

"How old is this... girl?" Tyrion asked skeptically.

"Oh she is legit. I do not doubt her identity."

"And she is old enough to marry Ser Loras?" Tyrion gestured at the curly haired Knight.

"I don't see why not." Lady Olenna shrugged. "She's seventeen years old. And her wedding wouldn't take place until much later. We are still working on bringing her and Loras closer together. It's gonna take some time. By then, she will be old enough. They are only five years apart in age."

Tyrion scratched his own chin. "You plan to use my armies, and your own Bannermen, to install this young girl on the Iron Throne as your figurehead, and rule through her?" He glanced from Olenna to Loras, and back.

"Having a Targaryen Heir would legitimize our claim to the Iron Throne, don't you think?" Olenna gestured with her hands. "The Crown may be in massive debt to the Lannisters, but that does not ensure the loyalty of all the Seven Kingdoms combined. With a young Targaryen Princess we can influence, the Realm is as good as ours."

"What if... the Lords of other influential Houses doubt her heritage? After all, everyone knows Princess Daenerys was murdered during Robert's Rebellion. How will we convince others that you've found the true Daenerys Targaryen?" Tyrion spread his arms. "How would you convince me?"

Olenna Tyrell smiled coldly. "She is the only young woman in Westeros with naturally silver hair, and lilac colored eyes."

Tyrion frowned, not understanding. "If she stands out so much, then... how do you conceal her?"

Lady Olenna pursed her lips, trying to hide her frustration. "She had her hair dyed a brown color. The girl wears glasses."

"Will the dye wash out?" Tyrion asked.

At this point in the argument, Margaery spoke up. "What do you mean 'will the dye wash out,' Yon? What are you hinting at?"

Tyrion sighed. He turned to face his bride, and, in a softer tone, continued. "I mean exactly as I say, Gaery. Will the dye wash out? How am I supposed to believe that some random seventeen year old girl with brown hair once had silver hair? Where's the logic in that? Plenty of hair dyes actually affect the future color of a person's hair. Some dyes linger. What if the hair dye permanently alters her natural hair color, making it blonde or yellow or some shade of brown? Why should I believe her when she says she's our long lost Princess? How is she going to prove it? Why should any of the Lords of the Realm believe us when we put her onto the Iron Throne? They'll say you put a Tyrell on the Iron Throne, not a Targaryen. Getting support for leadership is not just about being legitimate. It's more so about public opinion, and how you appear in the eyes of others. And our enemies have powerful allies who will spread any rumor they can if it means stopping us."

Margaery was stunned. She knew Daenerys was the real deal, she had spoken with her, spent time with her, and the girl was wonderfully honest. There was no doubt in Margaery's mind that Daenerys was who she said she was. Margaery's intuition was on-point, she knew who she was dealing with. But her husband had a point. How were they to convince the Seven Kingdoms that Daenerys Targaryen was not just a counterfeit? With turbulent thoughts, Lady Margaery looked to her grandmother for guidance.

But Lady Olenna Tyrell looked just as lost.

Chapter Text

Bran was dreaming. He had to be, for there were three large dragons circling the sky above castle Winterfell. And everyone knew that dragons had long gone from this world, taking their magic with them. The last time anyone had seen a dragon was over two hundred years ago. All dragons in Westeros were killed during the Targaryen Civil War. And before that, all dragons of Essos had perished in the Doom of Valyria. Bringing about a new Dark Age, loss of knowledge to such a grand scale, that now no one knew how to make Valyrian steel anymore. Valuable technologies had been lost in the Doom of Valyria, along with most of this world's magic. The few dragons that survived in Westeros, mostly failed to reproduce, and were led to ruin during the Civil War among the Targaryens two hundred years ago. Since then, the Targaryen Kings had reigned over Westeros using only their name: referring back to the glory of their ancestors. Without having any real power. That was how King Robert Baratheon had been able to overthrow them. House Targaryen had grown weak when the last dragons died.

Sure the dragons had left behind some dragon eggs. But no one had been able to hatch these, despite various mages pouring over ancient scrolls. And attempts that had been made to hatch these eggs... Such as the great fire at Summerhall, which led to the death of King Aegon Targaryen, fifth of his name, and the birth of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, who later died in King Robert's Rebellion. But none of the dragon eggs hatched.

And yet here they were, three of them, flying circles around Winterfell. The sky was grey. Snow was falling. A thick layer of snow covered all surrounding lands, coating all the trees in white. There were no birds in the sky, only dragons.

Like the last strange dream Bran had, of the Southern wedding... Everything in this dream had a distinct green hue. And like the last time, someone tapped Bran on the shoulder from behind.

Bran whirled around. He stood face to face with the shorter freckled blond haired boy from before; his green eyes sparkling. Before the other boy could say anything, Bran took a step forward, glaring at him.

"Get out of my head." Bran said hotly.

He could feel the presence of another in his dream. This boy was not part of the dreamscape. He was an intruder, moving of his own accord, not controlled by the dream... as everything else inside the dream was, including Bran himself. No, this boy moved independent of the dream. Back at the wedding, in the last dream, he had been wearing inappropriate clothing: of a Northern style at a Southern wedding. Now... he wasn't wearing a Winter coat. Despite them both standing outside of castle Winterfell, at the height of Winter. This while Bran was covered in silver fox pelts, and grey woolen scarves.

By some... magic or something, this weird boy had gotten inside Bran's mind, and was pretending to participate in the dream. Without actually being part of it. Because this boy was real, Bran knew it. Another human walking through the dreamscape. He was not an image of the dream, but the embodiment of a living, breathing human: another dreamer. And they were now sharing the same dream.

Bran kept glaring at the boy as he stepped closer, till there was barely a foot between them. The blond boy looked taken aback, stunned into complete silence and immobility. In the dream, Bran was half a head taller than him. Gritting his teeth, he glared down at the other boy.

"What are you trying to prove?" Bran bit out. "Stop visiting my dreams. It's not cool to invade someone's mind like that."

The boy's mouth fell open in shock, as he gaped back at Bran, blinking.

"Well?" Bran demanded. "I do hope you're on your way out." He started tapping his foot in the snow impatiently, when the other boy finally found the courage to speak.

"But... you are ...in my dream." The boy clarified, talking slow while staring at Bran in amazement.

"What?"

"Uhmm, it's just that... I have these dreams," the boy started, not knowing how to explain. "They are... prophetic dreams. I've been having them for as long as I can remember..." He trailed off, tenting his brows. "Did you notice the green hue of this dream?" He asked with a hopeful look in his eyes.

Bran frowned, the anger leaving him as he felt mostly... confused. "...Yes?" He said uncertainly.

"That's how these dreams are." The boy explained. "They're different from normal dreams, which I also have. But occasionally I get a green dream such as this one. These dreams can predict the future." He paused. "You are... not supposed to be here. I tried telling you that in the previous green dream of mine that you entered. And you left, so I thought you understood. But..." The boy trailed off, raising an eyebrow at Bran. "Now you're back."

Bewildered, Bran stared at the boy. "So you're telling me that I... have been invading your dreamscape?" Bran said, suddenly horrified with himself, feeling guilt and shame for the things he had said, the things he had accused the other boy of doing. All these emotions of shame and guilt must have shown on Bran's face, because the expression of the other boy softened.

The boy offered him a tiny smile. "You did not know?"

Bran shook his head wildly, making his chin-length brown hair fall into his eyes. The other boy reached out a hand to push the hair from Bran's face. They stared at each other.

"Maybe it's a sign." The other boy said.

"A sign of what?" Said Bran, grabbing the hand that was on his cheek by the wrist, and forcibly removing it from his face. Bran let the boy's wrist go. The boy smirked up at him in response.

"A sign we are about to meet in real life."

Bran rolled his eyes. "What's the big deal? I've met hundreds of people. I've even met the King and Queen. I can't believe there's a 'special reason' for the two of us meeting. So what? So what if we meet? I don't know you." He took three steps back, turning partly away. "Look, I'm sorry I entered your dream. I will try to not do so again. Okay? Goodbye."

Turning completely, he walked off, in direction of the castle. Until a pleasant sounding, amused laugh caught his attention. Bran stopped. Slowly turned to find the other boy having a laugh at him. In any other circumstances, Bran would be annoyed by this. But there was something... strangely pleasant about hearing the boy laugh. Something about his voice struck a chord deep inside. The other boy's laughter was like music to his ears. So Bran stopped to listen. And he couldn't find it in himself to be rightfully mad at the boy. Somehow that didn't feel right.

Bran rationalized this as him still feeling guilt for having invaded the other boy's mind. But that was not actually what made Bran stop and listen. Something else was at play here. Something Bran did not yet truly understand.

"Do you even know where the exit is?" The boy giggled.

With a frown, Bran approached him. "Where is the exit?" He asked him sternly.

A calm and peaceful smile appeared on the other boy's face. And only now, up close, seeing this expression on the boy, did Bran realize how handsome he truly was. Words escaped Bran, the frown wiped off his brows in an instant. He just stared.

"There is no exit." The blond boy said, taking Bran's right hand in his, softly squeezing. "You just wake up."

And Bran did. He blinked at the ceiling of his own bedchambers at Winterfell. The green hue was gone. Bran washed his face and went to get breakfast. Crown Prince Joffrey was already there, talking to Jon about their expedition to The Wall. Sansa and Rickon entered the Great Hall a bit later, followed by their mother Catelyn. Mother remarked that their Bannermen were taking their sweet time in getting here, to which the Crown Prince hummed in agreement. Prince Joffrey then went on a lengthy rant about how he was going to go up North and slay the White Walkers, and show them who's boss. And maybe he would conquer the lands North of The Wall, add them to his Kingdom. During his speech, Prince Joffrey grew red in the face. A strange, malevolent glint appeared in his eye. And the grin with which he spoke of killing could only be described as 'demonic'.

Bran did not miss the way his sister Sansa longingly gazed upon the Prince. Something in that look Sansa gave Prince Joffrey felt familiar. But Bran could not tell where he had seen the look before... apart from on his sister's face, that is. The rest of that day, Bran spent patiently listening to the lessons on Castle Management his mother Catelyn Stark was trying to teach him and Rickon. Most of it was too advanced for his little brother Rickon to comprehend: he was only eight. Being two years older, Bran tried to keep up with what their mother was teaching them. When he failed to understand something, he tried to not let it show. Their mother had enough problems to deal with besides teaching them how to keep the books. Bran tried to make it easier for her, by doing his best to understand things on his own. And by teaching himself in the evening. He fell asleep at his desk, not having the energy to crawl into bed.

Bran opened his eyes in the dream, to find everything coated in that familiar green hue. He looked to his right, to find the blond boy grinning at him, having already anticipated his arrival. Bran rolled his eyes, turning his head away. They were standing on the bow of a ship, azure waters all around them. The wind was pushing Bran's hair out of his face.

"Welcome back." The other boy's melodic voice said, with an amused note to it.

Bran hummed, staring out over the brilliant deep blue water, barely acknowledging the other boy's presence. He looked for a patch of land, but all he could see was crashing waves. White foam splayed on the top. Above them, a cloudless sky. The sun burned hotly upon his back. Only then did Bran realize he was wearing some sort of strange, thin sandy colored tunic which covered his chest completely, but exposed his shoulders and back, with a long black leather collar around his neck. Like a dog collar, it occurred to him. Disturbed, Bran tugged at the collar to remove it.

The collar would not come off. He gasped, and turned back around to survey the deck of the ship. Hundreds of people just like him, wearing long black collars connected to sandy colored tunics, looking dejected. Their crestfallen faces showed they had given up all hope. Some of them looked sick. A few soldiers with weapons patrolled the deck, but none of them stopped to tend to the ill. In the crowd, Bran thought he spotted a dead man. His corpse went completely unnoticed.

"You must be glad this here is only a dream, for you... now." Said the boy to his right. "That you will wake up safe in your bed tomorrow morning. That this ship is not currently part of your reality."

With a shocked look on his face, Bran turned to face him. Again, the boy was dressed all wrong for this place. He wore his usual woolen green cloak, woolen marsh-green pants that must feel so uncomfortable in this hot weather... and forest-green flax linen shirt. The green hue of the dream only made his clothes look even greener.

Bran shook his head, frowning. "I fell asleep at my desk. So I won't be waking up in bed."

The other boy raised his eyebrows. "Oh. A scholar." He looked upon Bran with reawakened interest.

Bran sighed. "My older brothers are all going off to war." He winced. "Our Father is away on business. That means Mother is preparing me to take over for when my brothers are gone. I can hardly keep up with the lessons as it is..."

The other boy stepped closer, shielding Bran's exposed back a bit from the scorching hot sun. "So you have taken to reading through the night? In an attempt to learn your lessons faster, and help support your family. That is admirable." He said.

"Well yeah... But I feel I'm not smart enough to grasp the concepts of bookkeeping." Bran shook his head, turning his neck to re-establish eye contact. The slave collar pressed painfully into the sensitive skin of his neck. "How old are you?" He asked, narrowing his eyes.

The other boy laughed. "Now you suddenly want to know things about me. You don't even know my name, and that's the first question you decide to ask."

Bran shrugged. "If you've been having these strange dreams since forever, I get why you're so weird."

The boy seemed upset by his comment. "You find me weird."

"Well, I don't mean it in a bad way," Bran hastened to add, placing his left hand on the smaller boy's shoulder. "But you're not exactly... normal. Wait, that came out wrong."

The boy snorted, the tiniest smile growing on his lips. "You think I don't act my age?"

"Yes." Bran admitted. "But I can tell where that's coming from. You can't exactly be a normal ten-year-old when you go on journeys such as these," Bran gestured at the deck full of slaves, "every night."

"Not every night. Some nights I have normal dreams, some nights I don't dream at all."

Bran shrugged, removing his hand from the boy's shoulder. "Doesn't matter. This is more than your average kid in the North sees in a year. And you say you've been having these dreams for as long as you can remember?"

The boy smirked. "I like how you just decided I'm from The North."

"You are from the North though." Bran gestured at him. "You're dressed like a Northener."

"And you, are dressed as a slave from Yunkai." The boy said plainly, with no malice in his tone. He looked serious.

Bran shook his head. "In all the green dreams we shared, you have been wearing the same clothes. Regardless of circumstance. Which tells me the clothes you wear must be somewhat tied to your identity. Your... self-image," Bran elaborated. "The way you see yourself."

The other boy frowned.

"You see yourself as a Northener."

The boy raised his brows in thought.

Bran breathed out. "Sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"You're right." The boy said, staring out over the sea, his eyes set on the horizon. "I am from the North. I don't belong here."

Bran smiled. "Neither do I."

They shared a look.

The boy stuck out his right hand for Bran to shake. "I'm Jojen Reed, firstborn son of Howland Reed, of House Reed from Greywater Watch. And to answer your question from earlier, I'm eleven years old."

"Oh," with a grin Bran reached out his own hand, grabbing Jojen's. "I've heard our Fathers are friends, too." Then, remembering that he hadn't introduced himself yet, Bran stammered, growing red in the face. "Uhh my name is Bran Stark. I'm ten. Ned Stark's third son; I live at Winterfell."

Jojen laughed. It was the most beautiful sound in the world.

Bran woke at his desk, with Jojen's melodic laugh still chiming in his ears. Judging from the candle, it had been less than five minutes since he had fallen asleep. Though it had felt like more time had passed in the green dream. He shook his head, sighing, shut the books, and dragged himself off to bed. He tried to dream that night, but found himself unable to re-enter Jojen's green dreamscape. For the following three nights, Bran only had normal dreams. And on the fourth night, he did not dream at all.

Changes were happening at Winterfell. One by one, the House Stark Bannermen were arriving. Jon was making concrete plans for their trip up North. Bran found his older brother in the armory one afternoon, discussing something with a short, stocky dark haired young man. The man had two stripes of black leather folded in a cross over his chest. Which Bran recognized as the crest of House Bolton.

"Let me get this straight," the young Bolton man said, "we can take any weapons from the armory? And no limit on the number?" He smiled. And as he smiled, his eyes darted about the room wildly, taking everything in, like he was a kid at a traveling merchant's candy stall.

"Well," Jon cut in firmly. "Your men can take two weapons each. And three shields for every man. The weapons on that wall are off limits." Jon gestured to the back wall, where House Stark's ancestral great-sword Ice, made of Valyrian steel, used to hang... Before Robb took it with him to The Wall. A few swords and battle axes still lined that wall. But none that were made of Valyrian steel.

The Bolton man pursed his lip, glancing disdainfully at Bran, before he fixed his gaze back to Jon. "My men need no shields." He said with a sneer, as if using a shield to protect his own body was beneath him. "They're better trained than that."

Jon raised his brows, but showed no further emotional reaction to the young Bolton's outrageous claim. "As you wish," he said, stepping aside to give their Bannerman better access to the weapons. "Ah, Bran!" Jon said as his eyes settled on his younger brother, finally noticing him. "How have you been? Hah, I've been so busy these days it feels like we've barely spoken."

