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The Thrice Damned

For five and twenty years he had been surrounded by nothing but ice and snow. Five and Twenty years since King’s Landing had been razed, he killed the woman he loved, and his cousins had betrayed him, taken their thrones, and sent him back to the Wall. Castle Black held too many painful memories. Memories of Maester Aemon, who rejoiced at any word of his niece across the sea, the woman he killed with a knife to the heart, of Jeor Mormont, whose house held the most ardent supporters for Robb, Dany, and himself, which ended at the battle of Winterfell. Of losing brothers at the Battle below the wall, holding Ygritte as she died in his arms, and of Seven Knives to the heart. He had realized several years into his exile that he wasn’t any better than Alister Thorne and the other traitors who killed him. They all thought they were doing the right thing, that they didn’t have any other choices. But no. He was worse. He’d felt the pain of betrayal, the hurt that was colder than the kiss of the steel as you spent your last few moments wondering why as you fell into the abyss. But he did it anyways.

“Ask me again in ten years” the Imp had told him. From what the few traders who came to his shack had said, Bran’s reign didn’t even last that long. He and Tyrion both died during some rebellion where a few kingdoms declared their independence. Sam too. He never understood why he thought Sam’s grief about his traitor family was grounded in reality. Only hours before Dany executed them, they’d sacked Highgarden, they were no better than the Boltons. If he wasn’t distracted by Sam revealing his true parentage, he’d have told him as such. Punish him for speaking treason. ‘He knew it’d turn you against her. He wanted revenge.’ The voice in his head said. Sansa didn’t last long either. Less than a year into her reign He had lords come North begging for him to return, it turns out that independence after a decade of devastating wars wasn’t a very smart plan. She had been hanged from the walls of Winterfell less than two years later. His childhood home going to some fucking Flint through his great-grandmother.

The Freefolk tried to name him their King. King Beyond The Wall. He still duhn’ wahnt et. He betrayed the Freefolk too, going back to the Watch the first chance he got. He was about to kill Mance under a flag of parley before Stannis showed up. It seems he always was a traitor. His honor was fleeting and far between, and it should’ve been even less. What did honor do for him? Have him freeze his arse off at a glorified penal colony to protect Ned Stark’s? Kill Ygritte, Dany? Maester Aemon’s words haunted him all these years later. “What is honor compared to a woman’s love?” A mummery, that’s what. When he thought about it his cousins he felt like a monster. He didn’t mourn them, just that he didn’t get to watch them die. With their deaths, his wish for vengeance died too. He supposed it should’ve been cathartic, knowing their betrayal lead to their downfall, but he wanted the satisfaction himself. “He who passes the sentence should swing the sword”.  He and Robb were the only “Starks” who held true to Ned Stark’s adage. Bran and Sansa couldn’t swing a sword, and Arya decided that he had to be the one to kill his Dany, Faceless Assassin or not, and become a kinslayer.

He rejected the Freefolk just like he rejected her. They gave him their love, and he pushed them away. They still brought him news and supplies, but he wanted to suffer. It’s what he deserved. That Day in the Red Keep Drogon could’ve burnt him, but he knew that letting he live would be a harsher punishment. One he deserved. He built himself a shack in the far north, near the Lands of Always Winter with no company but Ghost and ghosts. He quickly found that the fermented goat’s milk Tormund favored helped keep them quiet and helped him sleep. He’d still wake up in a sweat, reliving that moment, and swear he saw her platinum tresses around the walls, but no matter how often he chased them, she was gone.

For three and thirty years Ghost was at his side. His one true companion had been getting slower over the years, till one night he just didn’t wake up. He didn’t think he could feel anymore, but that morning when the realization set in that he was truly alone, he was proven wrong. He wept like he hadn’t in years. That day, he finally decided he had nothing left to live for. He told himself that he didn’t want to leave Ghost alone, but the truth is, he didn’t have the courage to do it before then. He set Ghost’s body on a sled and pulled his friend the long distance to the nearest Wierwood tree. It was the largest he had ever seen, easily thrice the size of Winterfell’s. The few surviving Freefolk old enough to remember said that this was the last place the Children of the Forst called home. It would be the place he called his grave too. He gathered wood for a pyre. R’Hllor had given him a second life and made the world worse for it, he’d take him back too. He tied himself to it at the legs and his waist, Ghost lay behind him.

He was a coward, always fearing death by fire, so he used Longclaw to slit his wrists before he dropped the torch. He splashed the trails of blood around the Weirwood tree, telling himself that he was making a sacrifice to the old gods too, but he knew that was a lie. As the fires rose, he felt himself burning, a searing pain only dulled by the blood loss slowly draining his life. As he began to lose consciousness, he heard a song over the sound of the flames. It was the most beautiful song he had ever heard, it’s hymns made he feel he was more than a man. He felt himself drift off into the emptiness of space, like the abyss from his first death, but different. The song kept playing, and suddenly he was falling.

The Scarred Warden

Eddard Stark sat in front of the Heart Tree of Winterfell’s Godswood polishing Ice. It’s what he did when he needed to think or to clear his head. Even when he hadn’t anything specific to think on, he still liked to do it. Here in the Godswood, he was at peace. He wasn’t haunted by his demons, there were no soulful purple eyes, no promises, and no duties. He just sat and listened to the wind, hearing the gods speak. The tranquility was interrupted by the sound of loud and frequent bubbling from one of the hot springs. Ned turned to it, as it intensified. Looking down into its depths, he swore he could see a body. He rubbed his eyes, but it was still there. And it was definitely a body. It grew larger and larger as it rose until it breached the surface.

It was a man, with dark brown hair that had started to go grey, a strong build, and was covered in scars and burns. ‘This man is a Stark’ Ned thought. When he saw the long face he gasped “Father?” without thinking. The man was of a leaner build than he had, but the facial structure was the same. A sword with a Wolf on the pommel and Sapphires placed in its eyes rose next to the body, confusing Ned since it should’ve sunk. ‘Bodies resembling your late father don’t usually rise from the depths of the Godswood either’ he thought to himself as he reached to grab the sword before pulling the body out. The Sword was Valyrian Steel, and it seemed like one he’d recognized, but he couldn’t place it. He pulled the naked man out of the hot spring and set him on the ground. Taking a moment to inspect the man further, his eyes were drawn to his chest, namely an ugly red wound over his heart. It looked fresh, and Ned thought the man must be dead, not that it explained how he ended up here. Ned checked for a pulse and to his shock the man was alive. The pulse was weak, but there was one. He quickly grabbed his sword, wrapped him in his cloak, and carried him towards Winterfell. He wanted answers.

The Thrice Damned

He was in pain. His whole body was burning ‘you tried to burn yourself alive’ he thought to himself, and his wrists ached. He tried to open his eyes and through great struggle, he did. To his shock and maybe dismay, he was in a bed at Winterfell. After all these years, he still recognized the color of the walls, the design of the hearth, and the smell of it. He lay there trying to move his body. For how long, he didn’t know, nor did he know why he was here. He wondered if he was in some hell, punishment for one of his many crimes. His suspicions were confirmed when the door opened, and in came Catelyn Stark. She lacked the usual look of disdain she usually had when she looked at him, but the auburn hair and blue eyes were all the same. She saw him moving and moved towards him.

“You’re awake. I’ll go get Luwin and Ned” she said. As she began walking away he tried to speak, more ask and confirm she’s who he thought she was. “L-L-Lady St-ark?” he tried to say, but whether she could understand him or not he didn’t know. She put her hand on his and said “Yes, Stark”. Before heading out of the room. ‘Definitely in some hell if she’s here’ he thought to himself as he drifted back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Long overdue conversations

The Thrice Damned

His nightmares were filled with the same things they always were. A serene cacophony that he couldn’t look away from. Hair silver like moonlight, a kiss filled with love, while he gave her a knife to the black in kind, and the devastated look in those beautiful lilac eyes as she realized his betrayal. Over the years he had forgotten what she looked like. He remembered the details; lilac eyes, silver hair, and a cherubic heart-shaped face, but every time he pictured her it was wrong. The eyes or the hair were the wrong shade, and her proportion was off. But he’s never been able to forget that look in her eyes. There was no rage, no hate, no madness. Just pain, confusion, shock, denial, sorrow, and then acceptance. Then Drogon came, and all those emotions and more were in his golden eyes. He could’ve burnt him that day, should’ve, but he didn’t. Like he knew that continuing to live was punishment enough. After dreaming of Lady Stark’s cruel figure, he heard her last words echo after Drogon released his anguished roar. “It should’ve been you”.

He woke with a gasp, his lungs empty and his body burning as he felt a peculiar sense of Deja Vu. His vision was white and blurry for a few moments, his eyes holding ghosts of unshed tears as they did every morning. He realized that he was in Winterfell, the maester’s sick ward if he had to guess. He had woken up here before as a boy when he fell ill and was comatose for nigh a fortnight, but he knew that wasn’t the cause. He shuddered as he recalled the pain he felt when he was betrayed by his brothers, then by the Starks. ’Hypocrite’ the voice whispered.

He lay in bed for a moment, ensuring he had full control over his limbs, stretching and shaking both legs followed by both arms. He saw his arms had burn marks, and a fresh scar adorned each arm, both running long and looking red and angry. He briefly wondered where they came from before the voice returned. ‘You tried to kill yourself, fool’. After all these years, and all these scars he’d finally had ones that brought him shame. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he tried to sit up, getting a third of the way before he collapsed back to the bed, grunting in anguish. A maid must’ve heard him in the hallway, for she entered the room a moment later, assisting him with his pillows so that he’d be more comfortable and put a mug of mead to his lips as he drank, not realizing how parched he was. After ensuring he was well she left, saying she’d return with the maester before doing so but a moment later. Upon seeing the man his face went white and he thought he was dreaming again.

“How are you feeling, my lord?” the maester asked, he was still unable to process what he was seeing.

“M-m-m-m- Maester?” he shuddered out.

“I’ve the chain, do I not?” he japed.

“Aye Maester, aye.” He replied, a smile on his face as he realized his eyes didn’t deceive him. The man in front of him was Luwin. But he’d been dead for over thirty years, killed when the Greyjoys sacked Winterfell less than a year into the War. But he stood in front of him, breathing. His mind ran as he wondered how.

“You didn’t answer my question, my lord, are you well?” Luwin replied.

He didn’t respond immediately, still processing the walking deadman in front of him. “Aye, maester. If you don’t mind me askin’, where am I?”

“You’re in Winterfell, my lord. Lord Stark said you rose from the springs of the Godswood naked with nothing but a sword. He thought you were dead, all those scars on you.”

His mind ran as he pulled his hand to his face, supporting the weight of his head as he thought of Lord Stark, his uncle, once father. He was alive too. If Eddard wasn’t Lord Stark. It could be Robb, likely not Bran, since he’d not be able to pull him from the Godswood. But they were all dead. This shouldn’t be possible. Then again, he had come back from the dead before. Twice it seems. But if they were resurrected too, then he imagined they’d be less calm, and not be shocked by his scars. He stays there and thinks for another long moment before the maester speaks again.

“You brood more than Lord Stark’s son, my lord.” The maester said jovially, causing him to panic. He hadn’t even thought that his past life still had to live too. If Eddard Stark hadn’t gone south yet, that meant that he was still in the keep, down near the servant’s wing Lady Stark where placed his bed. He began to realize the opportunity in front of him. He could absolve his sins by helping this past version of himself. He could save himself, he could save her. The maester again pulled him from his brooding.

“If I may, my lord, where did you come from? How did you end up… Where you did?” the maester asked after a moment of hesitation.

At that, he thought a moment. How would he explain what happened without sounding like a raving madman? He’s technically a deserter of the Night’s Watch two or three times over, so the oh-so-honorable Eddard Stark would be duty-bound to take his head. “I was far from here, maester. How I ended up where I did? It was the will of the gods. Whether they were old, cold, or red, I couldn’t tell ya’.” He said with a smirk.

At that, Luwin became curious but said nothing as he nodded his head and exited, saying he’d return with Lord Stark when he was available. With the maester gone, his mind turned to his newfound predicament. Unless this was a cruel nightmare, he’d been sent to the past before Jon Snow had joined the Night’s Watch and the Starks went South. He laughed at the irony of it all. The Starks went South, while the Targaryen went North, all suffering for it. Truly, Eddard Stark was a cruel man and had made a jape. But he pushed past that for now. Robb was alive, Rickon was alive, Arya and Bran were normal, and Sansa was as close to normal as she’d ever been, still probably dreaming of nothing but being queen and ruling over all she saw beneath her. He could save them all. Then he remembered that Dany must be alive too. His heart hurt more than it usually did when he thought of her, recalling what she would go through before she became the fierce Dragon Queen he came to love. He thought about going to save her from Drogo, but this gave him pause. If she didn’t birth her dragons, didn’t conquer the Dothraki and didn’t free those slaves would she still be her? Would they still be able to beat the White Walkers? The thought of facing the White Walkers again filled him with dread. If he didn’t join The Watch, who else would let the Freefolk south of the Wall? If he and Ghost hadn’t been there that day, who knows how many people the wights would’ve killed in Castle Black. If he hadn’t been at Hardhome, he would’ve never known that Valyrian Steel could kill a White Walker, he never would’ve learned of the true threat, and he wouldn’t have been betrayed. ‘If you weren’t crowned King in the North, you’d never have met her’. The voice whispered. He realized that some events still had to happen. He couldn’t save everyone, the boy who still thought of himself as Jon Snow had to experience the hardships that he had a life and a name ago, and the Starks still had to head south. His thoughts lingering on the Wall, he thought of Maester Aemon and he smiled. The man who was like a grandfather who was his long lost uncle. He dreamed of being reunited with his kin, never knowing he served alongside them. He was the wisest man he’d ever known, what the Imp thought of himself as. He would be able to help him figure out what to do. While he couldn’t bring himself to fully forgive Arya, Bran, or their father, and definitely not Sansa, Rickon, and Robb hadn’t lived long enough to wrong him. He knew Aemon would have the answers. He was torn from his thoughts as Luwin returned, joined by his uncle and a servant carrying food and drinks. His face hardened at the sight of the man he once revered above all others.

The Scarred Warden

Ned looked at the man in bed and once again saw a ghost. Luwin had said that the man had said that he was sent by the will of the Gods, “Old, Cold, or Red”, and had he not risen from the depths of the earth before his eyes he’d think he was a madman. He had seen his scars, wounds that looked fresh along both his arms and over his heart, but he still drew breath. The man had the Stark look. Long face, dark hair, and grey eyes much like his mother’s. When the man noticed Ned, he saw his face harden as if in anger. His eyes held the exhausting cocktail of pain, regret, and loss that Ned was painfully familiar with, but cut with a sharp tinge of anger. He briefly wondered if that’s what he looked like when he thought of the rebellion and all he had lost. He unbuckled the scabbard he had made for the sword that rose alongside the man from around his waist and set it on a nearby table before he and Luwin took seats across from the man, who sat up further in his sick bed. The man held his gaze, it was filled with a curious mix of anger and something he couldn’t place before finally, the man spoke.

“Lord Stark, I presume,” he said with a nod, his voice tinged with the same emotions his gaze held.

“Aye, I’m Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. You’ve drawn quite some chatter since you’ve shown up. Who are you?”

The man scoffed and then looked away into space like he was thinking. He asked him his name, why would he need to think on it? The way he did it though, remind him of Jon when he brooded. A few moments later the man returned his gaze which seemed to have harshened.

The man scoffed and answered quickly before pausing, his tone bitter and dripping with contempt. “That is the question, isn’t it?” Ned was confused about where the offense had come from as a smirk overcame his face. “I’ve had many names and many titles throughout my life. Some were worn with pride and honor,” His smirk fell as his tone dipped into something darker. “Others with shame and regret.” He stared into space and frowned like he was remembering something before taking a heavy swig of the ale that a servant had brought into the room. He looked at his mug and held an appraising almost nostalgic look as he sighed contently and smiled. He held it for a moment before a petulant smirk returned, looking almost arrogant. “But I am your blood.” He said as he took another large sip of the drink.

The man’s words drew Ned aback. He was avoiding the question, and Ned decided to give him time on it. This man was so familiar, Ned felt like he recognized him somehow, but he didn’t know why. And what did he mean by ‘But I am your blood’? And why did he look so smug when he said it? He decided to take things one step at a time. “So you’re a Stark?” Ned asked.

The man frowned at that and crossed his arms. “When I was young and foolish I wished I was, thought I was, but no.” His voice was calm but held a bitter undercurrent, yet his gaze was filled with rage and anguish that bore into Ned with such intensity that he felt he’d burn a hole through him.

“Pardon me, my lord,” Luwin said, towards the man in the bed. “Where did you say you came from again?” he finished.

“Far away, maester” the man replied, his voice was warmer towards the maester yet sounded annoyed.

“How far away, my lord?” Luwin responded, seeming to want some concrete answer from the man, just as he did.

“North.”

“How far North?” Ned asked, wanting something from the man.

“Far North.” The man replied.

“Last Hearth?” Luwin replied.

“Further.” The man said, seemingly bored.

“The Wall?” Ned replied aghastedly.

The man closed his fist over his mouth and leaned into it for a moment as he stared off again, he couldn’t help but think of Jon when he did so. He looked back at Ned and smirked again like he was making a jape of him as he said “Further”.

“Beyond the Wall?”

“Aye! You’ve got it!” He said with mock praise. “But that’s the more ordinary part of it”.

“How did you get beyond the Wall?” Luwin responded, his shock apparent in his voice.

“Castle Black” the man replied still sounding bored. 

“They just let you go?” Ned asked, his voice filled with confusion.

“Aye. No one was in a position to say no to me.” The man replied deadpan like it was something obvious.

“Were you a brother? Did you abandon the Watch?” Ned asked, his anger flaring at the thought of the man putting Benjen at risk.

The man rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Aye, the best of ‘em and the worst of ‘em. And twice. But I fulfilled the vows the first time, and I technically haven’t sworn my vows yet, Ned.” After he finished speaking, he put both of his hands together over his mouth and stared at Ned, like he was waiting for something.

Ned’s anger abated and was replaced by confusion. How were his vows fulfilled? The Night’s Watch vows are for life. What did he mean that he hadn’t sworn his vows yet? And how did he have the gall to refer to him as Ned? Only his friends and family called him that. He didn’t know this man, regardless of how much he felt like he should. Looking up at the man he opened his mouth with the intent to demand answers before he takes his head as an oathbreaker when he saw it and felt his face go white. The posture, the build, the brooding, the looks, how he said he hadn’t sworn his vows to the watch yet, arriving from the depths of the Godswood. This man was Jon Snow. But how? That was impossible. He’d seen him in the yard sparring with Robb an hour ago, still a lad of 17. He opened his mouth but he couldn’t speak. He kept trying to do so, but he couldn’t. The man, Jon he thought, saw and smirked again, simply saying “Aye, Lord Stark.” Ned wondered where the sullen boy had gone, and where this man had come from. Thinking back to the anguish in his eyes he’d seen earlier, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Leave us, Luwin” he commanded.

“Lord Stark?” the maester questioned, but was shut down by his glare. As he stood and exited the room. Ned looked back at Jon, who was again smirking.

“Jon?” Ned asked, his voice filled with all the doubt he felt.

“Aye, Lord Stark. You got me.”

“How?”

Jon rolled his eyes and huffed like he was annoyed by the question. “Well, I was North of the Wall, and I…” He paused for a moment and tapped his arm against the bed before continuing, “I died. Burning under a Weirwood. The next thing I know I woke up in this room surrounded by men who’d been dead for over thirty years.” He paused again as if to allow Ned to process what he’d said. Jon looked to be around fifty name days, meaning that both he and Luwin would likely die within the next few years. Ned couldn’t dwell on this as he continued. “As for being brought back from the dead, I’d expect that to be R’Hllor’s work. Wouldn’t be the first time it happened. As for being sent to the past? This is a first. I imagine it had to do with the Weirwood tree I burnt under.”

Ned didn’t know how to process what he’d just heard. Jon had died more than once? Why was he North of the Wall? Who was R’Hllor? Why was he burnt under a Weirwood? Ned decided to ask the question he thought would be easiest to answer first. “Who is R’Hllor?”

Jon looked at him like he was a fool for a moment before beginning. “R’Hllor? The Lord of Light? You’ve never heard of him?” Ned shook his head. “The God of the Red Priests? Thoros of Myr?” Ned knew Thoros. The drunk priest was the first through the breach at Pyke, his flaming sword in hand. Ned realized that this was the first real answer Jon had given him all day. Ned smirked inwardly at the thought, taking what he could get.

“Why were you North of the Wall?” Ned asked, and regretted it instantly.

Jon’s expression darkened into a fierce scowl, reminding Jon of his father’s when he was angry, usually at Bran. “I was banished to the Wall for the crime of doin’ what I was bid to do by those I thought wiser than me. I had already died for doing what was right for the Watch, and the same people who told me to do what I did sent me back there, I didn’t feel I owed the Watch anything, and already had my honor destroyed, so I left to go North and live among the Freefolk.”

“Freefolk?” Ned asked.

“Wildlings.” Jon replied, snarling the word like it tasted bad on his tongue.

“What did you do?” Ned asked, voice full of concern.

Jon looked out the window for a long moment before sighing and returning to look at Ned. His eyes were glassed over with tears and his voice was full of pain. “Listen to those I thought smarter than I was. Not be there when I was needed.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he glared daggers at Ned. “Know nothing.” The look made Ned feel guilty and he knew what it was about. His Mother. Ned felt shame for keeping it a secret for so long, clearly, he’d not told him before he died. He swore to tell him soon but he’d like to hold it off a moment longer.

“So you’re from the future? You said Luwin and I’d been dead for thirty years. What happens?” Ned asked, trying to distract him.

Jon looked at him again. “A story for another time, father.” The way he said ‘father’ made Ned feel odd. “One you should have your wife present for.” He said in a serious voice. Ned wondered why Cat’d be relevant, but he agreed.

“Perhaps after dinner, in my solar?” Ned asked, desperate for information on the future.

Jon took a sip of Luwin’s ale, his own long since empty, and smiled a real smile and nodded. “Have some of this ale there and aye, tonight.”

“In the meantime, we need a new name for you.” Ned thought for a moment before deciding on one. “Rodrick Stark. My father’s second cousin. You returned from a stint as a Sellsword in Essos and a guard let you through since you were clearly a Stark, and you wounded up in the Godswood.” Jon looked at him for a moment before giving his consent to the cover story.

Jon, young Jon, you didn’t join his family at dinner until after Cat left. This was a habit and Ned doubted his constant excuses. Was he hiding from Catelyn? Something to deal with. He swore he’d tell Jon of his mother before he died this time. Old Jon didn’t join them for their meal either, saying he would do so the next day. After they ate, Ned had ale brought to his Solar and summoned Cat and Old Jon.

He and Cat had come directly from dinner, and Jon arrived moments later, sat down across from them, and smiled. Cat was the first to speak, “I’m glad you’re up, my Lord. My name is Catelyn Stark, who are you?” she asked curtly.

Jon’s smile transformed into a smirk as he said “I’ve been known by many different names and many different titles, my lady.”

Ned didn’t appreciate the mummeric flair that Jon had picked up at some point, so he rolled his eyes and cut him off. “It’s Jon, Cat. From the future.”

Cat’s curtness dropped and her face shifted until it was barely more than a scowl. “Your bastard? Is this a jape Ned? How is this your bastard? This man is older than you. Is he a witch?”

Jon snorted, his smirk still strong. “I’ve dabbled in magic before, but I’m no witch, Lady Stark. Simply blessed by many gods.”

Cat sat there a moment and looked at Jon, pondering what he had just said. Ned was about to speak and inform her of what he’d said earlier, but she spoke first. “So you never joined the Night’s Watch then? What did you do?”

Jon leaned back in his chair, still smirking. “I never said that. I was elected Lord Commander. Twice. I just left both times.”

Cat stood from her chair and practically yelled “So you’re an oath breaker? I always knew bastards were disloyal creatures born of treachery.” She looked at Ned, with fierce eyes. “Ned, he just admitted to breaking his Oath. Take him outside and take his head!”

He and Jon shared an incredulous look. Is this what Cat was always like around him? How had he not noticed? Was he a fool? He was about to reprimand her for her insolence, shocked she’d demand him to become a kinslayer when Jon beat him to it.

“What year is it?” Jon asked, his voice full of mirth, seemingly not moved by her words.

“297” Ned replied, curious why this would be relevant.

“Before or after the Raven?”

“What Raven?”

“Before,” Jon said authoritatively, nodding his head slowly. He rose his eyes to look at Cat and said “In less than ten years you’ll be known as ‘Catelyn Stark’s Bane’ since your actions almost singlehandedly brought about the downfall of House Stark. If it wasn’t for me, the house of my grandfather would’ve gone extinct.”

Cat looked shocked by her words. She should. Ned was shocked and wasn’t even the one with that epithet. She sat down in her chair and sunk into herself, thinking about what she’d heard. They sat in tense silence for several long moments before Ned finally broke it. “What happens in the future?”

Jon smirked again, this time crueler than the others. “Why, House Stark is at the forefront of Westeros. Inside the Walls of Winterfell right now you’ve four monarchs, three oathbreakers, two….” He paused and squinted to think. “and a half….. Three and a quarter?” he questioned himself shaking his head, making Ned wonder. “A few kinslayers, and an uncountable number of those accused of treason. Some claims more apt than others.” Ned was shocked hearing how his house would have four monarchs. Who would betray Robert? He was so enthralled by the claims, he barely heard him mention the oathbreaking, but at the mention that there’d be three kinslayers, he was brought right back. He felt his face go numb and his ears ring. Kinslayers. Ned didn’t know someone could be a quarter of a kinslayer so he chose to ignore it. Kinslaying is an unforgivable sin, and his house would have four? He heard Cat gasp several times when he was speaking, so he assumed she was just as stunned.

“Of course, if you include me sitting in front of you, you can add another to all of those.” Jon said nonchalantly. Ned again was speechless. Jon would become a King, an oathbreaker, be accused of treason, and become a kinslayer. And he seemed so calm about it. Ned wondered about who the others were but he was again cut off by Cat who again stood from her chair.

She yelled “I knew you were a bastard usurper who would take my children’s inheritance! Ned! Do something before he harms your children!”

At this, Jon laughed a real laugh, full of mirth. That’s when Ned realized that he was making a jape of this all. He was trying to get reactions out of them. “It’s amazing, Lady Stark. Every word of what you’ve just said was wrong. I didn’t kill any of your children, though the world would’ve been much better if I did, I have family other than the Starks, you know.” Ned’s heart dropped. “I didn’t steal your children’s inheritance, though I was given it… They stole mine.” Ned’s breath became uneven. His only thought was ‘He knows’. Jon turned to smirk at her. “And I’m not a bastard.” Cat looked shocked and Ned began visibly sweating as he turned to face him. “Isn’t that right? Uncle?”

Cat yelled again, this time at Ned. “WHAT?” Ned flinched. “You mean he wasn’t your bastard? Whose was he? Brandon’s?” Ned shook his head. After another moment cat gasped in realization. “Rheagar.” Ned nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me, Ned?” You could hear the tears in her voice that she had not yet shed. “We’ve been married for seven and ten years, Ned. Why didn’t you trust me? If I knew he was my nephew, I would’ve loved him like my own.” At that, Ned saw Jon turn and tilt his head slightly toward her. “I always thought that you loved his mother more than me and that you wished you could be with her instead.”  Jon’s eyes squinted. She turned to face Jon, looking him in the eye. “Jon… If that is your name. I’m sorry. If I had known… I’d have been a mother to you. Treated you better.”

Jon looked at Cat, his face a flurry of emotions. “You didn’t know.” Before he turned to look back at Ned, his face hardened. Ned suddenly realized why he was angry when they spoke earlier. Jon hated him. And Ned wasn’t sure he didn’t deserve it. “As for you, uncle. Why? I asked myself that for years. At first, I thought that you were doing it to protect me, but then I thought more. Were you doing it to protect me? Or were you doing it to protect Robert?” Ned’s face fell into his hands as Jon scoffed and continued. “You betrothed Sansa to his heir, you know. Tried to take something that should belong to me and my children and give it to your own grandchildren. And what did you do with me? Sent me off to the Watch, where my line, my mother’s line would die. Without even a hint of the truth. You told me it was a great honor in serving in the Night’s Watch. Well, guess what? It's not. The Wall is full of cutthroats and rapists. I was elected Lord Commander and I tried to do the right thing, save the Freefolk from the army of the dead,” Ned paused to think on this but didn’t have time as he continued. “And I was killed for it. Betrayed by my own men with seven knives to the chest. But no, the god’s didn’t feel I deserved peace. They brought me back from the dead.” Cat gasped again. “I took back Winterfell and liberated it from traitors, the lords crowned me as the second King in the North in three hundred years, even as a bastard. With you dead, I resigned myself to never finding out who my mother was.” Jon’s words were becoming hoarse and his eyes were puffy.

Ned took the opportunity to try and speak. Try and defend himself. Try and do something. All he could get out was “Jon…” before he was interrupted by his fist slamming onto the desk.

“Don’t call me that!” He bellowed, and Ned again felt shamed. “At least have the decency to call me by the name my mother gave me. The name you denied from me.” At this point, Ned accepted that he was thoroughly cowed. “What did you think I would do? Lead a rebellion against Robert or his children? Try and retake my throne? Robert’s house fell apart within a year of his death, uncle. You tried to stop the wrong child from rebelling.” Robb rebelled? “You hiding my parentage killed hundreds of thousands, you know?” Ned somehow slid further into his chair. He was a coward, a failure as a father. “Bran told me at the worst possible time, used it to drive a wedge between myself and my aunt, the woman I loved.” How did Bran know? And which aunt? The girl across the Narrow Sea? “She’d worked so hard to reclaim our family’s throne. We loved each other. And the truth broke us. I told the last remaining Starks since I thought they had the right to know that your honor truly was flawless.” He could feel the glare directed his way when he said that. “Sansa used it to conspire against her and try and put me on the throne, the throne I didn’t want. Why? Because she felt she deserved to be queen, and thought I’d let the North have independence. After all, she went through she was still the same stupid spoiled little girl she always was. Because of Sansa, her advisors turned against her. Poisoned her, sending troop movements to the enemy. She lost her friends, and I lost the dragon she called her son,” Dragon? His aunt had dragons? And she gave him one?

Jon paused to shake his head, his voice went hoarse as his eyes puffed red. “And I pushed her away. I didn’t know who I was, I couldn’t think. Between all that grief in such a short time, her advisors thought she was going mad. And they poisoned her, so she starved herself. Then she lost it. Kings Landing burnt, and I, the fool that I was, listened to the people I thought so smart when she said she’d not stop there. That she’d burn Sansa and the North, and that if she did, they wouldn’t deserve it and more.” His voice took on a tone of intense hatred at the mention of his eldest daughter. “So I killed her. A kni- a knife to the heart.” His voice cracked mentioning it. As Catelyn put her hand over his before he pulled it away. “Then do you want to know what happened? They made Sansa the Queen in the North and Bran King of the six kingdoms.” Was this a jape, Ned wondered. Why would Bran be the king? That’s the stupidest thing he had ever heard. “And I was forced to take the Black. Go back to where I’d been murdered once before, so I left. They didn’t keep their thrones long tho. Sansa was overthrown and executed for feasting while the realm starved within five years, and Bran followed shortly after.” There was a slight smirk as he told of their downfall. It should’ve disgusted Ned, made him angry, but after what he told him, it didn’t.

“Everything went wrong when I found out who my mother was. I can still hear Bran’s voice when he told me.” His voice went monotone and soulless “Your true name… Is Aegon Targaryen, you’re the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.” His voice morphed into one filled with more rage than he’d heard from him yet. “So much death could’ve been avoided if you had just told me who I was, rather than being a craven!”

Following the outburst, the three of them were silent. Cat sniffled intermittently, whether for what Jon had gone through or for what her children would, he didn’t know. Ned kept his face in his hands in shame, till something clicked. His mother didn’t name him Aegon.

“Daeron…” Ned said quietly.

“What?” he replied.

“Your mother named you Daeron. Aegon was your brother. Why would your mother give you his name?” Ned replied.

Jon sat there looking shocked. His eyes blinked, his face twitched, as he squeezed his hand open and close. Silence returned for several pungent moments until Jon whispered “He lied.” As he stood and walked towards the door.

“Who? Where are you going?” Ned asked, his voice still hoarse and eyes glassy with tears.

Jon simply looked back at them, a determined grit in his eyes that leaked into his voice. “I need to kill a God.”

