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KISSED BY FIRE, KISSED BY STEEL III

The war for the dawn, find my way back

Prelude,

Rhaenys

“Ned Stark is dead,” her father announced as they shared in a cold, disheartened supper, his expression too placid and his purple eyes glinting malevolently, as he brought his wife’s hand to his lips, taking a bite from her fork, “the Wolf of the North is no more,”

Queen Marcellyne Frey was a beautiful woman, half his age; as had been the one before, and the one before that; her father had an eye for beauty, which had been why he had — at least — been pleased that she had inherited her grandmother beauty more than her mother’s for she had been too plain for his tastes.

Once, she supposed, her father could have been handsome, with his Targaryen silver-golden hair having inherited the blue eyes and the black beard by House Arryn, with his broad chest and fighting-fit body; now he looked just old, his face was sagging around his bones and his eyes did no longer shine like polished sapphires, but seemed perpetually reddened by his continuous consumption of dornish red.

Lady Marcellyne was young, younger than she was, and Rhaenys had pitied her when she first had befallen into her father’s bed, though many had commended her influence on the king as he started once more to cure his appearance. Since his dragon, Gaeletyx had died, along his third wife, Queen Johanna Lannister and her newborn babe, her father had stopped voyaging through the Realm and for years not even the people of Kings Landing knew what he looked like. 

Monstrous. 

He had let his beard and nails grow so long that the first reached the floor when he walked and people needed to mind his every need for he couldn’t even grasp his own cock with those hideous nails. He claimed a beast had awaken in his mind with Gaeletyx’ death, and that at the loss of his wife and newborn he had been plagued by portentous dreams, nightmarish in nature that had him battling against monsters unseen to them.

No one at court spoke of his illness. 

An illness of the mind, Great Maester Pycelle had told her, assured her even; and Rhaenys had been so close — at seven and ten — to grasp the Iron throne for hers when suddenly he had taken an interest in lady Marcellyne Frey and she had cleaned him up again. 

Rhaenys despised her for that.

Whatever madness his father chose to unleash on the woman, who at times would sport bruises of any sort, and had also lost a tooth save to have the Maester find a suitable replacement so that she remained pretty, was her own fault.

When her father had struck her so hard that her tooth had fallen out Rhaenys had offered her an out, protection even, but the woman had refused her and rejected her offer. 

Little fool, Rhaenys didn’t even doubt she felt something for the king, for some unbeknownst reason to her, still, she was a woman grown and since her every plan to uproot her father from the Iron throne had fallen flat Rhaenys hadn’t been able to get her out of her father’s chambers. 

The woman was living a nightmare of her choosing, for Rhaenys had given her the choice.

And she had made hers. 

Rhaenys had her own nightmares to keep at bay, and her father’s probing hands to disrupt from their courses.  

She hated him. 

Could she reign without the stain of the kinslayer’ name on her head, she would have killed him ages ago, when he had killed her mother in his impossible quest for a son that he had not gotten. Not from her, not from his second wife who had known what was better for her and had eloped with her sworn shield to Essos. 

Her father had found her there too; he had killed her and brought back her destroyed body to her family; the Velaryons had quietly retired in their abode, rescinding their tentative support to the crown, but yet not moving either against them or in a strike with the Targaryen in the east. 

His third wife had gotten close, but the babe had died of fever just a few hours after the mother.  Poor Johanna Lannister, the babe had been deformed as well, though her father would never admit, and she pleaded until her last breath for him to be loved and named prince and heir despite his deformation. It had been all in vain, her father had refused to promise such an oath and if the babe had not died of fever just a few hours after the birth Rhaenys shuddered to think of what her father would have done. 

Queen Marcellyne had been chosen for her youth, for the undiscussed fertility of her line — she was one of over twenty children to Lord Frey’ loins — and for her beauty; and the rest she had done to herself. 

Rhaenys had even offered her poison, to kill the king and safeconduct away from the swords of the Realm, but the girl had refused adamantly, claiming she loved the king; Rhaenys had spent seven weeks in the black cells after that, and only both House Arryn and House Martell’ loud demands of her release had saved her from serving more time in the prisons. 

“His eldest daughter, Sansa Stark, is set to inherit Winterfell and the North,” he spluttered most unbecomingly, his glance ever so pious and yet satisfied in a most unpious way. 

Then, as if he had said something hilarious, he leaned back from the table and let out a full belly laugh that made his face grow red as his wife caressed soothingly his arm. 

“They want to make a girl Warden of the North,” he said, suddenly sombering as quickly as he entered in his feral laugh “let them, this gives us an opening, you, my daughter, will marry Robb Stark and useless as you are to rule after me, at least with this marriage you will give me the North” 

A tombal silence befell the chamber then, and her father smiled ever so softly to her. When the devil caresses you, he wants your soul. 

“Too long have these northerners, these…savages lorded false triumph over us!” he declared “first with their request of independence after having bent the knee, then that damned Pact, sealed at our worst,” he hissed, spitting even in the plate he had been eating from, forcing one of the servants to replace it in all haste, “then by demanding the marriages with eligible scions and princesses of House Targaryen as if they are higher than Valyrian houses!” 

“Those,” Rhaenys pointed out “were envisioned to keep them close to the Iron throne” 

“A lot good they did,” her father replied “one in every few generations would have been more than they were worthy of,” he said “but one every other generation? They wanted to steal our dragons!” 

“And then raise arms against us!” he added “like the Velaryons did” 

Rhaenys would have loved to point out that House Velaryon had not turned against House Targaryen, but in support of another branch of it.

And the Starks had been more than loyal; in the several attempts after the Dance of Dragons House Stark had kept true to their vow; even in the most recent ones, when the bond between House Stark and Targaryen had grown more fragile. 

They had never broken faith even after three generations without marriages, as there had not been near enough Targaryens of the main branch to spare for matches so far away from the capital. 

And had not even broken faith when the situation could have called for it; still the coldness had grown between the capital and Winterfell and Ned Stark — whom her father loathed with passion — had asked even a much more impactful involvement of the capital in the manning of the Wall, which numbers had dwindled in the last half a century; her father had taken that as an insult, mostly because they had been forced to comply as the Warden of the North had pressed on the Pact and the lack of proper marriages in the last three generations. 

He believed the late Warden of the North a cunning, sly man who had done his best to ensure that the Iron throne was dependent on the North politically, especially when he had started to consider marriages prospects for his children in the South. 

Rhaenys did not share his opinion, but that was her own consideration. She wasn’t surprised that Ned Stark’s death had elated her father so, just as much as she wasn’t surprised that her father was so very gleeful about the prospect of a woman Warden of the North. 

It had been his single-minded purpose since House Stark offered the insult of increasing the numbers of men the capital was to send to the Wall, for him find a way to ensure that House Stark was bound to the throne and not the other way around. 

She supposed he considered Sansa Stark a weak adversary, whereas her father had been a formidable one, and by marrying Rhaenys to Robb he hoped that the North would revolt against the weak girl and name her twin brother as Warden of the North and with Rhaenys in the North as his wife or Robb Stark in the capital he had hope to finally bring back the North under the fold. 

He assumed everyone had his same views about the capacities of a woman to rule, forgetting his own mother came from the Arryn line which more than once had been forward by women; forgetting that her own mother was the daughter of the princess regnant of Dorne — a conquering princess who had annexed to Dorne the lands of Lys, Tyrosh and Myr — who had proved the world that a woman could conquer and rule as well and as wisely as any man. 

Because, Gods forbid a woman has as much authority and power as any man. 

Perhaps it was the Gods punishment that her father was to be surrounded by women in power — he had never managed to father a male heir and the only child of his who reached adulthood was her; Sansa Stark in the North, Arianne Martell as heir to Sunspear and, in the east Daenerys Targaryen who, after her eldest brother’s death and Viserys’ succumbing to madness and being sequestered in his quarters as nothing more than a glorified prince, had launched a conquest of Slavers Bay when the three cities started to war against one another, in an attempt to forge an empire which could rival theirs. Rhaenys had no doubt the woman would attempt for the Iron throne and restabilish Rhaenyra’ line on the Iron throne. 

Rhaenys felt almost sorry for him. His arrogance and short-sightedness would be his downfall, she knew. 

Her father’s spies might work well, but hers worked better. Sansa Stark inheritance had been challenged, by her own cousin, the last one of the line of mixed Stark and Targaryen lineage in the North. 

He had attempted first to set Prince Robb Stark to the role and when spurned he had raised a host to challenge the Starks. 

Sansa Stark had not let the challenge unanswered; and if one may think she might have considered a match with the man who was a heir-less widower, at least to sooth his rage, she refused.

No.

Sansa Stark had annihilated him and his forces, and had won her title on the cold, hard and bloody battleground. 

No northern lord had dared to move against her since, and she had sedated the budding civil war on the battlefield; and now she was set to inherit the title that had been her father’s. 

House Stark had, since the pact during the Dance of Dragons, become a House with equalitarian inheritance in which a woman if born first could inherit the title and Winterfell both. 

In the past though, the men of House Stark and the North had done the impossible to ensure it didn’t happen. 

The Stark heiress would be married to a man of her fathers choosing who would inherit the title of Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, though the title of Voice of the North remained with the Stark heiress as it could be held only by someone with Stark blood. 

Ned Stark instead had been the opposite and had reiterated more than once that as the laws of House Stark dictated his daughter was set to inherit after him, despite the abundance of sons he had — three — who had not perished in infant hood.

And Sansa Stark had let nothing be in the way of her birthright. No, she had declared her birthright loud for all to hear, and so shall I. 

Robb Stark had not moved against his sister, he had been her champion on the battlefield — some said he could even turn into a wolf to tear at his enemies — that kind of man could be the support she needed to ensure to inherit the Iron throne upon her father’s death.

“As you bid, Father,” she said. 

Her father nodded, pleased by her compliance, “I have already reached out to this lady Stark,” he said “this match will be made,” he added “and the North shall fall in our grasp”

This match will be made, Rhaenys echoed, and the Iron throne shall be mine. 

King Aenar Targaryen, second of his name, ascended to the Iron throne at twenty and four, and for years his reign was peaceful, but in his latter years, and especially after the umpteenth attempt by the Targaryens in the East to grasp power in the west he became obsessed over the birth of a male heir changing wives as he did robes when they failed and died in the attempt, or escaped from court. 

Yet, the only child of his to reach adulthood was his daughter by his first marriage to Princess Elia of House Martell, Princess Rhaenys.

Many considered her a good candidate for the Iron throne, the princess took the time to be involved in the day-to-day business of the Realm and spoke often during court though her father denied her entrance to the Small Council’ sessions despite her adamant requests for it. Yet the Iron throne had never had a female heir apparent since the times of Rhaenyra Targaryen. 

Yet, many things would change as the world around the Realm was changing as well.

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Chapter Text

Part one, Always on my mind

Sansa, part I

Lords and ladies came from every corner of the North, bearing gifts and news and their loyalty. 

Winterfell was busting with life and activity, much like it had been in the month-long preparation for the arrival of King Robert two lives ago. 

Her lady mother still played the perfect hostess, it was strange to see her — Sansa had missed her so, had wished for her caress so many times during the long years since she had first left Winterfell — and yet this grieving woman looked nothing like she imagined she would look as she trekked through the Riverlands with her brother whilst they were at war. 

She demurely wore only black, and, before she took any action she would ask her permission with a long, stern look that reminded Sansa that by inheriting Winterfell she was essentially unseating her from her role as lady Stark. 

It was strange, this version of her mother — clearly upset and disoriented by Sansa’s sudden change — this mother who was afraid that, with Sansa’ determination in claiming her role as Wardeness of the North, her other children would be set aside. 

When Sansa had offered that Rickon and Bran could go squire and foster one in one proud northern House and one in Riverrun she had been appalled but agreeable, when she had mentioned a match made for Robb South she had become ballistic. 

Protective of her “firstborn son” as she had repeated ad continuum in a way that betrayed that she believed firmly that Sansa was overstepping the boundaries of her gender-dictated role by claiming the title of Wardeness. 

It was indeed the first time a woman had claimed, and won, the title since the Pact was sealed. 

Cregan had ensured that when the time came Sansa had to face as little opposition as possible from the northern lords about her role of leadership. It was touching, but naive. 

All Stark women who had been set to inherit had been obstructed from holding the office. 

Starting by lady Sansa Stark, her namesake, who had been forced to marry her uncle still, so that he may retain the title of Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, thought apparently — possibly to appease to the scorned woman — the title of Voice of the North was set to be inherited only through the direct line of birth of Starks so it was inherited through female line. 

To end with several Stark women who had been either forced to marry a man of their father’s choice or forced to willingly step down for their younger brothers to hold the office. 

This was indeed what her mother expected her to do; she wasn’t set against a woman inheriting her father’s seat, she herself had been instructed for years to be her father’s heir before her brother Edmure had been born; but once there were male heirs, her education imposed of her that they must come first. 

Sansa was surprised she hadn’t thought of lying and have everyone believe Robb had been born first. 

It had been a point of contention, she learned, between her Lord father and her lady mother that he was set against Robb taking the office and instead instructed them all to follow to the diktat the Pact, having them swear a blood oath for it as well.

So her mother was deeply upset about her denial of her teachings, and used to humiliate her by running through her everything, almost as if to let her know she might be her lady but she no longer was her daughter. 

Sansa would like to say she was hurt by that, and a part of her — the part who still wished for her mother to brush her hair at night and assure her of her worth — was hurt by her mother’s rejection, another one, the part who had seen too much, done too much was desensitised from it. 

It was clear that her mother was even more upset with her when Sansa refused the hand of Baelor Stark and met him upon the battlefield instead of stepping down as in her mind she was supposed to do. 

“If something befalls my son for your stubbornness,” her mother had told her at the eve of the battle “I’ll never forgive you”  

Sansa supposed one could not have all, and she had had more than enough, after all. 

Arya seemed to be quite struck about this matter as well, she and their lady mother had grown quite close after Arya’ training had saved her during a raid from the wildlings and her sister was rue to break that fragile understanding between them, though she made sure Sansa knew that she was on her side, unquestioningly. 

Robb was as upset with their mother as their mother was with Sansa, “You are my sister,” he had told her when Sansa had inquired about the sudden strike of coldness between him and their mother, “the eldest Stark in Winterfell, the title, the keep, the North belong to you” 

Bran seemed to float between one side and the other of this matter, their mother doted on him and Rickon “before your sister send you from my side” she used to say, as if it wasn’t common for scions of proud and noble Houses to foster and squire under other Houses to ensure the bonds of allegiance keeping them together remained strong. 

All in all, Winterfell was home, but home had changed. 

Irrevocably so. 

Her only consolation was Old Nan, the woman still remembered the time before, when Sansa went to them a bastard lady of the southern court reaching Winterfell on dragonback accompanied by a dragon prince.

She had spoke often to the old woman, and asked often her counsel, but when put before the choice to either marry Baelor Stark or fight she had been adamant “Your prince would fight for your birthright,” she told her, “this man is not fit” 

And Sansa knew, she knew that this time if she married she’d have to marry for the best of the North. 

She would not love him though. 

Her heart was too battered, too broken, set in the dark earth with the man who had found her, so many years past, battered and bruised and on the brink of death and had nursed her back to health, who had loved her, who had protected and honored her. 

She had not had the heart to yet take to book to learn the truth of his end, she knew the date of his death and the place of it, she knew of Aegon’s death and Helaena’s, she knew of Jaehaerys, Jaehaera and Maelor’s fates; but she had not been able to read the passage about his death.

The hurt too fresh, the grief too lingering yet on her soul. Reading about it would give her closure, and Sansa — perhaps in some masochist twist of fate — did not want closure. 

She wanted Aemond. 

She missed him like she could not breath. 

At time she would look at Robb as he sparred or trained and all she could see was Aemond. 

Or she would be speaking with Arya and somehow she would expect some weird quip Helaena would make. Or she would be sitting before the hearth with Robb and Theon and something the latter said would remind her of Aegon so tremendously that Sansa had trouble breathing. 

Or Bran would say something bold, out of the blue, and then be so kind when he feared he had hurt someone’s feelings and all Sansa would see was Daeron. 

Or Rickon… sweet Rickon, older than she ever remembered him, somehow reminding her of Jaehaerys and Symon both. 

She missed them all, starkly, sometimes staggering. She should be used to missing people by now, yet the hurt, the void left behind seemed always worst, always never-ending.

Her siblings were a soft, soothing balm for her, but being unable to tell them all — not wanting to burden them with it — meant she always felt utterly alone.

But how could she tell them all of that?, when that hurt did not linger in their eyes and they were free of it?

It was a burden she had to carry alone, she knew this. Last time she had shared that burden with anyone she had left them to fend for themselves as the Gods had seen fit to string her back in time and to this new future that made as much sense as it didn’t. 

What use had all that heartbreak served? 

Not only she had lost her lover, but the brother she had defied their love to protect — demanding his ancestor was spared no matter what — did not exist. 

She knew. 

She had asked. 

The only cousin they had Baelor Stark was most certainly not Jon and Robb had put him in the ground for his attempt to steal her birthright. 

There hadn’t been any Lyanna Stark and without Lyanna Stark, there could be no Jon. Her Lord father did not have a sister, uncle Benjen was serving at the Wall, and there hadn’t been a rebellion against the Iron throne lately.

Several, valiant attempts had been made by the superstite black line to claim back the Iron throne, but no true rebellion had been lead by anyone against the Iron throne since. 

Viserys’ line must have been broken, and now Sansa had lost her brother. Her greatest supporter. 

I’m having the Lord’s chambers prepared for you, we’re standing here because of you. You are the lady of Winterfell. 

Yes, Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon had been ready to go to war for her, they actually had gone into battle — though neither of the younger two had seen the battlefield, and Arya had been her armed escort — yet missing Jon was like missing a part of her, like missing a limb. 

I’ll protect you, I promise. 

How can you protect me if you don’t exist?

Sansa hated feeling powerless and yet in her grief she felt exactly that. 

When Baelor Stark had raised his army — Boltons and Umbers at his side, with several small Houses too — Sansa had been furious. And her cold, ice rage had brought her to face her cousin in open field. 

Northerner against northerner. 

She had trusted Robb’ strategy — he had said his own with the likes of Tywin Lannister after all — and he had brought to her a clean and distinct victory, and he had bent the knee offering to her Ice. 

“Winterfell belongs to you, sister” he had claimed “as does the North whole” 

Sansa had gifted him Ice then, “It should be with you” she had told him “as Ned Stark eldest trueborn son” 

“What about the sons you’ll have?” He had asked. 

“If I have any,” she had said “we’ll cross that bridge, but right now you are my heir and it’s right that you carry Ice, it is what father would have wanted” 

You were always my champion, even if you died, she thought, and without Jon… I must trust into you to not fall again. 

Sansa would set all to right, she would see the South respect the binding clauses of the Pact and ensure the enemy beyond was vanquished then, perhaps, the Gods would let her rest. Robb could have the North then, it was always supposed to go to him anyway. 

She’d embrace whatever afterlife in hope to see Jon and Aemond and all she left behind again. 

“My lady,” Jeyne’ voice roused her from her musings, she was holding out to her the Stark cloak she was meant to wear as she officially was bestowed with the title of Warden of the North. 

Until her father had been alive she had been but a princess, and her siblings would remain thus, but as she took the mantle of Warden she would become the Lady of Winterfell, and Warden of the North for the Iron throne, the bridge between one and the other. 

And she would be the Voice of the North, the one whose duty was to see the interest of the North served against any odds. 

It was beautiful and luxurious, she thought, fingering at the fabric of the cloak in Jeyne’ arms. It was of a deep burgundy red with Weirwood leaves embroidered with silver thread all over the fabric, ermine fur of white and black at the shoulders, the fabric was held at the neck by a chain of command in battered bronze with a medallion with the Stark direwolf engraved into it. 

Sansa had never seen such a piece of exquisite and royal darb in Winterfell before, the leather straps cross-crossing underneath the chain of command were branded with the Stark direwolf too and they made her teary eyed at thinking about the cloak she had made for Jon, more than a life ago. 

And now she would cloak herself into it, cloaking herself into her brother’s protection and duty. 

He had told her once, I leave the North in good hands, yours, and now Sansa would ensure that this would be the right of it. 

And, as Aemond would have wanted she would live, she would vanquish this enemy and carry his heart with hers, for however long the Gods saw fit. 

She looked up in Jeyne’ eyes and nodded, she turned around and brushed her hair to the side so that her friend could help her don on the cloak and with it the birthright around her shoulders. 

I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, this is my home, and here I cannot be frightened. 

The northern lords for how little supportive they might be — she’d need to earn their trust and respect once again from scratch — were now too concerned with the way Sansa and her siblings had dispatched of Baelor Stark, to think of rising arms again. 

Sansa hated to rule by fear, so she ensured that — much like Jon would have wanted, much like he had done once — now that she had defended her birthright she needed to ensure the northern loyalty. 

Baelor Stark might be the last of the mixed lineage in the North, but the people who had supported him were not the last of their line. 

She invited them all to Winterfell and asked them to swear their allegiance, in the evenience of so their crimes against House Stark would be put aside, if not forgotten.

House Umber had been the one who had disliked the most the whole thing. House Bolton had been annihilated — Ramsay and Roose both — and Sansa was grateful they had sided with Baelor, who was Roose’ cousin once removed, so that she had an early reason to dispatch of them. 

The Umbers had long been their allies, but apparently they disliked the idea of a woman ruling, Robb had met GreatJon Umber on the battlefield and had spared him after the defeat, SmallJon Umber had not been as fortunate, as Grey Wind — grown now more than Sansa could believe, bigger than Lady had been for her in the past — had left only torn pieces of his mauled body. 

Sansa had little doubt that her fast thinking in having the Silent Sisters at hand to care for the corpse so that GreatJon could still bury him with some dignity was the reason in the end the man had relented to bend the knee, “I do not bend the knee because I think women should rule,” he told her when he finally sworn his allegiance, “I do because your brother defeated me on the battlefield and he did so fighting for your right,” 

Tentative allegiance was better than none, after all. 

GreatJon had also lost three fingers during the battle and half an ear, which had almost made her teary eyed thinking back on Symon and how broken he had been after what Daemon had done to him. She doubted the man appreciated her tearful eyes — tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon, little dove —  so she had awarded him some degree of truth. 

“I do not ask you follow me because I am a woman, I’m asking you to follow me because I am Ned Stark’s daughter, he prepared me for this my whole life,” she had told him, “I may not look like it, my lord, but I’ve bled for the North, and I would again” 

Despite it all, despite how true that statement was, despite the fact that none of them might know of it, for it had been in a different time, several different times, GreatJon Umber had looked into her eyes and had perceived the truth of it. He may never like her, since he had lost his son against her, but he might not betray her. 

No one had dared question her on the meaning of her words and Sansa was thankful for it. 

A knock on the door of the Lord’s chambers — Lady’s chambers now — made both her and Jeyne turn around, as Robb walked inside the chamber, curls combed back in place, chest broad and his strong, defined profile making him look even more handsome than he had been when they had been young. 

He was wearing simple Stark garments, the only real detail that mattered, was the two direwolves facing each other and down on his chest of battered bronze; Robb would not wear the crown of the North this time around, she wondered if her Robb would be angered with her for it; but she would never know, because her Robb died at a wedding, with his wife and unborn child; she would spare this Robb that heartbreak. 

He was carrying a chest, “My lady,” he greeted her, “lady Jeyne, I was hoping my sister and I might have a moment of privacy” 

Jeyne fisted the fabric of her gown in her hands, and curtsied, “Prince,” she bid, “my lady Stark,” she offered to her as well before Sansa waved a dismissal, letting her walk out before she turned to her brother again, who was staring at her as if he was gauging her resolve.

Sansa worried her hands, in an attempt to seem more nervous than she was, — old habits die hard after all, and for all her life she had been used to play the little bird. Until Jon. Until Aemond; she could have been a wolf with them and they would have her back. Always — “So,” she asked, “how do I look?”

“Don’t fish for compliments, Sansa,” Robb stated, “it does not become you, you know you look lovely” 

Sansa turned back to the mirror, observing her reflection on the surface; she looked as old as she had been when she had died in the time of the Dance, her auburn hair had been combed with oils until it shone and fell boundless on her shoulders, her blue eyes were weary, but not for that less determined. When she looked into the mirror, she decided, she looked like a wolf, and not a little bird. 

“I do not wish to look lovely,” she said, “men won’t follow a woman just because she’s lovely,” she added. 

Robb shrugged, his handsome face scrunched into a face a displeasure, Sansa considered his silence, “You are displeased with this,” she said, “with me,”

Robb shook his head, “With you? Never,” he promised, “you are my sister and I love you,” he said, “but…”

“What did Father use to say?” Sansa called, with a smile dancing on her lips, “everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit,” 

Robb paled, “Have you spent time with Theon again?” he questioned, “he should not use such a vulgar speech with you” he said, coming closer to her and setting the chest on the side table, studying her and meeting her gaze in the mirror. 

Sansa frowned. She knew Robb had been less than happy about her renew friendships with Theon, especially since this Theon had yet done nothing to deserve it; but Sansa knew, Sansa had seen, Sansa had felt that same pain he had on her own body. 

She knew that, even without knowing why, Theon had breathed better when Ramsay’ body had been amassed with the other Bolton’s to be burned. 

They might not remember it. But she couldn’t forget it.

“Look,” she said, turning around and taking his hand in hers, “you are my brother, and I value your opinion, if there’s something that displeases you I would like to be made aware of,” 

“Why didn’t you ask?” Robb wondered, and Sansa frowned, so he continued, “I would have said no, obviously, but why didn’t you ask?” 

Sansa knew where this was stemming from, “Mother,” she said, “she talked you into it, didn’t she?” she questioned. 

Robb shook his head, “No, Sansa, don’t take it this way, I am just saying that… I wish you would have asked,” he said, “it would have made me feel appreciated, instead of expecting of me to…”

“To uphold our Father’s wishes?” she interrupted, “to uphold of our laws?” she asked again, “Robb I was not made heir, I was born heir,”  she said, “just because no one did it before, doesn’t mean it should not be done”

“That is not what this is about and you know it,” Robb accused. 

Sansa threw her hands around, “No, Robb, I do not know,” she said “explain it to me,”

Robb mimicked her own behaviour, throwing his hands around, then he slid one hand over his face, “You’re making this difficult,” he said “I am not questioning your right as heir,”

“Then, for the love of the Gods, Robb, what are you questioning?” she asked, “what have I done to have you turn against me?”

He pointed an accusing finger at her, “That’s not what’s happening,” he said, “you promised me I would have a say,” he told her, “I was hoping you’d let me choose my marriage and… I thought that if I could not be heir I could have at least be free,” he added, “free to marry whoever I pleased,”

“This is about Rhaenys Targaryen” she stated, her empyrean eyes meeting his Tully blue ones, and Robb looked away, devasted. Robb, her Robb had never lost a battle and yet he had lost a war, all because he married the woman he loved, instead of upholding his promise to marry a Frey. 

“Must I really marry her?” he questioned, “I do wish to reside South,” he said, “and they say she’s cruel and that the king had to imprison her because she attempted on his life,” 

Sansa gently took his hand again, “We are of House Stark,” she said, “you know our words,” she added, “Winter is coming,” they said together, “but we cannot survive this winter alone, the South must respect the Pact sealed so many years ago,” 

“So, marry off Arya!” he said, “that’s what princesses are for!”

“And what are princes for?” she questioned, “your hand is as valuable as Arya’s and arguably better received since the Targaryens only have a princess to offer,” 

“Well…” he said, “there’s always—”

“We are not marrying our sister to a madman,” she hissed, “Viserys Targaryen is twice her age, and he’s been sequestered in his chambers for a reason,” she said.

“No, but…”

“No buts, Robb,” she said “look, I understand that it you may not like this, but we need this marriage, with you married to the future Queen, in the capital, the South will not longer ignore our demands,” she added, “if the inheritance law was inverted that would have been my duty and I would have done it, even if it meant marrying a madman,”

Robb groaned, “A madman or a king,” he muttered, low enough that Sansa almost missed. Sansa sighed, “I can promise you, though” Sansa said, “if you see she’s that cruel and she tortures or torment you in any way, I will march South and not even all her dragons will keep her safe from my claws,”

Or maybe he’ll give me yours. 

Robb looked her deep in the eye, “Mother will never forgive you,” he said. Sansa sighed, “Mother will have a son next the Iron throne and grandchild sat on the Iron throne,” she replied, “and her other children cared for,”

Robb nodded, “And you promise to come to my rescue even in that capital, so far from home,” Sansa stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. 

“I swear it, Robb,” she said “no distance would be ever too much, I’d march to the capital myself and I’d tear her apart with my bare hands, Robb. I’d love for you all to be happy and find love, but what is at stake it’s bigger than us all. If this match falls through, you say the word and I’m giving you her head” 

“I know,” Robb said, “Father always said it, always promised it,” he added, “I know it is, I still wished that you’d hear me out,” then he straightened his shoulders, “you have now, and I trust you.” 

Then he retrieved the chest from the table and opened it, turning it in her direction, “Father handed this to me for you when we were little and he associated you with the seat of Winterfell,” he said, “he asked for me to keep it safe until the time came, said it would be my duty until you ascended and I’d need to protect and serve you” 

Sansa looked into the chest, it held a beautiful pin of battered bronze with a medallion carved to look like a snarling direwolf, “You, Sansa of House Stark,” Robb said, “are the Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North,” he stated, “you are the Voice of the North”

Sansa fingered the pin, “It has been in our House for a century whole and some more,” Robb said, “they say that prince Maelor Targaryen sent it to Lord Cregan Stark as part of the will of his late uncle, prince Aemond with Princess Maelora when she came North to be wedded”

Her breath itched just at the mere mention of his name, as Robb gestured for her to take the item from its cushion, but Sansa almost couldn’t bear to, “They say they were great friends,” he offered, “and that he sent it for Cregan small granddaughter, Sansa, who was but an infant at the time, and set to become the first Wardness of the North,”

Sansa looked up in his eyes, as he continued, “I feel like it’s only right that it’s you, another Sansa, who will get to wear it becoming the first Wardeness of the North” 

Sansa felt the tears gather in her eyes, and though Robb could not understand the true reason for it, he still gathered her in his strong arms and pressed a kiss on the top of her head, “You deserve this, Sansa,” Robb said, softly into her hairline and Sansa grabbed onto his back as if it was a lifeline. 

Later, as she walked in procession to the great hall, and between the tables set in the great hall, the royal cloak around her shoulders and the pin secured to her hair, carrying Aemond’s love with her even across so many years, she walked confidently, nodding to her twin she stepped on the dais, as Maester Luwin proclaimed her Wardeness, by handing to her the obsidian dagger that had made so many voyages with her. 

Stick them with the pointy end. 

Now it looked no more as it had that day; in the centuries it had spent in the hands of House Stark, they had enriched it with a hilt of battered bronze, swirling in the shape of a direwolf with its fauces open around the blade. Sansa attached it to her belt, and then turned to stare at the great hall. 

She saw faces she recognized, and faces she had never seen before, but amongst it all, she knew this was where she was supposed to be, no matter how much her heart broke and shattered because of it, because, at the end of the day, she was carrying Aemond with her, she was carrying Jon with her — his memory, his ideals — she was carrying Helaena with her, everytime she thought about some odd facts she had told her about insects; she was carrying Daeron and Symon with her everytime she saw or did some random act of kindness, she was carrying Aegon with her when some kind of quip made her think of his dry sense of humor. 

She was carrying Jaehaerys, Jaehaera and Maelor and Celia too, in her heart. 

Close, always. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenys,

The Queen had taken to her chambers, some rumoured because pregnant and when court was summoned at the break of dawn on a cold, brisk morning of autumn, Rhaenys knew the rumours to hold the truth. 

She had no choice then. 

Her plans needed to be revised, if the Queen managed to give the king a son, Rhaenys would end up only as the wife of a second son of a northern House.

Her father would not give her anything because he would expect her to manipulate Robb Stark to steal his sister’s birthright, that — if the way he had defended it from Baelor Stark was of any indication — would never happen. 

So, for that day she wore her favorite royal green gown, the under-tunic and inner fabric of the puffy sleeves were of a deep silken red with edges of orange, and she was wearing her Arryn grandmother of nacre hairnet with the dangling teardrops on her brow, which sat on her head like a glove and veil of shining pearls, just like a crown would. 

To remind everyone that in her blood runs the main Targaryen blood, Arryn blood and Martell blood. 

To remind them all, I am already crowned.

The entire court eyed her when she walked in, her hands collected before herself. She knew what most of them called her, the Vyper dragon. 

It had begun as mockery, when Rhaenys’ egg did not hatch, and there were no unclaimed dragons for her to ride; many had thought it meant she was just the odd one out, the one who had survived childhood whereas all other children had not, but because she had stolen the egg’s life. 

But with time, as they saw her grow and move, it had started to be tinted with darkness. 

The daughter who allegedly offered poison to her father’s new wife, the niece of the Red Viper. As comfortable dabbling in dark arts and poisons as she was gracing the court’ halls. 

Some others had started to call her the other wife as they were convinced she dabbled in the same dark and blood magic as Visenya did. 

Rhaenys did not bother to correct them all, not when that was the only personal protection she had, especially with dragon riders who could turn against her defenceless without a dragon. 

“You look quite murderous cousin,” her cousin’ voice made her jump almost out of her own skin. 

He had approached her as silent as a ghost with his soft steps, hands behind his back and smirk upon his lips. 

“Should I expect to be called into battle soon?” he questioned, eyeing the still vacant Iron throne as the Lord Hand and the Lord Confessor spoke at its left in quiet whispers, looking in her direction at intervals. 

“If you were, could I trust your honor?” she questioned, eyeing her father’s advisors back with just as much vigor. 

“I am a bastard, princess” he said “I have no honor, besides honor just brings you grief” 

She twisted just enough to look at him from beneath her lashes, and he shrugged, “But you can trust my interest doesn’t lay in the Iron throne” 

Rhaenys curled her lips, “If anyone can phantom where it laid this would be easier” 

He offered her a smile, “Does an infant scare you, your highness?” he questioned. His expression was soft, soft and sly.

“It’s not the infant itself that scares me,” she said “it’s what it might represent” 

His eyes were as cold as ice as he stared down at her, any joviality gone from his face, “Do not look at me like that,” she said “I come from a line of conquering, reigning women. I have trained for this my whole life, I am fit for it,” 

“Are you?” he questioned.

Rhaenys frowned, “And what if the Realm was to favor a boy to you?” he asked. 

“Do you believe a cock to be qualification enough to inherit the throne?” she asked.

He mulled over it “To inherit?” he questioned “that is the rule and the law, cousin” he pointed out, “and the lords of Westeros will like that more than the alternative” 

Rhaenys pursued her lips, dissatisfied by his reply, “Do not look so gloom,” he said “it could still be a girl” he added, his tone completely amused. 

Rhaenys fisted her hands, “It must be amusing to live with this much contempt,” she murmured.

He shrugged again, “I can tell you this though,” he murmured as the doors opened and her father was announced, “Get House Stark on your side, and the throne shall be yours” 

Rhaenys frowned and looked at him sideways as they both fell — she in a curtsy and he in a bow — while her father strode to the Iron throne; as they were holding the position together with court, he leaned closer to whisper, “The throne has always been claimed by the one with House Stark on their side” 

Rhaenys did not move an inch, until her father gestured for the court to raise, and she did so, straightening her back, “And what about you?” she questioned “will you back my claim if I get House Stark’s support?” 

Alone the Starks could be useless ever since the only dragon in the North had died of old age thirty years past. Especially against other dragons.

She could not see his face, but she could detect some kind of dark satisfaction in his tone as he next spoke, eyes glinting in the darkness as dark as smoke against golden hair “I have my own unfinished business with House Stark,” he hissed, threat coating his every word, “but that’s neither here nor there” 

That did not bode well. 

Not with the dragon roaring in the distance from the dragon-pit; followed by several echoes, as, as silent as him, the other dragon-riders turned to fix their eyes on them, with the intention of gauging the undercurrent between them.  

Yet Rhaenys had no choice but to accept his counsel and take it at heart. 

He would be a formidable adversary if he chose to back another’s claim to the Iron throne — or if he, himself chose to make a try at it — with her father’s dragon gone and the only dragon in Dorne to back her unquestioningly, he and his platoon of dragon riders could prove an enemy best on trifled with. 

And he had the ambition for it. 

A bastard who had claimed one of the oldest and biggest dragons alive, the Green Queen had hatched when Jaehaerys the Handsome had been king, and she had been brutal in her youth and was just now reaching her prime. 

He had raised in the ranks of dragon riders as a tidal wave; he was a natural, that had been her father’s comment on it. He seemed to know the dragon’s mind as if his own, better than most young riders; and he had learned the control needed to command a dragon so fast that soon enough he had been as fearsome in air as he was becoming with the sword. 

Rhaenys had known better than to make an enemy of him, and she kept wishing he would just show his support more clearly; she wished she could trust his motives without doubt. 

Yet, her unique position meant that she had no other choice but to dance to the tune the Realm will see fit to string just until she became the musician to it. 

“The Queen is with child,” the king announced, “and soon, before the new year, she shall bring us the heir to the Iron throne!” 

The applause that that gained was nothing but polite and perfunctory save for the queen’s kin preening at the news, as if the king hadn’t killed her mother in the mad search for a male heir. 

When he had her. 

“Usually,” her father said, “the queen’s duty would befall the princess, but as she’s to travel soon to the Riverlands to meet a northern delegation to iron out the terms for a prolific and fruitous match with the North in the person of Prince Robb Stark” 

Another round of polite applause. 

Rhaenys curtsied, her pearly headdress falling like a courtain over her face to contain her disdain for her father. 

“And,” the king continued, his eyes gleaming, there was but the start of a black stubble on her father’s chin,  “a delegation of dragon riders will follow her as well,” 

“Let the North not say we do not honor their presence,” her father spat. His hate for House Stark and Ned Stark was only exacerbated by the fact that amongst so many suitable male heirs the Warden of the North had upheld the law made by his forefather and named his eldest daughter his heir. 

The court, ever attuned to the king’s fickle moods and wishes joined the king in his disdainful exploit; “I heard the eldest son can turn into a wolf and run into battle!” someone said.

“I heard,” lady Cecyl Rayne said “that they feast on the corpse of the fallen enemies,” she nodded to her flock of ladies “that that is how they steal their strength, this savages of the North!”

“They say the new lady of Winterfell is a witch!,” Lord Tyrell commented. 

His mother, old but sturdy, slammed her cane on the floor, “If she were a witch the northerners would have already flogged and flayed her or do you not know the customs of House Bolton?” she hissed.

“House Stark slayed every Bolton!” someone pointed out and the murmurs started to get more insistent, “and their own kin! Kin to the king as well! They should be punished, not elevated so!” 

“Baelor Stark was a madman,” lady Baeryl Baratheon, rider of Daenar, commented. Her silver gold hair were held in a mohawk braid falling to her waist and weaved with beads of sapphires and iron, she wore a rider suit — with a skirt with a central opening and breeches and a light chest plate — her gloves were hooked at her belt and her several rings glinted in the dim lit throne hall, “and a traitor; he raised his banners against House Stark and his own kin, turning on his blood” she said “the Starks did us all a favor by removing that madman from the Realm, he could have turned against the king next” 

Her sister, lady Famke Baratheon nodded pensively, she had inherited the black hair of the Baratheons, but her eyes were the most intense of purples, a gift from her forebears. 

The two Valyrian gifts of House Baratheon was the name they were known by, and they were as bold and outspoken as their words, either to find a way or to make one. 

And their voices silenced the several rumours, “Indeed” the king offered magnanimously “and they’ll be better kept close and under our guidance, so that they do not grow arrogant” he then waved a hand, “as the lady Baeryl is most known for her skill both airborne and in court she shall be accompanying the princess on this venture,” he decreed.

Lady Baeryl nodded to her, “I go nowhere without my chieftain” she said though, “and the princess would be much better respected for it as well” 

The king considered this. The dragon riders of the kingdom had long been united and a compact front, since the time of the Dance of dragons and the Easterlings Revolt, happened a century past, though nothing could be said about the dragons in the east. 

Rhaenys could use this occasion to create loyalty between their ranks, even one or two in her corner could make the difference. 

“Lord Aemon Martell and his dragon, Sunborn, shall follow as well” 

“Three dragons would be too many” the king dismissed, “the Red Fury would be better of use patrolling our borders in Southryos, as I hear discontent is growing concerning against Martell rule” 

By depriving her of her cousin and his dragon, her father was isolating her. 

None the matter, she would use it to grow her following; no matter how little she was afraid it could be now. 

She would earn their loyalty and their respect.  

Chapter Text

The chatelain of Summerhall, 

The air was stilted and despite the temperatures growing chillier in the last years, summer was still in full swing in the dornish marshes; whilst most of the original building was of white and rose marble, though the royal wing had been first built of the same stone, in later years of the reign of king Jaehaerys II, the royal wing was rebuilt with black stone the lady Rhaena Hightower had gifted her brother. The black stone helped to keep the walls warm in winter and cold in summer, creating at least a small heaven in the dornish heat. 

The sun filtering through the vaulted intricate ceilings of crossing arches gave the whole wing an atmosphere similar to an underwater ruinous temple bathing the hall in various shades of green and, when the sun hit one of the windows made of coloured glass, orange hues. 

The tower of the garrison, on the east side of the keep had sounded the Valyrian steel bell lady Larra Rogare had acquired and gifted her husband in 176  — no one knew where it was from and though many claimed to have been scavenged from the ruins of Valyria itself, later Maesters who had graced these hall had all agreed that it was but a replica of an ancient Valyrian bell, possibly made in Lys — three times, which meant just one thing. 

Dragon, she had left her solar immediately at that, dismissing the Maester and the master-at-arms as well as the septa from her company, moving in haste toward the courtyard. 

Walking through the Painting Corridor, she seemed to walk back in time, looking at all the faces of the Lords and princes and ladies of Summerhall, from Viserys and his Lysenese wife up until now. All the paintings had been made by the best painters known to the Realm and the ones about Prince Viserys and lady Larra were painted by a lysenese painter. 

It was time for her son’s painting to be hanged as well if only he managed to sit still long enough for the painter to capture his likeness. 

When the bell sounded again, with two rhythmic ring, she let her heart-rate slow and the commotion outside calmed as well; friend Dragon. 

She leaned against the wall to see beyond the light fortifications across the window and sure enough the Green Queen was soaring in the dornish skies, screeching her pleasure at being back home. 

The Green Queen had long since been in Dorne, having been ridden by either the princely line of the Baratheons, whose keep resided at the border with the dornish marshes not too far from Summerhall, or by dornish rider, until her son had claimed the dragoness for his. 

The Green Queen had also been named the Green Menace in Essos, mostly due her her rider’s stunts during the reign of king Aemond I of the thousand days, the king had been her only kingly rider and had since been ridden only by princes or lords or ladies. 

She was a gorgeous beast, as big as Meraxes had been said to be, with scales of jade, topaz and gold and most notably a crown upon her head of seven spiked onyx horns, that had gained her the name of Green Queen, on her chest her scales were of a golden hue in the form of a sunflower, though some claimed it to be in truth the three headed dragon branded on the scales of her chest. 

She had never gotten close enough to inspect for herself and didn’t particularly care for it either. 

Daenar the Black was also in the sky, next to the Green Queen. The dragon bore the colors of House Targaryen, so no one had been surprise when it had hatched for lady Baeryl. 

So, she supposed, they were to entertain a guest. 

The courtyard was full and lively as the dragons landed just outside the walls, and as she watched her son dismount the beast, she felt her chest tighten, as a smile curled upon her lips. 

And a handsome smile curled upon her son’s lips as well, when he saw her. She, at times, felt like a child with the happiness blooming in her chest every time she saw her son after any length of time; and her son had never outgrown his fondness for his mother nor its displays. 

He welcomed her embrace openarmed, hoisting her up against her chest and nuzzling her cheek with his, before twirling her around, making her giggle. 