Bran gave him a tight smile. "Jon would you have time to walk through the Godswood with me?"

Jon glanced over his shoulder, at the young Bolton man in the armory. "Will you be okay here without me?"

The Bolton man smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. And it was a horrific kind of smile that made Bran want to run.

"Oh don't worry about me, Stark. I can find my way around an armory." Did saliva just trickle from that man's mouth? "I was born for this." The man said, with a passionate fire burning in his pale grey eyes.

"Alright, I hope you find the weapons you're looking for." Jon gave the man a stern look before walking with his younger brother Bran to the courtyard. Before they could reach the Godswood, Jon was called upon by Wylis, the broad shouldered retainer to House Stark. He stopped them halfway through the courtyard. Wylis was very tall, towering above Jon Stark, and still quite strong for his age. Though already past his prime, as the fighter he once had been during the Greyjoy Rebellion. He refused to address Jon Stark as Lord of Winterfell, only acknowledging Robb Stark as the rightful heir to their Father's Castle.

"Ser, the Boltons have grown quite impatient." Wylis said, inclining his head toward a rowdy group of young men who rested in one corner of the yard. "They demand to know when you march on The Wall. I've overheard some say they'd like to travel ahead of you. Because they find the wait too long."

Jon frowned. "I just spoke to their Commander in the armory." He gestured at the doors they had just walked through. "He didn't mention any of this."

Wylis gave a helpless shrug. "The Boltons have taken to starting dog fights and placing bets, in their boredom. Perhaps this is normal for them, but..." Wylis tilted his head towards that corner where the Bolton party was 'having fun'. "I thought you should see this, Ser."

Now quite curious, both Jon and Bran walked over to where Wylis had directed their attention. Seven young men were arranged in a circle: some seated, some standing. A lot of loud cheering was going on. The men's broad, chiseled bodies blocked out most of Bran's view. But when Jon Stark walked over there, and pushed some of the men aside, Bran could clearly see two male dogs at the center of the circle.

Both dogs looked hideous. One dog missed an ear. The other had had its tail chopped off. And both dogs were engaged in a ferocious gruesome battle to the death.

The dog that missed its tail seemed to have the upper hand. It held down the dog that was missing an ear... and jabbed its sharp canines out, to bite at the other dog's neck. Blood splashed from the wound. Some men loyal to House Bolton cheered. Others expressed groans of disappointment.

"Fuck me, I should've placed my bet on that one," said one of the disappointed retainers to House Bolton.

"Heh, is always unpredictable with mutts." Said another.

In stilled horror, Bran watched the tailless dog eat through the other dog's neck. Its tail stopped moving as it died before Bran's eyes.

Only then did Jon cry out: "What in the name of Seven Hells is this!?"

And only then did their Bannermen from the Dreadfort pause to look at Lord Jon Stark, finally noticing his presence amongst their midst.

"Just a little bit of harmless fun, My Lord." Said one of them, what seemed to be the man with the most authority in their group. Their spokesperson, so to speak.

"Harmless?" Jon rasped out, pointing at the blood-fest on the ground. "That dog just killed another dog. Hardly 'harmless' if you ask me."

The head retainer to House Bolton responded with a careless shrug. "He didn't kill no human. What should I care that a dog lives or dies? Is just a dog. Just some animal. I don't weep when one of my dogs dies during a hunt. It's par for the course. You go into battle, some of yer dogs die. Like I need me a weak animal up North of The Wall. From what I've heard, people eat their dogs Beyond The Wall. It's anything to stay warm up there."

"Right." Jon said tersely. "So why you wasting valuable resources such as 'dog meat' down here?" He narrowed his eyes at the man. "Muzzle that mutt of yours." He pointed at the dog that had 'won' the fight. "And no more gambling under my watch. Is that understood?"

The Bolton man rolled his eyes, tilting his head this way and that, showing that he wasn't impressed by Jon's orders. He was a head taller than Jon, and looked quite a few years older. "Yeah yeah."

It took awhile before Bran felt calm enough to speak again. By that time, him and his brother Jon were sitting on a log under the Weirwood Tree. Jon stared out over the small pond that was slowly beginning to freeze over. He, too, seemed lost in thought. Bran didn't really know how to start this topic, but he felt he had to ask. He had to know.

So he just blurted out the question with no preamble. "Jon did you send an invitation to Ser Howland Reed?"

Jon blinked, turning to face his brother. He looked like someone who had just been plucked out of a daydream: quite slow to respond, and very confused. "Yes?" Jon answered uncertainly. "He's a good friend of our Father, and a skilled warrior. I thought he could help us with the fight."

More nervous than before, Bran leaned forward. "So... is he on his way to Winterfell?"

Jon stared at him. "...I think so."

"Has he sent any ravens?"

Jon pondered Bran's question for a few moments. "I think so? Yeah. Yeah, he has." Jon shrugged. "There's just been so many ravens flying to and fro, I'm beginning to find it difficult to keep it all in my head."

"What did his last raven say?"

With a sigh, Jon gazed up at the canopy of red leaves above them. "Bran, ...you think I remember what each and every raven said?" He replied with a hint of annoyance in his tone, looking back at his younger brother.

Disappointed, Bran slumped on the log in a graceless slouch. Then he decided to ask the question that had been plaguing him ever since he'd exchanged names with that blond haired boy from the green dreams.

"Does Howland Reed... have any children?"

Jon frowned at Bran. "He does."

Unbeknownst to Bran, his face brightened with hope. "How old are his children?"

"Let's see... His eldest child is fifteen?"

Bran's heart sank.

"A young Lady named Meera." Jon started to describe her. The way she looked, the color of her eyes and hair... "I met her once," Jon said. "Nice girl, very kind. I think she has been appointed Heir to Greywater Watch." Jon smiled to his brother. "You should meet her when you can. She's only five years older than you." Jon gave him a wink.

By now Bran couldn't help looking more than a little upset. He tried to put on a brave face, but his older brother Jon still saw through it.

"Aww come on," Jon clapped him on the back. "I was only joking. You just seemed so intent on hearing about the Reeds, I wondered..." Jon trailed off with a friendly smile, raising his eyebrows. "I mean we've had these conversations before. In this very place," Jon gestured at the Weirwood Tree. "You told me you had dreams..." His brother smiled.

Bran let out a sigh. Yes, but not those dreams.

Oddly enough the dreams about naked women seemed to have completely disappeared when King Robert and his retinue left for King's Landing. Bran did not think much of the Queen anymore. And that was for the best. Looking at his older brother from under his brow, Bran decided to try asking one more time. Asking couldn't hurt, could it?

Bran wanted so much to believe that Jojen was real. That the blonde boy from the green dreams was more than just a figment of his imagination. He was still a kid and he wanted to believe in things like prophecies, and magic, and... and dragons. Even though he tried to temper those wild dreams, tried to cloak himself in the seriousness of Winter, the mundane of bookkeeping. Still, a part of him wanted to be a little kid again. Free to believe that anything was possible.

So Bran ventured to ask.

"Does Howland Reed... have any... sons?"

Jon frowned at him. Moments passed between them in quiet, calm reflection as his older brother considered Bran's question. Eventually Jon spoke. And Bran did not like the answer.

"Huh. I don't really... know." Jon shrugged. "Our Fathers are close, but... I've only met Howland Reed once, when he visited The Twins with his wife and daughter. Greywater Watch is not that far from The Twins, so the Reeds were able to come. I think it was my parents' wedding anniversary?" Jon smiled fondly, recollecting the times. "Father trying to pretend he was in love with my Mother ...was a sight to behold. But the funniest was my Grandfather's reaction. He threw up all over the table." Jon burst out laughing.

Bran frowned. "That counts as a good wedding anniversary?"

"It is, for my parents." Jon chuckled. "Anyway, back to Lord Reed... So, I was I think nine at the time, nearly your age." Jon smiled. "And Meera... Meera was seven. Lord Reed... did not bring along any other children. He might of had more, since." Jon shrugged. "I don't know."

With a disappointed pout, Bran stared out over the pond. "His other children would be eight years old at most, then." He stated the obvious.

"Yes? Why does that... matter?"

Bran shrugged, staring at the reflection of the Castle in the dark water. Later that day, Bran was deeply disappointed when Lord Howland Reed arrived at Winterfell with five of his best fighters, all adult men. There weren't any children among the party from Greywater Watch. The men had not even brought any squires along. They would be wiping their own chainmail, sharpening their own blades.

After Bran performed the expected pleasantries such as saying good-day, and letting his brother Jon introduce him... As the adults conversed in the Great Hall, Bran trekked towards the outer walls of the Castle. It was technically past his bedtime. But his mother Catelyn Stark allowed him more and more liberties, now that he was to take his older brother's place as overseer of the Castle's bookkeeping.

He made his way toward the West Gate, feeling drawn to it for some reason. Not even noticing as he passed the kennels... that the dogs of the Boltons had been set loose.

While the Gates to Winterfell would close by this hour, and the West Gate had no Guards on patrol, ...that did not matter to Bran. For he had received a copy of the Keys to the Castle. He simply slid the right key into the door, and opened it. Just to take a refreshing evening stroll outside; to take his mind off things.

Bran had taken seven steps outside of the outer wall, when he heard the characteristic snarl of the tailless Bolton fighting dog behind him.

This alone made Bran pause. And he held his breath and counted to ten slowly. He did not turn. He did not show any weakness. He willed his small frame to remain completely calm. The snarling continued. Bran did not dare turn to look.

Had he chanced a glance over his shoulder, he would have known the dog was not snarling at him.

It was too late by the time the dog had pounced. Bran only heard the boy's scream. He whipped his head around in horror, to find that beast of a dog the Boltons had brought with them... eating the face of a young squire who screamed out for help. The screams soon stopped when the dog chewed through the boy's throat. His face was a bloody mess... completely unrecognizable. Bran only noticed the sigil sewn onto his upper right arm: the twin towers of House Frey.

Having eaten most of the boy's neck, the dog turned its ugly head to look up at Bran. Though instead of launching itself at him, ...the dog seemed to cower away in fear. Letting out high pitched whines as it scrambled off into the familiar darkness of the dog kennels.

Bran stared in shock. Flabbergasted by what had just happened. Unable to take a step forward nor back. This is how Ser Jory Cassel would later find him that night, on his patrol of Winterfell grounds. Bran recounted the entire story to Jory Cassel. The boy was later identified as the young squire Elmar Frey, only twelve years of age. The kid had been squiring for the twenty-year-old Ser Cley Cerwyn of House Cerwyn, sworn fealty to House Stark. The dog was found with Elmar Frey's blood all over its snout. The dog was muzzled, chained, and a meeting was held that morning.

Ser Cley Cerwyn demanded justice for what had happened to his squire. Lord Jon Stark, who presided over the meeting, listened carefully to the report from Jory Cassel, then addressed the Commander of the group sent by House Bolton.

"Ramsay Bolton, one of your dogs has killed a squire last night. An innocent boy, a child was murdered by one of your mongrels." Jon sounded pissed. "What have you to say for yourself?"

Jon Stark's good friend, one Samwell Tarly, sat beside him at the table, and looked upon Jon with worried eyes.

Ramsay Bolton, the Commander of the group from the Dreadfort, seemed not at all troubled by the recent developments. He sauntered towards the main table of the Great Hall, at which Jon sat. And there Ramsay Bolton stood, his shoulders slack, head held high, a casual, no, bored look on his face. He shrugged, addressing Jon directly.

"The boy was foolish enough to open the dog kennels. Perhaps he'd wanted to take them out for a walk." Ramsay stopped and smiled, looking around the Great Hall, at the assembled crowd... Like he'd just told the funniest joke he could think of.

No one smiled back at Ramsay. Not even his own retainers.

Ramsay set his eyes back on Jon. The smile dropped from his lips just as soon as it had come. "One does not release Neck Biter." He said flatly, with no inflection of his tone. "Too bad that boy did." Ramsay cringed. "His love of animals got him killed. I wouldn't call this a case of murder, cause his 'murderer' was a dog." Ramsay paused, letting his words sink in. "Dogs are not capable of rational thought like humans are. They see a target," Ramsay held his left hand up in a fist, "...They attack." He grabbed his left fist with his right hand. "Just like that. This is why one should never leave attack dogs unattended and unleashed." He continued like he was giving a lecture on dog-keeping.

Bran stared at the man in bewilderment. Jon Stark glared at him. Jory Cassel showed no emotion at all, just as the men that were with Ramsay Bolton. Ser Cley Cerwyn looked shocked. While Lady Catelyn Stark quickly mouthed a silent prayer to the Gods. Rickon Stark wasn't there. Sansa Stark wasn't there either: she and her brother Rickon were being entertained by Crown Prince Joffrey, who took them both on a leisurely stroll through the Godswood. He was there both to protect them, and to keep them company while the adults talked in the Great Hall. As this topic of the dog and the squire was considered too traumatic for children. But Bran had seen the whole thing. So there was no keeping him out of this. And Jon... while technically not having reached the age of adulthood yet, had been placed in a position where he was to act in their brother Robb's stead. But he bore his responsibility like a man. From just looking at Jon, one couldn't tell he was only seventeen. His duties had aged him beyond his years.

Ramsay continued talking. Spreading his arms and smiling apologetically, without any tact. "Elmar Frey made an error in judgment, and it cost him his life. Mistakes often lead men to ruin. Accidents happen, what can I say?" He turned his pale grey eyes up at Jon, and said plainly: "Who would you hold accountable for the boy's death? Me? Or the man he squired for? The man who had promised his father he would look after his son, teach him how to fight, help raise him into a man. Where was Ser Cerwyn at the time his squire needed the man's protection? He let his squire walk all alone through the castle grounds at night, when most boys should be in bed. Some Knight, he is."

Cley Cerwyn gasped with shock and shame, not having foreseen this turn of events. As multiple heads turned towards him. And he was scrutinized by several disapproving looks, among whom, Lady Catelyn Stark.

"Or would you have the dog executed for murder?" Ramsay spread his arms, looking Jon in the eye. "Huh?" He paused, as Jon said nothing back. Ramsay took several steps forward, till he was standing by the table, close enough to reach out and strike Jon, if he wanted to.

Jon seemed aware of that fact, but made no effort to shield himself. All he did was glare at Ramsay Bolton with disgust. Samwell Tarly looked from Jon, to Ramsay, and back again, growing more anxious by the minute.

"Your problem is," Ramsay started in a softer voice, almost tender, "Lord Stark, ..." he drawled sarcastically. "You want to slice off someone's head so bad, but you can't afford to lose any capable fighters." Ramsay grinned triumphantly. "You need us. Your brother Robb Stark needs us. You cannot afford to lose any one man. For you will need us in the war up North." Ramsay shrugged, still smirking. "So behead the dog and be done with it." He covered his mouth with a hand, leaned over the table, bringing his face up close to Jon, who did not back away, and whispered: "Between you and me, I don't think Ser Cley Cerwyn did anything wrong. But that's just my opinion." Ramsay waved his right hand about carelessly, backing away from the table. "This is your Court. It's entirely up to you to decide who is at fault." Ramsay shrugged, grinning. "I'm just saying. It's what I would do if I were you."

"But you are not me." Jon Stark snapped at him. His eyes were as hard as stone.

"Very true." Ramsay agreed. "I am your humble servant." He said with no trace of humility whatsoever. More like with an exaggerated over-confidence.

Bran frowned at him. Was the man truly insane? His brother Jon was one hair away from having him executed. And yet the man kept taunting fate. Taking this bluffing game a little too far.

As Jon was about to speak out a sentence, that would surely see Ramsay killed, ...Sam placed a hand on Jon's upper arm. The two friends shared a look. This seemed to calm Jon somewhat. For he turned toward the accused with a stony, but neutral expression. The heated, impulsive anger gone from Jon's countenance.

"Sounds like it was a very unfortunate accident indeed." Jon said, making eye contact briefly with everyone in the room. Some looked upset by this ruling. Others just looked sad overall, mourning the loss of the child... and the horrific way it had happened.

The dog named 'Neck Biter' was chained up, instructed to not be unchained until they set foot North of The Wall.

"You can unleash him upon the White Walkers," Jon had said. "Your dog looks like a formidable fighter indeed." He spat out in Ramsay's direction.

Ser Cley Cerwyn would travel further without a squire. As the boy's untimely demise was ruled 'an accident', no one but the boy himself was found responsible for his death. Meaning no one would be executed, since no murder had taken place. Jon wrote to his grandfather, Elmar Frey's father, Walder Frey, to inform him of what had occurred.

Elmar Frey's body was washed, and prepared to be sent home, for a proper Riverlands funeral.

All this in one day. Bran still saw Neck Biter's bloody canines before him, in his mind's eye. It was all so very gruesome, and very real. This was not your scary tale from aeons ago, the ones Old Nan used to tell. This was his actual life now. And Bran had to get used to it.

Mother had called off his and Rickon's lessons for today. She felt tired. Bran did not blame her. The whole thing was so messed up. And he still had no clue why Neck Biter had been afraid of him. The dog had whined in fear of him, before hiding away in its kennels. But why? What had the dog thought Bran would do to it?