Chapter Text

The Thrice Damned

He leaned against the railing looking down at the yard as the boy fought Robb Stark, no, the Heir to the North, the way they did so long ago. They were as close as brothers could be, and yet the man didn't fight by his side. Watching him, any of them, filled him with dread for what was to come. Once again, he felt helpless. Lost inside himself. He knew what he wanted to do, but duty called for him not to. Oh, how he wished he'd been sent back a year later. When he'd not have to make any decisions on what to do. Just go east, serve her, then prevent any of their mistakes from happening when they met on Dragonstone. The boy exploited the lordling’s stance to take an advantage, pressed it for a moment before he left himself a gap to be pushed back. Anyone looking for it would know the boy was letting the heir win, but no one but him was looking for it. Everyone expected the heir to be better than the bastard and left it at that. The dance continued, the boy making different mistakes each time, while the heir made the same three. He overextended, held his feet too close together, and was too aggressive for an opponent as fast as the boy. The boy was good with a sword; still young, unblooded, and green as grass, but as good as he always was. The man thought back to the parley before the Battle of the Bastards, when Ramsay said he was “The Greatest Swordsman to ever live” and scoffed. How would the bastard know that? Was he trying to coax him to be over-aggressive? He’d never fought any of the great swordsmen of the era. Barristan Selmy had fallen protecting his aunt in Meereen, Jaime Lannister was a cripple when they met and still, they never had a chance to spar. Sure, he was the first man in millennia to best a White Walker in combat, but would Ramsay believe in the Others? And if he would how did that rumor spread to Winterfell?

The man was shaken from his musings as Lady Stark joined him on the parapet staring down at the spar. Their eyes briefly met as they exchanged a curt nod. Neither knew how to greet the other and they were relegated to an awkward tension. The man wasn’t sure if it was better or worse than the cold avoidance the boy experienced. As the sun began to crest over the armory, the boy began to move so that the heir’s eyes were in the sun, and the boy’s were towards them. “Watch, the boy’s stance.” Catelyn flinched when he referred to his younger self as The Boy. “He’ll be beaten in but a moment.”  And a moment later, his sword was in the ground, as the heir’s blunted steel tickled his throat. “How could you tell?” Catelyn asked. The man looked at her, smirking, and said “He saw you. The boy always makes sure to let the heir win when you watch.” She frowned and began to apologize, it sounded genuine but the man didn’t care to hear it. “When will you tell us what happens? We need to change it.” The man returned to watching the boys and sighed. They were laughing as they put their swords back on the rack. “I don’t know. There are events that need to happen, or else all is lost. We’ve another two moons before the raven comes, three, nearly four before everything gets complicated. I need to go to the Wall to speak to my uncle.”

Cat looked at him with a confused look. “What do you need to speak with Benjen about?” The man looked back at her and smiled, not the smirk which had been a near-permanent fixture on his face, a genuine smile. “I’ve more than two uncles, you know.” His smile grew at the memory. He’d forgotten about Benjen, though he’d saved him during the disastrous wight hunt.  “Four, actually. Though one is a madman whose head I’d gladly take. But no, my uncle Aemon. Brother of the Unlikely, my” the man paused and counted out on his fingers, having been decades since he’d needed to think on the lineage of any house. “Great- Great- Grand Uncle. The Maester at Castle Black and one of the wisest men alive.” Catelyn looked at him another moment before continuing. “You’ll really not tell us anything of the future? You say we all die. How? You can change that. Please tell us something. Please Daer-“ She was nearly begging as he interrupted her. “Don’t call me that!” He yelled, his smile replaced by a scowl. “I had my chance at accepting it, but I didn’t and thousands died for it. If I could’ve chosen where I’d have returned, I’d not have done it now. A few years in the future or twenty years earlier and I’d not have to deal with these choices.” Out of habit, Jon began to walk towards the stairs as Catelyn stood there, a helpless mother on the verge of tears. He heard her sniffle he looked back and sighed. “If I’m not back before, don’t let Bran climb when the King is here.” Catelyn met his eyes, released a final sniffle, gave a slight smile, and nodded.

He watched as she walked away and instantly regretted being as harsh as he was. He needed to hit something. He headed down the stairs toward the practice targets. As he approached he heard the melody of steel and straw. The boy swang his sword at the target, not noticing the man standing but a few feet behind him. The thumps created a sweet rhythm that filled the yard. The boy’s arm bowed when he recovered from each swing, leaving a gap that a man could exploit. A Thenn nearly did during the Battle of Castleblack. Thwump. The thought gave way to a vision of red that quickly bled into silver. The man tried to shake off the thought, focusing on the boy hitting the target again and again, making the same mistake. Thwump. In the distance, he heard horses neighing. He saw Rickon running from arrows as the man rode his horse as hard as he could. Thwump. Each mistake made him think of the other mistakes the boy would make. Thwump. The silver hair returned, this time joined by purple eyes shot full of betrayal. Thwump. The man’s eyes began to water as he thought to distract himself.

“Your arm bows after you swing.” The man said in a flat voice as the boy’s swing fell in surprise, unawares of his observer.

“My Lord?” The boy replied.

“Your arm bows after you swing. It leaves you open. Here” The man tapped the boy near his right breast. “It’ll get you killed, boy”.

The boy looked at him for a moment and nodded. “Thank you, my Lord.” He returned to his strikes, his arm still bowing, but not as much. After a few strikes, he dropped the habit and his form improved.

The man stood there, watching. He found talking to himself to be strange. Part of him wanted to scream the truth, that he’s not a bastard, that he’ll become Lord Commander, King, Warden, the second dragon rider in almost two centuries. Kinslayer, Queenslayer, Oathbreaker. The voice said. The other part of him wanted to run, go east, and leave everyone to their own devices, then come in and push the boy and Dany together. Stop the wight hunt, kill the Spider and the Imp, and not let the Crow’s Eye kill his mount. When he blinked he saw silver again. Tears again began to glass over his eyes as the boy turned around. “My Lord?” He asked.

Lord Snow her voice said. “I’ve been called many things in my life, boy, but rarely a lord.”

“Then who are you?”

The man stood for a moment trying to remember the lie his uncle told him. “Your grandfather’s father’s cousin. Rodrick.”

“So you’re a Stark?” The boy asked.

“As much of a Stark as you are, boy.”

“So you’re a bastard?”

This made the man laugh. The boy called him a bastard. “Not quite.” The man said as the boy deflated. It was subtle, but he saw it. ‘Was he always so glum?’ The man thought. “Though let me give you some advice, boy.” The man planned on denying the Imp’s seeds of friendship before they could be sown, but he couldn’t bring himself to repeat the lie the boy and he had both lived their entire lives. “What are you?” The man asked. “Ned Stark’s bastard” He replied after a pungent moment. “Yes, but you’re more than that. Those around you think of you as nothing but a bastard, and they won’t stop. Even if it was revealed tomorrow that you were a prince.” The man smirked inwardly as he realized he was preparing him for the truth, no matter how far in advance. “Don’t let them use it against you, wear it like armor.” ‘I didn’t’ he thought as the voice yelled Queenslayer. The thought flustered the man. “And when you learn who you are, tell those you love, and love how it brings you closer together, remembering that she loved you before, and she’ll love you after” His voice was hoarse with pain. The boy thankfully didn’t notice it, too lost in his own thought.

“What do you know what it’s like to be a bastard? You just said you’re not one!” The boy replied.

“Boy, my whole life I’ve been around men who hated me or wanted me dead. I grew up among a woman who treated me much like Lady Stark treats you.” Little did the boy know it was Lady Stark. “I joined a company full of men that hated me, called me a turncoat, killed me.” The boy’s eyes widened at the revelation. “Tried to kill me.” He quickly lied, raising his hands to diffuse him. “I was named a leader by men I looked up to, gave it up for the greater good and do you think they thanked me for it? No. The truth is boy, no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try to do the right thing, people will hate you for it.” The man realized he was getting dangerously close to poison the Imp whispered into his ear before he killed her. ‘We do it together.’ The voice said with a smile on her lips.

 “You’ve got to know when your self-sacrifice stops being worth it. We live as what we make ourselves until we die, then we’re free of all the burdens that come with it. Free to love. Free to be more than Oathbreakers, Bastards, Kings, and Queens.” The man needed to think of something fast. He could inspire men to fight until their dying breath, but he couldn’t manipulate one. That was work for the scum of the Earth. Cersei, Baelish, the Spider, the Bitch, the Imp. “Just remember this, boy. You’re only a bastard till you die. Then you’re free of it. A king of your own kingdom, and prince of your own life. Free to love who you want, whether it’s a maid, born high or low, whether she’s your aunt, your cousin, or your sister as the Targaryens did for centuries, and the Valyrians for millennia before them, or even another man. You find what you love, and you hold onto it. Trust her with all your heart, even if your friends, your family try to tear you apart, you remember. They’ll whisper in your ear, then stab you both in your hearts. Don’t let her go. Hold her, protect her. Don’t throw it away like a sanctimonious arse.”

The boy stood there, nodding for a few moments before he spoke, an odd look on his face. “Thank you. That’s why I want to join the Watch.” No, you don’t. “They say a Bastard can rise high there. I could even be Lord Commander one day.” No. No. No. No. He wanted to yell at the boy for his foolishness, tell him it’s nothing but a place for criminals and fools to rot, that he’ll be murdered there. For The Watch. But if he did, the Wall would fall and the Freefolk would die. He could do nothing as he condemned the boy to death and despair. If he didn't go to the Watch, he'd live and die as Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard. He'd never become the Lord Commander he needed to be.

The man swallowed as the boy resumed his walk towards the rack, his sword in hand. “Aye, a bastard can rise high at the watch.” The man hated himself. “And stop throwing your spars with the heir.”

“Y-You noticed?” The boy asked as he stopped and turned to look back at him.

“Aye. It’s obvious to anyone who watches for it. You’re the better swordsman, letting the boy win is going to get the both of you killed.”

“But Lady Stark…” The boy began.

“Is Lady Stark the master at arms?” The boy shook his head. “Didn’t think so.”

The man left for Castle Black shortly after his conversation with the boy. He couldn’t be near the Starks any longer, less he let something slip. Speaking with himself was nearly too much, he wanted to yell about all the things he had to change, but he knew he couldn’t, less everything goes wrong.

The man made great time on the road, being accustomed to riding alone in the bitter True North. It took three weeks to arrive at the place of his first death. The horn sounded to herald his arrival as he rode through the gates.

The man recognized several faces, friends, and traitors. Grenn, Ed, Thorne, Pyp, and Marsh. Men who he’d love as brothers, men who’d die under his command, and men who’d plunge knives into his heart. The brothers all looked to the man as he rode in on his palfrey. Allister Thorne approached him as he dismounted. The man flexed his burnt hand as he moved towards the Lord Commander’s solar to find Mormont and Aemon waiting inside. Benjen was over the wall on a ranging. They exchanged their greetings and sat down.

“Lord Stark’s raven said you had to go North of the wall. For what business, my Lord?” Mormont asked.

The man smiled. “I’ve an interesting tale, Lord Commander. One that stretches from the Lands of Always Winter to Qarth and the Red Wastes.”

“What does the have to do with us, my lord?”

“Why, it has to do with all three of our houses, Lord Commander. Your son, the Targaryens in Exile, and the Last of the Starks.” Aemon’s head snapped to look towards the man at the mention of their shared kin.

“What does Jorah have to do with my niece and nephew?” The Maester asked, his shrew voice filled with a mix of anger and excitement.

“Everything, Maester. Magic is returning to the world for the first time since the Doom. Fire and Ice both grow stronger.” The man didn’t know why he insisted on being vague or why he enjoyed dragging the explanations out, but he did. He especially liked how it made men angry as it did to the old bear, who stood and slammed his fists to his desk.

“Listen here, my Lord. You come in here, making a jape of our exiled kin, disgracing the reputation of Lord Stark, and you don't even give us your name!”

 The man smirked and lounged in his chair. “I’ve gone by many names and titles in my time, Lord Commander.” Including Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. “And I make no japes. Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Targaryen will be at the center of much to come in the following years. Jorah will redeem himself, and Daenerys will restore house Targaryen to its glory.”

“And how exactly do you know this, my Lord?” Aemon asked, his anger chipped away to curiosity.

“Why, I’ve seen it, Maester. I’ve seen the end of the world and what comes after it. Mourned the deaths of everyone in this room. Been raised to the highest station, and fallen to the lowest.”

“So you’re from another time? I thought you said you weren’t making any japes. Start making sense or you’re going down to the ice cells, no matter what Lord Sta-” The man unsheathed his sword and lay it across the table between the three of them as Mormont stared at it and the man smirked again.

“Seem familiar, my Lord?” the man asked as Mormont picked up the sword, his face holding an expression of shock.

“H- How?” Mormont asked.

“What is it, Lord Commander?” Aemon asked, the man feeling a pain of guilt for his blindness.

“It’s… Longclaw… But how? I’ve got it here.” He said as he drew his sword from his belt.

“Believe me now?” The man said with a smirk.

Mormont sat back down, his eyes blank before they returned towards the man, demanding to hear everything.

The man smirked again, and said “No.” Mormont began to speak before the man raised his hand to silence him. “Some events need to happen, Lord Commander. Maester Aemon is the wisest man I’ve ever met. I will need to confer a plan with him first. What I can say, is that Jorah will aid in the liberation of Slaver’s Bay bringing freedom to millions of slaves, and return North with an army to help save it.”

Mormont’s face was briefly filled with pride before he schooled his face and nodded his permission for the man to speak with Aemon privately. They made their way to the maester’s quarters. Aemon quickly dismissed his assistant, Chett, and they sat down.

“To begin, uncle, I believe we should start with my name.” The man said with a warm smile.

The maester’s blind eyes shot up to the man, his mouth opening in shock as his cloudy lilac eyes glassed over in tears. “U-Uncle?” He stuttered out his face taken over by a trembling smile.

The man’s smile grew as his voice was filled with mirth. “Aye, uncle.”

Aemon laughed, the tears running freely. “May I?” he asked before the man pulled his hands to his face. He moved his hands around his face, feeling the shape of it and gasping as he did, before pulling the man in for a hug, one he promptly returned. They sat there for a moment, two forgotten Dragons on the Wall before Aemon pulled away and spoke. “Tell me everything.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Plans made and wept.

The Dragon on the Wall

In all of Aemon’s many years, he hadn’t heard anything as fantastical as what the man in front of him was saying. He was filled with equal parts glee and terror as the man in front of him regaled what the future held. “I’ve gone by many names and titles,” the man said, on his second horn of ale. The man was a tad pompous and seemed to have a flair for mummery, but he couldn’t bring himself to doubt him. “But the ones you will know me as are Jon Snow, and Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” The man, Jon Snow, paused. Aemon had heard of him, Ned Stark’s natural son. He had assumed he’d end up as a brother of the Watch, as many northern bastards were apt to do. But he couldn’t figure out how the man was his nephew. In Lordcommander Mormont’s solar when he felt his face, he saw his brother’s features, but Aemon couldn’t reason who his mother was. Unless… “Jon Snow isn’t the name my mother gave me.” He said, his voice hoarse. ‘Ahh.’ Aemon thought. Here it is. “You see, uncle, Eddard Stark wasn’t my father”. He knew instantly.

“Lyanna Stark,” Aemon gasped, his mouth agape.

“Aye. My father took her as a second wife.” His nephew exhaled. “Their love caused the rebellion, the deaths of my brother and sister, and ten thousand more. My aunt and uncle were forced into exile, living in Essos, running from knives and stealing so they didn’t starve.” He couldn’t see it, but he knew he was crying. “All because they didn’t tell anyone.”

He heard the man pick up a horn, his third and Aemon sighed, putting his hand on his. He’d not council his guilt on this matter, for he’d undoubtedly heard it a thousand times before. “What name did she give you?” He asked.

“I’m not sure. My cousin will tell me my name was Aegon, while my uncle told me it was Daeron.”

“Why would your cousin know?” He asked. “Your uncle heard it from your mother’s lips, did she not? Surely he’d know better.”

“My cousin wasn’t normal anymore. Things happened to him. He was some kind of greenseer, ‘the Three Eye’d Raven’ he called himself.” Aemon felt chills at the name, remembering his Uncle’s last words before he went on his final ranging. ‘The raven calls’.

And so his nephew told him his story. Of the wars of the South, the return of the Others, and his aunt bringing dragons into the world, of his time North of the wall, to his vote which won him the role of Lordcommander, to his betrayal and revival, to his crowning, to the arrival of his aunt, to their foolish expedition North of the Wall, to their victory at Winterfell, the attack on King’s Landing, and his banishment and exile. Aemon couldn’t help but sit silently and listen, his heart aching for his nephew and niece both. He’d made many mistakes, but he was thrust into a role he was not prepared for, and he couldn’t blame him, and she’d lost so much in such little time, the grief would drive anyone to madness.

When he finished, Aemon sighed. “Love is the death of duty.” He said solemnly.

“Aye, uncle. And duty is the death of love.” Was the reply. He was crying.

“But it doesn’t have to be. I meant that you need to make a choice. Do you do your duty, or do you protect those you love?” Aemon felt his eyes water, still not sure he made the right choice all those years ago. “What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms?” Daeron chuckled. “I’ve heard this speech before, uncle.“

“Aye, but did you listen? You were to choose. The Gods fashioned us for love, Daeron.” Saying the name aloud invoked memories of his brother of the same name, dead nearly 50 years. “You seemed to have been one of the lucky ones. You could’ve had both. Your duty was to love.”

He could tell the man’s face went into his palms. Aemon felt a brief pang of regret, knowing his nephew likely knew that, having dwelled in his grief for nearly as long as he had. He put his hand on his shoulder. “You’re lucky again, Daeron. The gods saw fit to let you fix your mistakes. You’ve been given another chance. Now we need to figure out what you have to do so you don’t squander it.” He felt his hair brush along his hand as he looked up and Aemon gave a toothless smile. “Now, let’s make sure things turn out differently this time.” They spoke into the night, crafting a plan. Aemon knew the boy known as Jon Snow would still need to live and die at The Wall so that he could become the man he needed to be. The wars to the South still needed to happen, and they wouldn’t be able to save the Starks, doing so could potentially mean that everything would be different and that the world would end. He could tell his nephew had mixed feelings about this, dwelling on his boyhood memories. He went back and forth from anger to acceptance while they argued over it, and he had his doubts about whether his nephew would truly follow through with what they agreed upon. He knew he’d have the same struggle if the choice was his. He found himself wondering how the world would’ve been different if he had done what his brother wished, served as his maester, or even taken the crown. Aemon shook his head and cleared his thoughts. He doubted the gods would give him the same chance they gave Daeron, and he doesn’t have much time left to think about what could’ve been. “Kill the boy, and let the man be born,” he thought to himself as he called for Chett to bring him his meal and help him prepare for bed.

The Thrice Damned

The next morning he spoke with Mormont about his son and his house. He was glad to hear that his son would find redemption and restore his honor before his death but was devastated to hear that his house would end, no matter how gloriously it ended. He asked for information on their deaths, but he couldn’t tell him anything, as much as he wanted to. Every time he denied someone the knowledge of how they died, he felt empty. He wasn’t the one using the knife, but he was killing them all the same. Aemon had said that they must be careful about ensuring key events happen, less everything change and people don’t become the men they need to be.

As much as he hated it, Aemon was right. They died last time, it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t have a duty to do anything to save them. Still, he found himself preparing to go North to stop Bran from becoming whatever he became. He didn’t know if he was doing it for himself or for Bran. He still wondered why he lied. Why did he say his name was Aegon? Was he making a cruel jape? Was he just wrong? With everything that Bran knew and did he somehow doubted it.

Walking through the yard he was again beset by a barrage of memories. He saw the gallows where he hanged his murderers. He recalled Thorne’s final words, ‘You’ll be fighting their battles forever,’ neither of them had any idea how right he was. He saw the spot where Ygritte died in his arms, ‘You know nothing Jon Snow’. She was right, but again, neither of them had realized just how right. Mormont offered to send rangers along with him, but they’d only slow him down. He’d spent most of his life North of the Wall, he knew how to survive. Not to mention that the men in black would draw too much attention from the Freefolk. And he didn’t exactly know where he was heading. He just knew that the Raven was in a cave somewhere North of the Wall.

He rode through the great green oaks of the Haunted Forest, passing east of Craster’s and going around the icy blue Antler River. Days after departing he realized how much he’d previously relied on Ghost. Both for navigation and hunting. He made due, but he couldn’t spend as much time traveling each day as he’d have liked to. When he passed through Hornfoot land, he came across a hunting party, curious at the Southerner North of the Wall. At first, they thought he was a Night’s Watchman, and threatened him, but he managed to defuse the tension by saying he had Greendreams about defeating the White Walkers and was following them. He shared their meal and exchanged tales, the man telling of the victory in the coming war, and they celebrated his “dreams” with overindulgence in drink. When he asked if they knew anything about the Three-Eyed Raven they said he was at the last place the children touched and pointed him where he needed to go. The phrase sounded familiar, but the man couldn’t figure out why.

Sometime later he hoped he was getting close. Game was much more sparse than he was used to. He didn’t know if it was because there were White Walkers near, or significantly more Freefolk alive, their population not being culled at the Wall or at Hardhome but he desperately hoped it was the latter. He’d once been able to beat a White Walker in combat, but he doubted he still could. It’d been decades since he’d danced to the song of steel, he’d likely lost his touch. He’d be too slow, not good enough to beat one. He’d die and be raised as a Wight.

The thought made him laugh. The Gods giving him a second chance only for him to waste it and die to a wight, all his hopes for redemption, even if it wasn’t his own, would be on a single conversation he’d had with a dreary boy and on Aemon’s guidance. It sounded fitting, what he deserved. It would almost be preferable since he’d not have to deal with the anguish of knowing he couldn’t save anyone. Thousands of people would die, and he could save them all with a few conversations and well-placed knives. The whole ride he tried to accept that, but he just couldn’t. Every time he thought he did, he thought of another happy memory of Robb, Rickon, Bran, or Arya. A respite from the sea of grief that was his vacant mind.

Regardless, he’d only seen a few scattered wights which he managed to easily avoid. He saw the tree in the distance early one day and he knew he was there. “The last place the children touched” was the place where he’d killed himself. His heart sank as he realized this. He didn’t know how to think about it. This was the place where he finally gave up. Corrected the gods’ great mistake. As he approached, he saw the tree’s white bark was burnt black along the trunk on a side and that there were trails where the snow didn’t fall. The scars along his arms tingled as he dismounted and approached on foot.

He circled the hill the tree was on until he found the entrance to the cave. He lit a torch, drew Longclaw, and entered. The passage was tight, damp, and overgrown. He needed to fall to his knees to traverse some sections, but the man continued. He’d come this far, if he killed the Raven and died, then would that alone be enough? He wasn’t sure, but he had to hope. After what felt like hours, he came across a large room.

On a throne of Weirwood roots sat an ancient-looking man, his eyes showing only grey. The man stared at the Raven for a moment, not impressed, but intrigued by the man, the thing, that ruined everything. When he approached and prepared to swing, it opened its eyes, inspecting the man before it laughed a soulless laugh, devoid of both mirth and warmth. “The Song of Ice and Fire comes to pluck a Raven’s feathers before they can fly. Why? Does the thrice-damned wish to count higher? Did he not appreciate our plan?”

The man stood there for a moment, staring into its eyes, they’d returned back to some semblance of normality, but they were the color of Weirwood leaves. Blood red. ‘What plan?’ He asked himself as he felt an insurmountable rage grow within him. ‘Your name… Is Aegon Targaryen.’ Plan? What did he mean plan? ‘I owe them the truth. Even if it destroys us?’ “You.” The man said, angry tears running down his face. “You did it.” ‘Forgive him. Please.’ His breathing was rough. “You did it.”

The Raven laughed, this one was still just as cold but filled with cruel mirth. It smirked as it said “What’s the matter, Jon Snow? Or is it Aegon? Daeron? I didn’t do anything. Don’t blame me for what YOU did. I just spread information around when it was needed, you did the rest.” ‘I know what’s good and so do you.’

“No.” The man said, sounding weak even to himself, not willing to admit what he knew was true.

“You’d think after all these years, you’d have accepted your actions, but no. Always looking for someone else to blame. After all these years, the great Aegon Targaryen is still nothing but a kicked puppy.” His blood was alight as his hands shook and his breath grew heavier. He didn’t know if it was because the Raven lied or because it was telling the truth. He didn’t know if he was angry and himself or the Raven.

“I know what’s good and so do you,” The Raven said, a twisted smile on its wrinkled mouth. “Were those the words that convinced you you were doing the right thing when you killed her? Did she convince you to kill her in trying to convince you she was worthy of your love, and you of hers? What did you think would happen to the slaves she free’d when she was dead?” He gripped Longclaw so tight his hands began to cramp. “Why did you beg for Tyrion of all people? Was Daeron Targaryen so desperate for a friend that a few weeks traveling with the Imp earned your undying loyalty?” The man walked closer to the throne. “What are you going to do, bastard? Kill me? You’ve killed your kin before, and a queen, but never a king, so you’ll become the quice damned. Did you know she was pregnant? I guess you’re already the quice damned,” The raven said with a laugh.

His heart dropped as he stopped and tears sprung into his eyes. ‘No.’ He thought before he remembered what he’d said in the dragon pit. ‘Did you ever think that maybe the Witch wasn’t an accurate source of information?’ and he knew he wasn’t lying. “She was going to tell you, not wanting the babe to be the only reason you stayed, but you killed her. And your baby.” He ground his teeth together as he breathed heavily through his mouth. He felt himself shaking in rage, he saw nothing but red. He took another step forward. “You want to kill me, but you can’t. You know that. Killing me means the Night King wins. We’re the world's memory.” The Raven laughed.

‘You are my Queen, now and always.’ The man took a step forward. “I don’t care.” He stepped up to strike the creature in front of him down as his offhand brushed against the root and the Raven laughed a laugh that seemed far away, and suddenly he was in the burnt remains of the Red Keep, she was standing at the base of the Throne, approaching him as she spoke. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he knew what she said. He felt the cold steel of the knife pressed against his back and he knew what was going to happen. “We break the wheel together,” she said, pressing close against him. He wanted to scream. Scream at her for what she did, and then tell her to run for what he was about to do, but he couldn’t. “You are my Queen. Now and always.” His mouth said through no will of his own.

They kissed as tears ran down his face. As much as he tried to stop himself, he couldn’t. It was like his nightmares, but so much more real. As the edge of the knife touched her back, he felt his mind and body straining, fighting, doing whatever he could to not kill her. The knife shook as his arm began to shake as he tried so hard to move them. She looked up at him, judgment and cruelty and anger in those beautiful lilac eyes. “Do it.” They commanded. He wanted to obey the voice. She did know what was good. But he knew what would happen if he did. “Do it” her voice echoed. And he did. He plunged his knife into his own heart as he collapsed into her arms. She held him as her eyes bore into him. Full of judgment, disgust, and a hint of pity. It was the last thing he saw as the darkness smothered him in its cold blanket.

He woke with a gasp, heaving heavy breaths. “What is it, my love?” He heard as he felt something warm press up behind him, wrapping her feminine arms around him. He recognized the voice as he slowly turned, afraid, to see her. His Dany, next to him in a large plush bed naked, her belly swollen round. “Was it that dream again, Daeron? It’s not real. Just a nightmare.” He looked at her curiously. She felt real, her breasts against his back. She leaned in to kiss him, it felt real, but he was too shocked to appreciate it. He pulled away, as she gave him a teasing look before smirking as she began stroking him. That felt real. He pulled away and got out of bed. She gave him a disappointed look before rolling her eyes. “Would you mind entertaining Lya this morning? Talisa asked for me to break her fast with her and Little Ned.” She asked.

The man looked at her, confused before he nodded. Briefly registering a bird roosting in the window, he found his way to his wardrobe and dressed before he found himself walking through grand red and yellow hallways, he didn’t know where he was was, but he seemed to know where to go. He opened a door as a young girl, likely four or five name days old ran to hug him, her hair was dark and straight, running down past her shoulders, her eyes were her beautiful lilac, with his long face, but with Dany’s mouth and nose, Ghost was lounging on the ground behind her lazily and lifted his head in greeting. “Kepa!” She exclaimed as she hugged his leg and he found himself falling to a knee to return it. “I hads a nightmare,” She said, the “r” sound coming out more like a “w”. “It was only a dream sweetling” he found himself saying. ‘It was only a dream’ He thought to himself, holding her tighter into his chest.

Maids came to help her dress, then they broke their fast on eggs, sweet bread, and blood sausage. His daughter, Lyanna, gave Ghost as much sausage as she ate. They rarely touched the ground as he leaped to snatch them from the air. When they finished a servant came in to collect Lya for her lessons with Grand Maester Tarly, and she protested. Claiming that her Kepa’s were better. He gave the servant a pleading look before he took her hand and escorted her to the Maester’s chambers. Grand Maester Tarly greeted them both in his timid way, the ravens cawing at the noise. Lya asked how little Sam and little Jon were, and Sam said they were fine. That struck Jon as odd, Sam should be at the Wall. He was sworn for life. How was he here, serving as his Grand Maester? Sam hated Daenerys after she burnt her traitor family for sacking High Garden. ‘It was a dream’ a voice said.

The lessons were about history since Robert’s Rebellion, when Prince Rheagar, Lya’s grandfather, fell at the Trident. The man recounted the stories of how he was saved by his uncle and raised as his bastard son before going to the Wall, letting the Wildlings through to save them from the Others, and shortly after he was released from his vows by her uncle Robb. He found himself subconciously moving his hand over his heart, finding it smooth. This struck him as unusual, but he couldn’t say why. ‘It was only a dream’ the voice said. Then how he lead a host of Freefolk south in time to stop the Red Wedding, where Lady Stark finally apologized for how she mistreated him. Then how he met her mother on Dragonstone treating on behalf of Robb before they fell in love and married. After the Battle of Winterfell, Robb showed his thanks for her assistance and bent the knee, retaining the honorific of King of Winter. Soon after they took Kingslanding with minimal casualties, deposing the Mad Queen Cersei Lannister, with himself and her mother sharing the Throne.

After her lessons, Lya begged to watch her kepa spar. Daeron found himself smiling as he escorted his little princess to the yard, Ghost at her side. Looking at Ghost, something felt strange. He no longer felt the connection he’d become so accustomed to. ‘It was only a dream’ the voice said. ‘No, it wasn’t,’ he thought to himself. Something was wrong with Ghost, but what?.

He couldn’t finish the thought as he quickly found himself in the yard, and his thinking was interrupted by a shout of “Brother!” He turned to see Robb, King in the North striding towards him, a smile on his face and his arms outreached. He pulled him in for a hug before moving to Lya while Greywind and Ghost began to play. “You look good, Targaryen!” His brother said. “Black was always your color.” Again, the statement felt off. ‘It was only a dream,’ the voice said again. He could faintly hear the voice of a woman saying something, but it was too distant and muffled to tell. Sounding like it was coming from underwater. He turned around to look where it was coming from, but his brother distracted him and asked if he’d like to spar.

They took their positions, Daeron with Blackfyre and Robb with Ice. The Master at Arms, Jory Cassel, called to begin and they did. Valyrian Steel met Valyrian Steel as two of the greatest warriors in Westeros danced. They circled another, and he glanced up to see a crow roosting near his wife next to Lady Stark, and another olive-skinned woman he couldn’t name. ‘Talisa, Robb’s wife, the woman you saved at the Red Wedding’ he heard himself say as he remembered his heroic deed. When he saw Lady Stark watching, he felt the urge to throw the match. ‘It was only a dream’ he heard a voice say. “Ember Dayne” he heard the woman’s voice before calling. He didn’t know who “Ember Dayne” was, and his distraction let his brother take an advantage, he struggled to block the rapid onslaught of strikes before he lead a counter and Ice fell to the ground after Robb blocked a simple downward slash. ‘Why did Robb drop it there?’ He wondered. “Remember Daeron,” Her voice said again and again. He looked around to find her but he couldn’t. He felt a need to find her, but he couldn’t. But he knew he needed to. He heard the loud sounds of Rheagal and Drogon landing nearby.

Robb laughed and picked up Ice. “You always were the better swordsman” Lady Stark hollered from the balcony as everyone else cheered. The woman’s voice rang louder and louder, but he couldn’t find her. He began looking around franticly, trying to find some hint of where the voice was coming from and to who it belonged.

“Uncle Rickon!” Lya yelled, running toward the auburn-haired teen. Rickon was escorted by Pyp, Grenn, Lord Commander Mormont, and Edd. But they were all dressed in the white of the King’s Guard instead of the Black of the Watch. ‘It was only a dream’ he heard, but it was barely a whisper as her voice commanding he remember drowned it out.

Rickon approached, citing promises that he’d made before to practice their jousting. The thought made him ill. He had a passing memory of riding toward Rickon as hard as he could, but it was silenced by the clashing mantras of ‘It was only a dream’ and the woman’s demand of “Remember Daeron”. The latter was silenced when Lya ran and took his hand saying, “Pleaaaasssee Kepa? I love seeing you ride.” He found it impossible to say no to the look she gave her.

On the tiltyard, he saw there were two men there already. One was a large man in black armor, his shield painted with the eleven Black Crows on Red around a Weirwood of House Blackwood, and his opponent was much smaller than he. The other jouster was donning a rag-tag mixed set of armor, and the shield was painted with a house’s sigil he recognized but couldn’t name. It was a White Weirwood tree with its’ face having a wide smile painted red. He didn’t know why but he felt it was laughing. “Remember Daeron” her voice commanded again.

“Kepa, would you ever leave me and Muna and baby Aems?” Lya asked.

“No Sweetling” He replied instantly. ‘It was only a dream.’ “Baby Aems?” he asked soon after, a smile on his face.