His father might be dead, but that had never quite cast any shadow on their own relationship, even though it had stained her reputation, the love that had bloomed between her and her newborn son the moment he had been put in her arms had overcasted anything else. Even the whispers behind her back.

“Muña” he called softly, crushing her against him, his palm pressing against her shoulderblades, “I’ve missed you” 

“My dearest,” she offered back, as he let her down and she leaned back to cup his face in her hands, “I’ve missed you as well” she offered. 

Her son smiled, took her hand in his, kissed the back of it and brought it to his forehead. It was an old dornish tradition that had steeped into Targaryen tradition during the long years and she couldn’t say she found it any less heartwarming now than she had the first time her son had properly performed it. 

She gently patted his cheek with her free hand, “Were the winds good?” she asked, her true question underneath clear as a day, what tidings from court?, “They were unexpected,” he offered, “but not unwelcome” 

Only then did she turned toward his second in command, “Lady Baeryl, welcome to Summerhall” 

“Aunt,” she replied, her tone perhaps a touch cold, “thank you for your warm welcome” 

She was about to reply when her son interjected “Do not begin this now,” he commanded “either of you. Behave” 

Lady Baeryl brought both her hands behind her back, a tempest in her eyes, but quietened.

“Will you stay long?” she asked instead, bringing back her gaze and attention on her son. 

“A couple of weeks,” he replied, “Baeryl and I have been tasked to escort the princess to the Riverlands for a summit with House Stark” 

She felt her inside twist at that. Something must have shown on her face because her son grabbed her gently by the shoulder “Worry not Muña” 

“How can I not?” she asked, grabbing his wrist gently and let his touch soothe her worried soul, “you are not more loved by the northerners than you are in the Riverlands,” she said “the king must have grown mad, or desperate” 

Her son gave her a curt nod, “neither and both,” he commented, to then step back from her and unsheathed his sword, his brand new sword; the sword that for generations had belonged to the chieftain of the dragon riders and which the king had withheld from her son in virtue of his bastardy. 

“Finally he torn from that old steel,” lady Baeryl commented, giving her son’s shoulder a gentle, too intimate pat. 

Her son gave a shrug “When we were five and ten you promised to challenge me for it,” he said. 

Her beautiful, Baratheon ice blue eyes sparkled in a way she did not care for, as lady Baeryl looked at her son, “Maybe I will,” she said “or maybe you’ll do it for me, you’re only holding it for me, know this. I shall inherit it after you” 

Only then she did notice that she was carrying at the back the sword her son had been carrying until then, he had, had it made an exact replica for proportions and weight so that his arm may grow accustomed to the original one he was now carrying. 

That lady Baeryl was carrying the replica now was as good as a declaration by both, she was to be his heir at the commands of the dragon riders of the realm. 

She did not know how she felt about that, to be honest, but her son’s attention was back on her again as the dornish son kissed his ash-golden locks, and his pale eyes.

And he looked so like her, so like his father then, that she could not fault him anything when he was the unbearably true proof of their love. 

“You may summon the painter,” he said “It is time”  

He had always denied a portrait to be hanged in the Corridor, always mindful of his precarious condition as bastard Lord of Summerhall, apparently with the sword he must have received the king’s blessing as well. 

Her smile distended in happiness. 

Her son, finally taking the place that was his by right amongst his ancestors. Gods be good, she had prayed for this moment since she learned she was with babe. 

Her only son. 

Her only pride.

Her only hope. 

Chapter Text

Daenerys, 

“Your Grace,” Missandei called, her voice tiny and thin as she shuffled her feet, the bell attached to her gold anklet ringing; Daenerys turned, her amethyst eyes fixed on the girl, “your servant is sorry to disturb you,” she said.

Daenerys outstretched a hand and benevolently benocked her closer, “You never disturb me,” she said “come”, her bejewelled tokar shone with the colors of House Targaryen, luminous silk of black and red, with the three headed dragon made of small shreds of rubies and garnets and black opals in her train; her long silver-gold hair were falling boundless across her shoulders and to her waist. 

She wore a crown that had been fashioned for her, a crown with the three dragons of the East — her three dragons — and found its weight comforting across her brow. 

I wear my crown so they shall call me queen, Viserys had completely succumbed to madness when he had been offered a golden crown after Rhaegar had been murdered. 

He kept repeating, that was all I wanted, all that was promised  as if he knew no other words, as if there weren’t any other words. Daenerys had attempted to soothe him and in reply Viserys had taken the blade to her, her own husband, she had pleaded with him to just listen and his reply had been harrowing, it still haunted her sleep, I begged you too!, he had shouted and had swung the sword. 

Only Jorah Mormont’ swift intervention had saved her life, she had gotten out of it with a slice on her cheek — which had turned into a thin, pink scar — and since then Daenerys had, had her husband-brother sequestered in his chambers and relieved of any duties. She ruled over their household in his place, and on her own right she had conquered Dragon’s Bay. 

And, on her own right she would take back the Iron throne. By then something must be done about Viserys — his madness might have his life spared but he could not be trusted with the Realm not even as consort — but Daenerys would not think of that before she had taken back the Iron throne. 

Her godly right, her birthright. 

They had taken it from her, and Daenerys would take it back, no matter how difficult it would be.

When she had set out to destroy the slavers, everyone had told her it would be impossible, and yet she had defeated all the Masters, taken their cities and installed herself there as Queen, once she took back the Iron throne she would be an Empress who could rival the Old Valyrian Freehold with the lands the Kings of the Iron throne had conquered in the southern continent, she’d even fund expeditions in the west and in Valyria too. 

One day she would be remembered as a Conqueror, as the magnanimous dragon queen who had freed every slave, and every citizen from tyrants and sycophants. 

That would be the greatest legacy since Aegon the dragon. 

And it would be hers. She would succeeds where all her ancestors had failed, she would see wrong set to the right. 

They had unlawfully unseated Queen Rhaenyra from the Iron throne, forced her heirs to flee and her descendants into exile, but she knew. She had always known that she was born to restore to right this terrible wrong. 

She had been dreaming of the dragon as long as she could remember and she knew what the dragon wanted. It wanted its birthright, the Iron throne. 

She was the only true dragon, the king’s heir was a woman without a dragon — and the dragon riders would sooner follow another dragon lady than a powerless girl without dragon and without allies. 

Daenerys would repay the treachery she had been shown without any mercy, she would flush them out like the rats they were, and set right to wrong finally for the first time in two centuries. Just like Rhaegar would have wanted. 

He used to tell it often. 

I shall unite the kingdom against the real enemy, and his eyes would sparkle violet as he spoke next, I shall take the Iron throne again and unite the Realm against this foe. 

Daenerys had always remembered fondly the way his eyes had sparkled, she had believed him to be capable of all, especially when the king granted him permission to come to the Realm for the celebration for his heir’s birth. 

The boy had died not long after the birth and the unrest that followed had been her brother’s attempt to seize back the Seven Kingdoms; make them whole again. But he had been blinded, he had not been lucid. 

And they had paid the price for it. 

“News from the Seven Kingdoms?” Daenerys asked, turning once again in her great, high garden queen divine of all her subjects. 

“Yes, Your Grace” Missandei replied and Daenerys could say by her tone. 

“Dire news?” she questioned, Missandei clamped her mouth shut and nodded, “then tell me tomorrow, I do not want to spoil such a beautiful sunset” she said, gesturing to the sun embracing the sea in one motion and tinting the world in warmth. 

After all, whatever the news from the Realm, it would not change the end of their story. She would sit on the Iron throne as queen enthroned and crowned, she would force on their knees all of those who had betrayed Queen Rhaenyra and they would all bend to her will, they all would have to face the consequences of their actions and betrayals. 

The Stark dogs. 

The treacherous stag. 

The avid, treasonous lion, and all the others. 

She would see them all bend the knee or die. A simple choice, and justice for the unfairness they had forced upon their blood, the blood of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Daemon Targaryen. 

For all the brothers and sisters that had been lost. 

Daenerys would have justice. 

“Your Grace,” Missandei said “Magister Illyrio has written as well,” she reported “your husband the prince consort seems to be slightly better after the Dothraki have left the planes near Pentos, the Magister is currently hosting the Prince of Pentos,” he said “who’s asking admittance to seek the Prince consort, insistently”

“Nothing and no-one,” Daenerys demanded “is admitted in the Prince consort’s presence, in case they make his health deteriorate further” she added, “command the Magister that my husband is to be kept separate from the Prince of Pentos, if my cousin has any need of seeking the true head of House Targaryen he may come to me. On foot, as his station demand”

Treachery, even between the blood of the black dragon; the prince of Pentos was the only descendant of Aegon Targaryen the Unlucky, son of the rightful queen, through maternal line who had survived this long, looking at him no one could mistake his Valyrian descent. Despite his dark skin, in fact, the man sported a long strike of silver gold hair through his otherwise black hair and he had one purple eye and one brown. He commanded no dragon; as none of that line ever had claimed one, and most dragons in the east had perished during the Years of Pestilence, in just about fifty years since the true heirs had been forced in exile by the usurpers. They had all not agreed with the East, and had contracted all kind of infections and maladies that had slowly killed them all. The last ones to be born had been ill and not well-formed, no bigger than cats or dogs and had died in infancy. 

That had been before Daenerys. Before she was gifted the dragon eggs for her marriage to Viserys and she decided that life would sprout out of them. 

She had performed several rites as ancient as the ruined doms of Valyria, and had even invited from all corners of the world maegy, witches and priests until she had performed the right ritual that had made the egg from stone and the dragon from egg. 

She had eaten the heart of a stallion raw to prove her worth as Mother of Dragons to the old, cruel Gods of Valyria and had performed several sacrifices that were spoken of in ancient texts in Volantis and Asshai, she used the shadow magik. 

A new Visenya of old, some whispered, she had dabbled in any art — dark or not — needed to ensure the dragons returned. It did not bode for the usurpers to have six dragons and for them, the true heirs, to have none. It was punishment for their weakness in being exiled and failing to take back the Iron throne.

Daenerys had proved her worth. The Gods had chosen her, her elevated her. She was Queen Divine, the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Shackles and sooner rather than later the world would bend the knee to her. 

She had dreamed of it, and she was no ordinary woman. Her dreams came true. 

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Chapter Text

Sansa, part II

“Here, lady Stark” the servant called, as she offered her a plate with lemon cakes. It was luxury so close to winter, and one Sansa was unaware had been made effort for, on her behalf. 

By Bran’s smug expression and Robb’s matching one, Sansa knew her brother’s were to credit for it. 

She smiled warmly at both, down a few rows of the family high table next to their mother’s empty seat. 

Her mother’s absence was like acid on a tender, open wound, but Sansa had long been used to the sting, so she straightened her shoulders, jutted her chin up and gripped tightly her cutlery in her hand, but otherwise made no show of unrest. 

Aemond’s gift, which had reached her so far from when it was sent, sat snugly against the back of her head, tight against her auburn hair, a welcome pressure, for it reminded her that whilst alone now she was not lonely. 

She had been well loved, loved above any measure, and that lingered on her. 

“Thank you, Alyssa” she offered to the maid, recalling her name correctly. Perhaps one of the starkest changes in it all was Hodor… he… his name was no longer Hodor but Wylis actually talked, in full phrases and words, and seemed to favor both her and Arya, was quite protective of their freedom and Sansa had heard him defend her birthright to a passing peasant with as much as hardor as a true champion would. 

Apart from them he seemed the closest to Bran and that was something that warmed her heart considerably. 

Her father had long since named him Chief Stableman and he always accompanied Bran and Arya when they checked the traps laid around the Wolfswood. 

Her two personal maids — Linda and Myrna — stood behind her to their feet, directing the servants to either fill her plate or her cup. 

“Lady Stark, may I?”

Sansa looked up and found herself face to face with a young woman, with an ample figure, long dark thick hair and dark eyes, her body was toned and yet thick and strong, and whilst she wore a dress Sansa could see across her the outlines of at least three daggers and she held a Morningstar to her belt. 

“You must be lady Alysane Mormont” she greeted, “please, join me” 

The woman gave her a smile and sat “Thank you, my lady,” she said “I hadn’t presumed you would recognise me” 

“House Mormont has long been an ally of House Stark, and loyalty like the bear’s is hard to come by,” she said “of course I recognised you” she gestured for Linda to fill lady’s cup; “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alysane seemed to take a moment to collect herself before replying “If you’re willing, my lady, it would be my honor to be a part of your household. I may not be a conventional beauty or a great converser, but my blade is sure and my loyalty strong” 

Sansa considered this, if she remembered correctly little Lyanna Mormont had two cousins home, a young girl and a toddler boy she had been looking after, with lady Dacey as heir apparent, it did not surprise her that lady Alysanne would offer her blade, “You’d like to be a sworn sword of House Stark?”

Sansa had trusted Brienne and by extension Podrick with her life, but Dacey had died to defend Robb at the Red Wedding and lady Lyanna had came to her call both to Winterfell and then against the Enemy during the Long Night; she could grow to trust Alysane the same. 

“Aye my lady” 

“It is my understanding that you have a young girl and an infant boy,” she stated. 

“Aye my lady, little Eddard is two, and he will grow to be a strapping boy one day,” she said “and my little Maggy is nine, ever eager to please and to fight” 

She nodded, “I suspect your Maggy and my youngest brother would get along famously and Arya too would favor your company as well, for she’s a mighty warrior in her own right” 

Alysane Mormont’ smile was crocked but it was also gracious in its own way, “and what about you, my lady? People say you are a might upon yourself” 

“I do not pride myself of such,” she said “I’m just doing my duty to the North, my home and my people”

“Spoken as a true Stark would, if you will I’d be honored to be your sword and your shield” she stated “and give my life for yours if needed be” 

Sansa considered her vow to be true and nodded, “Then you shall always have meat and mead at my table and I shall never ask you to perform any kind of duty that may dishonor you” she pledged quietly in return, “you shall be a sworn sword of House Stark”

And as Alysane smiled back at her, from the lute a new, soft and sad ballad came to be, its lingering notes filling the hall almost to silence. 

The  bard started to sing, his voice deep and warm like a caress of velvet against the skin. 

And so the wyvern shall die pleased before the shining mirror of Valyria o’ Old, 

And so the dragon with its last breath shall unleash a roar for eternal song.

And so the merlings ever so bound to the waves shall find death with pleasure upon the land above,

Just like the firebird of Yi’ti shall see the throes of the flames to be born anew from its alcove,

The One Eyed dragon of Green became upon a day of storm much as these creatures, 

And would gladly go to his death before her beauty, and make his song lusty when near his end.

Tears bloomed in her eyes at the mention of her dragon prince, empyrean and cold as ice now melting hearing this song, masterfully played by the bard that was enchanting the whole of the hall in a religious silence. She could almost remember his voice, even though at the time she had not heard it above the thunder as he dove from Vhagar’s back to almost certain death to follow her descent against the waves. 

In merriment he suddenly despaired, 

In the burning fire lit anew with joy, because of her to whom he longer to return, gentlest one. 

And dragon of red and dragon of green,

Both dancing a macabre ballad for the lady bat who sang with voice so sweet the world was made anew by her song. 

The very mention of Daemon made her lips curl up in distaste as the bard continued his song, his voice rising just a bit, just enough that his song became even more striking. 

A man who has never seen fire before, would not guess its burn, rather its splendor would strike him,  and dragons do not fear the fire,

Sansa could felt her hand gripping the edge of the table as she could feel her heart threatening to burst out of her chest, to paint the hall the color of her blood, her blood spent, her love gone; so grand was her need to feel him close once again. 

And so is love, for one who has never tasted it would name it a delight and in despair he would fall.

And merely the green dràgon was touched by she who belongs to Love, and bad he was hurt. For grand is delight, greater is the fall. And yet it took hold, 

Ah, great lady of the rivers, needle and thread into his heart, torn from his chest and buried next to her, ah! If only the Gods had willed that such love took hold of you as well, dear lady! Dearest of all. 

And of all ladies ‘afore and next better loved.

Ah, if only it took hold of you, my lady, the dying dragon sang, you who make me think you mean to  comfort me by loving me, and give me only torment and distress, the note lingered as words, words spoken a lifetime ago, several lifetimes ago in a chamber in these very halls came to her with all the force of a chilling wind, taking her breath from her breast and lungs. 

You are born to torment me, he had spoken. 

Ah and love was ignoble to the dragon prince, it took his eye and gave him his Lady and then her too it took away. And then when his days were spent it still claimed his heart next to her in the cold, hard grave. 

In the cold, hard grave.

In the cold hard grave. 

And Sansa could barely breath, and she wanted to cry and to shout, so that her prince would hear her, that her prince would raise, but dead he was for a century and more past, and Sansa would only see him as the Gods had bid, when his debt was paid. 

When his debt was paid. Sansa could never know when that was, mayhap she would die and his debt could yet have to be paid and Sansa would fade in any of the heavens or hells the Gods saw fit before she could feel his touch again. 

I’d rather have you for a season, his voice drifted in her ears, “My lady, are you alright?” Alysane’ voice brought her back to herself, to the cacophony of sounds of all the invited to Winterfell and the preoccupied gaze of her twin. 

Sansa schooled her expression “Aye” she said “this song always makes me cry” 

Alysane nodded “it’s tragic indeed,” she said “though I’ve always found so harrowing the other one, Needle of the Rivers” she said, “to think he wore a lock of her hair in his for the rest of his life…” she commented and Sansa would not have taken her for a romantic, though only after did she realize what the woman had just said. 

Sadness swept into her heart, just as her brother stood up from his chair, clapped his hands and demanded a lively tune to be played, before asking her to dance with him, possibly to raise her spirits. 

“Would you excuse me, my lady?”

“Of course, lady Stark” Alysane blinked unsure of her sudden shift of mood, and Sansa took her brother’s hand in hers and let him guide her to dance.

“I apologise,” Robb said “I knew this song makes you teary every time, I should have told the bard not to sing it”  he muttered. 

“It’s fine,” she lied “I’m fine” 

As fine as a widow before even marrying. 

Robb did not contest, did not ask her to tell him the truth, though in his eyes Sansa could see he was not convinced, he just spun her around to the lively tune as her heart wretched into her chest, and spilled. 

Her soul spilled as if reaching for outside, for some other place, for him perhaps. 

“I said no!” her mother screamed “you will not take my son from me!” 

Sansa massaged her temples trying to reign in her fury, despite not remembering their past life she had gotten to the conclusion that some form of it lingered in her family. 

At times Arya surprised herself by doing some stunt that reminded Sansa of her training east even if this time she had never been there. 

Rickon had an insane fear no one seemed to get over about arrows and no matter how much Rodrick and Jory Cassel tried to help him overcome it he still fell into fit of anxiousness when an arrow head was slightly pointed toward him. 

My poor brother,  how I have failed you. 

Robb had an habit to always push his hair back as if he was trying to adjust a crown on his head and Sansa had to wonder if it wasn’t a inheritance of his regency; and he seemed unable to look at a woman’s pregnant belly — always had been, he admitted to her when she discovered of it, I just wish they would protect it more — without feeling the need to cover it in steel. 

And Bran… Bran at times looked at her and he seemed almost the Bran she had seen at the end of her life, the Bran she had given her life for. The brother who was permanently changed. But then she would blink and it was gone.

She missed Jon all the more in these moments, her brother had always been some kind of bridge between her and their siblings since reuniting and there was something steady in knowing he was always on her side, always had her back, even when he brought a Targaryen conqueror in their home. She had to believe he would not choose something to deliberately harm her. 

Do you have any faith in me at all?

I did, and I failed you; you gave me the North because you trusted me to keep it safe and loyal and I did, you had faith in me but I failed you. 

For her mother… she was protective over all her children — barren Sansa whose apparent disregard of her opinion had made a pariah — but especially Robb whom she had seen slaughtered. 

“This,” Sansa reminded her “was what Father wanted, and you know it. We are honouring his wishes and ensuring that the South will not go back on their word” 

“Not my son!” she shouted “my first son! Sell your hand if you really want!” 

“This is enough Mother!” Robb’s voice, so similar to father’s to have shivers run up her spine, made Sansa spin around to fix her eyes on her twin “Sansa is our lady, what she commands we will obey; and Sansa has only our best interests at heart and the North’s, as her duty!” 

“Rhaenys Targaryen is a poisoner and a witch!” her mother hissed back, somehow less bitingly then when she spoke to Sansa. 

Robb flanked her side and gently patted the small of her back “That’s what they say, but they say Sansa is a witch too, and she had me slaughter the Boltons to defend herself from their witch hunter’s traditions” he butted back “besides, Sansa has promised she will give me her head if Rhaenys tries anything” 

“And you believe her?”

Robb looked at her in the eye and then nodded vigorously to their mother “I do,” he said “Sansa would never let anything befall any of us. Might something still happen? Ay, because no one is infallible, but I have faith Sansa will keep us all safe, and I am a man and I mean to be a mighty one, I can do this. I will do this”   

“I disagree,” she said “you should not be away from home, away from Winterfell,” 

You are the only Stark in Winterfell, until I return the North is yours. 

“And yet I will be,” Robb stated “whether you like it or not” then he offered her his arm and Sansa took it, letting him escort her out. 

“Mother” he said “is becoming paranoid,” he added “loosing Father did something to her, it’s like it unlocked this paranoia from her mind, she can’t find peace even with the Gods in the Sept” 

Sansa felt her gut wretch at that, her poor mother, how she had suffered. She was only trying to keep her children safe, the children she had believed to have all lost. No wonder Sansa had become the bad guy, when she was putting in jeopardy her children without apparent cause in her mind?

Still, her mind was fragile… and no matter how much she loved her, needed her… Sansa could never burden her mother, not again. In this life she had the possibility to see her children grow old, Sansa would not rob her of that to quieten her need for her mother. 

“She’s just afraid of loosing us too” Sansa muttered “what mother would not be? I am sorry if this upsets her” 

“I know” he said “but you must not let her rule over you. You are the lady of Winterfell now, you are the Voice of the North and its Warden. You are the head of House Stark. Do not forget it, do not let her make you forget” 

Sansa looked at Robb, at her brother. He had been her champion, she had prayed for him and still he died along his pregnant wife and their mother. No. Not this time. 

This time Sansa was the champion. The Gods have chosen you, my love, there must have been a reason. 

Aye, Sansa knew the reason. She was replaceable, she was sacrifiable. They all weren’t, which was why Sansa would be in the eye of the storm and then perhaps… perhaps she could rest and see her prince again. 

Chapter Text

Robb Stark

He became Sansa’s shadow in the last few weeks before they departed for the South whilst still trying his best to prepare himself to bid farewell to his own home, the home he would have inherited if he was anywhere but in the North, the home he would leave behind to do his sister’s bidding. 

Robb and Sansa had been born on a pale, first spring morning. Sansa had been the one to be born first, anticipating him of about four hours, just after the edge of the hour of the wolf; Maester Luwin said his lord father had taken that as a sign, a sign that for the first time in almost two centuries a woman would rule over Winterfell in her own right  before  her brothers. The bells rung from dawn to sunset that day, to celebrate their birth, but Robb had always own somehow, instinctively that Sansa, wrapped in her beauty and courtesy and femininity was the heir their lord Father would choose.

Robb was a man, he could ride in battle — though he would never tell anything of the Mormont women who fought as well as their men, or his own sister — he was the one who was supposed to inherit through any law of the Seven Kingdoms.  Everywhere in the Realm, the male heir was pushed forward since the time of Aegon II Woodenchair who fought against his usurping sister, Rhaenyra. Everywhere  but  in two places. Dorne, which had long retained their absolute primogeniture and in the North, where, at least in Winterfell absolute primogeniture was the new law. 

One could argue that even Rhaenyra Targaryen had been named heir and then when her brothers had been born, she should have stepped down, so why not a dame in the North?, he had posed this very same question to Maester Luwin when he had been a child. 

He had been barely a boy, not yet carrying live steel, and he had gotten into a squabble with his eldest cousin, Baelor Stark. He had won the sparring match they had fought, but Baelor had been ungracious about that, and after a bit of cajoling, Baelor had shouted to him that no matter how good he was, he could never be lord of Winterfell or Warden of the North because Ned Stark favored his soft-spoken and lace-wearing sister over him. 

He knew his lady mother, especially after that episode, had tried to dissuade his lord Father to upkeep the century ancient law that had never quite been applied before; all Stark women set to inherit in fact had stepped down or had been made, for them to carry on with more feminine purposes and serve as Voice of the North. It wasn’t that his mother was against a woman ruling — his aunt Lysa was ruling the Vale right now for her son after the death of her husband — and his mother defended her and her leadership strenously; it was just that she saw the woman as the nurturer, meant to lead only if she had to be regent or if there was no other choice. With fine, strapping sons that Ned Stark pushed down in the line of inheritance…his mother was preoccupied about what that would mean for their matches. 

Arya was a female, disinterested in marriage so far, but when it would happen it would not be out of he ordinary for her to not be included in the line of succession with her abundance of brothers. But them?, Robb especially, who was her twin, to be seen pushed down the line to make way for Sansa somehow painted him as a weak, even simpleminded, and would greatly decrease his worth to the Realm which very strictly held on the rule of male primogeniture. 

People who wanted to approach a match with him would be bound to ask themselves, what was wrong with him that his own father chose to see him overstepped by his own sister. 

Some of those rumors, rumors that plagued even the North, had quietened after Robb had destroyed Baelor and his forces when he attempted to unseat Sansa, others had quietened when Sansa had officially bestowed on him Ice, reaffirming he was her heir in case anything was to happen to her; as she ensured that a good, advantageous match was secured for him. 

Rhaenys Targaryen.

Princess  Rhaenys Targaryen, only — so far — surviving child and heir apparent to king Aenar II Targaryen, and only Targaryen woman, at the moment, without dragon. They said she was a thing of beauty and danger woven together in silk and steel. She had stubbornly refused to leave court many times, and as her father’s only surviving child so far, as not even bastards had survived infancy, she had never been banished from it. Though she had been called murderess, poisoner, the  New Visenya , dabbling in dark magic and getting thrown in the black cells for it as well. 

They had received her portrait the other day, and until now Robb had found himself unable to even look at it; it remained covered by a cloth in his solar, unattended and uncared for, for he was unprepared for it. He’d rather the Watch than marry that kind of woman, but as Sansa had often pointed out, women were not given that choice and she would protect him with her entire might and would not proceed if she had even the least hint that the rumours about her were true or that she would hurt him. 

Sansa always kept her promises. 

Robb knew that well enough and he trusted his sister to ensure that they did not fall apart. He knew he was no more than a pawn in a game, but they all were — at least that was what Sansa had told him, though he always invisioned her more like a player than a pawn — and as Maester Luwin had told him that time,  dark times lay ahead. Your sister will need all support she can get, and she will get much. Your destiny lays elsewise, for a crown on your head might weight too heavy. You are of honor and bravery, but you do not have the cunning cruelty it’s needed to do what needs to be done. 

And Sansa does?, he had protested, Maester Luwin had patted his back gently.  All women do. It’s in their blood. A mother will bleed to death to bring her child to the world; she will make that choice, many men are unable to even witness the cruelty of childbed. 

Robb had been unconvinced but then he had noticed that when their lord father joined their lessons or asked them to follow him around the keep to learn, it wasn’t that Sansa was his favorite, Sansa was just leagues ahead, she made proper and intelligent questions and she displayed a capability of understanding people’s motives Robb had not inherited from their Father. 

Then the lessons in cyvasse had begun and though Robb was extremely well versed and beat everyone, Sansa almost always managed a tie or managed to get him to stuck himself. She had a mean streak when it came to strategy — not battle strategy perhaps, but political strategy — that Robb would never guess by looking at her. 

Sansa was dutiful, she was smart and she was willing to do all it took. 

This is our home, she had told him one night, when she had broached the subject with him after a particularly nasty argument between their parents,  when winter comes we must protect one another, look after each other and share in our strengths. I would never dare do this without you.

And Robb had known he did not need a title or a name next to his to serve the North. 

He had never doubted Sansa since. He never could, how could he, when, the times he had thought about it, Sansa had then looked so very crestfallen, heartbroken  and determined and Robb had been so much reminded about the painting of the Voice of the North, her namesake… the one Old Nan always told them about. 

The girl who walked amongst the Heart Tree and showed herself every time House Stark and the Realm were in need. 

He had resolved to become her champion then, and thus to serve her as faithfully and loyally as in any other place she would be set to do him.

His gaze befell the still covered painting, uncertain. Sansa had just left the solar, followed dutifully by her two ever permanent shadows — Alysane Mormont and Jeyne Poole — as her business took her from their late, shared mid day meal, and to the rockery where Maester Luwin had called her for an urgent matter.

He placed his goblet by the table, his feet carrying to the stand silently, as his blue eyes fleeted across the room as they had when he had been a boy about to get caught stealing some sweet. He inched closer, painfully slow, and he felt weakened by the uncertainty of his own hand, then he set his jaw, clenched his fists and with one mighty swing he uncovered the painting. 

It almost toppled to the side, which, would have been a shame; the breath got stuck in his throat as doe eyes stared up at him from the painting. If her likeness held true, she had long dark thick curls of warm leather brown, plump, full lips; her complexion looked some kind of mixture between mahogany and porcelain and no one could mistake her Arryn ancestry and her dornish one, more than they could mistake her Targaryen one yet in her eyes there were speckles of purple, even in that darkness shining up. In the portrait she was wearing an elaborate bonnet over her head, with the colors of House Arryn and a drape of royal green over her shoulder with a three headed dragon pin at her shoulder. 

His wife to be.

The woman he would have to swear himself to, the woman who’d give him children. The woman he’d have to find it in himself to love and respect. 

Despite her reputation. 

Despite the possible truth of it. 

The prince of Pentos, 

The dragon screeched in the air stick with humidity and heat even as fall slowly approached, signalling his presence. 

One simple look outside could grant security on whom was riding between the clouds. A smile curved upon his lips at the sight. 

Sunlight filtered through the clouds, bathing the beast in eerie light, almost as if an underwater current in the gray sky. 

Magister Illyrio, sitting placidly on the triclinium almost flinched in surprise, nursing his dark wine, as one of his slave girls oiled his beard and another was preoccupied with his manhood. The girl, skilled that she was, was a tiny thing with wide hips and set apart eyes, and though her conventional beauty may be lacking her skills to please a man in the bed were renown and when he had purchased her he had intended to gift her to king Viserys, as he no doubt missed dearly his wife’s bed. 

In the end he had gifted her to the magister — to  bribe his amoral character — yet the man was holding steadfast against having him meet with the king, obeying Queen Daenerys’ commands from Meereen. 

This new development, a much  welcome  development, was once again shuffling the pawns on the board; and by the Magister’  beguiled uninterested face, the man knew as well.

The guards upon the battlements readied the scorpions. The only dragon currently residing in Pentos was small,  fragile  and weak; it would be no match, even if he had an able rider atop its back, especially with the skillmanship of the rider atop the sky. 

The magister patted the slave girl on the cheek, and she promptly helped him secure his manhood back in the fabrics of his  toqar — a gift from the Conqueror herself. 

Her set apart eyes met his from where he was, still laying in the shadows, away from the Magister’ form; and he nodded to her in dismissal, his eyes fitting over her for a moment, before she hurried away as the other slave girl remained instead to offer the Magister more wine. 

As the dragon soared o around the turrets of the residence, and floated over the bastions, he approached the Magister on the balcony as they watched the rider free himself of the belts and ropes and launch himself from saddle, to land gracefully on his feet on the slippery floor of the bastion. 

“Prince Vaegon,” the magister offered, “I wasn’t aware you had yet to leave”

“I was about to,” he nodded to the man, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing the rider as he stepped down the flights of stairs that led to the balcony, “I am glad I did not,” he added as the rider stepped finally on the balcony, completely unbothered by the Unsullied posted at every corner, eyeing him like raw meat. 

He received a particularly nasty glare from one of the Unsullied — their faces as forgettable as their names — and stopped in his tracks. Vaegon was a tall man himself, and broader besides than  he  was, yet the man moved with that distinct sense of someone who didn’t care who was in charge. 

It was refreshing but also maddening for people devout like the Unsullied were to their liberator; a liberator who killed the Slave Masters but then conveniently never did free them. 

He gaze down on the Unsullied, his look challenging, his posture relaxed, as if the eunuch didn’t not pose the slightest of threats and the dragon let out one mighty screech and a lavish of fire into the sky upwards, that had many servants scream and run for hide. 

The Unsullied did not move an inch and after a long moment he merely shrugged and pointed with a finger at one of them, “Come in handy, don’t they, Magister?,” he sauntered finally on the balcony, “when one has no wish to be reminded of his own…  lack of qualities ” he offered as if he was aware of what the Magister had been up before he showed up. 

The man proffered into a stiff bow; by birth the man should not be awarded any kind of gesture of respect, yet his presence commanded it of most of those who were not ready to quarrel with him, not that he ever demanded such; “We were not expecting you, Lord Blackfyre” he offered. 

Blackfyre. 

Perhaps it was a testament on his worth — despite his conditions — that he carried the name of the ancestral sword of House Targaryen, hanging at the hip of the king; and that he wielded Dark Sister, the other sword of House Targaryen. King Anear had bestowed the name on him when he had named him lord of Summerhall, a further offence to the Blacks and his own father, who had seen the sword he had hoped to carry stolen from him on the battlefield and then its name bestowed almost like a further wound on his son until he bent the knee and remained loyal to the Greens. 

“No,” he commented, “what fun would there be in that?,” he wondered, falling sat on the triclinium the Magister had been occupying and popping a nut in his mouth from his pocket. 

Vaegon studied him with a smirk. His gold locks were pushed back from his forehead, and he was wearing a coat of black and green and metal gray, his riding gear was light — so he wasn’t meaning to go in to dragon battle today — he slouched leisurely, and coked his head to the side pressing his glare on him. 

“Cousin” he greeted him. It was always eerie to look him in the eyes. 

He had not inherited the Targaryen bright lilac eyes from his sire; his eyes had always been a grey so dark they inched on indigo, yet, from long before Vaegon had met him he had the right eye’s pupil permanently blown so much that it looked like his eye was pupiless and black instead of indigo, save for the very thin rim that would at times be visible.

It was the most eerie out in the light, though at times people had called him  demoniac  because of that.

Vaegon didn’t know exactly how it happened, but legend wanted that it had happened during a particularly brutal training session, his sparring partner had landed a cruelly and tragically precise hit with the wooden pommel of his training sword. The eye had been saved, some of the bone had cracked around it as well — and the Maester had, had to reset that, forced to cut open the swollen flesh to then sew it closed again — and he sported a very thin scar for it. He still saw with that eye, though the beauty of it had been completely lost. 

Rumor wanted that it had been the king himself that had dealt the blow, though no one would either confirm it or disprove it. He, instead, played on the mystery of it and had made of it one of his trademarks.  

“Cousin,” he commented, “we missed you at the birth of my daughter” his  fourth  daughter, he did not need to add. 

He shrugged, “I trust my gift was received,” he said “I was on the king’s business in Lys” 

Vaegon nodded, “I see,” he said “it is too much to hope that you’ve come to remedy of this sadness and would like to be our host of honor at the Palace for a banquet?”

“I would rather not deprive your daughter of her just celebration, but if you’d like I wouldn’t be opposed to join you,” he offered, “though I am afraid I cannot stay long, and I must be on the king’s business soon again”

“The king’s business?,” he questioned, “so soon?” 

He nodded, “Ay,” he said “I am to accompany princess Rhaenys to the Riverlands to claim her northern husband” he commented licking his lips. 

Vaegon uncrossed his arms, “May be this time you’ll finally make your mother happy and find yourself a wife” he jested, “maybe some riverlander trout, they do say the Tully women are quite fertile and beautiful”

“More than a trout,” he commented “I’d need a bat,” 

“Or a wolf,” muttered in a shrill thrum Magister Illyrio, when both he and his cousin turned around to face the man with a contemptuous glance, the man shrugged, bringing both his hands across his chest and tucking them in the opposite sleeve, “your eye has long been drawn to the North,” he said “though I know as any that the wolves would rather eat you and spit you whole than welcome you in their midst” 

He then shrugged “What was the saying?,” he asked, his small eyes making him look suddenly acrid and putrid even under all those perfumes, “Wolves feast on the blood and flesh of the traitors,” he added, “and to them aren’t you the flesh and the blood of a traitor?”   

He gestured widely with a hand, “Look what they did to Baelor Stark,” he commented, “apparently Stark women have the same gall Targaryen women do,” he said “at which point wouldn’t a dragon be a better fit?”

His cousin suddenly relaxed at that, and then let out a thunderous bout of laughter, “There is no dragon, west or east of the Narrow Sea which entices my taste” he commented “too much fire, too little bite” 

Then he shifted on the seat and perched on the triclinium, “Say what, I’ll dine with my uncle tonight, if he’d dare tell me no,” he said, then he turned around and looked at him, “make it  two  guests of honor” 

Vaegon’ smile deepened, “It would be my pleasure,” he said with a flare, “then I must depart so that everything will be ready for you, as you’ll depart so soon”

His cousin reciprocated his smile with one of his own, a smile that was all teeth, “I am afraid,” the Magister interjected “that Her Grace the Queen has commanded that the prince consort is not to be disturbed by  anyone , and that he is to entertrain no notion to be visited let alone to visit…”

His cousin stood up abruptly, his dragon hissing in the distace, “Does it look like I give a damn, Magister?”

The Magister took half a step back, “These are the lands of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen,” he pointed out “her word is law and…” the words died in his throat as his cousin adjusted the fabric of his toqar which had fallen slightly off his shoulder. 

“Then I shall take them for mine, and shall command as I like,” he commented “and my uncle shall be again free to roam as he pleases and I’d be finally rid of you,” 

The dragon roared behind them and Vaegon watched in delight as the Magister set his jaw and attempted to stand a bit taller, “That’d mean war,” 

He just arched a brow, “That’d be the day,” he commented, then he turned around “have my uncle prepared, tonight we’re dining at the Palatial Residence” he commanded of one of the servants. 

They scurried to obey. The Magister’ murderous expression was sight for sore eyes as he walked away and back inside his residence, Vaegon turned to his cousin to study his expression. 

Aerion just stared back.  

Chapter Text

Sansa,

Sansa walked the path silently, her feet carrying her across the Godswood, knowing the steps even with her eyes closed; the late summer snow was falling candidly against the rought shape of the keep, becoming mud on the wet ground. Inside the Godswood her thoughts raced as they never did in any other place. 

She had learned soon enough during her first time in Kings Landing that the company of the Gods was the only company she could trust to keep her secrets, it was lonely life, the one the Gods had bestowed upon her. 

Perhaps finally, when her duty was seen to, she would be awarded the sweet relief of death. In death she might find all those she had lost. She might find a mother who remembered the love that bound them together, a mother whose throat was cut to the bone, a mother who’d hold her in her arms and tell her she was proud of her. She might find a Father who’d gift her a doll, to make her smile. 

She might find Robb, young and happy, crownless with his wife and child. 

She might find sweet Helaena and her quirk and yet deep knowledge about most things, she would welcome her Targaryen features with love and happiness, she would embrace her friend, as dear to her as a sister, and apologize for leaving her behind. 

Queen Helaena quite never recovered from lady Whent’s death; and after the attempt on her and her kin’s life during the Four Moon Uprising she descent in a grief stricken madness. 

She hadn’t meant to leave her behind, Helaena had known… or whatever projection of her the Gods had saw fit to have Sansa see before she departed to do her duty had known. Yet, the real Helaena Targaryen had mourned her for the rest of her life. By what the history books said her ladies in waiting albeit loyal, had considered her weird  before entering her service and further more eccentric and sad and weird by the time they were released from her service. 

She might find Daeron and Symon, finally free to live their love, happy and welcoming her in open arms. She could burrow in the warmth of her husband’s arms, a brother to her in all but name; she might see them having grown old together, the lines marring their faces and making them look ever sweeter. 

She might find Aegon, not yet deep in his cups, his wounds no longer bothering him, with eyes shining lucidly and saying some any sort of stupidity to make a smile bloom on her face. He had been a good king in the end, just like she had hoped. Perhaps not the best, but he had let his brothers and councillors help him and the Realm had not suffered at length the consequences of the civil war under his rule. 

She might find Aemond, he might take her hand and kiss her lips and Sansa would have been at peace, he might sing her to sleep, like she had to him so many times, he might tell her that in the afterlife there was but one season and she would be his for it, in eternity. 

She might find Jon.  Her Jon. He might have finally learned the truth about his mother, and might have finally gotten to known her, even if only in the afterlife, and aunt Lyanna would showered him in the love her lady mother had been unable to. Maybe Jon would hug her, and tell her she had made it, that he had missed her and that she would be safe now. 

Where will  we  go.

She might find happiness. 

She might find peace and quiet in the end. 

She sat at the base of the Heart Tree, nestled between its roots, the dark pond staring back at her, as if the void was looking in her very soul. The wind caressed her cheek and faintly carried with itself words lost to time, to history, to memory. 

Silly girl, Jon’s voice drifted from somewhere deep inside her core, or somewhere far away, like a ghost howling from an unreachable mountain,  how can I protect you if you go where I can’t follow?

And Sansa shivered, “I am here now,” she murmured lowering her gaze, as she played with her hairpin, twirling it in her hand after she had unbound her hair for prayer and to dry as she had spent too much time outside in the snow and her braid had become drenched on her neck, “I came back here, and yet you aren’t. I am sorry…” she felt the tears gather in her cheeks, “I failed you” she murmured, “and I shall never forgive myself for that”

She looked at her hands on her lap, the hairpin shining in the pale light, reflecting the low glow of the dark pond, and pale sun rays filtering through the tree’s fronds; “I failed you. You never once failed me, and I couldn’t do the same,” she sobbed quietly. 

Since awakening in this new reality Sansa hadn’t even let herself mourn properly, she could not. They would expect them to mourn her lord father, but beyond that they were expecting her to take up the mantle he left her and do her duty, there was no time for the weakness that her grief was. 

Jon. Jon had always been there, for every step of the way. 

Her lady mother almost never spoke of it, but her lord father had always recounted the story with much mirth and happiness, of her first ever steps. She had been in her nursery, playing with her dolls when she had stood up on her feet and had stumbled toward her brothers, only, instead of running to Robb, she had walked to Jon. 

People didn’t like to speak of it, because the hurt was still were raw for her lady mother, and after that her lady mother ensured that Sansa was well aware of the difference between Jon and Robb, as both had been nothing but her brothers to her until then. Yet, Sansa had walked to Jon, and her brother had caught her before she toppled down. 

He had caught her. The same way he had caught her that day in the courtyard of Castle Black, cold and shivering, afraid and traumatised; her body a triumph of crestfallen wounds and cars and bruises, some so deep that she could still feel it in her new body now. 

I’ll protect you, I promise. 

No one can protect me, no one can protect anyone. 

And yet he had, Jon had been her champion long before Sansa had started to believe in champions again, she still could recall the way his voice had drifted from the Heart Tree, when Old Nan had brought them here, now almost two centuries ago, the way she had felt his grief, and his heartbreak as he called for her from across the weirwood tree. 

He had needed her. 

Only Aemond’s hand, sure and equally as desperate in hers, as he had stopped her from following through the way she had first came, had grounded her back where she was; and Jon’s voice had been gone. Gone, but never forgotten.

It still haunted her nightmares, the way his voice had broken and creaked when he had called her name. 

And now, now to his voice several had joined. 

And yet, Aemond’s voice permained her constant companion, a diversion and an iron fist across her heart, and yet a comforting weight across her shoulders. As if the pain caused by missing him reminded her he had been alive, he had been  hers… they had built something.

This new Realm she walked into now, with her hands less bound than before… this was mostly his doing she knew. He had set into motion all the changes needed to ensure that now she could do her best, so that when they met again, in the planes of the afterlife, Sansa’s duty would be fulfilled, her days spent and her pain and sorrow gone. 

And for now, sorrow was her companion.

She twisted her hands across her lap, and then sighed softly. 

“You should let me come with,” Arya’ sudden appearance almost made her jump out of her skin. 

Sansa looked at her sister, watched her carefully, then shook her head, “I need you here, with Robb and I both going,  you  are heir presumptive” she reminded her.