The rest of the day passed in quiet contemplation. At dinner, there was mention of a raven from Ser Benfred Tallhart. He was to arrive on the morrow. No one knew when, what time of day. The name didn't say much to Bran. But his brother Jon, and Howland Reed seemed to know him. That should have been Bran's first clue. But of course, he was preoccupied with thoughts of this strange dog from the Dreadfort. And half of what was said, went by Bran's ears without being registered. He went to his bedchambers, threw himself under the blankets, and relived that horrific moment in his sleep. Again and again, Bran watched the dog Neck Biter eat Elmar Frey's face off. Bran had not slept since that night. He had gone two days without sleep, and now his head was being plagued with nightmares. He woke in the early morning, before sunrise, feeling like he hadn't slept at all.

Bran was dead tired. But something made him get up, get dressed, shuffle through the hallways, into the courtyard and along the dog kennels, to the West Gate. He used his key, for again, the West Gate was unguarded. It was still dark out. And somewhere beyond the outer walls, Bran noticed... a dark shadow running. He squinted in the dark, trying to get a better look. And had the horror of his life, feeling wide awake again, when he spotted Neck Biter, beyond the Castle walls.

Someone had released him. It occurred to Bran with chilling clarity. That evening Elmar Frey had perished, someone had released the dog as well. But the twelve-year-old squire was no longer around to release this dog. And it seemed highly unlikely that the dog had been set free by two different people.

Bran wanted to run. He wanted to head back to the castle, and warn someone. But he heard a voice right behind him. The tender, quiet whisper of Ramsay Bolton, laced with sarcasm.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Next thing you know, you're the next suspect. Don't you think it rather odd, you would be present both times the dog escaped. I don't know, Bran Stark, sounds quite suspicious."

Doing his best to keep his voice level, to not show the fear he felt within, Bran spoke without even looking at Ramsay. "Why are you doing this?"

Silence followed. Then, that same awful whisper. "I don't know. Why do we do the things we do, Bran Stark? Why are you here? Why aren't you in bed like a good little Lord?" The voice grew more amused. "Are you like me? Do you like to watch?"

It was then that Bran spotted the dog again. With the figure running away from it. Neck Biter snarled, and chased a boy around the fields surrounding Winterfell. The boy couldn't be older than twelve. With a sickening feeling Bran felt his stomach churn.

Then he heard the frightened scream as the dog closed in on its target.

He recognized that voice.

It was Jojen Reed.

Chapter Text

Jojen's scream shattered Bran's reality as he saw Ramsay's dog Neck Biter pounce to his friend.

And he had his paws in the cold, wet grass. As Jojen leapt away from him, jumping off to the side. Wait... paws? Bran stared, realizing he was suddenly quite a distance from the Castle walls. Where was Ramsay...? Bran turned his head, and to his greatest shock he saw himself, standing, half leaning into Ramsay Bolton's arms. Ramsay was supporting his own limp body. It was then that Bran realized, he was a lot closer to the ground than he normally was when he walked outside... And when he tried to speak, all that came out was a confused bark.

The bark of a dog. Ramsay's dog, he realized with a jolt.

Bran turned to look at Jojen. His friend stared back in fear. Jojen had tripped over a root, and fallen into the grass. Now he just lay there helpless on his back, less than five yards away from the dog, with a look of impending doom on his handsome face.

For the first time in his life, Bran realized he had the power to make a difference. He willed himself to calm down. His breath slowed, and he felt his heart rate slow. Willing the dog's body to relax, Bran realized he was wagging his tail. Well, what was left of it... the chopped off stump of a tail. Although it was nothing more than a stump, Bran still felt the presence of a tail inside him.

The sudden change in the dog's behavior did not go unnoticed by Jojen, who widened his eyes in disbelief, and sat up, staring at the animal.

Bran stared back, literally with puppy dog eyes.

Jojen tilted his head to the side, frowning, as he drew nearer.

To show complete calm, and willingness to comply, Bran sat down, and let out a friendly whine.

Still frowning at him in confusion, Jojen stood. He stepped closer, and closer, and closer, till he was close enough to reach out a hand, and... Jojen gently patted Bran on the nose.

In his current form, the most natural reaction for Bran seemed to be to jut out his tongue, and lick at Jojen's hand.

Jojen laughed. That beautiful sound from before, in the green dream, filled Bran's ears. Anxiety was mingled into Jojen's laugh, but also triumph. It was the type of laugh you have when you know the worst has passed. And you are safe. A higher pitched, nervous laugh, while at the same time, having notes of happiness in it.

Once sure his friend was okay, Bran stood, and trotted towards the West Gate. Stopping every now and then to glance over his shoulder, to make sure Jojen was following him. This way, he led Jojen back to where his human form was still being held up by Ramsay Bolton. Bran glared up at Ramsay, showing his sharp dog teeth. He couldn't exactly pounce on the man: Ramsay was keeping his own body in front of him like a human shield.

"Bran?!" even yards away, Jojen recognized him immediately. He rushed over, stopping close to Ramsay.

Still in dog form, Bran sighed, hiding his sharp canines behind the dog's ugly lips. It was no use attacking Ramsay like this. Now there were two human shields between him and the man: both his own body, and Jojen. This was not the day he would deal with Ramsay Bolton. He would have to find some other way...

Meanwhile, Jojen seemed to have realized something. He noticed Bran's blank, scary looking rolled back eyes. He looked back at the dog, back at Bran's human body, then at the dog again. Jojen's eyes went wide.

"Bran!"

He rushed over to the dog's side, knelt beside him, and with a wide grin took to patting Bran on the head, tickling the dog behind the ears. It felt so good that Bran nearly missed Ramsay Bolton's voice, dripping in sarcasm.

"That dog is very dangerous." Ramsay said, drawing Jojen's attention.

Still kneeling by Bran, and petting his head, Jojen looked up at Ramsay.

"Your friend saved you." Ramsay shifted Bran's limp body in his arms. "By taking control over the dog's body before it could bring you any damage." Ramsay smiled kindly. "Some of the Starks have this... innate ability to enter the minds of animals." Ramsay chuckled. Then his smile abruptly fell. He looked all serious all of a sudden. "But we really should chain that dog up, and muzzle it, before Bran loses control over the mutt."

Jojen's hands paused on Bran's head. "Will Bran... be okay, ...if we chain the dog up?" He wondered with concern in his voice.

Ramsay smiled easily. "Oh don't worry about your friend. He'll be fine. Here," he pushed Bran's body forward with one hand, as he got the dog chains from his back pocket. "Help me hold him as I tie down the dog."

Warily, Jojen let go of Bran's dog form, and stood. He walked over to Ramsay, to receive Bran's limp human form. Being a lot heavier for Jojen, Bran's body collapsed against his, nearly sending them both crashing to the ground. Before Jojen securely wrapped his arms around Bran's shoulders, holding him tight.

Bran growled at Ramsay as he approached the dog.

Ramsay grinned, holding the chains in one hand, the muzzle in the other. "He he. Easy now, this will only take a second, Bran."

And as Ramsay lunged at him with the chain, Bran left the dog's body, opening his eyes in his own human body, with Jojen's arms wrapped around him, blinking.

The moment Bran left Neck Biter, the dog's ferocious temper returned tenfold. Angered at having its body controlled by another, and upset at having its prey escape, the dog lost all its remaining senses, and launched itself at its master. The dog and Ramsay fought, rolling over the ground. Neck Biter trying to scratch at Ramsay's chest, clawing at him, trying to gain foothold and bite him. Ramsay attempting to wrap the chain around the dog's form.

Bran watched on in silent horror as Ramsay managed to bring the chain around the dog's belly in a painful looking loop.

Jojen gasped right behind him, as the scene unfolded.

That's when Ramsay tightened the loop around the dog's chest, and pulled, dragging the animal over the ground, all while it quivered and resisted, biting at nothing but air.

When Ramsay reached them, he showed them both a fake toothy smile, and clapped Bran on the shoulder with his free hand. "Thank you Bran. You got here right on time. I'm glad you could help me subdue the dog. Don't know how the wretched thing escaped again." And with a wink, he disappeared into Winterfell grounds, heading towards the kennels.

Before he passed through the West Gate, the dog's head hit against a stone as it was being dragged over the ground. Neck Biter passed out from the pain, hunger and exhaustion.

Jojen and Bran shared a look. Then they hugged, and laughed in joy, both happy to have found the other. The sun was just rising, coloring the scene with faint blue light. Jojen Reed looked tired and worn out, like he hadn't slept a wink last night. Heavy bags were under his green eyes.

"Come, we'll talk inside." Said Bran, now supporting his friend, letting Jojen rest an arm on his shoulders as he guided him to the West Gate.

Only now Bran noticed that he was actually the shorter one of their two, unlike in the green dreams. In the flesh, Jojen was about half a head taller than him.

On Winterfell grounds, Bran approached the first maid he spotted, and asked her to help him find suitable guest accommodations for his friend. A room far away from where the Boltons were lodging, Bran clarified. They found reasonably decent, unoccupied bedchambers in the same tower where Bran's bedchambers were. Just one floor lower. This was better, for Jojen wouldn't have to climb as many steps, Bran reasoned.

While his friend got comfortable, Bran raced through the kitchens, picking up half a loaf of freshly baked bread, and slicing off some meat from the stewed leg of mutton. Jojen was washing his face in a wash basin the maid had brought him, when Bran returned with food.

They sat side by side, on top of the bed covers, as they ate in companionable silence.

Jojen was the first to break it. "How did you know...?" He looked upon Bran in fascinated wonder. "How did you know I was going to reach Winterfell today morning?"

Blinking confused, Bran swallowed down the bit of bread he had been chewing. "I didn't." He admitted, gazing earnestly into Jojen's green eyes.

"Then, ...why were you out of bed at this hour, waiting for me, at the exact gate I would reach first?" Jojen raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Bran shrugged, truly not knowing how to answer this question. For he didn't know it himself. Some force had made him go there in the first place, even before Elmar Frey got killed. Bran just didn't know... why. He also didn't know how to tell his older brother Jon about Ramsay, and what could be done about it. The man was pure evil, but he hid it well. Even Jojen... now, had no clue of what Ramsay Bolton had done.

By suddenly acting so 'friendly', Ramsay Bolton had put on a new disguise. An ill-fitting one, that tore at the seams. But still, he was in disguise. Ramsay Bolton pretended to be one of the Stark Bannermen. But in truth, he was not. He was a monster lurking in the deep, hidden in plain sight. And only Bran knew.

Worse yet, Ramsay Bolton appeared to know things about Bran, that he hadn't known about himself. Like his ability to take over the minds and bodies of animals. It had happened automatically in the moment. Bran could guess what triggered it, but he still had no clue how to initiate this himself, on his own, without any prompting from his friend being in danger.

Re-entering his own limp body had been easy. But maintaining hold over the dog's body, while he felt the dog's consciousness howling with fury, battling him for dominance, for control over its own flesh... That had not been as easy. How had he entered the dog's mind in the first place? And... was that why the dog had been so scared of him? Maybe the dog had felt his potential ability right away, before Bran had even thought of mind-controlling the dog... So the dog had cowered away from Bran. Cowering from fear, in the presence of a stronger, more powerful canine.

A dog was no match for a wolf.

Jojen took his silence as an answer. "We started sharing those green dreams," he said, "when I moved to Torrhen's Square, to squire for Ser Benfred Tallhart."

"Oh. You squire for Benfred Tallhart?"

Jojen smiled at him. "You didn't know?"

Bran shook his head. "Before yesterday, I hadn't even heard of the name Benfred Tallhart." He clarified.

"That's quite alright." Jojen assured him, clapping Bran on the shoulder. "Benfred is a lesser known Knight. He's kinda your neighbor, but you wouldn't know if you don't get to travel much."

When Jojen gave him a playful wink, it did things to Bran's stomach. He suddenly lost his appetite, and put down his food.

"But this got me thinking," Jojen resumed a serious expression. "The link we share possibly has a limit on the physical distance between us."

Bran frowned, blinking. There was hardly any distance at all between them now. "What?" he spoke, not understanding.

Jojen offered him a small smile, and slower, speaking with a softer voice, he elaborated. "I've been having green dreams all my life. You have not. It's only been quite recent that you've been able to enter my mind, and see the green dreams through me." He paused. "I only started my training to become a Knight three weeks ago. Before the Tallharts received a missive from your older brothers, calling us to The Wall. Is it plain coincidence that we have started sharing dreams three weeks ago? Or has it got something to do with distance?" Jojen frowned in contemplation. Eventually he said: "Greywater Watch is a lot further away from Winterfell than Torrhen's Square." He looked dead serious now. "I think your warging ability has a distance limit. And I think you warg regularly in your sleep, and then forget about it. Or you interpret those experiences as 'dreams'. When they are anything but."

Bran's mouth fell open in shock. He recalled all the dreams he'd had of himself flying... as a pigeon, as a crow, ...as a raven. A messenger raven flying from Winterfell, carrying a message from Jon Stark to their Father at King's Landing. A dove perched on a ledge by the stables' ceiling... witnessing Queen Cersei cheat on her husband King Robert, with her own twin brother Ser Jaime Lannister... It was all real!?

...It was all real.

"And I think you warged into me," Jojen said carefully, seeing how badly Bran was taking this. "When we shared those green dreams. I think you were able to enter my mind, ...by warging."

Bran started shaking all over, as realization hit him. This was so much worse than invading Jojen's mind by accident. Had he actually... taken over Jojen's body? Now he understood why the attack dog feared him. That was perfectly understandable when Bran was capable of... this. Warging into not just animals, but... humans, also. And he had even done it to his friend, multiple times! Imposed his own will on Jojen, forced Jojen's consciousness into submission, taken over control. Bran felt so ashamed of himself, he hung his head low, and curled in on himself, unable to stop himself from shaking. What had he done?!

In reaction to this, Jojen quickly took both Bran's hands in his. "It's alright." He said, speaking softly. "I don't mind." Jojen bent forward, turning his neck to bring their faces closer together. He searched Bran's eyes. "Something must have led you to me. Could be our minds resonate on the same frequency, or something. I don't know. What I do know, is your mind sought out mine, once I was in range of your warging abilities. You could have warged into anyone within the radius of Torrhen's Square and Winterfell." Jojen explained. "Yet you picked me."

The shaking subsided, as Bran drank in the naked frankness in Jojen's eyes. The complete shameless vulnerability on display. And in that moment, the thought crossed his mind that maybe... He had warged into Jojen, because Jojen's mind had been the most receptive to it. Jojen had given Bran the least resistance, with how open his mind was, readily accepting the strange and unusual. And the easiest path to go down, ...had to be the path of least resistance.

Bran pulled his hands out of Jojen's loose grasp, turning away. "You must be tired." He said, eyes set on the rests of their breakfast on the bedside table. "Have you slept at all last night?"

"No." Jojen admitted. "I didn't sleep. For some stupid reason, I felt like I had to reach Winterfell before this day started." He sighed. There was guilt in his voice when he spoke next. "I rode ahead of Ser Benfred Tallhart, without asking for permission to do so. Along the way, I got attacked by that dog." Another sigh followed. "I tried to lose him by sending my horse off into a gallop. That didn't work. I lost my horse, took off in a run towards castle Winterfell. And that's when I ran into you." Jojen placed a hand on Bran's knee.

"I hope you have no troubling dreams now." Bran told him earnestly, standing from the bed. Jojen's hand fell from his knee as he stood. "You should try to get some sleep."

"What?" Jojen raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Sleep during the day?"

"Yes." Bran told him in a commanding tone. "I shall speak to your Father."

Jojen's eyes widened, the smile fell from his face.

"Don't worry," Bran reassured him. "You will not be punished for disobeying your Knight's orders. That would be unfair," he explained. "You've already been through so much in one night, Jojen. Get some rest, you will feel better." He tented his brows, and in a softer, tender voice added: "I'll see you tomorrow."

The look Jojen gave him was enough to catch his breath in his throat. Bran quickly vacated the room, before he said something he would later regret. The color had risen to his cheeks. His furious blushing was impossible to hide.

Ned Stark, seated at his office in King's Landing, looked across his desk, making eye contact with his best friend Robert Baratheon.

His friend stared back at him in bewildered silence. Then, the King slowly regained his ability of speech. "And you are sure of this? Cersei's roll in the hay with her brother was not just a fling?"

Ned looked really upset, and was unable to hide the depth of his displeasure. "Oh I have done my research." He huffed, turning his gaze back on the papers scattered across his desk. "I have investigated all the leads we had. And..." he sighed, looking up at Robert. "None of her children are yours, Robert."

A pain-stricken look of hurt crossed King Robert's face, as he looked off to the side, willing himself not to break out in tears. "God damn it," he hissed at the floor.

"Robert," Ned reached out over the desk, placing his hand on his friend's upper arm.

Tears flowed freely over the King's face, as he whispered in a higher pitch than was normal for him: "I love those children as my own."