“My brother!” She exclaimed, throwing her arms above her head in excitement. “The one in Muna’s tummy”.

  “It was only a dream” he found himself saying as the Blackwood knight was thrown from his horse. The other knight, ‘The Knight of the Laughing Tree” he thought to himself, approached them and dismounted. He removed his helmet, revealing it wasn’t a man, but a woman. With flowing black hair, his steel grey eyes, and a crown of blue winter roses atop her head. She looked familiar, like Arya he thought. She looked him in the eye, steel against steel, and commanded “Remember Daeron”.

“M-m-mother?” He realized, happy tears growing in his eyes and a smile gracing his face.

She smiled and it was the most beautiful thing the man had ever seen. “Yes, Daeron,” she said as she pulled him into a hug.

“Kepa, whos this?” Lya asked, sounding annoyed.

“This is my mother, Lyanna. Your grandmother. We named you after her” Daeron said with a smile.

“NO!” Lya yelled. “Your muna is dead! I’m the only Lya! Me Kepa!” She said as she started stomping.

The man looked at his mother, a look of shock and embarrassment on his face. “I’m sorry, mother. She’s not usu-“

“She’s not real, Daeron,” his mother said. “Remember Daeron” she repeated.

“What do you mean she’s not real?” He asked, his pitch rising and his voice going hoarse. “She’s right here.” He began to laugh nervous shallow laughs as his eyes glassed over. “It was only a dream,” He said, the laughs becoming a bit louder. “It was only a dream.”

His mother looked at him, her eyes red with unshed tears and filled with the same agony hurting him. “No, Daeron.” She sniffled. “It wasn’t. You’ve got to remember. Please.” The first of her tears dropped.

The man fell to his knees and began to hyperventilate as he cried. His mother followed him down and pulled him into a hug. He repeated “I didn’t do it, it was only a dream” into her shoulder for a long moment as she caressed his hair. Then he went silent, sitting in the same position, wanting to stay for but a moment longer.

His mother broke the silence, pulling him away to look him in the eye and say “We’ve got to leave, Daeron”.

The man was confused. “Why would we leave? Everyone is alive here. It’s better here. We can all be a family.” His voice was full of hope that he knew was misplaced. He wondered if he sounded like she did before he killed her. His mother gave him a knowing look. “I can never have this anywhere but here.” He said.

“No.” His mother said, a mournful look on her face. “You can’t.” He hung his head. “But you can give it to Daenerys, and the other you.”

He looked back at her, realizing that it was the only thing he could do. “Aye. I’ll go” he said.

“NOOOO!” Lya yelled. “Kepa, you can’t go! You promised, you promised, you promised, you promised!” She yelled, tears streaming down her face as she cried.

The man pulled her into a hug. “Kepa’s got to go, Lya.” He said as he kissed her on the top of her head. “Be good to your mother. I love you, Lya. I love you both.” He stood up and approached his mother.

“NOOOOOOOO!” She yelled again. “She's lying! It was only a dream!” He moved to comfort her, but his mother didn’t let him. She held on to him and shook her head.

Suddenly everyone else was around them.  Her, Lya, Ghost, Robb, Rickon, Sam, Lady Stark, Grenn, Pyp, Edd, Jeor, and Talisa. They all said in their own voices in unison “It was only a dream. Come here, Daeron.” He wanted to. He knew it was fake but they were here. They were alive. He was young, with her, with their child and another to join her soon. Robb, Rickon, and his brothers from the wall. He wanted to stay. But he couldn’t. He had to do what needed to be done. He looked toward his mother and nodded. It was time to go.

 When he turned back, everyone was dead and ravens cawed from all around. Blood trickled from her mouth with a knife in her heart, Lya was stabbed fifty times the way his sister was, Ghost lay motionless, Robb’s head was replaced by Greywinds, Rickon was pierced with arrows Lady Stark’s throat was cut to the bone, Grenn was cut in half, Pyp was crushed, Edd, Talisa, and Jeor were stabbed. He screamed, looking at his friends, dead. Many of them were because of him. Either by his hand, through his inaction, or while following his command. He fell to his knees again and began to sob. His mother held him and he thought the feeling was addictive. He’d never had a mother’s love, he wondered if he was sent further back if he could’ve made it so that the boy would’ve grown with this whenever he needed it. Like his Stark cousins had. As they hold each other in a loving embrace the world around them began to fade into white light as the Ravens cawed louder. His mother kissed him on the forehead and then looked him in the eye. “I love you, Daeron” were her final words as the white encompassed them.

The man found himself back in the cave, his sword raised high above the Three Eyed Raven. ‘Bloodraven’ He thought to himself. The Raven looked him in the eye, an expression of bewilderment in his eyes. “How” it began to say, but before it could finish the man released a scream, like a dragon’s roar and a wolf’s howl in one. Guttural and primal and inhuman, filled with his rage, his grief, his regret, his love as he brought Longclaw down on the Raven. Again and again and again. Hacking and slashing, the Valyrian Steel cut through root, bone, and flesh alike. He didn’t know how long he went on for. Minutes, hours, he didn’t stop until there was nothing recognizable left. When he was as satisfied as he’d get he lay down on the ground and pulled himself into a ball and began to sob. He found it was so much worse without the loving embrace his mother provided for him in the Weirwood.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Woe to the Usurper

Starks’s Bane

It’d been nearly three moons since Daeron had left to go North and the raven carrying word of Jon Arryn’s death and Robert’s tour had arrived just over a fortnight past. She assumed that was the raven he had mentioned, meaning that they had at most two moons before things would go wrong. Thinking about Daeron’s vague warnings filled Cat with dread. The only warning he gave was to ensure Bran didn’t climb while the king was present, refusing to speak on anything else, simply saying “I don’t know”.

She assumed that Jon Arryn’s death was one of these things. The news had saddened Ned. The man was like a father to him. He seemed like he’d have liked to speak to him a final time- and thought Daeron had denied him the chance. Something that she could tell was weighing on him. She still had trouble believing his stories, but from the pain in his voice, she knew they were true. She felt a swell of pride rise in her chest as she thought of her children rising to become monarchs in their own rights, but it was quickly crushed when she remembered everything else. Her children would suffer, die gruesome deaths, and be cursed as kinslayers, then lose their crowns violently, while she’d earn herself the title of Stark’s Bane. She often found herself asking herself ‘What did I do?’. During one of these episodes, she mindlessly wandered the keep, lost in her thoughts, and focused on Robert’s visit. Logically she knew that feasting on boar instead of venison at his welcome feast wouldn’t be what earned her that cursed epithet, but she still found herself second-guessing every choice she previously made in an instant.

She found herself on a walkway perched over the yard. The younger form of Daeron, ‘gods that was confusing’ she thought, was sparring Robb while Bran, Rickon, and Arya looked on, their direwolves nipping at one another close by. Arya was supposed to be in her lessons with Septa Mordane and Sansa, but she found she couldn’t bring herself to care. After what Daeron implied, she thought she’d let her do what she enjoys while she can.

Looking at young Daeron, she wondered how she’d never noticed his similarities to his father before. He looked like a Stark, more so than her children, something she knew that she blamed and resented him for, but she still saw Rheagar in him. She’d only seen the Last Dragon from afar at Harrenhal, but he had his curls, his lithe build, his cheekbones, and his eyes. Not in coloring, but in the melancholy they carried. She wondered if that was from Rheagar or her. She sent a silent prayer to the Smith for giving him the Stark coloring, since she doubted that Robert’s love for the Lady Lyanna would have extended to the proof that she loved another, and a Targaryen nonetheless. For not the first time, she found herself wishing that Ned had simply told her the truth. The Tully words were “Family, Duty, Honor” in that order. If she had known the truth she would’ve loved him like a son, if the timing would’ve worked she’d have claimed she birthed twins.

Focusing back on their spar, it was much more one-sided than they were before Daeron appeared. As he mentioned before he left, the boy had held back and made sure to lose when he knew she was watching, but not anymore. He was facing her, yet he still quickly disarmed Robb and held his steel to his neck. After Robb yielded they broke out in smiles and laughter as he helped his cousin up and they embraced in a hug. The sight brought another wave of guilt upon her. All the scars on Daeron’s body told stories of his prowess as a warrior where he had likely nearly died. How many of them were because he hadn’t practiced to his full potential? It was clear as day that he loved her children, thinking they were his siblings. Being his siblings. He’d die for any of them and if what he said was true, he nearly did. Yet before she knew the truth she didn’t see any of that, hating the boy for his alleged father’s alleged crimes, writing him off as nothing but a threat to her children.

Daeron returned less than a sennight later, looking gaunt and haggard from his travels, carrying a second sword at his hip identical to the first, and an empty look on his face. She didn’t know much about swords, but she knew that they were both longer than most, the only clear difference between the two was that one had a bear’s head on its pommel and the other a wolf.

He quickly headed toward the kitchens and she resolved to speak to him later, thinking that he was tired and hungry from his travels. Hours later, she went to his room and knocked on the door. When he opened it, the first things she noticed were his bloodshot eyes and the haunted look on his face. The man looked like he’d aged a decade in the three moons he’d been gone.

As he leaned in the doorframe staring at her she didn’t see the battle-hardened king he was, she saw Sansa, Robb, and Arya all inconsolable in their fear for Daeron when he had caught the Pox, Luwin fearing he’d not survive. At the time, Ned had sequestered himself in the crypts doing what she now expected was begging the boy’s mother to save him. She couldn’t bear to see her children like that, nor could she the sick boy, who for years, she’d prayed for’s death. She swore an oath under the light of the Seven that if he recovered she’d love the boy, be a mother to him, and it was an oath she broke. He recovered, and she couldn’t keep her promise. She failed to love a motherless child. She’d fail no longer.

The air around him smelt thickly of ale and despair as she pulled him into a motherly embrace. The first one he’s ever felt. A scant moment later, he put his head over her shoulder and began to cry. Still in the doorway and mindful of his privacy, she walked him back and shut the door behind them.

The man was at least a decade older than she was, yet he stood there sobbing into her shoulder like he was little more than a child. She didn’t know how long they stood there, and she didn’t care. Eventually, he calmed down, pulling himself away from her, nodding his silent thanks. He poured a single horn of ale and offered it to her while he drank directly from the flagon. She hadn’t developed a taste for the ale that Northerners love, preferring wines from the Reach or the Riverlands, but she accepted it. Fearing she’d need it to get through what was undoubtedly to be a long conversation.

They both sat as he slumped in his chair and released a deep sigh, burying his face into the pillow of his hands. He sat there for another long moment as they sat in comfortable silence. “Robb was betrayed at a wedding. Rickon was surrendered to the traitors and executed as bait to draw me into the open. Arya became a faceless man. Bran was crippled and became the 3-Eyed Raven.” He said suddenly and quickly, taking another deep breath after.

There it was. The future. What she’d been waiting to hear since he arrived in the Godswoods. She opened her mouth to speak before closing it, unable to find any words. Instead, she focused on committing every word he said into memory. Robb dead at a Wedding? Was it his own? Rickon was only a boy, why? Arya a faceless man? What was the 3- Eyed raven? Her mind was racing as she pondered on what any of it meant. She realized he’d only mentioned four of her children. “And Sansa?” She questioned, her voice quiet, recalling his vitriol the last time he spoke of her.

He scoffed and spit. “She gets everything she ever wanted.”

Catelyn nodded and returned to silence, not pushing the subject. She would have to work to get that from him later.

“Whose wedding?”

He sighed as he pushed his face back into the cradle of his hands, massaging his temples with his thumbs.

“Whose wedding?” He sat there in silence, unmoving. The once comfortable silence grew painful as he refused to answer. “Whose Wedding?” She repeated the desperation she was trying to hide seeping into her voice as tears began to flow.

“Please,” she said, practically begging. “Whose wedding?”

He looked up, his eyes were glassy and his voice barely a whisper. “I can’t say.”

“WHY?” She stood up and screamed, her voice hoarse. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him as he looked at her with eyes vacant of any fight. “If it’s the Throne you want, we’ll fight for it. Go to war with Robert.” She paced away, nervously holding her hands behind her head. “Avenge your father, avenge your siblings.” She looked back at him hoping to see that she’d convinced him, but his face had returned into his hands. “Please, just tell me something. Anything. You’ve got to do something to save your siblings.” Her pleading fell on deaf ears as he sat still as one of the statues in the crypts. She continued to pace, that hopeless feeling of being able to do nothing returning. She was wringing her mind. Trying to think through that first conversation of theirs. She’d been so shocked she’d missed much of it, but there were parts she’d seared into her mind. “Your aunt!” She exclaimed, realizing what he wanted as he looked up, somehow looking both distraught and furious simultaneously. His reaction threw her off, expecting something more enthusiastic. “…She’s across the Narrow Sea, isn’t she?” His eyes began to water again but she didn’t notice as he nodded his head. “We can get her. Bring her here. You know where she is, don’t you?”

He looked defeated again. “Yes,” he croaked out weakly before taking a deep ragged breath. “She’s likely already been sold to be raped by a Dothraki Khal by her brother.” Oh, she thought. He put emphasis on the word ‘brother’, spitting the word out like venom on his tongue. How could someone do that to their own blood? That poor, poor girl. She imagined Sansa or Arya in her place and her heart sank. She was a princess, likely freshly flowered, and barely a woman. She didn’t deserve that, no one did. They could save her, they had to save her! She began to speak but he raised his hand to silence her as she suddenly felt stupid. Of course, he’d thought of saving her, he loved the girl, and she couldn’t imagine putting someone she loved through that.

“I can’t save her,” He grabbed another flagon and took a thick chug. “ ’Much as I want to.” He shook his head furiously, another drink down his throat with a loud “gulp”. “Go there, kill my insane uncle, kill her Khal Husband.” He was silent for a moment before he slammed his closed fists into a table, stood, and yelled. “BUT I CAN’T!” Cat jumped as he began crying again. “I can’t.” He said again, sounding weak as his hands returned to his face. “I caaaannn’t”, dragging it out. She approached and placed her hand on his shoulder and patted him. “If I do she doesn’t get her dragons.” Dragons. Cat could hardly believe it. Dragons would return to the world. Fire made Flesh. Creatures of myth and legend, gone for nearly two hundred years. “And if she doesn’t get her dragons we’re all dead.”

“How?” She asked. Dragons could turn the tide of any war. She’d seen her mother’s family’s seat at Harrenhal, she knew their power. But they seemed more likely to destroy them than save them.

He took another deep breath, then finished his flagon. How much had he had to drink? She briefly wondered before deciding she didn’t want to know. “The Others,” He said. The previous grief and fear were replaced by steadfast determination.

“The Others?”

“Aye. Monsters of ice and snow straight from Old Nan’s legends.”

She couldn’t help but laugh aloud, thinking he was making a jape till she remembered who he was, briefly wondering if he could even still make a jape. His serious expression told her that it was in fact, not a jape. She took a deep breath. “The Others?” She repeated, and he only nodded. That was just great.

“Hardhome. North of the Wall.” He inhaled again and for the first time, she saw fear in his eyes. “When I was Lord Commander at the Watch, we went to convince the remaining Freefolk to return south. There were fifty thousand men, women, and children there that day.” His eyes were glassed over again as he took another breath. “We only get out with six. The rest were dead. Turned into thrall in the Nightking’s army. The day I returned to Castle Black was murdered. Three days later, Stannis’ Red Priestess brought me back.”

She again found she was without words. The Others, a Red Priestess raising men from the dead. It sounded absolutely mad but then again, everything he said was. And she had to believe it. They sat there for another long moment, sitting in silence while she digested what he’d said.

“That’s why you said you still have to go to the Wall.” She said breaking the silence Seven know how long later.

“Aye.” Another moment of silence. “My uncle at the wall.” He waved his hands in circles. “Aemon, not Benjen. He said that everything needs to happen the same otherwise we could all be doomed.”

That would explain why he’s not helping she thought. This Aemon was a fool. He’s been given a second chance, he needs to take advantage of it. Gods knew her children would do it for him, the Jon Snow down in the yard would do it for them, why isn’t he? She knew she was missing something, but she didn’t know what.

She fell to her knees, holding his hands and looking up at him. “Why not try and change things? Make them better?” Her eyes were glassy as she begged the man for help.

“We barely won last time. We fought to the last man, if Arya was a minute slower we would’ve lost. It’s not worth the risk. I’m going east, if I stay here I’ll not be able to help myself from changing things.”

“Your siblings” she exclaimed, her voice hoarse and putting emphasis on the word she hated hearing about him moons ago. “They love you. They’d do it for you. They can fight with you. Targaryen or not, you’ve always been a Stark, so be a Stark. Do your duty to your family.”

He remained silent, looking her in the eye and shaking his head.

She snapped. Standing up and smacking the table next to her in a remarkably unladylike fashion. “You’re a bastard!” She screamed, uncaring if anyone else could hear him. “Trueborn son of Rheagar or Illborn son of Eddard, you’re nothing but a bastard!”

He snapped back, standing and glaring at her viscously, his anger breaking through. “No. I’m not. For years I wanted nothing more than to be one, more than anything I wanted a name, to do nothing but serve Robb, or Lord Stark as their most loyal man. Maybe as their Captain of their Guard, as Master at Arms, or as a bannerman with a seat of my own. But I’ve never been a Stark, you made sure of that. Made sure I was always nothing but a bastard boy, never to surpass his true-born siblings. Where everyone thought I was a mistake, the one stain on Lord Eddard Stark’s otherwise unblemished honor. Even when I found out the truth of who I was, that I had a name that was denied to me, the childish desire to be a Stark still controlled me. The idea that I had to be as honorable as the great Eddard Stark made me a fool, Robb made the same mistake, and he died for it too.” She mentally took note of his slip hinting at Robb’s death, accepting that she’ll get nothing beyond that.

He approached a nearby window, letting out another sigh, this one sounding angry rather than the defeated tone she’d grown accustomed to. He flexed his hands, opening and closing them. When he spoke he looked out the window. “Tell me, dear aunt. If you had to choose between Sansa or Edmure and Lysa who would you choose? Your daughter or your siblings?”

She stood there a moment, pondering the question before she understood. No. That was her first thought. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. But she didn’t think this man was capable of lying.

“It wasn’t your fault” The words slipped from her mouth. She moved to comfort the man but he put his hand out to stop her.

“It was.” He sounded weak, utterly defeated.

“You didn’t know.” She pleaded.

“I should’ve.”

“You couldn’t.”

“We fucked like bloody rabbits for the entirety of the journey from Dragonstone, how could I not?” He grew angry, his voice wound tight.

A silent tension as sharp as Valyrian Steel filled the room, she was afraid to make a noise. Like he would shatter with nothing but a word. “Do you want to know why they called you Stark’s Bane?” he asked as he turned away from the window, still not meeting her eye. Her throat went dry and all she could do was nod.

“The Kingslayer. There’s actually a decent man somewhere in there, was Robb’s captive. You released him in a prisoner exchange without anyone’s permission, this led to desertion, mutiny, and the loss of such a valuable hostage gave his enemies full reign to do whatever they wanted. This got you, him, his unborn child, and thousands of Northerners killed.”

She stood there a moment longer, shaking. “It was my fault.” She didn’t know what to do with her hands, she moved them all along her body.

He did nothing but look her in the eye giving her a sorrowful, understanding look and pulling her into a hug. When he released her she left his rooms, being there for hours, and went to hers. Not the quarters she shared with Ned, which they’d shared nearly every night for the last fifteen years, her own.

The Quice Damned

Since he awoke in the cave he’d felt nothing but a drowning weight bearing down on him. Knowing she was pregnant with his daughter, and that he killed them both, had left a void in a part of him he didn’t even know existed. The silver hair in his nightmares had turned chestnut, and the look in her eyes was replaced by his daughter’s cries. Echoes of his daughter crying ‘It was only a dream’ were omnipresent his entire ride south, leaving him in an unaware daze, tears freezing on his cheek every mile. If he was broken before, he was shattered now. His mind kept coming back to the question of why. Why hadn’t she told him? He briefly thought she was just as guilty as he was. As much as he wanted to believe that, he knew it wasn’t true. She didn’t tell him because she wanted him to stay because he loved her, not because of his duty to his child. With every further thought he sunk deeper and deeper into his own despair. He had to save them, nothing else mattered. He’d let Others win before he let them die again.

In the Raven’s cave he found the sword Darksister, Bloodraven likely taking it with him when he was seduced to be the new host of the Raven’s curse. He took it, thinking that wielding the Dragonknight’s sword would help adjust the boy to who he was. He found the cave was also filled with Children of the Forest who looked at him with an odd mix of suspicion and reverence. They swore they’d perform their role in their war to come, and he didn’t have the energy to question them.

When he finally arrived at the wall he exchanged Jeor’s Longclaw for Darksister, planning on giving each sword to its rightful heir. He didn’t dare tell Aemon about what he’d done to his daughter, but Aemon still knew. He doubted the blind man had ever failed to see something. He didn’t recognize you the voice whispered. Benjen had arrived at the Wall and had been filled in by Jeor and Aemon on his return, so his uncle had wanted to speak with him, but his duty had called him away. The man was happy about this. He was tired, angry, and if he saw the face of one of the men who killed him, he didn’t think he’d be able to control himself. He didn’t stay a few days to recuperate. He just slept a night (they did give him quarters in the King’s Tower), traded horses and swords, then left for Winterfell. He made faster time than southbound than he did going north, his nightmares causing him to wake before dawn each day with glassy eyes.

Arriving at Winterfell, he quickly took to the kitchens and demanded all the ale he could carry. He drank himself into a stupor before Catelyn arrived and they had their discussion. He wanted to help his siblings, he truly did. Hearing of Robb’s death when he returned from his ranging, and Rickon dying in his arms had nearly broken him- but knowing what he did to his daughter was past his breaking point. He knew that her fall to madness was his fault, he brought her north only to use her and push her away, he got her son killed, and he told her not to attack Cersei straight away (though many of those were also her incompetent advisors). He killed her, and their daughter. If he’d been the Thrice Damned before the cave, what was he after he’d killed his own daughter? It didn’t matter, he was damned beyond measure, and his continued existence was his penance.

His days were filled with him working himself to exertion in the yard, tiring himself on the training dummies, widdling blunted swords down till they were little more than clubs, and avoiding the Starks for fear of further attachment. He couldn’t wait to leave, to go to Qarth to help her. She didn’t have anything else that needed to happen. He didn’t need to hold back.

One day he found himself in a spar against Jory Cassel, the Captain of the Guards who was one of the many good men to follow Lord Stark South to King’s Landing never to return. Jory was among the most skilled of the Guardsmen, likely trained by Ser Rodrick himself, but even being in poor shape and being out of practice he still didn’t put up much of a fight.

Seeing Jory put down as easily as he was led to more guards challenging him, each dual earlier than the last as his instincts came back to him. When he was challenged by Harwin Mollen he heard Arya cheering him on from the distance.

“Yeah! You get ‘em, Harwin!” His young cousin yelled before being echoed by more guardsmen, hoping that eventually one of their guardsmen would beat him. Harwin was one of the better guards, but he was still disarmed after a moment. The man told Harwin his mistakes, he dragged his leg before each attack, televising his strike to anyone paying attention, and he said he’d win the next one. The man didn’t enjoy the attention it attracted, fearing someone would connect him to the boy. He knew the fear was unfounded, no one would be crazy enough to make the connection, but he still didn’t risk it.

After Harwin he’d been challenged by Robb Stark, then the boy. Both were better than any fighter that had come before, yet both failed to best him. He heard Arya shout that he was officially the best fighter in Winterfell. For the first time since the cave, he smiled as he fulfilled one of his childhood dreams. That smile was short-lived, however, as Robb Stark approached, the boy at his side.

“Uncle Rodrick, we’d like to fight you at the same time,” Robb said, the man suppressing a cringe at his cousin calling him uncle.

He looked at the two of them, both were green days who would become kings to be betrayed and lose everything, watching the women they love die pregnant with their children. It was only a dream his daughter’s voice echoed around him as he fought to maintain his composure.

“Uncle?” The boy asked, noticing his change in composure.

He quickly controlled the emotion, pushing the pain to a place he could later numb with drink, and nodded his head in acceptance. They approached the ring, the two of them side by side, their training steel drawn, and determined glints in their eyes. ‘As it should’ve been’ that traitorous voice whispered, and he tapped his blade to the ground, signaling to begin.

The two circled him, like wolves circling their prey. The heir went left, while the boy went right. He focused on the boy, knowing him to be the stronger sword, when he heard the heir move to attack him from behind. He pivoted on his foot to move out of the way and ducked under his slash. He moved to attack the heir’s back, but he was forced to parry the boy’s strikes instead. The boy pushed the attack, swinging at him relentlessly as he continued to parry. He noticed the heir stand to the side, not joining his ally like the honorable fool he was. He used this to his advantage, ducking under a strike before flicking his wrist to block the counter-swing before kicking his leg out from under him as the heir charged. The man ducked again, narrowly dodging the charge before striking the heir’s back with the flat of the sword. If it was a real fight, the heir would’ve died. He moved to the heir, and placed his sword at his nick. “Yield” the man demanded. He nodded as the boy stood and waited. Your precious honor will get both of you killed he thought. The heir yielded and he turned to face the boy. He ended it quickly, striking the inside of his arm on a parry and forcing him to drop his sword.

“I yield,” the boy said, through heavy pants and clearly frustrated at their defeat.

The nearby guards cheered for him, but he noticed that Arya didn’t, remaining loyal to her family. The thought made the man scowl internally as he remembered her older self saying ‘She’s not one of us’. Neither was he apparently.

The man nodded at his opponents and walked to put his sword away. They put there’s away a moment later as he felt guilt building up inside of him. “You both fight too honorably. Stop before it gets you killed.”

“Uncle?” They asked in unison.

“The fight was two against one, both of you could’ve attacked me while I fought the other, yet neither of you did.”

“There’s no honor in that!” The boy exclaimed.

“Aye, but there’s no in war. Hells, there’s hardly any in life!” The man replied, throwing up his arms and scowling at the boys. He was angry at Lord Stark’s foolishness. His Valeman’s honor would be the downfall of them both. Do you think a man at arms from the West cares about honor? Huh?” He yelled, the boy cowing while the heir looked angry at being chastised.

“They don’t! When you’re on a battlefield two things matter. Living and dying. If you’re gonna practice, practice right! Do you understand me?” He was yelling now, drawing the attention of many guardsmen and Arya.

“If we don’t fight with honor what’s the point?” The heir asked.

“To live, boy. To live. You can be the best fighter, the best general, the best leader, and you can still lose a war without losing a single battle.” You did. “Think of the Young Dragon, he conquered Dorne at fourteen and lost it at eighteen. He never lost a battle, but was killed by treacherous weasels.” Like you he thought as he began to pace, the boys looking at him incredulously. “It’s the same in damned politics. When you play the Game of Thrones you live or you die, and playing with honor is how you die.” His voice cracked as he fought down tears again as he looked away from them and continued speaking. “There’ll come a time when you’ll have to choose between putting your heart ahead of honor. Ahead of duty.” He looked back at them. “Sometimes you choose yourself. No matter what your family or anyone else says, you choose yourself. Do you understand me?”

Both boys looked at each other before saying “Yes Uncle” in unison.

“You seem to be speaking from experience, uncle.” The boy asked, surprisingly cheekily.

 The man looked away, he wanted to throttle him. He took a deep breath and turned back to him. “Aye, and you’re the rightful King of the Seven Bloody Kingdoms.” He said as he walked away, not sparing either a glance.

Days later, he found himself wandering the keep, a Winter Rose tightly gripped in his hand as he cut himself on the thorns. It was early in the day, and the royal party was expected to arrive soon. He was well into his cups as he found his way into the crypts. The one place he feared visiting. His drink gave him courage as he entered, passing the judging glares from the various Lords of Winterfell as the familiar feeling that he didn’t belong crept through his body. ‘Not a Stark’ they whispered. ‘No shit’ he thought.

He stumbled his way to where he wanted to be, in front of his mother’s grave. This is where he fucked it all up. When he told her the truth, it destroyed them.  No, that wasn’t right. It destroyed him. She was afraid that they’d turn on her, which they did, but she never threatened him. He fell to his knees, remembering how it felt when she held him in his dream. What would she think of what he did? Killing her grandchild? Would his father hate him? If they could see what he’d do would they still do it? Was there a world out there where they never absconded, where the Rebellion never happened and Dany and his siblings grew up safe in the Red Keep. He fell to his knees and began to cry again. “Was it worth it?” He whispered glaring up at her. He thought the statue looked like it was pitying him, which only made him angrier. “Was it worth it?” He repeated, yelling.

He didn’t know how, but he knew she would say yes. She still would love him after everything he’d done. Seeing her and knowing that was the one good thing that came out of the Raven’s dream. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, perhaps he fell asleep, he didn’t know, but he heard footsteps approaching.

“Daeron” Lord Stark said, his voice solemn.

“Lord Stark” he replied from his spot on the ground.

His uncle walked close and put his hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

The man looked up at him but didn’t respond. He had a lot of things to say sorry for, but he didn’t need to know any specifics. “Thank you.” He said after a comfortable moment of silence, one they quickly returned to, both men silent in their grief.

“I should’ve told you. Never let you go to the Wall.”

“You have to do it again.”

His uncle looked down at him and exhaled. “Aye. Cat told me what you said.” Another moment of silence. “Do I go to King’s Landing?”

Silence.

“Aye.”

Silence.

“Do I die there?”

Silence.

“Aye.”

His uncle took a deep breath. “So be it.” Silence. “How do I go?”

“You lie to save the girls.”

“Then I’d do it again.”

He looked up at his uncle to see him shrug. Silence. “I grew up with soldiers. I learned how to die.”

The man scoffed. “I clearly missed that lesson with the Maester, else I’d be dead at least twice over.” His uncle snorted in amusement. “You’re a good man, uncle. I see why Robb and I tried so hard to honor you.”

“You are too. Jon, Daeron, whatever your name is,” neither of those. “You are too.” His affirmation was paired with another kind pat on his shoulder.

‘It was only a dream’ He heard as he looked at the statue. “No, I’m not.” He said firmly.

His uncle looked back down at him. “It wasn’t your fault.” He didn’t have the energy to argue.

“She looked like her, you know.” He said, gesturing to the statue of his mother. “Flowing chestnut hair, long face, a Northern complexion, but with her mother’s lilac eyes, mouth, and nose. For years I’ve dreamed of silver hair, now it’s darker. “Now and always” replaced by her crying “It was only a dream.” He shook his head feverishly as the memories returned. “She was there.” He gestured to his mother’s statue again. “My mother. I wanted to stay- I should’ve stayed, everything was right there. Robb lived, so did his wife and son. That bastard didn’t put an arrow through Rickon’s chest, he was there. They both were, not buried in these crypts.” He shook his head again as his voice broke. “I should’ve stayed. But she told me ‘Remember Daeron’ and I did.” His heart pounded and he could barely breathe. The crushing weight had returned, he needed more ale. He then thought of how pitiful he looked. A traitorous voice wondered if this is how Dany looked after Rhaegal and Missendei died, how she felt when she burnt King’s Landing to the ground. Another layer of guilt fell upon him when he realized he’d have done the same thing if his daughter had died.

His uncle knelt down to him and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. “I lost a child, you know.” The man looked at his uncle as he continued. “Not with Cat, I did have a bastard. She was conceived at Harrenhal. I met a woman with beautiful purple eyes” Must run in the family. “Ashara Dayne. I loved her, and I wanted to marry her. Then my brother ran and got himself killed, and I had to marry for an alliance.” He didn’t fail to note the details of his uncle’s death were left out. “The next time I saw her, was just after I found you. Howland Reed, your nursemaid, and I,” Howland Reed? He knew his mother? Why didn’t he say anything when he was King? “We went to Starfall with Dawn, House Dayne’s ancestral sword. When she saw it was only the three of us she knew what had happened and threw herself from a tower and into the Torentine. I later found out our daughter was stillborn. Between the deaths of her friends at court, her brother, and our baby she was mad with grief and alone.”

He didn’t know what possessed him to do it, but he felt the urge to sing a verse he knew from a song.

“High in the halls of the kings who are gone

 Jenny would dance with her ghosts

The ones she had lost and the ones she had found

And the ones who had loved her the most”

His uncle looked at him, a tear in his eye, and patted his shoulder.

They stayed there in their grief and silence until his uncle bid them to prepare for Robert’s arrival.

Hours later, the royal procession had arrived, and he was amused by its pompous glamor. Seeing all that he’d seen, the Lannister Lion and the Baratheon Stag failed to fill him with the wonder they had the first time around. Knowing that the Hound wasn’t the monster he pretended to be, and the Kingslayer was just the man’s suit of armor removed the ‘magic’ of it all. The first time through, he remembered being disappointed in the king. The great Demon of the Trident, who felled the Raper Prince Rhaegar and avenged the Starks was nothing but a fat bumbling fool. At some point in his exile, he had decided that he hated Robert. The usurper’s obsession with his mother led to him killing his father, and his siblings, and sending his family into a life in exile. Now, he felt an odd kinship to him. Both had lost the women they loved (though Robert’s was never his, to begin with) and never got past it. The main differences were that Robert had ready access to live a life of hedonism, while he was in exile in a cold hell.