Arya shrugged, “I do not like this,” she said “you’ve heard Lord Reed, the Riverlands are  plagued  by this para-military group of misfits that have been terrorising the small folk  and  blackmailing the nobles. If they get their hands on you…”

“They’d ransom us,” Sansa assured her, “they aren’t that stupid that they would actually harm us, besides, Robb insist we bring several guards  and  at least a hundred armed men,” she added “thinks any less would be offending of our hosts as well, and I agree with him” 

Arya didn’t seem completely satisfied with that, “A hundred is but a handful if there’s merit to word about this band of outlaws’ numbers”

Sansa stood up from between the roots of the Heart Tree and approached her sister, resting her hand above her shoulder, “We must all grow at one point,” she offered softly “I promise I will return from the South” 

Arya grimaced, she had grown in her features, and her Stark grey eyes stared back at Sansa with as earnestly as if they were Tully blue, “You know what they say…” Arya muttered, “that Starks melt when they travel South” 

I never melted,  she wanted to reassure her, but she could not and besides, her soul carried more than enough wounds to prove that perhaps melting would have been better, “I do not plan of melting anywhen soon,” she promised instead, “you can count on it”

Arya patted her hand, then let her arms fall beside her sides, her expression forlorn, “What is really bothering you?” Sansa questioned then, “are you scared we can’t do it?”

Arya shook her head, something dark and pale crossing over her face all at once, “I… I am afraid,” she admitted “I keep having nightmares, all about the Riverlands  and  Robb,” her voice broke “but I can never remember them. I just remember the feel of it.”

Sansa blinked. Arya had been there, she remembered of sudden, at the Twins, when the Freys had paraded Robb’s body with Grey Wind’ eyes sewn onto his neck. She had  seen  it and if her mind had forgotten it, so not had done her heart. 

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, heartbreak overwhelming her to the point of tears once again.

Robb is safe , she reminded herself.  Your family will be safe , Aemond’ voice drifted, reminding her of a time so far lost that no one may yet remember it,  because you made them so.

“You are the strongest person I know,” Sansa told her gently “I promise you,  nothing  will happen to Robb. I’ll make sure of it” 

Arya looked deep in her eyes — Stark gray against Tully blue — then she nodded “Aye,” she said “you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met, if someone can do it, it’s you” 

Sansa threw her head back in a soft giggle, “That’s mighty, coming from you,” she commented “and how many people you know that you can affirm that with so much surety?,” she questioned with a smile dancing on her lips. 

Arya’ gaze was unblinking, and decise, “I know,” she said “as sure as I know we are blood” 

Sansa’ smile deepened, “Once you believed to be a…” her voice cracked,  a bastard too, like Jon  “an outsider,” she offered instead “but I love you and I feel very confident leaving the North in your hands whilst I am away”

There was something dark and unrelenting in Arya then, “I cannot convince you otherwise, can I?” 

She shook her head, “No you can’t” she agreed. Arya shifted her weight from one foot to the other and then nodded, lowering her head. 

“I hope you know I shall unleash hell if you don’t keep your promise”

Sansa smiled “I would rue if it was different,” she promised “trust me this once?”

“I trust you” the earnestness in her voice took Sansa by surprise, before leaving Winterfell and even after reuniting, she and Arya had not seen eye to eye for a long time, until they had found a difficult, rocky common ground. It surprised her how willing and earnest her sister was with her trust this time around. 

“Thank you,” she blurted before she had time to think best of it, “I’ll make sure I deserve it” 

Arya nodded “Do not be so grim” she teased “you’re still very prim and proper and I hate it, but I don’t hate  you ” 

Sansa rolled her eyes “And you are still weird,” she countered, “but I love you”

They walked back together, the direwolves — Sansa could not believe  how grown  they were — flanking their sides as soon as they walked out of the Godswood. 

This time around, Bran had found them whilst checking the traps with Robb and their Lord father and they had been almost forced to abandon them. Her Lord father had seemed unmovable about it as well, until Arya, who had been with them, had reasoned that last time a direwolf had been seen this side of the Wall, House Stark had gained status of principality. 

They hadn’t found Ghost this time around, and no sighting had been done of the albino direwolf either, which had been even a worse crack in her already fractured heart. 

If Ghost wasn’t here, not even alone, then Jon was no more. It had drove it home for her, when she had learned of it. 

She had failed her brother. 

Even when he had never failed her. 

Lady was the most well mannered, perhaps, but she was also the one who disappeared for length of time together with Shaggy Dog and Summer. 

Nymeria mostly hanged around the Wolfswood, and was always near Arya just like Grey Wind never left Robb’s side. 

Almost as if the direwolves  knew , that they hadn’t been there to keep their masters safe when it had mattered. 

Sansa burrowed her hand in Lady’s thick fur, as Nymeria nudged Arya’s head until her sister was walking wrapped into her direwolf’s body and fur. 

Bran was sitting as Rickon trained, a book balanced on his lap, Summer curled at his feet, eyeing Shaggy Dog and stepping in every time the black wolf seemed intent on joining the sparring match between Rickon and Jory Cassel. 

Robb was elsewise busy, possibly with their lady mother, in an attempt to soothe her wrath with their imminent departure for the Riverlands the next dawn, and Grey Wind was at the edge of the kennels his gaze fixed on the windows of the keep. 

Anxious . 

Grey Wind had fought and had been killed trying to get to Robb, she had remembered learning, and had died with her brother’s battle guard in an attempt to keep him safe. She could only imagine how that must weight on the direwolf if indeed they too carried some kind of memory of it all. 

“Lady Stark,” she turned around, finding herself face to face with Maester Luwin and Rodrick Cassel both, “word, from Kings Landing” 

Sansa extended a hand, accepting the scroll in her hand, “King Aenar confirms that his daughter, Princess Rhaenys shall meet us in Harrenhal” Maester Luwin said “and he expect a  profitable  and  proficous  match from this summit” 

Sansa rolled her eyes at that, “He also states he’ll send two dragon riders as keepers of the king’s peace, the commander of the Skyghosts and his second in command” 

Two dragonlords, when one would have been more than enough. She had learned of the Skyghosts in the historical texts. 

Apparently they were some kind of secret society of dragonlords, guided by a commander — who wielded of Dark Sister — and a second in command.

During the years since their foundation they had never been unleashed all together, but only in groups of no more than two or three.    And by her understanding of it all, commander and second in command almost never had missions together, something about the secrecy of it all imposed that Commander and his right hand were the only know party of the true purpose of the society so they couldn’t risk both to die at the same time. 

The fact that both the commander and his second would be sent could either mean the king  truly  wished to send them as peace keeper — dubious — or that he himself was bothered by them and could be wishing to use a coup to hold rein of the Skyghosts. 

I can use this, if needed.

The king could never be part of the Skyghosts and if he had become king  after  being initiated, how it had happened with king Aemond I the Thousand Days king, he had to relinquish his position and be sworn to secrecy. 

Several kings had attempted to keep a more or less iron fist over the Skyghosts, with varying degree of success, based on whom was the Lord Commander at the time, mostly.

Once, if she recalled correctly, Lord Fremman Baratheon — a direct descent of Daeron  — had literally forced the king of the time, king Aenar I to segregate his wife, Queen Helaena, to her domestic duties as she was intervening too much in the politics of the society and the Realm. 

Apparently Lord Baratheon had done all but putting the capital under siege with four dragons, until the Queen herself relinquished. Though later, Lord Baratheon had been murdered — some claimed poisoned — and when king Aenar died childless, Queen Helaena put her four and ten brother on the throne and married him, influencing without any more hinderance by the new Lord Commander, some secretly claimed him to be her lover, and that had been the only time the Skyghosts had been close to rebel against the Iron throne.  

Sansa studied the neat handwriting and phrasing, “Well, as long as His Grace is aware we’ll be bringing the wolves,” she offered “and that Grey Wind will be expected to remain with Robb after the marriage” she said, “I think we can all be tranquil in these talks”

“Our only dragon died forty years past, my lady” Rodrick Cassel pointed out, “this is  meant  as an insult” 

Sansa considered this. 

A dragon had made its way north with the first match between House Stark and Targaryen, and there he had remained for almost a century before dying of the cold or old age.  

Right now it was the Targaryens, the Martells and the Baratheons who held dragons. 

The Velaryon dragons had long since died out in the east or by old age and no new rider had been born to them.

House Martell had one in the person of Aemon Martell, and House Baratheon in the person of lady Baeryl Baratheon. Both of them were descendants of Targaryen dragonlords. 

House Arryn had had one, but it was weak and frail and had passed before it could truly bond with the son of lady Baela Royce, Lord Willhem Royce not even half a century past.  

If she could gauge the real tension between the Skyghosts and the Iron throne right now, she could have more chances of getting from the South what was promised. 

“Well” she offered “they can feel insulted if they wish it, as we are bringing Grey Wind and Lady,” 

“A direwolf is not a dragon, my lady” Rodrick Cassel pointed out. 

Sansa smiled sweetly up at him, releasing the scroll back in Maester Luwin’ hand “No,” she agreed, as Lady nestled around her like a cloak, her massive snout resting across her shoulder, a great and comforting weight against her, she brought a hand up and petted at her girl’s snout gently, “a dragon cannot enter a room and tear an arm from a socket with one bite,” she commented.

Rodrick Cassel studied her for a long moment, then he threw his head back and let out a bark of laugh, and even Lady preened at his sudden shift of humor, “my word, lady Stark” he said “if your Lord father was here he would have said the same thing” 

Sansa’ smile was genuine at that, feeling the praise warm her up inside despite the cold, “I think the king has no idea what he is about to come face to face with,” Rodrick continued, crossing his arms and looking at Maester Luwin, “he already  despised  Ned because quiet that he was he force them to keep faith to their word” he commented “if he thinks he’ll have better luck with his daughter…” his booming laughter filled the courtyard. 

Maester Luwin though stepped closer, “I would advise caution, lady Stark” he said “we all know that Lord Blackfyre has little to none love toward the North,” he added “and he’s a mighty warrior, one better off as an ally than an enemy”

It was not the first that Sansa heard of it, her sister too had commented something similar, and Robb had looked quite discouraged when he had heard that there would be a possibility of meeting the man. 

“Whatever his  problem  with the North,” she ensured the Maester “trust me that I wish to have no enemies,” she murmured,  left . 

Maester Luwin lowered his head and nodded slightly “As you say, lady Stark,” he commented “still I wish you’d reconsider and name a battle guard” 

Sansa sighed, “This is not the first I hear of this,” she said “I am no queen,” she commented “I do not need a full battle guard. I trust our men, don’t you?” she added. 

“Alysane Mormont is not enough shield,” Maester Luwin commented, Rodrick Cassel nodded “I urge you to consider to take at least another sworn protector”

Brienne’s face blinked alive in her mind —  I trust you with my life, if you’d trust him with yours… we should let him stay — and Sansa had to stave off a sense of longing that had no business overtaking her now. 

“I’ll follow her ladyship south,” Rodrick Cassel replied, they had yet to speak of it and Sansa was surprised by his decisive tone, “are you saying my loyalty is in question, old man?”

When Maester Luwin did not reply, Rodrick let out another smile, and looked at her “My sword is yours, my lady” he said “I taught your Lord Father how to fight, and your siblings as well. If with my life I can defend yours I will” 

Sansa was overcome by such an affection for the man, that she stepped willingly into his broad chest, she was now almost as tall as him, yet Rodrick Cassel simply wrapped his arms around her in such a paternal fashion that Sansa could almost feel her own father’s arms around her as well. 

It had been an age since she had let anyone who wasn’t family embrace her so, initiating the contact herself. 

Rodrick’ booming voice against her cheek was as much a comfort as his oaken and burnt leather scent, “Thank you”  she muttered softly. 

Rodrick had defended Bran and Rickon from Theon and had died a traitor death for having kept his faith, if Sansa trusted anyone. 

He was someone she trusted. 

“Do not cry, my lady” he said, guiding her to lean away from him, and even tears were collecting across his lashes, he dried at them with a hand as a wet laugh left her lips, “Or this old man shall cry too” 

“I’m sorry” she giggled, “I was just very touched,” she murmured “thank you”

He gently nudged her nose with a hand, reminding her of when she had been little, “You have a good heart, my lady” he said “don’t listen to what all other says, that’s strength not weakness,” 

Sansa felt even, more oddly touched at that as Arya walked to them, having left Bran and Rickon back to their devices, shouldering her gently “And even if it was, her clever mind makes up for it” she said “as will my sword” she added, fingering the blade at her hip. 

Maester Luwin let out an annoyed and yet fond sigh “Are you sure you cannot bring her along, my lady?” he asked in mock nuisance. 

“I’m afraid so, Maester” she offered with a smile and shrug, “I’ll leave her in your capable hands, maybe you’ll succeed in making a lady of her,” 

Arya spluttered and Sansa felt her heart and worries lifted even as the evening drew near and the departure closer. 

She had learnt all she could about her possible enemies and allies. King Aenar II was renown to believe women to be only suited for roles of domestic purpose, and he had taken several wives in an attempt to produce a male heir. An vane search so far. 

His only surviving child was Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, half dornish, lacking a dragon and suspected as a poisoner. By all accounts Princess Rhaenys was doing her best to prove her worth as heir presumptive to the crown and the throne, even if her father was ensuring she would be miserable in the attempt. 

Fair. 

Some sources claimed. 

The dornish princess was direct and fierce and fair, qualities searched for in a male.

The bond between the North and the South, so strong immediately after the Dance had grown more frail with each generation especially when there were not enough Targaryen brides to send north. 

The lowest point had been when the king had been forced to send his own brother as groom to the North to try and appease them from asking the secession. 

Prince Daeron had been no older than a child, and had adapted so well within the northern ranks that he had never  even  attempted to claim a dragon, preferring their wilder, more brutish way of living than the finery of royalty, to the point that when Queen Helaena attempted to summon him back to court to unseat her mad son, he had refused to play a part in that conspiracy. 

It had been Prince Daeron’ voice against the Queen that had finally put her out of her political influence. 

Another moment of low, the worst in recent years had happened when a lady from the mixed branch had been sent south as a peaceful envoy to try and convince the king to appease to the Pact, once there she had found herself shackled despite the youth of her groom, as opposed to her who was a widow, to the youngest son of Lord Hightower. 

Baelor Stark, her cousin, had clamoured for the betrothal to be broken and his cousin to be returned and her Lord father had ridden South to try and  parlay  against the match. 

He hadn’t made it in time, because the lady had been found in scandalous position with another man, Lord Blackfyre’ father, who under false pretences had fathered a child upon her,  and  attempted to steal the Iron throne.

Her Lord father had been forced to join the king against this latest attempt, and to accept that the lady and the child were to remain south and severe all ties with the North in an attempt to keep the northern lords loyal to the throne. 

The whole thing had also soured the bond between House Stark and the cadet, mixed branch which had brought fruit now with Baelor attempting to unseat her from Winterfell. 

And now, Lord Blackfyre had grown with an innate distaste for anything northern — they said — and had embraced completely his Targaryen ancestry over his Stark one.

And he had become the Lord Commander of the Skyghosts, a man known for his bastard birth, his swordsmanship and his skills airborne, a difficult man to make an ally of and a bad prospect for an enemy. 

But Sansa was focused and determined, if she couldn’t make an ally of the man, she would ensure he remained neutral, with whatever mean necessary.

Rodrick Cassel could believe her good heart a strength, but Sansa knew better. Her  good heart needed to be guarded and kept at bay, she had to remind herself that she was willing to do anything to ensure her duty was done. 

She would throw away her honor and stain her soul to ensure her family survived what was up ahead. 

She would break any oath. 

She would never back down. 

They departed the next morning, at dawn. Bran, Rickon and Arya saw them off, their lady mother embraced Robb fiercely and she had tears at her eyes and scratches on her cheeks, her eyes were red and puffy, and dead. 

Sansa bid her farewell with steel in her spine, and her mother’s curtsy was stiff and mocking, a reminder that Sansa might have lost her forever. 

They rode out in silence, even as the people of Wintertown watched them go and gathered to bid them good fortunes. 

It took them half a month to trek to Fairmarket and it was there that they were ambushed by what she could only describe as the current version of a mixture between the Faith Militant that had terrorised the Realm — as they shouted elogiouses to the Sevens and spat on the Old Gods — and the famed Brotherhood without Banners Arya had stayed with during her time in the Riverlands. 

They claimed to be the only ones actually keeping order to the Riverlands, and they were much stronger in numbers and weapons than she had ever known the Brotherhood to be; though not as big in numbers as the Faith Militant had been, if anything they resembled in numbers and ferocity the Sparrows if only in the Riverlands. 

Robb directed the efforts to push them back as they took cover in Fairmarket, and though in numbers they were decisively more than the northerners Robb wasn’t a mere swordsman, he was a genius tactician and he had his men’s complete trust. 

So the battle was kept mostly away from where Sansa had taken cover with Lady whilst Robb charged against the enemy with Grey Wind hot at his heels. 

Rodrick and Alysane remained by her side as sworn shields even despite her most vehement protests that Robb needed to be protected too. 

“Your brother can protect himself, lady Stark and that wolf of his too” Rodrick replied “we make him greater honor by defending you now”

“I am not helpless” she hissed, seethed really, her hand going almost naturally to the dragonglass dagger hanging at her hip. She had killed, granted she would rather not repeat the experience, but in defence she had raised her dagger and had slashed. 

Daemon had almost felt the burnt of it as well. 

Lady growled as well, perhaps at the reminder, Sansa couldn’t say. And Rodrick Cassel’ booming laughter filled the enclosed space, under cover of the weather and the enemies Robb was busy pushing back. 

“Who’d consider a direwolf helpless only because it’s a she-wolf?” he questioned. 

Still, the first screech was like the rattling of bones, the taste of charcoal on her tongue, the feeling of warm, gruesome blood cooked at high temperatures filling the air. 

She half expected Vhagar to soar overhead, but instead a younger, slightly smaller dragon appeared in the sky, cleaved through the clouds and proceeded to lavish a sliver of fire upon their enemies. 

Robb sounded the retreat as soon as the dragon was sighted ahead and their enemies were sent in a frenzy by the sudden appearance. 

The dragon was slender of frame, but broad of wings and thorax and had a crown of onyx and jade across its brow. 

“Seven hells!” Alysane shouted, her sword in hand as Rodrick immediately walked around to ensure he might stand between her and any other enemy coming their way. 

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered “ dragons ” he sputtered almost like a swear. 

Sansa watched in horror as the tongue of fire engulfed the great of the frontline of their enemies before diving beyond the Blue Fork and land. 

Robb sudden arrival made her blink back in action, as her brother grabbed her by the elbow to guide her to a better hiding spot, with the dragon’ sudden arrival their attackers had either been pushed out of the building  or  when running right in their direction to escape its wrath, in a chaos of limbs, enemies and allies. 

Sansa followed him willingly as he guided her elsewhere and more inside what had once been one of the first fort-hold of the Hoares in the Riverlands. 

She grabbed his hand back as he led her away, and tried to remain as out of the nick of fighting as possible as her brother slain any enemy they crossed in their chaotic attempt to escape the dragon.

The pounding against the wooden gate, which the rementants of their attackers had closed off in an attempt to save themselves from the dragon became more insistent until it broke from its hinges and was opened to let inside a platoon of guards wearing black and green robes and light armours, guided by one of the most arrogant men she had ever seen walk on a battlefield. 

There was an unbothered air about him, and that almost certainty that he was  untouchable .

She could not be mistaken, the man was a Targaryen though his hair were more of a ashen gold than silver and his eyes more a dark, ash purple-black rather than lilac which gave him an almost demonic look. 

He was so unbothered he didn’t even wear a suit of armour, it was like he had been on leisurely ride on his dragon and decided to wreak havoc of them all. 

Sansa watched him as he didn’t even have to command his men, who moved like an unit to disparage of the last of the rebels. 

Following Robb’ suit she did not relax her stance, and instead observed the newcomer as he came closer to them. 

Robb barely lowered his sword as the man drew closer, “You must be Robb Stark,” was the first words he spoke, “you Starks really  are  hard to kill”

It sounded ominously like a threat. Sansa misliked that, even as Robb seemed to slightly relax at that. 

The man did not look away from her as he added, “You were fewer in numbers and weaponry and yet you pushed them back,” he praised “I could have avoided intervening but I did not wish to leave to you alone all the fun” he offered. 

And with that Robb’ mind was made up and he lowered his sword, accepting the man’ proffered arm for a clasp. 

As Robb relaxed so did their men, though Alysane hovered protectively around her as the man drew back his attention on her, he was about to speak when one of his men dragged a poor fellow — stripped of his weapons and bruised all over where he wasn’t burned — by the scruff of his neck, speaking in high Valyrian to the man. 

He tore his attention from her eyes and replied something coldly in Valyrian himself, then turned to her “Do you wish to question this fool?” he asked. 

Sansa had half a mind of telling him that yes, she wished, when the man attempted the crawl at her, grabbing at her skirts and almost dragging her to the ground. 

Rodrick Cassel entered in action much faster than any man of his age and size had any business being, and grabbed the man by a fistful of hair — or what remained of his hair — dragging him away himself, to bash on the ground to keep him there with a foot on his squirming back.

Yet, the man’s attention was drawn to her once again, and her hand posed around the dragonglass dagger, her hand clawing at the battered bronze hilt enscripted with First Men runes. 

Lady, wrapped around her like a glove, not growling, but baring her teeth anyway. 

Then he raised his gaze on her eyes again and smiled “There you are, my lady” he commented his voice almost fond “fierce and terrible”

Sansa felt suddenly as if her whole body had been dried off of blood, as the man carefully stepped around Robb to look at the man still squirming under Rodrick’ foot, then he looked at her again, and gently pried her hand free of the dagger, even as she shifted to be not feel his touch, afraid of its brand, “If you have words for him,”  he said “now is the time for he won’t breath much longer to reply”

Sansa’ eyes became as cold as ice as she faced him head on, as she felt she had done a thousand times, and his eyes gazed back at her, both the grey purple one, and the iron-black one, the dilated pupil making him look almost pupil-less and dark and unrelenting and dangerous. 

“I’m yours to command” he drawled out, as if a vow. He looked as lethal as that dragon of his. 

And so  warm  in a way she couldn’t begin to explain. 

Sansa relaxed slightly her posture, her hand still on the hilt of the dagger, Robb nudged her with a shoulder “We are neither closer today than we were yesterday to get riddance of this lot,” the man told her as if Robb movement hadn’t existed at all, “if you think he might be of any use, this is just one of their companies,” he said “and their true leader has been evading our spies so far, to the point they claim him a ghost”

Sansa stiffened her posture once again, “Are you inclined to mercy?” 

The man shrugged “I can be moved to mercy” he said “for the right purpose I would suppose, but I do not condone treachery, and this  is treachery”

Sansa nodded, “Then he is to be shown mercy” she commanded, the challenge high in her voice, “let him end his life in defence of the Wall”

The man considered this and then nodded, barking some command in high Valyrian back to his men who took the man in custody from Rodrick, then the man looked once again at her, who had been looking to the scene and nudged her chin with a finger. 

Sansa almost reeled back by the familiarity of the touch, “do not avert your eyes from me, my lady” he said “or I shall be very cross” he offered. 

Sansa almost sneered at him, as one of the men in black and green gear came closer, bringing two horses by the reins “Here,” the man said “I’d take you dragonback if you’d be amenable, but I doubt you’ll be”

“I am not, in fact” Sansa seethed “and I’d be grateful if I do not gaze upon it by any close vicinity” 

He mulled over her words, “We’ll see,” he turned to Robb “I can have men sent to help with your goods and luggages” he stated “we’ll recover what possible” 

Robb nodded as if entranced by his charisma, Sansa was less so, she was so bothered by it that she would have rather he disappeared if just for the space of a moment. Something raw and upsetting settling in her stomach at his mere look.

He shrugged “well, a horse ride back will give us more time to speak,” he commented “we are settled near Harroway’s Town,” he stated “there’ll be refreshment there, and a warm bath for the lady” 

Sansa watched as he gestured with a hand and commanded something in high Valyrian again, before gesturing with a hand for them to follow him. 

And follow him they did. With death beating as batwings in her chest. 

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Chapter Text

The king in the tower, 

His skin was itching, after he had taken the razor to it and had butchered half his left cheek and his jaw. Tuffs of silver gold hair came undone, resting on his palms every time he passed a hand through his locks. They had grown long, as long as his beard had gotten before he got his hands on a razor. 

As long as his nails, scraping across the flesh of his already marred face in desperation. 

He had broken all the reflecting glasses in his cell, smashed every each of them, and had once even killed one of the slaves with the shreds of it; she had been speaking to him with that  tone , that tone that he hated. Despised. 

He had seen red. 

She had woken the dragon. 

The fault was hers, for it. 

Everyone understood it. 

Illyrio, understood it. The other slaves understood it. The prince of Pentos would have understood. His brother would have understood. Not she. 

Not his wife. 

Wife.  As if she was nothing different than a prized whore, who had usurped his crown and had stolen his Gods given right, had left him with the weakest of the hatchlings and had imprisoned him here. 

You will have a crown, a crown fit for a king . 

His nails drew blood, staining vermillion on his tunic.  She  had demanded he wore the garment, hideous that it was, vulgar and savage that it was — she had  commanded it of him, and when he had refused, had protested and had exercised his Gods given right by commanding her instead, hitting her aflush across her cheek, she had commanded for all his clothes to be discarded and burned — had her own dragon, so much bigger than his, light the fire of his only pride and hope — and had said “He shall go nude, in winter, if he does not wish to wear the clothes I commissioned for him. If he does not act as my husband and prince consort,” she had added, “then she shall be as the beggar he truly is”

Beggar king , he shook his head, but the voices were haunting him, clamoring in his ears, echoing in his mind, never to leave him alone,  a vermin and not a dragon. He clamped his eyes shut, banged both hands — closed in fists — against his ears, in an attempt to stave off the voices,  Sorefoot king, they taunted him. Most of the time their voices sounded like hers. 

He had received a strong worded letter by his wife and all his slaves had been retired from his service, and now only a mute, hideous looking, half giant summer islander slave was to cater to his needs, with only  grunts  and hand gestures. He did not understand westeron, and didn’t understand a single word of high Valyrian. He was reduced to either do the chores himself or try and communicate to this savage with hand gestures. 

It was humiliating. 

He was the dragon, the  last true dragon. His brother had died for his whore, died for his throne. The usurpers had killed him, even as they sat enthroned on their birthright, encrowned when their very line was supposed to have gone extinct. 

And yet they still breathed.

They still ruled over his own kingdom. 

A woman had lost their kingdom. A queen whose only place should have been the birthing chamber, she should have let her husband reign as it was supposed to; but no, she had demanded to wear the crown and she had lost them their birthright and now his wife wanted to replicate it all.

If he let her do it… they would loose even what little remained to them. 

The prince of Pentos was his true friend, the only descendant yet alive through maternal side of Aegon the Unlucky, eldest surviving son of king Daemon and his wife, Rhaenyra the Queen who lost the Iron throne. The eldest true born son. And he hated his wife just about as much as he did. 

Aerion… Aerion was his staunch ally as well. 

When he got his throne back, and he would get it, he would name him his Hand. 

He had suffered humiliation after humiliation, just like him, back in the Realm. 

Forced to live as a ward to the king of usurpers, to toil to his every whim and need with his whore mother; his father murdered before he was even born. And he was steadfast, he had claimed the Green Queen a feat not to be dismissed, and he had slowly but surely gathered ground in the Realm, even as he had to nurse in secret his hate for the Greens. 

He had yet no wife, he would ensure that his Hand would have his own pick of all the ladies who had spurned him for his bastard birth. He might be nothing better than a bastard, born of an unlawful affair, but he was still the blood of the dragon and when the day come and he had helped him take back his kingdom, when he would be awarded the position as his Hand, all those ladies would fall to his feet. 

He would ensure it, as a payment for his loyalty. 

Perpetuated loyalty. If his brother had lost them even more footing in the Realm with his stunt, at least its product, the bastard was serving his purpose. 

The slave grunted, as he came into view. 

He jumped as if a startled prey, and turned his amethyst eyes on the slave, his hands were still at his cheeks, still drawing blood; the man stepped closer to him, gesturing something — nothing he would be willing to try and understand — and when he shouted in reply “Leave me alone, you halfwit!,” he grunted angrily in reply, stepped closer to him and at nothing served his protests for he grabbed him, his sweaty arms coming to wrap around him, pressing his own arms at a painful angle, right across his chest, disabling him from moving. He trashed in his hold, but he was weak on what little food he trusted to eat — she could always poison him — until the mockery of a man finally set him down, in what was supposed to be his bath, but the water was scorching hot, enough to  burn  and  blister . 

Viserys scraped at his face, his neck, his eyes, his neck. 

It was as if the water cascading in the pool — warmed by the fires in the chambers beside the termae — was liquid gold, burning his eye sockets away, suffocating him in his own breath, burning the flesh away.

He was no dragon, her voice carried,  fire cannot kill a dragon. 

Viserys screamed. 

Magister Illyrio let Vaegon through this time, without protests, perhaps still wary after Aerion’ last visit not to hinder him. Vaegon and Aerion — both bastards — one a prince in Pentos, dragonless but with the blood of the dragon, for however diluted flowing in his veins; one a lord in Westeros, commander of all dragon riders  and great warrior. 

Viserys would use them both. 

Aerion hadn’t yet commanded his dragon riders to attack the Usurper only because the Realm was unstable enough, and Viserys own dragon was too little and weak. Viserys  needed also the remove Daenerys from his line. 

If he managed to get an annulment of their marriage he could take the Iron throne and offer his hand to any lady of high standing enough to be his queen — if he had faith Daenerys would obey him he would have kept her for wife, as it was tradition, but she was a murdreress and would sooner see him dead that on his true throne. 

The Usurper had but one daughter yet, of age as well, but Viserys would rue to marry such an excuse of Targaryen as despite the abundance of dragons she lacked one, she looked like a dornish or an Arryn, reports were conflicted, but one thing was certain she looked nothing like a Targaryen and was believed to be a poisoner and a traitor as well. 

Viserys would rather take the daughter of some powerful House — the Velaryons were out of question as they were turncloaks and had betrayed them time and time again since the time of Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen; as were the Lannisters, the Starks and the Baratheons or the Tullys. House Frey had an abundance of daughters, but none of them were of noble blood enough to deserve being his queen, what more Aerion had reported that the new queen, the new Usurper’s wife was indeed a Frey and pregnant to boot. The Arryns had betrayed them in later generations, why, wasn’t the king’s mother an Arryn of the Eyrie? Which left but with a handful of possible ladies, all too low of noble blood to really be worthy of the gift Viserys would do them — and sit enthroned, and everything shall be as it once was supposed to. 

Aerion had reported many news from the Realm. House Arryn and House Martell had both clamored for the princess to be freed of her prisony claiming she had been framed of the attempted murder at the Usurper’s expanses, and she was now being sent to the Riverlands to broach a betrothal accord with House Stark. 

House Stark especially had fallen low. 

Apparently, despite the abundance of male heirs, the Usurper’s dogs had chosen a woman to lead them and when the half Targaryen half Stark breed had raised arms against such infamy they had betrayed their own kin and slain him. That they would choose to follow a woman meant the male heirs were either weaklings or considered unfit. 

Such a fall for the proud House Stark who had so earthily betrayed the true kings. 

Aerion would follow the usurper princess to the Riverlands — surely to gauge and prod and ensure that those riverlanders who had been loyal would raise arms clamoring for their rightful king as they had when his brother had attempted the feat — and perhaps using his own hand as a bargaining chip he would try and get more powerful Houses in their grasp. 

Viserys had offered him a Hand of the King nominee, but Aerion had refused to accept the pin and the seal yet, and at fresh mind Viserys had to admit it would have been foolhardy for him to go prancing around with pin and seal and that their plan might be discovered. 

Vaegon, instead, prince of Pentos humored him with banquets and feasts to take his mind off their intricate plan to take back the Seven Kingdoms. 

And one day Viserys would sit on the Iron throne with Aerion as his Hand in the West and Vaegon as his Hand in the East, and right would be set to wrong. 

He could see it, as clear as a dream. 

Robb,

Rodrick brought his stead on step with his, his gaze unwavering from Sansa’s back on her own mare. It was  unnerving to see their master-at-arms looking so as he gazed upon his sister, riding with her back straight and her chin jutted up as she staved off the attempts of striking conversation of lord Blackfyre. 

“He seems…  determined  to get her to talk” he mused, his gaze unwavering but somehow warm, filled with fondness. For some reason Robb had never been able to decipher the Cassel seemed particularly affectionate toward Sansa, though perhaps his sister was just that loveable, even if it felt like something  older , more rooted into perceptions Robb had no way to understand. 

“Aye,” Robb agreed, “and she seems determined to ignore him” he commented, watching as Sansa levelled the man with a long, hard stare and clipped replies to his attempts of getting the conversation flowing, not that it made him desist in any way, on the contrary it seemed to amuse him endlessly. 

Rodrick chuckled darkly, “Your lord father always did say that he knew better than to argue with a Tully,” he shrugged, adjusting his hold on the reins, “and that stubborness,” he added, pointing with one gloved fingers toward Sansa, looking half-way outraged, half-way amused when with all the grace of a man used to ride dragons, lord Blackfyre swung his legs on one side of the saddle to come to sit facing the wrong way just so that he  might gaze on her lovely face , “she inherited all from your lady mother”

Rodrick seemed as amused as lord Blackfyre was at Sansa’ behaviour. Robb, instead, was growing distressingly concerned. He knew his sister, his very own twin. They had shared the womb, they had breathed the same air and shared the same blood before even being born, she was as much a part of him as his good arm or his legs, or his own head. 

She was always courteous and polite, especially to people she liked the least. 

There is nothing that incense an enemy more than your indifference to their efforts to provoke you.

There were too emotions dancing bare on her face, though she schooled them well, Robb knew her better he knew himself, and could read every each one of them even if he could not make sense of it. 

Aerion Blackfyre had a  reputation if one would call it that. 

A bastard born in the midst of a rebellion, he had been supposed — perhaps — to be his father’s heir, if the man had won the rebellion instead of perishing; instead he had found himself hated by both sides of his blood. 

The northerners would never forget that their faith had been broken and that they had been forced to go to war against one of their own, that a northern lady’s virtue had been compromised in such a way and that the humiliation of it yet carried —  she had been half a Targaryen, Robb remembered GreatJon Umber comment once when he had been too deep in his cups,  after all, we should have expected her treachery — his kin in the East had never, as far as they were aware, considered him much more than a blemish on the honor of their dead wanna-be-king; and the king, though his blood through the Targaryen line had served him nothing but humiliation after humiliation; and yet he now carried one of the ancestral swords of House Targaryen and commanded the greatest assemblation of dragon riders the Realm had to offer. 

A bastard who had rose despite any odd high in the world. A bastard who wasn’t afraid of owning who he was, who made of it a shield and who took no humiliation from anyone since the moment he had grown in his own boots. The greatest dragon rider to fly the skies, some Maesters claimed; the greatest swordsman Targaryen blood had to offer. 

A man who took no shit. And gave no shit. 

To say it with the words Jory Cassel would have used. 

Alysane Mormont behind them seemed every bit as distressed as Robb felt watching his sister being seemingly unable to decide what to make of this man, who had come to their rescue as if it was as easy as breathing — as if there hadn’t been a choice for him between intervening and not — and who seemed in equally part as fond and as enchanted by Sansa’ attention on him, no matter that it was not, perhaps, the kind of attention he strived for. 

Robb could read his lips if he could not hear him, and he was speaking of any kind of matter. As if he possessed a quenchless source of matters and topics to share with his sister. From anedctoes about his childhood — which Sansa did not ask for — to recounts of coming and goings of the southern court, which he could see that his sister was listening to intently even though she attempted as to not show it; to the kind of flowers he had seen in the planes of Southryos. 

The man even offered to take her someday, for she would believe it enchanting and for sure would love it, which, Robb decided, was quite  enough . So he gave a tug on the reins to urge his own stead to march quicker to approach them and serve as a human shield if needed between his sister and lord Blackfyre’ unwanted attention. 

“You should see Thebea,” he was saying, “it is the greatest city of the southern continent, some of its buildings are even  older  that Old Valyria. But what you really would love,” he added, “would be the gardens, they are the most  exquisite  no matter the time of the year” 

Why in the seven hells was he keeping talk of gardens and flowers and voyages, when his sister was very clearly disinterested, and to speak of it with such an expectant tone and look as well… Robb had believed in a first moment to have a found a kindred soul, someone he had been missing and he had finally found, someone he could trust, but now he was starting to question it. 

Sansa made a funny face at the proclamation, but lord Blackfyre must not have seen it because Robb had urged him own stead between theirs, with a welcoming, if wolffish grin “So, lord Blackfyre, I heard that the king bestowed on you Dark Sister,” talk of heirlooms and blades would certainly keep him entertained, wouldn’t it?

Though he had never been quite levelled with such a dark, looming glare in his life. Yet it was gone but in a moment. As if he man couldn’t quite stand to stare at him, and then in the whisk of a moment he was as welcoming as a brother would be. 

“I had heard you might accompany the princess,” Robb struck, hoping to get the conversation going between them, he did seem annoyed, but did not attempt to speak to his sister again for a while, replying his questions with quick, polite replies that betrayed half a coldness, half a knowledge that Robb left the whole conversation feeling confused  and uncertain of his own. 

“I see you carry a Valyrian Steel sword as well,” lord Blackfyre commented, eying the blade strapped at his back. Robb nodded, glad it seemed that finally after turning back the right way on the saddle, the man had reverted to his welcoming and polite self.

“Aye,” he replied, “it is named Ice, it is House Stark’s ancestral sword,” 

“Ay, I know,” he commented, “shouldn’t the Warden of the North wield it?,” he questioned. 

Robb felt half offended, half as if he had been slapped. As if his own responsibility was slipping from his fingertips, he brought a hand up, to push at thin air between his reddish lock, as if he had a hat to adjust, though there was  nothing there. 

He made it for me! I loved him and you killed him!

Sansa peeked from beside him and levelled him with another hard stare, “I can scarcely been expect to wield a long sword,” she said “and it would be too heavy for my sister, despite her skill with blades. On that very matter, Robb is presently my heir and my champion,” Robb looked back at his sister and felt suddenly much better and much worse at the same time. 

No, girls are not important enough, are they?

“And Ned Stark’s eldest true born son, it is only right that he is to carry it in my name” she concluded, “do you have a problem with it,  my lord ?” 

Robb turned around and had the distinct impression lord Blackfyre might have made a face at something his sister had said, to have spew that much venom even as she addressed him with his title, but could not catch sight of it, “At all,  lady Stark ” he offered and for some reason Robb felt as if the inflection of his tone when he addressed her as such was meant as a slight toward him, “I was merely curious”

Sansa looked back ahaed, “Curiosity is an interesting thing,” she commented, “much  dangerous  it can be” 

Lord Blackfyre shrugged, “I am not afraid of curiosity” and Sansa did all but  scoff , as she looked back at him and Robb felt of sudden as if they were both privy of something he was ignorant about. As if they had known each other for a thousand years. 

“That would be your mistake,” she commented, “for fear keeps us alive” 

Lord Blackfyre shrugged and then gave a powerful tug at the reins and urged the horse to move quicker just enough that he could then station him between the road ahead and Sansa’s own stead — and  his  — though his eyes were solely focused on Sansa; Sansa who was looking at him with a mixture of concern, and  fear  and even loathing for some reason. 

Yet, Robb could see a steadfast earnestness in his face as he spoke next, a steadfast earnestness which he could see had surprised his sister, “I am no stranger to fear, my lady,” he said “I’ve known my fair share of it, and I suspect I shall know more of it in the days to come,” he then shrugged and added “and I have known the dullness that comes when there is no more fear to be had, for it has already run its course, and I have no wish to replicate it” 

Sansa seemed speechless before that declaration, staring right into the man’s grey-purple eyes as if she was instead staring in his soul. Then, as if he had spoken his piece and there was no more to be spoken about, he urged his horse back on course, his shoulders stiff both for the assertiveness of his words and for his apparent cold fury at Sansa’ assumption. 

And for some reason Robb felt as if he had failed him terribly. If he had mistaken him terribly. 

Join me in musing who Aerion Blackfyre could be, with an edit, here.

Chapter Text

Rhaenys,

The Green Queen appeared in the lark-blue sky, the sun setting behind the tree line, tinting the clouds in pink and purple. The ancient dragon seemed larger than life as soared, her wingbeat almost placid as if she was on a leisure flight. 

The walls of Harrenhal seemed to welcome her home, as as soon as the dragoness was in sight of it, she raised her song in the sky, the black dragon, nestling around one of the turrets of the keep raised his own song in reply and the late hour filled with the song of dragons. 

She had known, the moment she had set foot in the Riverlands that she was decided to write history. She was the king’s only surviving child so far, she had spent her youth in court learning the ways of rulership not only from her father — and his often misplaced politics — but from the men and women of the court who weaved their web. In adulthood she had refused to be sent from the capital, and she had promised on her mother’s tomb that she would never let anyone rob her of her birthright and that she would do her duty to her people and as queen. 

No matter how difficult her father meant for it to be for her. 

And this… this was another step in the right direction. An alliance with House Stark would better her chances. House Stark had stood behind the Greens, most notably, now, the Stark had chosen a woman to lead them, despite the abundance of male heirs and they had defended her birthright on the battleground. 

Rhaenys hoped they would do the same for her, especially if they were bound. 

Her mother had been beautiful, and gentle and kind. She had loved them all well. She had refused the wet nurse to care for her, and had nursed her at her own breast, despite her frail health after the birth; she had loved also the king, even though Rhaenys was aware that the only thing her father loved was the promise of a heir to his kingdom, especially after the attempt from the Blacks to try and claim again the Iron throne and despite their defeat, despite the death of his rival, he still had a son to his name. A son who had claimed the greatest dragon of the Seven Kingdoms. Her mother had died in the attempt to give him a male heir. 

Rhaenys would not forgive him that. Ever. 

She frowned as the dragon in the sky continued her flight placidly even though with but a couple of wingbeats more she could land, instead flying as if she was following the people on horseback. 

“Would you look at that?” Baeryl Baratheon commented with a fond smile on her lips and crossed arms across her chest, her hair weaved in a braid and dancing in the wind, “she’s being difficult” 

Rhaenys frowned, but did not ask more. The second in command of the Sky’s Ghost was a woman Rhaenys had never quite managed to get into a more comfortable relationship with. Lady Baeryl was strong, impulsive, commanded a dragon and took no shit from anyone, if she couldn’t beat you with fists she would beat you with her sword. Rhaenys admired that of her, and yet it also made her uncomfortable, and that may also stem from the centuries of battles between the dornish and the stormlanders, she couldn’t say. Or perhaps it was her unquestionable loyalty to her commander before any other that had her on edge. 

If Aerion ever attempted to take the throne, lady Baeryl and all the dragon riders would fly for their commander, no matter the odds. Rhaenys could not elicit that kind of loyalty in them, especially since she was a Targaryen princess who lacked a dragon and did not look Targaryen in the slightest. 

Baeryl turned to her, “Perhaps this Stark woman is far more admirable than I believed,” she commented with a shrug, “someone worthy of your alliance, princess” she offered and Rhaenys nodded silently, just as the riders started to become more nitid the closer they grew to the keep. 

There were several northern guards, and several black guards that followed her cousin everywhere he went as his foot soldiers, mingling together and speaking, led by five other riders, two of whom women. Aerion to her surprise was on the ground instead of riding his dragon in the sky, trotting comfortably next to one of the women, though in this distance Rhaenys could not say who was who, her hands carded in the fur of her cat, Balerion and she took a deep breath. 

The cat itself was a monstrosity, lacking an eye and hissing to anyone save her. Rhaenys had adopted him when she had been but a girl, and he a stray cat she had captured in the gardens of the Red Keep, Rhaenys had claimed him for her own, and despite the beast being as savage as any dragon — words of her own guards — he followed her anywhere she went. He had even come to spend time in her cell when she had spent those dark, cold nights in the Black cells, sharing his body heat with her so that she would not suffer alone in the cold. 