Ned winced, looking sympathetically upon his friend.

King Robert shook his head, gazing upon the floor beneath his feet. "I love them all. Tommen especially, but Myrcella too, and... and... even Joffrey," he sobbed.

Ned rubbed soothing circles into his friend's arm. "Your wife's actions will not go unpunished." He said in a stern voice, hoping to reassure his friend. "She shall stand trial for her misdeeds. The children shall be spared."

But King Robert looked up, eyes wide and teary-eyed, his mouth open to disagree. "I shan't have the whole bloody Realm knowing my own wife cucked me like a little boy." King Robert shook his head wildly, making his long hair bounce. "No. I want none of this leaking out."

Ned frowned, confused. "So you will just... let Crown Prince Joffrey ascend the throne after you?" He asked him in utter disbelief.

King Robert pursed his lips, frowning. "Do I have... any ...other children in King's Landing?"

With a sigh, Ned turned back to his papers. "Twenty."

Robert looked taken aback. "That many?"

Ned shrugged, gesturing at the reports. "It's all here."

Robert frowned, leaning forward to get a better look. Then he looked at Ned. "But tell me honestly Ned. Do any of them... look like me? Does any of my bastards have what it takes to lead?"

A minute passed between them in silence, after which Ned shrugged. "They are children. Who knows which one of them would develop leadership qualities, given the right environment. None of them know who they are." He said plainly.

King Robert hummed. "I would like to meet my children." He said finally. "And their mothers."

Ned Stark gave him a knowing smile.

"No, not like that!" Robert huffed. "You pervert. I want to make sure my children and their families are well provided for. Heavens, I have done my wife enough injustice, to go and sleep with another woman again."

Frowning, Ned looked at his best friend. "You believe your marriage can still be salvaged?"

Robert shrugged. "It's worth a try. Regardless, arrange me a meeting with each of the mothers separately. Then I shall decide how to proceed. And Ned, not a word of this to Cersei, understand?"

"I get you."

"Good." Robert smiled. "With some luck, we might still make an Heir out of these bastards."

That morning Bran got to Howland Reed before anyone else could. He told him his son had arrived safely. Then he told him about the dog. Told him how Ramsay Bolton had helped Bran beat the dog off Jojen. He left out the part where he had warged into the attack dog. Because something told him he would be better off not sharing his abilities with others, until he had better control over his powers. It was bad enough that Ramsay Bolton knew... He didn't need all their Banners to know he was a freak who warged into animals.

And he knew he was making Ramsay Bolton out to be the hero he was not. But it was the only credible way this story could have happened without Bran warging. And he had to tell this story, to get Jojen off the hook for riding ahead of his Knight without permission.

Howland Reed listened to him carefully. Then he said: "Lord Bran I don't know how to thank you. With courage and bravery you have saved my only son's life. I pray that the Gods watch over you, and that you always find favor with the Old Gods and the New."

"Thank you Ser." Bran inclined his head respectfully to the older gentleman.

"And I must give my thanks to the fierce warrior Ramsay Bolton." Ser Howland Reed continued.

Those words made bile rise up Bran's throat. But he merely nodded, looking solemnly at the Father of Jojen.

A thoughtful look crossed Howland's older, but still handsome face. "Do you have aspirations of being Knighted one day, Lord Bran?"

Hearing this, Bran blinked, feeling the color rise to his cheeks. "Yes." He mouthed in an awed whisper.

Howland Reed smiled his warm fatherly smile. "How would you like to be my squire, Bran Stark? Your wit and bravery will be badly needed where we're going Beyond The Wall."

No sooner had Ser Howland Reed offered to take him on as squire, than a wide-eyed Bran was already vehemently nodding << Yes >>. All his body language showing << Yes I'd love that, Ser! >>. For some moments there, Bran had lost his faculty of speech. He had not been expecting this. Once again, reality exceeded his wildest dreams.

Ser Howland smiled in response. "Of course you will first have to ask your Mother's permission. Only with Lady Catelyn Stark's agreement, will I take you on as squire. The journey up North is very tough and possibly dangerous." Ser Howland's face took on a grave expression. "Some of us might not return. If your Mother deems you ready, knowing the risks, then I see no reason to deny you the experience."

"Thank you Ser!" Bran said emphatically. "You will not regret this."

They shook hands, and Bran hastened his way to the Sewing Room: located on the highest floor of one castle tower. There he found his sister Sansa, together with her handmaiden friends Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole, engaged in their sewing work, and his Mother Lady Catelyn Stark, who was watching over the girls while Septa Mordane took a much needed break.

He quickly sketched the situation to his Mother, leaving out the dog attack, to spare her heart. And asked for permission to join the expedition to The Wall, as Ser Howland Reed's squire. Surely his Mother would understand what an Honor it was to be taken on as squire by the Howland Reed. But his Mother's face remained stone cold, all the time he was talking. And when he was done talking, when he waited her judgment with bated breath, she wrinkled her nose with disapproval.

"Absolutely not." Said Lady Catelyn Stark, leaving no room for argument.

Bran turned his large puppy dog eyes to his Mother.

His Mother's expression remained unchanged. Almost like pleading and asking nicely had no effect on her. "Bran I am not letting you go to The Wall. You are far too young to be going on journeys such as these."

Bran pursed his lip. "But Arya went to the Stormlands to train and become a Knight. Why can't I go?" It seemed perfectly reasonable to him. He was not much worse than Arya, and she got to go. So why couldn't he?

Mother remained steadfast. "Arya is more than a year older than you. Her twelfth nameday is near. And if you remember, I was against her going, as well. I only allowed it because Ned insisted. Otherwise, I would not have let her go."

With a frustrated frown etched on his forehead, Bran huffed. "She is only eleven. And you let her be a squire! I want to be a Knight someday too. Why is it that Robb and John and Arya get to do impossible things, while I have to stay home and read boring books?"

Lady Catelyn Stark responded with an exasperated sigh. "We did not send Arya to The Wall." She replied angrily, speaking on behalf of both herself and her husband. "Your Father and I decided to permit your older sister Arya to travel South, where it is safe." Catelyn Stark emphasized the words 'safe', and 'older sister'. "It will be safer for her there." Lady Catelyn looked distraught for a moment, her anger subsiding. "I would never agree to sending my little baby girl to The Wall in Winter, during a White Walker attack." She stared at her son Bran, like she wanted to say: Are you mad?

But the boy stubbornly pushed on. "Jojen Reed is going. He's only one year older than me. And he squires for Ser Benfred Tallhart, and his parents let him go Beyond The Wall."

Besides, his own personal ambition of Knighthood aside, Bran had to go. He was the only one who knew what a monster Ramsay Bolton truly was. And he knew the adults would not believe him if he told them here and now. So he had to go. Bran had to go, to keep a watchful eye out for Ramsay Bolton, and warn his brother Jon, at the first opportunity. He had a duty here. Bran would keep Jojen safe from the monster that was Ramsay Bolton. He was the only one who could.

His Mother leaned back in her chair, calmer now. She regarded her second son with a sympathetic smile. "Ah, so that's what this is about. You don't want to be separated from your new friend."

She guessed Bran's intentions correctly, cutting right through the heart of the matter. He stared at her, wide eyed and feeling the most vulnerable he had in awhile.

"Bran," his Mother sighed. "I can't let you go. Without you here, I only have Rickon and Sansa left." She shared a look with her eldest daughter. "Quite soon, your sister Sansa might journey South to the capital, to see your Father, and her future in-laws, to be better prepared as a Lady at Court. In preparation for when she is to be wed to Crown Prince Joffrey. And Rickon is too young to be left alone without his older brothers. At least you must stay."

"But, ..." Bran attempted to cut in.

"Do not worry. You will see your friend again. When he returns from his travels up North." His Mother promised him.

Bran shook his head wildly. He did not even notice the tears spilling from his eyes; but his sister, her friends, and his Mother, they did.

"Ser Howland Reed said 'Some might not return,' ...! He said that."

Lady Catelyn sighed. "I am certain your friend Jojen shall return. And I shall pray for his safe voyage, his health, and swift return home. I will pray that his Mother and sister shall see him soon, alive and well." She stood, walked over to her son, still a boy, and pulled him into a motherly hug, ruffling his dark brown hair, as Bran wept into the folds of her dress with no decorum whatsoever. "You need not worry about your friend. He is strong, and surrounded by people who will protect him, people who love him. His Father, a great fighter, rides with him. Jojen Reed will go unharmed. The boy finds favor with the Gods. I assure you of it."

In spite of his Mother's best efforts to reassure him, Bran could not be so certain of what lay ahead for his friend Jojen. That night he kept tossing and turning in bed, trying to think of a way to bypass his Mother's decision. It wasn't until he fell asleep from fatigue of overthinking, ...that the answers came to him, in a dream. The familiar green hue of the green dreams enveloped Bran, and everything around him.

He saw a fire. A great fire. Flames raged over a city, burning buildings with everything inside. With everyone inside... The small huts made of wood were the first ones to crumble, turning to ashes before Bran's very eyes. The buildings made of sandy stone held out longer, standing and darkening as they burned... It was only then, Bran noticed what he was wearing. A blue tunic made of light, breathable fabric... suited to this heat. Was it silk? Didn't matter. The buildings of this town looked like nothing Bran had ever seen.

They did not even resemble any of the drawings of King's Landing from the history books Bran had read. Bran had no clue when and where he was. He only knew that he was completely powerless to stop this raging fire, and lucky to have gotten out alive.

Then, a woman, she couldn't be more than twenty-two years of age, small but strong, with flowing pale brown hair... rushing into the nearest burning building.

Bran called out to her, suddenly knowing her name: "Dagny!"

But she did not heed his call. She rushed into the flames, disappearing into the burning dwelling. Moments passed. And when Bran was completely sure she was done for, the woman reappeared, huffing and panting as she carried a much larger body on her back. Bran gasped. He recognized the man. The large body covered in unsightly burns, but... still moving, still breathing, still... alive!

It was Theon Greyjoy.

The dreamscape fizzled out, and they were on a boat. The woman he'd called Dagny looked younger here, and he found her embracing Theon, as they stood at the helm of a ship. A powerful ship with strong sails, showing the suns and moons of House Tarth.

Bran frowned, looking down at his own clothing. He was clad in Northern style, as he normally dressed at Winterfell. While the young couple, Theon and the young woman named Dagny, were wearing more appropriate, Southern styled clothing. Bran tried to piece two and two together, trying to apply logic to the dream. And felt frustrated that he couldn't understand what the dream was trying to say.

When a familiar hand landed on his shoulder, Bran felt calm wash over him. "I couldn't help myself." Bran whispered an apology. "I kept thinking of you last night, and..."

"Didn't I already tell you it's alright?" Jojen interrupted him. "I don't mind meeting you in my dreams, Bran. Actually it's a pleasant surprise. Not having to face these visions alone."

Jojen's voice sounded so incredibly lonely, it tore at Bran's heartstrings.

He turned around so they were facing each other. The scene of the strange woman Bran felt like he'd seen somewhere before, and Theon, forgotten. An afterthought in the grand scheme of things. Bran took a step forward, and placed his hands on Jojen's shoulders. He noticed he was taller than him, in the dream. Unlike in their reality...

"Jojen, you have to go Beyond The Wall. And I have to stay behind at Winterfell. We will be separated."

"I know." Jojen responded with sadness in his voice.

The scenery around them changed, and suddenly they were no longer on the ship. Bran was wearing a loose fitting pink tunic. He raised an eyebrow, pulling at the cloth. He looked over at his friend, and found Jojen wearing simple, unadorned clothes that looked suitable to the weather, and perfect for a traveler. Bran lifted his brows. This was the first time he saw Jojen wearing different clothes in the green dreams.

Again they were in an exotic landscape, surrounded by interesting small twisted trees, the likes of which Bran had never seen before. The buildings here looked like something out of a fairy tale. Perfect rectangles and squares, standing on stilts in the seawater... With curling roofs, adorned by sparkling designs and shapes of what looked like... dragon statues.

He reached out for Jojen's hand, but... Jojen pulled away, preferring to dig through his canvas backpack.

Jojen looked bewildered as he pulled one dragon egg from his backpack. He stared at the egg, then looked at Bran.

They stared at each other, and at the giant egg in Jojen's hands. It felt like half an hour passed between them in silence. Then a large shadow loomed above them. Bran looked up, inadvertently stepping closer to Jojen. He felt the other boy's warm breath on his neck. It suddenly grew impossibly cold. Bran hugged Jojen, closing in the warmth between them, as he kept staring up at the sky... searching the source of this great shadow.

He couldn't find it, the source of this great darkness. The shadow seemed to be everywhere. With no end, and no beginning. Or they were too deep into the Shadow Lands to see. Oh! The Shadow Lands. Bran's head spun with the realization.

A thunder-like rumble coursed through the dark sky, as a huge adult dragon swooped down, nearly hitting them with its tail. Bran shuddered, holding tighter onto Jojen, as the egg between them began to glow.

Both boys blinked, staring at each other in the orange light that emanated from the egg.

"You can't stay at Winterfell." Jojen suddenly said.

"Huh?"

"I said you can't stay at Winterfell. You must travel South, Bran. You have to warn her."

Bran frowned at his friend in confusion. "Warn who?"

"Who who? The Princess, of course!"

Bran raised an eyebrow, feeling a light, pleasant warmth seep out of the dragon egg between them. "What Princess?"

Jojen sighed, rolling his eyes in frustration. "Why are you still so young?" He said more to himself than to Bran. Then, directing his attention back to his friend, Jojen spoke in a dead serious tone. "Princess Daenerys Targaryen is now at Highgarden."

Bran's eyes went wide.

"That's who we both saw in the first dream we shared. I was wrong about what I said earlier. You are supposed to be at that wedding. You are supposed to guide her," Jojen instructed with widening eyes. "I can't leave my Father and the Knight I'm sworn to serve. I have to travel North." He said, his eyes refocusing back on Bran. "But you... Bran, you are free. Do you realize how powerful that is?"

Bran blinked back, utterly lost.

"Tell her about the visions you saw, through me. The green dreams we shared. Tell her about the dragons. Tell her everything you can remember of this dream. And Bran, Bran!"

The dream was fizzling out as Jojen cupped Bran's cheeks in the green dream, keeping eye contact.

"Don't forget that... that I..." Jojen mouthed the words, as his voice turned to bird song, turned to rustling reeds in the wind, blades of grass being blown away.

Bran awoke in his own bed, reaching out for Jojen, grasping empty air.

The next day was awkward.

Neither Bran nor Jojen knew how to look the other in the face without turning red from embarrassment. As soon as Jojen would enter a room, Bran would voice some ludicrous excuse to leave it. They kept running into each other throughout the day. During these encounters, Jojen would freeze, gaze pointed at the floor. Bran would mumble the first excuse that came to mind, and run.

After about four, or five of these... , Jon Stark stepped in to intervene. He caught his little brother by the scruff of his vest, and pointedly looked at Jojen Reed, who wanted the ice to crack beneath him already, and swallow him up whole.

Jon sighed. "What's the matter Lord Reed? What has my little brother done this time?"

Jojen looked deeply uncomfortable when he said: "Nothing, my Lord."

Knowing he was not going to get anything out of them like this, Jon led his little brother and his friend to a quiet room where the Starks typically enjoyed their morning beverages. It was early evening, so there was no one here. Jon poured two glasses of apple cider for the boys, and a third one for himself.

Ten minutes later, Jon Stark had downed his own glass. The boys hadn't even touched theirs.

Jon groaned, glaring up at the ceiling, and wondering whom he had wronged to deserve this. "Okay," he said, placing his hands on the table and leaning over it, looking both his brother and the Reed boy in the eye. "What is going on between you two?"

Bran and Jojen shared a furtive glance, after which Jojen gulped, turning to Jon, and answering for the both of them:

"Bran is a Warg. His powers are great, he can even warg into people."

From the shock of hearing this, Jon sat down, eyes widening as he gaped at Jojen Reed, then at his little brother.

"He wargs in his sleep," Jojen continued. Then, in a softer voice: "He wargs into me."

Jon blinked at the Reed boy, wondering if he'd heard right.

"I have the greensight, and we share dreams, when Bran wargs into me at night. We have been sharing dreams for three weeks now. And in the last dream we shared..." Jojen trailed off, looking at the table.

Bran reached out, and grasped Jojen's left hand in his. The gesture struck Jon as so gentle... so tender. He had never seen his little brother Bran be this tender with anyone before.

"We witnessed the rebirth of dragons." Bran finished for Jojen. After which Jojen shuddered, nearly pulling his hand out of Bran's, but Bran held on tight, not letting Jojen go.

Hearing all this, Jon just sat there, stunned.

"The Targaryen Princess lives," Jojen told Jon. "She's in disguise. Passing for a Tyrell, at Highgarden."

Jon frowned at the boy of House Reed. "Do you suggest we... hand her over to the King?"

"No." Said Jojen. "I suggest we send her on a journey to recover those dragon eggs we saw in the green dream."