At the welcoming feast that night, he realized just how similar they were. The King had gone through several flagons of wine and ale himself, and constantly had a woman in his lap, despite his wife being feet away. He saw the boy feeding Ghost scraps under the table. Seeing Ghost was odd. His connection to his most loyal companion was muddied, likely only existing because of the boy’s bond. But it was there. Ghost looked towards him through the crowd and turned his head before being distracted by new food.

The man stood and began to look through the room, searching for the other King present at the feast. He spotted the scarlet strand in his cloak from across the hall, noting the lute on his lap. He noted his three companions, all seemingly Freefolk. He took a seat at the table along with them as they all turned to look at him.

“Your grace.” He said, nodding towards Mance Rayder. “We’ve much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Wars and Battles yet unfought.

The Quice Damned

Any mirth the four Freefolk had evaporated with his words. They stared at the man, their eyes sharp like steel, seeming more like shadowcats sizing up their prey than men at a feast. A thin older man he vaguely recognized quickly shoved his hand into his bottoms, undoubtedly drawing a dagger, causing the man to smirk.

“Now, Ser. I do believe you’re under guest right. You value that North of the Wall as well, do you not?” He said, the smirk audible in his voice.

The Freefolk man flinched before slowly reaching down again, this time returning his dagger to its holster.

The man smirked again. “Much better… Now, let’s return to our meal and have a conversation, Mance. I’ve spoken to one king today already,” he nodded his head towards the dais just as Robert released a loud belch. “and I was just as disappointed in him as you were.” He smirked again, this one reaching his eyes.

Mance sat there staring at him intently, the calculating glint in his eyes undercut with fear as he began to sweat. He knew the situation he was in. He was under guestright, drawing steel would be an affront to the gods. Even if he did, he’d quickly be cut down, and his cause would crumble. He sat silent.

“The great Mance Rayder silent? You crossed the Wall and snuck into Winterfell for a King’s Feast, all you’ve to do is bed one of the Noble Ladies present and you’d be Bale the Bard come again. The Queens a bit of a whore, your hairs not blonde ‘nough for her, but I’m sure you could find someone.” He smirked again, his companions shared concerned looks while Mance stared at him.

Finally, Mance spoke. “Do you have a name?”

“Several.” He smirked.

“And may I know them?”

“Why that’ll remove all the fun, Your Grace.”

Mance leaned forward, his voice dripping with contempt. “What is it you want? If you’re here to toy with us, alert the guards and get it over with.”

The man scoffed. “I want the same things you want. An endless summer, a beautiful wife and strong children, and to bring the Freefolk South of the Wall.

All the Freefok stared at him for a moment, a man with a scar across his cheek and dark straw-like hair was the first to react with something between a laugh and a scoff. “’Ats a Southron lordling like you ‘ant to bring us South for?”

“I’ve got quite a few friends North of the Wall, and I’d hate for them to become Wights in the Night King’s army.”

“And how did you come to know these “friends”?” Mance asked, the fear no longer present in his voice.

The man laughed a joyless laugh. “How? Why, the gods have seen fit to make a jape of my existence at every step I’ve ever taken. They’ve seen fit to bestow upon me the cruelest of all their curses, Mance. The curse of life. I’ve lived and died on the Wall and beyond it, I’ve seen Dragons fall and the Wall crumble. I’ve slain a White Walker with mine own blade, I’ve seen the end of the World, and the struggles after it.” The man looked squarely into Mance’s eyes before continuing. “I sent your child thousands of miles South, and put an arrow threw your heart, you thanked me for both.” The man smirked again, he was getting quite good at his speeches. Perhaps he could become a mummer if he failed again.

The Freefolk looked upon him again for a long moment, all wearing different expressions. Some looked upon him with wonder, others with doubt. Fear was ever-present in them all, however. Whether it was fear of the White Walkers or fear to hope that the Man was being truthful, he didn’t know.

“What in the seven cold hells are you on about?” Mance asked.

“This isn’t my first time through life, Mance. You’ve come here to meet the king? Which one? There are…” The man stopped to count. Robert, Robb, the Boy, Bran, Sansa, Joffrey, Tommen, Cersei, Mance, and himself? “Ten kings in this hall tonight.”

Mance looked at him again, a bewildered look on his face. “So you’ve lived all this before?” The man nodded in affirmation. “What else can you tell us?”

“Beyond what I’m to tell you, nothing.” He smirked again as the Freefolk all grew angry. “You see, I’m a selfish man. If I had to choose between the White Walkers killing every man, woman, and child in Westeros and myself, I’d let you all die a thousand times.” He saw purple eyes and heard her screams resonate throughout the hall as he swallowed and continued. “You’ll mount an assault on the Wall, you’ll have a hundred thousand, and the Watch a hundred. The Watch will win, and your host will scatter. Most of them will go to Hardholm, and the Lord Commander will come to bring them South. You make sure the Chiefs know to go with them. Have them be prepared for an attack by the Wights. Either that or have them set up camp a day’s ride North of the Wall near a manned castle.”

Mance looked back to him and seemed to ponder what he’d been told. “You expect me to lead my people to their deaths just so you can right your wrongs?”

“Aye.” The man replied which enraged the Freefolk.

“How about I gut you here and now, boy? What then?” Asked the man who drew the knife earlier.

The man didn’t rise to his threat, simply smiled. “I’ve done terrible things in this life, things that left me haunted and damned to the deepest of the seven hells. I’ll cut the four of you down before you can draw your steel, guest right be damned. Even if you did kill me, the future Lord Commander of the Watch is a few tables over.” He gestured his head towards where Benjen and the boy sat. “I’m sure hearing of how Wildlings butchered his kin under guestright at a feast in Winterfell will ingratiate him to your people.” He said calmly then ended with a smirk. This one was much crueler than before.

He stood to leave then turned to give the King Beyond the Wall one last warning. “The choice is yours, Mance. Don’t make me regret trying to save your people.” Then moved out of the Hall. He saw Benjen speaking with the boy and swore to speak with him again. He was still who he always was, he’d also saved his life after they followed the Imp’s foolish plan to catch a Wight.

He found himself cursing the imp again, he’d speak to the boy that night. He hadn’t decided whether he should prevent their meeting, briefly entertaining the thought of running him through but ultimately decided against it. The imp would need to fail his way to success, and he wasn’t sure how responsible he was for the Tyrells and Martells declaring for Dany. Maybe he could catch his betrayal with Sansa’s and take both their heads. He found himself smiling at the thought of taking their heads in front of every Lord in the North, letting them know that he wouldn’t tolerate such treason. The Gods knew they deserved it, the both of them guilty of countless crimes that he was denied justice for.

The next day, he found himself speaking with Benjen, who’d heard most of his story from Jeor and Aemon at the Wall, he filled him in on his parentage, and Benjen’s second life as whatever he was. Both shocked his uncle.

“So you’re Lya’s boy,” Benjen said sounding defeated. They sat in the Godswoods under the Weirwood tree, where no one but the gods could overhear.

“Aye.”

Benjen sighed again. “Figured as much, but I couldn’t get Ned to say it.”

The man clenched his fist. “He really didn’t tell anyone, did he?”

“He wanted to keep you safe”

The man shot Benjen a hard look, silently telling him he’d heard it. Benjen just laughed.

“Didn’t do a good job at that, did he? I tried to convince you not to go, but you see how that went.”

The man smiled. Benjen was one of the only people who was close to honest about the Wall, the other was that damned imp. “Aye, thank you, uncle. And thank you for saving me.”

Benjen chuckled again, now more nervous. “I’m still not sure what to make of everything you’ve said of White Walkers, Dragons, and Wights, but I’m glad I saved you.”

They both smiled and entered into a peaceful silence. Benjen didn’t deserve his death, with the Raven dead he may be raised as a normal Wight. The thought of having to kill him now almost made his heart lurch, the boy surely wouldn’t be able to do it.

“Uncle, I…” He started then trailed off. If Benjen survived, he’d be a better candidate for Lord Commander than the boy, and probably be a better one too. If Benjen survived would that mean he’d never become king? He forced himself to grow frustrated so he’d feel less helpless.

His uncle saw him and put a hand on his shoulder, causing the man to laugh long and hard. He thought he must sound like a madman, maybe he was. No, he definitely was. He’d lost his wits even before King’s Landing, at some point North of the Wall he’d gone fully mad. He’d lived at least a decade older than his uncles, yet here he was, still a boy.

“It’s cruel, uncle.” He said after his laughter subsided. “I’ve been sent back, yet I can’t do anything to save any of the people I care about without risking everything else.” In the distance, he could hear his daughter’s wailing. “I’m sentencing you, Robb, Rickon, Lady Stark, Lord Stark, and the b-“ he stopped himself, not knowing how to address the boy when speaking with others. He wouldn’t insult him by calling him by the name Lord Stark had given to him, acknowledging him as himself felt like a bad omen like it meant that he’d do everything he’d done, but he couldn’t call exactly go around calling him Daeron, especially not when Robert was gorging himself on wine, whores, and boars a few hundred yards away. “… The Boy,” he didn’t know how else to describe him, “to their deaths.”

Benjen sighed, closed his eyes, and exhaled. “Then do something about it.”

Does he think I never thought of that before? “I can’t risk it.”

“The Gods have blessed you” It’s a curse. “With a chance to change things, Jon.”

The man looked his uncle squarely in the eyes. “Worry not, Uncle. I will change things. But some things need to happen.” He stood up and began to walk away, not wanting to be pressed for specifics. He looked back to his uncle. ‘My name’s not Jon’ was on his tongue, but he didn’t have the energy to say it, and Benjen didn’t deserve his displeasure.

He walked from the Godswoods, his head in turmoil as his memories ran rampant. He saw Rickon running to him as Ramsay rained arrows down behind him, him holding his daughter while Dany laughed next to him, his last conversation with Robb, and the look of betrayal in Dany’s eyes as he plunged his dagger into her heart. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to do. He’d already left Dany to her fate to be a bed slave raped by her Horselord husband, not going to help her now would be cruel. But he couldn’t let Robb and Rickon die. Lord Stark deserved his death, and he knew it, and he found he enjoyed knowing that he was the cause of her suffering. He’d tell her that before he took her head. He’d tell that to the imp too, he’d make up something cruel to tell him. The traitor got his brother killed in the end, if he’d a brain then he’d have told them that.

As he walked aimlessly, paying no attention to where he was, his thoughts growing darker and darker, he found himself laughing. The Spider had said his coin had landed on greatness, and that Dany’s had landed on madness, well here he was, plotting how he’d torture everyone that ever wronged him-  the eunuch included.

“What are you laughing about?” Came a harsh voice from his left.

He looked and saw he’d found himself in the yard, where The  Hound, Joffrey, Tommen, Bran, Robb, Ser Rodrik, and a host of other Lords and Men at Arms were sparing, Joff had just finished a dual and was staring at him angrily.

“Pardon me, Ser. I was laughing to myself.”

“Hear that, dog? It’s just a senile old man. Ignore him, come, put on a show.” The man’s face flexed. This bastard was living the life he should have lived. He was a cruel, stupid, fool.

“If you would, my Prince.” He nearly vomited at the honorific. He wanted nothing more than to cut down every “Baratheon” within a league. “Would you honor this old man with a spar? I’ve not crossed steel with a Prince in many years”.

Joffrey scoffed. “Yes. I will, old man. But with live steel. Neither of us are children, ser.”

The man fought hard to suppress a smirk. Killing him would be so, so easy. “Aye, my Prince.” He said as he drew Longclaw. Men around him were awed by the Valyrian Steel sword.

“My Lord, my Prince! Surely you should not risk live steel in the training yard.” Cried Ser Rodrik.

“We’re both skilled with a blade, it’s only fair, Ser.” The bastard said dismissively, he would swear that he heard the Hound scoff. “And I promise not to hurt him. Much.”

The man vaguely remembered hearing that before. He looked towards a walkway in the distance and saw Arya and the Boy watching. He smirked and sensed an opportunity. “Aye, Ser Rodrick. I think you’re right.” He sheathed his sword. “This should be fairer.” He smirked as he moved into the Ring and got into position.

“You dare insult me?” Yelled an enraged Joffrey.

“Aye,” He replied calmly, still smirking.

“Very well. When I win I’ll take your sword.”

“And I, your dignity”

The bastard yelled and charged at him swinging wildly. He easily stepped away causing the bastard to stumble past him.

"A warm-up, my Prince?" The man laughed.

The bastard yelled and charged again, this time the Man tripped him as he sidestepped, the bastard landing face first in the dirt, unfortunately (or fortunately?) not cutting himself on his sword.

The bastard stood up, his face was flushed red and he had a hideous, hateful look on his face. The man began to laugh at how petulant it was. “Come now, ba- my Prince.” He nearly spoiled his secret. “Don’t choke on the dirt.” He smiled at that one.

The bastard charged at him again, but this time the Man didn’t dodge, rather he caught his sword hand and disarmed him (as painfully as he knew how), and headbutt the prince as he fell to the ground.

“JOFFREY!” He heard a feminine voice yell. He turned to see Sansa running to her betrothed’s side. ‘Bitch’ he thought to himself, knowing Lord Stark had betrothed his daughter to the Usurper’s heir while he sent the true heir to the Wall still hurt him somehow.

“Pathetic!” He exclaimed looking down at the bastard as everyone looked on in stunned silence. “I would’ve expected the Kingslayer’s ba- blood to at least be able to hold a sword. Do you even have a Master at Arms, boy?”

The bastard stood, his nose bleeding and his face somehow even redder. “I AM THE CROWN PRINCE! THE HEIR TO THE IRON THRONE!” He was shaking as Sansa tried to hold his hand as he pulled it away. It was pitiful. How could this stupid bitch look at this and think him a dashing gallant knight? Why did Arya ever say that she was the smartest person she knew? Was she stupid too?

‘You’re the bastard whorespawn of a mad woman, claimed by a pathetic usurper who beggared the kingdoms. You’ll somehow be a worse king than he.’ The man thought, smirking. Saying that aloud would have him killed where he stood. “Aye, but you fight like a farmer who has a sword thrust into his hand. Worse even. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of my young nephews could beat you.”

The bastard moved to get closer to his face when the large form of the hound stepped between them, scowling down at him. The man had nothing against him, they’d fought together during the Wighthunt, and again during the battle for Winterfell. The Man knew the Hound was an excellent fighter, maybe even on par with himself. He didn’t intimidate him, and he’d even like to try his steel against his, but he felt now wasn’t the time.

They stood staring at each other for a long moment. The tension around them was as sharp as Valyrian Steel. “The next time we meet, Hound, hopefully, everyone will be colder.”

The hound grunted and told him to fuck off, which he promptly did.

Walking towards the kitchens a short while later, the Kingslayer pushed into him roughly, causing the man to push back, gripping his forearm. The men scowled at each other, both reaching for their swords but not wanting to be the first to do it. The man in front of him was a far cry from the man who would come to Winterfell in some years.

“You certainly have the Stark look, my Lord, you’ve the same look as Lord Rickard. A shame what happened to him, what's the relation?” The Kingslayer said, his voice smug and the threat obvious.

The man smirked. Two could play at this game. “He was my blood.” He replied, not remembering his agreed-upon alias. “The Mad King certainly had a penchant for Wildfire, did he not? I guess he wanted to ‘Burn them All’” He said, a smug smile on his face as the Kingslayer looked awed.

“You did a good thing ending him, Kingslayer. Tho you could’ve saved his grandchildren. Or not, if you’d have saved Rhaenys she’d likely be here today, set to marry your bloody nephew. A fate I’d not wish upon any decent woman”. Sansa wasn’t decent tho. “He looks quite a bit like you, doesn’t he? I guess the Lannister blood is strong too.” He found himself smiling as the Kingslayer flinched.

“The next time we meet, Ser Jaime, hopefully, you’ll be less of a cunt. Who knows, maybe you’ll even have a warrior woman as a lover and a golden hand, switch things up a little.”

The Kingslayer drew his sword, and the Man responded in turn, though he smiled too. “What’s the matter, Kingslayer? Do you hate the idea of taking a lover and disgracing your cloak that badly? Don’t want any golden-haired bastards running around?”

The Kingslayer thrust forward, and the man parried, they did their dance as the Man fought desperately for survival. He was good, but the Kingslayer was younger, still had two hands, and may have been better. As they fought, he found himself growing tired. He dodged a slash, as the Kingslayer brought his sword back, forcing him to parry. He was relentless, and his form was perfect. The rare opening was closed before he could respond. He vacantly heard the screams of serving women as they fought through the halls, leaving torn tapestries and broken shelving in their wake.

When his limbs began to grow tired and he feared he’d be too slow to continue, he was saved by the booming voice of Robert Baratheon.

“Kingslayer! What is this?” He yelled, his voice echoing through the tattered hall as the two men slowly separated and lowered their swords, neither sheathing their steel as their eyes remained locked.

“Well? I’m not getting any younger. Explain!” Robert yelled.

“I simply wanted to spar with a knight as renown as the Kingslayer.” The man said, sheathing his sword and smirking at his opponent. “You’re as good as they say, Kingslayer. You’ve got a golden hand. Make sure you value your time with it.”

Robert laughed and made some jape about the Lannisters always having gold as the Man walked away, panting and cursing himself for his stupidity.

Many days later, after Robert had returned from his hunt, with Bran being kept busy by Lady Stark, he found himself wandering trying to ignore his cousins as much as he could. He knew he wasn’t on a schedule, the journey to Qarth would take moons, while the Red Comet wouldn’t arrive for nearly half a year. He shuddered thinking about what that meant for Dany. Knowing he was leaving her to suffer, letting her child die, and pushing her to the brink hurt more than anything with the Starks.

He found himself outside Luwin’s workshop where he was instructing Bran and Rickon on the different sigils of Houses throughout the North and Crownlands, the latter mostly for Bran’s benefit since he’d be journeying with his father. The thought of Bran going south made him feel ill. Of the three siblings who survived, he was the least to blame for his actions. He wasn’t himself, he was the Three Eyed Raven. He’d suffer in the South, he didn’t deserve to suffer like some of his siblings did. More so, he’d threaten the Boy’s claim which could ruin all of his plans. He knew an assassin was sent for him the first time around, he hadn’t the faintest idea of who sent him or why- but perhaps he’d get lucky this time around?

He barely managed to suppress the laugh that built up inside of him. What’s wrong with him? He’s hoping for the death of a nine nameday old boy. He again found himself wondering when he’d become a monster. ‘Kingslanding’. The voice whispered but he thought it went further back. He swallowed and pressed on, hoping that the assassin would strike true this time.

That night he faced a restless sleep. His conscience was at war with itself. Memories of seeing Bran broken in his bed, the feeling of Dany’s life leaving her body, and his daughter begging him not to leave filled his dreams. Before dawn, barely into the Hour of the Nightingale he’d given up on sleep and found himself laying in his bed with nothing but his thoughts for company.

The King’s procession was to leave that day, and the Man knew he should leave too, but he felt the urge to delay. He’d help Robb train with a sword and strategy, help him prepare for the wars to come. He knew he couldn’t save him (yes he could), but he’d make sure he killed as many Lannisters as he could. His thoughts ran as he lay there, thinking and overthinking about what was to come. He’d speak to Lord and Lady Stark to acquire coin to travel to Qarth, perhaps he’d even purchase an entire ship. What he knew was he had time.

When the King departed after saying their goodbyes – both personal and what courtesy demanded - he stood near Robb, Rickon, Theon, and Lady Stark on the battlements over the East Gate, watching the long train until it crested a hill and was out of sight as the cold winds blew. His eyes were focused on the Boy, riding along with Bran and Arya. He prayed to the Gods he knew existed but hated that Bran not being crippled wouldn’t change everything. May he go South, be taken on as a squire for a Kingsguard, and have a quick death.

He felt Lady Stark’s eyes bearing into him, turning he saw her blue eyes filled with fear and anxiety. He put on his lord’s face and tried his best to give her a reassuring nod. Not that I’m any less unsure than you. The five of them stood there in heavy silence for a long while. Theon would try and crack japes every so often, but no one would laugh. Even young Rickon could feel the gravity of it all and remained silent. They all stood there for who knows how long, as one by one they departed. First Theon, then Robb, then Rickon till it was just he and Lady Stark.

“Daeron.” She said before pausing. “Will everything be alright?”

The man sighed as he leaned over the battlements. “I don’t know. The last time through, Bran was pushed from the broken tower.” She gasped. “And he didn’t go South. He stayed here through it all.” Till Theon and Ramsay sacked Winterfell he wanted to add but knew he couldn’t. “Unless Bran changes everything,” he stressed the word, “Things will be alright.” For everyone except Me, Dany, Robb, Rickon, you, and eventually Bran and Sansa when they’re deposed.

“I hope you’re right.” She replied, sounding desperate.

He stood up and put his arm on her shoulder holding eye contact. “I have to be.” He said trying his best not to sound as desperate as she did before walking away.

The coming days had the Man training with Robb, and speaking with Rickon. The boy was lonely with no other children his age around, he’d taken to terrorizing serving men and women with Shaggydog, Greywind working overtime to keep him controlled.

Every night he would lie in his bed and swear he’d leave the next day, but each morning he’d lay awake and think of a new excuse to delay. A new tactic to teach Robb, teaching Rickon to not run in a straight line. One night he’d feared he’d again become too attached to the Starks, and would never go east. He’d had a night of even worse sleep than usual, remembering every time he’d failed to defend Dany in Winterfell from Sansa and the Northmen, or had given her poor tactical advice. ‘We should’ve taken King’s Landing’. He thought to himself. He knew that drink would allow him to find sleep, but seeing Robert had made him sick. He would not become Robert Baratheon.

Laying awake in his bed, he heard the door creak open. He resisted every instinct he’d had to check who it was as they crept through his room, staying still and keeping his breathing flat. Each step the intruder took was loud on the floorboards. Stomp… Stomp… Stomp… He kept his eyes closed until he could feel the intruder at his bedside, when the Man opened his eyes, and lept at his attacker.

He yelled a fearsome warcry, sounding like he imagined Ghost would’ve sounded like if he wasn’t a mute as he pummeled his attacker. He saw the glimmer of steel shine in his hand as he struck him, imagining the man was Tyrion, and Varys, and Allister, and Sansa, and Cersei all in one. The Man lost himself, decades of anger, regret, and sorrow walked side by side with the latent but paralyzing fear of failure that’d gripped him since the moment he awoke in Winterfell. His attacker hadn’t stood a chance.

His shout had been heard, as guards entered his chambers with their steel drawn, letting the light sweep in from the halls. They pulled him from his attacker, as he tried to calm himself. After several deep breaths, he looked at his attacker and saw what was once a thin man, wearing a patched grey robe that had been stained red. In his hand was a fine dagger, too fine a weapon for a man such as this.

He reached down to inspect the dagger, and after looking at it for half a moment he found himself nearly falling over from his laughter. The dagger had a black dragonbone hilt highlighted with bold red and shining silver. Its blade had the signature swirls of Valyrian Steel. This was the dagger that Arya used to slay the Night King. This was his father’s dagger, and his father’s before him, belong to Targaryen kings since before the first Aegon. Steel this fine falling into the hands of a man such as this was an apt comparison for the state of House Targaryen. It will kill the Night King whispered a voice in his head, this one less cruel and more hopeful than he’d heard.

“Are you alright, Uncle?” Cried Robb from the door, his boyish voice full of concern.

“Aye,” The man replied without looking up from the dagger.

The heir to Winterfell approached him and stood by his side looking down at the assassin. “Why would he come for you?”

The Man stood there in silence, wondering why. A man with this same dagger had tried to kill Bran last time, but Bran was crippled, he wasn’t. Who would try to murder Bran last time and then try to kill him this time? The man sat there for a moment, lost in thought, before remembering what Robb had asked. “Clearly I’ve displeased someone.” He mumbled, still staring at the dagger while contemplating who.

Robb snorted before looking at the dagger in his hand. The Man noticed him staring and handed it to him impassively. “It’s Valyrian Steel,” Robb said after a moment, his voice full of a wonder that made the Man smile despite how useless a statement it was. He was still so young, yet he’d soon be off to war. He tried not to think of that.

Robb handed the dagger back as the Man looked at it again before leaving the room. He’d known that Lady Stark would abduct the Imp, was this dagger the reason why? If he’d have left even a day earlier would that have ruined everything? Was everything still ruined? He found himself again wandering as he wondered if not letting Bran fall ruined everything.

“Daeron” he heard Lady Stark’s voice whisper yell from behind him.

He turned to see her approaching him, looking as nervous as she’d been since Ned left. “Lady Stark” he replied, his voice growing hoarse from his yelling.

He led her to the Lord’s Solar, where they both sat. He put the dagger on the desk as she looked at it curiously.

“That’s-“ Lady Stark began.

“Aye. Valyrian Steel. It once belonged to my father, then his father, all the way back to the first Aegon, now it’s yours. ” He ignored her questioning look as he inhaled, knowing this was going to be hard for her to hear. “Last time through, this dagger was aimed at Bran.”

“Why was Bran here? He was supposed to go South.”

He inhaled and closed his eyes. “He was pushed from the top of the Broken Tower. He was in a coma when the King went South.”

She gasped. “Who… Who would push Bran? He’s just a boy. And who would send an assassin for him?” The tears were now flowing down her face.

“The Kingslayer pushed him, and I’ve not the slightest idea who sent the assassin.”

“He was just a boy…” She whispered, tears still flowing.

“Aye, and saving him may’ve fucked everything else.” She shot him a furious glare as he continued. “After the assassin attacked, you went South to King’s Landing, and on the way back you arrested the Imp, which caused Tywin Lannister to invade the Riverlands. Robb responded and was crowned King.”

“Why would I arrest Lord Tyrion? Did he-“ She began before he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“I’m not sure, but no. He didn’t.” He said, his hoarse voice grim as he swallowed. “You need to do it again.”

She inhaled and was silent for a moment. Her hands went to her face, forming a bridge over her nose. “Why? You just said I’d cause a war. Stark’s Bane. That’s what you called me. Do you want me to do it again?” She yelled the angriest he’d ever seen her.

“Aye, but war is inevitable. This is the one I know Robb will do well in, he was never beaten in the field.”

“You expect me to start a war and for what? So you get your happy ending? What about me? What about Robb?” She screamed as she stood from her chair.

He remained seated and glared at her. “I expect you to start a war because if you don’t, your son will die. Here’s what you’re to do. Speak with your council, and go to King’s Landing. Speak with Lord Stark, speak with whoever will approach you. When you’re done, go to the Inn at the Crossroads and wait. Once Lord Tyrion appears, take him into your custody, and from there do what you want.” Kill him. He wanted to say, but he knew he couldn’t.

She stood there glaring at him, looking like an angry child. The glare hurt. He knew he could be doing more, yet he wasn’t. He was sitting here inciting a war. Why? Because he was afraid. Because he owed her a Throne and a daughter. “Very well.” She said finally, sounding icy. “But you will leave. Go East, to your aunt and her dragons. I will not suffer you in Winterfell a day longer.”

“Aye.” He replied, silently thankful to not have any excuses “I’ll leave at first light.” He stood and left the room.

He took a horse, a generous bag of coin, and supplies as he set off east towards White Harbor. While he rode he felt guilt flooding through him. For Rickon, Robb, Bran, Arya, and even a little for Sansa and his uncle. As the sun neared the horizon on his first day east, he looked back the way he had come from. For a moment he was still a bastard boy on a hill outside Winterfell trying to save his brother.

“To hells with it.” He mumbled to himself as he turned his horse around and rode back towards Winterfell.

Chapter Text

The Quice Damned

“Where are we going?” Rickon asked sleepily, having been unable to fall asleep on the back of the palfrey he shared with the Man.

“On an adventure” The man replied sternly, pushing the horse into a comfortable trot as they rode south down the Kingsroad, the rolling green of the Barrowlands was only broken by the occasional patch of white summer snow that had fallen and was yet to melt. Shaggydog was always their constant shadow, nearby but mostly unseen. His cousin’s direwolf reminded the man of Ghost in that way, but the beasts were night and day in more ways than the color of their fur. While Ghost was mute and always well-behaved, Shaggy was loud, audible from a distance as he caught his prey and savage, looking as if he’d tear off the Man’s arm whenever Rickon grew grumpy. Not for the first time, the Man found himself wishing he still had Ghost with him. The man didn’t look forward to keeping the Direwolf under control during their voyage east, but he’d deal with that when we found a ship.

“Where?” Rickon asked again, his voice pitching higher.

The man didn’t answer for a moment. He didn’t know how to. He’d never been great with children. Outside of his cousins back at Winterfell, the only child who was more than a babe he’d any experience with was Olie, and that hadn’t ended well. He laughed aloud at that, seeing Olie’s eyes bulge like they did as he hanged him had haunted him up until the moment he thrust the knife through her heart, and he hadn’t thought about it since. Thinking about it again made it hurt. The poor boy didn’t think he had a choice, and he’d done the same thing they did. He exhaled. I’m a monster. He thought. A bastard.

“We’re going East.” He told Rickon after swallowing.

“I don’t want to go East!” He shouted. “I want Father and Robb and Bran and Jon!” He started to shake and thrash about atop the horse, moving so much the Man feared he’d fall.

“Easy, easy,” the Man said, trying to ease the child as he put a protective grip on his shoulder. He inhaled before trying to calm him. “You’ll be safe where we’re going. There’ll be magic, and Dragons. You’ll see the world, then we’ll come back and see Jon and Bran. Aye?”

Rickon stopped shaking and pouted but didn’t offer a confirmation. The man sighed, not even a day with him, and he was already exasperated. ‘Maybe it was a good thing h-‘ No. He silenced that thought as fast as he could. He realized then that he was out of his depth. He, the Queen Slayer, the Kinslayer, the Child Slayer, the Oathbreaker, the King in the North, the Hero of the Wall, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch twice over, he who’d slain white walkers, giants, wights, wight giants, the second person to bond with a dragon in nearly two centuries, who’d stared down the Night King, an undead dragon, who’d conquered death twice, and traversed time itself, couldn’t deal with a five nameday old child.

“Aye?” The man tried again. In the distance, he saw Shaggy and for a brief moment felt fear. The beast wasn’t large enough he thought he couldn’t beat it if need be, but he didn’t want to do that. If for no other reason so he’d not alienate Rickon already.

“Aye Uncle…” Rickon mumbled, not sounding too adamant about it. They rode in a companionable silence through the Barrowlands for the remainder of the day. If all things went well, they’d end up in White Harbor within the sennight, then he’d have to find a ship to take them to Qarth to meet Dany and her dragons. From there, he’d help her. He still carried Longclaw, the version that still kept a bear’s head as a pommel for Ser Jorah (he tried not to think about how he’d managed to duplicate a Valyrian Steel sword), he’d ensure she kept him at her side (he’d figure it how to do that later), maybe even give her Longclaw to give to the knight. He’d only known Jorah for a short while, mostly from their doomed expedition beyond the Wall where they hadn’t had much time to socialize, but he’d thought he seemed a decent man. He’d given his life to save Dany during the Battle of Winterfell, and if nothing else, he’d owed the Old Bear.

He didn’t know what he’d do when he saw her, but he’d think of something later. He realized he was being crass when he spoke with people intentionally, giving that same speech of how he’d gone by many names and had won many titles, but he didn’t feel Dany deserved that. But at the same time, he knew that he couldn’t come out and begin with the truth. He feared saying ‘I’m your nephew, I love you, your womb isn’t cursed, I killed you and our unborn child after I betrayed and abandoned you and you burnt King’s Landing, let me serve you until my dying breath’ she’d feed him to her dragons, and that’d be a kinder fate than he deserved.

Their Travel was thankfully uneventful. They passed travelers here and there, but a firm nod had them sent on their ways as both parties moved on in opposite directions. Their route added an extra two days to their travel time, but he felt avoiding Bolton lands was a worthwhile delay. The Bastard had killed Rickon once already, and killing Ramsay this early would change too much. At night, he found himself thinking back to what happened when he returned to Winterfell.

Lady Stark was preparing to ride out alongside Ser Rodrik when he arrived. She was the first person to see him other than the guardsman atop the castle’s walls. She looked so grateful for his return, so hopeful, then so devastated when he told her he was taking Rickon with him, but she understood. He found Rickon asleep in the care of Old Nan, who simply looked at Rickon before shifting her gaze to him and saying in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Here for the boy?’ The Man simply nodded and moved forward, planning to pack for Rickon as she continued ‘Your mother would be proud of you, boy.’

He stopped and dizzied himself, his head snapped towards her so fast. How did she know? ‘If nothing else, just remember that. She’d want you to.’ His eyes glassed over looking at her as he fought to suppress a sob. ‘You look like your great-great-grandfather when you cry, you know?’ she reminisced as her voice drifted off. ‘Your father’s, the bald boy who looked like an egg, he traveled around with that great tall man. None of the Starks ever cried.’ She smiles at the mention of the tall man. ‘They were here, you know? In Winterfell to help Lord Beron fight the Greyjoys when they started raping and reaving again.’ The man sniffed again as she continued. ‘They’d both be proud of you too.’

The man sniffled again. ‘When I return, perhaps you could tell me of them.’

Old Nan laughed and gave him a rueful smile. ‘We both know when you return, I’ll be long gone. Goodbye, Jon Snow.’ She said.