The cat hissed. 

“Shh,” she cooed, “they are our guests,” she said “ behave ” she commanded in high Valyrian and Balerion stoped hissing, though he still looked pretty annoyed by the bustling around them as Rhaenys walked around the corridors of the immense keep, to reach the courtyard and welcome her guests, to finally lay eyes on the woman whom she hoped would be her ally and the man she was supposed to marry to ensure their loyalty. 

Lady Shella Whent, who had offered to host the meeting, was already waiting for her. She was a kind, old and frail lady who spoke naugh of nothing but the great history of their family  and  the several times Harrenhal had hosted the royal line.

The castle had befallen Whent hands after the death of prince Aemond Targaryen, who had left the keep in the hands of lady Celia Whent as his heir, in the absence of a natural heir to his lands, name and fortune, they had even a chamber of the keep named after him, as it was his room of solace, the Painting Chamber, in the years since his death it had gone mostly untouched and there were several paintings, sketches and coal-drawings stocked there, covered by clothes and forgotten. When one asked House Whent, they usually defined the contenents of the chamber as their  Treasure , though only some of them had survived several fires and disasters that had happened in the meantime. 

The portrait of young lady Celia Whent, albeit left unfinished by the prince, was the only piece of his art that seemed to have survived unscathed the toll of time, though the Whents claimed that more  private  pieces had survived as well, but were entrusted in their care and to their privacy as well. 

The Whent had for long centuries also claimed they held the original  Donation , the document by which king Aegon decreed that as per prince Aemond’s will the castle and its lands were to be administered on their own by lady Celia Whent and pass to her heirs when the time came. One last gift to honor the will of his brother and the memory of lady Ned Whent, the Whent woman that many claimed prince Aemond had loved and that he had grieved for, for his whole life. 

Lady Shella Whent had showed her some of the items that had belonged not only to the lord Hand, but to other several Targaryens who had spent some time in the keep. She had been shown prince Maelor’ prostethics and cane — and though acquired in later years — also prince Daeron’s knee prostethic as well. 

They had kept also the cradle princess Jaehaera had commissioned for her time in Harrenhal with her children, and lord Aemond Lannister’ wooden toy-dragon from when he had been a babe; as well as prince Maelor’ hairbrush and several of his writings they had kept and that had survived the test of time. They even had the embalmed body of lord Viserys Targaryen’ wolfhound he had brought with himself after his time as a ward of the Starks at the end of the Dance of Dragons. 

The whole thing was like a mausoleum and yet Rhaenys had the distinct feeling that the Whent were also hoarding some kind of secret she was unaware of. House Whent was rich, far richer than their soverlord, the Tullies, and much richer than any other House of the Realm, save for the Lannisters and the Tyrells; the sources of their riches had been the fortune lady Celia Whent had built during her time; some claimed she had collected several important royal items — gifts, acquired and stolen — though most admit she had been quite the business woman, able to create and maintain quite the fortune and demanding her children and their children learned a craft to sustain the House during difficult times, a tradition that was upkept to these days. 

Lady Shella had four sons — and though two she sent to the Wall to serve in the Nights Watch, each accompanied by twenty men to swear the oath as well — the other two she demanded they learned a craft. The oldest, the ruling lord Whent knew wood-work, and he had fashioned himself the casket to bury his lord father after his death; whilst the youngest had spent many years with the farmers of their lands and had learned to  work the land  as if some kind of peasant, and yet, more than once in history the craft learned by the lords of House Whent had saved House Whent and often times the Riverlands whole with their expertise. 

What really unsettled Rhaenys was that despite the several times that House Whent had raised their heads and protested against the policies of the throne, not once they had been destroyed, even once the blood ties between them grew so distant as not to qualify them as kin anymore. 

The great hall where their guests would be welcomed was littered with paintings of the Whents lords and ladies, starting from the front of the hall where the late Lord Whent’ painting stood, weaving like two wings to the sides, with a lady and a lord on each side, to the back where stood the biggest of the paintings which depicted lady Celia Whent, in her velvet alloy orange gown and black furlined mantle. 

It was the kind of depiction Rhaenys would expect of a royal House, or a very ancient House — like the Starks or the Lannisters — and she felt like  pride  in their ancestry might be the Whents greatest flaw, as in the latter years they had proven to be weaker than their founders and most notable ancestors. 

Yet, she had not time to think about it any more, for their guests were finally shown inside. Aerion was escorting them, though his face looked like he would have rather killed them. Robb Stark was escorting his sister — she would suppose, considering the resemblance in their demeanor and appareance — a middle aged man followed suit with a young lady bearing the bear insignia on her breast. 

Aerion dark eyes were fixed in a glare as he stared at the northern nobles, though he seemed particularly displeased by how they seemed to keep their distance from him, even though he was half northerner and half their kin, for however distant through the Stark-Targaryen mixed branch of the Stark tree. 

Rhaenys watched as her cousin’ eyes finally befell on her, she opened her arms and her cousin humored her by offering her an embrace as salute before nodding his head down to her. “Princess,” he greeted her, then he stepped away from her.

Rhaenys knew what needed to be done. She was a weak claimant to the Iron throne, especially since her father could still have an healthy son to his name soon; and she was dragonless, she needed to appear as if despite that she still was the best chance, the best prospect. 

Having a strong hold of the Sky’s Ghost would go a long way to ensure that. 

“Cousin,” she said, her voice dipping low “we have missed you,” she offered, “but I see you have been escorting our guests to us,” 

“Only for the last leg of the journey,” he admitted, “they have had the misfortune of meeting the militants, though they served them a good deal of northern steel, I thought that the Green Queen’s aid would have been welcomed by them and by you both,” 

It was a lie, Rhaenys nor her father had any bearing on the goings and comings of the Ghosts, as they were in truth mostly independent from the crown, though it was a way by which he was trying to aid her in appear as strong as possible. A show of loyalty if she could expect such from him. Something she had not expected from him. 

Rhaenys turned her dark gaze on the newcomers, as her cousin gestured to them. Robb Stark was tall, but to her surprise he was also muscular, with a broad chest and strong arms and neck, he had dark red curls framing a handsome face a with an almost button nose and full lips. His eyes were a crystal blue that looked almost like sapphires. He wore no apparent sign of regalia, save for two battered bronze direwolves gracing the collar of his jerkin, barely visible underneath the leather stripes of his northern cloak. 

“It  was  a welcome aid,” the woman on his arm commented, and Rhaenys’ attention suddenly charged to her. She had long auburn hair weaved into a fishtail braid and wore a dark gray blue gown with a direwolf embrodiered over her bosom, she wore a similar cloak to the one her brother sported, but her face was not that of a twin. Her cheeks were higher than his and her features more pointed than his, and her nose instead than a button one, was long and straight, her face was almost moon shaped, reminding her of something like some kind of memory of a dream, “though I still maintain we could have done without the escort,” she added “it was in the interest of none for us to have a full blown procession,” 

Aerion brought both hands behind his back and despite her rude — albeit phrased politely — words, his eyes twinkled with fondness and he cocked his head to the side and studied her, a smirk on his lips, as if he was immensely satisfied by her comment, though Rhaenys could not understand why “On the contrary, lady Stark, it served us plenty. I have had occasion to enjoy your remarkable company, I would consider that time well spent”

Baeryl besides them hid a snort behind her hand, trying to mask it in a cough. Rhaenys watched as her eyes darted between her cousin — and his self-satisfied smirk and twinkling eye — and lady Stark, proud and beautiful, and terse and fierce and terrible as she gave him a dark, looming gaze “Time well spent won’t spare the Realm,” she said, before tearing her gaze away from her cousin and looking right at her “I am under the impression Your Highness has to heart the good of the Realm and its people,” she commented “it is on virtue of this that we have come today,” 

Aerion rolled his eyes fondly and then turned to her, “Cousin, as you might have gathered, let me present you, lady Sansa of House Stark, lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North,” he said “as you can easily see she is not scared lamb,” 

“And her brother, prince Robb of House Stark, her twin” he added almost conspiratorially “A fine swordsman and leader on the battleground by what I have been able to see, though it remain to be seen how politically adept he is or can become”

Lady Stark almost bristled at that, but schooled her expression, turning to her instead “Princess, it is your custom to let your lowborn cousin offend your noble guests?”

“I said nothing offending to you, my lady” Aerion replied, almost as if this back and forth with the woman pleased him, Rhaenys could not say she remembered Aerion ever place that much of his blatant interest in another person — wether they male or female — since she knew him. 

“And yet I do not need to be a Maester to read through the lines of what you were implying about my brother, my lord,” was her calm reply. 

Aerion shrugged, both hands still behind his back, “My lady perhaps mistakes me,” he commented, “I did not  imply , my lady” he added “I  affirmed , and I am sure my lady is intelligent enough to know the difference,” 

Rhaenys watched in disbelief, what seemed like nothing short of some kind of mating, ambiguous dance. Lady Stark didn’t seem as interested as Aerion appeared and yet she raised to the bait every single time. 

Her smile could be described as nothing but wolfish “Do not mistake us for someone we are not, Your Highness,” she said, returning her gaze on her instead of her cousin, “we are Starks. The insult thrown at one of us, is thrown at us all. The harm done to one of us is done to all of us,” she added. 

“The strength,” prince Robb said, resting his hand above his sister’s over his elbow, “of the pack is the wolf and the strength of the wolf is the pack. The lone wolf may die, but the pack  will  survive” he added “and we are a pack” 

Lady Stark looked at her brother for one moment as if he had hung the moon in the sky for her, and Rhaenys had a foreboding feeling as Sansa Stark turned to face her, just as her cousin’ eyes became slits of dark amethyst — “ Mighty words, spoken by you ” her cousin commented in high Valyrian — and as Rhaenys was about to reprimand him, lady Stark cold as ice eyes snapped to him, “ I dare you to say that again ” she hissed, in high Valyrian herself and though her pronounciation could not be considered as good as her cousin’s or her own, it was yet the first time Rhaenys heard a noble speak it almost fluently without claiming Valyrian ancestry. 

But instead of looking offended, Aerion smiled at her and leaned forward — dragon and wolf staring at each other — and muttered something in high Valyrian so low that Rhaenys had trouble catching on it. 

Her surprise at seeing her cousin trade insults and mating calls — because they were nothing of the different for him — with the Stark lady was only matched by her own twin brother’s expression of utter surprise, as if he was learning just like her, first hand, that lady Stark spoke Valyrian, albeit not fluently, well enough to hold her own for a while. 

Baeryl at her side seemed amused by the whole spectacle, observing it with keen eyes and interested gleam before Rhaenys decided she was quite done and that this was unbecoming, “Cousin,” she hissed, “behave” 

Before today she would have described her cousin as downtrodden, at times rightly broody, and though she knew he had friends, which meant he must have the capability of playing nice and even be fun upon occasion she had quite never seen him so misbehaving, almost like a small child intent on causing ruckus; and she wondered acridly what did this Stark lady have that she lacked that she would prompt her cousin in this state when she, as her kin, had never been awarded the right to? 

Aerion seemed to return to himself then, he straightened his back and righted his expression, “My apologies, princess,” he offered “I meant no insult to our esteemed company, perhaps,” he added looking straight at her betrothed to be, “prince Robb could be persuaded to an amicable spar on the training grounds as a show of our renewed animity” he proposed. 

Prince Robb Stark did not need to look at his sister to know how to reply, which meant that all Stark heirs had been trained to know how to do the diplomatics talks, so Rhaenys would not end up with a puppet husband after all; he let go of his sister’s arms and nodded, “I heard you are quite unmatched in the South,” he stated “perhaps we shall see if this northerner can beat you” 

Aerion’ grin bode ill for her betrothed to be, but Rhaenys would let him learn that to his expanses, after all if he was to marry her he would need true friends in the capital and for men beating each other on the training grounds was a much faster way for bonds to develop; he would have to learn that her cousin when he trained he did so against three opponents as — by his own words — in battle seldomly it is one against one.  

“Off we shall go then!,” Aerion commented, gesturing for him to follow him, Robb Stark turned around to his sister and patted her hand gently, before pressing a kiss atop the crown of her head, then he turned to her and offered her a bow, his eyes twinkled empyrean as he looked at her and Rhaenys was moved by a force different from her own perhaps as she took a step in his direction, “Prince Robb,” she called and he stopped, turning around once again, to wait for her to speak,  do not loose your nerve now , she told herself as she fished a handkerchief from her sleeve, stepped closer to him and gently wrapped the handkerchief around his arm, “trash him a bit, will you?, he’s been right unbearable,” she muttered, her voice low, as if she was sharing some great secret, looking up into his eyes. His smile was lovely, she decided, as he nodded. 

She stepped back and tried to stave off the blush creeping up her cheek, she had been impulsive, she knew, she could only hope it paid off. She knew how to charm most southern men, but this northerners… they seemed different.  He  seemed different. Her cousin hand was clamped around the hilt of Dark Sister, his fingertips brushing against the grip of the sword with almost manical force and precision, the consumed leather and fabric gray strap almost coming undone from the strength of his hold. His dark, terrible eyes were fixed on lady Stark who herself looked like she was being chased off by bad thoughts, the stuff of nightmares and broken hearts. 

Rhaenys watched them go, followed by their female companion — on lady Stark insistence and her own happiness to observe such a match — and listened raptly as for a moment lady Stark and the middle aged man who was accompanying them had a whole conversation by looking at each other. 

“Nay, my lady” he offered, “your brother can look after himself. I’d rather be here than there” 

Lady Stark rolled her eyes “Suit yourself,” she muttered, but by her tone Rhaenys knew that she was touched by the man’s choice. 

“Lady Stark,” lady Shella’s voice stopped Rhaenys, and whatever small talk she meant to start in an attempt to smooth things over after her cousin all but dragged her every hope for this match in the ground with his contempt; the old lady walked to the northern woman with a bundle in her arms. It was a dark, ancient piece of cloth of dark black that had become lighter in the years, and it was folded as if it was guarding something precious, “Your late grandmother was quite fond of this when she was a girl, before her marriage,” she offered “my late husband could not find it in himself to give this to any other after her death, for she was terribly attached to it. So it sat in our vault until now, but… I think my cousin would have wanted you to have it, you’re her oldest granddaughter, and this was a bit like an heirloom for her,” 

Ah , Rhaenys had almost forgotten. Lady Stark was half a Tully, and apparently through her maternal grandmother, part Whent as well; lady Stark fingered the cloth with trembling hands, and in her eyes Rhaenys could see a storm raging, as she slowly, gingerly unfolded the cloth, that hung from lady Whent’s arms. 

It was not just a cloth, it was a banner. An ancient banner, if Rhaenys could not be mistaken, a Targaryen banner but instead of the golden — or heck even the red — three headed dragon, the three headed dragon was embrodiered in green thread, which made of it a much older banner than Rhaenys would have guessed, for only one prince in the whole of their story had claimed  that  banner, during his time of regency during the Dance of Dragons. 

That must have been Aemond Targaryen’s personal banner, so whatever heirloom House Whent was claiming it must have been passed down from him to lady Celia and later her heirs as per his own will and the king’s decree; it made her almost fill with rage that a Stark lady — a lady who had commanded the extinction of the mixed line in the North — would get a Targaryen heirloom  before  the heir apparent to the Iron throne. 

An almost sob tore from her lips, bringing Rhaenys back to herself, when she discovered what had been nestled in the folded banner, so Rhaenys approached as well, curious to see what might have elicited such a reaction from her. It was nothing particularly beautiful, but just a locket — a Valyrian steel locket that she could see — and Rhaenys couldn’t really explain the reaction lady Stark had, had at it. 

“My mother spoke to me about this…” she offered, in reply to her silent question, “she never quite could bring herself to write to have this shipped North, though she had wished it much, for her late mother had treasured it very much indeed, thank you lady Whent” she added, then — not even bothering to ask if Rhaenys wished to hold it first, as it was her blood right — she grabbed the chain of the locket and latched it around her neck, then securing the locket underneath her corset for safe keeping.

Are you serving me insult, lady Stark? , Rhaenys wondered darkly. 

“The  Treasure of Harrenhal  finally has a new owner,” she offered “it was passed down from prince Maelor to lady Celia and then from her to her children, until your late grandmother,” she said “legend says it belonged to lady Ned Whent, a gift from prince Aemond, a piece belonging to a set with a sapphire-hairnet of Valyrian steel that has been lost,” she said, gesturing for the painting of lady Celia at the very back of the hall. 

Rhaenys watched it closely and for the first time she caught a resemblance — in mannerism more than anything else — between the woman depicted and the Stark lady standing before the portrait now; the woman had dark hair, instead of red, but the eyes were one and the same, as were the cheekbones. Lady Celia had been depicted at an older age than lady Stark was now, and she wore a sapphire hairnet peeking from her dark curls, and from her crossed arms, the hand collected on her lap, dangled the locket lady Stark was now wearing. 

The man that had remained by lady Stark’s side exclaimed in surprise, “Seven hells!, if I wouldn’t know better, my lady, I would say…”

“She looks like my lady mother,” lady Stark nodded, “the resemblance is uncanny,” she stated “blood is not water after all” she commented, her smile full, but also sad for some reason Rhaenys could not fathom.

“Indeed, lady Stark” lady Whent commented, and only then did lady Stark look right at her and Rhaenys had the uncanny feeling that the woman was looking straight underneath her skin and through her soul.

“Princess Rhaenys,” she offered “I heard a great deal of things about you. You are the king’s only surviving child, yet the queen is expecting is she not?”

“She is” Rhaenys almost shuddered at the thought “the Queen is a Frey and they do have a name for being  extremely  fertile” 

At the mention of the Freys, lady Stark made a funny face “Indeed,” she commented “is lord Frey still in good health?, I had heard he had developed quite the bad cough” 

Lady Whent assured her, he had indeed fallen ill but the Maester had good hopes the old man would not kick the bucket yet, to which lady Stark commented, almost under her breath “I shall pray for it, then” 

It struck Rhaenys as strange that she would say  it  instead of  him , and if Rhaenys knew her better she would swear the woman was hoping for the old-timer to actually die, as soon as possible. 

“…still,” lady Stark commented “that is not what I wanted to enquire. My question pertains your intentions, princess. If the queen was to birth an healthy son, to reach adulthood, what would be your plans? I do not wish for a reprisal of the Dance of Dragons, especially in such a delicate moment” 

And herein laid the problem. What would lady Stark like to hear? 

What would Rhaenys  truly  do? She intended for no Frey whelp to steal her birthright, yet if he did reach adulthood by all laws he would be the rightful heir to the Iron throne, no matter that Rhaenys had spent her whole life proving she was worthy of it. 

“I would do right by the Realm,” she settled on at last, “I do wish for a new civil war either,” she offered “and the last one almost existinguished us all, but I will not stand by if my children are threatened. You have several younger brothers and yet you inherited your father’s seat” 

“As his wish,” lady Stark replied “and as per our laws, but I have faced challenges, from my own blood. Men will seldom accept a woman’s rule without a fight, and my brother fought for me. What would yours do?”

Rhaenys was hard pressed for a true answer then, “I would not foster hate with my own blood,” she said “my brother would fight for me too”

“And if he didn’t? I need to know what fate would await my brother if he were to marry you, what fate would await my niblings if you ever gave him children” lady Stark stated. 

“I would protect them,” Rhaenys replied without missing a beat “no matter against what odds. No matter the personal sacrifices” she admitted. 

Lady Stark looked her dead in the eye “And if that sacrifice was the Iron throne? Would you sacrifice your children or the throne?”

“I am half a Martell, lady Stark. You know the words of House Martell?  Unbowed, unbent, unbroken ,” she recited “my mother  died  in the attempt to give my father a male heir he still lacks. If women could inherit same as men everywhere in the Realm, then ladies wouldn’t be so hard pressed and at times downright killed for the male heir they could not produce, would you consider women unable to rule, my lady?”

“There would be,” she added, “no more Elia Martell, no more countless women killed, set aside or ruined in the attempt to have a male heir” she said “male and female heir would be equals, as we are born. Doesn’t the Mother sit at the side of the Father, the Maiden beside the Warrior?”

Lady Stark considered her at length, “That doesn’t change the law  now ” she said “if a prince is born of the Queen you’ll be pushed further down the line of succession, and if you were to have male children, and your brother was unfit or some lords saw him as such, the lords could start to clamor for your sons, my brother’s sons, to inherit, and then a succession crisis would arise. What then?”

“Then I would defend them with all my might,” she swore, “for they are my blood. An unfit ruler has been dethroned before by his heir, it would not be the first time nor the last,” she said “why, king Daeron I dethroned king Aemon the Mad after he succeeded king Aemond the Thousand Days king, and there was no bloodbath for it, no civil war”

Lady Stark considered her at length then commented, “You are aware of the Pact that king Aegon sealed with lord Cregan Stark, are you not?,” she questioned. 

“Aye I am,” Rhaenys replied quietly as lady Shella Whent directed the servants around them to give them more privacy “through it the North became a principality and gave their military support to the warring king. The North and the South are supposed to stand united against any enemy because of it” 

Lady Stark nodded, “Aye,” she nodded “as part of that agreement, the South is supposed to send more men to the Wall to mann it against the enemy that lies beyond, and enemy that has been slumbering, but that shall not slumber anymore”

“Are you having issues with the wildlings?” Rhaenys wondered “is this what all of this is about? You want support against the wildlings?”

Lady Stark shook her head, “I wish we were,” she murmured, “no, the wildlings are not a problem, as long as they survive and do not add to the enemy’s numbers. No, princess. The true enemy brings the storm” she said “and winter comes with Him”

She looked at her dead in the eyes “I need to know you  will upkeep the pact when I come calling,” she said, her voice dark and unrelenting. 

Rhaenys looked at her, at her eyes of sapphire, eyes that seemed to know a thousand of unknown tragedies, a thousand of unknown paths and heartbreaks, a woman who wore around the neck the proof of the love of a Targaryen prince. 

“I will” Rhaenys said, “I can scarcely expect of you to eventually back me and my children just because of my marriage to your brother if I am not ready to do the same for you. Against any enemy that you fight. If you become my sister,” she promised “your fight becomes my fight. And if the North is threatened… it is still part of the Realm, it is my duty to defend it with you”

Lady Stark seemed to be satisfied with  that  answer, “Then, I’ll be glad to call you sister,” she said.

So they settled in the next days to discuss of dowries and lands and duties and ceremonies, and lady Stark spoke more at length of the great threat they could be exposed to. Beyond the Wall a Nights Watch deserter, Mance Ryder had united most wildlings clans, named himself king beyond the Wall and was marching to the Wall in an attempt to invade across the icy border. 

“My kin, Benjen, is First Ranger and has spoken to him. Mance Ryder claims they are fleeing from an enemy from fable,” Sansa Stark told them all, “the Watch spoke of this enemy, they met this enemy in open field. They say it raises the dead, but for now it seems content to lay in waiting beyond the Wall” she said “there are reports of the last dragon rider of the wall, lord commander Brandon Stark, who flew with Whiteclaw across the Real North, and almost lost his own dragon to their lances” she explained.

“Others? You want us to believe in Others?” Rhaenys demanded, surprised of such a malady in the lady’s mind. What did nurses feed Stark children? Tales, fables?

“I am not asking you to believe in Others,” lady Stark commented, “maybe they are just necromancers who raise the dead, some tribe which colors their skins blue,” she said, though Rhaenys had the odd feeling she was lying “but they  are  real,” she stated “the Nights Watch is attempting to capture one alive, to bring this to the king’s attention with proof, it could take a day as it could take ten years,” she added “I have been preparing for winter to ensure we survive it, but I need to know that the South will aid us when the time comes as promised, swear it to me, princess, and you’ll have House Stark”

Rhaenys considered it. 

If Sansa Stark was mad… perhaps her father’s plan could have merit, though it was disinheartening to see a woman she had looked out so much to meet to fall in the category of mad women whose madness was fed by those around her instead of quenched. 

“Bring us proof. The South will,  I  will, come to the aid of House Stark,” no matter what that entailed, if it entailed getting out of the rulership a man woman she’d do that too “if an enemy threatens it” she vowed.

Lady Baeryl besides them scoffed as she caressed her snout of her own dragon, placidly sitting wrapped around her own chair under the pavilion, “Proved the enemy is real,” she muttered, her eyes fixed on the lady with almost a predatory glint, but lady Stark merely gestured with both hands, “My lady Baratheon possesses a dragon, does she not? The truth of my statement is there to be seen, why don’t you fly your dragon across the Wall and Beyond and tell us?,” she challenged, “proved that you manage to command him to cross beyond it,”

Lady Baeryl stood up then, her chair scratching on the floor “Are you insulting my skills on dragon back, my lady?,” she hissed as a serpent, her eyes frighteningly bleary.

Lady Stark’s smirk was an odd, terrifying thing, in the face of a mad dragon rider and her dragon so close and in firing range to her, “At all, my lady,” she commented, “that I know of no southern riders have not been able to have their dragons fly Beyond the Wall, why not even king Jaehaerys and queen Alysanne managed,” she said “I’m to understand that not even Vhagar flew beyond the Wall,” she added “and her riders were amongst the bravest of the lot. But be my guest, you may  surprise  me”

Rhaenys wondered where did Sansa Stark get so confident and sure even when speaking naught to a dragon rider’s face, and saw that her twin brother did not seem any less unimpressed and untouched by lady Baeryl’ disgruntled face and her dragon’s roar, if anything he looked as unbothered as his twin sister. 

Baeryl seemed about to say something, but did not indeed, as Aerion uncrossed both his arms and sighed “The Sky’s Ghosts have a sacred and holy purpose,” he stated “ ours  is the defense of the Realm whole and the Wall against any enemy,” he said, his eyes fixed on lady Stark “I told you this already, lady Stark. You do not need her word, you just need  mine ,” 

Prince Robb did seem surprised at that, and Aerion merely shrugged and straightened his posture in the chair, the Green Queen keeping vigil just outside the pavilion, wrapped around one of the turrets as if some creature of nightmare out of song, “And my proposal is still valid,” he added, standing up and adjusting his own jerkin, “I told you, this act does not suit you” he said. 

Rhaenys felt utterly betrayed that they would speak of this kind of matters out of her knowledge and by prince Robb own look he thought the same, “And I told you I do not trust your proposal,” she replied “I do not trust your motives”

“I am a simple man, lady Stark,” he said “give me your hand and all the dragons Kings Landing has will be at your disposal” 

Lady Stark eyed him and Rhaenys had the knee-jerk reaction of standing up as well, feeling completely enraged by the whole matter. 

Lady Stark had gone behind her back and had seduced her cousin — despite her, now false she would assume, protests — and her cousin, the idiot, had befallen for the first blue, northern eyes he had seen. 

“You will forgive me, lord Blackfyre,” lady Stark said, her tone so cold that it almost emanated the chill “but my hand in not up for discussion, and if you really say that protecting the North is your  duty  as members of the Sky Ghosts, I don’t see why I should marry you to have you do as your duty and defend the North” 

Aerion’ grin was something as fierce as it was terrible, just as she was, as she turned to her, “I would have your word, princess Rhaenys. Dragons or not, you are the heir to the Iron throne,”

Rhaenys collected her hands before herself, “You have my word. House Targaryen will keep its faith to you, in your time of need. As we expect you to do for us, in our time of need”

“As House Stark has always done,” lady Stark nodded, “and thus I shall entrust my most beloved brother to you, and pray that you make him happy” she added. 

She pounced on her cousin as soon as their guests had dispersed once again back to their chambers, or, in lady Stark’s case in the gardens with lady Shella Whent and her oldest son, the lord of Harrenhal. Robb Stark instead was joined by Rodrick Cassel on the training grounds, apparently the man had taught his late lord father how to fight as he had been Winterfell’s master-at-arms for decades before swearing his sword to the protection of the new Warden of the North. 

She grabbed him by the collar of his doublet, jerking him and pushing him across the hall and with his back against the wall, then she pressed her poison coated blade across his neck “What kind of treachery is this?,” she hissed under her breath, “was this your plan all along? Do you really wish to join the Starks to your bloodline so that when you move for the Iron throne the northerners will back you?!” 

Aerion did not seem as terrorised as he should be with poison poised just across his flesh, but his eyes were slits of coldness and frost, and calm fury raging silently just as her own rage was singing loudly for all to hear. 

His reply was short and simple “I have had my eye on lady Stark from long  before  talk of your marriage to her brother was breached,” he admitted, making her blink in surprise at his lack of even attempting to lie, “she’s been  my  target all along,” he commented with a shrug. 

Rhaenys pressed the blade closer to his neck, he did jut his chin up and his grip around her arms did not ease, but he also kept facing her straight on “And you say you wish not for the Iron throne,” she spat “should’ve known better than to trust a bastard”  she hissed. 

“You really should have,” he commented with a shrug “besides, my eye is on a much bigger prize,” he added “and I will use any mean I posses to reach it,” 

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand, and put finally an end to your family’s treachery?,” she demanded, “my father the king has been too lenient toward you, he should have slain you after he slayed your father for his attempt to steal the Iron throne,”

“He should have,” Aerion agreed, “now, instead  I possess the greatest strength the Seven Kingdoms and House Targaryen have to offer, and I will use it as well as I please,” he added, “lady Stark might be difficult now, but she will need my dragonriders, and we’ve been created to serve her”

“You’ve been created to serve the crown” she spat back in his face, her own growing heated for the argument “to serve the Realm”

Aerion just shrugged placidly “That’s a matter of semantics,” he said “the crown won’t keep your bed warm,” he commented, “it won’t hold you steadfastly or sing you to sleep at night. The Realm won’t tend to you when you are ill, and gently caress all the pain away. The Realm won’t bite back and draw blood when you fight. It won’t give you the  thrill . Keep your Realm and your crown, I have my own prize”

The shift was immediate, Rhaenys looked at him with narrowed eyes, but could detect no lie in his dark eyes, “If you have lady Stark…” she ventured to ask. 

“Unless she’d ask it of me,” he concurred “you could keep the Iron throne. I have no need for that lump of cold metal, unless it makes her happy”

She grimaced “You just met her,” she butted in. 

“That is neither here nor there,” he replied, the he grabbed the blade she was still holding at his neck with his hand, slicing his own palm in the process and Rhaenys felt cold dread fill her belly as his blood run down the cut of the blade to drop on the ground, just one droplet of its poison fatal, “now I would very much appreciate, cousin, if you removed your poisoned blade from my neck. I have a Warden of the North to woo” 

She watched astounded as he merely fished a handkerchief from his pocket and dried at the blood on his palm, “The… the…” she commented, trying to rack her brain for the location of the antidote in her voyaging laboratory instead of in her own chamber back in the Red Keep.

“Antidote?,” he guessed, “I do not need it. I have been building resistance to all poisons present in your laboratory and some more to be sure. It’s just a tingle,” he added twirling his hand for her to see, and most certainly even though the skin was inflamed around the cut, it had not become either infected, nor black as it was supposed to after coming in contact with the poison; though his affirmation begged the question, how come he could come and go as he pleased from her laboratory to go that well which poisons she possessed and which not; he stepped around her “though cousin, you should not draw a poisoned blade unless you are prepared to use it to kill. Otherwise it’s just useless and makes you look naive and weak”

He adjusted his doublet “Now, I must away on my quest for the northern lady’s hand,” he said “she has eluded it for too long” he commented as if he was speaking of years instead of the days he had known the damned woman. 

Rhaenys watched him go in silence; and when she found him, later that afternoon brooding over lady Stark having left the premises with lord Whent to pay her respects to the small mausoleum built on the Isle of Faces for House Whent, and thus having eluded his attentions, she sat opposite of her “If I help you woo lady Stark will you back my birthright unquestioningly?”

He considered her with a glint in his eye, before straightening and crossing his arms across his chest, “You told lady Stark you would consider sacrificing the throne for the good of the Realm, and now you speak of  unquestionable birthright ?” 

“Do not be daft, lady Stark did not believe a single word out of my mouth,” she hissed “she’s ready to depose anyone who doesn’t do her bidding, and she laughs in face of dragons” she said “but she won’t be able to  if  I am stronger,”

“I thought you believed her mad for her story about the Others,” he commented. Rhaenys shrugged. 

“History has taught us that a madman is not less dangerous because of it, and if madness it is,” she added, “it’s a lucid kind of madness, and I would be rue to ignore it and the threat it poses,” 

He cocked his head to the side then he stood up, “I do not need your help to woo lady Stark,” he said “I enjoy the challenge and she’s no scared lamb,” he said “but, if the heir to the Iron throne would consider supporting  this match at court in case the need arose, I would be grateful” 

His goading smirk let her know that if she did not it would not matter for him; she did not know if it was wise to believe her cousin’s words, but indeed he was the commander of the Sky’s Ghosts, and she could not hope to influence his politics differently, and even if he were to die he had already trained a second in command who’d honor his wills; Rhaenys would have to replace them both, and the only dragon rider she would trust would be prince Aemon Martell, who had been denied entrance in the Sky’s Ghosts so far together with a couple of others. 

“I will back your match with lady Stark,” she promised, “then we would become as good as siblings, and not mere cousins. If we work together we can make anything we wish happen”

Her cousin considered her for a long moment, “I have a debt to collect,” he commented, “but beyond that…” he then opened his arms wide “Your Grace, I shall be at your disposal”

Rhaenys had known since she had been old enough, that her life would be a continuous struggle for power, as it behested of her when she was the first female heir apparent since the Dance of Dragons. 

Word reached them, not even a few weeks into their stay there. 

The Queen had lost the babe, and Rhaenys was just thankful that she had not been there to be accused of having poisoned the woman, when she had taken abed at almost five moons along and had lost the babe around the seventh. 

Her spies reported that the woman seemed to have rejected the babe, and to no surprise as it had been born malformed — it had been a boy, to her father’s greatest dismay — and disfigured with stunts wings and scaly flesh. Her spies reported he had also been blind and had claws instead of fingers. A draconian baby of the likes they had not seen since before the Dance, since Maegor the Cruel. 

The babe who was burned with all the pump of a heir of House Targaryen, was named Maelor and though the queen seemed to be healthy after the premature birth, her spies reported that her father had once again secluded himself and commanded the queen to remain sequestered in her quarters to think over her treachery. 

Rhaenys was almost sorry for the woman, and the babe. It did not deserve that fate, but saw this as a proof that the Gods wished for her to rule after her father, why else would they show them a draconian, disfigured child after so many years of healthy births or natural stillbirths without draconian traits? If not to condemn her father’s race for a male heir he did not need?

She did not share her thoughts with her new allies, and showed herself contrite over the loss, wearing the color of mourning and accepting graciously the condolences she received from her husband to be and her soon to be good sister. 

She believed herself now, once again, safe. 

But power… safety… they are all a fickle thing. 

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Sansa, 

She gently removed a branch of the climbing ivy that had, a testament of the passing of time, claimed the tombstone. 

The mausoleum itself was very beautiful, a seven sided polyhedron, with colored-glass windows and a dome with a central summit hole to collect the rainwater and sunrays on their descent down, a pool had been dug and lined with blackstone — “A gift from Oldtown for the construction,” — just below the holed dome. Bats and dragons and other winged creatures were painted in the blackstone, almost as if dancing to their own tune beneath the water. 

The keepers of the Isle of Faces considered the pool sacred and that House Whent was to care for the building and the Isle and the pool was their demand for letting them build the mausoleum on their sacred land, just a few steps away from the Heart Trees, that had become considered as an annexed garden to the mausoleum in the last decades, for the it was the Whents only lately who had been caring for the sacred isle. 

Several Whents had been entombed here, and those who weren’t were still celebrated with plaques and tiles. Symon’ remains had been moved from their first place of rest — outside the mausoleum in the back garden near the banks of the lake — to the building, and Sansa had spent long minutes kneeling at his tomb, marked by a tile in his own name. 

Here lies lord Symon of House Whent, beloved husband. Friend of princes and adored father.  Sansa had to conceal her own sobs as lord Whent showed her every tile, every tomb, unable to show properly for her grief. House Whent might know that Sansa shared their blood, they might even know something she did not by the way lady Shella had been acting, but more than anything they seemed to have taken their role of defence of the Isle of Faces with great care. 

Besides the depictions on the walls of the pool, the mausoleum was spartan looking, scanty, more akin to an ancient temple for the Old Gods than a Sept — even though the Whents kept the New Gods — and that had given her some modicum of peace, at last. 

After a quick tour of the mausoleum lord Whent had led her to the real heart of the building, even though it was not enclosed in its walls. “We did not have the heart to cover the sky from them,” lord Whent explained even though Sansa did not ask why the real heart of the building was outside of it, “he was a dragon rider and she took to the skies with him,” he added “we did not wish to hinder them on their way to fly above the clouds again” 

He had explained to her that the tombstone had been changed after prince Aemond had died. It had been a simple grey-stone when lady Whent had died, but when the blackstone for the mausoleum had arrived from Oldtown prince Maelor — who had commissioned the building  and designed to honor his late uncle — had also commissioned for a new tombstone to be laid here when they had been put to rest. 

It was both unsettling and somehow disconcerting, frightening and unnerving to know that her body, or what remained of it, was entombed so few feet underneath the soles of her own boots; and yet there was also something of soothing about it as well. 

“The prince commanded that his heart was to be entombed with his lady love and his body burned as tradition of House Targaryen,” lord Whent had told her, “so the tomb was slightly moved and the casket with his heart was entrusted in the hands of Lady Whent’s body, as by his will” 

It had made tears spring in his eyes at that. It was almost like a declaration for her, sent out centuries past for her to keep hearing it now. For her to remember.  My heart always belonged in your hands . 

The tombstone was of blackstone now, with climbing ivy decorating it in its own way — almost like a warm cloak nature had chosen to wrap around them — in spring, lord Whent had told her, the whole tomb would bloom purple with the ivy’s flowers. The tombstone was plain though a statue of a coiling Vhagar nestled against its back and side guarded the tomb and her rider’s heart. The stone casket had been fashioned to resemble a bed, and a woman with her face covered by a veil and headpiece was held in an embrace by a prince with an eyepatch.  

Perhaps lord Whent understood she needed time, perhaps he simply did not wish to care for a weeping maid he did not know, so he left her there to pay her respects, leaving her to her privacy as he, instead, checked the perimeter and the building for any repairs needed as winter approached. 

She gingerly followed the words incised on the side of the casket of blackstone. 

Lady Ned of House Whent, here lies with the heart of her prince, Aemond of House Targaryen. 

Too well loved to ever be forgotten, reunited in death as love surpasses life for the only season that remains.

And the tears, held at bay for so long, sprang from her eyes as if river from broken dam. Sansa felt the tombs tear at her heartstrings, as if her own voice had gone silent, as if such a proof surpassed even the greatest of poetries she could remember. 

She felt her legs failing her, forcing her to slide toward the damp earth of the green ivy-covered tomb, uncaring for the moist darkening her skirts. She just let her head loll down, as her own tears mixed with the earth, watering her own tomb. 

And only when she had cried her fill was she able to look at the tomb and exhale, realising at last she was yet alive.  Alive . Her heart still beat inside her chest, and it would beat enough for the both of them just as Aemond’s had carried on for them both until he had returned it to her even in death. 

My heart , he had called her,  my soul  more often than not. Sansa perhaps had diminished the importance those words had, the declaration they were. A declaration Aemond had furthered more in his death as well. She could not imagine how heartbreaking it must have been for him to hold her broken body in his arms, to lay her in the dark earth and carry on until he could not anymore and returned to her. 

And now… now Sansa had to face the very same challenge. 

And she would. She would.

“You were supposed to be here,” she whined “next to me,” she cried “return to me…” she begged “even as a shadow, even as a dream” 

They were the words he had, had incised on the back of the locket, and perhaps only now Sansa understood. She should have known better than to let their own love grow as much as it had, she should have kept her distance and perhaps after her departure he would have found love. And yet… yet she couldn’t bring herself to even think of a life where she could keep him at arm’s length. 

“You entrusted this Realm to me,” she murmured “you took care of it as I asked. I will see it to triumph against death,” she vowed, “and then I shall return to your side forever more, I promise”

Then she stood up, brushed a hand across the dragon statue “Keep us safe,” she murmured, then she slid her hands back in the pockets of her cloak and joined lord Whent back inside the mausoleum; as he led her back out of the main entrance, Sansa turned around, staring at the several generations of Whents that had, somehow, defended her memory even if they did not know it was  hers . 

“Thank you,” she murmured low enough that lord Whent merely heard her breath. 

As he rowed them back to the mainland they spoke of many things. Of his wife and his daughter and of how he had in good hopes she might grow to be as beautiful as she was. Sansa had been surprised by that.

He had shrugged “It seems that the beauty of House Whent had been passed down to you,” he said and it was then that Sansa learned of the paintings. 

The  portraits . 

Several were incomplete, especially the ones he had painted later in life, and of the several that had been guarded by House Whent only three survived — the rest having perished and been destroyed in a fire that had destroyed half the painting room a century past — and apparently the Whents had been quite heartened by her resemblance of whom they considered their nothing short of legendary founder — even though lord Whent and lady Celia were the true founders and she just a placeholder — which had been why lady Shella had been so forthcoming and had given her the locket. 

Sansa had gone to look at the paintings and she had ended up crying more tears even though she had believed that none were left. The very existence of the room, even if not the same he had occupied back when he had been alive, had filled her with renewed tears. 

And then she had seen them. And the sob had been torn from her lips. 

He had painted  her , and for the first time Sansa could see herself through his eyes instead than across a reflecting glass. 

She was a lady with flowers in her eyes, pearls around her neck and lysenese translucent silk wrapped around her head and her shoulders. 

She was a lover, wrapped in an ivory nightshift, with comb and mirror in her hand, her eyes hauntingly beautiful, her neck bare for his kisses. 

She was a new Jonquil, a wood nimph wearing his green and her grey, her fingers stringing the high harp, with dragons effigies and wooden swans, climbing ivy around her and the unfinished sketch a wolf at her feet. 

Haunting.

Beautiful.

Eternally young. 

He was never in the picture, though there were male figures, cloaked in black in the background of his two finished paintings observing her. As if she was something he could see, he could love, but he could not longer touch and it broke her heart once again. To the point Sansa wondered how could one walk for years with a broken heart in their chest. 

It took her what felt like a whole life to leave that room. 

Her heartbreak resonating with her so much that her twin even found her, his eyes filled with worry and concern and his breath short and labored as if he had run to her. 

Sansa looked at him.

At her brother. 

It had been Robb he had prayed for. And he had died anyway.

Then, when she had been stronger, she had  acted  for Jon. And for Brandon and for Rickon. 

And her fear and her heartbreak where there, right there on her face, held out for her brother to see. Robb might not understand  why  she was heartbroken but he knew she was. 

It took but a moment, and she was reaching out and she was in her brother’s arms, his hand coming to cup the back of her head, the crown of her hair nestled under his chin, as her arms came to wrap around his shoulders. 

I have missed you, big brother. 

Robb did not ask and Sansa did not explain. 

There was no need for.

Her brother was here, and though she had failed him before… like he had failed her, Sansa had promised herself she would not let her failure with Jon repeat. Her brother would live a long and healthy life, he would live to see his children and raise them and name them after their father and their mother, and one day Sansa would tell him. 

One day. 

Or she would take that secret to her grave. Though she hadn’t managed before. 

And when Robb let her go, whispering softly “Are you alright?” Sansa just nodded, and patted his arm. 

“I just miss home,” she said.  My home, the home I built here, that rests six feet under, and when princess Rhaenys’ cat caught their attention, purring at Robb — of all things — and letting her brother collect him from the railing, even going as far as snuggling against his chest, Sansa chuckled and told her brother perhaps he needed to return the cat to his mistress, so that they may spend some time together. 

And so she watched him go, as the Green Queen screeched above their head, flying overhead and reminding by her own existance that no, Sansa was not home, even though Harrenhal been for quite some time her home.