Hearing that, Jon looked conflicted. "But... aren't we, as sworn servants to His Royal Highness King Robert Baratheon, ...supposed to... I don't know..." Jon looked from Bran, to Jojen. "Prevent the Targaryens from rising to power? Wouldn't the birth of another dragon give the Targaryen Princess immense power over Westeros? ...Power she could use to... uhm... conquer the Realm? You think we shouldn't alert the King of this?"

"Daenerys Targaryen is the only one with the power to awaken the dragon." Jojen said with a straight face, looking directly at Jon.

Jon tented his brows, looking like someone who wished he hadn't been burdened with this knowledge. "Do we have to awaken dragons? Is it not wiser to... let sleeping dogs lie?"

"A dragon is not a dog." Bran confidently told Jon.

The kids weren't making any sense to Jon. He stared at them both, noticing that Jojen seemed in complete agreement with Bran's last statement.

"There's a reason I met Jojen." Bran went on. "It's no coincidence we started dreaming together. We are part of a prophecy, a hint at what's to come. Jon, I must deliver the message to the Princess. She has to hear it from me. Jojen's visions showed us. There's a wedding at Highgarden, and I have to be there. Because Jojen is bound North, while I'm free. I'm free to go and see her. I must see her, please, you have to understand."

A deep frown marred Jon's handsome features. He shook his head with a deep sigh. "First White Walkers... now Dragons... What else has this life got in store for us?"

"That's it!" Jojen's face brightened with sudden discovery.

"What?" Bran asked him, curious.

Jojen grinned at him, squeezing Bran's hand he still held. "That's how we defeat the White Walkers. As the prophecy says, ..." he gestured with his free hand, glancing from a confused looking Bran, to an even more confused looking Jon. "With dragons!"

The Stark brothers stared at Jojen.

"And how will you convince this Targaryen Princess to use her dragon power for good?" Jon eventually asked. Wasn't the Targaryen House motto... literally... Fire and Blood? They seemed hardly a peaceful bunch, those Targaryens. Would the Princess of a dying dynasty even care for the lives of smallfolk in the North?

"We'll leave that to Theon." Bran remarked with a mysterious smile.

"Huh?!"

Chapter Text

Daenerys Targaryen did her best to hide her shock when she was introduced to her good friend Margaery's husband-to-be, and found him to be neither strong, nor handsome, nor mature-looking. It was not easy to conceal her own volatile emotions which soared upon meeting Tyrion Lannister, and being told this was the man her friend Margaery was so madly in love with. When she finally got a moment with Margaery alone, in the pink garden of primroses, she asked her, in confidence:

"Margie, why on God's green earth are you marrying him? ...Is it for the money? I have heard the Lannisters are very rich, wealthier than House Tyrell by gold. But surely you could find a better looking one. Surely. Is this the only Lannister available for marriage? Can't you... find... an older, more... serious-looking fellow? I don't mean to meddle, but. As your friend, I feel I must say something, before it is too late." Daenerys looked at Margaery imploringly.

But the Lady Margaery only giggled into her hand in response, and looked upon Daenerys as an older sister might look at her younger siblings, right after they had said something foolish.

Daenerys bristled. "Believe me, I'm not hating on your betrothed. I'm only looking out for you. Helping you see some sense before you make the mistake of your life. I know that love is blind and all, but don't you think this is taking that concept a little bit too far?"

Margaery took her by the arm, and led her down a beautiful sunlit path.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Dear," Lady Margaery started, glancing over at Daenerys by her side, without turning her head, from the corner of her eye. "But your speech does make me wonder. Have you ever been in love?"

Daenerys frowned at her. "Of course I've been in love. I've had crushes on boys ever since I was twelve. Possibly even before that..." Daenerys mused, her frown smoothing over, as she watched two butterflies make love in the air.

"No," said Margaery with persistence, pausing their walk, and turning to look Daenerys straight in the face. "Have you ever cared for someone so deeply, ...you would risk your life for them?"

Blinking in stupefied surprise, Daenerys stared back at her friend. Was the Lady Margaery also suicidal, on top of head-over-heels crazy in love?

Margaery continued. "Have you ever met someone you loved so deeply, you would gladly give up your own life for them? Someone you never ever want to be separated from. Someone you would want to spend your whole life with. A person you'd want to keep by your side, for the rest of your life. ...Because without them, life has no meaning. Have you ever felt like that, Dagny?"

Slow to move, Daenerys shook her head no.

A sympathetic smile crossed Margaery's lips. "What do you know about love?"

"Well, ..." Daenerys started to answer, before she realized she didn't really know how to finish that sentence.

Lady Margaery sighed, pulling Daenerys along, and resuming their walk through the flower garden. "When you're a bit older, Dagny, you'll come to realize that it is a man's character that makes him desirable. Not his good looks," Margaery's lips pulled into an amused smile, as she said, "nor the width of his biceps."

Daenerys pursed her lips in distaste. "I don't think I will ever develop feelings for a man who has none of those." She said strictly.

Her friend sounded amused. "None of what? Strong muscled arms, and a pretty face?"

Daenerys shrugged. "It can't be that hard to find a decent man of good character who possesses all those attractive features. Why should Ladies like us have to suffer an unsightly husband? When it's easy as sliced pie to find a presentable looking Lord. And one of good character, also. Off the top of my head, I can think of several men who fit the description. Your brother Loras, ..." Daenerys paused, rethinking the rest of what she had intended to say.

Ser Loras Tyrell was a good man, and handsome too... But he was also very very gay. She couldn't possibly love him. For he would never return those feelings.

But Margaery arched her eyebrows smugly, gazing upon Daenerys from the corner of her eye. "My brother Loras seems to be an exception to the rule. An anomaly, a rare gem among thousands of men who are not quite the same."

"I will give you that," Daenerys nodded. Very few men liked other men. That did make Ser Loras quite rare indeed.

"Before I got to know Yon better," Margaery paused, staring at a budding white rose. She let her hand trail over the stem, avoiding its thorns with practiced ease. "I had never met a man who would actually hold a conversation with me." Her face took on a grim, hard expression. "Most men only see the outside. They stare and look at my body. And I felt flattered by all the attention when I was still a girl. But then... Then it occurred to me that all those men really saw was my face, my lips, my chest, my hair, my legs... None of them truly saw me. None of them wanted to get to know me." She turned her head and looked at Daenerys. "Yon was the first man who did. The only man who did."

"Oh." Daenerys didn't know how to respond to that. It was so far from anything she had expected to hear. So far from anything she had ever considered.

Lady Margaery smiled at her. "And I love him for that. I love him because he makes me feel seen, and heard. And," her smile broadened as she bent her head down to hide it. "He gives me a way out from under Grandmother's thumb. While I love my Grandmother to bits, she can be a little overprotective. I'm not a child anymore. I love this place," she looked around them, then back to Daenerys, "but I will never be Lady of Highgarden. These lands belong to Loras by birthright. At least by marriage to Yon, I can be Lady of Casterly Rock. Do you know how many years I've longed for the freedom of being Lady of my own Castle? And it's different from how it would be, had I married a handsome Knight who was also arrogant and unreasonably full of himself. There's no wound-up Mother-in-law to hate on me at Casterly Rock; no envious younger siblings to despise our kids. I would be accepted by the Lannisters, considered as one of their own. Which means a lot to me. Yon treats me well. I feel he will never make me feel like a foreigner in his lands. And sadly, that is how most Lords treat their Ladies. Except for Yon, ...and my brother Loras." Margaery winked. "They are the exception."

Daenerys hummed, nodding. She could understand this reasoning. Lady Olenna Tyrell had been good to her, but even Daenerys noticed that Margaery's grandmother was a stern woman. And she could be harsh with Margaery's mother, at times. It was perfectly understandable that Margaery did not want that kind of life for herself. The life her mother Alerie lived, under constant surveillance and disapproval of her mother-in-law, Lady Olenna Tyrell.

Lord Tyrion Lannister had no mother. There would be no mother-in-law to make Margaery's life miserable. Her friend had chosen wisely, in that regard.

"But, ..." Daenerys started, nearly stopping herself. Still she felt she had to bring this up. Despite it being a rather vulgar and distasteful subject. "Margie, ...you would have to... You know... Copulate with... with him." She managed to pronounce evenly.

"Well..." an odd, innocent look crossed Margaery's face, as she looked away, off to the side, resting her gaze on a pink rose blooming in the archway above them. Faint dusting of pink covered her cheeks. Was she blushing? If so, that was some of the best controlled blushing Daenerys had ever seen. Margaery sounded a bit guilty when she said: "I did worry, about that... , at first. But then... Yon really makes an effort to please a woman."

Daenerys gasped, eyes going wide. "Margaery!"

The girls both laughed from embarrassment and the new sense of freedom they felt, speaking openly with one another.

"You have..." Daenerys stared at her. "You have already consummated the marriage? Before being wed? Without having exchanged any vows?"

"Well," said Margaery in a higher pitch, "we did say our vows. Only there was no Priest there, ...to witness it."

"Margie!" Daenerys playfully tapped her friend's arm, now laughing from the audacity of her friend. Lady Margaery laughed with her. By the end of it, Daenerys was smiling, whilst shaking her head. "So now of course you have to marry him." She grinned. "Lest you give birth to a Lannister bastard."

Her friend mock-glared at her. Acting and playing pretend that the comment 'upset' her, when it really hadn't. "Now that was uncalled for." Margaery giggled, unable to keep up the act.

Daenerys leaned in, and whispered close by her ear: "How many weeks in are you?"

Margaery held up six fingers.

Staring at her friend, Daenerys took a step back, getting a better look at her. "It doesn't even show..." she whispered in amazement.

The girls giggled, and made their way back inside the Castle, where Ser Loras Tyrell was waiting for them, with a plate of hors d'oeuvres and a cute pot of rose tea. He served them tea like a real gentleman, and listened while the Ladies talked. Daenerys thought he would have made for a wonderful husband... if he hadn't been gay.

"The clothes fit you," Ros said with a smile, looking Bran up and down.

They were on their way down South, to the Reach, now somewhere in the Riverlands, past Acorn Hall. And it was already getting warm here. With the tree leaves having barely turned brown. So they stopped by a merchant's stall, and decided to pick out a fresh change of clothes.

When Bran spotted the exact grey tunic he had worn in the first green dream he'd shared with Jojen, he grabbed hold of the fabric, staring intently at it.

Ros smiled apologetically to the vendor, sliding five coppers onto the counter. "Forgive us please. My son... is special." She inclined her head, batting her eyelashes.

The merchant man grinned. He was missing three front teeth. "Is quite alright. I got me too, some special kids." The man chuckled, rotating a finger in the air close by his own forehead. "Focked in the head, they is." He shrugged. "What can ye do? Gods made 'em that way."

Ros laughed along with the vendor, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, as Bran was acting super weird, staring at that grey tunic like it was some hidden treasure from the ocean floor.

The tunic was of a light grey color, with silver trout fish stitched onto the hem, and smaller fish designs close by the collar. Bran smiled, tracing the stitch-work with a finger. The light grey tunic came with matching dark grey pants, all cut in Southern style, and made of soft cottons and flax linens. They were Riverlander clothes, a perfect fit for this weather.

Once Ros paid for the clothes, and a new set of her own, and they had changed into their new garb, Bran noticed he felt good wearing these. His old woolen breeches from the North had started feeling unbearably hot and heavy awhile ago... It felt good to change into something new, something better suited to the Southern weather. Ros negotiated with a traveling salesman who was dealing in fox pelts from the North, transporting them all the way down to Ashford in the Reach. For a few coppers, and a kiss from Ros, the merchant agreed to let them ride his cart, in the back, all the way to Longtable. From there on out, they would have to find their own way to Highgarden. For the merchant was very clear about not making no detours. And the castle of Ashford itself, was quite the detour on Bran's way to Highgarden. So the fox pelt merchant, and Ros with "her son" Bran, would part afore the cart reached Ashford.

Before they left Winterfell, Ros had made an arrangement with Jon Stark. He would pay for her journey down South, for she really wasn't intending to spend the Winter up North, where it was already freezing, and there was nothing to do for a woman of her profession. For the men all stayed home, or took North to battle. All her best customers had gone. So would she. Ros had already decided that for herself, before Jon came to her with his wild proposal. Jon suggested that Ros might look after his younger brother Bran, pass him off as her own son... Until they got to Highgarden, that is. The little Lord would apparently be attending a feast, there. And from there on out, Bran Stark would be under the protection of King Robert, his Father's friend, who would recognize the boy, and escort him back to King's Landing, where his Father would be waiting for him. This much she was told.

Ros knew better than to ask questions. She took the money, and left. Dressing her newfound "son" Bran in simple browns and blacks, with no trace of his Stark heritage. She was well aware she might get charged for kidnapping, were she to get caught by the Stark Bannermen, before they left the North. The first part of their journey was tense, as both Bran and Ros understood they were on thin ice, crossing through the North in disguise. It helped that Bran looked like a seven-year-old, like he could actually be her son. Ros herself was barely nineteen, though she looked mature for her age. The latter half of their trip gave them more opportunities for leisure. They passed the Neck through the bridge at The Twins, paying the fee, and nobody asked them any questions. Further South, deeper into the Riverlands, Bran thought it safe to pull his hood down. It rained a lot down here, in the Riverlands, his Mother's homeland. But the rain was not cold nor icy as the rains were up North. It was a pleasant, tender rain. The rain here reminded Bran of his Mother.

Bran felt bad for not having written to his Mother before he left. He sighed. But he knew she would have never let him go.

The gambit was simple, really: Jojen had come up with this plan of action. It was brilliant in its simplicity, and in the fact that it just might work. Jon would act like he knew nothing. He would send out a search party to comb through the surrounding lands of Winterfell. By this time, Ros and Bran would be long gone, riding on the back of a merchant's wagon, headed South. The search party would return empty-handed. By this point, Jojen would confess that he knew of Bran's plans to travel South and see his dear sister Arya, because he missed her so. Jojen would apologize for having kept this a secret. That he only did so, out of his friendship for Bran, ...that he felt terrible ratting his friend out like this.

The search parties would then head over to the road leading to King's Landing, and Tarth... where his sister Arya was. Meanwhile... Bran would quietly pass through the roads leading to Highgarden, a good deal west of the roads where the search parties would be searching for him. Jon would reassure Lady Catelyn Stark that they would find her son. And naturally, Sansa and Rickon would keep their Mother company when Jon took his troops North. So regardless, Bran knew his Mother would not be alone. His disappearance might upset her, but she would be comforted by his sister Sansa, and brother Rickon. So that no great harm would come to her.

That was how the boys thought, not knowing what it's like for a mother to lose her own son. Jojen's plan was rock solid, and it did get Bran to Highgarden, but once there, Bran didn't really know where to look for the Targaryen Princess. The dreams hadn't specified a home address, nor any specific details like where he could find her. King Robert and his retinue had not yet arrived at Highgarden. The wedding was to be in three days.

Ros rented a room above a tavern just outside of Highgarden, and resumed her dubious business. The tavern keeper and his wife offered Bran a safe place to sleep, in the same overcrowded room where their seven children slept on bunk beds with mattresses so tough it might as well be plain old oak tree wood. Just as Jojen had predicted, he and Bran shared no more dreams once the distance between them had gotten too great. In the silent hours of the night, listening to the snoring of the tavern keeper's children, Bran would think of Jojen... and that final green dream they shared.

Bran felt incredibly lonely during these few days. It was the first time he was truly alone, as he padded the streets of Highgarden, and the surrounding towns built against the castle walls. Now that he finally had some room to think. On the way here Bran had been so focused on reaching Highgarden on time. But now that he was here... The sense of complete and utter loneliness hit him. Bran realized he was completely left to his own devices, in a land he did not know, walking through a castle where he didn't know anyone. And no one knew him. This was the very first time Bran was far away from home. And despite the thrill of it, the excitement of his own little adventure, ...a gnawing fear had begun to settle in. What if King Robert did not recognize him as Bran Stark, son of his best friend Ned?

They had made no other arrangements for Bran's safe travels back home. And Winter was nearly here... Could he make it back to Winterfell, all on his own, if he had to?

Bran's fears were put to rest when he spotted a small, but shapely young Lady with brown hair and dark glasses, taking a pleasure stroll with her friend, a beautiful young woman with curly brown hair, through the public gardens, one day before the wedding. The two Ladies were unguarded, and looked perfectly comfortable with their surroundings. Not at all hurried nor afraid. Bran stared at the girl wearing glasses... She looked exactly like the girl from Jojen's green dreams. The girl was wearing a flowing deep green dress this afternoon. Her dress was richly decorated with what looked like... embroidered dragon flowers? How clever of the Tyrells. Hidden in plain sight, indeed. Was she... the disguised Princess?

She had to be. Dagny, as Bran remembered from the most recent dream. That would be the name she was using.

...Only one way to find out. Bouncing in his step as a seven year old little child would, Bran bounded over to the two young Ladies. He smiled, stopping in front of them.