‘Goodbye, Old Nan.’ He replied as he pulled her into a hug before she took over preparing Rickon for their journey.

As they grew nearer to White Harbor’s washed stone walls, the Man could clearly see the steep grey roofs and buildings of white-washed stone. The Merman of the Manderlys and the Direwolf of the Starks flew high over the walls as they rode under the portcullis, Shaggydog thankfully still small enough to pass as a normal dog and was uncharacteristically well behaved as the man found an inn that doubled as a mummer’s hall for them to sleep in near the harbor while he searched for a vessel.

“I’ll be back soon, Rickon. Do not leave the Inn and keep Shaggydog close, and don’t let him maul anyone, aye?” The man commanded, hoping his cousin would listen.

“Aye, uncle.” The boy replied.

The Man exited the inn and instantly smelt the salt of the sea as the chill of the sea breeze slammed into his face. He’d only been at or near the sea a handful of times. Hardhome, the journeys to and from Dragonstone to Eastwatch, The Boat to White Harbor, he smiled at that memory despite himself. As he realized that all his memories of being on a ship were when he was full of fear or lust as he set out towards the harbor, looking for a ship to grant them passage to Qarth, or failing that as far east as they could go. He’d been granted a generous supply of coin by Lady Stark at Winterfell, then more when he’d said he was bringing Rickon, but he hadn’t the faintest idea of how expensive it’d be to charter a passage. Let alone one that far east.

The harbor was full of ships to Bravos, Pentos, Myr, Volantis, and Lorath. There was even an Ibbenese Whaler who’d made port to resupply after a squall had blown them off course before leaving them adrift for days. After nearly giving up and instead seeking Volantis, he’d managed to find the Cinnamon Wind, a Swan Ship from the Summer Isles that was sailing to the Jade Sea to buy spices and would make port in Qarth. The captain, Quhuru Mo’s face lit up at the idea of bringing on a beast as mythical as Shaggydog. He’d initially not believed him, thinking the beasts extinct since before the Dragons, but after he’d sworn on the Old Gods, the New Gods, and his mother’s grave, he’d finally convinced the man.

The ship was to leave with the tides the next morning, and the man sent a silent prayer to the Gods that otherwise hated him so. He returned to the inn only to find that Rickon wasn’t in their room. He pinched his nose and gave an exasperated sigh. He wasn’t sure what Lady Stark had told Robb about Rickon, but he doubted they’d sent Ravens to the Manderlys announcing their presence. The Northern Lords were ignorant, closed-minded fools, but they weren’t stupid. An auburn-haired boy with a direwolf could only be a Stark, and the Man would rather not have to come up with an answer for Lord Manderly.

Thinking of Lord Manderly, he could’ve turned the tide at the Battle of the Bastards alone. The Manderlys were among the strongest of Winterfell’s bannermen, and they alone could’ve doubled their force alone. The man decided he’d write a letter to Lord Manderly telling him to ‘remember his debt when the bastard howled’ after he found Rickon.

He found his brother feeding Shaggydog at the table in the common area, the room otherwise devoid of anyone else.

“Rickon..?” The man questioned.

“Shaggy was hungry, Uncle. We were cramped in there and wanted out.”

The man couldn’t help but smile. In his first days at Castle Black, Ghost was much the same. That his brother’s wolf would do the same was endearing. He was about to speak when he realized he’d thought of Rickon as his brother. He wasn’t, he was his cousin. The man flexed his burnt hand open and close. He had to be a mummer and act like the boy was his nephew. Though once out of the North he could change his story and say he was his cousin. No one would question it outside of the North anyway.

The man realized he’d just been standing there staring towards Rickon and he’d forgotten what he was planning on saying.

“You need to keep Shaggy hidden, cousin.” He cursed himself but hoped the boy wouldn’t notice his blunder. “There are only a few Direwolves left, and someone could try and hurt Shaggy.” He supposed it wasn’t really a lie given the beast’s eventual fate, but it still didn’t feel right. He lead Rickon and Shaggy back to their room before he returned below. He’d purchased a parchment and enough ink to write his message, then paid a runner to deliver it to Lord Wyman the following day.

The next morning, he’d woken up along with Rickon and broke their fast in the Mess. He purchased extra salted meat from a vendor and went to the ship.

“A Direwolf!” Shouted Quhuru Mo when he noticed them from atop the ship. “You weren’t japing me, Northman.” He’d decided he’d change his name to avoid being followed. Besides, it’s not as if these Summer Islanders would have extensive knowledge of the lesser branches of House Stark. Speaking of those branches, what had happened to him? Rodrik was the Man’s great-grandfather, and he’d had sons, daughters, and another brother who had children of his own. He supposed that’s where Sansa’s Flint successor came from before.

“Aye, Captain.” The man replied. “Shaggydog, a fearsome beast who’ll make any pirates foolish enough to threaten us piss their breaches.”

The dark-skinned man laughed from deep in his belly. “I think this could be the first time I’ve ever been hoping to encounter pirates. I’d like to see Corsairs when they see THAT.” The man gave a slight smile, and he saw Rickon do the same. The Man had never enjoyed killing ‘I don’t’, but seeing the sheer lethality of an enraged direwolf was something he could always appreciate.

They weren’t afforded a room to themselves, instead being assigned two hammocks near the aft of the ship alongside the rest of the crew who were all cowed or awed by Shaggydog. After depositing their few belongings (The Man kept both Valyrian Steel swords at his waist at all times, he’d no reason to mistrust these sailors as he had no reason to trust them), the Man, Rickon, and Shaggydog all traveled to the deck to watch White Harbor fade away in the distance.

The crew scurried around the deck to make their final preparations until the sails were unrolled and they were finally off. He was coming, Dany. He was coming. Xhondo, a very large man who could hardly speak the Common Tongue had managed to explain to tell him that they’d be at sea for a moon and a half before they made port in Tyrosh, then another fortnight and a half to Volantis, then close to two moons to Qarth.

Mere moments after they were away from the port, a deep, distinct horn blew thrice from atop Newcastle as the man’s heart dropped. VRROOOOOOOOOOOOOO VRROOOOOOOOOOOOOO VRROOOOOOOOOOOOOO it howled as one bell began to toll, again, from the Newcastle, before another began to ring, then another.

“What’s that?” Rickon asked.

The man’s stomach tied itself in knots. He should be there. He knew what would happen. He shouldn’t have let him go.

“What is that horn?” The boy asked again, his voice wavering.

He could save him. They were hardly a half mile from the shore then, if he took a dinghy he could row to the coast.

“WHAT’S HAPPENING?” Rickon yelled as Shaggy growled at the Man.

“Robb’s called the Banners,” he said, sounding lifeless. He tasted the salt in the air and thought no taste had ever been so bitter as a single tear rolled down his cheek.

Chapter Text

The Quice Damned

The first days after they embarked blurred together into a bitter dream. The Man discovered that the Summer Islanders kept a great secret in the form of a sweet and fruity drink made from berries that grew in their homeland, “rum” they called it, and he drank it like milk from a nursemaid’s teat. He shouldn’t be here, he thought. Yes you should, the voice whispered. He should be with Robb. You should’ve told him more, it rattled. He tried to help the sailors when he could, but quickly found he had no hand for it and he got in the way more often than not.

Shaggydog and Rickon were similarly out of place, his cousin hated being at sea and was green sick for the first five days, and his Direwolf hadn’t faired any better. Shaggydog was kept restrained with an iron chain around his neck after he ate threw a rope and nearly chased a deckhand into the sea. The Man took it upon himself to care for them both, being both the only one who wasn’t afraid of the wolf, and seemingly the only one who cared for the boy. Most days he lounged about, helping where he could, while during the nights he would drink rum and tell the stories of his youth. Only a handful of the crewmates could speak the Common, of them only Quhuru could speak it fluently, so he translated to a tongue they could understand. He began each of the nights with his more mundane glories, the Battle of the Bastards, holding the Wall against Mance’s assault with a hundred men, and his time in the Night’s Watch, then as he got deeper into his cups he began to speak of the more mystical. The first wight he slew at Castle Black, fighting side by side with giants, the slaughter at Hardhome, warging, riding Rhaegal, and the Battle of Winterfell. He didn’t think he spoke of his defeats, but the pitying looks the crewmates gave him the days following nights of particularly heavy drinking left him suspicious.

Once Rickon acclimated himself to the sea, he became an even bigger fuss than before. “I want my mother” he would cry. “I want Robb, and Bran, and Father!” He didn’t have the heart to tell him that all of them would be dead soon. Except Bran wouldn’t be dead, Bran was in the capital. The Man wondered what would happen to his cousin since he’d not be in Winterfell. In the same vein, how would the boys not being in Winterfell when Greyjoy sacked it change things? The Man hoped his mercy hadn’t altered things too much, it would be a pain to deal with later. If his actions meant the Boy wouldn’t be King, would everything be ruined? The only reason the Battle of the Bastards happened when it did was because he had to save Rickon. How would removing his cousin from the Bolton’s clutches change things?

The man didn’t want to entertain these thoughts, fearing the worst, and so he drank till he could think no more. A fortnight in, Rickon awoke early in the morning sobbing and demanding they turn back, saying his father was waiting. When the Man asked what was wrong, Rickon said he saw his father in the crypts at Winterfell. At first, the Man didn’t understand, but then it clicked. Eddard Stark was dead. He could’ve saved him, but he didn’t. He knew he should tell Rickon the truth, that his father was dead, but he couldn’t. The Man wondered if he should’ve saved Ned Stark. Perhaps in another life, he would’ve, but he was too set on Aemon’s plans to keep everything the same. He could’ve made peace with the Freefolk, he could’ve gone to war with the Lannisters, exposed Baelish’s treachery, and crafted the boy to be the perfect King, someone to lead the war against the Others and restore their house to its rightful place.

Robb would’ve said he was still his brother, no matter who his father was, and declared for him. Lady Stark could’ve gotten him the Riverlands, and between Lord Stark’s reputation, and exposing Baelish’s schemes, he would secure the Vale. Speaking to Melisandre about the coming wars, showing her his scars, and telling Stannis about what he’d go on to do, he’d have the Stormlands and Dragonstone after Renly was handled. Dorne would be easy enough, a promise of vengeance for his siblings, and the heads of the Mountain and Tywin Lannister, and they’d support him. All he had to do was save his fath-, uncle, and everything would’ve changed.

But he didn’t.

He’d doomed people he’d once loved, still loved, to suffer and die cruel deaths. And for what? The daughter you never let live, the voice whispered. The daughter you murdered, it spat. He avoided those thoughts since they lead him to spiral down into an abyss he couldn’t afford to spiral into, lest he make a fool of himself.

His cousin’s dream threw him into another layer of despair, his days went by in a daze, and his nights in a haze. He just wanted to get to Qarth, to get to her. His doubt was suffocating him, he had to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake, that he hadn’t killed them for nothing.

When they began to sail into Tyrosh, the Man was grateful to have the opportunity to stretch his legs. Rickon and Shaggy were both desperate for it as well, the Direwolf had grown aggressive towards him in recent days, and the Man hoped that spending some time on land would help calm them.

The ship sailed through a great red tower’s shadow, and the Man saw the high black walls surrounding the city, making it all look like one great fortress. He could see the outline of the great Dome of what he assumed was the Archon’s palace surrounded by towers of diverse hues and roofs of a mosaic of vivid oranges, sapphire blues, and emerald greens. The wind was a gentle, pleasant breeze that brought the sweet scents of fruits growing from nearby orchards. The harbor was vast, containing at least a hundred ships, hailing from all over Essos, from Ib to Qarth. The Man could see Lavish pleasure barges moored alongside Swan Ships and Trade Galleys, and he could hear the bustle of the market from a league away.

Once they docked, Quhuru spoke to a customs officer in the trade tongue and after what felt like an eternity, they were allowed to disembark. They would only be in Tyrosh for four days, so the Man would be sure that he, Rickon, and Shaggy would be off the ship as much as possible.

He went to Rickon who had taken to climbing the masts of the ship, and told him they would be seeing the city, and that he had to keep Shaggydog close and in control. He eagerly nodded, running to get his wolf. When they returned, the trio set out through the harbor, the Man with a Longclaw on both his hips. They saw boys peddling fish, clams, and oysters in their carts, calling in all sorts of tongues as the narrow streets and opulent spires of gold and marble loomed ahead.

He heard some of what he thought was some form of Valyrian, the guttural Trade Tongue, and even the Common. He saw ships from Westeros, flying the colors of the High Tower, the Grapes of the Arbor, Velaryon, and even one of Stannis’ Flaming Hearts. He could hear a man calling out in the Common looking for Sell Sails to come and fight for the ‘One True King of Westeros’, and earn themselves unimaginable wealth. Little did they know, they’d soon be burnt alive by a drunken whoremongering dwarf and be left to freeze at the edge of the World.

The men and women walking the streets had their hair dyed in bright hues of green, blue, purple, and yellow, and some wore queer black hats that stood nearly a foot tall, while others were short and wide, covering themselves in shade, and undoubtedly keeping them cooling in the blistering heat, their necks were bedecked in elaborate jewels, and their silks and linen were other bright colors, none of which matched their hair.

But for every man with hair dyed bright, there were at least two with collars around their necks. They navigated the narrow winding bazaars of the city, seeing merchants selling everything imaginable. Elaborate tapestries in bright colors depicting creatures and battles The Man had never heard of, boys no older than ten, gemstones of sapphire, emerald, and rubies that were blinding in the sun’s shine, maidens freshly flowered and ready to be used, fine weapons and armor expertly crafted and embellished with gold and gemstones, gladiators tried, blooded, and ready to fight in wars, or for amusement, and exotic fruits the Man had never seen before. Thrice did men stop and try and haggle to purchase Shaggy, either to keep in their menageries, or to slaughter for his fur, he didn’t know, but he pushed Rickon and Shaggy from them all, as the sights of terror only worsened.

He saw a slave boy drop the crate he carried, only to be whipped and beaten relentlessly by his master as he cried for mercy. His hand flexed as they turned left. They heard a girl who looked no older than three and ten namedays squeal as an old man as fat as a horse pinched her breasts. They turned right. He noticed an old man hanging from a cross, his arms stretched outright and nails driven through his hand as flies swarmed his head, and people walked by like he wasn’t even there. His hand went to the pommel of his sword as he thought of Mance burning on the pyre. I should do something, he thought. They turned left again.

The Man had never seen the horrors of Slavery before. He’d heard the tales as a child, and again during those sweet fleeting nights on the ship, but never heard the sounds or smells it brought. The city that once smelt sweet and faintly of oranges now had been tainted by the pungent odor of despair. The sounds of a bustling metropolis were silenced by their screams of agony. Knowing that she fought against it only made him love her more. What happened to the slaves after you killed her? The whisper snarled. The man didn’t have an answer for it. Without her, her dragons, and her Unsullied did Dragon’s Bay remain free? Or did it revert to Slaver’s Bay? He couldn’t know for certain, but he knew the answer. It was yet another sin to add to his ever-growing register.

When they escaped the cruelties of the flesh markets they came out near a fountain with a nude great bronze statue of a man drinking from a flagon of wine with one hand, while he held his cock with the other at its center. Rickon and the Man both splashed water onto their face as Shaggy lapped at the water. The man refilled their waterskins, and they sat on its edge, taking a moment to collect themselves. Shaggydog panted in the heat near them, the beast needed to have its fur shorn, it was built for the North. Like you were, that treasonous voice whispered.

“What were those people doing?” Rickon asked.

The man looked at his cousin, trying to think of a way to explain the horrors of slavery to a child. “They were being sold.”

“Sold?” Rickon asked, tilting his head. “But they’re people.”

The man sighed. “Not to them.”

“Why?” His cousin asked.

Because of me. The man thought. He knew it wasn’t true, but it was. These were the evils that she wanted to war against and destroy, and he killed her for it. And Why? Because Sansa, and Arya, and the Imp had convinced her that she would kill him, and them? He was a fool. She begged him to love her and he murdered her for it while promising his love. At least she was happy up until her final moment, he thought. I doomed all these people. He knew that was a past life, and that he had a chance to fix things, to make them better, but he still felt the crushing guilt of a million, million men, women, and children suffering in slavery for five and twenty years, all because he hadn’t wanted to fuck his aunt.

“Because people that know what’s good listen to greedy fools who only want money and power for themselves at the cost of everyone and everything else.” The man said with conviction. He knew Rickon didn’t understand what he’d just said but still, the boy looked at him more seriously than he’d ever seen him before and nodded.

After a moment of rest and people-watching, Rickon noticed a dwarf juggling on the other side of the fountain and went to watch. The Man closed his eyes and dipped his head back, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, an alien feeling compared to the tundras he’d lived in beyond the Wall for most of his life. He felt a presence and opened his eyes as his hand went to the pommel of his sword.

He turned to see a Red Priestess standing an arm’s reach from him. She was cloaked in the flowing scarlet robes that seemed to dance with flames he’d once known Melisandre to don. Her robes only seemed to accentuate her features, her skin was pale like porcelain and seemed to glow with warmth, and her face was striking and sharp, framed by raven-black Tresses cascading down past her shoulders, and her eyes glowed like molten gold, and pierced through him like she could see each and every one of his many, many sins.

They stared at one another for a moment, until the priestess spoke. “My Prince,” she said reverentially as she effortlessly fell into a perfect curtsey, causing the man to scowl.

“I’m no Prince, my Lady. I’ve dealt with your order before, and I’ve no interest in doing so again.” The Man sternly replied.

“I’m aware of what R’Hllor has done for you, my Prince, and what you’ve done for my Lord. I simply come with a warning.” She stated, sounding borderline sultry as Melisandre always had.

“Well?” The man asked. “Get on with it.” He said, gesturing with his hands for her to continue.

“Beware the Pruned Rose’s Kiss,” She said simply.

“Is that it?” The man rolled his eyes and stood up, glaring down at her. “Are you priests good for anything other than vague prophecies that half-mad women think they see in flames? Why can’t you be more specific?” The man shouted.

The woman simply smiled and put a finger to his scar, causing it to burn slightly. “I think we both know that the priests of R’Hllor are good for much more than ‘vague prophecies discerned from half- mad women in the flames’, my Prince.” She said as she gave him a seductive smile as he stepped back.

“I wouldn’t say you’re good for that.” He huffed.

“Yes, well, the Lord would disagree.” She replied as she began to walk away before she turned her head back. “We will meet again, My Prince. In another life, we would’ve met years earlier, but it wasn’t meant to be.”

She took another four steps further, seemingly gliding effortlessly under her red dress before the Man called out to her. “What is your name?”

She stopped and turned to face him again, she smiled as she spoke. “Kinvara, the High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, and the First Servant of the Lord of Light”.

The man stared at her as she walked away and melted into the crowds of people, feeling more confused than he had before she left. He’d left him with several questions, namely why the High Priestess of Volantis would be in Tyrosh, and what the Pruned Rose’s Kiss was. He once again decided that he hated R’Hllor as Rickon returned to him, having been amused by the Dwarf before Shaggy had run him off. They departed back to the ship, taking care to avoid the winding alleys and the grand towers in favor of a path they’d hoped wouldn’t force them to bear witness to the Tyroshi’s barbaric acts. When they got back to the ship, they decided they wouldn’t leave again, and they didn’t go beyond the harbor till they departed.

Two days later, the Man was awoken by an odd feeling in the back of his skull, like there was something there that hadn’t been there before. It was just before dawn he thought, judging by how several crew members were still asleep in their hammocks. He climbed to the deck and looked out over the horizon to see the red sun flying high in the dark pre-dawn sky, and he felt a pull like it was calling him towards it. He didn’t know how long he stared at it, but the sky brightened as the greys turned to blues, and the horizon began to glow orange.

The sun was rising, he thought. The Man looked back to the red streak in the sky and realized he’d seen it before. Mormont’s Torch, The Bleeding Star, The King’s Comet, The Dragon’s Tail, the Harbinger, the Father’s Scourge, it had a thousand names and a thousand meanings across the world, but only he and two score Dothraki in the Red Waste knew what it really meant. His face morphed into a wide grin as his eyes began to glass over.

“The Red Star, a sign of good winds, good harvest, and good sex,” Xhondo sleepily declared as he slapped The Man’s back and joined him in leaning against the railing, gazing at the comet. “What does it mean to your people?” Xhondo asked in a broken mess of the Summer and Common Tongues.

“Dragons.” The Man replied, his gaze remaining transfixed, as he’d never seen a sight so beautiful.

Chapter Text

The Quice Damned

They were less than two days from Volantis when everything went wrong. First Shaggydog had become more aggressive; growling, barking, and snapping at the air, Xhondu had at first been put off by his aggression but then laughed after he returned from the deck.

“Shagging Dog smart, he taste rain. Shagging Dog knows storm is come!” The great big man laughed in broken Common. “Worry no, Northmans, we sail right a hundred storms!” He cheered as he moved towards the surface, barking orders in the Summer Tongue as he went.

They had been blessedly lucky till then, sailing with clear skies and restful seas, but what started as a light ripple that gently rolled the Cinnamon Wind as she sailed caused by some distant late summer storm steadily built into a swell into a billow and into breakers that threatened to capsize the ship with each wave as storm clouds built overhead as the sky turned black and the air was heavy with the scent of salt and death. The once tranquil blue sea had turned into a throbbing field of angry snow, and the comforting breeze became a buffeting gale cutting salt against his skin and forcing men to climb to the top of the Swan’s great masts to drop the sails.

Not wanting to sit helplessly below, The Man had ventured out onto the deck, only to hear a man’s scream as he fell from above and landed in the sea. He hadn’t seen him fall, he could barely see his own hands, but he’d heard his blood-curdling scream and then he thought the faintest sound of a splash over the deafening winds and rain. Just then, a wave crashed into the Cinnamon Wind sending The Man and half the crew to their knees. He’d landed less than half an arm’s reach from the railing, and despite himself, he laughed a genuine laugh. He’d come all this way, swam the river of time, trekked the cold hell beyond the wall for half a lifetime, and sailed across half the world, and his journey had nearly ended by falling into the sea because he couldn’t weather a simple storm. It’s what you deserve the voice whispered.

He knew he would die if he stayed on deck, “I can’t do anything anyway” he thought, as he slowly stumbled and crawled towards the stairs below. As he began to climb lower, he heard his cousin scream as the great form of Shaggydog bounded up the stairs and crashed into him, sending him to his arse as they both tumbled down the stairs in a knot of fur, flesh, and cloth. The direwolf recovered before The Man, and it bounded up the stairs and out into the deluge as Rickon yelled.

“Shaggy! Comeback!” His cousin began to climb the stairs two at a time after his wolf, but The Man grabbed him by the collar and stopped him in his tracks.

“Stay here!” He commanded as thunder boomed and the ship rocked. He looked to Rickon, tears welling in the boy’s eyes, then back up the stairs. He knew Ghost was always agile, but that was on dry land, not a ship swaying in a storm. Shaggy would either maim a man doing something essential and condemn them all to a watery grave, or fall overboard. He wouldn’t be able to stand out there The Man knew, as he ran up the stairs.

The weather had only gotten worse on deck. The rain was like a curtain, obscuring everything around him. Yet the crew still ran across the deck between their stations as they fought tooth and nail against the wind to do whatever they did to ensure the ship could withstand the storm’s fury.

The waves crashing against the hull below sounded like thunder, and the rolling thunder in the skies above was booming in waves. The Man heard a bloody scream and a ferocious howl. Shaggy, he knew, as he made his way forward, hunching down to keep his balance as he slipped forward across the deck. Every few moments lightning would strike near the Cinnamon Wind, illuminating the deck for a split second. He saw Shaggy near the bow, a man cowering beneath him. The next flash had Shaggy barking near a railing, a man hanging on to a rope for dear life as he blew sideways over the edge. When he finally caught up to the Direwolf, he was at the helm, being fought off by two men with long wooden poles trying to protect the navigator at the wheel. The Man grabbed the beast around its neck and fell to the ground, pulling the beast down with him.

Shaggy struggled, rolled, and nipped at him, trying to break free. The skies flashed again, and The Man and the wolf were set upon by both men with their sticks. They swung, and jabbed at the pair, as he tried to tame the wolf. The man screamed at them to stop in a mix of the Summer and Common Tongues, but they didn’t listen, and they continued to beat the pair as Shaggy continued to thrash and The Man continued to yell.

They received some reprieve when a great wave crashed into the ship and knocked the pair down, just as a massive bolt struck the ocean less than a dozen feet from the ship, illuminating the ship in a harsh pale light. ‘This isn’t natural.’ The man thought. It reminded him of the storms the Night King brought. The rain fell from the side, and the wind was so harsh he couldn’t hear.

He took advantage of the lul, and dragged Shaggy with him towards the stairs, then down. Rickon came to them and began reprimanding Shaggy for running off, hitting the Direwolf on his snout. “Bad!” He shouted over and over again. “Obey, Shaggy! Obey! No running off!” The Man smiled at seeing the Direwolf be told off by a boy half his size before he moved to replace his chain on the Wall. The metal rod was still in place, and there was no visible damage to it, so it must’ve slipt loose when the ship rolled in the waves, he thought.

Another loud bang of thunder rang, and Rickon squeaked then began to shake in fear. The man sighed and held his cousin in his arms as he cowered into his shoulder, and the man slouched back against the wall. Shaggy curled up alongside them and whined. The Man raked his hands through the great beast’s fur till he hit a whelt and Shaggy snapped at his hand and he pulled back.

The three of them stayed together through the booming thunder and rocking ship until the rocking lulled and the thunder abated. Rickon had fallen asleep in his arms, and The Man was barely awake as Shaggy lay guard. He knew the Direwolf had caused them problems, he’d killed at least one man when he was loose, mayhaps more. Those men had families. Mothers, fathers, wives, children. They’d call for his skin, a blood price for the newly made widows, a pelt for a husband. The Man knew that giving Shaggydog to them would be the easiest way, the Direwolf would never be comfortable in the deserts of the East, and they’d just be able to get on their way without worrying about finding new transit. He’d probably do something comparable on their next ship, or in Qarth, or Meereen. Killing him would be for the greater good.

But he’d done the easy way before, and he couldn’t care less about ‘The Greater Good’ anymore. He’d kept both his swords at his hip, feeling the tension he’d always felt before a battle. Longclaw would taste blood before they reached Volantis, that much he knew.

They waited and waited for someone to come, he expected to see multiple men with bows coming down and demanding the wolf’s head, but when he heard the sound of someone descending into the ship, he’d only heard a single pair of steps. The form of Quhuru Mo, his usual easy smile was replaced by a stern look. The Man rose to his feet, his hand instinctively going to his blade, as Shaggy rose and gave the Summer Islander a threatening growl. Quhuru raised his hands in a show of surrender and spoke in the Common “That beast got three good men killed, half my crew wants its pelts, the other half want your head.” The Man’s grip on his sword tightened as Shaggy inched forward. “I’d be inclined to agree with them, but I feel that would only mean more of my men dead. The Storm pushed us towards Volantis, we’ll be there by nightfall, we will separate there.” They hadn’t the coin to get the rest of the way to Qarth. They’d effectively be stranded in a city where he didn’t speak their language. They’d be robbed, killed, or enslaved.

“Aye.” The Man replied flatly as his grip relaxed. “A fair deal.”

Quhuru nodded held his gaze and nodded before exiting, and the moment he was out of sight, he released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Fuck” He said to no one in particular. “Fuck” he repeated himself louder as Rickon looked on haplessly. It could be worse he supposed. The Summer Islanders were known for their skills with a bow, he’d not had a shield this time, and he’d prefer not to see his brother take an arrow through the chest again. They’d gotten lucky and avoided conflict, they’d just have to find a way further East from Volantis for an old man, a child, and a Direwolf with the little coin they had.

The man fell asleep for a short while and was awakened by Rickon shaking his shoulder. “They’re on the stairs” the boy whispered franticly. The man shot to his feet and drew his blade, alarmed by his tone before he remembered what’d happened. A Summer Islander, no more than fifteen namedays saw the steel and looked terrified. The man sheathed the blade, and the boy stammered out something in the Summer Tongue. The Man didn’t know what he said, but he understood the message. ‘Get out.’ He grabbed his and Rickon’s meager belongings, and Rickon grabbed Shaggy and the three climbed the stairs as the crewmates sent them murderous glances. He wondered if any of them were kin to those who died; if they’d grieve and plot the deaths of the Northerners and their uncontrollable beast. The tale would surely spread across the ports, from sailor to sailor. Maybe the Boy would hear it at the Wall along with the stories of dragons and wonder. What would Aemon say when he learned that he’d abandoned their plan and changed things? The Man again prayed that he’d not ruined everything.

The harbor at Volantis was much like the harbor at Tyrosh or White Harbor, only larger. It had hundreds of ships flying a hundred different colors their sails and ropes blowing in the breeze, a thousand men were speaking a dozen different tongues, and it smelt of fish. When they were in the open, The Man was greeted by a view of the Great Temple of the Lord of Light in front of the Black Wall, the temple stretched even higher than the Wall and cast a thousand different hues of reds, yellows, and oranges across a hundred different bridges, domes, and towers that freely flew into one another, making it impossible to separate one from the next. The temple glistened in the sun and at one point The Man had to take a second look, thinking the temple itself was burning.

The great Black Wall spanned the horizon across the Rhoyne, Rickon was awed by it, but he’d not spent a lifetime in the shadow of The Wall. It was half the Wall of the North’s height but was dotted with an uncountable number of guardposts each rivaling the size of East Watch. He knew from his lessons with Luwin a lifetime ago that it separated the Old Blood from the rest of the city, and inside the walls was the richest area in the world. Great marble domes and towers shining with gold, silver, and gemstones of every color imaginable were peaking over the walls on the grandest manses, no doubt built that high to show the owner’s wealth to everyone in the wider city.

What did amaze The Man, was the Long Bridge. It stretched impossibly far, spanning the entirety of the Rhoyne, and it was at least thrice as thick as the Wall and was filled with a shanty mix of buildings of every color and material imaginable, stretching three of four stories higher than the bridge, and some ran one or two below its surface. He knew from Luwin that a man could buy anything he could possibly want on that bridge and that more people were there at any given time than there were in Lannisport. They’d have to stay away from it, between Rickon and his Direwolf, they’d undoubtedly cause a problem or start some war.

As they traveled aimlessly away from the port, they heard and smelt elephants before they saw them. He’d had to grab Rickon to stop his brother from being trampled by one, as the driver cursed in a tongue The Man didn’t know, and Shaggy fell into an attack stance and growled deeply. Rickon, having learned what his wolf could do, quickly knelt and pulled his arms around its neck, whispering calming words into Shaggy’s ear while peppering him with soothing pats. He glared up at the elephant and saw the word “MAEGYR” sown into a brilliant tapestry in gold and diamonds draped on its side, and in the cart atop it were half a dozen beautiful Valyrian women standing topless, waving, smiling seductively, and shouting “Maegyr!” at any and all passerbys.

“Maegyr” sounded familiar to him, but he didn’t know why. He was too busy focusing on the women to think more on it, they reminded him of Dany and he was enraptured by their looks. Some had larger breasts than she did, but none had her gorgeous eyes or her cherubic features. He sighed sadly and looked away when it hit him. Maegyr. Talisa Maegyr. Robb’s wife. He wondered if they’d met yet, if they’d married. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for Robb, his bride, and her family.

The Wolf was calmed, and they continued further into the city’s beating heart. Traveling on the wider avenues wasn’t possible, as horses, men, and elephants alike feared his cousin’s direwolf, causing carts to sway and people to pray when the animals reared, or Shaggy looked their way, so they were forced to navigate the winding labyrinth of tight alleys and market stalls. Here there were fewer horses but just as many men. Many of them had the likenesses of wheels, flies, motley, tears, flames, and horses tattooed onto their faces. The Man wondered at what they’d meant, wanting to have an answer ready before Rickon asked, at first he thought they were some queer fashion choice practiced in the city, then he remembered where they were. They were slaves. He didn’t know what the different icons meant, but thankfully Rickon never asked, frowning whenever he saw a Man with tattoos along their face.

They came out into another square with another great fountain in the middle. Instead of a drunkard at its center, there was a cracked man without a head. The Northerners sweat and the Direwolf panted in the oppressive heat as they moved to refresh themselves. They drank, which helped their thirst, but they found no reprieve from the intensity of the son.

“It’s so hot!” Rickon moaned, and The Man had no choice but to agree.

Waiting for Shaggy to drink his fill, The Man smelt a mouth-watering aroma, smelling like onions, beats, and fish. He inhaled deeply and felt his stomach rumble. He gestured for Rickon to follow and moved towards a stand where a dark-skinned man was tossing onions with peppers, and colorful vegetables he didn’t think he could name with different kinds of fish, darting back and forth between a half dozen cookfires, each looking different from the next, all the while shouting “Klios lēda bisa ȳdrassis yknagon” again and again.