“Lady Stark” 

His voice made her twist around, her gaze locked into his and her heart broke anew. Her brother did not exist in this place anymore, and yet she looked at him and wondered if  this  was what he would have grown to be if aunt Lyanna had survived, or Rhaegar had survived and he had not been raised in Winterfell, next to them. If he would have become the picture of the Targaryen  bastard . Reminding her so of the enemies that had almost destroyed anything she had held dear in that other timeline. 

“Lord Blackfyre,” she greeted, “what can I do for you? I am afraid I have not changed my mind about your proposal,” 

Lord Blackfyre did not comment on  that , Sansa had been astounded to the seven hells and back when he had actually proposed they marry to secure the support of the Skyghosts for the North. 

“That is not why I am here,” he shrugged “you will see in time the advantages of our match,” he added “I can be patient, it’s not yet a good season for us perhaps”

Sansa frowned and considered him as he walked closer, she looked away from him once again, her eyes fixed upon the courtyard and beyond to the town and the lake the mausoleum — shining in the distance black crystal — he did not speak for a while to then ask “Why is it that you dislike me so, my lady?,” his voice almost little, “I may not be a prince, but I have done nothing dishonorable to you”

Sansa considered if to tell the truth, as she turned to fix her gaze on him. He was tall, taller than her by a few inches and he was slender in a way Robb never could have been, though she would not mistake him for anything but a lethal and skilled fighter. She had seen too many of them moving to not recognize the lethal grace of his every movement. 

He was… it was all wrong.

You aren’t him . 

You are supposed to be closer thing I could find to my brother, and at times you almost feel like him. But then you act all different and I don’t know you anymore… and then you say something and all I can see il Daemon Targaryen…

… and no matter how much I may wish it… you aren’t  him ; not even when you scrunch your face so. 

“I don’t dislike you,” she replied instead, the lie falling easily off her tongue, “you confuse me, it’s all” she admitted, looking away from him once again, “I have heard of your dislike of northerners until my ears bleed,” she commented “and yet here you are, insisting on your proposal”

“I’d like to point out that I did not, in fact, spoke of it once today,” he said “and that type of match makes sense,” he added “it would not be the first time a Stark lady married a dragon rider,” he offered, “you stand to gain anything and loose nothing from it”

“Besides my autonomy, you mean?,” she questioned “I am the first female Warden of the North,” she said, the hairpin that Aemond had sent north weighting heavy at the back of her head “marrying would mean diminishing my own autonomy and right to Winterfell” 

He hummed as he came closer still, turning to fix his own gaze upon the horizon, “I don’t care overly much for my name,” he said, turning to look at her “I would not pose a threat to your birthright and I would not diminish your autonomy,” he added “on the contrary I would  back  you autonomy and decisions unquestioningly” 

Sansa rolled her eyes “You say that now, but you cannot promise that”

“I can,” he replied instead “I am not a prince of the Realm, though I share the Targaryen blood. I am a bastard, I don’t have a birthright. I would just be your consort and your iron fist when needed. You’d pass the sentence, I’d swing the sword”

Sansa frowned at that, that was what her lord father used to say —  the man who passes the sentence should also swing the sword — it surprised her to hear such words so far away from home. 

He smiled, his smile handsome in his own way “My mother was northerner herself,” he reminded her “with Stark blood. I know what House Stark preaches, the old way. The man who passes the sentence should also swing the sword”

“Aye,” she commented “but I do not need an executioner,” she offered “I was born with a twin, Robb is my hands when I am the head” 

“Yes,” he nodded “yet Robb will have other responsibilities now, with my cousin. You’ll need someone else to back you unconditionally, and all your siblings may one day find their paths. You’ll need someone who’d stick by you”

“And you’d do that?,” she questioned “why?”

He shrugged, looking away from her, “I have a debt to collect” he said ominously, “and I intend to collect it. A promise I made to fulfill,”

When I return and I will return…

…  the voice drifted across time and Sansa grimaced, feeling the stiffness of her twisted shoulder and of her wounded arm after her last encounter with Daemon. 

She looked away from him, a lump in her throat “I am afraid I cannot help you with that,” she said, offering him a curtsy “my apologies,” she added before leaving.

He did not hold her back. 

You are not him.

In the late autumn after the long summer, the summit of Harrenhal took place and princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen was betrothed to prince Robb Stark of Winterfell as a result of a month long talks between the princess and the Warden of the North, lady Sansa Stark. 

Though it had been agreed that the marriage would happen on the Isle of Faces, to honor both the Old and the New Gods, the princess was summoned with all haste back to the capital after the premature birth and subsequent death of her half brother the queen’s stillborn son. 

The king demanded that the marriage of the heir apparent was to happen in the capital before the eyes of all the people of the Realm and invited lady Stark along to discuss further the terms of solidarity broached between her and princess Rhaenys. 

Thus the northern party was forced to proceed further South escorted by two dragons and two direwolves. In the years that would come that would be named the March of Dragon and Wolf, for princess Rhaenys and her betrothed rode together through the gates of the capital followed closely by lady Stark and the commander of the Skyghosts. 

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Robb, 

The Princess delegation, back from the Riverlands, accompanied by the northern party rode through the Dragon’s Gate; and though the people of Kings Landing were used to the dragons, they were also far away beasts and the memory of their threat no longer fresh. 

 

Such was not for the direwolves, indeed the northern beasts that had never been seen so south of the Wall filled the common folk and the nobles alike with wonder and fear for a direwolf at the peak of its growth could as easily tear an arm off a man’s socket as they could hunt a small horse or bear for prey, though the northerners had a firm hand on them. 

 

What seemed to much disquieten the common folk and nobles was the peculiar capacity of the northerners, the Stark Prince consort and the lady of Winterfell, to change into the wolves at their leisure.

 

Unnatural, they dubbed it. Witchcraft many would later claim, but all in all it was not much different, as lord Blackfyre claimed, than the bond between dragon and rider. 

 

It seemed disheartening the way Sansa looked every mile more they were closer to the capital; she seemed pensive all voyage, preferring the wheel-house over riding on horseback. Probably to keep some distance between herself and lord Blackfyre who had taken upon himself, apparently, the role of converser and fool for her. 

The man was otherwise somber, even brooding, yet he seemed to amuse himself with making a fool of his person, his name and his title in Sansa’s presence, and would look mighty smug about it too, when he succeeded to make her smile for however begrudgingly. 

It wasn’t much that he would be jubilant, more than he seemed uncaring of his station, what it meant or how his person was perceived — despite his less than noble birth at the expense of his mother, a norther woman and kinswoman of theirs — especially by Sansa. 

Robb had been unaware that words had been shared between them, that he had offered his hand in marriage to her; though for some reason that both surprised him and yet made complete sense for some odd turn of events. 

What preoccupied him the most was that she did not share that bit of information with him, though he was not entitled to it as she was the Head of their House and he was about to be married into another royal family which could alienate him of the more treasured intel and knowledge about the goings qnd comings of the Head of House Stark. Still. He was her twin. 

Her twin. 

They had shared their mother’s womb, and if the Gods had chosen differently Robb would have been the head of House Stark. 

He would not begrudge Sansa her role as lady Stark, for she was cut for her duty. 

She was cut for her role, and one day her statue would join that of the kings of winter in the crypts of Winterfell and stand watch with her Lady against the malevolent ghosts from the loins of the earth. 

Still, he wondered at times. How much of his twin he got to see, and in which part the Lady Stark would take over his twin Sansa. 

Maybe they were two separate people, or one the very same. Yet, at times, though he knew Sansa his twin, he felt as if Lady Stark was a stranger who had lived a thousand years, and seen a thousand battles. 

Why, his sister — who to his renocking,— had not seen death before, had not been horrified by the battlefield, the dead… the wounded. As if she had seen it before. 

There wasn’t the slightest of qualm, no mention of horror at seeing mutilated bodies or the dead. The only instruction his sister had thought fitting to give him was to burn the dead and return their belongings to the family every time it was possible with the knowledge they had been set to rest with all honor of befallen warriors.

That woman, who had stood over the battlefield, with her direwolf wrapped around her as if a cloak, with eyes as cold as eyes had looked over the mess of mud, sweat, blood and flesh and she had spoken with the kind of voice that would have — it already had — made empire crumble into dust. 

Those times he felt like he did not know his twin at all. Like his sister was a stranger, wearing her face like a mask. 

That very same woman seemed to be their constant companion, more than his twin. When he had voiced his concerns to Rodrick Cassel the man had given a full, strong belly laugh “She’s like your lord Father that one,” he had said, and Robb knew that was no small degree of compliment coming from him “she’s not just your twin anymore,” he had told him “she’s also Lady Stark,” 

“Your lord Father was your father, but there were times he was your liege lord” he had explained “Sansa is the same, she’s your twin and for that you love her, but there will be times she’s lady Stark too” 

Will that mean that if she’s lady Stark she won’t come to save me, if needed because House Stark can’t?, he couldn’t help but wonder. 

Yet she had promised. 

She had promised, and to Sansa promises were more resistant than stone. 

Girls are not important enough, are they?

He shook his head, the voice dissipating from his mind and with it the dread he felt coiling in his belly, he tugged at the reins of his stead and twisted around enough to glimpse at the wheel house not far from them. 

Their great uncle, the Blackfish, was in Sansa’s retinue now for he much wished to visit with his niece and would follow Sansa back North when she returned, he knew both their great uncle and Sansa wished for him to have Bran squire under him; and he rode near the wheelhouse, though he was taciturn and Robb could see why, as Sansa seemed to be quite cold toward him for some unknown reason. 

And, to be added, he observed murderously as lord Blackfyre did his best to charm Sansa. 

Lord Blackfyre was disliked in the Riverlands and the North both. The first had suffered at length after his father had brought war and rebellion to it, the latter could scarcely forgive him the fault that he was born as the stain on the honor of northern woman. 

That dislike seemed to tenfold because of the man provocative and antagonistic behavior toward them. The only one that, for some reason, seemed to beset him to quieten and to dissolve his antagonistic purpose was Sansa and Robb misliked to even think of the reason why. 

Presently Lord Blackfyre was lazily riding besides the wheelhouse, near Sansa’ open window, and was reciting poetry of all things.

And not old Valyrian poetry, but poetry of the Seven Kingdoms. If Robb was not mistaken and Bran had a better ear for poetry than he did, he might hazard that he was reciting Gleam of sapphire, cheeks of snow, which — interestingly enough — was written by Prince Maelor Targaryen shortly after he took permanent residence in Harrenhal. 

A bard from the westerlands had joined their party as well in search for fortune by traveling the Riverlands he had offered to follow them and gladden them with songs and poems, even write a song for the princess if they offered him a plate and their protection.

He seemed to pick up several of the poetry’ rhymes to compose his song for Robb’s wife to be — and had even approached him with the offer of writing a wedding song for them which could be one of his wedding gifts. 

And though Robb had been welcoming of the offer, for it certainly would endear him more to his wife to be, he was less welcoming of where the rhymes were coming from even though they were written by others, it was still by lord Blackfyre incessant attempt to win his twin’s favor that the bard was learning them and weaving them in the new song. 

The bard was walking, as he could not afford a horse and they had none to spare, though his bride often welcomed him in her wheelhouse, the panels open as he delighted her with his songs. 

Robb would be jealous if by the man unmistakable gait and the permanent presence of any of the princess servants at her side, inside the wheelhouse, so that her virtue was undisputed. 

The man himself was not much loved in their present company, though he attempted his fortune by signing several songs that had been written and were sung especially for the Riverlands, so Robb could not fault him the fact that he’d rather stick close to the princess who seemed to favor him so. 

Whatever the qualms people had with him, lord Blackfyre seemed to share it and unleashed the best of his antagonistic nature on the poor man. 

Sansa, who had loved nothing as best as the tales of knightly valor and princesses and princes, seemed unbelievably sad any time the man decided to change his repertoire, gladdening them with songs for the lost kings of House Targaryen. 

Some were quite famous and Robb too knew them by heart for he had heard them oft, particularly the ones about the One-Eye and his lady Bat, or the one about the Targaryen pilgrim and his Rivers nymph.  

Lord Blackfyre seemed quite so attuned to Sansa’s mood swings pertaining the songs that had taken upon himself to be of the most disturbance as possible when one particular song seemed to sadden her.

Perhaps a brother ought to feel content in seeing the man viwing for his sister’s hand quite so willing to ensure she was happy and safe both, and a part of him indeed did. 

Another part of him was, instead, filled with dread. He had always been especially protective of Sansa, though she had seldom needed it for she was smart enough to avoid a problem well long before anyone thought it might become a problem. 

And his protectiveness was rearing its ugly head in his mind every time lord Blackfyre’ attentions seemed to hit the nail on the head, making Sansa smile at him ever so lovely.

As she was right now. Lord Blackfyre had stopped his stead, had jumped off the saddle and collected some wildflowers to then offer them to Sansa. 

Sansa accepted the flowers and though not many would guess, Robb knew his sister, she was touched by the gesture. Enamored with it too. 

“He would make her a fine husband,” sir Rodrick commented, at his betrayed look the man shrugged, holding firmly the reins “he’s powerful, and so is she” he said “and he seems genuinely fond of her. Your sister could grow fond of him too with time” 

Robb felt his face contorting in distaste “He’s arrogant,” he said “and cruel. Have you heard the tales about him? Some claim he’s the new Maegor” 

Sir Rodrick seemed to ponder for a long moment “A many great deal of great men had that fame,” he said “though, a cruel man could have the gentles of hands when it comes to their woman. He’s the commander of the Skyghosts, she would be the safest woman in the world” 

As if to exacerbate the point of this truth, the two dragons escorting them flew overhead, the Green Queen screeching, her shadow so big it casted them under her silhouette. 

She would be the safest woman in the world, sir Rodrick had said, and Robb watched as the wheelhouse shook for the power of the air moved by her wings and how Sansa grabbed at the edge of the panel window, lord Blackfyre hand coming to rest over hers as if keep her straight even though his own horse was anxious about the closeness of the dragon. 

The safest woman in the world, echoed in his mind as he watched as lord Blackfyre spoke softly to her. Despite the noise, Robb could read his lips just fine “I know you are scared,” he was telling her “but you will be safe with me,”

He almost expected Sansa to scoff at him, though that wouldn’t quite settle with her ladylike attitude, yet she did not. 

And that, that hurt something unknown deep in his loins. 

Though later, he would admit Sansa indeed would be the safest woman in the world with him at her side, because as they made to make camp they were attacked by brigands. 

But, as of late, the riverlanders brigands were not mere brigands but armed by the Brotherhood to spread panic and disorder across the valleys in a sad attempt to gain more power and money and control from the crown. 

And as such they had a bone to pick especially with the women of their party. 

Familial duty would demand he defend his sister — his heart demanded it — but honor demanded he defend his bride to be. 

“Go to the princess,” Sansa shouted to him, as the Blackfish and lord Blackfyre both barked orders at the men to surround the wheelhouse and keep her safe, “keep her safe!” 

The black knights that followed lord Blackfyre anywhere he went — a cult, Robb had found with profound distaste, that hinged on lord Blackfyre apparent ability at ten and four to challenge and defeat their commander in Southryos and then ferry them to the Realm to fight for him; how the king ever permitted it was beyond him — fell into obedience as soon as their lord called for them. 

They are breed to obey without question the strongest, like a beehive obeys without challenge the Queen Bee, Rodrick Cassel had commented with the Blackfish last time they had spoke of it. 

Robb disliked it, but as long as it ensured Sansa was safe, he would be grateful; as Rodrick Cassel flanked the wheelhouse as well. Robb commanded half their force to follow him to fall back around the princess’ own wheelhouse and looked back but once to see Lady — her fur stained with blood — fighting alongside lord Blackfyre and the Blackfish in defense of her mistress. 

The dragons started circling around the encampment; screeching as the brigands threw them stones and arrows trying to keep them up ahead. 

In reply to the threat of the dragons the brigands though did something Robb was not expecting. 

He had just reached, sword in hand and men in tow, the princess’ wheelhouse, when he saw her outside the wheelhouse whip in one hand and knife in the other taking on any brigand who thought he was strong enough to attack her. 

His surprise must have shown on his face, and though it was formidable to see her fight he could see that her form could use some more practice, because her movements were not as precise as they should have been. 

She must have taken some lessons and training to defend herself should the need arise but there wasn’t the lethal disposition Arya had in her movements. 

She was also bleeding from one wound on her arm though it did not seem too deep, so Robb flanked her side, covering her back so that they had more room of movement, back to back, against the assaulters. 

“I thought for sure you would be with your kin, my prince” she commented archly, as she pivoted on her feet and used her whip to keep away from him on of the men — wrapped around his sword wrist impeding his movement and aiding him in slay him — Robb shrugged “And I thought for sure you would be safe inside the wheelhouse, my Princess” he commented tersely “you’re full of surprises” 

Princess Rhaenys considered him for a moment “So are you” she replied in kind, as the dragons circling above screeched some more. 

Lady Baeryl screamed atop her lungs but she was too far for him to make out the words. 

He looked into her eyes — shining almost mauve in that light — and realised perhaps for the first time that she was actually beautiful. 

“Just now realizing how lucky you are?” she jested as if the people attacking them where but a joke. 

Robb felt himself rolling his own eyes “Something of that kind,” he commented “though, I’ll have you know, I am quite the catch,”

“Oh,” she replied with a smile “I am well aware,” she shrugged elegantly as she gingerly swished away from reach of another brigand “And I am an excellent hunter I’ll have you know,”

For a long while Robb just stared at her open mouthed at her teasing tone, which made her giggle despite the ongoing attack “Oh, we’re going to have much fun together, my prince,” she commented “though before that we should get rid of this lot” 

Robb was… astounded, amazed even, as a curl of dark hair bounced before her lovely face, her smile showing pearly teeth, though one — he noticed — barely visible underneath the lip, on the left side was slightly chipped, just but a chip, almost unnoticeable. 

Though he found it alarmingly endearing. 

She seemed to remember herself — and her chipped tooth — for she brought one hand to cover her mouth and in her eyes he could see the panic settling in. 

Robb had half a mind to take her hand in his and off her face, make her feel comfortable in her skin, and even though he had the time for the assailants had been subdued and defeated, the battle-noises yet coming from the other of the encampment had him on edge. 

His twin was there still. 

“Remain safe and guarded,” he told her, turning then to his men, “we’ll go see how we can help” 

In all reply Princess Rhaenys curled her lip in distaste, “I may not command a dragon, my prince,” she said, twirling the knife in her hand, and though her movements weren’t perfect, she did not miss a single twirl of finger, the blade sure in her hand, even if not confident “I am not helpless” she added. 

“I do not ask you to stay back because you are helpless,” Robb countered, “I ask you to stay so that you can be safe,” he added “I don’t know what I will find ahead,” though the noises of yet battle and the Green Queen circling above the battlefield in the sky, crying out in despair were pretty clear.

Rhaenys considered him at length “I do not need to be minded” she hissed, Robb was loosing precious time and if she was half as stubborn as she seemed Robb would risk loosing even more precious time, so he acted before he could think, took her hand in his “Please, my princess” he offered, “I need to know you safe,” 

It was a stretch. He did not care yet enough about her that thought of her safety would distract him completely from running to his own twin’s rescue, but it was just within reach of truth as well, for, for however little time he had known her, he had no wish to see her partake in some horrendous death because he let her come with, “what are husband’s for if not for protection?” he asked, his mother’s voice and his father’s drilling filling his mind. 

“Companionship” she replied without missing a beat, “partnership” 

“Well,” Robb shrugged, amused by her thoughtless reply “we can’t have that if we don’t both survive this, can we? Wait for me here, please”

Rhaenys seemed less than impressed with it, but her guards seemed to be of his mind. So Robb nodded to her and she nodded back though it was forced, and tugged at his hand as he made to leave her “Return to me,” she demanded “I have yet to know you and I’d be sad to see you go”

Robb considered her at length and nodded purposefully, then he let go of her hand and made of walk away, Grey Wind flanking his sides, then he stopped in his tracks, Ice firmly in hand and turned to the direwolf “Stay with her. Look after her for me” he commanded. 

Grey Wind molten gold eyes fixed on him, silent and warm, there was a cruel twist to them of almost panic, and through their bond he could sense, as clear and as sharp as arrowheads and blades across his flesh, against his own heart, how anxious separating made the direwolf feel.

The Lannisters send their regards. The voice drifted and slapped, harder than anything and yet painless as well, for he could only feel the numbness. 

May I speak frankly, Your Grace? You lost this war the day you married that woman. 

The shrill voice of his mother, somehow drifting around him seemed to rouse him from a terror like no other he ever felt, Robb! Stand up and leave!, leave! 

He blinked and though his eyes were filled with tears, he could only stare at his direwolf, “Grey Wind,” he spoke softly, nothing more than a murmur in truth, his hand itching to touch his mammoth body and thick fur. 

Grey Wind whined. 

Robb steeled himself, “I will return,” he promised, to himself, to the direwolf, to his betrothed who was looking at him with a stranger’s eyes. 

Eyes molten and soft, dark and filled with love and mirth and strength, what about teaching little Ned to ride?, he shook his head again, angrily drying the tears upon his lashes, twisted away and stomped off in the direction of the battle, Stay he begged Grey Wolf in his own mind, stay. 

His whining filled his ears as he guided his men across the hill and sword in hand, tears flooding his eyes to the battlefield he had left behind. 

Sansa was outside the wheelhouse now, Lady standing on all four before her, her fur stained blood red and her eyes alight with fury and beastly bloodlust, his twin had her hair matted upon her forehead, and was holding onto the spokes of the wooden wheel so tight that her knuckles whitened, her eyes were pearly white, rolled in the back of her head and her lips were opened in a noiseless scream. 

A scream he could almost hear resounding in his ears. 

His sister’ hand flexed around the spoke and Lady lounged at an attacker at the Blackfish’ back, tearing his spine out of his back in a display of horrific violence and strength.

And Robb was transfixed as Lady raised her terrible and cruel gaze on him; unrelenting and for the split of a moment it seemed that he was looking at Sansa through Lady’s eyes and yet, as if evoked by the battleground, the noises… the blood, he felt like he was looking at himself as well.

Tell lord Lannister that twenty thousand men are marching to see if he indeed shits gold. 

The rush of blood though became impossibly chill in his veins as he felt the cold bite of steel against his neck “Stand down or this one dies” the fetor of the man’s breath against his neck, the strength of his arms around him making him steel of sudden.

Sansa eyes were blue again, the color of the sky. 

Sansa, part I

Sansa held close Alyce Whent — the young woman grabbing at the back of her cloak and holding steadfast her great-aunt’ hand — as lord Blackfyre stepped around her, Dark Sister firmly in hand, frapposing himself between her and the sight of her own twin held at blade point.

By the rigid set of his shoulder Sansa knew, could feel how dangerous the situation had suddenly become, as the Green Queen screeched overhead, unable to rain fire on their enemies as it would prove a danger for her rider as well. 

One moment they had been speaking of poetry, discussing of songs, and mirth and heartbreak alike had been battling for dominance in her heart, and the next one, one of the seven hells had broken loose. 

The handful of wildflowers she had been holding all day long, since lord Blackfyre had so spontaneously collected and gifted her now laid across one of the hearth they had dug as they made camp, half of them carbonized by the ashes and glazes, a decadent proof of how quickly mirth and life had given way to death and chaos. 

One of her hand was grasping desperately at the back of lord Blackfyre — sir Rodrick and her great uncle both had stopped fighting just across the distance, and the black knights were all scattered, bloody and wounded but determined, laying in awaiting for their commander’s words — who was holding Dark Sister across him and with his free hand, had grabbed her waist, pushing her behind him, into the safety of his protection. 

“You will be safe with me” his voice resounded in her ears, joining another’s. A ghost of that memory, of that truth.

She had resolved she would no sooner be safe than she’d be caged, and yet in that moment her grip was unyielding, shattering that conviction in a million pieces. Fractured in ways she was no longer willing to face or accept. 

Yet, as the panic settled in, Robb eyes fixed on lord Blackfyre as if speaking wordlessly; Sansa found she could not help clinging to the safety his back offered. 

Broad, and warm, tense as a bowstring, ready to attack and defend of her behalf, his hand curling around her waist, grounding. 

His presence, her body rattled by the realization, was grounding. 

Had been grounding, all along.

Despite her best efforts, and she knew it had everything to be with the ghost of whom he was supposed to be. 

Jon.

Her champion. 

Her defensor.

Her knight. 

Her King in the North. 

Even though there was something twisted and ruthless in him. 

Something so inherently Targaryen that it made her teeth rattle. 

Yes, what are we even talking about?, tears streaming down her cheeks, burning like the blood left by his soaked fingers across his cheeks. 

You will obey, because I command it.

She shook her head, “Do what you wish with him,” lord Blackfyre commented, his voice abrasive and cocksure “see if I care” 

Sansa flinched, and let go of the fabric of his cloak as if burned. His hand flexed around her waist, comforting even. Commanding. 

Stifling. 

Three arrows where suddenly drawn on her as well as other brigands stepped into the clearing, and no one would dare to to move even an inch, lord Blackfyre shifted, crunched in a defensive position. 

A woman, holding her hand up smirked as she saw him, “Not so uncaring now, are you?” she questioned “I suppose it’s true that bastards are born of lust and on lust they thrive” 

A rumble sounded in lord Blackfyre throat but he didn’t move an inch anyway, his eyes drawn on her twin, his stance albeit defensive was threatening as no other.

“Now,” a man wearing a wolf pelt commanded “kneel” as the man holding Robb pressed the knife across his skin so hard that it drew blood.

The woman who had spoken before, smirked — several teeth missing and blackened those she still had — and reiterated “Kneel, or they die,” then she shrugged inelegantly “and she will die first”

He would not kneel, she had seen enough of proud men to know. He might like to make a fool of himself to make her laugh, but it was an oddity, some kind of residual Jon’s in his mind. 

He would not bend for no other reason than loyalty, and he would not bend for two people who he met a few weeks ago and whom by all claims he should hate. 

She was still unconvinced he did not hate Robb, which always sat wrong with her, making her wonder if the blackness of his blood had carried other things than just bloodline. Jon loved Robb, fiercely. The only one Jon loved more than Robb was Arya and seeing this version of Jon disdaining Robb felt surreal and wrong. 

It felt more like watching Daemon with his stepsons… it was jarring. Daemon did not bend to save Luke, he bent to catch her. 

Blood staining her cheeks, promises of nightmare and lust across his lips when he had twisted her elbow so hard it had almost broken, the dagger falling off her hand. 

He would not bend. Targaryen men were too proud to ever bend. 

… and yet the gust of wind hit her cheeks as the breath was knocked off her as he embed Dark Sister on the lush, muddy ground and bent his back, his knee sinking in the mud. 

Sansa was in part horrified and relieved to see him bend, so surprised that even if young lady Alyce tugged at her hand and old lady Whent stood straight, she was almost unable to tear her gaze off the nape of his neck where golden turned more silver across his flesh. 

Lady Florys Whent refused to bend, even as lady Alyce attempted to get her to bend as lord Blackfyre moved to keep her middle protected even as he knelt to the ground, his gaze fixed ahead; “we are the blood of the Mother of the Riverlands, we do not scare easy” she told lady Alyce. 

The woman’s laughter rippled through the otherwise silent — eerily silent clearing — it was like a clear haze, reminding Sansa of Cersei’ neurotic, crazed laugher when lord Tywin had set foot in the capital, sending king Stannis scurrying. The laughter was contagious to her companions and Sansa had the inkling it would be the last sound rippling through her mouth, and then in a blink the laughter died on her lips. 

Lord Blackfyre lunged, as an arrow from a bow, just as deadly and threw a dagger he had been holding discreetly in his left hand; a dagger Sansa, who was standing beside him, hadn’t even been aware of, drawn from its scabbard secured at the lower of his back. 

The hidden dagger you don’t even see coming.

The man holding Robb hostage fell like a stringless puppet and her twin launched in attack with a war cry, strangling the man with the wolf pelt just as chaos ensued and the black knights closed off in a ring around her and the lady Whents, as Rodrick Cassel fell back to defend her now unprotected side as lord Blackfyre attacked the woman and knocked her out with a hit on the back of her head of Dark Sister’ dragon shaped pommel. 

Not even a couple of hours prior they had been speaking of songs and tales of knightly valor and now he stood, — ruthless and indomitable — with his silver-golden hair shining in the sunset light, mud and blood staining his clothes and his lips quirked in a dangerous smirk. 

I know you are afraid, but you will be safe with me, Aemond’s voice resounded in her ears as lord Blackfyre and Robb stared at one another and clasped arms, nodding at each other with some kind of understanding that only a bloody battlefield could breed in men, and yet Sansa was shaking like a leaf, her mind jarred as if she had just been plunged into the skies and the bay underneath, the waves cold and unyielding, ready to kill her as in her mind Vhagar screamed, burning away any lingering chain Sansa had been able to forge between them in a desperate attempt to avoid the worst. 

Lady Alyce and lady Florys Whent that not even a handful of moments past had been sharing their own preference for songs of eagles and bats, and of calm midnight songs were now hurdled together, sharing in each other warmth and strength. 

Sansa… Sansa was alone. 

Her strength and solace were both gone. 

The people who had held her up when she had been in sore need of it — I’ll protect you, I promise, tentlit fear and anxiousness grippling at her breast, If anything happens to her I’ll kill you, strong, safe arms wound around her unwilling to let go — were both gone and unreachable to her. 

Gone.

Twisted. 

Forgotten. 

Warm weight settled of sudden around her shoulders and Sansa’ unseeing eyes suddenly snapped up to meet his mauve grey eyes, the shining across his face making one of his eyes looking so grey it reminded Sansa of home. 

Where will we go? If I don’t watch over you, Father’s ghost will come back and murder me.

He wasn’t even looking in her eyes, instead fixating on the clasp at her throat to secure his cloak around her shoulders, “You are fine, nuña gīs,” he muttered, “you’re safe”

It was by instinct that she grabbed at his jerkin, uncaring of the blood permeating it, sobbing so quietly, breathily than only he heard “You bent” 

It was as if a dam broke and tears pooled out of her eyes in a way that she had believed to have long forgotten; he did not speak, did not utter a single word he just pressed a hand across her shoulderblades and held her close. 

And Sansa… Sansa cried her fill. 

And in that moment nothing mattered, it didn’t mattered if he was supposed to be Jon, if at times he looked like the lover who had bound himself to her even though she could not do the same … and acted as the man who almost destroyed her in a time not her own. 

He was warm, and safe and strong. 

And Sansa was frail and weak in comparison and she let her head rest on his chest and for a moment she closed her eyes and nothing was anymore. 

Edit 

Chapter Text

The crownless queen, 

They entered through the Dragon Gate, The Green Queen soaring in the sky above, too big to be housed in the Dragonpit, but screeching her joy to have returned home. The people of Kings Landing cheered for the parade, despite them having been delayed on their way to the capital in the Riverlands by several assailants and too many close encounters with the Brotherhood without Banner. 

News from the Riverlands were sparse to come, especially so far north as the Twins, why Marcy had not received any news from her sisters long since the year had begun — though there was always the possibility that the king her husband might have taken her correspondence from her during her pregnancy when she had been forced to enter her confinement much earlier than any Frey woman ever had, completely isolating her from court and her family. 

The weight of his hand over her on the parapets of Aemond’s Balcony was an heavy, iron gloved hand squeezing at her heart beneath her dark garment. He had forbidden her to wear the mourning still, as she needed to pose as the young, beautiful, fertile queen she had been bought for — sold for — and could not do that if she looked like a pale, mourning ghost, brittle and rattled. 

The choice of the balcony for her first public appereance after the loss of her boy, had not been thrown around per chance. This was the very own balcony where king Aemond, first of his name, had begun the tradition of officially naming his heir — his cousin as he had died childless — it was to show that the royal couple, despite the first failure, was still the  promise  of a heir, true and tangible. 

The seamstress had fashioned her gown — a dark blue, so dark it almost looked black, her own small bout of rebellion — to enlarge her hips, and her maids had been ordered to ensure that her face was powdered and that the rose paste would make her cheeks glow healthy and rosy, despite the dark, purple like circles around her eyes. 

She was crownless. 

Her husband only concession of mourning — and because  a queen who cannot provide the throne with a heir has no business wearing the symbol of the throne on her brow — Marcy would have sooner pointed out that his own crown — of obsidian, fashioned in the shape of the Iron throne itself — was to be considered an useless priviledge too, but the queen could not afford such talk. 

Not to her husband.

Not to her king.

Marcy had been estatic when she had been told that she had been summoned to court, her mother’s only daughter, for in the isolation of her chambers in the Twins, Marcy had grown up on the songs of the Targaryen princes of old. 

The stories that made every five and ten girl swoon. 

As a young girl she had always favored the songs and tales of Targaryen kings even more than their own songs, the songs of the kings of the rivers, even as they were not as welcome as one would have hoped in the Twins, as twice had the castle been put under siege by the Targaryens. 

Yet, those tales had struck a chord in her. Deep and true.

The hope of a stupid, little, insipid girl who had dreamt too big and was now plummeting to the ground.

Tale of the One-Eye who lived twenty and eight years without a heart, for it was buried with his lady.

The tale of Jaehaerys the Handsome and his lovely Celia. Of Aemond the Golden, second of his name and his Essosi witch. 

Men who had burned the world alight with their love, and had never once backed down from it. Never once shied away from it. Why, when she had stopped in Harrenhal en route to her wedding, she had seen firsthand some of the paintings prince Aemond had personally painted of his lady love; had seen their conjoined tomb, and she had wondered if one day she would have been entombed too next to her King.

Because no mystery had been made, neither by the king’s envoy nor by her own father about the reason for her summons to court. Marcy would become queen as soon as the legal age for marriage would be reached. 

She had known that the king was older than her own father by a couple of years, but to all he was known to be handsome and broad chested. As handsome as only Targaryen kings could be, and though ruthless with traitors, word was that he was loving toward his mistresses, who had all been granted noble titles and good marriages. And he wished for her to wife.

Marcy Frey had entered Kings Landing at five and ten, her hair of burned gold twisted into a braided bun and wearing the colors of House Frey, with a smile ever so lovely that later, for her marriage, many had commented on its beauty. 

Queen Marcelynne Frey, crownless and childless stood on the balcony next to her husband after the loss of her boy, wrapped into silks and precious fabrics, but jewel-less; painted as if a whore to look healthier than she was, less heartbroken perhaps. 

Had she been a whore, perhaps she would be spared this heartbreak. 

The king had been unseeming when Marcy had been presented to him and later put into his service as chambermaid, handling his plates and caring for his hair, yet there was something tragically tender of him as Marcy had slowly guided him back to himself. A man so much betrayed, sonless that it had played right into her own heart and mind, and he had been receptive only to her kindness, showing to her a gentleness that he did not shared with others. 

Why hadn’t she so much loved tale of king Viserys III and of how he managed to gentle queen Helaena raw rage and mold her into the perfect wife and the Mother of the Realm?, she could do the same for the king. 

And indeed her presence as seemed as soothing balm to him. 

He had taken her maidenhead  before  their marriage, he had been unable to contain his desire for her, but he had married her anyway, unable to deny the promise of her womb. 

Her empty womb. 

Marcy had believed, when she had fallen pregnant — despite his late coldness — that she finally had found the key, upkeeping the promise of her bosom, to soothe the rage that was growing on him the longer he remained without heir. 

Princess Rhaenys was not fit to rule, why the woman had attempted on the life of her own father, she was sure, and Marcy could not accept it. She could accept the beatings, for it was a woman’s duty to obey her husband  and  please him in all, to be his to dispose of, to learn to find love beneath his stern face and heavy hands. She could not forgive or accept a daughter standing against all that was right and rebel against her own father. 

Plotting to kill her own father to seize the throne.

Why, not even princess Rhaenyra had dared to attempted such. It was beyond reproachable, though Marcy could have killed him as well, when he stole her child —  a monstrous child, but her child still — without even letting her hold him once. 

And she had to repent since.

His Grace knows better, Your Grace, the septa had scolded her,  such a sight, why it might have set you to follow your babe. It was for the best.

Her chest, her throat… her arms still ached for the loss. 

An ache that was not lessening as the day passed.

Her grim’ expression might have set him off, for he squeezed her hand ever so firmly that she almost flinched from his grip — her shoulder twisting in a vane attempt to be free of his touch — his jaw set, as he tugged her back in place with such a strength that she almost stumbled. It was the iron-gloved hand of sir Loran at her back that ensured she did not fall. 

She did not as much as look as the man direction and he did not await for a second longer than what necessary as her husband, jaw clenched and fist a bruising grip on her hand, his free hand saluting the crowd beneath — spoke “Show yourself pleased,  wife ” he commanded “and young and beautiful. Not grim and bare,” 

Marcy  wished  she was grim and bare.

Perhaps he’d let her mourn in peace then.

The smile that contorted on her face was nothing true, and yet the jubilant crowd below applauded louder when their queen offered them a wave as well. 

She was to look the picture of the pure maiden, the promise of the children yet to come. She was sure her husband would visit her chambers that night, make a show of it as well, and perhaps he would make a show of it too at his own daughter’s wedding feast, just to ensure that everyone who saw her remembered the promise of the children she carried in her mother’s blood, more than the failure of her boy’s death.

Her boy.

Her boy.

Her boy.

“Seven hells! What kind of monster is  that, ”

It was a endless source of amusement to her that the people who’d look at the dragon overhead and did not even flinch, would see a overgrown wolf had be terrified. Why some had even been terrified when the caged bear that her husband had had ferried to the capital for a exhibition of  bestiality  two years past had been paraded around the city from the docks. 

Her husband’ expression turned sour as the crowd’s attention was called to the rest of the parade, the direwolf had opened the royal tray indeed, princess Rhaenys rode ahead on her mount, wearing the emerald green and gold of the royal House and the dornish headpiece that her uncle had gifted her for her nameday, her dark hair falling into thick waves to her waist, pearls at her waist and throw and ankles and wrists, in a show of unadulterated purity that made her stiff as her husband’ grip became even more hurtful. 

She had been offered pearls and only pearls to wear for the occasion, for they symbolised purity, at her refusal her husband had demanded her hair be let down and unbound as a bride on her wedding day.

Seeing her stepdaughter wear so many pearls she knew her husband would grace her with his anger again.

She welcomed it.

It was better than his tender touch, because that hurt worse that a burning iron across her skin for now.

Princess Rhaenys’ husband to be, the Stark prince, rode beside her, just a couple of steps behind her — as befitting of a consort, surprisingly for a man, though this was the same man who did not press his claim and instead supported his twin’s claim over his, so it shouldn’t surprise her, he must be lacking intellect — clad in the gray and white of House Stark, with battered bronze direwolves pins holding his cloak at his shoulders a clear callback to the direwolf coronet sitting snugly on his brow. 

Starks.

She could never understand how they would offer more honor to the not reigning ones by virtue of a princely title  and the right to a coronet, when the Head of their House was no nobler than her own father, a Warden for the Iron throne, unable to wear a coronet or be addressed as prince.

The Maesters were dubious as to why that was the Stark way, just that it was; her husband maintained it was because being vassal to the Iron throne and thus lords was higher praise that holding to that meaningless princely title that was thus bestowed on those who lacked the power over House Stark; Marcy wondered if there wasn’t some other reason. 

Maester Ulciber had told her something about the decree by which king Aegon Woodthrone had granted the North status of servilial-princedom in 131, but Marcy had doubted he had known what it was, as the document itself had been lost where it had been held in The Red Keep during the fire of 194.

Only the Starks had the other copy of the treaty and she knew it weighted heavy on her husband not knowing how they might be changing it to their advantage only to press the Iron throne to uphold clauses he was sure Aegon Woodthrone would not have accepted.

Thankfully no Stark lord ever had called the decree in question.

So far.

Several other knights — northerner and southerner both rode behind them — and then the northern parade begun, with Stark banners raised in the sky high and might, to her surprised in their midst she found lord Blackfyre, riding silently, broodingly and looking the part — Targaryen blood clear in him as much as the blood of Winterfell — with his golden-silver hair pushed back from his forehead, riding besides the Lady Stark. 

Lady Stark, was wearing gray and white — with a canopy of ruby velvet weirwood leaves embroidered on the upper half of her bodice and down to the ceremonial obsidian and battered bronze knife at her waist — a white veil on her head.

Marcy fought the urge to snicker as her husband went rigid when the shining at her brow was proved to be a ringlet of battered bronze fashioned as conjoining pins at the center of her hairline, embellished as well with rosy pearls, possibly acquired in the Riverlands, if Marcy was not mistaken by the look of them. 

Her long auburn hair, inherited she and her twin both by their Tully mother — were neatly combed in a intricate braid bejeweled with battered-bronze beads, and her blue eyes bore right into them as she raised her stare on the balcony. Her own direwolf wrapped around her and her stead as if a fur blanket. 

“Your Grace,” princess Rhaenys took the word, “my condolences for the loss of your  son ,” it felt like a slap, as her husband tensed at her side, before turning his heated gaze from the daughter of his — so he proclaimed — sworn enemy to his own daughter, perhaps more dangerous than this northern maid was.

He ignored his daughter’ condolences, and instead looked directly to her husband to be “Prince Robb,” he greeted, “welcome to Kings Landing, the most beautiful city in the world, daughter to Valyria of Old,”

Princess Rhaenys was tense on her saddle, but no other show she made of it than fisting her hands around the reins; her husband to be though seemed to notice the movement, “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, “I must say beautiful it may be, it pales looking at your daughter.”, he stated, “I am most honored to join  your  line to the Stark one,”

Marcy studied the northern groom with keen eye then, surprised by his diplomatic answer. By commenting so sincerely on princess Rhaenys’ beauty deeming her worthier of praise than the capital he was veilingly taking a stand between the crown and his bride to be, and by commenting on how princess Rhaenys was the only of his line, he was also strengthening her intent on proving yet again she was the sole heir to the Iron throne.

Barely a few step behind them, lady Stark’ proud and yet polite smile proved that  both  twins were better not to be trifled with, might be they had chosen of accord whom to rule the North and whom to come South based on princess Rhaenys’ gender and Marcy had the ill sentiment that if let to their devices the Tully wolves would sooner find a way to reign the whole Realm and overturn the royal line.

Had her son been taken for her to make way for these  hungry wolves? 

They knew well in the Twins, with how many wolves-packs descended on their sheep nightly,  you have to rip them off root and stem, leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe.

That was the only way to resolve the issue of their infestation, even though they returned more oft than not with every winter. 

The tension was so high as her husband welcomed lord Blackfyre and lady Stark as well as the rest of the retinue, so thick she could claw her way through it if she wished.

And though her husband tugged at her to stop her from turning to watch them from the inside balcony facing the inner courtyard, she still caught sight of prince Robb offering princess Rhaenys his arm and speaking in soft ushers with her, as the northern party dismounted; she boredly waved to the crowd as her eyes remained trained on what little she could see of the courtyard.

Lord Blackfyre was welcomed back by the master-at-arms and several lords who had been awaiting inside as part of the stationary court il Kings Landing — between them the man’s own mother present as chatelain of Summerhall — and though he did kiss both her cheeks and bowed his head to greet her, he also took the time to help lady Stark’ dismount her stead. 

One of the northern men — a broad chested, middle aged man had even held back the Blackfish from the duty — as lord Blackfyre stepped around his own stead to hers. Lady Stark seemed  uncomfortable from the split of a moment, then let him help her down the saddle, in a display of comfort with one another Marcy would not suppose the man have with anyone either from the Riverlands nor the North; as one half hated him for the failed promise of his birth when Rhaegar Targaryen tore the Riverlands apart with his rebellion and the other half hated him for being the stain forced on a northern woman’ honor.

He would have offered her his arm as well, but lady Stark’ direwolf settled between them — not hissing, not threatening, just  there — and the woman burrowed in the beast’ size and warmth and she called the northerner man who had been standing with the Blackfish to speak lowly to him, as lord Blackfyre waited patiently, as if he wasn’t known for his proverbial lack of patience, to introduce his own mother to the Head of House Stark.

Lady Qhaedar joined the other women in the retinue and introduced herself both to the prince consort to be and to his twin, Marcy straightened her shoulders. Queen Marcellyne Frey welcomed their guests as her duty.