The Ladies stopped also. The older one, the beautiful woman with the curly hair, ...the one who was about to be married, Bran recalled, ...smiled warmly at him. "Hello!" She called in a friendly tone, kneeling down to bring their faces at about the same height. She didn't seem to care that her dress got muddied as she did so. Pieces of her pink skirt ended up inside a puddle, stained with ugly brown spots... "You don't seem like you're from around here." The Lady said. "Are you from the Riverlands?" She asked with interest, noticing the trout designs on his tunic.

Bran smiled shyly, feeling a bit lost. He'd originally intended to maintain his own disguise just a little bit longer... Just up to the point where he could talk to the Targaryen Princess, and relay the message from Jojen's dreams. But it didn't seem prudent to lie to the Tyrells, when he would soon enough reveal his true identity to their guest the King. Making last-minute judgment calls to improvise, Bran politely inclined his head, half-bowing to the bride-to-be.

"My mother is from the Riverlands, my Lady." He spoke softly.

"Oh my!" The bride exclaimed, looking up to share a look with her friend the Princess. "What a polite young Lord!" She said, impressed, then turned her attention back to Bran. "We are very happy to have guests from the Riverlands at our wedding. Please accept my gratitude, on your mother's behalf."

"Thank you my Lady."

"Come," she offered him her hand. "Dagny and I were just walking past an adventure playground. You'd love it there! We will tell your Mother where you are, so she shan't have to worry. Tell me child, what's your name?"

Taking the Lady's hand, and letting himself be led towards a children's playground, Bran gulped. He was either going to mess things up royally, and fail at his mission... or...

"Bran," he said truthfully, all while looking the Lady bride in the eye, as they walked, with the disguised Princess following behind them.

The bride-to-be smiled curiously. "What noble House are you from?" She said with fondness mixed with amusement in her tone.

In response, Bran just stared at her. "How did you... know... I'm from a noble House?" He said lamely.

The Lady in pink giggled. "I guessed it." She said simply, shrugging. "Oh, we're already here." They stopped by a meadow with curling slides, and swings, and a see-saw, and an obstacle course, ...where many kids were playing. Bran blinked at the scene. Most of these kids looked younger than he truly was, closer to his own little brother Rickon's age, or... even younger than that. Although Bran spotted a few kids his own age. And due to his own short height, he looked like he fit right in. What struck Bran the most was the smiling, the laughing faces. The children here... were all so... happy. Bran kept staring at the scene before him. Children of the Summer, who did not know Winter. They were the lucky ones.

"My name is Margaery." The pretty Lady said, kneeling beside him again, so their eyes were level. "My cousin Dagny and I are from House Tyrell." She shared a look with her friend, before turning back to Bran. "Your parents came here to celebrate my wedding. As I'm getting married to Lord Tyrion of House Lannister tomorrow." Said the Lady Margaery, sounding very happy about it. "If you tell me your Family name, I can find your Mother on the guest list, and tell her you're here, at this playground." She said brightly, offering him a reassuring, kind smile. "You can play here as long as you like. Well," she wagged a finger, putting on a fake strict face. "Until dinner. Then your Mother will come pick you up."

"Umm," Bran faltered, tenting his brows as he made a quick mental estimate of his remaining options. "I uhm, actually..." Bran sighed.

"It's okay, there's no rush." Margaery placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, patiently waiting for an answer.

"I'm not supposed to be here," Bran said truthfully, echoing Jojen's words from within the green dream.

Lady Margaery raised her eyebrows, shared a look with Dagny, and turned back to Bran. She remained patiently silent though, waiting for him to continue.

Bran sighed, both looking and feeling terribly guilty when he spoke. "I uhm... I ran away from home. Not telling my Mother where..."

Margaery's eyes widened in concern. She did not look cross though, that was a relief. She just looked terribly worried. "Your Mother has no idea where you are...?"

Bran nodded.

"Oh, that must be dreadful." She said, truly looking and sounding out-of-sorts. She shared another look with her friend, while still kneeling by Bran. "Dagny, could you go to my Writing Desk, and fetch me some parchment? I'd like to send a raven to Bran's mother at once. Please call for one. We can send the bird off flying from here. I'll wait for you. The thought of a Mother not knowing where her child is... on my wedding day... Oh, I cannot bear it."

The feeling in her voice did not sound fake. It sounded like Margaery actually cared, which made Bran feel all the worse for putting his own Mother through this... not knowing where her son was.

Still, in spite of feeling awful about it, ...Bran still had a mission. So he put his best puppy dog eyes on display, and turned to the girl in glasses, saying, in the saddest voice he could fake: "Dagny, can you stay? Could you... would you stay here with me, please? ...Please Lady Dagny?"

His speech must have had quite an impact on the Ladies, because they switched up roles without question, caving to the demands of the child. Dagny stayed behind to watch over Bran, while the Lady Margaery rushed off to find pen and parchment, and send for a raven that was to be set aflight immediately.

This was Bran's chance. His one chance, maybe his only chance to speak with Princess Daenerys without anyone else listening in. His one final chance to deliver Jojen's prophecy, the one reason he came all this way. His last chance to complete his mission. He grabbed it with both hands.

Suddenly dropping the 'little child' voice he had put on for sympathy points, Bran looked up at the Princess and spoke to her in his normal voice, which was a good deal lower pitched. Princess Daenerys stared at him in surprise. She let him talk, and listened carefully to each word he spoke.

"My name is Bran Stark, of fortress Winterfell. I am here on behalf of my friend, Jojen Reed, from Greywater Watch. He has the greensight. He gets visions. And I... I was able to share some visions with him. We saw things, ...things of prophecy, ...future events that will surely happen. And you, my Lady, were part of the prophecy my friend saw."

By this point the look on Dagny's face had gone from astonished to suspicious. Bran could not read her eyes: the glasses she wore prevented that. But the rest of her face showed distrust and a quiet hostility, like a snake coiling in the grass, lurking, calculating its next move.

"I know it's difficult to believe," Bran admitted. "When you hear some little child talk of magic and prophecy, but... This was the only way we could deliver the message to you. And it's important you hear this. I'm actually older than you think I am. I'm ten years of age, and my friend Jojen is even older than me. He could not go to Highgarden and tell you about his visions himself. Because, unlike me, he is duty bound to serve a Knight. But we had to tell you somehow..." Bran cringed. He was running out of time. "I saw dragons in my friend's visions." He blurted out, immediately regretting it, when the Lady took a hasty step back.

"Wait," Bran reached out to her. "I know who you are."

That stopped her. In a calm and deadly tone of voice, she demanded: "Who told you?"

Bran felt chills run up his spine as the Targaryen Princess stepped in closer, looming over him.

"No one told me." He assured her. "I saw it in Jojen's green dreams. I saw you, I saw people refer to you by the name Dagny, and... and I saw you run through a great fire, ...completely... unharmed."

Dagny's mouth fell open in shock. After a silence, she asked in a whisper: "Who else knows, besides you and your friend?" Despite the low volume, her voice still sounded menacing... like a dagger hanging on a thread. "Whom did you tell?"

Bran gulped. He felt fear. This was different from the fear that Ramsay Bolton had inspired in him. That fear had been laced with the threat of immediate death. Of coming to a brutal and gory end, at the hands of Ramsay Bolton himself. This fear was different. It was just as potent. But quiet, like a burglar in the night, walking on tiptoe. Holding an invisible dagger to his throat. It wasn't obvious, not out in the open, but he felt it. He felt it in the way Daenerys Targaryen stood before him. Felt it in her powerful pose; graceful but deadly. Her unbreaking glare, like a komodo dragon stalking its prey. And so he decided to tell her the truth.

In a voice barely audible above the noise from the playground, Bran spoke: "We told my older brother Jon Stark. He knows. Jon Stark knows you live, and live in hiding under protection of House Tyrell."

The Princess took a sharp breath. She sounded frightened herself, when she spoke next. "Are you threatening me, Bran Stark?"

She voiced the name Stark with venom, like it was a foul word on her tongue.

Bran shook his head. "No, my Lady."

"Why haven't you told your own Lord Father, and through him, the King? You mean to do so at my friend's wedding feast? Is that why you're here? To ruin Lady Margaery's wedding, and have me arrested, or worse?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?" The Lady Daenerys had grown impatient.

Bran took a deep and steadying breath. He willed his heart to calm itself, so it would let him speak the following words with clarity. However, what came out of his mouth was a jumbled mess of the story.

"A treasure is buried in the Shadow Lands. It has your name on it. Only you can unlock the treasure, Princess Daenerys," he whispered her name. "Only you can awaken the dragon, Daenerys Targaryen, only you. It's your destiny. Magic must return to Westeros. This world is dying..."

"The dragons are dead." Princess Daenerys told him with cold finality. "Your family has seen to that. My brother Rhaegar was the last dragon. And your father killed him."

Bran shook his head. Locks of his own brown hair fell into his face, partly obscuring his vision.

"We saw three dragons circling above castle Winterfell, in the snow. It must have been Winter. And my greenseer friend Jojen is convinced we saw visions of the future. We held dragon eggs in these dreams. The eggs grew warm. They were hatching."

The young woman simply raised her eyebrows at him. Her lips remained flat, not showing any feeling at all. "No one has been able to hatch dragon eggs since the last dragons died. I don't know what you saw in your dreams, Stark, but I don't want any part of it. My friend Margaery will be back soon. I suggest you keep what was said between us, to yourself. For if not, I will do everything in my power to keep you quiet, boy. Don't involve yourself in matters you do not understand." A lengthy pause followed. After which Daenerys Targaryen spoke once more, softly, her voice almost gentle. "I don't enjoy hurting children. So don't force my hand. Please, Bran, can you do that for me?"

There was something poetic about the words 'force my hand'. Quite briefly, Bran considered the possibility of warging into Daenerys Targaryen, and quite literally forcing her hand. If he could warg into Jojen, why couldn't he warg into her? Maybe this was worth a try.

Just as Bran was thinking this, the Lady Margaery appeared from around a trimmed hedge, carrying pen, ink, and parchment. A small dainty raven sat perched on her left shoulder. Bran wondered if this raven could even survive the journey to Winterfell. The raven looked so small and frail.

Lady Margaery seemed to have only caught the last few words Dagny spoke to Bran. The words: "Please, Bran, can you do that for me?" For she approached them with a kind and friendly energy that didn't vibe with the mood between Bran and Dagny.

The Lady Dagny stepped aside, allowing Lady Margaery the space to kneel beside Bran.

Margaery smiled kindly, and talked to him in a soft, reassuring voice. The way a mother would speak to her young child. Reluctantly, and after a lot of talking back and forth, Bran gave her his family name. He did suggest the raven be sent to his Father at King's Landing. For that was a shorter journey than the trip to Winterfell. The poor little raven might not make it to Winterfell, as it looked so small.

Patting him on the shoulder in a motherly way, Lady Margaery told him she would send two ravens. One to his father, and one to his mother. So they wouldn't have to worry. She said Bran would be reunited with his family in no time.

Bran said nothing about Ros, the woman he'd traveled with. The woman who had watched over him, and helped him reach Highgarden. He knew she would be in big trouble if anyone found out what she had done for him. The best way he could repay her, was to keep her involvement a secret.

And so Lady Margaery invited him to stay with them at the castle of Highgarden. She said Bran could meet the King soon, for he was to arrive this evening. The King's Hand, Bran's father, would not be among the King's retinue, for he had business in King's Landing. But the King would surely recognize him, and arrange for his safe travel back home, after the wedding. Until then, Bran was invited to join in the festivities. He might even spend time at the adventure playground, meet some boys of his own age.

Lady Margaery did not ask about Bran's age. She simply assumed he was seven. And so Bran found himself going down a slide for the seventh time that afternoon, mentally berating himself for how he had handled things. He had told Princess Daenerys of the prophecy. But she was more concerned about his ancestry. And she wouldn't believe him. Thinking all the words coming out of a Stark's mouth had to be a trap. Some plot to overthrow her, or undermine her, or something...

She had even threatened to have him disappear. Or... had she?

Bran wasn't entirely sure what Dagny Tyrell's threats even meant. He sure was scared of her. And he was not looking forward to the scolding he would get from Father, when he would join the King's retinue on their ride back to King's Landing.

A few weeks earlier...

Robb Stark didn't believe it until he saw it with his own eyes. The Men of the Night's Watch working together with Wildlings. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and times sure were desperate, with the army of the Living Dead silently encroaching.

A small troop of them, the Wild Folk, were camped out at castle Black. Tents made of animal hides, they carried rudimentary weapons made of stone. Unsophisticated spears, but the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Lord Mance said those spears were apparently exceptionally good at killing White Walkers... Robb supposed the 'Free Folk' had adapted to life Beyond the Wall. Learned to live among White Walkers without being killed. It had made the toughest warriors out of the scant few survivors they had.

Even the women among them were... tough and battle hardened. They were all quite tall, muscular and strong, capable of fighting alongside their brothers. Robb smiled wryly. His little sister Arya would have seen these women as an inspiration. However Robb himself felt nothing but intense sadness and sympathy, looking at these women. They looked worn out. A lot of them wore scars over their lower arms and legs: bite marks and scratch marks from the wild animals they had hunted, and failed to catch. These women had never known peace. They lived in constant battle against the cold, against the wilderness, and against death itself, in the form of the White Walkers.

A young ranger of the Night's Watch, named Grenn, tapped Robb on the shoulder. "We set out for the Fist at dawn, Lord Stark."

Robb nodded. "Will they be joining us, then?" He thumbed at the Wildling tents.

Grenn shrugged. "Not that I know of. Many of 'em are happy to stay here for now."

"Alright. I suppose we could do without the recalcitrant lot."

Just as Robb had spoken these words, a Wildling woman with flaming orange hair walked over to them, placing herself squarely between Robb and Grenn, her back to Grenn. Her attitude was quite aggressive towards Robb, and she looked at him the way a snow cat lynx might look upon an intruder in its cave. She bared her crooked teeth at Robb, and squared her shoulders, standing at full height. This woman was the same height as the ranger Grenn, and a few inches taller than Robb himself. She had tufts of orange hair growing by her ears, like enlarged sideburns, and a little bit of hair covered her chin. Robb supposed the harsh weather conditions, and exposure to extreme cold, would have made the women Beyond the Wall grow hair on their faces, like men do. Even so, the strange little beard did not distract from this woman's beauty. It almost added to it, giving her appearance somewhat of a fierce spice. A deadliness and ferocity that even Robb found quite attractive. He found himself admiring her stormy grey eyes, that glared at him with open hostility.

"If I wanted to be mocked with fancy words, I'd have rode off to your capitol. As plenty o mine sisters did." The woman announced to Robb.

Confused, Robb frowned. "I wasn't mocking you." He said to his defense.

"Don't care. This recreant bitch," she pointed at her own chest, and Robb set his eyes upon it... only it was covered in furs... "will travel along with ye, to the Fist of the First Men. Cause I'm your best hope of making it there, and back, alive. Without being turned into one of them living zombies, nor eaten by the Ice-river Clans. There's White Walkers all over the place, and man-eating Ice-river Tribes stationed in between. I know of a safe route to the Fist. You won't get a mile Beyond the Wall without me."

Robb raised an eyebrow at her. "And who might you be ...?" he asked hesitantly. Then quickly added: "And to my defense, I called your people recalcitrant, not recreant. Which means cowardly. I did not call you that." Robb inclined his head towards the Wildling camp, where some of the men were roasting a large rat... "I called your people recalcitrant, meaning uncooperative towards authority. Which you people are. I didn't mean to insult. I was merely stating a fact. I can't trust you to follow my orders, Beyond the Wall. So I'm finding it hard to trust you lot."

The woman gave him a half shrug, and an actual smile, this time around. She glanced over her shoulder at Grenn, who seemed to be experiencing some internal crisis at the moment: his brows drew deep creases in his forehead. The woman looked back at Robb, still smiling, then casually announced, pointing at the ranger Grenn.

"This cute crow over here trusted me. Why can't you? Lord Stark... Is that another bird? What are you, Southerners, so fond of birds' names?"

"Yes. It's a bird species." Robb said with a sigh. As pretty as she was, this woman was getting on his nerves with her sarcastic responses to everything he said. "Stark birds are a cross between a stork and a lark. A common sight in the Barrowlands, just south of my home seat Winterfell. You know my name. Now will you tell me yours?"

The red headed woman frowned in confusion. With a calmer voice, quieted by her surprise, she posed the following question to Robb: "But if your name is derived from a specie of bird, then... why is the direwolf on your sigil? That don't make sense to me. A bird sigil would be more fitting."

Standing behind her, Grenn burst out laughing. Once his laughter subsided, he stepped around the red-haired woman, placed an arm around her shoulders, and smiled apologetically at Robb.

"Forgive my friend, please, Lord Stark my Lord. She is unaccustomed to the ways of the Realm. Sometimes the words she speaks sound like insults, but I assure you, brother, she means no harm. My friend's name is Ygritte. I should have introduced you sooner. My apologies for that."