They approached and he shouted at them in High Valyrian, speaking quickly but not sounding angry. The Man couldn’t understand him, so he held up two fingers and said “Lanta”, the High Valyrian word for two as he handed the cook a coin. Looking down into his purse made The Man breathed deeply as he flexed his hand. They were getting low, and he wasn’t certain what they had would be enough to pay for passage further east. He’d figure it out he told himself as he took the bowls of stew and handed one to Rickon. With his first bite, his eyes shot open, the stew was rich, complex, and flavorful, with a hint of spice. It very well may have been the best thing he’d ever eaten, it reminded him of the meals he’d been served on Dragonstone...

Thinking of Dragonstone killed his mood. Of course it would remind him of Dragonstone. She was a Queen in Essos while he’d lived in a crumbling castle on the edge of the world. She’d had these spices and probably a thousand more once she’d taken power. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry and gave the rest of his stew to Shaggy and letting out a deep sigh as the Direwolf scarfed the bowl down.

They meandered around the plaza for some time as The Man pulled himself into yet another deep pit of melancholy, Kinvara’s warning ever present in the back of his mind. They should’ve left Shaggy behind, if they did they’d soon be on their way to Qarth, and he is serving at her side. He still hadn’t decided on what he’d tell her. He’d spent every waking of his moment thinking about what to say. He didn’t want to lie to her, she didn’t deserve that, but he didn’t want to tell her the truth either. He remembered what Maester Aemon had said. If he interfered too much with her or the Boy, they’d not be the people they were. But could he make them better? He again found himself wondering if Aemon hadn’t been too narrow-sighted. He should’ve stayed. Sent a fleet to retrieve Dany, her Freedmen, and her Unsullied, and had won her Throne waiting for her the second she landed. But instead, he was in Volantis with a handful of coin, a child he had no idea how to care for depending on him, and a Direwolf. As much as he knew it would ruin everything, he’d hoped Lady Stark had broken her oaths and kept Robb alive to treat with when they made their triumphant return to Dragonstone. You didn’t tell her enough. The voice whispered. He didn’t try to argue with it since he knew it was right, that he was just as responsible for his Brother’s death as the Freys and the Boltons were.

He saw many travelers and traders entering a large building standing four stories tall and nestled between brothels, taverns, and warehouses on all sides, with flowing rich red tapestries depicting a man laughing and a coin purse at the edge of the square. As he grew closer, he heard a group of men speaking the Common jovially in a Southron accent. He saw his opportunity and called out to them. “Sers!” He shouted. The men turned to look towards him, he didn’t notice any house sigil or colors. “What is this building?” He asked.

“Why, it’s the Merchant’s House, Ser.” Replied a gruffed man dressed in purple silks, looking to be just barely surpassing Lord Stark in age.

“Aye, Ser. And what is The Merchant’s House?” The Man replied. “An Inn?”

A younger man in their group laughed. “An Inn?” He mocked, poorly imitating a Northern accent. The boy was wearing a less fine white shirt. “Are you japeing, old man? How does a Westerosi in Volantis not know of the Merchant’s House? Are you a stowaway?” The Man stopped himself from grabbing his sword’s hilt and instead flexed his hands, staring at the youth and scowling. The boy swallowed.

Before he could retort, an older man in the group slapped the boy across the back of his head. “Silence, Artos!” He shouted, sounding equal parts annoyed and angry before turning to face The Man. “Aye it’s an Inn, Ser.” He said nodding his head. “But the fools right, how does a Northerner end up in Volantis without knowing of the Merchant’s House?”

“My nephew and I hadn’t planned on staying in Volantis, Ser…” He began.

The four men laughed. “I’m no Ser.” He extended his hand. “Marq of Oldtown” he greeted.

The Man took his hand and shook it. “Rodrik.” He turned towards his cousin and his Direwolf. “And this is my nephew, Rickon, and his Wolf, Shaggydog.”

“His wolf?” Laughed Marq. “That beast is bigger than he is.”

The Man smiled and continued. “My nephew and I were traveling to Qarth, but his Wolf got us into some trouble at sea and the ship’s captain forced us off.”

“Bah!” Marq cried. “We’re headed back west from New Ghis, else we could’ve worked out a bargain.” He said with a laugh. “But do join us for some wine, you seem like a man with some tales.”

The Man smiled and followed the group inside. They were greeted by a young woman with copper skin and light hair, she had a burn mark on her cheek near where the slaves he’d season earlier had had their tattoos.

“There’re no slaves here.” Said the other man, Big Ben they called him after his round belly. “Part of the reason this is the best Inn on this gods-forsaken continent.” He finished, sounding morose.

“That’s enough for my business.” The Man said with a smile, which Big Ben returned.

“Aye!” The round man cheered.

They sat and discussed their travels and journeys, Marq ordered food and wine for the group, getting a whole chicken for Shaggy, which he dove into. They’d sailed from Old Town to New Ghis to trade Arbor Gold for spices, oils, and treasures from the Jade Sea. The Man told them of their travels from White Harbor, and the storm that hit them at sea. He left out the parts where Shaggydog had gotten three crewmates killed. He learned that Marq had fought for the Targaryens in the rebellion, and how he’d wanted to follow Prince Rhaegar to the Trident, but how Lord Tyrell had insisted on keeping their entire host of thirty thousand to siege. Ben spat at the mention of Mace Tyrell, and The Man found himself agreeing. If the Flower had marched North, he’d have grown up a Prince in the Red Keep rather than a bastard in Winterfell.

While Ben was telling a jape about a brothel, an ass, and a honeycomb, The Man had caught a glimpse of a dark-haired man with a sigil of a blue winter rose stitched on his shoulder as his body went cold and Kinvara’s words echoed through his mind “Beware the Pruned Roses’ Kiss.” He excused himself from the table and followed the man to a booth with another seven men.

“Pardon, my Lords.” The Man said as he approached. “Your sigil, that’s a Winter Rose.”

“Aye, what’s it to ya’?” Asked a fat man of about five and twenty namedays.

“They’re of the North.” Replied an ancient one-eyed wisp of a man, his voice sounding like gravel.

“Aye, and so are we.” Replied the man with the roses on his shoulders, his accent was a strange mix of Northern and Eastern, but he sounded authoritative, a leader he thought as his mouth opened in shock. “Company of the Roses, lad. The last True Northerners around,” the commander continued as The Man laughed aloud, causing the fat boy and the one-eyed man to slam their fists into the table to rise.

“Aye, a lot of sell swords the last true Northerners? Have you seen The Wall? Walked in its shadow, riden its lift, and pissed off the edge of the world? I’ve ranged beyond it, supped with the Freefolk, camped at the Fist of the Firstmen. I’ve prayed in Winterfell’s Godswood and bathed in its springs. How many of you have even seen a Weirwood?” The Man looked across the table as several of the men scowled but only one raised his hand. “How many of you have even stepped foot in the North?” Again, only a boy who looked younger than Robb had raised a hand. “My brother a boy of four namedays and he’s got a direwolf. He’s more Northman than the lot of you combined.”

“Aye? And what's your name, old man?” The fat boy asked.

“Rodrick.” The man stated firmly. “Stark.” He snarled.

The one-eyed man spat onto the floor. “Your forbearers betrayed the North, bent the knee to dragons, and mine came east with Brandon Snow. Next thing I hear, some Dragon Prince rapes a she-wolf and the King burns her father and brother.”

The Man slammed his fists on the table. “That’s not what happened, fool. Say it again and I’ll take your ears since clearly they’re not doin’ their job!”

“Aye, then what did?” He taunted back.

The Man was prepared to draw his steel when the commander spoke again. “What exactly do you want, Lord Stark?” He spoke flatly, reminding him of Roose Bolton when he’d visited Winterfell.

“Truthfully, My Lord, I came here to satisfy a curiosity.” He gestured towards the winter roses.

“Aye, and are you satisfied?” The commander asked.

“Not quite. What’s your name, My Lord?” The Man replied.

“Arnold Frost, forty-third Captain General of the Company of the Roses.” He said.

“Aye, Lord Frost” he emphasized the name, knowing full well that House Frost had been extinguished millennia ago. “What exactly has your company been doing since the Starks betrayed the North?”

“We just finished a contract up the Rhoyne.” The Fat man replied.

“What were you doing? Making sure slaves don’t decide to revolt?” The Man cruelly laughed.

“We fought some Dothraki too…” The boy who said he’d prayed at a Weirwood said, sounding defeated.

The Man laughed again. “Aye, some True Northerners.” The Man had an idea, if he was supposed to beware one of these fools, he truly was an old man. If they tried anything he’d cut them down. “I’ve got to secure a ship to Qarth for pressing business matters, then I’m heading to Slaver’s Bay.” The man lowered his voice. “If you want the best contract of your lives, head east.” Several of the men looked at him curiously, the greed was evident in their eyes, including Captain Frost’s. He let malice creep into his voice as he continued. “But don’t make the same mistake your forbearers did.” His gaze locked on the one-eyed man’s. “When the Dragons give you an offer, accept it.” With that, he stole a loaf of bread from a plate and walked away from the table as he bit into it.

“If it’s a ship to Qarth you need, we can provide one for you.” Captain Frost called out.

The Man turned towards the captain and met his gaze. “Aye, and why would you do that?” he asked.

The Captain smiled. “Why, to honor our Northern traditions.” The Man looked at him again for a moment, thinking it through. “And you’re clearly a man of means,” he gestured to the two Longclaws on his hips. “Between those swords and this contract, you seem like someone whose good side I’d like to be on.”

Kinvara’s warning again echoed through his head. It’d be easier for them to take him by surprise on a ship. “If you want to be on my good side, My Lord, head East and ask again.”

He turned and walked towards the Westerosi’s table, Rickon’s head was pulled back in laughter at a jape The Man doubted he understood when an old man walked into his path. “Pardon me, my Lord, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and how you need a ship to Qarth.” He spoke, his voice sounding fierce no matter how frail his body appeared.

“Aye.” The Man said as he looked over the man in front of him. To call him old would be dishonest, he was ancient. He’d make Old Nan look young and lively in comparison, his entire body was wrinkled and withered, and he looked like a grape that was left in the sun for too long and had dried up. His lips, however, were a blue shade that reminded the man of a wight’s eye. As unsettling as he was, the Man needed to get to Qarth, and Kinvara had warned him about the Company of the Rose and their kisses. “What is your name, Ser?” He asked.

The withered man smiled, and he had no teeth. “Pyat Pree” He extended his hand, and the Man shook it gently, fearing he’d tear the man’s arm off.

“And how much would it cost for board for a man, a boy, and a direwolf to Qarth?”

“Normally, ten of your Westerosi Golden Dragons.” The Man flexed his hands, he’d only had eight. “But, I heard your mention of your Weirwoods. If you’d allow me to record them for my order, I can arrange for cheaper conduct.”

The Man smiled. “Aye, when do you depart?”

“At dawn.” Pyat Pree said with a disconcerting smile. “My ship is called the Sweet Briar. I look forward to seeing you then.” He said as he turned and walked away, disappearing up the stairs.

The Man finally returned to their table, Marq slapping his shoulder as Rickon made space. “I thought you’d left the Boy and his beast with us!” He japed.

The Man smiled and laughed. Marq reminded The Man of Pyp in a way. “Apologies, I’ve been busy securing our ship to Qarth.” The booth cheered at that, and a goblet of wine was shoved into his hand. “To good travels!” They drank for another few hours, and Marq gave him directions to a cheaper inn near the port. They slept there and prepared to depart the following morning.

The Sweet Briar was a double-decked galleon, smaller than the Cinnamon Wind, but not by much. One of the things he liked about the Summer Islanders was their distaste for slavery, and he doubted the Qarthern shared this belief. This ship wouldn’t be manned by freemen, he knew.

Pyat Pree greeted them at the gangplank, Shaggy growled at the man as Rickon fought to calm him. He didn’t listen, and he had to be pulled away. “Fickle beasts aren’t they, Lord Stark?” Pyat gave his smile as The Man nodded.

They departed not soon after and all was well till dinner that night. Pyat had requested he joined them at his table, and he and Rickon did after they’d fed Shaggy. Rickon sat on his left on a short table across from Pyat, his blue lips curled into another smile as they were presented with a plate of meat and greens each.

“How are you finding your board?” The wrinkled man asked as he cut into a piece of his meat.

“They’re sufficient.” The Man spoke as a serving man, a slave no doubt, and poured them each a cup of a viscous blue liquid. After he left, Rickon grabbed his cup and swirled it around, looking at it strangely. “The finest drink from Qarth, it opens the Mind like nothing else,” Pyat said with a smile as he drank from his cup, residue staining his lips. “The Sweet Briar has a cask of it in its holds, those in my order hate to be apart from it for too long.”

The man took a sip before placing his cup down, his face distorted. It tasted odd like the fermented milk Tormund loved, Gage’s pies, and the familiar sweet twang of a woman’s essence as it danced along his tongue. He smacked his lips as he tried to make conversation. “What is a Sweet Briar?”

Pyat smiled as The Man faintly noted Rickon was breathing heavily. “A flower endemic to Qarth, the greatest city was or will be.” The man’s heart began to beat faster as he felt himself sweat and the ship rocked. “I’m no arborist, but it’s similar to the roses of your homeland I believe.”

The Pruned Rose’s Kiss he thought as stood up and looked at Rickon, still breathing heavily as a bleeding arrow shining a sickly shade of pink flew through the sky and struck Rickon through his chest. There was no blood, but Rickon screamed as he fell to the floor, clutching his chest where he struck. He looked at Pyat's lips and realized they weren't the shade of a wight's eye, they were the shade of a Winter Rose. The Man stood quickly, and suddenly he wasn’t on a ship anymore. He was on his knees in the fields outside Winterfell, the entirety of the Bolton army coming down onto him as he drew his blades and stood headfast.

When they crashed onto him, suddenly he was no longer in a field but rather a drab hall decked in Tully colors along with blue and silver amidst some kind of feast. He heard the familiar tune of The Reynes of Castamere playing, and when he looked to the tables he saw a creature with the body of a man and the head of a wolf and he knew where he was. The wolf-man came center forth as a Lord at the high table called for a toast, as The Man tried to scream only to find he had no mouth. He looked towards the High Table and saw that he was the Lord calling the toast as the wolf-man was riddled with arrows and fell to the ground, staring into his eyes with accusations he knew were true.

He blinked, and his locale changed again. He was surrounded by ice and snow, but he wasn’t cold. He saw the familiar structures of Castle Black as he turned completely in a circle to find a sign empty but for the word “TRAITOR” written in blood. He turn around to find a knife being shoved into his gut and he fell to his knees. When he looked up, he saw that Ygritte had wielded that knife, her eyes glassy with tears.

“Why?” He asked.

“You know nothing Jon Snow.” She said in a voice that was hers and everyone else’s.

He knew more knives were coming, but they still would hurt he knew. The next came from Maester Aemon, his blind eyes boring into him with the knowledge that he’d been the one to bring about the extinction of their house. Next was Robb’s, whose warm eyes were uncharacteristically melancholic. “I’m sorry,” his brother said as he pierced his lung. The next was a tall Man with Valyrian features and sad eyes. His father, he knew. “I died for you, and for what?”. Next was Ned Stark, “You could’ve saved us.” He called. Then it was Dany, the same look of pain and betrayal that haunted him every time he closed his eyes. “Now and always.” She whispered. The final knife, the one he knew would be going to the heart hurt the most of all. The little girl with his black hair and her mother’s purple eyes had tears in her eyes as she cried “You didn’t let me live” and drove the final knife through his heart.

He fell onto his back, using the last of his energy to mouth that he knew as he closed his eyes and sunk into an abyss.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Interlude

The Queen Mother

Cold metal pressed tightly to her leg as her son kneeled next to his bride in front of the slender weirwood’s sad face as a septon wrapped a ribbon about their hands, joining them together in body and soul. They said their vows, but Catelyn didn’t hear them. Instead, she was focused on the surrounding lords, Umbers, Boltons, Glovers, Manderlys, Freys, Darrys, Blackwoods, Brackens, Vance, any of them could be the ones to turn traitor. Daeron had said they were betrayed and murdered at a wedding, but nothing more than that. She cursed the man she once knew as Jon Snow before she cursed herself. She should’ve asked more. And she shouldn’t have expelled him from Winterfell. And he should be with them. Both of them, the old one and the young one alike. ‘It would’ve been him crowned king’ the voice who told her Jon Snow would usurp his brother told her before she silenced it as years of misplaced fear and resentment flared up before she was brought back by claps and cheers as her son rose alongside his new wife.

When the Late Lord Frey had demanded Robb marry a daughter for his allegiance, she’d frozen in the damp hall of the twins as her apparent nephew’s words echoed in her head. ‘Robb betrayed at a wedding, Rickon handed to traitors and used as bait, Bran crippled, Arya a Faceless man.’ He’d not mentioned Sansa’s fate, but she surely couldn’t be much better. He’d not mentioned Ned’s fate to her either, but from her final embrace with Ned, she was sure that he’d known he’d not return. As much as she wanted to hate him for it, she couldn’t. Daeron was adamant that some things needed to happen and that he wouldn’t be the one to bare the fault for the end of the world. The man claimed it was duty or indifference that prevented him from saying more, but she saw his fear for what it really was. He’d not been the same since he returned from the Wall and from his pained words, she couldn’t blame him. ‘Starksbane,’ he’d said they called her.

Why would she release the Kingslayer? He’d been in the dungeons since the siege had been lifted, secure, and the most valuable hostage they could have. Why would she release him? She knew she had to have done it to protect her children, it was the only possibility, but the question still haunted her and kept her awake late into the night.

Walder Frey was amongst her father’s most powerful bannermen no matter how hated or disloyal he was, and they needed to cross his thrice-damned bridge. Catelyn had picked a Frey bride from his brood and demanded she be sent to Riverrun after the siege was lifted to marry Robb. Walder had protested, claiming he’d not be able to attend, but Cat didn’t care. Anything she could control about this wedding, she would, she thought. Which brought them here, to Robb carrying his wife from Riverrun’s Godswood to the Greathall as the sunset on the horizon. The ceremony combined elements and traditions of both the Seven Who Aare One and the Old Gods, leading to a Septon saying his vows in the godswood as the sunset. The Ceremony must’ve been beautiful, yet Cat couldn’t distract herself from the threat of betrayal that lurked in every shadow.

Loyal guards were posted, Riverrun was secure, and everyone seemed at ease, as the wedding’s feast gave her a moment of respite. Robb and his wife, Roslin, had gotten on better than she could’ve ever hoped, and her brother Olyvar had been taken as one of Robb’s squires, while Stevron, Walder’s heir, seemed to be an able commander and seemed like he’d be loyal to his new goodbrother. But still, the words echoed all around her. The Boltons were the ancient enemies of the Starks, and Roose’s pale eyes had always unsettled her, the Manderlys were ambitious, Wyman pushing for Robb or even Jon to marry one of his granddaughters, would he be outraged he’d not gotten his marriage? Darrys, Rygers, and Mootons alike had sided with the Targaryens during the Rebellion, would they still harbor resentment for the Starks and Tullys? The Darrys lost nine-tenths of their land, did they think they could win it back?

She wished she asked more questions.

Edmure laughed and tapped her shoulder gently, “Aye, Cat?” Her brother asked while a singer loudly mocked the Lannisters with a song to the tune of The Rains of Castamere with its lyrics changed. Cat knew that the Northern and Riverlords alike would delight in having the Kingslayer paraded while the song played, but even brave Greatjon Umber feared the Kingslayer even chained. Edmure sat at the high table in their father’s seat, filling in as the Lord of Riverrun while he languished in his chambers, sick with crabs in the belly. Cat hadn’t heard the question, but she knew Robb had asked it.

“Pardon me, I hadn’t heard the question.” She replied.

“I said, you found me such a good wife, mother, I believe you shall need to find one for your brother next.” Cat forced a smile and nodded, ‘Robb betrayed at a wedding’, not wanting to show how sick the thought made her. Robb caught her look and seemed concerned before Roslin pulled him away. He should know, Catelyn knew. Robb would send riders to the Wall and drag the boy here, throw the crown at Jon Snow’s feet, and proclaim him king. He may even ride there himself to bring him down. Would that save Robb? Would that let the Others win? Daeron had said they all had a part to do, yet she wished she knew more. She wished she knew whose damned wedding they would be betrayed at so she’d know who to suspect. She wished the sad bastard would’ve told her more.

The music stopped and the Greatjon stood and shouted. “My Lords, no wedding is complete without the bedding!” As the crowd erupted into shouts and cheers, moving towards the dais to disrobe Robb and Roslin and bring them to her chambers. Catelyn didn’t join the procession, not wanting to see her son in a state of undress as she sat in the nearly empty hall where only Roose Bolton, servants, and those too drunk to stand remained. Roose looked up at her, his pale eyes still unsettling, when Cat realized she’d been too caught up in her head and she’d all but missed her eldest son’s wedding. The fear returned, would an assassin slip a dirk through Robb’s heart while he was carried? Would there be poisoned wine waiting in his chambers? No, she thought. There wouldn’t be.

Cat knew that fear and paranoia would only weaken their cause, the traitors could still be loyal, and they may not even turn their cloaks if things happened differently. Rickon was with Daeron, Bran wasn’t crippled but rather in Kingslanding with his sisters. Things had already changed, and not releasing Jaime Lannister could change everything. Harrold Karstark lost two sons capturing the Kingslayer, so she expected he was turned into one of the traitors when he was released. Daeron’s words about keeping things the same rang in her ear when she thought about how she could use that knowledge, and she found she didn’t care. She’d let the Others march all the way to Dorne to save her children, and from what Daeron had mentioned of his daughter, she was sure he’d do the same.

Catelyn suddenly realized why she wasn’t angry at Daeron for not telling her more, and she knew why she released the Kingslayer. And she knew she’d do it again if she had to.

The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch

Jeor was blinded as they exited the tunnel under the Wall, the light bouncing off the ice and snow and into his eyes. Two dozen times he’d crossed through the Wall, and two dozen times he’d been blinded. Knowing this would be the last time should’ve filled him with fear, or dread, or want to hand off command of the ranging to Rykker, Thorne, or the Halfhand and stay back in the comforts of the Wall, but it didn’t.

Beyond any talk of prophecy from Maester Aemon, or that man with a copy of his House’s Sword or the future, there was a certain calm that came from knowing you he was to die. Jeor knew he had lived too long. The next year would bring his seventieth nameday and his fifteenth since taking the Black. Maege had marched South to avenge Ned, and Bear Island would be in good hands when her daughters inherited after her. Finding out that Jorah had found redemption in the East had taken a weight off his shoulders, his son had such a bright future as the head of their house, and he threw it away because of that Southron woman of his. That he’d earned his shame by selling slaves, and his redemption by freeing them held an irony that a man was forced to appreciate.

Jeor had enough self-awareness to know he would’ve believed the man claiming to be from the future just off the hope he’d given him from Jorah. Aemon swearing he was his brother’s kin, and that he had a sword nearly identical to Longclaw were all the confirmation he’d needed to believe him, since when a man was offered hope, what else he do?

Just as he’d thought of him, the man trotted up next to Jeor from the back of the column, Darksister hanging at his hip. “Everyone is through, Lord Commander.” Jon Snow said between heavy breaths. “Good” He replied. Jon Snow was an interesting boy. He was the best swordsman they’d had since Waymar had joined three years earlier, and he’d shown a natural leadership the other boy had lacked. That Jon had rode off when his father was imprisoned and returned the same night intrigued Jeor, if he hadn’t already known he’d give him his sword, he’d have done it anyway. The boy was a good lad, full of potential, and much less cynical and dower than his older self. Between riding south during the War of the Nine Penny Kings and the Rebellion and his years at the Watch, Jeor had learned to spot a broken man. Jon Snow had ridden to the Wall alone with nothing but a letter from the Lord of Winterfell and his horse demanding to see the Maester and be let North of the Wall, all while shouting of white walkers, dragons, and the future. If the letter hadn’t had Ned’s seal, he’d have thrown him in an ice cell and called him a madman, but that Direwolf was unmistakable, and its words unforgettable.

Lord Commander Mormont,

It is my request, as the Lord of Winterfell and a fervent sponsor of the Watch that you grant my uncle whatever he requests and grant him the full support of the Night’s Watch whatever he asks of it. Any costs he may indue shall be repaid in the form of supplies and men to be sent to Castle Black from Winterfell within a moon.

I understand that he may make claims that may make him seem mad, but I request you to take every one of them as honest and true and believe that each was coming from my mouth. You followed me to war, Jeor, and I request you to follow me now.

Eddard Stark

Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell

That he first took the man for the late Lord Rickard intrigued him, so he’d listened, and he believed. Just like the man had said, a deadman rose as a wight, and it couldn’t be killed by anything but fire and Valyrian Steel. If they hadn’t headed his warnings and chained the corpse, there’s no telling who he’d have killed. Ser Jarmey had wanted to take it to King’s Landing to show to the court, no doubt more wanting to visit his family at Duskendale, but it hadn’t mattered. Aemon had counseled against it and convinced them all it was better kept in a cell, saying they’d need to show it to every new recruit so they knew of the true enemy.

No doubt the old maester was conspiring something. Aemon was opposed to sharing what Daeron had told him of the future, plotting for their house’s restoration no doubt. Daeron had said they ended the White Walkers and Jeor had been convinced by Aemon to not change much, fearing the possibility that changing something would cause an event to happen differently that led to the White Walkers winning, and they’d doom the world. Jeor felt it wasn’t much of a choice. He was an old man, his son would redeem himself, and his house would endure. To take a risk and gamble the fate of the world on a chance to make the world better was a choice for younger men.

Jeor had spent his entire life doing the best of his ability to do his duty. As a Lord, he was a loyal bannerman to his liege lord, protected his smallfolk, and raised his heir to the best of his abilities. When he thought he’d grown too old, he’d acted out of love when he took the Black so Jorah could take up the lordship, and then he’d shamed their house and himself. During the harshest winters Northerners would “go off to hunt” and never return, Jeor’s own grandfather had done so when he was a boy, and he failed to see how this was any different. If his duty was to go out and die, he would do his duty with a smile on his face.

The Queen Regent

Sitting in the small council chambers Cersei listened as Little Finger and the Spider spoke of pointless matters across the narrow sea. She didn’t care what new pet a magister in Tyrosh had, she wanted to know what Stannis, Renly, and Robb Stark were doing. Her father was busy defeating their armies in the field, but Cersei would defeat them herself. The oafish Kingsguard had failed two of the Starks, the younger girl and the boy, leaving only sweet Sansa present. She knew that old frail Ser Barristan had to have helped Robb Stark’s heir escape, but when she released Barristan from his vows, expecting him to run straight to where he hid the boy but the useless spies she’d sent to trail the old fart failed to find the boy. They hadn’t managed to capture or kill their direwolves either. The savage children refused to keep them in the kennels and two of them were seen fleeing through the Iron Gate and were reportedly terrorizing nearby smallfolk. They’d scared the last wolf, Lady Sansa had named it, and in its panic, killed a half dozen guards before it was finally put down. With a beast like that by his side, it was no small wonder that Robb Stark was doing as well as he was in the field. Even a knight as strong and fierce as Jaime would struggle against a beast like that, it was probably what took him down. That and surrounding himself with lesser knights to fight alongside him.

But Cersei wouldn’t allow her incompetent knights to keep her down, her father wouldn’t. Sansa was by far the stupidest of the three Stark children, and while the boy would’ve been a better hostage, she would’ve made a far better bride for Joff. This girl would never cast her down and was far less beautiful than Cersei, so she’d never fit the witch’s words. That she was the easiest to control of the three Stark children helped their cause as well, she doubted either of the others would sit down and write whatever she was told, and they hadn’t told her of Ned Stark’s plans to flee the capital in the dead of night, as Sansa had, the girl begging for Cersei to speak with her father and allow her to remain at court. Without this, Cersei would’ve waited too long to launch her attack. She’d have been left without a single hostage to use as leverage, and the savage Northerners would’ve sacrificed Jaime to one of their precious trees.

In her wisdom, Cersei knew that keeping that they only had a single Stark child closely guarded would benefit them in the long run, so she’d said that the other two were being kept in Maegor’s holdfast and that Sansa was only allowed to observe Joff at court due to their pending marriage. Her scheme was simple and masterful, and she thought it was something that her father would’ve thought of, and she knew he’d approve. Her father would’ve had the knights who failed to capture the other Starks whipped, but Cersei was merciful, and instead dismissed them from her service, sending them to serve in her father’s war effort. The Imp had the gall to chastise her for that, saying they’d need every boy who could hold a sword when Stannis or Renly appeared on the horizon with the combined strength of the Reach and Stormlands, but what did he know? What were 3 knights who couldn’t even capture two children when they had a hundred? Besides, their father would ride to lift a siege the moment they were threatened, so it wouldn’t matter.

It was just another one of the Imp’s schemes to undermine her and their house at every opportunity, going as far as to try and assassinated her with poison he’d slipped into her food. Just when she began to think he wasn’t the demon monkey she’d always known he was, he’d shown his true colors. Tyrion murdered her mother, Tyrion tried and failed to murder her, and Cersei knew he’d try to murder one of her children next. Why their father had seen fit to name him acting hand in his stead she’d never know. Perhaps his mind had started to slip at his age?

No, she thought. Tywin Lannister was as astute as ever, his mind sharper than Valyrian Steel. He’d simply not wanted his low cunning to hurt his campaign. Yes. He’d trusted her to minimize any damage he’d undoubtfully cause. That the Imp had imprisoned Pycelle and was trying to sell her sweet Myrcella off to the Dornish was his latest ploy. The Dornish hated them all after the Mountain killed the shrill who stole her Prince from her, why would a marriage to his youngest child change that? He knew the Dornish would kill her the second she stepped foot in Sunspear and vowed to not let him have her. The Imp was trying to kill every other Lannister so Father would have to give him The Rock, she knew. He thought himself so clever, but Cersei knew his plan. He was a twisted demon monkey and needed to die. Ser Mandon knew his place, he was loyal to her and to the King, the true king, and he’d end the Imp when he could do it quietly. The only Golden Shrouds her children would see would be when they were old and grey, that hag of a witch was mad, simply trying to scare little girls to amuse herself. Cersei wouldn’t let her prophecy win.

The Lord Commander of the Queensguard

“Don’t do it, Khaleesi,” Jorah spoke as Daenerys rode beside him mounted on her silver under the Ebony barked branches and blue leaves covering the path to the House of the Undying.

“What choice do I have, Ser? What kind of mother would abandon her children to twisted warlocks such as these?” Her voice was strong, sounding far more fierce than a girl as young as she should. But she was far stronger than a girl her age should be, a girl her age wouldn’t walk into a burning pyre and emerge with three dragons. “A mother who knows a trap when it’s dangled in front of her,” Jorah replied, Daenerys’ face scrunching up in distaste for a moment before she schooled herself.

“If I must go into a trap to rescue my children, I will do so willing and alert.” His queen was strong and headfast, it would get her killed.

“I suppose you wouldn’t like to hear the tales of the horrors inside that building?” Jorah asked gesturing to the unassuming round and stout structure they’d come to in a clearing, the defeat audible in his voice. In the distance, he heard a wolf howl, it sounded sad. Mournful. It reminded him of home.

“You’d assume correct, Ser,” His Khaleesi replied as she dismounted, and he knew there was no room for argument. The pickled prune of a Warlock who’d been part of the party to welcome them to the city stood waiting thirty paces away, his blue lists curled into an enigmatic smile as a hideous dwarf stood holding a platter containing a single cup that was filled with a blue liquid.

“The House of the Undying welcomes the Mother of Dragons.” The Warlock hissed.

“Where are my Dragons, Lord Pree,” Daenerys demanded, her scowl fierce enough to set the man aflame. The Warlock seemed unaffected, simply tilting his head and growing his smile. “Your dragons are inside, allow me to bid you entrance.” The Warlock replied. Jorah didn’t trust him. He meant to imprison Daenerys like he’d imprisoned her dragons, he’d told her as much but she didn’t care. “Then let us enter” She replied, sounding like a Dragon.

The Warlock smiled and gave her instructions for entry before offering her the drink which she took down. Daenerys began to walk around the building, Jorah following till she bid him to stay. A moment later, he moved forward to look for Daenerys to no avail, nor did he find a door she could’ve exited from. When he hadn’t found her after five and ten paces, he broke out into a run, circling the building looking for her only to find she was nowhere in sight. Panic began to set in as Jorah ran around the building, finding neither Daenerys, nor the Warlock, nor even his hideous dwarf. He called out her name, screaming into the forest “Daenerys!”, but he only heard his voice echoing back.

Forcing himself to calm down, Jorah took stock of what had happened. The Warlocks were known for their magic, and Daenerys herself was magic. She would be safe, she had to be. He waited by the horses, standing there for no more than half an hour, Jorah didn’t know if his mind was playing tricks on him but he would swear he heard another howl followed by a roar that could only be from a dragon, one much larger than Daenerys’ three. Several moments later, he heard an anguished scream of a man followed by a woman’s scream, and more howls and roars. Surely, Jorah hadn’t imagined them. Fearing the woman’s scream to have been Daenerys, he quickly began running and circled the building again, still finding no entrance or even a window. “Daenerys!” he screamed again, this time towards the building.  

Nothing. Jorah nervously tapped his foot near the horses, unsure of what to do. His first thought was to capture a warlock and demand entry, but he knew that would be folly even with the rest of the Queen’s Khalasar. The building looked run down, perhaps he could break through its sunbleached bricks and gain entry that way. In the end, it didn’t matter as he heard another roar, this one much louder than the previous ones as the building suddenly burst into flame, its roof quickly collapsing.