She might not be wearing a crown, but she was the queen.

She might not be a beast of the jungle — not a lioness like the late queen, not a wolf as the she-Warden and not a dragon — but she was underground river that split the earth apart.

And she would remember that.

Chapter Text

Robb

The Sept of the capital was packed with people, nobles coming from all corners of the realm curious to see the only princess of the realm marrying the taciturn, mysterious prince of Winterfell, coming all the way from the inhospitable northen princedom. The firstborn son of the Quiet Wolf who had fought to sit his sister on their father's seat against all previous tradition.

The man who many said dabbled with ancient First Men and shared the skin of a direwolf and would share the bed with a Dornish viper.

"I am happy you do not seem anxious" Sansa commented, her pretty blue eyes, Tully blue eyes, coming alive with her attire. Robb as prince of Winterfell was entitled to a coronet in battered bronze depicting the direwolf of House Stark and nine spices of iron fashioned to look like longswords. 

Sansa as Warden was entitled to a chain of command, had she been a man she would been entitled to carry a shield or a sword, so far she had opted for the northern ceremonial obsidian dagger with the golden hilt and the hairpin that had been the Targaryens gift to the now princely North once upon a time.

In alternative she had chosen to leave her hair unbound in a cascade of auburn and shining copper, just like a princess would be entitled to. Beautiful, he realised for the first time, he had always known she was beautiful but only now seeing her shimmering in her confidence and strength he realised how exceptional she truly was.

It was no wonder, really, that half the real looked at her andsaw a witch, meanwhile the other half believed her to be a saint.

Teasingly, but not dishonestly he raised his hand to let her see how it shook.

Good. 

He almost expected her to reply. Feeling it in his very bloodstream.

Instead Sansa but her hand in his, steady and warm. Warming his palm and her fingers firm around his "Do not do anything stupid, and everything will be alright, I promise"

Robb asked then, unable to avoid it, to keep it inside, "what if I were to do something stupid?"

She clipped him gently behind an ear with her free hand meanwhile never letting go of the other hand "do not," she issued with such an authority that for a moment it was like their lady mother was with them "but if you do," she added pressing her forehead against his, breathing him in "I'll came running, no matter how long I'll be marching"

It settled something raw and brutal in the depths of his soul, and the small part of his pride that wailed his resentment - the firstborn son overlooked for the first daughter - melted like snow under the sun.

Robb cupped the back of her head in his hand, “I am sorry,” he spoke, for what?, it did not matter, what it mattered was that he was sorry, “I will never fail you,”

“I will never fail you,” she replied, her eyes moist with tears. And so the march begun and Robb spoke the words before the Old and the New Gods, before the eyes of the Realm whole, nobles and smallfolk alike. 

He took Rhaenys hand in his, “I am hers and she’s mine, for this day to the last of my days” 

And when Rhaenys kissed him, the Targaryen cloak snugly wrapped around his shoulders “he’s mine and I’m his,” her lips tasted of honey. 

They tasted of truth.

The parade back to the royal keep for the banquet was long, the princess' Arryn kin, let falcons fly ahead and two dragons were seen engaging in airborne dance as snake charmers blew in their flutes making pythons and vipers slither across the street. 

He helped his new wife dismount her stead and looked upon her fondly as she engaged in the dance of dancing knives in a glitter of dark ebbing hair, dark eyes and vibrant silks. 

So when, as her tradition demanded, she cut his palm with her own dagger, Robb tensed but complied, joking, later that he hoped the blade was not poisoned.

“I make no promises, husband” she had teased back, “though I’d rather test you before I so ruthlessly part with you, why I have yet to taste your proper kiss”

Robb thought the kiss they shared proper enough, but his wife was dornish, more open about the carnal urges that bound man and wife, “though,” she added “I must warn you, my mother was a dornish of Sunspear and as such I will not be subject to the bedding ceremony” 

Robb’ eyes gleamed in the dark, “I’d like to see anyone trying to touch my wife” he hissed, low and dangerous. His lord father had promised the cut of his blade to anyone who thought a bedding ceremony fit for his wife, Robb would just set Grey Wind on them, he thought darkly as Rhaenys cut a piece of meat and gave it to the direwolf. 

Usually Grey Wind was cautious of other humans but the Starks and even if Rhaenys did not claim a dragon, she was no stranger to mythical beasts and was not afraid of the direwolf though cautious. Still, Grey Wind seemed to like her, to consider her pack and Rhaenys slowly but surely had started to build mutual trust with the direwolf. 

She had brought him meat for several days while on the journey, every time getting a little closer, “One wild dragon known to feast on humans once accepted a rider for his own because she gained his trust by feeding it,” she told him “your direwolf might not trust me right now, but I can gain that trust”

Robb had been touched that she would go to such lengths, “he is a part of you, is he not?, and you are to be my husband,” 

That very night both Grey Wind and Lady were in the hall, next to either him or Sansa, sitting at the high table and entertaining Queen Marcellyne Frey with tales from the North at her behest. 

Lady had the blue ribbon braided in her fur and sat quietly behind Sansa’ chair, taller than both woman and chair, her impressive mole completely covering the hanging Stark banner.

A live proof of the running direwolf depicted on the fabric. The king seemed annoyed and confunded perhaps by the copious amounts of wine he was consuming. 

Lord Blackfyre sat on his left and spoke as little as Robb had known him to speak since meeting him, for he seemed interested in conversing rarely and most often than not with either Sansa or his second in command, who was eating in the main hall with lady Celtigar, her sister and her brother, all descendants of Prince Daeron the Bold. 

Several other dragon riders were present, the dornish one — Prince Aemon — for example had offered first his congratulations for their wedding, as well as the second Baratheon one. Young lord Daeron Baratheon had been born small and of frail health and many had doubted he would survive infanthood, but he had, and the dragon egg that lady Baeryl own dragon had deposed, had hatched a few weeks after his fifth nameday, and now the dragon, small enough that it fit the palm of a hand with tail coiled around the wrist, was the darling of the entire court. 

It was but a small she dragon, with scales the color of ripe peaches and pink jade which had immediately gained her the nickname of Pink Dread for apparently she was of fierce temperament and suffered none but young lord Baratheon, she was known to have clawed one eye out of the socket of an incautious servant who had gotten too close and disturbed her sleep.

Rhaenys had looked mournful when she had recounted to him, in the quiet nights spent around the fire to know each other, though she had put on a brave face and had admitted she still held onto hope that her egg would hatch, maybe she’s just a late bloomer as I was, the egg she carried everywhere with herself had the colours of varying degree of sapphire and topaz. One of her maids had the task to always ensure the egg was in the heated cradle, and Rhaenys spoke to it, in Valyrian in hope that one day the egg would hatch and remind the world that she was the rightful heir to the Iron throne.

When she had spoken of it she had not looked indeed as a woman grown, but a girl, little and equal parts hopeful and afraid, though one would not have imagined it seeing the way she was behaving as if the presence of the hatchling was no bother to her.

The young lord had even offered her to pet the dragon, who amusingly for many, had not seemed upset by his wife’ ministrations and had even leaned into her cupped hand with her small cheek. His new wife had been delighted and in her eyes Robb could see the young girl who had wished for her own dragon, the very same little girl that still silently prayed for it.

After they shared the first dance the servants pushed the tables to the sides with the benches and the bard and musicians started to strum a lively tale about an eagle flying silent in the darkness. He had never heard such a tale but the tune was lively and joyous so, as Rhaenys danced with her dornish cousin Robb stole Sansa away from the high table to guide her in a dance that had him breathless.

Sansa indulged him and when the dance ended Robb somehow know he would come. And come he did, clad in a leather black as the night with a green dragon sewn from his right hip to his left collarbone, his hair were slicked back from his face, the angular shape of it most northern if softer than any northerner had any business being, the curve of his lips distended in a soft, tender smile... His eyes sparkling of an hue between grey and amethyst.

He wrapped his slender fingers around Sansa's wrist, his palm cupping the back of her hand tenderly, touching her skin with his as if it was something holy and wretched both.

Sansa took his hand almost without a reason, as if it came natural.

"may I have this donor Zōbrie perzys?" he murmured his eyes gleaming on her, his hand caressing her palm like a secret.

"If you must" she offered, but her tone was teasing and she was already letting him guide her around in a slow, soft dance, more appropriate for lovers than tentative allies. Rhaenys whisked him away for the dance.

"This must not be born," she said low and confident "together they'd be powerful and dangerous, too dangerous"

In the coming years people would speak of silent betrayals in the night, of steel hinges being ripped apart, and of a dark angel of death dressed in blue who looked in the eyes of the king and put the fear of the Gods In his soul as the son of the prince that was promised offered his blade as guarantee for the Dawn to come again, on swift wings of green. Though no record of it was left and for sure if nothing as short as a treason had happened memory of it would have remained. For sure that very week after such joyous occasion and as the lady of winterfell parlayed with the king, the lady Stark and the lord Blackfyre were joined in matrimony too, in the way of old Valyria. A tragedy, some claimed, as the northerners would never sanction such a marriage.

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Chapter Text

Sansa, 

They had grabbed her in the middle of the night, carrying the royal decree that put her under investigation for the crime of sedation and unlawful claim of the familial seat. 

Grave accuses, accuses that should have demanded Sansa to be apprehended in open court and her crimes proclaimed to the people and the nobles alike, but the king felt that urgency and secrecy were imperative, “to protect the good name of the prince consort,” lord Percevald Correy had explained as he proclaimed the king’s decree. 

Sansa had wanted to braf at the very idea of that being a concern for the king, the halfwit that called himself king. 

Aenar Targaryen was called the Blackbeard, for the color of his beard, inherited by his Arryn kin, but perhaps the lackwit would have been a fitting name as well. It wasn’t even that he lacked properly of wit, merely he was so deep in the cups of his perceived superiority that he believed to be akin to a God and that his word and will was superior to any other in a way that wasn’t only arrogant, but also foolish and made twice as such because he lacked the strength to pursuit his goals. 

Daemon had been similar, but at the very least he had been a dangerous, skilled swordsman so even if he lacked the finer aspects of politics he was smart enough to know that what mattered was his blood on the Iron throne, not he reigning personally. 

King Aenar Targaryen was nothing short of a disappointment, and Sansa felt mournful thinking of Aegon’ quick wit, Helaena emotional intelligence, Aemond’ skills in politics and swordplay and Daeron boldness and fairness; she felt robbed and she felt bare as if without her siblings — the way she had known them before — and without them she was open to any attack. 

Her guards had been ready to fight their way out, but Sansa counselled against that, she merely donned on her blue mantle, clasped it at her collarbones and offered to follow lord Correy willingly “I am sure this is all a misunderstanding,” she said “His Grace, in his immense wisdom shall see the truth of the matter and soon I’ll be released as well” 

Though she had expected to be shown to the king and not held directly in the black cells, as they bound her ankle to the wall, chaining her like a dog, Sansa wondered, her back against the pillar, if this had been the very same cell in which they had held her lord father before cutting off his head. 

The cell became familiar as day followed night and night came again, as the days bled into nights until Sansa forgot how much time she had spent there. 

Her great uncle came visit her once, told her Robb was sequestered in his chambers with his new wife at the mercy of the king’s justice, ready to be accused as well if he did not comply. Lord Whent and lady Florys Whent both asked personal audiences with the king and lady Qhaedar demanded justice to be made in the right way and for Sansa to be released. 

Later on her great uncle, though his promise, did not come to visit again, and Sansa feared the worst. Before word got to Winterfell she needed to get out of here.

Sadly if Princess Rhaenys and her brother were otherwise impeded, and her people were surrounded and threatened, Sansa could only wish in a hero, and until the king showed his face she could not hope to try and persuade him elsewise from his initial purpose in apprehending her. 

It was lady Qhaedar who offered the news she needed, though Sansa was mindful to believe her, rather taking her words with a grain of salt. 

The woman visited the cells in the dark of the night, dressed as a boy and with a wig with short silver-gold hair and a shirt stained of wine, the smell so potent that Sansa felt almost nauseated as well as weak. 

“It was Prince Daeron the Mad,” she said “he died drowning in wine, guards and prisoners claim he sometimes haunt these prisons, they won’t come closer if they see me”

Lady Qhaedar was of new nobility, for her great sire had helped more than once the, at the time indebted, House Targaryen of Kings Landing and after they had been sent from their original seat they had come to the Seven Kingdoms in hope of help. The Targaryen dragons had flown east and destroyed their enemies, and sat again their matriarch on the seat of their ancestor but the cadet line had remained in the Realm in waiting for the opportunity to gain support. The time came during the last revolt in the Riverlands and House Qhaedar had proved their worth, and had been named lords of the Langward Keep after they destroyed the Langward traitorous troops with their own army. 

She had been the lord’s only child who had survived into adulthood from his five wives, but, instead of naming her his heir, her lord father lord Archibald Qhaedar, one of the cousins of lady Florys on the Whent line, married her to an edge knight in search of fortune and pleasing to look upon, whose line had fallen into disgrace but who had an old name to join to hers, and who had taken her to wife for the conspicuous dowry she had, and to inherit her keep in her name.

There was no lost love between lady Qhaedar and her husband, and Sansa suspected the woman had clearly otherwise defined preferences, but there was something sour and sharp about the woman despite her chubby cheeks and chubby waist. Soft she might look, but Sansa doubted she was soft at all under the layers of fabric in the colors of her House. 

She told her that her great uncle had been forced to flee to avoid imprisonement and that he had been the one who had at length parlayed on her behalf with her, as her great uncle had spent a long deal of time in her ancestral home as a guest and had been a close friend with her lord father. 

She also told her not to despair, that her uncle and sir Rodrick Cassel had both fled and were laying low and securing her the help she needed. 

She also forwarded the word, in Rodrick’s neat of sharp handwriting that help was on its way, and asking how much decisional room he could have. 

Sansa crumbled the paper in her hand and gave her back to lady Qhaedar, “if only violence is what the king understands, I’ll ensure to the North the most violent of protectors,” 

She pressed the back of her head against the hard concrete wall, her knees gathered up pressed against her chest, the fabric of her mantle wrapped around her like a blanket, her hands tucked in the opposite sleeve, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. 

She should have expected this. 

She had wanted to believe that the Targaryens would still remember the good blood with House Stark; she had assumed that somehow he had left something for her protection. Something she could grab onto and use, but whatever he might have left it was clear that it no longer held any kind of weight with this king. 

She had expected more of the future she had fought so hard to lay the base of. Instead they were as greedy as before, if not more, as arrogant and slab as before, and she could not afford it. 

The North could not afford it. 

And she could not accept that she had left a broken hearted Aemond behind for nothing. 

King Aenar was clearly interested in appearing magnanimous but she could see in the eyes of the lords, of the servants… of his kin. He was anything but. 

He was not a benevolent king, more interested in the coming and goings of his court than he was in the real danger laying just beyond the Wall. He had slacked off before her Father forced him to return to steadily send men to the Wall, yet she could see in the way people did not dare to meet her look after she spoke of the duty to the Nights Watch that such had not been respected after her father’s death, perhaps even before. 

“You were at war, were you not, lady Stark?” he had asked, “our shared kin upset by the lack of balance in your inheritance attempted to put right to wrong and that ended on a bloody battlefield” 

“I am my father’s rightful heir,” Sansa had replied “not his lawful heir. In the North the women are as important as the men, in inheritance matters and since the decree that made us a princedom was issued the eldest daughter may inherit over the oldest son if the Father decrees so,”

“My father decreed so,” she proclaimed for all the surrounding lords to hear “and the North whole swore fealty, the truth of my claim was proved before the eyes of Gods and Men when the North rallied behind me to protect my birthright, when my brothers fought on the battlefield in my name” 

She felt a bout of pity and even kinship for Rhaenyra then. 

Truly she had been a bad prospect, she had fled the capital and its intrigues convinced she could build her strength in Dragonstone, and had birthed three bastard sons she meant to push forward to the Iron throne, she did not advocate for the right of all women to inherit pushing instead her son’s ahead. 

She was an unreliable possible monarch if anything and, as the coffers of the crown could attest — and they could attest, lord Vayman Whent had ensured her — the crown was wealthier, the land more flourish and the general state of justice and faith seemed better as well; so letting Aegon’s line on the throne had proved the right course of action. 

Still, it’s not fair!, she wanted to scream in the darkness, in the faces of the Gods. I did all you asked, I even sacrificed my heart and his to this dance you imposed of me. Is it all for naught??

“Indeed,” the king had replied “as you were, lady Stark” 

She had been invited to dine with the king and his wife to discuss the shared matters of the Realm and when she had risen the matter of the men supposed to man the Wall and the resources the South was bound by decree to send, the king had looked almost bored, “The Wall has stood there for ten thousand years,” he had commented “if due to the need to keep our line on the throne after the last attempt to dethrone us we were to send less men, the North who is so far detached by the realm’s concerns can compensate for it can it not?”

“The North is not your back coffers, if the Crown cannot at this present moment uphold to its duty to the Wall, then at the very least the North may be excused from the taxation you have last asked of us,” she had replied “if we have to cover for your lack, then we should be put in condition of doing the duty for both of us” 

The king had pointed a finger at her, “You are your Father’s daughter, lady Stark” he said “but I am the king, and you are my subject” 

“I am,” Sansa had replied “and House Stark has always been loyal beyond reproach,” she had said “or do you deny it?” 

“House Stark has been loyal in war time, but do not pretend that you did not took plenty advantage from your loyalty. You dressed your ambitions as loyalty and from it gained status of princedom, later you found ways after ways to isolate yourself further from us… why, many would think you wish to be independent”

Sansa had considered him at length, realising that her faith in Aegon’s line had been ill-placed, for men would always been men. Ambition would always lead to more ambition. 

I was ready to offer you the benefit of the doubt, she thought as the darkness of the cells closed in on her like madness, like fear, like acceptance, on the ground of the love I bore your forefathers. But you do not deserve it and are a stain on their name.

The darkness swallowed her whole, and in the darkness she found a modicum of peace. I am so tired, she thought softly, so tired. And she missed him, she missed him like the breath in her lungs. 

Then there was the sound of bells. 

Shame. Shame. Shame. Someone was chanting behind the closed ironwood door.

Then a light was lit in the darkness. As green as wildfire, and Sansa stiffened. 

Emerald eyes gleamed in the darkness, a beautiful face framed by short golden hair and curled into a snideful look, “Oh little dove…” Cersei cooed “you flew too high,” she said “how does the ground taste now?” 

“Dirty,” she replied, the queen’s plump lips were painted red and she was wearing her mourning dress, with riplets of rubies all across her bosom “ how did it taste when you fell?” she questioned.

Cersei threw her head back and laughed, her maniacal laugh, Sansa tensed but did not move an inch, “Oh little dove, I never fell,” she murmured “I was always underground. The unwanted wife, the mother of madness, the lioness of the Rock. I wasn’t flying too high. I was claiming my place” 

Then she started to walk around the cell, touching with her hand the walls, almost as if she would a lover, the torch of wildfire painting emerald shadows on her cheekbones, never exstinguishing. As if her ghost could never exstinguish either. 

Sansa leaned her head back against the wall, she breathed deeply “Oh little dove, your wings are not made for this cold,” she said “nor for this darkness. You will perish here” 

Sansa opened her eyes wide then, fixing her gaze on her, “I am no dove,” she said “I am the wolf and I am the bat, winter is coming, silent in the darkness” she hissed as if a viper with a stomped on tail. 

Cersei’ smirk was full of disdain, full of opaque condescension, “I taught you better than that, words are just words. They have to fear you more than they do the enemy” 

“No,” Sansa hissed “love is a surer route to loyalty than fear ever was” 

Cersei waved a hand around them, “Does it seems like love was a surer route to you, little dove? Love is poison. Sweet it might be, it will kill you all the same,” then she was sitting next to her, “oh little dove, yes, he would have come for you. He was your Jaime,” she said with false simpathy, “but he’s dead now, and you can’t bring him back,” her cold hand was over hers so cold it gave her the chills.

Sansa knew she was not there. She couldn’t be. She must be but a fragment of her imagination, but she still felt the chill, as Lady howled at the sky, from whatever kennel they were keeping her in. 

At least you are not dead yet. 

You are not dead yet.

Not dead yet.

Not dead yet. 

“Will you die here, in chains, alone and afraid in the darkness?” ghost Cersei demanded. 

Sansa smiled, “No,” she said “I am not like you. I am no lion, I am a wolf, I am a bat. The darkness and the cold are my kingdoms”

Cersei face became of alabaster, stone and then all of sudden it was smoke and she was again swallowed by the darkness. 

The door hissed and screamed on its hinges as the humid thuds of the guards posted outside, the clatter of blade against blade made her teeth rattle until now unheeded. The hinges held then snapped like bone, shattering in small metal pieces and splinters of ironwood, then he was there. 

His hair were short, and his eye more grey than purple, “Bride of mine,” he greeted her “seems like you saw reason after all” 

Sansa let him collected her from the ground as he broke in two the iron chain with the cut of Dark Sister and then let him ensure himself that she was fine. Exhausted, famished but fine. 

Rageful. But fine.

He caressed her brow and pressed a kiss, fervent to the side of her head, pressing then his cheekbone against her. 

you are not him. But you will serve my purpose all the same. 

”Name it, Jorāle,” he said “name it and you shall have it” 

“The Realm,” she said “I want the strenght of the Iron throne in protection of the North”

”so you have spoken: and so you shall have”

Chapter Text

Aerion, part I 

The direwolf stepped inside the cell as his men subdued the guards outside her door, Dark Sister dangled forgotten at his side, as he felt her lithe, lean body against him.

It was strange to have to look slightly up at her, but lovely all the same, as lovely were her eyes, tired and puffy and yet the same color of sapphires sparkling even in the darkness.

He had known this would happen. Court had always been a nest of vipers, and Aenar was a paranoid, abrasive idiot, who’d see his realm burn if it meant being king of the ashes. 

He had been a cruel, conniving man at the time of the uprising and had known how to wield the power he had by welcoming him as ward in his court even when he had been Rhaegar’ son, keeping in check both him, his father’s faction and his aunt and uncle in the east.

And ensuring those who had followed his father blindly — who believed in the Prince that was Promised — rejected him and searched for their champion elsewhere.

If he had his way… he planned for their hopes to settle on him, but they never had. 

Lady grazed his side, to then wrap safely around them both, pressing her snout against Sansa’ ashen cheek and dragging her rough tongue from her jaw to her temple, making her giggle and lean into the direwolf’s warmth.

He could feel Sansa’ bones beneath his fingertips at her hips, her stay in the cells had not treated her kindly, despite her beauty. He pushed a lock of red hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear, breathing into the small moment of intimacy she was offering him. Soon enough, he supposed, she would remember her stance in all of this and change her behaviour but for now, as in the clearing weeks ago, she was pliant and soft between his arms. And safe. 

Gently he tugged her cloak closer at her neck, when he felt her shiver and she grabbed the fabric of his jerkin and tunic in one hand, a fist so tight that it almost tore the fabric, “I want him to know what happens to those who wants us on our knees,” she said “he must know the North won’t suffer this humiliation, I won’t suffer this humiliation”

Not after all I have done, her eyes seemed to say. 

He nodded, “I will drag him down the Iron throne for you,” he promised, “just say the word” 

Sansa’ empyrean eyes were on him, “Do it” 

He could have kissed her, claimed her lips with his and felt the thrill of her body flush against his, plaint and warm. 

Mindlessly he started to hum the tune behind his teeth, rocking her back and forth as she let him hold her for a moment, relaxing. His men dared not disturb their peace, though he knew it would be short lived. 

The moment Rodrick Cassel and the Blackfish entered the cell, he knew his chance smoked away, his chance to hold her and kiss her and claim her. 

For now. 

“My lady!” Rodrick Cassel exclaimed offering his immediate support, and Sansa folded like a child in her father’s embrace, feeling clearly almost a sense of filial love toward the man, “ser Rodrick!” 

The Blackfish was eyeing him conspicuously as he let Sansa distance from him, just enough to still be in range for his arms should she need it. 

Lady was still half wrapped around him and he petted her back with a long caress, as he watched Sansa speak in low murmurs with her two right hands. 

“You did well, Rodrick” she promised her sworn shield, after he promised her the rest of her retinue was alright as well, apologising for the time it took to stage her escape, “I am not escaping,” she added “I do not need to,” she said turning to fix her cold, cold ice eyes on him, “he will learn that to his sorrow” 

He nodded to her, purposefully, then he stepped close once again, itching to cup her cheek in his hand and wrap his arms around her, feel her warmth against his skin, her caress at the side of his face, the faint scent of lavender and mint following her still, the acrid stench of camphor close but almost vanished in the wake of her presence.

“Commander,” he turned around to come face to face with one of his most loyal, “we need to go, now”

Aerion nodded, then turned once again to Sansa, “Do you want to do this now or do you want to recover your strength some?”

“I will not recover my strength until I am back home,” was her curt reply “now” she looked as vengeful as a quiet shadow atop the turrets of a besieged city, followed by worms and leeches and yet still standing, still alive, still strong. 

Still beautiful.

“Then now it shall be,” he agreed, turning to his men to command them in Valyrian to open a route for them to Maegor’s Holdfast, “we will drag him from his chambers,” 

Sansa nodded, “we will wait for you in throne hall,” she said “I will have him speak to me there as he thinks sitting on the Iron throne exempts him from his duty to the Realm,”

Aerion looked up to sir Rodrick and the Blackfish, “We have been keeping her safe longer than you have been alive, lord Blackfyre” ser Rodrick commented, his tone was almost teasing. 

“So you tell me,” he replied, biting his own tongue to keep it in check “if anything happens to her..”

Sansa grabbed the fabric of his jerkin again; “Nothing will happen to me, I have seen too much, walked too far, suffered too great a pain to just vanish from this world” 

Aerion stared at her long and hard, his jaw clenched and his fists clenching and unclenching at his side, Dark Sister suddenly heavy in his right hand. 

“If,” he replied “something happen to you I’m setting afire the Realm. Nothing will remain, hear me now” he stressed, she scowled and then frowned, then her face returned to stone. 

“Nothing will happen to me” she replied. 

Aerion nodded, certain she now understood, he made to leave, then turned around and grabbed her hand, pressing his own seal in her hand. Sansa did not need to look down to know it, “Hold this for me, darling” he said “you are to be my wife, after all. If I were to fall, show my men this seal, they will follow you to their death, they'll march for you from Dorne to the Wall "

Sansa’ hand spasmed around the seal, Aerion watched every emotion flicker her face, in her beautiful eyes, as the torchlight from the corridor painted her face with dancing shadows.

Then he forced himself to walk away, “Aerion,” she called, it was the first time she called him by his name, he stopped in his tracks, turned to fix his gaze on her “Seven blessings go with you” 

Aerion chuckled “We both know you keep the Old Gods,” he smiled “Seven blessing go with you too, my lady” then he left her behind for good. 

He had lived his life in the shadows, had learned since infancy that there was no safe place for a bastard, even a legitimated one. His father had torn the Realm apart and he and his mother had paid the price. He had been humiliated at every turn, limbless, eyeless and voiceless he would have been less insulted than to be forced to play ward, then cupbearer, then right hand man to the king who had insulted, deprecated and forced his mother into exile. Then to be kept away.. 

Claiming the Green Queen had been the first step, becoming such a proficient commander airborne or on the ground was another block in his wall of a plan. Slowly but surely taking away the king’s power on the dragonriders chunk by chunk was his main act. 

He did not wish to see Viserys seated on the Iron throne, as the madman believed — he would be stupid to want a paranoid, ill-advised and arrogant man on the Iron throne. Daenerys would stay in Meereen or she would discover why her dragons were no match for his ghostriders. Still keeping them in line could happen only if they were unaware of his plots. 

Rhaenys was… she was a good prospect. She had the potential and with the right guide she could grow to be a good Queen, with the right family name and the right spouse at her side. She was abhorrent in her poisoning ways, but still she was a woman and she acted to defend herself from an insipid, incapable father who’d rather wish her dead than see her inherit the Iron throne. 

The last of her line, Rhaenys had the weight of House Arryn, House Martell and House Targaryen on her shoulders, but through her they could once again hope in greatness, or at least decency. 

Though, if she proved unwilling or inconsiderate Aerion would take it all from under her feet, and fashion the world the way it was right, the way that he knew would be fair. With the North at his side he could make it happen, especially if he found a way to keep alive Rhaenys’ new husband, just so that his bride would not hold his death against him.

"Commander," one of the men called, in bastard Valyrian, his helm's visor pushed up to show his face "what is to be of the princess and the queen?"

Aerion considered the question at length " keep the queen in her chambers," he said " but escort the princess and her consort to the throne hall. Let her see now precarious a throne can be"

The men aid not discuss his commands eager to obey him as they had always been since he had freed them from the life of slavery they were destined to by attacking the slavers ships ferrying the slaves from the bleak lands of the southern continent. The women had found easy labour in the lands of Summerhall and the men had sworn to him their blades, becoming the fulcra of the troops of the lord of Summerhall.

They'd rather out their own throats than betray him, for he had ensured safety for their women and children and honest labour for them, stipending them from his own coffers even before he was officially named lord of Summerhall.

They dragged the king out of his own chamber, even though he tried to appear strong and unbothered, he demanded with voice sure and low "what is the meaning of this, Lord Blackfyre?" his eyes were calm and his look collected, though his silver gold hair was disheveled.

He means to appear strong, and confident, he realised, but he is not stronger nor more confident than a prey fallen into the predator’s trap. Than I was, when as a kid I was forced to bend the knee or see my mother being torn apart and her remains scattered across the Realm for all to see and for her to never find peace. 

“Why, Your Grace,” he replied “this is the justice you cannot run from” he was sure that, by now ser Rodrick and the Blackfish had reported to Sansa the truth he had shared, the truth that he had taken a life to uncover.

“Commander,” one of the two warrior-women in his retinue called in bastard Valyrian, tinted with the southern accent, “we have summoned all the lords of the Small Council”

Aerion considered them for a moment, “What of the other lords?,” he demanded “and the ladies?”

“They are being summoned as we speak, commander,” she replied, her tone grave and her shoulders stiff beneath the light armour she was wearing “and escorted to the throne hall to preside over the trial” 

Aerion nodded, “Trial?” the king demanded, offense seeping in his every word, in his every movement as he suddenly tried to be released by the guards. 

“If you do not stop fussing, Your Grace,” Aerion hissed, suddenly pointing Dark Sister at his neck, cold enough to make him reel back at the kiss of steel against his throat and sharp enough to draw some blood, “I will have them chain you, and be done with this farse”

“I gave you that blade, and the your rank, I can as easily take them back!” 

The king shouting seemed to alert the servants, though when they noticed what was happening, they stopped short in their attempt to release the king and instead observed silently, “With which authority do you claim to put my husband, your king under trial, lord Blackfyre?”

The queen’s voice made him turn around to face Marcellyne Frey, with unbound hair and colorless cheek, wearing nothing more than a nightshift in the colours of her maternal family, with hands collected before herself and two servants and two of her brothers flanking her, sword in hand. Yet not approaching. 

“By the authority invested in me by the king Aegon II of House Targaryen,” he replied, producing the scroll that had sanctioned the birth of the noble order of the Ghostriders more than a century past “and with the authority of all Commanders who came before me, for our sacred duty” he added. 

The queen looked sideways to her youngest brother and nodded to him, urging him to come closer and to bring to her the scroll. Aerion delivered the scroll in the hands of the queen’s brother without fuss even as the king continued to demand his own release and shouted at great voice. She unrolled the scroll and studied at the light of the torch the writings inside, and the seal at the end of the parchment with the signature of king Aegon II. 

Once she was done reading the document, ignoring her own husband’s commands, even as her brothers were clearly waiting for nothing more than her word to act, she held the scroll with both hands, “And do you have proof the king’s conduct has been negligent of his duties and such as to warrant this liberty you are taking on yourself?,” she questioned silently. 

“I do,” he said “I wished to spare the queen such a sight,” he added, “but we have written proof and reliable testimony,” 

The queen studied his face at length, she was younger than him, he remembered of sudden. He was almost six years her senior, “not so close after your grief, Your Grace,” he added, hoping the courtesy might please her. 

“I am the Queen consort,” she stated, “if my husband is guilty so am I, and I shall share his fate. I will not hide away as he faces this trial, I swore to be one flesh, one heart and one soul with him until the end of my days” she walked closer to him, and delivered him back the scroll, “I just ask you do not permit the infamy of the king being escorted in chains inside the throne hall” 

Aerion would have liked nothing better than ensure the man knew the same kind of humiliation he had to suffer, to see him and his conviction of greatness tumbling to the ground with each and every new stroke of his plan; still the words of the queen, so modest and so full of dignity moved him to nod, “As you command, Your Grace” he said, “the king shall walk on his own legs”

“You have no authority to put me under trial!,” the king hissed, “this is unheard of!”

“That is not quite true, husband,” the queen replied in his stead, before Aerion could open mouth to reprimand the man for his lack of decorum even now when decorum was all he would have left, “why was not king Daeron the Mad apprehended on orders of the lord Taetos Lannister, at the time lord commander of the Skyghosts?”

Aenar seemed to pale for a moment, “You are a traitorous wife! Yours is treachery!,” he claimed “I am the king! The dragon of the Iron throne!”

In all reply Aerion gestured for his guards to escort him to the Iron throne, “Do not chain him, but know, Your Grace, that if you will prove unwilling I will have them carry you because you’ll have unexpectedly broken both legs” 

They half dragged, he half walked down the corridor and for a moment Aerion remained alone with the queen and her brothers, “All of this for a woman,” she commented, “do not lie to me, lord Blackfyre, you have had these proofs longer than now, you could have brought this case to our attention discreetly and in a different time. You are acting to protect her” there was something acid in her tone, and something so desperately sad. 

Women should not have to suffer her fate. Unloved by a king who saw her only as her womb, and who had flowered under her ministration only to scatter any fondness he might hold for her away when she wasn’t able to birth him a healthy son. 

He did not reply, “Is she worth it?,” the queen asked, “the northern witch?”

“She’s not witch,” Aerion said “and even if she were, she’s mine.” 

The queen hummed, “You have never been known to be fond of the female company,” she said “oh how many young ladies would have given their good fortune to just receive one of your handsome smiles. The Targaryen bastard who looked the picture of the Targaryen king,” she commented “it strikes me as curious that you would fall so fast and so hard for this northern woman. What does she have that the whole of the Realm lacks, I wonder, that you’d stage a coup on her word?”

Aerion shrugged “The heart knows reasons the mind does not,” he recited, from an ancient Valyrian adagio.

The queen twisted her hands, the fabric of her nightshift getting caught with the small rings of her bracelet, the only jewellery she was wearing at the moment; she adjusted it quietly and silently “Careful there, lord Blackfyre,” she warned “these are the kind of words a ministrel may sing about” 

Then she dismissed him and Aerion bowed watching her follow her scalpitating husband away down the corridor, “Commander,” Sansa’s lady shield called as she approached, “my lady Stark has sent me forth with word,” she said, offering to him the small scroll. 

In Sansa’ neat handwriting the small paper reported, give me the Realm, and you’ll have me.

Aerion brought the small parchment to his lips, eyes closed and then fixed his glare on the woman, “Tell your lady, I have already spoken the words, but if such is the demand for her hand I shall comply”

The lady cocked her head to the side, “You have spoken the words?,” she asked, and Aerion shrugged, “before the Heart Tree, as her tradition demands, with witnesses” he added as two of his men nodded along, showing the young woman his own palm, “and I have sworn with my blood as Valyrian tradition demands as well”

“I shall tell the lady,” she said, just as the Blackfish joined them, “my niece has sent me ahead,” he said, dismissing the lady shield back to her lady’s side.

“Does she trust me so little?,” he asked in reply watching as the lady disappeared once again in the shadow. Northerners. 

“Oh, it is I she doesn’t trust,” he commented with a shrug, “I am afraid she’s distrustful of my close relation with her mother,”

“Does she not love her mother?” Aerion demanded, fingering Dark Sister at his hip, “I thought different,”

“Sansa loves her mother,” the Blackfish said, “and Cat… Catelyn loves her daughter as well, but lately they have been at odds, Catelyn did not wish for Robb or any of the children to leave the North… and, she hasn’t been as supportive as expected of her. A woman can rule, of course, but not if there’s a man” 

The Blackfish seemed intent to remember something so far away that even his eyes seemed distant, “It is our fault, I believe. Cat was raised for long years and trained to take the place of heir as my brother did not have sons, so when Edmure was born… it was only natural for Catelyn to step down to let her brother inherit all she had been training for,” he said “I suppose she expected the same of her daughter and is angry her daughter did not comply”

“I thought House Stark was united behind her,” Aerion commented, his tone low, careful and mingling with anger, “that they fought for her birthright”

“Robb did,” the Blackfish said “and Sansa’s siblings are united behind her, none of them would steal her claim. Neither would Catelyn, she would have been fine with Sansa ruling if she did not send her son in this nest of vipers to loose his head”

Aerion felt the shiver up his spine, “He will not lose his head,” he said “He will not make stupid mistakes” 

“The boy is good,” the Blackfish said, “loyal to fault. And Sansa is fiercely protective of him, if something were to happen to him… the Realm would never recover from her fury”

“Or mine,” Aerion said, to reply to the Blackfish raised brow he added, “she’s to be my wife. Her grief shall be mine, her joy shall be mine as well as her fury and her enemies” 

The Blackfish considered him, “That is right,” he said “she’s cold on the outside, but her heart is warm and gentle. Treat it kindly”

Aerion nodded and then gestured for the Blackfish to accompany him toward the throne hall, though they spent the walk in silence. The court had been roused at night and they were clearly on edge especially seeing the king being escorted to the accused palanquin, his Small Council detained and his kingsguards forced to remain impartial, “Your loyalty is to the king!, do as I command and strike the lord Blackfyre down!” 

“Their loyalty is to the crown,” Aerion countered and suddenly everyone was aware of his presence once again, every eye was drawn on him, “they might have a duty to you, but so do you to the Realm. A duty you have forsaken many times over,”

“Cousin!” Rhaenys thundered, marching inside the throne hall followed by prince Aemon Martell and her own new husband, both looking disheveled and as if they had not gotten shuteye in weeks, wearing the royal green against her flesh, her long, thick hair bouncing and framing her face. 

The direwolf, Grey Wind, flanked the prince consort and the princess, baring his fangs as soon as Aerion turned to them, his stance ready for the attack, even as Robb’s own blade was drawn but laying limp against his leg. One of the prince’s hand was in the direwolf’s fur, and he urged the direwolf forward, surely to strike fear in their hearts, but to his surprise Lady appeared behind him from the side entrance he had used to reach the hall; as Robb’s eyes befell the Blackfish. 

Lady pushed between him and the Blackfish, to stand tall between them and Grey Wind, her fangs not bared, but her stance a clear threat. The presence of the direwolf seemed to calm Robb somewhat, convincing him that his sister might be onto what was happening, might be even behind it. 

Rhaenys observed the direwolves for a long moment as they two stood each other down, not one giving an inch as their tension seemed to seep even deeper with its claws in the court, “what is the meaning of this?” 

“Do not lie, daughter!” The king accused, pointing his fingers toward her “you are the mind behind this coup! It will not stand,” 

Rhaenys, to his surprise, ignored her father and turned to the queen instead, queen Marcellyne Frey was sitting with her hands on her lap near the accused palanquin, “Lord Blackfyre seems to be acting with the authority of the Skyghosts at present,” she said “and seems to have the proofs that the king has acted selfishly against the interest of the Realm whole,”

Aerion in all reply, opened both arms and gave a little bow, “Princess,” he saluted, “I ask that you preside over this trial, for your fairness to be known in the Realm” he added, gesturing for the Iron throne. 

His offer clear. 

Take the Iron throne, grasp this opportunity I am giving you to finally put your claws in the throne and make it yours without bloodshed and without poison. 

Rhaenys took a long moment to study the court, to understand the repercussions that would come. This is treachery, her eyes seemed to tell him. He lowered some his head, with a smirk upon his lips, only if we lose.

“Princess,” prince Aemon Martell commented, “you should be guarantor that justice is made,” he added, for once since he had joined the Skyghosts their goals aligned, “a ruler shall even impart justice on those close to them”

Rhaenys, to his surprise, turned to her new husband, seemingly share a short conversation made of looks with him, and after a long moment Robb sheathed his sword “Grey Wind, to me!” 

The direwolf, called back by his master, flanked his side again. The princess fisted the fabric of her skirts in her left hand and then took her husband’s arm in her own, and ignored her father’s shout as her husband escorted her to the Iron throne, helping her climb the steps to it and standing just below her on the steps beneath the seat as she carefully, purposefully sat for the first time in her life on the Iron throne. 

The air was filled with tension as the dornish at court offered her a bow full of pride and loyalty, and the valeman observed with interest and quietly the happenings. 

“I trust that your lordship has reliable proofs” were the first words she spoke from the Iron throne, her tone sure and low and slow, “for this madness” 

“I do, princess” Aerion said “proofs my men and I have been collecting for years as our duty to vigil on any conduct that may go in contrast with our mandate” he stated. 

Rhaenys as any heir to the Iron throne who did not ride a dragon, was not aware of the secret mandate king Aegon II had imposed of them, carried on by the first Great Master of the Sect, prince Aemond Targaryen and then by his nephew, the first Lord Commander, prince Maelor Targaryen and all their successor after them. But, she was aware that their mandate was of such a great importance that, upon occasion, they could lawfully go against direct orders from the crown and had, at times, acted as keepers of the political balance in the capital.

Sometimes by putting it under siege, other times acting in the shadows to eradicate madness from the royal line through any mean necessary. Other times by upholding their military or economical support from the king when their agendas did not align. 

Why, when they had been children Rhaenys had lamented that this made the Skyghosts as a private super power that essentially rendered the Targaryens to mere puppets as lord commander Baratheon had upon a time, with the raw strength of the dragons at their command where the king could not. 

Didn’t they call king Aenar I as the puppet king, and lord Baratheon as the king in the shadows?

Aemon was more loyal to the princess than to him, Aerion knew, but with his tactic he was ensuring that her place as royal heir and queen would be secured, so he was complying. 

“Our mandate,” he continued “to keep the Realm safe from the enemy coming from within” he added “the enemies that bring the storm and never tire. The enemies that the Voice of the North has long since been warning us about”

He saw Robb Stark flinch and then frown when he mentioned the Voice of the North, the title that since the time of Aegon II had been awarded to the women of House Stark, the heiresses who saw their birthright refused but still kept on alive the memory of the Voice of the North, whisking through the net of Heart Trees with her direwolf to hail for the return of the Last hero to defeat the enemies of the Long Night.

Children tales. 

True tales.

“The enemy from which the Nights Watch has long since defended us from,” he stated. The king slammed both his palms on the wooden panel of his palanquin “children tales! Others and wights and what else…? Children of the Forest?”

“The dragons are real,” Robb commented, “why would the Others, the wights and the Children of the Forest not be real when dragons are? Just because you haven’t seen them? Before last month no one had ever seen a direwolf… are they unreal too?” He asked, his hand burrowed in the fur of his direwolf sitting several steps below him on the Iron throne, Grey Wind bared his fangs and growled in reply. 

Courtiers and Maesters and guards started to murmur, so Aerion gestured with both hands, “Good lords, good ladies, the point is not if the Enemy exists indeed,” he said “proof of that has been scattered all across the Realm, in our caves and in our stories. All stories cannot be lies,” he added “the point is, the crown has, since the beginning of this dynasty, a duty to the North,”

He had them hooked he knew, “Did Aegon the Dragon not dream of the cold enemy to the North and that the Realm must be united to defeat them?” He asked.

Aegon’s dream had long since been a known legend of House Targaryen, though he was sure something was missing from it, queen Alicent Hightower had claimed more than once, once the Dance was done with, that her son was the heir to the Conqueror’s dream and duty to defend the Realm and the world whole. 

The prince that was promised, she had called it in several sources. The same prince that was promised that the red priests had believed Rhaegar to be… the same prince that was promised that many had accused him of being unworthy of being. 