Robb looked from Ygritte, to Grenn, and back to Ygritte. He quickly realized the two had some... thing going on, between them. By law it was mandated he should report this to the Lord Commander Mance. As the Brothers of the Night's Watch were not supposed to keep women. But considering the life they were living, and the likely short stretch of time that still remained... Robb thought it equally cruel to deprive these two young lovers of the only joy they would ever have. So he kept quiet about it.

Next morning they set out for the Fist, with a small group of rangers. Among whom Grenn, another young ranger named Rast, a newly recruited man called Karl Tanner, and an older more experienced ranger by the name of Qhorin, with Lord Robb Stark, and... naturally... with Ygritte. The point of this mission was reconnaissance. The Men of the Night's Watch needed to know how many White Walkers were out there. Their Lord Commander Mance needed this information to formulate a battle plan: strategies of how to deal with the oncoming threat. Robb Stark went along with the recon squad because he needed to know. He had to see for himself how bad the situation truly was, before he could call on his Bannermen. He hoped to not need their assistance. Everyone was busy preparing for Winter. They needed all the manpower they could get. And this White Walker attack had come at such an inopportune moment. But the White Walkers were at their strongest in Winter, so it was no coincidence they were showing up now.

This Winter was predicted to be the coldest Winter the North had seen in centuries, for the Summer before it had been very long. Robb Stark had lived a whole of eighteen years, without ever seeing Winter. He had been born in the Summer, he had grown up in the Summer, had become a man in the Summer. All Robb had ever known was Summer. The people in Winterfell used to say that long Summers were followed by even longer Winters... The longest Winter in recorded history had lasted for five generations. Nearly all of humanity had been wiped out, as the White Walkers roamed the land, coming as far South as the Red Mountains of Dorne. A scant few survivors had been left by the shores of the Summer Sea. Many had fled to the Summer Isles. A lucky few had managed the trip over the Narrow Sea into Essos, before the White Walkers seized most of the eastern shores of Westeros.

This Winter happened long before the city state of Sunspear was established. There were no ports built in Dorne, and no boats... apart from the skiffs made by fishermen. This was before the kingdom of Dorne was even named Dorne. Before the lands south of the Red Mountains even had a name.

Robb only knew about the Winter from Old Nan's stories... Old Nan was not a Stark, but she had lived at Winterfell all her life. She was the great-grandmother of Wylis, one forty-three year old retainer to House Stark, who had served Robb's father Lord Eddard Stark during the Greyjoy Rebellion, some ten years ago. And sometimes Robb's Mother Catelyn Stark-Tully would tell about the one Winter she had lived through at Riverrun, which was completely different and incomparable to the Winters of the North. Winters in the Riverlands were usually more like Autumns in the North. Robb's father Eddard Stark had seen true Winter, but Father never spoke of the Winter he had seen. Back then, Robb's uncle, and his Father's older brother Brandon... had still been alive. Perhaps that was why Father never spoke of Winter: the memories of his brother were painful to recall. Uncle Brandon Stark had left them far too young... when the Mad King Aerys had called for him to be executed.

"What you thinking of, boy?" Qhorin asked Robb.

Their group had naturally split up in pairs. With Grenn and Ygritte making up the front, Rast and Karl forming the rear, and Robb walking with Qhorin down the middle. Every now and then, Robb and Qhorin would receive signals from Grenn: go this way, stop, wait, go that way. They would relay the signal to Karl and Rast. They talked in hushed whispers amongst themselves, and sent signals by waving and pointing, trying to keep quiet for the most part.

Robb shrugged, glancing sideways at Qhorin. He was an older man, somewhere in his fifties. Robb reckoned this would not be his first Winter.

"Just some old Folk Tales," Robb admitted. "I do hope your men's reports are exaggerated. The last thing we need is a repeat of the Long Night."

Qhorin snorted. "Pfah. That's what we all hope for. But we got to be prepared for when worst comes to worst."

Robb nodded. "How long you reckon to the Fist?"

Qhorin shrugged. "Two days' journey. With this weather, three days' journey. Least before, we could stop by Craster's Keep."

Robb raised an eyebrow at his companion. "Why we can't stop there now?"

The older man stopped to stare at him, lengthily studying Robb's face. They heard the footfalls of Rast and Karl crunching in the snow, catching up to them, before they resumed walking again. Qhorin shook his head wearily, looking down at the snow he was trampling on. "That place has been overrun with White Walkers. Hasn't Grenn tell ye? He nearly escaped with his life. That girl saved him. Is why we took those Wildlings in. People from 'er Tribe, they are."

Robb nodded solemnly. It did indeed take them three days to reach the top of an icy mountain, aptly named the Fist of the First Men. A fist shaped rock grew out of the top of the mountain hill, sticking out of the snow.

"This be where we found 'em spearpoints." Ygritte clarified, gesturing at the rock, while talking to her friend Grenn. Who merely nodded.

Qhorin however raised an eyebrow, upon hearing this. "Ye didn't forge 'em yerself?"

Ygritte shook her head no.

"Hmmm... Remarkable. Those things have always been there. I wonder if the First Men made 'em." Qhorin stepped closer to Ygritte's weapon, and admired the spearpoint. Marveling at its craftmanship.

They put up three tents, hidden from the wind against the fist shaped rock. Grenn lodged with Ygritte, because of course he did. Robb raised an eyebrow at them, and looked at Qhorin, but the man didn't seem to care one bit. Karl Tanner disappeared into his shared tent with Rast. Looking at them together, Robb wondered if the man swung that way... Karl at least looked like he might. The forceful way he seemed to push Rast around, the almost predatory closeness with which Karl approached Rast from behind, telling him he'd set up their tent...

Robb shook his head, clearing his thoughts of all this madness. He was not here to study the sexuality of some Men of the Night's Watch. It took some time for him to fall asleep, that night on the Fist. He could have sworn he heard panting and moaning coming from Rast and Karl's tent. Or maybe he imagined it. But once he had fallen into a deep sleep, Robb felt the thrill of his life when that sleep was broken.

It was broken by a scream.

Before this journey Beyond The Wall, Robb had never known older men could scream. And yet here he was, lying on his back, in his shared tent with Qhorin. The roof of their tent had been torn open.

Snow was falling onto his face in cold white droplets.

But that was not what had woken him. Neither had the tearing of the tent done much, in that regard. Robb had slept through all of that. What he couldn't sleep through, though. What had bothered him, and roused him from his sleep, was the horrified scream that left Qhorin's mouth as he stood over Robb, slashing away at something with his sword.

The something kept coming at Qhorin, no matter how many times he struck. No matter how much the man screamed.

Robb blinked. He grabbed his own sword, the Valyrian steel family broadsword named Ice, instinctively. And sat up straight, as he started to see what Qhorin was battling...

That was no wild animal, no ordinary Wildling either... not some weird cannibal from the Ice-river Clans. No...

That was a White Walker. A living dead man kept coming at Qhorin, long after Qhorin had chopped his head off.

The headless man pushed forward, grabbing onto Qhorin's arm, hauling the poor guy up in the air. Robb's breath caught in his throat. As he realized with a startling chill that swords wouldn't work against a White Walker. They were essentially surrounded by God knows how many men. And completely weaponless, save for Ygritte and her special spear that could cut down a White.

At that exact moment, the White Walker bashed Qhorin's head roughly against the solid rock wall by which their tent had been placed. Blood spattered everywhere, and Robb knew that his teammate Qhorin was dead.

Knowing it was pointless, but still trying, Robb raised his own sword. He glared at the White Walker's dispassionate face. Hatefully frowning at the monster, Robb yelled a battle cry, mostly to pep himself up. To forget about his fear. And he let the anger and hatred drive him on. He charged at the White Walker, slashing the zombie with his sword.

Half expecting to die, half expecting nothing at all. He just wanted to do something. Robb just needed an outlet for all that anger. The anger of watching his comrade die. The frustration of not being able to do a thing about it. With hateful tears in his eyes, Robb slashed and slashed at the zombie. He panted, spent. Bent down, resting his hands on his knees.

Only when Grenn and Ygritte found him, did he realize the White Walker was dead. And no longer moving about. No longer trying to kill him. Dead dead.

Only when the three of them ran into Karl and Rast, and they jumped in to defend their brothers against another White Walker, only then... did Robb realize his sword was different from Grenn's. Different from Karl's, different from the sword with which Rast fought, and completely different from the type of sword that Qhorin had been given to use.

Without fail, Robb's sword sliced through the White Walkers like butter on a Summer's day...

"We got to... burn the bodies..." Ygritte said, panting.

Robb just stared at his family broadsword Ice, as the rest of his team took to building a fire. "Let me see that spear you carry, Ygritte." He finally managed to get out.

Wordlessly, she gave it to him.

With a deep crease on his forehead, Robb studied the material. "This isn't made of stone. This looks like glass!" His own reflection was visible in the firelight, broken in a hundred pieces. A dark, black kind of glass...

Ygritte shrugged. "Don't know what it is. Don't really care." She took her spear back from him.

But Robb shook his head, pointing at his own sword. "This sword was made in Valyria. It was forged using dragons."

Grenn snorted a laugh. A gruff laugh of sarcasm, to relieve the tension of the day. "Dragons don't exist."

"Least of all, here." The other ranger, Karl Tanner added in.

Robb looked all four of them in the eye, speaking slowly. "Valyrian steel swords are special. They were made centuries ago, passed down from father to son. Nearly all the old noble Houses have at least one in their possession. If these swords work like I think they work, ...then we can use them to bring down the White Walkers, once and for good. Even with no dragons."

Rast frowned, finally comprehending what Robb was saying. "Shall I send a raven to castle Black?"

To this, Robb replied with a curt nod. "Tell them to send this message to my brother Jon Stark, acting Lord of Winterfell." Then he began dictating a message, as Rast hurriedly wrote.

Present day...

Tyrion found the two Ladies in the gardens: his intended, and her good friend Dagny.

"Hello," he said, walking over to them.

Margaery immediately pulled away from her friend, and the most exuberant smile blossomed on her face. "Darling, it's so good to see you."

As she leaned down to kiss him, Tyrion noticed how Dagny coolly averted her gaze, turning her head away, with a scowl on her lips. Then he shut his own eyes and gave in to passion. After they had shared a kiss, Tyrion sat down on a ledge overlooking the towns below, remaining by Margaery's side, as the Ladies admired the golden glow of the late afternoon.

"I know it's... bad luck for the groom to see the bride on the day before the wedding, but..." Tyrion smiled guiltily, gazing up at Margaery with half-lidded eyes. "I simply couldn't resist."

Margaery returned the seductive smile. "Anyway that stupid superstition comes from a long and awful cultural tradition of little girls marrying ancient men they had never known before their wedding night. That hardly applies to us."

Suddenly very much aware they were not alone, Tyrion blinked, his mouth falling open in surprise, as he cast a cautious look at Dagny. Who was looking away from him and Margaery, like she was trying to pretend he wasn't there.

Tyrion turned a confused look at his bride. "Dagny knows... you are... pregnant?" he said in a soft voice no one but Margaery could hear.

Lady Margaery smirked. "Of course she does, my Love. We keep no secrets from each other. Everything I know, I can tell my cousin Dagny. We are like sisters." Margaery leaned over, placed an arm around Dagny's shoulders, and gently squeezed, giving her 'cousin' a half hug.

Dagny responded with a nervous smile that looked faked on the spot.

"I see..." Tyrion offered them a fake smile in response. "Then," he quickly glanced about them, and, seeing the three of them were truly alone, he carried on in a quieter tone. "We need to discuss some practical matters now. A bit more detailed than the strategies we talked of earlier, with your grandmother Lady Olenna. These details do not concern her, not really. As it's mostly something us three should know about, if we are to coordinate our plans." The Ladies nodded, and Tyrion continued. "It wouldn't do to depose the King during our wedding festivities, Gaery. That would be too soon. We must wait, let the knowledge of our union sink in. Then, when you give birth to an Heir," he said to Margaery, "we can move forward with our plans."

A frown etched itself on the Lady Dagny's forehead. "How can you be so certain that by this time, the King will be dead?"

"A hunting accident..." Tyrion shrugged, purposefully leaving his answer vague. In truth, he himself had not yet outlined the details of King Robert's death. But he knew the man had more enemies than friends in his midst, one of whom just happened to be Tyrion's own sister... Cersei Baratheon-Lannister. If push came to shove, he knew how to press his own sister's buttons. Tyrion knew the right words to say that would make his sister do as he wanted her to. Without her even knowing she was being manipulated.

Dagny nodded slowly.

"When the Winter is in full swing," Lady Margaery picked up where Tyrion had left off, "we raise the prices on grain. And watch the Realm crumble as no one is able to pay."

Princess Daenerys looked displeased with this knowledge. "Millions will starve to death..."

"Yes," Tyrion spoke in support of his future Wife. "Millions will starve to death. And I will give the decree to my men that not a penny be loaned to the Crown, until they pay off their debt."

"Which they will not be able to do." Said the Lady Margaery, finishing his sentence.

Tyrion smiled at her. "Which they will not be able to do," he repeated the words he had been about to say. They shared a smile. Tyrion reached over, and grasped Margaery's free hand, and held it.

"And what then?" Daenerys asked, looking conflicted. "Most of my subjects will have died by then... What are we going to do, then?"

Tyrion turned his attention back to the girl, not letting go of his woman's hand. "Well, we press the issue. Our armies will be the only armies well fed enough to pose any threat on the battlefield. King Joffrey will have no choice, but to sign over the Iron Throne, to you. If he is stupid, we will have to kill all his men, and make him sign over rulership of the Realm. But my nephew is not stupid. I know him. He would rather choose life, than certain death for himself and all his retinue, at the hands of cold, and Winter, and certain starvation. I'll send him off to Stagsden, when he is deposed. He can live out his days in the North, as Lord of Stagsden, where Baratheons belong. And I shall support your reign, Daenerys Targaryen, serving as your Hand, if you let me."

Dagny frowned. "Until then, ...we have to keep the peace with the Usurper King, and make him feel like we are his friends...?" She mumbled, only half believing what she was saying.

Tyrion nodded exuberantly. "Exactly the point I was trying to make. We want the King on our side for as long as we can fool him into thinking we are his friends. That means you shouldn't shy away from meeting the King, my dear Cousin Dagny." A sly grin formed on Tyrion's lips. "It would be better if you were introduced to his Majesty as a member of House Tyrell. Let him be acquainted with you as Dagny Tyrell. He wouldn't have reason to doubt your presence in my Lady Margaery's home." Tyrion shared a look with his future Wife. Then he looked back at the girl. "We will tell him you have an eye condition. That your glasses cannot be taken off. King Robert would never even consider the possibility that..."

"Some people in the North seem to know who I am." Dagny cut him off, ending Tyrion's fleeting feeling of triumph.

"Whatever do you mean?" Margaery asked, also sounding out-of-sorts.

Dagny's voice remained impassive as she spoke, her brows placid. "That boy we found earlier? Bran Stark? It appears he was a messenger for a greenseer by the name of Jojen Reed, along with Bran's older brother... A man named Jon Stark. Have you heard of him? He is related to Lord Eddard Stark, acting Hand of the King, and the man who killed my eldest brother Rhaegar."

A coldness settled over Tyrion... a chilly foreboding feeling. It was never a good omen, when men of the North were involved. "How do they know?" he said, looking from his Wife, to Daenerys.

The Princess groaned with frustration. "His friend is a seer. Didn't I just say that? He has the gift of foresight. He gets visions. He saw me in one of his prophecies. That's the reason he sent the boy here, to tell me of his visions."

Lady Margaery sounded truly disturbed when she said: "That little boy is a seer?"

"No." Daenerys said firmly. "His friend Jojen Reed is. This kid was only a messenger. But some people in the North know who I am. They know you are harboring me. The boy is related to the Hand of the King. One word to him, and it will all be over for us."

Tyrion frowned. "They haven't told him yet?"

The girl shook her head. The folds of her green dress moved as she did so.

"Why?" Tyrion pressed. "What's their angle? Why even approach you now, right before our wedding celebration?"

Daenerys heaved a sigh, angling her head up, to gain a better view of the cloudless blue heavens. "They say there are dragons in Essos. And they want me to go find them."

"Absolutely not." Said Tyrion before anyone else could.

The Ladies turned their heads to look at him.

"It's a well concocted lie to get you out of Westeros." Tyrion elaborated. "I don't know how they found out about your heritage, and I can't say who could have leaked the information... But it is awfully suspect that a group of Northmen would approach you with some prophecy, your Highness. Especially when this prophecy would lead you into the chaos that is Essos, at a time when you are finally here, in Westeros, where you belong, and our plans are this close to fruition. These men want to lead you astray. I wouldn't trust a single word of what they tell you."

"Have you heard of this... Jojen Reed?" Daenerys asked him.

"Can't say I have." Tyrion folded and refolded his shirt sleeves... thinking. "House Reed is well known for its magic. There have been many greenseers from House Reed in the past. The distant past, that would be centuries before even your father's reign. In the time of dragons."