“DAENERYS!” Jorah shouted again as he rushed forward. “Jorah!” He heard Daenerys shout from the building, then a moment later she emerged from the burning husk of the building, Drogon, and Viserion perched on either shoulder looking determined yet exhausted. Running to her, he grabbed her arms and helped her over the rubble. “Are you hurt?” He asked as he turned her arms over looking for injuries.

“No,” she said between heavy breaths, looking frantic. “But Jorah, Jorah, we’ve got to help them.” She grabbed his arms and looked concerned. “Help who? Rhaegal?” He asked, beginning to move into the breach when out of nowhere he found a wolf the size of a man, Rhaegal, and a boy no older than six namedays trying to drag a man by his ragged shirt out of the rubble. Instinctively Jorah put himself between the beast and the Khaleesi and drew his sword.

With the shirt still in its mouth it turned to look at Jorah, its green eyes bearing into him and huffed before returning to pulling the man. Shocked, Jorah could only look on. It was a direwolf, it had to be. The beast was the size of a small horse and looked thrice as fierce as a normal wolf, but why was it in Qarth? And why was the Queen’s dragon helping it, and a boy to pull a man? Shaking himself from his stupor, Jorah moved to help. Crouching down, he prepared to push the wolf and dragon away only for both of them to growl and hiss, forcing Jorah to quickly pull back. Rhaegal sounded more possessive than the wolf did.

The building burning around them, they didn’t have much time. Turning to the boy Jorah shouted at him to control them so he could help. The boy looked up at him, deep circles under his eyes and a petrified look on his face. Red curls covered his face and the boy couldn’t be a day past six namedays, but the look in his eyes made him seem like he were well past a hundred. After a moment, the boy nodded. “Shaggy, come.” He called and the wolf ran to him as he walked outside.

With the wolf gone, Jorah assumed it would be easier, but the green dragon remained. When he moved to try and move him again, Rhaegal continued to poise threateningly, his golden eyes bearing into him as he seemed to be protecting the man. “Easy,” Jorah shouted. “You know me, I want to help.” The Dragon looked at him curiously for a moment, and Jorah feared he’d burn him. But he relented and flew back to his mother. Jorah leaned down and threw the man over his shoulder, the two swords hanging from his belt bumping against him in their sheaths. The fire had spread and the building was near engulfed in flames. Pushing through, his eyes were teary and his lungs filled with smoke as he exited.

Nearly throwing the man down, Jorah broke out in a coughing fit, Daenerys moving towards him, checking if he was injured. He wasn’t, and he looked back towards the man. The boy was kneeling down near him, as were the wolf and Rhaegal, whose brothers were flying overhead. Dany soon kneeled and checked if he and the child were alright.

Mayhaps Jorah’s eyes were still strained from the smoke, but the man was someone he knew well, someone who’d been dead for nearly twenty years, and someone he’d gone to war to avenge. “My gods,” he said out, his voice aghast.

“What is it?” The Khaleesi asked, concern in her apparent. “Do you know him?”

“That’s Rickard Stark.” The man your father burnt alive.

“No,” the boy said looking up at him, his voice was high but his tone was terse as the wolf moved to curl protectively around him. “My name’s Rickon.”

Chapter Text

The Quice Damned

In the darkness, there was nothing. He felt like he’d been thrown from Rhaegal’s back or from the top of the Wall, but it was more than that, worse. He was drowning too, drowning in water that was both as hot as dragon flame and as cold as ice. He wanted to scream, but when the Man opened his mouth the boiling cold flooded his throat and filled his lungs. Pressure slowly built inside the man in his head and in his chest, until he had to scream again, as his lungs were filled. “Don’t fight it.” A voice echoed around him, sounding like himself, and Lord Stark, and his siblings, and Dany all at once.

Hearing a cacophony of voices of his loved ones from the void telling him not to fight that which caused him excruciating pain didn’t endear the Man to them much, but after being there for Gods know how long, he lost the will to resist it and opened his mouth. The drowning sensation was overwhelming, but somehow he knew to embrace it. After several long, painful moments of breathing the liquid, The Man grew accustomed to the pain.

After what felt like another eternity, the man realized he was no longer falling. Opening his eyes and looking around, he saw he was in a great square with an extravagant sept and a great pink marble statue of a man that stood at least fifty feet tall with a crowd congregating near its feet, and he realized he was in King’s Landing. Suddenly questioning if he was ever falling, The Man stood up and moved to investigate the crowd. Growing closer, he could feel the crowd’s energy and knew they wanted blood. On a platform raised on the Sept’s steps banners halved in Stags and Lions flew, as a ragged man knelt and began to confess a false confession.

“No!” The Man shouted as he pushed people out of the way to save him. The crowd parted as all eyes were on him. “You did this.” They shouted, “You killed him.” Men in Lannister colors stood to block his way up the platform as the Man was forced to draw his sword and quickly dismembered the half dozen men in his path, cutting them down like they were nothing. But it was for not, A tall blonde man, King Joffrey he knew, stood with Ice raised high over his head as The Man rushed forward and cleaved him clear in half, grabbing Ice before it fell.

Joffrey dead, Ned Stark rose from his knees, smiling, and hugged The Man. “You did it, Jon! You saved me! You are a true Stark!” The Man wanted to reply but when he blinked he was suddenly outside a castle with a great bridge spanning a fast-flowing River. He was mounted on a great horse wearing black armor with a thousand men behind him. At his side was Tormund, armed with his axe.

“Let’s go, King Crow! We’ve got some Southerners to save!” The Red Wedding! The Man spurred his horse forward and his men followed him in cutting through the Freys and Boltons massacring Robb’s men. From the top of his horse, he took the head off of Roose Bolton and Ramsay alike. With a bold smile on his face, they entered the Twins and fought their way to the Great Hall. The Lords were still feasting and Lord Walder stood to call a toast when the Man called out. “It’s a trap!” As all hell broke loose.  The Greatjon threw a table, crushing a Frey, and picked up a carving knife to use as a weapon while other Lords fought and subdued Freys around the room.

When Tormund split the last one’s head in two and Robb ended Lord Frey with a table knife, his cousin came up to him with a smile and put an arm on his shoulder. “Black was always your color, brother!” He cheered, as the Man noticed on his chest was the Black Dragon of Daemon Blackfyre. “It’s not,” He wanted to say but Robb was gone, and instead of the damp great hall of the Twins, The Man was in the yard of Castle Black, bathed in blood and torchlight as he fought viciously against a Thenn. The Thenn was cut down with three slashes when he saw Ygritte draw an arrow and aim it toward him.

“Oli, no!” He shouted, running and tackling Ygritte before the boy’s bolt could kill her. Ygritte looked up at him, a smile in her eyes, “We’ll make a Freefolk out of you yet, Jon Snow” she said in the voice she used when they’d shared furs. She moved in for a kiss, and The Man closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was fighting a man a head taller than he with Antlers on the side of his helmet and a hammer in his hand. The Man fought and moved in shin-high water, sweat beading into his eyes and making it hard to see. He lost his balance and fell onto his back. The antlered man swung his hammer down, and The Man barely dodged it. The Hammer was stuck in the mud, as the antlered man struggled to free it. The Man saw a gap in his armor near his armpit, and drove his sword through the gap, killing him.

Next, the Man was in a richly decorated hall covered in tapestries depicting dragons in flight and Valyrians. Somehow, he knew they were in the Red Keep. He heard a woman’s shrill scream and ran toward its source, the sounds of battle resonating around him. He soon came face to face with a monster of a man, standing at least nine feet tall. “Help me!” Begged an olive-skinned woman behind him. The giant man charged at him with a roar that sounded like an avalanche. The Man easily dodged every strike until he put his sword through his heart. A smile on his face as the Dornish woman kissed him on the cheek chastely. “Thank you, Daeron.”

The Man blinked, and he was in the same keep, in a state of much better repair. He sat to the right of the High Seat at a feasting table in the Red Keep’s Throne Room, a man with Valyrian features and a crown upon his head, smiling and laughing next to him. “What do you say my Lord Hand? Shall I marry the Tully girl or the Tyrell?”

“Don’t pester our brother now, Egg, we’re celebrating his child, not yours.” Said another Olive Skinned woman, this one with a streak of silver through her otherwise jet-black hair.

“Never a break for the King’s Hand, sister.” The Man said jovially.

“What’s the sang, Daey? The King Shits and the Hand Wipes?” Egg asked.

“Aye, something like that,” The Man replied with a barely contained smile.

“Aye,” mocked Dany, forcing a Northern accent as their daughter jumped into his arms. This isn’t real, he thought as his daughter put fingers to his eyes, forcing them closed.

When he reopened them, he was back in King’s Landing, near the great statue with a crowd between it and the Sept.

This wasn’t real, he knew. The Raven’s lies hadn’t trapped him and neither would Pree’s. “I won’t fall victim to your tricks, Warlock. Release us and you may yet live.” He shouted to the air, gesturing both his arms out wide. The Man doubled over in agony, as Pree’s bird-like voice came from all around him. “You don’t want this, Kinslayer?” The voice was cruel, mean, and violent, “No, you WANT to suffer,” it mocked. “Very well, we shall grant you your desires.”

The world went black, and suddenly he was on the platform standing high between the Sept and the statue, Ice in his hand. “Bring me his head!” The nasally voice of King Joffrey commanded him. As much as The Man tried to resist, he couldn’t. He raised his uncle’s blade high into the air when he turned and looked at him. “You were never my son.” He said, contempt in his eyes. “Your REAL father started a war because of you.” Ned Stark spat as his head fell from his shoulders.

Tears filling The Man’s eyes, he rubbed them and found himself back in the Twins’ Great Hall. He was sitting at a table, surrounded by Northern Lords and Freys. The Greatjon, Dacey Mormont, and Wendel Manderly. The Man knew what was happening, but no matter how much he tried to move, or scream, or fight, he couldn’t. He just kept drinking along with his tablemates, the mail cold on his arm beneath his tunic. Walder Frey stood to make a toast, and a moment later, the room had descended into one of the Seven Hells. A sword was drawn in an instant, and it was through Dacey Mormont’s heart. A heartbeat later it had taken the Greatjon’s head, the giant of a man too drunk to fight back, cut Wendel down. The Man butchered Northmen indiscriminately before grabbing the auburn hair of the King, Robb. Walder Frey laughed as The Man was forced to cut his throat. Robb landed, facing him as his eyes burned as blue as a wight’s. Despite his throat being cut, Robb still raised an arm to point directly at him. “You should’ve been there,” The Man’s brother choked out before coughing blood into his face.

After his eyes, the man was on the field outside Winterfell, firing arrows at Rickon. As an arrow hit his brother, horses charged past on either side and the Man again found himself somewhere new. No, he thought, not new. The burnt-out halls of the Red Keep were a constant in his dreams, and he knew who was coming. She approached him, a soft smile and a glowing aura around her, seeming more ethereal than she’d ever been. This isn’t real he whispered to himself. The Man tried to look away, at anything else but only saw his reflection in a puddle of melted snow on the ground.

Looking back at her, he saw she held a child. One with his hair and gleeful purple eyes, and that her belly was round and large. The Man tried to swallow, but couldn’t. This isn’t real, he thought. It’s not, you already killed her. You know that. The voice whispered. Her eyes looked so hopeful. “You are my queen, now and always,” he spoke through no will of his own. He couldn’t close his eyes and was forced to watch as his knife pierced her heart, her face morphing through rage, confusion, pain, betrayal, and acceptance that he’d become so familiar with. “I’m sorry” he choked out, falling to his knees, and grasping their daughter as she faded away into ash, blaming him.

“This isn’t real.” He said to himself, his eyes glassing up.

When The Man wiped the tears away again, he was back atop scaffolding between the Sept and the statue, the crowds calling for blood below and Ice raised high above.

The Khaleesi

“The first door on the right,” Dany whispered to herself progressing through the dark and musty halls as howls, roars, and screams echoed around her, “Up the stairs, never down.” Scared, alone, and without any of her protectors, she put one foot ahead of the other and pushed forward. She had to. It was too late not to turn back even if she wanted to. She kept her right hand to the wall as she moved, always forward, never back, making sure she didn’t miss the door.

When her hand finally brushed against the cold brass of a door’s handle, Dany’s heart went into her throat. Did her death await her on the other side of the door? Should she turn and run? She chanced a glance over her shoulder into the infinite darkness she’d come from and knew she had one option. With a deep breath, she opened the door and crossed through. The balmy warmth of the hallway was gone, and Dany felt gooseflesh rise across her arms as she pushed forward into the cold, one foot ahead of the other. She was at one end of a great, long hall, and at the other stood the thousand swords of her family’s enemies that were hammered and melted into the Iron Throne. Dany had never seen something so beautiful yet so intimidating, it left her at a loss for words. Walking closer she wondered if this was what others felt when they looked upon her children. Standing an arm’s width away from it, Dany felt an insurmountable urge to reach out and touch it. But when she extended her arm, she heard a child’s scream and jumped back, snapping out of her trance.

All thoughts of the throne left Dany’s mind when a pained howl permeated through the room, and the strained roars of her children followed. She had to save them, she thought, ‘The Throne will be there when I’m ready, it can wait.’ With one last glance at the Throne, she trekked back through the broken hall and opened the door. She passed through and found herself amidst a cold wasteland, a forest of snow-covered trees behind her and a giant wall of ice that could only be Westeros’ Wall past barren white hills.

Besides the wall, the only other structure in the snow was a Dothraki-style tent in the clearing. Dany’s tunic had no sleeves, and she knew she should be cold, but she wasn’t, she was pleasantly warm and had a feeling of ecstasy deep in her belly. That feeling compelled her to approach the tent. Pushing the flap back, the ecstasy turned into a deep sense of regret, loss, and longing when she gazed upon Drogo, her Sun and Stars holding their son who never took a breath.

“Moon of my Life,” He said in Dothraki as he handed her Rhaego, the slightest of smiles on his lips. For a brief moment, as Dany held the son the witch had murdered she felt content, happy, like she was somewhere she belonged. But she knew it wasn’t real, her son was murdered by herself and Ser Jorah and that Witch. As pleasant as it would be, she knew she couldn’t stay. With a heavy heart, she handed Drogo back their son, and his sad gaze was like a knife piercing her heart. Dany wanted to apologize, but she feared her voice would fail her. Drogo’s gaze was pleading and furious all at once, he said nothing as Dany stepped back and left through the tent’s flap and into a blinding light.

Suddenly, the light dulled, and after waiting a moment for her eyes to adjust, Dany took in the room and saw her children on an obelisk, chains around their necks keeping them from flying to her. Dany herself was chained, her arms held wide to either side and no matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t break free. She should be scared, she knew, but she wasn’t.

“Dragons are fire-made flesh, Daenerys Stormborn, and fire is magic. Since the birth of your dragons, magic has returned to the world.” Hissed a voice behind her. Straining herself to turn to its source, Dany saw the wrinkled form of Pyat Pree emerging from the shadows, behind him was a growling wolf the size of a small horse with a thick collar around its neck, and a young boy with wild curly hair both curling and writhing against their chains.

“Release us, Warlock and you may yet live,” Dany commanded, steel in her voice.

The Warlock laughed, sounding more like an animal than a man. “Your dragons’ magic becomes stronger when you are near, Daenerys Stormborn, just as the boy does with his wolf. This will be the home for both of you from now until the end of days.”

Feeling nothing but an iron determination, Dany grit her teeth, “A Dragon is no slave!” She shouted as her children burnt away their chains. “Impossible!” The Warlock shouted as her children circled him like vultures did a corpse. “Dracarys!” She commanded as the Warlock screamed and her chains were burnt away into ashes. The fire spread throughout the room, and Dany knew that the temple would soon collapse. Thinking of the boy and his wolf, she fell to her knees near where they lie on the ground as Drogon and Viserion congregated near where sunlight had begun to shine through the cracks.

“Are you hurt? Can you walk?” She asked with urgency in her voice. The boy’s eyes were blue, dead, and underrun with large dark bags. Dany moved to place a hand on his shoulder to pull him when his wolf suddenly began to growl aggressively from behind his shoulder. Dany stumbled back and for a moment, she feared she’d survived the Warlock only to die trying to help her fellow prisoner, but Rhaegal landed between them and began to screech frantically as his siblings mimicked him, less frantic but still just as loud. Somehow, this calmed the Direwolf, who backed off and closed its muzzle.

Moving back towards the boy, he’d since sat up and his eyes seemed to have more awareness to them. “Get up!” She shouted as she lightly shook him while the room collapsed around her. The boy looked at her but didn’t otherwise move. Dany began to grow frustrated and considered leaving the child. “We’ve little time, we must run!” She shouted, shaking the child harder as bricks and dust fell around them.

“Run?” The child asked, his eyes going wide with fear and his breaths quickly growing heavy and ragged. “Yes!” Dany shouted again, “Run!” The boy quickly shot up, nearly headbutting Dany in the process. “Jon?!” The boy shouted frantically. “Jon?” He shouted again, his voice pealing higher. She began to speak and ask who he was calling to when he looked at her and flinched so hard he nearly fell over. Then he began to run, his wolf and surprisingly Rhaegal after him. They disappeared into a shadow as Dany hummed to herself, surprised at what it’d taken to get him to move and at why Rhaegal was following him. Then a moment later the three of them exited the darkness, working together to slowly drag a raggedly clothed man by his shirt. Dany felt like she had to help, and the four of them together pulled the man through the burning rubble towards what she hoped was an exit.

A thousand questions burning in her mind, Dany pushed them back and focused on the task at hand. The smoke burnt her eyes and nose, and the coughing that afflicted both she and the boy made Dany fear they’d not be able to get him out. When she heard Jorah’s calls over the sounds of the fire, she felt a renewed confidence and ran ahead to have the grizzled knight assist them. After ensuring him he wasn’t well, Dany collapsed into a coughing fit. She imagined that if this was how she emerged when she birthed her dragons, her khalasar would’ve been far less awed as she drank from a skin, the water feeling cold in her throat despite how she knew it should be warm.

By the time she’d recovered, Jorah had dropped the man to the floor and hunched over in a similar fit to hers. After ensuring that Jorah was well, she crouched down next to the boy. “Are you well?” She asked, handing him her skin. The boy remained mute, his gaze transfixed on the man. She recognized Jorah moving behind her but was otherwise focused on the boy, feeling pity for a boy that young being subjected to the machinations of the Warlocks for gods know how long.

“My Gods” Jorah exclaimed behind her, sounding aghast.

“What is it Ser? Do you know who him?” Was this one final trick of the Warlocks to test them, Dany wondered.

Jorah sounded breathless, “That’s Rickard Stark.” Stark? Dany thought as her head snapped towards the Knight as her jaw must’ve hanged open. Had she just risked her life to save one of the usurper’s dogs? She was beginning to question how a Northern Lord had managed to be captured by the Undying of Qarth when the boy broke his silence.

“No.” He said, sounding annoyed as her head shot back to him. “My name is RickON” as he stared at them impudently.

“Rickon…” Jorah softly said, speaking to himself. “The son of Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard?”

“Aye,” the boy said, his hair growing progressively more auburn as more ash fell from it. Eddard… Dany thought, remembering Viserys’ rants. He was the Usurper’s Dog, not Rickard, and this boy, Rickon, couldn’t have seen a day more than five namedays. Son of a traitor or not, the boy was innocent of his father’s crimes. “How did you get here, Rickon?” Dany asked with a kind smile. The boy didn’t respond, instead just sadly nodding to the man writhing and whimpering man on the ground.

“Your grandfather has been dead for nigh on twenty years, boy. How is he alive?” Jorah asked, sounding confused.

“He’s not my grandfather, he’s my uncle,” Rickon said, sounding more firm than a boy his age should be capable of, despite his quivering lip.

The temple finally collapsed behind them, sending up another cloud of dust into the air and creating a loud bang, the boy flinching again. Dany pitied the boy, and with his uncle in his current state, he wouldn’t have anywhere to go. “Would you and your uncle like to come with us?” Dany asked. Not that they had anywhere to go, Xavos all but kicking her out of his palace, and Dany didn’t expect that destroying the Warlocks' temple had endeared her to the thirteen.

The boy looked up, wild, tangled curls falling from his eyes. “Can Shaggy come?” He asked, sounding hopeful, threatening, and terrified all at once. Dany didn’t need to be told who Shaggy was, as the giant panting wolf next to the boy gave it away. His innocence was endearing, and she couldn’t help but tell him yes.

Chapter Text

The Khaleesi

Daenerys had expected Xaro’s betrayal, going from one magister’s gilded manse to another with Viserys had taught her how to tell when men saw her as nothing more than a tool to further their ambitions, but Doreah’s had stung. Dany had protected her from Viserys and had been her friend, yet that hadn’t stopped her from warming Xaro’s bed as he murdered their friends and tried to steal her dragons. Was she cursed to be betrayed by everyone she tried to help? Mirri Maz Durr had murdered her Rhaego before he could take his first breath and now Doreah had aided in trying to steal her dragons. What betrayal would she face next? Would it be Jorah? Or young Rickon who she’d saved from a life of unspeakable horrors?

Her thoughts shifted towards the boy who both intrigued and saddened Dany. He was gaunt, spindly, and had an aura of tiredness around him that shouted of his desire to sleep, yet he had seemed strangely, and perhaps scarily pleased as she’d sentenced the traitors to die. ‘Good,’ she’d heard him mumble to himself when she gave the sentence. She was unsure of how old the boy was, a few namedays at most, but something about him seemed older. Dany could relate to that. They both had to grow up far too fast when children that age should be busy playing somewhere. She wondered if he would come to think of Winterfell and its Weirwood tree the same way she viewed the House with the Red Door and its Lemon Tree in Braavos.

What horrors had he experienced at the Warlock’s hands? She’d been there for two hours at most and was left exhausted, feeling like the moment her head touched her furs she knew she’d fall into a deep slumber, but Rickon and his uncle had been there far longer than she was. The boy wasn’t able to give an exact answer, but it was seemingly weeks. His companion still hadn’t awoken hours later, and she grieved for him too. He rolled and murmured in his sleep, sounding pained, unable to escape the warlock’s nightmares. One of the older members of her Khalasar suggested giving him the gift of mercy, but that had enraged Rickon, his direwolf, and Rhaegal as well. Why her emerald son was so invested in the well-being of the unconscious Northman being carried on the small blue palanquin was yet another mystery for her to unravel.

As was Rickon. The boy was the son of Eddard Stark, the Usurper’s Dog. Viserys wouldn’t have hesitated to order his death, not that he would been able to do it, his Direwolf seemed as ferocious and protective as her children, but Dany didn’t hold the boy any ill will. He hadn’t been born until over a decade after the rebellion and was yet a child, innocent of his father’s crimes. He seemed to bounce between bouts of the glee a child his age should show, silent melancholy, and deep bouts of fear caused by the most mundane things. The sight of Rakharo’s bow had set him into a fierce shaking fit and his direwolf, Shaggydog, had nearly taken the man’s arm off. Thankfully when she’d called on the boy, he seemed to come back to himself and his direwolf calmed. She wouldn’t abandon the boy, and yet she feared what would happen if they had to sail on a ship with the direwolf.

Halfway to the harbor market, Rickon’s uncle had stirred from his spot on the palanquin and fell to the ground, causing a commotion among her Khalasar. Dany quickly turned on her horse and watched as he reached for his scabbard, only to find it empty, his two Valyrian Steel swords haven been taken and were being held with the plunder they’d taken from Xaro’s manse. The man reacted quickly, raising his fists and falling into an aggressive stance like he was preparing for a tavern fight and shouting threats in the common tongue, cursing the Warlocks, her Dothraki, the Gods, himself, the Boltons, and seemingly every other house under the sun.

He only seemed to speak the common while few of her people knew a word of it. They did, however, recognize his threatening tone, and they drew their swords and surrounded the man. Dany, fearing bloodshed, called out and commanded them all to halt. Her Dothraki obeyed, the man turned to her, and looks of awe, guilt, despair, then rage, and a thousand others went over his face in the blink of an eye. Then he shouted and swung a fist toward her Dothraki, managing to hit an older man in the jaw and steal the Arakh from his hand, throwing him to the floor and wielding it like a man would a Westerosi straight sword. He didn’t look to have any experience with the curved blade of the Dothraki, but he still seemed deadly, something Jhogo seemed to notice as he approached.

“Uncle!” Rickon called, the man barely spared him a glance before focusing on the swords surrounding him, “Stop!” the boy called. The man hadn’t even looked this time, he rotated to face the warriors between them a pained, feral look on his face, looking more beast than man. Rickon’s direwolf came near him, not threateningly, but still imposing, seeming like the beast was trying to calm the man. It didn’t work and the man stepped back further, his sword still raised high and ready to strike. Her Dothraki took another step further, closing around the man like a noose, when Rhaegal landed in front of him, rearing up on his rear legs and flaring his wings out as the man looked down, his sword high. For a moment, Dany feared he’d kill her son and the order to stop him was on her tongue, but to her surprise, the man dropped his sword and fell to her knees in front of her wildest dragon.

Further confusing her, he reached out and put his hand on Rhaegal’s head, dipping his head in turn, and staying there for a moment, motionless except for his lips moving in silent prayer. Her Dothraki shared confused looks amongst themselves, seemingly unaware of what to do. After what felt like an eternity but was really only a moment, the man took a deep breath and rose to his feet, the Arakh still held tightly in his hand, but he didn’t seem like he planned on using it.

“Uncle please!” Rickon called again, and this time the man looked. Seeing his nephew, he visibly relaxed, and when he lowered his sword and returned it to her Kos, Dany exhaled a breath she didn’t know he was holding. The man moved to approach them, but Rokharo stopped him with a stiff hand against his shoulder. She called out in Dothraki and commanded her Bloodrider to let him pass, and they obeyed. As he approached, Dany finally got a look at the man, finding him to be just as gaunt as Rickon, with piercing sad grey eyes. If she had to guess, she’d say he was older than Ser Jorah was, but she wasn’t sure.

The first words he spoke were short and polite, his voice weak and respectful in a far cry from his previous yelling. “Thank you, your grace.” He swallowed, “Thank you for saving us,” he’d said.

Dany gave him a polite smile, fighting to school her face when he stroked the top of Rhaegal’s head, “Think nothing of it Ser. I could hardly leave the two of you to the Warlocks or the flames,” her words caused him to tense slightly and stare off past her, “What is your name, Ser?” She added after a moment of silence.

The man stared past her for another moment and found the habit was quickly growing but infuriating and unnerving. “My name is Rodrik Stark,” the man closed his eyes and swallowed, “Rickon is my nephew.”

She nodded, “Well met, my Lord. I am Daenerys Targaryen,” She hated reciting her titles but this man was kin to the Usurper’s Dog, and she couldn’t allow him to think her weak. “First of my name, the Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the Firstmen, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and the Mother of Dragons,” the man nodded. “If I may ask, my Lord, what is your relation to Eddard Stark? I’ve been told Lord Rickon is his son, are you one of his brothers?” She felt Rickon tense behind her. Dany knew that her father had executed the Stark that threatened Rhaegar, but was this man his brother too? She thought he was too old but she would have to know.

The man replied quickly, “No, your grace. Lord Stark was my nephew, as was his father before him. I’m the younger brother of Lord Eddard’s Grandfather Edwyle.” Dany nodded again.

“And did you fight in the usurper’s rebellion?” She wouldn’t hold it against him if he had. Jorah did and he was her most loyal advisor.

“No your grace,” Rodrick said after a long moment, seeming like he was thinking, “I was in Essos.” The man looked up and smiled. “Our uncle, the one I’m named after, he was a Sellsword in Essos and I wanted to be just like him, so I left Winterfell seeking glory in a way only a boy could.” She found herself smiling at his tale, recalling how she’d wanted to be a sailor before Viserys had beaten the thought from her mind as the man’s smile turned melancholic like he too was lost in a memory.

After another long pause the man fell to his knees before her, “Daenerys Targaryen, you’ve saved my nephew and myself from unending nightmares and a fate worse than death.” Rodrik and Rickon both shuddered and Shaggydog whined. “For that I swear myself to you, and Rickon shall do the same. I do not have my sword, but it is yours, as is my council, and anything else you require from me. I am yours until my death, I shall serve no other Kings, and win no Glories but in your name. I will be the sword that strikes your enemies, and the shield that guards your. I swear by the Blood of my Father, on my Mother’s Grave, on Ice, and Fire. I swear to you, now and always.”

That’s it? One conversation and the uncle of a Great Lord, one who rebelled against her family, was swearing himself to her? That sounded too good to be true. “Very well my Lord, I swear you shall always have a place at my heart, and I swear that I shall ask nothing of you that would blemish your honor,” the man froze for so short a moment Dany  barely noticed, “Now rise, Lord Rodrick.” Dany didn’t trust the man, but Rhaegal did, and having two Starks with her would aid her in securing the North. She wouldn’t do it, but she could threaten the Usurper’s Dog with the execution of his son if he dared to rise against her. Lord Rodrik could be kept at a distance until she was sure of his loyalty.

Dany gestured to Dothraki near the cart with the loot. She would give him swords Rodrik had two Valyrian Steel swords on his body, and she knew such a blade cost a kingdom. To take them from him as he swore himself to her would be in poor form. “These are yours, My Lord, are they not?” She asked as the Dothraki knelt and presented them to her.

“Aye, your grace. They are.” He confirmed.

“You’ve sworn your swords to me, and I believe that they would serve me better in your hand than as a show of my wealth,” she asserted. From Xaxos, she had taken spices, silks, and gold. So much of it that she had to

The man gave her a slight smile, “Aye, Your Grace. I believe they would.” She nodded to the Dothraki and he handed the man his blades, returning them to his sheaths on either side of his body.

“Though I do wonder, how does a sellsword acquire not one, but two Valyrian Steel blades?” Dany asked.

Rodrik smiled ruefully again and stared past her again, “I received this one a long time ago, I saved my first Commander’s Life when I was his steward,” he offered as he showed her the Sword with the head of a Wolf, “At first I thought being made his steward was an insult, I was the son of a Stark, I wanted to fight…” He trailed off again for a moment, “I was too young and foolish to realize that he was grooming me for leadership. As for the other, it’s a recent addition. The Commander of the Night’s Watch gave it to me a few weeks before Rickon and I left the North. He wanted me to make sure I found it a worthy owner.”

A man giving away a Valyrian Steel sword? That sounded too good to be true. Ancestral blades were passed from father to son, not given to random men who were worthy of them. There was something more to that story and he was prepared to voice that when she noticed Jorah approaching their procession, a smile on his face.

“Good news, Khaleesi!” her Bear shouted, “The Usurper is dead! Gored by a bore on a hunt, or murdered by his hand, or his brother in a failed coup.”

The Usurper? Dead? Dany recalled the stories Viserys had told her as a child of the Demon of the Trident, how he stood monstrously tall and slaughtered their family. Many times they had to flee in the dead of night, fearing his blades. Viserys once swore he’d end the Usurper himself, but he could barely wield a sword, and even as a girl she’d known he’d die in seconds. She thought it was amusing that a warrior as great as he was reputed to be would be felled by a simple bore. She felt a smile creeping up her face. Viserys would laugh at the irony of it all, but Dany strangely felt a sense of pity for the man.

“Who are you?” Ser Jorah asked Lord Rodrik, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Rodrik Stark.” He grumbled, looking at Jorah for a moment. “Jorah Mormont, I presume?” He asked back a moment later.

“Aye,” Her Bear grumbled, looking at him wearily.

“I meant your father some moons back, he’s was good Man, the Lord Commander.”

Lord Commander? Dany thought. Jorah had always been sparing with details of his father, she assumed him dead since he was the Lord of Bear Island. Had Lord Rodrik spoken to Jorah’s father?

“Aye,” Jorah grumbled wistfully, “he is.” Jorah’s eyes shot up and he sounded exasperated, “Was?”

Lord Rodrik raised his hands disarmingly, “I misspoke. Last I spoke to him he was preparing for a ranging beyond the Wall, three hundred brothers he was leading.”

“He’s leading them himself?” Jorah asked, Rodrik grunted out an Aye, and Jorah scoffed, “He always was keen on leading by example, wasn’t he? It’ll get him killed one day.”

“Aye,” Rodrik grunted wistfully, staring off again and sounding sad. “It will.”

“My condolences, Lord Rodrik, the sailors all say that Lord Eddard was arrested.” Was the Usurper’s Dog arrested too?  Surely there would be a war to free him, Rickon was a young boy, but his brothers might not be.

“More than arrested, Ser.” Rodrik added in a small, resigned voice, “Eddard Stark is dead, executed for the crime of exposing Cersei Lannister’s children as bastards by the Kingslayer.”

“The Kingslayer?” Dany asked, “Is he not a Lannister as well?”

“Her Twin,” The Northerners said in unison. And they decried her family for marrying brother to sister.

“Are the Lannisters secretly of the blood of Old Valyria?” Dany japed, and both men chuckled.

“Not as far as I’m aware, Khaleesi” Jorah replied, “Though if he were, he would likely have to be your brother too. He’d be a Kinslayer as well as a Kingslayer then.” Dany laughed at Jorah’s jape.