Many nodded along, “The Skyghosts have been created for this same sacred duty,” he said “to ensure that one day, this Targaryen champion, might do his duty. That all those that come before him, keep the Realm safe and defended for Him,” he said “and for generations we have guarded our secret purpose,”

“A useless purpose!” The king claimed, “there’s no enemy to the North save the wildlings lady Stark has so easily let inside her lands” 

“We do not know if or when this enemy will come, but if the enemy is not real,” Rhaenys commented “then so our birthright is not real either, for on the existence of this enemy Aegon based his right to the Seven Kingdoms and his duty as Protector of the Realm,”

Good, she had caught onto his plan. 

She looked back to him, her father rendered speechless by her logic, “You say you have proof of my father’s wrongdoings,” she said “let’s see these proofs”

“As you command, princess”

It was a long and overdue process. The showed them the most important parchments they had confiscated from the Master of Coin, showing the effort the king had taken into moving the resources from the border to the North, from where they had been ferried since the times of king Jaehaerys II. 

Lord Symon Whent was called to testify as well, and claimed that his own lord father, had died mysteriously after he had uncovered some of the proof they were citing to this very day. His mother, the lady Florys Whent, who came from a long, direct line of Whent women had risked her life to ensure that her husband’s death would not be in vain, and had collected even more proofs.

“House Targaryen has risen you!” The king claimed “how dare you turn against me?!”

The lady Florys had looked mightily unimpressed by the comment, “In your veins may flow the blood of Daeron the Bold, Your Grace,” she commented “but in mine flows the blood of the Mother of the Riverlands. We Whents do not scare easily. It was but through the doings of two of our own that your dynasty prospered, everyone knows that is the reason why the Whents had been such raised, from hedge knights to lords of Harrenhal!”

Then she proceeded to ignore his words and offer her own testimony. Harrenhal had long been the middle ground through which the resources meant to go North passed through the Riverlands and they had hosted several northern wards, and had sent several of their own to the North. Most of them had then joined the Nights Watch of their own will. In their books it was clearly registered that, since king Aenar had subdued Rhaegar Targaryen and Ned Stark had demanded the crown remembered their duty there had been a brief return to the times of prince Aemond Targaryen and prince Maelor Targaryen had been living in Harrenhal, lately though the king had started to ensure that the very same goods made their ways back to the crown, they still passed through Harrenhal, but then they circled around it and returned whence they came, to return instead, inside the private coffers of the king and his minions. 

The king had also stopped upholding the agreement to have northern children ward in the South and southern children ward in the North, despite the latter continuing to send invitations — invitations the lords were heavily counseled against accepting — and offering to send their own children. 

The last southern child who had been sent to the North, she recalled, was her cousin, who had later served as First Ranger of the Nights Watch. In the same fashion the last northern ward was young Jayne Manderly, whom only through her intercession with House Hightower had been invited to High Garden, to mend old wounds — as the Manderly claimed to have been from the Reach originally and sent from there — and to uphold their duty to ward the northerners in name of the king. 

“A lot good that did! House Stark slayed the last heir of the northern line of Targaryens and Starks!” King Aenar claimed.

“Baelor Stark was madman,” Robb Stark said, “who turned against his own blood and attempted to abduct and violate my sister in his sad attempt to set his claws in Winterfell” he hissed “he found his death on the battlefield. I gave it to him”

Aerion felt his jaw clench. This he had not been aware of. He wished for a long moment that he could unbury the man himself, just to ensure him to the Realm’s justice. But House Stark’ vengeance had been swift and true and Sansa had risen stronger and more powerful from it. 

His lady mother flinched at the mention of her cousin, the only, last link to the North that she had been able to keep, but she did not speak against what Robb Stark had said. She dared not to, though she had trashed and shouted when Aerion had told her that lady Stark was to be her gooddaughter.

“The Starks hate us! The North will never accept you and you will either be cast aside or be killed!,” she had claimed, “the northerners do not forget”

They proved also — through the books of the prisons — that several men who had been apprehended for minor crimes or major crimes, who had chosen to take the black, had either died under the torture commanded to drive the truth of their crime from them, or had died of hardships in the black cells. 

In the last ten years, only two and ten men had managed to join the Watch from the South. Three of them were noble sons — Waymar Royce, Loras Tyrell and Samwell Tarly — whom the king had been unable to keep from the North. The other nine had joined the Watch to avoid the famine and had reached the Wall by foot undetected by the guards.

The crown had also started to purchase lumber and furs from other places than the North as decreed in the pact sealed by king Aegon II and lord Cregan Stark, and had raised the taxation imposed to the North in name of the recustruction of the South after one of their own had joined the rebellion against them, even when such a heavy taxation had not been necessary and neither had been imposed to other regions. 

“I did what was right by my birthright!” The king declared.

“That may be a lie you tell yourself, Your Grace” Aerion commented, “but no one believes you”

“My council and I ever only acted in the best interests of the Iron throne! Who’d dare to say the opposite?”

“I’d dare!” Sansa’ voice resounded, powerful enough to silence the rest of the murmurs as the double doors opened to show her inside, Lady flanking her side and her following on her heel, as she pushed the hood of her blue mantle off her red head to show her face “in the name of House Stark of Winterfell and the North!”

It did not surprise him that Sansa had cleaned her face, to show better how thin she had become and the bruise on her cheek he had not noticed in the darkness of the cells, nor that she had braided her hair simply to fall in a cascade of copper at her middle, her hands behind her back to show how thin she was but also how determined and in control she was. The direwolf of House Stark shining on her brow in a circlet of pearls and battered bronze. 

“My lord Father, my ancestors… House Stark and the North have been nothing but loyal to House Targaryen of Kings Landing,” she proclaimed “my lord Father fought to ensure you kept your crown even against one of our own! And your reward has been shame, deceit and betrayal!” 

“I have given House Stark a royal match!” The king reproached “and you call that betrayal?”

“You did not give us a royal match,” Sansa claimed “you have taken one of our own in the sad attempt to bring the North back to the fold, to have us on our knees! Do not think I am not aware of your sights on Winterfell, of how, if your son had lived you would have unseated me as Wardeness of the North, to instead have your blood through my brother and your daughter sit in Winterfell as compensation!”

Rhaenys’ face was made of marble; Robb made an aborted step toward his twin, his eyes never leaving her face as he took notice of every bruise, every thin line… “We are the blood of the kings of winter!” Sansa proclaimed “and I am the lady of Winterfell. I came to you in peace, offering my twin’s hand to your only heir, ready to parlay with you of the ill doings that were happening. You called me your subject, I am not. Through the blood of Brandon the Builder, through Cregan Stark I am the lady of Winterfell, at the head of the princedom of the North. We are bound to the Iron throne, but we are no more subjects than the dornish are!”

She gestured widely with her hands, “Yet you threw me in the black cells because I dared raise concern over the ill doings that lord Blackfyre has exposed today in this hall!”

“She’s a witch!” The king claimed “and she colluded with the enemy! She’s guilty of sedition and treachery! I ought to have you flogged and…!” He spluttered blood when the hilt of Dark Sister slammed against his mouth and nose. 

“She’s my bride,” Aerion hissed, with eyes sparkling the color of purple clouds over a tempestuous sky, the entire court appeared to take a breath of surprise at that, as the murmurs begun again in haste “entrusted to me by the Gods themselves, through winter and through spring. Speak ill of her again and I will kill you”

If Sansa was surprised she did not show, instead she raised a hand, “Peace, my lord,” she called, her voice determined and resolute, her eyes sparkling of empyrean steel, Aerion considered her for a long moment, then sheathed once again Dark Sister. 

Sansa returned her gaze to the princess, “Princess,” she called, “sister, I put myself and the North to your judgment, you spoke of fairness in all things when we broached the subject of how you meant to rule the Realm” she said, “uphold your duty to the North as the North has to your line”

Rhaenys considered the matter at length, Robb in silence beneath her until she called for him to reach her, and though he stood on the same step on which the seat was constructed he did not sit, instead she grabbed his hand in hers on her lap as she thought over, even as her father shouted and spat blood everywhere on the palanquin. 

The queen stood then, the scratching of her chair drawing attention to her of sudden, “Princess, I leave myself to your mercy,” she said “your lord father the king is your blood. He just lose another son and his illness of the mind is no mystery to any of us. I beg you have mercy on him and on me. If nothing else for the sake of the brother I carried in my womb and lost which shared your blood”

Rhaenys seemed surprised by her intromission, but took it as chance, “My stepmother,” she said “Her Grace is an inspiritation to us all for her marital duty and kindness. Your words have moved my heart beyond the call of my blood. It is true, my father is the king, but he is of no sound mind to rule over the Realm, and his misconception led by this madness to which us all have been blind have wrought damage through the Realm and to House Targaryen…”

“Treacherous wife! Traitorous viper!” 

The king’s scream broke Rhaenys’ phrase as he launched at his wife, still on her knees before the palanquin, his hands around her throat “I am the dragon!” The king declared “I am the only and true king!” 

Aerion remembered a time in which the king had been a shadow of himself, with hair and beard and nails so long he looked more like an harpy than a man. He remembered how his first wife had long reigned until death had taken her. All the court had not bet in his sound mind until queen Marcellyne had come to the court and had started to nurse him back to health. Through his expedient of his madness, Rhaenys could dethrone him and take the Iron throne, and she would always be in his debt for it. 

She would come when called upon.

“Remove the king from the hall!” Rhaenys commanded of the kingsguard “only a madman would attack the wife who begs for his life!” And thought until then they had been reluctant to obey her orders, ser Dycon Qhaedar was the first to move to obey her commands, the others followed suit behind their commander. Once they had removed him from his wife, trembling and with bloodshot eyes and disheveled hair, they awaited Rhaenys further orders, “that the king be sequestered in Vault of Prayer, for his own safety and ours may his seal be revoked and no blade be in his grasp!”

“As you command princess,” ser Qhaedar nodded, commanding his men to drag the king if needed to the Vault of Prayer, then he bowed to the princess and took his post at the feet of the Iron throne.

Rhaenys stepped down the Iron throne with Robb’s help first and ser Qhaedar’s next, as she neared the queen, “Stepmother,” she called with a kindness that Aerion had never heard her use for the woman or any of her father’s wives, “stand,” she helped her stand. 

Once Marcellyne Frey was standing, Rhaenys returned to the feet of the Iron throne, and Aerion nodded to Great Maester Pycelle, who had long since been loyal to the princess and whom had clearly gotten the gist of what was happening “Princess, you ought to take the role of regent of the Realm, so as to bring luster back to the crown and to House Targaryen” he said “all members of the Small Council urge you to”

Rhaenys’ eyes fleeted over the men in her father’s council, eyeing each of them. Arguably, none of them were innocent and must have helped the king devise such a conduct, but right now Rhaenys needed to seize the power, then she could work them out of the capital one by one. 

His cousin seemed to think the same for she nodded, “Thus I will do,” she said, then she turned to Sansa, “sister,” she called “in apology for what you suffered I’ll sanction your marriage to my cousin,” she added. 

Sansa stiffened and Aerion inched closer to them, Rhaenys smiled, a smile as sweet as butter and as rancid as rennet “a brave knight by his lady’s side,” she commented “you will marry as you so much wish,” she added “but you will marry in the Old way of Valyria” she stepped closer and grabbed her hands in hers “and House Targaryen shall honor its word, my own cousin, princess Arianne is of age of be a ward to the North. She will come with you back to Winterfell, I hear you have a sister who might enjoy the dornish way…”

“Arya is a northern general,” Sansa protested, “she will not leave her post, but my brother Rickon has shown interest in Dorne, he might be better suited and my uncle, the Blackfish might come with, so that a son of House Martell may squire under him as Rickon will under prince Aemon” she treated. 

Rhaenys smile was full and true, “Very well,” she stated “so it shall be,” she collected her hands before herself “let me be the first to congratulate you on your impending marriage, cousin, sister” she offered. 

“The northerners won’t like a Valyrian marriage for their lady, my love” Robb tried to parlay, “this would put her in a difficult spot”

“And House Targaryen would not accept anything but a Valyrian bond,” she added “why is the way of the royal line to be stumped upon for prejudice? If the North and the South must stand united, so we shall. I married you incorporating parts of the northern marriage in ours,” she pointed out, “why can’t your sister do the same?”

“The princess regent is right,” Sansa said, though her voice was careful “our sisterhood in this will unite the Realm, that is,” she added turning to her “since you already spoke the words as in my tradition before the Heart Tree, did you not, my lord?”

Aerion smiled, “Indeed, my sweet,” he offered “I did, as soon as you accepted my proposal, too afraid you would rethink your acceptance”

Sansa offered Rhaenys a smile that told her, I have you just as you have me. Rhaenys forced herself to smile genuinely though it was a poor thing, “Splendid! Then we shall start the preparation with all haste!”

Lady Sansa Stark married lord Aerion Blackfyre in Summerhall — a demand made by the lord Blackfyre himself — a week after the time of joyous festivities for princess Rhaenys and prince Robb’s own wedding were done, a month and half after the northern party had come in the capital, some claim in the shadow of a coupe d’etat though such is not remarked in any books, the only sources we have are that princess Rhaenys made aware by her cousin of the misdeeds her father pursued in his madness, had taken the role of princess regent and had sanctioned the matrimony between the lord and the lady. 

 

She married him with the Valyrian robes and headdress, speaking the words of high Valyrian and joining her blood to his, and some sources comment that even the Gods showed their good will as the ceremony taking place in Summerhall was blessed by the hatching of a new egg laid by the Green Queen herself, though no hatchling seemed to prefer the company of her mother and as such a young age no suitable palpable rider dared to come so close to the hatchling the Green Queen was keeping so jealously near herself. The hatchlings had the colours of the Heart Tree, white and grey and red and eyes the color of garnets with a crown of seven red onyx horns. 

 

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Chapter Text

Aerion, part II

Baeryl twisted beneath his blade, her own across the cut of Dark Sister, her braid dancing behind her as if filled with her own life and purpose. She pivoted on her left foot, and slipped beneath his guard to press the hilt of her sword — his old sword — on his chest making him stumble two feet back.

He bent his knees, pressed his feet on the hard ground and mulinated Dark Sister to par her new attack from up head, then he used his greater strength to push her back two feet. 

“You seem distracted, my lord” she breathed with a smirk, as her sister and her brother clapped at the exchange from where they were sitting with lady Qhaedar, the lady Whents and lady Stark, “might it be because of two little green eyes staring at you?”

Aerion rolled his eyes and shoulders, trying to knock her sword from her hand, “Her eyes aren’t little and they are sapphire blue” he corrected her, as they battled for dominance. 

It would be easy to overpower her and Aerion would not hold back his punches, knowing that on a bloody, dirty battlefield they wouldn’t either. Baeryl appreciated it far more than she’d say. 

“Oh I am sorry, tēafor āeksio,” she teased him as she bent low and attempted to kick at his ankles to have him stumble, Aerion jumped out of the way, “I am not as familiar with you with the fancy shades of blue” 

Aerion dubbed Dark Sister’ point into the ground and then pivoted using the hilt as hinge to kick at her ribcage, strong enough to make her fall but not enough to break her breath, then, before she could stand up and gather her bearings again he pointed the blade at her chin, a smirk upon his lips.

Baeryl shrugged “Fine,” she muttered, pushing his blade away, when it did not budge she hit it with the flat of her own, “I won’t misspeak about your lady love’s eye color again,” 

Aerion, satisfied, lowered his blade and then offered his hand. Baeryl took it and let him help her up to her feet, “Your lady love,” Aerion murmured to her “seems quite impressed”

Baeryl’ eyes glanced to the pavilion under which the ladies were conversing softly between themselves, Lady the direwolf sprawled over her mistress’s feet with her massive head resting atop her paws. 

Baeryl smirked, “She’s impressed,” she agreed “by my skills in lovemaking, let me know if you need some pointers, women can be hard to please”

In all reply Aerion shoved her with his shoulder, but said nothing as they neared the pavilion. Lady raised her molten gaze on him for a moment, then returned to her slumber. 

“You are both splendid fighters,” lady Qhaedar commented, her red-painted lips distended into a pointed smile “both landborne and airborne,” she said “it is no wonder than none dares to disturb our peace with you defending our borders” she added. 

Baeryl took the cup she was nursing and threw it down in one gulp, smiling down at her lover, who was looking at her with sparkling eyes made of the purest of golds. Lady Florys Whent and lady Alyce Whent seemed to agree with lady Qhaedar, asking after Baeryl’ first flight and his second in command proved well honed in recounting anecdotes about her childhood and bond with her dragon. 

Aerion instead turned to his bride, lady Stark was mindlessly stroking her direwolf between the ears with a wistful expression set on the horizon. Surely she had meant to return home soon, and lacking a husband she could’ve done without, but she had adapted to the role of bride to be quickly and the court was bustling with energy at the very idea of not only hosting one royal wedding, but two. 

“My lady,” he offered, “may we talk?” 

Her empyrean gaze snapped from the horizon and whichever dark musing she had been entertraining to settle on him, she turned to her woman-shield and then nodded, she stood up, “Lady Qhaedar, lady Whent, lady Alyce,” she offered “I bid you farewell, for now” 

Her woman-shield fell into step with her and her beast as Aerion handed Dark Sister to his squire, young Edric Dayne. Usually one would have thought a Dayne would have squired under Prince Aemon, but since he would take Prince Rickon as squire, and as Aerion would marry lady Stark, young Edric Dayne who had been at court in search of the king’s acceptance to become Aemon’ squire had ended up becoming his. 

Edric was six and ten, slightly older than his bride brother, Brandon, and just a tad younger than Princess Arya, he was lanky for his age and Aerion was sure he would soon fill out with muscle as he trained, he was swift with a sword and appeared to be kind of disposition but clever. All in all, perhaps Aerion had stumbled unto an hidden gem. 

His uncle, sir Arthur Dayne had long served as the late Queen Elia’ shield and the Sword of the Morning, his great sword would one day be inherited by Edric though he wasn’t yet ready to wield it, even if he had inherited it at his uncle’s premature death. 

“Thank you, Edric” Aerion offered as the boy handled his sword with much care, “you’re free to focus on your studies for the rest of the afternoon” he issued. 

A good knight and a good lord should know not only the way of the sword and oaths, but also history and philosophy. Edric was already at a good point at least in history but he was lacking in his philosophical studies and Aerion had set to rectify it at once. 

“Thank you, lord Blackfyre” Edric replied, bowing his head, “Lady Stark,” he bid, before leaving them, sword in hand to care for his studies. 

Aerion watched him go for a moment and then offered lady Stark his arm, Sansa took it gingerly and they started to walk away from the training grounds, her woman-shield and her direwolf at good distance to give them enough privacy to converse. 

“I have asked the princess regent to allow us to make haste for Summerhall for the wedding,” he said, perhaps not the best conversation starters but a good point he meant to share with her, “I know you wish to be done with these matters as soon as possible, but I wish that if the Gods have to see to our union that they do it in our seats,” he added. 

Sansa mulled over his words, “I understand you might find disdainful to marry in the capital where your mother was held hostage and your father dubbed an enemy of the crown,” she offered, “I mislike the time I spend away from home, but I understand your motives” 

Aerion observed her, then sighed “You have agreed to marry me, and yet you do not trust me” he commented. 

Lady Stark did not stop in their stroll, yet he felt her stiffen slightly, she did not meet his eyes “I do not know you, why would I trust you?” 

“I have but been true to you, since we met,” he offered and it tasted like acid on his tongue, like ashes.

“To be fair,” she recounted “you’ve had little chance not to be, you have been set on this marriage since we met, possibly before. That I mistrust,” she added. 

She did not look at him, yet she stopped walking “Why would a man who, by all recounts, hates House Stark and the North be so insistent we marry? There must be a hidden motive” 

“Can’t I simply fancy you?” 

Lady Stark did look at him now, “Fancying is quite the inane reason to strung someone from prison and basically dethrone a king,” she offered, her blue eyes were pools of empyrean sky, with specks of steel beneath, thick reddish lashes framed them to perfection as they sat like jewels upon her ivory skin. 

“Maybe I misliked him,” he shrugged “my reasoning can be my own, can’t you trust that I mean you no harm?”

“If I thought you meant me, or the North, any harm you would not be standing here,” she said “I would not be marrying you,” she added “I am trusting your motives to align with mine” 

Aerion studied her “You are trusting you can handle me if my motives do not align with yours,” he corrected her instead. 

If she was surprised by his reading of her expression she did not show, instead she remained unmovable like marble as she stared at him.

“It is a risk I needed to take,” she said “to return North. To protect the North,”

He hmmed, “So your motives are yours, yet mine can’t be mine?” 

Lady Stark shrugged elegantly as they resumed their stroll, having left the training yard behind and having come through the entrance of the gardens on the path to the Godswood, “Your motives are yours,” she offered “I cannot trust you more than I am, not unless there’s proof. Unconfutable proof”

“The might of Kings Landing to defend Winterfell” he guessed, lady Stark did not look at him, “It is what it was promised for my hand, was it not?”

Give me the Realm and you’ll have me. 

“Indeed,” he commented “the might of all the dragons Kings Landing has to offer in defence of Winterfell and the North. You are quite the ambitious woman, to sell your hand for such an high price”

“It is not the seller that sets the worth,” she offered “it is the the bidder who does, if you thought it too much you would not have accepted” 

He felt his smile curl atop his lips at her quip, “Indeed, perhaps your hand comes with your snides and your contempt” he offered “I shall take them both, and give what you were promised” 

Lady Stark did not reply to that, as they strolled around the path, mindlessly as if without destination and Aerion basked in the soft silence for a moment. 

“I think that would be prudent,” she said “as I shall not welcome you in my bed until you’ve kept your word”

Aerion let out a chuckle at that, “You are cruel woman,” he commented, Sansa did not seem either offended neither did she protest, he stopped short bent down and collected some flowers from the ground, then offering her to him, “perhaps the courtesy will please you enough to soften you a bit toward me?” he questioned, hands crossed behind his back and body lowered enough that he was leaning toward her, almost nose to nose. 

Sansa accepted the flowers with some sort of wistful intention as she tucked them in her hand, “I am still not changing my mind,” she told him. 

Aerion straightened and offered her his arm again, “I know,” Sansa took it with, and they resumed their walk as Aerion asked after her family, her childhood and shared tidbits of his own. Sansa asked after his lady mother, after his formative years and they even spoke about their beliefs in the righteous political alliance Sansa and Rhaenys had struck. 

And, all in all, he believed, life would be well.

Once Summerhall was in sight, Aerion asked lady Stark to join him. He had escorted the royal party from Kings Landing on dragonback, and the other Skyghosts were all moving to Summerhall as the voyaged there. He had sent ahead word to have all the necessary ready for a quick Valyrian wedding and though the Septon had for sure filled word upon word of a letter full of disdain, his lady mother had ensured that everything would go smoothly.

Lady Stark joined him, as requested, followed closely by her direwolf and sir Rodrick Cassel, with her thick furs wrapped securely around her and kissing her jaw and neck, and a circlet of pearls woven into her hair, as similar to a coronet as it could be without being a coronet, beads of battered bronze enriched by First Men runes were braided into her auburn tresses and a direwolf pin shone at the junction of her collarbones. 

“You asked for me?” she demanded, her tone soft but the strength of it cutting, Aerion nodded, took off one of his gloves and offered her his hand. 

Sansa studied him, she did not move, possibly aware of the reason of his summon, especially when the dragoness descended from the clouds and landed near enough to be reached comfortably by foot and far enough that her warmth was not yet enough to heat them. 

“I will not,” she stated. 

Aerion sighed, stepped closer to her, “She won’t harm you,” he promised “she knows my mind and my heart” 

“And I do not trust either” Sansa countered, her blue eyes fixed on the beast before them, Aerion stepped closer again, now close enough that Sansa was engulfed in his presence.

Rodrick Cassel had his hand at his hip, ready at his sword, so Aerion knew to be mindful. It was starkly and comforting to see someone so determined on her safety, he pressed his hand to the small of his back urging her to look at him, and she did. 

“You will be safe with me” he promised, “she means you no ill” 

“She’s a dragon,” she said “do not pretend you can control her,” she shuddered painfully as if aware of something Aerion could not touch, could not taste, could not understand. 

She was so stubborn. 

“You are to be my bride,” he said “we will share one heart, one flesh and one soul,” he added “and I spoke the words, there is not place on this earth or the next where you will go that I shall not follow. If she were to harm you, she’d harm me”

Sansa refused to look at him then, for a long moment he believed she would accept, then she turned and fixed her blue eyes on him, specks of sky just at his reach, “Prove it” she hissed, her tone low. 

Aerion grabbed her by the elbow as she made to turn, “What must I do more? I unseated Aenar, the whole of the Skyghosts is coming to Summerhall and will follow us to Winterfell, what more shall I do, to be worth of a modicum of your trust?” 

Sansa stared at him unblinking as if she couldn’t really see him, Aerion let go of her arm, his own coming to rest limply at his side, “If this is not enough what will be?” 

She narrowed her eyes “You know the answer,” she stated, “I am a distrustful woman, I shall not believe until I see Winterfell protected by all your might,” 

His eyes hardened as he looked up at her once again, “Will it be enough then?”, he questioned. Do you not see it in my eyes?, he wondered, why are you so blinded?

Sansa considered at length him before replying “It might never be enough, if you aim for my heart,” she offered with a sincerity he did not expect of her, a trail of betrayal running up his spine and settling into his chest “if you aim for my hand, and my true trust, aye it will be enough” 

Silly girl, he thought darkly, why are you so blind? How can you no recognise the truth of my heart when it comes to you? 

He let her go, feeling the sting of betrayal deep in his marrow, after all this time… after all it took me, do you really believe I will just let you go?

They married before the clear waters of the pond at the feet of the keep, in the royal Valyrian garb of black and red and grey. Sansa was wrapped into Valyrian garment and jewels from head to toe, in stark contrast with her auburn hair and ivory skin, making for the most striking Valyrian bride in history. 

They had painted blood red dots at her cheeks and three smaller dots and her lips, and she spoke the words as if she had known them for an eternity, displaying her talent for the study of languages. Her nails, as per tradition, were tinted red and red dots were painted on every knuckle and underneath the shell of her ear. 

The dragons sang their praise, as they shared the cup and mixed their blood as one. His soul… his blood sang less, for the formality and stiffness of his bride. 

Even as he practiced the cut of her lip, he felt but her stiff and unflinching, not even with a dagger within reach and brandished by someone she proclaimed she could not trust. 

So, when he kissed he poured everything in his kiss as he tasted the copper of her blood atop his tongue. He kissed her like he had waited a hundred years and more to press his lips against hers. She did not melt against his kiss, her shoulders still stiff and Aerion stepped back with heavy-lidded eyes, stroking her arm up and down in hope it might comfort her some.

And she did seem to relax. 

Differently from the traditional westerosi wedding, the Valyrian imposed privacy of the new couple, thus the guests did have a banquet over which presided his mother as lady chatelain of Summerhall with Rhaenys being the guest of honor and Aerion escorted Sansa to their conjoined chamber, another imperative of the Valyrian wedding. 

As part of the tradition he carried the bride through the threshold and was the one who take off her head the bejewelled headdress, I imagined how she would draped in Valyrian garb, though perhaps furs are how she feels best comfortable which was why he had secretly ordered the silk sheet switched with northern cotton and furs. 

“I shall not share your bed,” he told her, “but I shall not have them speak ill of you for our lack of wedding night,” he said “the Valyrian tradition does not impose consummation,” he added “our volition to share as husband and wife our chamber will be enough, will you join me for a cup near the fire?” he offered. 

Sansa looked at him and then nodded, “I’d like that, thank you, my lord” it was little, but it would be enough. 

“I am sorry,” she offered, deep in the night when the flames dancing the hearth had long become embers dancing to their own tune, she was curled on herself, with her knees up to her chest and her feet tucked under the rim of her wedding-undershift, her hair long unbound and falling in soft, shining  tresses to her waist, her cheek propped on one hand, her eyes heavy lidded, “I’m sorry this is not enough,” she murmured as slowly sleep got the best of her, as her head lolled back, dangling to the side. 

Aerion brought his chair closer to hers and then adjusted her head to rest against his chest, the movement jostled her enough that she opened her sleepy eyes, “…‘ond?” she called him, voice thickened by sleep. 

He caressed the side of her arm, “I’m here, Sansa, I am here,” but her sleep was fitful and Aerion stroked the back of her head in a vain attempt to soothe her, as low and deep the notes lingered in the air. 

… and she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave. 

He pressed a kiss on the top of her head, “Sweet dreams, there where you can dance free”

Chapter Text

DAENERYS,

”Your Radiance,” the seneschal greeted her as Daenerys descended the steps of the great pyramid that led to the Gardens of the Dragons. What had once been a verdant hanging garden at the top of the pyramid of the Harpy, boosting with life and color had, since she had first installed her own reign, become a new Dragon pit in the open air. The verdant grass had been scorched by her dragons, and only ghost grass sprouted from the arid dirt, tall and thin, pale. What had once been a tree covered alcove filled with poisonous, carnivore herbs and plants, was now a monument of burned, pale, frundless trunks standing tall like marble pillars, ever so scratched by her children’s claws and blackened by their fire and charcoals. 

No flowers could survive that aridness, save for the snapflame an ancient bud that had bloomed once on the ground of the Fourteen Flames in Valyria. Daenerys had sent several knights and freedmen who had been eager to please their Mhysa, there to collect the flowers which were told to have magical properties. Her hope was that, one day, she could brew the tea to ensure her womb would quicken with the dragonseed and she’d birth the heir to ger legacy without her husband’s help, without any man’s help, so that no one but she would claim the fruit of her womb and no one would dare try and rob her of her birthright through her child. 

There had been a sect in Old Valyrian of priestesses, who were the guardian keepers of the divine flame, and added to their ranks with the help of the snapflame’s blood — as the tea was called in the texts, for its burgundy color — they would sacrifice any male born of such a magick and would breed and raise only the daughters to become like them. 

Dany had no such needs, though she had at length considered a new hereditary law of only women, as they had proved much worthier than the men of her line, born of such a magick. In some ancient tomes they said that queen Visenya had used the magick tea to fall pregnant with king Maegor the Cruel, which had added to his strength and overall character, making of him a God amongst men. The Faith had disliked such a practise and thus they had disliked Maegor by default, doing their best to make his brides either barren or poisoning them to destroy the child in their belly, making them look monstrous as the boy she had birthed before the time, the only time she had fallen pregnant soon after her marriage to Viserys.

This way Dany could continue to lay with her numerous lovers — the Dothraki khal who had bent the knee to her and called her Moon of his life becoming the khal of her khaleesar, her Dothraki handmaiden, the commander of her mercenary company and anyone who incited her fancy — without the fear of one of them attempting to dethrone her and rule in their child’s stead. She would not hold the same fear queen Rhaenyra had been forced to face. 

Dany would fear no one, not even her own husband. Rhaegar would have wanted that for the true heir to the Iron throne, maybe Dany would honor him by taking in her bed his son, making of him her official lover and maybe even have him teach her child how to fight as Dany would teach him how to rule. 

She petted the snout of her black one, and turned to face her advisor, old and gruesome, ad yet useful still, “Speak away,” she offered in Valyrian, “what ails you?”

“You demanded that news from the Seven Kingdoms to be kept from you until you were ready to take your ancestor’s throne, Your Magnificence,” he said profusing in a low bow, “thus we have done,” stupid man, she thought darkly, my intent has never been to remain ignorant but to gauge your loyalty, “but this begs your attention”

She arched a pale brow, the flesh of her scar on her cheek preventing her to grimacing at the man, “Indeed?” she questioned, her purple eyes fixed on his watery, lined ones. 

“Indeed, Your Brilliance,” he offered “the Usurper’s seed has been unthroned by his daughter and your nephew,” he said. Daenerys actually blinked at that, turning her flashing purple eyes on Missandei, standing on the side, on a bench with a book balanced in her lap. The girl was supposed to be her link to any news pertaining the Iron throne, she was small enough and intelligent enough to go unnoticed and she had thus far collected much intelligence always one step ahead of the mock council Dany had put in place to appease to the nobles of the cities. Missandei flinched and Dany returned her glance to the satisfied bald man. 

“The princess has married the northern prince,” he said “and your nephew has married his twin the lady of Winterfell, and together, in their name, they have dethroned the old king and taken his power” 

Daenerys considered this at length, she did not have a particularly warm relationship with her brother’s bastard, always mindful of his abundant ambition, she desired to subdue him to her will, with any mean necessary, though he had proved impervious to her previous attempts, Dany had long since admitted that perhaps he preferred the company of other men above women, and now she learned that he had married and unthroned a king on the whims of this bride of his?

“They say the blood of the dragon is most taken with their northern spouses… that the princess married her prince and accepted a direwolf in her retinue in his behalf and that your cousin has promised her the might of Kings Landing in protection of her home from tales and old men legends” he said “both seems intent on condescend to their spouse madness, whether be talk of northern cold ones or blood spilled on the holy ground of the Iron throne in name of the honor of their spouse,” 

Madness. A Targaryen married to a northern dog did not surprise her, but their volition to raise them so far up, against the call of their dragon blood was madness, Dany loved as well but she would not put in jeopardy her quest for the Iron throne for no one, not for her husband-brother, not for her lovers, not for a child. Madness. 

They were all unfit. 
But she was not, she was the only one fit to take the Iron throne, to rule and reinstate the great Targaryen dynasty, to make the world great and big again. My dragons have made it so much smaller, I’ll make it bigger, and much more marvellous and greater than ever before. 

“Let them amuse themselves with their northern spouses,” she commented, “their attention will be diverted by their charms and madnesses, and I shall come like a wind from east, like a storm to take what is rightfully mine,” she said, “let there be word of refilling the coffers for the war,” she commanded.

“But Your Radiance emptied those on grounds to give every freedman equal salary, how will you replenish them in so little time?” he wondered. 
“I have time, ships, armies and a fleet like none before,” she replied, “I’ll take Volantis and its riches and Asshai as well! Let there be games that will replenish our coffers,”

“And if that proves not enough?”

Dany smiled, “then my children will come to my rescue,” she spoke looking below to the men-ants busting around the streets of her city, free to roam and work and make a living for themselves, “their freedom had a price,” she commented, “which I paid in full, it is time they pay me back”

The seneschal grinned, horrid and disgusting, “As Your Radiance commands, shall be done”

Dany did not watch him go, she returned her gaze on the men below, so far below that they looked like nothing but insects. Unworthy, the Masters had told her, if they could not hold a sword, if they could not work for her, then Dany would give them a value and with that she would fill her coffers, overpopulation was becoming a problem anyway, she could sold all those who had no worth to her campaign to Southryos where slavery was still in full swing. After all wars were won as much with blades as they were with coin, and Dany had spent a fortune to give them those few years of freedom. They owed her their freedoms and their lives, she would do with them what she saw fitting and she’d make sure they would be remembered as the beginning of her glorious reign. 

Daenerys of House Targaryen, the Divine Mother, the Slayer of Lies and the Breaker of Shackles and one day the Queen of the Iron throne, Empress in the East and the West. 

Chapter Text

Aerion

His wife had that look about her as she stepped outside the main building of Summerhall, wearing her northern garb and, as her due now, a coronet of pearls and battered bronze. It had been a gift by her twin, the prince consort, and she had worn it since, often over a thin veil, white in color and sometimes as an ornament to her northern headdress. 

They would not remain long yet in Summerhall, the greatest of the guests was slowly returning to their own seats and abodes, and princess Rhaenys as well had long since departed from the planes of Dorne, escorted by her new husband and her cousin and his dragon. Sansa had taken advantage of the noise around their marriage to start and gauge alliances, whilst in Summerhall she had amply negotiated the anewal of the treaties for the warding of northern children in the South and southern children in the North, why, she had taken for ward young princess Arianne Martell, who had voyaged with her father, the princess’ uncle, to Summerhall. 

Prince Rickon of Winterfell had been ferried to Dorne as well, though it had taken him almost a month long voyage to reach them and had not made it in time for the celebration of their wedding, though Sansa had called for him as soon as Aenar had been dethroned. He would ward under prince Doran Martell and squire under prince Aemon Martell. And with his departure for Sunspear, their stay in Summerhall concluded. 

Sansa had taken to her role of lady of the Targaryen keep as if she had been born to be a Targaryen bride all along, she moved flawlessly between her duties as lady of the keep, Wardeness of the North and wife, ever polite and warm to him, at least in public. Unsurprisingly, the small folk had soon grown fond of his wife, charmed by her manners and her kind heart, it had but been sufficient for her to visit the hospital that he and his lady mother had long been funding and keeping going, and the people had started to call her the good princess, to the point they did not seem even wary of her direwolf, never far behind her. 

Her empyrean eyes fixed on him as soon as he was in sight and that was riveting in a way he could not explain in words, her auburn tresses were braided simply and neatly, falling over her shoulders in two braids, weaved with battered bronze beads. She looked the gooddess of winter that he knew her to be, her direwolf wrapped around her like a second skin, as if she was both herself and the wolf at the same time. And perhaps she was. Her cheeks were reddened for the cold hair, and though her eyes were tired, they were also alert. Beautiful. 

Her lips were pursued, and her jaw set, her chin jutted up, she remained at a safety distance from the dragon, yet he could see in her eyes that she wished to speak with him. Needed to, even. 

She had refused to meet the dragon, before, and had rejected with it a part of himself, and Aerion had long since been determined to get her to accept him in full, as she had never been able before. 

Let her come to him, if she needed so bad, he could stay with the dragon all day along. Though perhaps she would never feel safe enough, not with him mounted upon the beast, so far up that he could touch the sky and she remained with her being rooted to the ground, so he unbuckled the belts that secured him to her massive back and slid down her side, grabbing at the leather straps of the saddle as pursuit as he did so. 

He could feel the dragoness’ curiosity peeking at the edges of his conscience, barely containing even enthusiasm. In the long years since he had claimed her, the Green Queen had kept mostly to herself, hatched from Dreamfyre’ egg, she had long since been some kind of outsider between even the other hatchlings and dragons and only after many years had she found her own dimension, possibly with her third rider. There was an innocence to such a destructive beast, he found, that filled him with a softness that reminded him of the love one bears a sister. 

He outstretched his hand. If you wish to speak to me, you shall face her too. He knew her brave, he knew her strong, and he knew she could have a way with beasts and monsters, her own direwolf was proof enough of that, he knew, and watched as she assessed him, his hand toying with the gray cloth wrapped around the hilt of Dark Sister. 

Sansa seemed to see something in his eyes, something that had her take a few careful steps. The whole of the courtyard was observing them, after all, and the new lady of the keep, the new wife of the lord commander of the Skyghosts could not afford to look scared, not even before a dragon; she stepped closer, her stride slow and her hands fisted around the fabric of her skirts. 

“Lady, stay” she commanded, with a steel in her voice that both surprised and filled him with relief. She was filled with resolve and quiet defiance as she approached rider and dragon both. 

Aerion forced the smile off his face, and the joy out of his mind. She’s not approaching because she trusts you, he thought darkly, she does because she cannot afford to look weak and not in control of the beasts whose protection she had demanded for her homeland. Yet when her hand slid into his, almost forgotten and yet still outstretched, warm despite the coldness and humid autumn air around them, for a moment he forgot all but the softeness of her palm against his. 

“Wife,” he greeted, “I’ve missed you, this morning”

When he had woken his wife had long abandoned their shared chambers, they did share a bed, though nothing improper had happened yet, as Sansa could not afford for people to start murmuring about the legitimacy of their marriage and thus to her claim to the protection that was awarded her as his true wife.

“I had many matters to attend to,” she replied, “I hope you shall forgive me,” her politeness was almost as grating as her words of distrust, for it showed how little she yet cared for him. It was a struggle for him to accepted such a great degree of distance between them, but he had faith that if he gave her time, the lie of their love would, eventually become truth and he would be rewarded, for he had a debt he intended to collect. 

Fear and faith be damned both.

“How ever could I not?” he questioned, “there is not such a world in which I could not,” he added, almost like a vow, like words spoken a lifetime past, as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. 

“May we speak?,” she questioned, “in private,” and her eyes were perhaps the most beautiful they had ever been, as the sunlight bathed them in a blue so bright that they seemed to enclose specks of sky in them. 

“If we must,” he said, I’d much rather if you let me kiss you, her dark glare made him almost laugh, her fiery temper, easily offended and not easily outmatched sent a thrill underneath his skin, through his spine and to his core. And he could almost recall, the smudges he had left of blood across her beautiful face, “speak your little heart out, wife. I shall listen,”

He should not have listened. 

“Is there no other way?”

“I’m afraid not,” she spoke, “the ironborns are not known for their good heart and patience, they demand audience now or they will attack. They have already taken White Harbor,” she said “I cannot stay and watch, my brother and my sister need me,”

“Fine,” he said, “we shall fly…”

“Perhaps I misspoke, husband. I am needed, you, however, are not,” and her voice was  as cold as winter beyond the Wall and as piercing as Dark Sister, like a needle across his brow and straight to his brain. 

Coldness seeped into his bones, “you mean to leave me here,” he said “you’d rather fight the ironborns on your own than let me help,” his voice was raw and filled with the blood that his bleeding wound was seeping so profusely, unbeknownst to her, and her cruel words. 

“I do not mean to fight them,” she pointed out, her tone monotone, and her eyes dead and cold, “I am confident no battle shall be needed, their so called prince is proud, but he can be reasoned with” she added. 

There was an undisclosed fondness in her voice as she spoke of this prince of the ironborns, jealousy grabbed at his throat, potent and bitter, as bitter as poison. “Do you mean to welcome him in your bed as you haven’t me, wife? Is that how you mean to parlay with him? After all ironborns do not sow, they pay the iron price”

In hindsight he should have expected the slap, in truth, though it did not make it hurt less. “You shall think what you’ll like, husband. But you shall not speak thus crassly of my person again, or I’ll have your hide, husband or not”

She spoke with the same vehemence that her wolf blood begged of her, and though he felt the sting in his eyes, he did not cry, “I am not your bed warmer,” she continued, “nor your lover. I am your noble wife, the Wardeness of the North and the lady of Winterfell, you shall speak to me and about me with the respect that that behooves,” she commanded, “I’m not yours to be insulted as you please,”

“You aren’t mine at all,” he countered. 

“You knew it,” she said, tone void of any emotion, “you said you would take my hand, my snipes and my cruel words. Has your courage failed you yet, my lord? Or has your memory? I told you I would not welcome you in my bed nor my home until you had kept your word. I do not see the might of Kings Landing at your disposal, now”

He felt his face distort in a grimace, “as you say,” he said “then go, but do not think you might send me away when I come for you, and I will” he swore. 

There was something dark and luring in her gaze then, something stiff in the set of her shoulders, and her hands seemed to itch as if she was forcing herself not to reach for something, possibly the dagger at her hip. The ceremonial dagger. 

She made to twist around and leave, but suddenly she could not move and was snatched right in his arms and across his chest, the dragoness’ tail wrapped around both of them, her gaze unflinching and unbothered, fumes raising like clouds from her nostrils. Yet she was not threatening and Sansa did not seem threatened, though she looked resigned, as if she had been long enough near enough dragons to know they had their own volition and she would not be freed unless the beast was willing to obey his command, if  he was willing to command it of her.

“I am waiting,” she muttered, and he knew well enough what for. Though the small folk and the servants bustling through the courtyard were attempting quite hard to look like they were minding their own business he knew well enough that they were not, and it was nothing more than a pretence. 

His mother was pale faced standing on the balcony and observing the scene with keen eyes, her hands gripping over the balauster, her gaze dark and unflinching. Mad.

But he was mad too. Madder even. 

He looked down to her face, and she was oistensibly looking everywhere but at him, this would not do, if his wife meant to leave him, he would ensure she remembered him, some way. His gaze befell to her lips, and then below, to her neck and the high Valyrian necklace she had been wearing since Harrenhal, the pendant of which was ever hidden beneath her corset like a secret. 