Lady Margaery gasped. "Even I did not know that. Yon, your knowledge of History and Geography is truly remarkable."

He smiled faintly, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks. "Well, ...one spends so much time in the library... one is bound to pick up something."

Margaery gazed upon him with admiration. That only made his face burn even more.

Their moment was cut short when Dagny interjected. "You never heard of Jojen?"

Tyrion sighed, reluctantly turning away from the woman he loved, and addressing the girl. "Even if a man by that name exists, there is no way he could possibly foretell the future. For starters, how many futures are there? The Seven Faced God gave us free will. Meaning none of us are bound to some predestined future. Any man, or woman, makes his own path, with his own choices. There's a billion futures that could happen, possibly more. Just because the young Starks want a certain future to happen, doesn't make it so."

Daenerys nodded, slowly, taking it in.

"And besides," Tyrion continued. "Magic died with the last dragons. The North has no magic. Certainly no wizards with crystal balls who can tell you the future. Magic is dead."

"What of..." Dagny started, then stopped, sounding a little embarrassed when she spoke. "I had a nurse in Pentos, ...when I was a lot younger. She's from the North originally... Mordane, she calls herself. I haven't seen her in years, but... When I was little, she used to tell me stories. Tales of cold Winters, in the North. When the Dead rise, and march on the Living. She used to speak like this was a real thing. So... are the White Walkers... also... a myth?"

Tyrion blinked at her, suddenly at a loss for words.

Margaery's voice sounded troubled and clipped when she responded, speaking for him. "Why do you think The Wall was built?"

Daenerys raised one eyebrow. "...To keep the Wildlings out?" she said uncertainly.

Margaery and Tyrion shared a look.

"You think we'd need seven hundred feet of ice for that?" said Margaery, gently patting Daenerys on the shoulder. "To keep out men who fight with spears. People who have no swords, and no armor... You think we built an enormous ice wall, higher than any castle wall, just to keep out some Wildlings?"

"But you said..." Daenerys started, looking at Tyrion. "You said magic is dead."

Tyrion nodded. "So are the White Walkers. Sadly, death cannot stop them. Only life can."

Lady Margaery Tyrell's dress was all white, like snow. She wore a sparkling green necklace with the most vibrant emeralds Daenerys had ever seen. The necklace drew attention to the deep plunge of the neckline on Margaery's dress. The day was extremely warm, it had started so, even from the very morning. And her friend's dress fit this weather perfectly well. Margaery's back was completely exposed, only covered by her flowing mass of golden brown hair, that was woven in with white clematis flowers. Her chest was covered in emeralds, with the white of her dress just barely covering her breasts, for the sake of decency. An opaque light green veil shrouded Lady Margaery's face. She was carrying a huge bouquet of freshly cut white roses in her arms.

Daenerys herself mingled among the bridesmaids, carrying a woven basket of white rose petals, and letting them grace the air. Margaery had ten bridesmaids in total, so Daenerys hardly stood out. They all wore elegant silver dresses, decorated with green embroidery of vines, all over the bodice of their dresses. Five bridesmaids helped carry Margaery's white bridal skirt, trailing along behind her, as her Father the Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden led his daughter up to the podium of the sept.

The wedding guests were seated on rows of chairs below. Unlike at typical weddings, the bride's family was seated together with the groom's family, intermingled. Lord Tywin Lannister, the groom's father, sat squeezed in between Lady Olenna Tyrell, the bride's grandmother, and Lady Alerie Tyrell-Hightower, the bride's mother. The groom's sister, Queen Cersei Baratheon-Lannister, sat beside Lady Alerie. And the bride's aunt, Lady Mina Redwyne-Tyrell, was seated on the other side of Queen Cersei. Followed by the King Robert Baratheon, by law, the groom's brother. Then the brother of the bride, the Knight Ser Loras Tyrell. The final seat on the first row of wedding guests was taken by the brother of the groom, the Knight and Lord Commander of the King's Guard Ser Jaime Lannister.

The groom himself, Lord Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, a man of uncommonly short stature, was standing on the podium beside the Septon, awaiting his bride. He was dressed in robes of gold that sparkled in the sunlight which filtered in through the stained glass. His clothes were not half as revealing as his bride's, however... Daenerys noted that the fashion of clothes Tyrion wore on this day was more Southern than Western... Tyrion's shoulders were completely bare; the sleaves looping around his back to connect with the rest of his shirt. And the neckline of his shirt reached down to his belly button, exposing a surprisingly well shaped chest... for his size. The gold cloth of his shirt did cover his nipples, for decency's sake. But he still wore one large blood red ruby pendant right in the center, calling undue attention to his exposed chest.

Once Lord Mace Tyrell had brought his daughter to the altar, and nodded to the groom, he hastened off to be seated on the second row of wedding guests. Daenerys and the other bridesmaids took this as their cue to leave their baskets of white rose petals, and the five who had been holding Lady Margaery's skirt, let her skirt fall. They all sat down together, on the seventh row of wedding guests. Daenerys sat beside Margaery's cousin Desmera Redwyne, daughter of her aunt Mina Redwyne-Tyrell, and also a bridesmaid of Margaery's. Guests of lesser importance, such as the strange boy from the North, named Bran Stark, were seated further in the back of the sept, closer to the exit. Daenerys didn't mind if the boy missed the ceremony. She was frankly surprised he had bothered attending at all. Very few children showed an interest in being here, not unless their relatives made them go. Then again, the boy was here on orders of a man named Jojen Reed, and another stranger named Jon Stark... Northmen closely related to the man who had brought ruin upon Daenerys her own family, the Targaryens. Daenerys felt wary of the child. He had acted as a messenger, and he seemed to have knowledge of things he wasn't supposed to know. The Usurper King Robert had also recognized the boy the instant he laid eyes upon him, when he arrived at Highgarden yesterday evening. Even the faces of both the Queen, and the Lord Commander of the King's Guard, Ser Jaime Lannister, had shewn a flicker of recognition upon meeting the boy. A lot of people in high places seemed to know who the boy Bran Stark was... He posed a possible threat Daenerys would do well to not underestimate.

The King and his retinue however, had not even questioned it, when she was introduced to them as Dagny Tyrell last night. They regarded her as just another Tyrell, just another cousin of the bride. So did most of the groom's family. It seemed none of the Lannisters, besides Tyrion Lannister himself, were in on it. Nobody knew who she was.

Lady Margaery reached up, and lifted the veil from her face, letting it rest over her hair and the top of her head. She looked beautiful today. Her eyelashes touched with a small amount of makeup, red lips sparkling in the sunlight. Daenerys felt so happy for her friend. Lady Margaery was finally becoming a Lady in her own right. Soon she would have Ladyship over a Castle, all of her own. This was a grand moment for her. Margaery laid her bouquet of white roses down on the altar, before the Septon.

A hush of respectful silence fell over the sept, as guests ceased their whisper gossiping, and turned their attention to the Septon. Margaery and Tyrion stood facing each other. Tyrion's head barely made it past Margaery's waist, but they managed to link their hands together without further aid of a ladder. The Septon said a prayer, then draped a blessed ribbon around their joined hands, and began the official ceremony.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls. Binding them as one, for eternity."

Daenerys noticed the loving looks both Margaery and Tyrion cast one another. She still couldn't make sense of it, but she supposed she would at least accept it, for her friend Margaery's sake.

"Father," said Tyrion, looking longingly up into Margaery's eyes.

"Smith," said Margaery, gazing with unconcealed desire upon Tyrion.

"Warrior," spoke Tyrion, a sly crooked twist to his mouth.

"Mother," in response Margaery said to him, giving him a toothy grin of her own.

Daenerys couldn't help a secretive smile then, also. Nobody else knew that the Lady Margaery was pregnant. It really didn't show. Margaery looked so innocent and sweet in her white dress. Like she had never known the touch of a man. Only her wicked smile said otherwise.

"Maiden," said Tyrion, sounding somewhat amused.

"Crone," said Margaery, in a happy voice that sounded like Summer rain.

"Stranger," they both said together. Both speaking in soft, seductive tones.

Daenerys clasped a hand over her own lips, to stop herself from giggling. She glanced about the sept. No one else seemed to have caught on to the blatant innuendo on full display here.

"I am yours," both Tyrion and Margaery said to each other, looking only at each other.

And it was like the rest of the world had faded away, for them. Like the wedding guests, the sept, the Septon, the Reach, the Westerlands, and even the entire Realm... did not matter any longer. Like all that existed was them alone. They seemed so wrapped up in each other. Off in a world of their own making. Daenerys stared at the couple, and finally... she was beginning to understand. The kind of love her friend Margaery had spoken of. It was evident from the way Margaery looked at Tyrion, the revering way he beheld her. Like she was his Goddess, and he was her God. And they were together, Goddess and God, Flower and Flame, Lustre and Carnage. Even the Seven Faced God did not matter. They rose above the Seven Faced God, their union signified more than that. A phrase Daenerys had heard during her travels came to mind... the Faith of the people of Yi Ti... something the young woman Missandei had spoken of. For she had adopted the Faith that was commonplace in Yi Ti. Forgetting the precise wording Missandei had used, Daenerys ran the ideas through her head.

The Maiden of Light... Lady Margaery in her snow white dress, shimmering emeralds in the sun.

And her royal consort, ...the Lion of Night... the small, malformed Lord Tyrion, clad in gold like a Lannister lion, with that haunting blood red ruby over his chest, promising bloodshed and war, and the raising of armies... Armies that would carry Daenerys onto the Iron Throne, at least that was the plan. With fire and blood, just as the single blood red gemstone hanging over his chest suggested.

Daenerys felt this was a sign. A sign from the Gods. What the sign meant, she did not know. Perhaps that they were practicing the wrong religion. That the Seven Faced God was not the God she should be praying to. Or... or that there was some truth to the rumors of dragons living in the Far East. That she might find some great treasure there, that her destiny lay in Yi Ti, and the Shadow Lands that bordered that region of the known world. And perhaps she ought to travel there... She looked above, at the ceiling of the sept, searching for guidance, answers, ...something, as the couple said the rest of their vows.

"And you are mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

The Septon spoke next. "You may now cloak the bride, and bring her under your protection."

Daenerys looked back upon the wedded couple, and saw that the holy ribbon was untangled from their clasped hands. Lord Tyrion let go of Margaery's hand for long enough to pick up a huge blood red cloak, that Daenerys had not noticed before, as it had lain folded upon the altar. Tyrion shifted a small ladder towards Lady Margaery, and she turned her back to him, and knelt slightly. As he climbed the ladder with the blood red cloak in hand.

Tyrion draped the cloak over Margaery's shoulders, and in an instant, she was all blood red, as the cloak engulfed most of her body. Only the long part of her snow white skirt still peeked out from under the deep bloody red of the cloak. The cloak even covered Margaery's hair, her long hair with white flowers that was splayed over her naked back. The red cloak covered it all. A golden yellow lion was embroidered over the center of the blood red cloak. The Lannister lion was standing on its hind legs, front paws up in the air, ready to attack. Tyrion climbed down from the ladder, and set it aside. Margaery turned to face him, and they clasped their hands again.

The whole sept cheered for them, and Daenerys joined in, as the Septon pronounced them Man and Wife.

"Let the Lady Margaery be known from today onward, as Lady Margaery Lannister-Tyrell of Casterly Rock, in holy union with her Husband the gallant Lord Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, Lord Commander of the Westerlands. You may now kiss your Wife, my Lord."

They didn't bother with the ladder, this time around. Tyrion all but sprung into Margaery's waiting arms, and they held each other tightly as they kissed, with not a care in the world. Even the mocking laugh of Lord Tyrion's sister, the Queen Cersei Baratheon-Lannister, could not faze them. Because they truly did not give a flying daffodil what anyone thought of them and their marriage. Daenerys quickly noticed Margaery only had eyes for Tyrion, and the only woman he saw, was her.

After a great deal of clapping and cheering, the two eventually broke their kiss, and Tyrion leapt back down to the floor, landing gracefully. Two bridesmaids helped Margaery remove the long white tail from her wedding dress. So she could walk around unhindered, without needing the assistance of five bridesmaids carrying her skirt behind her. Margaery picked the bouquet of white roses up from the altar, and announced to everyone in the sept that she was having the bouquet toss tradition next.

A group of mostly young women and girls, but a few boys too, gathered just below the nearest flower balcony outside the sept. Desmera Redwyne ran over to join them, pulling Daenerys along with her, giggling. Daenerys reluctantly let herself be pulled along, into the throng of unmarried youngsters. She didn't really know why she was there. But she supposed, since everyone her age and younger was doing this, she might as well partake. To be part of the crowd, and not stand out so much, with her dark glasses being the only peculiar thing about her now.

Daenerys paused when she spotted the Stark boy among the crowd of young women and girls and boys vying for the bridal bouquet. She raised an eyebrow at him, but he only smiled cryptically in response. She shook her head, looking away from Bran Stark. She rested her attention on Margaery who now stood on the balcony above them, with her back turned to them, the blood red cloak with the golden yellow lion still draped over her shoulders. But now with her golden brown hair, woven with white clematis flowers, spilling over the blood red cloak.

As everyone around her did, Daenerys likewise held her hands out, ready to catch the bouquet should it come flying her way. She didn't think she had any chances of actually catching it, seeing as some of the girls were actively competing for the bouquet up front. Pushing and shoving at each other playfully. For as tradition went, the person to catch the bridal bouquet would be the next one to be wed.

So a group of young Ladies who already had a young man in mind, or were betrothed to one, had actively placed themselves close to the balcony. With outstretched arms, standing on tiptoe, they tried to maximize their chances of grabbing the bouquet from the air. One lad, possibly sixteen or so, was a lot taller than Daenerys herself, and had placed himself in front of her. So she was certain should the girls closest to the balcony not catch it, then he would. Daenerys smiled, amused by all the fuss they were making over a bunch of white roses. But tradition was tradition.

Margaery shouted that she had closed her eyes. She swung the bouquet around in her hand, counting down from ten. As the group of youngsters counted, with her.

"One!"

And she threw the bouquet of white roses, over her shoulder, from the balcony, into the crowd, not looking where.

It sailed over the heads of the first girls. One of them jumped, trying to snatch it. But this girl was rather short, and due to her height, she only managed to scrape part of the rose stems, with the tips of her fingers. Luckily the roses had been dethorned. So the girl's hands did not bleed from the contact.

Then the boy lunged for it. Daenerys was certain he would catch it, tall as he was. But for some reason, the boy appeared to have bad timing, for he was a split second too late. And the bouquet flew past his waiting hands.

More young people threw themselves onto the path of the bouquet. But as they had started moving when the bouquet was already falling, they couldn't catch up with the thing. And it refused to be caught by the people most eager to catch it.

Thus it was that Daenerys found herself on a collision course with the bridal bouquet, purely by chance. And the bunch of white roses neatly fell into her open hands, without her having to move at all. She blinked at it, in surprise. The crowd of youngsters dispersed about her, and as Lady Margaery turned, she gave her friend Daenerys an exuberant jovial smile.

"Good going Dagny! You'll be the next one of us to be happily wed!"

Daenerys stared up at her friend. "But I don't even..." she muttered, as her words got swallowed by the cheering of the crowd. "...I'm not even betrothed to anyone yet."

She did not yet have anyone she loved. Not enough to tie her soul to... And there were young people here, who all evidently had someone in mind. What did it mean that Daenerys caught the bridal bouquet? When it could be years before she found someone she wished to marry... Would that mean all the other young women and girls and boys here would have to wait? But that wasn't fair...!

Desmera Redwyne reassured her, by clapping Daenerys on the shoulder, then rubbing her back fondly. "I'm certain your Prince Charming will find you soon, Dagny."

Daenerys offered a weak smile in return.

Desmera wasn't aware of Daenerys her true identity, that she actually was a real Princess, a Targaryen Princess... Desmera Redwyne had spoken those words unthinkingly. As a mere figure of speech, meaning a handsome young man, fit for marriage. Unknowingly, the Gods had guided her tongue to the truth... For whoever Daenerys would be marrying, they would become a Prince. That much was true.

Daenerys looked down at the bouquet of white roses still in her hands. Whoever it was, they better come into her life soon, Daenerys thought. For else it wouldn't be fair to all the other young women and girls and boys in the crowd today, who were wanting to catch this bouquet. Then Daenerys smiled. She knew for sure he would be handsome, whoever he was, and strong, and manly, adult-like... not a boy. And he would surely be taller than her, that much she promised herself. A tall, stunning, Westerosi young man, fit to be a warrior, a man who would fight for her. She shut her eyes then, and pictured him. Breathing in the scent of the white roses in her arms. She pictured dark hair pushed apart by the wind, being held by a set of strong arms, a deep husky voice in her ear, as they flew through the sky. The smell of sea salt... the sound of ocean waves... Fire, and dragon wings.

Her eyes flew open in shock. With silent terror, her gaze locked with that of the child Bran Stark, who was silently observing her from the side. When she blinked, he was gone.