Shortly after their conversation, Rodrik went to Rickon and the two conversed between themselves. Rickon hugged his uncle fiercely when he did, and the sight might Dany’s heart tighten. She was the last of her house. Viserys never had children, Rhaegar’s were slaughtered by the Lannisters, and that witch murdered her Rhaego and cursed her womb. Never would she embrace her kin, not a son, nor a niece nor a nephew. House Targaryen would die with her. It was just her and her dragons, her sons.

The market nearest to Qarth’s Harbor was a cramped bazaar of various merchant stalls in blues, reds, pinks, and yellows that reminded Dany of the dyed beards of the Tyroshi. As did the smells, the aroma of sausages, smoke, meat, sweat, and the salt of the sea filled the air. Taking a deep breath, Dany felt a moment of calm after the stressful events of the day. The sounds of children playing in a square nearby filled her ears, and when they curiously pointed at her and her dragons she smiled at them ruefully.

Despite speaking to a dozen different captains aboard a dozen different ships, only one was willing to give them passage west, but at the too-high price of everything they’d taken from Xaxos’ manse. There was a Swann ship from the Summer Islands that seemed willing to entertain them until they caught sight of Rickon and Shaggydog and the Captain quickly shut down the discussion. There was a story there, one that she hoped she would hear in better times.

After being rejected by yet another captain, this one hailing from Braavos, Dany was frustrated, tired, and desperate. She knew she would have to find a ship before nightfall or else they wouldn’t find a ship, and had sent Rickon and Rodrik out searching on their own. She was prepared to pay the outrageous price set forth when one of the children from earlier rolled a ball to her, giggling as it bounced off her foot.

Dany leaned down to roll it back to her when the ball opened and revealed the blue chitin-covered tail and legs of a Manticore, posed and ready to leap on her. The hair on her arms and legs stood rigid and she slowly retreated, not wanting to startle it into lunging. Regardless of what she did, it reared itself on its hind legs and charged toward her as she moved back, her heart in her throat.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a dagger slammed into the creature, skewering it through its back as blue blood squirted from its wound and it hissed in its death throes. Looking up, Dany saw the child who rolled it her way’s face morph into the twisted face of someone much older and far less human. The Warlocks sent it, she knew. They were coming for her because of what she’d done to their temple. They’d failed to capture her once, and now they’d failed to kill her too. She looked up at the man who’d saved her, seeing it wasn’t Lord Rodrik or one of the members of the Khalasar, it was an old man who appeared to be Westerosi with a short cropped whitebeard in a flowing brown cloak.

“Thank you, Ser.” Dany said as her Bloodriders ran to her, “You saved me.”

The man smiled and Dany noticed a young boy with red hair standing behind him, a similar cloak covering his body, “It is my pleasure, your grace, I served your father and your grandfather the same.” This man knew her father? Who was he? The look on her face must’ve betrayed her thoughts, since he just chuckled and spoke again, “Forgive me, my name is Ser Barristan Selmy, I was a Knight in your father’s Kingsguard.”

Barristan the Turncloak, Dany knew. Viserys had told her of how he and the Kingslayer had been one of the two Whitecloaks who turned their cloak to the Usurper. Her heart beat faster and she suddenly felt less safe. From the corner of her eye, she saw Shaggydog and his master approaching. Putting faith in the direwolf, she spoke, “You bent the knee to the Usurper,” there was venom in her voice but she tried to bite it down.

The man’s eyes turned to the ground, “I did,” he said, sounding ashamed. “In the early days of Robert’s Reign, he seemed like he’d be a good King. He pardoned the Loyalists and myself. Then he died, Lord Stark was executed, and Robert’s Widow had me released from the Kingsguard so that she could name the Kingslayer Lord Commander.” He looked back to her as Shaggydog barked happily in the distance, “But a Kingsguard serves for life.”

Shaggydog barreled into the boy behind him, causing him to squeal and scream as Ser Barristan drew his sword. For a moment, Dany feared the Direwolf was attacking the boy, then his squeals steadily turned into laughs, and Barristan lowered his sword. “Who is the boy?” Dany asked.

“The boy is my squire, Br-“ Barristan began before he was interrupted by Rickon’s excited shouts.

“Bran!” the boy shouted, sounding as happy as a child his age should. She faintly heard the other boy saying Rickon, sounding confused but just as happy.

“Bran?” Lord Rodrik said, just as exasperated and asking from behind.

Barristan looked at Rodrik, looking like he’d seen a Ghost, “Aye, My Lord.” He said, his voice drifting off as his gaze remained steady, “Brandon Stark, the Second Son of Lord Eddard Stark.”

“How?” Rodrik asked.

“When the Starks were arrested I was with him in the yard and I smuggled him out into the city… When I was released from my vows I took him with me. I’d offered to take him to his brother, but he’d said that he was my charge and he’d go where I went,” Barristan explained.

Rodrik smiled and nodded his head, “Aye. He’s a good lad like that,” he sounded like he was drifting off to memories again.

“I’m sorry, My Lord. I didn’t catch your name,” Barristan asked.

“My apologies, Ser. I am Rodrik Stark, brother of Lord Edwyle Stark.

“Ahh,” Barristan said, then he smiled “Were you the one who dueled Ser Jaime at Winterfell?”

“Indeed,” Rodrik confirmed.

Dany was beginning to grow suspicious, Rodrik and Rickon she’d saved, but now another Stark had come to her along with a Knight of her father’s Kingsguard. She could hardly turn them away if they were genuine, and Ser Barristan had served her family since the time of her grandfather. He could be the way she learned about her family. So she would have to take the risk. She bid Ser Barristan to kneel and accepted his fealty. The aged Knight had wanted his squire to swear himself to her too, but that could come later, Dany thought. Let the boy reunite with his brother. Barristan also offered the ships he had sailed on to her and her Khalasar, a gift Dany could not refuse.

Chapter Text

The Damned

He knew he was in a dream, but he wasn’t sure he cared. He wouldn’t until it turned into a nightmare. They always did, but he quickly learned in his exile that he had to enjoy them while he could. He was on the grey sandy beaches of Dragonstone with Dany and their children, their older daughter Lyanna had his hair and her eyes while his son Aemon was a silver-haired infant in his mother’s arms. Ghost was there, as were two baby dragons cuddling next to the children, one as blue as ice and the other as red as blood. The Song of Ice and Fire , he thought vacantly.

The children’s laughter and the Dragon’s squeaks were the only sounds audible over the black waves breaking against the shore as Lyanna ran past him, giggling at the feeling of the sand between her toes, and when he lifted her up and twirled her around she squealed in a shrill laugh that Dany and baby Aems quickly joined their own to. Daeron kissed her head and put her down.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, how far out in the ocean can you go?” Lyanna asked, bouncing on her feet while she waited for an answer.

Daeron looked to Dany looking for approval, she smiled and shook her head, “Let’s see how far you’ll go, Jon.” She approved a hopeful smile on her face.

He smiled back as he shed all but his small clothes, diving headfirst into the water and swimming far out to where the sky met the sea. His first thoughts were of how cold the water was, it was like ice, like the lakes and streams north of the Wall. Something was wrong, he knew. It shouldn’t be this cold. He turned back to the shore, but his daughter's cheering was just audible over the waves, and he knew she wanted to go further out, so he did.

The only thing he could hear over the sounds of the waves breaking against his body was their laughter, and that spurred him further. He wanted to go back, but every time he thought to he heard them cheering for him “Go Daddy Go!” After a few moments, he was hundreds of feet out, barely able to keep himself above the waves when he realized he couldn’t hear them. He turned back to the beach and saw them all there, the dragons and the direwolf lying slain while men attacked his family.

“Nooo!” He tried to scream, but the cold salty water flooded into his mouth as the waves forced him under as he fought to stay afloat. The moment he surfaced he tried to cough it out, but more took its place. Pushing through the burning cold in his lungs, he swam toward the shore but he was fighting the current now. Tears fell down his face only to be lost in the sea as he was forced to watch helplessly.

When he made it to the shore he saw the small bodies of their attackers, Dwarves, but he didn’t stop to look as he was focused on his dead wife and child. Lyanna was shriveled, red, and tiny, looking unrecognizable from the perfect, lively little girl she was a few short moments ago, while Dany had but a single knife still lodged in her heart as a single drop of blood dripped from her mouth. The Man fell to his knees and held their bodies to him as sobs wrecked his body. He shouldn’t have gone so far. 

Behind him, the unforgetting voice of Tyrion Lannister spoke, “I know you love her, but love is the death of duty,” he said. Twisting Maester Aemon’s words against him. The man turned to face the Imp, fully prepared to pummel the leach into the sand, but he was gone. 

When he looked back he saw that there were two new bodies, one was a woman who looked much like Arya, and the other was a tall man with the silver-gold hair of the Targaryens, and all of them had their eyes open, and were bearing into him with silent accusation. His heart dropped and he fell to the ground in a sob.

Gasping, The Man woke up in a cold sweat, taking a moment to catch his breath and ease the burning in his lungs, he punched the wooden wall of the ship hard enough to wake Shaggydog and elicit a whine from the Direwolf. The Man had shared a cabin with both Bran and Rickon. The arrival of Bran had surprised him. He had written his cousin off as good as dead once he’d gone South. He expected his cousin with dreams of knighthood to squire for the Kingsguard, but he’d assumed he’d escape from King’s Landing with Arya or remain a captive alongside Sansa. Never in his wildest dreams did he expect him to end up on a boat with Dany and her dragons. He’d taken to Shaggy quickly, saying Rickon’s direwolf reminded him of Summer, who’d escaped into the Kingswood when the Lannisters attacked his father’s household.

He sighed as he shoved off his furs and headed out and onto the deck in only trousers and a thin white shirt. Every night he was cursed by nightmares, and every night he woke before dawn. Most of his memories of Bran were of Bran the Broken, the cripple who somehow became King, the soulless, lifeless boy he so foolishly once believed to have been his brother. Bran the Broken was nothing like his brother Bran, with two working legs that he used to climb to the highest point of the ship’s mast when he wasn’t eagerly doing his duties as the Bold’s squire. The Man now knew that the Broken Boy was nothing but a slave to whatever the Raven was, the same way Bloodraven had been, the same way he almost was. The Raven once said that the Night King would come to him, that he would be the bait that made the army of the dead attack Winterfell when it could’ve gone around and conquered all of the South. The Man didn’t know if that was true or another lie in his plan to seize power, but if it was, it would be an issue to sort out later.

The Man exhaled as he leaned against the oak railing at the bow of the ship, enjoying the still-cool air before the oppressive temperature rose with the sun. They’d set out from Qarth nearly a fortnight earlier and yet the nightmares he’d experienced in the Warlock’s prison still haunted him. No, they weren’t nightmares. They were memories, things he’d lived and things he’d done, retreading the path of his deepest regrets over and over again until they were seared into his head. He’d thought he’d learned to live with them a decade ago, but since his return to this time, he’d been proven wrong time and time again.

Since they’d escaped the Warlocks, faces with purple and grey eyes haunted the periphery of his vision, some looked upon him with accusation, others in pain, but the worst were the pleading ones. Whether they were silently begging for mercy, his children who never got a chance to live crying out “Don’t kill my mother, let me live”, or for him to save them, he didn’t know. Were it six moons ago, he would’ve drowned himself in drink, and were it six years ago, he’d have drowned himself in the Milkwater, but that was then. He was no longer a bastard exiled and forgotten at the edge of the world, thinking of his own death was a mercy that he didn’t deserve, and he wasn’t a drunken old man wandering around the halls of Winterfell, waiting for time to pass so he could act, he wasn’t lost anymore, he had a purpose.

It was his fault Dany went ma-, that Dany fell. She’d given everything she could give, and he took all of it. Why? Because she loved him. And what did he do in return? Take and take. When all she needed was for him to love her, he couldn’t. He put a child in her belly and then killed her. He would see that she sat the Iron Throne and lived a long happy life until her silver hair turned grey. He would make sure that the Boy wouldn’t be as much of a fool as he was.

And he’d kill those who betrayed him. He was denied his vengeance once, he’d seize it this time. He’d realized long ago that Sansa had betrayed him in more ways than just revealing his secret. She’d killed Rickon when she withheld her knowledge of the army of the Vale, and she’d tried to kill him then too. She’d undermined him the entire time he was on Dragonstone, then against a guest in their home when she’d plotted with the Spider and the Imp. She’d also tried to force Dany’s hand and have her murder him, his own stupidity still shocked him decades later. How he didn’t connect that her rants about how Daenerys was an unhinged mad woman who would kill him since he was a threat, then her making him a threat was a plot to drive them apart, he would never know. He really did know nothing.

His thoughts continued to focus on his many failures as they often did. When he was idle his thoughts drifted either toward his plans for the future or his regrets. He tried to focus on his plans, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. As much as he wanted to take the Spider or the Imp’s heads, he knew that he had to suffer their lives until they made it to Westeros. They delivered the Martells and the Tyrells to Dany, then lost them with their complete failures of strategy. He’d take the Imp’s head and gift it to the Martells, while the Spider he’d feed to a Dragon. It was the fate he deserved.

With the Martells and Tyrells secured, and the knowledge that the Tarlys were all traitors, Davos could smuggle Gendry out of Fleabottom and be proclaimed the Lord of Storm’s End, the West would never bend the knee, especially when the Lord they were offered was a Kinslayer twice over, and the Vale wouldn’t while Baelish lived. Killing Baelish would be easy enough, but securing their allegiance would be more difficult. The Boy would abdicate to Bran the moment he heard he was alive, and the Riverlands would follow the Starks, especially after they were liberated from the Twins. Robb would be avenged. 

Robb shouldn’t have to be avenged, the voice whispered, and like always, it was right. The man sighed. He should’ve told Robb. The Boy could’ve been named King, and the people he grew up with would’ve been spared much hardship. The realm would rally to him, the traitors would be dealt with before they could act, and Dany would’ve arrived in Westeros to see King Daeron, Third of His Name, sitting on the Iron Throne and waiting for her hand in marriage. He would’ve sent fleets with armies to help her quash her enemies in the east, and he could’ve denied the White Walkers most of their vast host. He could’ve had it all.

But he didn’t. He still knew nothing. Even after all these years of dreaming what he would’ve done if given a second chance, he’s still fucked it up. His frustration built up into anger and then into tears, his chest warming until it was blazing as the morning sky continued to lighten as dawn slowly arrived. Before he could spiral further, Rhaegal landed with a squawk on the railing next to him with a heavy thud, causing the beam to bow under his weight. The Emerald Fury squawked and flapped his wings before cooing and rubbing his head against his arm, his brothers swooping into the sea and catching fish. The three of them had grown substantially in the time they’d been on the ship, but they still had a long way to go until they would reach the size he knew them as.

Rhaegal’s presence gave him something to focus on, it calmed him. The man’s anger dissipated as the dragon pushed his head into the crook of his neck and forced him to scratch it. It reminded him of Ghost in a way, who was far off North of the Wall right now. But this bond was different, and it was a bond. The Man felt it when Rhaegal died the first time, and while this Ghost was bonded with the Boy, Rhaegal wouldn’t be his, he’d have to settle for Viserion. The Man laughed for the first time in a long time when Rhaegal hissed displeasingly when he stopped petting him.

“He seems quite fond of you, Lord Rodrik,” Called the ever-soothing voice of his queen. After blinking away the last of the redness in his eyes, he turned to see her standing there, dressed less elegantly than he’d ever seen her, in the plain beige dress she’d worn for the last few days at Sea and with a happy, half awake smile on her face.

“Aye, it’s the shared blood,” He explained then instantly regretted as her face shifted to surprise.

“Shared blood?” Dany asked, “Do the Starks have the Blood of Old Valyria?” She had accepted them into her service but he could tell she didn’t fully trust them yet, and she shouldn’t, but she was still more open than she had been when they’d met on Dragonstone.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” he quickly added before a short pause, struggling to think of a lie on the fly, “Through my mother, a Blackwood,” he had it! “My mother Melantha had a sister named Betha who married the Unlikely, your Great-grandfather.” It was true except his real mother married your brother, but saying that would expose too much too soon.

“Is that so? So we are cousins then?” Aunt and nephew, but close enough he thought as he nodded his head and grunted out “Aye,” and Dany smiled warmly, the sight filling him with warmth cut with a sharp tinge of guilt. “Would that make you my closest living relative?”

Yes, but for an entirely different reason, he thought. “Aye,” he said then did the sums in his head. Black Betha, who was also his great-great-grandmother would’ve been his aunt, by blood if he was who he said he was, and she was Daenerys’ Great- grandmother. “First cousins if I’m remembering the rules right, but that was never my strong suit, your grace.”

Dany nodded, “Very well, thank you,” She smirked playfully and he knew what was coming, “Cousin.”

“Does that mean I can call you cousin, your Grace?” He japed back, eliciting another harmonic bout of laughter.

“Only in private, Cousin.” He smiled back. This was the first candid conversation they’d had since he’d arrived. Everything else had been about strategy or building trust. Ser Jorah had convinced her to make port in Astapor to acquire the Unsullied, an idea he threw his support behind, knowing what would happen next. She had taken to Rickon and Bran very quickly. Even beyond their value to her cause, she seemed to value and care for them. Rickon specifically, she seemed to have more or less adopted, his youngest brother had suffered nightmares since the Warlocks captured them, and from his fear of arrows, the Man knew what they were of. Dany soothed them a way he imagined his mother would if Lady Catelyn was here.

As sweet as the sight was, it was like he was being stabbed through the heart all over again. It was like one of the piss-poor japes Grenn told, he killed her and then he felt bad and was feeling sorry for himself. He didn’t have the right to feel sorry for himself.

The first time he saw the two together was the first time he saw the purple eyes, watching him with the silent accusation they did in his dreams. That was over a sennight ago and they’d been there ever since. 

According to the captain, they would arrive in Astapor soon. There Dany would free the Unsullied and Missandei and would go on to smash the slave trade in Slaver’s Bay. He knew some of the problems she faced and would advise her on how to deal with them, but he also feared he would solve all of her problems and that she would become stagnant and not develop into the fearless Queen she needed to be to face the Long Night. One thing he did know, was that he would ensure she didn’t give the Yunkai’i the mercy she had the first time. There was a time for mercy, aye, but Slavers weren’t deserving of it. Anyone who trades flesh like it were a commodity can’t be trusted. He saw their cruelty firsthand in Tyrosh, and from what he knew of Astapor, it would be worse yet.

His first thoughts as they made port in Astapor were of how depressing the city was. The market was full of bustling stalls covered in pavilions of bright blues, vibrant violets, and slaves shackled to be sold standing just outside the shade while children cut through all the stalls as they ran and laughed. He felt Daenarys tense next to him at the sight, and from the low growl emanating from Shaggydog, Rickon was too. He’d spoken enough with Grey Work and the other Unsullied to know that men like them weren’t natural. As a boy at Winterfell long ago he’d heard tales from Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrick, and traveling traders from the Far East speaking of the eunuch soldiers’ training that even as a boy he’d waved off as being too cruel to be real. After meeting the Unsullied, he doubted that conclusion. Regardless, Rickon and Bran were both far too young to see it.

“Bran, Rickon stay on the ship,” The Man commanded, his tone commanding and cold as steel.

“Uncle!” Both began, but he raised his hands to silence them, “We need someone to guard the ship, and the two of you and Shaggy are the best guards we have,” he said after a moment to think. That seemed to pacify Rickon, but Bran still seemed determined to go, steadfast in a way that only a boy of one and ten could be.

“I am Ser Barristan’s squire, where the Queen goes, he goes, and where he goes, I go.” He replied, trying to match the man's steel and almost succeeding, his voice only wavering a little.

The Boy’s tenacity was endearing if nothing else. He couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his lips as he shot a pleading look to Barristan. He’d seen death and destruction at a scale greater than anything since the Century of Blood, the annihilation of Hardhome, the battle of Winterfell, the Sack of King’s Landing, and yet he feared to see more of the horrors he saw in Tyrosh. Horrors he’d subjected millions to across Essos in his past life.

“Bran is right, My Lord,” Barristan said after sharing a glance with their Queen. 

He nodded, “As you say, Ser,” the displeasure was clear on the Man’s face.

Rickon and Shaggydog ran off down into the ship’s hold, Daenerys had allowed him to feed the Dragons, and while they didn’t like the boy the way they did those of their blood, they tolerated him. Shaggydog was still large enough and strong enough to keep them in line in tight spaces if all else failed. His bond with Rhaegal was still there, an issue to deal with later, and he hoped between the two of them that would be enough.

When The Man, Daenerys, Ser Barristan, and Bran, exited the ship by the gangplank, they were greeted by a fat Ghischari man wearing flowing white robes and the largest breasts he’d ever seen accompanied by several slaves, two held a shade over his balding head, another two wafted the man with long sticks with giant fans at their end, and then there was a Missandei, a black iron collar tightly wrapped around all of their necks. “Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz Welcomes the Mother of Dragons to the great city of Astapor,” The Man smirked to himself, Missandei would go on to say Dany’s titles quite a lot in the coming years, she better get used to it. “What business does the Mother of Dragons have in Astapor?” The scribe continued.

“I’ve come to purchase Unsullied,” Dany called out, sounding confident, like a true queen.

Missandei relayed the information to Kraznys, who replied back in what he knew from Dany’s stories to be insults in Valyrian, but he couldn’t understand any of the words as she could. Why the fool thought that someone as outwardly Valyrian as her wouldn’t understand him, he would never know. Missandei nodded a second later, “The Unsullied are the finest soldiers in all the World. Please, follow the Good Master.” Other slaves fell in from out of sight, bearing food, drinks, and more fans and awnings as they followed.

With each subsequent explanation, the Man found himself more and more grateful that Rickon had stayed behind. Bran gasped when Missandei mentioned the dogs being killed, undoubtedly thinking of Summer. If Rickon and Shaggy were there, there was no doubt in his mind that the Direwolf would have torn the Good Master ’s throat out the moment he said that. Beyond that, Bran was remarkably stoic, if he hadn’t grown up along the boy, he’d have thought that the tales of the training and torture boys just older than Rickon unphased him, but The Man noticed his tightly wound hand and despite all the horrors, he smiled to himself. Did Ned Stark do the same and had they both learned it from him? Or was it just some trait that was passed down through the shared blood of their grandfather?

When they finally reached the end of the showcase of the Master’s brutality, Missandei inquired how many they would like to buy.

“All of them,” His Queen commanded. Kraznys didn’t even bother to wait for Missandei to translate back to him, quickly descending into what even he could tell were insults.

Missandei smiled, ever diplomatic. “You are aware, Your Grace, that the Unsullied are very expensive. Good Master Kraznys only believes you to have the funds to buy a hundred of his Unsullied.” 

Dany nodded, her face gave nothing away but he knew what she was thinking. “A Dragon,” she said, her voice as hard as Valyrian Steel and as cold as The Wall. Ser Barristan was taken aback, and if The Man didn’t know what her plan was, he would’ve been as well.

“Your Grace, you can not give up one of your Dragons. There are other armies, but no other Dragons. Westeros remembers the Conquest and their love of your Brother. The moment you land,  loyal lords will flock to your banner.”

Their Queen turned to Barristan, a sad look on her face when Bran spoke as well, “Please don’t give them to them, Your Grace,” the boy called out before dropping his voice into a whisper, “Think of what they’ll do with them. Dragonfire will reign across Essos.” Her gaze seemed even sadder as she looked at The Man, undoubtedly expecting another rebuke. He didn’t give her one. He just gave her a knowing look and nodded. She smiled slightly, closed her eyes, and nodded back.

“The Unsullied are Great, and your Dragons are Small,” Kraznys called out in the common after their discussion ended, “All of them for all of the Unsullied.” 

“One.” The Queen replied, her voice even colder than it was before.

Kraznys nodded twice, “A mount for yourself then, two dragons.”

“One.” She repeated, her tone leaving absolutely no room for argument.

Kraznys grunted, frustrated. “The largest one then.”

She seemed to think for a moment before she nodded, “And I want all of the Unsullied, even those in Training.” Kraznys agreed after a short protest about their inexperience, which the Queen rebuked. "The Translator too." She added, "As a Gift.” 

Kraznys smiled and laughed before swapping back into Valyrian, sounding jovial as Missandei quickly bowed her head and came to stand behind them. The Good Master spoke again in High Valyrian, and Missandei translated. “The exchange shall occur tomorrow at Sunset,” she’d said. Terms Dany agreed to.

The return walk to their ship saw Ser Barristan attempting to council the Queen away toward a new course, one where she didn’t hand a Dragon over to “monsters in human skin”. Bran was unusually sullen, seeming like he was trying his best not to show it. The boy should’ve stayed behind. The boys in training were his age, did he see himself facing the same cruelty and losing himself the way they did? Surely he wouldn’t enjoy hearing of what the Raven turned him into, a dark voice in his head japed.

Before his madness could pester him further, they stopped at a man being crucified overlooking the sea. “What was this man’s crime?” The Queen asked.

“This one rose a hand against his master, and is to be punished for all to see.” The translator explained as their queen nodded.

“Give me your waterskin,” she commanded to no one in particular. The Man moved to give her his, but Barristan did it faster. They all watched in awe as their Queen put the skin to the tortured slave’s mouth and poured it down his throat. The sight filled him with warmth, Dany’s kindness knew no bounds. King’s Landing was a product of the Raven’s machinations, or the Raven himself. That wasn’t her. It couldn’t have been her. Someone who gave dying men water from her own skin wouldn’t burn the city.

Not even fifty yards away he saw a young man lying in the shade on an island in the river that split the city with a woman about the same age in his arms. The River was called ‘The Worm’, these cruel savages couldn’t even respect the world around them. That anyone could sit and relax while a man was being left to die made him sick. The Ghiscari were no better than savage dogs. Even the cruelest of the Freefolk North of the Wall wouldn’t be so crass. There’s no honor in leaving a man to rot in the elements. ‘ There’s no honor in killing a woman who welcomes you as a lover, either a voice whispered . 

The moment they stepped foot back on The Balerion, one of the three ships sent along with Barristan and the one his Queen had taken as her flagship, they were bombarded with questions from Rickon, and Ser Jorah, who just seemed thankful to see their Queen. Seeing his shameless gaze filled The Man with brief pits of age, but they abated quickly. Dany would never return his feelings. The exiled knight’s gaze soon drifted to the one on The Man’s left hip, his second copy of Longclaw. The first time he noticed his gaze it made him wonder what his other self was faring with Dark Sister. Longclaw was a longer blade which meant he rarely used a shield. Would fighting with a more standard blade get him killed somewhere?

He didn’t have time to worry about that, so he tried to avoid doing so, The Man’s possession of Ser Jorah’s family blade made him jealous, as it should. Like a fool, he’d once tried to return Longclaw to him. Perhaps the boy would do the same for Daenerys and that could be rewarded with her hand in marriage.

Ser Jorah would get his sword when he’d earned it. From Daenerys herself. They both would appreciate that, he hoped.

He was faintly aware of Rickon’s questions, of if they’d bought an army, how large, and when he could leave, and how the city was, but they were answered by Bran. When she had time, she would humor him, but the day seemingly weighed on her. When Rickon spoke of the price, he’d been distraught, though for reasons of affection rather than anything else. “You can’t sell Rhaegy!” He cried, unable to pronounce both Visserion and Rhaegal’s names.

The Queen closed her eyes, swallowed, and nodded before taking her leave, not saying anything as Ser Jorah followed. Missandei was pulled away by the Queen’s Dothraki handmaidens, she’d been freed but she would remain at her Queen’s side, while Bran was given a nod from Barristan and went to play with Rickon, leaving just the Man and the aged knight.

“You were the only one who hasn’t spoken of the Queen’s payment, do you support giving these… Slavers, these… Monsters a Dragon?” Barristan asked after a moment of silence.

The Man took a moment before he replied, “I have faith in our Queen.”

“Aye, but a Dragon for an army? Surely you can see the folly.” The knight continued, seeming like he was testing him.

The Man looked him in the eye, his face rigid, “I have faith in our Queen.” He repeated, his tone full of conviction.

Barristan chuckled, “Aye, My Lord. It seems you do.” They stood in silence for a moment before he continued, “You look a lot like him, you know.”

The Man jumped, momentarily thinking he was referring to Rhaegar, but Barristan had no way of knowing the truth, and he knew he looked nothing like his blood Father. “Aye, Lord Eddard and I both have the Stark look.” The Man said, not wanting to lead to a conversation where he’d say things he shouldn’t know.

“Not Lord Eddard, he’d have gotten there if he lived longer I’m sure, but I was speaking of Lord Rickard. You look just like him.” Barristan added.

The same Lord Rickard you, Jaime Lannister, your sworn brothers of the Kingsguard, and half the court watched Burn, the man thought. “Aye, he is my gr-” he caught himself, almost saying grandfather, “grand-nephew, and the Stark seed is Strong,” it being as strong as it was is the only reason his life was what it was. Who knows what would’ve happened if he had been born with his father’s coloring?

Barristan had an odd look on his face as he nodded and then dismissed himself, likely going to stand guard at the Queen’s door. The moment he was alone, The Man exhaled and slid down the wall till he sat on the deck. He desperately hoped he’d not said too much. He hated lying, he always had. But he couldn’t tell the truth. Saying he’d murdered Daenerys and the child in her womb would lead to everyone on that ship trying to kill him. As it should. He was constantly fighting down tears whenever he saw her. She was an entirely different woman from the one he’d once met. Different in many ways, but the same in more. It would be another four years till she’d arrive on Dragonstone, and he would see that she sat on the throne. He’d begun planning their return already. The moment they landed, and the loyalty of the Martells and Tyrells was secured he would relieve the Imp and the Spider of their heads, alert the Greyjoys of Euron’s ambush, and then burn Horn Hill to the ground. He may even take a trip to Old Town to fetch Sam and make the fat craven watch. 

The North, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands would be easy enough to secure between Bran, Rickon, and Gendry once Davos retrieves him. The Westerlands may even come over to their side once they realize the extent of Cersei’s madness, and that they’re not trying to force the Imp upon them. From there, taking King’s Landing would be an easy task. The Unsullied were the ideal force for taking a city who along with the Dragons could take the city themselves in an afternoon. The Dragons would burn the walls, the Unsullied do the rest. 

Why they hadn’t done that the first time, he would never know. He and the Imp were both fools. But the Imp would be dead, and the Boy wouldn’t be a king. Or he would, with a few words of encouragement, the Boy would hopefully grow bold enough to grow close with the Queen and become a King Consort through marriage. The Others were defeated in one night the first time, and that was when they had a Dragon. With the united Seven Kingdoms behind their backs, they may not even make it to Winterfell and the Wall may not even fall. And the Free Folk won’t all die at Hardhome thanks to what he had told Mace.

The world would be better this way. Sansa wouldn’t speak out the way she did if she had two true-born brothers ahead of her, or she might, but he’d take her head the first time she did. The only other questions he had were on how to kill the traitors. He rarely enjoyed killing men, he hated it most of the time, but he knew he would enjoy killing these two. Perhaps he’d be as dramatic as possible and take their heads mid-council meeting. The Queen was too kind, she wouldn’t allow him to take the precautions he knew were necessary. 

But he was getting too far ahead of himself. Dany would sack the city, claim the unsullied, and free all its slaves tomorrow. He will likely fight in the battle, and many more battles to come before they return to Westeros. He was a fine swordsman, but he wasn’t as young as he once was. He’d lost count a long time ago, but he thought he was nearing fifty namedays. Barristan had two decades on him and he was still a fine knight. But still, if he died while he was still needed it would all be for naught. He sighed and looked down the deck towards the cabin and the stairs. He’d already saved Bran and Rickon, would that be enough? No. Even if it was, he wouldn’t risk it. Both his brothers were far too young to tell the truth to, even if Rickon seemed to have a kernel of understanding of the truth thanks to those Thrice Damned Warlocks.

He sighed and punched the ship behind him, then it hit him. He would write notes!

It was such a simple idea, but it was perfect. He stood up and quickly sped to his quarters after fetching ink, a quill, and a parchment. Too focused to light a candle, he sat in a chair and began to put ink to parchment, his hand moving with speed and precision as he wrote the truth, or a fraction of it, in ink. He wrote four letters. One for Bran, one for Rickon, one for the boy, and one for the Danaerys. In all of them, he mentioned his second life, those who would betray them all, for Bran and Rickon he mentioned versions of their fates, omitting Bran’s death and ascension as King, in Daenerys’ he swore her his undying love, and simply wrote “the witch was wrong”. 

The hardest to write was the Boy’s. The Man considered telling him the truth, that he was not Jon Snow,  the Bastard of Eddard Stark, he was Daeron Targaryen, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. But that would be too much, so instead he mentioned how he failed the first time, how Maester Aemon knew he would come to love Daenerys, and how he wanted the two to marry, telling him he knows he loves her, and she loves him, then reminding him of their conversation at Winterfell and to not let anything come in between them. He toiled at the letters until his hands hurt and the sun had nearly set. Bran and Rickonw would be here soon, and he would ensure both joined them the next day. Shaggy would need to taste the blood of Slavers since it was a taste the Direwolf would need to grow accustomed to.