“I am waiting too,” he said, “I did my share of waiting” 

That provocation got to her, and her empyrean eyes snapped into his, bore into his like jewels just beyond his reach, stared into his gray purple eyes as if they enclosed some kind of myth or truth she was not willing to see. Blind to him. 

“Silly girl,” he offered, as his gaze befell once against her barely open lips, “you cannot run from me, I’ll chase you through whatever hell you see fit to trudge through, until you accept me” his hand came to card through her auburn locks, the veil pressed against his palm, fisted through his fingertips. 

“I am a wolf, I do not run. I am the one who chases,” I will never accept you, her eyes seemed to say. 

Lies. You are running now, but no matter, I’ll let you run for a while, “Then perhaps I should let you chase me, this time around” he offered. Inadvertedly, or perhaps naturally, he couldn’t say, her hands came to find pursuit on his arms, grabbing at him with a strength and warmth he would not think possible, “since you wolves like it so,” he added, his voice low and his eyelids heavy, the beginning of a migraine due the high winds in the skies building at the nape of his neck.  

Then, almost as if taken by some holy purpose, he bent down, one hand wrapped around her wrist, the other bringing her closer to him and she went, willing, he gently guided her hand away from his arm, cradling it against his chest, as his lips pressed across her. Torment and torture, as her rosebuds mouth moved underneath his, warm and welcoming despite the stiffness that had been the main concern during their marriage vows, the taste of blood and lime across his lips, the scent of roses and lavender in his nostrils, and the pungent odor of characoal coming from the dragoness wrapped around them. 

She was lithe and warm and beautiful against him, the pressure of her body across his grounding in a way no dragonlord was supposed to crave, but crave he did. Eternity, slipping and twirling across time, space and across roots and branches, with the taste of frost across his lips and the warmth of lifeblood smudged over his hands, the grinding and ushering of leaves in the wind, of throat bared raw as he cried his sorrow, hands blood-knuckled, splinters underneath his flesh. 

Her warmth bending the fabric of his very essence, making him fold and bend to her will as if made of mud to be shaped as she well pleased. It was like the caress of fire beneath his flesh making him come alive, every nerve alight by her presence, by touch. 

Only the shortness of breath against his chest, constricting his throat, the fear of the heart ceasing to beat, whereas before it had sounded so eerily silent he had believed it long buried, long forgotten, seemed to move him from her lips, though he remained close enough to breath her own air, and Sansa seemed enchanted in a way that could not be explained, with heavy lidded eyes, curly, red, thick lashes framing the speaks of sky that were her eyes, lips red from his kisses and cheeks blossoming like a springtime field. As beautiful as a song. 

The only song he could ever care to learn. 

The silence between them was heavy and eerily. He knew she had not accepted him, though perhaps in some odd, instictual way she must have; yet she seemed unable to find the words to berate him now. As if they were escaping her, as if she could not fathom them. The ghost of love was painted on her face, quickly succeeded by the bitter shadow of betrayal. 

Was it all a lie?, he wondered, not daring to speak the word out aloud. Sansa looked away from him, “Please,” she all but begged, “let me go,”

It hurt worse than the slap, and he stepped back, barking to the dragoness to let them go when her spiked tail urged them closer once again, “Go,” he told her “you are my wife, not my prisoner. I understand how important the North is to you, how important your family, I’d much rather coming along, but if my company is not welcomed I shall not impose it”

A concession. 

A lie. 

“I’m sorry,” she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, and he looked from the ground, where his gaze had settled, unable to look at her, back at her, and there was something bare in her gaze, that made her look ever so gorgeous, making him fold as if boneless. Drowning. 

I’ll look in those eyes and drown.

“I wish there was another way,” she said, and somehow it felt like the truth.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, and yet he could not speak them. Could not seek the memory of them across his mind, not for the life of his, not for the life of hers. Perhaps it was all a lie.

“I know,” he murmured back, “I knew what I was getting myself into,” he added. Her eyes seemed to ask, did you?, but she did not speak the words. 

“I will leave at first light on the morrow,” she said “perhaps you’d like to share supper…”

“I will not,” he interjected, do not ask of me to sit by the fire with you and not see your eyes fill with love and affection again, I will not bear it now, “you’ll have to forgive my manners, but I do not think it prudent,”

For my heart if for nothing else. 

She did not seem offended, only hurt, and perhaps that was worse, “I understand,” she said. And he did not speak to her anymore, he did not join their joined chamber until it was the hour of the wolf, dark and lingering, when even dreams sleep. He did not rouse her from her sleep, her back to the door. He sat by the fire and watched over her, but never approached. 

He was gone before first light. Before she were to rouse. He kept himself busy with all and nothing and left word that he had left on dragonback and could not — would not — see her off. 

And yet, sprawled over the saddle, the winds kissing his cheek, looking toward North he followed her journey until eye could see.

“I’m coming for you, Sansa, I’ll find my way to you” he spoke, entrusting the words to the wind, as if they could bring them to her.

When he returned to the keep only his mother was waiting for him and he fell into her arms, welcoming and warm and filled with the only love that remained her. 

“Your heart has always been too fervent in this desire,” she said “and your mind that of a hopeless romantic. I had wished to spare you this. Your father was the same way and it led to his downfall,”

It was the first time she referred to his father failed rebellion, his attempt to reinstate the Black line to the Iron throne, make of him the first heir to it since Jacaerys Velaryon… the way it had all fallen apart, “she will lead you to your doom, if you let her”

“I’d follow her there too”

“I know,” and there was only bitterness, “you’ve walked so far, see so much, and yet it just takes for a woman to make of you a fool, like all men”

“She isn’t just a woman,” he murmured, voice broken even in a murmur, “not for me, she’s the only thing that feels warm anymore”

“My poor boy,” his mother murmured brokenly, “she doesn’t stave off the cold. She brings the cold, she’s made of it. It is but a beautiful dream, nothing more”

“No” he murmured, defiant even against all odds of the contrary, his mother exhaled an exhausted and fondly annoyed breath, “she’s my Jenny” he said, looking away. 

She’s my Jenny.

edit

the line of House Targaryen in the East and the West — by Maester Samwell Tarly

Chapter Text

Evenfall Hall was beautiful; filled with banners of the sun and the moon, filled with a warmth Sansa had always associated to Brienne and her steadfast service.

They had voyaged by land to Storm’s End where Sansa had been guest of lady Anna Baratheon and her infant son for whom she was regent. Bastard son of her husband, who had died during a hunting trip. 

Lady Anna was a tiny woman with a feisty personality, who hunted with the falcon and was a champion in any swimming contest she entered, with a mop of chestnut curls atop her head, chopped short in a fashion Sansa had seen only in the Stormlands so far, her cheeks windburned and a missing chip of her frontal tooth after she had been smashed head first into one of the stones of the bay during one of her swimming outings. 

Sansa remembered faintly the storm of the waves below, the bellowing of the winds and the thunders above her head, she remembered thinking she had never felt cold as she did those first few days she had been awake. 

Somehow she still found her lovely, perhaps because for some reason, in some way, she reminded her of Symon, for some reason she couldn’t quite make off. Her infant son, Lyonel was lovely too with black hair and blue eyes full of giddiness when he saw the dragons overhead. 

Her husband had in the end, apparently, relented and though he had not come to bid her farewell, apparently upset on the way they left things, he had appeared above the clouds of Shipbreaker Bay with the Green Queen and had joined their stay in Storm’s End uninvited and yet welcomed warmly by the Baratheons. 

Whereas in the Riverlands he had been an unwelcome guest, for some reason in the Stormlands he was much beloved even by the smallfolk, perhaps due his close knit friendship with lady Baeryl and the cadet branch of House Baratheon. 

Sansa had not acknowledged the coldness between them, with how they had left things, upset he would not bid her farewell — a stupid girl with stupid dreams who never learns — and yet would strut where she was with all the confidence of a husband who knew himself missed and warmly welcomed. 

It irked at her that people — smallfolk and nobles assembled in the Round Hall — expected them to be as some couple of newlyweds who loved each other dearly and how easily he played the part. 

She hated the most how she had come to already recognize the roar of the Green Queen as she once had known every nuance of Vhagar’s sounds after so long spent besides her rider; as if that somehow overshadowed the weeks she had spent with Aemond flying across the Realm to defend the borders and politic their way out of the civil war and destruction.

He had landed his dragon just outside the keep’s walls, and the entirety of the stormlander court had been filled with excitement as the guards had announced his arrival. 

Sansa had been in Storm’s End barely a day and half, and her husband had come knocking; as bid to him by his status as husband by the ancient Valyrian lore, he was keeping his hair simple, though he had started growing them in golden locks. Unless war was imminent the Valyrian husband was to keep his hair combed and long — at least to the shoulders save for some exceptional and weird personal preference; Aemond had been wearing his hair long despite being unmarried, and Aegon had always kept them on the shorter side — and her husband seemed to have chosen to follow Valyrian tradition which would also want him to braid his wife’s hair. 

Which he did as soon as he was welcomed inside the Round Hall. He did not even bother to bow to the lady of the hall nor her son, before he had walked up to her and kissed her knuckle, “Sweet wife” he greeted her and had promptly begun to braid her hair, Sansa had been wearing them in a bun, but he had unbound them with an easiness that betrayed how well acquainted he wished to appear with his wife, as he begun to braid her hair around the crown of her head into an intricate design of auburn, thick tresses.

Instead of finding his behavior rude and disrespectful everyone in the hall found it endearing and the lady had even commented on how he must have missed the lady of Summerhall so that he had moved clouds and winds to be with her in Storm’s End. 

The worst bit was that Sansa could not afford to show it as a lie, if she wished to milk his power and his influence for all that it was worth in defense of the North — and after he dethroned a king for her, for whatever reason — and the little fucker knew if his goading, self-satisfied smirk was anything to go by. 

“Indeed, I missed her so,” he had replied, smug smirk in place. Jon had never smirked that way, unless they had been kids and he had won some competition, before he had learnt he could not afford to best Robb at every turn as he would be Lord of Winterfell. 

Sansa had demanded in an angry whisper why had he followed her to Storm’s End but he had just put a playful finger atop her lips, “Not now, my sweet,” he had said. 

Sansa had almost bitten the finger off, someone in their near vicinity had chuckled at that, “It’s no wonder,” the man had commented acidly, “some cunts like their hures feisty indeed” 

Sansa did not need to know the meaning of the term to know it was insulting; but before she could glare at the man — one of the Baratheon’ cousins who had possibly intended to put their claws on Summerhall and had been spurned — her husband had turned to him with a smile so bright and rancid Sansa could almost taste it, bitter and cold “And some cunts don’t like their tongue as they do not know how to put it at good use,” he said mournfully, and Sansa felt the blush start to creep and burn at her cheeks and collarbone “alas I shall release you of it if it is of no good use,” he added, even patting the suddenly alert man on the shoulder, as he popped — was that a nut? — in his mouth, for then squeezing the shoulder so bad it had to hurt and bruise because the man leaned to try and get away from his hold to no avail, “speak disrespectfully about my wife again and I’ll take your life,” then he stepped closer, using his grip on the man as leverage to whisper in his ear “I will actually kill you” a promise, a death sentence; the warmth of protection spreading like wildfire in her veins, filling her belly and almost making her swoon.

Almost.

If anything happens to her, I’ll kill you.

Then her husband had taken her hand, had secured it around his arm and had patted it with his own, “Do not worry, wife,” he had said, “let us excuse ourselves, for I am in dire need of your company” 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, as soon as they were in the privacy of their rooms, “I thought we agreed…” 

“I’m not here to force you, whatever else I am, I am not heartless, and you should stop acting as if I was” he interjected. 

That felt like a slap. Sansa intertwined her hands before herself, and stared him dead in the eyes, “then why are you here?” she asked, softer and yet relentless.

“I have business with lady Baratheon,” he said, “to be honest it could have been relied to a raven, but I knew you were here and wished for the pleasure of your company” he added, popping another nut in his mouth. 

“You did not wish for the pleasure of my company before I set out,” she snapped back at him, the memory of their last night together filling her mind… of laying stiff, awake and refusing to turn, to see the fury etched in his eye as he sat silently by the fire, cold and distant, she bit back at her own tongue for the foolishness of her reply — a stupid girl, with stupid dreams who never learns — she schooled her features, refusing to read the hopefulness in his dark purple eyes “what changed?” 

He shrugged “You are my Jenny” he said with a degree of possessiveness that was awfully familiar, as if from memory — she’s mine. I have chosen her as my Valyrian blood behooves. Sansa blinked, trying to banish the memory from her mind, the taste of blood against her lips when he had captured her, the flash of hurt in her dislocated shoulder when he had departed, I will return for you, “even if you are too involved in your own plots right now to see it, as she was too involved in her world to see it then” 

She almost took a step back then, as her husband fixed on her those dark purple eyes and all she could see was Daemon Targaryen staring back at her. 

“I told you,” he said “I am not here to force you, never. I do have a debt to collect and I intend to collect it fully” 

…and when I return I will take you to my bed and make you mine. A promise Aemond had ensured he could never keep, a promise she had made sure he would never keep. 

Had she had walked right in his trap, this time around? Would it be worth it, worth the humiliation and the hate, to keep the North safe? Yes. Would he ever be able to forgive her, once she finally reached him in the afterlife? Would she be able to forgive herself? 

She couldn’t know, and when he had kissed her, she had melted as if her mind had not been a thunderstorm of doubts and anger and fears all wrapped together. As if he could enchant her but with a press of his lips against hers, as if, it was all it took to forget it all. 

She desperately wanted it. 

She was desperately wanted out. 

Brienne was there. 

Tall and strong and steadfast as she remembered her, more confident perhaps but not in an abrasive way. She was the one to welcome them to Evenfall Hall, the only heir to her father’s seat. 

I had thought all men to be like my lord father, Brienne had told her once, I think all girls do. 

It had been then that Sansa had known that Brienne would lay her life down for her, just as she knew she would never dishonor her. She had thought all men to be like her father too, and life had taught her truth in a manner that made it impossible to forget. 

Sansa struck a mindless conversation with her, but genuine and Brienne opened like a flower in spring. She asked after her sword practice and Brienne seemed surprised that she would know that much. 

“My sister is a general, she’s my most trusted chief commander, while she learned I learned some too, even if just theory,” she offered. 

Brienne pointed to her ceremonial dagger, “Is that for theory too?” she questioned with a smile. 

Sansa smiled back, “Stick them with the pointy end” she recited, Brienne’ smile grew fonder and brighter. 

And Sansa felt secure with her own champion back with her, and when Rodrick suggested she was to offer lady Brienne a place in her entourage if she so wished, Sansa knew Brienne had impressed him too. 

I’d trust Brienne with my life. 

But first, Sansa must speak with her Father, after all Brienne was his only child and heir; but to her surprise the lord of Evenfall Hall accepted gladly as long as his daughter wished to follow her, “I have always known my daughter was supposed for glory, but a Father wishes on his daughter only happiness, if her happiness is serving someone worthy of her loyalty, then I am happy too” 

One day, I’ll make you a match, someone brave, gentle and strong. Someone worthy of you. 

“Though, if her choice was to fall on you, I’d ask you let her bring her squire” 

“She has a squire?” Sansa inquired “I thought one needed to be anointed knight before that” 

“Aye” the man replied “but the boy walked and purchased his way on a ship just to get here so he could squire under Brienne,” he said “she refused him relentlessly, mind you, but he was adamant and in the end he corroded her refusal. She’s grown fiercely protective of him, now”

So, this time too, as Brienne laid her sword at her feet, Podrick was there, with his taurine neck and a bright smile, “Lady Stark,” he had greeted her “I did always wish to visit Winterfell, I dreamt of it when I was a child” 

Sansa had looked at him puzzled but Podrick had just smiled warmly, that clean, gentle smile that he always had, “I dreamt of this day too… though I thought it would be further in winter,” 

“Did you dream anything else?” she asked, her voice little and hopeful, he had shrugged.

“Some,” he admitted “I dreamt of death” he said “and fire from the sky. Blood and copper ground and violets growing out of it”

So, when Sansa departed from Evenfall Hall, with her retinue, several black guards her husband had sent her, Brienne and Podrick, ready to land in White Harbor and parlay with Theon — You run and you don’t look back. —she didn’t look back. 

Chapter Text

“Her Highness,” the valet introduced, chest puffed out, and the three headed golden dragon brooch at his breast, “the Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen, lady regent of the Seven Kingdoms, princess of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron throne — an addition Queen Marcellyne had suggested herself — Protector of the Realm” he concluded as the doors to the hall of the Small Council opened to let her through, followed by Grey Wind and by her husband, “and her husband, Prince consort Robb of House Stark,”

Grey Wind padded inside the Small Council hall with his molten golden eyes fitted over everybody as they stood up, the chairs scraping on the ground. 

The Lord Hand, lord Darke studied her silently as the other members offered her and her husband proper greetings. The lord Confessor at his side, lord Symon Blackwood didn’t seem to share his cold demeanor, though Rhaenys would not sooner be fooled by it than she would trust any of them. 

Lord Frey, the queen’s brother, was serving as Master of the Laws, and welcomed her warmly, certainly in no little part because of the sudden closeness between her and the Queen. 

She and the Queen were almost of the same age, and after the dethroning of her husband, Rhaenys was sure the Queen consort wanted to do her best to ensure her power as Queen mother even though she didn’t birth an heir. 

“You lack a mother,” she had told her stiffly, humorlessly and darkly “and I lack a son,” 

“I am not a son,” she had replied equally as stiff and humorless, her hands clasped before herself as the queen hmmed. 

“Perhaps not,” she said “but I will not let my husband’ seed quicken in me anymore,” she added “which is what you wished all along,” 

Rhaenys had studied her in silence, “Your husband may be from the North but that sister of his… she’s calculating, intelligent and ruthless,” she had played with the rim of her cup of wine “cutthroat even if the way she managed where you failed in ten years, in less than ten days is anything to go by, and she’s won the loyalty of the greatest dragonrider of this generation when you have… what, one dragon rider in your corner?” 

“You need me,” she had added “as I need you. House Frey might no be as illustrious as House Stark or House Martell, but we are proud and strong too,” she had said “you’ll need a true ally that would not turn her back on you. I can provide that”

“And what would you ask in exchange?” 

“Keep me alive. Your father will mislike my refusal, and I mislike joining the faith, or be divorced and loose what little power I have,” had been her reply “and grant me the rank of Queen Mother when you will inherit the Iron throne,” 

“I already have a mother, I cannot spurn her House by naming you Queen Mother” 

“Then create another rank for me, that may allow both to honor your mother and let me have what was supposed to be mine if my son survived, in honor of the brother you did not get to have” 

Rhaenys had so few allies, she could muster the fantasy to imagine a new rank for Queen Marcellyne, if that ensured no more trueborn sons to be born of her father. 

Bastards she could handle if he was capable of siring any. 

Trueborns were another matter, especially if male.

The Master of Coin and the Master of Ships were somewhat neutral to her, and though she had asked her uncle to remain and fill the permanent seat reserved for Dorne now on after her marriage she felt as if she was walking amongst the worst of vipers with no antidote to use if needed. 

I am the blood of the dragon and the Spear of the soaring sun, she reminded herself, as she occupied the king’s seat and touched with soft fingertips the marble ball before sitting. 

“Shall we begin?” she asked perfunctory, as she sat down, followed by the men in the council, she clasped her hands before herself, resting her elbows on the table, “What is the first order of the day?” 

“The Iron Bank from Braavos has written to congratulate you on your ascension as princess regent,” the Master of Coin begun, “and to remind us that the debt incurred in to quench the rebellion twenty years past is yet to be repaid” 

Rhaenys sighed, “How much are we talking of open debt?” she asked, her spies were good, but lord Alyn Estermont was unreproacheable, the kind of man one would want administering the finances. 

“A million and half golden dragons, princess,” lord Alyn replied, “we have brought it down from the million about six years ago, but the dissent in the southern colonies…” he let the words hang for a moment.

Rhaenys clamped her jaw shut, feeling her hands fist on the table, and tried to relax her fingers in an attempt to appear as calm as possible, “Indeed?” she voiced, “I believe that House Martell had repaid its debt to the crown for that matter, how come that…” she needn’t to continue “the marriage,” she said.

“Ay, princess” the Master of the Coin nodded, “His Grace latest marriage has costed us an hefty sum, and then yours..”

Robb stilled besides her, eyes dark and glinting, “House Stark paid its part of the marriage, and I don’t believe it would have weighted so much on the royal coffers, as it was taken from my personal treasury and assumed the same would be done here,”

That was a smart move the North had made, if Robb was to be believed, around the time of his great grandfather, who had decided to institute personal coffers and finances for each of his sons, from which their marriages, campaigns and any other project was to find funding. It was a way of managing the finances of the princely family that Rhaenys had all the intentions to replicate in House Targaryen, in addition to create a fund that, as done in Dorne, would grow as long as the money laid there, using her uncle good capacity in handling money House Martell had in fact discovered a way to have the interest of their money grow with benefits from using a different bank from the Iron Bank. 

She would have to speak of it privately with the Master of Coin, to see how much money they could eventually consider devoting to such a scheme, especially with such a big debt to pay to the braavosi bankers.

“There is no private treasury here, Your Highness,” the master of Coin pointed out, “the finances of House Targaryen are the finances of the Realm and the finances of the Realm are the finances of House Targaryen. There is no distinction”

Madness. She knew it had not been completely so once, but somewhen around the reign of Queen Helaena II and king Daeron the Mad the coffers of the Realm which at the time had been flowing had become the personal coffers of the royal family and thus had remained as long as the treasury had been rich in goods and jewels and Valyrian steel. 

Such was no more, and it was weighting heavily on them now, and she was inheriting a Realm falling to pieces at least financially, with winter at their doors. 

A long winter, if the maesters were to be believed, a winter of war and ruin if her goodsister was to be believed. Alas, it did not matter if she was to be believed or not, what mattered was that her cousin would believe her and mobilitate the dragons and without dragons defending the Realm their enemies could easily sweep in. 

Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen in the east could and would become a problem if their superiority in dragon-battle was lost and if all the dragons Kings Landing had to offer ran to defend the North what would stop the Targaryens in the East from attacking and conquering her birthright?

She needed to find a way to keep the dragons as much as possible South, and only if the enemy her goodsister spoke about proved real she would honor her word and let the dragons fly North. 

“What of Daenerys and Viserys in the east?” she questioned, and her lord Confessor clasped his hands together. 

“Prince Viserys is still in Pentos,” he replied “sequestered in his chambers, with the occasional visit from the prince of Pentos,” he added “Daenerys Targaryen has been busy with the commercial blockade in Meereen,” he said “on the top of that, the Noble Masters from Astapor and Yunkai have requested an audience with the king, or you now princess, to ask for your help to free Meereen and their kin from the dragon queen’s hold”

“Indeed?” she asked, “and what had been my father the King’s reply?” 

“He had been willing to meet them,” the lord Confessor stated, “they are in route to Kings Landing passing through Dragonstone by the end of the next week, Your Highness the princess regent” he informed her “do you still wish to uphold your father’s visit?” 

Rhaenys knew the Noble Masters were rich indeed, and though she could not court open war with the east unless she knew the dragons would be ready on a moment notice to defend her and Kings Landing if needed, she could use their riches to pay off part of the debt without raising the taxes and thus beginning her regency with the love of the people, that would grant her also room to maneuver if she ever needed. 

“Yes,” she said “the prince consort may sail to Dragonstone as soon as possible, both to take hold of his role and name a chatelain in our stead” she turned to her husband, his blue eyes fixed on her, one hand on the table the other resting atop his tight, Grey Wind wrapped around his ankles and looking up to her with his molten golden eyes, “he will meet them there and escort them to Kings Landing as planned,” 

She nodded to Robb who nodded back at her, they had spoke of it, just before their first meeting with the Small Council. 

“You need to be my hands and my mouth whereas I cannot reach or speak,” she had told him “I need to trust you, I am choosing to trust you”

Robb had taken her hand and kissed her knuckles “And I will not let you down,” he had vowed, “we are one heart, one body and one soul. To betray you it would be betraying myself” 

Rhaenys had seen too much to believe that blindly, yet it had comforted her. 

“Lord Confessor,” she said “you shall go with him as well, help him pick out the perfect chatelain for us in Dragonstone, your help will be invaluable, as you know the lords of the Narrow Sea better than I and him put together” 

Robb needed to start to look the part of the prince consort, he needed to start act the part and be seen with the lord confessor on his first voyage to Dragonstone was a sure reminder to anyone who’d rather see another Targaryen on the Iron throne — an easterling perhaps — that she was the rightful heir and rightful princess regent and that she had the might of the North at her back. 

“I’ll be delighted, Your Highness” the lord Confessor offered, “if his Highness the Prince consort has need of my services he but needs to ask”

“Then I will ask, my lord” Robb said, “your expertise will be much needed”

“Of course, as you command” the lord Confessor offered. 

“The hospitals House Targaryen has long supported are now in need more than ever of the crown’s support, Your Higness” the Maester said, “with two royal marriages under the belt, the funds that have been already diminishing in the last years of your Father’s reign are now… nonexistent” 

“House Whent,” Lord Symon Whent, who had come with his mother to the capital and had been named by herself Master of the Fields, for his expertise in the work of the land, more than needed than ever with winter at their doors, “is willing to lend their Maester’ physicians in training to help the capital shoulder this burden,” he said, “as the prince consort, our kin and blood through his grandmother has offered to pay from his own purse for the betterment needed to the hospitals” 

“The physicians,” he continued “will be under his protection and will answer to him”

Rhaenys had not been aware of this and she felt her hand fist on her lap, as she looked sideways to her husband, “After all, it has always been by tradition the spouse of the prince of Dragonstone, or princess in this case, who has overseen the hospitals,” lord Symon Whent continued “and the first was indeed funded by our ancestor the Lady Bat,”

“But she was the spouse of none of them,” her cousin, who had flown back to the capital with her, interjected, “and the tradition is that the princess of Dragonstone…” 

Rhaenys raised her hand, gesturing for him to stop, “It is indeed usually the princess of Dragonstone who cares for these matters, I have been kept in the dark about the state of it because the Queen had been tasked with them, as the mother to be of the next heir, and as I was missing a consort. As of now, my husband, Prince Robb is within his rights to claim management of these matters, cousin”

Though I would have liked it best if you had run it through me first, we cannot battle against one another.

Grey Wind appeared much satisfied by her reply and rested his massive head over her feet, to show his affection, perhaps an extension of his master’ lovely eyes fixed on her as he brought her hand to his lips for a kiss. 

“That is unexpected,” the Maester said, “but not unwelcome,” though by his tone he sounded nothing but disappointed, he perhaps wished to be in control of the finances which would go in the hospitals. 

Rhaenys would not be surprised if some of the funds would be found in his pockets though they should have gone to the hospitals. 

“My husband shall need the books for the funding and coin that has been provided to the hospitals” Rhaenys said, “to oversee and complete his tasks,” she added, “I trust you shall provide them promptly, so that he may start to study them before departing for Dragonstone”

He started to twist his hands before himself, “Of course, Your Highness understands that such a massive work cannot be collected in a few hours and…”

“No, actually” Rhaenys interjected, with the same look a predator would give their trapped prey, “I don’t understand, explain it in a way that I can understand, for I must be of soft wit,”

Her look seemed to be enough to have him blab on empty air, “You see, Princess it is too little notice, as I have been managing these matters on my own since the Queen has first been crowned,” he said, “and that is quite the important number of documents and book to be collected, but I am sure I could have them ready for the Prince for as soon as he returns,”

To her surprise it was lord Frey himself who posed the solution, “If Your Highness wouldn’t mind I could help the Maester collect the books for Prince Robb,” he said “after an helping hand could go a long way to help the old Maester,”

So, the Queen was being prompt and open about her intention to support her. Rhaenys nodded, “That would be much appreciated,” she said “thank you, Maester are you confident you’ll be able to give the prince consort all that is due by the time he has to depart?” 

“I… I will try, princess”

“Of course,” she nodded understandingly, “on another note, are there any other important matters to be seen right now?”

“Not any quite that urgent, princess”

“Good,” she said standing up, as her husband and councilmen followed suit, “So let us meet again at first light, so that a first open court day might be organised. It has been too long since the smallfolk has been able to come to the Iron throne, all audiences will be allowed by their princess regent,” 

“As you command, Princess” 

She accepted Robb’ arm — she might be the heir to the Iron throne and its regent — but she refused to abandon her femininity for it, as many other women had attempted to do for their seats and thrones. 

“Thank you, my love” she said, as he guided her around the table and outside the chamber in the tower of the Hand, for even though she might not love him yet, they were one, and people needed to see them as one. 

And if the the idle gossip of the maidservants was as rackous as it always had been soon they would swear to high tides and low winds that the princess regent and her husband the prince consort were as thick as knives and as in love as in the songs. 

It wouldn’t even matter that she could not trust him yet, it didn’t even matter that perhaps she would never actually trust him, much less his sister, whom she was sure would be ready to unthrone her if she ever felt the need to. 

Rhaenys could trust nothing but that that woman would never stop. She didn’t know which was her goal, perhaps she could never guess, but whatever it was Rhaenys better either not be perceived as a threat by her or be strong enough to shoulder and suffer her and her husband. 

Her husband would never betray his twin, that much was clear, he’d sooner betray her, and that was not the best base on which to build a new kingdom and family, Rhaenys just had to ensure that, even in the evenience that the Starks turned against her, she could shoulder it and come out on top, even uproot them stem and root from the ground they had laid on for eight thousand years. 

Even the sturdiest of trees either thrived under the sun or became under ashes under dragon fire, and Rhaenys was both and she would ensure they understood she could be both, it all would come down on if they would remain loyal or not.

Starting with her cousin.

The lord of Summerhall, whom had married lady Stark in all hife making of her lady Blackfyre. Her cousin had always been a wildfire batch, too fragile to handle. Rhaenys was aware that he oft flew across the Narrow Sea and to Pentos, arguably one would think he did to keep in touch with his closest kin — prince Viserys and princess Daenerys of the Black line — but he had somehow convinced her father the king, and the whole small council that his visits were not to rekindle this kinship with them, but more to ensure the continued loyalty of the Prince of Pentos.

Since the reign of Aegon II Woodenthrone the prince of Pentos had been the guarantor that the black line would remain in the east, weakened and without ambition. It had never been a foolproof plan, the several attempts made by the blacks in the centuries to return to the Iron throne… last but not least Rhaegar Targaryen’ attempt in the Riverlands were proof enough.

The prince of Pentos himself, although lacking a dragon of his own, was of Rhaenyra’s blood, a son through maternal and bastard line from Aegon the younger; of Valyrian descent he had needed more than once the reminder that the Realm’s coin flowing in his coffers was not to be used to fund the Black’s campaigns towards the west.

When Daenerys Targaryen had set out east, to destroy the slavers and gain a queendom for herself after the birth of her dragons, squashing under her bejewelled sandals the protests in Astapor — which fell by dragon fire — setting a new govern in Yunkai, constantly kept by her Second Sons and later taking Meereen, the richest of the three slaver cities, for herself, installing herself as queen there, her father had been furious. 

Aerion had flown, undetected and unaided, alone to Meereen himself. That had been the first time, by what she knew, that he had met Daenerys Targaryen. She was not aware of what had transpired between aunt and nephew, but Aerion had subsequently flown to Pentos where he had been hosted by the prince of Pentos, there he had reminded the prince of the city that the Blacks were not to turn their eye west.

“Let my aunt conquer to her heart’s content,” he claimed to have declared, “but ensure she remains east. If she ever turns her eye west, blood or not, I will knife her myself, and make of her heart a gift to the Realm”

Rhaenys wasn’t aware of when that distaste had been born. As far as she knew Aerion had been raised by his mother to be suspicious of the king and his kin as well of the Starks, his distaste for the northerners was well known — after all the Starks had abandoned one of their own, and had fought beside the king against his father — and the Riverlands hated him. 

The failed prince was what they called him in the Riverlands where the red priests were still abundant and the Lord of Light had soon supplanted, since Rhaegar’ failed rebellion, the Faith of the Seven.

When Rhaenys had been eleven they had received news that Aerion, who had been eight at the time, had been abducted and brought to the Riverlands, there an unnamed red priestess had used his blood in an ancient rite. Rhaenys was not aware of the specifics only that the wounds Aerion had sustained had quite never healed completely. The priestess had chanted some ancient asshai’i prayer and had used his blood as sacrifice to bring back the Prince that was Promised to bring the Dawn. 

They had been in High Heart, and the Priestess had set fire to the weirwood stumps after tracing each with her cousin’s blood. Aerion had been eight, skinny and short for his age. Yet, Rhaenys remembered the whispers when he had been brought back at court. 

Feral.

When they had found him he was standing — clothes in tatters half burned and half torn, bloodstained — golden hair matted by blood and mud, much shorter than it had been before the abduction, half of his head burned to crisp, as black as charred bone, wounds black and oozing black smoke, pointed teeth dripping blood as he wielded a wooden sword on fire.

Apparently the red witch had attempted to sacrifice him on the pyre of the weirwood, the symbol of the Old Gods, to hail the Lord of Light’s champion from the shadows, and had thrust the wooden sword, made of ironwood and onyx into the fire next to him as a moral death of sort. 

Aerion had somehow disarmed her and her armed priests, and had fought like a caged wolf, he had killed the red witch — whom they had found bleeding from a bite on the neck so profound it had cut a vein — and had somehow overpowered any of the fanatics who had witnessed the rite. 

Lord Westerling, whom had been one of the first on the scene, had reported to her father that Aerion had been acting like some kind of beast, more monster than man, and it had been then that the Green Queen had appeared in the sky above him; the first hint that one day he would claim her for his own. 

It had taken six grown knights in heavy armor to disarm the boy and only after he lost consciousness for the lack of blood he seemed to return normal. Neither draconian nor wolfish, but a boy. 

Rhaenys had slipped into his chamber undetected when they had returned him to the Red Keep while his lady mother had been summoned by the king, to discuss she had believed at first the terms of their exile. 

He had looked nothing like the feral beast the murmurs had depicted, he looked pale and thin, with the ghost of a bruise along his cheek. He had been so still that for a moment Rhaenys had thought to see a dead; the black gashes left by the serrated knife on him had been horrid and the way the blood oozing from them and onto the gauge wrapped by the maesters around the wounds stunk of death. 

He had looked so weak and fragile that Rhaenys had believed all to be a lie; underneath his lids his eyes were rapidly moving left to right as if he was deep in the throes of battle. 

He had called for the ancient Valyrian god of war, he had spoken in high Valyrian so feverish, so low that Rhaenys had believed they would soon mourn his death. She had sat at his bedside and had read to him her favorite book — tales of knights and heroes and princesses — that had been clutched at her chest when she had slipped in his chambers. 

He had been so horrifically tortured by the hands of the witch and the maesters had been forced to remove the blackened skin around the cuts and had been forced to use silk-threat to close the wounds. In his nightmares he had been dreaming of it, speaking of threads and needles and tonics of all kinds; had even spoken of shoulders and promises and debts.

A series of unconnected words that had made no sense and that Aerion did not remember once he woke.

When they had discovered her, they had sent her back to her room and the Grand Maester had urged his young apprentice, a rotund young man with kind eyes, to escort her back to her quarters. 

Perhaps it was because his eyes were kind, perhaps it was because he was closer in age to her and Aerion than to anyone else in the Red Keep, but Rhaenys had asked him if her cousin would die.

“Of course not, princess,” he had replied with some kind of surety that had surprised her, “he’s too wilful, too stubborn to just die. He will live for a long while yet, the Gods always smile favorably upon the brave, and he was very brave”

“I would have been very scared,” Rhaenys had confided in the gentle boy, who had smiled at her.

“Me too,” he had said, “he too I think, but he is very strong”

The seed is strong, it had been something she had heard her father comment often when any of his mistresses or wives had fallen pregnant. But the seed had only been strong with her.

Yet, the first time she had heard it had been when she had been escorted out of his chamber, as his lady mother had taken his hand into hers, “The seed is strong, my love” she seemed to have told to her dead husband, “your seed is strong”

Rhaenys knew it was akin to betrayal, but she had not spoken a word of it at the time, believing it was something all mothers would wish to think in such a terrible time. Now perhaps she was sorry for it.

She should have spoken the words. 

Aerion would not have been let to become such a grave threat if she had spoken. Her father the king had visited him personally as soon as he had woken and had in that occasion officially taken him as ward to the crown, bestowing then upon him lordship of Summerhall, and had voiced his hope that Aerion would defend just as strongly his son, whom his wife at the time had been carrying in her belly.

Had brother had never been born alive.

And Aerion, the named protector of the king’s heir, remained without heir to protect. Rhaenys had attempted to become such for him, but had always seemed somehow unapproachable. 

He had been kind, if a bit arrogant when they had been children, before that ordeal; since it he had been become unapproachable, silent and brooding as never before and something in the way he moved spoke of how dangerous he actually was, even before he claimed the Green Queen.

Rhaenys had tried her best and she liked to think that they had fostered a somewhat true companionship as outcasts, Rhaenys the unwanted heir with dornish blood and no dragon and Aerion the proof of the failure of the Blacks to take back the Iron throne, a foreign in his own country, a stranger and threat to both sides of his family. 

But that convinction had shifted the moment Sansa Stark had entered the picture; Rhaenys had been aware she was somewhat formidable, her father had ensured that the North’s coffers were full and their economy their strongest before leaving her as the first female heir favored over his sons, she had defended her birthright on the battlefield, her family united behind her to defend her claim to the North. She was what Rhaenys ought to have been, the same way as Arianne was. 

Rhaenys instead, whose birthright was the Iron throne, found herself constantly surrounded by enemies. She knew many spoke of it, of how her father had fostered Aerion because he had dreamed of the man he would become, some had even supposed that he would marry her to her cousin thus uniting the Black line and the Green, favoring him as heir over her, but they knew not her father. 

Her father would sooner burn the Realm than let a son of Rhaenyra’ line to the throne and Aerion for his part had never seemed particularly interested in the Iron throne; he had the skills for it, she knew, but he seemed disinterested in it.

When she had questioned it once, he had just shrugged, “It’s an ugly chair,” he had claimed, “and it has lost his charm on me, I favor a different seat for myself”

Which seat it was, was not up to debate.

For a time Rhaenys had believed he would dethroned the Starks from their princedom and claim Winterfell for his own, after all he had both Stark and Targaryen blood — from both lines — flowing through his veins, and the biggest dragon of the Seven Kingdoms since Vhagar at his beck and call. He could do it, if he wanted, and when the rebellion led by Baelor Stark had broken out in the North she had observed her cousin quietly, wondering if he would step in then.

She had not believed he would take the softer approach to it, Sansa Stark had branded her claim in the Northern’ soil with sword and blood, and Aerion had taken the female route to it, offering his hand in marriage to take the Stark name. 

Rhaenys had refused him that, lady Stark would take his name.

In all reply Aerion had found a loophole, Sansa would be the lady of Summerhall, and lady Blackfyre, but she would also retain her Stark name and her title as Warden of the North, meanwhile he would remain lord of Summerhall and Blackfyre, but would be also recognised as Lord Stark consort of Winterfell. 

It had been a political move that was as old as the reign of Daeron I, whom had taken the Targaryen name even if he was of Baratheon blood and had ensured that his youngest child kept the Baratheon name even though  his wife, queen Daenerys Lannister, kept her Lannister name, the Baratheon name passed down through her as lady Baratheon of the cadet line from which dragon riders and knights both were born once he had to take the Targaryen name to ascend the throne.  

This way neither of the two lines had gone extinct. 

Aerion had done something similar certainly counselled by his handful of councillors — some whispered about it, on how he had all but a Shadow Small Council — but Aerion had not even once moved against them, not until Sansa Stark had been unjustly apprehended. 

He had come to her with his solutions, he will help her install herself on the Iron throne as regent first and queen later, as long as he let him dethrone her father and pardoned any crime by which his beloved was accused. 

They were two formidable people, the girl who seemed to carry intelligence enough for two lifetimes and the lord of the Skyghosts, and though lady Stark seemed cold to him, she knew Aerion. 

Once his gaze was set on something, or someone, it was naught but impossible to resist him. Lady Stark would befall in his arms, whether by love or by exhaustion, and she would rule him and his dragon. 

She could almost see it, as a dream. 

If she dreamed it would be of that. 

Godsdammit. 

She needed to weaken them somehow. And the only way was to try and divide the Skyghosts, though she had no in, in there, save for Aemon. Her cousin disdained the lord commander, but his dragon was neither big enough nor wartried enough to battle against the Green Queen, Aemon had been trying for years to undermine the lord commander, but the others had some sort of fanatic kind of loyalty to him. 

It all came back, somehow, to that day… that fateful day that Aerion survived the blood sacrifice. A lamb to the knife, he had arisen a dragon in the flesh, and even though most had seen in that the proof that the Lord of Light had abandoned them, many others were starting to rumour in the Riverlands…

… was he really the failed hope they believed him to be? The fact that he had so easily dethroned her father, though under the legal guise of putting his daughter in power as it was law it be, had created ripples across the Riverlands who had longed for many a year for her father to just kick the leg and die. 

He had suppressed their prince, he had imposed taxes so high on them that they had come out impoverished from it… and since the time of Aegon the Woodenchair, they had been mistreated as the base of the Blacks in the Realm, always more ready to partake in the Black quest than in the Green’s.

They hated her father, and by association they hated her.

The fact that Aerion, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the son of the Champion of the Lord of Light, had so easily dethroned a king that not even a full blown rebellion had seemed to manage to graze had somehow rekindled the hope that Aerion would raise to his father’s fate.

The reports she was getting from her spies in the Riverlands were… preoccupying. In the east Daenerys Targaryen laid distracted, for now, but if she was ever to turn west… Rhaenys would need Aerion. 

The best course of action would be to ensure that her enemies battled each other, she had little doubts that Aerion would defend the North and his wife from whatever threat, whichever the reason why he seemed so intent to defend her and she knew that if the Blacks were to try and take back the Iron throne the first step they would take was to call on their kinship with Aerion. 

“You will follow Aerion North,” she commanded of Aemon that very night in the privacy of her solar, at the hour of the wolf. She had been keeping Aemon busy elsewhere and wise, as Sansa Stark had demanded that her husband was to join her in Winterfell only when he could make good on his promise to bring all the dragons Kings Landing had to offer in defence of the North, “we will give Sansa Stark all she asked,” she stated “and more than she bargained for”

Her missive was short. 

To Daenerys of House Targaryen, she wrote.

There were two threats to her. Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, and Aerion and his apparent disinterest in the Iron throne. If he had the North at his beck and call, with the Riverlands now easy to sway in his corner and he decided to unseat her…

… he had told her, “You either sit the Iron throne now that I am asking nicely,” he had looked mad, as Rhaenys had been considering his offer to help her sit the Iron throne and dethrone her father, “or I will take it all, and call myself king, and bathe the Realm in the blood that has been paid to keep it safe”

Rhaenys had accepted but she had done so knowing that that meant that her cousin wasn’t as disinterested as he wanted her to believe, might be he meant to have a northern heir and then find either some plot or outright fight for the Iron throne. 

Daenerys Targaryen was a conqueror, she would never stay in the east quiet and demure. She would use all the riches she has been accumulating with her campaigns to turn west. Neither she nor Aerion could be let grow stronger than they already were, but if she managed to put one against the other and then act as buffeur and guarantor of peace, saving the North from their bloody war, she would once again prove the superiority of the Green line as rulers and she would end any attempt against her reign before it begun. 

Better to unleash them on one another before either grew strong enough to turn against her. Aerion might be stronger than Daenerys, but he would come out of it unscathed, and if Sansa Stark was as un-fond of her husband and his ways as Rhaenys thought she could be… she could manage to corner Aerion and settle any new civil war before it begun. 

“Sister,” she spoke looking at the horizont, “you will forgive me for this plot, if you were in my place you would do so too,”

Because if Rhaenys was to be left standing and crowned, enthroned as her right, she needed to be better, smarter. Smarter than the girl intelligent enough for two lifetimes and the feral boy, and if Aerion was to be Sansa Stark’s weapon of choice, Rhaenys would use Daenerys Targaryen for all that she was worth. 

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